Chapter I: "IT is positively dreadful!"

Even with the puckered brow and drooping lips, Mrs. Cathewe was a most charming young person.

Absently she breathed upon the chilled window-pane, and with the pink horn of her tapering forefinger drew letters and grotesque noses and millions on millions of money.

Who has not, at one time or another, pursued art and riches in this harmless fashion?

The outlook--from the window, not the millions--was not one to promote any degree of cheerfulness, being of darkness, glistening pavements and a steady, blurring rain; and at this particular moment Mrs. Cathewe was quite in sympathy with the outlook; that is to say, dismal.

"Only last week," she went on, "it was an actor out of employ, a man with reversible cuffs and a celluloid collar; but even he knew the difference between bouillon and tea. And now, Heaven have mercy, it is a prize-fighter!"

Mrs. Cathewe reopened the note which in her wrath she had crushed in her left hand, and again read it aloud:

"DEAR NANCY--Am bringing home Sullivan, the boxer, to dinner.
Now, ducky, don't get mad. I want to study him at close range.
You know that I am to have a great boxing scene in my new book,
and this study is absolutely necessary. In haste. JACK."

Mrs. Cathewe turned pathetically to her companion.

"Isn't it awful? A prize-fighter, in spite of all this reform movement! A pugilist!"

"A pug, as my brother would tersely but inelegantly express it," and Caroline Boderick lifted an exquisitely molded chin and laughed; a rollicking laugh which, in spite of her endeavor to remain unmoved, twisted up the corners of Mrs. Cathewe's rebel mouth.

"Forgive me, Nan, if I laugh; but who in the world could help it? It is so droll. This is the greatest house! Imagine, I had the blues the worst kind of way to-day; and now I shall be laughing for a whole week. You dear girl, what do you care? You'll be laughing, too, presently. When a woman marries a successful painter or a popular novelist, she will find that she has wedded also a life full of surprises, full of amusing scenes; ennui is a word cast forth to wander among commonplace folk. Your husband must have his model, just the same as if he were an artist, which he undeniably is."

"Models!" scornfully. "I wish he were a romanticist. I declare, if this realism keeps on, I shall go and live in the country!"

"And have your husband's curios remain all night instead of simply dining." And Caroline pressed her hands against her sides.

"That is it; laugh, laugh! Carol, you have no more sympathy than a turtle."

"You are laughing yourself," said Caroline.

"It is because I'm looking at you. Why, I am positively raging!" She tore her husband's letter into shreds and cast them at her feet. "Jack is always upsetting my choicest plans."

"And my sobriety. If I had a husband like _yours_ I should always be the happiest and merriest woman in the world. What a happy woman you must and ought to be!"

"I am, Carol, I am; but there are times when Jack is as terrible and uncertain as Mark Twain's New England weather. Supposing I had been giving a big dinner to-night? It would have been just the same."

"Only more amusing. Fancy Mrs. Nottingham-Stuart taking inventory of this Mr. Sullivan through that pince-nez of hers!"

A thought suddenly sobered Mrs. Cathewe.

"But whatever shall I do, Carol? I have invited the rector to dine with us."

Mirth spread its sunny wings and flew away, leaving Caroline's beautiful eyes thoughtful and contemplative. "I understood that it was to be a very little dinner for the family."

"Carol, why don't you like the rector? He is almost handsome."

"I do like him, Nan."

"Oh, I don't mean in that way," impulsively.

"In what way?" asked Caroline, her voice losing some of its warmth.

"Passively."

The faint, perpendicular line above Caroline's nose was the only sign of her displeasure.

"Has he proposed to you?"

"Gracious sakes! one would think that the rector was in love with me. Nan, you are very embarrassing when you look like that. Match-making isn't your forte. Besides, the rector and I do not get on very well. Bifurcated riding skirts are not to his fancy; and I would not give up my morning ride for the best man living. Oh, Nan, you ought to ride a horse; there's nothing like it in the world."

"The rector has called upon you more than any other girl in town." When Mrs. Cathewe had an idea, she was very persistent about it. "I have even seen him watching you when delivering a sermon."

Caroline laughed.

"Calling doesn't signify. And you must remember, daddy is the banker of St. Paul's. No, Nan; I don't mean that; I am sure that the rector's calls have nothing to do with the finances of the church. But, to tell the truth, daddy calls him a mollycoddle; says he hasn't enough gumption--whatever that may be--to stand up for himself at the trustees' meetings. All the trustees are opposed to him because he is not over thirty."

"And the best-looking rector the church ever had," supplemented Mrs. Cathewe.

"But a mollycoddle, Nan! You wouldn't have me marry a mollycoddle, would you?" There was a covert plea in her tones which urged Mrs. Cathewe emphatically to deny that the Reverend Richard Allen was a mollycoddle.

Mrs. Cathewe did deny it. "He is not a mollycoddle, and you very well know it. Jack says that his meekness and humility is all a sham."

"A hypocrite!" sitting up very straight.

"Mercy, no! His meekness is merely a sign of splendid self-control. No man could be a mollycoddle and have eyes like his. True, they are mild, but of the mildness of the sea on a calm day. 'Ware of the hurricane!"

"Has Mr. Cathewe found out yet to what college he belonged before he became a divinity student?"

"No; and even I have never had the courage to ask him. But Jack thinks it is Harvard, because the rector let slip one day something about Cambridge. Why don't you write to ask your brother about him?"

For reasons best known to herself, Caroline did not answer.

"Are you ever going to get married? You are twenty-four."

Caroline was laughing again; but it was not the same spirit of mirth that had been called into life by the possible and probable advent of Mr. "Shifty" Sullivan.

"You ought to get married," declared Mrs. Cathewe. "Think of the dinners and teas I should give, following the announcement."

"It is almost worth the risk," mockingly. Caroline arose and walked over to the grate and sat down in the Morris chair. She took up the tongs and stirred the maple log. The spurt of flame discovered a face almost as beautiful as it was interesting and amiable. Her principal claim to beauty, however, lay in her eyes, which were large and brown, with a glister of gold in the rim of that part of the iris which immediately surrounded the pupil. With these eyes she was fascinating; even her dearest friends admitted this; and she was without caprices, which is a rare trait in a beautiful woman. She was also as independent as the Declaration which her mother's grandfather signed a hundred and some odd years before. She came naturally into the spirit, her father being a retired army officer, now the financial mainstay of St. Paul's, of which the Reverend Richard Allen had recently been duly appointed rector.

It is propitious to observe at once that the general possessed an unreliable liver and a battered shin which always ached with rheumatism during rainy weather. Only two persons dared to cross him on stormy days--his daughter and his son. The son was completing his final year at Harvard in the double capacity of so-and-so on the 'varsity crew and some-place-or-other on the eleven, and felt the importance of the luster which he was adding to the historic family name. But this story in nowise concerns him; rather the adventures of Mr. Sullivan, the pugilist, and the rector of St. Paul.

"Mollycoddle," mused Caroline, replacing the tongs.

"Oh, your father's judgment is not infallible."

"It is where courage is concerned," retorted Caroline.

"Well, what's a mollycoddle, anyway?" demanded Mrs. Cathewe, forgetting for the time being her own imminent troubles.

"Does Webster define it? I do not recall. But at any rate the accepted meaning of the word is a person without a backbone, a human being with rubber vertebræ, as daddy expresses it."

"Oh, fudge! your father likes men who slam doors, talk loudly, and bang their fists in their palms."

"Not always," smiling; "at least on days like this."

"Yes, I understand," replied Mrs. Cathewe, laughing. "B-r-r-r! I can see him. Jack says he eats them alive, whatever he means by that."

"Poor daddy!"

"I remember the late rector. Whenever he made a begging call he first asked the servant at the door, 'How's the general's liver to-day?' 'Bad, bad, your worship.' I overheard this dialogue one day while waiting for you. I had to bury my head in the sofa pillows."

"You are going to have Brussels sprouts for salad?"

"Yes. Why?" amused at this queer turn in the conversation.

"I was wondering if your Mr. Sullivan will call them amateur cabbages?"

"Why did you remind me of him? I had almost forgotten him."

"If only I can keep a sober face!" said Caroline, clasping her hands. "If he wears a dress suit, it is sure to pucker across the shoulders, be short in the sleeves, and generally wrinkled. He will wear a huge yellow stone, and his hair will be clipped close to the skull. It will be covered with as many white scars as a map with railroad tracks. 'Mr. Sullivan, permit me to introduce the Reverend Richard Allen.' 'Sure.' Oh, it is rich!" And the laughter which followed smothered the sound of closing doors. "Nan, it is a tonic. I wish I were a novelist's wife. 'Mr. Sullivan, I am charmed to meet you.' I can imagine the rector's horror."

"And what is going to horrify the rector?" asked a manly voice from the doorway.

Both women turned guiltily, each uttering a little cry of surprise and dismay. They beheld a young man of thirty, of medium height, who looked shorter than he really was because of the breadth of his shoulders. His face was clean-shaven and manly; the head was well developed, the chin decided, the blue-gray eyes alight with animation and expectancy. The clerical frock was buttoned closely to the throat, giving emphasis to the splendid breathing powers concealed beneath. The Reverend Richard Allen looked all things save the mollycoddle, as the flush on Caroline's cheeks conceded. And as she arose, she vaguely wondered how much he had heard.

The rector, being above all things a gentleman, did not press his question. He came forward and shook hands, and then spread his fingers over the crackling log.

"What do you suppose has happened to me this day?" he began, turning his back to the blaze and looking first at Mrs. Cathewe because she was his hostess, and then at Caroline because she was the woman who lived first in his thoughts.

"You have found a worthy mendicant?" suggested Caroline, taking up the hand-screen and shading her eyes.

"Cold, cold."

"You have been asked to make an address before some woman's club," Mrs. Cathewe offered.

"Still cold. No. The _Morning Post_ has asked me, in the interests of reform, to write up the prize-fight to-morrow night between Sullivan and McManus, setting forth the contest in all its brutality."

The two women looked at each other and laughed nervously. The same thought had occurred to each.

"Mr. Allen," said Mrs. Cathewe, deciding immediately to explain the cause of her merriment, "as you entered you must have overheard us speak of a Mr. Sullivan. You know how eccentric Mr. Cathewe is. Well, when I invited you to dine this evening I had no idea that this husband of mine was going to bring home Mr. Sullivan in order to study him at close range, as a possible character in a new book he is writing."

The rector stroked his chin. Caroline, observing him shyly, was positive that the luster in his eyes was due to suppressed laughter.

"That will be quite a diversion," he said, seating himself. What a charming profile this girl possessed! Heigh-ho! between riches and poverty the chasm grew wide.

"And we have been amusing ourselves by dissecting Mr. Sullivan," added the woman with the charming profile. "I suggested that if he wore a dress suit it would be either too large or too small."

"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Cathewe, rising suddenly as the hall door slammed, "I believe he has come already. Whatever shall I do, Carol, whatever shall I do?" in a loud whisper.

The rector got up and smiled at Caroline, who returned the smile. In the matter of appreciating humor, she and the rector stood upon common ground.

Presently the novelist and his guest entered. Both he and Mr. Sullivan appeared to be in the best of spirits, for their mouths were twisted in grins.

"My dear," began Cathewe, "this is Mr. Sullivan; Mr. Sullivan, Miss Boderick and the Reverend Richard Allen, of St. Paul's."

"I am delighted," said Mr. Sullivan, bowing.

There was not a wrinkle in Mr. Sullivan's dress suit; there were no diamond studs in his shirt bosom, no watch-chain; just the rims of his cuffs appeared, and these were of immaculate linen. His hair was black and thick and soft as hair always is that is frequently subjected to soap and water. In fact, there was only one sign which betrayed Mr. Sullivan's profitable but equivocal business in life, and this was an ear which somewhat resembled a withered mushroom.

Caroline was disconcerted; she was even embarrassed. This pleasant-faced gentleman bowing to her was as far removed from her preconceived idea of a pugilist as the earth is removed from the sun. She did not know--as the wise writer knows--that it is only pugilists who can not fight who are all scarred and battered. She saw the rector shake Mr. Sullivan's hand. From him her gaze roved to Mrs. Cathewe, and the look of perplexity on that young matron's face caused her to smother the sudden wild desire to laugh.

"My dear, I shall leave you to entertain Mr. Sullivan while I change my clothes;" and Cathewe rushed from the room. He was a man who could not hold in laughter very successfully.

"Come over to the fire and warm yourself," said the rector pleasantly. The look of entreaty in Mrs. Cathewe's eyes could not possibly be ignored.

Mr. Sullivan crossed the room, gazing about curiously.

"I haven't th' slightest idea, ma'am," said the famed pugilist, addressing his hostess, "what your husband's graft is; but I understand he's a literary fellow that writes books, an' I suppose he knows why he ast me here t' eat."

Caroline sighed with relief; his voice was very nearly what she expected it would be.

"An' besides," continued Mr. Sullivan, "I'm kind o' curious myself t' see you swells get outside your feed. I ain't stuck on these togs, generally; a man's afraid t' breathe hearty."

Mrs. Cathewe shuddered slightly; Mr. Sullivan was rubbing the cold from his fungus-like ear. What should she do to entertain this man? she wondered. She glanced despairingly at Caroline; but Caroline was looking at the rector, who in turn seemed absorbed in Mr. Sullivan. She was without help; telegraphic communication was cut off, as it were.

"Do you think it will snow to-night?" she asked.

"It looks like it would," answered Mr. Sullivan, with a polite but furtive glance at the window. "Though there'll be a bigger push out to-morrer if it's clear. It's goin' t' be a good fight. D' you ever see a scrap, sir?" he asked, turning to the rector.

Caroline wondered if it was the fire or the rector's own blood which darkened his cheek.

"I belong to the clergy," said the rector softly; "it is our duty not to witness fights, but to prevent them."

"Now, I say!" remonstrated Mr. Sullivan, "you folks run around in your autos, knock down people an' frighten horses, so's they run away; you go out an' kill thousands of birds an' deer an' fish, an' all that; an' yet you're th' first t' holler when two healthy men pummel each other for a livin'. You ain't consistent. Why, th' hardest punch I ever got never pained me more'n an hour, an' I took th' fat end of th' purse at that. When you're a kid, ain't you always quarrelin' an' scrappin'? Sure. Sometimes it was with reason an' cause, an' again jus' plain love of fightin'. Well, that's me. I fight because I like it, an' because it pays. Sure. It's on'y natural for some of us t' fight all th' time; an' honest, I'm dead weary of th' way th' papers yell about th' brutal prize-fight. If I want t' get my block punched off, that's my affair; an' I don't see what business some old fussies have in interferin'."

"It isn't really the fighting, Mr. Sullivan," replied the rector, who felt compelled to defend his point of view; "it's the rough element which is always brought to the surface during these engagements. Men drink and use profane language and wager money."

"As t' that, I don't say;" and Mr. Sullivan moved his hands in a manner which explained his inability to account for the transgressions of the common race.

"What's a block?" whispered Mrs. Cathewe into Caroline's ear.

Caroline raised her eyebrows; she had almost surrendered to the first natural impulse, that of raising her hands above her head, as she had often seen her brother do when faced by an unanswerable question.

The trend of conversation veered. Mr. Sullivan declared that he would never go upon the stage, and all laughed. Occasionally the women ventured timidly to offer an observation which invariably caused Mr. Sullivan to loose an expansive grin. And when he learned that the rector was to witness the fight in the capacity of a reporter, he enjoyed the knowledge hugely.

Presently Cathewe appeared, and dinner was announced. Mr. Sullivan sat between his host and hostess. No, he would not have a cocktail nor a highball; he never drank. Mrs. Cathewe straightway marked him down as a rank impostor. Didn't prize-fighters always drink and carouse and get locked up by the police officers?

"Well, this is a new one on me," Mr. Sullivan admitted, as he tasted of his caviar and quietly dropped his fork. "May I ask what it is?"

"It's Russian caviar. It is like Russian literature; one has to cultivate a taste for it." The novelist glanced amusedly at the rector.

"It reminds me of what happened t' me at White Plains a couple of years ago. I was in trainin' that fall at Mulligan's. You've heard of Mulligan; greatest man on th' mat in his time. Well, I bucked up against French spinach. Says he: 'Eat it.' Says I, 'I don't like it.' Says he, 'I don't care whether you like it or not. I don't like your mug, but I have t' put up with it. Eat that spinach.' Says I, 'I don't see how I can eat it if I don't like it.' An' an hour after he gives me th' bill, an' I'd have had on'y thirty minutes t' get out but for th' housekeeper, who patched it up. Those were great times. Sure. Well, no spinach or caviar in mine. Now say, what's th' game? Do you want my history, or jus' a scrap or two?"

"Describe how you won the championship from McGonegal," said Cathewe eagerly, nodding to the butler to serve the oysters.

Mr. Sullivan toyed with the filigree butter-knife, mentally deciding that its use was for cutting pie. He cast an oblique glance at the immobile countenance of the English butler, and ahemmed.

"Well," he began, "it was like this...."

As Mr. Sullivan went on, a series of whispered questions and answers was started between Caroline and the rector.

_Caroline_: What does he mean by "block"?

_The Rector_: His head, I believe.

_Caroline_: Oh!

_Mr. Sullivan_: There wasn't much doin' in th' third round. We fiddled a while. On'y once did either of us get t' th' ropes ... an' th' bell rang. Th' fourth was a hot one; hammer an' tongs from th' start off. He hooked me twice on th' wind, and I handed him out a jolt on th' jaw that put him t' th' mat.... I had th' best of th' round.

_Caroline_: In mercy's sake, what does he mean by "slats"?

_The Rector_ (seized with a slight coughing): Possibly his ribs.

_Caroline_: Good gracious! (Whether this ejaculation was caused by surprise or by the oyster on which she had put more horse-radish than was suited to her palate, will always remain a mystery.)

_Mr. Sullivan_: We were out for gore th' fift' round. He was gettin' strong on his hooks.

_Mrs. Cathewe_ (interrupting him with great timidity): What do you mean by "hooks"?

_Mr. Sullivan_: It's a blow like this. (Illustrates and knocks over the centerpiece. Water and flowers spread over the table.) I say, now, look at that. Ain't I a Mike now, t' knock over th' flower-pot like that?

_Cathewe_: Never mind that, Mr. Sullivan. Go on with the fight.

_Mr. Sullivan_: Where was I? Oh, yes; he put it all over me that round.... They had counted eight when th' bell rang an' saved me.

_Caroline_: Hit him on the _phonograph_!

_The Rector_ (reddening): It is possible that he refers to Mr. McGonegal's mouth.

_Caroline_: Well, I never! And I've got a slangy brother, too, at Harvard.

(The rector looks gravely at his empty oyster-shells.)

_Mr. Sullivan_: Things went along about even till th' tenth, when I blacked his lamps.

_Caroline_: Lamps?

_The Rector_: Eyes, doubtless.

_Caroline_: It's getting too deep for me.

_Mr. Sullivan_: The last round I saw that I had him goin' all right. In two seconds I had burgundy flowin' from his trombone.

(Cathewe leans back in his chair and laughs.)

_Mrs. Cathewe_ (bewilderingly): Burgundy?

_Mr. Sullivan_ (rather impatiently): A jolt on th' nose. Well, there was some more waltzin', and then a hook an' a swing, an' him on th' mat, down an' out. I made six thousand, an' on'y got this tin ear t' show for my trouble.

* * * * *

It was fully ten o'clock when the coffee was served. Mr. Sullivan may have lost not a few "e's" and "g's" in the passing, but for all that he proved no small entertainment; and when he arose with the remark that he was "for th' tall pines," both ladies experienced an amused regret.

"Which way do you go?" asked Mr. Sullivan, laying his hand on the rector's arm.

"I pass your hotel. I shall be pleased to walk with you."

"I say," suddenly exclaimed Mr. Sullivan, pressing his pudgy fingers into the rector's arm, "where did you get this arm? Why, it is as tough as a railroad tie."

"A course of physical culture," said the rector, visibly embarrassed.

"Physical culture? All right. But don't ever get mad at me," laughed Mr. Sullivan. "It's as big as a pile-driver."

The novelist told Mr. Sullivan that he was very much obliged for his company.

"Don't mention it. Drop int' th' fight to-morrer night. You'll get more ideas there'n you will hearin' me shoot hot air."

Cathewe looked slyly at his wife. He was a man, and more than once he had slipped away from the club and taken in the last few rounds, and then had returned home to say what a dull night he had had at the club.

Mrs. Cathewe had her arm lovingly around Caroline's waist. All at once she felt Caroline start.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Nothing, nothing!" Caroline declared quickly.

But on the way home in her carriage Caroline wondered where the Reverend Richard Allen, rector of St. Paul's, had acquired _his_ tin ear.