“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Does––Judge Barklay know it yet?”
“No, not yet. He’s out of town.”
His uncle drew a tremendous breath, and pulled himself upright. “Boy,” he said, “why in the hell did you ever go and do a thing like that?... Haven’t I been pretty decent to you, 15 the best I knew how?... Why’d you ever go, and––have I been mistaken in you all this while? Why, boy, I thought you and me were friends.”
There was another heavy silence. “I don’t know. It just happened. The way things do––sometimes. We’ve always been crazy about each other.”
Mr. Starkweather was looking at and through his nephew, who was man-grown and presumably a rational human being; but what Mr. Starkweather actually saw was the vision of a little boy dressed in Lord Fauntleroy velvet, with silver knee-buckles and a lace collar; and much as a drowning man is supposed to review, in a lightning flash, every incident of his whole life, so was Mr. Starkweather reviewing the life of Henry, beginning with the era of black velvet, and ending with the immediate present. That history was a continuous record of dashing impulses, and the gayest irresponsibility; and yet, when the time came for an accounting, Henry had offered only explanations, and never excuses. In his glorious pursuit of the calendar, he had paid his penalties as royally as he had earned them; and even now, when he 16 was confessed of the most impetuous and the most astounding act of all his unballasted youth, he had nothing to say in defence. As a climax, marriage had “happened” to him, and he was braced for whatever might happen next.
Presently, Mr. Starkweather, coming out of his daze, began to wonder if, by this very climax, Henry hadn’t prescribed his own medicine, and at the same time taken out insurance on his own salvation. For one thing, he had selected the right girl––a girl with no money, and plenty of character––a girl who would manage him so skilfully that Henry would think himself the manager. For another thing, Mr. Starkweather believed that Henry was profoundly in love with her, even though he tried to conceal his seriousness by spreading it with a generous helping of light manner, and modern vocabulary. These facts, together with Mr. Starkweather’s control of the finances, might possibly operate as the twin levers which would pry Henry out of his improvidence. The levers themselves were certainly strong enough; it was a question only of Henry’s resistance. Mr. Starkweather winced to realize 17 that by the time the minute-hand of his watch had gone twice again around the dial, he should know definitely and permanently whether Henry was worth his powder, or not.
He leaned his elbows on his desk, judicially. “I’m pretty much knocked edgeways, Henry––but tell me one more thing; this wasn’t any bet, was it, or––”
“Bet!” flared Henry, and all the youth went out of his features.
“Yes. Nobody dared you to go and get married––it wasn’t any kind of a put-up job, was it?”