Mrs. Mortimer slowly raised her head and looked at her husband.
“Leroy, are you mad?”
“I! Not much!” he exclaimed gleefully. “I can make him the husband of the most-run-after girl in New York — if I want to. And at the same time I can puncture the most arrogant, the most cold-blooded, selfish, purse-proud, inflated nincompoop that ever sat at the head of a director’s table. O-ho! Now you’re staring, Leila. I can do it; I can make good. What are you worrying about? Why, I’ve got a hundred ways to square that cheque, and each separate way is a winner.”
He rose, shook out the creases in his trousers, and adjusted the squat, gold fob which ornamented his protruding waistcoat.
“So you’ll fix it, won’t you, Leila?” he said, apparently oblivious that he had expressed himself as able to adjust the matter in one hundred equally edifying and satisfactory manners.
She did not answer. He lingered a moment at the door, looking back with an ingratiating leer; but she paid him no attention, and he took himself off, confident that her sulkiness could not result in anything unpleasant to anybody except herself.
Nor did it, as far as he could see. The days brought no noticeable change in his wife’s demeanour toward him. Plank, when he met him, was civil enough, though it did occur to Mortimer that he saw very little of Plank in these days.
“Ungrateful beggar!” he thought bitterly; “he’s toadying to Belwether now. I can’t do anything more for him, so I don’t interest him.”
And for a while he wore either a truculent, aggrieved air in Plank’s presence, or the meeker demeanour of a martyr, sentimentally misunderstood, but patient under the affliction.
Then there came a time when he needed money. During the few days he spent circling tentatively and apprehensively around his wife he learned enough to know that there was nothing to be had from her at present. No doubt the money she raised to placate Plank — if she had placated him in that fashion — was a strain on her resources, whatever those resources were.
One thing was certain: Plank had not remained very long in ignorance of the cheque drawn against his balance, if indeed, as Mortimer feared, the bank itself had not communicated with Plank as soon as the cheque was presented for payment. Therefore Plank must have been placated by Leila; how, Mortimer was satisfied not to know.
“Some of these days,” he said to himself, “I’ll catch her tripping, and then there’ll be a decent division of property, or — there’ll be a divorce.” But, as usual, Mortimer found such practices more attractive in theory than in execution, and he was really quite contented to go on as things were going, if somebody would see that he had some money occasionally.
One of these occasions when he needed it was approaching. He had made a “killing” at Desmond’s, and had used the money to stop up the more threatening gaps in the tottering financial fabric known as his “personal accounts.” The fabric would hold for a while, but meantime he needed money to go on with. And Leila evidently had none. He tried everybody except Plank. He had scarcely the impudence to go to Plank just yet; but when, completing the vicious circle, he found his borrowing capacity exhausted, and himself once more face to face with the only hope, Plank, he sat down to consider seriously the possibility of the matter.
Of course Plank owed him more than he could ever pay — the ungrateful parvenu! — but what Plank had thought of that cheque transaction he had never been able to discover.
Somehow or other he must put Plank under fresh obligations; and that might have been possible had not Leila invaded the ground, leaving nothing, now that Plank was secure in club life.
Of course the first thing that presented itself to Mortimer’s consideration was the engineering of Plank’s matrimonial ambitions. Clearly the man had not changed. He was always at Sylvia’s heels; he was seen with her in public; he went to the Belwether house a great deal. No possible doubt but that he was as infatuated as ever. And Quarrier was going to marry her next November — that is, if he, Mortimer, chose to keep silent about a certain midnight episode at Shotover.
It was his inclination, except in theory, to keep silent, partly because of his native inertia and unwillingness to go to the physical and intellectual exertion of being a rascal, partly because he didn’t really want to be a rascal of that sort.
Like a man with premonitions of toothache, who walks down to the dentist’s just to see what the number of the house looks like, and then walks around the block to think it over, so Mortimer, suffering from lack of money, walked round and round the central idea, unable to bring himself to the point.
Several times he called up Quarrier on the ‘phone and made appointments to lunch with him; but these meetings never resulted in anything except luncheons which Mortimer paid for, and matters were becoming desperate.
So one day, after having lunched too freely, he sat down and wrote Plank the following note:
My Dear Beverly: You will remember that I once promised you my aid in securing what, to you, is the dearest object of your existence. I have thought, I have pondered, I have given the matter deep and, I may add without irreverence, prayerful consideration, knowing that the life’s happiness of my closest friend depended on my judgment and wisdom and intelligence to secure for him the opportunity to crown his life’s work by the acquisition of the brightest jewel in the diadem of old Manhattan.
“By George! that’s wickedly good, though!” chuckled Mortimer, refreshing himself with his old stand-by, an apple, quartered, and soaked in very old port. So he sopped his apple and swallowed it, and picked up his pen again, chary of overdoing it.
All I say to you is, be ready! The time is close at hand when you may boldly make your avowal. But be ready! All depends upon the psychological moment. An instant too soon, an instant too late, and you are lost. And she is lost forever. Remember! Be faithful; trust in me, and wait. And the instant I say, “Speak!” pour out your soul, my dear friend, and be certain you are not pouring it out in vain. L. M.
Writing about “pouring out” made him thirsty, so he fortified himself several times, and then, sealing the letter, went out to a letter-box and stood looking at it.
“If I mail it I’m in for it,” he muttered. After a while he put the letter in his pocket and walked on.
“It really doesn’t commit me to anything,” he reflected at last, halting before another letter-box. And as he stood there, hesitating, he glanced up and saw Quarrier entering the Lenox Club. The next moment he flung up the metal box lid, dropped in his letter, and followed Quarrier into the club.
Then events tumbled forward almost without a push from him. Quarrier was alone in a window corner, drinking vichy and milk and glancing over the afternoon papers. He saw Mortimer, and invited him to join him; and Mortimer, being thirsty, took champagne.
“I’ve been trying a new coach,” said Quarrier, in his colourless and rather agreeable voice; and he went on leisurely explaining the points of the new mail-coach which had been built in Paris after plans of his own, while Mortimer gulped glass after glass of chilled wine, which seemed only to make him thirstier. Meantime he listened, really interested, except that his fleshy head was too full of alcohol and his own project to contain additional statistics concerning coaching. Besides, Quarrier, who had never been over-cordial to him, was more so now — enough for Mortimer to venture on a few tentative suggestions of a financial nature; and though, as usual, Quarrier was not responsive, he did not, as usual, get up and go away.
A vague hope stirred Mortimer that it might not be beyond his persuasive tongue to make this chilly, reticent young man into a friend some day — a helpful friend. For Mortimer all his life had trusted to his tongue; and though poorly enough repaid, the few lingual victories remained in his memory, along with an inexhaustible vanity and hope; while his countless defeats and the many occasions on which his tongue had played him false were all forgotten. Besides, he had been drinking more heavily all day than was his custom.
So Quarrier talked, sparing
ly, about his new coach, about Billy Fleetwood’s renowned string of hunters, about Ashley Spencer’s new stable and his chances at Saratoga with Roy-a-neh, for which he had paid a fabulous sum — the sum and the story probably equally fabulous.
Mortimer’s head was swimming with ideas; he was also talking a great deal, much more than he had intended; he was saying things he had not exactly intended to say, either, in just that way. He realised it, but he went on, unable to stop his own tongue, the noise of which intoxicated him.
Once or twice he thought Quarrier looked at him rather strangely; but he would show Quarrier that he was nobody’s fool; he’d show Quarrier that he was a friend, a good, staunch friend; and that Quarrier had long, long undervalued him. Waves of sentiment spread through and through him; his affection for Quarrier dampened his eyes; and still he blabbed on and on, gazing with brimming eyes upon Quarrier, who sat back silent and attentive as Mortimer circled and blundered nearer and nearer to the crucial point of his destination.
Midway in one of his linguistic ellipses Quarrier leaned forward and caught his arm in a grip of steel. Another man had entered the room. Mortimer, made partly conscious by the pain of Quarrier’s vise-like grip, was sober enough to recognise the impropriety of his continuing aloud the veiled story he had been constructing with what he supposed to be a cunning as matchless as it was impenetrable.
Later he found himself upstairs in a private card-room, facing Quarrier across a table, and still talking and quenching his increasing thirst. He knew now what he was telling Quarrier; he was unveiling the parable; he was stripping metaphor from a carefully precise story. He used Siward’s name presently; presently he used Sylvia’s name. A moment later — or was it an hour? — Quarrier stopped him, coldly, without a trace of passion, demanding corroborative detail. And Mortimer gave it, wagging his head and one fat forefinger as emphasis.
“You saw that?” repeated Quarrier, deadly white of a sudden.
“Yes; an’ I—”
“At three in the morning?”
“Yes; an’ I want—”
“You saw him enter her room?”
“Yes; an’ I wan’ tersay thish to you, because I’m your fr’en’. Don’ wan’ anny fr’en’s mine get fooled on women! See? Thash how I feel. I respec’ the sect! See! Women, lovely women! See? Respec’ sect! Gimme y’han’, buzzer — er — brother Quar’er! Your m’ fr’en’; I’m your fr’en’. I know how it is. Gotter wife m’own. Rotten one. Stingy! Takes money outter m’ pockets. Dam ‘stravagant. Ruin me!... Say, old boy, what about dividend due ‘morrow on Orange County Eclectic — mean Erlextic — no! — mean ‘Letric! Damn! — Wasser masser tongue?”
Opening his fond and foggy eyes, and finding himself alone in the card-room, he began to cry; and a little later, attempting to push the electric button, he fell over a lounge and lay there, his shirt-front soiled with wine, one fat leg trailing to the floor; not the ideal position for slumber, perhaps, but what difference do attitudes and postures and poses make when a gentleman, in the sacred seclusion of his own club, is wooing the drowsy goddess with blasts of votive music through his empurpled nose?
In the meantime, however, he was due to dine at the Belwether house; and when eight o’clock approached, and he had not returned to dress, Leila called up Sylvia Landis on the telephone:
“My dear, Leroy hasn’t returned, and I suppose he’s forgotten about the Bridge. I can bring Mr. Plank, if you like.”
“Very well,” said Sylvia, adding, “if Mr. Plank is there, may I speak to him a moment?”
So Leila rose, setting the receiver on the desk, and Plank came in from the library and settled himself heavily in the chair:
“Did you wish to speak to me, Miss Landis?”
“Is that you, Mr. Plank? Yes; will you dine with us at eight? Bridge afterward, if you don’t mind.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Mr. Plank, you had a note from me this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Please disregard it.”
“If you wish.”
“I do. It is not worth while.” And as Plank made no comment, “I have no further interest in the matter. Do you understand?”
“No,” said Plank doggedly.
“I have nothing more to say. I am sorry. We dine at eight,” concluded Sylvia hurriedly.
Plank hung up the receiver and sat eyeing it for a while in silence. Then his jaw began to harden and his under lip protruded, and he folded his great hands, resting them in front of him on the edge of the desk, brooding there, with eyes narrowing like a sleepy giant at prayer.
When Leila entered, in her evening wraps, she found him there, so immersed in reverie that he failed to hear her; and she stood a moment at the doorway, smiling to herself, thinking how pleasant it was to come down ready for the evening and find him there, as though he belonged where he sat, and was part of the familiar environment.
Recently she had grown younger in a smooth-skinned, full-lipped way — so much younger that it was spoken of. Something girlish in figure, in spontaneity, in the hesitation of her smile, in the lack of that hard, brilliant confidence which once characterised her, had developed; as though she were beginning her début again, reverting to a softness and charm prematurely checked. Truly, her youth’s discoloured blossom, forced by the pale phantom of false spring, was refolding to a bud once more; and the harsher tints of the inclement years were fading.
“Beverly,” she said, “I am ready.”
Plank stood up, dazed from his reverie, and walked toward her. His white tie had become disarranged; she raised her hands, halting him, and pulled it into shape for him, consciously innocent of the intimacy.
“Thank you,” he said. “Do you know how pretty you are this evening?”
“Yes; I was very happy at my mirror. Do you know, the withered years seem to be dropping from me like leaves from an autumn sapling. And I feel young enough to say so poetically.... Did Sylvia try to flirt with you over the wire?”
“Yes, as usual,” he said drily, descending the stairs beside her.
“And really you don’t love her any more?” she queried.
“Scarcely.” His voice was low and rather disagreeable, and she looked up.
“I wish I knew what you and Sylvia find to talk about so frequently, if you’re not in love.”
But he made no answer; and they drove away to the Belwether house, a rather wide, old-style mansion of brown stone, with a stoop dividing its ugly façade, and a series of unnecessary glass doors blockading the vestibule.
A drawing-room and a reception-room flanked the marble-tiled hall; behind these the dining-room ran the width of the rear. It was a typical gentlefolk’s house of the worst period of Manhattan, and Major Belwether belonged in it as fittingly as a melodeon belongs in a west-side flat. The hall-way was made for such a man as he to patter through; the velvet-covered stairs were as peculiarly fitted for him as a runway is for a rabbit; the suave pink-and-white drawing-room, the discreet, gray reception-room, the soft, fat rugs, the intricacies of banisters and alcoves and curtained cubby-holes — all reflected his personality, all corroborated the ensemble. It was his habitat, his distinctly, from the pronounced but meaningless intricacy of the architecture to the studied but unconvincing tints, like a man who suddenly starts to speak, but checks himself, realising he has nothing in particular to say.
There were half a dozen people there lounging informally between the living-room on the second floor and Sylvia’s apartments in the rear — the residue from a luncheon and Bridge party given that afternoon by Sylvia to a score or so of card-mad women. A few of these she had asked to remain for an informal dinner, and a desperate game later — the sort of people she knew well enough to lose to heavily or win from without remorse — Grace Ferrall, Marion Page, Agatha Caithness. Trusting to the telephone that morning, she had secured the Mortimers and Quarrier, failing three men; and now the party, with Plank as Mortimer’s substitute, was complete, all thorough gamesters
— sex mattering nothing in the preparation for such a séance.
In Sylvia’s boudoir Grace Ferrall and Agatha Caithness sat before the fire; Sylvia, at the mirror of her dresser, was correcting the pallor incident to the unbroken dissipation of a brilliant season; Marion, with her inevitable cigarette, wandered between Sylvia’s quarters and the library, where Quarrier and Major Belwether were sitting in low-voiced confab.
Leila, greeted gaily from the boudoir, went in. Plank entered the library, was mauled effusively by the major, returned Quarrier’s firm hand shake, and sat down with an inquiring smile.
“Oh, yes, we’re out for blood to-night,” tittered Major Belwether, grasping Quarrier’s arm humourously and shaking it to emphasise his words — a habit that Quarrier thoroughly disliked. “Sylvia had a lot of women here playing for the season score, so I suggested she keep the pick of them for dinner, and call in a few choice ones to make a night of it.”
“It’s agreeable to me,” said Plank, still looking at Quarrier with the same inquiring expression, which that gentleman presently chose to understand.
“I haven’t had a chance to look into that matter,” he said carelessly. “Some day, when you have time to go over it—”
“I have time now,” said Plank; “there’s nothing to go over; there’s no reason for any secrecy. All I wrote you was that I proposed to control the stock of Amalgamated Electric and that I wished your advice in the matter.”
“I could not give you any advice off-hand on such an extraordinary suggestion,” returned Quarrier coldly. “If you know where the stock is, you’ll understand.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 306