It is a peculiarity of the human mind that, with whateverapprehension it may be regarding the distant future, it mustreturn after a while to face the minor troubles of the futurethat is immediate. The prospect of a visit to the dentist thisafternoon causes us to forget for the moment the prospect oftotal ruin next year. Mr. Crocker, therefore, having torturedhimself for about a quarter of an hour with his meditations onthe subject of titles, was jerked back to a more imminentcalamity than the appearance of his name in the BirthdayHonours--the fact that in all probability he would be taken againthis morning to watch the continuation of that infernalcricket-match, and would be compelled to spend the greater partof to-day, as he had spent the greater part of yesterday, boredto the verge of dissolution in the pavilion at Lord's.
One gleam of hope alone presented itself. Like baseball, thispastime of cricket was apparently affected by rain, if there hadbeen enough of it. He had an idea that there had been a good dealof rain in the night, but had there been sufficient to cause theteams of Surrey and Kent to postpone the second instalment oftheir serial struggle? He rose from the table and went out intothe hall. It was his purpose to sally out into Grosvenor Squareand examine the turf in its centre with the heel of his shoe, inorder to determine the stickiness or non-stickiness of thewicket. He moved towards the front door, hoping for the best, andjust as he reached it the bell rang.
One of the bad habits of which his wife had cured Mr. Crocker inthe course of the years was the habit of going and answeringdoors. He had been brought up in surroundings where every man washis own door-keeper, and it had been among his hardest tasks tolearn the lesson that the perfect gentleman does not open doorsbut waits for the appropriate menial to come along and do it forhim. He had succeeded at length in mastering this great truth,and nowadays seldom offended. But this morning his mind wasclouded by his troubles, and instinct, allaying itself withopportunity, was too much for him. His fingers had been on thehandle when the ring came, so he turned it.
At the top of the steps which connect the main entrance ofDrexdale House with the sidewalk three persons were standing. Onewas a tall and formidably handsome woman in the early fortieswhose appearance seemed somehow oddly familiar. The second was asmall, fat, blobby, bulging boy who was chewing something. Thethird, lurking diffidently in the rear, was a little man of aboutMr. Crocker's own age, grey-haired and thin with brown eyes thatgazed meekly through rimless glasses.
Nobody could have been less obtrusive than this person, yet it washe who gripped Mr. Crocker's attention and caused that home-sicksufferer's heart to give an almost painful leap. For he wasclothed in one of those roomy suits with square shoulders whichto the seeing eye are as republican as the Stars and Stripes. Hisblunt-toed yellow shoes sang gaily of home. And his hat was notso much a hat as an effusive greeting from Gotham. A long timehad passed since Mr. Crocker had set eyes upon a biped soexhilaratingly American, and rapture held him speechless, as onewho after long exile beholds some landmark of his childhood.
The female member of the party took advantage of hisdumbness--which, as she had not unnaturally mistaken him for thebutler, she took for a silent and respectful query as to herbusiness and wishes--to open the conversation.
"Is Mrs. Crocker at home? Please tell her that Mrs. Pett wishesto see her."There was a rush and scurry in the corridors of Mr. Crocker'sbrain, as about six different thoughts tried to squashsimultaneously into that main chamber where there is room foronly one at a time. He understood now why this woman's appearancehad seemed familiar. She was his wife's sister, and that sameNesta who was some day to be pulverised by the sight of his namein the Birthday Honours. He was profoundly thankful that she hadmistaken him for the butler. A chill passed through him as hepictured what would have been Eugenia's reception of theinformation that he had committed such a bourgeois solecism asopening the front door to Mrs. Pett of all people, who alreadydespised him as a low vulgarian. There had been trouble enoughwhen she had found him opening it a few weeks before to a merecollector of subscriptions for a charity. He perceived, with aclarity remarkable in view of the fact that the discovery of heridentity had given him a feeling of physical dizziness, that atall costs he must foster this misapprehension on hissister-in-law's part.
Fortunately he was in a position to do so. He knew all about whatbutlers did and what they said on these occasions, for in hisinnocently curious way he had often pumped Bayliss on the subject.
He bowed silently and led the way to the morning-room, followedby the drove of Petts: then, opening the door, stood aside toallow the procession to march past the given point.
"I will inform Mrs. Crocker that you are here, madam."Mrs. Pett, shepherding the chewing child before her, passed intothe room. In the light of her outspoken sentiments regarding herbrother-in-law, it is curious to reflect that his manner at this,their first meeting, had deeply impressed her. After many monthsof smouldering revolt she had dismissed her own butler a day orso before sailing for England, and for the first time envy of hersister Eugenia gripped her. She did not covet Eugenia's otherworldly possessions, but she did grudge her this supreme butler.
Mr. Pett, meanwhile, had been trailing in the rear with a huntedexpression on his face. He wore the unmistakable look of a manabout to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat ina strange back-yard bears itself with less jauntiness than a manfaced by such a prospect. A millionaire several times over, Mr.
Pett would cheerfully have given much of his wealth to have beenelsewhere at that moment. Such was the agitated state of his mindthat, when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm as he was aboutto follow his wife into the room, he started so violently thathis hat flew out of his hand. He turned to meet the eyes of thebutler who had admitted him to the house, fixed on his in anappealing stare.
"Who's leading in the pennant race?" said this strange butler ina feverish whisper.
It was a question, coming from such a source, which in anotherthan Mr. Pett might well have provoked a blank stare ofamazement. Such, however, is the almost superhuman intelligenceand quickness of mind engendered by the study of America'snational game that he answered without the slightest hesitation.
"Giants!""Wow!" said the butler.
No sense of anything strange or untoward about the situation cameto mar the perfect joy of Mr. Pett, the overmastering joy of thebaseball fan who in a strange land unexpectedly encounters abrother. He thrilled with a happiness which he had never hopedto feel that morning.
"No signs of them slumping?" enquired the butler.
"No. But you never can tell. It's early yet. I've seen those boyslead the league till the end of August and then be nosed out.""True enough," said the butler sadly.
"Matty's in shape.""He is? The old souper working well?""Like a machine. He shut out the Cubs the day before I sailed!""Fine!"At this point an appreciation of the unusualness of theproceedings began to steal upon Mr. Pett. He gaped at thissurprising servitor.
"How on earth do you know anything about baseball?" he demanded.
The other seemed to stiffen. A change came over his wholeappearance. He had the air of an actor who has remembered hispart.
"I beg your pardon, sir. I trust I have not taken a liberty. I wasat one time in the employment of a gentleman in New York, andduring my stay I became extremely interested in the nationalgame. I picked up a few of the American idioms while in thecountry." He smiled apologetically. "They sometimes slip out.""Let 'em slip!" said Mr. Pett with enthusiasm. "You're the firstthing that's reminded me of home since I left. Say!""Sir?""Got a good place here?""Er--oh, yes, sir.""Well, here's my card. If you ever feel like making a change,there's a job waiting for you at that address.""Thank you, sir." Mr. Crocker stooped.
"Your hat, sir."He held it out, gazing fondly at it the while. It was like beinghome again to see a hat like that. He followed Mr. Pett as hewent into the morning-room with an affectionate eye.
Bayliss was coming along the hall, hurrying more than his wont.
The ring at the front door had found him deep in an extremelyinteresting piece of news in his halfpenny morning paper, and hewas guiltily aware of having delayed in answering it.
"Bayliss," said Mr. Crocker in a cautious undertone, "go and tellMrs. Crocker that Mrs. Pett is waiting to see her. She's in themorning-room. If you're asked, say you let her in. Get me?""Yes, sir," said Bayliss, grateful for this happy solution.
"Oh, Bayliss!""Sir?""Is the wicket at Lord's likely to be too sticky for them to goon with that game to-day?""I hardly think it probable that there will be play, sir. Therewas a great deal of rain in the night."Mr. Crocker passed on to his den with a lighter heart.
* * * * *It was Mrs. Crocker's habit, acquired after years of practice anda sedulous study of the best models, to conceal beneath a mask ofwell-bred indifference any emotion which she might chance tofeel. Her dealings with the aristocracy of England had shown herthat, while the men occasionally permitted themselves anoutburst, the women never did, and she had schooled herself sorigorously that nowadays she seldom even raised her voice. Herbearing, as she approached the morning-room was calm and serene,but inwardly curiosity consumed her. It was unbelievable thatNesta could have come to try to effect a reconciliation, yet shecould think of no other reason for her visit.
She was surprised to find three persons in the morning-room.
Bayliss, delivering his message, had mentioned only Mrs. Pett. ToMrs. Crocker the assemblage had the appearance of being a sort ofOld Home Week of Petts, a kind of Pett family mob-scene. Hersister's second marriage having taken place after their quarrel,she had never seen her new brother-in-law, but she assumed thatthe little man lurking in the background was Mr. Pett. The guesswas confirmed.
"Good morning, Eugenia," said Mrs. Pett.
"Peter, this is my sister, Eugenia. My husband."Mrs. Crocker bowed stiffly. She was thinking how hopelesslyAmerican Mr. Pett was, how baggy his clothes looked, whatabsurdly shaped shoes he wore, how appalling his hat was, howlittle hair he had and how deplorably he lacked all those gracesof repose, culture, physical beauty, refinement, dignity, andmental alertness which raise men above the level of the commoncock-roach.
Mr. Pett, on his side, receiving her cold glance squarely betweenthe eyes, felt as if he were being disembowelled by a clumsyamateur. He could not help wondering what sort of a man thisfellow Crocker was whom this sister-in-law of his had married. Hepictured him as a handsome, powerful, robust individual with astrong jaw and a loud voice, for he could imagine no lesser typeof man consenting to link his lot with such a woman. He sidled ina circuitous manner towards a distant chair, and, having loweredhimself into it, kept perfectly still, pretending to be dead,like an opossum. He wished to take no part whatever in the cominginterview.
"Ogden, of course, you know," said Mrs. Pett.
She was sitting so stiffly upright on a hard chair and had somuch the appearance of having been hewn from the living rock thatevery time she opened her mouth it was as if a statue had spoken.
"I know Ogden," said Mrs. Crocker shortly. "Will you please stophim fidgeting with that vase? It is valuable."She directed at little Ogden, who was juggling aimlessly with ahandsome _objet d'art_ of the early Chinese school, a glance similarto that which had just disposed of his step-father. But Ogdenrequired more than a glance to divert him from any pursuit in whichhe was interested. He shifted a deposit of candy from his rightcheek to his left cheek, inspected Mrs. Crocker for a moment with apale eye, and resumed his juggling. Mrs. Crocker meant nothing inhis young life.
"Ogden, come and sit down," said Mrs. Pett.
"Don't want to sit down.""Are you making a long stay in England, Nesta?" asked Mrs.
Crocker coldly.
"I don't know. We have made no plans.""Indeed?"She broke off. Ogden, who had possessed himself of a bronzepaper-knife, had begun to tap the vase with it. The ringing notethus produced appeared to please his young mind.
"If Ogden really wishes to break that vase," said Mrs. Crocker ina detached voice, "let me ring for the butler to bring him ahammer.""Ogden!" said Mrs. Pett.
"Oh Gee! A fellow can't do a thing!" muttered Ogden, and walkedto the window. He stood looking out into the square, a slighttwitching of the ears indicating that he still made progress withthe candy.
"Still the same engaging child!" murmured Mrs. Crocker.
"I did not come here to discuss Ogden!" said Mrs. Pett.
Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows. Not even Mrs. Otho Lanners,from whom she had learned the art, could do it more effectively.
"I am still waiting to find out why you did come, Nesta!""I came here to talk to you about your step-son, James Crocker."The discipline to which Mrs. Crocker had subjected herself in thematter of the display of emotion saved her from the humiliationof showing surprise. She waved her hand graciously--in the mannerof the Duchess of Axminster, a supreme hand-waver--to indicatethat she was all attention.
"Your step-son, James Crocker," repeated Mrs. Pett. "What is itthe New York papers call him, Peter?"Mr. Pett, the human opossum, came to life. He had contrived tocreate about himself such a defensive atmosphere of non-existencethat now that he re-entered the conversation it was as if acorpse had popped out of its tomb like a jack-in-the-box.
Obeying the voice of authority, he pushed the tombstone to oneside and poked his head out of the sepulchre.
"Piccadilly Jim!" he murmured apologetically.
"Piccadilly Jim!" said Mrs. Crocker. "It is extremely impertinentof them!"In spite of his misery, a wan smile appeared on Mr. Pett'sdeath-mask at this remark.
"They should worry about--!""Peter!"Mr. Pett died again, greatly respected.
"Why should the New York papers refer to James at all?" said Mrs.
Crocker.
"Explain, Peter!"Mr. Pett emerged reluctantly from the cerements. He had supposedthat Nesta would do the talking.
"Well, he's a news-item.""Why?""Well, here's a boy that's been a regular fellow--raised inAmerica--done work on a newspaper--suddenly taken off to Englandto become a London dude--mixing with all the dukes, playingpinochle with the King--naturally they're interested in him."A more agreeable expression came over Mrs. Crocker's face.
"Of course, that is quite true. One cannot prevent the papersfrom printing what they wish. So they have published articlesabout James' doings in English Society?""Doings," said Mr. Pett, "is right!""Something has got to be done about it," said Mrs. Pett.
Mr. Pett endorsed this.
"Nesta's going to lose her health if these stories go on," hesaid.
Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows, but she had hard work to keep acontented smile off her face.
"If you are not above petty jealousy, Nesta . . ."Mrs. Pett laughed a sharp, metallic laugh.
"It is the disgrace I object to!""The disgrace!""What else would you call it, Eugenia? Wouldn't you be ashamed ifyou opened your Sunday paper and came upon a full page articleabout your nephew having got intoxicated at the races and foughta book-maker--having broken up a political meeting--having beensued for breach-of-promise by a barmaid . . ."Mrs. Crocker preserved her well-bred calm, but she was shaken.
The episodes to which her sister had alluded were ancienthistory, horrors of the long-dead past, but it seemed that theystill lived in print. There and then she registered the resolveto talk to her step-son James when she got hold of him in such amanner as would scourge the offending Adam out of him for onceand for all.
"And not only that," continued Mrs. Pett. "That would be bad enoughin itself, but somehow the papers have discovered that I am theboy's aunt. Two weeks ago they printed my photograph with one ofthese articles. I suppose they will always do it now. That is why Ihave come to you. It must stop. And the only way it can be made tostop is by taking your step-son away from London where he isrunning wild. Peter has most kindly consented to give the boy aposition in his office. It is very good of him, for the boy cannotin the nature of things be of any use for a very long time, but wehave talked it over and it seems the only course. I have come thismorning to ask you to let us take James Crocker back to Americawith us and keep him out of mischief by giving him honest work.
What do you say?"Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.
"What do you expect me to say? It is utterly preposterous. I havenever heard anything so supremely absurd in my life.""You refuse?""Of course I refuse.""I think you are extremely foolish.""Indeed!"Mr. Pett cowed in his chair. He was feeling rather like a nervousand peace-loving patron of a wild western saloon who observes twocowboys reach for their hip-pockets. Neither his wife nor hissister-in-law paid any attention to him. The concluding exercisesof a duel of the eyes was in progress between them. After somesilent, age-long moments, Mrs. Crocker laughed a light laugh.
"Most extraordinary!" she murmured.
Mrs. Pett was in no mood for Anglicisms.
"You know perfectly well, Eugenia," she said heatedly, "thatJames Crocker is being ruined here. For his sake, if not formine--"Mrs. Crocker laughed another light laugh, one of those offensiverippling things which cause so much annoyance.
"Don't be so ridiculous, Nesta! Ruined! Really! It is quite truethat, a long while ago, when he was much younger and not quite usedto the ways of London Society, James was a little wild, but allthat sort of thing is over now. He knows"--she paused, settingherself as it were for the punch--"he knows that at any momentthe government may decide to give his father a Peerage . . ."The blow went home. A quite audible gasp escaped her strickensister.
"What!"Mrs. Crocker placed two ringed fingers before her mouth in ordernot to hide a languid yawn.
"Yes. Didn't you know? But of course you live so out of the world.
Oh yes, it is extremely probable that Mr. Crocker's name willappear in the next Honours List. He is very highly thought of bythe Powers. So naturally James is quite aware that he must behavein a suitable manner. He is a dear boy! He was handicapped atfirst by getting into the wrong set, but now his closest friendis Lord Percy Whipple, the second son of the Duke of Devizes, whois one of the most eminent men in the kingdom and a personalfriend of the Premier."Mrs. Pett was in bad shape under this rain of titles, but sherallied herself to reply in kind.
"Indeed?" she said. "I should like to meet him. I have no doubthe knows our great friend, Lord Wisbeach."Mrs. Crocker was a little taken aback. She had not supposed thather sister had even this small shot in her locker.
"Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" she said.
"Oh yes," replied Mrs. Pett, beginning to feel a little better.
"We have been seeing him every day. He always says that he lookson my house as quite a home. He knows so few people in New York.
It has been a great comfort to him, I think, knowing us."Mrs. Crocker had had time now to recover her poise.
"Poor dear Wizzy!" she said languidly.
Mrs. Pett started.
"What!""I suppose he is still the same dear, stupid, shiftless fellow?
He left here with the intention of travelling round the world,and he has stopped in New York! How like him!""Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" demanded Mrs. Pett.
Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.
"Know him? Why, I suppose, after Lord Percy Whipple, he is James'
most intimate friend!"Mrs. Pett rose. She was dignified even in defeat. She collectedOgden and Mr. Pett with an eye which even Ogden could see was notto be trifled with. She uttered no word.
"Must you really go?" said Mrs. Crocker. "It was sweet of you tobother to come all the way from America like this. So strange tomeet any one from America nowadays. Most extraordinary!"The _cortege_ left the room in silence. Mrs. Crocker had touchedthe bell, but the mourners did not wait for the arrival ofBayliss. They were in no mood for the formalities of politeSociety. They wanted to be elsewhere, and they wanted to be therequick. The front door had closed behind them before the butlerreached the morning-room.
"Bayliss," said Mrs. Crocker with happy, shining face, "send forthe car to come round at once.""Very good, madam.""Is Mr. James up yet?""I believe not, madam."Mrs. Crocker went upstairs to her room. If Bayliss had not beenwithin earshot, she would probably have sung a bar or two. Heramiability extended even to her step-son, though she had notaltered her intention of speaking eloquently to him on certainmatters when she could get hold of him. That, however, couldwait. For the moment, she felt in vein for a gentle drive in thePark.
A few minutes after she had disappeared, there was a sound ofslow footsteps on the stairs, and a young man came down into thehall. Bayliss, who had finished telephoning to the garage forMrs. Crocker's limousine and was about to descend to those lowerdepths where he had his being, turned, and a grave smile ofwelcome played over his face.
"Good morning, Mr. James," he said.
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