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diff --git a/5980-0.txt b/5980-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..816fb3e --- /dev/null +++ b/5980-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15590 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Kent Knowles: Quahaug, by Joseph C. Lincoln + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Kent Knowles: Quahaug + +Author: Joseph C. Lincoln + +Release Date: June 6, 2006 [eBook #5980] +[Most recently updated: January 7, 2023] + +Language: English + +Produced by: Don Lainson; David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENT KNOWLES: QUAHAUG *** + + + + +KENT KNOWLES: QUAHAUG + + +By Joseph C. Lincoln + + + +1914 + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + +I. Which is not a chapter at all + +II. Which repeats, for the most part, what Jim Campbell said to me and + what I said to him + +III. Which, although it is largely family history, should not be skipped + by the reader + +IV. In which Hephzy and I and the Plutonia sail together + +V. In which we view, and even mingle slightly with, the upper classes + +VI. In which we are received at Bancroft's Hotel and I receive a letter + +VII. In which a dream becomes a reality + +VIII. In which the pilgrims become tenants + +IX. In which we make the acquaintance of Mayberry and a portion of + Burgleston Bogs + +X. In which I break all previous resolutions and make a new one + +XI. In which complications become more complicated + +XII. In which the truth is told at last + +XIII. In which Hephzy and I agree to live for each other + +XIV. In which I play golf and cross the channel + +XV. In which I learn that all abbeys are not churches + +XVI. In which I take my turn at playing the invalid + +XVII. In which I, as well as Mr. Solomon Cripps, am surprised + +XVIII. In which the pilgrimage ends where it began + +XIX. Which treats of quahaugs in general + + + + + +KENT KNOWLES: QUAHAUG + + + +CHAPTER I + +Which is Not a Chapter at All + + +It was Asaph Tidditt who told me how to begin this history. Perhaps I +should be very much obliged to Asaph; perhaps I shouldn't. He has gotten +me out of a difficulty--or into one; I am far from certain which. + +Ordinarily--I am speaking now of the writing of swashbuckling +romances, which is, or was, my trade--I swear I never have called it +a profession--the beginning of a story is the least of the troubles +connected with its manufacture. Given a character or two and a +situation, the beginning of one of those romances is, or was, pretty +likely to be something like this: + +“It was a black night. Heavy clouds had obscured the setting sun and +now, as the clock in the great stone tower boomed twelve, the darkness +was pitchy.” + +That is a good safe beginning. Midnight, a stone tower, a booming clock, +and darkness make an appeal to the imagination. On a night like that +almost anything may happen. A reader of one of my romances--and +readers there must be, for the things did, and still do, sell to some +extent--might be fairly certain that something WOULD happen before the +end of the second page. After that the somethings continued to happen as +fast as I could invent them. + +But this story was different. The weather or the time had nothing to do +with its beginning. There were no solitary horsemen or strange wayfarers +on lonely roads, no unexpected knocks at the doors of taverns, no +cloaked personages landing from boats rowed by black-browed seamen with +red handkerchiefs knotted about their heads and knives in their +belts. The hero was not addressed as “My Lord”; he was not “Sir +Somebody-or-other” in disguise. He was not young and handsome; there was +not even “a certain something in his manner and bearing which hinted of +an eventful past.” Indeed there was not. For, if this particular yarn or +history or chronicle which I had made up my mind to write, and which I +am writing now, had or has a hero, I am he. And I am Hosea Kent Knowles, +of Bayport, Massachusetts, the latter the village in which I was born +and in which I have lived most of the time since I was twenty-seven +years old. Nobody calls me “My Lord.” Hephzy has always called me +“Hosy”--a name which I despise--and the others, most of them, “Kent” to +my face and “The Quahaug” behind my back, a quahaug being a very common +form of clam which is supposed to lead a solitary existence and to +keep its shell tightly shut. If anything in my manner had hinted at a +mysterious past no one in Bayport would have taken the hint. Bayporters +know my past and that of my ancestors only too well. + +As for being young and handsome--well, I was thirty-eight years old last +March. Which is quite enough on THAT subject. + +But I had determined to write the story, so I sat down to begin it. And +immediately I got into difficulties. How should I begin? I might begin +at any one of a dozen places--with Hephzy's receiving the Raymond and +Whitcomb circular; with our arrival in London; with Jim Campbell's visit +to me here in Bayport; with the curious way in which the letter reached +us, after crossing the ocean twice. Any one of these might serve as a +beginning--but which? I made I don't know how many attempts, but not +one was satisfactory. I, who had begun I am ashamed to tell you how many +stories--yes, and had finished them and seen them in print as well--was +stumped at the very beginning of this one. Like Sim Phinney I had +worked at my job “a long spell” and “cal'lated” I knew it, but here +was something I didn't know. As Sim said, when he faced his problem, “I +couldn't seem to get steerage way on her.” + +Simeon, you see--He is Angeline Phinney's second cousin and lives in +the third house beyond the Holiness Bethel on the right-hand side of the +road--Simeon has “done carpentering” here in Bayport all his life. He +built practically every henhouse now gracing or disgracing the backyards +of our village. He is our “henhouse specialist,” so to speak. He has +even been known to boast of his skill. “Henhouses!” snorted Sim; “land +of love! I can build a henhouse with my eyes shut. Nowadays when another +one of them foolheads that's been readin' 'How to Make a Million Poultry +Raisin'' in the Farm Gazette comes to me and says 'Henhouse,' I say, +'Yes sir. Fifteen dollars if you pay me cash now and a hundred and +fifteen if you want to wait and pay me out of your egg profits. That's +all there is to it.'” + +And yet, when Captain Darius Nickerson, who made the most of his money +selling fifty-foot lots of sand, beachgrass and ticks to summer +people for bungalow sites--when Captain Darius, grown purse-proud and +vainglorious, expressed a desire for a henhouse with a mansard roof and +a cupola, the latter embellishments to match those surmounting his own +dwelling, Simeon was set aback with his canvas flapping. At the end of +a week he had not driven a nail. “Godfrey's mighty!” he is reported to +have exclaimed. “I don't know whether to build the average cupola and +trust to a hen's fittin' it, or take an average hen and build a cupola +round her. Maybe I'll be all right after I get started, but it's where +to start that beats me.” + +Where to start beat me, also, and it might be beating me yet, if I +hadn't dropped in at the post-office and heard Asaph Tidditt telling +a story to the group around the stove. After he had finished, and, +the mail being sorted, we were walking homeward together, I asked a +question. + +“Asaph,” said I, “when you start to spin a yarn how do you begin?” + +“Hey?” he exclaimed. “How do I begin? Why, I just heave to and go to +work and begin, that's all.” + +“Yes, I know, but where do you begin?” + +“At the beginnin', naturally. If you was cal'latin' to sail a boat race +you wouldn't commence at t'other end of the course, would you?” + +“_I_ might; practical people wouldn't, I suppose. But--what IS the +beginning? Suppose there were a lot of beginnings and you didn't know +which to choose.” + +“Oh, we-ll, in that case I'd just sort of--of edge around till I found +one that--that was a beginnin' of SOMETHIN' and I'd start there. You +understand, don't you? Take that yarn I was spinnin' just now--that one +about Josiah Dimick's great uncle's pig on his mother's side. I mean +his uncle on his mother's side, not the pig, of course. Now I hadn't no +intention of tellin' about that hog; hadn't thought of it for a thousand +year, as you might say. I just commenced to tell about Angie Phinney, +about how fast she could talk, and that reminded me of a parrot +that belonged to Sylvanus Cahoon's sister--Violet, the sister's name +was--loony name, too, if you ask ME, 'cause she was a plaguey sight +nigher bein' a sunflower than she was a violet--weighed two hundred and +ten and had a face on her as red as--” + +“Just a minute, Ase. About that pig?” + +“Oh, yes! Well, the pig reminded me of Violet's parrot and the parrot +reminded me of a Plymouth Rock rooster I had that used to roost in the +pigpen nights--wouldn't use the henhouse no more'n you nor I would--and +that, naturally, made me think of pigs, and pigs fetched Josiah's +uncle's pig to mind and there I was all ready to start on the yarn. It +pretty often works out that way. When you want to start a yarn and you +can't start--you've forgot it, or somethin'--just begin somewhere, get +goin' somehow. Edge around and keep edgin' around and pretty soon you'll +fetch up at the right place TO start. See, don't you, Kent?” + +I saw--that is, I saw enough. I came home and this morning I began the +“edging around” process. I don't seem to have “fetched up” anywhere in +particular, but I shall keep on with the edging until I do. As Asaph +says, I must begin somewhere, so I shall begin with the Saturday morning +of last April when Jim Campbell, my publisher and my friend--which is +by no means such an unusual combination as many people think--sat on the +veranda of my boathouse overlooking Cape Cod Bay and discussed my past, +present and, more particularly, my future. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Which Repeats, for the Most Part, What Jim Campbell Said to Me and What +I Said to Him + + +“Jim,” said I, “what is the matter with me?” + +Jim, who was seated in the ancient and dilapidated arm-chair which +was the finest piece of furniture in the boathouse and which I always +offered to visitors, looked at me over the collar of my sweater. I used +the sweater as I did the arm-chair when I did not have visitors. He was +using it then because, like an idiot, he had come to Cape Cod in April +with nothing warmer than a very natty suit and a light overcoat. Of +course one may go clamming and fishing in a light overcoat, but--one +doesn't. + +Jim looked at me over the collar of my sweater. Then he crossed +his oilskinned and rubber-booted legs--they were my oilskins and my +boots--and answered promptly. + +“Indigestion,” he said. “You ate nine of those biscuits this morning; I +saw you.” + +“I did not,” I retorted, “because you saw them first. MY interior is in +its normal condition. As for yours--” + +“Mine,” he interrupted, filling his pipe from my tobacco pouch, “being +accustomed to a breakfast, not a gorge, is abnormal but satisfactory, +thank you--quite satisfactory.” + +“That,” said I, “we will discuss later, when I have you out back of the +bar in my catboat. Judging from present indications there will be some +sea-running. The 'Hephzy' is a good, capable craft, but a bit cranky, +like the lady she is named for. I imagine she will roll.” + +He didn't like that. You see, I had sailed with him before and I +remembered. + +“Ho-se-a,” he drawled, “you have a vivid imagination. It is a pity you +don't use more of it in those stories of yours.” + +“Humph! I am obliged to use the most of it on the royalty statements you +send me. If you call me 'Hosea' again I will take the 'Hephzy' across +the Point Rip. The waves there are fifteen feet high at low tide. See +here, I asked you a serious question and I should like a serious answer. +Jim, what IS the matter with me? Have I written out or what is the +trouble?” + +He looked at me again. + +“Are you in earnest?” he asked. + +“I am, very much in earnest.” + +“And you really want to talk shop after a breakfast like that and on a +morning like this?” + +“I do.” + +“Was that why you asked me to come to Bayport and spend the week-end?” + +“No-o. No, of course not.” + +“You're another; it was. When you met me at the railroad station +yesterday I could see there was something wrong with you. All this +morning you've had something on your chest. I thought it was the +biscuits, of course; but it wasn't, eh?” + +“It was not.” + +“Then what was it? Aren't we paying you a large enough royalty?” + +“You are paying me a good deal larger one than I deserve. I don't see +why you do it.” + +“Oh,” with a wave of the hand, “that's all right. The publishing of +books is a pure philanthropy. We are in business for our health, and--” + +“Shut up. You know as well as I do that the last two yarns of mine which +your house published have not done as well as the others.” + +I had caught him now. Anything remotely approaching a reflection upon +the business house of which he was the head was sufficient to stir +up Jim Campbell. That business, its methods and its success, were his +idols. + +“I don't know any such thing,” he protested, hotly. “We sold--” + +“Hang the sale! You sold quite enough. It is an everlasting miracle +to me that you are able to sell a single copy. Why a self-respecting +person, possessed of any intelligence whatever, should wish to read the +stuff I write, to say nothing of paying money for the privilege, I can't +understand.” + +“You don't have to understand. No one expects an author to understand +anything. All you are expected to do is to write; we'll attend to the +rest of it. And as for sales--why, 'The Black Brig'--that was the last +one, wasn't it?--beat the 'Omelet' by eight thousand or more.” + +“The Omelet” was our pet name for “The Queen's Amulet,” my first offence +in the literary line. It was a highly seasoned concoction of revolution +and adventure in a mythical kingdom where life was not dull, to say the +least. The humblest character in it was a viscount. Living in Bayport +had, naturally, made me familiar with the doings of viscounts. + +“Eight thousand more than the last isn't so bad, is it?” demanded Jim +Campbell combatively. + +“It isn't. It is astonishingly good. It is the books themselves that +are bad. The 'Omelet' was bad enough, but I wrote it more as a joke than +anything else. I didn't take it seriously at all. Every time I called +a duke by his Christian name I grinned. But nowadays I don't grin--I +swear. I hate the things, Jim. They're no good. And the reviewers are +beginning to tumble to the fact that they're no good, too. You saw the +press notices yourself. 'Another Thriller by the Indefatigable Knowles' +'Barnacles, Buccaneers and Blood, not to Mention Beauty and the +Bourbons.' That's the way two writers headed their articles about 'The +Black Brig.' And a third said that I must be getting tired; I wrote as +if I was. THAT fellow was right. I am tired, Jim. I'm tired and sick +of writing slush. I can't write any more of it. And yet I can't write +anything else.” + +Jim's pipe had gone out. Now he relit it and tossed the match over the +veranda rail. + +“How do you know you can't?” he demanded. + +“Can't what?” + +“Can't write anything but slush?” + +“Ah ha! Then it is slush. You admit it.” + +“I don't admit anything of the kind. You may not be a William +Shakespeare or even a George Meredith, but you have written some mighty +interesting stories. Why, I know a chap who sits up till morning to +finish a book of yours. Can't sleep until he has finished it.” + +“What's the matter with him; insomnia?” + +“No; he's a night watchman. Does that satisfy you, you crossgrained +old shellfish? Come on, let's dig clams--some of your own blood +relations--and forget it.” + +“I don't want to forget it and there is plenty of time for clamming. The +tide won't cover the flats for two hours yet. I tell you I'm serious, +Jim. I can't write any more. I know it. The stuff I've been writing +makes me sick. I hate it, I tell you. What the devil I'm going to do for +a living I can't see--but I can't write another story.” + +Jim put his pipe in his pocket. I think at last he was convinced that I +meant what I said, which I certainly did. The last year had been a year +of torment to me. I had finished the 'Brig,' as a matter of duty, but if +that piratical craft had sunk with all hands, including its creator, I +should not have cared. I drove myself to my desk each day, as a horse +might be driven to a treadmill, but the animal could have taken no less +interest in his work than I had taken in mine. It was bad--bad--bad; +worthless and hateful. There wasn't a new idea in it and I hadn't one +in my head. I, who had taken up writing as a last resort, a gamble which +might, on a hundred-to-one chance, win where everything else had failed, +had now reached the point where that had failed, too. Campbell's surmise +was correct; with the pretence of asking him to the Cape for a +week-end of fishing and sailing I had lured him there to tell him of my +discouragement and my determination to quit. + +He took his feet from the rail and hitched his chair about until he +faced me. + +“So you're not going to write any more,” he said. + +“I'm not. I can't.” + +“What are you going to do; live on back royalties and clams?” + +“I may have to live on the clams; my back royalties won't keep me very +long.” + +“Humph! I should think they might keep you a good while down here. You +must have something in the stocking. You can't have wasted very much in +riotous living on this sand-heap. What have you done with your money, +for the last ten years; been leading a double life?” + +“I've found leading a single one hard enough. I have saved something, of +course. It isn't the money that worries me, Jim; I told you that. It's +myself; I'm no good. Every author, sometime or other, reaches the point +where he knows perfectly well he has done all the real work he can +ever do, that he has written himself out. That's what's the matter with +me--I'm written out.” + +Jim snorted. “For Heaven's sake, Kent Knowles,” he demanded, “how old +are you?” + +“I'm thirty-eight, according to the almanac, but--” + +“Thirty-eight! Why, Thackeray wrote--” + +“Drop it! I know when Thackeray wrote 'Vanity Fair' as well as you do. +I'm no Thackeray to begin with, and, besides, I am older at thirty-eight +than he was when he died--yes, older than he would have been if he had +lived twice as long. So far as feeling and all the rest of it go, I'm a +second Methusaleh.” + +“My soul! hear the man! And I'm forty-two myself. Well, Grandpa, what do +you expect me to do; get you admitted to the Old Man's Home?” + +“I expect--” I began, “I expect--” and I concluded with the lame +admission that I didn't expect him to do anything. It was up to me to do +whatever must be done, I imagined. + +He smiled grimly. + +“Glad your senility has not affected that remnant of your common-sense,” + he declared. “You're dead right, my boy; it IS up to you. You ought to +be ashamed of yourself.” + +“I am, but that doesn't help me a whole lot.” + +“Nothing will help you as long as you think and speak as you have this +morning. See here, Kent! answer me a question or two, will you? They may +be personal questions, but will you answer them?” + +“I guess so. There has been what a disinterested listener might call +a slightly personal flavor to your remarks so far. Do your worst. Fire +away.” + +“All right. You've lived in Bayport ten years or so, I know that. What +have you done in all that time--besides write?” + +“Well, I've continued to live.” + +“Doubted. You've continued to exist; but how? I've been here before. +This isn't my first visit, by a good deal. Each time I have been +here your daily routine--leaving out the exciting clam hunts and the +excursions in quest of the ferocious flounder, like the one we're +supposed--mind, I say supposed--to be on at the present moment--you +have put in the day about like this: Get up, bathe, eat, walk to the +post-office, walk home, sit about, talk a little, read some, walk some +more, eat again, smoke, talk, read, eat for the third time, smoke, talk, +read and go to bed. That's the program, isn't it?” + +“Not exactly. I play tennis in summer--when there is anyone to play with +me--and golf, after a fashion. I used to play both a good deal, when I +was younger. I swim, and I shoot a little, and--and--” + +“How about society? Have any, do you?” + +“In the summer, when the city people are here, there is a good deal +going on, if you care for it--picnics and clam bakes and teas and lawn +parties and such.” + +“Heavens! what reckless dissipation! Do you indulge?” + +“Why, no--not very much. Hang it all, Jim! you know I'm no society man. +I used to do the usual round of fool stunts when I was younger, but--” + +“But now you're too antique, I suppose. Wonder that someone hasn't +collected you as a genuine Chippendale or something. So you don't 'tea' +much?” + +“Not much. I'm not often invited, to tell you the truth. The summer +crowd doesn't take kindly to me, I'm afraid.” + +“Astonishing! You're such a chatty, entertaining, communicative cuss on +first acquaintance, too. So captivatingly loquacious to strangers. I can +imagine how you'd shine at a 'tea.' Every summer girl that tried to talk +to you would be frost-bitten. Do you accept invitations when they do +come?” + +“Not often nowadays. You see, I know they don't really want me.” + +“How do you know it?” + +“Why--well, why should they? Everybody else calls me--” + +“They call you a clam and so you try to live up to your reputation. I +know you, Kent. You think yourself a tough old bivalve, but the most +serious complaint you suffer from is ingrowing sensitiveness. They do +want you. They'd invite you if you gave them half a chance. Oh, I know +you won't, of course; but if I had my way I'd have you dragged by main +strength to every picnic and tea and feminine talk-fest within twenty +miles. You might meet some persevering female who would propose +marriage. YOU never would, but SHE might.” + +I rose to my feet in disgust. + +“We'll go clamming,” said I. + +He did not move. + +“We will--later on,” he answered. “We haven't got to the last page +of the catechism yet. I mentioned matrimony because a good, capable, +managing wife would be my first prescription in your case. I have one +or two more up my sleeve. Tell me this: How often do you get away from +Bayport? How often do you get to--well, to Boston, we'll say? How many +times have you been there in the last year?” + +“I don't know. A dozen, perhaps.” + +“What did you do when you went?” + +“Various things. Shopped some, went to the theater occasionally, if +there happened to be anything on that I cared to see. Bought a good many +books. Saw the new Sargent pictures at the library. And--and--” + +“And shook hands with your brother fossils at the museum, I suppose. +Wild life you lead, Kent. Did you visit anybody? Meet any friends or +acquaintances--any live ones?” + +“Not many. I haven't many friends, Jim; you know that. As for the wild +life--well, I made two visits to New York this year.” + +“Yes,” drily; “and we saw Sothern and Marlowe and had dinner at the +Holland. The rest of the time we talked shop. That was the first visit. +The second was more exciting still; we talked shop ALL the time and you +took the six o'clock train home again.” + +“You're wrong there. I saw the new loan collections at the Metropolitan +and heard Ysaye play at Carnegie Hall. I didn't start for home until the +next day.” + +“Is that so. That's news to me. You said you were going that afternoon. +That was to put the kibosh on my intention of taking you home to my wife +and her bridge party, I suppose. Was it?” + +“Well--well, you see, Jim, I--I don't play bridge and I AM such a +stick in a crowd like that. I wanted to stay and you were mighty kind, +but--but--” + +“All right. All right, my boy. Next time it will be Bustanoby's, the +Winter Garden and a three A. M. cabaret for yours. My time is coming. +Now--Well, now we'll go clamming.” + +He swung out of the arm-chair and walked to the top of the steps leading +down to the beach. I was surprised, of course; I have known Jim Campbell +a long time, but he can surprise me even yet. + +“Here! hold on!” I protested. “How about the rest of that catechism?” + +“You've had it.” + +“Were those all the questions you wanted to ask?” + +“Yes.” + +“Humph! And that is all the advice and encouragement I'm to get from +you! How about those prescriptions you had up your sleeve?” + +“You'll get those by and by. Before I leave this gay and festive scene +to-morrow I'm going to talk to you, Ho-se-a. And you're going to listen. +You'll listen to old Doctor Campbell; HE'LL prescribe for you, don't +you worry. And now,” beginning to descend the steps, “now for clams and +flounders.” + +“And the Point Rip,” I added, maliciously, for his frivolous treatment +of what was to me a very serious matter, was disappointing and +provoking. “Don't forget the Point Rip.” + +We dug the clams--they were for bait--we boarded the “Hephzy,” sailed +out to the fishing grounds, and caught flounders. I caught the most of +them; Jim was not interested in fishing during the greater part of the +time. Then we sailed home again and walked up to the house. Hephzibah, +for whom my boat is named, met us at the back door. As usual her +greeting was not to the point and practical. + +“Leave your rubber boots right outside on the porch,” she said. “Here, +give me those flatfish; I'll take care of 'em. Hosy, you'll find dry +things ready in your room. Here's your shoes; I've been warmin' 'em. Mr. +Campbell I've put a suit of Hosy's and some flannels on your bed. They +may not fit you, but they'll be lots better than the damp ones you've +got on. You needn't hurry; dinner won't be ready till you are.” + +I did not say anything; I knew Hephzy--had known her all my life. Jim, +who, naturally enough, didn't know her as well, protested. + +“We're not wet, Miss Cahoon,” he declared. “At least, I'm not, and I +don't see how Kent can be. We both wore oilskins.” + +“That doesn't make any difference. You ought to change your clothes +anyhow. Been out in that boat, haven't you?” + +“Yes, but--” + +“Well, then! Don't say another word. I'll have a fire in the +sittin'-room and somethin' hot ready when you come down. Hosy, be +sure and put on BOTH the socks I darned for you. Don't get thinkin' of +somethin' else and come down with one whole and one holey, same as you +did last time. You must excuse me, Mr. Campbell. I've got saleratus +biscuits in the oven.” + +She hastened into the kitchen. When Jim and I, having obeyed orders +to the extent of leaving our boots on the porch, passed through that +kitchen she was busy with the tea-kettle. I led the way through the +dining-room and up the front stairs. My visitor did not speak until we +reached the second story. Then he expressed his feelings. + +“Say, Kent” he demanded, “are you going to change your clothes?” + +“Yes.” + +“Why? You're no wetter than I am, are you?” + +“Not a bit, but I'm going to change, just the same. It's the easier +way.” + +“It is, is it! What's the other way?” + +“The other way is to keep on those you're wearing and take the +consequences.” + +“What consequences?” + +“Jamaica ginger, hot water bottles and an afternoon's roast in front of +the sitting-room fire. Hephzibah went out sailing with me last October +and caught cold. That was enough; no one else shall have the experience +if she can help it.” + +“But--but good heavens! Kent, do you mean to say you always have to +change when you come in from sailing?” + +“Except in summer, yes.” + +“But why?” + +“Because Hephzy tells me to.” + +“Do you always do what she tells you?” + +“Generally. It's the easiest way, as I said before.” + +“Good--heavens! And she darns your socks and tells you what--er lingerie +to wear and--does she wash your face and wipe your nose and scrub behind +your ears?” + +“Not exactly, but she probably would if I didn't do it.” + +“Well, I'll be hanged! And she extends the same treatment to all your +guests?” + +“I don't have any guests but you. No doubt she would if I did. She +mothers every stray cat and sick chicken in the neighborhood. There, +Jim, you trot along and do as you're told like a nice little boy. I'll +join you in the sitting-room.” + +“Humph! perhaps I'd better. I may be spanked and put to bed if I don't. +Well, well! and you are the author of 'The Black Brig!' 'Buccaneers and +Blood!' 'Bibs and Butterscotch' it should be! Don't stand out here in +the cold hall, Hosy darling; you may get the croup if you do.” + +I was waiting in the sitting-room when he came down. There was a roaring +fire in the big, old-fashioned fireplace. That fireplace had been +bricked up in the days when people used those abominations, stoves. As a +boy I was well acquainted with the old “gas burner” with the iron urn +on top and the nickeled ornaments and handles which Mother polished so +assiduously. But the gas burner had long since gone to the junk dealer. +Among the improvements which my first royalty checks made possible were +steam heat and the restoration of the fireplace. + +Jim found me sitting before the fire in one of the two big “wing” chairs +which I had purchased when Darius Barlay's household effects were sold +at auction. I should not have acquired them as cheaply if Captain Cyrus +Whittaker had been at home when the auction took place. Captain Cy loves +old-fashioned things as much as I do and, as he has often told me since, +he meant to land those chairs some day if he had to run his bank account +high and dry in consequence. But the Captain and his wife--who used to +be Phoebe Dawes, our school-teacher here in Bayport--were away visiting +their adopted daughter, Emily, who is married and living in Boston, and +I got the chairs. + +At the Barclay auction I bought also the oil painting of the bark +“Freedom”--a command of Captain Elkanah Barclay, uncle of the late +Darius--and the set--two volumes missing--of The Spectator, bound in +sheepskin. The “Freedom” is depicted “Entering the Port of Genoa, July +10th, 1848,” and if the port is somewhat wavy and uncertain, the +bark's canvas and rigging are definite and rigid enough to make up. +The Spectator set is chiefly remarkable for its marginal notes; Captain +Elkanah bought the books in London and read and annotated at spare +intervals during subsequent voyages. His opinions were decided and his +notes nautical and emphatic. Hephzibah read a few pages of the +notes when the books first came into the house and then went to +prayer-meeting. As she had announced her intention of remaining at home +that evening I was surprised--until I read them myself. + +Jim came downstairs, arrayed in the suit which Hephzy had laid out for +him. I made no comment upon his appearance. To do so would have been +superfluous; he looked all the comments necessary. + +I waved my hand towards the unoccupied wing chair and he sat down. Two +glasses, one empty and the other half full of a steaming mixture, were +on the little table beside us. + +“Help yourself, Jim,” I said, indicating the glasses. He took up the one +containing the mixture and regarded it hopefully. + +“What?” he asked. + +“A Cahoon toddy,” said I. “Warranted to keep off chills, rheumatism, +lumbago and kindred miseries. Good for what ails you. Don't wait; I've +had mine.” + +He took a sniff and then a very small sip. His face expressed genuine +emotion. + +“Whew!” he gasped, choking. “What in blazes--?” + +“Jamaica ginger, sugar and hot water,” I explained blandly. “It +won't hurt you--longer than five minutes. It is Hephzy's invariable +prescription.” + +“Good Lord! Did you drink yours?” + +“No--I never do, unless she watches me.” + +“But your glass is empty. What did you do with it?” + +“Emptied it behind the back log. Of course, if you prefer to drink it--” + +“Drink it!” His “toddy” splashed the back log, causing a tremendous +sizzle. + +Before he could relieve his mind further, Hephzy appeared to announce +that dinner was ready if we were. We were, most emphatically, so we went +into the dining-room. + +Hephzy and Jim did most of the talking during the meal. I had talked +more that forenoon than I had for a week--I am not a chatty person, +ordinarily, which, in part, explains my nickname--and I was very willing +to eat and listen. Hephzy, who was garbed in her best gown--best weekday +gown, that is; she kept her black silk for Sundays--talked a good deal, +mostly about dreams and presentiments. Susanna Wixon, Tobias Wixon's +oldest daughter, waited on table, when she happened to think of it, and +listened when she did not. Susanna had been hired to do the waiting and +the dish-washing during Campbell's brief visit. It was I who hired +her. If I had had my way she would have been a permanent fixture in the +household, but Hephzy scoffed at the idea. “Pity if I can't do housework +for two folks,” she declared. “I don't care if you can afford it. +Keepin' hired help in a family no bigger than this, is a sinful +extravagance.” As Susanna's services had been already engaged for the +weekend she could not discharge her, but she insisted on doing all the +cooking herself. + +Her conversation, as I said, dealt mainly with dreams and presentiments. +Hephzibah is not what I should call a superstitious person. She doesn't +believe in “signs,” although she might feel uncomfortable if she broke a +looking-glass or saw the new moon over her left shoulder. She has a most +amazing fund of common-sense and is “down” on Spiritualism to a degree. +It is one of Bayport's pet yarns, that at the Harniss Spiritualist +camp-meeting when the “test medium” announced from the platform that he +had a message for a lady named Hephzibah C--he “seemed to get the name +Hephzibah C”--Hephzy got up and walked out. “Any dead relations I've +got,” she declared, “who send messages through a longhaired idiot like +that one up there”--meaning the medium,--“can't have much to say that's +worth listenin' to. They can talk to themselves if they want to, but +they shan't waste MY time.” + +In but one particular was Hephzy superstitious. Whenever she dreamed of +“Little Frank” she was certain something was going to happen. She had +dreamed of “Little Frank” the night before and, if she had not been +headed off, she would have talked of nothing else. + +“I saw him just as plain as I see you this minute, Hosy,” she said to +me. “I was somewhere, in a strange place--a foreign place, I should say +'twas--and there I saw him. He didn't know me; at least I don't think he +did.” + +“Considering that he never saw you that isn't so surprising,” I +interrupted. “I think Mr. Campbell would have another cup of coffee if +you urged him. Susanna, take Mr. Campbell's cup.” + +Jim declined the coffee; said he hadn't finished his first cup yet. I +knew that, of course, but I was trying to head off Hephzy. She refused +to be headed, just then. + +“But I knew HIM,” she went on. “He looked just the same as he has when +I've seen him before--in the other dreams, you know. The very image of +his mother. Isn't it wonderful, Hosy!” + +“Yes; but don't resurrect the family skeletons, Hephzy. Mr. Campbell +isn't interested in anatomy.” + +“Skeletons! I don't know what you're talkin' about. He wasn't a +skeleton. I saw him just as plain! And I said to myself, 'It's little +Frank!' Now what do you suppose he came to me for? What do you suppose +it means? It means somethin', I know that.” + +“Means that you weren't sleeping well, probably,” I answered. “Jim, +here, will dream of cross-seas and the Point Rip to-night, I have no +doubt.” + +Jim promptly declared that if he thought that likely he shouldn't mind +so much. What he feared most was a nightmare session with an author. + +Hephzibah was interested at once. “Oh, do you dream about authors, Mr. +Campbell?” she demanded. “I presume likely you do, they're so mixed up +with your business. Do your dreams ever come true?” + +“Not often,” was the solemn reply. “Most of my dream-authors are +rational and almost human.” + +Hephzy, of course, did not understand this, but it did have the effect +for which I had been striving, that of driving “Little Frank” from her +mind for the time. + +“I don't care,” she declared, “I s'pose it's awful foolish and silly of +me, but it does seem sometimes as if there was somethin' in dreams, some +kind of dreams. Hosy laughs at me and maybe I ought to laugh at myself, +but some dreams come true, or awfully near to true; now don't they. +Angeline Phinney was in here the other day and she was tellin' about her +second cousin that was--he's dead now--Abednego Small. He was constable +here in Bayport for years; everybody called him 'Uncle Bedny.' Uncle +Bedny had been keepin' company with a woman named Dimick--Josiah +Dimick's niece--lots younger than he, she was. He'd been thinkin' of +marryin' her, so Angie said, but his folks had been talkin' to him, +tellin' him he was too old to take such a young woman for his third +wife, so he had made up his mind to throw her over, to write a letter +sayin' it was all off between 'em. Well, he'd begun the letter but +he never finished it, for three nights runnin' he dreamed that awful +trouble was hangin' over him. That dream made such an impression on him +that he tore the letter up and married the Dimick woman after all. And +then--I didn't know this until Angie told me--it turned out that she +had heard he was goin' to give her the go-by and had made all her +arrangements to sue him for breach of promise if he did. That was the +awful trouble, you see, and the dream saved him from it.” + +I smiled. “The fault there was in the interpretation of the dream,” I +said. “The 'awful trouble' of the breach of promise suit wouldn't have +been a circumstance to the trouble poor Uncle Bedny got into by marrying +Ann Dimick. THAT trouble lasted till he died.” + +Hephzibah laughed and said she guessed that was so, she hadn't thought +of it in that way. + +“Probably dreams are all nonsense,” she admitted. “Usually, I don't pay +much attention to 'em. But when I dream of poor 'Little Frank,' away off +there, I--” + +“Come into the sitting-room, Jim,” I put in hastily. “I have a cigar or +two there. I don't buy them in Bayport, either.” + +“And who,” asked Jim, as we sat smoking by the fire, “is Little Frank?” + +“He is a mythical relative of ours,” I explained, shortly. “He was born +twenty years ago or so--at least we heard that he was; and we haven't +heard anything of him since, except by the dream route, which is not +entirely convincing. He is Hephzy's pet obsession. Kindly forget him, to +oblige me.” + +He looked puzzled, but he did not mention “Little Frank” again, for +which I was thankful. + +That afternoon we walked up to the village, stopping in at Simmons's +store, which is also the post-office, for the mail. Captain Cyrus +Whittaker happened to be there, also Asaph Tidditt and Bailey Bangs and +Sylvanus Cahoon and several others. I introduced Campbell to the crowd +and he seemed to be enjoying himself. When we came out and were walking +home again, he observed: + +“That Whittaker is an interesting chap, isn't he?” + +“Yes,” I said. “He is all right. Been everywhere and seen everything.” + +“And that,” with an odd significance in his tone, “may possibly help to +make him interesting, don't you think?” + +“I suppose so. He lives here in Bayport now, though.” + +“So I gathered. Popular, is he?” + +“Very.” + +“Satisfied with life?” + +“Seems to be.” + +“Hum! No one calls HIM a--what is it--quahaug?” + +“No, I'm the only human clam in this neighborhood.” + +He did not say any more, nor did I. My fit of the blues was on again +and his silence on the subject in which I was interested, my work and my +future, troubled me and made me more despondent. I began to lose faith +in the “prescription” which he had promised so emphatically. How could +he, or anyone else, help me? No one could write my stories but myself, +and I knew, only too well, that I could not write them. + +The only mail matter in our box was a letter addressed to Hephzibah. +I forgot it until after supper and then I gave it to her. Jim retired +early; the salt air made him sleepy, so he said, and he went upstairs +shortly after nine. He had not mentioned our talk of the morning, nor +did he until I left him at the door of his room. Then he said: + +“Kent, I've got one of the answers to your conundrum. I've diagnosed one +of your troubles. You're blind.” + +“Blind?” + +“Yes, blind. Or, if not blind altogether you're suffering from the worse +case of far-sightedness I ever saw. All your literary--we'll call it +that for compliment's sake--all your literary life you've spent writing +about people and things so far off you don't know anything about them. +You and your dukes and your earls and your titled ladies! What do you +know of that crowd? You never saw a lord in your life. Why don't you +write of something near by, something or somebody you are acquainted +with?” + +“Acquainted with! You're crazy, man. What am I acquainted with, except +this house, and myself and my books and--and Bayport?” + +“That's enough. Why, there is material in that gang at the post-office +to make a dozen books. Write about them.” + +“Tut! tut! tut! You ARE crazy. What shall I write; the life of Ase +Tidditt in four volumes, beginning with 'I swan to man' and ending with +'By godfrey'?” + +“You might do worse. If the book were as funny as its hero I'd undertake +to sell a few copies.” + +“Funny! _I_ couldn't write a funny book.” + +“Not an intentionally funny one, you mean. But there! There's no use to +talk to you.” + +“There is not, if you talk like an imbecile. Is this your brilliant +'prescription'?” + +“No. It might be; it would be, if you would take it, but you won't--not +now. You need something else first and I'll give it to you. But I'll +tell you this, and I mean it: Downstairs, in that dining-room of yours, +there's one mighty good story, at least.” + +“The dining-room? A story in the dining-room?” + +“Yes. Or it was there when we passed the door just now.” + +I looked at him. He seemed to be serious, but I knew he was not. I hate +riddles. + +“Oh, go to blazes!” I retorted, and turned away. + +I looked into the dining-room as I went by. There was no story in sight +there, so far as I could see. Hephzy was seated by the table, mending +something, something of mine, of course. She looked up. + +“Oh, Hosy,” she said, “that letter you brought was a travel book from +the Raymond and Whitcomb folks. I sent a stamp for it. It's awfully +interesting! All about tours through England and France and Switzerland +and everywhere. So cheap they are! I'm pickin' out the ones I'm goin' on +some day. The pictures are lovely. Don't you want to see 'em?” + +“Not now,” I replied. Another obsession of Hephzy's was travel. She, +who had never been further from Bayport than Hartford, Connecticut, was +forever dreaming of globe-trotting. It was not a new disease with her, +by any means; she had been dreaming the same things ever since I had +known her, and that is since I knew anything. Some day, SOME day she +was going to this, that and the other place. She knew all about these +places, because she had read about them over and over again. Her +knowledge, derived as it was from so many sources, was curiously mixed, +but it was comprehensive, of its kind. She was continually sending +for Cook's circulars and booklets advertising personally conducted +excursions. And, with the arrival of each new circular or booklet, she +picked out, as she had just done, the particular tours she would go on +when her “some day” came. It was funny, this queer habit of hers, but +not half as funny as the thought of her really going would have been. I +would have as soon thought of our front door leaving home and starting +on its travels as of Hephzy's doing it. The door was no more a part and +fixture of that home than she was. + +I went into my study, which adjoins the sitting-room, and sat down at my +desk. Not with the intention of writing anything, or even of considering +something to write about. That I made up my mind to forget for this +night, at least. My desk chair was my usual seat in that room and I took +that seat as a matter of habit. + +As a matter of habit also I looked about for a book. I did not have to +look far. Books were my extravagance--almost my only one. They filled +the shelves to the ceiling on three sides of the study and overflowed in +untidy heaps on the floor. They were Hephzy's bugbear, for I refused to +permit their being “straightened out” or arranged. + +I looked about for a book and selected several, but, although they were +old favorites, I could not interest myself in any of them. I tried and +tried, but even Mr. Pepys, that dependable solace of a lonely hour, +failed to interest me with his chatter. Perhaps Campbell's pointed +remarks concerning lords and ladies had its effect here. Old Samuel +loved to write of such people, having a wide acquaintance with them, and +perhaps that very acquaintance made me jealous. At any rate I threw the +volume back upon its pile and began to think of myself, and of my work, +the very thing I had expressly determined not to do when I came into the +room. + +Jim's foolish and impossible advice to write of places and people I knew +haunted and irritated me. I did know Bayport--yes, and it might be true +that the group at the post-office contained possible material for many +books; but, if so, it was material for the other man, not for me. “Write +of what you know,” said Jim. And I knew so little. There was at least +one good yarn in the dining-room at that moment, he had declared. He +must have meant Hephzibah, but, if he did, what was there in Hephzibah's +dull, gray life-story to interest an outside reader? Her story and mine +were interwoven and neither contained anything worth writing about. His +fancy had been caught, probably, by her odd combination of the romantic +and the practical, and in her dream of “Little Frank” he had scented a +mystery. There was no mystery there, nothing but the most commonplace +record of misplaced trust and ingratitude. Similar things happen in so +many families. + +However, I began to think of Hephzy and, as I said, of myself, and to +review my life since Ardelia Cahoon and Strickland Morley changed its +course so completely. And now it seems to me that, in the course of +my “edging around” for the beginning of this present chronicle--so +different from anything I have ever written before or ever expected to +write--the time has come when the reader--provided, of course, the +said chronicle is ever finished or ever reaches a reader--should know +something of that life; should know a little of the family history of +the Knowles and the Cahoons and the Morleys. + + + +CHAPTER III + +Which, Although It Is Largely Family History, Should Not Be Skipped by +the Reader + + +Let us take the Knowleses first. My name is Hosea Kent Knowles--I said +that before--and my father was Captain Philander Kent Knowles. He was +lost in the wreck of the steamer “Monarch of the Sea,” off Hatteras. The +steamer caught fire in the middle of the night, a howling gale blowing +and the thermometer a few degrees above zero. The passengers and crew +took to the boats and were saved. My father stuck by his ship and went +down with her, as did also her first mate, another Cape-Codder. I was +a baby at the time, and was at Bayport with my mother, Emily Knowles, +formerly Emily Cahoon, Captain Barnabas Cahoon's niece. Mother had a +little money of her own and Father's life was insured for a moderate +sum. Her small fortune was invested for her by her uncle, Captain +Barnabas, who was the Bayport magnate and man of affairs in those days. +Mother and I continued to live in the old house in Bayport and I went +to school in the village until I was fourteen, when I went away to a +preparatory school near Boston. Mother died a year later. I was an only +child, but Hephzibah, who had always seemed like an older sister to me, +now began to “mother” me, the process which she has kept up ever since. + +Hephzibah was the daughter of Captain Barnabas by his first wife. Hephzy +was born in 1859, so she is well over fifty now, although no one would +guess it. Her mother died when she was a little girl and ten years later +Captain Barnabas married again. His second wife was Susan Hammond, of +Ostable, and by her he had one daughter, Ardelia. Hephzy has always +declared “Ardelia” to be a pretty name. I have my own opinion on that +subject, but I keep it to myself. + +At any rate, Ardelia herself was pretty enough. She was pretty when a +baby and prettier still as a schoolgirl. Her mother--while she lived, +which was not long--spoiled her, and her half-sister, Hephzy, assisted +in the petting and spoiling. Ardelia grew up with the idea that most +things in this world were hers for the asking. Whatever took her fancy +she asked for and, if Captain Barnabas did not give it to her, she +considered herself ill-used. She was the young lady of the family and +Hephzibah was the housekeeper and drudge, an uncomplaining one, be +it understood. For her, as for the Captain, the business of life was +keeping Ardelia contented and happy, and they gloried in the task. +Hephzy might have married well at least twice, but she wouldn't think +of such a thing. “Pa and Ardelia need me,” she said; that was reason +sufficient. + +In 1888 Captain Barnabas went to Philadelphia on business. He had +retired from active sea-going years before, but he retained an interest +in a certain line of coasting schooners. The Captain, as I said, went to +Philadelphia on business connected with these schooners and Ardelia +went with him. Hephzibah stayed at home, of course; she always stayed +at home, never expected to do anything else, although even then her +favorite reading were books of travel, and pictures of the Alps, and of +St. Peter's at Rome, and the Tower of London were tacked up about her +room. She, too, might have gone to Philadelphia, doubtless, if she had +asked, but she did not ask. Her father did not think of inviting her. +He loved his oldest daughter, although he did not worship her as he did +Ardelia, but it never occurred to him that she, too, might enjoy the +trip. Hephzy was always at home, she WAS home; so at home she remained. + +In Philadelphia Ardelia met Strickland Morley. + +I give that statement a line all by itself, for it is by far the most +important I have set down so far. The whole story of the Cahoons and the +Knowleses--that is, all of their story which is the foundation of this +history of mine--hinges on just that. If those two had not met I should +not be writing this to-day, I might not be writing at all; instead of +having become a Bayport “quahaug” I might have been the Lord knows what. + +However, they did meet, at the home of a wealthy shipping merchant named +Osgood who was a lifelong friend of Captain Barnabas. This shipping +merchant had a daughter and that daughter was giving a party at her +father's home. Barnabas and Ardelia were invited. Strickland Morley was +invited also. + +Morley, at that time--I saw a good deal of him afterward, when he was +at Bayport and when I was at the Cahoon house on holidays and +vacations--was a handsome, aristocratic young Englishman. He was +twenty-eight, but he looked younger. He was the second son in a +Leicestershire family which had once been wealthy and influential but +which had, in its later generations, gone to seed. He was educated, in +a general sort of way, was a good dancer, played the violin fairly well, +sang fairly well, had an attractive presence, and was one of the most +plausible and fascinating talkers I ever listened to. He had studied +medicine--studied it after a fashion, that is; he never applied himself +to anything--and was then, in '88, “ship's doctor” aboard a British +steamer, which ran between Philadelphia and Glasgow. Miss Osgood had met +him at the home of a friend of hers who had traveled on that steamer. + +Hephzy and I do not agree as to whether or not he actually fell in love +with Ardelia Cahoon. Hephzy, of course, to whom Ardelia was the most +wonderfully beautiful creature on earth, is certain that he did--he +could not help it, she says. I am not so sure. It is very hard for me to +believe that Strickland Morley was ever in love with anyone but himself. +Captain Barnabas was well-to-do and had the reputation of being much +richer than he really was. And Ardelia WAS beautiful, there is no doubt +of that. At all events, Ardelia fell in love, with him, violently, +desperately, head over heels in love, the very moment the two were +introduced. They danced practically every dance together that evening, +met surreptitiously the next day and for five days thereafter, and +on the sixth day Captain Barnabas received a letter from his daughter +announcing that she and Morley were married and had gone to New York +together. “We will meet you there, Pa,” wrote Ardelia. “I know you will +forgive me for marrying Strickland. He is the most wonderful man in the +wide world. You will love him, Pa, as I do.” + +There was very little love expressed by the Captain when he read the +note. According to Mr. Osgood's account, Barnabas's language was a +throwback from the days when he was first mate on a Liverpool packet. +That his idolized daughter had married without asking his consent +was bad enough; that she had married an Englishman was worse. Captain +Barnabas hated all Englishmen. A ship of his had been captured and +burned, in the war time, by the “Alabama,” a British built privateer, +and the very mildest of the terms he applied to a “John Bull” will not +bear repetition in respectable society. He would not forgive Ardelia. +She and her “Cockney husband” might sail together to the most tropical +of tropics, or words to that effect. + +But he did forgive her, of course. Likewise he forgave his son-in-law. +When the Captain returned to Bayport he brought the newly wedded pair +with him. I was not present at that homecoming. I was away at prep +school, digging at my examinations, trying hard to forget that I was +an orphan, but with the dull ache caused by my mother's death always +grinding at my heart. Many years ago she died, but the ache comes back +now, as I think of her. There is more self-reproach in it than +there used to be, more vain regrets for impatient words and wasted +opportunities. Ah, if some of us--boys grown older--might have our +mothers back again, would we be as impatient and selfish now? Would we +neglect the opportunities? I think not; I hope not. + +Hephzibah, after she got over the shock of the surprise and the pain +of sharing her beloved sister with another, welcomed that other for +Ardelia's sake. She determined to like him very much indeed. This wasn't +so hard, at first. Everyone liked and trusted Strickland Morley at first +sight. Afterward, when they came to know him better, they were not--if +they were as wise and discerning as Hephzy--so sure of the trust. The +wise and discerning were not, I say; Captain Barnabas, though wise and +shrewd enough in other things, trusted him to the end. + +Morley made it a point to win the affection and goodwill of his +father-in-law. For the first month or two after the return to Bayport +the new member of the family was always speaking of his plans for the +future, of his profession and how he intended soon, very soon, to look +up a good location and settle down to practice. Whenever he spoke +thus, Captain Barnabas and Ardelia begged him not to do it yet, to wait +awhile. “I am so happy with you and Pa and Hephzy,” declared Ardelia. +“I can't bear to go away yet, Strickland. And Pa doesn't want us to; do +you, Pa?” + +Of course Captain Barnabas agreed with her, he always did, and so the +Morleys remained at Bayport in the old house. Then came the first of the +paralytic shocks--a very slight one--which rendered Captain Barnabas, +the hitherto hale, active old seaman, unfit for exertion or the cares of +business. He was not bedridden by any means; he could still take short +walks, attend town meetings and those of the parish committee, but he +must not, so Dr. Parker said, be allowed to worry about anything. + +And Morley took it upon himself to prevent that worry. He spoke no more +of leaving Bayport and settling down to practice his profession. Instead +he settled down in Bayport and took the Captain's business cares upon +his own shoulders. Little by little he increased his influence over the +old man. He attended to the latter's investments, took charge of +his bank account, collected his dividends, became, so to speak, his +financial guardian. Captain Barnabas, at first rebellious--“I've always +bossed my own ship,” he declared, “and I ain't so darned feeble-headed +that I can't do it yet”--gradually grew reconciled and then contented. +He, too, began to worship his daughter's husband as the daughter herself +did. + +“He's a wonder,” said the Captain. “I never saw such a fellow for money +matters. He's handled my stocks and things a whole lot better'n I ever +did. I used to cal'late if I got six per cent. interest I was doin' +well. He ain't satisfied with anything short of eight, and he gets it, +too. Whatever that boy wants and I own he can have. Sometimes I think +this consarned palsy of mine is a judgment on me for bein' so sot +against him in the beginnin'. Why, just look at how he runs this house, +to say nothing of the rest of it! He's a skipper here; the rest of us +ain't anything but fo'most hands.” + +Which was not the exact truth. Morley was skipper of the Cahoon house, +Ardelia first mate, her father a passenger, and the foremast hand +was Hephzy. And yet, so far as “running” that house was concerned the +foremast hand ran it, as she always had done. The Captain and Ardelia +were Morley's willing slaves; Hephzy was, and continued to be, a free +woman. She worked from morning until night, but she obeyed only such +orders as she saw fit. + +She alone did not take the new skipper at his face value. + +“I don't know what there was about him that made me uneasy,” she has +told me since. “Maybe there wasn't anything; perhaps that was just the +reason. When a person is SO good and SO smart and SO polite--maybe the +average sinful common mortal like me gets jealous; I don't know. But +I do know that, to save my life, I couldn't swallow him whole the way +Ardelia and Father did. I wanted to look him over first; and the more I +looked him over, and the smoother and smoother he looked, the more sure +I felt he'd give us all dyspepsy before he got through. Unreasonable, +wasn't it?” + +For Ardelia's sake she concealed her distrust and did her best to get +on with the new head of the family. Only one thing she did, and that +against Motley's and her father's protest. She withdrew her own little +fortune, left her by her mother, from Captain Barnabas's care and +deposited it in the Ostable savings bank and in equally secure places. +Of course she told the Captain of her determination to do this before +she did it and the telling was the cause of the only disagreement, +almost a quarrel, which she and her father ever had. The Captain was +very angry and demanded reasons. Hephzibah declared she didn't know that +she had any reasons, but she was going to do it, nevertheless. And +she did do it. For months thereafter relations between the two were +strained; Barnabas scarcely spoke to his older daughter and Hephzy shed +tears in the solitude of her bedroom. They were hard months for her. + +At the end of them came the crash. Morley had developed a habit +of running up to Boston on business trips connected with his +father-in-law's investments. Of late these little trips had become more +frequent. Also, so it seemed to Hephzy, he was losing something of +his genial sweetness and suavity, and becoming more moody and less +entertaining. Telegrams and letters came frequently and these he read +and destroyed at once. He seldom played the violin now unless Captain +Barnabas--who was fond of music of the simpler sort--requested him to do +so and he seemed uneasy and, for him, surprisingly disinclined to talk. + +Hephzy was not the only one who noticed the change in him. Ardelia +noticed it also and, as she always did when troubled or perplexed, +sought her sister's advice. + +“I sha'n't ever forget that night when she came to me for the last +time,” Hephzy has told me over and over again. “She came up to my room, +poor thing, and set down on the side of my bed and told me how worried +she was about her husband. Father had turned in and HE was out, gone +to the post-office or somewheres. I had Ardelia all to myself, for a +wonder, and we sat and talked just the same as we used to before she was +married. I'm glad it happened so. I shall always have that to remember, +anyhow. + +“Of course, all her worry was about Strickland. She was afraid he was +makin' himself sick. He worked so hard; didn't I think so? Well, so far +as that was concerned, I had come to believe that almost any kind of +work was liable to make HIM sick, but of course I didn't say that to +her. That somethin' was troublin' him was plain, though I was far enough +from guessin' what that somethin' was. + +“We set and talked, about Strickland and about Father and about +ourselves. Mainly Ardelia's talk was a praise service with her husband +for the subject of worship; she was so happy with him and idolized +him so that she couldn't spare time for much else. But she did speak a +little about herself and, before she went away, she whispered somethin' +in my ear which was a dead secret. Even Father didn't know it yet, +she said. Of course I was as pleased as she was, almost--and a little +frightened too, although I didn't say so to her. She was always a frail +little thing, delicate as she was pretty; not a strapping, rugged, +homely body like me. We wasn't a bit alike. + +“So we talked and when she went away to bed she gave me an extra hug and +kiss; came back to give 'em to me, just as she used to when she was a +little girl. I wondered since if she had any inklin' of what was goin' +to happen. I'm sure she didn't; I'm sure of it as I am that it did +happen. She couldn't have kept it from me if she had known--not that +night. She went away to bed and I went to bed, too. I was a long while +gettin' to sleep and after I did I dreamed my first dream about 'Little +Frank.' I didn't call him 'Little Frank' then, though. I don't seem to +remember what I did call him or just how he looked except that he looked +like Ardelia. And the next afternoon she and Strickland went away--to +Boston, he told us.” + +From that trip they never returned. Morley's influence over his wife +must have been greater even than any of us thought to induce her to +desert her father and Hephzy without even a written word of explanation +or farewell. It is possible that she did write and that her husband +destroyed the letter. I am as sure as Hephzy is that Ardelia did not +know what Morley had done. But, at all events, they never came back +to Bayport and within the week the truth became known. Morley had +speculated, had lost and lost again and again. All of Captain Barnabas's +own money and all intrusted to his care, including my little nest-egg, +had gone as margins to the brokers who had bought for Morley his +worthless eight per cent. wildcats. Hephzy's few thousands in the +savings bank and elsewhere were all that was left. + +I shall condense the rest of the miserable business as much as I can. +Captain Barnabas traced his daughter and her husband as far as the +steamer which sailed for England. Farther he would not trace them, +although he might easily have cabled and caused his son-in-law's arrest. +For a month he went about in a sort of daze, speaking to almost no +one and sitting for hours alone in his room. The doctor feared for +his sanity, but when the breakdown came it was in the form of a second +paralytic stroke which left him a helpless, crippled dependent, weak and +shattered in body and mind. + +He lived nine years longer. Meanwhile various things happened. I managed +to finish my preparatory school term and, then, instead of entering +college as Mother and I had planned, I went into business--save the +mark--taking the exalted position of entry clerk in a wholesale drygoods +house in Boston. As entry clerk I did not shine, but I continued to keep +the place until the firm failed--whether or not because of my connection +with it I am not sure, though I doubt if my services were sufficiently +important to contribute toward even this result. A month later I +obtained another position and, after that, another. I was never +discharged; I declare that with a sort of negative pride; but when I +announced to my second employer my intention of resigning he bore the +shock with--to say the least--philosophic fortitude. + +“We shall miss you, Knowles,” he observed. + +“Thank you, sir,” said I. + +“I doubt if we ever have another bookkeeper just like you.” + +I thanked him again, fighting down my blushes with heroic modesty. + +“Oh, I guess you can find one if you try,” I said, lightly, wishing to +comfort him. + +He shook his head. “I sha'n't try,” he declared. “I am not as young and +as strong as I was and--well, there is always the chance that we might +succeed.” + +It was a mean thing to say--to a boy, for I was scarcely more than that. +And yet, looking back at it now, I am much more disposed to smile and +forgive than I was then. My bookkeeping must have been a trial to his +orderly, pigeon-holed soul. Why in the world he and his partner put up +with it so long is a miracle. When, after my first novel appeared, +he wrote me to say that the consciousness of having had a part, small +though it might be, in training my young mind upward toward the success +it had achieved would always be a great gratification to him, I did not +send the letter I wrote in answer. Instead I tore up my letter and his +and grinned. I WAS a bad bookkeeper; I was, and still am, a bad business +man. Now I don't care so much; that is the difference. + +Then I cared a great deal, but I kept on at my hated task. What else was +there for me to do? My salary was so small that, as Charlie Burns, one +of my fellow-clerks, said of his, I was afraid to count it over a bare +floor for fear that it might drop in a crack and be lost. It was my only +revenue, however, and I continued to live upon it somehow. I had a +small room in a boarding-house on Shawmut Avenue and I spent most of my +evenings there or in the reading-room at the public library. I was not +popular at the boarding-house. Most of the young fellows there went +out a good deal, to call upon young ladies or to dance or to go to the +theater. I had learned to dance when I was at school and I was fond of +the theater, but I did not dance well and on the rare occasions when +I did accompany the other fellows to the play and they laughed and +applauded and tried to flirt with the chorus girls, I fidgeted in my +seat and was uncomfortable. Not that I disapproved of their conduct; I +rather envied them, in fact. But if I laughed too heartily I was sure +that everyone was looking at me, and though I should have liked to +flirt, I didn't know how. + +The few attempts I made were not encouraging. One evening--I was +nineteen then, or thereabouts--Charlie Burns, the clerk whom I have +mentioned, suggested that we get dinner downtown at a restaurant and “go +somewhere” afterward. I agreed--it happened to be Saturday night and I +had my pay in my pocket--so we feasted on oyster stew and ice cream and +then started for what my companion called a “variety show.” Burns, who +cherished the fond hope that he was a true sport, ordered beer with his +oyster stew and insisted that I should do the same. My acquaintance with +beer was limited and I never did like the stuff, but I drank it with +reckless abandon, following each sip with a mouthful of something else +to get rid of the taste. On the way to the “show” we met two young +women of Burns' acquaintance and stopped to converse with them. Charlie +offered his arm to one, the best looking; I offered mine to the discard, +and we proceeded to stroll two by two along the Tremont Street mall of +the Common. We had strolled for perhaps ten minutes, most of which +time I had spent trying to think of something to say, when Burns' +charmer--she was a waitress in one of Mr. Wyman's celebrated “sandwich +depots,” I believe--turned and, looking back at my fair one and myself, +observed with some sarcasm: “What's the matter with your silent partner, +Mame? Got the lock-jaw, has he?” + +I left them soon after that. There was no “variety show” for me that +night. Humiliated and disgusted with myself I returned to my room at the +boarding-house, realizing in bitterness of spirit that the gentlemanly +dissipations of a true sport were never to be mine. + +As I grew older I kept more and more to myself. My work at the office +must have been a little better done, I fancy, for my salary was raised +twice in four years, but I detested the work and the office and all +connected with it. I read more and more at the public library and began +to spend the few dollars I could spare for luxuries on books. Among my +acquaintances at the boarding-house and elsewhere I had the reputation +of being “queer.” + +My only periods of real pleasure were my annual vacations in summer. +These glorious fortnights were spent at Bayport. There, at our old home, +for Hephzibah had sold the big Cahoon house and she and her father were +living in mine, for which they paid a very small rent, I was happy. +I spent the two weeks in sailing and fishing, and tramping along the +waved-washed beaches and over the pine-sprinkled hills. Even in Bayport +I had few associates of my own age. Even then they began to call me “The +Quahaug.” Hephzy hugged me when I came and wept over me when I went away +and mended my clothes and cooked my favorite dishes in the interval. +Captain Barnabas sat in the big arm-chair by the sitting-room window, +looking out or sleeping. He took little interest in me or anyone +else and spoke but seldom. Occasionally I spent the Fourth of July or +Christmas at Bayport; not often, but as often as I could. + +One morning--I was twenty-five at the time, and the day was Sunday--I +read a story in one of the low-priced magazines. It was not much of a +story, and, as I read it, I kept thinking that I could write as good +a one. I had had such ideas before, but nothing had come of them. This +time, however, I determined to try. In half an hour I had evolved a +plot, such as it was, and at a quarter to twelve that night the story +was finished. A highwayman was its hero and its scene the great North +Road in England. My conceptions of highwaymen and the North Road--of +England, too, for that matter--were derived from something I had read +at some time or other, I suppose; they must have been. At any rate, +I finished that story, addressed the envelope to the editor of the +magazine and dropped the envelope and its inclosure in the corner +mail-box before I went to bed. Next morning I went to the office as +usual. I had not the faintest hope that the story would be accepted. The +writing of it had been fun and the sending it to the magazine a joke. + +But the story was accepted and the check which I received--forty +dollars--was far from a joke to a man whose weekly wage was half that +amount. The encouraging letter which accompanied the check was best of +all. Before the week ended I had written another thriller and this, too, +was accepted. + +Thereafter, for a year or more, my Sundays and the most of my evenings +were riots of ink and blood. The ink was real enough and the blood +purely imaginary. My heroes spilled the latter and I the former. +Sometimes my yarns were refused, but the most of them were accepted and +paid for. Editors of other periodicals began to write to me requesting +contributions. My price rose. For one particularly harrowing and +romantic tale I was paid seventy-five dollars. I dressed in my best that +evening, dined at the Adams House, gave the waiter a quarter, and saw +Joseph Jefferson from an orchestra seat. + +Then came the letter from Jim Campbell requesting me to come to New York +and see him concerning a possible book, a romance, to be written by me +and published by the firm of which he was the head. I saw my employer, +obtained a Saturday off, and spent that Saturday and Sunday in New York, +my first visit. + +As a result of that visit began my friendship with Campbell and my first +long story, “The Queen's Amulet.” The “Amulet,” or the “Omelet,” just as +you like, was a financial success. It sold a good many thousand copies. +Six months later I broke to my employers the distressing news that their +business must henceforth worry on as best it could without my aid; I was +going to devote my valuable time and effort to literature. + +My fellow-clerks were surprised. Charlie Burns, head bookkeeper now, and +a married man and a father, was much concerned. + +“But, great Scott, Kent!” he protested, “you're going to do something +besides write books, ain't you? You ain't going to make your whole +living that way?” + +“I am going to try,” I said. + +“Great Scott! Why, you'll starve! All those fellows live in garrets and +starve to death, don't they?” + +“Not all,” I told him. “Only real geniuses do that.” + +He shook his head and his good-by was anything but cheerful. + +My plans were made and I put them into execution at once. I shipped my +goods and chattels, the latter for the most part books, to Bayport and +went there to live and write in the old house where I was born. Hephzy +was engaged as my housekeeper. She was alone now; Captain Barnabas had +died nearly two years before. + +Among the Captain's papers and discovered by his daughter after his +death was a letter from Strickland Morley. It was written from a town in +France and was dated six years after Morley's flight and the disclosure +of his crookedness. Captain Barnabas had never, apparently, answered the +letter; certainly he had never told anyone of its receipt by him. The +old man never mentioned Morley's name and only spoke of Ardelia during +his last hours, when his mind was wandering. Then he spoke of and asked +for her continually, driving poor Hephzibah to distraction, for her love +for her lost sister was as great as his. + +The letter was the complaining whine of a thoroughly selfish man. I can +scarcely refer to it without losing patience, even now when I understand +more completely the circumstances under which it was written. It was not +too plainly written or coherent and seemed to imply that other letters +had preceded it. Morley begged for money. He was in “pitiful straits,” + he declared, compelled to live as no gentleman of birth and breeding +should live. As a matter of fact, the remnant of his resources, the +little cash left from the Captain's fortune which he had taken with him +had gone and he was earning a precarious living by playing the violin in +a second-rate orchestra. “For poor dead Ardelia's sake,” he wrote, “and +for the sake of little Francis, your grandchild, I ask you to extend +the financial help which I, as your heir-in-law, might demand. You may +consider that I have wronged you, but, as you should know and must know, +the wrong was unintentional and due solely to the sudden collapse of +the worthless American investments which the scoundrelly Yankee brokers +inveigled me into making.” + +If the money was sent at once, he added, it might reach him in time to +prevent his yielding to despondency and committing suicide. + +“Suicide! HE commit suicide!” sniffed Hephzy when she read me the +letter. “He thinks too much of his miserable self ever to hurt it. But, +oh dear! I wish Pa had told me of this letter instead of hidin' it away. +I might have sent somethin', not to him, but to poor, motherless Little +Frank.” + +She had tried; that is, she had written to the French address, but +her letter had been returned. Morley and the child of whom this letter +furnished the only information were no longer in that locality. Hephzy +had talked of “Little Frank” and dreamed about him at intervals ever +since. He had come to be a reality to her, and she even cut a child's +picture from a magazine and fastened it to the wall of her room beneath +the engraving of Westminster Abbey, because there was something about +the child in the picture which reminded her of “Little Frank” as he +looked in her dreams. + +She and I had lived together ever since, I continuing to turn out, each +with less enthusiasm and more labor, my stories of persons and places of +which, as Campbell said but too truly, I knew nothing whatever. Finally +I had reached my determination to write no more “slush,” profitable +though it might be. I invited Jim to visit me; he had come and the +conversation at the boathouse and his remarks at the bedroom door were +all the satisfaction that visit had brought me so far. + +I sat there in my study, going over all this, not so fully as I have +set it down here, but fully nevertheless, and the possibility of +finding even a glimmer of interest or a hint of fictional foundation in +Hephzibah or her life or mine was as remote at the end of my thinking as +it had been at the beginning. There might be a story there, or a part of +a story, but I could not write it. The real trouble was that I could not +write anything. With which, conclusion, exactly what I started with, I +blew out the lamp and went upstairs to bed. + +Next morning Jim and I went for another sail from which we did not +return until nearly dinner-time. During that whole forenoon he did not +mention the promised “prescription,” although I offered him plenty of +opportunities and threw out various hints by way of bait. + +He ignored the bait altogether and, though he talked a great deal and +asked a good many questions, both talk and questions had no bearing on +the all-important problem which had been my real reason for inviting +him to Bayport. He questioned me again concerning my way of spending my +time, about my savings, how much money I had put by, and the like, but +I was not particularly interested in these matters and they were not his +business, to put it plainly. At least, I could not see that they were. + +I answered him as briefly as possible and, I am afraid, behaved rather +boorishly to one, who next to Hephzy, was perhaps the best friend I had +in the world. His apparent lack of interest hurt and disappointed me +and I did not care if he knew it. My impatience must have been apparent +enough, but if so it did not trouble him; he chatted and laughed and +told stories all the way from the landing to the house and announced to +Hephzy, who had stayed at home from church in order to prepare and +cook clam chowder and chicken pie and a “Queen pudding,” that he had an +appetite like a starved shark. + +When, at last, that appetite was satisfied, he and I adjourned to the +sitting-room for a farewell smoke. His train left at three-thirty and +it lacked but an hour of that time. He had worn my suit, the one which +Hephzibah had laid out for him the day before, but had changed to his +own again and packed his bag before dinner. + +We camped in the wing chairs and he lighted his cigar. Then, to my +astonishment, he rose and shut the door. + +“What did you do that for?” I asked. + +He came back to his chair. + +“Because I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle,” he replied, “and +I don't want anyone, not even a Cape Cod cousin, butting in. Kent, I +told you that before I went I was going to prescribe for you, didn't I? +Well, I'm going to do it now. Are you ready for the prescription?” + +“I have been ready for it for some time,” I retorted. “I began to think +you had forgotten it altogether.” + +“I hadn't. But I wanted it to be the last word you should hear from me +and I didn't want to give you time to think up a lot of fool objections +to spring on me before I left. Look here, I'm your doctor now; do you +understand? You called me in as a specialist and what I say goes. Is +that understood?” + +“I hear you.” + +“You've got to do more than hear me. You've got to do what I tell you. +I know what ails you. You've buried yourself in the mud down here. Wake +up, you clam! Come out of your shell. Stir around. Stop thinking about +yourself and think of something worth while.” + +“Dear! dear! hark to the voice of the oracle. And what is the something +worth while I am to think about; you?” + +“Yes, by George! me! Me and the dear public! Here are thirty-five +thousand seekers after the--the higher literature, panting open-mouthed +for another Knowles classic. And you sit back here and cover yourself +with sand and seaweed and say you won't give it to them.” + +“You're wrong. I say I can't.” + +“You will, though.” + +“I won't. You can bet high on that.” + +“You will, and I'll bet higher. YOU write no more stories! You! Why, +confound you, you couldn't help it if you tried. You needn't write +another 'Black Brig' unless you want to. You needn't--you mustn't write +anything UNTIL you want to. But, by George! you'll get up and open your +eyes and stir around, and keep stirring until the time comes when you've +found something or someone you DO want to write about. THEN you'll +write; you will, for I know you. It may turn out to be what you call +'slush,' or it may not, but you'll write it, mark my words.” + +He was serious now, serious enough even to suit me. But what he had said +did not suit me. + +“Don't talk nonsense, Jim,” I said. “Don't you suppose I have thought--” + +“Thought! that's just it; you do nothing but think. Stop thinking. +Stop being a quahaug--a dead one, anyway. Drop the whole business, drop +Bayport, drop America, if you like. Get up, clear out, go to China, go +to Europe, go to--Well, never mind, but go somewhere. Go somewhere and +forget it. Travel, take a long trip, start for one place and, if you +change your mind before you get there, go somewhere else. It doesn't +make much difference where, so that you go, and see different things. +I'm talking now, Kent Knowles, and it isn't altogether because it pays +us to publish your books, either. You drop Bayport and drop writing. Go +out and pick up and go. Stay six months, stay a year, stay two years, +but keep alive and meet people and give what you flatter yourself is +a brain house-cleaning. Confound you, you've kept it shut like one of +these best front parlors down here. Open the windows and air out. Let +the outside light in. An idea may come with it; it is barely possible, +even to you!” + +He was out of breath by this time. I was in a somewhat similar condition +for his tirade had taken mine away. However, I managed to express my +feelings. + +“Humph!” I grunted. “And so this is your wonderful prescription. I am to +travel, am I?” + +“You are. You can afford it, and I'll see that you do.” + +“And just what port would you recommend?” + +“I don't care, I tell you, except that it ought to be a long way off. +I'm not joking, Kent; this is straight. A good long jaunt around the +world would do you a barrel of good. Don't stop to think about it, just +start, that's all. Will you?” + +I laughed. The idea of my starting on a pleasure trip was ridiculous. If +ever there was a home-loving and home-staying person it was I. The bare +thought of leaving my comfort and my books and Hephzy made me shudder. I +hadn't the least desire to see other countries and meet other people. I +hated sleeping cars and railway trains and traveling acquaintances. So I +laughed. + +“Sorry, Jim,” I said, “but I'm afraid I can't take your prescription.” + +“Why not?” + +“For one reason because I don't want to.” + +“That's no reason at all. It doesn't make any difference what you want. +Anything else?” + +“Yes. I would no more wander about creation all alone than--” + +“Take someone with you.” + +“Who? Will you go, yourself?” + +He shook his head. + +“I wish I could,” he said, and I think he meant it. “I'd like nothing +better. I'D keep you alive, you can bet on that. But I can't leave the +literature works just now. I'll do my best to find someone who will, +though. I know a lot of good fellows who travel--” + +I held up my hand. “That's enough,” I interrupted. “They can't travel +with me. They wouldn't be good fellows long if they did.” + +He struck the chair arm with his fist. + +“You're as near impossible as you can be, aren't you,” he exclaimed. +“Never mind; you're going to do as I tell you. I never gave you bad +advice yet, now did I?” + +“No--o. No, but--” + +“I'm not giving it to you now. You'll go and you'll go in a hurry. I'll +give you a week to think the idea over. At the end of that time if I +don't hear from you I'll be down here again, and I'll worry you every +minute until you'll go anywhere to get rid of me. Kent, you must do it. +You aren't written out, as you call it, but you are rusting out, fast. +If you don't get away and polish up you'll never do a thing worth while. +You'll be another what's-his-name--Ase Tidditt; that's what you'll be. I +can see it coming on. You're ossifying; you're narrowing; you're--” + +I broke in here. I didn't like to be called narrow and I did not like +to be paired with Asaph Tidditt, although our venerable town clerk is a +good citizen and all right, in his way. But I had flattered myself that +way was not mine. + +“Stop it, Jim!” I ordered. “Don't blow off any more steam in this +ridiculous fashion. If this is all you have to say to me, you may as +well stop.” + +“Stop! I've only begun. I'll stop when you start, and not before. Will +you go?” + +“I can't, Jim. You know I can't.” + +“I know you can and I know you're going to. There!” rising and laying a +hand on my shoulder, “it is time for ME to be starting. Kent, old man, I +want you to promise me that you will do as I tell you. Will you?” + +“I can't, Jim. I would if I could, but--” + +“Will you promise me to think the idea over? Think it over carefully; +don't think of anything else for the rest of the week? Will you promise +me to do that?” + +I hesitated. I was perfectly sure that all my thinking would but +strengthen my determination to remain at home, but I did not like to +appear too stubborn. + +“Why, yes, Jim,” I said, doubtfully, “I promise so much, if that is any +satisfaction to you.” + +“All right. I'll give you until Friday to make up your mind. If I don't +hear from you by that time I shall take it for granted that you have +made it up in the wrong way and I'll be here on Saturday. I'll keep the +process up week in and week out until you give in. That's MY promise. +Come on. We must be moving.” + +He said good-by to Hephzy and we walked together to the station. His +last words as we shook hands by the car steps were: “Remember--think. +But don't you dare think of anything else.” My answer was a dubious +shake of the head. Then the train pulled out. + +I believe that afternoon and evening to have been the “bluest” of all my +blue periods, and I had had some blue ones prior to Jim's visit. I was +dreadfully disappointed. Of course I should have realized that no advice +or “prescription” could help me. As Campbell had said, “It was up to +me;” I must help myself; but I had been trying to help myself for months +and I had not succeeded. I had--foolishly, I admit--relied upon him to +give me a new idea, a fresh inspiration, and he had not done it. I was +disappointed and more discouraged than ever. + +My state of mind may seem ridiculous. Perhaps it was. I was in good +health, not very old--except in my feelings--and my stories, even the +“Black Brig,” had not been failures, by any means. But I am sure that +every man or woman who writes, or paints, or does creative work of any +kind, will understand and sympathize with me. I had “gone stale,” that +is the technical name for my disease, and to “go stale” is no joke. If +you doubt it ask the writer or painter of your acquaintance. Ask him if +he ever has felt that he could write or paint no more, and then ask +him how he liked the feeling. The fact that he has written or painted a +great deal since has no bearing on the matter. “Staleness” is purely a +mental ailment, and the confident assurance of would-be doctors that its +attacks are seldom fatal doesn't help the sufferer at the time. He knows +he is dead, and that is no better, then, than being dead in earnest. + +I knew I was dead, so far as my writing was concerned, and the advice +to go away and bury myself in a strange country did not appeal to me. It +might be true that I was already buried in Bayport, but that was my +home cemetery, at all events. The more I thought of Jim Campbell's +prescription the less I felt like taking it. + +However, I kept on with the thinking; I had promised to do that. On +Wednesday came a postcard from Jim, himself, demanding information. +“When and where are you going?” he wrote. “Wire answer.” I did not wire +answer. I was not going anywhere. + +I thrust the card into my pocket and, turning away from the frame of +letter boxes, faced Captain Cyrus Whittaker, who, like myself, had come +to Simmons's for his mail. He greeted me cordially. + +“Hello, Kent,” he hailed. “How are you?” + +“About the same as usual, Captain,” I answered, shortly. + +“That's pretty fair, by the looks. You don't look too happy, though, +come to notice it. What's the matter; got bad news?” + +“No. I haven't any news, good or bad.” + +“That so? Then I'll give you some. Phoebe and I are going to start for +California to-morrow.” + +“You are? To California? Why?” + +“Oh, just for instance, that's all. Time's come when I have to go +somewhere, and the Yosemite and the big trees look good to me. It's this +way, Kent; I like Bayport, you know that. Nobody's more in love with +this old town than I am; it's my home and I mean to live and die here, +if I have luck. But it don't do for me to stay here all the time. If I +do I begin to be no good, like a strawberry plant that's been kept in +one place too long and has quit bearin.' The only thing to do with that +plant is to transplant it and let it get nourishment in a new spot. Then +you can move it back by and by and it's all right. Same way with me. +Every once in a while I have to be transplanted so's to freshen up. My +brains need somethin' besides post-office talk and sewin'-circle gossip +to keep them from shrivelin'. I was commencin' to feel the shrivel, +so it's California for Phoebe and me. Better come along, Kent. You're +beginnin' to shrivel a little, ain't you?” + +Was it as apparent as all that? I was indignant. + +“Do I look it?” I demanded. + +“No--o, but I ain't sure that you don't act it. No offence, you +understand. Just a little ground bait to coax you to come on the +California cruise along with Phoebe and me, that's all.” + +It was not likely that I should accept. Two are company and three a +crowd, and if ever two were company Captain Cy and his wife were those +two. I thanked him and declined, but I asked a question. + +“You believe in travel as a restorative, you do?” I asked. + +“Hey? I sartin do. Change your course once in awhile, same as you change +your clothes. Wearin' the same suit and cruisin' in the same puddle all +the time ain't healthy. You're too apt to get sick of the clothes and +puddle both.” + +“But you don't believe in traveling alone, do you?” + +“No,” emphatically, “I don't, generally speakin.' If you go off by +yourself you're too likely to keep thinkin' ABOUT yourself. Take +somebody with you; somebody you're used to and know well and like, +though. Travelin' with strangers is a little mite worse than travelin' +alone. You want to be mighty sure of your shipmate.” + +I walked home. Hephzibah was in the sitting-room, reading and knitting +a stocking, a stocking for me. She did not need to use her eyes for the +knitting; I am quite sure she could have knit in her sleep. + +“Hello, Hosy,” she said, “been up to the office, have you? Any mail?” + +“Nothing much. Humph! Still reading that Raymond and Whitcomb circular?” + +“No, not that one. This is one I got last year. I've been sittin' here +plannin' out just where I'd go and what I'd see if I could. It's the +next best thing to really goin'.” + +I looked at her. All at once a new idea began to crystallize in my mind. +It was a curious idea, a ridiculous idea, and yet--and yet it seemed-- + +“Hephzy,” said I, suddenly, “would you really like to go abroad?” + +“WOULD I? Hosy, how you talk! You know I've been crazy to go ever since +I was a little girl. I don't know what makes me so. Perhaps it's the +salt water in my blood. All our folks were sailors and ship captains. +They went everywhere. I presume likely it takes more than one generation +to kill off that sort of thing.” + +“And you really want to go?” + +“Of course I do.” + +“Then why haven't you gone? You could afford to take a moderate-priced +tour.” + +Hephzy laughed over her knitting. + +“I guess,” she said, “I haven't gone for the reason you haven't, Hosy. +You could afford, it, too--you know you could. But how could I go and +leave you? Why, I shouldn't sleep a minute wonderin' if you were wearin' +clothes without holes in 'em and if you changed your flannels when the +weather changed and ate what you ought to, and all that. You've been +so--so sort of dependent on me and I've been so used to takin' care of +you that I don't believe either of us would be happy anywhere without +the other. I know certain sure _I_ shouldn't.” + +I did not answer immediately. The idea, the amazing, ridiculous +idea which had burst upon me suddenly began to lose something of its +absurdity. Somehow it began to look like the answer to my riddle. I +realized that my main objection to the Campbell prescription had been +that I must take it alone or with strangers. And now-- + +“Hephzy,” I demanded, “would you go away--on a trip abroad--with me?” + +She put down the knitting. + +“Hosy Knowles!” she exclaimed. “WHAT are you talkin' about?” + +“But would you?” + +“I presume likely I would, if I had the chance; but it isn't likely +that--where are you goin'?” + +I did not answer. I hurried out of the sitting-room and out of the +house. + +When I returned I found her still knitting. The circular lay on the +floor at her feet. She regarded me anxiously. + +“Hosy,” she demanded, “where--” + +I interrupted. “Hephzy,” said I, “I have been to the station to send a +telegram.” + +“A telegram? A TELEGRAM! For mercy sakes, who's dead?” + +Telegrams in Bayport usually mean death or desperate illness. I laughed. + +“No one is dead, Hephzy,” I replied. “In fact it is barely possible that +someone is coming to life. I telegraphed Mr. Campbell to engage passage +for you and me on some steamer leaving for Europe next week.” + +Hephzibah turned pale. The partially knitted sock dropped beside the +circular. + +“Why--why--what--?” she gasped. + +“On a steamer leaving next week,” I repeated. “You want to travel, +Hephzy. Jim says I must. So we'll travel together.” + +She did not believe I meant it, of course, and it took a long time to +convince her. But when at last she began to believe--at least to the +extent of believing that I had sent the telegram--her next remark was +characteristic. + +“But I--I can't go, Hosy,” declared Hephzibah. “I CAN'T. Who--who would +take care of the cat and the hens?” + + + +CHAPTER IV + +In Which Hephzy and I and the Plutonia Sail Together + + +The week which began that Wednesday afternoon seems, as I look back to +it now, a bit of the remote past, instead of seven days of a year ago. +Its happenings, important and wonderful as they were, seem trivial and +tame compared with those which came afterward. And yet, at the time, +that week was a season of wild excitement and delightful anticipation +for Hephzibah, and of excitement not unmingled with doubts and +misgivings for me. For us both it was a busy week, to put it mildly. + +Once convinced that I meant what I said and that I was not “raving +distracted,” which I think was her first diagnosis of my case, Hephzy's +practical mind began to unearth objections, first to her going at all +and, second, to going on such short notice. + +“I don't think I'd better, Hosy,” she said. “You're awful good to ask me +and I know you think you mean it, but I don't believe I ought to do it, +even if I felt as if I could leave the house and everything alone. You +see, I've lived here in Bayport so long that I'm old-fashioned and funny +and countrified, I guess. You'd be ashamed of me.” + +I smiled. “When I am ashamed of you, Hephzy,” I replied, “I shall be on +my way to the insane asylum, not to Europe. You are much more likely to +be ashamed of me.” + +“The idea! And you the pride of this town! The only author that ever +lived in it--unless you call Joshua Snow an author, and he lived in the +poorhouse and nobody but himself was proud of HIM.” + +Josh Snow was Bayport's Homer, its only native poet. He wrote the +immortal ballad of the scallop industry, which begins: + + + “On a fine morning at break of day, + When the ice has all gone out of the bay, + And the sun is shining nice and it is like spring, + Then all hands start to go scallop-ING.” + + +In order to get the fullest measure of music from this lyric gem you +should put a strong emphasis on the final “ing.” Joshua always did and +the summer people never seemed to tire of hearing him recite it. There +are eighteen more verses. + +“I shall not be ashamed of you, Hephzy,” I repeated. “You know it +perfectly well. And I shall not go unless you go.” + +“But I can't go, Hosy. I couldn't leave the hens and the cat. They'd +starve; you know they would.” + +“Susanna will look after them. I'll leave money for their provender. And +I will pay Susanna for taking care of them. She has fallen in love with +the cat; she'll be only too glad to adopt it.” + +“And I haven't got a single thing fit to wear.” + +“Neither have I. We will buy complete fit-outs in Boston or New York.” + +“But--” + +There were innumerable “buts.” I answered them as best I could. Also +I reiterated my determination not to go unless she did. I told of +Campbell's advice and laid strong emphasis on the fact that he had said +travel was my only hope. Unless she wished me to die of despair she must +agree to travel with me. + +“And you have said over and over again that your one desire was to go +abroad,” I added, as a final clincher. + +“I know it. I know I have. But--but now when it comes to really +goin' I'm not so sure. Uncle Bedny Small was always declarin' in +prayer-meetin' that he wanted to die so as to get to Heaven, but when he +was taken down with influenza he made his folks call both doctors here +in town and one from Harniss. I don't know whether I want to go or not, +Hosy. I--I'm frightened, I guess.” + +Jim's answer to my telegram arrived the very next day. + +“Have engaged two staterooms for ship sailing Wednesday the tenth,” it +read. “Hearty congratulations on your good sense. Who is your companion? +Write particulars.” + +The telegram quashed the last of Hephzy's objections. The fares had been +paid and she was certain they must be “dreadful expensive.” All that +money could not be wasted, so she accepted the inevitable and began +preparations. + +I did not write the “particulars” requested. I had a feeling that +Campbell might consider my choice of a traveling companion a queer one +and, although my mind was made up and his opinion could not change it, +I thought it just as well to wait until our arrival in New York before +telling him. So I wrote a brief note stating that my friend and I would +reach New York on the morning of the tenth and that I would see him +there. Also I asked, for my part, the name of the steamer he had +selected. + +His answer was as vague as mine. He congratulated me once more upon my +decision, prophesied great things as the result of what he called my +“foreign junket,” and gave some valuable advice concerning the necessary +outfit, clothes, trunks and the like. “Travel light,” he wrote. “You can +buy whatever else you may need on the other side. 'Phone as soon as you +reach New York.” But he did not tell me the name of the ship, nor for +what port she was to sail. + +So Hephzy and I were obliged to turn to the newspapers for information +upon those more or less important subjects, and we speculated and +guessed not a little. The New York dailies were not obtainable in +Bayport except during the summer months and the Boston publications did +not give the New York sailings. I wrote to a friend in Boston and he +sent me the leading journals of the former city and, as soon as they +arrived, Hephzy sat down upon the sitting-room carpet--which she had +insisted upon having taken up to be packed away in moth balls--to look +at the maritime advertisements. I am quite certain it was the only time +she sat down, except at meals, that day. + +I selected one of the papers and she another. We reached the same +conclusion simultaneously. + +“Why, it must be--” she began. + +“The Princess Eulalie,” I finished. + +“It is the only one that sails on the tenth. There is one on the +eleventh, though.” + +“Yes, but that one is the 'Plutonia,' one of the fastest and most +expensive liners afloat. It isn't likely that Jim had booked us for the +'Plutonia.' She would scarcely be in our--in my class.” + +“Humph! I guess she isn't any too good for a famous man like you, Hosy. +But I would look funny on her, I give in. I've read about her. She's +always full of lords and ladies and millionaires and things. Just the +sort of folks you write about. She'd be just the one for you.” + +I shook my head. “My lords and ladies are only paper dolls, Hephzy,” I +said, ruefully. “I should be as lost as you among the flesh and blood +variety. No, the 'Princess Eulalie' must be ours. She runs to Amsterdam, +though. Odd that Jim should send me to Holland.” + +Hephzy nodded and then offered a solution. + +“I don't doubt he did it on purpose,” she declared. “He knew neither you +nor I was anxious to go to England. He knows we don't think much of the +English, after our experience with that Morley brute.” + +“No, he doesn't know any such thing. I've never told him a word about +Morley. And he doesn't know you're going, Hephzy. I've kept that as +a--as a surprise for him.” + +“Well, never mind. I'd rather go to Amsterdam than England. It's nearer +to France.” + +I was surprised. “Nearer to France?” I repeated. “What difference does +that make? We don't know anyone in France.” + +Hephzibah was plainly shocked. “Why, Hosy!” she protested. “Have you +forgotten Little Frank? He is in France somewhere, or he was at last +accounts.” + +“Good Lord!” I groaned. Then I got up and went out. I had forgotten +“Little Frank” and hoped that she had. If she was to flit about Europe +seeing “Little Frank” on every corner I foresaw trouble. “Little Frank” + was likely to be the bane of my existence. + +We left Bayport on Monday morning. The house was cleaned and swept +and scoured and moth-proofed from top to bottom. Every door was +double-locked and every window nailed. Burglars are unknown in Bayport, +but that didn't make any difference. “You can't be too careful,” said +Hephzy. I was of the opinion that you could. + +The cat had been “farmed out” with Susanna's people and Susanna herself +was to feed the hens twice a day, lock them in each night and let them +out each morning. Their keeper had a carefully prepared schedule as to +quantity and quality of food; Hephzy had prepared and furnished it. + +“And don't you give 'em any fish,” ordered Hephzy. “I ate a chicken once +that had been fed on fish, and--my soul!” + +There was quite an assemblage at the station to see us off. Captain +Whittaker and his wife were not there, of course; they were near +California by this time. But Mr. Partridge, the minister, was there and +so was his wife; and Asaph Tidditt and Mr. and Mrs. Bailey Bangs and +Captain Josiah Dimick and HIS wife, and several others. Oh, yes! and +Angeline Phinney. Angeline was there, of course. If anything happened in +Bayport and Angeline was not there to help it happen, then--I don't know +what then; the experiment had never been tried in my lifetime. + +Everyone said pleasant things to us. They really seemed sorry to have us +leave Bayport, but for our sakes they expressed themselves as glad. It +would be such a glorious trip; we would have so much to tell when we got +back. Mr. Partridge said he should plan for me to give a little talk to +the Sunday school upon my return. It would be a wonderful thing for the +children. To my mind the most wonderful part of the idea was that he +should take my consent for granted. _I_ talk to the Sunday school! I, +the Quahaug! My knees shook even at the thought. + +Keturah Bangs hoped we would have a “lovely time.” She declared that it +had been the one ambition of her life to go sight-seeing. But she should +never do it--no, no! Such things wasn't for her. If she had a husband +like some women it might be, but not as 'twas. She had long ago given up +hopin' to do anything but keep boarders, and she had to do that all by +herself. + +Bailey, her husband, grinned sheepishly but, for a wonder, he did not +attempt defence. I gathered that Bailey was learning wisdom. It was +time; he had attended his wife's academy a long while. + +Captain Dimick brought a bag of apples, greenings, some he had kept in +the cellar over winter. “Nice to eat on the cars,” he told us. Everyone +asked us to send postcards. Miss Phinney was especially solicitous. + +“It'll be just lovely to know where you be and what you're doin,” she +declared. + +When the train had started and we had waved the last good-bys from the +window Hephzibah expressed her opinion concerning Angeline's request. + +“I send HER postcards!” she snapped. “I think I see myself doin' it! All +she cares about 'em is so she can run from Dan to Beersheba showin' 'em +to everybody and talkin' about how extravagant we are and wonderin' if +we borrowed the money. But there! it won't make any difference. If I +don't send 'em to her she'll read all I send to other folks. She +and Rebecca Simmons are close as two peas in a pod and Becky reads +everything that comes through her husband's post-office. All that aren't +sealed, that is--yes, and some that are, I shouldn't wonder, if they're +not sealed tight.” + +Her next remark was a surprising one. + +“Hosy,” she said, “how much they all think of you, don't they. Isn't it +nice to know you're so popular.” + +I turned in the seat to stare at her. + +“Popular!” I repeated. “Hephzy, I have a good deal of respect for your +brain, generally speaking, but there are times when I think it shows +signs of softening.” + +She did not resent my candor; she paid absolutely no attention to it. + +“I don't mean popular with everybody, rag, tag and bobtail and all, +like--well, Eben Salters,” she went on. “But the folks that count all +respect and like you, Hosy. I know they do.” + +Mr. Salters is our leading local statesman--since the departure of the +Honorable Heman Atkins. He has filled every office in his native village +and he has served one term as representative in the State House at +Boston. He IS popular. + +“It is marvelous how affection can be concealed,” I observed, with +sarcasm. Hephzy was back at me like a flash. + +“Of course they don't tell you of it,” she said. “If they did you'd +probably tell 'em to their faces that they were fibbin' and not speak to +'em again. But they do like you, and I know it.” + +It was useless to carry the argument further. When Hephzy begins +chanting my praises I find it easier to surrender--and change the +subject. + +In Boston we shopped. It seems to me that we did nothing else. I +bought what I needed the very first day, clothes, hat, steamer coat and +traveling cap included. It did not take me long; fortunately I am of the +average height and shape and the salesmen found me easy to please. My +shopping tour was ended by three o'clock and I spent the remainder +of the afternoon at a bookseller's. There was a set of “Early English +Poets” there, nineteen little, fat, chunky volumes, not new and shiny +and grand, but middle-aged and shabby and comfortable, which appealed to +me. The price, however, was high; I had the uneasy feeling that I ought +not to afford it. Then the bookseller himself, who also was fat and +comfortably shabby, and who had beguiled from me the information that I +was about to travel, suggested that the “Poets” would make very pleasant +reading en route. + +“I have found,” he said, beaming over his spectacles, “that a little +book of this kind,” patting one of the volumes, “which may be carried in +the pocket, is a rare traveling companion. When you wish his society +he is there, and when you tire of him you can shut him up. You can't do +that with all traveling companions, you know. Ha! ha!” + +He chuckled over his joke and I chuckled with him. Humor of that kind is +expensive, for I bought the “English Poets” and ordered them sent to my +hotel. It was not until they were delivered, an hour later, that I +began to wonder what I should do with them. Our trunks were likely to be +crowded and I could not carry all of the nineteen volumes in my pockets. + +Hephzibah, who had been shopping on her own hook, did not return until +nearly seven. She returned weary and almost empty-handed. + +“But didn't you buy ANYTHING?” I asked. “Where in the world have you +been?” + +She had been everywhere, so she said. This wasn't entirely true, but I +gathered that she had visited about every department store in the city. +She had found ever so many things she liked, but oh dear! they did cost +so much. + +“There was one traveling coat that I did want dreadfully,” she said. +“It was a dark brown, not too dark, but just light enough so it wouldn't +show water spots. I've been out sailing enough times to know how your +things get water-spotted. It fitted me real nice; there wouldn't have to +be a thing done to it. But it cost thirty-one dollars! 'My soul!' says +I, 'I can't afford THAT!' But they didn't have anything cheaper that +wouldn't have made me look like one of those awful play-actin' girls +that came to Bayport with the Uncle Tom's Cabin show. And I tried +everywhere and nothin' pleased me so well.” + +“So you didn't buy the coat?” + +“BUY it? My soul Hosy, didn't I tell you it cost--” + +“I know. What else did you see that you didn't buy?” + +“Hey? Oh, I saw a suit, a nice lady-like suit, and I tried it on. That +fitted me, too, only the sleeves would have to be shortened. And it +would have gone SO well with that coat. But the suit cost FORTY dollars. +'Good land!' I said, 'haven't you got ANYTHING for poor folks?' And you +ought to have seen the look that girl gave me! And a hat--oh, yes, I saw +a hat! It was--” + +There was a great deal more. Summed up it amounted to something like +this: All that suited her had been too high-priced and all that she +considered within her means hadn't suited her at all. So she had bought +practically nothing but a few non-essentials. And we were to leave for +New York the following night and sail for Europe the day after. + +“Hephzy,” said I, “you will go shopping again to-morrow morning and I'll +go with you.” + +Go we did, and we bought the coat and the hat and the suit and various +other things. With each purchase Hephzy's groans and protests at my +reckless extravagance grew louder. At last I had an inspiration. + +“Hephzy,” said I, “when we meet Little Frank over there in France, or +wherever he may be, you will want him to be favorably impressed with +your appearance, won't you? These things cost money of course, but we +must think of Little Frank. He has never seen his American relatives and +so much depends on a first impression.” + +Hephzy regarded me with suspicion. “Humph!” she sniffed, “that's the +first time I ever knew you to give in that there WAS a Little Frank. +All right, I sha'n't say any more, but I hope the foreign poorhouses are +more comfortable than ours, that's all. If you make me keep on this way, +I'll fetch up in one before the first month's over.” + +We left for New York on the five o'clock train. Packing those “Early +English Poets” was a confounded nuisance. They had to be stuffed here, +there and everywhere amid my wearing apparel and Hephzibah prophesied +evil to come. + +“Books are the worse things goin' to make creases,” she declared. +“They're all sharp edges.” + +I had to carry two of the volumes in my pockets, even then, at the very +start. They might prove delightful traveling companions, as the bookman +had said, but they were most uncomfortable things to sit on. + +We reached the Grand Central station on time and went to a nearby hotel. +I should have sent the heavier baggage directly to the steamer, but I +was not sure--absolutely sure--which steamer it was to be. The “Princess +Eulalie” almost certainly, but I did not dare take the risk. + +Hephzy called to me from the room adjoining mine at twelve that night. + +“Just think, Hosy!” she cried, “this is the last night either of us will +spend on dry land.” + +“Heavens! I hope it won't be as bad as that,” I retorted. “Holland is +pretty wet, so they say, but we should be able to find some dry spots.” + +She did not laugh. “You know what I mean,” she observed. “To-morrow +night at twelve o'clock we shall be far out on the vasty deep.” + +“We shall be on the 'Princess Eulalie,'” I answered. “Go to sleep.” + +Neither of us spoke the truth. At twelve the following night we were +neither “far out on the vasty deep” nor on the “Princess Eulalie.” + +My first move after breakfast was to telephone Campbell at his city +home. He hailed me joyfully and ordered me to stay where I was, that is, +at the hotel. He would be there in an hour, he said. + +He was five minutes ahead of his promise. We shook hands heartily. + +“You are going to take my prescription, after all,” he crowed. “Didn't +I tell you I was the only real doctor for sick authors? Bully for you! +Wish I was going with you. Who is?” + +“Come to my room and I'll show you,” said I. “You may be surprised.” + +“See here! you haven't gone and dug up another fossilized bookworm like +yourself, have you? If you have, I refuse--” + +“Come and see.” + +We took the elevator to the fourth floor and walked to my room. I opened +the door. + +“Hephzy,” said I, “here is someone you know.” + +Hephzy, who had been looking out of the window of her room, hurried in. + +“Well, Mr. Campbell!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand, “how do you +do? We got here all right, you see. But the way Hosy has been wastin' +money, his and mine, buyin' things we didn't need, I began to think one +spell we'd never get any further. Is it time to start for the steamer +yet?” + +Jim's face was worth looking at. He shook Hephzibah's hand mechanically, +but he did not speak. Instead he looked at her and at me. I didn't speak +either; I was having a thoroughly good time. + +“Had we ought to start now?” repeated Hephzibah. “I'm all ready but +puttin' on my things.” + +Jim came out of his trance. He dropped the hand and came to me. + +“Are you--is she--” he stammered. + +“Yes,” said I. “Miss Cahoon is going with me. I wrote you I had selected +a good traveling companion. I have, haven't I?” + +“He would have it so, Mr. Campbell,” put in Hephzy. “I said no and kept +on sayin' it, but he vowed and declared he wouldn't go unless I did. +I know you must think it's queer my taggin' along, but it isn't any +queerer to you than it is to me.” + +Jim behaved very well, considering. He did not laugh. For a moment I +thought he was going to; if he had I don't know what I should have done, +said things for which I might have been sorry later on, probably. But he +did not laugh. He didn't even express the tremendous surprise which he +must have felt. Instead he shook hands again with both of us and said it +was fine, bully, just the thing. + +“To tell the truth, Miss Cahoon,” he declared, “I have been rather +fearful of this pet infant of ours. I didn't know what sort of helpless +creature he might have coaxed into roaming loose with him in the wilds +of Europe. I expected another babe in the woods and I was contemplating +cabling the police to look out for them and shoo away the wolves. But +he'll be all right now. Yes, indeed! he'll be looked out for now.” + +“Then you approve?” I asked. + +He shot a side-long glance at me. “Approve!” he repeated. “I'm crazy +about the whole business.” + +I judged he considered me crazy, hopelessly so. I did not care. I agreed +with him in this--the whole business was insane and Hephzibah's going +was the only sensible thing about it, so far. + +His next question was concerning our baggage. I told him I had left it +at the railway station because I was not sure where it should be sent. + +“What time does the 'Princess Eulalie' sail?” I asked. + +He looked at me oddly. “What?” he queried. “The 'Princess Eulalie'? +Twelve o'clock, I believe, I'm not sure.” + +“You're not sure! And it is after nine now. It strikes me that--” + +“Never mind what strikes you. So long as it isn't lightning you +shouldn't complain. Have you the baggage checks? Give them to me.” + +I handed him the checks, obediently, and he stepped to the telephone +and gave a number. A short conversation followed. Then he hung up the +receiver. + +“One of the men from the office will be here soon,” he said. “He will +attend to all your baggage, get it aboard the ship and see that it is +put in your staterooms. Now, then, tell me all about it. What have you +been doing since I saw you? When did you arrive? How did you happen to +think of taking--er--Miss Cahoon with you? Tell me the whole.” + +I told him. Hephzy assisted, sitting on the edge of a rocking chair +and asking me what time it was at intervals of ten minutes. She was +decidedly fidgety. When she went to Boston she usually reached the +station half an hour before train time, and to sit calmly in a hotel +room, when the ship that was to take us to the ends of the earth was to +sail in two hours, was a reckless gamble with Fate, to her mind. + +The man from the office came and the baggage checks were turned over to +him. So also were our bags and our umbrellas. Campbell stepped into +the hall and the pair held a whispered conversation. Hephzy seized the +opportunity to express to me her perturbation. + +“My soul, Hosy!” she whispered. “Mr. Campbell's out of his head, ain't +he? Here we are a sittin' and sittin' and time's goin' by. We'll be too +late. Can't you make him hurry?” + +I was almost as nervous as she was, but I would not have let our +guardian know it for the world. If we lost a dozen steamers I shouldn't +call his attention to the fact. I might be a “Babe in the Wood,” but he +should not have the satisfaction of hearing me whimper. + +He came back to the room a moment later and began asking more questions. +Our answers, particularly Hephzy's, seemed to please him a great deal. +At some of them he laughed uproariously. At last he looked at his watch. + +“Almost eleven,” he observed. “I must be getting around to the office. +Miss Cahoon will you excuse Kent and me for an hour or so? I have his +letters of credit and the tickets in our safe and he had better come +around with me and get them. If you have any last bits of shopping to +do, now is your opportunity. Or you might wait here if you prefer. We +will be back at half-past twelve and lunch together.” + +I started. Hephzy sprang from the chair. + +“Half-past twelve!” I cried. + +“Lunch together!” gasped Hephzy. “Why, Mr. Campbell! the 'Princess +Eulalie' sails at noon. You said so yourself!” + +Jim smiled. “I know I did,” he replied, “but that is immaterial. You are +not concerned with the 'Princess Eulalie.' Your passages are booked +on the 'Plutonia' and she doesn't leave her dock until one o'clock +to-morrow morning. We will meet here for lunch at twelve-thirty. Come, +Kent.” + +I didn't attempt an answer. I am not exactly sure what I did. A few +minutes later I walked out of that room with Campbell and I have a hazy +recollection of leaving Hephzy seated in the rocker and of hearing her +voice, as the door closed, repeating over and over: + +“The 'Plutonia'! My soul and body! The 'Plutonia'! Me--ME on the +'Plutonia'!” + +What I said and did afterwards doesn't make much difference. I know I +called my publisher a number of disrespectful names not one of which he +deserved. + +“Confound you!” I cried. “You know I wouldn't have dreamed of taking a +passage on a ship like that. She's a floating Waldorf, everyone says so. +Dress and swagger society and--Oh, you idiot! I wanted quiet! I wanted +to be alone! I wanted--” + +Jim interrupted me. + +“I know you did,” he said. “But you're not going to have them. You've +been alone too much. You need a change. If I know the 'Plutonia'--and +I've crossed on her four times--you're going to have it.” + +He burst into a roar of laughter. We were in a cab, fortunately, or his +behavior would have attracted attention. I could have choked him. + +“You imbecile!” I cried. “I have a good mind to throw the whole thing up +and go home to Bayport. By George, I will!” + +He continued to chuckle. + +“I see you doing it!” he observed. “How about your--what's her +name?--Hephzibah? Going to tell her that it's all off, are you? Going +to tell her that you will forfeit your passage money and hers? Why, man, +haven't you a heart? If she was booked for Paradise instead of Paris +she couldn't be any happier. Don't be foolish! Your trunks are on the +'Plutonia' and on the 'Plutonia' you'll be to-night. It's the best thing +that can happen to you. I did it on purpose. You'll thank me come day.” + +I didn't thank him then. + +We returned to the hotel at twelve-thirty, my pocket-book loaded with +tickets and letters of credit and unfamiliar white paper notes bearing +the name of the Bank of England. Hephzibah was still in the rocking +chair. I am sure she had not left it. + +We lunched in the hotel dining-room. Campbell ordered the luncheon and +paid for it while Hephzibah exclaimed at his extravagance. She was +too excited to eat much and too worried concerning the extent of her +wardrobe to talk of less important matters. + +“Oh dear, Hosy!” she wailed, “WHY didn't I buy another best dress. DO +you suppose my black one will be good enough? All those lords and +ladies and millionaires on the 'Plutonia'! Won't they think I'm dreadful +poverty-stricken. I saw a dress I wanted awfully--in one of those Boston +stores it was; but I didn't buy it because it was so dear. And I didn't +tell you I wanted it because I knew if I did you'd buy it. You're so +reckless with money. But now I wish I'd bought it myself. What WILL all +those rich people think of me?” + +“About what they think of me, Hephzy, I imagine,” I answered, ruefully. +“Jim here has put up a joke on us. He is the only one who is getting any +fun out of it.” + +Jim, for a wonder, was serious. “Miss Cahoon,” he declared, earnestly, +“don't worry. I'm sure the black silk is all right; but if it wasn't +it wouldn't make any difference. On the 'Plutonia' nobody notices other +people's clothes. Most of them are too busy noticing their own. If Kent +has his evening togs and you have the black silk you'll pass muster. +You'll have a gorgeous time. I only wish I was going with you.” + +He repeated the wish several times during the afternoon. He insisted on +taking us to a matinee and Hephzy's comments on the performance seemed +to amuse him hugely. It had been eleven years, so she said, since she +went to the theater. + +“Unless you count 'Uncle Tom' or 'Ten Nights in a Barroom,' or some +of those other plays that come to Bayport,” she added. “I suppose I'm +making a perfect fool of myself laughin' and cryin' over what's nothin' +but make-believe, but I can't help it. Isn't it splendid, Hosy! I wonder +what Father would say if he could know that his daughter was really +travelin'--just goin' to Europe! He used to worry a good deal, in his +last years, about me. Seemed to feel that he hadn't taken me around and +done as much for me as he ought to in the days when he could. 'Twas just +nonsense, his feelin' that way, and I told him so. But I wonder if he +knows now how happy I am. I hope he does. My goodness! I can't realize +it myself. Oh, there goes the curtain up again! Oh, ain't that pretty! I +AM actin' ridiculous, I know, Mr. Campbell,' but you mustn't mind. Laugh +at me all you want to; I sha'n't care a bit.” + +Jim didn't laugh--then. Neither did I. He and I looked at each other +and I think the same thought was in both our minds. Good, kind, +whole-souled, self-sacrificing Hephzibah! The last misgiving, the last +doubt as to the wisdom of my choice of a traveling companion vanished +from my thoughts. For the first time I was actually glad I was going, +glad because of the happiness it would mean to her. + +When we came out of the theater Campbell reached down in the crowd to +shake my hand. + +“Congratulations, old man,” he whispered; “you did exactly the right +thing. You surprised me, I admit, but you were dead right. She's a +brick. But don't I wish I was going along! Oh my! oh my! to think of you +two wandering about Europe together! If only I might be there to see and +hear! Kent, keep a diary; for my sake, promise me you'll keep a diary. +Put down everything she says and read it to me when you get home.” + +He left us soon afterward. He had given up the entire day to me and +would, I know, have cheerfully given the evening as well, but I would +not hear of it. A messenger from the office had brought him word of the +presence in New York of a distinguished scientist who was preparing a +manuscript for publication and the scientist had requested an interview +that night. Campbell was very anxious to obtain that manuscript and I +knew it. Therefore I insisted that he leave us. He was loathe to do so. + +“I hate to, Kent,” he declared. “I had set my heart on seeing you on +board and seeing you safely started. But I do want to nail Scheinfeldt, +I must admit. The book is one that he has been at work on for years and +two other publishing houses are as anxious as ours to get it. To-night +is my chance, and to-morrow may be too late.” + +“Then you must not miss the chance. You must go, and go now.” + +“I don't like to. Sure you've got everything you need? Your tickets and +your letters of credit and all? Sure you have money enough to carry you +across comfortably?” + +“Yes, and more than enough, even on the 'Plutonia.'” + +“Well, all right, then. When you reach London go to our English +branch--you have the address, Camford Street, just off the Strand--and +whatever help you may need they'll give you. I've cabled them +instructions. Think you can get down to the ship all right?” + +I laughed. “I think it fairly possible,” I said. “If I lose my way, or +Hephzy is kidnapped, I'll speak to the police or telephone you.” + +“The latter would be safer and much less expensive. Well, good-by, +Kent. Remember now, you're going for a good time and you're to forget +literature. Write often and keep in touch with me. Good-by, Miss Cahoon. +Take care of this--er--clam of ours, won't you. Don't let anyone eat him +on the half-shell, or anything like that.” + +Hephzy smiled. “They'd have to eat me first,” she said, “and I'm pretty +old and tough. I'll look after him, Mr. Campbell, don't you worry.” + +“I don't. Good luck to you both--and good-by.” + +A final handshake and he was gone. Hephzy looked after him. + +“There!” she exclaimed; “I really begin to believe I'm goin'. Somehow +I feel as if the last rope had been cast off. We've got to depend on +ourselves now, Hosy, dear. Mercy! how silly I am talkin'. A body would +think I was homesick before I started.” + +I did not answer, for I WAS homesick. We dined together at the hotel. +There remained three long hours before it would be time for us to take +the cab for the 'Plutonia's' wharf. I suggested another theater, but +Hephzy, to my surprise, declined the invitation. + +“If you don't mind, Hosy,” she said, “I guess I'd rather stay right here +in the room. I--I feel sort of solemn and as if I wanted to sit still +and think. Perhaps it's just as well. After waitin' eleven years to go +to one theater, maybe two in the same day would be more than I could +stand.” + +So we sat together in the room at the hotel--sat and thought. The +minutes dragged by. Outside beneath the windows, New York blazed and +roared. I looked down at the hurrying little black manikins on the +sidewalks, each, apparently, bound somewhere on business or pleasure of +its own, and I wondered vaguely what that business or pleasure might +be and why they hurried so. There were many single ones, of course, +and occasionally groups of three or four, but couples were the most +numerous. Husbands and wives, lovers and sweethearts, each with his or +her life and interests bound up in the life and interests of the other. +I envied them. Mine had been a solitary life, an unusual, abnormal kind +of life. No one had shared its interests and ambitions with me, no one +had spurred me on to higher endeavor, had loved with me and suffered +with me, helping me through the shadows and laughing with me in the +sunshine. No one, since Mother's death, except Hephzy and Hephzy's love +and care and sacrifice, fine as they were, were different. I had missed +something, I had missed a great deal, and now it was too late. Youth and +high endeavor and ambition had gone by; I had left them behind. I was +a solitary, queer, self-centered old bachelor, a “quahaug,” as my +fellow-Bayporters called me. And to ship a quahaug around the world is +not likely to do the creature a great deal of good. If he lives through +it he is likely to be shipped home again tougher and drier and more +useless to the rest of creation than ever. + +Hephzibah, too, had evidently been thinking, for she interrupted my +dismal meditations with a long sigh. I started and turned toward her. + +“What's the matter?” I asked. + +“Oh, nothin',” was the solemn answer. “I was wonderin', that's all. Just +wonderin' if he would talk English. It would be a terrible thing if +he could speak nothin' but French or a foreign language and I couldn't +understand him. But Ardelia was American and that brute of a Morley +spoke plain enough, so I suppose--” + +I judged it high time to interrupt. + +“Come, Hephzy,” said I. “It is half-past ten. We may as well start at +once.” + +Broadway, seen through the cab windows, was bright enough, a blaze of +flashing signs and illuminated shop windows. But --th street, at the +foot of which the wharves of the Trans-Atlantic Steamship Company were +located, was black and dismal. It was by no means deserted, however. +Before and behind and beside us were other cabs and automobiles bound in +the same direction. Hephzy peered out at them in amazement. + +“Mercy on us, Hosy!” she exclaimed. “I never saw such a procession of +carriages. They're as far ahead and as far back of us as you can see. It +is like the biggest funeral that ever was, except that they don't crawl +along the way a funeral does. I'm glad of that, anyhow. I wish I didn't +FEEL so much as if I was goin' to be buried. I don't know why I do. I +hope it isn't a presentiment.” + +If it was she forgot it a few minutes later. The cab stopped before a +mammoth doorway in a long, low building and a person in uniform opened +the door. The wide street was crowded with vehicles and from them were +descending people attired as if for a party rather than an ocean voyage. +I helped Hephzy to alight and, while I was paying the cab driver, she +looked about her. + +“Hosy! Hosy!” she whispered, seizing my arm tight, “we've made a +mistake. This isn't the steamboat; this is--is a weddin' or somethin'. +Look! look!” + +I looked, looked at the silk hats, the opera cloaks, the jewels and +those who wore them. For a moment I, too, was certain there must be a +mistake. Then I looked upward and saw above the big doorway the flashing +electric sign of the “Trans-Atlantic Navigation Company.” + +“No, Hephzy,” said I; “I guess it is the right place. Come.” + +I gave her my arm--that is, she continued to clutch it with both +hands--and we moved forward with the crowd, through the doorway, past +a long, moving inclined plane up which bags, valises, bundles of golf +sticks and all sorts of lighter baggage were gliding, and faced another +and smaller door. + +“Lift this way! This way to the lift!” bawled a voice. + +“What's a lift?” whispered Hephzy, tremulously, “Hosy, what's a lift?” + +“An elevator,” I whispered in reply. + +“But we can't go on board a steamboat in an elevator, can we? I never +heard--” + +I don't know what she never heard. The sentence was not finished. Into +the lift we went. On either side of us were men in evening dress and +directly in front was a large woman, hatless and opera-cloaked, with +diamonds in her ears and a rustle of silk at every point of her persons. +The car reeked with perfume. + +The large woman wriggled uneasily. + +“George,” she said, in a loud whisper, “why do they crowd these lifts +in this disgusting way? And WHY,” with another wriggle, “do they permit +PERSONS with packages to use them?” + +As we emerged from the elevator Hephzy whispered again. + +“She meant us, Hosy,” she said. “I've got three of those books of yours +in this bundle under my arm. I COULDN'T squeeze 'em into either of the +valises. But she needn't have been so disagreeable about it, need she.” + +Still following the crowd, we passed through more wide doorways and into +a huge loft where, through mammoth openings at our left, the cool air +from the river blew upon our faces. Beyond these openings loomed an +enormous something with rows of railed walks leading up its sides. +Hephzibah and I, moving in a sort of bewildered dream, found ourselves +ascending one of these walks. At its end was another doorway and, +beyond, a great room, with more elevators and a mosaic floor, and +mahogany and gilt and gorgeousness, and silk and broadcloth and satin. + +Hephzy gasped and stopped short. + +“It IS a mistake, Hosy!” she cried. “Where is the steamer?” + +I smiled. I felt almost as “green” and bewildered as she, but I tried +not to show my feelings. + +“It is all right, Hephzy,” I answered. “This is the steamer. I know it +doesn't look like one, but it is. This is the 'Plutonia' and we are on +board at last.” + +Two hours later we leaned together over the rail and watched the lights +of New York grow fainter behind us. + +Hephzibah drew a deep breath. + +“It is so,” she said. “It is really so. We ARE, aren't we, Hosy.” + +“We are,” said I. “There is no doubt of it.” + +“I wonder what will happen to us before we see those lights again.” + +“I wonder.” + +“Do you think HE--Do you think Little Frank--” + +“Hephzy,” I interrupted, “if we are going to bed at all before morning, +we had better start now.” + +“All right, Hosy. But you mustn't say 'go to bed.' Say 'turn in.' +Everyone calls going to bed 'turning in' aboard a vessel.” + + + +CHAPTER V + +In Which We View, and Even Mingle Slightly with, the Upper Classes + + +It is astonishing--the ease with which the human mind can accustom +itself to the unfamiliar and hitherto strange. Nothing could have been +more unfamiliar or strange to Hephzibah and me than an ocean voyage and +the “Plutonia.” And yet before three days of that voyage were at an end +we were accustomed to both--to a degree. We had learned to do certain +things and not to do others. Some pet illusions had been shattered, +and new and, at first, surprising items of information had lost their +newness and come to be accepted as everyday facts. + +For example, we learned that people in real life actually wore monocles, +something, which I, of course, had known to be true but which had seemed +nevertheless an unreality, part of a stage play, a “dress-up” game for +children and amateur actors. The “English swell” in the performances of +the Bayport Dramatic Society always wore a single eyeglass, but he also +wore Dundreary whiskers and clothes which would have won him admittance +to the Home for Feeble-Minded Youth without the formality of an +examination. His “English accent” was a combination of the East Bayport +twang and an Irish brogue and he was a blithering idiot in appearance +and behavior. No one in his senses could have accepted him as anything +human and the eyeglass had been but a part of his unreal absurdity. + +And yet, here on the “Plutonia,” were at least a dozen men, men of +dignity and manner, who sported monocles and acted as if they were +used to them. The first evening before we left port, one or two were in +evidence; the next afternoon, in the Lounge, there were more. The +fact that they were on an English ship, bound for England, brought the +monocles out of their concealment, as Hephzy said, “like hoptoads after +the first spring thaw.” Her amazed comments were unique. + +“But what good are they, Hosy?” she demanded. “Can they see with 'em?” + +“I suppose they can,” I answered. “You can see better with your +spectacles than you can without them.” + +“Humph! I can see better with two eyes than I can with one, as far as +that goes. I don't believe they wear 'em for seein' at all. Take that +man there,” pointing to a long, lank Canadian in a yellow ulster, +whom the irreverent smoking-room had already christened “The Duke +of Labrador.” “Look at him! He didn't wear a sign of one until this +mornin'. If he needed it to see with he'd have worn it before, wouldn't +he? Don't tell me! He wears it because he wants people to think he's a +regular boarder at Windsor Castle. And he isn't; he comes from Toronto, +and that's only a few miles from the United States. Ugh! You foolish +thing!” as the “Duke of Labrador” strutted by our deck-chairs; “I +suppose you think you're pretty, don't you? Well, you're not. You look +for all the world like a lighthouse with one window in it and the lamp +out.” + +I laughed. “Hephzy,” said I, “every nation has its peculiarities and the +monocle is an English national institution, like--well, like tea, for +instance.” + +“Institution! Don't talk to me about institutions! I know the +institution I'd put HIM in.” + +She didn't fancy the “Duke of Labrador.” Neither did she fancy tea at +breakfast and coffee at dinner. But she learned to accept the first. Two +sessions with the “Plutonia's” breakfast coffee completed her education. + +“Bring me tea,” she said to our table steward on the third morning. +“I've tried most every kind of coffee and lived through it, but I'm +gettin' too old to keep on experimentin' with my health. Bring me tea +and I'll try to forget what time it is.” + +We had tea at breakfast, therefore, and tea at four in the afternoon. +Hephzibah and I learned to take it with the rest. She watched her +fellow-passengers, however, and as usual had something to say concerning +their behavior. + +“Did you hear that, Hosy?” she whispered, as we sat together in the +“Lounge,” sipping tea and nibbling thin bread and butter and the +inevitable plum cake. “Did you hear what that woman said about her +husband?” + +I had not heard, and said so. + +“Well, judgin' by her actions, I thought her husband was lost and she +was sure he had been washed overboard. 'Where is Edward?' she kept +askin'. 'Poor Edward! What WILL he do? Where is he?' I was gettin' real +anxious, and then it turned out that she was afraid that, if he didn't +come soon, he'd miss his tea. My soul! Hosy, I've been thinkin' and do +you know the conclusion I've come to?” + +“No,” I replied. “What is it?” + +“Well, it sounds awfully irreverent, but I've come to the conclusion +that the first part of the Genesis in the English scriptures must be +different than ours. I'm sure they think that the earth was created in +six days and, on the seventh, Adam and Eve had tea. I believe it for an +absolute fact.” + +The pet illusion, the loss of which caused her the most severe shock, +was that concerning the nobility. On the morning of our first day afloat +the passenger lists were distributed. Hephzibah was early on deck. +Fortunately neither she nor I were in the least discomfited by the +motion of the ship, then or at any time. We proved to be good sailors; +Hephzibah declared it was in the blood. + +“For a Knowles or a Cahoon to be seasick,” she announced, “would be a +disgrace. Our men folks for four generations would turn over in their +graves.” + +She was early on deck that first morning and, at breakfast she and I had +the table to ourselves. She had the passenger list propped against the +sugar bowl and was reading the names. + +“My gracious, Hosy!” she exclaimed. “What, do you think! There are five +'Sirs' on board and one 'Lord'! Just think of it! Where do you suppose +they are?” + +“In their berths, probably, at this hour,” I answered. + +“Then I'm goin' to stay right here till they come out. I'm goin' to see +'em and know what they look like if I sit at this table all day.” + +I smiled. “I wouldn't do that, Hephzy,” said I. “We can see them at +lunch.” + +“Oh! O--Oh! And there's a Princess here! Princess +B-e-r-g-e-n-s-t-e-i-n--Bergenstein. Princess Bergenstein. What do you +suppose she's Princess of?” + +“Princess of Jerusalem, I should imagine,” I answered. “Oh, I see! +You've skipped a line, Hephzy. Bergenstein belongs to another person. +The Princess's name is Berkovitchky. Russian or Polish, perhaps.” + +“I don't care if she's Chinese; I mean to see her. I never expected to +look at a live Princess in MY life.” + +We stopped in the hall at the entrance to the dining-saloon to examine +the table chart. Hephzibah made careful notes of the tables at which the +knights and the lord and the Princess were seated and their locations. +At lunch she consulted the notes. + +“The lord sits right behind us at that little table there,” she said, +excitedly. “That table for two is marked 'Lord and Lady Erkskine.' Now +we must watch when they come in.” + +A few minutes later a gray-haired little man, accompanied by a +middle-aged woman entered the saloon and were seated at the small table +by an obsequious steward. Hephzy gasped. + +“Why--why, Hosy!” she exclaimed. “That isn't the lord, is it? THAT?” + +“I suppose it must be,” I answered. When our own Steward came I asked +him. + +“Yes, sir,” he answered, with unction. “Yes, sir, that is Lord and Lady +Erkskine, sir, thank you, sir.” + +Hephzy stared at Lord and Lady Erkskine. I gave our luncheon order, +and the steward departed. Then her indignant disgust and disappointment +burst forth. + +“Well! well!” she exclaimed. “And that is a real live lord! That is! +Why, Hosy, he's the livin' image of Asaph Tidditt back in Bayport. If +Ase could afford clothes like that he might be his twin brother. Well! I +guess that's enough. I don't want to see that Princess any more. Just as +like as not she'd look like Susanna Wixon.” + +Her criticisms were not confined to passengers of other nationalities. +Some of our own came in for comment quite as severe. + +“Look at those girls at that table over there,” she whispered. “The two +in red, I mean. One of 'em has got a little flag pinned on her dress. +What do you suppose that is for?” + +I looked at the young ladies in red. They were vivacious damsels and +their conversation and laughter were by no means subdued. A middle-aged +man and woman and two young fellows were their table-mates and the group +attracted a great deal of attention. + +“What has she got that flag pinned on her for?” repeated Hephzy. + +“She wishes everyone to know she's an American exportation, I suppose,” + I answered. “She is evidently proud of her country.” + +“Humph! Her country wouldn't be proud of her, if it had to listen to +her the way we do. There's some exports it doesn't pay to advertise, I +guess, and she and her sister are that kind. Every time they laugh I +can see that Lady Erkskine shrivel up like a sensitive plant. I hope she +don't think all American girls are like those two.” + +“She probably does.” + +“Well, IF she does she's makin' a big mistake. I might as well believe +all Englishmen were like this specimen comin' now, and I don't believe +that, even if I do hail from Bayport.” + +The specimen was the “Duke of Labrador,” who sauntered by, monocle in +eye, hands in pockets and an elaborate affection of the “Oxford stoop” + which he must have spent time and effort in acquiring. Hephzibah shook +her head. + +“I wish Toronto was further from home than it is,” she declared. “But +there! I shan't worry about him. I'll leave him for Lord Erkskine and +his wife to be ashamed of. He's their countryman, or he hopes he is. +I've got enough to do bein' ashamed of those two American girls.” + +It may be gathered from these conversations that Hephzy and I had been +so fortunate as to obtain a table by ourselves. This was not the case. +There were four seats at our table and, according to the chart of the +dining-saloon, one of them should be occupied by a “Miss Rutledge of New +York” and the other by “A. Carleton Heathcroft of London.” Miss Rutledge +we had not seen at all. Our table steward informed us that the lady was +“hindisposed” and confined to her room. She was an actress, he added. +Hephzy, whose New England training had imbued her with the conviction +that all people connected with the stage must be highly undesirable +as acquaintances, was quite satisfied. “Of course I'm sorry she isn't +well,” she confided to me “but I'm awfully glad she won't be at our +table. I shouldn't want to hurt her feelin's, but I couldn't talk to her +as I would to an ordinary person. I COULDN'T! All I should be able to +think of was what she wore, or didn't wear, when she was actin' her +parts. I expect I'm old-fashioned, but when I think of those girls +in the pictures outside that theater--the one we didn't go +to--I--well--mercy!” + +The “pictures” were the posters advertising a popular musical comedy +which Campbell had at first suggested our witnessing the afternoon of +our stay in New York. Hephzibah's shocked expression and my whispered +advice had brought about a change of plans. We saw a perfectly +respectable, though thrilling, melodrama instead. I might have +relieved my relative's mind by assuring her that all actresses were not +necessarily attired as “merry villagers,” but the probable result of my +assurance seemed scarcely worth the effort. + +A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire, was not acquainted with the stage, in +a professional way, at any rate. He was a slim and elegant gentleman, +dressed with elaborate care, who appeared profoundly bored with life +in general and our society in particular. He sported one of Hephzibah's +detestations, a monocle, and spoke, when he spoke at all, with a languid +drawl and what I learned later was a Piccadilly accent. He favored us +with his company during our first day afloat; after that we saw him +amid the select group at that much sought--by some--center of shipboard +prominence, “the Captain's table.” + +Oddly enough Hephzibah did not resent the Heathcroft condescension and +single eyeglass as much as I had expected. She explained her feeling in +this way. + +“I know he's dreadfully high and mighty and all that,” she said. “And +the way he said 'Really?' when you and I spoke to him was enough to +squelch even an Angelina Phinney. But I didn't care so much. Anybody, +even a body as green as I am, can see that he actually IS somebody when +he's at home, not a make-believe, like that Toronto man. And I'm glad +for our waiter's sake that he's gone somewhere else. The poor thing +bowed so low when he came in and was so terribly humble every time Mr. +Heathcroft spoke to him. I should hate to feel I must say 'Thank you' +when I was told that the food was 'rotten bad.' I never thought 'rotten' +was a nice word, but all these English folks say it. I heard that pretty +English girl over there tell her father that it was a 'jolly rotten +mornin',' and she's as nice and sweet as she can be. Well, I'm +learnin' fast, Hosy. I can see a woman smoke a cigarette now and not +shiver--much. Old Bridget Doyle up in West Bayport, used to smoke a +pipe and the whole town talked about it. She'd be right at home in that +sittin'-room they call a 'Lounge' after dinner, wouldn't she?” + +My acquaintance with A. Carleton Heathcroft, which appeared to have +ended almost as soon as it began, was renewed in an odd way. I was in +the “Smoke-Room” after dinner the third evening out, enjoying a cigar +and idly listening to the bidding for pools on the ship's run, that +time-honored custom which helps the traveling gentleman of sporting +proclivities to kill time and lose money. On board the “Plutonia,” with +its unusually large quota of millionaires and personages, the bidding +was lively and the prices paid for favored numbers high. Needless to say +I was not one of the bidders. My interest was merely casual. + +The auctioneer that evening was a famous comedian with an international +reputation and his chatter, as he urged his hearers to higher bids, was +clever and amusing. I was listening to it and smiling at the jokes when +a voice at my elbow said: + +“Five pounds.” + +I turned and saw that the speaker was Heathcroft. His monocle was in his +eye, a cigarette was between his fingers and he looked as if he had +been newly washed and ironed and pressed from head to foot. He nodded +carelessly and I bowed in return. + +“Five pounds,” repeated Mr. Heathcroft. + +The auctioneer acknowledged the bid and proceeded to urge his audience +on to higher flights. The flights were made and my companion capped each +with one more lofty. Eight, nine, ten pounds were bid. Heathcroft bid +eleven. Someone at the opposite side of the room bid twelve. It seemed +ridiculous to me. Possibly my face expressed my feeling; at any rate +something caused the immaculate gentleman in the next chair to address +me instead of the auctioneer. + +“I say,” he said, “that's running a bit high, isn't it?” + +“It seems so to me,” I replied. “The number is five hundred and +eighty-six and I think we shall do better than that.” + +“Oh, do you! Really! And why do you think so, may I ask?” + +“Because we are having a remarkably smooth sea and a favorable wind.” + +“Oh, but you forget the fog. There's quite a bit of fog about us now, +isn't there.” + +I wish I could describe the Heathcroft manner of saying “Isn't there.” I +can't, however; there is no use trying. + +“It will amount to nothing,” I answered. “The glass is high and there +is no indication of bad weather. Our run this noon was five hundred and +ninety-one, you remember.” + +“Yes. But we did have extraordinarily good weather for that.” + +“Why, not particularly good. We slowed down about midnight. There was +a real fog then and the glass was low. The second officer told me it +dropped very suddenly and there was a heavy sea running. For an hour +between twelve and one we were making not much more than half our usual +speed.” + +“Really! That's interesting. May I ask if you and the second officer are +friends?” + +“Scarcely that. He and I exchanged a few words on deck this morning, +that's all.” + +“But he told you about the fog and the--what is it--the glass, and all +that. Fancy! that's extremely odd. I'm acquainted with the captain in +a trifling sort of way; I sit at his table, I mean to say. And I assure +you he doesn't tell us a word. And, by Jove, we cross-question him, too! +Rather!” + +I smiled. I could imagine the cross-questioning. + +“I suppose the captain is obliged to be non-committal,” I observed. +“That's part of his job. The second officer meant to be, I have no +doubt, but perhaps my remarks showed that I was really interested in +ships and the sea. My father and grandfather, too, for that matter were +seafaring men, both captains. That may have made the second officer more +communicative. Not that he said anything of importance, of course.” + +Mr. Heathcroft seemed very interested. He actually removed his eyeglass. + +“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You know something about it, then. I thought it was +extraordinary, but now I see. And you think our run will be better than +five hundred and eighty?” + +“It should be, unless there is a remarkable change. This ship makes over +six hundred, day after day, in good weather. She should do at least six +hundred by to-morrow noon, unless there is a sudden change, as I said.” + +“But six hundred would be--it would be the high field, by Jove!” + +“Anything over five hundred and ninety-four would be that. The numbers +are very low to-night. Far too low, I should say.” + +Heathcroft was silent. The auctioneer, having forced the bid on number +five hundred and eighty-six up to thirteen pounds ten, was imploring his +hearers not to permit a certain winner to be sacrificed at this absurd +figure. + +“Fourteen pounds, gentlemen,” he begged. “For the sake of the wife +and children, for the honor of the star spangled banner and the union +jack,--DON'T hesitate--don't even stammer--below fourteen pounds.” + +He looked in our direction as he said it. Mr. Heathcroft made no sign. +He produced a gold cigarette box and extended it in my direction. + +“Will you?” he inquired. + +“No, thank you,” I replied. “I will smoke a cigar, if you don't mind.” + +He did not appear to mind. He lighted his cigarette, readjusted his +monocle, and stared stonily at the gesticulating auctioneer. + +The bidding went on. One by one the numbers were sold until all were +gone. Then the auctioneer announced that bids for the “high field,” that +is, any number above five hundred and ninety-four, were in order. My +companion suddenly came to life. + +“Ten pounds,” he called. + +I started. “For mercy sake, Mr. Heathcroft,” I protested, “don't let +anything I have said influence your bidding. I may be entirely wrong.” + +He turned and surveyed me through the eyeglass. + +“You may wish to bid yourself,” he drawled. “Careless of me. So sorry. +Shall I withdraw the bid?” + +“No, no. I'm not going to bid. I only--” + +“Eleven pounds I am offered, gentlemen,” shouted the auctioneer. “Eleven +pounds! It would be like robbing an orphan asylum. Do I hear twelve?” + +He heard twelve immediately--from Mr. Heathcroft. + +Thirteen pounds were bid. Evidently others shared my opinion concerning +the value of the “high field.” Heathcroft promptly raised it to +fourteen. I ventured another protest. So far as effect was concerned I +might as well have been talking to one of the smoke-stacks. The bidding +was lively and lengthy. At last the “high field” went to Mr. A. Carleton +Heathcroft for twenty-one pounds, approximately one hundred and five +dollars. I thought it time for me to make my escape. I was wondering +where I should hide next day, when the run was announced. + +“Greatly obliged to you, I'm sure,” drawled the fortunate bidder. “Won't +you join me in a whisky and soda or something?” + +I declined the whisky and soda. + +“Sorry,” said Mr. Heathcroft. “Jolly grateful for putting me right, +Mr.--er--” + +“Knowles is my name,” I said. He might have remembered it; I remembered +his perfectly. + +“Of course--Knowles. Thank you so much, Knowles. Thank you and the +second officer. Nothing like having professional information--eh, what? +Rather!” + +There seemed to be no doubt in his mind that he was going to win. There +was more than a doubt in mine. I told Hephzy of my experience when I +joined her in the Lounge. My attempts to say “Really” and “Isn't it” and +“Rather” in the Heathcroft manner and with the Heathcroft accent pleased +her very much. As to the result of my unpremeditated “tip” she was quite +indifferent. + +“If he loses it will serve him good and right,” she declared. “Gamblin's +poor business and I sha'n't care if he does lose.” + +“I shall,” I observed. “I feel responsible in a way and I shall be +sorry.” + +“'SO sorry,' you mean, Hosy. That's what that blunderin' steward said +when he stepped on my skirt and tore the gatherin' all loose. I told him +he wasn't half as sorry as I was.” + +But at noon next day, when the observation was taken and the run posted +on the bulletin board the figure was six hundred and two. My “tip” + had been a good one after all and A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire, +was richer by some seven hundred dollars, even after the expenses of +treating the “smoke-room” and feeing the smoke-room steward had been +deducted. I did not visit the smoke-room to share in the treat. I feared +I might be expected to furnish more professional information. But that +evening a bottle of vintage champagne was produced by our obsequious +table steward. “With Mr. 'Eathcroft's compliments, sir, thank you, sir,” + announced the latter. + +Hephzibah looked at the gilt-topped bottle. + +“WHAT in the world will we do with it, Hosy?” she demanded. + +“Why, drink it, I suppose,” I answered. “It is the only thing we can do. +We can't send it back.” + +“But you can't drink the whole of it, and I'm sure I sha'n't start in to +be a drunkard at my age. I'll take the least little bit of a drop, just +to see what it tastes like. I've read about champagne, just as I've read +about lords and ladies, all my life, but I never expected to see either +of 'em. Well there!” after a very small sip from the glass, “there's +another pet idea gone to smash. A lord looks like Ase Tidditt, and +champagne tastes like vinegar and soda. Tut! tut! tut! if I had to drink +that sour stuff all my life I'd probably look like Asaph, too. No wonder +that Erkskine man is such a shriveled-up thing.” + +I glanced toward the captain's table. Mr. Heathcroft raised his glass. +I bowed and raised mine. The group at that table, the captain included, +were looking in my direction. I judged that my smoke-room acquaintance +had told them of my wonderful “tip.” I imagined I could see the +sarcastic smile upon the captain's face. I did not care for that kind of +celebrity. + +But the affair had one quite unexpected result. The next forenoon as +Hephzibah and I were reclining in our deck-chairs the captain himself, +florid-faced, gray-bearded, gold-laced and grand, halted before us. + +“I believe your name is Knowles, sir,” he said, raising his cap. + +“It is,” I replied. I wondered what in the world was coming next. Was he +going to take me to task for talking with his second officer? + +“Your home is in Bayport, Massachusetts, I see by the passenger list,” + he went on. “Is that Bayport on Cape Cod, may I ask?” + +“Yes,” I replied, more puzzled than ever. + +“I once knew a Knowles from your town, sir. He was a seafaring man +like myself. His name was Philander Knowles, and when I knew him he was +commander of the bark 'Ranger.'” + +“He was my father,” I said. + +Captain Stone extended his hand. + +“Mr. Knowles,” he declared, “this is a great pleasure, sir. I knew +your father years ago when I was a young man, mate of one of our ships +engaged in the Italian fruit trade. He was very kind to me at that time. +I have never forgotten it. May I sit down?” + +The chair next to ours happened to be unoccupied at the moment and +he took it. I introduced Hephzibah and we chatted for some time. The +captain appeared delighted to meet the son of his old acquaintance. +Father and he had met in Messina--Father's ship was in the fruit trade +also at that time--and something or other he had done to help young +Stone had made a great impression on the latter. I don't know what the +something was, whether it was monetary help or assistance in getting out +of a serious scrape; Stone did not tell me and I didn't ask. But, at any +rate, the pair had become very friendly there and at subsequent meetings +in the Mediterranean ports. The captain asked all sorts of questions +about Father, his life, his family and his death aboard the sinking +“Monarch of the Seas.” Hephzibah furnished most of the particulars. She +remembered them well. + +Captain Stone nodded solemnly. + +“That is the way the master of a ship should die,” he declared. “Your +father, Mr. Knowles, was a man and he died like one. He was my first +American acquaintance and he gave me a new idea of Yankees--if you'll +excuse my calling them that, sir.” + +Hephzy had a comment to make. + +“There are SOME pretty fair Yankees,” she observed, drily. “ALL the good +folks haven't moved back to England yet.” + +The captain solemnly assured her that he was certain of it. + +“Though two of the best are on their way,” I added, with a wink at +Hephzy. This attempt at humor was entirely lost. Our companion said he +presumed I referred to Mr. and Mrs. Van Hook, who sat next him at table. + +“And that leads me to ask if Miss Cahoon and yourself will not join us,” + he went on. “I could easily arrange for two places.” + +I looked at Hephzy. Her face expressed decided disapproval and she shook +her head. + +“Thank you, Captain Stone,” I said; “but we have a table to ourselves +and are very comfortable. We should not think of troubling you to that +extent.” + +He assured us it would not be a trouble, but a pleasure. We were firm in +our refusal, however, and he ceased to urge. He declared his intention +of seeing that our quarters were adequate, offered to accompany us +through the engine-rooms and the working portions of the ship whenever +we wished, ordered the deck steward, who was all but standing on his +head in obsequious desire to oblige, to take good care of us, shook +hands once more, and went away. Hephzibah drew a long breath. + +“My goodness!” she exclaimed; “sit at HIS table! I guess not! There's +another lord and his wife there, to say nothin' of the Van Hooks. I'd +look pretty, in my Cape Cod clothes, perched up there, wouldn't I! A hen +is all right in her place, but she don't belong in a peacock cage. And +they drink champagne ALL the time there; I've watched 'em. No thank you, +I'll stay in the henyard along with the everyday fowls.” + +“Odd that he should have known Father,” I observed. “Well, I suppose the +proper remark to make, under the circumstances, is that this is a small +world. That is what nine-tenths of Bayport would say.” + +“It's what I say, too,” declared Hephzy, with emphasis. “Well, it's +awful encouraging for us, isn't it.” + +“Encouraging? What do you mean?” + +“Why, I mean about Little Frank. It makes me feel surer than ever that +we shall run across him.” + +I suppressed a groan. “Hephzy,” said I, “why on earth should the fact +that Captain Stone knew my father encourage you to believe that we shall +meet a person we never knew at all?” + +“Hosy, how you do talk! If you and I, just cruisin' this way across +the broadside of creation, run across a man that knew Cousin Philander +thirty-nine years ago, isn't it just as reasonable to suppose we'll meet +a child who was born twenty-one years ago? I should say 'twas! Hosy, +I've had a presentiment about this cruise of ours: We're SENT on it; +that's what I think--we're sent. Oh, you can laugh! You'll see by and +by. THEN you won't laugh.” + +“No, Hephzy,” I admitted, resignedly, “I won't laugh then, I promise +you. If _I_ ever reach the stage where I see a Little Frank I promise +you I sha'n't laugh. I'll believe diseases of the brain are contagious, +like the measles, and I'll send for a doctor.” + +The captain met us again in the dining-room that evening. He came +over to our table and chatted for some time. His visit caused quite a +sensation. Shipboard society is a little world by itself and the ship's +captain is the head of it. Persons who would, very likely, have passed +Captain Stone on Fifth Avenue or Piccadilly without recognizing him now +toadied to him as if he were a Czar, which, in a way, I suppose he is +when afloat. His familiarity with us shed a sort of reflected glory upon +Hephzy and me. Several of our fellow-passengers spoke to us that evening +for the first time. + +A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire, was not among the Lounge habitues; the +smoke-room was his accustomed haunt. But the next forenoon as I leaned +over the rail of the after promenade deck watching the antics of the +“Stokers' Band” which was performing for the benefit of the second-class +with an eye toward pennies and small silver from all classes, Heathcroft +sauntered up and leaned beside me. We exchanged good-mornings. I thanked +him for the wine. + +“Quite unnecessary, Knowles,” he said. “Least I could do, it seems to +me. I pulled quite a tidy bit from that inside information of yours; +I did really. Awfully obliged, and all that. You seem to have a wide +acquaintance among the officers. That captain chap tells us he knew your +father--the sailor one you told me of, you understand.” + +Having had but one father I understood perfectly. We chatted in a +inconsequential way for a short time. In the course of our conversation +I happened to mention that I wrote, professionally. To my surprise +Heathcroft was impressed. + +“Do you, really!” he exclaimed. “That's interesting, isn't it now! I +have a cousin who writes. Don't know why she does it; she doesn't get +her writings printed, but she keeps on. It is a habit of hers. Curious +dissipation--eh, what? Does that--er--Miss--that companion of yours, +write also?” + +I laughed and informed him that writing was not one of Hephzibah's bad +habits. + +“Extraordinary woman, isn't she,” he said. “I met her just now, walking +about, and I happened to mention that I was taking the air. She said she +wouldn't quarrel with me because of that. The more I took the better +she would like it; she could spare about a gale and a quarter and not +feel--What did she call it? Oh yes, 'scrimped.' What is 'scrimped,' may +I ask?” + +I explained the meaning of “scrimped.” Heathcroft was much amused. + +“It WAS blowing a bit strong up forward there,” he declared. “That was a +clever way of putting it, wasn't it?” + +“She is a clever woman,” I said, shortly. + +Heathcroft did not enthuse. + +“Oh,” he said dubiously. “A relative of yours, I suppose.” + +“A cousin, that's all.” + +“One's relatives, particularly the feminine relatives, incline toward +eccentricity as they grow older, don't you think. I have an aunt down in +Sussex, who is queer. A good sort, too, no end of money, a big place +and all that, but odd. She and I get on well together--I am her pet, I +suppose I may say--but, by Jove, she has quarreled with everyone else in +the family. I let her have her own way and it has convinced her that I +am the only rational Heathcroft in existence. Do you golf, Knowles?” + +“I attempt something in that line. I doubt if my efforts should be +called golf.” + +“It is a rotten game when one is off form, isn't it. If you are down +in Sussex and I chance to be there I should be glad to have you play an +eighteen with me. Burglestone Bogs is the village. Anyone will direct +you to the Manor. If I'm not there, introduce yourself to my aunt. Lady +Kent Carey is the name. She'll be jolly glad to welcome you if you +tell her you know me. I'm her sole interest in life, the greenhouses +excepted, of course. Cultivating roses and rearing me are her hobbies.” + +I thought it improbable that the golfers of Burglestone Bogs would ever +be put to shame by the brilliancy of my game. I thanked him, however. +I was surprised at the invitation. I had been under the impression, +derived from my reading, that the average Englishman required an +acquaintance of several months before proffering hospitality. No doubt +Mr. Heathcroft was not an average Englishman. + +“Will you be in London long?” he asked. “I suppose not. You're probably +off on a hurricane jaunt from one end of the Continent to the other. Two +hours at Stratford, bowing before Shakespeare's tomb, a Derby through +the cathedral towns, and then the Channel boat, eh? That's the American +way, isn't it?” + +“It is not our way,” I replied. “We have no itinerary. I don't know +where we may go or how long we shall stay.” + +Evidently I rose again in his estimation. + +“Have you picked your hotel in London?” he inquired. + +“No. I shall be glad of any help you may be kind enough to give along +that line.” + +He reflected. “There's a decent little hotel in Mayfair,” he said, after +a moment. “A private sort of shop. I don't use it myself; generally put +up at the club, I mean to say. But my aunt and my sisters do. They're +quite mad about it. It is--Ah--Bancroft's--that's it, Bancroft's Hotel. +I'll give you the address before I leave.” + +I thanked him again. He was certainly trying to be kind. No doubt the +kindness was due to his sense of obligation engendered by what he called +my “professional information,” but it was kindness all the same. + +The first bugle for luncheon sounded. Mr. Heathcroft turned to go. + +“I'll see you again, Knowles,” he said, “and give you the hotel street +and number and all that. Hope you'll like it. If you shouldn't the +Langham is not bad--quiet and old-fashioned, but really very fair. +And if you care for something more public and--Ah--American, there are +always the Savoy and the Cecil. Here is my card. If I can be of any +service to you while you are in town drop me a line at my clubs, either +of them. I must be toddling. By, by.” + +He “toddled” and I sought my room to prepare for luncheon. + +Two days more and our voyage was at an end. We saw more of our friend +the captain during those days and of Heathcroft as well. The former +fulfilled his promise of showing us through the ship, and Hephzy and I, +descending greasy iron stairways and twisting through narrow passages, +saw great rooms full of mighty machinery, and a cavern where perspiring, +grimy men, looking but half-human in the red light from the furnace +mouths, toiled ceaselessly with pokers and shovels. + +We stood at the forward end of the promenade deck at night, looking out +into the blackness, and heard the clang of four bells from the shadows +at the bow, the answering clang from the crow's-nest on the foremast, +and the weird cry of “All's well” from the lookouts. This experience +made a great impression on us both. Hephzy expressed my feeling exactly +when she said in a hushed whisper: + +“There, Hosy! for the first time I feel as if I really was on board a +ship at sea. My father and your father and all our men-folks for ever +so far back have heard that 'All's well'--yes, and called it, too, +when they first went as sailors. Just think of it! Why Father was only +sixteen when he shipped; just a boy, that's all. I've heard him say +'All's well' over and over again; 'twas a kind of byword with him. This +whole thing seems like somethin' callin' to me out of the past and gone. +Don't you feel it?” + +I felt it, as she did. The black night, the quiet, the loneliness, the +salt spray on our faces and the wash of the waves alongside, the high +singsong wail from lookout to lookout--it WAS a voice from the past, the +call of generations of sea-beaten, weather-worn, brave old Cape Codders +to their descendants, reminding the latter of a dead and gone profession +and of thousands of fine, old ships which had plowed the ocean in the +days when “Plutonias” were unknown. + +We attended the concert in the Lounge, and the ball on the promenade +deck which followed. Mr. Heathcroft, who seemed to have made the +acquaintance of most of the pretty girls on board, informed us in the +intervals between a two-step and a tango, that he had been “dancing +madly.” + +“You Americans are extraordinary people,” he added. “Your dances are +as extraordinary as your food. That Mrs. Van Hook, who sits near me +at table, was indulging in--what do you call them?--oh, yes, griddle +cakes--this morning. Begged me to try them. I declined. Horrid things +they were. Round, like a--like a washing-flannel, and swimming in +treacle. Frightful!” + +“And that man,” commented Hephzy, “eats cold toast and strawberry +preserves for breakfast and washes 'em down with three cups of tea. And +he calls nice hot pancakes frightful!” + +At ten o'clock in the morning of the sixth day we sighted the Irish +coast through the dripping haze which shrouded it and at four we dropped +anchor abreast the breakwater of the little Welsh village which was to +be our landing place. The sun was shining dimly by this time and the +rounded hills and the mountains beyond them, the green slopes dotted +with farms and checkered with hedges and stone walls, the gray stone +fort with its white-washed barrack buildings, the spires and chimneys +of the village in the hollow--all these combined to make a picture which +was homelike and yet not like home, foreign and yet strangely familiar. + +We leaned over the rail and watched the trunks and boxes and bags and +bundles shoot down the slide into the baggage and mail-boat which lay +alongside. Hephzy was nervous. + +“They'll smash everything to pieces--they surely will!” she declared. +“Either that or smash themselves, I don't know which is liable to happen +first. Mercy on us! Did you see that? That box hit the man right in the +back!” + +“It didn't hurt him,” I said, reassuringly. “It was nothing but a +hat-box.” + +“Hurt HIM--no! But I guess likely it didn't do the hat much good. I +thought baggage smashin' was an American institution, but they've got +some experts over here. Oh, my soul and body! there goes MY trunk--end +over end, of course. Well, I'm glad there's no eggs in it, anyway. +Josiah Dimick always used to carry two dozen eggs to his daughter-in-law +every time he went to Boston. He had 'em in a box once and put the box +on the seat alongside of him and a big fat woman came and sat--Oh! that +was your trunk, Hosy! Did you hear it hit? I expect every one of those +'English Poets' went from top to bottom then, right through all your +clothes. Never mind, I suppose it's all part of travelin'.” + +Mr. Heathcroft, looking more English than ever in his natty top coat, +and hat at the back of his head, sauntered up. He was, for him, almost +enthusiastic. + +“Looking at the water, were you?” he queried. “Glorious color, isn't it. +One never sees a sea like that or a sky like that anywhere but here at +home.” + +Hephzy looked at the sea and sky. It was plain that she wished to +admire, for his sake, but her admiration was qualified. + +“Don't you think if they were a little brighter and bluer they'd be +prettier?” she asked. + +Heathcroft stared at her through his monocle. + +“Bluer?” he repeated. “My dear woman, there are no skies as blue as the +English skies. They are quite celebrated--really.” + +He sauntered on again, evidently disgusted at our lack of appreciation. + +“He must be color-blind,” I observed. Hephzy was more charitable. + +“I guess likely everybody's home things are best,” she said. “I suppose +this green-streaked water and those gray clouds do look bright and blue +to him. We must make allowances, Hosy. He never saw an August mornin' at +Bayport, with a northwest wind blowin' and the bay white and blue to the +edge of all creation. That's been denied him. He means well, poor thing; +he don't know any better.” + +An hour later we landed from the passenger tender at a stone pier +covered with substantial stone buildings. Uniformed custom officers and +uniformed policemen stood in line as we came up the gang-plank. Behind +them, funny little locomotives attached to queer cars which appeared to +be all doors, puffed and panted. + +Hephzibah looked about her. + +“Yes,” she said, with conviction. “I'm believin' it more and more all +the time. It is England, just like the pictures. How many times I've +seen engines like that in pictures, and cars like that, too. I never +thought I'd ride in 'em. My goodness me? Hephzibah Jane Cahoon, you're +in England--YOU are! You needn't be afraid to turn over for fear of +wakin' up, either. You're awake and alive and in England! Hosy,” with a +sudden burst of exuberance, “hold on to me tight. I'm just as likely to +wave my hat and hurrah as I am to do anything. Hold on to me--tight.” + +We got through the perfunctory customs examination without trouble. Our +tickets provided by Campbell, included those for the railway journey to +London. I secured a first-class compartment at the booking-office and +a guard conducted us to it and closed the door. Another short delay and +then, with a whistle as queer and unfamiliar as its own appearance, the +little locomotive began to pull our train out of the station. + +Hephzy leaned back against the cushions with a sigh of supreme content. + +“And now,” said I, “for London. London! think of it, Hephzy!” + +Hephzy shook her head. + +“I'm thinkin' of it,” she said. “London--the biggest city in the world! +Who knows, Hosy? France is such a little ways off; probably Little Frank +has been to London a hundred times. He may even be there now. Who knows? +I shouldn't be surprised if we met him right in London. I sha'n't be +surprised at anything anymore. I'm in England and on my way to London; +that's surprise enough. NOTHIN' could be more wonderful than that.” + + + +CHAPTER VI + +In Which We Are Received at Bancroft's Hotel and I Receive a Letter + + +It was late when we reached London, nearly eleven o'clock. The long +train journey was a delight. During the few hours of daylight and dusk +we peered through the car windows at the scenery flying past; at the +villages, the green fields, the hedges, the neat, trim farms. + +“Everything looks as if it has been swept and dusted,” declared Hephzy. +“There aren't any waste places at all. What do they do with their spare +land?” + +“They haven't any,” I answered. “Land is too valuable to waste. There's +another thatched roof. It looks like those in the pictures, doesn't it.” + +Hephzy nodded. “Just exactly,” she said. “Everything looks like the +pictures. I feel as if I'd seen it all before. If that engine didn't +toot so much like a tin whistle I should almost think it was a picture. +But it isn't--it isn't; it's real, and you and I are part of it.” + +We dined on the train. Night came and our window-pictures changed +to glimpses of flashing lights interspersed with shadowy blotches of +darkness. At length the lights became more and more frequent and began +to string out in long lines marking suburban streets. Then the little +locomotive tooted its tin whistle frantically and we rolled slowly under +a great train shed--Paddington Station and London itself. + +Amid the crowd on the platform Hephzy and I stood, two lone wanderers +not exactly sure what we should do next. About us the busy crowd jostled +and pushed. Relatives met relatives and fathers and mothers met sons and +daughters returning home after long separations. No one met us, no +one was interested in us at all, except the porters and the cabmen. +I selected a red-faced chunky porter who was a decidedly able person, +apparently capable of managing anything except the letter h. The +acrobatics which he performed with that defenceless consonant were +marvelous. I have said that I selected him; that he selected me would be +nearer the truth. + +“Cab, sir. Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he said. “Leave that to me, sir. +Will you 'ave a fourwheeler or a hordinary cab, sir?” + +I wasn't exactly certain what a fourwheeler might be. I had read about +them often enough, but I had never seen one pictured and properly +labeled. For the matter of that, all the vehicles in sight appeared to +have four wheels. So I said, at a venture, that I thought an ordinary +cab would do. + +“Yes, sir; 'ere you are, sir. Your boxes are in the luggage van, I +suppose, sir.” + +I took it for granted he meant my trunks and those were in what I, in my +ignorance, would have called a baggage car: + +“Yes, sir,” said the porter. “If the lidy will be good enough to wait +'ere, sir, you and I will go hafter the boxes, sir.” + +Cautioning Hephzy not to stir from her moorings on any account I +followed my guide to the “luggage van.” This crowded car disgorged +our two steamer trunks and, my particular porter having corraled a +fellow-craftsman to help him, the trunks were dragged to the waiting +cab. + +I found Hephzy waiting, outwardly calm, but inwardly excited. + +“I saw one at last,” she declared. “I'd about come to believe there +wasn't such a thing, but there is; I just saw one.” + +“One--what?” I asked, puzzled. + +“An Englishman with side-whiskers. They wasn't as big and long as those +in the pictures, but they were side-whiskers. I feel better. When you've +been brought up to believe every Englishman wore 'em, it was kind of +humiliatin' not to see one single set.” + +I paid my porters--I learned afterward that, like most Americans, I had +given them altogether too much--and we climbed into the cab with our +bags. The “boxes,” or trunks, were on the driver's seat and on the roof. + +“Where to, sir?” asked the driver. + +I hesitated. Even at this late date I had not made up my mind exactly +“where to.” My decision was a hasty one. + +“Why--er--to--to Bancroft's Hotel,” I said. “Blithe Street, just off +Piccadilly.” + +I think the driver was somewhat astonished. Very few of his American +passengers selected Bancroft's as a stopping place, I imagine. However, +his answer was prompt. + +“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he said. The cab rolled out of the station. + +“I suppose,” said Hephzy, reflectively, “if you had told him or that +porter man that they were everlastin' idiots they'd have thanked you +just the same and called you 'sir' four times besides.” + +“No doubt they would.” + +“Yes, sir, I'm perfectly sure they would--thank you, sir. So this is +London. It doesn't look such an awful lot different from Boston or New +York so far.” + +But Bancroft's, when we reached it, was as unlike a Boston or New +York hotel as anything could be. A short, quiet, eminently respectable +street, leading from Piccadilly; a street fenced in, on both sides, by +three-story, solid, eminently respectable houses of brick and stone. No +signs, no street cars, no crowds, no glaring lights. Merely a gas +lamp burning over the fanlight of a spotless white door, and the words +“Bancroft's Hotel” in mosaic lettering set in a white stone slab in the +pavement. + +The cab pulled up before the white door and Hephzy and I looked out of +the window. The same thought was in both our minds. + +“This can't be the place,” said I. + +“This isn't a hotel, is it, Hosy?” asked Hephzy. + +The white door opened and a brisk, red-cheeked English boy in uniform +hastened to the cab. Before he reached it I had seen the lettering in +the pavement and knew that, in spite of appearances, we had reached our +destination. + +“This is it, Hephzy,” I said. “Come.” + +The boy opened the cab door and we alighted. Then in the doorway of +“Bancroft's” appeared a stout, red-faced and very dignified person, also +in uniform. This person wore short “mutton-chop” whiskers and had the +air of a member of the Royal Family; that is to say, the air which a +member of the Royal Family might be expected to have. + +“Good evening, sir,” said the personage, bowing respectfully. The bow +was a triumph in itself; not too low, not abject in the least, not +familiar; a bow which implied much, but promised nothing; a bow which +seemed to demand references, but was far from repellant or bullying. +Altogether a wonderful bow. + +“Good evening,” said I. “This is Bancroft's Hotel, is it not?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“I wish to secure rooms for this lady and myself, if possible.” + +“Yes, sir. This way, sir, if you please. Richard,” this to the boy and +in a tone entirely different--the tone of a commanding officer to a +private--“see to the gentleman's luggage. This way, sir; thank you, +sir.” + +I hesitated. “The cabman has not been paid,” I stammered. I was a trifle +overawed by the grandeur of the mutton-chops and the “sir.” + +“I will attend to that, sir. If you will be good enough to come in, +sir.” + +We entered and found ourselves in a narrow hall, old-fashioned, homelike +and as spotless as the white door. Two more uniforms bowed before us. + +“Thank you, sir,” said the member of the Royal Family. It was with +difficulty that I repressed the desire to tell him he was quite welcome. +His manner of thanking me seemed to imply that we had conferred a favor. + +“I will speak to Mr. Jameson,” he went on, with another bow. Then he +left us. + +“Is--is that Mr. Bancroft?” whispered Hephzy. + +I shook my head. “It must be the Prince of Wales, at least,” I whispered +in return. “I infer that there is no Mr. Bancroft.” + +It developed that I was right. Mr. Jameson was the proprietor of the +hotel, and Mr. Jameson was a pleasant, refined, quiet man of middle age. +He appeared from somewhere or other, ascertained our wants, stated that +he had a few vacant rooms and could accommodate us. + +“Do you wish a sitting-room?” he asked. + +I was not sure. I wanted comfort, that I knew, and I said so. I +mentioned, as an afterthought, that Mr. Heathcroft had recommended +Bancroft's to me. + +The Heathcroft name seemed to settle everything. Mr. Jameson summoned +the representative of royalty and spoke to him in a low tone. The +representative--his name, I learned later, was Henry and he was butler +and major-domo at Bancroft's--bowed once more. A few minutes later we +were shown to an apartment on the second floor front, a room large, +old-fashioned, furnished with easy-chairs, tables and a big, comfortable +sofa. Sofa and easy-chairs were covered with figured, glazed chintz. + +“Your sitting-room, sir,” said Henry. “Your bedrooms open hoff it, sir. +The chambermaid will 'ave them ready in a moment, sir. Richard and the +porter will bring up your luggage and the boxes. Will you and the lady +wish supper, sir? Thank you, sir. Very good, sir. Will you require a +fire, sir?” + +The room was a trifle chilly. There was a small iron grate at its +end, and a coal fire ready to kindle. I answered that a fire might be +enjoyable. + +“Yes, sir,” said Henry. “Himmediately, sir.” + +Soon Hephzy and I were drinking hot tea and eating bread and butter and +plum cake before a snapping fire. George, the waiter, had brought us the +tea and accessories and set the table; the chambermaid had prepared the +bedrooms; Henry had supervised everything. + +“Well,” observed Hephzy, with a sigh of content, “I feel better +satisfied every minute. When we were in the hack--cab, I mean--I +couldn't realize we weren't ridin' through an American city. The houses +and sidewalks and everything--what I could see of 'em--looked so much +like Boston that I was sort of disappointed. I wanted it to be more +different, some way. But this IS different. This may be a hotel--I +suppose likely 'tis--but it don't seem like one, does it? If it wasn't +for the Henry and that Richard and that--what's his name? George--and +all the rest, I should think I was in Cap'n Cyrus Whittaker's +settin-room back home. The furniture looks like Cap'n Cy's and the +pictures look like those he has, and--and everything looks as stiff and +starched and old-fashioned as can be. But the Cap'n never had a Henry. +No, sirree, Henry don't belong on Cape Cod! Hosy,” with a sudden burst +of confidence, “it's a good thing I saw that Lord Erskine first. If I +hadn't found out what a live lord looked like I'd have thought Henry +was one sure. Do you really think it's right for me to call him by his +Christian name? It seems sort of--sort of irreverent, somehow.” + +I wish it were possible for me to describe in detail our first days at +Bancroft's. If it were not for the fact that so many really important +events and happenings remain to be described--if it were not that the +most momentous event of my life, the event that was the beginning of the +great change in that life--if that event were not so close at hand, I +should be tempted to linger upon those first few days. They were strange +and wonderful and funny to Hephzibah and me. The strangeness and the +wonder wore off gradually; the fun still sticks in my memory. + +To have one's bedroom invaded at an early hour by a chambermaid who, +apparently quite oblivious of the fact that the bed was still occupied +by a male, proceeded to draw the curtains, bring the hot water and fill +the tin tub for my bath, was astonishing and funny enough, Hephzibah's +comments on the proceeding were funnier still. + +“Do you mean to tell me,” she demanded, “that that hussy was brazen +enough to march right in here before you got up?” + +“Yes,” I said. “I am only thankful that I HADN'T got up.” + +“Well! I must say! Did she fetch the water in a garden waterin'-pot, +same as she did to me?” + +“Just the same.” + +“And did she pour it into that--that flat dishpan on the floor and tell +you your 'bawth' was ready?” + +“She did.” + +“Humph! Of all the--I hope she cleared out THEN?” + +“She did.” + +“That's a mercy, anyhow. Did you take a bath in that dishpan?” + +“I tried.” + +“Well, I didn't. I'd as soon try to bathe in a saucer. I'd have felt as +if I'd needed a teaspoon to dip up the half pint of water and pour +it over me. Don't these English folks have real bathtubs for grown-up +people?” + +I did not know, then. Later I learned that Bancroft's Hotel possessed +several bathrooms, and that I might use one if I preferred. Being an +American I did so prefer. Most of the guests, being English, preferred +the “dishpans.” + +We learned to accept the early morning visits of the chambermaid as +matters of course. We learned to order breakfast the night before and +to eat it in our sitting-room. We tasted a “grilled sole” for the +first time, and although Hephzy persisted in referring to it as “fried +flatfish” we liked the taste. We became accustomed to being waited upon, +to do next to nothing for ourselves, and I found that a valet who +laid out my evening clothes, put the studs in my shirts, selected my +neckties, and saw that my shoes were polished, was a rather convenient +person to have about. Hephzy fumed a good deal at first; she declared +that she felt ashamed, an able-bodied woman like her, to sit around +with her hands folded and do nothing. She asked her maid a great many +questions, and the answers she received explained some of her puzzles. + +“Do you know what that poor thing gets a week?” she observed, referring +to the maid. “Eight shillin's--two dollars a week, that's what she gets. +And your valet man doesn't get any more. I can see now how Mr. Jameson +can afford to keep so much help at the board he charges. I pay that +Susanna Wixon thing at Bayport three dollars and she doesn't know enough +to boil water without burnin' it on, scarcely. And Peters--why in the +world do they call women by their last names?--Peters, she's the maid, +says it's a real nice place and she's quite satisfied. Well, where +ignorance is bliss it's foolish to be sensible, I suppose; but _I_ +wouldn't fetch and carry for the President's wife, to say nothin' of an +everyday body like me, for two dollars a week.” + +We learned that the hotel dining-room was a “Coffee Room.” + +“Nobody with sense would take coffee there--not more'n once, they +wouldn't,” declared Hephzy. “I asked Peters why they didn't call it the +'Tea Room' and be done with it. She said because it was the Coffee Room. +I suppose likely that was an answer, but I felt a good deal as if I'd +come out of the same hole I went in at. She thanked me for askin' her, +though; she never forgets that.” + +We became accustomed to addressing the lordly Henry by his Christian +name and found him a most obliging person. He, like everyone else, +had instantly recognized us as Americans, and, consequently, was +condescendingly kind to strangers from a distant and barbarous country. + +“What SORT of place do they think the States are?” asked Hephzy. “That's +what they always call home--'the States'--and they seem to think it's +about as big as a pocket handkerchief. That Henry asked me if the red +Indians were numerous where we lived. I said no--as soon as I could say +anything; I told him there was only one tribe of Red Men in town and +they were white. I guess he thought I was crazy, but it don't make any +difference. And Peters said she had a cousin in a place called Chicago +and did I know him. What do you think of that?” + +“What did you tell her?” I inquired. + +“Hey? Oh, I told her that, bein' as Chicago was a thousand miles from +Bayport, I hadn't had time to do much visitin' there. I told her the +truth, but she didn't believe it. I could see she didn't. She thinks +Chicago and San Francisco and New York and Boston are nests of wigwams +in the same patch of woods and all hands that live there have been +scalped at least once. SUCH ignorance!” + +Henry, at my request, procured seats for us at one of the London +theaters. There we saw a good play, splendidly acted, and Hephzy laughed +and wept at the performance. As usual, however, she had a characteristic +comment to make. + +“Why do they call the front seats the 'stalls'?” she whispered to me +between the acts. “Stalls! The idea! I'm no horse. Perhaps they call 'em +that because folks are donkeys enough to pay two dollars and a half +for the privilege of sittin' in 'em. Don't YOU be so extravagant again, +Hosy.” + +One of the characters in the play was supposed to be an American +gentleman, and his behavior and dress and speech stirred me to +indignation. I asked the question which every American asks under +similar circumstances. + +“Why on earth,” I demanded, “do they permit that fellow to make such +a fool of himself? He yells and drawls and whines through his nose and +wears clothes which would make an American cry. That last scene was +supposed to be a reception and he wore an outing suit and no waistcoat. +Do they suppose such a fellow would be tolerated in respectable society +in the United States?” + +And now it was Hephzy's turn to be philosophical. + +“I guess likely the answer to that is simple enough,” she said. “He's +what they think an American ought to be, even if he isn't. If he behaved +like a human bein' he wouldn't be the kind of American they expect on +the stage. After all, he isn't any worse than the Englishmen we have in +the Dramatic Society's plays at home. I haven't seen one of that kind +since I got here; and I've given up expectin' to--unless you and I go to +some crazy asylum--which isn't likely.” + +We rode on the tops of busses, we visited the Tower, and Westminster +Abbey, and Saint Paul's. We saw the Horse Guard sentinels on duty in +Whitehall, and watched the ceremony of guard changing at St. James's. +Hephzy was impressed, in her own way, by the uniforms of the “Cold +Streams.” + +“There!” she exclaimed, “I've seen 'em walk. Now I feel better. When +they stood there, with those red jackets and with the fur hats on their +heads, I couldn't make myself believe they hadn't been taken out of a +box for children to play with. I wanted to get up close so as to see if +their feet were glued to round pieces of wood like Noah's and Ham's and +Japhet's in the Ark. But they aren't wood, they're alive. They're men, +not toys. I'm glad I've seen 'em. THEY are satisfyin'. They make me more +reconciled to a King with a Derby hat on.” + +She and I had stood in the crowd fringing the park mall and seen King +George trot by on horseback. His Majesty's lack of crown and robes and +scepter had been a great disappointment to Hephzy; I think she expected +the crown at least. + +I had, of course, visited the London office of my publishers, in Camford +Street and had found Mr. Matthews, the manager, expecting me. Jim +Campbell had cabled and written of my coming and Matthews' welcome was a +warm one. He was kindness itself. All my financial responsibilities were +to be shifted to his shoulders. I was to use the office as a bank, as a +tourist agency, even as a guide's headquarters. He put his clerks at my +disposal; they would conduct us on sight-seeing expeditions whenever +and wherever we wished. He even made out a list of places in and about +London which we, as strangers, should see. + +His cordiality and thoughtfulness were appreciated. They made me feel +less alone and less dependent upon my own resources. Campbell had +arranged that all letters addressed to me in America should be forwarded +to the Camford Street office, and Matthews insisted that I should write +my own letters there. I began to make it a practice to drop in at +the office almost every morning before starting on the day's round of +sight-seeing. + +Bancroft's Hotel also began to seem less strange and more homelike. +Mr. Jameson, the proprietor, was a fine fellow--quiet, refined, and +pleasant. He, too, tried to help us in every possible way. His wife, a +sweet-faced Englishwoman, made Hephzy's acquaintance and Hephzy liked +her extremely. + +“She's as nice as she can be,” declared Hephzy. “If it wasn't that she +says 'Fancy!' and 'Really!' instead of 'My gracious!' and 'I want to +know!' I should think I was talking to a Cape Codder, the best kind +of one. She's got sense, too. SHE don't ask about 'red Indians' in +Bayport.” + +Among the multitude of our new experiences we learned the value of +a judicious “tip.” We had learned something concerning tips on the +“Plutonia”; Campbell had coached us concerning those, and we were +provided with a schedule of rates--so much to the bedroom steward, so +much to the stewardess, to the deck steward, to the “boots,” and all the +rest. But tipping in London we were obliged to adjust for ourselves, and +the result of our education was surprising. + +At Saint Paul's an elderly and impressively haughty person in a black +robe showed us through the Crypt and delivered learned lectures before +the tombs of Nelson and Wellington. His appearance and manner were +somewhat awe-inspiring, especially to Hephzy, who asked me, in a +whisper, if I thought likely he was a bishop or a canon or something. +When the round was ended and we were leaving the Crypt she saw me put a +hand in my pocket. + +“Mercy sakes, Hosy,” she whispered. “You aren't goin' to offer him +money, are you? He'll be insulted. I'd as soon think of givin' Mr. +Partridge, our minister, money for takin' us to the cemetery to see the +first settlers' gravestones. Don't you do it. He'll throw it back at +you. I'll be so ashamed.” + +But I had been watching our fellow-sight-seers as they filed out, +and when our time came I dropped two shillings in the hand of the +black-robed dignitary. The hand did not spurn the coins, which I--rather +timidly, I confess--dropped into it. Instead it closed upon them tightly +and the haughty lips thanked me, not profusely, not even smilingly, but +thanked me, nevertheless. + +At our visit to the Law Courts a similar experience awaited us. Another +dignified and elderly person, who, judging by his appearance, should +have been a judge at least, not only accepted the shilling I gave him, +but bowed, smiled and offered to conduct us to the divorce court. + +“A very interesting case there, sir, just now,” he murmured, +confidingly. “Very interesting and sensational indeed, sir. You and the +lady will enjoy it, I'm sure, sir. All Americans do.” + +Hephzy was indignant. + +“Well!” she exclaimed, as we emerged upon the Strand. “Well! I must say! +What sort of folks does he think we are, I'd like to know. Divorce +case! I'd be ashamed to hear one. And that old man bein' so wicked and +ridiculous for twenty-five cents! Hosy, I do believe if you'd given him +another shillin' he'd have introduced us to that man in the red robe and +cotton wool wig--What did he call him?--Oh, yes, the Lord Chief Justice. +And I suppose you'd have had to tip HIM, too.” + +The first two weeks of our stay in London came to an end. Our plans were +still as indefinite as ever. How long we should stay, where we should go +next, what we should do when we decided where that “next” was to be--all +these questions we had not considered at all. I, for my part, was +curiously uninterested in the future. I was enjoying myself in an idle, +irresponsible way, and I could not seem to concentrate my thoughts upon +a definite course of action. If I did permit myself to think I found my +thoughts straying to my work and there they faced the same impassable +wall. I felt no inclination to write; I was just as certain as ever that +I should never write again. Thinking along this line only brought back +the old feeling of despondency. So I refused to think and, taking Jim's +advice, put work and responsibility from my mind. We would remain in +London as long as we were contented there. When the spirit moved we +would move with it--somewhere--either about England or to the Continent. +I did not know which and I did not care; I did not seem to care much +about anything. + +Hephzy was perfectly happy. London to her was as wonderful as ever. She +never tired of sight-seeing, and on occasions when I felt disinclined +to leave the hotel she went out alone, shopping or wandering about the +streets. + +She scarcely mentioned “Little Frank” and I took care not to remind her +of that mythical youth. I had expected her to see him on every street +corner, to be brought face to face with unsuspecting young Englishmen +and made to ask ridiculous questions which might lead to our being taken +in charge as a pair of demented foreigners. But my forebodings were not +realized. London was so huge and the crowds so great that even Hephzy's +courage faltered. To select Little Frank from the multitude was a task +too great, even for her, I imagine. At any rate, she did not make the +attempt, and the belief that we were “sent” upon our pilgrimage for that +express purpose she had not expressed since our evening on the train. + +The third week passed. I was growing tired of trotting about. Not tired +of London in particular. The gray, dingy, historic, wonderful old city +was still fascinating. It is hard to conceive of an intelligent person's +ever growing weary of the narrow streets with the familiar names--Fleet +Street, Fetter Lane, Pudding Lane and all the rest--names as familiar +to a reader of history or English fiction as that of his own town. To +wander into an unknown street and to learn that it is Shoreditch, or to +look up at an ancient building and discover it to be the Charterhouse, +were ever fresh miracles to me, as I am sure they must be to every +book-loving American. No, I was not tired of London. Had I come there +under other circumstances I should have been as happy and content +as Hephzy herself. But, now that the novelty was wearing off, I was +beginning to think again, to think of myself--the very thing I had +determined, and still meant, not to do. + +One afternoon I drifted into the Camford Street office. Hephzy had left +me at Piccadilly Circus and was now, it was safe to presume, enjoying a +delightful sojourn amid the shops of Regent and Oxford Streets. When she +returned she would have a half-dozen purchases to display, a two-and-six +glove bargain from Robinson's, a bit of lace from Selfridge's, a +knick-knack from Liberty's--“All so MUCH cheaper than you can get 'em in +Boston, Hosy.” She would have had a glorious time. + +Matthews, the manager at Camford Street, was out, but Holton, the head +clerk--I was learning to speak of him as a “clark”--was in. + +“There are some American letters for you, sir,” he said. “I was about to +send them to your hotel.” + +He gave me the letters--four of them altogether--and I went into the +private office to look them over. My first batch of mail from home; +it gave me a small thrill to see two-cent stamps in the corners of the +envelopes. + +One of the letters was from Campbell. I opened it first of all. Jim +wrote a rambling, good-humored letter, a mixture of business, news, +advice and nonsense. “The Black Brig” had gone into another edition. +Considering my opinion of such “slush” I should be ashamed to accept +the royalties, but he would continue to give my account credit for them +until I cabled to the contrary. He trusted we were behaving ourselves in +a manner which would reflect credit upon our country. I was to be sure +not to let Hephzy marry a title. And so on, for six pages. The letter +was almost like a chat with Jim himself, and I read it with chuckles and +a pang of homesickness. + +One of the envelopes bore Hephzy's name and I, of course, did not +open it. It was postmarked “Bayport” and I thought I recognized the +handwriting as Susanna Wixon's. The third letter turned out to be not +a letter at all, but a bill from Sylvanus Cahoon, who took care of our +“lots” in the Bayport cemetery. It had been my intention to pay all +bills before leaving home, but, somehow or other, Sylvanus's had been +overlooked. I must send him a check at once. + +The fourth and last envelope was stained and crumpled. It had traveled +a long way. To my surprise I noticed that the stamp in the corner was +English and the postmark “London.” The address, moreover, was “Captain +Barnabas Cahoon, Bayport, Massachusetts, U. S. A.” The letter had +obviously been mailed in London, had journeyed to Bayport, from there +to New York, and had then been forwarded to London again. Someone, +presumably Simmons, the postmaster, had written “Care Hosea Knowles” + and my publisher's New York address in the lower corner. This had been +scratched out and “28 Camford Street, London, England,” added. + +I looked at the envelope. Who in the world, or in England, could have +written Captain Barnabas--Captain Barnabas Cahoon, my great-uncle, dead +so many years? At first I was inclined to hand the letter, unopened, to +Hephzy. She was Captain Barnabas's daughter and it belonged to her +by right. But I knew Hephzy had no secrets from me and, besides, +my curiosity was great. At length I yielded to it and tore open the +envelope. + +Inside was a sheet of thin foreign paper, both sides covered with +writing. I read the first line. + + +“Captain Barnabas Cahoon. + +“Sir: + +“You are my nearest relative, my mother's father, and I--” + +“I uttered an exclamation. Then I stepped to the door of the private +office, made sure that it was shut, came back, sat down in the chair +before the desk which Mr. Matthews had put at my disposal, and read the +letter from beginning to end. This is what I read: + + +“Captain Barnabas Cahoon. + +“Sir: + +“You are my nearest relative, my mother's father, and I, therefore, +address this letter to you. I know little concerning you. I do not know +even that you are still living in Bayport, or that you are living at +all. (N.B. In case Captain Cahoon is not living this letter is to be +read and acted upon by his heirs, upon whose estate I have an equal +claim.) My mother, Ardelia Cahoon Morley, died in Liverpool in 1896. My +father, Strickland Morley, died in Paris in December, 1908. I, as their +only child, am their heir, and I am writing to you asking what I might +demand--that is, a portion of the money which was my mother's and which +you kept from her and from my father all these years. My father told me +the whole story before he died, and he also told me that he had written +you several times, but that his letters had been ignored. My father was +an English gentleman and he was proud; that is why he did not take legal +steps against you for the recovery of what was his by law in England +OR ANY CIVILISED COUNTRY, one may presume. He would not STOOP to +such measures even against those who, as you know well, so meanly and +fraudulently deprived him and his of their inheritance. He is dead +now. He died lacking the comforts and luxuries with which you might +and SHOULD have provided him. His forbearance was wonderful and +characteristic, but had I known of it sooner I should have insisted +upon demanding from you the money which was his. I am now demanding it +myself. Not BEGGING; that I wish THOROUGHLY understood. I am giving you +the opportunity to make a partial restitution, that is all. It is what +he would have wished, and his wish ALONE prevents my putting the whole +matter in my solicitor's hands. If I do not hear from you within a +reasonable time I shall know what to do. You may address me care Mrs. +Briggs, 218 ---- Street, London, England. + +“Awaiting your reply, I am, sir, + +“Yours, + +“FRANCIS STRICKLAND MORLEY. + +“P. S. + +“I am not to be considered under ANY circumstances a subject for +charity. I am NOT begging. You, I am given to understand, are a wealthy +man. I demand my share of that wealth--that is all.” + + +I read this amazing epistle through once. Then, after rising and walking +about the office to make sure that I was thoroughly awake, I sat down +and read it again. There was no mistake. I had read it correctly. The +writing was somewhat illegible in spots and the signature was blotted, +but it was from Francis Strickland Morley. From “Little Frank!” I think +my first and greatest sensation was of tremendous surprise that there +really was a “Little Frank.” Hephzy had been right. Once more I should +have to take off my hat to Hephzy. + +The surprise remained, but other sensations came to keep it company. The +extraordinary fact of the letter's reaching me when and where it did, +in London, the city from which it was written and where, doubtless, the +writer still was. If I chose I might, perhaps, that very afternoon, meet +and talk with Ardelia Cahoon's son, with “Little Frank” himself. I could +scarcely realize it. Hephzy had declared that our coming to London was +the result of a special dispensation--we had been “sent” there. In the +face of this miracle I was not disposed to contradict her. + +The letter itself was more extraordinary than all else. It was that of +a young person, of a hot-headed boy. But WHAT a boy he must be! What an +unlicked, impudent, arrogant young cub! The boyishness was evident in +every line, in the underscored words, the pitiful attempt at dignity and +the silly veiled threats. He was so insistent upon the statement that he +was not a beggar. And yet he could write a begging letter like this. He +did not ask for charity, not he, he demanded it. Demanded it--he, the +son of a thief, demanded, from those whom his father had robbed, his +“rights.” He should have his rights; I would see to that. + +I was angry enough but, as I read the letter for the third time, the +pitifulness of it became more apparent. I imagined Francis Strickland +Morley to be the replica of the Strickland Morley whom I remembered, the +useless, incompetent, inadequate son of a good-for-nothing father. No +doubt the father was responsible for such a letter as this having been +written. Doubtless he HAD told the boy all sorts of tales; perhaps he +HAD declared himself to be the defrauded instead of the defrauder; he +was quite capable of it. Possibly the youngster did believe he had a +claim upon the wealthy relatives in that “uncivilized” country, America. +The wealthy relatives! I thought of Captain Barnabas's last years, of +Hephzibah's plucky fight against poverty, of my own lost opportunities, +of the college course which I had been obliged to forego. My indignation +returned. I would not go back at once to Hephzy with the letter. I +would, myself, seek out the writer of that letter, and, if I found him, +he and I would have a heart to heart talk which should disabuse his mind +of a few illusions. We would have a full and complete understanding. + +I hastily made a memorandum of the address, “Care Mrs. Briggs,” thrust +the letter back into the envelope, put it and my other mail into my +pocket, and walked out into the main office. Holton, the clerk, looked +up from his desk. Probably my feelings showed in my face, for he said: + +“What is it, Mr. Knowles? No bad news, I trust, sir.” + +“No,” I answered, shortly. “Where is ---- Street? Is it far from here?” + +It was rather far from there, in Camberwell, on the Surrey side of the +river. I might take a bus at such a corner and change again at so and +so. It sounded like a journey and I was impatient. I suggested that I +might take a cab. Certainly I could do that. William, the boy, would +call a cab at once. + +William did so and I gave the driver the address from my memoranda. +Through the Strand I was whirled, across Blackfriars Bridge and on +through the intricate web of avenues and streets on the Surrey side. The +locality did not impress me favorably. There was an abundance of “pubs” + and of fried-fish shops where “jellied eels” seemed to be a viand much +in demand. + +---- Street, when I reached it, was dingy and third rate. Three-storied +old brick houses, with shops on their first floors, predominated. Number +218 was one of these. The signs “Lodgings” over the tarnished bell-pull +and the name “Briggs” on the plate beside it proved that I had located +the house from which the letter had been sent. + +I paid my cabman, dismissed him, and rang the bell. A slouchy +maid-servant answered the ring. + +“Is Mr. Francis Morley in?” I asked. + +The maid looked at me. + +“Wat, sir?” she said. + +“Does Mr. Francis Morley live here?” I asked, raising my voice. “Is he +in?” + +The maid's face was as wooden as the door-post. Her mouth, already open, +opened still wider and she continued to stare. A step sounded in the +dark hall behind her and another voice said, sharply: + +“'Oo is it, 'Arriet? And w'at does 'e want?” + +The maid grinned. “'E wants to see MISTER Morley, ma'am,” she said, with +a giggle. + +She was pushed aside and a red-faced woman, with thin lips and scowl, +took her place. + +“'OO do you want to see?” she demanded. + +“Francis Morley. Does he live here?” + +“'OO?” + +“Francis Morley.” My answer was sharp enough this time. I began to think +I had invaded a colony of imbeciles--or owls; their conversation seemed +limited to “oos.” + +“W'at do you want to see--to see Morley for?” demanded the red-faced +female. + +“On business. Is Mrs. Briggs in?” + +“I'm Mrs. Briggs.” + +“Good! I'm glad of that. Now will you tell me if Mr. Morley is in?” + +“There ain't no Mr. Morley. There's a--” + +She was interrupted. From the hall, apparently from the top of the +flight of stairs, another was heard, a feminine voice like the others, +but unlike them--decidedly unlike. + +“Who is it, Mrs. Briggs?” said this voice. “Does the gentleman wish to +see me?” + +“No, 'e don't,” declared Mrs. Briggs, with emphasis. “'E wants to see +Mister Morley and I'm telling 'im there ain't none such.” + +“But are you sure he doesn't mean Miss Morley? Ask him, please.” + +Before the Briggs woman could reply I spoke again. + +“I want to see a Francis Morley,” I repeated, loudly. “I have come here +in answer to a letter. The letter gave this as his address. If he isn't +here, will you be good enough to tell me where he is? I--” + +There was another interruption, an exclamation from the darkness behind +Mrs. Briggs and the maid. + +“Oh!” said the third voice, with a little catch in it. “Who is it, +please? Who is it? What is the person's name?” + +Mrs. Briggs scowled at me. + +“Wat's your name?” she snapped. + +“My name is Knowles. I am an American relative of Mr. Morley's and I'm +here in answer to a letter written by Mr. Morley himself.” + +There was a moment's silence. Then the third voice said: + +“Ask--ask him to come up. Show him up, Mrs. Briggs, if you please.” + +Mrs. Briggs grunted and stepped aside. I entered the hall. + +“First floor back,” mumbled the landlady. “Straight as you go. You won't +need any showin'.” + +I mounted the stairs. The landing at the top was dark, but the door +at the rear was ajar. I knocked. A voice, the same voice I had heard +before, bade me come in. I entered the room. + +It was a dingy little room, sparely furnished, with a bed and two +chairs, a dilapidated washstand and a battered bureau. I noticed these +afterwards. Just then my attention was centered upon the occupant of the +room, a young woman, scarcely more than a girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed, +slender and graceful. She was standing by the bureau, resting one hand +upon it, and gazing at me, with a strange expression, a curious compound +of fright, surprise and defiance. She did not speak. I was embarrassed. + +“I beg your pardon,” I stammered. “I am afraid there is some mistake. +I came here in answer to a letter written by a Francis Morley, who +is--well, I suppose he is a distant relative of mine.” + +She stepped forward and closed the door by which I had entered. Then she +turned and faced me. + +“You are an American,” she said. + +“Yes, I am an American. I--” + +She interrupted me. + +“Do you--do you come from--from Bayport, Massachusetts?” she faltered. + +I stared at her. “Why, yes,” I admitted. “I do come from Bayport. How in +the world did you--” + +“Was the letter you speak of addressed to Captain Barnabas Cahoon?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then--then there isn't any mistake. I wrote it.” + +I imagine that my mouth opened as wide as the maid's had done. + +“You!” I exclaimed. “Why--why--it was written by Francis Morley--Francis +Strickland Morley.” + +“I am Frances Strickland Morley.” + +I heard this, of course, but I did not comprehend it. I had been working +along the lines of a fixed idea. Now that idea had been knocked into a +cocked hat, and my intellect had been knocked with it. + +“Why--why, no,” I repeated, stupidly. “Francis Morley is the son of +Strickland Morley.” + +“There was no son,” impatiently. “I am Frances Morley, I tell you. I am +Strickland Morley's daughter. I wrote that letter.” + +I sat down upon the nearest of the two chairs. I was obliged to sit. +I could not stand and face the fact which, at least, even my benumbed +brain was beginning to comprehend. The mistake was a simple one, merely +the difference between an “i” and an “e” in a name, that was all. +And yet that mistake--that slight difference between “Francis” and +“Frances”--explained the amazing difference between the Little Frank of +Hephzibah's fancy and the reality before me. + +The real Little Frank was a girl. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +In Which a Dream Becomes a Reality + + +I said nothing immediately. I could not. It was “Little Frank” who +resumed the conversation. “Who are you?” she asked. + +“Who--I beg your pardon? I am rather upset, I'm afraid. I didn't +expect--that is, I expected.... Well, I didn't expect THIS! What was it +you asked me?” + +“I asked you who you were.” + +“My name is Knowles--Kent Knowles. I am Captain Cahoon's grand-nephew.” + +“His grand-nephew. Then--Did Captain Cahoon send you to me?” + +“Send me! I beg your pardon once more. No.... No. Captain Cahoon is +dead. He has been dead nearly ten years. No one sent me.” + +“Then why did you come? You have my letter; you said so.” + +“Yes; I--I have your letter. I received it about an hour ago. It was +forwarded to me--to my cousin and me--here in London.” + +“Here in London! Then you did not come to London in answer to that +letter?” + +“No. My cousin and I--” + +“What cousin? What is his name?” + +“His name? It isn't a--That is, the cousin is a woman. She is Miss +Hephzibah Cahoon, your--your mother's half-sister. She is--Why, she is +your aunt!” + +It was a fact; Hephzibah was this young lady's aunt. I don't know why +that seemed so impossible and ridiculous, but it did. The young lady +herself seemed to find it so. + +“My aunt?” she repeated. “I didn't know--But--but, why is my--my aunt +here with you?” + +“We are on a pleasure trip. We--I beg your pardon. What have I been +thinking of? Don't stand. Please sit down.” + +She accepted the invitation. As she walked toward the chair it seemed to +me that she staggered a little. I noticed then for the first time, how +very slender she was, almost emaciated. There were dark hollows beneath +her eyes and her face was as white as the bed-linen--No, I am wrong; it +was whiter than Mrs. Briggs' bed-linen. + +“Are you ill?” I asked involuntarily. + +She did not answer. She seated herself in the chair and fixed her dark +eyes upon me. They were large eyes and very dark. Hephzy said, when +she first saw them, that they looked like “burnt holes in a blanket.” + Perhaps they did; that simile did not occur to me. + +“You have read my letter?” she asked. + +It was evident that I must have read the letter or I should not have +learned where to find her, but I did not call attention to this. I said +simply that I had read the letter. + +“Then what do you propose?” she asked. + +“Propose?” + +“Yes,” impatiently. “What proposition do you make me? If you have read +the letter you must know what I mean. You must have come here for the +purpose of saying something, of making some offer. What is it?” + +I was speechless. I had come there to find an impudent young blackguard +and tell him what I thought of him. That was as near a definite reason +for my coming as any. If I had not acted upon impulse, if I had stopped +to consider, it is quite likely that I should not have come at all. But +the blackguard was--was--well, he was not and never had been. In his +place was this white-faced, frail girl. I couldn't tell her what I +thought of her. I didn't know what to think. + +She waited for me to answer and, as I continued to play the dumb idiot, +her impatience grew. Her brows--very dark brown they were, almost black +against the pallor of her face--drew together and her foot began to pat +the faded carpet. “I am waiting,” she said. + +I realized that I must say something, so I said the only thing which +occurred to me. It was a question. + +“Your father is dead?” I asked. + +She nodded. “My letter told you that,” she answered. “He died in Paris +three years ago.” + +“And--and had he no relatives here in England?” + +She hesitated before replying. “No near relatives whom he cared to +recognize,” she answered haughtily. “My father, Mr. Knowles was a +gentleman and, having been most unjustly treated by his own family, +as well as by OTHERS”--with a marked emphasis on the word--“he did not +stoop, even in his illness and distress, to beg where he should have +commanded.” + +“Oh! Oh, I see,” I said, feebly. + +“There is no reason why you should see. My father was the second son +and--But this is quite irrelevant. You, an American, can scarcely be +expected to understand English family customs. It is sufficient that, +for reasons of his own, my father had for years been estranged from his +own people.” + +The air with which this was delivered was quite overwhelming. If I had +not known Strickland Morley, and a little of his history, I should have +been crushed. + +“Then you have been quite alone since his death?” I asked. + +Again she hesitated. “For a time,” she said, after a moment. “I lived +with a married cousin of his in one of the London suburbs. Then I--But +really, Mr. Knowles, I cannot see that my private affairs need interest +you. As I understand it, this interview of ours is quite impersonal, in +a sense. You understand, of course--you must understand--that in writing +as I did I was not seeking the acquaintance of my mother's relatives. I +do not desire their friendship. I am not asking them for anything. I am +giving them the opportunity to do justice, to give me what is my own--my +OWN. If you don't understand this I--I--Oh, you MUST understand it!” + +She rose from the chair. Her eyes were flashing and she was trembling +from head to foot. Again I realized how weak and frail she was. + +“You must understand,” she repeated. “You MUST!” + +“Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I think I--I suppose I understand your +feelings. But--” + +“There are no buts. Don't pretend there are. Do you think for one +instant that I am begging, asking you for HELP? YOU--of all the world!” + +This seemed personal enough, in spite of her protestations. + +“But you never met me before,” I said, involuntarily. + +“You never knew of my existence.” + +She stamped her foot. “I knew of my American relatives,” she cried, +scornfully. “I knew of them and their--Oh, I cannot say the word!” + +“Your father told you--” I began. She burst out at me like a flame. + +“My father,” she declared, “was a brave, kind, noble man. Don't mention +his name to me. I won't have you speak of him. If it were not for his +forbearance and self-sacrifice you--all of you--would be--would be--Oh, +don't speak of my father! Don't!” + +To my amazement and utter discomfort she sank into the chair and burst +into tears. I was completely demoralized. + +“Don't, Miss Morley,” I begged. “Please don't.” + +She continued to sob hysterically. To make matters worse sounds from +behind the closed door led me to think that someone--presumably that +confounded Mrs. Briggs--was listening at the keyhole. + +“Don't, Miss Morley,” I pleaded. “Don't!” + +My pleas were unavailing. The young lady sobbed and sobbed. I fidgeted +on the edge of my chair in an agony of mortified embarrassment. “Don'ts” + were quite useless and I could think of nothing else to say except +“Compose yourself” and that, somehow or other, was too ridiculously +reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. It was an idiotic +situation for me to be in. Some men--men of experience with +woman-kind--might have known how to handle it, but I had had no such +experience. It was all my fault, of course; I should not have mentioned +her father. But how was I to know that Strickland Morley was a +persecuted saint? I should have called him everything but that. + +At last I had an inspiration. + +“You are ill,” I said, rising. “I will call someone.” + +That had the desired effect. My newly found third--or was it fourth or +fifth--cousin made a move in protest. She fought down her emotion, her +sobs ceased, and she leaned back in her chair looking paler and weaker +than ever. I should have pitied her if she had not been so superior and +insultingly scornful in her manner toward me. I--Well, yes, I did pity +her, even as it was. + +“Don't,” she said, in her turn. “Don't call anyone. I am not ill--not +now.” + +“But you have been,” I put in, I don't know why. + +“I have not been well for some time. But I am not ill. I am quite strong +enough to hear what you have to say.” + +This might have been satisfactory if I had had anything to say. I had +not. She evidently expected me to express repentance for something or +other and make some sort of proposition. I was not repentant and I had +no proposition to make. But how was I to tell her that without bringing +on another storm? Oh, if I had had time to consider. If I had not come +alone. If Hephzy,--cool-headed, sensible Hephzy--were only with me. + +“I--I--” I began. Then desperately: “I scarcely know what to say, Miss +Morley,” I faltered. “I came here, as I told you, expecting to find +a--a--” + +“What, pray?” with a haughty lift of the dark eyebrows. “What did you +expect to find, may I ask?” + +“Nothing--that is, I--Well, never mind that. I came on the spur of the +moment, immediately after receiving your letter. I have had no time to +think, to consult my--your aunt--” + +“What has my--AUNT” with withering emphasis, “to do with it? Why should +you consult her?” + +“Well, she is your mother's nearest relative, I suppose. She is Captain +Cahoon's daughter and at least as much interested as I. I must consult +her, of course. But, frankly, Miss Morley, I think I ought to tell you +that you are under a misapprehension. There are matters which you don't +understand.” + +“I understand everything. I understand only too well. What do you mean +by a misapprehension? Do you mean--do you dare to insinuate that my +father did not tell me the truth?” + +“Oh, no, no,” I interrupted. That was exactly what I did mean, but I was +not going to let the shade of the departed Strickland appear again until +I was out of that room and house. “I am not insinuating anything.” + +“I am very glad to hear it. I wish you to know that I perfectly +understand EVERYTHING.” + +That seemed to settle it; at any rate it settled me for the time. I took +up my hat. + +“Miss Morley,” I said, “I can't discuss this matter further just now. I +must consult my cousin first. She and I will call upon you to-morrow at +any hour you may name.” + +She was disappointed; that was plain. I thought for the moment that +she was going to break down again. But she did not; she controlled her +feelings and faced me firmly and pluckily. + +“At nine--no, at ten to-morrow, then,” she said. “I shall expect your +final answer then.” + +“Very well.” + +“You will come? Of course; I am forgetting. You said you would.” + +“We will be here at ten. Here is my address.” + +I gave her my card, scribbling the street and number of Bancroft's in +pencil in the corner. She took the card. + +“Thank you. Good afternoon,” she said. + +I said “Good afternoon” and opened the door. The hall outside was empty, +but someone was descending the stairs in a great hurry. I descended +also. At the top step I glanced once more into the room I had just left. +Frances Strickland Morley--Little Frank--was seated in the chair, one +hand before her eyes. Her attitude expressed complete weariness and +utter collapse. She had said she was not sick, but she looked sick--she +did indeed. + +Harriet, the slouchy maid, was not in evidence, so I opened the street +door for myself. As I reached the sidewalk--I suppose, as this was +England, I should call it the “pavement”--I was accosted by Mrs. Briggs. +She was out of breath; I am quite sure she had reached that pavement but +the moment before. + +“'Ow is she?” demanded Mrs. Briggs. + +“Who?” I asked, not too politely. + +“That Morley one. Is she goin' to be hill again?” + +“How do I know? Has she been sick--ill, I mean?” + +“Huh! Hill! 'Er? Now, now, sir! I give you my word she's been hill +hever since she came 'ere. I thought one time she was goin' to die on my +'ands. And 'oo was to pay for 'er buryin', I'd like to know? That's w'at +it is! 'Oo's goin' to pay for 'er buryin' and the food she eats; to +say nothin' of 'er room money, and that's been owin' me for a matter of +three weeks?” + +“How should I know who is going to pay for it? She will, I suppose.” + +“She! W'at with? She ain't got a bob to bless 'erself with, she ain't. +She's broke, stony broke. Honly for my kind 'eart she'd a been out on +the street afore this. That and 'er tellin' me she was expectin' money +from 'er rich friends in the States. You're from the States, ain't you, +sir?” + +“Yes. But do you mean to tell me that Miss Morley has no money of her +own?” + +“Of course I mean it. W'en she come 'ere she told me she was on the +stage. A hopera singer, she said she was. She 'ad money then, enough to +pay 'er way, she 'ad. She was expectin' to go with some troupe or other, +but she never 'as. Oh, them stage people! Don't I know 'em? Ain't I +'ad experience of 'em? A woman as 'as let lodgin's as long as me? If it +wasn't for them rich friends in the States I 'ave never put up with 'er +the way I 'ave. You're from the States, ain't you, sir?” + +“Yes, yes, I'm from the States. Now, see here, Mrs. Briggs; I'm coming +back here to-morrow. If--Well, if Miss Morley needs anything, food or +medicines or anything, in the meantime, you see that she has them. I'll +pay you when I come.” + +Mrs. Briggs actually smiled. She would have patted my arm if I had not +jerked it out of the way. + +“You trust me, sir,” she whispered, confidingly. “You trust my kind +'eart. I'll look after 'er like she was my own daughter.” + +I should have hated to trust even my worst enemy--if I had one--to Mrs. +Briggs' “kind heart.” I walked off in disgust. I found a cab at the next +corner and, bidding the driver take me to Bancroft's, threw myself back +on the cushions. This was a lovely mess! This was a beautiful climax to +the first act--no, merely the prologue--of the drama of Hephzy's and my +pilgrimage. What would Jim Campbell say to this? I was to be absolutely +care-free; I was not to worry about myself or anyone else. That was the +essential part of his famous “prescription.” And now, here I was, with +this impossible situation and more impossible young woman on my hands. +If Little Frank had been a boy, a healthy boy, it would be bad enough. +But Little Frank was a girl--a sick girl, without a penny. And a girl +thoroughly convinced that she was the rightful heir to goodness knows +how much wealth--wealth of which we, the uncivilized, unprincipled +natives of an unprincipled, uncivilized country, had robbed her parents +and herself. Little Frank had been a dream before; now he--she, I +mean--was a nightmare; worse than that, for one wakes from a nightmare. +And I was on my way to tell Hephzy! + +Well, I told her. She was in our sitting-room when I reached the hotel +and I told her the whole story. I began by reading the letter. Before +she had recovered from the shock of the reading, I told her that I had +actually met and talked with Little Frank; and while this astounding bit +of news was, so to speak, soaking into her bewildered brain, I went on +to impart the crowning item of information--namely, that Little Frank +was Miss Frances. Then I sat back and awaited what might follow. + +Her first coherent remark was one which I had not expected--and I had +expected almost anything. + +“Oh, Hosy,” gasped Hephzy, “tell me--tell me before you say anything +else. Does he--she, I mean--look like Ardelia?” + +“Eh? What?” I stammered. “Look like--look like what?” + +“Not what--who. Does she look like Ardelia? Like her mother? Oh, I HOPE +she doesn't favor her father's side! I did so want our Little Frank to +look like his--her--I CAN'T get used to it--like my poor Ardelia. Does +she?” + +“Goodness knows! I don't know who she looks like. I didn't notice.” + +“You didn't! I should have noticed that before anything else. What kind +of a girl is she? Is she pretty?” + +“I don't know. She isn't ugly, I should say. I wasn't particularly +interested in her looks. The fact that she was at all was enough; I +haven't gotten over that yet. What are we going to do with her? Or are +we going to do anything? Those are the questions I should like to have +answered. For heaven's sake, Hephzy, don't talk about her personal +appearance. There she is and here are we. What are we going to do?” + +Hephzy shook her head. “I don't know, Hosy,” she admitted. “I don't +know, I'm sure. This is--this is--Oh, didn't I tell you we were +SENT--sent by Providence!” + +I was silent. If we had been “sent,” as she called it, I was far from +certain that Providence was responsible. I was more inclined to place +the responsibility in a totally different quarter. + +“I think,” she continued, “I think you'd better tell me the whole thing +all over again, Hosy. Tell it slow and don't leave out a word. Tell me +what sort of place she was in and what she said and how she looked, as +near as you can remember. I'll try and pay attention; I'll try as hard +as I can. It'll be a job. All I can think of now is that +to-morrow mornin'--only to-morrow mornin'--I'm going to see Little +Frank--Ardelia's Little Frank.” + +I complied with her request, giving every detail of my afternoon's +experience. I reread the letter, and handed it to her, that she might +read it herself. I described Mrs. Briggs and what I had seen of Mrs. +Briggs' lodging-house. I described Miss Morley as best I could, dark +eyes, dark hair and the look of weakness and frailty. I repeated our +conversation word for word; I had forgotten nothing of that. Hephzy +listened in silence. When I had finished she sighed. + +“The poor thing,” she said. “I do pity her so.” + +“Pity her!” I exclaimed. “Well, perhaps I pity her, too, in a way. But +my pity and yours don't alter the situation. She doesn't want pity. She +doesn't want help. She flew at me like a wildcat when I asked if she was +ill. Her personal affairs, she says, are not ours; she doesn't want our +acquaintance or our friendship. She has gotten some crazy notion in +her head that you and I and Uncle Barnabas have cheated her out of +an inheritance, and she wants that! Inheritance! Good Lord! A fine +inheritance hers is! Daughter of the man who robbed us of everything we +had.” + +“I know--I know. But SHE doesn't know, does she, Hosy. Her father must +have told her--” + +“He told her a barrel of lies, of course. What they were I can't +imagine, but that fellow was capable of anything. Know! No, she doesn't +know now, but she will have to know.” + +“Are you goin' to tell her, Hosy?” + +I stared in amazement. + +“Tell her!” I repeated. “What do you mean? You don't intend letting her +think that WE are the thieves, do you? That's what she thinks now. Of +course I shall tell her.” + +“It will be awful hard to tell. She worshipped her father, I guess. He +was a dreadful fascinatin' man, when he wanted to be. He could make a +body believe black was white. Poor Ardelia thought he was--” + +“I can't help that. I'm not Ardelia.” + +“I know, but she is Ardelia's child. Hosy, if you are so set on tellin' +her why didn't you tell her this afternoon? It would have been just as +easy then as to-morrow.” + +This was a staggerer. A truthful answer would be so humiliating. I had +not told Frances Morley that her father was a thief and a liar because I +couldn't muster courage to do it. She had seemed so alone and friendless +and ill. I lacked the pluck to face the situation. But I could not tell +Hephzy this. + +“Why didn't you tell her?” she repeated. + +“Oh, bosh!” I exclaimed, impatiently. “This is nonsense and you know it, +Hephzy. She'll have to be told and you and I must tell her. DON'T look +at me like that. What else are we to do?” + +Another shake of the head. + +“I don't know. I can't decide any more than you can, Hosy. What do YOU +think we should do?” + +“I don't know.” + +With which unsatisfactory remark this particular conversation ended. I +went to my room to dress for dinner. I had no appetite and dinner was +not appealing; but I did not want to discuss Little Frank any longer. I +mentally cursed Jim Campbell a good many times that evening and during +the better part of a sleepless night. If it were not for him I should be +in Bayport instead of London. From a distance of three thousand miles I +could, without the least hesitancy, have told Strickland Morley's “heir” + what to do. + +Hephzy did not come down to dinner at all. From behind the door of her +room she told me, in a peculiar tone, that she could not eat. I could +not eat, either, but I made the pretence of doing so. The next morning, +at breakfast in the sitting-room, we were a silent pair. I don't know +what George, the waiter, thought of us. + +At a quarter after nine I turned away from the window through which I +had been moodily regarding the donkey cart of a flower huckster in the +street below. + +“You'd better get on your things,” I said. “It is time for us to go.” + +Hephzy donned her hat and wrap. Then she came over to me. + +“Don't be cross, Hosy,” she pleaded. “I've been thinkin' it over all +night long and I've come to the conclusion that you are probably right. +She hasn't any real claim on us, of course; it's the other way around, +if anything. You do just as you think best and I'll back you up.” + +“Then you agree that we should tell her the truth.” + +“Yes, if you think so. I'm goin' to leave it all in your hands. Whatever +you do will be right. I'll trust you as I always have.” + +It was a big responsibility, it seemed to me. I did wish she had been +more emphatic. However, I set my teeth and resolved upon a course of +action. Pity and charity and all the rest of it I would not consider. +Right was right, and justice was justice. I would end a disagreeable +business as quickly as I could. + +Mrs. Briggs' lodging-house, viewed from the outside, was no more +inviting at ten in the morning than it had been at four in the +afternoon. I expected Hephzy to make some comment upon the dirty steps +and the still dirtier front door. She did neither. We stood together +upon the steps and I rang the bell. + +Mrs. Briggs herself opened the door. I think she had been watching from +behind the curtains and had seen our cab draw up at the curb. She was +in a state of great agitation, a combination of relieved anxiety, +excitement and overdone politeness. + +“Good mornin', sir,” she said; “and good mornin', lady. I've been +expectin' you, and so 'as she, poor dear. I thought one w'ile she was +that hill she couldn't see you, but Lor' bless you, I've nursed 'er same +as if she was my own daughter. I told you I would sir, now didn't I.” + +One word in this harangue caught my attention. + +“Ill?” I repeated. “What do you mean? Is she worse than she was +yesterday?” + +Mrs. Briggs held up her hands. “Worse!” she cried. “Why, bless your +'art, sir, she was quite well yesterday. Quite 'erself, she was, when +you come. But after you went away she seemed to go all to pieces like. +W'en I went hup to 'er, to carry 'er 'er tea--She always 'as 'er tea; +I've been a mother to 'er, I 'ave--she'll tell you so. W'en I went hup +with the tea there she was in a faint. W'ite as if she was dead. My +word, sir, I was frightened. And all night she's been tossin' about, +a-cryin' out and--” + +“Where is she now?” put in Hephzy, sharply. + +“She's in 'er room ma'am. Dressed she is; she would dress, knowin' of +your comin', though I told 'er she shouldn't. She's dressed, but she's +lyin' down. She would 'ave tried to sit hup, but THAT I wouldn't 'ave, +ma'am. 'Now, dearie,' I told 'er--” + +But I would not hear any more. As for Hephzy she was in the dingy front +hall already. + +“Shall we go up?” I asked, impatiently. + +“Of COURSE you're to go hup. She's a-waitin' for you. But sir--sir,” she +caught my sleeve; “if you think she's goin' to be ill and needin' the +doctor, just pass the word to me. A doctor she shall 'ave, the best +there is in London. All I ask you is to pay--” + +I heard no more. Hephzy was on her way up the stairs and I followed. The +door of the first floor back was closed. I rapped upon it. + +“Come in,” said the voice I remembered, but now it sounded weaker than +before. + +Hephzy looked at me. I nodded. + +“You go first,” I whispered. “You can call me when you are ready.” + +Hephzy opened the door and entered the room. I closed the door behind +her. + +Silence for what seemed a long, long time. Then the door opened again +and Hephzy appeared. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She put her arms +about my neck. + +“Oh, Hosy,” she whispered, “she's real sick. And--and--Oh, Hosy, how +COULD you see her and not see! She's the very image of Ardelia. The very +image! Come.” + +I followed her into the room. It was no brighter now, in the middle of +a--for London--bright forenoon, than it had been on my previous visit. +Just as dingy and forbidding and forlorn as ever. But now there was no +defiant figure erect to meet me. The figure was lying upon the bed, and +the pale cheeks of yesterday were flushed with fever. Miss Morley had +looked far from well when I first saw her; now she looked very ill +indeed. + +She acknowledged my good-morning with a distant bow. Her illness had not +quenched her spirit, that was plain. She attempted to rise, but Hephzy +gently pushed her back upon the pillow. + +“You stay right there,” she urged. “Stay right there. We can talk just +as well, and Mr. Knowles won't mind; will you, Hosy.” + +I stammered something or other. My errand, difficult as it had been +from the first, now seemed impossible. I had come there to say certain +things--I had made up my mind to say them; but how was I to say such +things to a girl as ill as this one was. I would not have said them to +Strickland Morley himself, under such circumstances. + +“I--I am very sorry you are not well, Miss Morley,” I faltered. + +She thanked me, but there was no warmth in the thanks. + +“I am not well,” she said; “but that need make no difference. I presume +you and this--this lady are prepared to make a definite proposition to +me. I am well enough to hear it.” + +Hephzy and I looked at each other. I looked for help, but Hephzy's +expression was not helpful at all. It might have meant anything--or +nothing. + +“Miss Morley,” I began. “Miss Morley, I--I--” + +“Well, sir?” + +“Miss Morley, I--I don't know what to say to you.” + +She rose to a sitting posture. Hephzy again tried to restrain her, but +this time she would not be restrained. + +“Don't know what to say?” she repeated. “Don't know what to say? Then +why did you come here?” + +“I came--we came because--because I promised we would come.” + +“But WHY did you come?” + +Hephzy leaned toward her. + +“Please, please,” she begged. “Don't get all excited like this. You +mustn't. You'll make yourself sicker, you know. You must lie down and be +quiet. Hosy--oh, please, Hosy, be careful.” + +Miss Morley paid no attention. She was regarding me with eyes which +looked me through and through. Her thin hands clutched the bedclothes. + +“WHY did you come?” she demanded. “My letter was plain enough, +certainly. What I said yesterday was perfectly plain. I told you I did +not wish your acquaintance or your friendship. Friendship--” with a +blaze of scorn, “from YOU! I--I told you--I--” + +“Hush! hush! please don't,” begged Hephzy. “You mustn't. You're too weak +and sick. Oh, Hosy, do be careful.” + +I was quite willing to be careful--if I had known how. + +“I think,” I said, “that this interview had better be postponed. Really, +Miss Morley, you are not in a condition to--” + +She sprang to her feet and stood there trembling. + +“My condition has nothing to do with it,” she cried. “Oh, CAN'T I make +you understand! I am trying to be lenient, to be--to be--And you come +here, you and this woman, and try to--to--You MUST understand! I don't +want to know you. I don't want your pity! After your treatment of my +mother and my father, I--I--I... Oh!” + +She staggered, put her hands to her head, sank upon the bed, and then +collapsed in a dead faint. + +Hephzy was at her side in a moment. She knew what to do if I did not. + +“Quick!” she cried, turning to me. “Send for the doctor; she has +fainted. Hurry! And send that--that Briggs woman to me. Don't stand +there like that. HURRY!” + +I found the Briggs woman in the lower hall. From her I learned the name +and address of the nearest physician, also the nearest public telephone. +Mrs. Briggs went up to Hephzy and I hastened out to telephone. + +Oh, those London telephones! After innumerable rings and “Hellos” from +me, and “Are you theres” from Central, I, at last, was connected with +the doctor's office and, by great good luck, with the doctor himself. +He promised to come at once. In ten minutes I met him at the door and +conducted him to the room above. + +He was in that room a long time. Meanwhile, I waited in the hall, pacing +up and down, trying to think my way through this maze. I had succeeded +in thinking myself still deeper into it when the physician reappeared. + +“How is she?” I asked. + +“She is conscious again, but weak, of course. If she can be kept quiet +and have proper care and nourishment and freedom from worry she will, +probably, gain strength and health. There is nothing seriously wrong +physically, so far as I can see.” + +I was glad to hear that and said so. + +“Of course,” he went on, “her nerves are completely unstrung. She seems +to have been under a great mental strain and her surroundings are not--” + He paused, and then added, “Is the young lady a relative of yours?” + +“Ye--es, I suppose--She is a distant relative, yes.” + +“Humph! Has she no near relatives? Here in England, I mean. You and the +lady with you are Americans, I judge.” + +I ignored the last sentence. I could not see that our being Americans +concerned him. + +“She has no near relatives in England, so far as I know,” I answered. +“Why do you ask?” + +“Merely because--Well, to be frank, because if she had such relatives I +should strongly recommend their taking charge of her. She is very weak +and in a condition where she knight become seriously ill.” + +“I see. You mean that she should not remain here.” + +“I do mean that, decidedly. This,” with a wave of the hand and a glance +about the bare, dirty, dark hall, “is not--Well, she seems to be a young +person of some refinement and--” + +He did not finish the sentence, but I understood. + +“I see,” I interrupted. “And yet she is not seriously ill.” + +“Not now--no. Her weakness is due to mental strain and--well, to a lack +of nutrition as much as anything.” + +“Lack of nutrition? You mean she hasn't had enough to eat!” + +“Yes. Of course I can't be certain, but that would be my opinion if I +were forced to give one. At all events, she should be taken from here as +soon as possible.” + +I reflected. “A hospital?” I suggested. + +“She might be taken to a hospital, of course. But she is scarcely ill +enough for that. A good, comfortable home would be better. Somewhere +where she might have quiet and rest. If she had relatives I should +strongly urge her going to them. She should not be left to herself; I +would not be responsible for the consequences if she were. A person in +her condition might--might be capable of any rash act.” + +This was plain enough, but it did not make my course of action plainer +to me. + +“Is she well enough to be moved--now?” I asked. + +“Yes. If she is not moved she is likely to be less well.” + +I paid him for the visit; he gave me a prescription--“To quiet the +nerves,” he explained--and went away. I was to send for him whenever his +services were needed. Then I entered the room. + +Hephzy and Mrs. Briggs were sitting beside the bed. The face upon the +pillow looked whiter and more pitiful than ever. The dark eyes were +closed. + +Hephzy signaled me to silence. She rose and tiptoed over to me. I led +her out into the hall. + +“She's sort of dozin' now,” she whispered. “The poor thing is worn out. +What did the doctor say?” + +I told her what the doctor had said. + +“He's just right,” she declared. “She's half starved, that's what's the +matter with her. That and frettin' and worryin' have just about killed +her. What are you goin' to do, Hosy?” + +“How do I know!” I answered, impatiently. “I don't see exactly why we +are called upon to do anything. Do you?” + +“No--o, I--I don't know as we are called on. No--o. I--” + +“Well, do you?” + +“No. I know how you feel, Hosy. Considerin' how her father treated us, I +won't blame you no matter what you do.” + +“Confound her father! I only wish it were he we had to deal with.” + +Hephzy was silent. I took a turn up and down the hall. + +“The doctor says she should be taken away from here at once,” I +observed. + +Hephzy nodded. “There's no doubt about that,” she declared with +emphasis. “I wouldn't trust a sick cat to that Briggs woman. She's +a--well, she's what she is.” + +“I suggested a hospital, but he didn't approve,” I went on. “He +recommended some comfortable home with care and quiet and all the rest +of it. Her relatives should look after her, he said. She hasn't any +relatives that we know of, or any home to go to.” + +Again Hephzy was silent. I waited, growing momentarily more nervous and +fretful. Of all impossible situations this was the most impossible. And +to make it worse, Hephzy, the usually prompt, reliable Hephzy, was of no +use at all. + +“Do say something,” I snapped. “What shall we do?” + +“I don't know, Hosy, dear. Why!... Where are you going?” + +“I'm going to the drug-store to get this prescription filled. I'll be +back soon.” + +The drug-store--it was a “chemist's shop” of course--was at the corner. +It was the chemist's telephone that I had used when I called the doctor. +I gave the clerk the prescription and, while he was busy with it, I +paced up and down the floor of the shop. At length I sat down before the +telephone and demanded a number. + +When I returned to the lodging-house I gave Hephzy the powders which the +chemist's clerk had prepared. + +“Is she any better?” I asked. + +“She's just about the same.” + +“What does she say?” + +“She's too weak and sick to say anything. I don't imagine she knows or +cares what is happening to her.” + +“Is she strong enough to get downstairs to a cab, or to ride in one +afterward?” + +“I guess so. We could help her, you know. But, Hosy, what cab? What do +you mean? What are you going to do?” + +“I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm going to take her away from this +hole. I must. I don't want to; there's no reason why I should and every +reason why I shouldn't; but--Oh, well, confound it! I've got to. We +CAN'T let her starve and die here.” + +“But where are you going to take her?” + +“There's only one place to take her; that's to Bancroft's. I've 'phoned +and engaged a room next to ours. She'll have to stay with us for the +present. Oh, I don't like it any better than you do.” + +To my intense surprise, Hephzy threw her arms about my neck and hugged +me. + +“I knew you would, Hosy!” she sobbed. “I knew you would. I was dyin' to +have you, but I wouldn't have asked for the world. You're the best man +that ever lived. I knew you wouldn't leave poor Ardelia's little girl +to--to--Oh, I'm so grateful. You're the best man in the world.” + +I freed myself from the embrace as soon as I could. I didn't feel like +the best man in the world. I felt like a Quixotic fool. + +Fortunately I was too busy for the next hour to think of my feelings. +Hephzy went in to arrange for the transfer of the invalid to the cab and +to collect and pack her most necessary belongings. I spent my time in a +financial wrangle with Mrs. Briggs. The number of items which that woman +wished included in her bill was surprising. Candles and soap--the bill +itself was the sole evidence of soap's ever having made its appearance +in that house--and washing and tea and food and goodness knows what. The +total was amazing. I verified the addition, or, rather, corrected it, +and then offered half of the sum demanded. This offer was received with +protestations, tears and voluble demands to know if I 'ad the 'art to +rob a lone widow who couldn't protect herself. Finally we compromised on +a three-quarter basis and Mrs. Briggs receipted the bill. She said her +kind disposition would be the undoing of her and she knew it. She was +too silly and soft-'arted to let lodgings. + +We had very little trouble in carrying or leading Little Frank to the +cab. The effect of the doctor's powders--they must have contained some +sort of opiate--was to render the girl only partially conscious of what +was going on and we got her to and into the vehicle without difficulty. +During the drive to Bancroft's she dozed on Hephzy's shoulder. + +Her room--it was next to Hephzy's, with a connecting door--was ready +and we led her up the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Jameson were very kind and +sympathetic. They asked surprisingly few questions. + +“Poor young lady,” said Mr. Jameson, when he and I were together in our +sitting-room. “She is quite ill, isn't she.” + +“Yes,” I admitted. “It is not a serious illness, however. She needs +quiet and care more than anything else.” + +“Yes, sir. We will do our best to see that she has both. A relative of +yours, sir, I think you said.” + +“A--a--my niece,” I answered, on the spur of the moment. She was +Hephzy's niece, of course. As a matter of fact, she was scarcely related +to me. However, it seemed useless to explain. + +“I didn't know you had English relatives, Mr. Knowles. I had been under +the impression that you and Miss Cahoon were strangers here.” + +So had I, but I did not explain that, either. Mrs. Jameson joined us. + +“She will sleep now, I think,” she said. “She is quite quiet and +peaceful. A near relative of yours, Mr. Knowles?” + +“She is Mr. Knowles's niece,” explained her husband. + +“Oh, yes. A sweet girl she seems. And very pretty, isn't she.” + +I did not answer. Mr. Jameson and his wife turned to go. + +“I presume you will wish to communicate with her people,” said the +former. “Shall I send you telegram forms?” + +“Not now,” I stammered. Telegrams! Her people! She had no people. We +were her people. We had taken her in charge and were responsible. And +how and when would that responsibility be shifted! + +What on earth should we do with her? + +Hephzy tiptoed in. Her expression was a curious one. She was very +solemn, but not sad; the solemnity was not that of sorrow, but appeared +to be a sort of spiritual uplift, a kind of reverent joy. + +“She's asleep,” she said, gravely; “she's asleep, Hosy.” + +There was precious little comfort in that. + +“She'll wake up by and by,” I said. “And then--what?” + +“I don't know.” + +“Neither do I--now. But we shall have to know pretty soon.” + +“I suppose we shall, but I can't--I can't seem to think of anything +that's ahead of us. All I can think is that my Little Frank--my +Ardelia's Little Frank--is here, here with us, at last.” + +“And TO last, so far as I can see. Hephzy, for heaven's sake, do try +to be sensible. Do you realize what this means? As soon as she is +well enough to understand what has happened she will want to know what +'proposition' we have to make. And when we tell her we have none to +make, she'll probably collapse again. And then--and then--what shall we +do?” + +“I don't know, Hosy. I declare I don't know.” + +I strode into my own room and slammed the door. + +“Damn!” said I, with enthusiasm. + +“What?” queried Hephzy, from the sitting-room. “What did you say, Hosy?” + +I did not tell her. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +In Which the Pilgrims Become Tenants + + +Two weeks later we left Bancroft's and went to Mayberry. Two weeks only, +and yet in that two weeks all our plans--if our indefinite visions of +irresponsible flitting about Great Britain and the continent might +be called plans--had changed utterly. Our pilgrimage was, apparently, +ended--it had become an indefinite stay. We were no longer pilgrims, but +tenants, tenants in an English rectory, of all places in the world. +I, the Cape Cod quahaug, had become an English country gentleman--or a +country gentleman in England--for the summer, at least. + +Little Frank--Miss Frances Morley--was responsible for the change, of +course. Her sudden materialization and the freak of fortune which +had thrown her, weak and ill, upon our hands, were responsible for +everything. For how much more, how many other changes, she would be +responsible the future only could answer. And the future would answer in +its own good, or bad, time. My conundrum “What are we going to do +with her?” was as much of a puzzle as ever. For my part I gave it up. +Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof--much more than sufficient. + +For the first twenty-four hours following the arrival of “my niece” at +Bancroft's Hotel the situation regarding that niece remained as it +was. Miss Morley--or Frances--or Frank as Hephzy persisted in calling +her--was too ill to care what had happened, or, at least, to speak of +it. She spoke very little, was confined to her room and bed and slept +the greater part of the time. The doctor whom I called, on Mr. Jameson's +recommendation, confirmed his fellow practitioner's diagnosis; the young +lady, he said, was suffering from general weakness and the effect of +nervous strain. She needed absolute rest, care and quiet. There was no +organic disease. + +But on the morning of the second day she was much better and willing, +even anxious to talk. She assailed Hephzy with questions and Hephzy, +although she tried to avoid answering most, was obliged to answer some +of them. She reported the interview to me during luncheon. + +“She didn't seem to remember much about comin' here, or what happened +before or afterward,” said Hephzy. “But she wanted to know it all. I +told her the best I could. 'You couldn't stay there,' I said. 'That +Briggs hyena wasn't fit to take care of any human bein' and neither Hosy +nor I could leave you in her hands. So we brought you here to the hotel +where we're stoppin'.' She thought this over a spell and then she wanted +to know whose idea bringin' her here was, yours or mine. I said 'twas +yours, and just like you, too; you were the kindest-hearted man in the +world, I said. Oh, you needn't look at me like that, Hosy. It's the +plain truth, and you know it.” + +“Humph!” I grunted. “If the young lady were a mind-reader she +might--well, never mind. What else did she say?” + +“Oh, a good many things. Wanted to know if her bill at Mrs. Briggs' was +paid. I said it was. She thought about that and then she gave me orders +that you and I were to keep account of every cent--no, penny--we spent +for her. She should insist upon that. If we had the idea that she was a +subject of charity we were mistaken. She fairly withered me with a look +from those big eyes of hers. Ardelia's eyes all over again! Or they +would be if they were blue instead of brown. I remember--” + +I cut short the reminiscence. I was in no mood to listen to the praises +of any Morley. + +“What answer did you make to that?” I asked. + +“What could I say? I didn't want any more faintin' spells or hysterics, +either. I said we weren't thinkin' of offerin' charity and if it would +please her to have us run an expense book we'd do it, of course. She +asked what the doctor said about her condition. I told her he said she +must keep absolutely quiet and not fret about anything or she'd have an +awful relapse. That was pretty strong but I meant it that way. Answerin' +questions that haven't got any answer to 'em is too much of a strain for +ME. You try it some time yourself and see.” + +“I have tried it, thank you. Well, is that all? Did she tell you +anything about herself; where she has been or what she has been or what +she has been doing since her precious father died?” + +“No, not a word. I was dyin' to ask her, but I didn't. She says she +wants to talk with the doctor next time he comes, that's all.” + +She did talk with the doctor, although not during his next call. Several +days passed before he would permit her to talk with him. Meanwhile he +and I had several talks. What he told me brought my conundrum no nearer +its answer. + +She was recovering rapidly, he said, but for weeks at least her delicate +nervous organism must be handled with care. The slightest set-back +would be disastrous. He asked if we intended remaining at Bancroft's +indefinitely. I had no intentions--those I had had were wiped off my +mental slate--so I said I did not know, our future plans were vague. He +suggested a sojourn in the country, in some pleasant retired spot in the +rural districts. + +“An out-of-door life, walks, rides and sports of all sorts would do your +niece a world of good, Mr. Knowles,” he declared. “She needs just that. +A very attractive young lady, sir, if you'll pardon my saying so,” he +went on. “Were her people Londoners, may I ask?” + +He might ask but I had no intention of telling him. What I knew +concerning my “niece's” people were things not usually told to +strangers. I evaded the question. + +“Has she had a recent bereavement?” he queried. “I hope you'll not +think me merely idly inquisitive. I cannot understand how a young woman, +normally healthy and well, should have been brought to such a strait. +Our English girls, Mr. Knowles, do not suffer from nerves, as I am told +your American young women so frequently do. Has your niece been in the +States with you?” + +I said she had not. Incidentally I informed him that American young +women did NOT frequently suffer from nerves. He said “Really,” but he +did not believe me, I'm certain. He was a good fellow, and intelligent, +but his ideas of “the States” had been gathered, largely, I think, +from newspapers and novels. He was convinced that most Americans were +confirmed neurotics and dyspeptics, just as Hephzy had believed all +Englishmen wore side-whiskers. + +I changed the conversation as soon as I could. I could tell him +so little concerning my newly found “niece.” I knew about as much +concerning her life as he did. It is distinctly unpleasant to be uncle +to someone you know nothing at all about. I devoutly wished I had not +said she was my niece. I repeated that wish many times afterward. + +Miss Morley's talk with the physician had definite results, surprising +results. Following that talk she sent word by the doctor that she wished +to see Hephzy and me. We went into her room. She was sitting in a chair +by the window, and was wearing a rather pretty wrapper, or kimono, or +whatever that sort of garment is called. At any rate, it was becoming. I +was obliged to admit that the general opinion expressed by the Jamesons +and Hephzy and the doctor--that she was pretty, was correct enough. She +was pretty, but that did not help matters any. + +She asked us--no, she commanded us to sit down. Her manner was decidedly +business-like. She wasted no time in preliminaries, but came straight to +the point, and that point was the one which I had dreaded. She asked us +what decision we had reached concerning her. + +“Have you decided what your offer is to be?” she asked. + +I looked at Hephzy and she at me. Neither of us derived comfort from +the exchange of looks. However, something must be done, or said, and I +braced myself to say it. + +“Miss Morley,” I began, “before I answer that question I should like to +ask you one. What do you expect us to do?” + +She regarded me coldly. “I expect,” she said, “that you and this--that +you and Miss Cahoon will arrange to pay me the money which was my +mother's and which my grandfather should have turned over to her while +he lived.” + +Again I looked at Hephzy and again I braced myself for the scene which I +was certain would follow. + +“It is your impression then,” I said, “that your mother had money of her +own and that Captain Barnabas, your grandfather, kept that money for his +own use.” + +“It is not an impression,” haughtily; “I know it to be a fact.” + +“How do you know it?” + +“My father told me so, during his last illness.” + +“Was--pardon me--was your father himself at the time? Was +he--er--rational?” + +“Rational! My father?” + +“I mean--I mean was he himself--mentally? He was not delirious when he +told you?” + +“Delirious! Mr. Knowles, I am trying to be patient, but for the last +time I warn you that I will not listen to insinuations against my +father.” + +“I am not insinuating anything. I am seeking information. Were you and +your father together a great deal? Did you know him well? Just what did +he tell you?” + +She hesitated before replying. When she spoke it was with an exaggerated +air of patient toleration, as if she were addressing an unreasonable +child. + +“I will answer you,” she said. “I will answer you because, so far, I +have no fault to find with your behavior toward me. You and my--and my +aunt have been as reasonable as I, perhaps, should expect, everything +considered. Your bringing me here and providing for me was even kind, +I suppose. So I will answer your questions. My father and I were not +together a great deal. I attended a convent school in France and saw +Father only at intervals. I supposed him to possess an independent +income. It was only when he was--was unable to work,” with a quiver in +her voice, “that I learned how he lived. He had been obliged to depend +upon his music, upon his violin playing, to earn money enough to keep us +both alive. Then he told me of--of his life in America and how my mother +and he had been--been cheated and defrauded by those who--who--Oh, DON'T +ask me any more! Don't!” + +“I must ask you. I must ask you to tell me this: How was he defrauded, +as you call it?” + +“I have told you, already. My mother's fortune--” + +“But your mother had no fortune.” + +The anticipated scene was imminent. She sprang to her feet, but being +too weak to stand, sank back again. Hephzy looked appealingly at me. + +“Hosy,” she cautioned; “Oh, Hosy, be careful! Think how sick she has +been.” + +“I am thinking, Hephzy. I mean to be careful. But what I said is the +truth, and you know it.” + +Hephzy would have replied, but Little Frank motioned her to be silent. + +“Hush!” she commanded. “Mr. Knowles, what do you mean? My mother had +money, a great deal of money. I don't know the exact sum, but my father +said--You know it! You MUST know it. It was in my grandfather's care +and--” + +“Your grandfather had no money. He--well, he lost every dollar he had. +He died as poor as a church rat.” + +Another interval of silence, during which I endured a piercing scrutiny +from the dark eyes. Then Miss Morley's tone changed. + +“Indeed!” she said, sarcastically. “You surprise me, Mr. Knowles. What +became of the money, may I ask? I understand that my grandfather was a +wealthy man.” + +“He was fairly well-to-do at one time, but he lost his money and died +poor.” + +“How did he lose it?” + +The question was a plain one and demanded a plain and satisfying answer. +But how could I give that answer--then? Hephzy was shaking her head +violently. I stammered and faltered and looked guilty, I have no doubt. + +“Well?” said Miss Morley. + +“He--he lost it, that is sufficient. You must take my word for it. +Captain Cahoon died without a dollar of his own.” + +“When did he LOSE his wealth?” with sarcastic emphasis. + +“Years ago. About the time your parents left the United States. There, +there, Hephzy! I know. I'm doing my best.” + +“Indeed! When did he die?” + +“Long ago--more than ten years ago.” + +“But my parents left America long before that. If my grandfather was +penniless how did he manage to live all those years? What supported +him?” + +“Your aunt--Miss Cahoon here--had money in her own right.” + +“SHE had money and my mother had not. Yet both were Captain Cahoon's +daughters. How did that happen?” + +It seemed to me that it was Hephzy's time to play the target. I turned +to her. + +“Miss Cahoon will probably answer that herself,” I observed, +maliciously. + +Hephzibah appeared more embarrassed than I. + +“I--I--Oh, what difference does all this make?” she faltered. “Hosy has +told you the truth, Frances. Really and truly he has. Father was poor +as poverty when he died and all his last years, too. All his money had +gone.” + +“Yes, so I have heard Mr. Knowles say. But how did it go?” + +“In--in--well, it was invested in stocks and things and--and--” + +“Do you mean that he speculated in shares?” + +“Well, not--not--” + +“I see. Oh, I see. Father told me a little concerning those +speculations. He warned Captain Cahoon before he left the States, but +his warnings were not heeded, I presume. And you wish me to believe that +ALL the money was lost--my mother's and all. Is that what you mean?” + +“Your mother HAD no money,” I put in, desperately, “I have told you--” + +“You have told me many things, Mr. Knowles. Even admitting that my +grandfather lost his money, as you say, why should I suffer because of +his folly? I am not asking for HIS money. I am demanding money that was +my mother's and is now mine. That I expected from him and now I expect +it from you, his heirs.” + +“But your mother had no--” + +“I do not care to hear that again. I know she had money.” + +“But how do you know?” + +“Because my father told me she had, and my father did not lie.” + +There we were again--just where we started. The doctor re-entered the +room and insisted upon his patient's being left to herself. She must lie +down and rest, he said. His manner was one of distinct disapproval. It +was evident that he considered Hephzy and me disturbers of the peace; in +fact he intimated as much when he joined us in the sitting-room in a few +minutes. + +“I am afraid I made a mistake in permitting the conference,” he said. +“The young lady seems much agitated, Mr. Knowles. If she is, complete +nervous prostration may follow. She may be an invalid for months or even +years. I strongly recommend her being taken into the country as soon as +possible.” + +This speech and the manner in which it was made were impressive and +alarming. The possibilities at which it hinted were more alarming still. +We made no attempt to discuss family matters with Little Frank that day +nor the next. + +But on the day following, when I returned from my morning visit to +Camford Street, I found Hephzy awaiting me in the sitting-room. She was +very solemn. + +“Hosy,” she said, “sit down. I've got somethin' to tell you.” + +“About her?” I asked, apprehensively. + +“Yes. She's just been talkin' to me.” + +“She has! I thought we agreed not to talk with her at all.” + +“We did, and I tried not to. But when I went in to see her just now she +was waitin' for me. She had somethin' to say, she said, and she said +it--Oh, my goodness, yes! she said it.” + +“What did she say? Has she sent for her lawyer--her solicitor, or +whatever he is?” + +“No, she hasn't done that. I don't know but I 'most wish she had. He +wouldn't be any harder to talk to than she is. Hosy, she's made up her +mind.” + +“Made up her mind! I thought HER mind was already made up.” + +“It was, but she's made it up again. That doctor has been talkin' to her +and she's really frightened about her health, I think. Anyhow, she has +decided that her principal business just now is to get well. She told +me she had decided not to press her claim upon us for the present. If we +wished to make an offer of what she calls restitution, she'll listen to +it; but she judges we are not ready to make one.” + +“Humph! her judgment is correct so far.” + +“Yes, but that isn't all. While she is waitin' for that offer she +expects us to take care of her. She has been thinkin', she says, and she +has come to the conclusion that our providin' for her as we have done +isn't charity--or needn't be considered as charity--at all. She is +willin' to consider it a part of that precious restitution she's forever +talkin' about. We are to take care of her, and pay her doctor's bills, +and take her into the country as he recommends, and--” + +I interrupted. “Great Scott!” I cried, “does she expect us to ADOPT +her?” + +“I don't know what she expects; I'm tryin' to tell you what she said. +We're to do all this and keep a strict account of all it costs, and +then when we are ready to make a--a proposition, as she calls it, this +account can be subtracted from the money she thinks we've got that +belongs to her.” + +“But there isn't any money belonging to her. I told her so, and so did +you.” + +“I know, but we might tell her a thousand times and it wouldn't affect +her father's tellin' her once. Oh, that Strickland Morley! If only--” + +“Hush! hush, Hephzy... Well, by George! of all the--this thing has gone +far enough. It has gone too far. We made a great mistake in bringing +her here, in having anything to do with her at all--but we shan't go on +making mistakes. We must stop where we are. She must be told the truth +now--to-day.” + +“I know--I know, Hosy; but who'll tell her?” + +“I will.” + +“She won't believe you.” + +“Then she must disbelieve. She can call in her solicitor and I'll make +him believe.” + +Hephzy was silent. Her silence annoyed me. + +“Why don't you say something?” I demanded. “You know what I say is plain +common-sense.” + +“I suppose it is--I suppose 'tis. But, Hosy, if you start in tellin' her +again you know what'll happen. The doctor said the least little thing +would bring on nervous prostration. And if she has that, WHAT will +become of her?” + +It was my turn to hesitate. + +“You couldn't--we couldn't turn her out into the street if she was +nervous prostrated, could we,” pleaded Hephzy. “After all, she's +Ardelia's daughter and--” + +“She's Strickland Morley's daughter. There is no doubt of that. +Hereditary influence is plain enough in her case.” + +“I know, but she is Ardelia's daughter, too. I don't see how we can tell +her, Hosy; not until she's well and strong again.” + +I was never more thoroughly angry in my life. My patience was exhausted. + +“Look here, Hephzy,” I cried: “what is it you are leading up to? You're +not proposing--actually proposing that we adopt this girl, are you?” + +“No--no--o. Not exactly that, of course. But we might take her into the +country somewhere and--” + +“Oh, DO be sensible! Do you realize what that would mean? We should have +to give up our trip, stop sightseeing, stop everything we had planned to +do, and turn ourselves into nurses running a sanitarium for the benefit +of a girl whose father's rascality made your father a pauper. And, not +only do this, but be treated by her as if--as if--” + +“There, there, Hosy! I know what it will mean. I know what it would mean +to you and I don't mean for you to do it. You've done enough and more +than enough. But with me it's different. _I_ could do it.” + +“You?” + +“Yes. I've got some money of my own. I could find a nice, cheap, quiet +boardin'-house in the country round here somewhere and she and I could +go there and stay until she got well. You needn't go at all; you could +go off travelin' by yourself and--” + +“Hephzy, what are you talking about?” + +“I mean it. I've thought it all out, Hosy. Ever since Ardelia and I +had that last talk together and she whispered to me that--that--well, +especially ever since I knew there was a Little Frank I've been thinkin' +and plannin' about that Little Frank; you know I have. He--she isn't +the kind of Little Frank I expected, but she's, my sister's baby and +I can't--I CAN'T, turn her away to be sick and die. I can't do it. I +shouldn't dare face Ardelia in--on the other side if I did. No, I +guess it's my duty and I'm goin' to go on with it. But with you it's +different. She isn't any real relation to you. You've done enough--and +more than enough--as it is.” + +This was the climax. Of course I might have expected it, but of course +I didn't. As soon as I recovered, or partially recovered, from my +stupefaction I expostulated and scolded and argued. Hephzy was quiet but +firm. She hated to part from me--she couldn't bear to think of it; but +on the other hand she couldn't abandon her Ardelia's little girl. The +interview ended by my walking out of the room and out of Bancroft's in +disgust. + +I did not return until late in the afternoon. I was in better humor +then. Hephzy was still in the sitting-room; she looked as if she had +been crying. + +“Hosy,” she said, as I entered, “I--I hope you don't think I'm too +ungrateful. I'm not. Really I'm not. And I care as much for you as if +you was my own boy. I can't leave you; I sha'n't. If you say for us +to--” + +I interrupted. + +“Hephzy,” I said, “I shan't say anything. I know perfectly well that you +couldn't leave me any more than I could leave you. I have arranged with +Matthews to set about house-hunting at once. As soon as rural England is +ready for us, we shall be ready for it. After all, what difference does +it make? I was ordered to get fresh experience. I might as well get it +by becoming keeper of a sanitarium as any other way.” + +Hephzy looked at me. She rose from her chair. + +“Hosy,” she cried, “what--a sanitarium?” + +“We'll keep it together,” I said, smiling. “You and I and Little Frank. +And it is likely to be a wonderful establishment.” + +Hephzy said--she said a great deal, principally concerning my generosity +and goodness and kindness and self-sacrifice. I tried to shut off the +flow, but it was not until I began to laugh that it ceased. + +“Why!” cried Hephzy. “You're laughin'! What in the world? I don't see +anything to laugh at.” + +“Don't you? I do. Oh, dear me! I--I, the Bayport quahaug to--Ho! ho! +Hephzy, let me laugh. If there is any fun in this perfectly devilish +situation let me enjoy it while I can.” + +And that is how and why I decided to become a country gentleman +instead of a traveler. When I told Matthews of my intention he had been +petrified with astonishment. I had written Campbell of that intention. I +devoutly wished I might see his face when he read my letter. + +For days and days Hephzy and I “house-hunted.” We engaged a nurse to +look after the future patient of the “sanitarium” while we did our best +to look for the sanitarium itself. Mr. Matthews gave us the addresses +of real estate agents and we journeyed from suburb to suburb and from +seashore to hills. We saw several “semi-detached villas.” The name +“semi-detached villa” had an appealing sound, especially to Hephzy, but +the villas themselves did not appeal. They turned out to be what we, in +America, would have called “two-family houses.” + +“And I never did like the idea of livin' in a two-family house,” + declared Hephzy. “I've known plenty of real nice folks who did live in +'em, or one-half of one of 'em, but it usually happened that the folks +in the other half was a dreadful mean set. They let their dog chase your +cat and if your hens scratched up their flower garden they were real +unlikely about it. I've heard Father tell about Cap'n Noah Doane and +Cap'n Elkanah Howes who used to live in Bayport. They'd been chums all +their lives and when they retired from the sea they thought 'twould be +lovely to build a double house so's they would be right close together +all the time. Well, they did it and they hadn't been settled more'n a +month when they began quarrelin'. Cap'n Noah's wife wanted the house +painted yellow and Mrs. Cap'n Elkanah, she wanted it green. They +started the fuss and it ended by one-half bein' yellow and t'other half +green--such an outrage you never saw--and a big fence down the middle +of the front yard, and the two families not speakin', and law-suits and +land knows what all. They wouldn't even go to the same church nor be +buried in the same graveyard. No sir-ee! no two-family house for us if +I can help it. We've got troubles enough inside the family without +fightin' the neighbors.” + +“But think of the beautiful names,” I observed. “Those names ought to +appeal to your poetic soul, Hephzy. We haven't seen a villa yet, no +matter how dingy, or small, that wasn't christened 'Rosemary Terrace' +or 'Sunnylawn' or something. That last one--the shack with the broken +windows--was labeled 'Broadview' and it faced an alley ending at a brick +stable.” + +“I know it,” she said. “If they'd called it 'Narrowview' or 'Cow +Prospect' 'twould have been more fittin', I should say. But I think +givin' names to homes is sort of pretty, just the same. We might call +our house at home 'Writer's Rest.' A writer lives in it, you know.” + +“And he has rested more than he has written of late,” I observed. +“'Quahaug Stew' or 'The Tureen' would be better, I should say.” + +When we expressed disapproval of the semi-detached villas our real +estate brokers flew to the other extremity and proceeded to show +us “estates.” These estates comprised acres of ground, mansions, +game-keepers' and lodge-keepers' houses, and goodness knows what. Some, +so the brokers were particular to inform us, were celebrated for their +“shooting.” + +The villas were not good enough; the estates were altogether too good. +We inspected but one and then declined to see more. + +“Shootin'!” sniffed Hephzy. “I should feel like shootin' myself every +time I paid the rent. I'd HAVE to do it the second time. 'Twould be a +quicker end than starvin', 'and the first month would bring us to that.” + +We found one pleasant cottage in a suburb bearing the euphonious name of +“Leatherhead”--that is, the village was named “Leatherhead”; the cottage +was “Ash Clump.” I teased Hephzy by referring to it as “Ash Dump,” but +it really was a pretty, roomy house, with gardens and flowers. For the +matter of that, every cottage we visited, even the smallest, was bowered +in flowers. + +Hephzy's romantic spirit objected strongly to “Leatherhead,” but I told +her nothing could be more appropriate. + +“This whole proposition--Beg pardon; I didn't mean to use that word; +we've heard enough concerning 'propositions'--but really, Hephzy, +'Leatherhead' is very appropriate for us. If we weren't leather-headed +and deserving of leather medals we should not be hunting houses at all. +We should have left Little Frank and her affairs in a lawyer's hands and +be enjoying ourselves as we intended. Leatherhead for the leather-heads; +it's another dispensation of Providence.” + +“Ash Dump”--“Clump,” I mean--was owned by a person named Cripps, Solomon +Cripps. Mr. Cripps was a stout, mutton-chopped individual, strongly +suggestive of Bancroft's “Henry.” He was rather pompous and surly when I +first knocked at the door of his residence, but when he learned we were +house-hunting and had our eyes upon the “Clump,” he became very +polite indeed. “A 'eavenly spot,” he declared it to be. “A beautiful +neighborhood. Near the shops and not far from the Primitive Wesleyan +chapel.” He and Mrs. Cripps attended the chapel, he informed us. + +I did not fancy Mr. Cripps; he was too--too something, I was not sure +what. And Mrs. Cripps, whom we met later, was of a similar type. They, +like everyone else, recognized us as Americans at once and they spoke +highly of the “States.” + +“A very fine country, I am informed,” said Mr. Cripps. “New, of course, +but very fine indeed. Young men make money there. Much money--yes.” + +Mrs. Cripps wished to know if Americans were a religious people, as a +rule. Religion, true spiritual religion was on the wane in England. + +I gathered that she and her husband were doing their best to keep it up +to the standard. I had read, in books by English writers, of the British +middle-class Pharisee. I judged the Crippses to be Pharisees. + +Hephzy's opinion was like mine. + +“If ever there was a sanctimonious hypocrite it's that Mrs. Cripps,” she +declared. “And her husband ain't any better. They remind me of Deacon +Hardy and his wife back home. He always passed the plate in church and +she was head of the sewin' circle, but when it came to lettin' go of +an extry cent for the minister's salary they had glue on their fingers. +Father used to say that the Deacon passed the plate himself so nobody +could see how little he put in it. They were the ones that always +brought a stick of salt herrin' to the donation parties.” + +We didn't like the Crippses, but we did like “Ash Clump.” We had almost +decided to take it when our plans were quashed by the member of our +party on whose account we had planned solely. Miss Morley flatly refused +to go to Leatherhead. + +“Don't ask ME why,” said Hephzy, to whom the refusal had been made. “I +don't know. All I know is that the very name 'Leatherhead' turned her +whiter than she has been for a week. She just put that little foot of +hers down and said no. I said 'Why not?' and she said 'Never mind.' So I +guess we sha'n't be Leatherheaded--in that way--this summer.” + +I was angry and impatient, but when I tried to reason with the young +lady I met a crushing refusal and a decided snub. + +“I do not care,” said Little Frank, calmly and coldly, “to explain my +reasons. I have them, and that is sufficient. I shall not go to--that +town or that place.” + +“But why?” I begged, restraining my desire to shake her. + +“I have my reasons. You may go there, if you wish. That is your right. +But I shall not. And before you go I shall insist upon a settlement of +my claim.” + +The “claim” could neither be settled nor discussed; the doctor's warning +was no less insistent although his patient was steadily improving. I +faced the alternative of my compliance or her nervous prostration and I +chose the former. My desire to shake her remained. + +So “Ash Clump” was given up. Hephzy and I speculated much concerning +Little Frank's aversion to Leatherhead. + +“It must be,” said Hephzy, “that she knows somebody there, or somethin' +like that. That's likely, I suppose. You know we don't know much about +her or what she's done since her father died, Hosy. I've tried to ask +her but she won't tell. I wish we did know.” + +“I don't,” I snarled. “I wish to heaven we had never known her at all.” + +Hephzy sighed. “It IS awful hard for you,” she said. “And yet, if we had +come to know her in another way you--we might have been glad. I--I think +she could be as sweet as she is pretty to folks she didn't consider +thieves--and Americans. She does hate Americans. That's her precious +pa's doin's, I suppose likely.” + +The next afternoon we saw the advertisement in the Standard. George, +the waiter, brought two of the London dailies to our room each day. The +advertisement read as follows: + + +“To Let for the Summer Months--Furnished. A Rectory in Mayberry, Sussex. +Ten rooms, servants' quarters, vegetable gardens, small fruit, tennis +court, etc., etc. Water and gas laid on. Golf near by. Terms low. +Rector--Mayberry, Sussex.” + + +“I answered it, Hosy,” said Hephzy. + +“You did!” + +“Yes. It sounded so nice I couldn't help it. It would be lovely to live +in a rectory, wouldn't it.” + +“Lovely--and expensive,” I answered. “I'm afraid a rectory with tennis +courts and servants' quarters and all the rest of it will prove too +grand for a pair of Bayporters like you and me. However, your answering +the ad does no harm; it doesn't commit us to anything.” + +But when the answer to the answer came it was even more appealing than +the advertisement itself. And the terms, although a trifle higher +than we had planned to pay, were not entirely beyond our means. The +rector--his name was Cole--urged us to visit Mayberry and see the place +for ourselves. We were to take the train for Haddington on Hill where +the trap would meet us. Mayberry was two miles from Haddington on Hill, +it appeared. + +We decided to go, but before writing of our intention, Hephzy consulted +the most particular member of our party. + +“It's no use doing anything until we ask her,” she said. “She may be as +down on Mayberry as she was on Leatherhead.” + +But she was not. She had no objections to Mayberry. So, after writing +and making the necessary arrangements, we took the train one bright, +sunny morning, and after a ride of an hour or more, alighted at +Haddington on Hill. + +Haddington on Hill was not on a hill at all, unless a knoll in the +middle of a wide flat meadow be called that. There were no houses near +the railway station, either rectories or any other sort. We were the +only passengers to leave the train there. + +The trap, however, was waiting. The horse which drew it was a black, +plump little animal, and the driver was a neat English lad who touched +his hat and assisted Hephzy to the back seat of the vehicle. I climbed +up beside her. + +The road wound over the knoll and away across the meadow. On either side +were farm lands, fields of young grain, or pastures with flocks of sheep +grazing contentedly. In the distance, in every direction, one caught +glimpses of little villages with gray church towers rising amid the +foliage. Each field and pasture was bordered with a hedge instead of +a fence, and over all hung the soft, light blue haze which is so +characteristic of good weather in England. + +Birds which we took to be crows, but which we learned afterward were +rooks, whirled and circled. As we turned a corner a smaller bird rose +from the grass beside the road and soared upward, singing with all its +little might until it was a fluttering speck against the sky. Hephzy +watched it, her eyes shining. + +“I believe,” she cried, excitedly, “I do believe that is a skylark. Do +you suppose it is?” + +“A lark, yes, lady,” said our driver. + +“A lark, a real skylark! Just think of it, Hosy. I've heard a real lark. +Well, Hephzibah Cahoon, you may never get into a book, but you're livin' +among book things every day of your life. 'And singin' ever soars and +soarin' ever singest.' I'd sing, too, if I knew how. You needn't be +frightened--I sha'n't try.” + +The meadows ended at the foot of another hill, a real one this time. +At our left, crowning the hill, a big house, a mansion with towers and +turrets, rose above the trees. Hephzy whispered to me. + +“You don't suppose THAT is the rectory, do you, Hosy?” she asked, in an +awestricken tone. + +“If it is we may as well go back to London,” I answered. “But it +isn't. Nothing lower in churchly rank than a bishop could keep up that +establishment.” + +The driver settled our doubts for us. + +“The Manor House, sir,” he said, pointing with his whip. “The estate +begins here, sir.” + +The “estate” was bordered by a high iron fence, stretching as far as +we could see. Beside that fence we rode for some distance. Then another +turn in the road and we entered the street of a little village, a +village of picturesque little houses, brick or stone always--not a frame +house among them. Many of the roofs were thatched. Flowers and climbing +vines and little gardens everywhere. The village looked as if it had +been there, just as it was, for centuries. + +“This is Mayberry, sir,” said our driver. “That is the rectory, next the +church.” + +We could see the church tower and the roof, but the rectory was not yet +visible to our eyes. We turned in between two of the houses, larger and +more pretentious than the rest. The driver alighted and opened a big +wooden gate. Before us was a driveway, shaded by great elms and bordered +by rose hedges. At the end of the driveway was an old-fashioned, +comfortable looking, brick house. Vines hid the most of the bricks. +Flower beds covered its foundations. A gray-haired old gentleman stood +in the doorway. + +This was the rectory we had come to see and the gray-haired gentleman +was the Reverend Mr. Cole, the rector. + +“My soul!” whispered Hephzy, looking aghast at the spacious grounds, “we +can never hire THIS. This is too expensive and grand for us, Hosy. Look +at the grass to cut and the flowers to attend to, and the house to run. +No wonder the servants have 'quarters.' My soul and body! I thought a +rector was a kind of minister, and a rectory was a sort of parsonage, +but I guess I'm off my course, as Father used to say. Either that or +ministers' wages are higher than they are in Bayport. No, this place +isn't for you and me, Hosy.” + +But it was. Before we left that rectory in the afternoon I had agreed +to lease it until the middle of September, servants--there were five +of them, groom and gardener included--horse and trap, tennis court, +vegetable garden, fruit, flowers and all. It developed that the terms, +which I had considered rather too high for my purse, included the +servants' wages, vegetables from the garden, strawberries and other +“small fruit”--everything. Even food for the horse was included in that +all-embracing rent. + +As Hephzy said, everything considered, the rent of Mayberry Rectory was +lower than that of a fair-sized summer cottage at Bayport. + +The Reverend Mr. Cole was a delightful gentleman. His wife was equally +kind and agreeable. I think they were, at first, rather unpleasantly +surprised to find that their prospective tenants were from the “States”; +but Hephzy and I managed to behave as unlike savages as we could, and +the Cole manner grew less and less reserved. Mr. Cole and his wife were +planning to spend a long vacation in Switzerland and his “living,” or +parish, was to be left in charge of his two curates. There was a son at +Oxford who was to join them on their vacation. + +Mr. Cole and I walked about the grounds and visited the church, the +yard of which, with its weather-beaten gravestones and fine old trees, +adjoined the rectory on the western side, behind the tall hedge. + +The church was built of stone, of course, and a portion of it was +older than the Norman conquest. Before the altar steps were two ancient +effigies of knights in armor, with crossed gauntlets and their feet +supported by crouching lions. These old fellows were scratched and +scarred and initialed. Upon one noble nose were the letters “A. H. N. +1694.” I decided that vandalism was not a modern innovation. + +While the rector and I were inspecting the church, Mrs. Cole and Hephzy +were making a tour of the house. They met us at the door. Mrs. Cole's +eyes were twinkling; I judged that she had found Hephzy amusing. If this +was true it had not warped her judgment, however, for, a moment later +when she and I were alone, she said: + +“Your cousin, Miss Cahoon, is a good housekeeper, I imagine.” + +“She is all of that,” I said, decidedly. + +“Yes, she was very particular concerning the kitchen and scullery and +the maids' rooms. Are all American housekeepers as particular?” + +“Not all. Miss Cahoon is unique in many ways; but she is a remarkable +woman in all.” + +“Yes. I am sure of it. And she has such a typical American accent, +hasn't she.” + +We were to take possession on the following Monday. We lunched at the +“Red Cow,” the village inn, where the meal was served in the parlor and +the landlord's daughter waited upon us. The plump black horse drew us to +the railway station, and we took the train for London. + +We have learned, by this time, that second, or even third-class travel +was quite good enough for short journeys and that very few English +people paid for first-class compartments. We were fortunate enough to +have a second-class compartment to ourselves this time, and, when we +were seated, Hephzy asked a question. + +“Did you think to speak about the golf, Hosy?” she said. “You will want +to play some, won't you?” + +“Yes,” said I. “I did ask about it. It seems that the golf course is a +private one, on the big estate we passed on the way from the station. +Permission is always given the rectory tenants.” + +“Oh! my gracious, isn't that grand! That estate isn't in Mayberry. The +Mayberry bounds--that's what Mrs. Cole called them--and just this +side. The estate is in the village of--of Burgleston Bogs. Burgleston +Bogs--it's a funny name. Seem's if I'd heard it before.” + +“You have,” said I, in surprise. “Burgleston Bogs is where that +Heathcroft chap whom we met on the steamer visits occasionally. His aunt +has a big place there. By George! you don't suppose that estate belongs +to his aunt, do you?” + +Hephzy gasped. “I wouldn't wonder,” she cried. “I wouldn't wonder if it +did. And his aunt was Lady Somebody, wasn't she. Maybe you'll meet him +there. Goodness sakes! just think of your playin' golf with a Lady's +nephew.” + +“I doubt if we need to think of it,” I observed. “Mr. Carleton +Heathcroft on board ship may be friendly with American plebeians, but on +shore, and when visiting his aunt, he may be quite different. I fancy he +and I will not play many holes together.” + +Hephzy laughed. “You 'fancy,'” she repeated. “You'll be sayin' 'My word' +next. My! Hosy, you ARE gettin' English.” + +“Indeed I'm not!” I declared, with emphasis. “My experience with an +English relative is sufficient of itself to prevent that. Miss Frances +Morley and I are compatriots for the summer only.” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +In Which We Make the Acquaintance of Mayberry and a Portion of +Burgleston Bogs + + +We migrated to Mayberry the following Monday, as we had agreed to do. +Miss Morley went with us, of course. I secured a first-class apartment +for our party and the journey was a comfortable and quiet one. Our +invalid was too weak to talk a great deal even if she had wished, which +she apparently did not. Johnson, the groom, met us at Haddington on Hill +and we drove to the rectory. There Miss Morley, very tired and worn out, +was escorted to her room by Hephzy and Charlotte, the housemaid. She was +perfectly willing to remain in that room, in fact she did not leave it +for several days. + +Meanwhile Hephzy and I were doing our best to become acquainted with our +new and novel mode of life. Hephzy took charge of the household and was, +in a way, quite in her element; in another way she was distinctly out of +it. + +“I did think I was gettin' used to bein' waited on, Hosy,” she confided, +“but it looks as if I'll have to begin all over again. Managin' one +hired girl like Susanna was a job and I tell you I thought managin' +three, same as we've got here, would be a staggerer. But it isn't. +Somehow the kind of help over here don't seem to need managin'. They +manage me more than I do them. There's Mrs. Wigham, the cook. Mrs. Cole +told me she was a 'superior' person and I guess she is--at any rate, +she's superior to me in some things. She knows what a 'gooseberry fool' +is and I'm sure I don't. I felt like another kind of fool when she told +me she was goin' to make one, as a 'sweet,' for dinner to-night. As nigh +as I can make out it's a sort of gooseberry pie, but _I_ should never +have called a gooseberry pie a 'sweet'; a 'sour' would have been better, +accordin' to my reckonin'. However, all desserts over here are 'sweets' +and fruit is dessert. Then there's Charlotte, the housemaid, and Baker, +the 'between-maid'--between upstairs and down, I suppose that means--and +Grimmer, the gardener, and Johnson, the boy that takes care of the +horse. Each one of 'em seems to know exactly what their own job is and +just as exactly where it leaves off and t'other's job begins. I never +saw such obligin' but independent folks in my life. As for my own job, +that seems to be settin' still with my hands folded. Well, it's a brand +new one and it's goin' to take me one spell to get used to it.” + +It seemed likely to be a “spell” before I became accustomed to my own +“job,” that of being a country gentleman with nothing to do but play the +part. When I went out to walk about the rectory garden, Grimmer touched +his hat. When, however, I ventured to pick a few flowers in that garden, +his expression of shocked disapproval was so marked that I felt I must +have made a dreadful mistake. I had, of course. Grimmer was in charge of +those flowers and if I wished any picked I was expected to tell him to +pick them. Picking them myself was equivalent to admitting that I was +not accustomed to having a gardener in my employ, in other words that +I was not a real gentleman at all. I might wait an hour for Johnson to +return from some errand or other and harness the horse; but I must on +no account save time by harnessing the animal myself. That sort of labor +was not done by the “gentry.” I should have lost caste with the servants +a dozen times during my first few days in the rectory were it not for +one saving grace; I was an American, and almost any peculiar thing was +expected of an American. + +When I strolled along the village street the male villagers, especially +the older ones, touched their hats to me. The old women bowed or +courtesied. Also they invariably paused, when I had passed, to stare +after me. The group at the blacksmith shop--where the stone coping of +the low wall was worn in hollows by the generations of idlers who had +sat upon it, just as their descendants were sitting upon it +now--turned, after I had passed, to stare. There would be a pause in the +conversation, then an outburst of talk and laughter. They were talking +about the “foreigner” of course, and laughing at him. At the +tailor's, where I sent my clothes to be pressed, the tailor himself, a +gray-haired, round-shouldered antique, ventured an opinion concerning +those clothes. “That coat was not made in England, sir,” he said. “We +don't make 'em that way 'ere, sir. That's a bit foreign, that coat, +sir.” + +Yes, I was a foreigner. It was hard to realize. In a way everything was +so homelike; the people looked like people I had known at home, their +faces were New England faces quite as much as they were old England. +But their clothes were just a little different, and their ways were +different, and a dry-goods store was a “draper's shop,” and a drug-store +was a “chemist's,” and candies were “sweeties” and a public school was a +“board school” and a boarding-school was a “public school.” And I might +be polite and pleasant to these people--persons out of my “class”--but I +must not be too cordial, for if I did, in the eyes of these very people, +I lost caste and they would despise me. + +Yes, I was a foreigner; it was a queer feeling. + +Coming from America and particularly from democratic Bayport, where +everyone is as good as anyone else provided he behaves himself, the +class distinction in Mayberry was strange at first. I do not mean that +there was not independence there; there was, among the poorest as well +as the richer element. Every male Mayberryite voted as he thought, I am +sure; and was self-respecting and independent. He would have resented +any infringement of his rights just as Englishmen have resented such +infringements and fought against them since history began. But what I am +trying to make plain is that political equality and social equality were +by no means synonymous. A man was a man for 'a' that, but when he was +a gentleman he was 'a' that' and more. And when he was possessed of +a title he was revered because of that title, or the title itself was +revered. The hatter in London where I purchased a new “bowler,” had +a row of shelves upon which were boxes containing, so I was told, the +spare titles of eminent customers. And those hat-boxes were lettered +like this: “The Right Hon. Col. Wainwright, V.C.,” “His Grace the Duke +of Leicester,” “Sir George Tupman, K.C.B.,” etc., etc. It was my first +impression that the hatter was responsible for thus proclaiming his +customers' titles, but one day I saw Richard, convoyed by Henry, +reverently bearing a suitcase into Bancroft's Hotel. And that suitcase +bore upon its side the inscription, in very large letters, “Lord Eustace +Stairs.” Then I realized that Lord Eustace, like the owners of the +hat-boxes, recognizing the value of a title, advertised it accordingly. + +I laughed when I saw the suitcase and the hat-boxes. When I told Hephzy +about the latter she laughed, too. + +“That's funny, isn't it,” she said. “Suppose the folks that have their +names on the mugs in the barber shop back home had 'em lettered 'Cap'n +Elkanah Crowell,' 'Judge the Hon. Ezra Salters,' 'The Grand Exalted +Sachem Order of Red Men George Kendrick.' How everybody would laugh, +wouldn't they. Why they'd laugh Cap'n Elkanah and Ezra and Kendrick out +of town.” + +So they would have done--in Bayport--but not in Mayberry or London. +Titles and rank and class in England are established and accepted +institutions, and are not laughed at, for where institutions of that +kind are laughed at they soon cease to be. Hephzy summed it up pretty +well when she said: + +“After all, it all depends on what you've been brought up to, doesn't +it, Hosy. Your coat don't look funny to you because you've always worn +that kind of coat, but that tailor man thought 'twas funny because he +never saw one made like it. And a lord takin' his lordship seriously +seems funny to us, but it doesn't seem so to him or to the tailor. +They've been brought up to it, same as you have to the coat.” + +On one point she and I had agreed before coming to Mayberry, that was +that we must not expect calls from the neighbors or social intercourse +with the people of Mayberry. + +“They don't know anything about us,” said I, “except that we are +Americans, and that may or may not be a recommendation, according to the +kind of Americans they have previously met. The Englishman, so all the +books tell us, is reserved and distant at first. He requires a long +acquaintance before admitting strangers to his home life and we shall +probably have no opportunity to make that acquaintance. If we were to +stay in Mayberry a year, and behaved ourselves, we might in time be +accepted as desirable, but not during the first summer. So if they leave +us to ourselves we must make the best of it.” + +Hephzy agreed thoroughly. “You're right,” she said. “And, after all, +it's just what would happen anywhere. You remember when that Portygee +family came to Bayport and lived in the Solon Blodgett house. Nobody +would have anything to do with 'em for a long time because they were +foreigners, but they turned out to be real nice folks after all. We're +foreigners here and you can't blame the Mayberry people for not takin' +chances; it looks as if nobody in it ever had taken a chance, as if it +had been just the way it is since Noah came out of the Ark. I never felt +so new and shiny in my life as I do around this old rectory and this old +town.” + +Which was all perfectly true and yet the fact remains that, “new and +shiny” as we were, the Mayberry people--those of our “class”--began to +call upon us almost immediately, to invite us to their homes, to show us +little kindnesses, and to be whole-souled and hospitable and friendly as +if we had known them and they us for years. It was one of the greatest +surprises, and remains one of the most pleasant recollections, of my +brief career as a resident in England, the kindly cordiality of these +neighbors in Mayberry. + +The first caller was Dr. Bayliss, who occupied “Jasmine Gables,” the +pretty house next door. He dropped in one morning, introduced himself, +shook hands and chatted for an hour. That afternoon his wife called upon +Hephzy. The next day I played a round of golf upon the private course +on the Manor House grounds, the Burgleston Bogs grounds--with the doctor +and his son, young Herbert Bayliss, just through Cambridge and the +medical college at London. Young Bayliss was a pleasant, good-looking +young chap and I liked him as I did his father. He was at present +acting as his father's assistant in caring for the former's practice, a +practice which embraced three or four villages and a ten-mile stretch of +country. + +Naturally I was interested in the Manor estate and its owner. The +grounds were beautiful, three square miles in extent and cared for, so +Bayliss, Senior, told me, by some hundred and fifty men, seventy of +whom were gardeners. Of the Manor House itself I caught a glimpse, +gray-turreted and huge, set at the end of lawns and flower beds, with +fountains playing and statues gleaming white amid the foliage. I asked +some questions concerning its owner. Yes, she was Lady Kent Carey and +she had a nephew named Heathcroft. So there was a chance, after all, +that I might again meet my ship acquaintance who abhorred “griddle +cakes.” I imagined he would be somewhat surprised at that meeting. It +was an odd coincidence. + +As for the game of golf, my part of it, the least said the better. +Doctor Bayliss, who, it developed, was an enthusiast at the game, was +kind enough to tell me I had a “topping” drive. I thanked him, but there +was altogether too much “topping” connected with my play that forenoon +to make my thanks enthusiastic. I determined to practice assiduously +before attempting another match. Somehow I felt responsible for the +golfing honor of my country. + +Other callers came to the rectory. The two curates, their names were +Judson and Worcester, visited us; young men, both of them, and good +fellows, Worcester particularly. Although they wore clerical garb +they were not in the least “preachy.” Hephzy, although she liked them, +expressed surprise. + +“They didn't act a bit like ministers,” she said. “They didn't ask us +to come to meetin' nor hint at prayin' with the family or anything, yet +they looked for all the while like two Methodist parsons, young ones. A +curate is a kind of new-hatched rector, isn't he?” + +“Not exactly,” I answered. “He is only partially hatched. But, whatever +you do, don't tell them they look like Methodists; they wouldn't +consider it a compliment.” + +Hephzy was a Methodist herself and she resented the slur. “Well, I guess +a Methodist is as good as an Episcopalian,” she declared. “And they +don't ACT like Methodists. Why, one of 'em smoked a pipe. Just imagine +Mr. Partridge smokin' a pipe!” + +Mr. Judson and I played eighteen holes of golf together. He played a +little worse than I did and I felt better. The honor of Bayport's golf +had been partially vindicated. + +While all this was going on our patient remained, for the greater part +of the time, in her room. She was improving steadily. Doctor Bayliss, +whom I had asked to attend her, declared, as his London associates had +done, that all she needed was rest, quiet and the good air and food +which she was certain to get in Mayberry. He, too, like the physician at +Bancroft's, seemed impressed by her appearance and manner. And he also +asked similar embarrassing questions. + +“Delightful young lady, Miss Morley,” he observed. “One of our English +girls, Knowles. She informs me that she IS English.” + +“Partly English,” I could not help saying. “Her mother was an American.” + +“Oh, indeed! You know she didn't tell me that, now did she.” + +“Perhaps not.” + +“No, by Jove, she didn't. But she has lived all her life in England?” + +“Yes--in England and France.” + +“Your niece, I think you said.” + +I had said it, unfortunately, and it could not be unsaid now without +many explanations. So I nodded. + +“She doesn't--er--behave like an American. She hasn't the American +manner, I mean to say. Now Miss Cahoon has--er--she has--” + +“Miss Cahoon's manner is American. So is mine; we ARE Americans, you +see.” + +“Yes, yes, of course,” hastily. “When are you and I to have the nine +holes you promised, Knowles?” + +One fine afternoon the invalid came downstairs. The “between-maid” had +arranged chairs and the table on the lawn. We were to have tea there; we +had tea every day, of course--were getting quite accustomed to it. + +Frances--I may as well begin calling her that--looked in better health +then than at any time since our meeting. She was becomingly, although +simply gowned, and there was a dash of color in her cheeks. Hephzibah +escorted her to the tea table. I rose to meet them. + +“Frank--Frances, I mean--is goin' to join us to-day,” said Hephzy. +“She's beginnin' to look real well again, isn't she.” + +I said she was. Frances nodded to me and took one of the chairs, the +most comfortable one. She appeared perfectly self-possessed, which I was +sure I did not. I was embarrassed, of course. Each time I met the +girl the impossible situation in which she had placed us became more +impossible, to my mind. And the question, “What on earth shall we do +with her?” more insistent. + +Hephzy poured the tea. Frances, cup in hand, looked about her. + +“This is rather a nice place, after all,” she observed, “isn't it.” + +“It's a real lovely place,” declared Hephzy with enthusiasm. + +The young lady cast another appraising glance at our surroundings. + +“Yes,” she repeated, “it's a jolly old house and the grounds are not bad +at all.” + +Her tone nettled me. Everything considered I thought she might have +shown a little more enthusiasm. + +“I infer that you expected something much worse,” I observed. + +“Oh, of course I didn't know what to expect. How should I? I had no hand +in selecting it, you know.” + +“She's hardly seen it,” put in Hephzy. “She was too sick when she came +to notice much, I guess, and this is the first time she has been out +doors.” + +“I am glad you approve,” I observed, drily. + +My sarcasm was wasted. Miss Morley said again that she did approve, of +what she had seen, and added that we seemed to have chosen very well. + +“I don't suppose,” said Hephzy, complacently, “that there are many much +prettier places in England than this one.” + +“Oh, indeed there are. But all England is beautiful, of course.” + +I thought of Mrs. Briggs' lodging-house, but I did not refer to it. Our +guest--or my “niece”--or our ward--it was hard to classify her--changed +the subject. + +“Have you met any of the people about here?” she asked. + +Hephzy burst into enthusiastic praise of the Baylisses and the curates +and the Coles. + +“They're all just as nice as they can be,” she declared. “I never met +nicer folks, at home or anywhere.” + +Frances nodded. “All English people are nice,” she said. + +Again I thought of Mrs. Briggs and again I kept my thoughts to myself. +Hephzy went on rhapsodizing. I paid little attention until I heard her +speak my name. + +“And Hosy thinks so, too. Don't you, Hosy?” she said. + +I answered yes, on the chance. Frances regarded me oddly. + +“I thought--I understood that your name was Kent, Mr. Knowles,” she +said. + +“It is.” + +“Then why does Miss Cahoon always--” + +Hephzy interrupted. “Oh, I always call him Hosy,” she explained. “It's a +kind of pet name of mine. It's short for Hosea. His whole name is Hosea +Kent Knowles, but 'most everybody but me does call him Kent. I don't +think he likes Hosea very well.” + +Our companion looked very much as if she did not wonder at my dislike. +Her eyes twinkled. + +“Hosea,” she repeated. “That is an odd name. The original Hosea was a +prophet, wasn't he? Are you a prophet, Mr. Knowles?” + +“Far from it,” I answered, with decision. If I had been a prophet I +should have been forewarned and, consequently, forearmed. + +She smiled and against my will I was forced to admit that her smile was +attractive; she was prettier than ever when she smiled. + +“I remember now,” she said; “all Americans have Scriptural names. I have +read about them in books.” + +“Hosy writes books,” said Hephzy, proudly. “That's his profession; he's +an author.” + +“Oh, really, is he! How interesting!” + +“Yes, he is. He has written ever so many books; haven't you, Hosy.” + +I didn't answer. My self and my “profession” were the last subjects I +cared to discuss. The young lady's smile broadened. + +“And where do you write your books, Mr. Knowles?” she asked. +“In--er--Bayport?” + +“Yes,” I answered, shortly. “Hephzy, Miss Morley will have another cup +of tea, I think.” + +“Oh, no, thank you. But tell me about your books, Mr. Knowles. Are they +stories of Bayport?” + +“No indeed!” Hephzy would do my talking for me, and I could not order +her to be quiet. “No indeed!” she declared. “He writes about lords and +ladies and counts and such. He hardly ever writes about everyday people +like the ones in Bayport. You would like his books, Frances. You would +enjoy readin' 'em, I know.” + +“I am sure I should. They must be delightful. I do hope you brought some +with you, Mr. Knowles.” + +“He didn't, but I did. I'll lend you some, Frances. I'll lend you 'The +Queen's Amulet.' That's a splendid story.” + +“I am sure it must be. So you write about queens, too, Mr. Knowles. I +thought Americans scorned royalty. And what is his queen's name, Miss +Cahoon? Is it Scriptural?” + +“Oh, no indeed! Besides, all Americans' names aren't out of the Bible, +any more than the names in England are. That man who wanted to let us +his house in Copperhead--no, Leatherhead--funny I should forget THAT +awful name--he was named Solomon--Solomon Cripps... Why, what is it?” + +Miss Morley's smile and the mischievous twinkle had vanished. She looked +startled, and even frightened, it seemed to me. + +“What is it, Frances?” repeated Hephzy, anxiously. + +“Nothing--nothing. Solomon--what was it? Solomon Cripps. That is an odd +name. And you met this Mr.--er--Cripps?” + +“Yes, we met him. He had a house he wanted to let us, and I guess we'd +have taken it, too, only you seemed to hate the name of Leatherhead so. +Don't you remember you did? I don't blame you. Of the things to call a +pretty town that's about the worst.” + +“Yes, it is rather frightful. But this, Mr.--er--Cripps; was he as bad +as his name? Did you talk with him?” + +“Only about the house. Hosy and I didn't like him well enough to +talk about anything else, except religion. He and his wife gave us +to understand they were awful pious. I'm afraid we wouldn't have been +churchy enough to suit them, anyway. Hosy, here, doesn't go to meetin' +as often as he ought to.” + +“I am glad of it.” The young lady's tone was emphatic and she looked as +if she meant it. We were surprised. + +“You're glad of it!” repeated Hephzy, in amazement. “Why?” + +“Because I hate persons who go to church all the time and boast of it, +who do all sorts of mean things, but preach, preach, preach continually. +They are hypocritical and false and cruel. I HATE them.” + +She looked now as she had in the room at Mrs. Briggs's when I had +questioned her concerning her father. I could not imagine the reason for +this sudden squall from a clear sky. Hephzy drew a long breath. + +“Well,” she said, after a moment, “then Hosy and you ought to get along +first-rate together. He's down on hypocrites and make-believe piety +as bad as you are. The only time he and Mr. Partridge, our minister +in Bayport, ever quarreled--'twasn't a real quarrel, but more of a +disagreement--was over what sort of a place Heaven was. Mr. Partridge +was certain sure that nobody but church members would be there, and Hosy +said if some of the church members in Bayport were sure of a ticket, the +other place had strong recommendations. 'Twas an awful thing to say, and +I was almost as shocked as the minister was; that is I should have been +if I hadn't known he didn't mean it.” + +Miss Morley regarded me with a new interest, or at least I thought she +did. + +“Did you mean it?” she asked. + +I smiled. “Yes,” I answered. + +“Now, Hosy,” cried Hephzy. “What a way that is to talk! What do you know +about the hereafter?” + +“Not much, but,” remembering the old story, “I know Bayport. Humph! +speaking of ministers, here is one now.” + +Judson, the curate, was approaching across the lawn. Hephzy hastily +removed the lid of the teapot. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief, +“there's enough tea left, though you mustn't have any more, Hosy. Mr. +Judson always takes three cups.” + +Judson was introduced and, the “between-maid” having brought another +chair, he joined our party. He accepted the first of the three cups and +observed. + +“I hope I haven't interrupted an important conversation. You appeared to +be talking very earnestly.” + +I should have answered, but Hephzy's look of horrified expostulation +warned me to be silent. Frances, although she must have seen the look, +answered instead. + +“We were discussing Heaven,” she said, calmly. “Mr. Knowles doesn't +approve of it.” + +Hephzy bounced on her chair. “Why!” she cried; “why, what a--why, WHAT +will Mr. Judson think! Now, Frances, you know--” + +“That was what you said, Mr. Knowles, wasn't it. You said if Paradise +was exclusively for church members you preferred--well, another +locality. That was what I understood you to say.” + +Mr. Judson looked at me. He was a very good and very orthodox and a very +young man and his feelings showed in his face. + +“I--I can scarcely think Mr. Knowles said that, Miss Morley,” he +protested. “You must have misunderstood him.” + +“Oh, but I didn't misunderstand. That was what he said.” + +Again Mr. Judson looked at me. It seemed time for me to say something. + +“What I said, or meant to say, was that I doubted if the future life, +the--er--pleasant part of it, was confined exclusively to--er--professed +church members,” I explained. + +The curate's ruffled feelings were evidently not soothed by this +explanation. + +“But--but, Mr. Knowles,” he stammered, “really, I--I am at a loss to +understand your meaning. Surely you do not mean that--that--” + +“Of course he didn't mean that,” put in Hephzy. “What he said was that +some of the ones who talk the loudest and oftenest in prayer-meetin' at +our Methodist church in Bayport weren't as good as they pretended to be. +And that's so, too.” + +Mr. Judson seemed relieved. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes, I quite +comprehend. Methodists--er--dissenters--that is quite different--quite.” + +“Mr. Judson knows that no one except communicants in the Church of +England are certain of happiness,” observed Frances, very gravely. + +Our caller turned his attention to her. He was not a joker, but I think +he was a trifle suspicious. The young lady met his gaze with one of +serene simplicity and, although he reddened, he returned to the charge. + +“I should--I should scarcely go as far as that, Miss Morley,” he +said. “But I understand Mr. Knowles to refer to--er--church members; +and--er--dissenters--Methodists and others--are not--are not--” + +“Well,” broke in Hephzibah, with decision, “I'm a Methodist, myself, and +_I_ don't expect to go to perdition.” + +Judson's guns were spiked. He turned redder than ever and changed the +subject to the weather. + +The remainder of the conversation was confined for the most part to +Frances and the curate. They discussed the village and the people in it +and the church and its activities. At length Judson mentioned golf. + +“Mr. Knowles and I are to have another round shortly, I trust,” he said. +“You owe me a revenge, you know, Mr. Knowles.” + +“Oh,” exclaimed the young lady, in apparent surprise, “does Mr. Knowles +play golf?” + +“Not real golf,” I observed. + +“Oh, but he does,” protested Mr. Judson, “he does. Rather! He plays a +very good game indeed. He beat me quite badly the other day.” + +Which, according to my reckoning, was by no means a proof of +extraordinary ability. Frances seemed amused, for some unexplained +reason. + +“I should never have thought it,” she observed. + +“Why not?” asked Judson. + +“Oh, I don't know. Golf is a game, and Mr. Knowles doesn't look as if he +played games. I should have expected nothing so frivolous from him.” + +“My golf is anything but frivolous,” I said. “It's too seriously bad.” + +“Do you golf, Miss Morley, may I ask?” inquired the curate. + +“I have occasionally, after a fashion. I am sure I should like to +learn.” + +“I shall be delighted to teach you. It would be a great pleasure, +really.” + +He looked as if it would be a pleasure. Frances smiled. + +“Thank you so much,” she said. “You and I and Mr. Knowles will have a +threesome.” + +Judson's joy at her acceptance was tempered, it seemed to me. + +“Oh, of course,” he said. “It will be a great pleasure to have your +uncle with us. A great pleasure, of course.” + +“My--uncle?” + +“Why, yes--Mr. Knowles, you know. By the way, Miss Morley--excuse +my mentioning it, but I notice you always address your uncle as Mr. +Knowles. That seems a bit curious, if you'll pardon my saying so. A bit +distant and--er--formal to our English habit. Do all nieces and nephews +in your country do that? Is it an American custom?” + +Hephzy and I looked at each other and my “niece” looked at both of us. I +could feel the blood tingling in my cheeks and forehead. + +“Is it an American custom?” repeated Mr. Judson. + +“I don't know,” with chilling deliberation. “I am NOT an American.” + +The curate said “Indeed!” and had the astonishing good sense not to say +any more. Shortly afterward he said good-by. + +“But I shall look forward to our threesome, Miss Morley,” he declared. +“I shall count upon it in the near future.” + +After his departure there was a most embarrassing interval of silence. +Hephzy spoke first. + +“Don't you think you had better go in now, Frances,” she said. “Seems to +me you had. It's the first time you've been out at all, you know.” + +The young lady rose. “I am going,” she said. “I am going, if you and--my +uncle--will excuse me.” + +That evening, after dinner, Hephzy joined me in the drawing-room. It was +a beautiful summer evening, but every shade was drawn and every shutter +tightly closed. We had, on our second evening in the rectory, suggested +leaving them open, but the housemaid had shown such shocked surprise +and disapproval that we had not pressed the point. By this time we had +learned that “privacy” was another sacred and inviolable English custom. +The rectory sat in its own ground, surrounded by high hedges; no +one, without extraordinary pains, could spy upon its inmates, but, +nevertheless, the privacy of those inmates must be guaranteed. So the +shutters were closed and the shades drawn. + +“Well?” said I to Hephzy. + +“Well,” said Hephzy, “it's better than I was afraid it was goin' to be. +I explained that you told the folks at Bancroft's she was your niece +because 'twas the handiest thing to tell 'em, and you HAD to tell 'em +somethin'. And down here in Mayberry the same way. She understood, I +guess; at any rate she didn't make any great objection. I thought at the +last that she was laughin', but I guess she wasn't. Only what she said +sounded funny.” + +“What did she say?” + +“Why, she wanted to know if she should call you 'Uncle Hosea.' She +supposed it should be that--'Uncle Hosy' sounded a little irreverent.” + +I did not answer. “Uncle Hosea!” a beautiful title, truly. + +“She acted so different to-day, didn't she,” observed Hephzy. “It's +because she's gettin' well, I suppose. She was real full of fun, wasn't +she.” + +“Confound her--yes,” I snarled. “All the fun is on her side. Well, she +should make the best of it while it lasts. When she learns the truth she +may not find it so amusing.” + +Hephzy sighed. “Yes,” she said, slowly, “I'm afraid that's so, poor +thing. When--when are you goin' to tell her?” + +“I don't know,” I answered. “But pretty soon, that's certain.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +In Which I Break All Previous Resolutions and Make a New One + + +That afternoon tea on the lawn was the beginning of the great change +in our life at the rectory. Prior to that Hephzy and I had, golfly +speaking, been playing it as a twosome. Now it became a threesome, with +other players added at frequent intervals. At luncheon next day our +invalid, a real invalid no longer, joined us at table in the pleasant +dining-room, the broad window of which opened upon the formal garden +with the sundial in the center. She was in good spirits, and, as Hephzy +confided to me afterward, was “gettin' a real nice appetite.” In gaining +this appetite she appeared to have lost some of her dignity and chilling +condescension; at all events, she treated her American relatives as if +she considered them human beings. She addressed most of her conversation +to Hephzy, always speaking of and to her as “Miss Cahoon.” She still +addressed me as “Mr. Knowles,” and I was duly thankful; I had feared +being hailed as “Uncle Hosy.” + +After lunch Mr. Judson called again. He was passing, he explained, on +his round of parish calls, and had dropped in casually. Mr. Worcester +also came; his really was a casual stop, I think. He and his brother +curate were very brotherly indeed, but I noticed an apparent reluctance +on the part of each to leave before the other. They left together, but +Mr. Judson again hinted at the promised golf game, and Mr. Worcester, +having learned from Miss Morley that she played and sang, expressed +great interest in music and begged permission to bring some “favorite +songs,” which he felt sure Miss Morley might like to run over. + +Miss Morley herself was impartially gracious and affable to both the +clerical gentlemen; she was looking forward to the golf, she said, and +the songs she was certain would be jolly. Hephzy and I had very little +to say, and no one seemed particularly anxious to hear that little. + +The curates had scarcely disappeared down the driveway when Doctor +Bayliss and his son strolled in from next door. Doctor Bayliss, Senior, +was much pleased to find his patient up and about, and Herbert, the +son, even more pleased to find her at all, I judge. Young Bayliss was +evidently very favorably impressed with his new neighbor. He was a big, +healthy, broad-shouldered fellow, a grown-up boy, whose laugh was a +pleasure to hear, and who possessed the faculty, envied by me, the +quahaug, of chatting entertainingly on all subjects from tennis and +the new American dances to Lloyd-George and old-age pensions. Frances +declared a strong aversion to the dances, principally because they were +American, I suspected. + +Doctor Bayliss, the old gentleman, then turned to me. + +“What is the American opinion of the Liberal measures?” he asked. + +“I should say,” I answered, “that, so far as they are understood in +America, opinion concerning them is divided, much as it is here.” + +“Really! But you haven't the Liberal and Conservative parties as we +have, you know.” + +“We have liberals and conservatives, however, although our political +parties are not so named.” + +“We call 'em Republicans and Democrats,” explained Hephzy. “Hosy is a +Republican,” she added, proudly. + +“I am not certain what I am,” I observed. “I have voted a split ticket +of late.” + +Young Bayliss asked a question. + +“Are you a--what is it--Republican, Miss Morley?” he inquired. + +Miss Morley's eyes dropped disdainfully. + +“I am neither,” she said. “My father was a Conservative, of course.” + +“Oh, I say! That's odd, isn't it. Your uncle here is--” + +“Uncle Hosea, you mean?” sweetly. “Oh, Uncle Hosea is an American. I am +English.” + +She did not add “Thank heaven,” but she might as well. “Uncle Hosea” + shuddered at the name. Young Bayliss grinned behind his blonde mustache. +When he left, in company with his father, Hephzy invited him to “run in +any time.” + +“We're next-door neighbors,” she said, “so we mustn't be formal.” + +I was fairly certain that the invitation was superfluous. If I knew +human nature at all I knew that Bayliss, Junior, did not intend to let +formality stand in the way of frequent calls at the rectory. + +My intuition was correct. The following afternoon he called again. +So did Mr. Judson. Both calls were casual, of course. So was Mr. +Worcester's that evening. He came to bring the “favorite songs” and was +much surprised to find Miss Morley in the drawing-room. He said so. + +Hephzy and I knew little of our relative's history. She had volunteered +no particulars other than those given on the occasion of our first +meeting, but we did know, because Mrs. Briggs had told us, that she had +been a member of an opera troupe. This evening we heard her sing for the +first time. She sang well; her voice was not a strong one, but it was +clear and sweet and she knew how to use it. Worcester sang well also, +and the little concert was very enjoyable. + +It was the first of many. Almost every evening after dinner Frances sat +down at the old-fashioned piano, with the candle brackets at each side +of the music rack, and sang. Occasionally we were her only auditors, +but more often one or both of the curates or Doctor and Mrs. Bayliss or +Bayliss, Junior, dropped in. We made other acquaintances--Mrs. Griggson, +the widow in “reduced circumstances,” whose husband had been killed in +the Boer war, and who occupied the little cottage next to the draper's +shop; Mr. and Mrs. Samson, of Burgleston Bogs, friends of the Baylisses, +and others. They were pleasant, kindly, unaffected people and we enjoyed +their society. + +Each day Frances gained in health and strength. The care-free, +wholesome, out-of-door life at Mayberry seemed to suit her. She seemed +to consider herself a member of the family now; at all events she +did not speak of leaving nor hint at the prompt settlement of her +preposterous “claim.” Hephzy and I did not mention it, even to each +other. Hephzy, I think, was quite satisfied with things as they were, +and I, in spite of my threats and repeated declarations that the present +state of affairs was ridiculous and could not last, put off telling +“my niece” the truth. I, too, was growing more accustomed to the +“threesome.” + +The cloud was always there, hanging over our heads and threatening a +storm at any moment, but I was learning to forget it. The situation +had its pleasant side; it was not all bad. For instance, meals in the +pleasant dining-room, with Hephzy at one end of the table, I at the +other, and Frances between us, were more social and chatty than they had +been. To have the young lady come down to breakfast, her hair prettily +arranged, her cheeks rosy with health, and her eyes shining with youth +and the joy of life, was almost a tonic. I found myself taking more +pains with my morning toilet, choosing my tie with greater care and +being more careful concerning the condition of my boots. I even began to +dress for dinner, a concession to English custom which was odd enough +in one of my easy-going habits and Bayport rearing. I imagine that +the immaculate appearance of young Bayliss, when he dropped in for the +“sing” in the drawing-room, was responsible for the resurrection of my +dinner coat. He did look so disgustingly young and handsome and at ease. +I was conscious of each one of my thirty-eight years whenever I looked +at him. + +I was rejuvenating in other ways. It had been my custom at Bayport to +retire to my study and my books each evening. Here, where callers +were so frequent, I found it difficult to do this and, although the +temptation was to sit quietly in a corner and let the others do the +talking, I was not allowed to yield. The younger callers, particularly +the masculine portion, would not have objected to my silence, I am +sure, but “my niece” seemed to take mischievous pleasure in drawing the +quahaug out of his shell. She had a disconcerting habit of asking me +unexpected questions at times when my attention was wandering, and, if +I happened to state a definite opinion, taking the opposite side with +promptness. After a time I decided not to express opinions, but to agree +with whatever was said as the simplest way of avoiding controversy and +being left to myself. + +This procedure should, it seemed to me, have satisfied her, but +apparently it did not. On one occasion, Judson and Herbert Bayliss being +present, the conversation turned to the subject of American athletic +sports. The curate and Bayliss took the ground, the prevailing thought +in England apparently, that all American games were not games, but +fights in which the true sporting spirit was sacrificed to the desire +to win at any cost. I had said nothing, keeping silent for two reasons. +First, that I had given my views on the subject before, and, second, +because argument from me was, in that company, fruitless effort. The +simplest way to end discussion of a disagreeable topic was to pay no +attention to it. + +But I was not allowed to escape so easily. Bayliss asked me a question. + +“Isn't it true, Mr. Knowles,” he asked, “that the American football +player wears a sort of armor to prevent his being killed?” + +My thoughts had been drifting anywhere and everywhere. Just then they +were centered about “my niece's” hands. She had very pretty hands and +a most graceful way of using them. At the moment they were idly turning +some sheets of music, but the way the slim fingers moved in and out +between the pages was pretty and fascinating. Her foot, glimpsed beneath +her skirt, was slender and graceful, too. She had an attractive trick of +swinging it as she sat upon the piano stool. + +Recalled from these and other pleasing observations by Bayliss's mention +of my name, I looked up. + +“I beg pardon?” said I. + +Bayliss repeated his question. + +“Oh, yes,” said I, and looked down again at the foot. + +“So I have been told,” said the questioner, triumphantly. “And without +that--er--armor many of the players would be killed, would they not?” + +“What? Oh, yes; yes, of course.” + +“And many are killed or badly injured as it is?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“How many during a season, may I ask?” + +“Eh? Oh--I don't know.” + +“A hundred?” + +The foot was swinging more rapidly now. It was such a small foot. My own +looked so enormous and clumsy and uncouth by comparison. + +“A--oh, thousands,” said I, at random. If the number were large enough +to satisfy him he might cease to worry me. + +“A beastly game,” declared Judson, with conviction. “How can a civilized +country countenance such brutality! Do you countenance it, Mr. Knowles?” + +“Yes--er--that is, no.” + +“You agree, then, that it is brutal?” + +“Certainly, certainly.” Would the fellow never stop? + +“Then--” + +“Nonsense!” It was Frances who spoke and her tone was emphatic and +impatient. We all looked at her; her cheeks were flushed and she +appeared highly indignant. “Nonsense!” she said again. “He doesn't agree +to any such thing. I've heard him say that American football was not as +brutal as our fox-hunting and that fewer people were killed or injured. +We play polo and we ride in steeplechases and the papers are full of +accidents. I don't believe Americans are more brutal or less civilized +in their sports than we are, not in the least.” + +Considering that she had at the beginning of the conversation apparently +agreed with all that had been said, and, moreover, had often, in +speaking to Hephzy and me, referred to the “States” as an uncivilized +country, this declaration was astonishing. I was astonished for one. +Hephzy clapped her hands. + +“Of course they aren't,” she declared. “Hosy--Mr. Knowles--didn't mean +that they were, either.” + +Our callers looked at each other and Herbert Bayliss hastily changed the +subject. After they had gone I ventured to thank my champion for coming +to the rescue of my sporting countrymen. She flashed an indignant glance +at me. + +“Why do you say such things?” she demanded. “You know they weren't +true.” + +“What was the use of saying anything else? They have read the accounts +of football games which American penny-a-line correspondents send to the +London papers and nothing I could say would change their convictions.” + +“It doesn't make any difference. You should say what you think. To sit +there and let them--Oh, it is ridiculous!” + +“My feelings were not hurt. Their ideas will broaden by and by, when +they are as old as I am. They're young now.” + +This charitable remark seemed to have the effect of making her more +indignant than ever. + +“Nonsense!” she cried. “You speak as if you were an Old Testament +patriarch.” + +Hephzy put in a word. + +“Why, Frances,” she said, “I thought you didn't like America.” + +“I don't. Of course I don't. But it makes me lose patience to have him +sit there and agree to everything those boys say. Why didn't he answer +them as he should? If I were an American no one--NO one should rag me +about my country without getting as good as they gave.” + +I was amused. “What would you have me do?” I asked. “Rise and sing the +'Star Spangled Banner'?” + +“I would have you speak your mind like a man. Not sit there like a--like +a rabbit. And I wouldn't act and think like a Methusaleh until I was +one.” + +It was quite evident that “my niece” was a young person of whims. The +next time the “States” were mentioned and I ventured to speak in their +defence, she calmly espoused the other side and “ragged” as mercilessly +as the rest. I found myself continually on the defensive, and this state +of affairs had one good effect at least--that of waking me up. + +Toward Hephzy her manner was quite different. She now, especially when +we three were alone, occasionally addressed her as “Auntie.” And she +would not permit “Auntie” to be made fun of. At the least hint of such a +thing she snubbed the would-be humorist thoroughly. She and Hephzy +were becoming really friendly. I felt certain she was beginning to like +her--to discern the real woman beneath the odd exterior. But when I +expressed this thought to Hephzy herself she shook her head doubtfully. + +“Sometimes I've almost thought so, Hosy,” she said, “but only this +mornin' when I said somethin' about her mother and how much she looked +like her, she almost took my head off. And she's got her pa's picture +right in the middle of her bureau. No, Hosy, she's nicer to us than she +was at first because it's her nature to be nice. So long as she forgets +who and what we are, or what her scamp of a father told her we were, she +treats us like her own folks. But when she remembers we're receivers of +stolen goods, livin' on money that belongs to her, then it's different. +You can't blame her for that, I suppose. But--but how is it all goin' to +end? _I_ don't know.” + +I didn't know either. + +“I had hoped,” I said, “that, living with us as she does, she might come +to know and understand us--to learn that we couldn't be the sort she has +believed us to be. Then it seems to me we might tell her and she would +listen to reason.” + +“I--I'm afraid we can't wait long. You see, there's another thing, Hosy. +She needs clothes and--and lots of things. She realizes it. Yesterday +she told me she must go up to London, shopping, pretty soon. She asked +me to go with her. I put her off; said I was awful busy around the +house just now, but she'll ask me again, and if I don't go she'll go by +herself.” + +“Humph! I don't see how she can do much shopping. She hasn't a penny, so +far as I know.” + +“You don't understand. She thinks she has got a good many pennies, or +we've got 'em for her. She's just as liable to buy all creation and send +us the bills.” + +I whistled. “Well,” I said, decidedly, “when that happens we must put +our foot down. Neither you nor I are millionaires, Hephzy, and she must +understand that regardless of consequences.” + +“You mean you'll tell her--everything?” + +“I shall have to. Why do you look at me like that? Are we to use +common-sense or aren't we? Are we in a position to adopt a young woman +of expensive tastes--actually adopt her? And not only that, but give her +carte blanche--let her buy whatever she pleases and charge it to us?” + +“I suppose not. But--” + +“But what?” + +“Well, I--I don't see how we can stop her buying whatever she pleases +with what she thinks is her own money.” + +“I do. We can tell her she has no money. I shall do it. My mind is made +up.” + +Hephzy said nothing, but her expression was one of doubt. I stalked off +in a bad temper. Discussions of the kind always ended in just this way. +However, I swore a solemn oath to keep my word this time. There were +limits and they had been reached. Besides, as I had said, the situation +was changed in one way; we no longer had an invalid to deal with. No, my +mind was made up. True, this was at least the tenth time I had made it +up, but this time I meant it. + +The test came two days later and was the result of a call on the +Samsons. The Samsons lived at Burgleston Bogs, and we drove to their +house in the trap behind “Pet,” the plump black horse. Mrs. Samson +seemed very glad to see us, urged us to remain for tea, and invited +us to attend a tennis tournament on their lawn the following week. She +asked if Miss Morley played tennis. Frances said she had played, but not +recently. She intended to practice, however, and would be delighted to +witness the tournament, although, of course, she could not take part in +it. + +“Hosy--Mr. Knowles, I mean--plays tennis,” observed Hephzy, seizing the +opportunity, as usual, to speak a good word for me. “He used to play +real well.” + +“Really!” exclaimed Mrs. Samson, “how interesting. If we had only known. +No doubt Mr. Knowles would have liked to enter. I'm so sorry.” + +I hastened to protest. “My tennis is decidedly rusty,” I said. “I +shouldn't think of displaying it in public. In fact, I don't play at all +now.” + +On the way home Frances was rather quiet. The next morning she announced +that she intended going to Wrayton that afternoon. “Johnson will drive +me over,” she said. “I shall be glad if Auntie will go with me.” + +Wrayton was the county-seat, a good-sized town five miles from Mayberry. +Hephzy declined the invitation. She had promised to “tea” with Mrs. +Griggson that afternoon. + +“Then I must go alone,” said Frances. “That is unless--er--Uncle Hosea +cares to go.” + +“Uncle Hosea” declined. The name of itself was sufficient to make him +decline; besides Worcester and I were scheduled for golf. + +“I shall go alone then,” said “my niece,” with decision. “Johnson will +look after me.” + +But after luncheon, when I visited the stable to order Johnson to +harness “Pet,” I met with an unexpected difficulty. Johnson, it +appeared, was ill, had been indisposed the day before and was now at +home in bed. I hesitated. If this were Bayport I should have bade +the gardener harness “Pet” or have harnessed him myself. But this was +Mayberry, not Bayport. + +The gardener, deprived of his assistant's help--Johnson worked about the +garden when not driving--was not in good humor. I decided not to ask +him to harness, but to risk a fall in the estimation of the servants by +doing it myself. + +The gardener watched me for a moment in shocked disapproval. Then he +interfered. + +“If you please, Mr. Knowles, sir,” he said, “I'll 'arness, but I can't +drive, sir. I am netting the gooseberries. Perhaps you might get a man +from the Inn stables, unless you or the young lady might wish to drive +yourselves.” + +I did not wish to drive, having the golf engagement; but when I walked +to the Inn I found no driver available. So, rather than be disagreeable, +I sent word to the curate that our match was postponed, and accepted the +alternative. + +Frances, rather to my surprise, seemed more pleased than otherwise to +find that I was to be her coachman. Instead of occupying the rear seat +she climbed to that beside me. + +“Good-by, Auntie,” she called to Hephzy, who was standing in +the doorway. “Sorry you're not going. I'll take good care of Mr. +Knowles--Uncle Hosea, I mean. I'll see that he behaves himself and,” + with a glance at my, I fear, not too radiant visage, “doesn't break any +of his venerable bones.” + +The road, like all English roads which I traveled, was as firm and +smooth as a table, the day was fine, the hedges were green and fragrant, +the larks sang, and the flocks of sheep in the wayside pastures were +picturesque as always. “Pet,” who had led an easy life since we came to +the rectory, was in high spirits and stepped along in lively fashion. My +companion, too, was in good spirits and chatted and laughed as she had +not done with me since I knew her. + +Altogether it was a delightful ride. I found myself emerging from my +shell and chatting and joking quite unlike the elderly quahaug I was +supposed to be. We passed a party of young fellows on a walking tour, +knapsacked and knickerbockered, and the admiring glances they passed +at my passenger were flattering. They envied me, that was plain. Well, +under different circumstances, I could conceive myself an object of +envy. A dozen years younger, with the heart of youth and the comeliness +of youth, I might have thought myself lucky to be driving along such a +road with such a vision by my side. And, the best of it was, the vision +treated me as if I really were her own age. I squared my shoulders and +as Hephzy would have said, “perked up” amazingly. + +We entered Wrayton and moved along the main street between the rows of +ancient buildings, past the old stone church with its inevitable and +always welcome gray, ivy-draped tower, to the quaint old square with the +statue of William Pitt in its center. My companion, all at once, seemed +to become aware of her surroundings. + +“Why!” she exclaimed, “we are here, aren't we? Fancy! I expected a +longer drive.” + +“So did I,” I agreed. “We haven't hurried, either. Where has the time +gone.” + +“I don't know. We have been so busy talking that I have thought of +nothing else. Really, I didn't know you could be so entertaining--Uncle +Hosea.” + +The detested title brought me to myself. + +“We are here,” I said, shortly. “And now where shall we go? Have you any +stopping place in particular?” + +She nodded. + +“Yes,” she said, “I want to stop now. Please pull up over there, in +front of that shop with the cricket bats in the window.” + +The shop was what we, in America, would have called a “sporting-goods +store.” I piloted “Pet” to the curb and pulled up. + +“I am going in,” said Miss Morley. “Oh, don't trouble to help me. I can +get down quite well.” + +She was down, springing from the step as lightly as a dandelion fluff +before I could scramble down on the other side. + +“I won't be long,” she said, and went into the shop. I, not being +invited, remained on the pavement. Two or three small boys appeared from +somewhere and, scenting possible pennies, volunteered to hold the horse. +I declined their services. + +Five minutes passed, then ten. My passenger was still in the shop. I +could not imagine what she was doing there. If it had been a shop of a +different kind, and in view of Hephzy's recent statement concerning the +buying of clothes, I might have been suspicious. But no clothes were on +sale at that shop and, besides, it never occurred to me that she would +buy anything of importance without mentioning her intention to me +beforehand. I had taken it for granted that she would mention the +subject and, when she did, I intended to be firm. But as the +minutes went by my suspicions grew. She must be buying something--or +contemplating buying, at least. But she had said nothing to me +concerning money; HAD she money of her own after all? It might be +possible that she had a very little, and was making some trifling +purchase. + +She reappeared in the doorway of the shop, followed by a very polite +young man with a blonde mustache. The young man was bowing and smiling. + +“Yes, miss,” he said, “I'll have them wrapped immediately. They shall be +ready when you return, miss. Thank you, miss.” + +Frances nodded acknowledgment of the thanks. Then she favored me with +another nod and a most bewitching smile. + +“That's over,” she announced, “and now I'm going to the draper's for a +moment. It is near here, you say?” + +The young man bowed again. + +“Yes, miss, on the next corner, next the chemist's.” + +She turned to me. “You may wait here, Mr. Knowles,” she said. “I shall +be back very soon.” + +She hurried away. I looked after her, and then, with all sorts of +forebodings surging in my brain, strode into that “sporting-goods +store.” + +The blond young man was at my elbow. + +“Yes, sir,” he said, ingratiatingly. + +“Did--did that young lady make some purchases here?” I asked. + +“Yes, sir. Here they are, sir.” + +There on the counter lay a tennis racket, a racket press and waterproof +case, a pair of canvas tennis shoes and a jaunty white felt hat. I +stared at the collection. The clerk took up the racket. + +“Not a Slazenger,” he observed, regretfully. “I did my best to persuade +her to buy a Slazenger; that is the best racket we have. But she decided +the Slazenger was a bit high in price, sir. However, sir, this one is +not bad. A very fine racket for lady's use; very light and strong, sir, +considering the cost--only sixteen and six, sir.” + +“Sixteen and six. Four dollars and--Did she pay for it?” + +“Oh no, sir. She said you would do that, sir. The total is two pound +eight and thruppence, sir. Shall I give you a bill, sir? Thank you, +sir.” + +His thanks were wasted. I pushed him to one side and walked out of +that shop. I could not answer; if I answered as I felt I might be sorry +later. After all, it wasn't his fault. My business was not with him, but +with her. + +It was not the amount of the purchase that angered and alarmed me. Two +pounds eight--twelve dollars--was not so much. If she had asked me, if +she had said she desired the racket and the rest of it during the drive +over, I think, feeling as I did during that drive, I should have bought +them for her. But she had not asked; she had calmly bought them without +consulting me at all. She had come to Wrayton for that very purpose. And +then had told the clerk that I would pay. + +The brazen presumption of it! I was merely a convenience, a sort of +walking bank account, to be drawn upon as she saw fit, at her imperial +will, if you please. It made no difference, to her mind, whether I liked +it or not--whether I could afford it or not. I could, of course, afford +this trifling sum, but this was only the beginning. If I permitted this +there was no telling to what extent she might go on, buying and buying +and buying. This was a precedent--that was what it was, a precedent; +and a precedent once established... It should not be established. I had +vowed to Hephzy that it should not. I would prove to this girl that I +had a will of my own. The time had come. + +One of the boys who had been so anxious to hold the horse was performing +that entirely unnecessary duty. + +“Stay here until I come back,” I ordered and hurried to the draper's. + +She was there standing before the counter, and an elderly man was +displaying cloths--white flannels and serges they appeared to be. She +was not in the least perturbed at my entrance. + +“So you came, after all,” she said. “I wondered if you would. Now you +must help me. I don't know what your taste in tennis flannels may +be, but I hope it is good. I shall have these made up at Mayberry, of +course. My other frocks--and I need so many of them--I shall buy in +London. Do you fancy this, now?” + +I don't know whether I fancied it or not. I am quite sure I could not +remember what it was if I were asked. + +“Well?” she asked, after an instant. “Do you?” + +“I--I don't know,” I said. “May I ask you to step outside one moment. +I--I have something I wish to say.” + +She regarded me curiously. + +“Something you wish to say?” she repeated. “What is it?” + +“I--I can't tell you here.” + +“Why not, pray?” + +“Because I can't.” + +She looked at me still more intently. I was conscious of the salesman's +regard also. My tone, I am sure, was anything but gracious, and I +imagine I appeared as disgusted and embarrassed as I felt. She turned +away. + +“I think I will choose this one,” she said, addressing the clerk. “You +may give me five yards. Oh, yes; and I may as well take the same amount +of the other. You may wrap it for me.” + +“Yes, miss, yes. Thank you, miss. Is there anything else?” + +She hesitated. Then, after another sidelong glance at me, she said: +“Yes, I believe there is. I wish to see some buttons, some braid, +and--oh, ever so many things. Please show them to me.” + +“Yes, miss, certainly. This way, if you please.” + +She turned to me. + +“Will you assist in the selection, Uncle Hosea?” she inquired, with +suspicious sweetness. “I am sure your opinion will be invaluable. No? +Then I must ask you to wait.” + +And wait I did, for I could do nothing else. That draper's shop was not +the place for a scene, with a half-dozen clerks to enjoy it. I waited, +fuming, while she wandered about, taking a great deal of time, and +lingering over each purchase in a maddening manner. At last she seemed +able to think of no more possibilities and strolled to where I was +standing, followed by the salesman, whose hands were full. + +“You may wrap these with the others,” she said. “I have my trap here and +will take them with me. The trap is here, isn't it--er--Uncle Hosea?” + +“It is just above here,” I answered, sulkily. “But--” + +“But you will get it. Thank you so much.” + +The salesman noticed my hesitation, put his own interpretation upon it +and hastened to oblige. + +“I shall be glad to have the purchases carried there,” he said. “Our boy +will do it, miss. It will be no trouble.” + +Miss Morley thanked him so much. I was hoping she might leave the shop +then, but she did not. The various packages were wrapped, handed to +the boy, and she accompanied the latter to the door and showed him our +equipage standing before the sporting-goods dealer's. Then she sauntered +back. + +“Thank you,” she said, addressing the clerk. “That is all, I believe.” + +The clerk looked at her and at me. + +“Yes, miss, thank you,” he said, in return. “I--I--would you be wishing +to pay at once, miss, or shall I--” + +“Oh, this gentleman will pay. Do you wish to pay now--Uncle Hosea?” + +Again I was stumped. The salesman was regarding me expectantly; the +other clerks were near by; if I made a scene there--No, I could not do +it. I would pay this time. But this should be the end. + +Fortunately, I had money in my pocket--two five-pound notes and some +silver. I paid the bill. Then, and at last, my niece led the way to the +pavement. We walked together a few steps in silence. The sporting-goods +shop was just ahead, and if ever I was determined not to do a thing that +thing was to pay for the tennis racket and the rest. + +“Frances,” I began. + +“Well--Mr. Knowles?” calmly. + +“Frances, I have decided to speak with you frankly. You appear to take +certain things for granted in your--your dealings with Miss Cahoon and +myself, things which--which I cannot countenance or permit.” + +She had been walking slowly. Now she stopped short. I stopped, too, +because she did. + +“What do you mean?” she asked. “What things?” + +She was looking me through and through. Again I hesitated, and my +hesitation did not help matters. + +“What do you mean?” she repeated. “What is it you cannot countenance +or”--scornfully--“permit concerning me?” + +“I--well, I cannot permit you to do as you have done to-day. You did not +tell your aunt or me your purpose in coming to Wrayton. You did not tell +us you were coming here to buy--to buy various things for yourself.” + +“Why should I tell you? They were for myself. Is it your idea that I +should ask YOUR permission before buying what I choose?” + +“Considering that you ask me to pay, I--” + +“I most distinctly did NOT ask you. I TOLD you to pay. Certainly you +will pay. Why not?” + +“Why not?” + +“Yes, why not. So this was what you wished to speak to me about. This +was why you were so--so boorish and disagreeable in that shop. Tell +me--was that the reason? Was that why you followed me there? Did you +think--did you presume to think of preventing my buying what I pleased +with my money?” + +“If it had been your money I should not have presumed, certainly. If you +had mentioned your intention to me beforehand I might even have paid for +your purchases and said nothing. I should--I should have been glad to do +so. I am not unreasonable.” + +“Indeed! Indeed! Do you mean that you would have condescended to make +me a present of them? And was it your idea that I would accept presents +from you?” + +It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she had already accepted +a good deal; but somehow the place, a public sidewalk, seemed hardly +fitting for the discussion of weighty personal matters. Passers-by were +regarding us curiously, and in the door of the draper's shop which we +had just left I noticed the elderly clerk standing and looking in our +direction. I temporized. + +“You don't understand, Miss Morley,” I said. “Neither your aunt nor +I are wealthy. Surely, it is not too much to ask that you consult us +before--before--” + +She interrupted me. “I shall not consult you at all,” she declared, +fiercely. “Wealthy! Am _I_ wealthy? Was my father wealthy? He should +have been and so should I. Oh, WHAT do you mean? Are you trying to tell +me that you cannot afford to pay for the few trifles I have bought this +afternoon?” + +“I can afford those, of course. But you don't understand.” + +“Understand? YOU do not understand. The agreement under which I came +to Mayberry was that you were to provide for me. I consented to forego +pressing my claim against you until--until you were ready to--to--Oh, +but why should we go into this again? I thought--I thought you +understood. I thought you understood and appreciated my forbearance. You +seemed to understand and to be grateful and kind. I am all alone in the +world. I haven't a friend. I have been almost happy for a little while. +I was beginning to--” + +She stopped. The dark eyes which had been flashing lightnings in my +direction suddenly filled with tears. My heart smote me. After all, she +did not understand. Another plea of that kind and I should have--Well, +I'm not sure what I should have done. But the plea was not spoken. + +“Oh, what a fool I am!” she cried, fiercely. “Mr. Knowles,” pointing to +the sporting-goods store, “I have made some purchases in that shop also. +I expect you to pay for those as well. Will you or will you not?” + +I was hesitating, weakly. She did not wait for me to reply. + +“You WILL pay for them,” she declared, “and you will pay for others that +I may make. I shall buy what I please and do what I please with my money +which you are keeping from me. You will pay or take the consequences.” + +That was enough. “I will not pay,” I said, firmly, “under any such +arrangement.” + +“You will NOT?” + +“No, I will not.” + +She looked as if--Well, if she had been a man I should have expected a +blow. Her breast heaved and her fingers clenched. Then she turned and +walked toward the shop with the cricket bats in the window. + +“Where are you going?” I asked. + +“I am going to tell the man to send the things I have bought to Mayberry +by carrier and I shall tell him to send the bill to you.” + +“If you do I shall tell him to do nothing of the kind. Miss Morley, I +don't mean to be ungenerous or unreasonable, but--” + +“Stop! Stop! Oh!” with a sobbing breath, “how I hate you!” + +“I'm sorry. When I explain, as I mean to, you will understand, I think. +If you will go back to the rectory with me now--” + +“I shall not go back with you. I shall never speak to you again.” + +“Miss Morley, be reasonable. You must go back with me. There is no other +way.” + +“I will not.” + +Here was more cheer in an already cheerful situation. She could not get +to Mayberry that night unless she rode with me. She had no money to take +her there or anywhere else. I could hardly carry her to the trap by main +strength. And the curiosity of the passers-by was more marked than ever; +two or three of them had stopped to watch us. + +I don't know how it might have ended, but the end came in an unexpected +manner. + +“Why, Miss Morley,” cried a voice from the street behind me. “Oh, I say, +it IS you, isn't it. How do you do?” + +I turned. A trim little motor car was standing there and Herbert Bayliss +was at the wheel. + +“Ah, Knowles, how do you do?” said Bayliss. + +I acknowledged the greeting in an embarrassed fashion. I wondered how +long he had been there and what he had heard. He alighted from the car +and shook hands with us. + +“Didn't see you, Knowles, at first,” he said. “Saw Miss Morley here and +thought she was alone. Was going to beg the privilege of taking her home +in my car.” + +Miss Morley answered promptly. “You may have the privilege, Doctor +Bayliss,” she said. “I accept with pleasure.” + +Young Bayliss looked pleased, but rather puzzled. + +“Thanks, awfully,” he said. “But my car holds but two and your uncle--” + +“Oh, he has the dogcart. It is quite all right, really. I should love +the motor ride. May I get in?” + +He helped her into the car. “Sure you don't mind, Knowles,” he asked. +“Sorry there's not more room; but you couldn't leave the horse, though, +could you? Quite comfy, Miss Morley? Then we're off.” + +The car turned from the curb. I caught Miss Morley's eye for an instant; +there was withering contempt in its look--also triumph. + +Left alone, I walked to the trap, gave the horse-holding boy sixpence, +climbed to the seat and took up the reins. “Pet” jogged lazily up the +street. The ride over had been very, very pleasant; the homeward journey +was likely to be anything but that. + +To begin with, I was thoroughly dissatisfied with myself. I had bungled +the affair dreadfully. This was not the time for explanations; I should +not have attempted them. It would have been better, much better, to have +accepted the inevitable as gracefully as I could, paid the bills, and +then, after we reached home, have made the situation plain and “have put +my foot down” once and for all. But I had not done that. I had lost my +temper and acted like an eighteen-year-old boy instead of a middle-aged +man. + +She did not understand, of course. In her eyes I must have appeared +stingy and mean and--and goodness knows what. The money I had refused to +pay she did consider hers, of course. It was not hers, and some day she +would know that it was not, but the town square at Wrayton was not the +place in which to impart knowledge of that kind. + +She was so young, too, and so charming--that is, she could be when she +chose. And she had chosen to be so during our drive together. And I +had enjoyed that drive; I had enjoyed nothing as thoroughly since our +arrival in England. She had enjoyed it, too; she had said so. + +Well, there would be no more enjoyment of that kind. This was the end, +of course. And all because I had refused to pay for a tennis racket and +a few other things. They were things she wanted--yes, needed, if she +were to remain at the rectory. And, expecting to remain as she did, it +was but natural that she should wish to play tennis and dress as did +other young players of her sex. Her life had not been a pleasant one; +after all, a little happiness added, even though it did cost me some +money, was not much. And it must end soon. It seemed a pity to end it in +order to save two pounds eight and threepence. + +There is no use cataloguing all my thoughts. Some I have catalogued and +the others were similar. The memory of her face and of the choke in her +voice as she said she had been almost happy haunted me. My reason told +me that, so far as principle and precedent went, I had acted rightly; +but my conscience, which was quite unreasonable, told me I had acted +like a boor. I stood it as long as I could, then I shouted at “Pet,” who +was jogging on, apparently half asleep. + +“Whoa!” I shouted. + +“Pet” stopped short in the middle of the road. I hesitated. The +principle of the thing-- + +“Hang the principle!” said I, aloud. Then I turned the trap around and +drove back to Wrayton. The blond young man in the sporting-goods store +was evidently glad to see me. He must have seen me drive away and have +judged that his sale was canceled. His judgment had been very near to +right, but now I proved it wrong. + +I paid for the racket and the press and the shoes and the rest. They +were wrapped and ready. + +“Thank you, sir,” said the clerk. “I trust everything will be quite +satisfactory. I'm sorry the young lady did not take the Slazenger, but +the one she chose is not at all bad.” + +I was on my way to the door. I stopped and turned. + +“Is the--the what is it--'Slazenger' so much better?” I asked. + +“Oh, very much so, sir. Infinitely better, sir. Here it is; judge for +yourself. The very best racket made. And only thirty-two shillings, +sir.” + +It was a better racket, much better. And, after all, when one is hanging +principle the execution may as well be complete. + +“You may give me that one instead of the other,” I said, and paid the +difference. + +On my arrival at the rectory Hephzy met me at the door. The between-maid +took the packages from the trap. I entered the drawing-room and Hephzy +followed me. She looked very grave. + +“Frances is here, I suppose,” I said. + +“Yes, she came an hour ago. Doctor Bayliss, the younger one, brought +her in his auto. She hardly spoke to me, Hosy, and went straight to her +room. Hosy, what happened? What is the matter?” + +“Nothing,” said I, curtly. “Nothing unusual, that is. I made a fool of +myself once more, that's all.” + +The between-maid knocked and entered. “Where would you wish the parcels, +sir?” she asked. + +“These are Miss Morley's. Take them to her room.” + +The maid retired to obey orders. Hephzy again turned to me. + +“Now, Hosy, what is it?” she asked. + +I told her the whole story. When I had finished Hephzy nodded +understandingly. She did not say “I told you so,” but if she had it +would have been quite excusable. + +“I think--I think, perhaps, I had better go up and see her,” she said. + +“All right. I have no objection.” + +“But she'll ask questions, of course. What shall I tell her?” + +“Tell her I changed my mind. Tell her--oh, tell her anything you like. +Don't bother me. I'm sick of the whole business.” + +She left me and I went into the Reverend Cole's study and closed the +door. There were books enough there, but the majority of them were +theological works or bulky volumes dealing with questions of religion. +Most of my own books were in my room. These did not appeal to me; I was +not religiously inclined just then. + +So I sat dumbly in the rector's desk chair and looked out of the window. +After a time there was a knock at the door. + +“Come in,” said I, expecting Hephzy. It was not Hephzy who came, +however, but Miss Morley herself. And she closed the door behind her. + +I did not speak. She walked over and stood beside me. I did not know +what she was going to say and the expression did not help me to guess. + +For a moment she did not say anything. Then: + +“So you changed your mind,” she said. + +“Yes.” + +“Why?” + +“I don't know.” + +“You don't know. Yet you changed it.” + +“Yes. Oh yes, I changed it.” + +“But why? Was it--was it because you were ashamed of yourself?” + +“I guess so. As much that as anything.” + +“You realize that you treated me shamefully. You realize that?” + +“Yes,” wearily. “Yes, I realize everything.” + +“And you felt sorry, after I had gone, and so you changed your mind. Was +that it?” + +“Yes.” + +There was no use in attempting justification. For the absolute surrender +I had made there was no justification. I might as well agree to +everything. + +“And you will never, never treat me in that way again?” + +“No.” + +“And you realize that I was right and understand that I am to do as I +please with my money?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you beg my pardon?” + +“Yes.” + +“Very well. Then I beg yours. I'm sorry, too.” + +Now I WAS surprised. I turned in my chair and looked at her. + +“You beg my pardon?” I repeated. “For what?” + +“Oh, for everything. I suppose I should have spoken to you before buying +those things. You might not have been prepared to pay then and--and that +would have been unpleasant for you. But--well, you see, I didn't think, +and you were so queer and cross when you followed me to the draper's +shop, that--that I--well, I was disagreeable, too. I am sorry.” + +“That's all right.” + +“Thank you. Is there anything else you wish to say?” + +“No.” + +“You're sure?” + +“Yes.” + +“Why did you buy the Slazenger racket instead of the other one?” + +I had forgotten the “Slazenger” for the moment. She had caught me +unawares. + +“Oh--oh,” I stammered, “well, it was a much better racket and--and, as +you were buying one, it seemed foolish not to get the best.” + +“I know. I wanted the better one very much, but I thought it too +expensive. I did not feel that I should spend so much money.” + +“That's all right. The difference wasn't so much and I made the change +on my own responsibility. I--well, just consider that I bought the +racket and you bought none.” + +She regarded me intently. “You mean that you bought it as a present for +me?” she said slowly. + +“Yes; yes, if you will accept it as such.” + +She was silent. I remembered perfectly well what she had said concerning +presents from me and I wondered what I should do with that racket when +she threw it back on my hands. + +“Thank you,” she said. “I will accept it. Thank you very much.” + +I was staggered, but I recovered sufficiently to tell her she was quite +welcome. + +She turned to go. Then she turned back. + +“Doctor Bayliss asked me to play tennis with him tomorrow morning,” she +said. “May I?” + +“May you? Why, of course you may, if you wish, I suppose. Why in the +world do you ask my permission?” + +“Oh, don't you wish me to ask? I inferred from what you said at Wrayton +that you did wish me to ask permission concerning many things.” + +“I wished--I said--oh, don't be silly, please! Haven't we had silliness +enough for one afternoon, Miss Morley.” + +“My Christian name is Frances. May I play tennis with Doctor Bayliss +to-morrow morning, Uncle Hosea?” + +“Of course you may. How could I prevent it, even if I wished, which I +don't.” + +“Thank you, Uncle Hosea. Mr. Worcester is going to play also. We need +a fourth. I can borrow another racket. Will you be my partner, Uncle +Hosea?” + +“_I_? Your partner?” + +“Yes. You play tennis; Auntie says so. Will you play to-morrow morning +as my partner?” + +“But I play an atrocious game and--” + +“So do I. We shall match beautifully. Thank you, Uncle Hosea.” + +Once more she turned to go, and again she turned. + +“Is there anything else you wish me to do, Uncle Hosea?” she asked. + +The repetition repeated was too much. + +“Yes,” I declared. “Stop calling me Uncle Hosea. I'm not your uncle.” + +“Oh, I know that; but you have told everyone that you were, haven't +you?” + +I had, unfortunately, so I could make no better reply than to state +emphatically that I didn't like the title. + +“Oh, very well,” she said. “But 'Mr. Knowles' sounds so formal, don't +you think. What shall I call you? Never mind, perhaps I can think while +I am dressing for dinner. I will see you at dinner, won't I. Au revoir, +and thank you again for the racket--Cousin Hosy.” + +“I'm not your cousin, either--at least not more than a nineteenth +cousin. And if you begin calling me 'Hosy' I shall--I don't know what I +shall do.” + +“Dear me, how particular you are! Well then, au revoir--Kent.” + +When Hephzy came to the study I was still seated in the rector's chair. +She was brimful full of curiosity, I know, and ready to ask a dozen +questions at once. But I headed off the first of the dozen. + +“Hephzy,” I observed, “I have made no less than fifty solemn resolutions +since we met that girl--that Little Frank of yours. You've heard me make +them, haven't you.” + +“Why, yes, I suppose I have. If you mean resolutions to tell her the +truth about her father and put an end to the scrape we're in, I have, +certain.” + +“Yes; well, I've made another one now. Never, no matter what happens, +will I attempt to tell her a word concerning Strickland Morley or +her 'inheritance' or anything else. Every time I've tried I've made +a blessed idiot of myself and now I'm through. She can stay with us +forever and run us into debt to her heart's desire--I don't care. If +she ever learns the truth she sha'n't learn it from me. I'm incapable +of telling it. I haven't the sand of a yellow dog and I'm not going to +worry about it. I'm through, do you hear--through.” + +That was my newest resolution. It was a comfort to realize that THIS +resolution I should probably stick to. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +In Which Complications Become More Complicated + + +And stick to it I did. From that day--the day of our drive to +Wrayton--on through those wonderful summer days in which she and +Hephzy and I were together at the rectory, not once did I attempt to +remonstrate with my “niece” concerning her presumption in inflicting her +presence upon us or in spending her money, as she thought it--our money +as I knew it to be--as she saw fit. Having learned and relearned my +lesson--namely, that I lacked the courage to tell her the truth I had +so often declared must be told, having shifted the responsibility to +Hephzy's shoulders, having admitted and proclaimed myself, in that +respect at least, a yellow dog, I proceeded to take life as I found it, +as yellow dogs are supposed to do. + +And, having thus weakly rid myself of care and responsibility, I began +to enjoy that life. To enjoy the freedom of it, and the novelty of +the surroundings, and the friendship of the good people who were our +neighbors. Yes, and to enjoy the home life, the afternoons on the tennis +court or the golf course, the evenings in the drawing-room, the “teas” + on the lawn--either our lawn or someone else's--the chats together +across the dinner-table; to enjoy it all; and, more astonishing still, +to accept the companionship of the young person who was responsible for +our living in that way as a regular and understood part of that life. + +Not that I understood the young person herself; no Bayport quahaug, who +had shunned female companionship as I had for so long, could be expected +to understand the whims and changing moods of a girl like Frances +Morley. At times she charmed and attracted me, at others she tormented +and irritated me. She argued with me one moment and disagreed the next. +She laughed at Hephzy's and my American accent and idioms, but when +Bayliss, Junior, or one of the curates ventured to criticize an +“Americanism” she was quite as likely to declare that she thought it +“jolly” and “so expressive.” Against my will I was obliged to join in +conversations, to take sides in arguments, to be present when callers +came, to make calls. I, who had avoided the society of young people +because, being no longer young, I felt out of place among them, was now +dragged into such society every day and almost every evening. I did +not want to be, but Little Frank seemed to find mischievous pleasure in +keeping me there. + +“It is good for you,” she said, on one occasion, when I had sneaked +off to my room and the company of the “British Poets.” “Auntie says you +started on your travels in order to find something new to write about. +You'll never find it in those musty books; every poem in them is at +least seventy years old. If you are going to write of England and my +people you must know something about those that are alive.” + +“But, my dear young lady,” I said, “I have no intention of writing of +your people, as you call them.” + +“You write of knights and lords and ladies and queens. You do--or you +did--and you certainly know nothing about THEM.” + +I was quite a bit ruffled. “Indeed!” said I. “You are quite sure of +that, are you?” + +“I am,” decidedly. “I have read 'The Queen's Amulet' and no queen +on earth--in England, surely--ever acted or spoke like that one. An +American queen might, if there was such a thing.” + +She laughed and, provoked as I was, I could not help laughing with her. +She had a most infectious laugh. + +“My dear young lady--” I began again, but she interrupted me. + +“Don't call me that,” she protested. “You're not the Archbishop of +Canterbury visiting a girl's school and making a speech. You asked me +not to call you 'Uncle Hosea.' If you say 'dear young lady' to me again +I shall address you publicly as 'dear old Nunky.' Don't be silly.” + +I laughed again. “But you ARE young,” I said. + +“Well, what of it. Perhaps neither of us likes to be reminded of our +age. I'm sure you don't; I never saw anyone more sensitive on the +subject. There! there! put away those silly old books and come down to +the drawing-room. I'm going to sing. Mr. Worcester has brought in a lot +of new music.” + +Reluctantly I closed the volume I had in my hand. + +“Very well,” I said; “I'll come if you wish. But I shall only be in the +way, as I always am. Mr. Worcester didn't plead for my company, did he? +Do you know I think he will bear up manfully if I don't appear.” + +She regarded me with disapproval. + +“Don't be childish in your old age,” she snapped, “Are you coming?” + +I went, of course, and--it may have been by way of reward--she sang +several old-fashioned, simple ballads which I had found in a dog's-eared +portfolio in the music cabinet and which I liked because my mother used +to sing them when I was a little chap. I had asked for them before and +she had ignored the request. + +This time she sang them and Hephzy, sitting beside me in the darkest +corner reached over and laid a hand on mine. + +“Her mother all over again,” she whispered. “Ardelia used to sing +those.” + +Next day, on the tennis court, she played with Herbert Bayliss against +Worcester and me, and seemed to enjoy beating us six to one. The only +regret she expressed was that she and her partner had not made it a +“love set.” + +Altogether she was a decidedly vitalizing influence, an influence that +was, I began to admit to myself, a good one for me. I needed to be kept +alive and active, and here, in this wide-awake household, I couldn't be +anything else. The future did not look as dull and hopeless as it had +when I left Bayport. I even began to consider the possibilities +of another novel, to hope that I might write one. Jim Campbell's +“prescription,” although working in quite a different way from that +which he and I had planned, was working nevertheless. + +Matthews, at the Camford Street office, was forwarding my letters and +honoring my drafts with promptness. I received a note each week from +Campbell. I had written him all particulars concerning Little Frank and +our move to the rectory, and he professed to see in it only a huge joke. + +“Tell your Miss Cahoon,” he wrote, “that I am going to turn Spiritualist +right away. I believe in dreams now, and presentiments and all sorts +of things. I am trying to dream out a plot for a novel by you. Had a +roof-garden supper the other night and that gave me a fine start, but +I'll have to tackle another one before I get sufficient thrills to +furnish forth one of your gems. Seriously though, old man, this whole +thing will do you a world of good. Nothing short of an earthquake would +have shaken you out of your Cape Cod dumps and it looks to me as if you +and--what's her name--Hephzibah, had had the quake. What are you going +to do with the Little Frank person in the end? Can't you marry her off +to a wealthy Englishman? Or, if not that, why not marry her yourself? +She'd turn a dead quahaug into a live lobster, I should imagine, if +anyone could. Great idea! What?” + +His “great idea” was received with the contempt it deserved. I tore up +the letter and threw it into the waste basket. + +But Hephzy herself spoke of matrimony and Little Frank soon after +this. We were alone together; Frances had gone on a horseback ride with +Herbert Bayliss and a female cousin who was spending the day at “Jasmine +Gables.” + +“Hosy,” said Hephzy, “do you realize the summer is half over? It's the +middle of July now.” + +So it was, although it seemed scarcely possible. + +“Yes,” she went on. “Our lease of this place is up the first of October. +We shall be startin' for home then, I presume likely, sha'n't we.” + +“I suppose so. We can't stay over here indefinitely. Life isn't all +skittles and--and tea.” + +“That's so. I don't know what skittles are, but I know what tea is. Land +sakes! I should say I did. They tell me the English national flower is +a rose. It ought to be a tea-plant blossom, if there is such a thing. +Hosy,” with a sudden return to seriousness, “what are we goin' to do +with--with HER when the time comes for us to go?” + +“I don't know,” I answered. + +“Are you going to take her to America with us?” + +“I don't know.” + +“Humph! Well, we'll have to know then.” + +“I suppose we shall; but,” defiantly, “I'm not going to worry about it +till the time comes.” + +“Humph! Well, you've changed, that's all I've got to say. 'Twan't so +long ago that you did nothin' BUT worry. I never saw anybody change the +way you have anyway.” + +“In what way?” + +“In every way. You aren't like the same person you used to be. Why, +through that last year of ours in Bayport I used to think sometimes you +were older than I was--older in the way you thought and acted, I mean. +Now you act as if you were twenty-one. Cavortin' around, playin' tennis +and golf and everything! What has got into you?” + +“I don't know. Jim Campbell's prescription is taking effect, I guess. +He said the change of air and environment would do me good. I tell you, +Hephzy, I have made up my mind to enjoy life while I can. I realize as +well as you do that the trouble is bound to come, but I'm not going to +let it trouble me beforehand. And I advise you to do the same.” + +“Well, I've been tryin' to, but sometimes I can't help wonderin' and +dreadin'. Perhaps I'm havin' my dread for nothin'. It may be that, by +the time we're ready to start for Bayport, Little Frank will be provided +for.” + +“Provided for? What do you mean?” + +“I mean provided for by somebody else. There's at least two candidates +for the job: Don't you think so?” + +“You mean--” + +“I mean Mr. Worcester and Herbert Bayliss. That Worcester man is a gone +case, or I'm no judge. He's keepin' company with Frances, or would, if +she'd let him. 'Twould be funny if she married a curate, wouldn't it.” + +“Not very,” I answered. “Married life on a curate's salary is not my +idea of humor.” + +“I suppose likely that's so. And I can't imagine her a minister's wife, +can you?” + +I could not; nor, unless I was greatly mistaken, could the young lady +herself. In fact, anything as serious as marriage was far from her +thoughts at present, I judged. But Hephzy did not seem so sure. + +“No,” she went on, “I don't think the curate's got much chance. But +young Doctor Bayliss is different. He's good-lookin' and smart and he's +got prospects. I like him first-rate and I think Frances likes him, +too. I shouldn't wonder if THAT affair came to somethin'. Wouldn't it be +splendid if it did!” + +I said that it would. And yet, even as I said it, I was conscious of a +peculiar feeling of insincerity. I liked young Bayliss. He was all that +Hephzy had said, and more. He would, doubtless, make a good husband for +any girl. And his engagement to Frances Morley might make easier the +explanation which was bound to come. I believed I could tell Herbert +Bayliss the truth concerning the ridiculous “claim.” A man would be +susceptible to reason and proof; I could convince him. I should have +welcomed the possibility, but, somehow or other, I did not. Somehow or +other, the idea of her marrying anyone was repugnant to me. I did not +like to think of it. + +“Oh dear!” sighed Hephzy; “if only things were different. If only she +knew all about her father and his rascality and was livin' with us +because she wanted to--if that was the way of it, it would be so +different. If you and I had really adopted her! If she only was your +niece.” + +“Nonsense!” I snapped. “She isn't my niece.” + +“I know it. That's what makes your goodness to her seem so wonderful +to me. You treat her as if you cared as much as I do. And of course you +don't. It isn't natural you should. She's my sister's child, and she's +hardly any relation to you at all. You're awful good, Hosy. She's +noticed it, too. I think she likes you now a lot better than she did; +she as much as said so. She's beginning to understand you.” + +“Nonsense!” I said again. Understand me! I didn't understand myself. +Nevertheless I was foolishly pleased to hear that she liked me. It was +pleasant to be liked even by one who was destined to hate me later on. + +“I hope she won't feel too hard against us,” continued Hephzy. “I can't +bear to think of her doin' that. She--she seems so near and dear to me +now. We--I shall miss her dreadfully when it's all over.” + +I think she hoped that I might say that I should miss her, also. But I +did not say anything of the kind. + +I was resolved not to permit myself to miss her. Hadn't I been scheming +and planning to get rid of her ever since she thrust herself upon us? To +be sorry when she, at last, was gotten rid of would be too idiotic. + +“Well,” observed Hephzy, in conclusion, “perhaps she and Doctor Bayliss +will make a match after all. We ought to help it all we can, I suppose.” + +This conversation had various effects upon me. One was to make me +unaccountably “blue” for the rest of that day. Another was that I +regarded the visits of Worcester and Herbert Bayliss with a different +eye. I speculated foolishly concerning those visits and watched both +young gentlemen more closely. + +I did not have to watch the curate long. Suddenly he ceased calling at +the rectory. Not altogether, of course, but he called only occasionally +and his manner toward my “niece” was oddly formal and constrained. She +was very kind to him, kinder than before, I thought, but there was a +difference in their manner. Hephzy, of course, had an explanation ready. + +“She's given him his clearance papers,” was her way of expressing it. +“She's told him that it's no use so far as he's concerned. Well, I never +did think she cared for him. And that leaves the course clear for the +doctor, doesn't it.” + +The doctor took advantage of the clear course. His calls and invitations +for rides and tennis and golf were more frequent than ever. She must +have understood; but, being a normal young woman, as well as a very, +very pretty one, she was a bit of a coquette and kept the boy--for, +after all, he was scarcely more than that--at arm's length and in a +state of alternate hope and despair. I shared his varying moods. If he +could not be sure of her feelings toward him, neither could I, and I +found myself wondering, wondering constantly. It was foolish for me +to wonder, of course. Why should I waste time in speculation on that +subject? Why should I care whether she married or not? What difference +did it make to me whom she married? I resolved not to think of her at +all. And that resolution, like so many I had made, amounted to nothing, +for I did think of her constantly. + +And then to add a new complication to the already over-complicated +situation, came A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire. + +Frances and Herbert Bayliss were scheduled for nine holes of golf on the +Manor House course that morning. I had had no intention of playing. My +projected novel had reached the stage where, plot building completed, I +had really begun the writing. The first chapter was finished and I had +intended beginning the second one that day. But, just as I seated myself +at the desk in the Reverend Cole's study, the young lady appeared and +insisted that the twosome become a threesome, that I leave my “stupid +old papers and pencils” and come for a round on the links. I protested, +of course, but she was in one of her wilful moods that morning and +declared that she would not play unless I did. + +“It will do you good,” she said. “You'll write all the better this +afternoon. Now, come along.” + +“Is Doctor Bayliss as anxious for my company as you seem to be?” I asked +maliciously. + +She tossed her head. “Of course he is,” she retorted. “Besides it +doesn't make any difference whether he is or not. _I_ want you to play, +and that is enough.” + +“Humph! he may not agree with you.” + +“Then he can play by himself. It will do him good, too. He takes +altogether too much for granted. Come! I am waiting.” + +So, after a few more fruitless protests, I reluctantly laid aside the +paper and pencils, changed to golfing regalia and, with my bag of clubs +on my shoulder, joined the two young people on the lawn. + +Frances greeted me very cordially indeed. Her clubs--I had bought them +myself on one of my trips to London: having once yielded, in the matter +of the tennis outfit, I now bought various little things which I thought +would please her--were carried by Herbert Bayliss, who, of course, also +carried his own. His greeting was not as enthusiastic. He seemed rather +glum and out of sorts. Frances addressed most of her conversation to me +and I was inclined to think the pair had had some sort of disagreement, +what Hephzy would have called a “lover's quarrel,” perhaps. + +We walked across the main street of Mayberry, through the lane past the +cricket field, on by the path over the pastures, and entered the great +gate of the Manor, the gate with the Carey arms emblazoned above it. +Then a quarter of a mile over rolling hills, with rare shrubs and +flowers everywhere, brought us to the top of the hill at the edge of the +little wood which these English people persisted in calling a “forest.” + The first tee was there. You drove--if you were skillful or lucky--down +the long slope to the green two hundred yards away. If you were neither +skillful nor lucky you were quite as likely to drive into the long grass +on either side of the fair green. Then you hunted for your ball and, +having found it, wasted more or less labor and temper in pounding it out +of the “rough.” + +At the first tee a man arrayed in the perfection of natty golfing togs +was practicing his “swing.” A caddy was carrying his bag. This of itself +argued the swinger a person of privilege and consequence, for caddies on +those links were strictly forbidden by the Lady of the Manor. Why they +were forbidden she alone knew. + +As we approached the tee the player turned to look at us. He was not a +Mayberryite and yet there was something familiar in his appearance. He +regarded us for a moment and then, dropping his driver, lounged toward +me and extended his hand. + +“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed. “It is you, isn't it! How do you do?” + +“Why, Mr. Heathcroft!” I said. “This is a surprise.” + +We shook hands. He, apparently, was not at all surprised. + +“Heard about your being here, Knowles,” he drawled. “My aunt told me; +that is, she said there were Americans at the rectory and when she +mentioned the name I knew, of course, it must be you. Odd you should +have located here, isn't it! Jolly glad to see you.” + +I said I was glad to see him. Then I introduced my companions. + +“Bayliss and I have met before,” observed Heathcroft. “Played a round +with him in the tournament last year. How do, Bayliss? Don't think +Miss Morley and I have met, though. Great pleasure, really. Are you a +resident of Mayberry, Miss Morley?” + +Frances said that she was a temporary resident. + +“Ah! visiting here, I suppose?” + +“Yes. Yes, I am visiting. I am living at the rectory, also.” + +“Miss Morley is Mr. Knowles's niece,” explained Bayliss. + +Heathcroft seemed surprised. + +“Indeed!” he drawled. “Didn't know you had a niece, Knowles. She wasn't +with you on the ship, now was she.” + +“Miss Morley had been living in England--here and on the Continent,” I +answered. I could have kicked Bayliss for his officious explanation of +kinship. Now I should have that ridiculous “uncle” business to contend +with, in our acquaintance with Heathcroft as with the Baylisses and the +rest. Frances, I am sure, read my thoughts, for the corners of her mouth +twitched and she looked away over the course. + +“Won't you ask Mr. Heathcroft to join our game--Uncle?” she said. She +had dropped the hated “Hosea,” I am happy to say, but in the presence +of those outside the family she still addressed me as “Uncle.” Of course +she could not do otherwise without arousing comment, but I did not like +it. Uncle! there was a venerable, antique quality in the term which +I resented more and more each time I heard it. It emphasized the +difference in our ages--and that difference needed no emphasis. + +Heathcroft looked pleased at the invitation, but he hesitated in +accepting it. + +“Oh, I shouldn't do that, really,” he declared. “I should be in the way, +now shouldn't I.” + +Bayliss, to whom the remark was addressed, made no answer. I judged that +he did not care for the honor of the Heathcroft company. But Frances, +after a glance in his direction, answered for him. + +“Oh, not in the least,” she said. “A foursome is ever so much more +sporting than a threesome. Mr. Heathcroft, you and I will play Doctor +Bayliss and--Uncle. Shall we?” + +Heathcroft declared himself delighted and honored. He looked the +former. He had scarcely taken his eyes from Miss Morley since their +introduction. + +That match was hard fought. Our new acquaintance was a fair player +and he played to win. Frances was learning to play and had a natural +aptitude for the game. I played better than my usual form and I needed +to, for Bayliss played wretchedly. He “dubbed” his approaches and +missed easy putts. If he had kept his eye on the ball instead of on +his opponents he might have done better, but that he would not do. He +watched Heathcroft and Miss Morley continually, and the more he watched +the less he seemed to like what he saw. + +Perhaps he was not altogether to blame, everything considered. Frances +was quite aware of the scrutiny and apparently enjoyed his discomfiture. +She--well, perhaps she did not precisely flirt with A. Carleton +Heathcroft, but she was very, very agreeable to him and exulted over the +winning of each hole without regard to the feelings of the losers. As +for Heathcroft, himself, he was quite as agreeable to her, complimented +her on her playing, insisted on his caddy's carrying her clubs, assisted +her over the rough places on the course, and generally acted the gallant +in a most polished manner. Bayliss and I were beaten three down. + +Heathcroft walked with us as far as the lodge gate. Then he said good-by +with evident reluctance. + +“Thank you so much for the game, Miss Morley,” he said. “Enjoyed it +hugely. You play remarkably well, if you don't mind my saying so.” + +Frances was pleased. “Thank you,” she answered. “I know it isn't +true--that about my playing--but it is awfully nice of you to say it. I +hope we may play together again. Are you staying here long?” + +“Don't know, I'm sure. I am visiting my aunt and she will keep me as +long as she can. Seems to think I have neglected her of late. Of course +we must play again. By the way, Knowles, why don't you run over and meet +Lady Carey? She'll be awfully pleased to meet any friends of mine. Bring +Miss Morley with you. Perhaps she would care to see the greenhouses. +They're quite worth looking over, really. Like to have you, too, +Bayliss, of course.” + +Bayliss's thanks were not effusive. Frances, however, declared that +she should love to see the greenhouses. For my part, common politeness +demanded my asking Mr. Heathcroft to call at the rectory. He accepted +the invitation at once and heartily. + +He called the very next day and joined us at tea. The following +afternoon we, Hephzy, Frances and I, visited the greenhouses. On this +occasion we met, for the first time, the lady of the Manor herself. Lady +Kent Carey was a stout, gray-haired person, of very decided manner and +a mannish taste in dress. She was gracious and affable, although I +suspected that much of her affability toward the American visitors was +assumed because she wished to please her nephew. A. Carleton Heathcroft, +Esquire, was plainly her ladyship's pride and pet. She called him +“Carleton, dear,” and “Carleton, dear” was, in his aunt's estimation, +the model of everything desirable in man. + +The greenhouses were spacious and the display of rare plants and flowers +more varied and beautiful than any I had ever seen. We walked through +the grounds surrounding the mansion, and viewed with becoming reverence +the trees planted by various distinguished personages, His Royal +Highness the Prince of Wales, Her late Majesty Queen Victoria, +Ex-President Carnot of France, and others. Hephzy whispered to me as we +were standing before the Queen Victoria specimen: + +“I don't believe Queen Victoria ever planted that in the world, do +you, Hosy. She'd look pretty, a fleshy old lady like her, puffin' away +diggin' holes with a spade, now would she!” + +I hastily explained the probability that the hole was dug by someone +else. + +Hephzy nodded. + +“I guess so,” she added. “And the tree was put in by someone else and +the dirt put back by the same one. Queen Victoria planted that tree the +way Susanna Wixon said she broke my best platter, by not doin' a single +thing to it. I could plant a whole grove that way and not get a bit +tired.” + +Lady Carey bade us farewell at the fish-ponds and asked us to come +again. Her nephew, however, accompanied us all the way home--that is, he +accompanied Frances, while Hephzy and I made up the rear guard. The next +day he dropped in for some tennis. Herbert Bayliss was there before +him, so the tennis was abandoned, and a three-cornered chat on the +lawn substituted. Heathcroft treated the young doctor with a polite +condescension which would have irritated me exceedingly. + +From then on, during the fortnight which followed, there was a great +deal of Heathcroft in the rectory social circle. And when he was +not there, it was fairly certain that he and Frances were together +somewhere, golfing, walking or riding. Sometimes I accompanied them, +sometimes Herbert Bayliss made one of the party. Frances' behavior to +the young doctor was tantalizingly contradictory. At times she was very +cordial and kind, at others almost cold and repellent. She kept the +young fellow in a state of uncertainty most of the time. She treated +Heathcroft much the same, but there was this difference between +them--Heathcroft didn't seem to mind; her whims appeared to amuse rather +than to annoy him. Bayliss, on the contrary, was either in the seventh +heaven of bliss or the subcellar of despair. I sympathized with him, to +an extent; the young lady's attitude toward me had an effect which, in +my case, was ridiculous. My reason told me that I should not care at +all whether she liked me or whether she didn't, whether I pleased or +displeased her. But I did care, I couldn't help it, I cared altogether +too much. A middle-aged quahaug should be phlegmatic and philosophical; +I once had a reputation for both qualities, but I seemed to possess +neither now. + +I found myself speculating and wondering more than ever concerning the +outcome of all this. Was there anything serious in the wind at all? +Herbert Bayliss was in love with Frances Morley, that was obvious now. +But was she in love with him? I doubted it. Did she care in the least +for him? I did not know. She seemed to enjoy his society. I did not want +her to fall in love with A. Carleton Heathcroft, certainly. Nor, to be +perfectly honest, did I wish her to marry Bayliss, although I like him +much better than I did Lady Carey's blasé nephew. Somehow, I didn't +like the idea of her falling in love with anyone. The present state +of affairs in our household was pleasant enough. We three were happy +together. Why could not that happiness continue just as it was? + +The answer was obvious: It could not continue. Each day that passed +brought the inevitable end nearer. My determination to put the thought +of that end from my mind and enjoy the present was shaken. In the +solitude of the study, in the midst of my writing, after I had gone to +my room for the night, I found my thoughts drifting toward the day in +October when, our lease of the rectory ended, we must pack up and go +somewhere. And when we went, would she go with us? Hardly. She +would demand the promised “settlement,” and then--What then? +Explanations--quarrels--parting. A parting for all time. I had reached +a point where, like Hephzy, I would have gladly suggested a real +“adoption,” the permanent addition to our family of Strickland Morley's +daughter, but she would not consent to that. She was proud--very proud. +And she idolized her father's memory. No, she would not remain under any +such conditions--I knew it. And the certainty of that knowledge +brought with it a pang which I could not analyze. A man of my age and +temperament should not have such feelings. + +Hephzy did not fancy Heathcroft. She had liked him well enough during +our first acquaintance aboard the steamer, but now, when she knew him +better, she did not fancy him. His lofty, condescending manner irritated +her and, as he seemed to enjoy joking at her expense, the pair had some +amusing set-tos. I will say this for Hephzy: In the most of these she +gave at least as good as she received. + +For example: we were sitting about the tea-table on the lawn, Hephzy, +Frances, Doctor and Mrs. Bayliss, their son, and Heathcroft. The +conversation had drifted to the subject of eatables, a topic suggested, +doubtless, by the plum cake and cookies on the table. Mr. Heathcroft was +amusing himself by poking fun at the American custom of serving cereals +at breakfast. + +“And the variety is amazing,” he declared. “Oats and wheat and corn! +My word! I felt like some sort of animal--a horse, by Jove! We feed our +horses that sort of thing over here, Miss Cahoon.” + +Hephzy sniffed. “So do we,” she admitted, “but we eat 'em ourselves, +sometimes, when they're cooked as they ought to be. I think some +breakfast foods are fine.” + +“Do you indeed? What an extraordinary taste! Do you eat hay as well, may +I ask?” + +“No, of course we don't.” + +“Why not? Why draw the line? I should think a bit of hay might be +the--ah--the crowning tit-bit to a breakfasting American. Your horses +and donkeys enjoy it quite as much as they do oats, don't they?” + +“Don't know, I'm sure. I'm neither a horse nor a donkey, I hope.” + +“Yes. Oh, yes. But I assure you, Miss Morley, I had extraordinary +experiences on the other side. I visited in a place called Milwaukee and +my host there insisted on my trying a new cereal each morning. We did +the oats and the corn and all the rest and, upon my word, I expected +the hay. It was the only donkey food he didn't have in the house, and I +don't see why he hadn't provided a supply of that.” + +“Perhaps he didn't know you were comin',” observed Hephzy, cheerfully. +“Won't you have another cup, Mrs. Bayliss? Or a cooky or somethin'?” + +The doctor's wife consented to the refilling of her cup. + +“I suppose--what do you call them?--cereals, are an American custom,” + she said, evidently aware that her hostess's feelings were ruffled. +“Every country has its customs, so travelers say. Even our own has some, +doubtless, though I can't recall any at the moment.” + +Heathcroft stroked his mustache. + +“Oh,” he drawled, “we have some, possibly; but our breakfasts are not as +queer as the American breakfasts. You mustn't mind my fun, Miss Cahoon, +I hope you're not offended.” + +“Not a bit,” was the calm reply. “We humans ARE animals, after all, I +suppose, and some like one kind of food and some another. Donkeys like +hay and pigs like sweets, and I don't know as I hadn't just as soon live +in a stable as a sty. Do help yourself to the cake, Mr. Heathcroft.” + +No, our aristocratic acquaintance did not, as a general rule, come out +ahead in these little encounters and I more than once was obliged to +suppress a chuckle at my plucky relative's spirited retorts. Frances, +too, seemed to appreciate and enjoy the Yankee victories. Her prejudice +against America had, so far as outward expression went, almost +disappeared. She was more likely to champion than criticize our ways and +habits now. + +But, in spite of all this, she seemed to enjoy the Heathcroft society. +The two were together a great deal. The village people noticed the +intimacy and comments reached my ears which were not intended for them. +Hephzy and I had some discussions on the subject. + +“You don't suppose he means anything serious, do you, Hosy?” she asked. +“Or that she thinks he does?” + +“I don't know,” I answered. I didn't like the idea any better than she +did. + +“I hope not. Of course he's a big man around here. When his aunt dies +he'll come in for the estate and the money, so everybody says. And +if Frances should marry him she'd be--I don't know whether she'd be a +'Lady' or not, but she'd have an awful high place in society.” + +“I suppose she would. But I hope she won't do it.” + +“So do I, for poor young Doctor Bayliss's sake, if nothin' else. He's so +good and so patient with it all. And he's just eaten up with jealousy; +anybody can see that. I'm scared to death that he and this Heathcroft +man will have some sort of--of a fight or somethin'. That would be +awful, wouldn't it!” + +I did not answer. My apprehensions were not on Herbert Bayliss's +account. He could look out for himself. It was Frances' happiness I was +thinking of. + +“Hosy,” said Hephzy, very seriously indeed, “there's somethin' else. I'm +not sure that Mr. Heathcroft is serious at all. Somethin' Mrs. Bayliss +said to me makes me feel a little mite anxious. She said Carleton +Heathcroft was a great lady's man. She told me some things about him +that--that--Well, I wish Frances wasn't so friendly with him, that's +all.” + +I shrugged my shoulders, pretending more indifference than I felt. + +“She's a sensible girl,” said I. “She doesn't need a guardian.” + +“I know, but--but he's way up in society, Lady Carey's heir and all +that. She can't help bein' flattered by his attentions to her. Any girl +would be, especially an English girl that thinks as much of class and +all that as they do over here and as she does. I wish I knew how she did +feel toward him.” + +“Why don't you ask her?” + +Hephzy shook her head. “I wouldn't dare,” she said. “She'd take my head +off. We're on awful thin ice, you and I, with her, as it is. She treats +us real nicely now, but that's because we don't interfere. If I should +try just once to tell her what she ought to do she'd flare up like a +bonfire. And then do the other thing to show her independence.” + +“I suppose she would,” I admitted, gloomily. + +“I know she would. No, we mustn't say anything to her. But--but you +might say somethin' to him, mightn't you. Just hint around and find +out what he does mean by bein' with her so much. Couldn't you do that, +Hosy?” + +I smiled. “Possibly I could, but I sha'n't,” I answered. “He would tell +me to go to perdition, probably, and I shouldn't blame him.” + +“Why no, he wouldn't. He thinks you're her uncle, her guardian, you +know. You'd have a right to do it.” + +I did not propose to exercise that right, and I said so, emphatically. +And yet, before that week was ended, I did do what amounted to that very +thing. The reason which led to this rash act on my part was a talk I had +with Lady Kent Carey. + +I met her ladyship on the putting green of the ninth hole of the golf +course. I was playing a round alone. She came strolling over the green, +dressed as mannishly as usual, but carrying a very feminine parasol, +which by comparison with the rest of her get-up, looked as out of place +as a silk hat on the head of a girl in a ball dress. She greeted me very +affably, waited until I putted out, and then sat beside me on the bench +under the big oak and chatted for some time. + +The subject of her conversation was her nephew. She was, apparently, +only too glad to talk about him at any time. He was her dead sister's +child and practically the only relative she had. He seemed like a son to +her. Such a charming fellow, wasn't he, now? And so considerate and kind +to her. Everyone liked him; he was a great favorite. + +“And he is very fond of you, Mr. Knowles,” she said. “He enjoys your +acquaintance so much. He says that there is a freshness and novelty +about you Americans which is quite delightfully amusing. This +Miss--ah--Cahoon--your cousin, I think she is--is a constant joy to him. +He never tires of repeating her speeches. He does it very well, don't +you think. He mimics the American accent wonderfully.” + +I agreed that the Heathcroft American accent was wonderful indeed. It +was all that and more. Lady Carey went on. + +“And this Miss Morley, your niece,” she said, poking holes in the turf +with the tip of her parasol, “she is a charming girl, isn't she. She and +Carleton are quite friendly, really.” + +“Yes,” I admitted, “they seem to be.” + +“Yes. Tell me about your niece, Mr. Knowles. Has she lived in England +long? Who were her parents?” + +I dodged the ticklish subject as best I could, told her that Frances' +father was an Englishman, her mother an American, and that most of the +young lady's life had been spent in France. I feared more searching +questions, but she did not ask them. + +“I see,” she said, nodding, and was silent for a moment. Then she +changed the subject, returning once more to her beloved Carleton. + +“He's a dear boy,” she declared. “I am planning great things for him. +Some day he will have the estate here, of course. And I am hoping to +get him the seat in Parliament when our party returns to power, as it +is sure to do before long. He will marry then; in fact everything is +arranged, so far as that goes. Of course there is no actual engagement +as yet, but we all understand.” + +I had been rather bored, now I was interested. + +“Indeed!” said I. “And may I ask who is the fortunate young lady?” + +“A daughter of an old friend of ours in Warwickshire--a fine family, one +of the oldest in England. She and Carleton have always been so fond of +each other. Her parents and I have considered the affair settled for +years. The young people will be so happy together.” + +Here was news. I offered congratulations. + +“Thank you so much,” she said. “It is pleasant to know that his future +is provided for. Margaret will make him a good wife. She worships him. +If anything should happen to--ah--disturb the arrangement her heart +would break, I am sure. Of course nothing will happen. I should not +permit it.” + +I made some comment, I don't remember what. She rose from the bench. + +“I have been chatting about family affairs and matchmaking like a +garrulous old woman, haven't I,” she observed, smiling. “So silly of me. +You have been charmingly kind to listen, Mr. Knowles. Forgive me, won't +you. Carleton dear is my one interest in life and I talk of him on the +least excuse, or without any. So sorry to have inflicted my garrulity +upon you. I may count upon you entering our invitation golf tournament +next month, may I not? Oh, do say yes. Thank you so much. Au revoir.” + +She moved off, as imposing and majestic as a frigate under full sail. I +walked slowly toward home, thinking hard. + +I should have been flattered, perhaps, at her taking me into confidence +concerning her nephew's matrimonial projects. If I had believed the +“garrulity,” as she called it, to have been unintentional, I might have +been flattered. But I did not so believe. I was pretty certain there was +intention in it and that she expected Frances and Hephzy and me to take +it as a warning. Carleton dear was, in her eyes, altogether too friendly +with the youngest tenant in Mayberry rectory. The “garrulity” was a +notice to keep hands off. + +I was not incensed at her; she amused me, rather. But with Heathcroft I +was growing more incensed every moment. Engaged to be married, was he! +He and this Warwickshire girl of “fine family” had been “so fond” of +each other for years. Everything was understood, was it? Then what did +he mean by his attentions to Frances, attentions which half of Mayberry +was probably discussing at the moment? The more I considered his conduct +the angrier I became. It was the worst time possible for a meeting with +A. Carleton Heathcroft, and yet meet him I did at the loneliest and most +secluded spot in the hedged lane leading to the lodge gate. + +He greeted me cordially enough, if his languid drawl could be called +cordial. + +“Ah, Knowles,” he said. “Been doing the round I see. A bit stupid by +oneself, I should think. What? Miss Morley and I have been riding. Had a +ripping canter together.” + +It was an unfortunate remark, just at that time. It had the effect of +spurring my determination to the striking point. I would have it out +with him then and there. + +“Heathcroft,” I said, bluntly, “I am not sure that I approve of Miss +Morley's riding with you so often.” + +He regarded me with astonishment. + +“You don't approve!” he repeated. “And why not? There's no danger. She +rides extremely well.” + +“It's not a question of danger. It is one of proprieties, if I must +put it that way. She is a young woman, hardly more than a girl, and she +probably does not realize that being seen in your company so frequently +is likely to cause comment and gossip. Her aunt and I realize it, +however.” + +His expression of surprise was changing to one of languid amusement. + +“Really!” he drawled. “By Jove! I say, Knowles, am I such a dangerously +fascinating character? You flatter me.” + +“I don't know anything concerning your character. I do know that there +is gossip. I am not accusing you of anything. I have no doubt you have +been merely careless. Your intentions may have been--” + +He interrupted me. “My intentions?” he repeated. “My dear fellow, I have +no intentions. None whatever concerning your niece, if that is what you +mean. She is a jolly pretty girl and jolly good company. I like her and +she seems to like me. That is all, upon my word it is.” + +He was quite sincere, I was convinced of it. But I had gone too far to +back out. + +“Then you have been thoughtless--or careless,” I said. “It seems to me +that you should have considered her.” + +“Considered her! Oh, I say now! Why should I consider her pray?” + +“Why shouldn't you? You are much older than she is and a man of the +world besides. And you are engaged to be married, or so I am told.” + +His smile disappeared. + +“Now who the devil told you that?” he demanded. + +“I was told, by one who should know, that you were engaged, or what +amounts to the same thing. It is true, isn't it?” + +“Of course it's true! But--but--why, good God, man! you weren't under +the impression that I was planning to marry your niece, were you? Oh, I +say! that would be TOO good!” + +He laughed heartily. He did not appear in the least annoyed or angry, +but seemed to consider the whole affair a huge joke. I failed to see the +joke, myself. + +“Oh, no,” he went on, before I could reply, “not that, I assure you. One +can't afford luxuries of that kind, unless one is a luckier beggar than +I am. Auntie is attending to all that sort of thing. She has me booked, +you know, and I can't afford to play the high-spirited independent with +her. I should say not! Rather!” + +He laughed again. + +“So you think I've been a bit too prevalent in your niece's +neighborhood, do you?” he observed. “Sorry. I'd best keep off the lawn a +bit, you mean to say, I suppose. Very well! I'll mind the notice boards, +of course. Very glad you spoke. Possibly I have been a bit careless. No +offence meant, Knowles, and none taken, I trust.” + +“No,” I said, with some reluctance. “I'm glad you understand my--our +position, and take my--my hint so well. I disliked to give it, but I +thought it best that we have a clear understanding.” + +“Of course! Stern uncle and pretty niece, and all that sort of thing. +You Americans are queer beggars. You don't strike me as the usual type +of stern uncle at all, Knowles. Oh, by the way, does the niece know that +uncle is putting up the notice boards?” + +“Of course she doesn't,” I replied, hastily. + +His smile broadened. “I wonder what she'll say when she finds it out,” + he observed. “She has never struck me as being greatly in awe of +her relatives. I should call HER independent, if I was asked. Well, +farewell. You and I may have some golf together still, I presume? Good! +By-by.” + +He sauntered on, his serene coolness and calm condescension apparently +unruffled. I continued on my way also. But my serenity had vanished. I +had the feeling that I had come off second-best in the encounter. I had +made a fool of myself, I feared. And more than all, I wondered, as he +did, what Frances Morley would say when she learned of my interference +in her personal affairs. + +I foresaw trouble--more trouble. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +In Which the Truth Is Told at Last + + +I said nothing to Hephzibah or Frances of my talk with Lady Carey or +with Heathcroft. I was not proud of my share in the putting up of “the +notice boards.” I did not mention meeting either the titled aunt or the +favored nephew. I kept quiet concerning them both and nervously awaited +developments. + +There were none immediately. That day and the next passed and nothing of +importance happened. It did seem to me, however, that Frances was rather +quiet during luncheon on the third day. She said very little and +several times I found her regarding me with an odd expression. My guilty +conscience smote me and I expected to be asked questions answering which +would be difficult. But the questions were not asked--then. I went to my +study and attempted to write; the attempt was a failure. + +For an hour or so I stared hopelessly at the blank paper. I hadn't an +idea in my head, apparently. At last I threw down the pencil and gave up +the battle for the day. I was not in a writing mood. I lit my pipe, and, +moving to the arm-chair by the window, sat there, looking out at the +lawn and flower beds. No one was in sight except Grimmer, the gardener, +who was trimming a hedge. + +I sat there for some time, smoking and thinking. Hephzy dressed in her +best, passed the window on her way to the gate. She was going for a call +in the village and had asked me to accompany her, but I declined. I did +not feel like calling. + +My pipe, smoked out, I put in my pocket. If I could have gotten rid of +my thoughts as easily I should have been happier, but that I could +not do. They were strange thoughts, hopeless thoughts, ridiculous, +unavailing thoughts. For me, Kent Knowles, quahaug, to permit myself to +think in that way was worse than ridiculous; it was pitiful. This was a +stern reality, this summer of mine in England, not a chapter in one of +my romances. They ended happily; it was easy to make them end in that +way. But this--this was no romance, or, if it was, I was but the comic +relief in the story, the queer old bachelor who had made a fool of +himself. That was what I was, an old fool. Well, I must stop being +a fool before it was too late. No one knew I was such a fool. No one +should know--now or ever. + +And having reached this philosophical conclusion I proceeded to dream +of dark eyes looking into mine across a breakfast table--our table; of a +home in Bayport--our home; of someone always with me, to share my life, +my hopes, to spur me on to a work worth while, to glory in my triumphs +and comfort me in my reverses; to dream of what might have been if--if +it were not absolutely impossible. Oh, fool, fool, fool! + +A quick step sounded on the gravel walk outside the window. I knew the +step, should have recognized it anywhere. She was walking rapidly toward +the house, her head bent and her eyes fixed upon the path before +her. Grimmer touched his hat and said “Good afternoon, miss,” but she +apparently did not hear him. She passed on and I heard her enter the +hall. A moment later she knocked at the study door. + +She entered the room in answer to my invitation and closed the door +behind her. She was dressed in her golfing costume, a plain white +shirtwaist--blouse, she would have called it--a short, dark skirt and +stout boots. The light garden hat was set upon her dark hair and her +cheeks were flushed from rapid walking. The hat and waist and skirt were +extremely becoming. She was pretty--yes, beautiful--and young. I was far +from beautiful and far from young. I make this obvious statement because +it was my thought at the moment. + +She did not apologize for interrupting me, as she usually did when she +entered the study during my supposed working periods. This was strange, +of itself, and my sense of guilt caused me to fear all sorts of things. +But she smiled and answered my greeting pleasantly enough and, for the +moment, I experienced relief. Perhaps, after all, she had not learned of +my interview with Heathcroft. + +“I have come to talk with you,” she began. “May I sit down?” + +“Certainly. Of course you may,” I answered, smiling as cheerfully as I +could. “Was it necessary to ask permission?” + +She took a chair and I seated myself in the one from which I had just +risen. For a moment she was silent. I ventured a remark. + +“This begins very solemnly,” I said. “Is the talk to be so very +serious?” + +She was serious enough and my apprehensions returned. + +“I don't know,” she answered. “I hope it may not be serious at all, Mr. +Knowles.” + +I interrupted. “Mr. Knowles!” I repeated. “Whew! this IS a formal +interview. I thought the 'Mr. Knowles' had been banished along with +'Uncle Hosea'.” + +She smiled slightly then. “Perhaps it has,” she said. “I am just a +little troubled--or puzzled--and I have come to you for advice.” + +“Advice?” I repeated. “I'm afraid my advice isn't worth much. What sort +of advice do you want?” + +“I wanted to know what I should do in regard to an invitation I have +received to motor with Doctor Bayliss--Doctor Herbert Bayliss. He has +asked me to go with him to Edgeboro to-morrow. Should I accept?” + +I hesitated. Then: “Alone?” I asked. + +“No. His cousin, Miss Tomlinson, will go also.” + +“I see no reason why you should not, if you wish to go.” + +“Thank you. But suppose it was alone?” + +“Then--Well, I presume that would be all right, too. You have motored +with him before, you know.” + +As a matter of fact, I couldn't see why she asked my opinion in such a +matter. She had never asked it before. Her next remark was more puzzling +still. + +“You approve of Doctor Bayliss, don't you,” she said. It did seem to me +there was a hint of sarcasm in her tone. + +“Yes--certainly,” I answered. I did approve of young Bayliss, generally +speaking; there was no sane reason why I should not have approved of him +absolutely. + +“And you trust me? You believe me capable of judging what is right or +wrong?” + +“Of course I do.” + +“If you didn't you would not presume to interfere in my personal +affairs? You would not think of doing that, of course?” + +“No--o,” more slowly. + +“Why do you hesitate? Of course you realize that you have no shadow of +right to interfere. You know perfectly well why I consented to remain +here for the present and why I have remained?” + +“Yes, yes, I know that.” + +“And you wouldn't presume to interfere?” + +“Doctor Herbert Bayliss is--” + +She sprang to her feet. She was not smiling now. + +“Stop!” she interrupted, sharply. “Stop! I did not come to discuss +Doctor Bayliss. I have asked you a question. I ask you if you would +presume to interfere in my personal affairs. Would you?” + +“Why, no. That is, I--” + +“You say that to me! YOU!” + +“Frances, if you mean that I have interfered between you and the Doctor, +I--” + +She stamped her foot. + +“Stop! Oh, stop!” she cried. “You know what I mean. What did you say to +Mr. Heathcroft? Do you dare tell me you have not interfered there?” + +It had come, the expected. Her smile and the asking for “advice” had +been apparently but traps to catch me off my guard. I had been prepared +for some such scene as this, but, in spite of my preparations, +I hesitated and faltered. I must have looked like the meanest of +pickpockets caught in the act. + +“Frances,” I stammered, “Frances--” + +Her fury took my breath away. + +“Don't call me Frances,” she cried. “How dare you call me that?” + +Perturbed as I was I couldn't resist making the obvious retort. + +“You asked me to,” I said. + +“I asked you! Yes, I did. You had been kind to me, or I thought you +had, and I--I was foolish. Oh, how I hate myself for doing it! But I +was beginning to think you a gentleman. In spite of everything, I was +beginning to--And now! Oh, at least I thought you wouldn't LIE to me.” + +I rose now. + +“Frances--Miss Morley,” I said, “do you realize what you are saying?” + +“Realize it! Oh,” with a scornful laugh, “I realize it quite well; you +may be sure of that. Don't you like the word? What else do you call a +denial of what we both know to be the truth. You did see Mr. Heathcroft. +You did speak with him.” + +“Yes, I did.” + +“You did! You admit it!” + +“I admit it. But did he tell you what I said?” + +“He did not. Mr. Heathcroft IS a gentleman. He told me very little and +that only in answer to my questions. I knew you and he met the other +day. You did not mention it, but you were seen together, and when he did +not come for the ride to which he had invited me I thought it strange. +And his note to me was stranger still. I began to suspect then, and when +we next met I asked him some questions. He told me next to nothing, but +he is honorable and he does not LIE. I learned enough, quite enough.” + +I wondered if she had learned of the essential thing, of Heathcroft's +engagement. + +“Did he tell you why I objected to his intimacy with you?” I asked. + +“He told me nothing! Nothing! The very fact that you had objected, as +you call it, was sufficient. Object! YOU object to my doing as I please! +YOU meddle with my affairs! And humiliate me in the eyes of my friends! +I could--I could die of shame! I... And as if I did not know your +reasons. As if they were not perfectly plain.” + +The real reason could not be plain to her. Heathcroft evidently had not +told her of the Warwickshire heiress. + +“I don't understand,” I said, trying my hardest to speak calmly. “What +reasons?” + +“Must I tell you? Did you OBJECT to my friendship with Doctor Bayliss, +pray?” + +“Doctor Bayliss! Why, Doctor Bayliss is quite different. He is a fine +young fellow, and--” + +“Yes,” with scornful sarcasm, “so it would appear. You and my aunt and +he have the most evident of understandings. You need not praise him +for my benefit. It is quite apparent how you both feel toward Doctor +Bayliss. I am not blind. I have seen how you have thrown him in my +company, and made opportunities for me to meet him. Oh, of course, I can +see! I did not believe it at first. It was too absurd, too outrageously +impertinent. I COULDN'T believe it. But now I know.” + +This was a little too much. The idea that I--_I_ had been playing the +matchmaker for Bayliss's benefit made me almost as angry as she was. + +“Nonsense!” I declared. “Miss Morley, this is too ridiculous to go on. +I did speak to Mr. Heathcroft. There was a reason, a good reason, for my +doing so.” + +“I do not wish to hear your reason, as you call it. The fact that you +did speak to him concerning me is enough. Mr. Knowles, this arrangement +of ours, my living here with you, has gone on too long. I should have +known it was impossible in the beginning. But I did not know. I was +alone--and ill--and I did need friends--I was SO alone. I had been +through so much. I had struggled and suffered and--” + +Again, as in our quarrel at Wrayton, she was on the verge of tears. And +again that unreasonable conscience of mine smote me. I longed to--Well, +to prove myself the fool I was. + +But she did not give me the opportunity. Before I could speak or move +she was on her way to the door. + +“This ends it,” she said. “I shall go away from here at once. I +shall put the whole matter in my solicitor's hands. This is an end of +forbearance and all the rest. I am going. You have made me hate you and +despise you. I only hope that--that some day you will despise yourself +as much. But you won't,” scornfully. “You are not that sort.” + +The door closed. She was gone. Gone! And soon--the next day at the +latest--she would have been gone for good. This WAS the end. + +I walked many miles that day, how many I do not know. Dinner was waiting +for me when I returned, but I could not eat. I rose from the table, went +to the study and sat there, alone with my misery. I was torn with the +wildest longings and desires. One, I think, was to kill Heathcroft +forthwith. Another was to kill myself. + +There came another knock at the door. This time I made no answer. I did +not want to see anyone. + +But the door opened, nevertheless, and Hephzy came in. She crossed the +room and stood by my chair. + +“What is it, Hosy?” she said, gently. “You must tell me all about it.” + +I made some answer, told her to go away and leave me, I think. If that +was it she did not heed. She put her hand upon my shoulder. + +“You must tell me, Hosy,” she said. “What has happened? You and Frances +have had some fallin' out, I know. She wouldn't come to dinner, either, +and she won't see me. She's up in her room with the door shut. Tell me, +Hosy; you and I have fought each other's battles for a good many years. +You can't fight this one alone; I've got to do my share. Tell me, +dearie, please.” + +And tell her I did. I did not mean to, and yet somehow the thought that +she was there, so strong and quiet and big-hearted and sensible, was, if +not a comfort to me, at least a marvelous help. I began by telling her a +little and then went on to tell her all, of my talk with Lady Carey, my +meeting with Heathcroft, the scene with Frances--everything, word for +word. + +When it was over she patted my shoulder. + +“You did just right, Hosy,” she said. “There was nothin' else you could +do. I never liked that Heathcroft man. And to think of him, engaged to +another girl, trottin' around with Frances the way he has. I'D like to +talk with him. He'd get a piece of MY mind.” + +“He's all right enough,” I admitted grudgingly. “He took my warning in a +very good sort, I must say. He has never meant anything serious. It was +just his way, that's all. He was amusing himself in her company, +and doubtless thought she would be flattered with his aristocratic +attentions.” + +“Humph! Well, I guess she wouldn't be if she'd known of that other girl. +You didn't tell her that, you say.” + +“I couldn't. I think I should, perhaps, if she would have listened. I'm +glad I didn't. It isn't a thing for me to tell her.” + +“I understand. But she ought to know it, just the same. And she ought to +know how good you've been to her. Nobody could be better. She must know +it. Whether she goes or whether she doesn't she must know that.” + +I seized her arm. “You mustn't tell her a word,” I cried. “She mustn't +know. It is better she should go. Better for her and for me--My God, +yes! so much better for me.” + +I could feel the arm on my shoulder start. Hephzy bent down and looked +into my face. I tried to avoid the scrutiny, but she looked and looked. +Then she drew a long breath. + +“Hosy!” she exclaimed. “Hosy!” + +“Don't speak to me. Oh, Hephzy,” with a bitter laugh, “did you ever +dream there could be such a hopeless lunatic as I am! You needn't say +it. I know the answer.” + +“Hosy! Hosy! you poor boy!” + +She kissed me, soothing me as she had when I came home to our empty +house at the time of my mother's death. That memory came back to me even +then. + +“Forgive me, Hephzy,” I said. “I am ashamed of myself, of course. And +don't worry. Nobody knows this but you and I, and nobody else shall. I'm +going to behave and I'm going to be sensible. Just forget all this for +my sake. I mean to forget it, too.” + +But Hephzy shook her head. + +“It's all my fault,” she said. “I'm to blame more than anybody else. +It was me that brought her here in the first place and me that kept you +from tellin' her the truth in the beginnin'. So it's me who must tell +her now.” + +“Hephzy!” + +“Oh, I don't mean the truth about--about what you and I have just said, +Hosy. She'll never know that, perhaps. Certainly she'll never know it +from me. But the rest of it she must know. This has gone far enough. She +sha'n't go away from this house misjudgin' you, thinkin' you're a thief, +as well as all the rest of it. That she sha'n't do. I shall see to +that--now.” + +“Hephzy, I forbid you to--” + +“You can't forbid me, Hosy. It's my duty, and I've been a silly, wicked +old woman and shirked that duty long enough. Now don't worry any more. +Go to your room, dearie, and lay down. If you get to sleep so much the +better. Though I guess,” with a sigh, “we sha'n't either of us sleep +much this night.” + +Before I could prevent her she had left the room. I sprang after her, to +call her back, to order her not to do the thing she had threatened. +But, in the drawing-room, Charlotte, the housemaid, met me with an +announcement. + +“Doctor Bayliss--Doctor Herbert Bayliss--is here, sir,” she said. “He +has called to see you.” + +“To see me?” I repeated, trying hard to recover some measure of +composure. “To see Miss Frances, you mean.” + +“No, sir. He says he wants to see you alone. He's in the hall now, sir.” + +He was; I could hear him. Certainly I never wished to see anyone less, +but I could not refuse. + +“Ask him to come into the study, Charlotte,” said I. + +The young doctor found me sitting in the chair by the desk. The long +English twilight was almost over and the room was in deep shadow. +Charlotte entered and lighted the lamp. I was strongly tempted to order +her to desist, but I could scarcely ask my visitor to sit in the dark, +however much I might prefer to do so. I compromised by moving to a seat +farther from the lamp where my face would be less plainly visible. Then, +Bayliss having, on my invitation, also taken a chair, I waited for him +to state his business. + +It was not easy to state, that was plain. Ordinarily Herbert Bayliss was +cool and self-possessed. I had never before seen him as embarrassed as +he seemed to be now. He fidgeted on the edge of the chair, crossed and +recrossed his legs, and, finally, offered the original remark that it +had been an extremely pleasant day. I admitted the fact and again there +was an interval of silence. I should have helped him, I suppose. It +was quite apparent that his was no casual call and, under ordinary +circumstances, I should have been interested and curious. Now I did +not care. If he would say his say and go away and leave me I should be +grateful. + +And, at last, he said it. His next speech was very much nearer the +point. + +“Mr. Knowles,” he said, “I have called to--to see you concerning your +niece, Miss Morley. I--I have come to ask your consent to my asking her +to marry me.” + +I was not greatly surprised. I had vaguely suspected his purpose when +he entered the room. I had long foreseen the likelihood of some such +interview as this, had considered what I should say when the time came. +But now it had come, I could say nothing. I sat in silence, looking at +him. + +Perhaps he thought I did not understand. At any rate he hastened to +explain. + +“I wish your permission to marry your niece,” he repeated. “I have no +doubt you are surprised. Perhaps you fancy I am a bit hasty. I suppose +you do. But I--I care a great deal for her, Mr. Knowles. I will try +to make her a good husband. Not that I am good enough for her, of +course--no one could be that, you know; but I'll try and--and--” + +He was very red in the face and floundered, amid his jerky sentences, +like a newly-landed fish, but he stuck to it manfully. I could not help +admiring the young fellow. He was so young and handsome and so honest +and boyishly eager in his embarrassment. I admired him--yes, but I +hated him, too, hated him for his youth and all that it meant, I was +jealous--bitterly, wickedly jealous, and of all jealousy, hopeless, +unreasonable jealousy is the worst, I imagine. + +He went on to speak of his ambitions and prospects. He did not intend to +remain always in Mayberry as his father's assistant, not he. He should +remain for a time, of course, but then he intended to go back to London. +There were opportunities there. A fellow with the right stuff in him +could get on there. He had friends in the London hospitals and they had +promised to put chances his way. He should not presume to marry Frances +at once, of course. He would not be such a selfish goat as that. All he +asked was that, my permission granted, she would be patient and wait a +bit until he got on his feet, professionally he meant to say, and then-- + +I interrupted. + +“One moment,” said I, trying to appear calm and succeeding remarkably +well, considering the turmoil in my brain; “just a moment, Bayliss, if +you please. Have you spoken to Miss Morley yet? Do you know her feelings +toward you?” + +No, he had not. Of course he wouldn't do that until he and I had had our +understanding. He had tried to be honorable and all that. But--but he +thought she did not object to him. She--well, she had seemed to like him +well enough. There had been times when he thought she--she-- + +“Well, you see, sir,” he said, “she's a girl, of course, and a fellow +never knows just what a girl is going to say or do. There are times when +one is sure everything is quite right and then that it is all wrong. But +I have hoped--I believe--She's such a ripping girl, you know. She would +not flirt with a chap and--I don't mean flirt exactly, she isn't a +flirt, of course--but--don't you think she likes me, now?” + +“I have no reason to suppose she doesn't,” I answered grudgingly. After +all, he was acting very honorably; I could scarcely do less. + +He seemed to find much comfort in my equivocal reply. + +“Thanks, thanks awfully,” he exclaimed. “I--I--by Jove, you know, I +can't tell you how I like to hear you say that! I'm awfully grateful +to you, Knowles, I am really. And you'll give me permission to speak to +her?” + +I smiled; it was not a happy smile, but there was a certain ironic humor +in the situation. The idea of anyone's seeking my “permission” in any +matter concerning Frances Morley. He noticed the smile and was, I think, +inclined to be offended. + +“Is it a joke?” he asked. “I say, now! it isn't a joke to me.” + +“Nor to me, I assure you,” I answered, seriously. “If I gave that +impression it was a mistaken one. I never felt less like joking.” + +He put his own interpretation on the last sentence. “I'm sorry,” he +said, quickly. “I beg your pardon. I understand, of course. You're very +fond of her; no one could help being that, could they. And she is your +niece.” + +I hesitated. I was minded to blurt out the fact that she was not my +niece at all; that I had no authority over her in any way. But what +would be the use? It would lead only to explanations and I did not +wish to make explanations. I wanted to get through with the whole inane +business and be left alone. + +“But you haven't said yes, have you,” he urged. “You will say it, won't +you?” + +I nodded. “You have my permission, so far as that goes,” I answered. + +He sprang to his feet and seized my hand. + +“That's topping!” he cried, his face radiant. “I can't thank you +enough.” + +“That's all right. But there is one thing more. Perhaps it isn't my +affair, and you needn't answer unless you wish. Have you consulted your +parents? How do they feel about your--your intentions?” + +His expression changed. My question was answered before he spoke. + +“No,” he admitted, “I haven't told them yet. I--Well, you see, the Mater +and Father have been making plans about my future, naturally. They have +some silly ideas about a friend of the family that--Oh, she's a nice +enough girl; I like her jolly well, but she isn't Miss Morley. Well, +hardly! They'll take it quite well. By Jove!” excitedly, “they must. +They've GOT to. Oh, they will. And they're very fond of--of Frances.” + +There seemed nothing more for me to say, nothing at that time, at any +rate. I, too, rose. He shook my hand again. + +“You've been a trump to me, Knowles,” he declared. “I appreciate it, you +know; I do indeed. I'm jolly grateful.” + +“You needn't be. It is all right. I--I suppose I should wish you luck +and happiness. I do. Yes, why shouldn't you be happy, even if--” + +“Even if--what? Oh, but you don't think she will turn me off, do you? +You don't think that?” + +“I've told you that I see no reason why she should.” + +“Thank you. Thank you so much. Is there anything else that you might +wish to say to me?” + +“Not now. Perhaps some day I--But not now. No, there's nothing else. +Good night, Bayliss; good night and--and good luck.” + +“Good night. I--She's not in now, I suppose, is she?” + +“She is in, but--Well, I scarcely think you had better see her to-night. +She has gone to her room.” + +“Oh, I say! it's very early. She's not ill, is she?” + +“No, but I think you had best not see her to-night.” + +He was disappointed, that was plain, but he yielded. He would have +agreed, doubtless, with any opinion of mine just then. + +“No doubt you're right,” he said. “Good night. And thank you again.” + +He left the room. I did not accompany him to the door. Instead I +returned to my chair. I did not occupy it long, I could not. I could not +sit still. I rose and went out on the lawn. There, in the night mist, I +paced up and down, up and down. I had longed to be alone; now that I was +alone I was more miserable than ever. + +Charlotte, the maid, called to me from the doorway. + +“Would you wish the light in the study any longer, sir?” she asked. + +“No,” said I, curtly. “You may put it out.” + +“And shall I lock up, sir; all but this door, I mean?” + +“Yes. Where is Miss Cahoon?” + +“She's above, sir. With Miss Morley, I think, sir.” + +“Very well, Charlotte. That is all. Good night.” + +“Good night, sir.” + +She went into the house. The lamp in the study was extinguished. I +continued my pacing up and down. Occasionally I glanced at the upper +story of the rectory. There was a lighted window there, the window of +Frances' room. She and Hephzy were together in that room. What was going +on there? What had Hephzy said to her? What--Oh, WHAT would happen next? + +Some time later--I don't know how much later it may have been--I heard +someone calling me again. + +“Hosy!” called Hephzy in a loud whisper; “Hosy, where are you?” + +“Here I am,” I answered. + +She came to me across the lawn. I could not, of course, see her face, +but her tone was very anxious. + +“Hosy,” she whispered, putting her hand on my arm, “what are you doin' +out here all alone?” + +I laughed. “I'm taking the air,” I answered. “It is good for me. I am +enjoying the glorious English air old Doctor Bayliss is always talking +about. Fresh air and exercise--those will cure anything, so he says. +Perhaps they will cure me. God knows I need curing.” + +“Sshh! shh, Hosy! Don't talk that way. I don't like to hear you. Out +here bareheaded and in all this damp! You'll get your death.” + +“Will I? Well, that will be a complete cure, then.” + +“Hush! I tell you. Come in the house with me. I want to talk to you. +Come!” + +Still holding my arm she led me toward the house. I hung back. + +“You have been up there with her?” I said, with a nod toward the lighted +window of the room above. “What has happened? What have you said and +done?” + +“Hush! I'll tell you; I'll tell you all about it. Only come in now. I +sha'n't feel safe until I get you inside. Oh, Hosy, DON'T act this way! +Do you want to frighten me to death?” + +That appeal had an effect. I was ashamed of myself. + +“Forgive me, Hephzy,” I said. “I'll try to be decent. You needn't worry +about me. I'm a fool, of course, but now that I realize it I shall try +to stop behaving like one. Come along; I'm ready.” + +In the drawing-room she closed the door. + +“Shall I light the lamp?” she asked. + +“No. Oh, for heaven's sake, can't you see that I'm crazy to know what +you said to that girl and what she said to you? Tell me, and hurry up, +will you!” + +She did not resent my sudden burst of temper and impatience. Instead she +put her arm about me. + +“Sit down, Hosy,” she pleaded. “Sit down and I'll tell you all about it. +Do sit down.” + +I refused to sit. + +“Tell me now,” I commanded. “What did you say to her? You didn't--you +didn't--” + +“I did. I told her everything.” + +“EVERYTHING! You don't mean--” + +“I mean everything. 'Twas time she knew it. I went to that room meanin' +to tell her and I did. At first she didn't want to listen, didn't want +to see me at all or even let me in. But I made her let me in and then +she and I had it out.” + +“Hephzy!” + +“Don't say it that way, Hosy. The good Lord knows I hate myself for +doin' it, hated myself while I was doin' it, but it had to be done. +Every word I spoke cut me as bad as it must have cut her. I kept +thinkin', 'This is Little Frank I'm talkin' to. This is Ardelia's +daughter I'm makin' miserable.' A dozen times I stopped and thought I +couldn't go on, but every time I thought of you and what you'd put up +with and been through, and I went on.” + +“Hephzy! you told her--” + +“I said it was time she understood just the plain truth about her father +and mother and grandfather and the money, and everything. She must know +it, I said; things couldn't go on as they have been. I told it all. At +first she wouldn't listen, said I was--well, everything that was mean +and lyin' and bad. If she could she'd have put me out of her room, I +presume likely, but I wouldn't go. And, of course, at first she wouldn't +believe, but I made her believe.” + +“Made her believe! Made her believe her father was a thief! How could +you do that! No one could.” + +“I did it. I don't know how exactly. I just went on tellin' it all +straight from the beginnin', and pretty soon I could see she was +commencin' to believe. And she believes now, Hosy; she does, I know it.” + +“Did she say so?” + +“No, she didn't say anything, scarcely--not at the last. She didn't cry, +either; I almost wish she had. Oh, Hosy, don't ask me any more questions +than you have to. I can't bear to answer 'em.” + +She paused and turned away. + +“How she must hate us!” I said, after a moment. + +“Why, no--why, no, Hosy, I don't think she does; at least I'm tryin' to +hope she doesn't. I softened it all I could. I told her why we took her +with us in the first place; how we couldn't tell her the truth at first, +or leave her, either, when she was so sick and alone. I told her why +we brought her here, hopin' it would make her well and strong, and how, +after she got that way, we put off tellin' her because it was such a +dreadful hard thing to do. Hard! When I think of her sittin' there, +white as a sheet, and lookin' at me with those big eyes of hers, her +fingers twistin' and untwistin' in her lap--a way her mother used to +have when she was troubled--and every word I spoke soundin' so cruel +and--and--” + +She paused once more. I did not speak. Soon she recovered and went on. + +“I told her that I was tellin' her these things now because the +misunderstandin's and all the rest had to stop and there was no use +puttin' off any longer. I told her I loved her as if she was my very own +and that this needn't make the least bit of difference unless she wanted +it to. I said you felt just the same. I told her your speakin' to that +Heathcroft man was only for her good and for no other reason. You'd +learned that he was engaged to be married--” + +“You told her that?” I interrupted, involuntarily. “What did she say?” + +“Nothin', nothin' at all. I think she heard me and understood, but she +didn't say anything. Just sat there, white and trembling and crushed, +sort of, and looked and looked at me. I wanted to put my arms around +her and ask her pardon and beg her to love me as I did her, but I didn't +dare--I didn't dare. I did say that you and I would be only too glad to +have her stay with us always, as one of the family, you know. If she'd +only forget all the bad part that had gone and do that, I said--but she +interrupted me. She said 'Forget!' and the way she said it made me +sure she never would forget. And then--and then she asked me if I would +please go away and leave her. Would I PLEASE not say any more now, but +just leave her, only leave her alone. So I came away and--and that's +all.” + +“That's all,” I repeated. “It is enough, I should say. Oh, Hephzy, why +did you do it? Why couldn't it have gone on as it has been going? Why +did you do it?” + +It was an unthinking, wicked speech. But Hephzy did not resent it. Her +reply was as patient and kind as if she had been answering a child. + +“I had to do it, Hosy,” she said. “After our talk this evenin' there +was only one thing to do. It had to be done--for your sake, if nothin' +else--and so I did it. But--but--” with a choking sob, “it was SO hard +to do! My Ardelia's baby!” + +And at last, I am glad to say, I began to realize how very hard it had +been for her. To understand what she had gone through for my sake and +what a selfish brute I had been. I put my hands on her shoulders and +kissed her almost reverently. + +“Hephzy,” said I, “you're a saint and a martyr and I am--what I am. +Please forgive me.” + +“There isn't anything to forgive, Hosy. And,” with a shake of the head, +“I'm an awful poor kind of saint, I guess. They'd never put my image up +in the churches over here--not if they knew how I felt this minute. And +a saint from Cape Cod wouldn't be very welcome anyway, I'm afraid. I +meant well, but that's a poor sort of recommendation. Oh, Hosy, you DO +think I did for the best, don't you?” + +“You did the only thing to be done,” I answered, with decision. “You did +what I lacked the courage to do. Of course it was best.” + +“You're awful good to say so, but I don't know. What'll come of it +goodness knows. When I think of you and--and--” + +“Don't think of me. I'm going to be a man if I can--a quahaug, if +I can't. At least I'm not going to be what I have been for the last +month.” + +“I know. But when I think of to-morrow and what she'll say to me, then, +I--” + +“You mustn't think. You must go to bed and so must I. To-morrow will +take care of itself. Come. Let's both sleep and forget it.” + +Which was the very best of advice, but, like much good advice, +impossible to follow. I did not sleep at all that night, nor did I +forget. God help me! I was realizing that I never could forget. + +At six o'clock I came downstairs, made a pretence at eating some +biscuits and cheese which I found on the sideboard, scribbled a brief +note to Hephzy stating that I had gone for a walk and should not be back +to breakfast, and started out. The walk developed into a long one and +I did not return to the rectory until nearly eleven in the forenoon. By +that time I was in a better mood, more reconciled to the inevitable--or +I thought I was. I believed I could play the man, could even see her +married to Herbert Bayliss and still behave like a man. I vowed and +revowed it. No one--no one but Hephzy and I should ever know what we +knew. + +Charlotte, the maid, seemed greatly relieved to see me. She hastened to +the drawing-room. + +“Here he is, Miss Cahoon,” she said. “He's come back, ma'am. He's here.” + +“Of course I'm here, Charlotte,” I said. “You didn't suppose I had run +away, did you?... Why--why, Hephzy, what is the matter?” + +For Hephzy was coming to meet me, her hands outstretched and on her face +an expression which I did not understand--sorrow, agitation--yes, and +pity--were in that expression, or so it seemed to me. + +“Oh, Hosy!” she cried, “I'm so glad you've come. I wanted you so.” + +“Wanted me?” I repeated. “Why, what do you mean? Has anything happened?” + +She nodded, solemnly. + +“Yes,” she said, “somethin' has happened. Somethin' we might have +expected, perhaps, but--but--Hosy, read that.” + +I took what she handed me. It was a sheet of note paper, folded across, +and with Hephzibah's name written upon one side. I recognized the +writing and, with a sinking heart, unfolded it. Upon the other side was +written in pencil this: + + +“I am going away. I could not stay, of course. When I think how I have +stayed and how I have treated you both, who have been so very, very +kind to me, I feel--I can't tell you how I feel. You must not think me +ungrateful. You must not think of me at all. And you must not try to +find me, even if you should wish to do such a thing. I have the money +which I intended using for my new frocks and I shall use it to pay +my expenses and my fare to the place I am going. It is your money, of +course, and some day I shall send it to you. And someday, if I can, +I shall repay all that you have spent on my account. But you must not +follow me and you must not think of asking me to come back. That I shall +never do. I do thank you for all that you have done for me, both of you. +I cannot understand why you did it, but I shall always remember. Don't +worry about me. I know what I am going to do and I shall not starve or +be in want. Good-by. Please try to forget me. + +“FRANCES MORLEY. + +“Please tell Mr. Knowles that I am sorry for what I said to him this +afternoon and so many times before. How he could have been so kind and +patient I can't understand. I shall always remember it--always. Perhaps +he may forgive me some day. I shall try and hope that he may.” + + +I read to the end. Then, without speaking, I looked at Hephzy. Her eyes +were brimming with tears. + +“She has gone,” she said, in answer to my unspoken question. “She must +have gone some time in the night. The man at the inn stable drove her +to the depot at Haddington on Hill. She took the early train for London. +That is all we know.” + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +In Which Hephzy and I Agree to Live for Each Other + + +I shall condense the record of that day as much as possible. I should +omit it altogether, if I could. We tried to trace her, of course. That +is, I tried and Hephzy did not dissuade me, although she realized, I am +sure, the hopelessness of the quest. Frances had left the rectory very +early in the morning. The hostler at the inn had been much surprised to +find her awaiting him when he came down to the yard at five o'clock. +She was obliged to go to London, she said, and must take the very +first train: Would he drive her to Haddington on Hill at once? He did +so--probably she had offered him a great deal more than the regular +fare--and she had taken the train. + +Questioning the hostler, who was a surly, uncommunicative lout, resulted +in my learning very little in addition to this. The young lady seemed +about as usual, so far as he could see. She might 'ave been a bit +nervous, impatient like, but he attributed that to her anxiety to make +the train. Yes, she had a bag with her, but no other luggage. No, she +didn't talk on the way to the station: Why should she? He wasn't the man +to ask a lady questions about what wasn't his affair. She minded her own +business and he minded his. No, he didn't know nothin' more about it. +What was I a-pumpin' him for, anyway? + +I gave up the “pumping” and hurried back to the rectory. There Hephzy +told me a few additional facts. Frances had taken with her only the +barest necessities, for the most part those which she had when she +came to us. Her new frocks, those which she had bought with what she +considered her money, she had left behind. All the presents which we had +given her were in her room, or so we thought at the time. As she came, +so she had gone, and the thought that she had gone, that I should never +see her again, was driving me insane. + +And like an insane man I must have behaved, at first. The things I +did and said, and the way in which I treated Hephzy shame me now, as I +remember them. I was going to London at once. I would find her and bring +her back. I would seek help from the police, I would employ detectives, +I would do anything--everything. She was almost without money; so far as +I knew without friends. What would she do? What would become of her? I +must find her. I must bring her back. + +I stormed up and down the room, incoherently declaring my intentions and +upbraiding Hephzy for not having sent the groom or the gardener to find +me, for allowing all the precious time to elapse. Hephzy offered no +excuse. She did not attempt justification. Instead she brought the +railway time-table, gave orders that the horse be harnessed, helped me +in every way. She would have prepared a meal for me with her own hands, +would have fed me like a baby, if I had permitted it. One thing she did +insist upon. + +“You must rest a few minutes, Hosy,” she said. “You must, or you'll +be down sick. You haven't slept a wink all night. You haven't eaten +anything to speak of since yesterday noon. You can't go this way. You +must go to your room and rest a few minutes. Lie down and rest, if you +can.” + +“Rest!” + +“You must. The train doesn't leave Haddington for pretty nigh two hours, +and we've got lots of time. I'll fetch you up some tea and toast or +somethin' by and by and I'll be all ready to start when you are. Now go +and lie down, Hosy dear, to please me.” + +I ignored the last sentence. “You will be ready?” I repeated. “Do you +mean you're going with me?” + +“Of course I am. It isn't likely I'll let you start off all alone, when +you're in a state like this. Of course I'm goin' with you. Now go and +lie down. You're so worn out, poor boy.” + +I must have had a glimmer of reason then, a trace of decency and +unselfishness. For the first time I thought of her. I remembered that +she, too, had loved Little Frank; that she, too, must be suffering. + +“I am no more tired than you are,” I said. “You have slept and eaten no +more than I. You are the one who must rest. I sha'n't let you go with +me.” + +“It isn't a question of lettin'. I shall go if you do, Hosy. And a woman +don't need rest like a man. Please go upstairs and lie down, Hosy. Oh,” + with a sudden burst of feeling, “don't you see I've got about all I can +bear as it is? I can't--I can't have YOU to worry about too.” + +My conscience smote me. “I'll go, Hephzy,” said I. “I'll do whatever you +wish; it is the least I can do.” + +She thanked me. Then she said, hesitatingly: + +“Here is--here is her letter, Hosy. You may like to read it again. +Perhaps it may help you to decide what is best to do.” + +She handed me the letter. I took it and went to my room. There I read it +again and again. And, as I read, the meaning of Hephzy's last sentence, +that the letter might help me to decide what was best to do, began to +force itself upon my overwrought brain. I began to understand what she +had understood from the first, that my trip to London was hopeless, +absolutely useless--yes, worse than useless. + +“You must not try to find me... You must not follow me or think of +asking me to come back. That I shall never do.” + +I was understanding, at last. I might go to London; I might even, +through the help of the police, or by other means, find Frances Morley. +But, having found her, what then? What claim had I upon her? What right +had I to pursue her and force my presence upon her? I knew the shock she +had undergone, the shattering of her belief in her father, the knowledge +that she had--as she must feel--forced herself upon our kindness and +charity. I knew how proud she was and how fiercely she had relented the +slightest hint that she was in any way dependent upon us or under +the least obligation to us. I knew all this and I was beginning to +comprehend what her feelings toward us and toward herself must be--now. + +I might find her--yes; but as for convincing her that she should return +to Mayberry, to live with us as she had been doing, that was so clearly +impossible as to seem ridiculous even to me. My following her, my +hunting her down against her expressed wish, would almost surely make +matters worse. She would probably refuse to see me. She would consider +my following her a persecution and the result might be to drive her +still further away. I must not do it, for her sake I must not. She had +gone and, because I loved her, I must not follow her; I must not add to +her misery. No, against my will I was forcing myself to realize that my +duty was to make no attempt to see her again, but to face the situation +as it was, to cover the running away with a lie, to pretend she had +gone--gone somewhere or other with our permission and understanding; to +protect her name from scandal and to conceal my own feelings from all +the world. That was my duty; that was the situation I must face. But how +could I face it! + +That hour was the worst I have ever spent and I trust I may never be +called upon to face such another. But, at last, I am glad to say, I +had made up my mind, and when Hephzy came with the tea and toast I was +measurably composed and ready to express my determination. + +“Hephzy,” said I, “I am not going to London. I have been thinking, and +I'm not going.” + +Hephzy put down the tray she was carrying. She did seem surprised, but I +am sure she was relieved. + +“You're not goin'!” she exclaimed. “Why, Hosy!” + +“No, I am not going. I've been crazy, Hephzy, I think, but I am fairly +sane now. I have reached the conclusion that you reached sometime ago, +I am certain. We have no right to follow her. Our finding her would only +make it harder for her and no good could come of it. She went, of her +own accord, and we must let her go.” + +“Let her go? And not try--” + +“No. We have no right to try. You know it as well as I do. Now, be +honest, won't you?” + +Hephzy hesitated. + +“Why,” she faltered; “well, I--Oh, Hosy, I guess likely you're right. At +first I was all for goin' after her right away and bringin' her back +by main strength, if I had to. But the more I thought of it the more +I--I--” + +“Of course,” I interrupted. “It is the only thing we can do. You must +have been ashamed of me this morning. Well, I'll try and give you no +cause to be ashamed again. That part of our lives is over. Now we'll +start afresh.” + +Hephzy, after a long look at my face, covered her own with her hands +and began to cry. I stepped to her side, but she recovered almost +immediately. + +“There! there!” she said, “don't mind me, Hosy. I've been holdin' that +cry back for a long spell. Now I've had it and it's over and done with. +After all, you and I have got each other left and we'll start fresh, +just as you say. And the first thing is for you to eat that toast and +drink that tea.” + +I smiled, or tried to smile. + +“The first thing,” I declared, “is for us to decide what story we shall +tell young Bayliss and the rest of the people to account for her leaving +so suddenly. I expect Herbert Bayliss here any moment. He came to see me +about--about her last evening.” + +Hephzy nodded. + +“I guessed as much,” she said. “I knew he came and I guessed what 'twas +about. Poor fellow, 'twill be dreadful hard for him, too. He was here +this mornin' and I said Frances had been called away sudden and wouldn't +be back to-day. And I said you would be away all day, too, Hosy. It was +a fib, I guess, but I can't help it if it was. You mustn't see him now +and you mustn't talk with me either. You must clear off that tray the +first thing. We'll have our talk to-morrow, maybe. We'll--we'll see the +course plainer then, perhaps. Now be a good boy and mind me. You ARE +my boy, you know, and always will be, no matter how old and famous you +get.” + +Herbert Bayliss called again that afternoon. I did not see him, but +Hephzy did. The young fellow was frightfully disappointed at Frances' +sudden departure and asked all sorts of questions as to when she would +return, her London address and the like. Hephzy dodged the questions as +best she could, but we both foresaw that soon he would have to be told +some portion of the truth--not the whole truth; he need never know that, +but something--and that something would be very hard to tell. + +The servants, too, must not know or surmise what had happened or the +reason for it. Hephzy had already given them some excuse, fabricated on +the spur of the moment. They knew Miss Morley had gone away and might +not return for some time. But we realized that upon our behavior +depended a great deal and so we agreed to appear as much like our +ordinary selves as possible. + +It was a hard task. I shall never forget those first meals when we +two were alone. We did not mention her name, but the shadow was always +there--the vacant place at the table where she used to sit, the roses +she had picked the morning before; and, afterward, in the drawing-room, +the piano with her music upon the rack--the hundred and one little +reminders that were like so many poisoned needles to aggravate my +suffering and to remind me of the torture of the days to come. She had +bade me forget her. Forget! I might forget when I was dead, but not +before. If I could only die then and there it would seem so easy by +comparison. + +The next forenoon Hephzy and I had our talk. We discussed our future. +Should we leave the rectory and England and go back to Bayport where +we belonged? I was in favor of this, but Hephzy seemed reluctant. She, +apparently, had some reason which made her wish to remain for a time, at +least. At last the reason was disclosed. + +“I supposed you'll laugh at me when I say it, Hosy,” she said; “or at +any rate you'll think I'm awful silly. But I know--I just KNOW that +this isn't the end. We shall see her again, you and I. She'll come to us +again or we'll go to her. I know it; somethin' inside me tells me so.” + + I shook my head. + +“It's true,” she went on. “You don't believe it, but it's true. It's a +presentiment and you haven't believed in my presentiments before, but +they've come true. Why, you didn't believe we'd ever find Little Frank +at all, but we did. And do you suppose all that has happened so far has +been just for nothin'? Indeed and indeed it hasn't. No, this isn't the +end; it's only the beginnin'.” + +Her conviction was so strong that I hadn't the heart to contradict her. +I said nothing. + +“And that's why,” she went on, “I don't like to have us leave here right +away. She knows we're here, here in England, and if--if she ever should +be in trouble and need our help she could find us here waitin' to give +it. If we was away off on the Cape, way on the other side of the ocean, +she couldn't reach us, or not until 'twas too late anyhow. That's why +I'd like to stay here a while longer, Hosy. But,” she hastened to add, +“I wouldn't stay a minute if you really wanted to go.” + +I was silent for a moment. The temptation was to go, to get as far from +the scene of my trouble as I could; but, after all, what did it matter? +I could never flee from that trouble. + +“All right, Hephzy,” I said. “I'll stay, if it pleases you.” + +“Thank you, Hosy. It may be foolish, our stayin', but I don't believe +it is. And--and there's somethin' else. I don't know whether I ought to +tell you or not. I don't know whether it will make you feel better or +worse. But I've heard you say that she must hate you. She doesn't--I +know she doesn't. I've been lookin' over her things, those she left in +her room. Everythin' we've given her or bought for her since she's been +here, she left behind--every single thing except one. That little pin +you bought for her in London the last time you was there and gave her to +wear at the Samsons' lawn party, I can't find it anywhere. She must have +taken it with her. Now why should she take that and leave all the rest?” + +“Probably she forgot it,” I said. + +“Humph! Queer she should forget that and nothin' else. I don't believe +she forgot it. _I_ think she took it because you gave it to her and she +wanted to keep it to remind her of you.” + +I dismissed the idea as absurd, but I found a ray of comfort in it which +I should have been ashamed to confess. The idea that she wished to be +reminded of me was foolish, but--but I was glad she had forgotten to +leave the pin. It MIGHT remind her of me, even against her will. + +A day or two later Herbert Bayliss and I had our delayed interview. He +had called several times, but Hephzy had kept him out of my way. This +time our meeting was in the main street of Mayberry, when dodging him +was an impossibility. He hurried up to me and seized my hand. + +“So you're back, Knowles,” he said. “When did you return?” + +For the moment I was at a loss to understand his meaning. I had +forgotten Hephzy's “fib” concerning my going away. Fortunately he did +not wait for an answer. + +“Did Frances--did Miss Morley return with you?” he asked eagerly. + +“No,” said I. + +His smile vanished. + +“Oh!” he said, soberly. “She is still in London, then?” + +“I--I presume she is.” + +“You presume--? Why, I say! don't you know?” + +“I am not sure.” + +He seemed puzzled and troubled, but he was too well bred to ask why I +was not sure. Instead he asked when she would return. I announced that I +did not know that either. + +“You don't know when she is coming back?” he repeated. + +“No.” + +He regarded me keenly. There was a change in the tone of his next +remark. + +“You are not sure that she is in London and you don't know when she is +coming back,” he said, slowly. “Would you mind telling me why she left +Mayberry so suddenly? She had not intended going; at least she did not +mention her intention to me.” + +“She did not mention it to anyone,” I answered. “It was a very sudden +determination on her part.” + +He considered this. + +“It would seem so,” he said. “Knowles, you'll excuse my saying it, but +this whole matter seems deucedly odd to me. There is something which +I don't understand. You haven't answered my question. Under the +circumstances, considering our talk the other evening, I think I have a +right to ask it. Why did she leave so suddenly?” + +I hesitated. Mayberry's principal thoroughfare was far from crowded, but +it was scarcely the place for an interview like this. + +“She had a reason for leaving,” I answered, slowly. “I will tell you +later, perhaps, what it was. Just now I cannot.” + +“You cannot!” he repeated. He was evidently struggling with his +impatience and growing suspicious. “You cannot! But I think I have a +right to know.” + +“I appreciate your feelings, but I cannot tell you now.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because--Well, because I don't think it would be fair to her. She would +not wish me to tell you.” + +“She would not wish it? Was it because of me she left?” + +“No; not in the least.” + +“Was it--was it because of someone else? By Jove! it wasn't because of +that Heathcroft cad? Don't tell me that! My God! she--she didn't--” + +I interrupted. His suspicion angered me. I should have understood his +feelings, should have realized that he had been and was disappointed +and agitated and that my answers to his questions must have aroused all +sorts of fears and forebodings in his mind. I should have pitied him, +but just then I had little pity for others. + +“She did nothing but what she considered right,” I said sharply. “Her +leaving had nothing to do with Heathcroft or with you. I doubt if she +thought of either of you at all.” + +It was a brutal speech, and he took it like a man. I saw him turn pale +and bite his lips, but when he next spoke it was in a calmer tone. + +“I'm sorry,” he said. “I was a silly ass even to think such a thing. +But--but you see, Knowles, I--I--this means so much to me. I'm sorry, +though. I ask her pardon and yours.” + +I was sorry, too. “Of course I didn't mean that, exactly,” I said. “Her +feelings toward you are of the kindest, I have no doubt, but her reason +for leaving was a purely personal one. You were not concerned in it.” + +He reflected. He was far from satisfied, naturally, and his next speech +showed it. + +“It is extraordinary, all this,” he said. “You are quite sure you don't +know when she is coming back?” + +“Quite.” + +“Would you mind giving me her London address?” + +“I don't know it.” + +“You don't KNOW it! Oh, I say! that's damned nonsense! You don't know +when she is coming back and you don't know her address! Do you mean you +don't know where she has gone?” + +“Yes.” + +“What--? Are you trying to tell me she is not coming back at all?” + +“I am afraid not.” + +He was very pale. He seized my arm. + +“What is all this?” he demanded, fiercely. “What has happened? Tell me; +I want to know. Where is she? Why did she go? Tell me!” + +“I can tell you nothing,” I said, as calmly as I could. “She left us +very suddenly and she is not coming back. Her reason for leaving I can't +tell you, now. I don't know where she is and I have no right to try and +find out. She has asked that no one follow her or interfere with her in +any way. I respect her wish and I advise you, if you wish to remain her +friend, to do the same, for the present, at least. That is all I can +tell you.” + +He shook my arm savagely. + +“By George!” he cried, “you must tell me. I'll make you! I--I--Do you +think me a fool? Do you suppose I believe such rot as that? You tell me +she has gone--has left Mayberry--and you don't know where she has gone +and don't intend trying to find out. Why--” + +“There, Bayliss! that is enough. This is not the place for us to +quarrel. And there is no reason why we should quarrel at all. I have +told you all that I can tell you now. Some day I may tell you more, but +until then you must be patient, for her sake. Her leaving Mayberry had +no connection with you whatever. You must be contented with that.” + +“Contented! Why, man, you're mad. She is your niece. You are her +guardian and--” + +“I am not her guardian. Neither is she my niece.” + +I had spoken involuntarily. Certainly I had not intended telling him +that. The speech had the effect of causing him to drop my arm and step +back. He stared at me blankly. No doubt he did think me crazy, then. + +“I have no authority over her in any way,” I went on. “She is Miss +Cahoon's niece, but we are not her guardians. She has left our home of +her own free will and neither I nor you nor anyone else shall follow +her if I can help it. I am sorry to have deceived you. The deceit was +unavoidable, or seemed to be. I am very, very sorry for you. That is all +I can say now. Good morning.” + +I left him standing there in the street and walked away. He called after +me, but I did not turn back. He would have followed me, of course, but +when I did look back I saw that the landlord of the inn was trying to +talk with him and was detaining him. I was glad that the landlord had +appeared so opportunely. I had said too much already. I had bungled this +interview as I had that with Heathcroft. + +I told Hephzy all about it. She appeared to think that, after all, +perhaps it was best. + +“When you've got a toothache,” she said, “you might as well go to the +dentist's right off. The old thing will go on growlin' and grumblin' and +it's always there to keep you in misery. You'd have had to tell him some +time. Well, you've told him now, the worst of it, anyhow. The tooth's +out; though,” with a one-sided smile, “I must say you didn't give the +poor chap any ether to help along.” + +“I'm afraid it isn't out,” I said, truthfully. “He won't be satisfied +with one operation.” + +“Then I'll be on hand to help with the next one. And, between us, I +cal'late we can make that final. Poor boy! Well, he's young, that's one +comfort. You get over things quicker when you're young.” + +I nodded. “That is true,” I said, “but there is something else, Hephzy. +You say I have acted for the best. Have I? I don't know. We know he +cares for her, but--but does she--” + +“Does she care for him, you mean? I don't think so, Hosy. For a spell +I thought she did, but now I doubt it. I think--Well, never mind what +I think. I think a lot of foolish things. My brain's softenin' up, I +shouldn't wonder. It's a longshore brain, anyhow, and it needs the +salt to keep it from spoilin'. I wish you and I could go clammin'. +When you're diggin' clams you're too full of backache to worry about +toothaches--or heartaches, either.” + +I expected a visit from young Bayliss that very evening, but he did not +come to the rectory. Instead Doctor Bayliss, Senior, came and requested +an interview with me. Hephzy announced the visitor. + +“He acts pretty solemn, Hosy,” she said. “I wouldn't wonder if his son +had told him. I guess it's another toothache. Would you like to have me +stay and help?” + +I said I should be glad of her help. So, when the old gentleman was +shown into the study, he found her there with me. The doctor was very +grave and his usually ruddy, pleasant face was haggard and careworn. He +took the chair which I offered him and, without preliminaries, began to +speak of the subject which had brought him there. + +It was as Hephzy had surmised. His son had told him everything, of his +love for Frances, of his asking my permission to marry her, and of our +talk before the inn. + +“I am sure I don't need to tell you, Knowles,” he said, “that all this +has shaken the boy's mother and me dreadfully. We knew, of course, that +the young people liked each other, were together a great deal, and all +that. But we had not dreamed of any serious attachment between them.” + +Hephzy put in a word. + +“We don't know as there has been any attachment between them,” she said. +“Your boy cared for her--we know that--but whether she cared for him or +not we don't know.” + +Our visitor straightened in his chair. The idea that his son could love +anyone and not be loved in return was plainly quite inconceivable. + +“I think we may take that for granted, madame,” he said. “The news was, +as I say, a great shock to my wife and myself. Herbert is our only child +and we had, naturally, planned somewhat concerning his future. The--the +overthrow of our plans was and is a great grief and disappointment +to us. Not, please understand, that we question your niece's worth or +anything of that sort. She is a very attractive young woman and would +doubtless make my son a good wife. But, if you will pardon my saying +so, we know very little about her or her family. You are comparative +strangers to us and although we have enjoyed your--ah--society +and--ah--” + +Hephzy interrupted. + +“I beg your pardon for saying it, Doctor Bayliss,” she said, “but you +know as much about us as we do about you.” + +The doctor's composure was ruffled still more. He regarded Hephzy +through his spectacles and then said, with dignity. + +“Madame, I have resided in this vicinity for nearly forty years. I think +my record and that of my family will bear inspection.” + +“I don't doubt it a bit. But, as far as that goes, I have lived in +Bayport for fifty-odd years myself and our folks have lived there for +a hundred and fifty. I'm not questionin' you or your family, Doctor +Bayliss. If I had questioned 'em I could easily have looked up the +record. All I'm sayin' is that I haven't thought of questionin', and I +don't just see why you shouldn't take as much for granted as I have.” + +The old gentleman was a bit disconcerted. He cleared his throat and +fidgeted in his seat. + +“I do--I do, Miss Cahoon, of course,” he said. “But--ah--Well, to +return to the subject of my son and Miss Morley. The boy is dreadfully +agitated, Mr. Knowles. He is quite mad about the girl and his mother +and I are much concerned about him. We would--I assure you we would do +anything and sacrifice anything for his sake. We like your niece, +and, although, as I say, we had planned otherwise, nevertheless we +will--provided all is as it should be--give our consent to--to the +arrangement, for his sake.” + +I did not answer. The idea that marrying Frances Morley would entail a +sacrifice upon anyone's part except hers angered me and I did not trust +myself to speak. But Hephzy spoke for me. + +“What do you mean by providin' everything is as it should be?” she +asked. + +“Why, I mean--I mean provided we learn that she is--is--That is,--Well, +one naturally likes to know something concerning his prospective +daughter-in-law's history, you know. That is to be expected, now isn't +it.” + +Hephzy looked at me and I looked at her. + +“Doctor,” she said. “I wonder if your son told you about some things +Hosy--Mr. Knowles, I mean--told him this mornin'. Did he tell you that?” + +The doctor colored slightly. “Yes--yes, he did,” he admitted. “He said +he had a most extraordinary sort of interview with Mr. Knowles and +was told by him some quite extraordinary things. Of course, we could +scarcely believe that he had heard aright. There was some mistake, of +course.” + +“There was no mistake, Doctor Bayliss,” said I. “I told your son the +truth, a very little of the truth.” + +“The truth! But it couldn't be true, you know, as Herbert reported it +to me. He said Miss Morley had left Mayberry, had gone away for some +unexplained reason, and was not coming back--that you did not know +where she had gone, that she had asked not to be hindered or followed or +something. And he said--My word! he even said you, Knowles, had declared +yourself to be neither her uncle nor her guardian. THAT couldn't be +true, now could it!” + +Again Hephzy and I looked at each other. Without speaking we reached the +same conclusion. Hephzy voiced that conclusion. + +“I guess, Doctor Bayliss,” she said, “that the time has come when you +had better be told the whole truth, or as much of the whole truth about +Frances as Hosy and I know. I'm goin' to tell it to you. It's a kind of +long story, but I guess likely you ought to know it.” + +She began to tell that story, beginning at the very beginning, with +Ardelia and Strickland Morley and continuing on, through the history of +the latter's rascality and the fleeing of the pair from America, to +our own pilgrimage, the finding of Little Frank and the astonishing +happenings since. + +“She's gone,” she said. “She found out what sort of man her father +really was and, bein' a high-spirited, proud girl--as proud and +high-spirited as she is clever and pretty and good--she ran away and +left us. We don't blame her, Hosy and I. We understand just how she +feels and we've made up our minds to do as she asks and not try to +follow her or try to bring her back to us against her will. We think +the world of her. We haven't known her but a little while, but we've +come--that is,” with a sudden glance in my direction, “I've come to love +her as if she was my own. It pretty nigh kills me to have her go. When +I think of her strugglin' along tryin' to earn her own way by singin' +and--and all, I have to hold myself by main strength to keep from goin' +after her and beggin' her on my knees to come back. But I sha'n't do it, +because she doesn't want me to. Of course I hope and believe that some +day she will come back, but until she does and of her own accord, I'm +goin' to wait. And, if your son really cares for her as much as we--as I +do, he'll wait, too.” + +She paused and hastily dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. +I turned in order that the Doctor might not see my face. It was an +unnecessary precaution. Doctor Bayliss' mind was busy, apparently, with +but one thought. + +“An opera singer!” he exclaimed, under his breath. “An opera singer! +Herbert to marry an opera singer! The granddaughter of a Yankee sailor +and--and--” + +“And the daughter of an English thief,” put in Hephzy, sharply. “Maybe +we'd better leave nationalities out, Doctor Bayliss. The Yankees have +the best end of it, 'cordin' to my notion.” + +He paid no attention to this. + +He was greatly upset. “It is impossible!” he declared. “Absolutely +impossible! Why haven't we known of this before? Why did not Herbert +know of it? Mr. Knowles, I must say that--that you have been most +unthinking in this matter.” + +“I have been thinking of her,” I answered, curtly. “It was and is her +secret and we rely upon you to keep it as such. We trust to your honor +to tell no one, not even your son.” + +“My son! Herbert? Why I must tell him! I must tell my wife.” + +“You may tell your wife. And your son as much as you think necessary. +Further than that it must not go.” + +“Of course, of course. I understand. But an opera singer!” + +“She isn't a real opera singer,” said Hephzy. “That is, not one of those +great ones. And she told me once that she realized now that she never +could be. She has a real sweet voice, a beautiful voice, but it isn't +powerful enough to make her a place in the big companies. She tried and +tried, she said, but all the managers said the same thing.” + +“Hephzy,” I said, “when did she tell you this? I didn't know of it.” + +“I know you didn't, Hosy. She told me one day when we were alone. It was +the only time she ever spoke of herself and she didn't say much then. +She spoke about her livin' with her relatives here in England and what +awful, mean, hard people they were. She didn't say who they were nor +where they lived, but she did say she ran away from them to go on +the stage as a singer and what trials and troubles she went through +afterward. She told me that much and then she seemed sorry that she had. +She made me promise not to tell anyone, not even you. I haven't, until +now.” + +Doctor Bayliss was sitting with a hand to his forehead. + +“A provincial opera singer,” he repeated. “Oh, impossible! Quite +impossible!” + +“It may seem impossible to you,” I couldn't help observing, “but I +question if it will seem so to your son. I doubt if her being an opera +singer will make much difference to him.” + +The doctor groaned. “The boy is mad about her, quite mad,” he admitted. + +I was sorry for him. Perhaps if I were in his position I might feel as +he did. + +“I will say this,” I said: “In no way, so far as I know, has Miss Morley +given your son encouragement. He told me himself that he had never +spoken to her of his feelings and we have no reason to think that she +regards him as anything more than a friend. She left no message for him +when she went away.” + +He seemed to find some ground for hope in this. He rose from the chair +and extended his hand. + +“Knowles,” he said, “if I have said anything to hurt your feelings or +those of Miss Cahoon I am very sorry. I trust it will make no difference +in our friendship. My wife and I respect and like you both and I think I +understand how deeply you must feel the loss of your--of Miss Morley. I +hope she--I hope you may be reunited some day. No doubt you will be. As +for Herbert--he is our son and if you ever have a son of your own, Mr. +Knowles, you may appreciate his mother's feelings and mine. We have +planned and--and--Even now I should not stand in the way of his +happiness if--if I believed happiness could come of it. But such +marriages are never happy. And,” with a sudden burst of hope, “as you +say, she may not be aware of his attachment. The boy is young. He may +forget.” + +“Yes,” said I, with a sigh. “He IS young, and he may forget.” + +After he had gone Hephzy turned to me. + +“If I hadn't understood that old man's feelin's,” she declared, “I'd +have given him one talkin' to. The idea of his speakin' as if Frances +wouldn't be a wife anybody, a lord or anybody else, might be proud of! +But he didn't know. He's been brought up that way, and he doesn't know. +And, of course, his son IS the only person on earth to him. Well, that's +over! We haven't got to worry about them any more. We'll begin to live +for each other now, Hosy, same as we used to do. And we'll wait for the +rest. It'll come and come right for all of us. Just you see.” + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +In Which I Play Golf and Cross the Channel + + +And so we began “to live for each other again,” Hephzy and I. This +meant, of course, that Hephzy forgot herself entirely and spent the +greater part of her time trying to find ways to make my living more +comfortable, just as she had always done. And I--well, I did my best to +appear, if not happy, at least reasonably calm and companionable. It was +a hard job for both of us; certainly my part of it was hard enough. + +Appearances had to be considered and so we invented a tale of a visit +to relatives in another part of England to account for the unannounced +departure of Miss Morley. This excuse served with the neighbors and +friends not in the secret and, for the benefit of the servants, Hephzy +elaborated the deceit by pretending eagerness at the arrival of the +mails and by certain vague remarks at table concerning letters she was +writing. + +“I AM writing 'em, too, Hosy,” she said. “I write to her every few days. +Of course I don't mail the letters, but it sort of squares things with +my conscience to really write after talking so much about it. As for her +visitin' relatives--well, she's got relatives somewhere in England, we +know that much, and she MAY be visitin' 'em. At any rate I try to think +she is. Oh, dear, I 'most wish I'd had more experience in tellin' lies; +then I wouldn't have to invent so many extra ones to make me believe +those I told at the beginnin'. I wish I'd been brought up a book agent +or a weather prophet or somethin' like that; then I'd have been in +trainin'.” + +Without any definite agreement we had fallen into the habit of not +mentioning the name of Little Frank, even when we were alone together. +In consequence, on these occasions, there would be long intervals +of silence suddenly broken by Hephzy's bursting out with a surmise +concerning what was happening in Bayport, whether they had painted the +public library building yet, or how Susanna was getting on with the cat +and hens. She had received three letters from Miss Wixon and, as news +bearers, they were far from satisfactory. + +“That girl makes me so provoked,” sniffed Hephzy, dropping the most +recent letter in her lap with a gesture of disgust. “She says she's got +a cold in the head and she's scared to death for fear it'll get 'set +onto her,' whatever that is. Two pages of this letter is nothin' but +cold in the head and t'other two is about a new hat she's goin' to have +and she don't know whether to trim it with roses or forget-me-nots. If +she trimmed it with cabbage 'twould match her head better'n anything +else. I declare! she ought to be thankful she's got a cold in a head +like hers; it must be comfortin' to know there's SOMETHIN' there. You've +got a letter, too, Hosy. Who is it from?” + +“From Campbell,” I answered, wearily. “He wants to know how the novel is +getting on, of course.” + +“Humph! Well, you write him that it's gettin' on the way a squid gets +ahead--by goin' backwards. Don't let him pester you one bit, Hosy. You +write that novel just as fast or slow as you feel like. He told you to +take a vacation, anyway.” + +I smiled. Mine was a delightful vacation. + +The summer dragged on. The days passed. Pleasant days they were, so far +as the weather was concerned. I spent them somehow, walking, riding, +golfing, reading. I gave up trying to work; the half-written novel +remained half written. I could not concentrate my thoughts upon it and I +lacked the courage to force myself to try. I wrote Campbell that he must +be patient, I was doing the best I could. He answered by telling me not +to worry, to enjoy myself. “Why do you stay there in England?” he wrote. +“I ordered you to travel, not to plant yourself in one place and die +of dry rot. A British oyster is mighty little improvement on a Cape Cod +quahaug. You have been in that rectory about long enough. Go to Monte +Carlo for change. You'll find it there--or lose it.” + +It may have been good advice--or bad--according to the way in which +it was understood, but, good or bad, it didn't appeal to me. I had no +desire to travel, unless it were to travel back to Bayport, where I +belonged. I felt no interest in Monte Carlo--for the matter of that, I +felt no interest in Mayberry or anywhere else. I was not interested in +anything or anybody--except one, and that one had gone out of my life. +Night after night I went to sleep determining to forget and morning +after morning I awoke only to remember, and with the same dull, hopeless +heartache and longing. + +July passed, August was half gone. Still we remained at the rectory. Our +lease was up on the first of October. The Coles would return then and we +should be obliged to go elsewhere, whether we wished to or not. Hephzy, +although she did not say much about it, was willing to go, I think. Her +“presentiment” had remained only a presentiment so far; no word came +from Little Frank. We had heard or learned nothing concerning her or her +whereabouts. + +Our neighbors and friends in Mayberry were as kind and neighborly as +ever. For the first few days after our interview with Doctor Bayliss, +Senior, Hephzy and I saw nothing of him or his family. Then the doctor +called again. He seemed in better spirits. His son had yielded to his +parents' entreaties and had departed for a walking tour through the +Black Forest with some friends. + +“The invitation came at exactly the right time,” said the old gentleman. +“Herbert was ready to go anywhere or do anything. The poor boy was in +the depths and when his mother and I urged him to accept he did so. We +are hoping that when he returns he will have forgotten, or, if not that, +at least be more reconciled.” + +Heathcroft came and went at various times during the summer. I met him +on the golf course and he was condescendingly friendly as ever. Our talk +concerning Frances, which had brought such momentous consequences to +her and to Hephzy and to me, had, apparently, not disturbed him in the +least. He greeted me blandly and cheerfully, asked how we all were, said +he had been given to understand that “my charming little niece” was no +longer with us, and proceeded to beat me two down in eighteen holes. +I played several times with him afterward and, under different +circumstances, should have enjoyed doing so, for we were pretty evenly +matched. + +His aunt, the Lady of the Manor, I also met. She went out of her way to +be as sweetly gracious as possible. I presume she inferred from Frances' +departure that I had taken her hint and had removed the disturbing +influence from her nephew's primrose-bordered path. At each of our +meetings she spoke of the “invitation golf tournament,” several times +postponed and now to be played within a fortnight. She insisted that +I must take part in it. At last, having done everything except decline +absolutely, I finally consented to enter the tournament. It is not +easy to refuse to obey an imperial decree and Lady Carey was Empress of +Mayberry. + +After accepting I returned to the rectory to find that Hephzy also had +received an invitation. Not to play golf, of course; her invitation was +of a totally different kind. + +“What do you think, Hosy!” she cried. “I've got a letter and you can't +guess who it's from.” + +“From Susanna?” I ventured. + +“Susanna! You don't suppose I'd be as excited as all this over a letter +from Susanna Wixon, do you? No indeed! I've got a letter from Mrs. +Hepton, who had the Nickerson cottage last summer. She and her husband +are in Paris and they want us to meet 'em there in a couple of weeks and +go for a short trip through Switzerland. They got our address from Mr. +Campbell before they left home. Mrs. Hepton writes that they're countin' +on our company. They're goin' to Lake Lucerne and to Mont Blanc and +everywhere. Wouldn't it be splendid!” + +The Heptons had been summer neighbors of ours on the Cape for several +seasons. They were friends of Jim Campbell's and had first come to +Bayport on his recommendation. I liked them very well, and, oddly +enough, for I was not popular with the summer colony, they had seemed to +like me. + +“It was very kind of them to think of us,” I said. “Campbell shouldn't +have given them our address, of course, but their invitation was well +meant. You must write them at once. Make our refusal as polite as +possible.” + +Hephzy seemed disappointed, I thought. + +“Then you think I'd better say no?” she observed. + +“Why, of course. You weren't thinking of accepting, were you?” + +“Well, I didn't know. I'm not sure that our goin' wouldn't be the right +thing. I've been considerin' for some time, Hosy, and I've about come to +the conclusion that stayin' here is bad for you. Maybe it's bad for both +of us. Perhaps a change would do us both good.” + +I was astonished. “Humph!” I exclaimed; “this is a change of heart, +Hephzy. A while ago, when I suggested going back to Bayport, you +wouldn't hear of it. You wanted to stay here and--and wait.” + +“I know I did. And I've been waitin', but nothin' has come of it. I've +still got my presentiment, Hosy. I believe just as strong as I ever did +that some time or other she and you and I will be together again. But +stayin' here and seein' nobody but each other and broodin' don't do us +any good. It's doin' you harm; that's plain enough. You don't write and +you don't eat--that is, not much--and you're gettin' bluer and more thin +and peaked every day. You have just got to go away from here, no matter +whether I do or not. And I've reached the point where I'm willin' to go, +too. Not for good, maybe. We'll come back here again. Our lease isn't +up until October and we can leave the servants here and give them our +address to have mail forwarded. If--if she--that is, if a letter or--or +anything--SHOULD come we could hurry right back. The Heptons are real +nice folks; you always liked 'em, Hosy. And you always wanted to see +Switzerland; you used to say so. Why don't we say yes and go along?” + +I did not answer. I believed I understood the reason for Campbell's +giving our address to the Heptons; also the reason for the invitation. +Jim was very anxious to have me leave Mayberry; he believed travel and +change of scene were what I needed. Doubtless he had put the Heptons up +to asking us to join them on their trip. It was merely an addition to +his precious prescription. + +“Why don't we go?” urged Hephzy. + +“Not much!” I answered, decidedly. “I should be poor company on a +pleasure trip like that. But you might go, Hephzy. There is no reason in +the world why you shouldn't go. I'll stay here until you return. Go, by +all means, and enjoy yourself.” + +Hephzy shook her head. + +“I'd do a lot of enjoyin' without you, wouldn't I,” she observed. +“While I was lookin' at the scenery I'd be wonderin' what you had for +breakfast. Every mite of rain would set me to thinkin' of your gettin' +your feet wet and when I laid eyes on a snow peak I'd wonder if you had +blankets enough on your bed. I'd be like that yellow cat we used to have +back in the time when Father was alive. That cat had kittens and Father +had 'em all drowned but one. After that you never saw the cat anywhere +unless the kitten was there, too. She wouldn't eat unless it were with +her and between bites she'd sit down on it so it couldn't run off. She +lugged it around in her mouth until Father used to vow he'd have eyelet +holes punched in the scruff of its neck for her teeth to fit into and +make it easier for both of 'em. It died, finally; she wore it out, +I guess likely. Then she adopted a chicken and started luggin' that +around. She had the habit, you see. I'm a good deal like her, Hosy. I've +took care of you so long that I've got the habit. No, I shouldn't go +unless you did.” + +No amount of urging moved her, so we dropped the subject. + +The morning of the golf tournament was clear and fine. I shouldered my +bag of clubs and walked through the lane toward the first tee. I never +felt less like playing or more inclined to feign illness and remain at +home. But I had promised Lady Carey and the promise must be kept. + +There was a group of people, players and guests, awaiting me at the tee. +Her ladyship was there, of course; so also was her nephew, Mr. Carleton +Heathcroft, whom I had not seen for some time. Heathcroft was in +conversation with a young fellow who, when he turned in my direction, +I recognized as Herbert Bayliss. I was surprised to see him; I had not +heard of his return from the Black Forest trip. + +Lady Carey was affable and gracious, also very important and busy. She +welcomed me absent-mindedly, introduced me to several of her guests, +ladies and gentlemen from London down for the week-end, and then bustled +away to confer with Mr. Handliss, steward of the estate, concerning the +arrangements for the tournament. I felt a touch on my arm and, turning, +found Doctor Bayliss standing beside me. He was smiling and in apparent +good humor. + +“The boy is back, Knowles,” he said. “Have you seen him?” + +“Yes,” said I, “I have seen him, although we haven't met yet. I was +surprised to find him here. When did he return?” + +“Only yesterday. His mother and I were surprised also. We hadn't +expected him so soon. He's looking very fit, don't you think?” + +“Very.” I had not noticed that young Bayliss was looking either more or +less fit than usual, but I answered as I did because the old gentleman +seemed so very anxious that I should. He was evidently gratified. “Yes,” + he said, “he's looking very fit indeed. I think his trip has benefited +him hugely. And I think--Yes, I think he is beginning to forget +his--that is to say, I believe he does not dwell upon the--the recent +happenings as he did. I think he is forgetting; I really think he is.” + +“Indeed,” said I. It struck me that, if Herbert Bayliss was forgetting, +his memory must be remarkably short. I imagined that his father's wish +was parent to the thought. + +“He has--ah--scarcely mentioned our--our young friend's name since his +return,” went on the doctor. “He did ask if you had heard--ah--by the +way, Knowles, you haven't heard, have you?” + +“No.” + +“Dear me! dear me! That's very odd, now isn't it.” + +He did not say he was sorry. If he had said it I should not have +believed him. If ever anything was plain it was that the longer we +remained without news of Frances Morley the better pleased Herbert +Bayliss's parents would be. + +“But I say, Knowles,” he added, “you and he must meet, you know. He +doesn't hold any ill-feeling or--or resentment toward you. Really he +doesn't. Herbert! Oh, I say, Herbert! Come here, will you.” + +Young Bayliss turned. The doctor whispered in my ear. + +“Perhaps it would be just as well not to refer to--to--You understand +me, Knowles. Better let sleeping dogs lie, eh? Oh, Herbert, here is +Knowles waiting to shake hands with you.” + +We shook hands. The shake, on his part, was cordial enough, perhaps, but +not too cordial. It struck me that young Bayliss was neither as “fit” + nor as forgetful as his fond parents wished to believe. He looked rather +worn and nervous, it seemed to me. I asked him about his tramping trip +and we chatted for a few moments. Then Bayliss, Senior, was called by +Lady Carey and Handliss to join the discussion concerning the tournament +rules and the young man and I were left alone together. + +“Knowles,” he asked, the moment after his father's departure, “have you +heard anything? Anything concerning--her?” + +“No.” + +“You're sure? You're not--” + +“I am quite sure. We haven't heard nor do we expect to.” + +He looked away across the course and I heard him draw a long breath. + +“It's deucedly odd, this,” he said. “How she could disappear so entirely +I don't understand. And you have no idea where she may be?” + +“No.” + +“But--but, confound it, man, aren't you trying to find her?” + +“No.” + +“You're not! Why not?” + +“You know why not as well as I. She left us of her own free will and her +parting request was that we should not follow her. That is sufficient +for us. Pardon me, but I think it should be for all her friends.” + +He was silent for a moment. Then his teeth snapped together. + +“I'll find her,” he declared, fiercely. “I'll find her some day.” + +“In spite of her request?” + +“Yes. In spite of the devil.” + +He turned on his heel and walked off. Mr. Handliss stepped to the first +tee, clapped his hands to attract attention and began a little speech. + +The tournament, he said, was about to begin. Play would be, owing to the +length and difficulty of the course, but eighteen holes instead of the +usual thirty-six. This meant that each pair of contestants would play +the nine holes twice. Handicaps had been fixed as equitably as possible +according to each player's previous record, and players having +similar handicaps were to play against each other. A light lunch and +refreshments would be served after the first round had been completed +by all. Prizes would be distributed by her ladyship when the final round +was finished. Her ladyship bade us all welcome and was gratified by our +acceptance of her invitation. He would now proceed to read the names +of those who were to play against each other, stating handicaps and the +like. He read accordingly, and I learned that my opponent was to be Mr. +Heathcroft, each of us having a handicap of two. + +Considering everything I thought my particular handicap a stiff one. +Heathcroft had been in the habit of beating me in two out of three +of our matches. However, I determined to play my best. Being the only +outlander on the course I couldn't help feeling that the sporting +reputation of Yankeeland rested, for this day at least, upon my +shoulders. + +The players were sent off in pairs, the less skilled first. Heathcroft +and I were next to the last. A London attorney by the name of Jaynes +and a Wrayton divine named Wilson followed us. Their rating was one plus +and, judging by the conversation of the “gallery,” they were looked upon +as winners of the first and second prizes respectively. The Reverend Mr. +Wilson was called, behind his back, “the sporting curate.” In gorgeous +tweeds and a shepherd's plaid cap he looked the part. + +The first nine went to me. An usually long drive and a lucky putt on the +eighth gave me the round by one. I played with care and tried my +hardest to keep my mind on the game. Heathcroft was, as always, calm and +careful, but between tees he was pleased to be chatty and affable. + +“And how is the aunt with the odd name, Knowles?” he inquired. “Does she +still devour her--er--washing flannels and treacle for breakfast?” + +“She does when she cares to,” I replied. “She is an independent lady, as +I think you know.” + +“My word! I believe you. And how are the literary labors progressing? I +had my bookselling fellow look up a novel of yours the other day. Began +it that same night, by Jove! It was quite interesting, really. I should +have finished it, I think, but some of the chaps at the club telephoned +me to join them for a bit of bridge and of course that ended literature +for the time. My respected aunt tells me I'm quite dotty on bridge. She +foresees a gambler's end for me, stony broke, languishing in dungeons +and all that sort of thing. I am to die of starvation, I think. Is it +starvation gamblers die of? 'Pon my soul, I should say most of those I +know would be more likely to die of thirst. Rather!” + +Later on he asked another question. + +“And how is the pretty niece, Knowles?” he inquired. “When is she coming +back to the monastery or the nunnery or rectory, or whatever it is?” + +“I don't know,” I replied, curtly. + +“Oh, I say! Isn't she coming at all? That would be a calamity, now +wouldn't it? Not to me in particular. I should mind your notice boards, +of course. But if I were condemned, as you are, to spend a summer among +the feminine beauties of Mayberry, a face like hers would be like a +whisky and soda in a thirsty land, as a chap I know is fond of saying. +Oh, and by the way, speaking of your niece, I had a curious experience +in Paris a week ago. Most extraordinary thing. For the moment I began +to believe I really was going dotty, as Auntie fears. I... Your drive, +Knowles. I'll tell you the story later.” + +He did not tell it during that round, forgot it probably. I did not +remind him. The longer he kept clear of the subject of my “niece” the +more satisfied I was. We lunched in the pavilion by the first tee. There +were sandwiches and biscuits--crackers, of course--and cakes and sweets +galore. Also thirst-quenching materials sufficient to satisfy even the +gamblers of Mr. Heathcroft's acquaintance. The “sporting curate,” behind +a huge Scotch and soda, was relating his mishaps in approaching the +seventh hole for the benefit of his brother churchmen, Messrs. Judson +and Worcester. Lady Carey was dilating upon her pet subject, the talents +and virtues of “Carleton, dear,” for the benefit of the London attorney, +who was pretending to listen with the respectful interest due blood and +title, but who was thinking of something else, I am sure. “Carleton, +dear,” himself, was chatting languidly with young Bayliss. The latter +seemed greatly interested. There was a curious expression on his face. +I was surprised to see him so cordial to Heathcroft; I knew he did not +like Lady Carey's nephew. + +The second and final round of the tournament began. For six holes +Heathcroft and I broke even. The seventh he won, making us square for +the match so far and, with an equal number of strokes. The eighth we +halved. All depended on the ninth. Halving there would mean a drawn +match between us and a drawing for choice of prizes, provided we were in +the prize-winning class. A win for either of us meant the match itself. + +Heathcroft, in spite of the close play, was as bland and unconcerned as +ever. I tried to appear likewise. As a matter of fact, I wanted to win. +Not because of the possible prize, I cared little for that, but for the +pleasure of winning against him. We drove from the ninth tee, each got +a long brassy shot which put us on the edge of the green, and then +strolled up the hill together. + +“I say, Knowles,” he observed; “I haven't finished telling you of my +Paris experience, have I. Odd coincidence, by Jove! I was telling young +Bayliss about it just now and he thought it odd, too. I was--some other +chaps and I drifted into the Abbey over in Paris a week or so ago and +while we were there a girl came out and sang. She was an extremely +pretty girl, you understand, but that wasn't the extraordinary part of +it. She was the image--my word! the very picture of your niece, Miss +Morley. It quite staggered me for the moment. Upon my soul I thought it +was she! She sang extremely well, but not for long. I tried to get near +her--meant to speak to her, you know, but she had gone before I reached +her. Eh! What did you say?” + +I had not said anything--at least I think I had not. He misinterpreted +my silence. + +“Oh, you mustn't be offended,” he said, laughing. “Of course I knew +it wasn't she--that is, I should have known it if I hadn't been so +staggered by the resemblance. It was amazing, that resemblance. The +face, the voice--everything was like hers. I was so dotty about it that +I even hunted up one of the chaps in charge and asked him who the +girl was. He said she was an Austrian--Mademoiselle Juno or Junotte or +something. That ended it, of course. I was a fool to imagine anything +else, of course. But you would have been a bit staggered if you had +seen her. And she didn't look Austrian, either. She looked English or +American--rather! I say, I hope I haven't hurt your feelings, old chap. +I apologize to you and Miss Morley, you understand. I couldn't help +telling you; it was extraordinary now, wasn't it.” + +I made some answer. He rattled on about that sort of thing making one +believe in the Prisoner of Zenda stuff, doubles and all that. We reached +the green. My ball lay nearest the pin and it was his putt. He made +it, a beauty, the ball halting just at the edge of the cup. My putt +was wild. He holed out on the next shot. It took me two and I had to +concentrate my thought by main strength even then. The hole and match +were his. + +He was very decent about it, proclaimed himself lucky, declared I had, +generally speaking, played much the better game and should have won +easily. I paid little attention to what he said although I did, of +course, congratulate him and laughed at the idea that luck had anything +to do with the result. I no longer cared about the match or the +tournament in general or anything connected with them. His story of the +girl who was singing in Paris was what I was interested in now. I wanted +him to tell me more, to give me particulars. I wanted to ask him a dozen +questions; and, yet, excited as I was, I realized that those questions +must be asked carefully. His suspicions must not be aroused. + +Before I could ask the first of the dozen Mr. Handliss bustled over to +us to learn the result of our play and to announce that the distribution +of prizes would take place in a few moments; also that Lady Carey wished +to speak with her nephew. The latter sauntered off to join the group by +the pavilion and my opportunity for questioning had gone, for the time. + +Of the distribution of prizes, with its accompanying ceremony, I seem +to recall very little. Lady Carey made a little speech, I remember that, +but just what she said I have forgotten. “Much pleasure in rewarding +skill,” “Dear old Scottish game,” “English sportsmanship,” “Race not to +the swift”--I must have been splashed with these drops from the fountain +of oratory, for they stick in my memory. Then, in turn, the winners were +called up to select their prizes. Wilson, the London attorney, headed +the list; the sporting curate came next; Heathcroft next; and then I. +It had not occurred to me that I should win a prize. In fact I had not +thought anything about it. My thoughts were far from the golf course +just then. They were in Paris, in a cathedral--Heathcroft had called it +an abbey, but cathedral he must have meant--where a girl who looked like +Frances Morley was singing. + +However, when Mr. Handliss called my name I answered and stepped +forward. Her Ladyship said something or other about “our cousin from +across the sea” and “Anglo-Saxon blood” and her especial pleasure in +awarding the prize. I stammered thanks, rather incoherently expressed +they were, I fear, selected the first article that came to hand--it +happened to be a cigarette case; I never smoke cigarettes--and retired +to the outer circle. The other winners--Herbert Bayliss and Worcester +among them--selected their prizes and then Mr. Wilson, winner of the +tournament, speaking in behalf of us all, thanked the hostess for her +kindness and hospitality. + +Her gracious invitation to play upon the Manor-House course Mr. Wilson +mentioned feelingly. Also the gracious condescension in presenting the +prizes with her own hand. They would be cherished, not only for their +own sake, but for that of the donor. He begged the liberty of proposing +her ladyship's health. + +The “liberty” was, apparently, expected, for Mr. Handliss had full +glasses ready and waiting. The health was drunk. Lady Carey drank ours +in return, and the ceremony was over. + +I tried in vain to get another word with Heathcroft. He was in +conversation with his aunt and several of the feminine friends and, +although I waited for some time, I, at last, gave up the attempt and +walked home. The Reverend Judson would have accompanied me, but I +avoided him. I did not wish to listen to Mayberry gossip; I wanted to be +alone. + +Heathcroft's tale had made a great impression upon me--a most +unreasonable impression, unwarranted by the scant facts as he related +them. The girl whom he had seen resembled Frances--yes; but she was an +Austrian, her name was not Morley. And resemblances were common enough. +That Frances should be singing in a Paris church was most improbable; +but, so far as that went, the fact of A. Carleton Heathcroft's attending +a church service I should, ordinarily, have considered improbable. +Improbable things did happen. Suppose the girl he had seen was Frances. +My heart leaped at the thought. + +But even supposing it was she, what difference did it make--to me? None, +of course. She had asked us not to follow her, to make no attempt to +find her. I had preached compliance with her wish to Hephzy, to Doctor +Bayliss--yes, to Herbert Bayliss that very afternoon. But Herbert +Bayliss was sworn to find her, in spite of me, in spite of the Evil One. +And Heathcroft had told young Bayliss the same story he had told me. HE +would not be deterred by scruples; her wish would not prevent his going +to Paris in search of her. + +I reached the rectory, to be welcomed by Hephzy with questions +concerning the outcome of the tournament and triumphant gloatings over +my perfectly useless prize. I did not tell her of Heathcroft's story. +I merely said I had met that gentleman and that Herbert Bayliss had +returned to Mayberry. And I asked a question. + +“Hephzy,” I asked, “when do the Heptons leave Paris for their trip +through Switzerland?” + +Hephzy considered. “Let me see,” she said. “Today is the eighteenth, +isn't it. They start on the twenty-second; that's four days from now.” + +“Of course you have written them that we cannot accept their invitation +to go along?” + +She hesitated. “Why, no,” she admitted, “I haven't. That is, I have +written 'em, but I haven't posted the letter. Humph! did you notice +that 'posted'? Shows what livin' in a different place'll do even to +as settled a body as I am. In Bayport I should have said 'mailed' the +letter, same as anybody else. I must be careful or I'll go back home +and call the expressman a 'carrier' and a pie a 'tart' and a cracker a +'biscuit.' Land sakes! I remember readin' how David Copperfield's aunt +always used to eat biscuits soaked in port wine before she went to bed. +I used to think 'twas dreadful dissipated business and that the old +lady must have been ready for bed by the time she got through. You see +I always had riz biscuits in mind. A cracker's different; crackers don't +soak up much. We'd ought to be careful how we judge folks, hadn't we, +Hosy.” + +“Yes,” said I, absently. “So you haven't posted the letter to the +Heptons. Why not?” + +“Well--well, to tell you the truth, Hosy, I was kind of hopin' you might +change your mind and decide to go, after all. I wish you would; 'twould +do you good. And,” wistfully, “Switzerland must be lovely. But there! I +know just how you feel, you poor boy. I'll mail the letter to-night.” + +“Give it to me,” said I. “I'll--I'll see to it.” + +Hephzy handed me the letter. I put it in my pocket, but I did not +post it that evening. A plan--or the possible beginning of a plan--was +forming in my mind. + +That night was another of my bad ones. The little sleep I had was filled +with dreams, dreams from which I awoke to toss restlessly. I rose and +walked the floor, calling myself a fool, a silly old fool, over and +over again. But when morning came my plan, a ridiculous, wild plan from +which, even if it succeeded--which was most unlikely--nothing but added +trouble and despair could possibly come, my plan was nearer its ultimate +formation. + +At eleven o'clock that forenoon I walked up the marble steps of the +Manor House and rang the bell. The butler, an exalted personage in +livery, answered my ring. Mr. Heathcroft? No, sir. Mr. Heathcroft had +left for London by the morning train. Her ladyship was in her boudoir. +She did not see anyone in the morning, sir. I had no wish to see her +ladyship, but Heathcroft's departure was a distinct disappointment. I +thanked the butler and, remembering that even cathedral ushers accepted +tips, slipped a shilling into his hand. His dignity thawed at the silver +touch, and he expressed regret at Mr. Heathcroft's absence. + +“You're not the only gentleman who has been here to see him this +morning, sir,” he said. “Doctor Bayliss, the younger one, called about +an hour ago. He seemed quite as sorry to find him gone as you are, sir.” + +I think that settled it. When I again entered the rectory my mind was +made up. The decision was foolish, insane, even dishonorable perhaps, +but the decision was made. + +“Hephzy,” said I, “I have changed my mind. Travel may do me good. I have +telegraphed the Heptons that we will join them in Paris on the evening +of the twenty-first. After that--Well, we'll see.” + +Hephzy's delight was as great as her surprise. She said I was a dear, +unselfish boy. Considering what I intended doing I felt decidedly mean; +but I did not tell her what that intention was. + +We took the two-twenty train from Charing Cross on the afternoon of the +twenty-first. The servants had been left in charge of the rectory. We +would return in a fortnight, so we told them. + +It was a beautiful day, bright and sunshiny, but, after smoky, grimy +London had been left behind and we were whizzing through the Kentish +countryside, between the hop fields and the pastures where the sheep +were feeding, we noticed that a stiff breeze was blowing. Further on, +as we wound amid the downs near Folkestone, the bending trees and shrubs +proved that the breeze was a miniature gale. And when we came in sight +of the Channel, it was thickly sprinkled with whitecaps from beach to +horizon. + +“I imagine we shall have a rather rough passage, Hephzy,” said I. + +Hephzy's attention was otherwise engaged. + +“Why do they call a hill a 'down' over here?” she asked. “I should think +an 'up' would be better. What did you say, Hosy? A rough passage? I +guess that won't bother you and me much. This little mite of water can't +seem very much stirred up to folks who have sailed clear across the +Atlantic Ocean. But there! I mustn't put on airs. I used to think Cape +Cod Bay was about all the water there was. Travelin' does make such +a difference in a person's ideas. Do you remember the Englishwoman at +Bancroft's who told me that she supposed the Thames must remind us of +our own Mississippi?” + +“So that's the famous English Channel, is it,” she observed, a moment +later. “How wide is it, Hosy?” + +“About twenty miles at the narrowest point, I believe,” I said. + +“Twenty miles! About as far as Bayport to Provincetown. Well, I don't +know whether any of your ancestors or mine came over with William the +Conquerer or not, but if they did, they didn't have far to come. I +cal'late I'll be contented with having my folks cross in the Mayflower. +They came three thousand miles anyway.” + +She was inclined to regard the Channel rather contemptuously just then. +A half hour later she was more respectful. + +The steamer was awaiting us at the pier. As the throng of passengers +filed up the gang-plank she suddenly squeezed my arm. + +“Look! Hosy!” she cried. “Look! Isn't that him?” + +I looked where she was pointing. + +“Him? Who?” I asked. + +“Look! There he goes now. No, he's gone. I can't see him any more. And +yet I was almost certain 'twas him.” + +“Who?” I asked again. “Did you see someone you knew?” + +“I thought I did, but I guess I was mistaken. He's just got home; he +wouldn't be startin' off again so soon. No, it couldn't have been him, +but I did think--” + +I stopped short. “Who did you think you saw?” I demanded. + +“I thought I saw Doctor Herbert Bayliss goin' up those stairs to the +steamboat. It looked like him enough to be his twin brother, if he had +one.” + +I did not answer. I looked about as we stepped aboard the boat, but +if young Bayliss was there he was not in sight. Hephzy rattled on +excitedly. + +“You can't tell much by seein' folks's backs,” she declared. “I remember +one time your cousin Hezekiah Knowles--You don't remember him, Hosy; he +died when you was little--One time Cousin Hezzy was up to Boston with +his wife and they was shoppin' in one of the big stores. That is, Martha +Ann--the wife--was shoppin' and he was taggin' along and complainin', +same as men generally do. He was kind of nearsighted, Hezzy was, and +when Martha was fightin' to get a place in front of a bargain counter he +stayed astern and kept his eyes fixed on a hat she was wearin'. 'Twas a +new hat with blue and yellow flowers on it. Hezzy always said, when he +told the yarn afterward, that he never once figured that there could +be another hat like that one. I saw it myself and, if I'd been in his +place, I'd have HOPED there wasn't anyway. Well, he followed that hat +from one counter to another and, at last, he stepped up and said, 'Look +here, dearie,' he says--They hadn't been married very long, not long +enough to get out of the mushy stage--'Look here, dearie,' he says, +'hadn't we better be gettin' on home? You'll tire those little feet of +yours all out trottin' around this way.' And when the hat turned around +there was a face under it as black as a crow. He'd been followin' a +darkey woman for ten minutes. She thought he was makin' fun of her feet +and was awful mad, and when Martha came along and found who he'd taken +for her she was madder still. Hezzy said, 'I couldn't help it, Martha. +Nobody could. I never saw two craft look more alike from twenty foot +astern. And she wears that hat just the way you do.' That didn't help +matters any, of course, and--Why, Hosy, where are you goin'? Why don't +you say somethin'? Hadn't we better sit down? All the good seats will be +gone if we don't.” + +I had been struggling through the crowd, trying my best to get a glimpse +of the man she had thought to be Herbert Bayliss. If it was he then my +suspicions were confirmed. Heathcroft's story of the girl who sang in +Paris had impressed him as it had me and he was on his way to see for +himself. But the man, whoever he might be, had disappeared. + +“How the wind does blow,” said Hephzy. “What are the people doin' with +those black tarpaulins?” + +Sailors in uniform were passing among the seated passengers distributing +large squares of black waterproof canvas. I watched the use to which the +tarpaulins were put and I understood. I beckoned to the nearest sailor +and rented two of the canvases for use during the voyage. + +“How much?” I asked. + +“One franc each,” said the man, curtly. + +I had visited the money-changers near the Charing Cross station and was +prepared. Hephzy's eyes opened. + +“A franc,” she repeated. “That's French money, isn't it. Is he a +Frenchman?” + +“Yes,” said I. “This is a French boat, I think.” + +She watched the sailor for a moment. Then she sighed. + +“And he's a Frenchman,” she said. “I thought Frenchmen wore mustaches +and goatees and were awful polite. He was about as polite as a pig. +And all he needs is a hand-organ and a monkey to be an Italian. A body +couldn't tell the difference without specs. What did you get those +tarpaulins for, Hosy?” + +I covered our traveling bags with one of the tarpaulins, as I saw our +fellow-passengers doing, and the other I tucked about Hephzy, enveloping +her from her waist down. + +“I don't need that,” she protested. “It isn't cold and it isn't rainin', +either. I tell you I don't need it, Hosy. Don't tuck me in any more. I +feel as if I was goin' to France in a baby carriage, not a steamboat. +And what are they passin' round those--those tin dippers for?” + +“They may be useful later on,” I said, watching the seas leap and +foam against the stone breakwater. “You'll probably understand later, +Hephzy.” + +She understood. The breakwater was scarcely passed when our boat, which +had seemed so large and steady and substantial, began to manifest a +desire to stand on both ends at once and to roll like a log in a rapid. +The sun was shining brightly overhead, the verandas of the hotels along +the beach were crowded with gaily dressed people, the surf fringing +that beach was dotted with bathers, everything on shore wore a look of +holiday and joy--and yet out here, on the edge of the Channel, there was +anything but calm and anything but joy. + +How that blessed boat did toss and rock and dip and leap and pitch! And +how the spray began to fly as we pushed farther and farther from land! +It came over the bows in sheets; it swept before the wind in showers, +in torrents. Hephzy hastily removed her hat and thrust it beneath the +tarpaulin. I turned up the collar of my steamer coat and slid as far +down into that collar as I could. + +“My soul!” exclaimed Hephzy, the salt water running down her face. “My +soul and body!” + +“I agree with you,” said I. + +On we went, over the waves or through them. Our fellow-passengers curled +up beneath their tarpaulins, smiled stoically or groaned dismally, +according to their dispositions--or digestions. A huge wave--the upper +third of it, at least--swept across the deck and spilled a gallon or two +of cold water upon us. A sturdy, red-faced Englishman, sitting next me, +grinned cheerfully and observed: + +“Trickles down one's neck a bit, doesn't it, sir.” + +I agreed that it did. Hephzy, huddled under the lee of my shoulder, +sputtered. + +“Trickles!” she whispered. “My heavens and earth! If this is a trickle +then Noah's flood couldn't have been more than a splash. Trickles! +There's a Niagara Falls back of both of my ears this minute.” + +Another passenger, also English, but gray-haired and elderly, came +tacking down the deck, bound somewhere or other. His was a zig-zag +transit. He dove for the rail, caught it, steadied himself, took a fresh +start, swooped to the row of chairs by the deck house, carromed from +them, and, in company with a barrel or two of flying brine, came head +first into my lap. I expected profanity and temper. I did get a little +of the former. + +“This damned French boat!” he observed, rising with difficulty. “She +absolutely WON'T be still.” + +“The sea is pretty rough.” + +“Oh, the sea is all right. A bit damp, that's all. It's the blessed +boat. Foreigners are such wretched sailors.” + +He was off on another tack. Hephzy watched him wonderingly. + +“A bit damp,” she repeated. “Yes, I shouldn't wonder if 'twas. I suppose +likely he wouldn't call it wet if he fell overboard.” + +“Not on this side of the Channel,” I answered. “This side is English +water, therefore it is all right.” + +A few minutes later Hephzy spoke again. + +“Look at those poor women,” she said. + +Opposite us were two English ladies, middle-aged, wretchedly ill and so +wet that the feathers on their hats hung down in strings. + +“Just like drowned cats' tails,” observed Hephzy. “Ain't it awful! +And they're too miserable to care. You poor thing,” she said, leaning +forward and addressing the nearest, “can't I fix you so you're more +comfortable?” + +The woman addressed looked up and tried her best to smile. + +“Oh, no, thank you,” she said, weakly but cheerfully. “We're doing quite +well. It will soon be over.” + +Hephzy shook her head. + +“Did you hear that, Hosy?” she whispered. “I declare! if it wasn't off +already, and that's a mercy, I'd take off my hat to England and the +English people. Not a whimper, not a complaint, just sit still and soak +and tumble around and grin and say it's 'a bit damp.' Whenever I read +about the grumblin', fault-findin' Englishman I'll think of the folks on +this boat. It may be patriotism or it may be the race pride and reserve +we hear so much about--but, whatever it is, it's fine. They've all got +it, men and women and children. I presume likely the boy that stood on +the burnin' deck would have said 'twas a bit sultry, and that's all.... +What is it, Hosy?” + +I had uttered an exclamation. A young man had just reeled by us on his +way forward. His cap was pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar +was turned up, but I recognized him. He was Herbert Bayliss. + +We were three hours crossing from Folkestone to Boulogne, instead of the +usual scant two. We entered the harbor, where the great crucifix on the +hill above the town attracted Hephzy's attention and the French signs +over the doors of hotels and shops by the quay made her realize, so she +said, that we really were in a foreign country. + +“Somehow England never did seem so very foreign,” she said. “And the +Mayberry folks were so nice and homey and kind I've come to think of 'em +as, not just neighbors, but friends. But this--THIS is foreign enough, +goodness knows! Let go of my arm!” to the smiling, gesticulating porter +who was proffering his services. “DON'T wave your hands like that; you +make me dizzy. Keep 'em still, man! I could understand you just as well +if they was tied. Hosy, you'll have to be skipper from now on. Now I +KNOW Cape Cod is three thousand miles off.” + +We got through the customs without trouble, found our places in the +train, and the train, after backing and fussing and fidgeting and +tooting in a manner thoroughly French, rolled out of the station. + +We ate our dinner, and a very good dinner it was, in the dining-car. +Hephzy, having asked me to translate the heading “Compagnie +Internationale des Wagon Lits” on the bill of fare, declared she +couldn't see why a dining-car should be called a “wagon bed.” “There's +enough to eat to put you to sleep,” she declared, “but you couldn't +stay asleep any more than you could in the nail factory up to Tremont. I +never heard such a rattlin' and slambangin' in my life.” + +We whizzed through the French country, catching glimpses of little +towns, with red-roofed cottages clustered about the inevitable church +and chateau, until night came and looking out of the window was no +longer profitable. At nine, or thereabouts, we alighted from the train +at Paris. + +In the cab, on the way to the hotel where we were to meet the Heptons, +Hephzy talked incessantly. + +“Paris!” she said, over and over again. “Paris! where they had the Three +Musketeers and Notre Dame and Henry of Navarre and Saint Bartholomew and +Napoleon and the guillotine and Innocents Abroad and--and everything. +Paris! And I'm in it!” + +At the door of the hotel Mr. Hepton met us. + +Before we retired that night I told Hephzy what I had deferred telling +until then, namely, that I did not intend leaving for Switzerland with +her and with the Heptons the following day. I did not tell her my real +reason for staying; I had invented a reason and told her that instead. + +“I want to be alone here in Paris for a few days,” I said. “I think I +may find some material here which will help me with my novel. You and +the Heptons must go, just as you have planned, and I will join you at +Lucerne or Interlaken.” + +Hephzy stared at me. + +“I sha'n't stir one step without you,” she declared. “If I'd known you +had such an idea as that in your head I--” + +“You wouldn't have come,” I interrupted. “I know that; that's why I +didn't tell you. Of course you will go and of course you will leave me +here. We will be separated only two or three days. I'll ask Hepton to +give me an itinerary of the trip and I will wire when and where I will +join you. You must go, Hephzy; I insist upon it.” + +In spite of my insisting Hephzy still declared she should not go. It was +nearly midnight before she gave in. + +“And if you DON'T come in three days at the longest,” she said, “you'll +find me back here huntin' you up. I mean that, Hosy, so you'd better +understand it. And now,” rising from her chair, “I'm goin' to see about +the things you're to wear while we're separated. If I don't you're +liable to keep on wet stockin's and shoes and things all the time and +forget to change 'em. You needn't say you won't, for I know you too +well. Mercy sakes! do you suppose I've taken care of you all these years +and DON'T know?” + +The next forenoon I said good-by to her and the Heptons at the railway +station. Hephzy's last words to me were these: + +“Remember,” she said, “if you do get caught in the rain, there's dry +things in the lower tray of your trunk. Collars and neckties and shirts +are in the upper tray. I've hung your dress suit in the closet in case +you want it, though that isn't likely. And be careful what you eat, and +don't smoke too much, and--Yes, Mr. Hepton, I'm comin'--and don't spend +ALL your money in book-stores; you'll need some of it in Switzerland. +And--Oh, dear, Hosy! do be a good boy. I know you're always good, but, +from all I've heard, this Paris is an awful place and--good-by. Good-by. +In Lucerne in two days or Interlaken in three. It's got to be that, +or back I come, remember. I HATE to leave you all alone amongst these +jabberin' foreigners. I'm glad you can jabber, too, that's one comfort. +If it was me, all I could do would be to holler United States language +at 'em, and if they didn't understand that, just holler louder. I--Yes, +Mr. Hepton, I AM comin' now. Good-by, Hosy, dear.” + +The train rolled out of the station. I watched it go. Then I turned and +walked to the street. So far my scheme had worked well. I was alone +in Paris as I had planned to be. And now--and now to find where a girl +sang, a girl who looked like Frances Morley. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +In Which I Learn that All Abbeys Are Not Churches + + +And that, now that I really stopped to consider it, began to appear more +and more of a task. Paris must be full of churches; to visit each of +them in turn would take weeks at least. Hephzy had given me three days. +I must join her at Interlaken in three days or there would be trouble. +And how was I to make even the most superficial search in three days? + +Of course I had realized something of this before. Even in the state of +mind which Heathcroft's story had left me, I had realized that my errand +in Paris was a difficult one. I realized that I had set out on the +wildest of wild goose chases and that, even in the improbable event +of the singer's being Frances, my finding her was most unlikely. The +chances of success were a hundred to one against me. But I was in the +mood to take the hundredth chance. I should have taken it if the odds +were higher still. My plan--if it could be called a plan--was first of +all to buy a Paris Baedeker and look over the list of churches. This I +did, and, back in the hotel room, I consulted that list. It staggered +me. There were churches enough--there were far too many. Cathedrals and +chapels and churches galore--Catholic and Protestant. But there was no +church calling itself an abbey. I closed the Baedeker, lit a cigar, and +settled myself for further reflection. + +The girl was singing somewhere and she called herself Mademoiselle Juno +or Junotte, so Heathcroft had said. So much I knew and that was all. +It was very, very little. But Herbert Bayliss had come to Paris, I +believed, because of what Heathcroft had told him. Did he know more +than I? It was possible. At any rate he had come. I had seen him on +the steamer, and I believed he had seen and recognized me. Of course +he might not be in Paris now; he might have gone elsewhere. I did not +believe it, however. I believed he had crossed the Channel on the same +errand as I. There was a possible chance. I might, if the other means +proved profitless, discover at which hotel Bayliss was staying and +question him. He might tell me nothing, even if he knew, but I could +keep him in sight, I could follow him and discover where he went. +It would be dishonorable, perhaps, but I was desperate and doggedly +regardless of scruples. I was set upon one thing--to find her, to see +her and speak with her again. + +Shadowing Bayliss, however, I set aside as a last resort. Before that I +would search on my own hook. And, tossing aside the useless Baedeker, +I tried to think of someone whose advice might be of value. At last, +I resolved to question the concierge of the hotel. Concierges, I +knew, were the ever present helps of travelers in trouble. They knew +everything, spoke all languages, and expected to be asked all sorts of +unreasonable questions. + +The concierge at my hotel was a transcendant specimen of his talented +class. His name and title was Monsieur Louis--at least that is what I +had heard the other guests call him. And the questions which he had been +called upon to answer, in my hearing, ranged in subject from the hour of +closing the Luxemburg galleries to that of opening the Bal Tabarin, with +various interruptions during which he settled squabbles over cab fares, +took orders for theater and opera tickets, and explained why fruit at +the tables of the Cafe des Ambassadeurs was so very expensive. + +Monsieur Louis received me politely, listened, with every appearance of +interest, to my tale of a young lady, a relative, who was singing at one +of the Paris churches and whose name was Juno or Junotte, but, when I +had finished, reluctantly shook his head. There were many, many churches +in Paris--yes, and, at some of them, young ladies sang; but these were, +for the most part, the Protestant churches. At the larger churches, the +Catholic churches, most of the singers were men or boys. He could recall +none where a lady of that name sang. Monsieur had not been told the name +of the church? + +“The person who told me referred to it as an abbey,” I said. + +Louis raised his shoulders. “I am sorry, Monsieur,” he said, “but there +is no abbey, where ladies sing, in Paris. It is, alas, regrettable, but +it is so.” + +He announced it as he might have broken to me the news of the death of +a friend. Incidentally, having heard a few sentences of my French, he +spoke in English, very good English. + +“I will, however, make inquiries, Monsieur,” he went on. “Possibly I may +discover something which will be of help to Monsieur in his difficulty.” + In the meantime there was to be a parade of troops at the Champ de +Mars at four, and the evening performance at the Folies Bergeres was +unusually good and English and American gentlemen always enjoyed it. It +would give him pleasure to book a place for me. + +I thanked him but I declined the offer, so far as the Folies were +concerned. I did ask him, however, to give me the name of a few churches +at which ladies sang. This he did and I set out to find them, in a cab +which whizzed through the Paris streets as if the driver was bent upon +suicide and manslaughter. + +I visited four places of worship that afternoon and two more that +evening. Those in charge--for I attended no services--knew nothing of +Mademoiselle Junotte or Juno. I retired at ten, somewhat discouraged, +but stubbornly determined to keep on, for my three days at least. + +The next morning I consulted Baedeker again, this time for the list of +hotels, a list which I found quite as lengthy as that of the churches. +Then I once more sought the help of Monsieur Louis. Could he tell me a +few of the hotels where English visitors were most likely to stay. + +He could do more than that, apparently. Would I be so good as to inform +him if the lady or gentleman--being Parisian he put the lady first--whom +I wished to find had recently arrived in Paris. I told him that the +gentleman had arrived the same evening as I. Whereupon he produced +a list of guests at all the prominent hotels. Herbert Bayliss was +registered at the Continental. + +To the Continental I went and made inquiries of the concierge there. +Mr. Bayliss was there, he was in his room, so the concierge believed. He +would be pleased to ascertain. Would I give my name? I declined to give +the name, saying that I did not wish to disturb Mr. Bayliss. If he was +in his room I would wait until he came down. He was in his room, had not +yet breakfasted, although it was nearly ten in the forenoon. I sat down +in a chair from which I could command a good view of the elevators, and +waited. + +The concierge strolled over and chatted. Was I a friend of Mr. Bayliss? +Ah, a charming young gentleman, was he not. This was not his first visit +to Paris, no indeed; he came frequently--though not as frequently of +late--and he invariably stayed at the Continental. He had been out late +the evening before, which doubtless explained his non-appearance. Ah, +he was breakfasting now; had ordered his “cafe complete.” Doubtless he +would be down very soon? Would I wish to send up my name now? + +Again I declined, to the polite astonishment of the concierge, who +evidently considered me a queer sort of a friend. He was called to his +desk by a guest, who wished to ask questions, of course, and I waited +where I was. At a quarter to eleven Herbert Bayliss emerged from the +elevator. + +His appearance almost shocked me. Out late the night before! He looked +as if he had been out all night for many nights. He was pale and solemn. +I stepped forward to greet him and the start he gave when he saw me +was evidence of the state of his nerves. I had never thought of him as +possessing any nerves. + +“Eh? Why, Knowles!” he exclaimed. + +“Good morning, Bayliss,” said I. + +We both were embarrassed, he more than I, for I had expected to see him +and he had not expected to see me. I made a move to shake hands but he +did not respond. His manner toward me was formal and, I thought, colder +than it had been at our meeting the day of the golf tournament. + +“I called,” I said, “to see you, Bayliss. If you are not engaged I +should like to talk with you for a few moments.” + +His answer was a question. + +“How did you know I was here?” he asked. + +“I saw your name in the list of recent arrivals at the Continental,” I +answered. + +“I mean how did you know I was in Paris?” + +“I didn't know. I thought I caught a glimpse of you on the boat. I was +almost sure it was you, but you did not appear to recognize me and I had +no opportunity to speak then.” + +He did not speak at once, he did not even attempt denial of having seen +and recognized me during the Channel crossing. He regarded me intently +and, I thought, suspiciously. + +“Who sent you here?” he asked, suddenly. + +“Sent me! No one sent me. I don't understand you.” + +“Why did you follow me?” + +“Follow you?” + +“Yes. Why did you follow me to Paris? No one knew I was coming here, +not even my own people. They think I am--Well, they don't know that I am +here.” + +His speech and his manner were decidedly irritating. I had made a firm +resolve to keep my temper, no matter what the result of this interview +might be, but I could not help answering rather sharply. + +“I had no intention of following you--here or anywhere else,” I said. +“Your action and whereabouts, generally speaking, are of no particular +interest to me. I did not follow you to Paris, Doctor Bayliss.” + +He reddened and hesitated. Then he led the way to a divan in a retired +corner of the lobby and motioned to me to be seated. There he sat down +beside me and waited for me to speak. I, in turn, waited for him to +speak. + +At last he spoke. + +“I'm sorry, Knowles,” he said. “I am not myself today. I've had a devil +of a night and I feel like a beast this morning. I should probably have +insulted my own father, had he appeared suddenly, as you did. Of course +I should have known you did not follow me to Paris. But--but why did you +come?” + +I hesitated now. “I came,” I said, “to--to--Well, to be perfectly honest +with you, I came because of something I heard concerning--concerning--” + +He interrupted me. “Then Heathcroft did tell you!” he exclaimed. “I +thought as much.” + +“He told you, I know. He said he did.” + +“Yes. He did. My God, man, isn't it awful! Have you seen her?” + +His manner convinced me that he had seen her. In my eagerness I forgot +to be careful. + +“No,” I answered, breathlessly; “I have not seen her. Where is she?” + +He turned and stared at me. + +“Don't you know where she is?” he asked, slowly. + +“I know nothing. I have been told that she--or someone very like her--is +singing in a Paris church. Heathcroft told me that and then we were +interrupted. I--What is the matter?” + +He was staring at me more oddly than ever. There was the strangest +expression on his face. + +“In a church!” he repeated. “Heathcroft told you--” + +“He told me that he had seen a girl, whose resemblance to Miss Morley +was so striking as to be marvelous, singing in a Paris church. He called +it an abbey, but of course it couldn't be that. Do you know anything +more definite? What did he tell you?” + +He did not answer. + +“In a church!” he said again. “You thought--Oh, good heavens!” + +He began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear. Moreover, it +angered me. + +“This may be very humorous,” I said, brusquely. “Perhaps it is--to you. +But--Bayliss, you know more of this than I. I am certain now that you +do. I want you to tell me what you know. Is that girl Frances Morley? +Have you seen her? Where is she?” + +He had stopped laughing. Now he seemed to be considering. + +“Then you did come over here to find her,” he said, more slowly still. +“You were following her, why?” + +“WHY?” + +“Yes, why. She is nothing to you. You told my father that. You told me +that she was not your niece. You told Father that you had no claim upon +her whatever and that she had asked you not to try to trace her or to +learn where she was. You said all that and preached about respecting her +wish and all that sort of thing. And yet you are here now trying to find +her.” + +The only answer I could make to this was a rather childish retort. + +“And so are you,” I said. + +His fists clinched. + +“I!” he cried, fiercely. “I! Did _I_ ever say she was nothing to me? Did +_I_ ever tell anyone I should not try to find her? I told you, only +the other day, that I would find her in spite of the devil. I meant it. +Knowles, I don't understand you. When I came to you thinking you her +uncle and guardian, and asked your permission to ask her to marry me, +you gave that permission. You did. You didn't tell me that she was +nothing to you. I don't understand you at all. You told my father a lot +of rot--” + +“I told your father the truth. And, when I told you that she had left +no message for you, that was the truth also. I have no reason to believe +she cares for you--” + +“And none to think that she doesn't. At all events she did not tell ME +not to follow her. She did tell you. Why are you following her?” + +It was a question I could not answer--to him. That reason no one should +know. And yet what excuse could I give, after all my protestations? + +“I--I feel that I have the right, everything considered,” I stammered. +“She is not my niece, but she is Miss Cahoon's.” + +“And she ran away from both of you, asking, as a last request, that you +both make no attempt to learn where she was. The whole affair is beyond +understanding. What the truth may be--” + +“Are you hinting that I have lied to you?” + +“I am not hinting at anything. All I can say is that it is deuced queer, +all of it. And I sha'n't say more.” + +“Will you tell me--” + +“I shall tell you nothing. That would be her wish, according to your own +statement and I will respect that wish, if you don't.” + +I rose to my feet. There was little use in an open quarrel between us +and I was by far the older man. Yes, and his position was infinitely +stronger than mine, as he understood it. But I never was more strongly +tempted. He knew where she was. He had seen her. The thought was +maddening. + +He had risen also and was facing me defiantly. + +“Good morning, Doctor Bayliss,” said I, and walked away. I turned as I +reached the entrance of the hotel and looked back. He was still standing +there, staring at me. + +That afternoon I spent in my room. There is little use describing my +feelings. That she was in Paris I was sure now. That Bayliss had seen +her I was equally sure. But why had he spoken and looked as he did +when I first spoke of Heathcroft's story? What had he meant by saying +something or other was “awful?” And why had he seemed so astonished, why +had he laughed in that strange way when I had said she was singing in a +church? + +That evening I sought Monsieur Louis, the concierge, once more. + +“Is there any building here in Paris,” I asked, “a building in which +people sing, which is called an abbey? One that is not a church or an +abbey, but is called that?” + +Louis looked at me in an odd way. He seemed a bit embarrassed, an +embarrassment I should not have expected from him. + +“Monsieur asks the question,” he said, smiling. “It was in my mind last +night, the thought, but Monsieur asked for a church. There is a place +called L'Abbaye and there young women sing, but--” he hesitated, +shrugged and then added, “but L'Abbaye is not a church. No, it is not +that.” + +“What is it?” I asked. + +“A restaurant, Monsieur. A cafe chantant at Montmartre.” + +Montmartre at ten that evening was just beginning to awaken. At the hour +when respectable Paris, home-loving, domestic Paris, the Paris of which +the tourist sees so little, is thinking of retiring, Montmartre--or that +section of it in which L'Abbaye is situated--begins to open its eyes. At +ten-thirty, as my cab buzzed into the square and pulled up at the curb, +the electric signs were blazing, the sidewalks were, if not yet crowded, +at least well filled, and the sounds of music from the open windows of +The Dead Rat and the other cafes with the cheerful names were mingling +with noises of the street. + +Monsieur Louis had given me my sailing orders, so to speak. He had +told me that arriving at L'Abbaye before ten-thirty was quite useless. +Midnight was the accepted hour, he said; prior to that I would find it +rather dull, triste. But after that--Ah, Monsieur would, at least, be +entertained. + +“But of course Monsieur does not expect to find the young lady of whom +he is in search there,” he said. “A relative is she not?” + +Remembering that I had, when I first mentioned the object of my quest to +him, referred to her as a relative, I nodded. + +He smiled and shrugged. + +“A relative of Monsieur's would scarcely be found singing at L'Abbaye,” + he said. “But it is a most interesting place, entertaining and chic. +Many English and American gentlemen sup there after the theater.” + +I smiled and intimated that the desire to pass a pleasant evening was my +sole reason for visiting the place. He was certain I would be pleased. + +The doorway of L'Abbaye was not deserted, even at the “triste” hour of +ten-thirty. Other cabs were drawn up at the curb and, upon the stairs +leading to the upper floors, were several gaily dressed couples bound, +as I had proclaimed myself to be, in search of supper and entertainment. +I had, acting upon the concierge's hint, arrayed myself in my evening +clothes and I handed my silk hat, purchased in London--where, as +Hephzy said, “a man without a tall hat is like a rooster without tail +feathers”--to a polite and busy attendant. Then a personage with a +very straight beard and a very curly mustache, ushered me into the main +dining-room. + +“Monsieur would wish seats for how many?” he asked, in French. + +“For myself only,” I answered, also in French. His next remark was in +English. I was beginning to notice that when I addressed a Parisian in +his native language, he usually answered in mine. This may have been +because of a desire to please me, or in self-defence; I am inclined to +think the latter. + +“Ah, for one only. This way, Monsieur.” + +I was given a seat at one end of a long table, and in a corner. There +were plenty of small tables yet unoccupied, but my guide was apparently +reserving these for couples or quartettes; at any rate he did not offer +one to me. I took the seat indicated. + +“I shall wish to remain here for some time?” I said. “Probably the +entire--” I hesitated; considering the hour I scarcely knew whether to +say “evening” or “morning.” At last I said “night” as a compromise. + +The bearded person seemed doubtful. + +“There will be a great demand later,” he said. “To oblige Monsieur is of +course our desire, but.... Ah, merci, Monsieur, I will see that Monsieur +is not disturbed.” + +The reason for his change of heart was the universal one in restaurants. +He put the reason in his pocket and summoned a waiter to take my order. + +I gave the order, a modest one, which dropped me a mile or two in the +waiter's estimation. However, after a glance at my fellow-diners at +nearby tables, I achieved a partial uplift by ordering a bottle of +extremely expensive wine. I had had the idea that, being in France, the +home of champagne, that beverage would be cheap or, at least, moderately +priced. But in L'Abbaye the idea seemed to be erroneous. + +The wine was brought immediately; the supper was somewhat delayed. I +did not care. I had not come there to eat--or to drink, either, for that +matter. I had come--I scarcely knew why I had come. That Frances Morley +would be singing in a place like this I did not believe. This was the +sort of “abbey” that A. Carleton Heathcroft would be most likely to +visit, that was true, but that he had seen her here was most improbable. +The coincidence of the “abbey” name would not have brought me there, of +itself. Herbert Bayliss had given me to understand, although he had not +said it, that she was not singing in a church and he had found the idea +of her being where she was “awful.” It was because of what he had said +that I had come, as a sort of last chance, a forlorn hope. Of course she +would not be here, a hired singer in a Paris night restaurant; that was +impossible. + +How impossible it was likely to be I realized more fully during the +next hour. There was nothing particularly “awful” about L'Abbaye of +itself--at first, nor, perhaps, even later; at least the awfulness was +well covered. The program of entertainment was awful enough, if deadly +mediocrity is awful. A big darkey, dressed in a suit which reminded me +of the “end man” at an old-time minstrel show, sang “My Alabama Coon,” + accompanying himself, more or less intimately, on the banjo. I could +have heard the same thing, better done, at a ten cent theater in the +States, where this chap had doubtless served an apprenticeship. However, +the audience, which was growing larger every minute, seemed to find the +bellowing enjoyable and applauded loudly. Then a feminine person did a +Castilian dance between the tables. I was ready to declare a second war +with Spain when she had finished. Then there was an orchestral interval, +during which the tables filled. + +The impossibility of Frances singing in a place like this became more +certain each minute, to my mind. I called the waiter. + +“Does Mademoiselle Juno sing here this evening?” I asked, in my lame +French. + +He shook his head. “Non, Monsieur,” he answered, absently, and hastened +on with the bottle he was carrying. + +Apparently that settled it. I might as well go. Then I decided to remain +a little longer. After all, I was there, and I, or Heathcroft, might +have misunderstood the name. I would stay for a while. + +The long table at which I sat was now occupied from end to end. There +were several couples, male and female, and a number of unattached +young ladies, well-dressed, pretty for the most part, and vivacious +and inclined to be companionable. They chatted with their neighbors and +would have chatted with me if I had been in the mood. For the matter of +that everyone talked with everyone else, in French or English, good, bad +and indifferent, and there was much laughter and gaiety. L'Abbaye was +wide awake by this time. + +The bearded personage who had shown me to my seat, appeared, followed +by a dozen attendants bearing paper parasols and bags containing little +celluloid balls, red, white, and blue. They were distributed among the +feminine guests. The parasols, it developed, were to be waved and the +balls to be thrown. You were supposed to catch as many as were thrown +at you and throw them back. It was wonderful fun--or would have been for +children--and very, very amusing--after the second bottle. + +For my part I found it very stupid. As I have said at least once in this +history I am not what is called a “good mixer” and in an assemblage like +this I was as out of place as a piece of ice on a hot stove. Worse than +that, for the ice would have melted and I congealed the more. My bottle +of champagne remained almost untouched and when a celluloid ball bounced +on the top of my head I did not scream “Whoopee! Bullseye!” as my +American neighbors did or “Voila! Touche!” like the French. There were +plenty of Americans and English there, and they seemed to be having a +good time, but their good time was incomprehensible to me. This was “gay +Paris,” of course, but somehow the gaiety seemed forced and artificial +and silly, except to the proprietors of L'Abbaye. If I had been getting +the price for food and liquids which they received I might, perhaps, +have been gay. + +The young Frenchman at my right was gay enough. He had early discovered +my nationality and did his best to be entertaining. When a performer +from the Olympia, the music hall on the Boulevard des Italiens, sang a +distressing love ballad in a series of shrieks like those of a circular +saw in a lumber mill, this person shouted his “Bravos” with the rest and +then, waving his hands before my face, called for, “De cheer Americain! +One, two, tree--Heep! Heep! Heep! Oo--ray-y-y!” I did not join in “the +cheer Americain,” but I did burst out laughing, a proceeding which +caused the young lady at my left to pat my arm and nod delighted +approval. She evidently thought I was becoming gay and lighthearted at +last. She was never more mistaken. + +It was nearly two o'clock and I had had quite enough of L'Abbaye. I had +not enjoyed myself--had not expected to, so far as that went. I hope I +am not a prig, and, whatever I am or am not, priggishness had no part in +my feelings then. Under ordinary circumstances I should not have enjoyed +myself in a place like that. Mine is not the temperament--I shouldn't +know how. I must have appeared the most solemn ass in creation, and if I +had come there with the idea of amusement, I should have felt like one. +As it was, my feeling was not disgust, but unreasonable disappointment. +Certainly I did not wish--now that I had seen L'Abbaye--to find Frances +Morley there; but just as certainly I was disappointed. + +I called for my bill, paid it, and stood up. I gave one look about the +crowded, noisy place, and then I started violently and sat down again. I +had seen Herbert Bayliss. He had, apparently, just entered and a waiter +was finding a seat for him at a table some distance away and on the +opposite side of the great room. + +There was no doubt about it; it was he. My heart gave a bound that +almost choked me and all sorts of possibilities surged through my brain. +He had come to Paris to find her, he had found her--in our conversation +he had intimated as much. And now, he was here at the “Abbey.” Why? Was +it here that he had found her? Was she singing here after all? + +Bayliss glanced in my direction and I sank lower in my chair. I did +not wish him to see me. Fortunately the lady opposite waved her paper +parasol just then and I went into eclipse, so far as he was concerned. +When the eclipse was over he was looking elsewhere. + +The black-bearded Frenchman, who seemed to be, if not one of the +proprietors, at least one of the managers of L'Abbaye, appeared in the +clear space at the center of the room between the tables and waved +his hands. He was either much excited or wished to seem so. He shouted +something in French which I could not understand. There was a buzz of +interest all about me; then the place grew still--or stiller. Something +was going to happen, that was evident. I leaned toward my voluble +neighbor, the French gentleman who had called for “de cheer Americain.” + +“What is it?” I asked. “What is the matter?” + +He ignored, or did not hear, my question. The bearded person was still +waving his hands. The orchestra burst into a sort of triumphal march and +then into the open space between the tables came--Frances Morley. + +She was dressed in a simple evening gown, she was not painted or +powdered to the extent that women who had sung before her had been, her +hair was simply dressed. She looked thinner than she had when I last saw +her, but otherwise she was unchanged. In that place, amid the lights and +the riot of color, the silks and satins and jewels, the flushed faces of +the crowd, she stood and bowed, a white rose in a bed of tiger lilies, +and the crowd rose and shouted at her. + +The orchestra broke off its triumphal march and the leader stood up, his +violin at his shoulder. He played a bar or two and she began to sing. + +She sang a simple, almost childish, love song in French. There was +nothing sensational about it, nothing risque, certainly nothing which +should have appealed to the frequenters of L'Abbaye. And her voice, +although sweet and clear and pure, was not extraordinary. And yet, when +she had finished, there was a perfect storm of “Bravos.” Parasols waved, +flowers were thrown, and a roar of applause lasted for minutes. Why this +should have been is a puzzle to me even now. Perhaps it was because of +her clean, girlish beauty; perhaps because it was so unexpected and so +different; perhaps because of the mystery concerning her. I don't know. +Then I did not ask. I sat in my chair at the table, trembling from head +to foot, and looking at her. I had never expected to see her again and +now she was before my eyes--here in this place. + +She sang again; this time a jolly little ballad of soldiers and glory +and the victory of the Tri-Color. And again she swept them off their +feet. She bowed and smiled in answer to their applause and, motioning +to the orchestra leader, began without accompaniment, “Loch Lomond,” in +English. It was one of the songs I had asked her to sing at the rectory, +one I had found in the music cabinet, one that her mother and mine had +sung years before. + + + “Ye'll take the high road + And I'll take the low road, + And I'll be in Scotland afore ye--” + + +I was on my feet. I have no remembrance of having risen, but I was +standing, leaning across the table, looking at her. There were cries of +“Sit down” in English and other cries in French. There were tugs at my +coat tails. + + + “But me and my true love + Shall never meet again, + By the bonny, bonny banks + Of Loch--” + + +She saw me. The song stopped. I saw her turn white, so white that the +rouge on her cheeks looked like fever spots. She looked at me and I at +her. Then she raised her hand to her throat, turned and almost ran from +the room. + +I should have followed her, then and there, I think. I was on my way +around the end of the table, regardless of masculine boots and feminine +skirts. But a stout Englishman got in my way and detained me and the +crowd was so dense that I could not push through it. It was an excited +crowd, too. For a moment there had been a surprised silence, but now +everyone was exclaiming and talking in his or her native language. + +“Oh, I say! What happened? What made her do that?” demanded the stout +Englishman. Then he politely requested me to get off his foot. + +The bearded manager--or proprietor--was waving his hands once more and +begging attention and silence. He got both, in a measure. Then he made +his announcement. + +He begged ten thousand pardons, but Mademoiselle Guinot--That was it, +Guinot, not Juno or Junotte--had been seized with a most regrettable +illness. She had been unable to continue her performance. It was not +serious, but she could sing no more that evening. To-morrow evening--ah, +yes. Most certainly. But to-night--no. Monsieur Hairee Opkins, the +most famous Engleesh comedy artiste would now entertain the patrons of +L'Abbaye. He begged, he entreated attention for Monsieur Opkins. + +I did not wait for “Monsieur Hairee.” I forced my way to the door. As I +passed out I cast a glance in the direction of young Bayliss. He was +on his feet, loudly shouting for a waiter and his bill. I had so much +start, at all events. + +Through the waiters and uniformed attendants I elbowed. Another man with +a beard--he looked enough like the other to be his brother, and perhaps +he was--got in my way at last. A million or more pardons, but Monsieur +could not go in that direction. The exit was there, pointing. + +As patiently and carefully as I could, considering my agitation, I +explained that I did not wish to find the exit. I was a friend, a--yes, +a--er--relative of the young lady who had just sung and who had been +taken ill. I wanted to go to her. + +Another million pardons, but that was impossible. I did not understand, +Mademoiselle was--well, she did not see gentlemen. She was--with +the most expressive of shrugs--peculiar. She desired no friends. It +was--ah--quite impossible. + +I found my pocketbook and pressed my card into his hand. Would he give +Mademoiselle my card? Would he tell her that I must see her, if only for +a minute? Just give her the card and tell her that. + +He shook his head, smiling but firm. I could have punched him for the +smile, but instead I took other measures. I reached into my +pocket, found some gold pieces--I have no idea how many or of what +denomination--and squeezed them in the hand with the card. He still +smiled and shook his head, but his firmness was shaken. + +“I will give the card,” he said, “but I warn Monsieur it is quite +useless. She will not see him.” + +The waiter with whom I had seen Herbert Bayliss in altercation was +hurrying by me. I caught his arm. + +“Pardon, Monsieur,” he protested, “but I must go. The gentleman yonder +desires his bill.” + +“Don't give it to him,” I whispered, trying hard to think of the French +words. “Don't give it to him yet. Keep him where he is for a time.” + +I backed the demand with another gold piece, the last in my pocket. The +waiter seemed surprised. + +“Not give the bill?” he repeated. + +“No, not yet.” I did my best to look wicked and knowing--“He and I wish +to meet the same young lady and I prefer to be first.” + +That was sufficient--in Paris. The waiter bowed low. + +“Rest in peace, Monsieur,” he said. “The gentleman shall wait.” + +I waited also, for what seemed a long time. Then the bearded one +reappeared. He looked surprised but pleased. + +“Bon, Monsieur,” he whispered, patting my arm. “She will see you. You +are to wait at the private door. I will conduct you there. It is most +unusual. Monsieur is a most fortunate gentleman.” + +At the door, at the foot of a narrow staircase--decidedly lacking in the +white and gold of the other, the public one--I waited, for another age. +The staircase was lighted by one sickly gas jet and the street outside +was dark and dirty. I waited on the narrow sidewalk, listening to the +roar of nocturnal Montmartre around the corner, to the beating of my own +heart, and for her footstep on the stairs. + +At last I heard it. The door opened and she came out. She wore a cloak +over her street costume and her hat was one that she had bought in +London with my money. She wore a veil and I could not see her face. + +I seized her hands with both of mine. + +“Frances!” I cried, chokingly. “Oh, Frances!” + +She withdrew her hands. When she spoke her tone was quiet but very firm. + +“Why did you come here?” she asked. + +“Why did I come? Why--” + +“Yes. Why did you come? Was it to find me? Did you know I was here?” + +“I did not know. I had heard--” + +“Did Doctor Bayliss tell you?” + +I hesitated. So she HAD seen Bayliss and spoken with him. + +“No,” I answered, after a moment, “he did not tell me, exactly. But I +had heard that someone who resembled you was singing here in Paris.” + +“And you followed me. In spite of my letter begging you, for my sake, +not to try to find me. Did you get that letter?” + +“Yes, I got it.” + +“Then why did you do it? Oh, WHY did you?” + +For the first time there was a break in her voice. We were standing +before the door. The street, it was little more than an alley, was +almost deserted, but I felt it was not the place for explanations. I +wanted to get her away from there, as far from that dreadful “Abbey” as +possible. I took her arm. + +“Come,” I said, “I will tell you as we go. Come with me now.” + +She freed her arm. + +“I am not coming with you,” she said. “Why did you come here?” + +“I came--I came--Why did YOU come? Why did you leave us as you did? +Without a word!” + +She turned and faced me. + +“You know why I left you,” she said. “You know. You knew all the +time. And yet you let me believe--You let me think--I lived upon your +money--I--I--Oh, don't speak of it! Go away! please go away and leave +me.” + +“I am not going away--without you. I came to get you to go back with me. +You don't understand. Your aunt and I want you to come with us. We want +you to come and live with us again. We--” + +She interrupted. I doubt if she had comprehended more than the first few +words of what I was saying. + +“Please go away,” she begged. “I know I owe you money, so much money. +I shall pay it. I mean to pay it all. At first I could not. I could not +earn it. I tried. Oh, I tried SO hard! In London I tried and tried, but +all the companies were filled, it was late in the season and I--no one +would have me. Then I got this chance through an agency. I am succeeding +here. I am earning the money at last. I am saving--I have saved--And now +you come to--Oh, PLEASE go and leave me!” + +Her firmness had gone. She was on the verge of tears. I tried to take +her hands again, but she would not permit it. + +“I shall not go,” I persisted, as gently as I could. “Or when I go you +must go with me. You don't understand.” + +“But I do understand. My aunt--Miss Cahoon told me. I understand it all. +Oh, if I had only understood at first.” + +“But you don't understand--now. Your aunt and I knew the truth from the +beginning. That made no difference. We were glad to have you with us. We +want you to come back. You are our relative--” + +“I am not. I am not really related to you in any way. You know I am +not.” + +“You are related to Miss Cahoon. You are her sister's daughter. She +wants you to come. She wants you to live with us again, just as you did +before.” + +“She wants that! She--But it was your money that paid for the very +clothes I wore. Your money--not hers; she said so.” + +“That doesn't make any difference. She wants you and--” + +I was about to add “and so do I,” but she did not permit me to finish +the sentence. She interrupted again, and there was a change in her tone. + +“Stop! Oh, stop!” she cried. “She wanted me and--and so you--Did you +think I would consent? To live upon your charity?” + +“There is no charity about it.” + +“There is. You know there is. And you believed that I--knowing what I +know--that my father--my own father--” + +“Hush! hush! That is all past and done with.” + +“It may be for you, but not for me. Mr. Knowles, your opinion of me +must be a very poor one. Or your desire to please your aunt as great as +your--your charity to me. I thank you both, but I shall stay here. You +must go and you must not try to see me again.” + +There was firmness enough in this speech; altogether too much. But I was +as firm as she was. + +“I shall not go,” I reiterated. “I shall not leave you--in a place like +this. It isn't a fit place for you to be in. You know it is not. Good +heavens! you MUST know it?” + +“I know what the place is,” she said quietly. + +“You know! And yet you stay here! Why? You can't like it!” + +It was a foolish speech, and I blurted it without thought. She did not +answer. Instead she began to walk toward the corner. I followed her. + +“I beg your pardon,” I stammered, contritely. “I did not mean that, of +course. But I cannot think of your singing night after night in such a +place--before those men and women. It isn't right; it isn't--you shall +not do it.” + +She answered without halting in her walk. + +“I shall do it,” she said. “They pay me well, very well, and I--I need +the money. When I have earned and saved what I need I shall give it up, +of course. As for liking the work--Like it! Oh, how can you!” + +“I beg your pardon. Forgive me. I ought to be shot for saying that. I +know you can't like it. But you must not stay here. You must come with +me.” + +“No, Mr. Knowles, I am not coming with you. And you must leave me and +never come back. My sole reason for seeing you to-night was to tell you +that. But--” she hesitated and then said, with quiet emphasis, “you may +tell my aunt not to worry about me. In spite of my singing in a cafe +chantant I shall keep my self-respect. I shall not be--like those +others. And when I have paid my debt--I can't pay my father's; I wish I +could--I shall send you the money. When I do that you will know that +I have resigned my present position and am trying to find a more +respectable one. Good-by.” + +We had reached the corner. Beyond was the square, with its lights and +its crowds of people and vehicles. I seized her arm. + +“It shall not be good-by,” I cried, desperately. “I shall not let you +go.” + +“You must.” + +“I sha'n't. I shall come here night after night until you consent to +come back to Mayberry.” + +She stopped then. But when she spoke her tone was firmer than ever. + +“Then you will force me to give it up,” she said. “Before I came here I +was very close to--There were days when I had little or nothing to eat, +and, with no prospects, no hope, I--if you don't leave me, Mr. Knowles, +if you do come here night after night, as you say, you may force me to +that again. You can, of course, if you choose; I can't prevent you. But +I shall NOT go back to Mayberry. Now, will you say good-by?” + +She meant it. If I persisted in my determination she would do as she +said; I was sure of it. + +“I am sure my aunt would not wish you to continue to see me, against my +will,” she went on. “If she cares for me at all she would not wish that. +You have done your best to please her. I--I thank you both. Good-by.” + +What could I do, or say? + +“Good-by,” I faltered. + +She turned and started across the square. A flying cab shut her from my +view. And then I realized what was happening, realized it and realized, +too, what it meant. She should not go; I would not let her leave me nor +would I leave her. I sprang after her. + +The square was thronged with cabs and motor cars. The Abbey and The Dead +Rat and all the rest were emptying their patrons into the street. Paris +traffic regulations are lax and uncertain. I dodged between a limousine +and a hansom and caught a glimpse of her just as she reached the +opposite sidewalk. + +“Frances!” I called. “Frances!” + +She turned and saw me. Then I heard my own name shouted from the +sidewalk I had just left. + +“Knowles! Knowles!” + +I looked over my shoulder. Herbert Bayliss was at the curb. He was +shaking a hand, it may have been a fist, in my direction. + +“Knowles!” he shouted. “Stop! I want to see you.” + +I did not reply. Instead I ran on. I saw her face among the crowd and +upon it was a curious expression, of fear, of frantic entreaty. + +“Kent! Kent!” she cried. “Oh, be careful! KENT!” + +There was a roar, a shout; I have a jumbled recollection of being thrown +into the air, and rolling over and over upon the stones of the street. +And there my recollections end, for the time. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +In Which I Take My Turn at Playing the Invalid + + +Not for a very long time. They begin again--those recollections--a +few minutes later, break off once more, and then return and break off +alternately, over and over again. + +The first thing I remember, after my whirligig flight over the Paris +pavement, is a crowd of faces above me and someone pawing at my collar +and holding my wrist. This someone, a man, a stranger, said in French: + +“He is not dead, Mademoiselle.” + +And then a voice, a voice that I seemed to recognize, said: + +“You are sure, Doctor? You are sure? Oh, thank God!” + +I tried to turn my head toward the last speaker--whom I decided, for +some unexplainable reason, must be Hephzy--and to tell her that of +course I wasn't dead, and then all faded away and there was another +blank. + +The next interval of remembrance begins with a sense of pain, a +throbbing, savage pain, in my head and chest principally, and a wish +that the buzzing in my ears would stop. It did not stop, on the contrary +it grew louder and there was a squeak and rumble and rattle along with +it. A head--particularly a head bumped as hard as mine had been--might +be expected to buzz, but it should not rattle, or squeak either. +Gradually I began to understand that the rattle and squeak were external +and I was in some sort of vehicle, a sleeping car apparently, for I +seemed to be lying down. I tried to rise and ask a question and a hand +was laid on my forehead and a voice--the voice which I had decided was +Hephzy's--said, gently: + +“Lie still. You mustn't move. Lie still, please. We shall be there +soon.” + +Where “there” might be I had no idea and it was too much trouble to ask, +so I drifted off again. + +Next I was being lifted out of the car; men were lifting me--or trying +to. And, being wider awake by this time, I protested. + +“Here! What are you doing?” I asked. “I am all right. Let go of me. Let +go, I tell you.” + +Again the voice--it sounded less and less like Hephzy's--saying: + +“Don't! Please don't! You mustn't move.” + +But I kept on moving, although moving was a decidedly uncomfortable +process. + +“What are they doing to me?” I asked. “Where am I? Hephzy, where am I?” + +“You are at the hospital. You have been hurt and we are taking you to +the hospital. Lie still and they will carry you in.” + +That woke me more thoroughly. + +“Nonsense!” I said, as forcefully as I could. “Nonsense! I'm not badly +hurt. I am all right now. I don't want to go to a hospital. I won't go +there. Take me to the hotel. I am all right, I tell you.” + +The man's voice--the doctor's, I learned afterward--broke in, ordering +me to be quiet. But I refused to be quiet. I was not going to be taken +to any hospital. + +“I am all right,” I declared. “Or I shall be in a little while. Take me +to my hotel. I will be looked after, there. Hephzy will look after me.” + +The doctor continued to protest--in French--and I to affirm--in English. +Also I tried to stand. At length my declarations of independence seemed +to have some effect, for they ceased trying to lift me. A dialogue in +French followed. I heard it with growing impatience. + +“Hephzy,” I said, fretfully. “Hephzy, make them take me to my hotel. I +insist upon it.” + +“Which hotel is it? Kent--Kent, answer me. What is the name of the +hotel?” + +I gave the name; goodness knows how I remembered it. There was more +argument, and, after a time, the rattle and buzz and squeak began again. +The next thing I remember distinctly is being carried to my room and +hearing the voice of Monsieur Louis in excited questioning and command. + +After that my recollections are clearer. But it was broad daylight when +I became my normal self and realized thoroughly where I was. I was in +my room at the hotel, the sunlight was streaming in at the window and +Hephzy--I still supposed it was Hephzy--was sitting by that window. +And for the first time it occurred to me that she should not have been +there; by all that was right and proper she should be waiting for me in +Interlaken. + +“Hephzy,” I said, weakly, “when did you get here?” + +The figure at the window rose and came to the bedside. It was not +Hephzy. With a thrill I realized who it was. + +“Frances!” I cried. “Frances! Why--what--” + +“Hush! You mustn't talk. You mustn't. You must be quiet and keep +perfectly still. The doctor said so.” + +“But what happened? How did I get here? What--?” + +“Hush! There was an accident; you were hurt. We brought you here in a +carriage. Don't you remember?” + +What I remembered was provokingly little. + +“I seem to remember something,” I said. “Something about a hospital. +Someone was going to take me to a hospital and I wouldn't go. +Hephzy--No, it couldn't have been Hephzy. Was it--was it you?” + +“Yes. We were taking you to the hospital. We did take you there, but as +they were taking you from the ambulance you--” + +“Ambulance! Was I in an ambulance? What happened to me? What sort of an +accident was it?” + +“Please don't try to talk. You must not talk.” + +“I won't if you tell me that. What happened?” + +“Don't you remember? I left you and crossed the street. You followed me +and then--and then you stopped. And then--Oh, don't ask me! Don't!” + +“I know. Now I do remember. It was that big motor car. I saw it coming. +But who brought me here? You--I remember you; I thought you were Hephzy. +And there was someone else.” + +“Yes, the doctor--the doctor they called--and Doctor Bayliss.” + +“Doctor Bayliss! Herbert Bayliss, do you mean? Yes, I saw him at the +'Abbey'--and afterward. Did he come here with me?” + +“Yes. He was very kind. I don't know what I should have done if it had +not been for him. Now you MUST not speak another word.” + +I did not, for a few moments. I lay there, feebly trying to think, +and looking at her. I was grateful to young Bayliss, of course, but I +wished--even then I wished someone else and not he had helped me. I did +not like to be under obligations to him. I liked him, too; he was a good +fellow and I had always liked him, but I did not like THAT. + +She rose from the chair by the bed and walked across the room. + +“Don't go,” I said. + +She came back almost immediately. + +“It is time for your medicine,” she said. + +I took the medicine. She turned away once more. + +“Don't go,” I repeated. + +“I am not going. Not for the present.” + +I was quite contented with the present. The future had no charms just +then. I lay there, looking at her. She was paler and thinner than she +had been when she left Mayberry, almost as pale and thin as when I first +met her in the back room of Mrs. Briggs' lodging house. And there +was another change, a subtle, undefinable change in her manner and +appearance that puzzled me. Then I realized what it was; she had grown +older, more mature. In Mayberry she had been an extraordinarily pretty +girl. Now she was a beautiful woman. These last weeks had worked the +change. And I began to understand what she had undergone during those +weeks. + +“Have you been with me ever since it happened--since I was hurt?” I +asked, suddenly. + +“Yes, of course.” + +“All night?” + +She smiled. “There was very little of the night left,” she answered. + +“But you have had no rest at all. You must be worn out.” + +“Oh, no; I am used to it. My--” with a slight pause before the +word--“work of late has accustomed me to resting in the daytime. And I +shall rest by and by, when my aunt--when Miss Cahoon comes.” + +“Miss Cahoon? Hephzy? Have you sent for her?” + +My tone of surprise startled her, I think. She looked at me. + +“Sent for her?” she repeated. “Isn't she here--in Paris?” + +“She is in Interlaken, at the Victoria. Didn't the concierge tell you?” + +“He told us she was not here, at this hotel, at present. He said she +had gone away with some friends. But we took it for granted she was in +Paris. I told them I would stay until she came. I--” + +I interrupted. + +“Stay until she comes!” I repeated. “Stay--! Why you can't do that! You +can't! You must not!” + +“Hush! hush! Remember you are ill. Think of yourself!” + +“Of myself! I am thinking of you. You mustn't stay here--with me. What +will they think? What--” + +“Hush! hush, please. Think! It makes no difference what they think. If I +had cared what people thought I should not be singing at--Hush! you must +not excite yourself in this way.” + +But I refused to hush. + +“You must not!” I cried. “You shall not! Why did you do it? They could +have found a nurse, if one was needed. Bayliss--” + +“Doctor Bayliss does not know. If he did I should not care. As for the +others--” she colored, slightly, + +“Well, I told the concierge that you were my uncle. It was only a white +lie; you used to say you were, you know.” + +“Say! Oh, Frances, for your own sake, please--” + +“Hush! Do you suppose,” her cheeks reddened and her eyes flashed as I +had seen them flash before, “do you suppose I would go away and leave +you now? Now, when you are hurt and ill and--and--after all that you +have done! After I treated you as I did! Oh, let me do something! Let me +do a little, the veriest little in return. I--Oh, stop! stop! What are +you doing?” + +I suppose I was trying to sit up; I remember raising myself on my elbow. +Then came the pain again, the throbbing in my head and the agonizing +pain in my side. And after that there is another long interval in my +recollections. + +For a week--of course I did not know it was a week then--my memories +consist only of a series of flashes like the memory of the hours +immediately following the accident. I remember people talking, but not +what they said; I remember her voice, or I think I do, and the touch +of her hand on my forehead. And afterward, other voices, Hephzy's in +particular. But when I came to myself, weak and shaky, but to remain +myself for good and all, Hephzy--the real Hephzy--was in the room with +me. + +Even then they would not let me ask questions. Another day dragged by +before I was permitted to do that. Then Hephzy told me I had a cracked +rib and a variety of assorted bruises, that I had suffered slight +concussion of the brain, and that my immediate job was to behave myself +and get well. + +“Land sakes!” she exclaimed, “there was a time when I thought you never +was goin' to get well. Hour after hour I've set here and listened +to your gabblin' away about everything under the sun and nothin' in +particular, as crazy as a kitten in a patch of catnip, and thought and +thought, what should I do, what SHOULD I do. And now I KNOW what I'm +goin' to do. I'm goin' to keep you in that bed till you're strong and +well enough to get out of it, if I have to sit on you to hold you down. +And I'm no hummin'-bird when it comes to perchin', either.” + +She had received the telegram which Frances sent and had come from +Interlaken post haste. + +“And I don't know,” she declared, “which part of that telegram upset me +most--what there was in it or the name signed at the bottom of it. HER +name! I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't stop to believe 'em long. I +just came. And then I found you like this.” + +“Was she here?” I asked. + +“Who--Frances! My, yes, she was here. So pale and tired lookin' that I +thought she was goin' to collapse. But she wouldn't give in to it. +She told me all about how it happened and what the doctor said and +everything. I didn't pay much attention to it then. All I could think of +was you. Oh, Hosy! my poor boy! I--I--” + +“There! there!” I broke in, gently. “I'm all right now, or I'm going to +be. You will have the quahaug on your hands for a while longer. But,” + returning to the subject which interested me most, “what else did she +tell you? Did she tell you how I met her--and where?” + +“Why, yes. She's singin' somewhere--she didn't say where exactly, but it +is in some kind of opera-house, I judged. There's a perfectly beautiful +opera-house a little ways from here on the Avenue de L'Opera, right by +the Boulevard des Italiens, though there's precious few Italians there, +far's I can see. And why an opera is a l'opera I--” + +“Wait a moment, Hephzy. Did she tell you of our meeting? And how I found +her?” + +“Why, not so dreadful much, Hosy. She's acted kind of queer about that, +seemed to me. She said you went to this opera-house, wherever it was, +and saw her there. Then you and she were crossin' the road and one of +these dreadful French automobiles--the way they let the things tear +round is a disgrace--ran into you. I declare! It almost made ME sick +to hear about it. And to think of me away off amongst those mountains, +enjoyin' myself and not knowin' a thing! Oh, it makes me ashamed to look +in the glass. I NEVER ought to have left you alone, and I knew it. It's +a judgment on me, what's happened is.” + +“Or on me, I should rather say,” I added. Frances had not told Hephzy of +L'Abbaye, that was evident. Well, I would keep silence also. + +“Where is she now?” I asked. I asked it with as much indifference as I +could assume, but Hephzy smiled and patted my hand. + +“Oh, she comes every day to ask about you,” she said. “And Doctor +Bayliss comes too. He's been real kind.” + +“Bayliss!” I exclaimed. “Is he with--Does he come here?” + +“Yes, he comes real often, mostly about the time she does. He hasn't +been here for two days now, though. Hosy, do you suppose he has spoken +to her about--about what he spoke to you?” + +“I don't know,” I answered, curtly. Then I changed the subject. + +“Has she said anything to you about coming back to Mayberry?” I asked. +“Have you told her how we feel toward her?” + +Hephzy's manner changed. “Yes,” she said, reluctantly, “I've told her. +I've told her everything.” + +“Not everything? Hephzy, you haven't told her--” + +“No, no. Of course I didn't tell her THAT. You know I wouldn't, Hosy. +But I told her that her money havin' turned out to be our money didn't +make a mite of difference. I told her how much we come to think of her +and how we wanted her to come with us and be the same as she had always +been. I begged her to come. I said everything I could say.” + +“And she said?” + +“She said no, Hosy. She wouldn't consider it at all. She asked me not to +talk about it. It was settled, she said. She must go her way and we ours +and we must forget her. She was more grateful than she could tell--she +most cried when she said that--but she won't come back and if I asked +her again she declared she should have to go away for good.” + +“I know. That is what she said to me.” + +“Yes. I can't make it out exactly. It's her pride, I suppose. Her mother +was just as proud. Oh, dear! When I saw her here for the first time, +after I raced back from Interlaken, I thought--I almost hoped--but I +guess it can't be.” + +I did not answer. I knew only too well that it could not be. + +“Does she seem happy?” I asked. + +“Why, no; I don't think she is happy. There are times, especially when +you began to get better, when she seemed happier, but the last few times +she was here she was--well, different.” + +“How different?” + +“It's hard to tell you. She looked sort of worn and sad and discouraged. +Hosy, what sort of a place is it she is singin' in?” + +“Why do you ask that?” + +“Oh, I don't know. Some things you said when you were out of your head +made me wonder. That, and some talk I overheard her and Doctor Bayliss +havin' one time when they were in the other room--my room--together. I +had stepped out for a minute and when I came back, I came in this door +instead of the other. They were in the other room talkin' and he was +beggin' her not to stay somewhere any more. It wasn't a fit place for +her to be, he said; her reputation would be ruined. She cut him short +by sayin' that her reputation was her own and that she should do as she +thought best, or somethin' like that. Then I coughed, so they would know +I was around, and they commenced talkin' of somethin' else. But it set +me thinkin' and when you said--” + +She paused. “What did I say?” I asked. + +“Why, 'twas when she and I were here. You had been quiet for a while and +all at once you broke out--delirious you was--beggin' somebody or other +not to do somethin'. For your sake, for their own sake, they mustn't do +it. 'Twas awful to hear you. A mixed-up jumble about Abbie, whoever +she is--not much, by the way you went on about her--and please, please, +please, for the Lord's sake, give it up. I tried to quiet you, but you +wouldn't be quieted. And finally you said: 'Frances! Oh, Frances! don't! +Say that you won't any more.' I gave you your sleepin' drops then; I +thought 'twas time. I was afraid you'd say somethin' that you wouldn't +want her to hear. You understand, don't you, Hosy?” + +“I understand. Thank you, Hephzy.” + +“Yes. Well, _I_ didn't understand and I asked her if she did. She said +no, but she was dreadfully upset and I think she did understand, in +spite of her sayin' it. What sort of a place is it, this opera-house +where she sings?” + +I dodged the question as best I could. I doubt if Hephzy's suspicions +were allayed, but she did not press the subject. Instead she told me I +had talked enough for that afternoon and must rest. + +That evening I saw Bayliss for the first time since the accident. +He congratulated me on my recovery and I thanked him for his help in +bringing me to the hotel. He waved my thanks aside. + +“Quite unnecessary, thanking me,” he said, shortly. “I couldn't do +anything else, of course. Well, I must be going. Glad you're feeling +more fit, Knowles, I'm sure.” + +“And you?” I asked. “How are you?” + +“I? Oh, I'm fit enough, I suppose. Good-by.” + +He didn't look fit. He looked more haggard and worn and moody than ever. +And his manner was absent and distrait. Hephzy noticed it; there were +few things she did not notice. + +“Either that boy's meals don't agree with him,” she announced, “or +somethin's weighin' on his mind. He looks as if he'd lost his last +friend. Hosy, do you suppose he's spoken to--to her about what he spoke +of to you?” + +“I don't know. I suppose he has. He was only too anxious to speak, there +in Mayberry.” + +“Humph! Well, IF he has, then--Hosy, sometimes I think this, all this +pilgrimage of ours--that's what you used to call it, a pilgrimage--is +goin' to turn out right, after all. Don't it remind you of a book, this +last part of it?” + +“A dismal sort of book,” I said, gloomily. + +“Well, I don't know. Here are you, the hero, and here's she, the +heroine. And the hero is sick and the heroine comes to take care of +him--she WAS takin' care of you afore I came, you know; and she falls in +love with him and--” + +“Yes,” I observed, sarcastically. “She always does--in books. But in +those books the hero is not a middle-aged quahaug. Suppose we stick to +real life and possibilities, Hephzy.” + +Hephzy was unconvinced. “I don't care,” she said. “She ought to even if +she doesn't. _I_ fell in love with you long ago, Hosy. And she DID bring +you here after you were hurt and took care of you.” + +“Hush! hush!” I broke in. “She took care of me, as you call it, because +she thought it was her duty. She thinks she is under great obligation to +us because we did not pitch her into the street when we first met her. +She insists that she owes us money and gratitude. Her kindness to me and +her care are part payment of the debt. She told me so, herself.” + +“But--” + +“There aren't any 'buts.' You mustn't be an idiot because I have been +one, Hephzy. We agreed not to speak of that again. Don't remind me of +it.” + +Hephzy sighed. “All right,” she said. “I suppose you are right, Hosy. +But--but how is all this goin' to end? She won't go with us. Are we +goin' to leave her here alone?” + +I was silent. The same question was in my mind, but I had answered it. I +was NOT going to leave her there alone. And yet-- + +“If I was sure,” mused Hephzy, “that she was in love with Herbert +Bayliss, then 'twould be all right, I suppose. They would get married +and it would be all right--or near right--wouldn't it, Hosy.” + +I said nothing. + +The next morning I saw her. She came to inquire for me and Hephzy +brought her into my room for a stay of a minute or two. She seemed glad +to find me so much improved in health and well on the road to recovery. +I tried to thank her for her care of me, for her sending for Hephzy and +all the rest of it, but she would not listen. She chatted about Paris +and the French people, about Monsieur Louis, the concierge, and joked +with Hephzy about that gentleman's admiration for “the wonderful +American lady,” meaning Hephzy herself. + +“He calls you 'Madame Cay-hoo-on,'” she said, “and he thinks you a +miracle of decision and management. I think he is almost afraid of you, +I really do.” + +Hephzy smiled, grimly. “He'd better be,” she declared. “The way +everybody was flyin' around when I first got here after comin' from +Interlaken, and the way the help jabbered and hunched up their shoulders +when I asked questions made me so fidgety I couldn't keep still. I +wanted an egg for breakfast, that first mornin' and when the waiter +brought it, it was in the shell, the way they eat eggs over here. I +can't eat 'em that way--I'm no weasel--and I told the waiter I wanted an +egg cup. Nigh as I could make out from his pigeon English he was +tellin' me there was a cup there. Well, there was, one of those little, +two-for-a-cent contraptions, just big enough to stick one end of the +egg into. 'I want a big one,' says I. 'We, Madame,' says he, and off +he trotted. When he came back he brought me a big EGG, a duck's egg, I +guess 'twas. Then I scolded and he jabbered some more and by and by he +went and fetched this Monsieur Louis man. He could speak English, thank +goodness, and he was real nice, in his French way. He begged my pardon +for the waiter's stupidness, said he was a new hand, and the like of +that, and went on apologizin' and bowin' and smilin' till I almost had a +fit. + +“'For mercy sakes!' I says, 'don't say any more about it. If that last +egg hadn't been boiled 'twould have hatched out an--an ostrich, or +somethin' or other, by this time. And it's stone cold, of course. +Have this--this jumpin'-jack of yours bring me a hot egg--a hen's +egg--opened, in a cup big enough to see without spectacles, and tell +him to bring some cream with the coffee. At any rate, if there isn't +any cream, have him bring some real milk instead of this watery stuff. +I might wash clothes with that, for I declare I think there's bluin' +in it, but I sha'n't drink it; I'd be afraid of swallowin' a fish by +accident. And do hurry!' + +“He went away then, hurryin' accordin' to orders, and ever since then +he's been bobbin' up to ask if 'Madame finds everything satisfactory.' I +suppose likely I shouldn't have spoken as I did, he means well--it isn't +his fault, or the waiter's either, that they can't talk without wavin' +their hands as if they were givin' three cheers--but I was terribly +nervous that mornin' and I barked like a tied-up dog. Oh dear, Hosy! if +ever I missed you and your help it's in this blessed country.” + +Frances laughed at all this; she seemed just then to be in high spirits; +but I thought, or imagined, that her high spirits were assumed for our +benefit. At the first hint of questioning concerning her own life, where +she lodged or what her plans might be, she rose and announced that she +must go. + +Each morning of that week she came, remaining but a short time, and +always refusing to speak of herself or her plans. Hephzy and I, finding +that a reference to those plans meant the abrupt termination of the +call, ceased trying to question. And we did not mention our life at the +rectory, either; that, too, she seemed unwilling to discuss. Once, +when I spoke of our drive to Wrayton, she began a reply, stopped in the +middle of a sentence, and then left the room. + +Hephzy hastened after her. She returned alone. + +“She was cryin', Hosy,” she said. “She said she wasn't, but she was. The +poor thing! she's unhappy and I know it; she's miserable. But she's so +proud she won't own it and, although I'm dyin' to put my arms around her +and comfort her, I know if I did she'd go away and never come back. +Do you notice she hasn't called me 'Auntie' once. And she always used +to--at the rectory. I'm afraid--I'm afraid she's just as determined as +she was when she ran away, never to live with us again. What SHALL we +do?” + +I did not know and I did not dare to think. I was as certain that these +visits would cease very soon as I was that they were the only things +which made my life bearable. How I did look forward to them! And while +she was there, with us, how short the time seemed and how it dragged +when she had gone. The worst thing possible for me, this seeing her and +being with her; I knew it. I knew it perfectly well. But, knowing it, +and realizing that it could not last and that it was but the prelude to +a worse loneliness which was sure to come, made no difference. I dreaded +to be well again, fearing that would mean the end of those visits. + +But I was getting well and rapidly. I sat up for longer and longer +periods each day. I began to read my letters now, instead of having +Hephzy read them to me, letters from Matthews at the London office and +from Jim Campbell at home. Matthews had cabled Jim of the accident and +later that I was recovering. So Jim wrote, professing to find material +gain in the affair. + +“Great stuff,” he wrote. “Two chapters at least. The hero, pursuing the +villain through the streets of Paris at midnight, is run down by an +auto driven by said villain. 'Ah ha!' says the villain: 'Now will you be +good?' or words to that effect. 'Desmond,' says the hero, unflinchingly, +as they extract the cobble-stones from his cuticle, 'you triumph for the +moment, but beware! there will be something doing later on.' See? If +it wasn't for the cracked rib and the rest I should be almost glad it +happened. All you need is the beautiful heroine nursing you to recovery. +Can't you find her?” + +He did not know that I had found her, or that the hoped-for novel was +less likely to be finished than ever. + +Hephzy was now able to leave me occasionally, to take the walks which I +insisted upon. She had some queer experiences in these walks. + +“Lost again to-day, Hosy,” she said, cheerfully, removing her bonnet. “I +went cruisin' through the streets over to the south'ard and they were so +narrow and so crooked--to say nothin' of bein' dirty and smelly--that I +thought I never should get out. Of course I could have hired a hack +and let it bring me to the hotel but I wouldn't do that. I was set on +findin' my own way. I'd walked in and I was goin' to walk out, that was +all there was to it. 'Twasn't the first time I'd been lost in this Paris +place and I've got a system of my own. When I get to the square 'Place +delay Concorde,' they call it, I know where I am. And 'Concorde' is +enough like Concord, Mass., to make me remember the name. So I walk up +to a nice appearin' Frenchman with a tall hat and whiskers--I didn't +know there was so many chin whiskers outside of East Harniss, or some +other back number place--and I say, 'Pardon, Monseer. Place delay +Concorde?' Just like that with a question mark after it. After I say it +two or three times he begins to get a floatin' sniff of what I'm drivin' +at and says he: 'Place delay Concorde? Oh, we, we, we, Madame!' Then a +whole string of jabber and arm wavin', with some countin' in the middle +of it. Now I've learned 'one, two, three' in French and I know he +means for me to keep on for two or three more streets in the way he's +pointin'. So I keep on, and, when I get there, I go through the whole +rigamarole with another Frenchman. About the third session and I'm back +on the Concord Place. THERE I am all right. No, I don't propose to stay +lost long. My father and grandfather and all my men folks spent their +lives cruisin' through crooked passages and crowded shoals and I guess +I've inherited some of the knack.” + +At last I was strong enough to take a short outing in Hephzy's company. +I returned to the hotel, where Hephzy left me. She was going to do a +little shopping by herself. I went to my room and sat down to rest. +A bell boy--at least that is what we should have called him in the +States--knocked at the door. + +“A lady to see Monsieur,” he said. + +The lady was Frances. + +She entered the room and I rose to greet her. + +“Why, you are alone!” she exclaimed. “Where is Miss Cahoon?” + +“She is out, on a shopping expedition,” I explained. “She will be back +soon. I have been out too. We have been driving together. What do you +think of that!” + +She seemed pleased at the news but when I urged her to sit and wait +for Hephzy's return she hesitated. Her hesitation, however, was only +momentary. She took the chair by the window and we chatted together, +of my newly-gained strength, of Hephzy's adventures as a pathfinder in +Paris, of the weather, of a dozen inconsequential things. I found it +difficult to sustain my part in the conversation. There was so much +of real importance which I wanted to say. I wanted to ask her about +herself, where she lodged, if she was still singing at L'Abbaye, what +her plans for the future might be. And I did not dare. + +My remarks became more and more disjointed and she, too, seemed uneasy +and absent-minded. At length there was an interval of silence. She broke +that silence. + +“I suppose,” she said, “you will be going back to Mayberry soon.” + +“Back to Mayberry?” I repeated. + +“Yes. You and Miss Cahoon will go back there, of course, now that you +are strong enough to travel. She told me that the American friends with +whom you and she were to visit Switzerland had changed their plans and +were going on to Italy. She said that she had written them that your +proposed Continental trip was abandoned.” + +“Yes. Yes, that was given up, of course.” + +“Then you will go back to England, will you not?” + +“I don't know. We have made no plans as yet.” + +“But you will go back. Miss Cahoon said you would. And, when your lease +of the rectory expires, you will sail for America.” + +“I don't know.” + +“But you must know,” with a momentary impatience. “Surely you don't +intend to remain here in Paris.” + +“I don't know that, either. I haven't considered what I shall do. It +depends--that is--” + +I did not finish the sentence. I had said more than I intended and it +was high time I stopped. But I had said too much, as it was. She asked +more questions. + +“Upon what does it depend?” she asked. + +“Oh, nothing. I did not mean that it depended upon anything in +particular. I--” + +“You must have meant something. Tell me--answer me truthfully, please: +Does it depend upon me?” + +Of course that was just what it did depend upon. And suddenly I +determined to tell her so. + +“Frances,” I demanded, “are you still there--at that place?” + +“At L'Abbaye. Yes.” + +“You sing there every night?” + +“Yes.” + +“Why do you do it? You know--” + +“I know everything. But you know, too. I told you I sang there because +I must earn my living in some way and that seems to be the only place +where I can earn it. They pay me well there, and the people--the +proprietors--are considerate and kind, in their way.” + +“But it isn't a fit place for you. And you don't like it; I know you +don't.” + +“No,” quietly. “I don't like it.” + +“Then don't do it. Give it up.” + +“If I give it up what shall I do?” + +“You know. Come back with us and live with us as you did before. I want +you; Hephzy is crazy to have you. We--she has missed you dreadfully. She +grieves for you and worries about you. We offer you a home and--” + +She interrupted. “Please don't,” she said. “I have told you that that is +impossible. It is. I shall never go back to Mayberry.” + +“But why? Your aunt--” + +“Don't! My aunt is very kind--she has been so kind that I cannot bear to +speak of her. Her kindness and--and yours are the few pleasant memories +that I have--of this last dreadful year. To please you both I would do +anything--anything--except--” + +“Don't make any exceptions. Come with us. If not to Mayberry, then +somewhere else. Come to America with us.” + +“No.” + +“Frances--” + +“Don't! My mind is made up. Please don't speak of that again.” + +Again I realized the finality in her tone. The same finality was in mine +as I answered. + +“Then I shall stay here,” I declared. “I shall not leave you alone, +without friends or a protector of any kind, to sing night after night in +that place. I shall not do it. I shall stay here as long as you do.” + +She was silent. I wondered what was coming next. I expected her to +say, as she had said before, that I was forcing her to give up her one +opportunity. I expected reproaches and was doggedly prepared to meet +them. But she did not reproach me. She said nothing; instead she seemed +to be thinking, to be making up her mind. + +“Don't do it, Frances,” I pleaded. “Don't sing there any longer. Give it +up. You don't like the work; it isn't fit work for you. Give it up.” + +She rose from her chair and standing by the window looked out into the +street. Suddenly she turned and looked at me. + +“Would it please you if I gave up singing at L'Abbaye?” she asked +quietly. “You know it would.” + +“And if I did would you and Miss Cahoon go back to England--at once?” + +Here was another question, one that I found very hard to answer. I tried +to temporize. + +“We want you to come with us,” I said, earnestly. “We want you. +Hephzy--” + +“Oh, don't, don't, don't! Why will you persist? Can't you understand +that you hurt me? I am trying to believe I have some self-respect left, +even after all that has happened. And you--What CAN you think of me! No, +I tell you! NO!” + +“But for Hephzy's sake. She is your only relative.” + +She looked at me oddly. And when she spoke her answer surprised me. + +“You are mistaken,” she said. “I have other--relatives. Good-by, Mr. +Knowles.” + +She was on her way to the door. + +“But, Frances,” I cried, “you are not going. Wait. Hephzy will be here +any moment. Don't go.” + +She shook her head. + +“I must go,” she said. At the door she turned and looked back. + +“Good-by,” she said, again. “Good-by, Kent.” + +She had gone and when I reached the door she had turned the corner of +the corridor. + +When Hephzy came I told her of the visit and what had taken place. + +“That's queer,” said Hephzy. “I can't think what she meant. I don't know +of any other relatives she's got except Strickland Morley's tribe. And +they threw him overboard long, long ago. I can't understand who she +meant; can you, Hosy?” + +I had been thinking. + +“Wasn't there someone else--some English cousins of hers with whom she +lived for a time after her father's death? Didn't she tell you about +them?” + +Hephzy nodded vigorously. “That's so,” she declared. “There was. And +she did live with 'em, too. She never told me their names or where they +lived, but I know she despised and hated 'em. She gave me to understand +that. And she ran away from 'em, too, just as she did from us. I don't +see why she should have meant them. I don't believe she did. Perhaps +she'll tell us more next time she comes. That'll be tomorrow, most +likely.” + +I hoped that it might be to-morrow, but I was fearful. The way in which +she had said good-by made me so. Her look, her manner, seemed to imply +more than a good-by for a day. And, though this I did not tell Hephzy, +she had called me “Kent” for the first time since the happy days at the +rectory. I feared--all sorts of things. + +She did not come on the morrow, or the following day, or the day after +that. Another week passed and she did not come, nor had we received any +word from her. By that time Hephzy was as anxious and fretful as I. +And, when I proposed going in search of her, Hephzy, for a wonder, +considering how very, very careful she was of my precious health, did +not say no. + +“You're pretty close to bein' as well as ever you was, Hosy,” she said. +“And I know how terribly worried you are. If you do go out at night +you may be sick again, but if you don't go and lay awake frettin' and +frettin' about her I KNOW you'll be sick. So perhaps you'd better do it. +Shall I--Sha'n't I go with you?” + +“I think you had better not,” I said. + +“Well, perhaps you're right. You never would tell me much about this +opera-house, or whatever 'tis, but I shouldn't wonder if, bein' a +Yankee, I'd guessed considerable. Go, Hosy, and bring her back if you +can. Find her anyhow. There! there run along. The hack's down at the +door waitin'. Is your head feelin' all right? You're sure? And you +haven't any pain? And you'll keep wrapped up? All right? Good-by, +dearie. Hurry back! Do hurry back, for my sake. And I hope--Oh, I do +hope you'll bring no bad news.” + +L'Abbaye, at eight-thirty in the evening was a deserted place compared +to what it had been when I visited it at midnight. The waiters and +attendants were there, of course, and a few early bird patrons, but not +many. The bearded proprietors, or managers, were flying about, and I +caught one of them in the middle of a flight. + +He did not recognize me at first, but when I stated my errand, he did. +Out went his hands and up went his shoulders. + +“The Mademoiselle,” he said. “Ah, yes! You are her friend, Monsieur; I +remember perfectly. Oh, no, no, no! she is not here any more. She +has left us. She sings no longer at L'Abbaye. We are desolate; we are +inconsolable. We pleaded, but she was firm. She has gone. Where? Ah, +Monsieur, so many ask that; but alas! we do not know.” + +“But you do know where she lives,” I urged. “You must know her home +address. Give me that. It is of the greatest importance that I see her +at once.” + +At first he declared that he did not know her address, the address where +she lodged. I persisted and, at last, he admitted that he did know it, +but that he was bound by the most solemn promise to reveal it to no one. + +“It was her wish, Monsieur. It was a part of the agreement under which +she sang for us. No one should know who she was or where she lived. And +I--I am an honorable man, Monsieur. I have promised and--” the business +of shoulders and hands again--“my pledged word to a lady, how shall it +be broken?” + +I found a way to break it, nevertheless. A trio of gold pieces and the +statement that I was her uncle did the trick. An uncle! Ah, that was +different. And, Mademoiselle had consented to see me when I came before, +that was true. She had seen the young English gentleman also--but we +two only. Was the young English Monsieur--“the Doctor Baylees”--was he a +relative also? + +I did not answer that question. It was not his business and, beside, I +did not wish to speak of Herbert Bayliss. + +The address which the manager of L'Abbaye gave me, penciled on a card, +was a number in a street in Montmartre, and not far away. I might easily +have walked there, I was quite strong enough for walking now, but I +preferred a cab. Paris motor cabs, as I knew from experience, moved +rapidly. This one bore me to my destination in a few minutes. + +A stout middle-aged French woman answered my ring. But her answer to my +inquiries was most unsatisfactory. And, worse than all, I was certain +she was telling me the truth. + +The Mademoiselle was no longer there, she said. She had given up +her room three days ago and had gone away. Where? That, alas, was a +question. She had told no one. She had gone and she was not coming back. +Was it not a pity, a great pity! Such a beautiful Mademoiselle! such an +artiste! who sang so sweetly! Ah, the success she had made. And such a +good young lady, too! Not like the others--oh, no, no, no! No one was to +know she lodged there; she would see no one. Ah, a good girl, Monsieur, +if ever one lived. + +“Did she--did she go alone?” I asked. + +The stout lady hesitated. Was Monsieur a very close friend? Perhaps a +relative? + +“An uncle,” I said, telling the old lie once more. + +Ah, an uncle! It was all right then. No, Mademoiselle had not gone +alone. A young gentleman, a young English gentleman had gone with her, +or, at least, had brought the cab in which she went and had driven +off in it with her. A young English gentleman with a yellow mustache. +Perhaps I knew him. + +I recognized the description. She had left the house with Herbert +Bayliss. What did that mean? Had she said yes to him? Were they married? +I dreaded to know, but know I must. + +And, as the one possible chance of settling the question, I bade my cab +driver take me to the Hotel Continental. There, at the desk, I asked if +Doctor Bayliss was still in the hotel. They said he was. I think I must +have appeared strange or the gasp of relief with which I received the +news was audible, for the concierge asked me if I was ill. I said no, +and then he told me that Bayliss was planning to leave the next day, but +was just then in his room. Did I wish to see him? I said I did and gave +them my card. + +He came down soon afterward. I had not seen him for a fortnight, for his +calls had ceased even before Frances' last visit. Hephzy had said that, +in her opinion, his meals must be disagreeing with him. Judging by his +appearance his digestion was still very much impaired. He was in evening +dress, of course; being an English gentleman he would have dressed for +his own execution, if it was scheduled to take place after six o'clock. +But his tie was carelessly arranged, his shirt bosom was slightly +crumpled and there was a general “don't care” look about his raiment +which was, for him, most unusual. And he was very solemn. I decided at +once, whatever might have happened, it was not what I surmised. He was +neither a happy bridegroom nor a prospective one. + +“Good evening, Bayliss,” said I, and extended my hand. + +“Good evening, Knowles,” he said, but he kept his own hands in his +pockets. And he did not ask me to be seated. + +“Well?” he said, after a moment. + +“I came to you,” I began--mine was a delicate errand and hard to +state--“I came to you to ask if you could tell me where Miss Morley has +gone. She has left L'Abbaye and has given up her room at her lodgings. +She has gone--somewhere. Do you know where she is?” + +It was quite evident that he did know. I could see it in his face. He +did not answer, however. Instead he glanced about uneasily and then, +turning, led the way toward a small reception room adjoining the lobby. +This room was, save for ourselves, unoccupied. + +“We can be more private here,” he explained, briefly. “What did you +ask?” + +“I asked if you knew where Miss Morley had gone and where she was at the +present time?” + +He hesitated, pulling at his mustache, and frowning. “I don't see why +you should ask me that?” he said, after a moment. + +“But I do ask it. Do you know where she is?” + +Another pause. “Well, if I did,” he said, stiffly, “I see no reason +why I should tell you. To be perfectly frank, and as I have said to you +before, I don't consider myself bound to tell you anything concerning +her.” + +His manner was most offensive. Again, as at the time I came to him at +that very hotel on a similar errand, after my arrival in Paris, I found +it hard to keep my temper. + +“Don't misunderstand me,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I am not +pretending now to have a claim upon Miss Morley. I am not asking you to +tell me just where she is, if you don't wish to tell. And it is not for +my sake--that is, not primarily for that--that I am anxious about her. +It is for hers. I wish you might tell me this: Is she safe? Is she among +friends? Is she--is she quite safe and in a respectable place and likely +to be happy? Will you tell me that?” + +He hesitated again. “She is quite safe,” he said, after a moment. “And +she is among friends, or I suppose they are friends. As to her being +happy--well, you ought to know that better than I, it seems to me.” + +I was puzzled. “_I_ ought to know?” I repeated. “I ought to know whether +she is happy or not? I don't understand.” + +He looked at me intently. “Don't you?” he asked. “You are certain you +don't? Humph! Well, if I were in your place I would jolly well find out; +you may be sure of that.” + +“What are you driving at, Bayliss? I tell you I don't know what you +mean.” + +He did not answer. He was frowning and kicking the corner of a rug with +his foot. + +“I don't understand what you mean,” I repeated. “You are saying too much +or too little for my comprehension.” + +“I've said too much,” he muttered. “At all events, I have said all +I shall say. Was there any other subject you wished to see me about, +Knowles? If not I must be going. I'm rather busy this evening.” + +“There was no subject but that one. And you will tell me nothing more +concerning Miss Morley?” + +“No.” + +“Good night,” I said, and turned away. Then I turned back. + +“Bayliss,” said I, “I think perhaps I had better say this: I have only +the kindest feelings toward you. You may have misunderstood my attitude +in all this. I have said nothing to prejudice her--Miss Morley against +you. I never shall. You care for her, I know. If she cares for you that +is enough, so far as I am concerned. Her happiness is my sole wish. I +want you to consider me your friend--and hers.” + +Once more I extended my hand. For an instant I thought he was going to +take it, but he did not. + +“No,” he said, sullenly. “I won't shake hands with you. Why should I? +You don't mean what you say. At least I don't think you do. I--I--By +Jove! you can't!” + +“But I do,” I said, patiently. + +“You can't! Look here! you say I care for her. God knows I do! But +you--suppose you knew where she was, what would you do? Would you go to +her?” + +I had been considering this very thing, during my ride to the lodgings +and on the way to the hotel; and I had reached a conclusion. + +“No,” I answered, slowly. “I think I should not. I know she does not +wish me to follow her. I suppose she went away to avoid me. If I were +convinced that she was among friends, in a respectable place, and quite +safe, I should try to respect her wish. I think I should not follow her +there.” + +He stared at me, wide-eyed. + +“You wouldn't!” he repeated. “You wouldn't! And you--Oh, I say! And you +talked of her happiness!” + +“It is her happiness I am thinking of. If it were my own I should--” + +“What?” + +“Nothing, nothing. She will be happier if I do not follow her, I +suppose. That is enough for me.” + +He regarded me with the same intent stare. + +“Knowles,” he said, suddenly, “she is at the home of a relative of +hers--Cripps is the name--in Leatherhead, England. There! I have told +you. Why I should be such a fool I don't know. And now you will go +there, I suppose. What?” + +“No,” I answered. “No. I thank you for telling me, Bayliss, but it shall +make no difference. I will respect her wish. I will not go there.” + +“You won't!” + +“No, I will not trouble her again.” + +To my surprise he laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh, there was more +sarcasm than mirth in it, or so it seemed, but why he should laugh at +all I could not understand. + +“Knowles,” he said, “you're a good fellow, but--” + +“But what?” I asked, stiffly. + +“You're no end of a silly ass in some ways. Good night.” + +He turned on his heel and walked off. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +In Which I, as Well as Mr. Solomon Cripps, Am Surprised + + +“And to think,” cried Hephzy, for at least the fifth time since I told +her, “that those Crippses are her people, the cousins she lived with +after her pa's death! No wonder she was surprised when I told her how +you and I went to Leatherhead and looked at their 'Ash Dump'--'Ash +Chump,' I mean. And we came just as near hirin' it, too; we would have +hired it if she hadn't put her foot down and said she wouldn't go there. +A good many queer things have happened on this pilgrimage of ours, Hosy, +but I do believe our goin' straight to those Crippses, of all the folks +in England, is about the strangest. Seems as if we was sent there with a +purpose, don't it?” + +“It is a strange coincidence,” I admitted. + +“It's more'n that. And her goin' back to them is queerer still. She +hates 'em, I know she does. She as much as said so, not mention' their +names, of course. Why did she do it?” + +I knew why she had done it, or I believed I did. + +“She did it to please you and me, Hephzy,” I said. “And to get rid of +us. She said she would do anything to please us, and she knew I did not +want her to remain here in Paris. I told her I should stay here as long +as she did, or at least as long as she sang at--at the place where she +was singing. And she asked if, provided she gave up singing there, you +and I would go back to England--or America?” + +“Yes, I know; you told me that, Hosy. But you said you didn't promise to +do it.” + +“I didn't promise anything. I couldn't promise not to follow her. I +didn't believe I could keep the promise. But I sha'n't follow her, +Hephzy. I shall not go to Leatherhead.” + +Hephzy was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Why not?” + +“You know why. That night when I first met her, the night after you had +gone to Lucerne, she told me that if I persisted in following her and +trying to see her I would force her to give up the only means of earning +a living she had been able to find. Well, I have forced her to do that. +She has been obliged to run away once more in order to get rid of us. +I am not going to persecute her further. I am going to try and be +unselfish and decent, if I can. Now that we know she is safe and among +friends--” + +“Friends! A healthy lot of friends they are--that Solomon Cripps and his +wife! If ever I ran afoul of a sanctimonious pair of hypocrites they're +the pair. Oh, they were sweet and buttery enough to us, I give in, but +that was because they thought we was goin' to hire their Dump or Chump, +or whatever 'twas. I'll bet they could be hard as nails to anybody they +had under their thumbs. Whenever I see a woman or a man with a mouth +that shuts up like a crack in a plate, the way theirs do, it takes more +than Scriptur' texts from that mouth to make me believe it won't bite +when it has the chance. Safe! poor Little Frank may be safe enough at +Leatherhead, but I'll bet she's miserable. WHAT made her go there?” + +“Because she had no other place to go, I suppose,” I said. “And +there, among her relatives, she thought she would be free from our +persecution.” + +“There's some things worse than persecution,” Hephzy declared; “and, +so far as that goes, there are different kinds of persecution. But what +makes those Crippses willin' to take her in and look after her is what +_I_ can't understand. They MAY be generous and forgivin' and kind, but, +if they are, then I miss my guess. The whole business is awful queer. +Tell me all about your talk with Doctor Bayliss, Hosy. What did he say? +And how did he look when he said it?” + +I told her, repeating our conversation word for word, as near as I could +remember it. She listened intently and when I had finished there was an +odd expression on her face. + +“Humph!” she exclaimed. “He seemed surprised to think you weren't goin' +to Leatherhead, you say?” + +“Yes. At least I thought he was surprised. He knew I had chased her from +Mayberry to Paris and was there at the hotel trying to learn from him +where she was. And he knows you are her aunt. I suppose he thought it +strange that we were not going to follow her any further.” + +“Maybe so... maybe so. But why did he call you a--what was it?--a silly +donkey?” + +“Because I am one, I imagine,” I answered, bitterly. “It's my natural +state. I was born one.” + +“Humph! Well, 'twould take more than that boy's word to make me believe +it. No there's something!--I wish I could see that young fellow myself. +He's at the Continental Hotel, you say?” + +“Yes; but he leaves to-morrow. There, Hephzy, that's enough. Don't talk +about it. Change the subject. I am ready to go back to England--yes, +or America either, whenever you say the word. The sooner the better for +me.” + +Hephzy obediently changed the subject and we decided to leave Paris the +following afternoon. We would go back to the rectory, of course, and +leave there for home as soon as the necessary arrangements could be +made. Hephzy agreed to everything, she offered no objections, in fact +it seemed to me that she was paying very little attention. Her lack of +interest--yes, and apparent lack of sympathy, for I knew she must know +what my decision meant to me--hurt and irritated me. + +I rose. + +“Good night,” I said, curtly. “I'm going to bed.” + +“That's right, Hosy. You ought to go. You'll be sick again if you sit up +any longer. Good night, dearie.” + +“And you?” I asked. “What are you going to do?” + +“I'm going to set up a spell longer. I want to think.” + +“I don't. I wish I might never think again. Or dream, either. I am awake +at last. God knows I wish I wasn't!” + +She moved toward me. There was the same odd expression on her face and a +queer, excited look in her eyes. + +“Perhaps you aren't really awake, Hosy,” she said, gently. “Perhaps this +is the final dream and when you do wake you'll find--” + +“Oh, bosh!” I interrupted. “Don't tell me you have another presentiment. +If you have keep it to yourself. Good night.” + +I was weak from my recent illness and I had been under a great nervous +strain all that evening. These are my only excuses and they are poor +ones. I spoke and acted abominably and I was sorry for it afterward. I +have told Hephzy so a good many times since, but I think she understood +without my telling her. + +“Well,” she said, quietly, “dreams are somethin', after all. It's +somethin' to have had dreams. I sha'n't forget mine. Good night, Hosy.” + +The next morning after breakfast she announced that she had an errand +or two to do. She would run out and do them, she said, but she would be +gone only a little while. She was gone nearly two hours during which I +paced the floor or sat by the window looking out. The crowded boulevard +was below me, but I did not see it. All I saw was a future as desolate +and blank as the Bayport flats at low tide, and I, a quahaug on those +flats, doomed to live, or exist, forever and ever and ever, with nothing +to live for. + +Hephzy, when she did return to the hotel, was surprisingly chatty and +good-humored. She talked, talked, talked all the time, about nothing in +particular, laughed a good deal, and flew about, packing our belongings +and humming to herself. She acted more like the Hephzy of old than she +had for weeks. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her which +I could not understand. I attributed it to the fact of our leaving for +America in the near future and her good humor irritated me. My spirits +were lower than ever. + +“You seem to be remarkably happy,” I observed, fretfully. + +“What makes you think so, Hosy? Because I was singin'? Father used +to say my singin' was the most doleful noise he ever heard, except +a fog-horn on a lee shore. I'm glad if you think it's a proof of +happiness: I'm much obliged for the compliment.” + +“Well, you are happy, or you are trying to appear so. If you are +pretending for my benefit, don't. I'M not happy.” + +“I know, Hosy; I know. Well, perhaps you--” + +She didn't finish the sentence. + +“Perhaps what?” + +“Oh, nothin', nothin'. How many shirts did you bring with you? is this +all?” + +She sang no more, probably because she saw that the “fog-horn” annoyed +me, but her manner was just as strange and her nervous energy as +pronounced. I began to doubt if my surmise, that her excitement and +exaltation were due to the anticipation of an early return to Bayport, +was a correct one. I began to thing there must be some other course and +to speculate concerning it. And I, too, grew a bit excited. + +“Hephzy,” I said, suddenly, “where did you go when you went out this +morning? What sort of 'errands' were those of yours?” + +She was folding my ties, her back toward me, and she answered without +turning. + +“Oh, I had some odds and ends of things to do,” she said. “This plaid +necktie of yours is gettin' pretty shabby, Hosy. I guess you can't +wear it again. There! I mustn't stop to talk. I've got my own things to +pack.” + +She hurried to her own room and I asked no more questions just then. +But I was more suspicious than ever. I remembered a question of hers +the previous evening and I believed.... But, if she had gone to the +Continental and seen Herbert Bayliss, what could he have told her to +make her happy? + +We took the train for Calais and crossed the Channel to Dover. This time +the eccentric strip of water was as calm as a pond at sunset. No jumpy, +white-capped billows, no flying spray, no seasick passengers. Tarpaulins +were a drag on the market. + +“I wouldn't believe,” declared Hephzy, “that this lookin'-glass was +the same as that churned-up tub of suds we slopped through before. It +doesn't trickle down one's neck now, does it, Hosy. A 'nahsty' cross-in' +comin' and a smooth one comin' back. I wonder if that's a sign.” + +“Oh, don't talk about signs, Hephzy,” I pleaded, wearily. “You'll begin +to dream again, I suppose, pretty soon.” + +“No, I won't. I think you and I have stopped dreamin', Hosy. Maybe we're +just wakin' up, same as I told you.” + +“What do you mean by that?” + +“Mean? Oh, I guess I didn't mean anything. Good-by, old France! You're a +lovely country and a lively one, but I sha'n't cry at sayin' good-by to +you this time. And there's England dead ahead. Won't it seem good to +be where they talk instead of jabber! I sha'n't have to navigate by the +'one-two-three' chart over there.” + +Dover, a flying trip through the customs, the train again, an English +dinner in an English restaurant car--not a “wagon bed,” as Hephzy said, +exultantly--and then London. + +We took a cab to the hotel, not Bancroft's this time, but a modern +downtown hostelry where there were at least as many Americans as +English. In our rooms I would have cross-questioned Hephzy, but she +would not be questioned, declaring that she was tired and sleepy. I was +tired, also, but not sleepy. I was almost as excited as she seemed to +be by this time. I was sure she had learned something that morning in +Paris, something which pleased her greatly. What that something might +be I could not imagine; but I believed she had learned it from Herbert +Bayliss. + +And the next morning, after breakfast, she announced that she had +arranged for a cab and we must start for the station at once. I said +nothing then, but when the cab pulled up before a railway station, a +station which was not our accustomed one but another, I said a great +deal. + +“What in the world, Hephzy!” I exclaimed. “We can't go to Mayberry from +here.” + +“Hush, hush, Hosy. Wait a minute--wait till I've paid the driver. Yes, +I'm doin' it myself. I'm skipper on this cruise. You're an invalid, +didn't you know it. Invalids have to obey orders.” + +The cabman paid, she took my arm and led me into the station. + +“And now, Hosy,” she said, “let me tell you. We aren't goin' to +Mayberry--not yet. We're going to Leatherhead.” + +“To Leatherhead!” I repeated. “To Leatherhead! To--her? We certainly +will do no such thing.” + +“Yes, we will, Hosy,” quietly. “I haven't said anything about it before, +but I've made up my mind. It's our duty to see her just once more, once +more before--before we say good-by for good. It's our duty.” + +“Duty! Our duty is to let her alone, to leave her in peace, as she asked +us.” + +“How do you know she is in peace? Suppose she isn't. Suppose she's +miserable and unhappy. Isn't it our duty to find out? I think it is?” + +I looked her full in the face. “Hephzy,” I said, sharply, “you know +something about her, something that I don't know. What is it?” + +“I don't know as I know anything, Hosy. I can't say that I do. But--” + +“You saw Herbert Bayliss yesterday. That was the 'errand' you went upon +yesterday morning in Paris. Wasn't it?” + +She was very much taken aback. She has told me since that she had no +idea I suspected the truth. + +“Wasn't it?” I repeated. + +“Why--why, yes, it was, Hosy. I did go to see him, there at his hotel. +When you told me how he acted and what he said to you I thought 'twas +awfully funny, and the more I thought it over the funnier it seemed. So +I made up my mind to see him and talk with him myself. And I did.” + +“What did he tell you?” I asked. + +“He told me--he told me--Well, he didn't tell me so much, maybe, but he +gave me to understand a whole lot. She's gone to those Crippses, Hosy, +just as I suspicioned, not because she likes 'em--she hates 'em--or +because she wanted to go, but because she thought 'twould please us if +she did. It doesn't please us; it doesn't please me, anyway. She sha'n't +be miserable for our sake, not without a word from us. No, we must go +there and see her and--and tell her once more just how we feel about it. +It's our duty to go and we must. And,” with decision, “we're goin' now.” + +She had poured out this explanation breathlessly, hurrying as if fearful +that I might interrupt and ask more questions. I asked one of them the +moment she paused. + +“We knew all that before,” I said. “That is, we were practically sure +she had left Paris to get rid of us and had gone to her cousins, the +Crippses, because of her half-promise to me not to sing at places like +the Abbey again. We knew all that. And she asked me to promise that we +would not follow her. I didn't promise, but that makes no difference. +Was that all Bayliss told you?” + +Hephzy was still embarrassed and confused, though she answered promptly +enough. + +“He told me he knew she didn't want to go to--to those Leatherheaded +folks,” she declared. “We guessed she didn't, but we didn't know it for +sure. And he said we ought to go to her. He said that.” + +“But why did he say it? Our going will not alter her determination to +stay and our seeing her again will only make it harder for her.” + +“No, it won't--no it won't,” hastily. “Besides I want to see that Cripps +man and have a talk with him, myself. I want to know why a man like +him--I'm pretty well along in years; I've met folks and bargained and +dealt with 'em all my grown-up life and I KNOW he isn't the kind to do +things for nothin' for ANYBODY--I want to know why he and his wife are +so generous to her. There's somethin' behind it.” + +“There's something behind you, Hephzy. Some other reason that you +haven't told me. Was that all Bayliss said?” + +She hesitated. “Yes,” she said, after a moment, “that's all, all I can +tell you now, anyway. But I want you to go with me to that Ash Dump and +see her once more.” + +“I shall not, Hephzy.” + +“Well, then I'll have to go by myself. And if you don't go, too, I +think you'll be awfully sorry. I think you will. Oh, Hosy,” pleadingly, +“please go with me. I don't ask you to do many things, now do I? I do +ask you to do this.” + +I shook my head. + +“I would do almost anything for your sake, Hephzy,” I began. + +“But this isn't for my sake. It's for hers. For hers. I'm sure--I'm +ALMOST sure you and she will both be glad you did it.” + +I could not understand it at all. I had never seen her more earnest. She +was not the one to ask unreasonable things and yet where her sister's +child was concerned she could be obstinate enough--I knew that. + +“I shall go whether you do or not,” she said, as I stood looking at her. + +“You mean that, Hephzy?” + +“I surely do. I'm goin' to see her this very forenoon. And I do hope +you'll go with me.” + +I reflected. If she went alone it would be almost as hard for Frances +as if I went with her. And the temptation was very strong. The desire to +see her once more, only once.... + +“I'll go, Hephzy,” I said. I didn't mean to say it; the words seemed to +come of themselves. + +“You will! Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad! And I think--I think you'll be +glad, too, Hosy. I'm hopin' you will.” + +“I'll go,” I said. “But this is the last time you and I must trouble +her. I'll go--not because of any reason you have given me, Hephzy, but +because I believe there must be some other and stronger reason, which +you haven't told me.” + +Hephzy drew a long breath. She seemed to be struggling between a desire +to tell me more--whatever that more might be--and a determination not to +tell. + +“Maybe there is, Hosy,” she said, slowly. “Maybe there is. I--I--Well, +there! I must go and buy the tickets. You sit down and wait. I'm skipper +of this craft to-day, you know. I'm in command on this voyage.” + +Leatherhead looked exactly as it had on our previous visit. “Ash Clump,” + the villa which the Crippses had been so anxious for us to hire, was +still untenanted, or looked to be. We walked on until we reached the +Cripps home and entered the Cripps gate. I rang the bell and the maid +answered the ring. + +In answer to our inquiries she told us that Mr. Cripps was not in. He +and Mrs. Cripps had gone to chapel. I remembered then that the day was +Sunday. I had actually forgotten it. + +“Is Miss Morley in?” asked Hephzy. + +The maid shook her head. + +“No, ma'am,” she said. “Miss Morley ain't in, either. I think she's gone +to chapel, too. I ain't sure, ma'am, but I think she 'as. She's not in.” + +She asked if we would leave cards. Hephzy said no. + +“It's 'most noon,” she said. “They'll be back pretty soon. We'll wait. +No, we won't come in. We'll wait out here, I guess.” + +There was a rustic seat on the lawn near the house and Hephzy seated +herself upon it. I walked up and down. I was in a state of what Hephzy +would have called “nerves.” I had determined to be very calm when I +met her, to show no emotion, to be very calm and cool, no matter what +happened. But this waiting was hard. I grew more nervous every minute. + +“I'm going to stroll about, Hephzy,” I said. “About the garden and +grounds. I sha'n't go far and I'll return soon. I shall be within call. +Send one of the servants for me if she--if the Crippses come before I +get back.” + +Hephzy did not urge me to remain. Nor did she offer to accompany me. As +usual she seemed to read my thoughts and understand them. + +“All right, Hosy,” she said. “You go and have your walk. I'll wait here. +But don't be long, will you.” + +I promised not to be long. The Cripps gardens and grounds were not +extensive, but they were well kept even if the beds were geometrically +ugly and the color masses jarring and in bad taste. The birds sang, the +breeze stirred the leaves and petals, and there was a Sunday quiet, the +restful hush of an English Sunday, everywhere. + +I strolled on along the paths, through the gap in the hedge dividing +the kitchen garden from the purely ornamental section, past the stables, +until I emerged from the shrubbery at the top of a little hill. There +was a pleasant view from this hill, the customary view of hedged fields +and meadows, flocks of sheep and groups of grazing cattle, and over all +the soft blue haze and misty sky. + +I paused. And then close beside me, I heard a startled exclamation. + +I turned. In a nook of the shrubbery was another rustic seat. Rising +from that seat and gazing at me with a look of amazed incredulity, +was--Frances Morley. + +I did not speak. I could not, for the moment. She spoke first. + +“You!” she exclaimed. “You--here!” + +And still I did not speak. Where was the calm with which I was to meet +her? Where were the carefully planned sentences which were to explain +how I had come and why? I don't know where they were; I seemed to +know only that she was there, that I was alone with her as I had never +thought or meant to be again, and that if I spoke I should say things +far different from those I had intended. + +She was recovering from her surprise. She came toward me. + +“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why did you come?” + +I stammered a word or two, some incoherences to the effect that I had +not expected to find her there, that I had been told she was at church. +She shook her head, impatiently. + +“I mean why did you come here--to Leatherhead?” she asked. “Why did you +come? Did you know--” + +I interrupted her. If ever I was to explain, or attempt to explain, I +realized that it must be at that moment. She might listen to me then, +before she had had time to think. Later I knew she would not. + +“I knew you were here,” I broke in, quickly. “I--we--your aunt knew and +we came.” + +“But HOW did you know? Who told you?” + +“The--we learned,” I answered. “And we came.” + +It was a poor explanation--or none at all. She seemed to think it so. +And yet she seemed more hurt than offended. + +“You came--yes,” she said. “And you knew that I left Paris because--Oh, +you knew that! I asked you not to follow me. You promised you would +not.” + +I was ashamed, thoroughly ashamed and disgusted with myself for yielding +to Hephzy's entreaties. + +“No, no,” I protested, “I did not promise. I did not promise, Frances.” + +“But you know I did not wish you to do it. I did not wish you to follow +me to Paris, but you did it. I told you you would force me to give up my +only means of earning money. You did force me to give it up. I gave it +up to please you, for your sake, and now--” + +“Did you?” I cried, eagerly. “Did you give it up for my sake, Frances? +Did you?” + +“You know I did. You must know it. And now that I have done it, now that +I have given up my opportunity and my--my self-respect and my one chance +and come here to this--to this place, you--you--Oh, how could you! +Wasn't I unhappy enough before? And unhappy enough now? Oh, how could +you!” + +I was more ashamed than ever. I tried desperately to justify my action. + +“But that was it,” I persisted. “Don't you see? It was your happiness, +the thought that you were unhappy which brought me here. I know--you +told your aunt how unhappy you had been when you were with these people +before. I know how much you disliked them. That was why I came. To ask +you to give this up as you did the other. To come with us and BE happy. +I want you to come, Frances. Think! Think how much I must want you.” + +And, for the moment I thought this appeal had some effect. It seemed to +me that her resolution was shaken, that she was wavering. + +“You--you really want me?” she repeated. + +“Yes. Yes, I can't tell you--I must not tell you how much I want you. +And your aunt--she wants you to come. She is here, too. She will tell +you.” + +Her manner changed once more. The tone in which she spoke was different. +There were no signs of the wavering which I had noticed--or hoped I +noticed. + +“No,” she said. “No. I shall not see my aunt. And I must not talk with +you any longer. I asked you not to follow me here. You did it, in spite +of my asking. Now, unless you wish to drive me away from here, as you +did from Paris, you will leave me and not try to see me again. Oh, don't +you see--CAN'T you see how miserable you are making me? And yet you +talk of my happiness!” + +“But you aren't happy here. ARE you happy?” + +“I am happy enough. Yes, I am happy.” + +“I don't believe it. Are these Crippses kind to you?” + +“Yes.” + +I didn't believe that, either, but I did not say so. Instead I said what +I had determined to say, the same thing that I should have said before, +in Mayberry and in Paris--if I could have mustered the courage and +decency to say it. + +“Frances,” I said, “there is something else, something which may have +a bearing on your happiness, or may not, I don't know. The night before +you left us, at Mayberry, Herbert Bayliss came to me and asked my +permission to marry you, if you were willing. He thought you were my +niece--then. I said that--I said that, although of course I had no +shadow of authority over you, I did care for your happiness. I cared for +that a great deal. If you loved him I should certainly--” + +“I see,” she broke in, scornfully. “I see. He told you I was here. That +is why you came. Did he send you to me to say--what you are trying to +say?” + +“Oh, no, no! You are mistaken. You wrong him, Frances. He did not do +that. He's not that sort. He's a good fellow, an honorable man. And he +does care for you. I know it. He cares greatly. He would, I am sure, +make you a good husband, and if you care for him, he would do his best +to make you happy, I--” + +Again she interrupted. “One moment,” she said, “Let me understand. Are +you urging me to marry Herbert Bayliss?” + +“No. I am not urging you, of course. But if you do care for him--” + +“I do not.” + +“Oh, you don't love him?” + +I wonder if there was relief in my tone. There should not have been, of +course, but I fear there was. + +“No, I do not--love him. He is a gentleman and I like him well enough, +but not in that way. Please don't say any more.” + +“Very well. I only meant--Tell me this, if you will: Is there someone +you do care for?” + +She did not answer. I had offended her again. She had cause to be +offended. What business was it of mine? + +“I beg your pardon,” I said, humbly. “I should not have asked that. I +have no right to ask it. But if there is someone for whom you care in +that way and he cares for you, it--” + +“Oh, don't, don't! He doesn't.” + +“Then there is someone?” + +She was silent. I tried to speak like a man, like the man I was +pretending to be. + +“I am glad to know it,” I said. “If you care for him he must care for +you. He cannot help it. I am sure you will be happy by and by. I can +leave you here now with more--with less reluctance. I--” + +I could not trust myself to go on, although I tried to do so. She +answered, without looking at me. + +“Yes,” she said, “you can leave me now. I am safe and--and happy. +Good-by.” + +I took her hand. + +“Good-by,” I said. “Forgive me for coming. I shall not trouble you +again. This time I promise. You may not wish to write us, but we shall +write you. And I--I hope you won't forget us.” + +It was a lame conclusion and trite enough. She must have thought so. + +“I shall not forget you,” she said, simply. “And I will try to write +occasionally. Yes, I will try. Now please go. Good-by.” + +I went, without looking back. I strode along the paths, scarcely +noticing where I was going. As I neared the corner of the house I heard +voices, loud voices. One of them, though it was not as loud as the +others, was Hephzy's. + +“I knew it,” she was saying, as I turned the corner. “I knew it. I knew +there was some reason, some mean selfish reason why you were willin' to +take that girl under your wing. I knew it wasn't kind-heartedness and +relationship. I knew it.” + +It was Solomon Cripps who answered. Mr. and Mrs. Cripps, arrayed in +their Sabbath black and white, were standing by the door of their villa. +Hephzy was standing before them. Her face was set and determined and she +looked highly indignant. Mr. Cripps' face was red and frowning and he +gesticulated with a red hand, which clasped a Testament. His English was +by no means as pure and undefiled as when he had endeavored to persuade +us into hiring “Ash Clump.” + +“Look 'ere,” he snarled. “Don't you talk to me like that. Don't you +suppose I know what I'm doing. You Yankees may be clever at your tricks, +but you can't trick me. Don't I know about the money you stole from 'er +father? Don't I, eh? You can tell 'er your lies about it being stolen by +someone else, but I can see a 'ole through a millstone. You can't trick +me, I tell you. They're giving that girl a good 'ome and care and all +that, but we're goin' to see she 'as 'er rights. You've filled 'er silly +'ead with your stories. You've made 'er think you're all that's good +and--” + +I was at hand by this time. + +“What's all this, Hephzy?” I asked. + +Before Hephzy could reply Mrs. Cripps spoke. + +“It's him!” she cried, seizing her husband's arm with one hand and +pointing at me with the other. “It's him,” she cried, venomously. “He's +here, too.” + +The sight of me appeared to upset what little self-control Mr. Cripps +had left. + +“You!” he shouted, “I might 'ave known you were 'ere. You're the one +that's done it. You're responsible. Filling her silly 'ead with lies +about your goodness and all that. Making her fall in love with you +and--” + +I sprang forward. + +“WHAT?” I cried. “What are you saying?” + +Hephzy was frightened. + +“Hosy,” she cried, “don't look so. Don't! You frighten me.” + +I scarcely heard her. + +“WHAT did you say?” I demanded, addressing Cripps, who shrank back, +rather alarmed apparently. “Why, you scoundrel! What do you mean by +saying that? Speak up! What do you mean by it?” + +If Mr. Cripps was alarmed his wife was not. She stepped forward and +faced me defiantly. + +“He means just what he says,” she declared, her shrill voice quivering +with vindictive spite. “And you know what he means perfectly well. You +ought to be ashamed of yourself, a man as old as you and she an innocent +young girl! You've hypnotized her--that is what you've done, hypnotized +her. All those ridiculous stories about her having no money she believes +because you told them to her. She would believe the moon was made of +green cheese if you said so. She's mad about you--the poor little fool! +She won't hear a word against you--says you're the best, noblest man in +the world! You! Why she won't even deny that she's in love with you; she +was brazen enough to tell me she was proud of it. Oh.... Stop! Where are +you going? Solomon, stop him!” + +Solomon did not stop me. I am very glad he didn't try. No one could have +stopped me then. I was on my way back along the garden path, and if I +did not keep to that path, but plunged ruthlessly through flower beds +and shrubbery I did not care, nor do I care now. + +She was sitting on the rustic seat where I had left her. There were +tears on her cheeks. She had heard me coming--a deaf person would have +heard that--and she rose as I burst into view. + +“What is it?” she cried, in alarm. “Oh, what is it?” + +At the sight of her I paused. I had not meant to pause; I had intended +to take her in my arms, to ask her if what I had just heard was true, to +make her answer me. But now, as she stood there before me, so young, so +girlish, so beautiful, the hopeless idiocy of the thing struck me with +overwhelming force. It WAS idiocy. It couldn't be true. + +“What is it?” she repeated. “Oh, Kent! what is the matter? Why did you +come back? What has happened?” + +I stepped forward. True or false I must know. I must know then and +there. It was now or never for me. + +“Frances,” I stammered, “I came back because--I--I have just +heard--Frances, you told me you loved someone--not Bayliss, but someone +else. Who is that someone?” + +She had been pale. My sudden and unexpected appearance had frightened +her. Now as we faced each other, as I stood looking down into her face, +I saw the color rise and spread over that face from throat to brow. + +“Who is it?” I repeated. + +She drew back. + +“I--I can't tell you,” she faltered. “You mustn't ask me.” + +“But I do ask. You must tell me, Frances--Frances, it isn't--it can't be +that you love ME. Do you?” + +She drew back still further. If there had been a way of escape I think +she would have taken it. But there was none. The thick shrubbery was +behind her and I was between her and the path. And I would not let her +pass. + +“Oh, Frances, do you?” I repeated. “I never meant to ask you. I never +meant that you should know. I am so much older, and so--so unworthy--it +has seemed so hopeless and ridiculous. But I love you, Frances, I have +loved you from the very beginning, although at first I didn't realize +it. I--If you do--if you can--I--I--” + +I faltered, hesitated, and stopped. She did not answer for a moment, a +long, long moment. Then: + +“Mr. Knowles,” she said, “you surprise me. I didn't suspect--I didn't +think--” + +I sighed. I had had my answer. Of course it was idiotic. I should have +known; I did know. + +“I see,” I said. “I understand. Forgive me, please. I was a fool to even +think of such a thing. I didn't think it. I didn't dare until--until +just now. Then I was told--your cousin said--I might have known he +didn't mean what he said. But he said it and--and--” + +“What did he say? Mr. Cripps, do you mean? What did he say?” + +“He said--he said you--you cared for me--in that way. Of course you +don't--you can't. I know better. But for the moment I dared to hope. I +was crazy, of course. Forgive me, Frances.” + +She looked up and then down again. + +“There is nothing to forgive,” she said. + +“Yes, there is. There is a great deal. An old--” + +“Hush! hush, please. Don't speak like that. I--I thank you. I--you +mustn't suppose I am not grateful. I know you pity me. I know how +generous you are. But your pity--” + +“It isn't pity. I should pity myself, if that were all. I love you +Frances, and I shall always love you. I am not ashamed of it. I shall +have that love to comfort me till I die. I am ashamed of having told +you, of troubling you again, that is all.” + +I was turning away, but I heard her step beside me and felt her hand +upon my sleeve. I turned back again. She was looking me full in the face +now and her eyes were shining. + +“What Mr. Cripps said was true,” she said. + +I could not believe it. I did not believe it even then. + +“True!” I repeated. “No, no! You don't mean--” + +“I do mean it. I told him that I loved you.” + +I don't know what more she would have said. I did not wait to hear. She +was in my arms at last and all England was whirling about me like a top. + +“But you can't!” I found myself saying over and over. I must have +said other things before, but I don't remember them. “You can't! it is +impossible. You! marry an old fossil like me! Oh, Frances, are you sure? +Are you sure?” + +“Yes, Kent,” softly, “I am sure.” + +“But you can't love me. You are sure that your--You have no reason to be +grateful to me, but you have said you were, you know. You are sure you +are not doing this because--” + +“I am sure. It is not because I am grateful.” + +“But, my dear--think! Think what it means, I am--” + +“I know what you are,” tenderly. “No one knows as well. But, Kent--Kent, +are YOU sure? It isn't pity for me?” + +I think I convinced her that it was not pity. I know I tried. And I was +still trying when the sound of steps and voices on the other side of +the shrubbery caused us--or caused her; I doubt if I should have heard +anything except her voice just then--to start and exclaim: + +“Someone is coming! Don't, dear, don't! Someone is coming.” + +It was the Crippses who were coming, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Cripps and +Hephzy. They would have come sooner, I learned afterwards, but Hephzy +had prevented it. + +Solomon's red face was redder still when he saw us together. And Mrs. +Cripps' mouth looked more like “a crack in a plate” than ever. + +“So!” she exclaimed. “Here's where you are! I thought as much. And +you--you brazen creature!” + +I objected strongly to “brazen creature” as a term applied to my future +wife. I intended saying so, but Mr. Cripps got ahead of me. + +“You get off my grounds,” he blurted, waving his fist. “You get out of +'ere now or I'll 'ave you put off. Do you 'ear?” + +I should have answered him as he deserved to be answered, but Frances +would not let me. + +“Don't, Kent,” she whispered. “Don't quarrel with him, please. He is +going, Mr. Cripps. We are going--now.” + +Mrs. Cripps fairly shrieked. “WE are going?” she repeated. “Do you mean +you are going with him?” + +Hephzy joined in, but in a quite different tone. + +“You are goin'?” she said, joyfully. “Oh, Frances, are you comin' with +us?” + +It was my turn now and I rejoiced in the prospect. An entire brigade of +Crippses would not have daunted me then. I should have enjoyed defying +them all. + +“Yes,” said I, “she is coming with us, Hephzy. Mr. Cripps, will you be +good enough to stand out of the way? Come, Frances.” + +It is not worth while repeating what Mr. and Mrs. Cripps said. They said +a good deal, threatened all sorts of things, lawsuits among the rest. +Hephzy fired the last guns for our side. + +“Yes, yes,” she retorted, impatiently. “I know you're goin' to sue. Go +ahead and sue and prosecute yourselves to death, if you want to. The +lawyers'll get their fees out of you, and that's some comfort--though +I shouldn't wonder if THEY had to sue to get even that. And I tell you +this: If you don't send Little Frank's--Miss Morley's trunks to Mayberry +inside of two days we'll come and get 'em and we'll come with the +sheriff and the police.” + +Mrs. Cripps, standing by the gate, fell back upon her last line of +intrenchments, the line of piety. + +“And to think,” she declared, with upturned eyes, “that this is the 'oly +Sabbath! Never mind, Solomon. The Lord will punish 'em. I shall pray to +Him not to curse them too hard.” + +Hephzy's retort was to the point. + +“I wouldn't,” she said. “If I had been doin' what you two have been up +to, pretendin' to care for a young girl and offerin' to give her a home, +and all the time doin' it just because I thought I could squeeze money +out of her, I shouldn't trouble the Lord much. I wouldn't take the risk +of callin' His attention to me.” + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +In Which the Pilgrimage Ends Where It Began + + +We did not go to Mayberry that day. We went to London and to the hotel; +not Bancroft's, but the hotel where Hephzy and I had stayed the previous +night. It was Frances' wish that we should not go to Bancroft's. + +“I don't think that I could go there, Kent,” she whispered to me, on the +train. “Mr. and Mrs Jameson were very kind, and I liked them so much, +but--but they would ask questions; they wouldn't understand. It would be +hard to make them understand. Don't you see, Kent?” + +I saw perfectly. Considering that the Jamesons believed Miss Morley to +be my niece, it would indeed be hard to make them understand. I was not +inclined to try. I had had quite enough of the uncle and niece business. + +So we went to the other hotel and if the clerk was surprised to see us +again so soon he said nothing about it. Perhaps he was not surprised. It +must take a good deal to surprise a hotel clerk. + +On the train, in our compartment--a first-class compartment, you may be +sure; I would have hired the whole train if it had been necessary; there +was nothing too good or too expensive for us that afternoon--on the +train, discussing the ride to London, Hephzy did most of the talking. +I was too happy to talk much and Frances, sitting in her corner and +pretending to look out of the window, was silent also. I should have +been fearful that she was not happy, that she was already repenting her +rashness in promising to marry the Bayport “quahaug,” but occasionally +she looked at me, and, whenever she did, the wireless message our eyes +exchanged, sent that quahaug aloft on a flight through paradise. A +flying clam is an unusual specimen, I admit, but no other quahaug in +this wide, wide world had an excuse like mine for developing wings. + +Hephzy did not appear to notice our silence. She chatted and laughed +continuously. We had not told her our secret--the great secret--and if +she suspected it she kept her suspicions to herself. Her chatter was a +curious mixture: triumph over the detached Crippses; joy because, after +all, “Little Frank” had consented to come with us, to live with us +again; and triumph over me because her dreams and presentiments had come +true. + +“I told you, Hosy,” she kept saying. “I told you! I said it would all +come out in the end. He wouldn't believe it, Frances. He said I was an +old lunatic and--” + +“I didn't say anything of the kind,” I broke in. + +“You said what amounted to that and I don't know as I blame you. But +I knew--I just KNEW he and I had been 'sent' on this course and that +we--all three of us--would make the right port in the end. And we +have--we have, haven't we, Frances?” + +“Yes,” said Frances, simply. “We have, Auntie--” + +“There! do you hear that, Hosy? Isn't it good to hear her call +me 'Auntie' again! Now I'm satisfied; or”--with a momentary +hesitation--“pretty nearly satisfied, anyway.” + +“Oh, then you're not quite satisfied, after all,” I observed. “What more +do you want?” + +“I want just one thing more; just one, that's all.” + +I believed I know what that one thing was, but I asked her. She shot a +look at me, a look of indignant meaning. + +“Never mind,” she said, decidedly. “That's my affair. Oh, Ho!” with a +reminiscent chuckle, “how that Cripps woman did glare at me when I said +'twas pretty risky her callin' the Almighty's attention to their doin's. +I hope it did her good. Maybe she'll think of it next time she goes to +chapel. But I suppose she won't. All such folks care for is money. They +wouldn't be so anxious to get to Heaven if they hadn't read about the +golden streets.” + +That evening, at the hotel, Frances told us her story, the story +of which we had guessed a good deal, but of which she had told so +little--how, after her father's death, she had gone to live with the +Crippses because, as she thought, they wished her to do so from motives +of generosity and kindness. + +“They are not really relatives of mine,” she said. “I am glad of that. +Mrs. Cripps married a cousin of my father's; he died and then she +married Mr. Cripps. After Father's death they wrote me a very kind +letter, or I thought it kind at the time. They said all sorts of kindly +things, they offered me a home, they said I should be like their own +daughter. So, having nowhere else to go, I went to them. I lived there +nearly two years. Oh, what a life it was! They are very churchly people, +they call themselves religious, but I don't. They pretend to be--perhaps +they think they are--good, very good. But they aren't--they aren't. They +are hard and cruel. Mr. Cripps owns several tenements where poor people +live. I have heard things from those people that--Oh, I can't tell you! +I ran away because I had learned what they really were.” + +Hephzy nodded. “What I can't understand,” she said, “is why they offered +you a home in the first place. It was because they thought you had money +comin' to you, that's plain enough now; but how did they know?” + +Frances colored. “I'm afraid--I'm afraid Father must have written them,” + she said. “He needed money very much in his later years and he may have +written them asking--asking for loans and offering my 'inheritance' as +security. I think now that that was it. But I did not think so then. +And--and, Oh, Auntie, you mustn't think too harshly of Father. He was +very good to me, he really was. And DON'T you think he believed--he had +made himself believe--that there was money of his there in America? I +can't believe he--he would lie to me.” + +“Of course he didn't lie,” said Hephzy, promptly. I could have hugged +her for saying it. “He was sick and--and sort of out of his head, poor +man, and I don't doubt he made himself believe all sorts of things. Of +course he didn't lie--to his own daughter. But why,” she added, quickly, +before Frances could ask another question, “did you go back to those +precious Cripps critters after you left Paris?” + +Frances looked at me. “I thought it would please you,” she said, simply. +“I knew you didn't want me to sing in public. Kent had said he would be +happier if he knew I had given up that life and was among friends. And +they--they had called themselves my friends. When I went back to them +they welcomed me. Mr. Cripps called me his 'prodigal daughter,' and +Mrs. Cripps prayed over me. It wasn't until I told them I had no +'inheritance,' except one of debt, that they began to show me what they +really were. They wouldn't believe it. They said you were trying to +defraud me. It was dreadful. I--I think I should have run away again +if--if you had not come.” + +“Well, we did come,” said Hephzy, cheerfully, “and I thank the good Lord +for it. Now we won't talk any more about THAT.” + +She left us alone soon afterward, going to my room--we were in hers, +hers and Frances'--to unpack my trunk once more. She wouldn't hear of my +unpacking it. When she was gone Frances turned to me. + +“You--you haven't told her,” she faltered. + +“No,” said I, “not yet. I wanted to speak with you first. I can't +believe it is true. Or, if it is, that it is right. Oh, my dear, do you +realize what you are doing? I am--I am ever so much older than you. I am +not worthy of you. You could have made a so much better marriage.” + +She looked at me. She was smiling, but there was a tiny wrinkle between +her brows. + +“Meaning,” she said, “I suppose, that I might have married Doctor +Bayliss. I might perhaps marry him even yet, if I wished. I--I think he +would have me, if I threw myself at his head.” + +“Yes,” I admitted, grudgingly. “Yes, he loves you, Frances.” + +“Kent, when we were there in Mayberry it seemed to me that my aunt and +you were almost anxious that I should marry him. It seemed to me that +you took every opportunity to throw me in his way; you refused my +invitations for golf and tennis and suggested that I play with him +instead. It used to annoy me. I resented it. I thought you were eager to +get rid of me. I did not know then the truth about Father and--and the +money. And I thought you hoped I might marry him and--and not trouble +you any more. But I think I understand now. You--you did not care for me +so much then. Was that it?” + +I shook my head. “Care for you!” I repeated. “I cared for you so much +that I did not dare trust myself with you. I did not dare to think of +you, and yet I could think of no one else. I know now that I fell in +love with you when I first met you at that horrible Briggs woman's +lodging-house. Don't you see? That was the very reason why. Don't you +see?” + +“No, I'm afraid I don't quite see. If you cared for me like that how +could you be willing for me to marry him? That is what puzzles me. I +don't understand it.” + +“It was because I did care for you. It was because I cared so much, I +wanted you to be happy. I never dreamed that you could care for an old, +staid, broken-down bookworm like me. It wasn't thinkable. I can scarcely +think it now. Oh, Frances, are you SURE you are not making a mistake? +Are you sure it isn't gratitude which makes you--” + +She rose from her chair and came to me. Her eyes were wet, but there was +a light in them like the sunlight behind a summer shower. + +“Don't, please don't!” she begged. “And caring for me like that you +could still come to me as you did this morning and suggest my marrying +him.” + +“Yes, yes, I came because--because I knew he loved you and I +thought that you might not know it. And if you did know it I +thought--perhaps--you might be happier and--” + +I faltered and stopped. She was standing beside me, looking up into my +face. + +“I did know it,” she said. “He told me, there in Paris. And I told +him--” + +“You told him--?” + +“I told him that I liked him; I do, I do; he is a good man. But I told +him--” she rose on tiptoe and kissed me--“I told him that I loved you, +dear. See! here is the pin you gave me. It is the one thing I could +not leave behind when I ran away from Mayberry. I meant to keep that +always--and I always shall.” + +After a time we remembered Hephzy. It would be more truthful to say that +Frances remembered her. I had forgotten Hephzy altogether, I am ashamed +to say. + +“Kent,” she said; “don't you think we should tell Auntie now? She will +be pleased, I hope.” + +“Pleased! She will be--I can't think of a word to describe it. She loves +you, too, dear.” + +“I know. I hope she will love me more now. She worships you, Kent.” + +“I am afraid she does. She doesn't realize what a tinsel god I am. And +I fear you don't either. I am not a great man. I am not even a famous +author. I--Are you SURE, Frances?” + +She laughed lightly. “Kent,” she whispered, “what was it Doctor Bayliss +called you when you offered to promise not to follow me to Leatherhead?” + +I had told her the whole story of my last interview with Bayliss at the +Continental. + +“He called me a silly ass,” I answered promptly. “I don't care.” + +“Neither do I; but don't you think you are one, just a little bit of +one, in some things? You mustn't ask me if I am sure again. Come! we +will go to Auntie.” + +Hephzy had finished unpacking my trunk and was standing by the closet +door, shaking the wrinkles out of my dinner coat. She heard us enter and +turned. + +“I never saw clothes in such a mess in my life,” she announced. “And I +packed this trunk, too. I guess the trembles in my head must have got +into my fingers when I did it. I--” + +She stopped at the beginning of the sentence. I had taken Frances by the +hand and led her up to where she was standing. Hephzy said nothing, she +stood there and stared at us, but the coat fell to the floor. + +“Hephzy,” said I, “I've come to make an apology. I believe in dreams +and presentiments and Spiritualism and all the rest of it now. You were +right. Our pilgrimage has ended just as you declared it would. I know +now that we were 'sent' upon it. Frances has said--” + +Hephzy didn't wait to hear any more. She threw her arms about +Frances' neck, then about mine, hugged us both, and then, to my utter +astonishment, sat down upon the closed trunk and burst into tears. When +we tried to comfort her she waved us away. + +“Don't touch me,” she commanded. “Don't say anything to me. Just let me +be. I've done all kinds of loony things in my life and this attack +is just natural, that's all. I--I'll get over it in a minute. There!” + rising and dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, “I'm over it now. +Hosy Knowles, I've cried about a million times since--since that awful +mornin' in Mayberry. You didn't know it, but I have. I'm through now. +I'm never goin' to cry any more. I'm goin' to laugh! I'm going to sing! +I declare if you don't grab me and hold me down I shall dance! Oh, Oh, +OH! I'm so glad! I'm so glad!” + +We sat up until the early morning hours, talking and planning. We were +to go back to America as soon as we could secure passage; upon that we +all agreed in the end. I was the only one who hesitated. I had a vague +feeling of uneasiness, a dread, that Frances might not wish it, that her +saying she would love to go was merely to please me. I remembered how +she had hated America and Americans, or professed to hate them, in the +days of our first acquaintanceship. I thought of quiet, sleepy, humdrum +old Bayport and the fear that she might be disappointed when she saw it, +that she might be lonely and unhappy there, was strong. So when Hephzy +talked of our going straight to the steamship offices next day I +demurred. I suggested a Continental trip, to Switzerland, to the +Mediterranean--anywhere. I forgot that my means were limited, that I had +been idle for longer than I should have been, and that I absolutely must +work soon. I forgot everything, and talked, as Hephzy said afterward, +“regardless, like a whole kerosene oil company.” + +But, to my surprise, it was Frances herself who was most insistent upon +our going to America. She wanted to go, she said. Of course she did +not mean to be selfish, and if Auntie and I really wished to go to the +Continent or remain in England she would be quite content. + +“But, Oh Kent,” she said, “if you are suggesting all this merely because +you think I will like it, please don't. I have lived in France and I +have been very unhappy there. I have been happier here in England, but +I have been unhappy here, too. I have no friends here now. I have no +friends anywhere except you. I know you both want to see your home +again--you must. And--and your home will be mine now.” + +So we decided to sail for America, and that without delay. And the +next morning, before breakfast, Hephzy came to my room with another +suggestion. + +“Hosy,” she said, “I've been thinkin'. All our things, or most of 'em, +are at Mayberry. Somebody's got to go there, of course, to pack up and +make arrangements for our leavin'. She--Frances, I mean--would go, too, +if we asked her, I suppose likely; she'd do anything you asked, now. But +it would be awful hard for her. She'd meet all the people she used to +know there and they wouldn't understand and 'twould be hard to explain. +The Baylisses know the real truth, but the rest of 'em don't. You'd have +all that niece and uncle mess again, and I don't suppose you want any +more of THAT.” + +“I should say I didn't!” I exclaimed, fervently. + +“Yes, that's the way it seemed to me. So she hadn't ought to go +to Mayberry. And we can't leave her here alone in London. She'd be +lonesome, for one thing, and those everlastin' Crippses might find out +where she was, for another. It may be that that Solomon and his wife +will let her go and say nothin', but I doubt it. So long as they think +she's got a cent comin' to her they'll pester her in every way they can, +I believe. That woman's nose can smell money as far as a cat can smell +fish. No, we can't leave Little Frank here alone. Of course, I might +stay with her and you might go by yourself, but--” + +This way out of the difficulty had occurred to me; so when she seemed to +hesitate, I asked: “But what?” + +“But it won't be very pleasant for you in Mayberry. You'd have +considerable explainin' to do. And, more'n that, Hosy, there's all that +packin' up to do and I've seen you try to pack a trunk too often before. +You're just as likely to pack a flat-iron on top of a lookin' glass as +to do the other thing. No, I'm the one to go to Mayberry. I must go by +myself and you must stay here in London with her.” + +“I can't do that, Hephzy,” I said. “How could I?” + +“You couldn't, as things are, of course. But if they were different. +If she was your wife you could. And then if that Solomon thing came you +could--” + +I interrupted. “My wife!” I repeated. “Hephzy, what are you talking +about? Do you mean--” + +“I mean that you and she might be married right off, to-day perhaps. +Then everything would be all right.” + +I stared at her. + +“But--but she wouldn't consent,” I stammered. “It is impossible. She +wouldn't think of such a thing.” + +Hephzy nodded. “Oh, yes, she would,” she said. “She is thinkin' of it +now. She and I have just had a long talk. She's a sensible girl, Hosy, +and she listened to reason. If she was sure that you wanted to marry her +so soon she--” + +“Wanted to!” I cried. “Hephzy!” + +Hephzy nodded again. “Then that's settled,” she said. “It's a big +disappointment to me, I give in. I'd set my heart on your bein' married +at our meetin'-house in Bayport, with Mr. Partridge to do the marryin', +and a weddin' reception at our house and--and everything. But I guess +this is the best, and I know it's the most sensible. But, Oh Hosy, +there's one thing I can't give up. I want you to be married at the +American Ambassador's or somewhere like it and by an American minister. +I sha'n't feel safe if it's done anywhere else and by a foreigner, even +if he's English, which don't seem foreign to me at all any more. +No, he's got to be an American and--and, Oh, Hosy! DO try to get a +Methodist.” + +I couldn't get a Methodist, but by consulting the hotel register I found +an American clergyman, a Congregationalist, who was a fine fellow and +consented to perform the ceremony. And, if we were not married at +the American Embassy, we were at the rooms of the London consul, +whom Matthews, at the Camford Street office, knew and who was another +splendid chap and glad to oblige a fellow-countryman, particularly after +seeing the lady he was to marry. + +The consul and his wife and Hephzy were our only witnesses. Frances' +wedding gown was not new, but it was very becoming--the consul's wife +said so, and she should know. Also she said she had never seen a +sweeter or more beautiful bride. No one said anything concerning the +bridegroom's appearance, but he did not care. It was a drizzly, foggy +day, but that made no difference. A Kansas cyclone and a Bayport +no'theaster combined could not have cast a damper on that day. + +When it was over, Hephzy, who had been heroically struggling to keep her +vow not to shed another tear during our pilgrimage, hugged us both. + +“I--I--” she faltered, “I--I can't say it, but you know how I feel. +There's nothin' I sha'n't believe after this. I used to believe I'd +never travel, but I have. And there in Mayberry I believed I'd never +be happy again, but I am. HAPPY! hap--hap--Oh dear! WHAT a fool I am! +I ca--I can't help it! I expect I look like the most miserable thing on +earth, but that's because I AM so happy. God bless you both! Now--now +don't so much as look at me for a few minutes.” + +That afternoon she left for Mayberry to do the “packing up” and my wife +and I were alone--and together. + +I saw London again during the next few days. We rode on the tops of +busses, we visited Kew Gardens and Hampton Court and Windsor. We took +long trips up and down the Thames on the little steamers. Frances called +them our honeymoon trips. The time flew by. Then I received a note +from Hephzy that the “packing up” was finished at last and that she was +returning to London. + +It was raining hard, the morning of her arrival, and I went alone to +meet her at the railway station. I was early there and, as I was walking +up, awaiting the train, I heard someone speak my name. I turned +and there, immaculate, serene and debonair as ever, was A. Carleton +Heathcroft. + +“Ah, Knowles,” he said, cheerfully. “Thought it was you. Haven't seen +you of late. Missed you at Burgleston, on the course. How are you?” + +I told him I was quite well, and inquired concerning his own health. + +“Topping,” he replied. “Rotten weather, eh--what? And how's Miss--Oh, +dear me, always forget the name! The eccentric aunt who is so intensely +patriotic and American--How is she?” + +“She is well, too,” I answered. + +“Couldn't think of her being ill, somehow,” he observed. “And where have +you been, may I ask?” + +I said I had been on the Continent for a short stay. + +“Oh, yes! I remember now. Someone said you had gone. That reminds me: +Did you go to Paris? Did you see the girl who sang at the Abbey--the one +I told you of, who looked so like that pretty niece of yours? Hope you +did. The resemblance was quite extraordinary. Did you see her?” + +I dodged the question. I asked him what he had been doing since the day +of the golf tournament. + +“I--Oh, by Jove!” he exclaimed, “now I am going to surprise you. I have +been getting ready to take the fatal step. I'm going to be married.” + +“Married!” I repeated. “Really? The--the Warwickshire young lady, I +presume.” + +“Yes. How did you know of her?” + +“Your aunt--Lady Carey--mentioned that your--your affections were +somewhat engaged in that quarter.” + +“Did she? Really! Yes, she would mention it, I suppose. She mentions it +to everybody; it's a sort of hobby of hers, like my humble self, and the +roses. She has been more insistent of late and at last I consented to +oblige her. Do you know, Knowles, I think she was rather fearful that I +might be smitten by your Miss Morley. Shared your fears, eh?” + +I smiled, but I said nothing. A train which I believed to be the one +upon which Hephzy was expected, was drawing into the station. + +“A remarkably attractive girl, your niece,” he went on. “Have you heard +from her?” + +“Yes,” I said, absently. “I must say good-by, Heathcroft. That is the +train I have been waiting for.” + +“Oh, is it. Then, au revoir, Knowles. By the way, kindly remember me to +your niece when you see her, will you.” + +“I will. But--” I could not resist the temptation; “but she isn't my +niece,” I said. + +“Oh, I say! What? Not your niece? What is she then?” + +“She is my wife--now,” I said. “Good-by, Mr. Heathcroft.” + +I hurried away before he could do more than gasp. I think I shook even +his serene composure at last. + +I told Hephzy about it as we rode to the hotel in the cab. + +“It was silly, I suppose,” I said. “I told him on the spur of the +moment. I imagine all Mayberry, not to mention Burgleston Bogs, will +have something to talk about now. They expect almost anything of +Americans, or some of them do, but the marriage of an uncle and niece +ought to be a surprise, I should think.” + +Hephzy laughed. “The Baylisses will explain,” she said. “I told the old +doctor and his wife all about it. They were very much pleased, that was +plain enough. They knew she wasn't your niece and they'll tell the other +folks. That'll be all right, Hosy. Yes, Doctor and Mrs. Bayliss were +tickled almost to death. It stops all their worry about their son and +Frances, of course. He is in Switzerland now, poor chap. They'll write +him and he'll come home again by and by where he ought to be. And he'll +forget by and by, too. He's only a boy and he'll forget. So THAT'S all +right. + +“Everybody sent their love to you,” she went on. “The curates and the +Samsons and everybody. Mr. Cole and his wife are comin' back next week +and the servants'll take care of the rectory till they come. Everybody +was so glad to see me, and they're goin' to write and everything. I +declare! I felt real bad to leave 'em. They're SUCH nice people, these +English folks. Aren't they, Hosy.” + +They were and are. I hope that some day I may have, in my own country, +the opportunity to repay a little of the hospitality and kindness that +my Mayberry friends bestowed on me in theirs. + +We sailed for home two days later. A pleasant voyage it was, on a good +ship and with agreeable fellow-passengers. And, at last, one bright, +cloudless morning, a stiff breeze blowing and the green and white +waves leaping and tossing in the sunlight, we saw ahead of us a little +speck--the South Shoal lightship. Everyone crowded to the rail, of +course. Hephzy sighed, a sigh of pure happiness. + +“Nantucket!” she said, reading the big letters on the side of the little +vessel. “Nantucket! Don't that sound like home, Hosy! Nantucket and +Cape Cod are next-door neighbors, as you might say! My! the air seems +different already. I believe I can almost smell the Bayport flats. Do +you know what I am goin' to do as soon as I get into my kitchen? After +I've seen some of my neighbors and the cat and the hens, of course. I'm +going to make a clam chowder. I've been just dyin' for a clam chowder +ever since we left England.” + +And the next morning we landed at New York. Jim Campbell was at the +wharf to meet us. His handshake was a welcome home which was good to +feel. He welcomed Hephzy just as heartily. But I saw him looking +at Frances with curiosity and I flattered myself, admiration, and I +chuckled as I thought of the surprise which I was about to give him. +It would be a surprise, sure enough. I had written him nothing of the +recent wonderful happenings in Paris and in London, and I had sworn +Matthews to secrecy likewise. No, he did not know, he did not suspect, +and I gloried in the opportunity which was mine. + +“Jim,” I said, “there is one member of our party whom you have not met. +Frances, you have heard me speak of Mr. Campbell very often. Here he is. +Jim, I have the pleasure of presenting you to Mrs. Knowles, my wife.” + +Jim stood the shock remarkably well, considering. He gave me one glance, +a glance which expressed a portion of his feelings, and then he and +Frances shook hands. + +“Mrs. Knowles,” he said, “I--you'll excuse my apparent lack of +intellect, but--but this husband of yours has--I've known him a good +while and I thought I had lost all capacity for surprise at anything +he might do, but--but I hadn't. I--I--Please don't mind me; I'm really +quite sane at times. I am very, very glad. May we shake hands again?” + +He insisted upon our breakfasting with him at a near-by hotel. When he +and I were alone together he seized my arm. + +“Confound you!” he exclaimed. “You old chump! What do you mean by +springing this thing on me without a word of warning? I never was as +nearly knocked out in my life. What do you mean by it?” + +I laughed. “It is all part of your prescription,” I said. “You told me I +should marry, you know. Do you approve of my selection?” + +“Approve of it! Why, man, she's--she's wonderful. Approve of YOUR +selection! How about hers? You durned quahaug! How did you do it?” + +I gave him a condensed and hurried resume of the whole story. He did +not interrupt once--a perfectly amazing feat for him--and when I had +finished he shook his head. + +“It's no use,” he said. “I'm too good for the business I am in. I am +wasting my talents. _I_ sent you over there. _I_ told you to go. _I_ +prescribed travel and a wife and all the rest. _I_ did it. I'm going to +quit the publishing game. I'm going to set up as a specialist, a brain +specialist, for clams. And I'll use your face as a testimonial: 'Kent +Knowles, Quahaug. Before and After Taking.' Man, you look ten years +younger than you did when you went away.” + +“You must not take all the credit,” I told him. “You forget Hephzy and +her dreams, the dream she told us about that day at Bayport. That dream +has come true; do you realize it?” + +He nodded. “I admit it,” he said. “She is a better specialist than I. +I shall have to take her into partnership. 'Campbell and Cahoon. +Prescribers and Predictors. Authors Made Human.' I'll speak to her about +it.” + +As he said good-by to us at the Grand Central Station he asked me +another question. + +“Kent,” he whispered, “what are you going to do now? What are you going +to do with her? Are you and she going back to Bayport to be Mr. and Mrs. +Quahaug? Is that your idea?” + +I shook my head. “We're going back to Bayport,” I said, “but how long +we shall stay there I don't know. One thing you may be sure of, Jim; I +shall be a quahaug no more.” + +He nodded. “I think you're right,” he declared. “She'll see to that, or +I miss my guess. No, my boy, your quahaug days are over. There's nothing +of the shellfish about her; she's a live woman, as well as a mighty +pretty one, and she cares enough about you to keep you awake and in the +game. I congratulate you, Kent, and I'm almost as happy as you are. Also +I shall play the optimist at our next directors' meeting; I see signs +of a boom in the literature factory. Go to it, my son. You have my +blessing.” + +We took the one o'clock train for Boston, remained there over night, and +left on the early morning “accommodation”--so called, I think, because +it accommodates the train hands--for Cape Cod. As we neared Buzzard's +Bay my spirits, which had been at topnotch, began to sink. When the sand +dunes of Barnstable harbor hove in sight they sank lower and lower. +It was October, the summer people, most of them, had gone, the station +platforms were almost deserted, the more pretentious cottages were +closed. The Cape looked bare and brown and wind-swept. I thought of +the English fields and hedges, of the verdant beauty of the Mayberry +pastures. What SORT of a place would she think this, the home to which I +was bringing her? + +She had been very much excited and very much interested. New York, +with its sky-scrapers and trolleys, its electric signs and clean white +buildings, the latter so different from the grimy, gray dwellings and +shops of London, had been a wonderland to her. She had liked the Pullman +and the dining-car and the Boston hotel. But this, this was different. +How would she like sleepy, old Bayport and the people of Bayport. + +Well, I should soon know. Even the morning “accommodation” reaches +Bayport some time or other. We were the only passengers to alight at the +station, and Elmer Snow, the station agent, and Gabe Lumley, who drives +the depot wagon, were the only ones to welcome us. Their welcome was +hearty enough, I admit. Gabe would have asked a hundred questions if I +had answered the first of the hundred, but he seemed strangely reluctant +to answer those I asked him. + +Bayport was gettin' along first-rate, he told me. Tad Simpson's youngest +child had diphtheria, but was sittin' up now and the fish weirs had +caught consider'ble mackerel that summer. So much he was willing to say, +but he said little more. I asked how the house and garden were looking +and he cal'lated they were all right. Pumping Gabe Lumley was a new +experience for me. Ordinarily he doesn't need pumping. I could not +understand it. I saw Hephzy and he in consultation on the station +platform and I wondered if she had been able to get more news than I. + +We rattled along the main road, up the hill by the Whittaker place--I +looked eagerly for a glimpse of Captain Cy himself, but I didn't see +him--and on until we reached our gate. Frances said very little during +our progress through the village. I did not dare speak to her; I was +afraid of asking her how she liked what she had seen of Bayport. And +Hephzy, too, was silent, although she kept her head out of the window +most of the time. + +But when the depot wagon entered the big gate and stopped before the +side door I felt that I must say something. I must not appear fearful or +uneasy. + +“Here we are!” I cried, springing out and helping her and Hephzy to +alight. “Here we are at last. This is home, dear.” + +And then the door opened and I saw that the dining-room was filled +with people, people whom I had known all my life. Mr. Partridge, the +minister, was there, and his wife, and Captain Whittaker and his wife, +and the Dimicks and the Salterses and more. Before I could recover from +my surprise Mr. Partridge stepped forward. + +“Mr. Knowles,” he said, “on this happy occasion it is our privilege +to--” + +But Captain Cy interrupted him. + +“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, “don't make a speech to him now, Mr. +Partridge. Welcome home, Kent! We're all mighty glad to see you back +again safe and sound. And Hephzy, too. By the big dipper, Hephzy, the +sight of you is good for sore eyes! And I suppose this is your wife, +Kent. Well, we--Hey! I might have known Phoebe would get ahead of me.” + +For Mrs. Whittaker and Frances were shaking hands. Others were +crowding forward to do so. And the table was set and there were flowers +everywhere and, in the background, was Susanna Wixon, grinning from ear +to ear, with the cat--our cat--who seemed the least happy of the party, +in her arms. + +Hephzy had written Mrs. Whittaker from London, telling her of my +marriage; she had telegraphed from New York the day before, announcing +the hour of our return. And this was the result. + +When it was all over and they had gone--they would not remain for +dinner, although we begged them to do so--when they had gone and Hephzy +had fled to the yard to inspect the hens, I turned to my wife. + +“Frances,” I said, “this is home. Here is where Hephzy and I have lived +for so long. I--I hope you may be happy here. It is a rather crude +place, but--” + +She came to me and put her arms about my neck. + +“Don't, my dear, don't!” she said. “It is beautiful. It is home. +And--and you know I have never had a home, a real home before.” + +“Then you like it?” I cried. “You really like it? It is so different +from England. The people--” + +“They are dear, kind people. And they like you and respect you, Kent. +How could you say they didn't! I know I shall love them all.” + +I made a dash for the kitchen. “Hephzy!” I shouted. “Hephzy! She does +like it. She likes Bayport and the people and everything.” + +Hephzy was just entering at the back door. She did not seem in the least +surprised. + +“Of course she likes it,” she said, with decision. “How could anybody +help likin' Bayport?” + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +Which Treats of Quahaugs in General + + +Asaph Tidditt helped me to begin this long chronicle of a quahaug's +pilgrimage. Perhaps it is fitting that Asaph should end it. He dropped +in for a call the other afternoon and, as I had finished my day's +“stunt” at the desk, I assisted in entertaining him. Frances was in the +sitting-room also and Hephzy joined us soon afterward. Mr. Tidditt had +stopped at the post-office on his way down and he had the Boston morning +paper in his hand. Of course he was filled to the brim with war news. We +discuss little else in Bayport now; even the new baby at the parsonage +has to play second fiddle. + +“My godfreys!” exclaimed Asaph, as soon as he sat down in the rocking +chair and put his cap on the floor beneath it. “My godfreys, but they're +havin' awful times over across, now ain't they. Killin' and fightin' and +battlin' and slaughterin'! It don't seem human to me somehow.” + +“It is human, I'm afraid,” I said, with a sigh. “Altogether too human. +We're a poor lot, we, humans, after all. We pride ourselves on our +civilization, but after all, it takes very little to send us back to +savagery.” + +“That's so,” said Asaph, with conviction. “That's true about everybody +but us folks in the United States. We are awful fortunate, we are. We +ain't savages. We was born in a free country, and we've been brought up +right, I declare! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Knowles; I forgot you wasn't +born in Bayport.” + +Frances smiled. “No apology is needed, Mr. Tidditt,” she said. “I +confess to having been born a--savage.” + +“But you're all right now,” said Asaph, hastily, trying to cover his +slip. “You're all right now. You're just as American as the rest of us. +Kent, suppose this war in Europe is goin' to hurt your trade any? It's +goin' to hurt a good many folks's. They tell me groceries and such like +is goin' way up. Lucky we've got fish and clams to depend on. Clams +and quahaugs'll keep us from starvin' for a spell. Oh,” with a chuckle, +“speakin' of quahaugs reminds me. Did you know they used to call your +husband a quahaug, Mrs. Knowles? That's what they used to call him round +here--'The Quahaug.' They called him that 'count of his keepin' inside +his shell all the time and not mixin' with folks, not toadyin' up to the +summer crowd and all. I always respected him for it. _I_ don't toady to +nobody neither.” + +Hephzy had come in by this time and now she took a part in the +conversation. + +“They don't call him 'The Quahaug' any more,” she declared, indignantly. +“He's been out of his shell more and seen more than most of the folks in +this town.” + +“I know it; I know it. And he's kept goin' ever since. Runnin' to +New York, he and you,” with a nod toward Frances, “and travelin' to +Washin'ton and Niagary Falls and all. Wonder to me how he does as much +writin' as he does. That last book of yours is sellin' first-rate, they +tell me, Kent.” + +He referred to the novel I began in Mayberry. I have rewritten and +finished it since, and it has had a surprising sale. The critics seem to +think I have achieved my first genuine success. + +“What are you writin' now?” asked Asaph. “More of them yarns about +pirates and such? Land sakes! when I go by this house nights and see a +light in your library window there, Kent, and know you're pluggin' along +amongst all them adventures, I wonder how you can stand it. 'Twould give +me the shivers. Godfreys! the last time I read one of them yarns--that +about the 'Black Brig' 'twas--I hardly dast to go to bed. And I DIDN'T +dast to put out the light. I see a pirate in every corner, grittin' his +teeth. Writin' another of that kind, are you?” + +“No,” I said; “this one is quite different. You will have no trouble in +sleeping over this one, Ase.” + +“That's a comfort. Got a little Bayport in it? Seems to me you ought to +put a little Bayport in, for a change.” + +I smiled. “There is a little in this,” I answered. “A little at the +beginning, and, perhaps, at the end.” + +“You don't say! You ain't got me in it, have you? I'd--I'd look kind of +funny in a book, wouldn't I?” + +I laughed, but I did not answer. + +“Not that I ain't seen things in my life,” went on Asaph, hopefully. “A +man can't be town clerk in a live town like this and not see things. But +I hope you won't put any more foreigners in. This we're readin' now,” + rapping the newspaper with his knuckles, “gives us all we want to know +about foreigners. Just savages, they be, as you say, and nothin' more. I +pity 'em.” + +I laughed again. + +“Asaph,” said I, “what would you say if I told you that the English and +French--yes, and the Germans, too, though I haven't seen them at home as +I have the others--were no more savages than we are?” + +“I'd say you was crazy,” was the prompt answer. + +“Well, I'm not. And you're not very complimentary. You're forgetting +again. You forget that I married one of those savages.” + +Asaph was taken aback, but he recovered promptly, as he had before. + +“She ain't any savage,” he announced. “Her mother was born right here in +Bayport. And she knows, just as I do, that Bayport's the best place in +the world; don't you, Mrs. Knowles?” + +“Yes,” said Frances, “I am sure of it, Mr. Tidditt.” + +So Asaph went away triumphantly happy. After he had gone I apologized +for him. + +“He's a fair sample,” I said. “He is a quahaug, although he doesn't know +it. He is a certain type, an exaggerated type, of American.” + +Frances smiled. “He's not much worse than I used to be,” she said. “I +used to call America an uncivilized country, you remember. I suppose +I--and Mr. Heathcroft--were exaggerated types of a certain kind of +English. We were English quahaugs, weren't we?” + +Hephzy nodded. “We're all quahaugs,” she declared. “Most of us, anyhow. +That's the trouble with all the folks of all the nations; they stay in +their shells and they don't try to know and understand their neighbors. +Kent, you used to be a quahaug--a different kind of one--but that kind, +too. I was a quahaug afore I lived in Mayberry. That's who makes wars +like this dreadful one--quahaugs. We know better now--you and Frances +and I. We've found out that, down underneath, there's precious little +difference. Humans are humans.” + +She paused and then, as a final summing up, added: + +“I guess that's it: American or German or French or anything--nice folks +are nice folks anywhere.” + + +THE END + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENT KNOWLES: QUAHAUG *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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