Volume VI Part 8 (1/2)
”My mother--” he began.
”You simply can not act so dishonorably, Jones.”
He sat silent for a little while.
”My mother--” he started in again finally.
”Surely your mother loves you?” I demanded.
”That's the terrible part of it, Westoby, she--”
”Pooh!”
”She stinted herself to get me through col--”
”Then why did you ever come here?”
”That's just the question I'm asking myself now.”
”I don't see that you have any right to a.s.sume all that about your mother, anyway. Eleanor Van Coort is a woman of a thousand--unimpeachable social position--a little fortune of her own--accomplished, handsome, charming, sought after--why, if you managed to win such a girl as that your mother would walk on air.”
”No, she wouldn't. Bertha--”
”You're a pretty cheap lover,” I said. ”I don't set up to be a little tin hero, but I'd go through fire and water for _my_ girl. Good heavens, love is love, and all the mothers--”
He let out a few more groans.
”Then, see here, Jones,” I went on, ”you owe some courtesy to our hostess. If you went away to-night it would be an insult. Whatever you decide to do later, you've simply got to stay here till Tuesday morning!”
”Must I?” he said, in the tone of a person who is ordered not to leave the sinking s.h.i.+p.
”A gentleman has to,” I said.
He quavered out a sort of acquiescence, and then asked me for the loan of a white tie. I should have loved to give him a bowstring instead, with somebody who knew how to operate it. He was a fluff, that fellow--a tarnation fluff!
IV
It was a pretty glum evening all round. Most of them thought that Jones had got the chilly mitt. Eleanor looked pale and undecided, not knowing what to make of Jones' death's-head face. She was resentful and pitying in turns, and I saw all the material lying around for a first-cla.s.s conflagration. Freddy was a bit down on me, too, saying that a smoother method would have ironed out Jones, and that I had been headlong and silly. She cried over it, and wouldn't kiss me in the dark; and I was goaded into saying--well, the course of true love ran in b.u.mps that night. There was only one redeeming circ.u.mstance, and that was my managing to keep Jones and Eleanor apart. I mean that I insisted on being number three till at last poor Eleanor said she had a headache, and forlornly went up to bed.
Jones was still asleep when I got up the next morning at six and dressed myself quietly so as not to awake him. It was now Monday, and you can see for yourself there was no time to spare. I gave the butler a dollar, and ordered him to say that unexpected business had called me away without warning, but that I should be back by luncheon. I rather overdid the earliness of it all. At least, I hove off 1892 Eighth Avenue at eight-fifteen A.M. I loitered about; looked at p.a.w.nshop windows; gave a careful examination to a forty-eight-dollar-ninety-eight-cent complete outfit for a four-room flat; had a chat with a policeman; a.s.sisted at a runaway; advanced a nickel to a colored gentleman in distress; had my shoes s.h.i.+ned by another; helped a child catch an escaped parrot--and still it wasn't nine! Idleness is a grinding occupation, especially on Eighth Avenue in the morning.
Mrs. Jones was a thin, straight-backed, brisk old lady, with a keen tongue, and a Yankee faculty for coming to the point. I besought her indulgence, and laid the whole Eleanor matter before her--at least, as much of it as seemed wise. I appeared in the role of her son's warmest admirer and best friend.
”Surely you won't let Harry ruin his life from a mistaken sense of his duty to you?”
”Duty, fiddlesticks!” said she. ”He's going to marry Bertha Mc.n.u.tt!”
”But he doesn't want to marry Bertha Mc.n.u.tt!”
”Then he needn't marry anybody.”