Mr. Wrenn fled back to Tom Poppins's store. On the way he was
shocked to find himself relieved at having parted with Morton.
The cigar-store was closed.
At home Mrs. Zapp waylaid him for his rent (a day overdue), and
he was very curt. That was to keep back the "O God, how rotten
I feel!" with which, in his room, he voiced the desolation of
loneliness.
The ghost of Morton, dead and forgotten, was with him all next
day, till he got home and unbelievably found on the staid
black-walnut Zapp hat-rack a letter from Paris, in a gray
foreign-appearing envelope with Istra's intensely black scrawl
on it.
He put off the luxury of opening the letter till after the rites
of brushing his teeth, putting on his slippers, pounding his
rocking-chair cushion into softness. Panting with the joy to
come, he stared out of the window at a giant and glorious figure
of Istra--the laughing Istra of breakfast camp- fire--which
towered from the street below. He sighed joyously and read:
Mouse dear, just a word to let you know I haven't forgotten you
and am very glad indeed to get your letters. Not much to write
about. Frightfully busy with work and fool parties. You _are_
a dear good soul and I hope you'll keep on writing me. In
haste,
I. N.
Longer letter next time.
He came to the end so soon. Istra was gone again.
CHAPTER XIV
HE ENTERS SOCIETY
England, in all its Istra - ness, scarce gave Mr. Wrenn a better
thrill for his collection than the thrill he received on the
November evening when he saw the white doorway of Mrs. R. T.
Ferrard, in a decorous row of houses on Thirtieth Street near
Lexington Avenue.
It is a block where the citizens have civic pride. A newspaper
has not the least chance of lying about on the asphalt--some
householder with a frequently barbered mustache will indignantly
pounce upon it inside of an ho ur. No awe. is caused by the
sight of vestibules floored with marble in alternate black and
white tiles, scrubbed not by landladies, but by maids. There
are dotted Swiss curtains at the basement windows and Irish
point curtains on the first floors. The re are two polished
brass doorplates in a stretch of less than eight houses.
Distinctly, it is not a quarter where children fill the street
with shouting and little sticks.
Occasionally a taxicab drives up to some door without a crowd of
small boys gathering; and young men in evening clothes are not
infrequently seen to take out young ladies wearing tight-fitting
gowns of black, and light scarfs over their heads. A Middle
Western college fraternity has a club-house in the block, and four
of the houses are private--one of them belonging to a police
inspector and one to a school principal who wears spats.
It is a block that is satisfied with itself; as different from
the Zapp district, where landladies in gingham run out to squabble
with berry- venders, as the Zapp district is from the Ghetto.
Mrs. Arty Ferrard's house is a poor relation to most of the
residences there. The black areaway rail is broken, and the
basement-door grill is rusty. But at the windows are
red-and-white-figured chintz curtains, with a $2.98 bisque
figurine of an unclothed lady between them; the door is of
spotless white, with a bell-pull of polished brass.
Mr. Wrenn yanked this bell-pull with an urbane briskness which,
he hoped, would conceal his nervousness and delight in dining
out. For he was one of the lonely men in New York. He had
dined out four times in eight years.
The woman of thirty- five or thirty-eight who opened the door to
him was very fat, two-thirds as fat as Mrs. Zapp, but she had
young eyes. Her mouth was small, arched, and quivering in a grin.
"This is Mr. Wrenn, isn't it?" she gurgled, and leaned against
the doorpost, merry, apparently indolent. "I'm Mrs. Ferrard.
Mr. Poppins told me you were coming, and he said you were a
terribly nice man, and I was to be sure and welcome you. Come
right in."
Her indolence turned to energy as she charged down the hall to
the large double door on the right and threw it open, revealing
to him a scene of splendor and revelry by night.
Several persons [they seemed dozens, in their liveliness] were
singing and shouting to piano music, in the midst of a general
redness and brightness of furnishings--red paper and worn red
carpet and a high ceiling with circular moldings tinted in pink.
Hand-painted pictures of old mills and ladies brooding over
salmon sunsets, and an especially hand-painted Christmas scene
with snow of inlaid mother-of-pearl, animated the walls. On a
golden-oak center-table was a large lamp with a mosaic shade, and
through its mingled bits of green and red and pearl glass
stormed the brilliance of a mantle-light.
The room was crowded with tufted plush and imitation- leather
chairs, side-tables and corner brackets, a couch and a "lady's
desk." Green and red and yellow vases adorned with figures of
youthful lovers crammed the top of the piano at the farther end
of the room and the polished black- marble mantel of the
fireplace. The glaring gas raced the hearth-fire for snap and
glare and excitement. The profusion of furniture was like a
tumult; the redness and oakness and polishedness of furniture
was a dizzying activity; and it was all overwhelmingly magnified
by the laughter and singing about the piano.
Tom Poppins lumbered up from a couch of terrifically new and red
leather, and Mr. Wrenn was introduced to the five new people in
the room with dismaying swiftness. There seemed to be fifty
times five unapproachable and magnificent strangers from whom he
wanted to flee. Of them all he was sure of only two--a Miss Nelly
somebody and what sounded like Horatio Hood Tem (Teddem it was).
He wished that he had caught Miss Nelly's last name (which, at
dinner, proved to be Croubel), for he was instantly taken by her
sweetness as she smiled, held out a well- shaped hand, and said,
"So pleased meet you, Mr. Wrenn."
She returned to the front of the room and went on talking to a
lank spinster about ruchings, but Mr. Wrenn felt that he had
known her long and as intimately as it was possible to know so
clever a young woman.
Nelly Croubel gave him the impression of a delicate prettiness,
a superior sort of prettiness, like that of the daughter of the
Big White House on the Hill, the Squire's house, at Parthenon;
though Nelly was not unusually pretty. Indeed, her mouth was
too large, her hair of somewhat ordinary brown. But her face
was always changing with emotions of kindliness and life. Her
skin was perfect; her features fine, rather Greek; her smile,
quick yet sensitive. She was several inches shorter than Mr.
Wrenn, and all curves. Her blouse of white silk lay tenderly
along the adorably smooth softness of her young shoulders. A
smart patent-leather belt encircled her sleek waist. Thin black
lisle stockings showed a modestly arched and rather small foot
in a black pump.
She looked as though she were trained for business; awake,
self-reliant, self-respecting, expecting to have to get things
done, all done, yet she seemed indestructibly gentle,
indestructibly good and believing, and just a bit shy.
Nelly Croubel was twenty-four or twenty-five in years, older in
business, and far younger in love. She was born in Upton's
Grove, Pennsylvania. There, for eighteen years, she had played
Skip to Malue at parties, hid away the notes with which the boys
invited her to picnics at Baptist Beach, read much Walter Scott,
and occasionally taught Sunday-school. Her parents died when
she was beginning her fourth year in high school, and she came
to New York to work in Wanamacy's toy department at six dollars
a week during the holiday rush. Her patience with fussy old
shoppers and her large sales-totals had gained her a permanent
place in the store.
She had loftily climbed to the position of second assistant
buyer in the lingerie department, at fourteen dollars and eighty
cents a week That was quite all of her history except that she
attended a Presbyterian church nearly every Sunday. The only
person she hated was Horatio Hood Teddem, the cheap actor who
was playing the piano at Mr. Wrenn's entrance.
Just now Horatio was playing ragtime with amazing rapidity,
stamping his foot and turning his head to smirk at the others.
Mrs. Arty led her chattering flock to the basement dining-room,
which had pink wall-paper and a mountainous sideboard. Mr.
Wrenn was placed between Mrs. Arty and Nelly Croubel. Out of
the mist of strangeness presently emerged the personality of
Miss Mary Proudfoot, a lively but religious spinster of forty
who made doilies for the Dorcas Women's Exchange and had two
hundred dollars a year family income. To the right of the
red-glass pickle-dish were the elderly Ebbitts--Samuel Ebbitt,
Esq., also Mrs. Ebbitt. Mr. Ebbitt had come from Hartford five
years before, but he always seemed just to have come from there.
He was in a real-estate office; he was gray, ill-tempered,
impatiently honest, and addicted to rheumatism and the
newspapers. Mrs. Ebbitt was addicted only to Mr. Ebbitt.
Across the table was felt the presence of James T. Duncan, who
looked like a dignified red-mustached Sunday-school
superintendent, but who traveled for a cloak and suit house,
gambled heavily on poker and auction pinochle, and was esteemed
for his straight back and knowledge of trains.
Which is all of them.
As soon as Mrs. Arty had guided Annie, the bashful maid, in
serving the vegetable soup, and had coaxed her into bringing Mr.
Wrenn a napkin, she took charge of the conversation, a luxury
which she would never have intrusted to her flock's amateurish
efforts. Mr. Poppins, said she, had spoken of meeting a friend
of Mr. Wrenn's; Mr. Morton, was it not? A very nice man, she
understood. Was it true that Mr. Wrenn and Mr. Morton had gone
clear across the Atlantic on a cattle-boat? It really was?
"Oh, how interesting!" contributed pretty Nelly Croubel, beside
Mr. Wrenn, her young eyes filled with an admiration which caused
him palpitation and difficulty in swallowing his soup. He was
confused by hearing old Samuel Ebbitt state:
"Uh-h-h-h--back in 18--uh--1872 the vessel _Prissie_--no, it was
1873; no, it must have been '72----"
"It was 1872, father," said Mrs. Ebbitt.
"1873. I was on a coasting- vessel, young man. But we didn't
carry cattle." Mr. Ebbitt inspected Horatio Hood Teddem darkly,
clicked his spectacle case sharply shut, and fell to eating,
as though he had settled all this nonsense.
With occasional witty interruptions from the actor, Mr. Wrenn
told of pitching hay, of the wit of Morton, and the wickedness
of Satan, the boss.
"But you haven't told us about the brave things _you_ did," cooed
Mrs. Arty. She appealed to Nelly Croubel: "I'll bet he was a
cool one. Don't yo u think he was, Nelly?"
"I'm sure he was." Nelly's voice was like a flute.
Mr. Wrenn knew that there was just one thing in the world that
he wanted to do; to persuade Miss Nelly Croubel that (though he
was a solid business man, indeed yes, and honorable) he was a
cool one, who had chosen, in wandering o'er this world so wide,
the most perilous and cattle-boaty places. He tried to think of
something modest yet striking to say, while Tom was arguing with
Miss Mary Proudfoot, the respectable spinster, about the ethics
of giving away street-car transfers.
As they finished their floating custard Mr. Wrenn achieved,
"Do you come from New York, Miss Croubel?" and listened to the
tale of sleighing-parties in Upton's Grove, Pennsylvania. He was
absolutely happy.
"This is like getting home," he thought. "And they're classy
folks to get home to--now that I can tell 'em apart. Gee!
Miss Croubel is a peach. And brains--golly!"
He had a frightened hope that after dinner he would be able to
get into a corner and talk with Nelly, but Tom Poppins conferred
with Horatio Hood Teddenm and called Mr. Wrenn aside. Teddem
had been acting with a moving-picture company for a week, and
had three passes to the celebrated Waldorf Photoplay Theater.
Mr. Wrenn had bloodthirstily disapproved Horatio Hood's
man," but when he heard that this molly-coddle had shared in the
glory of making moving pictures he went proudly forth with him
and Tom. He had no chance to speak to Mrs. Arty about taking
the room to be vacated.
He wished that Charley Carpenter or the Zapps could see him
sitting right beside an actor who was shown in the pictures
miraculously there before them, asking him how they made movies,
just as friendly as though they had known each other always.
He wanted to do something to entertain his friends beyond taking
them out for a drink. He invited them down to his room, and
they came.
Teddem was in wonderful form; he mimicked every one they saw so
amiably that Tom Poppins knew the actor wanted to borrow money.
The party were lovingly humming the popular song of the
time-- "Any Little Girl That's a Nice Little Girl is the Right
Little Girl for Me"--as they frisked up the gloomy steps of the
Zapps. Entering, Poppins and Teddem struck attitudes on the
inside stairs and sang aloud.
Mr. Wrenn felt enormously conscious of Mrs. Zapp down below. He
kept listening, as he led them up-stairs and lighted the gas.
But Teddem so imitated Colonel Roosevelt, with two water-glasses
for eye-glasses and a small hat-brush for mustache, that Mr.
Wrenn was moved wrigglingly to exclaim: "Say, I'm going out and
get some beer. Or 'd you rather have something else? Some
cheese sandwiches? How about 'em?"
&nbs
p; "Fine," said Tom and Teddem together.
Not only did Mr. Wrenn buy a large newspaper-covered bundle of
bottles of beer and Swiss-cheese sandwiches, but also a small
can of caviar and salty crackers. In his room he spread a clean
towel, then two clean towels, on the bureau, and arrayed the
feast, with two water- glasses and a shaving-mug for cups.
Horatio Hood Teddem, spreading caviar on a sandwich, and loudly
singing his masterpiece, "Waal I swan," stopped short and fixed
amazed eyes on the door of the room.
Mr. Wrenn hastily turned. The light fell--as on a cliff of
crumbly gray rock--on Mrs. Zapp, in the open door, vast in her
ungirdled gray wrapper, her arms folded, glowering speechlessly.
"Mist' Wrenn," she began, in a high voice that promised to burst
into passion.
But she was addressing the formidable adventurer, Bill Wrenn.
He had to protect his friends. He sprang up and walked across
to her.
He said, quietly, "I didn't hear you knock, Mrs. Zapp."
"Ah _didn't_ knock, and Ah want you should----"
"Then please do knock, unless you want me to give notice."
He was quivering. His voice was shrill.
From the hall below Theresa called up, "Ma, come down here. _Ma!_"
But Mrs. Zapp was too well started. " If you think Ah'm going
to stand for a lazy sneaking little drunkard keeping the whole
street awake, and here it is prett' nearly midnight----"
Just then Mr. William Wrenn saw and heard the most astounding
thing of his life, and became an etemal slave to Tom Poppins.
Tom's broad face became hard, his voice businesslike. He
shouted at Mrs. Zapp:
"Beat it or I'll run you in. Trouble with you is, you old hag,
you don't appreciate a nice quiet little chap like Wrenn, and
you try to bully him--and him here for years. Get out or I'll
put you out. I'm no lamb, and I won't stand for any of your
monkey-shines. Get out. This ain't your room; he's rented
it--he's paid the rent--it's his room. Get out!"
Kindly Tom Poppins worked in a cigar-store and was accustomed to
talk back to drunken men six feet tall. His voice was
tremendous, and he was fatly immovable; he didn't a bit mind the
fact that Mrs. Zapp was still "glaring speechless."
But behold an ally to the forlorn lady. When Theresa, in the
hall below, heard Tom, she knew that Mr. Wrenn would room here
no more. She galloped up-stairs and screeched over her mother's