THE ALTERNATIVE
By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
Author of "The Husbands of Edith," "The Purple Parasol," "The
Flyers," "The Butterfly Man," Etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
By HARRISON FISHER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1909, by
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Published, April, 1909
[Illustration: "'Agrippa! Come here, sir!'"]
Contents
CHAPTER I THE VAN PYCKES 1
CHAPTER II A YOUNG LADY ENTERS 26
CHAPTER III THE AMAZING MARRIAGE 53
CHAPTER IV THE SECRETARY GOES HOME 78
CHAPTER V HIS FIRST HOLIDAY 97
Illustrations
"'Agrippa! Come here, sir!'" (_Frontispiece_)
"'I am Mrs. De Foe's secretary,' she said quietly"
"He was there. In fact he opened the door and assisted her to
alight"
"Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids"
THE ALTERNATIVE
CHAPTER I
THE VAN PYCKES
A shrieking wind, thick with the sleety snow that knows no mercy nor
feels remorse, beat vainly and with savage insolence against the staid
windows in the lounging room of one of New York's most desirable
clubs--one of those characteristic homes for college men who were up for
membership on the day they were born, if one may speak so broadly of the
virtue that links the early eighteenth-century graduate with his
great-grandson of the class of 1908. Not to say, of course, that the
eighteenth-century graduate was so carefully preserved from the biting
snowstorm as the fellow of to-day, but that he got his learning in the
ancient halls that now grind out his descendants by the hundred, one way
or another. It is going much too far to assert that every member of this
autocratic club had a colonial ancestor in college, but you'd think so
if you didn't pin him down to an actual confession to the contrary. It
is likely to be the way with college men who do not owe their degrees to
certain mushroom institutions in the West, where electricity and
mechanics are considered to be quite as necessary to a young man's
equipment as the acquaintance, by tradition, with somebody's
great-grandaddy, no matter how eminent he may have been in his
primogenial day.
All of which is neither here nor there. Ancestors for the future are in
the club this night, enjoying the luxury, the coziness, the warmth, and
the present good cheer of a great and glorious achievement: they are
inside of solid walls on this bitter night, eating or tippling, smoking
or toasting, reading or chatting with small regard for the ancient
gentlemen who gave their _Alma Mater_ its name, but who, if suddenly
come to life, would pass away again in a jiffy, not so much through the
shock of opulence as at the sight of the wicked high-ball.
At one of the windows, overlooking a broad street, stood two elderly
gentlemen, conversing in no mild tones about the blizzard.
Straight-backed, dignified gentlemen, they. They kept their hands
clasped behind their backs, smoked very good cigars instead of cigarets,
and spoke not of the chorus that gamboled just around a certain corner,
but of the blizzard that did the same thing--in a less exalted
manner--around _all_ corners.
A thin, arrogant figure crossed from the hallway doors, his watery green
eyes sweeping the group of young men at the lower end of the room.
Evidently the person for whom he was looking was not among them. As he
was turning toward the two elderly gentlemen in the window, one of the
joyous spirits of 1908 saw him, and called out:
"Hello, Mr. Van Pycke! Lookin' for Buzzy?"
The thin old gentleman paused. He lifted his nose-glasses and
deliberately set them upon the bridge of his long, aristocratic,--and we
must say it,--somewhat rose-tinted nose. Then his slim fingers dropped
to the end of his neat gray mustache. A coolly impersonal stare sought
out the speaker.
"Good evening," he said, in the most suave manner possible. No one would
have suspected that he was unable to recall the name of the youth who
put the question. "Yes, I rather expected to find Bosworth here. He said
something about dining here."
"He's upstairs in Peter Palmer's room."
"Thank you. I sha'n't disturb him. Disagreeable night, gentlemen."
The back of his spike-tailed coat confronted the group an instant later;
he was crossing the room, headed for the gray-heads in the window.
"Good evening, Billings. How are you, Knapp? A beastly night."
The three did not shake hands. They had passed that stage long ago. They
did nothing that they didn't have to do.
"I was just telling Knapp that it reminds me of the blizzard in--"
"Stop right there, Billings," interrupted Mr. Van Pycke. "It reminds me
of every blizzard that has happened within my recollection. They're all
alike--theoretically. A lot of wind, snow, and talk about the poor. Sit
down here and have your liqueurs with me."
"I'm glad I don't have to go in all this to-night," said little Mr.
Billings, '59, unconsciously pressing his knees together as he sat down
at the small table.
"You're getting old, Billings."
"So are you, Van Pycke. Demmit, I'm not more than two years older than
you. What's more, you have a grown son."
"My dear fellow, Bosworth is only twenty-five. A man doesn't have to be
a Methuselah to have a grown son. They grow up like weeds. And some of
them amount to about as much as--ahem! Ahem! Please press that button
for me, will you, Knapp? I don't see why the devil they always have the
button on the other side of the table. No, no! I'll sign for them, old
chap. Don't think of it! Here, boy, let me have the ticket. Mr. Knapp
rang, but he did it to oblige me. Now, see here, Knapp, I don't like
that sort of--"
"My dear Van Pycke, permit me! Billings is having his coffee with me.
It's coming now. I insist on adding the cordial."
"Very well, if you insist. Napoleon brandy with a single drop of
Curaçao. Mind you,--a single drop, waiter. Ever try that fine old
brandy, Knapp?"
"I can't afford it," said Knapp, bluntly.
"It's the only kind that I can drink," was all that Van Pycke said,
lifting his thin eyebrows ever so slightly.
"Yes, it's a rotten night," put in Mr. Billings with excellent haste.
Knapp's face had gone a trifle red.
Down at the other end of the room the "young bucks" were discussing the
seared trio under the smileless portrait of a college founder. They
spoke in rather subdued tones, with frequent glances toward the door at
their left.
"Old Van Pycke is the darndest sponge in the club. He never buys a
drink, and yet he's always drinking," said one young man.
"His nose shows that all right. I hate a pink nose."
"You'd think he owned the club, the way he treats it," said another.
"Tell me about him," said a new member--from the West. "He's the most
elegant, the most fastidious gentleman I've ever seen. An old family?"
"Rather! The Van Pyckes are as old as Bowling Green. Some of 'em came
over in the Ark--or was it the 'Mayflower'?"
"Buzzy came over in the 'Lusitania' last year," ventured one of them.
The self-appointed historian, a drawler with ancestors in Trinity
churchyard, went on: "Buckets of blue blood in 'em. The old man there is
the last of his type. His son, Buzzy,--Bosworth Van Pycke,--he's the
chap who gave the much-talked of supper for Carmen the other night--he's
really a different sort. Or would be, I should have said, if he had half
a chance. Buzzy's a good fellow--a regular--"
"You bet he is!" exclaimed two or three approvingly.
"The old man's got queer ideas about Buzzy. He insists on his being a
regular gentleman."
"Nothing queer in that," interrupted the Westerner.
"Except that he thinks a fellow can't be a gentleman unless he's a
loafer. He brought Buzzy up with the understanding that it wasn't
necessary for him to be anything but a Van Pycke. The Van Pycke name,
and all that sort of rot. It wouldn't be so bad if the old man had
anything to back it up with. He hasn't a sou markee. That's the
situation. For the last twenty years he's lived in the clubs, owing
everybody and always being a gentleman about it. He has a small interest
in the business of Rubenstein, Rosenthal & Meyer,--logical but not
lineal descendants of the Van Pyckes who were gentlemen in dread of a
rainy day,--but he doesn't get much out of it. Five or six thousand a
year, I'd say. When Buzzy's maternal grandfather died, he left something
in trust for the boy. Fixed it in such a way that he isn't to have the
principal until he's fifty. By that time the old man over there will
have passed in his checks. Catch the point? It was done to keep the
amiable son-in-law from getting his fingers on the pile and squandering
it as he squandered two or three other paternal and grand-paternal
fortunes. Buzzy has about ten thousand a year from the trust fund. I
know that he pays some of his father's debts--not all of 'em, of course;
just the embarrassing kind that he hears about from creditors who really
want their money. In a way, the old man has spoiled Buzzy. He has always
pounded it into the boy's head that it isn't necessary to work--in fact,
it's vulgar. When Buzzy first came into the club, two years ago, he was
insufferable. At college, every one liked him. He was himself when out
from under the old man's influence. After he left college, he set
himself up as Van Pycke, gentleman. The old man told him the name was
worth five millions at least. All he had to do was to wait around a bit
and he'd have no trouble in marrying that amount or more. Marriage is
the best business in the world for a gentleman, he argues. I've heard
him say so myself.
"Well, Buzzy's pretty much of a frivoler, but he isn't a cad. He'd like
to do right, I'm sure. He didn't get started right, that's all. He goes
about drinking tea and making love and spending all he has--like a
gentleman. Just sleeps, eats, and frivols, that's all. He'll never
amount to a hang. It's a shame, too. He's a darned good sort."
At the little table down the room Van Pycke, senior, was holding forth
in his most suave, convincing manner.
"Gentlemen, I don't know what New York is coming to. There are not ten
real gentlemen between the Battery and Central Park. Nothing but money
grabbers. They don't know how to live. They eat like the devil and drink
as though they lived in an aquarium; and they say they're New Yorkers."
Mr. Van Pycke's patrician nose was a shade redder than usual. Billings,
paying no heed to his remarks, was trying to remember how Van Pycke
looked before his nose was thoroughly pickled. It was a long way back,
thought Mr. Billings, vaguely.
"I think I'll have a high-ball," said Mr. Van Pycke. "Have something,
Knapp? Billings? Oh, I remember: you don't drink immediately after
dinner. Splendid idea, too. I think I'll follow your example, to-night
at least. I have a rather important--er--engagement, later on." He
twirled his mustache fondly.
"You'll pursue the fair sex up to the very brink of the grave, Van
Pycke," grumbled Knapp.
"If you mean my own grave, yes," said the other, calmly. "If you mean
that I'll pursue any fair sexton to the brink of _her_ grave, you're
mistaken. I don't like old women. By the way, Knapp, do you happen to
know Jim Scoville's widow?"
"You mean _young_ Jim Scoville?"
"Certainly. I don't discuss dowagers. Everybody knows the old one. I
mean the pretty Mrs. Scoville."
"More or less scandal about her, isn't there?" ventured Billings,
pricking up his ears.
"Not a grain of truth in it, not a grain," retorted Mr. Van Pycke in
such a way that you had the feeling he wanted you to believe there _was_
scandal and that he was more or less connected with it. He studied the
chandelier in a most evasive manner. "Ahem! Do you know her?"
"Only by reputation," said Knapp, with gentle irony.
"I've seen her," said Billings. "At the horse show. Or was it the
automobile--"
"I was in her box at one and in her tonneau at the other," said Mr. Van
Pycke, taking the cigar Knapp extended. He glanced at his watch with
sudden interest. "Yes, I see quite a bit of her. Charming girl--ahem! Of
course" (punctuating his opinion with deliberate care) "she has been
talked about, in a way. Lot of demmed old tabbies around town rippin'
her up the back whenever she turns to look the other way. Old Mrs.
Scoville is the queen tabby. She hates the young Mrs. Jim like poison.
And, come to think of it, I don't blame the dowager. Charlotte is one of
the most attract--"
"Charlotte!" exclaimed Knapp. "Do you call her Charlotte?"
"Certainly!" said Mr. Van Pycke, with a chilly uplifting of his
eyebrows.
"I thought her name was Laura," said Billings, who read all the gossip
in the weekly periodicals.
Mr. Van Pycke coughed. There seemed some likelihood of his bursting, the
fit lasted so long.
"Charlotte is a pet name we have for her," he explained, somewhat
huskily, when it was over. "Demmed stupid of me!" he was saying to
himself. "As I said before, I don't blame the old lady. Young Mrs. Jim
has got five or six of the Scoville millions, and she's showing the
family how to spend it. Her husband's been dead over two years. She's
got a perfect right to take notice of other men and to have a bit of fun
if she takes the notion. Hasn't she? I--I--it wouldn't surprise me at
all if she were to take a new husband unto herself before long." He
uttered a very conscious cackle and looked at his watch quite
suddenly--or past it, rather, for he forgot to open the virtuously
chased hunting case.
Billings waited a moment. "I hear she is quite devoted to Chauncey De
Foe,--or is it the other way?"
Mr. Van Pycke took five puffs at his cigar before responding, all the
while staring at Billings in a perfectly unseeing way.
"I beg pardon? Oh, yes, I see. Not at all, my dear Billings. De Foe
is--er--you might say, a part of her past. He's out of it, quite. I
don't mind telling you, he's a--ahem! a damned nuisance, though." This
time he looked at his watch with considerable asperity. "Half-past
eight! Where the devil is Bos--I say, Knapp, can you see the length of
the room? Is he in that crowd over there?"
"No, he isn't," said Knapp, shortly.
"I shall have to telephone up to Palmer's room. I must see him before
leaving the club. Beastly night, isn't it?"
"Beastly," remarked the two old gentlemen, unconsciously heaving sighs
of relief as Mr. Van Pycke arose and adjusted his immaculate waistcoat.
Then he moved away, trimly.
A particularly vicious gust of wind swept up to the windows; the
fusillade of gritty snowflakes caused the two old men to lift their gaze
to the panes. Billings arose and peered into the swirling, seething
street. A phantom-like hansom was passing, a vague, top-heavy thing in
shifting whites. Two taxicabs crawled humbly up to the club entrance,
and away again, ghostly in their surrender to the noise of the wind.
Mr. Billings shuddered as he resumed his seat.
"I wonder if Van Pycke imagines that she could even _think_ of marrying
_him_! Sixty-three, if he's a day!" Mr. Billings had not been thinking
of the storm while he stood in the window.
"Fine old New York name, Billings," mused Knapp. "You can't tell what
these women will do to get a name that means something."
Mr. Billings was silent for a long time. Suddenly he stirred himself,
relighted his cigar, and remarked: "By Jove, hear that wind howling,
will you! It's really worse than the blizzard of '93." "Billings" was
not yet a fine old New York name.
The crowd of young fellows at the other end watched Mr. Van Pycke vanish
through the door. He was peering into his nose-glasses in such a lofty
manner that one might have believed that he scented something
disagreeable in every one who passed. As a matter of fact, his sole
object was to discover his son if possible. For a long time he had
nourished the conviction that his son would not take the trouble to
discover him, if he could help it, no matter how close the propinquity.
Mr. Van Pycke attributed this phase of filial indifference to the
sublimity of caste. After all, wasn't Bosworth the son of his father,
and wasn't it quite natural that he should be an improvement on all the
Van Pyckes who had gone before? What was the sense in having a son if it
were not to better the breed?
Sometimes, however, Mr. Van Pycke experienced the sickening fear that
Bosworth avoided him because of a foolish prejudice against the lending
of money to relatives. There was an admirable counter-irritant, however,
in Bosworth's assertion that one never got back the money he lent to
relatives; and, as long as Mr. Van Pycke had known him in a pecuniary
way, the young man had lived up to this principle by not even suggesting
the return of a loan. Mr. Van Pycke was very proud of his son. He
sometimes wished he could see more of him.
Bosworth lived in the club. Van Pycke, senior, had lived there, but was
now living at one of the other clubs--he would have had some difficulty
in remembering just which one if suddenly questioned.
"I hope Buzzy isn't going to turn out like the old man," said one of the
loungers, addressing himself to the crowd.
"Oh, he'll marry rich and go the pace, and the old man will die happy,"
said another.
"He's hanging around that flossy Mrs. Scoville a good bit these days,"
observed the drawler. "That's not the best thing in the world for him."
"She's not as bad as she's painted," protested some one.
"My mother says she's the limit," said the drawler.
"That's what my mother says also," argued another, "but it's because
she's afraid I'll slip up some day and fall a victim to the lady's
charms. These mothers are a nifty lot. They've got their eyes peeled and
their ears spread, and they don't give a hang what they say about a
woman if she's likely to harm sonny-boy."
"Well, say what you please, Mrs. Scoville is as swift as a bullet. She
carried on to beat the band with Chauncey De Foe long before Jim
Scoville died, and she's still going it. Everybody talked about it then,
and people don't forget. My mother says she knows of a dozen of the best
houses where she is no longer received. I'm sorry that Buzzy has taken
it into his head to flutter about her flame. He's bound to get a good
singeing."
"Oh, Buzzy's not such a fool as you think. He's pretty wise to women.
He's had nothing else to do but to study 'em since he left college."
"But she's always doing some freakish thing to get into the newspapers.
Next thing you know, Buzzy'll have his name in the paper as taking a
chimpanzee out to dinner, or being toastmaster at a banquet for French
poodles. She delights in it, just because it makes people sit up and
gasp. That sliding down the banister party she gave at her coming-out
party last spring must have been a ripper. Four or five old ladies who
couldn't slide down a haystack got mad and went home. They've cut her
since then."
"Coming-out party?" queried the Westerner. "I thought you said she was a
widow."
"She is. It was when she came out of mourning."
"I think I'd like to know her," mused the Westerner, his eyes lighting
up.
"She's very expensive," murmured the drawler, who also would have
enjoyed an acquaintanceship.
For a few minutes they all seemed to be interested in their own
thoughts. Finally a youth in a lavender waistcoat and a gray dinner
jacket broke the silence.
"Gimme a cigaret, Bob."
"Don't you ever _buy_ cigarets, Sticky?" growled the one addressed,
reluctantly extending his case.
"Sticky" ignored the question. "I wonder if Buzzy's got it into his head
to get married," he said reflectively.
"She's rich enough," remarked the drawler.
"How about De Foe? He's the bell-cow, isn't he?"
"She's in love with him, that's all. The name of Van Pycke would get her
into the very heart of the Four Hundred. With Buzzy's patronymic and the
lamented Jim's millions, she'd be an establishment in herself. And,
besides, Buzzy's a chap any woman might be proud of as a husband. He's
good-looking, amusing, popular, and--useless. His habits are unnaturally
decent. Drinks less than any fellow in the club--except the spooks who
don't drink at all. Gambles moderately and--"
"Fellows, I believe Buzzy'd make something of himself if he didn't have
the family name to carry around," burst out "Sticky." "Lemme take a
cigaret, Bob. Yes, sir; he's got it in him. If the old man was off the
map, Buzzy'd come to realize that there's something for him to do
besides marrying for money. The way it is now, he's just got to marry a
lot of dough. It's cut out for him. That's all he's ever been
taught,--that's all he grew up for. He's--Sh! Here he is!"
A slender young man, immaculately dressed from tip to toe, approached
the group. If any feature was out of proportion in this young man's
face, it was his nose,--or perhaps it was his mouth. His nose was rather
long and fine,--a typically aristocratic Van Pycke nose, but
unblooming,--and his mouth was a bit too large for perfect symmetry, you
might argue. But the one denoted truly patrician blood; the other
signified no small amount of strength as well as the most engaging good
nature. That is to say, one could not, by any chance, take him for a
snob; the mouth quite offset the nose. Mr. Van Pycke has already said he
was twenty-five. He looked what he was set up to be,--a gentleman, bred
and born.
More than one of his friends noticed the absence of a certain genial
smile that usually illumined his face when he joined a party of
acquaintances. There was something almost suggestive of gloom in his
eyes. The mobile lips were not spread in the gentle smile they knew so
well; they were rather studied in their sedateness. His hands were in
his pockets (which was most unusual), and--yes, his tie was rather
carelessly knotted.
"Your father's looking for you, Buzzy," said Sticky.
"He is? I thought he was looking for some one when I passed him out
there just now. Here, waiter, take the orders." He sat upon the edge of
a table and swung one leg aimlessly while the servant took the orders.
"I'll take a Bronx," he said, after the others had spoken.
The drawler took it upon himself to instruct the waiter to find Mr. Van
Pycke, senior, and tell him that his son was in the lounge.
"Never mind," countermanded Bosworth, sharply. "I'll look him up
directly. Beastly night, isn't it?"
Every one said it was. It dawned upon them that Bosworth was not taking
his first cocktail. It was quite plain that already he had taken
several. They were unwilling to believe their senses. Buzzy _never_ got
tight! He always had said it made him dreadfully ill the next day, and a
man who is ill the next day--in that way--suffers tremendously during
the period of upheaval in the additional loss of self-respect. Be that
as it may, he appeared to have forgotten his squeamishness. Young Mr.
Van Pycke--he of the sleek blond hair and dark gray eyes--was quite
palpably drunk.
"This is the sixth for me in the last half hour," he remarked, but not
proudly, as he took up the cocktail. A spoonful or more leaked over the
top of the glass as he raised it to his lips. "Here's how."
"Six!" exclaimed the drawler. "What's got into you, Buzzy? I thought
your limit was two."
Buzzy appeared to be thinking. "Two's my limit when I'm perfectly
sober," he said sagely. He waited a moment. "Say, did you fellers see
that thing in the paper's mor--this morning about the party?"
"What party?" demanded several.
He looked aggrieved. "Why, there was only one. I haven't heard of
another. The one at Mrs. Thistlethorpe's. By Jove, that's a--a hard name
to pronounce. Didn't you see in the papers that they played a new game
between the Bridge and the pantry? Jus' before supper Mrs. This--Thissus
Miss--the same one I said before--introduced her new trained dog. It was
Willy Buttsford. Willy--the silly ass--came into the room on all fours.
She was leadin' him by a leash. Willy's got such a deuced thin neck that
her poodle's diamond-studded collar fits'm all right. Then she had him
beg for candy, roll over an' play dead, jump over her leg, and--say, he
almost broke his nose doin' that! Awful mess he made of himself,
slippin' on the rug. He closed the show by tellin' the age of every
woman present, barkin' the numbers. I thought I'd die of fatigue when he
gave Mrs. Thisum--ahem!--when he gave _her_ age. He thought it would be
smart to run it up into the hundreds. The dam' fool barked for three
quarters of an hour without stoppin'! I never was so disgusted in my
life. Thass--that's why I'm gettin' full to-night."
"I don't see why _you_ should get full," said Sticky.
"Sticky, you _would_ see if you knew the horrible thought that's been
botherin' me all day. Mos' dreadful thought."
"What is it?"
"It occurred to me that, next thing I know, I'll be doin' some idiotic
trick like that. I've got a feelin'--an awful feelin'--that I won't be
able to get out of it. Some woman'll want me to play a cow, or a goat,
or a crocodile, sure's your're born, and I'll be _it_. Awful thought!"
Everybody laughed but Bosworth. He flushed and looked very much hurt.
"I'm not foolin', boys," he said quite seriously. "I feel it coming. I
haven't money enough to tell 'em to go to the devil, and they know it.
That's the trouble in not havin' money. So, I've made up my mind to
follow the governor's advice. I'm going to marry it."
"Good boy!" cried the drawler, humoring him.
"Either that or go to work," said Bosworth, slowly, impressively. Again
they laughed, and again he flushed. "I mean it. I'm either going to
marry some one who can support me in the latest and most approved
fashion, or I'm going to chuck the whole business and devote my time to
solving the labor problem by trying to hold a job somewhere. Twelve
thousand a year is all right if a chap's working part of the time. He's
at least earning the interest on what he spends. But twelve thousand
isn't even pin money in the crowd I'm trying to keep up with."
"I've always said you'd marry a wad as big as the best of 'em," said
Sticky, greatly encouraged.
"If I don't marry pretty soon, the governor will," mused Buzzy. "The
Lord knows _he_ won't marry for love or experience. No, gentlemen, you
can't expect to be much more than a poodle dog on twelve thousand. I had
to lick a feller at college once for calling me a pup. I'd hate it like
the deuce if I should live to see his statement proved true. No, I won't
be a trained dog. I'll get married and pay my debts. And--I say, what
time's it getting to be? Eight forty-five? Well, I must be on my way."
He swung his leg down from the table, straightened his slender, elegant
figure with a palpable effort, and smiled his most genial farewells to
the crowd.
"Rotten night," he said once more.
The drawler took his arm and accompanied him to the door. They were very
good friends.
"Better stay in to-night, Buzzy," he said.
Bosworth looked at him in haughty surprise.
"You think I'm tight," he retorted. "There, forgive me, old chap; I
didn't mean to snap you off like that. Le' me tell you about those
cocktails. I took 'em to brace me up. I'm going to do it to-night." This
in a whisper.
"Do it? Do what?"
"Ask her!"
"What the dev--Ask who what?"
"I don't know just who yet, but I certainly know what. I'm going to ask
some one to become Mrs. Van Pycke. There are three of 'em who are
eligible, according to the governor. He's ding-donged 'em at me for
three months. I've got a taxicab waiting for me out there. The chances
are that it'll get stuck in the snow somewhere. That's why I can't say
which one I'm going to ask. It all depends on which one lives nearest to
the snowdrift in which we get stuck. They're all the same to me. And I
think they are to the governor. But, see here, George, I'm not going to
ask more than one of 'em. If I get turned down to-night, that ends it.
I'm going to work!"
"I don't wish you any bad luck, Buzzy, but I hope you'll be turned
down," said his friend, earnestly.
Van Pycke was staring straight before him. His brain seemed clearer when
he replied. There was a distinctly plaintive note in his voice.
"I wonder if I _could_ make good at work of any kind. Do you suppose any
one would give me a trial?"
"In a minute, Buzzy! And you would make good. Better stay in to-night.
Let the--"
"No," said Buzzy, resolutely. "I'm going to try the other thing first.
That's what I've been trained for. Good night, George. Don't tell the
fellows, will you? They'll guy me to death. I just wanted you to
understand that I can't go on as I'm going on twelve thousand a year."
"I quite understand, old boy."
Buzzy held his hand for a moment, looking quite steadily into his eyes.
"You don't think I'm as useless as the rest of 'em think I am, do you,
George?"
"God bless you, no! No one thinks that of you!"
"George, I hate a liar," said Buzzy, but his face glowed with a happy
smile.
In the lobby he met his father.
"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Van Pycke, senior. "Damitall,
I've wasted half an hour waiting for you."
"I didn't know you were waiting, dad. Why didn't you send in your card?"
"Send in my--why, confound you, Bosworth, I'm a member of this club. Why
should I send in--"
"Don't lose your temper, dad. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Don't
let me keep you any longer."
Mr. Van Pycke looked his son over very carefully. A pained expression
came into his face.
"Bosworth, I am sorry to see you in this condition. It grieves me beyond
measure. You have never--"
"It's an awful night, isn't it, dad? Can't I give you a lift in my
taxicab? I see you've got on your overcoat and hat." Bosworth was
moving toward the clubhouse entrance. The old gentleman resolutely kept
pace with him.
"That's just what I meant to ask you," said he, with some celerity.
"I--I can't get a cab of any sort for love or money. It's generous--"
"You can't get much of anything for love in these days, dad, except
love."
Mr. Van Pycke pondered this while Bosworth got into his coat and hat.
"I am very sorry to see you intox--"
"Dad, I 'm celebrating," said his son, halting just inside the door.
"Celebrating what?"
"My approaching marriage, sir."
Mr. Van Pycke dropped the glove he was pulling on. He went very white,
except for his nose. That seemed redder by contrast.
"Not--not a chorus girl?" he stammered, his hand shaking as he raised it
to his brow.
"No, dad. Not yet. I expect to marry some one else first. I'll save the
other for a rainy day."
"Who--who is it, my boy? Who is it?"
"That, sir, is still a matter of conjecture. I haven't quite got down to
the point of selecting--"
"You insufferable booby," roared his father. "You gave me a--a dreadful
shock, sir! Never do that again."
"I thought you'd like to know, sir," said Bosworth, politely. He winked
gravely at a mahogany doorpost, and motioned for his father to precede
him through the storm doors.
"By the way," muttered his father, obstructing the way, as if recalling
something he had forgotten to attend to inside the club, "would you mind
lending me fifty for a couple of days? I meant to speak to you about it
in--"
"Will ten do, dad? It's all I have with me, except a tip for the driver.
We mustn't forget the driver on a night like this." Bosworth was feeling
in his trousers pocket, no sign of resentment in his face.
"I dare say I can borrow forty from Stone," said the other, readily.
"No," he went on, after he had pocketed the crumpled bank note and was
fastening his baby lamb collar close up to his shrivelled throat; "no,
we can't forget the driver on a night like this. You really won't mind
dropping me up town, will you, Bosworth? I don't mind walking if you'd
rather not."
"Come along, governor," said the other, pushing through the doors. "Ah,
that cold air feels good!" The young man drew in a long, deep breath.
"Good? It might feel good to a polar bear, but I don't see how--"
"Sh! Be careful, dad! Don't let the driver hear you call me a polar
bear. He wouldn't understand, and it might get into the papers--the very
thing I'm trying to avoid."
Mr. Van Pycke attributed this remarkable utterance to the cup that
cheers and befuddles. At best he seldom appreciated or understood
Bosworth's wit.
The taxicab plowed and sputtered its way through a city block of pelting
snow before he gave over trying to analyze this latest example. Then he
broke the silence, in the shrill, chattering tones of one who is very
cold.
"I don't think I told the driver where he could put me down," he said.
"Eh?" mumbled Bosworth, coming out of a dream. "Oh, I dare say it won't
matter. I'll tell him when he puts me down."
"But," expostulated his father, from the recesses of the baby lamb, "you
may be going to--to Harlem." He could think of nothing worse. "I've been
delayed in keeping my appointment on your account, as it is. It's very
annoying, Bosworth, that I should be kept waiting a whole hour there in
the club while you puttered your time away at--"
"Where _do_ you want to get out, dad?" interrupted the scion of the
house of Van Pycke.
Mr. Van Pycke had been thinking. He was not sure that he wanted Bosworth
to know just where he was going on this momentous night. It occurred to
him that the walk of a block would not only throw the young man off the
track, but might also serve to soften the heart of the lady for whom he
was risking so much in the shape of health by venturing forth afoot in a
storm so relentless. Moreover, he could tell her that he had walked all
the way up from the club, cabless because even the hardiest of drivers
balked at the prospect. A statement like that, attended by a bushel or
more of snow in the vestibule where it had been brushed off by the
butler, ought to convince the lady in mind that his devotion was thinly
divorced from recklessness. So he told Bosworth that he would get out at
Mr. Purdwell's house.
The announcement caused Bosworth mentally to eliminate one of the ladies
from his list. He gave a deep sigh of relief at that. The daughter of
the shamelessly rich Mr. Purdwell was so homely and so vain that she was
almost certain to have said "yes"--with all her millions--if he had
asked her. He remembered that Miss Hebbins, almost as rich and quite as
eager to get into the Four Hundred, was the next on his list. She lived
a few blocks farther up the street.
"All right, dad. Just push the button when we get to Purdwell's corner.
I'm going beyond."
Mr. Van Pycke hesitated for a moment. "Would it be too much trouble for
you to stop for me on your way down, Bosworth?"
"Not at all, dad." As an afterthought he added: "Something tells me I
won't be up here long. Can you be ready at half-past ten?"
"I think so," said his father, who had some misgivings.
The taxi struggled bravely along for a couple of blocks. Bosworth was
dozing comfortably. His father, seized by an unwelcome sense of
compunction, was turning something over in his mind. In the end, he
concluded to break a certain piece of news to his son.
"Your mother has been dead for sixteen years, Bosworth."
Bosworth opened his eyes.
"Yes, sir," he said, trying to guess what was coming.
"She was a noble woman, my boy. I--I shall never forget her."
"I loved her," said Bosworth, vaguely.
"I have always said that a man shouldn't marry a second time," proceeded
Mr. Van Pycke. Bosworth sniffed. Mr. Van Pycke went on: "That is, until
his first wife has been--er--at rest for fifteen years or more. It's
only decent."
"I see," said Bosworth, comprehending.
"You do?" demanded his father, a bit upset.
"Who is she, dad?"
Mr. Van Pycke's chin was so far down in the baby lamb that his reply was
barely audible. "I hope to be able to tell you in the morning--perhaps
late this evening, my son."
The young man was smiling in his corner of the cab. "Are you quite sure
you love her, dad?" he asked, without guile.
Mr. Van Pycke coughed.
"Perhaps you'd better wait till morning to tell me that, too," said his
son, coming to the rescue.