"Oh, now it is too late," she declared teasingly. "A woman is like time.
She must be taken by the forelock."
"But, Mrs. Neligage, Louisa, I was afraid of offending you!"
"Nothing offends a woman so much as to be afraid of offending her," was
her oracular reply, as she flitted over the sill.
All the way into town that sunny April afternoon Harry Bradish was
unusually silent. While Mrs. Neligage, in the highest spirits, rattled
on with jest, or chat, or story, he replied in monosyllables or in the
briefest phrases compatible with politeness. He was evidently thinking
deeply. The very droop of his yellow mustaches showed that. The presence
of the trig little groom at the back of the trap was a sufficient reason
why Bradish should not then deliver up any confidential disclosures in
regard to the nature of his cogitations, but from time to time he
glanced at the widow with the air of having her constantly in his
thoughts.
Bradish was the most kindly of creatures, and withal one of the most
self-distrustful. He was so transparent that there was nothing
surprising in the ease with which one so astute as Mrs. Neligage might
read his mood if she were so disposed. He cast upon her looks of inquiry
or doubt which she gave no sign of perceiving, or now and then of
bewilderment as if he had come in his thought to a question which
puzzled him completely. During the entire drive he was obviously
struggling after some mental adjustment or endeavoring to solve some
deep and complicated problem.
The day was enchanting, and in the air was the exciting stir of spring
which turns lightly the young man's fancy to thoughts of love. Whether
Bradish felt its influence or not, he had at least the air of a man
emotionally much stirred. Mrs. Neligage looked more alert, more
provoking, more piquant, than ever. She had, it is true, an aspect less
sentimental than that of her companion, but nature had given to Harry
Bradish a likeness to Don Quixote which made it impossible for him ever
to appear mischievous or sportive, and if he showed feeling it must be
of the kindly or the melancholy sort. The widow might be reflecting on
the effectiveness of the turnout, the fineness of the horses, the
general air of style and completeness which belonged to the equipage, or
she might be ruminating on the character of the driver. She might on
the other hand have been thinking of nothing in particular except the
light things she was saying,--if indeed it is possible to suppose that a
clever woman ever confines her thoughts to what is indicated by her
words. Bradish, however, was evidently meditating of her.
When he had brought the horses with a proper flourish to Mrs. Neligage's
door, Bradish descended and helped her out with all his careful
politeness of manner. He was a man to whom courtesy was instinctive. At
the stake he would have apologized to the executioner for being a
trouble. He might to-day be absorbed and perplexed, but he was not for
that less punctiliously attentive.
"May I come in?" he asked, hat in hand.
"By all means," Mrs. Neligage responded. "Come in, and I'll give you a
cup of tea."
Bradish sent the trap away with the satisfactory groom, and then
accompanied his companion upstairs. They were no sooner inside the door
of her apartment than he turned to the widow with an air of sudden
determination.
"Louisa," he said with awkward abruptness, "what did you mean this
afternoon?"
He grasped her hands with both his; his hat, which he had half tossed
upon the table, went bowling merrily over the floor, but he gave it no
heed.
"Good gracious, Harry," she cried, laughing up into his face, "how
tragic you are! Pick up your hat."
He glanced at the hat, but he did not release her hands. He let her
remark pass, and went on with increasing intensity which was not unmixed
with wistfulness.
"I've been thinking about it all the way home," he declared. "You've
always teased me, Louisa, from the days we were babies, and of course
I'm an old fool; but--Were you willing I should kiss your hand?"
He stopped in speechless confusion, the color coming into his cheeks,
and looked pathetically into her laughing face.
"Lots of men have," she responded.
He dropped her hands, and grew paler.
"But to-day--" he stammered.
"But what to-day?" she cried, moving near to him.
"I thought that to-day--Louisa, for heaven's sake, do you care for me?"
"Not for heaven's sake," she murmured, looking younger and more
bewitching than ever.
Some women at forty-five are by Providence allowed still to look as
young as their children, and Mrs. Neligage was one of them. Her airs
would perhaps have been ridiculous in one less youthful in appearance,
but she carried them off perfectly. Bradish was evidently too completely
and tragically in earnest to see the point of her quip. He looked so
disappointed and abashed that it was not strange for her to burst into a
peal of laughter.
"Oh, Harry," she cried, "you are such a dear old goose! Must I say it in
words? Well, then; here goes, despite modesty! Take me!"
He stared at her as if in doubt of his senses.
"Do you mean it?" he stammered.
"I do at this minute, but if you're not quick I may change my mind!"
Then Harry Bradish experienced a tremendous reaction from the excessive
shyness of nearly half a century, and gathered her into his arms.
XXVII
THE CLIMAX OF COMEDY
Society has always a kindly feeling toward any person who furnishes
material for talk. Even in those unhappy cases where the matter provided
to the gossips is of an iniquitous sort, it is not easy utterly to
condemn evil which has added a pleasant spice to conversation. It is
true that in word the sinner may be entirely disapproved, but the
disapproval is apt to be tempered by an evident feeling of gratitude for
the excitement which the sin has provided to talkers. In lighter
matters, where there is no reason to regard with reprobation the course
discussed, the friendliness of the gossips is often covered with a sauce
piquant of doubtful insinuation, of sneer, or of ridicule, but in
reality it is evident that those who abuse do so, like Lady Teazle, in
pure good nature. To be talked about in society is really to be awarded
for the time being such interest as society is able to feel; and the
interest of society is its only regard.
The engagement of Mrs. Neligage to Harry Bradish naturally set the
tongues of all their acquaintances wagging, and many pretty things were
said of the couple which were not entirely complimentary. The loves of
elderly folk always present to the eyes of the younger generation an
aspect somewhat ludicrous, and the buds giggled at the idea of nuptials
which to their infantine minds seemed so venerable. The women pitied
Bradish, who had been captured by the wiles of the widow, and the men
thought it a pity that so gifted and dashing a woman as Mrs. Neligage
should be united to a man so dull as her prospective husband. The widow
did not wear her heart on her sleeve, so that daws who wished to peck at
it found it well concealed behind an armor of raillery, cleverness, and
adroitness. Bradish, on the other hand, was so openly adoring that it
was impossible not to be touched by his beaming happiness. On the whole
the match was felt to be a suitable one, although Mrs. Neligage had no
money; and from the mingled pleasure of gossiping about the pair, and
nominally condemning the whole business on one ground or another,
society came to be positively enthusiastic over the marriage.
The affairs of Jack Neligage might in time be influenced by his mother's
alliance with a man of wealth, but they were little changed at first. It
is true that by some subtile softening of the general heart at the
thought of matrimony in the concrete, as presented by the spectacle of
the loves of Mrs. Neligage and Bradish, his social world was moved to a
sort of toleration of the idea of his marrying Alice Endicott in spite
of his poverty. People not in the least responsible, who could not be
personally affected by such a match, began to wonder after all whether
there were not some way in which it might be arranged, and to condemn
Miss Wentstile for not making possible the union of two lovers so long
and so faithfully attached. Society delights in the romantic in other
people's families, and would have rolled as a sweet morsel under its
tongue an elopement on the part of Jack and Alice, or any other sort of
extravagant outcome. The marriage of his mother gave him a new
consequence both by keeping his affairs in the public mind and by
bringing about for him a connection with a man of money.
Miss Wentstile was not of a character which was likely sensitively to
feel or easily to receive these beneficent public sentiments. She was a
woman who was entirely capable of originating her own emotions, a fact
which in itself distinguished her as a rarity among her sex. No human
being, however, can live in the world without being affected by the
opinions of the world; and it is probable that Miss Wentstile, with all
her independence, was more influenced by the thought of those about her
than could be at all apparent.
Mrs. Neligage declared to Jack that she meant to be very civil to the
spinster.
"She's a sort of cousin of Harry's, you know," she remarked; "and it
isn't good form not to be on good terms with the family till after
you're married."
"But after the wedding," he responded with a lazy smile, "I suppose she
must look out."
Mrs. Neligage looked at him, laughing, with half closed eyes.
"I should think that after the marriage she would do well to remember
her place," was her reply. "I shall have saved her from the Count by
that time, too; and that will give her a lesson."
But Providence spared Mrs. Neligage the task of taking the initiative in
the matter of the Count. One day in the latter part of April, just
before the annual flitting by which all truly patriotic Bostonians elude
the first of May and the assessors, the widow went to call on her
prospective relative. Miss Wentstile was at home in the drawing-room
with Alice and the Count. Tea had been brought in, and Alice was pouring
it.
"I knew I should be just in time for tea," Mrs. Neligage declared
affably; "and your tea is always so delicious, Miss Wentstile."
"How do you do, Louisa," was Miss Wentstile's greeting. "I wish you'd
let me know when you are at home. I wouldn't have called yesterday if
I'd supposed you didn't know enough to stay in to be congratulated."
"I had to go out," Mrs. Neligage responded. "I was sorry not to see
you."
"There was a horrid dog in the hall that barked at me," Miss Wentstile
continued. "You ought not to let your visitors be annoyed so."
"It isn't my dog," the widow replied with unusual conciliation in her
manner. "It belongs to those Stearnses who have the apartment opposite."
"I can't bear other people's dogs," Miss Wentstile declared with superb
frankness. "Fido was the only dog I ever loved."
"Where is Fido?" asked the widow. "I haven't heard his voice yet."
Miss Wentstile drew herself up stiffly.
"I have met with a misfortune. I had to send dear Fido away. He would
bark at the Count."
Whatever the intentions of Mrs. Neligage to conciliate, Providence had
not made her capable of resisting a temptation like this.
"How interesting the instinct of animals is," she observed with an air
of the most perfect ingenuousness. "They seem to know doubtful
characters by intuition."
"Doubtful characters?" echoed Miss Wentstile sharply. "Didn't Fido
always bark at you, Louisa?"
"Yes," returned the caller as innocently as ever. "That is an
illustration of what I was saying."
"Oh, Madame Neleegaze ees so continuously to be _drôle_!" commented the
Count, with a display of his excellent teeth. "So she have to marry, ees
eet not?"
"Do you mean those two sentences to go together, Count?" Alice asked,
with a twinkle of fun.
He stood apparently trying to recall what he had said, in order to get
the full meaning of the question, when the servant announced Mrs.
Croydon, who came forward with a clashing of bead fringes and a rustling
of stiff silk. She was ornamented, hung, spangled, covered, cased in jet
until she might not inappropriately have been set bodily into a relief
map to represent Whitby. She advanced halfway across the space to where
Miss Wentstile sat near the hearth, and then stopped with a dramatic
air. She fixed her eyes on the Count, who, with his feet well apart,
stood near Miss Wentstile, stirring his tea, and diffusing abroad a
patronizing manner of ownership.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Wentstile," Mrs. Croydon said in a voice a
little higher than common, "I will come to see you again when you
haven't an assassin in your house."
There was an instant of utter silence. The remark was one well
calculated to produce a sensation, and had Mrs. Croydon been an actress
she might at that instant have congratulated herself that she held her
audience spellbound. It was but for a flash, however, that Miss
Wentstile was paralyzed.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed the spinster, recovering the use of her
tongue.
"I mean," retorted Mrs. Croydon, extending her bugle-dripping arm
theatrically, and pointing to the Count, "that man there."
"Me!" cried the Count.
"The Count?" cried Miss Wentstile an octave higher.
"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Neligage very softly, settling herself more
comfortably in her chair.
"He tried to murder my husband," went on Mrs. Croydon, every moment with
more of the air of a stage-struck amateur. "He challenged him!"
"Your husband?" the Count returned. "Eet ees to me thees teeme first
know what you have one husband, madame."
"I thought your husband was dead, Mrs. Croydon," Miss Wentstile
observed, in a voice which was like the opening of an outside door with
the mercury below zero.
Mrs. Croydon was visibly confused. Her full cheeks reddened; even the
tip of her nose showed signs of a tendency to blush. Her trimmings
rattled and scratched on the silk of her gown.
"I should have said Mr. Barnstable," she corrected. "He was my husband
once when I lived in Chicago."
The Count, perfectly self-possessed, smiled and stirred his tea.
"Ees eet dat de amiable Mrs. Croydon she do have a deeferent husband
leek a sailor mans een all de harbors?" he asked with much deference.
Mrs. Neligage laughed softly, leaning back as if at a comedy. Alice
looked a little frightened. Miss Wentstile became each moment more
stern.
"Mr. Barnstable and I are to be remarried immediately," Mrs. Croydon
observed with dignity. "It was for protecting me from the abuse of an
anonymous novel that he offended you. You would have killed him for
defending me."
The Count waved his teaspoon airily.
"He have eensult me," he remarked, as if disposing of the whole subject.
"Then he was one great cowherd. He have epilogued me most abject."
Mrs. Neligage elevated her eyebrows, and turned her glance to Mrs.
Croydon, who stood, a much overdressed goddess of discord, still in the
middle of the floor.
"That is nonsense, Mrs. Croydon," she observed honeyedly. "Mr.
Barnstable behaved with plenty of pluck. The apology was Jack's doing,
and wasn't at all to your--your _fiancé's_ discredit."
Miss Wentstile turned with sudden severity to Mrs. Neligage.
"Louisa," she demanded, "do you know anything about this affair?"
"Of course," was the easy answer. "Everybody in Boston knew it but you."
The Count put his teacup on the mantelpiece. He had lost the jauntiness
of his air, but he was still dignified.
"Eet was one _affaire d'honneur_," he said.
"But why was I not told of this?" Miss Wentstile asked sharply.
"You?" Mrs. Croydon retorted with excitement. "Everybody supposed--"
Mrs. Neligage rose quickly.
"Really," she said, interrupting the speaker, "I must have another cup
of tea."
The interruption stopped Mrs. Croydon's remark, and Miss Wentstile did
not press for its conclusion.
"Count," the spinster asked, turning to that gentleman, who towered
above her tall and lowering, "have you ever fought a duel?"
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
"All Shimbowski ees _hommes d'honneur_."
She made him a frigid bow.
"I have the honor to bid you good day," she said, with a manner so
perfect that the absurdity of the situation vanished.
The Count drew himself up proudly. Then he in his turn bowed profoundly.
"You do eet too much to me honor," he said, with a dignity which was
worthy of his family. "Ladies, _votre serviteur_."
He made his exit in a manner to be admired. Mrs. Croydon feigned to
shrink aside as he passed her, but Mrs. Neligage looked at her with so
open a laugh at this performance that confusion overcame the dame of
bugles, and she moved forward disconcerted. She had not yet gained a
seat, when Miss Wentstile faced her with all her most unrestrained
fashion.
"I shouldn't think, Mrs. Croydon, that you, with the stain of a divorce
court on you, were in position to throw stones at Count Shimbowski. He
has done nothing but follow the customs to which he's been brought up."
"Perhaps that's true of Mrs. Croydon too," murmured Mrs. Neligage to
Alice.
"If you wanted to tell me," Miss Wentstile went on, "why didn't you tell
me when he was not here? No wonder foreigners think we are barbarians
when a nobleman is insulted like that."
"I didn't mean to tell you," Mrs. Croydon stammered humbly. "It just
came out."
"Why didn't you mean to tell me?" demanded Miss Wentstile, whose anger
had evidently deprived her for the time being of all coolness.
"Why, I thought you were engaged to him!" blurted out Mrs. Croydon,
fairly crimson from brow to chin.
"Engaged!" echoed Miss Wentstile, half breathless with indignation.
Mrs. Neligage came to the rescue, cool and collected, entirely mistress
of herself and of the situation.
"Really, Mrs. Croydon," she suggested, smiling, "don't you think that is
bringing Western brusqueness home to us in rather a startling way? We
don't speak of engagements until they are announced, you know."
"But Miss Wentstile told me the other day that she might announce one
soon," persisted Mrs. Croydon, into whose flushed face had come a look
of baffled obstinacy.
Mrs. Neligage threw up her hands in a graceful little gesture. She
played private theatricals infinitely better than Mrs. Croydon. There
was in their art all the difference between the work of the most clumsy
amateur and a polished professional.
"There is nothing to do but to tell it," she said, as if appealing to
Miss Wentstile and Alice. "The engagement was that of Miss Endicott and
my son. Miss Wentstile never for a moment thought of marrying the Count.
She knew from me that he gambled and was a famous duelist."
Alice put out her hand suddenly, and caught that of the widow.
"Oh, Mrs. Neligage!" she cried.
The widow patted the girl's fingers. The face of Miss Wentstile was a
study for a novelist who identifies art with psychology.
"Of course I ought not to have told, Alice," Mrs. Neligage went on; "but
I'm sure Mrs. Croydon is to be trusted. It isn't fair to your aunt that
this nonsensical notion should be abroad that she meant to marry the
Count."
Mrs. Croydon was evidently too bewildered to understand what had taken
place. She awkwardly congratulated Alice, apologized to Miss Wentstile
for having made a scene, and somehow got herself out of the way.
"What an absolutely incredible woman! With the talent both she and Mr.
Barnstable show for kicking up rows in society," observed Mrs. Neligage,
as soon as the caller had departed, "I should think they would prevent
any city from being dull. I trust they will pass the time till their
next divorce somewhere else than here."
XXVIII
THE UNCLOUDING OF LOVE
Miss Wentstile sat grimly silent until they heard the outer door
downstairs close behind the departing guest. Then she straightened
herself up.
"I thank you, Louisa," she said gravely; "you meant well, but how dared
you?"
"Oh, I had to dare," returned Mrs. Neligage lightly. "I'm coming into
the family, you know, and must help keep up its credit."
"Humph!" was the not entirely complimentary rejoinder. "If you cared for
the credit of the family why didn't you tell me about the Count sooner?
Is he really a fast man?"
"He's been one of the best known sports in Europe, my dear Miss
Wentstile."
"Why didn't you tell me then?"
"Why should I? I wasn't engaged to Harry then, and if the Count wanted
to reform and settle down, you wouldn't have had me thwart so virtuous
an inclination, would you?"
"I thought you wanted him to marry Alice!"
"I only wanted Alice out of the way of Jack," the widow confessed
candidly.
"Why?" Miss Wentstile asked.
The spinster was fond of frankness, and appreciated it when it came in
her way.
"Because I hated to have Jack poor, and I knew that if Alice married him
you'd never give them a cent to live on."
Alice, her face full of confusion and pain, moved uneasily, and put her
hand on the arm of Mrs. Neligage once more, as if to stop her. The widow
again patted the small hand reassuringly, but kept her eyes fixed full
on those of the aunt.
"You took a different turn to-day," the spinster observed suspiciously.
"I had to save you to-day," was the ready answer; "and besides I can't
do anything with Jack. He's bound to marry Alice whether you and I like
it or not, and he's going to work in a bank in the most stupid manner."
To hear the careless tone in which this was said nobody could have
suspected that this speech was exactly the one which could most surely
move the spinster, and that the astute widow must have been fully aware
of it.
"So you are sure I won't give Alice anything if she marries Jack, are
you?" Miss Wentstile said. "Well, Alice, you are to marry Jack Neligage
to save me from the gossips."
"It seems to me," Alice said, blushing very much, "that if I can't have
any voice in the matter, Jack might be considered."
"Oh, my dear," returned Mrs. Neligage quickly, "do you suppose that if I
made an alliance for Jack, he would be so undutiful as to object?"
Alice burst into a laugh, but Miss Wentstile, upon whom, in her
ignorance of the engagement between Jack and May, the point was lost,
let it pass unheeded.
"Well," she said, "I think I'll surprise you for once, Louisa. If Jack
will stick faithfully to his place in the bank for a year, I'll give him
and Alice the _dot_ I promised the Count."
Mrs. Neligage got away from Miss Wentstile's as soon as possible,
leaving Alice to settle things with her aunt, and taking a carriage at
the next corner, drove to Jack's lodgings. She burst into his room
tumultuously, fortunately finding him at home, and alone.
"Oh, Jack," she cried, "I didn't mean to, but I've engaged you again!"
He regarded her with a quizzical smile.
"Matchmaking seems to be a vice which develops with your age," he
observed. "I got out of the other scrape easily enough, and I won't deny
that it was rather good fun. I hope that this isn't any worse."
"But, Jack, dear, this time it's Alice!"
"Alice!" he exclaimed, jumping up quickly.
"Yes, it's Alice, and you ought to be grateful to me, for she's going to
have a fortune, too."
With some incoherency, for she was less self-contained than usual, Mrs.
Neligage told him what had happened.
"See what it is to have a mother devoted to your interests," she
concluded. "You'd never have brought Miss Wentstile to terms. You ought
to adore me for this."
"I do," he answered, laughing, but kissing her with genuine affection.
"I hope you'll be as happy as Alice and I shall be."
"I only live for my child," returned she in gay mockery. "For your sake
I'm going to be respectable for the rest of my life. What sacrifices we
parents do make for our children!"
* * * * *
Late that evening Jack was taking his somewhat extended adieus of Alice.
"After all, Jack," she said, "the whole thing has come out of the novel.
We'll have a gorgeously bound copy of 'Love in a Cloud' always on the
table to remind us--"
"To remind us," he finished, taking the words out of her mouth with a
laugh, "that our love has got out of the clouds."
* * * * *
The Riverside Press
PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON & CO.
CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
U.S.A.
* * * * *
Books by Arlo Bates.
LOVE IN A CLOUD. A Novel.
THE PURITANS. A Novel.
THE PHILISTINES. A Novel.
THE PAGANS. A Novel.
PATTY'S PERVERSITIES. A Novel.
PRINCE VANCE. The Story of a Prince with a Court in his Box. By ARLO
BATES and ELEANOR PUTNAM.
A LAD'S LOVE.