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, n.o.blest Southern gentlemen who ever lived. I have mourned his loss for nearly ten years, and---- But don"t stand there twiddling your 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 to sketch out the idea.
"You see," says Steele, "Pyramid Gordon wished to make what reparation he could for any injustice he might have done during the course of his business career. He left a list of names, among them being this, "the widow of Professor Lee Hollister." Now possibly Gordon, in some way----"
"He did," breaks in Mrs. Hollister. "My husband had issued an elaborate and exhaustive geological report on a certain district. It had attracted wide attention. He was to have been appointed State Geologist, when suddenly this Mr. Gordon appeared and began his unwarranted campaign of abuse and opposition. Something about some coal and iron deposits, I believe it was, on land which he was trying to sell to an English syndicate. Professor Hollister"s report failed to mention any such deposits. As a matter of fact they did not exist. But Mr. Gordon summoned experts of his own, who attacked my husband"s statements. The professor declined to enter into a public controversy. His dignity would not permit him. Underhanded influence was brought to bear on the Governor, and the appointment was given to another. But time has shown.
Discredited and beaten though he seemed to be, my husband was right. The Gordon lands proved valueless. Those in which Professor Hollister invested 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 public life. As for recompense--surely you would not think of asking me to accept it from such a source! Never! Besides, I have more than enough.
Several years ago I disposed of our mineral holdings, bought back the old Hollister mansion, and I am now living there in as much comfort as poor Lee could have wished me to enjoy. What could Gordon"s money add to that?"
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 that there"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"t understand," says she. "I am no longer the vain, frivolous young girl whom you knew that winter in Chicago. My first season, that was. I was being lavishly entertained. I suppose I became dazzled by it all,--the attention, the new scenes, the many men I met. I"ve no doubt I behaved very silly. But now--well, I have realized all my social ambitions. Now I 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 this dose 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 of our Guild Mission cla.s.ses, you know. They have been anxious to have some dances. 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 order to convince myself that I am right, I might as well, while I am in New York--well--er----"
"I get you," I puts in. "You want to watch the real thing pulled--the fox trot, and the new polkas, and so on. Eh?"
"Not for my own personal amus.e.m.e.nt," corrects Mrs. Hollister. "I am sure I shall be bored, perhaps shocked; but then I shall be better able to warn my girls."
"The old gag!" says I. "I know what would fit your case,--a late dinner at 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 I am 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 can think up any previous date the lady has accepted.
"I have heard of the place," says she. "I am quite willing to endure an evening there. I am wondering, though, if I should not be rather conspicuous. You see, I brought with me none but simple gowns such as this, and perhaps the contrast----"
"You"d be about as prominent at the Maxixe in that outfit," says I, "as a one-legged albino at a c.o.o.n cakewalk. Besides, they don"t let you in there unless you"re in full evenin". Course, there"s other joints where----"
"No," says she. "Let it be the Maison Maxixe, if that is the worst. And for once too I may as well submit myself to the horrors of the new fashions. I will order a costume to-day, and I can be ready for my plunge into Gotham vanities by--let me see--we will say Sat.u.r.day 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 reunion of yours. Say, J. B., you got a head like a tack, you have! Have a heart, can"t you?"
"My dear Shorty," says he, "permit me to point out that it was you who suggested taking her to----"
"Because you was sittin" there like a gump," says I. "Only helpin" you out, that"s all. And I"m goin" to look nice, ain"t I, trailin" into a place like that with you and this--say, just where does the lady fit into your past, anyway? Never heard you mention her, did I?"
"Naturally not," says he. "One doesn"t boast of having been thrown over."
"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; but she was charming, vivacious, fascinating. It was a bad case of love at first sight. At eleven o"clock that evening, I remember, I took her in to supper. At twelve I was leading her into a palm-sheltered nook, and the next thing I knew I had taken her in my arms and--well, the usual thing. No one could have made a more complete a.s.s of himself. She should have 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 me quite casually that she really hadn"t meant it; and wasn"t I, after all, rather a wild young man? I a.s.sured her that if I wasn"t wild I should be after that. She only shrugged her shoulders. So I gave her up. The others did too. And she went back to Richmond, it seems, and married a sainted 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"s all."
"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 Maxixe you can pull any kind of romance, stale or recent, and n.o.body"ll care a hoot. I"ll duck the dinner, and you can----"
"No, no!" protests J. Bayard. "I--er--I wouldn"t take her to dinner alone 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 develop into--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 the way she looked at Swifty and me. But wait! We"ll hand her a jolt Sat.u.r.day night."
Steele groans. "I wish I could---- By George!" he explodes. "I"d forgotten Major Ben Cutter."
"What about him?" says I.
"An old friend," says J. Bayard. "He"s landing Sat.u.r.day, from Santa Marta. I haven"t seen him for years,--been down there running a banana plantation, you know. He cabled up, and I"d promised to take him around that 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----"