Part 2

Armstrong straightened himself with a smile that gave his face instantly the look of frankness and of high, dauntless spirit. "No, I've got that down--and mighty short it is," said he; "the fewer words I say now, the fewer there'll be to rise up and mock me, if I fail."

"Fail! Pooh! Nonsense! Cheer up!" cried Fosdick. "It's a big job for a young fellow, but you're bound to win. You've got _me_ behind you."

Armstrong looked uncomfortable rather than relieved. "They've elected me president," said he, and his quiet tone had the energy of an inflexible will. "I intend to be president. No one can save me if I haven't it in me to win out."

Fosdick frowned, and pursed his lips until his harsh gray mustache bristled. "Symptoms of swollen head already," was his irritated inward comment. "He's been in the job forty-eight hours, and he's ready to forget who made him. But I'll soon remind him that I could put him where I got him--and further down, damn him!"

"Some one is signaling you from the box straight ahead," said Armstrong. "I think it's your daughter."

As the young woman was plainly visible and as Armstrong knew her well, this caution of statement could not have been quite sincere. But Fosdick did not note it; he was bowing and smiling at the occupants of that most conspicuous box. At the table of honor to the right and left of him were the directors of the O.A.D., the most representative of the leading citizens of New York; they owned, so it was said, one fifteenth and directly controlled about one half of the entire wealth of the country; not a blade was harvested, not a wheel was turned, not a pound of freight was lifted from Maine to the Pacific but that they directly or indirectly got a "rake off"--or, if you prefer, a commission for graciously permitting the work to be done. In the horseshoe of boxes, overlooking the banquet, were the families of these high mightinesses, the wives and daughters and sons who gave the mightiness outward and visible expression in gorgeous display and in painstaking reproduction of the faded old aristocracies of birth beyond the Atlantic.

Fosdick had insisted on this demonstration because the banquet was to be not only a testimonial to Shotwell, but also a formal installation of himself and his daughter and son in the high society of the plutocracy. Fosdick had long had power downtown; but he had lacked respectability. Not that his reputation was not good; on the contrary, it was spotless--as honest as generous, as honorable as honest. Respectability, however, has nothing to do with honesty, whether reputed or real. It is a robe, an entitlement, a badge; it comes from associating with the respectable, uptown as well as down. Fosdick, grasping this fact, after twenty years' residence in New York in ignorance of it, had forthwith resolved to be respectable, to change the dubious social status of his family into a structure as firm and as imposing as his fortune. His business associates had imagined themselves free, uptown at least, from his vast and ever vaster power; at one stroke he showed them the fatuous futility of their social coldness, of their carefully drawn line between doing business with him and being socially intimate with him, made it amusingly apparent that their condescensions to his daughter and son in the matter of occasional invitations were as flimsily based as were their elaborate pretenses of superior birth and breeding. He invited them to make a social function of this business dinner; he made each recipient of an invitation personally feel that it was wise to accept, dangerous to refuse. The hope of making money and the dread of losing it have ever been the two all-powerful considerations in an aristocracy of any kind. Respectability and fashion "accepted."

So, Fosdick, looking across that resplendent scene, at the radiant faces of his daughter and son, felt the light and the warmth driving away the shadows of Shotwell's ingratitude and Armstrong's lack of deference. But just as he was expanding to the full girth of his big heart, he chilled and shrunk again. There, beside his daughter, sat old Shotwell's wife. She was as cold as so much marble; the diamonds on her great white shoulders and bosom seemed to give off a chill from their light. She was there, it is true; but like a dethroned queen in the triumphal procession of an upstart conqueror. She was a rebuke, a damper, a spoiler of the feast. She never had cared for old Shotwell; she had married him because he was the best available catch and could give her everything she wanted, everything she could conceive a woman's wanting. She had tolerated him as one of the disagreeable but necessary incidents of the journey of life. But Shotwell's downfall was hers, was their children's. It meant a lower rank in the social hierarchy; it meant that she and hers must bow before this "nobody from nowhere" and his children. She sat there, beside Amy, in front of Hugo, the embodiment of icy hate.

"This damn dinner is entirely too long," muttered Fosdick, though he did not directly connect his dissatisfaction with the cold stare from Shotwell's wife.

But Mrs. Shotwell was not interfering with the enjoyment of Amy and Hugo.

If Fosdick had planned with an inquisitor's cunning to put her to the most exquisite torture, he could not have been more successful. From his box she had the best possible view of the whole scene; and, while Shotwell had told her only the smallest part of the truth about his "resignation," she had read the newspaper reports of the investigation of the O.A.D. which had preceded his downfall, and, though that investigation had changed from an attack on him to an exoneration, after he yielded to Fosdick, she had guessed enough of the truth to know that this "testimonial" to him was in fact a testimonial to Fosdick.

Hugo and Amy, the children of a rich man and unmarried, had long been popular with all the women who had unmarried sons and daughters; this evening they roused enthusiasm. Everybody who hoped to make, or feared to lose, money was impressed by their charms. Amy, who was pretty, was declared beautiful; Hugo, who looked as if he had brains, though in fact he had not, was pronounced a marvel of serious intellectuality. The young men flocked round Amy; Hugo's tour of the boxes was an ovation. To an observant outsider, looking beneath surfaces to realities, the scene would have been ludicrous and pitiful; to those taking part, it seemed elegant, kindly, charming. Mrs. Shotwell was almost at the viewpoint of the outsider--not the philosopher, but he who stands hungry and thirsty in the cold and glowers through the window at the revelers and denounces them for their selfish gluttony. And by the way of chagrin and envy she reached the philosopher's conclusion. "How coarse and low!" she thought. "New York gets more vulgar every year."

Amy, accustomed all her life to have anything and everything she wanted, had been dissatisfied about the family's social position and eager to improve it; but the instant she realized they were at last "in the push," securely there, she began to lose interest; after an hour of the new adulation, she had enough, was looking impatiently round for something else to want and to strive for.

Not so Hugo. Society had seemed a serious matter to him from his earliest days at college, when he began to try to get into the fashionable fraternities, and failed. He had been invited wherever any marriageable girls were on exhibition; but he had noted, and had taken it quickly to heart, that he was not often invited when such offerings were not being made. He had gone heavily into a flirtation with a young married woman, as dull as himself. It was in vain; she had invited him, but her friends had not, unless she was to be there to take care of him. He had attributed this in part to his father, in part to his married sister--his father, who made occasional slips in grammar and was boisterous and dictatorial in conversation; his sister, whose husband kept a big retail furniture store and "looks the counter-jumper that he is," Hugo often said to Amy in their daily discussions of their social woes. Now, all this worriment was over; Hugo, touring the boxes, felt he had reached the summit of ambition. And it seemed to him he had himself brought it about--his diplomatic assiduity in cultivating "the right people," the steady, if gradual, permeation of his physical and mental charms.

Amy sent a note down to Armstrong, asking him to come to the box a moment. As he entered, Hugo was just leaving on another excursion for further whiffs of the incense that was making him visibly as drunk, if in a slightly different way, as the younger and obscurer members of the staff of the O.A.D. downstairs. At sight of Armstrong he put out his hand graciously and said: "Ah--Horace--howdy?" in a tone that made it difficult for Armstrong to refrain from laughing in his face.

"All right, Hugo," said he.

Hugo frowned. For him to address one of his father's employees by his first name was natural and proper and a mark of distinguished favor; for one of those employees to retort in kind was a gross impertinence. He did not see just how to show his indignation, just how to set the impudent employee back in his place. He put the problem aside for further thought, and brushed haughtily by Armstrong, who, however, had already forgotten him.

"Just let Mr. Armstrong sit there, won't you?" said Amy to the young man in the seat immediately behind hers.

The young man flushed; she had cut him off in the middle of a sentence which was in the middle of the climax of what he thought a most amusing story. He gave place to Armstrong, hating him, since hatred of an heiress was not to be thought of.

"What is it you want so particularly to see me about?" Armstrong said to her.

She smiled with radiant coquetry. "Nothing at all," she replied. "I put that in the note simply to make sure you'd come."

Armstrong laughed. "You're a spoiled one," said he. And he got up, nodded friendlily to her, bowed to her Arctic chaperon and departed, she so astonished that she could think of nothing to say to detain him.

Her first impulse was rage--that _she_ should be treated thus! she whom _everybody_ treated with consideration! Then, her vanity, readiest and most tactful of courtiers, suggested that he had done it to pique her, to make himself more attractive in her eyes. That mollified her, soon had her in good humor again. Yes, he was as much part of her court as the others; only, being shrewder, he pursued a different method. "And he's got a right to hold himself dear," she said to herself, as she watched him making his way to his seat at the table of honor. Certainly he did look as if he belonged at or near the head of the head table.

Soon her father was standing, was rapping for order. Handsome and distinguished, with his keen face and tall lean figure, his iron-gray hair and mustache, he spoke out like one who has something to say and will be heard:

"Gentlemen and ladies!" he began. "We are gathered here to-night to do honor to one of the men of our time and country. His name is a household word." (Applause.) "For forty years he has made comfortable an ever increasing number of deathbeds, has stood between the orphan and the pangs of want, has given happy old age to countless thousands." (Applause. Cries of "Good! Good!") "Ladies and gentlemen, we honor ourselves in honoring this noble character. Speaking for the directors, of whom I am one of the oldest--in point of service"--(Laughter. Applause.)--"speaking for the directors, I say, in all sincerity, it is with the profoundest regret that we permit him to partially sever his official connection with the great institution he founded and has been so largely instrumental in building up to its present magnificent position. We would fain have him stay on where his name is a guarantee of honesty, security and success." (Cheers.) "But he has insisted that he must transfer the great burden to younger shoulders. He has earned the right to repose, ladies and gentlemen. We cannot deny him what he has earned. But he leaves us his spirit." (Wild applause.) "Wherever the O.A.D. is known--and where is it not known?" (Cheers and loud rattling of metal upon glass and china.)--"there his name is written high as an inspiration to the young. He has been faithful; he has been honest; he has been diligent. By these virtues he has triumphed." (Cheers.) "His triumph, ladies and gentlemen, is an inspiration to us all." (Cheers. Cries of "Whoope-ee" from several drunken men at the far tables.)

"Let us rise, gentlemen, and drink to our honored, our honorable chief!"

The banqueters sprang to their feet, lifting their glasses high. Old Shotwell, his face like wax, rose feebly, stared into vacancy, passed one tremulous hand over the big, flat, weak chin, sunk into his chair again. Some one shouted, "Three cheers for Shotwell!" Floor and boxes stood and cheered, with much waving of napkins and handkerchiefs and clinking of glasses. It was a thrilling scene, the exuberant homage of affairs to virtue.

"I see, ladies and gentlemen, that my poor words have been in the direction of your thoughts," continued Fosdick. "And now devolves upon me the pleasant duty of----"

Here a beflowered hand truck, bearing a large rosewood chest, was wheeled in front of the table of honor. The attendants threw back the lid and disclosed a wonderful service of solid gold plate. This apparition of the god in visible, tangible form caused hysterical excitement--cheers, shouts, frantic cranings and wavings from floor and gallery.

"--The pleasant duty of presenting this slight token of appreciation from our staff to our retiring president," ended Fosdick in a tremendous voice and with a vast, magnanimous sweep of the arms.

Old Shotwell, dazed, lifted his chin from his shirt bosom, stared stupidly at the chest, rose at a prod from his neighbor, bowed, and sat down again. Fosdick seated himself, nudged him under the table, whispered hoarsely under cover of his mustache, "Get up. Get up! Here's the time for your speech."

The old man fumbled in his breast pocket, drew out a manuscript, rose uncertainly. As he got on his feet, the manuscript dropped to the floor. Armstrong saw, moved around between Shotwell and his neighbor, picked up the manuscript, opened it, laid it on the table at Shotwell's hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," quavered Shotwell, in a weak voice and with an ashen face, "I thank you. I--I--thank you."

The diners rose again. "Three cheers for the old chief!" was the cry, and out they rang. Tears were in Shotwell's eyes; tears were rolling down Fosdick's cheeks; some of the drunken were sobbing. As they sang, "For he's a jolly good fellow," Fosdick's great voice leading and his arm linked in Shotwell's, Armstrong happened to glance down at the manuscript. The opening sentence caught his eye--"_Fellow builders of the Mutual Association Against Old Age and Death, I come here to expose to you the infamous conspiracy of which I have been the victim._" Before Armstrong could stop himself, he had been fascinated into reading the second sentence: "_I purpose to expose to you, without sparing myself, how Josiah Fosdick has seized the O.A.D. to gamble with its assets, using his unscrupulous henchman, Horace Armstrong, as a blind._"

Armstrong, white as his shirt, folded the manuscript and held it in the grip a man gives that which is between him and destruction. The singing finished, all sat down again, Shotwell with the rest. Had his mind given way, or his will? Armstrong could not tell; certain it was, however, that he had abandoned the intention of changing the banquet into about the most sensational tragedy that had ever shaken and torn the business world. Armstrong put the manuscript in his pocket. "I'll mail it to him," he said to himself.

But now Josiah was up again, was calling for a "few words from my eminent young friend, whom the directors of the O.A.D., in the wise discharge of the trust imposed upon them by three quarters of a million policy holders, have elected to the presidency. His shoulders are young, gentlemen, but"--here he laid his hand affectionately upon Armstrong--"as you can see for yourselves, they are broad and strong." He beamed benevolently down upon Armstrong's thick, fair hair. "Young man, we want to hear your pledge for your stewardship."

Horace Armstrong, unnerved by the narrowly averted catastrophe, drew several deep breaths before he found voice. He glanced along first one line, then the other, of the eminent and most respectable directors, these men of much and dubious wealth which yet somehow made them the uttermost reverse of dubious, made them the bulwarks of character and law and property--of all they had trodden under foot to achieve "success." Then he gazed out upon the men who were to take orders from him henceforth, the superintendents, agents, officials of the O.A.D. "My friends," said he, "we have charge of a great institution. With God's help we will make it greater, the greatest. It has been one of the mainstays of the American home, the American family. It shall remain so, if I have your cooeperation and support."

And he abruptly resumed his seat. There were cheers, but not loud or hearty. His manner had been nervous, his voice uncertain, unconvincing. But for his presence--that big frame, those powerful features--he would have made a distinctly bad impression. As he sat, conscious of failure but content because he had got through coherently, old Shotwell began fumbling and muttering, "My speech! Where's my speech! I've lost it. Somebody might find it. If the newspapers should get it----"

But the dinner was over. The boxes were emptying, the intoxicated were being helped out by their friends, the directors were looking uneasily at Fosdick for permission to join their departing families. Fosdick took Shotwell firmly by the arm and escorted him, still mumbling, to the carriage entrance, there turning him over to Mrs. Shotwell.

"He's very precious to us all, madam," said Fosdick, indifferent to her almost sneering coldness, and giving the old man a patronizing clap on the shoulder. "Take good care of him." To himself he added, "I'll warrant she will, with that pension his for his lifetime only."

And he went home, to sleep the sleep of a good man at the end of a good day.

*III*

*"ONLY COUSIN NEVA"*

Letty Morris--"Mrs. Joe"--was late for her Bohemian lunch. She called it Bohemian because she had asked a painter, a piano player and an actress, and was giving it in the restaurant of a studio building. As her auto rolled up to the curb, she saw at the entrance, just going away, a woman of whom her first thought was "What strange, fascinating eyes!" then, "Why, it's only Cousin Neva"; for, like most New Yorkers, she was exceedingly wary of out-of-town people, looking on them, with nothing to offer, as a waste of time and money. As it was, on one of those friendly impulses that are responsible for so much of the good, and so much of the evil, in this world, she cried, "Why, Genevieve Carlin! What are _you_ doing _here_?" And she descended from her auto and rushed up to Neva.

"How d'ye do, Letty?" said Neva distantly. She had startled, had distinctly winced, at the sound of those affected accents and tones which the fashionable governesses and schools are rapidly making the natural language of "our set" and its fringes.

"Why haven't you let me know?" she reproached. As the words left her lips, up rose within herself an answer which she instantly assumed was _the_ answer. The divorce, of course! She flushed with annoyance at her tactlessness. Her first sensation in thinking of divorce was always that it was scandalous, disgraceful, immoral, a stain upon the woman and her family; but quick upon that feeling, lingering remnant of discarded childhood training, always came the recollection that divorce was no longer unfashionable, was therefore no longer either immoral or disgraceful, was scandalous in a delightful, aristocratic way. "But," reflected she, "probably Neva still feels about that sort of thing as we all used to feel--at least, all the best people." She was confirmed in this view by her cousin's embarrassed expression. She hastened to her relief with "Joe and I talk of you often. Only the other day I started a note to you, asking you when you could visit us."

She did not believe, when Neva told the literal truth in replying: "I came to work. I thought I wouldn't disturb you."

"Disturb!" cried Mrs. Morris. "You are so queer. How long have you been here?"

"Several weeks. I--I've an apartment in this house."

"How delightful!" exclaimed Letty absently. She was herself again and was thinking rapidly. A new man, even from "the provinces," might be fitted in to advantage; but what could she do with another woman, one more where there were already too many for the men available for idling?

"You must let me see something of you," said she, calmer but still cordial. "You must come to dinner--Saturday night." That was Letty Morris's resting night--a brief and early dinner, early to bed for a sleep that would check the ravages of the New York season in a beauty that must be husbanded, since she had crossed the perilous line of thirty. "Yes--Saturday--at half-past seven. And here's one of my cards to remind you of the address. I must be going now. I'm horribly late." And with a handshake and brush of the lips on Neva's cheek, the small, brilliant, blonde cousin was gone.

"What a nuisance," she was saying to herself. "Why _did_ I let myself be surprised into attracting her attention? Now, I'll have to do something for her--we're really under obligations to her father--I don't believe Joe has paid back the last of that loan yet. Well, I can use her occasionally to take Joe off my hands. She looks all right--really, it's amazing how she has improved in dress. She seems to know how to put on her clothes now. But she's too retiring to be dangerous. A woman who's presentable yet not dangerous is almost desirable, is as rare as an attractive man."

The delusion of our own importance is all but universal--and everywhere most happy; but for it, would not life's cynicism broaden from the half-hidden smirk into a disheartening sneer? Among fashionable people, narrow, and carefully educated only in class prejudice and pretentious ignorance, this delusion becomes an obsession. The whole hardworking, self-absorbed world is watching them--so they delight in imagining--is envying them, is imitating them. Letty assumed that Neva had kept away through awe, and that she would now take advantage of her politeness to cling to her and get about in society; as Mrs. Morris thought of nothing but society, she naturally felt that the whole world must be similarly occupied. She would have been astounded could she have seen into Neva's mind--seen the debate going on there as to how to entrench herself against annoyance from her cousin. "Shall I refuse her invitation?" thought Neva. "Or, is it better to go Saturday night, and have done with, since I must go to her house once?" She reluctantly decided for Saturday night. "And after that I can plead my work; and soon she'll forget all about me. It's ridiculous that people who wish to have nothing to do with each other should be forced by a stupid conventionality to irritate themselves and each other."