"Ah, all that will depend upon Jack. Doubtless he knows the meaning of 'to have and to hold.' To hold any woman's love, a man must make himself indispensable; he must be her partner in all things: her comrade and husband when need be, her lover always. There can be no going back to old haunts, so attractive to men; club life must become merely an incident. Again, he must not be under her feet all the time.

Too much or too little will not do; it must be the happy between."

"You are a very wise young man."

Warrington laughed embarra.s.sedly. "I have had to figure out all these things."

"But if she does not love him!"

"How in the world can she help it?"

She caught up his hand in a motherly clasp.

"We mothers are vain in our love. We make our sons paragons; we blind ourselves to their faults; we overlook their follies, and condone their sins. And we build so many castles that one day tumble down about our ears. Why is it a mother always wishes her boy to marry the woman of her choice? What right has a mother to interfere with her son's heart-desires? It may be that we fear the stranger will stand between us. A mother holds, and always will hold, that no woman on earth is good enough for her son. Now, as I recollect, I did not think Mr. Bennington too good for me." She smiled drolly.

Lucky Jack! If only he had had a mother like this! Warrington thought.

"I dare say he thought that, too," he said. "Myself, I never knew a mother's love. No doubt I should have been a better man. Yet, I've often observed that a boy with a loving mother takes her love as a matter of course, and never realizes his riches till he has lost them.

My aunt is the only mother I have known."

"And a dear, kind, loving soul she is," said Mrs. Bennington. "She loves you, if not with mother-love, at least with mother-instinct.

When we two get together, we have a time of it; I, lauding my boy; she, praising hers. But I go round and round in a circle: my boy. Sons never grow up, they are always our babies; they come to us with their heartaches, at three or at thirty; there is ever one door open in the storm, the mother's heart. If she loves my boy, nothing shall be too good for her."

"I feel reasonably sure that she does." Did she? he wondered. Did she love Jack as he (Warrington) wanted some day to be loved?

"As you say," the mother went on, "how can she help loving him? He is a handsome boy; and this alone is enough to attract women. But he is so kind and gentle, Richard; so manly and strong. He has his faults; he is human, like his mother. John is terribly strong-willed, and this would worry me, were I not sure that his sense of justice is equally strong. He is like me in gentleness; but the man in him is the same man I loved in my girlhood days. When John maps out a course to act upon, if he believes he is right, nothing can swerve him--nothing. And sometimes he has been innocently wrong. I told Miss Challoner all his good qualities and his bad. She told me that she, too, has her faults.

She added that there was only one other man who could in any manner compare with John, and that man is you."

"I?" his face growing warm.

"Yes. But she had no right to compare anybody with my boy," laughing.

"There isn't any comparison whatever," admitted Warrington, laughing too. "But it was very kind of Miss Challoner to say a good word for me." And then upon impulse he related how, and under what circ.u.mstances, he had first met the actress.

"It reads like a story,--a versatile woman. This talk has done me much good. I know the affection that exists between you and John, and I am confident that you would not misrepresent anything. I shall sleep easier to-night."

The portieres rattled, and Patty stood in the doorway.

"Everybody's gone; may I come in?"

Warrington rose. "I really should be very glad to make your acquaintance," gallantly. "It's so long a time since I've met young people--"

"Young people!" indignantly. "I am not young people; I am twenty, going on twenty-one."

"I apologize." Warrington sat down.

Thereupon Miss Patty, who was a good sailor, laid her course close to the wind, and with few tacks made her goal; which was the complete subjugation of this brilliant man. She was gay, sad, witty and wise; and there were moments when her mother looked at her in puzzled surprise. As for Warrington, he went from one laugh into another.

Oh, dazzling twenty; blissful, ignorant, confident twenty! Who among you would not be twenty, when trouble pa.s.ses like cloud-shadows in April; when the door of the world first opens? Ay, who would not trade the meager pittance, wrested from the grinding years, for one fleet, smiling dream of twenty?

"It is all over town, the reply you made to Mrs. Winthrop and that little, sawed-off, witty daughter of hers."

"Patty!"

"Well, she is sawed-off and witty."

"What did I say?" asked Warrington, blushing. He had forgotten the incident.

"Mrs. Winthrop asked you to make her daughter an epigram, and you replied that Heaven had already done that."

"By the way," said Warrington, when the laughter subsided, "I understand that my old dog has been running away from home lately. I hope he doesn't bother you."

"Bother, indeed! I just love him," cried Patty. "He's such a lovable animal. We have such good times on our morning rides. We had trouble last week, though. A white bulldog sprang at him. Jove was so tired that he would have been whipped had I not dismounted and beaten the white dog off. Oh, Jove was perfectly willing to contest the right of way. And when it was all over, who should come along but Mr. McQuade, the politician. It was his dog. And he hadn't even the grace to make an apology for his dog's ill manners."

"May I not ride with you to-morrow morning?" he asked. He had intended to leave Herculaneum at noon; but there were many later trains.

"That will be delightful! I know so many beautiful roads; and we can lunch at the Country Club. And Jove can go along, too."

"Where is the traitor?"

"He is sound asleep on the veranda rugs."

"Well, it's long past his bedtime. I must be going."

"Some time I hope you will come just to call on me."

"I shall not need any urging."

They followed him to the door, and good nights were said.

"Oh, Patty, he has lifted so much doubt!" said the mother, as the two returned to the library. "He has nothing but praise for Miss Challoner. It is quite possible that John will be happy."

"It is not only possible, mother darling, but probable. For my part, I think her the most charming, most fascinating woman I ever met. And she told me she rides. What jolly times we'll have together, when John settles down in the new house!"

"The new house!" repeated the mother, biting her lips. "How the word hurts! Patty, why could they not come here? We'll be so lonely. Yet, it is the law of Heaven that a man and his wife must live by and for themselves."

Warrington walked home, lightened in spirit. He swung his cane, gave Jove a dozen love-taps and whistled operatic airs. What a charming young creature it was, to be sure! The brain of a woman and the heart of a child. And he had forgotten all about her. Now, of course, his recollection became clear. He remembered a mite of a girl in short frocks, wonder-eyes, and candy-smudged lips. How they grew, these youngsters!

He went into the house, still whistling. Jove ran out into the kitchen to see if by some possible miracle there was another piece of steak in his grub-pan. A dog's eyes are always close to his stomach.

Warrington, finding that everybody had gone to bed, turned out the lights and went up stairs. He knocked on the door of his aunt's bedroom.

"Is that you, Richard?"

"Yes. May I come in?"

"Certainly."

He entered quietly. The moonlight, pouring in through the window, lay blue-white on the counterpane and the beloved old face.