What finally drove Anthony post-haste up to Tarrytown
was an announcement in several New York papers that
Adam Patch, the multimillionaire, the philanthropist,
the venerable uplifter, was seriously ill and not
expected to recover.
Anthony could not see him. The doctors’
instructions were that he was to talk to no one, said
Mr. Shuttleworth—who offered kindly to take
any message that Anthony might care to intrust with
him, and deliver it to Adam Patch when his condition
permitted. But by obvious innuendo he confirmed
Anthony’s melancholy inference that the prodigal
grandson would be particularly unwelcome at the bedside.
At one point in the conversation Anthony, with Gloria’s
positive instructions in mind, made a move as though
to brush by the secretary, but Shuttleworth with a
smile squared his brawny shoulders, and Anthony saw
how futile such an attempt would be.
Miserably intimidated, he returned to New York, where
husband and wife passed a restless week. A little
incident that occurred one evening indicated to what
tension their nerves were drawn.
Walking home along a cross-street after dinner, Anthony
noticed a night-bound cat prowling near a railing.
“I always have an instinct to kick a cat,”
he said idly.
“I like them.”
“I yielded to it once.”
“When?”
“Oh, years ago; before I met you. One night
between the acts of a show. Cold night, like
this, and I was a little tight—one of the
first times I was ever tight,” he added.
“The poor little beggar was looking for a place
to sleep, I guess, and I was in a mean mood, so it
took my fancy to kick it—”
“Oh, the poor kitty!” cried Gloria, sincerely
moved. Inspired with the narrative instinct,
Anthony enlarged on the theme.
“It was pretty bad,” he admitted.
“The poor little beast turned around and looked
at me rather plaintively as though hoping I’d
pick him up and be kind to him—he was really
just a kitten—and before he knew it a big
foot launched out at him and caught his little back”
“Oh!” Gloria’s cry was full of anguish.
“It was such a cold night,” he continued,
perversely, keeping his voice upon a melancholy note.
“I guess it expected kindness from somebody,
and it got only pain—”
He broke off suddenly—Gloria was sobbing.
They had reached home, and when they entered the apartment
she threw herself upon the lounge, crying as though
he had struck at her very soul.
“Oh, the poor little kitty!” she repeated
piteously, “the poor little kitty. So cold—”
“Gloria”
“Don’t come near me! Please, don’t
come near me. You killed the soft little kitty.”
Touched, Anthony knelt beside her.
“Dear,” he said. “Oh, Gloria,
darling. It isn’t true. I invented
it—every word of it.”
But she would not believe him. There had been
something in the details he had chosen to describe
that made her cry herself asleep that night, for the
kitten, for Anthony for herself, for the pain and bitterness
and cruelty of all the world.
