The Best Man

At six in the evening Newcomb ordered around his horse. He mounted and rode away into the hill country south of the city, into the cold crisp autumn air. There was fever in his veins that needed cooling; there were doubts and fears in his mind that needed clearing. He wanted that sense of physical exhaustion which makes a man indifferent to mental blows.

The day passed and the night came. Election night! The noisy, good-natured crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail-moving crowds! The illuminated canvas-sheets in front of the newspaper offices! The blare of horns, the cries, the yells, the hoots and hurrahs! The petty street fights! The stalled surface-cars, the swearing cabbies, the venders of horns and whistles, the newsboys hawking their extras! It is the greatest of all spectacular nights; humanity comes out into the open.

The newspaper offices were yellow with lights. It was a busy time. There was a continuous coming and going of messengers, bringing in returns. The newspaper men took off their coats and rolled up their sleeves. Figures, figures, thousands of figures to sift and resift! Filtering through the various noises was the maddening click of the telegraph instruments. Great drifts of waste paper littered the floors. A sandwich man served coffee and sandwiches. The chief distributed cigars. Everybody was writing, writing. Five men were sent out to hunt for Newcomb, but none could find him. His mother refused to state where he had gone; in fact, she knew nothing save that he had gone horseback riding.

At nine there was a gathering at the club. Williard was there, and all who had charge of the wheels within wheels. They had ensconced themselves in the huge davenports in the bow-window facing the street, and had given orders to the steward to charge everything that night to Senator Gordon. A fabulous number of corks were pulled; but gentlemen are always orderly.

Williard, however, seemed anything but happy. He had dined at the senator's that evening, and something had taken place there which the general public would never learn. He was gloomy, and the wine he drank only added to his gloom.

The younger element began to wander in, carrying those execrable rooster-posters. A gay time ensued.

Newcomb had ridden twelve miles into the country. At eight o'clock the temperature changed and it began to snow. He turned and rode back toward the city, toward victory or defeat. Sometimes he went at a canter, sometimes at a trot. By and by he could see the aureola from the electric lights wavering above the city. Once he struck a wind-match and glanced at his watch. Had he lost or had he won? A whimsical inspiration came to him. He determined to hear victory or defeat from the lips of the girl he loved. The snow fell softly into his face and melted. His hair became matted over his eyes; his gauntlets dripped and the reins became slippery; a steam rose from the horse's body, a big-hearted hunter on which he had ridden many a mile.

"Good boy!" said Newcomb; "we'll have it first from her lips."

Finally he struck the asphalt of the city limits, and he slowed down to a walk. He turned into obscure streets. Whenever he saw a bonfire, he evaded it.

It was ten o'clock when he drew up in front of the Gordon home. He tied his horse to the post with the hitching-chain and knotted the reins so that they would not slip over the horse's head, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and walked bravely up to the veranda. There were few lights. Through the library window he saw the girl standing at the telephone. He prayed that she might be wholly alone. After a moment's hesitation he pressed the button and waited.

Betty herself came to the door. She peered out.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I did not expect that you would recognize me," said Newcomb, laughing.

"John? Where in the world did you come from?" taking him by the arm and dragging him into the hall. "Good gracious!"

"The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels at six o'clock, and have been riding around the country ever since." He sent her a penetrating glance.

"Come in to the fire," she cried impulsively. "You are cold and wet and hungry."

"Only wet," he admitted as he entered the cheerful library. He went directly to the blazing grate and spread out his red, wet, aching hands. He could hear her bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. A chair rolled up to the fender; the rattle of a tea-table followed. It was all very fine. "I ought to be ashamed to enter a house in these reeking clothes," he said; "but the temptation was too great."

"You are always welcome, John," softly.

His keen ear caught the melancholy sympathy in her tone. He shrugged. He had lost the fight. Had he won, she would already have poured forth her congratulations.

"Sit down," she commanded, "while I get the tea. Or would you prefer brandy?"

"The tea, by all means. I do not need brandy to bolster up my courage." He sat down.

She left the room and returned shortly with biscuit and tea. She filled a cup, put in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup to him.

"You've a good memory," he said, smiling at her. "It's nice to have one's likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I look as if I had been to war, don't I?"

She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not because he was hungry, but because her fingers had touched it. It was a phantom kiss. He put the cup down.

"Now, which is it; have I been licked, or have I won?"

"What!" she cried; "do you mean to tell me you do not know?" She gazed at him bewilderedly.

"I have been four hours in the saddle. I know nothing, save that which instinct and the sweet melancholy of your voice tell me. Betty, tell me, I've been licked, haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done it, eh?"

The girl choked for a moment; there was a sob in her throat.

"Yes, John."

Newcomb reached over and tapped the hearth with his riding-crop, absent-mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her eyes shining in a mist of unshed tears… She longed to reach out her hand and smooth the furrows from his careworn brow, to brush the melting crystals of snow from his hair; longed to soothe the smart of defeat which she knew was burning his heart. She knew that only strong men suffer in silence.

From a half-opened window the night breathed upon them, freighted with the far-off murmur of voices.

"I confess to you that I built too much on the outcome. I am ambitious; I want to be somebody, to take part in the great affairs of the world. I fought the very best I knew how. I had many dreams. Do you recollect the verses I used to write to you when we were children? There was always something of the poet in me, and it is still there, only it no longer develops on paper. I had looked toward Washington … even toward you, Betty."

Silence. The girl sat very still. Her face was white and her eyes large.

"I am honest. I can see now that I have no business in politics…" He laughed suddenly and turned toward the girl. "I was on the verge of wailing. I'm licked, and I must begin all over again. Dick will make a good mayor, that is, if they leave him alone… Whimsical, wasn't it, of me, coming here to have you tell me the news?" He looked away.

The girl smiled and held out her hand to him, and as he did not see it, laid it gently on his sleeve.

"It does not matter, John. Some day you will realize all your ambitions. You are not the kind of man who gives up. Defeat is a necessary step to greatness; and you will become great. I am glad that you came to me." She knew now; all her doubts were gone, all the confusing shadows.

Newcomb turned and touched her hand with his lips.

"Why did you come to me?" she asked with fine courage.

His eyes widened. "Why did I come to you? If I had won I should have told you. But I haven't won; I have lost."

"Does that make the difference so great?"

"It makes the difficulty greater."

"Tell me!" with a voice of command.

They both rose suddenly, rather unconsciously, too. Their glances held, magnet and needle-wise. Across the street a bonfire blazed, and the ruddy light threw a mellow rose over their strained faces.

"I love you," he said simply. "That is what drew me here, that is what has always drawn me here. But say nothing to me, Betty. God knows I am not strong enough to suffer two defeats in one night. God bless you and make you happy!"

He turned and took a few steps toward the door.

"If it were not defeat … if it were victory?" she said, in a kind of whisper, her hands on the back of the chair.

The senator came in about midnight. He found his daughter asleep in a chair before a half-dead fire. There was a tender smile on her lips. He touched her gently.

"It is you, daddy?" Her glance traveled from his florid countenance to the clock. "Mercy! I have been dreaming these two hours."

"What do you suppose Newcomb did to-night?" lighting a cigar.

"What did he do?"

"Came into the club and congratulated Williard publicly."

"He did that?" cried the girl, her cheeks dyeing exquisitely.

"Did it like a man, too." The senator dropped into a chair. "It was a great victory, my girl."

Betty smiled. "Yes, it was."

THE ADVENT OF MR. "SHIFTY" SULLIVAN

I

"IT is positively dreadful!"

Even with the puckered brow and drooping lips, Mrs. Cathewe was a most charming young person.

Absently she breathed upon the chilled window-pane, and with the pink horn of her tapering forefinger drew letters and grotesque noses and millions on millions of money.

Who has not, at one time or another, pursued art and riches in this harmless fashion?

The outlook – from the window, not the millions – was not one to promote any degree of cheerfulness, being of darkness, glistening pavements and a steady, blurring rain; and at this particular moment Mrs. Cathewe was quite in sympathy with the outlook; that is to say, dismal.

"Only last week," she went on, "it was an actor out of employ, a man with reversible cuffs and a celluloid collar; but even he knew the difference between bouillon and tea. And now, Heaven have mercy, it is a prize-fighter!"

Mrs. Cathewe reopened the note which in her wrath she had crushed in her left hand, and again read it aloud:

"Dear Nancy – Am bringing home Sullivan, the boxer, to dinner. Now, ducky, don't get mad. I want to study him at close range. You know that I am to have a great boxing scene in my new book, and this study is absolutely necessary. In haste.

Jack."

Mrs. Cathewe turned pathetically to her companion.

"Isn't it awful? A prize-fighter, in spite of all this reform movement! A pugilist!"

"A pug, as my brother would tersely but inelegantly express it," and Caroline Boderick lifted an exquisitely molded chin and laughed; a rollicking laugh which, in spite of her endeavor to remain unmoved, twisted up the corners of Mrs. Cathewe's rebel mouth.

"Forgive me, Nan, if I laugh; but who in the world could help it? It is so droll. This is the greatest house! Imagine, I had the blues the worst kind of way to-day; and now I shall be laughing for a whole week. You dear girl, what do you care? You'll be laughing, too, presently. When a woman marries a successful painter or a popular novelist, she will find that she has wedded also a life full of surprises, full of amusing scenes; ennui is a word cast forth to wander among commonplace folk. Your husband must have his model, just the same as if he were an artist, which he undeniably is."

"Models!" scornfully. "I wish he were a romanticist. I declare, if this realism keeps on, I shall go and live in the country!"

"And have your husband's curios remain all night instead of simply dining." And Caroline pressed her hands against her sides.

"That is it; laugh, laugh! Carol, you have no more sympathy than a turtle."

"You are laughing yourself," said Caroline.

"It is because I'm looking at you. Why, I am positively raging!" She tore her husband's letter into shreds and cast them at her feet. "Jack is always upsetting my choicest plans."

"And my sobriety. If I had a husband like yours I should always be the happiest and merriest woman in the world. What a happy woman you must and ought to be!"

"I am, Carol, I am; but there are times when Jack is as terrible and uncertain as Mark Twain's New England weather. Supposing I had been giving a big dinner to-night? It would have been just the same."

"Only more amusing. Fancy Mrs. Nottingham-Stuart taking inventory of this Mr. Sullivan through that pince-nez of hers!"

A thought suddenly sobered Mrs. Cathewe.

"But whatever shall I do, Carol? I have invited the rector to dine with us."

Mirth spread its sunny wings and flew away, leaving Caroline's beautiful eyes thoughtful and contemplative. "I understood that it was to be a very little dinner for the family."

"Carol, why don't you like the rector? He is almost handsome."

"I do like him, Nan."

"Oh, I don't mean in that way," impulsively.

"In what way?" asked Caroline, her voice losing some of its warmth.

"Passively."

The faint, perpendicular line above Caroline's nose was the only sign of her displeasure.

"Has he proposed to you?"

"Gracious sakes! one would think that the rector was in love with me. Nan, you are very embarrassing when you look like that. Match-making isn't your forte. Besides, the rector and I do not get on very well. Bifurcated riding skirts are not to his fancy; and I would not give up my morning ride for the best man living. Oh, Nan, you ought to ride a horse; there's nothing like it in the world."

"The rector has called upon you more than any other girl in town." When Mrs. Cathewe had an idea, she was very persistent about it. "I have even seen him watching you when delivering a sermon."

Caroline laughed.

"Calling doesn't signify. And you must remember, daddy is the banker of St. Paul's. No, Nan; I don't mean that; I am sure that the rector's calls have nothing to do with the finances of the church. But, to tell the truth, daddy calls him a mollycoddle; says he hasn't enough gumption – whatever that may be – to stand up for himself at the trustees' meetings. All the trustees are opposed to him because he is not over thirty."

"And the best-looking rector the church ever had," supplemented Mrs. Cathewe.

"But a mollycoddle, Nan! You wouldn't have me marry a mollycoddle, would you?" There was a covert plea in her tones which urged Mrs. Cathewe emphatically to deny that the Reverend Richard Allen was a mollycoddle.

Mrs. Cathewe did deny it. "He is not a mollycoddle, and you very well know it. Jack says that his meekness and humility is all a sham."

"A hypocrite!" sitting up very straight.

"Mercy, no! His meekness is merely a sign of splendid self-control. No man could be a mollycoddle and have eyes like his. True, they are mild, but of the mildness of the sea on a calm day. 'Ware of the hurricane!"

"Has Mr. Cathewe found out yet to what college he belonged before he became a divinity student?"

"No; and even I have never had the courage to ask him. But Jack thinks it is Harvard, because the rector let slip one day something about Cambridge. Why don't you write to ask your brother about him?"

For reasons best known to herself, Caroline did not answer.

"Are you ever going to get married? You are twenty-four."

Caroline was laughing again; but it was not the same spirit of mirth that had been called into life by the possible and probable advent of Mr. "Shifty" Sullivan.

"You ought to get married," declared Mrs. Cathewe. "Think of the dinners and teas I should give, following the announcement."

"It is almost worth the risk," mockingly. Caroline arose and walked over to the grate and sat down in the Morris chair. She took up the tongs and stirred the maple log. The spurt of flame discovered a face almost as beautiful as it was interesting and amiable. Her principal claim to beauty, however, lay in her eyes, which were large and brown, with a glister of gold in the rim of that part of the iris which immediately surrounded the pupil. With these eyes she was fascinating; even her dearest friends admitted this; and she was without caprices, which is a rare trait in a beautiful woman. She was also as independent as the Declaration which her mother's grandfather signed a hundred and some odd years before. She came naturally into the spirit, her father being a retired army officer, now the financial mainstay of St. Paul's, of which the Reverend Richard Allen had recently been duly appointed rector.

It is propitious to observe at once that the general possessed an unreliable liver and a battered shin which always ached with rheumatism during rainy weather. Only two persons dared to cross him on stormy days – his daughter and his son. The son was completing his final year at Harvard in the double capacity of so-and-so on the 'varsity crew and some-place-or-other on the eleven, and felt the importance of the luster which he was adding to the historic family name. But this story in nowise concerns him; rather the adventures of Mr. Sullivan, the pugilist, and the rector of St. Paul.

"Mollycoddle," mused Caroline, replacing the tongs.

"Oh, your father's judgment is not infallible."

"It is where courage is concerned," retorted Caroline.

"Well, what's a mollycoddle, anyway?" demanded Mrs. Cathewe, forgetting for the time being her own imminent troubles.

"Does Webster define it? I do not recall. But at any rate the accepted meaning of the word is a person without a backbone, a human being with rubber vertebræ, as daddy expresses it."

"Oh, fudge! your father likes men who slam doors, talk loudly, and bang their fists in their palms."

"Not always," smiling; "at least on days like this."

"Yes, I understand," replied Mrs. Cathewe, laughing. "B-r-r-r! I can see him. Jack says he eats them alive, whatever he means by that."

"Poor daddy!"

"I remember the late rector. Whenever he made a begging call he first asked the servant at the door, 'How's the general's liver to-day?' 'Bad, bad, your worship.' I overheard this dialogue one day while waiting for you. I had to bury my head in the sofa pillows."

"You are going to have Brussels sprouts for salad?"

"Yes. Why?" amused at this queer turn in the conversation.

"I was wondering if your Mr. Sullivan will call them amateur cabbages?"

"Why did you remind me of him? I had almost forgotten him."

"If only I can keep a sober face!" said Caroline, clasping her hands. "If he wears a dress suit, it is sure to pucker across the shoulders, be short in the sleeves, and generally wrinkled. He will wear a huge yellow stone, and his hair will be clipped close to the skull. It will be covered with as many white scars as a map with railroad tracks. 'Mr. Sullivan, permit me to introduce the Reverend Richard Allen.' 'Sure.' Oh, it is rich!" And the laughter which followed smothered the sound of closing doors. "Nan, it is a tonic. I wish I were a novelist's wife. 'Mr. Sullivan, I am charmed to meet you.' I can imagine the rector's horror."

"And what is going to horrify the rector?" asked a manly voice from the doorway.

Both women turned guiltily, each uttering a little cry of surprise and dismay. They beheld a young man of thirty, of medium height, who looked shorter than he really was because of the breadth of his shoulders. His face was clean-shaven and manly; the head was well developed, the chin decided, the blue-gray eyes alight with animation and expectancy. The clerical frock was buttoned closely to the throat, giving emphasis to the splendid breathing powers concealed beneath. The Reverend Richard Allen looked all things save the mollycoddle, as the flush on Caroline's cheeks conceded. And as she arose, she vaguely wondered how much he had heard.

The rector, being above all things a gentleman, did not press his question. He came forward and shook hands, and then spread his fingers over the crackling log.

"What do you suppose has happened to me this day?" he began, turning his back to the blaze and looking first at Mrs. Cathewe because she was his hostess, and then at Caroline because she was the woman who lived first in his thoughts.

"You have found a worthy mendicant?" suggested Caroline, taking up the hand-screen and shading her eyes.

"Cold, cold."

"You have been asked to make an address before some woman's club," Mrs. Cathewe offered.

"Still cold. No. The Morning Post has asked me, in the interests of reform, to write up the prize-fight to-morrow night between Sullivan and McManus, setting forth the contest in all its brutality."

The two women looked at each other and laughed nervously. The same thought had occurred to each.

"Mr. Allen," said Mrs. Cathewe, deciding immediately to explain the cause of her merriment, "as you entered you must have overheard us speak of a Mr. Sullivan. You know how eccentric Mr. Cathewe is. Well, when I invited you to dine this evening I had no idea that this husband of mine was going to bring home Mr. Sullivan in order to study him at close range, as a possible character in a new book he is writing."

The rector stroked his chin. Caroline, observing him shyly, was positive that the luster in his eyes was due to suppressed laughter.

"That will be quite a diversion," he said, seating himself. What a charming profile this girl possessed! Heigh-ho! between riches and poverty the chasm grew wide.

"And we have been amusing ourselves by dissecting Mr. Sullivan," added the woman with the charming profile. "I suggested that if he wore a dress suit it would be either too large or too small."

"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Cathewe, rising suddenly as the hall door slammed, "I believe he has come already. Whatever shall I do, Carol, whatever shall I do?" in a loud whisper.

The rector got up and smiled at Caroline, who returned the smile. In the matter of appreciating humor, she and the rector stood upon common ground.

Presently the novelist and his guest entered. Both he and Mr. Sullivan appeared to be in the best of spirits, for their mouths were twisted in grins.

"My dear," began Cathewe, "this is Mr. Sullivan; Mr. Sullivan, Miss Boderick and the Reverend Richard Allen, of St. Paul's."

"I am delighted," said Mr. Sullivan, bowing.

There was not a wrinkle in Mr. Sullivan's dress suit; there were no diamond studs in his shirt bosom, no watch-chain; just the rims of his cuffs appeared, and these were of immaculate linen. His hair was black and thick and soft as hair always is that is frequently subjected to soap and water. In fact, there was only one sign which betrayed Mr. Sullivan's profitable but equivocal business in life, and this was an ear which somewhat resembled a withered mushroom.

Caroline was disconcerted; she was even embarrassed. This pleasant-faced gentleman bowing to her was as far removed from her preconceived idea of a pugilist as the earth is removed from the sun. She did not know – as the wise writer knows – that it is only pugilists who can not fight who are all scarred and battered. She saw the rector shake Mr. Sullivan's hand. From him her gaze roved to Mrs. Cathewe, and the look of perplexity on that young matron's face caused her to smother the sudden wild desire to laugh.

"My dear, I shall leave you to entertain Mr. Sullivan while I change my clothes;" and Cathewe rushed from the room. He was a man who could not hold in laughter very successfully.

"Come over to the fire and warm yourself," said the rector pleasantly. The look of entreaty in Mrs. Cathewe's eyes could not possibly be ignored.

Mr. Sullivan crossed the room, gazing about curiously.

"I haven't th' slightest idea, ma'am," said the famed pugilist, addressing his hostess, "what your husband's graft is; but I understand he's a literary fellow that writes books, an' I suppose he knows why he ast me here t' eat."

Caroline sighed with relief; his voice was very nearly what she expected it would be.

"An' besides," continued Mr. Sullivan, "I'm kind o' curious myself t' see you swells get outside your feed. I ain't stuck on these togs, generally; a man's afraid t' breathe hearty."

Mrs. Cathewe shuddered slightly; Mr. Sullivan was rubbing the cold from his fungus-like ear. What should she do to entertain this man? she wondered. She glanced despairingly at Caroline; but Caroline was looking at the rector, who in turn seemed absorbed in Mr. Sullivan. She was without help; telegraphic communication was cut off, as it were.