The older man sat limp in his chair, and stared until the ash of his
cigar tumbled, untidily, over his waistcoat. He brushed at it with
uncertain, ineffective motions, but his eyes never left his nephew. He
put the cigar once more to his lips, shuddered, and flung it away.
"Boy--" he said, at length, "Boy--is that true?"
Henry cleared his throat. "Yes, Uncle John."
"Who is it? Anna Barklay?"
"Yes, Uncle John."
"_When?_"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Does--Judge Barklay know it yet?"
"No, not yet. He's out of town."
His uncle drew a tremendous breath, and pulled himself upright. "Boy,"
he said, "why in the hell did you ever go and do a thing like that?...
Haven't I been pretty decent to you, the best I knew how?... Why'd
you ever go, and--_have_ I been mistaken in you all this while? Why,
boy, I thought you and me were _friends_."
There was another heavy silence. "I don't know. It just happened. The
way things do--sometimes. We've always been crazy about each other."
Mr. Starkweather was looking at and through his nephew, who was
man-grown and presumably a rational human being; but what Mr.
Starkweather actually saw was the vision of a little boy dressed in
Lord Fauntleroy velvet, with silver knee-buckles and a lace collar;
and much as a drowning man is supposed to review, in a lightning
flash, every incident of his whole life, so was Mr. Starkweather
reviewing the life of Henry, beginning with the era of black velvet,
and ending with the immediate present. That history was a continuous
record of dashing impulses, and the gayest irresponsibility; and yet,
when the time came for an accounting, Henry had offered only
explanations, and never excuses. In his glorious pursuit of the
calendar, he had paid his penalties as royally as he had earned them;
and even now, when he was confessed of the most impetuous and the
most astounding act of all his unballasted youth, he had nothing to
say in defence. As a climax, marriage had "happened" to him, and he
was braced for whatever might happen next.
Presently, Mr. Starkweather, coming out of his daze, began to wonder
if, by this very climax, Henry hadn't prescribed his own medicine, and
at the same time taken out insurance on his own salvation. For one
thing, he had selected the right girl--a girl with no money, and
plenty of character--a girl who would manage him so skilfully that
Henry would think himself the manager. For another thing, Mr.
Starkweather believed that Henry was profoundly in love with her, even
though he tried to conceal his seriousness by spreading it with a
generous helping of light manner, and modern vocabulary. These facts,
together with Mr. Starkweather's control of the finances, might
possibly operate as the twin levers which would pry Henry out of his
improvidence. The levers themselves were certainly strong enough; it
was a question only of Henry's resistance. Mr. Starkweather winced to
realize that by the time the minute-hand of his watch had gone twice
again around the dial, he should know definitely and permanently
whether Henry was worth his powder, or not.
He leaned his elbows on his desk, judicially. "I'm pretty much knocked
edgeways, Henry--but tell me one more thing; this wasn't any bet, was
it, or--"
"Bet!" flared Henry, and all the youth went out of his features.
"Yes. Nobody _dared_ you to go and get married--it wasn't any kind of
a put-up job, was it?"
The younger man was righteously indignant. "Uncle John, I admit I
haven't won any medals for--for _some_ things,--and maybe you think I
_am_ the kind of bird that would--do this on a bet, or a dare--and if
you _do_ think that--I guess we're _both_ mistaken in each other!"
His uncle's hand went up. "Hold your horses! You've answered the
question. If you hadn't got mad, I'd have thrown you out the window.
Why _did_ you do it, then?... No--never mind." He looked away. "_I_
know. Spring, and impulse and no emergency brakes. _I_ know...." He
looked back at Henry, and smiled oddly. "And I was just goin' to tell
you, before you sprung it on me, that if you cared two cents about
that girl,--and me, too,--you'd want to deserve her:--do somethin'
besides be a model to hang expensive clothes on."
"Yes," said Henry, also judicial. "I guess I'm entitled to that
wallop."
His uncle nodded. "That one and quite a few more. Still, you never
heard anybody accuse me of not bein' a good sport, did you?"
"No, Uncle John. I counted on it."
"Who knows this--besides us?"
"Just Bob Standish. We took him along for a witness."
"So! Bob Standish! Hm. I'd have thought Bob'd had sense enough to try
to stop it. I'll have words with him."
"He did try."
Mr. Starkweather rose. "Where's Anna?"
"Out in the car. With Bob."
His uncle froze. "Out there? Waitin' there all this time? For Heaven's
sake, Henry, she'll be in a conniption fit! You go bring her in
here--and tell her to stop worryin'. I'm sore as the devil, and I'm
goin' to make an example out of you, but that ain't any reason to act
like a grouch, is it? Sound sensible to you? Bring her in here. Not
Bob--I'll see him afterwards."
* * * * *
She was small and intensely feminine, but there was nothing fragile
about her, and no slightest hint of helplessness. She was pretty
enough, too, and her attractions were more than skin-deep; to the
qualities which showed in her eyes--sincerity and humour and
imagination--there was also to be added sweetness of disposition and
sensitiveness, which were proved by the curves of her mouth; and
finally, there was quiet determination, stopping just short of
stubbornness, which was evident in the moulding of her strong little
chin.
She came in slowly, questioningly, not in fear, but merely poised so
as to adjust herself to any style of reception. Mr. Starkweather
met her eyes and laughed--a fat, spontaneous, understanding
laugh--and blushing furiously, she ran to him, with both her hands
outstretched.
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Starkweather, and interrupted himself long
enough to kiss her, "I'll say Henry's got a darned sight better
judgment 'n _you_ have.... Go on and blush. Make a good job of it.
Ashamed of yourself? So 'm I. Sit down there and cringe. You too,
Henry." He himself remained on his feet. "Funny thing," he said, after
a pause. "Only chance I ever had to get married myself was somethin'
like this is--oh, _I_ wasn't a gilt loafer, like Henry is; I was
workin' sixteen hours a day, but I wasn't makin' money enough. Both
our fathers said so. And she'd have run off, but I wouldn't. Thought
it wasn't respectable, I guess. Anyhow, it kind of petered out, and I
lost my nerve. Wish to thunder I'd taken a chance when I had it. Worth
it, sometimes." He whirled on Henry, abruptly. "Well, you took _your_
chance. Now let's see if you think it's worth it. If you're figurin'
on any help from me, you got to work for it first. If you'd waited,
I'd kind of made things easy for you. Now, I'm goin' to hand you the
meanest job I can think of. It won't be an insult and it won't be a
joke, but maybe you'll take it for both--until you learn better."
"What is it, Uncle John?"
"I'll tell you when you get back from your honeymoon."
The two young people stared at each other, and at Mr. Starkweather.
"From our--what?" asked the girl, incredulously.
"Honeymoon. Oh, you made a couple of prize fools of yourselves, and if
I did what I ought to, I'd cut Henry off sharp this minute. But--guess
I better make a fool of _my_self, so you'll feel more at home." He
coughed explosively. "Besides, you're awful young, both of you--and
damn it, if you don't cash in on it now, next thing you know you'll be
wonderin' where the time's gone, anyway. No sense in robbin' you of
the best months of your life, just because you hadn't sense enough to
rob your_selves_ of it--is there? Oh, I suppose I'm a kind of a
sentimental cuss, but--must be I like the feelin' of it." He jerked
his head toward Henry. "This is April. Take her off somewhere--Italy?
South of France?--'till next August. Then you report back here, all
fixed and ready to eat crow. Sound fair to you?"
The girl rose, and crossed the room to him. "Mr. Starkweather--"
"Name's Uncle John," he corrected. "You married it."
"Uncle John--I--I don't know how to--" She bit her lip, and he saw the
depths of her eyes, and saw that they were filling with tears. She
gestured imperatively to Henry. "You know him better--_you_ tell
him."
Henry had sprung across to join them. "Uncle John, you're a peach!
I'll break rock on the streets if you say so! You're a peach!"
"Well," said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably. "If everybody else's
goin' to bawl, I guess it'll have to be contagious.... Only when you
get back, you're both goin' to pay the piper. I'm goin' to make Henry
earn his salt, whether he's got it in him or not; I'm goin' to make
him crawl. That goes as it stands, too; no foolin'.... Look here,
don't you want me to break it to the Judge? Guess I better. I can put
it up to him in _writin'_ twice as good as Henry put it up to me by
talkin', anyhow.... And I'll put an announcement in the _Herald_
that'll take the cuss off. Anna, you hustle up some engraved notices
to get around to all our friends. You know what's in style.... Oh,
you're a couple of champion idiots, and Henry's goin' to sweat for it
when he comes home, but--God bless you, my boy, and you too, my
dear--only _how_ in blazes am I goin' to get it across to Mirabelle?
That's what bites me the worst, Henry; that's what bites me the
worst!"