Chapter 26
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.
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.
“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.