III
Bruce, deeply engrossed in his work, was nevertheless aware that the performance of “The Beggar” had stimulated gossip about Constance Mills and Whitford. Helen Torrence continued to fret about it; Bud Henderson insisted on keeping Bruce apprised of it; Maybelle deplored and Dale Freeman pretended to ignore. The provincial mind must have exercise, and Bruce was both amused and disgusted as he found that the joint appearance of Constance and Whitford in Whitford’s one-act play had caused no little perturbation in minds that lacked nobler occupation or were incapable of any very serious thought about anything.
It had become a joke at the University Club that Bruce, who was looked upon as an industrious young man, gave so much time to Shepherd Mills. There was a doglike fidelity in Shep’s devotion that would have been amusing if it hadn’t been pathetic. Bud Henderson said that Shep trotted around after Bruce like a lame fox terrier that had attached itself to an Airedale for protection.
Shep, inspired perhaps by Bruce’s example, or to have an excuse for meeting him, had taken up handball. As the winter wore on this brought them together once or twice a week at the Athletic Club. One afternoon in March they had played their game and had their shower and were in the locker room dressing.
Two other men came in a few minutes later and, concealed by the lockers, began talking in low tones. Their voices rose until they were audible over half the room. Bruce began to hear names—first Whitford’s, then unmistakably Constance Mills was referred to. Shep raised his head as he caught his wife’s name. One of the voices was unmistakably that of Morton Walters, a young man with an unpleasant reputation as a gossip. Bruce dropped a shoe to warn the men that they were not alone in the room. But Walters continued, and in a moment a harsh laugh preluded the remark:
“Well, George takes his pleasure where he finds it. But if I were Shep Mills I certainly wouldn’t stand for it!”
Shep jumped up and started for the aisle, but Bruce stepped in front of him and walked round to where Walters and a friend Bruce didn’t know were standing before their lockers.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Walters, but may I remind you that this is a gentleman’s club?”
“Well, no; you may not!” Walters retorted hotly. He advanced toward Bruce, his eyes blazing wrathfully.
The men, half clothed, eyed each other for a moment.
“We don’t speak of women in this club as you’ve been doing,” said Bruce. “I’m merely asking you to be a little more careful.”
“Oh, you’re criticizing my manners, are you?” flared Walters.
“Yes; that’s what I’m doing. They’re offensive. My opinion of you is that you’re a contemptible blackguard!”
“Then that for your opinion!”
Walters sprang forward and dealt Bruce a ringing slap in the face. Instantly both had their fists up. Walters’s companion grasped him by the arm, begging him to be quiet, but he flung him off and moved toward Bruce aggressively.
They sparred for a moment warily; then Walters landed a blow on Bruce’s shoulder.
“So you’re Mrs. Mills’s champion, are you?” he sneered.
Intent upon the effect of his words, he dropped his guard. With lightning swiftness Bruce feinted, slapped his adversary squarely across the mouth and followed with a cracking blow on the jaw that sent him toppling over the bench. His fall made considerable noise, and the superintendent of the club came running in to learn the cause of the disturbance. Walters, quickly on his feet, was now struggling to shake off his friend. Several other men coming in stopped in the aisle and began chaffing Walters, thinking that he and Bruce were engaged in a playful scuffle. Walters, furious that his friend wouldn’t release him, began cursing loudly.
“Gentlemen, this won’t do!” the superintendent admonished. “We can’t have this here!”
“Mr. Walters,” said Bruce when Walters had been forced to sit down, “if you take my advice you’ll be much more careful of your speech. If you want my address you’ll find it in the office!”
He went back to Shep, who sat huddled on the bench by his locker, his face in his hands. He got up at once and they finished dressing in silence. Walters made no further sign, though he could be heard blustering to his companion while the superintendent hovered about to preserve the peace.
Shep’s limousine was waiting—he made a point of delivering Bruce wherever he might be going after their meetings at the club—and he got into it and sat silent until his house was reached. He hadn’t uttered a word; the life seemed to have gone out of him.
Bruce walked with him to the door and said “Good night, Shep,” as though nothing had happened. Shep rallied sufficiently to repeat the good-night, choking and stammering upon it. Bruce returned to the machine and bade the chauffeur take him home.
He did no work that night. Viewed from any angle, the episode was disagreeable. Walters would continue to talk—no doubt with increased viciousness. Bruce wasn’t sorry he had struck him, but as he thought it over he found that the only satisfaction he derived from the episode was a sense that it was for Shep that he had taken Walters to task. Poor Shep! Bruce wished that he did not so constantly think of Shep in commiserative phrases....
Bud Henderson, who was in the club when the row occurred, informed Bruce that the men who had been in the locker room were good fellows and that the story was not likely to spread. It was a pity, though, in Bud’s view, that the thing had to be smothered, for Walters had been entitled to a licking for some time and the occurrence would make Bruce the most popular man in town.
“If the poor boob had known how you used to train with that middle-weight champ in Boston during our bright college years he wouldn’t have slapped you! I’ll bet his jaw’s sore!”
Bruce was not consoled. He wished the world would behave itself; and in particular he wished that he was not so constantly, so inevitably, as it seemed, put into the position of aiding and defending the house of Mills.