Half a Rogue Part 10

"And you, Madam, shall be among the first to call on her. Mind that!"

She looked at the man pityingly. Men never understood. Call on her? Of course, she would call on her. For how could she make the woman unhappy if she did not call on her?

Chapter V

Every city has its Fifth Avenue. That which we can not have as our own we strive to imitate. Animal and vegetable life simply reproduces itself; humanity does more than that, it imitates. Williams Street was the Fifth Avenue of Herculaneum. It was broad, handsome, and climbed a hill of easy incline. It was a street of which any city might be justly proud. Only two or three houses jarred the artistic sense.

These were built by men who grew rich so suddenly and unexpectedly that their sense of the grotesque became abnormal. It is an interesting fact to note that the children of this cla.s.s become immediately seized with a species of insanity, an insanity which urges them on the one hand to buy newspapers with dollar-bills, and on the other to treat their parents with scant respect. Sudden riches have, it would seem, but two generations: the parent who acc.u.mulates and the son who spends.

The Warrington home (manor was applied to but few houses in town) stood back from the street two hundred feet or more, on a beautiful natural terrace. The lawn was wide and crisp and green, and the oak trees were the envy of many. The house itself had been built by one of the early settlers, and Warrington had admired it since boyhood. It was of wood, white, with green blinds and wide verandas, pillared after the colonial style. Warrington had purchased it on a bank foreclosure, and rather cheaply, considering the location. The interior was simple but rich. The great fireplace was made of old Roman bricks; there were exquisite paintings and marbles and rugs and china, and books and books. Very few persons in Herculaneum had been inside, but these few circulated the report that the old house had the handsomest interior in town. Straightway Warrington's income became four times as large as it really was.

The old aunt and the "girl" kept the house scrupulously clean, for there was no knowing when Richard might take it into his head to come home. The "girl's" husband took care of the stables and exercised the horses. And all went very well.

Warrington seldom went to church. It was not because he was without belief; there was a strong leaven of faith underlying his cynicism.

Frankly, sermons bored him. It was so easy for his imaginative mind to reach out and take the thought from the preacher's mouth almost before he uttered it. Thus, there was never any suspense, and suspense in sermons, as in books and plays, is the only thing that holds captive our interest.

So he stayed at home and read the Sunday papers. That part not devoted to society and foreign news was given up wholly to local politics.

Both the Democratic and Republican parties were in bad odor. In the Common Council they were giving away street-railway franchises; gambling-dens flourished undisturbed, and saloons closed only when some member of the saloon-keeper's family died. The anti-gambling league had succeeded in suppressing the slot machines for a fortnight; this was the only triumph virtue could mark down for herself. There were reformers in plenty, but their inordinate love of publicity ruined the effectiveness of their work. A bra.s.s band will not move the criminal half so quickly as a sudden pull at the scruff of his neck.

So the evil-doer lay low, or borrowed the most convenient halo and posed as a deeply-wronged man. Warrington, as he read, smiled in contempt. They had only one real man in town, scoundrel though he was.

There are certain phases of villainy that compel our admiration, and the villainy of McQuade was of this order. The newspapers were evidently subsidized, for their clamor was half-hearted and hypocritical. Once or twice Warrington felt a sudden longing to take off his coat and get into the fight; but the impulse was transitory.

He realized that he loved ease and comfort too well.

Finally he tossed aside the sheets and signaled to the dog. It was a bull terrier, old and scarred, and unchanging in his affections. He loved this master of his, even if he saw him but once a year. They understood each other perfectly. He was a peace-loving animal, but he was a fighter at times--like his master. He had a beautiful head, broad punis.h.i.+ng jaws, and, for all his age, he had not run to fat, which is the ignominious end of all athletes, men or dogs.

"Old boy, this is a jolly bad world."

Jove wagged his stump of a tail.

"We should all be thieves if it were not for publicity and jail."

Jove coughed deprecatingly. Perhaps he recollected purloined haunches of aforetime.

"Sometimes I've half a mind to pack up and light out to the woods, and never look at a human being again."

Jove thought this would be fine; his tail said so.

"But I'm like a man at a good play; I've simply got to stay and see how it ends, for the great Dramatist has me guessing."

Warrington stared into the kind brown eyes and pulled the ragged ears.

There was a kind of guilt in the old dog's eyes, for dogs have consciences. If only he dared tell his master! There was somebody else now. True, this somebody else would never take the master's place; but what was a poor dog to do when he was lonesome and never laid eyes on his master for months and months? n.o.body paid much attention to him in this house when the master was away. He respected aunty (who had the spinster's foolish aversion for dogs and the incomprehensible affection for cats!) and for this reason never molested her supercilious Angora cat. Could he be blamed if he sought (and found) elsewhere affection and confidence? Why, these morning rides were as good as a bone. She talked to him, told him her secrets (secrets he swore on a dog's bible never to reveal!) and desires, and fed him chicken, and cuddled him. There were times when he realized that old age was upon him; some of these canters left him breathless and groggy.

"I've been thinking, boy," the master's voice went on. "New York isn't so much, after all. I wasn't city born, and there are times when the flowing gold of the fields and the cool woods call. Bah! There's nothing now to hold me anywhere. I hope she'll make him happy; she can do it if she tries. Heigh-ho! the ride this morning has made me sleepy. To your rug, boy, to your rug."

Warrington stretched himself on the lounge and fell asleep. And thus the aunt found him on her return from church. She hated to wake him but she simply could not hold back the news till luncheon. She touched his arm, and he woke with the same smile that had dimpled his cheeks when he was a babe in her arms. Those of us who have retained the good disposition of youth never scowl upon being awakened.

"Aha," he cried, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Richard, I wish you had gone to church this morning."

"And watched the gossips and scandal-mongers twist their barbs in Mrs.

Bennington's heart? Hardly."

She gazed at him, nonplussed. There was surely something uncanny in this boy, who always seemed to know what people were doing, had done or were going to do.

"I wouldn't have believed it of my congregation," she said.

"Oh, Mrs. Bennington is a woman of the world; she understands how to make barbs harmless. But that's why I never go to church. It doesn't soothe me as it ought to; I fall too easily into the habit of pulling my neighbor's mind into pieces. Gossip and weddings and funerals; your reputation in shreds, your best girl married, your best friend dead. I find myself nearer Heaven when I'm alone in the fields. But I've been thinking, Aunty."

"About what?"

"About coming home to stay."

"Oh, Richard, if you only would!" sitting beside him and folding him in her arms. "I'm so lonely. There's only you and I; all the others I've loved are asleep on the hill. Do come home, Richard; you're all I have."

"I'm thinking it over."

Here the Angora came in cautiously. She saw Jove and the dog saw her; fur and hair bristled. Jove looked at his master beseechingly--"Say the word, d.i.c.k, say the word, and I'll give you an entertainment." But the word did not come.

"There's your church-goers, Aunty; always ready to fly at each other.

In order to study humanity thoroughly, one must first learn the ways of the beast."

"I'm afraid your dog's a traitor."

"A traitor?"

"Yes. Half the time he runs over to the Benningtons' and stays all night. I don't see why he should."

"Maybe they pet him over there. Perhaps he wants a hand sometimes, just like human beings when they're lonely. If you petted him once in a while, one pat for every ten you give the cat, the old boy would be tickled to death."

"But I'm kind to him, Richard; he has the best meat I can buy. I'd pet him, too, but I'm afraid of him. I'm always afraid of dogs. Besides, his feet are always muddy and his hair falls out and sticks to everything."

"Who is his latest love?"

"Patty Bennington. They go out riding together. I can always tell, for his stomach is invariably caked with dried mud."

"Patty Bennington? The old dog shows good taste. And I had forgotten all about Bennington's having a sister. I was thunderstruck when I met her the other week in New York. I had really forgotten her. She is charming."

"She is a dear young girl. Ah, Richard, if only you would find some one like her."

"Marriages are made in Heaven, Aunt, and I'm going to wait till I get there. But I'll think it over about coming home to stay."

"I'll be so happy!" the old lady cried. "I'm going right out into the kitchen myself and make one of those cherry pies you used to rave over."

She disappeared; and Warrington laughed, rose and stretched the sleep from his arms and legs, and went up stairs to dress. Yes, he would think it over. There was nothing to hold him in New York, nothing but the craving for noise and late hours. Why not settle down here? There would be plenty to do. Besides, if he lived in Herculaneum he could run over to the Bennington home at any time of day. His cheeks flushed of a sudden.