MR. BURROW SUGGESTS A REMEDY
The Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow had been something like two
hours in Jaffa Junction. Two hours in Jaffa Junction is more than
sufficient for any man. For the Hon. Alexander the night held nothing
save the melancholy prospect of seeing a friend abandon himself to the
emotional insanity of marriage. For marriage Mr. Burrow had no
tolerance. For women he had a supreme contempt. When the train which
should have borne his friend whisked through and brought no Copewell,
the best man became testy.
Mr. Burrow reflected that this development left him to take charge of
an unclaimed lady, whom he did not want. He found the idea
disconcerting. Decidedly he must devise some escape. Then an
inspirational idea dawned. He would rush up to her Pullman when it
arrived. He would shout warningly, “On your way! Your lunatic didn’t
come!” That ought to solve the situation very nicely. First, though,
he would call up Mercerville and find out what had happened.
Calling up Mercerville from Jaffa Junction proved an undertaking of
such magnitude that Mr. Burrow’s grouch ripened slowly into
misanthropy before it was accomplished. The telephone exchange,
instead of being central in location, seemed to have been placed on
the principle of an eruptive hospital in far-away isolation. When at
last he got Copewell’s lodgings it was to learn that Copewell had left
on the west-bound express.
As the Honorable Mr. Burrow came down the stairs of the telephone
exchange the shriek of a train whistle smote discordantly on his ears.
The motor proved balky and required a singular amount of cranking. The
cranking required a superlative amount of profanity. Altogether the
series of petty annoyances spelled delay. The station was quite a
distance away and Mr. Burrow proceeded to desecrate the speed-limit,
rehearsing as he went, “On your way, young woman! He didn’t come!”
And Miss Asheton, alighting on the station platform, was startled to
find it empty. She had expected it to be filled with the welcoming
presence of Mr. Copewell.
Her alarm was at once dissipated, however, by the glare of acetylene
headlights whirling around the curve of the road some distance away.
The mad speed of the approaching car indicated that it was her own
private reception-committee. She set down her suit-case and waited.
“Captain” McDonald also saw the automobile headlights. He knew that
automobiles were not indigenous to Jaffa Junction. This one could mean
only that Miss Asheton was being properly and enthusiastically met.
A moment later the best man alighted at the station and looked
regretfully after the train. He had been too late. Mr. Burrow had not
considered the possible effect on Miss Asheton of his contemplated
bluntness. It had not mattered. Mr. Burrow had the military mind. The
military mind can not pause to consider the feelings of the enemy.
Decimation is painful to an army but desirable to the attacking
general. The military mind sees and pursues one object. Mr. Burrow’s
one object was to rid himself of a superfluous young female. It was
the same thing that makes some warriors slay prisoners rather than be
burdened with them on the march.
For an appreciable space of time the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow
eyed Miss Asheton with icy politeness. She looked back at him
inquiringly. There was nothing ardent in the tableau.
“I take it you are the bride-elect?” hazarded the Hon. Alexander.
“Yes.” The man had no idea the monosyllable could be so short. Her
voice was so musical that it was altogether too short.
“I’m A. H. Burrow. I’m the best man.”
“Yes, but where is Lewis?” Miss Asheton put the question with a
pardonable eagerness. Conversely, her voice conveyed an entire absence
of interest in the best man.
“All the weddings I have ever attended,” said Mr. Burrow
sententiously, “were marred by some slight hitch or omission. At this
one the missing detail seems to be the bridegroom.” Having spoken, he
awaited her hysterics.
* * * * *
It happened that Miss Asheton was not the hysterical sort. She merely
looked at Mr. Burrow, and Mr. Burrow suddenly felt himself grow
microscopic. Also, he was puzzled. This young woman had planned to
elope with Mr. Lewis Copewell. That indicated that she must consider
Mr. Lewis Copewell a desirable possession. He had just announced, with
studied bluntness, that she could not have Mr. Copewell. Why did she
not take the cue and weep? He regarded it as axiomatic that women and
children cry for what they want.
Yet here before him, in the full glare of the acetylene lamps, she
stood eying him like an offended young goddess, precisely as though he
were responsible and she meant to punish him. Mr. Burrow had not
arranged his battle-front to receive that type of enemy. It dawned
upon him that this was a very brave young woman and, although he
admitted it reluctantly, a very beautiful young woman.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” she suggested icily, “you might
explain more fully. On the whole, I think I have the right to
understand.”
Mr. Burrow shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear Miss Asheton,” he began with weak defiance, yet feeling that
she had put him on the defensive, “might I remind you that this is not
my funer—that is to say, my wedding? All I can learn is that he left
Mercerville, and did _not_ arrive here. The question which now
suggests itself to me, is this: What are the functions of a best man
when there is no marriage?”
The young woman turned away and marched scornfully toward the far end
of the platform. It was revealed to Mr. Burrow that if all women could
walk like that, and take punishment like that, there would be no room
in the world for woman-haters. His objections to marriage could not
apply to a union with a deity!
He turned and went over very humbly. “Miss Asheton——” he began.
The girl wheeled with her chin in the air and an angry gleam flashed
through the mortified tearfulness of her eyes.
“Will you kindly go away?” she said in a peremptory voice. “I want to
think.”
Mr. Burrow skulked back, crestfallen. He sat dismally on the step of
his automobile and fanned himself with his cap. He was very busy
hating himself.
Afterward she came over, walking very straight, and halted rigidly
before him.
“Will you be good enough to take me to a telephone?” she asked.
Mr. Burrow rose with a new alacrity and put out his hand to assist
her. She drew carefully away from his touch and opened the tonneau
door for herself. Into Mr. Burrow’s self-hatred crept a note of
self-pity.
“Won’t you—won’t you sit in front?” he timidly suggested. “It will be
easier to talk.”
“It’s not necessary to talk,” the young lady informed him.
The run to the telephone exchange was made in heavy and depressing
silence.
“Can’t get Mercerville any more before to-morrow,” enlightened the
operator briefly. “Line’s in trouble—somethin’s just busted.”
“Any trains out to-night?” demanded Mr. Burrow.
“All out. Long way out. Nothin’ doin’ until ten-thirty to-morrow
mornin’.” Mr. Burrow thought it inconceivably strange that any one
could be facetious at such a time.
“Where’s the telegraph operator?” he inquired coldly.
“Gone to the country. Office closed till to-morrow.”
“I suppose there is some sort of hotel,” suggested the even voice of
the girl at his elbow. “If you will take me there I sha’n’t trouble
you any farther.”
“But—but——” began Mr. Burrow, then he began again. “But—but——”
The girl threw up her head. She even managed to laugh a little. “Yes?”
she questioned sweetly. “You’ve said that four times.”
“But—but——” stammered Mr. Burrow again. The Hon. Alexander was usually
regarded as a loquacious man.
“I suppose some day—when I get the perspective on it, it will all be
rather humorous,” mused Miss Asheton. “It would make a good farce,
wouldn’t it? Only now it doesn’t seem exactly funny.”
* * * * *
Mr. Burrow gave up the problem of articulation. He raised the hood of
the car and adjusted something. When he came back he appeared to have
regained the power of speech.
“Wait a minute,” he said. His hands were greasy, so he procured a
bunch of waste from the tool-box and carefully wiped each digit.
Having accomplished this task to his satisfaction, he boldly returned
and thrust his right out to Miss Asheton.
“I know,” he said, “that I don’t deserve quarter, but you are the
gamest sport I ever saw and I want to be able to tell my grandchildren
that I once shook hands with you. After which,” he added, “I am going
down on my marrow-bones and make my most contrite obeisances.”
Miss Asheton did not this time repudiate the amenities. She smiled
forgiveness.
“Why were you so atrociously horrid?” she asked, as though the
psychology of his behavior mildly piqued her interest.
“You see, I was a woman-hater,” he explained.
“Oh, are you? How interesting!”
“I am not!” hotly denied Mr. Burrow.
“But you just said——”
“I just said I _was_. There’s a big difference between saying you were
something and saying you are something. Life is a matter of tenses.”
“Oh!”
“Do you know what a woman-hater is?” inquired Mr. Burrow, as the car
nosed its way deliberately along Jaffa Junction’s principal esplanade.
“Certainly,” replied Miss Asheton. “It’s a man who thinks he’s a
little wiser than other men, and who is, in fact——” she hesitated
politely, “—who may be mistaken.”
“It’s a man,” savagely supplemented Mr. Burrow, “who’s such a
blank-dashed fool that he glories in his folly! Until ten minutes ago
I was one of them.”
Miss Asheton said nothing. It occurred to the Honorable Alexander that
she might be thinking of Lewis Copewell. The thought filled him with
hot indignation. Who was Lewis Copewell that a goddess, playing truant
from Olympus, should trouble her decorative head about him? Thinking
of the decorative head, Mr. Burrow turned in his seat to contemplate
it. The car veered into the ditch but without casualty. Houses sit
along Jaffa Junction’s thoroughfares as Chinese beads are strung—at
extended intervals. Illumination is yet in the future. The ways are
dark.
Besides, ran Mr. Burrow’s train of thought, if Lewis Copewell wanted
her, why wasn’t he on hand to claim her? If he, the Honorable
Alexander Hamilton Burrow, was to be dragged scores of miles to act as
a human dead-letter office for unclaimed girls, surely he was
justified in taking possession in his own distinguished person. The
circumstances emancipated him from any Quixotic ideas of loyalty to
Lewis Copewell. He turned again to the passenger in the tonneau.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll ditch your car if you keep turning around?”
quietly inquired Miss Asheton.
“It’s quite probable,” acknowledged Mr. Burrow. “Perhaps it would be
safer for you to sit in front. I’m effervescing with
repartee—scintillating with epigram. You need to be amused. It will
take your thoughts off of your temporary annoyances and prevent
brooding. Brooding is bad.”
“Possibly even that wouldn’t distract my mind,” she ventured.
“Then run the car,” suggested the Honorable Alexander, surrendering
his place. “The more you have to do just now, the better for you. The
less I have to do, the better I can talk.”
Miss Asheton took the wheel.
The arrangement gave Mr. Burrow the opportunity to study her profile
as she watched the road. It occurred to Mr. Burrow that he had
hitherto lost much out of life by neglecting to study profiles. Then
came the realization that after all this was the only profile in the
world.
“Now,” began that gentleman cheerfully, “this little hitch in your
plans is not really so fatal as it seems.”
“It’s funny that he didn’t get off the train,” said the girl.
“Yes, it’s so funny that there’s no use trying to explain it,” Mr.
Burrow assured her.
“And I don’t know what to do,” she continued.
“I have a perfectly rational and logical plan,” confided her escort.
“One, in fact, which I regard as an improvement on the original.”
“What is it?” This somewhat doubtfully. Miss Asheton saw no fault with
the previous arrangement.
“Now you came here to get married, didn’t you?”
“That,” she admitted, “was the idea, but——”
“Never give up a purpose,” interrupted Mr. Burrow with a note of
steadfast resolve. “You came to get married. Do it!”
“But,” her voice trembled just a little, “but I can’t. How can I?”
“Nothing simpler. Just do as I say.”
She turned her face from the wheel and gazed at him in wonderment.
“How? I was on hand. _I’m_ ready—but where’s Lewis?”
“You came here to get married,” insistently repeated Mr. Burrow. “You
passed up a trip to Europe and left aunty waiting in Mercerville. I
came here to get you married, and passed up a Ninth Ward meeting in
Mercerville. That wedding _must_ take place!”
Her eyes gazed out at the road, under brows wrinkled with
bewilderment.
Mr. Burrow looked at her a moment in silence, then spoke with great
impressiveness.
“A woman owes it to herself to marry the best man obtainable. I am, in
my official capacity, the best man. Marry me. I am very much at your
service, and it may not be irrelevant to add that I love you.”
* * * * *
The immediate effect of this announcement was that the girl at the
wheel threw on the brakes and stopped the car with a jolt which almost
sent her suitor carroming through the windshield. Next she turned and
sat staring at Mr. Burrow, with an expression of absolute and
paralyzed incredulity.
Mr. Burrow felt that he had failed to make himself quite clear. “I
concede that it’s a trifle abrupt,” he acknowledged, “but I am
essentially a man of action. Some dilatory fools might take a month to
discover that without you life is a superfluous by-product.” The
Honorable Alexander thought contemptuously of Mr. Copewell. “It is
enough for me to see you. Besides, Europe yawns for you, and it’s bad
luck to postpone a marriage. Possibly when you know me you’ll like me.
If you don’t, I’ll remodel myself according to your specifications.”
Phraseology notwithstanding, there was sincerity in Mr. Burrow’s
voice.
“It’s very good of you,” said the girl at last, speaking a trifle
vaguely. “Your courteous proposal seems to cover every possible
point—except one. The one is Lewis Copewell. Really, you know, I
didn’t just come here to get married at random!” She started the
machine forward again.
“I assure you there’s nothing random about me!” argued the Honorable
Alexander with dignity.
She shook her head. “In matrimonial matters,” she told him, “one can’t
eliminate the element of personal preference. I still prefer Lewis.”
Mr. Burrows sighed. Even deities, it seemed, had undiscriminating
tastes. “This is the hotel,” he said wearily.
The girl looked at the uninviting facade of the building indicated. It
suggested the kennel of a dog in very modest circumstances.
“This—a hotel!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” said the man. “It isn’t a very good hotel. The County Judge
lives on the next square. He can perform the marriage ceremony, you
know, and his house is much nicer. Shall we go on?”
“We will get out here,” said Miss Asheton firmly.
Though it was midnight, it chanced that the hotel office was not
completely deserted. Through the open door struggled the yellow
glimmer of a coal-oil lamp, and its reek hung offensively on the
sultriness. Two drummers, with loosened neck-bands and hanging
suspenders, were beguiling the heavy hours with a deck of greasy
cards. Dozing in dishabille, sat mine host, his chair propped on two
legs against the wall and his snore proclaiming him in the shadow. The
arrival of a beautiful woman and a man in motor-togs brought the
drummers to their feet with an exclamation which aroused the
innkeeper.
That worthy rubbed his eyes and began in a wheezing voice: “I’m afraid
it’s goin’ ter be kinder onhandy to take keer of you folks. The house
is mighty nigh full up.”
Before Mr. Burrow could reply, one of the drummers rose chivalrously
to the occasion.
“The gent and his wife can take my room, if Mr. Sellers, here, don’t
mind my doubling up with him.” The drummer had been marooned an entire
day in Jaffa Junction. For a glimpse of that face at the breakfast
table he would gladly have slept on the roof. Mr. Burrow cleared his
throat, but before he could find words, Mr. Sellers graciously
declared that he would be much pleased to oblige.
Then, while Miss Asheton stood painfully impersonating the aurora
borealis, the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow astounded her with
these composed words: “I am sure you gentlemen are both very kind, but
if you will pardon me a moment I will consult with—er—with my wife.”
Since the space of the hotel office was limited in scope to something
like ten by twenty feet, partly preëmpted by a cigar-counter, the two
drummers exchanged glances and rose, with innate delicacy,
disappearing into the street. Mine host, prompted by the same latent
courtesy, disappeared up the stairs.
Then Miss Asheton turned a whitely angry face on the Honorable
Alexander. She could hardly have confronted him more belligerently had
she really been his spouse.
“How dared you!”
“My dear young lady,” expostulated Mr. Burrow humbly, “you don’t know
Jaffa Junction. You arrive unchaperoned. If I had corrected our
Calvinistic host, he would have turned us both out like pariahs.”
“Will you please drive me to Mercerville?”
“Certainly. Direct or—via the County Judge’s?”
“Direct—and fast!” said Miss Asheton with decision.
“Please consider,” urged the Honorable Alexander. “It is now past
midnight. Mercerville is ten hours away either by motor or train. It
will be a trifle difficult to explain to aunty.”
“It will be a trifle difficult in any event,” sighed Miss Asheton.
“On the contrary. I should not feel called upon to make any
explanation whatsoever as to the movements of myself and my wife.” Mr.
Burrow spoke with some hauteur.
The young woman ignored the suggestion. “We will go on,” she said.
“The roads are very bad, and one tire is a little weak.”
“We will go on.”
“You are spoiling the most improved elopement that was ever devised,”
sighed the Honorable Alexander mournfully. “It breaks my heart to
witness such iconoclasm.”
“We will go on,” murmured Miss Asheton mechanically.
One hour and a half later, as the car turned a sharp curve, there came
a loud report, a sudden jolt and a long-suffering sigh from Mr.
Burrow.
“That,” he said in a voice of deep resignation, “was the rear,
left-hand tire, and I should say that as a blow-out there was some
class to it.”