BREAD UPON THE WATERS.

Dunstan Times, Issue 2483, 31 May 1909, Page 2

BREAD UPON THE WATERS.

(By Porter Emerson Browne.)

It was but too plain that Mr T. Wallingham Cass was disconsolate. Slumped deep into the soft recesses of a leathercovered chair, his feet on an altitude with his carefully-parted 1 hair, he held in his mouth a match while, with aimless hand, he attempted to strike on tho brass match stand at his side a Ptolemy Second, Imperial size, cigarette. And ever and anoii would ho sigh, mournfully, chastenedly. Van der Donck Robinson, cue in hand, sleeves at elbow, noticed him as he was making a difficult masso; at which, after ordering the steward to get a new cloth for the table and to charge it to his account, he devoted the interval of moving to the next, to a closer scrutiny of his iriend. “What is the matter, old chap?” ho queried, after the third mournful exhalation. “Been trying to go to work again?” T. Wallingham Cass shook his head. “And after saying what she did, too,” he stated, in lugubrious gentleness, apparently to a taxicab that was screeching by on the Avenue before him. “And she so beautiful!” “Who?” demanded Van der Don dc. Robinson. “And after that night on tho lake, ’ reminisced! T. Wallingham, to a doubledecked omnibus, “when her hat blew overboard, and I tipped her into the lily pads getting it.” , . “Which one are you maundering about?” inquired Van der Donck, a little peevishly; and then, in response t° a “Hey, you!” from the billiard table, “Keep off! Can’t you see the line’s busy ? —I mean, coming in a moment. Let the boy shoot for me.” “Such hair! Such eyes! Such teeth! moodily and mournfully enthused 1 T. Wallingham, this time to a shoestring peddlar and most of the component parts of a young ladies’ seminary. “If you don’t have a lucid interval,’ admonished his exasperated’ friend, “I’ll tap you over the head with this cue —and it’s a twenty-one ouncer, too.”

T. Wallingham raised surprised eyes. “Why 'are you there?” he queried, wond’eringly. “I sure am,” returned the other. “Now what is all this that’s causing you to act like a Keeley Cure graduate who’s just returned for a post-morten course? What’s the matter? Who is she? And what (f her?” , “She’s going to got married/ stated T. Wallingham, with sad simplicity. “She’s •going to get married. And; I love her. And sho loves me. And,” he amplified, weakly, “we both love each other/ ,f ßut why,” queried the puzzled Van der Donck. ‘Search me/’ returned T. Wallingham. “I just got hack from Egypt yesterday. And I read about it in the paper this morning. She’s going to get married tonight. Ain’t it awful?” The ether shook, his head. “I don’t know, he returned. “I’m still single. I’ve heard it said, though

“I don’t mean, what you mean,’ ’expostulated T. Wallingham, gently. “I mean to have her get married the day I get back—that is, to marry him the day I get—l should say to have her marry him when I thought‘all the time she was goinn- to marry me." Van der Donck Robinson drew up a chair and handed his cue to a convenient boy. “Can’t play any more now, Catty, to called to his erstwhile billiard partner. “Wally’s got a hard luck story that I’ve got to hear.” And then, to T. WallingHam : . “Go back and do it over, right, “Well, it’s Beatrice Van Dyne, you know. And I love her, and she loves me, and we both love each other.” “You said l that before.” “I’ll say it again if I choose,” defiantly. The other waived the point. “You met her down at the BurlingameWest’s place, didn’t you.” “Uh-uh. And we drove, and motored, and canoed, and walked, and swam, and golfed', and danced together. We sat on the terrace together in the moonlight, too. . -. . . Such, eyes! Such hair! Such ”

“And you foil in love, eh?” T. Wall in "ham nodded. “Hard,” he said. _ n “And now she’s going to marry ’ “Severance Bnshrod.” Van der Donck Robinson cast upon his friend condemnatory eyes. “You shouldn’t have gone away,” he assorted. “That’s where you made your big mistake.' You shouldn’t have go»e away. ” T. Willingham nodded, sadly. “I know it—now,’’ ho returned.

“Why, it’s perfectly plain—as plain *e the nose on your face—eh —nothing personal, old man. I assure you,” he hastened to add ; and' then : “She thought that you had tired of her; and this other chap was no end of a good match —rich as mud, and old family, and all that—and she was too heartbroken to resist his importunities, and the persuasion and coercion of her parents—l suppose nothing mattered to her after you were gone —and so she just gave in to the forces that were working against her love for you and—well, there you are.”

“Where?” queried T. Wallingham, in more or less bewilderment.

“Hr—you haven’t been to see her, 1 suppose?”'saidi Van der Donck Robinson, ignoring the other’s qucry._ T. Wallingham shook his head. “Quito right,” approved the other. “It would do nothing but harm. She has pride ; and she’d go on with the marriage now if it killed her. A woman like that once her course is laid out for her, will stick just as hard to a wrong one as she will to a right one. _. . It’s hereditary, I suppose—years of yielding to conventionality, and to doing’the wrong thing even when you know it’s wrong because to do the right would surprise and shock people. . . . No,” he went on, thoughtfully, “it must be something more than a plea to reason. It must be —” He relapsed into an interval of dense cogitation. T. Wallingham blinked thrice. “You don’t mean —” he began, weakly. “You don't mean that —that there’s still a chance for me?” Van der Donck Robinson rose from Ins chair. )( “Now don’t you worry, old chap, ho said, soothingly. “Just lean on grandpa and while leaning, get your open faced suit on and meet me here at seven-thirty to-night. . . . Ho, Carty! 111 finish, that game with you now, if you like. Lot mo see — you were weren t you. . . . Your shot, I think —no,

mine.”

* * *

lb was but a step from the club; :o they walked, Van der Donck Robinson lightly, crisply—T. Wallingham Cass dazedly, weakly, his hand resting numbly on the amn of his friend. The shoulders of the former made quick way through the crowd, persistent, pushing. prying that clustered about carriage block and awning passage; and, dragging tho obfuscated T. Wallingham after him, he mounted the plush-laid stops and thrust their way through groups of polite, ly gossiping guests to tho right aisle, where stood a third, tall, immaculately groomed young man who, peering this way and that through the throngs, was apparently awaiting some one. “Here we arc, Carty, old boy,” announced Van der Donck Robinson. “Now take us down to the bald-headed row— * two seats on tho aisle, please; that s a good child.’’ “I’vo been savin" a pair,” announced Cartwright; “had to thrown people out cf ’em four times—just like a regular usher. Come on.” Cartwright led the way; Van der Donck led T. Wallingham. And anon they were seated, and T. Wallingham was trying to find tho wire rest for his hat beneath his seat, absently, dejectedly. At length, with a little sigh of gentlecomplaint, lie gave up his unsuccessful quest and turned round, despairing, gloomy eyes upon what was going on about him. _ Tho organ was sending forth its messages—deep, thunderous, solemn paens — li'ojit, bright trickles of musical joy. Anon there appeared, the clergyman, and his attendant. there pealed forth the majestic strains of the wedding march and the bridal with slow, measured footsteps, made its way down tho aisle; and from some mysterious place there appeared the groom-to-bo and tho best man. T. Wallingham Cass gazed, and gazed then sighed in a manner that caused the stout old lady adjacent to jump and exclaim, “Oh, mercy!” But Van der Donck Robinson bent clear, interested eyes upon the bride. Then to the sorrow-saturated T. Wallingham he said, beneath his breath “I don’t blame you, old chap. She certainly is all to the good. Your rayings only half did her credit. It’s a shame for her to throw herself away upon a sesquipedalian adolescent like that groom.’ T. Wallingham raised to his friend a questioning eye. “I thought you' were going to do something,” he declared, peevishly. “Now don’t be impatient,” admonished Van dor Donck, “There’s plenty of time. They aren’t married! yet.” “No,” returned T. Wallingham; “but they will he in a split second.” Ho shook his head, wanly. “I never before thought that you were a four-flusher,” he said, not vindictively-—not even angrily, but merely with woe-sodden resignation. But his friend did not hear; tho service had begun ; and with alert ©yes and listening ears, lie was paying rigid attention. In impressive silence and unmeasured solemnity, the ritual went on. At length the resonant tones of the clergyman reached the passage: “And if any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully bo joined to-

gather, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” Thor© ©am© a little commotion from the pew in which eat T. Washington and Van der Donck; and the startled' ©yes of all near by saw that the latter had risen. The minister glanced up, and . stopped reading; the bride, and the bride’s father, and the groom-to-be and the best man, four of the ushers and six of the flower girls, and an even score of the guests, followed 1 the clerical eyes to where stood, elevated above its fellows, the tall, broaoshouldercd, immacuiate-groomed figure of Van der l>onck Robinson. With infinite aplomb, and limitless assurance, the latter spoke. “E think I can,” he said, clearly. The minister dropped his book, and the best man his ring. The bride screamed. The bride’s father gasped. Two of the flower .girls clasped’ their hands and gave vent to delighted’, surprised, gleeful, “Oh’s !” And a cub reporter who thought that the proper way to write up a wedding was to attend it knocked down the sexton of the church in Lis anxiety to secure a better view of the affair. "It has come to my knowledge,” said the interrupter of the ceremony, slowiy and impressively, “that through misguided motives and an abortive sense of filial obedience, this woman is about to wed a man whom she does not love.” He paused. But there was no response save a vast, tremendous, unbroken silence. “The man she does love, and who loves her,” went on the intruder, after a sufficient hiatus, "sits beside me. Look as him. If you ever saw anyone that looks more like the picture of hopeless passion than he does, I’ll—l’d—l’ll eat my hat. . . . Hence I deemed it but my sacred duty to interpose and thus prevent a miscarriage of matrimony.” Whereat, having rid himself of the burden of his speech, he bowed gracefully and sat down beside the now mentally atrophied T. Wallingham. The vast, tremendous, unbroken silence continued for an even thirty seconds. JT. was the Bride’s father who broke it. “Now what the deuce,” he began, weakly, gaspingly; “now what ” The clergyman raised a protesting palm. “You forget, sir,” he said, admonitorily. "Forget be blamed!” howled the bride’s father who, accustomed to rule, himseH bore ruling with ill grace. “Though there is temptation for your attitude,” went on the clergyman, "it is utterly unseemly; and unless you can master yourself, I must refuse to go on with the ceremony.” ' “You bet your life you won’t go on with it,” yelped the bride’s father; "anyhow until I’ve whaled the daylights of that pinheaded young nincompoop that’s insulted my daughter.” Van der Donck Robinson rose quickly. "Far be it from me,” he said, deprecatingly But the voice of the bride’s irate parent was the more compelling. He was talking to the prospective bridegroom.

“You’re a deuce of a man !” he howled. “If you had any gumption you’d have climbed over the seats and knocked that man’s head off long ago. If you can’t protect your fiancee’s honor, where would your wife get off? No wedding? Well, I should say not! Never in a million years!” The not-so-prospective bridegroom, who was helping the best man to look for the ring, raised his head protestingly. “But,” he said, weakly. “But ” “Don’t ever come near my house again,” yelled the irate father, “or I’ll hit you on the head with the front porch.” . . Then, to his daughter: “Como on, Bee. _ Let's get out of here There’ll be a million reporters here before you can count seven.* And, without a word to anyone, red-faced, puffing his outraged breath from between tight-drawn lips, ho led his daughter back down the aisle. Van der Donck rose hastily. “Oomo on, Wally,” he said, quickly. “Hero’s your chance to make good. Quick!” And ho charged his way down the side aisle through startled, wondering, loud-talking, smiling men and hysterical, excited, question-shrilling women. He reached the sidewalk coincidentally with the bride and the bride’s father; and

turned : “Now get that machine there, Wally,” lie whispered over his shoulder— But T. Wallingham was not there. With a little shrug of his broad' shoul • ders, Van der Donck Robinson turned back. In another moment he was at the

side of the elder man. “My car is at your disposal, sir,” lie said, easily. The bride’s father looked up —and recognised him. “You!” he yowled. “What in Sam Hall-—• How the blazes — Go to the deuce, sir! I’ll have nothing -” “But,” protested Van der Donck, suavely, “there’s no reason why, through personal enmity, or because you dislike me, or are angry at what I have done, _ you should expose your daughter to additional unpleasantness. I must insist, sir,” and before the amazed parent could further vent his remarks, the younger man had, with quick eye, selected tho best-looking oar within easy access, and was hustling them toward it. Thrusting them into tho tonneau, he himself clambered up besides the startled chauffeur. “Fifth Avenue and Fifty - Seventh Street,” ho said ; “and forget speed, laws.” Then, sofcto voce: “There’s a tenner in it for you; and you can get back before you’re missed.” Tho chauffeur grinned, and nodded. The engine purred, and the car slid easily forward. In another minute they were rolling swiftly up the Avenue. Four minutes Sufficed to land them at their destination; five saw them in the vestibule of the big, sobre-looking mansion.

The bride’s father started to say something; but Van dcr Houck was before him. “I know,” ho said, quickly. “You’re going to rip and tear and roar and rear; and there isn’t a particle of use in it. You think yourself that he’s no fit man for your daughter to marry; you said so; therefore you ought to thank me for saving her from him rather than find: fault with me. However, you’re too excited talk about it sensibly and logically now. Think it over calmly; and I’ll come around Thursday evening. Good night.” And he was gone. An hour later, in the privacy of his own apartments, Avith a handkerchief stuffed into the telephone bell, ho observed, to himself: “Wally missed the chance of his. Lite But it would bo a shame to waste a girl like that on anybody except me.” And not so long after that, a parent, no longer irate but now only helplessly bewildered, stood on the steps of the big, Fifty-Seventh Street house, in the chill November evening, fanning himself wit li a cigar and gazing, a la T. Wallingham Cass, up and down the thoroughfare. There came a voice, faintly heard, from within: “I understand just exactly how it was. Wally, of course, was fatuous and fatheaded. With this other chap it ivas a ease of propinquity. Of course it was an awful thing that I did; but you can see noAV, can’t you, that it Avas the only possible course to pursue under existing conditions? ...... But isn’t it funny, though, that while I thought I Avas doing Wally a good turn, I Avas in reality doing one for myself?” The parent on the steps outside shook his head. “Gosh,” he exclaimed, weakly. “If I’d only had that fellow’s nerve to put with my brains twenty-five years ago, I’d have Rockefeller and Carnegie and that crowd fighting for places in the Bread Line.” i Then, in at the door, he called: i “You might as well accept him, Bee, be- i fore he makes up his mind he Avants the ( house and lot, too!” t