CHAPTER XVII
BAYARD DUCKS HIS PAST
First place, Swifty Joe should have let the subject drop. Anyway, heneedn't have come paradin' into the front office in his gym suit to showme his nutty theory of how Young Disko landed that knockout on theAustralian in the breakaway.
"Turn over!" says I. "You're on your back! He couldn't have doneanything of the kind."
"Couldn't, eh?" growls Swifty. "Ahr-r-r-r chee! Couldn't give him theshoulder on the jaw! Ain't I seen it done? Say, lemme show you----"
"Show nothing!" says I. "I'm tellin' you it was a right hook the kid puthim out with, from chancery. Now see!"
With that I sheds my coat, gets Swifty's neck in the crook of my leftelbow, swings him round for a side hip-lock, and bends his head forward.
"Now, you South Brooklyn kike," I goes on, maybe more realistic than Imeant, "I got you right, ain't I? And all I got to do is push in ahalf-arm jolt like this, and----"
Well, then I looks up. Neither of us has noticed her come in, hadn'teven heard the knob turn; but standin' there in the middle of the roomand starin' straight at us is a perfectly good female lady.
That don't half tell it, either. She's all lady, from the tips of herdouble-A pumps to the little gray wing peekin' over the top of her dingygray bonnet. One of these slim, dainty, graceful built parties, withwhite, lacy stuff at her wrists and throat, and the rest of her costumeall gray: not the puckered-waist, half-masted skirt effects all thewomen are wearin' now. I can't say what year's model it was, or how farback; but it's a style that seems just fitted to her: maybe one thatshe's invented herself. Around thirty-five, I should judge she was, fromthe little streak of gray runnin' through her front hair.
What got me, though, was the calm, remote, superior look that she'sgivin' us. She don't seem nervous or panicky at all, like most womenwould, breakin' in on a roughhouse scene like that. She don't even starereprovin', but stands there watchin' us as serene as if we wa'n'tanything more'n pictures on a movie sheet. And there we was, holdin' thepose; me with my right all bunched for action, and Swifty with his faceto the mat. Seemed minutes we was clinched there, and everything sostill you could hear Swifty's heavy breathin' all over the room.
Course I was waitin' for some remarks from her. You'd most think theywas due, wouldn't you? It's my private office, remember, and she's sortof crashed in unannounced. If any explainin' was done, it was up to herto start it. And waitin' for what don't come is apt to get on yournerves.
"Eh?" I throws over my shoulder at her.
Her straight eyebrows kind of humps in the middle--that's all.
"Did you say anything?" I goes on.
"No," says she. If she'd smiled sort of faint, or even glared stern atus, it wouldn't have been so bad. But she just presses her lipstogether--thin, narrow-gage lips, they was--and goes on givin' us thatdistant, unconcerned look.
Meanwhile Swifty, with his face bent towards the floor, ain't gettin'any view at all, and is only guessin' what's happenin'. He squirmsimpatient.
"Say, Shorty," he grumbles, "I got a few bones in me neck, remember.Break, can't you?"
And as I loosens my hold he straightens up, only to get the full benefitof that placid, ladylike lookover.
"Ahr-r-r chee!" says he, glancin' disgusted at me. Then he startsgettin' rosy in the ears, like he always does when there's fluffsaround, and after one more hasty look he bolts back into the gym.
The strange lady watches this move like she has everything else, onlyshe shrugs her shoulders a bit. What she meant by that I couldn't makeout. I was gettin' to the point where I didn't care so much, either.
"Well, Ma'am?" says I.
"Poor fellow!" says she. "I am glad he escaped that brutal blow."
"Are you?" says I. "Well, don't waste too much sympathy on him; for Iwas only demonstratin' how----"
"You might offer me a chair," she breaks in sort of casual.
"Why--er--sure!" says I, and before I knew it I was jumpin' to drag oneup.
She settles into it without even a nod of thanks.
"You see," I goes on, "he's my assistant, and I was tryin' to show himhow----"
"It's rather stuffy here," observes the lady. "Couldn't you open awindow?"
It's more an order than anything else; but I hops over and shoves thesash wide open.
"That's too much," says she. "It causes a draft."
So I shuts it halfway. Then I gets her a glass of water. "Anything elseyou'd like?" says I, tryin' to be sarcastic. "The mornin' paper, or----"
"Where is Mr. Steele?" she demands.
"Oh!" says I, gettin' a little light on the mystery. "J. Bayard, youmean?"
"Of course," says she. "He was not at his hotel, and as this was theother address I was given I expected to find him here."
"Huh!" says I. "Gave you this number, did he? Well, you see, this is myPhysical Culture Studio, and while he's apt to be here off and on, itain't his----"
"Just such a place as I might have anticipated finding Bayard in," saysshe, glancin' around the front office at the portraits in ring costumeand so on. "Quite!"
"Let's see," says I, "you are--er----"
"I am Mrs. Lee Hollister," says she, "of Richmond, Virginyah."
"I might have suspicioned that last," says I, "by the way you----"
But she don't give me a show to register any little slam I might havethought of puttin' over. She's the kind that conducts a conversationaccordin' to her own rules, and she never hesitates to cut in.
"I want to know what there is about this will of Mr. Gordon's," shedemands. "Some absurd legacy, I presume; at least, my solicitor, ColonelHenderson, seemed to think so. I suppose you've heard of Colonel BrittHenderson?"
"Not a whisper," says I, as defiant as I know how.
She expresses her opinion of such ignorance with a little lift of herpointed chin. "Colonel Henderson," she goes on, "is perhaps the ablestand most brilliant attorney in Virginyah. He is connected with the bestfamilies in the State."
"Never heard of anybody from down there that wa'n't," says I. "And whileI ain't disputin' him, mind you, his guess about this bein' a legacyis----"
"Will Mr. Steele be in soon?" she asks crisp.
"Might," says I, "and then again he mightn't."
"It's rather rude of him to keep me waiting," says she.
"Maybe if you'd sent word ahead," I suggests, "he'd been on hand. Butnow you've come all this way----"
"You don't suppose," breaks in Mrs. Hollister, "that I came north justfor that? Not at all. It was to select a design for the memorial windowI am having placed in our church, in memory of poor, dear ProfessorHollister. My late husband, you know; and a most noble, talented,courtly gentleman he was too."
"Ye-e-es'm," says I.
"What are those objects on the wall?" says she, shiftin' sudden.
"Boxin' gloves, Ma'am," says I. "That's the pair of mitts that won methe championship, back in----"
"Has Mr. Steele become a pugilist, too?" she asks.
"Not so you'd notice it," says I.
"Hm-m-m-m!" says she, tappin' the toe of one of her pumps and gazin'around critical.
Not that she takes any notice of me. Honest, if I'd been a yellow puptied in the corner, she couldn't have been more offhand. I was gettin'warm in the neck by the minute too, and in three more shakes I'd beencuttin' loose with the acid remarks, when the door opens and in blows J.Bayard Steele. I sighs relieved when I sees him too.
"Oh!" says he, gettin' a back view of her. "I beg pardon. I--er----"Then she turns and faces him. "Alice!" he gasps.
"My dear Bayard!" she protests. "Please let's not have any scene. It wasall so long ago, and I'm sure you must have gotten over that."
"But how--why--er----" he goes on.
"You wrote to Mrs. Lee Hollister, didn't you?" she demands. "I am Mrs.Hollister."
Another gasp from Steele. "You?" says he. "Then you--you----"
"To be sure I married," says she. "And Professor Hollister was one of
the truest, noblest Southern gentlemen who ever lived. I have mournedhis loss for nearly ten years, and---- But don't stand there twiddlingyour hat in that absurd fashion! You may sit, if you like. Get Mr.Steele a chair, will you?"
I'd jumped and done it too, before I had time to think.
"Now what is this about Mr. Gordon's will?" says she.
Well, between us, whenever she'd let us get in a word, we managed tosketch out the idea.
"You see," says Steele, "Pyramid Gordon wished to make what reparationhe could for any injustice he might have done during the course of hisbusiness career. He left a list of names, among them being this, 'thewidow of Professor Lee Hollister.' Now possibly Gordon, in some way----"
"He did," breaks in Mrs. Hollister. "My husband had issued an elaborateand exhaustive geological report on a certain district. It had attractedwide attention. He was to have been appointed State Geologist, whensuddenly this Mr. Gordon appeared and began his unwarranted campaign ofabuse and opposition. Something about some coal and iron deposits, Ibelieve it was, on land which he was trying to sell to an Englishsyndicate. Professor Hollister's report failed to mention any suchdeposits. As a matter of fact they did not exist. But Mr. Gordonsummoned experts of his own, who attacked my husband's statements. Theprofessor declined to enter into a public controversy. His dignity wouldnot permit him. Underhanded influence was brought to bear on theGovernor, and the appointment was given to another. But time has shown.Discredited and beaten though he seemed to be, my husband was right. TheGordon lands proved valueless. Those in which Professor Hollisterinvested his savings were rich in minerals."
"Ah!" says Steele. "Quite like Pyramid. And it has been left to us, Mrs.Hollister, to recompense, if we may, the bitterness of that----"
"Please!" says the lady. "Professor Hollister was not an embittered man.Such methods were beneath his contempt. He merely withdrew from publiclife. As for recompense--surely you would not think of asking me toaccept it from such a source! Never! Besides, I have more than enough.Several years ago I disposed of our mineral holdings, bought back theold Hollister mansion, and I am now living there in as much comfort aspoor Lee could have wished me to enjoy. What could Gordon's money add tothat?"
If I'd been J. Bayard, hanged if I wouldn't called it quits right there!But he's gettin' so chesty over this job of sunshine distributer thatthere's no holdin' him in.
"Surely, Alice," he insists, "there must be some way in which I,as--er--an old friend, might----"
Mrs. Hollister cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "You don'tunderstand," says she. "I am no longer the vain, frivolous young girlwhom you knew that winter in Chicago. My first season, that was. I wasbeing lavishly entertained. I suppose I became dazzled by it all,--theattention, the new scenes, the many men I met. I've no doubt I behavedvery silly. But now--well, I have realized all my social ambitions. NowI am devoting my life to the memory of my sainted husband, to charity,to our dear church."
I gawps curious over at J. Bayard to see what comeback he has to thisdose of mush, and finds him starin' foolish at her.
"There is only one thing----" she begins.
"Yes?" says Steele, kind of faint. "Something in which we might----"
"I am interested in a group of girls," says she, "factory girls; one ofour Guild Mission classes, you know. They have been anxious to have somedances. Now I am strongly opposed to the modern dances, all of them.True, I've seen very little, almost nothing. So I decided that, in orderto convince myself that I am right, I might as well, while I am in NewYork--well--er----"
"I get you," I puts in. "You want to watch the real thing pulled--thefox trot, and the new polkas, and so on. Eh?"
"Not for my own personal amusement," corrects Mrs. Hollister. "I am sureI shall be bored, perhaps shocked; but then I shall be better able towarn my girls."
"The old gag!" says I. "I know what would fit your case,--a late dinnerat the Maison Maxixe. Eh, Steele?" and I tips him the knowin' wink.
"Why--er--yes," says J. Bayard. "I presume Mr. McCabe is correct. And Iam sure we should be delighted to have Mrs. Hollister as our guest."
"We!" I gasps under my breath. Say, the nerve of him! But before I canthink up any previous date the lady has accepted.
"I have heard of the place," says she. "I am quite willing to endure anevening there. I am wondering, though, if I should not be ratherconspicuous. You see, I brought with me none but simple gowns such asthis, and perhaps the contrast----"
"You'd be about as prominent at the Maxixe in that outfit," says I, "asa one-legged albino at a coon cakewalk. Besides, they don't let you inthere unless you're in full evenin'. Course, there's other jointswhere----"
"No," says she. "Let it be the Maison Maxixe, if that is the worst. Andfor once too I may as well submit myself to the horrors of the newfashions. I will order a costume to-day, and I can be ready for myplunge into Gotham vanities by--let me see--we will say Saturday night.I am at the Lady Louise. You may call for me there about eight. Good-by.Don't be late, Gentlemen." And with that she does the abrupt flit,leavin' us gawpin' at each other stupid.
"Much obliged, Steele," says I, "for ringin' me in on this nutty reunionof yours. Say, J. B., you got a head like a tack, you have! Have aheart, can't you?"
"My dear Shorty," says he, "permit me to point out that it was you whosuggested taking her to----"
"Because you was sittin' there like a gump," says I. "Only helpin' youout, that's all. And I'm goin' to look nice, ain't I, trailin' into aplace like that with you and this--say, just where does the lady fitinto your past, anyway? Never heard you mention her, did I?"
"Naturally not," says he. "One doesn't boast of having been thrownover."
"Eh?" says I. "You was engaged--to _her_?"
He nods and gazes sentimental at the ceilin'. "My one genuine romance,"says he. "I suppose she wasn't really the radiant beauty I imagined; butshe was charming, vivacious, fascinating. It was a bad case of love atfirst sight. At eleven o'clock that evening, I remember, I took her into supper. At twelve I was leading her into a palm-sheltered nook, andthe next thing I knew I had taken her in my arms and--well, the usualthing. No one could have made a more complete ass of himself. She shouldhave boxed my ears. She didn't. The engagement lasted all of one week."
"Then you recovered from the attack?" says I.
"No," says he. "She had discovered another, several others. She told mequite casually that she really hadn't meant it; and wasn't I, after all,rather a wild young man? I assured her that if I wasn't wild I shouldbe after that. She only shrugged her shoulders. So I gave her up. Theothers did too. And she went back to Richmond, it seems, and married asainted geologist; while I--well, I never did get over it, quite. Silly,of course; but when I met other girls later I--I remembered, that'sall."
"Which accounts for you bein' a bach so long, does it?" says I. "Well,it's never too late. Here's your chance once more. At the Maison Maxixeyou can pull any kind of romance, stale or recent, and nobody'll care ahoot. I'll duck the dinner, and you can----"
"No, no!" protests J. Bayard. "I--er--I wouldn't take her to dinneralone for worlds. Really!" he waves his hands almost tragic.
"Why not?" says I. "Thought you hadn't got over it."
"Oh, but I have," insists Steele, "thoroughly."
"Must have been lately then," says I.
"To-day--just now," says he. "I never dreamed she would developinto--er--a woman like that,--the way she looks at you, you know."
"You don't need to describe it," says I. "That wa'n't a marker to theway she looked at Swifty and me. But wait! We'll hand her a joltSaturday night."
Steele groans. "I wish I could---- By George!" he explodes. "I'dforgotten Major Ben Cutter."
"What about him?" says I.
"An old friend," says J. Bayard. "He's landing Saturday, from SantaMarta. I haven't seen him for years,--been down there running a bananaplantation, you know. He cabled up, and I'd promised to take him aroundthat evening, dinner at the club, and----"
"Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" says I. "No old-friend alibi goes in this case."
"But, Shorty," he protests, "how can I----"
"You can lug him along, can't you?" says I. "Make it a four-corneredaffair. The more the merrier."
"He's such a diffident, shy chap, though," goes on Steele, "and afterfive years in the bush----"
"Oh, a dose of Mrs. Hollister will do him good," says I. "She won'tmind. She'll be bein' bored. Just 'phone her and explain. And remind herwhen she's gettin' her costume that this ain't any church sociable we'reattendin'."
Honest, I was more leery on that point than about anything else; for youknow how giddy they doll up at them joints, and while her taste instained glass windows might be strictly up to date, when it comes toflossin' up for the Maison Maxixe--well, no gray-and-white, back-numberregalia would do there. If we wa'n't shut out, we'd be guyed to death.
So about seven-thirty Saturday night I was some chilly in the ankles.I'd called for J. Bayard at his hotel, and he'd shown up with the Major.No figment of the imagination, either, the Major. He's a big, husky,rich-colored party that's some imposin' and decorative in open-facedtogs; quiet and shy actin', though, just as Steele had said. I sort oftook to him, and we swaps friendly greetin's.
"All aboard now," says I, "and we'll collect our widow."
Which seems to startle the Major more or less. "I say, Bayard," he putsin, "you didn't tell me she was a widow, you know. Perhaps, after all,I'd best not----"
"Ah, she ain't the net-wieldin' kind," says I soothin'. "She'll tell youall about her dear departed and the memorial window. About as gay asTrinity Church on Ash Wednesday, she is. Come along."
Can you blame him, then, for glancin' reproachful at me when he seeswhat answers our call at the Lady Louise a few minutes later? I lets goof a few gasps myself; while J. Bayard--well, he just stares at her withhis mouth open.
For, take it from me, Mrs. Hollister had connected! Uh-huh! Not with anylast fall outfit, nor yesterday's. About day after to-morrow's, I shouldcall it. And if there wa'n't zipp and scream to it, then I'mshortsighted in the eyes. My guess is that it's a mixture of the lastword in Byzantine effects, with a Cleopatra girdle and a MarthaWashington polonaise. Anyway, if there ain't much above the waist linebut gauze and strips of fur, there's plenty of flare below, as far asthe ankles. Lucky she'd invested in a generous fur-lined wrap to go withit, or I wouldn't have stirred a step until we'd draped her in a rug orsomething. I ain't sayin' much about the feather affair clamped aroundher head in place of a hat; only it reminds me of an Indian war bonnetthat's been through a hard blow.
"Well, Bayard," says she, floatin' up to us wabbly on her high heels,"you see I'm ready."
"Ye-e-es," says Steele draggy. And while I pushes the Major to the frontalmost by main strength, J. Bayard presents him.
After that, though--say, I don't know when I've seen two parties indulgein such a long and earnest look at each other as Major Ben and Mrs.Hollister did then. While the Major flushes rosy and hardly has a wordto say for himself, he just naturally glues his lamps to her and don'tlet 'em roam. Believe me too, she was some giddy picture! Wa'n't such abad looker, you know, in her other rig; but in this zippy regalia--well,I got to admit that she's some ripe pippin. Her big brown eyes issparklin', she's smilin' coy as she looks the Major up and down, and thenext thing we know blamed if she ain't cuddled right up to him andremarked kittenish:
"You dear man! I'm going to let you take me out to the cab."
Well, that was the programme from then on. It was the Major and Mrs.Hollister first, with me and J. Bayard trailin' on behind. We'd had somedebate beforehand as to whether this should be a dry dinner or not,endin' by Steele announcin' he was goin' to take a chance on Martinisanyhow. Does she shy at the appetizer? Say, she was clinkin' glasseswith the Major before J. Bayard has a chance to reach for his. Same waywith the fizz that J. B. has put in a hurry order for.
"Bored to death, ain't she?" I remarks behind my hand.
And before the fillet of sole was served the Major had unlimbered hisconversation works, and that pair was havin' about the chattiest time ofany couple in the place, with me and J. Bayard stranded on the sidelines.
"Do you know, my dear Major," we hears her announce about nine-fifteen,as she toys with a three-dollar portion of roast pheasant, "I had noidea New York could be like this. Then there are the theaters, theopera. I believe I shall stay up for the rest of the season."
"Good!" says the Major. "I shall stay too."
Half an hour later, while he was showin' her how to burn brandy on herdemitasse, I nudges Steele.
"Say," I whispers, "me for a spot where I ain't formin' a crowd!"
Steele takes a hasty glance at 'em. "I--I'm with you," says he.
"What!" says I. "Goin' to hand him over to her?"
He nods. "Well," says I, "I guess that'll pass for a kind deed."
"Also somewhat of a generous one," says he, exhibitin' the footin' ofthe dinner bill he's just settled for.
I don't think they noticed, either of 'em, when we did our sneak. Onceoutside, J. Bayard takes a long breath, like he was relieved at havin'shifted something. Then he sort of sighs.
"Poor old Ben!" says he.
"Gwan!" says I. "You never can tell. Maybe he'll like playin' thedevoted slave act for the rest of his life. Besides, she's on a newtack. The Major's quite a husk too. I'll bet he don't qualify for anymemorial window. Not him!"