CORNELIA SHOWS SOME CLASS
"Oh, by the way, Shorty," says Sadie to me the other mornin', just as I'm
makin' an early get-away for town.
"Another postscript, eh?" says I. "Well, let it come over speedy."
"It's something for Mrs. Purdy-Pell," says she. "I'd almost forgotten."
"Is it orderin' some fancy groceries, or sendin' out a new laundry
artist?" says I. "If it is, why I guess I can----"
"No, no," says Sadie, givin' my tie an extra pat and brushin' some
imaginary dust off my coat collar; "it's about Cousin Cornelia. She's in
town, you know, and neither of the Purdy-Pells can get in to see her
before next week on account of their garden party, and Cornelia is
staying at a hotel alone, and they're a little anxious about her. So look
her up, won't you? I told them you would. You don't mind, do you?"
"Me?" says I. "Why, I've been waitin' for this. Makin' afternoon calls on
weepy old maids is my specialty."
"There, there!" says Sadie, followin' me out on the veranda. "Don't play
the martyr! Perhaps Cornelia isn't the most entertaining person in the
world, for she certainly has had her share of trouble; but it isn't going
to hurt you merely to find out how she is situated and ask if you can be
of any help to her. You know, if there was anything she could do for us,
she would----"
"Oh, sure!" says I. "If I'm ever brought home on a shutter, I shall look
for Cornelia to be waitin' on the mat with a needle and thread, ready to
sew mournin' bands on the help."
That seems to be Cousin Cornelia's steady job in life, tendin' out on the
sick and being in at the obsequies. Anyway, she's been at it ever since
we knew her. She's a cousin of Mr. Purdy-Pell's, and his branch of the
fam'ly, being composed mainly of antiques and chronic invalids, has been
shufflin' off in one way or another for the last three or four years at
the rate of about one every six months.
Course, it was kind of sad to see a fam'ly peter out that way; but, as a
matter of fact, most of 'em was better off. At first the Purdy-Pells
started in to chop all their social dates for three months after each
sorrowful event; but when they saw they was being let in for a continuous
performance, they sort of detailed Cousin Cornelia to do their heavy
mournin' and had a black edge put on their stationery.
Maybe Cornelia didn't exactly yearn for the portfolio; but she didn't
have much choice about taking it. She was kind of a hanger-on, Cornelia
was, you see, and she was used to going where she was sent. So when word
would come that Aunt Mehitabel's rheumatism was worse and was threatenin'
her heart, that meant a hurry call for Cousin Cornelia. She'd pack a
couple of suit cases full of black skirts and white shirtwaists, and off
she'd go, not showin' up again at the Purdy-Pells' town house until Aunty
had been safely planted and the headstone ordered.
You couldn't say but what she did it thorough, too; for she'd come back
wearin' a long crape veil and lookin' pasty faced and wore out. Don't
know as I ever saw her when she wa'n't either just comin' from where
there'd been a funeral, or just startin' for where there was likely to be
one.
So she didn't cut much of a figure in all the gay doin's the Purdy-Pells
was always mixed up in. And yet she wasn't such a kiln dried prune as you
might expect, after all. Rather a well built party, Cornelia was, with a
face that would pass in a crowd, and a sort of longin' twist to her mouth
corners as if she wanted to crack a smile now and then, providin' the
chance would only come her way.
And it wa'n't hardly a square deal to list her with the U.B.'s as soon as
we did; for all this time she was doing the chief mourner act she was
engaged to young Durgin. First off it was understood that she was waitin'
for him to settle on whether he was goin' to be a minister or a doctor,
him fiddlin' round at college, now takin' one course and then another;
but at last he makes up his mind to chuck both propositions and take a
hack at the law.
Durgin got there, too, which was more or less of a surprise to all hands,
and actually broke in as partner in a good firm. Then it was a case of
Durgin waitin' for Cornelia; for about that time the relations got to
droppin' off in one-two-three order, and she seemed to think that so long
as she'd started in on the job of ridin' in the first carriage, she ought
to see it through.
Whether it was foolish of her or not, ain't worth while debatin' now.
Anyhow, she stuck to it until the last one had cashed in, puttin' Durgin
off from month to month and year to year. Then it turns out that the last
of the bunch, Uncle Theodore, had left her a good-sized wad that
Purdy-Pell had always supposed was comin' to him, but which he didn't
grudge to Cornelia a bit.
So there she was, all the lingerin' ones off her hands, and her sportin'
a bank account of her own. She's some tired out, though; so, after
sendin' Durgin word that they might as well wait until fall now, she
hikes off to some little place in New Hampshire and spends the summer
restin' up. Next she comes down unexpected and hits New York.
In the meantime, though, Durgin has suddenly decided to scratch his entry
for that partic'lar Matrimonial Handicap. Not that he's seriously
int'rested in somebody else, but he's kind of got weary hangin' around,
and he's seen a few livelier ones than Cornelia, and he feels that
somehow him and her have made a great mistake. You know how they're apt
to talk when they get chilly below the ankles? He don't hand this
straight out to Cornelia, mind you, but goes to Mrs. Purdy-Pell and Sadie
with the tale, wantin' to know what he'd better do.
Now I ain't got any grouch against Durgin. He's all right, I expect, in
his way, more or less of a stiff necked, mealy mouthed chump, I always
thought; but they say he's nice to his old mother, and he's makin' good
in the law business, and he ain't bad to look at. The women folks takes
his side right off. They say they don't blame him a bit, and, without
stoppin' to think how Cousin Cornelia is going to feel left alone there
on the siding, they get busy pickin' out new candidates for Durgin to
choose from.
Well, that's the situation when I'm handed this assignment to go and
inspect the head of the Purdy-Pells' obituary department and see if she's
all comfy. Couldn't have weighed very heavy on my mind; for I don't think
of it until late afternoon, just as I'm startin' to pull out for home.
Then I says to myself that maybe it'll do just as well if I ring her up
on the 'phone at her hotel. She's in, all right, and I explains over the
wire how anxious I am to know if she's all right, and hopes nobody has
tried to kidnap her yet, and asks if there's anything I can do.
"Why, how kind of you, Mr. McCabe!" says Cornelia. "Yes, I am perfectly
well and quite safe here."
"Good!" says I. And then, seein' how easy I was gettin' out of it, I has
to pile on the agony a little by addin', "Ain't there some way I can be
useful, though? No errands you want done, or any place you'd like to be
towed around to, eh?"
"Why--why----" says she, hesitatin'. "Oh, but I couldn't think of
troubling you, you know."
"Why not?" says I, gettin' reckless. "Just remember that I'd be tickled
to death, any time you push the button."
"We-e-ell," says she, "we were just wishing, Miss Stover and I, that we
did have some gentleman friend who would----"
"Count me in," says I. "What's the game? Trip to Woodlawn Cemetery some
day, or do you want to be piloted up to Grant's Tomb?"
No, it wa'n't either of them festive splurges she had in mind. They
wanted a dinner escort for that evenin', she and Miss Stover. The other
lady, she goes on to say, is a school teacher from up Boston way, that
she'd made friends with durin' the summer. Miss Stover was takin' a year
off, for the benefit of her nerves, and before she sailed on her Cook's
trip abroad she thought she'd like to see a little of New York. They'd
been tryin' to knock around some alone, and had got along all right
daytimes, but hadn't dared venture out much at night. So if I wanted to
be real generous, and it wouldn't be too much of a bore, they'd be very
thankful if I would----
"In a minute," says I and, seein' I was up against it anyhow, I thought I
might as well do it cheerful. "I'll be up about six, eh?"
"Chee!" says Swifty Joe, who always has his ear stretched out on such
occasions, "you make a noise like you was fixin' up a date."
"What good hearin' you have, Swifty!" says I. "Some day, though, you'll
strain one of them side flaps of yours. Yes, this is a date, and it's
with two of the sportiest female parties that ever dodged an old ladies'
home."
Excitin' proposition, wa'n't it? I spends the next half-hour battin' my
head to think of some first class food parlor where I could cart a couple
like this Boston schoolma'am and Cousin Cornelia without shockin' 'em.
There was the Martha Washington; but I knew I'd be barred there. Also
there was some quiet fam'ly hotels I'd heard of up town; but I couldn't
remember exactly what street any of 'em was on.
"Maybe Cornelia will have some plans of her own," thinks I, as I gets
into my silk faced dinner jacket and V-cut vest. "And I hope she ain't
wearin' more'n two thicknesses of crape veil now."
Well, soon after six I slides out, hops on one of these shed-as-you-enter
surface cars, and rides up to the hotel. I'd been holdin' down one of the
velvet chairs in the ladies' parlor for near half an hour, and was
wonderin' if Cornelia had run out of black headed pins, or what, when I
pipes off a giddy specimen in wistaria costume that drifts in and begins
squintin' around like she was huntin' for some one. Next thing I knew
she'd spotted me and was sailin' right over.
"Oh, there you are!" she gurgles, holdin' out her hand.
"Excuse me, lady," says I, sidesteppin' behind the chair, "but ain't you
tryin' to tag the wrong party?"
"Why," says she, lettin' out a chuckle, "don't you know me, Mr. McCabe?"
"Not yet," says I; "but it looks like I would if----Great snakes!"
And honest, you could hardly have covered my face cavity with a waffle
iron when I drops to the fact that it's Cousin Cornelia. In place of the
dismal female I'd been expectin', here's a chirky party in vivid regalia
that shows class in every line. Oh, it's a happy days uniform, all right,
from the wide brimmed gauze lid with the long heliotrope feather trailin'
over one side, to the lavender kid pumps.
"Gee!" I gasps. "The round is on me, Miss Cornelia. But I wa'n't lookin'
for you in--in----"
"I know," says she. "This is the first time I've worn colors for years,
and I feel so odd. I hope I don't look too----"
"You look all to the skookum," says I.
It wa'n't any jolly, either. There never was any real sharp angles to
Cornelia, and now I come to reckon up I couldn't place her as more'n
twenty-six or twenty-seven at the outside. So why shouldn't she show up
fairly well in a Gibson model?
"It's so good of you to come to our rescue," says she. "Miss Stover will
be down presently. Now, where shall we go to dinner?"
Well, I see in a minute I've got to revise my plans; so I begins namin'
over some of the swell grillrooms and cafes.
"Oh, we have been to most of those, all by ourselves," says Cornelia.
"What we would like to see to-night is some real--well, a place where we
couldn't go alone, out somewhere--an automobile resort, for instance."
"Whe-e-ew!" says I through my front teeth. "Say, Miss Cornie, but you are
gettin' out of the bereft class for fair! I guess it's comin' to you,
though. Now jest let me get an idea of how far you want to go."
"Why," says she, shruggin' her shoulders,--"how is it you put such
things?--the limit, I suppose?"
"Honest?" says I. "Then how about Clover Blossom Inn?"
Heard about that joint, haven't you? Of course. There's a lot of joy-ride
tank stations strung along Jerome-ave. and the Yonkers road; but when it
comes to a genuine tabasco flavored chorus girls' rest, the Clover
Blossom has most of the others lookin' like playgrounds for little
mothers. But Cornie don't do any dodgin'.
"Fine!" says she. "I've read about that inn." Then she hurries on to plan
out the details. I must go over to Times Square and hire a nice looking
touring car for the evening. And I mustn't let Miss Stover know how much
it costs; for Cornelia wants to do that part of it by her lonely.
"The dinner we are to go shares on," says she.
"Couldn't think of it," says I. "Let that stand as my blow."
"No, indeed," says Cornelia. "We have the money all put aside, and I
sha'n't like it. Here it is, and I want you to be sure you spend the
whole of it," and with that she shoves over a couple of fives.
I couldn't help grinnin' as I takes it. Maybe you've settled a dinner
bill for three and a feed for the shofer at the Clover Blossom; but not
with a ten-spot, eh?
And while Cornelia is goin' back in the elevator after the schoolma'am, I
scoots over to get a machine. After convincin' two or three of them
leather capped pirates that I didn't want to buy their blamed outfits, I
fin'lly beats one down to twenty-five and goes back after the ladies.
[Illustration: "Cornelia whispered about the peroxide puffed girl"]
Miss Stover don't turn out to be any such star as Cornelia; but she don't
look so much like a suffragette as I expected. She's plump, and middle
aged, and plain dressed; but there's more or less style to the way she
carries herself. Also she has just a suspicion of eye twinkle behind the
glasses, which suggests that perhaps some of this programme is due to
her.
"All aboard for the Clover Blossom!" says I, handin' 'em into the
tonneau; "that is, as soon as I run in here to the telephone booth."
It had come to me only at that minute what a shame it was this stunt of
Cornelia's was goin' to be wasted on an audience that couldn't appreciate
the fine points, and I'd thought of a scheme that might supply the gap.
So I calls up an old friend of mine and has a little confab.
By the time we'd crossed the Harlem and had got straightened out on the
parkway with our gas lamps lighted, and the moon comin' up over the
trees, and hundreds of other cars whizzin' along in both directions,
Cornelia and her schoolma'am friend was chatterin' away like a couple of
boardin' school girls. There's no denyin' that it does get into your
blood, that sort of ridin'. Why, even I begun to feel some frisky!
And look at Cornelia! For years she'd been givin' directions about where
to put the floral wreaths, and listenin' to wills being read, and all
summer long she'd been buried in a little backwoods boardin' house, where
the most excitin' event of the day was watchin' the cows come home, or
going down for the mail. Can you blame her for workin' up a cheek flush
and rattlin' off nonsense?
Clover Blossom Inn does look fine and fancy at night, too, with all the
colored lights strung around, and the verandas crowded with tables, and
the Gypsy orchestra sawin' away, and new parties landin' from the
limousines every few minutes. Course, I knew they'd run against perfect
ladies hittin' up cocktails and cigarettes in the cloak room, and hear
more or less high spiced remarks; but this was what they'd picked out to
view.
So I orders the brand of dinner the waiter hints I ought to have,--little
necks, okra soup, broiled lobster, guinea hen, and so on, with a large
bottle of fizz decoratin' the silver tub on the side and some sporty
lookin' mineral for me. It don't make any diff'rence whether you've got a
wealthy water thirst or not, when you go to one of them tootsy palaces
you might just as well name your vintage first as last; for any cheap
skates of suds consumers is apt to find that the waiter's made a mistake
and their table has been reserved for someone else.
But if you don't mind payin' four prices, and can stand the comp'ny at
the adjoinin' tables, just being part of the picture and seeing it from
the inside is almost worth the admission. If there's any livelier purple
spots on the map than these gasolene road houses from eight-thirty P. M.
to two-thirty in the mornin', I'll let you name 'em.
Cornelia rather shies at the sight of the fat bottle peekin' out of the
cracked ice; but she gets over that feelin' after Miss Stover has
expressed her sentiments.
"Champagne!" says the schoolma'am. "Oh, how perfectly delightful! Do you
know, I always have wanted to know how it tasted."
Say, she knows all about it now. Not that she put away any more'n a lady
should,--at the Clover Blossom,--but she had tackled a dry Martini first,
and then she kept on tastin' and tastin' her glass of fizz, and the
waiter keeps fillin' it up, and that twinkle in her eye develops more and
more, and her conversation gets livelier and livelier. So does
Cornelia's. They gets off some real bright things, too. You'd never guess
there was so much fun in Cornie, or that she could look so much like a
stunner.
She was just leanin' over to whisper something to me about the peroxide
puffed girl at the next table, and I was tryin' to stand bein' tickled in
the neck by that long feather of hers while I listens, and Miss Stover
was snuggled up real chummy on the other side, when I looks up the aisle
and sees a little group watchin' us with their mouths open and their
eyebrows up.
Leadin' the way is Pinckney. Oh, he'd done his part, all right, just as
I'd told him over the wire; for right behind him is Durgin, starin' at
Cornelia until he was pop eyed.
But that wa'n't all. Trust Pinckney to add something. Beyond Durgin is
Mrs. Purdy-Pell--and Sadie. Now, I've seen Mrs. McCabe when she's been
some jarred; but I don't know as I ever watched the effect of such a jolt
as this. You see, Cornelia's back was to her, and all Sadie can see is
that wistaria lid with the feather danglin' down my neck.
Sadie don't indulge in any preliminaries. She marches right along, with
her chin in the air, and glues them Irish blue eyes of hers on me in a
way I can feel yet. "Well, I must say!" says she.
"Eh?" says I, tryin' hard to put on a pleased grin. "So Pinckney brought
you along too, did he? Lovely evenin', ain't it?"
"Why, Sadie?" says Cornelia, jumpin' up and givin' 'em a full face view.
And you should have seen how that knocks the wind out of Sadie.
"Wha-a-at!" says she. "You?"
"Of course," says Cornie. "And we're just having the grandest lark,
and----Oh! Why, Durgin! Where in the world did you come from? How
jolly!"
"Ain't it?" says I. "You see, Sadie, I'm carryin' out instructions."
Well, the minute she gets wise that it's all a job that Pinckney and I
have put up between us, and discovers that my giddy lookin' friend is
only Cousin Cornelia doin' the butterfly act, the thunder storm is all
over. The waiter shoves up another table, and they plants Durgin next to
Cornie, and the festivities takes a new start.
Did Durgin boy forget all about them chilly feet of his? Why, you could
almost see the frost startin' out before he'd said a dozen words, and by
the time he'd let the whole effect sink in, he was no nearer contractin'
chilblains than a Zulu with his heels in the campfire.
What pleases me most, though, was the scientific duck I made in the last
round. We'd gone clear through the menu, and they was finishin' up their
cordials, when I spots the waiter comin' with a slip of paper on his tray
as long as a pianola roll.
"Hey, Pinckney," says I, "see what's comin' now!"
And when Pinckney reached around and discovers what it is, he digs down
for his roll like a true sport, never battin' an eyelash.
"You would ring in the fam'ly on me, would you," says I, "when I'm
showin' lady friends the sights?"