“Never mind, Jack—you’re learning, at all events,” said Katharine, in an encouraging tone. “And I know, dear—I know how you care for me, and how brave you are to wait for the sake of what’s nice to your mother—”
“Oh, don’t talk of courage! It’s what I ought to have done long ago, if I hadn’t been a born loafer and idiot. But if things are going to be different since your beloved father has got this idea into his head, if he’s going to torment you perpetually, and make your life a burden, and call you bad names out of the prayer-book—that sort of thing, you know—why, then, we must just do it, that’s all—just face the row, and the economies, and all, and you must come to my mother’s.”
“But, Jack—just think of what would happen—”
“Well—just think what’s happening now. It’s much worse, I’m sure, and if it’s going to last, I shall just do it. My mother always says that she wishes we could be married. Well—we are married. There’s nothing to be done but to tell her so. Besides, for her part, she’d be delighted. You don’t know her! She’s just like a man in some things. She’d put up with anything—boiled beef and cabbage, and a horse-car fare on Sundays by way of an outing. Only, of course, if it can possibly be helped, I don’t want her to have to pinch and screw about her gloves, and her cabs, and the little things she likes and has had all her life. That’s why I’m working. If I could only get a salary of two thousand a year, we could manage. I’ve figured it all out—it’s just that two thousand that would make the difference—it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“It’s worse,” said Katharine. “It’s abominable.”
“Yes—it’s everything you like—or don’t like, rather. But if you’re going to suffer, we must do as I say. I’ll tell you how we’ll manage it. You’ll just go up to our house some morning about ten o’clock, and go out of town with my mother for a few days. I’ll get a holiday from Beman’s, and I’ll go and see your mother and tell her, and then I’ll go down town and face your father. His office is a nice, quiet place, I believe. He’s nothing much to do but to be trusted, and he sits all day long by himself in the company’s showcase, and people trust him. That’s his profession. He represents the moral side of business. Once I’ve told him, I’ll disappear for a while,—going to you, of course,—and we three will come back together and tell the world that we’ve been quietly married—which is quite true. Lots of people do that nowadays to get out of the expense and fuss of a dress parade wedding. How does that strike you?”
“Oh, it’s clever enough, and brave of you—as you always are—to be ready to face the parents alone. We shall have to do something of the kind in the end, you know, because we can’t be married over again. Uncle Robert suggested the same sort of plan last winter; only he wanted us to go to his place up the river, and he was going to ask the whole family. The dear old man forgot that his servants would remember for the rest of their lives that there had been no marriage service. It wasn’t practical.”
“By the bye, where’s our marriage certificate?” asked John, suddenly. “You took it, you know. You never told me what became of it.”
“Oh, uncle Robert said he’d keep it with his papers. I suppose it’s as safe there as anywhere. Still—if he were to die—”
“It’s all right, if he’s kept it. It will be in a safe place, properly endorsed. As he’s the only person who knows the secret, he’d much better keep it, and he’s not at all likely to die now that he’s recovered. I’d been meaning to ask you for ever so long. But to go back—if things get any worse, or go on as badly as they’re going now, do you see any possible objection to doing what I propose?”