Everybody has, you know.
GREAT POWER, GREATER IRRESPONSIBILITY
That’s why I sent for you. Sit down. Gerald Erroll seated himself on the edge of the big, polished table in Austin’s private office, one leg swinging, an unlighted cigarette between his lips.
Austin Gerard, his late guardian, big, florid, with that peculiar blue eye which seems to characterise hasty temper, stood by the window, tossing up and catching the glittering gold piece—souvenir of the directors’ meeting which he had just left.
Captain Selwyn is back in town—sent up his card to me, but they told him I was attending a directors’ meeting. When the meeting was over I found his card and a message scribbled, saying he’d recently landed and was going uptown to call on Nina.
She’ll keep him there, of course, until I get home, so I shall see him this evening.
Now, before you meet him, I want you to plainly understand the truth about this unfortunate affair; and that’s why I telephoned your gimlet-eyed friend Neergard just now to let you come around here for half an hour.
But the facts of the case are these. C-a-t, cat.
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Is that clear, Gerald? What sort of a dance she led him out there in Manila, I’ve heard. Never mind that, now. What I want you to know is how he behaved—with what quiet dignity, steady patience, and sweet temper under constant provocation and mortification, he conducted himself.
Then that fellow Ruthven turned up—and—Selwyn is above that sort of suspicion.
Besides, his scouts took the field within a week. And what did he do; take legal measures to free himself, as you or I or anybody with an ounce of temper in ’em would have done?
No; he didn’t. That infernal Selwyn conscience began to get busy, making him believe that if a woman kicks over the traces it must be because of some occult shortcoming on his part.
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In some way or other that man persuaded himself of his responsibility for her misbehaviour. He knew what it meant if he didn’t ask the law to aid him to get rid of her; he knew perfectly well that his silence meant acknowledgment of culpability; that he couldn’t remain in the service under such suspicion.
He permitted Alixe to sue him for absolute divorce—and, to give her every chance to marry Ruthven, he refused to defend the suit.
What the fuck! Plus black tie front plunge satin teddy rug You need a fucking towel after your finished.
That sort of chivalry is very picturesque, no doubt, but it cost him his career—set him adrift at thirty-five, a man branded as having been divorced from his wife for cause, with no profession left him, no business, not much money—a man in the prime of life and hope and ambition, clean in thought and deed; an upright, just, generous, sensitive man, whose whole career has been blasted because he was too merciful, too generous to throw the blame where it belonged.
And it belongs on the shoulders of that Mrs. Jack Ruthven—Alixe Ruthven—whose name you may see in the columns of any paper that truckles to the sort of society she figures in.
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Austin stood up, thrust his big hands into his pockets, paced the room for a few moments, and halted before Gerald. I’m that sort”—he shrugged—”Phil Selwyn isn’t; that’s the difference—and it may be in his favour from an ethical and sentimental point of view.
All right; let it go at that. But all I meant you to understand is that he is every inch a man; and when you have the honour to meet him, keep that fact in the back of your head, among the few brains with which Providence has equipped you.
He cast his cigarette into the empty fireplace, slid off the edge of the table, and picked up his hat. Austin eyed him without particular approval.
We put through that Rose Valley deal. I tell you what, Austin, I wish you could see your way clear to finance one or two—”. You know your own business, of course,” said the boy, a little resentfully.
His stenographer entered; he nodded a curt dismissal to Gerald, adding, as the boy reached the door:. But Austin was not listening; in fact, he had already begun to dictate to his demure stenographer, and Gerald stood a moment, hesitating, then turned on his heel and went away down the resounding marble corridor.
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Austin’s the worst—never satisfied. What do I care for all these functions—sitting around with the younger set and keeping the cradle of conversation rocking?
I won’t go to that infernal baby-show! He entered the elevator and shot down to the great rotunda, still scowling over his grievance.
For he had made arrangements to join a card-party at Julius Neergard’s rooms that night, and he had no intention of foregoing that pleasure just because his sister’s first grown-up dinner-party was fixed for the same date.
As for this man Selwyn, whom he had never met, he saw no reason why he should drop business and scuttle uptown in order to welcome him.
No doubt he was a good fellow; no doubt he had behaved very decently in a matter which, until a few moments before, he had heard little about. He meant to be civil; he’d look up Selwyn when he had a chance, and ask him to dine at the club.
But this afternoon he couldn’t do it; and, as for the evening, he had made his arrangements, and he had no intention of disturbing them on Austin’s account.
When he reached his office he picked up the telephone and called up Gerard’s house; but neither his sister nor anybody else was there except the children and servants, and Captain Selwyn had not yet called.
So he left no message, merely saying that he’d call up again. Which he forgot to do. Meanwhile Captain Selwyn was sauntering along Fifth Avenue under the leafless trees, scanning the houses of the rich and great across the way; and these new houses of the rich and great stared back at him out of a thousand casements as polished and expressionless as the monocles of the mighty.
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And, strolling at leisure in the pleasant winter weather, he came presently to a street, stretching eastward in all the cold impressiveness of very new limestone and plate-glass.
As usual when perplexed he slowly raised his hand to his moustache; and his pleasant gray eyes, still slightly blood-shot from the glare of the tropics, narrowed as he inspected this unfamiliar house.
The house was a big elaborate limestone affair, evidently new. Winter sunshine sparkled on lace-hung casement, on glass marquise, and the burnished bronze foliations of grille and door.
It was flood-tide along Fifth Avenue; motor, brougham, and victoria swept by on the glittering current; pretty women glanced out from limousine and tonneau; young men of his own type, silk-hatted, frock-coated, the crooks of their walking sticks tucked up under their left arms, passed on the Park side.
But the nods of recognition, lifted hats, the mellow warnings of motor horns, clattering hoofs, the sun flashing on carriage wheels and polished panels, on liveries, harness, on the satin coats of horses—a gem like a spark of fire smothered by the sables at a woman’s throat, and the bright indifference of her beauty—all this had long since lost any meaning for him.
For him the pageant passed as the west wind passes in Samar over the glimmering valley grasses; and he saw it through sun-dazzled eyes—all this, and the leafless trees beyond against the sky, and the trees mirrored in a little wintry lake as brown as the brown of the eyes which were closed to him now forever.
As he stood there, again he seemed to hear the whistle signal, clear, distant, rippling across the wind-blown grasses where the brown constabulary lay firing in the sunshine; but the rifle shots were the crack of whips, and it was only a fat policeman of the traffic squad whistling to clear the swarming jungle trails of the great metropolis.
Again Selwyn turned to the house, hesitating, unreconciled.
Every sun-lit window stared back at him. He had not been prepared for so much limestone and marquise magnificence where there was more renaissance than architecture and more bay-window than both; but the number was the number of his sister’s house; and, as the street and the avenue corroborated the numbered information, he mounted the doorstep, rang, and leisurely examined four stiff box-trees flanking the ornate portal—meagre vegetation compared to what he had been accustomed to for so many years.
Nobody came; once or twice he fancied he heard sounds proceeding from inside the house. He rang again and fumbled for his card case.
Somebody was coming.
The moment that the door opened he was aware of a distant and curious uproar—far away echoes of cheering, and the faint barking of dogs.
These seemed to cease as the man in waiting admitted him; but before he could make an inquiry or produce a card, bedlam itself apparently broke loose somewhere in the immediate upper landing—noise in its crudest elemental definition—through which the mortified man at the door strove to make himself heard: “Beg pardon, sir, it’s the children broke loose an’ runnin’ wild-like—”.
His voice was lost in the yelling dissonance descending crescendo from floor to floor. Then an avalanche of children and dogs poured down the hall-stairs in pursuit of a rumpled and bored cat, tumbling with yelps and cheers and thuds among the thick rugs on the floor.
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Here the cat turned and soundly cuffed a pair of fat beagle puppies, who shrieked and fled, burrowing for safety into the yelling heap of children and dogs on the floor.
Above this heap legs, arms, and the tails of dogs waved wildly for a moment, then a small boy, blond hair in disorder, staggered to his knees, and, setting hollowed hand to cheek, shouted: “Hi!
Harkaway for’rard!
Take him, Rags! Now, Tatters! After him, Owney!
Get on, there, Schnitzel! Worry him, Stinger! At which encouraging invitation the two fat beagle pups, a waddling dachshund, a cocker, and an Irish terrier flew at Selwyn’s nicely creased trousers; and the small boy, rising to his feet, became aware of that astonished gentleman for the first time.
Prepare to receive infantry—and doggery, too! Remember the Alamo! Several children, disentangling themselves from the heap, rose to confront the visitor; the shocked man, Dawson, attempted to speak again, but Selwyn’s raised hand quieted him.
The small boy with the blond hair stepped forward and dragged several dogs from the vicinity of Selwyn’s shins. Part of the game is to all fall down together and pretend we’ve come croppers.
You see, don’t you? There’s wire, you know,” volunteered the girl, Drina, rubbing the bruises on her plump shins. The big black cat, horribly bored by the proceedings, had settled down on a hall seat, keeping one disdainful yellow eye on the dogs.
Won’t you sit down?
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Our mother is not at home, but we are. We are trying to be polite—” and, in a fierce whisper, turning on the smaller of the boys—”Winthrop!
Billy, you make him behave himself. The blond-haired M. Drina dropped the cat, swept the curly hair from her eyes, and stood up very straight in her kilts and bare knees.
Their direct expectant gaze slightly embarrassed him; he laughed a little, but there was no response from them.
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Hope you don’t mind. You don’t have to entertain me, you know. You are not our Uncle Philip, are you? Shall we shake hands? Drina spoke at last: “Ye-es,” she said slowly, “I think it is all right to shake hands.
Selwyn stooped; she laid her right hand across his, hesitated, looked up fearlessly, and then, raising herself on tiptoe, placed both arms upon his shoulders, offering her lips.
One by one the other children came forward to greet this promising new uncle whom the younger among them had never before seen, and whom Drina, the oldest, had forgotten except as that fabled warrior of legendary exploits whose name and fame had become cherished classics of their nursery.
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