CHAPTER III

I HEAR SOME NEWS

The Varney residence proved to be one of those modern country houses of the rich that needs no describing. It was less ambitious than some of its neighbors, and sat well in from the road in a good sweep of well-kept ground. The garage was commodious and well appointed, having a repair pit and accommodation for three cars, these including the one I drove, and my old acquaintance, de luxe, with the maroon upholstering. The other was a touring six.

It being the dining hour in the servants' hall when I arrived, I proceeded to make the acquaintance of the domestic staff, this comprising an aged and irreproachable butler called Horace--but to me and other inferiors "Mr. Brandon"--the housekeeper, cook, and upper and lower housemaids. The gardener came from a neighboring florist.

The meal was presided over by Mr. Horace Brandon with more pomp and dignity than attended many dinners I had known in my own circle, and, being familiar in some degree with backstairs etiquette, I produced a favorable impression. I sought after no local information, and was offered none. Contrary to popular superstition, there was at this table no scandal, no gossip, no picking of their master and mistress to pieces.

The meal over, I washed down the car and retired to my quarters in the garage, armed with the New York evening paper kindly given me by the butler, who approved of the interest I had shown in his remarks on the baseball question. Alone in my room, I sat down to think seriously for the first time of this adventure on which I had entered so lightly and irresponsibly. Surely it was high time I made explanations and apologies to Miss Gelette. On the other hand, there was my wager with Bob Hewitt. Also the incomprehensible action of Joyce, which interested me.

At this point I remembered the letter, undoubtedly the recommendation from Mr. Fremstad, which, returned by Miss Gelette, I had had no opportunity of reading. Joyce, the original owner, must have thrown away or lost the envelope; for had there been one, Taylor would not have opened it. I felt sure of that; he might be only a poor farmer, yet he was one of nature's gentlemen. I now brought the paper from my pocket and read the following:

DEAR MR. VARNEY: This is introducing the bearer, Henry Joyce, whom I mentioned as about to leave my employment owing to my giving up motoring. You will find him thoroughly honest, obliging, efficient, and sober. I have never had a better chauffeur. Yours sincerely,

AUGUSTUS FREMSTAD.

And I had told Miss Gelette my name was Peter! However, that was a small error to what I might have committed. Assuredly Joyce had egregiously deceived his late employer as to the true nature of his character. Toward me he had certainly acted efficiently enough, but hardly with honesty.

And now my eyes fell upon the evening paper, whose pages I had been turning over aimlessly; and I sat up with a jerk, arrested by the following headlines:

Motoring fatality. Peter Lawton, wealthy young clubman, killed by Jersey train. Tragic climax of mad joy ride.

It is not often we have the chance of reading our own obituaries, and my first emotion was that of amusement at the joke played on my friends, coupled with a fleeting compassion for the poor devil, Joyce, who had not profited long by his action. He had been killed that same night at a grade crossing near Camden; my five-thousand-dollar car had been reduced to scrap, while he was so horribly mutilated that identification was only possible by the car license, the clothes he wore, and the papers found in his pocket.

Bob Hewitt identified the latter and other personal belongings of mine, and he told of my leaving Princeton without Jensen; in short, there was no shadow of doubt that I was dead, and had met a fate which pointed its own moral.

I knew Hewitt had done his best to cast a decent veil over that ride of mine, but others had not, and the whole shameful story had come out, as it was bound to do. This particular paper set out the details with much gusto, and that it was nothing but the truth did not make it more palatable. Here was its opinion of me in black and white, and I can do no better than quote from it.

This tragedy lays another victim at the feet of King Alcohol and Too Much Money. It will be remembered that "Pete" Lawton was the sensational football find at Princeton some half dozen years ago, and held an undisputed place on the all-American team. He graduated with high honors, and promised to attain great distinction in the engineering profession when the death of his uncle brought him into the Lawton fortune. That ended his ambitions, and this last member of an ill-starred family proceeded to go the way of all the others. Of late his mad escapades have been common talk among the knowing, and this catastrophe is the inevitable end.

Yes, we were an ill-starred family, as the paper said, with King Alcohol and Too Much Money our inherited enemies. The combination had killed out every male member, until only my Uncle Peter and I had remained.

My father dissipated his fortune and died young, while my mother gave her life in giving me mine; thus I was brought up in comparative poverty by distant relatives, and that was what had saved me for the time being. I never expected to inherit a penny of my uncle's fortune. That fortune he also would have scattered to the winds, only he was unable. It was too large for him, and I really believe he left the remainder to me as a parting curse, for my father and he had quarreled, as only our family could quarrel, and he hated me cordially.

On the few occasions when I saw him, while I was working my way through school and college, he made sneering remarks about the benefits of poverty. He appeared to resent the fact that I was in a fair way of making a success of life, instead of following his example and all the rest. He seemed to consider it an insult to the family.

"There never was a male Lawton yet that didn't drink," I remember him saying when he learned I never touched it. "What's the matter with you? It's in your blood, you fool, and you may as well make up your mind it's bound to come out. No use trying to reverse nature. The true Lawton coat of arms is a demijohn rampant on a bar sinister, and the motto: 'Here's looking at you.' Wait till you've got some money to spend, and you'll see the end of your precious virtue. With all your honest-plowman life and this attempt to dodge your destiny, you'll end your days in a psychopathic ward, as your lamented ancestors ended theirs, as your dear father ended his, and as I shall end mine."

The last part of his prophecy was unfulfilled, however, for he broke his neck by falling out of the ambulance before ever they got him to the hospital. As for the rest, it seemed in a fair way of being realized, something I had once thought utterly impossible.

When I came into Uncle Peter's money--it was six months ago--I voted myself the first real holiday I had ever known. Of course, I meant it to have reasonable limits. I was going to do an awful lot of good with that money, make it a blessing instead of a curse, and I talked over all my plans with old Mr. Hannay, the Lawton lawyer, who had sole charge of my affairs.

I was going to build and superintend an engineering school for poor young men, irrespective of race, creed, or color, and in a general way I meant to help suffering humanity up hill and down dale, and all around the block.

And then, amid new surroundings and in with an entirely new crowd, I took my first drink. I took it to be a "good fellow," and because I honestly believed I had strength enough to defy all the family traditions going. I would show the world that alcohol could never make _me_ its slave, that it was simply a question of will power, and that a whole lot of nonsense had been talked and written about heredity. "Heredity" and "environment" were simply the excuses of the weak, the cowardly, the vicious.

It was Arnold Frean who brought up the matter and pushed it home. "You're afraid of the stuff," he said. "It shows you're afraid of it, that you know it's your master, when you won't take even one drink. I'll bet you can't take one drink, like any normal man, and then quit. I dare you to try."

"I've worked my way through college," I said, "and into the business world over obstacles you've never known. There's nothing in this world I'm afraid of."

"Tripe!" he retorted. "Talk's cheap. You're a Lawton and that's enough said. You know you daren't."

And so, like a fool, I had my first taste of the stuff. It's a wise man who knows his own limitations and weaknesses. There isn't one in a thousand who likes whisky for its taste; it's the effect most people are after, and it goes without saying that the man who craves the taste of it, as a girl craves candy or ice cream, is naturally the most hopeless case--and I found myself in that class.

I was like a tiger that had sampled human flesh; nothing else would do me. That one drink was enough. I had inherited a sleeping demon, and, in a moment of stupid vanity, had awakened it. Too late I recognized that I belonged to that class whose only salvation is to leave alcohol strictly alone. Arnold Frean was right; it was my master, and I couldn't take one drink and then stop like any normal person.

As I now thought over the past six months' events, culminating in what had happened last night, I saw that I had come to the parting of the ways, that I had taken half measures too long with my enemy, and if I was to be saved at all, a fight to the finish must begin here and now. Otherwise, far better would it be for me if I had been killed in Joyce's place. And what had saved me? How had I escaped killing some innocent person during that mad ride, even though I had miraculously escaped injury myself? It was through no virtue of mine. Joyce, sober, had been killed, while I, drunk, had escaped. Through some juggling of the gods, I had been given another chance. A tremendous lesson had been brought home to me. Would I have the strength to profit by it?

I realized fully the terrific battle that confronted me; previous skirmishes had shown me that. I would have to throw everything into the scale, for it was John Barleycorn's life or mine.

With the exception of Bob Hewitt and Tommy Ashton, former classmates, together with old Mr. Hannay, none had thought it worth while to dissuade me from the road I was traveling; and I had not taken kindly to the advice of these three. Mr. Hannay gave it up early, contenting himself with shaking his head. He knew the history of my family, and believed nothing could save me. Hewitt and Ashton, however, hung on. More than once they had urged me to cut the circle I had formed, to go away somewhere and spend only what I earned. But I laughed at them, and then, when they persisted, grew irritable.

I would never confess my secret fears regarding John Barleycorn, never admit he ever got the best of me. For all my "mad escapades," spoken of by the paper, I had never been so helpless as I was last night. I had done many idiotic, reckless things when absolutely sober. It was merely misdirected energy, energy stored up through idleness, and which I had formerly worked off on the gridiron, the classroom, and in the engineering works of Cable & Co., where I was employed when my uncle died.

It was clear that my agreement with Hewitt wasn't so freakish as it might appear; it was simply another effort on his part for my reformation, and circumstances had lent it added force. I realized the truth of his frequent contention that I had got in with a bad crowd. "Half of them are grafters," he said, "and the rest nothing but money loafers. You're one of these men, Lawton, whose good-fellowship makes them take up with all sorts, and treat them as bosom friends. You'll never make any headway against this enemy of yours until you get rid of his allies--that bunch and too much money. Chuck the whole lot and get to work."

Getting rid of the "bunch" was easier said than done--but what if they believed me dead? Why not remain "dead" and fight out my battle here, unknown, without the handicap of money and influence. Joyce had been killed, and therefore there was no fear of him turning up and exposing me.

The accident had happened near Camden, and none would suspect the substitution that had taken place near Sea Bright, miles away. As for this Mr. Fremstad, it was unlikely that I would ever meet him; but that small risk, together with the chance of being recognized by those who knew me, I must accept.

No one could have been better situated for playing dead; nobody was dependent on me. I had no business, no weighty affairs to attend to; nothing would go to wreck and ruin through my absence. No doubt at this moment Mr. Hannay was shaking his head over my demise and preparing to dispose of the estate according to the terms of my will. But before the slow-moving machinery of the law could come into full effect I would either have resurrected myself, an undisputed victor over my enemy, or gone down to utter defeat and merited oblivion, for there would be no half measures this time.

In this manner I came to decide upon keeping the name Joyce and the position I had obtained as chauffeur to Mr. Theodore Varney. I have set out my reasons fully for so doing, and to me, at the time, they seemed logical and necessary. Yet if, underneath all, the situation had not appealed to my peculiar sense of humor, if a certain risk had not been attached to it, if Miss Gelette had been aged, ugly, and infirm, perhaps those logical reasons would have appeared less convincing.

I met Mr. Varney that same evening on receipt of a telephone message from the house. He received me in the study, his niece also being present, and at the first glance I realized that for all my helplessness the previous night, I had made some accurate observations; for this was the little, dried-up gentleman whose color was greenish bronze, the like of which I had never seen before.

He was seated in a great armchair before a chessboard, on which was arrayed a problem, a very slippery "twoer" by Loyd, which I recognized as an old friend. Evidently he had spent some considerable time trying to find the key move, with the help of his niece, for as I appeared at the door he said irascibly: "Nonsense, Brenda! Can't you see if the bishop moves your king is checked? You don't seem able to grasp the first principles of the game, and the longer you play, the worse you get."

"I know I'm very stupid," she answered meekly. "But I only thought that even if the king was checked----"

"You only thought! As if your sex was capable of thinking!"

And then they saw me standing in the doorway.

"Come in, my man," snapped old Varney, and he looked me over at leisure with a pair of eyes which, for all the girl's assurances, struck me as being remarkably bright and shrewd.

For a moment I thought all was lost, that surely he had recognized me, but he only grunted as if satisfied with his inspection, and demanded: "Where is the letter from Mr. Fremstad?"

I was afraid there might have been more than one letter, but, putting a bold face on it, I handed him the only one I had.

"H'm," he said, reading it through, and instantly detecting the error I had fallen into. "I understood from my niece that your name was Peter?"

"Peter Henry Joyce is my full name, sir. Mr. Fremstad preferred to call me Henry."

"Well, Peter Henry, the first thing you have to do is remove that mustache of yours," he said, with a certain malicious pleasure. "I permit no one in my employment to carry around such microbe breeders and germ disseminators. If you've no thought for your own health, I assure you I have for mine. What are you staring at? Can it be possible you know the classic game of chess?" This with elaborate irony.

"Well, a little, sir. I used to play a bit at the Y. M. C. A. of nights."

"He knows the game of chess, my dear," said Mr. Varney, turning to his niece. "Truly, servants are progressing these days. I shouldn't be surprised if Horace could teach Esperanto and Mrs. Stower"--this was the housekeeper--"give tango lessons. This is an accomplishment, Peter Henry, that Mr. Fremstad forgot to mention. Perhaps you are also an adept at problems and can do me the inestimable service of solving this two-mover?"

"Why, yes, sir," I said, as if unaware of his sarcasm. "It's the move Miss Gelette mentioned--bishop to rook's fourth."

"Oh, no, it isn't," he replied sweetly and maliciously. "I'm afraid the Y. M. C. A. isn't much of a school, Peter Henry. It isn't, because of the very elementary truth that if the bishop moves your king is checked----"

"Quite so, sir. But, if I may point out, you interpose with the knight----"

"And Black takes it, you dolt!"

"But it can't sir, for, of course, you see that it exposes check from the queen--double check and mate."

"Eh?" he cried, staring at the board, his face slowly purpling. Then, with one sweep and the single exclamation, "Damn!" he sent the men flying, knocked over the table, and ordered me from the room.

As I went down the stairs I could hear him angrily declaring to his niece that bishop to rook's fourth was the move he had pointed out from the first, but that she said it was wrong.

That night I shaved my mustache, thankful that Mr. Varney's obsession about microbes thus enabled me to disguise myself, for its removal caused a remarkable change in my appearance, more than I had thought possible. It was none of these Charlie Chaplin affairs, but a good brush, and when I saw myself in the glass, minus it, I doubted if my worst enemy would have known me.

From my interview I realized that Jules might not have been far wrong when he predicted that my troubles were only beginning--though I never guessed the nature and extent of them. Theodore Varney was evidently a hard master to serve, and for all his years and infirmity I had felt a great desire to kick him. He seemed like one of these malicious little bronze devils fashioned by the heathen, and he spoke to his niece as if she were a feeble-minded nonentity. I knew her to be high-spirited and with a temper of her own, but she had taken it all without a show of protest, though she had colored faintly when she saw I was an observer.