The Prodigal Father Part 41

"You agree also that under those circ.u.mstances it is no longer the duty of two people to marry, even if they have unfortunately become engaged?"

"I think it would only lead to wretchedness if they did. Honestly, I don't feel in the least sorry for Andrew. In fact, I thoroughly agree that people ought to have their engagements broken off for them if they haven't the sense to see they are unsuitable for themselves."

Heriot received this a.s.surance with evident pleasure. His manner grew more confidential still.

"Madge," he said, "I think it is time I made you a very serious confession."

Her smile departed.

"You may have noticed," he continued, "a certain bloom, so to speak, upon me, a sort of freshness, and so on. Madge, it is the bloom of youth."

She grew uneasy.

"Oh, really?"

"It is a literal, physical fact. I am rapidly approaching thirty."

She moved into the farthest corner of her chair, but made no other comment.

"You will thus see that it is merely a question of time before there will be an even greater disparity of years between you and me than between Ellen and Andrew."

Her expression changed entirely.

"Heriot!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Yes, Madge, I grieve deeply to resign the hopes of happiness I had formed on a life spent in your society, but alas! I must. Your adult charms cannot be thrown away upon an unappreciative youth; it would be a tragedy."

"You are many years older than I!"

"I was a short time ago, but to-day we are roughly speaking, twins--though with this difference, that as I am looking forward to a strenuous youth, and you to a handsome old age, naturally I feel a chicken compared with you. But then think of the next year or two, when I shall perhaps be playing football, and you will find it no longer possible to keep your gray hairs so artistically brushed beneath your black tresses: think of that, Madge!"

"Are you out of your mind?" she gasped.

"On the contrary, I have never been clearer-headed in my life."

"Then," she exclaimed wrathfully, "you are merely inventing a ridiculous fable to excuse your shuffling out of your engagement!"

"My dear lady," he replied pacifically, "shall I jump over this chair to convince you?"

"_Nothing_ would convince me."

"Ah," he said, with a friendly smile, "I see that you want to have me whether I'm a suitable mate or not, whether my feelings have changed--"

"I certainly do not!" she interrupted.

"Then in that case shall we call it off?"

He rose and picked up an evening paper.

She tried the resource of tears. The spectacle of a handsome woman weeping had brought him temporarily to his senses once before. But this time, though his manner was as kind as any widow could desire, his words brought the unfortunate lady no more consolation than his conduct.

"My dear Madge, just look at the thing sensibly. Surely you are old enough by this time to take a practical view of what after all is a very simple situation. You laid down the law yourself not five minutes ago, and laid it down very justly. If two people are unsuitably mated, the engagement should be broken off. Very well; just try to realize for a moment what it means to marry a man who is getting fuller and fuller of beans all the time--at your age, mark you. The fact is, we are just like two trains rushing in opposite directions. For a moment we may be side by side, and then--whit!--we have pa.s.sed each other and are getting a couple of miles farther apart every minute."

Even this graphic allegory failed to dry her tears.

"You are deserting me--you are breaking my heart!" she wailed.

"Hush, hush," he answered soothingly; "on the contrary, I am sparing you--sparing you no end of anxiety."

She looked at him like a tragedy queen.

"Have you no thought of how my reputation will suffer, Heriot?"

"How can it suffer? n.o.body knows we've been engaged."

"Do you suppose they haven't guessed?"

"Not from anything I've said or done, I can a.s.sure you."

She sprang up indignantly.

"Have you no sense of honor?"

"Look here," he answered, with his most ingratiating manner, "I'll be a son to you, Madge--an affectionate, dutiful--"

"You coward!" she cried.

Heriot found himself alone in his library with his engagement satisfactorily ended.

CHAPTER V

Andrew had retired to the dining-room. Once the day's eating was over, this apartment, with its vast s.p.a.ce of dignified gloom, its black marble mantelpiece, and the cloth of indigo plushette which now covered the table, made the most congenial refuge conceivable. His thoughts were in exact harmony with everything there, from the Venetian blinds to the portrait of his great-grandmother. The only discordant element was the presence of a few errant bread-crumbs, and happily they were under the table.

It was to this lair that he was tracked by Madge Dunbar. She never paused to ask if she disturbed him, or gave him any chance of protest, but advancing straight up to him, exclaimed--

"Your father is off his head!"

The junior partner eyed her warily, divided between suspicion and a glow of sympathy with her opinion.

"What has he done now?" he inquired gloomily.

"He has treated me exactly as he has treated you!"

The sympathy deepened; the suspicion began to ooze away; but all he remarked was, "Oh?"