THE FORELOCK OF TIME
One morning not long after the incidents just related, Brewster lay in
bed, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. There was a worried
pucker on his forehead, half-hidden by the rumpled hair, and his eyes
were wide and sleepless. He had dined at the Drews' the evening before
and had had an awakening. As he thought of the matter he could recall
no special occurrence that he could really use as evidence. Colonel and
Mrs. Drew had been as kind as ever and Barbara could not have been more
charming. But something had gone wrong and he had endured a wretched
evening.
"That little English Johnnie was to blame," he argued. "Of course,
Barbara had a right to put any one she liked next to her, but why she
should have chosen that silly ass is more than I know. By Jove, if I
had been on the other side I'll warrant his grace would have been lost
in the dust."
His brain was whirling, and for the first time he was beginning to feel
the unpleasant pangs of jealousy. The Duke of Beauchamp he especially
disliked, although the poor man had hardly spoken during the dinner.
But Monty could not be reconciled. He knew, of course, that Barbara had
suitors by the dozen, but it had never occurred to him that they were
even seriously considered. Notwithstanding the fact that his encounter
with "The Censor" had brought her into undesirable notice, she forgave
him everything after a moment's consideration. The first few wrenches
of resentment were overbalanced by her American appreciation of
chivalry, however inspired. "The Censor" had gone for years unpunished;
his coarse wit being aimed at every one who had come into social
prominence. So pungent and vindictive was his pen that other men feared
him, and there were many who lived in glass houses in terror of a
fusilade. Brewster's prompt and sufficient action had checked the
pernicious attacks, and he became a hero among men and women. After
that night there was no point to "The Censor's" pen. Monty's first
qualms of apprehension were swept away when Colonel Drew himself hailed
him the morning after the encounter and, in no unmeasured terms,
congratulated him upon his achievement, assuring him that Barbara and
Mrs. Drew approved, although they might lecture him as a matter of form.
But on this morning, as he lay in his bed, Monty was thinking deeply
and painfully. He was confronted by a most embarrassing condition and
he was discussing it soberly with himself. "I've never told her," he
said to himself, "but if she doesn't know my feeling she is not as
clever as I think. Besides, I haven't time to make love to her now. If
it were any other girl I suppose I'd have to, but Babs, why, she must
understand. And yet--damn that Duke!"
In order to woo her properly he would be compelled to neglect financial
duties that needed every particle of brain-energy at his command. He
found himself opposed at the outset by a startling embarrassment, made
absolutely clear by the computations of the night before. The last four
days of indifference to finance on one side, and pampering the heart on
the other, had proved very costly. To use his own expression, he had
been "set back" almost eight thousand dollars. An average like that
would be ruinous.
"Why, think of it," he continued. "For each day sacrificed to Barbara I
must deduct something like twenty-five hundred dollars. A long campaign
would put me irretrievably in the hole; I'd get so far behind that a
holocaust couldn't put me even. She can't expect that of me, yet girls
are such idiots about devotion, and of course she doesn't know what a
heavy task I'm facing. And there are the others--what will they do
while I am out of the running? I cannot go to her and say, 'Please, may
I have a year's vacation? I'll come back next September.' On the other
hand, I shall surely neglect my business if she expects me to compete.
What pleasure shall I get out of the seven millions if I lose her? I
can't afford to take chances. That Duke won't have seven millions next
September, it's true, but he'll have a prodigious argument against me,
about the twenty-first or second."
Then a brilliant thought occurred to him which caused him to ring for a
messenger-boy with such a show of impatience that Rawles stood aghast.
The telegram which Monty wrote was as follows:
SWEARENGEN JONES,
Butte, Montana
May I marry and turn all property over to wife, providing she will have
me?
MONTGOMERY BREWSTER.
"Why isn't that reasonable?" he asked himself after the boy had gone.
"Making property over to one's wife is neither a loan nor is it
charity. Old Jones might call it needless extravagance, since he's a
bachelor, but it's generally done because it's good business." Monty
was hopeful.
Following his habit in trouble, he sought Margaret Gray, to whom he
could always appeal for advice and consolation. She was to come to his
next dinner-party, and it was easy to lead up to the subject in hand by
mentioning the other guests.
"And Barbara Drew," he concluded, after naming all the others. They
were alone in the library, and she was drinking in the details of the
dinner as he related them.
"Wasn't she at your first dinner?" she asked, quickly.
He successfully affected mild embarrassment.
"Yes."
"She must be very attractive." There was no venom in Peggy's heart.
"She is attractive. In fact, she's one of the best, Peggy," he said,
paving the way.
"It's too bad she seems to care for that little Duke."
"He's a bounder," he argued.
"Well, don't take it to heart. You don't have to marry him," and Peggy
laughed.
"But I do take it to heart, Peggy," said Monty, seriously. "I'm pretty
hard hit, and I want your help. A sister's advice is always the best in
a matter of this sort."
She looked into his eyes dully for an instant, not realizing the full
importance of his confession.
"You, Monty?" she said, incredulously.
"I've got it bad, Peggy," he replied, staring hard at the floor. She
could not understand the cold, gray tone that suddenly enveloped the
room. The strange sense of loneliness that came over her was
inexplicable. The little something that rose in her throat would not be
dislodged, nor could she throw off the weight that seemed pressing down
upon her. He saw the odd look in her eyes and the drawn, uncertain
smile on her lips, but he attributed them to wonder and incredulity.
Somehow, after all these years, he was transformed before her very
eyes; she was looking upon a new personality. He was no longer
Montgomery, the brother, but she could not explain how and when the
change crept over her. What did it all mean? "I am very glad if it will
make you happy, Monty," she said slowly, the gray in her lips giving
way to red once more. "Does she know?"
"I haven't told her in so many words, Peggy, but--but I'm going to this
evening," he announced, lamely.
"This evening?"
"I can't wait," Monty said as he rose to go. "I'm glad you're pleased,
Peggy; I need your good wishes. And, Peggy," he continued, with a touch
of boyish wistfulness, "do you think there's a chance for a fellow?
I've had the very deuce of a time over that Englishman."
It was not quite easy for her to say, "Monty, you are the best in the
world. Go in and win."
From the window she watched him swing off down the street, wondering if
he would turn to wave his hand to her, his custom for years. But the
broad back was straight and uncompromising. His long strides carried
him swiftly out of sight, but it was many minutes before she turned her
eyes, which were smarting a little, from the point where he was lost in
the crowd. The room looked ashen to her as she brought her mind back to
it, and somehow things had grown difficult.
When Montgomery reached home he found this telegram from Mr. Jones:
MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,
New York City.
Stick to your knitting, you damned fool.
S. JONES.