front of Claremont, and beyond it the broad sweep of the Hudson. And
then, without decreasing its speed, the car like a great bird swept down
a hill, shot under a bridge, and into a partly paved street. Mr. Schwab
already was two miles from his own bailiwick. His surroundings were
unfamiliar. On the one hand were newly erected, untenanted flat houses
with the paint still on the window panes, and on the other side,
detached villas, a roadhouse, an orphan asylum, a glimpse of the Hudson.
“Let me out,” yelled Mr. Schwab, “what you trying to do? Do you think a
few blocks’ll make any difference to a telephone? You think you’re
damned smart, don’t you? But you won’t feel so fresh when I get on the
long distance. You let me down,” he threatened, “or, I’ll——”
With a sickening skidding of wheels, Winthrop whirled the car round a
corner and into the Lafayette Boulevard, that for miles runs along the
cliff of the Hudson.
“Yes,” asked Winthrop, “_what_ will you do?” On one side was a high
steep bank, on the other many trees, and through them below, the river.
But there were no houses, and at half-past eight in the morning those
who later drive upon the boulevard were still in bed.
“_What_ will you do?” repeated Winthrop.
Miss Forbes, apparently as much interested in Mr. Schwab’s answer as
Winthrop, leaned forward. Winthrop raised his voice above the whir of
flying wheels, the rushing wind, and scattering pebbles.
“I asked you into this car,” he shouted, “because I meant to keep you in
it until I had you where you couldn’t do any mischief. I told you I’d
give you something better than _The Journal_ I would give you, and I am
going to give you a happy day in the country. We’re now on our way to
this lady’s house. You are my guest, and you can play golf, and bridge,
and the piano, and eat and drink until the polls close, and after that
you can go to the devil. If you jump out at this speed, you will break
your neck. And if I have to slow up for anything, and you try to get
away, I’ll go after you—it doesn’t matter where it is—and break every
bone in your body.”
“Yah! you can’t!” shrieked Mr. Schwab. “You can’t do it!” The madness of
the flying engines had got upon his nerves. Their poison was surging in
his veins. He knew he had only to touch his elbow against the elbow of
Winthrop, and he could throw the three of them into eternity. He was
travelling on air, uplifted, defiant, carried beyond himself.
“I can’t do what?” asked Winthrop.
The words reached Schwab from an immeasurable distance, as from another
planet, a calm, humdrum planet on which events moved in commonplace,
orderly array. Without a jar, with no transition stage, instead of
hurtling through space, Mr. Schwab found himself luxuriously seated in a
cushioned chair, motionless, at the side of a steep bank. For a mile
before him stretched an empty road. And beside him in the car, with arms
folded calmly on the wheel, there glared at him a grim, alert young man.
“I can’t do what?” growled the young man.
A feeling of great loneliness fell upon “Izzy” Schwab. Where were now
those officers, who in the police courts were at his beck and call?
Where the numbered houses, the passing surface cars, the sweating
multitudes of Eighth Avenue? In all the world he was alone, alone on an
empty country road, with a grim, alert young man.
“When I asked you how you knew my name,” said the young man, “I thought
you knew me as having won some races in Florida last winter. This is the
car that won. I thought maybe you might have heard of me when I was
captain of a football team at—a university. If you have any idea that
you can jump from this car and not be killed, or that I cannot pound you
into a pulp, let me prove to you you’re wrong—now. We’re quite alone. Do
you wish to get down?”
“No,” shrieked Schwab, “I won’t!” He turned appealingly to the young
lady. “You’re a witness,” he cried. “If he assaults me, he’s liable. I
haven’t done nothing.”
“We’re near Yonkers,” said the young man, “and if you try to take
advantage of my having to go slow through the town, you know now what
will happen to you.”
Mr. Schwab having instantly planned, on reaching Yonkers, to leap from
the car into the arms of the village constable, with suspicious alacrity
assented. The young man regarded him doubtfully.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to show you,” said the young man. He laid two
fingers on Mr. Schwab’s wrist; looking at him, as he did so, steadily
and thoughtfully, like a physician feeling a pulse. Mr. Schwab screamed.
When he had seen policemen twist steel nippers on the wrists of
prisoners, he had thought, when the prisoners shrieked and writhed, they
were acting. He now knew they were not.
“Now, will you promise?” demanded the grim young man.
“Yes,” gasped Mr. Schwab. “I’ll sit still. I won’t do nothing.”
“Good,” muttered Winthrop.
A troubled voice that carried to the heart of Schwab a promise of
protection, said: “Mr. Schwab, would you be more comfortable back here
with me?”
Mr. Schwab turned two terrified eyes in the direction of the voice. He
saw the beautiful young lady regarding him kindly, compassionately; with
just a suspicion of a smile. Mr. Schwab instantly scrambled to safety
over the front seat into the body of the car. Miss Forbes made way for
the prisoner beside her and he sank back with a nervous, apologetic
sigh. The alert young man was quick to follow the lead of the lady.
“You’ll find caps and goggles in the boot, Schwab,” he said hospitably.
“You had better put them on. We are going rather fast now.” He extended
a magnificent case of pigskin, that bloomed with fat black cigars. “Try
one of these,” said the hospitable young man. The emotions that swept
Mr. Schwab he found difficult to pursue, but he raised his hat to the
lady. “May I, Miss?” he said.
“Certainly,” said the lady.
There was a moment of delay while with fingers that slightly trembled,
Mr. Schwab selected an amazing green cap and lit his cigar; and then the
car swept forward, singing and humming happily, and scattering the
autumn leaves. The young lady leaned toward him with a book in a leather
cover. She placed her finger on a twisting red line that trickled
through a page of type.
“We’re just here,” said the young lady, “and we ought to reach home,
which is just about there, in an hour.”
“I see,” said Schwab. But all he saw was a finger in a white glove, and
long eyelashes tangled in a gray veil.
For many minutes or, for all Schwab knew, for many miles, the young lady
pointed out to him the places along the Hudson, of which he had read in
the public school history, and quaint old manor houses set in glorious
lawns; and told him who lived in them. Schwab knew the names as
belonging to down-town streets, and up-town clubs. He became nervously
humble, intensely polite, he felt he was being carried as an honored
guest into the very heart of the Four Hundred, and when the car jogged
slowly down the main street of Yonkers, although a policeman stood idly
within a yard of him, instead of shrieking to him for help, “Izzy”
Schwab looked at him scornfully across the social gulf that separated
them, with all the intolerance he believed becoming in the upper
classes.
“Those bicycle cops,” he said confidentially to Miss Forbes, “are too
chesty.”
The car turned in between stone pillars, and under an arch of red and
golden leaves, and swept up a long avenue to a house of innumerable
roofs. It was the grandest house Mr. Schwab had ever entered, and when
two young men in striped waistcoats and many brass buttons ran down the
stone steps and threw open the door of the car, his heart fluttered
between fear and pleasure.
Lounging before an open fire in the hall were a number of young men, who
welcomed Winthrop delightedly, and to all of whom Mr. Schwab was
formally presented. As he was introduced he held each by the hand and
elbow and said impressively, and much to the other’s embarrassment,
“_What_ name, please?”
Then one of the servants conducted him to a room opening on the hall,
from whence he heard stifled exclamations and laughter, and some one
saying “Hush.” But “Izzy” Schwab did not care. The slave in brass
buttons was proffering him ivory-backed hair-brushes, and obsequiously
removing the dust from his coat collar. Mr. Schwab explained to him that
he was not dressed for automobiling, as Mr. Winthrop had invited him
quite informally. The man was most charmingly sympathetic. And when he
returned to the hall every one received him with the most genial,
friendly interest. Would he play golf, or tennis, or pool, or walk over
the farm, or just look on? It seemed the wish of each to be his escort.
Never had he been so popular.
He said he would “just look on.” And so, during the last and decisive
day of the “whirlwind” campaign, while in Eighth Avenue voters were
being challenged, beaten, and bribed, bonfires were burning, and
“extras” were appearing every half-hour, “Izzy” Schwab, the Tammany
henchman, with a secret worth twenty thousand votes, sat a prisoner, in
a wicker chair, with a drink and a cigar, guarded by four young men in
flannels, who played tennis violently at five dollars a corner.
It was always a great day in the life of “Izzy” Schwab. After a
luncheon, which, as he later informed his friends, could not have cost
less than “two dollars a plate and drink all you like,” Sam Forbes took
him on at pool. Mr. Schwab had learned the game in the cellars of Eighth
Avenue at two and a half cents a cue, and now, even in Columbus Circle
he was a star. So, before the sun had set Mr. Forbes, who at pool rather
fancied himself, was seventy-five dollars poorer, and Mr. Schwab just
that much to the good. Then there followed a strange ceremony called
tea, or, if you preferred it, whiskey and soda; and the tall footman
bent before him with huge silver salvers laden down with flickering
silver lamps, and bubbling soda bottles, and cigars, and cigarettes.
“You could have filled your pockets with twenty-five cent Havanas, and
nobody would have said nothing!” declared Mr. Schwab, and his friends,
who never had enjoyed his chance to study at such close quarters the
truly rich, nodded enviously.
At six o’clock Mr. Schwab led Winthrop into the big library and asked
for his ticket of leave.
“They’ll be counting the votes soon,” he begged. “I can’t do no harm
now, and I don’t mean to. I didn’t see nothing, and I won’t say nothing.
But it’s election night, and—and I just _got_ to be on Broadway.”
“Right,” said Winthrop, “I’ll have a car take you in, and if you will
accept this small check——”
“No!” roared “Izzy” Schwab. Afterward he wondered how he came to do it.
“You’ve give me a good time, Mr. Winthrop. You’ve treated me fine, all
the gentlemen have treated me nice. I’m not a blackmailer, Mr.
Winthrop.” Mr. Schwab’s voice shook slightly.
“Nonsense, Schwab, you didn’t let me finish,” said Winthrop, “I’m likely
to need a lawyer any time; this is a retaining fee. Suppose I exceed the
speed limit—I’m liable to do that——”
“You bet you are!” exclaimed Mr. Schwab violently.
“Well, then, I’ll send for _you_, and there isn’t a police magistrate,
nor any of the traffic squad, you can’t handle, is there?”
Mr. Schwab flushed with pleasure.
“You can count on me,” he vowed, “and your friends, too, and the
ladies,” he added gallantly. “If ever the ladies want to get bail, tell
’em to telephone for ‘Izzy’ Schwab. Of course,” he said reluctantly, “if
it’s a retaining fee——”
But when he read the face of the check he exclaimed in protest: “But,
Mr. Winthrop, this is more than _The Journal_ would have give me!”
They put him in a car belonging to one of the other men, and all came
out on the steps to wave him “good-by,” and he drove magnificently into
his own district, where there were over a dozen men who swore he tipped
the French chauffeur a five-dollar bill “just like it was a cigarette.”
All of election day since her arrival in Winthrop’s car Miss Forbes had
kept to herself. In the morning, when the other young people were out of
doors, she remained in her room, and after luncheon, when they gathered
round the billiard table, she sent for her cart and drove off alone. The
others thought she was concerned over the possible result of the
election, and did not want to disturb them by her anxiety. Winthrop,
thinking the presence of Schwab embarrassed her, recalling as it did
Peabody’s unfortunate conduct of the morning, blamed himself for
bringing Schwab to the house. But he need not have distressed himself.
Miss Forbes was thinking neither of Schwab nor Peabody, nor was she
worried or embarrassed. On the contrary, she was completely happy.
When that morning she had seen Peabody running up the steps of the
Elevated, all the doubts, the troubles, questions, and misgivings that
night and day for the last three months had upset her, fell from her
shoulders like the pilgrim’s heavy pack. For months she had been telling
herself that the unrest she felt when with Peabody was due to her not
being able to appreciate the importance of those big affairs in which he
was so interested; in which he was so admirable a figure. She had, as
she supposed, loved him, because he was earnest, masterful, intent of
purpose. His had seemed a fine character. When she had compared him with
the amusing boys of her own age, the easy-going joking youths to whom
the betterment of New York was of no concern, she had been proud in her
choice. She was glad Peabody was ambitious. She was ambitious for him.
She was glad to have him consult her on those questions of local
government, to listen to his fierce, contemptuous abuse of Tammany. And
yet early in their engagement she had missed something, something she
had never known, but which she felt sure should exist. Whether she had
seen it in the lives of others, or read of it in romances, or whether it
was there because it was nature to desire to be loved, she did not know.
But long before Winthrop returned from his trip round the world, in her
meetings with the man she was to marry, she had begun to find that there
was something lacking. And Winthrop had shown her that this something
lacking was the one thing needful. When Winthrop had gone abroad he was
only one of her brother’s several charming friends. One of the amusing
merry youths who came and went in the house as freely as Sam himself.
Now, after two years’ absence, he refused to be placed in that category.
He rebelled on the first night of his return. As she came down to the
dinner of welcome her brother was giving Winthrop, he stared at her as
though she were a ghost, and said, so solemnly that every one in the
room, even Peabody, smiled: “Now I know why I came home.” That he
refused to recognize her engagement to Peabody, that on every occasion
he told her, or by some act showed her, he loved her; that he swore she
should never marry any one but himself, and that he would never marry
any one but her, did not at first, except to annoy, in any way impress
her.
But he showed her what in her intercourse with Peabody was lacking. At
first she wished Peabody could find time to be as fond of her, as
foolishly fond of her, as was Winthrop. But she realized that this was
unreasonable. Winthrop was just a hot-headed impressionable boy, Peabody
was a man doing a man’s work. And then she found that week after week
she became more difficult to please. Other things in which she wished
Peabody might be more like Winthrop, obtruded themselves. Little things
which she was ashamed to notice, but which rankled; and big things, such
as consideration for others, and a sense of humor, and not talking of
himself. Since this campaign began, at times she had felt that if
Peabody said “I” once again, she must scream. She assured herself she
was as yet unworthy of him, that her intelligence was weak, that as she
grew older and so better able to understand serious affairs, such as the
importance of having an honest man at Albany as Lieutenant-Governor,
they would become more in sympathy. And now, at a stroke, the whole
fabric of self-deception fell from her. It was not that she saw Peabody
so differently, but that she saw herself and her own heart, and where it
lay. And she knew that “Billy” Winthrop, gentle, joking, selfish only in
his love for her, held it in his two strong hands.
For the moment, when as she sat in the car deserted by Peabody this
truth flashed upon her, she forgot the man lying injured in the street,
the unscrubbed mob crowding about her. She was conscious only that a
great weight had been lifted. That her blood was flowing again, leaping,
beating, dancing through her body. It seemed as though she could not too
quickly tell Winthrop. For both of them she had lost out of their lives
many days. She had risked losing him for always. Her only thought was to
make up to him and to herself the wasted time. But throughout the day
the one-time welcome, but now intruding, friends and the innumerable
conventions of hospitality required her to smile and show an interest,
when her heart and mind were crying out the one great fact.
It was after dinner, and the members of the house party were scattered
between the billiard-room and the piano. Sam Forbes returned from the
telephone.
“Tammany,” he announced, “concedes the election of Jerome by forty
thousand votes, and that he carries his ticket with him. Ernest Peabody
is elected his Lieutenant-Governor by a thousand votes. Ernest,” he
added, “seems to have had a close call.” There was a tremendous chorus
of congratulations in the cause of Reform. They drank the health of
Peabody. Peabody himself, on the telephone, informed Sam Forbes that a
conference of the leaders would prevent his being present with them that
evening. The enthusiasm for Reform perceptibly increased.
An hour later Winthrop came over to Beatrice and held out his hand. “I’m
going to slip away,” he said. “Good-night.”
“Going away!” exclaimed Beatrice.
Her voice showed such apparently acute concern that Winthrop wondered
how the best of women could be so deceitful, even to be polite.
“I promised some men,” he stammered, “to drive them down-town to see the
crowds.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“It’s far too late for that,” she said. “Tell me the real reason.”
Winthrop turned away his eyes.
“Oh! the real reason,” he said gravely, “is the same old reason, the one
I’m not allowed to talk about. It’s cruelly hard when I don’t see you,”
he went on, slowly dragging out the words, “but it’s harder when I do;
so I’m going to say ‘good-night’ and run into town.”
He stood for a moment staring moodily at the floor, and then dropped
into a chair beside her.
“And, I believe, I’ve not told you,” he went on, “that on Wednesday I’m
running away for good, that is, for a year or two. I’ve made all the
fight I can and I lose, and there is no use in my staying on here
to—well—to suffer, that is the plain English of it. So,” he continued
briskly, “I won’t be here for the ceremony, and this is ‘good-by’ as
well as ‘good-night.’”
“Where are you going for a year?” asked Miss Forbes.
Her voice now showed no concern. It even sounded as though she did not
take his news seriously, as though as to his movements she was possessed
of a knowledge superior to his own. He tried to speak in matter-of-fact
tones.
“To Uganda!” he said.
“To Uganda?” repeated Miss Forbes. “Where is Uganda?”
“It is in East Africa; I had bad luck there last trip, but now I know
the country better, and I ought to get some good shooting.”
Miss Forbes appeared indifferently incredulous. In her eyes there was a
look of radiant happiness. It rendered them bewilderingly beautiful.
“On Wednesday,” she said. “Won’t you come and see us again before you
sail for Uganda?”
Winthrop hesitated.
“I’ll stop in and say ‘good-by’ to your mother if she’s in town, and to
thank her. She’s been awfully good to me. But you—I really would rather
not see you again. You understand, or rather, you don’t understand,
and,” he added vehemently, “you never will understand.” He stood looking
down at her miserably.
On the driveway outside there was a crunching on the gravel of heavy
wheels and an aurora-borealis of lights.
“There’s your car,” said Miss Forbes. “I’ll go out and see you off.”
“You’re very good,” muttered Winthrop. He could not understand. This
parting from her was the great moment in his life, and although she must
know that, she seemed to be making it unnecessarily hard for him. He had
told her he was going to a place very far away, to be gone a long time,
and she spoke of saying “good-by” to him as pleasantly as though it was
his intention to return from Uganda for breakfast.
Instead of walking through the hall where the others were gathered, she
led him out through one of the French windows upon the terrace, and
along it to the steps. When she saw the chauffeur standing by the car,
she stopped.
“I thought you were going alone,” she said.
“I am,” answered Winthrop. “It’s not Fred; that’s Sam’s chauffeur; he
only brought the car around.”
The man handed Winthrop his coat and cap, and left them, and Winthrop
seated himself at the wheel. She stood above him on the top step. In the
evening gown of lace and silver she looked a part of the moonlight
night. For each of them the moment had arrived. Like a swimmer standing
on the bank gathering courage for the plunge, Miss Forbes gave a
trembling, shivering sigh.
“You’re cold,” said Winthrop, gently. “You must go in. Good-by.”
“It isn’t that,” said the girl. “Have you an extra coat?”
“It isn’t cold enough for——”
“I meant for me,” stammered the girl in a frightened voice. “I thought
perhaps you would take me a little way, and bring me back.”
At first the young man did not answer, but sat staring in front of him,
then, he said simply:
“It’s awfully good of you, Beatrice. I won’t forget it.”
It was a wonderful autumn night, moonlight, cold, clear and brilliant.
She stepped in beside him and wrapped herself in one of his greatcoats.
They started swiftly down the avenue of trees.
“No, not fast,” begged the girl, “I want to talk to you.”
The car checked and rolled forward smoothly, sometimes in deep shadow,
sometimes in the soft silver glamour of the moon; beneath them the
fallen leaves crackled and rustled under the slow moving wheels. At the
highway Winthrop hesitated. It lay before them arched with great and
ancient elms; below, the Hudson glittered and rippled in the moonlight.
“Which way do you want to go?” said Winthrop.
His voice was very grateful, very humble.
The girl did not answer.
There was a long, long pause.
Then he turned and looked at her and saw her smiling at him with that
light in her eyes that never was on land or sea.
“To Uganda,” said the girl.
THE PRINCESS ALINE
I
H. R. H. the Princess Aline of Hohenwald came into the life of Morton
Carlton—or “Morney” Carlton, as men called him—of New York City, when
that young gentleman’s affairs and affections were best suited to
receive her. Had she made her appearance three years sooner or three
years later, it is quite probable that she would have passed on out of
his life with no more recognition from him than would have been
expressed in a look of admiring curiosity.
But coming when she did, when his time and heart were both unoccupied,
she had an influence upon young Mr. Carlton which led him into doing
several wise and many foolish things, and which remained with him
always. Carlton had reached a point in his life, and very early in his
life, when he could afford to sit at ease and look back with modest
satisfaction to what he had forced himself to do, and forward with
pleasurable anticipations to whatsoever he might choose to do in the
future. The world had appreciated what he had done, and had put much to
his credit, and he was prepared to draw upon this grandly.