Iole Part 12

"Dear friend," said the poet in an artistically-modulated whisper, "I have long, long followed you in the high course of your career. To me the priceless simplicity of poverty: to you the responsibility for millions. To me the daisy, the mountain stream, the woodchuck and my Art! To you the busy mart, the haunts of men, the s.h.i.+p of finance laden with a nation's wealth, the awful burden of millions for which you are answerable to One higher!" He raised one soft, solemn finger.

The young men gazed at one another, astounded. Lethbridge's startled eyes said, "He still takes you for Stanley West!"

"Let him!" flashed the grim answer back from the narrowing gaze of Harrow.

"Daughters," whispered the poet playfully, "are you so soon tired of the brilliant gems of satire which our master dramatist scatters with a lavish----"

"No," said Cybele; "we are only very much in love."

The poet sat up briskly and looked hard at Harrow.

"Your--your friend?" he began--"doubtless a.s.sociated with you in the high----"

"We are inseparable," said Harrow calmly, "in the busy marts."

The sweetness of the poet's smile was almost overpowering.

"To discuss this sudden--ah--condition which so--ah--abruptly confronts a father, I can not welcome you to my little home in the wild--which I call the House Beautiful," he said. "I would it were possible. There all is quiet and simple and exquisitely humble--though now, through the grace of my valued son, there is no mortgage hanging like the brand of Damocles above our lowly roof. But I bid you welcome in the name of my son-in-law, on whom--I should say, _with_ whom--I and my babes are sojourning in this clamorous city. Come and let us talk, soul to soul, heart to heart; come and partake of what simples we have. Set the day, the hour. I thank you for understanding me."

"The hour," replied Harrow, "will be about five P.M. on Monday afternoon.... You see, we are going out now to--to----"

"To marry each other," whispered Lissa with all her sweet fearlessness.

"Oh, dear! there goes that monotonous piano and we'll be blocking people's view!"

The poet tried to rise upon his great flat feet, but he was wedged too tightly; he strove to speak, to call after them, but the loud thumping notes of the piano drowned his voice.

"Chlorippe! Dione! Philodice! Tell them to stop! Run after them and stay them!" panted the poet.

"_You_ go!" pouted Dione.

"No, I don't want to," explained Chlorippe, "because the curtain is rising."

"I'll go," sighed Philodice, rising to her slender height and moving up the aisle as the children of queens moved once upon a time. She came back presently, saying: "Dear me, they're dreadfully in love, and they have driven away in two hansoms."

"Gone!" wheezed the poet.

"Quite," said Philodice, staring at the stage and calmly folding her smooth little hands.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

X

[Ill.u.s.tration]

When the curtain at last descended upon the parting att.i.tudes of the players the poet arose with an alacrity scarcely to be expected in a gentleman of his proportions. Two and two his big, healthy daughters--there remained but four now--followed him to the lobby. When he was able to pack all four into a cab he did so and sent them home without ceremony; then, summoning another vehicle, gave the driver the directions and climbed in.

Half an hour later he was deposited under the bronze shelter of the porte-cochere belonging to an extremely expensive mansion overlooking the park; and presently, admitted, he prowled ponderously and softly about an over-gilded rococo reception-room. But all anxiety had now fled from his face; he coyly nipped the atmosphere at intervals as various portions of the furniture attracted his approval; he stood before a splendid canvas of Goya and pushed his thumb at it; he moused and prowled and peeped and snooped, and his smile grew larger and larger and sweeter and sweeter, until--dare I say it!--a low smooth chuckle, all but noiseless, rippled the heavy cheeks of the poet; and, raising his eyes, he beheld a stocky, fas.h.i.+onably-dressed and red-faced man of forty intently eying him. The man spoke decisively and at once:

"Mr. Guilford? Quite so. I am Mr. West."

"You are--" The poet's smile flickered like a sickly candle. "I--this is--are you Mr. _Stanley_ West?"

"I am."

"It must--it probably was your son----"

"I am unmarried," said the president of the Occidental tartly, "and the only Stanley West in the directory."

The poet swayed, then sat down rather suddenly on a Louis XIV chair which crackled. Several times he pa.s.sed an ample hand over his features.

A mechanical smile struggled to break out, but it was not _the_ smile, any more than glucose is sugar.

"Did--ah--_did_ you receive two tickets for the New Arts Theater--ah--Mr. West?" he managed to say at last.

"I did. Thank you very much, but I was not able to avail myself----"

"Quite so. And--ah--do you happen to know who it was that--ah--presented your tickets and occupied the seats this afternoon?"

"Why, I suppose it was two young men in our employ--Mr. Lethbridge, who appraises property for us, and Mr. Harrow, one of our brokers. May I ask why?"

For a long while the poet sat there, eyes squeezed tightly closed as though in bodily anguish. Then he opened one of them:

"They are--ah--quite penniless, I presume?"

"They have prospects," said West briefly. "Why?"

The poet rose; something of his old att.i.tude returned; he feebly gazed at a priceless Ma.s.sero vase, made a half-hearted attempt to join thumb and forefinger, then rambled toward the door, where two spotless flunkies attended with his hat and overcoat.

"Mr. Guilford," said West, following, a trifle perplexed and remorseful, "I should be very--er--extremely happy to subscribe to the New Arts Theater--if that is what you wished."

"Thank you," said the poet absently as a footman invested him with a seal-lined coat.

"Is there anything more I could do for you, Mr. Guilford?"

The poet's abstracted gaze rested on him, then s.h.i.+fted.

"I--I don't feel very well," said the poet hoa.r.s.ely, sitting down in a hall-seat. Suddenly he began to cry, fatly.

n.o.body did anything; the stupefied footman gaped; West looked, walked nervously the length of the hall, looked again, and paced the inlaid floor to and fro, until the bell at the door sounded and a messenger-boy appeared with a note scribbled on a yellow telegraph blank:

"Lethbridge and I just married and madly happy. Will be on hand Monday, sure. Can't you advance us three months' salary?

"HARROW."

"Idiots!" said West. Then, looking up: "What are you waiting for, boy?"