THE BIG MOGUL




_By JOSEPH C. LINCOLN_

  THE BIG MOGUL
  QUEER JUDSON
  RUGGED WATER
  DOCTOR NYE
  FAIR HARBOR
  GALUSHA THE MAGNIFICENT
  THE PORTYGEE
  “SHAVINGS”
  MARY-’GUSTA
  CAP’N DAN’S DAUGHTER
  THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE
  THE POSTMASTER
  THE WOMAN-HATERS
  KEZIAH COFFIN
  CY WHITTAKER’S PLACE
  CAP’N ERI
  EXTRICATING OBADIAH
  THANKFUL’S INHERITANCE
  MR. PRATT
  MR. PRATT’S PATIENTS
  KENT KNOWLES: “QUAHAUG”
  CAP’N WARREN’S WARDS
  THE DEPOT MASTER
  OUR VILLAGE
  PARTNERS OF THE TIDE
  THE OLD HOME HOUSE
  CAPE COD BALLADS
  THE MANAGERS




  The Big Mogul

  by

  Joseph C. Lincoln

  Author of “Queer Judson,” “Rugged Water,”
  “Shavings,” etc.

  [Illustration]


  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  NEW YORK      1926      LONDON




  COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


  Copyright, 1926, by The Crowell Publishing Company
  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




THE BIG MOGUL




THE BIG MOGUL




CHAPTER I


This was the library of the Townsend mansion in Harniss. Mrs. Townsend
had so christened it when the mansion was built; or, to be more
explicit, the Boston architect who drew the plans had lettered the word
“Library” inside the rectangle indicating the big room, just as he had
lettered “Drawing-Room” in the adjoining, and still larger, rectangle,
and Mrs. Townsend had approved both plans and lettering. In the former,
and much smaller, home of the Townsends there had been neither library
nor drawing-room, the apartments corresponding to them were known
respectively as the “sitting-room” and the “parlor.” When the little
house was partially demolished and the mansion took its place the
rechristened sitting-room acquired two black walnut bookcases and a
dozen “sets,” the latter resplendent in morocco and gilt. Now the gilt
letters gleamed dimly behind the glass in the light from the student
lamp upon the marble-topped center table beside which Foster Townsend
was sitting, reading a Boston morning newspaper. It was six o’clock in
the afternoon of a dark day in the fall of a year late in the seventies.

The student lamp was a large one and the light from beneath its green
shade fell upon his head and shoulders as he sat there in the huge
leather easy-chair. Most of the furniture in the library was stiff and
expensive and uncomfortable. The easy-chair was expensive also, but it
was comfortable. Foster Townsend had chosen it himself when the mansion
was furnished and it was the one item upon which his choice remained
fixed and irrevocable.

“But it is so big and--and _homely_, dear,” remonstrated his wife. “It
doesn’t look--well, genteel enough for a room in a house like ours.
Now, truly, do you think it does?”

Her husband, his hat on the back of his head and his hands in his
trousers’ pockets, smiled.

“Maybe not, Bella,” he replied. “It is big, I’ll grant you that, and I
shouldn’t wonder if it was homely. But so far as that goes I’m big and
homely myself. It fits me and I like it. You can have all the fun you
want with the rest of the house; buy all the doodads and pictures and
images and story-books and trash that you’ve a mind to, but I want that
chair and I’m going to have it. A sitting-room is a place to sit in and
I mean to sit in comfort.”

“But it isn’t a sitting-room, Father,” urged Arabella. “It is a
library. I do wish you wouldn’t forget that.”

“All right. I don’t care what you call it, so long as you let me sit
in it the way I want to. That chair’s sold, young man,” he added,
addressing the attentive representative of the furniture house. “Now,
Mother, what’s the next item on the bill of lading?”

The leather chair came to the library of the Townsend mansion and its
purchaser had occupied it many, many afternoons and evenings since.
He was occupying it now, his bulky figure filling it to repletion and
his feet, of a size commensurate to the rest of him, resting upon an
upholstered foot-stool--a “cricket” he would have called it. A pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles were perched upon the big nose before his gray
eyes and the stump of a cigar was held tightly in the corner of his
wide, thin lipped, grimly humorous mouth. He was dressed in a dark blue
suit, wore a stiff-bosomed white shirt, a low “turn down” collar and
a black, ready-made bow tie. Below the tie, a diamond stud glittered
in the shirt bosom. His boots--he had them made for him by the village
shoe-maker--were of the, even then, old-fashioned, long-legged variety,
but their leather was of the softest and best obtainable. Upon the
third finger of his left hand--stubby, thick hands they were--another
diamond, set in a heavy gold ring, flashed as he turned the pages of
the paper. His hair was a dark brown and it and his shaggy brows and
clipped chin beard were sprinkled with gray.

There was another chair at the other side of the table, a
rocking-chair, upholstered in fashionable black haircloth and with a
lace “tidy” upon its back. That chair was empty. It had been empty for
nearly a month, since the day when Arabella Townsend was taken ill. It
was pathetically, hauntingly empty now, for she who had been accustomed
to occupy it was dead. A little more than a week had elapsed since her
funeral, an event concerning which Eben Wixon, the undertaker, has been
vaingloriously eloquent ever since.

“Yes, sir-ee!” Mr. Wixon was wont to proclaim with the pride of an
artist. “That was about the most luxurious funeral ever held in this
county, if I do say it. I can’t think of anything to make it more
perfect, unless, maybe, to have four horses instead of two haulin’ the
hearse. That would have put in what you might call the finishin’ touch.
Yes, sir, ’twould! Still, I ain’t findin’ fault. I’m satisfied. The
music--and the flowers! And the high-toned set of folks sittin’ around
all over the lower floor of that big house! Some of ’em was out in
the dinin’ room, they was. If I had half the cash represented at that
Townsend funeral I’d never need to bury anybody else in _this_ world. I
bet you I wouldn’t, I’d have enough.”

Foster Townsend read his paper, became interested in a news item,
smiled, raised his head and, turning toward the vacant rocker, opened
his lips to speak. Then he remembered and sank back again into his own
chair. The paper lay unheeded upon his knees and he stared absently at
a figure in the Brussels carpet on the floor of the library.

A door in the adjoining room--the dining room--opened and Nabby
Gifford, the Townsend housekeeper, entered from the kitchen. She lit
the hanging lamp above the dining room table and came forward to draw
the portières between that room and the library. Standing with the edge
of a curtain in each hand, she addressed her employer.

“Kind of a hard old evenin’, ain’t it, Cap’n Townsend,” she observed.
“It’s rainin’ now but I declare if it don’t feel as if it might snow
afore it gets through.”

Foster Townsend did not answer, nor did he look up. Mrs. Gifford tried
again.

“Anything ’special in the paper?” she inquired. “Ain’t found out who
murdered that woman up to Watertown yet, I presume likely?”

He heard her this time.

“Eh?” he grunted, raising his eyes. “No, I guess not. I don’t know. I
didn’t notice. What are you doing in the dining room, Nabby? Where’s
Ellen?”

“She’s out. It’s her night off. She was all dressed up in her best bib
and tucker and so I judged she was goin’ somewheres. I asked her where,
but she never said nothin’, made believe she didn’t hear me. Don’t
make much odds; I can ’most generally guess a riddle when I’ve got the
answer aforehand. There’s an Odd Fellers’ ball over to Bayport to-night
and that Georgie D.’s home from fishin’, so I cal’late--”

Townsend interrupted. “All right, all right,” he put in, gruffly. “I
don’t care where she’s gone. Pull those curtains, will you, Nabby.”

“I was just a-goin’ to.... Say, Cap’n Townsend, don’t you think it’s
kind of funny the way that woman’s husband is actin’--that Watertown
woman’s, I mean? He _says_ he wan’t to home the night she was murdered
but he don’t say where he was. Now, ’cordin’ to what I read in
yesterday’s _Advertiser_--”

“All right, all right! Pull those curtains.... Here! Wait a minute.
Where’s Varunas?”

“He’s out to the barn, same as he usually is, I guess likely. He spends
more time with them horses than he does with me, I know that. I say to
him sometimes, I say: ‘Anybody’d think a horse could talk the way you
keep company with ’em. Seems as if you _liked_ to be with critters that
can’t talk.’”

“Perhaps he does--for a change. Well, if he comes in tell him I want
to see him. You can call me when supper’s ready. Now, if you’ll pull
those curtains--”

The curtains were snatched together with a jerk and a rattle of rings
on the pole. From behind them sounded the click of dishes and the
jingle of silver. Foster Townsend sank back into the leather chair. His
cigar had gone out, but he did not relight it. He sat there, gazing at
nothing in particular, a gloomy frown upon his face.

The door leading from the rear of the front hall opened just a crack.
Through the crack came a whisper in a hoarse masculine voice.

“Cap’n Foster!” whispered the voice. “Cap’n Foster!... Ssst! Look here!”

Townsend turned, looked and saw a hand with a beckoning forefinger
thrust from behind the door. He recognized the hand and lifting his big
body from the chair, walked slowly across the room.

“Well, Varunas,” he asked, “what’s the matter now? What are you
sneaking in through the skipper’s companion for?”

A head followed the hand around the edge of the door, the head of
Varunas Gifford. Varunas was Nabby Gifford’s husband. He was stableman
on the Townsend estate, took care of the Townsend horses, and drove his
employer’s trotters and pacers in the races at the county fairs and
elsewhere. He was a little, wizened man, with stooped shoulders and
legs bowed like barrel hoops. His thin, puckered face puckered still
more as he whispered a cautious reply.

“Cap’n Foster,” he whispered, “can you just step out in the hall here
a minute? I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye and if I come in there Nabby’s
liable to hear us talkin’ and want to know what it’s all about. Come
out just a minute, can ye?”

Townsend motioned him back, followed him into the dimly lighted hall
and closed the door behind them.

“Well, here I am,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

Varunas rubbed his unshaven chin. His fingers among the bristles
sounded like the rasp of sandpaper.

“You know Claribel?” he began anxiously.

Claribel was the fastest mare in the Townsend stable. The question,
therefore, was rather superfluous. Claribel’s owner seemed to consider
it so.

“Don’t waste your breath,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with her?”

Varunas shook his head violently. “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with her,”
he declared. “She’s fine. Only--well, you see--”

“Come, come! Throw it overboard!”

“Well, I was cal’latin’ to take her down to the Circle to-morrow
mornin’ early--about six or so; afore anybody was up, you know--and try
her out. Them was your orders, Cap’n, you remember.”

“Of course I remember. I was going to remind you of it. You’re going to
do it, aren’t you?”

“I was cal’latin’ to, but--well, I heard somethin’ a spell ago that
made me think maybe I hadn’t better. I’ve been give to understand
that--” he leaned forward to whisper once more--“that there’d be
somebody else there at the same time me and Claribel was. Um-hum.
Somebody that’s cal’latin’ to find out somethin’.”

Foster Townsend’s big hands, pushed into his trousers pockets, jingled
the loose change there. He nodded.

“I see,” he said, slowly. “Yes, yes, I see. Somebody named Baker, I
shouldn’t wonder. Eh?”

Varunas nodded. “Somebody that works for somebody named somethin’ like
that,” he admitted. “You see, Cap’n, I was down to the blacksmith shop
a couple of hours ago--got to have Flyaway shod pretty soon--and me
and Joe Ellis was talkin’ about one thing or ’nother, and says he:
‘Varunas,’ he says, ‘when is the old man and Sam Baker goin’ to pull
off that private horse trot of theirs?’ he says. Course everybody knows
that us and Sam have fixed up that match and it’s the general notion
that there’s consider’ble money up on it. Some folks say it’s a hundred
dollars and some says it’s five hundred. _I_ never tell ’em how much
’tis, because--”

“Because you don’t know. Well, never mind that. Go on.”

“Yup.... Um-hum.... Well, anyhow, all hands knows that our Claribel
and his Rattler is goin’ to have it out and Joe he wanted to know when
’twas goin’ to be. I told him next week some day and then he says: ‘I
understand you’ve been takin’ the mare down to the Circle and givin’
her time trials in the mornin’s afore anybody else is up.’ Well, that
kind of knocked me. I never suspicioned anybody did know, did you,
Cap’n?”

“I told you to take pains that they didn’t. You haven’t done it but
once. Who saw you then?”

“Why, nobody, so I’d have been willin’ to bet. I never see anybody
around. Lonesome’s all git out ’tis down there that time in the
mornin’. And dark, too. How Joe or anybody else knew I had Claribel
down there yesterday was more’n I could make out.”

“Well, never mind. It looks as if they did know. Did Ellis tell you
what time the mare made?”

“No. But he give me to understand that Seth Emmons, Baker’s man,
was figgerin’ to come over from Bayport and be somewheres in that
neighborhood to-morrer mornin’, and every mornin’, till he found out.
Joe wouldn’t tell me who told him, but he said ’twas a fact. Now what
had I better do? It’s the story ’round town that Rattler has made 2:20
or better and that the best Claribel can do is in the neighborhood of
2:35. If folks knew she’d made 2:18½ around that Circle Baker might
have Rattler took sick or somethin’ and the whole business would be
called off. I’ve known his horses to be took down in a hurry afore,
when he was toler’ble sure to lose. When you’re dealin’ with Sam Baker
you’re up against a slick article, and that man of his, Seth Emmons, is
just as up and comin’. I better not show up at that Circle to-morrow
mornin’, had I, Cap’n Foster?”

Townsend, hands in pockets, took a turn up and down the hall. His
horses were his pet hobbies. Besides the span of blacks which he was
accustomed to drive about town and which, with the nobby brougham or
carryall or dog-cart which they drew, were the admiration and boastful
pride of Harniss, he owned a half dozen racers. At the Ostable County
Fair and Cattle Show in October the Townsend entries usually carried
off the majority of first prizes. They were entered, also, at the
fair in New Bedford and sometimes as far away as Taunton. Between
fairs there were numbers of by-races with other horse owners in
neighboring towns. A good trotter was a joy to Foster Townsend and a
sharply contested trotting match his keenest enjoyment. The Townsend
trotters were as much talked about as the famous and long-drawn-out
Townsend-Cook lawsuit. The suit was won, or seemed to be. The highest
court in Massachusetts had recently decided it in Foster Townsend’s
favor. Bangs Cook’s lawyers were reported to have entered motion of
appeal and it was said that they intended carrying it to the Supreme
Court at Washington, but few believed their appeal would be granted.

Sam Baker was an old rival of his on the tracks. Baker was the hotel
keeper and livery man at Bayport, ten miles away. He was not accounted
rich, like Townsend, but he was well to do, a shrewd Yankee and a
“sport.” The trotter Rattler was a recent acquisition of his and a
fast one, so it was said. He had challenged Townsend’s mare Claribel
to a mile trot on the “Circle,” the track which Townsend had built
and presented to the town. It was a quarter mile round of hard clay
road constructed on the salt meadows near the beach at South Harniss.
A lonely spot with no houses near it, it was then. Now a summer hotel
and an array of cottages stand on or near it. Foster Townsend used it
as an exercise ground for his trotters, but any one else was accorded
the same privilege. In the winter, when the snow was packed hard, it
was the spot where the dashing young fellow in a smart cutter behind a
smart horse took his best girl for a ride and the hope of an impromptu
race with some other dashing young fellow similarly equipped.

Varunas Gifford watched his employer pace up and down the hall,
watched him adoringly but anxiously. After a moment he returned to
repeat his question.

“Better not be down to the Circle to-morrow mornin’, had I, Cap’n?” he
suggested.

Townsend stopped in his stride. “Yes,” he said, with decision. “I want
you to be there.”

“Eh? Why, good land! If that Seth Emmons is there spyin’ and keepin’
time on Claribel, why--”

“Sshh! Wait! I want you to be there, but I don’t want the mare to be
there. Is Hornet all right for a workout?”

“Sartin sure he’s all right. But Hornet can’t do better’n 2:40 if he
spreads himself, not on that Circle track anyhow. You ain’t cal’latin’
to haul out Claribel and put in Hornet, be you? There wouldn’t be no
sense in that, Cap’n, not a mite. Why--”

“Oh, be quiet! If he does 2:45 it will suit me just as well, provided
that is the best you can make him do. You say it’s dark down there at
six o’clock?”

“Dark enough, even if it’s a fine mornin’, this time of year. A mornin’
like to-day’s--yes, and the way it looks as if to-morrow’s would
be--it’s so dark you can’t much more’n see to keep in the road.”

“All right. The darker the better. If it’s dark to-morrow morning you
hitch Hornet in the gig and go down there and send him a mile as fast
as he can travel. He is the same build and size as Claribel, about, and
the same color.”

“Eh?... Gosh!” Varunas’ leathery face split with a broad grin.
“Yus--yus,” he observed, “I see what you’re up to, Cap’n Foster. You
figger that Sam Emmons’ll see me sendin’ Hornet around the Circle and
he’ll take it for granted--Eh! But no, I’m afraid ’twon’t be dark
enough for that. Hornet _is_ the same size and color as Claribel but
he ain’t marked the same. Claribel’s got that white splash between her
eyes and that white stockin’ on her left hind laig. Hornet he ain’t got
no white on him nowheres. If ’twas the middle of the night Sam might be
fooled, but--”

“Sshh! You’ve been whitewashing the henhouses this week, haven’t
you? And as the job isn’t finished, I imagine you’ve got some of the
whitewash left. If you have, and _if_ you’ve got any gumption at all,
I should think you could splash a horse white wherever he needed to
be white and do it well enough to fool anybody on a dark morning,
particularly if he wasn’t on the lookout for a trick. You could do that
on a pinch, couldn’t you?”

Mr. Gifford’s grin, which had disappeared, came back again, broader
than ever.

“I shouldn’t be surprised to death if I could,” he chuckled. “I
see--yus, yus, I see! Sam he’ll see Hornet all whitewashed up like a
cellar door and he won’t be suspicionin’ nothin’ but Claribel, and so
when Hornet can’t do no better than 2:40 or 2:45 he’ll naturally--Hi!
that’s cute, that is! Yes, yes, I see now.”

“Well, I’m glad you do. Go ahead and do your whitewashing. Whitewash
isn’t like paint, it comes off easy.”

From behind the closed door of the library a sharp voice called: “Cap’n
Townsend! Cap’n Townsend! Supper’s ready!”

Varunas started. “I must be goin’,” he whispered. “Don’t tell her about
it, Cap’n Foster, will ye. She’ll pester me to death to find out what’s
up and if I don’t tell her, she-- But say!” he added admiringly, “that
is about as slick a trick as ever I heard of, that whitewashin’ is. How
did you ever come to think that up all by yourself?”

Foster Townsend, his hand on the knob of the dining room door, grunted.

“I didn’t think it up all by myself,” he said, curtly. “There’s nothing
new about it. It’s an old trick, as old as horse racing. I remembered
it, that’s all, and I guess it is good enough to fool any of Sam
Baker’s gang. You can tell me to-morrow how it worked.”

He opened the door, crossed the library and sat down in his chair at
the lonely supper table. Nabby Gifford brought in the eatables and set
them before him.

“I made you a fish chowder to-night, Cap’n Foster,” she said. “I
know you always liked it and we ain’t had one for a long time. Ezra
Nickerson had some real nice tautog that his boy had just caught out by
the spar buoy and there’s no kind of fish makes as good chowder as a
tautog. Now I do hope you’ll eat some of it. You ain’t ate enough the
last week to keep a canary bird goin’. You’ll be sick fust thing you
know.”

Townsend dipped his spoon in the chowder and tasted approvingly.

“Good enough!” he declared. “Tastes like old times. Seems like old
times to have you waiting on table, too, Nabby. Mother always liked
your fish chowders.”

Mrs. Gifford nodded. “I know she did,” she agreed. “Time and time again
I’ve heard her say there was nobody could make a chowder like me.
Um-hum. Oh, well! We’re here to-day and to-morrow the place thereof
don’t know us, as it says in the Bible. Ah, hum-a-day!... Speakin’
of waitin’ on table,” she added, noting the expression on his face,
“I wanted to talk to you about that, Cap’n Townsend. There ain’t
any reasons why I shouldn’t do it all the time. You don’t need two
hired help in that kitchen now any more than a codfish needs wings.
Ellen, she and that Georgie D. of hers will be gettin’ married pretty
soon--leastways all hands says they will--and when she quits you
mustn’t hire anybody in her place. If I can’t get meals for one lone
man then I’d better be sent to the old woman’s home. You might just as
well let me do it, and save your money--not that you need to save any
more, land knows!”

Foster Townsend shook his head. “A pretty big house for one pair of
hands to take care of,” he observed. “When Ellen goes--or if she
goes--you better hire some one else, Nabby.”

“Now, Cap’n Foster, what’s the use? What for?”

“Because I want you to, for one reason.... There, there, Nabby! don’t
argue about it. I know what I’m doing. At any rate I guess I can spend
my own money, if I want to.”

“I guess you can. I don’t know who’s liable to stop you doin’ anything
you want to, far’s that goes. Nobody has done it yet, though there’s a
good many tried.... But while I’m talkin’ I might just as well talk a
little mite more. _I_ don’t see why you keep on livin’ in this great
ark of a place. ’Tain’t a bit of my business, but if _I_ was you I’d
sell--or rent it, or somethin’--and have a little house that I wouldn’t
get lost in every time I went upstairs.”

Her employer shook his head. “This is my house and I stay in it,” he
said, crisply.

“Well, if you will you will, of course. When you bark at a body that
way there ain’t a mite of use barkin’ back, I know that. And I realize
that you and--and her that’s gone had the best time in the world
buildin’ over this house and riggin’ it up. It’s just that I know how
lonesome you are--a blind person could see that.... Here, here! You
mustn’t get up from that table yet, Cap’n Foster. You’ve got to have
some more of my tautog chowder.”

“No. Had enough, Nabby.”

“My soul! Well, then you must have a helpin’ of baked indian puddin’. I
made it ’special, because I knew how you liked it. _Don’t_ tell me you
won’t touch that puddin’!”

“All right, all right. Bring it along. And I’ll have another cup of
tea, if you’ve got it.”

“Got it! I’ve got a gallon. That Varunas man of mine would drink a
hogshead of strong tea all to himself any time if I’d let him. I tell
him no wonder he’s all shriveled up like a wet leather apron.”

She disappeared into the kitchen to return, a moment later, with the
refilled cup. She was talking when she went out and talking when she
came back.

“You hadn’t ought to keep on livin’ in this house all alone,” she
declared, with emphasis. “I said it afore and now I say it again. It
ain’t natural to live that way. It ain’t good for man to be alone,
that’s what the Good Book says. Land sakes! afore I’d do that I’d--I’d
do the way the rich man in the--what-d’ye-call-it--parallel done.
I’d go out into the highways and byways and fetch in the lame and
the halt and the blind. Yes, indeed I would! I’d do it for company
and I wouldn’t care how halt they was, neither; they’d be better’n
nobody. Speakin’ about that parallel,” she added, reflectively. “I’ve
never been real sure just what ailed a person when he was a ‘halt.’
A horse--mercy knows I hear horse talk enough from Varunas!--has
somethin’ sometimes that’s called the ‘spring halt,’ but that, so he
tells me, is a kind of lameness. Now the parallel tells about the lame
_and_ the halt, so-- Good gracious! Why, you ain’t _through_, be you,
Cap’n Foster? You ain’t hardly touched your puddin’.”

The captain had risen and pushed back his chair. “I’ve eaten all I can
to-night, Nabby,” he said. “My appetite seems to have gone on a voyage
these days and left me ashore.... Humph! So you think I’d better have
somebody come and live here with me, do you? That’s funny.”

“Why is it funny? Sounds like sense to me.”

“It’s funny because I had just about made up my mind-- Oh, well, never
mind that, I’m going out pretty soon. If any one comes to see me you
can tell them I’ve gone.”

“Where shall I say you’ve gone?”

“If you don’t know you won’t have to say it.... Good-night.”

“Shall I tell Varunas to have the carriage and team ready for you?”

“No, I’m going to walk.”

“Walk! What’ll people think if they see _you_ out a-walkin’ on your own
feet like--like common folks? The idea!”

“Good-night. One thing more: If the minister comes tell him I’ll keep
up Bella’s subscription to the church the same as she did when she was
here--that is, for the present, anyhow. If he says anything about my
giving money toward the new steeple tell him I haven’t made up my mind
whether or not the steeple is going to be rebuilt. When I do I’ll let
him know.... That’s all, I guess.”

He went into the library, drawing the curtains with his own hands
this time. He glanced at the ornate marble and gold clock upon the
mantel, decided that it was too early for his contemplated walk, and
sank heavily into the leather chair. He picked up the paper from the
floor, adjusted his spectacles and attempted to read. The attempt was
a failure. Nothing in the closely printed pages aroused his interest
sufficiently to distract his thoughts from the empty rocker at the
other side of the table. He tossed the paper upon the floor again and
sat there, pulling at his beard and glancing impatiently at the clock.
Its gold plated hands crept from seven to seven-thirty and, at last, to
ten minutes to eight. Then he rose and moved toward the front hall.

In that hall he took from the carved walnut hatstand a long ulster and
a black soft hat. He had donned the ulster and was about to put on the
hat when he heard Mrs. Gifford’s step in the library. She was calling
his name.

“Well, here I am,” he answered, impatiently. “Now what?”

Nabby was out of breath, and this, together with the consciousness of
the importance of her errand, did not help her toward coherence.

“I--I’m awful sorry to stop you, Cap’n Foster,” she panted, “and--and
of course I know you didn’t want to see nobody to-night. But--but he
said ’twas serious and he’d come all the way from Trumet a-purpose--and
it’s rainin’ like all fire, too--and bein’ as _’twas_ him, I--well, you
see, I just didn’t know’s I’d ought to say no--so--”

Townsend interrupted. “Who is it?” he demanded.

Nabby’s tone was awe-stricken. “It’s Honorable Mooney,” she whispered.
“Representive Mooney, that’s who ’tis. He’s drove all the way from
Trumet, rain and all, to see you, Cap’n Foster, and he says it’s
dreadful important. If it had been any one else I wouldn’t have let him
in, but honest, when I see him standin’ on the steps to the side door,
lookin’ just as big and--and noble as he done when Varunas took me to
that Republican rally and he made such a grand speech, I--well, I--”

Again her employer broke in.

“You _have_ let him in, I take it,” he said, curtly. “And of course you
told him _I_ was in.... Well, I’ll give him five minutes. Send him into
the sitting-room.”

The Honorable Alpheus Mooney was a young man serving his first term in
the Massachusetts Legislature as Representative for the Ostable County
district. He was extremely anxious to continue his service there, had
been renominated and was now facing the ordeal of the election which
would take place early in November. His manner as he entered the
library was a curious mixture of importance, deference and a slight
uneasiness.

“How do you do, Cap’n Townsend?” he gushed, changing his hat from his
right hand to his left and extending the former. “How do you do, sir?”

He seized the Townsend hand and shook it heartily. The captain endured
the shaking rather than shared in it. He did not ask his caller to be
seated.

“How are you, Mooney?” he said. “Well, what brought you over here this
wet night?”

Mr. Mooney sat without waiting for an invitation. He placed his hat
upon the floor, clasped his hands in his lap, unclasped them again,
crossed his knees, cleared his throat, and agreed that the evening was
a wet one. Townsend, still standing, thrust his own hands into his
trousers pockets.

“Well, what’s the matter?” he asked, dismissing the subject of the
weather.

Mooney once more cleared his throat. “Oh--er--oh, nothing in
particular, Cap’n,” he said. “Nothing much. I was over here in Harniss
and--and I thought I would drop in for a minute, that’s all. I haven’t
seen you since your--er--sad loss--and I--er--I can’t tell you how
sorry I was to learn of your bereavement. It was a great shock to me,
a dreadful shock.”

Townsend’s face was quite expressionless. “All right,” he observed.
“Nabby said you wanted to see me about something important. Well?”

“Well--well, I--er--I did. Not so very important, perhaps--but ... you
were going out, weren’t you, Cap’n Townsend?”

“Yes. I am going out in five minutes. Perhaps a little less.”

“I wouldn’t think of keeping you, Cap’n, of course not.”

“All right.”

“Cap’n Townsend, I--er--well, I am going to be--I am going to speak
right out, as man to man. I know you would rather have me speak that
way.”

Townsend nodded. “There aren’t any women here, as I know of,” he
agreed. “Go ahead and speak.”

“Yes.” Mr. Mooney seemed to find the “man to man” speaking difficult.
“Well,” he began, “it has come to my ears--far be it from me to say it
is true; I don’t believe it is, Cap’n Townsend--but I have _heard_ that
you weren’t so very--well, anxious to see me reëlected Representative.
I have heard stories that you said you didn’t care whether they
reëlected me or not. Now, as I say, I don’t believe you ever said
anything of the kind. In fact, I as good as know you didn’t.”

He paused and looked up eagerly, seeking confirmation of the expressed
disbelief. The Townsend face was still quite expressionless, nor was
the reply altogether satisfactory.

“All right,” said the captain again. “If you know it, then you don’t
need to worry, do you?”

“No. No-o; but--you haven’t said any such thing, have you, Cap’n
Townsend?”

Townsend did not answer the question. He regarded his visitor with a
disquieting lack of interest.

“_I_ was given to understand that you said you were as good as
reëlected already,” he observed. “If you said that, and believe it,
then what I said or what anybody else said isn’t worth fretting about,
let alone cruising twelve miles in a rainstorm to find out about.”

“Well, but, Cap’n Townsend--”

“Heave to a minute. See here, Mooney, you’ve got the Republican
nomination.”

“Yes. Of course I have, but--”

“Wait. And there hasn’t been a Democratic Representative from this
district at the state house since the sixties, has there?”

“No, but--”

“All right. Then you don’t need to talk to me. If you’re a Republican,
ready to vote every time with your party and for the district, you are
safe enough. Especially,” with a slight twitch of the lip, “when you
say yourself you’re as good as reëlected.”

This, perhaps, should have been reassuring, but apparently it was not.
The Honorable Mr. Mooney shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he admitted. “That’s all right, so far as it
goes.... But, Cap’n Townsend, I--well, I know you aren’t as--well,
as strong for me as you were when I ran before. You thought, I
suppose--like a good many other folks who didn’t know--that I ought to
have voted for that cranberry bill. You, nor they, didn’t understand
about that bill. That bill--well, it read all right enough, but--well,
there was more to it than just reading. There were influences behind
that bill that I didn’t like, that’s all. No honest man _could_ like
them.”

“Um-hum. I see. Well, what was it that honest men like you didn’t like
about that bill? I was one of those ‘influences,’ behind it, I guess.
It protected the cranberry growers of the Cape, didn’t it? Looked out
for their interests pretty well? I thought it did, and I read it before
you ever saw it.”

“Yes. Yes, it protected them all right. But there are other sections
than the Cape, Cap’n Townsend. They’re beginning to raise cranberries
up around Plymouth and--and--”

“I know. And there are influences up there, too. Well, what has that
cranberry bill got to do with you? You didn’t vote against it. Of
course you told me and a few others, before you were elected the first
time, that you would vote _for_ it, but you didn’t do that, either.
You weren’t in the House when that bill came up to a vote. You’d gone
fishing, I understand.”

Mr. Mooney was indignant. “No such thing;” he declared, springing to
his feet. “I hadn’t gone fishing. I was sick. That’s what I was--sick.”

“Yes?” dryly. “Well, some of the rest of us were sick when we heard
about it. Never mind that. The bill was defeated. Of course,” he added,
after a momentary interval, “it may come up again this session and Jim
Needham, the Democratic candidate, says he shall vote for it, provided
he’s elected. But you say you’re going to be elected, so what he may or
may not do won’t make any difference.... There! my five minutes are up,
and more than up. I’ve got to go. Honest men are scarce in politics,
Mooney. Maybe all hands around here will remember that on election day
and forget their cranberry swamps. Maybe they will. Sorry I’ve got to
hurry. Good-night.”

He was on his way to the hall door, but his visitor hurried after him
and caught his arm.

“Hold on, Cap’n Townsend,” he begged. “Hold on just a minute. I--I came
here to tell you that--that I’d changed my mind about that bill. I--I’m
going to vote for it. Yes, and I am going to work for it, too.”

“Oh!... Well, speaking as one of those ‘influences’ you were talking
about, I’m glad to hear you say so, of course. But you said so before.
What makes you change your mind this time--change it back again, I
mean? Has that honesty of yours had a relapse?”

The Honorable Mooney ignored the sarcasm. He had journeyed from Trumet
in the rain to say one thing in particular and now he said it.

“Cap’n Townsend,” he pleaded desperately, “you aren’t going to use your
influence against me, are you? There’s no use beating around the bush.
Everybody that knows anything knows that a word from you will change
more votes than anybody else’s in the county. If you say you’re going
to vote for Needham--well, this is a four to one Republican district,
but I guess you can lick me if you want to. You won’t do that, will
you? I’m going to work hard to get that cranberry bill through the
House; honest, I am. I was a fool last session. I realize it now. If
that bill can be shoved through I’ll help do it. That’s the honest
God’s truth.”

Foster Townsend regarded him in silence. Mooney’s eyes met the grim
intentness of the gaze for a moment, then faltered and fell. The
Townsend lip twitched.

“You’re goin’ to make a speech here in Harniss sometime this week,
aren’t you?” the captain asked.

“Yes. Next week, Tuesday night, at the town hall.”

“Um-hum. Going to say anything about that cranberry bill?”

“Yes, yes, I am. I am going to come out for it hard. I am going to tell
everybody that I was wrong about it, that I’ve seen my mistake and they
can count on me as being strong for it. That’s what I am going to tell
them.... Say,” he added, eagerly, “I’ve got my speech all written out.
It’s in my pocket now. Don’t you want to read it, Cap’n? I brought it
hoping you would.”

Townsend shook his head.

“I can wait until Tuesday, I guess,” he replied. “I was planning to
go to the rally. I’ll be there, along with some more of the dishonest
influences. They will all want to hear you.”

“And you won’t work against me, Cap’n Townsend? I can’t tell you how
sorry I am about--about this whole business.”

“Never mind. You can tell it all at the rally. It ought to be
interesting to hear and, if it is interesting enough, it may bring
some votes into port that have been hanging in the wind. I can’t say
for sure, but it may.... There! I can’t spare any more time just
now.... Nabby!” raising his voice. “Nabby!”

Mrs. Gifford appeared between the curtains. Her employer waved a hand
toward his visitor.

“Nabby,” he said, “just see that Mr. Mooney finds his way out to his
buggy, will you.... Good-night, Mooney.”

The honorable representative of an ungrateful constituency, thus
unceremoniously dismissed, followed Mrs. Gifford to the dining room and
from there to the side entrance to the mansion. Foster Townsend watched
him go. Then he shrugged, sniffed disgustedly, and, pulling the soft
hat down upon his forehead, strode through the hall, stopped to take an
umbrella from the rack, and stepped out through the front door into the
rainy blackness of the night.

The few who met and recognized him as he tramped the muddy sidewalks
bowed reverentially and then stopped to stare. For Captain Foster
Townsend, greatest among Ostable County’s great men, to be walking on
an evening such as this--walking, instead of riding in state behind his
span of blacks--was an unheard-of departure from the ordinary. Why was
he doing it? Where was he bound? What important happenings hung upon
his footsteps?

They could not guess, nor could their wives or sons and daughters when
the story was told them. They were right, however, when they surmised
that the magnate’s errand must be freighted with importance. It
was--vastly important to him and no less so to the members of another
household in the village of Harniss.




CHAPTER II


In the Harniss post office Reliance Clark was sorting the evening
mail. The post office was a small building on the Main Road. It sat
back fifteen or twenty feet from that road and a white picket fence
separated the Clark property from the strip of sidewalk before it. A
boardwalk, some of its boards in the last stages of bearability, led
from the gap in that fence to the door. Over the door a sign, black
letters on a white ground, displayed the words “POST OFFICE.” On the
inner side of that door was a room of perhaps fifteen by ten feet,
lighted in the daytime by two windows and at night by three kerosene
lamps in brackets. There was a settee at either end of the room, a
stove in the middle, and a wooden box filled with beach sand beside
the stove. The plastered walls were covered with handbills and printed
placards. The advertisement of the most recent entertainment at the
town hall, that furnished by “Professor Megenti, the World Famous
Ventriloquist and Necromancer,” was prominently displayed, partially
obscuring the broadside of “The Spalding Bell Ringers” who had visited
Harniss two weeks earlier. Beneath these were other announcements
still more passé, dating back even as far as the red, white and blue
placards of the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia in ’76. The room
was crowded with men and boys, dressed as befitted the weather, and the
atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke and the smells of wet clothing,
fishy oilskins and damp humanity.

Across the side of the room opposite the door was a wooden partition,
divided by another door into two sections. On the left was a glass
showcase displaying boxes of stick candy, spools of thread, papers of
pins and needles, and various oddments of the sort known as “Notions.”
Behind the showcase was standing room for the person who waited upon
purchasers of these; behind this a blank wall.

At the right of the door, and extending from floor to ceiling, was a
wooden frame of letter boxes with a sliding, ground-glass window in the
center. This window was closed while the mail was in process of sorting
and opened when it was ready for distribution. In the apartment on the
inner side of the letter boxes and window, an apartment little bigger
than a good-sized closet, Reliance Clark, postmistress of the village
of Harniss, was busy, and Millard Fillmore Clark, her half-brother, was
making his usual pretense of being so.

Reliance was plump, quick-moving, sharp-eyed. Her hair had scarcely a
trace of gray, although she was nearly fifty. The emptied leather mail
bag was on the floor by her feet, packages of first and second class
mail matter lay upon the pine counter before her and her fingers flew
as she shot each letter or postal into the box rented by the person
whose name she read.

Millard Fillmore Clark was older by five years. He was short, thin
and inclined to be round-shouldered. He was supposed to be sorting
also, but his fingers did not fly. They lingered over each envelope
or post card they touched. Certain of the envelopes he held, after
a precautionary glance at his half-sister, between his eyes and the
hanging lamp, and the postal cards he invariably read.

“Humph! Sho!” he muttered aloud, after one such reading. Reliance heard
him and turned.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s the matter now?”

Millard, who had spoken without being aware of it, looked guilty.

“Why, nothin’ special,” he answered, hurriedly. “I just-- Humph! Seems
that Peter Eldridge’s wife’s nephew has had another baby. That’s news,
ain’t it!”

Reliance sniffed.

“Yes, I should say it was,” she observed, dryly, “if it was the way you
put it. His wife’s niece, you mean, I suppose.”

“Well, it’s his wife’s nephew’s wife. That’s the same thing, ain’t it.
He’s the one that married the girl from up to Middleboro. Simpson--or
Simpkins--seems to me her name was, as I recollect. She--”

“Mil Clark, you put that postal in the box where it belongs. This mail
is late enough already and I don’t want to stay out here in this office
all night. If you would only mind your own business as well as you do
everybody else’s you’d be the smartest man in this town, which--”

She did not finish the sentence. Mr. Clark regarded her suspiciously.

“Well, which what?” he demanded, after a momentary pause. “Which what?
What was you goin’ to say?”

“Nothin’ in particular. Go to work and stop talkin’.”

“I know what you was goin’ to say. You’ve said it too many times afore.
I’m gettin’ sick of havin’ it hove up to me, too. Just about sick of
it, I am. A man can stand about so much and then he gets desperate.
He don’t care what he does to himself. Some of these days you’ll be
surprised, Reliance Clark--you and Esther and all the rest of ’em.”

His sister did not seem greatly alarmed.

“Um-hum,” she sniffed. “Well, just now you can surprise me by doin’
your share of this mail sortin’.... Oh, my soul and body!” she added,
snatching the postal from his hand. “Either go to work or get out of my
way, one or the other. Go out in the back room and sit down. You can
_sit down_ as well as anybody I ever saw.”

Millard Fillmore did not accept the suggestion. With the expression of
a martyr he proceeded to cut the twine binding the bundles of papers
and second class matter, muttering to himself and shaking his head as
he did so. The contents of the bundles followed the letters and postals
into the boxes. At last Reliance heaved a sigh of relief.

“There!” she exclaimed. “That’s done. Open the window.”

Mr. Clark slid back the ground-glass window. An eager crowd was
standing at the other side of the partition. Millard faced his
fellow-citizens with an air of importance. This was the part of the
post-office routine which he liked.

“All right!” he announced, briskly. “Now then! Cap’n Snow’s first. Yes,
sir! here you are. Quite a bunch of mail you’ve got this evenin’. All
right, Hamilton, you’re next ... just a minute, Mr. Doane; I’ll attend
to you in a jiffy.... Now, now, you boy! you hold on; you take your
turn. No use shovin’, you won’t get it any sooner. This business has to
be done systematic.”

The group before the window thinned as its members received their
shares of the mail matter. Some departed immediately, others lingered
to open envelopes or for a final chat. Suddenly there was a stir and
a turning of heads toward the door. Some one had entered, some one of
importance. There was a buzz of respectful greeting.

“Why, good evening, Cap’n Townsend!”... “How d’ye do, Cap’n?”... “Kind
of bad night to be out in, ain’t it? Yes, ’tis.”

The salutations in general were of this kind. There were a few, and
these from persons of consequence, which were more familiar. Judge
Wixon said “Good evening, Foster,” and paused to shake hands, but even
he was not in the least flippant. The Reverend Mr. Colton, minister of
the old First Church, was most cordial, even anxiously so. “I stopped
at your door, Captain Townsend,” he began, “but Mrs. Gifford told me--I
gathered from what she said--”

The great man broke in. “Yes, all right, Colton,” he said. “I’ll see
you pretty soon. I haven’t made up my mind yet. To-morrow or next day,
maybe. Hello, Ben! Evening, Paine.”

He moved forward to the window, those before him making way for his
passing. Millard Fillmore Clark’s bow was a picture, his urbanity a
marvel. He brushed aside a lad who was clamoring for the copy of the
Cape Cod _Item_ in the family box and addressed the distinguished
patron of the postal service.

“Good evenin’, Cap’n Townsend,” he gushed, “Yes, _sir_! I’ve got your
mail all ready for you. It’s such a mean night I didn’t hardly expect
you’d come for it yourself, but I had it all laid out cal’latin’ if
Vaninas showed up, I’d--Eh? Oh, yes, here ’tis! There’s consider’ble of
it, same as there generally is. Yes, indeed!”

Foster Townsend paid no attention to the flow of language. He took
the packet of letters and papers and thrust it into the pocket of his
ulster, and, pushing the speaker unceremoniously out of the way, leaned
through the window and addressed the postmistress.

“Reliance,” he said.

Miss Clark, already tidying up the little room preparatory to closing
for the night, looked over her shoulder.

“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”

“Come here a minute. I want to speak to you.”

Reliance finished brushing the counter before she complied. Then,
pushing her half-brother a little farther from the window, she stepped
to the place he had occupied. Millard accepted the push with as much
dignity as was possible under the circumstances. It was no novelty; he
was pushed out of some one’s way at least a dozen times a day.

“Well?” queried Reliance, briskly. Her tone in addressing Ostable
County’s first citizen was precisely that which she used when
addressing others less consequential. Of the two, it was Foster
Townsend who seemed embarrassed, and embarrassment was not usual with
him.

“Is--is that niece of yours in the house?” he asked.

For just an instant Reliance hesitated. She was regarding him intently.

“I suppose likely she is,” she said. “Why?”

“Hasn’t gone to bed, has she?”

“She usually sits up till I come in.”

“Um.... How much longer will you be out here in the office?”

“I expect to lock up at nine, same as I usually do.”

“I see. Going into the house then, aren’t you?”

“I certainly am. I don’t expect to go out walkin’ in a pourin’ down
rainstorm like this one.”

Townsend’s embarrassment seemed to increase. He pulled at his beard.

“Well,” he said, “I--I want to have a talk with the girl and--er----”

Again he paused. Reliance, her gaze fixed upon his face, broke in.

“What’s that?” she asked, sharply. “Do you mean to say you want to talk
with _her_--with Esther?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve got something to say to her, something rather
important. I want you to be there when I say it. I’ll wait and go into
the house with you when you’re ready. That is, if it’s all right.”

Another momentary pause. Then Miss Clark nodded.

“No reason why it shouldn’t be all right,” she said. “You better come
into the shop and wait.... Be still, Millard! Here, you let Cap’n
Townsend through into the shop and light the lamp there. Yes, and when
you’ve done it you come straight back and help me sweep up. Bring the
broom with you. Hurry now!”

Mr. Clark, whose eager ears had been strained to catch this
conversation, hastened to unlock the door between the post-office
waiting-room and the official quarters. He ushered the visitor into
the large apartment at the rear of the building--or would have done
so if the said visitor had not pushed him aside and gone in first.
About this room were stands displaying finished hats and bonnets.
Others, but partially finished, lay about upon tables and chairs. In
the room also were two sewing-machines, workbaskets, scraps of ribbons
and cloth, spools of thread, and the general disorder of the workroom
of a millinery shop. Reliance Clark was the town milliner as well as
its postmistress. “I and Esther and Mil have to live on somethin’,”
Reliance had more than once told Abbie Makepeace, the middle-aged
spinster who was her partner in the millinery business, “and what
Uncle Sam pays me for sortin’ letters is nothin’, or next door to it.”

Millard Fillmore, agog with excitement, pulled forward a chair,
carefully wiping its seat with a soiled handkerchief, and Foster
Townsend sat down. Mr. Clark cleared his throat and offered apologies.

“We don’t usually look so--so sort of messed up out here, Cap’n
Foster,” he explained; “but the mail’s been so extry heavy
lately--election day comin’ and all--that we ain’t neither of us had
hardly a minute to spare.... It ain’t any of my business, Cap’n,” he
added, lowering his voice, “but did I understand you to say you’d come
here to-night to see--to see--Esther? I wasn’t quite sure as I heard it
straight, but--”

From the adjoining room his sister’s voice issued an order. “Bring that
broom,” she commanded.

Mr. Clark hesitated.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Cap’n Foster,” he explained.
“You see, there’s a little too much work for Reliance to handle, and
she--yes, yes, I’m comin’, Reliance. Heavens and earth! can’t you wait
a _minute_?”

He took the broom from the corner and joined his sister. Foster
Townsend, left alone, crossed his knees and leaned back in the chair.

At eight fifty-nine Miss Clark extinguished the bracket lamps in
the waiting-room and locked the front door. A half minute later she
appeared in the workshop, threw a black cloth waterproof over her
shoulders and turned to her caller.

“All ready,” she announced. “Millard, put out that light.”

The trio emerged from the side entrance of the building just as the
clock presented to the First Church by the late Arabella Townsend
struck the hour. It was still raining heavily. They followed a path
across a small yard and stood beneath a latticed portico covered with
honeysuckle, the dry tendrils of the latter rattling as the rain fell
upon them. Reliance opened the door beneath the lattice and they
stepped into a tiny sitting-room. By a table, with a paper-shaded lamp
upon it, a girl of seventeen was sitting, reading a public library
book. She turned as Miss Clark and her brother entered, but when the
bulky figure of Foster Townsend came through the doorway she rose,
an expression of astonishment upon her pretty face. She was Esther
Townsend, daughter of Freeling Townsend, Foster Townsend’s much younger
brother, and Eunice, his wife. Freeling Townsend died in eighteen
sixty-nine. Eunice, Millard Clark’s own sister and half-sister to
Reliance, died five years later. Esther had lived with the Clarks ever
since. And during that time not once, until this evening, had her
father’s brother come to that house. She stood and gazed, but she did
not speak.

Characteristically it was Millard Fillmore who broke the silence and,
just as characteristically, it was Reliance who interrupted him.

“Esther,” began Mr. Clark, with bustling importance, “don’t you see
you’ve got a caller? Can’t you say good evenin’? Take off your things,
Cap’n Foster. Here! let me help you with your coat. Esther, can’t you
see he’s holdin’ his umbrella? Don’t stand there gawpin’. Get--”

And here Reliance broke in. “Millard,” she ordered, “be still! Yes,
you’d better take off your coat, Foster; that is, if you’re goin’ to
stay any time. It’s warm in here. Esther usually has this house hot
enough to roast a Sunday dinner. Esther, get him a chair.”

The girl brought forward the rocker she had been sitting in. Townsend
pulled off his ulster and handed it and his hat and umbrella to Mr.
Clark who was obsequiously waiting to receive them. He lowered himself
into the rocker. Then he turned to the others.

“You better sit down, all of you,” he said. “What I’ve got to say may
take a little time. Sit down, Reliance. Sit down, Esther.”

Mr. Clark’s name was not included in the invitation, but he was the
first to sit. Esther took a chair at the other side of the table.
Reliance was shaking out her waterproof.

“Sit down, Reliance,” repeated Townsend. Miss Clark’s reply was
promptly given.

“I intend to, soon as I’m ready,” she declared, with some tartness.

The caller looked up at her. “Reliance,” he observed, with a grim
smile, “you don’t change much. When you were a girl I remember you used
to say ‘Black’ whenever anybody else said ‘White.’ Well, independence
is a good thing, if you can afford it.”

Reliance, having arranged the waterproof to her satisfaction, hung it
on a hook by the door. She drew forward a chair from the wall.

“I’ve managed to scratch along on it so far,” she announced, placing
herself in the chair. “Well, what is it you’ve come to this house for,
after all these years, Foster Townsend?”

Townsend was looking at his niece, not at her. And it was the niece
whom he addressed.

“Esther,” he said, after a moment, “how long has it been since your
father died?”

The girl met his keen gaze for an instant, then looked down at the book
upon the table.

“Ten years,” she said. Her tone was not too cordial. This rich uncle
of hers had been a sort of bugbear in her family. Her father never
mentioned his name while he lived and, although her mother had
mentioned it often enough, it was only to call its owner a selfish,
proud, wicked, stubborn man. When their daughter and Foster Townsend
met on the street he sometimes acknowledged the meeting with a nod and
sometimes not. His wife had been quite different; she always sent the
girl presents at Christmas and was kindly gracious. Esther would have
liked her, or would have liked to like her. And she envied her, of
course; every female in Harniss did that. She envied Foster Townsend,
too, but she was far from liking him.

He repeated her words. “Ten years, eh?” he observed, meditatively.
“Humph! is it possible! It doesn’t seem so long--yet, of course it is.
And the last time I was in this house was at his funeral. No wonder
you’re surprised to see me here now. I’m surprised, myself, to be
here.... You’re surprised, too, aren’t you, Reliance?”

Millard hastened to declare that he was, but was awful glad, of course.
His sister’s reply was a surprise in itself.

“I don’t know that I am, altogether,” she said. “I’ve been rather
expectin’ you, if you want to know.”

Townsend swung about in the rocker. “You have!” he exclaimed, sharply.
“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean what I say. I don’t _know_ what you’ve come for, but I might
guess, maybe. Most of us have got a conscience somewheres on the
premises, even if some of us have kept it packed away up-attic so long
we’ve pretty nigh forgot it.”

The captain regarded her with what appeared to be sincere, if somewhat
grudging, admiration. “You’re a smart woman, Reliance Clark,” he
declared. “Yes, you are! If Freeling had had sense enough to pick
you out instead of-- Well, well! there’s no use wasting breath about
that.... You say you’ve guessed what I’ve come here for. If you have
perhaps Esther hasn’t. I’m going to make her a proposition. I don’t
expect her to answer it, one way or the other, to-night. I want to make
it; then I want her and you, Reliance, to think it over and talk it
over between you. When you’ve done that you can say yes or no. Esther,”
turning to the girl once more, “how would you like to come up to my
house and live with me?”

The question, thus bluntly put, had a varied effect upon his listeners.
Millard Clark’s eyes and mouth opened and he gasped audibly. His
half-sister nodded two or three times, as if with satisfaction at
finding her suspicions confirmed. Esther gazed at the speaker in mute
bewilderment. Townsend looked from one to the other and smiled.

“So you had guessed right, had you, Reliance,” he observed. “Well,
whether you had or not, there it is. I am lonesome in that big house
of mine, lonesome as the devil. I don’t suppose I’m what you’d call
a sentimental man; I try to use my common sense and face what can’t
be helped in a sensible way, but since Mother died I’m lonesome. For
the last week I’ve been making up my mind what to do. I might travel,
I suppose, but when I went to sea I cruised a whole lot and there
wouldn’t be much that was new to look at and no satisfaction in looking
at it alone. And I’d rather stay at home, anyhow. This is my town. I
helped to make it grow and I’m more interested in it, and the folks in
and around it, than I am in anything else. I might move out of my house
to a smaller one, but I won’t. Mother and I built that house together.
She thought the world of it and so do I. She lived in it till she died
and that’s what I want to do. But I’d rather not live in it by myself.
I want somebody to talk to and to talk to me, and I’d rather have a
Townsend than anybody else. So I thought of Esther. If she wants to,
she can move up there and call it home. I’ll look out for her and be as
decent as I can to her. She can have all the things she wants--things
she can’t have now--and all the money she wants--all I think it good
for her to have, anyhow. What I’m trying to say is,” he added, with
deliberate emphasis, “that, if you, Esther, come to live with me you’ll
be the same as my daughter. And when I’m dead you’ll have what I
have.... That’s the proposition--or part of it.”

The last sentence of his long speech was delivered with the snap of
finality. The speaker leaned back in the rocker, extended his legs in
order to more easily get at his trousers pockets, thrust his hands into
those pockets, and looked at his niece, then at Reliance and then back
at Esther. He did not look at Mr. Clark; the latter might have been
one of the pair of crockery lambs on the mantel as far as receiving
attention was concerned.

Yet it was Millard who broke the silence.

“Well--I _vow_!” he exclaimed, fervently.

His sister put him back in place just as she might have replaced one of
the lambs. “Hush, Millard!” she ordered. “Wait, Esther!... So that’s
only part of your proposition, is it?” she asked, addressing Townsend.
“And what’s the other part?”

The great man jingled the change in his pocket. “It’s just this,” he
replied. “I realize, of course, that Esther has been here with you,
Reliance, so long that you’re about the same as a mother to her. She
would miss you--at first, anyhow--and, for the matter of that, I
suppose she ought to have a woman to talk to. I never had a girl of my
own to bring up, or a boy either, so far as that goes--I wish to God
I had--and there are some things a woman can advise her about better
than a man. If I didn’t know you had sense, Reliance--as well as the
stubbornness of a balky horse--I shouldn’t think of saying what I am
going to say. I want you to shut up this house here. It is mine and I
can sell it, I guess; or rent it, anyhow. And if I can’t do either I
can afford to let it stand empty. Shut it up and come along with Esther
to my place. There’s room enough there, too much room. I’ll make a home
for you and pay your bills. Yes, and I’ll guarantee you’ll be more
comfortable there, and have less care, than you ever had in your life.
That’s the other half of my offer. Think it over.”

During this blunt statement of an astonishing proposal the face
of Millard Fillmore Clark might have been worth looking at, had
any one dreamed of doing such a thing. At first it had expressed
eagerness and overwhelming curiosity. Then, when Foster Townsend
extended the invitation--or delivered the command, for it was quite
as much an order as a request--to his half-sister, the curiosity was
superseded by joyful excitement. And now, when the speech from the
rocking-chair throne had ended without mention of his own name, or even
acknowledgment of his connection with the household, all symptoms of
the aforementioned emotions were superseded by those of anxiety and
alarmed indignation.

“Here! hold on!” he protested, springing to his feet. “What’s that
you’re sayin’, Cap’n Foster? You’re cal’latin’ to take Reliance
and--and Esther to--to live along with you and--and--” Reliance lifted
a hand. “Ssh!” she said.

“No, I won’t ssh neither! He--he says he wants to--to take you and her
away and shut up this house and--and-- What about _me_?” his voice
rising to a falsetto. “Where am _I_ goin’? Eh! Who’s goin’ to--”

Townsend, even then, did not take the trouble to turn and look at him,
but he did speak over his shoulder. “All right, all right,” he broke
in, with careless contempt. “You can come, too. There’ll be a room for
you and Varunas can find something for you to do around the stables,
I guess. You’ll be looked after, don’t worry. Have to take the tail
with the hide, I realize that,” he added, philosophically. “... Well,
Esther,” turning to his niece, “how does it sound to you, now you’ve
heard the whole of it?”

The girl, thus addressed, looked at him in faltering hesitancy. She
turned to her aunt as if seeking the latter’s help in a situation too
hopelessly impossible to be met without it.

“Well?” repeated her uncle.

Esther looked at Reliance, but the latter was looking at the captain,
not at her. The girl turned back, to meet the searching scrutiny of the
eyes beneath the heavy brows. The look in those eyes was not unkindly,
in fact, it was the opposite, but she was frightened. This was the man
who had quarreled with her father, whose prideful arrogant self-will
was responsible, so Eunice Townsend had always declared, for the
poverty and privation of their lives since his death. This was the man
she had been taught to hate. And now he was bidding her come to live
with him! She couldn’t do such a thing--of course she couldn’t--and
yet, if her aunt came also, she--even then she was beginning to realize
a little of the marvelous possibilities of that invitation.

The look in her uncle’s eyes was still kindly, but insistent. He
had asked a question and he was expecting an answer. She must say
something. She caught her breath, almost with a sob.

“Oh, oh, I don’t know!” she cried, desperately. “I don’t know! It
doesn’t seem as if--but--oh, please don’t ask me--not now! I don’t know
what to say.”

Townsend nodded. “Of course you don’t,” he agreed. “I didn’t expect you
to say yes or no now, to-night. I was wondering how the idea sounded
to you, that’s all. You and Reliance think it over and talk it over
together and when you’ve made up your mind let me know. To-morrow--yes,
or the next day--will be time enough. There’s no particular hurry.”

He rose from the rocker and took his hat and coat from the side table
where Millard had reverently laid them. Mr. Clark sprang to help with
the ulster, but he and his proffered assistance were ignored, as usual.

“There’s just one thing more that maybe I ought to say,” the captain
added, turning to Reliance, who had risen when he did. “And that is
this: She,” with a jerk of the head in Esther’s direction, “doesn’t
understand yet all this proposition is liable to mean. If she comes
to be with me, and we get along all right and I like her, she’ll be
what I said before, just the same as my daughter. If she wants to go
away to boarding school she can go, I guess; I’ll decide that later
on. She’s got a good voice, they tell me. Everybody says she sings
pretty well and that she could sing better if she was learned how by
somebody that knew. Well, I’ll see that she _is_ learned. I’ve got a
good piano up at the house. At least I suppose it’s good; it was the
best I could buy and I paid enough for it. Mother used to pick at it a
little, but she always said it was a pity it wasn’t used more. Esther
can use it all she wants to. I don’t know anything about music. I never
had much use for a man who fooled with pianos and fiddles; fact is, I
never considered that kind of fellow a man at all. But I haven’t any
objections to a woman’s fooling with ’em. There’s the piano and there’s
the music teacher, or there can be one as well as not. Think of that,
too, while you are thinking.... I guess that’s all. Good-night.”

He picked up his umbrella and strode to the door. Reliance spoke once
more.

“Just a minute,” she said. “Maybe it isn’t quite all. I can see what
you mean to do for Esther and perhaps I can see a little of what
Millard will have to do. But where do I come in? What will _I_ do up in
that twenty-odd room house of yours, Foster Townsend? You don’t expect
_me_ to play your piano, do you?”

He laughed, laughed aloud, something which he seldom did.

“No,” he said, “I don’t expect that, Reliance. I don’t care what you
do. You can do nothing, if you want to. Or you can be my housekeeper,
if that suits you better. Mother kept house the way it ought to be kept
and she has told me more than once that you were about the only other
woman she ever ran across who was as particular as she was. You can
boss Nabby and whatever hired help we have, and run things to please
yourself--provided they please me, too. That is fair, isn’t it?”

Miss Clark nodded grimly. “Maybe so,” she observed. “We won’t argue
about it to-night. There’s one other thing, though, that I guess you’ve
forgot. I’m postmistress here in Harniss. I run a milliner shop, too,
but that is my own, or two-thirds of it is, and I can do what I like
with it. But the post office is different. Do you expect me to walk out
of that office and leave a note for Uncle Sam sayin’ ‘You and the mail
can go to Jericho. I’ve gone to Foster Townsend’s!’ Do you expect me to
do that?”

Townsend laughed again. He seemed in far better spirits than when he
entered that sitting-room.

“Not exactly--no,” he replied. “As for the post office,--well, who had
you made postmistress in the first place?”

Miss Clark stared at him. “Who had me made postmistress?” she repeated.
“Why, the U.S. government appointed me, if that’s what you mean. And
that was nine years ago. What do you ask such a question as that for?”

“I’ll ask you another one. When Sylvanus Oaks died you sent in a
petition asking for his job, didn’t you?... Oh, never mind! I know you
did, and so did Frank Parker and Reuben Hatch and a couple more. Why do
you suppose the government people picked you out instead of one of the
others? Their petitions were as long as yours. Well, I’ll tell you. It
was because I told them to.”

She was surprised now, there was no doubt of that. “You told ’em!” she
repeated, sharply. “_You_ did! Why, you didn’t even sign my petition.
Not that I asked you to sign it. I didn’t.”

“No. I wondered if you were going to, but you were your own pig-headed
self and didn’t bring it near me. But I didn’t sign any one else’s
either; you know that.”

“I don’t know it. I never cared enough to find out.”

“No?” with a chuckle. “Well, you know it now. What you haven’t known
all this time is that I wrote to a friend of mine who was in Congress
from this district and told him you were the fittest candidate for the
place and to see that you got it. He saw just that. I put you into that
post office, Reliance, just as I’ve rented you this house of mine, and
if I take you out of both I can’t see that anybody has any ground for
complaint. I’ll hear from you in a day or two, of course. Good-night.
Good-night, Esther.”

He did not include Mr. Clark in his good-night, but the latter ran out
after him in the rain and caught his arm.

“It’ll be all right, Cap’n Foster,” whispered Millard, eagerly. “Don’t
you fret a mite. It’ll come out all right. Reliance she always has to
argue and fetch up objections to ’most anything, but she’ll come round.
We’ll be up there along with you inside of a week, all hands of us. You
leave it to me. I’ll ’tend to it.”

Foster Townsend made no reply. He shook off the clutch upon his coat
sleeve and walked away into the rain-striped blackness beyond the light
from the open door. Millard Fillmore hurried back to the sitting-room.

“Gosh!” he whooped ecstatically, “Oh, my _gosh_! Say, ain’t it
_wonderful_! Ain’t it--”

He stopped, for his half-sister was speaking to their niece and he
caught a word or two--unbelievable, horrifying words which caused his
pæan of triumphant rejoicing to break off in the middle of the first
strophe.

“I should say not!” declared Reliance. “Well, I should say _not_!
Humph! the idea! I could have slapped his face for him for darin’ to
think such a thing, let alone sayin’ it out loud--to me. When I get so
worn out and good for nothin’ that I can’t earn my own livin’ I’ll find
the cheapest way to die and do it, and I’ll take care to have enough
put by to pay for my buryin’. I won’t go up to his palace and live on
the leavin’s from _his_ table. _I’m_ no Lazarus. Saucy patronizin’
thing! The idea!”

Esther might have spoken, but Mr. Clark cut in ahead of her.

“What!” he shouted, in a frenzy. “What’s that you’re tellin’ her,
Reliance Clark? Do you mean to say you ain’t goin’ to take up with a
chance like _that_? My gosh, woman, you’re crazy!”

She whirled on him. “You keep still!” she commanded. “This isn’t any of
your business at all. Don’t you say another word.”

“But it _is_ my business. Why ain’t it my business? Didn’t he ask me
same as he did the rest of you? Didn’t--”

She did not let him finish. “No, he did not,” she declared, with fierce
contempt. “He said he supposed he would have to take the tail with
the hide, that’s what he said, and if you like bein’ called a tail, I
don’t.”

“Aw, come now, Reliance! He never meant--he asked me--”

“He didn’t ask you; he took you same as he might take a--the scales
on a codfish, because he knew he couldn’t catch the critter without
’em. It is Esther he’s after and he was shrewd enough to think that
maybe she might not go unless I did. Yes, and that I couldn’t leave a
helpless thing like you to float around creation with nobody to steer
you. Oh, _don’t_ make me any madder than I am, Mil Clark!”

“Aw, Reliance, have some sense! Why--”

“Be still, Mil Clark!... Oh, when he had the impudence to tell me that
he got me that post-office appointment, I--I-- Oh, that was the last
straw!”

She was sputtering sparks like a pinwheel. Esther tried to soothe her.

“There, there, Auntie,” she protested, “you mustn’t get into such a
state. I don’t care at all, really. I’m glad. I don’t want to live with
him. Of course I don’t. I want to stay with you, right here in this
house, just as I always have. Don’t worry about it any more--please.”

The thunder cloud upon her aunt’s brow was thinning. Her comely face
was still crimson, but the fire in her eyes was beginning to die. She
walked over to the window, stood there for a moment, and, when she
turned, there was a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips.

“My!” she exclaimed, with a sigh. “I don’t wonder Millard called me
crazy. I haven’t been so upset for I don’t know when. It was findin’
out that he was responsible for my bein’ made postmistress that got me
so. The rest of it I kind of expected--that is, I rather guessed he had
come to ask for Esther. Yes, I did. Nabby Gifford told me how lonesome
he was nowadays and before Arabella Townsend died--a fortni’t or two
before she was taken sick--she came to see me about a hat I was makin’
for her, and somethin’ she said then set me thinkin’. She was pretty
confidential--she was like that sometimes with me--and she told me that
the greatest trial of hers and Foster’s lives was that the only child
they had died when it was a baby and that they didn’t have any more.
She asked a lot about you, Esther, about what sort of a girl you were
and about your singin’ and all, and--well, it made me wonder. And I
knew perfectly well that whatever she wanted her husband would let her
have. She was the only person on earth who could get past that stubborn
streak of his.... Humph! And he called _me_ pig-headed! _He_ did!”

Her half-brother had kept quiet as long as he could.

“Well, well, well!” he cried. “What if he did! He didn’t mean nothin’.
You and Esther don’t seem to realize what else he said. He’s offerin’
us a home in the finest house in Ostable County. Horses and teams to
ride around in, no bills to pay, nothin’ to worry about, no work--that
is, nothin’ except--”

“Oh, do stop! I declare I believe you’d just as soon be a ‘tail’ as
anything else. All a tail has to do is brush off flies and that would
just suit you.”

“Look here! I don’t care to have you talk to me that way.”

“All right, I’m not talkin’ to you. I’m talkin’ to somebody else. So I
wasn’t so surprised when he offered to adopt you, Esther, for adoption
is what it amounts to. When he took me aboard too--yes, yes, and you,
Millard--I was surprised, but of course I could see why he did it,
anybody could. If he hadn’t crowed over me about that post-office
appointment! I never once supposed _he_ got it for me.... Oh, I don’t
doubt he did! He runs everything in this part of the state. But it
hurts my pride--and it makes me just as mad now when I think of it.”

Again Esther tried to calm her.

“Never mind whether he did or not, Auntie dear,” she urged. “You have
kept it ever since and everybody says you are the best postmistress
the town ever had. And, after all,” she added, “if he did get the
appointment, he did it to help you, didn’t he? It seems to me that
was--well, kind of him.”

Her aunt turned quickly. “Kind!” she repeated. “Of course it was kind,
or he meant it to be. But I like to know about kindnesses when they’re
done, not have ’em sprung on me as a good joke nine years afterwards.
He has been chucklin’ to himself over that joke ever since. In a lot of
ways,” she went on earnestly, “Foster Townsend is a kind man and a good
man. The trouble is that he has got so used to bein’ told that he is
the greatest man in the world that he has come to believe it.”

Esther was amazed. “Why, how can you call him good!” she exclaimed.
“Mother always said he--”

Reliance interrupted. “I know,” she put in hastily. “Well, your mother
may have been a little prejudiced, perhaps. She had reason to be.”

The girl’s lips tightened.

“At any rate,” she declared, “his adopting me is ridiculous. I don’t
want to be adopted and I shan’t be. That is settled.”

Miss Clark shook her head. “No,” she said, firmly. “That part isn’t
settled--yet. He isn’t goin’ to adopt me, or Millard either. Millard,
do hush!... But for you, Esther, it isn’t settled at all. There is a
whole lot to be said and thought over before that is settled. I’m goin’
to bed. Millard, put out the lamp.”

Mr. Clarke made one more desperate appeal.

“If I didn’t know,” he declared, with angry sarcasm, “I’d swear all
hands in this house had been drinkin’--all hands but me, I mean. You
give out that it’s settled and Esther gives out that it’s settled, but
_I_ haven’t settled nothin’ yet as I know of. Cap’n Foster Townsend
asked me to come and live with him. Right here in this room he asked it
and you two heard him. All right. Then I guess I’m the one to say yes
or no--to my part of it, anyhow.”

Reliance looked at him. “Then if I was you I’d say it,” she agreed,
sweetly. “You go right up to his house to-morrow and tell him that no
matter what Esther and I do, you’ll move in before sunset. You tell him
that and see what he says about it.... Come, Esther. Don’t you leave
that lamp burnin’ all night, Millard.”

She and Esther left the room, and a few moments later, their footsteps
were heard upon the stairs. Millard Fillmore Clark, left alone, threw
himself into the rocker and relapsed into the pessimistic meditations
of a hurt and insulted spirit. For an hour he sat there, scowling and
biting his nails. Then he rose and went out into the dining room, where
he opened the door of a dark closet and reached down into a corner
behind a tall crockery cooky jar. Hidden in that corner was a black
bottle. It contained home-made wild-cherry rum and his half-sister
had cached it there, fondly believing that he could never find it. He
removed the cork, took a long drink, and then another. Soon afterward
he, too, went upstairs and to bed.




CHAPTER III


Nabby Gifford did not serve her employer’s breakfast next morning.
Ellen Dooley, the red-cheeked Irish “second maid,” did that. Nabby
cooked the breakfast, of course, and she made it a point to pass
through the library after the meal was over. Foster Townsend was seated
in the leather easy-chair reading the _Item_, a copy of which was
included in the mail handed him by Millard Clark at the post office
the previous evening. Mrs. Gifford lingered by the hall door and the
captain looked up at her over his spectacles.

“Well, Nabby,” he inquired, “what is it?”

Nabby affected surprise at the question.

“Why, nothin’,” she said. “I was just goin’ upstairs a minute and I
come this way ’cause ’twas the shortest. That’s all.”

“Yes, yes, I know. That’s all--but what is the rest?”

“Well--I was goin’ to tell you that the minister was here last night
right after you left.”

“I know he was. I met him downtown and he told me he called. What else?”

“Nothin’ else--except-- Well, I was wonderin’ if you’d thought over
what I said to you last night about--” She finished the sentence with a
wink and a jerk of the head in the direction of the dining room, where
Ellen was clearing the table. At that moment the second maid departed
to the kitchen with a double handful of dishes and Nabby seized the
opportunity to come close to the easy-chair.

“She never got home from that Odd Fellers’ ball till one o’clock this
mornin’,” Nabby announced, in an indignant whisper. “Quarter past one
’twas when she come up the back stairs. Any self-respectin’ Christian
is sound asleep at that ungodly time of night, and thinks I--”

“Wait a minute. How did you know it was quarter past one?”

“Because I looked at my alarm clock and see ’twas, that’s how. And I
woke up Varunas and he see it, too.”

“Humph! I always thought you were a Christian, Nabby.”

“Eh? Well, I am. Anyhow I _hope_ I am. Who said I wasn’t?”

“You just told me that every self-respecting Christian was asleep at
that hour.... Oh, never mind! Did Varunas behave like a Christian when
you woke him up?”

Mrs. Gifford’s face expressed horrified consternation. “My soul!” she
exclaimed. “Don’t tell me _you_ could hear what he said away off in the
front of the house, Cap’n Foster!”

“All right, Nabby. You leave Ellen to me. If I decide to take your
advice and keep only one girl I’ll let you know. If I don’t we’ll go
on as we are. And I may have a surprise for you pretty soon, anyway.
Where’s Varunas now?”

“Out in the barn, I suppose. He’s there from mornin’ till night. Yes,
and when it’s neither mornin’ nor night, too. That’s another thing,
Cap’n Foster. That man of mine has been gettin’ up at four o’clock for
the last two, three mornin’s, and he won’t tell me what he’s doin’ it
for, neither. I asked him this very mornin’--five minutes of four by
the clock, ’twas--and all he done was look foolish and laugh. ‘Early to
rise makes you healthy and wealthy and wise,’ he says. ‘Ain’t you never
heard that, Nabby?’ I told him, says I, ‘Humph!’ I says, ‘maybe I have
heard it, but I never heard anybody call you wealthy; and as for bein’
_wise_!’”

Townsend lifted a hand. He rose from the chair.

“All right, Nabby,” he broke in. “I shouldn’t wonder if Varunas was
wise for once in his life. At least I’m hoping he is wiser just now
than some other folks who think they are.”

The great barn, towered and cupolaed in corresponding magnificence with
the house, was situated at the rear of the yard, the vegetable garden
at one side and the flower beds, beloved by the late Arabella Townsend,
upon the other. Behind the barn were hen yards, pigsties, and, beyond
these, the rolling acres of Townsend pastures, meadows and pine groves.

In the white painted stables beyond the carriage house the captain
found Mr. Gifford seated upon an overturned bucket. Upon his shriveled
little face was an expression of huge satisfaction. His puckered lips
widened in a grin as Townsend came in.

“Been waitin’ for you, Cap’n Foster,” he announced. “Ain’t touched a
thing. Left the whitewashin’ job just as ’twas for you to see. You stay
right where you be and I’ll fetch him out.”

He moved down the row of stalls, where polished flanks and carefully
brushed tails indicated the care bestowed upon each occupant, and
from one led out a horse with a white forehead and a ring of white
encircling one of its legs.

“There!” crowed Varunas. “There we be!... No, no! Don’t come no closer,
Cap’n Foster. Just stand where you are and get a gen’ral view. Looks
enough like Claribel to fool a nigh-sighted person on a dark mornin’,
don’t he? He, he!”

Townsend smiled. “Good work, Varunas!” he grunted. “Well? How did it
go?”

Mr. Gifford winked. “_He_ went fine,” he declared. “Done that Circle in
jig time, he did, and I was hangin’ back on him at that. I give you my
word I never realized Hornet had it in him. Why, when I see--”

“Never mind. It is what Seth Emmons saw that interests me just now. Was
Seth on hand at the Circle this morning?”

Varunas winked again. “I have a suspicion he was,” he chuckled. “’Twas
dark and kind of foggy after the rain, and a body that wan’t up to
snuff, or hadn’t been tipped off same as I was, would have swore there
wan’t another soul within a half mile. But--well, you know that old
fish shanty over at the fur side of the Circle, on the rise next the
beach? Um-hum. Well, when Hornet and me went past that shanty the first
time round it looked to me as if the door was open just a crack. When
we went round the second time the crack was wider. It _might_ have been
the wind that blowed it open--only there wan’t any wind. He, he, he!”

He slapped his knee in gleeful triumph. Townsend’s smile became a grin.

“All right, Varunas,” he said. “How was the betting the last time you
heard?”

“There ain’t much--or there wasn’t yesterday. There might be a little
more to-day. Some of them Bayporters might drift over and begin to
loosen up; ’specially if Sam and Seth spread the news that Claribel
couldn’t do no better’n he done this mornin’.”

“If they do you might let me know.”

“You bet you I will! I’ll let myself know, too, about seven or eight
dollars’ worth.... Say, Cap’n, don’t for mercy sakes tell Nabby I said
that. She’s death on bettin’ anyhow; and--” with aggrieved indignation,
“if I won she’d make me hand her over the heft of the money. The only
way for me to keep my winnin’s is to spend ’em quick. I’ve learned that
much.”

Foster Townsend left the house soon afterward and strolled, as was
his morning custom, about the place, his hands in the pockets of his
coat, the soft hat at the back of his head, and his after-breakfast
cigar between his teeth. He lingered by the poultry yards, looked at
the hogs in their pens, made mental notes of a section of fence which
needed repair, decided that the strip of lawn on the left-hand side
of the drive should be plowed and reseeded in the spring. His tour of
inspection was leisurely, for he enjoyed it. He loved every inch of his
domain. It was his. He had earned it. It represented success, the prize
at the top of the ladder which he had climbed unaided. He had been a
poor boy; now he was a rich man. In his youth the aristocrats of his
native town scarcely deigned to notice him; now he was the aristocrat
and his was the voice of authority. He had fought his way up from cabin
boy to captain of a ship, from captain to owner, from that, through
keen trading and daring speculation, to the day when he could afford
to retire from active business. The break with his partner, Elisha
Cook, and the lawsuit which followed the break, had threatened disaster
time after time, but during the years of expensive and worrisome
litigation he had never lost his nerve. If Cook won and was awarded
even the greater part of the sum for which he was suing, it meant
ruin to Townsend, but the risk but made the battle more enjoyable.
And Cook had not won. True, the latter and his lawyers had not openly
conceded the Townsend victory, but their talk of further fighting was
but talk. Foster Townsend’s luck had held, as it had held before, and
“luck”--as he saw it--was but the wage of foresight, good judgment,
and the courage to back one’s convictions to the limit of safety--yes,
and sometimes beyond that limit. He considered himself entitled to the
rewards which were his and he enjoyed their possession, the money and
the power--particularly the power.

His walk that morning was as satisfactory as usual for a time. It was
only when he reached the lattice frame enclosing the flower garden
that his complacency departed. The sight of the neat beds and the dead
stalks in those beds brought with it a staggering shock. His wife had
set out many of those plants with her own hands. She had superintended
the setting out of all. Those flowers and that garden were her joy.
From early summer until fall she had filled the rooms with blossoms.
She would never do it again. She had left that garden and the mansion
and him forever and all his money and authority were useless in the
face of that irrevocable fact. His loneliness came over him once
more, as it had come so often during the week since her funeral. He
felt a savage resentment. He was accustomed to having his own way, to
forcing his will against all obstacles. Now he--Foster Townsend--was as
helpless against this stroke of Fate as the weakest-willed creature in
the world.

He returned to the house, the easy-chair, and the paper in the library.
He glanced at the clock. The time was nearly eleven. At the close of
the interview in the Clark cottage the previous evening he had casually
told Esther and Reliance that they might take their time in reaching
a decision concerning his proposal. He had told them this, but he
had meant it merely as a gracious gesture. He considered the matter
settled and had expected an early call and the grateful announcement of
acceptance. No one had called and no word had been sent him. He could
not understand why and, in his present frame of mind, he resented the
delay. What was the matter with those people? Was it possible they did
not realize what his offer meant to them and their future? They had
best realize it; it would not be repeated.

Dinner was a necessary nuisance to be endured and he got through with
it as quickly as possible. Alone in the big dining room, waited upon
by Ellen, with the chair at the other end of the table unoccupied,
it was no wonder that appetite failed him. In the old days--and they
were not so old--his dinner was an event. He was particular about the
choice of dishes, insisted upon an abundance of everything, lingered
over the dessert, smoked his cigar and listened while Mother chatted
of the affairs of the household or repeated town gossip. Very often
there were guests--leading politicians of the county; his lawyers down
from Boston on business connected with the eternal suit; Judge Baxter
and Mrs. Baxter from Ostable; other prominent--though of course less
prominent--fellow townspeople like the Snows or the Taylors; on Sundays
the minister and his wife. Pleasant company, in complete agreement
with his opinions on all subjects, substantial people, people of
consequence. They would come now if he asked them, but he had no mind
to ask. With that vacant chair opposite his own, the filling of the
others would be only an emphasis of his wretchedness.

Arabella had liked their niece, had more than once spoken of that
liking, had even dared so far on rare occasions as to hint that a girl
like Esther might be “kind of nice to have around; somebody outside
of just us two old folks to take an interest in. Don’t you think so,
dear?” He had refused to listen to the hints then. Freeling Townsend
had chosen to follow his own road in open defiance of the brother who
had lifted him out of the mire so often. Let those who were responsible
for his taking that road tramp it to the end; that was his brusque
ultimatum. Only since his wife’s death had he changed his mind. That
conscience to which Reliance Clark had referred as having been “pushed
away up-attic” had been shaken from its camphor. Perhaps he had been
too hard. He had been right, of course, but even so he might have
yielded, to please Mother. It would have pleased her then; if the
talk which the minister and the rest so wearisomely offered him as
consolation _should_ be true it might please her now. He was a regular
church-goer at the old First Meeting House on Sunday, but he was so
more because it was the conservative, orthodox thing to do than from
any deep-rooted religious convictions. Nevertheless--

And Esther was a Townsend. It was risky experiment, but for Mother’s
sake he had decided to give it a trial. His own loneliness and the
growing certainty that he could not continue to live in that house
without companionship were the weights which tipped the balance.

Well; it had been tipped. He had gone as far as even Arabella could
have wished. Farther, for he had offered a home to Reliance and that
worthless half-brother of hers, not because he wanted to, but because
he felt certain that Esther would not leave her aunt. He had gone far
enough. As the afternoon passed and no answer came he began to think
that he had gone too far. Confound their impudence!

By four he was pacing up and down the library in a state of mind
divided between anger and alarm. He was tempted to sit down at his desk
and write a curt note withdrawing his offer altogether. He did not do
so because--well, because, in spite of his resentment and chagrin, he
realized that such a withdrawal would leave him exactly where he was
now, alone--and doomed to remain alone always. There was no one else,
no one except a paid companion, and companionship of that kind would be
worse than none. And, too, he had begun already to make plans for the
girl, plans which were alluring as a means of occupying his own mind
in their execution and had become more alluring since his meeting with
their principal the previous evening. She was a pretty girl, modest and
attractive; in spite of prejudice he had been forced to admit that. And
she looked like a Townsend; there was scarcely a trace of Clark about
her. Put a girl like that in the surroundings such as he could give
her, with the opportunities and the money--why, there might be a new
interest in life for him, just as Mother had suggested.

But where was she? Why hadn’t he heard from her? It was Reliance who
was responsible for the delay, he was certain of that. He had known
Reliance Clark ever since she was a schoolgirl and he a young sea
captain. She was poor then as now, but pretty and popular, and as
independent as a “hog on ice,” to use a Cape Cod simile. There was a
time when she and he were very friendly indeed, but the friendship
was a stormy one. Two such natures were bound to clash. She resented
the slightest hint of patronizing and was as set in her way as he was
in his, which is saying not a little. They had quarreled, made it up,
quarreled again and drifted apart. Now he was the Harniss mogul and she
was its postmistress, because he had made her so. Even in the midst of
his irritation he chuckled as he remembered her astonishment when he
told her that she owed her appointment to his influence. He had given
her self-satisfaction one jolt, at all events.

It was quite natural that, in all his thinking and surmising, he gave
not one thought to Millard Clark. Very few people who knew him did
waste thought on Millard.

Nabby Gifford’s voice sounded behind the drawn portières.

“Cap’n Foster,” said Nabby. “Cap’n Foster, you in there? If you be
there’s somebody come to see you.”

Townsend was standing by the desk. He turned.

“Who is it?” he demanded. “If it is the minister tell him I’m busy.”

“’Tain’t the minister. It’s Reliance Clark.”

“What!... Humph! How did she get here? I’ve been watching the front
gate.”

“She never come in that gate. Come across lots, I cal’late. She’s at
the side door. I told her I wan’t sure that you could talk to her now.”

“Who is with her?”

“Eh? Why, nobody’s with her. She’s all alone. Kind of funny, her
comin’, ain’t it?”

Townsend frowned. Alone? What might that mean?

“Bring her in here,” he ordered. “Light that lamp on the table. It’s
getting dark.”

Nabby lighted the student lamp and hurried out. A moment later she
ushered Reliance into the library.

“Good afternoon, Foster,” said Reliance, pleasantly. Townsend nodded.
Then he turned to the housekeeper.

“You needn’t wait, Nabby,” he said. “You better go out in the kitchen.
Yes, and shut the door after you.”

Mrs. Gifford’s reception of this blunt dismissal was characteristic.
She went, but she fired a parting shot.

“The kitchen was where I was bound, so fur as that goes,” she observed,
with dignity. “And I don’t need to be reminded to shut the door,
neither. It ain’t me that leaves doors open in _this_ house.”

Foster Townsend waited until a vigorous slam proved that his order had
been obeyed. Then he turned to his visitor.

“Sit down,” he said, motioning toward a chair. “Better take off your
things, hadn’t you?”

Reliance shook her head.

“I’ll sit down a minute,” she replied, “but I’ll keep my things on. I
can’t stop very long. I must get back to the shop. I left Abbie workin’
on Jane Snow’s hat and mercy knows what she’ll do with it unless I’m
there to watch her. And if that isn’t enough to make me uneasy the post
office is. Millard is supposed to be attendin’ to that; ‘supposed’ is
what I said.”

Townsend smiled appreciation of the sarcasm. He lowered himself into
the easy-chair.

“Where is the girl?” he asked. “Why didn’t you bring her with you?”

“She is at home, getting her things together. At least I suppose
she is, that is what I told her she had better do. She’ll be here
to-morrow--to stay.”

Townsend’s big body relaxed against the leather cushions. His
expression, however, did not change. He took pains that it did not do
so. No one--least of all the astute Miss Clark--should guess the relief
the blunt announcement gave him.

“Oh!” he said, carelessly. “So you’ve decided to take up with my offer,
have you. You made up your minds pretty promptly, seems to me. I told
you to take all the time you wanted.”

“Yes, I know you did. And I imagine you thought we wouldn’t take much.
Well, you were right in one way. _My_ mind was made up before I went to
bed last night.”

“Um-hum.... And you are coming to-morrow? That is quick business, but
it suits me if it does you. You can’t give up the post office as soon
as that, though. You’ll have to attend to that until I can pick out
somebody to take your place. It won’t take long. Once let it be known
that the job is vacant and there’ll be plenty of candidates.”

“I don’t doubt it, but it isn’t goin’ to be known. I’m postmistress
here at Harniss and I’m goin’ to keep the place. That is,” she added,
tartly, “I am unless you or some of the rest of the smart wire-pullers
work your schemes to have me put out.”

He regarded her keenly. “Now what do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“Look here, Reliance, you ought to understand that if you come to
my house to live you come as--well, as part of the family. You are
Esther’s aunt and when you and she come here I can’t have you running
back and forth to that post office. I’m figuring to take care of you
and pay your bills.”

She silenced him with an impatient movement of her hand.

“There, there!” she exclaimed. “Don’t talk that way, or I shall lose my
temper and say things that might just as well not be said. I haven’t
yet quite got over your tellin’ me how you had me appointed to that
office. You won’t have to pay my bills--no, nor Millard’s either. We
aren’t comin’ to live with you.”

He bent forward in the chair. “What’s that!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t you
just tell me you were coming?”

“Of course I didn’t. I told you that Esther Townsend was comin’. She
is; she will be here to-morrow. But Reliance Clark isn’t comin’. No,
nor Millard--unless he does somethin’ for once on his own hook and even
then he’d have to do it over my dead body. The Clarks will stay in the
house they rent of you--provided you don’t order ’em out--and pay that
rent and their own bills same as they always have.... Oh, don’t pretend
to look so surprised!” she added, sharply. “I can’t think you ever
really expected me to do anything else.”

He was surprised, however. For a moment he stared at her, his brows
drawn together and his eyes fixed upon her face. He saw no wavering
resolution or pretense there.

“Humph!” he grunted, leaning back slowly against the cushions. “So
that’s it, eh?... I see.”

“I certainly hope you do see. I should hate to believe you ever really
saw anything else. Honestly now, Foster Townsend, you never expected
that I would drop my work and my self-respect and everything else of my
own and move in here to live on your charity like--like a pauper goin’
to the poorhouse? You didn’t really expect me to do that? Come now!”

Whatever he expected, or had expected up to that time, he kept to
himself. He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and smiled.

“The same old Reliance, aren’t you,” he observed. “I told you last
night that you hadn’t changed, and I was right. You’re just as contrary
as ever.”

“Perhaps I am. I’m glad I’ve got spunk enough to be contrary when it is
necessary. And it is necessary now.”

“Humph! Answer me this: Why do you suppose I asked you and your brother
to come here if I didn’t expect you to come? If I hadn’t wanted you I
shouldn’t have asked you. I usually know what I mean.”

“Yes, you do. So do I. That’s one thing we’ve got in common, anyhow.
And--”

“Hold on! As for your coming here being like going to the
poorhouse--well, I don’t know that I’d call this place a poorhouse,
exactly. As for work, I told you I could find plenty of work for you to
do, if you wanted it.”

“Yes, but you told me you’d have to _find_ it. You didn’t say you
needed me, because you know perfectly well you don’t. Foster, I used
to know you pretty well and you haven’t changed any more than I
have--except that you’ve grown rich, and mercy knows I am as poor as I
ever was. When you used to come to see me and take me to ride and to
parties and all the rest of it--a hundred years ago, or whenever it
was--you always set out to have your own way. I must do the things you
wanted done and not do the things you didn’t want.”

He was amused. “Maybe so,” he admitted, with a chuckle, “but I remember
you generally did what you wanted to, in the end. And you’ve done it
ever since, so far as I can make out.”

“Well, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. I’ve usually tried to have my own way--yes. But you bet I made
certain that it was a good way before I started. I’ve done fairly well
by having it, too, I guess.”

“I guess you have. And I have had my way and haven’t done much; that is
what you’re thinkin’ and I may as well say it for you.”

“Now, now, Reliance, I wasn’t thinking any such thing. You’re wrong
when you say I didn’t want you to come here along with Esther. I did.”

“Yes, you did in a way. That is, you were lonesome, and that up-attic
conscience I reminded you of got to botherin’ you. You wanted somebody
to keep you company and, after all, Esther was one of your own
relations and you knew she was a nice girl. And Arabella always--” She
paused, because of the expression upon his face. “Never mind that,” she
added, hurriedly, and in a tone less sharp. “I know what Arabella was
to you and I have been awfully sorry for you this past week, Foster;
I truly have.... You wanted Esther and made up your mind to get her
here with you; but when you got to thinkin’ of that ‘good way’ you
mentioned--the surest way to have your own way about her--you thought
of me. You realized a little of how much she and I were to each other
and you were afraid you couldn’t coax her up to this house unless I
came, too. And you couldn’t get me unless Millard was thrown into the
bag. So you asked us all, hide and tail. That is the truth of it and
you know it. What is the use of makin’ believe?”

He rubbed his beard and slowly shook his head.

“You are smart, Reliance,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Part of what you
say is true. It isn’t all true, though. It would have been rather fun
to have you around. The fights we would be bound to have would have
given me something new to think about, and the way I feel just now
I need it. And I can’t see any reason why you should fly up like a
setting hen because I made the offer. There’s no charity about it. It
is what I wanted and I can afford to have what I want.”

“You can’t afford to have me. Or, anyhow, I can’t afford to come.
Oh, for mercy sakes, Foster! do you suppose you are the only soul on
earth who has any pride? About everybody who has anything to do with
you gets down on their knees and sings Psalms when you take notice of
’em. I don’t; I’m not much of a singer.... Well, well! we’ve talked
enough about what was settled in the beginnin’. Esther is comin’ here
to-morrow. We must talk about her in these few minutes I’ve got to
spare.”

He nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “Talk about her.”

“I’m goin’ to. Her position isn’t a bit like mine; it’s just the
opposite. I shouldn’t think of takin’ up with your offer. She shouldn’t
think--or be let think--of anything else. She is young, and pretty,
and she’s got a lot of sense for a girl of her age. With your money and
your influence and the chance they will give her she can have a happy
life--yes, a pretty wonderful life, and I’d be the last to say she
shouldn’t have it. I’ve done my best to make her understand that and
she has finally agreed to give you a trial.”

She had surprised him again and this time he showed his feeling.

“Humph!” he grunted, frowning. “So she’s going to give me a trial,
is she? That’s kind of her. I had an idea it might be the other way
around.”

“Yes, you would. Well, it isn’t all that way, not by a good deal. If
you think that girl is goin’ to come here and wait for you to say ‘Boo’
and then say it back, like an echo off a stone wall, you don’t know
her, that’s all. She’s sensitive and high strung and proud and she’s
got a will of her own; she’s a Townsend, too, you mustn’t forget that.
You’ve got to handle her the way you handle one of those trottin’
horses of yours, with judgment, not with a whip. You’ve got to be
awfully careful, Foster Townsend.”

Not since his early days at sea had any one lectured him in this
manner. Even his wife, in her few and rare moments of self-assertion,
had never spoken her mind as bluntly or with so little regard for his
importance. He resented it.

“Here, here!” he commanded, sharply. “We’ve had about enough of this,
seems to me. I’m not begging for the girl. She doesn’t have to say yes,
unless she wants to. Yes,” rising to his feet, “and you better tell her
I said so. If she’s fool enough not to appreciate what I planned to do
for her I don’t want her here. Call the whole thing off. I’m satisfied.”

Miss Clark did not rise. Instead she remained in her chair.

“Oh, dear!” she said, with a sigh of resignation. “It must be a
dreadful thing to be bowed down to and worshiped so long that you
come to believe you are the Lord of Creation. Foster, stop actin’
like a child. Esther is comin’ here to live; I’ve told you so a dozen
times. It is settled that she is. What I’m tryin’ to do is to make
you understand how and why she is doin’ it. She’s comin’ because I
practically forced her into it; that’s the plain truth. She didn’t want
to come.”

“Then she can stay where she is. You’ve said enough. It’s off, so far
as I’m concerned.”

“No, it’s only begun. Use your common sense, Foster. Of course she
didn’t want to come here. Perhaps in one way she did; she’s wise enough
to see what a wonderful chance it was for her to have all the nice
things in the world, go on with her music and all that. But so far as
you are concerned--why, she hardly knows you. And what she does know,
or thinks she knows, isn’t to your credit. Her mother--”

He interrupted. “That’s the meat in the nut, is it,” he growled. “I
might have known it. That woman was responsible for Freeling’s going to
the devil. I told him, before he married her, that she would be, and
that if he did marry her he could go just there; I’d never lift my hand
again to stop him. And she lied to her daughter, of course. Told her--”

“Oh, never mind what she told her. She was my half-sister and nobody
knows her faults, if you can call them that, any better than I do.
But so far as your brother is concerned, he was on his way to the Old
Harry long before he married Eunice. She helped him up more than she
pushed him down. And while we’re on the subject I might as well say the
whole of it: If you hadn’t been so high and mighty and pig-headed and
_had_ lifted that hand of yours once in a while towards the last of
his life he might not have failed in that little business of his. It
wasn’t drink that killed him; he hadn’t touched a drop since he married
Eunice. It was fightin’ to keep that business goin’ that broke him
down. If he could have come to you--”

“Well, why didn’t he come to me?”

“Oh, you--you _man_! He didn’t come because, as you just said, you had
told him never to come. You didn’t speak to him, nor his wife. And he
was a Townsend, too, and as proud as the rest of ’em. And that means
Esther. She is proud.”

“Well, if that mother of hers--”

“Oh, I know how you always felt about her mother.... But there,
Foster, all this rakin’ up of old squabbles isn’t gettin’ us anywhere.
What I set out to tell you was that Esther didn’t want to come to an
uncle who had hardly noticed her all her life and who she probably
believes--yes, of course she does, in spite of all I’ve been able to
say--was responsible for her father and mother’s troubles, and leave
me who have taken care of her for years. If I had come she wouldn’t
have hesitated--much--I guess. To come alone was different. I’ve been
all the forenoon arguin’ and advisin’ and it wasn’t until an hour or
so ago she said yes. I left her packin’ her trunk and cryin’ into it.
She doesn’t know I’m here now. I came to show you, if I could, the kind
of girl she is and what a ticklish position we are all in. You’ve got
to be gentle and forebearin’ with her, Foster, or you’ll have another
smash in the Townsend family; that’s the plain truth.”

He was leaning against the table, his hands in his pockets. For some
few minutes he had been looking at the carpet, not at her. Now he
stirred impatiently.

“Well, all right,” he said, “I’ll be as decent as I can--with my
limitations.”

“Now don’t get mad. You see what I mean. You’ll have to overlook some
things. She’ll be homesick at first. She’ll want to run down and see me
and I guess you’ll have to let her.”

“Why shouldn’t I let her? I don’t care how much she goes to see you.”

“You think you don’t, but perhaps you will. I know you pretty well. You
like to have folks jump when you give an order and to stay where they
are when you don’t. Be patient with her, won’t you?”

“I said I would.”

“Well, there’s another thing. She may expect me to come up here and see
her, sometimes, along in the beginnin’.”

“Come ahead! I don’t care how often you come.”

“I’ll try not to be a nuisance. And she’ll forget me in a little while,
of course. It will be better for her if she does. Her way of livin’
and the people she’ll have for friends won’t be my kind and she’ll be
ashamed of us by and by.”

He turned and looked down at her.

“No, no, she won’t,” he protested, with a change of tone. “If she does
I won’t own her. Don’t worry, Reliance. You’ll see her about as often
as you always have.... It’s pretty hard for you to give her up, isn’t
it? Eh?”

She rose. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

“You needn’t do it, if you don’t want to. I won’t force either of you
into it. I’m not sure,” he added, with a shrug, “that, since you’ve
hammered the facts into me with a sledge hammer, I’m not taking the
biggest chance of the lot.”

“I guess not. It ought to be a wonderful thing for her. And as for
you--well, if you play your cards right you will have a lot of fun in
the game. Esther will be here to-morrow forenoon, she and her trunk.
You can send a wagon later on for any other of her things she may want
to keep. Good-night.”

He walked with her as far as the front door. The early dark of a cloudy
fall evening was already shrouding the yard and its surroundings. A
chill, damp breeze was whining through the bare branches of the elms
and silver-leaf poplars. Puddles of steely gray water, left after
the rain, gleamed coldly here and there. The Winslows, his neighbors
across the road, were away in Boston, so there was not even the cheer
of their lighted windows to brighten the desolation. It was the most
depressing hour of a gloomy day in the dreariest season of the year.
And he was the loneliest man on earth, just then he was sure of it.
People respected him, or pretended to; they, as Miss Clark had said,
bowed down to him; they all envied him; but was there a single soul
of them all who really cared for him, who would shed an honest tear
if he dropped dead that moment? He did not believe there was one.
And, because of his own wretchedness he felt a twinge of pity for the
woman who, because she knew it was best for Esther, was giving up
the companionship which meant so much to her. She was going to be as
lonesome, almost, as he was now.

“Say, Reliance!” he hailed.

She turned. “What is it?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing in particular.” His tone was as gruff as usual, but it
lacked a little of its customary sharp decision. “I just wanted to say
that--er--well, you needn’t worry about that post-office job. You can
have it as long as you want it. I’ll see that you do.”

“You won’t have to do any seein’, I guess. I haven’t heard of anybody’s
plannin’ to put me out.”

“You never can tell.... Oh, and say, if you should change your mind, if
you should feel, between now and to-morrow, that you--well, that you
didn’t want to have Esther leave you--if you should decide you might as
well come along with her, after all--why--”

“Don’t be silly. Good-night.”




CHAPTER IV


The next morning he sent Varunas to the Clark cottage with a note. The
answer, when it came, was to the effect that Esther would be ready just
after dinner. At one-thirty Mr. Gifford, wondering what on earth it all
meant and not in the least enlightened by his employer, drove one of
the Townsend horses, attached to the Townsend “democrat wagon” into the
Clark yard and, under the officious superintendence of Millard, loaded
a small trunk and a canvas valise--Varunas would have called it a
“shut-over bag”--into the carriage. Millard loftily refused to satisfy
the Gifford curiosity.

“You’ll know pretty soon,” declared Mr. Clark. “And so will the rest
of Harniss. There’ll be some talk goin’ around for the next day or so
or I miss my guess. No, no, I shan’t say a word. You ain’t the first
one that’s asked me what’s up--no, sir, you ain’t! Tobias Eldridge got
after me last night at the post office afore mail time, and he says:
‘Say, Mil,’ he says, ‘what in the world ails you? You’re goin’ around
all puffed up like a toad fish, too grand to open your mouth. What’s
the matter? Somebody left you a million? If they have you might pay
me that two dollars.’ I didn’t waste any attention on _his_ gabble. I
don’t owe him any two dollars. He says I do, but I say I don’t, and
my word is as good as his, I shouldn’t wonder. I set him to guessin’,
though. ‘Never you mind what ails me,’ I told him. ‘_I_ know what ’tis
and so does Cap’n Foster Townsend. When I and he get ready to tell
we’ll tell.’”

Varunas laughed aloud. “You and Cap’n Foster gone into partnerships,
have you, Mil?” he inquired. “Tut, tut! He’s a lucky man, if that’s so.
Don’t let anybody cheat him, will you?”

Before Mr. Clark could reply to this sarcastic counsel his sister and
Esther were out of the cottage. The girl’s eyes were wet and even
Reliance appeared to be struggling to repress emotion. The pair came
down the walk to the gate. There Esther turned, threw her arms about
her aunt’s plump neck and burst into sobs, open and unrestrained.

“Oh, won’t you _please_ come, Auntie!” she begged. “I--oh, how _can_ I
go without you!”

Reliance patted her shoulder.

“There, there, dearie,” she said, soothingly. “It’s goin’ to be all
right, you’ll see. I can’t leave the office now, it’s almost time for
the noon mail, but I’ll run up to-morrow mornin’ and see how you are
gettin’ along.” Then, catching sight of the Gifford face upon which
was written eager and consuming curiosity, her own expression changed.
“Come, come, you two!” she snapped, addressing her brother and Varunas.
“What are you standin’ there for, with your mouths open? Help her
into the carriage, why don’t you. Varunas, you take her up to Cap’n
Foster’s; and mind you drive carefully.”

During the short journey to the Townsend mansion Mr. Gifford, whose
curiosity was by this time seasoned with a faint suspicion of the
astonishing truth, tried more than once to engage his passenger in
conversation, but with no satisfactory results. Esther’s replies were
brief and monosyllabic. She sat crouched on the rear seat of the
democrat, avoided his eye when he turned to look at her, and, as he
told Nabby afterward, she hardly as much as said ay, yes or no the
whole way.

They turned in on the broad drive and stopped at the portico shading
the side door. Foster Townsend opened that door himself and came out.

“Well, well, here you are!” he said, heartily. “Come right in. Varunas,
take that trunk and the bag upstairs. Nabby will show you where to put
them.”

He helped his niece to alight and conducted her into the house. Mr.
Gifford shouldered the trunk, it was not a big one, and marched through
the little hall, across the dining room and up the back stairs. His
wife was awaiting him on the landing.

“Put it in the pink room,” she ordered. “And fetch up whatever else
there is and put that there, too.”

Varunas deposited the trunk in the pink room as directed. Then he
turned to his wife.

“What in time--?” he demanded, in a whisper. Nabby nodded impressively.

“I guess you may well say more’n that when you know. She’s comin’ here
to _live_.”

Varunas stared. Then he slapped his knee. “I guessed pretty nigh as
much,” he declared. “The minute I see her and Reliance come out of that
house, I-- But you don’t really mean it, do you, Nabby? You don’t mean
she’s comin’ here to stay--right along?”

Nabby nodded again. “That’s just what I mean,” she replied. “Cap’n
Foster told me so a minute or so after you left to go get her. Yes,
she’s comin’ to stay right along--or wrong along--the good Lord only
knows which it’ll turn out to be.... Well!” fervently, “I thought I’d
expected ’most everything, but I never expected _this_. Freeling’s
girl! And Eunice Clark’s girl, which is sayin’ a lot more! In _this_
house!... There, there! go get the rest of her dunnage and hurry up
about it. I’ve got somethin’ else to do besides listen to your ‘by
times.’ You can say them later on. You won’t be the only one sayin’
’em. How folks will talk!”

She was right, of course. All Harniss “talked,” as soon as the news
reached its ears. Its most distinguished citizen had a habit of
surprising his fellow townsfolks, but he had seldom surprised them more
completely.

While the Giffords, first of the “talkers,” were holding their
whispered conversation above stairs, down in the library Foster
Townsend and the new member of his household were talking also,
but with far less freedom from constraint. At his invitation she
removed her coat and hat and sat in the rocker by the table. He, of
course, took the easy-chair. She said not a word. He crossed his
knees, cleared his throat, and tried to appear at ease; it was a poor
pretense, for he had never felt less so.

“Well,” he began. “Varunas got you here safe and sound, didn’t he?”

She looked up at him and then down.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“That’s good, that’s good.... Hum.... Well, I hope--I hope you’re going
to like it, now you are here.”

She did not look up this time. “I hope--I mean I guess I shall,” she
faltered.

“Oh, you will! We’ll try to make you comfortable. Yes, indeed!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, we will! Now--er--let’s see: Is there anything particular you
would like to do this afternoon? Like to go for a ride, perhaps?”

She was afraid to say no, but she could not force herself to say yes.
If there was one thing more than another she wished to do, just then,
it was to be alone, away from him and every one else, to be somewhere
where she could cry as much as she liked. She had an inspiration.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, hesitatingly, “I think I should like
to go to my room--the one I am going to have, just for a little while,
I mean. If it will be all right?”

He accepted the suggestion heartily. He was thankful for it.
It promised, for the time at least, relief from a situation as
embarrassing to him as it evidently was to her.

“Why, yes, yes! of course!” he agreed. “You got your unpacking to do,
haven’t you.... Nabby!... No, never mind. I’ll go up with you myself.”

She followed him through the stiff and stately front hall and up the
long flight of stairs. In a wall niche at the landing near the top
stood a huge vase containing a cluster of pampas grass, some of its
plumes dyed a brilliant blue and the others red. The vase itself was
thickly covered with colored pictures, figures of men and women in
Chinese costume, of birds and flowers, of goodness knows what. The
vase had been painted a glistening black and the pictures glued to its
surface, in hit or miss fashion.

He saw her look at it as they passed.

“Mother--er--your Aunt Bella--did that,” he said. “Took her a long time
to stick all those things on. She was a great hand for making the house
look pretty.”

The pink room, when they entered it, seemed, to Esther’s unaccustomed
eyes, almost as big as the Harniss Town Hall. A mammoth black walnut
bedstead, its carved headboard reaching nearly to the ceiling;
a correspondingly large marble-topped black walnut bureau; a
marble-topped washstand with a pink and gold bowl, pitcher and soap
dish upon it; a stiff little walnut desk; at least a half dozen walnut
chairs, one of them a patent rocker. It was easy to see why it was
called the “pink” room. The gorgeous flowers of the carpet had a pink
background; the bedspread was pink; so were the heavy lambrequins
above each of the four tall windows. The paper on the walls was of the
prevailing color. Everything looked brand-new, every piece of furniture
glistened with varnish. To the girl, at that first view, it seemed as
if the only item in the room not new and grandly becoming, were her own
shabby little trunk and the dingy canvas extension case awaiting her on
the floor by the closet door. They looked pathetically out of place and
not at home.

Townsend gave the apartment a comprehensive glance. The inspection
appeared to satisfy him.

“Seems to be all right,” he observed. “Nabby and Ellen haven’t had much
time to get things ready. I only told them an hour or so ago that you
were coming. You can trust Nabby, though. Things are generally kept
shipshape where she is.... There!” he added. “This is going to be your
room, Esther. Like it, do you?”

Esther nodded, bravely. “Yes, sir,” she said. “It is--is nice and--and
big, isn’t it?”

He chuckled. “Bigger than what you’ve been used to, I don’t doubt,” he
agreed. “Well, it is yours from now on, so make yourself at home in it.
There’s water in the pitcher over there, but if you had rather use the
bathroom it is right at the end of the hall out here.”

She thanked him. She had heard of that bathroom; so had every one
else in Harniss. At the time of its installation it had been the only
honest-to-goodness bathroom in the town.

“I’ll leave you to your unpacking,” he said. “If you need any help or
any thing just call Ellen. If you pull that tassel arrangement by the
bed she’ll come; that’s part of her job. Well, good-by. I’ll be down in
the library. Come down when you are ready.”

She did not come down until almost supper time. He was sitting in the
easy-chair when she entered. She had changed her dress and rearranged
her hair and done her best to eradicate or at least conceal the tear
stains about her eyes. He looked up from his paper, gave her an
appraising glance which, or so she imagined, took her in from head to
heel, and waved his big hand toward the rocker.

“Sit down, sit down,” he said. “Well, you look as trim as a new tops’l.
Get your things to rights upstairs? Find plenty of stowage room in the
closet?”

The closet was as big, almost, as her bedroom in the Clark cottage.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, smiling a little.

He smiled also. “Mother was bound to have plenty of closet-room,” he
observed. “Women like ’em big. When you’ve had a sea training, same
as I had in my young days, you get used to putting up with snugger
quarters. Now--er--let me see. Supper will be ready pretty soon, but
just now-- Humph! Like to read, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Women do, I know. There are lots of books in those cases, lots of ’em.
I haven’t read ’em all, but I guess they’re all right. Mother--your
Aunt Bella--picked them out and she generally knew what was what. Help
yourself--now or any time. What I should like to have you feel,” he
went on, obviously embarrassed but very earnest, “is that anything or
everything in this house is yours from now on. You are going to live
here and--er--you must try to feel that it’s--well, that it is home.
You understand what I mean?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“That’s right, that’s right. Well, there are the books. Help yourself.”

She wandered over to the bookcases. The sumptuously bound volumes
posed disdainfully behind the glass panes and seemed to dare her to
lay plebeian hands upon them. Their titles, Macaulay’s “History of
England,” Greeley’s “American Conflict,” Shakespeare’s “Complete
Works,” “Poems of Alexander Pope”--they were not particularly alluring.
One majestic, gilt-edge tome was labeled, “Ostable County and Its
Leading Citizens.” She rather timidly lifted this from the shelf,
opened it, and almost immediately found herself facing a steel engraved
portrait of her uncle. On the next page but one was another engraving
portraying the “Residence of Captain Foster Townsend at Harniss.” The
article descriptive of that residence and its owner filled five pages
of large print. It began:

“Among the names of prominent men of this thriving and beautiful
township that of Captain Foster Bailey Townsend stands at the head.
His position in civic and county affairs, his strong and unswerving
influence for the highest in political matters, his numerous
benefactions--”

She had read this far when Ellen drew the portières and announced that
supper was ready.

Of all the vivid impressions of those first days and weeks in her new
home, the memory of that first meal still remains clearest in Esther’s
mind. It was so different, so strange, so altogether foreign to any
previous experience. She sat at one end of the table and he at the
other, the prismed hanging lamp above them casting its yellow glow upon
the shining silver, the ornately ornamented china--she did not then
considerate it ornate, of course, but beautiful--the water glasses,
not one nicked and all of the same pattern, the expensive cloth and
napkins. Ellen, neatly dressed and silent of step and movement, brought
in the food from the kitchen, placed each dish before the captain, who
heaped his niece’s plate and handed it to the maid who placed it before
her. There was none of the helter-skelter confusion and bustle of the
suppers to which she had been accustomed; no jumping up and running to
the kitchen; no passing from hand to hand; no hurry in order to get
through because it was almost mail time. And, of course, there would
be, for her, no clearing away and dishwashing after it was over.

Esther had read a great deal; she was a regular and frequent patron
of the public library; she knew that this was the way rich people
lived and ate. That she should be doing it--not in imagination; she
had imagined herself doing it often enough--but in reality; that
she, Esther Townsend, was destined to sit at this table and be thus
deferentially waited upon every day, and three times a day, for years
and years; that was the amazing, incredible thought. It was like a
story; she was like Bella Filfur in “Our Mutual Friend” when her
husband, John Harmon, after all their trials and tribulations were
ended, brought her to that beautiful house and she discovered that it
was to be hers, that she was very, very wealthy and could have anything
she wanted--always. Almost like that it was. Why, she herself was rich
now, or what amounted to the same thing! _She_ could have anything she
wanted, her uncle had said so. For the first time she really began to
believe it.

She ate little, so little that Foster Townsend noticed and commented.

“Where’s your appetite?” he asked. “These things are to eat, not to
look at. Don’t you feel well?”

She blushed in guilty confusion. “Oh, yes!” she replied, quickly.
“It--it isn’t that. I was thinking and--and I guess I forgot. I’m
sorry.”

“Thinking, eh? What were you thinking?”

She hesitated. Then she spoke the exact truth.

“I was thinking that--that it couldn’t be real--my being here. It
doesn’t seem as if it could.”

He understood; he had been thinking almost the same thing.

“I guess it is,” he said, with a smile. “You are here, and we’ll hope
you’re going to stay. A little bit homesick, are you?”

She started in surprise. She had tried so hard to keep him from
surmising how utterly wretched she had been.

“I--I don’t know,” she faltered. “Perhaps I am--I mean I was--a little.”

He nodded. “Natural enough you should be,” he said. “Homesickness is a
mean disease. I’ve been homesick myself for the past fortnight or so.”

She could not, at the moment, understand what he meant.

“Why, Captain Townsend!” she protested. He interrupted.

“Might as well call me ‘Uncle Foster,’ hadn’t you?” he suggested.
“Sounds a little less like town meeting.”

Again she blushed. “I--I forgot again,” she confessed. Then, catching
the twinkle in his eye, she laughed.

“But, Uncle Foster--”

“That’s better. What?”

“I don’t see why you should be homesick. This _is_ your home.”

“It’s my house. It was my home, but-- Oh, well! we’ll see if we
can’t make it ‘home’ again, you and I between us. Homesickness
is mean, though. I remember the first voyage I ever made. Little
thirteen-year-old shaver I was, and--”

He went on to tell of that voyage. It was a long one and the story
was long, but he told it well. Supper was ended before he finished.
They returned to the library. Instead of sitting in the easy-chair he
remained standing.

“Er--Esther,” he said.

“Yes, sir.... Yes, Uncle Foster?”

He rubbed his beard. “I was just going to say,” he went on, awkwardly,
“that--er--humph! well, the piano is in the other room--in the parlor.
Perhaps you’d like to play on it. I guess it is in tune; the tuner
comes every two or three months or so; I hope he earns his money.”

She did not feel like playing.

“Why, if you want me to--” she hesitated.

“I shouldn’t mind. It would be interesting to see how the thing sounds.
About all Mother or I ever did was look at it. Of course, if _you_
don’t want to--”

“Yes. Yes, I will. But I can’t play very well.”

“And I shouldn’t know if you did, if that’s any comfort to you. Ellen
has lit up the parlor, I guess; I told her to.”

The parlor--even the wife of the great Foster Townsend had never
dared refer to it as a “drawing-room” within the limits of Harniss
township--was by far the most majestic apartment in the mansion. And,
of course, the least livable. The huge rosewood square piano was of
corresponding majesty. Esther seated herself upon the brocaded cushion
of the music stool and her uncle, after trying one of the bolt-upright
chairs, shifted to the equally bolt-upright sofa--in the bill it had
been a “divan”--and sat uncomfortably upon that.

“What shall I play?” she asked. There were some sheets of music upon
the rack, but they were unfamiliar and looked uninviting.

Townsend grunted. “Don’t ask me,” he replied. “Anything you want to. If
you played ‘Old Hundred,’ and told me it was ‘The Jerusalem Hornpipe’ I
couldn’t contradict you.”

She played two or three simple airs which her music teacher--he was
also assistant to Mr. Wixon, the undertaker--had taught her. Her uncle
did not speak during the playing. When she glanced at him he was
sitting upon the sofa, his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched
out in front of him. He appeared to be lost in thought and the thought
not of the pleasantest. Once she heard him sigh.

When, at the end of her third selection, she paused and he seemed not
to be aware of it, she ventured to address him.

“I’m afraid that is about all I can play now--without my music,” she
said. He looked up with a start.

“Eh?” he queried. “Oh, all right, all right! I’m much obliged. Maybe
that will do, for now. Suppose we go back into the other room; shall
we?”

He rose from the sofa and she from the stool. She was disappointed
and a little hurt. He had not offered a word of praise. When they had
entered the library he turned and closed the door behind them.

“That is the first time I have been in that room since--since the
funeral,” he muttered. “Just now I feel as if I never wanted to go into
it again.... Well, there! that’s foolishness,” he added, squaring his
shoulders. “I shall go into it, of course. We’ll go in there to-morrow
and then I want you to sing for me. I have heard a lot about that voice
of yours.”

She did not know how to answer and he did not wait for her to do so.

“You play first rate, I should say,” he went on. “You mustn’t think
I didn’t like it; I did. It was only that--well, that blasted room
and--and the music together were-- Humph! Well, there! Sit down and
tell me about your singing. Who has been teaching you?”

She told him. Mr. Cornelius Gott, the undertaker’s assistant, sang
in the choir, taught singing school in the winter, and a few pupils
in private. His voice was a high tenor and his charges low. Townsend
grunted when his name was mentioned.

“I wouldn’t hire that fellow to learn my dog to howl,” he declared.
“We’ll find somebody better than that for you, if we have to send to
Boston. Who picked _him_ out?”

Esther resented this contemptuous dismissal of the teacher whom she had
considered rather wonderful. He was young and very polite and sported a
most becoming mustache.

“Aunt Reliance got him to teach me,” she said. “He didn’t want to do it
at first, for she couldn’t pay his regular prices. If it hadn’t been
for her I shouldn’t have had any one. He taught me to play, too. _We_
think he is splendid.”

Her uncle ignored the defiance in her tone. He pulled his beard.

“Reliance Clark is an able woman,” he observed, reflectively. “It must
have meant considerable scrimping on her part to pay even what that
numskull charged. She’s done well by you, I’ll say that for her.”

It needed only this reference to her beloved aunt to bring the tears to
the girl’s eyes.

“I love her better than any one else in the world,” she announced,
impulsively. “And I always shall.”

He looked at her. Then he smiled.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “You ought to. Well, make yourself at home
now. There are the books; somebody ought to use ’em. Do anything you
want to. As I said before, this is home and you must treat it as if it
was.”

He lighted a cigar, picked up the paper and began to read. She wandered
once more to the bookcase, but “Ostable County and Its Leading
Citizens” was not very interesting, nor was she in a mood to appreciate
it if it had been. The temporary excitement of the wonderful supper
table and its grandeur had passed and her homesickness had returned,
worse than ever. She wondered what they were doing at home--her real
home, not this make-believe. It was after nine, so the post office was
closed and Aunt Reliance was in the house, in the sitting-room. Was
she as lonesome as she, Esther, was at that minute? Oh, if she could
only go to her, could run away from this horrid place where she did not
belong to that where she did! If she had not promised faithfully! Oh,
dear! Why had she!

She turned in desperation.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, chokingly. “I think I will go to bed
now. I--I am pretty tired.”

He looked up from the paper. “Eh?” he said. “Tired? Oh, yes, I guess
you are. This has been a sort of trying day for you, I shouldn’t
wonder. Well, to-morrow we’ll see if we can’t find something to keep
you interested. Ellen has fixed your room. If she hasn’t done things
as you want ’em done, call her and see that she does. I shall turn in,
myself, before long. Hope you sleep first rate. Good-night, Esther.”

“Good-night, sir.”

“Eh?... You’ve forgot again, haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry. Good-night, Uncle Foster.”

The pink room was alight, the bed had been opened, her nightdress was
lying upon it. She went to the window, but she did not dare raise
the shade. From that window one might see the light in the window of
the Clark cottage, at the foot of the long hill. She could not trust
herself to look in that direction. She undressed, blew out the lamp and
got into a bed far softer than any she had ever before slept in. It was
a long, long time before she did sleep, however. Homesickness is a mean
disease; Foster Townsend was right when he said that.

The next morning was bright and sunshiny and when she awoke she was in
better spirits. Being merely called to breakfast, instead of having
to go to the kitchen and help prepare it, was of itself a gratifying
novelty. After breakfast she accompanied her uncle on his morning round
of inspection. In the stables Varunas was awaiting them. His eager
politeness, in contrast to the casual everyday manner in which he had
greeted her the previous afternoon, was also gratifying. At Captain
Townsend’s suggestion he led out and exhibited Claribel and Hornet and
others of the Townsend stables.

“She is all gingered up and ready to go,” he declared, patting
Claribel’s glistening shoulder. “She’ll make that Rattler look like
a porgy boat tryin’ to keep up with one of them high-toned yachts. I
understand,” he added, addressing his employer in the confidential
whisper he invariably used on such occasions, “that Baker’s gang are
offerin’ ten to seven over there in Bayport. I’m just waitin’ for ’em
to show up around here and start their hollerin’. There’s a five dollar
bill in my pants pocket that’s goin’ up on Claribel lock, stock and
barrel. He, he! Your uncle told you about the game we’ve played on Sam
Baker and Seth Emmons and them?” he asked, turning to Esther. “That was
a slick trick, if I did handle it myself. He, he!”

Townsend’s eyes twinkled. “You wouldn’t guess Varunas was so clever to
look at him, would you,” he observed solemnly. “He can think up more
smart tricks--second-hand--than any one you ever saw.”

Mr. Gifford’s wizened face lengthened a trifle. “What was there
second-hand about it?” he demanded. “Oh, yes, yes! I recollect now
you said you’d heard of its bein’ played afore. Well, anyhow,”
triumphantly, “I was the first one to play it in these latitudes.
You’ll have to give me credit for that, Cap’n Foster.”

Townsend did not enlighten his niece concerning the nature of the
“trick.” He did, however, tell her of the proposed trotting match at
the Circle. She had heard rumors of it before; Millard had talked of it
during one entire meal at the cottage. As they were leaving the stables
Varunas patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“Don’t you worry about it, Esther,” he cautioned. “Don’t worry a mite.
We’ve got ’em licked afore they start. It takes more’n Sam Baker to
come in ahead of us Townsends, don’t it, eh? I guess you know that.”

So he considered her one of the family already, entitled to the family
confidence and sharing the family pride. That was pleasing, too. Just
as it was pleasant to have her uncle speak about planting the flower
garden, when the time for spring planting came.

“Mother used to attend to all that,” he said. “Now it will be your job.”

And when she met Nabby Gifford, there also was the same polite
acceptance of her authority as one of the Townsends. Not that Nabby’s
politeness was obsequious, she bent the knee to no one. But she greeted
the girl cordially and, far from appearing to resent her presence in
the house, seemed to welcome it.

“I’m real glad you’ve come here, Esther,” she whispered, in the only
moment when they were alone together. “You can help your uncle a lot.
He needs somebody of his own for company in this great ark of a place
and I’ve told him so. You’ll be a whole lot of comfort to him.”

Somehow these meetings with the Giffords cheered Esther greatly.
It seemed evident that she was not regarded wholly as an object of
charity. Almost as if a part of the favor was conferred by her. Her
uncle needed her--yes, and he had invited her there because of that
need. And she was a Townsend; why, in a way she did belong there, after
all. Her homesickness was not so distressing this morning.

She suffered a temporary relapse later on, when her aunt, in fulfilment
of her promise, came up to the mansion for a short call. Reliance,
however, was bright and cheerful, never showed, nor permitted her to
show, the least trace of tears or loneliness, exclaimed at the size
and beauty of the pink room, chatted of matters at the post office and
millinery shop, promised to come again just as soon as she could, and
hurried away in a bustle of good-humored energy. She had gone before
Esther could realize that their meeting was but temporary, not the
resumption of the old close, everyday companionship.

The girl accompanied her to the door, but Foster Townsend was waiting
at the gate.

“Well, how has it gone?” asked Reliance.

“All right enough, so far,” was the curt answer. “I guess we’ll get
along, after we get used to it.”

Miss Clark nodded. “_She’ll_ get along, I know,” she said. “She’s
young and young folks forget the old and take up with the new pretty
easy--especially such a ‘new’ as this will be to her. She’ll get along;
you are the one who will have to take time to get used to it. Let her
have her own way once in a while, Foster. It will be good judgment in
the end and save lots of trouble.”

He sniffed. “Seems to me we thrashed this all out yesterday,” he
retorted. “I can handle a skittish colt as well as the next one,
maybe.... Don’t you worry about our getting along.... How are _you_
getting along--without her?”

She turned away.

“Don’t talk about it,” she said. “Sometime, when I’m not so busy, I’m
goin’ up to the cemetery. That will be a bright, lively place compared
to my sittin’ room just now. But I’ll get used to it, too. I’ve spent
about half my life gettin’ used to things.”

That afternoon Esther had another new and overwhelming experience.
She and her uncle went for a drive behind the span. Foster Townsend
himself drove and his niece sat beside him upon the seat of the high
wheeled dog-cart. The black horses stepped proudly, their curved necks
glistening and the silver mounted harness a-jingle. People stopped to
look at them as they passed, just as she, herself, had done so often.
Then she had merely looked and envied--yes, and resented--the triumphal
progress of this man, her father’s own brother, who had everything
while she and her parents had had nothing. Now she was a part of that
progress and, in spite of an occasional twinge of conscience, she found
herself enjoying it. The reality of this marvelous change in her life
was more and more forced upon her.

Now, as always, hats were lifted in acknowledgment of the royal
presence, but now they were lifted to the princess as well as to the
king. Proof of this was furnished by no less a personage than Captain
Benjamin Snow, who hurried from his front gate and came out into the
road. Townsend pulled the horses to a standstill and greeted the man
whose influence in Harniss affairs was second only to his own.

“Hello, Ben!” he said. “Well, what is it?”

Captain Ben, short-breathed always and pompous usually, was urbanely
deferential.

“Just heard from Mooney,” he panted, with an asthmatic chuckle. “He was
down to see me last night. Talked about nothing but that cranberry
bill. I judge he has had a change of heart. Says he was up to see you
a day or two ago. You must have put the fear of the Lord into him,
Foster.”

Townsend smiled. “I didn’t mince matters much,” he admitted. “He’ll
trot in harness now, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“He’d better. Going to the rally, I suppose?”

“Probably.”

“I hope you do. The sight of you will do more to keep him humble than
anything else in the world.... Well,” turning to Esther, “so you are
going to be your uncle’s girl from now on, I hear. That’s good, that’s
first rate. My wife and I are coming up to call on you some of these
evenings. And you must run in on us any time. Don’t stand on ceremony.
We’ll always be glad to see you. Any of your Uncle Foster’s relations
are just the same as ours, you know.”

This from Captain Ben Snow who, up to that moment, had scarcely so much
as spoken to her. And he and the even more consequential Mrs. Snow were
coming to call--not upon her uncle, but upon her. She managed to thank
him, but that was all.

The only other individual who had the temerity to arrest the progress
was Mr. Clark. Millard Fillmore was one of a small group of loungers
who were supporting the wooden pillars in front of Kent’s General
Store, by leaning against them. His sister had sent him to the store on
an errand. He heard the proud “clop, clop” of the horses’ hoofs upon
the road and awoke to life and energy.

“Hi!” he shouted, rushing out. “Well, well! Here you are, ain’t you!
Good afternoon, Cap’n Foster; good afternoon, sir. Well, Esther, you
look fine as a fiddle, settin’ up there as if you’d done it all your
days. Pretty fine girl, ain’t she, Cap’n Foster? Eh? She’ll be a credit
to you, you mark my words.”

Foster Townsend grunted, but made no comment.

“I presume likely you and she think it’s kind of funny I ain’t been
up to see her yet, Cap’n” continued Clark. “Well, I’ve meant to, but
I’ve been so busy at the post office I ain’t had time to go anywheres.
I’m comin’ pretty soon, though, you can bet on that. I’ll--I’ll be up
to-morrow--yes, sir, to-morrow.”

Townsend lifted the reins. “Anything else?” he asked, impatiently.

“No, I don’t know as there is--nothin’ special. Oh, yes, while I think
of it,” lowering his voice, “I’m collectin’ a good-sized bunch to go to
the rally and holler for the cranberry bill. I’ll have ’em there. You
can count on me for that, Cap’n Foster.”

“Get up!” commanded Townsend, addressing the horses.

“I’ll be over to-morrow,” Millard shouted after them. Then he returned,
swollen with importance, to the much-impressed group by the pillars.

Townsend frowned. “Jackass!” he snorted. Then, after a moment, he
added. “That fellow is likely to be a nuisance, I’m afraid. I won’t
have him hanging around the place. I don’t want him there. If he comes
to-morrow you tell Nabby or Ellen you can’t see him.”

Esther looked at him. She had never cherished deep affection for, nor
a high opinion of, her Uncle Millard, but the sight of him had been a
sharp reminder of the home she had just left and all its associations.
And the contempt in the captain’s tone stung.

“I want to see him,” she declared. “Yes, I do.”

“What! You want to see--_him_! For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Because--because I do. I’ve lived with him ever since I can remember.
_He_ is my uncle, too.”

Townsend rubbed his beard. His frown deepened.

“Humph!” he grunted. The remainder of the drive was less pleasant than
that preceding. The captain said very little and his niece was close to
tears. In one way she was sorry she had spoken as she had, in another
she was not. For some illogical reason the sneer at Mr. Clark, she
felt, included her; it had hurt her pride, and the brusque order that
she refuse to see him when he called was disturbing. Her Aunt Reliance
had assured her, over and over again, that her moving to the big house
did not mean the slightest change in their relationship; they would all
see each other every day at least, and perhaps several times a day. She
had relied on that assurance. Now her faith was shaken. If she could
not see Millard might not the next order be that she could not see her
aunt? That she would not obey--no, she would not.

Townsend, himself, was not entirely easy in his mind. It was
early--or so it seemed to him--for symptoms of rebellion in this new
relationship. And open rebellion of any sort was an unaccustomed insult
to his imperial will. He was ruffled, but it was not long before his
strong common sense took command. He even chuckled inwardly at the
thought of the girl’s defiance. She was no soft-soaper, at any rate.
She had a will of her own, too, and pluck to back it. She _was_ a
Townsend. Well, he had boasted to Reliance that very morning of his
ability to handle a skittish colt. He would handle this one, and if
tact, rather than the whip, was needed he would use that. When they
drove up to the side door of the mansion and he helped her to alight
from the dog-cart he was good-natured, even jolly, and ignored her very
evident agitation, seemed not to notice it.

During supper and all that evening he was chatty and affable. Esther’s
wounded feelings were salved by the change in his manner. This was a
new Uncle Foster, not the grand, dogmatic, overbearing autocrat she
had been taught to dread and dislike, but a good-humored, joking,
sympathizing comrade, who took her into his confidence, treated her
as if she really was an equal, not a dependent. He told stories, and
interesting ones, of his early life and struggles. She began to feel a
new understanding and respect for him. He must be a wonderful man to
have fought his way from nothing to the everything he now was. And he
talked concerning household affairs, even asked her advice as to Ellen,
the second maid, suggested that she keep an eye on the latter and see
if her share of the housework was done as it should be. All this was
pleasantly grateful and encouraging. It emphasized the impression left
by him in their talk about planting the flower garden and strengthened
that given by the cordial welcome to the family which Varunas and Nabby
had accorded her that morning.

Later on, they went again into the parlor and this time, at his urgent
request, she sang. He listened intently and insisted upon repetitions.
When the little recital was over he put his arm about her shoulder.

“Your voice is as good as they said it was,” he declared, with
emphasis. “I don’t know much about such things, of course, but I know
enough to be able to swear you ought to go on with your music. We’ll
find the best teacher in the county and if he isn’t good enough we’ll
send you where there is a better one. We’ll have you singing in a big
Boston concert yet and your Aunt Reliance and I will be down in the
front seats clapping our hands. Oh, it’s nothing to laugh at; we’ll be
there.”

The mention of her aunt as a member of that audience was the one
thing needed to make his praise sweeter. Her apprehensions of the
afternoon must have been groundless. It was plain that he had no idea
of separating her from her beloved relative. It was only Millard who
had irritated him and Uncle Millard was--well, even Reliance, his own
half-sister, had more than once confessed, under stress of especial
provocation, that he was “not much account.”

Esther’s bed-time thoughts that night were by no means as dismal and
hopeless as those of the night before. Pictures of herself as a great
singer mingled with her dreams as she fell asleep. Her last conscious
conviction was that she did not hate her Uncle Foster; perhaps, as she
came to know him better and better, she might even like him. It was
perfectly wonderful, the future he was planning for her.

Down in the library Foster Townsend was lounging in the leather chair
and thinking over his new plan of campaign as so far carried out. He
was very well satisfied. He was quite well aware that he had made a
favorable impression. Figuratively he patted himself on the back for
the happy astuteness which had given Reliance Clark a seat at that
concert. _That_ was the cleverest stroke of the evening. Not that he
intended sharing his niece’s future with Reliance or any one else. She
was his, and little by little he would make her altogether so. She was
a good-looking girl, a clever girl, and he was beginning to believe
he had made no mistake in bringing her to his home. With his money
and under his guidance she might be, not only the new interest he had
sought, but a daughter to be proud of. The little flashes of temper
and independence she had shown made the prospect only more alluring.
He would make her trot in harness, give him time. His training of the
skittish colt so far was not so bad--not so bad.




CHAPTER V


The first step in that training was, of course, to inspire the colt
with trust and liking for her new master. When that trust and liking
were established the next move must be to make her so satisfied and
happy in her new surroundings that the last lingering regret at leaving
the old should fade away. She must be driven with a light hand on the
reins, a touch so gentle that she would not realize it was there.
Confidence first, then contentment, next the gradual awakening of new
aspirations and ambitions--after these the rein might tighten and she
could be guided into and along the road he intended she should travel.
That was the program. Foster Townsend proceeding to carry it out.

The trust and liking first. That little disagreement following the
meeting with Millard was the last between the uncle and niece for many
a day. Townsend had learned his lesson. The next day, when they rode
behind the span, he stopped before the Clark cottage and suggested
that they run in and say “Hello” to Reliance. The latter was busy
in the millinery shop and was surprised to see them there. The call
lasted nearly an hour. Esther enjoyed it greatly, so, too, apparently,
did Miss Clark. Abbie Makepeace, the middle-aged partner in the
business, was at first in a state of nervous embarrassment, but their
distinguished visitor was so gracious, so chattily affable and easy, so
interested in the bits of local gossip she offered as contributions to
the conversation, that she ended in complete surrender.

“Well, I declare, Reliance!” she exclaimed, when the shop door had
closed. “I don’t see where the time has gone, I swear I don’t! Seems
as if he--I mean they--hadn’t been here five minutes. I don’t see how
folks can say Cap’n Townsend is--well, high and mighty and--and all
like that.”

Miss Clark put in a word.

“Seems to me I remember hearin’ you say what amounted to that, Abbie,”
she observed, dryly.

Abbie was momentarily taken aback.

“Well--well, if I did I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she protested.
“Anyhow, he was sociable and everyday enough this time. Why, I felt as
if I’d known him all my life. Did you hear him ask me to drop in and
see him and Esther any time I felt like it? I--I believe I’ll do it
some Sunday afternoon. Of course I’ve been up to the mansion two or
three times, when Arabella had a church committee tea or somethin’, but
I’ve never been there to _call_.”

Reliance smiled. “He can be nice enough, if he wants to be,” she
said; “but it has to be _when_ he wants. Esther seemed to be happy, I
thought, didn’t you?”

Abbie Makepeace gasped. “Happy!” she repeated. “I should think she
might be! My soul to man! Wouldn’t you be happy if you’d been just the
same as adopted by a man with a million o’ dollars? Of course she’s
happy; she’s goin’ to have everything on earth she wants from now
on.... You mustn’t be jealous, Reliance. Think of her.”

Reliance picked up the bonnet she had been at work upon when their
visitors came. She shook her head.

“Who do you think I’ve been thinkin’ about, for goodness sakes?” she
demanded. “There, there! get me that ribbon on the shelf behind you.
What is that verse I hear the boys sayin’?

  “‘The rich they ride in chaises.
  The poor they--’”

Miss Makepeace interrupted. “My soul!” she exclaimed, aghast. “That’s a
swearin’ piece! I never expected to hear you swear, Reliance Clark.”

“Well, you haven’t heard me yet, have you? I was goin’ to say that the
poor had to make bonnets. Let’s make ’em. We’ve lost more than an hour
already.”

“_I_ don’t call it losin’.... Humph! I believe you _are_ jealous. I
don’t see why you need to be. You are goin’ up there to have dinner
next Sunday. I heard him ask you. There’d be plenty of people in
Harniss who’ll be jealous of _you_ when they hear that. And it pleased
Esther almost to death, his invitin’ you. I could see that it did.”

It had, of course, and the certainty that it would was the reason why
Foster Townsend had extended the invitation. Esther had a happy day.
That evening she sang and played and her uncle’s praise was even more
whole-hearted than on the previous occasion. It was nice of him to say
such things. He had been very nice to her all that day. And his calling
on her aunt, of his own accord, and asking the latter and Uncle Millard
to dinner on Sunday was the nicest of all. It seemed almost as if her
mother must have been mistaken in thinking him such a dreadful man.
Either that, or he was sorry he had been so proud and unreasonable and
stubborn, and was determined to make amends to his brother’s daughter.
If he kept on behaving as he had this day she knew she would like
him--she could not help it.

Sunday morning he took her to church and, for the first time, she
sat, not in the Clark pew away back under the organ gallery, but down
in front in the Townsend pew, where the cushions were covered with
green plush and the hymn books bore the Townsend name in gold letters
on their cover. Asaph Boadley, the sexton, did not greet her with
a perfunctory “Hello.” His whispered “Good mornin’” was almost as
reverential as his salute of her uncle. The march up the aisle was very
trying--they were a trifle late and every eye in the meeting-house was,
she knew, fixed upon her. But Captain Benjamin Snow himself leaned over
the pew-back to point out to her the hymn they were about to sing.

The dinner at the mansion was the best meal she had ever eaten and it
was delightful--and wonderful--to have Miss Clark and Millard Fillmore
there to eat it with her. Millard did not talk as much as usual, even
he was a little awed by the occasion. He smoked a Townsend cigar after
dinner and accepted another to smoke later on. And when he and his
half-sister walked back to the cottage he strutted every step of the
way.

Esther accompanied her uncle to the “rally” on Tuesday evening. The
Town Hall was packed, and again there was the same stir and whispering
when they passed up the aisle between the lines of crowded settees. Men
were in the majority, of course, but there were many women there also,
and some girls. The men looked at Foster Townsend, but the feminine
element centered its interest upon his niece, and Esther wondered if
they noticed the new brooch which she was wearing. It was a present
from her Uncle Foster, who had bought it from the local jeweler and
watchmaker that afternoon. That brooch had been on display in the shop
window almost a year--since before the previous Christmas, in fact--and
the price upon the card above it was twenty dollars. She had seen
it often and her admiration of its beauty was coupled with a vague
resentment at the extravagance of its cost. Now it was hers--her very
own.

The Honorable Mooney’s speech was, it seemed to her, a noble effort.
She had never before heard quite as many big words said so loudly or
with such accompaniment of gesture. And she noticed that the orator
appeared to be looking in their direction almost constantly as he said
them. When it was over he hurried from the platform and pushed his way
to their side.

“Well, Cap’n Townsend,” he panted, eagerly, “I guess you’ll have to own
that I kept my word. Came out strong enough for the cranberry bill this
time, didn’t I?... How did it sound to you?”

The crowd about them had stopped to listen. There was a hush. Mr.
Mooney’s hand was extended, but Townsend did not remove his from his
trousers’ pockets.

“Sounded a good deal as if you had decided to be a bad influence,” he
observed. “Yes, you came out--to-night. How you come out on election
day is--well, I guess that depends on how sure you can make us that
you’ll _stay_ out--after you get in again.”

There was a roar of delighted laughter from the group surrounding them.
Mr. Mooney did not laugh. He looked troubled.

The horse trot at the Circle was to take place on Thursday afternoon.
All masculine Harniss knew of it by this time. Backers of the Baker
horse had visited Harniss during the past few days, had expressed
unbounded confidence in the fast-traveling Rattler, and had been quite
willing to support their confidence financially. There were perhaps
a hundred men and boys gathered about the starting-point when Foster
Townsend and Esther drove up in the dog-cart. Esther, looking out
over the crowd, felt troubled and out of place. So far as she could
see she was the only member of the gentler sex present. Horse racing,
although patronized by Harniss’s leading citizen, was not approved by
the majority of its best people, particularly the church-going element.
At the Ostable County Fair and Cattle Show they hung over the fence and
cheered or groaned, their wives and daughters with them, but that was
different--all set standards relaxed on Cattle Show days. An affair of
this kind was a trifle too much of a sporting proposition, it savored
too closely of card playing and gambling; so, although some--including
Captain Benjamin Snow--attended, they did not bring their families. If
it was any one _but_ Cap’n Foster, people said, he would not be allowed
to do such things.

The racers, harnessed to the light sulkies--“gigs” they were called
in that locality--were trotting easily about the track. Mr. Gifford
was driving Claribel, of course, and Seth Emmons held the reins for
the Baker horse. Varunas saw the Townsend span make its showy approach
along the road and he alighted from the sulky and came to meet its
owner and his companion. Varunas was dressed for the occasion, not in
the yellow and black satin which he donned for the ceremonious Cattle
Show races, but he was wearing the little satin cap pulled down to
his ears and his trousers were fastened tightly about his bowed legs
with leather straps. He was swollen with importance and grinning with
prospective triumph.

“She’s fine, Cap’n Foster,” he whispered. “Never handled her when she
was in better shape. If she don’t peel more’n one extry ten-dollar bill
off’n Sam Baker’s roll to-day then I’ll eat her, and I won’t ask for no
pepper sass and gravy, neither. Oh, say,” he added; “Cap’n Ben Snow’s
goin’ to be judge--says you asked him to--and he wants to talk to you a
minute. He’s right over yonder. Shall I go fetch him?”

Townsend climbed down from the seat of the dog-cart. “I’ll go to him,”
he said. “Esther, suppose you stay where you are. You can see better
up there than you can anywhere else. I’ll be back pretty soon. Here,
Josiah,” turning to one of the youthful bystanders, “keep an eye on the
team, will you?”

Josiah, evidently flattered by the opportunity to serve royalty,
stepped to the heads of the span. Esther, left alone, tried her best
to appear unaware that she was the center of interest for all in the
vicinity. Varunas hastened back to the track and clambered aboard the
sulky.

The interview between Townsend and Captain Snow was apparently a
lengthy one. The former did not return “pretty soon” as he had
promised. Esther, looking out over the crowd, saw a number of
acquaintances, boys of her own age. Some of them nodded, one or two
hailed her. There was Tom Doane, who clerked in Kent’s General Store
and drove the delivery wagon. The wagon was standing not far away,
its horse hitched to a post. Evidently Mr. Kent’s customers would be
obliged to wait for their purchases until the race was over. Frank
Cahoon was with young Doane. Frank, having finished school, was about
to leave Harniss for Boston, where he had a position with a firm of
shipping merchants. With them was a third young fellow whom she did not
know. The trio were looking at her and apparently considering coming
over to speak. Just then, however, her Uncle Millard came bustling up
to the dog-cart and she turned her attention to him.

Mr. Clark was ablaze with excitement and importance. He leaned an elbow
upon the side of the dog-cart and chatted, quite conscious that people
were watching him, and glorying in his place in the sun.

“Well, Esther,” he proclaimed, “this is a great day for us, ain’t it?
We’re goin’ to come out all right, you wait and see. Cap’n Foster knows
what he’s about and I tell folks so. Some of ’em try to let me think
Claribel hasn’t got more than an outside chance, but I laugh at ’em.
‘You leave it to us,’ I tell ’em. ‘We know a thing or two.’ That’s so,
too; isn’t it, eh?”

Esther regarded him rather coldly. All of the bystanders were
listening, she knew, and some were nudging each other and grinning. She
did wish that he would not speak so loudly.

“That’s so, ain’t it?” repeated Mr. Clark.

Esther’s reply was non-committal.

“Perhaps so,” she answered. “I don’t know what you know, Uncle Millard.
Has Uncle Foster told you about it? He hasn’t told me anything.”

Some of the grins became laughs. Before Millard could frame a
satisfactory reply a voice from the track saved him the trouble by
furnishing an excuse for departure.

“They’re gettin’ ready to start,” he announced, hastily. “I must be
goin’. I’ll see you and Cap’n Foster after we’ve won. So long.”

He hurried away. Esther heard her name spoken and turned to find that
young Doane and Frank Cahoon and their unknown companion had approached
from the rear and were standing by the carriage.

“Hello, Esther,” hailed Cahoon. “You’ve got a grandstand seat, haven’t
you? How does it seem to be up in the world? Speak to common folks
nowadays, do you?”

She colored. This was the sort of thing she had expected from her
school friends, but she did not like it any better on that account.

“Don’t be silly, Frank,” she said. “What are you doing down here in
Harniss? I thought you were in Boston.”

“Not yet. Start to-morrow. I wasn’t going to miss this horse trot for
anybody’s old ships. Bangs and Company will have to wait for me, that’s
all.”

She shook her head. “They must be dreadfully disappointed,” she said,
solemnly.

Doane burst into a laugh. “I guess that will do you for to-day, Frank,”
he crowed. “Oh, Esther, here is a fellow you ought to know--Bob
Griffin, from Denboro.”

Bob and Esther shook hands. He was a pleasant-faced young chap, tall,
dark-haired and with a pair of brown eyes with a twinkle in them.

“Bob’s come over to see what a real horse looks like,” explained Doane.
“They don’t use much of anything but oxen in Denboro. That’s so, isn’t
it, Bob?”

Griffin smiled.

“It is all we have had to use so far to beat any of your trotters,
Tom,” he retorted. “Perhaps I shall see something different to-day,
though. Is your horse going to win?” he asked, addressing the girl.

“It isn’t my horse,” she replied. “It is my uncle’s.”

“I know. I’ve heard a lot about your uncle. Perhaps you’ve heard as
much about my grandfather,” he added, with a laugh.

She did not understand. “I don’t know who your grandfather is,” she
said. “What do you mean?”

Cahoon’s laugh was loud. “I told you she wouldn’t know, Bob,” he
declared. “You’ve heard about the Cook and Townsend lawsuit, haven’t
you, Esther? I shouldn’t be surprised if you had. Well, Elisha Cook is
Bob’s grandfather. There! Now aren’t you sorry you shook hands with
him? Oh, ho! Now she’s scared. Look at her look around for her uncle,
Frank.”

Esther had looked, involuntarily, but it ruffled her to know that the
look had been noticed. She had heard many times of the great lawsuit,
of course--every one had--but she knew almost no particulars concerning
it. That Elisha Cook and Foster Townsend had once been partners in
business, that they had quarreled, separated and that the suit was the
result--so much she knew. And she remembered Millard’s description of a
meeting he had witnessed between the litigants. “You ought to have seen
the glower old Cook give him,” said Millard. “Looked as if he’d like
to stick a knife into him, I declare if he didn’t. And Cap’n Foster
never paid any more attention to it than he would to a stick of wood
glowerin’. Just brushed past him as if he _was_ wood. Foster was all
dressed up and prosperous, same as he always is, but old ’Lisha looked
pretty shabby. Don’t blame him much for glowerin’. He knows as well as
anybody else that Foster’s got the courts in his pocket.”

Esther remembered this now although she had paid little attention to it
at the time. And, at the mention of the Cook name her first thought had
been of her uncle and what he might think if he saw her in company with
the grandson of his deadly enemy. Before she could answer Bob Griffin
spoke.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t shake hands, Esther,” he said. “We aren’t
running any lawsuits of our own, and if you’re as sick of hearing
about courts and decisions and lawyers as I am you never will run one.
Grandfather doesn’t talk about anything else.... Come on, let’s forget
it, _I_ say. Tell me who is going to win this race.”

Just then the preliminary whistle sounded from the track below them.
Frank Cahoon shouted in excitement.

“They’re going to start,” he cried. “We can’t see a thing from here. I
say, Esther, let us climb up there with you, will you? Cap’n Townsend
won’t mind and he isn’t here, anyway. Come on, boys!”

He started to mount to the seat, but Griffin was nearest and blocked
the way.

“Wait till you are invited,” he protested. “How about it, Esther? May
we?”

She hesitated. “Why--why, yes--I guess so,” she faltered. He did not
wait for more, but scrambled to the seat beside her. Frank Cahoon and
Tom Doane stood upon the hubs of the wheels and clung to the rail of
the dog-cart.

The two trotters--or their drivers--were jockeying for position at the
start. Varunas was crouched in the sulky seat, his short legs looking
more like barrel hoops than ever as each half-circled one of Claribel’s
glistening flanks. His face was puckered until it looked like, so Bob
Griffin whispered in Esther’s ear, a last year’s seed potato. Seth
Emmons, behind the Baker entry, looked far less anxious. His cap was
jauntily askew and he was confidently smiling.

There was no judges’ stand at the Circle and, of course, no bell to
signal starts and finishes. A whistle took its place and now it sounded
once more. The racers shot by. They were off to a good start at the
very first trial--almost a miracle in a trotting race. The crowd set
up a shout. Every one pushed and jostled to see better. Esther leaned
forward breathlessly. Prior to her arrival at the Circle she had not
been greatly interested in the race. Foster Townsend’s penchant for
fast horses had been one of the points in his disfavor which her mother
had so often stressed. “He will spend a thousand dollars any time on a
horse,” Eunice used to say, bitterly, “but he could let his own brother
die a pauper.” Reliance, also, had never approved of what she called
“horse jockeyin’.” Esther had accompanied her uncle that afternoon
because he seemed to wish her to do so, but she had been secretly
ashamed of the whole affair. It seemed so “cheap,” so undignified--so,
yes, almost immoral. Since their arrival, stared at by every one, the
only non-masculine in the whole assemblage, this feeling had deepened.
She devoutly wished she had not come. As to who won the match, that was
a matter of complete indifference to her--she did not care at all.

Now, all at once, she found herself caring a great deal. She wanted
Claribel to win. Her eyes shone, her hands clasped and unclasped,
she bent forward to watch the flying sulkies. She was as excited and
partisan as the rest.

It was a mile trot, four times around the track. The first round was
practically a dead heat. The second almost the same. She grew anxious.
So, evidently, did Tom Doane.

“Thunder!” he exclaimed, disgustedly. “That Rattler is doing as well as
our horse. Yes, a little better, if anything. What’s the matter with
Gifford? Why don’t he whip her up? He’s going to lose the inside place
in a minute. Go on, Claribel! Shake her up, Varunas! Give it to her!”

Frank Cahoon was yelling similar advice. Bob Griffin turned
impatiently. “Keep your hair on, Tom,” he ordered. “Gifford knows what
he’s doing. Watch him. He’s been holding her in every foot of the way
so far. Don’t worry,” he whispered in Esther’s ear. “He’ll let her out
when the time comes. We’ll beat ’em at the finish.”

Esther was close to tears. “Oh, we must! We _must_!” she gasped.

“We will.... Hi! there she goes! That’s the stuff! Good girl! _Look_ at
her leave him!”

She was leaving him. Varunas had suddenly loosened his grip on the
reins. Bending forward until his nose was close to Claribel’s flying
tail he was urging her on. His shrill yells could be heard even above
the shouts of the crowd.

“Go it, you, Claribel!” he was shrieking. “Lay down to it now! _Now_
they begin to know they’re licked! Hi! hi! hi! Lay down to it, girl!”

The Townsend mare was well to the fore as they shot by at the end of
the third turn and swung into the last lap. Rattler’s nose was scarce
abreast the wheel of his rival’s sulky. Varunas never stopped yelling
for an instant, but as every one else was doing the same thing it was
harder to understand what he said. Esther was, although she did not
know it, standing up in the dog-cart. Bob Griffin was standing beside
her. Josiah Smalley, the youth entrusted with the care of the Townsend
span, had forgotten his trust and was jumping up and down in the rear
of the crowd.

The trotters passed the other end of the Circle and were swinging into
the stretch. The finish was a matter of seconds. And then something
happened. What it was Esther did not then know, but that it was serious
there was no doubt, for the whole aspect of affairs changed in a flash.

From Claribel’s flank a black strip seemed to burst loose, to shoot
into the air, to flap up and down. Her even trot faltered, changed to a
jerky gallop. The yells of triumph from the Harniss contingent changed
also--to groans, howls of warning, profane exclamations. Rattler was no
longer a length behind; he was almost on even terms with the mare.

And then Varunas Gifford proved the stuff of which he was made. By main
strength he pulled the frightened animal back into stride again. His
whoops of triumph became soothing commands of encouragement. Claribel
steadied, crept ahead once more, passed the line a winner--by not much,
but a winner, nevertheless.

Esther screamed, clapped her hands and danced in the dog-cart. She was
dimly conscious that Bob Griffin was dancing also and patting her on
the back. Tom Doane and Frank Cahoon were performing one-legged jigs on
the hubs of the wheels. The crowd was wild. And then the Townsend span,
who, quite unnoticed had been dancing with the rest, started to run.

Doane and Cahoon fell to the ground, of course. Esther was thrown
back to the seat; so was Bob Griffin. The crowd, those of its members
standing nearest, scrambled headlong to avoid being hit or run over.
The dog-cart bounced and rocked along the road.

It did not travel far. Young Griffin, beyond a startled grunt of
surprise when the jerk threw him upon the seat, did not utter a word.
He recovered his balance, leaned over the rocking dashboard, seized the
trailing reins and, after a short struggle, pulled the horses to a walk
and then to a standstill. Another moment and a dozen pair of hands
were clutching at the bridles and voices were demanding to know if any
one was hurt.

Doane and Cahoon were among the first to reach the carriage. When they
learned that no harm had been done their elation at Claribel’s victory
overcame all other feelings.

“We licked ’em, didn’t we, Esther,” crowed the exultant Thomas. “By
thunder! I thought we were gone when that breeching broke. But we
weren’t! Ho, ho! Pretty fair horses we have over here in Harniss; eh,
Bob? And pretty good drivers, too!”

Griffin was out of breath, but laughing.

“Good enough!” he admitted. “Of course, _I_ didn’t care who won. If it
had been a Denboro horse now--”

Frank Cahoon’s derisive howl cut him short.

“Oh, no!” he shouted. “_You_ didn’t care! Did you see him jumping
up and down, Esther? Ho, ho! Say, Bob! What do you suppose your
grandfather ’Lisha would have said if he’d seen you rooting for a
Foster Townsend horse? Oh, ho! Why--”

He did not finish the sentence. The crowd behind him had parted. Foster
Townsend himself was standing at his elbow. The great man was not as
calmly dignified as usual. He was out of breath and his expression was
one of alarm and anxiety. He pushed young Cahoon aside--as a matter of
fact, Frank was only too eager to escape--and came to the side of the
dog-cart.

“Are you all right, Esther?” he demanded, sharply. “Not hurt or
anything?”

Esther was a little pale, but as much from the excitement of the race
as from the short-lived runaway.

“Oh, not a bit, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “Not a bit, truly. I am
all right.”

“Sure you are? That’s good. Where is that Smalley boy? I told him to
look out for these horses. Where is he?”

Josiah was on his way home and not lingering by the way.

“Who stopped them after they started?” demanded Townsend. Hands and
tongues indicated Griffin.

“Humph! I’m much obliged to you. You kept your head, I judge, and that
is a lot.... Humph! You aren’t a Harniss boy, are you? What is your
name?”

Bob hesitated. Esther supplied the information.

“He is Bob Griffin, Uncle Foster,” she said. “He lives in Denboro.”

There was a stir in the crowd, then a hush. Many of those present knew
that Bob Griffin was Elisha Cook’s grandson. This meeting, under such
circumstances, was momentous, it was epoch-making--something to be
talked about at home, at the post office, everywhere. What would Foster
Townsend say when he heard that name?

He said very little. “Griffin?” he repeated. “Oh!... Humph! Yes, yes.
Well, my niece and I are much obliged to you.”

Bob, embarrassed, muttered that it was all right, he had not done
anything.

“Well, you did it pretty well, from what I hear.... Now, Esther, we’ll
go home. You needn’t worry. They won’t run away again, not when I’m at
the wheel.... Young man, if you will get down from there, I’ll get up.”

Bob hastily climbed down from the dog-cart. Townsend took his place
and the reins. Just then some one shouted his name and he turned. The
shouter was Mr. Gifford. His gaudy cap was missing, the perspiration
was dripping from his forehead and he was almost incoherent.

“Cap’n Foster!” he panted. “Cap’n Foster! I--I--I declare I don’t know
how that britchin’ come to bust that way! It was a brand-new britchin’,
too. I never expected nothin’ like that. I swear I was--I was--”

“Never mind. You can tell me about it later. You were lucky it didn’t
lose the race.”

“I know it. I know it. But _how_ can you foretell a thing like that?
I never--well, when that bust--I--I--thinks I-- Now I leave it to
anybody--I leave it to you, Esther--you can’t foretell a brand-new
britchin’ is goin’ to up and bust on ye, now can ye?”

The rest of his expostulations and excuses were unheard by the pair in
the dog-cart. Foster Townsend had chirruped to the span and they were
on their way to the mansion.

Esther was prepared for cross-examination by her uncle concerning
her meeting with Bob Griffin. He would ask how the latter came
to be sitting beside her in the dog-cart, how long she had known
him, all sorts of things. He might even forbid her speaking to him
when they met again. Her conscience was dear; the meeting had been
quite unpremeditated, and, even if it were not--if she and Bob were
friends--she saw no reason for behaving other than she had. She meant
to say just that. Just because Bob’s grandfather and her uncle had
quarreled was no reason why she should refuse to be decently polite to
a person with whom she had no disagreement. She was neither a child nor
a slave. She had consented to give her uncle a trial, to live with him,
but he had not bought her, body and soul. If he _did_ say--

But he did not. He asked questions, of course, but they were about the
horses and the whereabouts of Josiah Smalley when they started to run.
He seemed to blame himself more than any one else for the accident.
His talk with Captain Ben Snow had delayed him, he said, then came the
start of the race and he had forgotten everything else--including her.

“I’m glad some one with a cool head was on hand to pick up those
reins,” he declared. “It might have been a nasty mess if the team had
really got under way. I’m thankful it was no worse. And we, both of us,
ought to be grateful to that boy.”

That was his sole reference to the Cook grandson. Esther’s
apprehensions were not realized and her ruffled feathers relaxed. The
remainder of the conversation was a mutual glorification over the
result of the trotting match.

“After all,” he chuckled, as they drove up at the side door, “Varunas
had it right when he said they can’t beat us Townsends. Eh, Esther?”

Esther nodded gleefully. “Indeed they can’t, Uncle Foster!” she agreed.
She was proud of the name. It _was_ splendid to be a Townsend.

That evening, after she had gone up to bed, the chieftain of the
Townsend clan spent several hours in the leather easy-chair thinking
and planning. Here was a new and unforeseen complication, one which, he
now realized, was certain to be followed by more of the same variety.
He should have foreseen it, of course. It was as natural as life, it
was what made life. Esther was a pretty, attractive girl. She was bound
to attract masculine admiration. As she grew older there would be more
of them and the consequent complications were serious. He could not
prevent that, therefore he must see to it that her associates were of
the right kind. She must have friends--yes; but if he undertook to
select some and forbid others there would be trouble. In Harniss the
social circle was limited and its boundaries not very clearly defined.
If she could be taken away from there, put under careful supervision
somewhere else, kept interested in other things, until she was old
enough and sufficiently accustomed to the privileges of wealth and
station, to judge more clearly--then--humph! But where--and how?

The clock struck twelve and he had reached no satisfactory solution.
Whatever was done must be done with diplomacy. The light hand on the
rein must continue light for a long time to come. The colt was still a
colt--and skittish.

It was the singing teacher who, quite unconsciously, gave him a clue.
Mr. Gott came next day, at Townsend’s command, to talk over the matter
of Esther’s musical education. He was surprisingly self-abnegating and
honestly outspoken.

“I can teach her about so much, Cap’n Townsend,” he said, “but she can
go a whole lot farther than that if she has the chance. I’m about as
good in my line as anybody in Harniss--yes, or Ostable County--if I do
say so, but I don’t claim to be as good as the folks up to Boston. They
are paid bigger rates than I am and they can afford to spend more time
keeping abreast of their job. If I didn’t have to quit music teaching
every little while to help run somebody’s funeral I might get ahead
faster. If nobody died--but there! if they didn’t die _I_ would. I’d
starve to death if I had to live on what I make learning folks to play
piano and sing in _this_ town.”

This frank statement gave Foster Townsend the idea he had been seeking.
He wrote to an acquaintance who lived in Boston. This acquaintance
was the widow of a former clerk in the office of Cook and Townsend,
occupied a small house in the Roxbury district and occasionally “let
rooms” or even took a boarder, provided the latter’s credentials were
of the best. And this widow was under heavy obligations for financial
favors extended by her late husband’s employer. The reply he received
was satisfactory. Yes, indeed, the lady would be only too delighted to
provide food and shelter for her benefactor’s niece. “If she comes to
me I shall look out for her as if she was my own daughter. You may be
sure of that.” Townsend’s answer was brief. “I shall expect you to be
sure of it,” he wrote.

Then he wrote to the head of the New England Conservatory of Music.
When all these preliminaries were settled he took the matter up, not
with Esther herself, but with her aunt.

Reliance listened to the plan with evident interest but in silence.

“So there it is,” concluded Townsend. “The girl has got a good voice,
so everybody says. So good that it would be a shame not to give it
every chance to be better. You can’t do that down here. She can study
at the Conservatory and stay with this Carter woman from Monday till
Friday. Jane Carter is a good woman, strict and church-going and all
that; she comes of a first-class Boston family who stick by her even if
she is a poor relation. Humph!” he added, with an amazed grunt, “you’d
think Cap’n John Hancock and Commodore Winthrop and the rest of ’em
were her brothers and sisters to hear her talk sometimes. She puts
up with my fo’castle manners because she has to, but I always feel as
if I was King Solomon’s bos’n calling on the Queen of Sheba when I go
into that house. Funny, isn’t it?... Well, Esther will be kept in the
straight and narrow path while she is there--and there will be nobody
but bluebloods allowed in the path with her. And Saturdays and Sundays,
of course--and vacations--she will be down here with me--with us. What
do you think of the scheme, Reliance?”

Reliance said she thought well of it. “It will be a wonderful thing for
Esther,” she declared. “But it will be a little hard for you, I should
think. You got her up to your house because you were lonesome. Now you
are goin’ to send her somewhere else. What is the matter? Isn’t your
first notion workin’ out as well as you expected?”

He jingled the change in his pocket.

“No trouble so far as I’m concerned,” he said. “She’s a good girl and
a clever girl and I want her to have every chance that belongs to her.
I am thinking of her, not of myself.... Now what are you shaking your
head about? Don’t you believe me?”

Reliance smiled.

“It is a little bit hard for me to believe you aren’t thinkin’ of
yourself some, Foster,” she said.

“What do you mean by that?” indignantly. “Where do I come in on the
deal? Do you suppose I _want_ to get rid of her? She’s mine now and I
want her to stay mine. Don’t talk like a fool, woman.”

Miss Clark was still smiling. “The surest way to get anything out of
you, Foster,” she observed, “is to stir you up. I learned that long
ago.”

“Is that so? Well, what do you think you’ve got out of me now? I’ve
told you the truth and nothing else.”

“There, there! I don’t doubt a word you’ve told me. Of course you want
Esther to be yours and stay yours. I don’t blame you for that. And the
surest and quickest way to bring that around is to put her where there
won’t be so many reminders of the times when she was somebody else’s. I
should probably do the same thing, if I were you.”

“Look here, Reliance!... Oh, well! what’s the use? I thought you had
more sense. You’re jealous, that’s what ails you.”

“Am I? Well, I guess I am, a little.”

“I guess you are, too. If you feel that way why did you tell her to
come with me in the first place?”

“I told her to come because I knew she ought to, for her own sake.”

“Yes, and I’m sending her to Boston to study music for the same
reason. If you think I’m sending her off, making myself a darned sight
lonesomer than I was before, because I want to get her out of _your_
way you’re flattering yourself.”

“Then whose way _are_ you getting her out of?... Well, well, never
mind! I think it’s a fine opportunity for Esther. She ought to go, and
I shall tell her she must. That is what you came here to ask me to do,
of course.”

He was having his own way once more and his good humor returned.

“That is settled then,” he said. “I’m much obliged to you, Reliance.
You can generally be counted on to see a light--after you’ve had the
fun of arguing that there isn’t any to see. You and I will have to keep
each other company while the girl’s away. When I get too lonesome I
shall be dropping in here to pick a fight with you. There will always
be one waiting to be picked, I can see that. You and Millard better
come up to dinner again next Sunday. Esther likes to have you.”

That evening he told his niece of the great plan. He was prepared for
objections but there were none worth mentioning. Esther was too dazzled
by the brilliant picture and its possibilities to remember that it
meant leaving her new home and Harniss and her Aunt Reliance. Her uncle
dwelt upon the future and its marvelous promise of a career.

“If what all hands say about your voice is true,” he declared, “you
can climb high, Esther. We’ll start you there at the Conservatory and,
when you’ve learned all they can teach you, we’ll go somewhere else
where you can learn more. I understand that Paris is the place where
they teach the top-notchers. All right; I’ve never been to Paris. I’ve
been to Havre and Marseilles and those ports, of course, but Paris was
a little too expensive a side trip for a second mate. We’ll go there
together, two or three years from now--oh, yes, we will! And maybe some
other places before then--on your summer vacations, you know. I haven’t
been to San Francisco since I was twenty-two. We’ll go out there--maybe
next summer--just to get me used to cruising again. What do you say to
that?”

She was too overcome to say much. And during the remainder of the
week he took pains to keep new pictures constantly before her eyes.
On Sunday, when, after dinner, she bade farewell to her aunt, there
was a temporary let down in her high spirits, but Reliance refused to
consider the parting in the least a serious matter.

“Why, you’ll be here every Saturday and Sunday, dearie,” she said. “And
all summer. You and I will see each other almost as often as we do now.
Don’t let your Uncle Foster see you cryin’. Goodness knows there is
nothin’ to cry about!”

Monday morning she and Townsend took the early train for Boston. He
went with her to the Carter house and Esther liked its white-haired,
soft-voiced proprietor at first sight. The next “port of call”--as
her uncle termed it--was the Conservatory. She was thrilled by that.
Then followed a marvelous shopping tour, piloted by Mrs. Carter,
with purchases of gowns and hats and shoes--all sorts of necessities
and luxuries. Townsend returned to Harniss on the evening train. His
good-by was brief and gruffly spoken, but Esther had a feeling that he
was as loath to leave her as she was, just then, to be left. He cleared
his throat, started to speak, cleared his throat again and then laid
his big hand on her shoulder.

“Be a good girl,” he said. “Work hard and make us proud of you. I’ll
be at the depot Saturday noon to meet you.... Humph! Well, I guess
that’s all. Good-by.”

He strode off down the street. She turned back into the house, feeling
like a marooned sailor upon a desert island, with the ship which had
left her there disappearing below the horizon. All her resolution was
needed to prevent her running after him and begging to be taken home
again. If she had it is by no means certain that he would not have done
it. The library, which had begun to seem almost a pleasant place again,
would now be lonelier than ever. Saturday looked a long way off.

All that winter she studied hard, making progress, earning praise from
her teachers and learning to use her really pleasing voice to better
advantage. She soon grew accustomed to the new life and to enjoy it.
She made new friends, young friends, and Jane Carter was careful
that they should be, as Foster Townsend had especially directed, “of
the right kind.” Each week-end she spent at home in the big house at
Harniss. Usually, although not always, Miss Clark and Millard took
Sunday dinner there. When, in June, the term ended she came back to
be greeted with the news that she and her uncle were really going to
California. The tickets had been purchased and they were to start in a
few days.

That was a glorious summer, spent amid scenes which turned to realities
the pictures in the geographies and books of travel. Foster Townsend
was a very satisfactory traveling companion. She had but to mention
a wish to visit some new locality and her wish was granted. She had
learned to like him long before, now she loved him. As for him, he was
happier than he had been for years. He never would have admitted it,
but this charming, talented niece of his was now his sincerest, his
chief interest. Even the great lawsuit, dragging its eternal length
along between one set of lawyers who prodded it on to the Supreme Court
and another set who held it back, was secondary. When in his native
town he was, of course, still active in politics and local affairs, but
Varunas complained that the beloved trotters were neglected more than
they ought to be.

“About all the old man lives for nowadays,” vowed Mr. Gifford, “is
Saturdays and Sundays. He’s either talkin’ about what happened last
Sunday or what’s goin’ to happen next Sunday. I told him--last Tuesday,
’twas--that Claribel acted to me as if she’d strained her off foreleg.
What do you cal’late he said? ‘Hum!’ says he, ‘did I tell you what the
head of the Conservatory said last time I was up there? Said she had
as promisin’ a suppranner as he’d heard since he commenced teachin’.’
What do you think of that for Foster Townsend to say when he had a lame
mare on his hands? A year ago and he’d have cussed me from keel to main
truck for lettin’ the mare get that way. Now if she’d broke her neck he
wouldn’t have cared so long as Esther’s suppranner wan’t cracked. Well,
she _is_ a smart girl, but she can’t do 2.18 around a mile track. Bah!”

The second winter in Boston was more wonderful than the first.
Esther was becoming accustomed to being a rich young woman and the
perquisites of such a position. The city friends were agreeable,
occasional evenings at concerts, the theater and even the opera less
of a marvelous novelty than at first, although not less enjoyable.
She enjoyed the week-ends at Harniss also, but she no longer looked
forward to them as oases in a desert of homesickness. She saw her Aunt
Reliance and Millard less frequently, not from design, but because her
Uncle Foster had always so many plans for those week-ends that she had
scarce time to run down to the cottage or the millinery shop. She was
less eager to hear the village gossip, less interested in the doings of
the townspeople. She heard scraps of it occasionally, of course. Frank
Cahoon was at home again, the Boston firm of shipping merchants having
decided to risk continuing in business without his valuable aid. Once
Millard happened to mention the incident of the runaway and it reminded
him of young Griffin.

“He’s gone to New York to study paintin’, I understand,” said Mr.
Clark. “Not house paintin’--no, no, he could learn that just as well
or better in Denboro. He’s set on paintin’ pictures, so a Denboro
feller told me. Old ’Lisha Cook, his grand-dad, was down on the notion,
says he never saw a picture yet that was worth the nail to hang it
on, nor a picture painter that was fit for much _but_ hangin’. He
wanted Bob to stick to college--he was up to Yale, or some such place.
However, the boy had some money of his own--left him by his father’s
folks, they say--so ’Lisha didn’t feel he could stand in the way of his
spendin’ it even on craziness. ‘Let him daub till he daubs away his
last dollar,’ says the old man. ‘Then maybe he’ll be willin’ to go to
work at somethin’ sensible.’”

The mention of her rescuer’s name caused Esther a momentary thrill of
interest. For a month or two after the eventful afternoon of the horse
trot she had thought of Bob Griffin a good deal. He was a good-looking
youth and he had--well, perhaps not saved her life, exactly, like the
hero of a story--but his handling of the runaway span had been almost,
if not quite, heroic. At any rate it was the nearest thing to heroism
she had known. There was a romantic tinge to the whole affair which was
pleasing to remember and she had remembered it for a time. Of late,
however, there had been other near romances. There was a young fellow
at the Conservatory who was nice--very nice; and still another who
would have called if Mrs. Carter had permitted masculine callers. Bob’s
romance was a thing of the distant past. It happened when she was a
girl in the country. Now she was a city young lady with, or so every
one prophesied, a career before her. It interested her to know that
Bob Griffin was also seeking a career, but the interest was vague and
casual.

Foster Townsend was, by this time, entirely satisfied with his handling
of the skittish colt. She was well on the way to becoming the stylish
and properly paced animal he had set out to make her. It gratified him
to notice that she now turned to him for advice and guidance more than
to Reliance Clark. He had announced his intention of making her his
entirely. He had done it. Life was worth while, after all. If Arabella
_did_ know what was going on in this mortal world he was sure she must
approve. The inevitable male was always in the offing, of course. Some
day the right man would appear. The certainty no longer worried him.
Now, he felt sure, Esther would not presume to choose that man without
his help. She was high-spirited still and required careful handling,
but she was “trotting in harness” and he held the reins.




CHAPTER VI


Esther’s second term at the Conservatory ended in June and she came
to Harniss for her long vacation. There was to be no traveling this
summer. The visit to Paris concerning which she and her uncle had
talked so often and which he still declared they should have some day
was postponed.

“When we go over there,” Foster Townsend said, “I don’t want to be
bothered with time. You are going to study your singing, you know,
and you may have to stay a year--yes, or longer. If we went just now
those lawyers of mine might be sending for me and I should have to come
back and bring you with me. Couldn’t leave you alone over there among
all those jabbering Frenchmen, could I? I guess not! Let me get this
everlasting lawsuit off my hands and we’ll go in comfort. Confound the
thing! I’m getting sick of it. I wish I had bought off Cook in the
beginning. I could have done it then, I guess, and saved money.”

She laughed at him. “You know you wouldn’t have bought him off for
worlds,” she declared.

“Eh? Well no, maybe I wouldn’t. The Supreme Court will step on _his_
toes, if the case ever gets before it. Now it looks as if it might get
there, but when the Lord only knows. Maybe in six months, maybe not for
two years. They are in no hurry down in Washington; everybody on that
Court is a hundred years old, more or less. What is a year or so to a
gang like that? Well, possess your soul in patience, girlie. You and I
will make Paris yet, if we don’t die of old age first.”

She was, by this time, fairly well acquainted with the basic details of
the famous suit, although there was a great deal which she--and most
others except the lawyers--did not understand. Elisha Cook and Foster
Townsend had once been partners in the shipping and ship-outfitting
business, with offices in Boston and in a Connecticut city. The
firm was prosperous. Cook, she gathered, was conservative--a fussy
old woman, her uncle had called him. He it was who conducted the
Connecticut office; he was, at the time, a legal resident of that state.

Foster Townsend was his exact opposite in character and temperament.
He was keen, sharp and inclined to plunge, when, in his opinion, the
opportunities for plunging presented themselves. Again and again, so
he told his niece, Cook refused to profit by these opportunities and
the partners lost thousands which they might easily have gained. In
consequence there were increasing disagreements. The “square-rigged”
shipping business was falling off. The Civil War hit it a hard blow
and, although it recovered in a measure from that blow, there were
new obstacles in its path--steam and foreign competition--which,
so Townsend believed, would kill it eventually. He advocated other
ventures--real estate, for example. Fortunes were being made in Boston
land, land in immediate proximity to the city. Townsend, on his own
initiative, secured options on a large quantity of that land. Cook,
the senior partner, flatly refused his consent to the firm’s taking up
those options. The long series of slighter disagreements culminated in
this important one. After more wrangling and dispute it was decided to
dissolve the partnership, although the terms of dissolution were not
actually agreed upon.

Then Cook was taken ill, an illness which lasted for months. During
that illness Townsend went ahead, borrowed money, secured the land and
held it. He obtained more capital and plunged still deeper. When Cook
recovered sufficiently to attend in the least to business matters, the
firm of Cook and Townsend ceased to exist. Elisha Cook took over the
Connecticut branch, which was the “outfitting” end of the business and
was allotted sufficient money and securities to give him a comfortable,
if not large, independence. Foster Townsend was left with options,
mortgages, debts--and the chance of a fortune.

He won the fortune. He became a rich man and, after a time, retired and
came to Harniss to settle down as its leading citizen. Cook, who also
had retired, returned to Denboro, Massachusetts, his native village, to
spend the remainder of his life.

But before this the legal complications had begun. They were far too
involved and technical for Esther’s complete comprehension. Cook
claimed his share of the profits from the land deals. There were many
questions to be decided. Whose money secured the first options? Was
it Townsend alone or Cook and Townsend, who carried on the immensely
profitable deals which followed the first one? The determination of
the date of dissolution of partnership entered into the affair. Mr.
Cook had done something which was called “obtaining service” upon his
former partner in a Connecticut court. Townsend, in explaining to his
niece, talked of a “bill of equity,” whatever that might be. Townsend
contested this “service” and then, when his motion was denied, appealed
to a higher court. This appeal also was denied. Then Cook sued, on the
Connecticut judgment, in a Massachusetts court. After that Esther lost
count. The Massachusetts court did something or other which favored
her uncle. Then Mr. Cook went at it again and in a new way. There were
appeals and denials and things called “writs of error.” For year after
year, the historic Cook-Townsend suit crawled along, until at last it
was to receive a final decision by the highest tribunal in the land,
when that tribunal should give it place upon its crowded calendar. Its
cost so far had been enormous. How Elisha Cook could afford to carry
it on had always been a question. The inference was that his attorneys
were gambling with him. If he won they would win. Foster Townsend could
afford to pay his lawyers--yes. But he, nor few others, could afford to
lose the huge sum claimed and fought for by his opponents.

No one in Harniss believed Cook would win. Their faith in the Townsend
star never faltered. He always had his own way in everything; he would
have it here. And his own serene confidence bolstered theirs. He
laughed at the idea of failure. He had laughed always when he referred
to the case on the few occasions when he and his niece discussed it.
Of late, however, it had seemed to her, that his laugh was not quite
as genuine and carefree. She gathered that the granting to the Cook
forces of the appeal to the Supreme Court had been most unexpected.
He was still serenely confident, or professed to be, but she knew he
was disappointed. When he declared himself sick of the whole thing and
expressed the wish that he had settled with his former partner in the
beginning, she laughed and refused to take the statement seriously; but
she was surprised to hear him say it.

She forgot the whole affair very quickly, having, for her, much more
interesting matters to occupy her mind. She soon forgot her own
disappointment at the postponement of the Paris trip. The summer
season in Harniss was beginning and, although it was far from the gay
activity of a summer season in that village nowadays, it was lively
and interesting. The sojourners from the cities were filling Mrs.
Cooper’s fashionable boarding house and the few cottages were opening.
It was the Reverend Mr. Colton’s harvest time. His congregations were
larger with each succeeding Sunday and the collections larger also.
He consulted with his summer parishioners as to the means of raising
additional funds for the First Church and it was decided to give an
“Old Folks’ Concert.” He came to see Foster Townsend about it, of
course. The great man was not too enthusiastic at first.

“Foolishness,” he declared, gruffly. “If I ran my business affairs the
way you church people run yours you’d be for having me shut up in an
asylum, and I ought to be. You had a fair last winter--just as you have
every winter. What did it amount to? All the women worked like blazes
making things, or spent money buying things somewhere else, to be sold
at that fair. Then every husband came and bought the things the other
fellows’ wives had made or donated. That’s all there was to that.”

The minister ventured to protest.

“But, Captain Townsend,” he pleaded, “we made over a hundred dollars at
that fair. You have forgotten that.”

“I’ve forgotten nothing. You didn’t really make a cent. All you did was
to swap that hundred dollars from one hand to the other.”

The interview took place in the Townsend stables and Mr. Gifford was an
interested listener. As a free-born citizen of a democracy he spoke his
mind.

“You’re dead right, Cap’n Foster,” he declared. “That’s just what I
tell Nabby. Afore that fair last winter she set up night after night
makin’ a crazy quilt. Spent four or five dollars for this, that and
t’other to make it out of, to say nothin’ of usin’ up my best Sunday
necktie and bustin’ a three-dollar pair of spectacles and gettin’ so
cranky I didn’t hardly dast to come into the house mealtimes. And when
the fair came off ’Rastus Doane bought that quilt for five dollars--not
’cause he needed it; they’ve got more quilts than they have beds twice
over--but because he knew he’d be expected to buy somethin’. And I
paid two dollars for a doll his wife had worked herself sick dressin’
and that Nabby give me the divil _for_ buyin’. ‘What do you want of a
doll?’ says she. ‘You ain’t got any children. What did you waste your
money like that for?’ ‘I had to waste it somehow, didn’t I?’ I told
her. ‘That’s what a church fair’s for,’ says I, ‘to waste money. I laid
out two dollars to waste and I wasted it quick as I could. After that I
could say no to all the rest of the gang and have a pretty good time.’”

Townsend chuckled. “There’s your answer, Colton,” he said. “Let your
Old Folks’ singing school, or whatever it is, slide. Go around amongst
the congregation and the summer crowd and collect two dollars apiece.
You’ll have just as much money in the end and no worry or work or hard
feelings. Here! here’s my two dollars to begin with.”

Mr. Colton was not satisfied with this lesson in common-sense finance.
He smiled deprecatingly, and shook his head.

“Every one isn’t as generous--or practical--as you are, Captain
Townsend,” he said. “Of course if you are against having the concert
it won’t be given, but the other people, those I have talked with,
are very enthusiastic about it. Particularly the summer visitors, the
younger element. They will enjoy taking part. Your niece, Esther, is
as eager as the others. We had intended to ask her to be our principal
soloist. Every one knows of her charming voice, but very few have had
the privilege of hearing her sing. I have mentioned the idea to her and
she--”

Townsend interrupted. “Oh, Esther is for it, is she?” he observed.
“Humph! Well, if that is so I don’t know as I shall stand in the way.
It is all foolishness, of course, but-- So they want to hear her sing,
do they?”

“Indeed they do. The summer people--the very best people--particularly.
Your niece has made a great hit with them, Captain Townsend. They have
already taken her to their hearts, as the saying goes.”

“Oh, they have, have they? Well, she won’t give ’em heart disease, I
guess. I haven’t seen one of their girls yet who is fit to tread the
same deck with her.”

There was a hint of tartness in the speech which the reverend gentleman
noticed, but thought it best to ignore.

“They like her--and admire her--very much indeed,” he insisted,
eagerly. “Why, Mrs. Wheeler--you know the Wheelers, Captain; New Haven
people, Professor Wheeler is at Yale--Mrs. Wheeler herself told me only
yesterday that she and her daughter had become so fond of Esther. They
felt already as if she was one of their own.”

“She did, eh? Well, she isn’t theirs, she is mine.... All right, all
right! Have your concert, if you want to. As for Esther’s singing in
it, that is for her to settle.”

Varunas furnished the last word.

“If she does sing she’ll make the rest of ’em sound like crows
a-hollerin’,” he announced. “Every time Esther starts singin’ in that
front parlor of ours even Nabby stops talkin’ to listen. And it takes
some singin’ to fetch _that_ around, now, I tell ye.”

So the preparations for the concert went on. The rehearsals were few
and Esther enjoyed them. At the meeting, when the question of costumes
was brought up for discussion, she was not present, having driven with
her uncle to Ostable. But the following day--Sunday--when she stopped
in at the cottage for a chat with her Aunt Reliance, she learned an
item of news which surprised her.

She had not seen Reliance at all during the week just past. As a matter
of fact they did not see each other as frequently nowadays. There was
no apparent reason for this--at least Esther could have given none. She
would have fiercely resented the insinuation that her love for her aunt
was not as deep and sincere as it had always been. Nevertheless--and
Reliance was quite aware of it--during her second winter away from
Harniss, when she returned for her week-end stays, she no longer
hurried down to the Clark house the moment Saturday’s dinner was over.
She came Sunday, provided the Clarks were not dining at the mansion,
but her calls were shorter and she had always so many other things
to do, so many new interests to occupy her time and her thoughts,
that the conversation was likely to be confined to these topics. The
heart-to-heart talks and intimate confidences and confessions were much
rarer.

Reliance noticed the change, of course, but she did not refer to it,
nor hint at the heartache which, at times, she could not help feeling.
It was what she had foreseen, had known must be the inevitable result
of the complete change in the girl’s life. Esther had learned to love
and trust her uncle, had become accustomed to wealth and what it gave
her, had made new, and quite different friends, was now well on her way
to the brilliant future Foster Townsend had planned for her. It was a
natural development, that was all. Reliance fully realized this, had
recognized it when they parted two years before. And not for worlds
would she drop a word which might cause her niece unhappiness or a
twinge of conscience. It was only when she was alone--or with Millard,
which amounted to the same thing--that she occasionally permitted her
thoughts to dwell upon the certainty that the widening gap between
Esther and herself would widen more and more as the years passed.

So when the young lady breezed into the little sitting-room that Sunday
afternoon, expensively and becomingly gowned, her cheeks aglow and her
eyes shining with excitement in prospect of her part in the concert and
the praise which--to quote the Reverend Colton--“the best people” had
already accorded her singing at the rehearsals, Reliance met her with
the usual sunny smile and cheerful every day greeting. They talked of
the gratifying sale of tickets--almost everybody in town was going, so
Miss Clark said--and then the question of a suitable costume came up.

“What do you think I had better wear, Auntie?” asked Esther. “Would you
hire a costume in the city, if you were I? Mrs. Carter would pick one
out for me, I know, if I wrote her. Or would it be better to use some
of Grandmother Townsend’s things--those she wore when she was a girl?
There is a lovely old figured silk in one of the chests in the garret.
It doesn’t fit me very well, but it could be made to fit with a little
alteration. I thought perhaps you and Abbie would help me make it over,
if I decided to wear it. Will you?”

Reliance nodded. “Of course,” she agreed. “I must say I like the idea
of usin’ real old things that belonged to real old-time folks better
than I do hirin’ new make-believes. I’ve been in Old Folks’ Concerts
myself. Oh, yes, I have! There was a time when I used to like to dress
up and show off as well as the next one. Dear, dear! Why, I remember
one Old Folks’ Concert when I wore my own grandmother’s gown, one she
had made as a part of her weddin’ outfit. It was a pretty thing, too,
and I looked well in it, at least, so they all said. Your uncle took me
up to the hall that night in a buggy he hired at the old livery stable
that Elkanah Hammond kept. He wore buff knee breeches and white silk
stockings and--”

Esther broke in. “Who did?” she cried, incredulously. “Not--not Uncle
Foster?”

“Yes. And his coat was blue, with brass buttons. He-- Now what are you
laughin’ at?”

Esther had burst into a peal of delighted laughter.

“Oh, it sounds too funny to be true!” she exclaimed. “Imagine Uncle
Foster wearing things like that!”

“He looked well in ’em.... But there! that was--oh, twenty-four years
ago. You ask him if he remembers it and see what he says. Now about
what you shall wear next week. Why don’t you ask Mr. Griffin’s advice?
I understand he is goin’ to have charge of that part--the costumes, I
mean.”

Esther stared in surprise.

“Who?” she cried. “Mr. Griffin? Who is Mr. Griffin, for goodness’ sake?”

“Why, young Bob Griffin, from Denboro. Elisha Cook’s grandson. You
know who he is. You ought to. He stopped you from bein’ run away with
at that horse trot two years ago. Didn’t you know they had given him
charge of all the dressin’ up?”

Esther did not know it and she demanded particulars. Her aunt supplied
them.

“It was decided at the committee meetin’ they had yesterday afternoon,”
she said. “You were over in Ostable, weren’t you; I forgot that. It
seems there was a great pow wow, some wanted to wear one kind of
thing and some another and then Mrs. Wheeler, the one that has the
summer place on the Shore Road, she came marchin’ in with Bob Griffin
under one arm, as you might say, and a great idea under the other.
She knew Bob--I guess her daughter met him in New York or New Haven
or somewhere--and she--or the daughter--had remembered that he was
an artist and would know all about what she called ‘period dress.’
Accordin’ to what I heard he wasn’t so sure about his wisdom as she
was, by a good deal, but he agreed to help if they wanted him to. The
older folks hadn’t much objection and all the girls were crazy about
it, so he was made superintendent of what to wear. He is to be at the
next rehearsal, whenever that is.”

She paused and Esther nodded.

“To-morrow evening,” she said, “in the church vestry.”

“Well, wherever it is he’ll be there and you can ask him what he thinks
of Tabitha Townsend’s dress. Yes, Tabby was the name she had to answer
to, poor soul; my own grandmother used to tell me a lot about her.”

Esther left the Clark cottage with the same old little thrill of
interest she had felt when Millard had mentioned Bob’s name months
before. Now the thrill was a trifle keener, for she was to meet him
again. She was not greatly stirred by the prospect; nevertheless it was
rather attractive. She found herself thinking about him a good deal
in the interval before the rehearsal, wondering if he had changed as
greatly as she had, in--oh, so many ways, and if he was succeeding as
well with his painting as she with her music. Also she wondered if he
had forgotten her. Not that it made any difference, of course, whether
he had or not.

Her speculations on that score were quickly settled. She was already
in the vestry when he entered, chaperoned by Mrs. Wheeler and favored
with the giggling confidences of Marjorie, the Wheeler daughter. Mrs.
Wheeler beamed upon the assembly.

“Well, here we are,” she announced. “Mr. Griffin informs me that he has
given a great deal of thought to the dresses and--er--all that sort of
thing, you know, and he has brought over several books of costumes for
us to look at. I only hope he realizes how _very_ kind we consider it
of him. You have all met him, haven’t you? You know every one here,
don’t you, Mr. Griffin?”

Bob smiled assent.

“I think I have that pleasure,” he replied. “I--” Then he paused.
Esther, herself a trifle late at the rehearsal, had taken a seat upon
one of the rear settees. His eye had caught hers and remained fixed.

Mrs. Wheeler noticed the look.

“Oh!” she cried. “I did forget, after all, didn’t I? There _is_ one you
haven’t met. You weren’t here Saturday, were you, Esther? Bob--”

But Bob had not waited for the formal presentation. He was on his way
to that rear settee. He held out his hand and Esther took it.

“It is all right, Mrs. Wheeler,” she explained. “Mr. Griffin and I have
met before.” To Bob she said: “I wondered if you would remember me.”

She was a trifle confused, for she was quite conscious that every one
was looking at them. Griffin, if he was aware of the look, did not
appear to mind it in the least. His evident delight at the meeting was
plain for all to see.

“Remember?” he repeated. “I should think I did! I was hoping you might
be here to-day. Mrs. Wheeler told me you were going to sing at the
Concert. I have heard a lot about you, you know. They tell me you are
the Patti of the affair.”

She laughed and blushed. She wished he would not look at her so
intently. The unconcealed surprise and admiration in his look might be
flattering, perhaps, but were undoubtedly embarrassing. She withdrew
her hand from his and tried to appear unconcerned and dignified.

“Oh, hardly that,” she said, lightly. “I am going to take part, just as
the others are. You are to select our costumes, for us, aren’t you?”

“They have dragged me into it. They will be sorry by and by, and I tell
them so.... Yes, Mrs. Wheeler, I’m coming. I was just telling Miss
Townsend that every one speaks of her as the star of the show. She
doesn’t seem to believe it, but it is so, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Wheeler had bustled after him and was standing at his elbow. Her
reply was a trifle curt, so Esther thought.

“Oh, yes, yes! Quite so,” she said. “Miss Townsend is our brightest
luminary, of course. Now, Bob, if you are ready to discuss the
costumes, we are.... Mr. Griffin is almost like one of the family,” she
explained to the girl in an audible aside. “We have seen so much of him
at New Haven and in New York. Marjorie and he are _great_ friends.”

Marjorie was the Wheeler daughter. Esther did not like her too well.
She had a way of saying mean little things in the sweetest possible
manner.

The discussion concerning the costumes was very informal. Griffin
exhibited his books of colored plates and offered suggestions.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, in conclusion, “I think the more
genuine old things you can wear the better. Unless this town is
different from Denboro there must be a lot of tip top old gowns and
swallow-tails hidden away in camphor. So long as we don’t exhibit Henry
the Eighth on the same platform with General Scott we should make a
presentable showing, I should say. Stick to the period between the
Declaration of Independence and the Mexican War, that would be my idea.”

The rehearsal followed the discussion. Esther sang her two solos and
received her usual dole of compliments, whole-hearted or perfunctory
according to the measure of envy in the make-up of the complimenters.
When the gathering broke up she rather expected, and to a certain
extent dreaded, that Bob Griffin would seek her out and continue their
conversation. She would have enjoyed talking with him, but their talk
would certainly provoke so much more talk throughout the length and
breadth of Harniss that she shrank from the prospect. She was relieved,
when she emerged from the vestry, to find him nowhere in sight.
Marjorie Wheeler had exercised peremptory claim upon his company, she
imagined.

Varunas, driving the span, had brought her to the rehearsal, but she
had insisted that she be allowed to walk home. It bade fair to be a
beautiful afternoon and early evening, she needed the exercise and
would prefer it. Now, however, as she came down the church steps, she
was aware that the sky was rapidly being obscured by dark clouds and
she could hear the rumble of thunder in the west. She looked about,
hoping that her uncle might have noticed the approaching storm and sent
Mr. Gifford and the carriage, after all. Apparently he had not, so she
started to walk briskly along the sidewalk. She had walked but a little
way when a splash of rain fell upon the crown of her new and expensive
hat. She fancied that hat, also the new gown she was wearing. Again she
paused and looked impatiently up the road for Varunas and the span.
They were not visible.

Then she heard her name called and, turning back, saw a masculine form
with an umbrella running in her direction. When this person came nearer
she recognized him as Bob Griffin. He was out of breath, but cheerful.

“Just caught you in time, didn’t I?” he panted. “I looked around for
you when that chatter-mill shut down--the rehearsal, I mean--but Sister
Wheeler had me under her wing and I couldn’t get away in a hurry. When
I did you had gone. I found this umbrella in the entry. I don’t know
whose it is, but it is ours now. Hope the real owner doesn’t get _too_
wet.”

He grinned broadly and lifted the commandeered umbrella over the new
hat.

“Now we must move,” he went on. “It is going to rain like blazes. This
is what my grand-dad would call a ‘tempest.’”

She took his arm and, partially sheltered by the umbrella, they
hurried along the sidewalk. She imagined that eager eyes were watching
them from each window they passed, but it was no time for finicky
objections. The rain was pouring now and continued to increasingly
pour. Her feet were growing damp, so were her skirts. Suddenly her
escort stopped.

“Wait!” he ordered. “Great Scott! this isn’t a shower, it’s a flood. We
must get under cover somewhere and wait till it lets up. You mustn’t
drown--not until after that concert, anyhow. They would hang me if you
did. Here! this will do. I don’t know who lives here, but they won’t
put us out, I guess. Come!”

He led her in through a gate in a picket fence and they hurried up a
weed-grown walk to a rickety front porch. Bob folded the umbrella and
turned to the door. There was a glass-knobbed bell-pull at the side of
the door and, before she could stop him, he had given it a tug.

“What are you doing that for?” she asked. “This house is empty. No one
has lived in it for ever so long.”

He whistled. “You don’t mean it!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell
me? Well, we’ll go on to the next one then.”

A vivid flash of lightning, almost instantly followed by a thunder peal
which caused the windows in the old house to rattle, prevented her
reply. The rain seemed to drop from the sky in sheets. It roared upon
the shingled roof of the porch. She caught his arm.

“We can’t go out in this,” she said, nervously. “We must stay where we
are--and wait.”

He nodded. “I guess you are right,” he agreed. “Heavens! what a deluge.
It will ease up in a minute. Then we can go on.”

It did not ease up, however. Instead, it rained harder than ever. The
porch roof began to leak and he raised the umbrella once more. She was
obliged to stand close beside him to avoid the drip. It grew dark and
the lightning flashes seemed more vivid in consequence. He felt her
shiver.

“Not frightened, are you?” he asked.

“No-o, I guess not. But I don’t like it very well. Talk, please. Just--
Oh, just say something to keep me from thinking about it.”

He laughed. “Good idea,” he declared. “What shall we talk about? Tell
me what you have been doing up there in Boston.”

She told him about her studies at the Conservatory, about Mrs. Carter,
about the California trip, of the wonderful happenings of the past two
years. He asked questions and she answered them. The lightning and
thunder punctuated her narrative and the rain on the roof furnished a
steady roar of accompaniment.

“There!” she exclaimed, after a time. “I have said every word I can
think of. Now tell me about your painting. You have been studying too.
Some one--Uncle Millard, I think--told me you had.”

He shook his head. “I’ve been studying--yes,” he admitted. “I haven’t
been climbing ahead the way you have, though. And I haven’t had your
encouragement at home. When I told grandfather I had made up my mind to
paint pictures for a living I thought he was going to have a fit. He
has a relapse every once in a while even yet. I should have done it,
though--or tried to do it--if he had ordered me out of the house. It
was paint or nothing for me. I had rather do it than eat--and I like to
eat pretty well,” he added, with another laugh.

His laugh was infectious. Esther laughed, too. “I must say I think
your grandfather is very unreasonable,” she declared, with a return to
seriousness. “Why shouldn’t you paint, if you want to--and can? It is a
wonderful thing to be an artist.”

“So they say. I am far from being one yet, so I can’t speak from
experience. Oh, well! I don’t blame the old gentleman for making a row.
He doesn’t know. About the only painter he ever had any experience with
was the chap who did grandmother’s portrait. That portrait is enough to
sour anybody on the whole profession. Grandfather is a good fellow. I’m
strong for him.”

She glanced at him in surprise. The few references she had heard
made to Elisha Cook--Foster Townsend had made them--were far from
classifying him as a “good fellow.”

“Is he!” she exclaimed, involuntarily. “Why, I thought--”

She paused. He nodded.

“You bet he is!” he vowed. “He has been mighty good to me and to lots
of others. He doesn’t understand, that’s all. You are lucky, Esther.
Your uncle does understand, or seems to. He was willing for you to go
on with your singing.”

Her agreement was but partial. “Ye-s,” she said. “Yes, he does
understand, in a way. He likes to hear me sing and he helps me to study
because it pleases me to do it, you know. Why, the other day I said
something about how marvelous it must be to sing in opera. I wish you
could have heard him. The things he said about opera and those who
sing in it were--well, they were what Nabby Gifford would have called
‘blasphemious.’”

Bob laughed at the word, but he was too much in earnest to laugh long.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “That’s it. They don’t understand,
either of them. They are like all old people, they belong back in
another generation.” He spoke as if Elisha Cook and Foster Townsend
were nonogenarians. “Granddad--yes, and your uncle, too, I suppose,” he
went on, “were brought up to think that nothing counted but business,
buying and selling and getting ahead of the other fellow in a trade,
all that sort of stuff. Art and music and--and the rest of it they
don’t see at all. Well, I do. I don’t want to be a business man. I want
to paint. And I am going to paint. I’ll never be a Rembrandt maybe,
but I am making a little progress, so my teachers say, and I’m going
to stick at it. Some of these days I shall go to Paris, where the big
fellows are. That’s the place--Paris!”

She gasped with excitement.

“Oh!” she cried. “Are _you_ going to Paris? I am going there, myself,
sometime, to study.”

“You are! Bully! We can see each other over there, can’t we?”

She seemed doubtful. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “My uncle
is going to take me there and he--well, I don’t imagine he would be
delighted to have you coming to call. You and I belong to--well, to
opposite camps, I guess.... I suppose,” she added, thoughtfully, “if he
knew you and I were here together now, this minute, he wouldn’t like
it a bit. Probably your grandfather wouldn’t be any better pleased.”

Bob snorted. “Foolishness!” he declared. “That confounded lawsuit is a
nuisance. I’m not going to let it chain me, hand and foot. Why should
it? Or you, either? If we want to see each other and talk to each other
like--well, like this--I say let’s do it. We aren’t old fossils and
we aren’t kids either. I told grand-dad so. _He_ isn’t going to send
me to Paris, though,” he added, with a chuckle. “Perhaps he might if
I had kept at him--he will do almost anything for me when it comes to
the pinch--but he doesn’t have to. I have a little money of my own, it
comes to me from my mother’s people. I can spend that as I please and
I am spending it on my art studies. If you and I should be in Paris at
the same time, we will meet over there. I’ll see that we do. Come now,
Esther! Say that you’ll see to it, too. Come! let’s promise.”

She did not promise. She was still thinking of the feud between the
families. Her conscience was troubling her a little.

“Your grandfather--Mr. Cook--wouldn’t like to have you know me, would
he?” she insisted. “Honestly, now?”

“Well--well, perhaps he wouldn’t. But--”

“And my uncle wouldn’t like it at all. Uncle Foster has been so kind to
me that--why, I can’t begin to tell you how kind he has been. He is the
best man in the world.”

“Oh, say! Look here! He isn’t any better than my grandfather.”

“Bob Griffin! How _can_ you say that?”

“But it is so. They are both good men, I guess. But they had a fight
and now they have been fighting so long they think all the rest of
creation must fight on one side or the other. We don’t have to fight,
you and I, just because they do.”

“But Mr. Cook shouldn’t have brought that suit. He was all wrong and it
was wicked of him, Uncle Foster says--”

“Now just a minute. You ought to hear what Grandfather says.... Humph!
I guess there are two sides to that suit, just as there are to most
fights. You haven’t heard but one side, have you?”

It was true, she had not, and she was obliged to admit it.

“No-o,” she confessed, “I suppose I haven’t. But you haven’t, either.”

His laugh was so unaffected and good-humored that, once more, hers
joined it.

“I guess you are right there,” he agreed. “Well, let’s do this:
Sometime you tell me your side--your uncle’s side, I mean--and then
I’ll tell Grandfather’s. We can have a real court argument. And until
then we’ll forget the darned thing. And we’re going to see each other
in Paris; American lawsuits don’t hold over there. Yes, and we’ll see
each other a whole lot before then.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think we had better,” she said.
“Besides--how could we?”

“Why, at the rehearsal and the concert. Yes, and afterwards. I
haven’t half told you about my painting. I have two or three sketches
and things I want to show you. They aren’t so bad--not so awfully
bad--honest, they aren’t. And say, I want to try a portrait sketch of
you some day. In your costume, perhaps. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

Before she could answer a rattle of wheels sounded from the road. They
had been so engrossed in their conversation that neither had noticed
the slackening of the storm. Now it was almost light again, the thunder
peals sounded far away, and the rain was but an intermittent patter.
Around the corner beyond the church came the Townsend span and covered
carriage. Mr. Gifford was on the driver’s seat and peering anxiously
about.

“It’s Varunas,” cried Esther. “He is looking for me. Thank you ever so
much for the umbrella, Bob.... Here I am, Varunas!”

She ran down the walk. Bob started to run after her and then changed
his mind.

“See you at the next rehearsal,” he called. “Don’t forget about
Paris--or the sketch.”

Esther did not reply. She climbed into the carriage. Varunas drew a
breath of relief.

“Where on earth have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been huntin’ all
over for you. Me and Cap’n Foster, was over to Bayport and that tempest
hit on top of us afore we knew ’twas bound down this way. Soon’s we
fetched home he sent me out for you. Been standin’ there on that
Nickerson piazza all the time, have ye? You don’t look very wet. Who
was that along with you?”

Esther did not tell him. What was the use? He would only ask more
questions.

“Oh, just some one from the rehearsal,” she said. “We were waiting
there until the storm was over. I am not wet at all. Drive home as fast
as you can. Uncle Foster will be worried.”

She did not tell her uncle of the meeting and long talk with Bob
Griffin. There was no reason why she should not, of course--but perhaps
there was less reason why she should.




CHAPTER VII


She and Bob met thereafter at the rehearsals. There were few
opportunities for confidential chats like that on the Nickerson porch
during the storm, but occasionally he saw a chance to sit beside her on
a settee when the others were busy and whenever he did he seized it. On
one occasion he brought a few of his sketches to the vestry and showed
them to her. They were clever--even to a critical eye they would have
shown promise--and to her they seemed wonderful. He told her that he
had hired an empty shed belonging to Tobias Eldridge on the beach near
the latter’s property at South Harniss and was to use it as a studio
during the summer months.

“It’s a ripping place,” he declared, with enthusiasm. “Cheap, and off
by itself, you know, and looking right out to sea. I can draw and
paint there, and have a gorgeous time. It is far enough from home so
that I won’t be bothered with a lot of people I know dropping in and
interrupting and I can have a model once in a while, if I need one.
Two or three of the fishermen have posed for me already. They are good
fellows. I like to hear them talk. I want you to come down and let me
make that sketch of you in your costume some afternoon pretty soon.
Will you? The place smells a little of fish, but you won’t mind that.”

She would not have minded the fish, but she would not promise to visit
the beach studio. At the next rehearsal he confided another bit of news.

“I’ve begun that portrait of you,” he said. “Just roughed it in--from
memory, you know--but it is going to be good, I can see that already.
Oh, you needn’t laugh! I sound pretty cocky, perhaps, but--well, I _am_
cocky about that sketch. It _looks_ like you; honest it does!”

She laughed again. “You haven’t seen me more than a half dozen times
altogether,” she said. “If your portrait looks like me you must have a
pretty good memory, I should say.”

He nodded contentedly. “I have--for some people,” he declared. His tone
was so emphatic, that, although she still laughed, the color rose to
her cheeks. She changed the subject.

The evening of the Old Folks’ Concert was clear and balmy and the town
hall was packed to the doors. Esther, sitting on the platform, with
the other singers and looking out over the audience, after the curtain
rose, saw many strange faces--faces which did not belong to Harniss--as
well as the familiar ones. In a front seat she saw her uncle, big,
commanding, much stared at and quite careless of the stares, the flower
she had put in the button-hole of his blue serge coat still in place,
his gold-headed cane, presented to him by the committee of cranberry
growers after the passage of the much-discussed “cranberry bill,”
between his knees. Nearby were Reliance Clark and Millard, also Mr. and
Mrs. Varunas Gifford, Captain Ben Snow and wife, Abbie Makepeace, and
many others whom she knew almost as well.

Mr. Cornelius Gott, the undertaker’s assistant and local music teacher,
conducted. Nabby, whispering across her husband’s shoulder to Miss
Makepeace, commented upon his appearance. “Looks just as much like a
tombstone as he always does, don’t he?” she said. “Them old-fashioned
clothes ain’t took that out of him a mite, have they? You’d think he
was standin’ up there ready to show folks to their seats at George
Washin’ton’s funeral, or somethin’.”

The opening chorus was received with loud applause. So was Marjorie
Wheeler’s first solo. Marjorie’s voice lacked only depth, height,
purity and strength to be very fine indeed, but her play of eye and
brow was animated and her self-confidence supreme. She was handed
a large bouquet over the tin reflectors of the footlights when she
finished.

Esther Townsend’s confidence was by no means so assured. She was
suffering from stage fright when she stepped forward for her first
number. She had sung often before gatherings at the Conservatory and
in Mrs. Carter’s parlor, but this was different. It was the first
time she had appeared in public in her native town since she was a
little girl singing in Sunday School concerts. For just an instant her
voice trembled, then it rose clear and sweet and liquidly pure, in
an old-fashioned Scottish folk song. There was nothing merely polite
or perfunctory in the plaudits at its end. The audience clapped and
pounded and demanded an encore. Reliance’s round, wholesome face shone,
although her eyes were damp. Millard stood up when he applauded. It
was a great evening for Millard. The fierce light which beats upon
thrones was casting a ray or two in his direction and if strangers were
whispering: “Who, did you say? Oh, her uncle! I see.” If they were
saying that--and some were--Mr. Clark had no objections.

Foster Townsend did not applaud--with hands, feet or the gold-headed
cane. His expression was calm. Nevertheless, he was the proudest person
in that hall.

Yes, it was Esther Townsend’s evening, every unprejudiced witness of
her triumph said so. Mrs. Wheeler was a trifle condescending in her
congratulations and Marjorie did not offer any, but Esther did not
mind. Quite conscious that she made a charming picture in Grandmother
Townsend’s gown and aware that she had sung her best, she was happy.
People wished to shake hands with her--the “best people” and many of
them--and her lifelong acquaintances and friends crowded about to say
pleasant things. Reliance did not say much. “I can’t, dearie,” she
whispered. “My, but I’m proud of you, though!” Millard would have said
much, and said it stentoriously, if his half-sister had not dragged
him away. Nabby Gifford cackled like a hen. Varunas’s praise was
characteristic.

“You done well, Esther,” he declared. “I knew you would. They can’t
lick us Townsends, trottin’, nor pacin’, nor singin’, nor nothin’ else,
by Judas! You had ’em all beat afore the end of the first lap, and you
didn’t have to bust any britchin’ to do it neither.”

Not until after the final curtain fell did she see Bob Griffin and
then but for a moment. He pushed through the group of perspiring
performers--wigs and padded coats and flounces and furbelows are warm
wearing in summer at the rear of a row of blazing kerosene lamps--and
caught her hand. His eyes were shining.

“You were great!” he whispered. “By George, you _were_ great! Wait till
you see what I can do with that portrait after _this_! You are coming
down to see it. Oh, yes! you are. I’ll just make you.”

The carriage was fragrant with flowers when she and Foster Townsend
entered it. He put his arm about her shoulder.

“Good girl!” he said with, for him, unusual emphasis. “Good girl,
Esther! This settles it so far as that Paris cruise of ours is
concerned. It would be a crime to keep you from getting the best
teaching there is after you’ve shown us what you can do with what
you’ve had. Hang on to your patience till that blasted lawsuit is out
of the way, and then we’ll heave anchor.”

The flowers were brought into the library and examined there. Each
cluster had a card attached except one. The biggest and finest was from
Foster Townsend himself. Esther gave him a hug and kiss.

“They’re dear, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “Thank you ever so much.”

As usual he turned the thanks into a joke.

“‘Dear’ is the right word,” he observed, with a twinkle. “I had ’em
sent down from Boston. Must fertilize those greenhouses with dollar
bills, I guess. Never mind. Considering what you gave us for ’em they
were cheap at the price.”

The floral tribute which bore no card was a bunch of pink rosebuds.
Townsend turned them over, searching for the name of the donor.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Wonder who these came from. They don’t seem to be
labeled. Do you know who gave you these, Esther?”

Esther said she did not know. The statement was true as far as it
went. If he had asked her to guess it might have been harder to
answer. She did not know who had sent the rosebuds, but she remembered
a conversation with Bob Griffin, during which she had expressed a
love for the old-fashioned “tea” rose. And these were tea roses. She
was glad that her uncle’s question was framed as it was and that his
curiosity was not persistent.

She and Bob did not meet again during the following week. Then, one
morning, she found amid the Townsend mail which Varunas had brought
up from the post office and left, as was his custom, upon the library
table, an envelope bearing her name in an unfamiliar hand. Letters and
notes were by no means novelties for her now. She had become a very
popular young lady and invitations to all sorts of social affairs, not
only in Harniss but in Bayport and Orham and Denboro, were frequent.
Wondering what this particular note might be she tore open the
envelope. The enclosure was brief.

  “Dear Esther,” she read. “The portrait sketch is done, all but the
  finishing touches. I am waiting for you before I tackle those. Can’t
  you come down to the shanty some afternoon soon? I shall be there all
  this week. I won’t keep you long, but you just _must_ see the thing.
  It is pretty darned good, if I do say so. Now do come. I shall expect
  you.

                                                                 “R. G.”

She tucked the note into the bosom of her dress, thankful that neither
her uncle nor Nabby was there to ask troublesome questions. Of course
she should not go to the “shanty,” as Griffin irreverently named his
’longshore studio. Uncle Foster would not like it if she did--that
is, she was almost sure he would not. Other than that there was, of
course, no reason why she should not go. She did wish she might see the
drawing, or sketch, or painting, or whatever it was. It was a portrait
of her and, naturally, she would like just a glimpse of it. Any girl
would. And Bob was so certain that it was good. If her uncle were any
one else--if it was not for that lawsuit and his quarrel with old Mr.
Cook-- But, after all, and as Bob had said that afternoon of the storm,
the lawsuit hadn’t anything to do with them; they were not responsible
for it. Bob Griffin was a nice boy, every one said so. She had half a
mind--

By the next day the half a mind had become a whole one. After
dinner--Foster Townsend was again away, at Ostable on business
connected with the suit--she told Nabby she was going for a walk and
left the house. Half an hour later she knocked at the door of the
rickety building on the beach near--but fortunately out of sight
from--the Tobias Eldridge house. Bob himself opened the door. He
greeted her with a whoop of delight.

“So you did come, didn’t you!” he crowed. “I thought you would. I knew
you had sense and a mind of your own. Come in! Come in! It is all ready
for you to look at.”

The portrait was on an easel in the middle of the dusty, littered
floor. It was an oil sketch in full color and she could not repress an
exclamation of delighted surprise when she saw it. There she was, in
Grandmother Townsend’s gown, smiling from the canvas, and very, very
good to look upon, a fact of which she was quite as conscious as the
artist.

“Oh!” she cried. And then again. “Oh!”

He laughed, triumphantly. “Told you it wasn’t so bad, didn’t I?” he
demanded. “It isn’t finished. There are some points about the face
which don’t exactly suit me yet, but we can fix that in a hurry, now
that you are here. Come now, what do you think of it?”

She thought it marvelous and said so.

“I don’t see how you ever remembered about the dress and the funny
little bonnet,” she said. “Even the lace and the trimming are just
right. How could you remember?”

He laughed again. “It wasn’t memory altogether,” he told her. “I got a
copy of the photograph of the crowd which was taken the afternoon of
the dress rehearsal and I worked from that. Then, besides, I made no
less than three quick sketches of you in that costume. Once when you
put it on for the committee to see; once when you were singing at the
dress rehearsal; and the last and best the night of the concert. I was
behind the scenes, no one was watching me and I had a great chance.”

The mention of the event reminded her. She turned to look at him.

“You sent me those tea roses, didn’t you?” she asked.

He nodded. “They should have been orchids,” he declared. “Would have
been if I could have afforded the price. But you told me once that you
liked those old-fashioned roses. Hope you _did_ like ’em.”

“They were darlings. But you shouldn’t have given them to me.”

“Why not? I didn’t put my name on them, but I hoped you would guess.
Nobody else guessed, did they?” he added, a trifle anxiously.

“No-o. No.... Well,” with a sudden turn of the subject. “I must go now.
I think the portrait is splendid and I am glad I have seen it. Good
afternoon.”

His change of expression was funny.

“Go!” he repeated, in alarm. “Of course you’re not going _yet_! Why,
what I really wanted you to come here for was to pose for me just a
little. The mouth--and the eyes--why, you can see for yourself they’re
not right. Now, can’t you?”

She hesitated. “Well,” she admitted, “of course they are not _just_
like mine, but--”

He interrupted. “But we’ll make ’em like yours,” he vowed. “Now you
sit down over there--on that chair, where I can get the light as it
is in the photograph. The chair is a good deal of a wreck, like about
everything else in this ruin, but I guess it will hold you. You see, I
want to get--”

And now she interrupted. “Oh, no, I mustn’t!” she protested,
hurriedly. “I mustn’t stay, really. Please don’t ask me to.”

“But I do ask you. I’ve got to ask you. This is by miles the best thing
I’ve ever done and I want to make it as near perfect as I can. Oh, say,
Esther; you’ll give me my chance, won’t you? I don’t believe it will
take very long.”

She hesitated. It seemed cruel to refuse.

“We-ll,” she yielded, “if you are sure it won’t? Just a few minutes--”

So the posing began. She sat in the wobbly chair, the afternoon
sunshine streaming in through the cobwebbed window, while he painted
at top speed, chatting all the time. He told of his struggles with his
beloved studies, of his hopes and ambitions, and gradually drew her
into talking of her own. At last she sprang to her feet.

“There!” she cried. “I must _not_ stay another second. It is--oh, good
gracious! It is after four now. Where has the time gone?”

He shook his head. “_I_ don’t know,” he replied. “Well, there! it isn’t
right yet--we must have some more sittings--but it is better. Don’t you
think so?”

It was better, but even she could see that it was by no means perfect.

“Can’t you come to-morrow?” he begged.

“No. I don’t see how I can. You see--”

“Then the next day. We’ve _got_ to get it right, haven’t we.... If I am
going to give you this thing I want it to be as good as I can make it.”

She clasped her hands. “You are going to give it to _me_?” she repeated.

“Of course I am. I’ll probably want to show it a little first. One of
my teachers--oh, he is a corker!--I wish you could see _his_ stuff--has
a summer studio in Wapatomac and he must have a look at it, sure. But,
after that, it is going to be yours--if you want it.”

“Want it! I should love it! But--but I don’t see how it can ever be
mine. I live with Uncle Foster and--well, you know.”

He frowned. “That’s so,” he admitted. “I suppose there would be the
deuce to pay if he knew I painted it for you. Don’t suppose he would
want it himself, do you? _I_ needn’t give it to him, but you could.”

Her eyes flashed. “Why--why, that would be--it might be just the
thing!” she exclaimed. “His birthday is the third of next month
and--and I could give it to him as a birthday present, couldn’t I? He
says he wants a new photograph of me, and this is ever so much better
than a photograph. Of course, as you painted it, and you are a Cook, he
might not--”

Bob broke in. “It might help to show him that the Cooks are good
for something, after all,” he suggested, laughing but eager. “It
might--why, by George!--Esther, if we can get it just right, it might
help to soften down this family row of ours a little bit. If it
did--well, it looks to me as if it were worth trying.”

She was by no means confident, but inclination conquered judgment.

“Perhaps it might help a little,” she agreed. “But can you finish it in
time for Uncle Foster’s birthday?”

“Of course I can, and time enough to show to my Wapatomac man, too. But
I must have those sittings. You’ll come day after to-morrow, won’t you?”

Again she hesitated, but in the end she promised. She came that day
and on other days. And with each session in the shanty she grew to
know Bob Griffin better and to like him better. And, now fortified by
the reasonable excuse that the presentation of the portrait was to be
his birthday surprise, she said no word to her uncle nor to any one of
her growing intimacy with Elisha Cook’s grandson. And the secret might
have been kept until the birthday had not Fate, disguised as Millard
Fillmore Clark, interfered.

Mr. Clark, as a usual thing, kept away from the Townsend mansion and
its environs. He had never been known to refuse an invitation to dine
there and might have made his niece’s presence an excuse for spending
much time on the premises had not several pointed hints from Captain
Foster, backed by peremptory orders from Reliance, made him aware of
the possibility that frequent visits might not be welcome.

“I’d like to know why I can’t stop in once in a while, just to pass
the time of day if nothin’ more,” he protested, indignantly, on
one occasion. “Esther’s my relation, just as much as she is Foster
Townsend’s, as far as that goes. I feel about as much responsibility
for her as I ever did. No sense in it, I know, but I can’t get over it.
Maybe I don’t forget as easy as some folks seem to.”

Reliance, who was preparing the outgoing mail, kept on with her work.

“I’m glad of that,” she observed, calmly. “Then of course you haven’t
forgotten what Varunas Gifford called you the last time you were
hangin’ around the stable in his way. I should think that ought to
stick in your memory. It would in mine.”

Millard drew himself up. “Varunas Gifford is nothin’ but a--a
no-account horse jockey,” he declared. “And maybe you didn’t hear what
I called him back.”

“Maybe he didn’t, either. Or perhaps he did; I recollect you looked as
if you’d come home in a hurry that day. There, there! Don’t you let
me hear again of your trottin’ at Foster Townsend’s heels, tryin’ to
curry favor. When he wants us at his house he invites us to come there.
Yes, and sometimes when he doesn’t want us, I shouldn’t wonder. Behave
yourself, Millard. If you don’t know what self-respect is, look it up
in the dictionary.”

So Millard, although he boasted much, at the store and about town, of
his intimacy with the great man, dared not presume upon it. Therefore
Foster Townsend was surprised to be accosted by him outside the
post office one afternoon and to learn that Mr. Clark had something
important to tell him.

“Well, what is it?” he asked, impatiently. “Heave ahead with it. I’m in
a hurry.”

Millard looked cautiously over his shoulder.

“Don’t speak so loud, Cap’n Foster,” he whispered. “Reliance is inside
there and she’s got the door open. I haven’t told her what ’tis. I
haven’t told anybody.”

“All right. Then I wouldn’t bother to tell me. Keep it to yourself.”

“No, I ain’t goin’ to keep it to myself. It’s somethin’ you ought to
know and--and bein’ as I’m one of the family, as you might say, I think
it’s my--er--well, duty, to tell you. It’s about Esther.”

Townsend jerked his sleeve from the Clark grasp. He frowned.

“Esther?” he repeated, sharply. “What business have you got with
Esther’s affairs?”

“Why--why, I don’t know’s I’ve got any, maybe--except that she’s one
of my relations and I think a sight of her.... Now, hold on! Listen,
Cap’n Foster! She’s seein’ that Griffin feller, old Cook’s grandson,
from Denboro, about every day or so. He’s got that fish shanty of Tobe
Eldridge’s--hires it to paint his fool pictures in, so Tobe says--and
he’s been paintin’ a picture of Esther and she goes there about every
afternoon. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t--”

Foster Townsend interrupted. “Here!” he ordered. “Wait! Come over here!”

He seized Millard by the arm and led him down the sidewalk to the
shelter of a clump of lilacs at the end of the Clark picket fence.

“Now tell me what you are talking about,” he commanded.

Millard told him. Mrs. Tobias Eldridge had seen Esther pass the house
one afternoon and had wondered where the girl was going. Two days later
she saw her pass again and this time her curiosity had prompted her to
go out by the back door and to the knoll behind the henhouse from which
she could look up the beach. She had seen Esther knock at the door of
the shanty and had heard Bob Griffin’s greeting. She told her husband
and he, a few days later, mentioned it to Clark.

“Naturally I was consider’bly interested,” went on Millard. “Tobias he
couldn’t make out what she was doin’ there and neither could I. ‘Looks
to me,’ says I, ‘as if--me bein’ her uncle--I ought to know the ins and
outs of this. You’ve got a spare key to that shanty, ain’t you, Tobias?
Can’t we make out to get in there to-morrow mornin’ before Bob shows
up?’ Well, we did and I saw that picture of Esther. Pretty good, ’tis,
too, considerin’ who made it. I own up I was surprised. ’Bout as big as
life, you know, and all colored up, and--”

“Ssh!... Humph!... How many people have you told about this?”

“Not a soul! Honest, Cap’n Foster, I swear I haven’t told a livin’
soul. And Tobias hasn’t told neither. ‘The way I look at it,’ he says
to me, ‘it ain’t any of my business, nor my wife’s. I’m not runnin’
across Foster Townsend’s bows,’ he says, ‘not much. I’ve told you, Mil,
because you’re one of the family. You can do what you want to about it.
If I was you, though, I guess I’d keep still.’ ‘You bet I will!’ I told
him. But, of course, I knew you ought to know about it, Cap’n Foster.
I judged likely you didn’t know, and for Esther Townsend to be in that
fish shanty along with one of that Cook tribe seemed to me--”

“Shut up!” The order was savagely given. “Humph! Here! you don’t think
others know this, do you?”

“Not a livin’ soul except Tobias and his wife--and me, of course. I
haven’t even told Reliance.”

“You keep this to yourself; do you hear? Don’t you mention it again.”

“Oh, I shan’t--I shan’t. But--”

“You had better not.... There, that’ll do. Clear out! I’ve wasted time
enough.”

Mr. Clark was disappointed. He had expected thanks, at least, possibly
more substantial reward. Nevertheless, it was some comfort to know that
he and the Harniss magnate shared a secret in common. His self-respect,
to which Reliance had so slightingly referred, was bolstered by that
knowledge.




CHAPTER VIII


Esther was late in returning home that afternoon. The portrait at last
was finished. Even Bob was reluctantly obliged to admit that it was as
nearly perfect as he could make it, and his Wapatomac friend had seen
it and approved. The final sitting was a long one, however, and it
was nearly supper time when she hurried up the path to the side door
of the mansion. Her uncle was in the library and, although he looked
up from his paper and nodded when she entered, it seemed to her that
his greeting was not as hearty as usual. And during supper he spoke
scarcely a word. Her by no means easy conscience made her apprehensive
and when, after the meal was over, he bade her come into the parlor,
she followed him fearfully. Something was going to happen, she did not
dare guess what.

He closed the door behind him. “Sit down, Esther,” he ordered. She did
so. He remained standing. He took a turn or two up and down the room
and then swung about and faced her, his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Where did you go this afternoon?” he asked, bluntly, his eyes fixed
upon her face.

She started, colored, and caught her breath with a gasp.

“This afternoon?” she faltered. “Why--why, I don’t know. I--”

“Come, come!” impatiently. “That’s foolishness. Of course you know.
Where did you go when you left here, after dinner?”

She did not answer. His shaggy brows drew together.

“I don’t wonder you don’t want to tell me,” he snapped. “You needn’t.
It isn’t necessary. I know where you were. You were down in that fish
shanty of Eldridge’s and that young Griffin was with you. That is so,
isn’t it?”

She was pale, but she no longer hesitated. Her reply was promptly given.

“Yes,” she said.

He nodded, grimly. “I’m glad you don’t lie about it, at any rate,” he
said. “And you have been going there for a fortnight, haven’t you?”

“No. Not for a fortnight. I have been there five times altogether.”

“Humph! Why didn’t you tell me what you were up to? Did you think I
wouldn’t be interested?”

“No.”

“Then why did you keep it to yourself?”

She met his look with one as steady.

“Because--well, because he was painting my picture--a portrait of
me--and I--we didn’t want you to know about it until it was finished.”

“Is that so!” sarcastically. “Well, well! Did you intend to tell me
when it was finished?”

“Of course.”

“Humph!... I wonder.”

Her eyes were beginning to flash. “You needn’t wonder,” she said. “I am
not lying.”

If he had been more calm, more like his usual cautious and wily self,
he would have comprehended that the glint in those eyes of hers was
a danger signal which it might be best to heed. But he was angry and
chagrined. Ever since Millard Clark had told him of the meetings in
the Eldridge shanty he had been brooding over the disclosure. He was
furious at her for keeping the secret from him and more furious at
himself for being so easily hoodwinked. His serene self-confidence was
decidedly shaken. Apparently this skittish colt was not so completely
broken to harness as he had supposed. How many other secrets might
she be hiding behind that innocent exterior? And the thought that a
grandson of his arch enemy should have shared a secret with her was the
crowning ignominy.

“It depends on what you call a lie, I should say,” he growled. “If
slipping out of this house time after time and pretending to me that--”

“I didn’t pretend anything. If you had asked me I should have told you.
I haven’t done anything that I am ashamed of. Not a single thing.”

“You haven’t! Well, then I’m ashamed for you. Sneaking down to that
God-forsaken place a half dozen times a week and shutting yourself up
with that--that cub isn’t--”

“Stop!” She sprang to her feet, her fists clinched and her cheeks
ablaze. “You _shan’t_ say such things to me!” she cried. “You haven’t
any right to say them. I don’t care if you are--if you have done
everything in the world for me. You needn’t do any more. I was--I
was going to tell you all about it, every word, just as soon as your
birthday came, and give you the picture. I-- Oh, I thought you would
like it! It was going to be a surprise and--and--”

“Here!” he broke in. “Hold on! What’s all this?”

She did not heed. The tears were running down her cheeks but they were
tears of anger and humiliation. Her utterance was choked with sobs and
she was on the verge of hysterics.

“Oh, how _can_ you talk to me like this!” she stormed. “Say that I
‘sneaked’ and that I shut myself up with--with him, as if--as if-- Oh,
you ought to be ashamed to even think such things! Hinting that he and
I--I’ll never speak to you again! I hate you! I’m going away from this
house to-morrow morning. I don’t care what becomes of me! I--oh--!”

She rushed from the room and the door banged behind her. Foster
Townsend took a step toward it.

“Esther!” he called. “Here, Esther! Come back!”

She did not come back; he heard her run up the stairs and a distant
slam announced that the door of her own room, the pink room, had
closed also. He swore disgustedly and, stalking to the library, threw
himself into the leather chair. There, behind a cigar which he did
not enjoy, he sat for an hour or more trying to think his way out of
this new complication. The sole conclusion which he reached was the
unflattering one that he had made a mess of things.

This conclusion remained unshaken all the next forenoon. Esther did
not come down for breakfast; she had a headache, so she told Nabby.
Foster Townsend did not enjoy his breakfast, either. Later, when on
his regular round of inspection, from the door of the stable he saw
his niece leave the house and walk hurriedly off up the street. The
suspicion that she might be going to meet Bob Griffin crossed his mind,
but it was only momentary. He did not believe she was going there.
He would have asked her where she was going, but his pride would not
let him. He refused the impulse to call after her and tried to find
satisfaction in berating Varunas for some trivial oversight in cleaning
the stable.

Dinner was another lonely meal for him. Esther had not returned and
neither Nabby nor the maid knew where she was. She came in, however, at
two and went straight to her room. He went out and, a short time later,
he walked, without knocking, into the little sitting-room of the Clark
cottage. Reliance was there and she did not appear greatly surprised to
see him.

“Hello, Foster,” she said. “So you’ve come, too, have you?”

He grunted. “That confounded brother of yours isn’t on deck, is he?” he
asked.

“No, he’s tendin’ the office. Didn’t you see him? I saw you go in the
shop door.”

“I saw that Makepeace woman. She said you were in here.”

“Yes, I’ve been in the house most of the day, except at mail time. I
brought my work in here. I rather expected you might come.”

“You did? Why?”

“Oh, because--well, I understand it is squally weather up at your house
just now.”

He glanced at her. Then he sat down in the rocker and crossed his
knees.

“Esther’s been here, hasn’t she?” he growled. “So here is where she
went. Well, I guessed as much.”

“I should think you might. Yes, she was here and ate dinner here, what
little she did eat. Foster, you can handle men but you are a dreadful
poor hand with women--and always were.”

He snorted. “Damn women!” he exclaimed, fervently.

“Yes, that is what you do, I guess, and it isn’t good policy. Now, if
you want to, you can tell me your side of all this rumpus. Esther has
told me hers.”

He told it. It was only when he told how and from where he had learned
of the portrait painting that she interrupted.

“Oh!” she said, nodding ominously. “Oh, Millard was responsible, was
he? Humph!... Well, never mind; he and I will talk later on. Go ahead.”

He described the scene in the parlor, keeping nothing back. Her lips
were twitching when he finished. He looked up, caught the expression,
and smiled, though rather ruefully.

“It was a fool business, I guess,” he admitted; “but I was mad clear
through. If it had been anybody else. What in the devil did she pick
out old Cook’s grandson for? I won’t have her sparking around with him,
not by a whole lot.”

“She isn’t sparking around with him. He is a nice boy, I guess; every
one says he is, and a smart one, too. It’s the picture he is making of
her in all her pretty things that caught her fancy. It would catch any
girl’s. It must be a good picture, too. Esther says it is wonderful. I
should like to see it.”

He twisted in the rocker. “I don’t care if it is a panorama,” he
snapped. “He had the cheek of a brass monkey to paint it. And, by the
Lord Harry, if he so much as speaks to her again I’ll break his neck.”

Reliance laughed. “He is a pretty husky specimen, from what I hear,”
she observed. “He might break yours first, Foster, if it came to
that.... Oh, where is your common sense?” she demanded, with a sudden
return to seriousness. “You have been young yourself. Your own father
swore you shouldn’t be a sailor, and the upshot of that was that you
ran away to sea the first chance you got. Don’t you know that, for
young folks, the forbidden thing is always the temptin’ thing? Esther
isn’t in love with Bob Griffin yet--that is, I am pretty sure she
isn’t from the way she talks--but she certainly will be if you keep on
bullyin’ her the way you did last night. That is just as sure as the
sun’s risin’.”

He took a hand from his pocket to rub his beard the wrong way.

“Well,” he grumbled, impatiently, “that may be so--or may not. What am
I going to do to stop it?”

“Make your peace with her first. Go straight home to her and apologize.
Tell her you are sorry you made such a ninny of yourself last night
and beg her pardon. Then, if you are careful how you do it, you might
perhaps explain a little about why you didn’t like her goin’ to see
Bob. And, if I were you, I should put the most stress on her goin’
there without tellin’ you. _That_ is what--so you must say--hurt your
feelin’s most. It is what has hurt hers, too. Her conscience was
troublin’ her a lot about that; she told me so.”

“Well, it ought to trouble her. It was a dirty trick to play on me.”

“Perhaps. But, remember, she and Bob together were goin’ to give you
that picture for your birthday. It was to be a surprise for you.... It
would have been, too, I guess.”

She laughed at the idea. He put his hand back into the pocket.

“Well, suppose I do get down on my knees to her?” he said, grudgingly.
“What then? That won’t be keeping her away from him. How am I going to
do that?”

“I don’t know exactly. I think I know what _I_ should do. First I
should go with her to Bob’s studio, or whatever he calls it, and see
that picture.”

He leaned back to stare at her. “What are you trying to do?” he
demanded. “Make fun of me?”

“No, of course I’m not. I’m tryin’ to show you how to save the pieces,
now that you’ve smashed the pitcher. Tell her you would like to see the
paintin’ and ask her to take you there to see it. Pretend you think it
is splendid, no matter whether you do or not. When they give it to you,
take it and be thankful.”

He broke out with an indignant growl.

“You’re crazy!” he vowed. “Do you suppose I am going to let that fellow
give me presents? Be reasonable.”

“I am. Esther is givin’ it to you; he has only given it to her.”

“It is the same thing. You know it.”

“Well, suppose it is. Can’t you see that your acceptin’ it will do more
to put you and her back where you were before this upset than anything
else in the world? When she sees you willin’ to forget and forgive she
will be more ashamed of herself than ever for keepin’ a secret from
you. And she won’t keep another one from you--for a while, anyway.
Come, that is reasonable, isn’t it?”

He did not reply for a moment. Then he raised another objection.

“It looks to me as if it would only make things worse,” he said. “If I
go down and pat him on the back--instead of knocking him in the head,
as I’d like to do--he’ll take it for granted I’m satisfied to have him
hanging around after her. He will--why, blast it all! Reliance, he’ll
be calling on her at the house next! Of course he will.”

“Well, if he does--if he does, at least you will have them both under
your nose where you can see for yourself what is goin’ on. And if they
get _too_ friendly you can do what you’ve done before, take her away
somewhere. You took her to California; now you can take her to--well,
to China, if you want to. You can afford it, I guess.”

For the first time he seemed to find satisfaction in her counsel. The
frown left his face and his eyes brightened. He looked up and nodded.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Humph! That’s an idea! Now you _are_ talking.
That _is_ an idea! Humph! All right, Reliance. Much obliged. I’ll think
it over.”

He rose to his feet and turned to the door.

“Say,” he said, as if struck by a new and disquieting thought, “you
don’t ever tell anybody of my coming down here to--well, to talk things
over same as we have to-day? You keep it to yourself, don’t you?”

She straightened.

“Certainly I do,” she retorted, sharply. “Do you think I go around
boastin’ of it?”

“Well, I didn’t know but what--”

“I don’t. I’m not so proud of havin’ you callin’ on me as all that. You
used to come to see me years ago and, if I remember, it was I, and not
you, who stopped it then. I can stop it again if it’s necessary. What
do you mean by askin’ such a question?”

He laughed. “There, there!” he protested. “Don’t fly off the handle.
All I meant was--”

“I know what you meant. You are ashamed of havin’ to ask a woman’s
advice and you don’t want anybody to know that the great Foster
Townsend does have to ask for anything. Of course I don’t tell. But if
you think nobody knows you come to this house--yes, and doesn’t know it
every time you come--it must be because you carry your head so high in
the air you can’t see what is on either side of you. I have been asked
a dozen times what you come here for. The last time you came--when
Esther wasn’t with you, I mean--Abbie Makepeace was waitin’ to ask why
you did it.”

“Humph! She was, eh? What did you tell her?”

“I told her my rent was two weeks behindhand and maybe you’d come to
collect it.”

“Humph! That wasn’t so bad. What did she say to that?”

“Well, if you must know, she said she guessed it was somethin’ of the
sort. She said she never knew you to go anywhere unless there was
somethin’ to be got for yourself by doin’ it. You forgot to speak to
her the last time you and she met, Foster. That was a mistake.”

His newly found good humor was not shaken by this plain speech. He was
still chuckling.

“She was right, in one way, Reliance,” he admitted. “I generally do
come to you when I want something in the way of horse sense. And I’m
free to say I usually get it--with plenty of pepper. I might come to a
worse place.... Well, whoever else you tell, don’t tell Millard.”

Her eyes snapped. “Millard!” she repeated. “I’ll tell Millard a few
things when I get him alone. You needn’t worry about that.”




CHAPTER IX


Humble pie is not a tasty dish even to the palate accustomed to it.
Foster Townsend’s palate was distinctly not of that kind. Even to
himself he seldom acknowledged that his judgment had been wrong, almost
never to another person. Reliance Clark alone, of all his friends and
acquaintances, dared tell him that he had behaved foolishly. He bore
her blunt criticisms and tart reproofs with a patience the reasons for
which he could scarcely have supplied under cross-examination. Her
advice concerning Esther had, in previous instances, been good. In this
case, although it was neither flattering nor agreeable, it seemed to
at least promise a temporary way out and he resolved to take it. If it
worked it was worth the brief humiliation. If it did not then he would
try something else. That he would not gain his own way in the end was,
of course, an impossibility. He always gained it.

Reliance had prescribed the “humble pie.” That very evening, after
supper, he ate it in his niece’s presence. He called her into the
parlor and, as he would have said, “got down on his knees.” He frankly
begged her pardon for losing his temper, for speaking to her as he had
done about her visiting Bob Griffin’s studio. He explained how he had
learned of her doing so.

“I don’t suppose I should have minded so much if you had told me about
it, yourself,” he said. “Of course the idea of your picking out ’Lisha
Cook’s grandson to be a friend of yours might have stuck in my craw.
Naturally I can’t help but be prejudiced against any of that scamp’s
kith and kin. But I realize--I do now that I have had time to think it
over--that it was natural enough you should want to see the picture
this young Griffin is making of you. I don’t blame you for that. If you
had only told me about it. _That_ was the thing that hurt most. It did
hurt me, Esther. Yes, it did! I would have sworn you and I didn’t have
any secrets from each other. Seems to me we shouldn’t have.”

This was the right touch, just as he meant it to be. Esther’s
resentment melted under it. The tears sprang to her eyes and this
time they were not tears of anger or wounded pride. She stammered a
confession of her own consciousness of guilt at having kept the secret
from him.

“I am so sorry I didn’t tell you, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “I was
going to--I meant to--and then--oh, I guess I was afraid. I know it was
wrong. But the portrait is so good--really, it is wonderful. And--and
we thought--I thought if I gave it to you for a birthday surprise you
might--you might forgive me for letting him paint it.”

He held out his arms. She ran to them and with her head upon his
shoulder, sobbed repentantly. He stroked her hair.

“There, there!” he said, soothingly. “It’s all right now. We won’t fret
any more about it, will we? And you must take me down to the shanty, or
studio, or whatever you call it, and let me see the thing for myself.
Will you do that sometime? Sometime pretty soon, eh?”

She lifted her head to look at him.

“Do you really mean it?” she gasped. “Do you mean you will
go--there--with me? And you won’t say anything to--to
him--about--about--”

“Of course I won’t! We’re going to let bygones be bygones, you and I.
No more secrets and rows between you and your old uncle, eh? No, no,
I guess not. We’ll go down there together; we’ll go this afternoon.
And if folks wonder what on earth I am getting so sociable with a Cook
for--why, well let ’em wonder, that’s all.”

She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

“You are the dearest man in the world!” she declared. “I ought to be
ashamed of myself, and I am. _Do_ you forgive me, Uncle Foster, really?”

So the reconciliation was complete and the Clark plan had worked
satisfactorily so far. But that afternoon, as they walked along the
beach together, Esther had no idea of the emotions hidden behind her
uncle’s smiling countenance, nor the struggle it cost him to cross the
threshold of the Eldridge shanty and meet, with that same smile, the
astonished gaze of its young tenant.

Astonishment is a very inadequate word to describe Bob’s feelings
when Foster Townsend walked in upon him. He turned pale, then red and
involuntarily squared his shoulders for the battle he was certain
was upon him. And when, instead of opening for a warlike blast, the
Townsend lips curved pleasantly and the Townsend hand was extended in
greeting, he was too dumbfounded to do or say anything. He stood still,
breathed rapidly, and stared.

Esther, quite aware of what his feelings must be, hastened to explain.

“I have told Uncle Foster all about the portrait,” she said, quickly.
“He couldn’t wait until his birthday and made me bring him right down
here to see it.... Uncle Foster, you remember Bob. At the horse race
that day, he was the one who--”

Townsend interrupted. “Of course I remember,” he said, with a very
plausible imitation of heartiness. “How are you, young man? I
understand you’ve got to be what they call an artist. Esther says you
have painted a picture of her that does everything but walk around and
talk. She praised it up so that I had to come and see it for myself.
Not that I know much about such things.... This it, eh?... Humph! Well,
I declare!”

He had walked over and was standing before the easel. His niece joined
him and looked anxiously from his face to the portrait and back again.
Griffin, still dazed, looked at his visitors. Foster Townsend whistled.

“Good enough!” he exclaimed. “Well, well! Yes, indeed! Good enough!”

Esther asked a question.

“You like it, Uncle Foster?” she queried, anxiously. “Do you really
like it?”

He nodded. “Certainly I like it,” he said. “How could I help liking it?
For a thing that isn’t a photograph it is mighty good, I should say.
That dress, now. Why, that’s just the way that dress looked on you,
Esther. Yes, it is.”

“But the likeness, Uncle Foster? Don’t you think it _looks_ like me?”

He jingled the change in his pocket. “Why, yes,” he admitted,
though with not quite the same heartiness. “It does look like
you--considerably. It’s just hand-done, of course, and you can’t expect
a hand-done thing to be like a photograph. But I should know who it was
meant for. Honest, I should,” he added, as if with some surprise at the
truth of the concession.

Esther was disappointed. “Why, Uncle Foster!” she protested. “I think
it is the very image of me.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that, quite,” he observed. “It isn’t
as good looking as you are. I’m right there, eh, Griffin? Doesn’t
flatter her, does it?”

Bob spoke for the first time. He seemed to be in hearty accord.

“You bet it doesn’t!” he agreed, with emphasis. “I’m not satisfied with
it, of course.”

“Why, Bob Griffin!” cried Esther. “How can you say that? You told me
yourself you thought it was awfully good.”

“Well, I--I think it is pretty fair, considering who painted it; but
Captain Townsend is right when he says it doesn’t do you justice. I
knew that all along.”

Townsend may have thought the conversation had proceeded far enough
on this line. He stepped back from before the easel and turned to the
artist.

“It’s a good job, anyhow,” he vowed. “I’ll be glad to have it. Now
then, young fellow, how much do you want for it? What is the price?”

Bob Griffin looked at Esther and she at him. She answered the question.

“Why, there isn’t any price,” she said. “Bob has given it to me and I
am giving it to you, for your birthday present, Uncle Foster. I told
you that before we came down here.”

Her uncle paid no attention to this. He jingled his change and repeated
his inquiry.

“How much will it be, Griffin?” he asked.

Bob smilingly shook his head. “Esther has told you, sir,” he said. “I
gave it to her. There isn’t any price.”

“Humph! That won’t do, son.... Hush, Esther!... No, that won’t do. You
are figuring to earn a living at this sort of work, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I--well, I hope to some day. But--”

“There aren’t any ‘buts.’ You’ve worked a good many days at this
job--must have. No reason why you shouldn’t get your regular wages. I
want this picture and I can afford to pay for it. How much?”

Again Griffin shook his head.

“It isn’t for sale, Captain Townsend,” he declared. “I have given it
to Esther. It is hers. Of course, if she wants to sell it, that is
different. But I can’t. It isn’t mine.”

“Rubbish! There’s no reason why you should give it to anybody. And I
don’t intend you shall. I’m going to buy it. That is settled.”

“No, sir, I’m afraid it isn’t settled--in that way. You can’t buy it
from me.”

Foster Townsend’s brows drew together in the way which his niece
recognized as a storm signal. She tried to avert the hurricane.

“It is mine, Uncle Foster,” she protested. “Don’t you see? It is mine
now and it is going to be yours. I--”

“Hush! See here, young fellow, you’ve forgotten one thing, I guess.
Maybe I don’t care to have Esther take presents from--” he paused,
coughed and added gruffly, “from anybody. Perhaps I don’t.... Here, I
tell you! If you won’t sell it to me, sell it to her. I’ll see that she
gets the money to pay for it. Now, then, how much?”

Bob still smiled. His reply was just as good-natured, but also just as
firm.

“Esther can’t buy it, either,” he said. “No one can. If she won’t have
it as a present from me--why, then I’ll keep it for my own. I shouldn’t
mind having it in the least,” he added, with a twinkle.

It was this last sentence which caused Foster Townsend to hesitate. The
roar which his niece had dreaded and which Griffin had expected was
not uttered. He scowled, took a turn to the doorway, stood there for a
moment looking out, and when he turned back the scowl had disappeared.
The corner of his lip lifted in a one-sided smile of surrender.

“You are a stubborn young mule, aren’t you,” he observed. “All right,
do as you please. If money is no object to you it is to me and I ought
to be thankful to save a little, I suppose. Esther, I’m much obliged
for my birthday present.... Well, Griffin, you’ll go so far as to let
me send Varunas for the thing, won’t you? Won’t insist on fetching it
up to the door with your own hands?”

Bob, very much surprised--he could scarcely believe that his all
powerful opponent had actually capitulated--laughed and stammered that
he guessed there would be no objection to Varunas’s acting as carrier.
Before he could say more his visitors had bade him good afternoon
and departed. It was not until they had gone that he remembered that
neither he, nor Esther, had mentioned meeting again.

His surprise would have been still greater if he could have heard a
remark made by Foster Townsend to his niece as the pair walked along
the path toward home.

“There’s just one thing I do want you to promise me, Esther,” Townsend
said. “I want you to promise me that you won’t go down to that shanty
again alone. Harniss isn’t a very big place and there is always talk
enough in it for a square meal. No use giving it a Thanksgiving
indigestion unless it’s necessary. Will you promise me that?”

She hesitated. She, too, had suddenly become conscious of the
fact that the parting between Bob Griffin and herself was, in all
probability, a final one.

“Why--why, yes, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “I will promise, if you
want me to. But--oh, please don’t think--”

“There, there! I don’t think anything. If he wants to see you, and you
want to see him, let him come to the house once in a while. I shan’t
make any objections to that--if he doesn’t come too often.”

She caught her breath. This was unbelievable.

“Why--why, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “Of course he won’t come _there_!”

He smiled, grimly. “Won’t he?” he observed. “Humph! I notice there are
other young squirts dropping in on us now and then, these days. Maybe
he won’t, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Judging by the way he stood up to
me about that picture he’ll do ’most anything he sets out to do, or try
to, anyhow.... Humph! Well, we’ll see.”

Esther was overwhelmed. Knowing, as she did, how fiercely bitter was
the hatred borne by her uncle to any one remotely connected with the
name of Cook, such a concession as this amounted to tremendous personal
sacrifice. And he was making that sacrifice solely because of her. If
any compelling force was needful to strengthen her resolve to keep the
promise just made this proof of his devotion furnished it. She then and
there made up her mind that, if Bob _did_ call--which, of course, he
would not--she would not be too cordial. She would be nice to him, just
as she was to others, but she would not encourage him to call often.
And, if the calls became too frequent, she would see that they were
discontinued. And Captain Foster Townsend, looking down at her as she
walked in silence beside him, guessed her thought and smiled in triumph.

His estimate of the young man’s determination and character was soon
proved correct. On an evening of that same week the Townsend doorbell
rang. The maid was out and Nabby opened the door. She came back to the
library wearing an expression which caused her employer to look at her
in surprise.

“Well?” he demanded. “What’s happened? Is the meeting-house on fire?”

Nabby shook her head. “It’s somebody come,” she stammered.

Esther, who was reading a book, looked up. Her uncle sniffed
impatiently.

“Somebody come!” he repeated, with sarcasm. “Humph! You surprise me!
Naturally, when I heard the bell ring I thought it was somebody just
going.... Well, well! Who is it? Don’t you know?”

Mrs. Gifford nodded. “Course I know!” she declared. “If I didn’t know I
wouldn’t have been so took back. It’s--” she leaned forward to whisper
the incredible name--“it’s a _Cook_!”

Townsend did not understand. “A cook!” he snorted. “Whose cook? What
does she want? What in the devil is she doing at the front door?”

Nabby raised a warning hand. “Sshh!” she begged, in alarm. “My soul and
body, Cap’n Foster! he’ll hear you if you holler like that.... It ain’t
that kind of a cook. It’s a--a ’Lisha Cook.”

“_What!_”

He leaped from the chair. Esther rose, too. She caught his sleeve.

“Hush, Uncle Foster!” she whispered. “Nabby doesn’t mean old Mr. Cook
himself. I am sure she doesn’t.”

Something in her tone caused her uncle to look down at her. A thought
came to him.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Do you know who it is, Esther?”

“No-o. No, I don’t. But I just wondered if--you know you said he
_might_ come and--”

He interrupted. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes.... Is it young Griffin,
Nabby?”

Nabby nodded. “That’s just who ’tis,” she said. “_He’s_ a Cook, ain’t
he? And when I see him standin’ there right in front of me, as bold as
brass, I vow I--”

Townsend broke in once more. He laughed, shortly. “I see,” he said.
“Well, bring him in, Nabby.”

Nabby gasped. “You mean fetch him in _here_?” she demanded,
incredulously.

“Yes. And hurry up about it.” Then, turning to his niece, he added,
“Told you he would come, didn’t I, Esther? He’s a Cook, right enough.”

But when Bob followed Nabby into the library he greeted him pleasantly,
bade him be seated, and even offered him a cigar. He was the least
embarrassed of the three. Esther was confused and Bob, himself, was not
wholly self-possessed. He apologized for calling without an invitation,
but said he just simply could not wait longer to see how the portrait
looked in its new quarters.

“I know you are surprised to see me here, Captain Townsend,” he went
on. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. My family and yours--are--well,
they aren’t, of course. But I did want to see that portrait.”

Townsend nodded. “Natural enough you should,” he agreed. “And you
didn’t bring your family with you, I guess likely. Well, the picture is
in the parlor and Esther will show it to you. If you will excuse me I’m
going upstairs. I’ve got some letters to write.”

He went out, leaving the two alone. Esther had not expected this
and was not altogether pleased. She comprehended--or thought she
did--that her uncle’s leaving her alone with the caller was his way
of showing that he trusted her. It was very noble of him, but it made
her uncomfortable, almost as if she were doing something wicked.
Consequently her manner was distrait and her replies to Bob’s sallies
brief and perfunctory. The call was a short one. He left before ten,
but at the door he said:

“You’ll come down to the shanty again before long, won’t you, Esther?”

She shook her head. “No,” she replied. “I shan’t come there any more.”

“Why not?”

“Because Uncle Foster thinks I shouldn’t. He says people would talk if
I did. He is right, of course. Perhaps they are talking now.”

“Talk! They’ll talk anyway. They’ll talk after they are dead, some of
them.... Well, then I shall come here to see you. I can do that, can’t
I?”

“I--I don’t think you had better.”

“Don’t you want to see me?”

She hesitated. “That hasn’t anything to do with it, really,” she
declared. “You know it hasn’t, Bob. When you think of your grandfather
and my uncle--”

“I won’t,” he broke in, emphatically. “That is just what I won’t do.
And you mustn’t either. You and I ought to think of ourselves. We
agreed, that afternoon of the thunderstorm, that we hadn’t anything to
do with a family row which is already years and years old. If you can’t
come to see me I am coming to see you. And I shall.”

“But uncle--”

“I’m not coming to see him. And--why, he was nice enough to me this
evening. I rather expected he might tell me to clear out, but he
didn’t.”

“No, he didn’t. But I am sure he doesn’t like it. How can he? Your
grandfather--”

“Oh, forget my grandfather! Esther Townsend, I shall come here
again--yes, and soon. How about next Tuesday evening? Are you free
then?”

“Why--why, yes, I suppose I shall be. But, Bob--”

“All right. I’ll be on hand. Good-night.”

When she went up to her room the door of her uncle’s room was open and
he called to her.

“Didn’t stay very long, did he?” he observed.

“No, Uncle Foster, not very.”

“Coming again pretty soon, I suppose?”

“Why--why, he said he might call Tuesday evening. Of course if you had
rather he didn’t--”

“I told you I hadn’t any objections, provided he doesn’t come too
often. Asked you to drop in at the Tobias Eldridge place, I suppose?”

“Ye-es. Yes, he said something about it; but I told him I couldn’t do
that.”

“Good girl.... Well, all right. Good-night.”

She bent over his chair back and kissed him.

“I think it is very sweet of you to let him come here at all,” she
said. “I--I don’t see how you can--considering who he is.”

“Who he is?... Humph!... Well, he is a friend of yours and I don’t want
to stand between you and your friends. Besides--which is what you mean,
of course--he is a Cook and when I deal with one of them I always feel
safer if he is where--”

He did not finish the sentence. “Where--? What were you going to say?”
she asked.

He was fearful that he had already said too much. “Nothing, nothing,”
he said. “Good-night, dearie. I must finish my letter.”

The letter was to Mrs. Jane Carter, in Boston, and he did finish it
before he went to bed.

Bob came on Tuesday evening and again Foster Townsend left the young
people alone in the library. The stay this time was longer. He came
again on Friday and on the following Tuesday. Townsend said nothing,
but he thought a good deal. He began to wish that he had followed his
own inclination and forbidden the pair of young idiots to see each
other at all. His questions to Esther, put very guardedly, seemed
to warrant the belief that, so far at least, her feeling toward
Griffin was merely that of friendship; but friendship at that age was
dangerous. It must be broken off--and soon.




CHAPTER X


Mrs. Carter had not yet replied to his letter. He wrote another,
stating his case more succinctly and intimating that he expected
compliance with his wishes. He even dropped a hint concerning her
obligation to him, something he had never done before.

“It may upset your plans a little,” he wrote, “and I suppose you feel
that you can’t shut up that house of yours and turn your other lodgers
adrift. Well, I don’t ask you to do that. Find some one who can handle
the craft while you are away and I will pay the bill. I have heard
you say that it was the dream of your life to go where I am planning
to send you. Here is your dream come true. You like the girl and she
likes you. You are the only one in sight that I should feel safe to
trust as skipper of a cruise like this one, with her aboard. You have
always declared that, if ever you could do anything for me, you would
do it if it killed you. Well, this won’t kill you. It may do you good.
If anything can shake the reefs out of that Boston canvas of yours I
should say this might be the thing. You will sail freer afterwards and
you will have something to talk about besides the gilding on the State
House dome. Let me hear from you right away.”

He did not hear, however. Another week passed and he had not heard.
Bob Griffin called twice more during that week. And on Sunday, after
service, while Foster Townsend stood on the church steps chatting with
Captain Ben Snow, from the corner of his eye he saw Esther and Bob
talking together and noticed, quite as clearly, the significant glances
and whisperings of his fellow worshipers as they, too, watched the pair.

Harniss was beginning to talk, of course. Neighbors had seen Griffin
entering the yard of the mansion evening after evening. Curious eyes
had remained open later than was their custom to note the hour at which
he left that yard. And they were noting that, whereas the said hour was
in the beginning as early as nine-thirty, it was now ten-thirty or, on
one occasion, close to eleven. “What is Cap’n Foster thinking about?”
people wanted to know. “Elisha Cook’s grandson coming to _that_ house!
Doesn’t the Cap’n realize what is going on? If he don’t somebody ought
to tell him.”

Nobody did tell him; no one would have dared. Various reasons for his
permitting the visits were suggested. For the most part these reasons
were connected with the lawsuit. Perhaps Griffin had quarreled with
his grandfather. That might be why he had hired Tobias Eldridge’s
shanty and was spending his days there instead of in Denboro, where he
belonged. Perhaps he and Elisha Cook had had a row and Bob had deserted
to the enemy. He might be giving Townsend inside information which
would help the latter and his lawyers. Perhaps Townsend had bought the
boy off. He had money enough to buy anybody or anything, if he cared to
use it.

Millard Fillmore Clark, as an “in-law” and a possible though but
remotely possible, source of information was questioned. Mr. Clark’s
replies to all queries were non-committal and dignified. One gathered
that he knew a great deal but was under oath to reveal nothing.

“You let us alone,” he said, loftily, “We ’tend to our business and we
generally know what that business is. Wait a little spell. Just wait.
Then I guess you’ll see what you do see.”

The few who dared drop a hint to Reliance left unsatisfied. Mrs.
Wheeler, who boasted that she made it a point to give her custom to
the “native tradespeople” whenever possible, was one of these few. She
had graciously permitted the Clark-Makepeace millinery shop to fashion
for her what she called a “garden hat,” and she dropped in at the room
in the rear of the post office building ostensibly to see how the
fashioning was progressing. After the usual preliminaries of weather,
health and church matters had been touched upon, she broached another
subject.

“I hear Captain Townsend’s attractive niece has developed a new
talent,” she observed, with a smile. “I always supposed music was her
specialty. Now I understand she has taken up painting.”

Reliance looked up from the garden hat, which was in her lap. Then she
looked down again.

“Has she?” she asked, calmly. “I didn’t know it.”

Mrs. Wheeler smiled once more. “So they say,” she affirmed. “She has
developed a fondness for art.”

“Is that so.... Don’t you think the bow would look better on the side
than right in front, Mrs. Wheeler?”

Considering how very particular--not to say fussy--the lady had
hitherto been concerning that hat she seemed surprisingly indifferent
to the position of the bow.

“No doubt,” she said, carelessly. “Arrange it as you think best, Miss
Clark.... Yes, Miss Townsend seems to be devoted to art at present--or,
at least, to an artist. Ha, ha! I know nothing of it, of course, but I
have heard such a rumor.”

Abbie Makepeace, who was a little deaf although she would never admit
it, put in a word.

“You can’t put too much dependence on what Maria Bloomer says,” she
declared. “She’ll say anything that comes into her head. All them
Bloomers are alike that way.”

Their patron regarded her coldly. “I said ‘rumor,’ not Bloomer,” she
corrected.

“Oh! Yes, yes, I see. One of Seth Payne’s roomers, was it? He’s got a
houseful of ’em this summer, so they tell me. Why, there’s a couple
there from somewheres out West--Milwaukee--or Missouri, or somewheres;
begins with a M, anyway. They’re awful queer folks. Take their meals at
Emeline Ryder’s and Emeline says she never had such cranky mealers at
_her_ table, before nor since. Why, one day, so she says, the man--I
do wish I could remember his name--found fault with the beefsteak
they had for dinner; said ’twas too tough to eat. Now, accordin’ to
Emeline ’twas as good top of the round steak as she could buy out of
the butcher cart, and she’d pounded it with the potato masher for half
an hour before she put it in the fryin’ pan. She lost her patience and
says she: ‘Now, look here, Mr. ----’. Oh, dear, dear! What _is_ that
man’s name? Funny I can’t remember it. What is it, Reliance? Do tell
me, for mercy sakes!”

Reliance could not remember, either, but she suggested various names,
none of which was exactly right. Mrs. Wheeler departed in disgust
before the matter was settled. Miss Makepeace commented upon the manner
of her exit.

“What made her switch out that way?” she inquired, in surprise. “Acted
as if she was out of sorts about somethin’, seemed to me. Don’t you
suppose she liked the hat, Reliance?”

Reliance smiled. “It wasn’t the hat that brought her here,” she
observed. “That woman was fishin’, Abbie.”

“Fishin’! What are you talkin’ about? Fishin’ for what?”

“For what she didn’t get. She wouldn’t have got it from me, anyhow,
but you saved me the trouble of tellin’ her so and, maybe, losin’ us a
customer. Do you remember that man in the Bible who wanted bread and
somebody gave him a stone? Well, that Wheeler woman wanted news and
what she got was a tough beefsteak. Serve her right. Much obliged to
you, Abbie.”

Abbie had not listened to the last part of this speech. Now she clapped
her hands in satisfaction.

“There!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got it at last. When you said somethin’
about a stone it came to me. Stone made me think of brick and brick was
what I wanted. That man’s name is Clay. Tut, tut! Well, I shan’t forget
it next time.”

That evening, when Esther came down to supper, it seemed to her
that her uncle was in far better humor than he had been for some
time. During the past week he had been somewhat taciturn and grumpy.
She suspected that matters connected with the lawsuit might not be
progressing to his satisfaction, but when she asked he brusquely told
her that was all right enough, so far as it went, although it went
almighty slow. Then her suspicions shifted and she began to fear that,
perhaps, he did not like Bob’s calling so frequently. He had never
offered objections to the calls, greeted the young man pleasantly and
usually left the pair together for the greater part of the evening.
Nevertheless--or so she fancied--his greetings were a trifle less
hearty now than they had been at first. And, on the morning following
Griffin’s most recent call, he said something at the breakfast table
which was disturbing. She had thought of it many times since.

“Well,” he observed, after the maid had left them together, “how is
the great picture painter these days? Getting to be a pretty regular
visitor, isn’t he? Coming again Tuesday night, I suppose? Eh?”

Esther, taken by surprise, colored and hesitated.

“Why--why, I don’t know, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “He didn’t say he
was.”

“Didn’t need to, perhaps. Probably thought you might take it for
granted by this time. Tuesdays and Fridays on his calendar seem to be
marked with your initials. Those other young chaps who used to drop in
here once in a while appear to have sheered off. I wonder why.”

Esther looked at him. He was smiling, so she smiled also.

“If you mean George Bartlett,” she said. “He has gone back to Boston.
His vacation is over. And Fred Winthrop is--well, I don’t know why he
doesn’t come, I am sure. I don’t like him, anyway.”

“Perhaps he guessed as much. You do like this Griffin, I take it.”

Esther had ceased to smile. “Why, yes, I do,” she declared. “I told you
I did. He is a nice boy and I do like him. But, Uncle Foster, I don’t
see why you speak this way. If you think--”

“There, there!” rather testily. “I said, in the beginning, that I
wasn’t going to think anything. You and I agreed that we wouldn’t have
any secrets from each other, so why should I think?”

“You shouldn’t. Uncle Foster, if you don’t want Bob to come here--”

“Sshh! I told you he could come--if he didn’t come too often.”

“So you do think he is coming too often?”

“I didn’t say so. I was just wondering what his grandfather might be
thinking about it. He has told the old man, of course?”

He had not and Esther knew it. Bob had announced his intention of
telling his grandfather of his friendship with Foster Townsend’s niece,
but he had put off the telling, waiting, he said, for a favorable
opportunity. Townsend, keenly scrutinizing the girl’s face, read his
answer there.

“Well, well,” he added, before she could reply. “That is his business,
not yours nor mine, my dear. Only,” he said, with a grim chuckle, “I
shall be interested to hear how Elisha takes the news.”

It was this which had troubled Esther ever since. And now Tuesday
evening had arrived and, in an hour or two, unless her surmise was very
wrong indeed, Bob himself would come. If he had not told Mr. Cook he
must do so at once. She should insist upon it.

She thought about this during supper, but afterward, when they were
together in the library, her uncle made an announcement that drove
every other thought from her mind. He seated himself as usual in the
big easy-chair, but he did not pick up the newspaper which lay upon the
table. Instead he thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at her.

“Esther,” he said, “I’ve got some news for you. You’re going to be
surprised. How long will it take you to get ready to start for Paris?”

She stared at him in utter amazement.

“To Paris!” she repeated.

“Um-hum. That is what I said. To Paris, France. How long before you
can get ready to start for there? I hope not too long, because now that
it is settled you are going the sooner you get away the better.”

She caught her breath. He must be joking--he must be. Yet he seemed
quite sincere.

“To Paris?” she cried. “Why, Uncle Foster! What do you mean? Are we
going to Paris--_now_?”

He shook his head. “Not quite such good luck as that,” he answered,
with a sigh. “I had intended that we should go together. I had promised
myself that cruise with you and I had counted on it. But I can’t get
away for a while. My lawyers say they need me here and that I can’t be
spared. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go. Ever since that
concert I have heard nothing but what a fine voice you’ve got and that
it ought to be cultivated up to the top notch. Paris is the place where
they do that kind of cultivating and there is where you ought to be.
No use wasting time. I have been tempted to be selfish and keep you
here along with me. I’ve thought up every excuse for keeping you, but
they aren’t good enough. The minute this blasted suit is tried--or
settled--or put off again or something, I’ll take the next ship and
come to you as quick as it will take me. But you must go now. And I’ve
got exactly the right person to go with you,” he added, earnestly.

She would have spoken, have protested perhaps, but he held up his hand.

“No, wait,” he commanded. “Just wait and listen. It’s all planned,
every bit of it.”

He went on to tell of the plan. The person who was to accompany her,
who was to be in charge of everything, was Mrs. Jane Carter of Boston.
She was very fond of Esther and the latter was equally fond of her. She
was wise and capable and refined and educated; she was everything which
a companion for the finest girl in the world should be. He and she had
been in correspondence for some time. Mrs. Carter was to leave her
house and her lodgers in charge of a friend and was prepared to start
within two or three weeks, if necessary.

“You and she can spend the summer traveling together, if you want to,”
he went on. “There will be arrangements to make, and lots of things to
find out about before you begin with your studies. You’ll have a good
time--and I’ll have as good a time as I can until I can get over there
with you. There! that’s the plan. Pretty good one, too, I think. What
do you say to it?”

She did not know what to say. The suddenness of its disclosure, the
surprise, the conviction by this time forced upon her that her trip
abroad was to be an actual, immediate reality and not the vaguely
marvelous dream which had been in her mind for so long, were too
overwhelming to permit her to think at all, much less speak or reason.

In the endeavor to answer, to say something, she turned toward him and
caught him off his guard. He was regarding her with a look of love and
longing, which touched her to the core. It vanished as he saw her look
and he smiled again, but she sprang from the rocker and, running to his
side, put her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his.

“Oh, no, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “No, I can’t do it. It is wonderful
of you to plan such a thing for me. It is just like you. You are--oh,
you are-- But I can’t go. It would be too selfish. I can’t go and leave
you--all alone, here at home. It wouldn’t be right at all. No, I’ll
wait until we can go together.”

He took her hand in his and held it tight. “Oh, yes, you will, dearie,”
he declared. “You’ll go because I want you to. I’ll be lonesome
without you. Good Lord, yes! I’ll be lonesome, but I can stand it for
a while. You’ll go. I want you to go. It is all settled--Eh? Confound
it! there’s the bell. Who is coming here to-night? I don’t want to see
anybody.”

She, too, had heard the bell and she knew who had rung it. She had
forgotten, but now she remembered. She withdrew her hand from her
uncle’s grasp:

“It is--I suppose it is--” she began; and then added, impulsively: “Oh,
I wish he hadn’t come!”

Foster Townsend looked up at her.

“Eh?” he queried. “Oh, yes, yes! I forgot. Tuesday night, isn’t it.
Well, all right; you and I can finish our talk to-morrow just as
well.... Here! Where are you going?”

She was on her way to the door.

“I am going to tell him I can’t see him to-night,” she said.

“No, no! Don’t do any such thing. Of course you’ll see him. You’ve got
some news for him, too. He’ll be surprised, of course--and delighted,
maybe.”

There was an odd significance in the tone of this last speech which
caused her to turn quickly and look at him. At that moment Bob’s voice
was heard in the hall and, an instant later, he entered the library.
One glance at the pair made him aware that he had interrupted a scene
of some kind. Esther’s eyes were wet and her manner oddly excited.
Her “good evening” was almost perfunctory and she kept looking at her
uncle instead of at him. Foster Townsend, also, seemed a little queer.
His handshake was as off-hand as usual; Bob never considered it more
than a meaningless condescension to the formalities. That there was
behind it any real cordiality he doubted. Esther’s uncle could scarcely
be expected to love him; that was natural enough, considering whose
grandson he was. And there was an occasional tartness or sarcasm in the
Townsend speech and a look or two in his direction from the Townsend
eyes, which confirmed his suspicion that, although Captain Foster, for
some reason, permitted him to call at the mansion, he was far from
overjoyed to see him there.

To-night--or perhaps he imagined it--the sarcasm was even more in
evidence.

“Hello, Griffin!” said the captain. “How are you?”

Bob thanked him and said that he was well.

“That’s good. Painted any more pictures to give away, lately?”

Bob smilingly shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said.

“That so? Haven’t sold any either, I suppose?”

“No, sir.”

“Humph! Kind of dull times in the trade, I should say. Take you a good
while to make a million at that rate, won’t it?”

“I’m afraid so. But I shall be satisfied with a good deal less than a
million.”

“So? You aren’t as grasping as some of your family, then.”

Bob thought it time to change the subject. He turned to the other
member of the trio.

“How are you, Esther?” he asked. “Any news since I saw you?”

Esther absently replied that there was no news. Her uncle laughed.

“She doesn’t mean that, Griffin,” he declared. “There is some news,
big news. We were just talking about it when you came in. Weren’t we,
Esther?”

“Why--why yes, Uncle Foster, we were.”

“Yes, we were. Well, I’ll leave you to tell it. Good-night.”

He turned toward the hall door. She had not forgotten the look she
had seen upon his face that instant when the smiling mask had fallen.
It had shown her a little of his real feeling, something of what the
sacrifice of her companionship meant to him. She had never loved him as
she loved him now.

“Oh, don’t go away, Uncle Foster,” she begged. “You’re not going to bed
so soon. Stay here with us. We want you to. Don’t we, Bob?”

“Certainly, of course,” agreed Bob. Townsend shook his head.

“Can’t,” he declared, cheerfully. “I’ve got another letter to write
Jane Carter and I want it to go in the morning mail. Good-night,
Esther. Good-night, Griffin.”

He went out and the door closed. Esther remained standing, looking
after him. Bob grinned. Then he drew a long breath.

“Whew!” he exclaimed in evident relief. “That storm blew over quicker
than I thought it would. The way he lit into me when I first came--and
the queer way you both looked and acted when I walked into this
room--made me wonder what had happened. What _is_ up, Esther?”

She did not answer. His grin became a laugh.

“Did you hear him give me that dig about painting pictures to give
away?” he asked. “And that other one about not being grasping as
some one else in the family? That was a whack at grandfather and the
lawsuit, of course. I thought I might be in for a row, but he was
pleasant enough when he said good-night. I wonder--”

She surprised him then.

“Oh, don’t!” she broke in, impatiently. “Don’t! He is the best, the
kindest man in the whole world. Don’t you dare say he isn’t.”

He looked at her in astonishment. Then he whistled.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Don’t take my head off. I didn’t say he
wasn’t good and kind and all that. I think he is. I rather like him, as
a matter of fact; even if he doesn’t like me.”

She turned upon him. “Now why do you say that?” she demanded. “If he
doesn’t like you why does he let you come here--to this house? You
haven’t any reason to say he doesn’t like you.”

“Maybe not. Perhaps he does like me. I hope he does. I want him to. As
for his letting me come here to see you, I must say it’s mighty decent
of him. I doubt if I should, if I were in his place--considering who I
am. Come, Esther, don’t pitch into me this way. What have I done?”

She smiled then. “Oh, you haven’t done anything, Bob,” she said. “I am
just--oh, excited and upset, that’s all. Uncle Foster has just told me
the most wonderful thing. He is going to let me do what I have wanted
to do for years and--and I ought to be very happy. I think I should be
if it weren’t that I know how terribly lonely he is going to be without
me.”

“Without you! What do you mean by that? Are you going somewhere? Is
this the big news he was hinting at? Why, Esther! You aren’t going
away, are you?”

She sat in the rocker. He was regarding her anxiously. She nodded.

“Yes, Bob,” she said, gravely. “I am. I am going abroad to study. I
didn’t know a word about it until a few minutes ago. Uncle has planned
it all. I am going with Mrs. Carter and--”

He interrupted. “What!” he cried. “You are going abroad?... When?”

“I don’t know exactly. But very soon.”

“How long are you going to stay there?”

“I don’t know that, either. A year at least, I suppose. Perhaps longer.”

“Indeed you are not!”

“Why, Bob Griffin! What do you mean?”

“I mean--well, never mind now. I guess I don’t know what I mean. Or, if
I do, it can wait. Tell me all about it. Tell me!”

So she told him, told as much of the plan as her uncle had told her.
He listened without speaking. At the end she said: “If I weren’t for
leaving him I should be so wildly happy I shouldn’t know what to do.
But, oh, Bob, I know what letting me go means to him. And he had
planned to go with me. He and I have talked ever so many times about
going to Paris together. Now he can’t go. That miserable suit and the
horrid lawyers are keeping him here. But because he thinks I ought to
go he is sending me and not thinking of himself at all. He will be
perfectly wretched without me. I know it. I almost feel like saying
that I won’t go until he does. Perhaps I ought to say it--and stick to
it. What do you think?”

He did not reply, nor did he look at her. She bent forward to look at
him.

“Why, Bob!” she cried. “What is the matter?”

He shook his head. “I wonder if you think your uncle is going to be
the only wretched person in this neighborhood?” he muttered. “Do you
think that?”

“Why--why, I suppose Aunt Reliance will miss me.”

He looked up then. “How about me?” he asked.

“You! You?... Why--why, Bob, I don’t believe I thought of you.”

“I don’t believe you did. I am afraid you didn’t. But do you imagine I
shall be--well, altogether joyful?”

She could not answer. For, all at once, she _was_ thinking of him. It
seemed strange that she had not done it before. She had not realized
that her glorious trip meant the end of their companionship. If not
the end, then at least a year of separation. And suddenly, with the
realization, came a new feeling--a rush of feelings. She gasped.

“Why--why, Bob--” she faltered.

He had risen and was standing beside her, bending over her.

“Esther,” he pleaded, desperately, “do you suppose I shan’t be
completely miserable if you go away and leave me? Why--why, you know
it! You must know it! What do you suppose my knowing you and--and being
with you, like this, means to me? Esther, doesn’t it mean anything to
you--anything at all?”

She was beginning to comprehend what it did mean. But she knew she must
not think it. It was impossible--it was insane--it was--

“Oh, don’t, Bob! Don’t!” she begged. “You--you mustn’t--”

“I must. I’ve got to. It may be my only chance. Esther, don’t you care
anything about me? I thought--I was beginning to hope-- Oh, Esther, you
are the only girl in the world for me. I love you.”

“Bob! Bob! Don’t!”

“I do. I love you. Say you love me! Say it! Say it!”

She had risen to her feet. Some wild idea of escape--of running from
the room--was in her mind. But his arms were about her.

“Say it! Say it, dear!” he pleaded.

“No, no! I mustn’t! You mustn’t--”

“You do love me? You do, don’t you, Esther?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I-- Oh, of course I don’t! I mustn’t! Let me go.”

“No, I shan’t let you go until you tell me. You do care for me, dear?
Tell me you do.”

“No, Bob.... Oh, please let me go!”

She was crying. He released her and stepped back from the chair. For
an instant he stood there and then, lifting his hands and letting them
fall again in surrender, turned away.

“Oh, well!” he sighed, miserably. “Well--there! I see how it is. I was
a fool, of course. I ought to have known. I am sorry, Esther. Forgive
me, if you can.”

She had sunk down into the rocker once more and was sobbing, her face
buried in the cushion upon its back. He spoke again.

“I hope you can forgive me,” he begged. “I didn’t mean to say those
things to you--yet. Some day of course, after you had known me
longer--and--but I had no idea of saying them now. It was your telling
me you were going away--for years--and leaving me-- Well, it drove
me crazy, that’s all. I am sorry. Of course I don’t blame you in the
least. There is no reason why you should care for me--and plenty why
you shouldn’t, I suppose. I don’t amount to much, I guess. Don’t cry
any more. I am awfully sorry I hurt your feelings.”

The head pressed against the cushion moved back and forth.

“You haven’t hurt them,” she murmured, chokingly. “I don’t know why I
am crying. I--I won’t any more.”

She sat up, fumbled for her handkerchief, and hurriedly wiped her eyes.

“Then you do forgive me?” he urged.

“There was nothing to forgive.... No,” earnestly. “No, Bob, you
mustn’t. Please don’t!... I--I think you had better go now.”

He took a step toward the door. Then he paused and turned.

“Then it is all over, I suppose?” he said. “You don’t care for me at
all?”

Her lips opened to form the No which she knew must be said, which
she had determined to say. But when her eyes met his the resolution
faltered--broke.

“Don’t ask me, Bob, please!” she begged, in desperation. “I--I--
Oh, even if I did, what difference would it make? It is perfectly
impossible--you and I-- You _know_ it is!”

He was at her side again and this time he would not be denied. He held
her close and kissed her. Then he stepped back and laughed aloud.

“That is all I wanted to know,” he cried, in triumph. “You do care.
That is enough. That is all that matters. Now let’s see them keep us
apart! You are mine--and you are going to be mine, always, forever and
ever, amen. Ha! _Now_ let them try to stop it!”

She regarded him in wonder.

“You can laugh!” she exclaimed, reproachfully.

“You bet I can laugh! I was beginning to think I never should laugh
again, but now-- Ha! They may send you to Paris or to Jericho, it
doesn’t make any difference now, Esther--”

But she held out her hands imploringly.

“Please go now, Bob,” she urged. “I must think this all over,
before--before we talk any more. I must. It is--oh, it is all as crazy
as can be and I must think it over by myself.... You will go now, won’t
you, for my sake?”

He hesitated. Then he nodded.

“Certainly I will, if you want me to,” he said. “But no matter how much
you think it doesn’t change the fact that we love each other and belong
to each other. That is settled.... Good-night, dearest. I’ll see you
Friday evening, of course. And then we can talk, can’t we.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t know what I
may have decided by that time. I am not sure that I am doing right
in letting you come on Friday--or any more at all. I am not sure of
anything.”

“I am. And I shall be thinking, too. This Paris business--well, I may
have something to say about that. I have an idea of my own--or a part
of one. It has just this minute come to me. I’ll tell you about it
then. Good-night.”

When Esther tiptoed up the stairs to her room she devoutly hoped that
her uncle’s door might be closed. She simply could not face him, or
speak with him. She dreaded those keen eyes of his. The door was open,
however, and he called to her.

“What!” he cried. “That young fellow gone so early? He’s been standing
longer watches than this lately. What’s the matter? Anything happened?”

She did not pause and she tried hard to make her tone casual.

“Oh, no,” she answered. “Nothing has happened. Good-night, Uncle dear.”

He chuckled to himself. In spite of her care there had been a tremor
in her voice. He guessed the reason, or thought he did. She had told
Griffin of the European trip and he--and perhaps she--had come to
realize that it meant the end of their association. Well, that is
exactly what he intended it to mean. No doubt they both regretted the
parting. Never mind. Esther would soon get over it. Better a trifling
heartache now than a big one later on. She should not marry Elisha
Cook’s grandson if he were the only man on earth. His own heartache at
the thought of losing her for a time was soothed by the certainty that
once more he was having his own way.




CHAPTER XI


Esther’s hours of sleep that night were few indeed. She was happy one
moment and miserable the next. Bob loved her--he told her so. And
she loved him, she was sure of it now. But did they love each other
enough? Were they sufficiently certain of that love to go on to face
its inevitable consequences, regardless of what those consequences must
mean to themselves and to others? For if they were not, both of them,
absolutely sure, those consequences were too tremendous to be faced.
Her uncle had permitted friendship between Elisha Cook’s grandson and
herself--the fact of his doing so was still an unexplainable mystery to
her--but she was certain that he would never consent to their marriage.
And Bob’s grandfather would be equally resolute in his opposition. It
was one thing to say, as Bob had said, that the family feud had no part
in their lives. It had. She loved her uncle dearly and she knew that
he idolized her. She owed him a debt of gratitude beyond the limits of
measure. Only one reason could ever be strong enough to warrant her
risking the end of their affectionate association and the repudiation
of that debt. If she were certain that she loved Bob Griffin--really
loved him and would always love him--then nothing else mattered.
Except, of course, the same certainty of his enduring love for her. But
were they certain? They had known each other such a short time.

And there were other considerations. Her future with her beloved music,
the career she had dreamed. She had no money of her own. Bob had some,
but not a great deal. He was almost as dependent upon his grandfather
as she was upon Foster Townsend. Might not his chances for fame and
success as an artist be wrecked if he married her? She must think of
that, too. There was so much to think of. She thought and thought,
but morning brought no definite conclusion except one, which was that
she must continue to think and, meanwhile, there must be no plighted
troth, no engagement, no definite promise of any kind between them. She
would tell Bob that when they next met. If he really loved her he would
understand and be willing to wait, as she would wait, and see.

She came downstairs early and found that her uncle was an even earlier
riser. He had gone out to the stable, so Nabby said, but would, of
course, come in to breakfast when called. And he had already told Mrs.
Gifford of Esther’s coming trip abroad. Nabby was excited and even more
voluble than usual.

“I suspicioned there was somethin’ up,” she declared. “He’s been
nervous and uneasy for over a fortni’t. And cranky--my soul! He was
like a dog with one flea, you never could tell the place he’d snap
at next. Varunas noticed it too, of course, and he was consider’ble
worried about it. Honest, I cal’late Varunas was beginnin’ to be afraid
that your uncle was losin’ his mind or somethin’. ‘He’s touched in
the head, I do believe,’ he said. ‘If he ain’t why does he allow that
grandson of ’Lisha Cook’s to come here so twice a week reg’lar? A Cook
don’t belong in this house and you know it, Nabby. What is he let come
here for?’

“Well, I didn’t know why, of course, but I never see Foster Townsend
yet when he didn’t have a reason for doin’ things and I spoke right up
and said so. ‘When Cap’n Foster gets ready to put that Griffin boy out
he’ll do it,’ I told him. ‘You say yourself the cap’n don’t act natural
these days. Well, maybe there’s the reason. Probably he don’t really
like that young feller’s ringin’ our front doorbell any better than you
do, and he’s just waitin’ for a good excuse to tell him so.’ That’s
what I said, but I wan’t so terrible satisfied with _what_ I said and
Varunas he was less satisfied than I was.

“‘Hugh!’ says he, disgusted. ‘When I see Foster Townsend waitin’ for an
excuse to do what he wants to, then I won’t guess he’s gone crazy, I’ll
_know_ it. When he sets out to tell the President of the United States,
or the minister, or Judas Iscariot, or anybody else, to go to Tophet
he tells ’em so and then thinks up the excuse afterwards. You bet he
ain’t actin’ natural! Nabby Gifford, if Foster Townsend don’t need a
doctor, or a keeper or somethin’, then I do. This kind of goin’s on is
too much for _me_!’”

Having contributed this conversational gem from the Gifford family
treasury, Nabby paused. Possibly she expected Esther to offer some
explanation of the Griffin visits. If so she was disappointed, for
Esther said nothing. Nabby picked up a fork from the breakfast table
and then put it down again.

“Well, anyhow,” she continued, “be that as it will or must, as the
sayin’ is, your uncle has acted queer for quite a spell and ’twan’t
until this very mornin’ that he give me the least hint of why he was
doin’ it. When he told me no longer than twenty minutes ago, that
he had been layin’ his plans for you to go over to live along with
them--er--heathen in foreign lands--when he told me you was goin’ and
he was goin’ to stay here to home alone--I got my answer, or part of
it anyhow. The poor soul is about crazy with lonesomeness at the very
idea. That’s what ails him. Are you really truly goin’ to go, Esther?”

Esther nodded. “Uncle says I must,” she replied. “He wants me to go on
with my singing and my music and he can’t go himself--at present.”

She went on to tell of the proposed trip, of Mrs. Carter, and the
details as she had been told them by Townsend.

“Goodness knows I don’t want to leave him,” she said, “but he insists
that I must. He has arranged for everything. I tried to say No, but he
won’t listen. He will have his own way, as he always does, I suppose. I
know how lonesome he will be. I shall be almost as lonely without him,”
she added.

Nabby seemed to be thinking. There was an odd expression upon her face.

“You don’t suppose--” she began, and stopped in the middle of the
sentence.

“I don’t suppose what?” Esther asked.

“Oh, nothin’! It’s silly, I guess. I just wondered--it come across
my mind--if it might be he was sendin’ you off so’s to get you away
from--well, from this Bob Griffin.... Humph! No, ’tain’t likely he’d do
that, because--”

Esther broke in. Her face was flushed and her tone indignantly
resentful.

“The idea!” she cried. “What do you mean by saying such a thing, Nabby
Gifford? How ridiculous! What has Bob Griffin got to do with my going
abroad? Uncle and I had planned to go together; we have talked about it
ever so many times. What on earth are you talking about?”

Mrs. Gifford hastily protested that she had not meant anything.

“’Twas just a foolish notion, I know,” she admitted. “Don’t know why
I said it, I don’t. Of course if Cap’n Foster wanted to get clear of
that Cook boy he’d have told him his room was a whole lot better’n his
company. He don’t _have_ to let him come here.”

“Oh, stop! Why shouldn’t he come here? He hasn’t anything to do with
the old lawsuit. Yes, and so far as that goes, Uncle Foster asked him
to call.”

Nabby stared. For an instant her mouth, which had opened to speak,
closed and remained so. Varunas had vowed, during one of their domestic
conferences, that he would give something for a tintype of her in that
condition. “Only ’twould be so mirac’lous nobody’d believe ’twas you,”
he had added.

The miraculous condition lasted but the fraction of a second. The mouth
opened again.

“_What!_” gasped Nabby. “Do you mean to tell me that Cap’n Foster
_asked_ that Griffin one to come to this house--really asked him?”

Esther hesitated. She had spoken too hastily. And what she had said
was not the exact truth. Her uncle had not invited Bob to call; he had
merely prophesied that he would call. But at all events he had not
forbidden him to do so.

“Oh, never mind!” she said, turning impatiently away. “What difference
does it make?... Here is Uncle now, thank goodness!”

He came into the dining room, smilingly bade her good-morning, and
they sat down to breakfast. She was apprehensive. They had agreed that
neither should keep a secret from the other, but, in spite of this
agreement, she was certain that this secret--hers and Bob’s--must be
kept, at least until she was sure what her final answer to Bob should
be. When her mind was fully made up, either one way or the other, she
would tell him, but meanwhile it was far better for all concerned to
say nothing. So she tried her best to appear at ease and, while pouring
the coffee, commented upon the weather and similar safe and everyday
topics. His replies were equally casual. Nevertheless she was still
fearful. It seemed to her that those sharp eyes of his must see through
her pretense.

Apparently they did not. He spoke of the Paris trip, of course. She was
to sail in a few weeks. He had written another letter to Mrs. Carter
and bade the latter make preparations to leave as soon as possible.
“Not that I’m in a hurry to get rid of you,” he added, with a rueful
smile. “I guess you know it isn’t that. But I am something like Sarah
Bigsby, after she lost her husband. She told Colton, the minister, that
she didn’t know but she wished Isaac had died sooner, because if he had
she would have had more time to get used to missing him in.”

It was not until they were about to rise from the table that he
mentioned the subject she most dreaded.

“Humph!” he observed, folding his napkin. “Well, young Griffin was as
surprised when you told him the news as we thought he would be, eh?”

Esther was thankful that her own napkin required folding. She could
look at that and not at him.

“Yes, Uncle Foster,” she answered. “He was very much surprised.”

“I’ll bet! And glad to have you go, of course?”

She pretended not to notice the irony in the question.

“Why, he was glad I was to have such a wonderful trip and the
opportunity to keep on with my music,” she replied.

“Um-hum. I’m sure of that. Coming around Friday night, as usual, is he?”

“I--I don’t know.... Why, yes, I do know, too. He said he should come,
so I suppose he will.”

The statement seemed, for some reason, to irritate him. He thrust the
folded napkin into the ornate and massive silver ring--it had been a
birthday gift from his wife--and rose to his feet.

“Humph!” he growled. “I’ll bet! If he ’tends church as regular as he
does here he’ll stand a better chance for heaven than any of his crew
I ever heard of.... There, there!” he added, his ill-humor vanishing
as quickly as it came. “Don’t mind my crankiness. I am liable to be
that way for a while. Every time I think of sitting down to breakfast
here without you I want to bite somebody. For the first few mornings
after you leave I guess likely ’twill be better to have Nabby wait on
table, instead of the other girl. Nabby would be moderately safe. I
don’t imagine I should bite her; she’s too old and stringy to tempt my
appetite.”

He mentioned Bob’s name but once more that morning. Then he asked a
question he had asked before.

“Has he told his grandfather yet about how sociable and friendly he has
got to be with us?” he inquired. “No?... Humph! Saving the news for the
old man’s birthday, maybe, the way you and he saved up that picture for
mine. Well, many happy returns, Elisha. Ho, ho!”

Esther made no comment. The speech, however, strengthened her
conviction concerning her uncle’s real feeling toward Bob. If he
knew--or when he knew.... She shuddered at the thought and endeavored
to put it from her mind. Meanwhile she tried her best to show by every
word and act her devotion and love for Foster Townsend. She and her
uncle were closer during this period than ever before. Later she was to
be very thankful that this was so.

Bob came on Friday evening at the usual hour, and, also as usual, soon
after his arrival Townsend went to his own room. His keen dislike for
any member of what he contemptuously called the “Cook tribe” was now,
in Griffin’s case, augmented by a bitter jealousy. Yet he could not
bring himself to remain there and stand guard upon them. He had told
Esther he trusted her. Well, he would carry the trust to the limit,
and, thank heaven, that limit was close at hand. Foster Townsend prided
himself upon never having, in trade or politics or horse racing,
played the sneak. He would beat his competitor by what he considered
fair means--that is, by craft or shrewdness or even force--but not by
sneaking or spying. To remain in that room during Bob Griffin’s visits
seemed to him just that, and he would not stoop to it.

Esther, for her part, was always conscious of the trust which her uncle
placed in her. It was noble of him, she thought. And this particular
evening, as he left the room and she turned to face her lover, the
consciousness strengthened her determination to say what must be said.
That it would be hard to say she knew. But when they were alone and Bob
came toward her, his hands outstretched and his face alight, it was
harder than she had dreamed.

He would have taken her in his arms, but she avoided the embrace.

“No, Bob, no!” she protested. “You mustn’t. Please don’t!”

He persisted, of course, but she was firm.

“You mustn’t,” she repeated. “It isn’t right.”

He laughed. “Right!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course, it is right. I have
been waiting for it--forever, it seems to me. Nothing else _is_ right.
Come, Esther!”

Still she avoided him. “No, Bob,” she insisted, “it isn’t right. It
is wrong--now, at least. Oh, don’t make it so hard for me! Sit down,
please. I have so much to say to you.”

He hesitated. Then, with a shrug and a smile, he threw himself into the
easy-chair.

“Well,” he observed, still smiling. “I don’t know what this is all
about, but here I am. I am going to listen because you ask me to, but
nothing you may say will make the slightest difference between you and
me. I tell you that in the beginning.”

“Oh, yes, it will! It must.”

“But it won’t. When you told me you loved me--”

“But I didn’t! I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did. At any rate, you couldn’t say you didn’t love me and
that amounted to the same thing.... Oh, my dear, what is the use of
pretending? You know we love each other. Nothing else matters but that.”

“Yes, something else does matter. It must matter. Oh, Bob, _please_
be reasonable and help me, instead of making it harder. Even if I do
care--even if we both care--”

“And we do ... now, don’t we?”

“Oh, please! Don’t you _see_? There is so much to be thought of. I have
been thinking every minute since--since you went away. Bob, haven’t you
thought at _all_?”

He shook his head. “I have been thinking of just one thing,” he
declared. “The essential thing. That is enough for me.”

“It isn’t enough. It can’t be. How can we be so selfish? When I think
of Uncle Foster and of your grandfather and what this would mean to
them, and to me, if they knew it--”

“Esther!”

“Bob--_do_ think a little! If you and I were to--to--well, to tell them
we were engaged, that we dreamed of such a thing, they would--I don’t
know what they might do. They hate each other. Uncle loves me dearly,
but he never, never would be reconciled to my marrying you. He would
turn me out of his house, I know, and--”

Bob interrupted. “Esther, _dear_!” he protested. “What are you talking
about? People don’t turn their relations out of doors into the snow
nowadays, except on the stage. Captain Townsend would be mad at first,
perhaps; although if he does worship you, as you say, I can’t think he
would be mad long. Naturally, _if_ he loved you, he would want you to
do what would make you happiest. But, mad or not, he wouldn’t turn you
out. That is foolish.”

“No, it isn’t. And I am sure your grandfather would have nothing more
to do with you. They aren’t like other people. This lawsuit has--well,
it has made them almost crazy--in that way.”

Her earnestness had its effect. Bob’s lip tightened. “Well, then,” he
said, grudgingly, “suppose they did--turn us out, as you say? Probably
they wouldn’t, but if they did--what of it? We would have each other.
I have a little money and I could earn more. Look here, Esther; if you
care as much for me as I do for you you won’t mind being poor. That
won’t count at all. We’ll be together and--well, give me the chance and
I swear you shan’t be poor long.... Of course, if you _don’t_ care for
me as much as that--if what you think about is money, why--”

“Bob! Bob, how can you! If money were all--yes, and if I, myself,
were all, I should-- No, I don’t even know that. I must be very, very
certain before I even consider what I might do.”

“Certain! Certain of what? Do you mean that you don’t know whether you
love me or not?... Esther!”

He was very appealing as he leaned forward in the chair, his eyes fixed
upon hers. But she fought against the appeal as she had determined to
fight.

“Why--why, yes, Bob,” she said, “perhaps I mean just that. I like you
very much. Perhaps I may even--”

“Esther, dearest--”

“No. There must not be any ‘perhaps.’ There can’t be if you and I are
to give up everything--and everybody--and think only of ourselves.
And then--if I were absolutely sure I loved you enough to do that--I
should--yes, then more than ever, I should have to think of you. If
I came to be the cause of spoiling your life, your success with your
painting and all that, I should never forgive myself.”

“Nonsense! You spoil my life! You! Why, you will be the one who will
make me sure to succeed. With you to work for, and to help me, I can do
anything. Just give me the chance to prove it.... But there! I guess I
see how it is. You don’t love me, after all.”

“You mustn’t say that. Bob, you said just now that if Uncle Foster
really cared for me he would want to do what would make me happiest. If
you really care, as you say you do, you, too, will want me to be happy.
How can I be, knowing that what I am doing is sure to make my uncle and
your grandfather miserable, and might, unless we were both very sure,
make you and me miserable later on? I can’t. You mustn’t ask me to.”

He leaned back in the chair. For a moment he looked at her. Then he
rose to his feet.

“Yes,” he said, gloomily. “I see. You _have_ thought it over, haven’t
you?... Well, all right. If the idea of marrying me makes you miserable
I should be the last to coax you into doing it. You are right there, I
guess.... Well, good-by.”

She, too, rose.

“No,” she said, hurriedly. “No, Bob, it isn’t good-by. That is, unless
you want it to be.”

“What is it, then?”

“It is just--just wait. Wait and see. We needn’t--no, we
mustn’t--consider ourselves engaged. We mustn’t even talk about that
yet awhile between ourselves. If you are willing for us to go on as
friends, good friends, and wait until--until we both _know_ the right
thing to do, then--well, I should like that very much indeed. That
_would_ make me happy.”

He turned and caught her hand.

“Esther,” he pleaded, earnestly, “before I answer that will you answer
one question of mine, just one? You say you aren’t sure you love me?”

“I said I was not sure I loved you enough to warrant the sacrifice both
of us would have to make.”

“I see. Well, just one more. Are you sure you don’t love me at all?”

“No, Bob.”

“You just want us to keep on being friends and wait until you are sure?”

“Until I am sure one way or the other. Yes.”

“All right. I will wait until we are both a hundred years old and have
our wedding in the home for aged couples, if that’s necessary. The
waiting will end in just one way, because that is the way it has got to
end. You are worth waiting for, and I’ll be game. It’s a bargain....
And now what?”

“Why, now sit down and we’ll talk about other things, just as we always
have.”

Which was easy to say, but hard to do. They tried to confine the
conversation to the safe channels of everyday travel, but those
channels were tremendously dull and uninteresting. Esther told the
little more she had learned of her uncle’s plan for her European trip
and Bob listened absently. It seemed to her--and in spite of her good
resolutions she felt a pang of disappointment--that he was surprisingly
resigned to the parting and long separation. Instead of groaning when
she told him she might remain abroad for even two years instead of
one, he smiled and agreed that one year’s study was not sufficient to
complete her musical education. It was not until he had risen to go
that he gave the reason for his complacency.

“I haven’t told you that you weren’t the only one who had a plan, have
I?” he asked, with a twinkle. “I should have told it at first if you
hadn’t washed everything else out of my head with that bucket of cold
water about not being sure that you cared a continental for me. I’ve
had a surprise up my sleeve for you all the evening. I am going to
Paris, myself.”

She gasped. “Bob Griffin!” she cried. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I can’t have you climbing up to be a prima donna while I
stay here and keep on daubing at two-for-a-cent pictures. No, I’ll be
studying to be a Rembrandt. And in the same city. I sail for Paris
about as soon as you do. If I dared it would be on the same ship....
Hold on! Let me tell you about it.”

It was the idea he had already mentioned, that which had come to
him just before their parting on Tuesday evening. The money he had
inherited was sufficient to pay his expenses. He had always intended
using it for some such purpose.

“Of course,” he added, with a rather rueful grin, “there was a time, a
little while ago, when I began to hope I--well, you and I--might use
some of that money in other ways; but when you said you were going
abroad, to leave me biting my brush ends on this side of the pond, I
saw a new light. I told grandfather and, of course, there was a rumpus.
He gave in, finally, as he usually does, because he is a good old
sport and also, I guess, because he saw fighting was no use in this
case. I am going, and going pretty soon. I’ll be in Paris when you are
and as long as you are; be there waiting for you to make up your mind
concerning that matter we mustn’t talk about. We’ll be there together,
and waiting together.... Now what do you think of that?”

She did not know what to think, still less what to say. And she could
not trust herself to say much of anything at the moment. She was
conscious of a thrill, a dangerous thrill, of delight. They were not to
be separated, after all. He was to be near her during her exile, she
would see him often, perhaps almost as often as now. Why--

And, as they stood there in the doorway of the hall, the clock in that
hall chimed eleven.

“Well, what _do_ you think?” he repeated. She shook her head.

“I can’t think at all--now,” she confessed. “I-- Well, you have taken
my breath away. Are you sure-- But I mustn’t talk about it to-night.
It is eleven o’clock and you must go. The next time I see you you will
tell me all about it, of course.”

“Of course. And that will be Tuesday evening, or sooner. But tell me
this: Aren’t you glad?”

“Of course I am glad. You know I am.... Good-night.”

He lingered for an instant. This was not the sort of “good-night” he
had counted upon when he came. But it was a part of the bargain. He had
sworn to be “game.”

“Good-night, Esther,” he said, and walked down the path.




CHAPTER XII


When Esther entered the dining room next morning she found her uncle
already seated at the breakfast table reading a letter. The remainder
of the mail brought up from the post office by Varunas lay beside his
plate unopened. The letter seemed to be interesting, for although
he looked up to bid her good-morning, he returned to the reading
immediately. When he reached the foot of the last page he muttered an
exclamation; shook his head, and, turning back to the beginning, read
the letter through once more.

“What is it, Uncle Foster?” she asked, after a moment. “Anything
important?”

He nodded, absently. “Eh?” he queried. “Important?... Why, yes, I guess
so--maybe.”

“It isn’t bad news? Nothing has gone wrong with the lawsuit?”

“Eh? No, no. Nothing to do with that. It is.... Humph! I’ll tell you
about it while we eat. How are you feeling this morning? All shipshape
and ready for the day’s run, eh?”

“Yes. I am feeling very well, thank you.”

Something in her tone caused him to glance up quickly. He gave her an
appraising look.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Why, yes, you do seem to be pretty well up to
the top notch, that’s a fact. I haven’t seen as much color in your
cheeks or snap in your eye for more than a week. What has done it? Been
dreaming about singing to all those good-looking Frenchmen, have you?”

She laughed. She was in good spirits, wonderfully so. The color he had
mentioned deepened under his gaze.

“Oh, no!” she replied, lightly. “Not exactly that.”

“Must be something. Did you and that Griffin have an especially nice
evening?”

This was perilously near the truth. A part of the evening he mentioned
had been anything but pleasant, but for hours before falling asleep
she had been thinking of Bob’s great news and what it would mean to
both of them. Paris alone--or with only Mrs. Carter--had not been too
alluring, in spite of its glorious fulfillment of her hope. But Paris
with Bob--or at least with Bob not too far away--that was different.

She laughed again, to cover her confusion. She would tell him what Bob
intended doing, she had made up her mind to tell him, but before she
could speak the maid came in with the breakfast and while she was there
telling was, of course, impossible.

And as soon as the maid had gone Foster Townsend began speaking of
another subject, that of the letter he had been reading. He picked up
the closely written sheets and tapped their edges upon the table.

“Funny how things come around,” he observed, rubbing his beard with
his free hand. “Yes, it is _so_! I read once in a story-book--I don’t
read many, haven’t got time to waste on yarns that a man makes up out
of his head, but I do read once in a while one--I remember reading
how a fellow found a letter his mother, or his best girl or somebody,
had written years and years before, and when he read it this time
the book said it came to him like a voice out of the past.... Humph!
A voice out of the past. That’s a pretty good way to put it, seems
to me. And that’s about what this letter here is,” rapping the table
with the papers in his hand. “Here’s a man I used to know twenty--no,
nearer thirty years ago. He did me a big favor then. He lent me money
to go on with a deal that started me up the ladder. I didn’t have a
cent scarcely. He was only a few years older, but well-off already,
and not a relation or anything, not even a friend, at least I hadn’t
counted him that. He let me have the money because he said he believed
I had the right stuff in me, and he wouldn’t have charged me a penny
interest if I hadn’t made him. I swore then if ever I got the chance to
do him a good turn I’d do it no matter what it was. And now--when for
all I knew he might be dead with the grass growing over him--here he
is writing me to do that good turn. Humph! A voice from the past. Yes,
sir! that is what it is. Queer enough!”

Esther was interested. For the moment she forgot Paris--even Bob
Griffin and Paris.

“Who is he, Uncle Foster?” she asked.

“Eh? Oh, he’s a man named Covell--Seymour Covell. When I knew him he
was head of a meat and provision firm on Commercial Street in Boston.
Used to take contracts to fit out ships and all that. Later on he
went out to Chicago and got in on the ground floor with a crowd that
were killing hogs and beef cattle on a big scale. He is with ’em yet,
judging from this letter, commodore of the fleet or something like
that.”

“And he writes to you for _money_?”

Townsend laughed aloud. “Money!” he repeated. “He must be a millionaire
a dozen times over. No, no! he doesn’t want money. He wants me to help
him with his son, a young fellow in the twenties. Had a kind of hard
time with him, I guess. Here, you read yourself what he says. It will
save time. Read it out loud.”

He handed her the letter. It was a long one and she read it through,
aloud, as requested. It began by calling the writer to Foster
Townsend’s memory, speaking of old acquaintanceship and the like.
Seymour Covell, it appeared, was a widower with one child, a son, now
twenty-seven years of age. The requested favor had to do with the
latter.

“I have had a devil of a time with him,” Covell had written. “He and I
don’t seem to pull well together, for some reason or other. Maybe it
is partly my fault, I don’t know. While his mother lived she spoiled
him, I guess, and I probably did my share. I don’t think he is bad;
naturally I wouldn’t. He has had the best of everything I could buy
for him, expensive preparatory school--he was fired from one but he
graduated from another--college, although he did not finish that. He
thought he wanted to be an artist, paint pictures, you know.”

“Like old ’Lisha’s grandson,” broke in Townsend, with a sardonic
chuckle. “Regular disease, that seems to be. Go ahead, Esther.”

His niece continued her reading. “‘So,’ she read, ‘I sent him to Paris,
where they teach that sort of thing. He learned a lot over there, but
not altogether about pictures. Then he studied in New York. He paints
some, when he feels like it, but he hasn’t sold anything yet. For the
past six months he has been here at home in Chicago, and that isn’t
doing him any good. He isn’t too well, but he isn’t sick either. I am
about at my wit’s end and I have thought of you, Townsend. When I knew
you you were a real man and, from what I have taken pains to find out
about you lately, I judge you have reached the position I expected you
to reach. I wonder if you can’t find something for Seymour to do. Yes,
he is named after me; his mother started in to handicap him at the
very beginning, you see. I wonder if you couldn’t get him some sort of
a job--never mind what or what it pays--in your part of the country.
Something that would keep him out of doors a part of the time and build
him up, and, more than all, get him away from the hothouse crowd he is
traveling with. If you could it would be worth more money than I have
got--to him and to me. I don’t care much what it is, not at first. Get
him out of the city and away from city tricks and manners. If you cared
to let him come and visit you a week or two in the beginning, so that
you might look him over and size him up, that, I should think, would be
a good idea. Under a man like you, a driver, and as good a judge of men
and the best handler of men I ever knew, we might make something of him
yet. God knows I want him to be worth while. What do you think? Give me
your advice, at least.’”

There was more, but not much. The letter was written upon paper bearing
the name of one of the largest packing-houses in the country and was
signed, “Your old-time friend, Seymour T. Covell.”

Esther, having finished her reading, looked at her uncle. He was,
apparently, thinking deeply, pulling at his beard, his brows drawn
together.

“How strange that he should write like this--to you,” she said. “About
his personal affairs, and his own son. Did you use to know this Mr.
Covell very well, Uncle Foster?”

“No-o--and yes. I didn’t know him so very long, but for a time we were
pretty close together, considering that he had made his start and I was
just trying to make mine. It is queer that he should think enough of my
opinion to ask me to help him in such a private job as managing his own
boy. Losing his mind, is he, do you think?”

“I guess not. This letter doesn’t read as if he were. I think he means
just what he says when he calls you the best handler of men he ever
knew. He must have known a great many men--and big men, too. It is a
wonderful tribute to you, his remembering you and asking your help and
advice, after all these years. What will you do, Uncle Foster?”

Townsend was plainly puzzled and concerned.

“I give it up,” he said. “What can I do? I might get the young fellow
a job in Boston, with some of my friends up there, maybe; but I should
hardly like to recommend a chap I didn’t know to any of them. His own
father’s recommendations aren’t too strong, if you read between the
lines.”

“That is true. And, besides, Mr. Covell doesn’t ask you to find him
work in a city. He asks if there isn’t something which will take him
away from cities.”

“So he does. And what is there down here for Seymour Covell’s son? I
doubt if digging clams or hauling lobster pots would suit him, or his
father. And,” with a chuckle, “I doubt just as much if he could fill
either bill if he tried. I can’t do anything, as I see it now. And
yet--yet, by the Lord Harry, I hate to say no to the man who never said
it to me.... _I_ don’t know what to do--or say. Wish I did. See any
light through the fog, Esther?”

She was rereading portions of the long letter.

“He suggests that his son might come here for a short visit,” she
reminded him. “He seems to think that, after you had seen him, and
‘sized him up’ as he says, you might be better able to judge what could
be done--if anything. Why don’t you invite him here for a few weeks? It
looks to me as if you would _have_ to do that, at least.”

He nodded.

“Afraid you’re right,” he agreed. “I shall have to, of course.
Humph! It’s a blasted nuisance, isn’t it. I don’t want
company--strangers--around the house--just now. I want to have you all
to myself the short time you are going to be here. I can’t spare a
minute of you; haven’t got many left. You’ll be sailing in a fortni’t.”

She had an inspiration. She leaned toward him, eagerly.

“Why, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “I tell you what to do! Write and ask
him to visit you, but plan to have him arrive just after I have gone.
You will want some one here then, some one to talk to and keep you
interested. You won’t be half as lonely and I shall feel ever so much
more contented, knowing that you aren’t sole alone--or with no one but
Nabby and Varunas. Come; that is a good idea, isn’t it?”

He hesitated; then he nodded once more. “Good as any, I guess,” he
admitted. “I don’t know but I’d just as soon be alone as with a young
cub I’m supposed to keep a weather eye on and that, nine chances out of
ten, I’ll hate the sight of from the minute I lay eyes on him.... But
I’ll write and ask him. I’ll write now, to-day.”

She was turning over the sheets of Covell’s letter. Now she uttered an
exclamation.

“Here is something else,” she exclaimed. “Something we haven’t read. A
postscript, written on the back of this last page. It says: ‘I think
you will like the boy, when you meet him. He has a knack of making
people like him at first sight. When they are the right people it is a
valuable knack.’ There, Uncle Foster, you see! You won’t hate him, you
will like him. I am ever so glad he is coming.”

Just then there was a knock at the door leading from the kitchen.
Varunas appeared with a yellow envelope in his hand.

“Telegram for you, Cap’n Foster,” he announced. “Seth Canby’s boy just
fetched it up. Hope ’tain’t no bad news. Nobody dead or nothin’ like
that.”

Townsend took the envelope. “What do you mean by ‘nothing like that’?”
he observed. “I never saw anything like being dead except _being_ dead,
did you, Varunas?”

Nabby, who had followed her husband into the room, sniffed.

“You never saw _him_ about gettin’ up time of a winter mornin’, then,
Cap’n Foster,” she declared. “If he ain’t dead then he’s a turrible
good imitation.”

Foster Townsend had torn open a yellow envelope. Now he threw the
telegram upon the table and rose from his chair.

“Bah!” he snorted, disgustedly. “Can’t they let me alone for two
days running? I’ve got to go to Ostable this minute. Lawyer business
again.... Well, what must be must. The train has gone long ago so I
shall have to drive. Want to go with me, Esther?”

His niece shook her head. “I can’t, Uncle Foster,” she answered. “I
promised Mr. Colton I would attend a meeting of the Welfare Society.
Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Snow and ever so many more are to be there. They
are thinking of getting up another entertainment of some kind to raise
money. Of course I can’t take part because I am going abroad, but I
must help as long as I can.”

Foster Townsend sniffed. “All right,” he said. “If you promised you’ll
have to be there, I suppose. Well, I can’t stand here. Hitch up the
team, Varunas.” Then thrusting the packet of unopened mail matter into
his pocket, he added, “I’ll read this after I get there. There’ll be
plenty of time. I never broke my back chasing over to that law office
yet that I didn’t have to wait for somebody else who hadn’t taken the
trouble to break his.... Good-by, Esther.”

He kissed her and hurried through the library to the hatrack in the
hall. She called after him.

“You are going to write Mr. Covell and invite his son for that visit,
aren’t you, Uncle Foster?” she asked.

“Yes,” he shouted in reply. “Got to, so far as I can see. I’ll write
him to-day, from over there. I’ll have time enough for that, too,
unless there has been a miracle and the whole crowd is on time for
once.”

After he had gone Esther remembered that she had not told him of Bob’s
proposed European trip. She would do it that evening. She wondered what
he would say. A suggestion of Nabby Gifford’s, made on the morning
following Bob’s last call but one, had lingered in her mind, although
she had done her best to forget it. It was silly, it was outrageous,
it was everything but sane and sensible, but she had not been able
to dismiss it entirely from her thoughts. What _would_ her uncle say
when he learned that Bob Griffin was to be in Paris during her stay
there? Well, she would soon know, for she would tell him as soon as he
returned.




CHAPTER XIII


Foster Townsend chose this time to dispense with Varunas’s services
and society on his drive to Ostable. He piloted the span himself,
along the rutted stretches of yellow sand, between villages and over
the white-surfaced roads of oyster and clamshell leading through the
thickly settled portions of the villages themselves. And in Denboro and
South Denboro and East Ostable and Ostable his progress was, as always,
noticed and commented upon. Leading citizens bowed politely and called
good mornings and the proletariat turned to stare and look after him.
He acknowledged the bows and salutes with a careless wave of the hand
and the stares he ignored. The universal attention was no novelty.
Its absence would have been. He was the great man of his county and
reverend recognition of that fact was his due.

Only in Denboro, the town adjacent to Harniss, was there a reminder
that his supremacy was questioned. As the span trotted proudly along
its main road he looked up to the top of the little hill behind the
Methodist church and saw a rambling white house rising behind a high
screen of lilac bushes and shadowed by wind-twisted silver-leaf
poplars. He frowned as he looked, for in that house dwelt the two most
disturbing factors in his life at present, Elisha Cook, his one-time
partner, and Bob Griffin, whom he had begun to consider quite as much
of a nuisance as his grandfather. The frown changed to a grim smile,
however, as he reflected that one nuisance, at least, was to be abated.
Esther would soon be beyond Griffin’s reach. Absence, so the proverb
declared, made the heart grow fonder, but it was his firm conviction,
based upon years of experience, that if the absence was long enough it
was much more likely to cure a heartache than to augment it, especially
when the patient was as young as his niece. That was a good suggestion
of Reliance Clark’s, that of sending Esther away. He probably would
have thought of it himself sooner or later, but her suggestion had been
timely and had prevented what might have been dangerous delay. He was
grateful to Reliance and he must stop in at the Clark cottage soon and
tell her so. He had not called on her for nearly a month.

His prophecy of a long wait at the lawyer’s office was, for once,
proven false. When he entered the rooms in the building opposite the
courthouse he found the whole battery of legal talent already there
and awaiting him. Not only both members of the Ostable firm, but the
two Boston consultants and a specialist in Supreme Court procedures
as well. A talented and tremendously expensive outfit it was. A less
self-assured man than Foster Townsend might have felt overawed by
this assemblage of big brains and bigger bills. Not he, however. He
acknowledged their deferential greetings with curt pleasantness and
proceeded to take charge of the meeting and dominate it.

It was neither a protracted session nor one too cheerful. Trial in
Washington of the famous lawsuit had been finally set sometime in the
late winter or early spring. He grumbled at that, but apparently no
earlier date could be arranged.

“Good Lord!” he growled. “If I had handled my ship the way you lawyers
handle your business I never would have brought her into port more than
twice in a lifetime. Well, there is this to be said, anyhow: This is
the last lap. When we win this time we _win_.”

There was a general and smiling nod of agreement. One of the two Boston
attorneys, a white-haired and dignified aristocrat, voiced the feeling.

“Yes, Captain Townsend,” he said, “if we win our case before the
Supreme Court the other side can have no appeal. That will be final.”

One word of this statement stirred his resentment.

“_If_ we win!” he snapped. “We are going to win, aren’t we? What do you
mean by ‘if’?”

The Boston man smiled. “There is always an ‘if’ in any case, Captain
Townsend,” he explained. “If there had been none in this one the Cook
people would not have gained their appeal and we should not have to go
to Washington.”

Townsend brushed this aside with an impatient hand.

“Never mind that,” he said. “What I want to hear you say is that you
know you are going to win this case for me. You _are_ going to win it,
aren’t you?”

“We hope to, certainly.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve got to,” he declared, striking the
table with his palm. “If you don’t-- By the Almighty you’ve got to!”

They assured him that they expected to win, that they felt scarcely a
doubt of winning. Nevertheless, when the consultation ended, he was
left with the consciousness that there was a doubt in their minds, even
though it might be a faint one. He had been made to feel that same
consciousness at other meetings since the granting of the Cook appeal.
Suppose that doubt should be justified? Suppose the suit was, after
all, decided against him!

In spite of his dogged courage and belief in his own destiny a cold
shiver passed through his body. For a moment he saw a picture of
himself, beaten, humiliated--yes, even impoverished. But he would not
consider such a thing, he would not admit the possibility of it. He was
Foster Townsend, and Foster Townsend had never been beaten yet.

He rose from his seat with a laugh. “You law fellows are worse croakers
than a bunch of bullfrogs in a pond,” he declared. “Stop your croaking
and supposing and shove this thing through.... Well, I guess that’s all
you want of me this morning, isn’t it, gentlemen?”

The Boston attorney--his name was Wolcott--seemed to hesitate. He
twirled his gold-rimmed eyeglasses at the end of their black silk cord.

“We were wondering--” he began. “Well, Captain Townsend, to speak
frankly--”

“Humph! Do you lawyers ever speak that way?”

“Why, occasionally, when we think it necessary. We were wondering
if, should any new points develop which were--ahem--shall we say
antagonistic to our side of the case, if you would wish us to
consider--well, a compromise.”

He glanced at them. They were all regarding him earnestly; one or two,
it seemed, almost anxiously.

“Compromise!” he repeated, with incredulous scorn. “Compromise? Make
some sort of deal, a half-way trade, with Elisha Cook’s crew? Is that
what you mean? When they get one red cent from me they’ll have to take
it by main strength. Compromise be hanged! You fight, do you hear?
Fight--and lick ’em!”

It was half past eleven when he left the room. He had planned to dine
at the Ostable House, and drive home afterward, but dinner would not
be ready until twelve. He walked over to the hotel and, because idling
and thinking were not cheerful or amusing just then, he decided to
fill in the half hour by writing his reply to Seymour Covell’s letter.
He did write it, expressing some doubt as to his ability to find a
satisfactory position for his friend’s son immediately, but extending
a hearty invitation to the latter to visit him at Harniss. He did not,
however, follow Esther’s suggestion that that visit be delayed until
after her European trip had begun. He saw no reason for such delay. Let
the young fellow come at once, if he wanted to. What difference did it
make when he came?

“Send the boy along,” he wrote. “The sooner the better. And tell him
for me that he can stay as long as he likes. There’s room enough,
goodness knows. And the longer he stays the better chance I shall have
to look him over and decide what sort of job he will fit into, when he
gets ready to take it. Why don’t you come, yourself? A month or so down
here in the sand will blow some of that Chicago soot out of your head.
I always told you this was the healthiest place on God’s earth. You
come and I’ll prove it.”

After dinner, as he brought the span abreast the Ostable post office,
he pulled the horses to a halt and handed the letter to a citizen who
was standing on the platform.

“Here, mail that for me, will you?” he said. The citizen received the
letter as he might have received a commission from the governor.

“Yes, sir; yes, indeed, Cap’n Townsend,” he replied, with unction.

“Much obliged. And mail it right away. Don’t put it in your pocket and
forget it.”

“Forget it! I wouldn’t forget it for nothin’. No, _sir_!”

“Well, it is more than nothing, so I don’t want it forgotten.”

He waited until he saw the letter deposited in the mail slot in the
post-office door. Then he clucked to the span and drove on.

It was not yet four o’clock when he reached Harniss. It occurred to
him that Esther would not be at home when he got there; she would have
gone to that Welfare Society meeting, or whatever it was. He did not
feel inclined to sit alone in the library and think; memories of that
confounded Boston attorney’s “if” were still too clear to make thinking
pleasant. They angered him. What was the matter with the crowd over
there in Ostable? What had become of all the assured complacency with
which they had greeted him at similar consultations of but a year ago?
Losing their grit, were they? Letting appeals and delays and all that
sort of legal drivel get on their nerves? The case was as surely his
now as it was then. Flock of old hens! With what delight would he, when
the long-drawn-out mess was ended and the decision his, pay them off
and send them packing. Bah!

He shook his head to drive away these symptoms of what he would have
called the “doldrums,” looked up and saw that he was nearly opposite
the Clark cottage. He would drop in on Reliance now, this minute. She
was always a first-class antidote for doldrums.

He hitched the span to the gnawed post before the post office and
walked around the buildings to the door of the millinery shop. Reliance
was in the shop, making tucks in a yard of ribbon.

“Hello, there!” he hailed, striding in and closing the door behind him.
“Well, how are things in the hat line? Thought I’d stop and see if you
could make Varunas a sunbonnet. He’s getting to be more of an old woman
every day he lives.”

Reliance looked up and smiled. “Hello, Foster,” she said. “You’re a
stranger. It’s been a long while since you honored us this way. I hope
a lot of folks saw you come in. It will be good for business. Sit down,
won’t you?”

He had not waited for the invitation. He sat in the chair usually
occupied by Miss Makepeace, which squeaked a protest, and tossed his
hat upon the top of the sewing machine.

“All alone?” he queried. “Where’s your first mate?”

“Abbie? Oh, she’s at home with a cold. She has been barkin’ and
sneezin’ around here for three days, so I told her to stay at home and
sneeze it through with a hot brick at her feet and a linseed poultice
on her chest. She’ll be over it pretty soon. How are you?”

“All right. Where’s the town superintendent?”

“Who?... Oh, I suppose you mean Millard. He is out, too. He won’t be
back for an hour.”

“How do you know he won’t?”

“Because he ought to be back now. Well, Foster, how do you like the
prospect of being alone again in that big house of yours? Be a harder
pull than ever for you, won’t it?”

“You bet!... But, say,” leaning back in the chair and thrusting his
hands into his pockets, “how did you know I was going to be alone?
Isn’t there such a thing as privacy in this town?”

“Not much. I should think you would have learned that by this time.
There, there! don’t get mad. I don’t believe it is generally known yet.
Esther told me herself, but she told me not to tell. She said you asked
her not to talk about it much yet.”

“Um-hum. Yes, I did. However, she can talk about it now as much as she
wants to. She will be sailing in ten days or so. I only wish I was
booked for the same ship.”

Reliance held up the ribbon, measured the latest tuck and then folded
another.

“I was a little surprised when she said you wasn’t,” she observed. “The
lawsuit is keepin’ you here, she told me.”

“Yes, blast the thing! There, don’t talk about that. I’ve just come
from a lawyers’ meeting and I have had enough for the present.... Yes,
Esther is going across the water. She’ll stay there, too--until I
figure it is good judgment to bring her home.”

Miss Clark looked up, then down. She nodded.

“I see,” she said. “You had to come to it, after all, didn’t you. I
suppose likely I was the one who put the idea in your head, so I ought
to take the responsibility.”

“No, you needn’t. I’ll take it myself. I should have thought of some
such thing, sooner or later, without your help. But I’m much obliged
for the reminder, just the same.”

Again she looked up.

“Too much company up your way, wasn’t there?” she suggested.

“Too darned much, of the kind. That young Griffin has got as much cheek
as his whole family together. And that doesn’t mean a little bit....
Humph! I’m a long sea mile from being sure that I ought to have let
him come there in the first place. You were responsible for that, too,
Reliance. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. But you must remember that I told you unless he
and Esther were different from most any young couple I ever heard of
they would find ways to see each other anyhow, and it might be best to
let them meet where you were within hailin’ distance. I think I was
right--even yet.”

“What do you mean by ‘even yet’?”

“Nothing. Nothing now, at any rate. Foster, how far has this affair of
theirs gone? Are they--well, do you think they are any more than just
good friends?”

“Eh,” sharply. “Any more? Now why do you ask that. If I thought--”

“Ssh! What _do_ you think?... Careful of that chair! That’s Abbie’s pet
rocker.”

He had thrown himself back in it with a violence which threatened wreck
and ruin.

“How should I know what to think?” he growled, moodily. “He comes three
times a week and stays till eleven o’clock. And they sit alone in the
sitting-room and talk, talk, talk about-- Oh, I don’t know what they
talk about! The price of quahaugs, maybe.”

“Maybe.” She glanced at him and smiled. “You go away and leave them
there together, then, do you, Foster?” she said. “Well, that is pretty
nice of you, I must say. And, perhaps, kind of hard to do, too.”

He stirred uneasily and scowled. “Did you think I was likely to hang
around and listen at the keyhole?” he demanded.

“Not the least little bit. I know you.... Well, let me ask you a plain
question. Suppose she and Bob Griffin did get to be something more than
friends; what would you do then?”

His big body straightened. “Do!” he repeated. “If you mean what would I
do if she proposed to marry that scamp. I’ll tell you without any if,
and, or but. I’ve told you before. I wouldn’t let her do it.”

“She might do it without your lettin’.”

“Then, by the Almighty, she could do without me, too. If she left my
house to marry him she should stay out and never come back.... But she
wouldn’t. She isn’t that kind.... Here! what the devil are you shaking
your head about?”

“Oh--well, I was just thinkin’.”

“Stop thinking, then! Don’t be a fool, Reliance! Why, that girl has
told me fifty times that she thinks as much of me as if I was her own
father. She talks about how kind I’ve been to her and how she never
can pay me back and all that. Do you suppose that is all lies? Do you
think she’d throw me over for that--that Cook calf? Don’t be a fool, I
tell you. Look here! What is this all about? Do you _want_ her to marry
him?”

A slow shake of the head prefaced Reliance’s answer. And that answer
was gravely spoken.

“No, Foster,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Of course you don’t, unless you _are_ a fool. And, if every fool in
creation wanted it, she shouldn’t do it.”

Reliance paid no attention to this declaration. She had dropped the
ribbon in her lap and now she spoke earnestly and deliberately.

“No, Foster,” she repeated. “I _don’t_ want her to marry Bob Griffin.
He seems to be a fine young man and a good one, but the reason why I
don’t want that marriage isn’t on account of what he is, but who he is.
This whole matter has worried me a lot. It worries me now. I can’t see
anything but trouble ahead for everybody if it goes on.”

“Humph! You don’t need a spyglass to see that. Well, it isn’t going on.
It will stop inside of two weeks. Once get the Atlantic Ocean between
them and it will stay between them until they both forget--until she
does, anyhow. He can remember until he is gray-headed if he likes, it
won’t do him any good.”

She had picked up her sewing again, but now she looked up from it with,
or so he thought, an odd expression. Since the beginning of their
conversation he had been conscious of something unusual in her manner.
Now there was a peculiar questioning scrutiny in her look; she seemed
to be wondering, to be not quite sure--almost as if she were expecting
him to say something, he could not imagine what.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he demanded, irritably. “What is
it?”

She did not reply to his question, but asked one of her own, one quite
irrelevant and trivial, so far as he could see.

“Have you heard any news lately?” she inquired.

“News? What kind of news?”

“Oh, any news about--well, about any one we know?”

“No.... See here, what do you mean? Have you heard something?”

Again she did not answer. “Foster,” she said, sewing steadily, “I don’t
want you to get the idea from what I just told you about my feelin’s
that I think Esther’s marryin’ Bob Griffin would be the very worst
thing that could happen.... Wait! let me finish. I don’t think it would
be a wise thing, considerin’ the way you and Mr. Cook hate each other
and the way you both would be likely to act if those young folks took
the bit in their teeth and decided to marry, anyhow. And if Esther and
he can forget I should say it was best they did, best for all hands.
But if they care enough for each other so that they can’t forget and
will be miserable and sorry all their days, then I honestly believe
they should go through with it. After all, they are young, they have
got their lives to live. It is for them, and nobody else, to really
decide how they shall live ’em. That is the way I feel and I guess you
ought to know it.”

He rose from the rocker. He was angry, so angry that he could scarcely
trust himself to speak.

“Yes,” he growled, with savage sarcasm, “you are right in that. Mighty
well right! I guess it is high time I knew it. So you have been putting
her up to--”

“Stop! I haven’t put her up to anything. She and I have hardly
mentioned Bob Griffin’s name for a month. If she had asked me what I
thought about it I should have told her what I just told you, that
the less she saw of him the better. And when she told me you were
sendin’ her abroad I knew why you were doin’ it and I was glad. It, or
somethin’ like it, was what I hoped you would do. In fact, you just now
hinted that I was the one who put doin’ it into your head. Don’t make
silly speeches that you know ain’t true, Foster Townsend.”

This appeal to common sense and justice had some effect. He took a
stride or two up and down the room and when he spoke his tone was a
trifle less fierce although just as determined.

“You have said enough, anyhow,” he declared. “Now you hear me say
this: She isn’t going to marry that cub. She isn’t. If taking her to
Paris and keeping him out of her sight doesn’t cure her then I’ll try
something that will. I’ll--by the Lord Almighty, if worst comes to
worst I’ll--I’ll kill him before I let one of his gang take her away
from me.”

She laughed a little. “Killin’ him would be a fine way to keep her
with you, wouldn’t it?” she observed. “If you will only behave like
a sensible man, and talk like one, I’ll tell you something else,
something you will know soon but that perhaps you’d better know now.”

He was paying no attention. Now he turned to her, his face drawn with
emotion and his voice shaking.

“Reliance,” he cried, “you don’t know--by the Lord, you don’t know what
that girl has come to be to me. I--I love her as much as I did--as I
did Bella, my own wife, when she was living. I swear I believe that’s
so. She’ll marry somebody some day; I am reconciled to that--or I try
to be. It’s natural. It is what is bound to happen. But I’ll have
something to say about who her husband shall be. I know men and it’s
got to be a mighty fine man who can satisfy me he’s the right husband
for her. A good-for-nothing who wastes his time painting chromos--a boy
without any business sense--”

“How do you know he hasn’t got any business sense?”

“Would he be a picture painter if he had? And a Cook! Good Lord! think
of it! a Cook!... There! What’s the use talking to you? You are a
sentimental old maid and all that counts with you is the mush you read
in the fool books you get out of the library. If you loved that girl
the way I do--”

She had risen now and she broke in upon him sharply.

“I do,” she vowed. “I love her as much as you do and more, perhaps.
She lived with me years longer than she has with you and I love her
as much as you ever dreamed of doin’. Yes, and a whole lot more
unselfishly--that I know, too.”

“But, Reliance, to give her up to--”

“Oh, be still! I gave her up to you, didn’t I? Do you think that wasn’t
a wrench?”

He could not deny it, for he knew it to be true. He shrugged and picked
up his hat.

“Good-by,” he said.

She called his name.

“Foster--wait!” she ordered. “Now I am goin’ to tell you somethin’ it
is plain you haven’t heard. I wonder Esther hasn’t told you. She must
know it. Probably she will tell you soon, she certainly ought to. There
was a man here this mornin’ from Denboro. His name is Pratt, he peddles
fish, probably you know him. Well, he told me he heard last night at
the Denboro post office that Bob Griffin was plannin’ to go to Paris to
study paintin’. His grandfather had said he might and he was leavin’
almost right away, inside of three weeks, anyhow.... Perhaps you see
what that is likely to mean, so far as keepin’ him and Esther apart is
concerned.”

He stared at her incredulously; he could not credit the story.

“Bosh!” he snorted. “I don’t believe it. It’s all a lie. They’ve got it
mixed up. Somebody has heard that Esther is going, and of course some
of them know he has been coming to the house, and so they’ve pieced
together a gaff tops’l out of two rags and a rope’s end, same as they
generally do.”

“No. That is what I thought at first, but it isn’t that. Pratt heard
about it again from the Cooks’ hired girl and she heard Bob and his
grandfather talkin’ it over at the dinner table. It is true, he is
goin’. And of course it is perfectly plain why he is goin’.... Now,
Foster, what will you do about it?”

He did not answer immediately. He stood before her, his florid face
growing steadily redder. Then he struck his right fist into the palm of
his left hand.

“That is why she was so full of good humor this morning,” he muttered.
“He told her last night and-- _That_ was it!... Good-by.”

“Wait! Wait, Foster! What are you goin’ to do?”

“Do! I don’t know yet, but you can bet your life something will be
done.”

“Oh, Foster, you must be awfully careful. If you aren’t--”

“Careful! I tell you one thing I’ll be mighty careful of. I’ll be
careful to call off this Paris business. _That_ is over and done with,
so far as she is concerned. She stays here with me. As for him--well,
I’ll attend to _him_.”

“But, Foster, you _must_ take care what you do. If you’ll only listen
to me--”

He was at the door.

“No!” he shouted. “I’ve listened too long already. Listen to you! Why,
it was you that put me up to sending her away. Humph! And a fine mess
that has got us all into, hasn’t it! No! From now on, I’m handlin’
this affair myself and I don’t want any orders or advice from anybody.
You keep your hands off the reins. We’ll see who wins this case. The
rascal!”

She followed him to the step and stood looking after him, but he did
not look back. She saw him climb to the carriage seat, crack the whip
over the backs of the span--the horses were astonished and indignant,
for they were not used to such treatment--and move rapidly off up the
road. Then she went back to her sewing, but her mind was not upon her
work; she foresaw nothing ahead but trouble, trouble for those in the
world for; whose happiness she cared most.




CHAPTER XIV


Foster Townsend drove straight home, turned the horses and carriage
over to the care of Varunas and went into the house. There, in the
library, with the portières drawn and the hall door tightly closed, he
sprawled in the big chair and, chewing an unlighted cigar, set himself
to the task of facing this entirely unforeseen setback. His carefully
laid plan had gone to smash; that fact could not be dodged. Paris
with Esther in Jane Carter’s company, three thousand miles away from
young Griffin, was one thing. Paris, with those two together, and he,
Townsend, on this side of the water, was quite another. No, if it was
true that Griffin was going there, then Esther was not. So much was
certain.

It was a galling conclusion, his pride winced under it. To think that
a boy in his twenties had forced a wily, shrewd veteran of his years
and experience to back water was almost too much to bear. It was
humiliating and the more he pondered over it the angrier he became. The
plan had been a good one. He had given it careful consideration before
he adopted it. He had tried to think of every possible objection,
but such a one as this he would have considered beyond the bounds of
possibility. And yet it was so simple. How that Griffin cub must be
chuckling in his sleeve. Of course he had seen through the strategy
behind the move and with one move of his own had checkmated it. Esther
was being sent to Paris to get her away from him, was she? All right,
he would go there, too. Easy enough!

Foster Townsend’s big body squirmed in the leather chair. He was
tempted, almost resolved, to go straight to Bob Griffin, wherever he
might be, even in his grandfather’s house, and have it out between
them, man to man--or man to boy. The prospect of an open battle was
appealing. And he was practically sure that Elisha Cook would, for
once, be fighting on his side. Elisha would, he was willing to bet, be
as firmly set against a marriage between a Cook and a Townsend as he
was, although their objections would be based upon exactly opposite
grounds. It would be amusing, at least, to watch his former partner’s
face when he learned why his grandson proposed to leave him--and for
whom. For Bob had not told, of course. Humph! Between them they could
give that smart young rooster a happy half hour.

It would not do, though; no, it would not do. Mistakes enough had been
made and he, Townsend, must not make another. Whatever was done now
must be right and he could not afford to be too hasty. At any rate,
the first thing to be done was to think of good excuses for canceling
Esther’s European trip. He had little time for that and he must act
quickly.

So, setting his teeth, he endeavored to forget anger, hurt pride, and
all the rest of the non-essentials. The checkmating was partly his own
fault. He had taken a woman’s advice, instead of depending upon his own
judgment, and was paying for it. It was Reliance Clark who had put into
his head the fool notion of sending his niece away. Neither she, nor
any one else, should put another there. Henceforward he would, as he
had told her, handle the reins. And the race was by no means lost.

He was in his room on the second floor, writing a letter, when he heard
Esther’s voice in the library.

“Uncle,” she was calling. “Uncle Foster, where are you?”

“Here I am,” he answered, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

He signed the letter he had written and addressed the envelope to
Mrs. Jane Carter in Boston. He had given her orders, short, sharp and
compelling. She was not to waste time asking questions. She was to
write what he told her to write and do it at once. And when he saw her
he would tell her why. He was as sorry as she could be that the affair
had turned out as it had.

Esther’s good humor at supper time was as pronounced as it had been
in the morning. She was nervous, however; he could see that. He did
his best to appear good-humored also. When they were in the library
together the cause for her nervousness was disclosed. She told him at
once about Bob Griffin’s going to Paris to study art. His reception
of the news was far different from what she feared it might be. He
appeared to regard it as a good thing for Bob to do.

“Why, Uncle Foster!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you awfully surprised? I
was, when Bob told me, last evening. I had no idea he even thought of
such a thing--for the present, at least.”

Her uncle rubbed his beard. “He is studying to paint pictures, just as
you are studying to sing,” he observed. “According to what I hear, they
teach both those things better over yonder than they do here. I don’t
wonder he wants to go. Good idea, I should say. When is he going?”

“Very soon. In a few weeks, he says. His grandfather has said that he
might.”

“Has, eh? Humph! Elisha must have more money than I thought he had.
Paying lawyers can’t be as expensive for him as it is for me. Or,” with
a twist of his mouth, “perhaps he doesn’t pay ’em.”

Esther hastened to explain. “Bob has some money of his own,” she said.
“His grandfather won’t have to pay any of his expenses.”

“Oh!... Oh, yes, yes! He’s rich, then, as well as handsome--and smart?”

He had not meant to emphasize the “smart,” but he did, a little. She
noticed it.

“Bob _is_ smart,” she declared. “Every one says he is.”

“And I suppose he lets ’em say it. Well, maybe he is as smart as he
thinks he is. We’ll see how it turns out.”

“What turns out? His painting, do you mean? Oh, I am sure he is going
to be a wonderful artist. Just look at that portrait he did of me, with
scarcely any study at all.”

He did not look at the portrait and he talked very little during the
evening. Esther did not mind. She was relieved that he had not shown
resentment when told that Griffin was to be in Paris during her own
stay there. Well, at all events, this proved that Nabby Gifford’s
insinuation had not a word of truth behind it.

Nothing of moment happened in the Townsend household until Tuesday
morning. Then, when breakfast was over, her uncle called her into the
library. He had a letter in his hand and there was a serious expression
on his face. He asked her to sit down, but he did not sit. Instead he
paced up and down the floor, a sure sign that he was much disturbed in
mind.

“Esther,” he said, turning toward her, “I’ve got some bad news for you.
I’m afraid you will think it is pretty bad, when I tell you what it is.
I got a letter yesterday. I didn’t say anything about it then. I always
think the morning is the time to face bad news; you have all day to
get used to it in and consequently you can sleep better when bedtime
comes.... Well, we might as well get it over. Esther, it looks as if
you wasn’t going abroad, after all--now, I mean.”

She caught her breath. She had been trying to surmise what the bad news
might be, but she had not thought of this.

“Not going abroad!” she repeated, aghast. “You mean I am not going to
Paris?”

He nodded. “That is just about what I do mean, I guess,” he affirmed.
“It looks as if you couldn’t go--for the present, anyhow. Of course, by
and by, later on, you and I will go together, same as we used to plan;
but your cruise with Mrs. Carter is off, I’m afraid.... It is a big
disappointment for you, isn’t it? Yes, I can see that it is.”

Any one could have seen it. The expression upon her face was sufficient
indication of the shock of that disappointment. He, himself, was
anything but happy. This thing he was doing was for her good; some
of those days she would realize that and be grateful to him, but
now--well, now the doing of it made him feel meanly guilty. He put his
hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry, Esther,” he said, with a shake in his voice. “I’m sorry enough
things have turned out as they have, but--well, it is for the best, I
guess. Yes,” with a nod of stubborn determination, “I _know_ it is.
Now, don’t feel too bad, my girl. Try and brace up. Come!”

She was trying, but it was hard work. If he had told her this before
Bob had told her of his going she would not have minded so much.
Since then--and particularly since the time when she had told him
of Bob’s proposed trip and he had received the tidings with such
complacency--she had thought of little else but the wonderful days to
come.

He patted her shoulder.

“Brace up, Esther,” he said. “It isn’t off for good, remember. You and
I will go over there together by and by, just as sure as I live. It is
just put off for the present, that’s all.”

“But why, Uncle Foster?” she faltered. “Why? What has happened?”

He told her Mrs. Carter had written saying she could not go. Various
things had turned up--he was not specific concerning the nature of
these things--which made it impossible for her to leave her Boston
house for some months at least.

“It’s too late to get any one else,” he explained, gently. “And,
besides, I don’t know of any one else I could trust to pilot a cruise
like that with you aboard. We must face it as it is. There are lots
of disappointments in life; I have had my share of them. And pretty
generally,” with another dogged nod, “they turn out to be for the best
in the end. You just try and believe this one will turn out that way.”

She told him that she would try, but her tone was so forlorn that
his feeling of meanness and guilt increased. And her next speech
strengthened them still more.

“I won’t be a baby, Uncle Foster,” she bravely answered him. “I know
you are as sorry as I am. It isn’t your fault at all, of course. And,”
with an attempt at a smile, “I know, too, that I ought to be glad for
your sake. I have never felt right about leaving you.”

He shifted uneasily and gave the “cricket” before the easy-chair a kick
which sent it sliding across the floor.

“Don’t talk that way,” he growled. “I--Humph! Well, I’ll make this all
up to you before we finish, I’ll swear to that.... Say,” with a sudden
inspiration, “I tell you one thing we’ll do! I shall have to go to
Washington one of these days and I’ll take you with me. We’ll have a
regular spree along with the President and the rest of the big-bugs.
That will be something to look forward to, anyhow.”

Perhaps, but, compared to that toward which she had been looking,
it was a very poor substitute. And all the rest of that day her
disappointment increased rather than diminished. She dreaded Bob’s call
that evening. Poor fellow! he would be as disappointed as she was.
But he must go, just the same. He must not sacrifice his opportunity
for travel and study because hers was postponed. He must go as he had
planned. She should insist upon that.

There were other thoughts, too, but she tried not to think them. It had
seemed to her that her uncle’s reasons--or Mrs. Carter’s reasons--for
canceling the trip had been rather vague and not altogether sufficient
to warrant upsetting the plans of so many people. And the decision was
so sudden. Her last letter from the lady had contained not a hint of
change. It was full of enthusiastic anticipation. Her uncle--

She resolutely refused to think along that line. Her uncle had felt so
badly when he broke the news to her. She remembered the tremble in his
voice. No, she would not be so disloyal or ungrateful as to suspect....
Never mind Nabby’s suggestion. Nabby was what her employer sometimes
called her, a clucking old hen.

She would have gone to her Aunt Reliance and sought consolation there,
but the Welfare Society met again that afternoon and she felt bound to
attend the meeting.

Bob Griffin, when he came that evening, was in such a glow of high
spirits that he could scarcely wait for Foster Townsend to leave the
library before voicing his feelings. Townsend appeared to notice his
condition.

“You look fit as a fiddle to-night, seems to me,” he observed.
“Counting the days till you get to Paris, I suppose; eh? Well, I don’t
wonder. Pretty big thing for a young fellow.”

Bob was a little surprised.

“Oh, then Esther has told you about it?” he asked.

“Um-hum. She told me.”

“What do you think of the idea, sir? Of my going there to study, I
mean?”

“Think it is just what you should do. If you’ve made up your mind to
paint for a living then the better painter you learn to be the better
living you’ll make--if you can live at all at that job.... Oh, yes,
yes!” he added, before either of the pair could reply. “I suppose
likely you think you can. And you may be right. _I_ don’t know about
such things.”

The moment the hall door had closed behind him Bob turned to Esther and
seized her hands.

“Only a few more weeks,” he announced, triumphantly. “In less than
a month you and I will be sauntering down the Champs Elysées or the
‘Boul Mich’ or somewhere. I have engaged my passage. I am going on the
_Lavornia_. She sails from New York just eight days after your ship
leaves. We shan’t be separated long, shall we?”

She withdrew her hands from his and shook her head.

“Bob,” she said, “I have dreaded seeing you to-night. I have something
to tell you that you won’t like at all. I don’t like it either, but it
can’t be helped. All our plans are changed. I am not going to Paris.”

He stared. “Not going to Paris?” he repeated. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, for the present. I am going to stay here in Harniss.... Wait!
Please wait, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

She told him of the letter from Mrs. Carter and her uncle’s decision
that the European trip must be postponed. He would have interrupted a
half dozen times, but she begged him not to.

“So you see, Bob,” she said, in conclusion, “you and I won’t meet over
there as soon as we expected. I can’t go now, although perhaps some day
I shall. I am glad you are going. I am awfully glad of that.”

He had risen and was standing before her. His lips were set and he was
frowning. Now he laughed scornfully.

“Esther,” he protested, “don’t! Don’t be silly. You can’t really think
I would go if you didn’t.”

“Why, of course I do. You must go. Certainly you are going.”

“Certainly I am not. Huh! I should say not! If you don’t go neither do
I. If they make you wait I’ll wait, too.”

“Bob! Oh, please, Bob, be reasonable. Think of what it means to you.
Your chance to study, to go on with your painting, to get ahead in the
world! Do you suppose I shall let you give up your opportunity just
because mine is postponed for a while? Did you think me as selfish as
that?”

He shook his head. “You bet I don’t go!” he muttered. “Indeed I don’t!
They don’t get me away from you as easily as that comes to.”

“Bob!... What do you mean by that? No one is trying to get you away
from me.”

Again he laughed. “Oh, Esther,” he said, impatiently, “don’t let’s
pretend. You know what this means as well as I do. It is as plain as
print. Captain Townsend--”

“It isn’t his fault. It is Mrs. Carter who can’t go. That is the
reason.”

“Esther! Can’t you _see_? Oh, but of course you do! This Mrs. Carter
is doing what your uncle has told her to do. She has called it off,
trumped up the excuse, because he ordered her to do it.”

“Bob!” sharply. “Stop! You mustn’t say such things. You know they
aren’t true. Why, it was Uncle Foster who persuaded Mrs. Carter to go,
in the first place.”

“Yes, and now he has ordered her not to. Bah!” with an angry wave of
the hand, “it is as plain as if it was painted on the wall. He doesn’t
want me coming here to see you; he never did.”

“Then why did he let you come at all?”

“I don’t know--unless it was because he thought we might be seeing each
other somewhere else anyhow, and he could keep an eye on us as long as
we were in his house.”

“Bob! If you say another word like that I shall go away and leave you.
Uncle Foster knows that he doesn’t need to keep an eye on me. He trusts
me absolutely.”

She was indignant, but he was angry and sure of the correctness of his
suspicions.

“He doesn’t trust _me_, then,” he declared, stubbornly. “He hates me,
because I am a Cook. He was sending you to Europe to get you where I
couldn’t see you. Well, I guessed that little trick right away and
played a better one on him. I decided to go to Paris myself. He had not
thought of that, I guess. It must have jolted him when you told him.”

“Bob, I won’t listen to such things.”

“And then, when you did tell him, he saw his little game was up and so
he has made up his mind to keep you here. Well, all right, then he can
keep me here, too. He isn’t the only one who can change their mind. I’d
like to tell him so.”

He strode to the hall door and stood there almost as if determined
to follow Foster Townsend to his room and tell him there and then.
She was silent for a moment. The things he had said were in exact
confirmation of the suspicion voiced by Nabby Gifford and which she had
not permitted herself to consider.

“The sly old rat!” he muttered between his teeth. She caught her breath.

“No!” she cried. “No, I don’t believe a word of it.... And even if
it were true--which it isn’t--it mustn’t make any difference in your
going. You must sail on the _Lavornia_ just as you planned.”

He spoke over his shoulder. “I shan’t,” he vowed, determinedly. “I stay
right here.”

“No, you mustn’t do any such thing. I shan’t let you.”

“You can’t stop me.... No, and he can’t either. The scheming old
hypocrite!”

She walked to the door now and opened it.

“You had better go home,” she said. “I don’t care to hear you speak
in this way any longer. When you are ready to talk and behave like a
sensible person you may come back and perhaps I will listen to you. But
not until you beg my pardon for saying such things about Uncle Foster.”

He swung about to face her. “But, Esther,” he cried, “you know they are
true.”

“I know you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying them, for
calling him a hypocrite and all the rest.”

“Well, what else is he? Making believe to you that--”

“Stop! Will you go now, please?”

“Of course I shan’t! I have only just come. Esther, dear, I am sorry
if I said more than I should. I am mad clear through. Oh, we must not
quarrel because--because he--”

“_Will_ you stop talking about him? And will you go this minute?”

He jammed his hands into his pockets. His face was flushed and hers
white, but the fire in his eyes was dying. He tried to take her hand,
but she drew it away.

“Do you really want me to go--now?” he asked, incredulously. “You can’t
mean it, dear.”

“I do mean it. I think it is very much better that you should. You have
said enough to-night, more than enough. I don’t want to hear more and I
don’t feel like talking, myself. Please go.”

He hesitated, then he surrendered.

“Perhaps you are right,” he admitted. “I guess I am not very good
company; shan’t be until I get over this. When I come again I’ll try
to behave more like a Christian. I am awfully sorry, dear. You will
make allowances and forgive me, won’t you? Good heavens, think what a
disappointment this has been for me. All my plans--”

“They were my plans, too.”

“Yes, so they were. Well, when may I come again? I shan’t have to wait
until Friday, shall I? This little bit of a half hour doesn’t really
count, you know. May I come to-morrow night?”

“No. I want you to take time to think this all over. And when you come
I want to hear you say that you will go ahead just as you intended.”

“Without you?”

“Certainly; without me for the present.”

“Esther Townsend, are _you_ in on this? Are _you_ trying to get rid of
me?”

She looked at him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said,
icily. “Good-night.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it! You know I didn’t. I am--I am talking like
a fool, of course. But you don’t really expect me to go across the
Atlantic Ocean and leave you on this side? You don’t really ask me to
do that?”

“I do. It is for your sake. For the sake of your work and all it means.
I don’t want to see you again until you are ready to promise me just
that.”

His chin lifted. “Then I am afraid you won’t see me very soon,” he
declared.

“That is for you to say. If you don’t care enough, or trust me enough,
to make a promise I ask you to make, especially when what I ask is
entirely for your good, then--well then, perhaps you had better not
come at all.”

“Esther, the other night you said--you told me-- And now you want me to
go off three thousand miles and leave you! Well, I must say!”

“Bob, will you make me that promise?”

“I--I-- Oh, I don’t know! It doesn’t seem as if I could.”

“And if you do make it, will you keep it? You promised me weeks ago
that you would tell your grandfather of your coming to this house to
see me. Have you told him?”

He frowned. That promise had been on his mind every waking moment since
it was made. Time and time again he had been on the point of telling
Elisha Cook of his visits to the Townsend mansion, but always the time
had seemed inopportune. He was no coward, but he knew, better than she
or any one else knew, the storm which was sure to follow. It might mean
a complete break between his grandfather and himself, and he loved the
old man dearly. Yet he had meant to keep his promise, still meant to do
so.

He shook his head.

“Well, no, Esther, I haven’t yet. We have had one tremendous row in the
family lately, when I told him I was going abroad. I haven’t had the
spunk to risk another. I shall tell him, though--and soon. Please don’t
think--”

“Oh, hush! What need is there to think? I can see. Good-night.”

The door closed. He stood, for a minute, looking at the ground glass
in its panels. Then the light behind those panels went out. He turned
away, in a state of mind divided between disgust, resentment and
discouragement. Women were a non-comprehensible lot, and the best of
them seemed to be as illogical and unreasonable as the worst. It was
a thought by no means original, but he considered it a discovery all
his own. He walked to the stable, climbed into his buggy and drove, in
miserable reverie, to Denboro.

Upstairs in the pink room Esther was lying upon the bed, her wet cheeks
buried in the pillows. The things Bob had said about her uncle were
wicked--wicked. But if they were true then her uncle was wicked. And,
in that case, she, herself, for having treated Bob as she had, was the
most wicked of all. It was a wicked, hateful world altogether.




CHAPTER XV


“If” is one of the shortest words in the English language and also
one of the most important. “If” Elisha Cook had not been taken ill
with a cold, accompanied by complications threatening pneumonia, the
complications now threatening the love story of his grandson and Foster
Townsend’s niece might not have been aggravated. The disagreement
between the young people was serious, but not too dangerous. Had that
particular “if” not arisen-- But it did arise.

Bob, when he reached Denboro that evening, had made up his mind on one
point, namely, that he would, the very next morning, keep his promise
to Esther and tell his grandfather that he had been calling at the big
house in Harniss and why he had done so. The prospect was anything but
cheerful and what its consequences might be he did not dare consider.
He was ashamed of his procrastination, although he still believed his
reasons for the delay to be good ones. If left to himself he would
have waited even longer, for, as he saw it, nothing was to be gained
and perhaps much lost by premature disclosure of his secret. But,
right or wrong, he would disclose it now. She should not have another
opportunity to taunt him with lack of courage and failure to keep his
word.

As to the other promise she had demanded, that he carry out his plan to
go abroad regardless of the fact that she was to remain at home, that
was harder to give. He was not sure that he would give it. He would
wait until they met again and he had further opportunity to plead his
side of the case. She was unreasonable in demanding such a thing and he
hoped, after she had had time to think it over, she would realize that
unreasonableness.

Her uncle--there was the trouble. Foster Townsend was to blame. He
was a sly, scheming old hypocrite, just as Bob had declared him to
be. He had been sending her abroad just to separate them and then,
after she told him that he--Bob--was going also, he had trumped up the
transparent excuse for keeping her in Harniss. Esther should realize
that this was precisely what had happened. And, too, she must realize
that if he--Bob again--did go alone, then Foster Townsend’s underhand
scheme would be working just exactly as he hoped. Surely it was obvious
enough. She must see through it; she would, just as soon as she
considered it calmly and deliberately.

He was surprised when he drove into the yard, to find the windows of
his grandfather’s room alight and to see the Denboro doctor’s horse
and buggy standing by the door. The Cook housekeeper met him when he
entered. Mr. Cook’s cold had grown suddenly worse, she told him, and
the doctor seemed somewhat alarmed.

“You had better go right up, Bob,” she said. “Mr. Cook’s been askin’
for you every other minute for the last two hours. He’s frightened
about himself--you know how he is when there’s anything the matter with
him--and he won’t lay still or keep from frettin’ unless you are there.”

Bob stood watch beside his grandfather’s bed until the old gentleman at
last fell asleep. Dodging the questions of the querulous patient was
the hardest part of the vigil. Elisha Cook was anxious to know where
his grandson had been, why he kept going away and leaving him all alone
like this--to die, for all he knew--and if he intended to keep on doing
it until he went off to Europe and left him to die or not, just as it
happened. Bob promised to remain at home that night and other nights
for the present, at least. And he reluctantly dismissed all idea of
disclosing his feeling for Esther until his grandfather should be well
and strong once more. He would write her and explain the situation;
that was all he could do now.

The next morning there was little change. Cook was no worse, nor was he
appreciably better.

“He will get along,” said the doctor, “provided he keeps still and
doesn’t try to get up, or worry about that lawsuit or anything else.
You are the only person who seems to have any real control over him. If
you can just stick around and fight off callers, lawyers especially,
and see that he takes his medicine and eats what he should and when he
should--if you’ll just stay here with him for a week or two he will get
over this upset. There will be others, of course. You know as well as I
do that a man at his age is likely to--well, step off almost any time,
but I don’t think it is going to be this time. I am counting on you to
hold the fort for me.”

So Bob held the fort, but it was nearly a fortnight later before Elisha
Cook was sufficiently recovered to permit his grandson’s spending an
evening elsewhere than in that house. Bob wrote two letters, one to
Esther explaining why he could not come to see her, and one to the
steamship company canceling his passage on the _Lavornia_. And during
that fortnight many things happened in Harniss.

The Welfare Society decided to give a performance of “Pinafore” in the
town hall. Among the native and summer population of the village and
of Bayport and Orham, there were several individuals who sang well and
a larger number whose singing was passable. The committee chosen to
select the cast picked Esther Townsend for the part of _Josephine_. The
vote was not unanimous. Mrs. Wheeler and a few intimate friends seemed
to feel sure that Margery, the Wheeler daughter, was exactly suited for
that part and should have it. There was much discussion, resulting in
Margery’s being given the part of _Little Buttercup_. “After all,” Mrs.
Wheeler confided to the Reverend Mr. Colton, “perhaps it is just as
well. If Margery did sing _Josephine_ the Townsend girl would have to
be _Buttercup_ and every one knows that she hasn’t a bone of humor in
her body. We should be willing to sacrifice the rights of an individual
for the good of the whole, shouldn’t we, Mr. Colton? And if Margery is
_anything_ it is self-sacrificing. She has a beautiful spirit.”

Bob Griffin’s name was mentioned in the discussion as a possible
member of the cast, but, unfortunately, Bob could not sing. Then it
was suggested that, as in the case of the Old Folks’ Concert, he might
be given charge of costumes and scenery. Mrs. Wheeler was firm on this
point. “It is quite unnecessary,” she declared. “The play book tells
us exactly what the costumes should be and, if we really need scenery,
we can hire a set in Boston. I see no reason for complicating matters
by dragging Mr. Griffin into the affair. You know how fussy he was
about the Old Folks’ costumes. He won’t be satisfied unless he can
superintend everything and that will mean more time than we can spare.
The first week in September is the very latest date when we may expect
a good-sized audience; every one will be leaving directly after that.
Besides, the story is that Mr. Griffin is going abroad soon to study
art. I don’t think we should interfere with anything as necessary as
study for _his_ art. Ha, ha!”

Some of the listeners to this decided expression of opinion
exchanged side-long glances as they heard it. They remembered how
very enthusiastic the Wheeler mother and daughter had formerly been
concerning Griffin’s services and ability. Mrs. Captain Ben Snow
whispered to Mrs. Colton that she guessed Esther Townsend had put
Margery’s nose out of joint so far as Bob Griffin was concerned.

“That nose is where the shoe pinches just now,” asserted Mrs. Snow.
Mrs. Colton was aware of some peculiarities in the metaphor, but she
agreed with the truth of the statement.

Who should play _Ralph Rackstraw_ was the casting committee’s most
difficult problem and Fate solved it in an unexpected way. A stranger
came to Harniss, a stranger who could sing, who had had much experience
in amateur theatricals, and who in age and physical charm was the
ideal Rackstraw. Best of all he had sung the part elsewhere and in
a big city. Mrs. Wheeler declared his coming was a dispensation of
Providence. Margery agreed with her. So, for the matter of that, did
every female--especially every young female--in the cast. At the first
rehearsal the new _Ralph Rackstraw_ made a hit even before he opened
his mouth to sing. When he did sing the hit assumed the proportions
of a triumph. Margery Wheeler’s regret that she was not to play
_Josephine_ was bitterer than ever and her hatred of Esther Townsend
more implacable.

Bob Griffin knew nothing of all this. Esther had written him, in her
reply to his note, that a visitor was expected at the mansion, and he
had heard rumors that Foster Townsend was entertaining some one from
“out West,” but he paid little attention. The sole dweller in that
house in whom he was the least interested was Esther and he was looking
forward to seeing her very soon. Elisha Cook was steadily improving in
health and the moment his grandson received the doctor’s permission to
leave him for an evening that evening would find Bob Griffin knocking
at the Townsend door.

Esther’s letter, written the day following that upon which she received
his note, was a long one. Its tone was kindly and, remembering only
too well the manner of their parting, he found comfort in that. She
expressed sorrow at the news of his grandfather’s illness, but hoped,
as he did, that it would prove neither serious nor prolonged.

“It is too bad that you were obliged to cancel your reservation on the
_Lavornia_,” she wrote. “Of course you will go on another ship and
as soon as it is safe for you to leave Mr. Cook. I have not changed
my mind in that matter at all, Bob. You must go, for your own sake.
I shall insist upon it. I don’t want to think that you were only
pretending when you told me how you were counting upon the opportunity
to study under the great masters there in Paris. I am sure some of the
things I said to you the other night were too hard and they must have
hurt you. I am sorry I said them and I have worried about them ever
since. But I am just as sure as ever that you must not give up your
chance simply because I have to give up mine. And I do want to have you
tell me that you were wrong in saying what you did about Uncle Foster.
If you could see him now, every day, as I see him, you would know that
he is as sorry as I--yes, or you--that our disappointment had to be. I
have never known him to be so kind and indulgent. And he says so many
nice things about you, too. I am glad enough that he will never know
what you said about him. And, Bob, I want you to go abroad and study
hard, not only for yourself, but--well, yes, for me. Nothing will make
me so proud as to have you prove to him and every one else that you
_are_ a wonderful painter and will be famous some day. That will be
worth working for--yes, and waiting for.”

There was a postscript.

“I haven’t told you a word of news, have I?” added Esther. “Well, there
isn’t much. The Welfare Society has decided to give ‘Pinafore’ in the
town hall early in September and they have coaxed me into trying to
play _Josephine_. She is the captain’s daughter, you remember, and
what I suppose you might call the heroine of the piece. The prospect
frightens me rather, but I am going to try. Uncle seems to want me to
and--well, Bob, it may help to keep my mind occupied during a part of
the time when some one I am very much interested in is so far away. The
other news is that we are expecting a visitor here at home. He comes
from Chicago and is the son of an old friend of Uncle Foster’s out
there. I will tell you more about this--yes, and about everything, when
you call. I hope that will be soon.”

It was not soon, as Bob reckoned time just then, but at last the
doctor admitted that his patient might be left in the care of the
housekeeper without endangering the progress of his convalescence and
the housekeeper herself persuaded Elisha Cook that his grandson needed
at least one evening’s rest.

“He has been shut up here for more than two weeks,” she said, “and he
ought to get a breath of fresh air. You go right out, Bob, and stay
as long as you want to. There’s one of those mesmerizin’ men at the
hall to-night and if I was you I’d go and see him. They tell me he’s
somethin’ wonderful. Taylor Hadley told me that he saw this same man
over to Hyannis last week and the things he done were nothin’ short
of miraculous. He put a boy to sleep right on the stage and then stuck
pins in him just as if he was a--a cushion or somethin’. Taylor said it
was the funniest thing _he_ ever saw. He laughed till he thought he’d
die.”

Old Mr. Cook stirred impatiently in the bed.

“_Must_ have been funny, especially for the boy,” he observed. “It
isn’t such a great trick to stick pins in people, seems to me. Bob
doesn’t need to go to the town hall for that. Suppose I stick a few in
you right now, Sarah; then we can all have a good time.”

The housekeeper did not accept the suggestion. She tartly explained
that the boy was mesmerized and didn’t know anything about it.

“Anyhow,” she declared, “Bob doesn’t have to go to the show unless he
wants to. But he ought to go out somewhere. He needs the fresh air and
exercise after bein’ shut up in this house as long as he has.”

“He hasn’t been shut up in it any longer than I have.... Oh, well,
well! never mind. Stop arguing, for heaven’s sake! Where are you going,
Bob?”

Bob thought he might go for a walk, or a drive, perhaps.

“Where are you going to drive?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps over to Harniss, or thereabouts.”

“Harniss! Humph! You go to Harniss a lot lately, seems to me. Can’t
paint pictures in the night, can you?... Oh, well, go ahead! go
ahead!... Say, if you see Foster Townsend you tell him for me that he
better be saving up his money. He’s going to need a good many dollars
to pay the bill the Supreme Court will hand him pretty soon. He, he!
I’m going to get him this time and I only hope he’s beginning to
realize it.”

The housekeeper cautioned him to be quiet.

“The doctor said you mustn’t talk or even think about that lawsuit,”
she protested. “You want to get well, don’t you?”

“Who said I wasn’t going to get well? You don’t suppose I’ll be fool
enough to die until I win that case, do you?... Oh, do shut up! Bob,
go, if you want to. Don’t stay too long, that’s all. And come in
here and see me when you get back. I’ll be awake. Nobody is going to
mesmerize _me_ and stick pins in me.... Clear out!”

Bob “cleared out,” glad of the opportunity to escape. The Cook horse
never made better time than during that evening’s trip to Harniss.

The Townsend maid--not Nabby Gifford, but the other--answered his ring
and ushered him into the library. Esther was there and there was no
doubt whatever that she was glad to see him. In her manner was no trace
of the angry resentment with which she had bade him good-by two weeks
before. Her letter proved that she had repented of her treatment of
him that night and now, as her hand returned the pressure of his, his
heart leaped joyfully. She was the most glorious girl in all the world
and she was his. Nothing could ever part them. There should be no more
misunderstandings.

Foster Townsend was in the library also, seated in the big leather
chair. His greeting of the caller was as cordial as usual, no more so
but no less. He did not rise, however.

“Hello, Griffin,” he observed. “How are you? You’re quite a stranger.
Had sickness over at your house, I hear. Esther told me.”

“Yes, sir. My grandfather has been under the weather. He is much better
now.”

Townsend did not say he was glad to hear it. He said nothing and,
picking up his newspaper, proceeded to read. Bob accepted Esther’s
invitation to be seated and he and she exchanged casual comments on
unimportant subjects. Bob was impatiently awaiting her uncle’s leaving
them alone together. He had always done this heretofore; now, however,
he remained. A moment later he dropped his paper and spoke.

“Esther says you have had to put off your trip to the other side for a
week or so,” he said. “When are you going?”

Bob hesitated. Esther was regarding him intently and he was aware of
her scrutiny.

“I--well, I don’t exactly know, Captain Townsend,” he replied.

“Humph! I see. That doesn’t mean you aren’t going at all, does it?”

“No, sir. No, I don’t know that it does. I haven’t made up my mind just
what I shall do.”

“Humph! Good deal of a disappointment this having to put it off must
have been to you, I should imagine. I judged from what you said to me,
and what Esther says you said to her, that going over there to learn to
paint is the one thing you’ve wanted to do all your life.”

“Yes, sir. Why--why, yes, it is.”

“Um-hum. Then you’ll go just as soon as you can, of course? Eh?”

Bob hesitated. Townsend bit the end from a cigar.

“Nothing to keep you here now that this sickness is out the way, is
there?” he inquired, carelessly.

“Why--why, no sir. I suppose not.”

“Glad to hear it. Looks like too good a chance for you to miss. Esther
agrees with me there; don’t you, Esther?”

Esther nodded. “He is going, of course,” she said, quickly. “You are,
aren’t you, Bob?”

Bob was in trouble. He had come there fully determined to make one
more plea to Esther’s common sense and justice. He meant to make her
understand how impossible it would be for him to leave her, how their
separation would be precisely what her scheming uncle had hoped and for
which he had planned. And now, in Foster Townsend’s presence, he could
not tell her that. And this cross-examination was placing him in a very
bad position. If he said that he was not going until she did the fat
would be in the fire. If he said that he was going without her, she
would accept that statement as the promise she had demanded. He did not
know what to say.

“Bob,” persisted Esther, “I asked you a question. Didn’t you hear it?
You are going abroad now--very soon--aren’t you?”

He set his teeth. He must make some sort of answer.

“I-- Oh, I--I don’t know exactly what I shall do,” he stammered.
“Grandfather’s sickness has--he isn’t very well and--and perhaps I
shouldn’t leave him, for the present.”

Esther was silent. Foster Townsend stretched his legs and jingled the
change in his pocket.

“I see,” he observed, in a tone of understanding solicitude which made
Bob long to choke him; “that’s it, eh? Well, now that’s the right way
for you to feel and it’s gratifying, these days, to find young folks so
thoughtful of their elders. What does--er--what does your grandfather
say about it? Thinks you had better stay at home, does he?”

“I haven’t talked with him about it yet. Not since he was taken sick.”

“Oh, haven’t you? Well, you will, of course. And when you do I guess
likely he will tell you to go just the same. A friend of mine here in
Harniss met your Denboro doctor yesterday and he says the doctor told
him that Cook would be as well as ever inside of a week. He wanted you
to go in the first place, didn’t he?”

“He was willing I should go.”

“Then I guess he will be just as willing now. From what I hear he
thinks the world of you and he wouldn’t let you do anything that would
hurt you any more than you would do anything to hurt him. No, nor
Esther here would to hurt me; eh, Esther?... But there, your business
isn’t mine, as I know of. Hello, here’s Seymour! You two haven’t met
yet, I guess.”

The hall door had opened and a young man entered the library. He was
a dark-haired, dark-eyed young fellow, with good looks far beyond the
ordinary, and he was dressed in a summer suit of light gray which
fitted perfectly and was very becoming.

Foster Townsend rose from the easy-chair.

“Esther and I have been wondering what had become of you, Seymour,” he
observed. “Been for a walk, have you?”

The young man smiled, showing teeth as perfect as the rest of him.

“I went to the post office, that’s all, Captain Townsend,” he said. “I
tried to coax Esther to go with me, but she wouldn’t.”

“Guess she was expecting a caller, maybe. Anyway, she has got one.
Esther, suppose you do the introducing.”

Esther colored slightly, but she accepted the suggestion.

“Bob,” she said, “this is Seymour Covell, from Chicago. He is visiting
us. You remember I--” She paused, noticing the expression upon the two
faces. “Why!” she cried, in astonishment. “What is it? Do you know each
other?”

It was quite evident that they did. Griffin had risen when Covell
entered. He was gazing at the latter in incredulous surprise. And
Covell, when he turned to face Bob, seemed quite as much astonished.
The hand which he had extended dropped at his side. Of the two, he
appeared the more taken aback by the meeting.

“_Do_ you know each other?” repeated Esther. “You look as if you did.”

Seymour Covell’s embarrassment, if he was embarrassed, was but
momentary. The hand shot forward again to seize Bob’s and shake it
heartily. His handsome face beamed.

“Well, well!” he declared, with a delighted smile, “this is a surprise!
Griffin, who on earth would have expected to find you down here! How
are you, old man? Glad to see you!”

Bob’s gladness was more restrained. He accepted the handshake, but he
did not return it, and his smile seemed, so Esther thought, somewhat
forced. He looked from her to Covell and back again.

“Why, how are you, Covell?” he said. “Where did you come from?”

Covell laughed. “From Chicago. Chicago is my home port. That is the
proper seafaring way to put it, isn’t it, Captain Townsend?... But the
last time I saw you, Griffin, was in New York. What are you doing in
Harniss, Massachusetts?”

Bob shook his head. “Harniss, or next door to it, is where I belong,”
he answered. “This is my home port. But I--well, it is the last port I
ever expected to find you in.”

Foster Townsend interrupted. “Here, here!” he ordered. “Come up into
the wind a minute, you two. Seymour, I didn’t know you and this boy had
ever met before. What is this all about, anyway?”

Covell explained. He was quite at ease now. “Griffin and I are old
friends,” he said. “We were fellow students at what we used to call
the ‘Art Abattoir’ in New York. That is, he was a real student and I
was--well, what can you honestly say I was, Griffin? Say it for me,
will you? I am ashamed to try.”

The laugh which accompanied the speech was infectious. Foster Townsend
laughed, too, and so did Esther. Bob also attempted a laugh, but it was
not a huge success.

“I guess you were as much of a student as I was,” he said, rather
awkwardly. “But what I can’t understand is why you are here--in
Harniss.”

“And in this house” was the thought in his mind, although he did not
utter it. Esther answered the unspoken question.

“Seymour is visiting us,” she put in. “He is that son of Uncle Foster’s
old friend, the one I wrote you about. Don’t you remember I said we
were expecting a visitor?”

Bob did remember it, although it had made little impression when he
read her letter. If she had told him that visitor’s name he would have
remembered. He remembered many things about Seymour Covell.

“I am an invalid, Griffin,” Covell himself explained cheerfully. “You
may not think it to look at me, but I am. I am down here for my health
and my health and I are having a grand old time of it so far, thanks to
the captain--and Esther. I believe the idea is that eventually Captain
Townsend is to put me to work somewhere at something or other, but
just now I am an invalid, strong enough only to enjoy life and sing in
light opera. Esther is responsible for the opera part of it. On her
head be it. She knows most of our audience personally, provided we have
an audience--and I don’t, so I shall be the most care-free sailor that
ever spliced the main brace. Is ‘splicing the main brace’ correct,
Captain Townsend?”

Foster Townsend, with a chuckle, declared it sounded all right to him.
It was evident that his visitor had already captured his fancy. Esther,
who had been watching Bob intently, now spoke.

“The Welfare Society has persuaded Seymour to take the part of _Ralph
Rackstraw_ in our ‘Pinafore’ play,” she said, quickly. “It is ever so
kind of him to do it and I am sure I don’t know what we should have
done if he had refused. There is nobody else in town, or near it, who
can sing that part as it should be sung.”

Covell lifted a hand in protest. “Between you and me, Griffin,” he
said, with a doubting shake of the head, “that ‘care-free’ business I
boasted of is all counterfeit. I am shaking in my shoes. These good
people don’t know what they have been let in for. By the time I get to
the place in that performance where I announce that I ‘go to a dungeon
cell,’ I’m betting that the audience will be perfectly satisfied to
have me go there, provided I don’t come back. Oh, Josephine!” with a
laughing glance at Esther, “I am sorry for you!”

Esther laughed, too, and declared that she was not afraid. Townsend
chuckled. Bob Griffin’s smile was more than ever a product of main
strength and determination. He had seen at least a half dozen
performances of “Pinafore”--in those days every child on the street
knew the most of it by heart--and he remembered only too well the
love scenes between _Rackstraw_ and the captain’s daughter. He and
Seymour Covell had never been friends during their studio days in New
York. They were acquaintances, that was all, and never once during
that acquaintanceship had he hailed Bob affectionately as “old man”
or expressed delight in meeting him. Bob recalled very distinctly a
certain air of condescending amusement in the Covell attitude toward
him and the other fellows who took their work in deadly earnest. Covell
had talent, too. When he cared to take the trouble he could draw or
paint well; but he seldom cared. He had been a favorite with the
instructors, with members of his own crowd--chaps who, like himself,
were fond of a good time and were liberally supplied with money--and
the girls adored him, even the uncomely ones upon whom he wasted little
attention. There was always a cluster of femininity about the Covell
drawing board when the day’s lesson was over.

And there were stories about him. He had the reputation of being a
lady-killer and, if the stories were true, a ruthless one. Of all the
men on earth this Seymour Covell was the very last whom Bob Griffin
cared to see in Esther Townsend’s company, and the thought of his
holding her in his arms and singing love ditties in her ear--even “in
public on the stage”--was unbearable. He was living in the same house
with her; he had made himself a favorite there already, just as he
always did wherever and whenever he cared to try. Captain Townsend
liked him immensely, that was plain enough. Yes, and Esther liked him,
too. She ought to have more discernment. She ought to see the sort of
fellow he was.

Bob Griffin was an even-tempered young man and as sensible as the
average, but he was young and head over heels in love. The manner
in which Covell appealed to Esther and hinted at understandings and
confidences between them made him furious. He was jealous, and growing
more so every minute.

There was further conversation among the four, although Covell did the
most of the talking. He was curious concerning Bob’s progress with
his painting; much interested in the beach studio, and proclaimed his
intention of visiting it some day soon.

“Griffin has the gift; we all used to tell him so,” he declared. “He
will go far, that was the general prophecy among the crowd at the old
Abattoir. I was one of the loudest prophets.”

Which was a lie and Bob was strongly tempted to tell him so. But Foster
Townsend put in a word.

“Griffin is going far now,” he announced. “He is sailing for Paris in a
week or so to keep on with his painting over there.”

Covell said he was delighted. “First rate,” he exclaimed. “Just what
you ought to do. The old Quarter is the place to find out what is what.”

Bob remembered something he had heard.

“Seems to me,” he began. “Why, yes, didn’t I hear that you went over
there yourself, Covell? Some one told me you had studied in Paris.”

Again Covell favored the trio with that pleasant laugh of his.

“Oh, yes!” he admitted, “I was there for awhile. Plugging along pretty
well for me, too, and enjoying it. But the old health machine lost a
cog or something and the doctors sent me home again. The toughest break
of luck I ever had, that was,” he added, with a shrug. “Well, maybe I
shall have another chance by and by. I hope so.”

Townsend grunted in sympathy and Esther said she was sure he would have
that chance.

“We are all so glad Bob is to have his,” she added.

Foster Townsend rose to his feet. “Well, come on, Seymour,” he ordered.
“Let’s you and I go out and see Varunas for a spell. I want you to go
around the Circle with me behind Claribel to-morrow. You haven’t seen
her do a mile yet and it is high time you did. The mare is growing
older, like the rest of us, but she can make some of the trotters
around here carry all the sail they can spread and fall astern--even
now.”

They left the room together, Covell pausing to shake Bob’s hand once
more and express his pleasure at their reunion. Left alone--something
Griffin had become to believe was not likely to happen that
evening--he and Esther faced each other. His expression was somber
enough. She, too, seemed a little uneasy.

“Isn’t it nice that Uncle Foster has some one with him at last who will
take an interest in his trotting horses,” she said. “I used to pretend
to, but he soon found out it was only make-believe. Seymour really does
like horses; any one can see that he does.”

Bob sniffed. “He used to have the name of liking anything that was
fast,” he said; and was immediately sorry that he had said it. Esther
looked at him.

“Now what do you mean by that?” she queried.

Bob hesitated and then replied that perhaps he had not meant anything
in particular.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” he added. “How long has he been
with you in this house?”

“Why, I don’t know; ten days or so. How could I tell you before? I
haven’t seen you for more than two weeks. And I wrote you in my letter
that we were expecting some one.”

“You didn’t tell me his name.”

“Why should I? I didn’t suppose the name would mean anything to you.
I hadn’t the least idea that you knew each other.... Bob, what is the
matter with you this evening? I never saw you so queer. When Uncle
Foster was asking you about going abroad you scarcely answered him. And
you were almost rude to Mr. Covell. The way you glared at him! I am
awfully afraid he noticed it; I don’t see how he could help it. I was
ashamed of you. What is it all about?”

He was glowering at that moment, not at her, but at the carpet.

“He seems to have made himself mighty popular in his ten days,” he
observed, bitterly. “Look here! _Is_ he going to take part with you in
that ‘Pinafore’ thing?”

“Certainly he is. The committee were at their wits’ end to know who to
pick for the _Ralph Rackstraw_ part. His coming was the luckiest thing
that ever happened. He sings well and he has had lots of experience in
amateur theatricals. And he was so nice about it. He didn’t want to
take the part, here, among strangers.... What did you say?”

He had muttered an inaudible something. A thought came to her.

“Why, Bob,” she cried, “you’re not cross because you weren’t invited
to take part, are you? You don’t sing. You refused to sing even in the
chorus at the Old Folks’ Concert. And we--I mean the committee--seemed
to think it wasn’t necessary to have any one select the costumes this
time; the books tells us just what to wear. You mustn’t feel slighted.
I never supposed for a minute that you would.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Of course I don’t feel slighted,” he
declared. “That doesn’t amount to anything.”

“Then what is it? Why are you so grumpy? I never saw you act so before.”

He frowned. “Esther,” he blurted, after a moment of indecision, “I
don’t like this business at all. I don’t like it.”

“What business?”

“Having this fellow here in the house with you, going everywhere with
you and--and, well, I don’t like it.”

She gazed at him in incredulous astonishment. Then she laughed merrily.

“Bob!” she exclaimed. “Why, Bob Griffin! You are not jealous, are you?
You are not silly enough to be _that_.”

He was precisely that, but of course--perhaps for that very reason--he
hotly denied the accusation.

“Of course I’m not jealous,” he declared. “Don’t be foolish, Esther....
And don’t laugh either. There is nothing to laugh about.”

She tried her best to obey, but the laugh still lingered at the corner
of her lips. She leaned forward to take his hand.

“Bob!” she said, reproachful. He drew his hand away.

“I don’t like his being with you,” he insisted. “I don’t like it at
all. He ought not to be here.”

“But I can’t help his being here, can I? He is uncle’s visitor, not
mine. And his father was one of uncle’s best friends years ago. And so,
when old Mr. Covell wrote--”

“Oh, never mind! I don’t care how he got here. He isn’t the sort of
fellow you ought to be with. And I don’t want you to take part in that
‘Pinafore’ play with him.”

“But I must take part. I have promised that I would. Bob, don’t be so
unreasonable.... Why do you say that he isn’t the sort of fellow I
should be with? What makes you say that?”

“Because it is the truth. He is a--well, he is--oh, he isn’t your kind,
that’s all.”

“What does that mean? What is my kind?”

“You know well enough. He is-- Oh, I won’t talk about him behind his
back!”

“But you have talked about him. You have said too much or not enough,
one or the other. Why don’t you like him? He likes you. He said you and
he were friends there in New York.”

“He lied when he said it. He never had anything to do with me. He and
his gang were too busy high-rolling to bother with a fellow who was
there just to study painting. He had a pocketful of money and-- Why,
Esther, if you knew half of the stories I have heard about him you
wouldn’t like him any better than I do.”

“What sort of stories?”

“Oh--well, I’m not going to tell them to you. They aren’t stories you
ought to hear.”

“Do you know they are true?”

“Why shouldn’t they be true? Everybody said--”

“I don’t care what every one said. People say all sorts of things,
especially when they are envious of other people. Do you know they were
true?”

“No-o. At least I never _saw_ anything out of the way, if that is what
you mean. Why should I? I never was invited to any of his--parties. He
hadn’t any use for me; I told you that.”

“Yes, you did tell me. You didn’t like him then and you don’t like him
now and so, because you don’t like him, you sit here and hint--hint at
things that, for all you know, may have been just mean gossip without
a word of truth behind them. Rich people are always gossiped about. I
have lived with Uncle Foster long enough to learn that.... Bob, if you
can’t prove anything against Mr. Covell I think it would be much better
for you not to talk about him at all.”

Her temper was rising now. If his own had not been at the boiling point
he might have noticed the symptoms and been more careful. But he was
past taking care.

“I tell you this,” he cried, determinedly: “If you think I am going
off to Europe and leave you here with him you are very much mistaken.
_That_ much is settled, anyhow.”

She rose to her feet.

“Do you mean that you don’t trust me enough to--to leave me with
anybody?” she demanded.

“I mean that I won’t leave you with him. I should say not! With
him--and with that uncle of yours standing behind him, helping him
play his cards and--and.... Oh, Esther, think a little bit! Can’t you
see that getting this Covell here is just a part of your uncle’s whole
scheme? Get me out of the way, send me across the water, and--well,
then maybe, with this chap around to help you forget, you will forget.
And everything will be all serene for Foster Townsend. Not much! I
wasn’t going before--I told you so--and if I wouldn’t then I certainly
shan’t now. I’m not an absolute fool. Why--”

She broke in upon the tirade. “Wait!” she ordered. “Wait before you
say anything more. Does this mean that when you came here to-night you
intended telling me that you weren’t going to do what I had asked; that
you weren’t going abroad unless I did?”

“Until you did--yes. Oh, Esther,” with a sudden outburst of tenderness,
“don’t look like that and don’t speak like that--to me. How could I
go? If you knew how hard I had tried to make myself see that I ought to
do what you asked! But I couldn’t! I _know_ I shouldn’t go. I came to
beg you not to insist on it. And I haven’t seen you for so long, two
whole weeks! I have looked forward to to-night-- Oh, dearest, please!
Let’s not quarrel again. Let’s--”

He came toward her. She stepped back.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t! I-- Oh, I can hardly believe all this! It
doesn’t seem possible that it is you who have said such things. The
last time you were here, when you said what you did about Uncle Foster
I--well, after you had gone I tried to find excuses for you. I knew you
were disappointed and--well, I was sure you didn’t mean what you said
and would tell me so when we met again. And now, instead of that, you
say the same things--or worse. So you did mean them, after all.”

“Well--well--oh, hang it all! Esther, I said--I said what I
believed--yes. And I believe it now.”

“Then you believe my uncle is a scamp and a hypocrite and a liar--and I
don’t know what beside. You believe that!”

“I didn’t call him a liar. But I do believe all this keeping you at
home and telling me that I ought to go is just a part of his scheme to
separate us. Yes, and I believe you think it is, too--or you would if
you weren’t so loyal to him and would let yourself think honestly.... I
won’t say that he has lied, exactly, but--”

“Why not? You have called Seymour Covell a liar. Not to his face--oh,
no! But behind his back--to me.”

“Well--I--”

“That is enough. I don’t want to hear any more. Not a word.”

“But, Esther--”

“No. I have learned a great deal to-night. You paid no attention to my
wishes. You say yourself that you had no intention of promising what I
asked, even when you knew it was as hard for me as it could be for you,
and that I asked it just for your sake. And then--as if that wasn’t
enough--you let me see that you are going to stay here because you
don’t trust me out of your sight.”

“I do. I didn’t say--”

“Yes, you did. Well, you may do as you please. And I shall do as I
please. Good-night.”

“Esther--”

“Good-night.”

He held out his arms. Then, as she made no move nor spoke, the temper,
which he had fought so hard to conquer, got the better of him again.

“All right,” he said, turning. “All right, then. I said I wasn’t a
fool. I was wrong, I guess; I have been one, even if I’m not now.
You care a whole lot more for your old scamp of an uncle than you do
for me, and you can order me out and let this Covell stay.... I have
learned a few things myself this evening.... Good-night!”

He strode from the room and, a moment later, the front door of the
Townsend mansion closed behind him.

This time the parting was absolute, irrevocable, final; they were sure
of it, both of them. And they were too angry to care--then.




CHAPTER XVI


Foster Townsend was noticing a change in his niece’s manner and
behavior. The change, it seemed to him, dated from the evening when
Seymour Covell and Bob Griffin renewed their acquaintanceship in the
library, when they met in his own and Esther’s presence. At least,
if not that evening, then certainly the next morning. Prior to that,
for two weeks or more, she had been, he thought, unusually grave and
quiet, and at times in her manner toward him there was--or he fancied
there was--a certain constraint which he did not understand. He did not
question her concerning it; that troubled conscience of his made him
not too eager to press an understanding. She could not have learned
from Jane Carter the real reason why her European trip had been given
up. He had sworn the Carter woman to secrecy and her obligation to him
was too great to allow her to risk dropping a hint to Esther in the
letters which the latter occasionally received.

Nevertheless there was something wrong. He thought it quite probable
that, as Griffin did not call, the pair might have had a falling out.
Soon, however, he heard of Elisha Cook’s illness and Bob’s absence was
explained. The telegram announcing Seymour Covell’s visit, followed by
the prompt appearance of that young man at the Townsend mansion took
his mind from other matters and he ceased to wonder concerning Esther’s
odd behavior. Then, all at once, her behavior became still more odd,
although in an exactly opposite way, and was again forced upon his
attention.

From the morning following the Griffin call--a surprisingly short one
it had seemed to him considering their fortnight’s separation--her
gravity and preoccupation disappeared. Now she very seldom went to
her room to remain there alone for an hour or more. She was with him
or with Covell the greater part of every day and in the evenings.
She was always ready to sing or play when asked and from being but
passively interested in the “Pinafore” production she became very
eager and seemed to look forward to each rehearsal. These rehearsals
were almost nightly as the date of performance drew near, and between
times _Josephine_ and _Rackstraw_ spent hours practicing their scenes
together in the parlor at or beside the piano. And Bob Griffin came no
more to the house.

Esther’s attitude toward Seymour Covell had changed also. When he first
came she was pleasant and agreeable when in his company, but she never
sought that company. In fact, her uncle was inclined to feel that she
kept away from it as much as she politely could. There was no doubt
whatever that Covell sought hers. From the moment of their introduction
he had sought it. During his first meal at the Townsend table he, as
Nabby told her husband, repeating what the maid had told her, looked at
Esther “a whole lot more than he did at what was on his plate.”

“Did she look at him as much as all that?” Varunas had asked.

“I didn’t hear. I don’t know’s I’d blame her much if she did. He’s
worth lookin’ at. Handsome a young feller as I’ve ever set eyes on. I
don’t know’s I shan’t be fallin’ in love with him myself,” Nabby added,
with a surprising affectation of kittenishness.

Varunas seemed to find it surprising enough. He looked at her for a
moment and then turned on his heel.

“Where you goin’ now?” his wife demanded.

“Down street--to buy you a lookin’ glass,” he retorted and slammed the
door.

This new change in Esther affected her relations with the visitor. She
avoided him no longer. They were together a great deal, although, to
be entirely honest, he was still the pursuer. Foster Townsend was not
wholly satisfied with this condition of affairs. He liked young Covell
well enough; for the matter of that it would have been hard not to
like him. As Covell, Senior, wrote in his first letter, he possessed
the knack of making people like him at first sight. Varunas, crotchety
as he very often was, liked him immensely, although he refused to admit
it to his wife, who was continually chanting praises.

Townsend was a good judge of men and prided himself upon that faculty,
so, although he found his friend’s son agreeable, witty, a fascinating
talker and the best of company, he reserved his decision concerning
what might lie beneath all these taking qualities until he should come
to know him better. As he would have expressed it, he wanted time to
find out how he “wore.” There were some objections already in his mind.
He expressed one of them to Varunas, with whom he was likely to be as
confidential as with any one except his niece--or, of course and at
times, with Reliance Clark.

“He’s almost too good looking,” he said. “I never saw one of those
fellows yet--one so pretty that he looked as if he belonged in a
picture book--who wasn’t spoiled by fool women. There are enough of
that kind in Harniss who would like nothing better than the chance to
spoil this one; that is plain enough already. And he doesn’t mind their
trying--that is just as plain.”

Varunas nodded. He had half a mind to repeat a few stories he had
heard. There was Margery Wheeler, people were saying that she was
making a fool of herself over young Covell, although they did say that
he paid little attention to her. And there was a girl named Campton,
whose family lived on the lower road, not far from Tobias Eldridge’s
home, who was pretty and vivacious and who bore the local reputation
of being a “great hand for the fellows.” She had a passable voice and
was one of _Sir Joseph Porter’s_ “sisters or cousins or aunts” in the
“Pinafore” chorus. She and Seymour Covell were friendly, it was said.
Mrs. Tobias Eldridge was responsible for the report that he had been
seen leaving the Campton cottage at a late hour. Mrs. Eldridge confided
to a bosom friend that, from what she could make out, he didn’t come
to that cottage very early either. “Saw Esther home from rehearsal
first and then went down to Carrie Campton’s without tellin’ anybody;
that’s my guess, if you want to know,” she whispered. “But for heaven’s
sake don’t say _I_ ever said such a thing. Course it may not be true,
but Tobias himself saw somebody he was sure was him comin’ out of their
front door at twelve o’clock last time he went to lodge meetin’. Last
time Tobias went, I mean.”

The bosom friend had imparted this confidence, as a secret not to be
divulged, to another bosom friend, and, at last, some one had whispered
it to Varunas Gifford. Varunas was tempted to tell the story to his
employer, but decided not to do so. It might stir up trouble; you never
could tell how Cap’n Foster would take a yarn of that kind. He would
be just as likely as not to declare it was all a lie, and no one’s
business anyhow, and give him--Varunas--fits for repeating it. And,
after all, it _was_ no one’s business--except Seymour’s. Young fellows
were only young once and Carrie Campton was “cute” and attractive.
Varunas cherished the illusion that when he, himself, was young he had
been a heartbreaker. And he liked Covell. So he said nothing about the
rumored philandering.

The advance sale of seats for the “Pinafore” production had exceeded
all expectations. And the evening of the performance brought to the
town hall the largest audience it had ever held, even larger than that
attending the Old Folks’ Concert. Miss Abbie Makepeace, who contributed
the Harniss “locals” to the _Item_, sat up until three o’clock the
following morning writing rhapsodies concerning the affair. She used
up the very last half inch of space allotted to her and interesting
jottings like “Our well known boniface Mrs. Sarepta Ginn will close
her select boarding house and hostelry on the fifteenth of the month
for the season as usual” were obliged to be put over for another week.
Abbie’s whole column was filled with naught but “Pinafore.” “I never
supposed there could be anything else as important as that happen in
_this_ town in one week,” she explained to Reliance Clark the next day.
“If I’d ever expected--but, my soul, who _could_ expect such a thing!”

Varunas made no less than three trips from the mansion to the hall
that evening. His first passengers were Esther and Seymour Covell,
who, being performers, were obliged to be on hand early for dress and
make-up. The next occupants of the rear seat were Foster Townsend and
Captain and Mrs. Benjamin Snow. The Snow carryall was in the paintshop
and Townsend had invited them to ride with him. Nabby and the maid were
the third load. It was not until the Giffords were in their seats at
the hall that Varunas found opportunity to ask the question which was
in his mind.

“Nabby,” he whispered, “is anything the matter between Seymour and
Esther? Have they had a fallin’ out or anything?”

His wife turned to look at him. “What makes you ask that?” she
whispered, in return.

“The way they acted all the time I was drivin’ ’em down here to-night.
Never hardly spoke a word to each other, they didn’t. That is, she
never. He set out to once or twice, but she scarcely so much as
answered him. Anything happened that you know of?”

She shook her head. “They was that way all through supper,” she said.
“Cap’n Foster noticed it, too. The hired girl said she suspicioned
somethin’ was up, so I made an excuse and went into the dinin’ room
myself. They was mum as a deef and dumb asylum when I was there and I
see the cap’n watchin’ ’em and pullin’ his whiskers the way he does
when he’s bothered. I couldn’t make it out. They were sociable as could
be at dinner time and I heard ’em singin’ their songs and laughin’ in
the parlor afterwards. Whatever happened must have been after that,
that’s sure.”

Varunas nodded. “Oh, well,” he observed philosophically, “probably
’tain’t nothin’ much. They’ll get over it. Young fellows and girls are
always squabblin’ when they’re keepin’ company. Huh,” with a chuckle,
“I remember one time when I was sparkin’ around with--” He paused and
changed the subject. “There’s Cornelius Gott, struttin’ in,” he said.
“Goin’ to lead the music, they tell me. Got his funeral clothes on, of
course. He gives me the creeps, that feller does. When I think of all
the folks he’s helped lay out--Godfreys!”

Mrs. Gifford ignored the talented Cornelius.

“Why didn’t you finish what you was sayin’ first along?” she demanded,
tartly. “Who was this one you used to spark around with? I don’t
recollect ever hearin’ about her afore.”

Her husband shifted on the settee. “Oh, nobody, I guess,” he muttered.
“I was just talkin’.”

“Humph! _I_ guess ’twas a nobody, too. Nobody that was anybody would
have done much sparkin’ with you.”

“Is that so? Well, I never noticed you lockin’ the door when I used
to trot around three times a week.... Oh, well, there, there! let’s
don’t fight about what can’t be helped--I mean what’s past and gone. If
Seymour and Esther have had a rumpus probably ’twon’t last long.... I
don’t know, though; she’s pretty fussy. All the Townsends are hard to
please. You’ve got to step just so or they’ll light on you. Look how
that Griffin boy was hangin’ around; and now where is he? Don’t come
nigh the place.”

Nabby sniffed. “_He_ never amounted to anything,” she declared. “I
knew perfectly well Esther’d hand him his walkin’ ticket when she got
ready. Mercy on us, Varunas Gifford, you ain’t puttin’ old Lisha Cook’s
grandson in the same barrel with Mr. Covell, are you?”

The overture began just then and the curtain rose soon afterward. The
group of tars adjacent to the rickety canvas bulwarks of the good ship
“Pinafore” announced that they sailed the ocean blue, taking care to
obey orders and not lean against those bulwarks. They welcomed their
gallant captain, who in turn informed them that he never swore a big,
big D. Abbie Makepeace glanced anxiously at the Rev. Mr. Colton when
she heard this; but, as he was smiling, she decided it might be
proper to smile a little, too. _Rackstraw_ and _Josephine_ and _Dick
Deadeye_ and _Sir Joseph_ and all the rest made their entrances and
were greeted with applause. The performance swung on, gaining momentum
and spirit as the performers recovered from stage fright. The voice of
the prompter was heard not too frequently and none of the scenery fell
down, although it suffered from acute attacks of the shivers. A great
success, from beginning to end.

But, whereas at the Old Folks’ Concert, Esther Townsend had scored
the unquestioned hit of the evening; on this occasion her triumph was
shared by another. If, as _Josephine_, she was applauded and encored
and acclaimed, so also was Seymour Covell as _Ralph Rackstraw_. If
some of the mothers and fathers in that hall could have read the minds
of their daughters while that handsome sailor was on the stage, they
might have been surprised and disturbed. Covell was entirely at ease.
There was no awkwardness or stage fright in his acting or singing. His
voice rang strong and true, he played his part with grace and dash,
and when in the final chorus, arrayed in the glittering uniform of
a captain in the Royal Navy, he clasped _Josephine_ in his arms and
tunefully declared that the “clouded sky was now serene,” even the
demurely proper Miss Makepeace was conscious of a peculiar thrill
beneath the bosom of her black silk. The fascinating young gentleman
from Chicago was before, as well as behind, the footlights the hero of
the performance.

Esther, in spite of the applause and encores, the floral tributes and
the praise of her associates behind the scenes, was conscious that she
was not doing her best. Even in the midst of her most important scenes
she found her thoughts wandering miserably. Memories of the happy
evening of the concert kept intruding upon her mind. When the bouquets
were handed her by Mr. Gott she accepted them smilingly, but with no
inward enthusiasm. Her uncle’s floral tribute was even more beautiful
and expressive than on the former occasion and from her Aunt Reliance
came a bunch of old-fashioned posies which were lovely and fragrant.
A magnificent cluster of carnations bore the card of Seymour Covell.
She scarcely looked at them; she and Mr. Covell had had an unpleasant
scene in the parlor that afternoon. He might not have meant to be
presuming--he had protested innocence of any such intention and had
contritely begged her pardon--but she was not in a forgiving mood. It
had been a horrid day and the evening was just as detestable. She cared
little for the approval of her friends and nothing whatever for the
flowers they gave her. There were no tea roses among them. Bob Griffin
was not in the audience. She had looked everywhere for him but he was
not there. There was no reason why he should be, of course. Considering
the way he had treated her he would have been brazen indeed to come.

She bore the congratulations and handshakes as best she could, but she
whispered to her uncle that she was very tired and begged to be taken
home as soon as possible. The Snows were left at their door and she
and Foster Townsend and Nabby and Varunas rode back to the mansion
together. Seymour Covell remained at the hall. He had promised to help
in the “clearing up.” He suggested that he be permitted to walk home
when the clearing up was over, but to this Captain Townsend would
not consent. “Varunas will drive back for you,” he said. An argument
followed, for Covell insisted that he might not be ready to leave for
two hours or more and Gifford must not be kept from his bed so long. It
ended in a compromise. Varunas was to drive the span to the hall once
more, hitch the horses in one of the sheds at the rear, and return to
the mansion on foot.

“By the time you’re through, Seymour,” declared the captain, “you won’t
want to do any more walking. You’ll be glad enough to ride. It won’t do
the horses any harm to stand in the shed a warm night like this.”

Esther went to her own room, almost immediately after her arrival at
the big house. She was too weary even to talk, she told her uncle.
Townsend announced his own intention of “turning in” at once. “No need
for any of us to sit up for Seymour,” he added. “I told Varunas he
needn’t, either. Seymour will do his own unharnessing. He is handy with
horses and he’ll attend to the span; he told me he would.”

So, within an hour after the fall of the final curtain, the Townsend
mansion was, except for the hanging lamp burning dimly in the front
hall, as dark as most of the other houses in Harniss. The lights in
the town hall were extinguished just before midnight. The rattle of
the last carriage wheel along the main road or the depot road or the
Bayport road died away. From the window of the bedroom in their house
on the lower road Mr. Tobias Eldridge peered forth for his usual
good-night look at the sky and the weather.

“Clear as a bell,” announced Tobias. “Never see so many stars in my
life, don’t know as I ever did. Lights things up pretty nigh much as
moonlight.”

“Oh, come to bed,” ordered his wife, who was already there. “I never
see such a man to sit up when there wasn’t any need for it. I’ll bet
you there ain’t another soul wastin’ kerosene along this road from
beginnin’ to end. Do put out that lamp.”

Her husband chuckled. “You’d lose your bet,” he observed. “There’s a
light in the Campton settin’-room. I can see it from here. Carrie ain’t
home yet, I guess. Say, she looked mighty pretty up there on the stage
to-night, didn’t she?”

Mrs. Eldridge sniffed. “She done her best to look that way,” she said.
“Paint and powder and I don’t know what all! If I was her folks she’d
be to home before this, now I tell you. Put out that _lamp_!”

Tobias obeyed orders. “Women are funny critters,” he philosophized.
“You are all down on Carrie because she is pretty and the boys like
her. Next to Esther Townsend she was the best-lookin’ girl in that show
to-night. I heard more than one say so, too.”

“Umph! More men, you mean. I don’t doubt it. Well, handsome is that
handsome does, but men don’t never pay attention to _that_. There’s no
fool like an old fool--especially an old man fool. Well, you’re in
bed at last, thank goodness! Now let’s see if there is such a thing as
sleep.”

If Tobias had been permitted to remain longer at the window, and if
he had looked up the beach and away from the village instead of down
the road leading toward it, he might have noticed another yellow glare
flash into being behind the dingy panes of a building not far from his
post of observation. He would have been surprised and perhaps disturbed
to the point of investigation had he seen it, for the building was his
own property; this light came from the bracket lamp in Bob Griffin’s
“studio” beyond the low point, facing the sea.

Esther had been wrong when she decided that Bob was not in the town
hall during the performance of “Pinafore.” He had made up his mind not
to go near the place. He had no wish to see her under such conditions.
He tried to convince himself that he never wished to see her
again--anywhere, at any time. She had treated him abominably. She had
led him on, had encouraged--or, at least, had never discouraged--his
visits and his society. She must have guessed that he was falling in
love with her; surely it was plain enough. And then, when circumstances
had forced from him avowal of that love, she had not--no, she had not
resented it. She had even allowed him to think that his affection was,
to an extent, returned. And she had been glad when he announced his
intention of joining her in Paris. And then--oh, he must not think of
the happenings since then!

Well, he was through with her forever. Absolutely through. He could go
to Paris now with a clear conscience. His grandfather was practically
well again and he might go when he pleased. Yet so far he had made no
new reservations nor set a date for his departure. To be away, far
away, where he could not see her or hear of her ought, considering
everything, to have been an alluring prospect--but it was not.

On the evening of the opera he had remained with his grandfather until
the latter’s early hour for retiring. Then he came downstairs and tried
to read, but soon threw down his book and went out. He harnessed
the horse to the buggy and drove out of the yard with no definite
destination in mind. The horse, perhaps from force of habit, turned
east along the main road. Later that main road became the main road of
Harniss. By that time Bob had decided to go to the town hall--never
mind why; he, himself, was not certain. He left the horse and buggy at
the local livery stable. It was after eight when he climbed the steps
of the hall. The curtain had risen and there was “standing room only,”
so the ticket seller told him. He crowded in behind a double row of
other standees at the rear of the ranks of benches and remained there,
looking and listening, to the bitter end.

It was bitter. When she made her first entrance and smiled in pleased
surprise at the applause which greeted her, he began to suffer the
pangs of self-torture. The sight of her, beautiful, charming, the sound
of her voice, the zest with which she played her part--all these were
like poisoned arrows to him. If she had shown the least evidence of the
misery she should have felt, which he was feeling--but she did not. To
all outward appearance she was happy, she was enjoying herself. She
had forgotten him entirely. And the tender looks which she bestowed
upon Seymour Covell as her sailor lover were altogether too convincing.
Those love scenes which Bob had resentfully remembered when she told
him Covell was to play _Rackstraw_ were far worse in their portrayal
than in his fancy. A dozen times he was on the point of leaving the
hall, but he did not leave; he remained and saw and suffered. Furiously
jealous, utterly wretched, he stood there until the curtain fell. Then
he hurried out into the night, eager to get away from her, from the
crowd, from everybody--from his own thoughts, if that were possible.

It was not, of course. At first he started toward the stable where he
had left the Cook horse and buggy. Half-way there he changed his mind
and, leaving the main road, turned down the lower road until he came to
the beach. He was in no hurry to get back to Denboro. His grandfather
was sure to be awake and expecting him and ready for questions and
conversation. He would have to tell where he had been and, if he
mentioned the “Pinafore” performance, that would have to be described
in detail. He simply could not talk about it now, that evening, and
he would not. The memory of the final tableau, with Esther and Covell
in close embrace, was--was-- If he could only forget it! If he could
forget her!

He tramped the beach for miles in the starlight. At last, suddenly
awakening to a realization of the distance he had traveled, he turned
and walked back again. He endeavored to dismiss the evening’s torture
from his mind and to center his thinking upon himself and what his
own course should be. The sensible thing was to go abroad at once. He
would go. Then, having clenched his teeth upon this determination, he
immediately unclenched them.... To go and leave her with her scheming
uncle had been bad enough, but to leave her with this other fellow, who
was, of course, just one more pawn in the Townsend game, that was the
point where his resolution stuck and refused to pass.

He came opposite his beach studio and, acting upon a sudden impulse,
unlocked the door and entered. He lighted the bracket lamp and sat
down in a chair to continue his thinking, and, if possible, reach
some decision. It was as hard to reach there as it had been during
his walk. Covell--Covell--Covell! For _that_ fellow to marry Esther
Townsend! Yet, on the other hand, why not? Handsome, accomplished,
fascinating--the son of a millionaire! And backed by the influence of
the big mogul of Ostable County! What chance had Elisha Cook’s grandson
against that combination? If Esther had ever really loved him--Bob
Griffin--then-- But she did not. She had thrown him off like an old
glove. Then, in heaven’s name, _why_ was he such a fool as to waste
another thought on her?

He rose from the chair determined to sail for Europe by the next
steamer. He blew out the lamp, locked the door, and started, walking
more briskly now, in the general direction of the livery stable. Still
thinking and debating, in spite of his brave determination, he had
reached a point just beyond the Campton cottage on the lower road when
he heard a sound which caused him to awaken from his nightmare. A thick
dump of silver-leaf saplings bordered the road at his left and in their
black shadow he saw a bulk of shadow still blacker, a shadow which
moved. He walked across to investigate.

As he came near the shadow assumed outline. A two-seated carriage and
a pair of horses. He recognized the outfit at once. The horses were
the Townsend span and the carriage the Townsend “two-seater.” He could
scarcely believe it. What on earth were they doing there, on the lower
road, at this time of night--or morning?

The idea that the span might have run away, or wandered off by
themselves, was dispelled when, upon examination, he found them
attached by a leather hitching strap to the stockiest of the
silver-leaf saplings. This, of course, but made the puzzle still harder
to answer. Who had brought them there? Varunas alone; or Varunas acting
as driver for Foster Townsend? But, if Townsend had come to one of the
few houses on that part of the road, where was Varunas, who would,
naturally, remain with the horses? And if Varunas had come alone--why?
And there was no dwelling within fifty yards of that spot.

Bob turned and looked up the road. The nearest house was that occupied
by Henry Campton, father of Carrie Campton whom Bob knew slightly and
had seen that evening in the “Pinafore” chorus at the town hall. The
Campton cottage was on the other side of the way, but its windows were
dark. He turned to look in the opposite direction and as he did so, he
heard, from somewhere behind him, a door close softly. Turning once
more, he saw a figure walking rapidly toward the spot where the span
was tethered.

Bob started to walk away and then hesitated. He was curious, naturally.
If the person approaching was Captain Foster Townsend he had no wish to
meet him; but if, as was more probable, the person was Varunas Gifford
then he was tempted to wait and ask what he was doing there at two
o’clock in the morning. So he remained in the shadow by the carriage.
It was not until the newcomer was within a few feet of him that the
recognition came. The man who had come out of the Campton house was
neither Townsend nor Gifford, but Seymour Covell.

Covell did not recognize Bob. It was not until the latter moved that he
grasped the fact that there was any one there. Then he started, stopped
and leaned forward to look.

“Who is that?” he demanded, sharply. Bob stepped out from the shadow.

“It is all right, Covell,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed.”

Covell did not, apparently, recognize him even then. He stood still and
tried to peer under the shade of the Griffin hatbrim.

“Who is it?” he repeated, his tone still sharply anxious.

Bob pushed back the hat. “Griffin,” he answered. “It is all right.
Nothing to be frightened about.”

Covell took a step toward him. “Eh?” he queried. “What--? Oh, it is
you, is it! I couldn’t see.” Then, after a moment, he added: “What are
you doing here?”

The tone in which the question was put was neither pleasant nor polite.
There was resentment in it and suspicion, so it seemed to Griffin. He
was strongly tempted to counter with an inquiry of his own, for surely
his presence at that spot at that time was not more out of the ordinary
than Seymour Covell’s. His explanation was easy to give, however, so he
gave it.

“Nothing in particular,” he replied. “I have been down at my shanty,
the one I use as a studio, and I was walking back when I saw these
horses standing here. I wondered, at first, whose they were and then
why they had been left here at this time of night. So I stopped for a
minute to investigate, that is all.”

The explanation was complete and truthful, but Covell seemed to find it
far from satisfactory.

“Humph!” he grunted, still scrutinizing Griffin intently and with a
frown. “That is all, is it? You weren’t here for any particular reason,
then?”

“No. Why should I be?”

“I don’t know why you should. I can’t see that you need be concerned
with these horses. Nor why they were left here or who left them, for
that matter. What business was it of yours?”

“Not any, I suppose. It seemed a little odd, considering the time. When
I saw whose horses they were I couldn’t imagine why Captain Townsend or
his driver had come to this part of the town so late. I never thought
of you.... Good-night.”

He turned to go, but Covell detained him.

“Wait!” he ordered. “Say, look here, Griffin, there are a good many odd
things about all this, seems to me. I want to know why you-- Say, where
is this place you call a studio?”

“A quarter of a mile up the beach. Why?”

“Do you usually spend your nights in it?”

“No.”

“You live in--what is it?--Denboro, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are a long way from home, I should say.... Yes, and with a
damned poor excuse, if you want to know.”

Bob did not answer. The fellow’s tone and manner were offensive and,
disliking him as he did and with his own temper set on a hair trigger
just then, he thought it best to leave before the interview became a
quarrel. He turned to go, but Covell caught him by the shoulder.

“No, you don’t!” he declared. “You don’t get out of it like that. I
want to know why you are hanging around here in the middle of the
night.”

Bob shook the grip from his shoulder.

“What is the matter with you, Covell?” he demanded, angrily. “Don’t
speak to me like that.”

“I speak as I please. Now then, out with it! What are you doing here?”

“I told you. For the matter of that, what are you doing here,
yourself?... Not that I care what you do, of course.”

Covell’s fists clenched. For an instant Bob thought he was going to
strike him. He did not, however. Instead he laughed, mockingly.

“Oh, no, you don’t care, do you?” he sneered. “You don’t care a little
bit. I could see that when we met that night at the Townsends’. Well, I
haven’t met you there since, I’ll say that much.”

It was Bob who narrowed the space between them. His step brought them
face to face.

“Covell,” he said, deliberately, “you are drunk, I suppose. That is the
only excuse I can think of for you. Well, drunk or sober, you may go to
the devil. Do you understand?”

“I understand _you_ all right, Griffin. And I understand why you are
hanging around, trying to find out what I do and where I go. I can
understand that well enough. You cheap sneak!”

Bob scarcely heard the epithet. It was the first part of the speech
which brought enlightenment to his mind. At last he understood, as he
might so easily have understood before if he had had time to think.
Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder at the Campton cottage.

“I see!” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes, yes! I see.... Humph!”

Covell had noticed the look and its direction. He raised his hand.

“By gad!” he cried, his voice rising almost to a shout. “I’ll--”

He sprang forward, his fist upraised. Bob, by far the cooler of the
two, seized the lifted arm and held it.

“Hush!” he whispered. “Hush, you fool! There is some one coming.”

Some one was coming, was almost upon them. If they had not been so
absorbed in their own affairs they would have heard the step minutes
before and might have noticed that it had paused as if the person,
whoever he or she might be, had stopped to listen. Now the steps came
on again and the walker, a man, appeared on the sidewalk opposite. He
was evidently looking in their direction.

“Hello!” he hailed, after a moment. “Who is that? What’s the matter?
Anything?”

Bob answered. “No. Nothing is the matter,” he said.

“Oh! I didn’t know but there might be.... Say, who are you, anyhow?”

There was no reply to this. The man--his voice, so Bob thought, seemed
familiar although he could not identify it--took a step forward as if
to cross the road. Then he halted and asked, a little uneasily: “You’re
out kind of late, ain’t you?”

Again it was Bob who answered. “Why, yes, rather,” he said, as calmly
as he could, considering the state of his feelings. “We’re all right.
Don’t let us keep you. You are out rather late yourself, aren’t you?”

In spite of its forced calmness the tone was not too inviting. The man
stepped back to the sidewalk.

“Why--why, I don’t know but I be,” he stammered, a little anxiously.
After another momentary pause he added, “Well, good-night,” and hurried
on at a pace which became more rapid as he rounded the other thicket
of silver-leaves at the bend just beyond. He passed out of sight
around its edge. Bob, who had been holding the Covell arm during the
interruption, now threw it from him.

“There!” he said, between his teeth. “Now go home, Covell. Go home.
Unless,” with sarcasm, “you have more calls to make between now and
breakfast time. At any rate, get away from me. I have had enough of
you.”

Covell did not move. He was breathing rapidly. “You low down spy!” he
snarled. “I’d like to know whether you are doing your spying on your
own account or whether you were put up to it.... Well,” savagely,
“I’ll tell you one thing; your sneaking tricks won’t get you anywhere
with--with the one you are trying to square yourself with. You can bet
your last dollar on that.”

And now it was Bob who sprang forward. Just what might have happened
if Covell had remained where he was is a question. Bob was beyond
restraint or words. His impulse was to give this fellow what he richly
deserved and to do it then and there.

But Covell sprang backward. Not with the idea of avoiding battle--he
was no coward--but to find space in which to meet it. His leap threw
him against the fore wheel of the Townsend carriage and the shock
almost knocked him from his feet. The nervous horses reared and
pranced. The wheel turned.

“Look out!” shouted Bob, in alarm.

The warning was too late. Covell fell--fell almost beneath the plunging
hoofs. A moment later, when Griffin dragged him from their proximity,
he was white and senseless, an ugly gash in his forehead.




CHAPTER XVII


Foster Townsend was, ordinarily, a sound sleeper. Possessed of a good
digestion, he seldom lay awake and seldom dreamed. In the small hours
of the morning following his return from the “Pinafore” performance his
sleep was disturbed. Just what had disturbed it he was not sure, but
he lay with half-opened eyes awaiting the repetition of the sound, if
sound there had actually been. He did not have to wait long. “Clang!
Clang! Clang!” There was no doubt of the reality now. Some one was
turning the handle of the spring bell on the front door of the mansion.

He scratched a match and looked at his watch on the table by the bed.
The time was after two o’clock. Who in the world would ring that bell
at that hour? And why?

He did not waste moments in speculation. Rising hurriedly he lit the
lamp, pulled on his trousers and thrust his bare feet into slippers.
Then, lamp in hand, he opened the door leading to the upper hall. The
bell had clanged twice during his hasty dressing. He had not been the
only one to hear it. There was a light in Esther’s room, and its gleam
shone beneath her door. From behind that door she spoke.

“Uncle Foster!” she called. “Uncle Foster, is that you? What is it?
What is the matter?”

Before he could reply Nabby Gifford’s shrill voice sounded from the far
end of the passageway leading to the rooms in the ell.

“Is that you, Cap’n Foster?” quavered Nabby, tremulously. “Are you
awake, too?”

Townsend, half-way down the stairs, grunted impatiently, “Do you think
I’m walking in my sleep?” he growled. “Don’t be frightened, Esther,”
he added. “I guess likely it’s Seymour ringing the bell. He must have
forgotten his key.”

He opened the heavy front door and, holding the lamp aloft, peered out.
At first the darkness and the lamplight in his eyes made it impossible
to distinguish the identity of the person standing upon the step. Then
the person spoke and he recognized the voice. It was Bob Griffin,
white-faced and very grave.

“Captain Townsend--” began Bob.

The captain interrupted.

“Eh? You!” he exclaimed. “Why, what in thunder--?”

Bob did not let him finish. “Seymour Covell is out there in the
carriage,” he explained, quickly. “He is hurt. Badly hurt, I am afraid.”

“Eh? Hurt?... What do you mean?”

“I mean he is unconscious. One of the--one of your horses kicked him in
the head. If some one can help me carry him into the house--”

Townsend waited to hear no more. He put the lamp upon the table and
darted to the stairs.

“Varunas!” he roared. “Varunas! Turn out and lend a hand here. Lively!”

Heedless of the scantiness of his apparel he ran down the walk to the
carriage. On the rear cushions of the “two-seater” lay Seymour Covell,
white and senseless, his head bound with a blood-stained handkerchief.

“Good Lord A’mighty!” groaned Townsend. “Here, you and I can manage
him, Griffin, I guess. You take his feet.... Varunas! Where in thunder
_is_ Varunas?”

Varunas came tumbling down the steps at that moment. His attire was
even more sketchy than that of his employer. He and the captain and Bob
lifted the limp figure from the seat and bore it up the walk. At the
door Esther met them. Nabby was in the hall. Mrs. Gifford, in a calico
wrapper and curl papers, would have been a sight to behold, if any one
had thought of looking at her.

They carried Covell up the stairs to his own room and laid him on the
bed.

“Get his clothes off, somebody,” ordered Townsend. “You, Nabby--that’s
your job. Varunas, you go and get the doctor. _Hurry!_”

Bob caught the bewildered Gifford before he could leave the room.

“I called for the doctor on my way,” he said. “He told me to bring
Covell here and he would be around in five minutes. Is there anything
else I can do--now?”

Townsend shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “Good Lord! Good Lord!
What will his father say to me for letting this happen?... And it was
one of my horses that kicked him, you say? I never knew them to do such
a thing before. When did it happen? Where did it happen?”

Bob’s answer was a little vague, although no one seemed to notice the
vagueness--then.

“Down below here along the road,” he said. “When I picked him up he was
lying almost under their feet.... Oh, here is the doctor!”

The physician came panting into the room. His appearance shifted
the center of interest from Griffin and the latter was, to say the
least, relieved. He remained long enough to hear the result of the
hasty examination. Covell’s injuries were grave, although by no means
necessarily fatal. There was concussion of the brain, how serious could
not yet be determined.

Bob, after asking once more if there was any way in which he might be
useful and receiving but the briefest and most absent replies, left the
room. “I think I may as well go now,” he told Esther. “I shall only be
in the way.”

She had followed him to the hall. Now she put her hand upon his arm and
descended the stairs in his company.

“No one has thanked you for bringing him home, Bob,” she said. “We are
all grateful, you know that. And, of course, you understand--”

“Yes,” hurriedly. “Yes, certainly. Good-night.”

“Just a minute, please. Bob, how did this happen? Where was he? And
where were you--so late? How did you happen to find him?”

These were the very questions he had begun to hope he might escape, for
that night at least. That they would have to be answered somehow, and
at some time, he realized only too well, but what his answers should
be he had not yet decided. And he must have time in which to consider.
In spite of the shock to his nerves, in spite of the difficulty of
thinking of anything except the terrible thing which had happened,
he had thought sufficiently to realize a little of the problems
confronting him. If he could only get away from that house without
being subjected to cross-examination then--well, then he might be able
to make up his mind as to how much of the truth should be told. So far
as he was concerned he had nothing to hide; but there were others--so
many others.

And now here was one of these others--the very one whose name must be
kept out of this miserable mess--_must_ be--regarding him anxiously and
repeating the questions he dreaded.

“Bob,” she urged, “why don’t you tell me? Where did it happen? Why were
you the one to find him?”

He answered without looking at her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, hurriedly. “It just happened, I guess. I
will tell your uncle all about it by and by, of course. You mustn’t
wait now. They may need you upstairs. Good-night.”

“But, Bob, where had you been? Where were you?”

“Oh, I had been down to the shanty--to the studio. I had something
there to attend to. My own horse is at the livery stable and I was
walking toward the stable when I saw the span standing by the side of
the road. I went over and looked.”

“Beside what road? The stable is at the corner of the lower road, and
your studio is on that road. If you were coming--Bob, were the span
and--and Seymour on _that_ road? Was that where it happened?”

“I mustn’t stay. They need you, I know. Good-night.”

“But, Bob, how could he have been away down on the lower road? With
Uncle Foster’s horses? Why--Bob!”

But he was hurrying to the gate. She stood for a moment, looking after
him. Then she closed the door and hastened up the stairs.

At Harniss breakfast tables that morning the performance of “Pinafore”
at the town hall was the topic of discussion. By dinner time, however,
“Pinafore” was forgotten entirely, for a new sensation had pushed it to
the background and taken its place in the limelight. Seymour Covell,
the rich young fellow from Chicago, Foster Townsend’s guest, the one
to whom so many people were referring as “Esther Townsend’s new beau,”
had met with an accident. One of the Townsend horses, one of the famous
span, had kicked him in the head, or the ribs, or somewhere--had kicked
him, anyhow--and he was dead, or dying, or sure to die before long. And
Captain Foster had said-- No, it was Varunas Gifford who said it-- Or
Nabby-- Well, at any rate--and so on.

Before the day ended all the guessing and surmising had simmered
down to a few unquestioned facts. Seymour Covell had been kicked by
a Townsend horse, he was unconscious, had remained so ever since
it happened, and Doctor Bailey, and the other doctors who had been
summoned by telegraph from Boston, were very much worried about him and
were considering taking him to a big Boston hospital where they might
have to perform an operation. Oh, yes! and it was Bob Griffin, Elisha
Cook’s grandson from Denboro, who had found him dying by the side of
the road, had lifted him, “all alone by himself, just think of it!”
into the two-seater and driven him home to the mansion.

So much was sure and certain, but there was so much that was
uncertain--and curious. No one seemed to know just where the accident
happened. Covell had been almost the last to leave the town hall. The
very last, except Asa Bloomer, the janitor, so it was said. And that
was just before midnight. Now some one had been told by some one, who
had been told by Captain Ben Snow, who got it from Foster Townsend
himself, that Bob did not bring Seymour Covell home until after two
in the morning. Where had Covell been all this time? It was scarcely
possible that he had lain unconscious beside the main road for two
hours, without either the span or the two-seater or himself having been
seen by any one. “Why, Asa Bloomer never left that hall until after
one and then he walked right straight up the main road. _He_ never saw
nothing out of the way, says so himself, he does.”

And it was particularly strange that Bob Griffin should have been the
one to find the injured man. Several people had seen Bob at the rear
of the hall during the opera. Where had _he_ been from eleven until
almost two? Queer enough that he and Covell could drop out of sight
so completely. Griffin--witness the testimony of the livery stable
keeper--had left the Cook horse and buggy at the stable; they were
there at twelve-thirty when the stableman went to bed, leaving the door
unlocked as was his custom. In the morning they were gone, so Griffin
must have come for them some time or other.

Another day and there were new rumors, queerer still. Bob was located
and interviewed. “He was down there, in that shanty of Tobe Eldridge’s,
paintin’ those picture things of his just as if nothin’ had happened.”
At least a dozen Harniss citizens had dropped in to ask questions.
They were given little satisfaction. Griffin told them only the
barest details. He furnished the answer to the puzzle concerning his
whereabouts between the hours of eleven and one-thirty by saying
that he had spent them in that very studio. He happened to remember
something he had left there; he was rather vague about this. Walking
to the village he had noticed the Townsend equipage by the roadside.
“Where?” “Oh, up by the corner.” He had found Covell lying stunned and
bleeding, and had taken him home. Then he went back to the stable and
drove his own horse to Denboro.

“Why did you lift him into that carriage all by yourself?” asked one
persistent visitor. “Should have thought you’d have run somewhere for
help or somethin’.” Bob replied that he guessed he had not thought of
it. The interviewers departed not entirely satisfied. “He ain’t told
the whole story. Holdin’ somethin’ back, that young feller is,” was the
consensus of opinion.

One of the callers at that studio the second day after the accident
was Foster Townsend himself. Bob was not surprised to see him there.
He knew that Seymour Covell’s host would not be satisfied with hearsay
particulars, but would, sooner or later, seek first-hand information
and that he--Bob--must be ready to supply it.

He had had time to consider his problem and to reach certain definite
conclusions. When, on that fateful night, or morning, he had dragged
Seymour Covell from beneath the horses’ hoofs, his first impulse was
to run to the nearest house for help. But the nearest house, the only
house in that immediate vicinity, was that belonging to Henry Campton.
Covell had, but a little while before, come from that house. A dim
light was burning even yet in one of its upper windows. If Covell were
taken there, if people learned that it was opposite that house the span
had been left standing--well, the whole story, or a story, exaggerated
and maliciously twisted, would spread from one end of the town to the
other. Bob knew Carrie Campton slightly, knew her to be something of
a rattle-head and very much of a flirt, but to risk subjecting her
name and reputation to the innuendoes and wicked sneers of the gossip
of Harniss seemed to him too mean to consider, if there was another
alternative.

And even then, as he stood there, with Covell lying senseless and
bleeding at his feet, there was forced upon him the realization that
far more than this must be considered. There were other names--his
own, of course, but he was in it and must go through with it somehow.
He was bound to be talked about. But Esther Townsend must not be. No
one knew of the accident yet--no one save himself--and Covell, if the
latter should ever know anything again in this world. No one else
knew where it happened, nor of the quarrel leading up to it. They must
not know. He was quite aware of the local sensation which his frequent
calls at the Townsend house had caused. And since those calls ceased
and Esther was seen so much in Seymour Covell’s company, sly hints
had been dropped in his presence to the effect that the visitor from
Chicago had “cut him out.” If he should tell the whole truth, of the
meeting with his reputed rival and their quarrel--why-- No, the truth
must not be told, nor must any one discover it. So he had dismissed all
idea of seeking help, had lifted the unconscious man to the carriage
seat and driven carefully and quietly away. It was not until he turned
the corner and was safe upon the main road that he began to hope the
secret--the dangerous portion of it--might remain undiscovered.

The story he intended telling Foster Townsend was to be a combination
of truth and what he considered justifiable falsehood. The truth dealt
with his decision to go to the studio, his stay there and his leaving
just before two. And this he did tell without hesitation.

“But what in the world brought you down to this forsaken roost in the
middle of the night?” asked the captain.

“Oh, I don’t know. I had a few things to see to here. And--well, I
didn’t feel like going home, right away. It does sound ridiculous, I
admit, but it is true.”

Foster Townsend rubbed his beard. He had learned of Griffin’s presence
at the hall and he could imagine what the young man’s feelings must
have been during the performance. He had long since made up his mind
that Bob and Esther had quarreled that evening after he and Seymour
Covell left them together in the library and, because it had broken
off the highly undesirable friendship between the two, he was glad. It
was sure to happen some time. His niece was a Townsend, and therefore
possessed of the Townsend quota of common sense, and he had never
really believed she could feel any sincere affection for a “Cook.”
The break was inevitable and it had providentially come in time to
cancel the necessity for the “plain talk” he had intended having with
her had the intimacy continued. And, because Griffin was no longer a
pestiferous nuisance to be reckoned with, so far as Esther and his
plans for her were concerned, he was inclined to be tolerant with the
young fellow--yes, even a little sorry for him.

“Um-hum,” he said, reflectively. “I see. You came down here to be alone
and--well, sort of think things out. Is that it?”

Bob glanced at him in surprise. “Why--yes,” he admitted. “That was just
it.”

“Did you think ’em out?”

“I don’t know.... Yes, I suppose I did.”

“When are you going over across?”

“Oh, pretty soon. In a week or two, probably.”

“I see.... Well, I am glad to have you tell me that. Glad you are going
to be so sensible.”

It was this short speech which changed the entire complexion of the
interview. It was the wrong thing to say just then. In the Townsend
tone there was--or so Bob fancied--a note of quiet satisfaction,
the serene contentment of the player who has won the game just as
he intended and expected to win it. Griffin had meant to be very
diplomatic and tactful with his meddlesome visitor. He would tell
his carefully constructed story tersely and end the conversation as
quickly as possible. Now he forgot all this. The temptation to let this
triumphant, condescending trickster know that he had seen through his
trickery from the beginning got the better of his judgment. He spoke
the thought that was in his mind.

“Yes!” he muttered, with sarcastic emphasis. “I have no doubt you are.”

“Eh? What’s that?... Why, yes, of course I am. It is what you ought to
do.”

Still the condescension and the note of triumph. The last atom of Bob’s
restraint vanished.

“It is what you want me to do, I know that,” he said, sharply. “It is
what you planned to have me do all along.”

Foster Townsend leaned back in the chair. His keen eyes narrowed.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Now what do you think you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean. Oh,” with bitter contempt, “what is the use of
pretending you don’t?”

There was a moment of silence. Townsend threw one knee over the other.

“Look here, young man,” he said, sternly and deliberately. “As long as
you’ve said so much, maybe we might as well have a clear understanding.
If you mean that I am just as well satisfied to have you and my niece
three or four thousand miles away from each other--if that is what you
mean, then you are right. I am. Nothing but trouble for both of you
could ever have come of your--well, getting too friendly. That is just
as sure as that we are here in this shanty this minute.”

Bob would have retorted hotly. He had much to say and now he meant to
say it. But his visitor lifted a hand.

“Wait,” he ordered. “When you say that I planned to separate you, you
are right there too, dead right. And you can believe this or not--I
made those plans not altogether on account of Esther. I was thinking
of you. Not quite as much, maybe, but some.... Here, here! now hold
a minute more. Let me tell you what I mean. I haven’t got anything
against you in particular. You’re a decent enough boy, I guess. You are
a Cook and I have had all the dealings with Cooks that I care to in
this life, but there was more than that. If you weren’t any relation
to your grandfather I should still put my foot down on you and Esther
getting to think too much of each other. She is my niece, just the same
as my daughter, and when she marries--as I presume likely she will some
day--she will marry a man who is good enough for her, who amounts to
something already and will amount to a whole lot more.”

Bob broke in.

“Some one like Seymour Covell, I suppose,” he suggested, with a sneer.

For an instant Townsend’s eyes flashed. Then he smiled grimly and shook
his head.

“I don’t recollect that I mentioned that name,” he said. “I am not
mentioning any names yet. There is time enough; Esther’s young. I
didn’t come here to talk about my private affairs either, but, as we
are talking, I’ll say my say. You never were the man for her, and you
never will be. The thing for you to do is to forget her, go to Paris
or wherever you want to, and make yourself into as good a picture
painter as you can. And--this was what I started to tell you in the
beginning--I don’t know that I may not be willing to help you do it.
I don’t know any one in Paris, as it happens, but I have some good
friends who do, who know some influential people over there. If I
say the word they will give you letters of introduction. There may
come a time when you’ll need help--even a little extra money maybe.
Well--there you are.”

Bob was staring at him incredulously.

“Do you mean you would lend me _money_?” he gasped.

“I said perhaps those letters would fix it so you could get money if
you needed it.”

“And--and you think I would take money from _you_?”

“Money is a handy thing to have, no matter where it comes from. There,
there! keep your feet on the ground. Keep cool.”

Bob’s face was crimson. He forgot that he was addressing the great
Foster Townsend, the big mogul of Harniss, forgot diplomacy, the
difference in their ages, everything.

“Why--why, confound you!” he sputtered. “What are you trying to do; buy
me off? Did you think I would--”

“Ssh! I have no idea of buying you off. I don’t need to, so far as that
goes. I was trying to do you a good turn, that’s all.”

“Good turn! Look here, Captain Townsend! I’ll tell _you_ something now.
It isn’t your smart scheming and underhand planning and all the rest
of it, that is sending me to Europe. That hasn’t influenced me in the
least. No, nor it wasn’t Esther’s telling me I ought to go, either.
I knew perfectly well where I ought to be and that was right here
where I could block the little game you and--and--that other fellow
were playing. If she--if I hadn’t found out from her--and from no one
else--that--that--”

He paused. He was saying far more than he should and he realized it.

“Oh, well!” he ended, scornfully. “What is the use? I don’t want your
letters or money or any other favors. I am going away. Let that satisfy
you. It ought to.”

He turned his back upon the caller. Foster Townsend rose to his feet.

“All right, Griffin,” he said. “Your business isn’t mine, of course.
Now, then, there is something which _is_ my business, in a way, and
before you put me off on the other tack we were talking about it. I’d
like to have you tell me just where it was you found Seymour the other
night. We are going to take him up to the Boston hospital in a day or
so--to-morrow maybe--and his father will meet us there. He will want
particulars. Where was he when you found him?”

Here was where Bob’s story was to have begun its deviation from the
truth. He had intended saying that he came upon the span, and Covell,
at a point on the main road just beyond the livery stable. Now there
was no such idea in his head. Why should he lie to this man? He would
not.

“What difference does it make where I found him?” he said. “I did find
him and I brought him home. That is all I care to tell about it.”

Townsend rubbed his beard. “Humph!” he observed. “So that’s all, eh?
Why?”

“Because--well, because I choose to make it so.”

“That’s kind of funny, seems to me. Griffin, there is a lot of
whispering going about; did you know it? From what I hear you haven’t
told any one the whole story. Don’t you think you had better tell it to
me?”

“No.”

“Well, if you won’t I don’t see how I can make you.”

“You can’t.”

“Humph! What is it you are so anxious to hide? If you shut up this
way I shall think you are hiding something, of course. And so will
everybody else.”

“Let them think what they please. There is nothing _I_ am ashamed of in
it. I will say that much.”

“Um-hum. Then there _is_ something shameful for somebody; eh?”

“Captain Townsend, I have told you all I shall ever tell any one. And,”
earnestly, “if you take my advice you will be satisfied and do your
best to keep the town satisfied with that much. One of your horses
kicked Covell in the head. It was an accident and no one in particular
was to blame for it. There! that is the last word I shall say now, or
any other time. Good day.”

Foster Townsend’s hat was in his hand, but he did not go. He was
obviously perplexed and troubled.

“Griffin,” he said, after a momentary pause, “there was a queer yarn
going around town this morning. A mighty queer one. I didn’t take
any stock in it, and I wasn’t going to mention it to you because I
thought it was too foolish to bother with. But now, since you won’t
answer a question, won’t tell a thing, and from the hints you’ve
dropped--I--well, I don’t know.”

“Hints! I haven’t dropped any hints.”

“Oh, yes, you have. You dropped one or two, without meaning it, I
guess--to Esther the morning when you brought Seymour home. She was
worried and told me about them. She couldn’t make out why, if, as you
said, you were going to get your horse at the livery stable, you went
by that stable and up along the main road and found Seymour and the
span there. She says when she asked you that you didn’t answer. It
made her believe that you didn’t find him by the main road at all, but
somewhere down along this road--the lower road. Well, to be honest with
you, I shouldn’t wonder if she was right. I don’t believe that span
and two-seater could have stood alongside the main road very long, in
plain sight, without somebody seeing them. It was after one when Asa
Bloomer walked right along that road beyond the stable and _he_ didn’t
see them.”

He waited for an answer. Bob was silent.

“Well,” continued Townsend, “what I should like to know is why Seymour
was on this road. I can see why you were here, of course. Where was it
you did find him? Come!”

Bob stubbornly shook his head. “I have told you--” he began, but the
captain interrupted.

“You’ve told me nothing,” he snapped, impatiently. “And you won’t tell
more; eh?”

“No.”

“Well, you are foolish. This story that is going around is queer. I
don’t know where it comes from, nobody seems to know, but there is talk
that you and Seymour were seen down here on this very road that night,
long after the show was over, and that you and he were--well, next door
to fighting. Having some sort of a row, anyway. Have you heard anything
like that?... Humph! No, I guess you haven’t, by the way you look.”

Bob’s face was white. The thing that he had dreaded, had feared might
possibly happen, had happened. Ever since that fateful morning, amid
his imaginings and forebodings had loomed large the figure of the
man, whoever he might be, who had passed along that lower road and
interrupted the quarrel between Covell and himself. If that man had
recognized them--Bob tried to hope he had not done so. In fact, by
this time he had begun to believe that the darkness had prevented
recognition on both sides of the road. Now--

He fought to regain composure, even attempted a laugh, but it was a
poor attempt.

“Nonsense!” he cried. “Why--what--who says such a fool thing as that?”

“I don’t know who said it first.... There is nothing in it, then?”

“It is silly! It is ridiculous.”

“Um-hum. All right. I’m glad to hear you think so. I shall try to pin
the yarn down, of course, and when I locate the liar I’ll shut him--or
her--up.... Well, haven’t changed your mind? You won’t tell me any
more?”

“No.”

“Sorry. Good-by.”

He put on his hat and left the building. Bob stared after him for
one miserable moment. Then he sat down in the chair his inquisitor
had vacated and, with his head in his hands, tried again to look the
situation in the face. It had been sufficiently complex before. Now it
was quite hopeless. Why--oh, why, had he lost his temper? Why had he
not told the story he had meant to tell and then stuck to it, through
thick and thin? His word would have been as good as any one else’s. Now
he had let Foster Townsend see that he was hiding something. Townsend
would not be satisfied until he learned the whole truth. Lies, no
matter how stubbornly persistent, would not help now. This other story
was already in circulation. This man--and who was he?--had recognized
him and Covell. He must have heard a part, at least, of their quarrel.

And Esther--had Townsend intimated that her name had been mentioned?
He could not remember that he had, but it made little difference.
All Harniss would assume they were fighting over her. And if, by any
chance, the name of the Campton girl was dragged into the affair, that
would only make matters worse. They would say that he--Griffin--had
followed Covell to the Campton house, had played the spy, hoping
thereby to injure his rival in Esther’s eyes, and--and--what wouldn’t
they say? Why, they might even go so far as to disbelieve the entire
story of the accident, to say that it was not an accident at all, but
that he, Bob Griffin, had inflicted the injury upon Seymour Covell.
They might. And if Covell never regained consciousness, if he died
without speaking, who could prove that the accusation was not true?
Even Esther, herself, might believe it.

His imagination formed a picture of the court room at Ostable, himself
in the prisoner’s dock, Esther in the witness stand and a sharp lawyer
cross-examining her, dragging forth every detail of their relations
with each other; asking--

No, she should not be subjected to that. It made little difference what
they thought of him. And the reputation of the Campton girl no longer
counted. If Esther Townsend’s name could be left out, he would tell
the whole truth and face the music. But to tell that whole truth was
unthinkable. She _had_ been the cause of the quarrel.

He thought and thought, pacing the floor, racking his brains for a
satisfactory solution and finding none. The sole ray of light in the
darkness centered upon his going away, going far away where he could
not be questioned. The problem as to whether or not he should go abroad
was settled then and there. He would go at once, on the very next ship,
if possible. They would talk about him, of course, but no matter for
that. They could only guess and, after a time, they might get tired of
guessing. Or Covell might recover and tell whatever he pleased. The
chances were that he, too, would leave Esther’s name unmentioned.

Bob drove back to Denboro with his mind made up. He and his grandfather
had a protracted and stormy session that evening. In spite of charges
of ingratitude and selfishness in being in such a hurry to leave “the
only relation you’ve got on earth”; in spite of a guilty conscience
which partially confirmed those accusations, Bob’s determination was
not shaken. At last Elisha Cook ordered him to go and be hanged.
“Though why you are in such a tearin’ rush all at once I’ll be blessed
if I can see,” he added. “What _is_ the matter? Come now! why not tell
me?”

Bob shook his head. “I can’t now, grandfather,” he said. “I will tell
you, or write you, some day. You will just have to take my word that I
have a reason and--well, don’t feel too hard against me, that is all.”

The story, or rumor of a story, to which Foster Townsend had referred,
sprang from no one seemed to know just where. Tobias Eldridge appeared
to be the first to have heard it, but Tobias refused any information.
“It just dropped my way by accident,” he said, “and ’twan’t any more
than a hint, as you might say. I don’t know any particulars and, to
be real honest, I don’t want to know any. I shan’t say another word.
Wished I hadn’t said nothin’. It’s ’most likely all lies anyhow; and I
ain’t hankerin’ to be sued for libel. No sir-ee! I don’t know nothin’
and the next feller that asks me will find I’ve forgot even that.”

But the whispering continued and the next forenoon when Esther returned
from an errand downtown she called her uncle into the library. Young
Covell was to be taken to the Boston hospital on the afternoon train.
His condition was no worse, in fact it was a trifle more encouraging.
During the previous night he had momentarily regained consciousness,
had muttered a word or two. Doctor Bailey was less pessimistic than at
first, but insisted that the sooner his patient reached the hospital
when, if necessary, an operation could be performed, the better.
The doctor was to accompany him, so also was the nurse and Captain
Townsend. The latter was busy and disinclined to talk, but his niece
persisted.

“I won’t keep you but a minute, Uncle Foster,” she pleaded; “but I do
want to ask a question. When you went to see Bob yesterday there at his
studio, what did he say to you?”

Her uncle was fidgeting by the door. “I told you what he said,” he
replied. “You don’t want to hear it all over again.”

“You didn’t tell me much of anything. You didn’t seem to want to talk
about it.”

“Eh?... Oh, well, there wasn’t anything to talk about.... Good Lord!”
irritably, “what are you so particular about that fellow for? Haven’t
you had enough of him? Look at the mess he’s got us all into.”

She looked at him. “Why, Uncle Foster!” she cried indignantly. “How can
you say such a thing as that? It was he who brought Seymour home that
night. If it had not been for him--Uncle Foster, what do you mean? Have
you heard anything more--anything new about the accident? Tell me, have
you?”

The tone in which the question was asked caused him to glance at her.
Her eyes were fixed upon his face and he noticed that her clasped hands
were trembling.

“No-o,” he replied, with a shake of the head. “Nothing that you need to
worry about, anyway.”

“Have you heard _any_thing?”

He pulled his beard. “I’ve heard enough silly talk to make a sailing
breeze for a thousand-ton ship,” he grumbled. “I didn’t pay any
attention to it and you mustn’t either.”

“Have you--has any one said anything to you about--oh, about Seymour
and--and Bob Griffin having been seen that night somewhere down on the
lower road together?”

He frowned. “So it has got around to you, has it?” he observed,
impatiently. “Yes, yes; I’ve heard that lie. There is nothing to it.
Nobody knows where it comes from and no one can find out. When I get
time I’ll run it into the ground and stamp on the snake that started
it. But it is just one more fool yarn. Forget it, Esther... Now don’t
bother me any more. I’ve got a hundred things to do between now and
train time.”

She realized the truth behind this exaggerated statement, but she was
far from satisfied. There was so much more she would have liked to ask.

“Then he--Bob, I mean--didn’t say anything to you about-- He didn’t
tell you any more particulars at all?”

“No.”

“What did you talk about? You were there such a long time. I was
waiting for you to come back and--”

These persistent inquiries angered him. Apparently she had not entirely
lost interest in this Griffin, after all.

“He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already,” he declared,
brusquely. “And I told him a few things myself. Now you behave like a
sensible girl and put him out of your mind. That is what I want you to
do, and it is what I expect of you. If you want to think of somebody,
think of poor Seymour. God knows he is entitled to your thinking, just
now.”

She asked no more questions and, for the next few hours, she did try to
think of Seymour Covell. But after the stretcher, with its white and
still occupant, had been brought carefully downstairs, after it had
been just as carefully placed aboard the wagon which was to carry it to
the railway station, after the commotion attending upon the departure
was over and she was left alone--then her thoughts returned to the
forbidden subject and remained there.

Foster Townsend had been absent-minded and distrait ever since his
return from his call at the Griffin studio the previous afternoon.
It was obvious that he did not care to talk of his interview with
Bob. And to-day, when she again questioned him, he had been just as
non-committal. That there was something mysterious about this accident
to Seymour Covell she had been almost sure from the beginning. Bob’s
behavior that fateful night was strange. He, too, had avoided her
questions; had run away from them. She had guessed and surmised and
dreaded--and now, this very forenoon, when she stopped in at the
millinery shop to chat with her Aunt Reliance, whom she had not seen
for a week, this new and frightening rumor had been whispered in her
ear.

It was Abbie Makepeace who had whispered it. Reliance Clark was
out, delivering a hat at the home of a customer. Millard was not in
evidence. Abbie had a clear ten minutes; she knew it, and she could say
a great deal in that time. Whatever fabric of fact there might have
been in the strange story was well covered with fictional embroidery
when it reached Miss Makepeace, and she handed it on without the loss
of a thread.

“So there ’tis,” she said, in conclusion. “For the land sakes don’t say
_I_ said there was any truth in it. Who the person was that saw ’em
there--if anybody did see ’em--I’m sure I don’t know and neither does
anybody except that one--if there was such a one, as I said before.
And just as likely there wasn’t. It’s all over town anyhow. Your Aunt
Reliance heard it, of course, and she declares up and down she doesn’t
believe a word of it. She gets real mad if I so much as mention it in
this shop. Thought she’d take my head off this very mornin’, I did.
‘Well,’ says I, ‘you needn’t lay me out. I wasn’t on the lower road
at two o’clock in the mornin’. I was in my bed and asleep, where I
belonged. And, even if it is all a lie, I don’t see why you need fly up
in the air so. I declare, I--’”

And so on. The mill was still going when Esther hurried from the shop.
She went home, thinking of what she had just heard. She was thinking of
it now, as she sat there in the library. And the longer she thought the
more certain she became that she must know the truth. She must.

She rose at last with her mind made up. She ran to her room, put on her
hat, came down and, after telling Nabby Gifford that she was going for
a walk, left the house. She took the path across the fields and another
“short cut” which brought her to the beach a little way beyond the
Tobias Eldridge property. It was after four o’clock, the day was cloudy
and a light fog was drifting in from sea. She was thankful for the
semidarkness and the fog, for they might shield her from observation,
from recognition at least. But had the afternoon been brilliant with
sunshine she would not have hesitated. She was on her way to see Bob
Griffin. She did not know, of course, that he was there, in his studio;
it was just as likely that he was not. But if he were not there, even
if he were at his grandfather’s home in Denboro, she would seek him
out. She must see him. She must know.

She rapped on the weather-beaten door of the shanty. A moment later and
Bob himself opened that door.




CHAPTER XVIII


Bob Griffin answered that knock reluctantly. He had half a mind not
to answer it at all. He had stopped in at the Eldridge home on his
way down from the station--he had come from Denboro by train that
afternoon--with the intention of telling his landlord that he intended
vacating the shanty immediately, by the following noon at the latest.
The announcement would not have come as a great surprise to Tobias; his
tenant had warned him that, in all probability, he should not occupy
the building longer than another week. Neither of the Eldridges was
at home, however, so Griffin had left a note announcing his prompt
departure, and was now packing together his easels, brushes, canvas and
other paraphernalia. He intended driving over for them the next day.

Hearing the knock he took it for granted that the caller was Tobias. If
it was he who knocked he would get rid of him quickly. If it were any
one else--well, he would not let him in. He would not answer questions
and he would not talk. He had talked far too much already.

In his shirt-sleeves, a hammer in his hand, he threw open the door.
Then he stood there in silence, gazing at the girl before him.

She spoke first. “Bob,” she asked, quickly, “may I come in? Please let
me. I don’t want any one to see me here; if I can help it.”

He did not answer; but, still without taking his eyes from her face, he
stepped aside. She brushed past him and entered the room. It was the
first time she had crossed its threshold since the day when she brought
her uncle there to see her portrait.

“Please shut the door,” she said. He did so. Then he would have
spoken, but she did not give him the opportunity.

“Don’t ask me why I am here,” she begged. “I just came because--because
I felt that I had to. Don’t ask me anything. I will ask and--and you
must answer. Bob, will you please tell me all about this thing? Tell me
the truth--all of it.”

He had had no time in which to collect his thoughts. He made no attempt
to answer. His hand struck the back of a chair and he moved it toward
her.

“Won’t you sit down?” he faltered.

She pushed the chair impatiently away. “Oh, don’t!” she cried. “Don’t
waste time. Of course I won’t sit down. Did you think I had come to
make a formal call? Bob! Bob, please answer my questions! Tell me
everything, just as it was, where and how you found him that night. And
if-- Oh, everything!”

He understood now. She, too, had heard the rumor, the story to which
Foster Townsend had referred. In all probability every one had heard it
by this time. But what did she believe concerning him--and his part in
the affair? That was what he must know.

“I see,” he said, slowly. “Of course--yes.... Well, what do you want me
to tell?”

“Bob! Why must I say it again? I want you to tell me just what happened
that night after you left the hall. They are saying--I have heard-- Oh,
I _know_ it isn’t true! I want you to tell me it isn’t.”

“I can’t tell that until I know what you have heard.”

“I have heard--I heard it this morning--that you and Seymour were seen
together down here somewhere on the lower road, hours after the hall
was closed and locked. You were seen here together--some one saw you, I
don’t know who. That is the story. Bob--”

“Wait a minute. It isn’t the whole story, is it?”

“No, it is not. Bob, they say--they say you and he
were--disagreeing--quarreling--”

“Fighting, perhaps?”

“Bob! Why-- Do you think it is a _joke_? Don’t you realize--”

“Hush, Esther! Certainly I realize. I realize quite as plainly as you
can what else they will be saying soon--may be saying now, for all I
know. What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Do! I want you to deny it all, of course. Speak out plainly and say it
is all a lie.”

“Suppose it isn’t all a lie? As a matter of fact, most of it, so far,
is true. Covell and I were together down on this road at two o’clock
that morning. We did meet and we did quarrel.... There, there, Esther--”

She had turned pale. He stepped toward her, but she drew back.

“No, don’t,” she gasped.

He came no nearer. She was silent, for a moment, looking at him. Then,
with a sharp catch of the breath, she leaned forward.

“Go on!” she said quickly. “Why don’t you go on? Tell me the rest.”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell any more,” he answered.

“But you must tell _me_. Don’t you see you must?”

“No, I don’t. I have not told any one else as much as that. I did not
mean to tell anything.”

“But you must tell. And they know--every one knows--or guesses. Some
one saw you here. Oh, Bob!” with a desperate stamp of the foot, “can’t
you _see_ what this may mean? They will begin to think--to say--”

He lifted his hand. “I understand,” he said. “You mean they will soon
be saying that it was not your uncle’s horse that hurt Covell that
night. They will say that I did it, knocked him down, tried to kill
him, perhaps. Well, I expected that.... Tell me: Do you believe it?”

Her eyes flashed.

“You know I don’t!” she cried, fiercely. “You know it. It is because
I don’t that I came to find out the truth. Bob, won’t you tell me? For
your own sake? And for mine?”

He had been standing by the work bench, his face turned toward the
window. Now he wheeled suddenly.

“Does it make so much difference to you?” he asked.

“Yes, it does.”

“Esther--”

“Bob, _are_ you going to tell me any more?”

He took a turn up and down the room. Then he stopped before her.
“Esther,” he said, “I will tell you what I can. This is what happened.”

He told of his leaving the hall that night, of his walk along the
beach, his stay at the studio, his noticing the Townsend span beside
the road. There he hesitated.

“Yes,” she urged. “And then--?”

“Well, then when Covell came along we got to talking. He said some
things I didn’t like and--and I told him I didn’t like them. He said
them again. I--well, in the midst of it he jumped back against the
carriage. The horses started and reared. He fell under their feet.
Before I could pull him out of the way the horse had kicked him. It was
an accident and nothing more. That is the exact truth. I should like to
have you believe it. Do you?”

She waved the question aside almost contemptuously.

“I never for a moment believed anything else,” she said. “But you
haven’t told me at all what I really wanted to know. What was Seymour
Covell doing down here on this road so late? Tell me that?”

Bob shook his head.

“That I can’t tell you,” he replied.

“But you know, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Nonsense! I am sure you do. Or, at least, you are convinced in your
own mind. Will you tell me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I--well, because it is not any of my business. You must wait
and ask him. Perhaps, when he is well enough, he will tell you.”

“I can’t wait. If I’m to stop this dreadful talk I must know
everything. He is unable to defend himself and--and his friends must do
it for him.”

So it was Covell she was so anxious to defend. He might have guessed it.

“No,” he said, sharply. “I shall tell you nothing about him. He accused
me of spying on him--told me that night that I was hanging about here
to learn what he did and then carry tales to--to his friends. It was
a lie, of course; but he shall never be able to say that I told those
tales. No, indeed he shan’t.”

She was regarding him intently.

“Was that why you quarreled?” she asked.

“That--and other things. Yes.”

“Bob,” earnestly, “you and he weren’t--weren’t-- Tell me: Was my name
mentioned between you?”

He shrugged. “_I_ didn’t mention it,” he said. “Esther, don’t ask me
any more. I shall not tell you or any one else another word, now or
ever. Don’t worry. I am going away from here just as soon as I can get
away. Then you will all be rid of one nuisance, at least.”

“When are you going?”

“On the first ship that will take me. Early next week, I hope.”

Her lips parted. Then they closed. Whatever she had been about to
say remained unsaid. When she did speak it was to ask concerning a
different matter.

“When Uncle Foster was here yesterday did you tell him what you have
told me?” she asked.

“No. He had heard this story--that about the fellow, whoever he was,
who saw me with Covell--”

“Wait! Don’t you know who he was?”

“Haven’t the least idea. What difference does it make? Somebody saw us;
that was enough.”

“And you didn’t tell Uncle Foster?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, except that I should not tell.... Oh, yes,
I did, too! I told him something I had been longing to tell him. I told
him I knew that he was happy because his plans and schemes to keep me
away from you had worked out so well. And I also told him that I had
been quite aware of those schemes from the beginning, that he hadn’t
fooled me in the least. Yes, and that if he and his tricks had been
all I should never have given you up. I told him--and it did me good
to tell him. The old-- Oh well! why call him names now? He has won as
usual.”

“You told him--you told my uncle that he had schemed and planned?...
Well?” proudly. “He denied it, of course?”

“Ha!” with a short laugh. “He did _not_ deny it, not a word of it. He
admitted that it was true. Seemed to be proud of it, if you must know.
He told me in so many words that he had worked to get one of us in
Europe and the other here; said he had never intended for a minute that
you and I should, as he called it, get ‘too friendly.’ Oh, he made a
clean breast of it--if you care to call such dirty business ‘clean.’...
Bah!”

He walked to the far end of the room. She remained standing by the
chair, her fingers intertwined, looking straight before her.

“Bob,” she said, after a moment.

“Well?”

“Tell me what else he said--please.”

“He said a good deal. For instance, he informed me that the man you
married would be some one he picked out for you, some one who was ‘good
enough for you.’ But there! don’t ask me to tell you any more. It ended
by his offering to lend me money to help on with my art studies. Having
driven me to Europe he was willing to pay me to stay there.... Oh, by
George! That was the _last_ straw!”

There was another pause. He heard her move and turning, saw that she
was standing by the door, her hand upon the latch. The expression upon
her face caused him to wish he had not spoken so frankly.

“I’m sorry, Esther,” he said, impulsively. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have
told you this--about your uncle. It is the truth, but I guess it would
have been better if I had kept my mouth shut. I wish I had.”

If she heard and understood she gave no sign.

“Bob,” she said, “may I ask you just one more question?”

“Oh, Esther, don’t! I have told you all I can.”

“It isn’t about--that night. It is about us--about you. You are not
going away until next week?”

“No. I would if I could, but I can’t.”

“Where will you be till then?”

“At home, in Denboro, I suppose.”

“Bob, if--if I should want to see you before you go--if I should send
for you, would you come? Could you meet me--somewhere--if I asked you
to?”

“Of course.... But, Esther, what do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I don’t mean anything. Good-by.”

He ran to the door, but she was hurrying up the beach and, although he
called after her, she did not turn.

Nabby Gifford was in the library when Esther reached home and Nabby had
something to tell. Esther had no desire to hear it; she had hoped to
reach her own room unobserved and to remain there, offering a headache
or some other trite excuse for her non-appearance at the supper table.
She could not talk with any one, nor listen while others talked. If her
uncle were only there! She had much to say to him and--what--_what_
could he say to her?

But Foster Townsend was in Boston and Nabby was in the library. And
Nabby blocked her way as she tried to hurry through to the hall and
stairs.

“Well,” began Mrs. Gifford, “they got away all right. Varunas says the
special car was waitin’ for ’em and they hi’sted poor Mr. Covell into
it just as careful as if he was a crate of hens’ eggs. Last Varunas see
of him, the doctor was settin’ one side of him and the nurse t’other.
And he was layin’ there comf’table, almost, as if he was to home.”

Esther nodded absently and said she was glad to hear it. She put her
hand to her forehead, preparatory to mentioning the “headache,” but
before she could mention it Nabby was rattling on.

“Yes sir-ee,” said Nabby, “he looked just as if he was in his own bed,
so Varunas says. He’ll be all right, with a whole car to himself--just
him and Doctor Bailey and the nurse and Cap’n Foster.... That is,
that’s all there’ll be after they get by Denboro. Millard will get out
there--at the Denboro depot--because Varunas heard your uncle tell him
he must.”

Esther had paid little heed to this chatter, but the name caught her
attention.

“What?” she asked. And then, turning, to look at the housekeeper. “What
was that you said then, Nabby?”

Nabby was dusting the library table. She kept on with the dusting.

“Eh?” she queried, with careful carelessness. “What did _I_ say? When?”

“Just now. You said something about--about Uncle Millard, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, I did. Varunas says he heard Cap’n Foster tell him he
could ride fur as Denboro, if he wanted to, but he’d have to get out
there and come back on the night train. Course he’ll have to wait quite
a spell _for_ that train, but--”

“Wait! Wait a minute. Uncle Millard! My Uncle Millard Clark, are you
talking about?”

“Sartin. He’s the only Millard in this town, fur’s I know.”

“Why was he going to Denboro?”

“Oh, ’cause your Uncle Foster told him to, so Varunas says. Whatever
Millard wanted to talk with the cap’n about must have been pretty
important, I guess.... But there! probably you know what it was a
whole lot better than I do, so I won’t take up your time. Far as I’m
concerned I can’t imagine Mil Clark’s talk bein’ important enough to--”

“Nabby! Nabby, stop! What is all this? Tell me.”

Nabby’s air of surprise was a fairly successful counterfeit. “Oh!” she
exclaimed, with lifted eyebrows. “Dear me! _Don’t_ you know anything
about it? Humph! I cal’lated of course you did. ’Twan’t none of _my_
affairs, I realized _that_, but I thought you, bein’ one of the
family--one of both families, as you might say--would be let in on all
the secrets there was goin’. Course the hired help--well, we ain’t
expected to--”

“Nabby! Do you want me to shake you? Now tell me the whole story, right
away.”

Which Nabby proceeded to do, it being precisely the purpose for which
she had been waiting in the library. Millard Clark was on the station
platform when the Townsend carriage drew up beside it. At the first
opportunity he had seized Foster Townsend by the arm.

“Said he had somethin’ important to say,” went on Mrs. Gifford. “Said
he’d been tryin’ hard to get a word with Cap’n Foster for two, three
days. Been here to the house a couple of times, he had, but--”

“Wait!” broke in Esther. “Was that true? Has he been here? I didn’t
know it.”

Nabby sniffed contemptuously. “Neither did Cap’n Foster, fur’s
that goes,” she declared. “Yes, yes, he’s been here a couple of
times--yesterday and the day afore ’twas--and he was in a turrible
sweat to see your uncle. Well, your uncle wasn’t in and neither was
you, but if you had been I don’t know’s I’d bothered you on his
account. I never imagined he was worth botherin’ anybody about--much. I
judged maybe he’d run short of money. I understand he’s joined in with
that good for nothin’ crew that plays high-low-jack all night long at
Elbert Peters’ scallop shanty up the beach a mile or so beyond Tobe
Eldridge’s--and I guess likely he’d come to see if he couldn’t borrow a
couple of dollars. So I never took the trouble to tell you or the cap’n
that he’d been here.

“Well, anyhow, there he was at the depot and he grabbed right aholt of
your Uncle Foster soon’s ever he got the chance. Varunas was standin’
right alongside--course he wasn’t tryin’ to listen, you understand,
but he just heard--and he heard the cap’n say he was busy and for
Millard to let him alone. Mil, he wouldn’t let him alone. ‘It’s mighty
important,’ says he. ‘It’s somethin’ you’d ought to know, Cap’n Foster.
Somethin’ you’ll thank me for tellin’ you when you do know it.’ Varunas
says the cap’n turned ’round then and looked at him, kind of funny
and more interested, as Varunas thought. ‘What’s it about?’ says he.
Now Varunas, he couldn’t hear what Millard said next on account of
Millard’s standin’ up on tiptoes and whisperin’ it in your uncle’s ear.
Varunas says if he’d realized Mil was goin’ to start in whisperin’ he’d
have come over nigher. But he didn’t.”

“Well, well! What then?”

“Well, then, accordin’ to Varunas’s story, your Uncle Foster stood
there, pullin’ his whiskers and lookin’ at Millard queerer than ever.
Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. ‘Get in that car,’ he says.
‘You can ride with me far as Denboro,’ says he, ‘and tell me on the
way.’ Millard said somethin’ about having no change along with him to
pay fare, and how he didn’t know’s he’d ought to leave Reliance alone
at mail time. Cap’n Foster barked at him, the way he does at folks he
don’t like--yes, and them he does like, sometimes. The way he’s barked
at me when I haven’t done a thing except what was my business to do, is
enough--but there! _I_ understand him. Lord knows I’d ought to! And--”

“Is there any more?”

“Why, not much. Cap’n Foster barked out that he’d attend to the fare
and if Millard took the night train back from Denboro he’d get home
same time the mail did. So they got into the cars together and--and
that’s all.... But, Esther, don’t _you_ know what your Uncle Millard
wanted to see your Uncle Foster about? Varunas and me, we’ve been
tryin’ to guess and guess, but-- Mercy me! You ain’t goin’ away now,
are you? Why, you ain’t said a word, scurcely.”

Esther might have made the justifiable retort that she had been given
no opportunity to say a word. She did not make it, however. She spoke
of her headache and that she would not be down for supper. She went up
to her room and remained there.




CHAPTER XIX


When, the next morning, pale and heavy-eyed, she was making a pretense
of breakfasting, Nabby came in from the kitchen with an announcement.

“Esther,” she said, “your Aunt Reliance Clark is here at the side
door. She wants to see you, she says. I told her you was eatin’ your
breakfast, but she said never mind, she’d wait till you got done.
Pretty early in the mornin’ to come callin’, seems to me.”

Esther rose from the table.

“Aunt Reliance!” she exclaimed. “Why, that is odd. Ask her to come into
the library, please, Nabby.”

Nabby lingered. “Say,” she whispered, “you don’t cal’late she’s come to
talk about what Millard went to Denboro along with Cap’n Foster for, do
you? Well, if that is it, I hope she’ll tell the rest of us. My heavens
to Betsy!” with a sudden burst of candor; “I ain’t had anything plague
me so for I don’t know when. And neither has Varunas.... Yes, yes! I’ll
fetch her right in.”

Esther was in the library awaiting her aunt, when the latter appeared.
Reliance’s greeting was cheerful and, so long as Mrs. Gifford remained
in the room, her manner was composed. But after Nabby, having lingered
as long as she dared, departed, that manner changed.

“Esther,” she said, hurriedly, “I’ve come here to have a talk and it’s
likely to be a long talk. Can’t we go somewhere where we can be sure
nobody will hear us?”

Esther nodded. “Come right up to my room,” she said. “Nobody will
disturb us there.”

Upstairs, in the pink room, she turned to her visitor.

“Auntie,” she said, “it’s odd that you should have come here to see me
this morning. I was just on the point of going down to see you.”

Reliance looked at her quickly and keenly.

“You were?” she asked. “Why?”

“Because--well, because I felt that I must see you. I have heard-- Oh,
I learned some things yesterday afternoon that--that-- Aunt Reliance, I
doubt if I slept an hour all night. I was coming to you for advice--and
help. Oh, I am so glad you are here.”

She was on the verge of tears. Reliance put her arm about her shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, dearie,” she said. “But if it is a
patch on what _I_ have heard--and found out--since ten o’clock last
night, then I don’t wonder you haven’t slept.... Your Uncle Foster is
away, of course?”

“Yes. He is coming back from Boston on the eleven o’clock train. I wish
he was here,” she added, with a sudden change of tone. “I want to see
him even more than I do you.”

Reliance bent forward to look into her face.

“Esther,” she asked, “have you and your uncle had a fallin’ out?”

“No ... not yet.”

“Not yet?... Esther, what does that mean?”

“It means-- Oh, never mind what it means! Perhaps I will tell you by
and by. I shall--because I had made up my mind to. But you came here to
tell me something. What is it?”

Her aunt’s answer was prefaced by a troubled shake of the head.

“I came here to have a talk with you,” she said. “Yes, and to tell you
something--a lot of things. But if already you have heard something
which makes you feel bitter towards your Uncle Foster, I--well, I don’t
know. I almost wish I had waited until he was here and told you both
together.”

“Aunt Reliance, whatever you have to tell me won’t make any difference
in my feeling toward him. If what I have heard is true--and I am
afraid--yes, I am sure it is--then it is a matter between him and
me. And one other. Don’t ask me about it now. Tell me what you came
to tell. You have found out something about what happened that night,
after the ‘Pinafore’ performance, between Seymour Covell and--and Bob.
Of course you have. Well, so have I.”

Reliance was startled. “_You_ have found out--!” she cried. “But how
could you?”

“Bob told me. I went to see him at his studio yesterday afternoon.”

“You went there! Oh, dear me! That was a risky thing to do, Esther.
There will be more talk.”

“I don’t think any one saw me; but never mind if they did. I had to go.”

“And did he tell you--everything?”

“No; but he told me a good deal. He admitted that he met Seymour on the
lower road that morning, that they had high words, and how the accident
happened. He would not tell me why Seymour was there, with uncle’s
horses, at such a time. Nor why they quarreled. Oh, Aunt Reliance, if
you do know more than that, please tell me. Can’t you see I must know?”

Reliance still hesitated.

“Before I do, dearie,” she said gently, “will you answer another
question? Do you--do you really care for this Mr. Covell?”

Esther stepped back. “Care for him?” she repeated. “Care _for him_?...
No,” emphatically, “I do not.”

Reliance seemed to find the answer satisfactory. She nodded.

“I see,” she said slowly. “You poor child! Yes, yes, I see. You
must have had a dreadful time the last few days. I will tell you. I
learned a lot last night before I went to bed. This morning I made
it my business to learn the rest. Esther, where do you suppose I’ve
been--just now, before I came here?”

“Why--I don’t know.”

“I guess you don’t. And very few others, I hope. I have been away down
to Henry Campton’s house on the lower road. I went there to see that
girl of his--that Carrie.”

Esther stared in utter amazement. “You went to see Carrie Campton?” she
repeated. “Why?”

“Because I judged she could fit in the pieces of the puzzle I was
trying to work out. And that is what she did before she and I finished.
Wait a minute, Esther. Yes, she fitted in the last pieces, but the
first ones came from somebody else. You have heard the story that has
been going around--that about some man or other who saw Covell and
Griffin that night? But of course you have. Abbie Makepeace told me
she was kind enough to repeat it to you. Well, I told _her_ one or two
things when I learned what she had done. She scarcely speaks to me
now, but that is a great deal harder trial for her than it is for me.
Esther, I know now who that man was. He--oh dear! I hate to tell you
his name. I am ashamed to.”

Esther smiled, faintly. “Perhaps you don’t need to,” she said. “It was
Uncle Millard, wasn’t it?”

And now it was Miss Clark who was amazed.

“My soul!” she gasped. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guessed it. It came to me last night, while I was
lying awake, thinking. I knew--Nabby told me--that he had been here to
see Uncle Foster several times on what he called important business.
And Varunas heard a little of what he said to uncle on the station
platform yesterday. And this ‘business’ of his was so important that
Uncle Foster took him as far as Denboro on the train in order to hear
it. I wondered--and wondered--and then--I guessed.”

“My--my--my! Well,” with a sigh, “you guessed right. I don’t think _I_
should have guessed. For one thing I wouldn’t have believed the scamp
could keep a secret from me so long-- Humph! I rather think he is sorry
he kept this one. And he’ll be sorrier still before I get through with
him. Yes, he was the man.... And now, dearie, I want you to sit down in
that chair, and just listen, and be a brave girl, while I tell you the
whole story, every last scrap of it.”

The eleven o’clock train was an hour late that day and Foster
Townsend’s temper was not improved by the delay. He had had a
wearisome, trying session since leaving home the previous afternoon,
the culmination of a week of trial and worry. Millard Clark’s
“important business” had come as a new and most disturbing shock to
his mind. The greater part of the mystery concerning the accident to
Seymour Covell was a mystery no longer, but there were some points
still unexplained. He knew now how Covell had been hurt and where, but
he did not know--nor could Clark tell him--why his guest had driven the
Townsend span to that spot at that hour. That troubled him. Any reason
which his imagination could furnish was not reassuring. Then, too, his
meeting with Covell, Senior, in Boston was not altogether a pleasant
memory. The Chicago man had not breathed a word of reproach or blame,
but Townsend felt himself to blame nevertheless. The young fellow had
been put in his charge; he had, in a way, assumed responsibility for
his safety and his actions. The accident was bad enough, but if behind
it was something disreputable--why, that was worse.

And, beside this was the question of the obligation owing Bob Griffin.
The hints and rumors concerning Bob’s part in the happenings of that
night were whispered everywhere. He, himself, had heard no direct
accusations, but they were certain to be made. He could prevent them by
telling the truth, and compelling Millard to tell it, but that would
not stifle curiosity, merely headed in other directions. The two young
men were fighting--but why? And, more than all, why was Covell there?
Scandal, scandal, and more scandal! And his niece’s name sure to be
coupled with it.

How much should he tell Esther? Or should he tell anything--yet? These
were his chief perplexities at the moment. He had believed, his own
desire prompting the belief, that Esther had broken with Griffin for
good and all and that if she had ever cared for him she did so no
longer. But, as she had heard the rumors--he knew, from her own lips,
that she had--if he should tell her as much of the truth as he now
knew, Elisha Cook’s grandson would immediately become, in her eyes, a
martyr. Perhaps a dangerously fascinating martyr, unjustly accused and
sacrificing himself to shield some one else. And, convinced of that,
she might-- Oh, who could tell what a romantic girl of her age might do!

He reached a determination and the Harniss station at the same time.
He would tell her nothing for a while. Griffin was leaving for Europe
almost immediately. After he had gone--was out of the way and beyond
recall--then he could tell, and he would.

Varunas and the span were waiting at the platform and Varunas had a
telegram in his hand. It, the telegram, was not a sedative for Foster
Townsend’s nerves or temper. It was from his lawyers requesting his
presence at a very important meeting in their Ostable office that
afternoon. He must attend; his presence was necessary.

He jammed the telegram into his pocket and swore aloud. Varunas heard
him and turned on the driver’s seat.

“Eh?” he queried. “Did you speak, Cap’n Foster?”

“No.”

“Didn’t ye? Funny! I thought I heard you say my name.”

“Humph! You flatter yourself.... You’ve got to drive me to Ostable
to-day, it seems. Be ready to start right after dinner. Esther’s at
home, I suppose; eh?”

“Why, no, she ain’t. She’s gone down to Reliance Clark’s. Reliance,
she was up to our house most of the forenoon and then Esther went back
along with her. Said she didn’t know whether she’d be home to dinner or
not.”

Somehow this announcement ruffled the Townsend feelings still more. For
his niece to treat thus carelessly so important an event as his return
was irritating as well as most unusual.

“That’s queer,” he growled. “She knew I would be at home for dinner,
didn’t she? Yes, of course she did.”

“Um-hum. She knew. Nabby reminded her of it just as she and Reliance
were goin’ out the door, but she didn’t make no answer. Looked awful
sober and--and kind of strange, so Nabby thought.”

Townsend ate a lonely dinner and enjoyed it little. Just as he was
finishing his pie Esther came in at the front door and went up the
stairs to her room. He called to her, but if she heard she did not
heed. He called again. Then he put down his fork, rose from the table,
and followed her.

She was in her room; the door was open, and he entered without knocking.

“Well,” he demanded, in a tone half jocular and half serious. “What’s
all this? Clear out just when you know I’m due at home, let me eat my
dinner all by myself, and then, when you do come in, march upstairs
without so much as a hail. What’s the matter? Aren’t sick, are you?”

She was standing by the mirror, removing her hat. She spoke over her
shoulder.

“No, Uncle Foster,” she said. “I’m not sick.”

“Humph! I am glad of that much, anyhow. Well, I haven’t seen you for a
whole day. How about a kiss? That’s been the usual custom between you
and me, unless my memory’s gone adrift.”

She turned then and came towards him. He kissed her. Then he noticed
how pale she was.

“Why, good Lord!” he exclaimed. “You’re white as a sheet.”

He was holding her face between his hands and the light from the window
fell upon it. Her eyes were red.

“Good Lord!” he cried, in alarm. “You look sick, whether you are or
not.”

“Do I? Yes, perhaps I do.”

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

She stepped back, although he tried to detain her.

“Uncle Foster,” she said, “I am glad you came up here. I hoped you
would. Will you please close the door?”

“Eh? Shut the door? Why?... Humph! Well, all right, it’s shut. Now
then-- Say, for heaven’s sake, what is up, Esther? What’s all this
privacy?”

“And will you please sit down and listen to what I have to say?”

He moved toward a chair. Then he hesitated.

“’Twon’t take you long, will it?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
“Those blasted lawyers are expecting me over at Ostable this afternoon.
Goodness knows I don’t want to go, but I guess I’ve got to.”

She did not answer. He sat down. She did not sit, but stood facing him.
He was smiling, but she was not and, as he met her look his own smile
faded. It was a most peculiar look. He began to feel uneasy.

She did not keep him waiting. “Uncle Foster,” she said, “I want you to
tell me now just how much you know about the accident to Mr. Covell.
All that you know.”

His brows drew together. The demand was not entirely unforeseen, of
course. This was the only subject of great importance in her mind and
his just now and he had expected her to refer to it. But answering
required consideration. How much did she, herself, know? That, he
thought, was the all-important question.

He crossed his legs. “Well,” he said, slowly, “that will be kind of
hard to tell, won’t it, Esther? When you say ‘know’ I judge you mean
know and not guess! I know some things, and I have heard a lot more.”

“But what do you know?”

“We-ll,” still temporizing, “I know--I know-- But there! I don’t see
any use of going over all this again now. I ought to be on the way to
Ostable this minute. I’ll be back late to-night. Anyhow I’ll be on hand
all day to-morrow. Why can’t it wait till then, when we have plenty of
time?”

He would have risen, but the tone of her next speech caused him to
remain seated.

“I don’t wish it to wait,” she said. “I want to hear it now.”

“But I can’t stop, Esther. Don’t you see? I am in a hurry. This lawyer
thing is important.”

Her eyes flashed and her tone changed. “Important!” she repeated,
scornfully. “Does that mean it is more important than clearing the
name of--of some one who is gossiped about and lied about and accused
of--of--oh, of attempted murder, very likely? Is your miserable lawsuit
more important than that? It isn’t to me, I can tell you.”

“Why, Esther--”

“Uncle Foster, you were going away this afternoon without telling me
anything. I know you were. All through this dreadful affair you have
kept secrets from me, and hidden the truth from me. You didn’t intend
telling me one word of what Uncle Millard-- Oh, I won’t call him that!
I hate him!--of what he told you in the train yesterday. You were going
to hide that from me, too.”

Foster Townsend leaned forward. His interview with Millard Clark had
taken place only the previous afternoon. Clark had given his oath that
he had told no one the details of what he had seen and heard that night
on the lower road. He had, under threats of bodily harm if he ever
told any one else, repeated that oath. And now, within a few hours....
Townsend leaned slowly back in the chair.

“Humph!” he growled. “Reliance told you, of course. The confounded
lying sneak told her and she ran up hot foot to tattle to you. I’ll
break that fellow’s neck next time I see him. I’d like to break hers,”
he added, under his breath.

Esther ignored the threatened danger to the Clark necks. She was no
longer pale; the color had returned to her cheeks.

“Yes,” she said, defiantly. “Yes, Aunt Reliance did tell me. Of course
she did. But _you_ weren’t going to tell me. You were going to hide it
from me, as you have hidden all the rest.”

“How could I tell you?” impatiently. “You weren’t around when I got
here. You weren’t around at dinner time. And when you did come home you
came straight up here without so much as a word to me. What chance
have I had to tell you anything? Come, come, girl! be fair!”

The word was an unfortunate choice. “Oh, don’t ask _me_ to be fair!”
she retorted, fiercely. “How fair have you been to me? You _know_ you
weren’t going to tell me. If you had intended to tell you would have
done it the moment you entered this room. I gave you the opportunity to
tell. I even asked you to. And all you did was intimate that you had
‘heard’ some things. You tried to put me off.”

This, being the exact truth, was hard to deny. Her uncle did not deny
it. Instead he returned to the subject of Mr. Clark.

“The blackguard!” he snarled. “Why, Esther, do you know why he was
so set on telling me his yarn? Me and nobody else? Why, because he
expected to get money for it. Thought I’d pay him for keeping his mouth
shut. Well, he hasn’t kept it shut and when he comes crawling around to
get his price I’ll--I’ll-- Oh, by the Almighty, let him come! I’ll be
glad to see him.”

She paid no heed. Plainly she was not at all interested in what might
happen to Millard Clark.

“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.

“Do? About what?”

“What are you going to do, now that you know Bob Griffin was not in
the least responsible for Seymour Covell’s hurt? Are you going to tell
every one that? You must.”

He pulled at his beard. “Why--why, yes, of course I am,” he admitted,
frowning. “That is, I shall pretty soon. Now, now--hold on! There are a
good many loose ends to this business. There is a lot to be considered
before we do anything rash. Of course, if any one was to say out and
out that Griffin was responsible I should put a stop to it. But nobody
can say that because it isn’t true. They talk and guess and so on, but
they are bound to do that. It doesn’t harm Griffin any, really. He is
going off--to Paris--in two or three days.”

“And you would let him go--and not tell?”

“Hold on, hold on! I said I should tell, didn’t I? But we don’t know
anything yet. We must think about--well, about poor Seymour for one.
There he is, up in that hospital, senseless, can’t say a word--”

“Oh, stop!” scornfully. “Is _that_ the reason why you don’t want to
tell? You are so afraid _his_ feelings or reputation may be hurt. And
yet you will let Bob leave home under a cloud, while the people here
lie about him as much as they like. Oh, shame on you!”

He twisted in the chair.

“Come, come, that’ll do!” he said, brusquely. “You are almighty
touchy about this Griffin, I must say. I’m not defending any one in
particular. I say there are things we don’t know, that’s all. We don’t
know what brought Seymour down to the lower road that night. And--
Here! Why do you look like that? Do _you_ know?”

“Yes, I do. He went there to see Carrie Campton. He was in her parlor
with her for more than an hour. _She_ brought him there; or he brought
her there. At any rate there he was.”

Foster Townsend sprang to his feet. “Carrie Campton!” he repeated.
“Carrie Campton-- Do you mean to say he went there to see _her_? I
don’t believe it. What for?”

“Why should I know? Probably because he liked her.... Now don’t ask me
more about that. It is true. She told Aunt Reliance all about it this
very morning. I suppose she hasn’t told before because--well, because.
Now will you tell every one the truth, all of it?”

He did not answer. He stood there, rubbing his beard, and considering
what he had just heard. He had no doubt it was true. And it explained
everything. But it humiliated him, made him furiously angry, not
only at Covell, but at every one concerned in this disgraceful snarl
entangling his--the great Foster Townsend’s--name and household. He
strode to the door.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” he muttered, between his teeth.

His niece reached the door before him and stood with her back against
it.

“Wait! Wait, Uncle Foster!” she ordered. “You can’t go yet. I have more
to say to you.”

“I don’t want to hear it. I have heard too much already. And I am half
an hour late as it is.”

“I am sorry for that, but you must hear the rest. Uncle Foster, why did
you refuse to tell me what Bob said to you and what you said to him the
other day at his studio?”

“Eh? What are you talking about? I didn’t refuse.”

“Yes, you did. Or, at any rate, you told me nothing that amounted to
anything. You did not tell me that he charged you with planning my trip
to Europe merely to get me away from him--and canceling it when you
found he was going. You didn’t tell me that, nor that you admitted it
was true. Yes,” bitterly, “and boasted of your cleverness, gloried in
your trickery. You didn’t mention that.”

She had caught him again. He had no defense ready. The suddenness of
the accusation left him mute and staring.

“How--how on earth did you know about that?” he gasped.

“Bob, himself, told me. I went down there to see him yesterday
afternoon.”

His face, already flushed, grew redder still as this paralyzing
statement forced itself upon his comprehension. He drew back slowly.

“_What!_” he roared. “You went down to that shanty to see that fellow?”

“Yes.”

“Good God! Why--why, what do you mean by it? Didn’t I tell you never to
go near that place again?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you promise me you wouldn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Then--then--what--”

“I broke my promise. I had to. When I heard the things they were saying
about him I--I had to find out. So I went, that is all. I didn’t
learn all I hoped to learn. He wouldn’t tell me why Seymour was there
on that road that night, although I think he knew, or could guess.
I suppose--it would be like him--he would not tell tales concerning
another fellow. But he did tell me of his talk with you and--and....”
Her voice broke. “Oh, Uncle,” she finished, desperately, “how could
you!”

The misery in her tone, the tears in her eyes, her sudden plea for
understanding, did not move him. At another time they would have
done so, but not then. He offered no excuses. He did not attempt
denial. The fact that she had gone, alone and in spite of his orders
and her promise, to see Griffin was sufficient. All his delusions,
all his conceit in the triumph of his scheming, all his silly, easy
confidence that her interest in Elisha Cook’s grandson was a thing of
the dead past--all these were blown away like a summer fog by that one
disclosure. She had paid no attention to his wishes, his commands--she
had defied him--him, Foster Townsend. If she had been a man he would
have knocked her down.

“What!--” he shouted. “What’s that? How could I? How could _you_, you
better say! Going there to see the scamp the whole town is talking
about! Mixing your name up with his! Letting them talk about _you_ now!
Why--why--”

She lifted a hand. “Don’t!” she begged. “Please don’t!”

“Don’t! Don’t what? Did you expect I was going to hear a thing like
that from you and--and grin? Did you expect I was going to purr and say
I liked it! You--_you_, by the Lord! the girl I swore by and depended
on--a Townsend, too--waiting until I was out of the way and then
crawling on your hands and knees after that--oh, what shall I call him?
The young--”

Again she stopped him. “Don’t! Don’t!” she cried once more. “You
mustn’t say those things.... Uncle Foster, I am going to marry him.”

Again he was stricken speechless. He stared open-mouthed. Then he put
his hand to his forehead.

“She’s gone crazy,” he muttered. “I believe she has; I swear I do!
Esther, for heaven’s sake, let’s--”

“No, no, I mean it, Uncle Foster. I have made up my mind. I am going to
marry Bob. That is,” with a wan smile, “if he will have me now, after
all this.”

For a long instant they looked each other in the eyes. Then he drew a
deep breath.

“If I thought you meant that,” he said, slowly. “If I thought for one
minute you really meant it--”

He paused. Her anger seemed to have gone and her color with it, but
there was no hesitation or lack of firmness in her reply.

“I do,” she said. “Oh, I know you will never forgive me. Perhaps I
am ungrateful and wicked--I can’t tell. I do love you, Uncle Foster,
indeed I do! In spite of the mean, deceitful tricks you have played to
keep Bob and me apart and to gain your own way. I love you in spite of
them, I can’t help it. But I love him more. I know now that he is more
to me than all the rest of the world. And, if he will have me, I shall
marry him.”

There was another interval. Then he put a hand on her arm and led her
across the room to the easy-chair by the window.

“You sit down there, Esther,” he said, quietly. “You just sit there
and rest and calm down. You’ve had a lot on your mind lately and you
got mad with me because you thought I was hiding things from you,
and--well, your nerves have gone to pieces. You just stay there for
a while, or lie down and take a nap or something. When I come back
to-night, if it isn’t too late, you and I will have a nice, sensible
talk. If not, we will in the morning. I am going to forget all the
nonsense you’ve just said and I want you to.”

“It isn’t nonsense.”

“I know, I know. Well, it will seem like nonsense by and by, after
you’ve thought it over.... There, there! Be a good girl. I’ll send
Nabby up with some hot tea or something. Tea is good for nerves, so
folks say. Now I’m off for the lawyers. See you later.”

She called to him. He turned.

“Eh? Yes?” he queried.

She was sitting quietly in the chair, her hands in her lap, and the
sunlight glistening upon her wet cheeks. She was looking at him
steadily--and, it seemed to him, longingly. Yet all she said was:

“Good-by, Uncle Foster.”

“Eh? Oh, yes! Well, good-by.”




CHAPTER XX


At four that afternoon Reliance Clark was alone in the millinery
shop at the rear of the post office building, sewing this time not
upon the material for a bonnet or hat, but a much-needed dress for
herself, which she was making over from an old one. Business at the
Clark-Makepeace shop was distressingly dull. The summer season was at
an end. The cottages, most of them, were closed. Even the Wheelers,
usually among the very last to leave, had departed for New Haven.
Margery, so people said, was responsible for the curtailing of their
stay. “The poor child,” so her mother explained to Mrs. Colton, “is
tired out. She worked _so_ hard to make the ‘Pinafore’ performance a
success. If it had not been for her persistence and patience--yes,
and talent, if I do say so, my dear--I don’t know how we should have
come through. And then this distressing accident--if it _was_ an
accident--to Mr. Covell. It was the last straw. Such a shock to her
nerves. She and poor Seymour were _great_ friends. Of course Margery
says little about it, even to me, but she has not been herself since
it happened. Yes, we are closing the cottage. Where we shall spend the
winter I am not yet just sure. I rather fancy California, but Margery
seems more inclined toward the Riviera. Of course what Mr. Wheeler may
decide is uncertain, but it will, without doubt, be one or the other.”

Skeptics, remembering similar declarations of former years, smiled
behind the lady’s back. Captain Ben Snow said to his wife:

“Um-hum. Yes. Well, California’s a good place and so, I shouldn’t
wonder, is this River-what-d’ye-call-it, but they are a long way
off--and expensive. Adeline Wheeler may talk California and Margery
somewhere else, but when papa begins to say things he’ll say New Haven,
Connecticut, same as he always has before. As my grandfather used to
tell, ‘Talk is cheap, but it takes money to buy Medford rum.’ You can
address your Wheeler mail to New Haven, Mary, and I guess it won’t
fetch up in the dead letter office.”

Whether this prophecy was or was not a true one remained, of course, to
be seen, but at all events the Wheeler household had joined the general
exodus from Harniss. The gatherings in the post office at mail times
had shrunk almost to mid-winter size. Reliance found time to do her
housekeeping in the manner which, according to her New England ideas,
housekeeping should be done, and to attend to her own dressmaking. On
this particular afternoon, Abbie Makepeace had gone home early to write
her column for the _Item_.

Millard Fillmore Clark was on duty in the little room behind the racks
of letter boxes. Mr. Clark had passed a most unhappy eighteen hours.
The trouble began immediately after his return home the previous
evening, following the impromptu excursion to and from Denboro. He had
delayed that return until ten, hoping that Reliance might have gone
to bed. She was up and awaiting him, however, and he was subjected to
a questioning which developed into a cross-examination and continued
as a tongue lashing lasting far into the morning. He slunk upstairs
with a very definite idea of the position he occupied in his sister’s
estimation.

Rising, cowed and humble, he ate a lonely breakfast, washed the dishes
and then, still in obedience to orders, reported at the millinery shop.
Reliance was out, but she had left instructions with Miss Makepeace. He
was to go into the little room at the rear of the letter boxes and stay
there. “She said for me to tell you she was likely to be away most of
the forenoon,” said Abbie, “and that you was to ’tend the office till
she came back, no matter what time it was. And--oh, yes!--she said to
be sure and tell you to remember this wasn’t healthy weather for you
to go outdoors in. I don’t know what she meant by that. Are you sick,
Millard? You don’t look real lively this mornin’, that’s a fact.”

Millard grumbled something to the effect that he didn’t know but he was
a little mite under the weather and shut off further conversation by
closing the door between the post office and millinery department. He
spent the forenoon waiting upon the few customers who came for their
mail or to buy stamps, looking out of the window of his prison cell,
reading every postal card available, and reflecting dismally upon his
prospects for the immediate future. They were dismal enough. In the
course of their midnight session Reliance had expressed pointed opinion
concerning the pleasant little games of “seven-up” at the scallop
shanty.

“I wondered what was keepin’ you out half the night four nights in a
week,” she said. “I thought of a good many things that might be doin’
it--of course I never paid any attention to what you _told_ me; I knew
better than that--but I never once thought of your bein’ down in that
shanty, gamblin’ with that crew. You, a Clark! I declare! I am more
ashamed of you than ever, which is sayin’ somethin’.”

“Now, now, hold on, Reliance! I wasn’t gamblin’. That is-- Why,
confound it all, how could I gamble, if I wanted to? I don’t have money
enough in my pocket to buy tobacco hardly. Here I am, workin’ for the
United States government, takin’ care of all the mail that comes into
this town--a responsible position, by godfreys! And what do they pay me
for all the work and responsibility? Eh? I ask you now! What do I get
for it?”

“Oh, be still! In the first place the government doesn’t hire you.
_I_ hire you, and I pay you about twice what I could get real help
for. If I paid you what you were worth you would owe me money every
Saturday night. But you are my half-brother--more shame to me--and so--
Oh, well, never mind! We won’t argue about that. You say you weren’t
gamblin’. You were playin’ cards for money, weren’t you?”

“Why--why, I don’t know’s you’d call it money. Some of the fellows
there seemed to think that heavin’ cards back and forth across the
table for nothin’ was kind of dull work, so they figgered ’twould be
better to have a little mite _on_ the cards. Say a cent a point, or
somethin’ like that, you understand.”

“Yes, yes!” sharply. “I understand well enough. A cent a point! And you
without money enough in your pocket to buy tobacco! How much have you
won since these interestin’ games got goin’?”

Millard fidgeted. “We-el,” he confessed, “I--well, you see, Reliance, I
haven’t really won much of anything, as you might say. I have had the
darnedest streak of bad luck. All the boys say it’s as bad a streak as
they ever saw.”

“Um. I see. Well, how much have you lost?”

“Eh? Lost?... We-ll, I figger I’m out about eleven dollars and
eighty-one cents just now. Course the luck is bound to turn any minute.
All the fellers say it is and they keep tellin’ me to stick right along
till it does.”

“Yes,” sarcastically, “I guess likely they do. I should think they
would. The longer you stick the more they can stick you. You have lost
about twelve dollars. Why, look here, Millard Clark; where did you get
twelve dollars to pay gamblin’ debts with?”

Mr. Clark tried to answer, but any adequate answer was beyond his
imagining just then. Reliance did not wait long.

“I see,” she said, scornfully. “I see. It is plain enough now. You
didn’t pay. You owe that crowd the twelve dollars and that was what
sent you chasin’ at Foster Townsend’s heels. You happened to see Bob
and the Covell man on the lower road that night--and if you had been
in your bed at home here where you belonged, instead of gamblin’ with
the town riff-raff until two in the mornin’, you wouldn’t have seen
them--you saw them and, knowin’ how Cap’n Foster hates any of Elisha
Cook’s family you-- Oh, my soul! You expected Foster would _pay_ you
for what you had to tell him. You were goin’ to get your twelve
dollars out of him.... That’s enough from you. Go to bed!”

“But, but, Reliance,” desperately. “I--I-- Oh, you’re all wrong. I
wasn’t cal’atin’ to ask Cap’n Foster to pay me. I--well, I thought
maybe, considerin’ that I’d been kind enough to tell him what he’d
ought to know, and what I hadn’t told another soul, I thought maybe
he’d lend me a little somethin’. I was goin’ to pay him back.”

“Pay him back! Yes, I guess so! And to think that you are my
half-brother and Esther’s own uncle! Well, I have shirked my duty long
enough. Now it is time I began to do it. I don’t know who would hire
you for a steady job at hard work, but perhaps there is some one. I
might be able to coax Seth Francis to ship you aboard his schooner for
a trip to the Banks. It would take a lot of coaxin’, but I might; he
hasn’t lived in Harniss very long, so he doesn’t know you quite as well
as the rest of us. No, I won’t hear another word. Go to bed!”

So the future, as Mr. Clark was viewing it through the little panes of
the post office window, was far from alluring. He almost wished that
he had not attempted winning Foster Townsend’s favor by revealing the
secret of the meeting on the lower road. Of course his sister had not
been in earnest when she threatened him with a trip to the Banks as
green hand on a fishing boat, but--well, she would never again trust
him. His easy berth in the post office, with its ample leisure, its
opportunities to show off and to air his importance before his fellow
townsmen, his comfortable room in the cottage, his three well-cooked
meals a day--all these were in danger. Reliance was thoroughly angry.
He was in disgrace. The more he reflected the more uneasy he became
and, although he resented his imprisonment behind the letter boxes, he
resolved to serve out his term, no matter how long it might be, with an
assumption of cheerful eagerness. He considered himself a persecuted
martyr, but he would play the rôle of a sinner seeking forgiveness. It
was a polite pretense which had worked well on other occasions; it
might work even in the present crisis.

About ten o’clock he saw, through the window, Reliance Clark enter
the yard. Esther Townsend was with her and they went into the house
together. It was after twelve when they came out. They separated at the
gate, Esther walked away along the sidewalk and her aunt entered the
millinery shop. Millard heard her speak with Miss Makepeace; then she
opened the door of the little room.

“Your dinner is ready,” she announced, curtly. “Go in and eat it this
minute.”

Mr. Clark was smilingly eager. “All right, Reliance,” he agreed. “Yes,
yes, just as you say, of course. You have had your dinner already, have
you?”

“I have, all I want. I’m not hungry to-day.”

“Ain’t you? Well, now that’s too bad. I am afraid you have been workin’
too hard. Say, why don’t you go and lay down a spell? Never mind about
me. I can get along without eatin’. I’ll stay here and attend to
everything and you just--”

“Sshh! Go in and eat your dinner. And hurry up about it. I want you
here when the mail comes. You understand that? All right. Then go.”

Millard went. He was back before the arrival of the mail.

“That was as good a meal as ever I ate,” he announced, with enthusiasm.
“You certainly are a fine cook, Reliance. I washed up the dishes
myself. Course you didn’t tell me to, but I knew you was tired and I
wanted to help you out.”

“Yes? Humph! Well, I am tired. I heard enough from you last night to
make me tired the rest of my life. Here is the mail wagon. Now let me
see you work. _See_ you--not hear you.”

When the mail was distributed she again shut him in the little room
and went out to join Miss Makepeace in the shop. At three she came in
and superintended the preparation of the outgoing mail sacks. Then
once more the door of his cell closed and he was left in solitary
confinement.

Abbie went home at three-thirty. Reliance sewed briskly on her
gown. She was thankful for the work, for it helped to keep her mind
as well as her fingers occupied. She had had a distressful night,
a hard, trying morning, and her recent interviews with Esther, at
the mansion and in her own home, left her anxious and apprehensive.
The girl’s manner was most disturbing. Reliance had expected tears,
recriminations--against Millard and Foster Townsend--hysterical
outbursts, almost anything except the silent, stony, callousness with
which her disclosures had been received. Esther, after her first
expressions of astonishment at the mention of Carrie Campton’s name,
had listened intently, asked questions occasionally, but had neither
wept nor exclaimed. She had accompanied her aunt to the cottage and
remained there during dinner. She ate almost nothing and Reliance had
eaten little more.

“But what are you goin’ to do. Esther?” pleaded Reliance as they parted
at the gate. “What are you goin’ to say to your Uncle Foster?”

Esther looked away, across the road.

“I know what I shall say to him,” she answered. “First I want to hear
what he has to say to me.”

“But, Esther--oh, my dear, you must be careful! You must! Remember,
he thinks more of you than anybody else on earth. He has been very,
very kind to you, in his way. I know he has been--well, selfish and
stubborn and--and all that, but, after all, he was trying to do what
he considers the best thing for you. And perhaps I am a little bit
to blame, too. I am afraid I put the idea in his head of sendin’ you
away. I told you how that happened. Oh, Esther, do be careful! Don’t do
anything rash, will you?”

Esther did not turn. Her hand, however, groped for that of her aunt and
pressed it tightly.

“Good-by, Auntie,” she said. “I--I can’t talk any more now, I shall see
you again--and soon, I think.”

“But promise me you won’t do anything that you will be sorry for
always, anything that will make us all miserable.”

“I promise that, whatever I do, you shall know about it--and from me. I
promise that.”

She hurried away. And now, as Reliance sat there, trying to sew, her
thoughts were not upon the stitches she was taking in the made-over
gown; in spite of her resolution they strayed to the Townsend mansion,
to the girl who had just gone there and the man she had gone to meet.

A cautious tap sounded on the shop door. Then the door opened and the
head of Varunas Gifford appeared between it and the jamb.

“Hello!” hailed Mr. Gifford. “That you, Reliance? Can you come out here
a minute? I’ve got somethin’ for you.”

Reliance put down her sewing and followed him out to the step. At
the gate one of the Townsend horses and the Townsend dog-cart were
standing. On the step, beside Varunas, was a large leather traveling
bag. Reliance looked at the bag and then at the man who had brought it.

“Why!” she exclaimed. “What is this? This is Esther’s bag, isn’t it?”

Varunas nodded. “Um-hum,” he replied. “That’s whose ’tis. Seen it
afore, I guess likely, ain’t you?”

“Of course I have. But what have you brought it here for?”

“’Cause she told me to. I was settin’ out in the barn readin’ the
_Item_. You see, I ain’t got much on hand to do this afternoon. Cap’n
Foster, he give me orders, soon’s ever I fetched him from the depot,
to be ready to drive him over to Ostable when he got through dinner.
Had a telegram, he did, callin’ him over there to one of them lawyers’
meetin’s. So I was all ready and waitin’. But at the last minute he
changed his mind and decided to drive himself.”

“Yes, yes. What about Esther’s bag?”

“I’m tellin’ you fast as I can. I was settin’ around, readin’ the
_Item_, when Esther she come and called me. ‘Harness up the dog-cart or
the buggy or somethin’, Varunas,’ says she, ‘and fetch it ’round to the
front door. I’ve got an errand I want you to do.’ So I done it. Then
down the stairs come she, totin’ this bag. ‘You take that to my Aunt
Reliance’s,’ she says. ‘Give it to her and ask her to take care of it
till I come.’ That’s what she said, and ’twas all she said, too.”

“But--but why did she send it to me? What is in it?”

“Ask me somethin’ easy. _I_ don’t know what’s in it. Stone ballast,
maybe; it’s heavy enough. Say, Reliance, don’t you know nothin’ about
it?... Humph! that’s kind of funny, seems to me.”

Reliance thoroughly agreed with him. Sending that traveling bag to her,
to be taken care of until its owner came, was “funny” to say the least.
And disturbing, also. She looked at the bag and tried to think, to
imagine. And what she imagined frightened her.

Mr. Gifford had an inspiration. “Say,” he suggested, eagerly; “why
don’t you open it? Probably there’s somethin’ there for you, a present,
maybe. Here! I’ll open it for you.”

But Reliance caught his hand. “No, you won’t,” she ordered, sharply.
“You let it alone.... Wait! Wait where you are just a minute.”

She hurried back through the shop to the door of the little room where
her brother was imprisoned. She listened at the crack. What she heard
would, at any other time, have aroused her to indignant action. Now,
however, she seemed relieved. Cautiously she opened the door and peeped
in. Millard Fillmore Clark was seated in the corner, upon the official
stool, his head against an empty mail bag, his mouth open, snoring
placidly. Reliance shook her head, a shake which presaged trouble for
the slumberer later on. Then she carefully closed the door and hastened
out to the step.

Varunas was bending over the traveling bag. He looked up when she
appeared.

“It’s locked,” he said, in righteous resentment. “I was goin’ to open
it for you and blessed if she ain’t been and locked it. That’s a
healthy thing to do, I must say! A body’d think she didn’t trust me. I
don’t like her doin’ that. I’ve a good mind to tell her so.”

Reliance made no comment. “Take it in the house,” she ordered. “Come
right along. I’ll show you where to put it.”

Mr. Gifford, under her pilotage, bore the bag to the house, where
it was placed on the floor of the dining-room closet. He would have
lingered to ask more questions and offer surmises, but Reliance would
neither linger nor listen. She got rid of him as soon as possible and,
after she had seen him drive away from the gate, returned to her rocker
in the millinery shop. She made no attempt to sew, however. She sat
there thinking, thinking. What did Esther’s sending that bag mean? What
had happened? And what more was to happen?

The early fall twilight deepened. At five-thirty Reliance rose from the
rocker, marched to the door of the mail room and threw it open.

“Get up!” she ordered. “Get up out of that this minute!”

Millard heard, started, opened his eyes and closed his mouth
simultaneously.

“Eh?” he cried, the mouth reopening. “Eh?... Oh, is that you, Reliance?
Well, I’ve been wonderin’ where you was. I was sittin’ here thinkin’
about--oh, about different things, and--er--”

His sister interrupted.

“Get up off that stool,” she said. “Come out here.”

She led the way to the shop. Mr. Clark followed her.

“Been a kind of a stupid afternoon,” he announced. “Not much doin’ in
the office there. How’s your new dress gettin’ on, Reliance?”

Reliance ignored the question. She opened the drawer of the table by
the sewing machine and took therefrom her worn pocketbook.

“Millard,” she said, crisply, “I want you to listen to me and do what
I tell you. I am too tired to bother with you any longer to-night. Get
out of this buildin’ and stay out.”

“_Stay_ out? What do you mean by that? What are you puttin’ me
outdoors for, like a--like a cat? Aw, Reliance, what are you mad about?
I suppose you think I was asleep in yonder. Well, I wasn’t.”

“Ssshh! I don’t care whether you were asleep or not. You are as much
use one way as the other. And I’m not mad. I’m just tired, same as I
told you, and I can’t be bothered with you. Here! here is some money.
Go down to the Seaside House and get your supper there. Then, after
that--well, I don’t care what you do after that, so long as you don’t
come back here and worry me.”

Millard stared. This was too good to be true--so good and so
non-understandable that he did not dare accept it at its face value.
There must be something behind it.

“Why--why, what on earth--?” he stammered. “Well--yes, I can get my
supper at the Seaside. They turn out a pretty good meal there for
thirty-five cents. But--but-- Say, what about the mail when it comes
in? Don’t you want me to help you with that?”

“No. There won’t be much of it and I had rather handle it myself, than
have to handle you along with it. I don’t need you and I don’t want
you.”

“Well, I declare!... Humph! All right. I’m kind of tired, myself, and
I’d just as soon have a little change and rest. I’ll go, to please you,
Reliance. I’ll come back early.”

“I don’t want you to come back early. I don’t care if you stay out all
night. _Get_ out! That is all I ask.”

Mr. Clark got out, got out hastily and thankfully. What this remarkable
change in his sister’s attitude might mean he could not imagine, nor
did he try. Supper at the Seaside House, where there were likely to be
Boston “drummers” to listen to and gossip with, where the gang played
pool every evening, where one might smoke a good five-cent cigar and
not be nagged because of ashes on the floor--why, it was the promise of
Paradise after Purgatory; and he had been in Purgatory ever since ten
o’clock the previous night. And she did not care when he came home.
She had said that very thing. The game of high-low-Jack would be going
on in the scallop shanty. He might--

He almost ran along the sidewalk in his haste to get beyond the sound
of her voice.

At six Reliance locked the door of the shop and went into the house.
She set about preparing supper. She was even less hungry now than
she had been at dinner time, but she would, at least, drink a cup of
tea--even two cups, although that was double her usual allowance. Tea
was supposed to be a bracer, a strengthener for the nerves, and she
was certain that her nerves would need strengthening before the night
was over. She filled the kettle, set it on the kitchen stove, and
then, returning to the dining room, she opened the door of the closet
and stood looking down upon the traveling bag, bulky and black and
menacing, on the floor beside the cooky jar. That bag, sent to her as
it had been, could mean, she was certain, but one thing. That thing she
must prevent if she could. But could she? Well, she could at least try.
She sighed heavily and turned away.

She set the table. A knife and fork, a spoon, the loaf of bread, the
butter, the milk pitcher--and all the time she listened, listened
for the step upon the path leading to her door, the step she was
expecting--and dreading.

And, at last, it came. She did not wait for a knock, but, hurrying
through the sitting-room to the outer door, threw it open. Esther was
standing there, as she expected, but she was not alone. Bob Griffin
was with her. The words with which Reliance had intended welcoming her
niece were not spoken. She said nothing.

Esther did not wait for her to speak. She turned to her companion.

“Go in, Bob,” she said, quickly. “Quick! before any one sees us.”

She pushed by her aunt and entered the dining room. Griffin followed
her. It was Esther, herself, who closed the door.

“Are you alone, Auntie?” she asked, eagerly. “Where is Uncle Millard?”

Reliance came out of her gaze with a start.

“Eh?” she queried. “Who? Oh, Millard? He--he’s gone out for the
evenin’; I told him to. And, if he knows what is good for him, he won’t
be back for a long time.... Well!” with a long breath. “Well, Esther,
you have surprised me this time, certain sure.”

Esther did not understand. “Why, you expected me, didn’t you?” she
cried. “You must have. I told Varunas to tell you I should come here
to-night.... He brought my bag, didn’t he? He told me he did.”

“Yes. Oh, yes, he brought it. It is here. And I expected you. But
I--well, I didn’t expect any one else.”

Her look at Griffin was significant. Bob noticed it and smiled. Of the
three he alone seemed capable of smiling. Esther was pale and nervous
and Reliance haggard and worn, after her night and day of shock and
worry. Griffin was nervous also, but his face was flushed and his eyes
bright. He was obviously excited and just as obviously neither downcast
nor anxious.

“You mean you didn’t expect me, Miss Clark,” he suggested. “Well,
I don’t wonder at that. I surely did not expect to be here. I can
scarcely believe it, even yet. Esther, shall I tell her? Or will you?”

Before Esther could reply, Reliance, now thoroughly awake to the
realities, put in a word.

“Before you tell me anything,” she said, “I think we might as well
begin to behave like common-sense folks and not stand in the middle of
the floor, you with your things on and me with my kitchen apron. Mr.
Griffin, take off your things. Sit down, both of you.”

But, although she pulled forward a rocker and an armchair, they did not
sit. Esther turned a troubled face to her escort.

“I don’t think we had better, do you, Bob?” she asked. “We mustn’t
stay here long. We must get away just as soon as we can.”

Bob nodded emphatic agreement. “You are quite right, Esther,” he
replied. “The sooner we get out of Harniss the better.”

Reliance took a step toward them.

“What!” she exclaimed. “What was that? Get out of Harniss? What do
you mean? Where are you goin’?” Then, her voice rising, she demanded
sharply: “Come, come! What is all this? Esther, tell me this minute!”

Esther involuntarily put out a hand. “Oh, don’t, Aunt Reliance!” she
pleaded. “Don’t speak like that. I-- Oh, we came to you because you
were the one person we could come to, the only one who would understand
and--and help. If you knew how I have counted on your help and your
sympathy and--oh, everything! Don’t _you_ begin by being angry with me.
I--I don’t think I could stand it now.”

Her aunt crossed to her side and put an arm about her. “There, there,
dear!” she said, heartily. “Don’t you fret about that. If you can’t
count on me I don’t know who you can count on. And I’m not cross,
either. I am--well, I’m surprised--and a little scared, perhaps, but I
am not cross.... There, there!... Now will you--one of you--please tell
me what this means, this goin’ away from Harniss?”

It was Bob who answered. His answer was prompt and to the point.

“I will tell you, Miss Clark,” he said. “Esther and I are going to
be married. We have decided that, caring for each other as we do, no
one else shall be considered any longer. No one else has the right
to be considered. She sent for me this afternoon, telegraphed me
to come to my studio and meet her there. She told me that she had
decided she could not live with her uncle any longer. She told me that
she would marry me and go away with me, to Europe or anywhere else.
That was enough, so far as I was concerned. We are leaving Harniss
to-night--together. We came to tell you so and to say good-by. That
is the whole truth, isn’t it, Esther?” Esther lifted her head from her
aunt’s shoulder and stepped back to his side.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “We are going to be married, Aunt Reliance. It
is settled and no one can prevent it.”

Reliance looked from one to the other. She put a hand to her forehead.

“My soul!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my soul! Wait--wait! Let me understand
this. Esther Townsend, does this mean that you and--and he are goin’ to
run away--elope--whatever you call it--now, to-night?”

Esther nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That is just what it means. Oh, Aunt
Reliance, can’t you see? I have made up my mind at last. I have thought
of others and for others long enough. They haven’t been thinking of me
at all, but of their own selfish pride and prejudices. It is time--high
time--I thought of my own happiness. I could never be happy without
Bob, nor he without me. So we are going to be happy together, that is
all.”

Again Reliance looked at them both. There were no symptoms of faltering
determination in either face. She looked long and steadily. Then she
sighed.

“Oh, dear!” she murmured. “Oh, dear, dear! Well, I expected almost
anything, after that bag was brought here this afternoon. Almost
anything, but not just this. This is dreadful.”

Griffin frowned. Esther straightened. Her eyes flashed.

“Dreadful!” she cried, indignantly. “Is _that_ the way you feel
about it, Aunt Reliance? You! Well, if you think my marrying Bob is
dreadful then we made a mistake in coming here. I thought you would
understand--and sympathize--and help. But if _you_ are going to--”

Her aunt broke in. “Hush, hush,” she said, quickly. “Don’t be foolish,
Esther.... I don’t think your marryin’ him is dreadful.”

“You said you did.”

“Said!” with an involuntary burst of impatience. “Well, perhaps I
did, I don’t know. Considerin’ what I have been through since last
night--and now with you two comin’ here--this way--I--well, it is a
wonder I haven’t said--the Lord knows what. But, Esther Townsend, you
must listen and you _must_ let me say things. _I_ don’t think your
marryin’ Bob here is dreadful. If you care enough for him to give up
everything and every one else for his sake, then it is exactly what
you ought to do. It is the way you are doing it that is the dreadful
part. Esther, dear, have you thought what this will mean to your Uncle
Foster? He worships the ground you walk on. And he has been awfully
good to you--you can’t deny that. And, if everything folks say is true,
old Mr. Cook idolizes his grandson. _They_ will think your runnin’ off,
without so much as a word to them, is dreadful. Indeed and indeed they
will! Oh, why be in such a hurry? Why not wait?”

She paused, out of breath, for she had delivered this long speech with
all the force that was in her. It had no effect whatever, so far as she
could judge by their expressions. And Bob’s immediate reply proved that
it had not.

“I know, Miss Clark,” he said. “We both know how they will feel
toward us and we have considered it very carefully. But the situation
isn’t changed at all. Esther and I mean to marry. You may not believe
it--grandfather and Captain Townsend certainly won’t believe it--but
neither of us would have hurt their feelings or acted contrary to their
wishes if we could have helped it. I am very fond of my grandfather,
he has been mighty good to me, and Esther loves her uncle. He has not
treated her fairly or honestly, she feels, but she loves him and always
will. That is true, isn’t it, Esther?”

“Yes, Bob, absolutely true.”

“Yes, it is. But the fact remains that neither Captain Townsend nor
my grandfather would ever consent to our marriage. They hate each
other--you know it; everybody knows it. If we waited a year they would
not consent. If we waited ten years they would not. So why should we
wait? I have money enough of my own to support us for a while and I
hope to earn more. It is Esther here who is making the real sacrifice,
of course, but she says she is willing to make it. Waiting won’t help
anybody. It will only stretch out the quarreling and misery. So, as we
see it, it is simply plain common sense, our marrying now. And we shall
marry now, just as soon as we can. You can’t stop us--no one can.”

Reliance was silent. She would have liked to say much, to continue her
protest--but how could she? The essential fact in this statement was
beyond contradiction. Neither Townsend nor Cook would ever consent to
such a marriage--she knew it. What Bob Griffin had just said was common
sense and nothing else. And yet, conscious of the responsibility forced
upon her, she did not entirely surrender. She made one more plea.

“Oh, Esther,” she begged, “are you _sure_ you care enough to--to go
through with this? Not just now, but later, all your life? No matter if
it means doin’ without all the fine things you have been used to, bein’
poor perhaps--and--”

“Hush! Yes, Auntie, I am sure.”

Her aunt wrung her hands. “Well,” she groaned, “I give up. I have said
my say, I guess. I have done what I could. The dear Lord knows I hope
we will none of us be too sorry in the years to come.”

She walked across the room, stood there a moment and then turned. Her
manner now was brisk and businesslike.

“There!” she said. “The milk is spilled. No use tryin’ to pick it up or
talk about it. What are your plans? Where is the weddin’ to be?”

Esther looked at Bob and it was Bob who answered.

“We haven’t decided that exactly,” he said. “All this decision of ours
is so sudden that we haven’t had time to plan much of anything. My
horse and buggy are out at the gate. I am going to take Esther over to
my cousin’s house in South Denboro to-night. I shall go home. Then, in
the morning, she will meet me at the station and we will take the early
train for Boston. As soon as we can--sometime to-morrow, of course--we
shall be married. Then, if I can get a stateroom and passage on the
steamer, we shall--”

“Hush! Wait, wait, wait! Let me understand this plan. You aren’t going
to be married until to-morrow--in Boston? You were goin’ to go away
from Harniss _without_ bein’ married?”

Bob stared at her. “I told you,” he said, slowly, “that I should take
Esther to my cousin’s house in South Denboro. I shall leave her there
and go home. Look here, Miss Clark, I don’t quite understand what you
mean by--”

“Oh, _hush_! Mercy on us, what children you two are, after all. I am
not worried about you. I know you are all right, both of you. But I am
worried about what everybody else will _say_. Haven’t you lived long
enough to know that the average person is only too delighted to get a
chance to say a mean thing? Haven’t you heard what has been said about
other young idiots in this town who have-- Oh, but there! They shan’t
have the chance to say them about you. I’ll see to that. Esther, take
off your things. Bob, you keep yours on, for I shall want you to go
out on an errand in a minute.... Dear, dear, dear! If we only had more
time. Esther, when did your uncle expect to be back from Ostable?”

“Why, I don’t know exactly. Not until late; he said that to me.”

“Late! Well, I wish I knew how late. Tell me, will he know you have
come here?”

“I suppose Varunas, if he is up, will tell him I sent my bag here.”

“Yes, of course. And he will come chasin’ down here first thing. You
didn’t tell him you were leavin’ him for good?”

“No. I meant to write him a letter telling him why I could not live
with him any longer and how terribly I felt at leaving him, although I
knew it was right. But I wanted to see Bob first. I shall write that
letter this evening, at South Denboro.”

“No, you won’t. You will write it right here in this house. That is one
of the things you must do before you go to South Denboro. And it is
important; but not as important as somethin’ else.”

“Auntie!... How strange you look--and act. What is it?”

“Strange! I feel strange--but I haven’t got time to think about it. Oh,
dear, dear! I ought to go out and open that post office this minute.
Esther, come into the front room with me. Mr. Griffin will excuse us, I
guess. He’ll have to. Come.”

She hurried her niece into the little parlor, a room of course
almost never used. Bob, left in the sitting-room, heard the clink of
a lamp chimney and the scratch of a match. Then the hum of hurried
conversation. Esther’s voice rose in an exclamation, apparently in
expostulation, but her aunt’s sharp command hushed it to silence. A few
minutes later Reliance hurried out.

“She’s writin’ the note to her Uncle Foster,” she explained, quickly.
“Poor thing, it will be terribly hard to do. As for him, when he reads
it-- Well, I mustn’t think about him now. For the rest, she will do it.
She agreed with me that it may be best. Whether she agreed or not it
would be done just the same. I know it is best.”

Bob shook his head.

“If I knew what this was all about,” he began, with a shrug, “I--”

“You’re goin’ to learn. It is just this: You aren’t goin’ to be married
in Boston to-morrow--or to-morrow anywhere else. You are goin’ to
be married to-night, right here in this sittin’ room, by a Harniss
minister. You are goin’ to be married right here where I can see it
done, and be a witness to it. Then, if anybody dares to say anything
out of the way, they’ll have me to reckon with.... Don’t stop to argue
about it; neither of us have got time for that. I must go out and open
the office and you must chase right up to Ezra Farmer’s house--Ezra’s
the town clerk, probably you know him--and get the license or
certificate or whatever is necessary.... Don’t talk! Don’t!”

Bob did talk, of course, but not for long. Reliance’s sharp, to the
point sentences convinced him that she was right. Gossip--a certain
kind of gossip--would be smothered before it was uttered if he and
Esther were married there and then, with her aunt as witness. And,
if Esther was willing, surely he was. In a daze he listened to Miss
Clark’s final instructions.

“That Farmer man,” she said, “may sputter a little about givin’ you the
certificate. It’s past his office hours and he may want to use that as
an excuse to put you off. The real trouble is that he will be afraid of
what Foster Townsend will say to him to-morrow. Don’t let him scare you
a mite. And, if worse comes to worst offer him four or five times his
regular fee. That will stiffen his backbone--if I know Ezra.”

She was flying about the sitting-room, trying to untie her apron
strings with shaking fingers, and chattering continuously.

“Better not leave your horse and team out here,” she said. “Some of the
mail-time crowd will be sure to see it and want to know why. Take it up
to the livery stable and leave it there.... No, I tell you what to do.
Drive it right through my yard and hitch it out in the dark back of the
hen house. You can walk to Farmer’s; it’s only a little way.... I’ll
attend to the minister myself.... Now is there anything else? I haven’t
had any supper, but never mind that. Before you go you might see to
the tea kettle; it’s boilin’ all over the stove.... I’ll shut up the
post office at half past eight to-night and I’ll be in a little while
after that, minister and all.... I wonder now if-- But there, I can’t
stop. Don’t let Esther worry or get frightened. Everything will be all
right. What a mercy I sent Millard away! I must have had a message from
heaven, I guess, when I did that.... Be sure and make Farmer give you
that certificate.... If there is anything else.... Well, if there is it
will have to wait. I’ll be back just as soon as I can. Don’t worry.”




CHAPTER XXI


At precisely eight-thirty she turned the key in the side door of the
post-office building, and, hurrying to the sidewalk, almost ran along
it. Twenty minutes later, when she reëntered the yard, she was not
alone. She was shooing before her, as she might have shooed a stray
chicken, a thin young man, who wore eyeglasses and whose cheeks were
ornamented with a pair of sidewhiskers of the kind much affected at
that date by theological students or youths active in the Y. M. C. A.
The irreverent laity called such whiskers “fire escapes.”

The young man was the Reverend Mr. Barstow and he was the newly called
minister of the Baptist chapel in Harniss. He had lived in the village
less than a month. Consequently his acquaintance in the community was
limited and his awe of the great Foster Townsend not yet overpowering.
Reliance had chosen him with this fact in mind. Mr. Colton, the big
mogul’s own parson, would have found some excuse for refusing to
marry a niece of that mogul to any one, without being first assured
of his patron’s presence or consent. To suggest that he perform a
ceremony uniting her to a grandson of Elisha Cook would have been like
suggesting that he commit suicide.

But the Reverend Mr. Barstow was not aware that he was being shooed
into danger by the bustling, energetic woman behind him. He was young
and callow and innocent and, although the haste with which he had been
dragged from his study in the parsonage seemed peculiar, the thought
of the fee he was to receive was very pleasing. It was his first
wedding in Harniss. There had been two funerals, but funerals were not
remunerative.

Miss Clark ushered him into the little sitting-room. Bob and Esther
were there. Both were rather pale and nervous, Esther especially so.
Neither had before met the new minister and Reliance performed the
introductions. Then she turned to Griffin.

“Did you get it?” she asked, breathlessly. “Would he give it to you?”

Bob produced from his pocket a folded document.

“I got it, finally,” he said, with a smile. “It took considerable
persuasion and an extra five dollar bill, but here it is.”

Reliance glanced it over. “Seems to be all right,” she observed. “I’ve
never had any experience with such things, but I guess it is.”

“Oh, it is. When I gave him Esther’s name you should have seen his eyes
open. He all but refused then. To hear him talk you would have thought
Captain Townsend was--”

“Sshh!” hastily and with a glance at the minister. “Well then, I guess
we are all ready to go ahead. Where do you want them to stand, Mr.
Barstow? Or had you rather be married in the parlor, Esther?”

Esther shook her head. “No, Auntie,” she said. “I like this room
better. It is more like home than the parlor to me. If Bob--or
you--don’t mind I had rather it were here.”

Bob, of course, did not mind and said so. Reliance glanced about the
apartment.

“Oh, dear!” she sighed. “I wish I had had time to pick up a little and
to get a few flowers--or somethin’. But there! I haven’t had time to
get my breath scarcely, have I? Is everything ready? Then I guess you
can go right ahead, Mr. Barstow.”

The reverend gentleman--he had already examined the marriage
certificate which Griffin handed him--stepped forward. Bob and Esther
stood facing him. Reliance stood further back, in the shadow.

It was, of course, the simplest of ceremonies. And soon over. The
minister’s prayer was longer than all the rest. As he prayed Reliance
stepped back farther and farther from the lamplight. The tears were
streaming down her face, but she wiped them hastily away and at the
“Amen” ran forward, beaming, her hands outstretched. She threw her arms
about the bride’s neck and kissed her.

“The Lord bless you, dear,” she cried. “I hope he’ll bless both of you
always. And I know he will. Young man,” turning to Bob, “I’m goin’ to
kiss you, too. I’m an old maid and, if I can’t go to my own weddin’, I
expect to be kissed at other folks’s.... There!”

Mr. Barstow lingered but a few minutes. To tell the entire truth he
received no pressing invitation to remain. After he had gone Reliance
turned to the wedded pair.

“I don’t want to hurry you a bit,” she said. “Heaven knows I don’t!
But it is almost ten o’clock and--well, if anybody should come here
to-night, they had better not find you. It will be just as easy to
explain after you have gone as before. You know what I mean, of course.”

It was evident that they did. Griffin nodded.

“I am perfectly willing to explain--to Captain Townsend or any one
else,” he said, emphatically. “And so is Esther. We are not ashamed of
what we have done.”

Esther was looking at her aunt. She understood, perhaps even more
clearly than did Bob, the thought in Reliance’s mind. She knew what
sort of scene would follow Foster Townsend’s arrival.

“Oh, Auntie,” she cried, distressfully, “this is terrible for you. If
we go away before--before he comes--you will have to tell him, and he
will blame you, and--and-- No, I can’t let you. I won’t. Bob and I will
stay--and wait.”

Reliance shook her head. “Indeed you will not wait,” she declared.
“There is nothing to be gained by it. What is done is done, and
nobody,” with a momentary smile, “even the great Panjamdrum of this
part of creation can change it.... Besides,” she added, with a sudden
shake in her voice, “I want _somethin’_ pleasant to remember when I
think of this evenin’. I have seen you married, Esther, and I want to
see you and--how queer it seems to say that--your husband leave this
house happy. I don’t want to remember your leavin’ it in the middle
of a fight. Don’t worry about me. The letter you have written your
uncle will tell him almost everything and I shall tell him the rest....
There! Now you must go. Bob, go out and get your horse and buggy.”

Bob went. When he reëntered the sitting-room, he found that Miss Clark
had cleared a space on the center table and had placed thereon three
plates, three glasses of milk, and a chocolate cake.

“I almost forgot that you two hadn’t had a mouthful to eat since
dinner,” she explained. “I haven’t either, but I’d forgotten that, too.
I only wish I could offer you somethin’ worth while, but I haven’t got
it and there isn’t time, anyway. I baked this cake yesterday. It is a
real nice receipt, but I was in a hurry and it fell in the bakin’. I’m
ashamed to give it to you, but it’s somethin’, anyhow.... Oh, I know
you don’t feel like eatin’. Neither do I, so far as that goes. But I’ll
eat a piece of your weddin’ cake if I choke with every swallow. So must
you. Please!”

So they ate a little of the cake and drank the milk. Then Reliance
shooed them, as she had shooed the Reverend Barstow, out to the buggy
which Bob had brought to the door. He shook hands with her.

“I can’t thank you for what you have done, Miss Clark,” he began,
“but--”

She interrupted. “You can stop callin’ me Miss Clark,” she declared.
“That’s one thing you can do. I’m your Aunt Reliance now, same as I am
Esther’s, and I shan’t let you forget it. Take good care of her, won’t
you? She’s a precious girl and you are a lucky young man.”

The parting with Esther was harder for them both. Reliance tried her
best to make it cheerful.

“There, there, dearie,” she said, as Esther sobbed on her shoulder,
“don’t cry--don’t cry. You have done the right thing, you’ve got a good
husband and I know you are goin’ to be happy. Write to me often, won’t
you? Just as soon as you get to Boston and again as soon as you know
what your plans are. And be sure and tell me where to write you.... Now
don’t cry any more.”

Bob helped his wife into the buggy. From its seat she leaned down for a
final word.

“Auntie,” she begged, “you will tell Uncle Foster why I did this, won’t
you? You will tell him I _do_ love him and--”

“Yes, yes. I’ll tell him everything. And I’ll see that he gets your
letter.... Good-by. God bless you both.... Be sure and write me
to-morrow from Boston.... Good-by.”

The buggy rolled out of the yard. She stood there, looking and
listening. She heard Bob get down, open the big gate, close it behind
the carriage. Then the sound of the horse’s hoofs moved off up the road.

Reliance waited until the sound died away. Then she turned and
reëntered the sitting-room. Sitting down in the rocker, she laid her
arms upon the center table, beside the empty glasses and the plate of
cake, dropped her head upon them--and wept.




CHAPTER XXII


She did not sit there long. For a few minutes only she permitted
herself the luxury of tears. Then she rose, cleared away the remains of
the impromptu wedding feast, hastened out to the kitchen, bathed her
face in the cold water from the pump, dried it on the roller towel,
patted her hair into place, and returned to the sitting-room. There was
another interview in store for her that night, she was sure of it, and
it was likely to be the hardest trial of all. She must be ready. So she
sat down again in the rocker and tried to plan exactly what she should
say to Foster Townsend when he came, demanding his niece.

She had been sitting there for perhaps twenty minutes when she heard
his step upon the walk. She did not wait for him to knock, but opened
the door at once.

“Come in, Foster,” she said.

He did not bid her good evening, nor did he speak until he had crossed
the threshold. He glanced about him, strode to the door of the room
adjoining, looked in there, and turned back.

“Where is she?” he asked, sharply.

Reliance faced him bravely.

“She isn’t here, Foster,” she replied.

“Bosh! Of course she is here. Come, come! don’t fool with me. Where is
she?”

“I am not fooling, Foster. Esther isn’t here. She has been here, but
she has gone.”

He stared at her. The expression upon her face caught and held his
attention. He took a step toward her.

“Gone!” he repeated. “Gone where?... What do you mean?”

“I am goin’ to tell you what I mean. There is a lot to tell. Foster,
I-- Oh, dear!” desperately, “I don’t know where to begin. This is
harder even than I thought it was goin’ to be. Foster, you must be
patient.”

She had frightened him now. She heard him catch his breath.

“What is the matter with you?” he demanded. “What--!” Then his tone
changed. He leaned toward her, his hand upon the center table. “Say,
Reliance,” he whispered, anxiously, “you are fooling, aren’t you? She
is in this house, isn’t she? Look here, if she is hiding from me--if
she has got the idea that I am mad with her or anything like that--why,
she needn’t be. We had a row, she and I, up at the house this noon;
maybe she told you about it, I don’t know. Well, that’s all right. I--
Here! Why do you keep looking at me like that?... What is that thing?”

Reliance was proffering him an envelope which she had taken from the
bosom of her dress. He gazed at it, then snatched it from her hand.

“Eh?” he gasped. “It’s from her, isn’t it? What is she writing me
letters for?... Good God, woman, what has happened? Where is she? Why
don’t you tell me?”

Reliance shook her head.

“Read your letter first,” she said. “It will tell you almost
everything and I will try and tell you the rest.... Oh, Foster,” in an
irrepressible burst of agonized sympathy. “I am _so_ sorry for you.”

She did not wait to see him open the envelope, but ran into the
kitchen and closed the door behind her. She remained there for perhaps
ten minutes, it seemed much longer to her. When she reëntered the
sitting-room he was seated in the rocker, the letter which Esther had
written him dangling in his limp fingers, and upon his face a look
which wrung her heartstrings. She came toward him and laid her hand
upon his shoulder.

“I am _so_ sorry for you, Foster,” she said again.

He scarcely seemed to notice her presence. He did not speak.

“You have read the letter?” she faltered, after a moment.

He heard her then and straightened in the chair.

“I have read it,” he muttered. “Yes, I’ve read it.”

“Well--you see? It is done now and we can’t change it. So--”

He threw her hand from his shoulder and rose to his feet, crumpling the
letter in his fist as he did so. He snatched his hat from the floor
where it had fallen.

“Change it!” he growled, between his teeth. “We’ll see whether we can
change it or not. If that low-lived son of a skunk thinks he has got
me licked I’ll show him he is mistaken. He has made a fool of her with
his slick tongue, but he hasn’t married her yet, and it’s a long time
between now and morning.... Get out of my way!”

He would have pushed her aside but she clung to his arm.

“Wait--wait!” she begged. “You must wait. You don’t understand. He
_has_ married her. They were married an hour ago. She is his wife.”

He stopped short. She still clung to him, but, as he made no move to
go, she loosed her hold. When she looked up into his face she was
shocked and alarmed.

“Foster--Foster!” she urged. “Please--please! Come and sit down. Let me
tell you all about it. There is so much to tell. You can’t do anything.
It is too late. No one could have stopped it. I tried my best, but--
Oh, please sit down and listen!”

She led him toward the chair. He sat and, bending forward, leaned his
head upon his hands.

“Go ahead,” he groaned. “I’m listening.”

She told him the whole story, beginning with her learning from Millard
of his experience the night of the accident, of her early morning
call upon the Campton girl, of her long talk with Esther, at the big
house and afterward there at the cottage. Then she went on to tell how
Esther and Bob Griffin had come to say good-by, how she had argued
and pleaded to shake their determination to go away together that very
night. Then of the marriage.

“What could I do?” she pleaded, desperately. “They wouldn’t listen.
They would go. There was only one thing I saw that must be done and I
did it. I saw them married, legally married by a Harniss minister right
in this very room. We’ve got that to be thankful for--and it’s a lot.
There can’t be any gossip started, for I can nail it before it starts.
Foster, as I see it, all you can do--all any of us can do--is make the
best of it. Tell the whole town you think it is all right, even if you
are sure it is all wrong. And it isn’t all wrong. It is terribly hard
for you to give her up to somebody else, but you would have had to do
it sometime. And she has got a good husband; as sure as I stand here I
do believe that.”

She finished. Still he sat there, his head upon his hands. She ventured
once more to put her hand upon his shoulder.

“If you knew how I have been dreadin’ your comin’ here to-night,” she
said, wearily. “If you only knew! If only somebody else could have told
you. But there wasn’t any one else; I had to do it. You _poor_ man!
I--I-- Oh, dear! What a world this is! Foster, you _will_ believe I am
sorry, won’t you?”

He drew a deep breath. Then, placing his hands upon the chair arm, he
slowly lifted his big body and stood erect. His face was haggard, his
eyes heavy, he looked, so she thought, as if he had been through a long
sickness. And the tone in which he spoke was hollowed and, at first,
listless.

“Sorry!” he repeated. “Sorry! Humph!... Yes, I guess so. You are sorry
and so is she--she says so in her letter. I suppose that damned cub she
has run away with is sorry, too. Yes, you are all sorry, but not so
sorry but what you could do the thing, play the dirty trick you meant
to play all along.... All right! All right!” with sudden savageness.
“She will be sorrier by and by. Let her go to the devil. She has
started that way already. Let her go. And you, and the gang who will
come tiptoeing around to-morrow telling me how sorry they are, may go
with her.... Well, you have said all you wanted to, haven’t you? I can
go home now, I suppose--eh?”

She stepped back. “Yes,” she agreed, sadly. “I guess you can, if you
want to. I was afraid you would take it this way; it is natural you
should, I guess. I hope, though, by and by, when you have had time to
think it all over, you may be a little more reconciled and, maybe, not
quite so bitter. What has happened isn’t really any one’s fault. You
must see that; you will by and by. You couldn’t have stopped it; I
couldn’t; nobody could. It just happened, same as lots of things happen
to us poor humans. Whether we like ’em or not doesn’t seem to make a
bit of difference. They happen, just the same.”

He turned on her, looked her over from head to foot. “Good Lord
A’mighty!” he sneered. “Good Lord! I have lived a good many years and
I thought I had run afoul of about every kind of cussedness there was,
but this beats ’em all. Isn’t there _any_ limit? Wasn’t it bad enough
to play the hypocrite when there was something to be gained by it, when
it helped me to keep my eyes shut to what was going on behind my back?
Wasn’t that enough, without playing it now? Nobody’s fault! Huh! It was
somebody’s fault--oh, yes! It was mine for being such a blind, innocent
jackass as to trust her--and you. Ah-h!... There, that is enough.”

It was more than enough, it was a little too much. Reliance stepped
between him and the door.

“Foster Townsend,” she cried, “you shan’t go until you take that
back, or at least hear what I have to say about it. You know I’m not
a hypocrite. That is one thing I never have been. And, since you said
it yourself first, you are right, partly right, when you say it was
your fault. If you hadn’t been just what you always have been, so set
on drivin’ everybody along the road you wanted ’em to travel, you and
Esther might not have come to this pass. You couldn’t have stopped her
marryin’ the Griffin boy--I don’t believe all creation could have done
that--but you might have held it off for a while, and saved all this
dreadful business. You couldn’t drive her. Every time you tried it you
got into trouble. And now this! She is a Townsend, just as you are
yourself.”

“Townsend! Bah! She is a Clark, that’s what she is. Her father was a
Townsend and he was a soft-headed fool; but he wasn’t a hypocrite.
She’s a Clark, that’s where the hypocrisy comes from.”

“_Stop!_ You shan’t say that! There wasn’t any hypocrisy at all, on
my part or hers. You know it. I have been honest with you from the
very beginnin’. That day, years ago, when she went to live with you,
I warned you to be careful. I knew you, and I knew her, and I warned
you that you couldn’t force her to draw her every breath just at the
second when you told her to. I had seen you drive and drive her poor
father, and I saw that road end in smash, just as this one has ended.
And you mustn’t call her a hypocrite, either. She has been honest
with you always--except perhaps for those few days when she let Bob
Griffin paint her picture without tellin’ you about it. But have you
played straight and aboveboard with her? You can answer that yourself,
but I tell you she doesn’t think you have. And I tell you the plain
truth when I say that nobody, short of the Almighty himself, could
have stopped what has happened to-night. You be thankful it happened
as it did--here in this house, with a friend--yes, a good friend, and
there’s no hypocrisy about that either--to see it done and keep every
mean mouth in Harniss shut tight. You can be thankful for that, Foster
Townsend, I give you my word _I_ am.”

He was standing there, his hand upon the latch. Now, as she paused,
breathless, the fires of righteous indignation still burning in her
eyes, he carried that hand to his face. A sob shook him.

“Oh, don’t!” he groaned. “For God’s sake, don’t! Let me out of here!
Let me get away--somewhere.”

And then, of all inopportune times, Fate chose that moment to bring
Millard Fillmore Clark upon the scene. The door opened and he came into
the room. He looked at his sister, then at her visitor. His backbone
suppled; his hat was removed with a flourish.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed, in polite surprise. “It is you, ain’t it,
Cap’n Foster. How do you do, sir?” Then, as the possibilities of the
situation crossed his mind, he added, a little more anxiously: “You and
Reliance been havin’ a little talk about--about what you and me talked
about yesterday? I--I thought it was best to tell her, you understand.”

He might have said more, probably would had the opportunity been given
him. It was not. Foster Townsend’s big hand shot forward, seized him by
the shoulder and threw him headlong from the doorway. He spun across
the room, tripped over the hassock, and fell sprawling. Before he could
rise, or even understand what had happened to him, Townsend had gone.




CHAPTER XXIII


The letter for which Reliance had so anxiously waited came in the
evening mail next day. Esther had written it from Boston. She had spent
the night at the house of Bob’s cousin in South Denboro, and she and
her husband had taken the early train from that station, as they had
planned. They were going at once to the steamship office to see what
arrangements could be made for their passage to Europe. She would write
again as soon as those arrangements were made. Bob had broken the news
to his grandfather and there had been another distressing scene.

“It is all so dreadful,” wrote Esther, “that I don’t want to think
about it now. Poor Bob! And poor Mr. Cook! And Uncle Foster! And you,
Auntie! I feel as if I must be a wicked, ungrateful girl. He says I am
not and that we have done the only thing that could be done. He is a
dear fellow and I love him. He is sure we will never be sorry and that
by and by everything will be right again. Oh, I hope so!... You will
tell Uncle Foster how sorry I was to leave him, won’t you? _Make_ him
understand just why I had to do it, Aunt Reliance. And then write me
what he says. I will write him as soon as I hear from you that he cares
to have me write. _Do_ you think he will ever forgive me?”

Reliance felt no certainty on this point. She had not seen Foster
Townsend that day. Nor had she heard from him. Varunas came for the
mail, as usual, but he had nothing to tell. “The old man is glum as an
oyster,” he said. “Ain’t hardly spoke a word all day and Nabby she’s
scared he’s goin’ to be sick or somethin’. Say, where’s Esther gone? I
thought likely she was down here to your house, Reliance, but Millard
says she ain’t. He’s struck dumb, too, seems so. What’s the matter with
all hands?”

His question was answered next morning. Where, or from where, the
amazing rumor first came is uncertain. Whether the Reverend Mr. Barstow
told of the marriage ceremony, or Ezra Farmer told of issuing the
certificate--whether the news was first made public in Denboro, or
South Denboro, or there in Harniss, is still but a guess. And very few
guessed or tried. The essential fact was all that mattered. Within a
dozen hours the whole county buzzed. The great Foster Townsend’s niece
had married the grandson of the almost as famous Elisha Cook. They were
married and had run away together to Boston--to Chicago--to Europe--to
nobody knew for certain where. Mrs. Benjamin Snow said, “Heavens and
earth!” when she heard it. Mrs. Tobias Eldridge said, “My good land
of love!” Every one said something and followed it with: “_What_ will
Foster Townsend do? Has anybody seen him since it happened?”

No one had, for he had kept out of their way. The few who called at the
mansion--Mr. Colton, Captain Ben Snow, and others who had a claim to
close acquaintanceship--were told by the maid or Nabby Gifford that he
was busy with “law papers” and could not see anybody. Reliance Clark
was the next best bet and they hurried to the post office. Reliance
was quite willing to talk, up to a certain point. Yes, it was true.
Esther Townsend was now Mrs. Robert Griffin. They had been married in
her sitting-room by the Baptist minister and she was present at the
wedding. Why the haste? Was it true that they had run off? Did Foster
Townsend know of it before it happened? Where were they now? All these
queries she parried or answered non-committally. To too-persistent
questioners, of a certain type, she replied in another fashion. “If
you are so terribly anxious to know how Cap’n Townsend takes it,” she
observed, “why don’t you go and ask him? Bob and Esther are married.
That much I do know. And you can advertise it to all creation.”

This was so far the greatest sensation of a sensational season.
Following so closely upon the accident to Seymour Covell it drove
even that and its trail of gossip and surmise from the public mind.
The whisperings concerning Bob Griffin’s part in that accident, or his
responsibility for it, were forgotten. Covell, in the Boston hospital,
was reported to have regained consciousness and to be on the road to
recovery. The question of what he was doing on the lower road--of
who saw him and Griffin there, if indeed any one saw them--ceased
to be debated. Carrie Campton and her parents began to breathe more
easily. So did Millard Clark, although breathing was practically
the only luxury his sister permitted him to indulge in just then.
Millard’s position was hard indeed. To be an inmate of the very house
in which the amazing marriage had taken place, to be as wildly excited
concerning it as every one else, and to be ordered to hush, or be
still, or to mind his own business whenever he dared venture to hint a
request for inside information, was torture indeed for Mr. Clark. And,
worst of all, his orders--orders which, in fear of Foster Townsend and
his sister, he did not dare disobey--were to say that he knew nothing
and keep on saying it. “It is the truth,” declared Reliance. “You don’t
know anything and, so far as I am concerned, you never will. And, if my
shoulder was as lame as yours is, I don’t think I should run the risk
of doin’ anything likely to bring Cap’n Foster down on me again. He
might break your neck next time.”

Many pairs of eyes were on the watch for the first public appearance
of the big mogul. He would have to show himself sometime and when he
did--how would he look and act? What would he have to say? They knew
already what Elisha Cook was saying. According to Denboro reports he
declared himself to be through with his grandson for good and all. “He
is a fool, let him go his fool way. I’m done with him.” This, according
to gossip, was the proclamation from Cook headquarters. And the Denboro
doctor was reported to have added that the old man’s sole comfort in
the situation was the thought of Foster Townsend’s fury. “I only wish I
was where I could see him squirm,” chuckled Elisha.

So all Harniss was agog, and rushed excitedly to its windows when, two
days after the elopement, the Townsend span was again seen trotting
majestically along the main road. Varunas, of course, was driving and
his employer sat alone upon the rear seat of the carriage. He looked
heavy-eyed and drawn and tired, that was the consensus of opinion,
but to the bows and hat lifting of those he passed his own bow was as
coolly dignified as ever. It was noon--mail time--and the group at the
post office watched, with bated breath, as he alighted and walked into
the building.

Tobias Eldridge told it all to his wife when he reached home.

“Everybody just stood around, or set on the settee, and looked at him
when he come in,” narrated Tobias. “We didn’t none of us hardly dast to
speak, or so much as say, ‘How are you, Cap’n Foster?’ Didn’t know how
he’d take it, you understand. But he was just same as ever, seemed so.
Just as grand and top lofty and off-hand to us bugs and worms under his
feet as if nothin’ had happened. When somebody--Nathan Doane, seems to
me ’twas--spunked up enough to say ‘Good day,’ he nodded his head and
says ‘Good day’ back. Course he must know that every man, woman and
child old enough to talk has been talkin’ about nothing but him and his
family for two days and nights. You’d think he’d realize it and act
sort of--well, fussed and ashamed, but not him, no sir! Darned if it
wasn’t kind of disappointin’! Yes, ’twas so.

“And,” went on Mr. Eldridge, “when he went up to the window after his
mail and Reliance Clark handed it out to him, we was all set to see
how he’d act to her. ’Twas in her house them two was married and we
didn’t know but he’d tell her what he thought of her right there and
then. And what happened? _Nothin’!_” in high disgust. “Nothin’ at all!
‘Good mornin’, Foster,’ says she, not lookin’ even so much as nervous.
‘Mornin’, Reliance,’ he says; grunted it just same as he’s grunted good
mornin’ to her for two year. And that’s all there was to it. Can you
beat that? _I_ don’t know how you’re goin’ to.”

It was an attitude that could not be beaten and reluctantly Harniss was
forced to that realization. At home, when the inevitable callers came,
eager to learn details, ready to offer sympathy and express indignation
at Esther’s wickedness, it was just the same. Foster Townsend flatly
refused to discuss the subject. The Reverend Mr. Colton ventured to
persist a trifle more than the rest.

“Of course, Captain Townsend,” he said, sadly, “we all know the burden
you are bearing. If you knew--I shall be glad to tell you if you wish
to hear--the expressions of sympathy for you which are poured into my
ears, they might perhaps comfort you a little. And the poor, misguided
girl! Ungrateful--yes. But--”

Townsend, who was standing by the chair in the library, a cigar in one
hand and a match in the other, swung about.

“Here, here!” he broke in, gruffly. “What is all this about sympathy?
Sympathy for what?”

The minister was taken aback. “Why--why,” he faltered, “I mean-- Why,
we all know what a shock to you this--this must be. Your niece--”

“Sshh!” The match was scratched and held to the end of the cigar.
Townsend blew a puff of smoke. “Colton,” he observed, in a tone so
polite as to be almost ominous, “you came here to talk about church
business, didn’t you? That was what I understood you to say you came
for.”

“Why--why, yes, I did. But, in my position as--as a friend of long
standing, as well as your clergyman, I ventured--”

“In a business talk I like to stick to business. And,” with a slight
emphasis, “the church _is_ your business. Well, what about it?”

He came to church the following Sunday and on other Sundays thereafter.
His attendance was far more regular than it had been while Esther
lived in the big house. It seemed almost as if he made it a point to
be seen in public and to show to that public a countenance serene,
unruffled, dignified--even defiant. He visited the post office every
day, sometimes twice a day. His trotting horses began once more to
show their paces about the Circle. Varunas Gifford was delighted, of
course. “The old man’s gettin’ sensible again,” declared Varunas. “Was
a time there when I snum it seemed as if he never cared two cents
whether Claribel or Hornet or any of the rest of ’em could trot fast
enough to get out of the way of an ox team. Never paid no attention to
’em, scurcely. Now he’s beginnin’ to show some signs of life! talkin’
about Sam Baker again, he is, and askin’ what kind of cattle Sam is
cal’latin’ to send around the track over to Ostable when it comes
Fair time. Looks to me as if I might be sailin’ around that track
myself and fetchin’ a few dollars into port for him, same as I used
to. Nabby, she’s growlin’ about it already, says I’m gettin’ too old
for horse-racin’. ‘Gosh!’ I told her, says I, ‘don’t you fret yourself
about that. When I get so old I can’t drive a trottin’ gig I’ll be just
about old enough to have somebody else drive me in a hearse. Say,’ I
says to her-- He, he!--‘make ’em hitch a couple of high steppers onto
that hearse, won’t you, Nabby. I wouldn’t want nobody to beat me to the
cemetery.’ _That_ stirred her up. He, he!”

Reliance had received one more letter from Esther. It, like the
first one, was written from Boston. She and Bob had been obliged to
wait another week before sailing for Europe. That week had gone and
they had sailed. Presumably they were in Paris now and Reliance was
anxiously awaiting a third letter which should tell of their arrival
and what had transpired since. Day after day she had been hoping that
Foster Townsend might come to see her and that, as a result of their
interview, she could write Esther that her uncle would, if not welcome,
at least receive and read, a letter from her. But her hope was dying.
Townsend did not call. She saw him almost daily through the little
delivery window of the post office, but, although they exchanged
greetings, his was always perfunctory and in his manner was no hint of
a desire for conversation.

But once only had a message come to her from the big house. This was
at the end of the week following the elopement, when Varunas, in the
Townsend two-seater, brought Esther’s trunk to the Clark cottage. Mr.
Gifford had much to say concerning his errand.

“It’s the cap’n’s doin’s,” he explained. “He told Nabby to pack up
Esther’s things and have me fetch ’em down to you. ‘What’ll I tell her
to do with ’em?’ says I. He just glowered at me and walked away. ‘She
can do what she wants to with ’em,’ he growled, over his shoulder. ‘I
don’t want to know what she does. Don’t you mention ’em to me again.’
So that’s what I know about it, and it ain’t much. Say,” he added,
“there was a whole lot more things of hers around. Not clothes, you
know, but--oh, well, photograph pictures and knickknacks and doodads,
all sorts of junk she’s picked up around, when he and she was off
cruisin’ and travelin’ and the like of that. He made Nabby pick up
every one of them things and stow ’em away out of sight. Seem’s if he
couldn’t bear to have anything that belonged to her ’round where he
was liable to lay eyes on it. There was only one item he left off the
bill of ladin’ and that was kind of queer, too--queer he should leave
that out, I mean. There was a big photograph of her on the settin’-room
mantel-piece. You’ve seen it; you know the one ’twas. Naturally Nabby
cal’lated that would be the first thing he’d be for gettin’ out of
sight. Well, ’tis out of sight, so far as that goes, but where he’s put
it we don’t know. ’Tain’t in this trunk and it ain’t with the stuff
Nabby’s hid up attic. What do you suppose he’s ever done with that
photograph, Reliance?”

Reliance sent the trunk to Esther at her Boston address, hoping it
would reach her before the date of sailing. Whether it did or not she
had not yet heard. She made it a point to see Mrs. Gifford occasionally
and from her learned what was taking place at the mansion.

“It’s about the same as it used to be,” declared Nabby. “Reminds me of
that time just after his wife passed away, I mean. He sits around in
the library all by himself, readin’ the paper and smokin’ his cigar.
Smokes too much, he does, and I tell him so. Sometimes when I go in
there, he won’t be readin’ at all; just settin’ in his big chair,
puffin’ away, and lookin’ at nothin’. It makes me feel bad to see him
so, but if I mention it he takes my head off. He is prouder than ever
and touchier than ever. Cap’n Ben Snow comes to see him and so does the
minister and some of the other folks, but, so far as I can make out, he
don’t ever go to see them. About the most pitiful sight is to see him,
early mornin’ afore breakfast, out mopin’ around the flower garden all
alone. ’Bella--his wife, I mean--she set a lot of store by that garden
and Esther set about as much. You’d almost think he’d keep away from
it, think ’twould be the last place he’d want to see, but he’s there
’most every mornin’. He’s a queer man, and always was, but I know I
never felt so sorry for anybody in all my days.... If I told that to
anybody but you, Reliance, they’d laugh. They’d think bein’ sorry for
Foster Townsend was about as silly as bein’ sorry for the Governor
of Massachusetts--or--or the President of the Old Colony Railroad or
somebody, wouldn’t they?

“You know how I hate horse trottin’,” she went on, “but I do declare
if I ain’t almost happy to see him takin’ an interest in it again.
Yes, and he’s gettin’ back in politics some, too. They help to take up
his mind, so I don’t complain, though I do wish some of them Selectmen
and Represent’ives and Poundkeepers, or whatever they be, knew enough
to wipe their boots when they come in on a decent, clean floor. Yes,
horses and politics and that everlastin’ lawsuit and lawyers do a
little to keep him busy. I don’t know how much the lawyers help,
though; it does look to me as if they worried him as much as they
helped lately. He used to love that lawsuit. I only hope nothin’s gone
wrong with _that_.”

The long expected letter from Paris came at last. It covered many
pages and was, on the whole, reassuring and comforting. The trunk had
been received in time. The voyage was a marvelous experience. Paris was
the most beautiful city in the whole world. They--Esther and Bob--had
lodgings in a funny little out of the way street, where no one save
themselves spoke English, and where Esther had to make her wants known
by signs “just like a deaf and dumb person, although Bob says there
is nothing dumb about our landlady. I say a few words in English and
she says a thousand in French, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. It
will though, Auntie, pretty soon. I shall learn to speak French if I
die for it. I can read it a little already; my music studies helped
me there. You will be glad to know that I am keeping on with those
studies. Not in the grand way I used to think I should, but a little
and inexpensively. Bob is having a glorious time with his painting. The
masters at the classes have said most encouraging things. We--”

And so on, page after page. Reliance gathered that the young couple
were very, very happy. There were no signs of doubt as to the wisdom of
their hasty marriage.

At the end Esther wrote:

“And in every letter, Aunt Reliance, be sure and write me a lot about
Uncle Foster. Do you think he has begun to feel any more reconciled?
Oh, I hope he has! Remember, I am waiting to hear from you before
writing him. The moment you say that I may I shall do it.”

Reliance sighed when she read this. So far no hint of softening or
change of feeling on Foster Townsend’s part had reached her ear. As
far as she could learn his resentment against his niece was quite as
bitter. Yes, and the bitterness extended to her--Reliance--also. He
never visited her, he was cold and formal when they met. He spoke to
her, but that was all she could truthfully say. She could only advise
Esther to wait a little longer before venturing upon a letter to him.

The fall drew to an end and winter came. The Townsend horses were
entered in the races at the Ostable County Fair and Cattle Show and won
a goodly share of prizes. Huge elation and much vainglorious boasting
on the part of Varunas Gifford, of course. Nabby said--quoting her
husband--that Captain Foster did not appear greatly excited over his
triumph.

“Wouldn’t crow over it at all, so Varunas says,” declared Nabby.
“And told Varunas to shut up when he crowed too long. Only signs of
real interest he showed was the way he bet. Varunas says he never
knew the cap’n to bet so many times or so much money. Kind of acted
foolish about it, or as if he didn’t care what he did, so long’s ’twas
somethin’. Yet--this is more of Varunas’s talk, of course--when them
bets was paid him, and when he got the prizes, or purses or whatever
you call ’em, he didn’t seem to care much about them either. Just
shoved the money in his pocket without countin’ it. Well, his not
carin’ about the money he gets that way don’t fret me. I don’t like
to have him gamble, though. It’s a bad sign, no matter how rich a man
is. Why, he might start drinkin’ next. Some of them politicians from
out of town that come to see him last night had been takin’ somethin’
stronger than cambric tea, I tell you that, Reliance Clark. I smelt
’em when I opened the door, and ’twan’t Florida water I smelt neither.
The Honorable Mooney was one. They tell me he’s goin’ to be elected
Congressman to Washin’ton this fall sure.”

He was, by the customary--at that period--huge Republican majority.
Townsend took an active part in the campaign. Through the winter he
continued active in local politics, although he did not attend the
February town meeting. In April he left Harniss for Washington. The
famous Townsend-Cook lawsuit was to have its hearing before the Supreme
Court. The final verdict would be reached at last.

The eager crowds at the post office snatched the newspapers from
Millard Clark’s hands day after day. Harniss resented the small amount
of space given by the Boston dailies to the town’s all-absorbing topic.
Often there was not a word about the great trial. Only in the _Item_
was its progress reported as it should be, for there, what the editor
lacked in authentic news he made up by quoting opinions and guesses
throughout the county.

And one day, near the end of April, a telegram came to Captain Benjamin
Snow from his Boston bankers. It was brief, but stunning.

“Just had word from Washington over the wire,” so read the telegram.
“Cook has won the suit.”




CHAPTER XXIV


That telegram was handed to Captain Ben by the depot master who was
also the telegraph operator. He watched the expression on the captain’s
face during the reading of the dispatch.

“Say,” he demanded, excitedly, “you don’t suppose that is so, do you,
Cap’n?”

Snow was staring at the yellow slip. He breathed hard. Then he shook
his head.

“Can’t be!” he declared. “No, no! It can’t be. How can it?”

“But that man says he’s just got the word right from Washin’ton. Good
Lord! Why--”

“Sshh! There must be a mistake somewhere. How _can_ it be so? Here,
don’t you tell anybody about this. Keep your mouth shut until we find
out more, anyhow. If it is a mistake--and in spite of everything I
believe it must be--you nor I don’t want to get ourselves into trouble
by spreadin’ the news around. Wait! Don’t you tell a soul; do you hear?”

The depot master nodded. “I hear,” he observed. “You needn’t worry. I
don’t shove my toe under Foster Townsend’s boot until I know what I’m
doin’. I’ve seen too many toes jammed that way. I won’t say nothin’....
But, good heavens above, Cap’n Ben, suppose it _is_ true! Foster
Townsend licked by Elisha Cook!... Aw, it _can’t_ be.”

All the way home the captain kept telling himself that very thing--it
could not be. The Boston broker was a trustworthy man, one not likely
to accept an unsubstantiated rumor, but nevertheless-- No, there was a
mistake somewhere, there must be. Captain Ben, as usual when in trouble
or perplexed, took council with his wife. He handed her the telegram.

“It can’t be so, can it, Mary?” he demanded. “You don’t believe it, do
you?”

Mrs. Snow dazedly shook her head. “I declare I don’t know what to
believe, Ben,” she said. “It doesn’t seem as if it _could_ be, but--but
I suppose it might. Of course Elisha Cook and his lawyers must have
thought they had a good chance or they wouldn’t have kept on fighting
the way they have.”

Her husband nodded. “But for Foster--for Foster Townsend to be beat, to
have anybody stop _him_ from having his own way, why--why, it doesn’t
seem possible,” he vowed.

“I know; I know it doesn’t.... But, Ben, things haven’t been going as
smooth with him lately. Seems almost as if he started to slide down
hill away back last summer and has kept sliding. First, there was that
accident to Mr. Covell and all the talk it stirred up.”

“I know, but he didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“It was around him and those in his house that the talk settled. There
was something about that accident that has never been cleared up. Bob
Griffin was mixed up in it and the next thing we knew he had run away
with Esther. We all know what a blow that was to Captain Foster. He
won’t talk about it, of course, but it was a terrible setback for him.
And now, if this should be true--well, I know what will be said. People
will say pride always goes before a fall; that is what they will say.”

Her husband snorted. “Say!” he repeated. “They will say enough. Dear,
dear! I hope this won’t mean that Foster is going to be too hard hit,
in a money way. Once--a good while ago, it was, the time when the news
came that Cook had been granted his appeal to the Supreme Court--he
said to me then: ‘Well, Ben,’ he says, ‘I’ve bet all but my Sunday
shirt on this particular horse. Looks now as if I might have a chance
to bet that.’ It was more than he ever said before or since, but it
set me wondering. Tut, tut, tut!” gloomily. “If he should be hard hit
and have to really come down in the world there will be a lot of mean
little mud frogs hopping out of their holes to croak at him, won’t
there. He hits right and left when he’s mad and he has left a good many
sore heads up and down Ostable County. This will be their chance--if it
is true.”

The evening papers confirmed the tidings brought by the telegram.
Elisha Cook had won his suit and the amount of damages granted him
was large indeed. Foster Townsend was a wealthy man, how wealthy no
one knew save himself, but even a millionaire would find it hard to
pay such a sum. The “mud frogs” emerged from their holes and croaked
and the summary of their croakings was to the effect that chickens
had come home to roost. “He’s been stampin’ all hands under foot for
twenty years, now he’s stamped on, himself. Let’s see how he likes it.”
The croakers foresaw ruin, utter and complete. Even the great man’s
staunchest followers, members of what the hitherto crushed minority
had referred to as “the Townsend gang,” were stunned to silence by the
newspaper details of the Cook triumph. In Denboro, a certain section
of it, there was rejoicing. “This neighborhood is on the map again,”
crowed the Denborites. “We shan’t have to crawl on our knees through
Harniss when we want our rights, in politics or anything else. It’s our
turn now.”

From Provincetown to Wapatomac there was chatter of this kind. In
political circles certain heads were raised and hopes, hitherto
moribund, began to revive. The county boss had been beaten. His
infallibility was a thing of the past. If beaten in one way, why not in
others? The Honorable Mooney, now a Representative of his state in the
halls of Congress at Washington, began to hear from other galled jades
who, like himself, had winced beneath the Townsend whip.

And, at the end of the week, while the excitement was still boiling,
the big mogul returned to his native town. Varunas and the span were
at the station to meet him. Mr. Gifford’s was a broken spirit now. At
first defiant and scornful, scoffing at the rumors of his employer’s
defeat, as those rumors changed to certainties his attitude changed
with them. Still outwardly lofty and calm, he met every taunt with
sniffs of contemptuous pity. “It don’t mean nothin’,” he asserted. “You
fellers are hollerin’ your heads off, but wait till the old man gets
through with this business. Them Supreme Courters are goin’ to lose
their jobs, some of ’em. Ye-ah, all right, you wait and see. There’s
a law against bribery and corruption, ain’t there? The President of
the United States ain’t had his say about this case yet. You hold on.
You’ll be meek enough by and by. Huh!”

This to the world at large. But, at home, with his wife, it was
different. Nabby was as downcast as he.

“I declare if I believed in spirits and warnin’s and them kind of
things,” she sighed, “I’d have been more prepared for it. It started by
his lettin’ that Bob Griffin into this house. I ought to have seen that
there was a ‘sign’ in that. First a Cook begins to come here; then he
gets poor Mr. Covell kicked out of the way by a horse; then he runs off
with Esther. And now this! What does the Good Book say? ‘The way of the
transgressor is hard,’ that’s what it says.”

Varunas pooh-poohed. “What’s that got to do with it?” he demanded.
“Cap’n Foster never transgressed nothin’. ’Twas Griffin that was the
transgressor and _his_ way is pretty soft, if you ask me. The good
book says lots of things. It says somethin’ about heavin’ bread on the
waters, if I recollect right. If you’d done that with this saleratus
biscuit I’m tryin’ to eat just now ’twould have sunk, I’ll bet.”

Mr. Gifford, awaiting his employer at the station, was outwardly
serene but inwardly fearful. Would the great man whom he worshiped, of
whose majesty he had so often boasted, step from that train a broken,
humiliated wreck? Would he slink away from the curious crowd there
gathered to watch his homecoming?

He did not. The Gifford apprehensions along that line were groundless.
Foster Townsend, when he crossed the platform to the dog-cart, was,
to all appearances, quite unchanged. He acknowledged the bows and
good-days with his usual careless condescension. He greeted Varunas
with the accustomed gruff “Hello!” He even insisted upon taking the
reins himself and driving the span along the main road to the gate of
the mansion. The “mud frogs” were disappointed.

And disappointed they continued to be, for a while at least. Little by
little tales of changes in the Townsend régime began to circulate. It
was said that all the trotting horses were to be sold, that already
several large tracts of land belonging to Townsend in various parts of
the town had been put up for sale. Captain Snow, on a visit to Boston,
learned from his broker, a close friend of the senior partner in a
firm handling the Townsend stock transactions, that bonds and shares
amounting to many thousands of dollars had been turned into money for
their former owner. The second maid at the big house had been given
a month’s notice. These were the stories, and there were many more.
No one could vouch for their truth in entirety. Townsend disclosed
nothing. His stops at the post office were less frequent. He remained
at home in the evenings. Sometimes callers came and with them, even
the most loyal of friends and satellites, he was no more confidential
than ever concerning his private affairs. How badly he was hit and how
greatly his circumstances would be reduced by the loss of the famous
suit no one learned from him. From Denboro, of course, came more news.
Elisha Cook was a rich man now, although it was said that his lawyers
would get much more than half of the sum awarded by the Court. He was
triumphant, vaingloriously so, but his health was poor and people
believed he would live but a few years to enjoy his sudden rise to
affluence.

In all Harniss there was but one person whose calls at the big house,
it was noticed, were frequent and appeared to be welcome. That person
was Reliance Clark. Her first visit was made the afternoon of the day
following Townsend’s return from Washington. She came by the path
across the fields and knocked at the kitchen door. Nabby, who answered
the knock, was surprised to see her--surprised and not too cordial.
In Nabby’s mind Reliance was associated with Esther’s desertion of her
uncle and the humiliating elopement with the grandson of the loathed
Elisha Cook. Mrs. Clifford, like many another female, old or young, in
Harniss, had never quite forgotten the charming personality of young
Mr. Covell. She had hinted and prophesied much, at sewing-circle or
after prayer-meeting, concerning the match to be made between him and
the Townsend niece. Since the night of the runaway marriage her lot,
that of false prophet, had been unpleasant. The innuendoes and sly
taunts from friends and acquaintances were hard to bear. Her husband
had been particularly irritating on the subject. It was in Reliance’s
sitting-room that the marriage had taken place and Nabby was convinced
that she was largely responsible for the family disgrace. And now, with
every tongue in the county clacking over the new thunderbolt which had
struck the house of Townsend, for this woman to appear at its door,
demanding to see its owner, was nothing short of brazen.

“Yes, he is in,” she admitted, reluctantly, “but I don’t believe he’ll
want to see you. He don’t want to see anybody. I guess likely you’d
better come some other time.”

She would have closed the door, but Reliance calmly pushed it open and
entered the kitchen.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“He’s in the library, I suppose; at least he was there last time I
looked. But he won’t want to see you, I tell you. Why, look at the
folks--the kind of folks--that’s been here to-day. Cap’n Snow--and he
wouldn’t see him. And Mr. Colton, the minister of his own church, and
he wouldn’t even see him. Do you suppose likely if he turned _that_
kind of folks away he’ll want to see--well--anybody?... Why, where are
you goin’? Didn’t you hear what I said?”

Reliance had heard but she paid no attention. She walked calmly from
the kitchen to the dining room. Nabby, after a moment of petrified
resentment, ran after her and reached the library first.

“Cap’n Foster,” she cried, breathlessly, “there’s somebody here to
see you. It ain’t my fault. I told ’em you didn’t want to see anybody.
I said those very words. They’d ought to have been enough, I should
_think_.”

But Reliance had entered and now spoke for herself.

“Good afternoon, Foster,” she said. “You’ll see me for a minute or two,
won’t you? I hope you will.”

Foster Townsend was sitting in the leather chair. When the housekeeper
burst into the room he looked up with a frown. As he recognized his
caller he slowly leaned back. It was the first time she had entered
that house since Esther left it.

“Humph!” he observed. “It’s you, eh?” He was silent for an instant,
then he turned to the perturbed Mrs. Gifford.

“All right, Nabby,” he said. “You can go.”

Nabby was expectantly awaiting orders to show the intruder to the door.
Her cheeks, puffed with righteous indignation, collapsed like punctured
balloons. “Wh--what?” she gasped.

“You can go. Shut the kitchen door after you. Go along.”

Nabby went, under protest, muttering all the way to the kitchen.
Townsend thrust his hands into his trousers’ pockets. His face, as he
raised it to meet Reliance’s look, was expressionless.

“Well?” he asked. Then, with a grim smile he added: “Come for a look at
the remains, have you? Are you satisfied? Do I look natural?”

She took a step toward him and put out her hand impulsively. “Don’t,
Foster,” she protested. “Don’t talk that way.”

“Why not?” still smiling. “All hands know I am dead. You must have
heard them preaching my funeral sermon for a week.... Well, well,” with
sudden impatience, “let’s make the ceremony as simple as possible. What
is it you have come for? What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. And I came--because--oh, I’ve been thinkin’
of you night and day ever since we all heard about it. And since
yesterday, when Millard told he saw you at the depot, I--well, I have
been thinkin’ of you more than ever, if that is possible. Of you,
sittin’ here all alone in this great house.”

He shrugged. “Kindly omit flowers,” he said.

She sighed. “You make it hard for me, don’t you,” she said. “Well, I
expected you would. May I sit down a minute?”

He hesitated. Then he took a hand from his pocket and motioned to the
rocker at the other side of the table. “Sit down, if you want to,” he
said.

She sat in the rocker. “I shan’t stay very long,” she began. “Foster,
tell me: Is this _very_ bad? They are sayin’--oh, they are sayin’ all
sorts of things. I read the papers, of course. It seems like a terrible
lot of money. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I
have heard so much. Is it--will this--”

He finished the sentence for her and in his own way.

“Will it put me in the poorhouse, you mean?” he suggested. “I presume
likely some of my charitable friends are picking out my room there
already. Well, no, it won’t do that--quite. They are going to be
disappointed. I shall have something left.”

“Of course you will. Any sane person would know that, of course.”

“Humph! Would they? I don’t know why. But I shall--a little. At least
so my lawyers seem to think.”

“Must you--must you really pay Elisha Cook all those thousands and
thousands of dollars? Have you got to do it?”

He straightened.

“I’ll pay the last dollar,” he declared, sharply. “And it won’t be paid
in notes dated fifty years after death or anything like that. It will
be paid cash down, and just as soon as that cash can be raised. You can
tell that to any prying busybody that asks you.”

She sighed again. “I can hardly believe you have lost that suit,” she
said. “I--why, everybody took it for granted you would win. I don’t see
how those Supreme Court folks could do such a thing.”

His lip curled. “I was a little surprised myself,” he admitted. “So
were Cook and his gang, I rather guess.... And yet, maybe I ought to
have expected it. Things have been going that way with me lately....
Well, is there anything else you want to say--or find out?”

She hesitated. “Why, yes, there is,” she said. “I hardly know how to
say it, either. Foster, you’ll have to get rid of--to sell some of
your property to pay this awful lot of money, won’t you? That is what
they are sayin’ around town. Please don’t mind my askin’. It’s more my
business than it sounds. I’ll tell you why in a minute.”

He crossed his knees. “I shall sell about everything before I get
through, I suppose,” he replied.

“Not this house? You won’t have to give up this lovely house?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. I shall hang on to it till the last gun
fires, anyhow.”

“Foster, you own the house I live in. If--this was what I really came
to tell you--if you feel you ought to sell that house along with
other things I don’t want you to let any thought of me stand in the
way. Perhaps you wouldn’t anyway. I know you will never forgive me
for--well, for that business of Esther’s marriage. I have thought about
it seems to me every minute since it happened, and tried to look at it
every way, and I can’t feel that I did wrong. In fact I am surer than
ever that I did right. But you don’t feel so, I know. Well, that’s past
and gone. Now about this house Millard and I live in, that I rent from
you. If you have a good chance to sell for a good price, and you feel
you ought to sell, then you must do it. I can find somewhere else to go
just as well as not. Don’t you fret about that at all. Promise me you
won’t.”

For the first time since she entered the room his manner changed.
Hitherto he had been gruff, defiant, cynically aloof. Now, as she made
this appeal, the frown faded from his brow. As she finished he turned
his head away. She waited for him to speak, but he did not do so.

“You will sell if you think you ought to, won’t you, Foster?” she urged.

He cleared his throat. “There, there,” he muttered, hastily. “That’s
all right, Reliance. I shan’t have to turn you out, I guess. Not yet a
while, anyhow. Don’t be frightened about that.”

“I wasn’t frightened--not about myself at all. I just wanted to be
sure.”

“Sshh! Sshh! Forget it.... What? Are you going? You don’t make long
calls, do you? It has been a good while since you made any--up here.”

“It isn’t any farther from your house to mine than it is from mine to
yours. You haven’t been droppin’ in on me very often. Oh, I don’t blame
you. I suppose likely I should feel as you do if I were in your place.
We are both of us pretty set in our ways.... Well, good-by.”

He rose. He crossed the room, turned back and spoke. What he said came
as a tremendous surprise.

“What is the news from--over yonder?” he asked, gruffly.

“Over where? Why!... Do you mean from--from Esther?”

“Yes. I presume likely you get letters, don’t you?”

Reliance drew a long breath. “Why--why, yes, I do,” she stammered. “She
writes me every week.”

“Humph! Well, if she can write she hasn’t starved to death yet, I take
it. How is she getting along?”

“Why, very well, I should say. She lives in Paris and--and she seems to
be very happy.”

“Um-hum. All right. Good-by.”

She turned to go. Then she hesitated.

“Foster,” she faltered, “I--”

“Well? What?”

She shook her head. “I was wonderin’ if I ought to say it,” she
confessed. “I guess I will. Foster, in every letter she writes me she
asks about you. She wants to know how you are and what you are doin’
and--and everything. And in every one of those letters she asks if I
think you would care to have her write you. She wants to do it, Foster.
Indeed and indeed she does! Shall I tell her you said she might?”

His answer was prompt.

“I never begged anybody to write me yet,” he growled, defiantly. “And I
am not beginning now. You and she can understand that.”

“Yes--yes, of course I understand. I am awfully glad I came here this
afternoon. I was almost afraid to, but I am glad I did. May I come
again pretty soon?”

He looked at her intently. “Why do you want to come?” he asked. “I
haven’t said that I have changed my mind about anything, have I?” Then,
before she could reply, he added, brusquely, “Oh, well, come if you
want to. I don’t know who would be liable to stop you. Far as I can see
you generally do what you set out to.”

She was content with that, and more than content with his reference to
Esther. That evening, after she had locked the post office, she wrote
her niece a long letter. She told of the loss of the lawsuit. “Very
likely you may have heard of it before you receive this, but I have
just come from your uncle’s house and the sight of him, alone there,
sitting in that library, with nobody to speak to, knowing as he does
that everybody is talking about him, some of them crowing over him,
facing the fact that he must give up about everything he’s got in the
world--well, I never wanted to cry over a human creature more. I didn’t
do it, of course. He would have pushed me outdoors if I had. I couldn’t
scarcely tell him how sorry I felt. He is as proud as he ever was and
he doesn’t ask sympathy of anybody. He needs it though. You know how
sure he was of winning that suit. For Elisha Cook to beat him is the
hardest blow that could have been struck. And not a word of complaint.
The one thing he seemed to want me and everybody else to understand was
that every dollar damages would be paid cash down.”

Then she wrote of his questions concerning Esther’s well being. “Write
him, dearie,” she urged. “Write him and keep on writing, no matter
whether he answers your letters or not. And, oh, if you can, try to
comfort him. Make him see that you love him just as much as you ever
did. That will help him now more than anything else in the world, I do
believe. He is so _all_ alone.”

The next time she visited the big house she took with her all of
Esther’s letters, those written from Boston as well as the later
arrivals from Paris. She said little about them.

“I brought ’em along,” she said, “thinkin’ you might like to look ’em
over sometime. They are real interestin’. She writes a good letter and
what she says about tryin’ to make herself understand amongst all those
French people is very funny.”

He did not answer, nor did he refer to the letters in their
conversation. He did not refuse them, however, so she left them on the
table when she went away.

By the end of June rumors had changed to certainties. Harniss now knew
something of the extent of the disaster which had befallen its great
man. Knew it, rather than guessed or imagined it. The acres of pasture
land and the square mile of wood lots belonging to Foster Townsend were
his no longer. Some of the real estate had gone at private sale; a
public auction disposed of much more. The trotters and all the racing
paraphernalia were sent to Boston, to be sold by dealers there. The
mare, Claribel, Varunas Gifford’s especial pride, was bought by Sam
Baker; this was the bitterest blow for Varunas. The famous span was
sold. Of all the Townsend stable there remained but one horse, and that
a sober, middle-aged animal fit only for pulling a carriage. And of all
the carriages were left but two, a buggy and a carryall. The Townsend
mansion, shorn of its surrounding meadows and pine-sprinkled fields,
was still owned and occupied by the man who built it, and the Clark
cottage and the acre and a half upon which it stood were still his. For
some reason he had refused to sell the cottage property. It seemed odd,
for every one knew that he had been offered, and more than once, a good
price for it. Its situation upon the main road and adjoining the post
office made it desirable.

The big mogul was no longer big, so far as his possessions were
concerned. His progress through his native town was not triumphal now.
His closest friends still stood by him, but his influence among the
majority was waning. For years unconquerable he had been beaten at
last and badly beaten. Elisha Cook had beaten him, even young Griffin
had got the better of him. No longer a millionaire, the richest man in
the county, he was now estimated to be worth perhaps forty or fifty
thousand dollars exclusive of the house he lived in and the Clark
cottage. There were a half dozen wealthier men than that in Harniss
alone. The old guard among the politicians still came to consult him,
but there was a new and younger element gaining strength and influence
and they did not consult him at all. The Honorable Alpheus Mooney was
their leader now.

Foster Townsend was quite aware of his shrunken importance. Yet there
was no change in his manner and attitude. His excursions to and from
the stores and the post office were now, for the most part, made on
foot, but his step was firm, his dress as carefully chosen, his silk
hat as neatly brushed as in the days when that hat was revered by the
masses as the crown upon the head of the potentate whom they feared and
honored. And his speech was as brusque, his nod as off-hand, his manner
of greeting his fellow-citizens, high and low, just as uncompromising
and stand-offish as ever.

Tobias Eldridge happened to be present at a meeting between Townsend
and Congressman Mooney and had much to say about it.

“Mr. Mooney had drove over to see Simeon Thacher about somethin’ or
other,” explained Tobias, “and they was standin’ right in the middle
of the walk in front of the post office, talkin’. Don’t ask me what
they was talkin’ about, some kind of politics of course-- Sim is takin’
a whole lot of interest in politics these days. Well, anyhow, there
they was when along the sidewalk comes Cap’n Foster, walkin’ just as
pompous and important as if old Cook hadn’t kicked him all the way home
from Washin’ton. Mooney see him comin’ and he whispers somethin’ to
Sim and both of ’em laughed. When the cap’n got abreast of ’em Mooney
turned around. ‘Oh, how are you, Townsend?’ he says, kind of as if he
wasn’t much interested.”

Mrs. Eldridge, to whom her husband was telling the story, interrupted.

“Is _that_ what he called him--Townsend?” she exclaimed. “Humph! The
last time I heard ’em speakin’ together was up at the town hall ’most a
year ago. ’Twas, ‘How do you do, Cap’n Townsend, sir?’ then. And if his
tongue wasn’t buttered from bow to stern then I never heard one that
was.”

“Wan’t no butter on it this time,” declared Tobias. “He just says ‘How
are you?’ same as I’d say it to--to Millard Clark. Cap’n Foster never
turned a hair. Just looked him over as if, for a minute, he wasn’t
sure who ’twas. Then he nodded his head. ‘Oh, hello, Mooney,’ says he.
‘Sorry, but I can’t talk with you now. I’m in a hurry to get my mail.’
Well, Mooney stepped out of the way, but I declare if he didn’t look
foolish. Yes, and mad. He ain’t used to havin’ folks shove him to one
side much nowadays, I guess.”

The important Mr. Mooney was not the only person “shoved to one side”
by Foster Townsend. Mrs. Wheeler, whose summer home was opened late in
May, called at the mansion soon after her arrival.

“The man was almost rude to me,” she confided to Mrs. Colton. “I did
practically all the talking while he sat there scarcely saying yes
or no. And when I just mentioned to him--I hadn’t seen him since it
happened, you know--what a shock it was to all of us, the news of his
niece’s elopement with _that_ man of all people, he actually snubbed
me. Changed the subject entirely. I shall _never_ go near him again.”

When Esther replied to her aunt’s letter she said that she had written
to her uncle and should keep on doing so. “No matter whether he
answers my letters or not,” she wrote, “I shall write him just the
same. Bob had a note from Mr. Cook’s lawyer. It’s the first word he has
had from his grandfather and even now Mr. Cook did not write the letter
himself. But he must have told the lawyer to do it. I suppose he is so
brimful of triumph that he couldn’t help gloating. Of course he knew
Bob would tell me and it was his way of gloating over me, second-hand.
Bob is far from gloating. He feels as sorry for poor Uncle Foster as I
do. Oh, dear! that awful lawsuit was at the bottom of all our troubles,
wasn’t it? The lawyer writes that Mr. Cook is far from well.”

Reliance continued to call at the Townsend house. Sometimes her calls
appeared to be welcome and her chats with Foster Townsend almost bright
and cheerful. At others he said practically nothing, and occasionally
he sent word by Nabby that he was busy and could not see her. Twice he
had dropped in at the cottage--although never when Millard was present,
or at the millinery shop where Miss Makepeace might listen to or take
part in the conversation. During the first of these calls Reliance
mentioned something that Esther had written her. He nodded. “Um-hum,”
he agreed. “I heard about that.”

So she knew he had received and read Esther’s letter. It was his sole
reference to that letter, however, and she asked no questions. Esther
wrote her aunt that he had not replied, but that she should keep on
writing just the same.

During his second visit she brought up a subject which had been
troubling her.

“Foster,” she said, “why don’t you sell this house and land? I know you
could get a good price for it. Eben Hopkins told me himself that he
wants to buy it. Since his house burned down he hasn’t got any regular
place to live. Why don’t you let him buy?”

He shook his head. “That’s my business,” he said.

“But it is mine, too, in a way. I keep feelin’ that you are holdin’
on to it just because you don’t want to put me and Millard out. That
is silly. I could find another place to go as well as not. Abbie
would take me to board. Sometimes I think runnin’ a house, as well
as ’tendin’ post office and a hat shop, is more than I ought to do,
anyhow. I am gettin’ old and lazy, I guess.”

“Um--yes,” dryly. “You are about as lazy as a mosquito at camp meeting.
What would you do with that half-brother of yours, if you boarded out?”

“I should board him out, too. I guess I could find a place where he
could work for his board and keep.”

“Humph! When _he_ works I’ll buy a ticket to watch him.... There,
there! You stay where you belong.”

“But, Foster, you don’t make a cent rentin’ this house to me. You could
get a dozen tenants who would be glad to pay you twice as much. I
expect everybody is sayin’ that very thing.”

He pulled his beard. “I expect they are,” he agreed. “Well, my say
counts in a few things, even yet. That property is one of ’em. Talk
about the weather, Reliance.”

One afternoon in early July when Reliance called at the big house she
was refused admittance. Nabby said that the captain was not feeling
very well and did not want to see any one. It had happened before and
Reliance was neither offended nor worried. The next day, however, when
she again called and received the same answer she began to think it
strange. The following forenoon Millard, returning from an errand to
the store, told her a piece of news.

“Old man Townsend is sick, so they say,” he announced. “Don’t know
what’s the matter with him. So fur’s I’m concerned I don’t much care.
Cranky old blow-hard! I hope he’s got the rheumatics and his shoulder
gets to be sore as mine was after he chucked me over that hassock. I’d
ought to have sued him for assault and battery that time. I would if
it hadn’t been for you, Reliance Clark. I might have got some of that
money old Cook squeezed out of him.”

His half-sister looked at him. “I was talkin’ with Seth Francis
yesterday,” she said. “He says he might ship you for that Banks’
fishin’ trip if the rest of his crew would stand for it. He is afraid
they wouldn’t. He says they’re pretty fussy about what they have aboard
the schooner. If he could use you for bait, he says--but he can’t, the
codfish are particular, too.”

Millard Fillmore’s mouth was closed. His sister’s attitude toward
him was still anything but reassuring. A dozen times during the past
month she had hinted that he might have to go to work and earn his own
living. It was high time that sort of thing was forgotten.

Reliance made her third call at the mansion that afternoon and the
sight of Doctor Bailey’s horse and buggy standing by the gate alarmed
her. Nabby, however, would give no particulars.

“He’s got a cold or somethin’,” she said. “And he just won’t have me
let anybody in to see him. I sent for the doctor on my own hook and I
know he’ll give me the very Old Harry for doin’ it. Cranky! My good
Lord! Oh, dear! And I’m so all alone here, too. Varunas--I presume
likely you know it--is workin’ down to the livery stable four days
a week now. Cap’n Foster made him take the job. Said there wasn’t
enough to keep him busy around here, and there ain’t, of course. He’s
here nights and that helps a little, but I feel so dreadful lonesome
and--and responsible. If the cap’n should be sick--real sick--I don’t
know what I _would_ do. No, no, Reliance, there ain’t any use for you
to keep runnin’ here. He won’t see you. I’ll let you know if he gets
real bad.”

So for three days and nights Reliance waited anxiously. Then, on the
morning of the fourth day, she found a note tucked under the door
leading to the millinery shop. Varunas had left it on his way to the
livery stable. It was from Nabby.

“Do come up here soon as ever you can,” Mrs. Gifford had written. “I am
about crazy. Please come.”

Reliance went, of course. Nabby--a white-faced, nervous Nabby--admitted
her to the kitchen and poured into her ears a tale which drove the
color from her own cheeks. Foster Townsend was ill, seriously ill,
threatened with pneumonia. The doctor was alarmed. He had insisted upon
a nurse, but his patient flatly refused to have one in the house.

“I can’t do a thing with him,” declared the housekeeper, “and Doctor
Bailey he can’t neither. He’s beginnin’ to be out of his head part
of the time, and when he ain’t he vows that if I fetch a hired nurse
into this house he’ll heave her out of the window. I don’t know but
he would, too. You know how he is when his mind’s sot. And who could
I get? The doctor says one of them hospital nurses from Boston, same
as took care of poor Mr. Covell; but how can I get one of them?
They are so dreadful expensive and I’d have to do it on my own
responsibility--and what would he say? And--and that ain’t it either,
Reliance. He doesn’t want anybody. Between you and me,” she lowered her
voice, “I do believe he don’t care two cents what happens to him. Just
as soon die as not, I guess. Oh, Reliance, he ain’t the way he used to
be. He makes out to folks that he is, but he ain’t. This--this business
about Esther and losin’ that law case have--well, they’ve broke him all
to pieces. What _shall_ I do? I never was so tired and--and discouraged
in my life.”

It was some few minutes before Reliance answered. She bade Nabby keep
still while she did a little thinking. When, at last, she did speak,
her remarks were very much to the point.

For a fortnight Foster Townsend’s mind was little concerned with his
own affairs or those of any one else. The disease ran its course, of
pain and delirium, fever and weakness. When, at last, he turned the
corner and began faintly to realize where he was and what was going on
about him he noticed that Reliance Clark was sitting in the chair by
his bedroom window, sewing. He watched her for a time without speaking.
Then he whispered her name.

“Reliance,” he murmured, “that’s you, isn’t it?”

She put down the hat she was trimming and crossed to his bedside.

“Yes, Foster,” she said cheerfully, “it is me. My! I am glad to have
you enough better to know who it is. You are goin’ to be all right now;
the doctor says so.”

His condition did not interest him, apparently.

“What in the devil are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Oh, I just came up to see how you were gettin’ along. Don’t worry
about me. And don’t try to talk.”

He moved his head impatiently on the pillow.

“You were here yesterday, weren’t you?” he asked. “Seems as if I
remember seeing you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might have been. Now you lie still. Go to sleep,
if you can.”

He did, after a while. When he awoke it was Nabby who sat by the
window. He asked her questions, but the replies were unsatisfying. The
following day Reliance was again with him, but he did not question her.
She was glad of the omission, but she could not understand it. He was
gaining strength hourly and he was now perfectly rational. Why he did
not subject her to the cross-examination she expected seemed queer. A
week passed and still he did not do so. Nabby reported that he had not
tried to learn anything from her.

“He’s thinkin’ it out himself,” she declared. “That would be his way.
Some of these days he’ll dump down on both of us like a tipcart load of
clamshells, see if he don’t.”

Which was precisely what he did. Reliance came into the room one
morning and found him propped in the rocker and awaiting her.

“What have you done to Nabby Gifford?” she asked. “She looks scared to
death. What have you been sayin’ to her?”

He did not reply. Instead he gave an order, in quite his old way.

“You sit down alongside here,” he commanded. “That’s right. Now then,
let’s hear what you have got to say? Nabby has told me her end of the
yarn and I dragged what I could out of the doctor. No, no! I’ll do the
bulk of the talking. You can say yes or no. Do you understand?”

She smiled. “I shouldn’t wonder if I did, Foster,” she replied. “I’ll
try to, anyway.”

“Humph! All right. Now then; is it true that you have been living in
this house for three weeks or more? Taking care of me?”

“Helpin’ take care of you--yes. Nabby has done as much--or more.”

“What did you do that for?”

“Somebody had to. You told Nabby that you would throw a regular nurse
out of the window. I knew you couldn’t do that to me.”

“Humph! If I had had my senses I should have tried. Who is running the
post office?”

“I am. I go down there before the mails come in and when the outgoin’
mail has to be got ready. Millard and Abbie are there other times.”

“How about your bonnet making?”

“I do my share of that. I have finished two hats right here in this
room. They were pretty good-lookin’ hats, too, if I do say it.”

“Humph!... Pshaw!... Well, here’s the real thing I want to know: Is
it true that somebody else--Eben Hopkins’s family--are living in that
house I rent to you?”

“Why, yes, it is. I couldn’t live in it. I had enough to keep me busy
up here. Eben is dreadfully anxious to buy that house; you know that. I
couldn’t sell it to him, for it isn’t mine to sell.”

“No,” emphatically, “you are right, it isn’t.”

“But I could rent it to him for six months; sublet it at a bigger rent
than I pay you, and make a little extra money. So that is what I did.
He’s taken it furnished, with my things in it. By the time his six
months are up he’ll want to buy it more than ever, or I miss my guess.
If you take my advice you’ll sell it to him.”

He tried to lean forward in the chair, gave it up and sank back again.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, angrily, “that you have let
another tenant into my house without asking me whether you could or
not?”

“I couldn’t ask you. You were too sick to be asked anything.”

“Is there a clause in your lease that gives you the right to sublet?”

She laughed. “You’re jokin’, Foster,” she said. “You know as well as I
do that I never had any lease in all the years I have rented from you.
The Hopkinses are in and I am out. It’s all settled. You are gettin’
as much money as you got from me and I am gettin’ a little on my own
account. Everybody is satisfied, or ought to be. Stop fussin’ and
behave yourself.”

He groaned. “If only I had my strength!” he muttered. “You’ve got me
down and you know it. Tut, tut, tut! What have you done with Millard?”

“He has got a room with Hulda Makepeace, Abbie’s sister-in-law. He is
supposed to do work enough around the place to pay for his room and
meals. I only hope he does it. And between times he is with me at the
post office same as always.”

“Humph! And you are living up here.”

“I am for the present. By and by, when you are well enough so that
Nabby can get along alone, I am goin’ to have a room with Abbie.
She and I will do light housekeepin’ together. It’s a real sensible
arrangement. Don’t you think so?”

He did not answer. It was some time before he spoke again. When he did,
he said:

“Humph! You’re a smart woman, Reliance, but don’t you get the idea
that I’m such a fool as not to understand what brought you up here.
I don’t quite understand why you sublet your house. I rather guess
there’s something behind that you haven’t told me. But, according to
the doctor, the care you have been taking of me, night and day, is the
principal reason why I’m not in the cemetery this minute. What did you
do it for? Blamed if I think it was worth while.”

“I do. And Doctor Bailey ought to know better than to tell you any
such silly stuff.... Well, there! I guess you are well enough to be
left a few minutes and I must run and help Nabby.... Oh, there is a
letter on the table for you. It’s got a French stamp on it. Here it is.
Now you behave yourself till I come back.”




CHAPTER XXV


It was late in August before he was well enough to be about and to take
short walks out of doors. Reliance still remained at the big house. He
insisted that she do so.

“You stay here,” he ordered, “till I tell you to clear out. Nabby needs
somebody to help her, I guess. Anyhow she says she does. And I haven’t
by any means decided what I shall do with that house of yours. You
are as comfortable as you will be likely to be with that rattle-head
Makepeace woman. You stay right here.”

So she stayed on, although she had no intention of prolonging the stay
beyond the first of September. He was still far from strong, and was,
as Mrs. Gifford called it, “awful cranky,” so Reliance thought it best
not to upset his equilibrium by mentioning leaving until the time for
leaving came.

She and he had many long talks together. Esther’s letters to her came
regularly and she gave them to him to read, or such parts of them as
she thought it best for him to see. And every two weeks there was a
letter for him. He invariably put these letters in his pocket and she
never saw them again, nor did he refer to them. That he read them when
alone she felt certain. So far, Esther wrote, he had not replied. “Why
doesn’t he write me?” the girl demanded of her aunt. “You say you know
he is glad to get my letters. Why doesn’t he answer them? I am afraid
you are mistaken and that his feeling toward me has not really changed
at all. Oh, I wish it would! Just now _especially_ I should like to
know that it had.”

Reliance tried hard to be reassuring.

“It is all right, my dear,” she wrote again and again. “He is coming
around, but you must be patient and give him time. I have known him a
great many more years than you have and I tell you for Foster Townsend
to own up that he is wrong is no easy job. Most of his life he did
what he wanted to do and it turned out right, and, what is more, about
everybody he knew took pains to tell him it was right. He lost that
lawsuit, I know, but there are a good many people even yet who think
he was right in that and that the courts made a mistake. He holds his
head just as high as he ever did. It is as much as the average person’s
life is worth to hint they are sorry for him, or anything like that.
Let them say that to him just once and they don’t get the chance to say
much of anything to him again. It is stubborn and foolish, perhaps,
but I declare it makes me proud of him. I am a little that way myself,
I guess. He has never yet told me out and out that I did right in
insisting on you and Bob getting married before you left Harniss that
night. But I have said it two or three times and he hasn’t contradicted
me, and that is a lot--for him. Give him time, Esther, dear. He will
write you some day, I am sure. And that he loves you more than all
the rest of the world put together, I _know_. Be patient, and keep on
writing him. Only don’t mention the most important thing. Keep that for
a surprise.”

She did her best to seem cheerful while in his presence, but there
were matters which troubled her--one on the other side of the ocean,
although that, in the natural course of events, should end happily--and
one, at home in Harniss, which now seemed certain to end disastrously
for her. His keen eyes soon noticed, in spite of her pretense, that
there was something wrong, and he tried to learn what it was.

“What have you got on your mind, Reliance?” he demanded. “Oh, now,
now! don’t say you haven’t got anything because I know better. What is
worrying you?”

She laughingly insisted that she was not worried at all. When he
persisted she made an excuse to leave the room. He called after her.

“You are as stubborn as Balaam’s jackass,” he vowed. “All right. I have
got a little of that animal in me. If you won’t tell me I shall have to
find out for myself.”

It was Captain Benjamin Snow who disclosed the secret. Captain Ben,
still the loyal friend and as regular a caller at the big house as its
owner would permit, took the opportunity when Townsend and he were
alone in the library--Nabby having gone to prayer-meeting and Reliance
to the post office--to speak of what had troubled him for more than a
month.

“I should have told you sooner, Foster,” he said, “but the doctor
wouldn’t hear of it. Said you just simply mustn’t be bothered, that’s
all. I wonder somebody hasn’t told you when you were down street. The
whole town is talkin’ about it. It is too late to do anything, I guess;
yes, I know it is. But--”

Townsend interrupted. “For heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed, testily. “Stop
running around the mainmast and get some sail on her. Come to the
point, Ben. What are you trying to say?”

Captain Ben said it then. Reliance Clark was to lose her place as
postmistress. The time for her reappointment was at hand and that
reappointment would not be made. Congressman Mooney had taken the
matter into his own hands and he had picked Simeon Thacher for the
office. Thacher was the Honorable Mooney’s friend and henchman. He
had earned reward and now he was to have it. Rival petitions had been
circulated; Reliance’s friends had rallied and her petition was much
the longer of the two. But Thacher had the inside pull at Washington
and his was the winning side.

“We are all of us, all the best folks in town, as sorry as we can be,
Foster,” declared Captain Ben. “We all like Reliance and she has made a
first-rate postmistress, but what can you do against politics? They’ve
trumped up charges, of course, said Millard was no good as assistant,
and that is true enough, but those charges don’t cut any figure. It’s
Mooney’s drag with the Washin’ton folks that has done the trick. He is
smart and a coming man in the party, everybody says so. He is getting
to be the county boss, that is what he is getting to be.”

Foster Townsend had listened with, for him, surprising patience. Now he
broke in.

“What!” he cried. “He is, eh? County boss already! I want to know!...
Ben Snow, how long has this been going on? What do you mean by keeping
it from me?”

Snow shook his head. “First I heard of it was just before you were
taken sick, Foster,” he said. “That’s when it came out, but I guess it
was going on, underneath, a long, long while before that. And then,
after you was sick, I couldn’t see you, of course. And, even now, if
the doctor knew--”

“Blast the doctor!... Sshh! Let me think. Does Reliance know about it?”

“Sartin. Of course she does. She--”

“Yes, yes. Of course she does. That is what she’s had on her mind.
Humph! I knew there was something. Thacher hasn’t got his papers yet,
has he?”

“No. But I guess he has just as good as got ’em. He is expecting them
any time.”

“Humph! Expecting is one thing and getting is another. There, there!
Don’t talk any longer. Clear out. I’ve got to think--yes, and do.”

“But, Foster, what can you do? What can anybody do? And you aren’t fit
to--”

“Sshh! You haven’t been to my funeral yet, have you? No. Well, neither
has Mooney. Run along, Ben, run along! And say, don’t you tell a soul
that I know anything about this. Reliance especially; don’t you tell
her.”

Captain Snow left his friend’s house in a peculiar state of mind.
His conscience troubled him a little. Foster Townsend was still far
from strong. If, under the spur of this disclosure, he should attempt
exertions which brought about a relapse, he--Snow--would be to blame.
And, after all, what had been gained by telling? Nothing could be done.
As he had just said, what could any one do? Nevertheless, amid Captain
Ben’s perturbations there was a faint trace of unreasonable hope. For
many years he, like so many other Harniss citizens, had depended upon
Foster Townsend to steer their ship through the shoals of politics. And
the trust had never been misplaced. Of course, now, everything was
different. Yet the captain could not help hoping--a little.

That evening, just before he went up to his room, Townsend astonished
his housekeeper by announcing that he desired an early breakfast. “Have
it ready at six,” he ordered. “And tell Varunas to have the horse and
buggy at the door as soon as I’ve finished. I want to make the quarter
to seven train.”

Nabby stared at him, horror-stricken.

“My soul and body!” she exclaimed. “Cap’n Foster, be you crazy? You
ain’t much more than just up off a sick bed. Where are you goin’--in a
train? What’ll I tell Doctor Bailey? Yes, and Reliance?”

Her employer grinned. “Tell Bailey I have gone to China for my health,”
he announced. “According to you I should have to go as far as that to
find it. And don’t you tell Reliance that I have gone at all, until
after you have heard the engine whistle. Then you can tell ’em all you
know--which won’t be much.”

He caught the train, and Varunas, having seen him and his valise safely
aboard, returned home baffled and pessimistic.

“No, no,” he told his wife, “he wouldn’t tell me nothin’. _Asked_ him!
Course I asked him; but all he would say was ‘Shut up.’ When he said it
the third time I could see he meant it.... Ah hum! I don’t never expect
to see him again, alive. If he ain’t crazy then everybody will say we
are for lettin’ him go.”

Three days--four--and five passed without a message of any sort from
the traveler. Acting under Miss Clark’s orders, and her instructions
were insistent, the occupants of the big house told no one, save the
doctor, of Townsend’s mysterious and alarming absence. But few had
seen him take the train at the station, and, as he bought no ticket,
they took it for granted that he had gone but a little way, probably
to Ostable, and that Varunas was to drive to that town later in the
day and bring him home. Foster Townsend’s daily doings were no longer
a matter of overwhelming importance to Harniss in general. His losing
the lawsuit was an old story. The big mogul was shorn of most of his
bigness. It did not now matter greatly what he did.

In his own home, however, there was increasing worry and a growing
fear. Nabby declared that she was so nervous she couldn’t keep her
mind on her work. “I’ll p’ison us all some of these meals,” she said.
“I give the cat mashed turnip yesterday and ’twan’t till the critter
turned up his nose at it that I found I was puttin’ raw liver on the
dinner table.” Varunas was quite as distraught. Reliance Clark was more
composed, but she was very anxious.

On the morning of the sixth day came a telegram. It was addressed
to Mr. Gifford. “Meet me with the team at the South Denboro station
seven ten to-night,” it read. Why he should have chosen to alight at
South Denboro instead of keeping on to Harniss no one of the three
could understand, but the fact that he was still alive was reassuring.
Varunas and the horse and buggy were on hand a half hour ahead of the
time set. At a little before nine Foster Townsend reëntered his own
dining room.

Nabby had expected to meet a physical wreck, a pale and haggard shadow
whose one desire would be to be helped to bed as soon as possible. Her
eyes and mouth opened in astonishment.

“Well, I declare, Cap’n Foster!” she gasped. “I do declare! I snum if
you ain’t--I do believe you look _better_ than you done when you went
out of this house.”

Townsend smiled. “I am better,” he said. “Nothing like travel, Nabby.”

In spite of her questions and Reliance’s when, later on, the latter
came back from the post office, he would not disclose one atom of
information as to where he had been so long or why.

“Never you mind,” he insisted, and with surprising good nature.
“That’s my business. I am not married to either one of you. I am free
and independent. I guess likely I can go off on a spree if I want to
without doing my catechism afterwards. I have had a good time and
maybe I’ll have a better one by and by. You be satisfied with that.”

They had to be. Neither then, nor the following day, nor the day after
that, would he say more. It was tantalizing to the Giffords, but
Reliance did not mind so much. She was grave and preoccupied nowadays
and Nabby and her husband thought they understood the reason. Captain
Townsend, apparently, did not notice her gravity or long intervals of
silence.

His trips to the post office were very regular. One noon he came
home to dinner with, so Nabby thought, a more than usually satisfied
expression. In fact he seemed, for him, almost excited.

“I don’t know what has changed him so lately, Varunas,” she confided.
“Must have been that ‘spree’ he went on, whatever it was. He is more
like himself--his old smart, lively self, I mean--than I’ve seen him
since Esther ran off and married that Griffin thing.”

Varunas had something to say. “You know what that letter was he give me
to mail just now?” he asked. “The one he wrote right after dinner? No?
Well, I don’t neither, but I know who ’twas to. ’Twas to the Honorable
Alpheus Mooney, Trumet, Mass. That’s who ’twas to; and he was mighty
anxious I should stop in and mail it on my way to the livery stable.
What in time is he writtin’ to Congressman Mooney for? Don’t cal’late
he’s goin’ to get some political job, or somethin’, do you--now that
he’s lost his money?”

One evening soon afterward, when Reliance Clark came home after locking
the post office door, she found Foster Townsend in the library. He was
seated in the easy-chair and the _Item_ was in his hand. He looked up
and spoke.

“Tired to-night, are you, Reliance?” he asked. “In a special hurry to
go aloft and turn in?”

“No, Foster. Why?”

“Because, if you had just as soon, I’d like to have you wait up a
while. I am sort of expecting somebody here to see me to-night and I’d
rather like to have you around where I can call you if I want you.”

She did not understand, of course, nor, just then, was she particularly
curious. There were other matters on her mind, one matter so
transcendently important that she could think of nothing else.

“I can wait as well as not,” she told him. “In fact, I was goin’ to sit
up anyway. I’ve got somethin’ to tell you, Foster. Somethin’ wonderful.
I had a letter come in to-night’s mail. You had one, too. I’ve got them
both here.”

She had the letters in her hand. He looked at them, then at her face.

“From--from the other side?” he asked, quickly.

“Yes.”

“From--her?”

“Yes. One of them.”

“Humph! What makes you look so queer? Say, there’s nothing--nothing
wrong, is there?”

She shook her head.

“No. No, Foster,” she said, “there is nothin’ wrong. Everything is all
right. Thank God for it.”

He leaned forward. “What are you thanking God for?” he demanded.
“And--here-- Are you crying? I believe you are. What--”

Just then Nabby Gifford bustled into the library. She had not announced
her coming; she was too excited for that.

“Who do you suppose is out here, waitin’ to see you, Cap’n Foster?” she
whispered. “The Honorable Mooney, that’s who.”

Townsend’s reception of this announcement was disappointing, to say the
least.

“Humph!” he grunted. “I thought it must be Saint Peter, judging by your
face. Tell him to come in. Yes, yes. Go and tell him.”

He turned to Reliance. “Reliance,” he said, “I want you to hear this.
You go in the parlor and leave the door open a crack. Don’t mind
sitting in the dark a few minutes, do you?”

She started toward the parlor. Then she turned and looked at him
fixedly and with growing suspicion.

“Foster,” she said, sharply, “what is all this? Have you-- What have
you been doin’?”

He waved her away. “Keep your ears open and maybe you’ll find out,” he
suggested. “Hurry up! I don’t want him to see you--yet.”

Congressman Alpheus Mooney had not honored that room with his presence
for almost a year. That he now considered himself as honoring it was
quite apparent. Bowed in by the reverential Mrs. Gifford he entered
briskly and with importance. When he last crossed the threshold of the
Townsend house he had been an anxious candidate for office, humbly
seeking aid and advice from the most influential man in his district.
Then he came hat in hand. His hat was in his hand now, but he tossed it
lightly upon the table without waiting for an invitation.

“Good evening, Cap’n Townsend,” he said. “Well, here I am, you see.”

“Glad to see you, Mooney,” declared the captain. “It was good of you to
come. You are pretty busy these days, I expect. Have a chair.”

Mooney took the chair which was offered him. He crossed his knees.

“Why, yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I am pretty busy just now, that’s a
fact. Never too busy to oblige an old friend though. I happened to be
in Trumet when your letter came and I was very glad to drive up and see
you. I was sorry to hear of your sickness. You look quite like yourself
again. As well as you ever did, I should say.”

If there was a very slight hint of patronage in the Congressman’s
manner it was no more than should be expected of a Congressman. And in
this case it was unintentional. The Honorable Mooney was not wholly
at ease concerning the purpose of this interview to which he had been
summoned. The letter he had received was brief and polite. If Mr.
Mooney could make it convenient to drop in at the Harniss house some
evening soon, Foster Townsend would consider his doing so a favor.
There was a little matter, of interest to both, to be talked over.
He--Townsend--had not been well or he should come to Trumet. Mooney
had replied by telegraph naming this Wednesday evening at nine. And in
the interval between the receipt of the letter and that moment he had
been wondering what the little matter of interest might be. There was
but one which offered itself as a probability, and that little matter
was all right, settled beyond change. Nevertheless--well, the Honorable
Alpheus was not entirely free from curiosity, perhaps even from anxiety.

Foster Townsend received the gratifying assurance concerning his robust
appearance with a rather dubious shake of the head.

“I don’t know, Mooney,” he observed. “When a man of my age has been as
sick as I was he doesn’t get up again in a minute. However, I’m not
dead, and that is something. No, I’m not even as dead as--well, as some
folks think I am. Have a cigar?”

Mooney accepted the cigar. Townsend also took one and they lit and
smoked. The captain mentioned the fine weather they had for the past
few days, also the promise of a good cranberry crop that fall.

“You will be glad of that, Mooney,” he observed. “Everybody knows you
are the father of that cranberry bill that has done so much for us in
this section.”

The Congressman glanced at him. The Townsend face was grave, there was
not even the faintest twinkle in the Townsend eye. Nevertheless Mr.
Mooney’s slight uneasiness became a shade less slight. Was this man
making fun of him? It was time he found out.

“Yes--yes, of course,” he said. “Well, Cap’n Townsend,” leaning easily
back in his chair and knocking the ashes from his cigar, “what was it
you wanted to talk over with me? A little politics, eh?”

Townsend nodded. “You’ve guessed it,” he said. “It was a little matter
of politics. I never should have dared bother as busy a man as you are
with anything but business.”

This was overdoing it a trifle. Mooney was not an absolute fool and his
suspicion that he was being made fun of became more of a certainty. He
cleared his throat, and frowned slightly.

“I see,” he said, more brusquely. “Yes, I see.... Well, Cap’n Townsend,
for old times’ sake I should like to oblige you if I can. What do you
want? What can I do for you?”

Townsend blew a cloud of smoke and fanned it from before his face with
his hand.

“You can’t do anything for me, Mooney,” he answered. “You’ve done all
you can do for me by coming here to-night. As far as that is concerned
I could have managed to get along if you hadn’t come.... So,” with an
ominous change in his tone, “I wouldn’t put it just that way if I were
you. Mooney, when you started to pitch Reliance Clark out of our post
office and squeeze Sim Thacher into it why did you do it behind my
back? Why did you hide it from me?”

So it was the post office matter, after all. In a way Mooney was
relieved. That battle was won. His countenance assumed an expression of
pained resentment.

“Nonsense, Cap’n Townsend,” he said, with lofty indignation. “Nonsense!
Whoever told you I have been hiding anything--lied, that’s all. You
were sick--”

“Here, here! I may have been sick along the last of it, but not at
first when you and Thacher were laying your plans. I know as much about
those plans as you do, I guess. I have made it my business to find out.
You started planning away last December, a month after you were elected
to Washington. Before that election you were crawling around here on
your hands and knees, begging me to please do this and that to help you
get votes. Why, confound you, you couldn’t have been nominated if it
hadn’t been for me. And away back in the beginning, when that cranberry
bill had you licked so that you couldn’t have been elected poundkeeper,
I gave you the chance to square yourself. I was the fool there, of
course; but I thought you were so scared you would behave yourself for
the rest of your life. Bah! Don’t you say ‘nonsense’ to me again....
Here! You aren’t going yet. This little talk of ours has only begun.”

The Honorable Alpheus was on his feet, his round face crimson. He
snatched his hat from the table.

“I don’t want to hear any more from you, Townsend,” he declared. “You
are a sick man--and an old man. If you weren’t--”

“Here! here! I’m not sick. And I’m not so darned old that I can’t see
through a jellyfish. I saw through you the first time you came into
this room. And I saw through what you were up to with this post-office
business the minute I heard of it. You probably as good as promised Sim
Thacher the post office away back when you were hunting the nomination.
You would have come to me about it months ago if you hadn’t figured I
was down and out and not worth considering any more. Elisha Cook and
the Supreme Court had licked me, and so you thought you could do it.
Pshaw!” in huge disgust; “Elisha Cook is a _man_, whatever else he is.”

The Honorable Mooney drew himself erect. His chest expanded.

“Townsend,” he declaimed, with all the dignity of his platform manner,
“I make allowances for you. I realize you are not well. And I suppose
it is natural you should be disappointed because your friend--your
housekeeper I am told she is now--has lost the post office here. I am
sorry for her myself, in a way. But I have the interests of the folks I
represent in Congress to consider. It is my duty to think of them and
act for their good. Miss Clark has not--no, sir, she has _not_ run that
office as it ought to be run. She has neglected it. More than that, she
has been spending the public money to hire that worthless brother of--”

“Sshh!” Foster Townsend brought his palm down upon his knee with a
crack which startled the representative of an outraged people to
silence. “Be still!” ordered the captain. He slowly shook his head.
“Well, there!” he went on, in a calmer tone. “That was a real pretty
speech of yours, but you needn’t finish it; I can guess the end. I have
said more than I meant to say, myself. No use wasting time. Although,”
with another momentary outburst, “when I think of how you and your gang
worked and schemed to put a lone woman out of her job, I-- Humph!...
Mooney, she isn’t going to be put out of it. She is going to stay right
where she is.”

The Honorable Alpheus stared. Then he smiled, a smile of dignified pity.

“Townsend,” he proclaimed, loftily, “I don’t see what you hope to gain
by this sort of thing. Simeon Thacher will be the Harniss postmaster.
The appointment is made--or as good as made. That is my final word to
you.”

Townsend lifted his hand. “Better wait until you hear mine, Mooney,” he
said, warningly. “I was fussing with politics when you were running to
school and I have learned enough to know that nothing political is done
until it has _been_ done.... I went up to see Senator Gore last week.
He and I are old friends.”

A change came over Mr. Mooney’s face. It lost something of its
confidence, its high disdain.

“Well--well, I am very glad you did,” he asserted, after an instant’s
pause. “Yes, indeed. The Senator is a friend of mine, too, I am proud
to say. He knows all about this post office matter. I advised with him
before I made up my own mind.”

And now it was Townsend who smiled. He seemed amused.

“Oh, so you ‘advised’ with him, did you?” he chuckled. “Well, your
advice must have been worth listening to.... There, there! Wait a
minute more. _I_ ‘advised’ with the Senator myself. And he seemed to be
interested. He ought to be. I knew him before he was Senator. I’ve done
him a good many favors down here in this district. He hadn’t forgotten
them. A good memory is a mighty valuable item of cargo to have aboard,
if you are cruising in politics. That’s a piece of advice I’ll hand
over to you, Mooney, and I won’t charge for it. Senator Gore remembers
favors. _He_ is a big man.”

The Congressman would have spoken, but the captain did not give him the
opportunity.

“Just a minute now,” he said. “I’m almost through. I told the Senator
the straight truth about our post office here. He was surprised. I
judged it was different from what he had heard from you. He said he
could not understand, considering the story you told him. I said that,
according to my experience, you were subject to changes of mind at
times. By the way of proof I showed him some letters you wrote me
two or three years ago. His name was in those letters. Perhaps you
remember--you were a little peeved because he hadn’t used his influence
in a matter you were interested in and you spoke out pretty plain. I
wouldn’t say the names you called him were compliments, exactly. So--”

But Mooney could hold in no longer. His dignity was gone and with it
his confident assurance.

“You showed him those letters!” he shouted. “Why--why, those were
personal letters. What do you mean by--”

“Sshh! No they weren’t. You asked me to show them to other people and
to do what I could to help you upset the Senator’s plans. Anyhow, I
needed ’em to prove my case, just as, I suppose, to prove yours you
felt it necessary to say what you did about Reliance Clark’s misusing
the Government money and things like that. Never mind what you said
about me. I could answer that without the help of anybody’s letters.
So--well, to make a long yarn shorter, Senator Gore said he could see
I was right and that he would help me. I said the help must be prompt
or it would be too late. He made it prompt. The President himself
happened to be in New York last week, maybe you saw it in the papers.
He was there and the Senator took me to see him. It seemed a kind of a
shame to bother the President of this whole United States with a little
two-for-a-cent mess like the Harniss post office, but--well, he was
patient and so--Reliance!” he called, raising his voice. “Reliance, you
can come in now. I have got something for you.”

The parlor door swung open and Miss Clark appeared. Her expression was
peculiar, but not nearly as peculiar as that of the Honorable Alpheus
Mooney when he recognized her.

Foster Townsend took from the inside pocket of his coat a folded,
official-looking document. He handed it to her. She took it
mechanically.

“There is your notice of reappointment, Reliance,” he said. “It wasn’t
really necessary, maybe. They might have let you stay on without it,
perhaps; I don’t just know how such things are worked although I have
had a hand in a good many appointments of different kinds. But I asked
the Senator to have something sent and sent to me. I thought I’d like
the fun of giving it to you, and I thought, too, if it was done here,
privately, between us three, it might save our friend Mr. Mooney from
having to make a lot of public explanations. I don’t know exactly why
I should do you a favor, Mooney,” he added, cheerfully, “but I am glad
to do this one. Want to see the paper, do you? I guess Miss Clark will
show it to you, though you can take my word for it that it is perfectly
straight.”

The Congressman did not ask to see the paper. He asked for nothing and
said nothing. He seemed to be in a daze and when Townsend picked up the
hat which he had dropped he took it without a word.

He departed, a moment or two later, and the captain accompanied him to
the outer door. Townsend was smiling when he reëntered the library.

“I should be a little sorry for that fellow,” he observed, “if he
hadn’t behaved so like a swelled-up bullfrog. He is in for a joyful
time with Thacher and the rest of them. Maybe it will be good for him,
though. I guess likely he will be a little more careful about the kind
of letters he writes.”

He looked at Reliance. She had unfolded the document from Washington
and was reading it, or trying to do so. Her hands were trembling.
Townsend looked away.

“I gave the Honorable one little piece of parting advice,” he added,
with another chuckle. “I told him what I told Ben Snow, that it was
generally good policy to wait until after a man was buried before you
took it for granted he was dead.”

He stretched out his arms and laughed aloud.

“That did me good!” he declared. “That did me a world of good. I guess
maybe I never was dead, after all. Or else I am just coming to life
again.”

He turned once more to Miss Clark. She was still gazing at the paper in
her hands.

“Well, Reliance,” he said, “that is off your mind. You can sort letters
for a while longer anyhow. Are you glad?”

She sighed. “I--I don’t know what I am, hardly, yet,” she confessed.
“Oh, Foster, how am I ever--_ever_ goin’ to pay you for this?”

“I don’t want any pay. The debt was all on my side. I owe you a whole
lot more yet. You foolish woman! Why didn’t you tell me what was going
on? What would you have done for a living if they had put you out of
that post office?”

She tried to smile. “I should have got along some way,” she said. “I
had planned it pretty well out. I should have boarded with Abbie--I am
going to do that anyhow--and worked harder at the millinery, that is
all. I would have got along.”

“Yes,” with a disgusted grunt, “you would have got along; all creation
couldn’t stop your doing that, I guess. But what kind of a get-along
would it have been? This is why you sublet your house, of course. I
knew there was something behind that.... Now you aren’t going boarding
down at Abbie Makepeace’s. You are going to stay right here. There is
plenty of room. Nabby needs you to help. Yes, you are going to stay.
You will stay--at least until the time comes when I put those Hopkinses
out of your own place and you go back there to live, where you ought to
be.”

“No, Foster--”

“I say _yes_! Confound it! Let me have my own way once in a while,
won’t you?”

This was like the old Foster Townsend, the big mogul. Her smile
broadened. He noticed it and smiled also.

“Sit down over there a minute, Reliance,” he ordered. “I want to talk
to you.”

She took the rocker so recently vacated by the Honorable Mooney. He
sank into the leather chair and stretched his legs. She waited for him
to speak, but he did not.

“Well, Foster,” she asked, after a moment, “what is it?”

He jingled the change in his pocket, the old habit of his. He appeared
a little uneasy.

“Well?” she repeated.

He lifted his head. “What I have got to say is--well, confound it, it
is hard to say,” he began. “For me, anyhow. Reliance, I suppose you
think I’ve got a grudge against you for--that business of Esther’s. I
haven’t.”

“I am glad of that, Foster.”

She _was_ glad, especially glad to hear him say it. In spite of her
assurances to Esther, she had begun to think he never would.

“Don’t you misunderstand me,” he went on, sharply. “I am no more in
favor of her marrying that Griffin cub than I ever was. She made a
big mistake there. If she had left it to me I could have found her a
husband that was something more than a picture dauber. You bet I could!
And he wouldn’t have been a Cook either.”

There was much she might have said, much she wanted to say, but she
thought it inadvisable just then.

“We all of us make mistakes, Foster,” was her only comment.

“Humph! Yes, we do. I have made a lot in my life. Well, if I had it to
live over again, I would make the same ones, I shouldn’t wonder. I am
built that way. I can no more help bossing other people’s affair than
I can help breathing. I like to do it, always did. I don’t know as it
pays, though.”

“I don’t believe it does, Foster.”

“It paid with Mooney just now, didn’t it?... Oh, well, you may be
right. I certainly haven’t made what you might call a first-class job
of it for the last three or four years.... Well, that wasn’t what I
started to say. Reliance, you did one first-class job that night when
you made Esther and--and that fellow of hers get married before they
left Harniss. Get married right in your own house, with you to stand by
and see them sign articles. That saved talk--and dirty, mean talk that
might have hung around the girl all her life.”

“That is the way I felt about it.”

“Um-hum. Well, it is the way I feel--have felt since it happened. I
haven’t told you so because--well, because.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, I guess you do; you ought to know me by this time.... What’s the
matter now?”

She had risen from the rocker. “Those letters!” she exclaimed.
“Mine--and that one for you! I must have left them in the parlor. That
talk between you and Mr. Mooney made me forget them altogether. I
wouldn’t have believed anything could make me forget _those_.”

She ran to the parlor and returned, the letters in her hand.

“Here is yours,” she said.

He took it from her. “What is all this?” he demanded. “You were crying
when you started to give it to me before. I believe you are crying now.
What in the name of--”

“Read it,” she urged. “Please read it. We can talk about it afterwards.”

He tore open the envelope. She hurried to the dining room and
remained there for perhaps five minutes. When she came back he was
sitting there, his hand resting on his knee and the letter--Esther’s
letter--between his fingers. His attitude reminded her of that dreadful
evening in her own sitting-room when she had returned to find him after
he had read that other letter from his niece.

He heard her enter and looked up.

“Well!” he observed, with a slow shake of the head. “Well! here is
another surprise package for me. Here is another thing you have been
keeping from me, eh?”

“I couldn’t help it, Foster. Esther and I both thought it was best not
to tell you. We were afraid you might be worried.”

“Humph! So you thought you would do all the worrying for the pair of
us. That is like you, I must say. Did Esther write you? You said you
had a letter--from her.”

“Mine wasn’t from her. Bob wrote me. But he said Esther insisted on
writing you herself. She couldn’t write much of course--not yet. I
suppose it wasn’t a long letter.”

“Not very.”

“But, Foster, isn’t it wonderful? It doesn’t seem as if it could be so,
does it?”

He sniffed. “Why, I don’t know as it is so tremendously wonderful,” he
replied. “About what was to be expected sometime or other, I should
say.”

“But--but, Foster, did you read it _all_? Didn’t she write you about
her--about their--about Mr. Cook?”

He turned the letter over. “Um-hum,” he grunted. “She wrote that Cook
was in a pretty bad way and that he has asked to have his grandson come
and see him.”

“Yes, but she and--and the baby will come, too, of course.”

“Humph!... The old scamp must have had a change of heart. Ready to
forget and forgive, maybe, like the rich old granddads, or whatever
they were, in the Sunday School books. Well, he can afford to forgive.
He _is_ rich, blast him! That is, provided the lawyers haven’t got the
whole of the plunder.”

She waited a moment longer. Then she leaned toward him.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” she asked, anxiously. “I shall have to
write Esther, you know, and she will want to be told everything.”

He did not appear to have heard. He was absently folding the letter.
Suddenly he spoke, but to himself more than to her. “I wonder who the
young shaver looks like,” he muttered.

It was very little, but it was enough. Reliance was satisfied. She
could await Esther’s homecoming with a light heart.


THE END




_STORIES BY JOSEPH C. LINCOLN_


  =QUEER JUDSON=--Carey Judson, a square peg in a round hole, returns
  from Boston to Cape Cod and at length finds happiness and contentment.

  =RUGGED WATER=--Old Cape Cod days with Calvin Homer rising to the
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  =DOCTOR NYE=--North Ostable revises its opinion of its black sheep.

  =FAIR HARBOR=--An old sea captain becomes manager of a home for
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  =GALUSHA THE MAGNIFICENT=--A lovable archeologist brings great
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  =THE PORTYGEE=--The temperament and “calf love” of the son of a
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  =SHAVINGS=--The loyalty and shrewdness of a quaint windmill-maker
  bring happiness to his friends.

  =MARY-’GUSTA=--An orphan girl persists in mothering two old sea
  captains--her guardians.

  =EXTRICATING OBADIAH=--Cap’n Noah Newcomb extricates his former cabin
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  =THANKFUL’S INHERITANCE=--Thankful Barnes and her helper lose their
  boarders when the house proves “ha’nted,” but they gain a sea captain
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  =KENT KNOWLES: QUAHAUG=--A search for a distant cousin, “Frank,” who
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  =CAP’N DAN’S DAUGHTER=--She rescues him from her mother’s social
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  =MR. PRATT’S PATIENTS=--Mr. Pratt and his friend Miss Sparrow
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  =THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE=--A New Yorker and his daughter seek simple
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  =THE POSTMASTER=--A retired sea captain finds plenty of activity in
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  =CAP’N WARREN’S WARDS=--Cap’n Warren finds himself in strange waters
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  =THE WOMAN-HATERS=--Two avowed woman-haters clear up
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  =THE DEPOT MASTER=--The depot master, who sees all that goes on,
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  =KEZIAH COFFIN=--An old maid proves a good angel to a minister in his
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  =CY WHITTAKER’S PLACE=--An old bachelor adopts a little girl and with
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  =THE “OLD HOME HOUSE”=--Eleven stories about two sea captains and
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  =MR. PRATT=--Mr. Pratt gives two young New Yorkers pointers on how to
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  =PARTNERS OF THE TIDE=--The surprising adventures and difficulties of
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  =CAP’N ERI=--Adventures begin for Cap’n Eri and his two friends when
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  =OUR VILLAGE=--A series of unforgettable little sketches, describing
  Cape Cod life thirty years ago.

  =CAPE COD BALLADS=--Old Cape Cod scenes and folk appear in over
  eighty verses.

  _Each, $2.00_

  _Illustrated Edition of_
  “=OUR VILLAGE=” _and_ “=CAPE COD BALLADS=”
  _in two volumes, $3.50 per set_

  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  New York      London




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_GOOD STORIES_


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=THE MISSING INITIAL=

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=NINA=

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=GHOST HOUSE=

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  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  NEW YORK      LONDON




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained from the original.