TRAILING DUDLEY THROUGH A TRANCE
The Adamses hadn't been in the neighborhood two weeks before Sadie's
discovered Veronica and was ravin' over her. "Isn't she perfectly
stunning, Shorty?" she demands.
"Now that you mention it, I expect she is," says I, playin' safe and
foxy. It's a useful phrase to pull in such cases; but here was once when
I must have worked it overtime. Sadie sniffs.
"Pooh!" says she. "Just as though you couldn't see for yourself! Don't
be absurd, Shorty."
"Gee! but you're hard to suit!" says I. "If I remember right, the last
time I got enthusiastic over the looks of a young queen you wrinkled
your nose and made remarks about my taste."
"It was that snippy little Marjorie Lowry with the baby face, wasn't
it?" says she. "Oh, very well, if you prefer that kind. Just like a
man!"
"Do I have to pick either one?" says I. "I hope not; for, between you
and me, Sadie, I'm satisfied as it stands."
"Goose!" says she, snugglin' up forgivin'. "And--would you guess
it?--they say she's twenty-six! I wonder why she isn't married?"
"There you go!" says I. "I could see it comin'."
"But she is such an attractive girl," goes on Sadie, "so well poised,
graceful, dignified, all that! And she has such exquisite coloring, and
such charming manners!"
Yep, I guess it was all so. One of these wavin' palm models, Veronica
was,--tall and willowy, with all the classy points of a heroine in a
thirty-five-cent magazine serial,--dark eyes, dark, wavy hair, good
color scheme in her cheeks,--the whole bag of tricks,--and specially
long on dignity. Say, she had me muffled from the first tap of the bell,
and you know how apt I am to try to break that sort of spell with a few
frivolous cracks. Not when Veronica swings on me with that calm gaze of
hers, though!
For Sadie don't do a thing but call on the Adamses, give a tea for
Veronica, and proceed to round up all the Johnnies in sight to meet her.
It's her reg'lar campaign, you know.
"Ah, why not let the poor girl alone?" says I. "Maybe she's got one in
trainin' somewhere herself. There's no tellin', too, but what she's
stayin' single from choice."
"Humph!" says Sadie. "Only the homely ones are entitled to give that
excuse, because they have no other; and only a stupid man would believe
it in either case. I suppose Miss Adams hasn't married because the right
man hasn't asked her. Sometimes they don't, you know. But it's a perfect
shame, and if I can help the right one to find her I'm going to do it."
"Sure you are," says I. "That's the skirt instinct. But, say, while the
men still have the vote all to themselves they ought to revise the game
laws by declarin' a close season on bachelors, say from the fifteenth of
August to the fifteenth of December."
"Too bad about the young men, isn't it?" says Sadie. "Anyone would think
we set traps for them."
"Show me a trap easier to fall into and harder to get out of," says I,
"and I'll make my fortune by puttin' it on the market as a new puzzle.
But blaze ahead. I ain't worryin'. I'm on the inside lookin' out,
anyway. Wish a hubby on her if you can."
And I must say it ain't any amateur effort Sadie puts over. From far and
near she rounds 'em up on one excuse or another, and manages to have 'em
meet Veronica. She don't take 'em miscellaneous or casual, like she
would for most girls. I notices that she sifts 'em out skillful, and
them that don't come somewhere near the six-foot mark gets the gate
early in the game. You catch the idea? Course, nobody would expect
Veronica to fall for any stunted Romeo that would give her a crick in
the back when it come to nestlin' her head on his shoulder.
So with size added to the other elimination tests it must have made hard
scratchin' at times. But somehow or other Sadie produces a dozen or more
husky young chaps with good fam'ly connections and the proper financial
ratin's. Among 'em was a polo player, two ex-varsity fullbacks, and a
blond German military aide that she borrowed from a friend in Washington
for the occasion. She tries 'em out single and in groups, using Mrs.
Purdy-Pell's horseshow box and town house as liberal as railroad waitin'
rooms. And, say, when it comes to arrangin' chance tête-à-têtes, and
cozy little dinner parties where the guests are placed just right, she
develops more ingenuity than a lady book agent runnin' down her victims.
Talk about shifty work! She makes this fly-and-spider fable sound
clumsy.
Course, she had a cinch in one way. All she has to do is exhibit
Veronica in some public place, and she has every man in sight twistin'
his neck. They dropped for her at the first glimpse. It didn't need any
elaborate scenic effects to cause a stampede, either; for the simpler
she gets herself up the more dangerous she is, and in a plain black
velvet dress, with an old lace collar cut a little low in front, all she
lacks is a gold frame and a number to look like a prize portrait at the
National Academy. Say, I ain't got much of an eye that way myself, but
the first time I saw her in that rig I held my breath for two minutes on
a stretch, and just gawped.
Another thing that helped was the fact that Veronica could sing,--no
common parlor warblin', mind you, of such pieces as "The Rosary" or
"Land of the Sky Blue Water," but genuine operatic stuff, such as you
hear Louise Homer and Schumann-Heink shootin' on the three-dollar
records. Why not? Hadn't Veronica studied abroad for two years under
Parcheesi, who'd begged her almost on his knees to do the title rôle in
a new opera he was goin' to try out before the King of Bavaria? Uh-huh!
We had that straight from Mrs. Adams, who wa'n't much for boostin' the
fam'ly. But no stagework for her!
In private, though, Veronica was good-natured and obligin'; so it was an
easy after-dinner cue for a young gent to lead her to the piano and
persuade her to tear off a few little operatic gems, while he leaned on
one elbow and gazed soulful at her. And I expect they didn't have to
know such a lot about grand opera to play the leanin' part, either.
Just how much tumult was caused under dress shirt fronts durin' them few
weeks I couldn't say for certain, but at least four or five of the young
gents had bad attacks. The odd thing about it, though, was the sudden
way they dropped out. One day they'd be sendin' her flowers, and
followin' her around to teas and lunches and dances, gazin' longin' at
her every chance they got, and displayin' the usual mush symptoms, and
the next they wouldn't show up at all. They'd disappeared.
That's what puzzled Sadie so much at first. She couldn't make out what
had happened,--whether they'd got rash and gone on the rug too soon, or
had been run over by a truck while crossin' the street. Fin'ly she comes
across one of the quitters one afternoon as I'm towin' her down
Fifth-ave. on her way home from somewhere, and she puts me up to give
him the quiz.
"There, Shorty!" says she, stoppin' sudden. "There's Monty Willetts, who
was so crazy about Veronica. No one has seen him for a week. Couldn't
you ask if anything serious has happened to him?"
I expect her idea was for me to put him through the third degree so
subtle he wouldn't suspect. Well, leavin' Sadie gazin' into a jew'lry
window, I overhauls him and does my best.
"Say, Monty," says I, jabbin' him playful in the ribs, "how about you
and that Miss Adams? Did you follow her to the frost line, or what?"
"That's an excellent way to put it, McCabe," says he. "And I'm chilly
yet from the experience."
"Sporty lad!" says I. "Did you try to hold her hand, or something like
that?"
"What!" he gasps. "Try to hold hands with the stately Miss Adams? Heaven
forbid! I'm not absolutely reckless, you know. It was in our first
confidential chat that I went on the rocks. We'd discussed polo for half
an hour, until I found she knew more about the English team than I did.
Why, she'd visited at Hurlingham House during the practice matches. So I
floundered about, trying to shift the subject, until we hit on antique
vases--deuced if I know why. But my Governor dabbled in such junk a bit,
you know, and I suppose I thought, from having heard him talk, that I
was up on antiques. But, say, hanged if she couldn't name more kinds
than I ever knew existed! Rippled on about Pompeian art, and Satsuma
ware, and Egyptian tear jugs as readily as Ted Keefe, my stable manager,
would about ponies. I tried again and asked if she'd seen many of the
new plays, and the next thing I knew I was bluffing through a dialogue
about Galsworthy and Masefield and Sudermann on an experience strictly
limited to musical comedies and Belasco's latest. Whe-e-e-ew! I made my
escape after that. Say, isn't it a shame a girl with eyes like hers
should know so blamed much?"
I couldn't help grinnin' at Monty, and when I picks up Sadie again I
gives her the diagnosis.
"Case of springin' the highbrow chatter on a sportin' chappy that wears
a fifteen and a half collar and a six and three-quarters hat," says I.
"He's as thankful as if he'd come through a train wreck with his
cigarette still lighted. You ought to tip Veronica to chop her lines and
work the spell with her eyes."
"Pooh!" says Sadie. "Monty never had a chance, anyway. You can't expect
a brilliant girl like Veronica to be satisfied with a husband who's at
his best only when he's knocking a goal or leading a hunt, even if he is
big and handsome."
But with this as a clew I figured out how two or three of the other
candidates came to side-step so abrupt. The average Johnny is all right
so long as the debate is confined to gossipy bits about the latest Reno
recruits, or who's to be asked to Mrs. Stuyve Fish's next dinner dance;
but cut loose on anything serious and you have him grabbin' for the
lifeline.
There was two, though, that came through to the finals, as you might
say. One was this German guy, Baron Düsseldorf; and the other was young
Beverley Duer, whose fad is takin' movin' pictures of wild animals in
their native jungles and givin' private movie shows in the Plaza
ballroom. Some strong on the wise conversation himself, Beverley is. He
paints a bit, plays the 'cello pretty fair, has a collection of ivory
carvin's, and has traveled all over the lot. You can't faze him with the
snappy repartee, either; for that's his specialty.
As for the Baron, his long suit was listenin'. He was a bear for it.
He'd sit there, big and ornamental, with his light blue eyes glued on
Veronica, takin' it all in as fast as she could feed it to him, and
lookin' almost intelligent. Course, when he did try a comeback in
English he chopped his words up comic; but he could speak four other
languages, and Veronica seemed pleased enough to find someone she could
practice her French and German on.
For awhile there I'd have picked either of the two as a winner; only I
couldn't just make up my mind which would get the decision. But somehow
the affair don't seem to progress the way it should. Each one appeared
to get about so far, and then stick. They both seemed anxious enough
too; but just as one would take an extra spurt Veronica would somehow
cool him down. She didn't seem to be playin' one against the other,
either. Looked like careless work to me. Sadie gets almost peeved with
her.
Then one night at our house a lot of the mystery was cleared up by some
friendly joshin' across the dinner table. We had all the Adamses there
that evenin',--Pa Adams, a tall, dignified, white-whiskered old sport,
who looked like he might have been quite a gay boy in his day; Mother, a
cheery, twinklin'-eyed, rather chubby old girl; and Veronica, all in
white satin and dazzlin' to look at. Also Sadie had asked in Miss
Prescott, an old maid neighbor of ours, who's so rich it hurts, but
who's as plain and simple as they come. She's a fruit preservin'
specialist, and every fall her and Sadie gets real chummy over swappin'
cannin' receipts.
About five P.M., though, Miss Prescott 'phones over her regrets, sayin'
how her nephew had arrived unexpected; so of course she gets the word to
bring Dudley Byron along with her. Emerson, his last name is, and while
I hadn't seen much of him lately we'd been more or less friendly when he
was takin' special post-graduate work at some agricultural college and
was around home durin' vacations. An odd, quiet chap, Dudley Byron, who
never figured much anywhere,--one of the kind you can fill in with
reckless and depend on not to make a break or get in the way. He's a
slim, sharp-faced young gent, with pale hair plastered down tight, and
deep-set gray eyes that sort of wander around aimless.
It might have been kind of dull if it hadn't been for the Adamses; but
Veronica and her Pa are lively enough to wake up any crowd. They're
gen'rally jollyin' each other about something. This time what started it
was someone remarkin' about a weddin' that was to be pulled off soon,
and how the bride was to be the last of five daughters.
"Fortunate parent!" says Pa Adams. "Five! And here I've been unable to
get rid of one."
"You didn't begin early enough," comes back Veronica. "Do you know, Mrs.
McCabe, when I was nineteen Daddy used to be so afraid I would be
stolen away from him that he would almost lie in wait for young men with
a shotgun. After I passed twenty-four he began meeting them at the gate
with a box of cigars in one hand and a shaker full of cocktails in the
other."
Pa Adams joins in the laugh. "It's quite true," says he. "For the last
two or three years Mother and I have been doing our best to marry her
off. We gave up the United States as hopeless, and carted her all over
Europe. No use. Even younger sons wouldn't have her. Now we're back
again, trying the dodge of staying longer in one place. But I fail to
see any encouraging signs."
"I'm sure I've tried to do my part too," says Veronica, smilin' gay. "I
really shouldn't mind being married. My tastes are wholly domestic. But,
dear me, one must find somewhere near the right sort of man, you know!
And so far----" She ends with a shrug of her white shoulders and a
puckerin' of her rosy lips.
"Poor Baron!" sighs Sadie, teasin'.
"I know," says Veronica. "And what a big, handsome creature he is too!
But I fear I'm not equal to carrying on a lifelong monologue."
"Surely that wouldn't be the case with Beverley Duer," suggests Sadie.
"Isn't he entertaining!" says Veronica enthusiastic. "But wouldn't it be
a bit selfish, appropriating all that brilliance just for oneself? And
could it be done? I'm afraid not. About once a month, I imagine,
Beverley would need a new audience. Besides--well, I'm sure I don't
know; only I don't seem thrilled in the way I ought to be."
With chat like that bein' batted back and forth, I expect I wa'n't
takin' much notice of Dudley Byron, who's sittin' quiet between me and
Aunty; but all of a sudden he leans over and whispers eager:
"Isn't she perfectly splendid, though?"
"Eh?" says I, tearin' myself away from what's still goin' on at the
other end of the table. "Oh! Miss Adams? Sure, she's a star."
"I--I would like to know her better," says Dudley, sort of plaintive.
"Crash in, then," says I. "No opposition here."
I thought I was bein' humorous; for Dudley's about as much of a lady's
man as he is a heavy shot putter. I never knew of his lookin' twice at a
girl before; but to-night he seems to be makin' up for lost time. All
durin' the rest of the meal he does the steady, admirin' gaze at
Veronica. He don't try to hide it, either, but fixes them gray eyes of
his her way and neglects to eat five perfectly good courses. When we
adjourns to the livin' room for coffee he keeps it up too. Couldn't have
been much suddener if he'd been struck by lightnin'.
I don't know how many others noticed it, but it was as plain as day to
me that Dudley Byron is on the point of makin' a chump of himself. I
begun to feel kind of sorry for him too; for he's a decent, well meanin'
young chap. So I edges around where I can get a word with him on the
side.
"Come out of the trance, Dudley," says I.
"I--I beg pardon?" says he, startin' guilty.
"You'll only get your wings singed," says I. "Forget Veronica while
there's a chance."
"But I don't wish to forget her," says he. "She--she's beautiful."
"Ah, what's the use?" says I. "She's mighty particular too."
"She has every right to be," says Dudley. "What delicious coloring! What
a carriage! She has the bearing of a Queen."
"Maybe," says I. "But wouldn't you rattle around some on a throne? Keep
that in mind, Dudley."
"Yes, yes," says he. "I suppose I must remember how unimpressive I am."
He's an easy forgetter that evenin', though. When Sadie suggests that
Miss Adams favor us, blessed if it ain't Dudley who's right there doin'
the music turnin' act. I wonder how many others has struck that same
pose, and lost good sleep thinkin' it over afterwards? But never a one,
I'll bet, that looked like such a hopeless starter.
He seemed to be enjoyin' it as much as any, though. And afterwards,
when the other four settles themselves around the card table for the
usual three rubbers, blamed if Dudley don't have the nerve to tow
Veronica into the next room, stretchin' on tiptoe to talk earnest in her
ear.
I could guess what it was all about. Veronica had a nice way of soundin'
people for their pet hobbies, and she must have got Dudley started on
his; for it's the only subject I ever knew him to get real gabby over.
And you'd never guess from his looks what it was. Farmin'!
Course he ain't doin' the reg'lar Rube kind,--hay and hogs, hogs and
hay. He goes at it scientific,--one of these book farmers, you
understand. Establishin' model farms is his fad. Dudley told me all
about it once,--intensive cultivation, soil doctorin', harvestin'
efficiency, all such dope, with a cost-bearin' side line to fall back on
in the winter.
Not that he needs the money, but he says he wants to keep busy and make
himself useful. So his scheme is to buy up farms here and there, take
each one in turn, put it on a payin' basis by studyin' the best stuff to
raise and gettin' wise to the market, and then showin' his neighbors how
to turn the trick too. No rollin' out at four A.M. to milk the cows for
Dudley! He hires a good crew at topnotch wages, and puts in his time
plannin' irrigatin' ditches, experimentin' with fertilizers, doin' the
seed testin', and readin' government reports; even has a farm
bookkeeper.
[Illustration: Blamed if Dudley don't have the nerve to tow Veronica
into the next room, stretchin' on tiptoe to talk in her ear.]
Then when cold weather comes, instead of turnin' off his help, he
springs his side line,--maybe workin' up the wood lot into shippin'
crates, or developin' a stone quarry. Last I heard he was settin' out
willows he'd imported from Holland, and was growin' and makin' fancy
veranda furniture. He's rung in a whole town on the deal, and they was
all gettin' a good thing out of it. Establishing community industries,
is the way Dudley puts it. Says every jay burg ought to have one of its
own.
Most likely this was what he was so busy explainin' to Veronica. He's a
good talker when he gets started too, and for such a quiet appearin'
chap he can liven up a lot. Must have been goin' into the details deep
with her; for they don't come back--and they don't come back. I'd read
the evenin' papers, and poked up the log fire half a dozen times, and
stood around watchin' the bridge game until I nearly yawned my head off;
but they're still missin'.
I'd just strolled around into the front hall, kind of scoutin' to see if
he'd talked her to sleep, or whether she'd come back at him with some
brainy fad of her own and was givin' him the chilly spine, when out
through the door dashes Dudley Byron, runnin' his fingers through his
hair desperate and glarin' around wild.
"Aha!" says I. "So you got it too, did you?"
"McCabe," says he, hoarse and husky, "I--I've done a dreadful thing!"
"Why, Dudley!" says I. "I can't believe it."
"But I have," says he, clawin' me on the shoulder. "Oh, I--I've
disgraced myself!"
"How?" says I. "Called some German composer out of his right name, or
what?"
"No, no!" says he. "I--I can't tell you."
"Eh?" says I, starin' puzzled. "Well, you'd better."
"True, I'm your guest," says he. "But--but I forgot myself."
"Ah, cheer up," says I. "Veronica's a good sport. She wouldn't mind if
you let slip a cussword."
"Oh, you don't understand," says Dudley, wringin' his hands. "Really, I
have done something awful!"
"Come, come!" says I. "Let's have it, then."
"Believe me," says he, "I was carried away, quite intoxicated."
"Gwan!" says I. "Where'd you get the stuff?"
"I mean," says he, "by her wonderful beauty. And then, McCabe, in one
moment I--I kissed her!"
"Great guns!" says I. "Didn't plant a reg'lar smack, did you?"
He bows his head solemn. "Right on the lips," says he. "You see, we were
talking, her lovely face was very close, her glorious eyes were shining
into mine, when suddenly--well, it seemed as if I became dizzy, and the
next moment I seized her brutally in my arms and--and----"
"Good night!" says I, gaspin'. "What did she hit you with?"
"I--I can't say exactly what happened next," says Dudley. "I think I
dropped her and ran out here."
"Of all the boob plays!" says I. "To take a Brodie plunge like that, and
then do the fade-away!"
"But what must I do now?" groans Dudley. "Oh, what can I do?"
"Is she still in there?" says I.
"I--I suppose so," says he.
"Well, so far as I can see," says I, "you got to go back and apologize."
"What! Now?" says he.
"Before she has time to sick the old man on you with a gun," says I.
"Yes, yes!" says he. "Not that I am afraid of that. I wish he would
shoot me! I hope someone does! But I suppose I ought to beg her pardon."
"In with you, then!" says I, leadin' him towards the door.
With his hand on the knob he balks. "Oh, I can't!" says he. "I simply
cannot trust myself. If I should try, if I should find myself close to
her once more. McCabe, I--I might do it all over again."
"Say, look here, Dudley!" says I. "This ain't a habit you're breakin'
yourself of, you know: it's just a single slip you've got to apologize
for."
"I know," says he; "but you cannot imagine how madly in love with her I
am."
"I'm glad I can't," says I.
And, say, he sticks to it. No, Sir, I can't push him in there with
Veronica again. I had him out on the front steps for fifteen minutes,
tryin' to argue some sense into him; but all he wants to do is go jump
off the rocks into the Sound and have me tell Aunty he died disgraced
but happy. Fin'ly, though, he agrees to wait while I go sleuthin' in and
find whether Veronica has rushed in tears to Daddy, or is still curled
up on the davenport bitin' the cushions in rage.
I slips into the livin' room, where I find 'em addin' up the scores and
talkin' over the last hand, but otherwise calm and peaceful. Then I
opens the door soft into the next room, steps in, and shuts the door
behind me. No wild sobs. No broken furniture. There's Veronica, rockin'
back and forth under the readin' light, with a book in her lap.
"Well?" says I, waitin' breathless for the storm to break.
She gives a little jump, glances up quick, and pinks up like a poppy.
"Oh!" says she, "It's you?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "I--er--I've just been talkin' with Dudley."
"Ye-e-es?" says she, rollin' a leaf of the book over her finger nervous
and droopin' her long lashes.
"You see," says I, fidgetin' some on my own account, "he--he's goin'
home in a minute or two."
"Oh, is he?" says she. "There! And I meant to ask him if he wouldn't
call to-morrow. Won't you do it for me, Mr. McCabe?"
How about that for a reverse jolt, eh? I backs out of the room lookin'
foolish. And Dudley he near collapses when I brings him the glad news.
As for Sadie, she couldn't believe me at all when I tells her Dudley
looks like a sure winner. She had to wait until a few days later when
she catches 'em just breakin' a clinch, before she'll admit I ain't
stringin' her.
"But a shy, diffident fellow like Dudley!" says she. "I don't see how he
did it."
"Neither does Dudley," says I. "Guess it must have been a case of a guy
with the goods comin' across with the swift tackle. Maybe that's what
she'd been waitin' for all along."