But Jack stayed on.
This was the atmosphere he had longed for. This, too, was where Peter
lived. Here were the chairs he sat in, the books he read, the pictures
he enjoyed. And the well-dressed, well-bred people, the hum of low
voices, the clusters of roses, the shaded candles, their soft rosy light
falling on the egg-shell cups and saucers and silver service, and the
lovely girl dispensing all this hospitality and cheer! Yes, here he
could live, breathe, enjoy life. Everything was worth while and just as
he had expected to find it.
When the throng grew thick about her table he left Ruth's side, taking
the opportunity to speak to Peter or Miss Felicia (he knew few others),
but he was back again whenever the chance offered.
“Don't send me away again,” he pleaded when he came back for the
twentieth time, and with so much meaning in his voice that she looked at
him with wide-open eyes. It was not what he said--she had been brought
up on that kind of talk--it was the way he said it, and the inflection
in his voice.
“I have been literally starving for somebody like you to talk to,” he
continued, drawing up a stool and settling himself determinedly beside
her.
“For me! Why, Mr. Breen, I'm not a piece of bread--” she laughed. “I'm
just girl.” He had begun to interest her--this brown-eyed young fellow
who wore his heart on his sleeve, spoke her dialect and treated her as
if she were a duchess.
“You are life-giving bread to me, Miss MacFarlane,” answered Jack with a
smile. “I have only been here six months; I am from the South, too.” And
then the boy poured out his heart, telling her, as he had told Peter,
how lonely he got sometimes for some of his own kind; and how the young
girl in the lace hat and feathers, who had come in with Garry, was his
aunt's daughter; and how he himself was in the Street, signing checks
all day--at which she laughed, saying in reply that nothing would give
her greater pleasure than a big book with plenty of blank checks--she
had never had enough, and her dear father had never had enough, either.
But he omitted all mention of the faro bank and of the gamblers--such
things not being proper for her ears, especially such little pink shells
of ears, nestling and half hidden in her beautiful hair.
There was no knowing how long this absorbing conversation might have
continued (it had already attracted the attention of Miss Felicia) had
not a great stir taken place at the door of the outside hall. Somebody
was coming upstairs; or had come upstairs; somebody that Peter was
laughing with--great, hearty laughs, which showed his delight; somebody
that made Miss Felicia raise her head and listen, a light breaking over
her face. Then Peter's head was thrust in the door:
“Here he is, Felicia. Come along, Holker--I have been wondering--”
“Been wondering what, Peter? That I'd stay away a minute longer than I
could help after this dear lady had arrived?... Ah, Miss Felicia! Just
as magnificent and as young as ever. Still got that Marie Antoinette
look about you--you ought really--”
“Stop that nonsense, Holker, right away,” she cried, advancing a step to
greet him.
“But it's all true, and--”
“Stop, I tell you; none of your sugar-coated lies. I am seventy if I am
a day, and look it, and if it were not for these furbelows I would look
eighty. Now tell me about yourself and Kitty and the boys, and whether
the Queen has sent you the Gold Medal yet, and if the big Library is
finished and--”
“Whew! what a cross examination. Wait--I'll draw up a set of
specifications and hand them in with a new plan of my life.”
“You will do nothing of the kind! You will draw up a chair--here, right
alongside of me, and tell me about Kitty and--No, Peter, he is not going
to be taken over and introduced to Ruth for at least five minutes. Peter
has fallen in love with her, Holker, and I do not blame him. One of
these young fellows--there he is still talking to her--hasn't left her
side since he put his eyes on her. Now begin--The Medal?--
“Expected by next steamer.”
“The Corn Exchange?”
“All finished but the inside work.”
“Kitty?”
“All finished but the outside work.”
Miss Felicia looked up. “Your wife, I mean, you stupid fellow.”
“Yes, I know. She would have come with me but her dress didn't arrive in
time.”
Miss Felicia laughed: “And the boys?”
“Still in Paris--buying bric-a-brac and making believe they're studying
architecture and--But I'm not going to answer another question.
Attention! Miss Felicia Grayson at the bar!”
The dear lady straightened her back, her face crinkling with merriment.
“Present!” she replied, drawing down the corners of her mouth.
“When did you leave home? How long will you stay? Can you come to
dinner--you and Methusaleh--on Wednesday night?”
“I refuse to answer by advice of counsel. As to coming to dinner, I
am not going anywhere for a week--then I am coming to you and Kitty,
whether it is Wednesday or any other night. Now, Peter, take him away.
He's so puffed up with his Gold Medal he's positively unbearable.”
All this time Jack had been standing beside Ruth. He had heard the stir
at the door and had seen Holker join Miss Felicia, and while the
talk between the two lasted he had interspersed his talk to Ruth with
accounts of the supper, and Garry's getting the ring, to which was added
the boy's enthusiastic tribute to the architect himself. “The greatest
man I have met yet,” he said in his quick, impulsive way. “We don't
have any of them down our way. I never saw one--nobody ever did. Here he
comes with Mr. Grayson. I hope you will like him.”
Ruth made a movement as if to start to her feet. To sit still and look
her best and attend to her cups and hot water and tiny wafers was all
right for men like Jack, but not with distinguished men like Mr. Morris.
Morris had his hand on her chair before she could move it back.
“No, my dear young lady--you'll please keep your seat. I've been
watching you from across the room and you make too pretty a picture as
you are. Tea?--Not a drop.”
“Oh, but it is so delicious--and I will give you the very biggest piece
of lemon that is left.”
“No--not a drop; and as to lemon--that's rank poison to me. You should
have seen me hobbling around with gout only last week, and all because
somebody at a reception, or tea, or some such plaguey affair, made me
drink a glass of lemonade. Give it to this aged old gentleman--it will
keep him awake. Here, Peter!”
Up to this moment no word had been addressed to Jack, who stood outside
the half circle waiting for some sign of recognition from the great man;
and a little disappointed when none came. He did not know that one of
the great man's failings was his forgetting the names even of those of
his intimate friends--such breaks as “Glad to see you--I remember you
very well, and very pleasantly, and now please tell me your name,” being
a common occurrence with the great architect--a failing that everybody
pardoned.
Peter noticed the boy's embarrassment and touched Morris' arm.
“You remember Mr. Breen, don't you, Holker? He was at your supper that
night--and sat next to me.”
Morris whirled quickly and held out his hand, all his graciousness in
his manner.
“Yes, certainly. You took the ring to Minott, of course. Very glad to
meet you again--and what did you say his name was, Peter?” This in the
same tone of voice--quite as if Jack were miles away.
“Breen--John Breen,” answered Peter, putting his arm on Jack's shoulder,
to accentuate more clearly his friendship for the boy.
“All the better, Mr. John Breen--doubly glad to see you, now that I know
your name. I'll try not to forget it next time. Breen! Breen! Peter,
where have I heard that name before? Breen--where the devil have I--Oh,
yes--I've got it now. Quite a common name, isn't it?”
Jack assured him with a laugh that it was; there were more than a
hundred in the city directory. He wasn't offended at Morris forgetting
his name, and wanted him to see it.
“Glad to know it; wouldn't like to think you were mixed up in the
swindle. You ought to thank your stars, my dear fellow, that you got
into architecture instead of into Wall--”
“But I am in--”
“Yes, I know--you're with Hunt--” (another instance of a defective
memory) “and you couldn't be with a better man--the best in the
profession, really. I'm talking of some scoundrels of your name--Breen
& Co., the firm is--who, I hear, have cheated one of my clients--young
Gilbert--fine fellow--just married--persuaded him to buy some gold
stock--Mukton Lode, I think they called it--and robbed him of all he
has. He must stop on his house I hear. And now, my dear Miss--” here he
turned to the young girl--“I really forget--”
“Ruth,” she answered with a smile. She had taken Morris's measure and
had already begun to like him as much as Jack did.
“Yes--Miss Ruth--Now, please, my dear girl, keep on being young and very
beautiful and very wholesome, for you are every one of these things, and
I know you'll forgive me for saying so when I tell you that I have two
strapping young fellows for sons who are almost old enough to make love
to you. Come, Peter, show me that copy of Tacitus you wrote me about.
Is it in good condition?” They were out of Jack's hearing now, Morris
adding, “Fine type of Southern beauty, Peter. Big design, with broad
lines everywhere. Good, too--good as gold. Something about her forehead
that reminds me of the Italian school. Looks as if Bellini might have
loved her. Hello, Major! What are you doing here all by yourself?”
Jack stood transfixed!
Horror, anger, humiliation over the exposure (it was unheard, if he had
but known it, by anyone in the room except Peter and himself) rushed
over him in hot concurrent waves. It was his uncle, then, who had
robbed young Gilbert! The Mukton Lode! He had handled dozens of the
certificates, just as he had handled dozens of others, hardly glancing
at the names. He remembered overhearing some talk one day in which his
uncle had taken part. Only a few days before he had sent a bundle of
Mukton certificates to the transfer office of the company.
Then a chill struck him full in the chest and he shivered to his
finger-tips. Had Ruth heard?--and if she had heard, would she
understand? In his talk he had given her his true self--his standards
of honor--his beliefs in what was true and worth having. When she knew
all--and she must know--would she look upon him as a fraud? That his
uncle had been accused of a shrewd scoop in the Street did not make his
clerk a thief, but would she see the difference?
All these thoughts surged through his mind as he stood looking into
her eyes, her hand in his while he made his adieux. He had determined,
before Morris fired the bomb which shattered his hopes, to ask if he
might see her again, and where, and if there could be found no place
fitting and proper, she being motherless and Miss Felicia but a
chaperon, to write her a note inviting her to walk up through the Park
with him, and so on into the open where she really belonged. All this
was given up now. The best thing for him was to take his leave as
quietly as possible, without committing her to anything--anything which
he felt sure she would repudiate as soon as she learned--if she did not
know already--how undesirable an acquaintance John Breen, of Breen &
Co., was, etc.
As to his uncle's share in the miserable transaction, there was but one
thing to do--to find out, and from his own lips, if possible, if the
story were true, and if so to tell him exactly what he thought of Breen
& Co. and the business in which they were engaged. Peter's advice was
good, and he wished he could follow it, but here was a matter in which
his honor was concerned. When this side of the matter was presented to
Mr. Grayson he would commend him for his course of action. To think that
his own uncle should be accused of a transaction of this kind--his own
uncle and a Breen! Could anything be more horrible!
So sudden was his departure from the room--just “I must go now; I'm so
grateful to you all for asking me, and I've had such a good--Good-by--”
that Miss Felicia looked after him in astonishment, turning to Peter
with:
“Why, what's the matter with the boy? I wanted him to dine with us. Did
you say anything to him, Peter, to hurt his feelings?”
Peter shook his head. Morris, he knew, was the unconscious culprit, but
this was not for his sister's or Ruth's ears--not, at least, until he
could get at the exact facts for himself.
“He is as sensitive as a plant,” continued Peter; “he closes all up at
times. But he is genuine, and he is sincere--that's better than poise,
sometimes.”
“Well, then, maybe Ruth has offended him,” suggested Miss Felicia.
“No--she couldn't. Ruth, what have you done to young Mr. Breen?”
The girl threw back her head and laughed.
“Nothing.”
“Well, he went off as if he had been shot from a gun. That is not like
him at all, I should say, from what I have seen of him. Perhaps I should
have looked after him a little more. I tried once, but I could not get
him away from you. His manner is really charming when he talks, and he
is so natural and so well bred; not at all like his friend, of whom he
seems to think so much. How did you like him, dear Ruth?”
“Oh, I don't know.” She knew, but she didn't intend to tell anybody.
“He's very shy and--”
“--And very young.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
“And very much of a gentleman,” broke in Peter in a decided tone. None
should misunderstand the boy if he could help it.
Again Ruth laughed. Neither of them had touched the button which had
rung up her sympathy and admiration.
“Of course he is a gentleman. He couldn't be anything else. He is from
Maryland, you know.”