ROPE
ROPE BY HOLWORTHY HALL Author of “The Man Nobody Knew,” etc. |
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NEW YORK |
ROPE
As Henry came blithely into the house witha heavy suit-case in one hand and acumbersome kit-bag in the other, his AuntMirabelle marched out like a grenadier fromthe living-room, and posted herself in the hallwayto watch him approach. There was thismuch to say for Aunt Mirabelle: she was atleast consistent, and for twenty years she hadworn the same expression whenever she lookedat him. During that period the rest of theworld and Henry had altered, developed, advanced––butnot Aunt Mirabelle. She hadchanged neither the style of her clothes nor thenature of her convictions; she had disapprovedof Henry when he was six, and therefore, shedisapproved of him today. To let him knowit, she regarded him precisely as though he2were still six, and had forgotten to wash hisface.
“I suppose,” remarked Aunt Mirabelle, inher most abrasive voice, “I suppose you’rewaiting for me to say I hope you had a goodtime. Well, I’m not a-going to say it, becauseit wouldn’t be true, and I wouldn’t want to haveit sitting on my conscience. Of course, somepeople haven’t got much of any conscience foranything to sit on, anyway. If they did, they’dbe earnest, useful citizens. If they did, thenonce in a while they’d think about somethingelse besides loud ties and silk socks and golf.And they wouldn’t be gallivanting off on house-partiesfor a week at a time, either; they’d betending to their business––if they had any.And if they hadn’t, they ought to.”
Henry put down the bag and the suit-case,removed his straw hat, and grinned, with afair imitation of cheerfulness. He had neverlearned how to handle Aunt Mirabelle, andsmall wonder; for if he listened in silence, hewas called sulky; if he disputed her, he wascalled flippant; if he agreed with her, she accusedhim of fraud; and if he obeyed his natural3instincts, and treated her with tolerant good-humour,she usually went on a conversationstrike, and never weakened until after thetwelfth apology. Whatever he did was wrong,so that purely on speculation, he grinned, andsaid what came to his tongue.
“Maybe so,” said Henry, “maybe so, butconscience is a plant of slow growth,” and immediatelyafter he had said this, he wished thathe had chosen a different epigram––somethingwhich wasn’t so liable to come back at him,later, like a boomerang.
“Humph!” said Aunt Mirabelle. “It is, isit? Well, if I was in your place, I’d be impatientfor it to grow faster.”
Henry shook his head. “No, I don’t believeyou would. I’ve read somewhere that impatiencedries the blood more than age or sorrow.”He assumed an air of critical satisfaction.“The bird that wrote that had prettygood technique, don’t you think?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “All right,Henry. Be p