The Downfall of Pembroke

by Henry C. Rowland

THE DOWNFALL OF PEMBROKE

By Henry C. Rowland

With Drawings by F. R. GRUGER

Percival Pembroke, Ph.D., LL.D., shook his handsome head decidedly.

“Sorry, Dudley, but I've planned to run out to my place at Fawn Lake to-morrow. You see I want solitude to finish my monograph on “The Mummies of—”

“Oh 'let the dead bury their dead!' Think how long you'll be a mummy yourself, Pemmy. If it's a choice between an Egyptian princess who's been dead two thousand years, and an American queen who's been alive twenty, I'd—”

“I've never been a success with a lady under a few thousand years of age, Dudley,” interrupted Mr. Pembroke sadly.

“You never get near enough. You can't make pretty talk through a megaphone, you know. Now, look here,—Miss Rodney begged me to ask you!”

“As a file-closer I fear,—or possibly for out-post duty. If she had wanted me as a cavalier, I am afraid the message would never have reached me, Dudley.”

“You old fox! But think of the good times we will have, boating and tramping, horses and dogs—”

“Children and dogs are my pet abominations. I regard them both as primitive creatures of dangerous intelligence and ungovernable impulses!”

“Oh go to the—” began Mr. Dudley Strong, impatiently.

“I must again decline, Dudley. I understand that she caters to New Yorkers and entertains but very few Bostonians.”

“What kind of a summer colony have you got at Fawn Lake?” asked Mr. Strong, abruptly changing the conversation.

“Myself, my valet, chef, coachman, two horses, some chickens—”

“All roosters I'll bet and a tom-cat. Any pretty girls?”

Mr. Pembroke shuddered. “My nearest neighbor is about a quarter of a mile away. I am a little worried as I understand that the cottage has been let for the summer, I don't know to whom.”

“Hope you find it full of chorus girls. Well, I'm off. Hope you have a good summer!” Shaking hands with the Bostonian, Mr. Strong rushed from the room in the usual manner of the Metropolitan.

 

The following morning, after a somewhat difficult but necessary argument with his publishers, who were aggravatingly dense in being brought to see the vital importance of printing the page numbers of his latest book in the lower center instead of the upper and outer corners, especially as half of the edition had been printed in the latter way, Mr. Pembroke found himself on the way to the Grand Central Depot, whence he was to take a sleeper to Fawn Lake.

According to his usual custom Mr. Pembroke arrived at the depot before the gates were opened to admit passengers, and while standing in the crowded waiting-room he became interested in a group which was occupying the greater part of the bench opposite him. Interested is hardly the word, as Mr. Pembroke's attention was held with the same shuddering fascination with which a person having an antipathy for cats might watch the ablutions of a family of half grown kittens.

The unconscious party under the covert observation of Mr. Pembroke, consisted of five children, all between the ages of two and ten years. Even to his unskilled eyes it was obvious that two of the children were twins, the similarity of which he contemplated with the secret marveling of a Red Indian inspecting a mechanical toy.

Although there were but five, Mr. Pembroke found it necessary to count them several times to assure himself of this fact, their activity giving the impression of at least twice that number. From the boisterous interest which they took in surrounding objects, Mr. Pembroke surmised that they were unaccustomed to travel. He also observed with silent admiration how the pretty French maid who seemed to be the only shepardess of the flock, was skilfully herding them with a deft dispensing of bon-bons.

Mr. Pembroke's train was shortly announced, but being just at that instant absorbed in the skilful team-work of the twins, who were attempting to wrest a small wicker basket from the eldest, a square-jawed, blue-eyed boy, he utterly ignored the summons. Strange sounds proceeding from the basket whetting his interest still keener, he was almost capsized by a portly lady carrying a hand trunk, but beyond his automatic “pardon me,” his eyes were still fastened upon the wrestlers, when suddenly the twine holding the basket together snapped under the strain; the twins sprawled one way, the boy another and a large, fat puppy was spilled from within, falling to the floor with a “plop.”

Despite the fall the pup was the first to regain his equilibrium and promptly crawled beneath the long settle, upon which the entire juvenile litter gave voice like a pack of beagles. Unconsciously Mr. Pembroke found himself hastening to their aid, seeing an excellent tool for the capture of the quarry in the crooked handle of his stick. At that particular moment the dislodgment of that pup from beneath the settle would have ranked even higher in importance than the location of the page numbers of his book.

Before he knew it he found himself on hands and knees skilfully lunging between the multitudinous bags and baskets, but the puppy, if corpulent, was active and nimbly evading the crook made a dash for the refuge offered by the skirts of a lady seated half way down the bench. Intent upon the chase Mr. Pembroke failed to note the character of the cover until he had hooked an ankle by mistake, and the fair owner, rising in haste had tripped and fallen across the semi-recumbent bodies of the twins, knocking one of them across the pup, who promptly lifted a small but penetrating voice in bitter lamentation.

Illustration: Mr. Pembroke hooked an ankle by mistake.

Illustration: One might have thought that Mr. Pembroke would escape recognition.

In the midst of a babel of yelps, squeals, laughter and apologies Mr. Pembroke's ears were suddenly assailed with the megaphonic tones of the train-announcer voicing the fact that the Adirondack Express was about to leave. Gathering himself together in haste he prepared to charge the gates, when he noticed a lady in second-mourning who was coming into the orbit of activity with a rush and flutter that suggested a duck coming into the flock. In one hand she held a mass of loose bills and in the other a mass of loose skirts, and from the frank and innocent expression of her big, blue eyes, just now brimful of distress, and the profusion of red-gold hair, Mr. Pembroke, although a tyro in such matters, was able to diagnose her at once as the mother of the brood. To most men her manifold attractions of face and figure would have been the first impression; to Mr. Pembroke it was the agonizing fact that she had a scant three minutes to get her family aboard the train.

“Oh, Cecile!” she gasped, “the parlor-car seats were all taken.”

A guilty pang shot through Mr. Pembroke as he realized that he had secured the last.

“Mais depechez, madame!—ze train starts!—”

“Oh—are you all here? Eric, stop that noise—throw away that old basket!—What?—the puppy—”

A series of spitting explosives, followed by wild and ear-piercing howls, soared above the clamor of the room. The children shrieked in concert.

“Estelle's put the puppy in with Tabby!” screamed Eric at the top of a lusty pair of lungs.

“All aboard!” roared he of the megaphone.

The executive talent of Mr. Pembroke, which had made his Egyptian and Abyssinian expeditions the successes which they had been, soared gloriously above the crisis. Critical situations will always evolve the genius of administration. Forgetful of precedent or established order of thought he came gallantly to the rescue.

“Pardon me, madame. Eric, give me that basket!”

With a quick clutch he rescued the shrieking puppy, gripping it firmly in the classic way. An athletic swoop, and he had caught up the smallest child and slung it to his shoulder. In the other hand he gripped a twin, thus getting both in tow, and with a brisk “this way, madam,” he had mobilized the entire cavalcade.

“Sling that valise around my neck, madam—Cecile, throw that cloak over my arm and take those children by the hand!”

A pup in one hand, a child under the same arm, a cloak over one shoulder and a fifty-pound valise slung around his neck, firmly gripping another child who was dragging still another, and with a magazine strongly gripped in his even teeth, one might have thought that Mr. Pembroke would escape recognition, but, alas! not so.

As he passed the parlor-cars, happening to glance upward, he looked straight into the eyes of Miss Rodney, whose sacred confidence had been so treacherously betrayed by Mr. Dudley Strong. He had a panoramic vision of three instantaneous expressions: recognition, bewilderment and horror. In his involuntary start his grip on the pup slightly relaxed, and fearful of dropping him he found it necessary to stoop for an instant and renew his grasp.

“Do on, papa!” urged the two-year-old he bore.

Mr. Pembroke “went on,” his patrician face vying with the scarlet lining of the golf cape on his arm. At the end of the car he almost ran against Mr. Strong, who was standing by the lower step.

“Pemmy! Pemmy!” gasped that gentleman, “who ever would have dreamed of it!”

“Is 'is my twain, papa?” lisped the two-year-old.

“Out of the mouths of babes—” quoted Mr. Strong sadly, hastening into the car.

As he toiled aboard the coach Mr. Pembroke was unpleasantly conscious that the perspiration was trickling down his face; also, that the infant which he bore was maintaining his balance by one hand in his hair and the other on his collar. Some strange inner consciousness made him disagreeably aware that the child still retained a crushed chocolate in either chubby fist, in spite of all of which, however, Mr. Pembroke had an odd sensation of triumph which was a balm to the other sore. There was something of the sense of achievement which he had felt but twice in his life—once when, after months of toil, he had unearthed an almost perfect papyrus from a pyramid; again when, after years of research, he had established indubitable proof of the relationship between the Egyptians and the early Aztecs. He felt a growing desire to know more of these groping ones whom he had rescued.

Unfortunately the summer traffic had almost filled the car, and on entering Mr. Pembroke found, to his dismay, that the only available seats were single and scattered. Almost at the same moment the train began to draw slowly out of the depot.

“Where shall we sit?” exclaimed the pretty mother in dismay. An old gentleman who was sitting alone arose politely.

“Won't you an' your husband have this seat, ma'am?” he inquired, then turning to Mr. Pembroke he added colloquially: “You an' your wife an' the baby c'n sit here an' you c'n scatter the rest of the young 'uns along the car. I know haow it is when you're tryin' to move the hull family!” he pursued sympathetically.

Mr. Pembroke dared not glance at the lady, but some subtle wave of sympathy seemed to tell him that she was embarrassed. Glancing at her surreptitiously from behind the child, whose wail was momentarily increasing, he discovered the astonishing fact that her shoulders were slightly shaking.

“Oh, thank you so much!” she replied with an odd quiver in her voice. Mr. Pembroke, feeling the need of immediate action, placed the twins in adjoining seats, and, another passenger obligingly moving, Cecile and the two older children were promptly installed. Returning to deposit the now ponderous two-year-old with its mother, Mr. Pembroke was shocked at the unmistakable evidences of mirth about her mouth and eyes.

“Aren't we leaving ahead of time?” she inquired glancing at her wrist-watch in surprise.

“I think not,” he replied; “the train is scheduled to start at 2 p.m.”

“Why, no!' she exclaimed; “it leaves at 2.10.”

An icy wave of apprehension swept through the laboring mind of the miserable Mr. Pembroke.

“The Adirondack Express—” he began faintly. His voice died away at the look of horror that the words produced.

“The Adirondack Express—why—”

“Don't tell me that I have rushed you aboard the wrong train!” gasped the agonized Mr. Pembroke.

For answer she dropped her face into both hands. There was a moment's silence, while the cold perspiration poured from Mr. Pembroke in steady little rills. Glancing at her in alarm his heart sank as he noticed the convulsive heaving of her shoulders, but the sight, while agonizing, aroused all of his latent chivalry.

He dropped into the seat beside her.

“Papa—mammma's cwyin',” said the child, its under lip quivering in sympathy.

“M—M—Madam—” he began desperately, when suddenly she raised her face and he saw that it was crimson with laughter, whereat he wilted back against the plush cushions, numbed and speechless.

“We were going to Boston—” she began, when overtaken by a fresh outburst of mirth that lasted until Mr. Pembroke, whose knowledge of such matters was confined to theory, began to fear hysterics, convulsions, coma and death. Feeling the critical necessity of interrupting the emotion he began to speak.

“Madam, as this ridiculous blunder was all due to my absurd and officious meddling, you will permit me to telegraph to Albany for tickets on the Boston and Albany, also to conduct you there personally. I am Percival Pembroke, of Boston, and it will—”

“Percival Pembroke the famous archeologist?” she interrupted, looking up with a sudden awe.

“The fame is overrated—”

“No it isn't!” she contradicted. “How extraordinary—we are to be neighbors later on you know. I have taken Boulder Cottage at Fawn Lake and we were going up from Boston next week. I am Mrs. Henry Lawton.”

It was Mr. Pembroke's turn to be surprised.

“Your husband was the late Chief Justice Lawton—!” he exclaimed. “Why he was one of my father's old friends.”

“Yes,” she replied demurely. “He was twenty years older than I!”

Mr. Pembroke passed the five children before his mind in review and his former respect for the jurist was augmented. Repeated shocks had numbed his faculties and reduced him to the mumbling stage.

“We were going to visit my cousin in Boston for three days,” she resumed, “to give my servants an opportunity to get the cottage in order. It was a rather inconvenient arrangement, but I had let my town house from the first of June and really had no where to go!”

Even as she spoke a daring plan was formulating in the reviving brain of the archeologist. For the first time since his impulsive youth he spoke without pausing to weigh his words.

“It seems to me Mrs. Lawton that it would greatly simplify matters if you would wire to your Boston relatives that you have decided to go directly to Fawn Lake, and then consent to occupy my cottage until yours is ready. I can make myself quite comfortable in your's until it is put in order.”

Her pretty brows puckered as she gazed meditatively at the fleeing panorama without. Then the mirthful gleam which Mr. Pembroke was unconsciously growing to relish, returned to her blue eyes.

“But my cottage is all fresh paint!”

“I thoroughly enjoy the odor of new paint,” remarked Mr. Pembroke mendaciously.

“How many bedrooms has your cottage?” she demanded.

“Eight, I believe.”

“Eight! Then what is the necessity of your moving out?”

“Why—er—I thought perhaps—that is—”

“That the children might annoy you?” she inquired maliciously.

“No indeed—I—er—love children,—and your's are so—er—bright and sympathetic—”

“Papa—see de boat,” interrupted the two-year old.

Mr. Pembroke's eye caught a cinder which did not prevent his observing the heightened color of his fair companion with some malicious satisfaction.

“Rupert, that gentleman is not your papa,” she reproved gently.

“Why?” lisped the infant.

The answer to this innocent inquiry being too intricate for the minds of either the mother or the benumbed Mr. Pembroke it was left unanswered. Mrs. Lawton returned to her contemplation of the outer world, while Mr. Pembroke furtively passed his handkerchief across his flaming features.

“Papa,” pursued the irrepressible infant, “I want a dink of water!”

“Mama!” called one of the twins from across the aisle, “I want to sit by you.”

“Want a dink of water!” called the two-year old tremulously.

“Oh, dear!” sighed the widow plaintively, “there is a glass somewhere at the bottom of that dressing bag underneath the pile at the end of the car. I hate to have the children drink out of that nasty glass that everyone uses.” She turned to the wilted Mr. Pembroke, whose buoyancy of spirits under this fresh ebullition was about equal to that of a sensitive plant under the foot of a horse.

“Would you be so kind as to get a glass from the porter of the Pullman right behind us!”

“Oh—er—delighted!” exclaimed Mr. Pembroke, who would rather have faced a howling mob of dervishes with a squirt gun, than to encounter the party in that especial sleeper.

As his eyes fell upon the appealing blue ones raised to his, however, he felt himself imbued with a courage not his own. Arising manfully he made his way to the rear, hoping to there encounter the brakeman, but that gentleman was nowhere to be found, so without further hesitation he entered the Pullman where the first person whom he met was the lady who had urged his invitation to Mr. Dudley Strong's country seat.

“Why how do you do, Mr. Pembroke?” she exclaimed in a voice dulcetly deceptive. “I thought that I saw you pass the window when we were in the depot. We all thought that you were in Boston!”

“Er—how d'ye do,” stammered Mr. Pembroke nervously, “no—I had to come on to see my publishers.” Pride and growing pique imbued him with reticence of his tragic situation.

“How are you Mr. Pembroke?” remarked a man in the adjoining chair whom he knew slightly. “Taking the family out to the country?” he inquired wickedly.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Pembroke, in whose sensitive soul anger was displacing embarrassment. “Have you moved out yet?”

“No,—we are going out later on—”

“Oh, I see,—you are just off on a little picnic of your own I suppose. Don't Madam and the children find it a little sultry in town?”

The gentleman in question, who was known to be a little selfish where his own pleasures were concerned, colored and growled an unintelligible answer. Miss Rodney sweetly commented on the joys of being unattached and free to go and come at will and without hindrance. Mr. Pembroke called the porter and secured the glass of water.

As he was about to return to his charges Mr. Strong called to him from half way down the car.

“Hello Pemmy! Getting a drink for the little ones?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Pembroke smoothly. “I'd offer you some only I know that you don't use it.”

Mr. Strong's complexion substantiating this observation, he adroitly changed the conversation. As he left the car Mr. Pembroke observed that the state-room was unoccupied.

“Can you give me that state-room as far as Elmerton?” he inquired of the Porter.

“Yas, sah—de pahty wot took it ain't showed up.”

“Very well, come up in the car ahead and help me move my party back here!”

He returned to Mrs. Lawton, whom he found attempting to placate the thirsty baby.

“I have secured the state-room right through to Elmerton, Mrs. Lawton. Have you decided to take my advice and not go to Boston? Please remember that I am only too willing to act as courier in case you would rather stop over, and that I am only considering you and the children!”

The grateful glance which he received more than rewarded Mr. Pembroke for the torture which he had endured.

“We are quite in your hands Mr. Pembroke. It would be an awful task now to try to go on to Boston, and the children would be utterly exhausted.”

“Very well, then we will consider it a bargain. I can telegraph at once.”

The porter appearing, the party was promptly transferred to the Pullman, where their entry produced a distinct sensation, Mr. Pembroke himself carrying the drowsy infant.

“To look at him no one would ever guess how Pemmy abominates children!” observed Mr. Strong as his friend strode precariously down the aisle.

“Papa—wan' to do seepy—” murmured the baby.

The party ensconced in the state-room, Mr. Pembroke approached Mr. Strong with an air of aggressive determination.

“Look here—” he remarked, “I want another berth. One of you chaps are in the smoking-room all the time.”

“You're welcome to mine Pemmy if you'll introduce me,” remarked Mr. Strong.

“Or mine—or mine”—came from two of the others, “same condition, Pembroke.”

“Mrs. Lawton is a widow and wishes to travel quietly—” began Mr. Pembroke stiffly, “of course if—”

“Mrs. Lawton!” exclaimed one of the men. “Why, I thought her face was very familiar. I've met her.”

“Go 'way back in the smoker and have a seat, Pemmy!” remarked Mr. Strong. “You are relieved of all responsibility.”

 

From a frail birch-bark canoe in the middle of an Adirondack lake a man and a woman were observing a soul-inspiring sunset. The western end of the placid stretch of opalescent water was already shrouded in the shadows of the brooding hemlocks; near the opposite shore, where their buoyant shallop hung breathless on the thin brim of the lake, the last golden rays hovered lovingly on birch and beech, shimmering lily-pads and the wistful, upturned face of the woman. Soul-stealing perfumes of moss and fern wafted outward with the first drowsy breathings of the quieting forest, and a callow moon crept timidly up above the tree-tops to look shyly at its silver image in the lake. Far in the forest a wood-phoebe lifted its clear voice in a plaintive even-song, and the still trees whispered back a soft “good night.”

A vicious trout broke the peace upon the waters by a savage leap at a daring fly, presuming too far upon the coming shadows to brush the shining mirror with gossamer wing. The thin splash re-echoed, magnified appallingly, and the spirit of calm was broken.

Mr. Pembroke dipped his flashing blade and with a strong stroke sent the canoe gliding through the lily-pads.

“Where are you going?” murmured the lady, resentful of the stir.

“There is a little bluff in here from the top of which we can see the mountains to the westward. They are worth watching on an evening like this.”

The canoe grated against the sudden pitch of the beach, and taking her hand he steadied her as she stepped ashore; still holding it, he led the way up the short, winding path, breaking back the opposing twigs.

On the moss-grown summit they seated themselves on a prostrate hemlock.

“See!” she cried in surprise, “it is growing brighter!” It was the after-glow.

Illustration: “You will spoil the children utterly.”

“It has been growing brighter ever since you came,” he replied in a strange voice. She stole a quick look at his face and her own glowed back at the sunset. Then she looked down at the lake and the color faded.

“Must it grow dark again?” he asked slowly. Something in his voice hurt her like the cry of a child.

A faint chorus of children's voices, laughter, and the gleeful yelping of a dog, quavered across to them in silvery, echoing over-tones.

Mr. Pembroke looked far beyond the lake to where the distant mountains were slowly turning from green to blue and from blue to deepest purple.

“I have loved children all of my life,” he said slowly; “but I have only recently become aware of the fact. Naturally the emotion has gathered force from long suppression. I was fool enough to think that I knew myself through and through, hence, when confronted with my utter ignorance, I am all at sea. Of fame I have all that I want; the same of money, yet it seems as if I always knew how little I valued these things. I love your children—almost as much as I love their mother, but in a different way, of course.”

Something soft and warm found its way into Mr. Pembroke's hand, resting idly upon the moss; something very small, but infinitely greater than the sunset, the lake and all the breathing world around. There was another silence, but of a different sort, broken finally by a happy little laugh, the mellow notes of which found fitting bass accompaniment in the soothing melodies of nature round about.

“You will spoil the children utterly!” she murmured at length.

“I shall certainly try,” responded Mr. Pembroke cheerfully.