A Modern Instance. William Dean HowellsЧитать онлайн книгу.
time? Of course I agree to anything.”
He leaned forward, pencil in hand, to make a note of the figure Morrison should name, when the drunkard approached and struck the table in front of him with his fist, and blazed upon Bartley's face, suddenly uplifted, with his blue crazy eyes:
“No, sir! I won't take a seat, and I don't come on no such business! No, sir!” He struck the table again, and the violence of his blow upset the inkstand.
Bartley saved himself by suddenly springing away. “Hollo here!” he shouted. “What do you mean by this infernal nonsense?”
“What do you mean,” retorted the drunkard, “by makin' up to my girl?”
“You're a fool,” cried Bartley, “and drunk!”
“I'll show you whether I'm a fool, and I'll show you whether I'm drunk,” said Morrison. He opened the door and beckoned to Bird, with an air of mysterious authority. “Young man! Come here!”
Bird was used to the indulgence with which Bartley treated Morrison's tipsy freaks, and supposed that he had been called by his consent to witness another agreement to a rise in Hannah's wages. He came quickly, to help get Morrison out of the way the sooner, and he was astonished to be met by Bartley with “I don't want you, Bird.”
“All right,” answered the boy, and he turned to go out of the door.
But Morrison had planted himself against it, and waved Bird austerely back. “I want you,” he said, with drunken impressiveness, “for a witness—wick—witness—while I ask Mr. Hubbard what he means by—”
“Hold your tongue!” cried Bartley. “Get out of this!” He advanced a pace or two toward Morrison who stood his ground without swerving.
“Now you—you keep quiet, Mr. Hubbard,” said Morrison, with a swift drunken change of mood, by which he passed from arrogant denunciation to a smooth, patronizing mastery of the situation. “I wish this thing all settled amic—ic—amelcabilly.”
Bartley broke into a helpless laugh at Morrison's final failure on a word difficult to sober tongues, and the latter went on: “No 'casion for bad feeling on either side. All I want know is what you mean.”
“Well, go on!” cried Bartley, good-naturedly, and he sat down in his chair, which he tilted back, and, clasping his hands behind his head, looked up into Morrison's face. “What do I mean by what?”
Probably Morrison had not expected to be categorical, or to bring anything like a bill of particulars against Bartley, and this demand gave him pause. “What you mean,” he said, at last, “by always praising her up so?”
“What I said. She's a very good girl, and a very bright one. You don't deny that?”
“No—no matter what I deny. What—what you lend her all them books for?”
“To improve her mind. You don't object to that? I thought you once thanked me for taking an interest in her.”
“Don't you mind what I object to, and what I thank you for,” said Morrison, with dignity. “I know what I'm about.”
“I begin to doubt. But get on. I'm in a great hurry this morning,” said Bartley.
Morrison seemed to be making a mental examination of his stock of charges, while the strain of keeping his upright position began to tell upon him, and he swayed to and fro against the door. “What's that word you sent her by my boy, Sat'day night?”
“That she was a smart girl, and would be sure to get on if she was good—or words to that effect. I trust there was no offence in that, Mr. Morrison?”
Morrison surrendered, himself to another season of cogitation, in which he probably found his vagueness growing upon him. He ended by fumbling in all his pockets, and bringing up from the last a crumpled scrap of paper. “What you—what you say that?”
Bartley took the extended scrap with an easy air. “Miss Morrison's handwriting, I think.” He held it up before him and read aloud, “'I love my love with an H because he is Handsome.' This appears to be a confidence of Miss Morrison to her Muse. Whom do you think she refers to, Mr. Morrison?”
“What's—what's the first letter your name?” demanded Morrison, with an effort to collect his dispersing severity.
“B,” promptly replied Bartley. “Perhaps this concerns you, Henry. Your name begins with an H.” He passed the paper up over his head to Bird, who took it silently. “You see,” he continued, addressing Bird, but looking at Morrison as he spoke, “Mr. Morrison wishes to convict me of an attempt upon Miss Hannah's affections. Have you anything else to urge, Mr. Morrison?”
Morrison slid at last from his difficult position into a convenient chair, and struggled to keep himself from doubling forward. “I want know what you mean,” he said, with dogged iteration.
“I'll show you what I mean,” said Bartley with an ugly quiet, while his mustache began to twitch. He sprang to his feet and seized Morrison by the collar, pulling him up out of the chair till he held him clear of the floor, and opened the door with his other hand. “Don't show your face here again,—you or your girl either!” Still holding the man by the collar, he pushed him before him through the office, and gave him a final thust out of the outer door.
Bartley returned to his room in a white heat: “Miserable tipsy rascal!” he panted; “I wonder who has set him on to this thing.”
Bird stood pale and silent, still, nolding the crumpled scrap of paper in his hand.
“I shouldn't be surprised if that impudent little witch herself had put him up to it. She's capable of it,” said Bartley, fumbling aimlessly about on his table, in his wrath, without looking at Bird.
“It's a lie!” said Bird.
Bartley started as if the other had struck him, and as he glared at Bird the anger went out of his face for pure amazement. “Are you out of your mind, Henry?” he asked calmly. “Perhaps you're drunk too, this morning. The Devil seems to have got into pretty much everybody.”
“It's a lie!” repeated the boy, while the tears sprang to his eyes. “She's as good a girl as Marcia Gaylord is, any day!”
“Better go away, Henry,” said Bartley, with a deadly sort of gentleness.
“I'm going away,” answered the boy, his face twisted with weeping. “I've done my last day's work for you.” He pulled down his shirt-sleeves, and buttoned them at the wrists, while the tears ran out over his face,—helpless tears, the sign of his womanish tenderness, his womanish weakness.
Bartley continued to glare at him. “Why, I do believe you're in love with her yourself, you little fool!”
“Oh, I've been a fool!” cried Bird. “A fool to think as much of you as I always have,—a fool to believe that you were a gentleman, and wouldn't take a mean advantage. I was a fool to suppose you wanted to do her any good, when you came praising and flattering her, and turning her head!”
“Well, then,” said Bartley with harsh insolence, “don't be a fool any longer. If you're in love with her, you haven't any quarrel with me, my boy. She flies at higher game than humble newspaper editors. The head of Willett's lumbering gang is your man; and so you may go and tell that old sot, her father. Why, Henry! You don't mean to say you care anything for that girl?”
“And do you mean to say you haven't done everything you could to turn her head since she's been in this office? She used to like me well enough at school.” All men are blind and jealous children alike, when it comes to question of a woman between them, and this poor boy's passion was turning him into a tiger. “Don't come to me with your lies, any more!” Here his rage culminated, and with a blind cry of “Ay!” he struck the paper which he had kept in his hand into Bartley's face.
The demons,