Part 5 (2/2)
”We will leave it to Bessie. Bessie, do I look like a victim?”
”No,” said Bessie, ”but you are both the queerest puzzles! Mamma is always her dearest self when you are away, Charlie. You don't know each other at all yet. When you are together you are both horrid, and when you are apart you are both lovely. And yet I don't know why it should be so; there is no quarrel between you-and-and-”
And Bessie began to cry. I got up.
”No, there's no quarrel between us,” I said; ”but perhaps a straight-out row would be better than forever to be eating our own vitals with suppressed rancor.”
Mrs. Pinkerton made as if she would go around to where Bessie sat, to condole with her, without noticing my remark.
”No, don't trouble yourself,” I cried. ”It's my place to comfort my wife.” And I took Bessie in my arms tenderly, and kissed her tear-stained cheek almost fiercely.
This theatrical demonstration caused my mother-in-law to sweep out of the room promptly, with her temper as nearly ruffled as I had ever seen it.
”O Charlie!” whimpered my poor little wife despairingly, ”what shall I do? It's awful to have you and mamma this way!”
And now it was my turn to say, ”Cheer up, my love! It will all come around right in time.”
But my _arriere pensee_ was, ”Would that that burglar had bagged the old iceberg, and carried her off to her native Nova Zembla!”
CHAPTER VII.
MISS VAN'S PARTY AND ANOTHER UNPLEASANTNESS.
One day in the early fall, Mrs. Pinkerton received a letter postmarked at Paris, which seemed to throw her into a state of extraordinary excitement. I knew her well enough to be certain that she would not tell me the news, but that I should hear it later through Bessie. Such was the case. When I came home towards evening and went up stairs to prepare for supper, Bessie, who was seated in our room, said in a joyful tone,-
”George is coming home next month!”
”That's good,” I said; and the more I thought of it the better it seemed. A new element would be infused into our home life with his advent, and I confidently believed that the widow's society would be vastly more tolerable when he was among us. George had been so long in Paris that he had become a veritable Parisian. That he would bring along with him a large amount of Paris suns.h.i.+ne and vivacity to enliven the atmosphere of our little circle, I felt certain.
”Is he coming to stay?” I asked.
”He don't know. He says he never makes any plans for six months ahead.
It will depend upon circ.u.mstances.”
”Well, that's Parisian. I'm very glad he's coming, and I hope circ.u.mstances will keep him here. Isn't old Dr. Jones pretty nearly dead? Seems to me George could take his practice.”
”Now, Charlie!”
”It's all right, puss; doctors must die as well as their patients.”
I broached the subject to mother-in-law at the supper-table, and-_mirabile dictu!_-she agreed with me that we must keep George with us when we got him.
In November George arrived. He didn't telegraph from New York, but came right on by a night train, and, walking into the house while we were at breakfast, took us by surprise.
Mrs. Pinkerton taken by surprise was a funny phenomenon, and I'm afraid propriety received a pretty smart blow when she threw her napkin into a plate of buckwheat cakes, dropped her eye-gla.s.ses, and rushed to meet the long-lost prodigal.
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