BABY TALK, OLD DIVES, AND OTHER THINGS.
The cottage seemed dull enough after the departure of George with his
bride. Bessie was so absorbed by the care of our little one that she had
very little time to think of anything else, and in fact the new-comer,
for the time being, monopolized the attention of his grandmother as well
as of his mother. I was therefore left to my own resources.
“Baby is not very well, Charlie,” Bessie informed me, one morning, with
an anxious air. “Do you think it would do to wrap him up well and take
him for a little ride this afternoon?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. If I can get that black horse at the livery
stable, I’ll bring him around this afternoon. But I don’t see why you
should wrap him up. It’s hot as blazes.”
“You don’t know anything about babies, Charlie. Go along. Get a nice,
easy carriage, and we’ll take mother with us. I long for a ride.”
I departed, and secured the desired “team.”
Towards two o’clock I drove up to the cottage, and the entire family
bundled into the vehicle, and we were off. I chose a pleasant, shady
road, and drove slowly, while Bessie and her mother filled the air with
baby talk.
As we were climbing the hill near Linwood, I saw, a short distance ahead
of us, the form of an elderly gentleman toiling up the ascent in the
sun. He seemed fatigued, and stopped as we drew near him, to wipe the
beads of perspiration from his brow.
“Why, it’s Mr. Desmond!” exclaimed Bessie.
Sure enough! As he turned toward us I recognized the white vest, the
expansive shirt-front, and the resplendent watch-chain that could belong
to no other than “old Dives” himself.
“How d’ye do?” I cried, halting our fiery steed.
“Ah! Mr. Travers, Mrs. Pinkerton, how do you do? Delighted to meet you.
It’s very warm.”
“How came you so far out in the country afoot?” I asked.
“I had some business at Melton, and lost the 2:30 train back to town,
so I started to walk to Linwood with the purpose of taking a train on
the other road. They told me it was only a mile and a half, but—.” And
he sighed significantly.
“How fortunate that we met you,” said Mrs. Pinkerton quickly, taking the
words out of my mouth. “Get in and ride to Linwood with us. We have a
vacant seat, you see.”
I seconded her invitation, and without much hesitation he accepted, and
took a seat by my side. The conversation turned naturally upon the
“young couple” (Bessie and I were no longer referred to in that way),
and Mr. Desmond extolled his niece unreservedly. Mother-in-law was
evidently somewhat impressed, but I think she made some mental
reservations.
“Will you smoke, Mr. Desmond?” I asked, offering him a cigar.
“No, I thank you.”
“Oh, I had forgotten you did not approve of the habit. Excuse me.”
Mrs. Pinkerton explained to Mr. Desmond, apologetically, that I was an
irresponsible victim of the nicotine poison. I laughed, but Mr. Desmond
received the explanation solemnly, and expressed his abhorrence for “the
weed.”
The old gentleman professed great admiration for baby, and said that he
looked exactly like his mother; in fact, the resemblance was almost
startling.
By the time we had got to Linwood, our passenger had talked himself into
a state of good-humor, and we left him at the railroad station, bowing
and smiling with true old-school _aplomb_.
Bessie thought the ride did Charlie, junior, good, and so it became a
regular thing, on pleasant afternoons, to take him out for a little
airing. Mrs. Pinkerton overcame her scruples, and usually accompanied
us. A sample of the sweet converse held with my son and heir on the back
seat will suffice:—
“Sodywazzaleetlecatchykums! ‘Esoodavaboobangy! Mamma’s cunnin’
kitten-baby!”
One day, just before noon, when I had been making a mental calculation
as to how I should be able to cover the livery-stable bill, a fine
equipage stopped in front of the bank, and through the window I saw the
stately driver hand a note to our errand-boy. In a moment Tommy appeared
in the room and handed me the billet, which ran thus:—
MY DEAR MR. TRAVERS,—I trust you will not take it amiss if I
send my coachman out your way once in a while to exercise the
ponies. Since Clara’s taking-off, they have stood still too
much, and knowing that you go to ride occasionally with your
family, I take the liberty of putting them at your disposal for
the present, with instructions to John, who is a careful and
trustworthy driver, to place himself at your service whenever
you are so disposed. The obligation will be entirely on my part,
if you will kindly take a turn behind the ponies whenever you
choose. My regards to your wife and Mrs. Pinkerton.
Believe me yours sincerely,
T. G. DESMOND.
I could find no objection to accepting this kindly offer, so delicately
made, but I did not dare to do so before consulting Bessie and her
mother, so I stepped into the carriage and had John drive me to the
cottage. There was a consultation, and after I had overcome some feeble
scruples on Mrs. Pinkerton’s part, which I am afraid were hypocritical,
we decided to take advantage of Mr. Desmond’s generosity. I sent a note
of thanks back by John, and thenceforth we took our rides behind “old
Dives’s” black ponies. Occasionally the old gentleman himself came out
in the carriage, and proved himself as trustworthy and careful a driver
as John, handling the “ribbons” with the air of an accomplished whip.
The rides were very pleasant, those beautiful summer days, and the
change from a hired “team” to the sumptuous establishment of Mr. Desmond
was extremely grateful.
Mr. Desmond was doubtless very lonely without his niece. She had been
the light of his home, and her absence was probably felt by the old
gentleman with more keenness than he had anticipated at the outset. His
large and beautifully furnished mansion needed the presence of just such
a person of vivacious and cheery character as Clara, to prevent it from
becoming cheerless in its grandeur. He intimated as much, and appeared
unusually restless and low-spirited for him. He sought to make up for
the absence of the sunshine and joyousness that “Miss Van” had taken
away with her, by applying himself with especial diligence to business;
but he really had not much business to engross his attention, beyond
collecting his interest and looking out for his agents, and it failed to
fill the void. He betook himself to his club, and killed time
assiduously, talking with the men-about-town he found there, playing
whist, and running through the magazines and reviews in search of wit
and wisdom wherewith to divert himself. The dull season had set in;
there was little doing, in affairs, commerce, politics, or literature;
and direct efforts at killing time always result in making time go more
heavily than ever. Mr. Desmond’s attempt was like a curious _pas seul_,
executed by a nimble actor in a certain extravaganza, the peculiarity of
which is that at every forward step the dancer slides farther and
farther backward, until finally an unseen power appears to drag him back
into the flies.
It was during one of our afternoon drives, when Mr. Desmond usurped the
office of his coachman, that he confided to us a plan which he had
devised to cure his _ennui_.
“I have made up my mind,” he said, “to go abroad for a good long tour.
It will be the best move I could possibly make.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “How soon do you propose to go?” And Bessie
sighed, “O dear, how delightful!”
“My plans are not matured,” Mr. Desmond continued, “but I think I shall
sail early next month. My favorite steamer leaves on the 6th.”
“I hope you will enjoy a pleasant voyage, and a delightful trip on the
other side,” said Mrs. Pinkerton politely.
Mr. Desmond returned thanks. Nothing more was said that day concerning
his project. When he left us at the cottage, he remarked,—
“By the way, Mr. Travers, I wish you would call at my office to-morrow
morning at or about eleven o’clock, if you can make it convenient to do
so.”
“I will do so,” I replied, wondering what he could want of me.
At the appointed hour the next day I was on hand at his office. He
motioned to me to be seated and then said,—
“Yesterday morning I met John K. Blunt, of Blunt Brothers & Company, at
my club, and he told me that their cashier had defaulted. An account of
the affair is in this morning’s papers. They want a new cashier. I have
mentioned your name, and if you will go around to their office with me,
we will talk with Blunt.”
“Mr. Desmond—” I began, but he stopped me.
“Don’t let’s have any talk but business,” he said. “The figures will be
satisfactory, I am confident.”
Satisfactory! They were munificent! Blunt liked me, and only a few short
and sharp sentences from such a man as Desmond finished the business. I
saw a future of opulence before me. My head was almost turned. I tried
to thank Mr. Desmond, but he would not listen to my earnest expressions
of gratitude.
“I have engaged passage for the 6th,” he told me when we were parting;
“I will try to call at your cottage before I get off. I am busy settling
up some details now. Good day.”
I hastened home with my good news. Bessie’s eyes glistened when she
heard it, and even my mother-in-law showed a faint sign of pleasure at
my good luck.
The following Saturday evening Mr. Desmond came out to see us.
“Don’t consider this my farewell appearance,” he said. “I merely wished
to tell you that my friends have inveigled me into giving an informal
party Tuesday evening, at which I shall expect you all to appear.”
He talked glibly, for him, and gave us an outline sketch of his proposed
tour. I thought he seemed strangely restless and nervous, and I pitied
him.
His “informal party” was really a noteworthy affair, and the wealth and
respectability of the city were well represented. Bessie could not go,
on account of the baby, so I acted as escort to Mrs. Pinkerton, who made
herself amazingly agreeable. There were not many young people present,
and the affair was quiet and genteel in the extreme. Bank presidents,
capitalists, professional men, and “solid” men, with their wives,
attired in black silks, formed the majority of the guests. They were Mr.
Desmond’s personal friends. My mother-in-law was in congenial company,
and I believe she enjoyed the evening remarkably. Most of the
conversation turned, very naturally, upon European travel. Americans who
are possessed of wealth always have done “the grand tour,” and they
invariably speak of “Europe” in a general way, as if it were all one
country.
“When I returned from my first tour abroad, a friend said to me that he
‘supposed it was a fine country over there,’” said Mr. Desmond to me,
laughing.
Some one asked him where he had decided to go.
“I shall land at Havre, and go straight to Paris,” he answered. “I
flatter myself I am a good American, and as I have been comparatively
dead since my niece left me, I am entitled to a place in that
terrestrial paradise.”
I thought I had never seen Mrs. Pinkerton appear to so good advantage as
she did on this occasion. Her natural good manners and her intelligence
made her attractive in such a company, and she was the centre of a
bright group of middle-aged Brahmins throughout the entire evening. Mr.
Desmond appeared grateful for the assistance she rendered in making his
party pass off pleasantly, and as for me, I began to feel that I had
never quite appreciated her best qualities. She was a woman that one
could not wholly know in a year, perhaps not in a lifetime. “Who knows?”
I thought; “perhaps I have wronged my mother-in-law.”