HOW MR. GWYNN DINED WITH THE HARLEYS
Any man who says that he is a gentleman is not a gentleman. A gentleman
no more tells you that he is a gentleman than a brave man tells you he
is brave. Gentility is a quality which the possessor never seeks to
establish as his own by word of mouth; he leaves it to inference and the
rule has no exception. This brilliant speechlessness arises not through
modesty, but ignorance. However clearly gentility reveals itself to
others, he who possesses it has no more knowledge on that faultless
point than have your hills of the yellow gold they hold within their
breasts.
Storri was one who went far and frequently out of his conversational way
to assure you that he was a gentleman. Though he did no more than just
recount how he gave his seat to a woman in a car, or passed the salt at
dinner, or made a morning call, somewhere in the narrative you were sure
to hear that he was "a gentleman," or "a Russian gentleman," commonly
the latter; and he always accompanied the news with a straightening of
his heavy shoulders and a threatening pull at his mustache as though he
expected to find his word disputed and planned a terrible return.
It could not be called Storri's fault that it was not three hundred
years since his forebears wore sheepskins, carried clubs, and made a
fire by judiciously rubbing one stick against another. None the less,
this nearness to a stone age left him barbarous in his heart; and the
layer of civilization that was upon him was not a layer, but a polish--a
sheen, and neither so thick nor so tangible as moonshine on a lake. The
savageries of Richard were quite as vivid as Storri's, perhaps; but at
least they had been advantageously hidden beneath a top-dressing of
eleven civilizing centuries instead of three; and those eight extra
centuries made all the difference in life. They gave Richard steadiness
and self-control; for the first separation between civilization and
barbarism lies in this, that a civilized man is more readily quieted
after a stampede than is your barbarous one. Also he is not so wide open
to original surprise.
Wherefore, when Richard and Storri stood glaring at one another after
the episode of the hands, Richard had vastly the better of Storri, who
fell into a three-ply mood of amazement, fright, and rage. Finally,
Storri seemed to mutter threats while he retreated; and at the last got
himself out of the Harley front door in rather an incoherent way. It was
understood that he mumbled "Good-afternoon!" to Dorothy; and that "he
would talk with him again," to Richard; and all as he found his hat with
his left hand, the right meanwhile wrapped in a handkerchief which was a
smudge of blood. It could not be described as a graceful exit and had
many of the features of a rout; but it was effective, and took Storri
successfully into the street. Dorothy, still transfixed, turned with
round eyes to Richard:
"What was it you did?" she asked again.
"It was nothing," replied Richard with a shrug. "Or if anything, then a
piece of primitive sarcasm. Really, I'm sorry, since you were here; but
I had no choice."
"Will there be a duel?" gurgled Dorothy, catching her breath.
Dorothy, among other valuable ideas derived from novels, had gained a
middle-age impression that made flashing blades and gaping wounds a
romantic probability.
"Storri is not so self-sacrificing," returned Richard with a grin, "and
I am much too modern." Then in a bantering tone: "How much better was
the old day when men might differ nobly foot to foot, with the fair lady
to the victor and a funeral to the vanquished as the natural upshot. It
is too bad! In the name of progress we have come too far and thrown away
too much!"
It was among the marvels how Richard changed. As he talked with Dorothy
those eyes, late flint, became tender and laughingly honest in a fashion
good to see. He appeared younger by half, for anger is ancient and piles
on the years.
"Really, Miss Harley," continued Richard, with a heroic determination to
change the subject, "I haven't as yet paid my respects to you. Your
mother said I might call. She was very kind!" And here Richard pressed
the little hand in that one which had so discouraged Storri, while Mrs.
Hanway-Harley suddenly swept into the room as if "Mother" were her cue.
"Mamma," cried Dorothy, presenting Richard, "this is Mr. Storms. You
remember; he saved my--my nose."
Certainly Mrs. Hanway-Harley remembered. She recalled the event in a
manner superbly amiable and condescending.
"And you told us then," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley, "that you would
presently dwell in Washington. Is it your plan to make the town your
permanent residence?"
"My plans depend on the plans of others, madam. I have become chained to
their chariot and cannot call myself free." Here Richard looked
audaciously sly at Dorothy, who interested herself with certain flowers
that stood in the window.
"Ah! I see," returned Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who did not see at all. "You
mean Mr. Gwynn." She had heard of Mr. Gwynn, so far as the town knew
that personage, from her husband. "But you said 'others'?"
"Yes, madam; besides Mr. Gwynn, there are Matzai and Mr. Pickwick."
Then, responding to Mrs. Hanway-Harley's inquiring brows, Richard went
forward with explanations. "Matzai is my valet, while Mr. Pickwick is a
terrier torn by an implacable hatred of rats; which latter is the more
strange, madam, for I give you my word Mr. Pickwick never saw a rat in
his life."
"What an extraordinary young man!" ruminated Mrs. Hanway-Harley, and she
bestowed upon Richard a searching glance to see if by any miracle of
impertinence he was poking fun at her.
That well-balanced gentleman realized the peril, and faced it with a
countenance as blankly, not to say as blandly vacuous as the wrong side
of a tombstone. He ran the less risk; for the lady could not conceive
how anyone dare take so gross a liberty with a Hanway-Harley; one, too,
whose future held tremendous chances of a White House. Being satisfied
of Richard's seriousness, and concluding privily that he was only a
dullard whom the honor of her notice had confused, she said:
"Umph! Matzai and Mr. Pickwick! Yes; certainly!"
Then Mrs. Hanway-Harley set herself to ask questions, the bald
aggressiveness whereof gave the daughter a red brow. Richard answered
readily, as though glad of the chance, and did not notice the crimson
that painted Dorothy's face.
The latter young lady was as much puzzled by their caller as was her
mother, without accounting for his oddities on any argument of dullness.
Indeed, she could see how he played with them: that there flowed an
undercurrent of irony in his replies. Moreover, while by his manner he
had pedestaled and prayed to her as to a goddess, when they were alone
and before her mother came, Dorothy now observed that Richard carried
himself in a manner easy and masterful, and as one who knows much in the
presence of ones who know little. This air of the ineffably invincible
made Dorothy forget the adoration which had aforetime glowed in his
eyes, and she longed to box his ears.
"Is Mr. Gwynn your relative?" asked the cool, though somewhat careless,
Mrs. Hanway-Harley.
"No, madam; no relative." There drifted about the corners of Richard's
mouth the shadow of a smile. "He is all English; I am all American."
"I'm sure I'm sorry," remarked the lady musingly. Then without saying
upon what her sorrow was hinged, she proceeded. "Mr. Gwynn, I hear--I
don't know him personally, but hope soon to have that pleasure--is a
gentleman of highest breeding. My brother assures me that he has most
delightful manners. I know I shall adore him. If there's anything I
wholly admire it is an old-school English gentleman--they have so much
refinement, so much elevation!"
"It might not become me," returned Richard, in what Mrs. Hanway-Harley
took to be a spirit of diffidence, "to laud the deportment of Mr. Gwynn.
But what should you expect in one who all his life has had about him the
best society of England?"
"Ah! I can see you like him--venerate him!" This with ardor.
"I won't answer for the veneration," returned Richard. "I like him well
enough--as Mr. Gwynn."
Mrs. Hanway-Harley stared in matronly reproof.
"You don't appear over grateful to your benefactor."
"No;" and Richard shook his head. "I'm quite the churl, I know; but I
can't help it."
Richard found a chance to say to Dorothy,
"I see that you love flowers."
This was when Dorothy had taken refuge among those blossoms.
"I worship flowers," returned Dorothy.
"Now I don't wonder," exclaimed Richard. "You and they have so much in
common."
Mrs. Hanway-Harley was for the moment preoccupied with thoughts of Mr.
Gwynn, and plans for the small Senate dinner at which that austere
gentleman would find himself in the place of honor. However, she caught
some flash of Richard's remark. For the fraction of an instant it bred a
doubt of his dullness. What if he should come philandering after
Dorothy? Mrs. Hanway-Harley's feathers began to rise. No beggar fed by
charity need hope for her daughter's hand; she was firm-set as to that.
Perhaps Mr. Gwynn intended to make him rich by his will. At this Mrs.
Hanway-Harley's feathers showed less excitement. Mr. Gwynn should be
sounded on the subject of bequests. Why not put the question to Mr.
Storms? It would at least lead to the development of that equivocal
gentleman's expectations.
"Has Mr. Gwynn any family in England?" asked Mrs. Hanway-Harley.
"A nephew or two, I believe; possibly a brother."
"But he will make you his heir."
"Me?" Richard gave a negative shake of the head. "The old fellow
wouldn't leave me a shilling. Why should he? Nor would I accept it if he
did." Richard's sidelong look at Mrs. Hanway-Harley was full of
amusement. "No, the old rogue hates me, if he would but tell the
truth--which he won't--and if it were worth my while and compatible with
my self-respect, I've no doubt I'd hate him."
This sentiment was delivered with the blasé air of weariness worn out,
that should belong with him who has seen and heard and known a world's
multitude; which manner is everywhere recognized as the very flower of
good breeding.
Mrs. Hanway-Harley sat tongue-tied with astonishment. In the end she
recalled herself. Mrs. Hanway-Harley scented nothing perilous in the
situation. In any event, Dorothy would wed whomsoever she decreed; Mrs.
Hanway-Harley was deservedly certain of that. While this came to her
mind, Richard the enterprising went laying plans for the daily
desolation of an entire greenhouse.
"Dorothy," observed Mrs. Hanway-Harley, after Richard had gone his way,
"there you have a young man remarkable for two things: his dullness and
his effrontery. Did you hear how he spoke of his benefactor? The wretch!
After all that good, poor Mr. Gwynn has done for him!"
"How do you know what Mr. Gwynn has done for him?"
Dorothy, while she confessed the justice of her mother's strictures,
felt uncommonly inclined to defend the absent one. Her memory of those
tender glances was coming back.
"Why, it is all over town! Mr. Storms is dependent on Mr. Gwynn. By the
way, I hope Count Storri did not meet him?" This was given in the rising
inflection of a query.
"Only for a moment," returned Dorothy, breaking into a little crow of
laughter. "The Count did not seem to like him." Dorothy thought of that
combat of the hands, and how Storri was beaten to his knee, and how
fiercely glorious Richard looked at that instant.
"What should you expect?" observed Mrs. Hanway-Harley. "The Count is a
nobleman. And that reminds me: Dorothy, he appears a bit smitten. What
if it were to prove serious?"
"You wouldn't have me marry him, mamma?"
"What! Not marry a Count!" Mrs. Hanway-Harley was shocked as only an
American mother could have been shocked. She appealed to the ceiling
with her horrified hands. "Oh! the callousness of children!" she cried.
Following this outburst of despair, Mrs. Hanway-Harley composed herself.
"We need not consider that now; it will be soon enough when the Count
offers us his hand." Mrs. Hanway-Harley sank back in her chair with
closed eyes and saw a vision of herself at the Court of the Czar. Then
she continued her thoughts aloud. "It's more than likely, my dear, that
the Czar would appoint Count Storri Ambassador to Washington."
"It would be extremely intelligent of the Czar, I'm sure," returned
Dorothy with a twinkle.
The next morning a colored youth clad in the garish livery of an Avenue
florist made his appearance on the Harley premises bearing aloft an
armful of flowers as large as a sheaf of wheat. By the card they were
for "Miss Harley." The morning following, and every morning, came the
colored youth bearing an odorous armful. Who were they from? The card
told nothing; it was the handwriting of the florist.
"Don't you think it might be Count Storri?" said Dorothy demurely,
taking her pretty nose--the nose Richard saved--out of the flowers.
"Those Russians are so extravagant, so eccentric!"
"Suppose I thank him for them," observed Mrs. Hanway-Harley; "that would
bring him out!"
"No, no," exclaimed Dorothy hastily; "it might embarrass the Count."
"Pshaw! I'll ask the florist."
"No; that would offend the Count. You see, mamma, he thinks that we will
know without asking. He would hardly regard our ignorance as a
compliment," and Dorothy pouted. "You'd spoil everything."
Mrs. Hanway-Harley saw the force of this and yielded, though it cost her
curiosity a pang.
Dorothy's dearest friend was with them--a tall, undulating blonde, who
was sometimes like a willow and sometimes like a cat. When Mrs.
Hanway-Harley had left the room, and Miss Marklin and Dorothy were
alone, the former said firmly:
"Dorothy, who sent them?"
"Now, how should I know, Bess? You read the card."
"When a woman receives flowers, she always knows from whom," returned
this wise virgin oracularly.
"Well, then," said Dorothy resignedly, drawing the golden head of the
pythoness down until the small, pink ear was level with her lips, "if
you must know, let me whisper."
There are people who hold that everybody they do not understand is a
fool. There be others who hold that everybody who doesn't understand
them is a fool. Mrs. Hanway-Harley belonged to the former class, and not
making Richard out, she marked him "fool," and so informed Mr. Harley as
she penned the dinner invitation to Mr. Gwynn.
"Of course, we shall not ask this Mr. Storms to the dinner. He would be
misplaced by his years for one thing. Besides, I'm sure Mr. Gwynn
wouldn't like it. I saw enough of Mr. Storms to doubt if, in their own
house, he dines at the same table with Mr. Gwynn."
"At any rate," remarked the cautious Mr. Harley, "it's safe to leave him
out this time. We'll establish his proper level, socially, by talking
with Mr. Gwynn."
Mr. Gwynn came back from New York on Thursday afternoon. His traffic
with Talon & Trehawke was successful, and he had bought the _Daily
Tory_.
Richard was put in charge of the Washington correspondence. He was given
a brace of assistants to protect, as he said, the subscribers; for be it
known that Richard of the many blemishes knew no more of newspaper work
than he did of navigation.
Mr. Gwynn found Mrs. Hanway-Harley's dinner invitation awaiting him; it
was for the next evening. He brought it to Richard.
"You will go, Mr. Gwynn," said that gentleman. "I will consider; and
to-morrow I will tell you what you are to say."
Richard has been referred to as a soul of many blemishes. The chief of
these was his cynicism, although that cynicism had a cause if not a
reason. With other traits, the same either virtues or vices according to
the occasion and the way they were turned, Richard was sensitive. He was
as thin-skinned as a woman and as greedy of approval. And yet his
sensitiveness, with nerves all on the surface, worked to its own defeat.
It rendered Richard fearful of jar and jolt; with that he turned
brusque, repelled folk, and shrunk away from having them too near.
For a crowning disaster, throughout his years of manhood, Richard had
had nothing to do. He had been idle with no work and no object to work
for. You can suffer from brain famine and from hand famine. You may
starve your brain and your hand with idleness as readily as you starve
your stomach with no food. And Richard's nature, without his knowing,
had pined for lack of work.
There had been other setbacks. Richard lost his mother before he could
remember, and his father when he was twelve. He was an only child, and
his father, as well as his mother, had been an only child. Richard stood
as utterly without a family as did the first man. He grew up with
schoolmasters and tutors, looked after by guardians who, infected of a
fashion, held that the best place to rear an American was Europe. These
maniacs kept Richard abroad for fairly the fifteen years next before he
meets you in these pages. The guardians were honest men; they watched
the dollars of their ward with all the jealous eyes of Argus. His mind
they left to chance-blown influences, all alien; and to teachers,
equally alien, and as equally the selection of chance. And so it came
that Richard grew up and continued without an attachment or a friendship
or a purpose; and with a distrust of men in the gross promoted to
feather-edge. Altogether he should be called as loveless, not to say as,
unlovable, a character as any you might encounter, and search throughout
a summer's day.
Most of all, Richard had been spoiled by an admiration for Democritus,
which Thracian's acquaintance he picked up at school. He saw, or thought
he saw, much in the ease of the Abderite to remind him of his own; and
to imitate him he traveled, professed a chuckling indifference to both
the good and the ill in life, and, heedful to laugh at whatever turned
up, humored himself with the notion that he was a philosopher.
Democritus was Richard's affectation: being only an affectation
Democritus did not carry him to the extreme of putting out his own eyes
as a help to thought.
Richard, to reach his thirtieth year, had traveled far by many a
twisting road. And for all the good his wanderings overtook, he would
have come as well off standing still. But a change was risping at the
door. In Dorothy Richard had found one to love. Now in his sudden rôle
of working journalist, he had found work to do. Richard caught his bosom
swelling with sensations never before known, as he loafed over a cigar
in his rooms. Love and ambition both were busy at his heart's roots. He
would win Dorothy; he would become a writer.
Richard, his cynicism touching the elbow of his dream, caught himself
sourly smiling. He shook himself free, however, and was surprised to see
how that ice of cynicism gave way before a little heat of hope. It was
as if his nature were coming out of winter into spring; whereat Richard
was cheered.
"Who knows?" quoth Richard, staring about the room in defiance of what
cynic imps were present. "I may yet become a husband and an author
before a twelvemonth."
Richard later took counsel with the gray Nestor of the press gallery--a
past master at his craft of ink.
"Write new things in an old way," said this finished one whose name was
known in two hemispheres; "write new things in an old way or old things
in a new way or new things in a new way. Do not write old things in an
old way; it will be as though you strove to build a fire with ashes."
"And is that all?" asked Richard.
"It is the whole of letters," said the finished one. With that Richard,
nursing a stout heart, began his grind.
Every writer, not a mere bricklayer of words, has what for want of
better epithet is called a style. There be writers whose style is broad
and deep and lucid like a lake. It shimmers bravely as some ray of fancy
touches it, or it tosses in billows with some stormy stress of feeling.
And yet, you who read must spread some personal sail and bring some gale
of favoring interest all your own, to carry you across. There be writers
whose style is swift and flashing like a river, and has a current to
whirl you along. The style seizes on you and takes you down the page,
showing the right and the left of the subject as a river shows its
banks. You are swept round some unexpected bend of incident, and given
new impressions in new lights. Addison was the king of those who wrote
like a lake; Macaulay of those who wrote like a river. The latter is the
better style, giving more and carrying further and tiring less.
Richard belonged by native gift to the Macaulay school. He tasted the
incense of his occupation when, having sent his first story, the night
manager wired:
"Great! Keep it up."
Richard read and re-read the four words, and it must be confessed felt
somewhat ashamed at the good they did him--being the first words of
encomium that had ever come his way. They confirmed his ambition; he had
found a pleasant, unexpected window from which to reconsider existence.
It was seven o'clock and Richard sat turning over a pile of papers which
related to the purchase of the _Daily Tory_; they had been left by Mr.
Gwynn. These he compared with a letter or two that had just come in.
"What a fool and old rogue it is!" cried Richard disgustedly. Then he
pushed the button that summoned Mr. Gwynn.
That severe Briton appeared in flawless evening dress. It was the
occasion of the Harley dinner, and Mr. Gwynn had ordered his carriage
for half after seven.
"Mr. Gwynn," said Richard, "the Harley purpose is the Presidential hopes
of Senator Hanway. You will offer aid in all of Senator Hanway's plans.
Particularly, you are to let him know that the _Daily Tory_ is at his
service. Say that I, as its correspondent, shall make it my first duty
to wait upon him."
"Very good, sir," said Mr. Gwynn.
"Another moment, Mr. Gwynn," said Richard, as the other was about to go.
"Give me your personal check for eleven thousand six hundred and forty
dollars."
Mr. Gywnn's face twitched; he hesitated, rocking a little on his feet.
Richard had turned to scribble something; with that, repressing whatever
had been upon his lips, Mr. Gwynn withdrew. He was instantly back with a
strip of paper fluttering in his fingers. Richard placed it in his desk.
Taking a similar strip from his writing pad he gave it to Mr. Gwynn.
"My own check for eleven thousand six hundred and forty dollars, Mr.
Gwynn," said Richard. "I make you a present of it. That is to save your
credit. Hereafter, when you see a chance to play the scoundrel, before
you embrace it, please measure the probable pillage and let me know. I
will then give you the amount. In that way you will have the profits of
every act of villainy you might commit, while missing the mud and mire
of its accomplishment. Remember, Mr. Gwynn; I will not tolerate a
rascal."
"You are extremely good, sir," said the frozen Mr. Gwynn.
Mrs. Hanway-Harley placed Mr. Gwynn on her right hand, a distinction
which that personage bore with a petrified grace most beautiful to look
upon. Senator Hanway was on the other side of Mr. Gwynn. The party was
not large--eight in all--and, besides the trio named and Mr. Harley,
counted such partisans of Senator Hanway as Senators Gruff and Kink and
Wink and Loot and Price. Mr. Gwynn was delighted to meet so much good
company, and intimated it in a manner decorously conventional.
"Isn't he utterly English, and therefore utterly admirable?" whispered
Mrs. Hanway-Harley to Senator Loot.
That statesman agreed to this as well as he could with a mouth at work
on fish.
"Mr. Gwynn," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley affably, "I shall make the most of
you while I may. You know I only intend to see you gentlemen safely
launched, and then I shall retire."
Mr. Gwynn bowed gravely. Mr. Gwynn's strength lay in bowing. He was also
remarkable for the unflagging attention which he paid to whatever was
said to him. On such occasions his unblinking stare, wholly receptive
like an underling taking orders, and never a glimmer of either
contradiction or agreement or even intelligence to show therein, was
almost disconcerting. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, however, declared that this
receptive, inane stare was the hall-mark of exclusive English circles.
Mr. Gwynn gave another proof of culture; he pitched upon the best wine
and stuck to it, tasting and relishing with educated palate. This set
him up with Mr. Harley.
"Yes, I shall make the most of you, Mr. Gwynn," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley.
By way of making the most of Mr. Gwynn, Mrs. Hanway-Harley spoke of
meeting Mr. Storms. In her opinion that young man did not appreciate the
goodness of Mr. Gwynn, and was far from grateful for those benefits
which the latter showered upon him. At this intelligence, Mr. Gywnn was
taken so aback that Mrs. Hanway-Harley stopped abruptly and shifted the
conversation. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was one of those who have half-tact;
they know enough to back out and not enough to keep out of a blunder.
The dinner was neither long nor formal. Mrs. Hanway-Harley at last
removed the restraint of her presence, and thereupon Mr. Harley drank
twice as much wine to help him bear her absence. Mr. Gwynn's health was
proposed by Mr. Harley, and Mr. Gwynn bowed his thanks. It should be
understood that Mr. Gwynn bowed like a Mandarin from beginning to end of
the feast. There were no speeches; no man can make a speech to an
audience of six. Cicero himself would have been dumb under such meager
conditions.
When Mr. Harley drank Mr. Gwynn's health for the tenth time, and
attempted, assisted by Senators Gruff and Price, to sing a song in his
honor, Senator Hanway adroitly brought the dinner to a close. He was the
more stirred to this as the plaster of Paris countenance of Mr. Gwynn,
when Mr. Harley began to sing, betrayed manifest alarm.
After dinner Senator Hanway got Mr. Gwynn into a corner. Thereupon, in a
manner creditable to himself, Mr. Gwynn gave Senator Hanway to know that
he was his friend. The _Daily Tory_ should be his; Richard should be
his; Mr. Gwynn and all he called his own should be his; Senator Hanway
was to make whatever use of Richard and the _Daily Tory_ and Mr. Gwynn
his experience and his interests might suggest. Indeed, Mr. Gwynn talked
very well in private and in whispers; and Senator Hanway said later to
Senator Kink that he was the deepest man he had ever met.
"And," said Senator Hanway, squeezing Mr. Gwynn's hand as that gentleman
made ready for home, "tell your young man that I shall be glad to see
him. There are certain contingencies touching the next Speakership of
the House which should interest his paper. I shall see you to-morrow,
Mr. Gwynn--with your permission. You can and should play a most
important part in selecting that same Speaker. Your measureless
interests in the great Anaconda Airline warrant me in the assertion."