"Jack Delafield was a man of good family," I began, "but to vary the
conventional opening and adhere to the truth, I may as well say his
parents were honest though not poor. He was a fellow of many talents, so
many, in fact, that he became known as a 'versatile genius.' He never
attained a more notable title. Not that he hid his talents under a
napkin. He sealed their fate in a bottle--in many bottles. I'm afraid
we didn't do much to help him here. Everyone thought he'd come out all
right in the long run, and when he lost his money and settled down
seriously to the law, his friends supposed his wild oats had all been
sown. But somebody left him more money, and back he went to literature
and painting, and music. The old set welcomed him with open arms, but
didn't help him to write, or paint or practise. Then Miss--well, I won't
say what girl--put him on probation, and he wrote two really notable
stories before the probation was declared unsatisfactory. After that he
never seemed to care much about anything except art, and he took that
out in dreaming of the things he didn't do. Yet no one seemed to blame
him much, perhaps everybody liked him too well, and nobody loved him
enough. Anyway he went from bad to worse, until 'poor fellow' used to
be coupled with his name, and Delafield in various states of
intoxication became a familiar sight in these rooms.
"He must have been a handsome fellow before drink coarsened and aged
him, for he was still good looking, though prematurely old, when I first
met him, shortly after my election to the club. About that time Galloway
gave his bachelor dinner in the private dining-room upstairs. I attended
as one of the ushers, and there were perhaps a dozen other guests--among
them Delafield. The dinner was as most such dinners are, a toast for
every sentiment, and sentiments galore, so when we adjourned to the
grill-room for coffee, Jack tipped his chair against the wall over there
and fell asleep. We sat about the centre-table smoking, and testing some
remarkable port sent to grace the occasion.
"I don't recall what led up to the conversation, but I do remember that
the general subject was women, and that Hawkins coupled the name
of--well, a decent girl, with a remark so coarse that most of us stopped
talking, though two or three laughed. It was a speech such as I suppose
you've all heard made at some time or another, and which always seems
to receive the tribute of a laugh before being buried in the silence of
self-respecting men.
"It was in the hush following this remark that Delafield's chair fell
sideways to the floor with a crash, making us start to our feet and
setting the glasses tinkling. The roar of mirth that burst out at this
mishap ceased instantly, as we saw Delafield's ghastly face, down which
the blood was running from a deep gash in his forehead.
"Someone hurried forward, offering help, but Delafield pushed him aside,
staggered to his feet, closed the door and leaned his back against
it--his arms spread out as though to bar an exit.
"We stood around the table in silence, watching him. Two or three
minutes must have passed before he spoke.
"'Is--Mi--Miss Smith en--gaged?'
"The question was asked slowly in a low tone, as though the man was
struggling to control voice and speech.
"We looked at one another and at the swaying figure before the door, but
no one answered.
"'Is--Miss Smith's--father here?'
"No answer.
"'Is Miss Smith's brother here?'
"It was difficult to see all the faces in the smoky half-light of the
lamps, but those about me showed a pallor of apprehension.
"Was Miss Smith's uncle there--or her guardian--or her cousin? Was
anybody present who had a claim to represent her? No?
"The broadening trickle of blood on Delafield's face dripped down the
white shirt front, but no one stirred or spoke.
"'Then I wa--want to say'--here he lurched forward from the door and
stood rocking slightly at the end of the table. 'I want to say that
I--I'm drunk an'--and I know it. But I'm--I'm a gentleman. An'--and
yonder's nothing but a cur--a low-lived cur--drunk or sober. You--you've
heard him--now see him!'
"Something flashed before his eyes, and then a wine-glass struck Hawkins
square on the forehead, scattering in fragments over the table.
"And Hawkins stood there, his face dripping with the wine, and his
clothes showing great stains of it--stood there without moving as
Delafield leaned over the table and laughed--
"'If--if you only had as much re--red blood in you--you--you----'
"And then he fell fainting across the table, crashing among the bottles.
"The Governing Board expelled Delafield, but the club sentiment was so
strongly in his favour that they afterward rescinded the expulsion, and
suspended him for three years. But that never satisfied his friends."
"I should think not, indeed," exclaimed Joline, "it was outrageous! I've
always claimed you can't be sure a man's a thorough gentleman until
you've seen him drunk. And that proves it."
"Oh, the many times I've heard your theory debated in this place! The
walls fairly ached with listening to the discussions."
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't know the chap," interrupted Chandler. "Let's
drink to his memory!"
He struck the bell as he spoke. As the waiter filled the orders, I
noticed one of the older members on the stairs bending close to the
bulletin board and peering through his glasses at the notice of John
Delafield's death.
Chandler touched me on the shoulder.
"To the memory of a gentleman--Jack Delafield!" he cried. We rose to the
toast.
The old man on the stairs turned quickly and saw the lifted glasses. His
face was a study.
"Hush!" I whispered, "that's Hawkins."