Bangladeshi-Bengali.Com: Online Story. The Nice People.

When I went upstairs that evening, I found my wife putting her hair to

bed--I don't know how I can better describe an operation familiar to

every married man. I waited until the last tress was coiled up, and

then I spoke:

"I've talked with Brede," I said, "and I didn't have to catechize him.

He seemed to feel that some sort of explanation was looked for, and he

was very outspoken. You were right about the children--that is, I must

have misunderstood him. There are only two. But the Matterhorn episode

was simple enough. He didn't realize how dangerous it was until he had

got so far into it that he couldn't back out; and he didn't tell her,

because he'd left her here, you see, and under the circumstances----"

"Left her here!" cried my wife. "I've been sitting with her the whole

afternoon, sewing, and she told me that he left her at Geneva, and

came back and took her to Basle, and the baby was born there--now I'm

sure, dear, because I asked her."

"Perhaps I was mistaken when I thought he said she was on this side of

the water," I suggested, with bitter, biting irony.

"You poor dear, did I abuse you?" said my wife. "But, do you know,

Mrs. Tabb said that _she_ didn't know how many lumps of sugar he took

in his coffee. Now that seems queer, doesn't it?"

It did. It was a small thing. But it looked queer, Very queer.

* * * * *

The next morning, it was clear that war was declared against the

Bredes. They came down to breakfast somewhat late, and, as soon as

they arrived, the Biggleses swooped up the last fragments that

remained on their plates, and made a stately march out of the

dining-room, Then Miss Hoogencamp arose and departed, leaving a whole

fish-ball on her plate. Even as Atalanta might have dropped an apple

behind her to tempt her pursuer to check his speed, so Miss Hoogencamp

left that fish-ball behind her, and between her maiden self and

contamination.

We had finished our breakfast, my wife and I, before the Bredes

appeared. We talked it over, and agreed that we were glad that we had

not been obliged to take sides upon such insufficient testimony.

After breakfast, it was the custom of the male half of the Jacobus

household to go around the corner of the building and smoke their

pipes and cigars where they would not annoy the ladies. We sat under a

trellis covered with a grapevine that had borne no grapes in the

memory of man. This vine, however, bore leaves, and these, on that

pleasant summer morning, shielded from us two persons who were in

earnest conversation in the straggling, half-dead flower-garden at the

side of the house.

"I don't want," we heard Mr. Jacobus say, "to enter in no man's

_pry_-vacy; but I do want to know who it may be, like, that I hev in

my house. Now what I ask of _you_, and I don't want you to take it as

in no ways _personal_, is--hev you your merridge-license with you?"

"No," we heard the voice of Mr. Brede reply. "Have you yours?"

I think it was a chance shot; but it told all the same. The Major (he

was a widower) and Mr. Biggle and I looked at each other; and Mr.

Jacobus, on the other side of the grape-trellis, looked at--I don't

know what--and was as silent as we were.

Where is _your_ marriage-license, married reader? Do you know? Four

men, not including Mr. Brede, stood or sat on one side or the other of

that grape-trellis, and not one of them knew where his

marriage-license was. Each of us had had one--the Major had had three.

But where were they? Where is _yours?_ Tucked in your best-man's

pocket; deposited in his desk--or washed to a pulp in his white

waistcoat (if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour), washed out

of existence--can you tell where it is? Can you--unless you are one of

those people who frame that interesting document and hang it upon

their drawing-room walls?

Mr. Brede's voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed like

five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds:

"Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it?

I shall leave by the six o'clock train. And will you also send the

wagon for my trunks?"

"I hain't said I wanted to hev ye leave----" began Mr. Jacobus; but

Brede cut him short.

"Bring me your bill."

"But," remonstrated Jacobus, "ef ye ain't----"

"Bring me your bill!" said Mr. Brede.

* * * * *

My wife and I went out for our morning's walk. But it seemed to us,

when we looked at "our view," as if we could only see those invisible

villages of which Brede had told us--that other side of the ridges and

rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the

heights of human self-esteem. We meant to stay out until the Bredes

had taken their departure; but we returned just in time to see Pete,

the Jacobus darkey, the blacker of boots, the brasher of coats, the

general handy-man of the house, loading the Brede trunks on the

Jacobus wagon.

And, as we stepped upon the verandah, down came Mrs. Brede, leaning on

Mr. Brede's arm, as though she were ill; and it was clear that she had

been crying. There were heavy rings about her pretty black eyes.

My wife took a step toward her.

"Look at that dress, dear," she whispered; "she never thought anything

like this was going to happen when she put _that_ on."

It was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow-striped

affair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow-striped silk of the same

colors--maroon and white--and in her hand she held a parasol that

matched her dress.