Part 7 (1/2)

”Explain, for our benefit, the new method of leaving a party,” said George, ”and why it was deemed necessary to give us a scare in inaugurating the same.” He threw himself into an easy-chair.

”Perhaps Mr. Travers is better able to tell you why mother should have left in the way she did,” said Bessie, trying to make her speech sound sarcastic and cutting, but finding it a difficult job, with her breath coming and going so quickly.

”The deuce he is!” roared George. ”Come, Charlie, what have you been up to? I must get it out of some of you.”

”I am utterly unable to tell you why your mother should have left in the way she did,” was all I could find to say.

”Sapristi! This is getting mysterious and blood-curdling. The latest _feuilleton_ is nothing to it. Must I go to bed without knowing the cause of this escapade? Well, so be it. But let me tell you, young woman, that it wasn't the thing to do. If you find your husband flirting with some siren, you must lead him off by the ear next time, but don't sulk. Good night.”

George walked out and shut the door after him.

”See here, Bessie,” I said kindly, ”don't cry, because I want to talk sensibly with you.”

She was sobbing now in good earnest.

”I want you to tell me what your mother said to you about me.”

She couldn't talk just then, poor little woman! But when she had had her cry partly out, she told me.

Her mother had not told her a word of what had pa.s.sed between Fred Marston and me! The outraged dignity of the widow would not admit of an explicit account of the unspeakable insult she had received. She had simply given Bessie to understand that I had uttered some unpardonable, infamous slander, and had hustled the poor girl breathlessly into a cab and away, before she fairly realized what had happened.

I then told Bessie what our conversation had been, and left her to judge for herself. I had not the heart to scold her for her part in the French leave-taking, though it made me feel miserable to think how few episodes of such a sort might bring about endless misunderstandings and heart-aches.

Of course more or less talk was caused by the mysterious manner of our several departures from Miss Van's party; and, thanks to Fred Marston and his wife and similar rattle-pates, it became generally known that there was a skeleton in the Pinkerton closet.

Miss Van soon heard how it came about, and nothing could have afforded a more complete proof of her refinement of character than the delicacy and tact with which she ignored the whole affair.

CHAPTER VIII.

ANOTHER CHARLIE IN THE FIELD.

The winter, with its petty trials and contentions, had gone by; spring, with its bloom and fragrance, was far advanced; and already another summer, with its possible pleasures and recreations, was close upon us.

Before it had fairly set in, however, an event of extraordinary importance was to occur in our little household. There had been premonitions of it for some time, which had a tendency to soften and soothe all asperities, and cause a rather sober and subdued air to pervade the little cottage, and now there were active preparations going on. Of course, the widow was gradually a.s.suming the management of the whole affair, and it was a matter in which I could hardly venture to dispute her right. Her experience and knowledge were certainly superior to mine, and it was an affair in which these qualities were very important. In fact, I seemed to be counted out altogether in the preparations, as if it was something in the nature of a surprise party in my honor. Mrs. Pinkerton had an air of mysterious and exclusive knowledge concerning the grand event. Miss Van, who had come to have confidential relations with Bessie, of the most intimate kind, notwithstanding the mother's objections, knew all about it, but had a queer way of appearing unconscious of anything unusual. There seemed to be a general consent to a shallow pretence that I was in utter and hopeless ignorance. It annoyed me a little, as I flattered myself that I knew quite as much about what was coming as any of them, and I thought it silly to make believe I didn't, and to ignore my interest in the affair. Bessie had no secrets from me, of course, and our understanding was complete, but one might have thought from appearances that we had less concern in the matter than anybody else.

As the auspicious time drew near, the goings-on increased in mystery and the widow's control grew more and more complete. Bessie showed me one day a wardrobe that amused me immensely. It was quite astonis.h.i.+ng in its extent and variety, but so liliputian in the dimensions of the separate garments as to seem ridiculous to me.

”Aren't they cunning?” said the dear girl, holding up one after another of the various articles of raiment. Then she showed me a basket, marvellously constructed, with a mere skeleton of wicker-work and coverings of pink silk and fine lace, and furnished with toilet appliances that seemed to belong to a fairy; and finally, removing a big quilt that had excited my curiosity, she showed me the most startling object of all,-a cradle! I had seen such things before and felt no particular thrill, but this had a strange effect upon me. I didn't stop to inquire how these things had all been smuggled into the house without my knowledge or consent, but kissed my little wife fondly, and went down stairs in a musing and pensive mood.

The next day a decree of virtual exile was p.r.o.nounced upon me. My mother-in-law thought perhaps it would be better if I would occupy another room in the house for a time, and let her share Bessie's chamber. The poor, dear girl might need her care at any time, and the widow looked at me as much as to say, ”You cannot be expected to know anything about these matters, and have nothing to do but obey my directions.” I consented without a murmur or the least show of resistance, for I admitted everything that could possibly be said, and lost all my spirit of independence in view of the impressive event that was coming. So I meekly took to the attic, and put up with the most forlorn and desolate quarters. One or two mornings after, I was aroused at an inhuman hour, and ordered in the most imperative tones to call in Dr. Lyman as quickly as possible, and haste after Mrs. Sweet. I hurried into my clothes in the utmost agitation, raced down the street in a manner that led a watchful policeman to stop me and inquire my business, rung up the doctor with the most unbecoming violence, and delivered my errand up a speaking-tube, in answer to his m.u.f.fled, ”What's wanted?”

Then I rushed to the neighboring stable, and got up the sleepy hostler with as much vehemence in my manner as if he were in danger of being burned to death, and induced him to harness a team, in what I considered about twice the necessary length of time; drove three miles in the morning twilight for Mrs. Sweet, a motherly old maid in the nursing business, who had officiated at Bessie's own _debut_ upon the stage of life. When I had got back and returned the team to the stable, and was walking about the lower rooms in a restless manner, feeling as if I had suddenly become a hopeless outcast, the doctor came down stairs, and said, with amazing calmness, as though it was the most commonplace thing in the world,-

”Getting on nicely. Fine boy, sir! Mrs. Travers is quite comfortable.

Will look in again in the course of the morning.”

Then I was left alone again, an outcast and a wanderer in my own home.