Part 30

“A tall dark man, that's enough,” responded Mrs. Pottinger sharply.

“Hadn't he better favor me?” said Prosper, with his small cunning recognizing the fact that he himself was a decided blond.

“Ain't at all necessary,” said the widow firmly. “You were always wild and ungovernable,” she continued, “and ran away from school to join some Western emigration. That accounts for the difference of our styles.”

“But,” continued Prosper, “I oughter remember suthin about our old times--runnin' arrants for you, and bringin' in the wood o' frosty mornin's, and you givin' me hot doughnuts,” suggested Prosper dubiously.

“Nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Pottinger promptly. “We lived in the city, with plenty of servants. Just remember, Prosper dear, your mother wasn't THAT low-down country style.”

Glad to be relieved from further invention, Prosper was, nevertheless, somewhat concerned at this shattering of the ideal mother in the very camp that had sung her praises. But he could only trust to her recognizing the situation with her usual sagacity, of which he stood in respectful awe.

Joe Wynbrook and Cyrus Brewster had, as older members of the camp, purposely lingered near the new house to offer any assistance to “Prossy and his mother,” and had received a brief and passing introduction to the latter. So deep and unexpected was the impression she made upon them that these two oracles of the camp retired down the hill in awkward silence for some time, neither daring to risk his reputation by comment or oversurprise.

But when they approached the curious crowd below awaiting them, Cyrus Brewster ventured to say, “Struck me ez ef that old gal was rather high-toned for Prossy's mother.”

Joe Wynbrook instantly seized the fatal admission to show the advantage of superior insight:--

“Struck YOU! Why, it was no more than I expected all along! What did we know of Prossy? Nothin'! What did he ever tell us'? Nothin'! And why'? 'Cos it was his secret. Lord! a blind mule could see that. All this foolishness and simplicity o' his come o' his bein' cuddled and pampered as a baby. Then, like ez not, he was either kidnapped or led away by some feller--and nearly broke his mother's heart. I'll bet my bottom dollar he has been advertised for afore this--only we didn't see the paper. Like as not they had agents out seekin' him, and he jest ran into their hands in 'Frisco! I had a kind o' presentiment o' this when he left, though I never let on anything.”

“I reckon, too, that she's kinder afraid he'll bolt agin. Did ye notice how she kept watchin' him all the time, and how she did the bossin' o' everything? And there's ONE thing sure! He's changed--yes! He don't look as keerless and free and foolish ez he uster.”

Here there was an unmistakable chorus of assent from the crowd that had joined them. Every one--even those who had not been introduced to the mother--had noticed his strange restraint and reticence. In the impulsive logic of the camp, conduct such as this, in the face of that superior woman--his mother--could only imply that her presence was distasteful to him; that he was either ashamed of their noticing his inferiority to her, or ashamed of THEM! Wild and hasty as was their deduction, it was, nevertheless, voiced by Joe Wynbrook in a tone of impartial and even reluctant conviction. “Well, gentlemen, some of ye may remember that when I heard that Prossy was bringin' his mother here I kicked--kicked because it only stood to reason that, being HIS mother, she'd be that foolish she'd upset the camp. There wasn't room enough for two such chuckle-heads--and one of 'em being a woman, she couldn't be shut up or sat upon ez we did to HIM. But now, gentlemen, ez we see she ain't that kind, but high-toned and level-headed, and that she's got the grip on Prossy--whether he likes it or not--we ain't goin' to let him go back on her! No, sir! we ain't goin' to let him break her heart the second time! He may think we ain't good enough for her, but ez long ez she's civil to us, we'll stand by her.”

In this conscientious way were the shackles of that unhallowed relationship slowly riveted on the unfortunate Prossy. In his intercourse with his comrades during the next two or three days their attitude was shown in frequent and ostentatious praise of his mother, and suggestive advice, such as: “I wouldn't stop at the saloon, Prossy; your old mother is wantin' ye;” or, “Chuck that 'ere tarpolin over your shoulders, Pross, and don't take your wet duds into the house that yer old mother's bin makin' tidy.” Oddly enough, much of this advice was quite sincere, and represented--for at least twenty minutes--the honest sentiments of the speaker. Prosper was touched at what seemed a revival of the sentiment under which he had acted, forgot his uneasiness, and became quite himself again--a fact also noticed by his critics. “Ye've only to keep him up to his work and he'll be the widder's joy agin,” said Cyrus Brewster. Certainly he was so far encouraged that he had a long conversation with Mrs. Pottinger that night, with the result that the next morning Joe Wynbrook, Cyrus Brewster, Hank Mann, and Kentucky Ike were invited to spend the evening at the new house. As the men, clean shirted and decently jacketed, filed into the neat sitting room with its bright carpet, its cheerful fire, its side table with a snowy cloth on which shining tea and coffee pots were standing, their hearts thrilled with satisfaction. In a large stuffed rocking chair, Prossy's old mother, wrapped up in a shawl and some mysterious ill health which seemed to forbid any exertion, received them with genteel languor and an extended black mitten.

“I cannot,” said Mrs. Pottinger, with sad pensiveness, “offer you the hospitality of my own home, gentlemen--you remember, Prosper, dear, the large salon and our staff of servants at Lexington Avenue!--but since my son has persuaded me to take charge of his humble cot, I hope you will make all allowances for its deficiencies--even,” she added, casting a look of mild reproach on the astonished Prosper--“even if HE cannot.”

“I'm sure he oughter to be thankful to ye, ma'am,” said Joe Wynbrook quickly, “for makin' a break to come here to live, jest ez we're thankful--speakin' for the rest of this camp--for yer lightin' us up ez you're doin'! I reckon I'm speakin' for the crowd,” he added, looking round him.

Murmurs of “That's so” and “You bet” passed through the company, and one or two cast a half-indignant glance at Prosper.

“It's only natural,” continued Mrs. Pottinger resignedly, “that having lived so long alone, my dear Prosper may at first be a little impatient of his old mother's control, and perhaps regret his invitation.”

“Oh no, ma'am,” said the embarrassed Prosper.

But here the mercurial Wynbrook interposed on behalf of amity and the camp's esprit de corps. “Why, Lord! ma'am, he's jest bin longin' for ye! Times and times agin he's talked about ye; sayin' how ef he could only get ye out of yer Fifth Avenue saloon to share his humble lot with him here, he'd die happy! YOU'VE heard him talk, Brewster?”

“Frequent,” replied the accommodating Brewster.

“Part of the simple refreshment I have to offer you,” continued Mrs. Pottinger, ignoring further comment, “is a viand the exact quality of which I am not familiar with, but which my son informs me is a great favorite with you. It has been prepared by Li Sing, under my direction. Prosper, dear, see that the--er--doughnuts--are brought in with the coffee.”

Satisfaction beamed on the faces of the company, with perhaps the sole exception of Prosper. As a dish containing a number of brown glistening spheres of baked dough was brought in, the men's eyes shone in sympathetic appreciation. Yet that epicurean light was for a moment dulled as each man grasped a sphere, and then sat motionless with it in his hand, as if it was a ball and they were waiting the signal for playing.

“I am told,” said Mrs. Pottinger, with a glance of Christian tolerance at Prosper, “that lightness is considered desirable by some--perhaps you gentlemen may find them heavy.”

“Thar is two kinds,” said the diplomatic Joe cheerfully, as he began to nibble his, sideways, like a squirrel, “light and heavy; some likes 'em one way, and some another.”

They were hard and heavy, but the men, assisted by the steaming coffee, finished them with heroic politeness. “And now, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Pottinger, leaning back in her chair and calmly surveying the party, “you have my permission to light your pipes while you partake of some whiskey and water.”

The guests looked up--gratified but astonished. “Are ye sure, ma'am, you don't mind it?” said Joe politely.

“Not at all,” responded Mrs. Pottinger briefly. “In fact, as my physician advises the inhalation of tobacco smoke for my asthmatic difficulties, I will join you.” After a moment's fumbling in a beaded bag that hung from her waist, she produced a small black clay pipe, filled it from the same receptacle, and lit it.

A thrill of surprise went round the company, and it was noticed that Prosper seemed equally confounded. Nevertheless, this awkwardness was quickly overcome by the privilege and example given them, and with, a glass of whiskey and water before them, the men were speedily at their ease. Nor did Mrs. Pottinger disdain to mingle in their desultory talk. Sitting there with her black pipe in her mouth, but still precise and superior, she told a thrilling whaling adventure of Prosper's father (drawn evidently from the experience of the lamented Pottinger), which not only deeply interested her hearers, but momentarily exalted Prosper in their minds as the son of that hero. “Now you speak o' that, ma'am,” said the ingenuous Wynbrook, “there's a good deal o' Prossy in that yarn o' his father's; same kind o' keerless grit! You remember, boys, that day the dam broke and he stood thar, the water up to his neck, heavin' logs in the break till he stopped it.” Briefly, the evening, in spite of its initial culinary failure and its surprises, was a decided social success, and even the bewildered and doubting Prosper went to bed relieved. It was followed by many and more informal gatherings at the house, and Mrs Pottinger so far unbent--if that term could be used of one who never altered her primness of manner--as to join in a game of poker--and even permitted herself to win.