diff options
Diffstat (limited to '15775-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 15775-0.txt | 9668 |
1 files changed, 9668 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/15775-0.txt b/15775-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..610cadd --- /dev/null +++ b/15775-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9668 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary by Anne Warner + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary + +Author: Anne Warner + +Release Date: May 2005 [eBook #15775] +[Most recently updated: May 8, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Suzanne Shell, Josephine Paolucci, Joshua Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REJUVENATION OF AUNT MARY *** + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary + +by Anne Warner + +Author of “A Woman’s Will,” “Susan Clegg and Her Friend +Mrs. Lathrop,” “Susan Clegg and a Man in the House,” +etc. + +NEW EDITION +With Additional Pictures from the Play + +Boston +Little, Brown, and Company +1910 + +Copyright, 1904, +By Ainslee Magazine Company. + +Copyright, 1905, +By Little, Brown, and Company. + +Copyright, 1907, +By Little, Brown, and Company, + +All rights reserved + +Fourteenth Printing + +Printers +S.J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A. + + +Contents + + Chapter One—Introducing Aunt Mary + Chapter Two—Jack + Chapter Three—Introducing Jack + Chapter Four—Married + Chapter Five—The Day After Falling in Love + Chapter Six—The Other Man + Chapter Seven—Developments + Chapter Eight—The Resolution He Took + Chapter Nine—The Downfall of Hope + Chapter Ten—The Woes of the Disinherited. + Chapter Eleven—The Dove of Peace + Chapter Twelve—A Trap For Aunt Mary + Chapter Thirteen—Aunt Mary Entrapped + Chapter Fourteen—Aunt Mary En Fête + Chapter Fifteen—Aunt Mary Enthralled + Chapter Sixteen—A Reposeful Interval + Chapter Seventeen—Aunt Mary’s Night About Town + Chapter Eighteen—A Departure And A Return + Chapter Nineteen—Aunt Mary’s Return + Chapter Twenty—Jack’s Joy + Chapter Twenty-One—The Peace and Quiet of the Country + Chapter Twenty-Two—“Granite” + Chapter Twenty-Three—“Granite”—Continued. + Chapter Twenty-Four—Two Are Company + Chapter Twenty-Five—Grand Finale + + +Illustrations + + “Aunt Mary en fête” (May Robson as “Aunt Mary”) + “‘Do not let us play any longer,’ she said. ‘Let us be in earnest’” + “‘She’s goin’ to the city all alone!’ Lucinda’s voice suddenly proclaimed behind him” + Aunt Mary and Her Escorts + “The carriage stopped three hundred feet below the level of a roof-garden” + “And now the fun’s all over and the work begins” + “‘Yesterday I played poker until I didn’t know a blue chip from a white one’” + “Aunt Mary had also had her eyes open” + + + + +Chapter One +Introducing Aunt Mary + + +The first time that Jack was threatened with expulsion from college his +Aunt Mary was much surprised and decidedly vexed—mainly at the college. +His family were less surprised, viewing the young man through a clearer +atmosphere than his Aunt Mary ever had, and knowing that he had barely +escaped similar experiences earlier in his career by invariably leaving +school the day before the board of inquiry convened. + +Jack’s preparatory days having been more or less tempestous, his family +(Aunt Mary excepted) had expected some sort of after-clap when he +entered college. Nevertheless, they had fervently hoped that it would +not be quite as bad as this. + +Jack’s sister Arethusa was visiting her aunt when the news came. Not +because she wanted to, for the old lady was dreadfully deaf and +fearfully arbitrary, but because Lucinda had said that she must go to +her cousin’s wedding, and the family always had to bow to Lucinda’s +mandates. Lucinda was Aunt Mary’s maid, but she had become so +indispensable as a sitter at the off-end of the latter’s ear-trumpet +that none of the grand-nephews or grand-nieces ever thought for an +instant of crossing one of her wishes. So it was to Arethusa that the +explanations due Aunt Mary’s interest in her scapegrace fell, and she +bowed her back to the burden with the resignation which the +circumstances demanded. + +“Whatever is the difference between bein’ expelled and bein’ +suspended?” Aunt Mary demanded, in her tone of imperious impatience. +“Well, why don’t you answer? I was brought up to speak when you’re +spoken to, an’ I’m a great believer in livin’ up to your bringin’ up—if +you had a good one. What’s the difference, an’ which costs most? That’s +what I want to know. I do wish you’d answer me, Arethusa; there’s two +things I’ve asked you now, an’ you suckin’ your finger an’ puttin’ on +your thimble as if you were sittin’ alone in China.” + +“I don’t know which costs most,” Arethusa shrieked. + +“You needn’t scream so,” said Aunt Mary. “I ain’t so hard to hear as +you think. I ain’t but seventy, and I’ll beg you to remember that, +Arethusa. Besides, I don’t want to hear you talk. I just want to hear +about Jack. I’m askin’ about his bein’ expelled and suspended, an’ +what’s the difference, an’ in particular if there’s anything to pay for +broken glass. It’s always broken glass! That boy’s bills for broken +glass have been somethin’ just awful these last two years. Well, why +don’t you answer?” + +“I don’t know what to answer,” Arethusa screamed. + +“What do you suppose he’s done, anyhow?” + +“Something bad.” + +Aunt Mary frowned. + +“I ain’t mad,” she said sharply. “What made you think I was mad? I +ain’t mad at all! I’m just askin’ what’s the difference between bein’ +expelled an’ bein’ suspended, an’ it seems to me this is the third time +I’ve asked it. Seems to me it is.” + +Arethusa laid down her work, drew a mighty breath, very nearly got into +the ear-trumpet, and explained that being suspended was infinitely less +heinous than being expelled, and decidedly less final. + +Aunt Mary looked relieved. + +“Oh, then he’s gettin’ better, is he?” she said. “Well, I’m sure that’s +some comfort.” + +And then there was a long pause, during which she appeared to be +engaged in deep reflection, and her niece continued her embroidery in +peace. The pause endured until a sudden sneeze on the part of the old +lady set the wheels of conversation turning again. + +“Arethusa,” she said, “I wish you’d go an’ get the ink an’ write to Mr. +Stebbins. I want him to begin to look up another college with good +references right away. I don’t want to waste any of the boy’s life, an’ +if bein’ suspended means waitin’ while the college takes its time to +consider whether it wants him back again or not I ain’t goin’ to wait. +I’m a great believer in a college education, but I don’t know that it +cuts much figure whether it’s the same college right through or not. +Anyway, you write Mr. Stebbins.” + +Arethusa obeyed, and the authorities having seen fit to be uncommonly +discreet as to the cause of the young man’s withdrawal, no great +difficulty was experienced in finding another campus whereon Aunt +Mary’s pride and joy might freely disport himself. Mr. Stebbins threw +himself into the affair with all the tact and ardor of an experienced +legal mind and soon after Lucinda’s return to her home allowed Arethusa +to follow suit, the hopeful younger brother of the latter became a +candidate for his second outfit of new sweaters and hat bands that +year. + +Aunt Mary wrote him a letter upon the occasion of his new start in +life, Mr. Stebbins delivered him a lecture, and things went smoothly in +consequence for three whole weeks. I say three whole weeks because +three whole weeks was a long time for the course of Jack’s life to flow +smoothly. At the end of a fortnight affairs were always due to run more +rapidly and three weeks produced, as a general thing, some species of +climax. + +The climax in this case came to time as usual his evil genius inciting +the young man to attempt, one very dark night, the shooting of a cat +which he thought he saw upon the back fence. Whether he really had seen +a cat or not mattered very little in the later development of the +matter. He was certainly successful as far as the going off of the gun +was concerned, but the damage that resulted, resulted not to any cat, +but to the arm of a next-door’s cook, who was peacefully engaged in +taking in her week’s wash on the other side of the fence. The cook +ceased abruptly to take in the wash, the affair was at once what is +technically termed looked into, and three days later Jack became the +defendant in a suit for damages. + +Naturally Mr. Stebbins was at once notified and he had no choice except +to write Aunt Mary. + +Aunt Mary was somewhat less patient over the third escapade than she +had been with the first two. + +The letter found her alone with Lucinda and she read it to herself +three times and then read it aloud to her companion. Lucinda, whose +thorough knowledge of the imperious will and impervious eardrums of her +mistress rendered her, as a rule, extremely monosyllabic, not to say +silent, vouchsafed no comment upon the contents of the epistle, and +after a few minutes Aunt Mary herself took the field: + +“Now, what do you suppose possessed that boy to shoot at a cook?” she +asked, regarding the letter with a portentous frown. “Cooks are so +awful hard to get nowadays. I don’t see why he didn’t shoot a tramp if +he had to shoot somethin’.” + +“He wa’n’t tryin’ to shoot a cook, ’pears like,” then cried +Lucinda—Lucinda’s voice, be it said, _en passant_, was of that sibilant +and penetrating timbre which is best illustrated in the accents of a +steamfitter’s file—“’pears like he was tryin’ for a cat.” + +“Not a bat,” said her mistress correctively; “it was a cat. You look at +this letter an’ you’ll see. And, anyway, how could a man shootin’ at a +cat hit a cook?—not ’nless she was up a tree birds’-nestin’ after owls’ +eggs. You don’t seem to pay much attention to what I read to you, +Lucinda; only I should think your commonsense would help you out some +when it comes to a boy you’ve known from the time he could walk, an’ a +strange cook. But, anyhow, that’s neither here nor there. The question +that bothers me is, what’s to pay with this damage suit? I think myself +five hundred dollars is too much for any cook’s arm. A cook ain’t in no +such vital need of two arms. If she has to shut the door of the oven +while she’s stirrin’ somethin’ on the top of the stove, she can easy +kick it to with her foot. It won’t be for long, anyway, and I’m a great +believer in making the best of things when you’ve got to.” + +Lucinda screwed up her face and made no comment. Lucinda’s face in +repose was a cross between a monkey’s and a peanut; screwed up, it was +particularly awful, and always exasperated her mistress. + +“Well, why don’t you say somethin’, Lucinda? I ain’t askin’ your +advice, but, all the same, you can say anything if you’ve got a mind +to.” + +“I ain’t got a mind to say anythin’,” the faithful maid rejoined. + +“I guess you hit the nail on the head that time,” said Aunt Mary, +without any unnecessary malevolence concealed behind her sarcasm; then +she re-read the note and frowned afresh. + +“Five hundred dollars is too much,” she said again. “I’m going to write +to Mr. Stebbins an’ tell him so to-night. He can compromise on two +hundred and fifty, just as well as not. Get me some paper and my desk, +Lucinda. Now get a spryness about you.” + +Lucinda laid aside her work and forthwith got a spryness about her, +bringing her mistress’ writing-desk with commendable alacrity. Aunt +Mary took the writing-desk and wrote fiercely for some time, to the end +that she finally wrote most of the fierceness out of herself. + +“After all, boys will be boys,” she said, as she sealed her letter, +“and if this is the end I shan’t feel it’s money wasted. I’m a great +believer in bein’ patient. Most always, that is. Here, Lucinda you take +this to Joshua and tell him to take it right to mail. Be prompt, now. +I’m a great believer in doin’ things prompt.” + +Lucinda took the letter and was prompt. “She wants this letter took +right to the mail,” she said to Joshua, Aunt Mary’s longest-tried +servitor. + +“Then it’ll be took right to mail,” said Joshua. + +“She’s pretty mad,” said Lucinda. + +“Then she’ll soon get over it,” replied the other, taking up his hat +and preparing to depart for the barn forthwith. + +Lucinda returned to Aunt Mary with a species of dried-up sigh. One is +not the less a slave because one has been enslaved for twenty years, +and Lucinda at moments did sort of peek out through her bars—possibly +envying Joshua the daily drives to mail when he had full control of +something that was alive. + +Lucinda had been, comparatively speaking, young when she had come to +wait upon the pleasure of the Watkins millions, and her waiting had +been so pertinent and so patient that it had endured over a quarter of +a century. Aunt Mary had been under fifty in the hour of Lucinda’s +dawn; she was over seventy now. Jack hadn’t been born then; he was in +college now; and Jack’s older brothers and sisters and his +dead-and-gone father and mother had been living somewhere out West +then, quite hopeful as to their own lives and quite hopeless as to the +stern old great-aunt who never had paid any attention to her niece +since she had chosen to elope with the doctor’s reprobate son. Now the +father and mother were dead and buried, the brothers and sisters +reinstated in their rights and had all grown up and become great +credits to the old lady, whose heart had suddenly melted at the arrival +of five orphans all at once. And there was only Jack to continue to +worry about. + +Jack was not anything particularly remarkable; he was just one of those +lovable good-for-nothings that seem born to get better people into +trouble all their lives long. He had been spoiled originally by being +ten years younger than the next youngest in the family; and then, when +the children had been shipped on to Aunt Mary’s tender mercies, Jack +had won her heart immediately because she accidentally discovered that +he had never been baptized, and so felt fully justified in re-naming +him after her own father and having the name branded into him for keeps +by her own religious apparatus. It followed naturally that John +Watkins, Jr., Denham, for so her father’s daughter had insisted that +her youngest nephew should be called, was the favorite nephew of his +aunt. + +And it was lucky for him that he was the favorite, for Aunt Mary, who +was highly spiced at fifty, became peppery at sixty, and almost biting +at seventy. And yet for Jack she would sign checks almost without a +murmur. Mr. Stebbins was much more censorious and impatient with the +young man than she ever was; and to all the rest of the world Mr. +Stebbins was an urbane and agreeable gentleman, whereas to all the rest +of the world Aunt Mary was a problem or a terror. But Mr. Stebbins +needed to be a man of tact and management, for he was the real manager +of that fortune of which “Mary, only surviving child of John Watkins, +merchant and ship owner,” was the legal possessor; and so tactful was +Mr. Stebbins that he and his powerful client had never yet clashed, and +they had been in close business relations for almost as many years as +Lucinda had been established on the hearthstone of the Watkins home. +Perhaps one reason why Mr. Stebbins endured so well was that he had a +real talent for compromising, and that he had skillfully transformed +Aunt Mary’s inherited taste for driving a bargain into an acquired +pleasure in what is really a polite form of the same action. + +So, when it came to the matter of Jack’s difficulties, Mr. Stebbins +could always find a half-way measure that saved the situation; and when +he received the letter as to the cook and her claim he hied himself to +the city at once, and wrote back that the claim could be settled for +three hundred dollars. + +“And enough, I must say,” Aunt Mary remarked to Lucinda upon receipt of +the statement; “three hundred dollars for one cat—for, after all, Jack +blames the whole on the cat, an’ he didn’t hit it, even then.” + +Lucinda did not answer. + +“But if the boy settles down now I shan’t mind payin’ the three—Where +are you goin’?” + +For Lucinda was walking out of the room. + +“I’m goin’ to the door,” said she raspingly. “The bell’s ringin’.” + +After a minute or two she came back. + +“Telegram!” she announced, handing the yellow envelope over. + +Aunt Mary put on her glasses, opened it, and read: + +Cook has blood poison. Sues for a thousand. Probable amputation. + + +STEBBINS. + + +Aunt Mary dropped the paper with a gasp. + +Lucinda looked at her with interest. + +“It’s that same arm again,” said Aunt Mary, “just as I thought it was +settled for!” Her eyes seemed to fairly crackle with indignation. “Why +don’t she put it in a sling an’ have a little patience?” + +Lucinda took the telegram and read it. + +“’Pears like she can’t,” she commented, in a tone like a buzz saw; +“’pears like it’s goin’ to be took off.” + +Aunt Mary reached forth her hand for the telegram and after a second +reading shook her head in a way that, if her companion had been a +globe-trotter, would have brought matadores and Seville to the front in +her mind in that instant. + +“I declare,” she said, “seems like I had enough on my mind without a +cook, too. What’s to be done now? I only know one thing! I ain’t goin’ +to pay no thousand dollars this week for no arm that wasn’t worth but +three hundred last week. Stands to reason that there ain’t no reason in +that. I guess you’d better bring me my desk, Lucinda; I’m goin’ to +write to Mr. Stebbins, an’ I’m goin’ to write to Jack, and I’m goin’ to +tell ’em both just what I think. I’m goin’ to write Jack that he’d +better be lookin’ out, and I’m goin’ to write to Mr. Stebbins that next +time he settles things I want him to take a receipt for that arm in +full.” + +The letters were duly written and Mr. Stebbins, upon the receipt of +his, redoubled his efforts, and did succeed in permanently settling +with the cook, the arm being eventually saved. Aunt Mary regarded the +sum as much higher than necessary, but still pleasantly less than that +demanded of her, and so life in general moved quietly on until Easter. + +But Easter is always a period of more or less commotion in the time of +youth and leads to various hilarious outbreaks. Jack’s Easter took him +to town for a “little time,” and the “little time” ended in the +station-house at three o’clock on Sunday morning. + +Accusation: Producing concussion of the brain on a cab driver. + + + + +Chapter Two +Jack + + +The news was conveyed to Aunt Mary through private advices from Mr. +Stebbins (who had been hastily summoned to the city for purposes of +bail); she was very angry indeed, this time—primarily at the indignity +done her flesh and blood by arresting it. Then, as she re-read the +lawyer’s letter, other reflections crowded to the fore in her mind. + +“Funny! Whatever could have made the boy get up and go downtown at +three in the morning, anyway?” she said. “Seems kind of queer, don’t +you think, Arethusa? Do you suppose he was ill and huntin’ for a drug +store?” + +Arethusa had been sent for the second day previous because Lucinda’s +youngest sister’s youngest child had come down with scarlet fever, and +the family wanted Lucinda to enliven the quarantine. Arethusa had sent +invitations out for a dinner party, but she had recalled them and +hastened to obey the summons. It was an evil hour for her, for she +loved her brother and was mightily distressed at the bad news. + +“I don’t believe he can have been ill,” she said, at the top of her +voice; “if he’d been ill he wouldn’t have had the strength to hit the +cab driver so hard.” + +“I don’t blame him for hittin’ the cab driver,” said Aunt Mary warmly. +“As near as I can recollect, I’ve often wanted to do that myself. But I +can’t make out where he got the man to hit, or why he was there to hit +him. I can’t make rhyme or reason out of it. I wish we knew more. Well, +I presume we will, later.” + +Her surmise was correct. They knew much more later. They knew more from +Mr. Stebbins, and they knew profusely more from the evening papers. + +“I think our boy’d better have come home for his Easter,” Aunt Mary +remarked, with a species of angry undertow threading the current of her +speech. “There’s no sayin’ what this will cost before we’re done with +it.” + +Arethusa choked; it was all so very terrible to her. + +“What is it that the cabman wants, anyhow?” her aunt demanded +presently. + +“He doesn’t want anything,” yelled the unhappy sister. “He’s going to +die.” + +“Well, who is going to sue me, then?” + +“It’s his wife; she wants five thousand dollars damages.” + +Aunt Mary’s lips tightened. + +“Five thousand dollars!” she said, with a bitter patience. “I can see +that this is goin’ to be an awful business. Five thousand dollars! +Dear, dear! I must say that that wife sets a pretty high price on her +husband—at least, a’cordin’ to my order of thinkin’, she does. From +what I’ve seen of cabmen, I’d undertake to get her another just as good +for a tenth of the money, any day.” + +Arethusa was silent, staring thoughtfully at the newspaper cuts of a +great Tammany leader and a noted pugilist, which had been labeled as +the principals in the family tragedy. + +Aunt Mary turned over another of the many papers received, and scanned +its sensational columns afresh. + +“Arethusa,” she exclaimed suddenly, “do you know, I bet anythin’ I know +what this editor means to insinuate? It just strikes me that he’s +tryin’ to give the impression that our boy’s been drinkin’.” + +“Perhaps so,” Arethusa screamed. + +“Well, I don’t believe it,” said Aunt Mary firmly, “and I ain’t goin’ +to believe it. And I ain’t goin’ to pay no five thousand dollars for no +cabman’s brains, neither. You write to Mr. Stebbins to compromise on +two or maybe three.” + +She stopped and bit her lips and shook her head. “I don’t see why Jack +grows up so hard,” she murmured, half in anger and half in sorrow. +“Edward and Henry never had such times. Oh, well,” she sighed, “boys +will be boys, I suppose; an’ if this all results in the boy’s settlin’ +down it’ll be money well spent in the end, after all. +Maybe—probably—most likely.” + +The days that followed were anxious days, but at last the cabman +rallied and concluded not to die, and Jack went off yachting with a +light heart and a choice collection of good advice from Mr. Stebbins +and Aunt Mary. + +Nothing happened to mar his holiday. He ran a borrowed steam launch on +to some rocks with rather heavy consequences to his aunt’s exchequer, +and returned from the West Indies so late that she never had a visit +from him at all that summer; but, barring these slightly unwelcome +incidents, he did remarkably well, and when he returned to college in +the fall he was regarded as having become, at last, a stable +proposition. + +“I wonder whether our boy’s comin’ home for Christmas?” Aunt Mary asked +her niece, Mary, as that happy period of family reunions drew near. +Mary had come up to stay with her aunt while Lucinda went away to bury +a second cousin. Mary was very different from Arethusa, having a voice +that, when raised, was something between an icicle and a steam whistle, +and a temperament so much on the order of her aunt’s that neither could +abide the other an hour longer than was absolutely necessary. But +Arethusa had a sprained ankle, so there was no help for existing +circumstances. + +“No, he isn’t,” said Mary, who had no patience at all with her brother, +and showed it. “He’s going West with the glee club.” + +“With the she club!” cried poor Aunt Mary, in affright. + +Mary explained. + +“I don’t like the idea,” said the old lady, shaking her head. +“Somethin’ will be sure to happen. I can feel it runnin’ up and down my +bones this minute.” + +“Oh, if he can get into trouble, of course, Jack will,” said Mary +cheerfully. + +Aunt Mary didn’t hear her, because she didn’t raise her voice +particularly. Besides, the old lady was absorbed for the nonce in the +most dismal sort of prognostications. + +And they all came true, too. Something unfortunate beyond all +expectations came to pass during the glee club’s visit to Chicago, and +the result was that, before the new year was well out of its incubator +Jack had papers in a breach-of-promise suit served on him. He wrote Mr. +Stebbins that it was all a joke, and had merely been a portion of that +foam which a train of youthful spirits are apt to leave in their wake; +but the girl stood solid for her rights, and, as she had never heard +from her fiancé since the night of the dance, her family—who were +rural, but sharp—thought it would take at least fifteen thousand +dollars to patch the crack in her heart. If the news could have been +kept from Aunt Mary until after Mr. Stebbins had looked into the +matter, everything might have resulted differently. But the Chicago +lawyer who had the case took good care that the wealthy aunt knew all +as quickly as possible, and it seemed as if this was the final straw +under which the camel must succumb. + +And Aunt Mary did appear to waver. + +“Fifteen thousand dollars!” she cried, aghast. “Heaven help us! What +next?” + +It was Lucinda who was seated calmly opposite at this crisis. + +“Do you suppose he really did it?” the aunt continued, after a minute +of appalled consideration. + +“It’s about the only thing he ain’t never done,” the tried and true +servant answered, her tone more gratingly penetrative than ever. + +Aunt Mary eyed her sharply, not to say furiously. + +“I wish you’d give a plain answer when I ask you a plain question, +Lucinda,” she said coldly. “If you’d ever got a breach-of-promise suit +in the early mail you’d know how I feel. Perhaps—probably.” + +“I ain’t a doubt but what he done it,” Lucinda screamed out; “an’ if I +was her an’ he wouldn’t marry me after sayin’ he would I’d sue him for +a hundred thousand, an’ think I let him off cheap then.” + +Aunt Mary deigned to smile faintly over the subtlety of this speech; +but the next minute she was frowning blacker than ever. + +“A girl from Kalamazoo, too, just up in Chicago for a week—just up in +Chicago long enough to come down on me for fifteen thousand dollars.” + +“Maybe she’ll take five thousand instead,” Lucinda remarked. + +“Maybe!” ejaculated her mistress, in fine scorn. “Maybe! Well, if you +don’t talk as if money was sweet peas an’ would dry up if it wasn’t +picked!” + +Lucinda screwed up her face. + +Aunt Mary gave her one awful look. + +“You get me some paper an’ my desk, Lucinda,” she said. “I think it’s +about time I was takin’ a hand in it myself. I’ve been pretty patient, +an’ I don’t see as it’s helped matters any. Now I’m goin’ to write that +boy a letter that’ll settle him an’ his cats, an’ his cooks, an’ his +cabmen, an’ his Kalamazoo, just once for all. I guess I can do what I +set out to do. Pretty generally—most always.” + +Lucinda brought the desk, and Aunt Mary frowned fearfully and began to +write the letter. + +It developed very strongly. As her pen sized up the situation in black +and white, the old lady seemed to realize the iniquities of the case +more and more plainly; and as the letter grew her wrath grew also. The +whole came, in the end, to a threat—made in good earnest—to take a very +serious step indeed if any more “foolishness” developed. + +Aunt Mary prided herself on her granite-like will. She had full faith +in her ability to slay her nearest and dearest if it seemed right and +best to do so. + +She sealed her letter tight, stuck the stamp on square and hard, and +bid Lucinda convey it to Joshua and tell him never to quit it until he +saw it safe on to the evening train. + +“She’s awful mad at him for sure, this time,” said Lucinda after she +had delivered her message, and while Joshua was considering the front +and back of the letter with a deliberateness born of long servitude. + +“I sh’d think she would be,” he said. + +As nearly all of Jack’s private difficulties were printed in every +newspaper in America, Joshua naturally was on the inside of all their +history. + +“She scrinched up her face just awful over that letter,” Lucinda +continued. “I’m sure I wish he’d ’a’ been by to ’a’ taken warnin’.” + +“He ain’t got nothin’ to really fret over,” said Joshua serenely; “he +knows it, ’n’ I know it, ’n’ you know it, too.” + +“You don’t know nothin’ of the sort,” said Lucinda. “She’s madder’n +usual this time. She’s good an’ mad. You mark my words, if he goes off +on a ’nother spree this spring he’ll get cut out o’ her will.” + +Joshua laughed. + +“You mark my words!” rasped Lucinda, shaking her finger in witchlike +warning. + +Joshua laughed again. + +“Them laughs best what laughs last,” said Aunt Mary’s handmaiden. She +turned away, and then returned to give Joshua a look that proved that +the peppery mistress had inculcated some cayenne into the souls of +those about her. “You mark my words—them laughs best what laughs last, +an’ there’ll be little grinnin’ for him if he ain’t a chalk-walker for +one while now.” + +Joshua laughed. + +But, as a matter of fact, Jack’s situation was suddenly become +extremely precarious. + +“There ain’t no sense in it,” said Aunt Mary to herself, with an +emphasis that screwed her face up until she looked quite like Lucinda; +“that life those young men lead on their little vacations is to blame +for everything. Cities are wells of iniquity; they’re full of all kinds +of doin’s that respectable people wouldn’t be seen at, and I’m proud to +say that I haven’t been in one myself for twenty-five years. I’m a +great believer in keepin’ out of trouble, an’ if Jack’d just stuck to +college an’ let towns go, he’d never have met the cabman and the +Kalamazoo girl, an’ I’d have overlooked the cook an’ the cat. As it is, +my patience is done. If he goes into one more scrape he’ll be done too. +I mean what I say. So my young man had better take warnin’. +Probably—most likely—pretty certainly.” + + + + +Chapter Three +Introducing Jack + + +It has been previously stated that Aunt Mary’s nephew, Jack, was a +scapegrace, and as delightful as scapegraces generally are. It goes +without saying that he was good-looking; and of course he must have +been jolly and pleasant or he wouldn’t have been so popular. As a +matter of fact, Jack was very good-looking, unusually jolly, and +uncommonly popular. He was one of the best liked men in each of the +colleges which he had attended. There was something so winning about +his smile and his eternal good humor that no one ever tried to dislike +him; and if anyone ever had tried he or she would not have succeeded +for very long. It is probably very unfortunate that the world is so +full of this type of young man, but that which should cause us all to +have infinite patience with them is the reflection of how much more +unfortunate it would be if they were suddenly eliminated from the +general scheme of things. + +Like all college boys, Jack had a chum. The chum was Robert Burnett, +another charming young fellow of one-and-twenty, whose education had +been so cosmopolitan in design and so patriotic in practice that he +always said “Sacre bleu” and “Donnerwetter” when he thought of it, and +“Great Scott” when he didn’t. He and Jack were as congenial a pair as +ever existed, and they had just about as much in common as the aunt of +the one and the father of the other had had to pay for. + +In the February of the year of which I write, Washington, celebrating +his birthday as usual, gave all American students their usual chance to +celebrate with him. Celebrations were temptations incarnate to Jack, +and he was feeling frowningly what a clog Aunt Mary’s latest epistle +was upon his joys, when his friend came to the rescue with an +invitation to spend the double holiday (it doubled that year—Sunday, +you know) at the brand-new ancestral castle which Burnett père had just +finished building for his descendants. It may be imagined that Jack +accepted the invitation with alacrity, and that his never-very-downcast +heart bounded gleefully higher than usual over the prospect of two days +of pleasure in the country. + +It is not necessary to state where the castle of the Burnetts was +erected, but it was in a beautiful region, and the monthly magazines +had written it up and called it an architectural triumph. The owner +fully agreed with the monthly magazines, and his pride found vent in a +house-warming which filled every guest chamber in the place. + +The festivities were in full swing before the youngest son and his +friend arrived; and when the dog-cart, which brought them from the +station, drew up under the mighty porte-cochère with its four stone +lions, rampant in four different directions, Jack felt one of those +delicious thrills which run through one under particularly hopeful and +buoyant circumstances. + +“It’s like walking in a novel,” his friend said; as they entered under +some heavy draperies which the footman pushed aside and found a tiny +spiral staircase, which wound its way aloft in a style that Jack liked +immensely and the latter agreed with all his heart. + +The staircase led them to the third floor and when they emerged +therefrom they found themselves in a big semi-circular billiard room, +with a fireplace at each end large enough to put one of the tables in, +and cues and counters and stools and divans and smoking utensils +sufficient for a regiment. + +“I tell you, this is the way to do things,” exclaimed Burnett; “isn’t +it jolly? Time of your life, old man, time of your life!—And, oh, by +the way,” he said, suddenly interrupting himself, “I wonder if my +sister’s got here yet!” + +“Which sister?” Jack inquired; for his friend was one of a very large +family, and he had met several of them on their various visits to town. + +“Betty—the one who beats all the others hollow,”—but just there the +conversation was broken off by the servants coming up with the luggage +and setting two doors open that showed them two big rooms, both +exquisitely furnished, and both with windows that looked out, first on +to a stone balustrade, and secondly on to a superb view over the river +and the mountains beyond. + +The men unstrapped the things and went away, leaving such a plenitude +of comfort behind them as led Jack to fling himself into the most +luxurious chair in the room and stretch his arms and legs far and wide +in utter contentment. + +Burnett was fishing for his key ring. + +“It’s a great old place, isn’t it?” he remarked parenthetically. “Great +Scott! but I’ll bet we have fun these two days! And if my sister Betty +is here—” He paused expressively. + +“Doesn’t she live at home?” Jack asked. + +“She’s just come home; she’s been in England for three years. Oh, but I +tell you she’s a corker!” + +“I should think—” + +The sentence was never completed because a voice without the +not-altogether-closed door cried: + +“No, don’t think, please; let me come in instead.” And in the same +instant Burnett made one leap and flung the door open, crying as he did +so: + +“Betty!” + +Then Jack, bunching somewhat his starfish attitude, looked across the +room and realized instantly that it was all up with him forever after. + +Because— + +Because she who stood there in the door was quite the sweetest, the +loveliest, the most interesting looking girl whom he had ever laid eyes +on; and when she was seized in her brother’s arms, and kissed by her +brother’s lips, and dragged by her brother’s hands well into the room, +she proved to be a thousand times more irresistible than at first. + +“I say, Betty, you’re absolutely prettier than ever,” her brother +exclaimed, holding her a little off from him and surveying her +critically; and then he seemed to remember his friend’s existence, and, +turning toward him, announced proudly: + +“My sister Bertha.” + +Jack was standing up now and thinking how lovely her eyes were just at +that instant when they were meeting his for the first time, thinking +much else too. Thinking that Monday was only two days away (hang it!); +thinking that such a smile was never known before; thinking that he had +_years_ ahead at college; thinking that the curl on her forehead was +simply distracting (whereas all other like curls were horrid); thinking +that he might cut college and— + +“My chum, Jack Denham,” Burnett continued, proving in the same instant +how rapidly the mind may work since his friend had compassed his +encyclopedia of sentiment and probability between the two halves of a +formal introduction. + +“Oh, I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Denham,” she said, putting out her +hand—and he took and held it just long enough to realize that he really +was holding it, before she took it away to keep for her own again. +“I’ve often heard of you, and often wished I might know you.” + +“I’m awfully glad to hear you say that,” he said, “and if I should have +the royal luck to be next to you at dinner, it doesn’t seem to me that +I shall have the strength to keep from telling you why.” + +She clapped her hands at this, just as a very little girl might have +done. + +“If that is so, I hope that they will put you next to me at dinner,” +she said gayly; “but if they don’t, you’ll tell me some other time, +won’t you? I’m always _so_ interested in what people have to tell me +about myself.” + +Burnett began to laugh. + +“Jack,” he said, “I see that we’d better have a clear and above-board +understanding right in the beginning and so I’ll just tell you that +this sister of mine, who appears so guileless, is the very worst flirt +ever. She looks honest, but she can’t tell the truth to save her neck. +She means well, but she drives folks to suicide just for fun. She’d do +anything for anybody in general, but when it’s a case of you +individually she won’t do a thing to you, and you must heed my words +and be forewarned and forearmed from now on. Mustn’t he, Betty?” + +At this the sister laughed, nodding quite as gayly as if it were a +laughing matter, instead of the opening move in a possibly +serious—tremendously serious—game of life. + +“It’s awful to have to subscribe to,” she said, with dancing eyes; “but +I’m afraid it’s true. I’m really quite a reprobate, and I admit it +frankly. And everyone is so good to me that I never get a chance to +reform. And so—and so—” + +“But then, I suppose I ought to warn her about you, too,” said Burnett, +turning suddenly toward his friend. “It isn’t fair to show her up and +not show you up, you know. And really, Betty, he’s almost as bad as you +are yourself. I may tell you in confidence—in strict confidence (for +it’s only been in a few newspapers)—that he hasn’t got his +breach-of-promise suit all compromised yet. Ask him to deny it, if he +can!” + +The sister looked suddenly startled and curious and Jack felt himself +to be blushing desperately. + +“I don’t look as if he was lying, do I?” he asked smiling; “be honest +now, for you can see that Burnett and I both are.” + +“No, you don’t,” she said. “You look as if it was a very true bill.” + +“It is,” he said; “and it’s going to be an awfully big one, too, I’m +afraid.” + +“I wouldn’t have thought you were such a bad man,” said the sister ever +so sweetly; “but I like bad men. They interest me. They—” + +“There!—I see your finish,” said Burnett. “That’s one of her favorite +opening plays. It’s all up with you, Jack, and your aunt will have to +to go down for another damage suit when you begin to perceive that you +have had enough of our family. But you’ll have to get out now, Betty, +and let him get dressed for dinner. You needn’t cry about it either for +he’s even more attractive in his glad rags than he is in his railway +dust—my word of honor on it.” + +“I look nice myself when I’m dinner-dressed,” said the sister, “so I +sympathize with him and I’ll go with pleasure. Good-bye.” + +She sort of backed toward the door and Jack sprang to open it for her. + +“You can kiss her hand, if you like,” Burnett said kindly. “They do in +Germany, you know. I don’t mind and mamma needn’t know.” + +“May I?” Jack asked her; and then he caught her eye over her brother’s +bent head and added, so quickly that there was hardly any break at all +between the words: “Some other time?” + +“Some other time,” she said, with a world of meaning in the promise; +and then she flashed one wonderful look straight into his eyes and was +gone. + +“Isn’t she great?” Burnett asked, unlocking his suit-case in the most +provokingly every-day style, as if this day was an every-day sort of +day and not the beginning and end of all things. “Oh, I tell you, I’m +almost dotty over that sister myself.” + +“Do you suppose that I could manage to have her for dinner?” Jack +asked, feeling desperately how dull any other place at the table would +be now. + +“I don’t know. When I go down to my mother I’ll try to manage it; shall +I?” + +“I wish you would.” + +“I reckon I can; but, great loads of fire, fellow! don’t think you can +play tag with her, and feel funny at the finish. She’ll do you up +completely, and never turn a hair herself. She’s always at it. She +don’t mean to be cruel, but she’s naturally a carnivorous animal. It’s +her little way.” + +Jack did not look as dismal as he should have done; he smiled, and +looked out of the window instead. + +“She’ll have to marry someone some day, you know,” he said +thoughtfully. + +“Have to marry someone some day!” Burnett cried. “Why, she is married. +Didn’t you know that?” and he unbuckled the shirt portfolio as he spoke +just as if calamities and tragedies and shooting stars might not follow +on the heels of such a simple statement as that last. + +It was an awful moment, but poor Jack did manage to continue looking +out of the window. If any greater demand had been made upon him he +might have sunk beneath the double weight. + +“No,” he said at last, his voice painfully steady; “I didn’t know it.” + +Burnett laughed heartlessly, hauling forth his apparel with a refined +cruelty which took careful heed of possible interfolded shoes or +cravats. + +“She married an Englishman when she was nineteen years old,” he said. +“That was when they sent me to Eton that little while,—until I drove +the horse through the drug shop. The time I told you about, don’t you +know?” + +“Yes, I remember,” said Jack. He observed with sickening distinctness +that the night had begun to fall, the river’s silver ribbon had become +a black snake, and that the mountain range beyond loomed chill and dark +and cheerless. “I guess I ought to be getting into my things,” he said, +moving toward his own door. + +“There’s a bath in here,” his friend called after him. “We’re to divide +it.” + +“Sure,” was the reply. It sounded a trifle thick. + +“I don’t think that she ought to,” said the brother to himself, as he +began to draw out his stick-pin before the mirror, “I don’t care if she +is my favorite sister—I don’t think that she ought to.” + +Then he went on to make ready for the securing of his half of the bath, +and forthwith forgot his sister and his friend. + + + + +Chapter Four +Married + + +It was almost like a scene at a ball, the great white-and-gold music +room before dinner that night. The Burnett family proper numbered +fifteen among themselves, and there were nearly thirty guests added. It +was entirely too large a house party to have handled successfully for +very long, but it would be most awfully jolly for three or four days; +and now, when the whole crowd were gathered waiting for dinner, the +picture was one of such bubbling joy that Jack’s very heavy heart +seemed to himself to be terribly out of place there and he wondered +whether he should be able to put up even a fairly presentable front +during the endless hours that must ensue before the time for breaking +up arrived. + +Burnett took him all around and introduced him to people in general, +and people in general seemed to him to merely bring the fact of her +pre-eminence more vividly than ever before his mind. He found himself +looking everywhere but at them too, and listening with an acutely +sensitive ear for sounds quite other than those of their various lips. +But eternal disappointment rewarded his eyes and ears. She was nowhere. + +So he talked blindly about nothing to all the nobodies and laughed +stupidly over all their stupidities until—suddenly and without any +warning—a fearful jump in his throat sent the mercury in his +constitution shooting up to 160, and he saw, heard, felt, gasped, and +knew, that that radiant angel in silver tissue who had just entered the +farther end of the room was indubitably Herself. + +(Married!) + +He quite forgot who, what and where he was. There was a somebody +talking to him—a very awful and bony young lady, but she faded so +completely out of the general scheme of his immediate present that all +the use he made of her was to stare over her head at the distant +apparition that was become, now and forever, his All in All. The +distant apparition had not lied when she had told him up in her +brother’s room that she too, looked “nice” when dressed for dinner. +Only the word “nice” was as watered milk to the champagne of her +appearance. She was gowned superbly and her throat and arms were half +bared by the folds of silvered lace; her hair fitted into the back of +her neck in the smoothest mass of puffs and coils, and the curl on her +forehead was more distracting than ever. + +(Married!) + +She seemed to be speaking to everyone, and everyone seemed to be +crowding around her. He couldn’t go up like everyone else, because the +awful and bony young lady was talking hard at him and heightened her +charms with a smile that took up two-fifths of her face, and wrinkled +all the rest. + +Her name was Lome—Maude Lome. He knew that she must be a relative +without being told, because otherwise she wouldn’t have been invited at +all. Anyone could divine that. + +“Oh, isn’t dear Betty just lovely?” this fearful freak said. “I think +she’s just too lovely for anything! She’s my cousin, you know; we’re +often mistaken for one another.” + +“I can well believe it,” said Jack, heavily, not ceasing to stare +beyond as he said it. + +(Married!) + +“Oh, you’re flattering me! Because she’s ever so much prettier than I +am, and I know it.” + +He didn’t reply. It had suddenly come over him to wonder whether there +ever had been an authentic case of heartbreak. Because he had the most +terrible ache right in his left side! + +(Married! Married!) + +“But, then,” Miss Lome continued, “I’m younger than she is. Her being +married makes her seem young, but she’s really twenty-four. I’m only +twenty.” + +He shut his eyes, and then opened them. He wished he hadn’t come here, +and then grew shivery to think that he might have happened not to; and +all the while that awful twisting and wrenching at his heart was +getting worse and worse. + +(Married! Married! Married!) + +Burnett came up just then with a man wearing a monocle and presented +him to Denham, and forthwith handed the bony cousin to his +safe-keeping. + +“She’s a great pill, isn’t she?” he began, as the couple moved away; +and then he stopped short. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Sick?” + +“I hope not,” said Jack, trying to smile. + +“You look hipped,” his friend said anxiously. “Better go get a bracer; +you’ll have time if you hurry. You can’t be sick before dinner, because +I’ve been moving all the cards around so as to get Betty next to you, +and I could never get them back as they were before if you gave out at +the last minute.” + +“I don’t believe I’m ill,” said Jack, trying to realize whether the +news that she was to be his (for dinner) made him feel any better or +only just about the same. “I don’t know what ails me. Do I look seedy?” + +“You look sort of knocked out, that’s all,” said Burnett. “Perhaps, +though, it was just the having to talk to my cousin Maude so long. +Isn’t she the limit, though? But I’ll tell you the one big thing about +that girl: She’s just the biggest kind of a catch. She was my uncle’s +eldest child; she’s worth twelve times what any of us ever will be.” + +“I’m sure she’ll need it,” said Jack heartily. + +“You’re right there,” laughed his friend; “but you’ve got to hurry and +get your brandy now if you want it, because they’ll be going out in a +minute.” + +“Oh, I’m all right,” said the poor chap, straightening his shoulders +back a little. “I can make out well enough, I’m sure. I think I’d +better go over by your sister and let her know that I’m ready when the +hour of need shall strike.” + +Burnet nodded and then he went on and his friend walked down the room, +no one but himself knowing that he was making his way into the lion’s +(or, rather, lioness’s) den. + +And then he paused there beside her. Oh! she Was seven million times +lovelier close to than far away. All the rot about Venus and statues +and paintings and Helen of Troy was nowhere beside Her and he felt his +strength come surging mightily upward and then—oh Heavens! + +She looked up—looked so sweetly up—right into his eyes and smiled. + +“I expect you are to take me into dinner,” she said; and at her words +the man who had been talking to her murmured something meaningless and +got out of their way. + +“I believe so,” he said. + +She rose and he noticed that the top of her head was just level with +his coat lapel. He wondered, with a miserable pang, where she came to +on her husband’s coat and with the wonder his surging strength surged +suddenly out to sea again and left him feeling like Samson when he +awoke to the realization of his haircut. + +“Dinner’s very late,” she said, quite as if life presented no problem +whatever; “you see, it’s the first big company in the house. We were +only seventeen last night, and to-night we’re forty-five. It makes a +difference.” + +“I can imagine so,” he said. He was suddenly acutely aware of feeling +very awkward, and of finding her different—quite different from what +she had seemed up in her brother’s room. + +“What is it?” she asked after a minute, looking up at him; and then she +showed that she was conscious of the change, for she added: “Something +has happened; Bob has been saying mean things about me to you?” + +“Yes, he did tell me something,” he admitted; and just then the butler +announced dinner. + +“What did he tell you?” she asked, as they moved away. “How could he +say anything worse than what he said before me?” + +“He told me something that was worse—much worse.” + +She looked troubled and as if she did not understand. + +“But he said that I was a flirt, and that I couldn’t speak the truth, +and that I drove people—” + +“Yes, I remember all that; but this was infinitely worse.” + +“Infinitely worse!” + +“Yes.” + +She stopped in an angle where the big room dwindled into a narrow +gallery, and stared astonished. + +“I can’t at all understand,” she said. + +“No, you can’t,” he said, “and I can’t tell you—I mustn’t tell you—how +terrible it is to me to look at you and think of what he told me.” + +After a second she went on again and presently they entered the +dining-room. The confusion of rustling skirts and sliding chairs quite +covered their speech for a moment and made them seem almost alone. Her +hand had been resting on his arm and now she drew it out, looking up at +him again as she did so. Her eyes had a premonitory mist over them. + +“For Heaven’s sake,” she said very earnestly, “tell me what he said?” + +He was silent. + +“Tell me,” she pleaded. + +He was still silent. + +“Tell me,” she said imperiously. + +He continued silent. They sat down. + +“Mr. Denham,” she said, as she took up her napkin, and her voice grew +very low, and yet he heard, “I don’t think that we can pretend to be +joking any longer. You are my brother’s friend, and I am a married +woman. Please treat me as you should.” + +“That’s just it,” said Jack; “that’s all there is to it. It wouldn’t +have amounted to anything except for that—or perhaps, if it hadn’t been +for that, it might have amounted to a great deal.” + +“If it hadn’t been for what?” + +“For your being married.” + +She quite started in her seat. + +“What do you mean?” + +“You see I never knew it before.” + +“You never knew what before?” + +“That you were married.” + +“Until when?” + +“Until after you went out of the room to-night.” + +The men were putting the clams around. She seemed to reflect. And then +she peppered and salted them before she spoke. + +“Bob is very wrong to talk so,” she said at last, picking up her fork, +“when you’re his friend, too.” + +He poked his clams—he hated clams. + +“I suppose men think it’s amusing to do such things,” she continued, +“but I think it’s as ill-bred as practical joking.” + +“But you are married,” he said, trying fiercely to pepper some taste +into the tasteless things before him. + +“Yes, I’m married,” she admitted tranquilly, “but, then, my husband +went to Africa so soon afterwards that he hardly seemed to count at +all. And then he was killed there; so, after that, he seemed to count +less than ever.” + +The air danced exclamation points and the man on the other side spoke +to her then so that her turning to answer him gave Jack time to rally +his wits. + +(A widow!) + +Then she turned back and said: + +“I think Bob mystified you unnecessarily. Of course I don’t flatter +myself that you’ve suffered.” + +“Oh, but I have,” he hastened to assure her. + +(A widow! A widow!) + +“But it always makes a difference whether a woman is married or not.” + +“I should say it did,” he interrupted again. “It makes all the +difference in the world.” + +At that she laughed outright, and someone suddenly abstracted the +distasteful clams and substituted for them a golden and glorious soup, +and music sounded forth from some invisible quartet, and—and— + +(A widow! A widow! A widow!) + + + + +Chapter Five +The Day After Falling in Love + + +The next day was a very memorable day for Jack. The day after a falling +in love is always a red-letter day; but the day after _the_ falling in +love—ah! + +One looks back—far back—to the day before, and those hours of the day +before, when her sun had not yet dawned, and struggles to recollect +what ends life could have represented then. And one looks forward to +the next day, the next week, the next year—but, particularly to the +next morning with sensations as indescribable as they are delightful. + +Whichever way you tip it, the kaleidoscope of the future arranges +itself in equally attractive shapes of rainbow hue, and the prospect +over land or sea—even if it is raining—looks brilliant green, and +brighter red, and brightest yellow. + +Upon that glorious “next day” of Jack’s the weather was quite a thing +apart for February—partaking of the warmth of May, and owing that fact +to a sun which early June need not have scorned to own. Under the +circumstances the house party overflowed the house and ravaged the +surrounding country, and Jack and Mrs. Rosscott began it all by having +the highest cart and the fastest cob in the stables and making for the +forest just as the clock was tolling ten. + +“Do you want a groom?” asked Burnett, who was occasionally very cruel. + +“Well, I’m not going to wait for him to get ready now,” replied his +sister, who had sharp wits and did not disdain to give even her own +family the benefit of them. + +Then she gathered up the reins and whip in a most scientific manner, +and they were off. Jack folded his arms. He was simply flooded, +drenched, and saturated with joy. The evening before had been Elysium +when she had only been his now and again for a minute’s conversation, +but now she was to be his and his alone until—until they came back—and +his mind seemed able to grasp no dearer outlines of the form which +Bliss Incarnate may be supposed to take. He didn’t care where they went +or what they saw or what they talked of, just if only he and she might +be going, seeing, and talking for the benefit of one another and of one +another alone. + +They bowled away upon a firm, hard road that skirted the park, and then +plunged deeply into the forest. Mrs. Rosscott handled the reins and the +whip with the hands of an expert. + +“I like to drive,” said she. + +“You appear to,” he answered. + +“I like to do everything,” she said. “I’m very athletic and energetic.” + +“I’m glad of that,” he told her warmly. “I like athletic girls.” + +He really thought that he was speaking the truth, although upon that +first day if she had declared herself lazy and languid he would have +found her equally to his taste—because it was the first day. + +“That’s kind of you, after my speech,” she said smiling, “but let’s +wait a bit before we begin to talk about me. Let us talk about you +first—you’re the company, you know.” + +“But there’s nothing to tell about me,” said Jack, “except that I’m +always in difficulties—financial—or otherwise,—oftenest ‘otherwise,’ I +must confess.” + +“But you have a rich aunt, haven’t you?” said Mrs. Rosscott. “I thought +that I had heard about your aunt.” + +“Oh, yes, I have a rich aunt,” Jack said, laughing, “and I can assure +you that if I am not much credit to my aunt, my aunt is the greatest +possible credit to me.” + +“Yes, I’ve heard that, too,” said Mrs. Rosscott, joining in the laugh, +“you see I’m well posted.” + +“If you’re so well posted as to me,” Jack said, “do be kind and post me +a little as to yourself. You don’t need information and I do.” + +She turned and looked at him. + +“What shall I tell you first?” she inquired. + +“Tell me what you like and what you don’t like—and that will give me +courage to do the same later,” he added boldly. + +She laughed outright at that and then sobered quickly. + +“I told you that I liked to drive and to do everything,” she said +lightly; “what else do you want to know about?” + +“What you dislike.” + +“But I don’t know of anything that I dislike;” she said +thoughtfully—“perhaps I don’t like England; I am not sure, though. I +had a pretty good time there after all—only you know, being in mourning +was so stupid. And then, too, I didn’t fit into their ideas. I really +didn’t seem to get the true inwardness of what was expected of me. Oh, +I never dared let them know at home what a failure I was as an +Englishwoman. I mortified my husband’s sisters all the time. Just +think—after a whole year I often forgot to say ‘Fancy now!’ and used to +say ‘Good gracious!’ instead.” + +Jack laughed. + +“My husband’s sisters were very unhappy about it. They did want to love +me, because I had so much money; but it was tough work for them. Did +you ever know any middle-aged English young ladies?” she asked him +suddenly. + +“No, I never did,” he said. + +“Really, they seem to be a thing apart that can’t grow anywhere but in +England. Every married man has not less than two, nor more than three, +and they always are a little gray and embroider very nicely. Someone +told me that as long as there’s any hope they wear stout boots and walk +about and hunt, but as soon as it’s hopeless they take to +embroidering.” + +“It must be rather a blue day for them when they decide definitely to +make the change,” said Jack. + +“I never thought of that,” said Mrs. Rosscott soberly. “Of course it +must! I was always very good to them. I gave them ever so many things +that I could have used longer myself, and they used to set pieces of +muslin in behind the open-work places and wear them.” + +She sighed. + +“It’s quite as bad as being a Girton girl,” she said. “Do you know what +a Girton girl is?” + +“No, I don’t.” + +“It’s a girl from Girton College. It’s the most awful freak you ever +saw. They’re really quite beyond everything. They’re so homely, and +their hands and feet are so enormous, and their pins never pin, and +their belts never belt. And no one has ever married one of them yet!” + +She paused dramatically. + +“I won’t either, then,” he declared. + +She laughed at that, and touched up the cob a trifle. + +“Did you live long in England?” he asked. + +“Forever!” she answered with emphasis; “at least it seemed like +forever. Mamma left me there when I was nineteen (she married me off +before she left me, of course) and I stayed there until last +winter—until I was out of my mourning, you know—and then I was on the +Continent for a while, and then I returned to papa.” + +“How do we strike you after your long absence?” + +“Oh, you suit me admirably,” she said, turning and smiling squarely +into his face; “only the terrible ‘and’ of the majority does get on my +nerves somewhat.” + +“What ‘and’?” + +“Haven’t you noticed? Why when an American runs out of talking material +he just rests on one poor little ‘and’ until a fresh run of thought +overwhelms him; you listen to the next person you’re talking with, and +you’ll hear what I mean.” + +Jack reflected. + +“I will,” he said at last. + +The road went sweeping in and out among a thicket of bare tree trunks +and brown copses, and the sunlight fell out of the blue sky above +straight down upon their heads. + +“If it don’t annoy you, my referring to England so often,” said she +presently, “I will state that this reminds me of Kaysmere, the country +place of my father-in-law.” + +“Is your father-in-law living yet?” + +“Dear me, yes—and still has hold of the title that I supposed I was +getting when I was married to his eldest son. My father-in-law is a +particularly healthy old gentleman of eighty. He was forty years old +when he married. He didn’t expect to marry, you know—he couldn’t see +his way to ever affording it. But he jumped into the title suddenly and +then, of course, he married right away. He had to. You’d know what a +hurry he must have been in to look at my mamma-in-law’s portrait.” + +“Was she so very beautiful?” + +“No; she was so very homely. Maude’s very like her.” + +Jack laughed. + +She laughed, too. + +“Aren’t we happy together?” she asked. + +“My sky knows but one cloud,” he rejoined, “and that is that Monday +comes after Sunday.” + +“But we shall meet again,” said Mrs. Rosscott. “Because,” she added +mischievously, “I don’t suppose that it’s on account of my cousin Maude +that you rebel at the approach of Monday.” + +“No,” said Jack. “It may not be polite to say so to you, but I wasn’t +in the least thinking of your cousin.” + +“Poor girl!” said Mrs. Rosscott thoughtfully; “and she was so sweet to +you, too. Mustn’t it be terrible to have a face like that?” + +“It must indeed,” said Jack; “I can think of but one thing worse.” + +“What?” + +“To marry a face like that.” + +She laughed again. + +“You’re cruel,” she declared; “after all her face isn’t her fortune, so +what does it matter?” + +“It doesn’t matter at all to me,” said Jack. “I know of very few things +that can matter less to me than Miss Lorne’s face.” + +“Now, you’re cruel again; and she was so nice to you too. Absolutely, I +don’t believe that the edges of her smile came together once while she +was talking to you last night.” + +“Did you spy on us to that extent?” said Jack. “I wouldn’t have +believed it of you.” + +“Oh, I’m very awful,” she said airily. “You’ll be more surprised the +farther you penetrate into the wilderness of my ways.” + +“And when will I have a chance to plunge into the jungle, do you +think?” + +“Any Saturday or Sunday that you happen to be in town.” + +“Are you going to live in town?” + +“For a while. I’ve taken a house until the beginning of July. I expect +some friends over, and I want to entertain them.” + +Jack felt the sky above become refulgent. He was in the habit of +spending every Saturday night in the city—he and Burnett together. + +“May I come as often as I like?” he asked. + +“Certainly,” said she; “because you know if you should come too often I +can tell the man at the door to say I’m ‘not at home’ to you.” + +“But if he ever says: ‘She’s not at home to you,’ I shall walk right in +and fall upon the man that you are being at home to just then.” + +“But he is a very large man,” said Mrs. Rosscott seriously; “he’s +larger than you are, I think.” + +Jack felt the blue heavens breaking up into thunderbolts for his head +at _this_ speech. + +“But I’m way over six feet,” he said, his heart going heavily faster, +even while he told himself that he might have known it, anyhow. + +“He’s all of six feet two,” she said meditatively. “I do believe he’s +even taller. I remember liking him at the first glance, just because he +struck me as so royal looking.” + +He was miserably conscious of acute distress. + +“Do—do you mind my smoking?” he stammered. + +(Might have known that, of course, there was bound to be someone like +that.) + +“Not at all,” she rejoined amiably. “I like the odor of cigarettes. +Shall I stop a little, while you set yourself afire?” + +“It isn’t necessary,” he said. “I can set myself afire under any +circumstances.” + +He lit a cigarette. + +“Is he English?” he couldn’t help asking then. + +“Yes,” she said; “I like the English.” + +“You appear to like everything to-day.” He did not intend to seem +bitter, but he did it unintentionally. + +(Confounded luck some fellows have.) + +“I do. I’m very well content to-day.” + +He was silent, thinking. + +“Well,” she queried, after a while. + +He pulled himself together with an effort. + +“I think perhaps it’s just as well,” he said. + +“What is just as well?” + +“That I know.” + +“Know what?” + +“About him. I shan’t ever take the chances of calling on you now.” + +She laughed. + +“He wouldn’t put you out unless I told him to,” she said. “You needn’t +be too afraid of him, you know.” + +His face grew a trifle flushed. + +“I’m not afraid,” he said, as coldly as it was in him to speak; “but +I’ll leave him the field.” + +She turned and looked at him. + +“The field?” she asked, with puzzled eyebrows. + +“Yes.” + +Then she frowned for an instant, and then a species of thought-ray +suddenly flew across her face and she burst out laughing. + +“Why, I do believe,” she cried merrily, “I do believe you’re jealous of +the man at the door.” + +“Weren’t you speaking of a man in the drawing-room?” he asked, all her +phrases recurring to his mind together. + +“No,” she said laughing; “I was speaking of my footman. Oh, you are so +funny.” + +The way the sun shone suddenly again! His horizon glowed so madly that +he quite lost his head and leaning quickly downward seized her hand in +its little tan driving glove of stitched dogskin, and kissed it—reins +and all. + +“I’m not funny,” he said, “it was the most natural thing in the world.” + +She was laughing, but she curbed it. + +“You’d better not be foolish,” she said warningly. “It don’t mix well +with college.” + +“I’m thinking of cutting college,” he declared boldly. + +“Don’t let us decide on anything definite until we’ve known one another +twenty-four hours,” she said, looking at him with a gravity that was +almost maternal; and then she turned the horse’s head toward home. + + + + +Chapter Six +The Other Man + + +That evening Burnett felt it necessary to give his friend a word of +warning. + +“Holloway’s going to take Betty in to-night,” he said, as they +descended the tower stairs together. + +“Who’s Holloway?” Jack asked. + +“You can’t expect to have her all the time, you know,” Burnett +continued: “She’s really one of the biggest guns here, even if she is +one of the family.” + +“Who’s Holloway?” + +“Last night the _mater_ had her all mapped out for General Jiggs, and I +had an awful time getting her off his hook and on to yours, and then +you drove her all this morning and walked her all the afternoon, and +the old lady says she’s got to play in Holloway’s yard to-night—jus’ +lil’ bit, you know.” + +“Who’s Holloway?” Jack demanded. + +“You know Horace Holloway; we were up at his place once for the night. +Don’t you remember?” + +“I remember his place well enough; but he hadn’t got in when we came, +and hadn’t got up when we left, so his features aren’t as distinctly +imprinted on my memory as they might be.” + +“That’s so,” said Burnett, pushing aside the curtains that concealed +the foot of the wee stair; “I’d forgotten. Well, you’ll meet him +to-night, anyhow; he came on the five-five. Holly’s a nice fellow, only +he’s so darned over-full of good advice that he keeps you feeling +withersome.” + +Jack laughed. + +“Did he ever give you any advice?” he asked. + +“Why?” + +“I don’t recollect your taking it.” + +“I never take anything,” said Burnett; “I consider it more blessed to +give than to receive—as regards good advice anyhow.” + +“Who will I have for dinner?” Jack asked presently, glancing around to +see if there were any silver tissues or distracting curls in sight. + +“Well,” his friend replied, rather hesitatingly, “you must expect to +balance up for last night, I reckon.” + +“Your cousin, I suppose!” + +Burnett nodded. + +“She wanted you,” he said. “She’s taken a fancy to you; and she can +afford to marry for love,” he added. + +“I’m thankful that I can, too,” the other answered fervently. + +His friend laughed at the fervor. + +“You make me think of her teacher,” he said. “She sings, and when she +was sixteen she meant to outrank Patti; she was lots homelier then.” + +“Oh, I say!” Jack cried. “I can believe ’most anything, but—” + +Burnett laughed and then sobered. + +“She was,” he said solemnly; “she really and truly was. And her mother +said to her teacher,—there in Dresden: ‘She will be the greatest +soprano, won’t she?’ And he said: ‘Madame, she has only that one +chance—to be _the_ greatest.’” + +Jack laughed. + +“But why ‘Lorne’?” he asked suddenly. “Why not ‘Burnett,’ since she’s +your uncle’s child?” + +“Oh, that’s straight enough; there’s a hyphen there. My uncle died and +my aunt married a title. My aunt’s Lady Chiheleywicks, but the family +name is Lorne. And you pronounce my aunt’s name Chix.” + +“I’m glad I know,” said Jack. + +“Oh, we’re great on titles,” said Burnett, modestly. “If the Boers +hadn’t killed Col. Rosscott, Betty would have been a Lady, too, some +day. But as it is—” he added thoughtfully, “she’s nothing but a widow.” + +“‘Nothing but’!” Jack cried indignantly. + +“Oh, well,” said Burnett, “of course it’s great, her being a widow—but +then she’d have been great the other way too.” + +“But if he was English and a colonel,” Jack said suddenly, “he must +have been all of—” + +“Fifty!” interposed Burnett; “oh, he was! Maybe more, but he dyed his +hair. It was a splendid match for her. It isn’t every girl who can get +a—” + +Their conversation was suddenly cut short by voices, accompanied by a +sort of sweet and silky storm of little rustles and the sound of +feet—little feet—coming down the great hall. Aunt Mary’s nephew felt +himself suddenly wondering if any other fellow present had such a +tempest within his bosom as he himself was conscious of attempting to +regulate unperceived. + +And then, after all, she wasn’t among the influx! Miss Maude, was, +though, and he had to go up to her and talk to her; and terribly dull +hard labor it was. + +While he was rolling the Sisyphus stone of conversation uphill for the +sixth or seventh time, Jack noticed a gentleman pass by and throw a +more than ordinarily interesting glance their way. He was a very +well-built, fairly good-sized man of thirty-five or forty years, with a +handsome, uninteresting face and heavy, sleepy dark eyes. + +“Who is that?” he asked of his companion, his curiosity supplementing +his wish that she would begin to bear her share of the burden of her +entertainment. + +“Don’t you know?” she said in surprise. “That’s Mr. Holloway. He’s just +come. Oh, he’s so horrid! I think he’s just too awfully horrid for any +use.” + +“Why?” + +“Because he does such mean things. I just know Bob must have told you +how he treated me. Bob’s always telling it. Surely he’s told you. It’s +his favorite story.” + +“No, never,” said Jack (his eyes riveted on the staircase); “he never +told me. But do tell me. I’ll enjoy hearing your side of it.” + +“But I haven’t any side. It’s just Horace Holloway’s meanness. There’s +nothing funny.” + +“But tell me anyway.” + +“Do you really want to hear?” + +“Indeed, I do.” + +“Well, it’s just that we were up in the mountains, and I was rowing +myself, and the boat didn’t go well, and Mr. Holloway came down off the +hotel piazza and called to me that she needed ballast, and—and I said: +‘Is that the trouble?’ And he said: ‘Yes, row ashore, and I’ll ballast +you.’ And so, of course I rowed ashore to get him, and (of course, I +supposed he meant himself), and when I was up by the dock he picked up +a great stone and dropped it in, and shoved me off, and called after +me: ‘She’ll go better now,’ and—everyone laughed!” + +Miss Lome stopped, breathless. + +“I never would have believed it of him,” Jack exclaimed, turning to see +where Holloway kept his sense of humor; but just as his eye fell upon +the latter, the latter’s eyes altered and suddenly became so bright and +intent that his observer involuntarily turned his own gaze quickly in +the same direction. + +It was Mrs. Rosscott who was approaching, all in cerise with lines of +Chantilly lace sweeping about her. It seemed a cruelty to every woman +present that she should be so beautiful. Jack wanted to fly and fall at +her feet, but he couldn’t, of course—he was tied to her hyphenated +cousin. + +But Holloway went forward and greeted her with all possible +_empressement_, and the man who was so much his junior felt an awful +weight of youth upon him as he saw her led out of his sight. + +“I think dear Betty will marry Mr. Holloway,” her cousin chirped +blandly, thus settling her fate forever. “He came over in her party, +you know, and—she’s always been fond of him.” + +Jack suddenly recollected how Mrs. Rosscott had commented on the +terrible tendency to land upon “and,” and wondered why he had never +noticed before how disagreeable said tendency was. + +(Going to marry Holloway!) + +“But, then, dear Cousin Betty’s such a coquette that no one can ever +tell whom she does like. She’s very insincere.” + +Jack twisted uneasily. If there was any comfort to be derived from Miss +Lorne’s last speech, it was certainly of a most chilly sort. + +(Probably going to marry Holloway!) + +“Now, I think it’s too bad, when there are so many simple, sweet girls +in the world, that men seem to adore those that flirt like dear Cousin +Betty. I don’t approve of flirting anyway. I wouldn’t flirt for +anything. I don’t want to break men’s hearts.” + +“That’s awfully good of you,” Jack said, looking eagerly to where +Holloway and Mrs. Rosscott stood together. + +“Oh, no it isn’t,” said Miss Lorne, “I don’t take any credit for it—I +was born so. Dear Betty was a regular flirt when she was ever so small, +but I never was. I’m sincere and I can’t take any credit for it. I was +born so.” + +Holloway was talking and Mrs. Rosscott’s eyes were uplifted to his. +Jack was sure there was adoration in them. He knew Holloway was in love +with her. How could he be a man and help it. Oh, it was +damnable—unbearable. + +He stood up suddenly. He couldn’t help it. He was crazed, maddened, +choked, stifled. The fates must intervene and rescue his reason or +else— + +There was a blessed sound—the announcing of dinner. + + +Later there was music in the great white salon where the organ was. +Maude Lome sang, and the man with the monocle accompanied her on the +organ. Mrs. Rosscott sat on a divan between Holloway and General Jiggs. +Jack was left out in the cold. + +(Surely in love with Holloway!) + +It was only twenty-six hours since he had first met her, and he hated +to consider his life as unalterably blasted, or to even give up the +fight. Nevertheless, whenever he looked across the room he saw fresh +signs of the most awful kind. Even the way that she didn’t trouble to +trouble over the one man, but devoted herself to General Jiggs, was in +itself a very bad portent. Well, such was life and one must bear it +somehow and be a man. Probably he would suffer less after the first +five or ten years—he hoped so at any rate. But, great heavens, what a +fearful prospect until those first five or ten years were gone by! + +Finally he went up to his own room and put on another collar and sat +down at the open window and thought about it for a good while all quiet +and alone by himself. After that he went back downstairs. + +She was gone, and Holloway, too. He felt freshly unhappy. When you come +to consider, it was so damned unjust for one man to be thirty-five +while another—just as decent a fellow in every way—was in college. He— + +A hand touched his arm. + +He turned from where he was standing in the window recess, and looked +into her eyes. + +“I’m very wicked, am I not?” she asked, looking up at him so straight +and honest. + +“I can’t admit that,” he replied. + +“But I am. I know it myself. What Bob told you was all true. I’m a +heartless wretch.” + +She spoke so earnestly that his heart sank lower and lower. + +“I wanted to speak to you about to-morrow morning,” she said, after a +little pause. “You know we were going to drive at ten together, and—and +I wondered if—you see, Mr. Holloway’s an old friend, and he’s had so +much to tell me to-night, and he isn’t half through—” + +She was drawing him with a chain, a hair chain, which she had woven out +of her eyelashes in the twinkling of an eye (either eye). + +He felt himself helpless—and choked. + +“Of course I don’t mind. You go with him. It’s quite one to me.” + +She gave a tiny little start. + +“Oh, I didn’t mean that at all,” she cried. “I meant—I meant—you see +it’s all been a little tiring—and to-morrow’s Sunday anyway and I—I +Wanted to—to ask you if we couldn’t go out at eleven instead of ten?” + +She looked so sweetly questioning, and his relief was so great, and his +joy— + +(Probably don’t care a rap for Holloway!) + +—so intense, that he could hardly refrain from seizing her in his arms. + +But he only seized her little hand instead and pressed it fervently to +his lips. When he raised his eyes she was smiling, and her smile filled +him with happiness. + +“You’re such a boy!” she said softly, and turned and left him there in +the window recess alone again,—but this time he didn’t care. + + + + +Chapter Seven +Developments + + +It was during that drive the next morning that Jack buoyed up by +memories of Saturday and hopes of coming Saturdays, poured out the +history of his life at Mrs. Rosscott’s knees. He told her the whole +story of Aunt Mary, and _his_ side of the cat, the cabman, and +Kalamazoo. It interested her, for she had arrived too recently to have +had the full details in the newspapers beforehand, but when he spoke of +Aunt Mary’s last letter she grew large-eyed and shook her head gravely. + +“You will have to be very good now,” she said seriously. + +“Why?” he asked. “Just to keep from being disinherited? That wouldn’t +be so awful.” + +“Wouldn’t it be awful to you?” she asked, turning her bright eyes upon +him. “What could be worse?” + +“Things,” he said very vaguely. + +Then she touched up the cob a little; and, after a minute or two, as +she said nothing, he continued: + +“I almost fancy quitting college and going to work. I was thinking +about it last night.” + +She touched up the cob a little more, and remained silent. + +Finally he said: + +“What would you think of my doing that?” + +“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “You see, I’m a great philosopher. I +never fret or worry, because I regard it as useless; similarly, I never +rebel at the way fate shapes my life—I regard that as something past +helping. I believe in predestination; do you?” + +She turned and looked at him so seriously—so unlike her _riante_ +self—that he felt startled, and did not know what to say for a minute. + +Then: + +“I don’t know,” he said slowly; “I don’t know that I dare to. It rather +startles me to think that maybe all of our future is laid out now.” + +“It doesn’t startle me,” she said. “It seems to me the natural plan of +the universe. I believe that everything that crosses our path—down to +the tiniest gnat—comes there in the fulfillment of a purpose.” + +“I’m sure that all the mosquitoes that ever crossed my path came there +in the fulfillment of a purpose,” Jack interrupted. “I never doubted +_that_.” + +She smiled a little. + +“It’s the same with people,” she went on. + + +[Illustration: “Do not let us play any longer,’ she said. ‘Let us be +in earnest.’”] + + +“Only less painful,” he interrupted again. + +“Sometimes not,” she said, with a look that silenced him. “Sometimes +much more so—my Cousin Maude, for example.” + +“Hip, hip, hurrah for the mosquito!” he murmured. They laughed softly +together. Then she grew earnest, and looked so grave that he became +serious too. + +“There is always a purpose,” she said, with a touch of some feeling +which he had never guessed at. “If you and I have met, it is because we +are to have some influence over one another. I can’t just see how; I +can’t form any idea—” + +“I can,” he said eagerly. + +She looked up so suddenly and steadily that he was silent. + +“Do not let us play any longer,” she said. “Let us be in earnest.” + +“But I am in earnest,” he asseverated. + +“You don’t know what I mean,” she went on very gently. “You’re in +college. Let’s fight it out on those lines if it takes all summer.” + +He looked up into her face and loved her better than ever for the frank +kindliness that shone in her eyes. + +“All right, if you say so,” he vowed. + +“I do say so,” she said. “I like to see men stick it through in college +if they begin. I like to see people finish up every one of life’s jobs +that they set out on.” + +“But I’m coming to see you in town, you know,” he went on with great +apparent irrelevance. + +She laughed merrily. + +“Yes, surely. You must promise me that.—No,” she stopped and looked +thoughtful, “I’ll tell you what I want you to promise me. Promise me +that you’ll come once a week or else write me why you can’t come. Will +you?” + +“You can’t suppose that you’ll ever see my handwriting under such +circumstances—can you?” Jack asked. + +She laughed again. + +“Is it a promise?” + +“Yes, it’s a promise.” + +Oh, joy unmeasured in the time of spring! No other February like that +had ever been for them—nor ever would be. The drive came to an end, the +day came to an end, but the good-nights, which were good-bys, too, were +not so fraught with hopelessness as he had dreaded, for the promise +asked and given paved a broad road illuminated by the most hopeful kind +of stars,—a broad road leading straight from college to town,—and his +fancy showed him a figure treading it often. A figure that was his own. + + + + +Chapter Eight +The Resolution He Took + + +That first meeting was in February, you know, and by the last of April +it had been followed by so many others that Burnett remarked one day to +his chum: + +“Say, aren’t you going a little faster than auntie’ll stand for?” + +Jack turned in surprise. + +“I never went so straight in my life before,” he exclaimed, not in +indignation but in astonishment. + +“I didn’t mean that,” said Burnett. “Perhaps instead of ‘auntie’ I +should have said ‘Betty.’” + +Jack hoisted the colors of Harvard, and was silent. + +“I warned you at first that that was Tangle town,” his friend went on. +“Don’t suppose I’m saying anything against her—or against you; but +she’s just as much to ten other men as she is to you, and they all are +old enough to carry lots of weight.” + +“And I suppose I’m not,” Jack answered, going over by the fireplace. “I +know that as well as anyone, of course.” + +“_Natürlich_,” said Burnett, with conclusiveness that was not meant to +be cruel, yet cut like a two edged knife. + +There was silence in the room. Jack stood by the chimney-piece, his +hands upraised to rest upon its lofty shelf, his head dropped forward, +and his eyes fixed on the empty blackness below. + +“I wonder,” he said at last, “I wonder what will become of me if—if—” + +He stopped. + +Burnett didn’t speak. + +“I wonder if she thinks of me as a boy,” the young man continued. “I +wonder if she’s so good to me because I’m her youngest brother’s +friend.” + +Burnett did not comment on this speech. + +“I don’t know what to do,” the other said. “When I first met her I +wanted to cut college and get out in the world and go to work like a +man. I told her so. But she wanted me to stay in college, and as it was +the first thing she’d ever wanted of me, I did it. I’d do anything she +asked me. I’ve quit drinking. I’m going at everything as hard as it’s +in me to go; but—I don’t know—I feel—I feel as if it isn’t me—it’s just +because she wants me to, and, do you know, old man, it frightens me to +think how—if she—if she went out of my—my life—” + +He stopped and his broken phrases were not continued to any ending. + +Another long silence ensued. + +It was finally terminated by the brother’s saying: + +“You must confess, old man, that you aren’t fixed so as to be able to +say one really serious word to any woman—unless it is, ‘Wait.’” + +“I know that,” Jack answered; “but I suppose—” + +“She’d be taking so many chances,” the friend interrupted. “A man in +college is never the real thing. You’d better give it up.” + +Then the other whirled about and faced him. + +“Give it up, did you say?” he asked almost angrily. + +“Yes, that’s what.” + +For a minute they looked at one another. Then: + +“I shall never give it up,” the lover said very slowly and +steadily—“never, until she gives me up.” + +Burnett sucked in his breath with a sudden compression of his lips. + +“All right,” he said, not unkindly; “but I don’t believe you’ll ever +get her, and that’s flat. There are too many being entered for that +race, and long before you and I get out of here she’ll be Mrs. Somebody +Else.” + +Jack stared at him as if he hardly heard, and then suddenly he stepped +nearer and spoke. + +“Did she ask you to have this talk with me?” + +“No,” said the brother in surprise, “she never says anything about you +to me.” + +A look of relief fled across his friend’s face, and then a look of +resolution succeeded it. + +“I’m not going to be discouraged,” he said; “not for a while, at any +rate.” + +“You’d better be.” + +Jack laughed. The laugh sounded a trifle hollow, but still it was a +laugh, and that in itself was a triumph of which none but himself might +ever measure the extent. + +Because in that moment he decided to lay the whole case before her the +next time that he went to town, and the coming to a resolution was a +relief from the uncertainty that clouded his days and nights—even if a +further black curtain of darkest doubt hung before the possibilities of +what her answer might be. + + + + +Chapter Nine +The Downfall of Hope + + +It was on a Saturday about the middle of May that Jack came to town, +his mind well braced with love and arguments, and his main thoughts +being that when he returned something would be settled. + +It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and at five in the afternoon +both of the drawing-room windows of Mrs. Rosscott’s house were wide +open, and the lace curtains were taking the breeze like little sails. + +Just as Jack mounted the steps, the door opened, and a plainly dressed, +unattractive-looking man was let out. The servant who did the letting +out saw Jack and let him in without closing the door between the egress +of the one and the ingress of the other. So he entered without ringing, +and, as he was very well known and intensely popular with all of Mrs. +Rosscott’s servants, the man invited him to walk up unannounced, since +he himself was just “bringing in the tea.” + +Jack went upstairs, and because the carpet was of thickly piled velvet +and his boots were the boots of a well-shod gentleman, he made no noise +whatever in the so doing. + +There were double parlors above stairs in the domicile which Burnett’s +sister had taken until July, and they were furnished in the most +correct and trying mode of Louis XIV. The chairs were gilt and very +uncomfortable. The ornaments were all straight up and down and made in +such shapes that there was no place to flick off cigarette ashes +anywhere. Nothing could be pulled up to anything else and there was not +a single good place to rest one’s elbows anywhere. The only saving +grace in the situation was that after five minutes or so Mrs. Rosscott +invariably suggested removal to the library which lay beyond—a very +different species of apartment where no mode at all prevailed except +the terrible _démodé_ thing known as comfort. To prevent her visitors, +when seated (for the five minutes aforementioned) amid the correct +carving of French art, from looking longingly through at the +easy-chairs of American manufacture, Mrs. Rosscott had ordered that the +blue velvet portières which hung between should never be pushed aside, +and it was owing to this order that Jack, entering the drawing-room, +heard voices, but could not see into the library beyond. Also it was +owing to this order that those in the library could not see or hear +Jack. + +The result was that the young man, finding the drawing-room unoccupied, +was just crossing toward the blue velvet curtains, intending to wait in +the library until the returning servant should advise him of the +whereabouts of his mistress, when he was stopped by suddenly hearing a +voice—her voice—crying (and laughing at the same time)— + +“Kisses barred! Kisses barred!” + +It may be understood that had Mrs. Rosscott known that anyone was +within hearing she certainly would never have made any such speech, and +it may be further understood that, had whoever was with her, also +mistrusted the close propinquity of another man, he would never have +replied (as he did reply): + +“Certainly,” the same being spoken in a most calm and careless tone. + +Jack, the eavesdropper, stood transfixed at the voices and speeches, +and forgot every other consideration in the overwhelming sickness of +soul which overcame him that instant. All his other soul-sicknesses +were trifles compared to this one, and the world—his world—their +world—seemed to revolve and whirl and turn upside down, as he steadied +himself against a spindle-legged cabinet and felt its spindle-legs +trembling in sympathy with his own. + +“Darling,” said Holloway, a second or two later (and this time his +voice was not calm and careless, but deep and impassioned), “the letter +was very sweet, and if you knew how I longed to take the tired little +girl to my bosom and comfort her troubles, and replace them by joys!” + +“Will that day ever come, do you think?” Mrs. Rosscott answered, in low +tones, which nevertheless were most painfully clear and distinct in the +next room. + +“It must,” Holloway replied, “just as surely as that I hold this dear +little hand—” + +But Jack never knew more. He had heard enough—more than enough. Four +thousand times too much. He turned and went out of the rooms, back down +the stairs and out of the door, closed it noiselessly behind him, and +found himself in a world which, although bright and sunny to all the +rest of mankind, had turned dark, lonely, and cheerless to him. + +At first he hardly knew what to do with himself, he was so altogether +used up by the discovery just made. He drifted up and down some unknown +streets for an hour or two—or stood still on corners—he never was very +sure which. And then at last he went downtown and took a drink in a +half-dazed way; and because it was quite two months since his last +indulgence, its suggestion was potent. + +The pity—or rather, the apparent pity—of what followed! + +Burnett was Sundaying at the ancestral castle; and Burnett wasn’t the +warning sort, anyhow. He was always tow and pitch for any species of +flame. So his absence counted for nothing in the crisis. + +And what ensued was a crisis—a crisis with a vengeance. + +That tear upon which Aunt Mary’s nephew went was something lurid and +awful. It lasted until Monday, and then its owner returned to college, +as ill of body and as embittered of spirit as it was in him to be. The +lightsome devil who had ruled him up to his meeting with Mrs. Rosscott +resumed its sway with terrible force. The authorities showed a tendency +to patience because young Denham had appeared to reform lately and had +been working hard; but young Denham felt no thankful sentiments for +their leniency, and proved his position shortly. + +There was a man named Tweedwell whom circumstances threw directly in +the path of destruction. Tweedwell was an inoffensive mortal who was +studying for the ministry. He was progressive in his ideas, and +believed that a clergyman, to hold a great influence, should know his +world. He thought that knowledge of the world was to be gained by +skirting the outside edge of every species of worldliness. The result +of this course of action was not what it should have been, for +Tweedwell was an easy mark for all who wanted fun, and the +consciousness of his innocence so little accelerated the pace at which +he got out of the way that he was always being called to account for +what he hadn’t done. + +The Saturday night after his Saturday in town, Jack concocted a piece +of deviltry which was as dangerous as it was foolish. The result was +that an explosion took place, and the author of the gun-powder plot had +all the skin on both hands blistered. Burnett, in escaping, fell and +broke his collarbone and two ribs. The house in which the affair took +place caught fire, and was badly damaged. And Tweedwell was arrested on +the strongest kind of circumstantial evidence, and had to answer for +the whole. Naturally, in the investigation that followed, the two who +were guilty had to confess or see the candidate for the ministry +disgraced forever. + +The result of their confession was that Burnett’s father, a jovial, +peppery old gentleman—we all know the kind—lost his patience and wrote +his son that he’d better not come home again that year. But Aunt Mary +lost her temper much more completely and the result, as affecting Jack, +was awful. + +She might not have acted as she did had the disastrous news arrived +either a week later or a week earlier; but it came just in the middle +of a discouraging ten days’ downpour, which had caused a dam to break +and a chain of valuable cranberry bogs to be drowned out for that year. +The cranberry bogs were especially dear to their owner’s heart. + +“Why can’t they drain ’em?” she had asked Lucinda, who was particularly +nutcracker-like in appearance since her quarantine episode. + +“’Pears like they’re lower’n everywhere else,” Lucinda answered, her +words sounding as if she had sharpened them on a grindstone. + +Aunt Mary bit her lip and frowned at the rain. She felt mad all the way +through, and longed to take it out on someone. + +Ten minutes after Joshua arrived with the mail and the mail bore one +ominous letter. Joshua felt something was wrong before the fact was +assured. + +“She wants the mail,” Lucinda said, coming to the door with her hand +out as usual. + +“She’ll get the mail,” said Joshua, and as he spoke he gave the seeker +after tidings a blood-curdling wink. + +“There isn’t a telegram in one o’ the letters, is there?” Lucinda +asked, much appalled by the wink. + +“No, there isn’t no telegram in none o’ the letters,” said Joshua. + +“Joshua Whittlesey, I do believe you was born to drive saints mad. What +_is_ the matter?” + +“Nothin’ ain’t the matter as I know of.” + +“Then what in Kingdom Come did you wink for?” + +“I winked,” said Joshua meaningly, “cause I expect it’ll be a good +while before we’ll feel like winkin’ again.” + +Lucinda gave him a look in which curiosity and aggravation fought +catch-as-catch-can. Then she turned and went in with the letters. + +Aunt Mary was sitting stonily staring at the rain. + +“I thought you’d gone to take a drive with Joshua,” she said coldly. +“Well, ’s long ’s you’re back I’ll be glad to have my mail. Most folks +like to get their mail as soon as it comes an’ I—Mercy on us!” + +It was the letter from the authorities enclosed in one from Mr. +Stebbins. + +Lucinda stood bolt upright before her mistress. + +“What’s happened?” she yelled breathlessly, after a few seconds of the +direst kind of silence had loaded the atmosphere while the letter was +being carefully read. + +Then: + +“Happened!—” said Aunt Mary, transfixing the terrible typewritten +communication with a yet more terrible look of determination. +“Happened!—Well, jus’ what I expected ’s happened an’ jus’ what nobody +expects ’ll happen now. Lucinda, you run like you was paid for it and +tell Joshua not to unharness. Don’t stop to open your mouth. You’ll +need your breath before you get to the barn. Scurry!” + +Lucinda scurried. She splashed and spattered down through the lane that +led to Joshua’s kingdom with a vigor that was commendable in one of her +age. + +“She says ‘don’t unharness,’” she panted, bouncing in through the +doorway just as Joshua was slowly and carefully folding the lap-robe in +the crease to which it had become habituated. + +Joshua continued to fold. + +“Then I won’t unharness,” he said calmly. He hung the robe over the +line that was stretched to hang robes over and Lucinda gasped for wind +with which to inflate further conversation. + +“She says what nobody expects is goin’ to happen,” she panted as soon +as she could. + +“What nobody expects is always happenin’ where he’s concerned,” said +Joshua. + +“I s’pose he’s in some new row,” said Lucinda. + +“I’m sure he is,” said Joshua, “an’ if you don’t go back to her pretty +quick you won’t be no better off.” + +Lucinda turned away and returned to the house. She found Aunt Mary +still staring at the letters with the same concentrated fury as before. + +“Well, is Joshua a’comin’ to the door?” she asked when she saw her maid +before her. + +“You didn’t say for him to come to the door,” Lucinda howled, “you said +for him to stay harnessed.” + +Aunt Mary appeared on the verge of ignition. + +“Lucinda,” she said, “every week I live under the same roof with you +your brains strike me ’s some shrunk from the week before. What in +Heaven’s name should I want Joshua to stay harnessed in the barn for? I +want him to go for Mr. Stebbins an’ I want him to understand ’t if Mr. +Stebbins can’t come he’s got to come just the same’s if he could +anyhow. I may seem quiet to you, Lucinda, but if I do, it only shows +all over again how little you know. This is a awful day an’ if you knew +how awful you’d be half way back to the barn right now. I ain’t +triflin’—I’m meanin’ every word. Every syllable. Every letter.” + +Lucinda fled out into the open again. Her footprints of the time before +were little oblong ponds now and she laid out a new course parallel to +their splashes. She found Joshua sponging the dasher. + +“She wants you to go straight out again.” + +Joshua flung the sponge into the pail. + +“Then I’ll go straight out again,” he said, moving toward the horse’s +head. + +“You’re to bring Mr. Stebbins whether he can come or not.” + +“He’ll come,” said Joshua; and then he backed the horse so suddenly +that the buggy wheel nearly went over Lucinda. + +“She says this is an awful day—” began Lucinda. + +Joshua got into the buggy and tucked the rubber blanket around himself. + +“She says—” + +Joshua drove out of the barn and away. + +Lucinda went slowly back to the house. Aunt Mary had ceased to glare at +the letter and was now glaring at the rain instead. + +“Lucinda,” she said “I’ll thank you not to ever mention my nephew to me +again. I’ve took a vow to never speak his name again myself. By no +means—not at all—never.” + +“Which nephew?” shrieked Lucinda. + +Aunt Mary’s eyes snapped. + +“Jack!” she said, with an accent that seemed to split the short word in +two. + +After a little she spoke again. + +“Lucinda, it’s all been owin’ to the city an’ this last is all city. ’F +I cared a rap what happened to him after this I’d never let him go near +a place over two thousand again as long as he lived. It’s no use tryin’ +to explain things to you, Lucinda, because it never has been any use +an’ never will be—an’ anyway, I’m done with it all. I sh’ll want you +for a witness when I’m through with Mr. Stebbins, and then you can get +some marmalade out for tea an’ we’ll all live in peace hereafter.” + +Joshua returned with Mr. Stebbins and the latter gentleman went to work +with a will and willed Jack out of Aunt Mary’s. Later Joshua took him +home again. Lucinda got the marmalade out of the cellar and Aunt Mary +had it with her tea. It was a bitter tea—unsugared indeed—and the days +that followed matched. + + + + +Chapter Ten +The Woes of the Disinherited. + + +It was some days later on in the world’s history that Holloway was +calling on Bertha Rosscott. + +They were sitting in that comfortable library previously referred to +and were sweetly unaware that any untoward series of incidents had ever +led to an invasion of their privacy. + +Holloway lay well back in a sleepy-hollow chair and looked indolently, +lazily handsome; his hostess was up on—well up on the divan, and he had +the full benefit of her admirable bottines and their dainty heels and +buckles. + +“Honestly,” he said, looking her over with a gaze that was at once +roving and well content, “honestly, I think that every time I see you, +you appear more attractive than the time before.” + +“It’s very nice of you to say so,” she replied. “And, of course, I +believe you, for every time that I get a new gown I think that very +same thing myself. Still, I do regard it as strange if I look nicely +to-day, for I’ve been crying like a baby all the morning.” + +“You crying! And why?” + +She raised her eyes to his. + +“Such bad news!” she said simply. + +“From where? Of whom?” + +“From mamma, about Bob.” + +“Have _his_ wounds proved serious?” Holloway looked slightly distressed +as was proper. + +“It isn’t that. It’s papa. Papa has forbidden him the house. He’s very, +very angry.” + +Holloway looked relieved. + +“Your father won’t stay angry long, and you know it,” he said. “Just +think how often he has lost his temper over the boys and how often he’s +found it again.” + +“It isn’t just Bob,” said Mrs. Rosscott. “I’ve someone else on my mind, +too.” + +“Who, pray?” + +“His friend.” + +“Young Denham?” + +“Yes.” + +With that she threw her head up and looked very straightly at her +caller whose visage shaded ever so slightly in spite of himself. + +“Have his wounds proved serious?” he asked, smiling, but unable to +altogether do away with a species of parenthetical inflection in his +voice. + +“It wasn’t over his wounds that I cried.” + +“Did you really cry at all for him?” + +“I cried more for him than I did for Bob,” she admitted boldly. + +“He is a fortunate boy! But why the tears in his case?” + +“I felt so badly to be disappointed in him.” + +“Did you expect to work a miracle there, my dear? Did you think to +reform such an inveterate young reprobate with a glance?” + +“I’m not sure that I ever asked myself either of those questions,” she +replied, slowly; “but he promised me something, and I expected him to +keep his word.” + +“Men don’t keep such promises, Bertha,” the visitor said. “You +shouldn’t have expected it.” + +“I don’t know why not.” + +“Because a man who drinks will drink again.” + +“I didn’t refer to drinking,” she said quietly. “It was quite another +thing.” + +“Ah!” + +She looked down at her rings and seemed to consider how much of her +confidence she should give him, and the consideration led her to look +up presently and say: + +“He promised me that if he could not call any week he would write me a +line instead. He came to town last week, and he neither called nor +wrote. That wasn’t like the man I saw in him. That was a direct +breaking of his word. I can’t understand, and I’m disappointed.” + +Holloway took out his cigarette case and turned it over and over +thoughtfully in his hands. + +“He’s nothing but a boy,” he said at last, with an effort. + +“He’s no boy,” she said. “He’s almost twenty-two years old. He’s a +man.” + +“Some are men at twenty-two, and some are boys,” Holloway remarked. “I +was a man before I was eighteen—a man out in the world of men. But +Denham’s a boy.” + +He rose as he spoke, and she held out her hand for him to raise her, +too. + +“It’s early to go,” she remarked parenthetically. + +“I know,” he replied; “but I hear someone being shown into the +drawing-room. I don’t feel formal to-day, and if I can’t lounge in here +alone with you I’d rather go.” + +“How egotistical!” she commented. + +“I am egotistical,” he admitted. + +And went. + +The footman passed him in the hall; he had a card upon his silver +salver, and was seeking his mistress in the library. But when he +entered there the room was empty. Mrs. Rosscott had slipped through the +blue velvet portières, expecting to see a friend, and had stopped short +on the other side, amazed at finding herself face to face with an utter +stranger. + +“I gave the man my card,” said the stranger, in a tone as faded as his +mustache. He was a long, thin man, but what the Germans style “_sehr +korrect_.” + +“I didn’t wait to get it,” the hostess said. “I supposed that, of +course, it was somebody that I knew.” + +“That was natural,” he admitted. + +There was a slight pause of awkwardness. + +“Won’t you sit down?” she asked. + +“Certainly,” said the caller, and sat down. + +Then she sat down, too, and another awkward pause ensued. + +“You didn’t expect to see me, did you?” said the stranger, smiling. + +“No, I didn’t,” said Mrs. Rosscott frankly. “I expected to see someone +else—someone that I knew. Nearly all my visitors are people whom I +know.” + +Her eyes rather demanded an observance of the conventionalities while +her words were putting the best face possible on the queer five +minutes. The stranger smiled. + +“My name is Clover,” he said then. “Of course, as you never saw me +before, you want to know that first of all.” + +“I’d choose to know,” she said. And then the uncompromising neutrality +of her expression deepened so plainly that he hastened to add: + +“I’m H. Wyncoop Clover.” + +“Oh!” she said. And then smiled, too; having heard the name before. + +“Why don’t you ask me my business?” went on H. Wyncoop Clover. “I must +have come for some reason, you know.” + +“I didn’t know it,” said Mrs. Rosscott—“I don’t know anything about you +yet.” + +They both smiled—and then H. Wyncoop resumed his colorless sobriety at +once. + +“It’s about Jack,” he said—“these terrible new developments—” he +stopped short, seeing his _vis-à-vis_ turn deathly white, “it’s nothing +to be frightened over,” he said reassuringly. + +Mrs. Rosscott was furious with herself for having paled. She became +instantly haughty. + +“I was alarmed for my brother,” she said. “I always think of them both +as together.” + +“Oh, in that case, I can reassure you instantly,” said the caller. +“Burnett is doing finely.” + +Mrs. Rosscott was conscious of being suddenly and skillfully +countercharged. She blushed with vexation, bit her lip in perturbation, +and cast upon the trying individual opposite a look of most appealing +interrogation. + +“You see,” said Clover pleasantly, “I was coming to town, so I came in +handy for the purpose of telling you.” + +She gave him a glance that prayed him to be decent and go on with his +errand. + +“Burnett is about recovered,” he said. + +She clasped her hands hard. + +“I wouldn’t be a man for anything!” she exclaimed with sudden fervor, +“they are so awfully mean. Why _don’t_ you go on and tell me _what_ +you’ve come about?” + +He raised his eyebrows. + +“May I?” he asked. + +She choked down some of her exasperation. + +“Yes, you may.” + +“Oh, thank you so much. I’ll begin at once then. Only premising that as +I go to school with your little brother, and as he is rather under a +cloud just at present, we clubbed together to bring you a letter about +him and Jack. He was going to dictate it, but in the end Mitchell wrote +it all. Here it is.” + +With that he put his hand into his pocket, drew out an envelope and +handed it to her. + +“How awfully good of you,” she said gratefully. “Do excuse my reading +it at once, won’t you? You see, I’ve been so anxious about—about my +brother.” + +He nodded understandingly, and she hastily tore open the envelope and +ran her eyes over the written sheets. + +MY DEAR MRS. ROSSCOTT:— + Being the prize writer of the class, I am chosen to take down the + ante mortem confessions of our shattered friends. It is in a sad + hour for them that I do so, because I am naturally so truthful that + I shall not force you to look for my meaning between the lines. On + the contrary, I shall set the cold facts out as neatly as the + pickets on the fence. And in evidence thereof, I open the ball by + telling you frankly that they both look fierce. If they had looked + less awful, and Burnett had had more lime in his bones, we might + have escaped the Powers That Be by simply admitting a sprained + ankle and carefully concealing everything else. But if one man + cracks where you can’t finish the deal, even by the most unlimited + outlay of mucilage and persistence, and another blazes his whole + surface-area in a manner that seems to make the underbrush dubious + to count on forever henceforth; why, you then have a logarithm the + square of which is probably as far beyond your depth as I am beyond + my own just at this point of this sentence. + The long and short of my fresh start is, that your brother wants to + write you, but he is so handicapped (forgive me, but you’re the + only one who hasn’t had that joke sprung on them!) with bandages, + that it’s cruel to expect much of him. It is true that he has his + bosom friend to fall back upon, but if you could see that friend as + we see him these days you wouldn’t be sure whether it was true or + not. The old woman, who had the peddler-and-petticoat episode, was + not in it the same day with your brother’s friend! I do assure you. + And anyhow—even if he still has brains—his writing apparatus is all + done up in arnica, so there you are! + But do not allow me to alarm you unduly! When all’s said and done, + they’re not so badly off physically. Hair and ribs are mere + vanities, anyhow, and we’re here to-day and gone to-morrow! + Something much worse than disfigurements and broken bones has + sprung forth from chaos, and has almost stared them out of + countenance since. It is the wolf that is at the door, and the + howling and prowling of their particular wolf is not to be sneezed + at, let me tell you. To put a modern political face upon an ancient + Greek fable, the wolf in their case symbolizes the bitter question + of whose roof is going to roof them when they get out of the + plaster casts that are bed and board to them just at present. Where + are they to go? All those which used to be open to them are + suddenly shut tight. They’ve both been expelled, and both been + disinherited. If I was inclined to look on the blue side of the + blanket, I should certainly feel that they were playing in very + tough luck. Burnett, of course, can come to you, and his soul is + full of the wish to bring his fellow-fright along with him. Which + wish of his is the gist of my epistle. Can he bring him? He wants + to know before he broaches the proposition. I’m to be skinned alive + if Jack ever learns that such a plea was made, so I beg you + whatever other rash acts you see fit to commit during your meteoric + flight across my plane of existence, don’t ever give me away. + Firstly, because if I ever get a chance to do so, I’m positive that + I should want to cling to you as the mistletoe does to the oak, and + could not bear to be given away; and secondly, because I’m so + attached to my own skin that I should really suffer pain if it was + taken from me by force. Bob wants you to think it over, and let him + know as to the whats and whens by return mail. + You are so inspiring that I could write you all day, but those + relics of what once was, but alas! will never be again, need to be + rolled up afresh in absorbent cotton, and so I must nail my Red + Cross on to my left arm, and get down to business. If you saw how + useful I am to your brother, you’d thank his lucky stars that I + came through myself with nothing worse than getting my ear stepped + on. I was hugging the ladder (being canny and careful), and the man + above me toed in. Isn’t it curious to think that if he’d worn + braces in early youth my ear would be all right now. + Behold me at your feet. + + +Respectfully yours, +HERBERT KENDRICK MITCHELL. + + +When Mrs. Rosscott had finished the letter she looked across at her +caller, and said: + +“You’ve read this, haven’t you?” + +“No,” said he. “I tried to unstick it two or three times coming on the +train, but it was too much for me.” + +“Don’t you really know what it says?” she asked more earnestly. + +“Yes, I do,” Clover answered, “but Denham must never know that I do.” + +“I won’t tell him,” she said smiling faintly. “But surely he can’t be +as badly off as this says. Has he really lost all his hair?” + +“Not all—only in spots,” Clover reassured her; but then his +recollections overcame him, and he added, with a grin: “But he’s a +fearful looking specimen, all right, though.” + +“About my brother,” she went on, turning the letter thoughtfully in her +fingers; “when can he get out, do they think?” + +“Any time next week.” + +“I’ll write him,” she said. “I’ll write him and tell him that +everything will be arranged for—for—for them both.” + +Clover sprang to his feet. + +“Oh, thank you,” he exclaimed. “That’s most awfully good in you!” + +“Not at all,” she answered. “I’m very glad to be able to welcome them. +You must impress that upon them—particularly—particularly on my +brother.” + +Clover smiled. + +“I will,” he said, rising to go. + +“I’d ask you to stay longer,” she said, holding out her hand, “but I’m +due at a charity entertainment to-night, and I have to go very early.” + +“I know,” he said; “I’ve come up on purpose to go to it.” + +“Then I shall see you there?” she asked him. + +“It will be what I shall be looking forward to most of all,” he said. + +“It’s been a great pleasure to meet you,” she said, holding out her +hand, “you’re—well, you’re ‘unlike,’ as they say in literary +criticisms.” + +“Thank you,” he replied; “but may I ask if you intend that as a +compliment?” + +“Dear me,” she laughed, “let me think how I did intend it.—Yes, it was +meant for a compliment.” + +“Thank you,” he said, shaking her hand warmly, “it’s so nice to know, +you know. Good-by.” + +“Good-by.” + +Then he went away. + + + + +Chapter Eleven +The Dove of Peace + + +The first result of Mrs. Rosscott’s invitation was that Jack refused. +He said that he had a sister of his own—two, if it came to that—and so +he could easily manage for himself. He was very decided about it, and +somewhat lofty and bitter—a stand which no one understood his taking. + +His flat refusal was communicated to his would be hostess and it goes +without saying that she was as unable to understand as all the rest. It +keyed well enough with his lately shown indifference, but the +indifference keyed not at all with all that had gone before and still +less with her very correct comprehension of Jack himself. She was quite +positive as to the sincerity of those protestations which he had made +so haltingly—so boyishly—and in such absolutely truthful accents. Why +he had turned over a new—and bad—leaf so suddenly she did not at all +know, but her woman’s wit—backed up by the many good instincts which +good women always get from Heaven knows just where—made her feel firmer +than ever as to her hospitable intentions. Jack had told her many times +that she was his good angel, and it did not seem to her that now, when +he was so deeply involved in so much trouble, was the hour for a man’s +good angel to quietly turn away. Suppose he was haughty!—she knew men +well enough to know that in his case haughtiness and shame would be two +Dromios that even he himself would be unable to tell apart. Suppose he +did rebel against her kindness!—she knew women well enough to know that +under some circumstances they can put down rebellion single-handed—if +they can only be left in the room alone with it for a few minutes. As +regarded Jack, she knew that there was something to explain; and as to +herself she was delightfully positive as to her own irresistibleness. +Given two such statements and the conclusion is easy. Mrs. Rosscott +wrote to Mitchell and here is what she wrote: + +MY DEAR MR. MITCHELL: + I should have answered your letter before only that in the + excitement of corresponding with my brother I forgot all else. But + my manners have returned by slow degrees and in hunting through my + desk for a bill I found you and so take up my pen. + I am quite sure that—in spite of that beautiful opening play of + mine—you are wondering why I am really writing and so I will tell + you at once. When Bob comes here to stay with me I want Mr. Denham + to come too. I have various reasons for wanting him to come. One is + that he has nowhere else to go where he will have half as good a + time as he will here and another is that if he goes anywhere else I + won’t have half as good a time as if he comes here. Pray excuse my + brutal candor, but I am only a woman; brutal candor and womanly + weakness always have gone about encouraging one another, you know. + I cannot see any good reason for Mr. Denham’s not coming except + that he declines my invitation. It is very silly in him, and I + regard it as no reason at all. I am quite unused to being declined + and do not intend to acquire the habit until I am a good deal older + than I was my last birthday. Still, I can understand that he is too + big to force against his will, so I think the kindest way to break + the back of the opposition will be for me to do it personally. As + an over-ruler I nearly always succeed. All I require is an + opportunity. + Please lay the two halves of your brain evenly together and devise + a train and an interview for me. Of course you will meet me at the + train and leave me at the interview. These are the fundamental + rules of my game. I know that you are clever and before we have + left the station you will know that I am. As arch-conspirators we + shall surely win out together, won’t we? + + +Yours very truly, + BERTHA ROSSCOTT. + + +This missive posted, Jack’s good angel made herself patient until the +afternoon of the next day when she might and did expect an answer. + +She was not disappointed. The letter came and it was pleasantly bulky +and appeared ample enough to have contained an indexed gun powder plot. +She was so sure that Mitchell had been fully equal to the occasion that +she tore the envelope open with a smile—and read: + +MY DEAR MRS. ROSSCOTT: + + To think of my having some of your handwriting for my own!—I was + nearly petrified with joy. + You see I know your writing from having read Burnett all those + “Burn this at once” epistles. And I know it still better from + having to catalogue them for his ready reference. You know how + impatient he is. (But I have run into an open switch and must + digress backwards.) + I shall preserve your letter till I die. In war I shall wear it + carefully spread all over wherever I may be killed, and in peace I + intend to keep my place in my Bible with it. Could words say more! + (Being backed up again, I will now begin.) + I was not at all surprised at your writing me. If you had known me + it would have been different. But where ignorance is bliss any + woman but yourself is always liable to pitch in with a pen, and you + see you are not yourself but only “any woman” to me as yet. + Besides, women have written to me before you. My mother does so + regularly. She encloses a postal card and all I have to do is to + mail it and there she is answered. It’s a great scheme which I + proudly invented when I first went away to school and I recommend + it to you if you—if you ever have a mother. + How my ink does run away with me! Let me refer to your esteemed + favor again! Ah! we have worked down to the bed-rock, or—in Hugh + Miller’s colloquial phrasing—to the “old red sandstone,” of the + fact that you want Jack. You state the fact with what you designate + as brutal candor—and I reply with candied brutality, that I have + thought that all along. If you are averse to my view of the matter, + you must look out of the window the whole time that I continue, for + once entered I always fight to a finish and I cannot retire to my + corner on this auspicious occasion without announcing through a + trumpet that even if Jack is a most idiotic fellow I never have + caught the microbe from him, and, as a sequence, have always seen + clear through and out of the other side of the whole situation. Of + course I should not say this to any woman but you because it would + not have any meaning to her, but, between you and me all things are + printed in plain black and white and, therefore, I respectfully + submit a program consisting of the two o’clock train Tuesday and + myself, to be recognized by a beaming look of burning joy, upon the + platform. Beyond that you may confide yourself to waxing waxy in my + hands. They are not bad hands to be in as your brother and + whatever-you-call-Jack can testify. I will lay my lines in the dark + to the end that you may bloom in the sun. + Trust me. You need do no more—except buy your ticket. + The two o’clock on Tuesday. You can easily remember it by the + T’s—if you don’t get mixed with three o’clock on Thursday. Try + remembering it by the 2’s. A safe way would be to put it down. + + +Yours to obey, + HERBERT KENDRICK MITCHELL. + + +P.S. Please recollect that I am only handsome according to the good old +proverb, and do not mistake me for an enterprising hackman. + + +Mrs. Rosscott clapped her hands with delight when she finished the +letter. She was overjoyed at the success of her “opening play,” and she +wrote her new correspondent two lines accepting his invitation, and +went down on the appointed train on the appointed day. He met her at +the depot and they divined one another at the first glance. It was +impossible not to know so pretty a woman—or so homely a man. For the +ancestors of Mitchell had worn kilts and red hair in centuries gone by, +and although he proved the truth of the red-hair proposition, no one +would ever believe that anything of his build could ever have been +induced to have put itself into kilts—knowingly. Furthermore, his voice +had a crick in it, and went by jerks, and his eyebrows sympathized with +his voice, and the eyes below them were little and gray and twinkling, +and altogether he was the sort of man who is termed—according to a +certain style of phrasing—“above suspicion.” But she liked him, oh! +immensely, and he liked her. And when they were riding up in the +carriage together she felt how thoroughly trustworthy his gray eyes and +good smile declared him to be, and had no hesitation in telling him +what she wanted to do, and in asking him what she wanted to know. + +Mitchell certainly had a talent for plotting, for when they reached the +house where the culprits were temporarily domiciled, Burnett had gone +out to give his mended ribs some exercise, and Jack was reading alone +in the room where they shared one another’s liniments with friendly +generosity. + +The arch-conspirator went upstairs, came down, and then, seeking the +lady whom he had left in the parlor, said to her: + +“Denham’s up there and you can go up and say whatever you have to say. +You know ‘In union there is strength.’ Well you’ve got him alone now, +and he’ll prove weakly as a consequence or I miss my guess.” + +Then he walked straight over by the window and picked up a magazine as +if it was all settled, and she only hesitated for half a second before +she turned and went upstairs. + +There was a door half open in the hall above, and she knew that that +must be the door. She tapped at it lightly, and a man’s voice (a voice +that she knew well), called out gruffly: + +“Come in!” + +She pushed the door open at that and entered, and saw Jack, and he saw +her. He turned very pale at the sight, and then the color flooded his +face, and he rose from his chair abruptly, and put his hand up to the +strips that held the bandage on his head. + +“Burnett isn’t here,” he said quickly. “He went out just a few minutes +ago.” + +His tone was hard, and yet at the same time it shook slightly. + +She approached him, holding out her hand. + +“I’m glad of that,” she said, “because it was to see you that I came.” + +To her great surprise something mutinous and scornful flashed in his +eyes as he rolled a chair forward for her. + +“You honor me,” he said, and his tone and manner both hardened yet +more. His general appearance was that of a man ten years older; he had +changed terribly in the weeks since she had last seen him. She took the +chair and sat down, still looking at him. He sat down too, and his eyes +went restlessly around the room as if they sought a hold that should +withhold them from her searching gaze. There was a short pause. + +“Don’t speak like that,” she said at last. “It isn’t your way, and I +know you too well—we know one another too well—to be anything but +sincere. You owe me something, too, and if I forbear you should +understand why.” + +“I owe you something, do I?” he asked. “What do I owe you?” + +Mrs. Rosscott caught her under lip in her teeth. + +“You gave me a promise, Mr. Denham,” she said, quite low, but most +distinctly—“a promise which you broke.” + +Jack flushed; his eyelids drooped for a minute. + +“I didn’t break it,” he said. “I gave it up.” + +“Is there any difference?” + +“A great difference.” + +He shrugged his shoulders. + +“Do you want to have the truth?” he said. “If you really do, I’ll tell +you. But I don’t ask to tell you, recollect, and if I were you I’d drop +the whole—I certainly would.—If I were you.” + +She looked at him in astonishment. + +“I don’t understand,” she said. “Tell me what you mean.” + +He raised his hand to his bandaged head again. + +“I think,” he said, fighting hard to speak with utter indifference, “I +think that it would have been better if you had told me about +Holloway.” + +At that her big eyes opened widely. + +“What should I tell you about Mr. Holloway?” she asked. “What could I +tell you about him?” + +“It isn’t any use speaking like that,” he said; and with the words he +suddenly leaped from his chair and began to plunge back and forth +across the small room. “You see I’m not a boy any more. I’ve come to my +senses. I know now! I understand now! It’s all plain to me now. Now and +always. I’ve been fooled once but only once and by All that Is, I never +will be fooled again. Your’re pretty and awfully fascinating, and it’s +always fun for the woman—especially if she knows all her bets are +safely hedged. And I was so completely done up that I was even more +sport than the common run, I suppose; but—” she was staring at him in +unfeigned amazement, and he was lashing himself to fury with the +feelings that underlaid his words—“but even if you made it all right +with yourself by calling your share by the name of ‘having a good +influence’ over me (I know that’s how married women always pat +themselves on the back while they’re sending us to the devil), even +then, I think that it would have been better to have been fair and +square with me. It would have been better all round. I’d have been left +with some belief in—in people. As it is, when I saw that you’d only +been laughing at me, I—well, I went pretty far.” + +He stopped short, and transfixed her paleness with his big, dark eyes. + +“Why weren’t you honest?” he asked angrily. And then he said again, +more bitterly, more scornfully, than before: “Why wasn’t I told about +Holloway?” + +She clasped her hands tightly together. + +“What has been told you about Mr. Holloway and myself?” she asked. + +“Nothing.” + +“Then why do you speak as you do?” + +At that he thrust his hands into his pockets and again began to fling +himself back and forth across the room. + +“Perhaps you’ll think I’m a sneak,” he said, “but I wasn’t a sneak. I +went in to see you that Saturday as usual, and when I went upstairs—you +were with him in the library. I heard three words. God! they were +enough! I didn’t know that anything could knock the bottom out of life +so quickly. My sun and stars all fell at once—I reckon my Heaven went +too. At all events I went out of your house and down town and I drank +and drank—and all to the truth and honor of women.” + +He halted with his back to her, and there was silence in the room for +many minutes. + +When he faced around after a little, she was weeping bitterly, having +turned in her seat so that her face might be buried in the chair back. +Her whole body was shaking with suppressed sobs. He stood still and +stared down upon her and finally she lifted up her face and said with +trembling lips: + +“And all the trouble came from that. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I +say?” + +“I don’t know what you can do, or what you can say,” he said, remaining +still and watching her sincere distress. “I’d feel pretty blamed mean +if I were you, though. Understand, I don’t question your good taste in +choosing Holloway, nor your right to love him, nor his right to be +there; but I fail to understand why you were to me just as you were, +and I think it was unfair—out-and-out mean!” + +“Mr. Denham,” she said almost painfully, “you’ve made a dreadful +mistake.” Then she stopped and moistened her lips. “I don’t know just +what words you overheard, but the dramatic instructor was there that +afternoon drilling Mr. Holloway and myself for the parts which we took +in the charity play that week; after he went out we went over one of +the scenes alone. Perhaps you heard part of that.” She stopped and +almost choked. “Mr. Holloway has never really made any love to +me—perhaps he never wanted to—perhaps I’ve never wanted him to.” + +Jack stared. His misconception was so strongly intrenched in the +forefront of his brain that he could not possibly dislodge it at once. + +Mrs. Rosscott continued to dry the tears that continued to rise; she +seemed terribly affected at finding herself to have been the cause (no +matter how innocently) of this latest tale of wrack and ruin. + +“Do you mean to say,” the young man said, at last, “that there was no +truth in what I heard? Don’t you expect to marry Holloway?” + +“I never expect to marry anyone, but certainly not him,” she replied, +trying to regain her composure. + +“Honest?” + +“Assuredly.” + +It was as if an unseen orchestra had suddenly burst forth just near +enough and just far enough away. He came to the side of her chair and +laid his hand upon its back. + +“Then what have you been thinking of me lately?” he asked. + +“Very sad thoughts,” she confessed—hiding her face again. + +“Did you care?” + +“Yes, I cared.” + +He stood beside her for a long time without speaking or moving. Then he +suddenly pulled a chair forward, and sat down close in front of her. + +“Don’t cry,” he said, almost daring to be tender. “There’s nothing to +cry about now, you know.” + +“I think there’s plenty for me to cry about,” she said, looking up +through her long wet lashes. “It is so terrible for me to be the one +that is to blame. Papa swears he’ll never forgive Bob, and your aunt—” + +“Lord love you!” he exclaimed; “don’t worry over me or my aunt. I +don’t. I don’t mind anything, with Holloway staked in the ditch. I can +get along well enough now.” + +He smiled—actually smiled—as he spoke. + +“Oh, you mustn’t speak so,” she said, blushing; “indeed, you must not.” +And smiled, too, in spite of herself. + +“Who’s going to stop me?” he said. “You know that you can’t; I’m miles +the biggest.” + +She looked at him and tried to frown, but only blushed again instead. +He put out his hand and took hers into its clasp. + +“I’m everlasting glad to shake college,” he declared gayly; “it never +was my favorite alley. I’ve made up my mind to go to work just as soon +as I get these pastry strips off my head.” + +“Where?” + +“I don’t know. Anywhere. I don’t care.” + +“But you’ll come to my house when Bob comes next week, won’t you?” she +asked suddenly. “I can see now why you wouldn’t before, but—but it’s +different now. Isn’t it?” + +“Is it?” he said, asking the question chiefly of her pretty eyes. “Is +it honestly different now?” + +“I think it is,” she answered. + +A door banged below. + +“That’s Burr!” he exclaimed, remembering suddenly the proximity of +their chairs, and making haste to place himself farther away. + +Burnett’s step was heard on the stair. + +“You never said anything to him, did you?” she questioned quickly. + +“Certainly not.” + +The next instant Burnett was in the room, and his sister was in his +arms. (Astonishing how coolly he accepted the fact, too.) + +“Mr. Denham is coming to me with you, Bob,” she said when he released +her. “I’ve persuaded him.” + +“How did you do it?” she was asked. + +“By undertaking to reconcile him with his aunt, dear,” she replied, +blandly. “It’s a contract that we’ve drawn up between us. You know that +I was always rather good in the part of the peacemaker.” + +As she spoke, her eyes fell warningly on the manifest astonishment of +Aunt Mary’s nephew. + +“You don’t know what you’re undertaking, Betty,” said her brother. “You +never had a chance to take Aunt Mary for better, for worse—I have.” + +“I’m not alarmed,” said she, “I’m very courageous. I’m sure I’ll +succeed.” + +“Can the mender of ways—other people’s ways—come in?” asked a voice at +the door. + +It was Mitchell’s voice, and he came in without waiting for an +invitation. + +“Is it time that I went?” Mrs. Rosscott asked him, anxiously. + +“Half an hour yet.” + +“Oh, I say Jack,” cried Burnett, “let’s boil some water in the +witch-hazel pan, and make a rarebit in the poultice pan, and have some +tea here.” + +“Sure,” said Jack, suddenly become his blithe and buoyant self again. +“You just take off your hat and look the other way, Mrs. Rosscott, and +we’ll have you a lunch in a jiffy.” + + + + +Chapter Twelve +A Trap For Aunt Mary + + +In Aunt Mary’s part of the country the skies had been crying themselves +sick for the last six weeks. The cranberry bog was a goner forever, it +was feared, and a little house, very handy for sorting berries in, had +had its foundations undermined, and disappeared beneath the face of the +waters also. + +Under such propitious circumstances, Aunt Mary sat by her own +particular window and looked sternly and severely out across the garden +and down the road. Lucinda sat by the other window sewing. Lucinda +hadn’t changed materially, but her general appearance struck her +mistress as more irritating than ever. Everything and everybody seemed +to have become more and more irritating ever since Jack had been +disinherited. Of course, it was right that he should have been +disinherited, but Aunt Mary hadn’t thought much beforehand as to what +would happen afterward, and it was too aggravating to have him turn out +so well just when she had lost all patience with him and so cast him +off forever, and for him to develop such a beautiful character, all of +a sudden too—just as if education and good advice had been his undoing +and seclusion and illness were the guardian angels arrived just in time +to save him from the evil effects thereof. + +It hadn’t occurred to Aunt Mary that people keep on living just the +same even after they have been cut out of a will. And she never had +counted on Jack’s taking his bitter medicine in the spirit he was +manifesting. She had not calculated any of the possible effects of her +hasty action very maturely, but she certainly had not anticipated a +lamblike submission to even the harshest of her edicts, nor had she +expected Jack to be one who would strictly observe the Bible +regulations and so return good for evil—in other words, write her now +when he had never written her in the bygone years (unless under +sharpest financial stress of circumstances). + +Yet such was the case. Jack had become a “ready letter-writer” ever +since his removal to the city, whither some kind friends had invited +him directly he could leave his sick-room. Aunt Mary did not know who +the friends were and had hesitated somewhat as to opening the first +letter. But it had borne no sting—being instead most sweetly pathetic, +and since then, others had followed with touching frequency. Their +polished periods fell upon the old lady’s stony hardness of heart with +the persistent frequency of the proverbial drop of water. After the +second she had ceased to regard the instructions given Lucinda as to +mentioning her nephew’s name, and after the third he became again her +favorite topic of conversation. + +It seemed that the poor boy had had the misfortune to contract measles, +and in his weakened state the disease had nearly proved fatal. You can +perhaps divine the effect of this statement on the grand-aunt, and the +further effect of the words: “But never mind, Aunt Mary,” with which he +concluded the brief narration. + +Aunt Mary had tried to snort and had sniffed instead; she had turned +back to the first page, read, “All my head has been shaved, but I don’t +care about having any more fun, anyhow,” and had let the letter fall in +her lap. Every time that she had thought since of “our boy,” her anger +had fallen hotter upon whoever was handiest. Lucinda (who was used to +it) lived under a figurative rain of cinders, and thrived +salamander-like in their midst; but Arethusa—who had come up for a +week—found herself totally unable to stand the endless lava and boiling +ashes, and fled back to the bosom of Mr. Arethusa the third morning +after her arrival. + +“I’ve got to go, I find,” she had yelled the night before her +departure. + +“I certainly wish you would,” replied her aunt. “I’m a great believer +in married women paying attention at home before they begin to pry into +their neighbors’ affairs. It’s a good idea. Most generally—most +always.” + +This was bitterly unkind, since Arethusa was in the habit of taking the +long journey purely out of a sense of duty and to keep Lucinda up to +the mark; but grateful appreciation is rarely ever a salient point in +the character of an autocrat. + +“I’m glad she’s gone,” Aunt Mary told Lucinda, when they were left +together once more. “She puts me beyond all patience. She chatters +gibberish that I can’t make out a word of for an hour at a time, and +then, all of a sudden, she screams, ‘Dinner’s ready,’ or something +equally silly, in a voice like a carvin’ knife. It’s enough to drive a +sane person stark, raving mad. It is.” + +Lucinda acquiesced with a nod. Lucinda herself was glad that Arethusa +had gone. She resented the manner in which the latter always looked +over the preserve closet and counted the silver. Nothing was ever +missing, because Lucinda was as honest as a day twenty-five hours long, +but the more honest those of Lucinda’s caliber are, the more mad they +get if they feel that they are being watched. So Lucinda acquiesced +with a nod. + +The mistress and maid were sitting alone together, with the June rain +falling without, and it was that pleasantly exciting hour which comes +only in the country and is known as “about mail-time.” + +“There’s Joshua now,” Aunt Mary exclaimed, presently, “I see him +turnin’ in the gate. He’ll be at the door before you get there, +Lucinda,—he will. There, he’s twistin’ his wheel off. He’s tryin’ to +hold Billy an’ hold the letters an’ whistle, all at once. Why don’t you +go to him, Lucinda? Can’t you hear a whistle that I can see? Or, if you +can’t hear the whistle, can’t you hear me? Do you think whoever wrote +those letters would be much pleased if they could see you so slow about +gettin’ them? Do—” + +Just here the old lady, turning toward Lucinda, perceived that she had +been gone—Heaven knew how long. She felt decidedly vexed at finding +herself to be in the wrong, rubbed her nose impatiently, and waited in +a temper to match the rubbing. + +“My Lord! how slow she is!” she thought. “Well, if I don’t die of old +age first, I presume I’ll get my letters some time. Maybe.” + +As a matter of fact, the door had blown shut behind Lucinda, and the +latter personage was making her way, with well-hoisted skirts, around +the house to the back door. She didn’t pass the window where the +Argus-eyed was looking forth; because that lady had strong opinions of +those who let doors bang behind them without their own volition. + +Five minutes later the maid did finally appear with one letter. + +“I thought you was waitin’ to bring to-morrow’s mail at the same time,” +said Aunt Mary, icily. + +Then she found that the letter was from Jack, and Lucinda was +completely forgotten in the pleasure of opening and reading it. + +DEAR AUNT MARY: + +It seems so strange how I’m just learning the pleasure of writing +letters. I enjoy it more every day. When I see a pen I can hardly keep +from feeling that I ought to write you directly. I think of you, then, +because I’m thinking of you most always. It seems as if I never +appreciated you before, Aunt Mary. + +I want to tell you something that I know will make you happy. I’ve +never made you very happy Aunt Mary, but I’m going to begin now. I’ve +got a place where I can earn my own living, and I’m going to work just +as soon as I am strong enough. I’m as tickled as a baby over it. I’ll +lay you any odds I get to be a richer man than the other John Watkins. +I reckon money was bad for me, Aunt Mary, and I can see that you’ve +done just the right thing to make a man of me. That isn’t surprising, +because you always did do just the right thing, Aunt Mary; it was I +that always did just the wrong thing, but I’m straightened out now and +this time it’s forever—you just wait and see. + +There’s one thing bothers me some, and that is I don’t get strong very +fast. They want me to take a tonic, but I don’t think a tonic would +help me much. I feel so sort of blue and depressed, and perhaps that’s +natural, for Bob’s away most of the time and I’m here all alone. It’s a +big house and sort of lonely and sometimes I find myself imagining how +it would seem to have someone from home in it with me, and I find +myself almost crying—I do, for a fact, Aunt Mary. + +Next week, Bob is going to be away more than usual, and I’m dreading it +awfully; but never mind, Aunt Mary, I don’t want to make you blue, +because honestly I don’t think I’m going into a decline, even if the +doctor does. And, after all, if I did sort of dwindle away it wouldn’t +matter much, for I’m not worth anything, and no one knows that as well +as myself—except you, Aunt Mary. I must stop because it’s nine o’clock +and time I was in bed. I’ve got some socks to wash out first, too; you +see, I’m learning how to economize just as fast as I can. It’s only two +miles to my work, and I’m going to walk back and forth always—that’ll +be between fifty cents and a dollar saved each week. I’m figuring on +how to live on my salary and never have a debt, and you’ll be proud of +me yet, Aunt Mary—if I don’t die first. + +Think of me all alone here next week. If I wasn’t steadfast as a rock I +believe I’d do something foolish just to get out of myself. But never +mind, Aunt Mary, it’s all right. + +Your afft. nephew, +JOHN WATKINS, JR., DENHAM. + + +When Lucinda returned from drying her feet, Aunt Mary had her +handkerchief in one hand and spectacles in the other. + +“Saints and sinners!” cried the maid, in a voice that grated with +sympathy. “He ain’t writ to say he’s dead, is he?” + +“No,” said Aunt Mary; “but he isn’t as well as he makes out. There’s no +deceivin’ me, Lucinda!” + +“Dear! dear!” cried the Trusty and True; “is that so? What’s to be +done? Do you want Joshua to run anywhere?” + +Aunt Mary suddenly regained her composure. + +“Run anywhere?” she asked, with her usual bitter intonation. “If you +ain’t the greatest fool I ever was called upon to bed and board, +Lucinda! Will you kindly explain to me how settin’ Joshua trottin’ is +goin’ to do any mortal good to my poor boy away off there in that +dreadful city?” + +“He could telegraph to Miss Arethusa,” Lucinda suggested. The +suggestion bespoke the superior moral quality of Lucinda’s make-up—her +own feeling toward Arethusa being considered. + +“I don’t want her,” said Aunt Mary with a positiveness that was final. +“I don’t want her. My heavens, Lucinda, ain’t we just had enough of +her? Anyhow, if you ain’t, I have. I don’t want her, nor no livin’ soul +except my trunk; an’ I want that just as quick as Joshua can haul it +down out of the attic.” + +“You ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ travelin’!” the maid cried in +consternation; “you can’t never be thinkin’ of _that?_” + +“No,” said her mistress with fine irony; “I want the trunk to make a +pie out of, probably.” + +Lucinda was speechless. + +“Lucinda,” her mistress said, after a few seconds had faded away +unimproved, “seems to me I mentioned wantin’ Joshua to get down a +trunk—seems to me I did.” + +The maid turned and left the room. She felt more or less dazed. Nothing +so startling as Aunt Mary’s wanting a trunk had happened in years. +Disinheriting Jack was not in it by comparison. She went slowly away to +find Joshua and found him in the farther end of the rear woodhouse—John +Watkins, like several of his ilk, having marked each forward step in +the world by a back extension of his house. + +Joshua was chopping wood; his ax was high in the air. He also was calm +and unsuspecting. + +“She’s goin’ to the city all alone!” Lucinda’s voice suddenly +proclaimed behind him. + +The ax fell. + +“Who says so?” its handler demanded, facing about in surprise. + +“She says so.” + +Joshua picked up the ax and poised it afresh. He was himself again. + +“She’ll go then,” he said calmly. + +Lucinda marched around in front of him, and planted herself firmly +among the chips. + +“Joshua Whittlesey!” + +“We can’t help it,” said Joshua stolidly. “We’re here to mind her. If +she wants to go to New York, or to change her will, all we’ve got to do +is to be simple witnesses.” + +“She don’t want Miss Arethusa telegraphed,” said Lucinda. + +“I don’t blame her,” said Joshua; “if I was her and if I was goin’ to +New York I wouldn’t want no one telegraphed.” + +“She wants her trunk out of the attic.” + +“Then she’ll get her trunk out of the attic. When does she want it?” + +“She wants it now.” + + +[Illustration: “She’s goin’ to the city all alone!’ Lucinda’s voice +suddenly proclaimed behind him.”] + + +“Then she’ll get it now,” said Joshua. From the general trend of this +and other remarks of Joshua the reader will readily divine why he had +been in Aunt Mary’s employ for thirty years, and had always been +characterized by her as “a most sensible man,” and anyone who had seen +the alacrity with which the trunk was brought and the respectful +attention with which Aunt Mary’s further commands were received would +have been forced to coincide in her opinion. + +The packing of the trunk was a task which fell to Lucinda’s lot and was +performed under the eagle eye of her mistress. Aunt Mary’s ideas of +what she would require were delightfully unsophisticated and brought up +short on the farther-side of her tooth brush and her rubbers. +Nevertheless she agreed in Lucinda’s suggestions as to more extensive +supplies. + +Late that afternoon Joshua drove into town (amidst a wealth of mud +spatters) and dispatched the answer to Jack’s letter. Aunt Mary was +urged to haste by several considerations, some well defined, and others +not so much so. To Lucinda she imparted her terrible anxiety over the +dear boy’s health, but not even to herself did she admit her much more +terrible anxiety lest Arethusa or Mary should suddenly appear and +insist on accompanying her. She wanted to go, but she wanted to go +alone. + +Jack telegraphed a response that night, and his aunt left by the Monday +morning train. She had a six o’clock breakfast, and drove into town at +a quarter of nine so as to be absolutely certain not to miss the train. +Joshua drove, with the trunk perched beside him. It was a small and +unassuming trunk, but Aunt Mary was not one who believed in putting on +airs just because she was rich. Lucinda sat on the back seat with her +mistress. + +“I’m sure I hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” she said. + +“Of course he’s nothing but a boy,” Aunt Mary replied,—“an’ I’ve told +you a hundred times that boys will be boys and we mustn’t expect +otherwise.” + +They arrived on time, and only had an hour and three-quarters to wait +in the station. Toward the last Aunt Mary grew very nervous for fear +something had happened to the train; but it came to time according to +the waiting-room clock. Joshua put her aboard, and she soon had nothing +left to worry over except the wonder as to whether Jack would be on +hand to meet her or not. + +Joshua drove back home, let Lucinda out at the door, and put the horse +up before going in to where she sat in solitary glory. + +“I wonder what _he’s_ up to?” she said with a pleasant sense of +unlimited freedom as to the subject and duration of the conversation. + +“Suthin’, of course,” was the answer. + +“Do you s’pose he’s really sick?” + +“No, I don’t.” + +“Do you s’pose she thinks he’s really sick?” + +“Mebbe.” + +“Ain’t you goin’ to sit down, Joshua?” + +“I don’t see nothin’ to make me sit down here for.” + +“What do you think of her going?” she said, as he walked toward the +door. + +“I think she’ll have a good time.” + +“At her age?” + +“Havin’ a good time ain’t a matter o’ age,” said Joshua. “It’s a matter +o’ bein’ willin’ to have a good time.” + +Lucinda screwed her face up mightily. + +“If I was sure she’d be gone for a week,” she said, “I’d go a-visitin’ +myself.” + +“She’ll be gone a week,” said Joshua; and the manner and matter of his +speech were both those of a prophet. + +Then he went out and the door slammed to behind him. + + + + +Chapter Thirteen +Aunt Mary Entrapped + + +Aunt Mary’s arrival in the city just coincided with the arrival of that +day’s five o’clock. Five o’clock in early June is very bright daylight, +therefore she was rather bewildered when the train pulled up in the +darkness and electricity of the station’s confusion. The change from +sunlight to smoke blinded her somewhat and the view from the car window +did not restore her equanimity. When the porter, to whom she had been +discreetly recommended by Joshua, came for her bags, she felt woefully +distressed and not at all like her usual self. + +“Oh, do I have to get out?” she said. “I ain’t been in this place for +twenty-five years, and I was to be met.” + +The porter’s grin hovered comfortingly over her head. + +“You can stay here jus’ ’s long as you like, ma’am,” he yelled, in the +voice of a train dispatcher. “I’ll send your friends in when they +inquiahs.” + +Aunt Mary eyed him gratefully, and gave him the nickel which she had +been carefully holding in her hand for the last hour. + +Then she looked up, and saw Jack! + +A perfectly splendid Jack, in resplendent attire, handsome, beaming, +with a big bouquet of violets in his hand! + +“For you, Aunt Mary,” he said, and dropped them into her lap, and +hugged her fervently. She clung to him with a cling that forgot the +immediate past, disinheriting and all. Oh! she was so glad to see him! + +The porter approached with a beneficent look. + +“Has he taken good care of you, Aunt Mary?” Jack asked, as the man +gathered up the things and they started to leave the car. + +“Yes, indeed,” Aunt Mary declared. + +So Jack gave the porter a dollar. + +Then they left the train. + +“I was so worried,” Aunt Mary said, as she went along the platform +hanging on her nephew’s arm. “I thought you’d met with an accident.” + +“I couldn’t get on until the rest got off,” he said, gazing down on her +with a smile; “but I was on hand, all right. My, but it’s good to think +that you’re here, Aunt Mary! Maybe you think that I don’t appreciate +your taking all this trouble for me, but I do, just the same.” + +Aunt Mary smiled all over. Everyone who passed them was smiling, too, +and that added to the general joy of the atmosphere. Aunt Mary felt +proud of Jack, and rejoiced as to herself. Her content with life in +general was, for the moment, limitless. She did not stop to dissect the +sources of her delight. She was not in a critical mood just then. + +“Why don’t you stick those flowers in your belt, Aunt Mary?” her nephew +asked, as they penetrated the worst of the human jungle, and the +preservation of the violets appeared to be the main question of the +day. “That’s what the girls do.” + +His aunt looked vaguely down at herself. She had no belt to stick her +violets in. She wore no belt. She wore a basque. A basque is a beltless +something that you can’t remember, but that females did, once upon a +time, cover the upper half of their forms with. Basques buttoned down +the front with ten to thirty buttons, and may be studied at leisure in +any good collection of daguerreotypes. Ladies like Aunt Mary are apt to +scorn such futilities as waning styles after they pass beyond a certain +age, and for that reason there was no place for Jack’s violets. + +“Never mind,” he said cheerfully, having followed her dubiousness with +his understanding. “Just hang on to them a minute longer, and we’ll be +out of all this.” + +His words came true, and they finally did emerge from the seething mass +and found a carriage, the door of which happened to be standing +mysteriously open. Within, upon the small seat, some omniscient hands +had already deposited Aunt Mary’s bags. It did not take long to stow +Aunt Mary, face to her luggage, and she was barely established there +before her trunk came, too; and, although the coachman looked so +gorgeous, he was nevertheless obliging enough to allow it to couch +humbly at his feet. + +Then they rolled away. + +Jack sat sideways and looked at his aunt, holding her hand. His eyes +were unfeignedly happy, and his companion matched his eyes. Neither +seemed to recollect that one was bitterly angry, and that the other was +on the verge of melancholia. Instead, Jack declared fervently: + +“Aunt Mary, I’ve made up my mind to give you the time of your life!” + +And Aunt Mary drew a sigh of relief in his words and anticipation of +their fulfillment. + +“I’ll be happy takin’ care of you,” she said, benevolently. “My!—but +your letter scared me. An’ yet you look well.” + +He laughed. + +“It’s the knowing you were coming that’s done that, Aunt Mary. You +ought to have seen me when I got your telegram. I almost turned a +somersault.” + +Aunt Mary smiled rapturously and patted his hand. + +And just then they drew up in front of the house. She looked out, and +her face fell a trifle. + +“It’s awful high and narrow,” she said. + +“They all are,” Jack replied, opening the carriage door and jumping out +to receive her. + +The door at the top of the steps opened, and a man came down for the +bags. In the hall above, a pretty maid waited with a welcoming smile. + +Jack piloted his aunt, first up the entrance steps, and then up the +staircase within, and led her to the lovely room which had been vacated +for her. The maid followed with tea and biscuits, and the man brought +the luggage and ranged it unobtrusively in a corner. There was a lavish +richness about everything which made Aunt Mary and her trunk appear as +gray and insignificant as a pair of mice, by contrast; but she didn’t +feel it, and so she didn’t mind it. + +Jack kissed her tenderly. + +“Welcome to town, Aunt Mary,” he said heartily, “and may you never live +to look upon this day as other than the luckiest of your life!” Then, +turning to the servant, he said: + +“Janice, you see that you do all that money can buy for my aunt.” + +The maid courtesied. She had arranged the tray upon a little table and +the spout of the tea pot and the round hole in the middle of the +toast-cover were each pouring forth a pleasant suggestion. + +Aunt Mary began at once to haul forth her keys. + +“Why, Aunt Mary,” Jack cried, wondering if her nose was deaf, too, or +whether she didn’t feel hungry, “don’t you see your tea? Or don’t you +want any?” + +Aunt Mary thumbed her trunk key. + +“I want a nightgown,” she said; “maybe I’ll want something else later. +Maybe.” + +“You’re not going to _bed!_” + +She drew herself up. + +“I guess I can if I want to; I guess I can. There’s the bed and here’s +me.” + +“Whatever are you saying? It isn’t half-past six o’clock.” + +“I’m not _prayin_’ about anything,” said the old lady. “I don’t pray +about things. I do ’em when needful. And when I’m tired I go to bed.” + +“All right, Aunt Mary,” with sugary sweetness and lamb-like +submissiveness. “I thought we’d dine out together, but if you don’t +want to, we needn’t. And if you feel like it when you waken, we can.” + +“Dine out,” said Aunt Mary, blankly; “has the cook left? I never was a +great approver of goin’ and eatin’ at boarding houses.” + +“Well, never mind,” Jack said in a key pitched to rhyme with high C. +“I’ll leave you now—and we can see about everything later.” + +He kissed her, and retired from the room. + +“Did he say we’re goin’ out to dinner?” Aunt Mary asked, when she was +left alone with the maid, who hurried to take her bonnet and shawl, and +get her into juxtaposition with the tea-tray as rapidly as possible. + +“Yes, ma’am,” the girl screamed, nodding. + +“I don’t want to,” said the old lady firmly. “Lots of trouble comes +through gettin’ out of house habits. I’ve come here to take care of a +sick boy and not to go gallivantin’ round myself. I’ve seen the evils +of gallivantin’ a good deal lately and I don’t want to see no more. Not +here and not nowhere.” + +Then she began to eat and drink and reflect, all at the same time. + +“By the way, what’s your name?” she asked, suddenly. “Jack didn’t tell +me.” + +“Janice, ma’am.” + +“Granite?” said Aunt Mary. “What a funny idea to name you that! Did +they call you for the tinware or for the rocks?” + +“I don’t know,” shrieked Janice, who was busily occupied in unpacking +the traveler’s trunk. + +Her new mistress watched her with a critical eye at first, but it +became a more or less sleepy eye as the warmth of the tea meandered +slowly through its owner. There was a battle within Aunt Mary’s brain; +she wanted to please Jack, and she was almost dead with sleep. + +“Do you think that I ought to try and go out with my nephew to-night?” +she asked Janice. + +“If it was me, I should go,” cried the maid. + +“I never was called slow before,” Aunt Mary said, bridling. “I’ll thank +you to remember your place, young woman.” + +Janice explained. + +“Oh! I didn’t hear plainly,” said Aunt Mary. “I don’t always. Well go +or not go, I’ve _got_ to sleep first. I’m dreadfully sleepy, and I’ve +always been a great believer in sleepin’ when you’re sleepy.” + +The fact of the sleepiness was so evident that no attempt was made to +gainsay it. Janice brought down a quilt from the closet and tucked her +charge up luxuriously on the great bed. Five minutes later she was in +dreamland. + +Jack came in about seven and looked at her. + +“She mustn’t be disturbed,” he said thoughtfully. “If she wakes up +before ten we’ll go out then.” + +She awoke about nine, and when she opened her eyes the first thing that +she saw was Janice, sitting near by. + +“I feel real good,” said Aunt Mary. + +“I’m so glad,” yelled Janice, and smiled, too. + +The old lady sat up. + +“I believe I could have gone out, after all,” she said. “Only I don’t +want to take dinner anywhere.” + +Then she paused and reflected. It was surprising how good she felt and +how she did want to make Jack happy. “After all boys will be boys,” she +thought, tenderly, “an’ I ain’t but seventy, so I don’t see why I +shouldn’t go out with him if he wants to. I’m a great believer in doin’ +what you want to—I mean, in doin’ what other folks want you to. At any +rate I’m a great believer in it sometimes. To-day—this time.” + +“Your nephew is waiting,” the maid howled. “Shall I tell him you want +to go after all?” + +“Is it late?” the old lady inquired. + +“Oh, dear, no!” + +“Wouldn’t you go if you was me?” asked the old lady. + +Janice smiled. + +“Indeed I would.” + +Aunt Mary rose. A flood of metropolitan fever suddenly surged up and +around and over and through her. + +“Tell him I’ll be down in five minutes,” she said. + +“Can you change in that time?” Janice stopped to shriek. + +“What should I change for?” Aunt Mary demanded in astonishment. “Ain’t +I all dressed now?” + +Janice did not attempt to shriek any counter-advice, and while she was +gone to find Jack, her mistress brushed herself in some places, soaped +herself in others, and considered her toilet made. When Janice returned +she caught up a loose lock of hair, and put the placket-hole of her +skirt square in the middle of Aunt Mary’s back, and dared go no +further. There was an air even about the back of Jack’s influential +aunt which forbade too much liberty to those dealing with her. + + + + +Chapter Fourteen +Aunt Mary En Fête + + +[Illustration: Aunt Mary en Fête. May Robson as “Aunt Mary.”] + + +Aunt Mary descended the stairs about half-past nine; she thought it was +about a quarter to eight, but the difference between the hour that it +was and the hour that she thought that it was will be all the same a +hundred years from now. + +Jack came out of the Louis XIV. drawing room when he heard her step in +the hall. There was another young man with him. + +“This is my friend Burnett, Aunt Mary,” her nephew roared. “You must +excuse his not bowing lower, but you know he broke his collarbone +recently.” + +Aunt Mary shook hands warmly; she knew all about the ribs and the +collarbone, because they had formed big items in the testimony which +had momentarily and as momentously relegated Jack to the comradeship of +the devil himself, in her eyes. However, she recalled them merely as +facts now—not at all in a disagreeable way—and gave Burnett an extra +squeeze of good-fellowship, as she said: + +“You had a narrow escape, young man.” + +“I didn’t have any escape at all,” said Burnett. “The escape went down +at the back, and I had to jump from a cornice.” + +“Burnett is going out to dine with us, Aunt Mary,” said Jack. “There’s +so little he can eat on account of his ribs that he’s a good dinner +guest for me.” + +Jack’s aunt felt vaguely uncomfortable over this allusion to her +grand-nephew’s circumstances, and coughed in slight embarrassment. + +Burnett opened the door, and the carriage lamp shone below. (Is there +ever anything more delightfully suggestive than a carriage lamp shining +down below?) They took her down and put her in, and the carriage rolled +away. + +It was that June when “Bedelia” covered nearly the whole of the +political horizon; it was the date of June when West Point, Vassar, the +Blue, the Red, the Black and Yellow and every known device for getting +rid of young and growing-up America are all cast loose at once on our +fair land. The streets were a scene of glorious confusion, and but for +Aunt Mary no considerations could have kept Burnett’s collarbone and +Jack’s melancholia cooped up in a closed carriage. As it was, they were +both fidgeting like two youthful Uncle Sams in a European railway +coupé, when the latter suddenly exclaimed: “Here we are!” and threw +open the door as he spoke. Then he got out and Burnett got out and +between them they got Aunt Mary out. + +Aunt Mary regarded the awning and carpet and general glitter with a +more or less appalled gaze. + +“Looks like—” she began; and was interrupted by a voice at her side: + +“Hello, Jack!” + +“Hello, Clover!” + +She turned and saw him of the pale mustache whom we once met in Mrs. +Rosscott’s drawing room. He was in no wise altered since that occasion +except that his attire was slightly more resplendent and he had on a +silk hat. + +Jack shook hands warmly and then he turned to his relative. + +“Aunt Mary, this is my friend Clover; he’s often heard me speak of +you.” + +“Glad to meet you, Mr. Rover,” said Aunt Mary, cordially, and she, too, +shook hands with that cordiality that flourishes beyond city limits. + +Her nephew bent over her ear-trumpet. + +“Clover!” he howled, with all the strength he owned. + +“I heard before,” said Aunt Mary, somewhat coldly. + +“Come on and dine with us, Clover,” said Jack; “that’ll make four.” (By +the way, isn’t it odd how many people ask their friends to dinner for +the simple reason that, arithmetically considered, each counts as one!) + +“All right, I will,” said Clover, in his languid drawl. + +Aunt Mary saw his lips. + +“It’s no use my deceivin’ you as to my bein’ a little hard of hearin’,” +she said to him, “because you can see my ear-trumpet; so I’ll trouble +you to say that over again.” + +“All right, I will,” Clover wailed, good-humoredly. + +“What?” asked Aunt Mary. “I didn’t—” + +Jack cut her short by leading the party inside. + +The scene within was as gorgeous with golden stucco as the dining-room +of a German liner. Aunt Mary was so overcome that she traversed half +the room before she became aware of the mighty attention which she and +her three escorts were attracting. In truth, it is not every day that +three good-looking young men take a tiny old lady, a bunch of violets +and an ear-trumpet out to dine at ten o’clock. + +“Everyone’s lookin’,” she said to Jack. + +“It’s your back, Aunt Mary,” he replied, in a voice that shook some +loose golden flakes from the ceiling. “I tell you, not many women of +your age have a back like yours, and don’t you forget it.” + +The compliment pleased Aunt Mary, because she had all her life been +considered round-shouldered. It also pleased her because she never had +received many compliments. The Aunt Marys of this world love flattery +just as dearly as the Mrs. Rosscotts; the sad part of life is that they +rarely get any. The women like Mrs. Rosscott know why the Aunt Marys go +unflattered, but the Aunt Marys never understand. It’s all sad—and +true—and undeniable. + +They went to a table, and were barely seated when another man came up. + +“Hello, Jack!” + +“Hello, Mitchell!” + +It was he of Scotch ancestry. Jack sprang up and greeted him with +warmth, then he turned to Aunt Mary. + +“Aunt Mary,” he screamed, “this is my friend”—he paused, put on all +steam and ploughed right through—“Herbert Kendrick Mitchell.” + +“I didn’t catch that at all,” said Aunt Mary, calmly, “but I’m just as +glad to meet the gentleman.” + +Mitchell clasped her hand with an expression as burning as if it was +real. + +“I declare,” he yelled straight at her, “if this isn’t what I’ve been +dreaming towards ever since I first knew Jack.” + +Aunt Mary fairly shone. + +“Dear me,” she began, “if I’d known—” + +“You’d better dine with us, Mitchell,” said Jack; “that’ll make five.” + +“It won’t make but three for me,” said Mitchell. “I haven’t had but two +dinners before to-night.” + +Clover smiled because he heard, and Aunt Mary smiled because she +didn’t, but was happy anyway. She had altogether forgotten that she had +demurred at dining out. They all sat down and shook out their napkins. +Mitchell and Clover shook Aunt Mary’s for her and gave it a beautiful +cornerways spread across her lap. + +Then the waiter laid another plate for Mitchell, and brought oyster +cocktails for everyone. Aunt Mary eyed hers with early curiosity and +later suspicion; and she smelled of it very carefully. + +“I don’t believe they’re good oysters,” she said. + +“Yes, they are,” cried Mitchell reassuringly. His voice, when he turned +it upon her, was pitched like a clarionet. The blind would surely have +seen as well as the deaf have heard had there been any candidates for +miracles in his immediate vicinity. “They’re first-class,” he added, +“you just go at them and see.” + +The reassured took another whiff. + +“You can have mine,” she said directly afterwards; and there was an air +of decision about her speech which brooked no opposition. Yet Mitchell +persisted. + +“Oh, no,” he yelled; “you must learn how. Just throw your head back and +take ’em quick—after the fashion that they eat raw eggs, don’t you +know?” + +“But she can’t,” said Clover. “There’s too much, particularly as she +isn’t used to them. I’ll tell you, Miss Watkins,” he cried, hoisting +his own voice to the masthead, “you eat the oysters, and leave the +cocktail. That’s the way to get gradually trained into the wheel.” + +Aunt Mary thought some of obeying; she fished out one oyster, wiped it +carefully with a bit of bread, regarded it with more than dubious +countenance, and then suddenly decided not to. + +“I’d rather be at home when I try experiments,” she said, decidedly; +and the waiter carried off her cocktail and gave her food that was good +beyond question thereafter. + +The dinner went with zest. It was an enlivening party that consumed it, +and what they consumed with it enlivened them still more. The gentlemen +soon reached the point where they could laugh over jokes they could not +understand, and the one lady member became equally merry over wit that +she did not hear. She forgot for the nonce that there were any phases +of life in which she was not a believer, and whether this was owing to +the surrounding gayety or to the champagne which they persuaded her to +taste it is not my province to explain. + +“Now we must lay our lines for events to come,” Jack said, when they +advanced upon the dessert and prepared to occupy an extensive territory +of ices, fruit, and jellied something or other. “It would be a sin for +Aunt Mary to leave this famous battlefield without a few honorable +scars! We must take her out in a bubble for one thing and—” + +“In mine!” cried Clover. “To-morrow! Why can’t she?—I held up my hand +first?” + +“All right,” said Jack; “to-morrow she’s your’s. At four o’clock.” + +“She must have goggles,” cried Mitchell. “She must have goggles and be +all fixed up, and when you have got her the goggles and she has been +all fixed up, I ask, as a last boon, that I may go along, just so as to +see everyone who sees her.” + +“We’ll all go,” Clover explained. “I’ll ‘chuff’ her myself and then +there’ll be room for everyone.” + +“To the auto and to to-morrow!” cried Burnett, hastily pouring out a +fresh toast, which even Aunt Mary applauded, not at all knowing what +she was applauding. + +“And now for the next day,” said Jack. “I think I’ll give her a +box-party. Don’t you want to go to the theater in a box, Aunt Mary?” + +“Go where in a box?” said Aunt Mary, starting a little. “I didn’t quite +catch that.” + +“To the theater,” Jack yelled. + +“To the theater,” repeated his aunt a trifle blankly, “I—” + +“And the next day,” said Mitchell suddenly (he had been reflecting +maturely), “I’ll take you all up the sound in my yacht.” + +“Oh, hurrah,” cried Burnett, “that’ll be bully! And the day after I’ll +give her a picnic.” + +“Time of your life, Aunt Mary,” Jack shrieked in her ear-trumpet; “time +of your life!” + +“Dear me!” said Aunt Mary, “I don’t just—” + +“Aunt Mary! glasses down!” cried Clover; “may she live forever and +forever.” + +“To Aunt Mary, glasses up,” said Mitchell. “Glasses up come before +glasses down always. It’s one of the laws of Nature—human nature—also +of good nature. Here’s to Aunt Mary, and if she isn’t the Aunt Mary of +all of us here’s a hoping she may get there some day; I don’t just see +how, but I ask the indulgence of those present on the plea that I have +indulged quite a little myself to-night. Honi soit qui mal y pense; ora +pro nobis, Erin-go-Bragh. Present company being present, and impossible +to except on that account, we will omit the three cheers and choke down +the tiger.” + +They all drank, and the dinner having by this time dwindled down to +coffee grounds and cheese crumbs a vote was taken as to where they +should go next. + +Aunt Mary suggested home, but she was over-ruled, and they all went +elsewhere. She never could recollect where she went or what she saw; +but, as everyone else has been and seen over and over again, I won’t +fuss with detailing it. + +The visitor from the country reached home in a carriage in the small +hours in the morning, and Janice received her, looking somewhat +nervous. + +“This is pretty late,” she ventured to remind the bearers; but as they +didn’t seem to think so, and she was a maiden, wise beyond her years, +she spoke no further word, but went to work and undressed the aged +reveller, got her comfortably established in bed, and then left her to +get a good sleep, an occupation which occupied the weary one fully +until two that afternoon. + +When she did at last open her eyes it was several minutes before she +knew where she was. Her brain seemed dazed, her intellect more than +clouded. It is a state of mind to which those who habitually go about +in hansoms at the hour of dawn are well accustomed, but to Aunt Mary it +was painfully new. She struggled to remember, and felt helplessly +inadequate to the task. Janice finally came in with a glass of +something that foamed and fizzed, and the victim of late hours drank +that and came to her senses again. Then she recollected. + +“My! but I had a good time last night!” she said, putting her hand to +her head. “What time is it now, anyhow?” + +“Breakfast time,” cried the handmaiden. “You’ll have just long enough +to eat and dress leisurely before you go out.” + +“Oh!” said Aunt Mary blankly; “where ’m I goin’? Do you know?” + +“Mr. Denham told me that you had promised to attend an automobile party +at four.” + +“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Mary hastily. “I guess I remember. I guess I do. I +saw Jack wanted to go, so I said I’d go, too. I’m a great believer in +lettin’ the young enjoy themselves.” + +She looked sharply at Janice as she spoke, but Janice was serene. + +“I didn’t come to town to do anything but make Jack happy,” continued +Aunt Mary, “and I see that he won’t take any fresh air without I go +along—so I shall go too while I’m here. Mostly. As a general thing.” + +“Mr. Mitchell called and left these flowers with his card,” Janice +said, opening a huge box of roses; “and a man brought a package. Shall +I open it?” + +Aunt Mary’s wrinkles fairly radiated. + +“Well, did I ever!” she exclaimed. “Yes; open it.” + +Janice proceeded to obey, and the package was found to contain an +automobile wrap, a pair of goggles and a note from Clover. + +“My gracious me!” cried Aunt Mary. + +“Mr. Denham sent the violets,” Janice said, pointing to a great bowl of +lilac and white blossoms. + +Just then the doorbell rang, and it was a ten-pound box of candy from +Burnett. + +Aunt Mary collapsed among her pillows. + +“I _never_ did!” she murmured feebly, and then she suddenly exclaimed: +“An’ to think of me livin’ up there all my life with plenty of money—” +she stopped short. I tell you when you come to New York on a mission +and stay for the Bacchanalia it is hard to hold consistently to either +standard. + +But Janice had gone for her lady’s breakfast, and after the lady had +eaten it and had herself dressed for the day’s joys, Jack knocked at +the door. + +“Well, Aunt Mary,” he roared, when he was let in, “if you don’t look +fine! You’re the freshest of the bunch to-day, sure. You’ll be ready +for another night to-night, and you’ve only to say where, you know.” + +“Granite did my hair,” said his aunt; “you must praise her, not me.” + +“And you’ve got your goggles all ready, too,” he continued. “Who sent +’em?” + +“Oh, I shan’t wiggle,” said Aunt Mary “although I can’t see how it +could hurt if I did.” + +“Come on and let’s dress her up,” said Jack to the maid, “Glory! what +fun!” + +Thereupon they went to work and rigged the old lady out. She was +certainly a sight, for she stood by her own bonnet, and that failed to +jibe with the goggles. + +Burnett was summoned in to view the proceedings, but just as he caught +the first glimpse he was taken with a fearful cramp in his broken ribs +and was forced to beat the hastiest sort of a retreat. + +“I hope he’ll get over it and be able to go out with us,” said Aunt +Mary anxiously. + +“I guess he’ll recover,” Jack yelled cheerfully. “Oh, there’s Clover!” + +A sort of dull, ponderous panting sounded in the street without, and +let all the neighbors know that “The Threshing Machine” (as Clover had +christened his elephantine toy) was waiting for someone. + +Its owner came in for a stirrup cup; Mitchell was with him. Both were +togged out as if entered for the annual Paris-Bordeaux. + +Burnett brought out the cut-glass jugs. + +“Ye gods and little fishes! Sapristi! Sacre bleu!” he said to his +friends. “Just you wait till you see our Aunt Mary!” + +“Has she got ’em all on?” Clover asked. + +“Has she got ’em all on!” said Burnett. “She has got ’em all on; and +how Jack held his own in the room with her I cannot understand. I took +one look, and if mine had been a surgical case of stitches the last +thread would have bust that instant. I don’t believe I dare go out with +you. This is a life and death game to Jack, and I won’t risk smashing +his future by not being able to keep sober in the face of Aunt Mary.” + +“Oh, come on,” Clover urged in his wiry voice. “You needn’t look at +her; or, if you do look at her, you can look the other way right +afterwards, you know.” + +“I’ll sit next to her,” Mitchell explained. “As a sitter by Aunt Mary’s +side I shone last night; and where a man has sat once, the same man can +surely sit again.” + +Burnett hesitated, and just then voices were heard in the hall. Jack +and Janice were convoying Aunt Mary below. + +Mitchell went out into the hall. + +“Well, Miss Watkins,” he said, in a tone such as one would use to call +down Santos-Dumont, “I’m mighty glad to see you looking so well.” + +Aunt Mary turned the goggles full upon him. + +“A present from Mr. Clover,” she said smiling. + +“I never knew him to take so much trouble for any lady before,” said +Mitchell; and as she arrived just then at the foot of the staircase he +pressed her proffered hand warmly and forthwith led her in upon the two +men in the library. + +She looked exactly like a living edition of one of the bug pictures, +and Clover had to think and swallow fast and hard to keep from being +overcome. But he was true blue, and came out right side up. Aunt Mary +was acclaimed on all sides, and escorted to the “bubble.” + +Burnett couldn’t resist going, too, at the last moment; but, as his +ribs were really tender yet, he sat in front with Clover. Jack and +Mitchell sat behind, and deftly inserted the honored guest between +them. + +“It’s an even thing as to which is the ear-trumpet side,” Mitchell +said, as they all stood about preparatory to climbing in. “Of course, +that side don’t need to holler quite so loud; but then, to balance, he +may get his one and only pair of front teeth knocked out any minute.” + +“I’ll take that side,” said Jack. “I’m used to fighting under the +inspiration of the trumpet.” + +“And God be with you,” said his friend piously. “May he watch over you +and bring you out safe and whole—teeth, eyes, etc.” + +“Come on,” said Clover impatiently; “don’t you know this thing’s +getting up power and you’re wasting it talking.” + +“Curious,” laughed Burnett. “I never knew that it was gasolene that men +were consuming when they kept an automobile waiting.” + +And then they got in and were off—a merry load, indeed. + +“Dear me, but it’s a-goin’!” Aunt Mary exclaimed, as the thing began to +whiz and she felt suddenly impelled to clutch wildly at her flanking +escorts. “Suppose we met a dog.” + +“We’d leave a floor mat,” shrieked Mitchell. “Oh, but isn’t this +great—greater—greatest?” + +“Time of your life, Aunt Mary!” Jack howled, as they went over a +boarded spot in the pavement, and the old lady nearly went over the +back in consequence. “You’re in for the time of your life!” + +“How do you like it?” yelled Clover, throwing a glance over his +shoulder. + +Aunt Mary started to answer, but they came to four car tracks one after +another, and the successive shocks rendered her speechless. + +“Where are we going?” Burnett asked. + +“Nowhere,” said Clover. “Just waking up the machine.” And he turned on +another million volts as he spoke. + +“Oh, my bonnet!” cried poor Aunt Mary, and that bit of her adornment +was in the street and had been run over four times before they could +slow up, turn around, and get back to the scene of its output. + +It speaks volumes for the permeating atmosphere of “having the time of +your life” that its owner laughed when the wreck was shown to her. + +“I don’t care a bit,” she said. “I can go down to Delmonico’s an’ get +me another to-morrow mornin’, easy.” + +“What a trump you are, Aunt Mary!” said Jack admiringly. “Here, +Burnett, fish her out that extra cap from the cane rack; there’s always +one in the bottom. There—now you won’t take cold, Aunt Mary.” + +The cap, with its fore-piece, was the crowning glory of Aunt Mary’s +get-up. The brain measurements of him who had bought the cap being to +its present wearer’s as five is to three, the effect of its +proportions, in addition to the goggles and the ear-trumpet, was such +as to have overawed a survivor of Medusa’s stare. + +“Oh, I say,” said Mitchell, “it’s a sin to keep as good a joke as this +in the family! We must drive her around town until the night falls down +or the battery burns out.” + +“I say so too,” said Burnett. “This is more sport than oiling railroad +tracks and seeing old Tweedwell brought up for it. Say, set her +a-buzzing again. It’s a big game, isn’t it?” + +Clover thought so, with the result that they speeded through tranquil +neighborhoods and churned leisurely where the masses seethed until +countless thousands were wondering what under the sun those four young +fellows had in the back of their car. + +The sad part about all good fun is that it has to end sooner or later; +and about six o’clock the whole party began to be aware that, if +refreshments were not taken, their end was surely close at hand. They +therefore called a brief halt somewhere to get what is technically +known as a “sandwich,” and the results were thoroughly satisfactory to +everyone but Aunt Mary. She took one bite of her sandwich, and then +opened it with an abruptness which merged into disgust when it proved +to be full of fish eggs. + +“Why didn’t you tell me what it was made of?” she asked in annoyance. +“I feel just as if I’d swallowed a marsh—a green one!” + +“That’s a shame!” said Clover indignantly. “I’ll get you something that +will take that taste out of your mouth double quick. Here!” he called +to a waiter, and then he gave the man certain careful directions. + +The latter nodded wisely, and a few minutes later brought in a tiny +glass containing a pousse-café in three different colors. + +“It’s a cocktail. Drink it quick,” Clover directed. + +Aunt Mary demurred. + +“I never drank a cocktail,” she began. + +“No time like the present to begin,” said Clover, “you’ll have to learn +some day.” + +“Cocktails,” said Mitchell, “are the advance guard of a newer and +brighter civilization. They—” + +“If she’s going to take it at all she must take it now,” said Clover +authoritatively. “The green and the yellow are beginning to run +together. Quick now!” + +His confiding guest drank quick and became the three different colors +quicker yet. + +“What’s the matter?” Jack asked anxiously. + +Aunt Mary was speechless. + +“He mixed it wrong,” said Clover in a sad, discouraged tone. “What she +ought to have got first she got last, that’s all. The cocktail is +upside down inside of her, and the effect of it is upside down on the +outside of her.” + +“Feel any better now, Aunt Mary?” Jack yelled. + +“I can’t seem to keep the purple swallowed,” said the poor old lady. “I +want to go home. I’ve always been a great believer in going home when +you feel like I do now. In general—as a rule.” + +“I would strongly recommend your obeying her wishes,” said Mitchell, +with great earnestness. “There’s a time for all things, and, in my +opinion, she’s had about all the queer tastes that she can absorb for +to-day. Things being as they are and mainly as they shouldn’t be, I +cast my vote in with what looks as if it would soon become the losing +side, and vote to bubble back for all we’re worth.” + +There was a general acquiescence in his view of the case, which led +them all to pile into “The Threshing Machine” with unaffected haste and +rush Aunt Mary bedward as rapidly as was possible considering the hour +and the policemen. + +Janice received her mistress with the tender welcome that every +prodigal may count on and was especially expeditious with tea and toast +and a robe de nuit. Aunt Mary sighed luxuriously when she felt herself +finally tucked up. + +“After all, Granite,” she said dreamily, “there’s nothin’ like gettin’ +stretched out to think it over—is there?” + +But Janice was turning out the lights. + + + + +Chapter Fifteen +Aunt Mary Enthralled + + +Jack’s aunt slept long and dreamlessly again. That thrice-blessed sleep +which follows nights abroad in the metropolis. + +When, toward four o’clock, Aunt Mary opened her eyes, she was at first +almost as hazy in her conceptions as she had found herself upon the +previous day. + +“I feel as if the automobile was runnin’ up my back and over my head,” +she said, thoughtfully passing her hand along the machine’s imaginary +course. Then she rang her bell and Janice appeared from the room +beyond. + +“I guess you’d better give me some of that that you gave me yesterday,” +the elderly lady suggested; “what do you think?” + +“Yes, indeed,” said Janice—and went at once and brought it in separate +glasses on a tray, and mixed it by pouring, while Aunt Mary looked on +with an intuitive understanding that passed instinct and bordered on a +complete comprehension of things to her hitherto unknown. + +“They’d ought to advertise that,” she said, as she set down the empty +glass a few seconds later. “There’d be a lot of folks who’d be glad to +know there was such a thing when they first wake up mornin’s +after—after—well, mornin’s after anythin’. It’s jus’ what you want +right off; it sort of runs through your hair and makes you begin to +remember.” + +“Yes, ma’am,” said Janice, turning to put down the tray, and then +crossing the room to seek something on the chimney-piece. + +Aunt Mary gave a sudden twist,—as if the drink had infused an +effervescing energy into her frame. “Well what am I goin’ to do +to-day?” she asked. + +“Mr. Denham has written out your engagements here,” said Janice, +handing her a jeweler’s box as she spoke. + +Aunt Mary tore off the tissue paper with trembling haste—lifted the +cover—and beheld a tiny ivory and gold memoranda card. + +“Well, that boy!” she ejaculated. + +“Shall I read the list aloud to you?” the maid inquired. + +“Yes, read it.” + +So Janice read the dates proposed the night before and Aunt Mary sat up +in bed, held her ear-trumpet, and beamed beatifically. + +“I don’t believe I ever can do all that,” she said when Janice paused; +“I never was one to rush around pell-mell, but I’ve always been a great +believer in lettin’ other folks enjoy themselves an’ I shall try not to +interfere.” + +Janice hung the tiny memoranda up beside its owner’s watch and stood at +attention for further orders. + +“But I d’n know I’m sure what I can wear to-night,” continued the one +in bed; “you know my bonnet was run over yesterday.” + +“Was it?” + +“Yes,—it was the most sudden thing I ever saw. I thought it was the top +of my head at first.” + +“Was it spoiled?” + +“Well, it wouldn’t do for me again and I don’t really believe it would +even do for Lucinda. We didn’t bring it home with us anyhow an’ so its +no use talkin’ of it any more. I’m sure I wish I’d brought my other +with me. It wasn’t quite as stylish, but it set so good on my head. As +it is I ain’t got any bonnet to wear an’ we’re goin’ in a box, Jack +says,—I should hate to look wrong in a box.” + +“But ladies in boxes do not wear anything,” cried Janice reasuringly. + +Aunt Mary jumped. + +“Not _anything?_” + +“On their heads.” + +“Oh!—Well, then the bonnet half of me’ll be all right, but what _shall_ +I wear on the rest of me? I don’t want to look out of fashion, you +know. My, but I wish I’d brought my Paisley shawl. I’ve got a Paisley +shawl that’s a very rare pattern. There’s cocoanuts in the border and a +twisted design of monkeys and their tails done in the center. An’ there +ain’t a moth hole in it—not one.” + +Janice looked out of the window. + +“I’ve got a cameo pin, too,” continued Aunt Mary reflectively. “My, but +that’s a handsome pin, as I remember it. It’s got Jupiter on it holdin’ +a bunch of thunder and lightnin’ an’ receivin’ the news of somebody’s +bein’ born—I used to know the whole story. But, you see, I expected to +just be sittin’ by Jack’s bed and I never thought to bring any of those +dress-up kind of things,” she sighed. + +Janice returned to the bed side. + +“Hadn’t you better begin to dress?” she howled suggestively. “They are +going to dine here before going to the theater and dinner is ordered in +an hour.” + +“Maybe I had,” said Aunt Mary, “but—oh dear—I don’t know what I _will_ +wear!” She began to emerge from the bedclothes as she spoke. + +“How would my green plaid waist do?” she asked earnestly. + +“I think it would be lovely,” shrieked the maid. + +“Well, shake it out then,” said Aunt Mary, “it ought to be in the +fashion—all the silk they put in the sleeves. An’ if you’ll do my hair +just as you did it yesterday—” + +“Yes, I will.” + +Then the labor of the toilette began in good earnest, and +three-quarters of an hour later Aunt Mary was done, and sitting by the +window while Janice laced her boots. + +A rap sounded at the door. + +“Come in,” cried the maid. + +It was Jack with a regular fagot of American Beauties. + +“Well, Aunt Mary,” he cried with his customary hearty greeting. “How!” + +“How what?” asked Aunt Mary, whose knowledge of Sioux social customs +had been limited by the border line of New England. + +Jack laughed. “How are you?” he asked in correction of his imperfect +phrasing. And then he handed over the rose wood. + +“I’m pretty well,” said his aunt; “but, my goodness you mustn’t bring +me so many presents—you—” + +Jack stopped her words with a kiss. “Now, Aunt Mary, don’t you scold, +because you’re my company and I won’t have it. This is my treat, and +just don’t you fret. What do you say to your roses?” + +Aunt Mary looked a bit uneasy. + +“They’re pretty big,” she hesitated. + +“That’s the fashion,” said Jack; “the longer you can buy ’em the better +the girls like it. I tried to get you some eight feet long but they +only had two of that number and I wanted the whole bunch to match—” + +He was interrupted by another rap on the door. + +“Hallo!” he cried. “Come in.” + +It was Mitchell with several dozen carnations, the most brilliant yet +prized—or priced. + +“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Aunt Mary. + +“For you, Miss Watkins,” cried the newcomer, gracefully offering his +homage, “with the assurance of my sincere regret that I came on the +scene too late to have been making a scene with you fifty years ago.” + +“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Aunt Mary, rapturously. But never +mind,—Granite, get a tin basin or suthin’ for these flowers.” + +“Where’s Burnett?” Jack asked the newcomer,—“isn’t he dressed? It’s +getting late.” + +“He’s all right,” said Mitchell; “he and Clover are—here they are!” + +The two came in together at that second. Clover’s mustache just showed +over the top of the largest bunch of violets ever constructed, and +Burnett bore with assiduous care a bouquet of orchids tied with a Roman +sash. + +Aunt Mary leaned back and shut her eyes. If it hadn’t been for her +smile, they might possibly have feared for her life. + +But she was only momentarily stunned by surpassing ecstasy. + +“You’d better put some water in the bath-tub, Granite,” she said, +recovering, “nothing else will be big enough.” + +The four young men drew up chairs and rivalled her smiles with theirs. + +“I d’n know how I ever can thank you,” said the old lady warmly. “I’ve +always had such a poor opinion o’ life in cities, too!” + +“Life in cities, my dear Miss Watkins,” screamed Mitchell, “is always +pictured as very black, but it’s only owing to the soft coal—not to the +people who burn it.” + +Aunt Mary smiled again. + +“I guess the bath-tub will be big enough to keep ’em fresh,” she said +simply, and Mitchell gave up and dried his forehead with his +handkerchief. + +They dined at home upon this occasion and afterwards took two carriages +for the theater. Aunt Mary, Jack, Clover, the American Beauties and the +violets went in the first, and what remained of the party and the +floral decorations followed in the second. + +“I mean to smoke,” said that part of the second load which habitually +answered to the name of Mitchell. “There is nothing so soothing when +you have thorns in your legs as a cigarette in your mouth.” + +“Too—too;” laughed his companion. “Jimmy! but our aunt is game, isn’t +she?” + +“To my order of thinking,” said Mitchell thoughtfully scratching a +match, “Aunt Mary has been hung up in cold storage just long enough to +have acquired the exactly proper gamey flavor. It cannot be denied that +to worn, worldly, jaded mortals like you and me, the sight of fresh, +ever bubbling, youthful enthusiasm like hers is as thrilling and +trilling and rilling as—as—as—” he paused to light his cigarette. + + +[Illustration: Aunt Mary and Her Escorts.] + + +“Yes, you’d better stutter,” said Burnett. “I thought you were running +ahead of your proper signals.” + +“It isn’t that,” said Mitchell, puffing gently. “It is that I suddenly +recollected that I was alone with you, and my brains tell me that it is +a waste of brains to use them in the sense of a plural noun with you. +The word in your company,—my dear boy—only comes to me as a verb—as an +active verb—and dear knows how often I have itched to apply it +forcibly.” + +Then they drew up in front of the theater and saw Aunt Mary being +unloaded just beyond. + +“Great Scott, I feel as if I was a part of a poster!” said Burnett, +diving into the carriage depths for the last lot of flowers. + +“I feel as if I were a part of the Revelation,” said Mitchell, “I +mean—the Revel-eration.” + +They rapidly formed on somewhat after the plan of the famous “Marriage +under the Directoire.” Aunt Mary commanded the center-rush, leaning on +Jack’s arm, and the rest acted as half-backs, left wings, or +flower-bearers, just as the reader prefers. + +They made quite a sensation as they proceeded to their box and more yet +when they entered it. They were late—very late—as is the privilege of +all box parties and their seating problem absorbed the audience to a +degree never seen before or since. + +Jack put Aunt Mary and her green plaid waist in the middle and flanked +her with purple violets and red carnations. The ear-trumpet was laid +upon the orchids just where she could reach it easily. Then her escorts +took positions as a sort of half-moon guard behind and each held two or +three American Beauties straight up and down as if they were the +insignia of his rank and office. + +The effect was gorgeous. The very actors saw and were interested at +once. They directed all their attention to that one box, and at the end +of the act the stage manager got the writer of the topical song on the +wire and had a brand new and very apropos verse added which brought +down the house. + +Jack and his party caught on and clapped like mad, Aunt Mary beat the +front of the box with her ear-trumpet, and when Clover suggested that +she throw some flowers to the heroine she threw the orchids and came +near maiming the bass viol for life. Burnett rushed out between acts +and bought her a cane to pound with, Jack rushed out between more acts +and bought her a pair of opera glasses, Mitchell rushed out between +still further acts and procured her one of those Japanese fans which +they use for fire-screens, and agitated it around her during the rest +of the evening. + +“Time of your life, Aunt Mary,” Jack vociferated under the cover of a +general chorus; “Time of your life!” + +“Oh, my,” said Aunt Mary, heaving a great sigh, “seems if I’d _die_ +when I think of Lucinda.” + +They got out of the theater somewhat after eleven and Clover took them +all to a French café for supper, so that again it was pretty well along +into the day after when Janice regained her charge. + +“Granite,” said Aunt Mary very solemnly, as she collapsed upon her bed +twenty minutes later yet, “put it down on that memoranda for me never +to find no fault with nothing ever again. Never—not ever—not never +again.” + + +The second day after was that which had been set for Mitchell’s +yachting party. They allowed a day to lapse between because a yachting +party has to begin early enough so that you can see to get on board. +Mitchell wanted his to begin early enough so that they could see the +yacht too. + +“A yacht, Miss Watkins,” he said into the ear trumpet, “is a delight +that it takes daylight to delight in. If my words sound somewhat mixed, +believe me, it is the effect of what is to come casting its shadow +before. I speak with understanding and sympathy—you will know all +later.” + +Aunt Mary smiled sweetly. Sometimes she thought that Mitchell was the +nicest of the three—times when she wasn’t talking to Clover or Burnett. + +Jack took his aunt out to drive on the afternoon of the intervening day +and bought her a blue suit with a red tape around one arm, and some +rubbersoled shoes, and a yachting cap and a mackintosh. There was +something touching in Aunt Mary’s joyful confidence and +anticipation—she having never been cast loose from shore in all her +life. + +“When do you s’pose we’ll get home?” she asked Jack. + +“Oh, some time toward night,” he replied. + +She smiled with a trust as colossal as Trusts usually are. + +“I’m sure I shall have a good time,” she said. “I always liked to see +pictures of waves.” + +“You’ll see the real things now, Aunt Mary,” cried her nephew heartily. +He was not a bit malicious, possessing a stomach whose equilibrium +could not conceive any other anatomical condition. + +Janice, however, had doubts, and on the morning of the next day her +doubts deepened. She looked from the window and shook her head. + +“Feel a fly?” inquired Aunt Mary. + +“No, I see some clouds,” yelled her maid. + +“I didn’t ask you to speak loud,” said the old lady. “I always hear +what you say. Always.” + +Janice went out of the room and voiced her views of the weather to the +proprietors of the expedition. The proprietors were having an +uproarious breakfast on ham and eggs—all but Mitchell, who sat somewhat +aloof and contented himself with an old and reliable breakfast food +long known to his race. + +“Are you really going to take her up the Sound to-day?” the maid +demanded of the merry mob. + +“I’m not,” said Burnett; “it’s the yacht that’s going to take her. Pass +the syrup, Jack, like the jack you are.” + +“Doesn’t she feel well?” Jack asked, passing the syrup as requested. +“If she doesn’t feel well, of course, we won’t go.” + +“I like that,” said Mitchell, “when it’s my day for my party and my +cook all provisioned with provisions for provisioning us all. How long +do you suppose ice cream stays together in this month of roses, +anyhow?” + +“She is very well,” said the maid quietly, “but it’s blowing pretty +fresh here in the city and I thought that out on the Sound—” + +“Blowing fresh, is it?” laughed Burnett; “well, it’ll salt her fast +enough when we get out. Don’t you fuss over what’s none of your +business, my dear girl; just trot along upstairs and dress dolly, and +when she’s dressed we’ll take her off your hands.” + +Jack appeared unduly quiet. + +“Do you think it is going to storm?” he asked Mitchell. Mitchell was +scraping his saucer with the thrift that thrives north of the Firth of +Forth and hatches yachts on the west shores of the Atlantic. + +“I don’t think at all during vacation,” he said mildly. “I repose and +reap ‘Oh’s’—from other people.” + +“If there was any chance of a storm——?” said the nephew, thoughtfully. + +“Fiddle-dee-dee,” said Burnett impatiently, “what do you think yachts +are for, anyhow? To let alone?” He looked at the maid as he spoke and +pointed significantly to the door. She went out at once and returned +upstairs to her mistress whom she found quite restless to “get-a-goin’” +as she expressed it. + +The boxes filled with yesterday’s purchases were brought out at once +and Janice proceeded to rubber-sole and blue-serge Aunt Mary. The +latter regarded every step of the performance in the huge three-fold +cheval glass which had been wont to tell Mrs. Rosscott things that +every woman longs to know. + +When her toilette was complete it must be admitted that as a +yachtswoman Aunt Mary fairly outshone her automobile portrait. She +surveyed herself long and carefully. + +“I expect it’ll be quite an experience,” she said with many new +wrinkles of anticipation. + +“Yes,” said Janice, with a glance at the fluttering window curtains, “I +expect it will be.” + +Aunt Mary went downstairs and was greeted with loud acclamations. The +breakfast party broke up at once and, while Janice phoned for cabs, +Aunt Mary’s quartette of escorts sought hats, coats, etcetera. After +that they all sallied forth and took their places as joyfully as ever. + +It was quite a long drive to where “Lady Belle” had been brought up, +and they had to stop once to lay in two or three pounds of current +literature. + +“Do you read mostly?” asked Aunt Mary. + +“It’s best to be on the safe side,” said Clover vaguely. + +Then they entered the tangle of docks and express wagons and obstacles +in general and Mitchell had great difficulty in finding where his +launch had been taken to meet them. + +But at last they got Aunt Mary down a flight of very slippery steps and +into a boat whose everything was labeled “Lady Belle,” and Mitchell +said something and they cast loose and were off. + +“Seems rather a small yacht,” said Aunt Mary, glancing cheerfully +about. “I ain’t surprised that you’d rather come in nights.” + +“Bless your heart, Aunt Mary,” shrieked Jack, “this isn’t the yacht, +this is the way we get to her.” + +“Oh,” said Aunt Mary blankly. + +“That’s the yacht,” yelled Burnett, “that white one with the black +smoke coming out and the sail up.” + +“What are they getting up steam for?” asked Clover. “The time to get up +steam is when you get down sails generally.” + +“They aren’t getting up steam,” said Mitchell, “they’re getting up +dinner. It looks like a lot of smoke because of the shadow on the sail. +And, speaking of getting up dinner, reminds me that the topic before us +now is, how in thunder are we to get up Aunt Mary?” + +“Put a rope around her and board her as if she was a cavalry horse,” +suggested Burnett. + +“I scorn the suggestion,” said their host; “if the worst comes to the +worst I can give her a back up, but I trust that Aunt Mary will rise to +the heights of the sail and the situation all at once and not make me +do any vertebratical stunts so early in the day.” + +They were running alongside of “Lady Belle” as he spoke, and the first +thing Aunt Mary knew she and her party were attached to the former by +some mysterious and not altogether solid connection. + +“What do we do now?” she asked uneasily. + +“I’ll show you,” laughed Burnett, and seizing two flapping ropes he +went skipping up a sort of stepladder and sprang upon the deck above. + +Aunt Mary started to emulate his prowess and stood up at once. But the +next second she sat down extremely hard without knowing why she had +done so. + +“Hold on, Miss Watkins,” Mitchell cried hastily; “just you hold on +until I give you something to hold on to, and when you’ve got something +to hold on to, please keep holding on to it, until I tell you that the +hour has come in which to let go again.” + +“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Aunt Mary, “but I’m ready to do +anythin’ you say if you only—” and again she sprang up and again was +thrown down as hard as before. + +“Look out,” cried Jack, springing to her side; and he got hold of his +valuable relative and held her fast while Mitchell grasped the ladder +and a sailor strove to keep the launch still. + +“Now, Aunt Mary,” cried the nephew, “hang on to me and hang on to those +ropes and remember I’m right back of you—” + +“My Lord alive,” cried Aunt Mary, turning her gaze upwards, “am I +expected to go alone all that way to the top?” + +“It’ll pay you to keep on to the top,” screamed Clover; “you’ll have, +comparatively speaking, very little fun if you hang on to the ladder +all day—and you’ll get so wet too.” + +“There’s more room at the top,” cried Mitchell, “there’s always room at +the top, Miss Watkins. Put yourself in the place of any young man +entering a profession and struggle bravely upwards, bearing ever in—” + +“Oh, I never can,” said Aunt Mary, recoiling abruptly; “I never could +climb trees when I was little—I never had no grip in my legs—and I just +know I can’t. It’s too high. An’ it looks slippery. An’ I don’t want +to, anyhow.” + +“What rot!” yelled Jack, “the very idea! Why, Aunt Mary, you know you +can skin up there just like a cat if you only make up your mind to it. +Here, Mitchell, give her a boost and I’ll plant her feet firmly. +Now—have you got hold of the ropes, Aunt Mary?” + +“Oh, mercy—on—me!” wailed Aunt Mary, “the yacht is turnin’ a-round an’ +the harder I pull the faster it turns.” + +“Catch her from above, Burr,” Clover called excitedly; “hook her with +anything if you can’t reach her with your hand.” + +“Oh, my cap!” shrieked poor Aunt Mary, and the cap went off and she +went on up and was landed safe above. + +“How on the chart do you suppose we’ll ever unload her?” Jack asked, +wide-eyed, as he swung himself quickly after her. + +“What man hath done man can do,” quoted Mitchell sententiously, +following his lead. + +“But no man ever unloaded Aunt Mary,” Clover reminded him, as they +brought up the rear. + +Then they were all on deck, a chair was brought for the honored guest, +and Mitchell introduced his sailing-master who had been drawn to gaze +upon the rather novel manner in which she had been brought aboard. + +“I want Miss Watkins to have the sail of her life, Renfew,” said +Mitchell. “We aren’t coming back until night.” + +“We’ll have sail enough sure, sir,” said Renfew, touching his cap, and +then he walked away and the work of starting off began. A tug had been +engaged to tow them out into the breeze and Jack thought it would be +nice to show Aunt Mary around while they were being meandered through +coal barges, etc. They went below and Aunt Mary saw everything with a +most flattering interest. + +“I d’n know but what I’d enjoy a little yacht of my own,” she said to +Mitchell. “I think it’s so amusin’ the way everythin’ turns over into +suthin’ else. I suppose Joshua could learn to sail me—I wouldn’t want +to trust no new man, I know.” + +“Why, of course,” said Jack, “and we could all come and visit you, Aunt +Mary.” + +Aunt Mary smiled hospitably. + +“I’d be glad to see you all any day,” she said cordially; “and I shall +have a hole in the bottom of the boat for people to go in and out of, +and a nice staircase down to it, so you needn’t mind the notion of how +you’ll get on and off.” + +They all laughed and continued the tour below and Aunt Mary grew more +and more enthusiastic for quite a while. She liked the kitchen and she +liked the dining-room. She thought the arrangement for keeping the +table level most ingenious. Mitchell took her into the main cabin and +told her that that was hers for the day. On the dresser was a +photograph of the “Lady Belle” framed in silver, which the young host +presented to his guest as a souvenir of the “voyage.” + +Aunt Mary’s pleasure was at its height. Oh, the pity of Fate which +makes the apex of everything so very limited as to standing room! Three +minutes after the presentation and acceptation of the photograph Aunt +Mary’s glance became suddenly vague, and then especially piercing. + +“What makes this up and down feeling?” she asked Mitchell. + +“What up and down feeling?” he asked, secure in the good conscience and +pure living of an oatmeal breakfast. “I don’t feel up and down.” + +“I do,” said Aunt Mary abruptly; “I want to be somewhere else.” + +“You want to be on deck,” said Burnett, suddenly emerging from +somewhere; “I know the symptoms. I always have ’em. Come on. And when +we get up there, I’ll collar Jack for urging those six last griddle +cakes on me this morning.” + +“I ain’t sure I want to be on deck,” said Aunt Mary; “dear me—I feel as +if I wasn’t sure of anythin’.” + +“What did I tell you?” said Burnett to Mitchell; “it’s blowing fresh +and neither she nor I ought to have come. You know me when it blows.” + +“Shut up,” said Mitchell, hurrying Aunt Mary up the companion-way and +shoving her into one chair and her feet into another; “there, Miss +Watkins, you’re all right now, aren’t you?” + +“What’s the matter?” said Jack, coming from somewhere aloft or astern. +“Heaven bless me, what ails you, Aunt Mary?” + +“I don’t wonder I’m pale,” said Aunt Mary faintly, “oh—oh—” + +“We must put our heads together,” said Burnett, taking a drink from a +flask that he took out of his pocket; “I must soon put my head on +something, and your aunt looks to me to feel the same way. Mitchell, +why did you let me forget that vow I made last time to never come +again?” + +“Your vows to never do things again are about as stable as your present +hold on an upright position,” said Clover, laying a steadying hand upon +his friend’s waveringness. “Sit down, little boy, sit down.” + +Burnett sat down, Mitchell smiled, Jack laughed, and Aunt Mary groaned. + +The boat was rising and falling rapidly now, and as she ran further and +further out into the ever freshening wind she kept on rising and +falling yet more rapidly. The more motion there was the more Aunt Mary +seemed to sift down in her two chairs. + +“We’d better put back,” said Jack; “this won’t do, you know. How do you +feel now, Aunt Mary?” he added, leaning over her. + +Aunt Mary opened her eyes and looked at him but made no reply. + +“Ask me how I feel, if you dare,” said Burnett, from where his chair +was drawn up not far away. “I couldn’t kill you just now, but I will +some day I promise you.” + +He was very white and had a look about his mouth that showed that he +meant what he said. + +Some bells rang somewhere. + +“That’s dinner,” exclaimed Clover. + +Aunt Mary gave a piercing cry. + +“Oh, take me somewhere else,” she said, throwing her hands up to her +face; “somewhere where there’ll never be nothin’ to eat again. I—I +can’t bear to hear about eatin’.” + +“I’m going to take her down into one of the cabins,” said Jack hastily, +“she belongs in bed.” + +“No, turn back the carpet and lay me in the bath-tub,” almost sobbed +the poor victim. “I don’t feel like I could get flat enough anywhere +else.” + +“She has the proper spirit,” said Burnett faintly, “only I don’t feel +as if I could get flat enough anywhere at all. What in the name of the +Great Pyramid ever possessed me to come?” + +Mitchell rose quickly to his feet. + +“You put your aunt to bed, Jack,” he said, “and I’ll put my yacht to +backing. This expedition is expeditiously heading on to what might be +termed a failure. I can see that, even if we’re only in a Sound.” + +“When do you suppose we’ll get back?” the nephew asked anxiously. + +“About four o’clock, if we don’t lose time by having to tack.” + +“I didn’t quite catch all that,” said Aunt Mary, “but I knew suthin’ +was loose all along. I felt it inside of me right off at first. And +ever since, too.” + +Jack gathered her up in his arms and bore her tenderly away to the +beautiful main cabin. + +“I wanted to live to change my will,” she said sadly, as he laid her +down, “but somehow I don’t seem to care for nothin’ no more.” + +He kissed her hand. + +“They say being seasick is awfully _good_ for people, Aunt Mary,” he +yelled contritely. + +Aunt Mary opened her eyes. + +“John Watkins, Jr., Denham,” she said, “if you say ‘food’ to me again +_ever_, I’ll never leave you a penny—so there!” + +Jack went away and left her. + +“Come on to dinner, Burnett,” Clover called hilariously, “there’s liver +with little bits of bacon—your favorite dish.” + +Burnett snarled the weakest kind of a snarl. + +“I thought I’d suffered enough for one year last month,” he murmured in +a voice too low to be heard, and then he knew himself to be alone on +deck. + +Down in the little dining-saloon the dishes were hopping merrily back +and forth and an agreeable odor of agreeable viands filled the air. +Clover and Jack sat down opposite their host and they all three ate and +drank with a zest that knew no breaking waves nor sad effects. + +“Here’s to our aunt,” said Clover gayly, as the first course went +around; “of course, we all love her for Jack’s sake, but at the same +time I offer two to odds that it is a pleasure to converse in under +tones occasionally. Who takes?” + +“Aunt Mary being laid upon her bed,” said Mitchell, “we will next +proceed to lay the motion of our honorable friend upon the table. We +regret Aunt Mary’s ill-health while we drink to her good—quotation +marks under the latter word. Aunt Mary!—and may she arise and prosper +all the way down into the launch again.” + +“I’m troubled about her, really,” said Jack soberly; “we ought to have +brought someone to look out for her.” + +“The maid,” cried Mitchell, “the dainty, adorable maid! Here’s to +Janice and—” his speech was brought to a sudden end by his two guests +nearly disappearing under the table. + +Jack started up. + +“Ginger! Did you feel that?” he asked. + +“That’s nothing,” said Mitchell, calmly replacing the water-carafe +which in the excitement of the moment he had clasped to his bosom; +“it’s the waves which are rising to the occasion—that’s all.” But Jack +had hurried out. + +He found poor Aunt Mary writhing in an agony of misery. “Oh—oh—” she +cried, “I want to be still—I’m too much tipped—and all the wrong way! I +want to lay smooth—and I stand on my head—all the—” + +“We’re going back,” said Jack, striving to soothe her; “lie still, Aunt +Mary, and we’ll soon get there. Do you want some camphor to smell?” + +“I don’t feel up to smellin’,” wailed Aunt Mary, “I don’t feel up to +anythin’. Go ’way. Right off.” + +Jack went on deck. He found Burnett stretched pale and green upon the +chairs their lady guest had vacated. + +“If you speak to me again,” he said, in halting accents, “I’ll never +speak to you again. Get out.” + +Jack went back to his place at dinner. + +“How are they?” asked Clover. + +“I don’t know,” he said quietly, “but there’s a big storm coming up. +The sky’s all dark blue and it looks bad.” + +“I don’t care,” said Mitchell, sawing into the game with vigor; “if we +go down we go down with Aunt Mary and if I were Uncle Mary I wouldn’t +feel happier and safer as to all concerned. The ship that bore Cæsar +and his fortune had nothing at all to bear compared to this which bears +Jack and his. Here’s to Jack and his fortune, and may we all survive +the dark blue sky.” + +“I tell you it’s serious,” said Jack. As he spoke another ominous +heaving set the bottles tipping and nearly sent Clover backwards. + +“And I’m serious,” exclaimed Mitchell. “I’m always serious only I never +can get any girl to believe it. Here’s to me, and may I grow more and +more serious each—” + +A tremendous wave bore the yacht upright and then let her fall on her +forelegs again. Clover went over backwards and the dish of peas to +which he had just been helping himself followed after. + +“You didn’t say ‘excuse me’ when you left the table,” said Mitchell, +whom the law of gravitation had suddenly raised to a pinnacle from +which he viewed his friends with mirthful scorn; “and if you’ve hurt +yourself it must be a judgment on you for leaving the table without +saying ‘excuse me.’ Here’s to Clover, who has a judgment and a dish of +peas served on him at the same time for leaving the table without +saying ‘excuse me.’” + +The sailing-master appeared at the door, his cap in his hand. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said respectfully, “but I fear it’s +impossible to put back. We can’t turn without getting into the trough +of the sea.” + +“All right, go ahead then,” said Mitchell; “go where we must go, and do +what you’ve got to do. My motto is _veni, vidi, vici_, which freely +translated means I can sleep asea when I can’t sleep ashore.” + +“But Aunt Mary?” cried Jack blankly. + +“She’s all right,” said Mitchell; “she’ll soon reach the cold burnt +toast stage and when she reaches the stage we’ll all welcome her into +any chorus. Here’s to choruses in general and one chorus girl in +particular. I haven’t met her yet, but I shall know her when I do, for +she will look at me. Up to now they’ve all looked elsewhere and at +other men. If my fortune was only in my face it might draw some +interest, but—” + +“Lady Belle” careened violently and Clover went over backwards for the +second time with much in his wake. + +“Oh, I say,” said Mitchell, rising in disgust, “if you want everything +on the table at once why take it. Only I’m going on deck. After you’ve +bathed in the gravy you can have it. Ditto the other liquids. Jack and +I are going up to dance a hornpipe and sing for Burnett. He looked +rather ennuyéd to me when we came down.” + +Along toward eight o’clock that night “Lady Belle” anchored somewhere +in the Sound and tugged vigorously at her cables all night. + +With the dawn she headed back towards New York. + +“As a success my entertainment has been a failure,” said Mitchell to +Jack as they walked up and down the deck after breakfast; “but into +each life some rain must fall, and I offer myself as a sacrificial +background to Aunt Mary’s glowing, living pictures of New York.” + +“I wish you hadn’t, though,” said Jack; “she’ll never want a yacht of +her own now. And how under Scorpion are we ever going to land her?” + +“In a sheet, my able-bodied young friend, in a sheet,” said Mitchell +clapping him on the back. “Don’t you know the ‘Weigh the Baby’ game? It +may double her up a bit, but the redoubtable Janice will straighten her +out again. Here’s to the sheet, be it a wet sheet, a main sheet, or a +sheet with your Aunt Mary tied up in it.” + +Mitchell was as good as his word and they landed Aunt Mary in a sheet. +The very harbor-tugs stopped puffing and stood open-mouthed to stare at +the performance, but it was an unalloyed success, and Aunt Mary was +gotten onto dry land at last. + +“I don’t want to do nothin’ for a day or two,” she said, as they drove +to the house. + +Janice had the bed open, and a hot-water bottle down where Aunt Mary’s +feet might be expected, and all sorts of comfort ready to hand. + +“I’m so glad to see you safe back,” she said, almost weeping. + +“I don’t believe it’s broke,” said Aunt Mary, “but you might look and +see. Oh, Granite—I—” she stopped and looked an unutterable meaning. + +“It stormed, didn’t it?” said the maid. + +“Stormed!” said Aunt Mary. “I guess it did storm. I guess it +hurricaned. I know it did. I’m sure of it.” + +“But you’re safe now,” said the girl, tucking her up as snugly as if +she had been an infant in arms. + +“Yes, I’m safe now,” said Aunt Mary, “but—” she looked very +earnest—“but, oh, my Granite, how I did need that white fuzzy stuff to +drink this morning. I never wanted nothin’ so bad in all my life +afore.” + +Janice stood by the bed, her face full of regret that Aunt Mary had +known any aching void. + +Aunt Mary grew yet more earnest. + +“Granite,” she said, “you mind what I tell you. That ought to be +advertised. I sh’d think you could patent it. Folks ought to know about +it.” + +Then she laid herself out in bed. “My heavens alive!” she sighed +sweetly, “there’s nothin’ like home. Not anywhere—not nowhere!” + + + + +Chapter Sixteen +A Reposeful Interval + + +The next date upon the little gold and ivory memorandum card which hung +beside Aunt Mary’s watch was that set for Burnett’s picnic, but its +dawning found both host and guest too much attached to their beds to +desire any fêtes champêtre just then. + +Burnett was in that very weak state which follows in the immediate wake +of only too many yachts,—and Aunt Mary was sleeping one of her long +drawn out and utterly restorative sleeps. + +Jack went in and looked at her. + +“It did storm awfully,” he said to Janice, who was sitting by the +window. The maid just smiled, nodded, and laid her finger on her lip. +She never encouraged conversation when her charge was reposing. + +Jack went softly out and turned his steps toward the room of the other +wreck. + +“Well, how are stocks to-day?” he asked cheerfully on entering. + +Burnett was stretched out pillowless and looked black under his hollow +eyes. But he appeared to be on the road to recovery. + +“Jack,” he said seriously, “what in thunder makes me always so ready to +go on the water? I should think after a while I’d learn a thing or +two.” + +Jack leaned his elbows on the high carved footboard and returned his +friend’s look with one of equal seriousness. + +“What makes all of us do lots of things?” he asked. “Why don’t we all +learn?” + +Burnett sighed. + +“That’s a fact; why don’t we?” he said weakly. And then he shut his +eyes again and turned his back to his caller. + +Jack went down to lunch. Clover and Mitchell were playing cards in the +library. + +“Well, how is the hospital?” Clover asked, looking up while he shuffled +the pack. + +“Never mind about Burnett,” said Mitchell, “but do relieve my mind +about Aunt Mary. Is the one sheet still taking effect, or has she begun +to rally on a diet of two?” + +“She’s asleep,” said the nephew. + +“God bless her slumber,” declared Clover piously. “I very much approve +of Aunt Mary asleep. When our dearly beloved aunt sleeps we know we’ve +got her and we don’t have to yell. Shall I deal for three?” + +“They are bringing up lunch,” said the latest arrival,—“no time to +begin a hand. Better stack guns for the present.” + +“So say I,” said Mitchell, “with me everything goes down when lunch +comes up. It’s quite the reverse with Burnett, isn’t it?” He laughed +brutally at his own wit. + +“To think how enthusiastic Burr was,” said Clover, evening the cards +preparatory to slipping them into their holder on the side of the +table. “He’s always so enthusiastic and he’s always so sick. In his +place I should feel that, if a buoyant nature is a virtue, I didn’t get +much reward.” + +The gong sounded just then, and they all went down to lunch, not at all +saddened by the sight of their comrade’s empty chair. + +“Now, what are we going to do next?” Clover demanded as they finished +the bouillon. + +“Have a meat course, I suppose,” said Mitchell. + +“I don’t mean that; I mean, what are we going to do next with Aunt +Mary?” + +“She hasn’t but two days more,” said Jack meditatively. “Of course—even +if she was all chipper—this storm has knocked any picnic endways.” + +“I am not an ardent upholder of picnics, anyhow,” said Mitchell. “They +require a constant sitting down on the ground and getting up from the +ground to which I find our respected aunt very far from being equal. +Burnett mentioned that we should go to the scene on a coach. That also +did not meet my approval. Going anywhere on a coach requires a constant +getting up on the coach and getting down from the coach to which I also +consider the lady unequal. The events of yesterday have left a deep +impression on my mind. I—” + +“Go on and carve,” interrupted Clover, “or else shove me the platter. +I’m hungry.” + +“So’m I,” said a voice at the door. A weak voice—but one that showed +decision in its tone. + +They looked up and saw Burnett, dressed in a pink silk negligée with +flowing sleeves. + +“I’m ravenous,” he exclaimed explanatorily. “I haven’t had anything +since day before yesterday at breakfast. I didn’t know I wanted +anything till I smelt it,—then I dressed and came down.” + +“How sweet you look,” said Clover. “The effect of your pajama cuffs and +collar where one greedily expects curves and contour is lovely. Where +did you find that bath-robe?” + +“In the bureau drawer,” said Burnett. “It appeared to have been hastily +shoved in there some time. I would have thought that it was a woman’s +something-or-other, only I found one of Jack’s cards in the pocket.” + +They all began to laugh—Clover and Mitchell more heartily than the +owner of the card. + +“Sit down,” said Mitchell finally with great cordiality. “You may as +well sit down while they mess you up some weak tea and wet toast.” + +“Tea and toast?” cried the one in pink. “I’m good for dinner. _Um +Gotteswillen_, what do you suppose I came down for?” + +“I wasn’t sure,” said his friend mildly; “you must admit yourself that +your attire is misleading. My book on social etiquette says nothing as +to when it is correct to wear a pink silk robe over blue and white +striped pajamas. However, there’s no denying your presence, and what +can’t be denied must be supplied, so what will you have?” + +“Everything.” + +Mitchell dived into the edibles generally and Burnett’s void was +provided with fulfillment. + +“We were talking about Aunt Mary,” Clover said presently. “We were +saying that neither you nor she would be up to a coach or down to a +picnic for one while.” + +“Oh, I don’t know,” said Burnett. “I feel up to pretty nearly anything +now that I can eat again. Pass over the horseradish, will you?” + +“You’re one thing, my sweet pink friend,” said Clover gently, “but Aunt +Mary’s another. I’m not saying that New York has not had a wonderfully +Brown-Sequardesque effect on her, but I am saying that if she is to be +raised and lowered frequently, I want to travel with a portable crane.” + +“Hum, hum, hum!” cried Jack. “May I just ask who did most of the heavy +labor of Aunt Mary yesterday?—As the man in the opera sings twenty +times with the whole chorus to back him—‘’Twas I, ’twas I, ’twas I, +’twas I—’” + +“Hand over the toast, Clover,” said Burnett. “I don’t care who it +was—it was a success anyhow, for she’s upstairs and still alive, and I +say she’d enjoy coaching out Riverside way, and—” he choked. + +“Slap him anywhere,” said Mitchell. “On his mouth would be the proper +place. Such poor manners,—coming down to a company lunch in another +man’s bath-robe and then trying to preach and eat dry toast at once.” + +Burnett gasped and recovered. + +“There,” said Clover, who had risen to administer the proposed slap, +“he’s off our minds and we may again pick up Aunt Mary and put her back +on.” + +“We want to send her home in a blaze of glory,” said Jack thoughtfully. +“I want her to feel that the fun ran straight through.” + +“That’s just what I mean,” interposed his particular friend; “we want +her to go home on the wings of a giant cracker, so to speak.” + +“How would it do,” said Clover suddenly, “to just make a night of it +and take her along? Stock up, stack up, and ho! for it. You all know +the kind of a time I mean.” + +“Clover,” said Jack gravely, “does it occur to you that Aunt Mary +belongs to me and that I have a personal interest in keeping her +alive?” + +“Nothing ever occurs to him,” said Mitchell. “Occasionally an idea +bangs up against him inadvertently, and as it splinters a sliver or two +penetrate his head—that’s all.” + +“I don’t see why the last sliver he felt wasn’t to the point,” said +Burnett, turning the cream jug upside down as he spoke. “I think she’d +enjoy it of all things. She enjoys everything so. I’ll guarantee that +when she gets back home she’ll even enjoy the yachting trip. Lots of +people are made like that. In the winter I always enjoy yachting, +myself. Pass me the hot bread.” + +“Burnett,” said Mitchell warmly, “I wish that you would remember that a +collapse invariably follows an inflated market.” + +“Is it Aunt Mary who is on the market, or myself?” + +“You.” + +“Oh, the rule is reversed in my case—the collapse went first. I’m only +inflating up to the usual limit again. Is there any gravy left?” + +“No, there isn’t,” said Clover, looking in the dish, “there isn’t much +of anything left.” + +“Let’s go to the library,” said Mitchell, rising abruptly. “It always +makes me ill to see goose-stuffing before Thanksgiving. Come on.” + +“I’m done,” said Burnett, springing up and winding his lacey draperies +about his manly form. “Come on yourself; and once settled and smoking, +let us canvass the question and agree with Clover.” + +“You know there are nights about town and nights about town,” said +Clover, as they climbed the staircase. “I do not anticipate that Aunt +Mary will bring up with a round turn in the police station, as her +young relative once did.” + +“Well, that’s some comfort,” said Mitchell. “I did not feel sure as to +just where you did mean her to bring up. You will perhaps allow me to +remark that making a night of it with Aunt Mary in tow is a subject +that really is provocative of mature reflection. Making a night of it +is a frothy sort of a proposition in which our beloved aunty may not +beat up to quite the buoyancy of you and me.” + +As he finished this sage remark they all re-entered the library and +grouped themselves around the table of smoking things. + +“That’s what I say,” said Jack. “I think she’s much more likely to beat +out than to beat up—I must say.” + +“I’ll bet you she doesn’t,” cried Burnett eagerly. “I’ll bet five +dollars that she doesn’t.” + +“I declare,” said Clover, “what a thing a backer is to be sure. I feel +positive that Aunt Mary will go through with it now. I had my doubts +before, but never now. Six to five on Aunt Mary for the Three-year-old +Stakes.” + +“The best way is to hit a happy medium,” said Mitchell thoughtfully, +scratching a match for the lighting of his new-rolled cigarette. “I +think the wisest thing would be for us just to take Aunt Mary and sally +forth and then keep it up until she must be put to bed. What say?” + +“Well,” said Jack, reflectively, “I don’t suppose that taking it that +way, it would really be any worse than the other nights—” + +“Worse!” cried Clover. “Hear him!—slandering those brilliant occasions, +everyone of which is a jewel in the crown of Aunt Mary’s bonnet.” + +“We’ll begin by dining out,” said Burnett. “I’ll give the dinner. One +of the souvenir kind of affairs. A white mouse for every man and a +canary bird for the lady. We’ll have a private room and speeches and +I’ll get megaphones so we can make her hear without bustin’.” + +“My dear boy,” said Mitchell, “where is this private room to be in +which the party can converse through megaphones? I had two deaf uncles +once who played cribbage with megaphones, but they were influential and +the rest of the family were poor. Circumstances alter cases. I ask +again where you can get a private dining-room for the use of five +people and four megaphones?” + +“I’ll see,” said Burnett; “I wish,” he added irritably, “that you’d +wait until I finished before beginning to smash in like that, you knock +everything out of my head.” + +“It’ll do you good to have a little something knocked out of you,” said +Mitchell gently. “It may enlarge your premises, give you a spare room +somewhere, so to speak. I should think that you’d need some spare room +somewhere after such a breakfast.” + +“I’ll tell you what I think;” said Clover. “I think it’s a great +scheme. It’s a sort of pull-in-and-out, field-glass species of idea. We +can develop it or we can shut it off; in other words, we can parade +Aunt Mary or bring her home just when we darn please.” + +“That’s what I said,” said Burnett. “Begin with my dinner, white mice +and all, and when all is going just let it slide until it seems about +time to slide off.” + +“Yes,” said Mitchell dryly, “it’s always a good plan to slide on until +you slide off. It would be so easy to reverse the game.” + +“And then, too,—” began Burnett. + +“Excuse me,” said a voice at the door,—a woman’s voice this time. + +It was Janice, very pretty in her black dress and white decorations, +hands in pockets, smile on lips. + +“What’s up now?” the last speaker interrupted himself to ask, “Aunt +Mary?” + +“No, she’s not up,” said the maid; “but she’s awake and wants to know +about the picnic.” + +“There, what did I say!” cried Burnett; “isn’t she a hero? I tell you +Aunt Mary’d fight in the last ditch—she’d never surrender! She’s one of +those dead-at-the-gun chaps. I’m proud to think we have known the +companionship of joint yachting results.” + +“She says she feels as well as ever,” said Janice, opening her eyes a +trifle as she noted Burnett’s pink silk negligée, “and wishes to know +when you want to start.” + +“Bravo,” said Mitchell; “I, too, am fired by this exposition of pluck. +I like spirit. She reminds me of the horse who was turned out to grass +and then suddenly broke the world’s record.” + +“What horse was that?” asked Burnett. + +“Pegasus,” said Mitchell cruelly; “I didn’t say what kind of a record +he broke, did I?” + +“What shall I tell Miss Watkins?” asked the maid. + +Jack, who had risen at her entrance and gone to the window, faced +around here and said: + +“Tell her that if she’ll dress we’ll go out bonnet-shooting and +afterwards drive in the park.” + +Janice hesitated. + +“She will surely ask where you are to dine,” said she, half-smiling. + +Jack looked at the crowd. + +“Fellows,” he said, “we must save up for to-morrow’s blow-out; suppose +you let Mitchell and me dine Aunt Mary somewhere very tranquilly +to-night and we’ll get her home by eleven.” + +“Yes, do,” said Janice, with sudden earnest entreaty. “Honestly, there +is a limit.” + +“Of course, there is a limit,” said Mitchell. “Even cities have their +limits. This one tried to be an exception, but San Francisco yelled +‘Keep off’ and she drew in her claws again. Aunt Mary, possessing many +points in common with New York, also possesses that. She has limits. +Her limits took in more than we bargained for,—for they have taken us +into the bargain. Still they are there, and we bow to necessity. A +cheerful drive, a quiet tea, early to bed. And _pax vobiscum_.” + +“No wonder,” said Burnett, “it’s easy for you to agree when you’re to +be one of the dinner party.” “I don’t mind being left out,” said Clover +contentedly. “I shall sit on the sofa and whisper to ‘the one behind.’ +Whispering is an art that I have almost forgotten, but inspired by that +pink—” + +“Then I’ll tell Miss Watkins to dress for the going out,” said Janice, +pointedly addressing herself to Jack. + +“Yes, please do.” + +The maid left the room and went upstairs. Aunt Mary was tossing about +on her pillow. + +“Well, what’s it to be?” she asked instantly. + +“The storm has made it too wet to picnic,” replied Janice. “Mr. Denham +wants to take you to drive and afterwards you and Mr. Mitchell and he +are to dine—” + +“And Burnett and Clover?” cried Aunt Mary in appalled interruption; +“where are they goin’?” + +“Really, I don’t know.” + +“I don’t like the idea,” said Aunt Mary; “we’d ought to all be +together. I never did approve of splittin’ up in small parties. Did +Jack say anythin’ about my gettin’ another bonnet?” + +“Yes, he thought that you would go to a milliner first.” + +“I don’t know about lookin’ sillier,” said Aunt Mary. “Strikes me a +woman can’t look more foolish than she does without a bonnet. However, +I don’t feel like makin’ a fuss over anythin’ to-day. I’ve had a good +rest and I feel fine. I’ll dress and go out with Jack, an’ I know one +thing, I’ll enjoy every minute I can, for this week is goin’ like +lightnin’ and when it’s over—well, you never saw Lucinda, so it’s no +use tryin’ to make you understand, but—” she drew a long breath and +shook her head meaningly. + +Janice did not reply. She busied herself with the cares of the toilet +of her mistress, and when that was complete the carriage was summoned +for the shopping tour. + +Jack saw that the bonnet was attended to first of all and then they +went to another store and purchased a scarf pin for Joshua and a +workbox for Lucinda. After that Aunt Mary decided that she wanted her +four friends each to have a souvenir of her visit, so she insisted upon +being conducted to that gorgeous establishment which is lighted with +diamonds instead of electricity and ordered four dressing-cases to be +constructed, everything with gold tops, to be engraved with the proper +initials and also the inscription, “from M.W. in memory of N.Y.” Jack +rather protested at this, asking her if she realized what the engraving +would come to. + +“I don’t know,” said Aunt Mary recklessly and lavishly. “I don’t care +what it comes to either. It’s comin’ to me, anyhow, ain’t it? I rather +think so. Seems likely.” + +The clerk took down the order, and then as he was ushering them +door-wards he fell by the wayside and craved permission to show some +tiaras of emeralds and some pearl dog-collars. Jack rebelled. + +“You don’t want any of those,” he exclaimed, trying to propel her by. + +“I ain’t so sure,” said Aunt Mary. “I might have a dog some day.” + +But her nephew got her back into their conveyance, and they drove away. +It was so late that they could not consider the park and so had to make +a tour of Fifth Avenue to use up the time left before dinner. Then when +they headed toward the café they were delighted to observe Mitchell +awaiting them just where he was to have been. + +“I see him,” said Aunt Mary. “My! I’d know him as far off as I’d know +anybody.” But then she sighed. “I wish the others were there, too,” she +said sadly; “seems awful—just three of us.” + +The dinner which followed echoed her sentiment. It was a very nice +dinner, but painfully quiet, and Aunt Mary grew very restless. + +“Seems like wastin’ time, anyhow,” she said uneasily. “I don’t see why +the others didn’t come. Well, can’t we go to Coney Island or the Statue +of Liberty or somewhere when we’re through?” + +Mitchell looked at Jack. + +“Why, you see, Aunt Mary,” the latter promptly shrieked, “we thought +we’d be good and go home early and sort of rest up to-night so as to +have a high old time to-morrow.” + +Aunt Mary’s face, which had fallen during the first part of their +speech, brightened up at the last words. + +“What are we goin’ to do?” she inquired with unfeigned interest. + +“Burnett’s going to give us a dinner,” Jack answered, “and then +afterwards we’re going to help you see the town.” + +“Oh!” said Aunt Mary. A pleasant gleam fled over her face. + +“I never was a great believer in bein’ out nights,” she said, “but I +guess I’ll make an exception to-morrow. I might as well be doin’ that +as anythin’, I presume. Maybe better—very likely better.” + +“Oh, very much better,” said Mitchell. “It is the exceptions that +furnish all the oil in life’s machinery. The exceptions not only +generally prove too much for the rule, but they also generally prevent +the rule from proving too much for us. They—” + +“But I don’t see why we couldn’t go to two or three vaudevilles +to-night, too,” said the old lady, suddenly. “I feel so sort of +ready-for-anythin’.” + +“You always feel that way, Miss Watkins,” screamed Mitchell. “It is we +that are the blind and the halt. You are ever fresh, but we falter and +faint. You see it’s you that go out, but it’s we that you get back. +You—” + +“We could go to one vaudeville, anyway,” said Aunt Mary abstractedly; +“an’ if we saw any places that looked lively we could stop a few +minutes there on our way back. I’ve never been into lots of things +here.” + +Jack looked at Mitchell this time. + +“I’m sorry, Miss Watkins,” he roared, “but _I’ll_ have to go home, +anyhow. You see, I’m not used to the lively life which has been +enlivening us all this week and, being weakly in my knees, needs must +look out.” + +Aunt Mary looked very disappointed. + +“Then Jack and I’ll go, too,” she said, “but oh! dear, I do hate to +waste my stay in the city sleepin’ so much. I can sleep all I want +after I get home, but—” she paused, and then said with deep feeling, +“Well, you don’t understand about Lucinda an’ so you don’t understand +about anythin’.” + +Both the young men felt truly regretful as they put her into the +carriage for the return trip. Her deep enjoyment was so genuine and +naive that they sympathized with her feelings when cut off from it. + +But it was best that this one night should pass unimproved, and so all +five threw themselves into their respective beds with equal zest and +slept—and slept—and slept. + + + + +Chapter Seventeen +Aunt Mary’s Night About Town + + +The next day came up out of the ocean fair and warm, and when it drew +toward later afternoon no more propitious night for setting forth ever +happened. + +It was undeniably a night to be remembered. And Aunt Mary’s +entertainers drew in deep breaths as they girded themselves for the +conflict. They certainly intended to do themselves proud and on top of +all the lesser “times of her life” to pile the one pre-eminent which +should rest pre-eminent forever. Aunt Mary had been gay in the first +part of the week,—gayer and gayer as the week progressed, but that +final crowning night was indubitably the gayest of all. If you doubt +this read on—read on—and be convinced. + +They began with Burnett’s dinner in the private room. No matter where +the private room was, for it really wasn’t a private room at all—it was +a suite of rooms borrowed and arranged especially for that one +occasion. They gathered there at eight o’clock and began with oysters +served on a large brass tray in a half-dim Turkish room where incense +sticks burned about and queer daggers held up the curtains. The oysters +were served on their arrival and the megaphones stood like +extinguishers over each with the name cards tied to the small end. The +effect was really unique. Aunt Mary had one, too, and they were all +rejoiced at her delight in the scheme, and a few seconds after they +were doubly rejoiced over its success for no one had to speak loud—the +megaphones did it all, producing a lovely clamor which deafened all +those who could hear and caused Aunt Mary to feel that she heard with +the rest. + +Amidst the cheerful din they exchanged such very wild remarks as +oysters always inspire and each and all were mutually content at the +effect thereof. Then they finished, and Burnett rose at once, flung +back the portières, and led them in upon their soup which stood smoking +on a large card table in the next room. There were boutonnières with +the soup, and violets for Aunt Mary, and again they used the megaphones +and again the conversation partook of the customary conversation which +soup produces. + +The soup finished, Burnett jumped up again and threw back other +portières and they all moved out into a dining-room, with its table +spread with a substantial dinner. This time it was the real thing. +Candelabra, ice-pails, etc. + +Aunt Mary had a parrot in a gilt tower, and all the men had white mice +in houses shaped like hat-boxes. Mitchell’s seat was flanked with wine +coolers, and Burnett’s, too. There was all that they could desire to +eat and drink and more. The feast began, and it was grand and glorious. + +“I’ll tell you what,” said Aunt Mary, in the midst of the revel, “if +this is what it means in papers when it speaks of high livin’, I don’t +blame ’em for bein’ willin’ to die of it young. One week like this is +worth ten years with Lucinda. Twenty. A whole life.” + +“Say, Jack,” said Burnett in an undertone, “let’s have Lucinda come to +town next and see the effect on her.” + +“Miss Watkins,” said Clover through his megaphone, “as a mark of my +affection I beg to offer you my white mouse. Do you accept?” + +“Oh, I don’t want to go back to the house yet,” said Aunt Mary, much +disturbed. “It’s too soon.” + +“We won’t go home till morning,” said Burnett. “Not by a long shot. +Here, Mitchell, give us a speech. Home! we don’t want to _drink_ to it, +but we do want to drink to it _here_.” + +“Home!” said Mitchell, rising with his glass in his hand. “Home! here’s +to home, and I’ll drink to it in anything but a cab. Home, Aunt Mary +and gentlemen, is the place where one may go when every other place is +closed. As long as any other place is open, however, I do not recommend +going home. The contrast is always sharp and bitter and to be avoided +until unavoidable circumstances, over which we possess but little +control, force us to give our address to the man who drives and let him +drive us to the last place on the map. And so I drink to that last +place—home; and here’s to it, not now, but a good deal later, and not +then unless what must be has got to result.” + +Mitchell paused and they all drank. + +“Me next now,” exclaimed Burnett, jumping to his feet. “I’m going to +make a speech at my own dinner, and as a good speech is best made +off-hand, I’ve picked out an off-hand subject and arise to give you +‘Lucinda.’ Having never met her I feel able to say nothing good about +her and I call the company present to witness that I shall say nothing +bad either. I gather from what I have had a stray chance of picking up +that Lucinda is all that she should be, and nothing frisqué. The latter +quality is too bad, but it’s not my fault. Therefore, I say again +‘Lucinda’, and here’s to her very good health. May she never regret +that Fate has given her no chance to have anything to regret.” + +Aunt Mary applauded this speech heartily even if she hadn’t quite +caught the whole of it and had no idea of whom it was about. + +“Who’s goin’ to speak now?” she asked anxiously. + +“I am,” said Clover modestly. “I rise to propose the health of our +honored guest, Miss Watkins. We all know what kin she is to one of us, +and we all weep that she didn’t do as well by the rest of us. Aunt +Mary! Glasses down!” + +“You can’t drink this, you know, Aunt Mary,” said Jack,—“it’s bad taste +to drink to yourself.” + +“I don’t want to drink,” said Aunt Mary, beaming,—“I like to watch +you.” + +“Here’s to Aunt Mary’s liking to watch us!” cried Clover. + +“No,” said Burnett rising, “don’t. It’s time to go and get the salad +now.” + +“We’d ought to have the automobile for this party,” said Aunt Mary, and +everyone applauded her idea, as they rose and gathered up their +belongings. + +It was a droll procession of men with mice and a lady with a parrot +that got under way and moved in among the Japanese fans and swinging +lanterns of the next room in the suite of Burnett’s friend. Five little +individual tables were laid there and on each table lay a Japanese +creature of some sort which—being opened somewhere—revealed salad +within. + +“Well, I never did!” exclaimed the guest; “this dinner ought to be put +in a book!” + +“We’ll put it in ourselves first,” said Mitchell. “I never believe in +booking any attraction until it has been tried on a select few. Burnett +having selected me for one of this few, I vote we begin on the salad.” + +They began forthwith. + +Aunt Mary suddenly stopped eating. + +“Some one called,” she said. + +“It’s the parrot,” said Jack; “I heard him before.” + +“What does he say?” said Mitchell. + +“Listen and you’ll find out,” said Jack. + +They all listened and presently the parrot said solemnly: + +“Now see what you’ve done!” and relapsed into silence. + +“What does he mean?” Aunt Mary asked. + +“He’s referring to his own affairs,” said Burnett; “come on—let’s get +coffee now!” + +They all adjourned to a tiny room lined with posters and decorated with +pipe racks, and there had ice cream in the form of bulls and bears, and +coffee of the strongest variety. And then cordials and cigarettes. + +“Now, where shall we go to first?” asked Burnett when all were well lit +up. No one would have guessed that he had ever felt used up in all his +life before. + +“To a roof garden,” said Mitchell. “We’ll go to a roof garden first, +and then we’ll go to more roof gardens, and after that if the spirit +moves we’ll go to yet a few roof gardens in addition. We’ll show our +dear aunt what wonders can be done with roofs, and to-morrow she’ll +wonder what was done with her.” + +“That’s the bill,” said Clover, “and let’s go now. I can see from the +general manner of my mouse that he’s dying to get out and make his way +in the wide world.” + +“Mine the same,” said Mitchell; “by George, it worries me to see such +restless, feverish manners in what I had supposed would be a quiet +domestic companion. It presages a distracted existence. But come on.” + +They all rose. + +“Where are we goin’ now?” asked Aunt Mary. + +“To a roof garden,” said Jack, “and we’re going to take the whole +menagerie, Aunt Mary. We’re going to get put in the papers. That’s the +great stunt,—to get put in the papers.” + +“But we’ll leave the megaphones,” said Mitchell. “I won’t go about with +a mouse and a megaphone. People might think I looked silly. People are +so queer.” + +“Put the mouse in the megaphone,” suggested Burnett. “That’s the way my +mother taught me to pack when I was a kid. You put your tooth brush in +a shoe, and the shoe in a sleeve and then turn the sleeve inside out. +Oh, I tell you—what is home without a mother?—Put the mouse in the +megaphone and stop up both ends. What are your hands and your mouth +for?” + +“Yes,” said Mitchell, “I think I see myself so handling a megaphone +that the mouse doesn’t run out either end or into my mouth. My mouth is +a good mouth and it’s served me well and I won’t turn it over to a +mouse at this late day.” + +“Let’s keep the mice in their cages,” said Clover, and as he spoke he +dropped his. + +“Now see what you’ve done!” said the parrot. + +“I didn’t hurt it,” said Clover. “Come on now.” + +“Yes, come on,” said Burnett. “It’s long after ten o’clock. You want to +remember that even roof gardens are not eternally on tap.” + +“Well, I’m trying to hurry all I can,” said Mitchell. “I’m the picture +of patience scurrying for dear life only unable to lay hands on her +gloves.” + +“I don’t catch what’s the trouble,” said Aunt Mary to Jack. + + +[Illustration: “The carriage stopped three hundred feet below the +level of a roof-garden.”] + + +“Nothing’s the trouble,” said Jack, “everything’s fine and dandy. We’re +going out now. Time of your life, Aunt Mary, time of your life!” + +They telephoned for a carriage and all got in. Then Clover slammed the +door. + +“Now see what you’ve done!” said the parrot. + +“Is he going to keep saying that?” Burnett asked. + +“I don’t know,” said Jack. “It comes in pretty pat, don’t it?” + +“Makes me think of my mother,” said Clover. “I wish it wouldn’t.” + +“I don’t catch who’s sayin’ what,” said Aunt Mary. + +“Nobody’s saying anything, Miss Watkins,” roared Mitchell; “we are all +talking airy nothings just to pass the time o’ day.” + +The carriage stopped three hundred feet below the level of a roof +garden. + +“We get out here,” said Burnett. + +They all got out and went up in an elevator. + +“Seems to be a good many goin’ to the same place,” said Aunt Mary. + +“Yes,” said Mitchell, “a good many people generally go to places that +are great places for a good many people to go to.” + +“You ought not to end with a preposition,” said Clover. + +“There, I left my ear-trumpet in the carriage!” said Aunt Mary. + +There was a pause of consternation. No one spoke except the parrot. + +“We know what she’s done without your telling us,” said Clover, +addressing the bird. “The question is what to do next?” + +Jack went back downstairs and found the carriage waiting in hopes of +picking up another load. He lost no time in personally picking up the +ear-trumpet and returning to his friends. + +Then they all proceeded above and bought a table and turned their +chairs to the stage, where the attraction just at that moment was a +quartette of pretty girls. + +“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Burnett the instant the girls began +to sing. “Let’s each tie a card to a mouse and present them to the +girls!” + +The suggestion found favor and was followed out to the letter. But when +the girls were through and the Chinaman who followed them on the +programme was also over, the pleasures of life in that spot palled upon +the party. + +“Oh, come,” said Burnett, “let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go out in the +air.” + +His suggestion found favor. And they sallied forth and visited another +roof garden, a theater where they saw the last quarter of the fourth +act, a place where Aunt Mary was given a gondola ride, and a place +where she was given something in the shape of light refreshments. + +Then, becoming thirsty, they ordered a few White Horses and Red Horses +and the Necks of yet other horses, but Aunt Mary declined the horses of +all colors and Mitchell upheld her. + +“That’s right,” he said, “I’m a great believer in knowing when you’ve +had enough, and I’m sure you’ve all had so much too much that I know +that I must have had enough and that she’s better off with none at +all.” + +“I reckon you’re right,” said Clover. “I’ve had enough, surely. I can’t +see over my pile of little saucers, and when I can’t see over my pile +of little saucers I’m always positive that I’ve had enough.” + +Jack laughed and then ceased laughing and drew down the corners of his +mouth. + +“Why do people sit on chairs?” Clover asked just then. “Why don’t +everyone sit on the floor? You never feel as if you might slip off the +floor.” + +“Ah,” said Mitchell, “if we were not always trying to rise above Nature +we should all be sitting where Nature intended,—when we weren’t +swinging by our tails and picking cocoanuts.” + +“Come on and let’s go somewhere else,” said Burnett. “Every time I look +at somebody it’s someone else and that makes me nervous.” + +“Now see what you’ve done!” said the parrot. + +“Did you know his long suit when you bought him?” Clover asked Burnett. + +“No,” said Burnett; “they told me that he didn’t use slang and that was +all.” + +It was well along in the evening—or night—and a brisk discussion arose +as to where to go next. + +“I’ll tell you,” said Clover, “we’ll take a ride. Let me see what time +is it?—12.30. Just the time for a drive. We’ll take three cabs and +sally forth and drive up and down and back and forth in the cool night +air.” + +“And jews-harps!” cried Burnett. “Oh, I say, there’s a bully idea! +We’ll go to a drug store and buy some jews-harps and play on them as we +drive along. We’ll each sing our own tune, and the effect will be so +novel. Let’s do it.” + +“Jews-harps—” said Clover thoughtfully, “jews-harps for three +cabs—that’ll make—let me see—that’ll make—” he hesitated. + +“Oh, the driver will make the change,” said Burnett impatiently. “Come +on. If we’re going to have the cabs and jews-harps it’s time to get out +and take the stump in the good cause.” + +“Where’s my ear-trumpet?” said Aunt Mary, blankly,—“it’s been left +somewhere.” + +“No, it hasn’t,” said Mitchell. “It’s here! I’m holding it for you. +It’s much easier holding it than picking it up. It seems so slippery +to-night.” + +“I’m not going out to get the cabs,” said Clover. “I thought of the +idea and someone else must work it out. I’m opposed to working after +time and I call time at midnight.” + +Mitchell rose with a depressed air. + +“I’ll go,” he said. “I feel the need of a walk. When I feel the need of +anything I always take it and I’ve needed and taken so freely to-night +that I need to take a walk to—” + +“I don’t think it funny to talk that way,” said Burnett a little +heatedly. “If you want to get the cabs why get the cabs. I’m going to +get them, too, and I reckon we can get them combined just as easy as +alone.” + +“I will go with you,” said his friend solemnly. “I will accompany you +because I feel the need—” He stopped and turned his hat over and over. +“I know there’s a hole to put my head into,” he declared, “but I can’t +just put my hand—I mean my head—on to—I mean, into—it.” + +“Do you expect to find a brass hand pointing to it?” said Burnett +testily. “Come on!” + +“Three cabs and five—or was it six?—jews-harps?” continued Mitchell +dreamily. “It must have been six, five for we five, and one for Lord +Chesterfield—but where is Lord Chesterfield?” he asked suddenly with a +disturbed glance around. “I hope he hasn’t deserted and gone home.” + +“Come on, come on!” said Burnett. “There won’t be a sober cab left if +we don’t hurry while everything is still able to stand up.” + +This reasoning seemed to alarm Mitchell and he went out with him at +once. + +“My head feels awfully,” said Clover to Jack. “It sort of grinds and +grates—does yours?” + +Jack stared straight ahead and made no reply. + +“I’m goin’ home no more to roam,” said Aunt Mary slowly and sadly,—“I’m +goin’ home no more to roam, no more to sin an’ sorrow. I’m goin’ home +no more to roam—I’m goin’ home to-morrow. O hum!” She heaved a heavy +sigh. + +“Now see what you’ve done!” said the parrot with emphasis. + +“Never mind,” said Clover bitterly. “Better people than you have gone +home before now; I used to do it myself before I was old enough to know +worse. Will you excuse me if I say, ‘Damn this buzzing in my head?’” + +“I know how you feel,” said Aunt Mary sympathetically. “Don’t you want +me to ring for the porter and have him make up your berth right away?” + +Clover didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were roving moodily about the +room; they looked almost as faded as his mustache. + +“Seems to me they’re gone a long time,” said Jack presently, twisting a +little in his seat. “It never takes me so long to get a cab. I hold up +my hand—the man stops—and I get in—what’s the matter, Aunt Mary?” He +asked the question in sudden alarm at seeing Aunt Mary bury her face +hastily in her handkerchief. + +“What’s the matter?” he repeated loudly. + +“Don’t mind me,” said Aunt Mary sobbing. “It’s just that I happened to +just think of Lu—Lu—Lucinda—and somehow I don’t seem to have no +strength to bear it.” + +“Split the handkerchief between us,” said Clover. “I want to cry, too, +and there’s no time like the present for doing what you want to do.” + +“Rot!” said Jack, “look here—” + +He was interrupted by the return of the embassy, Mitchell bearing the +jews-harps. + +“What’s the matter?” Burnett asked. + +“Nothing,” said Clover; “we were so worried over you, that’s all.” +Burnett called for the bill and found that he had run out of cash; “Or +maybe I’ve had my pocket picked,” he suggested. “I’m beginning to be in +just the mood in which I always get my pocket picked.” + +Jack produced a roll of bills and settled for the refreshments. Then +they all started down stairs as Aunt Mary wouldn’t risk an elevator +going down. + +“It’s all right comin’ up,” she said, “but if it broke when you were +going down where’d you be?” + +“In the elevator,” said Clover. “I’d never jump, I know that.” + +“Oh, I’ve left my ear-trumpet,” said Aunt Mary. + +“Let’s draw lots to see who goes back?” Burnett suggested. + +They drew and the lot fell to Clover. + +“I’m not going back,” he said coldly. “I haven’t got the energy. Let +her apply the megaphone.” + +Jack went back. + +Then they all got into the street and into the cabs. Aunt Mary and Jack +went first, Mitchell and Burnett second, and Clover brought up the rear +alone. + +They set off and it must be admitted that the effect of the three cabs +going single file one after another with their five occupants giving +forth a most imperfect version of his or her favorite tune, was at once +novel and awe-inspiring. But like all sweet things upon this earth the +concert was not of long endurance. It was only a few minutes before the +duos ceased utterly to duo and the soloist in the rear fell sound +asleep. For several blocks there was a mournful and tell-tale lack of +harmony upon the air and then the three young men seemed to have +exhausted their mouths and all lapsed into a more or less conscious +state of quietude. + +Only Aunt Mary was indefatigable. Like Cleopatra, age seemed to have no +power to stale her infinite variety, and leaning back in her own corner +she continued to placidly and peacefully intone with disregard for time +and tune which never ruffled a wrinkle. She hadn’t played on a +jews-harp in sixty years, and being deaf she was pleasantly astonished +at how well she still did it. Jack leaned in his corner with folded +arms; he was deeply conscious of wishing that it was the next day—any +day—any other day—for the week had been a wearing one and he could not +but be mortally glad that it was so nearly over. The task of fitting +the plan of Aunt Mary’s revelries to the measure of her personal +capacity had been a very hard one and his soul panted for relief +therefrom. It is one thing to undertake a task and another thing to +persevere to its successful completion. Aunt Mary’s nephew was +tired—very tired. + +A little later he felt a weight against him; he looked; it was Aunt +Mary’s head,—she was oblivious there on his bosom. + +He heard a voice; it was the parrot. + +“Now see what you’ve done,” it said in sepulchral tones. + +They reached the house, bore the honored guest within, and delivered +her to Janice. + +“You can have that parrot,” Jack called back to the cabman. “He’s +guaranteed against slang.” + +The cabman drove away. + +Janice received them with a look which might have been construed in +many ways, but they were all far past construing and the look fell to +the ground unheeded. + +And again Aunt Mary was tucked carefully up to dream herself rested +once more. + + + + +Chapter Eighteen +A Departure And A Return + + +The next day poor Aunt Mary had to undergo the ordeal of being obliged +to turn her face away from all those joys which had so suddenly and +brilliantly altered the hues of life for her. It pretty nearly used her +up. She took her reviving decoction with tears standing in her +eyes,—and sat down the glass with a bursting sigh. “My, but I wish I +knew when I’d be taking any more of this?” she said to Janice. + +“Oh, you’ll come back to the city some day,” said the maid hopefully. + +“Come back!” said Aunt Mary. “Well, I should say that I would come +back! Why—I—?” she stopped suddenly, “never mind,” she said after a +minute, “only you’ll see that I’ll come back. Pretty surely—pretty +positively.” + +Janice was folding her dresses into the small trunk. Aunt Mary +contemplated the green plaid waist with an air of mournful reflection. + +“I believe I’ll always keep that waist rolled away,” she murmured. “I +shall like to shake it out once in a while to remind me of things.” + +“Hand me my purse,” she said to the maid five minutes afterwards. +“Here’s twenty-five dollars an’ I want you to take it and get anythin’ +you like with it.” + +“But that’s too much,” Janice cried, putting her hands behind her and +shaking her head. + +“Take it,” said Aunt Mary imperiously; “you’re well worth it.” + +“I don’t like to—truly,” said the girl. + +“Take it,” said Aunt Mary sternly. + +So Janice took it and thanked her. + +The train went about 4 p.m., and it seemed wise to give the traveller a +quiet luncheon in her own room and rally her escort afterwards. + +When she had eaten and drank she sighed again and thoughtfully folded +her napkin. + +“I’ve had a nice time,” she said, gazing fixedly out of the window. +“I’ve had a nice time, and I guess those young men have enjoyed it, +too. I rather think my bein’ here has given them a chance to go to a +good many places where they’d never have thought of goin’ alone. I’m +pretty sure of it.” + +Janice made no reply. + +“But it’s all over now,” said Aunt Mary with something that sounded +suspiciously like a sob in her voice, “an’ I haven’t got only just one +consolation left an’ that’s—” again she paused. + +Janice carried the tray away and the next minute they all burst in +bearing their parting gifts in their arms. + +The gifts were an indiscriminate collection of flowers, candy, +magazines, books, etc. + +Aunt Mary opened her closet door and showed the four dressing-cases. +Everyone but Jack was mightily surprised and everyone was mightily +pleased. The room looked like Christmas, and the faces, too. + +“I shall die with my head on the hair brush,” Clover declared, and +Mitchell went down on his knees and kissed Aunt Mary’s hand. + +“You must all come an’ see me if you ever go anywhere near,” said the +old lady. “Now promise.” + +“We promise,” they yelled in unison, and then they asked in beautiful +rhythm “What’s the matter with Aunt Mary?” and yelled the answer “She’s +all right!” with a fervor that nearly blew out the window. + +“I declare,” Aunt Mary exclaimed, as the echoes settled back among the +furniture, “when I think of Lucinda seems as if—” she paused; further +speech was for the nonce impossible. + +“The carriages are ready,” Janice announced at the door, and from then +until they reached the train all was confusion and bustle. + +Only the train whistle could drown the farewells which they poured into +her ear-trumpet, and when they could hover in her drawing-room no +longer they stood outside the window as long as the window was there to +stand outside of. And then they watched it until it was out of sight, +and after that turned solemnly away. + +“By grab!” said Burnett, “I think she ought to leave us _all_ fortunes. +I never was so completely done up in my life.” + +“My throat’s blistered,” said Clover feebly; “I’m going to stand on my +head and gargle with salve until my throat’s healed.” + +“I shall never shine on the team again,” said Mitchell. “I shall hire +out for bleacher work. He who has successfully conversed with Aunt Mary +need not fear to attack a Wagner Opera single-handed.” + +Jack did not say anything. His heart was athirst for Mrs. Rosscott. + +She was back in her own library the next night, and he rushed thither +as soon as his first day’s labor was over. She was prettier and her +eyes were sweeter and brighter than ever as she rose to meet him and +held out—first one hand, and then both. He took the one hand and then +the two and the longing that possessed him was so overwhelming that +only his acute consideration for all she was to him kept him from +taking more yet. + +“And the week’s over,” she said, when she had dragged her fingers out +of his and gone and nestled down upon the divan, among the pillows that +rivaled each other in their attempts to get closer to her, “the week’s +all over and our aunt is gone.” + +“Yes,” he said, rolling his favorite chair up near to her seat, “all is +over and well over.” + +She smiled and he smiled too. + +“She must have enjoyed it,” she said thoughtfully. + +“Enjoyed it!” said Jack. “She won’t like Paradise in comparison.” + +“And you’ve been a good boy,” said Mrs. Rosscott, regarding him +merrily. “You’ve played your part well.” + +He rose to his feet and put his hand to his temple. + +“I salute my general,” he said. “I was well trained in the maneuver.” + +“It’s odd,” said Mrs. Rosscott thoughtfully. “It was really so simple. +We are only women after all, whether it is I—or Aunt Mary—or all the +rest of the world. We do so crave the knowledge that someone cares for +us—for our hours—for our pleasures. It isn’t the bonbons—it’s that +someone troubled to buy the bonbons because he thought that they would +please us.” + +“Doesn’t a man have the same feeling?” Jack asked. “It isn’t the tea we +come for—it’s the knowledge that someone bothers to make it and sugar +it and cream it.” + +“I wasn’t laughing,” said she. + +“I wasn’t laughing either,” said he. + +“But it’s true,” she went on, “and I think the solution of many unhappy +puzzles lies there. Don’t forget if you ever have a wife to pay lots of +attention to her.” + +“I always have paid lots of attention to her, haven’t I?” he demanded. + +Mrs. Rosscott shook her head. + +“We won’t discuss that,” she said. “We’ll stick to Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary +is a rock whose foundation is firm; when it comes to your relations +toward other women—” she stopped, shrugging her shoulders, and he +understood. + +“But it’s going to come out all right now, I’m sure,” she went on after +a minute, “and I’m so glad—so very glad—that the chance was given to me +to right the wrong that I was the cause of.” + + +[Illustration: “‘And now the fun’s all over and the work begins,’ she +said, looking down.”] + + +He looked at her and his eyes almost burned, they were so strong in +their leaping desire to fling himself at her feet and adore her +goodness and sweetness and worldliness and wisdom from that +vantage-ground of worship. + +She choked a little at the glance and put her hands together in her lap +with a quick catching at self-control. + +“And now the fun’s all over and the work begins,” she said, looking +down. + +“I know that,” he asseverated. + +She lifted up her eyes and looked at him so very kindly. And then—after +a little pause to gain command of word and thought she spoke again, +slowly. + +“Listen,” she said, this time very softly, but very seriously. “I want +to tell you one thing and I want to tell it to you now. I had a good +and sufficient reason for helping you out with Aunt Mary; but—” She +hesitated. + +“But?” he asked. + +“But I’ve no reason at all for helping your Aunt Mary out with you, +unless you prove worthy of her, and—” + +“And?” + +She looked at him, and shook her head slightly. + +“I won’t say ‘and of me,’” she said finally. + +“Why not?” he asked, a storm of tempestuous impatience raging behind +his lips. “Do say it,” he pleaded. + +“No, I can’t say it. It wouldn’t be right. I don’t mean it, and so I +won’t say it. I’ll only tell you that I can promise nothing as things +are, and that unless you go at life from now on with a tremendous +energy I never shall even dream of a possible promising.” + +He rose to his feet and towered above her, tall and straight and +handsome, and very grave. + +“All right,” he said simply. “I’ll remember.” + +Ever so much later that evening he rose to bid her good-night. + +“Whatever comes, you’ve been an angel to me,” he said in that hasty +five seconds that her hand was his. + +“Shall I ever regret it?” she asked, looking up to his eyes. + +“Never,” he declared earnestly, “never, never. I can swear that, and I +shall be able to swear the same thing when I’m as old as my Aunt Mary.” + +Mrs. Rosscott lowered her eyes. + +“Who could ask more?” she said softly. + +“I could,” said Jack—“but I’ll wait first.” + + + + +Chapter Nineteen +Aunt Mary’s Return + + +Joshua was at the station to meet his mistress, and Lucinda, full to +the brim with curiosity, sat on the back seat of the carryall. + +Aunt Mary quitted the train with a dignity which was sufficiently +overpowering to counteract the effect of her bonnet’s being somewhat +awry. She greeted Joshua with a chill perfunctoriness that was +indescribable, and her glance glided completely over Lucinda and faded +away in the open country on the further side of her. + +Lucinda did not care. Lucinda was of a hardy stock and stormy glances +neither bent nor broke her spirit. + +“I’m glad to see you come back looking so well,” she screamed, when +Aunt Mary was in and they were off. + +Aunt Mary raised her eyebrows in a manner that appeared a trifle +indignant, and riveted her gaze on the hindquarters of the horse. + +“I thought it was more like heaven myself,” she said coldly. “Not that +your opinion matters any to me, Lucinda.” + +Then she leaned forward and poked the driver. + +“Joshua!” she said. + +Joshua jumped in his seat at the asperity of her poke and her tone. + +“What is it?” he said hastily. + +“Jus’ ’s soon as we get home I want you to take the saw—that little, +sharp one, you know—and dock Billy’s tail. Cut it off as close as you +can; do you hear?” + +“I hear,” was the startled answer. + +“Did you have a good time?” Lucinda had the temerity to ask, after a +minute. + +“I guess I could if I tried,” the lady replied; “but I’m too tired to +try now.” + +“How did you leave Mr. Jack?” + +“I couldn’t stay forever, could I?” asked the traveler impatiently. “I +thought that a week was long enough for the first time, anyhow.” + +Lucinda subsided and the rest of the drive was taken in silence. When +they reached the house Aunt Mary enveloped everything in one glance of +blended weariness, scorn and contempt, and then made short work of +getting to bed, where she slept the luxurious and dreamless sleep of +the unjust until late that afternoon. + +“My, but she’s come back a terror!” Lucinda cried to Joshua in a high +whisper when he brought in the trunk. “She looks like nothin’ was goin’ +to be good enough for her from now on.” + +“Nothin’ ain’t goin’ to be good enough for her,” said Joshua calmly. + +“What are we goin’ to do, then?” asked Lucinda. + +“We’ll have enough to do,” said Joshua, in a tone that was portentous +in the extreme, and then he placed the trunk in its proper position for +unpacking and went away, leaving Lucinda to unpack it. + +Aunt Mary awoke just as the faithful servant was unrolling the green +plaid waist, and the instant that she spoke it was plain that her +attitude toward life in general was become strangely and vigorously +changed, and that for Lucinda the rack was to be newly oiled and +freshly racking. + +This attitude was not in any degree altered by the unexpected arrival +of Arethusa that evening. Strange tales had reached Arethusa’s ears, +and she had flown on the wings of steam and coal dust to see what under +the sun it all meant. Aunt Mary was not one bit rejoiced to see her and +the glare which she directed over the edge of the counterpane bore +testimony to the truth of this statement. + +“Whatever did you come for?” she demanded inhospitably. “Lucinda didn’t +send for you, did she?” + +Arethusa screamed the best face that she could onto her visit, but Aunt +Mary listened with an inattention that was anything but flattering. + +“I don’t feel like talkin’ over my trip,” she said, when she saw her +niece’s lips cease to move. “Of course I enjoyed myself because I was +with Jack, but as to what we did an’ said you couldn’t understand it +all if I did tell you, so what’s the use of botherin’.” + +Arethusa looked neutral, calm and curious. But Aunt Mary frowned and +shook her head. + +“S’long as you’re here, though, I suppose you may as well make yourself +useful,” she said a few minutes later. “Come to think of it, there’s an +errand I want you to do for me. I want you to go to Boston the very +first thing to-morrow morning an’ buy me some cotton.” + +Arethusa stared blankly. + +“Well,” said the aunt, “if you can’t hear, you’d better take my +ear-trumpet and I’ll say it over again.” + +“What kind of cotton?” Arethusa yelled. + +“Not _stockin’s!_” said Aunt Mary; “Cotton! Cotton! C-O-T-T-O-N! It +beats the Dutch how deaf everyone is gettin’, an’ if I had your ears in +particular, Arethusa, I’d certainly hire a carpenter to get at ’em with +a bit-stalk. Jus’s if you didn’t know as well as I do how many +stockin’s I’ve got already! I should think you’d quit bein’ so +heedless, an’ use your commonsense, anyhow. I’ve found commonsense a +very handy thing in talkin’ always. Always.” + +Arethusa launched herself full tilt into the ear-trumpet. + +“What—kind—of—cotton?” she asked in that key of voice which makes the +crowd pause in a panic. + +Aunt Mary looked disgusted. + +“The Boston kind,” she said, nipping her lips. + +Arethusa took a double hitch on her larynx, and tried again. + +“Do you mean thread?” + +Aunt Mary’s disgust deepened visibly. + +“If I meant silk I guess I wouldn’t say cotton. I might just happen to +say silk. I’ve been in the habit of saying silk when I meant silk and +cotton when I meant cotton, for quite a number of years, and I might +not have changed to-day—I might just happen to not have. I might not +have—maybe.” + +Arethusa withered under this bitter irony. + +“How many spools do you want?” she asked in a meek but piercing howl. + +“I don’t care,” said Aunt Mary loftily. “I don’t care how many—or what +color—or what number. I just want some Boston cotton, and I want to see +you settin’ out to get it pretty promptly to-morrow morning.” + +“But if you only want some cotton,” Arethusa yelled, with a force which +sent crimson waves all over her, “why can’t I get it in the village?” + +Aunt Mary shot one look at her niece and the latter felt the +concussion. + +“Because—I—want—you—to—get—it— in—Boston,” she said, filling the breaks +between her words with a concentrated essence of acerbity such as even +she had never displayed before. “When I say a thing, I mean it pretty +generally. Quite often—most always. I want that cotton and it’s to be +bought in Boston. There’s a train that goes in at seven-forty-five, and +if you don’t favor the idea of ridin’ on it you can take the express +that goes by at six-five.” + +Arethusa pressed her hands very tightly together and carried the +discussion no further. She went to bed early and rose early the next +morning and Joshua drove her in town to the seven-forty-five. + +“It doesn’t seem to me that my aunt is very well,” the niece said +during the drive. “What do you think?” + +“I don’t think anything about her,” said Joshua with great candor. “If +I was to give to thinkin’ I’d o’ moved out to Chicago an’ been scalpin’ +Indians to-day.” + +“I wonder if that trip to New York was good for her?” Arethusa wondered +mildly. + +Joshua flicked Billy with the whip and refused to voice any opinion as +to New York’s effect on his mistress. + +Arethusa was well on her way to Boston when Aunt Mary’s bell, rung with +a sharp jangle, summoned Lucinda to open her bedroom blinds. While +Lucinda was leaning far out and attempting to cause said blinds to +catch on the hooks, which habitually held them back against the side of +the house, her mistress addressed her with a suddeness which showed +that she had awakened with her wits surprisingly well in hand. + +“Where’s Joshua? Is he got back from Arethusa? Answer me, Lucinda.” + +Lucinda drew herself in through the open window with an alacrity +remarkable for one of her years. + +“Yes, he’s back,” she yelled. + +Aunt Mary looked at her with a sort of incensed patience. + +“Well, what’s he doin’? If he’s back, where is he? Lucinda, if you knew +how hard it is for me to keep quiet you’d answer when I asked things. +Why in Heaven’s name don’t you say suthin’? Anythin’? Anythin’ but +nothin’, that is.” + +“He’s mowin’,” Lucinda shrieked. + +“Sewin’!” exclaimed Aunt Mary. “What’s he sewin’? Where’s he sewin’? +Have you stopped doin’ his darnin’?” + +Lucinda gathered breath by compressing her sides with her hands, and +then replied, directing her voice right into the ear-trumpet: + +“He’s mowin’ the back lawn.” + +Aunt Mary winced and shivered. + +“My heavens, Lucinda!” she exclaimed, sharply. “I wish’t there was a +school to teach outsiders the use of an ear-trumpet. They can’t seem to +hit the medium between either mumblin’ or splittin’ one’s ear drums.” + +Lucinda was too much out of breath from her effort to attempt any +audible penitence. Her mistress continued: + +“Well, you find him wherever he is, and tell him to harness up the +buggy and go and get Mr. Stebbins as quick as ever he can. Hurry!” + +Lucinda exited with a promptitude that fulfilled all that her lady’s +heart could wish. She found Joshua whetting his scythe. + +“She wants Mr. Stebbins right off,” said Lucinda. + +“Then she’ll get Mr. Stebbins right off,” said Joshua. And he headed +immediately for the barn. + +Lucinda ran along beside him. It did seem to Lucinda as if in +compensation for her slavery to Aunt Mary she might have had a +sympathizer in Joshua. + +“I guess she wants to change her will,” she panted, very much out of +breath. + +“Then she’ll change her will,” said Joshua. And as his steady gait was +much quicker than poor Lucinda’s halting amble, and as he saw no +occasion to alter it, the conversation between them dwindled into space +then and there. + +Half an hour later Billy went out of the drive at a swinging pace and +an hour after that Mr. Stebbins was brought captive to Aunt Mary’s +throne. + +She welcomed him cordially; Lucinda was promptly locked out, and then +the old lady and her lawyer spent a momentous hour together. Mr. +Stebbins was taken into his client’s fullest confidence; he was regaled +with enough of the week’s history to guess the rest; and he foresaw the +outcome as he had foreseen it from the moment of the rupture. + +Aunt Mary was very sincere in owning up to her own past errors. + +“I made a big mistake about the life that boy was leadin’,” she said in +the course of the conversation. “He took me everywhere where he was in +the habit of goin’, an’ so far from its bein’ wicked, I never enjoyed +myself so much in my life. There ain’t no harm in havin’ fun, an’ it +does cost a lot of money. I can understand it all now, an’ as I’m a +great believer in settin’ wrong right whenever you can, I want Jack put +right in my will right off. I want—” and then were unfolded the +glorious possibilities of the future for her youngest, petted nephew. +He was not only to be reinstated in the will, but he was to reign +supreme. The other four children were to be rich—very rich,—but Jack +was to be _the_ heir. + +Mr. Stebbins was well pleased. He was very fond of Jack and had always +been particularly patient with him on that account. He felt that this +was a personal reward of merit, for it cannot be denied that Jack had +certainly cashed very large checks on the bank of his forbearance. + +When all was finished, and Joshua and Lucinda had been called in and +had duly affixed their signatures to the important document, the buggy +was brought to the door again and Mr. Stebbins stepped in and allowed +himself to be replaced where they had taken him from. + +Joshua returned alone. + +“There, what did I tell you!” said Lucinda, who was waiting for him +behind the wood-house,—“she did want to change her will.” + +“Well, she changed it, didn’t she?” said Joshua. + +“I guess she wants to give him all she’s got, since that week in New +York,” said Lucinda. + +“Then she’ll give him all she’s got,” said Joshua. + +Lucinda’s eyes grew big. + +“An’ she’ll give it to you, too, if you don’t look out and stay where +you can hear her bell if she rings it,” Joshua added, with his usual +frankness, and then he whipped up Billy and drove on to the barn. + +Arethusa returned late in the afternoon, very warm, very wilted. Aunt +Mary looked over the cotton purchase, and deigned to approve. + +“But, my heavens, Arethusa,” she exclaimed immediately afterwards, “if +you had any idea how dirty and dusty and altogether awful you do look, +you wouldn’t be able to get to soap and water fast enough.” + +At that poor Arethusa sighed, and, gathering up her hat, and hat-pins, +and veil, and gloves, and purse, and handkerchief, went away to wash. + + + + +Chapter Twenty +Jack’s Joy + + +About the first of July many agreeable things happened. + +One was that Mr. Stebbins found it advisable to address a discreet +letter to John Watkins, Jr., Denham, conveying the information that +although he must not count unduly upon the future, still, if he behaved +himself, he might with safety allow his expenditures to mount upward +monthly to a certain limit. This was the way in which Aunt Mary salved +her conscience and saved her pride all at once. + +“I don’t want him to think that I don’t mean things when I say ’em,” +she had carefully explained to Mr. Stebbins, “but I can’t bear to think +that there’s anybody in New York without money enough to have a good +time there.” + +Mr. Stebbins had made a note of the sum which the allowance was to +compass and had promised to write the letter at once. + +“What did you do the last time you were in the city?” Aunt Mary asked. + +“I was much occupied with business,” said the lawyer, “but I found time +to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and—” + +“Good gracious!” exclaimed Aunt Mary, “who was takin’ you ’round! I +never had a second for any museums or arts;—you ought to have seen a +vaudeville, or that gondola place! I was ferried around four times and +the music lasted all through.” She stopped and reflected. “I guess you +can make that money a hundred a month more,” she said slowly. “I don’t +want the boy to ever feel stinted or have to run in debt.” + +Mr. Stebbins smiled, and the result was that Jack began to pay up the +bills for his aunt’s entertainment very much more rapidly than he had +anticipated doing. + +Another pleasant thing was that a week or so later—very soon after Mrs. +Rosscott had given up her town house and returned to the protection of +the parental slate-tiles—Burnett’s father, a peppery but jovial old +gentleman (we all know the kind), suddenly asked why Bob never came +home any more. This action on the part of the head of the house being +tantamount to the completest possible forgiveness and obliviousness of +the past, Burnett’s mother, of whom the inquiry had been made, wept +tears of sincerest joy and wrote to the youngest of her flock to return +to the ancestral fold just as soon as he possibly could. He came, and +as a result, a fortnight later Jack came, and Mitchell came, and Clover +came. Mrs. Rosscott, as we have previously stated, was already there, +and so were Maude Lorne and a great many others. Some of the others +were pretty girls and Burnett and two of his friends found plenty to +amuse them, but Burnett’s dearest friend, his bosom friend, his Fidus +Achates, found no one to amuse him, because he was in earnest, and had +eyes for no feminine prettiness, his sight being dazzled by the +radiance of one surpassing loveliness. He had worked tremendously hard +the first month of daily laboring, and felt he deserved a reward. Be it +said for Jack that the reward of which Aunt Mary had the bestowing +counted for very little with him except in its relation to the far +future. The real goal which he was striving toward, the real laurels +that he craved—Ah! they lay in another direction. + +Middle July is a lovely time to get off among the trees and grass, and +lie around in white flannels or white muslins, just as the case may be. +It was too warm to do much else than that, and Heaven knows that Jack +desired nothing better, as long as his goddess smiled upon him. + +It was curious about his goddess. She seemed to grow more beautiful +every time that he saw her. Perhaps it was her native air that gave her +that charming flush; perhaps it was the joy of being at home again; +perhaps it was—no, he didn’t dare to hope that. Not yet. Not even with +all that she had done for him fresh in his memory. The humility of true +love was so heavy on his heart that his very dreams were dulled with +hopelessness, the majority of them seeming too vividly dyed in Paradise +hues for their fulfillment in daily life to ever appear possible. But +still he was very, very happy to be there with her—beside her—and to +hear her voice and look into her eyes whenever the trouble some “other +people” would leave them alone together. And she did seem happy, too. +And so rejoiced that the tide of Aunt Mary’s wrath had been +successfully turned. And so rejoiced that he was at work, even in the +face of her hopes as to his college career. And also so rejoiced to +take up the gay, careless thread of their mutual pleasure again. + +The morning after the gathering of the party was Saturday and an ideal +day—that sort of ideal day when house parties naturally sift into pairs +and then fade away altogether. The country surrounding our particular +party was densely wooded and not at all settled, the woods were laid +out in a fascinating system of walks and benches which in no case +commanded views of one another, and the shade overhead was the shade of +July and as propitious to rest as it was to motion. Mitchell took a +girl in gray and two sets of golf clubs and started out in the opposite +direction from the links, Clover took a girl in green and a camera and +went another way, Burnett took a girl in a riding habit and two saddle +horses and followed the horses’ noses whither they led, and Jack—Jack +smoked cigarettes on the piazza and waited—waited. + +Mrs. Rosscott came out after a while and asked him why he didn’t go to +walk also. + +“Just what I was thinking as to yourself,” he said, very boldly as to +voice, and very beseechingly as to eyes. + +“Oh, I’m so busy,” she said, laughing up into his eyes and then +laughing down at the ground—“you see I’m the only married daughter to +help mamma.” + +“But you’ve been helping all the morning,” he complained, “and besides +how can you help? One would think that your mother was beating eggs or +turning mattresses.” + +“I have to work harder than that,” said Mrs. Rosscott; “I have to make +people know one another and like one another and not all want to make +love to the same girl.” + +“You can’t help their all wanting to make love to the same girl,” said +Jack; “the more you try to convince them of their folly the deeper in +love they are bound to fall. I’m an illustration of that myself.” + +Mrs. Rosscott looked at him then and curved her mouth sweetly. + +“You do say such pretty things,” she said. “I don’t see how you’ve +learned so much in so little time. Why, General Jiggs in there is three +times your age and he tangles himself awfully when he tries to be +sweet.” + +“Perhaps his physician has recommended gymnastics,” said Jack. + +“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Rosscott laughing, and then she turned as if to go +in. + +“Oh, don’t,” said her lover, barring the way with great suddenness; +“you really mustn’t, you know. I’ve been patient for so long and been +good for so long and I must be rewarded—I really must. Do come out with +me somewhere—anywhere—for only a half-hour,—please.” + +She looked at him. + +“Won’t Maude do?” she asked. + +“No, she won’t,” he said beneath his breath; “whatever do you suggest +such a thing for? You make me ready to tell you to your face that you +want to go as bad as I want you to go, but I shan’t say so because I +know too much.” + +“You do know a lot, don’t you?” said she, with an expression of great +respect; “why, if you were to dare to hint to me that I wanted to go +out with you instead of staying in and talking Rembrandt with Mr. +Morley, I’d never forgive you the longest day I live.” + +“I know you wouldn’t,” said he, “and you may be quite sure that I shall +not say it. On the contrary I shall merely implore you to forget your +own pleasure in consideration of mine.” + +“I really ought to devote the morning to Mr. Morley,” she said +meditatively; “it’s such an honor his coming here, you know.” + +“A little bit of a whiskered monkey,” said Jack in great disgust; “an +honor, indeed!” + +“He’s a very great man,” said Mrs. Rosscott; “every sort of institution +has given him a few letters to put after his name, and some have given +him whole syllables.” + +“You must get a straw hat, you know, or a sun-shade; it will be hot in +half an hour.” + +“Oh, I couldn’t stay out half an hour; fifteen minutes would be the +longest.” + +“All right, fifteen minutes, then, but do hurry.” + +“I didn’t say that I would go,” she said, opening her eyes; “and yet I +feel myself gone.” She laughed lightly. + +“Do hurry,” he pleaded freshly; “oh, I am so hungry to—” + +She disappeared within doors and five minutes later came back with one +of those charming floppy English garden hats, tied with a muslin bow +beneath her dimpled chin. + +“This is so good of me,” she said, as they went down the steps. + +“Very good, heavenly good,” said Jack; and then neither spoke again +until they had crossed the Italian garden and entered the American +wood. She looked into his eyes then and smiled half-shyly and +half-provokingly. + +“You are such a baby,” she said; “such a baby! Do ask me why and I’ll +tell you half a dozen whys. I’d love to.” + +The path was the smoothest and shadiest of forest paths, the hour was +the sweetest and sunniest of summer hours, the moment was the brightest +and happiest of all the moments which they had known together—up to +now. + +“Do tell me,” he said; “I’m wild to know.” + +He took her hand and laid it on his arm. For that little while she was +certainly his and his alone, and no man had a better claim to her. “Go +on and tell me,” he repeated. + +“There is one big reason and there are lots of little ones. Which will +you have first?” + +“The little ones, please.” + +“Then, listen; you are like a baby because you are impatient, because +you are spoilt, because when you want anything you think that you must +have it, and because you like to be walked with.” + +“Are those the little reasons,” he said when she paused; “and what’s +the big one?” + +“The big one,” she said slowly; “Oh, I’m afraid that you won’t like the +big one!” + +“Perhaps it will be all the better for me if I don’t,” he laughed; “at +any rate I beg and pray and plead to know it.” + +“What a dear boy!” she laughed. “If you want to know as badly as that, +I’d have to tell you anyhow, whether I wanted to or not. It’s because +I’m so much the oldest.” + +“Oh!” said Jack, much disappointed. “Is that why?” + +“And then too,” she continued, “you seem even younger because of your +being so unsophisticated.” + +“So I am unsophisticated, am I?” he asked grimly. + +“Yes,” she said nodding; “at least you impress me so.” + +“I’m glad of that,” he said after a little pause. + +She looked up quickly. + +“Truly?” + +“Yes, indeed.” + +“Oh,” she laughed, “if you say that, then I shall know that you are +less unsophisticated than I thought you were.” + +“Why so?” he asked surprised. + +“Don’t you know that meek, mild men always try to insinuate that they +are regular fire-eaters, and vice versa? Well, it’s so—and it’s so +every time. There was once a man who was kissing me, and he drew my +hands up around his neck in such a clever, gentle way that I was +absolutely positive that he had had no end of practice drawing arms up +in that way and I just couldn’t help saying: ‘Oh, how many women you +must have kissed!’ What do you think he answered?—merely smiled and +said: ‘Not so many as you might imagine.’ He showed how much he knew by +the way he answered, for oh! he had. I found that out afterwards.” + +“What did you do then?” he asked, frowning. “Cut him?” + +“No; I married him. Why, of course I was going to marry him when he +kissed me, or I wouldn’t have let him kiss me. Do you suppose I let men +kiss me as a general thing? What are you thinking of?” + +“I was thinking of you,” he said. “It’s a horrible habit I’ve fallen +into lately. But, never mind; keep on talking.” + +“I don’t remember what I was saying,” she said. “Oh, yes, I do too. +About men, about good and bad men. Now, even if I didn’t know how much +trouble you’d made in the world, I’d divine it all the instant that you +were willing to admit being unsophisticated. People always crave to be +the opposite of what they are; the drug shops couldn’t sell any +peroxide of hydrogen if that wasn’t so.” + +He laughed and forgot his previous vexation. + +“Now, look at me,” she continued. “Oh, I didn’t mean really—I mean +figuratively; but never mind. Now, I’m nothing but a bubble and a toy, +and I ache to be considered a philosopher. Don’t you remember my +telling you what a philosopher I was, the very first conversation that +we ever had together? I do try so hard to delude myself into thinking I +am one, that some days I’m almost sure that I really am one. Last +night, for instance, I was thinking how nice it would be for my Cousin +Maude to marry you.” + +“Ye gods!” cried Jack. + +“She’s so very rich,” Mrs. Rosscott pursued calmly; “and you know the +law of heredity is an established scientific fact now, so you could +feel quite safe as to her nose skipping the next generation.” + +Jack was audibly amused. + +“It’s not anything to laugh over,” his companion continued gravely. +“It’s something to ponder and pray over. If I were Maude I should be on +my knees about it most of the time.” + +“Nothing can help her now,” said Jack. “Her parents have been and gone +and done it, as far as she’s concerned, forever. Prayer won’t change +her nose, although age may broaden it still more.” + +“Don’t you believe that nothing can help her now. A good-looking +husband could help her lots. I’ve seen homelier girls than she go just +everywhere—on account of their husbands, you know. That was where my +philosophy came in.” + +“I’d quite forgotten your philosophy.” He laughed again as he spoke. “I +must apologize. Please tell me more about it.” + +She laughed, too. + +“I’m going to. You see, I was lying there, looking out at the moon, and +thinking how nice it would be for Maude to marry you.” + +“Did you consider me at all?” he interposed. + +“How you interrupt!” she declared, in exasperation. “You never let me +finish.” + +“I am dumb.” + +“Well, I thought how nice it would be for Maude to marry you. You’d +have a baron for a papa-in-law, and an heiress to balance Aunt Mary +with. If you went into consumption and had to retreat to Arizona for a +term of years, the climate could not ruin her complexion as it would +m—most people’s. And she’s so ready to have you that it’s almost +pathetic. I can’t imagine anything more awful than to be as ready to +marry a man who is’nt at all desirous of so doing, as Maude is of +marrying you. But if you would only think about it. I thought and +thought about it last night and the longer I thought the more it seemed +like such a nice arrangement all around; and then—all of a sudden—do +you know I began to wonder if I was philosopher enough to enjoy being +matron-of-honor to Maude and really—” + +“At the wedding I could have kissed you!” he exclaimed, and suddenly +subsided at the look with which she withered his boldness. + +“And really I wasn’t altogether sure; and then, it occurred to me that +nothing on the face of the earth would ever persuade you to marry +Maude. And I saw my card castle go smashing down, and then I saw that I +really am a philosopher, after all, for—for I didn’t mind a bit!” + +Jack threw his head back and roared. + +“Oh,” he said after a minute, “you are so refreshing. You ruffle me up +just to give me the joy of smoothing me down, don’t you?” + +“I do what I can to amuse you,” she said, demurely. “You are my +father’s guest and my brother’s friend, and so I ought to—oughtn’t I?” + +“Yes,” he said, “I have a two-fold claim on you if you look at it that +way and some day I mean to go to work and unfold still another.” + +They had come to a delightful little nook where the trees sighed +gently, “Sit down,” and there seemed to be no adequate reason for +refusing the invitation. + +“Let’s rest, I know you’re tired,” the young man said gently, and the +next minute found his companion down upon the soft grass, her back +against a twisted tree-root and her hands about her knees. + +He threw himself down beside her and the hush and the song of +mid-summer were all about them, filling the air, and their ears, and +their hearts all at once. + +Presently he took her hand up out of the grass where its fingers had +wandered to hide themselves, and kissed it. She looked at him +reprovingly when it was too late, and shook her head. + +“Such a little one!” he said. + +“I call it a pretty big one,” she answered. + +“I mean the hand—not the kiss,” he said smiling. + +“You really are sophisticated,” she told him. “Only fancy if you had +reversed those nouns!” + +“I know,” he said; “but I’ve kissed hands before. You see, I’m more +talented than you think.” + +“Don’t be silly,” she said smiling. “I really am beginning to think +very well of you. You don’t want me to cease to, do you?” + +“Why do women always say ‘Don’t be silly’?” he queried. “I wish I could +find one who wanted to be very original, and so said, ‘Do be silly’, +just for a change.” + +“Dear me, if women were to beg men to be silly what would happen?” Mrs. +Rosscott exclaimed. “The majority are so very foolish without any +special egging on.” + +“But it is so dreadfully time-worn—that one phrase.” + +“Oh, if it comes to originality,” she answered, “men are not original, +either. Whenever they lie down in the shade, they always begin to talk +nonsense. You reflect a bit and see if that isn’t invariably so.” + +“But nonsense is such fun to talk in the shade,” he said, spreading her +fingers out upon his own broad palm. “So many things are so next to +heavenly in the shade.” + +“You ought not to hold my hand.” + +“I know it.” + +“I am astonished that you do not remember your Aunt Mary’s teaching you +better.” + +“She never forbade my holding your hand.” + +“Suppose anyone should come suddenly down the path?” + +“They would see us and turn and go back.” + +“To tell everyone—” + +“What?” + +“A lie.” + +Jack laughed, folded her hand hard in his, and drew himself into a +sitting posture beside her knee. + +“Now, don’t be silly,” she said with earnest anxiety. “I won’t have it. +It’s putting false ideas in your head, because I’m really only playing, +you know.” + +“The shadow of love,” he suggested. + +“Quite so.” + +“And if—” He leaned quite near. + +“Not by any means,” she exclaimed, springing quickly to her feet. +“Come—come! It’s quite time that we were going back to the house.” + +“Why must we?” he remonstrated. + +“You know why,” she said. “It’s time we were being sensible. When a man +gets as near as you are, I prefer to be _en promenade_. And don’t let +us be foolish any longer, either. Let us be cool and worldly. How much +money has your aunt, anyhow?” + +Jack had risen, too. + +“What impertinence!” he ejaculated. + +“Not at all,” she said. “Maude has so much money of her own that I ask +in a wholly disinterested spirit.” + +“She’s very rich,” said Jack. “But if your spirit is so disinterested, +what do you want to know for?” + +“This is a world of chance, and the main chance in a woman’s case is +alimony; so it’s always nice to know how to figure it.” + +“It’s a slim chance for your cousin,” said Jack. “Do tell her that I +said so.” + +“No, I shan’t,” said she perversely. “I won’t be a go-between for you +and her. Besides, as to that alimony, there are more heiresses than +Maude in our family.” + +“Yes,” said he; “I know that. But I know, too, that there is one among +them who need never figure on getting any alimony out of me. If I ever +get the iron grasp of the law on that heiress, I can assure you that +only her death or mine will ever loosen its fangs.” + +“How fierce you are!” said Mrs. Rosscott. “Why do you get so worked +up?” + +“Oh,” he exclaimed, with something approaching a groan, “I don’t mean +to be—but I do care so much! And sometimes—” he caught her quickly in +his arms, drew her within their strong embrace, and kissed her +passionately upon the lips that had been tantalizing him for five +interminable months. + +He was almost frightened the next second by her stillness. + +“Don’t be angry,” he pleaded. + +“I’m not,” she murmured, resting very quietly with her cheek against +his heart. “But you’ll have to marry me now. My other husband did, you +know.” + +“Marry you!” he exclaimed. “Next week? To-morrow? This afternoon? You +need only say when—” + +“Oh, not for years and years,” she said, interrupting him. “You mustn’t +dream of such a thing for years and years!” + +“For years and years!” he cried in astonishment. + +“That’s what I said,” she told him. + +He released her in his surprise and stared hard at her. And then he +seized her again and kissed her soundly. + +“You don’t mean it!” he declared. + +“I do mean it!” she declared. + +And then she shook her head in a very sweet but painfully resolute +manner. + +“I won’t be called a cradle-robber,” she said, firmly; and at that her +companion swore mildly but fervently. + +“You’re so young,” she said further; “and not a bit settled,” she +added. + +“But you’re young, too,” he reminded her. + +“I’m older than you are,” she said. + +“I suppose that you aren’t any more settled than I am, and that’s why +you hesitate,” he said grimly. + +“Now that’s unworthy of you,” she cried; “and I have a good mind—” + +But the direful words were never spoken, for she was in his arms +again—close in his arms; and, as he kissed her with a delicious +sensation that it was all too good to be true, he whispered, laughing: + +“I always meant to lord it over my wife, so I’ll begin by saying: ‘Have +it your own way, as long as I have you.’” + +Mrs. Rosscott laid her cheek back against his coat lapel, and looked up +into his eyes with the sweetest smile that even he had ever seen upon +even her face. + +“It’s a bargain,” she murmured. + + + + +Chapter Twenty-One +The Peace and Quiet of the Country + + +Along in the beginning of the fall Aunt Mary began suddenly to grow +very feeble indeed. After the first week or two it became apparent that +she would have to be quiet and very prudent for some time, and it was +when this information was imparted to her that the family discovered +that she had been intending to go to New York for the Horse-Show. + +“She’s awful mad,” Lucinda said to Joshua. “The doctor says she’ll have +to stay in bed.” + +“She won’t stay in bed long,” said Joshua. + +“The doctor says if she don’t stay in bed she’ll die,” said Lucinda. + +“She won’t die,” said Joshua. + +Lucinda looked at Joshua and felt a keen desire to throw her flatiron +at him. The world always thinks that the Lucindas have no feelings; the +world never knows how near the flatirons come to the Joshuas often and +often. + +Arethusa came for two days and looked the situation well over. + +“I think I won’t stay,” she said to Lucinda, “but you must write me +twice a week and I’ll write the others.” + +Then Arethusa departed and Lucinda remained alone to superintend things +and be superintended by Aunt Mary. + +Aunt Mary’s superintendence waxed extremely vigorous almost at once. +She had out her writing desk, and wrote Jack a letter, as a consequence +of which everything published in New York was mailed to his aunt as +soon as it was off the presses. Lucinda was set reading aloud and, +except when the mail came, was hardly allowed to halt for food and +sleep. + +“My heavens above,” said the slave to Joshua, “it don’t seem like I can +live with her!” + +“You’ll live with her,” said Joshua. + +“It’s more as flesh and blood can bear.” + +“Flesh and blood can bear a good deal more’n you think for,” said +Joshua, and then he delivered up two letters and drove off toward the +barn. + +“If those are letters,” said Aunt Mary from her pillow the instant she +heard the front door close, “I’d like ’em. I’m a great believer in +readin’ my own mail, an’ another time, Lucinda, I’ll thank you to bring +it as soon as you get it an’ not stand out on the porch hollyhockin’ +with Joshua for half an hour while I wait.” + +Lucinda delivered up the letters without demanding what species of +conversational significance her mistress attached to the phrase, +“holly-hocking.” + +Aunt Mary turned the letters through eagerly. + +“My lands alive!” she said suddenly, “if here isn’t one from +Mitchell,—the dear boy. Well, I never did!—Lucinda, open the blinds to +the other window, too—so I—can—see to—” her voice died away,—she was +too deep in the letter to recollect what she was saying. + +Mitchell wrote: + +MY DEAR MISS WATKINS:— + +We are sitting in a row with ashes on the heads of our cigarettes +mourning, mourning, mourning, because we have had the news that you are +ill. As usual it is up to me to express our feelings, so I have decided +to mail them and the others agree to pay for the ink. + +I wish to remark at once that we did not sleep any last night. Jack +told us at dinner, and we spent the evening making a melancholy tour of +places where we had been with you. If you had only been with us! The +roof gardens are particularly desolate without you. The whole of the +city seems to realize it. The watering carts weep from dawn to dark. +All the lamp-posts are wearing black. It is sad at one extreme and +sadder at the other. + +You must brace up. If you can’t do that try a belt. Life is too short +to spend in bed. My motto has always been “Spend freely everywhere +else.” At present I recommend anything calculated to mend you. I may in +all modesty mention that just before Christmas I shall be traveling +north and shall then adore to stop and cheer you up a bit if you invite +me. I have made it an invariable rule, however, not to stay over night +anywhere when I am not invited, so I hope you will consider my feelings +and send me an invitation. + +My eyes fill as I think what it will be to sit beside you and recall +dear old New York. It will be the next best thing to being run over by +an automobile, won’t it? + +Yours, with fondest recollections, +HERBERT KENDRICK MITCHELL. + + +Aunt Mary laid the letter down. + +“Lucinda,” she said in a curiously veiled tone, “give me a +handkerchief—a big one. As big a one as I’ve got.” + +Lucinda did as requested. + +“Now, go away,” said Aunt Mary. + +Lucinda went away. She went straight to Joshua. + +“She’s had a letter an’ read it an’ it’s made her cry,” she said. + +“That’s better’n if it made her mad,” said Joshua, who was warming his +hands at the stove. + +“I ain’t sure that it won’t make her mad later,” said Lucinda. “Say, +but she is a Tartar since she came back. Seems some days’s if I +couldn’t live.” + +“You’ll live,” said Joshua, and, as his hands were now well-warmed, he +went out again. + +After a while Aunt Mary’s bell jangled violently and Lucinda had to +hurry back. + +“Lucinda, did the doctor say anythin’ to you about how long he thought +I might be sick?” + +“Yes, he did.” + +“What did he say? I want to know jus’ what he said. Speak up!” + +“He said he didn’t have no idea how long you’d be sick.” + +Aunt Mary threw a look at Lucinda that ought to have annihilated her. + +“I want to see Jack,” she said. “Bring my writin’ desk. Right off. +Quick.” + +She wrote to Jack, and he came up and spent the next Sunday with her, +cheering her mightily. + +“I wish the others could have come, too,” she said once an hour all +through his visit. Mitchell’s letter seemed to have bred a tremendous +longing within her. + +“They’ll come later,” said Jack, with hearty good-will. “They all want +to come.” + +“I don’t know how we could ever have any fun up here though,” said his +aunt sadly. “My heavens alive, Jack,—but this is an awful place to live +in. And to think that I lived to be seventy before I found it out.” + +Jack took her hand and kissed it. He did sympathize, even if he was +only twenty-two and longing unutterably to be somewhere else and +kissing someone else at that very minute. + +“Mitchell wrote me a letter,” continued Aunt Mary. “He said he was +comin’. Well, dear me, he can eat mince pie and drive with Joshua when +he goes for the mail, but I don’t know what else I can do with him. Oh, +if I’d only been born in the city!” + +Jack kissed her hand again. He didn’t know what to say. Aunt Mary’s lot +seemed to border upon the tragic just then and there. + +The next day he returned to town and Lucinda came on duty again. She +soon found that the nephew’s visit had rendered the aunt harder than +ever to get along with. + +“I’m goin’ to town jus’’s soon as ever I feel well enough,” she +declared aggressively on more than one occasion. “An’ nex’ time I go +I’m goin’ to stay jus’’s long as ever I’m havin’ a good time. Now, +don’t contradict me, Lucinda, because it’s your place to hold your +tongue. I’m a great believer in your holding your tongue, Lucinda.” + +Lucinda, who certainly never felt the slightest inclination toward +contradiction, held her tongue, and the poor, unhappy one twisted about +in bed, and bemoaned the quietude of her environment by the hour at a +time. + +“Did you say we had a calf?” she asked suddenly one day. “Well, why +don’t you answer? When I ask a question I expect an answer. Didn’t you +say we had a calf?” + +Lucinda nodded. + +“Well, I want Joshua to take that calf to the blacksmith and have him +shod behind an’ before right off. To-day—this minute.” + +“You want the calf shod!” cried Lucinda, suddenly alarmed by the fear +lest her mistress had gone light-headed. + +Aunt Mary glared in a way that showed that she was far from being out +of her usual mind. + +“If I said shod, I guess I meant shod,” she said, icily. “I do +sometimes mean what I say. Pretty often—as a usual thing.” + +Lucinda stood at the foot of the bed, petrified and paralyzed. + +Then the invalid sat up a little and showed some mercy on her servant’s +very evident fright. + +“I want the calf shod,” she explained, “so’s Joshua can run up an’ down +the porch with him.” + +So far from ameliorating Lucinda’s condition, this explanation rendered +it visibly worse. Aunt Mary contemplated her in silence for a few +seconds, and she suddenly cried out, in a tone that was full of pathos: + +“I feel like maybe—maybe—the calf’ll make me think it’s horses’ feet on +the pavement.” + +Lucinda rushed from the room. + +“She wants the calf shod!” she cried, bursting in upon Joshua, who was +piling wood. + +For once in his life Joshua was shaken out of his usual placidity. + +“She wants the calf shod!” he repeated blankly. + +“Yes.” + +“You can’t shoe a calf.” + +“But she wants it done.” + +Joshua regained his self-control. + +“Oh, well,” he said, turning to go on with his work, “the calf’s gone +to the butcher, anyhow. Tell her so.” + +Lucinda went back to Aunt Mary. + +“The calf’s gone to the butcher,” she yelled. + +Aunt Mary frowned heavily. + +“Then you go an’ get a lamp and turn it up too high an’ leave it,” she +said,—“the smell’ll make me think of automobiles.” + +Lucinda was appalled. As a practical housekeeper she felt that here was +a proposition which she could not face. + +“Well, ain’t you goin’?” Aunt Mary asked tartly. “Of course if you +ain’t intendin’ to go I’d be glad to know it; ’n while you’re gone, +Lucinda, I wish you’d get me the handle to the ice-cream freezer an’ +lay it where I can see it; it’ll help me believe in the smell.” + +Lucinda went away and brought the handle, but she did not light the +lamp. The Fates were good to her, though, for Aunt Mary forgot the lamp +in her disgust over the appearance of the handle. + +“Take it away,” she said sharply. “Anybody’d know it wasn’t an +automobile crank. I don’t want to look like a fool! Well, why ain’t you +takin’ it away, Lucinda?” + +Lucinda took the crank back to the freezer; but as the days passed on, +the situation grew worse. Aunt Mary slept more and more, and awoke to +an ever-increasing ratio of belligerency. + +Before long Lucinda’s third cousin demanded her assistance in “moving,” +and there was nothing for poor Arethusa to do but to take up the +burden, now become a fearfully heavy one. + +Aunt Mary was getting to that period in life when the nearer the +relative the greater the dislike, so that when her niece arrived the +welcome which awaited her was even less cordial than ever. + +“Did you bring a trunk?” she asked. + +“A small one,” replied the visitor. + +“That’s something to be grateful for,” said the aunt. “If I’d invited +you to visit me, of course I’d feel differently about things.” + +Arethusa accepted this as she accepted all things, unpacked, saw +Lucinda off, assumed charge of the house, and then dragged a rocking +chair to her aunt’s bedside and unfolded her sewing. Ere she had +threaded her needle Aunt Mary was sound asleep, and so her niece sewed +placidly for an hour or more, until, like lightning out of a clear sky: + +“Arethusa!” + +The owner of the name started—but answered immediately: + +“Yes, Aunt Mary.” + +“When I die I want to be buried from a roof garden! Don’t you forget! +You’d better go an’ write it down. Go now—go this minute!” + +Arethusa shook as if with the discharge of a contiguous field battery. +She had not had Lucinda’s gradual breaking-in to her aunt’s new trains +of thought. + +“Aunt Mary,” she said feebly at last. + +Aunt Mary saw her lips moving; she sat up in bed and her eyes flashed +cinders. + +“Well, ain’t you goin’?” she asked wrathfully. “When I say do a thing, +can’t it be done? I declare it’s bad enough to live with a pack of +idiots without havin’ ’em, one an’ all, act as if I was the idiot!” + +Arethusa laid aside her work and rose to quit the room. She returned +five minutes later with pen and ink, but Aunt Mary was now off on +another tack. + +“I want a bulldog!” she cried imperatively. + +“A bulldog!” shrieked her niece, nearly dropping what she held in her +hands. “What do you want a bulldog for?” + +“Not a bullfrog!” the old lady corrected; “a bulldog. Oh, I do get so +sick of your stupidity, Arethusa,” she said. “What should I or any one +else want of a bullfrog?” + +Arethusa sighed, and the sigh was apparent. + +“I’d sigh if I was you,” said her aunt. “I certainly would. If I was +you, Arethusa, I’d certainly feel that I had cause to sigh;” and with +that she sat up and gave her pillow a punch that was full of the direst +sort of suggestion. + +Arethusa did not gainsay the truth of the sighing proposition. It was +too apparent. + +The next day Aunt Mary slept until noon, and then opened her eyes and +simultaneously declared: + +“Next summer I’m goin’ to have an automobile!” + +Then she looked about and saw that she had addressed the air, which +made her more mad than ever. She rang her bell violently, and Arethusa +left the lunch table so hastily that she reached the bedroom +half-choked. + +“Next summer I’m goin’ to have an automobile,” said the old lady +angrily. “Now, get me some breakfast.” + +Her niece went out quickly, and a maid was sent in with tea and toast +and eggs at once. Their effect was to brace the invalid up and make the +lot of those about her yet more wearing. + +“I shall run it myself,” she vowed, when Arethusa returned; “an’ I bet +they clear out when they see me comin’.” + +It did seem highly probable. + +“I don’t know how I can live if I don’t get away from here soon,” she +declared a few minutes later. “You don’t appreciate what life is, +Arethusa. Seems like I’ll go mad with wantin’ to be somewhere else. I +can see Jack gets his disposition straight from me.” + +There was a sigh and a pause. + +“I shall die,” Aunt Mary then declared with violence, “if I don’t have +a change. Arethusa, you’ve got to write to Jack, and tell him to get me +Granite.” + +“Granite!” screamed the niece in surprise. + +“Yes, Granite. She was a maid I had in New York. I want her to come +here. She must come. Tell him to offer her anything, and send her +C.O.D. If I can have Granite, maybe I’ll feel some better. You write +Jack.” + +“I’ll write to-night,” shrieked Arethusa. + +“No, you won’t,” said Aunt Mary; “you’ll get the ink and write right +now. Because I’ve been meeker’n Moses all my life is no reason why I +sh’d be willin’ to be downtrodden clear to the end. Folks around me’d +better begin to look sharp an’ step lively from now on.” + +Arethusa went to the desk at once and wrote: + +DEAR JACK: + Aunt Mary wants the maid that she had when she was in New York. For + the love of Heaven, if the girl is procurable, do get her. Hire her + if you can and kidnap her if you can’t. Lucinda has played her + usual trick on me and walked off just when she felt like it. I + never saw Aunt Mary in anything like the state of mind that she is, + but I know one thing—if you cannot send the maid, there’ll be an + end of me. + + +Your loving sister, +ARETHUSA. + + +Jack was much perturbed upon receipt of this letter. He whistled a +little and frowned a great deal. But at last he decided to be frank and +tell the truth to Mrs. Rosscott. To that end he wrote her a lengthy +note. After two preliminary pages so personal that it would not be +right to print them for public reading, he continued thus: + +I’ve had a letter from my sister, who is with Aunt Mary at present. She +says that Aunt Mary is not at all well and declares that she must have +Janice. What under the sun am I to answer? Shall I say that the girl +has gone to France? I’m willing to swear anything rather that put you +to one second’s inconvenience. You know that, don’t you? etc., etc., +etc. [just here the letter abruptly became personal again]. + +Jack thought that he knew his fiancée well, but he was totally +unprepared for such an exhibition of sweet ness as was testified to by +the letter which he received in return. + +It’s first six pages were even more personal than his own (being more +feminine) and then came this paragraph: + +Janice is going to your aunt by to-night’s train. Now, don’t say a +word! It is nothing—nothing—absolutely nothing. Don’t you know that I +am too utterly happy to be able to do anything for anyone that +you—etc., etc., etc. + +Jack seized his hat and hurried to where his lady-love was just then +residing. But Janice had gone! + + + + +Chapter Twenty-Two +“Granite” + + +Joshua was despatched to drive through mud and rain to bring Aunt +Mary’s solace from the station. + +Aunt Mary had herself propped up in bed to be ready for the return +before Billy’s feet had ceased to cry splash on the road outside of the +gate. Her eagerness tinged her pallor pink. It was as if the prospect +of seeing Janice gave her some of that flood of vitality which always +seems to ebb and flow so richly in the life of a metropolis. + +“My gracious heavens, Lucinda” (for Lucinda was back now), she said +joyfully, “to think that I needn’t look at you for a week if I don’t +want to! You haven’t any idea how tired I am of looking at you, +Lucinda. If you looked like anything it would be different. But you +don’t.” + +Lucinda rocked placidly; hers was what is called an “even disposition.” +If it hadn’t been, she might have led an entirely different life—in +fact, she would most certainly have lived somewhere else, for she +couldn’t possibly have lived with Aunt Mary. + +The hour that ensued after Joshua’s departure was so long that it +resulted in a nap for the invalid, and Lucinda had to wake her by +slamming the closet door when the arrival turned in at the gate. + +“Has he got her?” Aunt Mary cried breathlessly. “Has he got someone +with him? Run, Lucinda, an’ bring her in. She needn’t wipe her feet, +tell her; you can brush the hall afterwards. Well, why ain’t you +hurryin’?” + +Lucinda was hurrying, her curiosity being as potent as the commands of +her mistress, and five seconds later Janice appeared in the door with +her predecessor just behind her—a striking contrast. + +“You dear blessed Granite!” cried the old lady, stretching out her +hands in a sort of ecstasy. “Oh, my! but I’m glad to see you! Come +right straight here. No, shut the door first. Lucinda, you go and do +’most anything. An’ how is the city?” + +Janice came to the bedside and dropped on her knees there, taking Aunt +Mary’s withered hand close in both of her own. + +“You didn’t shut the door,” the old lady whispered hoarsely. “I wish +you would—an’ bolt it, too. An’ then come straight back to me.” + +Janice closed and bolted the door, and returned to the bedside. Aunt +Mary drew her down close to her, and her voice and eyes were hungry, +indeed. For a little she looked eagerly upon what she had so craved to +possess again, and then she suddenly asked: + +“Granite, have you got any cigarettes with you?” + +The maid started a little. + +“Do you smoke now?” she asked, with interest. + +“No,” said Aunt Mary sadly, “an’ that’s one more of my awful troubles. +You see I’m jus’ achin’ to smell smoke, an’ Joshua promised his mother +the night before he was twenty-one. You don’t know nothin’ about how +terrible I feel. I’m empty somewhere jus’ all the time. Don’t you +believe’t you could get some cigarettes an’ smoke ’em right close to +me, an’ let me lay here, an’ be so happy while I smell. I’ll have a +good doctor for you, if you’re sick from it.” + +The maid reflected; then she nodded. + +“I’ll write to town,” she cried, in her high, clear tones. “What brand +do you like best?” + +“Mitchell’s,” said Aunt Mary. “But you can’t get those because he made +’em himself an’ sealed ’em with a lick. Oh!” she sighed, with the +accent of a starving Sybarite, “I do wish I could see him do it again! +Do you know,” she added suddenly, “he wrote me a letter and he’s goin’ +to come here.” + +“When?” asked Janice. + +“After a while. But you must take off your things. That’s your room in +there,” pointing toward a half-open door at the side. “I wanted you as +close as I could get you. My, but I’ve wanted you! I can’t tell you how +much. But a good deal—a lot—awfully.” + +Janice went into the room that was to be hers, and hung up her hat and +cloak. + +When she returned Aunt Mary was looking a hundred per cent, improved +already. + +“Can you hum ‘Hiawatha’?” she asked immediately. “Granite, I must have +suthin’ to amuse me an’ make me feel good. Can you hum ‘Hiawatha’ an’ +can you do that kind of ‘sh—sh—sh—’that everybody does all together at +the end, you know?” + +Janice smiled pleasantly, and placing herself in the closest possible +proximity with the ear trumpet, at once rendered the desired _morceau_ +in a style which would have done credit to a soloist in a _café +chantant_. + +Aunt Mary’s lips wreathed in seraphic bliss. + +“My!” she said. “I feel just as if I was back eatin’ crabs’ legs and +tails again. No one’ll ever know how I’ve missed city life this winter +but—well, you saw Lucinda!” + +The glance that accompanied the speech was mysterious but significant. +Janice nodded sympathetically. + +“I hope you brought a trunk. I ain’t a bit sure when I’ll be able to +let you go,” pursued the old lady. “I don’t believe I can let you go +until I go, too. I’ve most died here alone.” + +“I brought a trunk,” Janice cried into the ear trumpet. + +“I’m glad,” said Aunt Mary. She paused, and her eyes grew wistful. + +“Granite,” she asked, “do you think you could manage to do a skirt +dance on the footboard? I’m ’most wild to see some lace shake.” + +Janice looked doubtfully at the footboard. It was wide for a footboard, +but narrow—too narrow—for a skirt dance. + +“But I can do one on the floor,” she cried. + +Aunt Mary’s features became suffused with heavenly joy. + +“Oh, Granite!” she murmured, in accents of greatest anticipation. + +The maid stood up, and, going off as far as the limits of the spacious +bedroom would allow, executed a most fetching and dainty _pas seul_ to +a tune of her own humming. + +“Give me suthin’ to pound with!” cried her enthusiastic audience. “Oh, +Granite, I ain’t been so happy since I was home! Whatever you want you +can have, only don’t ever leave me alone with Lucinda again.” + +Janice was catching her tired breath, but she answered with a smile. + +“Can’t you get my Sunday umbrella out of the closet now an’ do a +parasol dance?” the insatiate demanded; “one of those where you shoot +it open an’ shut when people ain’t expectin’.” + +The maid went to the closet and brought out the Sunday umbrella; but +its shiny black silk did not appear to inspire any fluffy maneuvres, so +she utilized it in the guise of a broadsword and did something that +savored of the Highlands, and seemed to rebel bitterly at the length of +her skirt. Aunt Mary writhed around in bliss—utter and intense. + +“I feel like I was livin’ again,” she said, heaving a great sigh of +content. “I tell you I’ve suffered enough, since I came back, to know +what it is to have some fun again. Now, Granite, I’ll tell you what +we’ll do,” when the girl sat down to rest; “you write for those +cigarettes while I take a little nap and afterwards we’ll get the +Universal Knowledge book and learn how to play poker. You don’t know +how to play poker, do you?” + +“A little,” cried the maid. + +“Well, I want to learn how,” said the old lady, “an’ we’ll learn +when—when I wake up.” + +Janice nodded assent. + +“Excuse me shuttin’ my eyes,” said Aunt Mary—and she was asleep in two +minutes. + + + + +Chapter Twenty-Three +“Granite” +Continued. + + +Mary and Arethusa—Aunt Mary’s two nieces—were not uncommonly mercenary; +but about three weeks after the new arrival they became seriously +troubled over the ascendancy that she appeared to be gaining over the +mind of their aunt. Lucinda’s duties had included for many years the +writing of a weekly letter which contained formal advices of the +general state of affairs, and after Janice’s establishment, these +letters became so provocative of gradually increasing alarm that first +Mary, and then Arethusa thought it advisable to make the journey for +the purpose of investigating the affair personally. They found the new +maid apparently devoid of evil intent, but certainly fast becoming +absolutely indispensable to the daily happiness of their influential +relative. Mary feared that a codicil for five thousand dollars would be +the result; but Arethusa felt, with a sinking heart, that there was +another naught going on to the sum, and that, unless the tide turned, +the end might not be even then. + +Aunt Mary was so cool that neither niece stayed long, and Lucinda’s +letters had to be looked to for the progress of events. Lucinda’s +letters were frequent and not at all reassuring. After the sisters had +talked them over, they sent them on to Jack. + +She [thus Lucinda invariably began] is the same as ever. It’s cross the +heart and bend the knee, an’ then you ain’t down far enough to suit +her. But she’s gettin’ so afraid she’ll go that she’s wax in her hands. +It would scare you. She won’t let her out of her sight a minute. I must +say that whatever she’s giving her, she certainly is earning the money, +for she works her harder every day. The poor thing is hopping about, or +singing, or playing cards, from dawn to dark, and unless it’s a +provision in her will I can’t see what would pay her enough for working +so. Lord knows I considered I earned my wages without skipping around +with my legs crossed like she does, and she has no end of patience too, +even if she won’t ever let her take a walk. She’s getting as pale as +she is herself. Seems like something should be done. + + +Respectfully, +L. COOKE. + + +Three days later Lucinda wrote again: + +She does seem to be getting worse and worse. She makes her sleep on a +sofa beside her, and she begins to look dreadfully worn out. I do +believe she’ll kill her, before she dies herself. I told her so to-day, +but she only smiled. It’s funny, but I like her even if I am bolted out +all the time. I ain’t jealous, and I’m glad of the rest. I should think +her throat would split with talking so much, but she certainly does +hear her better than anyone else. I think something must be done, +though. She’s getting as crazy as she is herself. They play cards and +call each other “aunty” for two hours at a stretch some days. + + +Respectfully, +L. COOKE. + + +At the end of the week Lucinda wrote again: + +I think if you don’t come, she will surely die. She is very feeble +herself, but that don’t keep her from wearing her to skin and bone. She +keeps her doing tricks from morning to night. Every minute that she is +awake she keeps her jumping. It’s a mercy she sleeps so much, or she +wouldn’t get any sleep at all. I can’t do nothing, but I can see +something has got to be done. She’s killing her, and she’s getting +where she don’t care for nobody but her, and if she’s to be kept in +trim to keep on amusing her she’ll have to have some rest pretty quick. + + +Respectfully, +L. COOKE. + + +If the sisters were perturbed by the general trend of these epistles, +Jack was half wild over the situation. He swore vigorously and he +tramped up and down his room nights until the people underneath put it +in their prayers that his woes might suggest suicide as speedily as +possible. In vain he wrote to Mrs. Rosscott to restore Janice to her +proper place in town; Mrs. Rosscott answered that as long as Aunt Mary +desired Janice at her side, at her side Janice should stay. Jack knew +his lady well enough to know that she would keep her word, and although +he longed to assert his authority he was man enough to feel that he had +better wait now and settle the debt after marriage. + +Nevertheless the whole affair was unbearably vexatious and at last he +felt that he could endure it no longer. + +“I’m a fool,” he said, in a spirit of annoyance that came so close to +anger that it led to an utter loss of patience. “I’ll take the train +for Aunt Mary’s to-day, and straighten out that mess in short order.” + +It was Saturday, and he arranged to leave by the noon train. He laid in +a heavy supply of bribes for his aged relative and of reading matter +for himself, and went to the station with a heart divided ’twixt many +different emotions. It was an unconscionably long ride, but he did get +there safely about ten o’clock. + +It was a pleasant night—not too cold—even suggestive of some lingering +Indian summer intentions on the part of Jack’s namesake. The young man +thought that he would walk out to his childhood’s home, and his +decision was aided by the discovery that there was no other way to get +there. + +So he took his suit-case in his hand and set off with a stride that +covered the intervening miles in short order and brought him, almost +before he knew it, to where he could see Lucinda’s light in the +dining-room and her pug-nosed profile outlined upon the drawn shade. +Everyone else was evidently abed, and as he looked, she, too, arose and +took up the lamp. He hurried his steps so that she might let him in +before she went upstairs, but in the same instant the light went out +and with its withdrawal he perceived a little figure sitting alone upon +the doorstep. + +His heart gave a tremendous leap—but not with fright—and he made three +rapid steps and spoke a name. + +She lifted up her head. Of course it was Janice, and although she had +been weeping, her eyes were as beautiful as ever. + +“Oh, Jack!” she exclaimed, and happy the man who hears his name called +in such a tone—even if it be only for once in the whole course of his +existence. + +He pitched his suit-case down upon the grass and took the maid in his +arms. + +What did anything matter; they both were lonely and both needed +comforting. + +He kissed her not once but twenty times,—not twenty times but a +hundred. + +“It’s abominable you’re being here,” he said at last. + +“I am very, very tired,” she confessed. + +“And you’ll go back to the city when I go?” he asked. + +“I don’t know,” she said, doubtfully. “I don’t know whether she’ll let +me.” + +Jack laughed. + +“To-morrow I will beard Aunt Mary in her den,” he declared; “now let’s +go in and—and—” + +The hundred and first! + + + + +Chapter Twenty-Four +Two Are Company + + +To the large square room where he had slept (on and off) during a +goodly portion of his boyhood life, Jack went to repose from his +journey, there to meditate the situation which he had come to comfort, +and to try and devise a way to better its existing circumstances. + +It was a pleasant room, one window looking down the driveway, and the +other leading forth to a square balcony that topped the little porch of +the side entrance. There were lambrequins of dark blue with fringe that +always caught in the shutters, and a bedroom suite of mahogany that had +come down from the original John Watkins’s aunt, and had been polished +by her descendants so faithfully that its various surfaces shone like +mirrors. Over the bed hung a tent drapery of chintz; over the washstand +hung a crayon done by Arethusa in her infancy—the same representing a +lady engaged in the pleasant and useful occupation of spinning wheat +with a hand composed of five fingers, and no thumb. In the corner stood +a cheval-glass which Jack had seen shrink steadily for years until now +it could no longer reflect his shoulders unless he retired back for +some two yards or more. There was a delectable closet to the room, all +painted white inside, with shelves and cupboards and little bins for +shoes and waste paper and soiled clothes. + +Oh! it was really an altogether delightful place in which to abide, and +the pity was that its owner had spent so little time therein of late +years. + +To-night—returning to the scene of many childish and boyish +meditations—Jack placed his lamp upon the nightstand at the head of the +bed and sat himself down on a chair near by. + +It was late—quite midnight—for he and Aunt Mary’s new maid had talked +long and freely ere they separated at last. From his room he could hear +the little faint sounds below stairs, that told of her final +preparations for Lucinda’s morning eye, and he rested quiet until all +else was quiet and then leaned back upon the chair’s hind legs and, +tipping slowly to and fro in that position, tried to see just what he +had better do the first thing on the following day. + + +[Illustration: “‘Yesterday I played poker until I didn’t know a blue +chip from a white one.’”] + + +It was a riddle with a vengeance. It is so easy to say “I’ll cut that +Gordian knot!” and then pack one’s tooth-brush and start off +unknotting, but it is quite another matter when one comes face to face +with the problem and is met by the “buts” of those who have previously +been essaying to disentangle it. + +“She won’t let me go,” Mrs. Rosscott had declared, “she won’t consider +it for a minute.” + +“But she must,” Jack had declared on his side. “My dearest, you can’t +stay and play maid to Aunt Mary indefinitely, and you know that as well +as I do.” + +“Yes, I know that,” the whilom Janice then murmured. “It’s getting to +be an awful question. They want me to come home for Thanksgiving. They +think that I’ve been at the rest-cure long enough.” + +Jack had laughed a bit just there, and then he suddenly ceased laughing +and frowned a good deal instead. + +“You were crying when I came,” he said. “The truth is you are working +yourself to death and getting completely used up.” + +“It is wearing, I must confess,” she answered. “Yesterday I played +poker until I didn’t know a blue chip from a white one, and she won the +whole pot with two little bits of pairs while I was drawing to a king. +I begin to fear that my mind will give way. And yet, I really don’t see +how to stop. She is so sick and tired of life here and she isn’t strong +enough to go to town.” + +“I know a very short way to put an end to everything,” said Jack. “I +see two ways in fact,—one is to tell her the truth.” + +“Oh, don’t do that,” cried his fiancée affrightedly. “The shock would +kill her outright.” + +“The other way,—” said Jack slowly, “would be for me to marry you and +let her think that you are Janice in good earnest.” + +“Oh, that wouldn’t do at all,” said the pretty widow. “In the first +place she would go crazy at the idea of her darling nephew’s marrying +her maid,—and in the second place—” + +“Well,—in the second place?” + +“I wouldn’t marry you,—I said I wouldn’t and I won’t. You’re too +young.” + +“But you’ve promised to marry me some day.” + +“Yes, I know—but not till—not till—” + +“Not till when?” + +“I haven’t just decided,” said Mrs. Rosscott, airily. “Not for a good +while, not until you seem to require marrying at my hands.” + +“I never shall require marrying at anyone else’s hands,” the lover +vowed, “but if you are so set about it as all that comes to, I shall +not cut up rough for a while. Aunt Mary is the main question just +now—not you.” + +“I know,” said his lady in anything but a jealous tone, “and as she is +the question, what are we to do?” + +“You will go to bed,” he said, kissing her, “and I will go to think.” + +“Can you see any way?” she asked anxiously. + +Then he put his hands on either side of her face and turned it up to +his own. + +“You plotted once and overthrew my aunt,” he said. “It’s my turn now.” + +“Are you going to plot?” + +“I’m going to try.” + +“I’ll pray for your success,” she whispered. + +“Pray for me,” he answered, and shortly after they had achieved the +feat of saying good-night and parting once more, and the result of it +all had been that Jack found himself tipping back and forth on the +small chair, in the big room, at half-past midnight, puzzled, +perturbed, and very much perplexed as to what to do first when the next +morning should have become a settled fact. He was not used to +conspiring, and being only a man, he had not those curious instinctive +gifts of inspiration and luminous conception which fairly radiate +around the brain of clever womankind. + +It was some time—a very long time indeed—before any light stole in upon +his Stygian darkness, and then, when the light did come, it came in +skyrocket guise, and had its share of cons attached to its very evident +pros. + +“But I don’t care,” he declared viciously, as he rose and began to +undress; “something’s got to be done,—some chances have got to be +taken,—as well that as anything else. Perhaps better—very likely +better.” + +Then he laughed over his unconscious imitation of his aunt’s +phraseology, and made short work of finishing his disrobing and getting +to bed. + +It was when Lucinda crept forth to begin to unlock the house at 6.30 +upon the morning after, that the fact of the nephew’s arrival was first +known to anyone except Janice. + +Lucinda saw the coat and hat,—recognized the initial on the +handkerchief in the inside pocket, threw out her arms and gave a faint +squeak in utter bewilderment, and then tore off at once to the barn to +tell Joshua. + +She found Joshua milking the cow. + +“What do you think!” she panted briefly, with wide-open eyes and +uplifted hands; “Joshua Whittlesey, _what_ do you think?” + +“I don’t think nothin’,” said Joshua. “I’m milkin’.” + +“What would you say if I told you as _he_ was come.” + +“I’d say he was here.” + +“Well, he is. He must ’a’ come last night, an’ Lord only knows how he +ever got in, for nothing was left open an’ yet he’s there.” + +Joshua made no comment. + +“I wonder what he came for?” + +Joshua made no comment. + +“I wonder how long he’ll stay?” + +Still Joshua made no comment. + +“Joshua Whittlesey, before you get your breakfast, you’re the meanest +man I ever saw, and I’ll swear to that anywhere.” + +“Why don’t you get me my breakfast then?” said Joshua calmly; and the +effect of his speech and his demeanor was to cause Lucinda to turn and +leave him at once—too outraged to address another word to him. + +Aunt Mary herself did not awake until ten o’clock. She rang her bell +vigorously then and Janice flew to its answering. + +“I dreamed of Jack,” said the old lady, looking up with a smile. “I +dreamed we was each ridin’ on camels in a merry-go-round.” + +Janice smiled too, and then set briskly to work to put the room in +order and arrange its occupant for the day. + +“Did there come any mail?” Aunt Mary inquired, when her coiffure was +made and her dressing-gown adjusted. “I feel jus’ like I might hear +from Jack. Seems as if I sort of can’t think of anythin’ but him.” + +“I’ll go and see,” said Janice pleasantly, and she went to the dining +room where the Reformed Prodigal sat reading the newspaper with his +feet on the table—an action which convinced Lucinda that he had not +reformed so very much after all. + +“Suppose you go to her—instead of me,” suggested the maid, pausing +before the reader and usurping all the attention to which the paper +should have laid claim. + +“Suppose I do,” said Jack, jumping up, “and suppose you stay away and +let me try what I can accomplish single-handed.” + +“Only—” began Janice—and then she stopped and lifted a warning finger. + +Jack listened and a stealthy creak betrayed Lucinda’s proximity +somewhere in the vicinity. + +It was plain to be seen that there were many issues to be kept in mind, +and the young man grit his teeth because he didn’t dare embrace his +betrothed, and then walked away in the direction of Aunt Mary’s room. + +If she was glad to see him! One would have supposed that ten years and +two oceans had elapsed since their last meeting the month before. + +She fairly screamed with joy. + +“Jack!—You dear, dear, _dear_ boy! Well, if I ever did!—When did you +come?” + +He was by the bed hugging her. “And how are they all? How _is_ the +city? Oh, Jack, if I could only go back with you this time!” + +“Never mind, Aunt Mary; you’ll be coming soon—in the spring, you know.” + +Aunt Mary sank back on the pillows. + +“Jack,” she said, “if I have to wait for spring, I shall die. I ain’t +strong enough to be able to bear livin’ in the country much longer. +I’ve pretty much made up my mind to buy a house in town and just keep +this place so’s to have somewhere to put Lucinda.” + +“Do you think you’d be happy in town, Aunt Mary?” Jack yelled; “I mean +if you lived there right along?” + +“I don’t see how I could be anythin’ else. I don’t see how anyone could +be anythin’ else. I want a nice house with a criss-cross iron gate in +front of it an’ an automobile. An’—I don’t want you to say nothin’ +about this to her jus’ yet—but I’m goin’ to keep Granite to look after +everythin’ for me. I don’t ever mean to let Granite go again. Never. +Not for one hour.” + +Jack smiled. He felt as if Fate was playing into his hands. + +“I want you to live with me,” Aunt Mary continued, “an’ I want the +house big enough so’s Clover an’ Mitchell an’ Burnett can come whenever +they feel like it and stay as long as they like. I don’t want any house +except for us all together. Oh, my! Seems like I can’t hardly wait!” + +She leaned back and shut her eyes in a sort of impatient ecstasy of +joys been and to be. + +Jack reached forward to get a cigarette from the box on the table at +the bedside. + +“Do you smoke now, Aunt Mary?” he inquired, as he took a match. + +“No, Granite does.” + +“Janice does!” he repeated, quickly knitting his brows. + +“Yes, she does it for me—I’m so happy smellin’ the smell. They made her +a little sick at first but she took camphor and now she don’t mind. Not +much—not any.” + +Jack arose and walked about the room. The idea of his darling sickening +herself to provide smoke for Aunt Mary braced him afresh to the +conflict. + +“What do you do all day?” he asked, presently. + +“Well, we do most everythin’. When Lucinda’s out she does Lucinda for +me an’ when Lucinda’s in she does Joshua. It’s about as amusin’ as +anythin’ you ever saw to see her do Lucinda. I never found Lucinda +amusin’, Lord knows, but I like to see Granite do her. An’ we play +cards, an’ she dances, an’—” + +“Aunt Mary,” said Jack abruptly, “do you know the people who had Janice +want her back again?” + +“I didn’t quite catch that,” said his aunt, “but you needn’t bother to +repeat it because I ain’t never goin’ to let her go. Not never.” + +Jack came back and sat down beside the bed, and took her hand. + +“Aunt Mary,” he said in a pleading shriek, “don’t you see how pale and +thin she’s getting?” + +“No, I don’t,” said his aunt, turning her head away, “an’ it’s no use +tellin’ me such things because it’s about my nap-time and I’ve always +been a great believer in takin’ my nap when it’s my nap-time. As a +general thing.” + +Jack sighed and watched her close her eyes and go instantly to sleep. +Janice came in a few minutes later. + +“No—no,” she whispered hastily, as he came toward her,—“you mustn’t—you +mustn’t. I don’t believe that she really is asleep and even if she is, +Lucinda is _everywhere_.” + +“Where can we go?” Jack asked in despair. “It’s out of all reason to +expect me to behave all the time.” + +“We can’t go anywhere,” said Mrs. Rosscott; “we must resign ourselves. +I’ve learned that it’s the only way. Dear me, when I think how long +I’ve been resigned it certainly seems to me that you might do a little +in the same line.” + +“Well, but I haven’t learned to resign myself,” said her lover, “and +what is more, I positively decline to learn to resign myself. You +should do the same, too. Where is the sense in humoring her so? I +wouldn’t if I were you.” + +Janice lifted up her lovely eyes. + +“Oh, yes, you would,” she said simply. “If somebody’s future happiness +depended upon her you would humor her just as much as I do.” + +Jack was touched. + +“You are an angel of unselfishness,” he exclaimed, warmly, “and I don’t +deserve such devotion.” + +“Oh, don’t be too grateful,” she replied, dimpling. “The person to +whose future happiness I referred was myself.” + +They both laughed softly at that—softly and mutually. + +“Nevertheless,” Jack went on after a minute, “if to all the other +puzzles is to be added the torture of being unable to see you or speak +freely to you, I think the hour for action has arrived.” + +“For action!” she cried; “what are you thinking of doing?” + +“This,” he said, and straightway took her into his arms and kissed her +as he had kissed her on the night before. + +“Oh, if Lucinda has heard or your aunt has seen!” poor Janice cried, +extricating herself and setting her cap to rights with a species of +fluttered haste that led Jack to wonder suddenly why men didn’t fall in +love with maids even oftener than they do. “I do believe that you have +gone and done it this time.” + +“Nobody heard and nobody saw,” he assured her, but he didn’t at all +mean what he said, for his prayers were fervent that his kiss had been +public property. + +And such was the fact. + +Lucinda bounced in on Joshua with a bounce that turned the can of +harness polish upside down, for Joshua was oiling the harnesses. + +“He kissed her!” she cried in a state of tremendous excitement. + +“Well, she’s his aunt, ain’t she?” Joshua demanded, picking up the can +and privately wishing Lucinda in Halifax. + +“I don’t mean her;—I mean Janice.” + +“I don’t see anythin’ surprisin’ in that,” said Joshua,—“not if he got +a good chance.” + +“What do you think of such goin’s on?” + +“I think they’ll lead to goin’s offs.” + +“I never would ’a’ believed it,” said Lucinda; “Well, all I can say is +I wish he’d ’a’ tried it on me.” + +“You’ll wish a long time,” said Joshua, placidly; and his tone, as +usual, made Lucinda even more angry than his words; so she forthwith +left him and tore back to the house. + +Aunt Mary had also had her eyes open, and in this particular case it +was impossible to have one’s eyes open without having one’s eyes +opened. So Aunt Mary had both. + +She shut them at once and reflected deeply, and when Janice went out of +the room at last she immediately sat up in bed and addressed her +nephew. + +“Jack, what did you kiss her for?” + +Jack was fairly wild with joy at the brilliant way in which he had +begun. Mrs. Rosscott had laid one scheme for the overthrow of Aunt Mary +and her plan of attack had been absolutely successful. Now it was his +turn and he, too, was in it to win undying glory or else—well, no +matter. There wouldn’t be any “also ran” in this contest. + +“You don’t deny that you kissed her, do you?” said his aunt severely. +“Answer this minute. I’m a great believer in answerin’ when you’re +spoken to.” + +“Yes, I kissed her,” he said easily. + + +[Illustration: “Aunt Mary had also had her eyes open.”] + + +“Well, what did you do it for?” + +“I’m very fond of her;” the words came forth with great apparent +reluctance. + +“Fond of her!” said Aunt Mary with great contempt. + +Jack lifted his eyes quickly at the tone of her comment. + +“_Fond_ of her! Do you think a girl like that is the kind to be fond +of! Why ain’t you in _love_ with her?” + +The young man felt his brains suddenly swimming. This surpassed his +maddest hopes. + +“Shall I say that I am in love with her?” he cried into the +ear-trumpet. + +Aunt Mary raised up in bed,—her eyes sparkling. + +“Jack,” she said, almost quivering with excitement, “_are_ you in love +with her?” + +“Yes, I am,” he owned, wondering what would come next, but feeling that +the tide was all his way. + +Aunt Mary collapsed with a joyful sigh. + +“My heavens alive,” she said rapturously, “seems like it’s too good to +be true! Jack,” she continued solemnly, “if you’re in love with her you +shall marry her. If there’s any way to keep a girl like that in the +family I guess I ain’t goin’ to let her slip through my fingers not +while I’ve got a live nephew. You shall marry her an’ I’ll buy you a +house in New York and come an’ live with you.” + +Jack sat silent, but smiling. + +“Do you think she will want to marry me?” he asked presently. + +“You go and bring her to me,” said the old lady vigorously. “I’ll soon +find out. Just tell her I want to speak to her—don’t tell her what +about. That ain’t none of your business an’ I’m a great believer in +people’s not interfering in what’s none of their business. You just get +her and then leave her to me.” + +Jack went and found Janice. He was sufficiently mean not to tell her +what had happened, and Janice—being built on a different plan from +Lucinda—had not kept near enough to the keyhole to be posted anyway. + +“Mr. Denham says you want me,” she said, coming to the bedside with her +customary pleasant smile. + +“I do,” said her mistress. “I want to speak to you on a very serious +subject and I want you to pay a lot of attention. It’s this: I want you +to marry Jack.” + +Poor Janice jumped violently,—there was no doubt as to the genuineness +of her surprise. + +“Well, don’t you want to?” asked Aunt Mary. + +“I don’t believe I do.” + +At this it was the old lady’s turn to be astonished. + +“Why don’t you?” she said; “my heavens alive, what are you a-expectin’ +to marry if you don’t think my nephew’s good enough for you?” + +“But I don’t want to marry!” cried poor Janice, in most evident +distress. + +Aunt Mary looked at her severely. + +“Then what did you kiss him for?” she asked, in the tone in which one +plays the trump ace. + +Janice started again. + +“Kiss—him—” she faltered. + +Aunt Mary regarded her sternly. + +“Granite,” she said, “I ain’t a-intendin’ to be unreasonable, but I +must ask you jus’ one simple question. You kissed him, for I saw you; +an’ will you kindly tell me why, in heaven’s name, you ain’t willin’ to +marry any man that you’re willin’ to kiss?” + +“There’s such a difference,” wailed the maid. + +“I don’t see it,” said her mistress, shaking her head. “I don’t see it +at all. Of course I never for a minute thought of doin’ either myself, +but if I had thought of doin’ either, I’d had sense enough to have seen +that I’d have to make up my mind to do both. I’m a great believer in +never doin’ things by halves. It don’t pay. Never—nohow.” + +Janice was biting her lips. + +“But I don’t want to marry!” she repeated obstinately. + +“Then you shouldn’t have let him kiss you. You’ve got him all started +to lovin’ you and if he’s stopped too quick no one can tell what may +happen. I want him to settle down, but I want him to settle down +because he’s happy an’ not because he’s shattered. He says he’s willin’ +to marry you an’ I don’t see any good reason why not.” + +Janice’s mouth continued to look rebellious. + +“Go and get him,” said Aunt Mary. “I can see that this thing has got to +be settled pleasantly right off, or we shan’t none of us have any +appetite for dinner. You find Jack, or if you can’t find him tell +Lucinda that she’s got to.” + +Janice went out and found Jack in the hall. + +“Is this a trap?” she asked reproachfully. + +Jack laughed. + +“No,” he said “it’s a counter-mine.” + +“Your aunt wants you at once,” said Janice, putting her hands into her +pockets and looking out of the window. + +“I fly to obey,” he said obediently, and went at once to his elderly +relative. + +“Jack,” she said, the instant he opened the door, “I’ve had a little +talk with Granite. She don’ want to marry you, but she looks to me like +she really didn’t know her own mind. I’ve said all I can say an’ I’m +too tired holdin’ the ear-trumpet to say any more. I think the best +thing you can do is to take her out for a walk an’ explain things +thoroughly. It’s no good our talkin’ to her together; and, anyway, I’ve +always been a great believer in ‘Two’s company—three’s none.’ That was +really the big reason why I’d never let Lucinda keep a cat. You take +her and go to walk and I guess everything’ll come out all right. It +ought to. My heavens alive!” + +Jack took the maid and they went out to walk. When they were beyond +earshot the first thing that they did was to laugh long and loud. + +“Of all my many and varied adventures!” cried Mrs. Rosscott, and Jack +took the opportunity to kiss her again—under no protest this time. + +“We shall have to be married very soon, now, you know,” he said gayly. +“Aunt Mary won’t be able to wait.” + +“Oh, as to that—we’ll see,” said Mrs. Rosscott, and laughed afresh. +“But there is one thing that must be done at once.” + +“What’s that?” Jack asked. + +“We must tell Aunt Mary who I am.” + +“Oh, to be sure,” said the young man. + +“I hope she won’t take it in any way but the right way!” the widow said +thoughtfully. + +“My dearest, in what other way could she take it? I think she has +proved her opinion of you pretty sincerely.” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Rosscott, with a little smile, “I certainly have cause +to feel that she loves me for myself alone.” + +When they returned to the house they went straightway to Aunt Mary’s +room, and the first glance through the old lady’s eye-glasses told her +that her wishes had all been fulfilled. She sat up in bed, took a hand +of each into her own, and surveyed them in an access of such utter joy +as nearly caused all three to weep together. + +“Well, I am so glad,” was all she said for the first few seconds, and +nobody doubted her words forever after. + +Then Mrs. Rosscott removed her hat and jacket, and when she returned to +the bedside her future aunt made her sit down close to her and hold one +of her hands while Jack held the other. + +“I’m so glad you’re to have the runnin’ of Jack,” the old lady declared +sincerely. “All I ask of you is to be patient with him. I always was. +That is, most always.” + +“Dear Aunt Mary,” said Mrs. Rosscott, slipping down on her knees beside +the bed, “you are so good to me that you encourage me to tell you my +secret. It isn’t long, and it isn’t bad, but I have a confession to +make.” + +“Oh, I say,” cried Jack, “if you put it that way let me do the owning +up!” + +“Hush,” said his love authoritatively, “it’s my confession. Leave it to +me.” + +“What is it?” said Aunt Mary, looking anxiously from one to the other; +“you haven’t broke your engagement already, I hope.” + +“No,” said Mrs. Rosscott, “it’s nothing like that. It’s only rather a +surprise. But it’s a nice surprise,—at least, I hope you’ll think that +it is.” + +“Well, hurry and tell me then,” said the old lady. “I’m a great +believer in bein’ told good news as soon as possible. What is it?” + +“It’s that I’m not a maid,” said the pretty widow. + +“Not—a—” cried Aunt Mary blankly. + +“I’m a widow!” said Janice. “I’m Burnett’s sister.” + +“Wh—a—at!” cried Aunt Mary. “I didn’t jus’ catch that.” + +“You see,” screamed Jack, “she was afraid to have me entertain you in +New York,—afraid you wouldn’t be properly looked after, Aunt Mary, so +she dressed up for your maid and looked after you herself.” + +“My heavens alive!” + +“Wasn’t she an angel?” he asked. + +“But whatever made you take such an interest?” Aunt Mary demanded of +Janice. + +Janice rose from her knees and, leaning over the bed, drew the old lady +close in her arms. + +“I’ll tell you,” she screamed gently. “I loved Jack, and so I loved his +aunt even before I had ever seen her.” + +Aunt Mary’s joy fairly overflowed at that view of things, and, putting +her hands to either side of the lovely face so close to her own, she +kissed it warmly again and again. + +“I always knew you were suthin’ out of the ordinary,” she declared +vigorously. “You know I wouldn’t have let him marry you if I hadn’t +been pretty sure as you were different from Lucinda an’ the common +run.” + +And then she beamed on them both and Jack beamed on them both and Mrs. +Rosscott kissed each of them and dried her own happy eyes. + +“Now I want to know jus’ how an’ where you learned to love him?” the +aunt asked next. + +“I loved him almost directly I knew him,” she answered, and at that +Aunt Mary seemed on the point of applauding with the ear-trumpet +against the headboard. + +“It was jus’ the same with me,” she said delightedly. “He was only a +baby then, but the first look I took I jus’ had a feelin’—” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Rosscott sympathetically, “so did I.” + +They all laughed together. + +“An’ now,” said Aunt Mary, laying back and folding her arms upon her +bosom, “an’ now comes the main question,—when do you two want to be +married?” + +“Oh!” said the widow starting, “we—I—Jack—” + +“Well, go on,” said Aunt Mary. “Say whenever you like. An’ then Jack +can do the same.” + +The two young people exchanged glances. + +“Speak right up,” said Aunt Mary. “I’m a great believer in not hangin’ +back when anythin’ has got to be decided. Jack, what do you think?” + +“I want to get married right off,” said Jack decidedly. + +“I think he’s too young,” put in Mrs. Rosscott hastily. + +“I don’t know,” said Aunt Mary, looking at her nephew reflectively. +“Seems to me he’s big enough, an’ I’m a great believer in never +dilly-dallyin’ over what’s got to be done some time. Why not +Thanksgiving?” + +“Thanksgiving!” shrieked Mrs. Rosscott. + +“Yes,” said Aunt Mary. “I think it would be a good time, an’ then I can +come and spend Christmas with you in the city.” + +“Great idea!” declared her nephew; “me for Thanksgiving.” + +“What do you say?” said Aunt Mary to the bride-to-be. + +“Oh, I don’t see—” began the latter, wrinkling her pretty forehead in a +prettier perplexity and looking helplessly back and forth between their +double eagerness. + +“Well, why not?” said the aunt. “It ain’t as if there was any reason +for waitin’. If there was I’d be the first to be willin’ to do all I +could to be patient, but as it is—even if you an’ Jack ain’t in any +particular hurry, I am, an’ I was brought up to go right to work at +gettin’ what you want as soon as you know what it is.” + +“But this is so sudden,” wailed Mrs. Rosscott. + +Aunt Mary glanced at her sharply. + +“That’s what they all say, a’cordin’ to the papers,” she said calmly, +“an’ it never is counted as anythin’ but a joke.” + +“But I’m not joking,” Janice cried. + +“Then you jus’ take a little time an’ think it over,” proposed the old +lady,—“I’ll tell you what you can do. You can get me Lucinda because I +want to tell her suthin’ and then you and Jack can sit down together +an’ think it over anywhere an’ anyhow you like.” + +“Do you really want Lucinda,” said Janice, rising to her feet, “or is +it something that I can do? You know I’m yours just the same as ever, +Aunt Mary. Next to being good to Jack, I want to always be good to +you.” + +Aunt Mary looked up with a light in her eyes that was fine to see. + +“Bless you, my child,” she said heartily. “I know that, but I really +want Lucinda, an’ you an’ Jack can take care of yourselves for a while. +Leastways, I hope you can. I guess you can. I presume so, anyway.” + +It was late that afternoon that Lucinda, looking as if she had been +accidentally overtaken by a road-roller, joined Joshua in the potato +cellar. + +“Well, the sky c’n fall whenever it likes now!” she said, sitting down +on an empty barrel with a resigned sigh. + +“That’s a comfort to know,” said Joshua. + +“She’s got it all made up for ’em to marry each other.” + +“That ain’t no great news to me,” said Joshua. + +“Joshua Whittlesey, you make my blood boil. Things is goin’ rackin’ and +ruinin’ at a great pace here an’ you as cold as a cauliflower over it +all.” + +Joshua sorted potatoes phlegmatically and said nothing. + +“S’posin’ I’d ’a’ wanted to marry him?” + +Joshua continued to sort potatoes. + +“Or, s’posin’ you wanted to marry her?” + +Joshua looked up quickly. + +“Which one?” he said. + +“Janice!” + +“Oh,” he said in a relieved tone. + +“Why did you say ‘oh,’—did you think I meant her?” + +“I didn’t know who you meant.” + +“Why, you wouldn’t think o’ marryin’ her, would you?” + +“No,” said Joshua emphatically. “I’d as soon think o’ marryin’ you +yourself.” + +Lucinda deliberated for a minute or so as to whether to accept this +insult in silence or not, and finally decided to make just one more +remark. + +“I wonder if she’ll send any word to Arethusa ’n’ Mary.” + +“They’ll know soon enough,” said Joshua oracularly. + +“How’ll they know, I’d like to know?” + +“You’ll write ’em.” + +Lucinda was dumb. The fact that the letter was already written only +made the serpent-tooth of Joshua’s intimate knowledge cut the deeper. + + + + +Chapter Twenty-Five +Grand Finale + + +She has it all made up for him to marry her, and she is certainly as +happy as she is and he is themselves. She is making plans at a great +rate and she has consented to have her wedding here because she wants +to be there herself. The day is set for Thanksgiving and the Lord be +with us for everything has got to be just so and she is no more good at +helping now that he’s come. They are all going back to New York as soon +as possible after it’s over and I hope to be forgiven for stating +plainly that it will be the happiest day’ of my life. + +Respectfully, +L. COOKE. + + +Upon receipt of this astounding news Arethusa took the train and flew +to the scene where such momentous happenings were piling up on one +another. Her arrival was unexpected and the changes which she found +ensued and ensuing were of a nature bewildering in the extreme. Aunt +Mary had quit her régime of soup and sleep and was not only more +energetically vigorous as to mind than ever, but strengthening daily as +to bodily force. It might have been the excitement, for Burnett was +there, Clover was _en route_, and Mitchell was expected within +twenty-four hours. Other great changes were visible everywhere. A corps +of servants from town had fairly swamped Lucinda and twenty carpenters +were putting up an extra addition to the house in which to give the +wedding room to spread. Nor was this all, for Aunt Mary had turned a +furniture man and an upholsterer loose with no other limit than that +comprised by the two words “_carte blanche_.” + +Mrs. Rosscott still continued to wait upon Aunt Mary, but another maid +had arrived to await upon Mrs. Rosscott. The latter had shed her black +uniform and bloomed forth in rose-hued robes. Mr. Stebbins was kept on +tap from dawn to dark and the checks flowed like water. Emissaries had +been despatched to New York to buy the young couple a suitable house +and furnish that also from top to bottom. + +“Well, Arethusa,” the aunt said to the niece when they met the morning +after her arrival, “I’m feelin’ better ’n I was last time you were +here.” + +“I’m so glad,” yelled Arethusa. + +“They’ll live in New York and I’ll live with them. As far as I’ve seen +there ain’t no other place on earth to live. I’m goin’ to get me a coat +lined with black-spotted white cat’s fur and have my glasses put on a +parasol handle, and I’m going to have the collars and sleeves left out +of most of my dresses an’ look like other people. I’m a great believer +in doin’ as others do, an’ Jack won’t ever have no cause to complain +that I didn’t take easy to city life.” + +Arethusa felt herself dumb before these revelations. + +Later she was conducted to see the wedding presents, which were +gorgeous. Among them was the biggest and brightest of crimson +automobiles; and Mitchell, who had presented it, had christened it +beforehand “The Midnight Sun.” Aunt Mary’s gift was the New York house +and money enough for them to live on the income. + +“I know you’re able to look out for yourself,” she told the bride, “but +I don’t want Jack to have to worry over things at all, and, although I +know it’s a good habit, still I shouldn’t like to have him ever work so +hard that he wouldn’t feel like goin’ around with us nights. Not ever. +Not even sometimes.” + +Mitchell was overjoyed at the way things had turned out. + +“My dear Miss Watkins,” he screamed, when he was ushered into Aunt +Mary’s presence, “who could have guessed in the hour of that sad +parting in New York that such a glad future was held in store for us +all!” + +“I didn’t quite catch that,” Aunt Mary exclaimed, rapturously, “but it +doesn’t matter—as long as you got here safe at last.” + +“Safe!” exclaimed the young man; “it would have been the very +refinement of cruelty if my train had smashed me on this journey.” + +Burnett was equally happy. + +“I suppose it will be up to me to give you away,” he said to his +sister; “before all these people, too. What a mean trick!” + +Jack had thought that he would like to have Tweedwell marry him, as +that young man had put in the summer vacation getting ordained. +Tweedwell accepted—although he had just taken charge of a living in +Seattle and came through on a flyer which arrived two hours before +_the_ hour. Some fifty or sixty of the guests came in on the same +train, and Burnett and Clover met them all at the cars and made the +majority comfortable in the different hotels and honored the minority +with Aunt Mary’s hospitality. + +The day was gorgeous. The addition to the house was done and lined with +white and decorated in gold. An orchestra was ensconced behind palms +just as orchestras always covet to be and a magnificent breakfast had +been sent up from the city in its own car with its own service and +attendants to serve it. + +There was only one hitch in the entire programme. That was that when +they got to the church Tweedwell did not show up. Jack was distressed +even though Mrs. Rosscott laughed. Mitchell wanted to read the +ceremony, but Aunt Mary was afraid it wouldn’t be legal, and Mr. +Stebbins agreed with her. In the end the regular clergyman married +them; and just as they were all filing out they met Tweedwell and +Lucinda tearing along, he in his surplice and she in the black silk +dress which Aunt Mary had given her in celebration of the occasion. +They were both too exhausted to be able to explain for several minutes; +but it finally came out (of Lucinda) that Burnett, whose place it was +to have overseen officiating Tweedwell, had forgotten all about him, +and the poor fellow, exhausted by his long journey, had never awakened +until Lucinda, going in to clear up his room, had let forth a piercing +howl of surprise. + +So far from dampening anyone’s spirits this little _contretemps_ only +seemed to set things off at a livelier pace. They had a brisk ride +home, and the wedding feast and the wedding cake were all that could be +desired. What went with it was the finest that any of the guests ever +tasted before or since, and the champagne was all but served in beer +steins. + +When it came to the healths they drank to Aunt Mary along with the +bride and groom, and Mitchell made a speech, invoking Heaven’s +blessings on the triple compact and covering himself with glory. + +“Here’s to Aunt Mary and her bride and her groom,” he cried, when they +told him to rise and proclaim. “Here’s to Aunt Mary and her bride and +groom, and here’s to their health and their wealth and their happiness. +Here’s to their brilliant past, their roseate present and their +gorgeous future. And here’s to hoping that Fate, who is ready and +willing to deal any man a bride, may some time see fit to deal some one +of us another such as Jack’s Aunt Mary. So I propose her health before +all else. Aunt Mary, long may she wave!” + +Aunt Mary looked as if words and actions were poor things in which to +attempt to express her feelings, but no one who glanced at her could be +in two minds as to her state of approval as to everything that was +going on. + +The bridal pair drove away somewhere after five o’clock, and about +seven the main body of the guests returned to the city. + +Mrs. Rosscott’s mother and Mitchell and Burnett remained a day or two +to keep Aunt Mary from feeling blue, but Aunt Mary was not at all +inclined that way. + +“If those two young people are lookin’ forward to anythin’ like as much +fun as I am,” she said over and over again, “well, all is they’re +lookin’ forward to a good deal.” + +“Won’t we whoop her up next summer!” said Burnett; “well, I don’t +know!” + +“My dear Robert,” said his mother gently. + +“Don’t stop him,” said Aunt Mary. “He knows just how I feel an’ I know +jus’ how he feels. It isn’t wrong, Mrs. Burnett, it’s natural. We were +born to be happy, only sometimes we don’t know just how to set about +it.” + +“Miss Watkins has hit the nail on the head,” said Mitchell, rolling a +cigarette. “She has not only hit the nail on its own head, but she has +succeeded in driving its point well into all our heads. She taught us +many things during her short visit. I, for one, am her debtor forever. +Me for joy, from now on!” + +Aunt Mary smiled. “My heavens!” she murmured; “to think how nice it all +come out, and how really put out I was when Jack first began, too.” + +Burnett put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some gum. + +“Robert!” cried his mother, “you don’t chew gum, do you?” + +“Of course he doesn’t,” said his friend quickly; “that’s why he had it +in his pocket.” + +Aunt Mary looked thoughtfully at him. + +“Give me a little,” she said, “maybe it’s suthin’ I’ve been missin’.” + +Mrs. Burnett left the next day, and Mitchell went the day after. + +The carpenters took down the addition, and the wedding presents were +shipped to town. + +“She says she’ll be goin’ soon,” said Lucinda to Joshua. + +“Then she’ll be goin’ soon,” said Joshua. + +“I’m sure I’ll be glad,” said Lucinda; “such hifalutin sky-larkin’!” + +Joshua said nothing. Mr. Stebbins had apprised him of Aunt Mary’s +arrangements in his behalf and he felt no inclination to criticize any +of her doings and sayings. + +Toward the end of the next week this telegram was received. + +Dear Aunt Mary: We’re home and ready when you are. Telegraph what +train. + + +J. and J. + + +The telegram was handed to Aunt Mary at ten in the morning. Her fingers +trembled as she opened it. + +“My heavens alive, Lucinda,” she cried, the next minute, “I do believe, +if you’ll be quick, that I can make the twelve-twenty! Run! Tell Joshua +to get my trunk down and harness Billy as quick as he can. He can +telegraph that I’m comin’ after I’m gone.” + +Lucinda flew Joshua-wards. + +“She wants to make the twelve-twenty train!” she cried. Joshua looked +up. + +“Then she’ll make it,” he said. + +She made it! + +_Anne Warner’s “Susan Clegg” Books_ + +SUSAN CLEGG AND HER FRIEND MRS. LATHROP + +_By_ ANNE WARNER +With Frontispiece, $1.00 + +Nothing better in the new homely philosophy style of fiction has been +written.—_San Francisco Bulletin_. + +One of the most genuinely humorous books ever written.—_St. Louis +Globe-Democrat_. + +Anything more humorous than the Susan Clegg stories would be hard to +find.—_The Critic_, New York. + + +_By the Same Author:_ + +SUSAN CLEGG AND HER NEIGHBORS’ AFFAIRS + +With Frontispiece, $1.00 + +All the stories brim over with quaint humor, caustic sarcasm, and +concealed contempt for male and matrimonial chains.—_Philadelphia +Ledger_. + + +SUSAN CLEGG AND A MAN IN THE HOUSE + +Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. $1.50 + +Susan is a positive joy, and the reading world owes Anne Warner a vote +of thanks for her contribution to the list of American humor.—_New York +Times_. + +LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers +34 Beacon Street, Boston + +_An exceedingly clever volume of stories_ + +AN ORIGINAL GENTLEMAN + +_By_ ANNE WARNER + +With frontispiece by Alice Barber Stephens + +Cloth. $1.50 + +Exhibits her cleverness and sense of humor.—_New York Times_. + +Crisply told, quaintly humorous.—_Boston Transcript_. + +An “Original Gentleman” is truly also one of the most entertaining and +witty gentlemen that it has been our fortune to run across in many a +day, not to mention the more original lady that he has to do +with.—_Louisville Evening Post_. + + +By the same author + +A WOMAN’S WILL + +Illustrated. 360 pages. Cloth. $1.50 + +A deliciously funny book.—_Chicago Tribune_. + +It is bright, charming, and intense as it describes the wooing of a +young American widow on the European Continent by a German musical +genius.—_San Francisco Chronicle_. + +As refreshing a bit of fiction as one often finds.—_Providence +Journal_. + +LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS +34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON + +_Anne Warner’s Latest Character Creation_ + +IN A MYSTERIOUS WAY + +_By_ ANNE WARNER + +Illustrated by J.V. McFall. Cloth. $1.50 + +A story of love and sacrifice that teems with the author’s original +humor.—_Baltimore American_. + +The humor peculiar to her pen is here in wonted strength, but in a new +guise; and set against it, or interwoven with it, is a story of love +and the strange sacrifice of which a few loving hearts are +capable.—_New York American_. + + +_By the same author_ + +YOUR CHILD AND MINE + +Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50 + +The child heart, strange and sweet and tender, lies open to this +sympathetic writer, and other human hearts—and eyes—should be opened by +her narratives.—_Chicago Record-Herald_. + +The literary charm of the stories is not the least of their +attractions. The interest is all the greater for the style in which the +story is told, and the author’s sympathy with her young friends lends a +vital warmth to her narrative.—_Philadelphia Public Ledger_. + +LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS +34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON + +_By the Author of “Aunt Jane of Kentucky”_ + +THE LAND OF LONG AGO + +_By_ ELIZA CALVERT HALL + +Illustrated by G. Patrick Nelson and Beulah Strong 12mo. Cloth. $1.50 + +The book is an inspiration.—_Boston Globe_. + +Without qualification one of the worthiest publications of the +year.—_Pittsburg Post_. + +Aunt Jane has become a real personage in American literature.—_Hartford +Courant_. + +A philosophy sweet and wholesome flows from the lips of “Aunt +Jane.”—_Chicago Evening Post_. + +The sweetness and sincerity of Aunt Jane’s recollections have the same +unfailing charm found in “Cranford.”—_Philadelphia Press_. + +To a greater degree than her previous work it touches the heart by its +wholesome, quaint human appeal.—_Boston Transcript_. + +The stories are prose idyls; the illuminations of a lovely spirit shine +upon them, and their literary quality is as rare as +beautiful.—_Baltimore Sun_. + +MARGARET E. SANGSTER says: “It is not often that an author competes +with herself, but Eliza Calvert Hall has done so successfully, for her +second volume centred about Aunt Jane is more fascinating than her +first.” + +LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS +34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REJUVENATION OF AUNT MARY *** + +***** This file should be named 15775-0.txt or 15775-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/7/7/15775/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + |