The door flew open and Ridgeway bounded into the room. Before she could move, he rushed over and drew her limp form from the chair, up into his strong embrace. She heard a voice, tender and gladsome, as from afar off, singing into her ear.
“Look up, darling! This is to be our wedding day—yours and mine! You are mine—mine!”
The glad light slowly struggled back into her eyes, but it was as if she had come from a death-like swoon. He poured into her dull ears the story of the visit to Grace Vernon, but he was compelled to repeat it. Her ears were unbelieving.
“Grace is coming here with Henry Veath,” he said in the end. “By Jove, I am happy!”
She held his face close to hers and looked deep into his eyes for a long, long time.
“Are you sure?” she whispered at last. “Is it all true?”
“They’ll be here in half an hour; but I haven’t told them it was you they are going to see. She loves Veath—loves him more than she ever cared for me. I don’t blame her, do you? Veath’s a man—worthy of any woman’s love and confidence. Tennys, do you know what I’ve been thinking ever since I left them fifteen minutes ago? I’ve been calling myself a cad—a downright cad.”
“And why, may I ask?”
“Because Veath isn’t one—that’s all.”
“But you are a man—a true, noble, enduring one. The year just gone has changed you from the easy, thoughtless boy into the strong man that you are, just as it has made of me a woman.”
“I am no longer the harlequin?” he interposed eagerly.
“The harlequin’s errand is accomplished, dear. The spangles and glitter are gone. Pure gold has come in their stead. It won’t wear out. God has worked out this end for all of us. In His own good time He rectifies our errors and points the new way.”
“I am but a year older than when I began.”
“It isn’t time that makes the man.”
“It’s opportunity, after all. I wasn’t a man when I dragged Grace Vernon away from home; I was a fool—a callow boy in—”
“That was a year ago, Hugh, dear. What was I two years ago?”
“A rich man’s wife. I was a rich man’s son.”
“You were the rich man’s son by chance. I was a rich man’s wife from choice.”
“History repeats itself with variations, dearest. Although I have but eleven dollars and thirty cents in my purse, I have a million at home. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I suppose it was foreordained that I should always marry from choice,” she said with her most entrancing smile.
THE FLYERS (1907)
CHAPTER I
THE FARAWAY CLUB
A cold, thick drizzle, blown by a biting wind that sent chills to the marrow, marred the early spring night, and kept indoors the few hardy members who had haunted the clubhouse since the season’s opening a week before. Not more than a dozen loyal devotees to the sports of the open air lounged about the big clubhouse. Three or four rangy young women in sweaters and jackets strove bravely to dispel the gloom of the night as it settled down upon the growling masculine majority. The club steward hovered near, anxiously directing the movements of a silent and as yet undrilled corps of servants who flitted from group to group with decanters and checks, taking and mistaking orders with the usual abandon. A huge fireplace threw out heat sufficient to make the big lounging room comfortable. Now and then a spiteful gust of wind swept the rain against the western window-panes with a menace that set the teeth on edge.
“Rotten night,” reflected the big man who monopolised the roomiest chair and the best position in front of the blazing logs. “Going to town tonight?” The question was general: there were half a dozen answers. Every one was going in by the last express. All of them had dined well: they had been hungry and the club was a wealthy one; even the most exclusive of appetites could be entertained at the Faraway Country Club. The last ’bus was to leave the clubhouse at ten minutes past ten, and it was then half-past eight. Ten minutes’ drive from the clubhouse on the edge of the little town to the railway station—then thirty minutes to the heart of the big city in which the members lived and died at great risk to themselves.
Each succeeding spring saw the formal opening of the Faraway Country Club. The boards were pulled down from the windows and the door hinges were oiled properly after a winter of discontent. May saw the reopening, but it was not until June that crowds began to fill the house and grounds. Only the more restless and hardy had the temerity to test the pleasures of the raw spring days and nights. The M.F.H. was a loyal, eager chap; he knew what was required of him in his official capacity. With the first symptoms of softening soil he led his followers through field and wood, promising the “real hunt” inside of a month. Following a pack of overfed hounds was what every one at Faraway Club called a “real hunt.”
The night so meagrely described at the beginning of this tale followed hard upon a grey, chill day. A few golfers had spent the afternoon upon the course, inanely cursing the temporary tees and greens. A couple of polo enthusiasts tried out their ponies, and several men and women took their hunters over the course, that fairly bristled with spectres of last year’s anise-seed. Now they were comfortably ensconced in the clubhouse, berating the unfortunate elements, and waiting for the last express with a persistency which allowed three or four earlier trains to come and go unnoticed. The cheerful highball was coming into its own. A stern winter of bridge had not killed the ardour of certain worshippers; continuous criticism of play arose from the table in the corner where two men and two women were engaged with the cards.
The perennial bore, who noses into everything in order to sniff his own wit, sauntered amiably from group to group, pouring out jests as murky as the night itself. He saw none of the scowls nor heard the toe-taps; he went blithely along his bridgeless way.
“I say, Brown, I saw your wife on the street yesterday, but she didn’t see me,” he observed to the blase-looking man in corduroys.
“Ya-as,” returned the other, calmly staring past him; “so she told me last night.” The bore and his blissful smile passed on to the next group. There, two or three women were chatting with as many men, yawning and puffing at their cigarettes, bored by the risque stories the men were telling, but smiling as though they had not already heard them from other men. Occasional remarks, dropped softly into the ears of the women, may have brought faint blushes to their cheeks, but the firelight was a fickle consort to such changes. The sly turn of a sentence gave many a double meaning; the subtle glance of the eye intended no harm. Dobson’s new toast to “fair women” earned a roar of laughter, but afterwards Dobson was called to account by a husband who realised. A man over in the corner was thumping aimlessly on the piano; a golf fanatic was vigorously contending that he had driven 243 yards against the wind; a tennis enthusiast was lamenting the fact that the courts were too soft to be used; there was a certain odour of rain-soaked clothes in the huge room, ascendant even above the smell of cigarettes. Altogether, it was a night that owed much to the weather.
Mrs. Scudaway, dashing horsewoman and exponent of the free rein, was repeating the latest story concerning an intimate friend of every one present—and, consequently, absent.
“She’s just sailed for Europe, and that good-looking actor friend of the family happened to go on the same steamer,” she was saying with a joyous smile.
“Accidents will happen,” remarked some one, benevolently.
“Where’s her husband? I haven’t seen him with her in months,” came from one of the men.
“Oh, they have two children, you know,” explained Mrs. Scudaway.
“Delicate, I hear,” said Miss Ratliff.
“Naturally; he nurses them,” said Mrs. Scudaway, blowing smoke half-way across the room through her delicate nostrils.
“I say, Mrs. Scudaway,” cried the rapt bore, “don’t you ever do anything but inhale?”
“Yes, I exhale occasionally. No, thanks,” as he held forth an ash tray. Then she fle
cked the ashes into the fireplace, ten feet away.
“Good Lord, it’s a rotten night!” repeated the big man, returning dismally from a visit to the window. “There’s a beastly fog mixed in with the rain.”
“Better blow the fog horn for Henderson,” said Ratliff, with a jerk of his thumb. “He’s half seas over already and shipping a lot of water.” Henderson, the convivial member, was on his third siphon.
“I don’t care a whoop what McAlpine says,” roared an irascible gentleman on the opposite side of the fireplace; “a man ought to use a midiron when he gets that kind of a lie. Nobody but an ass would take a brassie. He’s—”
“Just listen to that blethering idiot,” said young Rolfe to the lady beside him. “He ought to be choked.”
“I like the way you speak of my husband,” she responded gaily.
“Oh, I forgot. He is your husband, isn’t he?” Then, after a moment’s easy contemplation of the pretty young woman and a scornful glance at the golfer: “Lucky, but a very poor watchdog.”
“He barks beautifully,” resented the young wife, with a loyal grimace.
“That’s why you’re not afraid of him,” he said quickly.
“Don’t you think he’d bite?”
“They never do.”
“Well, you just try him, that’s all,” remarked the young wife coldly, rising and moving away, a touch of red in her cheeks.
“I will,” he sang out genially, as he crossed his legs and stretched his feet out to the fire. She looked back with a mirthless smile on her lips.
The man at the piano struck up the insidious “La Mattchiche,” suggestive of the Bal Tabarin and other Fourteenth of July devotions.
“Don’t play that, Barkley,” complained the big man, as every one began beating time to the fascinating air. “I’m trying to forget Paris.”
“Can you ever forget that night in Maxim’s—” began Mrs. Scudaway.
“I recall the next day more vividly,” he interrupted.
“Changing the subject,” inserted the amiable bore, his moon-face beaming, “I see that the Thursdales have opened their place across the ravine. Isn’t it rather early for them to leave town for the summer?”
“They come out every year about this time.”
“Lot of people will be opening their places next week. I saw Mrs. Gorgus today. She says they’re putting her house in shape—”
“Impossible!” cried Mrs. Tanner. “It hasn’t any shape.”
“The only thing that could put the Gorgus house in shape is an earthquake. Who was the architect of that abortion?” demanded Rolfe.
“Denison. He’s an impressionist.”
“The Thursdales have a new French car. Have you seen it? Eleanor ran over here in it this afternoon with her Englishman. Showing off both of her novelties at once, d’ye see?” said Carter, the tennis player.
“I understand the thing’s a go—sure go,” said the big man. “In the fall some time. He’s a rather decent chap, too.”
“And, what’s better, if his brother and his cousin should happen to die, he’ll be a duke.”
“If they’re as healthy as he seems to be, there’ll be nothing doing for him.”
A good-looking young fellow, who had been staring at the fire all evening, moved uneasily in his lounging chair. Several quick glances were sent to where he sat moodily apart from the others, and then surreptitious winks and nudges were exchanged.
“Joe is as crazy in love with her as ever, poor devil,” whispered Rolfe. Gradually the group of gossips came closer together over the table top; the conversation was continued in more subdued tones.
“They’re discussing me, damn ’em,” said the moody young man to himself. “I suppose they’re pitying me. Damn cats! But I’ll show ’em a thing or two they’re not looking for before long.” He looked at his watch for the twentieth time in an hour and scowled at the drenched window-panes across the way. For some reason this exceedingly nice-looking young man was in a state of extreme nervousness, a condition which, luckily for him, he was able to keep within himself.
And this was what Mrs. Scudaway was saying in an urgent undertone to the half dozen who leaned across the big table: “Joe is a mighty good sort, and I’m sorry for him. He’s been good enough for Eleanor Thursdale ever since she came out two years ago, and I don’t see why he should cease being good enough for her now. This Englishman hasn’t any more money and he isn’t half as good looking. He’s English, that’s all. Her mother’s crazy to have a look in at some of those London functions she’s read so much about. She’s an awful ass, don’t you think, Tommy?”
“Ya-as,” said the blase man; “such as she is.”
“Mighty hard lines, this thing of being an ordinary American,” lamented the placid bore.
“One might just as well be called Abraham or Isaac,” reflected Carter.
“No romantic young lover would live through the first chapter with either of those names,” said pretty Miss Ratliff, who read every novel that came out.
“Dauntless has been terribly out of humour for the past week or two,” said Carter. “He’s horribly cut up over the affair,—grouchy as blazes, and flocks by himself all the time. That’s not like him, either.”
“He’s the sweetest boy I know,” commented little Mrs. Tanner, whose husband had barked about the midiron.
“I’ve heard he’s the only man you ever really loved,” murmured Rolfe, close to her ear.
“Nonsense! I’ve known him all my life,” she replied, with quick and suspicious resentment.
“Trite phrase,” scoffed he. “I’ll wager my head that every woman living has uttered that same worn expression a hundred times. ‘Known him all my life!’ Ha, ha! It’s a stock apology, my dear. Women, good and bad, trade under that flag. Please, to oblige me, get a fresh excuse.”
“The most ignorant duffer in the world could lay you a stymie if—”the loud-voiced golfer was complaining just at that instant. The man he was addressing was nodding his head politely and at the same time trying to hear what was being said at the round table.
“Joe Dauntless is good enough for anybody’s daughter,” vouchsafed the blase man in corduroys.
“He’s a ripping good fellow,” again said Mrs. Scudaway.
“Mrs. Thursdale’s got an English governess for her kids, an English butler, an English bull terrier, and a new Cobden-Sanderson binding on that antique History of England she talks so much about,” observed Carter.
“And she’s beginning to wear her evening gowns on the street in the morning. Besides, her shoes lob over at the heels,” remarked the rangy Mrs. Carter.
“Yes, she’s getting to be thoroughly English. I’ve noticed a tendency to chirp like a bird when she talks, too.”
“That governess is a mighty stunning girl, by the way,” said Rolfe.
“She’s been over here a year, you know,” said Mrs. Scudaway, with no apparent relevancy.
“Have you heard when Eleanor’s engagement is to be announced?” asked Miss Ratliff.
“I’m not supposed to tell, but I have it on the best authority that it will be announced next week, and the wedding will take place in November. I suppose they’ll ask Joe Dauntless to be an usher,” said Mrs. Carter.
“Hello! Joe’s gone outside. He must have heard something we said,” said Rolfe, setting his highball glass down with a thump.
“Oh, if he had only been educated at Cambridge instead of in Cambridge,” mourned Mrs. Carter.
It was true that the tall, good-looking Mr. Dauntless had left the room, but not because he had heard the comments of his friends. He was standing on the wind-swept verandah, peering through the mist toward a distant splash of light across the ravine to the right of the club grounds. The fog and mist combined to run the many lights of the Thursdale windows into a single smear of colour a few shades brighter than the darkness from which it protruded. Dauntless’s heart was inside that vague, impressionistic circle of colour, but his brain was very
much in evidence on the distant outside. What were the workings of that eager brain will soon be revealed—to the reader, at least, if not to the occupants of the rain-bound clubhouse.
A word concerning Dauntless. He was the good-looking son of old banker Dauntless, who died immediately after his cashier brought ruin to the concern of which he was president. This blow fell when his son was in his senior year at Harvard. He took his degree, and then, instead of the promised trip around the world, he came home and went to work in the offices of a big brokerage firm. Everybody knew and liked him. He was a steady, earnest worker, and likewise a sportsman of the right temperament. Big, fashionable Faraway looked upon him as its most gallant member; no one cared to remember that he might have been very rich; every one loved him because he had been rich and was worthy in spite of that. It was common knowledge that he was desperately in love with pretty Eleanor Thursdale, daughter of the eminently fashionable and snobbishly aristocratic widow Thursdale, mistress of many millions and leader of select hundreds. Moreover, it was now pretty well known that Mrs. Thursdale had utterly lost sight of Dauntless in surveying the field of desirable husbands for Eleanor. She could see nothing but Englishmen, behind whom lurked the historic London drawing-rooms and British estates. That is how and why young Windomshire, a most delightful Londoner, with prospects and a peerage behind him, came to be a guest in her city house, following close upon a long sojourn in the Bermudas. He had been chosen; the battle was over, so far as Eleanor’s hand was concerned. What matter if Dauntless had her heart?
The object of this indifference and scorn gazed long and hard at the blob of light across the ravine. His heart was beating fast, and his body tingled with a strange excitement, which made itself manifest in a mixture of impatient frowns and prophetic smiles.
“If it wasn’t such a beastly night,” he was muttering in one breath, and, “Still, it’s just the sort of a night we want,” in the next. He was looking at his watch in the light from the window when an automobile whizzed up the wet gravel drive and came to a stop in front of the club steps. As Dauntless re-entered the house from the verandah, a tall young man in a motor coat and goggles came in through the opposite door. They paused and looked steadily at each other, then nodded briefly. The crowd of loungers glanced at the two men with instant curiosity and then breathed easily. The man who was going to marry Miss Thursdale and the man who wanted to marry her were advancing to shake hands—a trifle awkwardly, perhaps, but more or less frankly.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 189