With the closing of the front door upon the finest Old Gentleman in the
World, a marked change took place in the mental mechanism of several of
our most important characters. The head of the firm of Breen & Co. was
so taken aback that for the moment that shrewdest of financiers was
undecided as to whether he or Parkins should rush out into the night
after the departing visitor and bring him back, and open the best in the
cellar. “Send a man out of my house,” he said to himself, “whom Portman
couldn't get to his table except at rare intervals! Well, that's one on
me!”
The lid that covered the upper half of Parkins's intelligence also
received a jolt; it was a coal-hole lid that covered emptiness, but now
and then admitted the light.
“Might 'ave known from the clothes 'e wore 'e was no common PUR-son,” he
said to himself. “To tell you the truth--” this to the second man in the
potato-bug waistcoat, when they were dividing between them the bottle
of “Extra Dry” three-quarters full, that Parkins had smuggled into the
pantry with the empty bottles (“Dead Men,” Breen called them)--“to tell
you the truth, Frederick, when I took 'is 'at and coat hupstairs 'e give
me a real start 'e looked that respectable”
As to Jack, not only his mind but his heart were in a whirl.
Half the night he lay awake wondering what he could do to follow Peter's
advice while preserving his own ideals. He had quite forgotten that part
of the older man's counsel which referred to the dignity of work, even
of that work which might be considered as menial. If the truth must be
told, it was his vanity alone which had been touched by the suggestion
that in him might lay the possibility of reforming certain conditions
around him. He was willing, even anxious, to begin on Breen & Co.,
subjecting his uncle, if need be, to a vigorous overhauling. Nothing he
felt could daunt him in his present militant state, upheld, as he felt
that he was, by the approval of Peter. Not a very rational state of
mind, the Scribe must confess, and only to be accounted for by the fact
that Peter's talk, instead of clearing Jack's mind of old doubts, had
really clouded it the more--quite as a bottle of mixture when shaken
sends its insoluble particles whirling throughout the whole.
It was not until the following morning, indeed, that the sediment began
to settle, and some of the sanity of Peter's wholesome prescription to
produce a clarifying effect. As long as he, Jack, lived upon his uncle's
bounty--and that was really what it amounted it--he must at least try to
contribute his own quota of good cheer and courtesy. This was what Peter
had done him the honor to advise, and he must begin at once if he wanted
to show his appreciation of the courtesy.
His uncle opened the way:
“Why, I didn't know until I saw him go out that he was a friend of Mr.
Portman's,” he said as he sipped his coffee.
“Neither did I. But does it make any difference?” answered Jack,
flipping off the top of his egg.
“Well I should think so--about ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent,”
replied the older man emphatically. “Let's invite him to dinner, Jack.
Maybe he'll come to one I'm giving next week and--”
“I'll ask him--that is... perhaps, though, you might write him a note,
uncle, and--”
“Of course,” interrupted Breen, ignoring the suggestion, “when I wanted
you to take him to the club I didn't know who he was.”
“Of course you did not,” echoed Jack, suppressing a smile.
“The club! No, not by a damned sight!” exclaimed the head of the house
of Breen. As this latter observation was addressed to the circumambient
air, and not immediately to Jack, it elicited no response. Although
slightly profane, Jack was clever enough to read in its tones not
only ample apology for previous criticisms but a sort of prospective
reparation, whereupon our generous young gentleman forgave his uncle at
once, and thought that from this on he might like him the better.
Even Parkins came in for a share of Jack's most gracious intentions,
and though he was as silent as an automaton playing a game of chess, a
slight crack was visible in the veneer of his face when Jack thanked him
for having brought Mr. Grayson--same reverential pronunciation--upstairs
himself instead of allowing Frederick or one of the maid-servants to
perform that service.
As for his apologies to Corinne and his aunt for having remained in his
room after Mr. Grayson's departure, instead of taking part in the last
hours of the dance--one o'clock was the exact hour--these were reserved
until those ladies should appear at dinner, when they were made with
so penitential a ring in his voice that his aunt at once jumped to the
conclusion that he must have been bored to death by the old fellow,
while Corinne hugged herself in the belief that perhaps after all Jack
was renewing his interest in her; a delusion which took such possession
of her small head that she finally determined to send Garry a
note begging him to come to her at once, on business of the UTMOST
IMPORTANCE; two strings being better than one, especially when they were
to be played each against the other.
As to the uplifting of the house of Breen & Co., and the possibility of
so small a tail as himself being able to wag so large a dog as his uncle
and his partners, that seemed now to be so chimerical an undertaking
that he laughed when he thought of it.
This urbanity of mood was still with him when some days later he dropped
into the Magnolia Club on his way home, his purpose being to find Garry
and to hear about the supper which his club friends had given him to
celebrate his winning of the Morris ring.
Little Biffton was keeping watch when Jack swung in with that free
stride of his that showed more than anything else his muscular body and
the way he had taken care of and improved it. No dumb-bells or clubs for
fifteen minutes in the morning--but astride a horse, his thighs gripping
a bare-back, roaming the hills day after day--the kind of outdoor
experience that hardens a man all over without specializing his biceps
or his running gear. Little Biff never had any swing to his gait--none
that his fellows ever noticed. Biff went in for repose--sometimes hours
at a time. Given a club chair, a package of cigarettes and some one to
talk to him and Biff could be happy a whole afternoon.
“Ah, Breen, old man! Come to anchor.” Here he moved back a chair an inch
or two with his foot, and pushed his silver cigarette-case toward the
newcomer.
“Thank you,” replied Jack. “I've just dropped in to look for Garry
Minott. Has he been in?”
Biff was the bulletin-board of the Magnolia club. As he roomed upstairs,
he could be found here at any hour of the day or night.
Biff did not reply at once; there was no use in hurrying--not about
anything. Besides, the connection between Biff's ears and his brain
was never very good. One had to ring him up several times before he
answered.
Jack waited for an instant, and finding that the message was delayed
in transmission, helped himself to one of Biff's “Specials”--bearing in
gold letters his name “Brent Biffton” in full on the rice paper--dropped
into the proffered chair and repeated the question:
“Have you seen Garry?”
“Yes--upstairs. Got a deck in the little room. Been there all afternoon.
Might go up and butt in. Touch that bell before you go and say what.”
“No--I won't drink anything, if you don't mind. You heard about Garry's
winning the prize?”
“No.” Biffton hadn't moved since he had elongated his foot in search of
Jack's chair.
“Why Garry got first prize in his office. I went with him to the supper;
he's with Holker Morris, you know.”
“Yes. Rather nice. Yes, I did hear. The fellows blew him off upstairs.
Kept it up till the steward shut 'em out. Awfully clever fellow, Minott.
My Governor wanted me to do something in architecture, but it takes
such a lot of time... Funny how a fellow will dress himself.” Biffton's
sleepy eyes were sweeping the Avenue. “Pendergast just passed wearing
white spats--A month too late for spats--ought to know better. Touch the
bell, Breen, and say what.”
Again Jack thanked him, and again Biffton relapsed into silence. Rather
a damper on a man of his calibre, when a fellow wouldn't touch a bell
and say what.
Jack having a certain timidity about “butting in”--outsiders didn't do
such things where he came from--settled himself into the depths of the
comfortable leather-covered arm-chair and waited for Garry to finish
his game. From where he sat he could not only overlook the small tables
holding a choice collection of little tear-bottles, bowls of crushed ice
and high-pressure siphons, but his eye also took in the stretch beyond,
the club windows commanding the view up and down and quite across the
Avenue, as well as the vista to the left.
This outlook was the most valuable asset the Magnolia possessed. If the
parasol was held flat, with its back to the club-house, and no glimpse
of the pretty face possible, it was, of course, unquestionable evidence
to the member looking over the top of his cocktail that neither the
hour or the place was propitious. If, however, it swayed to the right or
left, or better still, was folded tight, then it was equally conclusive
that not only was the coast clear, but that any number of things might
happen, either at Tiffany's, or the Academy, or wherever else one of
those altogether accidental--“Why-who-would-have-thought-of-seeing-you-
here” kind of meetings take place--meetings so delightful in themselves
because so unexpected.
These outlooks, too, were useful in solving many of the social problems
that afflicted the young men about town; the identity, for instance,
of the occupant of the hansom who had just driven past, heavily veiled,
together with her destination and her reason for being out at all; why
the four-in-hand went up empty and came back with a pretty woman beside
the “Tooler,” and then turned up a side street toward the Park, instead
of taking the Avenue into its confidence; what the young wife of the old
doctor meant when she waved her hand to the occupant of a third-story
window, and who lived there, and why--None of their business, of
course--never could be--but each and every escapade, incident and
adventure being so much thrice-blessed manna to souls stranded in the
desert waste of club conversation.
None of these things interested our hero, and he soon found himself
listening to the talk at an adjoining table. Topping, a young lawyer,
Whitman Bunce, a man of leisure--unlimited leisure--and one or two
others, were rewarming some of the day's gossip.
“Had the gall to tell Bob's man he couldn't sleep in linen sheets; had
his own violet silk ones in his trunk, to match his pajamas. The goat
had 'em out and half on the bed when Bob came in and stopped him. Awful
row, I heard, when Mrs. Bob got on to it. He'll never go there again.”
“And I heard,” broke in Bunce, “that she ordered the trap and sent him
back to the station.”
Other bits drifted Jack's way:
“Why he was waiting at the stage-door and she slipped out somewhere in
front. Billy was with her, so I heard.... When they got to Delmonico's
there came near being a scrap.... No.... Never had a dollar on Daisy
Belle, or any other horse....”
Loud laughter was now heard at the end of the hall. A party of young
men had reached the foot of the stairs and were approaching Biffton and
Jack. Garry's merry voice led the others.
“Still hard at work, are you, Biffy? Why, hello, Jack!--how long have
you been here? Morlon, you know Mr. Breen, don't you?--Yes, of course
you do--new member--just elected. Get a move on that carcass of yours,
Biffy, and let somebody else get up to that table. Charles, take the
orders.”
Jack had shaken everybody's hand by this time, Biffton having moved back
a foot or two, and the circle had widened so that the poker party could
reach their cocktails. Garry extended his arm till his hand rested on
Jack's shoulder.
“Nothing sets me up like a game of poker, old man. Been on the building
all day. You ought to come up with me some time--I'll show you the
greatest piece of steel construction you ever saw. Mr. Morris was all
over it to-day. Oh, by the way! Did that old chunk of sandstone come up
to see you last night? What did you say his name was?”
Jack repeated Peter's cognomen--this time without rolling the syllables
under his tongue--said that Mr. Grayson had kept his promise; that the
evening had been delightful, and immediately changed the subject. There
was no use trying to convert Garry.
“And now tell me about the supper,” asked Jack.
“Oh, that was all right. We whooped it up till they closed the bar and
then went home with the milk. Had an awful head on me next morning;
nearly fell off the scaffold, I was so sleepy. How's Miss Corinne? I'm
going to stop in on my way uptown this afternoon and apologize to her.
I have her note, but I haven't had a minute to let her know why I didn't
come. I'll show her the ring; then she'll know why. Saw it, didn't you?”
Jack hadn't seen it. He had been too excited to look. Now he examined
it. With the flash of the gems Biffy sat up straight, and the others
craned their heads. Garry slipped it off his finger for the hundredth
time for similar inspections, and Jack utilized the pause in the
conversation to say that Corinne had received the note and that in reply
she had vented most of her disappointment on himself, a disclosure which
sent a cloud across Garry's face.
The cocktail hour had now arrived--one hour before dinner, an hour which
was fixed by that distinguished compounder of herbs and spirits, Mr.
Biffton--and the room began filling up. Most of the members were young
fellows but a few years out of college, men who renewed their Society
and club life within its walls; some were from out of town--students in
the various professions. Here and there was a man of forty--one even
of fifty-five--who preferred the gayer and fresher life of the younger
generation to the more solemn conclaves of the more exclusive clubs
further up and further down town. As is usual in such combinations, the
units forming the whole sought out their own congenial units and were
thereafter amalgamated into groups, a classification to be found in all
clubs the world over. While Biffy and his chums could always be found
together, there were other less-fortunate young fellows, not only
without coupon shears, but sometimes without the means of paying their
dues--who formed a little coterie of their own, and who valued and used
the club for what it brought them, their election carrying with it
a certain social recognition: it also widened one's circle of
acquaintances and, perhaps, of clients.
The sound of loud talking now struck upon Jack's ear. Something more
important than the angle of a parasol or the wearing of out-of-date
spats was engrossing the attention of a group of young men who had just
entered. Jack caught such expressions as--“Might as well have picked
his pocket....” “He's flat broke, anyhow....” “Got to sell his house, I
hear....”
Then came a voice louder than the others.
“There's Breen talking to Minott and Biffy. He's in the Street; he'll
know.... Say, Breen!”
Jack rose to his feet and met the speaker half way.
“What do you know, Breen, about that scoop in gold stock? Heard anything
about it? Who engineered it? Charley Gilbert's cleaned out, I hear.”
“I don't know anything,” said Jack. “I left the office at noon and came
up town. Who did you say was cleaned out?”
“Why, Charley Gilbert. You must know him.”
“Yes, I know him. What's happened to him?”
“Flat broke--that's what happened to him. Got caught in that gold
swindle. The stock dropped out of sight this afternoon, I hear--went
down forty points.”
Garry crowded his way into the group: “Which Mr. Gilbert?--not Charley
M., the--”
“Yes; Sam's just left him. What did he tell you, Sam?”
“Just what you've said--I hear, too, that he has got to stop on his
house out in Jersey. Can't finish it and can't pay for what's been
done.”
Garry gave a low whistle and looked at Jack.
“That's rough. Mr. Morris drew the plan of Gilbert's house himself. I
worked on the details.”
“Rough!” burst out the first speaker. “I should say it was--might as
well have burglared his safe. They have been working up this game for
months, so Charley told me. Then they gave out that the lode had petered
out and they threw it overboard and everybody with it. They said they
tried to find Charley to post him, but he was out of town.”
“Who tried?” asked Jack, with renewed interest, edging his way close to
the group. It was just as well to know the sheep from the goats, if he
was to spend the remainder of his life in the Street.
“That's what we want to know. Thought you might have heard.”
Jack shook his head and resumed his seat beside Biffy, who had not moved
or shown the slightest interest in the affair. Nobody could sell Biff
any gold stock--nor any other kind of stock. His came on the first of
every month in a check from the Trust Company.
For some moments Jack did not speak. He knew young Gilbert, and he knew
his young and very charming wife. He had once sat next to her at dinner,
when her whole conversation had been about this new home and the keen
interest that Morris, a friend of her father's, had taken in it. “Mr.
Breen, you and Miss Corinne must be among our earliest guests,” she had
said, at which Corinne, who was next to Garry, had ducked her little
head in acceptance. This was the young fellow, then, who had been caught
in one of the eddies whirling over the sunken rocks of the Street. Not
very creditable to his intelligence, perhaps, thought Jack; but, then,
again, who had placed them there, a menace to navigation?--and why?
Certainly Peter could not have known everything that was going on around
him, if he thought the effort of so insignificant an individual as
himself could be of use in clearing out obstructions like these.
Garry noticed the thoughtful expression settling over Jack's face, and
mistaking the cause called Charles to take the additional orders.
“Cheer up--try a high-ball, Jack. It's none of your funeral. You didn't
scoop Gilbert; we are the worst sufferers. Can't finish his house now,
and Mr. Morris is just wild over the design. It's on a ledge of rock
overlooking the lake, and the whole thing goes together. We've got the
roof on, and from across the lake it looks as if it had grown there. Mr.
Morris repeated the rock forms everywhere. Stunning, I tell you!”
Jack didn't want any high-ball, and said so. (Biffy didn't care if he
did.) The boy's mind was still on the scoop, particularly on the way in
which every one of his fellow-members had spoken of the incident.
“Horrid business, all of it. Don't you think so, Garry?” Jack said after
a pause.
“No, not if you keep your eyes peeled,” answered Garry, emptying his
glass. “Never saw Gilbert but once, and then he looked to me like a
softy from Pillowville. Couldn't fool me, I tell you, on a deal like
that. I'd have had a 'stop order' somewhere. Served Gilbert right; no
business to be monkeying with a buzz-saw unless he knew how to throw off
the belt.”
Jack straightened his shoulders and his brows knit. The lines of the
portrait were in the lad's face now.
“Well, maybe it's all right, Garry. My own opinion is that it's no
better than swindling. Anyway, I'm mighty glad Uncle Arthur isn't mixed
up in it. You heard what Sam and the other fellows thought, didn't you?
How would you like to have that said of you?”
Garry tossed back his head and laughed.
“Biffy, are you listening to his Reverence, the Bishop of Cumberland?
Here endeth the first lesson.”
Biff nodded over his high-ball. He wasn't listening--discussions of any
kind bored him.
“But what do you care, Jack, what they say--what anybody says?”
continued Garry. “Keep right on. You are in the Street to make money,
aren't you? Everybody else is there for the same purpose. What goes up
must come down. If you don't want to get your head smashed, stand from
under. The game is to jump in, grab what you can, and jump out, dodging
the bricks as they come. Let's go up-town, old man.”
Neither of the young men was expressing his own views. Both were too
young and too inexperienced to have any fixed ideas on so vital a
subject.
It was the old fellow in the snuff-colored coat, black stock and
dog-eared collar that was behind Jack. If he were alive to-day Jack's
view would have been his view, and that was the reason why it was Jack's
view. The boy could no more explain it than he could prove why his eyes
were brown and his hair a dark chestnut, or why he always walked with
his toes very much turned out, or made gestures with his hands when he
talked. Had any of the jury been alive--and some of them were--or the
prosecuting-attorney, or even any one of the old settlers who attended
court, they could have told in a minute which one of the two young men
was Judge Breen's son. Not that Jack looked like his father. No young
man of twenty-two looks like an old fellow of sixty, but he certainly
moved and talked like him--and had the same way of looking at things.
“The written law may uphold you, sir, and the jury may so consider, but
I shall instruct them to disregard your plea. There is a higher law,
sir, than justice--a law of mercy--That I myself shall exercise.” The
old Judge had sat straight up on his bench when he said it, his face
cast-iron, his eyes burning. The jury brought in an acquittal without
leaving their seats. There was an outbreak, of course, but the man went
free. This young offshoot was from the same old stock, that was all;
same sap in his veins, same twist to his branch; same bud, same blossom
and--same fruit.
And Garry!
Not many years have elapsed since I watched him running in and out of
his father's spacious drawing-rooms on Fourteenth Street--the court
end of town in those days. In the days, I mean, when his father was
Collector of the Port, and his father's house with its high ceilings,
mahogany doors and wide hall, and the great dining-room overlooking a
garden with a stable in the rear. It had not been many years, I say,
since the Hon. Creighton Minott had thrown wide its doors to whoever
came--that is, whoever came properly accredited. It didn't last long,
of course. Politics changed; the “ins” became the “outs.” And with the
change came the bridging-over period--the kind of cantilever which hope
thrusts out from one side of the bank of the swift-flowing stream of
adversity in the belief that somebody on the other side of the chasm
will build the other half, and the two form a highway leading to a
change of scene and renewed prosperity.
The hospitable Collector continued to be hospitable. He had always
taken chances--he would again. The catch-terms of Garry's day, such as
“couldn't fool him,” “keep your eye peeled,” “a buzz-saw,” etc., etc.,
were not current in the father's day, but their synonyms were. He knew
what he was about. As soon as a particular member of the Board got back
from the other side the Honorable Collector would have the position
of Treasurer, and then it was only a question of time when he would be
President of the new corporation. I can see now the smile that lighted
up his rather handsome face when he told me. He was “monkeying with
a buzz-saw” all the same if he did but know it, and yet he always
professed to follow the metaphor that he could “throw off the belt” that
drove the pulley at his own good pleasure and so stop the connecting
machinery before the teeth of the whirling blade could reach his
fingers. Should it get beyond his control--of which there was not the
remotest possibility--he would, of course, rent his house, sell his
books and curtail. “In the meantime, my dear fellow, there is some of
the old Madeira left and a game of whist will only help to drive dull
care away.”
Garry never whimpered when the crash came. The dear mother died--how
patient and uncomplaining she was in all their ups and downs--and Garry
was all that was left. What he had gained since in life he had worked
for; first as office boy, then as draughtsman and then in charge of
special work, earning his Chief's approval, as the Scribe has duly
set forth. He got his inheritance, of course. Don't we all get ours?
Sometimes it skips a generation--some times two--but generally we are
wearing the old gentleman's suit of clothes cut down to fit our
small bodies, making believe all the time that they are our very own,
unconscious of the discerning eyes who recognize their cut and origin.
Nothing tangible, it is safe to say, came with Garry's share of the
estate--and he got it all. That is, nothing he could exchange for value
received--no houses or lots, or stocks or bonds. It was the INTANGIBLE
that proved his richest possession, viz.:--a certain buoyancy of
spirits; a cheery, optimistic view of life; a winning personality and
the power of both making and holding friends. With this came another
asset--the willingness to take chances, and still a third--an absolute
belief in his luck. Down at the bottom of the box littered with old
papers, unpaid tax bills and protested notes--all valueless--was
a fourth which his father used to fish out when every other asset
failed--a certain confidence in the turn of a card.
But the virtues and the peccadilloes of their ancestors, we may be sure,
were not interesting our two young men as they swung up the Avenue
arm in arm, this particular afternoon, the sidewalks crowded with the
fashion of the day, the roadway blocked with carriages. Nor did any
passing objects occupy their attention.
Garry's mind was on Corinne, and what he would tell her, and how she
would look as she listened, the pretty head tucked on one side, her
sparkling eyes drinking in every word of his story, although he knew she
wouldn't believe one-half of it. Elusive and irritating as she sometimes
was, there was really nobody exactly like Miss Corinne.
Jack's mind had resumed its normal tone. Garry's merry laugh and
good-natured ridicule had helped, so had the discovery that none of his
friends had had anything to do with Gilbert's fall. After all, he said
to himself, as he strode up the street beside his friend, it was “none
of his funeral,” none of his business, really. Such things went on every
day and in every part of the world. Neither was it his Uncle Arthur's.
That was the most comforting part of all.
Corinne's voice calling over the banisters: “Is that you, Jack?” met the
two young men as they handed their hats to the noiseless Frederick. Both
craned their necks and caught sight of the Wren's head framed by the
hand-rail and in silhouette against the oval sky-light in the roof
above.
“Yes, and Garry's here, too. Come down.”
The patter of little feet grew louder, then the swish of silken skirts,
and with a spring she was beside them.
“No, don't you say a word, Garry. I'm not going to listen and I won't
forgive you no matter what you say.” She had both of his hands now.
“Ah, but you don't know, Miss Corinne. Has Jack told you?”
“Yes, told me everything; that you had a big supper and everybody
stamped around the room; that Mr. Morris gave you a ring, or something”
(Garry held up his finger, but she wasn't ready to examine it yet), “and
that some of the men wanted to celebrate it, and that you went to the
club and stayed there goodness knows how long--all night, so Mollie
Crane told me. Paul, her brother, was there--and you never thought a
word about your promise to me” (this came with a little pout, her chin
uplifted, her lips quite near his face), “and we didn't have half men
enough and our cotillion was all spoiled. I don't care--we had a lovely
time, even if you two men did behave disgracefully. No--I don't want
to listen to a thing. I didn't come down to see either of you.” (She had
watched them both from her window as they crossed the street.) “What I
want to know, Jack, is, who is Miss Felicia Grayson?”
“Why, Mr. Grayson's sister,” burst out Jack--“the old gentleman who came
to see me.”
“That old fellow!”
“Yes, that old fellow--the most charming--”
“Not that remnant!” interrupted Garry.
“No, Garry--not that kind of a man at all, but a most delightful old
gentleman by the name of Mr. Grayson,” and Jack's eyes flashed. “He told
me his sister was coming to town. What do you know about her, Corinne?”
He was all excitement: Peter was to send for him when his sister
arrived.
“Nothing--that's why I ask you. I've just got a note from her. She says
she knew mamma when she lived in Washington, and that her brother
has fallen in love with you, and that she won't have another happy
moment--or something like that--if you and I don't come to a tea she
is giving to a Miss Ruth MacFarlane; and that I am to give her love to
mamma, and bring anybody I please with me.”
“When?” asked Jack. He could hardly restrain his joy.
“I think next Saturday--yes, next Saturday,” consulting the letter in
her hand.
“Where? At Mr. Grayson's rooms?” cried Jack.
“Yes, at her brother's, she says. Here, Jack--you read it. Some number
in East Fifteenth Street--queer place for people to live, isn't it,
Garry?--people who want anybody to come to their teas. I've got a
dressmaker lives over there somewhere; she's in Fifteenth Street,
anyhow, for I always drive there.”
Jack devoured the letter. This was what he had been hoping for. He knew
the old gentleman would keep his word!
“Well, of course you'll go, Corinne?” he cried eagerly.
“Of course I'll do nothing of the kind. I think it's a great piece
of impudence. I've never heard of her. Because you had her brother
upstairs, that's no reason why--But that's just like these people. You
give them an inch and--”
Jack's cheeks flushed: “But, Corinne! She's offered you a
courtesy--asked you to her house, and--”
“I don't care; I'm not going! Would you, Garry?”
The son of the Collector hesitated for a moment. He had his own ideas of
getting on in the world. They were not Jack's--his, he knew, would never
succeed. And they were not exactly Corinne's--she was too particular.
The fence was evidently the best place for him.
“Would be rather a bore, wouldn't it?” he replied evasively, with a
laugh. “Lives up under the roof, I guess, wears a dyed wig, got
Cousin Mary Ann's daguerreotype on the mantle, and tells you how Uncle
Ephraim--”
The door opened and Jack's aunt swept in. She never walked, or ambled,
or stepped jauntily, or firmly, or as if she wanted to get anywhere in
particular; she SWEPT in, her skirts following meekly behind--half a
yard behind, sometimes.
Corinne launched the inquiry at her mother, even before she could return
Garry's handshake. “Who's Miss Grayson, mamma?”
“I don't know. Why, my child?”
“Well, she says she knows you. Met you in Washington.”
“The only Miss Grayson I ever met in Washington, my dear, was an old
maid, the niece of the Secretary of State. She kept house for him after
his wife died. She held herself very high, let me tell you. A very grand
lady, indeed. But she must be an old woman now, if she is still living.
What did you say her first name was?”
Corinne took the open letter from Jack's hand. “Felicia... Yes,
Felicia.”
“And what does she want?--money for some charity?” Almost everybody
she knew, and some she didn't, wanted money for some charity. She was
loosening her cloak as she spoke, Frederick standing by to relieve my
lady of her wraps.
“No; she's going to give a tea and wants us all to come. She's the
sister of that old man who came to see Jack the other night, and--”
“Going to give a tea!--and the sister of--Well, then, she certainly
isn't the Miss Grayson I know. Don't you answer her, Corinne, until I
find out who she is.”
“I'll tell you who she is,” burst out Jack. His face was aflame now.
Never had he listened to such discourtesy. He could hardly believe his
ears.
“It wouldn't help me in the least, my dear Jack; so don't you begin. I
am the best judge of who shall come to my house. She may be all right,
and she may not, you can never tell in a city like New York, and you
can't be too particular. People really do such curious pushing things
now-a-days.” This to Garry. “Now serve tea, Parkins. Come in all of
you.”
Jack was on the point of blazing out in indignation over the false
position in which his friend had been placed when Peter's warning voice
rang in his ears. The vulgarity of the whole proceeding appalled him,
yet he kept control of himself.
“None for me, please, aunty,” he said quietly. “I will join you later,
Garry,” and he mounted the stairs to his room.