The City of Masks/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI
THE BRIDE-ELECT
FOUR persons, a woman and three men, assembled in the insignificant hallway at the top of the steps reaching to the fifth floor of the building occupied by Deborah, Limited. To be precise, they were the butler, the parlour-maid and two austere footmen. Cricklewick was speaking.
"Marriage is a most venturesome undertaking, my dear." He addressed himself to Julia, the parlourmaid. "So don't go saying it isn't."
"I didn't say it wasn't," said Julia stoutly. "What I said was, if ever any two people were made for each other it's him and her."
"In my time," said Cricklewick, "I've seen what looked to be the most excellent matches turn out to be nothing but fizzles."
"Well, this one won't," said she.
"As I was saying to McFaddan in the back 'all a minute ago, Mr. Cricklewick, the larst weddin' of any consequence I can remember hattending was when Lady Jane's mother was married to the Earl of Wexham. I sat on the box with old 'Oppins and we ran hover a dog drivin' away from St. George's in 'Anover Square." It was Moody who spoke. He seemed to relish the memory. "It was such a pretty little dog, too. I shall never forget it." He winked at Julia.
"You needn't wink at me. Moody," said Julia. "I didn't like the little beast any more than you did."
"Wot I've always wanted to know is how the blinkin' dog got loose in the street that day," mused McFaddan. "He was the most obstinate dog I ever saw. It was absolutely impossible to coax 'im into the stable-yard when Higgins's bull terrier was avisitin' us, and you couldn't get him into the stall with Dandy Boy,—not to save your life. He seemed to know that hoss would kick his bloomin' gizzard out. I used to throw little hunks of meat into the stall for him, too,—nice little morsels that any other dog in the world would have been proud to risk anything for. But him? Not a bit of it. He was the most disappointing bull-headed animal I ever saw. I've always meant to ask how did it happen, Julia?"
"I had him out for his stroll," said Julia, with a faraway, pleased expression in her eyes. "I thought as how he might be interested in seeing the bride and groom, and all that, when they came out of the church, so I took him around past Claridge's, and would you believe it he got away from me right in the thick of the carriages. He was that kind of a dog. He would always have his own way. I was terribly upset, McFaddan. You must remember how I carried on, crying and moaning and all that till her ladyship had to send for the doctor. It seemed to sort of get her mind off her bereavement, my hysterics did."
"You made a puffeck nuisance of yourself," said Cricklewick.
"I took notice, however, Mr. Cricklewick, that you didn't shed any tears," said she coldly.
"Certainly not," said the butler. "I admit I should have cried as much as anybody. You've no idea how fond the little darling was of me. There was hardly a day he didn't take a bite out of me, he liked me so much. He used to go without his regular meals, he had such a preference for my calves. I've got marks on me to this day."
"And just to think, it was twenty-six years ago," sighed Moody. "'Ow times 'ave changed."
"Not as much as you'd think," said Julia, a worried look in her eyes. "My mistress is talking of getting another dog,—after all these years. She swore she'd never have another one to take 'is place."
"Thank 'eavings," said Moody devoutly, "I am in another situation." He winked and chuckled loudly.
"As 'andsome a pair as you'll see in a twelve-month," said McFaddan. "He is a—"
"Ahem!" coughed the butler. "There is some one on the stairs, Julia."
Silently, swiftly, the group dissolved. Cricklewick took his place in the foyer, Julia clattered down the stairs to the barred gate. Moody went into the big drawing-room where sat the Marchioness, resplendent,—the Marchioness, who, twenty-six years before, had owned a pet that came to a sad and inglorious end on a happy wedding-day, and she alone of a large and imposing household had been the solitary mourner. She was the Marchioness of Camelford in those days.
The nobility of New York,—or such of it as existed for the purpose of dignifying the salon,—was congregating on the eve of the marriage of Lady Jane Thorne and Lord Temple. Three o'clock the next afternoon was the hour set for the wedding, the place a modest little church, somewhat despised by its lordlier companions because it happened to be off in a somewhat obscure cross-town street and encouraged the unconventional.
The bride-elect was not so proud or so self-absorbed that she could desert the Marchioness in the preparation of what promised to be the largest, the sprightliest and the most imposing salon of the year. She had put on an old gingham gown, had rolled up the sleeves, and had lent a hand with a will and an energy that distressed, yet pleased the older woman. She dusted and polished and scrubbed, and she laughed joyously and sang little snatches of song as she toiled. And then, when the work was done, she sat down to her last dinner with the delighted Marchioness and said she envied all the charwomen in the world if they felt as she did after an honest day's toil.
"I daresay I ought to pay you a bit extra for the work you've done today," the Marchioness had said, a sly glint in her eyes. "Would a shilling be satisfactory, my good girl?"
"Quite, ma'am," said Jane, radiant. "I've always wanted a lucky shillin', ma'am. I haven't one to me name."
"You'll be having sovereigns after tomorrow, God bless you," said the other, a little catch in her voice,—and Jane got up from the table instantly and kissed her.
"I am ashamed of myself for having taken so much from you, dear, and given so little in return," she said. "I haven't earned a tenth of what you've paid me."
The Marchioness looked up and smiled,—and said nothing.
"Isn't Lieutenant Aylesworth perfectly stunning?" Lady Jane inquired, long afterwards, as she obediently turned this way and that while the critical Deborah studied the effect of her latest creation in gowns.
"Raise your arm, my dear,—so! I believe it is a trifle tight— What were you saying?"
"Lieutenant Aylesworth,—isn't he adorable?"
"My dear," said the Marchioness, "it hasn't been your good fortune to come in contact with many of the real American men. You have seen the imitations. Therefore you are tremendously impressed with the real article when it is set before you. Aylesworth is a splendid fellow. He is big and clean and gentle. There isn't a rotten spot in him. But you must not think of him as an exception. There are a million men like him in this wonderful country,—ay, more than a million, my dear. Give me an American every time. If I couldn't get along with him and be happy to the end of my days with him, it would be my fault and not his. They know how to treat a woman, and that is more than you can say for our own countrymen as a class. All that a woman has to do to make an American husband happy is to let him think that he isn't doing quite enough for her. If I were twenty-five years younger than I am, I would get me an American husband and keep him on the jump from morning till night doing everything in his power to make himself perfectly happy over me. This Lieutenant Aylesworth is a fair example of what they turn out over here, my dear Jane. You will find his counterpart everywhere, and not always in the uniform of the U. S. Navy. They are a new breed of men, and they are full of the joy of living. They represent the revivified strength of a dozen run-down nations, our own Empire among them."
"He may be all you claim for him," said Jane, "but give me an English gentleman every time."
"That is because you happen to be very much in love with one, my dear,—and a rare one into the bargain. Eric Temple has lost nothing by being away from England for the past three years. He is as arrogant and as cocksure of himself as any other Englishmen, but he has picked up virtues that most of his countrymen disdain. Never fear, my dear,—he will be a good husband to you. But he will not eat out of your hand as these jolly Americans do. And when he is sixty he will be running true to form. He will be a lordly old dear and you will have to listen to his criticism of the government, and the navy and the army and all the rest of creation from morning till night and you will have to agree with him or he won't understand what the devil has got into you. But, as that is precisely what all English wives love better than anything else in the world, you will be happy."
"I don't believe Eric will ever become crotchety or overbearing," said Jane stubbornly.
"That would be a pity, dear," said the Marchioness, rising; "for of such is the kingdom of Britain."
*********
Shortly after eleven o'clock, Julia came hurrying upstairs in great agitation. She tried vainly for awhile to attract the attention of the pompous Cricklewick by a series of sibilant whispers directed from behind the curtains in the foyer.
The huge room was crowded. Everybody was there, including Count Andrew Drouillard, who rarely attended the functions; the Princess Mariana di Pavesi, young Baron Osterholz (who had but recently returned to New York after a tour of the West as a chorus-man in "The Merry Widow"); and Prince Waldemar de Bosky, excused for the night from Spangler's on account of a severe attack of ptomaine poisoning.
"What do you want?" whispered Cricklewick, angrily, passing close to the curtains and cocking his ear without appearing to do so.
"Come out here," whispered Julia.
"Don't hiss like that! I can't come."
"You must. It's something dreadful."
"Is it McFaddan's wife?" whispered Cricklewick, in sudden dismay.
"Worse than that. The police."
"My Gawd!"
The butler looked wildly about. He caught McFaddan's eye, and signalled him to come at once. If it was the police, McFaddan was the man to handle them. All the princes and lords and counts in New York combined were not worth McFaddan's little finger in an emergency like this.
At the top of the steps Julia explained to the perspiring Cricklewick and the incredulous McFaddan.
"They're at the gate down there, two of 'em in full uniform,—awful looking things,—and a man in a silk hat and evening dress. He says if we don't let him up he'll have the joint pulled."
"We'll see about that," said McFaddan gruffly and not at all in the voice or manner of a well-trained footman. He led the way down the steps, followed by Cricklewick and the trembling Julia. At the last landing but one, he halted, and in a superlatively respectful whisper restored Cricklewick to his natural position as a superior.
"You go ahead and see what they want," he said.
"What's wrong with your going first?" demanded Cricklewick, holding back.
"I suddenly remembered that the cops wouldn't know what to think if they saw me in this rig," confessed McFaddan, ingratiatingly. "They might drop dead, you know."
"You can explain that you're attending a fancy dress party," said Cricklewick earnestly. "I am a respectable, dignified merchant and I—"
"Go on, man! If you need me I'll be waitin' at the top of the steps. They don't know you from Adam, so what's there to be afraid of?"
Fortified by McFaddan's promise, Cricklewick descended to the barred and locked grating.
"What's goin' on here?" demanded the burliest policeman he had ever seen. The second bluecoat shook the gate till it rattled on its hinges.
Mr. Cricklewick was staring, open-mouthed but speechless, at the figure behind the policemen.
"Open up," commanded the second officer. "Get a move on."
"We got to see what kind of a joint this is, uncle. This gentleman says something's been goin' on here for the past month to his certain knowledge,—"
"Just a moment," broke in Cricklewick, hastily covering the lower part of his face with his hand,—that being the nearest he could come, under the circumstances, to emulating the maladroit ostrich. "I will call Mr.—"
"You'll open the gate right now, me man, or we'll bust it in and jug the whole gang of ye," observed the burlier one, scowling.
"Go ahead and bust," said Cricklewick, surprising himself quite as much as the officers. "Hey, Mack!" he called out. "Come down at once! Now, you'll see!" he rasped, turning to the policemen again. The light of victory was in his eye.
"What's that!" roared the cop.
"Break it down," ordered the young man in the rear. "I tell you there's a card game or—even worse—going on upstairs. I've had the place watched. All kinds of hoboes pass in and out of here on regular nights every week,—the rottenest lot of men and women I've—"
"Hurry up, Mack!" shouted Mr. Cricklewick. He was alone. Julia had fled to the top landing.
"Coming," boomed a voice from above. A gorgeous figure in full livery filled the vision of two policemen.
"For the love o' Mike," gasped the burly one, and burst into a roar of laughter. "What is it?"
"Well, of all the—" began the other.
McFaddan interrupted him just in time to avoid additional ignominy.
"What the hell do you guys mean by buttin' in here?" he roared, his face brick-red with anger.
"Cut that out," snarled the burly one. "You'll mighty soon see what we mean by—"
"Beat it. Clear out!" shouted McFaddan.
"Smash the door down," shouted the young man in full evening dress.
"Oh, my God!" gasped McFaddan, his eyes almost popping from his head. He had recognized the speaker.
By singular coincidence all three of the men outside the gate recognized Mr. Cornelius McFaddan at the same time.
"Holy mackerel!" gasped the burly one, grabbing for his cap. "It's—it's Mr. McFaddan or I'm a goat."
"You're a goat all right," declared McFaddan in a voice that shook all the confidence out of both policemen and caused Mr. Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis to back sharply toward the steps leading to the street. "Where's Julia?" roared the district boss, glaring balefully at Stuyvie. "Get the key, Cricklewick,—quick. Let me out of here. I'll never have another chance like this. The dirty—"
"Calm yourself, McFaddan," pleaded Cricklewick. "Remember where you are—and who is upstairs. We can't have a row, you know. It—"
"What's the game, Mr. McFaddan?" inquired one of the policemen, very politely. "I hope we haven't disturbed a party or anything like that. We were sent over here by the sergeant on the complaint of this gentleman, who says—"
"They've got a young girl up there," broke in Stuyvesant. "She's been decoyed into a den of crooks and white-slavers headed by the woman who runs the shop downstairs. I've had her watched. I—"
"O'Flaherty," cried McFaddan, in a pleading voice, "will ye do me the favour of breaking this damned door down? I'll forgive ye for everything—yes, bedad, I'll get ye a promotion if ye'll only rip this accursed thing off its hinges."
"Ain't this guy straight?" demanded O'Flaherty, turning upon Stuyvesant. "If he's been double-crossing us—"
"I shall report you to the Commissioner of Police," cried Stuyvesant, retreating a step or two as the gate gave signs of yielding. "He is a friend of mine."
"He is a friend of Mr. McFaddan's also," said O'Flaherty, scratching his head dubiously. "I guess you'll have to explain, young feller."
"Ask him to explain," insisted Stuyvie.
"Permit me," interposed Cricklewick, in an agitated voice. "This is a private little fancy dress party. We—"
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Stuyvesant, coming closer to a real American being than he had ever been before in all his life. "It's old Cricklewick! Why, you old roué!"
"I—I—let me help you, McFaddan," cried Cricklewick suddenly. "If we all put our strength to the bally thing, it may give way. Now! All together!"
Julia came scuttling down the steps.
"Be quiet!" she cried, tensely. "Whatever are we to do? She's coming down—they're both coming down. They are going over to the Ritz for supper. The best man is giving a party. Oh, my soul! Can't you do anything, McFaddan?"
"Not until you unlock the gate," groaned McFaddan, perspiring freely.
"There she is!" cried Stuyvesant, pointing up the stairs. "Now, will you believe me?"
"Get out of sight, you!" whispered McFaddan violently, addressing the bewildered policemen. "Get back in the hall and don't breathe,—do you hear me? As for you—" Cricklewick's spasmodic grip on his arm checked the torrent.
Lady Jane was standing at the top of the steps, peering intently downward.
"What is it, Cricklewick?" she called out.
"Nothing, my lady,—nothing at all," the butler managed to say with perfect composure. "Merely a couple of newspaper reporters asking for—ahem—an interview. Stupid blighters! I—I sent them away in jolly quick order."
"Isn't that one of them still standing at the top of the steps?" inquired she.
"It's—it's only the night-watchman," said McFaddan.
"Oh, I see. Send him off, please. Lord Temple and I are leaving at once, Cricklewick. Julia, will you help me with my wraps?"
She disappeared from view. Julia ran swiftly up the steps.
Stuyvesant, apparently alone in the hall outside, put his hand to his head.
"Did—did she say Lord Temple?"
"Beat it!" said McFaddan.
"The chap the papers have been— What the devil has she to do with Lord Temple?"
"I forgot to get the key from Julia, damn it!" muttered McFaddan, suddenly trying the gate again.
"I say, Jane!" called out a strong, masculine voice from regions above. "Are you nearly ready?"
Rapid footsteps came down the unseen stairway, and a moment later the erstwhile Thomas Trotter, as fine a figure in evening dress as you'd see in a month of Sundays, stopped on the landing.
"Will you see if there's a taxi waiting, Cricklewick?" he said. "Moody telephoned for one a few minutes ago. I'll be down in a second, Jane dear."
He dashed back up the stairs.
"Officer O'Flaherty!" called out Mr. McFaddan, in a cautious undertone, "will you be good enough to step downstairs and see if Lord Temple's taxi's outside?"
"What'll we do with this gazabo, Mr. McFaddan?"
"Was—is that man—that chauffeur—was that Lord Temple?" sputtered Stuyvesant.
"Yes, it was," snapped McFaddan. "And ye'd better be careful how ye speak of your betters. Now, clear out. I wouldn't have Lady Jane Thorne know I lied to her for anything in the world."
"Lied? Lied about what?"
"When I said ye were a decent night-watchman," said McFaddan.
Stuyvesant went down the steps and into the street, puzzled and sick at heart.
He paused irresolutely just outside the entrance. If they were really the Lord Temple and the Lady Jane Thorne whose appearance in the marriage license bureau at City Hall had provided a small sensation for the morning newspapers, it wouldn't be a bad idea to let them see that he was ready and willing to forget and forgive—
"Move on, now! Get a move, you!" ordered O'Flaherty, giving him a shove.