Nothing But the Truth

“I fail to see the connection.” Her tones were as metallic as a voice like hers could make them.

“It’s like this!” said Bob, ruffling his hair. Here was a fine romantic way to make an avowal. “You see I was in love with you,” he observed, looking the other way and addressing one of the furthermost stars of the heaven. “And – and – when a fellow’s in love – and he can’t – ah! – well, you know – ask the girl – you understand?”

“Very vaguely,” said Miss Gerald. Bob’s explanation, so far, was one of those explanations that didn’t explain. If he had so heroically made up his mind not to see her, he could have stayed away, of course, from the Ralston house. He couldn’t explain how he was bound to accept the invitation to come, on account of being in “honor bound” to that confounded commodore, et al., to do so. There were bound to be loose ends to his explanation. Besides, those other awfully unpleasant things that had happened? He had to tell the truth, but he couldn’t tell why he was telling the truth. That had been the understanding.

Miss Gerald, at this point, began to display some of those alert and analytical qualities of mind that had made her father one of the great railroad men of his day. For an instant she had turned her head slightly at Bob’s avowal – who shall say why? It may be she had felt the blood rush swiftly to her face, but if so a moment later she looked at him with that same icy calm. One hand had tightened on the cold balustrade, but Bob hadn’t noticed that. She plied him now with a number of questions. She kept him on the gridiron and while he wriggled and twisted she stirred up the coals, displaying all the ability of an expert stoker. He was supersensitive about seeing her and yet as a free agent (she thought him that) he had seen her. From her point of view, his mental processes were hopelessly illogical – worse than that. Yet she knew he was possessed of a tolerable mentality and a good-enough judgment for one who had in his composition a slight touch of recklessness.

“I give it up,” she said at length wearily.

“Do you? Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Bob gratefully. “And if your aunt orders me from the place – ”

“But why can’t you just go, if you want to? I’m sure no one will detain you.” Haughtily.

“Can’t explain, only it’s impossible. Like Prometheus bound to the rock for vultures to peck at, unless – ”

“How intelligible! And what a happy simile – under the circumstances!” with far-reaching scorn. “What if I should tell my aunt that her guest compared himself to – ?”

“That’s the idea!” returned Bob enthusiastically. “Tell her that! Then, by jove, she would – Promise me! Please!”

“Of course,” said the girl slowly, “my diagnosis must be wrong.” Or perhaps she meant that she had lost faith in that glitter-theory.

“If you only could understand!” burst from Bob explosively. It was nature calling out, protesting against such a weight of anguish.

But Miss Gerald did not respond. A statue could not have appeared more unaffected and unsympathetic. She had half turned as if to go; then she changed her mind and lingered. It annoyed her to feel she had been baffled, for she was a young woman who liked to drive right to the heart of things. Her father had been called a “czar” in his world, and she had inherited, with other of his traits, certain imperious qualities. So for a moment or two she stood thinking.

An automobile from the village went by them and proceeded to the house. It contained Mrs. Dan and Mrs. Clarence returning from the telegraph office, but Bob hardly saw it, or was aware who were its occupants. Miss Gerald absorbed him to the exclusion of all else now. He had no mind for other storms that might be gathering. Suddenly the girl turned on him with abrupt swiftness.

CHAPTER VIII – NEW COMPLICATIONS

“Is your father’s embarrassment serious?” she asked.

Bob looked startled. He didn’t like the way she had shifted the conversation. “Pretty bad,” he answered.

“I believe, though, it’s customary for men on the ‘street’ not to stay ‘downed,’ as they say?”

“Don’t know as it’s an invariable rule,” returned Bob evasively. Then realizing it wouldn’t do to be evasive: “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe I’m very well posted as to that,” he added.

“What does your father say?” she asked abruptly.

Bob would much rather not have talked about that with her. But – “Dad says there is no hope,” he had to say.

Miss Gerald was silent for a moment. As a child she remembered a very gloomy period in her own father’s career – when the “street” had him “cornered.” She remembered the funereal atmosphere of the big old house – the depression on nearly every one’s face – how everything had seemed permeated with impending tragedy. She remembered how her father looked at her, a great gloomy ghost of himself with somber burning eyes. She remembered how seared and seamed his strong and massive face had become in but a few days. But that was long ago and he had long since left her for good. The vivid impression, however, of that gloomy period during her childhood remained with her. It had always haunted her, though her father had not been “downed” in the end. He had emerged from the storm stronger than ever.

The girl shot a sidewise look at Bob, standing now with his arms folded like Hamlet. Perhaps he had come from such a funereal house as she, herself, so well remembered? Had dad’s trouble, or tragedy, weighed on him unduly? Had it made him – for the moment – just slightly irresponsible? Miss Gerald, as has been intimated, had frankly liked Bob as an outdoor companion, or an indoor one, too, sometimes, for that matter. He was one of the few men, for example, she would “trot” with. He could “trot” in an eminently respectful manner, being possessed of an innate refinement, or chivalry, which certainly seemed good to her, after some of those other wild Terpsichorean performances of myriad masculine manikins in the mad world of Milliondom.

“I suppose your father has taken his trouble much to heart?” Miss Gerald now observed.

“Not a bit.”

“No?” In surprise.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Said he looked to me to keep him in affluence the rest of his days.”

“To you?”

“That’s right.”

“But how? – What are you going to do?”

“Hustle.”

“At what?”

“Don’t know. Got to find out.”

“What did you plan doing, when at college?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it” – Miss Gerald got back to where she had been before – “the sense of awful responsibility,” with slight sarcasm, “that has turned your brain?”

“I’m not crazy.”

“No?” She remembered that most people in asylums say that.

“Though I may be in a matter of three weeks,” Bob added, more to himself than to her.

“Why three weeks?”

“Well, if I don’t – just shouldn’t happen to go crazy during that time, I’ll be all right, after that.”

“Why do you allow a specified period for your mental deterioration?”

“I didn’t allow it.”

“Who did?”

“Can’t tell you.”

Miss Gerald pondered on this answer. It would seem as if Bob had “hallucinations,” if nothing worse. He was possessed of the idea, no doubt, that he would go crazy within three weeks. He didn’t realize that the “deterioration,” she referred to, might have already begun. He looked normal enough, though, had the most normal-looking eyes. Could it be that he was acting? And if he was acting, why was he? That seemed incomprehensible. Anyhow, it couldn’t be a sense of responsibility that had “upset” Bob. She became sure of that now. He played a losing game with too much dash and brilliancy! Hadn’t she seen him at polo – hadn’t she held her breath and thrilled when he had “sailed in” and with irresistible vim snatched victory out of defeat? No; Bob wasn’t a “quitter.”

“So your father looks to you to support him?”

“So he said. The governor’s a bit of a joker though, you know. He may be only putting up a bluff to try me out.”