The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  “But—”

  “Please don’t pay any attention to him,” he pleaded, stepping in front of her. “Sit down and tell me about the dummies.”

  She looked at the door through which Mr. Van Pycke had passed. “Where has your father gone, Mr. Van Pycke?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  Her eyes were expressive.

  “You’ll have to sit down—over here,” he went on. “I don’t want the detective to hear me.”

  They sat down side by side in a Louis Seize divan. He told her of the predicament in which his father had found himself on arrival, and of the expedient footman who came to the rescue. Miss Downing stifled her laughter three times by successful applications of a handkerchief, but the fourth time she failed. If I were not writing of a young lady in a drawing-room, I’d tell the truth and say that she shrieked.

  “It is droll, isn’t it?” he asked, after watching her convulsed face for a moment.

  “Perfectly killing!” she gasped.

  He waited until she had dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief a few times and was able to meet his gaze with a certain degree of steadiness. Then he remarked: “It’s strange that I’ve never met you before. Are you an old friend of Mrs. Scoville’s?”

  “There isn’t any Mrs. Scoville,” she said quietly. She was watching his face.

  He stared. Then he started to his feet in alarm, with a bewildered look around the room.

  “Can it be that I am in the wrong house?”

  “There used to be a Mrs. Scoville here.”

  “Used to be?”

  “But she’s Mrs. De Foe now.”

  She was smiling into his eyes now, so merrily, so frankly, that somehow he overcame the immediate impulse to express his consternation by leaping a foot or two into the air. Instead of doing anything so utterly common, he merely gulped and stared the harder.

  “She’s—she’s gone and got married to Chauncey De Foe?” he murmured, his eyes very wide.

  “This very night, Mr. Van Pycke,” said she, leaning back to see how he would take it. His face grew suddenly radiant.

  “Oh,” he exclaimed, “you don’t know how happy you have made me!”

  “Happy? You?” she cried, amazed.

  “Yes. I—” he caught himself in time. “I’ll tell you all about it, but not now. Some other day, if I may. Oh, I say, this will fetch the governor an awful cropper! Married tonight! Here? In this house? Why—why, it must have been in this very room. And those confounded dummies were—By Jove!” He stood up and surveyed the inanimate group through a seldom used monocle. An intensely thoughtful expression put many wrinkles upon his brow, but a sudden burst of understanding cleared them away in a jiffy. He beamed. “She’s had real dummies at the wedding instead of the imitations that society provides. Oh, I say, that’s sarcasm simplified. It’s pretty rough, though, don’t you think, Miss Downing?”

  “It doesn’t seem to distress you very deeply, Mr. Van Pycke,” she said. “But you are wrong in your conclusions. The figures do not represent the blockheads of New York society. They are meant to approximate the more active of the busybodies now at large. Do you see?”

  “I’m hanged if I do.”

  “You are a very good friend of Mrs. Sco—Mrs. De Foe’s, are you not?” she demanded.

  “A devoted admirer, I swear, or I wouldn’t be here tonight.”

  “Then, I think I may explain the situation to you. Those figures represent the society queens who closed their doors against Mrs. Scoville last season. The masculine examples represent the satellites of those virtuous ladies who profess never to have been found out. Mrs. Scoville made out her list of guests last week. She resolved to return good for evil. She invited the ladies and their satellites—by mental telepathy, I might say. Then she sent the butler over into Eighth Avenue with instructions to fetch them here in a moving van. They arrived last night, under cover of darkness. They spent the night in this room. Shocking, you’d say? That—”

  He interrupted, his eyes gleaming. “You mean to say that she rented these figures for no other purpose than to pose here as people who cut her because—er—because Mrs. Grundy gossiped too fluently? Suffering Mo—I should say, good gracious! What an idea!”

  “That’s it precisely, Mr. Van Pycke. I fancy you know the ladies and gentlemen quite well. They treated her abominably last winter. She didn’t mind it very much, as you know. She’s not that sort. People did talk about her, but her real friends remained true. She thought it would be splendid to have her enemies here in just this way. With the understanding, of course, that the whole story is to get into the newspapers.”

  He stared harder than ever. “Into the newspapers? Good heavens, you don’t mean to say she’s going to let the papers in on this?”

  “Certainly,” she said very quietly. “Why not? It will make a beautiful story. People invite monkeys to dinner and the papers are not denied the facts, are they? They have banquets for dogs and picnics for cats, don’t they? Some one gave a fashionable supper the other night for the three-legged girl in the circus, and some one else followed it up with a tea for the four-legged rooster. The papers were full of details. Mrs. Scooper and many other ladies gave dinners and balls for a woman who had been the favorite of nearly all the masculine crowned heads in Europe, and the richly cultivated Mrs. Rankling once included in the list of invitations to an author’s reading the names of J. Fenimore Cooper and Nathaniel Hawthorne. I don’t see why Mrs. De Foe’s dummies are worse than the freaks I’ve mentioned. Heaven knows they’re respectable.”

  “I like your enthusiasm,” he said, but still a little shaken by the intelligence.

  “Mrs. Sco—Mrs. De Foe is the best, the dearest friend I have in the world,” said the girl, simply.

  Young Mr. Van Pycke was very tactful. He appeared properly impressed. At the same time he looked at her with new interest. She seemed very young to be calling the former Mrs. Scoville her dearest friend. Somehow, her face was vaguely familiar. He wondered where he had seen a photograph of her.

  “She’s a terribly good sort,” he agreed, and he meant it. “But, I say, this is ripping! Talk about monkey dinners and—why, there’s never been anything like this! Dummy guests at one’s own wedding! It’s rich! It’s—”

  She held up her hand, gentle reproof in her eyes. “I can’t say that I like it, Mr. Van Pycke. I’m only saying I approve of it because she was bound to have her own way in spite of the rest of us. But, to be perfectly honest, I think that a wedding is something beautifully sacred. It should be held sacred in every respect. It seems dreadful—But, there, I won’t say any more. It’s all right, I know. Besides, it was not my wedding.”

  “I quite agree with you. Next to a funeral, a wedding is our most sacred ceremony,” he said.

  “I’ve never heard you accused of super-sacredness,” she said, with a little smile.

  “But I have very fine feelings,” he protested. As an afterthought he added, “Sometimes.”

  She turned her head to look at the portières, apparently anticipating sounds from beyond. He had a fine view of her profile. Leaning back in the divan, he made the most of the opportunity. It was a very pure, gentle face, full of strength and character and sweetness. Hardly the face, thought he, of one who had trained for any length of time in the set affected by the new Mrs. De Foe. Her hair was dark and fine and came low about her temples. It was all her own, he was quite sure, and there was an abundance of it. A small ear peeped invitingly out at him—somewhat timidly, he felt, as if he were a very wicked person to be shunned. Her neck was round and slim, her shoulders white and almost velvety in their healthy youthfulness. Somewhat to his amazement, there were no bones in evidence; and yet she was slender. He laid this phenomenon to perfect health, a condition heretofore regarded as perfectly unfeminine. Her cheeks were warm and clear, her lips red and almost tremulous in their sweetness; her eyes were—well, he could not see them, but he quite certainly remembered that they were blue. The
nose—a very patrician nose—recalled to his mind one that he had seen in a very famous portrait somewhere, sometime. He had a vague recollection that it was some one’s “Portrait of a Lady.” Just as he was visually caressing the firm, white chin and throat, she turned upon him with a warning “Sh!” He already had decided that she was twenty-one and that her white satin evening gown was quite new and very exquisite. His intense gaze, caught red-handed, so to speak, confused her. She was not used to it: that was plain. He had the grace to look at the portières expectantly.

  “They are coming,” she said, arising at once.

  “Can’t you tell me more about the wedding?” he asked, standing beside her.

  “Not now. Later on, perhaps. You do know her well enough to wish her happiness, don’t you?” She added the last imploringly.

  “That’s what I came here for—to insure her happiness,” he said, smiling to himself.

  “You knew then?” she whispered in wonder.

  “I can’t say that I knew that she was going to be married so soon,” he replied evasively. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t have De Foe in mind at all.”

  Men and women, laughing, were approaching through the next room.

  “Do I know them?” he asked, nervously adjusting his monocle.

  She named a dozen people quickly. He nodded his head after each name. They were old friends, all of them.

  “And Mr. Rexford,” she concluded.

  “Rexford? Who’s he?”

  “He’s from Pittsburg,” she said, looking away.

  He studied the back of her head for a moment. “Oh, I see,” he said, with a dry laugh.

  She faced him. “You are very much mistaken,” she said.

  Bellows threw back the curtains and a group of very lively persons came crowding into the room.

  “Hello, Buzzy!” shouted three or four of the men. They had dined beautifully. For that matter, so had the ladies. They surrounded him and assaulted him verbally. You could have heard them laugh as far down as 35th Street, if you had been there. (Of course you were not, it being such a wretched night.)

  Bosworth grinned amiably under the volley of chaff they fired at him. He observed that Miss Downing effaced herself. She retired alone to the group of dummies. He was not long in wishing that he could be with her in that region of peace and rectitude.

  “Where’s the groom?” he managed to ask, after ten or twelve voices had expended themselves in levity—not any of which appealed to his stricken bump of humor.

  “De Foe? He’s changing,” said one of the men. “They’re leaving for Boston tonight.”

  “Say, Buzzy, what do you think of the waxies?” cried another. “Have you seen ’em yet?”

  “Think I’m blind, Stockton? Good evening, Mrs. Runway. How do, Mrs. Clover.”

  “I’m surprised you weren’t asked, Buzzy,” said Mrs. Runway, a blondish lady with black eyes and rather darkish skin. “You were such pals.”

  “Where’s your father, Buzzy?” shouted some one.

  “He was announced half an hour ago,” said another. They all roared.Bosworth flushed painfully. There was a strange, new resentment in his heart.

  “He’s changing,” he announced coldly, and left them to wonder what he meant by the remark.

  Mr. Stockton volunteered: “Changing what? His spots or his mind?”

  But Bosworth had turned toward the young lady who had effaced herself. Somehow he rather rejoiced in the fact that she had forsaken this group for another and less objectionable one. Mrs. Runway intercepted him.

  “They do say, Buzzy, that you were in love with her,” she said. “Are you dreadfully cut up about it?”

  He stared past her. “Not at all,” he announced. “Far from it. Nothing would have afforded me greater pleasure than the privilege of giving the bride away.”

  “Dear me,” she said, as he smiled and walked on. Struck by a sudden impulse he turned to her.

  “Who is Miss Downing? Where have I seen her before?”

  “How should I know?” said Mrs. Runway, stiffly.

  “Oh,” he said, turning again. A strange young man, very much the worse for champagne, had now approached the girl, his hands in his pockets, a vacuous smile on his flushed face. Bosworth changed his course and engaged young Mrs. Chanier in conversation, all the while keeping his eye on the girl down the room.

  “Terrible night, isn’t it, Blanche?” he observed by way of reserving her attention, which seemed inclined to wander.

  “Ripping,” she said. “Everything went off beautifully. Only one hitch, my dear. I say, who’s the girl talking to Tommy Rexford?” She used her lorgnette.

  “I was just about to ask who the chap is talking to her. She’s a Miss Downing.”

  “Know her?”

  “Oh, yes,” he prevaricated nobly, catching an ugly gleam in the young matron’s eye. “She’s a terribly nice girl.”

  “I thought as much. Isn’t she too nice?”

  “Who’s this Rexford chap?”

  She stared at him. “Oh, he’s all right, Mr. Buzzy Van Pycke,” she said, resenting his ignorance. “Tommy Rexford is one of the dearest boys in the world. He’s from Pittsburg. I met him at Palm Beach last winter. He comes to New York pretty often. I say, Buzzy, are you listening?”

  “Sure,” said Buzzy, whose attention had drifted to the girl in the white satin. Plainly, she was being annoyed by the attentions of the intoxicated Mr. Rexford. He appeared to be relating a story which shocked her. “He seems very keen about Miss Downing,” he volunteered, a queer bitterness in his heart.

  Mrs. Chanier bridled. “What? Why, he’s been drinking a little too much, that’s all.” Her tone was nasty. Bosworth was not slow to grasp the true state of affairs.

  “How’s your husband?” he asked bluntly.

  She smiled serenely. “Oh, he’s still got his locomotor ataxia, if that’s what you mean.”

  Miss Downing abruptly left Mr. Rexford, who, looking after her for a moment as if dazed, allowed himself a short laugh of derision. Young Mr. Van Pycke’s foot itched with the desire to kick young Mr. Rexford.

  “I’m sure liquor doesn’t affect me in that way,” he muttered, overtaken by the sudden recollection that he had imbibed quite freely, and further distressed by the fear that it had not entirely worn off. To himself he was saying: “That fellow’s a warning to me. If I thought I looked or acted as he does, I’d—well, anyhow, I don’t drink to excess, so I can’t make comparisons or resolutions. That girl doesn’t belong with this crowd. She’s too good for them.”

  With this sage conclusion he promptly took it upon himself to put her into better company. He joined her as she was about to pass into the library.

  “What was that fellow saying to you?” he demanded, quite as if he had always possessed the right to interrogate.

  “Was it so plain as all that, Mr. Van Pycke?” she asked, distress in her eyes. “He’s been drinking.”

  “That’s no excuse,” said he with surpassing severity. “I say, you—you don’t really belong in this crowd,” he went on earnestly. “Not that there’s anything bad—I mean, the set’s a bit faster than you’re accustomed to. I can see that. I’m not throwing stones, so don’t look at me so scornfully. Believe me, it’s not the rottenest set in town. It’s only the gayest. How do you happen to be here? Are you related to Mrs. Scoville?”

  “Birds of a feather,” she said, a gleam of anger in her unsmiling eyes.

  “You mean that to apply to yourself or to me?” he asked, with a wry smile.

  “Do you profess to be any better than the rest of them, Mr. Van Pycke? They call you ‘Buzzy’ and ‘dear,’ so they must be your intimates. Why do you set yourself above them?”

  “The Lord knows I don’t, Miss Downing. But I do set you above them. You’ll have to admit there’s something in that. I—”

  She smiled faintly. “Please don’t look so dismal. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

  “It would be amazin
gly interesting, I’m sure, if you were to try it,” he said, with his finest smile. She was disarmed. “Still, I don’t forget how you subdued Agrippa.”

  “Oh, Agrippa loves me,” she announced calmly. He looked into her deep eyes and realized that she was not an untrained girl from the country. She was very sure of herself.

  “Lucky dog,” he said.

  “He has known me for ages,” she explained.

  “That doesn’t necessarily follow,” he said gallantly. “It comes unexpectedly sometimes, even to dogs.”

  “Do you like dogs, Mr. Van Pycke?” she asked, with disquieting serenity.

  “What is all this leading up to?” he demanded suspiciously. “You’re not going to invite me to a dog dinner, are you?”

  “Dear me, no. How silly!”

  “Well, one never knows in these days.”

  “These are not the dog days.” He grinned amiably. “And so you are the wonderful Buzzy Van Pycke,” she went on, quite frankly interested. “I’ve often wondered what you would be like.”

  “You don’t mean it,” he said, surprised.

  Her only response was a penitent, apologetic smile; but it served better than words. He was dazzled. He afterward recalled that the whole course of his life changed in that instant. He was not quite sure that he didn’t hear something snap inside. Still, it might have been his imagination.

  At this moment the bride hurried into the room, her arms full of furs. There was a shout of joy from the guests. She smiled for every one, and then sent a quick, searching glance among them. Discovering Bosworth, she uttered a little cry of pleasure, tossed the furs into a chair,—which, it seems, already was occupied,—and rushed over to him, both hands extended.

  “Dear old Buzzy, I’m so glad you came without an invitation! I am, truly. I would have sent you one, only I wasn’t sure you would fit in under the circumstances. You see, it was a wedding. You’ll understand, I’m sure.”

  “Perfectly,” he said. Regardless of Miss Downing’s presence, he added without a qualm: “I’m rather glad you’ve done it, Laura. It’s saved me a lot of despair, I’m sure. You see, I came up tonight to propose to you.”