It was a pretty glum evening all round. Most of them thought
that Jones had got the chilly mitt. Eleanor looked pale and
undecided, not knowing what to make of Jones' death's-head face.
She was resentful and pitying in turns, and I saw all the
material lying around for a first-class conflagration.
Freddy was a bit down on me, too, saying that a smoother method
would have ironed out Jones, and that I had been headlong and
silly. She cried over it, and wouldn't kiss me in the dark; and
I was goaded into saying--Well, the course of true love ran in
bumps that night. There was only one redeeming circumstance, and
that was my managing to keep Jones and Eleanor apart. I mean
that I insisted on being number three till at last poor Eleanor
said she had a headache, and forlornly went up to bed.
Jones was still asleep when I got up the next morning at six and
dressed myself quietly so as not to awake him. It was now
Monday, and you can see for yourself there was no time to spare.
I gave the butler a dollar, and ordered him to say that
unexpected business had called me away without warning, but that
I should be back by luncheon. I rather overdid the earliness of
it all. At least, I hove off 1892 Eighth Avenue at eight-fifteen
A. M. I loitered about; looked at pawnshop windows; gave a
careful examination to a forty-eight-dollars-ninety-eight-cent
complete outfit for a four-room flat; had a chat with a
policeman; assisted at a runaway; advanced a nickel to a colored
gentleman in distress; had my shoes shined by another; helped a
child catch an escaped parrot--and still it wasn't nine!
Idleness is a grinding occupation, especially on Eighth Avenue in
the morning.
Mrs. Jones was a thin, straight-backed, brisk old lady, with a
keen tongue, and a Yankee faculty for coming to the point. I
besought her indulgence, and laid the whole Eleanor matter before
her--at least, as much of it as seemed wise. I appeared in the
role of her son's warmest admirer and best friend.
"Surely you won't let Harry ruin his life from a mistaken sense
of his duty to you?"
"Duty, fiddlesticks!" said she. "He's going to marry Bertha
McNutt!"
"But he doesn't want to marry Bertha McNutt!"
"Then he needn't marry anybody."
She seemed to think this a triumphant answer. Indeed, in some
ways I must confess it was. But still I persevered.
"It puts me out to have him shilly-shallying around like this,"
she said. "I'll give him a good talking to when he gets back.
This other arrangement has been understood between Mrs. McNutt
and myself for years."
She was an irritating person. I found it not a little difficult
to keep my temper with her. It's easier to fight dragons than to
temporize with them and appeal to their better nature. I
appealed and appealed. She watched me with the same air of
interested detachment that one gives to a squirrel revolving in a
cage. I could feel that she was flattered; her sense of power
was agreeably tickled; my earnestness and despair enhanced the
zest of her reiterated refusals. I was a very nice young man,
but her son was going to marry Bertha McNutt or marry nobody!
Then I tried to draw a lurid picture of his revolt from her
apron-strings.
"Oh, Harry's a good boy," she said. "You can't make me believe
that two days has altered his whole character. I'll answer for
his doing what I want."
I felt a precisely similar conviction, and my heart sank into my
shoes.
At this moment there was a tap at the door, and another old lady
bounced in. She was stout, jolly-looking and effusive. The
greetings between the pair were warm, and they were evidently old
friends. But underneath the new-comer's gush and noise I was
dimly conscious of a sort of gay hostility. She was exultant and
frightened, both at once, and her eyes were sparkling.
"Well, what do you think?" she cried out, explosively.
Mrs. Jones' lips tightened. There was a mean streak in that old
woman. I could see she was feeling for her little hatchet, and
was getting out her little gun.
"Bertha!" exploded the old lady. "Bertha--"
(Mysterious mental processes at once informed me that this was
none other than Bertha's mother.)
Mrs. Jones was coolly taking aim. I was reminded of that old
military dictum: "Don't shoot till you see the whites of their
eyes!"
"Bertha," vociferated the old lady fiercely--"Bertha has been
secretly married to Mr. Stuffenhammer for the last three months!"
Another series of kinematographic mental processes informed me
that Mr. Stuffenhammer was an immense catch.
"Twenty thousand dollars a year, and her own carriage," continued
Mrs. McNutt gloatingly. "You could have knocked me down with a
feather. Bertha is such a considerate child; she insisted on
marrying secretly so that she could tone it down by degrees to
poor Harry; though there was no engagement or anything like that,
she could not help feeling of course that she owed it to the dear
boy to gradually"
Mrs. Jones never turned a hair or moved a muscle.
"You needn't pity Harry," she said. "I've just got the good news
that he's engaged to one of the sweetest and richest girls in
Morristown."