Half a Rogue

Chapter VI

Warrington was up and about at six the next morning. He had never really outgrown the natural habit of waking at dawn, but he had fallen upon the evil way of turning over and sleeping till half after nine. He ate a light breakfast and went out to the stables and moved among the stalls, talking affectionate nonsense to the horses. A man can not talk baby-talk, that is the undisputed prerogative of the woman; but he has a fashion of his own which serves. "Aha, old boy! handsome beggar!" or—"How's the little lady this morning, eh?" or yet again—"Rascal! you've been rubbing the hair off your tail!" In the boxstall Warrington's thoroughbred Irish hunter nozzled his palm for loaf-sugar, and whinnied with pleasure when he found it. One of the first things Warrington had done, upon drawing his first big royalty check, was to buy a horse. As a boy on the farm he had hungered for the possession of one of those sleek, handsome animals which men call thoroughbreds. Then for a while he bought, sold and traded horses, for the mere pleasure it gave him to be near them. Finally he came to Herculaneum with two such saddle-horses as made every millionaire in town (and there were several in Herculaneum) offer fabulous sums whenever they ran across the owner. Next, he added two carriage-horses, in their way quite equal to the hunters. Men offered to buy these, too, but Warrington was a property owner now, and he wanted the horses for his own. In New York one of his wealthy friends had given him free use of his stables: so Warrington rode, at home and abroad. His income, ranging from twenty to thirty thousand the year, gave him that financial independence which neither the clerk nor the millionaire knew or understood. In the phraseology of the day, he carried his business under his hat: in other words, he had no business cares or responsibilities whatever.

Warrington made it a rule to saddle and bridle his own horses; grooms become careless. One or two men of his acquaintance had gone to their death for the want of care and a firm buckle. Besides, he enjoyed the work, and it accustomed the horses to his touch. He saddled his favorite hunter and led the eager animal into the open. He mounted and whistled for the dog; but Jove for once did not respond; doubtless he was out of hearing. Thereupon Warrington started for the Benningtons' and found Patty already in the saddle. It was not that the dramatist was blase, but he had come into contact with so many beautiful women that his pulse rarely stirred out of its healthy, measured beat. But this morning he was conscious of a slight thrill. The girl was really beautiful; more than that, she was fresh with youth and gaiety, gaiety which older women find necessary to repress. She was dressed in a dark grey riding-habit and wore a beaver cocked-hat.

"Good morning," he said, touching his cap with his crop. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."

"Only a moment." The truth is, she wanted to prove to him that there was one woman who did not keep men waiting. "Shall I pick the going?"

"I'm afraid I've lost track of the good country roads."

"Follow me, then."

They walked their horses to the city limits. You never saw either of them galloping over brick or asphalt, which quickly ruins the surest-footed horse; neither did they permit any fox-trotting, which, while it shows off a spirited horse, decreases his value in the ring. All of which is to say, these two, like their mounts, were thoroughbreds.

"Where is Jove?" she asked presently.

"The rogue is missing. I dare say he is gallivanting around some neighbor's back yard. I haven't laid eyes on him this morning. I believe he realizes that he will see me frequently hereafter, and has not bothered his head to look me up."

"Frequently?" She turned her head.

"Yes. I am coming home to live. Of course, this is my place of residence; my voter's bed, as the politicians say, is here in Herculaneum. But I mean to live here now in deed as well as in thought."

"I am sure we shall be delighted to have you with us." This was said gravely. A thought, which she would have repelled gladly, sprang into being. "I know John will be glad. He's always talking about you and your exploits at college."

"Our exploits," he corrected, laughing. "Shall we give them a little exercise now?" he asked, with a gesture toward the long brown road.

She nodded, and they started off at a sharp trot, and presently broke into a canter. So he was coming home to live? She felt a hot wave of sudden anger sweep over her, and her hands tightened on the reins. It was true, then? She loved her brother. What right had this man at her side to threaten her brother's happiness? Had Katherine Challoner signified her desire not to leave New York, would Warrington have decided to return to Herculaneum? Her hands relaxed. What a silly little fool she was! She, who despised and contemned gossip, was giving it ready ear. Had she ever found gossip other than an errant, cowardly liar? Gossip, gossip! Ah, if gossip, when she had made her round, would not leave suspicion behind her; suspicion, hydra-headed! What signified it that Warrington intended to come home to live? What signified it that her brother's wife would live across the way? She was ashamed of her evil thought; presently she would be no better than Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those women who get together to tear somebody apart. As if Warrington could compare with her big, handsome, manly brother! It was all impossible. She would punish herself for even entertaining such a thought as had been hers but a moment gone.

She stole a glance at Warrington. He was riding easily, his feet light in the stirrups, his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was breathing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with the smell of sweet clover and dew-wet earth. It was a good, clean, honest face. Indeed, it was all impossible. Dissipation writes plainly upon the human countenance, and it had left no visible sign on Warrington's face. It may be that dissipation sometimes whimsically neglects to write at all.

They thundered over a wooden bridge. The spirit of the morning was in the horses; they began to race. An unexpected curve in the road discovered a road-builder and his gang of Italians. A low barrier ran across the road. It was not exactly needed, as they were not digging, but laying crushed stone. The obstruction was simply for the convenience of the boss, who desired to work unhampered.

"Shall we?" cried Warrington, mischief in his eyes.

"Yes." There was no fear in this girl.

On they went, in a cloud of dust. The Italians made for the ditches, but the boss stood in the road and waved his arms in warning. Presently he, too, ducked.

Hep! and over the pair went, landing clean and sound on the other side of the barrier. Before the surprised boss could express himself, they were far down the road. A curse was hurled after them, but they heard it not. They hadn't hurt the road at all, but the authority of the boss had suffered. He knew the girl, little snob! He would find out who the man was, soon enough. And if he had any influence in the City Hall, as he believed he had, he would make it tolerably warm for yonder vanishing parties.

He had put up that barrier to signify that the road was closed; very well, they'd see. Dirt under their feet, huh? All right. How he hated them all, with their horses and carriages and dances and dinners and clubs! Bah! He took a flask from his pocket and drank. Then he cursed the laggard Italians, and mourned that a year and a half must pass before he could sell their votes again. Bolles contracted for Italian labor and controlled something more than eight hundred votes. McQuade sublet various small contracts to him, and in return used the Italians during elections.

That jump, harmless enough in itself, was to prove a bad inspiration on Warrington's part. But it is always these seemingly inconsequent things that bear the heaviest reckoning.

Half a mile onward they drew down to a walk, flushed and breathless.

"Perhaps we oughtn't to have done that," she said doubtfully, working the numbness from her fingers. "No thoroughfare" had hitherto been religiously respected by her; this was her first transgression, and she wasn't entirely satisfied with herself.

"Pshaw! There's no harm done. There was no earthly reason why we should have turned back to the fork and added two miles to our ride. Don't let anything like that worry you; we went by too fast to be recognized. Look! here's a big clover patch. I never pass clover without wanting to get down and hunt for four-leaves. Shall we?"

She was out of the saddle before the query had left his lips.

"I believe it would be a good idea to arm ourselves against bad luck," she replied, gently moving aside the clover heads with her crop.

"You believe in four-leaf clover, then?"

She nodded.

"I do. I also am very careful," he added, "to catch the money-patches on my coffee."

She laughed. After all, there was something old-fashioned about this man. "And I never think of plucking a five-leaf. That's bad luck."

"The worst kind of bad luck. I remember, when I was a kid, I never played hooky without first hunting up my four-leaved amulet. If I got a licking when I returned home, why, I consoled myself with the thought, that it might have been ten times worse but for the four-leaf."

They moved about, looking here and there, while the horses buried their noses in the wet grass and threatened never to return to the road again. After a diligent search Patty found a beautiful four-leaf clover. She exhibited it in triumph.

"You've better luck than I," said Warrington. "We shall have to go on without my finding one."

"You may have this one," she replied; "and I hope it will bring you all sorts of good luck."

He took out his card-case and made room for the little amulet.

"It is impossible not to be fortunate now," he said, with a gravity that was not assumed.

She looked at him dubiously. No, there was no laughter in his eyes; he was perfectly serious.

They walked the horses over a small hill, then mounted. It was a very pleasant morning for Warrington. It had been years since he had talked to a young woman who was witty and unworldly. He had to readjust himself. He had written down that all witty women were worldly, but that all worldly women were not witty. But to be witty and unsophisticated was altogether out of his calculations.

At the Country Club they stabled the horses and wandered about the golf links. Luncheon was served on the veranda; and presently Warrington found himself confiding in this young girl as if he had known her intimately all his life. The girl felt a thrill of exultation. It flattered her young vanity to hear this celebrity telling her about his ambitions.

"Everything becomes monotonous after a while," he said. "And I have just begun to grow weary of living alone. Day after day, the same faces, the same places, the same arguments, the same work. I've grown tired. I want to live like other human beings. Monotony leads very quickly into folly, and I confess to many acts of folly. And no folly is absolutely harmless." He stirred his tea and stared into the cup.

"Why, I should think you ought to be the most contented of men," she cried. "You are famous, wealthy, courted. And when you return to Herculaneum, every girl in town will set her cap for you. I warn you of this, because I've taken a friendly interest in you."

"It is very good of you. Come," he said, draining his cup; "surely you tell fortunes in tea-cups; tell mine."

"Four-leaf clovers and tea-grounds," she mused. "You strike me as being a very superstitious young man."

"I am."

She passed the cup back to him. "Pour a little fresh tea in, spill it gently, turn the cup against the saucer and twirl it three times. That's the incantation."

He followed the directions carefully, and she extended her hand for the cup.

"There is always a woman in a man's tea-cup," she began. "There are two in this one."

"Good gracious!"

"Yes. Do you see that?" pointing to a cluster of leaves.

"Looks like a camel. Am I going to be thirsty?"

"That always indicates scandal," she declared soberly.

"Scandal?" He smiled skeptically.

"Scandal and disappointment. But happily these do not appear as having permanency."

"Thanks," piously. "Disappointment? I can readily believe that. Disappointment has always been my portion. But scandal has never lifted her ugly head."

"We are all far-sighted when scandal is in our immediate vicinity. This cup says scandal. There is plenty of money about you. See that? That means an enemy, strong, implacable. Disappointment and scandal are in his zone, which means he will probably be the cause of all your trouble. Have you an enemy?"

"None that I know of, save myself. But don't you think something is the matter with the tea? It seems impossible that those harmless grounds ... Why, I shan't sleep o' nights after this."

"You are laughing. Yet, this man is there. And here is a lie, too. It's a very bad cup, Mr. Warrington. I'm sorry."

"So am I," gaily. "By the way, when do you and your mother start for New York?"

"We leave to-night."

"Good. Do you mind if I take the same train down?"

"Mother and I'll be glad to have you with us."

The servant cleared the table, and Warrington lighted a cigar. A trolley-car rolled up in front of the club, and several golf enthusiasts alighted. They knew Patty, and bowed; they weren't quite certain who her escort was.

At two o'clock they began the journey home. There wasn't much loitering by the way. Patty had a tea; she must have time to rest and dress. All told, it was an enjoyable day for Warrington. More than ever he set his face against the great city and looked with satisfaction on the hills of his childhood. It would be a pleasant pastime to sit on Patty's veranda and talk, become, and act like one of the young people. He was growing old; his youth must be renewed soon, or he would lose it utterly. This young man had been surfeited with noise and light, with the sham and glitter of hotels, clubs and restaurants. He was not to the manner born; thus he could easily see how palpably false life is in a great city. To those who have lived in the abnormal glamour of city life, absolute quiet is a kind of new excitement.

Warrington found that he was a bit stiff from the long ride.

Patty, however, rode nearly every day; so she was but slightly fatigued. Nevertheless, she was conscious of not wanting to dress for the tea. But there was a very good reason why she must attend the function (as applied by the society reporter); they would naturally discuss her brother's coming marriage, but if she was present, the discussion would not rise above whispers. She wanted to meet the old busybodies in the open; she wasn't afraid. As she dressed, she caught herself doing aimless things, such as approaching the window and watching the clouds, or thoughtfully studying her face in the mirror, or patting the rug impatiently, or sighing. She shook herself vehemently, and went resolutely about the intricate business known as toilet.

"I simply can't believe it. I know he isn't that kind of man. This can't be such a wicked world. But if she dares to make John unhappy, I shall hate her. Why must we hear these things that make us doubt and ponder and hesitate?"

At the tea the ladies greeted her sympathetically. Sympathy! Hypocrites! Heads came together; she could see them from the corner of her eyes. She saw Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, like a vast ship of the line, manoeuvering toward her. There were several escapes, but Patty stood her ground.

"You are looking charming, my dear," said Mrs. Haldene.

"Thank you."

"You go to the wedding, of course."

"Yes; mother and I leave to-night for New York. I am so excited over it. To think of John's being married to a celebrity!"

Patty was excited, but this excitement did not find its origin in anything exultant. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene to mind her own business. There was something primitive in Patty. Her second thoughts were due to cultivation, and not from any inherent caution.

Mrs. Haldene smiled and went on. It was a wonderful smile; it never changed; it served for all emotions, anger, hate, love, envy and malice. Mrs. Haldene never flew into passions or ecstasies. She was indeed preserved; and from the puckering taste she left in her wake, it might be suspected that she was pickled.

Before Patty arrived, two things had been fully discussed: the Bennington wedding and the report that Warrington was coming home to live. Shrugs, knowing glances, hypocritical resignation. Too bad, too bad! Warrington was coming home to live; young Mrs. Bennington would live across the street. When two and two make four, what more need be said?

But Patty had her friends, and they stood by her loyally.

New York. Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the calling of cabmen, the clanging of street-cars, the rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of the drays, the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hurrying, rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the smell of coal-gas, of food cooking, of good and bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war; monoliths of stone and iron; shops, shops; signs, signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all the nations of the world shouldering one another; Jews and Gentiles, Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble. This is New York. There is nothing American about it; there is nothing English, French, German, Latin or Oriental about it. It is cosmopolitan; that is to say, it represents everything and nothing.

Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted from the train in the gloomy, smoky cavern called the Grand Central Station and walked toward the gates. There was sunshine outside, but it was scarcely noticeable through the blackened canopy overhead.

"There's John!" cried Patty, seizing her mother's arm. "And Miss Challoner, too!"

A moment later the son was holding his mother in a fond embrace. Mrs. Bennington gave the actress her hand, who ignored it, put her arms around the mother and kissed her. There was not the slightest affectation in the act; it was done naturally and sweetly. Mrs. Bennington was well pleased. But Patty, Miss Challoner hugged Patty and whispered: "My sister!" If Patty had any doubts, they disappeared like summer mists in sunshine.

"I'm a rank outsider," Warrington grumbled.

"Surely you did not expect to be kissed!" Patty retorted.

"A man never gives up hoping. Well, Benedick," to John, "I suppose you've a nice breakfast waiting for us somewhere."

"That I have!" John thwacked Warrington on the shoulder. "It was good of you to come down with the folks."

"No trouble at all."

They all followed John, who announced that he had a carriage waiting, large enough to carry them all comfortably. As they crossed over to the street exit Warrington covertly glanced at Miss Challoner. She was radiant; there was color on her cheeks and lips; she was happy. Heigh-ho! Warrington sighed. She was gone, as completely as though she had died. He grew angry at the heaviness of his heart. Was he always to love no one but Warrington? It is fine to be a bachelor when one is young; but when the years multiply, when there are no new junkets and old ones grow stale, when scenes change, when friends drop out one by one, when a younger generation usurps the primrose path of dalliance, ah! the world becomes a dreary place. The old bachelor is the loneliest and most pathetic of men.

Once inside the carriage, the women began a light, friendly chatter; smiles and laughter; little jests about Benedicks, about the servant question, about coming home late o' nights; antenuptial persiflage. There was little that was spontaneous; each jest was an effort; but it sufficed to relieve what might have been awkward silence.

"It's up to you, now, Dick," said John. "Think of the good times we four could have together!"

"And who'd marry an old man like me?" asked Warrington plaintively.

"Bosh!" said John.

"Nonsense!" said Patty.

"You are a young man," said the mother.

"There are plenty setting their caps for you, if you but knew it," said Miss Challoner.

"Aha! I smell a conspiracy!" laughed Warrington. "You are putting your heads together to get me off your hands."

The breakfast awaited them at Bennington's hotel. This passed off smoothly. Then Warrington excused himself. He had a business engagement down town. It was arranged, however, that they were to be his guests that evening at dinner and a box-party at the summer opera. On Wednesday, at ten, they were to breakfast in his apartment. From his rooms they would go straight to the parson's, the "Little Church Around the Corner."

When Warrington had gone, John turned to his sister.

"Isn't he the finest chap?"

"He isn't to be compared with you," Patty answered.

"Nobody is," said Miss Challoner.

John colored with pleasure.

"Mr. Warrington is a thorough gentleman, and I like him very much," said Mrs. Bennington. "I have heard things about him; I can see that there has been some exaggeration. I shall be very glad to have him for a neighbor."

"A neighbor?" said Miss Challoner.

"Yes. He is coming back to Herculaneum to live."

"That is news to me." The actress stirred her coffee and smiled at Patty. "I understand you've been riding together. He is really a splendid horseman."

"He has the dearest old dog," replied Patty.

The day passed quickly for all concerned: the dinner and box-party left nothing to be desired.

The wedding-breakfast would have provoked envy in the heart of Lucullus; for Warrington was a man of the world, thoroughly polished; there was nothing Stoic about him (though, in the early days he had been a disciple of this cult perforce); he was a thoroughgoing epicure.

Patty was delighted. Warrington guided her about the rooms on a tour of inspection. He pointed out all the curios and told the history of each. But the desk was the article which interested her most.

"And this is where you write? Upon this desk plays have grown up? Won't you give me a single sheet of manuscript to take home with me?"

"I certainly shall."

He pulled out a drawer and found some old manuscript. He selected a sheet, signed it, and gave it to her.

"I am rich!" the girl exclaimed. "Signed manuscript from a real live author! I suppose that you receive tons of letters, some praising, some arguing, some from mere autograph fiends."

"It's a part of the day's work." His face brightened. He searched his pockets. "Here is one out of the ordinary. It is unsigned, so I feel no qualms of conscience in letting you read it."

Patty took the envelope with suppressed eagerness. She drew out the letter and read it slowly.

"Do you receive many like that?" she asked, folding the letter and returning it.

"Very few; that's why I treasure it. I should like to meet the writer; but that's impossible. I have read and re-read it fifty times."

"Evidently it was written in good faith." Patty was not very enthusiastic.

"There's not the least doubt of that. I am glad of one thing: I can't disillusion her."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, this young woman thinks I must be a paragon of virtues. I'm not; I'm a miserable impostor. She takes it for granted that I am good and kind and wise."

"Aren't you?" asked Patty gravely.

"As men go. I always try to be kind; sometimes I am good, and sometimes I am wise."

"I'm afraid you are one of those young men who try to be bad and can't. They are hopeless."

Warrington laughed.

"But I am superstitious about that letter. I've carried it in my pocket for weeks. It's a kind of mentor. Whenever some fool thing comes into my head, I stop and think of the letter."

"That is good. The writer hasn't wasted her time."

"I love you!" whispered John.

Miss Challoner smiled into his eyes. The smile encouraged him, and he raised her hand to his lips.

Ah, if it were not for those gloves! Why did he not say something? She was positive that he had them. To smile and laugh and talk; to face the altar, knowing that he possessed those hateful gloves! To pretend to deceive when she knew that he was not deceived! It was maddening. It was not possible that Warrington had the gloves; he would never have kept them all this while. What meant this man at her side? What was he going to do? She recollected a play in which there was a pair of gloves. The man had thrown them at the woman's feet, and, at the very altar, turned and left her. But she knew that men did not do such things in life. She was innocent of any wrong; this knowledge sustained her.

"A honeymoon in Switzerland: it has been the dream of my life." This time he drew her arm through his and crossed the room to his mother's side. "Mother mine, we shall be gone only three months; then we shall come home to stay."

"I shall miss you so; you have been away so much that I am hardly acquainted with you."

The woman who was to become her daughter suddenly dropped on her knees beside the chair.

"Please love me, too. I have been so lonely all my life."

"My daughter!" Mrs. Bennington laid her hand on the splendid head.

"I shall never marry," said Patty decidedly.

"What? Young lady, don't let any one hear you make such a remark. One of these fine days somebody will swoop you up and run off with you. I don't know but that I could play the part fairly well." Warrington laughed.

"Indeed! You'd have a time of it."

"I dare say. But there's the breakfast waiting."

Toasts and good wishes, how easy they are to give!

At the church the women cried a little. Women cry when they are happy, they cry when they are not; their tears keep a man guessing year in and year out. But this is no place for a dissertation on tears. There's time enough for that.

The bride and groom left immediately for Boston, from which city they were to sail for Europe the following day. In the carriage John drew his bride close to his heart.

"Mine!" he said, kissing her. "God grant that I may make you happy, girl."

"John, you are the finest gentleman in the world!"

His hand stole into his coat pocket and gently dropped something into her lap. She looked down and saw through her tears a crumpled pair of white kid gloves. Then she knew what manner of man was this at her side.

"It was not because I doubted you," he said softly: "it was because they were yours."