The Twenty-First Man

THORPE BEECKMAN sat in a hansom cab, watch in hand. When at last the cab turned off Fifth Avenue into one of the upper Fiftieths, and stopped before a large, brilliantly lighted house, Mr. Beeckman gave a sigh of relief, He did not wish to begin his career in New York society, after his seven years’ absence, by being late at his first dinner party.

“ You did it with two minutes to spare,” he said to the driver as he jumped from the cab, and, thrusting a bill into the man’s hand, he ran without a moment’s delay up the canopied stone steps.

“ That dude’s in a hurry ! ” called an urchin from the crowd that pressed around the awning. “ He’s got no use for change.”

“ Hurry up, Al-ger-non, or you 'll be in the soup,” drawled a girl.

“ I ’m pretty close to being late for it, which is worse,” he smiled to himself, as he gave his hat and coat to a tall footman in silk stockings, and followed another up the wide white marble staircase. The great hall above, with its pillars and statuary, opened into a vista of dazzling rooms, whence came the sound of laughter and talk. From a balcony above floated down the strains of the Hungarian orchestra.

“ This seems more like London than New York,” Beeckman thought, as he looked about him. “ I had no idea Mrs. Thornton was such a tremendous swell.” Then his name was announced. He stood for an instant at the doorway of the drawing-room, looking for his hostess. A tall and extremely handsome young woman, with a blaze of diamonds in her dark hair, stepped from the little group near the door and advanced a step toward him with outstretched hand.

“ Ah, Mr. Bateman,” she said, with a gentle cordiality, “ I have been looking for you. My mother is very sorry not to be able to welcome you herself, but she was badly frightened in a runaway accident this afternoon, and has been obliged to intrust her guests to my tender mercies.”

Beeckman expressed a becoming regret at the accident.

“ I am Mrs. Burke Heatherfield, you know, the daughter of the house,” she added, with a smile, “ and I have heard very pleasant things of you from my mother. I am not sure that you know every one here to-night, — I confess I don’t myself; but there is one good friend of yours, Miss Muriel Dean, and I am going to ask you to take her in to dinner.”

Beeckman was puzzled. “ A clear case of mistaken identity,” he said to himself : but before he could reply, Mrs. Heatherfield had turned to a pretty, rather audacious - looking girl who stood near her.

“ Muriel,” she said. “ here is Mr. Bateman waiting to hear the dénouement of your yesterday’s escapade. Be careful what you tell him, though, for he may put the whole thing into one of his clever stories.” Another guest was announced, and she turned away.

Miss Dean looked at Thorpe Beeckman and smiled mischievously. “ My cousin has certainly put her little tag on the wrong man,” she said, evidently relishing the situation.

“ She has simply put it on a Beeckman instead of a Bateman. It is merely the difference of a syllable,” he replied.

She laughed. “ That is a rather neat way of introducing yourself, Mr. Beeckman, though I don’t as a rule approve of puns.”

“ The lowest form of wit,” he admitted.

“ The trouble is, the other man is sure to come, and as he also has been told that he is to take me in to dinner there might be complications.”

“ If I am offered as a substitute, I promise not to put you into a clever story. I can assure you that you would be entirely safe in my hands,” he rejoined.

“But the other man is Frederick Waring Bateman, the novelist,” she said triumphantly,

Beeckman bowed. “ I acknowledge my utter insignificance. I must go at once and confess it to Mrs. Heatherfield.”

“ If she were any one but herself, she would be quite distracted this evening. She was summoned home from Lakewood late this afternoon to act as hostess at this dinner of her mother’s, and she found aunt Margaret too upset even to tell her who had been asked. And now, as a climax, Lord Burnside, who is to be lion of the evening, is desperately late. If any of us get taken in to dinner, it will be surprising.”

Beeckman glanced from his lively companion to Mrs. Heatherfield’s beautiful, serene face. Just then Mr. Bateman’s name was announced. An expression of surprise, or perhaps of perplexity, passed over the face of the young hostess; but in an instant it was gone, and she greeted the newcomer with sweet graciousness. Then her eyes wandered for a moment to Beeckman.

“ Evidently there is a hitch somewhere.” he said to himself. Then an awful thought came to him. “By Jove ! I believe I’m an extra man, and she is wondering what to do with me. I wish I could spare her this awkward moment by flying up the chimney.”

Mr. Bateman had turned from Mrs. Heatherfield to Miss Dean, with whom he began a lively conversation. Just then the butler handed Mrs. Heatherfield a note. She read it hastily ; then turning to the knot of people gathered about her said serenely, “ This seems to be a day of accidents. Lord Burnside sprained his ankle on the golf links this afternoon and will not be able to be here.”

“ She is magnificent,” thought Beeckman, as he watched her, — “a thoroughbred, if ever I saw one; and for all her poise, I don’t believe she’s over twentytwo. Strange that Mrs. Thornton never mentioned her to me by her married name.” He approached her.

“ Mrs. Heatherfield,” he said, “ I fear you mistook me for a more distinguished guest when you assigned me to take Miss Dean in to dinner. I am not Mr. Bateman, the novelist. I am Thorpe Beeckman, a painter.”

Mrs. Heatherfield raised her longlashed hazel eyes and regarded him with that direct gaze which one associates with childhood. Then she smiled radiantly. “ Will you forgive my mistake, Mr. Beeckman, the artist, and will you take me in to dinner ? ”

He bowed and offered her his arm. “ With such royal compensation, I can bear even the imputation of writing clever stories.”

“ She is perfect,” he added to himself. “ Ninety-nine women in a hundred would have attempted impossible explanations, and spoiled the situation.”

As they led the way down the stairs to the dining-room, Muriel Dean said to Mr. Bateman, “ In point of looks, Mr. Beeckman is a magnificent substitute for poor wabbly little Lord Burnside ; but what I don’t understand is whom he would have taken in if Burnside had n’t sprained his ankle at the last minute, — or where he would have sat, for that matter, for there are just twenty covers.”

While the guests were seating themselves Beeckman’s eyes wandered about the superb room, his critical taste keenly appreciative of its beauty. There were great pictures on the wainscoted walls, a Gainsborough, a Veronese, and a splendid Rembrandt; there were richly carved Renaissance sideboards, old tapestries, old silver. In the centre of this rich setting, the table, with its banks of crimson roses and its weight of shining glass and silver, glowed and glittered in the light of countless shaded candles. There was not a false note anywhere.

“ The late lamented Mr. Thornton must have been an artist,” Beeckman decided. “ All this is a perfectly appropriate setting for that imperial girl ; but I can’t reconcile it with the thought of fat, jolly, bourgeoise little Mrs. Thornton.”

Thorpe Beeckman found himself next to Miss Dean. She chattered to him vivaciously for a few moments.

“ You have your right label now, I see,” she said, laughing, “ and it has drawn a higher prize than the other.”

“ A double prize,” he rejoined lightly, “ since, after all, I am placed next you.”

She turned her head to answer a sally of Mr. Bateman’s, and Beeckman, with a feeling of relief, turned to look at his beautiful neighbor. She seemed lovelier than ever, with the soft light of the candles falling on her face and white shoulders, and gleaming on the diamonds in her hair.

“ Mr. Beeckman, won’t you help me out ? ” The clear, low voice, with its perfect modulations, fell like a benison on his ear. “ Mr. Morley and I are discussing that beautiful portrait of Miss Grace Markham that was on exhibition at the Durand-Ruel gallery last spring. Mr. Morley says that it was by Constant, but I am quite sure that Mr. Beeckman was the artist.” She looked directly at him and smiled interrogatively.

“Mr. Morley pays a very high compliment to a modest young painter,” he replied. “ I fear Constant would hardly be flattered at the imputation.”

She turned to Mr. Morley with a little gesture of triumph. “ I have the double pleasure of presenting the artist himself to you and of proving myself right, all in the same breath,” she said, with the slow, alluring smile that Beeckman found himself waiting for.

When she turned again to Beeckman, their talk grew animated. She seemed to know all his favorite haunts.

“ And do you remember the narrow lane behind the cathedral at Avalon, where the old sacristan lives in a queer fragment of a house covered with Provence roses ? — roses like this,” and she touched the crimson rose that glowed against the whiteness of her breast, its petals fluttering softly with her breathing.

“Indeed I do,” he rejoined eagerly, bending slightly toward her. “Your rose has the same languorous fragrance. Old Pierre was a good friend of mine. I have a sketch of him and of his house that I hope you will let me show you some day. But you must have been a long time in Southern France, to become so familiar with all these out-of-the-way corners.”

“Yes, we lived there for more than a year while my husband was ill,” she said simply. “ Mr. Heatherfield died there.”

Beeckman found himself starting involuntarily. She was a widow, then. It was utterly absurd for him to be glad of it, but he could not deny the little thrill of pleasure that shot through him. How fresh her appreciations were, how simple and direct her way of looking at things ! With all her poise and brilliance she was unconventional at heart. He even told himself that she would make an adorable Bohemian. When Mrs. Heatherfield gave the signal and the ladies rose, Beeckman was amazed.

“ This is the shortest long dinner I have ever known ! ” he exclaimed, and so earnestly that she smiled again.

Just before he left the house, that evening, Mrs. Heatherfield said to him, “ By the way, what do you think of Bonnat’s portrait of my mother? ”

Beeckman’s eyes followed her gesture, and he stood looking confusedly at a fine, broadly handled portrait of a distinguished-looking woman with snowwhite hair. Mr. Morley joined them. He was an old gentleman and garrulous.

“ I call Mrs. Van Arminge still the handsomest woman in New York, bar none but her daughter.”

Beeckman distinctly felt himself grow cold, then hot. At last a numb feeling came over him. Mrs. Van Arminge ! He had heard the name many times that evening; he had seen it often in the newspapers, as who had not? He looked at the handsome, unfamiliar face in the picture.

“ Yes, it‘s well worth your study, Mr. Beeckman,” Mr. Morley was saying, “ You young fellows can’t do better than follow such a master hand. What breadth ! What color ! ”

“ Do you think it a good likeness ? ” Mrs. Heatherfield’s low voice questioned.

“ It is a very fine piece of work,” Beeckman murmured weakly, — “ superbly painted! ”

When he said good-night, Mrs. Heatherfield raised the long curled lashes from her wide hazel eyes and gave him one of her direct looks.

“ I am at home on Thursdays,” she said, “ and perhaps we may arrange for the visit to your studio after mother is well. Good-night.”

As Beeckman walked down the steps he took a card out of his overcoat pocket and read it: —

“ Mrs. Ezra Thornton requests the pleasure of Mr. Beeckman’s company at dinner on Thursday evening, March the third, at eight o’clock.

“ 17 Fifty——th Street, West.”

He looked up at the great doorway. In the wrought ironwork of the lunette was the number “19.”

Thorpe Beeckman groaned. “ If it had been any one else, I could have endured it,” he said. But to have intruded into her home, claimed her hospitality under false pretenses, caused her embarrassment, thrust himself upon her acquaintance, — how could he ever look at her again? He smiled grimly. She would probably take good care never to give him another opportunity. Even if she accepted his explanation, how flat and ridiculous he would appear in her eyes ! Perhaps Mrs. Van Arminge would say he had planned the whole thing, and would count the spoons.

Strange to say, he felt but slight compunction at the thought of his empty place at Mrs. Thornton’s dinner table. He decided that he must write to Mrs. Heatherfield before she had had time to talk the dinner over with her mother. It was after three o’clock when he finally mailed his letters. He was still young.

A few days after this, he received a note that sent the blood to his face.

“ MY DEAR MR. BEECKMAN, — “ My mother and I will be at home, as usual, on Thursday, and we shall hope to see you then. Our old friend Mrs. Thornton will act as mistress of ceremonies.

Cordially yours,

GWENDOLEN HEATHERFIELD.”

A year later, Thorpe Beeckman and his beautiful wife made a little pilgrimage to the house of the sacristan, behind the ancient cathedral at Avalon. Old Pierre was not at home, and the quiet lane was deserted. Gwendolen Beeckman stood under the rose arbor, the petals of the crimson Provence roses falling on her upturned face. She was tall, but her husband was taller, and he bent his head a little in order to look into her smiling eyes.

“ I was wondering,” he said, “ whether I first fell in love with you when you told me I might take you in to dinner, or whether it happened when you touched that red rose in your gown and talked about old Pierre. I believe I waited till then,” he added meditatively, picking a rose and tucking it into her dress.

“ That was the human touch : you had seemed so much of a calm goddess before.”

Gwendolen laughed. “ A terribly frightened goddess when she discovered that there was a twenty-first man. I believe I fell in love with you when I found you were only twentieth, after all.”

Madge Sutherland Clarke.