The funeral was private; only the immediate family attended. Duane had written to Geraldine, Kathleen, and Scott not to come, and he had also asked if he might not go to them when the chance arrived.
And now the chance had come at last, in the dead of winter; but the prospect of escape to Geraldine brightened the whole world for him and gilded the snowy streets of the city with that magic radiance no flaming planet ever cast.
He had already shipped a crate of canvases to Roya-Neh; his trunk had gone, and now, checking with an amused shrug a natural impulse to hail a cab, he swung his suit-case and himself aboard a car, bound for the Patroons Club, where he meant to lunch before taking the train for Roya-Neh.
He had not been to the club since the catastrophe and his father"s death, and he was very serious and sombre and slightly embarra.s.sed when he entered.
A servant took his coat and suit-case with marked but subdued respect.
Men whom he knew and some men whom he scarcely knew at all made it a point to speak to him or bow to him with a cordiality too pointed not to affect him, because in it he recognised the acceptance of what he had fought for--the verdict that publicly exonerated his father from anything worse than a bad but honest mistake.
For a second or two he stood in the great marble rotunda looking around him. In that club familiar figures were lacking--men whose social and financial position only a few months before seemed impregnable, men who had gone down in ruin, one or two who had perished by their own hand, several whose physical and financial stamina had been shattered at the same terrible moment. Some were ill, some dead, some had resigned, others had been forced to write their resignations--such men as Dysart for example, and James Skelton, now in prison, unable to furnish bail.
But the Patroons was a club of men above the average; a number among them even belonged to the Pyramid; and the financial disasters of that summer and winter had spared no club in the five boroughs and no membership list had been immune from the sinister consequences of a crash that had resounded from ocean to ocean and had set humble and great scurrying to cover in every Bourse of the civilised world.
As he entered the dining-room and pa.s.sed to his usual table, he caught sight of Delancy Grandcourt lunching alone at the table directly behind him.
"h.e.l.lo, Delancy," he said; "shall we join forces?"
"I"d be glad to; it"s very kind of you, Duane," replied Grandcourt, showing his pleasure at the proposal in the direct honesty of his response. Few men considered it worth while to cultivate Grandcourt. To lunch with him was a bore; a tete-a-tete with him a.s.sumed the proportions of a visitation; his slowness and stupidity had become proverbial in that club; and yet almost the only foundation for it had been Dysart"s att.i.tude toward him; and men"s estimate of him was the more illogical because few men really cared for Dysart"s opinions. But Dysart had introduced him, elected him, and somehow had contrived to make the public accept his half-sneering measure of Grandcourt as Grandcourt"s true stature. And the man, being shy, reticent, slow to anger, slower still to take his own part, was tolerated and good-humouredly avoided when decently possible. So much for the average man"s judgment of an average man.
Seated opposite to Duane, Grandcourt expressed his pleasure at seeing him with a simplicity that touched the other. Then, in perfectly good taste, but with great diffidence, he spoke of Duane"s bereavement.
For a little while they asked and answered those amiably formal questions convention requires under similar circ.u.mstances; then Duane spoke of Dysart gravely, because new rumours were rife concerning him, even a veiled hint of possible indictment and arrest.
"I hope not," said Grandcourt, his heavy features becoming troubled; "he is a broken man, and no court and jury can punish him more severely than he has been punished. Nor do I know what they could get out of him. He has nothing left; everything he possessed has been turned over. He sits all day in a house that is no longer his, doing nothing, hoping nothing, hearing nothing, except the childish babble of his old father or the voices from the hall below, where his servants are fighting off reporters and cranks and people with grievances. Oh, I tell you, Duane, it"s pitiable, all right!"
"There was a rumour yesterday of his suicide," said Duane in a low voice. "I did not credit it."
Grandcourt shook his head: "He never would do that. He totally lacks whatever you call it--cowardice or courage--to do that. It is not like Dysart; it is not in him to do it. He never will, never could. I know him, Duane."
Duane nodded.
Grandcourt spoke again: "He cares for few things; life is one of them.
His father, his social position, his harmless--success with women--"
Grandcourt hesitated, caught Duane"s eye. Both men"s features became expressionless.
Duane said: "I had an exceedingly nice note from Rosalie the other day.
She has bought one of those double-deck apartments--but I fancy you know about it."
"Yes," said Grandcourt, turning red. "She was good enough to ask my opinion." He added with a laugh: "I shouldn"t think anybody would want my opinion after the way I"ve smashed my own affairs."
Duane smiled, too. "I"ve heard," he said, "that yours was the decentest smash of the season. What is that scriptural business about--about a man who lays down his fortune for a friend?"
"His _life_," corrected Grandcourt, very red, "but please don"t confound what I did with anything of importance to anybody." He lighted a cigar from the burning match offered by Duane, very much embarra.s.sed for a moment, then suddenly brightened up:
"I"m in business now," he observed, with a glance at the other, partly timid, partly of pride. "My father was thoroughly disgusted with me--and n.o.body blames him--so he bought me a seat and, Duane, do you know that I am doing rather well, considering that n.o.body is doing anything at all."
Duane laughed heartily, but his mirth did not hurt Grandcourt, who sat smiling and enjoying his cigar, and looking with confidence into a face that was so frankly and unusually friendly.
"You know I always admired you, Duane--even in the days when you never bothered your head about me," he added navely. "Do you remember at school the caricature you drew of me--all hands and feet and face, and absolutely no body? I"ve got that yet; and I"m very proud to have it when I hear people speak of your artistic success. Some day, if I ever have any money again, I"ll ask you to paint a better portrait of me, if you have time."
They laughed again over this mild pleasantry; a cordial understanding was developing between them, which meant much to Grandcourt, for he was a lonely man and his shyness had always deprived him of what he most cared for--what really might have been his only resource--the friendship of other men.
For some time, while they were talking, Duane had noticed out of the corner of his eye another man at a neighbouring table--a thin, pop-eyed, hollow-chested, unhealthy young fellow, who, at intervals, stared insolently at Grandcourt, and once or twice contrived to knock over his gla.s.s of whiskey while reaching unsteadily for a fresh cigarette.
The man was Stuyvesant Quest, drunk as usual, and evidently in an unpleasant mood.
Grandcourt"s back was toward him; Duane paid him no particular attention, though at moments he noticed him scowling in their direction and seemed to hear him fussing and muttering over his whiskey and soda, which, with cigarettes, comprised his luncheon.
"I wish I were going up to Roya-Neh with you," repeated Grandcourt. "I had a bully time up there--everybody was unusually nice to me, and I had a fine time."
"I know they"ll ask you up whenever you can get away," said Duane.
"Geraldine Seagrave likes you immensely."
"Does she?" exclaimed Grandcourt, blushing. "I"d rather believe that than almost anything! She was very, very kind to me, I can tell you; and Lord knows why, because I"ve nothing intellectual to offer anybody, and I certainly am not pretty!"
Duane, very much amused, looked at his watch.
"When does your train leave?" asked Grandcourt.
"I"ve an hour yet."
"Come up to my room and smoke. I"ve better whiskey than we dispense down here. I"m living at the club, you know. They haven"t yet got over my fiasco at home and I can"t stand their joshing."
Neither of the men noticed that a third man followed them, stumbling up the stairs as they took the elevator. Duane was seated in an easy chair by the fire, Grandcourt in another, the decanter stood on a low table between them, when, without formality, the door opened and young Quest appeared on the threshold, white, self-a.s.sertive, and aggressively at his ease:
"If you fellows don"t mind, I"ll b.u.t.t in a moment," he said. "How are you, Mallett? How are you?" giving Grandcourt an impertinent look; and added: "Do you, by any chance, expect your friend Dysart in here this afternoon?"
"Dysart is no longer a member of this club," said Grandcourt quietly.
"I"ve told you that a dozen times."
"All right, I"ll ask you two dozen times more, if I choose," retorted Quest. "Why not?" And he gave him an ugly stare.
The man was just drunk enough to be quarrelsome. Duane paid him no further attention; Grandcourt asked him very civilly if he could do anything for him.
"Sure," sneered Quest. "You can tell Dysart that if I ever come across him I"ll shoot him on sight! Tell him that and be d.a.m.ned!"
"I"ve already told him that," said Grandcourt with a shrug of contempt.
The weak, vicious face of the other reddened:
"What do you mean by taking that tone with me?" he demanded loudly. "Do you think I won"t make good?" He fumbled around in his clothing for a moment and presently jerked a pistol free--one of the automatic kind with rubber b.u.t.t and blued barrel.
"Unless you are drunker than I"ve ever seen you," said Grandcourt, "you"ll put up that pistol before I do."
Quest cursed him steadily for a minute: "Do you think I haven"t got the nerve to use it when m" honour"s "volved? I tell you," he said thickly, "when m" honour"s "volved----"