CHAPTER XIII.
The emotions of a man who has just proposed and been accepted arecomplex and overwhelming. A certain stunned sensation is perhapspredominant. Blended with this is relief, the relief of a general whohas brought a difficult campaign to a successful end, or of a memberof a forlorn hope who finds that the danger is over, and he is stillalive. To this must be added a newly born sense of magnificence, offinding oneself to be, without having known it, the devil of a fellow.We have dimly suspected, perhaps, from time to time that we weresomething rather out of the ordinary run of men, but there has alwaysbeen a haunting fear that this view was to be attributed to a personalbias in our own favor. When, however, our suspicion is suddenlyconfirmed by the only judge for whose opinion we have the leastrespect, our bosom heaves with complacency, and the world has nothingmore to offer.
With some accepted suitors there is an alloy of apprehension in themetal of their happiness; and the strain of an engagement sometimesbrings with it even a faint shadow of regret. "She makes me buy newclothes," one swain, in the third quarter of his engagement, wasoverheard to moan to a friend. "Two new ties only yesterday." Heseemed to be debating within himself whether human nature could standthe strain.
But, whatever tragedies may cloud the end of the period, its beginningat least is bathed in sunshine. Jimmy, regarding his lathered face inthe glass as he dressed for dinner that night, called himself theluckiest man on earth, and wondered if he were worthy of suchhappiness. Thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that he wasnot, but that all the same he meant to have it.
No doubt distressed him. It might have occurred to him that therelations between Mr. McEachern and himself offered a very serious barto his prospects; but in his present frame of mind he declined toconsider the existence of the ex-constable at all. In a world thatcontained Molly there was no room for other people. They were not inthe picture. They did not exist.
There are men in the world who, through long custom, can findthemselves engaged without any particular whirl of emotion. KingSolomon probably belonged to this class; and even Henry the Eighthmust have become a trifle blase in time. But to the average man, thenovice, the fact of being accepted seems to divide existence into twodefinite parts, before and after. A sensitive conscience goads someinto compiling a full and unexpurgated autobiography, the editionlimited to one copy, which is presented to the lady most interested.Some men find a melancholy pleasure in these confessions. They like todraw the girl of their affections aside and have a long, cozy chatabout what scoundrels they were before they met her.
But, after all, the past is past and cannot be altered, and it is tobe 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, wouldhave steered the conversation skillfully to the subject of the eighthcommandment, and then said: "Talking about stealing, did I ever tellyou that I was a burglar myself for about six years?" Jimmy wasreticent. All that was over, he told himself. He had given it up. Hehad buried the past. Why exhume it? It did not occur to him to confesshis New York crimes to Molly any more than to tell her that, whenseven, he had been caned for stealing jam.
These things had happened to a man of the name of Jimmy Pitt, it wastrue. But it was not the Jimmy Pitt who had proposed to Molly in thecanoe on the lake.
The vapid and irreflective reader may jump to the conclusion thatJimmy 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 casuistryimposed upon himself.
To Jimmy, shaving, there entered, in the furtive manner habitual tothat unreclaimed buccaneer, Spike Mullins.
"Say, Mr. Chames," he said.
"Well," said Jimmy, "and how goes the world with young Lord FitzMullins? 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 handon the scruff of his neck to see that he goes through with it. Fellowwho looks after everything, crowds the crisp banknotes onto theclergyman after the ceremony, and then goes off and marries the firstbridesmaid, 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 inyour 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 deodder 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 birthdaypresent."
"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 chasedmeself here about. Dere's a mug down in de soivant's hall what's adetective. 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 outof a bunch of a thousand. Sure. Dis mug's vally to Sir Thomas, dat'shim. But he ain't no vally. He's come to see dat no one don't get busywit 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 nevergoing to touch a jewel again unless I've paid for it and got thereceipt in my pocket."
Spike shuffled despondently.
"All the same," said Jimmy, "I shouldn't give yourself away to thisdetective. 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' boardsat this rate. Who's the other?"
"De mug what came dis afternoon. Ole man McEachern brought him. I seedMiss Molly talking to him."
"The chap from the inn? Why, that's an old New York friend ofMcEachern's."
"Anyhow, Mr. Chames, he's a sleut'. I can tell 'em by deir eyes anddeir 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. Imight 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 himafterward. I shall soon find out what his game is."
For the moment, Molly was forgotten. The old reckless spirit wascarrying him away. This thing was a deliberate challenge. He had beenon parole. He had imagined that his word was all that McEachern had torely on. But if the policeman had been working secretly against himall this time, his parole was withdrawn automatically. The thoughtthat, if he did nothing, McEachern would put it down complacently tothe vigilance of his detective and his own astuteness in engaging himstung Jimmy. His six years of burglary had given him an odd sort ofprofessional pride. "I've half a mind," he said softly. The familiarexpression 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 diedout 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, andI've seen de box what de jools is put in at night. We could get atthem easy as pullin' de plug out of a bottle. Say, dis is de softestproposition, dis house. Look what I got dis afternoon, Mr. Chames."
He plunged his hand into his pocket, and drew it out again. As heunclosed his fingers, Jimmy caught the gleam of precious stones.
He started a
s one who sees snakes in the grass.
"What the----" he gasped.
Spike was looking at his treasure-trove with an air of affectionateproprietorship.
"Where on earth did you get those?" asked Jimmy.
"Out of one of de rooms. Dey belonged to one of de loidies. It was deeasiest old t'ing ever, Mr. Chames. I went in when dere was nobodyabout, and dere dey were on de toible. I never butted into anyt'ing sosoft, 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 gotto go to that room and put those things back--all of them, mindyou--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 thosethings 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 hislife.
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