Short Fiction · Disentangling Old Duggie (1/2)

Disentangling Old Duggie

Doesn’t some poet or philosopher fellow say that it’s when our intentions are best that we always make the worst breaks? I can’t put my hand on the passage, but you’ll find it in Shakespeare or somewhere, I’m pretty certain.

At any rate, it’s always that way with me. And the affair of Douglas Craye is a case in point.

I had dined with Duggie (a dear old pal of mine) one night at his club, and as he was seeing me out he said: “Reggie, old top”⁠—my name’s Reggie Pepper⁠—“Reggie, old top, I’m rather worried.”

“Are you, Duggie, old pal?” I said.

“Yes, Reggie, old fellow,” he said, “I am. It’s like this. The Booles have asked me down to their place for the weekend, and I don’t know whether to go or not. You see, they have early breakfast, and besides that there’s a frightful risk of music after dinner. On the other hand, young Roderick Boole thinks he can play piquet.”

“I should go,” I said.

“But I’m not sure Roderick’s going to be there this time.”

It was a problem, and I didn’t wonder poor old Dug had looked pale and tired at dinner.

Then I had the idea which really started all the trouble.

“Why don’t you consult a palmist?” I said.

“That sounds a good idea,” said Duggie.

“Go and see Dorothea in Forty-second Street. She’s a wonder. She’ll settle it for you in a second. She’ll see from your lines that you are thinking of making a journey, and she’ll either tell you to get a move on, which will mean that Roderick will be there, or else to keep away because she sees disaster.”

“You seem to be next to the game all right.”

“I’ve been to a good many of them. You’ll like Dorothea.”

“What did you say her name was⁠—Dorothea? What do I do? Do I just walk in? Shan’t I feel a fearful chump? How much do I give her?”

“Five bucks. You’d better write and make a date.”

“All right,” said Duggie. “But I know I shall look a frightful fool.”

About a week later I ran into him between the acts at the Knickerbocker. The old boy was beaming.

“Reggie,” he said, “you did me the best turn anyone’s ever done me, sending me to Mrs. Darrell.”

“Mrs. Darrell?”

“You know. Dorothea. Her real name’s Darrell. She’s a widow. Her husband was in some regiment, and left her without a penny. It’s a frightfully pathetic story. Haven’t time to tell you now. My boy, she’s a marvel. She had hardly looked at my hand, when she said: ‘You will prosper in any venture you undertake.’ And next day, by George, I went down to the Booles’ and separated young Roderick from seventy dollars. She’s a wonderful woman. Did you ever see just that shade of hair?”

“I didn’t notice her hair.”

He gaped at me in a sort of petrified astonishment.

“You⁠—didn’t⁠—notice⁠—her⁠—hair!” he gasped.

I can’t fix the dates exactly, but it must have been about three weeks after this that I got a telegram:

“Call Madison Avenue immediately⁠—Florence Craye.”

She needn’t have signed her name. I should have known who it was from by the wording. Ever since I was a kid, Duggie’s sister Florence has oppressed me to the most fearful extent. Not that I’m the only one. Her brothers live in terror of her, I know. Especially Edwin. He’s never been able to get away from her and it’s absolutely broken his spirit. He’s a mild, hopeless sort of chump who spends all his time at home⁠—they live near Philadelphia⁠—and has never been known to come to New York. He’s writing a history of the family, or something, I believe.

You see, events have conspired, so to speak, to let Florence do pretty much as she likes with them. Originally there was old man Craye, Duggie’s father, who made a fortune out of the Soup Trust; Duggie’s elder brother Edwin; Florence; and Duggie. Mrs. Craye has been dead some years. Then came the smash. It happened through the old man. Most people, if you ask them, will tell you that he ought to be in Bloomingdale; and I’m not sure they’re not right. At any rate, one morning he came down to breakfast, lifted the first cover on the sideboard, said in a sort of despairing way, “Eggs! Eggs! Eggs! Curse all eggs!” and walked out of the room. Nobody thought much of it till about an hour afterward, when they found that he had packed a grip, left the house, and caught the train to New York. Next day they got a letter from him, saying that he was off to Europe, never to return, and that all communications were to be addressed to his lawyers. And from that day on none of them had seen him. He wrote occasionally, generally from Paris; and that was all.

Well, directly news of this got about, down swooped a series of aunts to grab the helm. They didn’t stay long. Florence had them out, one after the other, in no time. If any lingering doubt remained in their minds, don’t you know, as to who was going to be boss at home, it wasn’t her fault. Since then she has run the show.

I went to Madison Avenue. It was one of the aunts’ houses. There was no sign of the aunt when I called⁠—she had probably climbed a tree and pulled it up after her⁠—but Florence was there.

She is a tall woman with what, I believe, is called “a presence.” Her eyes are bright and black, and have a way of getting right inside you, don’t you know, and running up and down your spine. She has a deep voice. She is about ten years older than Duggie’s brother Edwin, who is six years older than Duggie.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Sit down.”

I poured myself into a chair.

“Reginald,” she said, “what is this I hear about Douglas?”

I said I didn’t know.

“He says that you introduced him.”

“Eh?”

“To this woman⁠—this Mrs. Darrell.”

“Mrs. Darrell?”

My memory’s pretty rocky, and the name conveyed nothing to me.

She pulled out a letter.

“Yes,” she said, “Mrs. Dorothy Darrell.”

“Great Scott! Dorothea!”

Her eyes resumed their spine drill.

“Who is she?”

“Only a palmist.”

“Only a palmist!” Her voice absolutely boomed. “Well, my brother Douglas is engaged to be married to her.”

“Many happy returns of the day,” I said.

I don’t know why I said it. It wasn’t what I meant to say. I’m not sure I meant to say anything.

She glared at me. By this time I was pure jelly. I simply flowed about the chair.

“You are facetious, Reginald,” she said.

“No, no, no,” I shouted. “It slipped out. I wouldn’t be facetious for worlds.”

“I am glad. It is no laughing matter. Have you any suggestions?”

“Suggestions?”

“You don’t imagine it can be allowed to go on? The engagement must be broken, of course. But how?”

“Why don’t you tell him he mustn’t?”

“I shall naturally express my strong disapproval, but it may not be effective. When out of the reach of my personal influence, my wretched brother is self-willed to a degree.”

I saw what she meant. Good old Duggie wasn’t going to have those eyes patrolling his spine if he knew it. He meant to keep away and conduct this business by letter. There was going to be no personal interview with sister, if he had to dodge about America like a snipe.

We sat for a long time without speaking. Then I became rather subtle. I had a brainwave and saw my way to making things right for Dug and at the same time squaring myself with Florence. After all, I thought, the old boy couldn’t keep away from home for the rest of his life. He would have to go there sooner or later. And my scheme made it pleasant and easy for him.

“I’ll tell you what I should do if I were you,” I said. “I’m not sure I didn’t read some book or see some play somewhere or other where they tried it on, and it worked all right. Fellow got engaged to a girl, and the family didn’t like it, but, instead of kicking, they pretended to be tickled to pieces, and had the fellow and the girl down to visit them. And then, after the fellow had seen the girl with the home circle as a background, don’t you know, he came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t do, and broke off the engagement.”

It seemed to strike her.

“I hardly expected so sensible a suggestion from you, Reginald,” she said. “It is a very good plan. It shows that you really have a definite substratum of intelligence; and it is all the more deplorable that you should idle your way through the world as you do, when you might be performing some really useful work.”

That was Florence all over. Even when she patted you on the head, she had to do it with her knuckles.

“I will invite them down next week,” she went on. “You had better come, too.”

“It’s awfully kind of you, but the fact is⁠—”

“Next Wednesday. Take the three-forty-seven.”

I met Duggie next day. He was looking happy, but puzzled, like a man who has found a dime on the street and is wondering if there’s a string tied to it. I congratulated him on his engagement.

“Reggie,” he said, “a queer thing has happened. I feel as if I’d trodden on the last step when it wasn’t there. I’ve just had a letter from my sister Florence asking me to bring Dorothy home on Wednesday. Florence doesn’t seem to object to the idea of the engagement at all; and I’d expected that I’d have to call out the police reserves when she heard of it. I believe there’s a catch somewhere.”

I tapped him on the breastbone.

“There is, Dug,” I said, “and I’ll tell you what it is. I saw her yesterday, and I can put you next to the game. She thinks that if you see Mrs. Darrell mingling with the home circle, you’ll see flaws in her which you don’t see when you don’t see her mingling with the home circle, don’t you see? Do you see now?”

He laughed⁠—heroically, don’t you know.

“I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed. Love like mine is not dependent on environment.”

Which wasn’t bad, I thought, if it was his own.

I said goodbye to him, and toddled along rather pleased with myself. It seemed to me that I had handled his affairs in a pretty masterly manner for a chap who’s supposed to be one of the biggest chumps in New York.

Well, of course, the thing was an absolute fliver, as I ought to have guessed it would be. Whatever could have induced me to think that a fellow like poor old Dug stood a dog’s chance against a determined female like his sister Florence, I can’t imagine. It was like expecting a rabbit to put up a show with a python. From the very start there was only one possible end to the thing. To a woman like Florence, who had trained herself as tough as whalebone by years of scrapping with her father and occasional by-battles with aunts, it was as easy as killing rats with a stick.

I was sorry for Mrs. Darrell. She was a really good sort and, as a matter of fact, just the kind of wife who would have done old Duggie a bit of good. And on her own ground I shouldn’t wonder if she might not have made a fight for it. But now she hadn’t a chance. Poor old Duggie was just like so much putty in Florence’s hands when he couldn’t get away from her. You could see the sawdust trickling out of Love’s Young Dream in a steady flow.

I took Mrs. Darrell for a walk one afternoon, to see if I couldn’t cheer her up a bit, but it wasn’t much good. She hardly spoke a word till we were on our way home. Then she said with a sort of jerk: “I’m going back to New York tomorrow, Mr. Pepper.”

I suppose I ought to have pretended to be surprised, but I couldn’t work it.

“I’m afraid you’ve had a bad time,” I said. “I’m very sorry.”

She laughed.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice of you to be sympathetic instead of tactful. You’re rather a dear, Mr. Pepper.”

I hadn’t any remarks to make. I whacked at a nettle with my stick.

“I shall break off my engagement after dinner, so that Douglas can have a good night’s rest. I’m afraid he has been brooding on the future a good deal. It will be a great relief to him.”

“Oh, no,” I said.

“Oh, yes. I know exactly how he feels. He thought he could carry me off, but he finds he overestimated his powers. He has remembered that he is a Craye. I imagine that the fact has been pointed out to him.”

“If you ask my opinion,” I said⁠—I was feeling pretty sore about it⁠—“that woman Florence is an absolute cat.”

“My dear Mr. Pepper, I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking your opinion on such a delicate subject. But I’m glad to have it. Thank you very much. Do I strike you as a vindictive woman, Mr. Pepper?”

“I don’t think you do,” I said.

“By nature I don’t think I am. But I’m feeling a little vindictive just at present.”

She stopped suddenly.

“I don’t know why I’m boring you like this, Mr. Pepper,” she said. “For goodness’ sake let’s be cheerful. Say something bright.”

I was going to take a whirl at it, but she started in to talk, and talked all the rest of the way. She seemed to have cheered up a whole lot.

She left next day. I gather she fired Duggie as per schedule, for the old boy looked distinctly brighter, and Florence wore an off-duty expression and was quite decently civil. Mrs. Darrell bore up all right. She avoided Duggie, of course, and put in most of the time talking to Edwin. He evidently appreciated it, for I had never seen him look so nearly happy before.

I went back to New York directly afterward, and I hadn’t been there much more than a week when a most remarkably queer thing happened. Turning in at Hammerstein’s for half an hour one evening, whom should I meet but brother Edwin, quite fairly festive, with a fat cigar in his mouth. “Hello, Reggie,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“I had to come up to New York to look up a life of Hilary de Craye at the library. I believe Mister Man was a sort of ancestor.”

“This isn’t the library.”

“I was beginning to guess as much. The difference is subtle but well marked.”

It struck me that there was another difference that was subtle but well marked, and that was the difference between the Edwin I’d left messing about over his family history a week before and the jovial rounder who was blowing smoke in my face now.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “the library would be all the better for a little of this sort of thing. It’s too conservative. That’s what’s the trouble with the library. What’s the matter with having a crosstalk team and a few performing dogs there? It would brighten the place up and attract custom. Reggie, you’re looking fatigued. I’ve heard there’s a place somewhere in this city, if you can only find it, expressly designed for supplying first-aid to the fatigued. Let’s go and look for it.”

I’m not given to thinking much as a rule, but I couldn’t help pondering over this meeting with Edwin. It’s hard to make you see the remarkableness of the whole thing, for, of course, if you look at it, in one way, there’s nothing so record-breaking in smoking a cigar and drinking a highball. But then you have never seen Edwin. There are degrees in everything, don’t you know. For Edwin to behave as he did with me that night was simply nothing more nor less than a frightful outburst, and it disturbed me. Not that I cared what Edwin did, as a rule, but I couldn’t help feeling a sort of what-d’you-call-it⁠—a presentiment, that somehow, in some way I didn’t understand, I was mixed up in it, or was soon going to be. I think the whole fearful family had got on my nerves to such an extent that the mere sight of any of them made me jumpy.

And, by George, I was perfectly right, don’t you know. In a day or two along came the usual telegram from Florence, telling me to come to Madison Avenue.

The mere idea of Madison Avenue was beginning to give me that tired feeling, and I made up my mind I wouldn’t go near the place. But of course I did. When it came to the point, I simply hadn’t the common manly courage to keep away.

Florence was there as before.

“Reginald,” she said, “I think I shall go raving mad.”

This struck me as a mighty happy solution of everybody’s troubles, but I felt it was too good to be true.