CHAPTER XIII.
The emotions of a man who has just proposed and been accepted are
complex and overwhelming. A certain stunned sensation is perhaps
predominant. Blended with this is relief, the relief of a general who
has brought a difficult campaign to a successful end, or of a member
of a forlorn hope who finds that the danger is over, and he is still
alive. To this must be added a newly born sense of magnificence, of
finding oneself to be, without having known it, the devil of a fellow.
We have dimly suspected, perhaps, from time to time that we were
something rather out of the ordinary run of men, but there has always
been a haunting fear that this view was to be attributed to a personal
bias in our own favor. When, however, our suspicion is suddenly
confirmed by the only judge for whose opinion we have the least
respect, our bosom heaves with complacency, and the world has nothing
more to offer.
With some accepted suitors there is an alloy of apprehension in the
metal of their happiness; and the strain of an engagement sometimes
brings with it even a faint shadow of regret. "She makes me buy new
clothes," one swain, in the third quarter of his engagement, was
overheard to moan to a friend. "Two new ties only yesterday." He
seemed to be debating within himself whether human nature could stand
the strain.
But, whatever tragedies may cloud the end of the period, its beginning
at least is bathed in sunshine. Jimmy, regarding his lathered face in
the glass as he dressed for dinner that night, called himself the
luckiest man on earth, and wondered if he were worthy of such
happiness. Thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that he was
not, but that all the same he meant to have it.
No doubt distressed him. It might have occurred to him that the
relations between Mr. McEachern and himself offered a very serious bar
to his prospects; but in his present frame of mind he declined to
consider the existence of the ex-constable at all. In a world that
contained Molly there was no room for other people. They were not in
the picture. They did not exist.
There are men in the world who, through long custom, can find
themselves engaged without any particular whirl of emotion. King
Solomon probably belonged to this class; and even Henry the Eighth
must have become a trifle blasé in time. But to the average man, the
novice, the fact of being accepted seems to divide existence into two
definite parts, before and after. A sensitive conscience goads some
into compiling a full and unexpurgated autobiography, the edition
limited to one copy, which is presented to the lady most interested.
Some men find a melancholy pleasure in these confessions. They like to
draw the girl of their affections aside and have a long, cozy chat
about what scoundrels they were before they met her.
But, after all, the past is past and cannot be altered, and it is to
be supposed that, whatever we may have done in that checkered period,
we intend to behave ourselves for the future. So, why harp on it?
Jimmy acted upon this plan. Many men in his place, no doubt, would
have steered the conversation skillfully to the subject of the eighth
commandment, and then said: "Talking about stealing, did I ever tell
you that I was a burglar myself for about six years?" Jimmy was
reticent. All that was over, he told himself. He had given it up. He
had buried the past. Why exhume it? It did not occur to him to confess
his New York crimes to Molly any more than to tell her that, when
seven, he had been caned for stealing jam.
These things had happened to a man of the name of Jimmy Pitt, it was
true. But it was not the Jimmy Pitt who had proposed to Molly in the
canoe on the lake.
The vapid and irreflective reader may jump to the conclusion that
Jimmy was a casuist, and ought to have been ashamed of himself.
He will be perfectly right.
On the other hand, one excuse may urged in his favor. His casuistry
imposed upon himself.
To Jimmy, shaving, there entered, in the furtive manner habitual to
that unreclaimed buccaneer, Spike Mullins.
"Say, Mr. Chames," he said.
"Well," said Jimmy, "and how goes the world with young Lord Fitz
Mullins? Spike, have you ever been best man?"
"On your way! What's that?"
"Best man at a wedding. Chap who stands by the bridegroom with a hand
on the scruff of his neck to see that he goes through with it. Fellow
who looks after everything, crowds the crisp banknotes onto the
clergyman after the ceremony, and then goes off and marries the first
bridesmaid, and lives happily ever after."
"I ain't got no use for gettin' married, Mr. Chames."
"Spike, the misogynist! You wait, Spike. Some day love will awake in
your heart, and you'll start writing poetry."
"I'se not dat kind of mug, Mr. Chames," protested Spike. "Dere _was_
a goil, dough. Only I was never her steady. And she married one of de
odder boys."
"Why didn't you knock him down and carry her off?"
"He was de lightweight champion of de woild."
"That makes a difference, doesn't it? But away with melancholy, Spike!
I'm feeling as if somebody had given me Broadway for a birthday
present."
"Youse to de good," agreed Spike.
"Well, any news? Keggs all right? How are you getting on?"
"Mr. Chames." Spike sank his voice to a whisper. "Dat's what I chased
meself here about. Dere's a mug down in de soivant's hall what's a
detective. Yes, dat's right, if I ever saw one."
"What makes you think so?"
"On your way, Mr. Chames! Can't I tell? I could pick out a fly cop out
of a bunch of a thousand. Sure. Dis mug's vally to Sir Thomas, dat's
him. But he ain't no vally. He's come to see dat no one don't get busy
wit de jools. Say, what do you t'ink of dem jools, Mr. Chames?"
"Finest I ever saw."
"Yes, dat's right. De limit, ain't dey? Ain't youse really----"
"No, Spike, I am not, thank you _very_ much for inquiring. I'm never
going to touch a jewel again unless I've paid for it and got the
receipt in my pocket."
Spike shuffled despondently.
"All the same," said Jimmy, "I shouldn't give yourself away to this
detective. If he tries pumping you at all, give him the frozen face."
"Sure. But he ain't de only one."
"What, _more_ detectives? They'll have to put up 'house full' boards
at this rate. Who's the other?"
"De mug what came dis afternoon. Ole man McEachern brought him. I seed
Miss Molly talking to him."
"The chap from the inn? Why, that's an old New York friend of
McEachern's."
"Anyhow, Mr. Chames, he's a sleut'. I can tell 'em by deir eyes and
deir feet, and de whole of dem."
An idea came into Jimmy's mind.
"I see," he said. "Our friend McEachern has got him in to spy on us. I
might have known he'd be up to something like that."
"Dat's right, Mr. Chames."
"Of course you may be mistaken."
"Not me, Mr. Chames."
"Anyhow, I shall be seeing him at dinner. I can get talking to him
afterward. I shall soon find out what his game is."
For the moment, Molly was forgotten. The old reckless spirit was
carrying him away. This thing was a deliberate challenge. He had been
on parole. He had imagined that his word was all that McEachern had to
rely on. But if the policeman had been working secretly against him
all this time, his parole was withdrawn automatically. The thought
that, if he did nothing, McEachern would put it down complacently to
the vigilance of his detective and his own astuteness in engaging him
stung Jimmy. His six years of burglary had given him an odd sort of
professional pride. "I've half a mind," he said softly. The familiar
expression on his face was not lost on Spike.
"To try for de jools, Mr. Chames?" he asked eagerly.
His words broke the spell. Molly resumed her place. The hard look died
out of Jimmy's eyes.
"No," he said. "Not that. It can't be done."
"Yes, it could, Mr. Chames. Dead easy. I've been up to de room, and
I've seen de box what de jools is put in at night. We could get at
them easy as pullin' de plug out of a bottle. Say, dis is de softest
proposition, dis house. Look what I got dis afternoon, Mr. Chames."
He plunged his hand into his pocket, and drew it out again. As he
unclosed his fingers, Jimmy caught the gleam of precious stones.
He started as one who sees snakes in the grass.
"What the----" he gasped.
Spike was looking at his treasure-trove with an air of affectionate
proprietorship.
"Where on earth did you get those?" asked Jimmy.
"Out of one of de rooms. Dey belonged to one of de loidies. It was de
easiest old t'ing ever, Mr. Chames. I went in when dere was nobody
about, and dere dey were on de toible. I never butted into anyt'ing so
soft, Mr. Chames."
"Spike."
"Yes, Mr. Chames?"
"Do you remember the room you took them from?"
"Sure. It was de foist on de----"
"Then just listen to me for a moment. When we're at dinner, you've got
to go to that room and put those things back--all of them, mind
you--just where you found them. Do you understand?"
Spike's jaw had fallen.
"Put dem back, Mr. Chames!" he faltered.
"Every single one of them."
"Mr. Chames!" said Spike plaintively.
"You'll bear it in mind? Directly dinner has begun, every one of those
things goes back where it belongs. See?"
"Very well, Mr. Chames."
The dejection in his voice would have moved the sternest to pity.
Gloom had enveloped Spike's spirit. The sunlight had gone out of his
life.
