The City of Masks Part 41

"I should have known better," pursued Mrs. Millidew, still chafing, "than to let him go gallivanting off to Long Island with Dolly."

"I said he was dressing, Mrs. Millidew," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis stiffly.

"If I could have five minutes alone with Mr. McFaddan," one of the ladies was saying to the host, "I know I could interest him in our plan to make Van Cortlandt Park the most attractive and the most exclusive country club in--"

"My dear," interrupted another of her s.e.x, "if you get him off in a corner and talk to him all evening about that ridiculous scheme of yours, I'll murder you. You know how long Jim has been working to get his brother appointed judge in the United States District Court,--his brother Charlie, you know,--the one who doesn't amount to much,--and I'll bet my last penny I can fix it if--"

"It's an infernal outrage," boomed Mr. Dodge, addressing no one in particular. "Yes, sir, a pernicious outrage."

"As I said before, the more you do for them the worse they treat you in return," agreed Mrs. Millidew. "It doesn't pay. Treat them like dogs and they'll be decent. If you try to be kind and--"

Mr. Dodge expanded.

"You see, it will cut straight through the centre of the most valuable piece of unimproved property in New York City. It isn't because I happen to be the owner of that property that I'm complaining. It's the high-handed way--Now, look! This is the Grand Concourse, and here is Bunker Avenue." He produced an invisible diagram with his foot, jostling Mr. Smith-Parvis off of the rug in order to extend the line beyond the intersection to a point where the proposed street was to be opened.

"Right smack through this section of--"

At that instant Mr. and Mrs. McFaddan were announced.

"Where the deuce is Stuyvie?" Mr. Smith-Parvis whispered nervously into the ear of his wife as the new arrivals approached.

"Diplomacy," whispered she succinctly. "All for effect. Last but not least. He--Good evening, dear Mrs. McFad-dan!"

In the main hall, a moment before, Mr. McFaddan had whispered in _his_ wife's ear. He transmitted an opinion of Peasley the footman.

"He's a mutt." He had surveyed Peasley with a discriminating and intensely critical eye, taking him in from head to foot. "Under-gardener or vicar's man-of-all-work. Trained in a Sixth Avenue intelligence office. Never saw livery till he--"

"Hush, Con! The man will hear you."

"And if he should, he can't accuse me of betrayin' a secret."

To digress for a moment, it is pertinent to refer to the strange cloud of preoccupation that descended upon Mr. McFaddan during the ride uptown,--not in the Subway, but in his own Packard limousine. Something back in his mind kept nagging at him,--something elusive yet strangely fresh, something that had to do with recent events. He could not rid himself of the impression that the Smith-Parvises were in some way involved.

Suddenly, as they neared their destination, the fog lifted and his mind was as clear as day. His wife's unctuous reflections were shattered by the force of the explosion that burst from his lips. He remembered everything. This was the house in which Lady Jane Thorne was employed, and it was the scion thereof who had put up the job on young Trotter.

Old Cricklewick had come to see him about it and had told him a story that made his blood boil. It was all painfully clear to him now.

Their delay in arriving was due to the protracted argument that took place within a stone's throw of the Smith-Parvis home. Mr. McFaddan stopped the car and flatly refused to go an inch farther. He would be hanged if he'd have anything to do with a gang like that! His wife began by calling him a goose. Later on she called him a mule, and still later, in sheer exasperation, a beast. He capitulated. He was still mumbling incoherently as they mounted the steps and were admitted by the deficient Peasley.

"What shall I say to the dirty spalpeen if he tries to shake hands with me?" Mr. McFaddan growled, three steps from the top.

"Say anything you like," said she, "but, for G.o.d's sake, say it under your breath."

However: the party was now complete with one notable exception. Stuyvie was sound asleep in his room. He had reached home late that afternoon and was in an irascible frame of mind. He didn't know the McFad-dans, and he didn't care to know them. Dragging him home from Hot Springs to meet a cheap bounder,--what the deuce did she mean anyhow, entertaining that sort of people? And so on and so forth until his mother lost her temper and took it out on the maid who was dressing her hair.

Peasley was sent upstairs to inform Mr. Stuyvesant that they were waiting for him.

Mrs. Smith-Parvis met her son at the foot of the stairs when he came lounging down. He was yawning and making futile efforts to smooth out the wrinkles in his coat, having reposed soundly in it for the better part of an hour.

"You must be nice to Mr. McFad-dan," said she anxiously. "He has a great deal of influence with the powers that be."

He stopped short, instantly alert.

"Has a--a warrant been issued?" he demanded, leaping to a very natural and sickening conclusion as to the ident.i.ty of the "powers."

"Not yet, of course," she said, benignly. "It is a little too soon for that. But it will come, dear boy, if we can get Mr. McFad-dan on our side. That is to be the lovely surprise I spoke about in my--"

"You--you call _that_ lovely?" he snapped.

"If everything goes well, you will soon be at the Court of St. James.

Wouldn't you call that lovely?"

He was perspiring freely. "My G.o.d, that's just the thing I'm trying to avoid. If they get me into court, they'll--"

"You do not understand. The diplomatic court,--corps, I mean. You are to go to London,--into the legation. The rarest opportunity--"

"Oh, Lord!" gasped Stuyvesant, pa.s.sing his hand over his wet brow. A wave of relief surged over him. He leaned against the banister, weakly.

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

"You must be very nice to Mr. McFad-dan," she said, taking his arm. "And to Mrs. McFad-dan also. She is rather stunning--and quite young."

"That's nice," said Stuyvie, regaining a measure of his tolerant, blase air.

Now, while the intelligence of the reader has long since grasped the fact that the expected is about to happen, it is only fair to state that the swiftly moving events of the next few minutes were totally unexpected by any one of the persons congregated in Mrs. Smith-Parvis's drawing-room.

Stuyvesant entered the room, a forced, unamiable smile on his lips. He nodded in the most casual, indifferent manner to those nearest the door.

It was going to be a dull, deadly evening. The worst lot of he-fossils and scrawny-necked--

"For the love o' Mike!"

Up to that instant, one could have dropped a ten-pound weight on the floor without attracting the slightest attention. For a second or two following the shrill e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, the crash of the axiomatic pin could have been heard from one end of the room to the other.

Every eye, including Stuyvie's, was fixed upon the shocked, surprised face of the lady who uttered the involuntary exclamation.

Mrs. McFaddan was staring wildly at the newcomer. Stuyvesant recognized her at once. The das.h.i.+ng, vivid face was only too familiar. In a flash the whole appalling truth was revealed to him. An involuntary "Oh, Lord!" oozed from his lips.

Cornelius McFaddan suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth, smothering the words that surged up from the depths of his injured soul. He became quite purple in the face.

"This is my son Stuyvesant, Mr. McFaddan," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis, in a voice strangely faint and faltering. And then, sensing catastrophe, she went on hurriedly: "Shall we go in to dinner? Has it been announced, Rogers?"

Mr. McFaddan removed his hand.

The hopes and ambitions, the desires and schemes of every one present went hurtling away on the hurricane of wrath that was liberated by that unfortunate action of Cornelius McFaddan. An unprejudiced observer would have explained, in justice to poor Cornelius, that the force of the storm blew his hand away, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, despite his heroic efforts to check the resistless torrent.

I may be forgiven for a confessed inadequacy to cope with a really great situation. My scope of delivery is limited. In a sense, however, short-comings of this nature are not infrequently blessings. It would be a pity for me or any other upstart to spoil, through sheer feebleness of expression, a situation demanding the incomparable virility of a Cornelius McFaddan.

Suffice to say, Mr. McFaddan left nothing to the imagination. He had the stage to himself, and he stood squarely in the centre of it for what seemed like an age to the petrified audience. As a matter of fact, it was all over in three minutes. He was not profane. At no time did he forget there were ladies present. But from the things he said, no one doubted, then or afterwards, that the presence of ladies was the only thing that stood between Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis and an unhallowed grave.

It may be enlightening to repeat his concluding remark to Stuyvie.