"Miss Curzon, indeed," he sniffed. "She's well enough in a big, black
way, but Miss Churchill----" and he began to paw the air for adjectives.
"But how was I to know that you meant Miss Churchill?" I answered. "It's
just a fortnight now since you told me that Miss Curzon was a goddess,
and that she was going to reign in your life and make it a heaven, or
something of that sort. I forget just the words, but they were mighty
beautiful thoughts and did you credit."
"Don't remind me of it," Jack groaned. "It makes me sick every time I
think what an ass I've been."
I allowed that I felt a little nausea myself, but I told him that this
time, at least, he'd shown some sense; that Miss Churchill was a mighty
pretty girl and rich enough so that her liking him didn't prove anything
worse against her than bad judgment; and that the thing for him to do
was to quit his foolishness, propose to her, and dance the heel, toe,
and a one, two, three with her for the rest of his natural days.
Jack hemmed and hawked a little over this, but finally he came out with
it:
"That's the deuce of it," says he. "I'm in a beastly mess--I want to
marry her--she's the only girl in the world for me--the only one I've
ever really loved, and I've proposed--that is, I want to propose to
her, but I'm engaged to Edith Curzon on the quiet."
"I reckon you'll marry her, then," I said; "because she strikes me as a
young woman who's not going to lose a million dollars without putting a
tracer after it."
"And that's not the worst of it," Jack went on.
"Not the worst of it! What do you mean! You haven't married her on the
quiet, too, have you?"
"No, but there's Mabel Moore, you know."
I didn't know, but I guessed. "You haven't been such a double-barreled
donkey as to give her an option on yourself, too?"
"No, no; but I've said things to her which she may have misconstrued, if
she's inclined to be literal."
"You bet she is," I answered. "I never saw a nice, fat, blonde girl who
took a million-dollar offer as a practical joke. What is it you've said
to her? 'I love you, darling,' or something about as foxy and
noncommittal."
"Not that--not that at all; but she may have stretched what I said to
mean that."
Well, sir, I just laid into that fellow when I heard that, though I
could see that he didn't think it was refined of me. He'd never made it
any secret that he thought me a pretty coarse old man, and his face
showed me now that I was jarring his delicate works.
"I suppose I have been indiscreet," he said, "but I must say I expected
something different from you, after coming out this way and owning up.
Of course, if you don't care to help me----"
I cut him short there. "I've got to help you. But I want you to tell me
the truth. How have you managed to keep this Curzon girl from announcing
her engagement to you?"
"Well," and there was a scared grin on Jack's face now; "I told her
that you, as trustee under father's will, had certain unpleasant powers
over my money--in fact, that most of it would revert to Sis if I married
against your wishes, and that you disliked her, and that she must work
herself into your good graces before we could think of announcing our
engagement."
I saw right off that he had told Mabel Moore the same thing, and that
was why those two girls had been so blamed polite to me the night
before. So I rounded on him sudden.
"You're engaged to that Miss Moore, too, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Why didn't you come out like a man and say so at first?"
"I couldn't, Mr. Graham. Someways it seemed like piling it up so, and
you take such a cold-blooded, unsympathetic view of these things."
"Perhaps I do; yes, I'm afraid I do. How far are you committed to Miss
Churchill?"
Jack cheered right up. "I'm all right there, at least. She hasn't
answered."
"Then you've asked?"
"Why, so I have; at least she may take it for something like asking. But
I don't care; I want to be committed there; I can't live without her;
she's the only----"
I saw that he was beginning to foam up again, so I shut him off straight
at the spigot. Told him to save it till after the ceremony. Set him down
to my desk, and dictated two letters, one to Edith Curzon and the other
to Mabel Moore, and made him sign and seal them, then and there. He
twisted and squirmed and tried to wiggle off the hook, but I wouldn't
give him any slack. Made him come right out and say that he was a yellow
pup; that he had made a mistake; and that the stuff was all off, though
I worded it a little different from that. Slung in some fancy words and
high-toned phrases.
You see, I had made up my mind that the best of a bad matter was the
Churchill girl, and I didn't propose to have her commit herself, too,
until I'd sort of cleared away the wreckage. Then I reckoned on
copper-riveting their engagement by announcing it myself and standing
over Jack with a shotgun to see that there wasn't any more nonsense.
They were both so light-headed and light-waisted and light-footed that
it seemed to me that they were just naturally mates.
Jack reached for those letters when they were addressed and started to
put them in his pocket, but I had reached first. I reckon he'd decided
that something might happen to them on their way to the post-office; but
nothing did, for I called in the butler and made him go right out and
mail them then and there.
I'd had the letters dated from my house, and I made Jack spend the night
there. I reckoned it might be as well to keep him within reaching
distance for the next day or two. He showed up at breakfast in the
morning looking like a calf on the way to the killing pens, and I could
see that his thoughts were mighty busy following the postman who was
delivering those letters. I tried to cheer him up by reading some little
odds and ends from the morning paper about other people's troubles, but
they didn't seem to interest him.
"They must just about have received them," he finally groaned into his
coffee cup. "Why did I send them! What will those girls think of me!
They'll cut me dead--never speak to me again."
The butler came in before I could tell him that this was about what we'd
calculated on their doing, and said: "Beg pardon, sir, but there's a
lady asking for you at the telephone."
"A lady!" says Jack. "Tell her I'm not here." Talk to one of those
girls, even from a safe distance! He guessed not. He turned as pale as
a hog on ice at the thought of it.
"I'm sorry, sir," said the man, "but I've already said that you were
breakfasting here. She said it was very important."
I could see that Jack's curiosity was already getting the best of his
scare. After all, he threw out, feeling me, it might be best to hear
what she had to say. I thought so, too, and he went to the instrument
and shouted "Hello!" in what he tried to make a big, brave voice, but
it wobbled a little all the same.