Consequences
By Willa Cather
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Henry Eastman, a lawyer, aged forty, was standing beside
the Flatiron building in a driving November rainstorm,
signaling frantically for a taxi. It was six-thirty, and
everything on wheels was engaged. The streets were in confusion
about him, the sky was in turmoil above him, and the
Flatiron building, which seemed about to blow down, threw
water like a mill-shoot. Suddenly, out of the brutal struggle of
men and cars and machines and people tilting at each other
with umbrellas, a quiet, well-mannered limousine paused before
him, at the curb, and an agreeable, ruddy countenance
confronted him through the open window of the car.
Dont you want me to pick you up, Mr. Eastman? Im
running directly home now.
Eastman recognized Kier Cavenaugh, a young man of pleasure,
who lived in the house on Central Park South, where he
himself had an apartment.
Dont I? he exclaimed, bolting into the car. Ill risk getting
your cushions wet without compunction. I came up in a
taxi, but I didnt hold it. Bad economy. I thought I saw your
car down on Fourteenth Street about half an hour ago.
The owner of the car smiled. He had a pleasant, round face
and round eyes, and a fringe of smooth, yellow hair showed
under the rim of his soft felt hat. With a lot of little broilers
fluttering into it? You did. I know some girls who work in the
cheap shops down there. I happened to be down-town and I
stopped and took a load of them home. I do sometimes.
Saves their poor little clothes, you know. Their shoes are
never any good.
Eastman looked at his rescuer. Arent they notoriously
afraid of cars and smooth young men? he inquired.
Cavenaugh shook his head. They know which cars are safe
and which are chancy. They put each other wise. You have to
take a bunch at a time, of course. The Italian girls can never
come along; their men shoot. The girls understand, all right;
but their fathers dont. One gets to see queer places, sometimes,
taking them home.
Eastman laughed drily. Every time I touch the circle of
your acquaintance, Cavenaugh, its a little wider. You must
know New York pretty well by this time.
Yes, but Im on my good behavior below Twenty-third
Street, the young man replied with simplicity. My little
friends down there would give me a good character. Theyre
wise little girls. They have grand ways with each other, a romantic
code of loyalty. You can find a good many of the lost
virtues among them.
The car was standing still in a traffic block at Fortieth
Street, when Cavenaugh suddenly drew his face away from
the window and touched Eastmans arm. Look, please. You
see that hansom with the bony gray horsedriver has a broken
hat and red flannel around his throat. Can you see who is
inside?
Eastman peered out. The hansom was just cutting across
the line, and the driver was making a great fuss about it, bobbing
his head and waving his whip. He jerked his dripping
old horse into Fortieth Street and clattered off past the Public
Library grounds toward Sixth Avenue. No, I couldnt see the
passenger. Someone you know?
Could you see whether there was a passenger? Cavenaugh
asked.
Why, yes. A man, I think. I saw his elbow on the apron.
No driver ever behaves like that unless he has a passenger.
Yes, I may have been mistaken, Cavenaugh murmured
absent-mindedly. Ten minutes or so later, after Cavenaughs
car had turned off Fifth Avenue into Fifty-eighth Street, Eastman
exclaimed, Theres your same cabby, and his carts
empty. Hes headed for a drink now, I suppose. The driver
in the broken hat and the red flannel neck cloth was still brandishing
the whip over his old gray. He was coming from the
west now, and turned down Sixth Avenue, under the elevated.
Cavenaughs car stopped at the bachelor apartment house
between Sixth and Seventh Avenues where he and Eastman
lived, and they went up in the elevator together. They were
still talking when the lift stopped at Cavenaughs floor, and
Eastman stepped out with him and walked down the hall,
finishing his sentence while Cavenaugh found his latch-key.
When he opened the door, a wave of fresh cigarette smoke
greeted them. Cavenaugh stopped short and stared into his
hallway. Now how in the devil! he exclaimed angrily.
Someone waiting for you? Oh, no, thanks. I wasnt coming
in. I have to work to-night. Thank you, but I couldnt.
Eastman nodded and went up the two flights to his own
rooms.
Though Eastman did not customarily keep a servant he had
this winter a man who had been lent to him by a friend who
was abroad. Rollins met him at the door and took his coat
and hat.
Put out my dinner clothes, Rollins, and then get out of
here until ten oclock. Ive promised to go to a supper to-night.
I shant be dining. Ive had a late tea and Im going to
work until ten. You may put out some kumiss and biscuit for
me.
Rollins took himself off, and Eastman settled down at the
big table in his sitting-room. He had to read a lot of letters
submitted as evidence in a breach of contract case, and before
he got very far he found that long paragraphs in some of the
letters were written in German. He had a German dictionary
at his office, but none here. Rollins had gone, and anyhow,
the bookstores would be closed. He remembered having seen
a row of dictionaries on the lower shelf of one of Cavenaughs
bookcases. Cavenaugh had a lot of books, though he never
read anything but new stuff. Eastman prudently turned down
his students lamp very lowthe thing had an evil habit of
smokingand went down two flights to Cavenaughs door.
The young man himself answered Eastmans ring. He was
freshly dressed for the evening, except for a brown smoking
jacket, and his yellow hair had been brushed until it shone.
He hesitated as he confronted his caller, still holding the door
knob, and his round eyes and smooth forehead made their
best imitation of a frown. When Eastman began to apologize,
Cavenaughs manner suddenly changed. He caught his arm
and jerked him into the narrow hall. Come in, come in.
Right along! he said excitedly. Right along, he repeated as
he pushed Eastman before him into his sitting-room. Well
Ill he stopped short at the door and looked about his
own room with an air of complete mystification. The back
window was wide open and a strong wind was blowing in.
Cavenaugh walked over to the window and stuck out his
head, looking up and down the fire escape. When he pulled
his head in, he drew down the sash.
I had a visitor I wanted you to see, he explained with a
nervous smile. At least I thought I had. He must have gone
out that way, nodding toward the window.
Call him back. I only came to borrow a German dictionary,
if you have one. Cant stay. Call him back.
Cavenaugh shook his head despondently. No use. Hes
beat it. Nowhere in sight.
He must be active. Has he left something? Eastman
pointed to a very dirty white glove that lay on the floor under
the window.
Yes, thats his. Cavenaugh reached for his tongs, picked
up the glove, and tossed it into the grate, where it quickly
shriveled on the coals. Eastman felt that he had happened in
upon something disagreeable, possibly something shady, and
he wanted to get away at once. Cavenaugh stood staring at
the fire and seemed stupid and dazed; so he repeated his
request rather sternly, I think Ive seen a German dictionary
down there among your books. May I have it?
Cavenaugh blinked at him. A German dictionary? Oh,
possibly! Those were my fathers. I scarcely know what there
is. He put down the tongs and began to wipe his hands
nervously with his handkerchief.
Eastman went over to the bookcase behind the Chesterfield,
opened the door, swooped upon the book he wanted
and stuck it under his arm. He felt perfectly certain now that
something shady had been going on in Cavenaughs rooms,
and he saw no reason why he should come in for any hang-over.
Thanks. Ill send it back to-morrow, he said curtly as
he made for the door.
Cavenaugh followed him. Wait a moment. I wanted you
to see him. You did see his glove, glancing at the grate.
Eastman laughed disagreeably. I saw a glove. Thats not
evidence. Do your friends often use that means of exit? Somewhat
inconvenient.
Cavenaugh gave him a startled glance. Wouldnt you think
so? For an old man, a very rickety old party? The ladders are
steep, you know, and rusty. He approached the window
again and put it up softly. In a moment he drew his head back
with a jerk. He caught Eastmans arm and shoved him toward
the window. Hurry, please. Look! Down there. He pointed
to the little patch of paved court four flights down.
The square of pavement was so small and the walls about it
were so high, that it was a good deal like looking down a
well. Four tall buildings backed upon the same court and
made a kind of shaft, with flagstones at the bottom, and at
the top a square of dark blue with some stars in it. At the
bottom of the shaft Eastman saw a black figure, a man in a
caped coat and a tall hat stealing cautiously around, not across
the square of pavement, keeping close to the dark wall and
avoiding the streak of light that fell on the flagstones from a
window in the opposite house. Seen from that height he was
of course fore-shortened and probably looked more shambling
and decrepit than he was. He picked his way along with
exaggerated care and looked like a silly old cat crossing a wet
street. When he reached the gate that led into an alley way
between two buildings, he felt about for the latch, opened the
door a mere crack, and then shot out under the feeble lamp
that burned in the brick arch over the gateway. The door
closed after him.
Hell get run in, Eastman remarked curtly, turning away
from the window. That door shouldnt be left unlocked.
Any crook could come in. Ill speak to the janitor about it, if
you dont mind, he added sarcastically.
Wish you would. Cavenaugh stood brushing down the
front of his jacket, first with his right hand and then with his
left. You saw him, didnt you?
Enough of him. Seems eccentric. I have to see a lot of
buggy people. They dont take me in any more. But Im keeping
you and Im in a hurry myself. Good night.
Cavenaugh put out his hand detainingly and started to say
something; but Eastman rudely turned his back and went
down the hall and out of the door. He had never felt anything
shady about Cavenaugh before, and he was sorry he had gone
down for the dictionary. In five minutes he was deep in his
papers; but in the half hour when he was loafing before he
dressed to go out, the young mans curious behavior came
into his mind again.
Eastman had merely a neighborly acquaintance with Cavenaugh.
He had been to a supper at the young mans rooms
once, but he didnt particularly like Cavenaughs friends; so
the next time he was asked, he had another engagement. He
liked Cavenaugh himself, if for nothing else than because he
was so cheerful and trim and ruddy. A good complexion is
always at a premium in New York, especially when it shines
reassuringly on a man who does everything in the world to
lose it. It encourages fellow mortals as to the inherent vigor
of the human organism and the amount of bad treatment it
will stand for. Footprints that perhaps another, etc.
Cavenaugh, he knew, had plenty of money. He was the son
of a Pennsylvania preacher, who died soon after he discovered
that his ancestral acres were full of petroleum, and Kier had
come to New York to burn some of the oil. He was thirty-two
and was still at it; spent his life, literally, among the breakers.
His motor hit the Park every morning as if it were the first
time ever. He took people out to supper every night. He
went from restaurant to restaurant, sometimes to half-a-dozen
in an evening. The head waiters were his hosts and their cordiality
made him happy. They made a life-line for him up
Broadway and down Fifth Avenue. Cavenaugh was still fresh
and smooth, round and plump, with a lustre to his hair and
white teeth and a clear look in his round eyes. He seemed
absolutely unwearied and unimpaired; never bored and never
carried away.
Eastman always smiled when he met Cavenaugh in the
entrance hall, serenely going forth to or returning from gladiatorial
combats with joy, or when he saw him rolling
smoothly up to the door in his car in the morning after a
restful night in one of the remarkable new roadhouses he was
always finding. Eastman had seen a good many young men
disappear on Cavenaughs route, and he admired this young
mans endurance.
To-night, for the first time, he had got a whiff of something
unwholesome about the fellowbad nerves, bad company,
something on hand that he was ashamed of, a visitor old and
vicious, who must have had a key to Cavenaughs apartment,
for he was evidently there when Cavenaugh returned at seven
oclock. Probably it was the same man Cavenaugh had seen in
the hansom. He must have been able to let himself in, for
Cavenaugh kept no man but his chauffeur; or perhaps the
janitor had been instructed to let him in. In either case, and
whoever he was, it was clear enough that Cavenaugh was
ashamed of him and was mixing up in questionable business
of some kind.
Eastman sent Cavenaughs book back by Rollins, and for
the next few weeks he had no word with him beyond a casual
greeting when they happened to meet in the hall or the elevator.
One Sunday morning Cavenaugh telephoned up to him
to ask if he could motor out to a roadhouse in Connecticut
that afternoon and have supper; but when Eastman found
there were to be other guests he declined.
On New Years eve Eastman dined at the University Club
at six oclock and hurried home before the usual manifestations
of insanity had begun in the streets. When Rollins
brought his smoking coat, he asked him whether he wouldnt
like to get off early.
Yes, sir. But wont you be dressing, Mr. Eastman? he inquired.
Not to-night. Eastman handed him a bill. Bring some
change in the morning. Therell be fees.
Rollins lost no time in putting everything to rights for the
night, and Eastman couldnt help wishing that he were in
such a hurry to be off somewhere himself. When he heard the
hall door close softly, he wondered if there were any place,
after all, that he wanted to go. From his window he looked
down at the long lines of motors and taxis waiting for a signal
to cross Broadway. He thought of some of their probable
destinations and decided that none of those places pulled him
very hard. The night was warm and wet, the air was drizzly.
Vapor hung in clouds about the Times Building, half hid the
top of it, and made a luminous haze along Broadway. While
he was looking down at the army of wet, black carriage-tops
and their reflected headlights and tail-lights, Eastman heard a
ring at his door. He deliberated. If it were a caller, the hall
porter would have telephoned up. It must be the janitor.
When he opened the door, there stood a rosy young man in a
tuxedo, without a coat or hat.
Pardon. Should I have telephoned? I half thought you
wouldnt be in.
Eastman laughed. Come in, Cavenaugh. You werent sure
whether you wanted company or not, eh, and you were trying
to let chance decide it? That was exactly my state of mind.
Lets accept the verdict. When they emerged from the narrow
hall into his sitting-room, he pointed out a seat by the
fire to his guest. He brought a tray of decanters and soda
bottles and placed it on his writing table.
Cavenaugh hesitated, standing by the fire. Sure you
werent starting for somewhere?
Do I look it? No, I was just making up my mind to stick it
out alone when you rang. Have one? he picked up a tall
tumbler.
Yes, thank you. I always do.
Eastman chuckled. Lucky boy! So will I. I had a very early
dinner. New York is the most arid place on holidays, he continued
as he rattled the ice in the glasses. When one gets too
old to hit the rapids down there, and tired of gobbling food
to heathenish dance music, there is absolutely no place where
you can get a chop and some milk toast in peace, unless you
have strong ties of blood brotherhood on upper Fifth Avenue.
But you, why arent you starting for somewhere?
The young man sipped his soda and shook his head as he
replied:
Oh, I couldnt get a chop, either. I know only flashy people,
of course. He looked up at his host with such a grave
and candid expression that Eastman decided there couldnt be
anything very crooked about the fellow. His smooth cheeks
were positively cherubic.
Well, whats the matter with them? Arent they flashing
to-night?
Only the very new ones seem to flash on New Years eve.
The older ones fade away. Maybe they are hunting a chop,
too.
WellEastman sat downholidays do dash one. I was
just about to write a letter to a pair of maiden aunts in my old
home town, up-state; old coasting hill, snow-covered pines,
lights in the church windows. Thats what youve saved me
from.
Cavenaugh shook himself. Oh, Im sure that wouldnt
have been good for you. Pardon me, he rose and took a
photograph from the bookcase, a handsome man in shooting
clothes. Dudley, isnt it? Did you know him well?
Yes. An old friend. Terrible thing, wasnt it? I havent got
over the jolt yet.
His suicide? Yes, terrible! Did you know his wife?
Slightly. Well enough to admire her very much. She must
be terribly broken up. I wonder Dudley didnt think of that.
Cavenaugh replaced the photograph carefully, lit a cigarette,
and standing before the fire began to smoke. Would
you mind telling me about him? I never met him, but of
course Id read a lot about him, and I cant help feeling interested.
It was a queer thing.
Eastman took out his cigar case and leaned back in his deep
chair. In the days when I knew him best he hadnt any story,
like the happy nations. Everything was properly arranged for
him before he was born. He came into the world happy,
healthy, clever, straight, with the right sort of connections
and the right kind of fortune, neither too large nor too small.
He helped to make the world an agreeable place to live in
until he was twenty-six. Then he married as he should have
married. His wife was a Californian, educated abroad. Beautiful.
You have seen her picture?
Cavenaugh nodded. Oh, many of them.
She was interesting, too. Though she was distinctly a person
of the world, she had retained something, just enough of
the large Western manner. She had the habit of authority, of
calling out a special train if she needed it, of using all our
ingenious mechanical contrivances lightly and easily, without
over-rating them. She and Dudley knew how to live better
than most people. Their house was the most charming one I
have ever known in New York. You felt freedom there, and a
zest of life, and safetyabsolute sanctuaryfrom everything
sordid or petty. A whole society like that would justify the
creation of man and would make our planet shine with a soft,
peculiar radiance among the constellations. You think Im
putting it on thick?
The young man sighed gently. Oh, no! One has always
felt there must be people like that. Ive never known any.
They had two children, beautiful ones. After they had
been married for eight years, Rosina met this Spaniard. He
must have amounted to something. She wasnt a flighty
woman. She came home and told Dudley how matters stood.
He persuaded her to stay at home for six months and try to
pull up. They were both fair-minded people, and Im as sure
as if I were the Almighty, that she did try. But at the end of
the time, Rosina went quietly off to Spain, and Dudley went
to hunt in the Canadian Rockies. I met his party out there. I
didnt know his wife had left him and talked about her a good
deal. I noticed that he never drank anything, and his light
used to shine through the log chinks of his room until all
hours, even after a hard days hunting. When I got back to
New York, rumors were creeping about. Dudley did not come
back. He bought a ranch in Wyoming, built a big log house
and kept splendid dogs and horses. One of his sisters went
out to keep house for him, and the children were there when
they were not in school. He had a great many visitors, and
everyone who came back talked about how well Dudley kept
things going.
He put in two years out there. Then, last month, he had
to come back on business. A trust fund had to be settled up,
and he was administrator. I saw him at the club; same light,
quick step, same gracious handshake. He was getting gray,
and there was something softer in his manner; but he had a
fine red tan on his face and said he found it delightful to be
here in the season when everything is going hard. The Madison
Avenue house had been closed since Rosina left it. He
went there to get some things his sister wanted. That, of
course, was the mistake. He went alone, in the afternoon, and
didnt go out for dinnerfound some sherry and tins of biscuit
in the sideboard. He shot himself sometime that night.
There were pistols in his smoking-room. They found burnt
out candles beside him in the morning. The gas and electricity
were shut off. I suppose there, in his own house, among his
own things, it was too much for him. He left no letters.
Cavenaugh blinked and brushed the lapel of his coat. I
suppose, he said slowly, that every suicide is logical and
reasonable, if one knew all the facts.
Eastman roused himself. No, I dont think so. Ive known
too many fellows who went off like thatmore than I deserve,
I thinkand some of them were absolutely inexplicable.
I can understand Dudley; but I cant see why healthy
bachelors, with money enough, like ourselves, need such a
device. It reminds me of what Dr. Johnson said, that the most
discouraging thing about life is the number of fads and hobbies
and fake religions it takes to put people through a few
years of it.
Dr. Johnson? The specialist? Oh, the old fellow! said
Cavenaugh imperturbably. Yes, thats interesting. Still, I
fancy if one knew the factsDid you know about Wyatt?
I dont think so.
You wouldnt, probably. He was just a fellow about town
who spent money. He wasnt one of the forestieri, though.
Had connections here and owned a fine old place over on
Staten Island. He went in for botany, and had been all over,
hunting things; rusts, I believe. He had a yacht and used to
take a gay crowd down about the South Seas, botanizing. He
really did botanize, I believe. I never knew such a spenderonly
not flashy. He helped a lot of fellows and he was awfully
good to girls, the kind who come down here to get a little
fun, who dont like to work and still arent really tough, the
kind you see talking hard for their dinner. Nobody knows
what becomes of them, or what they get out of it, and there
are hundreds of new ones every year. He helped dozens of
em; it was he who got me curious about the little shop girls.
Well, one afternoon when his tea was brought, he took prussic
acid instead. He didnt leave any letters, either; people of
any taste dont. They wouldnt leave any material reminder if
they could help it. His lawyers found that he had just $314.72
above his debts when he died. He had planned to spend all
his money, and then take his tea; he had worked it out carefully.
Eastman reached for his pipe and pushed his chair away
from the fire. That looks like a considered case, but I dont
think philosophical suicides like that are common. I think
they usually come from stress of feeling and are really, as the
newspapers call them, desperate acts; done without a motive.
You remember when Anna Karenina was under the wheels,
she kept saying, Why am I here?
Cavenaugh rubbed his upper lip with his pink finger and
made an effort to wrinkle his brows. May I, please? reaching
for the whiskey. But have you, he asked, blinking as the
soda flew at him, have you ever known, yourself, cases that
were really inexplicable?
A few too many. I was in Washington just before Captain
Jack Purden was married and I saw a good deal of him. Popular
army man, fine record in the Philippines, married a
charming girl with lots of money; mutual devotion. It was the
gayest wedding of the winter, and they started for Japan.
They stopped in San Francisco for a week and missed their
boat because, as the bride wrote back to Washington, they
were too happy to move. They took the next boat, were both
good sailors, had exceptional weather. After they had been
out for two weeks, Jack got up from his deck chair one afternoon,
yawned, put down his book, and stood before his wife.
Stop reading for a moment and look at me. She laughed and
asked him why. Because you happen to be good to look at.
He nodded to her, went back to the stern and was never seen
again. Must have gone down to the lower deck and slipped
overboard, behind the machinery. It was the luncheon hour,
not many people about; steamer cutting through a soft green
sea. Thats one of the most baffling cases I know. His friends
raked up his past, and it was as trim as a cottage garden. If
hed so much as dropped an ink spot on his fatigue uniform,
theyd have found it. He wasnt emotional or moody; wasnt,
indeed, very interesting; simply a good soldier, fond of all the
pompous little formalities that make up a military mans life.
What do you make of that, my boy?
Cavenaugh stroked his chin. Its very puzzling, I admit.
Still, if one knew everything
But we do know everything. His friends wanted to find
something to help them out, to help the girl out, to help the
case of the human creature.
Oh, I dont mean things that people could unearth, said
Cavenaugh uneasily. But possibly there were things that
couldnt be found out.
Eastman shrugged his shoulders. Its my experience that
when there are things as you call them, theyre very apt to be
found. There is no such thing as a secret. To make any move
at all one has to employ human agencies, employ at least one
human agent. Even when the pirates killed the men who buried
their gold for them, the bones told the story.
Cavenaugh rubbed his hands together and smiled his sunny
smile.
I like that idea. Its reassuring. If we can have no secrets, it
means that we cant, after all, go so far afield as we might, he
hesitated, yes, as we might.
Eastman looked at him sourly. Cavenaugh, when youve
practised law in New York for twelve years, you find that people
cant go far in any direction, except He thrust his forefinger
sharply at the floor. Even in that direction, few people
can do anything out of the ordinary. Our range is limited.
Skip a few baths, and we become personally objectionable.
The slightest carelessness can rot a mans integrity or give him
ptomaine poisoning. We keep up only by incessant cleansing
operations, of mind and body. What we call character, is held
together by all sorts of tacks and strings and glue.
Cavenaugh looked startled. Come now, its not so bad
as that, is it? Ive always thought that a serious man, like
you, must know a lot of Launcelots. When Eastman only
laughed, the younger man squirmed about in his chair. He
spoke again hastily, as if he were embarrassed. Your military
friend may have had personal experiences, however, that his
friends couldnt possibly get a line on. He may accidentally
have come to a place where he saw himself in too unpleasant
a light. I believe people can be chilled by a draft from outside,
somewhere.
Outside? Eastman echoed. Ah, you mean the far outside!
Ghosts, delusions, eh?
Cavenaugh winced. Thats putting it strong. Why not say
tips from the outside? Delusions belong to a diseased mind,
dont they? There are some of us who have no minds to speak
of, who yet have had experiences. Ive had a little something
in that line myself and I dont look it, do I?
Eastman looked at the bland countenance turned toward
him. Not exactly. Whats your delusion?
Its not a delusion. Its a haunt.
The lawyer chuckled. Soul of a lost Casino girl?
No; an old gentleman. A most unattractive old gentleman,
who follows me about.
Does he want money?
Cavenaugh sat up straight. No. I wish to God he wanted
anythingbut the pleasure of my society! Id let him clean
me out to be rid of him. Hes a real article. You saw him
yourself that night when you came to my rooms to borrow a
dictionary, and he went down the fire-escape. You saw him
down in the court.
Well, I saw somebody down in the court, but Im too
cautious to take it for granted that I saw what you saw.
Why, anyhow, should I see your haunt? If it was your friend
I saw, he impressed me disagreeably. How did you pick
him up?
Cavenaugh looked gloomy. That was queer, too. Charley
Burke and I had motored out to Long Beach, about a year
ago, sometime in October, I think. We had supper and stayed
until late. When we were coming home, my car broke
down. We had a lot of girls along who had to get back for
morning rehearsals and things; so I sent them all into town in
Charleys car, and he was to send a man back to tow me
home. I was driving myself, and didnt want to leave my machine.
We had not taken a direct road back; so I was stuck in a
lonesome, woody place, no houses about. I got chilly and
made a fire, and was putting in the time comfortably enough,
when this old party steps up. He was in shabby evening
clothes and a top hat, and had on his usual white gloves.
How he got there, at three oclock in the morning, miles from
any town or railway, Ill leave it to you to figure out. He
surely had no car. When I saw him coming up to the fire, I
disliked him. He had a silly, apologetic walk. His teeth were
chattering, and I asked him to sit down. He got down like a
clothes-horse folding up. I offered him a cigarette, and when
he took off his gloves I couldnt help noticing how knotted
and spotty his hands were. He was asthmatic, and took his
breath with a wheeze. Havent you got anythingrefreshing
in there? he asked, nodding at the car. When I told him I
hadnt, he sighed. Ah, you young fellows are greedy. You
drink it all up. You drink it all up, all upup! he kept chewing
it over.
Cavenaugh paused and looked embarrassed again. The
thing that was most unpleasant is difficult to explain. The old
man sat there by the fire and leered at me with a silly sort of
admiration that waswell, more than humiliating. Gay boy,
gay dog! he would mutter, and when he grinned he showed
his teeth, worn and yellowshells. I remembered that it was
better to talk casually to insane people; so I remarked carelessly
that I had been out with a party and got stuck.
Oh yes, I remember, he said, Flora and Lottie and Maybelle
and Marcelline, and poor Kate.
He had named them correctly; so I began to think I had
been hitting the bright waters too hard.
Things I drank never had seemed to make me woody; but
you can never tell when trouble is going to hit you. I pulled
my hat down and tried to look as uncommunicative as possible;
but he kept croaking on from time to time, like this:
Poor Kate! Splendid arms, but dope got her. She took up
with Eastern religions after she had her hair dyed. Got to
going to a Swamis joint, and smoking opium. Temple of the
Lotus, it was called, and the police raided it.
This was nonsense, of course; the young woman was in
the pink of condition. I let him rave, but I decided that if
something didnt come out for me pretty soon, Id foot it
across Long Island. There wasnt room enough for the two of
us. I got up and took another try at my car. He hopped right
after me.
Good car, he wheezed, better than the little Ford.
Id had a Ford before, but so has everybody; that was a
safe guess.
Still, he went on, that run in from Huntington Bay in
the rain wasnt bad. Arrested for speeding, he-he.
It was true I had made such a run, under rather unusual
circumstances, and had been arrested. When at last I heard
my life-boat snorting up the road, my visitor got up, sighed,
and stepped back into the shadow of the trees. I didnt wait to
see what became of him, you may believe. That was visitation
number one. What do you think of it?
Cavenaugh looked at his host defiantly. Eastman smiled.
I think youd better change your mode of life, Cavenaugh.
Had many returns? he inquired.
Too many, by far. The young man took a turn about the
room and came back to the fire. Standing by the mantel he lit
another cigarette before going on with his story:
The second visitation happened in the street, early in the
evening, about eight oclock. I was held up in a traffic block
before the Plaza. My chauffeur was driving. Old Nibbs steps
up out of the crowd, opens the door of my car, gets in and
sits down beside me. He had on wilted evening clothes, same
as before, and there was some sort of heavy scent about him.
Such an unpleasant old party! A thorough-going rotter; you
knew it at once. This time he wasnt talkative, as he had been
when I first saw him. He leaned back in the car as if he owned
it, crossed his hands on his stick and looked out at the
crowdsort of hungrily.
I own I really felt a loathing compassion for him. We got
down the avenue slowly. I kept looking out at the mounted
police. But what could I do? Have him pulled? I was afraid
to. I was awfully afraid of getting him into the papers.
Im going to the New Astor, I said at last. Can I take
you anywhere?
No, thank you, says he. I get out when you do. Im due
on West 44th. Im dining to-night with Marcellineall that
is left of her!
He put his hand to his hat brim with a grewsome salute.
Such a scandalous, foolish old face as he had! When we pulled
up at the Astor, I stuck my hand in my pocket and asked him
if hed like a little loan.
No, thank you, buthe leaned over and whispered,
ugh!but save a little, save a little. Forty years from nowa
littlecomes in handy. Save a little.
His eyes fairly glittered as he made his remark. I jumped
out. Id have jumped into the North River. When he tripped
off, I asked my chauffeur if hed noticed the man who got
into the car with me. He said he knew someone was with me,
but he hadnt noticed just when he got in. Want to hear any
more?
Cavenaugh dropped into his chair again. His plump cheeks
were a trifle more flushed than usual, but he was perfectly
calm. Eastman felt that the young man believed what he was
telling him.
Of course I do. Its very interesting. I dont see quite
where you are coming out though.
Cavenaugh sniffed. No more do I. I really feel that Ive
been put upon. I havent deserved it any more than any other
fellow of my kind. Doesnt it impress you disagreeably?
Well, rather so. Has anyone else seen your friend?
You saw him.
We wont count that. As I said, theres no certainty that
you and I saw the same person in the court that night. Has
anyone else had a look in?
People sense him rather than see him. He usually crops up
when Im alone or in a crowd on the street. He never approaches
me when Im with people I know, though Ive seen
him hanging about the doors of theatres when I come out
with a party; loafing around the stage exit, under a wall; or
across the street, in a doorway. To be frank, Im not anxious
to introduce him. The third time, it was I who came upon
him. In November my driver, Harry, had a sudden attack of
appendicitis. I took him to the Presbyterian Hospital in the
car, early in the evening. When I came home, I found the old
villain in my rooms. I offered him a drink, and he sat down.
It was the first time I had seen him in a steady light, with his
hat off.
His face is lined like a railway map, and as to colorLord,
what a liver! His scalp grows tight to his skull, and his
hair is dyed until its perfectly dead, like a piece of black
cloth.
Cavenaugh ran his fingers through his own neatly trimmed
thatch, and seemed to forget where he was for a moment.
I had a twin brother, Brian, who died when we were
sixteen. I have a photograph of him on my wall, an enlargement
from a kodak of him, doing a high jump, rather good
thing, full of action. It seemed to annoy the old gentleman.
He kept looking at it and lifting his eyebrows, and finally he
got up, tip-toed across the room, and turned the picture to
the wall.
Poor Brian! Fine fellow, but died young, says he.
Next morning, there was the picture, still reversed.
Did he stay long? Eastman asked interestedly.
Half an hour, by the clock.
Did he talk?
Well, he rambled.
What about?
Cavenaugh rubbed his pale eyebrows before answering.
About things that an old man ought to want to forget.
His conversation is highly objectionable. Of course he knows
me like a book; everything Ive ever done or thought. But
when he recalls them, he throws a bad light on them, somehow.
Things that werent much off color, look rotten. He
doesnt leave one a shred of self-respect, he really doesnt.
Thats the amount of it. The young man whipped out his
handkerchief and wiped his face.
You mean he really talks about things that none of your
friends know?
Oh, dear, yes! Recalls things that happened in school.
Anything disagreeable. Funny thing, he always turns Brians
picture to the wall.
Does he come often?
Yes, oftener, now. Of course I dont know how he gets in
down-stairs. The hall boys never see him. But he has a key to
my door. I dont know how he got it, but I can hear him turn
it in the lock.
Why dont you keep your driver with you, or telephone
for me to come down?
Hed only grin and go down the fire escape as he did
before. Hes often done it when Harrys come in suddenly.
Everybody has to be alone sometimes, you know. Besides, I
dont want anybody to see him. He has me there.
But why not? Why do you feel responsible for him?
Cavenaugh smiled wearily. Thats rather the point, isnt
it? Why do I? But I absolutely do. That identifies him, more
than his knowing all about my life and my affairs.
Eastman looked at Cavenaugh thoughtfully. Well, I
should advise you to go in for something altogether different
and new, and go in for it hard; business, engineering, metallurgy,
something this old fellow wouldnt be interested in.
See if you can make him remember logarithms.
Cavenaugh sighed. No, he has me there, too. People never
really change; they go on being themselves. But I would
never make much trouble. Why cant they let me alone, damn
it! Id never hurt anybody, except, perhaps
Except your old gentleman, eh? Eastman laughed. Seriously,
Cavenaugh, if you want to shake him, I think a year on
a ranch would do it. He would never be coaxed far from his
favorite haunts. He would dread Montana.
Cavenaugh pursed up his lips. So do I!
Oh, you think you do. Try it, and youll find out. A gun and
a horse beats all this sort of thing. Besides losing your haunt,
youd be putting ten years in the bank for yourself. I know a
good ranch where they take people, if you want to try it.
Thank you. Ill consider. Do you think Im batty?
No, but I think youve been doing one sort of thing too
long. You need big horizons. Get out of this.
Cavenaugh smiled meekly. He rose lazily and yawned behind
his hand. Its late, and Ive taken your whole evening.
He strolled over to the window and looked out. Queer
place, New York; rough on the little fellows. Dont you feel
sorry for them, the girls especially? I do. What a fight they
put up for a little fun! Why, even that old goat is sorry for
them, the only decent thing he kept.
Eastman followed him to the door and stood in the hall,
while Cavenaugh waited for the elevator. When the car came
up Cavenaugh extended his pink, warm hand. Good night.
The cage sank and his rosy countenance disappeared, his
round-eyed smile being the last thing to go.
Weeks passed before Eastman saw Cavenaugh again. One
morning, just as he was starting for Washington to argue a
case before the Supreme Court, Cavenaugh telephoned him at
his office to ask him about the Montana ranch he had recommended;
said he meant to take his advice and go out there for
the spring and summer.
When Eastman got back from Washington, he saw dusty
trunks, just up from the trunk room, before Cavenaughs
door. Next morning, when he stopped to see what the young
man was about, he found Cavenaugh in his shirt sleeves,
packing.
Im really going; off to-morrow night. You didnt think it
of me, did you? he asked gaily.
Oh, Ive always had hopes of you! Eastman declared.
But you are in a hurry, it seems to me.
Yes, I am in a hurry. Cavenaugh shot a pair of leggings
into one of the open trunks. I telegraphed your ranch people,
used your name, and they said it would be all right. By
the way, some of my crowd are giving a little dinner for me at
Rectors to-night. Couldnt you be persuaded, as its a farewell
occasion? Cavenaugh looked at him hopefully.
Eastman laughed and shook his head. Sorry, Cavenaugh,
but thats too gay a world for me. Ive got too much work
lined up before me. I wish I had time to stop and look at your
guns, though. You seem to know something about guns.
Youve more than youll need, but nobody can have too many
good ones. He put down one of the revolvers regretfully.
Ill drop in to see you in the morning, if youre up.
I shall be up, all right. Ive warned my crowd that Ill cut
away before midnight.
You wont, though, Eastman called back over his shoulder
as he hurried down-stairs.
The next morning, while Eastman was dressing, Rollins
came in greatly excited.
Im a little late, sir. I was stopped by Harry, Mr. Cavenaughs
driver. Mr. Cavenaugh shot himself last night, sir.
Eastman dropped his vest and sat down on his shoe-box.
Youre drunk, Rollins, he shouted. Hes going away to-day!
Yes, sir. Harry found him this morning. Ah, hes quite
dead, sir. Harrys telephoned for the coroner. Harry dont
know what to do with the ticket.
Eastman pulled on his coat and ran down the stairway.
Cavenaughs trunks were strapped and piled before the door.
Harry was walking up and down the hall with a long green
railroad ticket in his hand and a look of complete stupidity on
his face.
What shall I do about this ticket, Mr. Eastman? he whispered.
And what about his trunks? He had me tell the transfer
people to come early. They may be here any minute. Yes,
sir. I brought him home in the car last night, before twelve, as
cheerful as could be.
Be quiet, Harry. Where is he?
In his bed, sir.
Eastman went into Cavenaughs sleeping-room. When he
came back to the sitting-room, he looked over the writing
table; railway folders, time-tables, receipted bills, nothing
else. He looked up for the photograph of Cavenaughs twin
brother. There it was, turned to the wall. Eastman took it
down and looked at it; a boy in track clothes, half lying in the
air, going over the string shoulders first, above the heads of a
crowd of lads who were running and cheering. The face was
somewhat blurred by the motion and the bright sunlight.
Eastman put the picture back, as he found it. Had Cavenaugh
entertained his visitor last night, and had the old man been
more convincing than usual? Well, at any rate, hes seen to it
that the old man cant establish identity. What a soft lot they
are, fellows like poor Cavenaugh! Eastman thought of his
office as a delightful place.
McClures, November 1915
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