The Red Book Magazine/Volume 19/Number 1/A Patriot





By

HE important thing to remember about Mr. Bishop Van Reypan is, that he served his country. Some men die for their native land, others dance for it. Mr. Van Reypan was of the latter contingent. In the forefront of the most enervating cotillions he did valiant service for his flag. Where the afternoon tea raged fiercest, there one found him bravely bearing an ice for some distinguished lady. Through the dullest of dinners, the lengthiest of receptions, his patriotism stood the strain.

Because of his uncle's influence, Mr. Van Reypan had become attached to our consulate at a certain city in Japan. The duties allotted to him were purely social. He saw to it that his superiors never had to waltz. He was but one of an army of pleasant young men scattered over the globe in like service for the flag—young men who dream, as they change their pajamas for evening clothes, of some day being transferred to Paris.

Said Mr. “Sandy” Trotter, once Mr. Van Reypan's classmate at Yale, on the occasion of his only visit to Japan:

“I find you here in this comic opera country, dancing your heart out for the Stars and Stripes, and I'm touched, Van, touched. They'll all be proud of you when the news travels back home. Really, you're a hero. George Cohan ought to write a very flaggy musical comedy around you.”

“Please don't jest on a sacred topic,” returned Mr. Van Reypan, from the window seat where he lay at rest. “I suppose it will strike you as funny to hear me say it, but, for a fact, all this has become a very serious business to me.” He yawned with fervor. “There really is an idea somewhere at the back of my head that I'm doing something for my country. They think out here that we're all social barbarians—I'm teaching them different. I can out-stare any Englishman in Japan, and while I can't bow so gracefully as What's-his-name, at the French consulate, I'm watching him closely; and some day I'll bow him off the map. Seriously, it's a—er—a privilege to teach these scornful aliens that Americans can two-step, as well as sell agricultural implements. Sorry I couldn't play tennis with you to-day.”

“What was it,” inquired Mr. Trotter, “another afternoon with a very important and equally homely dowager?”

“A tea,” said Mr. Van Reypan. “A tea with our British cousins, to meet their distinguished, but fault-finding, brother from over-seas. I'd rather have had the tennis—”

“I know,” put in Sandy; “your country called. Far be it from me. Don't apologize.”

“To-night,” Mr. Van Reypan announced, “is free. We'll take in a Japanese theatre. You'll laugh yourself into a decline—probably over a tragedy Now—”

“If you will pause in your yawning,” said Mr. Trotter, “you might tell me what all this is leading to. “It's all right to indulge in a two-stepping contest with the foreign powers; but—what do you get in the end? Where are you when the last carnation has faded? Tell me that?”

Mr. Van Reypan crossed his legs and gazed at the ceiling.

“Well,” he said, reflectively, “it has been bruited about that from a similar post many, men have—er—married well. I don't—er—I don't exactly approve of the idea, but if the girl were pretty I might be able to marry for love, and let the money come as an afterthought. I suppose I'm all sorts of a cad to say it—”

“You are,” retorted Mr. Trotter, promptly. His honest face was grave and troubled. “Better come back with me to the States. These pink teas have gone to your brain. Let some other handsome youth waltz your Uncle Sam into a world power. You could get a job—”

“Sandy,” said Mr. Van Reypan, “what you suggest is madness. While little old Japan holds her, it is the land for me. You know whom I mean. The Jamieson girl—the one with the big brown eyes. One look into them—”

“Yes,” said Mr. Trotter, meaningly—“the maiden with two million in her own name. I know.”

“That, my dear old friend,” advised Mr. Van Reypan, “is an afterthought. Kindly consider it always—an afterthought.”

Mr. Trotter heaved his ex-football bulk out of his chair, and paced the room. It was torture to behold a friend in the state of mind in which his patriotism had landed Mr. Van Reypan. He paused at the side of the window seat and, not wishing to look into the eyes of the man who lay there, stared at the quaint, papier-maché-like gables that cluttered all outdoors.

“Now, see here,” he said, “I don't think you'd marry any girl for her money—”

Mr. Van Reypan sat bolt upright.

“You're correct,” he said, it angrily. “And I wouldn't take an insinuation from anyone but you. I'm in love, you old plow horse, in love. It's nice she has money—but it really doesn't matter in the least. I'd be just as fond, anyhow. She's a wonder. Confound it, man, have you seen her?”

“I have,” replied Mr. Trotter, “and well you should know it. You steered me into her company. Oh, she's all right, though she does go in for romance, and the moon-light-falling-softly-on-the-ruined-temple stuff, a little too strong for me. She and I sat on the Methodist veranda—I can't remember all these missionary names—the other night, and she pointed to a small white building across the bay and had all sorts of thrills over it. It was so romantic looking, and an exiled poet might have dreamed there, and all that rot. I hadn't the heart to tell her it was the local office of the Standard Oil Company.”

“I should say not,” said Mr. Van Reypan. “It would have spoiled her entire evening. She is romantic. And that's good—it's my one precious ray of hope. Money doesn't mean everything to her. You should see the way she treats that rich little cad, Norris, who came all the way out from the States to see her. I tell you, she's the right sort. By Gad—say—” He leaped from the window seat and ran to his desk. There he rummaged among papers, and presently held up a note, tragically.

“Did I say the theatre to-night, old boy? Well, I'm dreadfully sorry—but there's a dinner to a funny little Jap doctor who's discovered a serum or something, and of course the U.S. has to be represented. If you'll excuse me—”



“Of course,” said Mr. Trotter. He watched with rather scornful eye, while Mr. Van Reypan answered the old, old call of his country. The jaw of the latter was set; resolutely he turned his thoughts from the possibilities or a pleasant evening with Sandy, wandering through quaint streets, amid quainter people. Resolutely he bathed; resolutely he fixed studs in a gleaming shirt; resolutely he climbed again into the carefully pressed suit of black. Mr. Trotter from time to time spoke words from the doorway.

“You remind me, Van, of the books in the prep. school library. 'At the first call of the bugle, Bish Van Reypan, the little drummer boy, leaped cheerily from his hard cot and donned his uniform. Soon we find him amid the weary-eyed soldiers of the social set, and bravely does our little hero fight all night in the front ranks of the cotillion. Not until the retreat sounds—”

Mr. Van Reypan cast a pair of brushes at his friend, and departed with no other farewell.

And that friend, breathing heavily above a slender writing desk, which seemed likely at any moment to collapse beneath his weight, wrote later in the evening to another man in far New York.

Mr. Trotter finished his letter to the man in New York, and went over and gazed out at the tile roofs of the city, ht in the moonlight. Such a little, low, ridiculous cluster of a town—he felt that he could toss it into a heap with a turn of his foot, as he had tossed his sister's doll houses in the nursery, long ago. From a balcony across the way came the grating burr of a phonograph. “Gee, I wish I could do something,” muttered the faithful Mr. Trotter. And at that moment the servant of his country returned from the fray, wilted and slow of step. He dropped wearily into the same window seat that had held him that afternoon.

“The war is over, mother,” began Mr. Trotter, but Mr. Van Reypan quickly cut him off.

“Don't,” he said simply, and there was that in his tone which brought Mr. Trotter's instant obedience.

“Sandy,” he said, presently, “what sort of fellow should you say this Norris is?”

“Well,” returned Mr. Trotter, reflecting, “he has wined. I get that from the lovely crimson of his face. And he has dined. I get that from his waist line. Further than these things, he has not lived.”

“Exactly,” responded Mr. Van Reypan. “A cheap, contemptible little snob. His companionship is an insult.”

“It is,” said Mr. Trotter; “but I kept looking at the waist line, and was comforted. Oh, avenging waist line! It's going to keep on pushing him farther and farther away from the Fifth Avenue club window, out of which he loves to gaze.”

Mr. Van Reypan turned his eyes out toward the glittering roofs. “She's going to marry him,” he remarked abruptly.

“Who is?” Mr. Trotter's eyes lighted.

“Margaret Jamieson. She told me so herself a half hour ago, when we parted at the Maxwell's.”

Mr. Trotter whistled softly. Inwardly he was elated; outwardly, sympathetic.

“It's too bad, Van,” he said.

“She's marrying him—for his money,” accused Van Reypan, bitterly.

“Confound the fellow,” said Mr. Trotter, letting the nice satire of this go unnoted; “he's not the sort I'd expect to step over here and claim the lovely maiden. It's done by a naval ensign in musical comedy—and they stand together in the spot-light and sing about the beneficial effects of love.”

“Were you ever serious?” queried Mr. Van Reypan.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Trotter. “I am frivolous. I'm sorry. We doped her out wrong, Van. I see now I ought to have told her that villa was the Standard Oil office, if I wanted to make a hit. The romance stuff was a bluff. We doped her out wrong. You never can tell about a woman.”

“Oblige me,” broke in Mr. Van Reypan, “by not making a song about it.” He gazed for a time out over the city, while the squeak of the phonograph filled their ears. “Sandy, you were right,” he said, presently. “I'm not getting anywhere out here. I ought to go back to the States with you.”

“Right-o,” cried Mr. Trotter. He tore the letter to the man in New York into bits, and tossed them gleefully into a waste basket. “Right you are. When do we start?”

“Well—as soon as I can fix it up to have a successor appointed. Some other youth will have to come out here and show 'em, Sandy, in the name of Uncle Sam. I'm going back to the lights of the little town across from Brooklyn—back to the bunch on Forty-fourth Street. And to some other things, almost too sacred to mention—among them, a man's job.”

Mr. Trotter seized him, and dragged him forth for a walk under the stars. They passed down the narrow streets; the little shops receded, giving way to temples set in ancient groves; and finally they came to the open country. In the heart of Mr. Trotter was exultation; in that of Mr. Van Reypan was a chaos of feeling, out of which emerged, clearly, a longing for the great city of palm rooms and derby hats.

Several weeks later, Mr. Van Reypan and Mr. Trotter stood on deck and watched the water front of Yokohama creep back to join the horizon. As they turned away to the smoking room, the man who had served his country spoke:

“Well, it's all over. That raw young graduate who's traveling toward the rising sun will have to answer the call of duty in my stead—I hope he answers it well. By Gad, Sandy, I'm glad you came. I'm glad I'm going home.”

“Any gladness,” Mr. Trotter assured him, “is mutual.”

In the smoking room, Mr. Van Reypan took from his pocket a fat, soiled letter, and tearing it open, read. Then he looked up with a smile.

“An amusing epistle, this,” he said,—“but from the heart, Sandy. It's from Yone Taisuke, a little Jap kid—I—er—helped. I tried to put him on to the curves of English a bit—and then I found out how horribly poor he was, and the hopeless home he came from. So I got him a job with the Maxwell Company. His gratitude was—er—I want to read you what he says. It isn't modest of me, maybe, but it's too good to miss. It seems he didn't get an accounting from his predecessor on the job, and when he should have been promoted, he wasn't. So he 'lost face.' Listen to his peroration:

“'I would like to see you leave and take your hand, but in place I must write. I would rather have been promoted and I am sad. So I please not to come to you again until I am promoted, and can come to you with vigorous and triumphant mood of heart. Come to Japan twice, oh my benefactor.'”

Mr. Trotter smiled. “By Gad, you served some one beside Uncle Sam, didn't you,” he said.

“Oh, forget it,” replied Mr. Van Reypan. “I only read it to you to give you a laugh.”

“I know,” said Mr. Trotter; “but what I am trying to get at is, when you think of that little brown chap, better off than he was before you came out here, there's no reason why you shouldn't go back to America with a 'vigorous and triumphant mood of heart.'”

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Van Reypan. “And if your highly moral reflections are ended, I'll trouble you for a match.”

Six weeks passed, and Mr. Van Reypan stood in a high-paneled library before Henry F. Meredith, head and moving spirit of one of the greatest department stores in New York. Mr. Meredith was the heavy, shrewd, financially engrossed brother of the frail, visionary little woman, who had brought Mr. Van Reypan into the world. Through his uncle's money Mr. Van Reypan had been educated; through his uncle's influence he had gone to Japan; and, now he desired “a man's job,” it was only natural that he should stand waiting once more in that gloomy room.

The old man ran his fingers through his gray hair, and pondered. Then he proffered a cigar.

“Well,” he said.

“I couldn't stand it any longer,” explained Mr. Van Reypan. “I wanted to be back here—er—doing something, you know. I hope you're not angry.”

Henry F. Meredith smiled—a rare feat.

“Not exactly,” he said “I wondered how long you could stand that pink tea out yonder. For you've got Meredith blood in you—I've been sure of that. And I've been praying that some day it would win out over the exquisite blue variety your mother brought into the family, when she married an excellent name—and little else.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Van Reypan.

“I beg yours—I'm sorry,” replied the older man. He bowed his head a moment. “Sometimes I've been afraid you'd marry out there—one of these colorless hot-house girls with money, whose cash would be the end of a kid like you. I'd rather see you married to one of my own shop girls. But you—didn't—and you're back. And it's up to me once more, I suppose.”

“It is—this far:” said Mr. Van Reypan. “I want a job; I want a chance to make good—and then it's up to me.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” inquired Henry Meredith, “that you'll take a place in the store?”

“I'll take any place,” explained the ex-patriot.

The old man's face lighted. He looked at the boy and opened his lips—then closed them. Then he actually smiled again, a pleasant smile.

“I'll fix it up with Mason to-morrow,” he said.

Wherefore, a few mornings later, Mr. Van Reypan, having answered the blatant summons of a ninety-eight cent alarm clock, appeared at the Meredith store, with what Sandy Trotter would have called his “shining morning face” aglow from a brisk walk down town. Yes, amid two thousand weary-eyed little girls, in shirt waists and ready-made skirts, Bishop Van Reypan, late exquisite of the American consulate in a far Japanese city, appeared for work, and took up his duties as assistant manager of the third floor.

And in the rush and bustle of this new world the gentler days in that picture-book land became as a tale that is told. Into the mists of the past faded dinners and balls and receptions—what the beautiful Miss So-and-So said to the Bishop, and what the Bishop said to the English consul. Instead, Mr. Van Reypan hurried about weird new duties—hurried amid girls who chattered constantly of last night, and to-night, and Jim and Joe—and forgot, as he hurried, that of late it had been upon him that his country called when dress clothes were to be worn, and repartee was to be exchanged, that the world might respect America.

Days grew into weeks, days that might be gray or gold without, but were all the same within—days through which maddened lady shoppers rushed in never-ending parade, days through which Mr. Van Reypan consulted, advised, and set many hearts a-flutter under cheap peek-a-boo waists. And though he little guessed it then, and would have laughed a well-bred laugh of scorn at the thought, She was there, up in the optical department. On the second day of his new life he had met her.

“I am Miss Blake—I assist Mr. Merton.” Her eyes were big and gray and frank, lighting a face that was well worth while.

“Ah, yes—I am Mr. Van Reypan—the new assistant manager of the floor. If any difficulties arise—”

“Yes,” she said. And she watched him as he moved away. “Don't make a fool of yourself.” It was her mind that spoke, almost angrily, to her heart. And the heart meekly obeyed. Then, one day, a difficulty did arise, and Mr. Van Reypan, recovered somewhat from the confusion of the first weeks, looked, and saw. Thereafter, as was natural, perhaps, his eyes turned often to the optical department. And where his eyes turned, there his feet led him.

One night they went to dinner and the theatre. And Miss Blake told him of her home, up in Maine of the baby lamb that they were raising on a bottle because of its orphaned state, and of many other things simple and sweet. And she  told him of her first days in the store, before she had risen to her present proud position. Those were sad days, when one had to live on five dollars a week—days when one did one's own washing, and scrimped, and gazed out of one's small window over the city and wondered if the end would make it all worth while.



Mr. Van Reypan, listening, realized for the first time where the Meredith millions came from, and recalled, with a pang, that the five-dollar-a-week year was his junior year at Yale, when he had bought the imported touring car. Which led, easily, to the thought that there was much he owed this wistful-eyed little girl—a thought that moved him to invite her again—and then again.

As Mr. Van Reypan devoted more and more time to paying this one small debt that the Meredith millions owed, he was startled to find himself taking a keen pleasure in doing so. The girl's wit was quick, her appreciation of Mr. Van Reypan's wit, even quicker. And in her eyes, which were very soft, and her face, which was very fair, there shone the light of an affection she could not conceal. Which light was all the more pleasant to Mr. Van Reypan in that she knew nothing of his connection with the Meredith who owned the store.

So subtly, but surely, Bishop Van Reypan, late pet of far-off drawing rooms, fell under the spell of a fair little girl who worked for her livelihood in a store. Meetings with Sandy Trotter only strengthened the chains. For Sandy had married; he ferried in from Jersey each morning and out each night, and he painted in characteristically vivid terms the joys of the mated life. So Mr. Van Reypan drifted on, and the broad-shouldered young man in the shipping department, who used occasionally to enjoy Miss Blake's favor, saw slipping from him the desire of his life.

One evening Mr. Van Reypan said good-by to Miss Blake at the door of her boarding house and, standing there in the moonlight that had found its way even into so mean a street, she looked so little and fair, and altogether so desirable, that he was moved to take her in his arms. At that moment, however, she turned away, and as Mr. Van Reypan stood looking up, almost worshipful, he told himself that this should be his mate in the new life he had chosen. Here, he reflected, walking back to his rooms, was a sweet faith, and affection more than social glory. Both were his for the asking.

“To-morrow,” he said to himself, “I shall ask.”

But on the morrow came two letters, and their postmark was the postmark of Japan. Closeted in his narrow office, which was close beside the optical department, Mr. Van Reypan broke their seals. One was from the little brown boy, his protégé; and it was a letter of joy. At last, that waif of the Orient wrote in “vigorous and triumphant mood of heart.” He had been promoted. Glorious was the news. “Come to Japan twice, my benefactor,” he begged.

And the plea in the second was much the same. Mr. Van Reypan started as he saw the familiar hand. He turned hastily to the signature, “Margaret Jamieson.” She had not married Norris. The engagement was broken. She wrote golden words of blossom-time in that colorful country, and through them all ran subtly the plea of Yone Taisuke, this time unvoiced: “Come to Japan twice.”

Late into the afternoon, and then until long after dusk, Bishop Van Reypan sat and pondered. The letter from the brown-eyed girl in far Japan brought it all back—the musical tinkle of the temple bells, the narrow, picture-post-card streets, the life of luxury and ease, the balls, the dinners, where he had shone. What Mr. Meredith had called the “blue-exquisite blood” in him ran faster at the thought. He walked again with the dainty Margaret Jamieson down make-believe thoroughfares; he sat again with her on the Maxwell balcony, while the moonlight fell silver on the roof tiles. Land of the lotus, where life was a dream of delight, and where little people, who rightfully belonged only on fans, appeared like genii to attend to every want. Should he go back?

Here, the drab gray of life in this great, monotonous store—the steady round of homely duties. And here, too, the wistful-eyed little girl who looked at him so wonderfully. Would it be fair to her? But was it her future, or his own, that he must consider now? She would be unhappy for a time, but she would forget. And over there— Should he go back?

Mr. Van Reypan fumbled the letters, and gazed out of his door at the great store, now nearly deserted. He drew note paper toward him, and wrote: “My dear Margaret:” There he paused. Was ever man so perplexed? The old love of luxury, the fondness for things he had not earned for himself— But was that a man's game? And here was the clever little girl, to whom he had so surely allowed himself to become all in all. Still, across seas was the life of pleasure and gaiety, the life he was made for, as surely—

A voice rose from the other side of the partition—a voice from the optical department. It was the voice of the young man from the shipping room, and it was strong and booming, for he was in no mood to make it soft and tender:

“It's him or me. You got to decide between us—now. I told you how I love you, but if you prefer him, why—all right. Only, I want to know. If it's him—then I'm going away—I'm going away to be a sailor. I couldn't stand it here any longer. I'd go away an' see the world—a sailor.”

The voice paused. There was no reply.

“It's him or me,” persisted the rather tactless young man from the shipping department. “You got to decide right away. I want you—I love you. You know that. But I wont play second fiddle any longer. If it's him—I'm going off to be a sailor.”

And thus, sharp and clear, Mr. Van Reypan heard again the call—the old call—the call he had answered so often in distant Japan—the call of his country. The resolute look of days forgot lit in his eyes. He stood up. This time there was no need to don a dress suit—no need to dine—to waltz—even to pass a tea cup. He recalled a gray-haired admiral, and certain words spoken on a balcony in Japan: “Yes sir, the navy has need of strong, decent young men. It has sore need of them—of good Americans, sir.”

So Mr. Van Reypan threw into a basket a scrap of note paper, and stepped outside, whither again his country called him.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in his customary well-bred voice. 'Are you ready, Katherine? You're going to walk home with me to-night, you know.”

“See here,” said the prospective sailor, “I wont have you butting in—”

“Perhaps,” remarked Mr. Van Reypan, “it would be just as well to let the world know, dear.” He turned to the red-faced youth. “Miss Blake has promised to become my wife, you know.”

“Oh,” said the young man from the shipping department. Only that. And he moved away. Mr. Van Reypan hurried to the side of the girl, who sat blushing at her desk.

And now let us be quite fair to Mr. Van Reypan. He stood for an instant looking down at the blushing girl, and the thing in his eyes was not altogether patriotism. There was something else there—a something hard to express. Yone Taisuke can best supply the words. There was a light in his eyes that reflected, beyond any doubt, a “vigorous and triumphant mood of heart.”

“Was I right?” whispered Mr. Van Reypan. “Oh, my dearest—was I right?”

And the little girl at the desk, looking up, saw and recognized the light; and smiled happily out of her own startled eyes. “I—I guess you were,” she said.

Far away they could see the broad shoulders of the young man from the shipping department, who was moving on—moving on into the great world beyond the store—moving on to be a sailor. Thus Mr. Bishop Van Reypan served his country, even in matters of love.