II
THE LAST STRAW
Greyerson was right in his surmise as to Hugh Whitaker's emotions. Hissoul still numb with shock, his mind was altogether preoccupied withpetulant resentment of the unfairness of it all; on the surface of thestunning knowledge that he might count on no more than six months oflife, floated this thin film of sensation of personal grievance. He haddone nothing to deserve this. The sheer brutality of it....
He felt very shaky indeed.
He stood for a long time--how long he never knew--bareheaded on acorner, just as he had left Greyerson's office: scowling at nothing,considering the enormity of the wrong that had been put upon him. Later,realizing that people were staring, he clapped on his hat to satisfythem and strode aimlessly down Sixth Avenue. It was five o'clock in theafternoon of a day late in April--a raw, chilly, dark, unseasonablebrute of a day. He found himself walking fast, instinctively, to keephis blood in warm circulation, and this struck him as so inconsistentthat presently he stopped short and snarled at himself:
"You blithering fool, what difference does it make whether you're warmor cold? Don't you understand you're going to die within half a year?"
He strove manfully to grapple with this hideous fact. He felt so well,so strong and efficient; and yet he walked in the black shadow of death,a shadow from which there was for him no escape.
He thought it the damnedest sensation imaginable!
On top of this reflection came the third clause of Greyerson's analysis:he made the discovery that he wanted a drink--a lot of drinks: in pointof fact, more than he had ever had before, enough to make him forget.
He turned across-town toward Fifth Avenue, came to his club, and wentin. Passing through the office, force of habit swung his gaze to theletter-rack. There was a square white envelope in the W pigeonhole, andit proved to be addressed to him. He knew the handwriting very well--toowell; his heart gave a great jump as he recognized it, and then sanklike a stone; for not only must he die, but he must give up the girl heloved and had planned to marry. The first thing he meant to do (aftergetting that drink) was to write to her and explain and release her fromher promise. The next thing....
He refused to let the idea of the next step form in his mind. But heknew very well what it would be. In the backwards of his understandingit lurked--a gray, grisly, shameful shadow.
"Anyhow," he muttered, "I'm not going to stick round here, dying byinches, wearing the sympathy of my friends to tatters."
But as yet he dared not name the alternative.
He stuffed the letter into his pocket, and passed on to the elevatorgates, meaning to go up to the library and there have his drink and readhis letter and write the answer, in peace and quiet. The problem of thatanswer obsessed his thoughts. It would be hard--hard to write--thatletter that meant the breaking of a woman's faithful heart.
The elevator kept him waiting a moment or two, just round the cornerfrom the grill-room door, whence came a sound of voices talking andlaughing. One was Billy Hamilton's unmistakable semi-jocular drawl.Whitaker knew it without thinking of it, even as he heard what was beingsaid without, at first, comprehending--heard and afterwards rememberedin vivid detail.
"Seems to be the open season for runaways," Hamilton was saying. "It'sonly a few days since Thurlow Ladislas's daughter--what's hername?--Mary--took the bit between her teeth and bolted with the oldman's chauffeur."
Somebody asked: "How far did they get before old Ladislas caught up?"
"He didn't give chase. He's not that kind. If he was put to it, oldThurlow could play the unforgiving parent in a melodrama without anymake-up whatever."
"That's right," little Fiske's voice put in. "Chap I know on the_Herald_--reporter--was sent to interview him, but old Ladislas told himquite civilly that he'd been misinformed--he hadn't any daughter namedMary. Meaning, of course, that the girl had defied him, and that hisdoors were thenceforth barred to her."
"He's just like that," said Hamilton. "Remember his other daughter,Grace, eloping with young Pettit a few years ago? Old Ladislas had adown on Pettit--who's a decent enough kid, notwithstanding--so Grace waspromptly disowned and cast into the outer darkness, where there'sweeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, because Pettit's onlysomething-on-a-small-salary in the diplomatic service, and they've nohope of ever touching a penny of the Ladislas coin."
"But what became of them--Mary and the stoker-person?"
"Nobody knows, except possibly themselves. They're laying lowand--probably--getting first-hand information as to the quantity ofcheese and kisses they can afford on chauffeur's pay."
"What's she like, this Mary-quite-contrary?" inquired George Brenton'svoice. "Anybody ever see her?"
"Oh, nothing but a kid," said little Fiske. "I used to see her often,last summer, kiting round Southampton on a bike. The old man's so meanhe wouldn't let her use the car alone.... Weedy little beggar, all legsand eyes--skirts to her shoe-tops and hair to her waist."
"Not over eighteen, I gather?"
"Oh, not a day," little Fiske affirmed.
The elevator was waiting by this time, but Whitaker paused an instantbefore taking it, chiefly because the sound of his own name, uttered byHamilton, had roused him out of the abstraction in which he hadoverheard the preceding conversation.
"Anyhow, I'm sorry for Hugh Whitaker. He's going to take this hard,mighty hard."
George Brenton asked, as if surprised: "What? I didn't know he wasinterested in that quarter."
"You must be blind. Alice Carstairs has had him going for a year.Everybody thought she was only waiting for him to make some bigmoney--he as much as anybody, I fancy."
Brenton added the last straw. "That's tough," he said soberly."Whitaker's a white man, and Alice Carstairs didn't deserve him. But Iwouldn't blame any man for feeling cut-up to be thrown over for anout-and-out rotter like Percy Grimshaw...."
Whitaker heard no more. At the first mention of the name of AliceCarstairs he had snatched her letter from his pocket and thrust histhumb beneath the flap. Now he had withdrawn the enclosure and wasreading.
When a mean-spirited, selfish woman starts in to justify herself(especially, on paper) for doing something thoroughly contemptible, theresult is apt to be bitterly unfair to everybody involved--exceptherself. Nobody will ever know just what Alice Carstairs saw fit towrite to Hugh Whitaker when she made up her mind to run away withanother man; but there can be little doubt that they were venomous wordshe read, standing there under the curious eyes of the elevator boy andthe pages. The blood ebbed from his face and left it ghastly, and whenhe had torn the paper to shreds and let them flutter about his feet, heswayed perceptibly--so much so that one of the pages took alarm andjumped to his side.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Whitaker--did you call me?"
Whitaker steadied himself and stared until he recognized the boy. "No,"he said thickly, "but I want you. Give me a bar order."
The boy produced the printed form and Whitaker hastily scribbled hisorder on it. "Bring that up to the library," he said, "and be quickabout it."
He stumbled into the elevator, and presently found himself in thelibrary. There was no one else about, and Whitaker was as glad of thatas it was in him to be glad of anything just then. He dropped heavilyinto a big arm-chair and waited, his brain whirling and seething, hisnerves on edge and screeching. In this state Peter Stark found him.
Peter sauntered into the room with a manner elaborately careless.Beneath that mask he was anything but indifferent, just as hisappearance was anything but fortuitous. It happened that the page whohad taken Whitaker's order, knowing that Peter and Hugh were closefriends, and suspecting that something was wrong with the latter, hadsought out Peter before going to get the order filled. Moreover, Peterhad already heard about Alice Carstairs and Percy Grimshaw.
"Hel-_lo_!" he said, contriving by mere accident to catch sight ofWhitaker, who was almost invisible in the big chair with its back to thebody of the room. "What you doing up here, Hugh? What's up?"
"It's all up," said Whitaker, trying to pull himself together."Everything's up!"
"Don't believe it," said Stark, coolly. "My feet are on the ground; butyou look as if you'd seen a ghost."
"I have--my own," said Whitaker. The page now stood beside him with atray. "Open it," he told the boy, indicating a half-bottle of champagne;and then to Peter: "I'm having a bath. Won't you jump in?"
Peter whistled, watching the wine cream over the brandy in the longglass. "King's peg, eh?" he said, with a lift of disapproving eyebrows."Here, boy, bring me some Scotch and plain water for common people."
The boy disappeared as Whitaker lifted his glass.
"I'm not waiting," he said bluntly. "I need this now."
"That's a question, in my mind, at least. Don't you think you've hadabout enough for one day?"
"I leave it to your superior knowledge of my capacity," said Whitaker,putting aside the empty glass. "That's my first to-day."
Peter saw that he was telling the truth, but the edge of his disapprovalremained keen.
"I hope," he said thoughtfully, "that the man who started that lie aboutdrink making a fellow forget died the death of a dog. He deserved to,anyway, because it's one of the cruellest practical jokes everperpetrated on the human race. I know, because I've tried it on,hard--and waked up sick to my marrow to remember what a disgusting assI'd made of myself for all to behold." He stopped at Whitaker's side anddropped a hand on his shoulder. "Hugh," he said, "you're one of thebest. Don't...."
Whatever he had meant to say, he left unfinished because of the returnof the page with his Scotch; but he had said enough to let Whitakerunderstand that he knew about the Carstairs affair.
"That's all right," said Whitaker; "I'm not going to make a damn' foolof myself, but I am in a pretty bad way. Boy--"
"Hold on!" Peter interrupted. "You're not going to order another? Whatyou've had is enough to galvanize a corpse."
"Barring the negligible difference of a few minutes or months, that'sme," returned Whitaker. "But never mind, boy--run along."
"I'd like to know what you mean by that," Peter remarked, obviouslyworried.
"I mean that I'm practically a dead man--so near it that it makes nodifference."
"The devil you say! What's the matter with you?"
"Ask Greyerson. I can't remember the name--it's too long--and I couldn'tpronounce it if I did."
Peter's eyes narrowed. "What foolishness has Greyerson been putting intoyour head?" he demanded. "I've a good mind to go punch his--"
"It isn't his fault," Whitaker asserted. "It's my own--or rather, it'ssomething in the nature of a posthumous gift from my progenitors;several of 'em died of it, and now it seems I must. Greyerson says so,at least, and when I didn't believe him he called in Hartt and Bushnellto hold my ante-mortem. They made it unanimous. If I'm uncommonly luckyI may live to see next Thanksgiving."
"Oh, shut up!" Peter exploded viciously. "You make me tired--you andyour bone-headed M.D.'s!"
He worked himself into a comforting rage, damning the medical fraternityliberally for a gang of bloodthirsty assassins and threatening to commitassault and battery upon the person of Greyerson, though Whitaker didhis best to make him understand that matters were what theywere--irremediable.
"You won't find any higher authorities than Hartt and Bushnell," hesaid. "They are the court of last resort in such cases. When they handdown a decision, there's no come-back."
"You can't make me believe that," Peter insisted. "It just can't be so.A man like you, who's always lived clean.... Why, look at your athleticrecord! Do you mean to tell me a fellow could hold a job as undisputedbest all-round man in his class for four years, and all the timehandicapped by a constitutional...? Oh, get out! Don't talk to me. I'mfar more likely to be doing my bit beneath the daisies six months fromnow.... I won't believe it!"
His big, red, generous fist described a large and inconclusive gestureof violence.
"Well," he growled finally, "grant all this--which I don't, not for onelittle minute--what do you mean to do?"
"I don't mind telling you," said Whitaker: "I don't know. Wish I did. Upto within the last few minutes I fully intended to cut the knot with myown knife. It's not reasonable to ask a man to sit still and watchhimself go slowly to pieces...."
"No," said Stark, sitting down. "No," he admitted grudgingly; "but I'mglad you've given that up, because I'm right and all these fool doctorsare wrong. You'll see. But...." He couldn't help being curious. "Butwhy?"
"Well," Whitaker considered slowly--"it's Alice Carstairs. You know whatshe's done."
"You don't mean to say you're going--that you think there's anyconsideration due her?"
"Don't you?" Whitaker smiled wearily. "Perhaps you're right. I don'tknow. We won't discuss the ethics of the situation; right or wrong, Idon't mean to shadow whatever happiness she has in store for her byostentatiously snuffing myself out just now."
Peter gulped and succeeded in saying nothing. But he stared.
"At the same time," Whitaker resumed, "I don't think I can stand thissort of thing. I can't go round with my flesh creeping to hear thewhisperings behind my back. I've got to do something--get awaysomewhere."
Abrupt inspiration sparked the imagination of Peter Stark, and he beganto sputter with enthusiasm.
"I've got it!" he cried, jumping to his feet. "A sea trip's just thething. Chances are, it'll turn the trick--bring you round all right-O,and prove what asses doctors are. What d'you say? Are you game for asail? The _Adventuress_ is laid up at New Bedford now, but I can haveher put in commission within three days. We'll do it--we'll just lightout, old man! We'll try that South Seas thing we've talked about solong. What d'you say?"
A warm light glowed in Whitaker's sunken eyes. He nodded slowly.