“But I’ve tried, and I can’t. I really can’t.”
“Very well,” said George. “Then, we’ll have to call it off. Rather than face that — your mother, I’ll go away from here and never see you again. You’re killing me, anyway. Look at that sun! I’ve been out in it for three hours, when I should have been asleep. I’ve done nothing but work ever since I met you. I wake up in the morning all ready for a good rest, and here you are at the door loaded down with paddles and rods and lines. You can’t even let the fish alone. And if you think for a minute that I—”
“All right,” said Cecily. “I’ll tell her. But you’ll have to be with me.”
Accordingly, nine o’clock of that evening found a young man and a girl walking hand in hand down the corridor in the Hotel Thiersberry which led to the apartments of Mrs. Gordon Wheeler. They walked slowly, even timidly. As they passed an elevator shaft, the young man might have been observed glancing at it longingly; whereupon the girl tightened her grasp on his hand and hurried her step.
The loud bang of a door stopped them halfway down the hall. Then came heavy footsteps; and they stood still, hesitating, while the ponderous form of Mrs. Gordon Wheeler bore down upon them from the direction of her rooms.
“There you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Wheeler, in the tone of one who has made an important, if not wholly pleasing, discovery.
“We are, indeed,” agreed George, with admirable presence of mind.
Mrs. Wheeler paused, regarding the pair sternly with set lips, then pointed silently to the door of her rooms.
“We can’t talk here,” she said.
“Now,” she continued, after they were seated inside the apartment, “what have you to say for yourself?”
“Mrs. Wheeler,” said George, “in view of the eloquence of your eyes, I am silent. I am sure there is something you wish to say to me.”
“Young man, are you entirely without morals?”
“I hope so. They are inconvenient. Have I ever given you reason to doubt it?” demanded George.
“Don’t be funny,” Mrs. Wheeler said sternly. “This is no laughing matter. Don’t try to be witty, sir.”
“He won’t, Mamma,” put in Cecily. “I can promise you that.”
“Be silent, child! You don’t know what you’ve escaped,” said her mother. “As for you” — turning to George — “what do you think of this?”
George took the slip — a newspaper clipping — and read it through. “Well, what of it?” he demanded.
“Of course you don’t understand it,” said Mrs. Wheeler sarcastically. “I am surprised — I am really surprised — at your shamelessness. Listen.” She read aloud from the newspaper clipping:
“The Earl of Woodstock, who has been staying since early July at the Severance villa in Newport, is reported to have retreated to a hotel in the Berkshires for a month’s rest. He is preserving a strict incognito, having been advised by his physicians to obtain absolute quiet, if possible.”
“Well,” said George, “it’s a good thing for the Earl that Cecily didn’t get hold of him.”
Mrs. Wheeler, ignoring him, walked to her writing desk and took from the top thereof a large book bound in red leather.
“That,” she said, pointing to the clipping she had just read, “was in the Herald two weeks ago. It naturally led me to investigate, since Cecily and I also had arranged to come to the Berkshires, and among other information I found the following” — reading aloud from the book:
“Woodstock, Earl of, and Baron Dynely of Aldingbourne, county Oxford, in England; an agecella or, pied sable, armed, unguled, and bearing rods. Virtus dédit, cura servabit.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Wheeler, closing the book and dropping it on the table with a bang that caused Cecily to jump clear out of her chair, “what do you think of that?”
“Fine,” said George approvingly. “Quite interesting. What does it mean?”
“It means that you’re an impostor,” said Mrs. Wheeler, glaring at him. “But, thank God, I’ve found you out in time! One week after that notice appeared in the Herald I walked into the library of this hotel. What did I see? I saw a fat, overfed, and foolish-looking young man writing letters. Looking closer, I saw that the paper he was using bore a crest consisting of an agacella or, armed, and bearing rods.”
“It was nothing of the sort,” said George hotly. “It was a cow getting ready to light a fire.”
“Don’t interrupt,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “Don’t you think I know an agacella when I see one? I asked the young man his name. It took him quite two minutes to think of it. On questioning him further, I discovered that he was completely an ass. The conclusion was inevitable: it was the Earl of Woodstock!”
“It was nothing of the sort!” said George again, indignantly. “It was me!”
“Of course,” Mrs. Wheeler went on, again ignoring him, “I immediately introduced him to my daughter. Cecily — dear child — did her part nobly. She became your constant companion. You became inseparable. And just as I was preparing to send to London to find out what repairs were needed at your town house, I look over my evening’s mail, and I find — this!” She snatched up a newspaper from a heap on the desk and read aloud from its columns:
“The Earl of Woodstock, who has been taking a much-needed rest at the Hope cottage in the Berkshires, has returned to the Severance villa at Newport.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Wheeler, pointing an accusing finger at George, “who are you?”
“That was the first question you asked me,” said George. “Are you going to begin all over again? Because if you are—” He rose and picked up his hat.
“No, you don’t,” said Mrs. Wheeler grimly, getting between him and the door. “You wait till I’m through with you.”
“George!” cried Cecily. “Are you going to leave me?”
George, incapable of the exertion required to stand and talk at the same time, reseated himself.
“Cecily,” said he, “you ask too much of me. I could forgive you anything but your choice of a mother. That was your great mistake. As it is, we must part. I shall never see you again. The fact that we are married makes no difference.”
“Married!” shrieked Mrs. Wheeler, dropping upon a divan and clutching wildly at the air.
“Yes, married,” said George calmly. “Married by a fool of a parson in the village yonder. Cecily has won me. She had rather a hard time of it, and so did I. I’m completely tired out. The truth is, I was in a state of utter exhaustion, and didn’t realize what I was doing. I was in no condition to resist.”
Mrs. Wheeler arose, trembling, resting her hand on her bosom tragically. “Mr. Stafford,” she said, “this is incredible. I can scarcely believe my ears. As for you, Cecily, you shall hear from me; but not now — not tonight. I am inexpressibly shocked. My nerves are completely upset. Tomorrow we shall talk the matter over and do the best we can with this awful mess. Good night.” She walked falteringly to the door of her bedroom and disappeared within.
“George,” said Cecily, walking over to him and taking his hands in her own, “do you love me?”
“Of course I do,” said George. “Haven’t I proved it?”
Cecily stopped and kissed his cheek. “I don’t mind it a bit because you’re not an earl, dear,” she said tenderly. “You’re stupid enough to be one.”
A Little Love Affair
Mr. Bob Chidden sat on a box in the September sunshine, in the back court of a private dwelling in West Twenty-third Street, long since converted into a rooming house. He had for some time been examining the worn toes of his boots with a stare of melancholy interest. On his head was a broad-brimmed straw hat of a dingy color, with a crack in the crown; to his form and limbs there hung a faded blue shirt and a pair of shiny black trousers; he held in his hand the handle of a dilapidated broom. Suddenly, as a soft sound came from behind, he removed his gaze from the boots and twisted his neck, and beheld a large gray cat advancing cautiously and daintily along the cement walk.