Читать книгу Cap'n Warren's Wards - Joseph Crosby Lincoln - Страница 7

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It’s a box of a place, though, isn’t it,” declared Mr. Stephen Warren, contemptuously glancing about the library of the apartment. “A box, by George! I think it’s a blooming shame that we have to put up with it, Sis.”

Mr. Warren sprawled in the most comfortable chair in the room, was looking out through the window, across the wind-swept width of Central Park West, over the knolls and valleys of the Park itself, now bare of foliage and sprinkled with patches of snow. There was a discontented look on his face, and his hands were jammed deep in his trousers pockets.

His sister, Caroline, sat opposite to him, also looking out at the December landscape. She, too, was discontented and unhappy, though she tried not to show it.

“Why don’t you say something,” snapped Stephen, after a moment of silence. “Isn’t it a box of a place? Now come.”

“Yes,” replied the young lady, without looking at her brother. “Yes, Steve, I suppose it is. But you must remember that we must make the best of it. I always wondered how people could live in apartments. Now I suppose I shall have to find out.”

“Well, I maintain that we don’t have to. We aren’t paupers, even though father wasn’t so well fixed as everyone thought. With management and care, we could have stayed in the old house, I believe, and kept up appearances, at least. What’s the use of advertising that we’re broke?”

“But, Steve, you know Mr. Graves said—”

“Oh, yes, I know. You swallowed every word Graves said, Caro, as if he was the whole book of Proverbs. By George, I don’t; I’m from Missouri.”

Mr. Warren, being in the Sophomore class at Yale, was of the age when one is constitutionally “from Missouri.” Probably King Solomon, at sixty, had doubts concerning the scope and depth of his wisdom; at eighteen he would have admitted its all-embracing infallibility without a blush.

“I tell you,” continued Stephen, “there’s no sense in it, Sis. You and I know plenty of people whose incomes are no larger than ours. Do they ‘economize,’ as Graves is continually preaching? They do not, publicly at least. They may save a bit, here and there, but they do it where it doesn’t show and nobody knows. Take the Blaisdells, for instance. When the Sodality Bank went up, and old Blaisdell died, everybody said the family was down and out. They must have lost millions. But did they move into ‘apartments’ and put up a placard, ‘Home of the Dead-Brokes. Walk in and Sympathize?’ I guess they didn’t! They went into mourning, of course, and that let them out of entertaining and all that, but they stayed where they were and kept up the bluff. That’s the thing that counts in this world—keeping up the bluff.”

“Yes, but everyone knows they are—bluffing, as you call it.”

“What of it? They don’t really know, they only suspect. And I met Jim Blaisdell yesterday and he shook my hand, after I had held it in front of his eyes where he couldn’t help seeing it, and had the nerve to tell me he hoped things weren’t as bad with us as he had heard.”

“I never liked the Blaisdells,” declared Caroline, indignantly.

“Neither did I. Neither do most people. But Jim is just as much in the swim as he ever was, and he’s got his governor’s place on the board of directors at the bank, now that it’s reorganized, and an office down town, and he’s hand and glove with Von Blarcom and all the rest. They think he’s a promising, plucky young man. They’ll help his bluff through. And are his mother and sister dropped by the people in their set? I haven’t noticed it.”

“Well, Mrs. Corcoran Dunn told me that everyone was talking about the Blaisdells and wondering how long they could keep it up. And the newspapers have been printing all sorts of things, and hinting that young Mr. Blaisdell’s appointment as director, after his father wrecked the bank, was a scandal. At least, we haven’t that to bear up under. Father was honest, if he wasn’t rich.”

“Who cares for the newspapers? They’re all run by demagogues hunting sensations. What makes me feel the worst about all this is that Stock Exchange seat of father’s. If I were only of age, so that I could go down there on the floor, I tell you it wouldn’t be long before you and I were back where we belong, Sis. But, no, I’m a kid, so Graves thinks, in charge of a guardian—a guardian, by gad!”

He snorted, in manly indignation. Caroline, her pretty face troubled, rose and walked slowly across the room. It was a large room, in spite of the fact that it was one of a suite in an apartment hotel, and furnished richly. A. Rodgers Warren spent his money with taste, and spent it freely while he lived. The furniture, the paintings, and bric-a-brac were of the very best, chosen with care, here and abroad.

“Oh, dear!” sighed the girl. “I do hope Mr. Graves will be well enough to call to-day. He expected to. Except for the telephone message telling us that that man at Denboro—”

“Our dear Uncle Elisha,” put in Stephen, with sarcasm. “Uncle ‘’Lish!’ Heavens! what a name!”

“Hush! He can’t help his name. And father’s was worse yet—Abijah! Think of it!”

“I don’t want to think of it. Neither did the governor; that’s why he dropped it, I suppose. Just what did Graves say? Give me his exact words.”

“His partner, Mr. Kuhn, telephoned. He said that Mr. Graves had a bad cold, having been wet through in a dreadful storm down there in the country. The doctor forbade his leaving the house for a day or two, but he would call on Tuesday—to-day—if he was sufficiently recovered. And Mr. Kuhn said that everything was satisfactory. This Captain Warren—a ship captain, I suppose he is—would, in all probability, refuse to accept the guardianship and the rest of it—”