Horace Milbrey Upholds the Dignity of His House
In the shade of the piazza at the Hotel Mayson next morning there was a
sorting out of the mail that had been forwarded from the hotel in New
York. The mail of Mrs. Bines was a joy to her son. There were three
conventional begging letters, heart-breaking in their pathos, and
composed with no mean literary skill. There was a letter from one of
the maids at the Hightower for whose mother Mrs. Bines had secured
employment in the family of a friend; a position, complained the
daughter, "in which she finds constant hard labour caused by the
quantity expected of her to attend to." There was also a letter from
the lady's employer, saying she would not so much mind her laziness if
she did not aggravate it by drink. Mrs. Bines sighed despairingly for
the recalcitrant.
"And who's this wants more help until her husband's profession picks up
again?" asked Percival.
"Oh, that's a poor little woman I helped. They call her husband 'the
Terrible Iceman.'"
"But this is just the season for icemen!"
"Well," confessed his mother, with manifest reluctance, "he's a
prize-fighter or something."
Percival gasped.
"--and he had a chance to make some money, only the man he fought
against had some of his friends drug this poor fellow before
their--their meeting--and so of course he lost. If he hadn't been
drugged he would have won the money, and now there's a law passed
against it, and of course it isn't a very nice trade, but I think the
law ought to be changed. He's got to live."
"I don't see why; not if he's the man I saw box one night last winter.
He didn't have a single excuse for living. And what are these
tickets,--'Grand Annual Outing and Games of the Egg-Candlers & Butter
Drivers' Association at Sulzer's Harlem River Park. Ticket Admitting
Lady and Gent, One dollar.' Heavens! What is it?"
"I promised to take ten tickets," said Mrs. Bines. "I must send them a
check."
"But what are they?" her son insisted; "egg-candlers may be all right,
but what are butter-drivers? Are you quite sure it's respectable? Why,
I ask you, should an honest man wish to drive butter? That shows you
what life in a great city does for the morally weak. Look out you don't
get mixed up in it yourself, that's all I ask. They'll have you driving
butter first thing you know. Thank heaven! thus far no Bines has ever
candled an egg--and as for driving butter--" he stopped, with a shudder
of extreme repugnance.
"And here's a notice about the excursions of the St. John's Guild. I've
been on four already, and I want you to get me back to New York right
away for the others. If you could only see all those babies we take out
on the floating hospital, with two men in little boats behind to pick
up those that fall overboard--and really it's a wonder any of them live
through the summer in that cruel city. Down in Hester Street the other
day four of them had a slice of watermelon from Mr. Slivinsky's stand
on the corner, and when I saw them they were actually eating the hard,
green rind. It was enough to kill a horse."
"Well, have your own fun," said her son, cheerfully. "Here's a letter
from Uncle Peter I must read."
He drew his chair aside and began the letter:
"MONTANA CITY, July 21st, 1900.
"DEAR PETE:--Your letter and Martha's rec'd, and glad to hear from you.
I leave latter part of this week for the mtns. Late setting out this
season acct. rhumatiz caught last winter that laid me up all spring. It
was so mortal dull here with you folks gone that I went out with a
locating party to get the M. P. branch located ahead of the Short Line
folks. So while you were having your fun there I was having mine here,
and I had it good and plenty.
"The worst weather I ever did see, and I have seen some bad. Snow six
to eight feet on a level and the mercury down as low as 62 with an
ornery fierce wind. We lost four horses froze to death, and all but two
of the men got froze up bad. We reached the head of Madison Valley Feb.
19, north of Red Bank Canyon, but it wasn't as easy as it sounds.
"Jan. 8, after getting out of supplies, we abandoned our camp at
Riverside and moved 10 m. down the river carrying what we could on our
backs. Met pack train with a few supplies that night, and next day I
took part of the force in boat to meet over-due load of supplies. We
got froze in the ice. Left party to break through and took Billy Brue
and went ahead to hunt team. Billy and me lived four days on one lb.
bacon. The second day Billy took some sickness so he could not eat
hardly any food; the next day he was worse, and the last day he was so
bad he said the bare sight of food made him gag. I think he was a liar,
because he wasn't troubled none after we got to supplies again, but I
couldn't do anything with him, and so I lived high and come out slick
and fat. Finally we found the team coming in. They had got stuck in the
river and we had to carry out the load on our backs, waist-deep in
running water. I see some man in the East has a fad for breaking the
ice in the river and going swimming. I would not do it for any fad.
Slept in snow-drift that night in wet clothes, mercury 40 below. Was 18
days going 33 miles. Broke wagon twice, then broke sled and crippled
one horse. Packed the other five and went on till snow was too deep.
Left the horses where four out of five died and carried supplies the
rest of the way on our backs. Moved camp again on our backs and got
caught in a blizzard and nearly all of us got our last freezeup that
time. Finally a Chinook opened the river and I took a boat up to get
the abandoned camp. Got froze in harder than ever and had to walk out.
Most of the men quit on account of frozen feet, etc., etc. They are a
getting to be a sissy lot these days, rather lie around a hot stove all
winter.
"I had to pull chain, cut brush, and shovel snow after the 1st Feb. Our
last stage was from Fire Hole Basin to Madison Valley, 45 m. It was
hell. Didn't see the sun but once after Feb. 1, and it stormed
insessant, making short sights necessary, and with each one we would
have to dig a hole to the ground and often a ditch or a tunnel through
the snow to look through. The snow was soft to the bottom and an
instrument would sink through."
"Here's a fine letter to read on a hot day," called Percival. "I'm
catching cold." He continued.
"We have a very good line, better than from Beaver Canyon, our maps
filed and construction under way; all grading done and some track laid.
That's what you call hustling. The main drawback is that Red Bank
Canyon. It's a regular avalanche for eight miles. The snow slides just
fill the river. One just above our camp filled it for 1/4 mile and 40
feet deep and cut down 3 ft. trees like a razor shaves your face. I had
to run to get out of the way. Reached Madison Valley with one tent and
it looked more like mosquito bar than canvas. The old cloth wouldn't
hardly hold the patches together. I slept out doors for six weeks. I
got frost-bit considerable and the rhumatiz. I tell you, at 75 I ain't
the man I used to be. I find I need a stout tent and a good warm
sleeping bag for them kind of doings nowdays.
"Well, this Western country would be pretty dull for you I suppose
going to balls and parties every night with the Astors and Vanderbilts.
I hope you ain't cut loose none.
"By the way, that party that ground-sluiced us, Coplen he met a party
in Spokane the other day that seen her in Paris last spring. She was
laying in a stock of duds and the party gethered that she was going
back to New York--"
The Milbreys, father and son, came up and greeted the group on the
piazza.
"I've just frozen both ears reading a letter from my grandfather," said
Percival. "Excuse me one moment and I'll be done."
"All right, old chap. I'll see if there's some mail for me. Dad can
chat with the ladies. Ah, here's Mrs. Drelmer. Mornin'!"
Percival resumed his letter:
"--going back to New York and make the society bluff. They say she's
got the face to do it all right. Coplen learned she come out here with
a gambler from New Orleans and she was dealing bank herself up to
Wallace for a spell while he was broke. This gambler he was the
slickest short-card player ever struck hereabouts. He was too good. He
was so good they shot him all up one night last fall over to Wardner.
She hadn't lived with him for some time then, though Coplen says they
was lawful man and wife, so I guess maybe she was glad when he got it
good in the chest-place--"
Fred Milbrey came out of the hotel office.
"No mail," he said. "Come, let's be getting along. Finish your letter
on the way, Bines."
"I've just finished," said Percival, glancing down the last sheet.
"--Coplen says she is now calling herself Mrs. Brench Wybert or some
such name. I just thought I'd tell you in case you might run acrost her
and--"
"Come along, old chap," urged Milbrey; "Mrs. Wybert will be waiting."
His father had started off with Psyche. Mrs. Bines and Mrs. Drelmer
were preparing to follow.
"I beg your pardon," said Percival, "I didn't quite catch the name."
"I say Mrs. Wybert and mother will be waiting--come along!"
"What name?"
"Wybert--Mrs. Brench Wybert--my friend--what's the matter?"
"We can't go;--that is--we can't meet her. Sis, come back a moment," he
called to Psyche, and then:
"I want a word with you and your father, Milbrey."
The two joined the elder Milbrey and the three strolled out to the
flower-bordered walk, while Psyche Bines went, wondering, back to her
mother.
"What's all the row?" inquired Fred Milbrey.
"You've been imposed upon. This woman--this Mrs. Brench Wybert--there
can be no mistake; you are sure that's the name?"
"Of course I'm sure; she's the widow of a Southern gentleman, Colonel
Brench Wybert, from New Orleans."
"Yes, the same woman. There is no doubt that you have been imposed
upon. The thing to do is to drop her quick--she isn't right."
"In what way has my family been imposed upon, Mr. Bines?" asked the
elder Milbrey, somewhat perturbed; "Mrs. Wybert is a lady of family and
large means--"
"Yes, I know, she has, or did have a while ago, two million dollars in
cold cash."
"Well, Mr. Bines--?"
"Can't you take my word for it, that she's not right--not the woman for
your wife and daughter to meet?"
"Look here, Bines," the younger Milbrey spluttered, "this won't do, you
know. If you've anything to say against Mrs. Wybert, you'll have to say
it out and you'll have to be responsible to me, sir."
"Take my word that you've been imposed upon; she's not--not the kind of
person you would care to know, to be thrown--"
"I and my family have found her quite acceptable, Mr. Bines,"
interposed the father, stiffly. "Her deportment is scrupulously
correct, and I am in her confidence regarding certain very extensive
investments--she cannot be an impostor, sir!"
"But I tell you she isn't right," insisted Percival, warmly.
"Oh, I see," said the younger Milbrey--his face clearing all at once.
"It's all right, dad, come on!"
"If you insist," said Percival, "but none of us can meet her."
"It's all right, dad--I understand--"
"Nor can we know any one who receives her."
"Really, sir," began the elder Milbrey, "your effrontery in assuming to
dictate the visiting list of my family is overwhelming."
"If you won't take my word I shall have to dictate so far as I have any
personal control over it."
"Don't mind him, dad--I know all about it, I tell you--I'll explain
later to you."
"Why," exclaimed Percival, stung to the revelation, "that woman, this
woman now waiting with your wife and daughter, was my--"
"Stop, Mr. Bines--not another word, if you please!" The father raised
his hand in graceful dismissal. "Let this terminate the acquaintance
between our families! No more, sir!" and he turned away, followed by
his son. As they walked out through the grounds and turned up the
street the young man spoke excitedly, while his father slightly bent
his head to listen, with an air of distant dignity.
"What's the trouble, Perce?" asked his sister, as he joined the group
on the piazza.
"The trouble is that we've just had to cut that fine old New York
family off our list."
"What, not the Milbreys!" exclaimed Mrs. Drelmer.
"The same. Now mind, sis, and you, ma--you're not to know them
again--and mind this--if any one else wants to present you to a Mrs.
Wybert--a Mrs. Brench Wybert--don't you let them. Understand?"
"I thought as much," said Mrs. Drelmer; "she acted just the least
little bit _too_ right."
"Well, I haven't my hammer with me--but remember, now, sis, it's for
something else than because her father's cravats were the ready-to-wear
kind, or because her worthy old grandfather inhaled his soup. Don't
forget that."
"As there isn't anything else to do," he suggested, a few moments
later, "why not get under way and take a run up the coast?"
"But I must get back to my babies," said Mrs. Bines, plaintively. "Here
I've been away four days."
"All right, ma, I suppose we shall have to take you there, only let's
get out of here right away. We can bring sis and you back, Mrs.
Drelmer, when those people we don't know get off again. There's
Mauburn; I'll tell him."
"I'll have my dunnage down directly," said Mauburn.
Up the street driving a pony-cart came Avice Milbrey. Obeying a quick
impulse, Percival stepped to the curb as she came opposite to him. She
pulled over. She was radiant in the fluffs of summer white, her hat and
gown touched with bits of the same vivid blue that shone in her eyes.
The impulse that had prompted him to hail her now prompted wild words.
His long habit of thought concerning her enabled him to master this
foolishness. But at least he could give her a friendly word of warning.
She greeted him with the pretty reserve in her manner that had long
marked her bearing toward him.
"Good-morning! I've borrowed this cart of Elsie Vainer to drive down to
the yacht station for lost mail. Isn't the day perfect--and isn't this
the dearest fat, sleepy pony, with his hair in his eyes?"
"Miss Milbrey, there's a woman who seems to be a friend of your
family--a Mrs.--"
"Mrs. Wybert; yes, you know her?"
"No, I'd never seen her until last night, nor heard that name until
this morning; but I know of her."
"Yes?"
"It became necessary just now--really, it is not fair of me to speak to
you at all--"
"Why, pray?--not fair?"
"I had to tell your father and brother that we could not meet Mrs.
Wybert, and couldn't know any one who received her."
"There! I knew the woman wasn't right directly I heard her speak.
Surely a word to my father was enough."
"But it wasn't, I'm sorry to say. Neither he nor your brother would
take my word, and when I started to give my reasons--something it would
have been very painful for me to do--your father refused to listen, and
declared the acquaintance between our families at an end."
"Oh!"
"It hurt me in a way I can't tell you, and now, even this talk with you
is off-side play. Miss Milbrey!"
"Mr. Bines!"
"I wouldn't have said what I did to your father and brother without
good reason."
"I am sure of that, Mr. Bines."
"Without reasons I was sure of, you know, so there could be no chance
of any mistake."
"Your word is enough for me, Mr. Bines."
"Miss Milbrey--you and I--there's always been something between
us--something different from what is between most people. We've never
talked straight out since I came to New York--I'll be sorry, perhaps,
for saying as much as I am saying, after awhile--but we may not talk
again at all--I'm afraid you may misunderstand me--but I must say it--I
should like to go away knowing you would have no friendship,--no
intimacy whatever with that woman."
"I promise you I shall not, Mr. Bines; they can row if they like."
"And yet it doesn't seem fair to have you promise as if it were a
consideration for _me_, because I've no right to ask it. But if I felt
sure that you took my word quite as if I were a stranger, and relied
upon it enough to have no communication or intercourse of any sort
whatsoever with her, it would be a great satisfaction to me."
"I shall not meet her again. And--thank you!" There was a slight
unsteadiness once in her voice, and he could almost have sworn her eyes
showed that old brave wistfulness.
"--and quite as if you were a stranger."
"Thank you! and, Miss Milbrey?"
"Yes?"
"Your brother may become entangled in some way with this woman."
"It's entirely possible."
Her voice was cool and even again.
"He might even marry her."
"She has money, I believe; he might indeed."
"Always money!" he thought; then aloud:
"If you find he means to, Miss Milbrey, do anything you can to prevent
it. It wouldn't do at all, you know."
"Thank you, Mr. Bines; I shall remember."
"I--I think that's all--and I'm sorry we're not--our families are not
to be friends any more."
She smiled rather painfully, with an obvious effort to be conventional.
"_So_ sorry! Good-bye!"
He looked after her as she drove off. She sat erect, her head straight
to the front, her trim shoulders erect, and the whip grasped firmly. He
stood motionless until the fat pony had jolted sleepily around the
corner.
"Bines, old boy!" he said to himself, "you nearly _made_ one of
yourself there. I didn't know you had such ready capabilities for being
an ass."