"We don't belong to any common Joneses. We're Connecticut
Joneses. In fact, we're the only Joneses--and the name is as
dear to me, as sacred, as I suppose that of Westoby is, perhaps,
to you. And yet--and yet do you know what she actually said to
me? Said to me, holding my hand, and, and that the only thing
she didn't like about me was my name."
I contrived to get out, "Good heavens!" with the proper
astonishment.
"I told her that Van Coort didn't strike me as being anything
very extra."
"Wouldn't it have been wiser to--?"
"Oh, for myself, I'd do anything in the world for her. But a
fellow has to show a little decent pride. A fellow owes
something to his family, doesn't he? As a man I love the ground
she walks on; as a Jones--well, if she feels like that about it--I
told her she had better wait for a De Montmorency."
"But she didn't say she wouldn't marry you, did she?"
"N-o-o-o!"
"She didn't ask you to change your name, did she?"
"N-o-o-o!"
"And do you mean to say that just for one unfortunate remark--a
remark that any one might have made in the agitation of the
moment--you're deliberately turning your back on her, and her
broken heart!"
"Oh, she's red-hot, too, you know, over what I said about the Van
Coorts."
"She couldn't have realized that you belonged to the Connecticut
Joneses. I didn't know it!"
"Well, it's all off now," he said.
It was a mile to the depot. For Jones it was a mile of
reproaches, scoldings, lectures and insults. For myself I shall
ever remember it as the mile of my life. I pleaded,
argued, extenuated and explained. My lifelong happiness--Freddy
--the Seventy-second Street house--were walking away
from me in the dark while I jerked unavailingly at Jones' coat-tails.
The whole outfit disappeared into a car, leaving me on the
platform with the ashes of my hopes. Of all obstinate, mulish,
pig headed, copper-riveted--
I was lucky enough to find Eleanor crying softly to herself in a
corner of the veranda. The sight of her tears revived my
fainting courage. I thought of Bruce and the spider, and waded
in.
"Eleanor," I said, "I've just been seeing poor Jones off."
She sobbed out something to the effect that she didn't care.
"No, you can't care very much," I said, "or you wouldn't send a
man like that--a splendid fellow--a member of one of the oldest
and proudest families of Connecticut to his death."
"Death?"
"Well, he's off for Japan to-morrow. They're getting through
fifty doctors a week out there at the front. They're shot down
faster than they can set them up."
I was unprepared for the effect of this on Eleanor. For two
cents she would have fainted then and there. It's awful to hear
a woman moan, and clench her teeth, and pant for breath.
"Oh, Eleanor, can't you do anything?"
"I am helpless, Ezra. My pride--my woman's pride"
"Oh, how can you let such trifles stand between you? Think of
him out there, in his tattered Japanese uniform--so far from
home, so lonely, so heartbroken--standing undaunted in that rain
of steel, while--"
"Oh, Ezra, stop! I can't bear it! I can't bear it!"
"Is the love of three years to be thrown aside like an old glove,
just because--"
Her face was so wild and strained that the lies froze upon my
tongue.
"Oh, Ezra, I could follow him barefooted through the snow if only
he--"
"He's leaving Grand Central to-morrow at ten forty-five," I said.
She fumbled at her neck, and almost tore away the diamond locket
that reposed there.
"Take him this," she whispered hoarsely. "Take it to him at
once, and say I sent it. Say that I beg him to return--that my
pride crumbles at the thought of his going away so far into
danger."