It was a long time since Vickers had spent a sleepless night--a night,
that is, on which he had designed to slumber,--but now, in the little
mahogany bed something too short for him, he tossed all night. Contempt
was a sentiment he was not accustomed to inspiring, and it sat very
ill upon him. Fear, dislike, and even distrust he had had occasion to
deal with, but contempt he had never, to his knowledge, had to brook.
His good looks and his ready tongue had gained him an easy sort of
admiration from women. His great bodily strength had enabled him to
insist on a certain civility even from his enemies. Indeed, he had an
almost childish belief in the efficacy of physical force.
He had been born and bred in a country town in the northern part of
the State of New York, near where his father and his grandfather
had been gentlemen farmers. He had gained, too early, a reputation
in the neighborhood, as a good sport, and the best amateur boxer in
the countryside. He had, besides, a certain social prestige, for his
father’s family had once been very rich and very much respected. A new
town, a lake, a street, all bore the name of Vickers; and, though this
had been over for a generation, some legend of greatness still lingered
about the name.
It was all the worst possible training for a man of his temperament.
His father sent him off--a little too late--to study scientific
agriculture at a neighboring university. After three years Vickers
was expelled owing to some trouble over a boxing-match. This was the
beginning of his quarrel with his father, who could not stand seeing
the name of Vickers in the newspapers--particularly in connection with
what he preferred to call prize-fighting.
The two men had struggled on together in spite of constant
disagreements, until Vickers’s final catastrophe had put an end to the
situation. His father did not support him even in this, and Vickers had
not been surprised to hear that when the older man died, a few years
later, he had left his little property to a niece and nephew.
Lewis Vickers had left his native town by night--a fugitive, and yet a
certain glory had still attached to him. He had none of the bitterness
to look back to that slights and small insults bring to a man. Never in
all his life had he been spoken to and looked at as Nellie had looked
at him and spoken to him the evening before. His blood was poisoned at
the recollection. It was an insult he could not wipe out--an insult,
moreover, delivered by a woman,--a creature he had been in the habit
of subduing with a glance.
It did not take all night to bring him to his resolution. Risk or no
risk, he would tell her the truth. He would explain to her that he was
not the poor wretch she took him for.
He could wish, of course, that, to make his revenge complete, a year
or so had gone by, during which time she and the forlorn old man would
have lived upon his bounty. This would be perfect; but in the meantime
he expected to derive a sufficient amount of satisfaction from her
expression when she realized that he was a total stranger. Having
reached this conclusion, he fell asleep, only to be wakened by Plimpton.
Plimpton, though he had now spent many years in America, had not
sloughed off his British tradition. The eldest son was the eldest
son. Scandal or no scandal, he respected the heir of the house. He
pulled up the shade and drew aside the curtains with the air of one
performing a religious rite.
“If you would leave me your keys, sir, before you go out, I would
unpack your trunks as soon as they come.”
Vickers watched him. “Plimpton,” he said, “I have no trunk.”
He was very much mistaken if he had expected any expression of surprise
from Plimpton. He had duly unpacked the saddle-bags and knew their
meager contents by heart, but he made no comment. He merely bowed.
“No,” Vickers went on, “I have no bag, but in that belt, Plimpton,
which I notice you are regarding with so much disfavor, is some four
hundred dollars in American gold. I am just making up my mind to go out
and spend it all upon my back if I knew where to go.”
Here Plimpton felt he _could_ be of use. He had not valeted some of
the best-dressed men in London and New York for nothing. He instantly
named a tailor.
“And for immediate use, sir,” he added, as he hung the blue serge
trousers over a chair, brushed beyond their deserts, “for immediate
use I think you might find something that would fit you at Hooks’s.
I should not recommend it for most gentlemen, but with a figure like
yours, sir----”
“Thanks, Plimpton.”
“And will you breakfast downstairs or here, sir?”
“Where does Mr. Lee breakfast?”
“Not before noon, in his room, sir.”
“And Miss Nellie?”
“Miss Lee, sir” (Vickers noted the reproof), “breakfasts in the
dining-room at nine.”
“I will breakfast in the dining-room at nine,” said Vickers, and sprang
out of bed.
When he came downstairs, she was already at table, sitting
imperturbably behind the high silver coffee urn.
“Good-morning, Bob,” she said, as calmly as if they had parted on the
best of terms; “I hope you slept.”
Vickers was still conscious of the excitement of his situation--the
strange room, the silver, the pretty woman opposite him.
“Thank you,” he said, “I slept something horrid. My temper was only
restored by Plimpton. Plimpton is much the nicest person in the house.
He admires my figure.”
“Really,” said Nellie, and took up the morning paper.
Vickers let her read in silence--he had enough to occupy his thoughts;
but when he had finished, and Plimpton had disappeared for good, he
rose and, standing against the mantelpiece, looked down at her and said:
“Could you give me a few minutes of your time and attention, Miss Lee?
At least I suppose your name is Lee. Plimpton says so.”
His address succeeded in making her look up. “Plimpton says my name is
Lee? Do you need to be told? Are we crazy?”
“We are not crazy, though one of us is rather sadly mistaken,” he
answered. “You did not talk last night in a way to invite confidence,
Miss Lee. Far be it from me to criticise your social manner, but I can
not help thinking that you were not at your best. You were annoyed, and
you had the misfortune to make me angry, too. Angry as I was, however,
I can see on thinking it over that you must have had a hard time,--so
hard that any man would be glad to give you a helping hand, and that,
within limits, I am prepared to do.”
Nellie had stopped eating, and was now leaning back in her chair with
something of the manner of the first row at a new drama.
“You will, will you, Bob? You are extremely kind,” she answered, with
twinkling eyes.
“I am,” said Vickers. “I am most extraordinarily and unnecessarily
magnanimous: for, as I suppose you knew from the moment you set eyes on
me, I am not your cousin.”
There was an instant in which he made ready for consequences, and then,
to his surprise, she began to smile, and then to chuckle, and then to
laugh in the most disconcerting way imaginable.
Vickers would not interrupt her merriment, but continued to stare at
her with what dignity he could command.
“You are so delightful, Bob. You always live up to your character. I
have been wondering all night how you would get out of this, and I
decided on ill-health. Heart-disease, I rather thought. It seemed an
excellent opportunity for heart-disease. You could easily arrange
doctor’s bills that would run far beyond anything you could make. But I
did you injustice, grave injustice; this is infinitely better. You are
not you, but some one else. And were you changed at birth? or in South
America?”
Disregarding her merriment, he went on:
“Nevertheless I am willing to stay here, and give my time and attention
to your uncle’s affairs if they need it, and to contribute my share to
the household expenses. There is no reason in the world why I should do
this, except for the fact that I rather like you. I’m sure I don’t know
why: for a more disagreeable, sharp-tongued young woman I never met.
Still, the fact remains: I do like you. But I make one condition--not
a very hard one--namely that you shall be decently civil to me. Do you
understand?”
“I understand perfectly,” she answered. “We are to accept your doing
your duty as the most extraordinary personal favor. Is that it, Bob?”
“An unkind critic might say you were willing to shift your burdens to
the shoulders of the first stranger that came along, whether he were
your cousin or not.”
“The critic would to a certain extent be right. I do not particularly
care who looks out for my uncle, provided it is well done. But you must
not be too hard on me, Bob,” she smiled. “You will not have the burden
of my support: for I expect to be married in August.”
“Well, may I be damned!” cried Vickers, striking the mantelpiece with
his hand. “This is too much. It was just conceivable that I might be
such an idiot as to stay here and help you out, even on your own absurd
terms; but to stay on while you go off and marry another fellow----”
“It is your staying that makes it possible for me to be married,” put
in Nellie gently.
“Then regard it as impossible: for I won’t stay.”
“If you attempt to go, Bob, I shall have you arrested.” Her tone might
have made him pause, if he had not been so full of his own wrongs.
“What folly this all is!” he cried angrily. “I make you a most
magnificently generous offer, and you have not even the sense to accept
it. I, a total stranger, offer to take up--but it serves me right for
trying to talk business to a woman. Who is this friend whose clerk I am
to be? Who’s your lawyer? Is there a man anywhere in this situation to
whom I can talk a little common-sense?”
“Mr. Overton is my uncle’s lawyer, but I should not advise you to see
him, Bob. I have heard him express his opinion. He has always thought
it would have been wiser to send you to the penitentiary at once. It
is Mr. Emmons who is willing to give you a position. You had better
see him.”
“All right, I’ll go to see him, and if I don’t like the way he talks, I
shan’t come back. In that case, good-by. I have to thank you for a very
pleasant evening. Remember me to Plimpton.”
Nellie had again bent her head over the paper, and did not concern
herself greatly over these adieux.
“We dine at eight, Bob,” she said.
“Oh, deuce take you!” answered Vickers, and almost shook his fist at
her as he left the room.
He had as yet no fear that the situation had passed beyond his control,
but she had succeeded in rousing an unusual degree of irritation in
him. He thought he would experience relief in talking to a man to whom
he could say what he liked.
Emmons had rooms in one of the upper stories of an uptown club. It was
a short walk from the Lees’, and Vickers arrived at the entrance in a
couple of minutes, but there was a long delay before he was shown to
Emmons’s apartment.
He found Emmons seated at his writing table.
“Good-morning, Lee,” he said rather magnificently, and Vickers
recognized him as the man who had been at Nellie’s side the evening
before.
“Mr. Emmons,” said Lee, sitting down without being asked, “I think you
witnessed my triumphant return to the bosom of my family last evening.
I find myself in something of a hole on account of a foolish trick. For
reasons which we need not go into, I passed myself off as Mr. Lee’s
son, on the strength of a likeness. Unhappily I had no idea of just
what sort of a rascal he appears to have been.”
Nature or art had made it easy for Emmons’s face to express nothing.
“And you are not Bob Lee?” he said.
“Lee died the day before I left South America.”
“Why have you come to tell _me_ this?”
“I found myself rather in need of a dispassionate outsider, and Miss
Lee mentioned your name.”
“Well,” said Emmons, “you’ve come to the wrong person. I am not a
dispassionate outsider. I have known the Lees for some time, and have
watched Miss Lee, and I know some of the difficulties she has had.
There have been times, sir, when your father would not give her a penny
for months together--and why? Because all spare cash went down to you.
It was a dog’s life for any woman, but she would not give it up, until
there was some one to take her place. She and I have waited one whole
year, hoping we could lay our hands on you, and now that you have at
last walked into the trap of your own accord we are not going to let
you go.”
“I see,” said Vickers, “that like her all you want is some one to take
the job of looking after the old man. I had no idea it would be to your
interest, too, to disbelieve me.”
“To disbelieve you!” cried Emmons. “Do you expect any one in their
senses to believe you? Does a man not know his own son, or a girl not
recognize the cousin she was brought up with? You acknowledge that you
come from the same place, you are the same age, the same height, you
walk straight to his house, and it is not until you find that your
being Lee means that you have got to work for your living that you
begin to run in this story about your being some one else. No, sir. You
will do as I tell you, or you will be arrested as you go out of here.
Miss Lee telephoned me what your last game was, and I sent round to
police headquarters for a detective. You can take your choice.”
Vickers was silent. He walked to the window and looked out at the city
which lay like a spider’s web, far below him. He was a quick-tempered
man, and had had his moment of feeling that personal violence was the
only possible answer to Emmons, but the seriousness of the decision
served to calm him. If he had had only the personal risk to consider,
he would probably have gone. Twice in his life he had escaped the arm
of the law. He did not doubt he could do it again. Indeed, there was
something tempting in the mere idea. But his soul rebelled at running
away from the whole situation--from the whole situation, and Nellie. He
gave no name to the strange mixture of admiration and antagonism which
she aroused in him, but he found no difficulty in giving a name to his
feeling for Emmons. He would have wished to stay merely to put a spoke
in his wheel. And what did it commit him to--to stay a day, or a week?
He could always disappear the moment the situation became irksome.
There was no obligation involved to Emmons certainly. If _he_ chose to
leave him day after day in the same house with his _fiancée_----
Ever afterward the sight of a city spread out below him brought the
decision of that morning back to him.
“Well,” he said finally, “I’ll stay for the present.”
“I thought you would. We’ll go downtown now. And by the way, while we
are on the subject, I wish to say that we can not have you running up
bills in your father’s name. In old times there was money to pay them.
Now there does not seem to be. I’ll get my hat.”
Left alone, Vickers turned from the window.
“It serves me right,” he thought; “I ought to have stayed and had it
out with Cortez. Ah, Rosita, Rosita, your face was round and empty like
the moon, but you would not have got a fellow in a fix like this.”