II.
Any Court with jurisdiction in divorce proceedings draws an audience peculiar to itself.
Every Court Room has, of course, its individual devotees. For instance “Dutch Pete” is accustomed to the corner bench in Part XV. and would not change it for any other sleeping quarters, and even the migratory loafers seem to know and respect old “Lawyer” Brady’s seat in Trial Term Part XX.
But, with divorce matters on the calendar, Special Term Part I. appeals to a particular class. One can recognise its women out in the Rotunda long before they turn toward the haven, and one can almost feel its moist and clammy type of man.
To see the women with their hard faces well nigh intelligent with curiosity—their long necks and ears turned to catch each salacious morsel—is a sight to sicken every man with memory of a mother. To watch the flabby-jowled, pimply persons of the masculine gender, their drooling mouths fashioned to a grin, and their perspiring hands clutching the soiled and soiling newspapers, is to understand the cynic who protested that “the more he saw of men the better he liked dogs.”
“Mr. Harding,” said the Justice, as the arguments in Fenton vs. Fenton closed, “it seems to me the defendant has made out a reasonable case. As you have said, this matter rests wholly in the discretion of the Court, and although we hold the parents joint and equal guardians of their children and do not follow the old world rule that a father has a superior claim to the possession of his offspring, yet, as it seems to me, this is a case where that rule should apply. Mrs. Fenton has left her husband’s house without just cause, as he alleges. She makes no claim for his support, and the complaint, as has been shown, is deficient in its detail. If I am wrong, a trial will set the matter right. In the meantime I award the possession of the children to the father. If you can agree with Mr. Sargent upon the terms of the order, I will make such provision for occasional visits of the mother as justice may——”
A scraping of chairs and rustling of skirts drowned the closing words of the Judge and Sargent turned to see a woman entering the Court Room with two little children at her side. She walked directly toward the counsel’s table, and the restless eye-lashes of the unsexed “painted” her in rapid sweeping glances, now up—now down—and the fat-paunched leerers followed her with looks scarcely less offensive.
“My child, you should not have come here,” whispered Mr. Harding, as he rose and offered her his chair.
She was scarcely more than a girl, but her tall graceful figure bespoke a quiet dignity, and the grey eyes with their steady gaze told of developed character.
Sargent glanced at his client. Fenton must have seen the doubt expressed in the lawyer’s face, for he spoke up sharply.
“Let’s finish this business, Sargent. I suppose I can take the children now.”
But his counsel did not answer, and Fenton, growing impatient, addressed the Court.
“Your Honour, these are my children—I suppose I may take them now?”
The Judge, busy with the signing of papers, frowned but took no other notice of the questioner.
Mrs. Fenton laid her hand on Mr. Harding’s arm and almost shook it as she asked,
“What does he mean? What—does—he—mean?”
How the necks stretched and the ears strained to catch the counsel’s answer!
But he whispered to the woman at his side, who, with her arms thrown about the children, seemed oblivious of the eyes glutting themselves upon her.
“Impossible!” she kept repeating, “it is impossible!”
The old lawyer shook his head gravely and glanced uneasily at the defendant. Again he whispered to the young wife, speaking rapidly and stopping her interruptions with the pressure of his hand upon her arm, till at length she burst out in a frightened undertone,
“But I tell you it is impossible! It shall not be done!”
Sargent rose and crossed to where the two were talking.
“Pardon me for interrupting,” he said to Mr. Harding, “but I apprehend this decision is a surprise to Mrs. Fenton. Can we not arrange that the matter shall go no further?”
“Gladly, Sargent, but how?”
“I am authorised by my client to withdraw this motion if Mrs. Fenton will discontinue her case.”
Mr. Harding looked at the fair face turned toward him.
“You understand,” he said. “This is Mr. Sargent,—your husband’s attorney.”
With a gesture, half terror and half disdain, the young mother drew the children closer to her side and Sargent felt the hot blood flying to his cheeks. But she seemed only conscious of Mr. Harding’s presence as she answered him.
“Does he dare offer to bribe me with my own children? It is monstrous!”
Mr. Harding glanced sadly at the younger lawyer as the latter turned again to his impatient client.
“She won’t consent?” muttered Fenton. “Nonsense! You’ve worked the smooth business right enough, Sargent, but we’ve won the motion and done the decent. Now knock things about. You’ve got to scare her half out of her wits——”
Sargent’s face flushed.
“I think you are mistaking her,” he said. “I know you are mistaking me.”
“Good Lord—man, don’t get mussy just when everything’s in our own hands. We’ve got to push it through now or never. Why—damn it,” he whispered fiercely, “don’t you understand we can’t defend this case? We’ve got to bluff her out!”
The word “we” stung Sargent as though someone had slapped his face. Yet he was associated with this man. Associated for what purpose—to do what? His client’s angry outburst had made it plain enough.
Fenton saw the glance of scorn in his lawyer’s eyes.
“I’ll be my own attorney then—and a damn sight better one,” he muttered and turned toward the group at the other end of the table.
“Well, now, let’s have the children—Come, kids.”
He rose and took a step forward. As he did so his wife sprang to her feet and faced him. He stopped with an uneasy laugh before the splendid figure of the woman drawn up to her full height, and met her measured look of courage and contempt. Then he turned again toward his counsel, speaking in an ugly undertone.
“See here, Sargent, I’m not going to make a fool of myself before all these people. Get the officers to bring the children out to the carriage.”
But Sargent did not reply, and for a moment there was dead silence in the Court Room.
Fenton stooped toward his counsel.
“What do you think you’re paid for?” he whispered menacingly.
What was he paid for? That was plain talk—that made the truth stand out clearly! He was the hireling of this man—not his associate. He was hired to do contemptible work and he had done it,—was doing it. No wonder his employer stood ready with insult to show how he despised his creature. It was perfectly safe. An officer of the Court was bound by professional duty and gagged by confidential communications. He must sit still and see this outrage on Justice perpetrated. Even aid in it. And for what? For money. How far had he sold himself—how much of his manhood was included in the purchase? He could retire from the case? Yes, after the day’s dirty work was finished and the wrong could not be righted.
If he raised his hand to stop this thing, how many lawyers in the City would uphold him? Not many in the Titan Building. It was easy to foreshadow the construction which would be placed upon his conduct. He could almost hear the fierce denunciation. To defend himself he would have to violate professional secrecy still further. True, there were those who would understand—men to whom their calling was and always would be “the honourable profession of the law”—men who would never permit the Law’s mantle of dignity to become a cloak for the vicious. But the others—“the high average”? Had he the courage to face their verdict?
Perspiration poured down Sargent’s face and his hand shook with suppressed wrath as Fenton rose and again addressed the Court.
“I presume your Honour will enforce your order? I don’t wish to make a scene.”
The Justice looked inquiringly at the lawyers, but neither of them made any sign.
“Madam,” he said at last, “I have awarded your husband the custody of his children pending this action. You will kindly put no obstacle in the way of the execution of my order.”
The chairs of the leerers grated on the floor with eagerness, and the skirts of the shameless shivered with delicious tremors.
Ah—this was worth coming for! A woman’s tenderest feelings were to be exposed and crushed. Privacy was to be invaded—delicacy was to be unveiled—the sacred was to be handled. Ah—this well repaid the waiting!
Mrs. Fenton flushed as the Judge addressed her, and then grew ashy pale as she answered.
“You have no right, no man has any right, to dispose of my children. They shall not leave me! I will not permit it!”
The Judge glanced at the bulging eyes and gaping mouths of the audience and frowned angrily.
“Officer,” he said sharply, “take those children and deliver them to the defendant.”
There are moments when the Bar does not envy the Bench.
As the Judge’s words reached her, the young mother leaped to her feet and swept the children behind her. Then she backed toward the wall and crouched there like some magnificent wild thing, trembling with that mingling of terror and courage which warns the fiercest beast to caution.
“Let him,” she panted, hoarsely, “let him come—come and take them if—if he dare!”
Mr. Harding rose and stepped toward the woman, laying his hand gently upon her arm. She gazed at him for an instant with no recognition in her eyes, then flung her arms about his neck and laughed the hideous shuddering laughter of hysteria.
Here was entertainment indeed! A red-letter day in the annals of the audience! To-morrow the Court Room would be packed with expectants—all the floating population of the Rotunda would be on hand.
The Judge seemed to think of this.
“Remove that woman!” he ordered.
A court officer stepped forward, and at the same time Fenton moved toward the children.
Then Sargent’s voice broke the stillness of the Court.
“If your Honour please, I wish to withdraw the motion in this case.”
There was a moment of absolute, breathless silence.
Then Fenton sprang to his feet.
“Withdraw?” he almost shouted. “What do you mean? This is my case. It’s been decided in my favour. I won’t permit it!”
Sargent only addressed the Court as he answered,
“Nevertheless, I withdraw the motion.”
The Justice looked steadily at the lawyer’s face, and his gaze was not without a trace of approval.
“I must warn you, Counsellor,” he said at length, “that this is very unusual. It is a most serious matter.”
“I will take all responsibility, your Honour.”
“Very well, Mr. Sargent. You consent, I presume, Mr. Harding? I am not sure that I have the power, but if not, the error can be corrected by appeal. Mark the motion, ‘withdrawn.’”
“This is treachery!” Fenton shouted at his lawyer. “I’ll have you disbarred, Sir! You’ll lose every client you’ve got——”
“But I’ll keep my self-respect,” answered Sargent, in a whisper.
“I’ll have you disbarred, Sir!—I’ll ruin you utterly. Your Honour, he’s conspired with the other side—he used to be in their office. I can prove——”
“Clear the Court Room!” thundered the Justice.
Outside in the Rotunda the audience placed Sargent on trial and straightway condemned him. In legal circles his conduct was denounced, eulogised, and on the whole deplored.
But the Court of Conscience (hear the cynic mutter “Court of last resort!”) held him guiltless, and from its judgment there is no appeal.
IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE.
Valentine Willard was not a bad fellow at heart, although Gordon will never admit it. But Gordon is a crank who carries his professional enmity into private life.
Their trouble began about an “affidavit of merits.”
Gordon had a case in which he was about to enter judgment, when Willard blocked him off with an extension obtained from the Court by means of an affidavit, in which he swore that “his client had fully and fairly stated the matter to him, and from that statement he verily believed the defendant had a good and substantial defence to the action upon the merits.”
This, of course, was utter fiction. There was no thought of a defence. But delay defeats, and later Willard withdrew, allowing Gordon to take the twenty-fifth instead of the first judgment against his man.
The same thing is done every day of practice in the City of New York. Lawyers who are Officers of the Court prostitute the Court with cheerful zeal—men with a high sense of self-respect in their private lives, demean themselves beyond expression in their professional careers—gentlemen who would not stoop to the slightest equivocation up-town, perjure themselves for money down-town, or teach their clerks to do it for them. It is not a pretty practice, but Gordon ought to have known the custom. However, being young at that time, it still shocked him. To-day he says it only fills him with disgust. But he was just as much of a crank then as he is now, so he took Willard’s affidavit before the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association.
He might have seen the smile on the faces of his auditors as he told his story, had he not been blinded by zeal. However the Chairman was grave and judicial enough when he announced it was not the province of the Committee to take up the quarrels of counsel, and that they did not propose to investigate light accusations of perjury.
Indeed, the Chairman was so very judicial, and his speech so well delivered, that he might have been suspected of having said something of the same sort before under similar circumstances. But Gordon, crank that he was, thought of nothing but his point, and stoutly maintained that false swearing was being practised every day by lawyers, great and small—that tricks and treachery were personal matters reflecting on but not involving the profession as a whole, while licensed perjury was a travesty of law, striking at the very foundations of Justice. So he went on, boiling over with intensity and utterly innocent of tact.
But when the Chairman stopped him and said something about “seeking aid in legislative action,” or “going before a Grand Jury,” Gordon, young as he was, looked straight into the speaker’s eyes and drank in experience, if not wisdom, from their glance.
Later on Willard’s client quarrelled with his counsel, and put into Gordon’s hands the very proofs he needed. But the Grievance Committee never saw them, for Gordon locked the papers in his safe and spoke no word.
But that did not close the episode.
It was, however, the beginning of the end as far as Gordon and Willard were concerned.
More than a year passed before the two men met again. Willard had in the meantime been appointed an Assistant District Attorney, and practised only in the Criminal Courts. Their encounter was entirely a matter of accident, though Gordon doesn’t think so. Nevertheless, the facts are that Gordon chanced to wander into General Sessions while waiting for some papers, and happened to find his bête-noir prosecuting a case of burglary, and it was merely a matter of habit that caused him to study the prisoner as closely as he did.
The man’s face was gentle, and almost expressionless in its vague wonder at the scene before him. Something had its grip on him—just what he did not seem to know—but something monstrous and merciless in its mechanism, and something was being said about him—just what he did not appear to comprehend.
Gordon watched the listless figure, and the weary droop of the head, and interpreted for himself.
Perhaps the poor wretch had struggled when arrested, but without avail—had stormed and protested to the sergeant at the police station, with no result—had denied and explained to the Magistrate at the hearing, but to no end. The Law—a hideous Something—resistless in its power, relentless in its purpose, wanted him. These men—the one on the Bench, the one behind the rail, those others in uniform—wished him out of the way. Perhaps he had concluded he could best propitiate them by giving as little trouble as possible. So he sat there inert and silent, fascinated into non-resistance, watching the doors of his prison open somewhat as a rabbit must watch the widening jaws of a snake.
It is impossible to comprehend the feeling without experiencing it, but Gordon was a lonely sort of man, who sometimes felt himself apart from, instead of a part of, the universe, and so he understood.
Mr. Assistant District Attorney Willard was presenting his case ably, handling his points with so much care that Gordon asked the policeman sitting beside him if the trial was of any importance.
“Importance? Well, I should say so! Don’t you see the Chief sitting up near the rail?”
Gordon glanced in the direction indicated and observed the Chief of Police, note book in hand, watching every move of the District Attorney.
“Who is he?” he asked, nodding toward the prisoner.
“Why the larrup says his name is Winter—and don’t he look innocent? Well, he’s really Red Farrell, a crook we’ve been after for years. But there’s nothin’ much gets by us, I guess.—Eh?”
But Gordon was studying the prisoner again and did not respond.
Winter? Where had he heard that name? Why, of course, Winter was the married name of his old nurse, who had been in his father’s family for thirty years. But who was this man?
“Mr. Duncan——”
Gordon turned as he heard the whisper behind him and found himself face to face with the very woman of whom he had been thinking.
“Why, Margaret, what are you doing here?”
“O, Mr. Duncan—it’s him.”
“Who?”
“Jack—there—my son.” She glanced toward the prisoner.
Gordon motioned toward the door and they passed out together into the Rotunda.
“O, Mr. Duncan, can you save him?—You will, won’t you, dearie? He’s my only boy! Indeed, indeed, he’s not guilty for all he’s been a wild lad at times. O, why do they say he’s Red Farrell, or some such man? O please tell them, Mr. Duncan.”
And then the story came out with a burst of tears which the Rotunda saw and heard without any emotion whatsoever. It has witnessed so many tears—that Rotunda—heard so many, many stories.
Before Court adjourned Gordon found himself committed to aid in the defence of John Winter—his first criminal case. By evening he was working enthusiastically, confident in the innocence of his client.
Winter was a stupid fellow and impossible as a witness, but this only further convinced his new counsel, who believed a bad witness could not be a good liar. But the defence had been poorly prepared at the hands of the attorney assigned by the Court. Proper witnesses had not been subpœnaed—details had been neglected, while the prosecution seemed unusually keen. This last fact worried and puzzled Gordon more than all the others, and finally started him out on a tour of personal investigation.
When he returned he had learned enough to make him admit that with the time at his command there was small hope of clearing his man from the closely pressed charge.
One chance, however, remained—to see the Assistant District Attorney and obtain an adjournment. But to beg a favour from that source was gall and wormwood to Gordon. Moreover, what he had discovered was not calculated to cool his hot head or make him more diplomatic. So the mission did not promise well, and he had about determined not to attempt it, when the look of despair and mute appeal in Margaret’s face made him reconsider, and drove him late at night to visit a man he would have gone miles to avoid.
The Assistant District Attorney was the opposite of Gordon in every way—smooth, politic, even tempered, and ambitious to drop the word “Assistant” from his title. This, it was rumoured, he would do at the next election. In an encounter between these two men it was not difficult to foresee with whom would rest the advantage.
Willard welcomed Gordon to his study and opened with easy commonplaces. But Gordon, hopelessly fanatic and stiff-necked in his honesty, disdained the aid of conventions and pushed directly to his point.
“Mr. Willard, you are prosecuting a young man—John Winter by name——”
“Ah yes, I thought I saw you at the trial to-day, but didn’t know you practised in the Criminal Courts. Yes,—John Winter, alias Red Farrell.”
“I do not think so and that is why I am here. This young man is the son of Margaret Winter, an old family servant of ours on whose word I would stake my life. I have examined the prisoner and some of the witnesses, and am sure a mistake is being made and that I can prove the man’s innocence.”
“Well, I shall at least have the satisfaction of being beaten by a worthy adversary. But you didn’t come here merely to throw down the gauntlet, Mr. Gordon.”
The District Attorney smiled inquiringly at his visitor.
“No, Sir. I want you to withdraw a juror in this case and consent to a mistrial. Meanwhile we can both make further investigations and the cause of Justice will not suffer.”
If the speaker had asked for his head, Willard’s face could not have expressed more absolute amazement. He stared in silence for a moment—then checked a sudden inclination to laugh and answered calmly enough:
“Of course you have not practised very extensively in the Criminal Courts, Mr. Gordon, or you would know that what you ask is really absurd.”
The expression was unfortunate and Gordon blazed up instantly.
“I see nothing absurd about it, Sir. I ask you for time to ascertain this man’s guilt or his innocence which cannot now be properly determined.—Do you mind telling me just why this seems absurd to the District Attorney?”
The speaker’s tone and manner would have nettled a man less on his guard, but Willard only laughed pleasantly as he answered:
“The District Attorney’s office is satisfied to proceed, and you will admit the case must be fairly strong when we are undaunted by the presence of distinguished counsel.”
“This is no matter for jests, Mr. Willard. Do you consider that the duty of the District Attorney is to convict as many persons as possible—to win as many cases as you can?”
“O come, come, Mr. Gordon, we are not here to discuss ethical questions.”
“Mr. Willard, I am not here to be trifled with or side-tracked. Will you tell me what investigations you have made to ascertain if this man is innocent or not?”
The District Attorney leaned back wearily in his chair and gazed at the earnest face confronting him. Then he lazily reached for a cigarette.
“I am trying to keep my temper and be polite,” he replied, “but you surely do not expect me to detail my case to my adversary?”
“Your case? Is that how you term the solemn duty you are charged with? Does the District Attorney condescend to tricks—does he hope to make convictions by surprise?”
Willard struck a match angrily, but he applied it to the cigarette in his mouth before he answered:
“Red Farrell must pay you a good fee, Mr. Gordon, to make this worth your while.”
For a moment Gordon was the cooler man of the two.
“Is it not the duty of the District Attorney to ascertain the truth?” he asked as though the other had not spoken. “Are you, a public officer, interested in withholding any part of the truth? Have you anything to conceal?”
“Mr. Gordon, I do not propose to listen to these insinuations——”
“Let us cease bantering then, Mr. Willard. I am ready to talk plainly. Must I?”
“You must indeed, unless you wish me to interpret for myself.”
He flicked the ashes from his cigarette and glanced with a bored expression toward the clock.
But Gordon did not speak until Willard’s eyes met his again.
“Very well then. I will see that you understand. The police have been hunting a man called Red Farrell, but they have not been successful. The Chief has blamed the Captains—the Captains the detectives, and the papers have ridiculed them all. The police of other cities too have twitted them about it. Suddenly this young man is arrested under suspicious circumstances. No one seems particularly interested in him or knows much about him. Why shouldn’t he be Red Farrell? He is Red Farrell. Do you understand me?”
“I hear you making a very nasty and uncalled-for charge against the police of this City and——”
“One that you well know has both foundation and precedent. You know the men who compose the force. So do I. They have the same pride and ambition and morals that other men have. No more and no less. They discover Red Farrell and remove a reproach. Suppose Winter isn’t Farrell—well, he’s probably guilty anyhow. They want to win cases too!”
“Mr. Gordon, you have said about enough——”
“To persuade you that this is a proper case for further investigation?”
“No, Sir, and I will tell you right now that this case will not be adjourned for one hour!”
Gordon rose to his feet and faced his opponent, wording his question slowly and with deliberate emphasis.
“Of course you personally have no special interest in convicting this particular prisoner?”
Willard sprang from his seat and angrily tossed his cigarette into the fire.
“Mr. Gordon, take care you do not go too far.”
“Are you not especially anxious to win this case?”
“I am prosecuting, Sir, in the name of the People.”
“In the name of the People!”
Gordon laughed the words out with stinging scorn, and the Attorneys faced one another with a rage that in men of less refinement would have set them at each other’s throats. But the grapple was as deadly and the purpose as grim as though the struggle had been physical. There was no possible chance for argument now and Gordon flung off all restraint as he poured forth his torrent of contempt.
“In the name of the People! What people gave you a commission to tamper with the liberty of the meanest thing alive? What people privileged you to prosecute an innocent man—for you know he is innocent—I have seen it in every false smirk of your face ever since I entered this room. And to prosecute him for what? For your own personal advancement—to win a case for your client. Do you want me to tell you who your client is——”
“I want you to understand that you can’t blackmail me, Sir!”
“Blackmail you? By the Lord Harry, you shall hear the truth from one man if you never hear it again. Don’t lay a hand on me or I’ll break you like this pencil! Blackmail you? To-night you’ve got to know that another man knows you through and through. To-night you have to go unmasked. Are you afraid of hearing me say who your client is? Are you afraid of having me name the politicians whose orders you execute and whose nod is your law? You have been ordered by the police to win this case. This case indeed! And you, the Assistant District Attorney, in the name of the People, will win it by fair means or foul. You have never investigated one fact, or asked one question, calculated to bring out the truth, but by trick and wile you stoop to serve your master’s purpose. And do you think I do not know why? You poor fool! Every honest man knows who cares to follow your dirty tracks, and the knaves whose gifts you buy know whom they sell to and for what. But remember this, the day you run for District Attorney will be the day I take these papers where they will do the most good, and we will see if the People want a perjurer to prosecute in their name!”
Gordon tore from his pocket the “affidavit of merits,” with the proofs of its falsity, and slapped them down upon the desk.
Willard glanced at the papers and then at his adversary. His answer was almost a whisper—hard and rasping.
“Gordon, I will convict your man if I never win another case in my life!”
“By God—you dare not!”
The study door slammed as with a threat—“You dare not!”
The front door echoed “You dare not!” as a challenge.
When Willard looked up again the clock was striking three. But it chimed “You dare not,” in the even tone of statement.
The second day of John Winter’s trial brought a series of reverses for the prosecution, and the prisoner was acquitted, to the utter disgust of the police.
About that time the Assistant District Attorney’s career suffered one of those sudden blights, the origin of which is the mystery of a city’s politics.
A few years after this Red Farrell was really found and convicted, but then Willard had been so long on the political shelf that those who put him there had completely forgotten his existence.
But I believe they were right in accusing him of bungling that case. Of course, he may have been intimidated, but the chances are he could never have been convicted of perjury. The crime has almost the sanction of custom. This he must have known. So why not credit him with worthy motives and say he was a good fellow at heart, even though Gordon, Indian-hater that he is, will never admit it?
THE LATEST DECISION.
There was a black-edged card on the bulletin board. That means a vacancy in the club membership until some one of the waiting-list steps into the dead man’s shoes.
The card bore the inscription:
JOHN FURMAN DELAFIELD.
December 30, 1898.
Jack Delafield had been no chum of mine, but I never thought the Governors did right by him, and I was glad to remember my partisanship in the days when his mere name was sufficient to provoke instant debate among the Thespians. I liked him then for some of the enemies he made, and perhaps my enthusiasm was always more for the cause than the man. However, I was sorry—very sorry, to see his name on that card, and I said as much to the group of men among whom I took my accustomed seat in the club corner.
“Well, I’m sorry he’s gone, but I never knew him at all,” remarked Chandler.
“I never met him either,” said Paddock.
Hepburn had never heard of him, neither had Joline, and Grafton knew him not.
I looked at the speakers. Was it possible I was as old as they seemed to intimate?
“Delafield hasn’t been regular at the club for many a long day,” I said—clinging to a straw. “I doubt if he’s been inside the door for five years—so it isn’t very strange you haven’t met. But you all know of him. He was the Delafield of the Hawkins-Delafield affair.”
The blank look on the faces of my companions surprised and, I admit, shocked me. It was ridiculous, but Osborne’s laugh grated, and I welcomed Chandler’s interrupting question, even though it pronounced sentence on my senility.
“Yes—I’ll tell you the story,” I answered, “but after retailing to members of this club something that was absolutely discussed to death here, and labelling it a ‘story,’ I shall never address you again except as ‘my sons.’”
“Father, may I have a cigar?” asked Chandler, as he rang the bell.
I signed the check.
“Jack Delafield was a man of good family,” I began, “but to vary the conventional opening and adhere to the truth, I may as well say his parents were honest though not poor. He was a fellow of many talents, so many, in fact, that he became known as a ‘versatile genius.’ He never attained a more notable title. Not that he hid his talents under a napkin. He sealed their fate in a bottle—in many bottles. I’m afraid we didn’t do much to help him here. Everyone thought he’d come out all right in the long run, and when he lost his money and settled down seriously to the law, his friends supposed his wild oats had all been sown. But somebody left him more money, and back he went to literature and painting, and music. The old set welcomed him with open arms, but didn’t help him to write, or paint or practise. Then Miss—well, I won’t say what girl—put him on probation, and he wrote two really notable stories before the probation was declared unsatisfactory. After that he never seemed to care much about anything except art, and he took that out in dreaming of the things he didn’t do. Yet no one seemed to blame him much, perhaps everybody liked him too well, and nobody loved him enough. Anyway he went from bad to worse, until ‘poor fellow’ used to be coupled with his name, and Delafield in various states of intoxication became a familiar sight in these rooms.
“He must have been a handsome fellow before drink coarsened and aged him, for he was still good looking, though prematurely old, when I first met him, shortly after my election to the club. About that time Galloway gave his bachelor dinner in the private dining-room upstairs. I attended as one of the ushers, and there were perhaps a dozen other guests—among them Delafield. The dinner was as most such dinners are, a toast for every sentiment, and sentiments galore, so when we adjourned to the grill-room for coffee, Jack tipped his chair against the wall over there and fell asleep. We sat about the centre-table smoking, and testing some remarkable port sent to grace the occasion.
“I don’t recall what led up to the conversation, but I do remember that the general subject was women, and that Hawkins coupled the name of—well, a decent girl, with a remark so coarse that most of us stopped talking, though two or three laughed. It was a speech such as I suppose you’ve all heard made at some time or another, and which always seems to receive the tribute of a laugh before being buried in the silence of self-respecting men.
“It was in the hush following this remark that Delafield’s chair fell sideways to the floor with a crash, making us start to our feet and setting the glasses tinkling. The roar of mirth that burst out at this mishap ceased instantly, as we saw Delafield’s ghastly face, down which the blood was running from a deep gash in his forehead.
“Someone hurried forward, offering help, but Delafield pushed him aside, staggered to his feet, closed the door and leaned his back against it—his arms spread out as though to bar an exit.
“We stood around the table in silence, watching him. Two or three minutes must have passed before he spoke.
“‘Is—Mi—Miss Smith en—gaged?’
“The question was asked slowly in a low tone, as though the man was struggling to control voice and speech.
“We looked at one another and at the swaying figure before the door, but no one answered.
“‘Is—Miss Smith’s—father here?’
“No answer.
“‘Is Miss Smith’s brother here?’
“It was difficult to see all the faces in the smoky half-light of the lamps, but those about me showed a pallor of apprehension.
“Was Miss Smith’s uncle there—or her guardian—or her cousin? Was anybody present who had a claim to represent her? No?
“The broadening trickle of blood on Delafield’s face dripped down the white shirt front, but no one stirred or spoke.
“‘Then I wa—want to say’—here he lurched forward from the door and stood rocking slightly at the end of the table. ‘I want to say that I—I’m drunk an’—and I know it. But I’m—I’m a gentleman. An’—and yonder’s nothing but a cur—a low-lived cur—drunk or sober. You—you’ve heard him—now see him!’
“Something flashed before his eyes, and then a wine-glass struck Hawkins square on the forehead, scattering in fragments over the table.
“And Hawkins stood there, his face dripping with the wine, and his clothes showing great stains of it—stood there without moving as Delafield leaned over the table and laughed—
“‘If—if you only had as much re—red blood in you—you—you——’
“And then he fell fainting across the table, crashing among the bottles.
“The Governing Board expelled Delafield, but the club sentiment was so strongly in his favour that they afterward rescinded the expulsion, and suspended him for three years. But that never satisfied his friends.”
“I should think not, indeed,” exclaimed Joline, “it was outrageous! I’ve always claimed you can’t be sure a man’s a thorough gentleman until you’ve seen him drunk. And that proves it.”
“Oh, the many times I’ve heard your theory debated in this place! The walls fairly ached with listening to the discussions.”
“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t know the chap,” interrupted Chandler. “Let’s drink to his memory!”
He struck the bell as he spoke. As the waiter filled the orders, I noticed one of the older members on the stairs bending close to the bulletin board and peering through his glasses at the notice of John Delafield’s death.
Chandler touched me on the shoulder.
“To the memory of a gentleman—Jack Delafield!” he cried. We rose to the toast.
The old man on the stairs turned quickly and saw the lifted glasses. His face was a study.
“Hush!” I whispered, “that’s Hawkins.”
THE DISTANT DRUM.
“Some for the Glories of this World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!”
—Rubáiyát.