A page ran up to relieve Enoch of his dripping umbrella, but it was James himself who divested him of his overcoat and white muffler, relieved him as well of his rain-bespattered silk hat, several seasons out of date (Enoch had a horror of new fashions), and having handed them to the page who hurried away with them to the coat-room, knelt down on the marble floor, Enoch steadying himself with one hand on the man’s broad shoulder, while he unbuckled and took off his galoshes.
“I’ve got it for you here, sir,” said James, lowering his voice and glancing furtively around him. Then as a trio of members crossed the hall close to his heels, he added: “A note for you, Mr. Crane,” and he rose and handed Enoch an unsealed white envelope, stamped with the club’s name, and unaddressed.
“Thank you, James,” said Enoch, and left him to his vigil again at the door.
Enoch never forgot to speak to James when he entered. He also bid him a pleasant good night when he left. In fact, it may be said that out of all the members of that stately and time-honored establishment, Enoch was the only one who invariably bid James good evening and good night. Certainly it never occurred to that faultlessly dressed member, Mr. Morton Beresford, to do so—Beresford in his smart London clothes, who knew Europe and talked it, a valuable man at dinner, and a great favorite with the newly elected “money-having” men. Beresford considered those who served him as objects of utility, like the great, soft rugs beneath his feet, or the bell for a fresh cocktail under his big, ringed hand. Neither was Jack Lamont given to these little touches of human kindness, which often mean more to those who serve than tips. His conduct to inferiors was generally overbearing. When he was obliged to ring twice, Lamont swore. So did Seth Van Worden, grain-broker, when the slightest thing disturbed him. Van Worden was proud of his ancestry, having walked one day over a graveyard in Rotterdam and found a de Worden buried there. From that moment Seth began to search among the branches of his family tree for some distinguished fruit. Finally, at the tip end of a forgotten limb, he discovered a certain Van Worden—an admiral. His joy was intense. It left no doubt in his mind that he himself was of straight descent from that famous personage, and within twenty-four hours the Van Worden coat-of-arms was conspicuous in gilt upon his note-paper, Mrs. Van Worden adding a few flourishes to her taste which the blazon lacked, while Seth became absorbed in making a collection of early Dutch prints for his library—mostly sea-fights, in which the distinguished admiral could be gloriously detected in the smoke. Seth, however, Enoch knew, was pure New England, Van Worden meaning “from Worden,” a Holland town. His ancestors being part of a shipload bound for Salem, all of them were known when they landed as “Van Wordens,” and most of them being suspicious characters, were glad to lose their identity in Van Worden.
As for that ponderous and florid member, Mr. Samuel Barker, who made his money in glue, and whose truffles, wines, and cigars, were all especially selected for him, only the most capable of club servants could attend to his wants speedily enough to save that gentleman from growing purple with rage.
There were others, too, whose bald heads showed above the window-sills of the big, luxurious room looking out upon Fifth Avenue, and whose habit it was to fill its easy armchairs on fine afternoons and themselves with idle opinions of the public who strolled by them. Enoch knew them all.
Some of the younger members referred to Enoch as “old Crane,” and gave him a wide berth, as being sour, opinioned, and crabbed. They did not forget, however, that he was a member of the advisory committee, and as such they feared more than respected his authority, though they openly discussed the failings of the house committee down to the question of soap and nail-files, and up to the size of the cocktail-glasses, and the quality of the gin. Others assumed that critical air of connoisseurs, who, having been weaned on commonplace nourishment during their early struggles to make a living, were more difficult to please in good fortune than Lucullus in the matter of canvasback ducks, terrapin, and grilled mushrooms. Many of them having reached manhood on cider and elderberry wine, now considered themselves experts in dry champagne, sound red burgundy, and their proper temperatures. Some became both illustrious and conspicuous by inventing concoctions of their own, like little Archie Reynolds, whose long drink known as a “Reynolds pick-me-up,” survived two seasons of popularity, and finally fell flat, to give place to an invention of the barman, whose full name nobody cared about.
As for the elder men, there were many who were glad to meet Enoch, men of distinction and brains, whom New York honored among her citizens in commerce, in law, and in science, in surgery, and in medicine—men whom it was a liberal education to meet, and whose modesty was one of their many virtues.
There were half a dozen other clubs in which Enoch might have chosen to dine to-night, but he chose this one—a club which he rarely went to for dinner.
He glanced into the big front room where the shades were drawn back of the heavy velveteen curtains, noted the identity of the men there chatting in groups or screened behind the evening papers, and having assured himself that the man he was looking for was not among them, searched through the silent library and the card-rooms, and without further investigation made his way to the dining-room, where he chose a small table in the corner, commanding a view of the door. A score of dinners were already in progress. Among these he recognized several acquaintances, Morton Beresford and Sam Barker being among them. These he nodded to in passing, and took his seat at the table he had chosen, where he ordered a most excellent little dinner, beginning with a dry Chablis and oysters, and continuing with a bottle of Château de Bécheville, stuffed green peppers, and a salad of cold, firm, sliced tomatoes, which he insisted on dressing himself. He was dressing this salad when the tall, slim figure of a middle-aged man silhouetted in the doorway made him lay aside his spoon and salad-fork and watch the newcomer intently as he scanned the dining-room with his black eyes, caught sight of Seth Van Worden dining alone, and went over and joined him.