The Riverman

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Riverman

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"Why, mother!" he cried. "She's only seen me three or four times!
It's absurd--yet."

"I know," nodded Grandma Orde, wisely. "I know. But you mark my
words; she cares for you."

She said nothing more, but stood looking while Orde folded and laid
away, his head bent low in thought. Then she placed her hand for an
instant on his shoulder and went away. The Ordes were not a
demonstrative people.

The journey to New York was at that time very long and disagreeable,
but Orde bore it with his accustomed stoicism. He had visited the
metropolis before, so it was not unfamiliar to him. He was very
glad, however, to get away from the dust and monotony of the
railroad train. The September twilight was just falling. Through
its dusk the street lamps were popping into illumination as the
lamp-lighter made his rapid way. Orde boarded a horse-car and
jingled away down Fourth Avenue. He was pleased at having arrived,
and stretched his legs and filled his lungs twice with so evident an
enjoyment that several people smiled.

His comfort was soon disturbed, however, by an influx of people
boarding the car at Twenty-third Street. The seats were immediately
filled, and late comers found themselves obliged to stand in the
aisle. Among these were several women. The men nearest buried
themselves in the papers after the almost universal metropolitan
custom. Two or three arose to offer their seats, among them Orde.
When, however, the latter had turned to indicate to one of the women
the vacated seat, he discovered it occupied by a chubby and flashily
dressed youth of the sort common enough in the vicinity of
Fourteenth Street; impudent of eye, cynical of demeanour, and
slightly contemptuous of everything unaccustomed. He had slipped in
back of Orde when that young man arose, whether under the impression
that Orde was about to get off the car or from sheer impudence, it
would be impossible to say.

Orde stared at him, a little astonished.

"I intended that seat for this lady," said Orde, touching him on the
shoulder.

The youth looked up coolly.

"You don't come that!" said he.

Orde wasted no time in discussion, which no doubt saved the
necessity of a more serious disturbance. He reached over suddenly,
seized the youth by the collar, braced his knee against the seat,
and heaved the interloper so rapidly to his feet that he all but
plunged forward among the passengers sitting opposite.

"Your seat, madam," said Orde.

The woman, frightened, unwilling to become the participant of a
scene of any sort, stood looking here and there. Orde,
comprehending her embarrassment, twisted his antagonist about, and,
before he could recover his equilibrium sufficiently to offer
resistance, propelled him rapidly to the open door, the passengers
hastily making way for them.

"Now, my friend," said Orde, releasing his hold on the other's
collar, "don't do such things any more. They aren't nice."

Trivial as the incident was, it served to draw Orde to the
particular notice of an elderly man leaning against the rear rail.
He was a very well-groomed man, dressed in garments whose fit was
evidently the product of the highest art, well buttoned up, well
brushed, well cared for in every way. In his buttonhole he wore a
pink carnation, and in his gloved hand he carried a straight, gold-
headed cane. A silk hat covered his head, from beneath which showed
a slightly empurpled countenance, with bushy white eyebrows, a white
moustache, and a pair of rather bloodshot, but kindly, blue eyes.
In spite of his somewhat pudgy rotundity, he carried himself quite
erect, in a manner that bespoke the retired military man.

"You have courage, sir," said this gentleman, inclining his bead
gravely to Orde.

The young man laughed in his good-humoured fashion.

"Not much courage required to root out that kind of a skunk," said
he cheerfully.

"I refer to the courage of your convictions. The young men of this
generation seem to prefer to avoid public disturbances. That breed
is quite capable of making a row, calling the police, raising the
deuce, and all that."

"What of it?" said Orde.

The elderly gentleman puffed out his cheeks.

"You are from the West, are you not?" he stated, rather than asked.

"We call it the East out there," said Orde. "It's Michigan."

"I should call that pretty far west," said the old gentleman.

Nothing more was said. After a block or two Orde descended on his
way to a small hotel just off Broadway. The old gentleman saluted.
Orde nodded good-humouredly. In his private soul he was a little
amused at the old boy. To his view a man and clothes carried to
their last refinement were contradictory terms.

Orde ate, dressed, and set out afoot in search of Miss Bishop's
address. He arrived in front of the house a little past eight
o'clock, and, after a moment's hesitation, mounted the steps and
rang the bell.

The door swung silently back to frame an impassive man-servant
dressed in livery. To Orde's inquiry he stated that Miss Bishop had
gone out to the theatre. The young man left his name and a message
of regret. At this the footman, with an irony so subtle as to be
quite lost on Orde, demanded a card. Orde scribbled a line in his
note-book, tore it out, folded it, and left it. In it he stated his
regret, his short residence in the city, and desired an early
opportunity to call. Then he departed down the brownstone steps,
totally unconscious of the contempt he had inspired in the heart of
the liveried man behind him.

He retired early and arose early, as had become his habit. When he
descended to the office the night clerk, who had not yet been
relieved, handed him a note delivered the night before. Orde ripped
it open eagerly.

"MY DEAR MR. ORDE:

"I was so sorry to miss you that evening because of a stupid play.
Come around as early as you can to-morrow morning. I shall expect
you.

"Sincerely yours,

"CARROLL BISHOP."

Orde glanced at the clock, which pointed to seven. He breakfasted,
read the morning paper, finally started leisurely in the direction
of West Ninth Street. He walked slowly, so as to consume more time,
then at University Place was seized with a panic, and hurried
rapidly to his destination. The door was answered by the same man
who had opened the night before, but now, in some indefinable way,
his calm, while flawless externally, seemed to have lifted to a mere
surface, as though he might hastily have assumed his coat. To
Orde's inquiry he stated with great brevity that Miss Bishop was not
yet visible, and prepared to close the door.

"You are mistaken," said Orde, with equal brevity, and stepped
inside. "I have an engagement with Miss Bishop. Tell her Mr. Orde
is here."

The man departed in some doubt, leaving Orde standing in the gloomy
hall. That young man, however, quite cheerfully parted the heavy
curtains leading into a parlour, and sat down in a spindle-legged
chair. At his entrance, a maid disappeared out another door,
carrying with her the implements of dusting and brushing.

Orde looked around the room with some curiosity. It was long,
narrow, and very high. Tall windows admitted light at one end. The
illumination was, however, modified greatly by hangings of lace
covering all the windows, supplemented by heavy draperies drawn back
to either side. The embrasure was occupied by a small table, over
which seemed to flutter a beautiful marble Psyche. A rubber plant,
then as now the mark of the city and suburban dweller, sent aloft
its spare, shiny leaves alongside a closed square piano. The lack
of ornaments atop the latter bespoke the musician. Through the
filtered gloom of the demi-light Orde surveyed with interest the
excellent reproductions of the Old World masterpieces framed on the
walls--"Madonnas" by Raphael, Murillo, and Perugino, the "Mona
Lisa," and Botticelli's "Spring"--the three oil portraits occupying
the large spaces; the spindle-legged chairs and tables, the tea
service in the corner, the tall bronze lamp by the piano, the neat
little grate-hearth, with its mantel of marble; the ormolu clock,
all the decorous and decorated gentility which marked the
irreproachable correctness of whoever had furnished the apartment.
Dark and heavy hangings depended in front of a double door leading
into another room beyond. Equally dark and heavy hangings had
closed behind Orde as he entered. An absolute and shrouded
stillness seemed to settle down upon him. The ormolu clock ticked
steadily. Muffled sounds came at long intervals from behind the
portieres. Orde began to feel oppressed and subdued.

For quite three quarters of an hour he waited without hearing any
other indications of life than the muffled sounds just remarked
upon. Occasionally he shifted his position, but cautiously, as
though he feared to awaken some one. The three oil portraits stared
at him with all the reserved aloofness of their painted eyes. He
began to doubt whether the man had announced him at all.

Then, breaking the stillness with almost startling abruptness, he
heard a clear, high voice saying something at the top of the stairs
outside. A rhythmical SWISH of skirts, punctuated by the light PAT-
PAT of a girl tripping downstairs, brought him to his feet. A
moment later the curtains parted and she entered, holding out her
hand.

"Oh, I did keep you waiting such a long time!" she cried.

He stood holding her hand, suddenly unable to say a word, looking at
her hungrily. A flood of emotion, of which he had had no prevision,
swelled up within him to fill his throat. An almost irresistible
impulse all but controlled him to crush her to him, to kiss her lips
and her throat, to lose his fingers in the soft, shadowy fineness of
her hair. The crest of the wave passed almost immediately, but it
left him shaken. A faint colour deepened under the transparence of
her skin; her fathomless black eyes widened ever so little; she
released her hand.

"It was good of you to come so promptly," said she. "I'm so anxious
to hear all about the dear people at Redding."

She settled gracefully in one of the little chairs. Orde sat down,
once more master of himself, but still inclined to devour her with
his gaze. She was dressed in a morning gown, all laces and ribbons
and long, flowing lines. Her hair was done low on the back of her
head and on the nape of her neck. The blood ebbed and flowed
beneath her clear skin. A faint fragrance of cleanliness diffused
itself about her--the cool, sweet fragrance of daintiness. They
entered busily into conversation. Her attitudes were no longer
relaxed and languidly graceful as in the easy chairs under the
lamplight. She sat forward, her hands crossed on her lap, a fire
smouldering deep beneath the cool surface lights of her eyes.

The sounds in the next room increased in volume, as though several
people must have entered that apartment. In a moment or so the
curtains to the hall parted to frame the servant.

"Mrs. Bishop wishes to know, miss," said that functionary, "if
you're not coming to breakfast."

Orde sprang to his feet.

"Haven't you had your breakfast yet?" he cried, conscience stricken.

"Didn't you gather the fact that I'm just up?" she mocked him. "I
assure you it doesn't matter. The family has just come down."

"But," cried Orde, "I wasn't here until nine o'clock. I thought, of
course, you'd be around. I'm mighty sorry--"

"Oh, la la!" she cried, cutting him short. "What a bother about
nothing. Don't you see--I'm ahead a whole hour of good talk."

"You see, you told me in your note to come early," said Orde.

"I forgot you were one of those dreadful outdoor men. You didn't
see any worms, did you? Next time I'll tell you to come the day
after."

Orde was for taking his leave, but this she would not have.

"You must meet my family," she negatived. "For if you're here for
so short a time we want to see something of you. Come right out
now."

Orde thereupon followed her down a narrow, dark hall, squeezed
between the stairs and the wall, to a door that opened slantwise
into a dining-room the exact counterpart in shape to the parlour at
the other side of the house. Only in this case the morning sun and
more diaphanous curtains lent an air of brightness, further enhanced
by a wire stand of flowers in the bow-windows.

The centre of the room was occupied by a round table, about which
were grouped several people of different ages. With her back to the
bow-window sat a woman well beyond middle age, but with evidently
some pretensions to youth. She was tall, desiccated, quick in
movement. Dark rings below her eyes attested either a nervous
disease, an hysterical temperament, or both. Immediately at her
left sat a boy of about fourteen years of age, his face a curious
contradiction between a naturally frank and open expression and a
growing sullenness. Next him stood a vacant chair, evidently for
Miss Bishop. Opposite lolled a young man, holding a newspaper in
one hand and a coffee cup in the other. He was very handsome, with
a drooping black moustache, dark eyes, under lashes almost too
luxuriant, and a long, oval face, dark in complexion, and a trifle
sardonic in expression. In the VIS-A-VIS to Mrs. Bishop, Orde was
surprised to find his ex-military friend of the street car. Miss
Bishop performed the necessary introductions, which each
acknowledged after his fashion, but with an apparent indifference
that dashed Orde, accustomed to a more Western cordiality. Mrs.
Bishop held out a languidly graceful hand, the boy mumbled a
greeting, the young man nodded lazily over his newspaper. Only
General Bishop, recognising him, arose and grasped his hand, with a
real, though rather fussy, warmth.

"My dear sir," he cried, "I am honoured to see you again. This, my
dear," he addressed his wife, "is the young man I was telling you
about--in the street car," he explained.

"How very interesting," said Mrs. Bishop, with evidently no
comprehension and less interest.

Gerald Bishop cast an ironically amused glance across at Orde. The
boy looked up at him quickly, the sullenness for a moment gone from
his face.

Carroll Bishop appeared quite unconscious of an atmosphere which
seemed to Orde strained, but sank into her place at the table and
unfolded her napkin. The silent butler drew forward a chair for
Orde, and stood looking impassively in Mrs. Bishop's direction.

"You will have some breakfast with us?" she inquired. "No? A cup
of coffee, at least?"

She began to manipulate the coffee pot, without paying the slightest
attention to Orde's disclaimer. The general puffed out his cheeks,
and coughed a bit in embarrassment.

"A good cup of coffee is never amiss to an old campaigner," he said
to Orde. "It's as good as a full meal in a pinch. I remember when
I was a major in the Eleventh, down near the City of Mexico, in '48,
the time Hardy's command was so nearly wiped out by that viaduct--"
He half turned toward Orde, his face lighting up, his fingers
reaching for the fork with which, after the custom of old soldiers,
to trace the chart of his reminiscences.

Mrs. Bishop rattled her cup and saucer with an uncontrollably
nervous jerk of her slender body. For some moments she had awaited
a chance to get the general's attention. "Spare us, father," she
said brusquely. "Will you have another cup of coffee?"

The old gentleman, arrested in mid-career, swallowed, looked a
trifle bewildered, but subsided meekly.

"No, thank you, my dear," said he, and went furiously at his
breakfast.

Orde, overwhelmed by embarrassment, discovered that none of the
others had paid the incident the slightest attention. Only on the
lips of Gerald Bishop he surprised a fine, detached smile.

At this moment the butler entered bearing the mail. Mrs. Bishop
tore hers open rapidly, dropping the mangled envelopes at her side.
The contents of one seemed to vex her.

"Oh!" she cried aloud. "That miserable Marie! She promised me to
have it done to-day, and now she puts it off until Monday. It's too
provoking!" She turned to Orde for sympathy. "Do you know ANYTHING
more aggravating than to work and slave to the limit of endurance,
and then have everything upset by the stupidity of some one else?"

Orde murmured an appropriate reply, to which Mrs. Bishop paid no
attention whatever. She started suddenly up from the table.

"I must see about it!" she cried. "I plainly see I shall have to do
it myself. I WILL do it myself. I promised it for Sunday."

"You mustn't do another stitch, mother," put in Carroll Bishop
decidedly. "You know what the doctor told you. You'll have
yourself down sick."

"Well, see for yourself!" cried Mrs. Bishop. "That's what comes of
leaving things to others! If I'd done it myself, it would have
saved me all this bother and fuss, and it would have been done. And
now I've got to do it anyway."

"My dear," put in the general, "perhaps Carroll can see Marie about
it. In any case, there's nothing to work yourself up into such an
excitement about."

"It's very easy for you to talk, isn't it?" cried Mrs. Bishop,
turning on him. "I like the way you all sit around like lumps and
do nothing, and then tell me how I ought to have done it. John,
have the carriage around at once." She turned tensely to Orde. "I
hope you'll excuse me," she said very briefly; "I have something
very important to attend to."

Carroll had also risen. Orde held out his hand.

"I must be going," said he.

"Well," she conceded, "I suppose I'd better see if I can't help
mother out. But you'll come in again. Come and dine with us this
evening. Mother will be delighted."

As Mrs. Bishop had departed from the room, Orde had to take for
granted the expression of this delight. He bowed to the other
occupants of the table. The general was eating nervously. Gerald's
eyes were fixed amusedly on Orde.

To Orde's surprise, he was almost immediately joined on the street
by young Mr. Bishop, most correctly appointed.

"Going anywhere in particular?" he inquired. "Let's go up the
avenue, then. Everybody will be out."

They turned up the great promenade, a tour of which was then, even
more than now, considered obligatory on the gracefully idle.
Neither said anything--Orde because he was too absorbed in the
emotions this sudden revelation of Carroll's environment had aroused
in him; Gerald, apparently, because he was too indifferent.
Nevertheless it was the young exquisite who finally broke the
silence.

"It was an altar cloth," said he suddenly.

"What?" asked Orde, rather bewildered.

"Mother is probably the most devout woman in New York," went on
Gerald's even voice. "She is one of the hardest workers in the
church. She keeps all the fast days, and attends all the services.
Although she has no strength to speak of, she has just completed an
elaborate embroidered altar cloth. The work she accomplished while
on her knees. Often she spent five or six hours a day in that
position. It was very devout, but against the doctor's orders, and
she is at present much pulled down. Finally she gave way to
persuasion to the extent of sending the embroidery out to be bound
and corded. As a result, the altar cloth will not be done for next
Sunday."

He delivered this statement in a voice absolutely colourless,
without the faintest trace discernible of either approval or
disapproval, without the slightest irony, yet Orde felt vaguely
uncomfortable.

"It must have been annoying to her," he said gravely, "and I hope
she will get it done in time. Perhaps Miss Bishop will be able to
do it."

"That," said Gerald, "is Madison Square--or perhaps you know New
York? My sister would, of course, be only too glad to finish the
work, but I fear that my mother's peculiarly ardent temperament will
now insist on her own accomplishment of the task. But perhaps you
do not understand temperaments?"

"Very little, I'm afraid," confessed Orde.

They walked on for some distance farther.

"Your father was in the Mexican War?" said Orde, to change the trend
of his own thoughts.

"He was a most distinguished officer. I believe he received the
Medal of Honour for a part in the affair of the Molina del Rey."

"What command had he in the Civil War?" asked Orde. "I fooled
around the outskirts of that a little myself."

"My father resigned from the army in '54," replied Gerald, with his
cool, impersonal courtesy.

"That was too bad; just before the chance for more service," said
Orde.

"Army life was incompatible with my mother's temperament," stated
Gerald.

Orde said nothing more. It was Gerald's turn to end the pause.

"You are from Redding, of course," said he. "My sister is very
enthusiastic about the place. You are in business there?"

Orde replied briefly, but, forced by the direct, cold, and polite
cross-questioning of his companion, he gave the latter a succinct
idea of the sort of operations in which he was interested.

"And you," he said at last; "I suppose you're either a broker or
lawyer; most men are down here."

"I am neither one nor the other," stated Gerald. "I am possessed of
a sufficient income from a legacy to make business unnecessary."

"I don't believe I'd care to--be idle," said Orde vaguely.

"There is plenty to occupy one's time," replied Gerald. "I have my
clubs, my gymnasium, my horse, and my friends."

"Isn't there anything that particularly attracts you?" asked Orde.

The young man's languid eyes grew thoughtful, and he puffed more
strongly on his cigarette.

"I should like," said he slowly, at last, "to enter the navy."

"Why don't you?" asked Orde bluntly.

"Certain family reasons make it inexpedient at present," said
Gerald. "My mother is in a very nervous state; she depends on us,
and any hint of our leaving her is sufficient to render her
condition serious."

By this time the two young men were well uptown. On Gerald's
initiative, they turned down a side street, and shortly came to a
stop.

"That is my gymnasium," said Gerald, pointing to a building across
the way. "Won't you come in with me? I am due now for my
practice."

XVII

Orde's evening was a disappointment to him. Mrs. Bishop had, by
Carroll's report, worked feverishly at the altar cloth all the
afternoon. As a consequence, she had gone to bed with a bad
headache. This state of affairs seemed to throw the entire family
into a state of indecision. It was divided in mind as to what to
do, the absolute inutility of any effort balancing strongly against
a sense of what the invalid expected.

"I wonder if mother wouldn't like just a taste of this beef,"
speculated the general, moving fussily in his chair. "I believe
somebody ought to take some up. She MIGHT want it."

The man departed with the plate, but returned a few moments later,
impassive--but still with the plate.

"Has she got her hot-water bag?" asked the boy unexpectedly.

"Yes, Master Kendrick," replied the butler.

After a preoccupied silence the general again broke out:

"Seems to me somebody ought to be up there with her."

"You know, father, that she can't stand any one in the room," said
Carroll equably.

Toward the close of the meal, however, a distant bell tinkled
faintly. Every one jumped as though guilty. Carroll said a hasty
excuse and ran out. After ringing the bell, the invalid had
evidently anticipated its answer by emerging from her room to the
head of the stairs, for Orde caught the sharp tones of complaint,
and overheard something about "take all night to eat a simple meal,
when I'm lying here suffering."

At the end of an interval a maid appeared in the doorway to say that
Miss Carroll sent word she would not be down again for a time, and
did not care for any more dinner. This seemed to relieve the
general's mind of responsibility. He assumed his little fussy air
of cheerfulness, told several stories of the war, and finally, after
Kendrick had left, brought out some whisky and water. He winked
slyly at Orde.

"Can't do this before the youngsters, you know," he chirruped
craftily.

Throughout the meal Gerald had sat back silent, a faint amusement in
his eye. After dinner he arose, yawned, consulted his watch, and
departed, pleading an engagement. Orde lingered some time,
listening to the general, in the hope that Carroll would reappear.
She did not, so finally he took his leave.

He trudged back to his hotel gloomily. The day had passed in a most
unsatisfactory manner, according to his way of looking at it. Yet
he had come more clearly to an understanding of the girl; her
cheerfulness, her unselfishness, and, above all, the sweet,
beautiful philosophy of life that must lie back, to render her so
uncomplainingly the slave of the self-willed woman, yet without the
indifferent cynicism of Gerald, the sullen, yet real, partisanship
of Kendrick, or the general's week-kneed acquiescence.

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