“And say, Bob, I want you to know that I know I’ve been a fool—and things a lot worse than that. But, Bob,—that’s all past now—and past forever! I don’t deserve what Mary is doing for me. But I’m going to make good. I’m going to be a good boy—for Mary’s sake! Just you watch me!”
There was a frank manliness in the young fellow’s voice and manner. He was deeply moved, and was as much in earnest as it lay within his powers to be.
“Here’s something I wish you’d back me up in, Bob,” Jack went on. “I want to tell dad that Mary and I are married; but she objects. Don’t you think I should?”
Clifford, remembering that scene two hours back where Mary had told the older Morton everything while Jack lay unconscious, shook his head. “I think she’s right, Jack.”
“Well, I’m going to tell soon, no matter what the two of you say!” He gripped Clifford’s hand anew. “Thanks once more, old man. And remember, I’m sure going to make good!”
They stepped into a taxi-cab. All this while Mary had neither spoken nor looked at Clifford, and she did not look at him now. But Clifford saw that her face was still gray, still drawn.
He followed at a distance in another taxi-cab, on the watch for interruption from Loveman or Bradley, or their agents. But there was none; and Jack and Mary passed out of sight into the Mordona.
For a space Clifford gazed after them, thinking. Again he had a profound sense that Jack was fundamentally a fine fellow; that what was chiefly wrong with him was that he had been swept into the resistless current of Big Pleasure—and that also he had been victimized by those who make a subtle business of playing upon the human weaknesses of those whom Big Pleasure sucks in—and that also, before and behind it all, he had never been properly guided by his worldly, masterful father. Clifford wondered whether this frank admission of faults, this declaration to make good, was merely a flare, merely the final spurt, of excellent qualities that were almost spent—or whether this was in truth the beginning of a splendid Jack Morton that was yet to be.
The latter seemed to be the case. Two days later Clifford chanced upon Mr. Morton at the Biltmore. “Jack came back to work this morning,” commenced the financier, “and he’s behaving as though nothing is too hard for him. I guess I owe an awful lot to you for making me see that Mary was the only person who could straighten him out. She’s a wonderful woman! The way she’s behaved, it’s something I cannot understand!”
“Don’t try to understand her,” said Clifford. “Just try to be thankful.”