Mrs. Dewey passed out and slammed the door.
I wanted to go right down and jump off the dock when this counter-irritant blistered me and her tonic bitters were poured into my lethargic circulation. Stimulation brought a reaction of brighter views, however. Mrs. Dewey's old-fashioned drubbing held the mirror so that I could behold a life-sized burro every time I looked into it. There never can be any use for a middleman, before or after the marriage contract, thought I. Shame took the place of conceit; my pride was humbled and fear was swept away. I mended with amazing rapidity under the earnest eloquence of that short sermon, delivered by a woman with a broom.
CHAPTER XVIII
Four of the happiest weeks of their lives, Gabrielle and Jim spent with the Gibsons in their Produce Exchange tower, far out of the way of enemies, if any there might be in pursuit. Gabrielle had confided in Mrs. Gibson, and was urged by her to bring Jim there to convalesce, as the doctor said he ought not to walk much for two or three months. The lovers were delighted to transfer their trysting place to those romantic quarters—a castle tower in the heart of New York, surrounded by a harbor moat, and an elevator which served well the purpose of a bridge leading to the portcullis of the upper floors. Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, and their daughter, the winsome Nellie, were delighted to have them as visitors, and entered into their defense against the cruel father and his co-conspirators, the faithless chum and the unfeeling world in general, with hearty warmth, cheering Gabrielle and filling the soul of Jim with heavenly contentment. There he had met his darling and the spot would be sacred to him always; it was doubly blessed when her sweet voice sounded near him within its walls, and her tender glances drew fond response from his eyes. On the floors below they sold grain and bulletined the price of tallow at "five and one-half cents for city"; but in the far-away tower the din of the wheat pit was not heard. From the round windows the ships of commerce appeared to ride the tide care-free as the darting gulls that dived for their prey or swung on resting wings in broad circles from shore to shore. Dreams fairer than those lovers pictured in quiet ecstasy have never been outlined by brush or melodious line. Just a little cube of heaven had been caught from the realms of bliss, and they dwelt together there for four weeks.
Now, four weeks in heaven is a very brief period. Whole eternities pass there in what seems to be an interval too brief to record on Cupid's chronometer. Joy in my lady's tower, traveling with swift, winged feet, marks not the hour like Terror in the castle dungeon, where the outcast prisoner lies upon the damp stones writhing in feverish despair. While they were up in heaven together, I was down in—the hospital or at Mrs. Dewey's. Mr. and Mrs. Tescheron were at home in Ninety-sixth Street. The bill of folly had been paid and Mr. Tescheron hoped the episode had closed, although Gabrielle's manner continued to indicate that she had not suffered so deeply as the strength of her attachment to the outlaw had led him to believe she would. What was the secret? He did not ask her, for having paid nearly $5,000 (more, but he didn't know it), working along his own lines, he did not care to admit that his daughter had outgeneraled him. A premonition that she had done so prepared him in moments of reflection to hear the truth. He fought against the concept every time it flashed before him, but with weakening strength, as the outclassed fighter staggers groggily to the ropes. What match was he, what adversary I, for Cupid, lacking the inspiration the god gave to his faithful adherents? If you ask me why I am so familiar with Mr. Tescheron's fears and numerous other matters recorded here, I make reply that I have investigated all the sources of information in any way connected with these events, and have drawn out the persons who were involved in Hosley's career by many conversations. If this statement does not satisfy, then I have one that will. I quote that great authority, William Makepeace Thackeray, who tells us in Vanity Fair that a novelist is supposed to know everything, and am I not treating the subject as a novelist, using for the most part fictitious names and places to shield from public ridicule the good people whose judgment may seem weak, and actions exaggerated, in the temperature of cold type scanned by prudent, judicial-minded readers? Icebergs will boil under certain conditions. Human beings, I find, have their solid, liquid and gaseous states. Be not surprised, therefore, if Tescheron, frigid when surrounded by his cracked ice and cold-storage products at the fish market, becomes pliable or volatile material in Hoboken under the heat of fear and temper, and, before cooling, is wrought into strange shapes by the artisan, Smith. Poor Tescheron! Innocently I made him pay a pretty penny! But he needed a good hammering.
"Gabrielle, are you really to be married against your father's wishes, my dear?" asked Mrs. Gibson, sadly, drawing Gabrielle to her. "Could we not win him over to our view of Jim? Should we not try?"
Mrs. Gibson, Gabrielle, Nellie and Jim were in the large tower sitting-room at the time of this questioning. "No, Mrs. Gibson"; and Gabrielle was most serious as she spoke. "My father will in time come to admire Jim as you do; I know father so well. Mother and I understand him. He jumps at conclusions regarding people for whom he has a dislike, and time and again has acknowledged to me how he regretted his haste. In good time father will ask my forgiveness. Not before the wedding, though, I fear; but I hope on. It is my intention to proceed, with mother's approval."
"Almost an elopement," laughed Nellie, ready for a wedding as eagerly as an opposed bride.