Part 4 (1/2)
And so, was it quite fair for unmarried Penfield Evans, burning at his breakfast table a cynical cigarette over the printed philippic, to murmur, ”Gee! old George _has_ spilled the beans!”
Simple words enough and not devoid of friendly concern. But should he not have divined that George had been appalled to his extremities of speech by the horrendous vision of his fair young bride being hurled into depths where she would be obliged, if not to have opinions of her own, at least to vote with the rabble as he might decide they ought to vote?
And should not other critics known to us have divined the racking anguish under which George had labored? For one, should not Elizabeth Sheridan, amateur spinster, have been all sympathy for one who was palpably more an alarmed bridegroom than a mere candidate?
Should not her maiden heart have been touched by this plausible aspect of George's dilemma, rather than her mere brain to have been steeled to a humorous disparagement tinged with bitterness?
And yet, ”What rot!” muttered Miss Sheridan,--”silly rot, bally rot, tommy rot, and all the other kinds!”
Hereupon she creased a brow not meant for creases and defaced an admirable nose with grievous wrinkles of disdain. ”Sacred names of wife and mother!” This seemed regrettably like swearing as she delivered it, though she quoted verbatim. ”Sacred names of petted imbeciles!” she amended.
Then, with berserker fury, crumpling her _Sentinel_ into a ball, she venomously hurled it to the depths of a waste basket and religiously rubbed the feel of it from her fingers. As she had not even glanced at the column headed ”Births, Deaths, Marriages,” it will be seen that her agitation was real. And surely a more discerning sympathy might have been looked for from the seasoned Martin Jaffry. A bachelor full of years and therefore with illusions not only unimpaired but ripened, who more quickly than he should have divined that his nephew for the moment viewed all womankind as but one multiplied Genevieve, upon whom it would be heinous to place the shackles of suffrage?
Perhaps Uncle Martin did divine this. Perhaps he was a mere trimmer, a rank side-stepper, steeped in deceit and ever ready to mouth the abominable phrase ”political expediency.” It were rash to affirm this, for no a.n.a.lyst has ever fathomed the heart of a man who has come to his late forties a bachelor by choice. One may but guess from the ensuing meager data.
Uncle Martin at a certain corner of Maple Avenue that morning, fell in with Penfield Evans, who, clad as the lilies of a florist's window, strode buoyantly toward his office, the vision of his day's toil pinkly suffused by an overlaying vision of a Betty or Sheridan character. Mr.
Evans bubbled his greeting. ”Morning! Have you seen it? Oh, _say_, have you seen it?”
The immediate manner of Uncle Martin not less than his subdued garb of gray, his dark gloves and his somber stick, intimated that he saw nothing to bubble about.
”He has burned his bridges behind him.” The speaker looked as grim as any bachelor-by-choice ever may.
”Regular little fire-bug,” blithely responded Mr. Evans, moderating his stride to that of the other.
”Can't understand it,” resumed the gloomy uncle. ”I sent him word in time; sent it from your office by messenger. It was plain enough. I told him no money of mine would go into his campaign if he made a fool of himself--or words to that effect.”
”Phew! Cast you off, did he? Just like that?”
”Just like that! Went out of his way to overdo it, too. Needn't have come out half so strong. No chance now to backwater--not a chance on earth to explain what he really did mean--and make it something different.” ”Quixotic! That's how it reads to me.”
Uncle Martin here became oracular, his somber stick gesturing to point his words.
”Trouble with poor George, he's been silly enough to blurt out the truth, what every man of us thinks in his heart--”
”Eh?” said Mr. Evans quickly, as one who has been jolted.
”No more sense than to come right out and say what every one of us thinks in his secret heart about women. I think it and you think it--”
”Oh, well, if you put it _that_ way,” admitted young Mr. Evans gracefully. ”But of course--”
”Certainly, of _course!_ We all think it--sacred names of home and mother and all the rest of it; but a man running for office these days is a chump to say so, isn't he? Of course he is! What chance does it leave him? Answer me that.”
”Darned little, if you ask me,” said Mr. Evans judicially. ”Poor old George!”
”Talks as if he were going to be married tomorrow instead of its having come off five weeks ago,” pursued Uncle Martin bitterly. Plainly there were depths of understanding in the man, trimmer though he might be.
Mr. Evans made no reply. Irrationally he was considering the terms ”five weeks” and ”married” in relation to a spinster who would have professed to be indignant had she known it.
”Got to pull the poor devil out,” said Uncle Martin, when in silence they had traversed fifty feet more of the shaded side of Maple Avenue.
”How?” demanded the again practical Mr. Evans.