Ainslee's Magazine/The Wisdom of the Foolish

by Constance Smedley and Pearl Humphrey

 

The Wisdom of the FOOLISH

By Constance Smedley and Pearl Humphrey

 

THE box of bonbons stood on the table, and Nelly smiled importantly at it. It was a frivolous affair of white enameled wicker with a spray of pink and silver roses tied with blue ribbon to the lid; and inside were symphonies and concertos in chocolate, ranged in four large layers. Mrs. Martin, looking from Nelly to the box, as she came in, detected something in her niece's face other than a youthful taste for sweets.

“What a beautiful basket of chocolates,” she said, her tone conveying a willingness to receive information.

“Yes,” responded Nelly demurely. “Sir Francis sent them to me. We were joking last night about the weather, because I wanted it to be fine for the party this afternoon, and he bet me a box of chocolates to a pair of gloves that it would be wet.”

“He has lost no time in paying for this morning's sunshine,” said Mrs. Martin brightly. “May I have one?”

Nelly made a little gesture of detention, and her aunt waited with her pretty hand outstretched.

“Sir Francis,” began Nelly, “is very young to have achieved so much, is he not?”

Mrs. Martin withdrew her hand, in some surprise at this irrelevance.

“Sir Francis is forty-five, and the diplomatic world would be lost with out him,” she said tersely. “Why?”

“He is so pleasant as a companion,” murmured Nelly. “Not at all awe-inspiring. He and I get on so splendidly together, and he is so funny. Have you noticed what a lot we seem to have seen of him lately?”

“As one of the most popular men of the day, he is naturally pleasant,” returned Mrs. Martin. “Diplomacy and dining-out are sister arts. I suppose he comes here because he likes the people he meets.” A smile came to her lips as she looked at Nelly's profile, bent meditatively toward the chocolates.

“I am wondering,” said her niece, rather suddenly, “if I ought to accept these.”

“Good gracious, why not?” cried Mrs. Martin.

“It is such a handsome present,” answered Nelly, with some pride.

“Sir Francis is very well off,” returned Mrs. Martin. “He can afford to do things well. It would be difficult if he were a penniless attaché.”

“It is not the money,” said Nelly. “I was wondering if it would not look rather like encouraging him.”

“To make bets?” Mrs. Martin spoke without comprehension.

“No, to come here. I should hate to seem to lead him on.”

“My—dear—child!” uttered Mrs. Martin feebly. Nelly blushed.

“I can't be sure of my own mind!” she confessed. “I feel honored that he should like to talk to me so much, because, naturally, I haven't his experience of the world, or his cleverness. But he comes here so much, and I can't help seeing that he pays me more attention than is natural in an ordinary acquaintance. There is only one thing to think.”

“Has it no alternative?” inquired Mrs. Martin, with a suspicion of a twinkle,

“I can think of none,” said Nelly, with great dignity. “I have been wanting to speak to you about this for some time, for I really cannot make up my mind what to do.”

“You don't care for him, Nelly?”

“N—no,” said Nelly, with a touch of regret. “He's too old, and I shouldn't care to live abroad.”

“No, you would prefer home service, I'm sure,” remarked Mrs. Martin, with a smile, which quickened Nelly's pink into crimson. “But I shouldn't worry about Sir Francis, if I were you. He probably doesn't mean anything save to be friendly; in fact, I'm sure that's all.”

“Ah,” rejoined Nelly, rather quickly, “but you have not been with him nor heard him talk as I have. He found me reading French one day, and he was so pleased. I told him that you were such a splendid linguist that I wanted to copy you, and he said: 'Ah, that is good. I love to see women studying languages. In our service, where it should be indispensable, we often see young fellows hampered by wives who cannot speak even French fluently. I wish they all were animated by your spirit: a diplomat's wife ought to know French, German, and Italian, if not Spanish.' Could anything be more pointed?” demanded Nelly.

“I'm not such a very wonderful linguist, dear,” said Mrs. Martin. “My Italian is faulty, and [ hardly know Spanish.”

“But your French and German are quite perfect,” rejoined Nelly. “Anyhow, that's what happened,” she added, anxious to bring the subject back to her perplexity. “I really think I ought to send the basket back.”

“You certainly must not, Nelly. It has been sent in pure friendliness, and to return it would be very rude from a girl of your age to a man like Sir Francis.”

“But I could not let him propose to me,” said Nelly. “And this would be a good way of showing him how I feel about it.”

“That is the last thing you must do!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin, in some alarm.

“Oh, why?” asked Nelly. “He ought to know at once that I cannot encourage any hope on his part.”

Mrs. Martin, to decide the matter, selected the center chocolate of the elaborately arranged top layer, and ate it with enjoyment and deliberation before answering.

“Nelly,” she said then, “you're going home next week, and I hope you have had a very pleasant time with me. I have loved having you, and I hope I shall see you in Berlin next year.”

“Berlin?” echoed Nelly.

“Yes, dear. Do have one of these delicious chocolates. The ones with cocoanut on are dreams. You can't send them back now that we've begun on them; but in any case you could not have done so, nor shown Sir Francis your feeling about his friendliness. Because in six weeks, just before he goes to Germany, he and I are to be very quietly married.”

In her diary that night Nelly wrote:

 

It seems to me that when one is related to a person, one cannot see how that person will strike outsiders. Spent the evening packing.