It cannot be denied that men and women have looked upon one another for
the first time and become instantly enamored. It is a risky process,
this love at first sight, before she has seen him in Bradstreet or he
has seen her in curl papers. But these things do happen; and one
instance must form a theme for this story—though not, thank Heaven, to
the overshadowing of more vital and important subjects, such as drink,
policemen, horses and earldoms.
During a certain war a troop calling itself the Gentle Riders rode into
history and one or two ambuscades. The Gentle Riders were recruited
from the aristocracy of the wild men of the West and the wild men of
the aristocracy of the East. In khaki there is little telling them one
from another, so they became good friends and comrades all around.
Ellsworth Remsen, whose old Knickerbocker descent atoned for his modest
rating at only ten millions, ate his canned beef gayly by the campfires
of the Gentle Riders. The war was a great lark to him, so that he
scarcely regretted polo and planked shad.
One of the troopers was a well set up, affable, cool young man, who
called himself O’Roon. To this young man Remsen took an especial
liking. The two rode side by side during the famous mooted up-hill
charge that was disputed so hotly at the time by the Spaniards and
afterward by the Democrats.
After the war Remsen came back to his polo and shad. One day a well set
up, affable, cool young man disturbed him at his club, and he and
O’Roon were soon pounding each other and exchanging opprobrious
epithets after the manner of long-lost friends. O’Roon looked seedy and
out of luck and perfectly contented. But it seemed that his content was
only apparent.
“Get me a job, Remsen,” he said. “I’ve just handed a barber my last
shilling.”
“No trouble at all,” said Remsen. “I know a lot of men who have banks
and stores and things downtown. Any particular line you fancy?”
“Yes,” said O’Roon, with a look of interest. “I took a walk in your
Central Park this morning. I’d like to be one of those bobbies on
horseback. That would be about the ticket. Besides, it’s the only thing
I could do. I can ride a little and the fresh air suits me. Think you
could land that for me?”
Remsen was sure that he could. And in a very short time he did. And
they who were not above looking at mounted policemen might have seen a
well set up, affable, cool young man on a prancing chestnut steed
attending to his duties along the driveways of the park.
And now at the extreme risk of wearying old gentlemen who carry leather
fob chains, and elderly ladies who—but no! grandmother herself yet
thrills at foolish, immortal Romeo—there must be a hint of love at
first sight.
It came just as Remsen was strolling into Fifth avenue from his club a
few doors away.
A motor car was creeping along foot by foot, impeded by a freshet of
vehicles that filled the street. In the car was a chauffeur and an old
gentleman with snowy side whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could
not be worn while automobiling except by a personage. Not even a wine
agent would dare do it. But these two were of no consequence—except,
perhaps, for the guiding of the machine and the paying for it. At the
old gentleman’s side sat a young lady more beautiful than pomegranate
blossoms, more exquisite than the first quarter moon viewed at twilight
through the tops of oleanders. Remsen saw her and knew his fate. He
could have flung himself under the very wheels that conveyed her, but
he knew that would be the last means of attracting the attention of
those who ride in motor cars. Slowly the auto passed, and, if we place
the poets above the autoists, carried the heart of Remsen with it. Here
was a large city of millions, and many women who at a certain distance
appear to resemble pomegranate blossoms. Yet he hoped to see her again;
for each one fancies that his romance has its own tutelary guardian and
divinity.
Luckily for Remsen’s peace of mind there came a diversion in the guise
of a reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city. There were not many of
them—perhaps a score—and there was wassail and things to eat, and
speeches and the Spaniard was bearded again in recapitulation. And when
daylight threatened them the survivors prepared to depart. But some
remained upon the battlefield. One of these was Trooper O’Roon, who was
not seasoned to potent liquids. His legs declined to fulfil the
obligations they had sworn to the police department.
“I’m stewed, Remsen,” said O’Roon to his friend. “Why do they build
hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels? They’ll take away
my shield and break me. I can think and talk
con-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer with my feet. I’ve got
to go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig is up, I
tell you.”
“Look at me,” said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to his
own face; “whom do you see here?”
“Goo’ fellow,” said O’Roon, dizzily, “Goo’ old Remsen.”
“Not so,” said Remsen. “You see Mounted Policeman O’Roon. Look at your
face—no; you can’t do that without a glass—but look at mine, and think
of yours. How much alike are we? As two French _table d’hôte_ dinners.
With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm
nurse-maids and prevent the grass from growing under people’s feet in
the Park this day. I will have your badge and your honor, besides
having the jolliest lark I’ve been blessed with since we licked Spain.”
Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted Policeman
O’Roon single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In a uniform
two men who are unlike will look alike; two who somewhat resemble each
other in feature and figure will appear as twin brothers. So Remsen
trotted down the bridle paths, enjoying himself hugely, so few real
pleasures do ten-millionaires have.
Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by a pair
of fiery bays. There was something foreign about the affair, for the
Park is rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people who
love to be healthy, poor and wise. In the vehicle sat an old gentleman
with snowy side-whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn
while driving except by a personage. At his side sat the lady of
Remsen’s heart—the lady who looked like pomegranate blossoms and the
gibbous moon.
Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their passing her eyes looked
into his, and but for the ever coward’s heart of a true lover he could
have sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on for twenty
yards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway hoofs. The
bays had bolted.
Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot. There was work
cut out for the impersonator of Policeman O’Roon. The chestnut ranged
alongside the off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, rolled his
eye back at Remsen, and said in the only manner open to policemen’s
horses:
“Well, you duffer, are you going to do your share? You’re not O’Roon,
but it seems to me if you’d lean to the right you could reach the reins
of that foolish slow-running bay—ah! you’re all right; O’Roon couldn’t
have done it more neatly!”
The runaway team was tugged to an inglorious halt by Remsen’s tough
muscles. The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped
from his seat and stood at the heads of the team. The chestnut,
approving his new rider, danced and pranced, reviling equinely the
subdued bays. Remsen, lingering, was dimly conscious of a vague,
impossible, unnecessary old gentleman in a Scotch cap who talked
incessantly about something. And he was acutely conscious of a pair of
violet eyes that would have drawn Saint Pyrites from his iron pillar—or
whatever the allusion is—and of the lady’s smile and look—a little
frightened, but a look that, with the ever coward heart of a true
lover, he could not yet construe. They were asking his name and
bestowing upon him wellbred thanks for his heroic deed, and the Scotch
cap was especially babbling and insistent. But the eloquent appeal was
in the eyes of the lady.
A little thrill of satisfaction ran through Remsen, because he had a
name to give which, without undue pride, was worthy of being spoken in
high places, and a small fortune which, with due pride, he could leave
at his end without disgrace.
He opened his lips to speak and closed them again.
Who was he? Mounted Policeman O’Roon. The badge and the honor of his
comrade were in his hands. If Ellsworth Remsen, ten-millionaire and
Knickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotch cap
from possible death, where was Policeman O’Roon? Off his beat, exposed,
disgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that there had been
something that demanded precedence—the fellowship of men on
battlefields fighting an alien foe.
Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnut’s ears, and took
refuge in vernacularity.
“Don’t mention it,” he said stolidly. “We policemen are paid to do
these things. It’s our duty.”
And he rode away—rode away cursing _noblesse oblige_, but knowing he
could never have done anything else.
At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable and went
to O’Roon’s room. The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool
young man who sat by the window smoking cigars.
“I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses,
brass buttons and men who can’t drink two glasses of _brut_ without
getting upset were at the devil,” said Remsen feelingly.
O’Roon smiled with evident satisfaction.
“Good old Remsen,” he said, affably, “I know all about it. They trailed
me down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was a little row at
home, you know, and I cut sticks just to show them. I don’t believe I
told you that my Governor was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you should bob
against them in the Park. If you damaged that horse of mine I’ll never
forgive you. I’m going to buy him and take him back with me. Oh, yes,
and I think my sister—Lady Angela, you know—wants particularly for you
to come up to the hotel with me this evening. Didn’t lose my badge, did
you, Remsen? I’ve got to turn that in at Headquarters when I resign.”