The Truth About Tristrem Varick

itself was quiet, and as Tristrem walked on, something of the enchantment of the hour fell upon him. On leaving Miss Raritan, he had been irritated at himself. It seemed to him that when with her he was at his worst; that he stood before her dumb for love, awkward, embarrassed, and ineffectual of speech. It seemed to him that he lacked the tact of other men, and that, could she see him as he really was when unemotionalized by her presence, if the eloquence which came to him in solitude would visit him once at her side, if he could plead to her with the fervor with which he addressed the walls, full surely her answer would be other. She would make no proffer then of friendship, or if she did, it would be of that friendship which is born of love, and is better than love itself. But as he walked on the enchantment of the night encircled him. He declined to accept her reply; he told himself that in his eagerness he had been abrupt; that a girl who was worth the winning was slow of capture; that he had expected months to give him what only years could afford, and that Time, in which all things unroll, might yet hold this gift for him. He resolved to put his impatience aside like an unbecoming coat. He would pretend to be but a friend. As a friend he would be privileged to see her, and then, some day the force and persistence of his affection would do the rest. He smiled at his own cunning. It was puerile as a jackstraw, but it seemed shrewdness itself to him. Yes, that was the way. He had done wrong; he had unmasked his batteries too soon. And such batteries! But no matter, of his patience he was now assured. On the morrow he would go to her and begin the campaign anew.

He had reached the corner and was on the point of turning down the avenue, when a hansom rattled up and wheeled so suddenly into the street through which he had come, that he stepped back a little to let it pass. As he did so he looked in at the fare. The cab was beyond him in a second, but in the momentary glimpse which he caught of the occupant, he recognized Royal Weldon. And as he continued his way, he wondered where Royal Weldon could be going.

The following evening he went to dine at the Athenaeum Club. The house in Waverley Place affected him as might an empty bier in a tomb. The bread that he broke there choked him. His father was as congenial as a spectre. He only appeared when dinner was announced, and after he had seated himself at the table he asked grace of God in a low, determined fashion, and that was the end of the conversation. Tristrem remembered that in the infrequent vacations of his school and college days, that was the way it always had been, and being tolerably convinced that that was the way it always would be, he preferred, when not expected elsewhere, to dine at the club.

On entering the Athenaeum on this particular evening, he put his hat and coat in the vestiary and was about to order dinner, when he was accosted by Alphabet Jones.

“I say, Varick,” the novelist exclaimed⁠—(during the winter they had seen much of each other), “do you know who was the originator of the cloakroom? Of course you don’t⁠—I’ll tell you; who do you suppose now? Give it up? Mrs. Potiphar! How’s that? Good enough for Theodore Hook, eh? Let’s dine together, and I’ll tell you some more.”

“Let’s dine together” was a formula which Mr. Jones had adopted. Literally, it meant, I’ll order and you pay. Tristrem was aware in what light the invitation should be viewed, he had heard it before; but, though the novelist was of the genus spongia, he was seldom tiresome, often entertaining, and moreover, Tristrem was one who would rather pay than not. As there were few of that category in the club, Mr. Jones made a special prey of him, and on this particular evening, when the ordering had been done and the dinner announced, he led him in triumph to the lift.

As they were about to step in, Weldon stepped out. He seemed hurried and would have passed on with a nod, but Tristrem caught him by the arm. Of late he had seen little of him, and it had seemed to Tristrem that the fault, if fault there were, must be his own.

“I caught a glimpse of you last night, didn’t I, Royal?” he asked.

Weldon raised his eyebrows for all response. Evidently he was not in a conversational mood. But at once an idea seemed to strike him. “I dare say,” he answered, “I roam about now and then like anyone else. By the way, where are you going tonight? Why not look in on my wife? She says you neglect her.”

“I would like it, Royal, but the fact is I am going to make a call.”

“In Thirty-ninth Street?”

Tristrem looked at him much as a yokel at a fair might look at a wizard. He was so astonished at Weldon’s prescience that he merely nodded.

“You can save yourself the trouble then⁠—I happened to meet Miss Raritan this afternoon. She is dining at the Wainwarings. Look in at Gramercy Park.” And with that he turned on his heel and disappeared into the smoking room.

“Didn’t I hear Weldon mention Miss Raritan?” Jones asked, when he and Tristrem had finished the roast. “There’s a girl I’d like to put in a book. She has hell in her eyes and heaven in her voice. What a heroine she would make!” he exclaimed, enthusiastically; and then in a complete change of key, in a tone that was pregnant with suggestion, he added, “and what a wife!”

“I don’t understand you,” said Tristrem, in a manner which, for him, was