I do not know whether you have what I call the quality of making mental ends meet when you ought to be concerned with soberer matters. For myself, being a very idle and foolish and meddlesome old woman, I can not only make them meet but I can tie them into bowknots, veritable love knots. And so I did now, sitting there on the bench in the sunshine with the fragrance of Forsythia and cherry blossoms about, and my eyes fixed on the all-wool elephant of Little Charge. And yet, remembering now, I disown that plan; for I protest that it came pealing to me from some secret bell in the air—and what could I, a most unwise and helpless old woman, do against such magic? And how else could one act—in a world the shape of a heart?
“Don’t you want to tell me,” said I shyly, “how you had planned your elopement? It will do no harm to talk about it, at any rate.”
Little Nursemaid liked to talk about it. With many a sob and sigh she brought forth her poor little plans, made with such trembling delight and all come to naught. They were to have met that very night at precisely quarter-past six at the door of a chapel that I knew well. The curate had been engaged by Evan, and a “little couple” who lived over the drug store were to be witnesses. The new plum-colour’ dress figured extensively and repeatedly in the account. Then they were to have marched straight and boldly to the Benefactress and proclaimed their secret, and Evan was to have been back behind the counter at seven o’clock, while Cornelia Emmeline would have been in time to put Little Charge to bed, as usual. The remainder of their lives, so far as I could determine, did not enter importantly into the transaction. The main thing was to be married.
And all this bright castle had toppled down before the onslaught of “a bright fifty cents an’ a watered ribbin.” Ah, Cornelia Emmeline! Yet she truly loved him—mark you, if I had not believed in that I would have left her to the solitary company of Little Charge and the all-wool elephant. But since I did believe in that I could not see those two dear little people make a mess of everything.
“It is too bad,” said I innocently, “and let me tell you what I suggest. You’ll be very lonely to-night about six o’clock—and you will probably cry and be asked questions. Don’t you want to run down to my house for a few minutes to help me? I have something most important to do.”
I had much trouble to keep from laughing at that “something most important to do.”
Cornelia Emmeline promised readily and gratefully. She had always that hour to herself, it appeared, because then He came home—the husband of Benefactress, I inferred—and wanted Little Charge to himself before dinner. That was such a pleasant circumstance that I began to feel kindly toward even the Shrewd Benefactress and “Him.” But I did not relent. I made Cornelia Emmeline promise, and I saw that she had my card tucked away for safe-keeping, and when we had talked awhile longer about the danger of unthankfulness, and the prospects of drug clerks, Little Charge suddenly straightened out stiffly in the go-cart and demanded his “bread’n’butter’n’sugar.” So she took him away and nodded me a really bright farewell; and when she had gone a few steps she came running back and shyly laid something on my knee. It was the fresh pink. After that you may be sure that I would have carried on my plan in the face of all disaster, save indeed the opposition of Pelleas.
But Pelleas is to be counted on in everything. He has failed me but once, and that was in a matter of a wedding which took place anyway and is therefore an incident which hardly counts against him. I could hardly wait for him to come home. I was at the window when he reached the steps, and before he could unbutton his greatcoat he knew the whole story. But Pelleas is not inventive. He is sympathetic, corroborative, even coöperative, but not inventive. To him the situation simply closed down.
“Poor little souls,” he said ruefully, “now that is hard. So that young rascal is in love. I didn’t know he ever thought of anything but soda. It’s a blessing he didn’t fix me up a chloroform phosphate this morning in sheer misery. Too bad, too bad. Won’t matters ever be straightened out, do you think?”
“No later,” said I, “than seven o’clock to-night.”