This being none of his business, Charles replied with a monosyllable.
"Anything wrong between you two?"
"Not that I'm aware of.... Great heavens! I'm a worker, my good fellow!
I haven't time to fuss around house-partying--pop-calling--all the
time!--Not, of course, that I don't wish I were going--"
"Well, you won't have much time to be pop-calling on Mary," reproved
Donald, with his new responsible soberness. "Drop around this afternoon,
Charlie, after your lessons. See if you can't cheer her up a little."
The limousine reeled off half a block before Charles answered:
"Seems I'm behind the times again. What does Miss Mary need to be
cheered up about, exactly?"
"What d'you s'pose now, Charlie? Going off to New York to live, herself;
me off to Wyoming for two years at least; Aunt Ellen moving to North
Carolina; home broken up--why, I tell you the thing is the worst kind of
smash-up! I've just been with Mary--never saw her so blue in my life."
Charles said, after another silence: "But she understood all that from
the beginning, didn't she?"
"Understood--what's that got to do with it? Besides, you never
understand things till you get right down to 'em. Take me," said Donald,
recurring to his favorite subject with a frown. "I hadn't an idea how
much I was going to mind this business--ending it all here, moving off
to the back side of nowhere to--"
"Well, don't be sentimental about it, for pity's sake! This is a
realistic story we're living, or I miss my guess entirely.--When does
Miss Mary leave?"
"Oh, about two weeks, I believe, but--"
"Two weeks!"
"Wensons want the flat around the 20th, I understand. We didn't speak of
that just now--Mary'll tell you about it. Let's see," said Donald,
fidgeting about and looking first out one window, then another. "Going
to your mother's to-morrow, I suppose? Drop in this afternoon,
Charlie--or to-night. And that's so!--you can take around a package for
me, things I bought for Mary in New York--oh, neck-fichus, silk
stockings--that sort of stuff."
But the thought of himself as Mary's cheerer-up at this juncture in her
Career was bitterly ironic to Charles, and, answering curtly that he
would be too busy to run errands this afternoon, he changed the subject
at once. In short, when did Donald go to Wyoming? Unable to resist the
opening, Donald said that he would probably start on March 15th; and so
began to talk fitfully of himself. At the other window, Charles relapsed
into thought. He did not speak again until the car rolled up to the
entrance of the showy apartment-hotel where Donald lived. Then, rousing
himself abruptly, he said, with a well-done air of negligent
sprightliness:--
"Oh, by the by, Donald--heard anything from our little friend in the
four-wheeler, as you call it? I haven't laid eyes on her since that day
you and I marched up like little soldiers to give back her books. Funny,
that was!--ha, ha!"
Donald's face of a young man about to be married changed perceptibly. He
answered, quite stiffly:--
"I fail to see anything funny in it. Miss Flower's perfectly well, I
believe."
"Good!--glad to hear it. She needs her health, all the driving about she
does.... Why, where'd she see you to-day?"
"I didn't say I'd seen her to-day, that I remember. By Jove, I don't get
a minute to see anybody or anything, rushed about this way all the
time!... Well! Obliged for the lift."
"And how do you know she's well, then?"
"Because she told me so over the telephone, if you give a darn! What's
this about, anyway?"
"Why, not a thing! Why, my dear fellow! Of _course_, I understand
perfectly! You don't suppose I suspect you of being old Tilletts's
rival, do you? Not likely--ha, ha! No, I think it's awfully nice of you,
old fellow, knowing as I do that you don't admire her particularly.
That's what I wanted to say," proceeded Charles, laying his hand
affectionately and detainingly on Donald's arm. "Of course you know she
doesn't have much of a time--attention and all that--oh, I see through
you perfectly! It's just Talbott and the Oldmixon girls over again--"
"Oh, she told me about _you_!" said Donald in a blustering manner; and,
snatching his arm away, he sprang out upon the sidewalk.
His remark evoked curiosity; but Charles's overweening interest was not
in Angela now. And he was thinking intently: "He's not engaged to Helen
Carson yet, by a long shot. He's not even at the station--that's a
mile--on Washington Street. I'd better keep an eye on you, my buck ..."
Aloud he said: "She did?--nothing good, I fear. Here!--wait a minute!
That package for Miss Mary, Donald--I expect you'd better leave it for
me to take, after all. I'll find some way to get it around to her--"
"All right--"
"You bring it by as you start for the station, that's the best way. Then
we'll drive down together," said Charles, fixing his friend with a
compelling gaze. "I've--ah--got some things I want to talk to you
about."
"I'll bring it by," said Donald, non-committally, and rushed away.
He went up seven floors, telephoned for the "staff valet," and proceeded
to business. There was a period of the wildest activity. At the end of
it, the hour being then too late for hope that any expressman would make
the train with the trunk, Donald engaged the valet to secure a
carriage, take down and check the baggage, get him a ticket and a seat,
and be waiting for him with these things at a given point. In such
slapdash, inefficient fashion this young man conducted all his personal
life.
"And mind you see the baggage on the train," he warned the fellow. "This
is an important trip."
He shot down again, dressed to "kill" the house-party, but lugging a
large box, and strode out into the fading sunshine. Before the hotel
door, to his surprise, stood Charlie Garrott's borrowed car, empty, and
before the car stood Charlie Garrott's borrowed driver, greeting him
with all his teeth.
"What're _you_ waiting here for?" said Donald, staring.
"Goin' to drive you an' Mist' Garrott to the deepo--yessuh! Mist'
Garrott tole me to wait right here an' bring you round, suh!"
Donald again was rather touched by the thoughtfulness of his friend.
Take him all in all, old Charlie was a pretty good fellow. However, he
would have ridden down in the hack with the valet, if he had wanted to
ride. Of course, he might send the box around by this fellow--but no, if
old Charlie was expecting him, that would seem pretty short,
particularly as Mrs. Herman's was right on his way.
"I'm much obliged to you--er--Eustace--but I'll walk, I guess. I haven't
had any exercise to-day."
"Boss, he say you mout not ketch yo' train if you was to walk."
"Oh, I've got plenty of time for the train--plenty!" said Donald,
hastily, and shifted the box to look at his watch again. "I'll leave
word for Mr. Garrott myself."
"Suh! Thank you kindly, suh!"
Donald swung off toward Mrs. Herman's, but three blocks distant. Behind
him, unobserved, trailed the old lady's limousine, very slow. When he
was still a block from his destination, the hurrying young man was all
at once struck with an annoying recollection. "Curses!" he groaned. "I
forgot my sweater!" That meant that he would have to go back, without
doubt: for the sweater was a brand-new one, of brilliant Australian
wool, and specially purchased in New York for the winter-sports. Donald,
accordingly, felt unable to linger over his good-bye messages to
Charles. He said hurriedly to Mrs. Herman, who opened the door for him:
"How-do! Please give this box to Mr. Garrott, and tell him I decided to
walk. He'll understand." And on that, he sprang away down the steps, two
at a time, and started swiftly back to the Bellingham.
But just as he reached the corner, he was suddenly arrested by the sound
of his own name, rolling loudly after him down the street.
"_Donald! Hi, there! Stop!_"
Donald halting, looked upward and all about him. Presently, through the
top branches of an intervening tree, he descried Charles Garrott leaning
far out of Mrs. Herman's third-story window. "Well?" called Donald.
"What's the matter? Where're you going?" demanded Charles in a voice
that broke easily through the tree. "I said we'd drive down together!"
He was heard continuing in another tone: "_No!_ Stop, Eustace! Don't go
away--I want you!"
"Much obliged," shouted Donald, "but I'd rather walk."
Charles said something out the window, which Donald failed to catch.
"What say?"
"You come back!" cried Charles, beckoning, while passing pedestrians
craned their necks upward. "Wait for me--just a minute--I'm all ready!
And I've got to speak to you--about several things! About the package!"
But Donald, objecting to the attention they were attracting, shook his
head decisively. "Haven't time now. Forgot something ... back to my
rooms."
"If you haven't time to wait, you certainly haven't time to walk back to
your rooms! You're going to miss your train with all this walking!"
That was pointed enough to cause Donald to pause again, and look at his
watch for the twentieth time. He found that he still had twenty-five
minutes, time enough, of course, but then he might have to hunt for the
sweater, and there was the business of the luggage at the station, too.
Down through the branches boomed the strangely insistent voice of
Charles: "Why, by George! You've only got twenty minutes. Here, take my
car there, quick! You can barely make it, driving fast ..."
And in a lower voice he said: "After him, Eustace! Get him to the
station as fast as you can. Don't fail this time."
Donald was hesitating, struck as Charles meant him to be, with the fear
that his watch might be slow. He now called, with evidences of ill-humor
and disturbance:--
"All right, then! But I can't stop for you."
"Oh, that's all right, old fellow--my matters can wait! I'll look out
for the package! Just you catch your train, that's all!"
Continuing to lean out of the Studio window, Charles watched the dullard
step into the old lady's tightly closed car, and whirl away--safe at
last. As the car shot round the corner, he suddenly laughed aloud: a
triumphant laugh, but charged with irritation, too.
Then Charles, aloft, drew head and torso back into the Studio, banged
shut the window, and found Mrs. Herman just plumping the large white box
of things for Mary down on his writing-table. The spectacle brought
forward the other matter instantly. Of course, he had agreed to receive
the box purely as a means of keeping an eye on Donald.
"Oh, yes--as to the package, Mrs. Herman, perhaps you wouldn't mind
taking it down as you go, and just leaving it on the hall table?
I--ah--shall probably call a messenger to take it--a little later."
"Certainly, Mr. Garrott," said Mrs. Herman, picking up the box again.
"And oh, would you mind telling the Judge I'd like to speak to him a
minute before he goes out?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Herman."
The landlady, lingering, said: "He seems in poor spirits, don't you
think so, Mr. Garrott? His appetite is not what it was. And he goes out
and takes these long walks, alone, day after day, or sits here by
himself in the Studio. I don't think it's good for him. I think he
broods."
"It's nothing serious, Mrs. Herman. He's annoyed with me, I fear, for
giving up some physical culture exercises which he hoped might make a
man of me yet. Also, for being such a continuous failure as a writer."
"But it's not your fault, Mr. Garrott! You do the very best you can, I'm
sure. The Judge is unreasonable--that's what I say. Oh, I could coax him
into a good humor easily enough, but I scarcely ever see him nowadays,
except at meal times. I can't very well offer to go with him on his
walks, can I?--but I'm sure the solitude is bad for him."
"Ah, you should get yourself a little Fordette, Mrs. Herman."
"And what is a little Fordette, Mr. Garrott?"
"Oh--simply a sort of wheeled device for going with people on their
walks. I'm explaining it in a story. But," said Charles, "I won't fail
to give the Judge your message."
Left alone, the young man stood for a space in the middle of the floor,
gazing intently at nothing. Then he seated himself at his table and
produced manuscript from the drawer. Then he put the manuscript back in
the drawer, and stared at nothing again. Finally, he rose, opened the
bedroom door quietly, and said:--
"Judge, I find I have to go out for a little while."
Judge Blenso, in the bedroom, received the friendly information, and
then his message from Mrs. Herman, with only a cold "Very well!" He
stood at a long board, balanced on two distant chair-backs, listlessly
pressing the trousers he didn't have on; his instrument being a patent
electric-flatiron, which consumed quantities of current, which indeed
fairly gave the measure of his landlady's adoration. Catch Mrs. Herman
letting Two-Book McGee use so much as an electric curling-iron in the
Second Hall Back!
"And Judge," added Charles, conciliatingly, "please don't bother to take
that manuscript to the express-office--I mean 'Bandwomen'--unless you
really want the walk."
"Very well! I hear you! Good gad, very well!" said the Judge.
Charles shut the door, regretfully. It had been like this between them
for some weeks now. Even his generosity in quietly yielding the name of
his own only novel produced no softening effect on his secretary's cold
bored disapprobation.
He put on hat and overcoat, descended two flights, picked up the box of
things for Mary, and went out upon his errand. He walked slowly, down
Mason Street to Olive, and at Olive turned south.
For the second time, Donald had contrived to force his hand in regard to
Mary: he was conscious of resenting that. Still--of course he had never
meant to let the old friendship end in estrangement, and doubtless the
casual pretext of the box was better than the formal "call" next week he
had had in mind. To appear as Mary's cheerer-up now was, indeed,
considerably beyond him. Nevertheless, he was well aware that what
Donald had told him in this connection had made an instant difference in
his feeling, made him readier to be friends again. If only she had felt
and realized all this in the beginning, if only she had showed him so
that day over the telephone....
Still, feeling wasn't enough, unfortunately. There was this whole
business about Donald, for instance. In one way he could think of that
almost pleasurably. Mary seemed to suppose that if she but arranged a
house-party and gave Donald a sound talking to in advance, the whole
thing was settled, down to the orange-blossoms. It required him to
revise her crude plannings, put in the omitted _finesse_, and deliver
Donald safely at the station. But Charles, pacing gravely toward the
unpremeditated meeting, large box under his arm, found his thought of
the episode continually seeking deeper levels. If, two weeks from now,
Donald was still not engaged to Helen, whose was to be the
responsibility of pushing him on? Not Mary's, evidently. Was not this
youth, in fact, but one more of those countless intimate obligations
which strong women must "hack away," when resolved to lead their own
lives? Donald was the apple of Mary's eye. Normally speaking, she was
ready to do anything for him. But it seemed that even Donald, if he
crossed the trail of the Career, would have to look to himself.
Or, more probably, he, Charles, would have to look out for him.
At the corner of Washington Street, pausing, the meditative young man
consulted his watch; he shifted the box for the purpose just as Donald
had done a few minutes earlier. It was quarter past five, exactly.
Donald would be at the station now, without doubt, safe on the train.
Well, here was one thing he had done for Mary, at any rate, as he should
not fail to indicate to her. And thus, insensibly, his thought slipped
into the pleasurable vein again, the superior, masterful vein, and his
mind composed the light ironic sentences with which he should make known
to Mary her remissness and his own subtle services.
Stepping down from the curb in this brown study, he all but walked into
a motor-car whirring by: a car that was stealing the wrong side of the
street, and cutting close to the sidewalk at that. Charles stopped and
stepped back, just in time. And then, all in the same breath, his ears,
his eyes, and his nostrils telegraphed his brain what car, and whose,
this was. It was the Fordette, none other, going at an unprecedented
speed, now curving back dangerously to the side where it belonged. On a
cloud of the dark smoke it sometimes emitted, Angela's girlish laugh
came floating back to him distinctly. But Charles's gaze was fixed on
the figure of the man who sat at Angela's side and held the Fordette
wheel; and his eyes all but started from his head as he perceived that
it was Donald....
Yes, it was poor Donald fast in the Home-Making conveyance: Donald,
snatched, she alone knew how, from his wedding-coach.