Nothing But the Truth. Isham Frederic Stewart

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СКАЧАТЬ Bennett!” again bawled the voice.

      For the moment Bob was tempted to let him slip by, but conscience wouldn’t let him. He lifted a finger.

      “Message for Mr. Bennett,” said the urchin.

      Bob took it. He experienced forebodings as he saw the dainty card and inscription. He read it. Then he groaned. Would Mr. Robert Bennett join Mrs. Ralston’s house-party at Tonkton? There were a few more words in that impulsive lady’s characteristic, vivacious style. And then there were two words in another handwriting that he knew. “Will you?” That “Will you?” wasn’t signed. Bob stared at it. Would he? He had to. He was in honor bound, because ordinarily he would have accepted with alacrity. But a house-party for him, under present circumstances! He would be a merry guest. Ye gods and little fishes! And then some! He gave a hollow laugh, while the urchin gazed at him sympathetically. Evidently the gentleman had received bad news.

      CHAPTER III – AN INAUSPICIOUS BEGINNING

      Mrs. Ralston’s house-parties were usually satisfactory affairs. She was fond of people, especially young people, and more especially of young men of the Apollo variety, though in a strictly proper, platonic and critical sense. Indeed, her taste in the abstract, for animated Praxiteles had, for well-nigh two-score of years, been unimpeachable. At the big gatherings in her noble country mansion, there was always a liberal sprinkling of decorative and animated objects of art of this description. She liked to ornament her porches or her gardens with husky and handsome young college athletes. She had an intuitive artistic taste for stunning living-statuary, “dressed up,” of course. Bob came distinctly in that category. So behold him then, one fine morning, on the little sawed-off train that whisked common people – and sometimes a few notables when their cars were otherwise engaged – countryward. Bob had a big grip by his side, his golf sticks were in a rack and he had a newspaper in his hand. The sunshine came in on him but his mood was not sunny. An interview with dad just before leaving hadn’t improved his spirits. He had found dad at the breakfast table examining a book of artificial flies, on one hand, and a big reel on the other.

      “Which shall it be, my son?” dad had greeted him cordially. “Trout or tarpon?”

      “I guess that’s for you to decide,” Robert had answered grumpily. Dad, in his new role, was beginning to get on Bob’s nerves. Dad didn’t seem to be at all concerned about his future. He shifted that weighty and momentous subject just as lightly! He acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

      “Wish I could make up my mind,” he said, like a boy in some doubt how he can best put in his time when he plays hooky. “Minnows or whales? I’ll toss up.” He did. “Whales win. By the way, how’s the hustling coming on?”

      “Don’t know.”

      “Well, don’t put it off too long.” Cheerfully. “I guess I can worry along for about three weeks.”

      “Three weeks!” said Bob gloomily. Oh, that familiar sound!

      “You wouldn’t have me stint myself, would you, my son?” Half reproachfully. “You wouldn’t have dad deny himself anything?”

      “No,” answered the other truthfully enough. As a matter of fact things couldn’t be much worse, so he didn’t much care. Fortunately, dad didn’t ask any questions or show any curiosity about that “hustling” business. He seemed to take it for granted Bob would arise to the occasion and be as indulgent a son as he had been an indulgent dad – for he had never denied the boy anything. Bob softened when he thought of that. But confound dad’s childlike faith in him, at this period of emergency. It made Bob nervous. He had no faith in himself that way. Dad did lift his eyebrows just a little when Bob brought down his big grip.

      “Week-end?” he hazarded.

      “Whole week,” replied Bob in a melancholy tone.

      “Whither?”

      “Tonkton.”

      Dad beamed. “Mrs. Ralston?”

      “Yes.”

      “Aunt of Miss Gwendoline Gerald, I believe?” With a quick penetrating glance at Bob.

      “Yes.”

      “Sensible boy,” observed dad, still studying him.

      “Oh, I’m not going for the reason you think,” said Bob quite savagely. He was most unlike himself.

      “Of course not.” Dad was conciliatory.

      “I’m not. Think what you like.”

      “Too much work to think,” yawned dad.

      “But you are thinking.” Resentfully.

      “Have it your own way.”

      Bob squared his shoulders. “You want to know really why I’m going to Tonkton?”

      “Have I ever tried to force your confidences, my son?”

      “I’m going because I’ve got to. I can’t help myself.”

      “Of course,” said dad. “Ta! ta! Enjoy yourself. See you in three weeks.”

      “Three – !” But Bob didn’t finish. What was the use? Dad thought he was going to Tonkton because Miss Gerald might be there.

      As a matter of fact Bob’s one great wish now was that she wouldn’t be there. He wanted, and yet didn’t want, to see her. What had he to hope now? Why, he didn’t have a son, or not enough of them to count. He was to all practical intents and purposes a pauper. Dad’s “going broke” had changed his whole life. He had been reared in the lap of luxury, a pampered son. He had never dreamed of being otherwise. And considering himself a favored child of fortune, he had even dared entertain the delirious hope of winning her – her, the goddess of his dreams.

      But hope now was gone. Regrets were useless. He could no longer conceive himself in the role of suitor. Why, there were few girls in the whole land so overburdened with “rocks” – as Dickie called them! If only she didn’t have those rocks – or stocks! “Impecunious Gwendoline!” How well that would go with “Impecunious Bob!” If only her trustees would hit the toboggan, the way dad did! But trustees don’t go tobogganing. They eschew the smooth and slippery. They speculate in government bonds and things that fluctuate about a point or so a century. No chance for quick action there! On the contrary, the trustees were probably making those millions grow. Bob heaved a sigh. Then he took something white from his pocket and gazed at two words, ardently yet dubiously.

      That “Will you?” of hers on Mrs. Ralston’s card exhilarated and at the same time depressed him. It implied she, herself, did expect to be at her aunt’s country place. He attached no other especial importance to the “Will you?” An imperious young person in her exalted position could command as she pleased. She could say “Will you?” or “You will” to dozens of more or less callow youths, or young grown-ups, with impunity, and none of said dozens would attach any undue flattering meaning to her words. Miss Gerald found safety in numbers. She was as yet heart-free.

      “Can you – aw! – tell me how far it is to Tonkton?” a voice behind here interrupted his ruminations.

      Bob hastily returned the card to his pocket, and glancing back, saw a monocle. “Matter of ten miles or so,” he responded curtly. He didn’t like СКАЧАТЬ