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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
"'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 norfeels remorse, beat vainly and with savage insolence against the staidwindows in the lounging room of one of New York's most desirableclubs--one of those characteristic homes for college men who were up formembership on the day they were born, if one may speak so broadly of thevirtue that links the early eighteenth-century graduate with hisgreat-grandson of the class of 1908. Not to say, of course, that theeighteenth-century graduate was so carefully preserved from the bitingsnowstorm as the fellow of to-day, but that he got his learning in theancient halls that now grind out his descendants by the hundred, one wayor another. It is going much too far to assert that every member of thisautocratic club had a colonial ancestor in college, but you'd think soif you didn't pin him down to an actual confession to the contrary. Itis likely to be the way with college men who do not owe their degrees tocertain mushroom institutions in the West, where electricity andmechanics are considered to be quite as necessary to a young man'sequipment as the acquaintance, by tradition, with somebody'sgreat-grandaddy, no matter how eminent he may have been in hisprimogenial day.
All of which is neither here nor there. Ancestors for the future are inthe club this night, enjoying the luxury, the coziness, the warmth, andthe present good cheer of a great and glorious achievement: they areinside of solid walls on this bitter night, eating or tippling, smokingor toasting, reading or chatting with small regard for the ancientgentlemen who gave their _Alma Mater_ its name, but who, if suddenlycome to life, would pass away again in a jiffy, not so much through theshock of opulence as at the sight of the wicked high-ball.
At one of the windows, overlooking a broad street, stood two elderlygentlemen, conversing in no mild tones about the blizzard.Straight-backed, dignified gentlemen, they. They kept their handsclasped 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 exaltedmanner--around _all_ corners.
A thin, arrogant figure crossed from the hallway doors, his watery greeneyes 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 hewas turning toward the two elderly gentlemen in the window, one of thejoyous 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 anddeliberately set them upon the bridge of his long, aristocratic,--and wemust say it,--somewhat rose-tinted nose. Then his slim fingers droppedto the end of his neat gray mustache. A coolly impersonal stare soughtout the speaker.
"Good evening," he said, in the most suave manner possible. No one wouldhave suspected that he was unable to recall the name of the youth whoput the question. "Yes, I rather expected to find Bosworth here. He saidsomething 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. Theydid 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 meof every blizzard that has happened within my recollection. They're allalike--theoretically. A lot of wind, snow, and talk about the poor. Sitdown 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 downat the small table.
"You're getting old, Billings."
"So are you, Van Pycke. Demmit, I'm not more than two years older thanyou. What's more, you have a grown son."
"My dear fellow, Bosworth is only twenty-five. A man doesn't have to bea Methuselah to have a grown son. They grow up like weeds. And some ofthem amount to about as much as--ahem! Ahem! Please press that buttonfor me, will you, Knapp? I don't see why the devil they always have thebutton on the other side of the table. No, no! I'll sign for them, oldchap. Don't think of it! Here, boy, let me have the ticket. Mr. Knapprang, but he did it to oblige me. Now, see here, Knapp, I don't likethat 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 ofCuracao. Mind you,--a single drop, waiter. Ever try that fine oldbrandy, 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 theseared trio under the smileless portrait of a college founder. Theyspoke in rather subdued tones, with frequent glances toward the door attheir left.
"Old Van Pycke is the darndest sponge in the club. He never buys adrink, 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 mostelegant, the most fastidious gentleman I've ever seen. An old family?"
"Rather! The Van Pyckes are as old as Bowling Green. Some of 'em cameover 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 Trinitychurchyard, went on: "Buckets of blue blood in 'em. The old man there isthe last of his type. His son, Buzzy,--Bosworth Van Pycke,--he's thechap who gave the much-talked of supper for Carmen the other night--he'sreally a different sort. Or would be, I should have said, if he had halfa 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 aregular gentleman."
"Nothing queer in that," interrupted the Westerner.
"Except that he thinks a fellow can't be a gentleman
unless he's aloafer. He brought Buzzy up with the understanding that it wasn'tnecessary 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 hadanything to back it up with. He hasn't a sou markee. That's thesituation. For the last twenty years he's lived in the clubs, owingeverybody and always being a gentleman about it. He has a small interestin the business of Rubenstein, Rosenthal & Meyer,--logical but notlineal descendants of the Van Pyckes who were gentlemen in dread of arainy day,--but he doesn't get much out of it. Five or six thousand ayear, I'd say. When Buzzy's maternal grandfather died, he left somethingin trust for the boy. Fixed it in such a way that he isn't to have theprincipal until he's fifty. By that time the old man over there willhave passed in his checks. Catch the point? It was done to keep theamiable son-in-law from getting his fingers on the pile and squanderingit as he squandered two or three other paternal and grand-paternalfortunes. Buzzy has about ten thousand a year from the trust fund. Iknow 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 reallywant their money. In a way, the old man has spoiled Buzzy. He has alwayspounded 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 wasinsufferable. At college, every one liked him. He was himself when outfrom under the old man's influence. After he left college, he sethimself up as Van Pycke, gentleman. The old man told him the name wasworth five millions at least. All he had to do was to wait around a bitand he'd have no trouble in marrying that amount or more. Marriage isthe best business in the world for a gentleman, he argues. I've heardhim say so myself.
"Well, Buzzy's pretty much of a frivoler, but he isn't a cad. He'd liketo do right, I'm sure. He didn't get started right, that's all. He goesabout drinking tea and making love and spending all he has--like agentleman. Just sleeps, eats, and frivols, that's all. He'll neveramount 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 forthin his most suave, convincing manner.
"Gentlemen, I don't know what New York is coming to. There are not tenreal gentlemen between the Battery and Central Park. Nothing but moneygrabbers. They don't know how to live. They eat like the devil and drinkas 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 Pyckelooked 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 afterdinner. Splendid idea, too. I think I'll follow your example, to-nightat least. I have a rather important--er--engagement, later on." Hetwirled his mustache fondly.
"You'll pursue the fair sex up to the very brink of the grave, VanPycke," grumbled Knapp.
"If you mean my own grave, yes," said the other, calmly. "If you meanthat I'll pursue any fair sexton to the brink of _her_ grave, you'remistaken. I don't like old women. By the way, Knapp, do you happen toknow Jim Scoville's widow?"
"You mean _young_ Jim Scoville?"
"Certainly. I don't discuss dowagers. Everybody knows the old one. Imean 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 insuch 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 thechandelier 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 theautomobile--"
"I was in her box at one and in her tonneau at the other," said Mr. VanPycke, taking the cigar Knapp extended. He glanced at his watch withsudden interest. "Yes, I see quite a bit of her. Charming girl--ahem! Ofcourse" (punctuating his opinion with deliberate care) "she has beentalked 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 ofthe most attract--"
"Charlotte!" exclaimed Knapp. "Do you call her Charlotte?"
"Certainly!" said Mr. Van Pycke, with a chilly uplifting of hiseyebrows.
"I thought her name was Laura," said Billings, who read all the gossipin the weekly periodicals.
Mr. Van Pycke coughed. There seemed some likelihood of his bursting, thefit lasted so long.
"Charlotte is a pet name we have for her," he explained, somewhathuskily, when it was over. "Demmed stupid of me!" he was saying tohimself. "As I said before, I don't blame the old lady. Young Mrs. Jimhas got five or six of the Scoville millions, and she's showing thefamily how to spend it. Her husband's been dead over two years. She'sgot a perfect right to take notice of other men and to have a bit of funif she takes the notion. Hasn't she? I--I--it wouldn't surprise me atall if she were to take a new husband unto herself before long." Heuttered a very conscious cackle and looked at his watch quitesuddenly--or past it, rather, for he forgot to open the virtuouslychased hunting case.
Billings waited a moment. "I hear she is quite devoted to Chauncey DeFoe,--or is it the other way?"
Mr. Van Pycke took five puffs at his cigar before responding, all thewhile staring at Billings in a perfectly unseeing way.
"I beg pardon? Oh, yes, I see. Not at all, my dear Billings. De Foeis--er--you might say, a part of her past. He's out of it, quite. Idon't mind telling you, he's a--ahem! a damned nuisance, though." Thistime he looked at his watch with considerable asperity. "Half-pasteight! Where the devil is Bos--I say, Knapp, can you see the length ofthe 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 beforeleaving the club. Beastly night, isn't it?"
"Beastly," remarked the two old gentlemen, unconsciously heaving sighsof 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; thefusillade of gritty snowflakes caused the two old men to lift their gazeto the panes. Billings arose and peered into the swirling, seethingstreet. A phantom-like hansom was passing, a vague, top-heavy thing inshifting 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 thinkingof the storm while he stood in the window.
"Fine old New York name, Billings," mused Knapp. "You can't tell whatthese 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" wasnot yet a fine old New York name.
The crowd of young fellows at the other end watched Mr. Van Pycke vanishthrough the door. He was peering into his nose-glasses in such a loftymanner that one might have believed that he scented somethingdisagreeable in every one who passed. As a matter of fact, his soleobject was to discover his son if possible. For a long time he hadnourished the conviction that his son would not take the trouble todiscover him, if he could help it, no matter how close the propinquity.Mr. Van Pycke attributed this phase of filial indifference to thesublimity 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 theVan Pyckes who had gone before? What was the sense in having a son if itwere not to better the breed
?
Sometimes, however, Mr. Van Pycke experienced the sickening fear thatBosworth avoided him because of a foolish prejudice against the lendingof money to relatives. There was an admirable counter-irritant, however,in Bosworth's assertion that one never got back the money he lent torelatives; and, as long as Mr. Van Pycke had known him in a pecuniaryway, the young man had lived up to this principle by not even suggestingthe return of a loan. Mr. Van Pycke was very proud of his son. Hesometimes wished he could see more of him.
Bosworth lived in the club. Van Pycke, senior, had lived there, but wasnow living at one of the other clubs--he would have had some difficultyin remembering just which one if suddenly questioned.
"I hope Buzzy isn't going to turn out like the old man," said one of theloungers, 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 becauseshe's afraid I'll slip up some day and fall a victim to the lady'scharms. These mothers are a nifty lot. They've got their eyes peeled andtheir ears spread, and they don't give a hang what they say about awoman if she's likely to harm sonny-boy."
"Well, say what you please, Mrs. Scoville is as swift as a bullet. Shecarried on to beat the band with Chauncey De Foe long before JimScoville 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 besthouses where she is no longer received. I'm sorry that Buzzy has takenit into his head to flutter about her flame. He's bound to get a goodsingeing."
"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 achimpanzee out to dinner, or being toastmaster at a banquet for Frenchpoodles. She delights in it, just because it makes people sit up andgasp. That sliding down the banister party she gave at her coming-outparty last spring must have been a ripper. Four or five old ladies whocouldn't slide down a haystack got mad and went home. They've cut hersince then."
"Coming-out party?" queried the Westerner. "I thought you said she was awidow."
"She is. It was when she came out of mourning."
"I think I'd like to know her," mused the Westerner, his eyes lightingup.
"She's very expensive," murmured the drawler, who also would haveenjoyed an acquaintanceship.
For a few minutes they all seemed to be interested in their ownthoughts. Finally a youth in a lavender waistcoat and a gray dinnerjacket 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 headto 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 herinto the very heart of the Four Hundred. With Buzzy's patronymic and thelamented 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'sgood-looking, amusing, popular, and--useless. His habits are unnaturallydecent. Drinks less than any fellow in the club--except the spooks whodon't drink at all. Gambles moderately and--"
"Fellows, I believe Buzzy'd make something of himself if he didn't havethe family name to carry around," burst out "Sticky." "Lemme take acigaret, Bob. Yes, sir; he's got it in him. If the old man was off themap, Buzzy'd come to realize that there's something for him to dobesides marrying for money. The way it is now, he's just got to marry alot of dough. It's cut out for him. That's all he's ever beentaught,--that's all he grew up for. He's--Sh! Here he is!"
A slender young man, immaculately dressed from tip to toe, approachedthe group. If any feature was out of proportion in this young man'sface, it was his nose,--or perhaps it was his mouth. His nose was ratherlong and fine,--a typically aristocratic Van Pycke nose, butunblooming,--and his mouth was a bit too large for perfect symmetry, youmight argue. But the one denoted truly patrician blood; the othersignified no small amount of strength as well as the most engaging goodnature. That is to say, one could not, by any chance, take him for asnob; the mouth quite offset the nose. Mr. Van Pycke has already said hewas twenty-five. He looked what he was set up to be,--a gentleman, bredand born.
More than one of his friends noticed the absence of a certain genialsmile that usually illumined his face when he joined a party ofacquaintances. There was something almost suggestive of gloom in hiseyes. The mobile lips were not spread in the gentle smile they knew sowell; they were rather studied in their sedateness. His hands were inhis pockets (which was most unusual), and--yes, his tie was rathercarelessly knotted.
"Your father's looking for you, Buzzy," said Sticky.
"He is? I thought he was looking for some one when I passed him outthere just now. Here, waiter, take the orders." He sat upon the edge ofa 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. VanPycke, senior, and tell him that his son was in the lounge.
"Never mind," countermanded Bosworth, sharply. "I'll look him updirectly. Beastly night, isn't it?"
Every one said it was. It dawned upon them that Bosworth was not takinghis first cocktail. It was quite plain that already he had takenseveral. They were unwilling to believe their senses. Buzzy _never_ gottight! He always had said it made him dreadfully ill the next day, and aman who is ill the next day--in that way--suffers tremendously duringthe period of upheaval in the additional loss of self-respect. Be thatas it may, he appeared to have forgotten his squeamishness. Young Mr.Van Pycke--he of the sleek blond hair and dark gray eyes--was quitepalpably drunk.
"This is the sixth for me in the last half hour," he remarked, but notproudly, as he took up the cocktail. A spoonful or more leaked over thetop of the glass as he raised it to his lips. "Here's how."
"Six!" exclaimed the drawler. "What's got into you, Buzzy? I thoughtyour limit was two."
Buzzy appeared to be thinking. "Two's my limit when I'm perfectlysober," he said sagely. He waited a moment. "Say, did you fellers seethat 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 ofanother. The one at Mrs. Thistlethorpe's. By Jove, that's a--a hard nameto pronounce. Didn't you see in the papers that they played a new gamebetween the Bridge and the pantry? Jus' before supper Mrs. This--ThissusMiss--the same one I said before--introduced her new trained dog. It wasWilly 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 thather poodle's diamond-studded collar fits'm all right. Then she had himbeg for candy, roll over an' play dead, jump over her leg, and--say, healmost broke his nose doin' that! Awful mess he made of himself,slippin' on the rug. He closed the show by tellin' the age of everywoman present, barkin' the numbers. I thought I'd die of fatigue when hegave Mrs. Thisum--ahem!--when he gave _her_ age. He thought it would besmart to run it up into the hundreds. The dam' fool barked for threequarters of an hour without stoppin'! I never was so disgusted in mylife. 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 beenbotherin' me all day. Mos' dre
adful thought."
"What is it?"
"It occurred to me that, next thing I know, I'll be doin' some idiotictrick like that. I've got a feelin'--an awful feelin'--that I won't beable 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. Ihaven'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 tofollow 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. Againthey laughed, and again he flushed. "I mean it. I'm either going tomarry some one who can support me in the latest and most approvedfashion, or I'm going to chuck the whole business and devote my time tosolving the labor problem by trying to hold a job somewhere. Twelvethousand a year is all right if a chap's working part of the time. He'sat least earning the interest on what he spends. But twelve thousandisn'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," saidSticky, greatly encouraged.
"If I don't marry pretty soon, the governor will," mused Buzzy. "TheLord knows _he_ won't marry for love or experience. No, gentlemen, youcan't expect to be much more than a poodle dog on twelve thousand. I hadto lick a feller at college once for calling me a pup. I'd hate it likethe deuce if I should live to see his statement proved true. No, I won'tbe a trained dog. I'll get married and pay my debts. And--I say, whattime'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, elegantfigure with a palpable effort, and smiled his most genial farewells tothe crowd.
"Rotten night," he said once more.
The drawler took his arm and accompanied him to the door. They were verygood 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; Ididn't mean to snap you off like that. Le' me tell you about thosecocktails. I took 'em to brace me up. I'm going to do it to-night." Thisin 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 asksome one to become Mrs. Van Pycke. There are three of 'em who areeligible, according to the governor. He's ding-donged 'em at me forthree months. I've got a taxicab waiting for me out there. The chancesare that it'll get stuck in the snow somewhere. That's why I can't saywhich one I'm going to ask. It all depends on which one lives nearest tothe snowdrift in which we get stuck. They're all the same to me. And Ithink they are to the governor. But, see here, George, I'm not going toask 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 turneddown," said his friend, earnestly.
Van Pycke was staring straight before him. His brain seemed clearer whenhe 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 anyone 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 thefellows, will you? They'll guy me to death. I just wanted you tounderstand 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 happysmile.
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. Whyshould I send in--"
"Don't lose your temper, dad. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Don'tlet me keep you any longer."
Mr. Van Pycke looked his son over very carefully. A pained expressioncame into his face.
"Bosworth, I am sorry to see you in this condition. It grieves me beyondmeasure. You have never--"
"It's an awful night, isn't it, dad? Can't I give you a lift in mytaxicab? I see you've got on your overcoat and hat." Bosworth wasmoving toward the clubhouse entrance. The old gentleman resolutely keptpace 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, exceptlove."
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 itto his brow.
"No, dad. Not yet. I expect to marry some one else first. I'll save theother 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 tothe point of selecting--"
"You insufferable booby," roared his father. "You gave me a--a dreadfulshock, sir! Never do that again."
"I thought you'd like to know, sir," said Bosworth, politely. He winkedgravely at a mahogany doorpost, and motioned for his father to precedehim through the storm doors.
"By the way," muttered his father, obstructing the way, as if recallingsomething he had forgotten to attend to inside the club, "would you mindlending me fifty for a couple of days? I meant to speak to you about itin--"
"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 feelingin 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 wasfastening 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 minddropping me up town, will you, Bosworth? I don't mind walking if you'drather 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 polarbear. He wouldn't understand, and it might get into the papers--the verything I'm trying to avoid."
Mr. Van Pycke attributed this remarkable utterance to the cup thatcheers and befuddles. At best he seldom appreciated or understoodBosworth's wit.
The taxicab plowed and sputtered its way through a city block of peltingsnow before he gave over trying to analyze this latest example. Then hebroke the silence, in the shrill, chattering tones of one who is verycold.
"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'tmatter. I'll tell him when he puts me down."
"But," expostulated his father, from the recesses of the baby lamb, "youmay be go
ing to--to Harlem." He could think of nothing worse. "I've beendelayed in keeping my appointment on your account, as it is. It's veryannoying, Bosworth, that I should be kept waiting a whole hour there inthe club while you puttered your time away at--"
"Where _do_ you want to get out, dad?" interrupted the scion of thehouse of Van Pycke.
Mr. Van Pycke had been thinking. He was not sure that he wanted Bosworthto know just where he was going on this momentous night. It occurred tohim that the walk of a block would not only throw the young man off thetrack, but might also serve to soften the heart of the lady for whom hewas risking so much in the shape of health by venturing forth afoot in astorm so relentless. Moreover, he could tell her that he had walked allthe way up from the club, cabless because even the hardiest of driversbalked at the prospect. A statement like that, attended by a bushel ormore of snow in the vestibule where it had been brushed off by thebutler, ought to convince the lady in mind that his devotion was thinlydivorced from recklessness. So he told Bosworth that he would get out atMr. Purdwell's house.
The announcement caused Bosworth mentally to eliminate one of the ladiesfrom his list. He gave a deep sigh of relief at that. The daughter ofthe shamelessly rich Mr. Purdwell was so homely and so vain that she wasalmost certain to have said "yes"--with all her millions--if he hadasked her. He remembered that Miss Hebbins, almost as rich and quite aseager to get into the Four Hundred, was the next on his list. She liveda 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 foryou to stop for me on your way down, Bosworth?"
"Not at all, dad." As an afterthought he added: "Something tells me Iwon'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 wasdozing comfortably. His father, seized by an unwelcome sense ofcompunction, was turning something over in his mind. In the end, heconcluded 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," proceededMr. Van Pycke. Bosworth sniffed. Mr. Van Pycke went on: "That is, untilhis first wife has been--er--at rest for fifteen years or more. It'sonly 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 wasbarely audible. "I hope to be able to tell you in the morning--perhapslate this evening, my son."
The young man was smiling in his corner of the cab. "Are you quite sureyou love her, dad?" he asked, without guile.
Mr. Van Pycke coughed.
"Perhaps you'd better wait till morning to tell me that, too," said hisson, coming to the rescue.
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