“It is grape juice, my child, if we don’t inquire too closely into the matter. The Italians are like the French in the guide book, ‘fond of dancing and light wines.’ This is one of the light wines they are fond of.—Hello, do you feel sick, child? You’re white as a ghost. It’s the air. As soon as 81 I can get hold of that sacrificed waiter we’ll get out of here.”
Eleanor’s sickness was of the spirit, but at the moment she was incapable of telling him so, incapable of any sort of speech. A great wave of faintness encompassed her. She had broken her pledge. She had lightly encouraged a departure from the blessings and principles of total abstinence.
That night in her bed she made a long and impassioned apology to her Maker for the sin of intemperance into which she had been so unwittingly betrayed. She promised Him that she would never drink anything that came out of a bottle again. She reviewed sorrowfully her many arguments with Albertina—Albertina in the flesh that is—on the subject of bottled drinks in general, and decided that again that virtuous child was right in her condemnation of any drink, however harmless in appearance or nomenclature, that bore the stigma of a bottled label.
She knew, however, that something more than a prayer for forgiveness was required of her. She was pledged to protest against the evil that she 82 had seemingly countenanced. She could not seek the sleep of the innocent until that reparation was made. Through the crack of her sagging door she saw the light from Jimmie’s reading lamp and knew that he was still dressed, or clothed at least, with a sufficient regard for the conventionalities to permit her intrusion. She rose and rebraided her hair and tied a daytime ribbon on it. Then she put on her stockings and her blue Japanese kimono—real Japanese, as Aunt Beulah explained, made for a Japanese lady of quality—and made her way into the studio.
Jimmie was not sitting in the one comfortable studio chair with his book under the light and his feet on the bamboo tea table as usual. He was not sitting up at all. He was flung on the couch with his face buried in the cushions, and his shoulders were shaking. Eleanor seeing him thus, forgot her righteous purpose, forgot her pledge to disseminate the principles and blessings of abstinence, forgot everything but the pitiful spectacle of her gallant Uncle Jimmie in grief. She stood looking down at him without quite the courage to kneel at his side to give him comfort.
“Uncle Jimmie,” she said, “Uncle Jimmie.” 83
At the sound of her voice he put out his hand to her, gropingly, but he did not uncover his face or shift his position. She found herself smoothing his hair, gingerly at first, but with more and more conviction as he snuggled his boyish head closer.
“I’m awfully discouraged,” he said in a weak muffled voice. “I’m sorry you caught me at it, Baby.”
Eleanor put her face down close to his as he turned it to her.
“Everything will be all right,” she promised him, “everything will be all right. You’ll soon get a job—tomorrow maybe.”