note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) prudence says so by ethel hueston author of prudence of the parsonage with illustrations by arthur william brown [illustration: come on. let's beat it] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company _to_ my little daughter elizabeth my comrade and my inspiration contents chapter page i the chaperon ii science and health iii a gift from heaven iv how carol spoiled the wedding v the serenade vi substitution vii making matches viii lark's literary venture ix a clear call x jerry junior xi the end of fairy xii sowing seeds xiii the connie problem xiv boosting connie xv a millionaire's son xvi the twins have a proposal xvii the girl who wouldn't propose prudence says so chapter i the chaperon "girls,--come down! quick!--i want to see how you look!" prudence stood at the foot of the stairs, deftly drawing on her black silk gloves,--gloves still good in prudence's eyes, though fairy had long since discarded them as unfit for service. there was open anxiety in prudence's expression, and puckers of worry perpendicularly creased her white forehead. "girls!" she called again. "come down! father, you'd better hurry,--it's nearly train time. girls, are you deaf!" her insistence finally brought response. a door opened in the hallway above, and connie started down the stairs, fully dressed, except that she limped along in one stocking-foot, her shoe in her hand. "it's so silly of you to get all dressed before you put on your shoes, connie," prudence reproved her as she came down. "it wrinkles you up so. but you do look nice. wasn't it dear of the ladies' aid to give you that dress for your birthday? it's so dainty and sweet,--and goodness knows you needed one. they probably noticed that. let me fix your bow a little. do be careful, dear, and don't get mussed before we come back. aunt grace will be so much gladder to live with us if we all look sweet and clean. and you'll be good, won't you, connie, and--twins, will you come!" "they are sewing up the holes in each other's stockings," connie vouchsafed. "they're all dressed." the twins, evidently realizing that prudence's patience was near the breaking point, started down-stairs for approval, a curious procession. all dressed as connie had said, and most charming, but they walked close together, carol stepping gingerly on one foot and lark stooping low, carrying a needle with great solicitude,--the thread reaching from the needle to a small hole on carol's instep. "what on earth are you doing?" "i'm sewing up the holes in carol's stocking," lark explained. "if you had waited a minute i would have finished--hold still, carol,--don't walk so jerky or you'll break the thread. there were five holes in her left stocking, prudence, and i'm--" prudence frowned disapprovingly. "it's a very bad habit to sew up holes in your stockings when you are wearing them. if you had darned them all yesterday as i told you, you'd have had plenty of--mercy, lark, you have too much powder on!" "i know it,--carol did it. she said she wanted me to be of an intellectual pallor." lark mopped her face with one hand. "you'd better not mention to papa that we powdered to-day," carol suggested. "he's upset. it's very hard for a man to be reasonable when he's upset, you know." "you look nice, twins." prudence advanced a step, her eyes on carol's hair, sniffing suspiciously. "carol, did you curl your hair?" carol blushed. "well, just a little," she confessed. "i thought aunt grace would appreciate me more with a crown of frizzy ringlets." "you'll spoil your hair if you don't leave it alone, and it will serve you right, too. it's very pretty as it is naturally,--plenty curly enough and--oh, fairy, i know aunt grace will love you," she cried ecstatically. "you look like a dream, you--" "yes,--a nightmare," said carol snippily. "if i saw fairy coming at me on a dark night i'd--" "papa, we'll miss the train!" then as he came slowly down the stairs, she said to her sisters again, anxiously: "oh, girls, do keep nice and clean, won't you? and be very sweet to aunt grace! it's so--awfully good of her--to come--and take care of us,--" prudence's voice broke a little. the admission of another to the parsonage mothering hurt her. mr. starr stopped on the bottom step, and with one foot as a pivot, slowly revolved for his daughters' inspection. "how do i look?" he demanded. "do you think this suit will convince grace that i am worth taking care of? do i look twenty-five dollars better than i did yesterday?" the girls gazed at him with most adoring and exclamatory approval. "father! you look perfectly grand!--isn't it beautiful?--of course, you looked nicer than anybody else even in the old suit, but--it--well, it was--" "perfectly disgracefully shabby," put in fairy quickly. "entirely unworthy a minister of your--er--lovely family!" "i hope none of you have let it out among the members how long i wore that old suit. i don't believe i could face my congregation on sundays if i thought they were mentally calculating the wearing value of my various garments.--we'll have to go, prudence.--you all look very fine--a credit to the parsonage--and i am sure aunt grace will think us well worth living with." "and don't muss the house up," begged prudence, as her father opened the door and pushed her gently out on the step. the four sisters left behind looked at one another solemnly. it was a serious business,--most serious. connie gravely put on her shoe, and buttoned it. lark sewed up the last hole in carol's stocking,--carol balancing herself on one foot with nice precision for the purpose. then, all ready, they looked at one another again,--even more solemnly. "well," said fairy, "let's go in--and wait." silently the others followed her in, and they all sat about, irreproachably, on the well-dusted chairs, their hands folded methodistically in their smooth and spotless laps. the silence, and the solemnity, were very oppressive. "we look all right," said carol belligerently. no one answered. "i'm sure aunt grace is as sweet as anybody could be," she added presently. dreary silence! "don't we love her better than anybody on earth,--except ourselves?" then, when the silence continued, her courage waned. "oh, girls," she whimpered, "isn't it awful? it's the beginning of the end of everything. outsiders have to come in now to take care of us, and prudence'll get married, and then fairy will, and maybe us twins,--i mean, we twins. and then there'll only be father and connie left, and miss greet, or some one, will get ahead of father after all,--and connie'll have to live with a step-mother, and--it'll never seem like home any more, and--" connie burst into loud and mournful wails. "you're very silly, carol," fairy said sternly. "very silly, indeed. i don't see much chance of any of us getting married very soon. and prudence will be here nearly a year yet. and--aunt grace is as sweet and dear a woman as ever lived--mother's own sister--and she loves us dearly and--" "yes," agreed lark, "but it's not like having prudence at the head of things." "prudence will be at the head of things for nearly a year, and--i think we're mighty lucky to get aunt grace. it's not many women would be willing to leave a fine stylish home, with a hundred dollars to spend on just herself, and with a maid to wait on her, and come to an ugly old house like this to take care of a preacher and a riotous family like ours. it's very generous of aunt grace--very." "yes, it is," admitted lark. "and as long as she was our aunt with her fine home, and her hundred dollars a month, and her maid, i loved her dearly. but--i don't want anybody coming in to manage us. we can manage ourselves. we--" "we need a chaperon," put in fairy deftly. "she isn't going to do the housework, or the managing, or anything. she's just our chaperon. it isn't proper for us to live without one, you know. we're too young. it isn't--conventional." "and for goodness' sake, connie," said carol, "remember and call her our chaperon, and don't talk about a housekeeper. there's some style to a chaperon." "yes, indeed," said fairy cheerfully. "and she wears such pretty clothes, and has such pretty manners that she will be a distinct acquisition to the parsonage. we can put on lots more style, of course. and then it was awfully nice of her to send so much of her good furniture,--the piano, for instance, to take the place of that old tin pan of ours." carol smiled a little. "if she had written, 'dear john: i can't by any means live in a house with furniture like that of yours, so you'll have to let me bring some of my own,'--wouldn't we have been furious? that was what she meant all right, but she put it very neatly." "yes. 'i love some of my things so dearly,'" lark quoted promptly, "'and have lived with them so long that i am too selfish to part with them. may i bring a few pieces along?' yes, it was pretty cute of her." "and do remember, girls, that you mustn't ask her to darn your stockings, and wash your handkerchiefs, and do your tasks about the house. it would be disgraceful. and be careful not to hint for things you want, for, of course, aunt grace will trot off and buy them for you and papa will not like it. you twins'll have to be very careful to quit dreaming about silk stockings, for instance." there was a tinge of sarcasm in fairy's voice as she said this. "fairy, we did dream about silk stockings--you don't need to believe it if you don't want to. but we did dream about them just the same!" carol sighed. "i think i could be more reconciled to aunt grace if i thought she'd give me a pair of silk stockings. you know, fairy, sometimes lately i almost--don't like aunt grace--any more." "that's very foolish and very wicked," declared fairy. "i love her dearly. i'm so glad she's come to live with us." "are you?" asked connie innocently. "then why did you go up in the attic and cry all morning when prudence was fixing the room for her?" fairy blushed, and caught her under lip between her teeth for a minute. and then, in a changed voice she said, "i--i do love her, and--i am glad--but i keep thinking ahead to when prudence gets married, and--and--oh, girls, prudence was all settled in the parsonage when i was born, and she's been here ever since, and--when she is gone it--it won't be any home to me at all!" her voice rose on the last words in a way most pitifully suggestive of tears. for a moment there was a stricken silence. "oh, pooh!" carol said at last, bravely. "you wouldn't want prue to stick around and be an old maid, would you? i think she's mighty lucky to get a fellow as nice as jerry harmer myself. i'll bet you don't make out half as well, fairy. i think she'd be awfully silly not to gobble him right up while she has a chance. for my own part, i don't believe in old maids. i think it is a religious duty for folks to get married, and--and--you know what i mean,--race suicide, you know." she nodded her head sagely, winking one eye in a most intelligent fashion. "and aunt grace is so quiet she'll not be any bother at all," added lark. "don't you remember how she always sits around and smiles at us, and never says anything. she won't scold a bit.--maybe carol and i will get a chance to spend some of our spending money when she takes charge. prudence confiscates it all for punishment. i think it's going to be lots of fun having aunt grace with us." "i'm going to take my dime and buy her something," connie announced suddenly. the twins whirled on her sharply. "your dime!" echoed carol. "i didn't know you had a dime," said lark. connie flushed a little. "yes,--oh, yes,--" she said, "i've got a dime. i--i hid it. i've got a dime all right." "it's nearly time," said fairy restlessly. "number nine has been on time for two mornings now,--so she'll probably be here in time for dinner. it's only ten o'clock now." "you mean luncheon," suggested carol. "yes, luncheon, to be sure, fair sister." "where'd you get that dime, connie?" "oh, i've had it some time," connie admitted reluctantly. "when i asked you to lend me a dime you said--" "you asked me if i had a dime i could lend you and i said, no, and i didn't, for i didn't have this dime to lend." "but where have you had it?" inquired lark. "i thought you acted suspicious some way, so i went around and looked for myself." "where did you look?" the twins laughed gleefully. "oh, on top of the windows and doors," said carol. "how did you know--" began connie. "you aren't slick enough for us, connie. we knew you had some funny place to hide your money, so i gave you that penny and then i went up-stairs very noisily so you could hear me, and lark sneaked around and watched, and saw where you put it. we've been able to keep pretty good track of your finances lately." the twins laughed again. "but i looked on the top ledge of all the windows and doors just yesterday," admitted lark, "and there was nothing there. did you put that dime in the bank?" "oh, never mind," said connie. "i don't need to tell you. you twins are too slick for me, you know." the twins looked slightly fussed, especially when fairy laughed with a merry, "good for you, connie." carol rose and looked at herself in the glass. "i'm going up-stairs," she said. "what for?" inquired lark, rising also. "i need a little more powder. my nose is shiny." so the twins went up-stairs, and fairy, after calling out to them to be very careful and not get disheveled, went out into the yard and wandered dolefully about by herself. connie meantime decided to get her well-hidden dime and figure out what ten cents could buy for her fastidious and wealthy aunt. connie was in many ways unique. her system of money-hiding was born of nothing less than genius, prompted by necessity, for the twins were clever as well as grasping. she did not know they had discovered her plan of banking on the top ledge of the windows and doors, but having dealt with them long and bitterly, she knew that in money matters she must give them the benefit of all her ingenuity. for the last and precious dime, she had discovered a brand-new hiding-place. the cook stove sat in the darkest and most remote corner of the kitchen, and where the chimney fitted into the wall, it was protected by a small zinc plate. this zinc plate protruded barely an inch, but that inch was quite sufficient for coins the size of connie's, and there, high and secure in the shadowy corner, lay connie's dime. now that she had decided to spend it, she wanted it before her eyes,--for ten cents in sight buys much more than ten cents in memory. she went into the kitchen cautiously, careful of her white canvas shoes, and put a chair beside the stove. she had discovered that the dishpan turned upside down on the chair, gave her sufficient height to reach her novel banking place. the preparation was soon accomplished, and neatly, for connie was an orderly child, and loved cleanliness even on occasions less demanding than this. but alas for connie's calculations!--carol was born for higher things than dish washing, and she had splashed soap-suds on the table. the pan had been set among them--and then, neatly wiped on the inside, it had been hung up behind the table,--with the suds on the bottom. and it was upon this same dishpan that connie climbed so carefully in search of her darling dime. the result was certain. as she slowly and breathlessly raised herself on tiptoe, steadying herself with the tips of her fingers lightly touching the stove-pipe, her foot moved treacherously into the soapy area, and slipped. connie screamed, caught desperately at the pipe, and fell to the floor in a sickening jumble of stove-pipe, dishpan and soot beyond her wildest fancies! her cries brought her sisters flying, and the sight of the blackened kitchen, and the unfortunate child in the midst of disaster, banished from their minds all memory of the coming chaperon, of prudence's warning words:--connie was in trouble. with sisterly affection they rescued her, and did not hear the ringing of the bell. they brushed her, they shook her, they kissed her, they all but wept over her. and when prudence and her father, with aunt grace in tow, despaired of gaining entrance at the hands of the girls, came in unannounced, it was a sorry scene that greeted them. fairy and the twins were only less sooty than connie and the kitchen. the stove-pipe lay about them with that insufferable insolence known only to fallen stove-pipe. and connie wept loudly, her tears making hideous trails upon her blackened face. "i might have known it," prudence thought, with sorrow. but her motherly pride vanished before her motherly solicitude, and connie was soon quieted by her tender ministrations. [illustration: we love you, but we can't kiss you] "we love you, aunt grace," cried carol earnestly, "but we can't kiss you." mr. starr anxiously scanned the surface of the kitchen table with an eye to future spots on the new suit, and then sat down on the edge of it and laughed as only a man of young heart and old experience can laugh! "disgraced again," he said. "prudence said we made a mistake in not taking you all to the station where we could watch you every minute. grace, think well before you take the plunge. do you dare cast in your fortunes with a parsonage bunch that revels in misfortune? can you take the responsibility of rearing a family that knows trouble only? this is your last chance. weigh well your words." the twins squirmed uncomfortably. true, she was their aunt, and knew many things about them. but they did think it was almost bad form for their father to emphasize their failings in the presence of any one outside the family. fairy pursed up her lips, puffing vainly at the soot that had settled upon her face. then she laughed. "very true, aunt grace," she said. "we admit that we're a luckless family. but we're expecting, with you to help us, to do much better. you see, we've never had half a chance so far, with only father behind us." the twins revived at this, and joined in the laughter their father led against himself. later in the day prudence drew her aunt to one side and asked softly, "was it much of a shock to you, aunt grace? the family drowned in soot to welcome you? i'm sure you expected to find everything trim and fresh and orderly. was it a bitter disappointment?" aunt grace smiled brightly. "why, no, prudence," she said in her slow even voice. "i really expected something to be wrong! i'd have been disappointed if everything had gone just right!" chapter ii science and health after all, the advent of a chaperon made surprisingly little difference in the life of the parsonage family, but what change there was, was all to the good. their aunt assumed no active directorate over household matters. she just slipped in, happily, unobtrusively, helpfully. she was a gentle woman, smiling much, saying little. indeed, her untalkativeness soon became a matter of great merriment among the lively girls. "a splendid deaf and dumb person was lost to the world in you, aunt grace," carol assured her warmly. "i never saw a woman who could say so much in smiles, and be so expressive without words." fairy said, "she carries on a prolonged discussion, and argues and orates, without saying a word." the members of the ladies' aid, who hastened to call, said, "she is perfectly charming--such a fine conversationalist!" she was always attractively dressed, always self-possessed, always friendly, always good-natured, and the girls found her presence only pleasing. she relieved prudence, admired fairy, laughed at the twins, adored connie. between her and mr. starr there was a frank camaraderie, charming, but seldom found between brothers- and sisters-in-law. "of course, aunt grace," prudence told her sweetly, "we aren't going to be selfish with you. we don't expect you to bury yourself in the parsonage. whenever you want to trip away for a while, you must feel free to go. we don't intend to monopolize you, however much we want to do so. whenever you want to go, you must go." "i shan't want to go," said aunt grace quickly. "not right away, of course," prudence agreed. "but you'll find our liveliness tiring. whenever you do want to go--" "i don't think i shall want to go at all," she answered. "i like it here. i--i like liveliness." then prudence kissed her gratefully. for several weeks after her initiation in the parsonage, life rolled along sweetly and serenely. there were only the minor, unavoidable mishaps and disciplinary measures common to the life of any family. of course, there were frequent, stirring verbal skirmishes between fairy and the twins, and between the twins and connie. but these did not disturb their aunt. she leaned back in her chair, or among the cushions, listening gravely, but with eyes that always smiled. then came a curious lull. for ten entire and successive days the twins had lived blameless lives. their voices rang out gladly and sweetly. they treated connie with a sisterly tenderness and gentleness quite out of accord with their usual drastic discipline. they obeyed the word of prudence with a cheerful readiness that was startlingly cherubimic. the most distasteful of orders called forth nothing stronger than a bright, "yes, prudence." they no longer developed dangerous symptoms of physical disablement at times of unpleasant duties. their devotion to the cause of health was beautiful. not an ache disturbed them. not a pain suggested a substitute. prudence watched them with painful solicitude. her years of mothering had given her an almost supernatural intuition as to causes, and effects. on wednesday morning, mr. starr bade his family good-by and set out on a tour of epworth league conventions. he was to be away from home until the end of the following week. a prospective presbyterian theologian had been selected from the college to fill his pulpit on the sabbath, and the girls, with their aunt, faced an unusually long period of running the parsonage to suit themselves. at ten o'clock the train carried their father off in the direction of burlington, and at eleven o'clock the twins returned to the parsonage. they had given him a daughterly send-off at the station, and then gone to the library for books. prudence, fairy and aunt grace sat sewing on the side porch as they cut across the parsonage lawn, their feet crinkling pleasantly through the drift of autumn leaves the wind had piled beneath the trees. "we're out of potatoes, twins," said prudence, as they drew near. "you'll have to dig some before dinner." for one instant their complacent features clouded. prudence looked up expectantly, sure of a break in their serene placidity. one doubtful second, then-- "certainly, prudence," said carol brightly. and lark added genially, "we'd better fill the box, i guess--so we'll have enough for the rest of the week." and singing a light but unharmonic snatch of song, the twins went in search of basket and hoe. the twins were not musical. they only sang from principle, to emphasize their light-heartedness when it needed special impressing. prudence's brows knitted in anxious frowns, and she sighed a few times. "what is the matter, prue? you look like a rainy christmas," said fairy. "it's the twins," was the mournful answer. "the twins!" ejaculated fairy. "why, they've acted like angels lately." even aunt grace lifted mildly inquiring eyebrows. "that's it!--that's just it. when the twins act like angels i get uneasy right away. the better they act, the more suspicious i feel." "what have they been doing?" "nothing! not a thing! that's why i'm worried. it must be something terrible!" fairy laughed and returned to her embroidery. aunt grace smiled and began plying her needles once more. but prudence still looked troubled, and sighed often. there was no apparent ground for her alarm. the twins came back with the potatoes, peeled some for luncheon, and set the table, their faces still bright and smiling. prudence's eyes, often fastened upon their angelic countenances, grew more and more troubled. in the afternoon, they joined the little circle on the porch, but not to sew. they took a book, and lay down on a rug with the book before them, reading together. evidently they were all absorbed. an hour passed, two hours, three. at times carol pointed to a line, and said in a low voice, "that's good, isn't it?" and lark would answer, "dandy!--have you read this?" prudence, in spite of her devotion to the embroidering of large s's on assorted pieces of linen, never forgot the twins for a moment. "what are you reading?" she asked at last aimlessly, her only desire to be reassured by the sound of their voices. there was an almost imperceptible pause. then carol answered,--her chin was in her palms which may have accounted for the mumbling of the words. "_scianceanelth._" "what?" another pause, a little more perceptible this time. "_science and health_," carol said at last, quite distinctly. "_science and health_," prudence repeated, in a puzzled tone. "is it a doctor book?" "why--something of the sort,--yes," said carol dubiously. "_science and health_? _science and health_," mused fairy. "you don't mean that christian science book, do you? you know what i mean, prudence--mary baker eddy's book--_science and health_,--that's the name of it. that's not what you twins are devouring so ravenously, is it?" carol answered with manifest reluctance, glancing nervously at prudence, "y-yes,--that's what it is." ominous silence greeted this admission. a slow red flush mantled the twins' cheeks. aunt grace's eyes twinkled a little, although her face was grave. fairy looked surprised. prudence looked dumfounded. when she spoke, her words gave no sign of the cataclysmic struggle through which she had passed. "what are you reading that for?" "why--it's very interesting," explained lark, coming to carol's rescue. carol was very good at meeting investigation, but when it came to prolonged explanation, lark stood preeminent. "of course, we don't believe it--yet. but there are some good things in it. part of it is very beautiful. we don't just understand it,--it's very deep. but some of the ideas are very fine, and--er--uplifting, you know." prudence looked most miserable. "but--twins, do you think--minister's daughters ought to read--things like that?" "why, prudence, i think minister's daughters ought to be well-informed on every subject," declared lark conscientiously. "how can we be an influence if we don't know anything about things?--and i tell you what it is, prue, i don't think it's right for all of us church people to stand back and knock christian science when we don't know anything about it. it's narrow-minded, that's what it is. it's downright un-christian. when you get into the book you will find it just full of fine inspiring thoughts--something like the bible,--only--er--and very good, you know." prudence looked at fairy and her aunt in helpless dismay. this was something entirely new in her experience of rearing a family. "i--i don't think you ought to read it," she said slowly. "but at the same time--" "of course, if you command us not to read it, we won't," said carol generously. "yes. we've already learned quite a lot about it," amended lark, with something of warning in her tone. "what do you think about it, aunt grace?" "why,--i don't know, prudence. you know more about rearing twins than i do." prudence at that moment felt that she knew very little about it, indeed. she turned to fairy. there was a strange intentness in fairy's fine eyes as she studied the twins on the floor at her feet. "you aren't thinking of turning christian scientists, yourselves, are you?" asked prudence rather humbly. "oh, of course, we aren't scientists, prudence," was the quick denial. "we don't know anything about it yet, really. but there are lots of very helpful things in it, and--people talk about it so much, and--they have made such wonderful cures, you know, and--we'd thought we'd just study up a little." "you take the book and read it yourself, prue," urged carol hospitably. "you'll see what we mean." prudence drew back quickly as though the book would sear her fingers. she looked very forlorn. she realized that it would be bad policy to forbid the twins to read it. on the other hand, she realized equally strongly that it was certainly unwise to allow its doctrines to take root in the minds of parsonage daughters. if only her father were at home,--ten days between herself and the lifting of responsibility! "when father comes home--" she began. and then suddenly fairy spoke. "i think the twins are right," she said emphatically, and the twins looked at her with a surprised anxiety that mated prudence's own. "it would be very narrow-minded of us to refuse to look into a subject as important as this. let them go on and study it; we can decide things later." prudence looked very doubtful, but a warning movement of fairy's left eyelash--the side removed from the twins--comforted her. "well--" she said. "of course, prudence, we know it would nearly break father's heart for us to go back on our own church,--but don't you think if folks become truly convinced that christian science is the true and good religion, they ought to stand by it and suffer,--just like the martyrs of old?" suggested lark,--and the suggestion brought the doubt-clouds thick about prudence's head once more. "we may not be convinced, of course," added carol, "but there is something rather--assuring--about it." "oh, twins," prudence cried earnestly, but stopped as she caught again the slight suggestive movement of fairy's left eyelash. "well, let it go for this afternoon," she said, her eyes intent on fairy's face. "i must think it over." the twins, with apparent relish, returned to their perusal of the book. fairy rose almost immediately and went into the house, coming back a moment later with her hat and gloves. "i'm going for a stroll, prue," she said. "i'll be back in time for supper." prudence gazed yearningly after her departing back. she felt a great need of help in this crisis, and fairy's nonchalance was sometimes very soothing. aunt grace was a darling, of course, but she had long ago disclaimed all responsibility for the rearing of the twins. it was two hours later when fairy came back. prudence was alone on the porch. "where are the twins?" asked fairy softly. "up-stairs," was the whispered reply. "well?" then fairy spoke more loudly, confident that the twins, in their up-stairs room, could hear every word she said. "come up-stairs, prue. i want to talk this over with you alone." and then she whispered, "now, you just take your cue from me, and do as i say. the little sinners! we'll teach them to be so funny!" in their own room she carefully closed the door and smiled, as she noted a creaking of the closet door on the twins' side of the wall. eavesdropping was not included among the cardinal sins in the twins' private decalogue, when the conversation concerned themselves. "now, prudence," fairy began, speaking with an appearance of softness, though she took great pains to turn her face toward the twins' room, and enunciated very clearly indeed. "i know this will hurt you, as it does me, but we've got to face it fairly. if the twins are convinced that christian science is the right kind of religion, we can't stand in their way. it might turn them from all religion and make them infidels or atheists, or something worse. any religion is better than none. i've been reading up a little myself this afternoon, and there are some good points in christian science. of course, for our sakes and father's, the twins will be generous and deny that they are scientists. but at heart, they are. i saw it this afternoon. and you and i, prudence, must stand together and back them up. they'll have to leave the methodist church. it may break our hearts, and father's, too, but we can't wrong our little sisters just for our personal pride and pleasure in them. i think we'll have them go before the official board next sunday while father is gone--then he will be spared the pain of it. i'll speak to mr. lauren about it to-morrow. we must make it as easy for them as we can. they'll probably dismiss them--i don't suppose they'll give them letters. but it must be all over before papa comes back." then she hissed in prudence's ear, "now cry." prudence obediently began sniffing and gulping, and fairy rushed to her and threw her arms about her, sobbing in heart-broken accents, "there, there, prue, i know--i felt just the same about it. but we can't stand between the twins and what they think is right. we daren't have that on our consciences." the two wept together, encouraged by the death-like stillness in the closet on the other side of the wall. then fairy said, more calmly, though still sobbing occasionally, "for our sakes, they'll try to deny it. but we can't let the little darlings sacrifice themselves. they've got to have a chance to try their new belief. we'll just be firm and insist that they stand on their rights. we won't mention it to them for a day or two--we'll fix it up with the official board first. and we must surely get it over by sunday. poor old father--and how he loves--" fairy indulged in a clever and especially artistic bit of weeping. then she regained control of her feelings by an audible effort. "but it has its good points, prue. haven't you noticed how sweet and sunny and dear the twins have been lately? it was science and health working in them. oh, prudence dear, don't cry so." prudence caught her cue again and began weeping afresh. they soothed and caressed and comforted each other for a while, and then went down-stairs to finish getting supper. in the meantime, the shocked and horrified twins in the closet of their own room, were clutching each other with passionate intensity. little nervous chills set them aquiver, their hands were cold, their faces throbbing hot. when their sisters had gone down-stairs, they stared at each other in agony. "they--they wo-won't p-p-put us out of the ch-ch-church," gasped carol. "they will," stammered lark. "you know what prudence is! she'd put the whole church out if she thought it would do us any good." "pa-p-pa'll--papa'll--" began carol, her teeth chattering. "they'll do it before he gets back." then with sudden reproach she cried, "oh, carol, i told you it was wicked to joke about religion." this unexpected reproach on the part of her twin brought carol back to earth. "christian science isn't religion," she declared. "it's not even good sense, as far's i can make out. i didn't read a word of it, did you?--i--i just thought it would be such a good joke on prudence--with father out of town." the good joke was anything but funny now. "they can't make us be scientists if we don't want to," protested lark. "they can't. why, i wouldn't be anything but a methodist for anything on earth. i'd die first." "you can't die if you're a scientist--anyhow, you oughtn't to. millie mains told me--" "it's a punishment on us for even looking at the book--good methodists like we are. i'll burn it. that's what i'll do." "you'll have to pay for it at the library if you do," cautioned frugal carol. "well, we'll just go and tell prudence it was a joke,--prudence is always reasonable. she won't--" "she'll punish us, and--it'll be such a joke on us, larkie. even connie'll laugh." they squirmed together, wretchedly, at that. "we'll tell them we have decided it is false." "they said we'd probably do that for their sakes." "it--it was a good joke while it lasted," said carol, with a very faint shadow of a smile. "don't you remember how prudence gasped? she kept her mouth open for five minutes!" "it's still a joke," added lark gloomily, "but it's on us." "they can't put us out of the church!" "i don't know. you know we methodists are pretty set! like as not they'll say we'd be a bad influence among the members." "twins!" the call outside their door sounded like the trump of doom to the conscience-smitten twins, and they clutched each other, startled, crying out. then, sheepishly, they stepped out of the closet to find fairy regarding them quizzically from the doorway. she repressed a smile with difficulty, as she said quietly: "i was just talking to mrs. mains over the phone. she's going to a christian science lecture to-night, and she said she wished i wasn't a minister's daughter and she'd ask me to go along. i told her i didn't care to, but said you twins would enjoy it. she'll be here in the car for you at seven forty-five." "i won't go," cried carol. "i won't go near their old church." "you won't go." fairy was astonished. "why--i told her you would be glad to go." "i won't," repeated carol, with nervous passion. "i will not. you can't make me." lark shook her head in corroborative denial. "well, that's queer." fairy frowned, then she smiled. suddenly, to the tempest-tossed and troubled twins, the tall splendid fairy seemed a haven of refuge. her eyes were very kind. her smile was sweet. and with a cry of relief, and shame, and fear, the twins plunged upon her and told their little tale. "you punish us this time, fairy," begged carol. "we--we don't want the rest of the family to know. we'll take any kind of punishment, but keep it dark, won't you? prudence will soon forget, she's so awfully full of jerry these days." "i'll talk it over with prudence," said fairy. "but--i think we'll have to tell the family." lark moved her feet restlessly. "well, you needn't tell connie," she said. "having the laugh come back on us is the very meanest kind of a punishment." fairy looked at them a moment, wondering if, indeed, their punishment had been sufficient. "well, little twins," she said, "i guess i will take charge of this myself. here is your punishment." she stood up again, and looked down at them with sparkling eyes as they gazed at her expectantly. "we caught on that it was a joke. we knew you were listening in the closet. and prudence and i acted our little parts to give you one good scare. who's the laugh on now? are we square? supper's ready." and fairy ran down-stairs, laughing, followed by two entirely abashed and humbled twins. chapter iii a gift from heaven the first of april in the mount mark parsonage was a time of trial and tribulation, frequently to the extent of weeping and gnashing of teeth. the twins were no respecters of persons, and feeling that the first of april rendered all things justifiable to all men, they made life as burdensome to their father as to connie, and fairy and prudence lived in a state of perpetual anguish until the twins fell asleep at night well satisfied but worn out with the day's activities. the twins were bordering closely to the first stage of grown-up womanhood, but on the first of april they swore they would always be young! the tricks were more dignified, more carefully planned and scientifically executed than in the days of their rollicking girlhood,--but they were all the more heart-breaking on that account. the week before the first was spent by connie in a vain effort to ferret out their plans in order that fore-knowledge might suggest a sufficient safe-guard. the twins, however, were too clever to permit this, and their bloody schemes were wrapped in mystery and buried in secrecy. on the thirty-first of march, connie labored like a plumber would if working by the job. she painstakingly hid from sight all her cherished possessions. the twins were in the barn, presumably deep in plots. aunt grace was at the ladies' aid. so when fairy came in, about four in the afternoon, there was only prudence to note the vengeful glitter in her fine clear eyes. and prudence was so intent upon feather-stitching the hems of pink-checked dish towels, that she did not observe it. "where's papa?" fairy asked. "up-stairs." "where are the twins?" "in the barn, getting ready for the day." fairy smiled delightfully and skipped eagerly up the stairs. she was closeted with her father for some time, and came out of his room at last with a small coin carefully concealed in the corner of her handkerchief. she did not remove her hat, but set briskly out toward town again. prudence, startled out of her feather-stitching, followed her to the door. "why, fairy," she called. "are you going out again?" fairy threw out her hands. "so it seems. an errand for papa." she lifted her brows and pursed up her lips, and the wicked joy in her face pierced the mantle of prudence's absorption again. "what's up?" she questioned curiously, following her sister down the steps. fairy looked about hurriedly, and then whispered a few words of explanation. prudence's look changed to one of unnaturally spiteful glee. "good! fine! serves 'em right! you'd better hurry." "tell aunt grace, will you? but don't let connie in until morning. she'd give it away." at supper-time fairy returned, and the twins, their eyes bright with the unholy light of mischief, never looked at her. they sometimes looked heavenward with a sublime contentment that drove connie nearly frantic. occasionally they uttered cryptic words about the morrow,--and the older members of the family smiled pleasantly, but connie shuddered. she remembered so many april fool's days. the family usually clung together on occasions of this kind, feeling there was safety and sympathy in numbers--as so many cowards have felt for lo, these many years. and thus it happened that they were all in the dining-room when their father appeared at the door. he had his hands behind him suggestively. "twins," he said, without preamble, "what do you want more than anything else?" "silk stockings," was the prompt and unanimous answer. he laughed. "good guess, wasn't it?" and tossed into their eager hands two slender boxes, nicely wrapped. the others gathered about them with smiling eyes as the twins tremulously tore off the wrappings. "a. phoole's pure silk thread hose,--guaranteed!" this they read from the box--neat golden lettering. it was enough for the twins. with cries of perfect bliss they flung themselves upon their father, kissing him rapturously wherever their lips might touch. "oh, papa!" "oh, you darling!" and then, when they had some sort of control of their joy, lark said solemnly, "papa, it is a gift from heaven!" "of course, we give you the credit, papa," carol amended quickly, "but the thought was heaven-prompted." fairy choked suddenly, and her fit of coughing interfered with the twins' gratitude to an all-suggesting providence! carol twisted her box nervously. "you know, papa, it may seem very childish, and--silly to you, but--actually--we have--well, prayed for silk stockings. we didn't honestly expect to get them, though--not until we saved up money enough to get them ourselves. heaven is kinder to us than we--" "you can't understand such things, papa," said lark. "maybe you don't know exactly how--how they feel. when we go to betty hill's we wear her silk stockings and lie on the bed--and--she won't let us walk in them, for fear we may wear holes. every girl in our class has at least one pair,--betty has three, but one pair's holey, and--we felt so awfully poor!" the smiles on the family faces were rather stereotyped by this time, but the exulting twins did not notice. lark looked at carol fondly. carol sighed at lark blissfully. then, with one accord, they lifted the covers from the boxes and drew out the shimmering hose. yes,--shimmering--but--they shook them out for inspection! their faces paled a little. "they--they are very--" began carol courageously. then she stopped. the hose were a fine tissue-paper imitation of silk stockings! the "april fool, little twins," on the toes was not necessary for their enlightenment. they looked at their father with sad but unresentful reproach in their swiftly shadowed eyes. "it--it's a good joke," stammered carol, moistening her dry lips with her tongue. "it's--one on us," blurted lark promptly. "ha, ha, ha," laughed carol, slowly, dryly, very dully. "yes--ha, ha, ha," echoed lark, placing the bitter fruit carefully back in its box. her fingers actually trembled. "it's a--swell joke, all right," carol said, "we see that well enough,--we're not stupid, you know. but we did want some silk stockings so--awfully bad. but it's funny, ha, ha, ha!" "a gift from heaven!" muttered lark, with clenched teeth. "well, you got us that time." "come on, lark, we must put them sacredly away--silk stockings, you know, are mighty scarce in a parsonage,--" "yes, ha, ha, ha," and the crushed and broken twins left the room, with dignity in spite of the blow. the family did not enjoy the joke on the twins. mr. starr looked at the others with all a man's confused incomprehension of a woman's notions! he spread out his hands--an orthodox, ministerial gesture! "now, will some one kindly tell me what there is in silk stockings, to--" he shook his head helplessly. "silk stockings! a gift from heaven!" he smiled, unmerrily. "the poor little kids!" then he left the room. aunt grace openly wiped her eyes, smiling at herself as she did so. fairy opened and closed her lips several times. then she spoke. "say, prue, knock me down and sit on me, will you? whatever made me think of such a stupid trick as that?" "why, bless their little hearts," whispered prudence, sniffing. "didn't they look sorry? but they were so determined to be game." "prudence, give me my eight cents," demanded connie. "i want it right away." "what do you want it for?" "i'm going down to morrow's and get some candy. i never saw a meaner trick in my life! i'm surprised at papa. the twins only play jokes for fun." and connie stalked grimly out of the parsonage and off toward town. a more abashed and downcast pair of twins probably never lived. they sat thoughtfully in their room, "a. phoole's silk thread hose" carefully hidden from their hurt eyes. "it was a good joke," lark said, now and then. "yes, very," assented carol. "but silk stockings, larkie!" and lark squirmed wretchedly. "a gift from heaven," she mourned. "how they must be laughing!" but they did not laugh. connie came back and shared her candy. they thanked her courteously and invited her to sit down. then they all ate candy and grieved together silently. they did not speak of the morning's disaster, but the twins understood and appreciated the tender sympathy of her attitude, and although they said nothing, they looked at her very kindly and connie was well content. the morning passed drearily. the twins had lost all relish for their well-planned tricks, and the others, down-stairs, found the usually wild and hilarious day almost unbearably poky. prudence's voice was gentle as she called them down to dinner, and the twins, determined not to show the white feather, went down at once and took their places. they bore their trouble bravely, but their eyes had the surprised and stricken look, and their faces were nearly old. mr. starr cut the blessing short, and the dinner was eaten in silence. the twins tried to start the conversation. they talked of the weather with passionate devotion. they discussed their studies with an almost unbelievable enthusiasm. they even referred, with stiff smiles, to "papa's good joke," and then laughed their dreary "ha, ha, ha," until their father wanted to fall upon his knees and beg forgiveness. connie, still solicitous, helped them wash the dishes. the others disappeared. fairy got her hat and went out without a word. their father followed scarcely a block behind her. aunt grace sought all over the house for prudence, and finally found her in the attic, comforting herself with a view of the lovely linens which filled her hope box. "i'm going for a walk," announced aunt grace briefly. "all right," assented prudence. "if i'm not here when you get back, don't worry. i'm going for a walk myself." their work done irreproachably, the twins and connie went to the haymow and lay on the hay, still silent. the twins, buoyant though they were, could not so quickly recover from a shock like this. so intent were they upon the shadows among the cobwebs that they heard no sound from below until their father's head appeared at the top of the ladder. "come up," they invited hospitably but seriously. he did so at once, and stood before them, his face rather flushed, his manner a little constrained, but looking rather satisfied with himself on the whole. "twins," he said, "i didn't know you were so crazy about silk stockings. we just thought it would be a good joke--but it was a little too good. it was a boomerang. i don't know when i've felt so contemptible. so i went down and got you some real silk stockings--a dollar and a half a pair,--and i'm glad to clear my conscience so easily." the twins blushed. "it--it was a good joke, papa," carol assured him shyly. "it was a dandy. but--all the girls at school have silk stockings for best, and--we've been wanting them--forever. and--honestly, father, i don't know when i've had such a--such a spell of indigestion as when i saw those stockings were april fool." "indigestion," scoffed connie, restored to normal by her father's handsome amends. "yes, indigestion," declared lark. "you know, papa, that funny, hollow, hungry feeling--when you get a shock. that's nervous indigestion,--we read it in a medicine ad. they've got pills for it. but it was a good joke. we saw that right at the start." "and we didn't expect anything like this. it--is very generous of you, papa. very!" but he noticed that they made no move to unwrap the box. it still lay between them on the hay, where he had tossed it. evidently their confidence in him had been severely shattered. he sat down and unwrapped it himself. "they are guaranteed," he explained, passing out the little pink slips gravely, "so when they wear holes you get another pair for nothing." the twins' faces had brightened wonderfully. "i will never play that kind of a trick again, twins, so you needn't be suspicious of me. and say! whenever you want anything so badly it makes you feel like that, come and talk it over. we'll manage some way. of course, we're always a little hard up, but we can generally scrape up something extra from somewhere. and we will. you mustn't--feel like that--about things. just tell me about it. girls are so--kind of funny, you know." the twins and connie rushed to the house to try the "feel" of the first, adored silk stockings. they donned them, admired them, petted connie, idolized their father, and then removing them, tied them carefully in clean white tissue-paper and deposited them in the safest corner of the bottom drawer of their dresser. then they lay back on the bed, thinking happily of the next class party! silk stockings! ah! "can't you just imagine how we'll look in our new white dresses, lark, and our patent leather pumps,--with silk stockings! i really feel there is nothing sets off a good complexion as well as real silk stockings!" they were interrupted in this delightful occupation by the entrance of fairy. the twins had quickly realized that the suggestion for their humiliating had come from her, and their hearts were sore, but being good losers--at least, as good losers as real live folks can be--they wouldn't have admitted it for the world. "come on in, fairy," said lark cordially. "aren't we lazy to-day?" "twins," said fairy, self-conscious for the first time in the twins' knowledge of her, "i suppose you know it was i who suggested that idiotic little stocking stunt. it was awfully hateful of me, and so i bought you some real silk stockings with my own spending money, and here they are, and you needn't thank me for i never could be fond of myself again until i squared things with you." the twins had to admit that it was really splendid of fairy, and they thanked her with unfeigned zeal. "but papa already got us a pair, and so you can take these back and get your money again. it was just as sweet of you, fairy, and we thank you, and it was perfectly dear and darling, but we have papa's now, and--" "good for papa!" fairy cried, and burst out laughing at the joke that proved so expensive for the perpetrators. "but you shall have my burnt offering, too. it serves us both right, but especially me, for it was my idea." and fairy walked away feeling very gratified and generous. only girls who have wanted silk stockings for a "whole lifetime" can realize the blissful state of the parsonage twins. they lay on the bed planning the most impossible but magnificent things they would do to show their gratitude, and when aunt grace stopped at their door they leaped up to overwhelm her with caresses just because of their gladness. she waved them away with a laugh. "april fool, twins," she said, with a voice so soft that it took all the sting from the words. "i brought you some real silk stockings for a change." and she tossed them a package and started out of the room to escape their thanks. but she stopped in surprise when the girls burst into merry laughter. "oh, you silk stockings!" carol cried. "three pairs! you darling sweet old auntie! you would come up here to tease us, would you? but papa gave us a pair, and fairy gave us a pair, and--" "they did! why, the silly things!" and the gentle woman looked as seriously vexed as she ever did look--she had so wanted to give them the first silk-stocking experience herself. "oh, here you are," cried prudence, stepping quickly in, and speaking very brightly to counterbalance the gloom she had expected to encounter. she started back in some dismay when she saw the twins rolling and rocking with laughter, and aunt grace leaning against the dresser for support, with connie on the floor, quite speechless. "good for you, twins,--that's the way to take hard knocks," she said. "it wasn't a very nice trick, though of course papa didn't understand how you felt about silk stockings. it wasn't his fault. but fairy and i ought to be ashamed, and we are. i went out and got you some real genuine silk ones myself, so you needn't pray for them any more." prudence was shocked, a little hurt, at the outburst that followed her words. "well, such a family!" aunt grace exclaimed. and then carol pulled her bodily down beside her on the bed and for a time they were all incapable of explanations. "what is the joke?" prudence asked, again and again, smiling,--but still feeling a little pique. she had counted on gladdening their sorry little hearts! "stockings, stockings--oh, such a family!" shrieked carol. "there's no playing jokes on the twins," said aunt grace weakly. "it takes the whole family to square up. it's too expensive." then lark explained, and prudence sat down and joined the merriment, which waxed so noisy that mr. starr from the library and fairy from the kitchen, ran in to investigate. "april fool, april fool," cried carol, "we never played a trick like this, larkie--this is our masterpiece." "you're the nicest old things that ever lived," said lark, still laughing, but with great warmth and tenderness in her eyes and her voice. "but you can take the stockings back and save your money if you like--we love you just as much." but this the happy donors stoutly refused to do. the twins had earned this wealth of hose, and finally, wiping their eyes, the twins began to smooth their hair and adjust their ribbons and belts. "what's the matter?" "where are you going?" "will you buy the rest of us some silk stockings?" queried the family, comic-opera effect. "where are we going?" carol repeated, surprised, seeming to feel that any one should know where they were going, though they had not spoken. "we're going to call on our friends, of course," explained lark. "of course," said carol, jabbing her hair pins in with startling energy. "and we've got to hurry. we must go to mattie's, and jean's, and betty's, and fan's, and birdie's, and alice's, and--say, lark, maybe we'd better divide up and each take half. it's kind of late,--and we mustn't miss any." "well, what on earth!" gasped prudence, while the others stared in speechless amazement. "for goodness' sake, carol, hurry. we have to get clear out to minnie's to-night, if we miss our supper." "but what's the idea? what for? what are you talking about?" "why, you silly thing," said carol patiently, "we have to go and tell our friends that we've got four pairs of silk stockings, of course. i wouldn't miss this afternoon for the world. and we'll go the rounds together, lark. i want to see how they take it," she smiled at them benignly. "i can imagine their excitement. and we owe it to the world to give it all the excitement we can. prudence says so." prudence looked startled. "did i say that?" "certainly. you said pleasure--but excitement's very pleasing, most of the time. come on, larkie, we'll have to walk fast." and with a fond good-by to the generous family, the twins set out to spread the joyful tidings, lark pausing at the door just long enough to explain gravely, "of course, we won't tell them--er--just how it happened, you know. lots of things in a parsonage need to be kept dark. prudence says so herself." chapter iv how carol spoiled the wedding a day in june,--the kind of day that poets have rhymed and lovers have craved since time began. on the side porch of the parsonage, in a wide hammock, lay aunt grace, looking languidly through half-closed lids at the girls beneath her on the step. prudence, although her face was all a-dream, bent conscientiously over the bit of linen in her hands. and fairy, her piquantly bright features clouded with an unwonted frown, crumpled a letter in her hand. "i do think men are the most aggravating things that ever lived," she declared, with annoyance in her voice. the woman in the hammock smiled slightly, and did not speak. prudence carefully counted ten threads, and solemnly drew one before she voiced her question. "what is he saying now?" "why, he's still objecting to my having dates with the other boys." fairy's voice was vibrant with grief. "he does make me wild! aunt grace, you can't imagine. last fall i mentioned casually that i was sure he wouldn't object to my having lecture course dates--i was too hard up to buy a ticket for myself; they cost four dollars, and aren't worth it, either. and what did he do but send me eight dollars to buy two sets of tickets! then this spring, when the baseball season opened, he sent me season tickets to all the games suggesting that my financial stringency could not be pleaded as an excuse. ever since he went to chicago last fall we've been fighting because the boys bring me home from parties. i suppose he had to go and learn to be a pharmacist, but--it's hard on me. he wants me to patter along by myself like a--like--like a hen!" fairy said "hen" very crossly! "it's a shame," said prudence sympathetically. "that's just what it is. you wouldn't say a word to his taking girls home from things, would you?" "hum,--that's a different matter," said fairy more thoughtfully. "he hasn't wanted to yet. you see, he's a man and can go by himself without having it look as though nobody wanted to be seen with him. and he's a stranger over there, and doesn't need to get chummy with the girls. the boys here all know me, and ask me to go, and--a man, you see, can just be passive and nothing happens. but a girl's got to be downright negative, and it's no joke. one misses so many good times. you see the cases are different, prue." "yes, that's so," prudence assented absent-mindedly, counting off ten more threads. "then you would object if he had dates?" queried aunt grace smilingly. "oh, no, not at all,--if there was any occasion for it--but there isn't. and i think i would be justified in objecting if he deliberately made occasions for himself, don't you?" "yes, that would be different," prudence chimed in, such "miles away" in her voice, that fairy turned on her indignantly. "prudence starr, you make me wild," she said. "can't you drop that everlasting hemstitching, embroidering, tatting, crocheting, for ten minutes to talk to me? what in the world are you going to do with it all, anyhow? are you intending to carpet your floors with it?" "this is a napkin," prudence explained good-naturedly. "the set cost me fifteen dollars." she sighed. "did the veil come?" the clouds vanished magically from fairy's face, and she leaned forward with that joy of wedding anticipation that rules in woman-world. "yes, it's beautiful. come and see it. wait until i pull four more threads. it's gorgeous." "i still think you're making a great mistake," declared fairy earnestly. "i don't believe in big showy church weddings. you'd better change it yet. a little home affair with just the family,--that's the way to do it. all this satin-gown, orange-blossom elaboration with curious eyes staring up and down--ugh! it's all wrong." prudence dropped the precious fifteen-dollar-a-set napkin in her lap and gazed at fairy anxiously. "i know you think so, fairy," she said. "you've told me so several times." fairy's eyes twinkled, but prudence had no intention of sarcasm. "but i can't help it, can i? we had quite settled on the home wedding, but when the twins discovered that the members felt hurt at being left out, father thought we'd better change over." "well, i can't see that the members have any right to run our wedding. besides, it wouldn't surprise me if the twins made it up because they wanted a big fuss." "but some of the members spoke to father." "oh, just common members that don't count for much--and it was mighty poor manners of 'em, too, if you'll excuse me for saying so." "and you must admit, fairy, that it is lovely of the ladies' aid to give that dinner at the hotel for us." "well, they'll get their money's worth of talk out of it afterward. it's a big mistake.--what on earth are the twins doing out there? is that jim forrest with them? listen how they are screaming with laughter! would you ever believe those twins are past fifteen, and nearly through their junior year? they haven't as much sense put together as connie has all alone." "come and see the veil," said prudence, rising. but she dropped back on the step again as carol came rushing toward them at full speed, with lark and a tall young fellow trailing slowly, laughing, behind her. "the mean things!" she gasped. "they cheated!" she dropped a handful of pennies in her aunt's lap as she lay in the hammock. "we'll take 'em to sunday-school and give 'em to the heathen, that's what we'll do. they cheated!" "yes, infant, who cheated, and how, and why? and whence the startling array of pennies? and why this unwonted affection for the heathen?" mocked fairy. "trying to be a blank verse, fairy? keep it up, you haven't far to go!--there they are! look at them, aunt grace. they cheated. they tried to get all my hard-earned pennies by nefarious methods, and--" "and so carol stole them all, and ran! sit down, jim. my, it's hot. give me back my pennies, carol." "the heathen! the heathen!" insisted carol. "not a penny do you get. you see, aunt grace, we were matching pennies,--you'd better not mention it to father. we've turned over a new leaf now, and quit for good. but we were matching--and they made a bargain that whenever it was my turn, one of them would throw heads and one tails, and that way i never could win anything. and i didn't catch on until i saw jim wink, and so of course i thought it was only right to give the pennies to the heathen." "mercy, prudence," interrupted lark. "are you doing another napkin? this is the sixteenth dozen, isn't it? you'd better donate some of them to the parsonage, i think. i was so ashamed when miss marsden came to dinner. she opened her napkin out wide, and her finger went right through a hole. i was mortified to death--and carol laughed. it seems to me with three grown women in the house we could have holeless napkins, one for company, anyhow." "how is your mother, jim?" "just fine, miss prudence, thank you. she said to tell you she would send a basket of red junes to-morrow, if you want them. the twins can eat them, i know. carol ate twenty-two when they were out saturday." "yes, i did, and i'm glad of it," said carol stoutly. "such apples you never saw, prudence. they're about as big as a thimble, and two-thirds core. they're good, they're fine, i'll say that,--but there's nothing to them. i could have eaten as many again if jim hadn't been counting out loud, and i got kind of ashamed because every one was laughing. if i had a ranch as big as yours, jim, i'll bet you a dollar i'd have apples bigger than a dime!" "'bet you a dollar,'" quoted fairy. "well, i'll wager my soul, if that sounds more like shakespeare. don't go, jim, we're not fighting. this is just the way fairy and i make love to each other. you're perfectly welcome to stay, but be careful of your grammar, for now that fairy's a senior--will be next year, if she lives--she even tries to teach father the approved method of doing a ministerial sneeze in the pulpit." "think i'd better go," decided the tall good-looking youth, laughing as he looked with frank boyish admiration into carol's sparkling face. "with fairy after my grammar, and you to criticize my manner and my morals, i see right now that a parsonage is no safe place for a farmer's son." and laughing again, he thrust his cap into his pocket, and walked quickly out the new cement parsonage walk. but at the gate he paused to call back, "don't make a mistake, carol, and use the heathen's pennies for candy." the girls on the porch laughed, and five pairs of eyes gazed after the tall figure rapidly disappearing. "he's nice," said prudence. "yes," assented carol. "i've got a notion to marry him after a little. that farm of his is worth about ten thousand." "are you going to wait until he asks you?" "certainly not! anybody can marry a man after he asks her. the thing to do, if you want to be really original and interesting, is to marry him before he asks you and surprise him." "yes," agreed lark, "if you wait until he asks you he's likely to think it over once too often and not ask you at all." "doesn't that sound exactly like a book, now?" demanded carol proudly. "fairy couldn't have said that!" "no," said fairy, "i couldn't. thank goodness!--i have what is commonly known as brains. look it up in the dictionary, twins. it's something you ought to know about." "oh, prudence," cried lark dramatically, "i forgot to tell you. you can't get married after all." for ten seconds prudence, as well as fairy and their aunt, stared in speechless amazement. then prudence smiled. "oh, can't i? what's the joke now?" "joke! it's no joke. carol's sick, that's what's the joke. you can't be married without carol, can you?" a burst of gay laughter greeted this announcement. "carol sick! she acts sick!" "she looks sick!" "where is she sick?" carol leaned limply back against the pillar, trying to compose her bright face into a semblance of illness. "in my tummy," she announced weakly. this called forth more laughter. "it's her conscience," said fairy. "it's matching pennies. maybe she swallowed one." "it's probably those two pieces of pie she ate for dinner, and the one that vanished from the pantry shortly after," suggested aunt grace. carol sat up quickly. "welcome home, aunt grace!" she cried. "did you have a pleasant visit?" "carol," reproved prudence. "i didn't mean it for impudence, auntie," said carol, getting up and bending affectionately over the hammock, gently caressing the brown hair just beginning to silver about her forehead. "but it does amuse me so to hear a lady of your age and dignity indulge in such lavish conversational exercises." lark swallowed with a forced effort. "did it hurt, carol? how did you get it all out in one breath?" "lark, i do wish you wouldn't gulp that way when folks use big words," said fairy. "it looks--awful." "well, i won't when i get to be as old and crabbed as--father," said lark. "sit down, carol, and remember you're sick." carol obediently sat down, and looked sicker than ever. "you can laugh if you like," she said, "i am sick, at least, i was this afternoon. i've been feeling very queer for three or four days. i don't think i'm quite over it yet." "pie! you were right, aunt grace! that's the way pie works." "it's not pie at all," declared carol heatedly. "and i didn't take that piece out of the pantry, at least, not exactly. i caught connie sneaking it, and i gave her a good calling down, and she hung her head and slunk away in disgrace. but she had taken such big bites that it looked sort of unsanitary, so i thought i'd better finish it before it gathered any germs. but it's not pie. now that i think of it, it was my head where i was sick. don't you remember, lark, i said my head ached?" "yes, and her eyes got red and bleary when she was reading. and--and there was something else, too, carol, what--" "your eyes are bloodshot, carol. they do look bad." prudence examined them closely. "now, carol starr, don't you touch another book or magazine until after the wedding. if you think i want a bloodshot bridesmaid, you're mistaken." they all turned to look across the yard at connie, just turning in. connie always walked, as carol said, "as if she mostly wasn't there." but she usually "arrived" by the time she got within speaking distance of her sister. "goodness, prue, aren't you going to do anything but eat after you move to des moines? carol and i were counting the napkins last night,--was it a hundred and seventy-six, carol, or--some awful number i know. carol piled them up in two piles and we kneeled on them to say our prayers, and--i can't say for sure, but i think carol pushed me. anyhow, i lost my balance, and usually i'm pretty well balanced. i toppled over right after 'god save,' and carol screamed 'the napkins'--prue's wedding napkins! it was an awful funny effect; i couldn't finish my prayers." "carol starr! fifteen years old and--" "that's a very much exaggerated story, prue. connie blamed it on me as usual. she piled them up herself to see if there were two feet of them,--she put her stockings on the floor first so the dust wouldn't rub off. it was lark's turn to sweep and you know how lark sweeps, and connie was very careful, indeed, and--" "come on, fairy, and see the veil!" "the veil! did it come?" with a joyous undignified whoop the parsonage girls scrambled to their feet and rushed indoors in a fine kilkenny jumble. aunt grace looked after them, thoughtfully, smiling for a second, and then with a girlish shrug of her slender shoulders she slipped out and followed them inside. the last thing that night, before she said her prayers, prudence carried a big bottle of witch hazel into the twins' room. both were sleeping, but she roused carol, and lark turned over to listen. "you must bathe your eyes with this, carol. i forgot to tell you. what would jerry say if he had a bleary-eyed bridesmaid!" and although the twins grumbled and mumbled about the idiotic nonsense of getting-married folks, carol obediently bathed the bloodshot eyes. for in their heart of hearts, every one of the parsonage girls held this wedding to be the affair of prime importance, national and international, as well as just plain methodist. the twins were undeniably lazy, and slept as late of mornings as the parsonage law allowed. so it was that when lark skipped into the dining-room, three minutes late for breakfast, she found the whole family, with the exception of carol, well in the midst of their meal. "she was sick," she began quickly, then interrupting herself,--"oh, good morning! beg pardon for forgetting my manners. but carol was sick, prudence, and i hope you and fairy are ashamed of yourselves--and auntie, too--for making fun of her. she couldn't sleep all night, and rolled and tossed, and her head hurt and she talked in her sleep, and--" "i thought she didn't sleep." "well, she didn't sleep much, but when she did she mumbled and said things and--" then the dining-room door opened again, and carol--her hair about her shoulders, her feet bare, enveloped in a soft and clinging kimono of faded blue--stalked majestically into the room. there was woe in her eyes, and her voice was tragic. "it is gone," she said. "it is gone!" her appearance was uncanny to say the least, and the family gazed at her with some concern, despite the fact that carol's vagaries were so common as usually to elicit small respect. "gone!" she cried, striking her palms together. "gone!" "if you do anything to spoil that wedding, papa'll whip you, if you are fifteen years old," said fairy. lark sprang to her sister's side. "what's gone, carrie?" she pleaded with sympathy, almost with tears. "what's gone? are you out of your head?" "no! out of my complexion," was the dramatic answer. even lark fell back, for the moment, stunned. "y-your complexion," she faltered. "look! look at me, lark. don't you see? my complexion is gone--my beautiful complexion that i loved. look at me! oh, i would gladly have sacrificed a leg, or an arm, a--rib or an eye, but not my dear complexion!" sure enough, now that they looked carefully, they could indeed perceive that the usual soft creaminess of carol's skin was prickled and sparred with ugly red splotches. her eyes were watery, shot with blood. for a time they gazed in silence, then they burst into laughter. "pie!" cried fairy. "it's raspberry pie, coming out, carol!" the corners of carol's lips twitched slightly, and it was with difficulty that she maintained her wounded regal bearing. but lark, always quick to resent an indignity to this twin of her heart, turned upon them angrily. "fairy starr! you are a wicked unfeeling thing! you sit there and laugh and talk about pie when carol is sick and suffering--her lovely complexion all ruined, and it was the joy of my life, that complexion was. papa,--why don't you do something?" but he only laughed harder than ever. "if there's anything more preposterous than carol's vanity because of her beauty, it's lark's vanity for her," he said. aunt grace drew carol to her side, and examined the ruined complexion closely. then she smiled, but there was regret in her eyes. "well, carol, you've spoiled your part of the wedding sure enough. you've got the measles." then came the silence of utter horror. "not the measles," begged carol, wounded afresh. "give me diphtheria, or smallpox, or--or even leprosy, and i'll bear it bravely and with a smile, but it shall not be said that carol's measles spoiled the wedding." "oh, carol," wailed prudence, "don't have the measles,--please don't. i've waited all my life for this wedding,--don't spoil it." "well, it's your own fault, prue," interrupted lark. "if you hadn't kept us all cooped up when we were little we'd have had measles long ago. now, like as not the whole family'll have 'em, and serve you right. no self-respecting family has any business to grow up without having the measles." "what shall we do now?" queried constance practically. "well, i always said it was a mistake," said fairy. "a big wedding--" "oh, fairy, please don't tell me that again. i know it so well. papa, whatever shall we do? maybe jerry hasn't had them either." "why, it's easily arranged," said lark. "we'll just postpone the wedding until carol's quite well again." "bad luck," said connie. "too much work," said fairy. "well, she can't get married without carol, can she?" ejaculated lark. "are you sure it's measles, aunt grace?" "yes, it's measles." "then," said fairy, "we'll get alice bird or katie free to bridesmaid with lark. they are the same size and either will do all right. she can wear carol's dress. you won't mind that, will you, carol?" "no," said carol moodily, "of course i won't. the only real embroidery dress i ever had in my life--and haven't got that yet! but go ahead and get anybody you like. i'm hoodooed, that's what it is. it's a punishment because you and jim cheated yesterday, lark." "what did you do?" asked connie. "you seem to be getting the punishment!" "shall we have alice or katie? which do you prefer, lark?" "you'll have to get them both," was the stoic answer. "i won't bridesmaid without carol." "don't be silly, lark. you'll have to." "then wait for carol." "papa, you must make her." "no," said prudence slowly, with a white face. "we'll postpone it. i won't get married without the whole family." "i said right from the start--" "oh, yes, fairy, we know what you said," interjected carol. "we know how you'll get married. first man that gets moonshine enough into his head to propose to you, you'll trot him post haste to the justice before he thinks twice." in the end, the wedding was postponed a couple of months,--for both connie and fairy took the measles. but when at last, the wedding party, marshalled by connie with a huge white basket of flowers, trailed down the time-honored aisle of the methodist church, it was without one dissenting voice pronounced the crowning achievement of mr. starr's whole pastorate. "i was proud of us, lark," carol told her twin, after it was over, and prudence had gone, and the girls had wept themselves weak on each other's shoulders. "we get so in the habit of doing things wrong that i half expected myself to pipe up ahead of father with the ceremony. it seems--awful--without prudence,--but it's a satisfaction to know that she was the best married bride mount mark has ever seen." "jerry looked awfully handsome, didn't he? did you notice how he glowed at prudence? i wish you were artistic, carol, so you could illustrate my books. jerry'd make a fine illustration." "we looked nice, too. we're not a bad-looking bunch when you come right down to facts. of course, it is fine to be as smart as you are, larkie, but i'm not jealous. we're mighty lucky to have both beauty and brains in our twin-ship,--and since one can't have both, i may say i'd just as lief be pretty. it's so much easier." "carol!" "what?" "we're nearly grown up now. we'll have to begin to settle down. prudence says so." for a few seconds carol wavered, tremulous. then she said pluckily, "all right. just wait till i powder my nose, will you? it gets so shiny when i cry." "carol!" "what?" "isn't the house still?" "yes--ghastly." "i never thought prudence was much of a chatter-box, but--listen! there isn't a sound." carol held out a hand, and lark clutched it desperately. "let's--let's go find the folks. this is--awful! little old prudence is gone!" chapter v the serenade a subject that never failed to arouse the sarcasm and the ire of fairy was that of the slaughter-house quartette. this was composed of four young men--men quite outside the pale as far as the parsonage was concerned--the disreputable characters of the community, familiar in the local jail for frequent bursts of intoxication. they slouched, they smoked, they lounged, they leered. the churches knew them not. they were the slum element, the bowery of mount mark, iowa. prudence, in her day, had passed them by with a shy slight nod and a glance of tender pity. fairy and lark, and even connie, sailed by with high heads and scornful eyes,--haughty, proud, icily removed. but carol, by some weird and inexplicable fancy, treated them with sweet and gracious solicitude, quite friendly. her smile as she passed was as sweet as for her dearest friend. her "good morning,--isn't this glorious weather?" was as affably cordial as her, "breakfast is ready, papa!" this was the one subject of dispute between the twins. "oh, please don't, carol, it does make me so ashamed," lark entreated. "you mustn't be narrow-minded, larkie," carol argued. "we're minister's girls, and we've got to be a good influence,--an encouragement to the--er, weak and erring, you know. maybe my smiles will be an inspiration to them." and on this point carol stood firm even against the tears of her precious twin. one evening at the dinner table fairy said, with a mocking smile, "how are your slaughter-house friends to-day, carol? when i was at the dentist's i saw you coming along, beaming at them in your own inimitable way." "oh, they seemed all right," carol answered, with a deprecating glance toward her father and her aunt. "i see by last night's paper that guy fleisher is just out after his last thirty days up," fairy continued solicitously. "did he find his incarceration trying?" "i didn't discuss it with him," carol said indignantly. "i never talk to them. i just say 'good morning' in christian charity." aunt grace's eyes were smiling as always, but for the first time carol felt that the smiles were at, instead of with, her. "you would laugh to see her, aunt grace," fairy explained. "they are generally half intoxicated, sometimes wholly. and carol trips by, clean, white and shining. they are always lounging against the store windows or posts for support, bleary-eyed, dissipated, swaggery, staggery. carol nods and smiles as only carol can, 'good morning, boys! isn't it a lovely day? are you feeling well?' and they grin at her and sway ingratiatingly against one another, and say, 'mornin', carol.' carol is the only really decent person in town that has anything to do with them." "carol means all right," declared lark angrily. "yes, indeed," assented fairy, "they call them the slaughter-house quartette, auntie, because whenever they are sober enough to walk without police assistance, they wander through the streets slaughtering the peace and serenity of the quiet town with their rendition of all the late, disgraceful sentimental ditties. they are in many ways striking characters. i do not wholly misunderstand their attraction for romantic carol. they are something like the troubadours of old--only more so." carol's face was crimson. "i don't like them," she cried, "but i'm sorry for them. i think maybe i can make them see the difference between us, me so nice and respectable you know, and them so--animalish! it may arouse their better natures--i suppose they have better natures. i want to show them that the decent element, we christians, are sorry for them and want to make them better." "carol wants to be an influence," fairy continued. "of course, it is a little embarrassing for the rest of us to have her on such friendly terms with the most unmentionable characters in all mount mark. but carol is like so many reformers,--in the presence of one great truth she has eyes for it only, ignoring a thousand other, greater truths." "i am sorry for them," carol repeated, more weakly, abashed by the presence of the united family. fairy's dissertations on this subject had usually occurred in private. mr. starr mentally resolved that he would talk this over with carol when the others were not present, for he knew from her face and her voice that she was really sensitive on the subject. and he knew, too, that it is difficult to explain to the very young that the finest of ideas are not applicable to all cases by all people. but it happened that he was spared the necessity of dealing with carol privately, for matters adjusted themselves without his assistance. the second night following was an eventful one in the parsonage. one of the bishops of the church was in mount mark for a business conference with the religious leaders, and was to spend the night at the parsonage. the meeting was called for eight-thirty for the convenience of the business men concerned, and was to be held in the church offices. the men left early, followed shortly by fairy who designed to spend the evening at the averys' home, testing their supply of winter apples. the twins and connie, with the newest and most thrilling book mr. carnegie afforded the town, went up-stairs to lie on the bed and take turns reading aloud. and for a few hours the parsonage was as calm and peaceful as though it were not designed for the housing of merry minister's daughters. aunt grace sat down-stairs darning stockings. the girls' intentions had been the best in the world, but in less than a year the family darning had fallen entirely into the capable and willing hands of the gentle chaperon. it was half past ten. the girls had just seen their heroine rescued from a watery grave and married to her bold preserver by a minister who happened to be writing a sermon on the beach--no mention of how the license was secured extemporaneously--and with sighs of gratified sentiment they lay happily on the bed thinking it all over. and then, from beneath the peach trees clustered on the south side of the parsonage, a burst of melody arose. "good morning, carrie, how are you this morning?" the girls sat up abruptly, staring at one another, as the curious ugly song wafted in upon them. conviction dawned slowly, sadly, but unquestionably. the slaughter-house quartette was serenading carol in return for her winsome smiles! carol herself was literally struck dumb. her face grew crimson, then white. in her heart, she repeated psalms of thanksgiving that fairy was away, and that her father and the bishop would not be in until this colossal disaster was over. connie was mortified. it seemed like a wholesale parsonage insult. lark, after the first awful realization, lay back on the bed and rolled convulsively. "you're an influence all right, carol," she gurgled. "will you listen to that?" for _rufus rastus johnson brown_ was the second choice of her cavaliers below in the darkness. "rufus rastus," lark cried, and then was choked with laughter. "of course, it would be--proper if they sang hymns but--oh, listen!" the rollicking strains of _budweiser_ were swung gaily out upon the night. carol writhed in anguish. the serenade was bad enough, but this unmerciful mocking derision of her adored twin was unendurable. then the quartette waxed sentimental. they sang, and not badly, a few old southern melodies, and started slowly around the corner of the house, still singing. it has been said that aunt grace was always kind, always gentle, unsuspicious and without guile. she had heard the serenade, and promptly concluded that it was the work of some of the high-school boys who were unanimously devoted to carol. she had a big box of chocolates up-stairs, for connie's birthday celebration. she could get them, and make lemonade, and-- she opened the door softly and stepped out, directly in the path of the startled youths. full of her hospitable intent, she was not discerning as parsonage people need to be. "come in, boys," she said cordially, "the girls will be down in a minute." the appearance of a guardian angel summoning them to paradise could not have confounded them more utterly. they stumbled all over one another in trying to back away from her. she laughed softly. "don't be bashful. we enjoyed it very much. yes, come right in." undoubtedly they would have declined if only they could have thought of the proper method of doing so. as it was, they only succeeded in shambling through the parsonage door, instinctively concealing their half-smoked cigarettes beneath their fingers. aunt grace ushered them into the pleasant living-room, and ran up to summon her nieces. left alone, the boys looked at one another with amazement and with grief, and the leader, the touching tenor, said with true musical fervor, "well, this is a go!" in the meantime, the girls, with horror, had heard their aunt's invitation. what in the world did she mean? was it a trick between her and fairy? had they hired the awful slaughterers to bring this disgrace upon the parsonage? sternly they faced her when she opened their door. "come down, girls--i invited them in. i'm going to make lemonade and serve my nice chocolates. hurry down." "you invited them in!" echoed connie. "the slaughter-house quartette," hissed lark. then aunt grace whirled about and stared at them. "mercy!" she whispered, remembering for the first time fairy's words. "mercy! is it--that? i thought it was high-school boys and--mercy!" "mercy is good," said carol grimly. "you'll have to put them out," suggested connie. "i can't! how can i?--how did i know?--what on earth,--oh, carol whatever made you smile at them?" she wailed helplessly. "you know how men are when they are smiled at! the bishop--" "you'll have to get them out before the bishop comes back," said carol. "you must. and if any of you ever give this away to father or fairy i'll--" "you'd better go down a minute, girls," urged their aunt. "that will be the easiest way. i'll just pass the candy and invite them to come again and then they'll go. hurry now, and we'll get rid of them before the others come. be as decent as you can, and it'll soon be over." thus adjured, with the dignity of the bishop and the laughter of fairy ever in their thoughts, the girls arose and went down, proudly, calmly, loftily. their inborn senses of humor came to their assistance when they entered the living-room. the slaughter boys looked far more slaughtered than slaughtering. they sat limply in their chairs, nervously twitching their yellowed slimy fingers, their dull eyes intent upon the worn spots in the carpet. it was funny! even carol smiled, not the serene sweet smile that melted hearts, but the grim hard smile of the joker when the tables are turned! she flattered herself that this wretched travesty on parsonage courtesy would be ended before there were any further witnesses to her downfall from her proud fine heights, but she was doomed to disappointment. fairy, on the averys' porch, had heard the serenade. after the first shock, and after the helpless laughter that followed, she bade her friends good night. "oh, i've just got to go," she said. "it's a joke on carol. i wouldn't miss it for twenty-five bushels of apples,--even as good as these are." her eyes twinkling with delight, she ran home and waited behind the rose bushes until the moment for her appearance seemed at hand. then she stepped into the room where her outraged sisters were stoically passing precious and luscious chocolates to tobacco-saturated youths. "good evening," she said. "the averys and i enjoyed the concert, too. i do love to hear music outdoors on still nights like these. carol, maybe your friends would like a drink. are there any lemons, auntie? we might have a little lemonade." carol writhed helplessly. "i'll make it," she said, and rushed to the kitchen to vent her fury by shaking the very life out of the lemons. but she did not waste time. her father's twinkles were nearly as bad as fairy's own--and the bishop! "i'd wish it would choke 'em if it wouldn't take so long," she muttered passionately, as she hurried in with the pitcher and glasses, ready to serve the "slums" with her own chaste hands. she was just serving the melting tenor when she heard her father's voice in the hall. "too late," she said aloud, and with such despair in her voice that fairy relented and mentally promised to "see her through." mr. starr's eyes twinkled freely when he saw the guests in his home, and the gentle bishop's puzzled interest nearly sent them all off into laughter. fairy had no idea of the young men's names, but she said, quickly, to spare carol: "we have been serenaded to-night, doctor--you just missed it. these are the mount mark troubadours. you are lucky to get here in time for the lemonade." but when she saw the bishop glance concernedly from the yellow fingers to the dull eyes and the brown-streaked mouth, her gravity nearly forsook her. the slaughterers, already dashed to the ground by embarrassment, were entirely routed by the presence of the bishop. with incoherent apologies, they rose to their unsteady feet and in a cloud of breezy odors, made their escape. mr. starr laughed a little, aunt grace put her arm protectingly about carol's rigid shoulders, and the bishop said, "well, well, well," with gentle inquiry. "we call them the slaughter-house quartette," fairy began cheerfully. "they are the lower strata of mount mark, and they make the nights hideous with their choice selection of popular airs. the parsonage is divided about them. some of us think we should treat them with proud and cold disdain. some think we should regard them with a tender, gentle, er--smiling pity. and evidently they appreciated the smiles for they gave us a serenade in return for them. aunt grace did not know their history, so she invited them in, thinking they were just ordinary schoolboys. it is home mission work run aground." the bishop nodded sympathetically. "one has to be so careful," he said. "so extremely careful with characters like those. no doubt they meant well by their serenade, but--girls especially have to be very careful. i think as a rule it is safer to let men show the tender pity and women the fine disdain. i don't imagine they would come serenading your father and me! you carried it off beautifully, girls. i am sure your father was proud of you. i was myself. i'm glad you are methodists. not many girls so young could handle a difficult matter as neatly as you did." "yes," said mr. starr, but his eyes twinkled toward carol once more; "yes, indeed, i think we are well cleared of a disagreeable business." but carol looked at fairy with such humble, passionate gratitude that tears came to fairy's eyes and she turned quickly away. "carol is a sweet girl," she thought. "i wonder if things will work out for her just right--to make her as happy as she ought to be. she's so--lovely." chapter vi substitution the twins came in at dinner-time wrapped in unwonted silence. lark's face was darkened by an anxious shadow, while carol wore an expression of heroic determination. they sat down to the table without a word, and helped themselves to fish balls with a surprising lack of interest. "what's up?" connie asked, when the rest of the family dismissed the matter with amused glances. lark sighed and looked at carol, seeming to seek courage from that spartan countenance. carol squared her shoulders. "well, go on," connie urged. "don't be silly. you know you're crazy to tell us about it, you only want to be coaxed." lark sighed again, and gazed appealingly at her stout-hearted twin. carol never could resist the appeal of those pleading eyes. "larkie promised to speak a piece at the sunday-school concert two weeks from to-morrow," she vouchsafed, as unconcernedly as possible. "mercy!" ejaculated connie, with an astonishment that was not altogether complimentary. "careful, larkie," cautioned fairy. "you'll disgrace the parsonage if you don't watch out." "nonsense," declared their father, "lark can speak as well as anybody if she just keeps a good grip on herself and doesn't get stage fright." aunt grace smiled gently. connie frowned. "it's a risky business," she said. "lark can't speak any more than a rabbit, and--" "i know it," was the humble admission. "don't be a goose, con," interrupted carol. "of course lark can speak a piece. she must learn it, learn it, learn it, so she can rattle it off backwards with her eyes shut. then even if she gets scared, she can go right on and folks won't know the difference. it gets to be a habit if you know it well enough. that's the whole secret. of course she can speak." "how did it happen?" inquired fairy. "i don't know," lark said sorrowfully. "nothing was ever farther from my thoughts, i assure you. the first thing i knew, mrs. curtiss was thanking me for my promise, and carol was marching me off like grim death." carol smiled, relieved now that the family commentary was over. "it was very natural. mrs. curtiss begged her to do it, and lark refused. that always happens, every time the sunday-school gives an entertainment. but mrs. curtiss went on to say how badly the sunday-school needs the money, and how big a drawing card it would be for both of us twins to be on the program, one right after the other, and how well it would look for the parsonage, and it never occurred to me to warn lark, for i never dreamed of her doing it. and all of a sudden she said, 'all right, then, i'll do it,' and mrs. curtiss gave her a piece and we came home. but i'm not worried about it. lark can do anything if she only tries." "i thought it wouldn't hurt me to try it once," lark volunteered in her own defense. aunt grace nodded, with a smile of interested approval. "i'm proud of you, lark, quite proud of you," her father said warmly. "it's a big thing for you to make such a plunge,--just fine." "i'm proud of you now, too," connie said darkly. "the question is, will we be proud of you after the concert?" lark sighed dolorously. "oh, pooh!" encouraged carol. "anybody can speak a silly little old piece like that. and it will look so nice to have our names right together on the program. it'll bring out all the high-school folks, sure." "yes, they'll come to hear lark all right," fairy smiled. "but she'll make it go, of course. and it will give carol a chance to show her cleverness by telling her how to do it." so as soon as supper was over, carol said decidedly, "now, connie, you'll have to help me with the dishes the next two weeks, for lark's got to practise on that piece. lark, you must read it over, very thoughtfully first to get the meaning. then just read it and read it and read it, a dozen times, a hundred times, over and over and over. and pretty soon you'll know it." "i'll bet i don't," was the discouraging retort, as lark, with pronounced distaste, took the slip of paper and sat down in the corner to read the "blooming thing," as she muttered crossly to herself. connie and carol did up the dishes in dreadful silence, and then carol returned to the charge. "how many times did you read it?" "fourteen and a half," was the patient answer. "it's a silly thing, carol. there's no sense to it. 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea.'" "oh, that's not so bad," carol said helpfully. "i've had pieces with worse lines than that. 'the imprint of a dainty foot,' for instance. when you say, 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea,' you must kind of let your voice glide along, very rhythmically, very--" "windily," suggested connie, who remained to witness the exhibition. "you keep still, constance starr, or you can get out of here! it's no laughing matter i can tell you, and you have to keep out or i won't help and then--" "i'll keep still. but it ought to be windily you know, since it's the wind. i meant it for a joke," she informed them. the twins had a very disheartening way of failing to recognize connie's jokes--it took the life out of them. "now read it aloud, lark, so i can see if you get the proper expression," carol continued, when connie was utterly subdued. lark obediently but unhappily read the quaint poem aloud and carol said it was very good. "you must read it aloud often, very often. that'll give you a better idea of the accent. now put it away, and don't look at it again to-night. if you keep it up too long you'll get so dead sick of it you can't speak it at all." for two entire weeks, the twins were changed creatures. lark read the "blooming piece" avidly, repeatedly and with bitter hate. carol stood grimly by, listening intently, offering curt apt criticisms. finally, lark "knew it," and the rest of the time was spent in practising before the mirror,--to see if she kept her face pleasant. "for the face has a whole lot to do with it, my dear," said carol sagely, "though the critics would never admit it." by the evening of the sunday-school concert--they were concerting for the sake of a hundred-dollar subscription to church repairs--lark had mastered her recitation so perfectly that the minds of the parsonage were nearly at peace. she still felt a deep resentment toward the situation, but this was partially counterbalanced by the satisfaction of seeing her name in print, directly beneath carol's on the program. "recitation_______________miss carol starr. recitation_______________miss lark starr." it looked very well indeed, and the whole family took a proper interest in it. no one gave carol's recitation a second thought. she always recited, and did it easily and well. it was quite a commonplace occurrence for her. on the night of the concert she superintended lark's dressing with maternal care. "you look all right," she said, "just fine. now don't get scared, lark. it's so silly. remember that you know all those people by heart, you can talk a blue streak to any of them. there's no use--" "but i can't talk a blue streak to the whole houseful at once," lark protested. "it makes me have such a--hollow feeling--to see so many white faces gazing up, and it's hot, and--" "stop that," came the stern command. "you don't want to get cold feet before you start. if you do accidentally forget once or twice, don't worry. i know the piece as well as you do, and i can prompt you from behind without any one noticing it. at first it made me awfully cross when they wanted us reciters to sit on the platform for every one to stare at. but now i'm glad of it. i'll be right beside you, and can prompt you without any trouble at all. but you won't forget." she kissed her. "you'll do fine, larkie, just as fine as you look, and it couldn't be better than that." just then connie ran in. "fairy wants to know if you are getting stage fright, lark? my, you do look nice! now, for goodness' sake, lark, remember the parsonage, and don't make a fizzle of it." "who says fizzle?" demanded their father from the doorway. "never say die, my girl. why, lark, i never saw you look so sweet. you have your hair fixed a new way, haven't you?" "carol did it," was the shy reply. "it does look nice, doesn't it? i'm not scared, father, not a bit--yet! but there's a hollow feeling--" "get her an apple, connie," said carol. "it's because she didn't eat any supper. she's not scared." "i don't want an apple. come on, let's go down. have the boys come?" "no, but they'll be here in a minute. jim's never late. i do get sore at jim--i'd forty times rather go with him than hartley--but he always puts off asking us until the last minute and then i have a date and you get him. i believe he does it on purpose. come on down." aunt grace looked at the pale sweet face with gratified delight, and kissed her warmly. her father walked around her, nodding approval. "you look like a dream," he said. "the wind a-drifting o'er the lea ne'er blew upon a fairer sight! you shall walk with me." "oh, father, you can't remember that you're obsolete," laughed fairy. "the twins have attained to the dignity of boys, and aren't satisfied with the fond but sober arm of father any more. our little twins have dates to-night, as usual nowadays." "aunt grace," he said solemnly, "it's a wretched business, having a parsonage full of daughters. just as soon as they reach the age of beauty, grace and charm, they turn their backs on their fathers and smile on fairer lads." "you've got me, father," said connie consolingly. "and me,--when babbie's in chicago," added fairy. "yes, that's some help. connie, be an old maid. do! i implore you." "oh, connie's got a beau already," said carol. "it's the fat allen boy. they don't have dates yet, but they've got an awful case on. he's going to make their living by traveling with a show. you'll have to put up with auntie--she's beyond the beauing stage!" "suits me," he said contentedly, "i am getting more than my deserts. come on, grace, we'll start." "so will we, connie," said fairy. but the boys came, both together, and the family group set out together. carol and hartley--one of her high-school admirers--led off by running a race down the parsonage walk. and lark, old, worn and grave, brought up the rear with jim forrest. jim was a favorite attendant of the twins. he had been graduated from high school the year previous, and was finishing off at the agricultural college in ames. but ames was not far from home, and he was still frequently on hand to squire the twins when squires were in demand. he was curiously generous and impartial in his attentions,--it was this which so endeared him to the twins. he made his dates by telephone, invariably. and the conversations might almost have been decreed by law. "may i speak to one of the twins?" the nearest twin was summoned, and then he asked: "have you twins got dates for the ball game?"--or the party, or the concert. and the twin at the telephone would say, "yes, we both have--hard luck, jim." or, "i have, but carol hasn't." sometimes it was, "no, we haven't, but we're just crazy to go." and in reply to the first jim always answered, "that's a shame,--why didn't you remember me and hold off?" and to the second, "well, ask her if i can come around for her." and to the third, "good, let's all go together and have a celebration." for this broad-minded devotion the twins gave him a deep-seated gratitude and affection and he always stood high in their favor. on this occasion carol had answered the telephone, and in reply to his query she answered crossly, "oh, jim, you stupid thing, why didn't you phone yesterday? i would so much rather go with you than--but never mind. i have a date, but lark hasn't. and you just called in time, too, for harvey lane told hartley he was going to ask for a date." and jim had called back excitedly, "bring her to the phone, quick; don't waste a minute." and lark was called, and the date was duly scheduled. "are you scared, lark?" he asked her as they walked slowly down the street toward the church. "i'm not scared, jim," she answered solemnly, "but i'm perfectly cavernous, if you know what that means." "i sure do know," he said fervently, "didn't i have to do a speech at the commencement exercises? there never was a completer cavern than i was that night. but i can't figure out why folks agree to do such things when they don't have to. i had to. it was compulsory." lark gazed at him with limpid troubled eyes. "i can't figure out, either. i don't know why i did. it was a mistake, some way." at the church, which was gratifyingly crowded with sunday-school enthusiasts, the twins forsook their friends and slipped along the side aisle to the "dressing-room,"--commonly utilized as the store room for worn-out song books, bibles and lesson sheets. there they sat in throbbing, quivering silence with the rest of the "entertainers," until the first strains of the piano solo broke forth, when they walked sedately out and took their seats along the side of the platform--an antediluvian custom which has long been discarded by everything but sunday-schools and graduating classes. printed programs had been distributed, but the superintendent called off the numbers also. not because it was necessary, but because superintendents have to do something on such occasions and that is the only way to prevent superfluous speech-making. the program went along smoothly, with no more stumbles than is customary at such affairs, and nicely punctuated with hand clappings. when the superintendent read, "recitation--miss carol starr," the applause was enthusiastic, for carol was a prime favorite in church and school and town. with sweet and charming nonchalance she tripped to the front of the platform and gave a graceful inclination of her proud young head in response to the applause. then her voice rang out, and the room was hushed. nobody ever worried when carol spoke a piece. things always went all right. and back to her place she walked, her face flushed, her heart swelling high with the gratification of a good deed well done. she sat down by lark, glad she had done it, glad it was over, and praying that lark would come off as well. lark was trembling. "carol," she whispered, "i--i'm scared." instantly the triumph left carol's heart. "you're not," she whispered passionately, gripping her twin's hand closely, "you are not, you're all right." lark trembled more violently. her head swayed a little. bright flashes of light were blinding her eyes, and her ears were ringing. "i--can't," she muttered thickly. "i'm sick." carol leaned close to her and began a violent train of conversation, for the purpose of distracting her attention. lark grew more pale. "recitation--miss lark starr." again the applause rang out. lark did not move. "i can't," she whispered again. "i can't." "lark, lark," begged carol desperately. "you must go, you must. 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea,'--it's easy enough. go on, lark. you must." lark shook her head. "mmmmm," she murmured indistinctly. "remember the parsonage," begged carol. "think of prudence. think of papa. look, there he is, right down there. he's expecting you, lark. you must!" lark tried to rise. she could not. she could not see her father's clear encouraging face for those queer flashes of light. "you can," whispered carol. "you can do anything if you try. prudence says so." people were craning their necks, and peering curiously up to the second row where the twins sat side by side. the other performers nudged one another, smiling significantly. the superintendent creaked heavily across the platform and beckoned with one plump finger. "i can't," lark whispered, "i'm sick." "lark,--lark," called the superintendent. carol sighed bitterly. evidently it was up to her. with a grim face, she rose from her chair and started out on the platform. the superintendent stared at her, his lips parting. the people stared at her too, and smiled, and then laughed. panic-stricken, her eyes sought her father's face. he nodded quickly, and his eyes approved. "good!" his lips formed the word, and carol did not falter again. the applause was nearly drowned with laughter as carol advanced for her second recitation. "the wind went drifting o'er the lea," she began,--her voice drifting properly on the words,--and so on to the end of the piece. most of the audience, knowing lark's temperament, had concluded that fear prevented her appearance, and understood that carol had come to her twin's rescue for the reputation of the parsonage. the applause was deafening as she went back. it grew louder as she sat down with a comforting little grin at lark. then as the clapping continued, something of her natural impishness entered her heart. "lark," she whispered, "go out and make a bow." "mercy!" gasped lark. "i didn't do anything." "it was supposed to be you--go on, lark! hurry! you've got to! think what a joke it will be." lark hesitated, but carol's dominance was compelling. "do as i tell you," came the peremptory order, and lark arose from her chair, stepped out before the astonished audience and made a slow and graceful bow. this time the applause ran riot, for people of less experience than those of mount mark could tell that the twins were playing a game. as it continued, carol caught larkin's hand in hers, and together they stepped out once more, laughing and bowing right and left. lark was the last one in that night, for she and jim celebrated her defeat with two ice-cream sodas a piece at the corner drug store. "i disgraced the parsonage," she said meekly, as she stepped into the family circle, waiting to receive her. "indeed you didn't," said fairy. "it was too bad, but carol passed it off nicely, and then, turning it into a joke that way took all the embarrassment out of it. it was perfectly all right, and we weren't a bit ashamed." "and you did look awfully sweet when you made your bow," connie said warmly,--for when a member of the family was down, no one ventured a laugh, laugh-loving though they were. curious to say, the odd little freak of substitution only endeared the twins to the people of mount mark the more. "by ginger, you can't beat them bloomin' twins," said harvey reel, chuckling admiringly. and no one disagreed. chapter vii making matches aunt grace sat in a low rocker with a bit of embroidery in her hands. and fairy sat at the table, a formidable array of books before her. aunt grace was gazing idly at her sewing basket, a soft smile on her lips. and fairy was staring thoughtfully into the twilight, a soft glow in her eyes. aunt grace was thinking of the jolly parsonage family, and how pleasant it was to live with them. and fairy was thinking--ah, fairy was twenty, and twenty-year-olds always stare into the twilight, with dreamy far-seeing eyes. in upon this peaceful scene burst the twins, flushed, tempestuous, in spite of their seventeen years. their hurry to speak had rendered them incapable of speech, so they stood in the doorway panting breathlessly for a moment, while fairy and her aunt, withdrawn thus rudely from dreamland, looked at them interrogatively. "yes, i think so, too," began fairy, and the twins endeavored to crush her with their lofty scorn. but it is not easy to express lofty scorn when one is red in the face, perspirey and short of breath. so the twins decided of necessity to overlook the offense just this once. finally, recovering their vocal powers simultaneously, they cried in unison: "duckie!" "duck! in the yard! do you mean a live one? where did it come from?" ejaculated their aunt. "they mean professor duck of their freshman year," explained fairy complacently. "it's nothing. the twins always make a fuss over him. they feel grateful to him for showing them through freshman science--that's all." "that's all," gasped carol. "why, fairy starr, do you know he's employed by the--society of--a--a scientific research organization--or something--in new york city, and gets four thousand dollars a year and has prospects--all kinds of prospects!" "yes, i know it. you haven't seen him, auntie. he's tall, and has wrinkles around his eyes, and a dictatorial nose, and steel gray eyes. he calls the twins song-birds, and they're so flattered they adore him. he sends them candy for christmas. you know that duckie they rave so much about. it's the very man. is he here?" the twins stared at each other in blank exasperation for a full minute. they knew that fairy didn't deserve to hear their news, but at the same time they did not deserve such bitter punishment as having to refrain from talking about it,--so they swallowed again, sadly, and ignored her. "he's in town," said lark. "going to stay a week," added carol. "and he said he wanted to have lots of good times with us, and so--we--why, of course it was very sudden, and we didn't have time to ask--" "but parsonage doors are always open--" "and i don't know how he ever wormed it out of us, but--one of us--" "i can't remember which one!" "invited him to come for dinner to-night, and he's coming." "goodness," said aunt grace. "we were going to have potato soup and toast." "it'll keep," said carol. "of course we're sorry to inconvenience you at this late hour, but larkie and i will tell connie what to do, so you won't have much bother. let's see, now, we must think up a pretty fair meal. four thousand a year--and prospects!" aunt grace turned questioning eyes toward the older sister. "all right," said fairy, smiling. "it's evidently settled. think up your menu, twins, and put connie to work." "is he nice?" aunt grace queried. "yes, i think he is. he used to go with our college bunch some. i know him pretty well. he brought me home from things a time or two." carol leaned forward and looked at her handsome sister with sudden intentness. "he asked about you," she said, keen eyes on fairy's. "he asked particularly about you." "did he? thanks. yes, he's not bad. he's pretty good in a crowd." by the force of her magnetic gaze, carol drew lark out of the room, and the door closed behind them. a few minutes later they returned. there was about them an air of subdued excitement, suggestive of intrigue, that fairy found disturbing. "you needn't plan any nonsense, twins," she cautioned. "he's no beau of mine." "of course not," they assured her pleasantly. "we're too old for mischief. seventeen, and sensible for our years! say, fairy, you'll be nice to duckie, won't you? we're too young really to entertain him, and he's so nice we want him to have a good time. can't you try to make it pleasant for him this week? he'll only be here a few days. will you do that much for us?" "why, i would, twins, of course, to oblige you, but you know gene's in town this week, and i've got to--" "oh, you leave babbie--gene, i mean--to us," said carol airily. fairy being a junior in college, and eugene babler a student of pharmacy in chicago, she felt obliged to restore him to his christian name, shortened to gene. but the twins refused to accede to this propriety, except when they particularly wished to placate fairy. "you leave gene to us," repeated carol. "we'll amuse him. is he coming to-night?" "yes, at seven-thirty." "let's call him up and invite him for dinner, too," suggested lark. "and you'll do us a favor and be nice to duckie, won't you? we'll keep babb--er, gene--out of the road. you phone to gene, carol, and--" "i'll do my own phoning, thanks," said fairy, rising quickly. "yes, we'll have them both. and just as a favor to you, twins, i will help amuse your professor. you'll be good, and help, won't you?" the twins glowed at fairy with a warmth that seemed almost triumphant. she stopped and looked at them doubtfully. when she returned after telephoning, they were gone, and she said to her aunt: "i'm not superstitious, but when the twins act like that, there's usually a cloud in the parsonage sky-light. prudence says so." but the twins comported themselves most decorously. all during the week they worked like kitchen slaveys, doing chores, running errands. and they treated fairy with a gentle consideration which almost drew tears to her eyes, though she still remembered prudence's cloud in the parsonage sky-light! they certainly interfered with her own plans. they engineered her off on to their beloved professor at every conceivable turn. and gene, who nearly haunted the house, had a savage gleam in his eyes quite out of accord with his usual chatty good humor. fairy knew she was being adroitly managed, but she had promised to help the twins with "duckie." at first she tried artistically and unobtrusively to free herself from the complication in which her sisters had involved her. but the twins were both persistent and clever, and fairy found herself no match for them when it came right down to business. she had no idea of their purpose,--she only knew that she and gene were always on opposite sides of the room, the young man grinning savagely at the twins' merry prattle, and she and the professor trying to keep quiet enough to hear every word from the other corner. and if they walked, gene was dragged off by the firm slender fingers of the friendly twins, and fairy and the professor walked drearily along in the rear, talking inanely about the weather,--and wondering what the twins were talking about. and the week passed. gene finally fell off in his attendance, and the twins took a much needed rest. on friday afternoon they flattered themselves that all was well. gene was not coming, fairy was in the hammock waiting for the professor. so the twins hugged each other gleefully and went to the haymow to discuss the strain and struggle of the week. and then-- "why, the big mutt!" cried carol, in her annoyance ignoring the methodist grammatical boundaries, "here comes that bubbling babler this minute. and he said he was going to new london for the day. now we'll have to chase down there and shoo him off before duckie comes." the twins, growling and grumbling, gathered themselves up and started. but they started too reluctantly, too leisurely. they were not in time. fairy sat up in the hammock with a cry of surprise, but not vexation, when gene's angry countenance appeared before her. "look here, fairy," he began, "what's the joke? are your fingers itching to get hold of that four thousand a year the twins are eternally bragging about? are you trying to throw yourself into the old school-teacher's pocketbook, or what?" "don't be silly, gene," she said, "come and sit down and--" "sit down, your grandmother!" he snapped still angrily. "old double d. d. will be bobbing up in a minute, and the twins'll drag me off to hear about a sick rooster, or something. he is coming, isn't he?" "i--guess he is," she said confusedly. "let's cut and run, will you?" he suggested hopefully. "we can be out of sight before--come on, fairy, be good to me. i haven't had a glimpse or a touch of you the whole week. what do you reckon i came down here for? come on. let's beat it." he looked around with a worried air. "hurry, or the twins'll get us." fairy hesitated, and was lost. gene grabbed her hand, and the next instant, laughing, they were crawling under the fence at the south corner of the parsonage lawn just as the twins appeared at the barn door. they stopped. they gasped. they stared at each other in dismay. "it was a put-up job," declared carol. "now what'll we do? but babbie's got more sense than i thought he had, i must confess. do you suppose he was kidnaping her?" carol snorted derisively. "kidnaping nothing! she was ahead when i saw 'em. what'll we tell the professor?" two humbled gentle twins greeted the professor some fifteen minutes later. "we're so sorry," carol explained faintly. "babbie came and he and fairy--i guess they had an errand somewhere. we think they'll be back very soon. fairy will be so sorry." the professor smiled and looked quite bright. "are they gone?" "yes, but we're sure they'll be back,--that is, we're almost sure." carol, remembering the mode of their departure, felt far less assurance on that point than she could have wished. "well, that's too bad," he said cheerfully. "but my loss is babler's gain. i suppose we ought in christian decency to give him the afternoon. let's go out to the creek for a stroll ourselves, shall we? that'll leave him a clear field when they return. you think they'll be back soon, do you?" he looked down the road hopefully, but whether hopeful they would return, or wouldn't, the twins could not have told. at any rate, he seemed quite impatient until they were ready to start, and then, very gaily, the three wended their way out the pretty country road toward the creek and blackbird lane. they had a good time, the twins always did insist that no one on earth was quite so entertaining as dear old duckie, but in her heart carol registered a solemn vow to have it out with fairy when she got back. she had no opportunity that night. fairy and gene telephoned that they would not be home for dinner, and the professor had gone, and the twins were sleeping soundly, when fairy crept softly up the stairs. but carol did not forget her vow. early the next morning she stalked grimly into fairy's room, where fairy was conscientiously bringing order out of the chaos in her bureau drawers, a thing fairy always did after a perfectly happy day. carol knew that, and it was with genuine reproach in her voice that she spoke at last, after standing for some two minutes watching fairy as she deftly twirled long ribbons about her fingers and then laid them in methodical piles in separate corners of the drawers. "fairy," she said sadly, "you don't seem very appreciative some way. here larkie and i have tried so hard to give you a genuine opportunity--we've worked and schemed and kept ourselves in the background, and that's the way you serve us! it's disappointing. it's downright disheartening." fairy folded a blue veil and laid it on top of a white one. then she turned. "yes. what?" she inquired coolly. "there are so few real chances for a woman in mount mark, and we felt that this was once in a lifetime. and you know how hard we worked. and then, when we relaxed our--our vigilance--just for a moment, you spoiled it all by--" "yes,--talk english, carrie. what was it you tried to do for me?" "well, if you want plain english you can have it," said carol heatedly. "you know what professor is, a swell position like his, and such prospects, and new york city, and four thousand a year with a raise for next year, and we tried to give you a good fair chance to land him squarely, and--" "to land him--" "to get him, then! he hasn't any girl. you could have been engaged to him this minute--professor david arnold duke--if you had wanted to." "oh, is that it?" "yes, that's it." fairy smiled. "thank you, dear, it was sweet of you, but you're too late. i am engaged." carol's lips parted, closed, parted again. "you--you?" "exactly so." hope flashed into carol's eyes. fairy saw it, and answered swiftly. "certainly not. i'm not crazy about your little prof. i am engaged to eugene babler." she said it with pride, not unmixed with defiance, knowing as she did that the twins considered gene too undignified for a parsonage son-in-law. the twins were strong for parsonage dignity! "you--are?" "i am." a long instant carol stared at her. then she turned toward the door. "where are you going?" "i'm going to tell papa." fairy laughed. "papa knows it." carol came slowly back and stood by the dresser again. after a short silence she moved away once more. "where now?" "i'll tell aunt grace, then." "aunt grace knows it, too." "does prudence know it?" "yes." carol swallowed this bitter pill in silence. "how long?" she inquired at last. "about a year. look here, carol, i'll show you something. really i'm glad you know about it. we're pretty young, and papa thought we ought to keep it dark a while to make sure. that's why we didn't tell you. look at this." from her cedar chest--a christmas gift from gene--she drew out a small velvet jeweler's box, and displayed before the admiring eyes of carol a plain gold ring with a modest diamond. carol kissed it. then she kissed fairy twice. "i know you'll be awfully happy, fairy," she said soberly. "and i'm glad of it. but--i can't honestly believe there's any man good enough for our girls. babbie's nice, and dear, and all that, and he's so crazy about you, and--do you love him?" her eyes were wide, rather wondering, as she put this question softly. fairy put her arm about her sister's shoulders, and her fine steady eyes met carol's clearly. "yes," she said frankly, "i love him--with all my heart." "is that what makes you so--so shiny, and smiley, and starry all the time?" "i guess it is. it is the most wonderful thing in the world, carol. you can't even imagine it--beforehand. it is magical, it is heavenly." "yes, i suppose it is. prudence says so, too. i can't imagine it, i kind of wish i could. can't i go and tell connie and lark? i want to tell somebody!" "yes, tell them. we decided not to let you know just yet, but since--yes, tell them, and bring them up to see it." carol kissed her again, and went out, gently closing the door behind her. in the hallway she stopped and stared at the wall for an unseeing moment. then she clenched and shook a stern white fist at the door. "i don't care," she muttered, "they're not good enough for prudence and fairy! they're not! i just believe i despise men, all of 'em, unless it's daddy and duck!" she smiled a little and then looked grim once more. "eugene babler, and a little queen like fairy! i think that must be heaven's notion of a joke." she sighed again. "oh, well, it's something to have something to tell! i'm glad i found it out ahead of lark!" chapter viii lark's literary venture as commencement drew near, and fairy began planning momentous things for her graduation, a little soberness came into the parsonage life. the girls were certainly growing up. prudence had been married a long, long time. fairy was being graduated from college, her school-days were over, and life was just across the threshold--its big black door just slightly ajar waiting for her to press it back and catch a glimpse of what lay beyond, yes, there was a rosy tinge showing faintly through like the light of the early sun shining through the night-fog, but the door was only a little ajar! and fairy was nearly ready to step through. it disturbed the parsonage family a great deal. even the twins were getting along. they were finishing high school, and beginning to prate of college and such things, but the twins were still, well, they were growing up, perhaps, but they kept jubilantly young along in the process, and their enthusiasm for diplomas and ice-cream sodas was so nearly identical that one couldn't feel seriously that the twins were tugging at their leashes. and connie was a freshman herself,--rather tall, a little awkward, with a sober earnest face, and with an incongruously humorous droop to the corners of her lips, and in the sparkle of her eyes. mr. starr looked at them and sighed. "i tell you, grace, it's a thankless job, rearing a family. connie told me to-day that my collars should have straight edges now instead of turned-back corners. and lark reminded me that i got my points mixed up in last sunday's lesson. i'm getting sick of this family business, i'm about ready to--" and just then, as a clear "father" came floating down the stairway, he turned his head alertly. "what do you want?" "everybody's out," came carol's plaintive voice. "will you come and button me up? i can't ask auntie to run clear up here, and i can't come down because i'm in my stocking feet. my new slippers pinch so i don't put them on until i have to. oh, thanks, father, you're a dear." after the excitement of the commencement, the commotion, the glamour, the gaiety, ordinary parsonage life seemed smooth and pleasant, and for ten days there was not a ruffle on the surface of their domestic waters. it was on the tenth day that the twins, strolling down main street, conversing earnestly together as was their custom, were accosted by a nicely-rounded, pompous man with a cordial, "hello, twins." in an instant they were bright with smiles, for this was mr. raider, editor and owner of the _daily news_, the biggest and most popular of mount mark's three daily papers. looking forward, as they did, to a literary career for lark, they never failed to show a touching and unnatural deference to any one connected, even ever so remotely, with that profession. indeed, carol, with the charm of her smile, had bewitched the small carriers to the last lad, and in reply to her sister's teasing, only answered stoutly, "that's all right,--you don't know what they may turn into one of these days. we've got to look ahead to lark's literary career." so when humble carriers, and some of them black at that, received such sweet attention, one can well imagine what the nicely rounded, pompous editor himself called forth. they did not resent his nicely-rounded and therefore pointless jokes. they smiled at them. they did not call the _daily news_ the "raider family organ," as they yearned to do. they did not admit that they urged their father to put mr. raider on all church committees to insure publicity. they swallowed hard, and told themselves that, after all, mr. raider was an editor, and perhaps he couldn't help editing his own family to the exclusion of the rest of mount mark. when, on this occasion, he looked lark up and down with his usual rotund complacency, carol only gritted her teeth and reminded her heaving soul that he was an editor. "what are you going to do this summer, lark?" he asked, without preamble. "why,--just nothing, i suppose. as usual." "well," he said, frowning plumply, "we're running short of men. i've heard you're interested in our line, and i thought maybe you could help us out during vacation. how about it? the work'll be easy and it'll be fine experience for you. we'll pay you five dollars a week. this is a little town, and we're called a little publication, but our work and our aim and methods are identical with those of the big city papers." he swelled visibly, almost alarmingly. "how about it? you're the one with the literary longings, aren't you?" lark was utterly speechless. if the national bank had opened its coffers to the always hard-pressed twins, she could not have been more completely confounded. carol was in a condition nearly as serious, but grasping the gravity of the situation, she rushed into the breach headlong. "yes,--yes," she gasped. "she's literary. oh, she's very literary." mr. raider smiled. "well, would you like to try your hand out with me?" again carol sprang to her sister's relief. "yes, indeed, she would," she cried. "yes, indeed." and then, determined to impress upon him that the _daily news_ was the one to profit chiefly from the innovation, she added, "and it's a lucky day for the _daily news_, too, i tell you. there aren't many larks in mount mark, in a literary way, i mean, and--the _daily news_ needs some--that is, i think--new blood,--anyhow, lark will be just fine." "all right. come in, monday morning at eight, lark, and i'll set you to work. it won't be anything very important. you can write up the church news, and parties, and goings away, and things like that. it'll be good training. you can study our papers between now and then, to catch our style." carol lifted her head a little higher. if mr. raider thought her talented twin would be confined to the ordinary style of the _daily news_, which carol considered atrociously lacking in any style at all, he would be most gloriously mistaken, that's certain! it is a significant fact that after mr. raider went back into the sanctum of the _daily news_, the twins walked along for one full block without speaking. such a thing had never happened before in all the years of their twinship. at the end of the block, carol turned her head restlessly. they were eight blocks from home. but the twins couldn't run on the street, it was so undignified. she looked longingly about for a buggy bound their way. even a grocery cart would have been a welcome though humbling conveyance. lark's starry eyes were lifted to the skies, and her rapt face was glowing. carol looked behind her, looked ahead. then she thought again of the eight blocks. "lark," she said, "i'm afraid we'll be late for dinner. and auntie told us to hurry back. maybe we'd better run." running is a good expression for emotion, and lark promptly struck out at a pace that did full credit to her lithe young limbs. down the street they raced, little tendrils of hair flying about their flushed and shining faces, faster, faster, breathless, panting, their gladness fairly overflowing. and many people turned to look, wondering what in the world possessed the leisurely, dignified parsonage twins. the last block was traversed at a really alarming rate. the passion for "telling things" had seized them both, and they whirled around the corner and across the lawn at a rate that brought connie out into the yard to meet them, with a childish, "what's the matter? what happened? did something bite you?" aunt grace sat up in her hammock to look, fairy ran out to the porch, and mr. starr laid down his book. had the long and dearly desired war been declared at last? but when the twins reached the porch, they paused sheepishly, shyly. "what's the matter?" chorused the family. "are--are we late for dinner?" carol demanded earnestly, as though their lives depended on the answer. the family stared in concerted amazement. when before this had the twins shown anxiety about their lateness for meals--unless a favorite dessert or salad was all consumed in their absence. and it was only half past four! carol gently shoved connie off the cushion upon which she had dropped, and arranged it tenderly in a chair. "sit down and rest, larkie," she said in a soft and loving voice. "are you nearly tired to death?" lark sank, panting, into the chair, and gazed about the circle with brilliant eyes. "get her a drink, can't you, connie?" said carol indignantly. "can't you see the poor thing is just tired to death? she ran the whole way home!" still the family stared. the twins' devotion to each other was never failing, but this attentiveness on the part of carol was extremely odd. now she sat down on the step beside her sister, and gazed up into the flushed face with adoring, but somewhat patronizing, pride. after all, she had had a whole lot to do with training larkie! "what in the world?" began their father curiously. "had a sunstroke?" queried fairy, smiling. "you're both crazy," declared connie, coming back with the water. "you're trying to fool us. i won't ask any questions. you don't catch me this time." "why don't you lie down and let lark use you for a footstool, carol?" suggested their father, with twinkling eyes. "i would if she wanted a footstool," said carol positively. "i'd love to do it. i'd be proud to do it. i'd consider it an honor." lark blushed and lowered her eyes modestly. "what happened?" urged their father, still more curiously. "did she get you out of a scrape?" mocked fairy. "oh, just let 'em alone," said connie. "they think it's smart to be mysterious. nothing happened at all. that's what they call being funny." "tell it, lark." carol's voice was so intense that it impressed even skeptical connie and derisive fairy. lark raised the glowing eyes once more, leaned forward and said thrillingly: "it's the literary career." the silence that followed this bold announcement was sufficiently dramatic to satisfy even carol, and she patted lark's knee approvingly. "well, go on," urged connie, at last, when the twins continued silent. "that's all." "she's going to run the _daily news_." "oh, i'll only be a cub reporter, i guess that's what you call them." "reporter nothing," contradicted carol. "there's nothing literary about that. you must take the whole paper in hand, and color it up a bit. and for goodness' sake, polish up mr. raider's editorials. i could write editorials like his myself." "and you might tone down the family notes for him," suggested fairy. "we don't really care to know when mrs. kelly borrows eggs of the editor's wife and how many dolls betty got for christmas and jack's grades in high school. we can get along without those personal touches." "maybe you can give us a little church write-up now and then, without necessitating mr. raider as chairman of every committee," interposed their father, and then retracted quickly. "i was only joking, of course, i didn't mean--" "no, of course, you didn't, father," said carol kindly. "we'll consider that you didn't say it. but just bear it in mind, larkie." fairy solemnly rose and crossed the porch, and with a hand on lark's shoulder gave her a solemn shake. "now, lark starr, you begin at the beginning and tell us. do you think we're all wooden indians? we can't wait until you make a newspaper out of the _daily news_! we want to know. talk." thus adjured, lark did talk, and the little story with many striking embellishments from carol was given into the hearing of the family. "five dollars a week," echoed connie faintly. "of course, i'll divide that with carol," was the generous offer. "no, i won't have it. i haven't any literary brains, and i can't take any of your salary. thanks just the same." then she added happily: "but i know you'll be very generous when i need to borrow, and i do borrow pretty often, larkie." for the rest of the week lark's literary career was the one topic of conversation in the starr family. the _daily news_ became a sort of literary center piece, and the whole parsonage revolved enthusiastically around it. lark's clothes were put in the most immaculate condition, and her wardrobe greatly enriched by donations pressed upon her by her admiring sisters. every evening the younger girls watched impatiently for the carrier of the _daily news_, and then rushed to meet him. the paper was read with avid interest, criticized, commended. they all admitted that lark would be an acquisition to the editorial force, indeed, one sorely needed. they begged her to give mount mark the news while it was news, without waiting to find what the other republican papers of the state thought about it. why, the instructions and sisterly advice and editorial improvements poured into the ears of patient lark would have made an archangel giddy with confusion! during those days, carol followed lark about with a hungry devotion that would have been observed by her sister on a less momentous occasion. but now she was so full of the darling career that she overlooked the once most-darling carol. on monday morning, carol did not remain up-stairs with lark as she donned her most businesslike dress for her initiation into the world of literature. instead, she sulked grouchily in the dining-room, and when lark, radiant, star-eyed, danced into the room for the family's approval, she almost glowered upon her. "am i all right? do i look literary? oh, oh," gurgled lark, with music in her voice. carol sniffed. "oh, isn't it a glorious morning?" sang lark again. "isn't everything wonderful, father?" "lark starr," cried carol passionately, "i should think you'd be ashamed of yourself. it's bad enough to turn your back on your--your life-long twin, and raise barriers between us, but for you to be so wildly happy about it is--perfectly wicked." lark wheeled about abruptly and stared at her sister, the fire slowly dying out of her eyes. "why, carol," she began slowly, in a low voice, without music. "oh, that's all right. you needn't try to talk me over. a body'd think there was nothing in the world but ugly old newspapers. i don't like 'em, anyhow. i think they're downright nosey! and we'll never be the same any more, larkie, and you're the only twin i've got, and--" carol's defiance ended in a poorly suppressed sob and a rush of tears. lark threw her gloves on the table. "i won't go at all," she said. "i won't go a step. if--if you think for a minute, carol, that any silly old career is going to be any dearer to me than you are, and if we aren't going to be just as we've always been, i won't go a step." carol wiped her eyes. "well," she said very affectionately, "if you feel like that, it's all right. i just wanted you to say you liked me better than anything else. of course you must go, lark. i really take all the credit for you and your talent to myself, and it's as much an honor for me as it is for you, and i want you to go. but don't you ever go to liking the crazy old stories any better than you do me." then she picked up lark's gloves, and the two went out with an arm around each other's waist. it was a dreary morning for carol, but none of her sisters knew that most of it was spent in the closet of her room, sobbing bitterly. "it's just the way of the world," she mourned, in the tone of one who has lived many years and suffered untold anguish, "we spend our lives bringing them up, and loving them, and finding all our joy and happiness in them, and then they go, and we are left alone." lark's morning at the office was quiet, but none the less thrilling on that account. mr. raider received her cordially, and with a great deal of unctuous fatherly advice. he took her into his office, which was one corner of the press room glassed in by itself, and talked over her duties, which, as far as lark could gather from his discourse, appeared to consist in doing as she was told. "now, remember," he said, in part, "that running a newspaper is business. pure business. we've got to give folks what they want to hear, and they want to hear everything that happens. of course, it will hurt some people, it is not pleasant to have private affairs aired in public papers, but that's the newspaper job. folks want to hear about the private affairs of other folks. they pay us to find out, and tell them, and it's our duty to do it. so don't ever be squeamish about coming right out blunt with the plain facts; that's what we are paid for." this did not seriously impress lark. theoretically, she realized that he was right. and he talked so impressively of the press, and its mission in the world, and its rights and its pride and its power, that lark, looking away with hope-filled eyes, saw a high and mighty figure, immense, all-powerful, standing free, majestic, beckoning her to come. it was her first view of the world's press. but on the fourth morning, when she entered the office, mr. raider met her with more excitement in his manner than she had ever seen before. as a rule, excitement does not sit well on nicely-rounded, pink-skinned men. "lark," he began hurriedly, "do you know the dalys? on elm street?" "yes, they are members of our church. i know them." he leaned forward. "big piece of news down that way. this morning at breakfast, daly shot his daughter maisie and the little boy. they are both dead. daly got away, and we can't get at the bottom of it. the family is shut off alone, and won't see any one." lark's face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together, swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes. "oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "oh, how awful!" mr. raider did not observe the white horror in lark's face. "yes, isn't it?" he said. "i want you to go right down there." "yes, indeed," said lark, though she shivered at the thought. "of course, i will." lark was a minister's daughter. if people were in trouble, she must go, of course. "isn't it--awful? i never knew of--such a thing--before. maisie was in my class at school. i never liked her very well. i'm so sorry i didn't,--oh, i'm so sorry. yes, i'll go right away. you'd better call papa up and tell him to come, too." "i will, but you run along. being the minister's daughter, they'll let you right up. they'll tell you all about it, of course. don't talk to any one on the way back. come right to the office. don't stay any longer than you can help, but get everything they will say about it, and--er--comfort them as much as you can." "yes,--yes." lark's face was frightened, but firm. "i--i've never gone to the houses much when--there was trouble. prudence and fairy have always done that. but of course it's right, and i'm going. oh, i do wish i had been fonder of maisie. i'll go right away." and she hurried away, still quivering, a cold chill upon her. three hours later she returned to the office, her eyes dark circled, and red with weeping. mr. raider met her at the door. "did you see them?" "yes," she said in a low voice. "they--they took me up-stairs, and--" she paused pitifully, the memory strong upon her, for the woman, the mother of five children, two of whom had been struck down, had lain in lark's strong tender arms, and sobbed out the ugly story. "did they tell you all about it?" "yes, they told me. they told me." "come on into my office," he said. "you must write it up while it is fresh in your mind. you'll do it better while the feeling is on you." lark gazed at him stupidly, not comprehending. "write it up?" she repeated confusedly. "yes, for the paper. how they looked, what they said, how it happened,--everything. we want to scoop on it." "but i don't think they--would want it told," lark gasped. "oh, probably not, but people want to know about it. don't you remember what i told you? the press is a powerful task master. he asks hard duties of us, but we must obey. we've got to give the people what they want. there's a reporter down from burlington already, but he couldn't get anything out of them. we've got a clear scoop on it." lark glanced fearfully over her shoulder. a huge menacing shadow lowered black behind her. the press! she shuddered again. "i can't write it up," she faltered. "mrs. daly--she--oh, i held her in my arms, mr. raider, and kissed her, and we cried all morning, and i can't write it up. i--i am the minister's daughter, you know. i can't." "nonsense, now, lark," he said, "be sensible. you needn't give all the sob part. i'll touch it up for you. just write out what you saw, and what they said, and i'll do the rest. run along now. be sensible." lark glanced over her shoulder again. the press seemed tremendously big, leering at her, threatening her. lark gasped, sobbingly. then she sat down at mr. raider's desk, and drew a pad of paper toward her. for five minutes she sat immovable, body tense, face stern, breathless, rigid. mr. raider after one curious, satisfied glance, slipped out and closed the door softly after him. he felt he could trust to the newspaper instinct to get that story out of her. finally lark, despairingly, clutched a pencil and wrote "terrible tragedy of the early morning. daly family crushed with sorrow." her mind passed rapidly back over the story she had heard, the father's occasional wild bursts of temper, the pitiful efforts of the family to keep his weakness hidden, the insignificant altercation at the breakfast table, the cry of the startled baby, and then the sudden ungovernable fury that lashed him, the two children--! lark shuddered! she glanced over her shoulder again. the fearful dark shadow was very close, very terrible, ready to envelope her in its smothering depths. she sprang to her feet and rushed out of the office. mr. raider was in the doorway. she flung herself upon him, crushing the paper in his hand. "i can't," she cried, looking in terror over her shoulder as she spoke, "i can't. i don't want to be a newspaper woman. i don't want any literary career. i am a minister's daughter, mr. raider, i can't talk about people's troubles. i want to go home." mr. raider looked searchingly into the white face, and noted the frightened eyes. "there now," he said soothingly, "never mind the daly story. i'll cover it myself. i guess it was too hard an assignment to begin with, and you a friend of the family, and all. let it go. you stay at home this afternoon. come back to-morrow and i'll start you again. maybe i was too hard on you to-day." "i don't want to," she cried, looking back at the shadow, which seemed somehow to have receded a little. "i don't want to be a newspaper woman. i think i'll be the other kind of writer,--not newspapers, you know, just plain writing. i'm sure i shall like it better. i wasn't cut out for this line, i know. i want to go now." "run along," he said. "i'll see you later on. you go to bed. you're nearly sick." dignity? lark did not remember that she had ever dreamed of dignity. she just started for home, for her father, aunt grace and the girls! the shabby old parsonage seemed suddenly very bright, very sunny, very safe. the dreadful dark shadow was not pressing so close to her shoulders, did not feel so smotheringly near. a startled group sprang up from the porch to greet her. she flung one arm around carol's shoulder, and drew her twin with her close to her aunt's side. "i don't want to be a newspaper woman," she cried, in a high excited voice. "i don't like it. i am awfully afraid of--the press--" she looked over her shoulder. the shadow was fading away in the distance. "i couldn't do it. i--" and then, crouching, with carol, close against her aunt's side, clutching one of the soft hands in her own, she told the story. "i couldn't, fairy," she declared, looking beseechingly into the strong kind face of her sister. "i--couldn't. mrs. daly--sobbed so, and her hands were so brown and hard, fairy, she kept rubbing my shoulder, and saying, 'oh, lark, oh, lark, my little children.' i couldn't. i don't like newspapers, fairy. really, i don't." fairy looked greatly troubled. "i wish father were at home," she said very quietly. "mr. raider meant all right, of course, but it was wrong to send a young girl like you. father is there now. it's very terrible. you did just exactly right, larkie. father will say so. i guess maybe it's not the job for a minister's girl. of course, the story will come out, but we're not the ones to tell it." "but--the career," suggested carol. "why," said lark, "i'll wait a little and then have a real literary career, you know, stories, and books, and poems, the kind that don't harrow people's feelings. i really don't think it is right. don't you remember prudence says the parsonage is a place to hide sorrows, not to hang them on the clothesline for every one to see." she looked for a last time over her shoulder. dimly she saw a small dark cloud,--all that was left of the shadow which had seemed so eager to devour her. her arms clasped carol with renewed intensity. "oh," she breathed, "oh, isn't the parsonage lovely, carol? i wish father would come. you all look so sweet, and kind, and--oh, i love to be at home." chapter ix a clear call the tinkle of the telephone disturbed the family as they were at dinner, and connie, who sat nearest, rose to answer the summons, while carol, at her corner of the table struck a tragic attitude. "if joe graves has broken anything, he's broken our friendship for good and all. these fellows that break themselves--" "break themselves?" asked her father gravely. "yes,--any of his members, you know, his leg, or his arm, or,--if he has, i must say frankly that i hope it is his neck. these boys that break themselves at the last minute, thereby breaking dates, are--" "well," connie said calmly, "if you're through, i'll begin." "oh, goodness, connie, deafen one ear and listen with the other. you've got to learn to hear in a hubbub. go on then, i'm through. but i haven't forgotten that i missed the thanksgiving banquet last year because phil broke his ankle that very afternoon on the ice. what business had he on the ice when he had a date--" "ready?" asked connie, as the phone rang again, insistently. "go on, then. don't wait until i get started. answer it." connie removed the receiver and called the customary "hello." then, "yes, just a minute. it's for you, carol." carol rose darkly. "it's joe," she said in a dungeon-dark voice. "he's broken, i foresee it. if there's anything i despise and abominate it's a breaker of dates. i think it ought to be included among the condemnations in the decalogue. men have no business being broken, except their hearts, when girls are mixed up in it.--hello?--oh; oh-h-h! yes,--it's professor! how are you?--yes, indeed,--oh, yes, i'm going to be home. yes, indeed. come about eight. of course i'll be here,--nothing important,--it didn't amount to anything at all,--just a little old every-day affair.--yes, i can arrange it nicely.--we're so anxious to see you.--all right,--good-by." she turned back to the table, her face flushed, eyes shining. "it's professor! he's in town just overnight, and he's coming out. i'll have to phone joe--" "anything i despise and abominate it's a breaker of dates," chanted connie; "ought to be condemned in the decalogue." "oh, that's different," explained carol. "this is professor! besides, this will sort of even up for the thanksgiving banquet last year." "but that was phil and this is joe!" "oh, that's all right. it's just the principle, you know, nothing personal about it. seven-six-two, please. yes. seven-six-two? is joe there? oh, hello, joe. oh, joe, i'm so sorry to go back on you the last minute like this, but one of my old school-teachers is in town just for to-night and is coming here, and of course i can't leave. i'm so sorry. i've been looking forward to it for so long, but--oh, that is nice of you. you'll forgive me this once, won't you? oh, thanks, joe, you're so kind." "hurry up and phone roy, larkie. you'll have to break yours, too." lark immediately did so, while carol stood thoughtfully beside the table, her brows puckered unbecomingly. "i think," she said at last slowly, with wary eyes on her father's quiet face, "i think i'll let the tuck out of my old rose dress. it's too short." "too short! why, carol--" interrupted her aunt. "too short for the occasion, i mean. i'll put it back to-morrow." once more her eyes turned cautiously father-ward. "you see, professor still has the 'little twinnie' idea in his brain, and i'm going to get it out. it isn't consistent with our five feet seven. we're grown up. professor has got to see it. you skoot up-stairs, connie, won't you, there's a dear, and bring it down, both of them, lark's too. lark,--where did you put that ripping knife? aunt grace, will you put the iron on for me? it's perfectly right that professor should see we're growing up. we'll have to emphasize it something extra, or he might overlook it. it makes him feel methuselish because he's so awfully smart. but i'll soon change his mind for him." lark stoutly refused to be "grown up for the occasion," as carol put it. she said it was too much bother to let out the tuck, and then put it right back in, just for nonsense. at first this disappointed carol, but finally she accepted it gracefully. "all right," she said, "i guess i can grow up enough for both of us. professor is not stupid; if he sees i'm a young lady, he'll naturally know that you are, too, since we are twins. you can help me rip then if you like,--you begin around on that side." in less than two minutes the whole family was engaged in growing carol up for the occasion. they didn't see any sense in it, but carol seemed so unalterably convinced that it was necessary that they hated to question her motives. and, as was both habitual and comfortable, they proceeded to do as she directed. if her idea had been utterly to dumfound the unsuspecting professor, she succeeded admirably. carefully she planned her appearance, giving him just the proper interval of patient waiting in the presence of her aunt and sisters. then, a slow parting of the curtains and carol stood out, brightly, gladly, her slender hands held out in welcome, carol, with long skirts swishing around her white-slippered feet, her slender throat rising cream-white above the soft fold of old rose lace, her graceful head with its royal crown of bronze-gold hair, tilted most charmingly. the professor sprang to his feet and stared at her. "why, carol," he exclaimed soberly, almost sadly, as he crossed the room and took her hand. "why, carol! whatever have you been doing to yourself overnight?" of course, it was far more "overnight" than the professor knew, but carol saw to it that there was nothing to arouse his suspicion on that score. he lifted her hand high, and looked frankly down the long lines of her skirt, with the white toes of her slippers showing beneath. he shook his head. and though he smiled again, his voice was sober. "i'm beginning to feel my age," he said. this was not what carol wanted, and she resumed her old childish manner with a gleeful laugh. "what on earth are you doing in mount mark again, p'fessor!" when carol wished to be particularly coy, she said "p'fessor." it didn't sound exactly cultured, but spoken in carol's voice was really irresistible. "why, i came to see you before your hair turned gray, and wrinkles marred you--" "wrinkles won't mar mine," cried carol emphatically. "not ever! i use up a whole jar of cold cream every three weeks! i won't have 'em. wrinkles! p'fessor, you don't know what a time i have keeping myself young." she joined in the peal of laughter that rang out as this age-wise statement fell from her lips. "you'll be surprised," he said, "what does bring me to mount mark. i have given up my position in new york, and am going to school again in chicago this winter. i shall be here only to-night. to-morrow i begin to study again." "going to school again!" ejaculated carol, and all the others looked at him astonished. "going to school again. why, you know enough, now!" "think so? thanks. but i don't know what i'm going to need from this on. i am changing my line of work. the fact is, i'm going to enter the ministry myself, and will have a couple of years in a theological seminary first." utter stupefaction greeted this explanation. not one word was spoken. "i've been going into these things rather deeply the last two years. i've attended a good many special meetings, and taken some studies along with my regular work. for a year i've felt it would finally come to this, but i preferred my own job, and i thought i would stick it out, as carol says. but i've decided to quit balking, and answer the call." aunt grace nodded, with a warmly approving smile. "i think it's perfectly grand, professor," said fairy earnestly. "perfectly splendid. you will do it wonderfully well, i know, and be a big help--in our business." "but, professor," said carol faintly and falteringly, "didn't you tell me you were to get five thousand dollars a year with the institute from this on?" "yes. i was." carol gazed at her family despairingly. "it would take an awfully loud call to drown the chink of five thousand gold dollars in my ears, i am afraid." "it was a loud call," he said. and he looked at her curiously, for of all the family she alone seemed distrait and unenthusiastic. "professor," she continued anxiously, "i heard one of the bishops say that sometimes young men thought they were called to the ministry when it was too much mince pie for dinner." "i did not have mince pie for dinner," he answered, smiling, but conscious of keen disappointment in his friend. "but, professor," she argued, "can't people do good without preaching? think of all the lovely things you could do with five thousand dollars! think of the influence a prominent educator has! think of--" "i have thought of it, all of it. but haven't i got to answer the call?" "it takes nerve to do it, too," said connie approvingly. "i know just how it is from my own experience. of course, i haven't been called to enter the ministry, but--it works out the same in other things." "indeed, professor," said lark, "we always said you were too nice for any ordinary job. and the ministry is about the only extraordinary job there is!" "tell us all about it," said fairy cordially. "we are so interested in it. of course, we think it is the finest work in the world." she looked reproachfully at carol, but carol made no response. he told them, then, something of his plan, which was very simple. he had arranged for a special course at the seminary in chicago, and then would enter the ministry like any other young man starting upon his life-work. "i'm a presbyterian, you know," he said. "i'll have to go around and preach until i find a church willing to put up with me. i won't have a presiding elder to make a niche for me." he talked frankly, even with enthusiasm, but always he felt the curious disappointment that carol sat there silent, her eyes upon the hands in her lap. once or twice she lifted them swiftly to his face, and lowered them instantly again. only he noticed when they were raised, that they were unusually deep, and that something lay within shining brightly, like the reflection of a star in a clear dark pool of water. "i must go now," he said, "i must have a little visit with my uncle, i just wanted to see you, and tell you about it. i knew you would like it." carol's hand was the first placed in his, and she murmured an inaudible word of farewell, her eyes downcast, and turned quickly away. "don't let them wait for me," she whispered to lark, and then she disappeared. the professor turned away from the hospitable door very much depressed. he shook his head impatiently and thrust his hands deep into his pockets like a troubled boy. half-way down the board walk he stopped, and smiled. carol was standing among the rose bushes, tall and slim in the cloudy moonlight, waiting for him. she held out her hand with a friendly smile. "i came to take you a piece if you want me," she said. "it's so hard to talk when there's a roomful, isn't it? i thought maybe you wouldn't mind." "mind? it was dear of you to think of it," he said gratefully, drawing her hand into the curve of his arm. "i was wishing i could talk with you alone. you won't be cold?" "oh, no, i like to be out in the night air. oh," she protested, when he turned north from the parsonage instead of south, as he should have gone, "i only came for a piece, you know. and you want to visit with your uncle." the long lashes hid the twinkle the professor knew was there, though he could not see it. "yes, all right. but we'll walk a little way first. i'll visit him later on. or i can write him a letter if necessary." he felt at peace with all the world. his resentment toward carol had vanished at the first glimpse of her friendly smile. "i want to talk to you about being a preacher, you know. i think it is the most wonderful thing in the world, i certainly do." her eyes were upon his face now seriously. "i didn't say much, i was surprised, and i was ashamed, too, professor, for i never could do it in the world. never! it always makes me feel cheap and exasperated when i see how much nicer other folks are than i. but i do think it is wonderful. really sometimes, i have thought you ought to be a preacher, because you're so nice. so many preachers aren't, and that's the kind we need." the professor put his other hand over carol's, which was restlessly fingering the crease in his sleeve. he did not speak. her girlish, impulsive words touched him very deeply. "i wouldn't want the girls to know it, they'd think it was so funny, but--" she paused uncertainly, and looked questioningly into his face. "maybe you won't understand what i mean, but sometimes i'd like to be good myself. awfully good, i mean." she smiled whimsically. "wouldn't connie scream if she could hear that? now you won't give me away, will you? but i mean it. i don't think of it very often, but sometimes, why, professor, honestly, i wouldn't care if i were as good as prudence!" she paused dramatically, and the professor pressed the slender hand more closely in his. "oh, i don't worry about it. i suppose one hasn't any business to expect a good complexion and just natural goodness, both at once, but--" she smiled again. "five thousand dollars," she added dreamily. "five thousand dollars! what shall i call you now? p'fesser is not appropriate any more, is it?" "call me david, won't you, carol? or dave." carol gasped. "oh, mercy! what would prudence say?" she giggled merrily. "oh, mercy!" she was silent a moment then. "i'll have to be contented with plain mr. duke, i suppose, until you get a d.d. duckie, d.d.," she added laughingly. but in an instant she was sober again. "i do love our job. if i were a man i'd be a minister myself. reverend carol starr," she said loftily, then laughed. carol's laughter always followed fast upon her earnest words. "reverend carol starr. wouldn't i be a peach?" he laughed, too, recovering his equanimity as her customary buoyant brightness returned to her. "you are," he said, and carol answered: "thanks," very dryly. "we must go back now," she added presently. and they turned at once, walking slowly back toward the parsonage. "can't you write to me a little oftener, carol? i hate to be a bother, but my uncle never writes letters, and i like to know how my friends here are getting along, marriages, and deaths, and just plain gossip. i'll like it very much if you can. i do enjoy a good correspondence with--" "do you?" she asked sweetly. "how you have changed! when i was a freshman i remember you told me you received nothing but business letters, because you didn't want to take time to write letters, and--" "did i?" for a second he seemed a little confused. "well, i'm not crazy about writing letters, as such. but i'll be so glad to get yours that i know i'll even enjoy answering them." inside the parsonage gate they stood a moment among the rose bushes. once again she offered her hand, and he took it gravely, looking with sober intentness into her face, a little pale in the moonlight. he noted again the royal little head with its grown-up crown of hair, and the slender figure with its grown-up length of skirt. then he put his arms around her, and kissed her warmly upon the childish unexpecting lips. a swift red flooded her face, and receding as swiftly, left her pale. her lips quivered a little, and she caught her hands together. then sturdily, and only slightly tremulous, she looked into his eyes and laughed. the professor was in nowise deceived by her attempt at light-heartedness, remembering as he did the quick quivering of the lips beneath his, and the unconscious yielding of the supple body in his arms. he condemned himself mentally in no uncertain terms for having yielded to the temptation of her young loveliness. carol still laughed, determined by her merriment to set the seal of insignificance upon the act. "come and walk a little farther, carol," he said in a low voice. "i want to say something else." then after a few minutes of silence, he began rather awkwardly, and david arnold duke was not usually awkward: "carol, you'll think i'm a cad to say what i'm going to, after doing what i have just done, but i'll have to risk that. you shouldn't let men kiss you. it isn't right. you're too pretty and sweet and fine for it. i know you don't allow it commonly, but don't at all. i hate to think of any one even touching a girl like you." carol leaned forward, tilting back her head, and looking up at him roguishly, her face a-sparkle. he blushed more deeply. "oh, i know it," he said. "i'm ashamed of myself. but i can't help what you think of me. i do think you shouldn't let them, and i hope you won't. they're sure to want to." "yes," she said quietly, very grown-up indeed just then, "yes, they do. aren't men funny? they always want to. sometimes we hear old women say, 'men are all alike.' i never believe it. i hate old women who say it. but--are they all alike, professor?" "no," he said grimly, "they are not. but i suppose any man would like to kiss a girl as sweet as you are. but men are not all alike. don't you believe it. you won't then, will you?" "won't believe it? no." "i mean," he said, almost stammering in his confusion, "i mean you won't let them touch you." carol smiled teasingly, but in a moment she spoke, and very quietly. "p'fessor, i'll tell you a blood-red secret if you swear up and down you'll never tell anybody. i've never told even lark--well, one night, when i was a sophomore,--do you remember bud garvin?" "yes, tall fellow with black hair and eyes, wasn't he? in the freshman zoology class." "yes. well, he took me home from a party. hartley took lark, and they got in first. and bud, well--he put his arm around me, and--maybe you don't know it, professor, but there's a big difference in girls, too. now some girls are naturally good. prudence is, and so's lark. but fairy and i--well, we've got a lot of the original adam in us. most girls, especially in books--nice girls, i mean, and you know i'm nice--they can't bear to have boys touch them.--p'fessor, i like it, honestly i do, if i like the boy. bud's rather nice, and i let him--oh, just a little, but it made me nervous and excited. but i liked it. prudence was away, and i hated to talk to lark that night so i sneaked in fairy's room and asked if i might sleep with her. she said i could, and told me to turn on the light, it wouldn't disturb her. but i was so hot i didn't want any light, so i undressed as fast as i could and crept in. somehow, from the way i snuggled up to fairy, she caught on. i was out of breath, really i was ashamed of myself, but i wasn't just sure then whether i'd ever let him put his arm around me again or not. but fairy turned over, and began to talk. professor," she said solemnly, "fairy and i always pretend to be snippy and sarcastic and sneer at each other, but in my heart, i think fairy is very nearly as good as prudence, yes, sir, i do. why, fairy's fine, she's just awfully fine." "yes, i'm sure she is." "she said that once, when she was fifteen, one of the boys at exminster kissed her good night. and she didn't mind it a bit. but father was putting the horses in the barn, and he came out just in time to see it; it was a moonlight night. after the boys had gone, father hurried in and took fairy outdoors for a little talk, just the two of them alone. he said that in all the years he and my mother were married, every time he kissed her he remembered that no man but he had ever touched her lips, and it made him happy. he said he was always sort of thanking god inside, whenever he held her in his arms. he said nothing else in the world made a man so proud, and glad and grateful, as to know his wife was all his own, and that even her lips had been reserved for him like a sacred treasure that no one else could share. he said it would take the meanest man on earth, and father thinks there aren't many as mean as that, to go back on a woman like that. fairy said she burst out crying because her husband wouldn't ever be able to feel that way when he kissed her. but father said since she was so young, and innocent, and it being the first time, it wouldn't really count. fairy swore off that minute,--never again! of course, when i knew how father felt about mother, i wanted my husband to have as much pleasure in me as father did in her, and fairy and i made a solemn resolve that we would never, even 'hold hands,' and that's very simple, until we got crazy enough about a man to think we'd like to marry him if we got a chance. and i never have since then, not once." "carol," he said in a low voice, "i wish i had known it. i wouldn't have kissed you for anything. god knows i wouldn't. i--i think i am man enough not to have done it anyhow if i had only thought a minute, but god knows i wouldn't have done it if i had known about this. you don't know how--contemptible--i feel." "oh, that's all right," she said comfortingly, her eyes glowing. "that's all right. we just meant beaux, you know. we didn't include uncles, and fathers, and old school-teachers, and things like that. you don't count. that isn't breaking my pledge." the professor smiled, but he remembered the quivering lips, and the relaxing of the lithe body, and the forced laughter, and was not deceived. "you're such a strange girl, carol. you're so honest, usually, so kind-hearted, so generous. but you always seem trying to make yourself look bad, not physically, that isn't what i mean." carol smiled, and her loving fingers caressed her soft cheek. "but you try to make folks think you are vain and selfish, when you are not. why do you do it? every one knows what you really are. all over mount mark they say you are the best little kid in town." "they do!" she said indignantly. "well, they'd better not. here i've spent years building up my reputation to suit myself, and then they go and shatter me like that. they'd better leave me alone." "but what's the object?" "why, you know, p'fessor," she said, carefully choosing her words, "you know, it's a pretty hard job living up to a good reputation. look at prudence, and fairy, and lark. every one just naturally expects them to be angelically and dishearteningly good. and if they aren't, folks talk. but take me now. no one expects anything of me, and if once in a while, i do happen to turn out all right by accident, it's a sort of joyful surprise to the whole community. it's lots more fun surprising folks by being better than they expect, than shocking them by turning out worse than they think you will." "but it doesn't do you any good," he assured her. "you can't fool them. mount mark knows its carol." "you're not going?" she said, as he released her hand and straightened the collar of his coat. "yes, your father will chase me off if i don't go now. how about the letters, carol? think you can manage a little oftener?" "i'd love to. it's so inspiring to get a letter from a five-thousand-dollars-a-year scientist, i mean, a was-once. do my letters sound all right? i don't want to get too chummy, you know." "get as chummy as you can," he urged her. "i enjoy it." "i'll have to be more dignified if you're going to mccormick. presbyterian! the presbyterians are very dignified. i'll have to be formal from this on. dear sir: respectfully yours. is that proper?" he took her hands in his. "good-by, little pal. thank you for coming out, and for telling me the things you have. you have done me good. you are a breath of fresh sweet air." "it's my powder," she said complacently. "it does smell good, doesn't it? it cost a dollar a box. i borrowed the dollar from aunt grace. don't let on before father. he thinks we use mennen's baby--twenty-five cents a box. we didn't tell him so, but he just naturally thinks it. it was the breath of that dollar powder you were talking about." she moved her fingers slightly in his hand, and he looked down at them. then he lifted them and looked again, admiring the slender fingers and the pink nails. "don't look," she entreated. "they're teaching me things. i can't help it. this spot on my thumb is fried egg, here are three doughnuts on my arm,--see them? and here's a regular pancake." she pointed out the pancake in her palm, sorrowfully. "teaching you things, are they?" "yes. i have to darn. look at the tips of my fingers, that's where the needle rusted off on me. here's where i cut a slice of bread out of my thumb! isn't life serious?" "yes, very serious." he looked thoughtfully down at her hands again as they lay curled up in his own. "very, very serious." "good-by." "good-by." he held her hand a moment longer, and then turned suddenly away. she watched until he was out of sight, and then slipped up-stairs, undressed in the dark and crept in between the covers. lark apparently was sound asleep. carol giggled softly to herself a few times, and lark opened one eye, asking, "what's amatter?" "oh, such a good joke on p'fessor," whispered carol, squeezing her twin with rapture. "he doesn't know it yet, but he'll be so disgusted with himself when he finds it out." "what in the world is it?" lark was more coherent now. "i can't tell, lark, but it's a dandy. my, he'll feel cheap when he finds out." "maybe he won't find it out." "oh, yes, he will," was the confident answer, "i'll see that he does." she began laughing again. "what is it?" "i can't tell you, but you'll certainly scream if you ever do know it." "you can't tell me?" lark was wide awake, and quite aghast. "no, i can't, i truly can't." lark drew away from the encircling arm with as much dignity as could be expressed in the dark and in bed, and sent out a series of deep breaths, as if to indicate that snores were close at hand. carol laughed to herself for a while, until lark really slept, then she buried her head in the pillow and her throat swelled with sobs that were heavy but soundless. the next morning was lark's turn for making the bed. and when she shook up carol's pillow she found it was very damp. "why, the little goose," she said to herself, smiling, "she laughed until she cried, all by herself. and then she turned the pillow over thinking i wouldn't see it. the little goose! and what on earth was she laughing at?" chapter x jerry junior for some time the twins ignored the atmosphere of solemn mystery which pervaded their once so cheerful home. but when it finally reached the limit of their endurance they marched in upon their aunt and fairy with an admirable admixture of dignity and indignation in their attitude. "who's haunted?" inquired carol abruptly. "where's the criminal?" demanded lark. "yes, little twins, talk english and maybe you'll learn something." and for the moment the anxious light in fairy's eyes gave way to a twinkle. sad indeed was the day when fairy could not laugh at the twins. "then, in common vernacular, though it is really beneath us, what's up?" fairy turned innocently inquiring eyes toward the ceiling. "what indeed?" "oh, don't try to be dramatic, fairy," counseled lark. "you're too fat for a star-starr." the twins beamed at each other approvingly at this, and fairy smiled. but carol returned promptly to the charge. "are jerry and prudence having domestic difficulties? there's something going on, and we want to know. father looks like a fallen samson, and--" "a fallen samson, carol! mercy! where did you get it?" "yes, kind of sheepish, and ashamed, and yet hopeful of returning strength. that's art, a simile like that is.--prudence writes every day, and you hide the letters. and aunt grace sneaks around like a convict with her hand under her apron. and you look as heavy-laden as if you were carrying connie's conscience around with you." aunt grace looked at fairy, fairy looked at aunt grace. aunt grace raised her eyebrows. fairy hesitated, nodded, smiled. slowly then aunt grace drew one hand from beneath her apron and showed to the eagerly watching twins, a tiny, hand embroidered dress. they stared at it, fascinated, half frightened, and then looked into the serious faces of their aunt and sister. "i--i don't believe it," whispered carol. "she's not old enough." aunt grace smiled. "she's older than mother was," said fairy. lark took the little dress and examined it critically. "the neck's too small," she announced decidedly. "nothing could wear that." "we're using this for a pattern," said fairy, lifting a yellowed, much worn garment from the sewing basket. "i wore this, and so did you and so did connie,--my lovely child." carol rubbed her hand about her throat in a puzzled way. "i can't seem to realize that we ever grew out of that," she said slowly. "is prudence all right?" "yes, just fine." the twins looked at each other bashfully. then, "i'll bet there'll be no living with jerry after this," said lark. "oh, papa," lisped carol, in a high-pitched voice supposed to represent the tone of a little child. they both giggled, and blinked hard to crowd back the tears that wouldn't stay choked down. prudence! and that! "and see here, twins, prudence has a crazy notion that she wants to come home for it. she says she'll be scared in a hospital, and jerry's willing to come here with her. what do you think about it?" the twins looked doubtful. "they say it ought to be done in a hospital," announced carol gravely. "jerry can afford it." "yes, he wanted to. but prudence has set her heart on coming home. she says she'll never feel that jerry junior got the proper start if it happens any place else. they'll have a trained nurse." "jerry--what?" gasped the twins, after a short silence due to amazement. "jerry junior,--that's what they call it." "but how on earth do they know?" "they don't know. but they have to call it something, haven't they? and they want a jerry junior. so of course they'll get it. for prudence is good enough to get whatever she wants." "hum, that's no sign," sniffed carol. "i don't get everything i want, do i?" the girls laughed, from habit not from genuine interest, at carol's subtle insinuation. "well, shall we have her come?" "yes," said carol, "but you tell prue she needn't expect me to hold it until it gets too big to wiggle. i call them nasty, treacherous little things. mrs. miller made me hold hers, and it squirmed right off my knee. i wanted to spank it." "and tell prudence to uphold the parsonage and have a white one," added lark. "these little indian effects don't make a hit with me." "are you going to tell connie?" "i don't think so--yet. connie's only fourteen." "you tell her." carol's voice was emphatic. "there's nothing mysterious about it. everybody does it. and connie may have a few suggestions of her own to offer. you tell prue i'm thinking out a lot of good advice for her, and--" "you must write her yourselves. she wanted us to tell you long before." fairy picked up the little embroidered dress and kissed it, but her fond eyes were anxious. so a few weeks later, weeks crowded full of tumult and anxiety, yes, and laughter, too, prudence and jerry came to mount mark and settled down to quiet life in the parsonage. the girls kissed prudence very often, leaped quickly to do her errands, and touched her with nervous fingers. but mostly they sat across the room and regarded her curiously, shyly, quite maternally. "carol and lark starr," prudence cried crossly one day, when she intercepted one of these surreptitious glances, "you march right up-stairs and shut yourselves up for thirty minutes. and if you ever sit around and stare at me like a stranger again, i'll spank you both. i'm no outsider. i belong here just as much as ever i did. and i'm still the head of things around here, too!" the twins obediently marched, and after that prudence was more like prudence, and the twins were much more twinnish, so that life was very nearly normal in the old parsonage. prudence said she couldn't feel quite satisfied because the twins were too old to be punished, but she often scolded them in her gentle teasing way, and the twins enjoyed it more than anything else that happened during those days of quiet. then came a night when the four sisters huddled breathlessly in the kitchen, and aunt grace and the trained nurse stayed with prudence behind the closed door of the front room up-stairs. and the doctor went in, too, after he had inflicted a few light-hearted remarks upon the two men in the little library. after that--silence, an immense hushing silence,--settled down over the parsonage. jerry and mr. starr, alone in the library, where a faint odor of drugs, anesthetics, something that smelled like hospitals lingered, stared away from each other with persistent determination. now and then jerry walked across the room, but mr. starr stood motionless by the window looking down at the cherry tree beneath him, wondering vaguely how it dared to be so full of snowy blooms! "where are the girls?" jerry asked, picking up a roll of cotton which had been left on the library table, and flinging it from him as though it scorched his fingers. "i--think i'll go and see," said mr. starr, turning heavily. jerry hesitated a minute. "i--think i'll go along," he said. for an instant their eyes met, sympathetically, and did not smile though their lips curved. down in the kitchen, meanwhile, fairy sat somberly beside the table with a pile of darning which she jabbed at viciously with the needle. lark was perched on the ice chest, but carol, true to her childish instincts, hunched on the floor with her feet curled beneath her. connie leaned against the table within reach of fairy's hand. "they're awfully slow," she complained once. nobody answered. the deadly silence clutched them. "oh, talk," carol blurted out desperately. "you make me sick! it isn't anything to be so awfully scared about. everybody does it." a little mumble greeted this, and then, silence again. whenever it grew too painful, carol said reproachfully, "everybody does it." and no one ever answered. they looked up expectantly when the men entered. it seemed cozier somehow when they were all together in the little kitchen. "is she all right?" "sure, she's all right," came the bright response from their father. and then silence. "oh, you make me sick," cried carol. "everybody does it." "carol starr, if you say 'everybody does it' again i'll send you to bed," snapped fairy. "don't we know everybody does it? but prudence isn't everybody." "maybe we'd better have a lunch," suggested their father hopefully, knowing the thought of food often aroused his family when all other means had failed. but his suggestion met with dark reproach. "father, if you're hungry, take a piece of bread out into the woodshed," begged connie. "if anybody eats anything before me i shall jump up and down and scream." their father smiled faintly and gave it up. after that the silence was unbroken save once when carol began encouragingly: "every--" "sure they do," interrupted fairy uncompromisingly. and then--the hush. long, long after that, when the girls' eyes were heavy, not with want of sleep, but just with unspeakable weariness of spirit,--they heard a step on the stair. "come on up, harmer," the doctor called. and then, "sure, she's all right. she's fine and dandy,--both of them are." jerry was gone in an instant, and mr. starr looked after him with inscrutable eyes. "fathers are--only fathers," he said enigmatically. "yes," agreed carol. "yes. in a crisis, the other man goes first." his daughters turned to him then, tenderly, sympathetically. "you had your turn, father," connie consoled him. and felt repaid for the effort when he smiled at her. "they are both fine, you know," said carol. "the doctor said so." "we heard him," fairy assured her. "yes, i said all the time you were all awfully silly about it. i knew it was all right. everybody does it." "jerry junior," lark mused. "he's here.--'aunt lark, may i have a cooky?'" a few minutes later the door was carefully shoved open by means of a cautious foot, and jerry stood before them, holding in his arms a big bundle of delicately tinted flannel. "ladies and gentlemen," he began, beaming at them, his face flushed, his eyes bright, embarrassed, but thoroughly satisfied. of course, prudence was the dearest girl in the world, and he adored her, and--but this was different, this was fatherhood! [illustration: let me introduce to you my little daughter] "ladies and gentlemen," he said again in the tender, half-laughing voice that prudence loved, "let me introduce to you my little daughter, fairy harmer." "not--not fairy!" cried fairy, senior, tearfully. "oh, jerry, i don't believe it. not fairy! you are joking." "of course it is fairy," he said. "look out, connie, do you want to break part of my daughter off the first thing? oh, i see. it was just the flannel, was it? well, you must be careful of the flannel, for when ladies are the size of this one, you can't tell which is flannel and which is foot. fairy harmer! here, grandpa, what do you think of this? and prudence said to send you right up-stairs, and hurry. and the girls must go to bed immediately or they'll be sick to-morrow. prudence says so." "oh, that's enough. that's prudence all over! you needn't tell us any more. here, fairy harmer, let us look at you. hold her down, jerry. mercy! mercy!" "isn't she a beauty?" boasted the young father proudly. "a beauty? a beauty! that!" carol rubbed her slender fingers over her own velvety cheek. "they talk about the matchless skin of a new-born infant. thanks. i'd just as lief have my own." "oh, she isn't acclimated yet, that's all. do you think she looks like me?" "no, jerry, i don't," said lark candidly. "i never considered you a dream of loveliness by any means, but in due honesty i must admit that you don't look like that." "why, it hasn't any hair!" connie protested. "well, give it time," urged the baby's father. "be reasonable, connie. what can you expect in fifteen minutes." "but they always have a little hair," she insisted. "no, indeed they don't, miss connie," he said flatly. "for if they always did, ours would have. now, don't try to let on there's anything the matter with her, for there isn't.--look at her nose, if you don't like her hair.--what do you think of a nose like that now? just look at it." "yes, we're looking at it," was the grim reply. "and--and chin,--look at her chin. see here, do you mean to say you are making fun of fairy harmer? come on, tootsie, we'll go back up-stairs. they're crazy about us up there." "oh, see the cunning little footies," crowed connie. "here, cover 'em up," said jerry anxiously. "you mustn't let their feet stick out. prudence says so. it's considered very--er, bad form, i believe." "fairy! honestly, jerry, is it fairy? when did you decide?" "oh, a long time ago," he said, "years ago, i guess. you see, we always wanted a girl. prue didn't think she had enough experience with the stronger sex yet, and of course i'm strong for the ladies. but it seems that what you want is what you don't get. so we decided to call her fairy when she came, and then we wanted a boy, and talked boy, and got the girl! i guess it always works just that way, if you manage it cleverly. come now, fairy, you needn't wrinkle up that smudge of a nose at me.--let go, connie, it is my daughter's bedtime. there now, there now, baby, was she her daddy's little girl?" flushed and laughing, jerry broke away from the admiring, giggling, nearly tearful girls, and hurried up-stairs with jerry junior. but fairy stood motionless by the door. "prudence's baby," she whispered. "little fairy harmer!--mmmmmmm!" chapter xi the end of fairy now that the twins had attained to the dignity of eighteen years, and were respectable students at the thoroughly respectable presbyterian college, they had dates very frequently. and it was along about this time that mr. starr developed a sudden interest in the evening callers at his home. he bobbed up unannounced in most unexpected places and at most unexpected hours. he walked about the house with a sharp sly look in his eyes, in a way that could only be described as carol said, by "downright nosiness." the girls discussed this new phase of his character when they were alone, but decided not to mention it to him, for fear of hurting his feelings. "maybe he's got a new kind of a sermon up his brain," said carol. "maybe he's beginning to realize that his clothes are wearing out again," suggested lark. "he's too young for second childhood," connie thought. so they watched him curiously. aunt grace, too, observed this queer devotion on the part of the minister, and finally her curiosity overcame her habit of keeping silent. "william," she said gently, "what's the matter with you lately? is there anything on your mind?" mr. starr started nervously. "my mind? of course not. why?" "you seem to be looking for something. you watch the girls so closely, you're always hanging around, and--" he smiled broadly. "thanks for that. 'hanging around,' in my own parsonage. that is the gratitude of a loving family!" aunt grace smiled. "well, i see there's nothing much the matter with you. i was seriously worried. i thought there was something wrong, and--" "sort of mentally unbalanced, is that it? oh, no, i'm just watching my family." she looked up quickly. "watching the family! you mean--" "carol," he said briefly. "carol! you're watching--" "oh, only in the most honorable way, of course. you see," he gave his explanation with an air of relief, "prudence always says i must keep an eye on carol. she's so pretty, and the boys get stuck on her, and--that's what prudence says. i forgot all about it for a while. but lately i have begun to notice that the boys are older, and--we don't want carol falling in love with the wrong man. i got uneasy. i decided to watch out. i'm the head of this family, you know." "such an idea!" scoffed aunt grace, who was not at all of a scoffing nature. "carol was born for lovers, prudence says so. and these men's girls have to be watched, or the wrong fellow will get ahead, and--" "carol doesn't need watching--not any more at least." "i'm not really watching her, you know. i'm just keeping my eyes open." "but carol's all right. that's one time prudence was away off." she smiled as she recognized a bit of carol's slang upon her lips. "don't worry about her. you needn't keep an eye on her any more. she's coming, all right." "you don't think there's any danger of her falling in love with the wrong man?" "no." "there aren't many worth-having fellows in mount mark, you know." "carol won't fall in love with a mount mark fellow." "you seem very positive." "yes, i'm positive." he looked thoughtful for a while. "well, prudence always told me to watch carol, so i could help her if she needed it." "girls always need their fathers," came the quick reply. "but carol does not need you particularly. there's only one of them who will require especial attention." "that's what prudence says." "yes, just one--not carol." "not carol!" he looked at her in astonishment. "why, fairy and lark are--different. they're all right. they don't need attention." "no. it's the other one." "the other one! that's all." "there's connie." "connie?" "yes." "connie?" "yes." "you don't mean connie." aunt grace smiled. "why, grace, you're--you're off. excuse me for saying it, but--you're crazy. connie--why, connie has never been any trouble in her life. connie!" "you've never had any friction with connie, she's always been right so far. one of these days she's pretty likely to be wrong, and connie doesn't yield very easily." "but connie's so sober and straight, and--" "that's the kind." "she's so conscientious." "yes, conscientious." "she's--look here, grace, there's nothing the matter with connie." "of course not, william. that isn't what i mean. but you ought to be getting very, very close to connie right now, for one of these days she's going to need a lot of that extra companionship prudence told you about. connie wants to know everything. she wants to see everything. none of the other girls ever yearned for city life. connie does. she says when she is through school she's going to the city." "what city?" "any city." "what for?" "for experience." mr. starr looked about him helplessly. "there's experience right here," he protested feebly. "lots of it. entirely too much of it." "well, that's connie. she wants to know, to see, to feel. she wants to live. get close to her, get chummy. she may not need it, and then again she may. she's very young yet." "all right, i will. it is well i have some one to steer me along the proper road." he looked regretfully out of the window. "i ought to be able to see these things for myself, but the girls seem perfectly all right to me. they always have. i suppose it's because they're mine." aunt grace looked at him affectionately. "it's because they're the finest girls on earth," she declared. "that's why. but we want to be ready to help them if they need it, just because they are so fine. they will every one be splendid, if we give them the right kind of a chance." he sat silent a moment. "i've always wanted one of them to marry a preacher," he said, laughing apologetically. "it is very narrow-minded, of course, but a man does make a hobby of his own profession. i always hoped prudence would. i thought she was born for it. then i looked to fairy, and she turned me down. i guess i'll have to give up the notion now." she looked at him queerly. "maybe not." "connie might, i suppose." "connie," she contradicted promptly, "will probably marry a genius, or a rascal, or a millionaire." he looked dazed at that. she leaned forward a little. "carol might." "carol--" "she might." she watched him narrowly, a smile in her eyes. "carol's too worldly." "you don't believe that." "no, not really. carol--she--why, you know when i think of it, carol wouldn't be half bad for a minister's wife. she has a sense of humor, that is very important. she's generous, she's patient, she's unselfish, a good mixer,--some of the ladies might think her complexion wasn't real, but--grace, carol wouldn't be half bad!" "oh, william," she sighed, "can't you remember that you are a methodist minister, and a grandfather, and--grow up a little?" after that mr. starr returned to normal again, only many times he and connie had little outings together, and talked a great deal. and aunt grace, seeing it, smiled with satisfaction. but the twins and fairy settled it in their own minds by saying, "father was just a little jealous of all the beaux. he was looking for a pal, and he's found connie." but in spite of his new devotion to connie, mr. starr also spent a great deal of time with fairy. "we must get fast chums, fairy," he often said to her. "this is our last chance. we have to get cemented for a lifetime, you know." and fairy, when he said so, caught his hand and laughed a little tremulously. indeed, he was right when he said it was his last chance with fairy in the parsonage. two weeks before her commencement she had slipped into the library and closed the door cautiously behind her. "father," she said, "would you be very sorry if i didn't teach school after all?" "not a bit," came the ready answer. "i mean if i--you see, father, since you sent me to college i feel as if i ought to work and--help out." "that's nonsense," he said, drawing the tall girl down to his knees. "i can take care of my own family, thanks. are you trying to run me out of my job? if you want to work, all right, do it, but for yourself, and not for us. or if you want to do anything else," he did not meet her eyes, "if you want to stay at home a year or so before you get married, it would please us better than anything else. and when you want to marry gene, we're expecting it, you know." "yes, i know," she fingered the lapel of his coat uneasily. "do you care how soon i get married?" "are you still sure it is gene?" "yes, i'm sure." "then i think you should choose your own time. i am in no hurry. but any time,--it's for you, and gene, to decide." "then you haven't set your heart on my teaching?" "i set my heart on giving you the best chance possible. and i have done it. for the rest, it depends on you. you may work, or you may stay at home a while. i only want you to be happy, fairy." "but doesn't it seem foolish to go clear through college, and spend the money, and then--marry without using the education?" "i do not think so. they've been fine years, and you are finer because of them. there's just as much opportunity to use your fineness in a home of your own as in a public school. that's the way i look at it." "you don't think i'm too young?" "you're pretty young," he said slowly. "i can hardly say, fairy. you've always been capable and self-possessed. when you and gene get so crazy about each other you can't bear to be apart any longer, it's all right here." she put her arm around his neck and rubbed her fingers over his cheek lovingly. "you understand, don't you, father, that i'm just going to be plain married when the time comes? not a wedding like prudence's. gene, and the girls, and prue and jerry, and you, father, that is all." "yes, all right. it's your day, you know." "and we won't talk much about it beforehand. we all know how we feel about things. it would be silly for me to try to tell you what a grand sweet father you've been to us. i can't tell you,--if i tried i'd only cry. you know what i think." his face was against hers, and his eyes were away from her, so fairy did not see the moisture in his eyes when he said in a low voice: "yes, i know fairy. and i don't need to say what fine girls you are, and how proud i am of you. you know it already. but sometimes," he added slowly, "i wonder that i haven't been a bigger man, and haven't done finer work, with a houseful of girls like mine." her arm pressed more closely about his neck. "father," she whispered, "don't say that. we think you are wonderfully splendid, just as you are. it isn't what you've said, not what you've done for us, it's just because you have always made us so sure of you. we never had to wonder about father, or ask ourselves--we were sure. we've always had you." she leaned over and kissed him again. "there never was such a father, they all say so, prudence and connie, and the twins, too! there couldn't be another like you! now we understand each other, don't we?" "i guess so. anyhow, i understand that there'll only be three daughters in the parsonage pretty soon. all right, fairy. i know you will be happy." he paused a moment. "so will i." but the months passed, and fairy seemed content to stay quietly at home, embroidering as prudence had done, laughing at the twins as they tripped gaily, riotously through college. and then in the early spring, she sent an urgent note to prudence. "you must come home for a few days, prue, you and jerry. it's just because i want you and i need you, and i know you won't go back on me. i want you to get here on the early afternoon train tuesday, and stay till the last of the week. just wire that you are coming--the three of you. i know you'll be here, since it is i who ask it." it followed naturally that prudence's answer was satisfactory. "of course we'll come." fairy's plans were very simple. "we'll have a nice family dinner tuesday evening,--we'll get mrs. green to come and cook and have her niece to serve it,--that'll leave us free to visit every minute. i'll plan the dinner. then we'll all be together, nice and quiet, just our own little bunch. don't have dates, twins,--of course gene will be here, but he's part of the family, and we don't want outsiders this time. his parents will be in town, and i've asked them to come up. i want a real family reunion just for once, and it's my party, for i started it. so you must let me have it my own way." fairy was generally willing to leave the initiative to the eager twins, but when she made a plan it was generally worth adopting, and the other members of the family agreed to her arrangements without demur. after the first confusion of welcoming prudence home, and making fun of "daddy jerry," and testing the weight and length of little fairy, they all settled down to a parsonage home-gathering. just a few minutes before the dinner hour, fairy took her father's hand. "come into the lime-light," she said softly, "i want you." he passed little fairy over to the outstretched arms of the nearest auntie, and allowed himself to be led into the center of the room. "gene," said fairy, and he came to her quickly, holding out a slender roll of paper. "it's our license," said fairy. "we think we'd like to be married now, father, if you will." he looked at her questioningly, but understandingly. the girls clustered about them with eager outcries, half protest, half encouragement. "it's my day, you know," cried fairy, "and this is my way." she held out her hand, and gene took it very tenderly in his. mr. starr looked at them gravely for a moment, and then in the gentle voice that the parsonage girls insisted was his most valuable ministerial asset, he gave his second girl in marriage. it surely was fairy's way, plain and sweet, without formality. and the dinner that followed was just a happy family dinner. fairy's face was so glowing with content, and gene's attitude was so tender, and so ludicrously proud, that the twins at last were convinced that this was right, and all was well. but that evening, when gene's parents had gone away, and after fairy and gene themselves had taken the carriage to the station for their little vacation together, and jerry and prudence were putting little fairy to bed, the three girls left in the home sat drearily in their bedroom and talked it over. "we're thinning out," said connie. "who next?" "we'll stick around as long as we like, miss connie, you needn't try to shuffle us off," said lark indignantly. "prudence, and fairy,--it was pretty cute of fairy, wasn't it?" "let's go to bed," said carol, rising. "i suppose we'll feel better in the morning. a good sleep is almost as filling as a big meal after a blow like this. well, that's the end of fairy. we have to make the best of us. come on, larkie. you've still got us to boss you, con, so you needn't feel too forlorn. my, but the house is still! in some ways i think this family is positively sickening. good night, connie. and, after this, when you want to eat candy in bed, please use your own. i got chocolate all over my foot last night. good night, connie. well, it's the end of fairy. the family is going to pieces, sure enough." chapter xii sowing seeds "have you seen mrs. harbert lately, carol?" "yes, she's better, father. i was there a few minutes yesterday." "yesterday? you were there tuesday, weren't you?" carol looked uncomfortable. "why, yes, i was, just for a second." "she tells me you've been running in nearly every day since she took sick." carol bent sharply inquiring eyes upon her father. "what else did she tell you?" "she said you were an angel." "y-yes,--she seems somehow to think i do it for kindness." "and don't you?" "why, no, father, of course i don't. it's only two blocks out of my way and it's such fun to pop in on sick folks and show them how disgustingly strong and well i am." "where did you get the money for that basket of fruit?" "i borrowed it from aunt grace." carol's face was crimson with mortification. "but it'll be a sweet time before mrs. harbert gets anything else from me. she promised she wouldn't tell." "did any of the others know about the fruit?" "why--not--exactly." "but she thinks it was from the whole family. she thanked me for it." "i--i made her think that," carol explained. "i want her to think we're the nicest parsonage bunch they've ever had in mount mark. besides, it really was from the family. aunt grace loaned me the money and i'll have to borrow it from you to pay her. and lark did my dusting so i could go on the errand, though she did not know what it was. and i--er--accidentally took one of connie's ribbons to tie it with. isn't that a family gift?" "mr. scott tells me you are the prime mover in the junior league now," he continued. "well, goodness knows our junior league needs a mover of some sort." "and mrs. davies says you are a whole mercy and help department all by yourself." "what i can't understand," said carol mournfully, "is why folks don't keep their mouths shut. i know that sounds very inelegant, but it expresses my idea perfectly. can't i have a good time in my own way without the whole church pedaling me from door to door?" the twinkle in her father's eyes deepened. "what do you call it, carol, 'sowing seeds of kindness'?" "i should say not," came the emphatic retort. "i call it sowing seeds of fun. it's a circus to go around and gloat over folks when they are sick or sorry, or--" "but they tell me you don't gloat. mrs. marling says you cried with jeanie half a day when her dog died." "oh, that's my way of gloating," said carol, nothing daunted, but plainly glad to get away without further interrogation. it was a strange thing that of all the parsonage girls, carol, light-hearted, whimsical, mischievous carol, was the one most dear to the hearts of her father's people. not the gentle prudence, nor charming fairy, not clever lark nor conscientious connie, could rival the "naughty twin" in mount mark's affections. and in spite of her odd curt speeches, and her openly-vaunted vanity, mount mark insisted she was "good." certainly she was willing! "get carol starr,--she'll do it," was the commonest phrase in mount mark's vocabulary. whatever was wanted, whatever the sacrifice involved, carol stood ready to fill the bill. not for kindness,--oh, dear no,--carol staunchly disclaimed any such niceness as that. she did it for fun, pure and simple. she said she liked to show off. she insisted that she liked to feel that she was the pivot on which little old mount mark turned. but this was only when she was found out. as far as she could she kept her little "seeds of fun" carefully up her sleeve, and it was only when the indiscreet adoration of her friends brought the budding plants to light, that she laughingly declared "it was a circus to go and gloat over folks." once in the early dusk of a summer evening, she discovered old ben peters, half intoxicated, slumbering noisily on a pile of sacks in a corner of the parsonage barn. carol was sorry, but not at all frightened. the poor, kindly, weak, old man was as familiar to her as any figure in mount mark. he was always in a more or less helpless state of intoxication, but also he was always harmless, kind-hearted and generous. she prodded him vigorously with the handle of the pitch-fork until he was aroused to consciousness, and then guided him into the woodshed with the buggy whip. when he was seated on a chunk of wood she faced him sternly. "well, you are a dandy," she said. "going into a parsonage barn, of all places in the world, to sleep off an odor like yours! why didn't you go down to fred greer's harness shop, that's where you got it. we're such an awfully temperance town, you know! but the parsonage! why, if the trustees had happened into the barn and caught a whiff of that smell, father'd have lost his job. now you just take warning from me, and keep away from this parsonage until you can develop a good methodist odor. oh, don't cry about it! your very tears smell rummy. just you hang on to that chunk of wood, and i'll bring you some coffee." like a thief in the night she sneaked into the house, and presently returned with a huge tin of coffee, steaming hot. he drank it eagerly, but kept a wary eye on the haughty twin, who stood above him with the whip in her hand. "that's better. now, sit down and listen to me. if you would come to the parsonage, you have to take your medicine. silver and gold have we none, but such as we have we give to you. and religion's all we've got. you're here, and i'm here. we haven't any choir or any bible, but parsonage folks have to be adaptable. now then, ben peters, you've got to get converted." the poor doddering old fellow, sobered by this awful announcement, looked helplessly at the window. it was too small. and slender active carol, with the buggy whip, stood between him and the door. "no, you can't escape. you're done for this time,--it's the straight and narrow from this on. now listen,--it's really very simple. and you need it pretty badly, ben. of course you don't realize it when you're drunk, you can't see how terribly disgusting you are, but honestly, ben, a pig is a ray of sunshine compared to a drunk man. you're a blot on the landscape. you're a--you're a--" she fished vainly for words, longing for lark's literary flow of language. "i'm not drunk," he stammered. "no, you're not, thanks to the buggy whip and that strong coffee, but you're no beauty even yet. well now, to come down to religion again. you can't stop drinking--" "i could," he blustered feebly, "i could if i wanted to." "oh, no, you couldn't. you haven't backbone enough. you couldn't stop to save your life. but," carol's voice lowered a little, and she grew shy, but very earnest, "but god can stop you, because he has enough backbone for a hundred thousand--er, jellyfishes. and--you see, it's like this. god made the world, and put the people in it. now listen carefully, ben, and i'll make it just as simple as possible so it can sink through the smell and get at you. god made the world, and put the people in it. and the people sinned, worshiped idols and went back on god, and--did a lot of other mean things. so god was in honor bound to punish them, for that's the law, and god's the judge that can't be bought. he had to inflict punishment. but god and jesus talked it over, and they felt awfully bad about it, for they kind of liked the people anyhow." she stared at the disreputable figure slouching on the chunk of wood. "it's very hard to understand, very. i should think they would despise us,--some of us," she added significantly. "i'm sure i should. but anyhow they didn't. are you getting me?" the bleary eyes were really fastened intently on the girl's bright face, and he hung upon her words. "well, they decided that jesus should come down here and live, and be perfectly good, so he would not deserve any punishment, and then god would allow him to receive the punishment anyhow, and the rest of us could go free. that would cover the law. see? punishing him when he deserved no punishment. then they could forgive us heathens that didn't deserve it. do you get that?" she looked at him anxiously. "it all hinges on that, you know. i'm not a preacher myself, but that's the idea. so jesus was crucified, and then god said, 'there he is! look on him, believe in him, worship him, and in his name you stand o. k.' see? that means, if we give him the chance, god'll let jesus take our share of the punishment. so we've just got to let go, and say, 'all right, here i am. i believe it, i give up, i know i don't amount to a hill of beans--and you can say it very honestly--but if you want me, and will call it square, god knows i'm willing.' and there you are." "won't i drink any more?" "no, not if you let go hard enough. i mean," she caught herself up quickly, "i mean if you let clear go and turn the job over to god. but you're not to think you can keep decent by yourself, for you can't--it's not born in you, and something else is--just let go, and stay let go. after that, it's god's job, and unless you stick in and try to manage yourself, he'll see you through." "all right, i'll do it." carol gasped. she opened her lips a few times, and swallowed hard. she didn't know what to do next. wildly she racked her brain for the next step in this vital performance. "i--think we ought to pray," she said feebly. "all right, we'll pray." he rolled curiously off the stick of wood, and fell, as if by instinct, into the attitude of prayer. carol gazed about her helplessly. but true to her training, she knelt beside him. then came silence. "i--well, i'll pray," she said with grim determination. "dear father in heaven," she began weakly, and then she forgot her timidity and her fear, and realized only that this was a crisis in the life of the drunken man. "oh, god, he'll do it. he'll let go, and turn it over to you. he isn't worth anything, god, none of us are, but you can handle him, for you've had worse jobs than this, though it doesn't seem possible. you'll help him, god, and love him, and show him how, for he hasn't the faintest idea what to do next, and neither have i. but you brought him into our barn to-night, and you'll see him through. oh, god, for jesus' sake, help ben peters. amen. "now, what shall i do?" she wondered. "what's your father for?" she looked quickly at ben peters. he had not spoken, but something certainly had asked, "what's your father for?" "you stay here, ben, and pray for yourself, and i'll send father out. i'm not just sure what to say next, and father'll finish you up. you pray for all you're worth." she was gone in a flash, through the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs two at a time, and her arm thrown closely about her father's shoulder. "oh, father, i got stuck," she wailed. "i'm so ashamed of myself. but you can finish him off, can't you? i honestly believe he's started." he took her firmly by the arms and squared her around on his lap. "one, two, three, ready, go. now, what?" "ben peters. he was drunk in the barn and i took him into the woodshed and gave him some hot coffee,--and some religion, but not enough to hurt him. i told him he had to get converted, and he said he would. so i told him about it, but you'd better tell him again, for i'm afraid i made quite a mess of it. and then we prayed, and i was stuck for fair, father, for i couldn't think what to do next. but i do believe it was god who said, 'what's your father for?' and so i left him praying for himself, and--you'd better hurry, or he may get cold feet and run away. be easy with him, father, but don't let him off. this is the first chance we've ever had at ben peters, and god'll never forgive us if we let him slip through our fingers." carol was dumped off on to the floor and her father was half-way down the stairs before she caught her breath. then she smiled. then she blushed. "that was one bad job," she said to herself sadly. "i'm a disgrace to the methodist church. thank goodness the trustees'll never hear of it. i'll bribe ben peters to eternal silence if i have to do it with kisses." then her face grew very soft. "poor old man! oh, the poor old man!" a quick rush of tears blinded her eyes, and her throat throbbed. "oh, why do they,--what makes men like that? can't they see, can't they know, how awful they are, how--" she shuddered. "i can't see for the life of me what makes god treat us decently at all." her face brightened again. "i was a bad job, all right, but i feel kind of pleased about it. i hope father won't mention it to the girls." and ben peters truly had a start, incredible as it seemed. yes, as carol had warned him, he forgot sometimes and tried to steer for himself, and always crashed into the rocks. then carol, with angry eyes and scornful voice, berated him for trying to get hold of god's job, and cautioned him anew about "sticking in when it was not his affair any more." it took time, a long time, and hard work, and many, many prayers went up from carol's bedside, and from the library at the head of the stairs, but there came a time when ben peters let go for good and all, and turned to carol, standing beside the bed with sorry frightened eyes, and said quietly: "it's all right, carol. i've let go. you're a mighty nice little girl. i've let go for good this time. i'm just slipping along where he sends me,--it's all right," he finished drowsily. and fell asleep. chapter xiii the connie problem mr. starr was getting ready to go to conference, and the girls hovered about him with anxious eyes. this was their fifth conference since coming to mount mark,--the time limit for methodist ministers was five years. the starrs, therefore, would be transferred, and where? small wonder that the girls followed him around the house and spoke in soft voices and looked with tender eyes at the old parsonage and the wide lawn. they would be leaving it next week. already the curtains were down, and laundered, and packed. the trunks were filled, the books were boxed. yes, they were leaving, but whither were they bound? "get your ecclesiastical dander up, father," carol urged, "don't let them give us a church fight, or a twenty-thousand-dollar debt on a thousand-dollar congregation." "we don't care for a big salary or a stylish congregation," lark added, "but we don't want to go back to washpans and kerosene lamps again." "if you have to choose between a bath tub, with a church quarrel, and a wash basin with peace and harmony, we'll take the tub and settle the scrap!" the conference was held in fairfield, and he informed the girls casually that he would be home on the first train after the assignments were made. he said it casually, for he did not wish them to know how perturbed he was over the coming change. during the conference he tried in many and devious ways to learn the will of the authorities regarding his future, but he found no clue. and at home the girls were discussing the matter very little, but thinking of nothing else. they were determined to be pleased about it. "it really doesn't make any difference," lark said. "we've had one year in college, we can get along without any more. or maybe father would let us borrow the money and stay at the dorm. and connie's so far along now that she's all right. any good high school will do for her. it doesn't make any difference at all." "no, we're so nearly grown up that one place will do just as well as another," agreed carol unconcernedly. "i'm rather anxious to move, myself," said connie. "i'm afraid some of the ladies might carry out their designs on father. they've had five years of practise now, you know." "don't be silly, con. isn't aunt grace here on purpose to chaperon him and keep the ladies off? i'd hate to go to new london, or mediapolis, or--but after all it doesn't make a bit of difference." just the same, on wednesday evening, the girls sat silent, with intensely flushed faces and painfully shining eyes, watching the clock, listening for the footstep. they had deliberately remained away from the station. they thought they could face it better within the friendly walls of the parsonage. it was all settled now, father knew where they were going. oh, why hadn't he wired? it must be terribly bad then, he evidently wanted to break it to them gently. maybe it was a circuit! there was the whistle now! only a few minutes now. suppose his salary were cut down,--good-by to silk stockings and kid gloves,--cheap, but kid, just the same! suppose the parsonage would be old-fashioned! suppose there wasn't any parsonage at all, and they would have to pay rent! sup--then the door slammed. carol and lark picked up their darning, and connie bent earnestly over her magazine. aunt grace covered a yawn with her slender fingers and looked out of the window. "hello!" "why, hello, papa! back already?" they dropped darning and magazine and flew to welcome him home. "come and sit down!" "my, it seemed a long time!" "we had lots of fun, father." "was it a nice conference?" "mr. james sent us two bushels of potatoes!" "we're going to have chicken to-morrow--the ladies' aiders sent it with their farewell love." "wasn't it a dandy day?" "well, it's all settled." "yes, we supposed it would be. was the conference good? we read accounts of it every day, and acted stuck-up when it said nice things about you." "we are to--" "ju-just a minute, father," interrupted connie anxiously. "we don't care a snap where it is, honestly we don't. we're just crazy about it, wherever it is. we've got it all settled. you needn't be afraid to tell us." "afraid to tell us!" mocked the twins indignantly. "what kind of slave-drivers do you think we are?" "of course we don't care where we go," explained lark. "haven't we been a parsonage bunch long enough to be tickled to death to be sent any place?" "father knows we're all right. go on, daddy, who's to be our next flock?" "we haven't any, we--" the girls' faces paled. "haven't any? you mean--" "i mean we're to stay in mount mark." "stay in--what?" "mount mark. they--" "they extended the limit," cried connie, springing up. "no," he denied, laughing. "they made me a presiding elder, and we're--" "a presiding elder! father! honestly? they--" "they ought to have made you a bishop," cried carol loyally. "i've been expecting it all my life. that's where the next jump'll land you. presiding elder! now we can snub the ladies' aid if we want to." "do you want to?" "no, of course not, but it's lots of fun to know we could if we did want to." "i pity the next parsonage bunch," said connie sympathetically. "why? there's nothing the matter with our church!" "oh, no, that isn't what i mean. but the next minister's family can't possibly come up to us, and so--" the others broke her sentence with their laughter. "talk about me and my complexion!" gasped carol, wiping her eyes. "i'm nothing to connie and her family pride. where will we live now, father?" "we'll rent a house--any house we like--and live like white folks." "rent! mercy, father, doesn't the conference furnish the elders with houses? we can never afford to pay rent! never!" "oh, we have a salary of twenty-five hundred a year now," he said, with apparent complacence, but careful to watch closely for the effect of this statement. it gratified him, too, much as he had expected. the girls stood stock-still and gazed at him, and then, with a violent struggle for self-composure carol asked: "did you get any of it in advance? i need some new slippers." so the packing was finished, a suitable house was found--modern, with reasonable rent--on maple avenue where the oaks were most magnificent, and the parsonage family became just ordinary "folks," a parsonage household no longer. "you must be very patient with us if we still try to run things," carol said apologetically to the president of the ladies' aid. "we've been a parsonage bunch all our lives, you know, and it's got to be a habit. but we'll be as easy on you as we can. we know what it would mean to leave two ministers' families down on you at once." mr. starr's new position necessitated long and frequent absences from home, and that was a drawback to the family comradeship. but the girls' pride in his advancement was so colossal, and their determination to live up to the dignity of the eldership was so deep-seated, that affairs ran on quite serenely in the new home. "aren't we getting sensible?" carol frequently asked her sisters, and they agreed enthusiastically that they certainly were. "i don't think we ever were so bad as we thought we were," lark said. "even prudence says now that we were always pretty good. prudence ought to think so. she got most of our spending money for a good many years, didn't she?" "prudence didn't get it. she gave it to the heathen." "well, she got credit for it on the lord's accounts, i suppose. but she deserved it. it was no joke collecting allowances from us." one day this beautiful serenity was broken in upon in a most unpleasant way. carol looked up from _de senectute_ and flung out her arms in an all-relieving yawn. then she looked at her aunt, asleep on the couch. she looked at lark, who was aimlessly drawing feathers on the skeletons of birds in her biology text. she looked at connie, sitting upright in her chair, a small book close to her face, alert, absorbed, oblivious to the world. connie was wide awake, and carol resented it. "what are you reading, con?" she asked reproachfully. connie looked up, startled, and colored a little. "oh,--poetry," she stammered. carol was surprised. "poetry," she echoed. "poetry? what kind of poetry? there are many poetries in this world of ours. 'life is real, life is earnest.' 'there was a young lady from bangor.' 'a man and a maiden decided to wed.' 'sunset and, evening star,'--oh, there are lots of poetries. what's yours?" her senseless dissertation had put her in good humor again. connie answered evasively. "it is by an old oriental writer. i don't suppose you've ever read it. khayyam is his name." "some name," said carol suspiciously. "what's the poem?" her eyes had narrowed and darkened. by this time carol had firmly convinced herself that she was bringing connie up,--a belief which afforded lively amusement to self-conducting connie. "why, it's _the rubaiyat_. it's--" "_the rubaiyat!_" carol frowned. lark looked up from the skeletons with sudden interest. "_the rubaiyat?_ by khayyam? isn't that the old fellow who didn't believe in god, and heaven, and such things--you know what i mean,--the man who didn't believe anything, and wrote about it? let me see it. i've never read it myself, but i've heard about it." carol turned the pages with critical disapproving eyes. "hum, yes, i know about this." she faced connie sternly. "i suppose you think, connie, that since we're out of a parsonage we can do anything we like. haven't we any standards? haven't we any ideals? are we--are we--well, anyhow, what business has a minister's daughter reading trash like this?" "i don't believe it, you know," connie said coolly. "i'm only reading it. how can i know whether it's trash or not, unless i read it? i--" "ministers' daughters are supposed to keep their fingers clear of the burning ends of matches," said carol neatly. "we can't handle them without getting scorched, or blackened, at least. we have to steer clear of things folks aren't sure about. prudence says so." "prudence," said connie gravely, "is a dear sweet thing, but she's awfully old-fashioned, carol; you know that." carol and lark were speechless. they would as soon have dreamed of questioning the catechism as prudence's perfection. "she's narrow. she's a darling, of course, but she isn't up-to-date. i want to know what folks are talking about. i don't believe this poem. i'm a christian. but i want to know what other folks think about me and what i believe. that's all. prudence is fine, but i know a good deal more about some things than prudence will know when she's a thousand years old." the twins still sat silent. "of course, some folks wouldn't approve of parsonage girls reading things like this. but i approve of it. i want to know why i disagree with this poetry, and i can't until i know where we disagree. it's beautiful, carol, really. it's kind of sad. it makes me want to cry. it's--" "i've a big notion to tell papa on you," said carol soberly and sadly. connie rose at once. "what's the matter?" "i'm going to tell papa myself." carol moved uneasily in her chair. "oh, let it go this time. i--i just mentioned it to relieve my feelings. i won't tell him yet. i'll talk it over with you again. i'll have to think it over first." "i think i'd rather tell him," insisted connie. carol looked worried, but she knew connie would do as she said. so she got up nervously and went with her. she would have to see it through now, of course. connie walked silently up the stairs, with carol following meekly behind, and rapped at her father's door. then she entered, and carol, in a hushed sort of way, closed the door behind them. "i'm reading this, father. any objections?" connie faced him calmly, and handed him the little book. he examined it gravely, his brows contracting, a sudden wrinkling at the corners of his lips that might have meant laughter, or disapproval, or anything. "i thought a parsonage girl should not read it," carol said bravely. "i've never read it myself, but i've heard about it, and parsonage girls ought to read parsonage things. prudence says so. but--" "but i want to know what other folks think about what i believe," said connie. "so i'm reading it." "what do you think of, it?" he asked quietly, and he looked very strangely at his baby daughter. it was suddenly borne in on him that this was one crisis in her growth to womanhood, and he felt a great yearning tenderness for her, in her innocence, in her dauntless courage, in her reaching ahead, always ahead! it was a crisis, and he must be very careful. "i think it is beautiful," connie said softly, and her lips drooped a little, and a wistful pathos crept into her voice. "it seems so sad. i keep wishing i could cry about it. there's nothing really sad in it, i think it is supposed to be rather jovial, but--it seems terrible to me, even when it is the most beautiful. part of it i don't understand very well." he held out a hand to connie, and she put her own in it confidently. carol, too, came and stood close beside him. "yes," he said, "it is beautiful, connie, and it is very terrible. we can't understand it fully because we can't feel what he felt. it is a groping poem, a struggling for light when one is stumbling in darkness." he looked thoughtfully at the girls. "he was a marvelous man, that khayyam,--years ahead of his people, and his time. he was big enough to see the idiocy of the heathen ideas of god, he was beyond them, he spurned them. but he was not quite big enough to reach out, alone, and get hold of our kind of a god. he was reaching out, he was struggling, but he couldn't quite catch hold. it is a wonderful poem. it shows the weakness, the helplessness of a gifted man who has nothing to cling to. i think it will do you good to read it, connie. read it again and again, and thank god, my child, that though you are only a girl, you have the very thing this man, this genius, was craving. we admire his talent, but we pity his weakness. you will feel sorry for him. you read it, too, carol. you'll like it. we can't understand it, as i say, because we are so sure of our god, that we can't feel what he felt, having nothing. but we can feel the heart-break, the fear, the shrinking back from the providence that he called fate,--of course it makes you want to cry, connie. it is the saddest poem in the world." connie's eyes were very bright. she winked hard a few times, choking back the rush of tears. then with an impulsiveness she did not often show, she lifted her father's hand and kissed it passionately. "oh, father," she whispered, "i was so afraid--you wouldn't quite see." she kissed his hand again. carol looked at her sister respectfully. "connie," she said, "i certainly beg your pardon. i just wanted to be clever, and didn't know what i was talking about. when you have finished it, give it to me, will you? i want to read it, too; i think it must be wonderful." she held out a slender shapely hand and connie took it quickly, chummily, and the two girls turned toward the door. "the danger in reading things," said mr. starr, and they paused to listen, "the danger is that we may find arguments we can not answer; we may feel that we have been in the wrong, that what we read is right. there's the danger. whenever you find anything like that, connie, will you bring it to me? i think i can find the answer for you. if i don't know it, i will look until i come upon it. for we have been given an answer to every argument. you'll come to me, won't you?" "yes, father, i will--i know you'll find the answers." after the door had closed behind them, mr. starr sat for a long time staring straight before him into space. "the connie problem," he said at last. and then, "i'll have to be better pals with her. connie's going to be pretty fine, i believe." chapter xiv boosting connie connie was past fifteen when she announced gravely one day, "i've changed my mind. i'm going to be an author." "an author," scoffed carol. "you! i thought you were going to get married and have eleven children." even with the dignity of nineteen years, the nimble wits of carol and lark still struggled with the irreproachable gravity of connie. "i was," was the cool retort. "i thought you were going to be a red cross nurse and go to war." carol blushed a little. "i was," she assented, "but there isn't any war." "well," even in triumph, connie was imperturbable, "there isn't any father for my eleven children either." the twins had to admit that this was an obstacle, and they yielded gracefully. "but an author, connie," said lark. "it's very hard. i gave it up long ago." "i know you did. but i don't give up very easily." "you gave up your eleven children." "oh, i've plenty of time for them yet, when i find a father for them. yes, i'm going to be an author." "can you write?" "of course i can write." "well, you have conceit enough to be anything," said carol frankly. "maybe you'll make it go, after all. i should like to have an author in the family and since lark's lost interest, i suppose it will have to be you. i couldn't think of risking my complexion at such a precarious livelihood. but if you get stuck, i'll be glad to help you out a little. i really have an imagination myself, though perhaps you wouldn't think it." "what makes you think you can write, con?" inquired lark, with genuine interest. "i have already done it." "was it any good?" "it was fine." carol and lark smiled at each other. "yes," said carol, "she has the long-haired instinct. i see it now. they always say it is fine. was it a masterpiece, connie?" and when connie hesitated, she urged, "come on, confess it. then we shall be convinced that you have found your field. they are always masterpieces. was yours?" "well, considering my youth and inexperience, it was," connie admitted, her eyes sparkling appreciatively. carol's wit was no longer lost upon her, at any rate. "bring it out. let's see it. i've never met a masterpiece yet,--except a dead one," said lark. "no--no," connie backed up quickly. "you can't see it, and--don't ask any more about it. has father gone out?" the twins stared at her again. "what's the matter with you?" "nothing, but it's my story and you can't see it. that settles it. was there any mail to-day?" afterward the twins talked it over together. "what made her back down like that?" carol wondered. "just when we had her going." "why, didn't you catch on to that? she has sent it off to a magazine, of course, and she doesn't want us to know about it. i saw through it right away." carol looked at her twin with new interest. "did you ever send 'em off?" lark flushed a little. "yes, i did, and always got 'em back, too--worse luck. that's why i gave it up." "what did you do with them when they came back?" "burned them. they always burn them. connie'll get hers back, and she'll burn it, too," was the laconic answer. "an author," mused carol. "do you think she'll ever make it?" "well, honestly, i shouldn't be surprised if she did. connie's smart, and she never gives up. then she has a way of saying things that--well, it takes. i really believe she'll make it, if she doesn't get off on suffrage or some other queer thing before she gets to it." "i'll have to keep an eye on her," said carol. "you wait until she can't eat a meal, and then you'll know she's got it back. many's the time prudence made me take medicine, just because i got a story back. prudence thought it was tummy-ache. the symptoms are a good bit the same." so carol watched, and sure enough, there came a day when the bright light of hope in connie's eyes gave way to the sober sadness of certainty. her light had failed. and she couldn't eat her dinner. lark kicked carol's foot under the table, and the two exchanged amused glances. "connie's not well," said lark with a worried air. "she isn't eating a thing. you'd better give her a dose of that tonic, aunt grace. prudence says the first sign of decay is the time for a tonic. give her a dose." lark solemnly rose and fetched the bottle. aunt grace looked at connie inquiringly. connie's face was certainly pale, and her eyes were weary. and she was not eating her dinner. "i'm not sick," the crushed young author protested. "i'm just not hungry. you trot that bottle back to the cupboard, lark, and don't get gay." "you can see for yourself," insisted lark. "look at her. isn't she sick? many's the long illness prudence staved off for me by a dose of this magic tonic. you'd better make her take it, father. you can see she's sick." the lust of a sweeping family revenge showed in lark's clear eyes. "you'd better take a little, connie," her father decided. "you don't look very well to-day." "but, father," pleaded connie. "a dose in time saves a doctor bill," quoted carol sententiously. "prudence says so." and the aspiring young genius was obliged to swallow the bitter dose. then, with the air of one who has rendered a boon to mankind, lark returned to her chair. after the meal was over, carol shadowed connie closely. sure enough, she headed straight for her own room, and carol, close outside, heard a crumpling of paper. she opened the door quickly and went in. connie turned, startled, a guilty red staining her pale face. carol sat down sociably on the side of the bed, politely ignoring connie's feeble attempt to keep the crumpled manuscript from her sight. she engaged her sister in a broad-minded and sweeping conversation, adroitly leading it up to the subject of literature. but connie would not be inveigled into a confession. then carol took a wide leap. "did you get the story back?" connie gazed at her with an awe that was almost superstitious. then, in relief at having the confidence forced from her, tears brightened her eyes, but being connie, she winked them stubbornly back. "i sure did," she said. "hard luck," said carol, in a matter-of-fact voice. "let's see it." connie hesitated, but finally passed it over. "i'll take it to my own room and read it if you don't mind. what are you going to do with it now?" "burn it." "let me have it, won't you? i'll hide it and keep it for a souvenir." "will you keep it hidden? you won't pass it around for the family to laugh at, will you?" carol gazed at her reproachfully, rose from the bed in wounded dignity and moved away with the story in her hand. connie followed her to the door and said humbly: "excuse me, carol, i know you wouldn't do such a thing. but a person does feel so ashamed of a story--when it comes back." "that's all right," was the kind answer. "i know just how it is. i have the same feeling when i get a pimple on my face. i'll keep it dark." more eagerly than she would have liked connie to know, she curled herself upon the bed to read connie's masterpiece. it was a simple story, but connie did have a way of saying things, and--carol laid it down in her lap and stared at it thoughtfully. then she called lark. "look here," she said abruptly. "read this. it's the masterpiece." she maintained a perfect silence while lark perused the crumpled manuscript. "how is it?" "why, it's not bad," declared lark in a surprised voice. "it's not half bad. it's connie all right, isn't it? well, what do you know about that?" "is it any good?" pursued carol. "why, yes, i think it is. it's just like folks you know. they talk as we do, and--i'm surprised they didn't keep it. i've read 'em a whole lot worse!" "connie's disappointed," carol said. "i think she needs a little boost. i believe she'll really get there if we kind of crowd her along for a while. she told me to keep this dark, and so i will. we'll just copy it over, and send it out again." "and if it comes back?" "we'll send it again. we'll get the name of every magazine in the library, and give 'em all a chance to start the newest author on the rosy way." "it'll take a lot of stamps." "that's so. do you have to enclose enough to bring them back? i don't like that. seems to me it's just tempting providence. if they want to send them back, they ought to pay for doing it. i say we just enclose a note taking it for granted they'll keep it, and tell them where to send the money. and never put a stamp in sight for them to think of using up." "we can't do that. it's bad manners." "well, i have half a dollar," admitted carol reluctantly. after that the weeks passed by. the twins saw finally the shadow of disappointment leaving connie's face, and another expression of absorption take its place. "she's started another one," lark said, wise in her personal experience. and when there came the starry rapt gaze once more, they knew that this one, too, had gone to meet its fate. but before the second blow fell, the twins gained their victory. they embraced each other feverishly, and kissed the precious check a hundred times, and insisted that connie was the cleverest little darling that ever lived on earth. then, when connie, with their father and aunt, was sitting in unsuspecting quiet, they tripped in upon her. [illustration: we enclose our check for forty-five dollars] "we have something to read to you," said carol beaming paternally at connie. "listen attentively. put down your paper, father. it's important. go on, larkie." "my dear miss starr," read lark. "we are very much pleased with your story,"--connie sprang suddenly from her chair--"your story, 'when the rule worked backwards.' we are placing it in one of our early numbers, and shall be glad at any time to have the pleasure of examining more of your work. we enclose our check for forty-five dollars. thanking you, and assuring you of the satisfaction with which we have read your story, i am, "very cordially yours,"-- "tra, lalalalala!" sang the twins, dancing around the room, waving, one the letter, the other the check. connie's face was pale, and she caught her head with both hands, laughingly nervously. "i'm going round," she gasped. "stop me." carol promptly pushed her down in a chair and sat upon her lap. "pretty good,--eh, what?" "oh, carol, don't say that, it sounds awful," cautioned lark. "what do you think about it, connie? pretty fair boost for a struggling young author, don't you think? family, arise! the chautauqua salute! we have arrived. connie is an author. forty-five dollars!" "but however did you do it?" wondered connie breathlessly. "why, we sent it out, and--" "just once?" "alas, no,--we sent it seven times." "oh, girls, how could you! think of the stamps! i'm surprised you had the money." "remember that last quarter we borrowed of you? well!" connie laughed excitedly. "oh, oh!--forty-five dollars! think of it. oh, father!" "where's the story," he asked, a little jealously. "why didn't you let me look it over, connie?" "oh, father, i--couldn't. i--i--i felt shy about it. you don't know how it is father, but--we want to keep them hidden. we don't get proud of them until they've been accepted." "forty-five dollars." aunt grace kissed her warmly. "and the letter is worth a hundred times more to us than that. and when we see the story--" "we'll go thirds on the money, twins," said connie. the twins looked eager, but conscientious. "no," they said, "it's just a boost, you know. we can't take the money." "oh, you've got to go thirds. you ought to have it all. i would have burned it." "no, connie," said carol, "we know you aren't worth devotion like ours, but we donate it just the same--it's gratis." "all right," smiled connie. "i know what you want, anyhow. come on, auntie, let's go down town. i'm afraid that silver silk mull will be sold before we get there." the twins fell upon her ecstatically. "oh, connie, you mustn't. we can't allow it. oh, of course if you insist, dearest, only--" and then they rushed to find hats and gloves for their generous sister and devoted aunt. the second story came back in due time, but with the boost still strong in her memory, and with the fifteen dollars in the bank, connie bore it bravely and started it traveling once more. most of the stories never did find a permanent lodging place, and connie carried an old box to the attic for a repository for her mental fruits that couldn't make friends away from home. but she never despaired again. and the twins, after their own manner, calmly took to themselves full credit for the career which they believed lay not far before her. they even boasted of the way they had raised her and told fatuous and exaggerated stories of their pride in her, and their gentle sisterly solicitude for her from the time of her early babyhood. and connie gave assent to every word. in her heart she admitted that the twins' discipline of her, though exceedingly drastic at times, had been splendid literary experience. chapter xv a millionaire's son "if jim doesn't ask for a date for the concert next week, lark, let's snub him good." "but we both have dates," protested lark. "what difference does that make? we mustn't let him get independent. he always has asked one of us, and he needn't think we shall let him off now." "oh, don't worry," interrupted connie. "he always asks. you have that same discussion every time there's anything going on. it's just a waste of time." mr. starr looked up from his mail. "soup of boys, and salad of boys,--they're beginning to pall on my palate." "very classy expression father," approved carol. "maybe you can work it into a sermon." "complexion and boys with carol, books and boys with lark, connie, if you begin that nonsense you'll get spanked. one member of my family shall rise above it if i have to do it with force." connie blushed. the twins broke into open derision. "connie! oh, yes, connie's above that nonsense." "connie's the worst in the family, father, only she's one of these reserved, supercilious souls who doesn't tell everything she knows." "'nonsense.' i wish father could have heard lee hanson last night. it would have been a revelation to him. 'aw, go on, connie, give us a kiss.'" connie caught her lips between her teeth. her face was scarlet. "twins!" "it's a fact, father. he kept us awake. 'aw, go on, connie, be good to a fellow.'" "that's what makes us so pale to-day,--he kept us awake hours!" "carol!" "well, quite a while anyhow." "i--i--" began connie defensively. "well, we know it. don't interrupt when we're telling things. you always spoil a good story by cutting in. 'aw, go on, connie, go on now!' and connie said--" the twins rocked off in a paroxysm of laughter, and connie flashed a murderous look at them. "prudence says listening is--" "sure she does, and she's right about it, too. but what can a body do when folks plant themselves right beneath your window to pull off their little romeo concerto. we can't smother on nights like these. 'aw, go on, connie.'" "i wanted to drop a pillow on his head, but carol was afraid he'd run off with the pillow, so we just sacrificed ourselves and let it proceed." "well, i--" "give us time, connie. we're coming to that. and connie said, 'i'm going in now, i'm sleepy.'" "i didn't--father, i didn't!" "well, you might have said a worse thing than that," he told her sadly. "i mean--i--" "she did say it," cried the twins. "'i'm sleepy.' just like that." "oh, connie's the girl for sentiment," exclaimed lark. "sleepy is not a romantic word and it's not a sentimental feeling, but it can be drawled out so it sounds a little mushy at least. 'i sleep, my love, to dream of thee,'--for instance. but connie didn't do it that way. nix. just plain sleep, and it sounded like 'get out, and have a little sense.'" "well, it would make you sick," declared connie, wrinkling up her nose to express her disgust. "are boys always like that father?" "don't ask me," he hedged promptly. "how should i know?" "oh, connie, how can you! there's father--now, he never cared to kiss the girls even in his bad and balmy days, did you, daddy? oh, no, father was all for the strictly orthodox even in his youth!" mr. starr returned precipitately to his mail, and the twins calmly resumed the discussion where it had been interrupted. a little later a quick exclamation from their father made them turn to him inquiringly. "it's a shame," he said, and again: "what a shame!" the girls waited expectantly. when he only continued frowning at the letter in his hand, carol spoke up brightly, "yes, isn't it?" even then he did not look up, and real concern settled over their expressive faces. "father! can't you see we're listening?" he looked up, vaguely at first, then smiling. "ah, roused your curiosity, did i? well, it's just another phase of this eternal boy question." carol leaned forward ingratiatingly. "now indeed, we are all absorption." "why, it's a letter from andrew hedges,--an old college chum of mine. his son is going west and andy is sending him around this way to see me and meet my family. he'll be here this afternoon. isn't it a shame?" "isn't it lovely?" exclaimed carol. "we can use him to make jim forrest jealous if he doesn't ask for that date?" and she rose up and kissed her father. "will you kindly get back to your seat, young lady, and not interfere with my thoughts?" he reproved her sternly but with twinkling eyes. "the trouble is i have to go to fort madison on the noon train for that epworth league convention. i'd like to see that boy. andy's done well, i guess. i've always heard so. he's a millionaire, they say." for a long second his daughters gazed at him speechlessly. then, "a millionaire's son," lark faltered feebly. "yes." "why on earth didn't you say so in the first place?" demanded carol. "what difference does that make?" "it makes all the difference in the world! ah! a millionaire's son." she looked at lark with keen speculative eyes. "good-looking, i suppose, young, of course, and impressionable. a millionaire's son." "but i have to go to fort madison. i am on the program to-night. there's the puzzle." "oh, father, you can leave him to us," volunteered lark. "i'm afraid you mightn't carry it off well. you're so likely to run by fits and jumps, you know. i should hate it if things went badly." "oh, father, things couldn't go badly," protested carol. "we'll be lovely, just lovely. a millionaire's son! oh, yes, daddy, you can trust him to us all right." at last he caught the drift of their enthusiasm. "ah! i see! that fatal charm. you're sure you'll treat him nicely?" "oh, yes, father, so sure. a millionaire's son. we've never even seen one yet." "now look here, girls, fix the house up and carry it off the best you can. i have a lot of old friends in cleveland, and i want them to think i've got the dandiest little family on earth." "'dandiest'! father, you will forget yourself in the pulpit some day,--you surely will. and when we take such pains with you, too, i can't understand where you get it! the people you associate with, i suppose." "do your best, girls. i'm hoping for a good report. i'll be gone until the end of the week, since i'm on for the last night, too. will you do your best?" after his departure, carol gathered the family forces about her without a moment's delay. "a millionaire's son," she prefaced her remarks, and as she had expected, was rewarded with immediate attention. "now, for darling father's sake, we've got to manage this thing the very best we can. we have to make this andy hedges, millionaire's son, think we're just about all right, for father's sake. we must have a gorgeous dinner, to start with. we'll plan that a little later. now i think, aunt grace, lovely, it would be nice for you to wear your lavender lace gown, and look delicate, don't you? a chaperoning auntie in poor health is so aristocratic. you must wear the lavender satin slippers and have a bottle of cologne to lift frequently to your sensitive nostrils." "why, carol, william wouldn't like it!" "wouldn't like it!" ejaculated the schemer in surprise. "wouldn't like it! why wouldn't he like it? didn't he tell us to create a good impression? well, this is it. you'll make a lovely semi-invalid auntie. you must have a faintly perfumed handkerchief to press to your eyes now and then. it isn't hot enough for you slowly to wield a graceful fan, but we can get along without it." "but, carol--" "think how pleased dear father will be if his old college chum's son is properly impressed," interrupted carol hurriedly, and proceeded at once with her plans. "connie must be a precocious younger sister, all in white,--she must come in late with a tennis racquet, as though she had just returned from a game. that will be stagey, won't it? lark must be the sweet young daughter of the home. she must wear her silver mull, her gray slippers, and--" "i can't," said lark. "i spilt grape juice on it. and i kicked the toe out of one of my slippers." "you'll have to wear mine then. fortunately that silver mull was always too tight for me and i never comported myself in it with freedom and destructive ease. as a consequence, it is fresh and charming. you must arrange your hair in the most _ladies' home journal_ style, and--" "what are you going to wear?" "who, me? oh, i have other plans for myself." carol looked rather uneasily at her aunt. "i'll come to me a little later." "yes, indeed," said connie. "carol has something extra up her sleeve. she's had the millionaire's son in her mind's eye ever since father introduced his pocketbook into the conversation." carol was unabashed. "my interest is solely from a family view-point. i have no ulterior motive." her eyes sparkled eagerly. "you know, auntie darling--" "now, carol, don't you suggest anything--" "oh, no indeed, dearest, how could you think of such a thing?" disclaimed carol instantly. "it's such a very tiny thing, but it will mean a whole lot on the general impression of a millionaire's son. we've simply got to have a maid! to open the door, and curtesy, and take his hat, and serve the dinner, and--he's used to it, you know, and if we haven't one, he'll go back to cleveland and say, 'ah, bah jove, i had to hang up my own hat, don't you know?'" "that's supposed to be english, but i don't believe it. anyhow, it isn't cleveland," said connie flatly. "well, he'd think we were awfully cheap and hard up, and andy hedges, senior, would pity father, and maybe send him ten dollars, and--no, we've got to have a maid!" "we might get mamie sickey," suggested lark. "she's so ugly." "or fay greer," interposed aunt grace. "she'd spill the soup." "then there's nobody but ada lone," decided connie. "she hasn't anything fit to wear," objected carol. "of whom were you thinking, carol?" asked her aunt, moving uneasily in her chair. carol flung herself at her aunt's knees. "me!" she cried. "as usual?" connie ejaculated dryly. "oh, carol," wailed lark, "we can't think of things to talk about when you aren't there to keep us stirred up." "i'm beginning to see daylight," said connie. she looked speculatively at lark. "well, it's not half bad, carol, and i apologize." "don't you think it is a glorious idea, connie?" cried carol rapturously. "yes, i think it is." carol caught her sister's hand. here was an ally worth having. "you know how sensible connie is, auntie. she sees how utterly preposterous it would be to think of entertaining a millionaire's son without a maid." "you're too pretty," protested lark. "he'd try to kiss you." "'oh, no, sir, oh, please, sir,'" simpered carol, with an adorable curtesy, "'you'd better wait for the ladies, sir.'" "oh, carol, i think you're awful," said their aunt unhappily. "i know your father won't like it." "like it? he'll love it. won't he, connie?" "well, i'm not sure he'll be crazy about it, but it'll be all over when he gets home," said connie. "and you're very much in favor of it, aren't you, connie precious?" "yes, i am." connie looked at lark critically again. "we must get lark some bright flowers to wear with the silver dress--sweet peas would be good. but i won't pay for them, and you can put that down right now." "but what's the idea?" mourned lark. "what's the sense in it? father said to be good to him, and you know i can't think of things to say to a millionaire's son. oh, carol, don't be so mean." "you must practise up. you must be girlish, and light-hearted, and ingenuous, you know. that'll be very effective." "you do it, carol. let me be the maid. you're lots more effective than i am." but carol stood firm, and the others yielded to her persuasions. they didn't approve, they didn't sanction, but they did get enthusiastic, and a merrier houseful of masqueraders was never found than that. even aunt grace allowed her qualms to be quieted and entered into her part as semi-invalid auntie with genuine zest. at three they were all arrayed, ready for the presentation. they assembled socially in the parlor, the dainty maid ready to fly to her post at a second's warning. at four o'clock, they were a little fagged and near the point of exasperation, but they still held their characters admirably. at half past four a telegraph message was phoned out from the station. "delayed in coming. will write you later. very sorry. andy hedges, jr." only the absolute ludicrousness of it saved carol from a rage. she looked from the girlish tennis girl to the semi-invalid auntie, and then to the sweet young daughter of the home, and burst out laughing. the others, though tired, nervous and disappointed, joined her merrily, and the vexation was swept away. the next morning, aunt grace went as usual to the all-day meeting of the ladies' aid in the church parlors. carol and lark, with a light lunch, went out for a few hours of spring-time happiness beside the creek two miles from town. "we'll come back right after luncheon," carol promised, "so if andy the second should come, we'll be on hand." "oh, he won't come to-day." "well, he just better get here before father comes home. i know father will like our plan after it's over, but i also know he'll veto it if he gets home in time. wish you could go with us, connie." "thanks. but i've got to sew on forty buttons. and--if i pick the cherries on the little tree, will you make a pie for dinner?" "yes. if i'm too tired larkie will. do pick them, con, the birds have had more than their share now." after her sisters had disappeared, connie considered the day's program. "i'll pick the cherries while it's cool. then i'll sew on the buttons. then i'll call on the piersons, and they'll probably invite me to stay for luncheon." and she went up-stairs to don a garment suitable for cherry-tree service. for cherry trees, though lovely to behold when laden with bright red clusters showing among the bright green leaves, are not at all lovely to climb into. connie knew that by experience. belonging to a family that wore its clothes as long as they possessed any wearing virtue, she found nothing in her immediate wardrobe fitted for the venture. but from a rag-bag in the closet at the head of the stairs, she resurrected some remains of last summer's apparel. first she put on a blue calico, but the skirt was so badly torn in places that it proved insufficiently protecting. further search brought to light another skirt, pink, in a still worse state of delapidation. however, since the holes did not occur simultaneously in the two garments, by wearing both she was amply covered. for a waist she wore a red crape dressing sacque, and about her hair she tied a broad, ragged ribbon of red to protect the soft waves from the ruthless twigs. she looked at herself in the mirror. nothing daunted by the sight of her own unsightliness, she took a bucket and went into the back yard. gingerly she climbed into the tree, gingerly because connie was not fond of scratches on her anatomy, and then began her task. it was a glorious morning. the birds, frightened away by the living scare-crow in the tree, perched in other, cherry-less trees around her and burst into derisive song. and connie, light-hearted, free from care, in love with the whole wide world, sang, too, pausing only now and then to thrust a ripe cherry between her teeth. she did not hear the prolonged ringing of the front-door bell. she did not observe the young man in the most immaculate of white spring suits who came inquiringly around the house. but when the chattering of a saucy robin became annoying, she flung a cherry at him crossly. "oh, chase yourself!" she cried. and nearly fell from her perch in dismay when a low voice from beneath said pleasantly: "i beg your pardon! miss starr?" connie swallowed hard, to get the last cherry and the mortification out of her throat. "yes," she said, noting the immaculate white spring suit, and the handsome shoes, and the costly panama held so lightly in his hand. she knew the panama was costly because they had wanted to buy one for her father's birthday, but decided not to. "i am andrew hedges," he explained, smiling sociably. connie wilted completely at that. "good night," she muttered with a vanishing mental picture of their lovely preparations the day previous. "i--mean good morning. i'm so glad to meet you. you--you're late, aren't you? i mean, aren't you ahead of yourself? at least, you didn't write, did you?" "no, i was not detained so long as i had anticipated, so i came right on. but i'm afraid i'm inconveniencing you." "oh, not a bit, i'm quite comfortable," she assured him. "auntie is gone just now, and the twins are away, too, but they'll all be back presently." she looked longingly at the house. "i'll have to come down, i suppose." "let me help you," he offered eagerly. connie in the incongruous clothes, with the little curls straying beneath the ragged ribbon, and with stains of cherry on her lips, looked more presentable than connie knew. "oh, i--" she hesitated, flushing. "mr. hedges," she cried imploringly, "will you just go around the corner until i get down. i look fearful." "not a bit of it," he said. "let me take the cherries." connie helplessly passed them down to him, and saw him carefully depositing them on the ground. "just give me your hand." and what could connie do? she couldn't sternly order a millionaire's son to mosy around the house and mind his own business until she got some decent clothes on, though that was what she yearned to do. instead she held out a slender hand, grimy and red, with a few ugly scratches here and there, and allowed herself to be helped ignominiously out from the sheltering branches into the garish light of day. she looked at him reproachfully. he never so much as smiled. "laugh if you like," she said bitterly. "i looked in the mirror. i know all about it." "run along," he said, "but don't be gone long, will you? can you trust me with the cherries?" connie walked into the house with great decorum, afraid the ragged skirts might swing revealingly, but the young man bent over the cherries while she made her escape. it was another connie who appeared a little later, a typical tennis girl, all in white from the velvet band in her hair to the canvas shoes on her dainty feet. she held out the slender hand, no longer grimy and stained, but its whiteness still marred with sorry scratches. "i am glad to see you," she said gracefully, "though i can only pray you won't carry a mental picture of me very long." "i'm afraid i will though," he said teasingly. "then please don't paint me verbally for my sisters' ears; they are always so clever where i am concerned. it is too bad they are out. you'll stay for luncheon with me, won't you? i'm all alone,--we'll have it in the yard." "it sounds very tempting, but--perhaps i had better come again later in the afternoon." "you may do that, too," said connie. "but since you are here, i'm afraid i must insist that you help amuse me." and she added ruefully, "since i have done so well amusing you this morning." "why, he's just like anybody else," she was thinking with relief. "it's no trouble to talk to him, at all. he's nice in spite of the millions. prudence says millionaires aren't half so dollar-marked as they are cartooned, anyhow." he stayed for luncheon, he even helped carry the folding table out beneath the cherry tree, and trotted docilely back and forth with plates and glasses, as connie decreed. "oh, father," she chuckled to herself, as she stood at the kitchen window, twinkling at the sight of the millionaire's son spreading sandwiches according to her instructions. "oh, father, the boy question is complicated, sure enough." it was not until they were at luncheon that the grand idea visited connie. carol would have offered it harborage long before. carol's mind worked best along that very line. it came to connie slowly, but she gave it royal welcome. back to her remembrance flashed the thousand witty sallies of carol and lark, the hundreds of times she had suffered at their hands. and for the first time in her life, she saw a clear way of getting even. and a millionaire's son! never was such a revenge fairly crying to be perpetrated. "will you do something for me, mr. hedges?" she asked. connie was only sixteen, but something that is born in woman told her to lower her eyes shyly, and then look up at him quickly beneath her lashes. she was no flirt, but she believed in utilizing her resources. and she saw in a flash that the ruse worked. then she told him softly, very prettily. "but won't she dislike me if i do?" he asked. "no, she won't," said connie. "we're a family of good laughers. we enjoy a joke nearly as much when it's on us, as when we are on top." so it was arranged, and shortly after luncheon the young man in the immaculate spring suit took his departure. then connie summoned her aunt by phone, and told her she must hasten home to help "get ready for the millionaire's son." it was after two when the twins arrived, and connie and their aunt hurried them so violently that they hadn't time to ask how connie got her information. "but i hope i'm slick enough to get out of it without lying if they do ask," she told herself. "prudence says it's not really wicked to get out of telling things if we can manage it." he had arrived! a millionaire's son! instantly their enthusiasm returned to them. the cushions on the couch were carefully arranged for the reclining of the semi-invalid aunt, who, with the sweet young daughter of the home, was up-stairs waiting to be summoned. connie, with the tennis racquet, was in the shed, waiting to arrive theatrically. carol, in her trim black gown with a white cap and apron, was a dream. and when he came she ushered him in, curtesying in a way known only on the stage, and took his hat and stick, and said softly: "yes, sir,--please come in, sir,--i'll call the ladies." she knew she was bewitching, of course, since she had done it on purpose, and she lifted her eyes just far enough beneath the lashes to give the properly coquettish effect. he caught her hand, and drew her slowly toward him, admiration in his eyes, but trepidation in his heart, as he followed connie's coaching. but carol was panic-seized, she broke away from him roughly and ran up-stairs, forgetting her carefully rehearsed. "oh, no, sir,--oh, please, sir,--you'd better wait for the ladies." but once out of reach she regained her composure. the semi-invalid aunt trailed down the stairs, closely followed by the attentive maid to arrange her chair and adjust the silken shawl. mr. hedges introduced himself, feeling horribly foolish in the presence of the lovely serving girl, and wishing she would take herself off. but she lingered effectively, whispering softly: "shall i lower the window, madame? is it too cool? your bottle, madame!" and the guest rubbed his hand swiftly across his face to hide the slight twitching of his lips. then the model maid disappeared, and presently the sweet daughter of the house, charming in the gray silk mull and satin slippers, appeared, smiling, talking, full of vivacity and life. and after a while the dashing tennis girl strolled in, smiling inscrutably into the eyes that turned so quizzically toward her. for a time all went well. the chaperoning aunt occasionally lifted a dainty cologne bottle to her sensitive nostrils, and the daughter of the house carried out her girlish vivacity to the point of utter weariness. connie said little, but her soul expanded with the foretaste of triumph. "dinner is served, madame," said the soft voice at the door, and they all walked out sedately. carol adjusted the invalid auntie's shawl once more, and was ready to go to the kitchen when a quiet: "won't miss carol sit down with us?" made her stop dead in her tracks. he had pulled a chair from the corner up to the table for her, and she dropped into it. she put her elbows on the table, and leaning her dainty chin in her hands, gazed thoughtfully at connie, whose eyes were bright with the fires of victory. "ah, connie, i have hopes of you yet,--you are improving," she said gently. "will you run out to the kitchen and bring me a bowl of soup, my child?" and then came laughter, full and free,--and in the midst of it carol looked up, wiping her eyes, and said: "i'm sorry now i didn't let you kiss me, just to shock father!" but the visit was a great success. even mr. starr realized that. the millionaire's son remained in mount mark four days, the cynosure of all eyes, for as carol said, "what's the use of bothering with a millionaire's son if you can't brag about him." and his devotion to his father's college chum was such that he wrote to him regularly for a long time after, and came westward now and again to renew the friendship so auspiciously begun. "but you can't call him a problem, father," said carol keenly. "they aren't problematic until they discriminate. and he doesn't. he's as fond of connie's conscience as he is of my complexion, as far as i can see." she rubbed her velvet skin regretfully. she had two pimples yesterday and he never even noticed them. then she leaned forward and smiled. "father, you keep an eye on connie. there's something in there that we aren't on to yet." and with this cryptic remark, carol turned her attention to a small jar of cold cream the druggist had given her to sample. chapter xvi the twins have a proposal it was half past three on a delightful summer afternoon. the twins stood at the gate with two hatless youths, performing what seemed to be the serious operation of separating their various tennis racquets and shoes from the conglomerate jumble. finally, laughing and calling back over their shoulders, they sauntered lazily up the walk toward the house, and the young men set off in the direction from which they had come. they were hardly out of hearing distance when the front door opened, and aunt grace beckoned hurriedly to the twins. "come on, quick," she said. "where in the world have you been all day? did you have any luncheon? mrs. forrest and jim were here, and they invited you to go home with them for a week in the country. i said i knew you'd want to go, and they promised to come for you at four, but i couldn't find you any place. i suppose it is too late now. it's--" "a week!" "at forrests'?" "come on, lark, sure we have time enough. we'll be ready in fifteen minutes." "come on up, auntie, we'll tell you where we've been." the twins flew up the stairs, their aunt as close behind as she deemed safe. inside their own room they promptly, and ungracefully, kicked off their loose pumps, tossed their tennis shoes and racquets on the bed, and began tugging at the cords of their middy blouses. "you go and wash, carol," said lark, "while i comb. then i can have the bathroom to myself. and hurry up! you haven't any time to primp." "pack the suit-case and the bag, will you, auntie, and--" "i already have," she answered, laughing at their frantic energy. "and i put out these white dresses for you to wear, and--" "gracious, auntie! they button in the back and have sixty buttons apiece. we'll never have time to fasten them," expostulated carol, without diminishing her speed. "i'll button while you powder, that'll be time enough." "i won't have time to powder," called back carol from the bathroom, where she was splashing the water at a reckless rate. "i'll wear a veil and powder when i get there. did you pack any clean handkerchiefs, auntie? i'm clear out. if you didn't put any in, you'd better go and borrow connie's. lucky thing she's not here." shining with zeal and soap, carol dashed out, and lark dashed in. "are there any holes in these stockings?" carol turned around, lifting her skirts for inspection. "well, i'm sorry, i won't have time to change them.--did they come in the auto? good!" she was brushing her hair as she talked. "yes, we had a luncheon, all pie, though. we played tennis this morning; we were intending to come home right along, or we'd have phoned you. we were playing with george castle and fritzie zale.--is it sticking out any place?" she lowered her head backward for her aunt to see. "stick a pin in it, will you? thanks. they dared us to go to the pie counter and see which couple could eat the most pieces of lemon pie, the couple which lost paying for all the pie. it's not like betting, you know, it's a kind of reward of merit, like a sunday-school prize. no, i won't put on my slippers till the last thing, my heel's sore, my tennis shoe rubbed the skin off. my feet seem to be getting tender. think it's old age?" lark now emerged from the bathroom, and both twins performed a flying exchange of dresses. "who won?" "lark and george ate eleven pieces, and fritzie and i only nine. so fritzie paid. then we went on the campus and played mumble-te-peg, or whatever you call it. it is french, auntie." "did they ask us to stay a whole week, auntie?" inquired lark. "yes. jim was wearing his new gray suit and looked very nice. i've never been out to their home. is it very nice?" "um, swell!" this was from carol, lark being less slangily inclined. "they have about sixteen rooms, and two maids--they call them 'girls'--and electric lights, and a private water supply, and--and--horses, and cows--oh, it's great! we've always been awfully fond of jim. the nicest thing about him is that he always takes a girl home when he goes to class things and socials. i can't endure a fellow who walks home by himself. jim always asks larkie and me first, and if we are taken he gets some one else. most boys, if they can't get first choice, pike off alone." "here, carol, you have my petticoat. this is yours. you broke the drawstring, and forgot--" "oh, mercy, so i did. here, auntie, pin it over for me, will you? i'll take the string along and put it in to-night." "now, carol," said aunt grace, smiling. "be easy on him. he's so nice it would be a shame to--" carol threw up her eyes in horror. "i am shocked," she cried. then she dimpled. "but i wouldn't hurt jim for anything. i'm very fond of him. do you really think there are any--er--indications--" "oh, i don't know anything about it. i'm just judging by the rest of the community." lark was performing the really difficult feat of putting on and buttoning her slippers standing on one foot for the purpose and stooping low. her face was flushed from the exertion. "do you think he's crazy about you, carol?" she inquired, rather seriously, and without looking up from the shoe she was so laboriously buttoning. "oh, i don't know. there are a few circumstances which seem to point that way. take that new gray suit for instance. now you know yourself, lark, he didn't need a new gray suit, and when a man gets a brand-new suit for no apparent reason, you can generally put it down that he's waxing romantic. then there's his mother--she's begun telling me all his good points, and how cute he was when he was born, and she showed me one of his curls and a lot of his baby pictures--it made jim wild when he came in and caught her at it, and she tells me how good he is and how much money he's got. that's pointed, very. but i must confess," she concluded candidly, "that jim himself doesn't act very loverly." "he thinks lots of you, i know," said lark, still seriously. "whenever he's alone with me he praises you every minute of the time." "that's nothing. when he's alone with me he praises you all the time, too. where's my hat, lark? i'll bet connie wore it, the little sinner! now what shall i do?" "you left it in the barn yesterday,--don't you remember you hung it on the harness hook when we went out for eggs, and--" "oh, so i did. there comes connie now." carol thrust her head out of the window. "connie, run out to the barn and bring my hat, will you? it's on the harness hook. and hurry! don't stop to ask questions, just trot along and do as you're told." carol returned again to her toilet. "well, i guess i have time to powder after all. i don't suppose we'll need to take any money, auntie, do you? we won't be able to spend it in the country." "i think you'd better take a little. they might drive to town, or go to a social, or something." "can't do it. haven't a cent." "well, i guess i can lend you a little," was the smiling reply. it was a standing joke in the family that carol had been financially hard pressed ever since she began using powder several years previous. "are you fond of jim, carol?" lark jumped away backward in the conversation, asking the question gravely, her eyes upon her sister's face. "hum! yes, i am," was the light retort. "didn't prudence teach us to love everybody?" "don't be silly. i mean if he proposes to you, are you going to turn him down, or not?" "what would you advise, lark?" carol's brows were painfully knitted. "he's got five hundred acres of land, worth at least a hundred an acre, and a lot of money in the bank,--his mother didn't say how much, but i imagine several thousand anyhow. and he has that nice big house, and an auto, and--oh, everything nice! think of the fruit trees, larkie! and he's good-looking, too. and his mother says he is always good natured even before breakfast, and that's very exceptional, you know! very! i don't know that i could do much better, do you, auntie? i'm sure i'd look cute in a sun-bonnet and apron, milking the cows! so, boss, so, there, now! so, boss!" "why, carol!" "but there are objections, too. they have pigs. i can't bear pigs! pooooey, pooooey! the filthy little things! i don't know,--jim and the gray suit and the auto and the cows are very nice, but when i think of jim and overalls and pigs and onions and freckles i have goose flesh. here they come! where's that other slipper? oh, it's clear under the bed!" she wriggled after it, coming out again breathless. "did i rub the powder all off?" she asked anxiously. the low honk of the car sounded outside, and the twins dumped a miscellaneous assortment of toilet articles into the battered suit-case and the tattered hand-bag. carol grabbed her hat from connie, leisurely strolling through the hall with it, and sent her flying after her gloves. "if you can't find mine, bring your own," she called after her. aunt grace and connie escorted them triumphantly down the walk to the waiting car where the young man in the new sentimental gray suit stood beside the open door. his face was boyishly eager, and his eyes were full of a satisfaction that had a sort of excitement in it, too. aunt grace looked at him and sighed. "poor boy," she thought. "he is nice! carol is a mean little thing!" he smiled at the twins impartially. "shall we flip a coin to see who i get in front?" he asked them, laughing. his mother leaned out from the back seat, and smiled at the girls very cordially. "hurry, twinnies," she said, "we must start, or we'll be late for supper. come in with me, won't you, larkie?" "what a greasy schemer she is," thought carol, climbing into her place without delay. jim placed the battered suit-case and the tattered bag beneath the seat, and drew the rug over his mother's knees. then he went to lark's side, and tucked it carefully about her feet. "it's awfully dusty," he said. "you shouldn't have dolled up so. shall i put your purse in my pocket? don't forget you promised to feed the chickens--i'm counting on you to do it for me." then he stepped in beside carol, laughing into her bright face, and the good-bys rang back and forth as the car rolled away beneath the heavy arch of oak leaves that roofed in maple avenue. the twins fairly reveled in the glories of the country through the golden days that followed, and enjoyed every minute of every day, and begrudged the hours they spent in sleep. the time slipped by "like banana skins," declared carol crossly, and refused to explain her comparison. and the last day of their visit came. supper was over at seven o'clock, and lark said, with something of wistfulness in her voice, "i'm going out to the orchard for a farewell weep all by myself. and don't any of you disturb me,--i'm so ugly when i cry." so she set out alone, and jim, a little awkwardly, suggested that carol take a turn or so up and down the lane with him. mrs. forrest stood at the window and watched them, tearful-eyed, but with tenderness. "my little boy," she said to herself, "my little boy. but she's a dear, sweet, pretty girl." in the meantime, jim was acquitting himself badly. his face was pale. he was nervous, ill at ease. he stammered when he spoke. self-consciousness was not habitual to this young man of the iowa farm. he was not the awkward, ignorant, gangling farm-hand we meet in books and see on stages. he had attended the high school in mount mark, and had been graduated from the state agricultural college with high honors. he was a farmer, as his father had been before him, but he was a farmer of the new era, one of those men who takes plain farming and makes it a profession, almost a fine art. usually he was self-possessed, assertive, confident, but, in the presence of this sparkling twin, for once he was abashed. carol was in an ecstasy of delight. she was not a man-eater, perhaps, but she was nearly romance-mad. she thought only of the wild excitement of having a sure-enough lover, the hurt of it was yet a little beyond her grasp. "oh, carol, don't be so sweet," lark had begged her once. "how can the boys help being crazy about you, and it hurts them." "it doesn't hurt anything but their pride when they get snubbed," had been the laughing answer. "do you want to break men's hearts?" "well,--it's not at all bad for a man to have a broken heart," the irrepressible carol had insisted. "they never amount to anything until they have a real good disappointment. then they brace up and amount to something. see? i really think it's a kindness to give them a heart-break, and get them started." the callow youths of mount mark, of the epworth league, and the college, were almost unanimous in laying their adoration at carol's feet. but carol saw the elasticity, the buoyancy, of loves like these, and she couldn't really count them. she felt that she was ripe for a bit of solid experience now, and there was nothing callow about jim--he was solid enough. and now, although she could see that his feelings stirred, she felt nothing but excitement and curiosity. a proposal, a real one! it was imminent, she felt it. "carol," he began abruptly, "i am in love." "a-are you?" carol had not expected him to begin in just that way. "yes,--i have been for a long time, with the sweetest and dearest girl in the world. i know i am not half good enough for her, but--i love her so much that--i believe i could make her happy." "d-do you?" carol was frightened. she reflected that it wasn't so much fun as she had expected. there was something wonderful in his eyes, and in his voice. maybe lark was right,--maybe it did hurt! oh, she really shouldn't have been quite so nice to him! "she is young--so am i--but i know what i want, and if i can only have her, i'll do anything i--" his voice broke a little. he looked very handsome, very grown-up, very manly. carol quivered. she wanted to run away and cry. she wanted to put her arms around him and tell him she was very, very sorry and she would never do it again as long as she lived and breathed. "of course," he went on, "i am not a fool. i know there isn't a girl like her in ten thousand, but--she's the one i want, and--carol, do you reckon there is any chance for me? you ought to know. lark doesn't have secrets from you, does she? do you think she'll have me?" certainly this was the surprise of carol's life. if it was romance she wanted, here it was in plenty. she stopped short in the daisy-bright lane and stared at him. "jim forrest," she demanded, "is it lark you want to marry, or me?" "lark, of course!" carol opened her lips and closed them. she did it again. finally she spoke. "well, of all the idiots! if you want to marry lark, what in the world are you out here proposing to me for?" "i'm not proposing to you," he objected. "i'm just telling you about it." "but what for? what's the object? why don't you go and rave to her?" he smiled a little. "well, i guess i thought telling you first was one way of breaking it to her gently." "i'm perfectly disgusted with you," carol went on, "perfectly. here i've been expecting you to propose to me all week, and--" "propose to you! my stars!" "don't interrupt me," carol snapped. "last night i lay awake for hours,--look at the rings beneath my eyes--" "i don't see 'em," he interrupted again, smiling more broadly. "just thinking out a good flowery rejection for you, and then you trot me out here and propose to lark! well, if that isn't nerve!" jim laughed loudly at this. he was used to carol, and enjoyed her little outbursts. "i can't think what on earth made you imagine i'd want to propose to you," he said, shaking his head as though appalled at the idea. carol's eyes twinkled at that, but she did not permit him to see it. "why shouldn't i think so? didn't you get a new gray suit? and haven't i the best complexion in mount mark? don't all the men want to propose to a complexion like mine?" "shows their bum taste," he muttered. carol twinkled again. "of course," she agreed, "all men have bum taste, if it comes to that." he laughed again, then he sobered. "do you think lark will--" "i think lark will turn you down," said carol promptly, "and i hope she does. you aren't good enough for her. no one in the world is good enough for lark except myself. if she should accept you--i don't think she will, but if she has a mental aberration and does--i'll give you my blessing, and come and live with you six months in the year, and lark shall come and live with me the other six months, and you can run the farm and send us an allowance. but i don't think she'll have you; i'll be disappointed in her if she does." carol was silent a moment then. she was remembering many things,--lark's grave face that day in the parsonage when they had discussed the love of jim, her unwonted gentleness and her quiet manners during this visit, and one night when carol, suddenly awakening, had found her weeping bitterly into her pillow. lark had said it was a headache, and was better now, and carol had gone to sleep again, but she remembered now that lark never had headaches! and she remembered how very often lately lark had put her arms around her shoulders and looked searchingly into her face, and lark was always wistful, too, of late! she sighed. yes, she caught on at last, "had been pushed on to it," she thought angrily. she had been a wicked, blind, hateful little simpleton or she would have seen it long ago. but she said nothing of this to jim. "you'd better run along then, and switch your proposal over to her, or i'm likely to accept you on my own account, just for a joke. and be sure and tell her i'm good and sore that i didn't get a chance to use my flowery rejection. but i'm almost sure she'll turn you down." then carol stood in the path, and watched jim as he leaped lightly over fences and ran through the sweet meadow. she saw lark spring to her feet and step out from the shade of an apple tree, and then jim took her in his arms. after that, carol rushed into the house and up the stairs. she flung herself on her knees beside her bed and buried her face in the white spread. "lark," she whispered, "lark!" she clenched her hands, and her shoulders shook. "my little twin," she cried again, "my nice old lark." then she got up and walked back and forth across the floor. sometimes she shook her fist. sometimes a little crooked smile softened her lips. once she stamped her foot, and then laughed at herself. for an hour she paced up and down. then she turned on the light, and went to the mirror, where she smoothed her hair and powdered her face as carefully as ever. "it's a good joke on me," she said, smiling, "but it's just as good a one on mrs. forrest. i think i'll go and have a laugh at her. and i'll pretend i knew it all along." she found the woman lying in a hammock on the broad piazza where a broad shaft of light from the open door fell upon her. carol stood beside her, smiling brightly. "mrs. forrest," she said, "i know a perfectly delicious secret. shall i tell you?" the woman sat up, holding out her arms. carol dropped on her knees beside her, smiling mischievously at the expression on her face. "cupid has been at work," she said softly, "and your own son has fallen a victim." mrs. forrest sniffed slightly, but she looked lovingly at the fair sweet face. "i am sure i can not wonder," she answered in a gentle voice. "is it all settled?" "i suppose so. at any rate, he is proposing to her in the orchard, and i am pretty sure she's going to accept him." mrs. forrest's arms fell away from carol's shoulders. "lark!" she ejaculated. "yes,--didn't you know it?" carol's voice was mildly and innocently surprised. "lark!" mrs. forrest was plainly dumfounded. "i--i thought it was you!" "me!" carol was intensely astonished. "me? oh, dear mrs. forrest, whatever in the world made you think that?" "why--i don't know," she faltered weakly, "i just naturally supposed it was you. i asked him once where he left his heart, and he said, 'at the parsonage,' and so of course i thought it was you." carol laughed gaily. "what a joke," she cried. "but you are more fortunate than you expected, for it is my precious old larkie. but don't be too glad about it, or you may hurt my feelings." "well, i am surprised, i confess, but i believe i like lark as well as i do you, and of course jim's the one to decide. people say lark is more sensible than you are, but it takes a good bit of a man to get beyond a face as pretty as yours. i'm kind o' proud of jim!" chapter xvii the girl who wouldn't propose it took a long time for carol to recover from the effect of lark's disloyalty, as she persisted in calling it. for several weeks she didn't twinkle at all. but when at last the smiles came easy again, she wrote to mr. duke, her p'fessor no longer, but now a full-fledged young minister. she apologized sweetly for her long delay. "but you will forgive me when you have read this," she wrote. "cupid is working havoc in our family. of course, no one outside the home circle knows yet, but i insisted on telling you because you have been such a grand good friend to us for so long. we may seem young to you, because you can't forget when we were freshmen, but we are really very grown up. we act quite mature now, and never think of playing jokes. but i didn't finish my news, did i? "it is jim forrest--he was in high school when we were. remember him? larkie and i were out to spend a week, and--but i needn't go into particulars. i knew you would be interested. the whole family is very happy about it, he is a great favorite with every one. but how our family is going to pieces! still, since it is jim--! he _is_ nice, isn't he? but you wouldn't dare say no." carol's eyes glittered wickedly as she sealed this letter, which she had penned with greatest care. and a few days later, when the answer came, she danced gleefully up the stairs,--not at all "mature" in manner, and locked the door behind her while she read: "dear carol: "indeed i am very interested, and i wish you all the joy in the world. tell jim for me how very much i think he is to be congratulated. he seems a fine fellow, and i know you will be happy. it was a surprise, i admit--i knew he was doing the very devoted--but you have seemed so young to me, always. i can't imagine you too grown up for jokes, though you do sound more 'mature' in this letter than you have before. lark will be lonely, i am afraid. "i am very busy with my work, so you will understand if my letters come less frequently, won't you? and you will be too busy with your own happiness to bother with an old professor any more anyhow. i have enjoyed our friendship very much,--more than you will ever know,--and i want once more to hope you may be the happiest woman in the world. you deserve to be. "very sincerely your friend, "david a. duke." carol lay down on the bed and crushed the letter ecstatically between her hands. then she burst out laughing. then she cried a little, nervously, and laughed again. then she smoothed the letter affectionately, and curled up on the bed with a pad of paper and her father's fountain-pen to answer the letter. "my dear mr. duke: however in the world could you make such a mistake. i've been laughing ever since i got your letter, but i'm vexed too. he's nice, all right; he's just fine, but i don't want him! and think how annoyed lark would be if she could see it. i am not engaged to jim forrest,--nor to any one. it's lark. i certainly didn't say it was i, did i? we're all so fond of jim that it really is a pleasure to the whole family to count him one of us, and lark grows more deliriously joyful all the time. but i! i know you're awfully busy, of course, and i hate to intrude, but you must write one little postal card to apologize for your error, and i'll understand how hard you are working when you do not write again. "hastily, but always sincerely, "carol." carol jumped up and caught up her hat and rushed all the way down-town to the post-office to get that letter started for danville, illinois, where the reverend mr. duke was located. her face was so radiant, and her eyes were so heavenly blue, and so sparkling bright, that people on the street turned to look after her admiringly. she was feverishly impatient until the answer arrived, and was not at all surprised that it came under special delivery stamp, though lark lifted her eyebrows quizzically, and aunt grace smiled suggestively, and her father looked up with sudden questioning in his face. carol made no comment, only ran up to her room and locked the door once more. "carol, you awful little scamp, you did that on purpose, and you know it. you never mentioned lark's name. well, if you wanted to give me the scare of my life, you certainly succeeded. i didn't want to lose my little chum, and i knew very well that no man in his proper senses would allow his sweetheart to be as good a comrade to another man as i want you to be to me. of course i was disappointed. of course i expected to be busy for a while. of course i failed to see the sterling worth of jim forrest. i see it now, though. i think he's a prince, and as near worth being in your family as anybody could be. i'm sure we'll be great friends, and tell lark for me that i am waxing enthusiastic over his good qualities even to the point of being inarticulate. tell her how happy i am over it, a good deal happier than i've been for the past several days, and i am wishing them both a world of joy. i'm having one myself, and i find it well worth having. i could shake you, carol, for playing such a trick on me. i can just see you crouch down and giggle when you read this. you wait, my lady. my turn is coming. i think i'll run down to mount mark next week to see my uncle--he's not very well. don't have any dates. "sincerely, d. d." and carol laughed again, and wiped her eyes. the reverend mr. duke's devotion to his elderly uncle in mount mark was a most beautiful thing to see. every few weeks he "ran down for a few days," and if he spent most of his time recounting his uncle's symptoms before the sympathetic starrs, no one could be surprised at that. he and mr. starr naturally had much in common, both ministers, and both--at any rate, he was very devoted to his uncle, and carol grew up very, very fast, and smiled a great deal, but laughed much less frequently than in other days. there was a shy sweetness about her that made her father watch her anxiously. "is carol sick, grace?" he asked one day, turning suddenly to his sister-in-law. she smiled curiously. "n-no, i think not. why?" "she seems very--sweet." "yes. she feels very--sweet," was the enigmatical response. and mr. starr muttered something about women and geometry and went away, shaking his head. and aunt grace smiled again. but the months passed away. lark, not too absorbed in her own happiness to find room for her twin's affairs, at last grew troubled. she and aunt grace often held little conferences together when carol was safely out of the way. "whatever do you suppose is the matter?" lark would wonder anxiously. to which her aunt always answered patiently, "oh, just wait. he isn't sure she's grown-up enough yet." then there came a quiet night when carol and mr. duke sat in the living-room, idly discussing the weather, and looking at connie who was deeply immersed in a book on the other side of the big reading lamp. conversation between them lagged so noticeably that they sighed with relief when she finally laid down her book, and twisted around in her chair until she had them both in full view. "books are funny," she began brightly. "i don't believe half the written stuff ever did happen--i don't believe it could. do girls ever propose, mr. duke?" "no one ever proposed to me," he answered, laughing. "no?" she queried politely. "maybe no one wanted you badly enough. but i wonder if they ever do? writers say so. i can't believe it somehow. it seems so--well--unnecessary, someway. carol and i were talking about it this afternoon." carol looked up startled. "what does carol think about it?" he queried. "well, she said she thought in ordinary cases girls were clever enough to get what they wanted without asking for it." carol moved restlessly in her chair, her face drooping a little, and mr. duke laughed. "of course, i know none of our girls would do such a thing," said connie, serene in her family pride. "but carol says she must admit she'd like to find some way to make a man say what anybody could see with half an eye he wanted to say anyhow, only--" connie stopped abruptly. mr. duke had turned to carol, his keen eyes searching her face, but carol sank in the big chair and turned her face away from him against the leather cushion. "connie," she said, "of course no girl would propose, no girl would want to--i was only joking--" mr. duke laughed openly then. "let's go and take a walk, shan't we, carol? it's a grand night." "you needn't go to get rid of me," said connie, rising. "i was just going anyhow." "oh, don't go," said mr. duke politely. "don't go," echoed carol pleadingly. connie stepped to the doorway, then paused and looked back at them. sudden illumination came to her as she scanned their faces, the man's clear-cut, determined, eager--carol's shy, and scared, and--hopeful. she turned quickly back toward her sister, pain darkening her eyes. carol was the last of all the girls,--it would leave her alone,--and he was too old for her. her lips quivered a little, and her face shadowed more darkly. but they did not see it. the man's eyes were intent on carol's lovely features, and carol was studying her slender fingers. connie drew a long breath, and looked down upon her sister with a great protecting tenderness in her heart. she wanted to catch her up in her strong young arms and carry her wildly out of the room--away from the man who sat there--waiting for her. carol lifted her face at that moment, and turned slowly toward mr. duke. connie saw her eyes. they were luminous. connie's tense figure relaxed then, and she turned at once toward the door. "i am going," she said in a low voice. but she looked back again before she closed the door after her. "carol," she said in a whisper, "you--you're a darling. i--i've always thought so." carol did not hear her,--she did not hear the door closing behind her--she had forgotten connie was there. mr. duke stood up and walked quickly across the room and carol rose to meet him. he put his arms about her, strongly, without hesitating. "carol," he said, "my little song-bird,"--and he laughed, but very tenderly, "would you like to know how to make me say what you know i want to say?" "i--i--" she began tremulously, clasping her hands against his breast, and looking intently, as if fascinated, at his square firm chin so very near her eyes. she had never observed it so near at hand before. she thought it was a lovely chin,--in another man she would have called it distinctly "bossy." "you _would_ try to make me, when you know i've been gritting my teeth for years, waiting for you to get grown up. you've been awfully slow about it, carol, and i've been in such a hurry for you." she rested limply in his arms now, breathing in little broken sighs, not trying to speak. "you have known it a long time, haven't you? and i thought i was hiding it so cleverly." he drew her closer in his arms. "you are too young for me, carol," he said regretfully. "i am very old." "i--i like 'em old," she whispered shyly. with one hand he drew her head to his shoulder, where he could feel the warm fragrant breath against the "lovely chin." "you like 'them' old," he repeated, smiling. "you are very generous. one old one is all i want you to like." but when he leaned toward her lips, carol drew away swiftly. "don't be afraid of me, carol. you didn't mind once when i kissed you." he laid his hand softly on her round cheek. "i am too old, dearest, but i've been loving you for years i guess. i've been waiting for you since you were a little freshman, only i didn't know it for a while. say something, carol--i don't want you to feel timid with me. you love me, don't you? tell me, if you do." "i--i." she looked up at him desperately. "i--well, i made you say it, didn't i?" "did you want me to say it, dearest? have you been waiting, too? how long have you--" "oh, a long time; since that night among the rose bushes at the parsonage." "since then?" "yes; that was why it didn't break my pledge when you kissed me. because i--was waiting then." "do you love me?" "oh, p'fessor, don't make me say it right out in plain english--not to-night. i'm pretty nearly going to cry now, and--" she twinkled a little then, like herself, "you know what crying does to my complexion." but he did not smile. "don't cry," he said. "we want to be happy to-night. you will tell me to-morrow. to-night--" "to-night," she said sweetly, turning in his arms so that her face was toward him again, "to-night--" she lifted her arms, and put them softly about his neck, the laces falling back and showing her pink dimpled elbows. "to-night, my dearest,--" she lifted her lips to him, smiling. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors correcteded. page , "make" changed to "made". (made a mistake) page , "fairly" changed to "fairy". (declared fairy earnestly) page , "envoleped" changed to "enveloped". (enveloped in a) page , word "a" added to text. (playing a game) page , "ordinariy" changed to "ordinary". (ordinary style of) page , "though" changed to "thought". (thought about it) page , "daly" changed to "raider". (office. mr. raider) page , "ny" changed to "any". (any business to) page , "noisiness" changed to "nosiness". (downright nosiness) page , "stanchly" changed to "staunchly". (carol staunchly disclaimed) page , "of" changed to "or". (or mediapolis) page , "dissappointment" changed to "disappointment". (shadow of disappointment) page , "mustn't" changed to "mustn't". (you mustn't. we) page , "brough" changed to "brought". (search brought to) page , "whisperingly" changed to "whispering". (whispering softly) page , "a" changed to "at". (at any rate) one instance each of "twinship" and "twin-ship" was retained. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) prudence of the parsonage by ethel hueston with illustrations by arthur william brown [frontispiece: "what did you put in this soup, prudence?"] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company to my mother who devoted her life to rearing a whole parsonage-full of rollicking young methodists contents chapter i introducing her ii the rest of the family iii the ladies' aid iv a secret society v the twins stick up for the bible vi an admirer vii lessons in etiquette viii the first dark shadow of winter ix practising economy x a burglar's visit xi romance comes xii roused from her slumber xiii she orders her life xiv she comes to grief xv fate takes charge illustrations "what did you put in this soup, prudence?" . . . . _frontispiece_ "if you'll shut the door one minute, we'll have everything exactly as you left it." "yes, and have refreshments for just you two?" "she predicted i'm to fall in love with you." prudence of the parsonage chapter i introducing her none but the residents consider mount mark, iowa, much of a town, and those who are honest among them admit, although reluctantly, that mount mark can boast of far more patriotism than good judgment! but the _very most_ patriotic of them all has no word of praise for the ugly little red c., b. & q. railway station. if pretty is as pretty does, as we have been told so unpleasantly often, then the station is handsome enough, but as an ornament to the commonwealth it is a dismal failure,--low, smoky and dust-grimed. in winter its bleakness and bareness add to the chill of the rigorous iowa temperature, and in summer the sap oozing through the boards is disagreeably suggestive of perspiration. the waiting-room itself is "cleaned" every day, and yet the same dust lies in the corners where it has lain for lo, these many years. and as for the cobwebs, their chief distinction lies in their ripe old age. if there were only seven spiders in the ark, after the subsiding of the waters, at least a majority of them must have found their way to mount mark station in south-eastern iowa. mount mark is anything but proud of the little station. it openly scoffs at it, and sniffs contemptuously at the ticket agent who bears the entire c., b. & q. reputation upon his humble shoulders. at the same time, it certainly does owe the railroad and the state a debt of gratitude for its presence there. it is the favorite social rendezvous for the community! only four passenger trains daily pass through mount mark,--not including the expresses, which rush haughtily by with no more than a scornful whistle for the sleepy town, and in return for this indignity, mount mark cherishes a most unchristian antipathy toward those demon fliers. but the "passengers"--ah, that is a different matter. the arrival of a passenger train in mount mark is an event--something in the nature of a c., b. & q. "at home," and is always attended by a large and enthusiastic gathering of "our best people." all that is lacking are the proverbial "light refreshments!" so it happened that one sultry morning, late in the month of august, there was the usual flutter of excitement and confusion on the platform and in the waiting-room of the station. the habitués were there in force. conspicuous among them were four gaily dressed young men, smoking cigarettes and gazing with lack-luster eyes upon the animated scene, which evidently bored them. all the same, they invariably appeared at the depot to witness this event, stirring to others no doubt, but incapable of arousing the interest of these life-weary youths. they comprised the slaughter-house quartette, and were the most familiar and notorious characters in all the town. _the daily news_ reporter, in a well-creased, light gray suit and tan shoes, and with eye-glasses scientifically balanced on his aquiline nose, was making pointed inquiries into the private plans of the travelers. _the daily news_ reporters in mount mark always wear well-creased, light gray suits and tan shoes, and always have eye-glasses scientifically balanced on aquiline noses. the uninitiated can not understand how it is managed, but there lies the fact. perhaps _the news_ includes these details in its requirements of applicants. possibly it furnishes the gray suits and the tan shoes, and even the eye-glasses. of course, the reporters can practise balancing them scientifically,--but how does it happen that they always have aquiline noses? at any rate, that is the mount mark type. it never varies. the young woman going to burlington to spend the week-end was surrounded with about fifteen other young women who had come to "see her off." she had relatives in burlington and went there very often, and she used to say she was glad she didn't have to exchange christmas presents with all the "friends" who witnessed her arrivals and departures at the station. mount mark is a very respectable town, be it understood, and girls do not go to the station without an excuse! the adams express wagon was drawn close to the track, and the agent was rushing about with a breathless energy which seemed all out of proportion to his accomplishments. the telegraph operator was gazing earnestly out of his open window, and his hands were busily moving papers from one pigeon-hole to another, and back again. old harvey reel, who drove the hotel bus, was discussing politics with the man who kept the restaurant, and the baggage master, superior and supremely dirty, was checking baggage with his almost unendurably lordly air. this was one of the four daily rejuvenations that gladdened the heart of mount mark. a man in a black business suit stood alone on the platform, his hands in his pockets, his eyes wandering from one to another of the strange faces about him. his plain white ready-made tie proclaimed his calling. "it's the new methodist preacher," volunteered the baggage master, crossing the platform, ostensibly on business bound, but really to see "who all" was there. "i know him. he's not a bad sort." "they say he's got five kids, and most of 'em girls," responded the adams express man. "i've ordered me a dress suit to pay my respects in when they get here. i want to be on hand early to pick me out a girl." "yah," mocked the telegraph operator, bobbing his head through the window, "you need to. they tell me every girl in mount mark has turned you down a'ready." but the methodist minister, gazing away down the track where a thin curl of smoke announced the coming of number nine, and prudence,--heard nothing of this conversation. he was not a handsome man. his hair was gray at the temples, his face was earnest, only saved from severity by the little clusters of lines at his eyes and mouth which proclaimed that he laughed often, and with relish. "train going east!" the minister stood back from the crowd, but when the train came pounding in a brightness leaped into his eyes that entirely changed the expression of his face. a slender girl stood in the vestibule, leaning dangerously outward, and waving wildly at him a small gloved hand. when the train stopped she leaped lightly from the steps, ignoring the stool placed for her feet by the conductor. "father!" she cried excitedly and small and slight as she was, she elbowed her way swiftly through the gaping crowd. "oh, father!" and she flung her arms about him joyously, unconscious of the admiring eyes of the adams express man, and the telegraph operator, and old harvey reel, whose eyes were always admiring when girls passed by. she did not even observe that the slaughterhouse quartette looked at her unanimously, with languid interest from out the wreaths of smoke they had created. her father kissed her warmly. "where is your baggage?" he asked, a hand held out to relieve her. "here!" and with a radiant smile she thrust upon him a box of candy and a gaudy-covered magazine. "your suit-case," he explained patiently. "oh!" she gasped. "run, father, run! i left it on the train!" father did run, but prudence, fleeter-footed, out-distanced him and clambered on board, panting. when she rejoined her father her face was flushed. "oh, father," she said quite snappily, "isn't that just like me?" "yes, very like," he agreed, and he smiled. "where is your umbrella?" prudence stopped abruptly. "i don't know," she said, with a stony face. "i can't remember a blessed thing about the old umbrella. oh, i guess i didn't bring it, at all." she breathed long in her relief. "yes, that's it, father, i left it at aunt grace's. don't you worry about it. fairy'll bring it to-morrow. isn't it nice that we can count on fairy's remembering?" "yes, very nice," he said, but his eyes were tender as he looked down at the little figure beside him. "and so this is mount mark! isn't it a funny name, father? why do they call it mount mark?" "i don't know. i hadn't thought to inquire. we turn here, prudence; we are going north now. this is main street. the city part of the town--the business part--is to the south." "it's a pretty street, isn't it?" she cried. "such nice big maples, and such shady, porchy houses. i love houses with porches, don't you? has the parsonage a porch?" "yes, a big one on the south, and a tiny one in front. the house faces west. that is the college there. it opens in three weeks, and fairy can make freshmen all right, they tell me. i wish you could go, too. you haven't had your share of anything--any good thing, prudence." "well, i have my share of you, father," she said comfortingly. "and i've always had my share of oatmeal and sorghum molasses,--though one wouldn't think it to look at me. fairy gained a whole inch last week at aunt grace's. she was so disgusted with herself. she says she'll not be able to look back on the visit with any pleasure at all, just because of that inch. carol said she ought to look back with more pleasure, because there's an inch more of her to do it! but fairy says she did not gain the inch in her eyes! aunt grace laughed every minute we were there. she says she is all sore up and down, from laughing so much." "we have the house fixed up pretty well, prudence, but of course you'll have to go over it yourself and arrange it as you like. but remember this: you are not allowed to move the heavy furniture. i forbid it emphatically. there isn't enough of you for that." "yes, i'll remember,--i think i will. i'm almost certain to remember some things, you know." "i must go to a trustees' meeting at two o'clock, but we can get a good deal done before then. mrs. adams is coming to help you this afternoon. she is one of our ladies, and very kind. there, that is the parsonage!" prudence gazed in silence. many would not have considered it a beautiful dwelling, but to prudence it was heavenly. fortunately the wide, grassy, shaded lawn greeted one first. great spreading maples bordered the street, and clustering rose-bushes lined the walk leading up to the house. the walk was badly worn and broken to be sure,--but the roses were lovely! the grass had been carefully cut,--the father-minister had seen to that. the parsonage, to prudence's gratified eyes, looked homey, and big, and inviting. in fact, it was very nearly gorgeous! it needed painting badly, it is true. the original color had been a peculiar drab, but most of it had disappeared long before, so it was no eyesore on account of the color. there were many windows, and the well-known lace curtains looked down upon prudence tripping happily up the little board walk,--or so it seemed to her. "two whole stories, and an attic besides! not to mention the bathroom! oh, father, the night after you wrote there was a bathroom, constance thanked god for it when she said her prayers. and i couldn't reprove her, for i felt the same way about it myself. it'll be so splendid to have a whole tub to bathe in! i spent half the time bathing this last week at aunt grace's. a tub is so bountiful! a pan is awfully insufficient, father, even for me! i often think what a trouble it must be to fairy! and a furnace, too! and electric lights! don't you think there is something awe-inspiring in the idea of just turning a little knob on the wall, and flooding a whole room with light? i do revel in electric lights, i tell you. oh, we have waited a long time for it, and we've been very patient indeed, but, between you and me, father, i am most mightily glad we've hit the luxury-land at last. i'm sure we'll all feel much more religious in a parsonage that has a bathroom and electric lights! oh, father!" he had thrown open the door, and prudence stood upon the threshold of her new home. it was not a fashionable building, by any means. the hall was narrow and long, and the staircase was just a plain businesslike staircase, with no room for cushions, and flowers, and books. the doors leading from the hall were open, and prudence caught a glimpse of three rooms furnished, rather scantily, in the old familiar furniture that had been in that other parsonage where prudence was born, nineteen years before. together she and her father went from room to room, up-stairs and down, moving a table to the left, a bed to the right,--according to her own good pleasure. afterward they had a cozy luncheon for two in the "dining-room." "oh, it is so elegant to have a dining-room," breathed prudence happily. "i always pretended it was rather fun, and a great saving of work, to eat and cook and study and live in one room, but inwardly the idea always outraged me. is that the school over there?" "yes, that's where connie will go. there is only one high school in mount mark, so the twins will have to go to the other side of town,--a long walk, but in good weather they can come home for dinner.--i'm afraid the kitchen will be too cold in winter, prudence,--it's hardly more than a shed, really. maybe we'd----" "oh, father, if you love me, don't suggest that we move the stove in here in winter! i'm perfectly willing to freeze out there, for the sake of having a dining-room. did i ever tell you what carol said about that kitchen-dining-room-living-room combination at exminster? well, she asked us a riddle, 'when is a dining-room not a dining-room?' and she answered it herself, 'when it's a little pig-pen.' and i felt so badly about it, but it did look like a pig-pen, with stove here, and cupboard there, and table yonder, and--oh, no, father, please let me freeze!" "i confess i do not see the connection between a roomful of furniture and a pig-pen, but carol's wit is often too subtle for me." "oh, that's a lovely place over there, father!" exclaimed prudence, looking from the living-room windows toward the south. "isn't it beautiful?" "yes. the avery family lives there. the parents are very old and feeble, and the daughters are all--elderly--and all school-teachers. there are four of them, and the youngest is forty-six. it is certainly a beautiful place. see the orchard out behind, and the vineyard. they are very wealthy, and they are not fond of children outside of school hours, i am told, so we must keep an eye on connie.--dear me, it is two o'clock already, and i must go at once. mrs. adams will be here in a few minutes, and you will not be lonely." but when mrs. adams arrived at the parsonage, she knocked repeatedly, and in vain, upon the front door. after that she went to the side door, with no better result. finally, she gathered her robes about her and went into the back yard. she peered into the woodshed, and saw no one. she went into the barn-lot, and found it empty. in despair, she plunged into the barn--and stopped abruptly. in a shadowy corner was a slender figure kneeling beside an overturned nail keg, her face buried in her hands. evidently this was prudence engaged in prayer,--and in the barn, of all places in the world! "a--a--a--hem!" stammered mrs. adams inquiringly. "amen!" this was spoken aloud and hurriedly, and prudence leaped to her feet. her fair hair clung about her face in damp babyish tendrils, and her face was flushed and dusty, but alight with friendly interest. she ran forward eagerly, thrusting forth a slim and grimy hand. "you are mrs. adams, aren't you? i am prudence starr. it is so kind of you to come the very first day," she cried. "it makes me love you right at the start." "ye--yes, i am mrs. adams." mrs. adams was embarrassed. she could not banish from her mental vision that kneeling figure by the nail keg. interrogation was written all over her ample face, and prudence promptly read it and hastened to reply. "i do not generally say my prayers in the barn, mrs. adams, i assure you. i suppose you were greatly surprised. i didn't expect to do it myself, when i came out here, but--well, when i found this grand, old, rambling barn, i was so thankful i couldn't resist praying about it. of course, i didn't specially designate the barn, but god knew what i meant, i am sure." "but a barn!" ejaculated the perplexed "member." "do you call that a blessing?" "yes, indeed i do," declared prudence. then she explained patiently: "oh, it is on the children's account, you know. they have always longed for a big romantic barn to play in. we've never had anything but a shed, and when father went to conference this year, the twins told him particularly to look out for a good big barn. they said we'd be willing to put up with any kind of a parsonage, if only we might draw a barn for once. you can't imagine how happy this dear old place will make them, and i was happy on their account. that's why i couldn't resist saying my prayers,--i was so happy i couldn't hold in." as they walked slowly toward the house, mrs. adams looked at this parsonage girl in frank curiosity and some dismay, which she strongly endeavored to conceal from the bright-eyed prudence. the ladies had said it would be so nice to have a grown girl in the parsonage! prudence was nineteen from all account, but she looked like a child and--well, it was not exactly grown-up to give thanks for a barn, to say the very least! yet this girl had full charge of four younger children, and was further burdened with the entire care of a minister-father! well, well! mrs. adams sighed a little. "you are tired," said prudence sympathetically. "it's so hot walking, isn't it? let's sit on the porch until you are nicely rested. isn't this a lovely yard? and the children will be so happy to have this delicious big porch. oh, i just adore mount mark already." "this is a fine chance for us to get acquainted," said the good woman with eagerness. now if the truth must be told, there had been some ill feeling in the ladies' aid society concerning the reception of prudence. after the session of conference, when the reverend mr. starr was assigned to mount mark, the ladies of the church had felt great interest in the man and his family. they inquired on every hand, and learned several interesting items. the mother had been taken from the family five years before, after a long illness, and prudence, the eldest daughter, had taken charge of the household. there were five children. so much was known, and being women, they looked forward with eager curiosity to the coming of prudence, the young mistress of the parsonage. mr. starr had arrived at mount mark a week ahead of his family. the furniture had been shipped from his previous charge, and he, with the assistance of a strong and willing negro, had "placed it" according to the written instructions of prudence, who had conscientiously outlined just what should go in every room. she and the other children had spent the week visiting at the home of their aunt, and prudence had come on a day in advance of the others to "wind everything up," as she had expressed it. but to return to the ladies,--the parsonage girls always capitalized the ladies of their father's church, and indeed italicized them, as well. and the irrepressible carol had been heard to remark, "i often feel like exclamation-pointing them, i promise you." but to return once more. "one of us should go and help the dear child," said mrs. scott, the president of the aids, when they assembled for their business meeting, "help her, and welcome her, and advise her." "i was thinking of going over," said one, and another, and several others. "oh, that will not do at all," said the president; "she would be excited meeting so many strangers, and could not properly attend to her work. that will never do, never, never! but one of us must go, of course." "i move that the president appoint a committee of one to help miss prudence get settled, and welcome her to our midst," said mrs. barnaby, secretly hoping that in respect for her making this suggestion honoring the president, the president would have appreciation enough to appoint mrs. barnaby herself as committee. the motion was seconded, and carried. "well," said mrs. scott slowly, "i think in a case like this the president herself should represent the society. therefore, i will undertake this duty for you." but this called forth a storm of protest and it became so clamorous that it was unofficially decided to draw cuts! which was done, and in consequence of that drawing of cuts, mrs. adams now sat on the front porch of the old gray parsonage, cheered by the knowledge that every other lady of the aid was envying her! "now, just be real sociable and tell me all about yourself, and the others, too," urged mrs. adams. "i want to know all about every one of you. tell me everything." "there isn't much to tell," said prudence, smiling. "there are five of us; i am the oldest, i am nineteen. then comes fairy, then the twins, and then the baby." "are the twins boys, or a boy and a girl?" "neither," said prudence, "they are both girls." "more girls!" gasped mrs. adams. "and the baby?" "she is a girl, too." and prudence laughed. "in short, we are all girls except father. he couldn't be, of course,--or i suppose he would, for our family does seem to run to girls." "prudence is a very nice name for a minister's daughter," said mrs. adams suggestively. "yes,--for some ministers' daughters," assented prudence. "but is sadly unsuitable for me. you see, father and mother were very enthusiastic about the first baby who hadn't arrived. they had two names all picked out months ahead,--prudence and john wesley. that's how i happen to be prudence. they thought, as you do, that it was an uplifting name for a parsonage baby.--i was only three years old when fairy was born, but already they realized that they had made a great mistake. so they decided to christen baby number two more appropriately. they chose frank and fairy,--both light-hearted, happy, cheerful names.--it's fairy," prudence smiled reflectively. "but things went badly again. they were very unlucky with their babies. fairy is prudence by nature, and i am fairy. she is tall and a little inclined to be fat. she is steady, and industrious, and reliable, and sensible, and clever. in fact, she is an all-round solid and worthwhile girl. she can do anything, and do it right, and is going to be a college professor. it is a sad thing to think of a college professor being called fairy all her life, isn't it? especially when she is so dignified and grand. but one simply can't tell beforehand what to expect, can one? "father and mother were quite discouraged by that time. they hardly knew what to do. but anyhow they were sure the next would be a boy. every one predicted a boy, and so they chose a good old methodist name,--charles. they hated to give it john wesley, for they had sort of dedicated that to me, you know,--only i happened to be prudence. but charles was second-best. and they were very happy about it, and--it was twin girls! it was quite a blow, i guess. but they rallied swiftly, and called them carol and lark. such nice musical names! father and mother were both good singers, and mother a splendid pianist. and fairy and i showed musical symptoms early in life, so they thought they couldn't be far wrong that time. it was a bitter mistake. it seemed to turn the twins against music right from the start. carol can carry a tune if there's a strong voice beside her, but lark can hardly tell the difference between _star spangled banner_ and _rock of ages_. "the neighbors were kind of amused by then, and mother was very sensitive about it. so the next time she determined to get ahead of fate. 'no more nonsense, now,' said mother. 'it's almost certain to be a boy, and we'll call him william after father,--and billy for short.' we all liked the name billy, mother especially. but she couldn't call father anything but william,--we being parsonage people, you know. but she kept looking forward to little billy,--and then they changed it in a hurry to constance. and after that, father and mother gave the whole thing up as a bad job. there aren't any more of us. connie settled the baby business in our family." mrs. adams wiped her eyes, and leaned weakly back in her chair, gasping for breath. "well, i swan!" was all she could say at that moment. while giving herself time to recover her mental poise she looked critically at this young daughter of the parsonage. then her eyes wandered down to her clothes, and lingered, in silent questioning, on prudence's dress. it was a very peculiar color. in fact, it was no color at all,--no named color. prudence's eyes had followed mrs. adams' glance, and she spoke frankly. "i suppose you're wondering if this dress is any color! well, i think it really is, but it isn't any of the regular shades. it is my own invention, but i've never named it. we couldn't think of anything appropriate. carol suggested 'prudence shade,' but i couldn't bring myself to accept that. of course, mrs. adams, you understand how parsonage people do with clothes,--handing them down from generation unto generation. well, i didn't mind it at first,--when i was the biggest. but all of a sudden fairy grew up and out and around, and one day when i was so nearly out of clothes i hardly felt that i could attend church any more, she suggested that i cut an old one of hers down for me! at first i laughed, and then i was insulted. fairy is three years younger than i, and before then she had got my handed-downs. but now the tables were turned. from that time on, whenever anything happened to fairy's clothes so a gore had to be cut out, or the bottom taken off,--they were cut down for me. i still feel bitter about it. fairy is dark, and dark blues are becoming to her. she handed down this dress,--it was dark blue then. but i was not wanting a dark blue, and i thought it would be less recognizable if i gave it a contrasting color. i chose lavender. i dyed it four times, and this was the result." "do the twins dress alike?" inquired mrs. adams, when she could control her voice. "yes,--unfortunately for connie. they do it on purpose to escape the handed-downs! they won't even have hair ribbons different. and the result is that poor connie never gets one new thing except shoes. she says she can not help thanking the lord in her prayers, that all of us outwear our shoes before we can outgrow them.--connie is only nine. fairy is sixteen, and the twins are thirteen. they are a very clever lot of girls. fairy, as i told you, is just naturally smart, and aims to be a college professor. lark is an intelligent studious girl, and is going to be an author. carol is pretty, and lovable, and kind-hearted, and witty,--but not deep. she is going to be a red cross nurse and go to war. the twins have it all planned out. carol is going to war as a red cross nurse, and lark is going, too, so she can write a book about it, and they are both going to marry soldiers,--preferably dashing young generals! now they can hardly wait for war to break out. connie is a sober, odd, sensitive little thing, and hasn't decided whether she wants to be a foreign missionary, or get married and have ten children.--but they are all clever, and i'm proud of every one of them." "and what are you going to be?" inquired mrs. adams, looking with real affection at the bright sweet face. but prudence laughed. "oh, dear me, mrs. adams, seems to me if i just get the others raised up properly, i'll have my hands full. i used to have aims, dozens of them. now i have just one, and i'm working at it every day." "you ought to go to school," declared mrs. adams. "you're just a girl yourself." "i don't want to go to school," laughed prudence. "not any more. i like it, just taking care of father and the girls,--with fairy to keep me balanced! i read, but i do not like to study.--no, you'll have to get along with me just the way i am, mrs. adams. it's all i can do to keep things going now, without spending half the time dreaming of big things to do in the future." "don't you have dreams?" gasped mrs. adams. "don't you have dreams of the future? girls in books nowadays dream----" "yes, i dream," interrupted prudence, "i dream lots,--but it's mostly of what fairy and the others will do when i get them properly raised. you'll like the girls, mrs. adams, i know you will. they really are a gifted little bunch,--except me. but i don't mind. it's a great honor for me to have the privilege of bringing up four clever girls to do great things,--don't you think? and i'm only nineteen myself! i don't see what more a body could want." "it seems to me," said mrs. adams, "that i know more about your sisters than i do about you. i feel more acquainted with them right now, than with you." "that's so, too," said prudence, nodding. "but they are the ones that really count, you know. i'm just common little prudence of the parsonage,--but the others!" and prudence flung out her hands dramatically. chapter ii the rest of the family it was saturday morning when the four young parsonage girls arrived in mount mark. the elderly misses avery, next door, looked out of their windows, pending their appearance on main street, with interest and concern. it was a serious matter, this having a whole parsonage-full of young girls so close to the old avery mansion. to be sure, the averys had a deep and profound respect for ministerial households, but they were episcopalians themselves, and in all their long lives they had never so much as heard of a widower-rector with five daughters, and no housekeeper. there was something blood-curdling in the bare idea. the misses avery considered prudence herself rather a sweet, silly little thing. "you have some real nice people in the methodist church," miss dora had told her. "i dare say you will find a few of them very likeable." "oh, i will like them all," said prudence quickly and seriously. "like them all!" echoed miss dora. "oh, impossible!" "not for us," said prudence. "we are used to it, you know. we always like people." "that is ridiculous," said miss dora. "it is absolutely impossible. one can't! of course, as christians, we must tolerate, and try to help every one. but christian tolerance and love are----" "oh, excuse me, but--really i can't believe there is such a thing as christian tolerance," said prudence firmly. "there is christian love, and--that is all we need." then leaning forward: "what do you do, miss avery, when you meet people you dislike at very first sight?" "keep away from them," was the grim reply. "exactly! and keep on disliking them," said prudence triumphantly. "it's very different with us. when we dislike people at first sight, we visit them, and talk to them, and invite them to the parsonage, and entertain them with our best linen and silverware, and keep on getting friendlier and friendlier, and--first thing you know, we like them fine! it's a perfectly splendid rule, and it has never failed us once. try it, miss avery, do! you will be enthusiastic about it, i know." so the misses avery concluded that prudence was very young, and couldn't seem to quite outgrow it! she was not entirely responsible. and they wondered, with something akin to an agony of fear, if the younger girls "had it, too!" therefore the misses avery kept watch at their respective windows, and when miss alice cried excitedly, "quick! quick! they are coming!" they trooped to miss alice's window with a speed that would have done credit to the parsonage girls themselves. first came the minister, whom they knew very well by this time, and considered quite respectable. he was lively, as was to be expected of a methodist minister, and told jokes, and laughed at them! now, a comical rector,--oh, a very different matter,--it wasn't done, that's all! at any rate, here came the methodist minister, laughing, and on one side of him tripped a small earnest-looking maiden, clasping his hand, and gazing alternately up into his face, and down at the stylish cement sidewalk beneath her feet. on the other side, was fairy. the misses avery knew the girls by name already,--having talked much with prudence. "such a fairy!" gasped miss millicent, and the others echoed the gasp, but wordlessly. for fairy for very nearly as tall as her father, built upon generous lines, rather commanding in appearance, a little splendid-looking. even from their windows they could discern something distinctly juno-like in this sixteen-year-old girl, with the easy elastic stride that matched her father's, and the graceful head, well carried. a young goddess,--named fairy! behind them, laughing and chattering, like three children, as they were,--came the twins with prudence, each with an arm around her waist. and prudence was very little taller than they. when they reached the fence that bordered the parsonage, the scene for a moment resembled a miniature riot. the smaller girls jumped and exclaimed, and clasped their hands. fairy leaned over the fence, and stared intently at this, their parsonage home. then the serious little girl scrambled under the fence, followed closely by the lithe-limbed twins. a pause, a very short one,--and then prudence, too, was wriggling beneath the fence. "hold the wire up for me, papa," cried fairy, "i'm too fat." and a second later she was running gracefully across the lawn toward the parsonage. the methodist minister laughed boyishly, and placing his hands on the fence-post, he vaulted lightly over, and reached the house with his daughters. then the misses avery, school-teachers, and elderly, looked at one another. "did you ever?" whispered the oldest miss avery, and the others slowly shook their heads. now, think! did you ever see a rector jumping a three-wire fence, and running full speed across his front yard, in pursuit of a flying family? it may possibly have occurred,--we have never seen it. neither had the misses avery. nor did they ever expect to. and if they had seen it, it is quite likely they would have joined the backsliders at that instant. but without wasting much time on this gruesome thought, they hurried to a window commanding the best view of the parsonage, and raised it. then they clustered behind the curtains, and watched, and listened. there was plenty to hear! from the parsonage windows came the sound of scampering feet and banging doors. once there was the unmistakable clatter of a chair overturned. with it all, there was a constant chorus of "oh, look!" "oh! oh!" "oh, how sweet!" "oh, papa!" "oh, prudence!" "look, larkie, look at this!" then the thud of many feet speeding down the stairs, and the slam of a door, and the slam of a gate. the whole parsonage-full had poured out into the back yard, and the barn-lot. into the chicken coop they raced, the minister ever close upon their heels. over the board fence they clambered to the big rambling barn, and the wide door swung closed after them. but in a few seconds they were out once more, by the back barn door, and over the fence, and on to the "field." there they closed ranks, with their arms recklessly around whoever was nearest, and made a thorough tour of the bit of pasture-land. for some moments they leaned upon the dividing fence and gazed admiringly into the rich orchard and vineyard of the avery estate. but soon they were skipping back to the parsonage again, and the kitchen door banged behind them. then the eldest miss avery closed the window overlooking the parsonage and confronted her sisters. "we must just make the best of it," she said quietly. but next door, the gray old ugly parsonage was full to overflowing with satisfaction and happiness and love. the starrs had never had an appointment like this before. they had just come from the village of exminster, of five hundred inhabitants. there the reverend mr. starr had filled the pulpits of three small methodist churches, scattered at random throughout the country,--consideration, five hundred dollars. but here,--why, mount mark had a population of fully three thousand, and a business academy, and the presbyterian college,--small, to be sure, but the name had a grand and inspiring sound. and mr. starr had to fill only one pulpit! it was heavenly, that's what it was. to be sure, many of his people lived out in the country, necessitating the upkeep of a horse for the sake of his pastoral work, but that was only an advantage. also to be sure, the methodists in mount mark were in a minority, and an inferiority,--mount mark being a presbyterian stronghold due to the homing there of the trim and orderly little college. but what of that? the salary was six hundred and fifty dollars and the parsonage was adorable! the parsonage family could see nothing at all wrong with the world that day, and the future was rainbow-tinted. every one has experienced the ecstatic creepy sensation of sleeping in a brand-new home. the parsonage girls reveled in the memory of that first night for many days. "it may be haunted for all we know," cried carol deliciously. "just think, connie, there may be seven ghosts camped on the head of your bed, waiting----" "carol!" when the family gathered for worship on that first sabbath morning, mr. starr said, as he turned the leaves of his well-worn bible, "i think it would be well for you girls to help with the morning worship now. you need practise in praying aloud, and--so we will begin to-day. connie and i will make the prayers this morning, prudence and carol to-morrow, and fairy and lark the next day. we will keep that system up for a while, anyhow. when i finish reading the chapter, connie, you will make the first prayer. just pray for whatever you wish as you do at night for yourself. i will follow you." connie's eyes were wide with responsibility during the reading of the chapter, but when she began to speak her voice did not falter. connie had nine years of good methodist experience back of her! "our father, who art in heaven, we bow ourselves before thy footstool in humility and reverence. thou art our god, our creator, our saviour. bless us this day, and cause thy face to shine upon us. blot out our transgressions, pardon our trespasses. wash us, that we may be whiter than snow. hide not thy face from the eyes of thy children, turn not upon us in wrath. pity us, lord, as we kneel here prostrate before thy majesty and glory. let the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts, be acceptable in thy sight, o lord, our strength and our redeemer. and finally save us, an unbroken family around thy throne in heaven, for jesus' sake. amen." this was followed by an electric silence. prudence was biting her lips painfully, and counting by tens as fast as she could. fairy was mentally going over the prayer, sentence by sentence, and attributing each petition to the individual member in the old church at exminster to whom it belonged. the twins were a little amazed, and quite proud. connie was an honor to the parsonage,--but they were concerned lest they themselves should do not quite so well when their days came. but in less than a moment the minister-father began his prayer. his voice was a little subdued, and he prayed with less fervor and abandon than usual, but otherwise things went off quite nicely. when he said, "amen," prudence was on her feet and half-way up-stairs before the others were fairly risen. fairy stood gazing intently out of the window for a moment, and then went out to the barn to see if the horse was through eating. mr. starr walked gravely and soberly out the front door, and around the house. he ran into fairy coming out the kitchen door, and they glanced quickly at each other. "hurry, papa," she whispered, "you can't hold in much longer! neither can i!" and together, choking with laughter, they hurried into the barn and gave full vent to their feelings. so it was that the twins and connie were alone for a while. "you did a pretty good job, connie," said carol approvingly. "yes. i think i did myself," was the complacent answer. "but i intended to put in, 'keep us as the apple of thy eye, hold us in the hollow of thy hand,' and i forgot it until i had said 'amen.' i had a notion to put in a post-script, but i believe that isn't done." "never mind," said carol, "i'll use that in mine, to-morrow." it can not be said that this form of family worship was a great success. the twins were invariably stereotyped, cut and dried. they thanked the lord for the beautiful morning, for kind friends, for health, and family, and parsonage. connie always prayed in sentences extracted from the prayers of others she had often heard, and every time with nearly disastrous effect. but the days passed around, and prudence and carol's turn came again. carol was a thoughtless, impetuous, impulsive girl, and her prayers were as nearly "verbal repetitions" as any prayers could be. so on this morning, after the reading of the chapter, carol knelt by her chair, and began in her customary solemn voice: "oh, our father, we thank thee for this beautiful morning." then intense silence. for carol remembered with horror and shame that it was a dreary, dismal morning, cloudy, ugly and all unlovely. in her despair, the rest of her petition scattered to the four winds of heaven. she couldn't think of another word, so she gulped, and stammered out a faint "amen." but prudence could not begin. prudence was red in the face, and nearly suffocated. she felt all swollen inside,--she couldn't speak. the silence continued. "oh, why doesn't father do it?" she wondered. as a matter of fact, father couldn't. but prudence did not know that. one who laughs often gets in the habit of laughter,--and sometimes laughs out of season, as well as in. finally, prudence plunged in desperately, "dear father"--as she usually began her sweet, intimate little talks with god,--and then she paused. before her eyes flashed a picture of the "beautiful morning," for which carol had just been thankful! she tried again. "dear father,"--and then she whirled around on the floor, and laughed. mr. starr got up from his knees, sat down on his chair, and literally shook. fairy rolled on the lounge, screaming with merriment. even sober little connie giggled and squealed. but carol could not get up. she was disgraced. she had done a horrible, disgusting, idiotic thing. she had insulted god! she could never face the family again. her shoulders rose and fell convulsively. lark did not laugh either. with a rush she was on her knees beside carol, her arms around the heaving shoulders. "don't you care, carrie," she whispered. "don't you care. it was just a mistake,--don't cry, carrie." but carol would not be comforted. she tried to sneak unobserved from the room, but her father stopped her. "don't feel so badly about it, carol," he said kindly, really sorry for the stricken child,--though his eyes still twinkled, "it was just a mistake. but remember after this, my child, to speak to god when you pray. remember that you are talking to him. then you will not make such a blunder.--so many of us," he said reflectively, "ministers as well as others, pray into the ears of the people, and forget we are talking to god." after that, the morning worship went better. the prayers of the children changed,--became more personal, less flowery. they remembered from that time on, that when they knelt they were at the feet of god, and speaking direct to him. it was the hated duty of the twins to wash and dry the dishes,--taking turns about with the washing. this time was always given up to story-telling, for lark had a strange and wonderful imagination, and carol listened to her tales with wonder and delight. even connie found dish-doing hours irresistible, and could invariably be found, face in her hands, both elbows on the table, gazing with passionate earnestness at the young story-teller. now, some of lark's stories were such weird and fearful things that they had seriously interfered with connie's slumbers, and prudence had sternly prohibited them. but this evening, just as she opened the kitchen door, she heard lark say in thrilling tones: "she crept down the stairs in the deep darkness, her hand sliding lightly over the rail. suddenly she stopped. her hand was arrested in its movement. ice-cold fingers gripped hers tightly. then with one piercing shriek, she plunged forward, and fell to the bottom of the stairs with a terrific crash, while a mocking laugh----" the kitchen door slammed sharply behind prudence as she stepped into the kitchen, and connie's piercing shriek would surely have rivaled that of lark's unfortunate heroine. even carol started nervously, and let the plate she had been solemnly wiping for nine minutes, fall to the floor. lark gasped, and then began sheepishly washing dishes as though her life depended on it. the water was cold, and little masses of grease clung to the edges of the pan and floated about on the surface of the water. "get fresh hot water, lark, and finish the dishes. connie, go right up-stairs to bed. you twins can come in to me as soon as you finish." but connie was afraid to go to bed alone, and prudence was obliged to accompany her. so it was in their own room that the twins finally faced an indignant prudence. "carol, you may go right straight to bed. and lark--i do not know what in the world to do with you. why don't you mind me, and do as i tell you? how many times have i told you not to tell weird stories like that? can't you tell nice, interesting, mild stories?" "prudence, as sure as you live, i can't! i start them just as mild and proper as can be, but before i get half-way through, a murder, or death, or mystery crops in, and i can't help it." "but you must help it, lark. or i shall forbid your telling stories of any kind. they are so silly, those wild things, and they make you all nervous, and excitable, and-- now, think, larkie, and tell me how i shall punish you." lark applied all the resources of her wonderful brain to this task, and presently suggested reluctantly: "well, you might keep me home from the ice-cream social to-morrow night." but her face was wistful. "no," said prudence decidedly, to lark's intense relief. "i can't do that. you've been looking forward to it so long, and your class is to help with the serving. no, not that, larkie. that would be too mean. think of something else." "well,--you might make me wash and dry the dishes all alone--for a week, prudence, and that will be a bad punishment, too, for i just despise washing dishes by myself. telling stories makes it so much--livelier." "all right, then," said prudence, relieved in turn, "that is what i will do. and carol and connie must not even stay in the kitchen with you." "i believe i'll go to bed now, too," said lark, with a thoughtful glance at her two sisters, already curled up snugly and waiting for the conclusion of the administering of justice. "if you don't mind, prudence." prudence smiled a bit ruefully. "oh, i suppose you might as well, if you like. but remember this, lark: no more deaths, and murders, and mysteries, and highway robberies." "all right, prudence," said lark with determination. and as prudence walked slowly down-stairs she heard lark starting in on her next story: "once there was a handsome young man, named archibald tremaine,--a very respectable young fellow. he wouldn't so much as dream of robbing, or murdering, or dying." then prudence smiled to herself in the dark and hurried down. the family had been in the new parsonage only three weeks, when a visiting minister called on them. it was about ten minutes before the luncheon hour at the time of his arrival. mr. starr was in the country, visiting, so the girls received him alone. it was an unfortunate day for the starrs. fairy had been at college all morning, and prudence had been rummaging in the attic, getting it ready for a rainy-day and winter playroom for the younger girls. she was dusty, perspirey and tired. the luncheon hour arrived, and the girls came in from school, eager to be up and away again. still the grave young minister sat discoursing upon serious topics with the fidgety prudence,--and in spite of dust and perspiration, she was good to look upon. the reverend mr. morgan realized that, and could not tear himself away. the twins came in, shook hands with him soberly, glancing significantly at the clock as they did so. connie ran in excitedly, wanting to know what was the matter with everybody, and weren't they to have any luncheon? still mr. morgan remained in his chair, gazing at prudence with frank appreciation. finally prudence sighed. "do you like sweet corn, mr. morgan?" this was entirely out of the line of their conversation, and for a moment he faltered. "sweet corn?" he repeated. "yes, roasting-ears, you know,--cooked on the cob." then he smiled. "oh, yes indeed. very much," he said. "well," she began her explanation rather drearily, "i was busy this morning and did not prepare much luncheon. we are very fond of sweet corn, and i cooked an enormous panful. but that's all we have for luncheon,--sweet corn and butter. we haven't even bread, because i am going to bake this afternoon, and we never eat it with sweet corn, anyhow. now, if you care to eat sweet corn and butter, and canned peaches, we'd just love to have you stay for luncheon with us." the reverend mr. morgan was charmed, and said so. so prudence rushed to the kitchen, opened the peaches in a hurry, and fished out a clean napkin for their guest. then they gathered about the table, five girls and the visiting minister. it was really a curious sight, that table. in the center stood a tall vase of goldenrod. on either side of the vase was a great platter piled high with sweet corn, on the cob! around the table were six plates, with the necessary silverware, and a glass of water for each. there was also a small dish of peaches at each place, and an individual plate of butter. that was all,--except the napkins. but prudence made no apologies. she was a daughter of the parsonage! she showed the reverend mr. morgan to his place as graciously and sweetly as though she were ushering him in to a twenty-seven course banquet. "will you return thanks, mr. morgan?" she said. and the girls bowed their heads. the reverend mr. morgan cleared his throat, and began, "our father, we thank thee for this table." there was more of the blessing, but the parsonage girls heard not one additional phrase,--except connie, who followed him conscientiously through every word. by the time he had finished, prudence and fairy, and even lark, had composed their faces. but carol burst into merry laughter, close upon his reverent "amen,"--and after one awful glare at her sister, prudence joined in. this gaiety communicated itself to the others and soon it was a rollicking group around the parsonage table. mr. morgan himself smiled uncertainly. he was puzzled. more, he was embarrassed. but as soon as carol could get her breath, she gasped out an explanation. "you were just--right, mr. morgan,--to give thanks--for the table! there's nothing--on it--to be thankful for!" and the whole family went off once more into peals of laughter. mr. morgan had very little appetite that day. he did not seem to be so fond of sweet corn as he had assured prudence. he talked very little, too. and as soon as possible he took his hat and walked hurriedly away. he did not call at the parsonage again. "oh, carol," said prudence reproachfully, wiping her eyes, "how could you start us all off like that?" "for the table, for the table!" shrieked carol, and prudence joined in perforce. "it was awful," she gasped, "but it was funny! i believe even father would have laughed." a few weeks after this, carol distinguished herself again, and to her lasting mortification. the parsonage pasture had been rented out during the summer months before the change of ministers, the outgoing incumbent having kept neither horse nor cow. as may be imagined, the little pasture had been taxed to the utmost, and when the new minister arrived, he found that his field afforded poor grazing for his pretty little jersey. but a man living only six blocks from the parsonage had generously offered mr. starr free pasturage in his broad meadow, and the offer was gratefully accepted. this meant that every evening the twins must walk the six blocks after the cow, and every morning must take her back for the day's grazing. one evening, as they were starting out from the meadow homeward with the docile animal, carol stopped and gazed at blinkie reflectively. "lark," she said, "i just believe to my soul that i could ride this cow. she's so gentle, and i'm such a good hand at sticking on." "carol!" ejaculated lark. "think how it would look for a parsonage girl to go down the street riding a cow." "but there's no one to see," protested carol. and this was true. for the parsonage was near the edge of town, and the girls passed only five houses on their way home from the meadow,--and all of them were well back from the road. and carol was, as she had claimed, a good hand at "sticking on." she had ridden a great deal while they were at exminster, a neighbor being well supplied with rideable horses, and she was passionately fond of the sport. to be sure, she had never ridden a cow, but she was sure it would be easy. lark argued and pleaded, but carol was firm. "i must try it," she insisted, "and if it doesn't go well i can slide off. you can lead her, lark." the obliging lark boosted her sister up, and carol nimbly scrambled into place, riding astride. "i've got to ride this way," she said; "cows have such funny backs i couldn't keep on any other way. if i see any one coming, i'll slide for it." for a while all went well. lark led blinkie carefully, gazing about anxiously to see that no one approached. carol gained confidence as they proceeded, and chatted with her sister nonchalantly, waving her hands about to show her perfect balance and lack of fear. so they advanced to within two blocks of the parsonage. "it's very nice," said carol, "very nice indeed,--but her backbone is rather--well, rather penetrating. i think i need a saddle." by this time, blinkie concluded that she was being imposed upon. she shook her head violently, and twitched the rope from lark's hand,--for lark now shared her sister's confidence, and held it loosely. with a little cry she tried to catch the end of it, but blinkie was too quick for her. she gave a scornful toss of her dainty head, and struck out madly for home. with great presence of mind, carol fell flat upon the cow's neck, and hung on for dear life, while lark, in terror, started out in pursuit. "help! help!" she cried loudly. "papa! papa! papa!" in this way, they turned in at the parsonage gate, which happily stood open,--otherwise blinkie would undoubtedly have gone through, or over. as luck would have it, mr. starr was standing at the door with two men who had been calling on him, and hearing lark's frantic cries, they rushed to meet the wild procession, and had the unique experience of seeing a parsonage girl riding flat on her stomach on the neck of a galloping jersey, with another parsonage girl in mad pursuit. blinkie stopped beside the barn, and turned her head about inquiringly. carol slid to the ground, and buried her face in her hands at sight of the two men with her father. then with never a word, she lit out for the house at top speed. seeing that she was not hurt, and that no harm had been done, the three men sat down on the ground and burst into hearty laughter. lark came upon them as they sat thus, and lark was angry. she stamped her foot with a violence that must have hurt her. "i don't see anything to laugh at," she cried passionately, "it was awful, it was just awful! carrie might have been killed! it--it----" "tell us all about it, lark," gasped her father. and lark did so, smiling a little herself, now that her fears were relieved. "poor carol," she said, "she'll never live down the humiliation. i must go and console her." and a little later, the twins were weeping on each other's shoulders. "i wouldn't have cared," sobbed carol, "if it had been anybody else in the world! but--the presiding elder,--and--the president of the presbyterian college! and i know the presbyterians look down on us methodists anyhow, though they wouldn't admit it! and riding a cow! oh, larkie, if you love me, go down-stairs and get me the carbolic acid, so i can die and be out of disgrace." this, however, lark stoutly refused to do, and in a little while carol felt much better. but she talked it over with prudence very seriously. "i hope you understand, prudence, that i shall never have anything more to do with blinkie! she can die of starvation for all i care. i'll never take her to and from the pasture again. i couldn't do it! such rank ingratitude as that cow displayed was never equaled, i am certain." "i suppose you'll quit using milk and cream, too," suggested prudence. "oh, well," said carol more tolerantly, "i don't want to be too hard on blinkie, for after all it was partly my own fault. so i won't go that far. but i must draw the line somewhere! hereafter, blinkie and i meet as strangers!" chapter iii the ladies' aid "it's perfectly disgusting, i admit, father," said prudence sweetly, "but you know yourself that it very seldom happens. and i am sure the kitchen is perfectly clean, and the soup is very nice indeed,--if it is canned soup! twins, this is four slices of bread apiece for you! you see, father, i really feel that this is a crisis in the life of the parsonage----" "how long does a parsonage usually live?" demanded carol. "it wouldn't live long if the ministers had many twins," said fairy quickly. "ouch!" grinned connie, plagiarizing, for that expressive word belonged exclusively to the twins, and it was double impertinence to apply it to one of its very possessors. "and you understand, don't you, father, that if everything does not go just exactly right, i shall feel i am disgraced for life? i know the ladies disapprove of me, and look on me with suspicion. i know they think it wicked and ridiculous to leave the raising of four bright spirits in the unworthy hands of a girl like me. i know they will all sniff and smile and--of course, twins, they have a perfect right to feel, and act, so. i am not complaining. but i want to show them for once in their lives that the parsonage runs smoothly and sweetly. if you would just stay at home with us, father, it would be a big help. you are such a tower of strength." "but unfortunately i can not. people do not get married every day in the week, and when they are all ready for it they do not allow even ladies' aids to stand in their way. it is a long drive, ten miles at least, and i must start at once. and it will likely be very late when i get back. but if you are all good, and help prudence, and uphold the reputation of the parsonage, i will divide the wedding fee with you,--share and share alike." this was met with such enthusiasm that he added hastily, "but wait! it may be only a dollar!" then kissing the various members of the parsonage family, he went out the back door, barnward. "now," said prudence briskly, "i want to make a bargain with you, girls. if you'll stay clear away from the ladies, and be very good and orderly, i'll give you all the lemonade and cake you can drink afterward." "oh, prudence, i'm sure i can't drink much cake," cried carol tragically, "i just can't imagine myself doing it!" "i mean, eat the cake, of course," said prudence, blushing. "and let us make taffy after supper?" wheedled carol. prudence hesitated, and the three young faces hardened. then prudence relented and hastily agreed. "you won't need to appear at all, you know. you can just stay outdoors and play as though you were model children." "yes," said carol tartly, "the kind the members used to have,--which are all grown up, now! and all moved out of mount mark, too!" "carol! that sounds malicious, and malice isn't tolerated here for a minute. now,--oh, fairy, did you remember to dust the back of the dresser in our bedroom?" "mercy! what in the world do you want the back of the dresser dusted for? do you expect the ladies to look right through it?" "no, but some one might drop something behind it, and it would have to be pulled out and they would all see it. this house has got to be absolutely spotless for once,--i am sure it will be the first time." "and the last, i hope," added carol sepulchrally. "we have an hour and a half yet," continued prudence. "that will give us plenty of time for the last touches. twins and connie, you'd better go right out in the field and play. i'll call you a little before two, and then you must go quietly upstairs, and dress--just wear your plain little ginghams, the clean ones of course! then if they do catch a glimpse of you, you will be presentable.--yes, you can take some bread and sugar, but hurry." "you may take," said fairy. "yes, of course, may take is what i mean.--now hurry." then prudence and fairy set to work again in good earnest. the house was already well cleaned. the sandwiches were made. but there were the last "rites," and every detail must be religiously attended to. it must be remembered that the three main down-stairs rooms of the parsonage were connected by double doors,--double doors, you understand, not portières! the front room, seldom used by the parsonage family, opened on the right of the narrow hallway. beyond it was the living-room, which it must be confessed the parsonage girls only called "living-room" when they were on their sunday behavior,--ordinarily it was the sitting-room, and a cheery, homey, attractive place it was, with a great bay window looking out upon the stately mansion of the averys. to the left of the living-room was the dining-room. the double doors between them were always open. the other pair was closed, except on occasions of importance. now, this really was a crisis in the life of the parsonage family,--if not of the parsonage itself. the girls had met, separately, every member of the ladies' aid. but this was their first combined movement upon the parsonage, and prudence and fairy realized that much depended on the success of the day. as girls, the whole methodist church pronounced the young starrs charming. but as parsonage people,--well, they were obliged to reserve judgment. and as for prudence having entire charge of the household, it must be acknowledged that every individual lady looked forward to this meeting with eagerness,--they wanted to "size up" the situation. they were coming to see for themselves! yes, it was undoubtedly a crisis. "there'll be a crowd, of course," said fairy. "we'll just leave the doors between the front rooms open." "yes, but we'll close the dining-room doors. then we'll have the refreshments all out on the table, and when we are ready we'll just fling back the doors carelessly and--there you are!" so the table was prettily decorated with flowers, and great plates of sandwiches and cake were placed upon it. in the center was an enormous punch-bowl, borrowed from the averys, full of lemonade. glasses were properly arranged on the trays, and piles of nicely home-laundered napkins were scattered here and there. the girls felt that the dining-room was a credit to them, and to the methodist church entire. from every nook and corner of the house they hunted out chairs and stools, anticipating a real run upon the parsonage. nor were they disappointed. the twins and connie were not even arrayed in their plain little ginghams, clean, before the first arrivals were ushered up into the front bedroom, ordinarily occupied by prudence and fairy. "there's mrs. adams, and mrs. prentiss, and mrs.----," began connie, listening intently to the voices in the next room. "yes," whispered carol, "peek through the keyhole, lark, and see if mrs. prentiss is looking under the bed for dust. they say she----" "you'd better not let prudence catch you repeating----" "there's mrs. stone, and mrs. davis, and----" "they say mrs. davis only belongs to the ladies' aid for the sake of the refreshments, and----" "carol! prudence will punish you." "well, i don't believe it," protested carol. "i'm just telling you what i've heard other people say." "we aren't allowed to repeat gossip," urged lark. "no, and i think it's a shame, too, for it's awfully funny. minnie drake told me that miss varne joined the methodist church as soon as she heard the new minister was a widower so she----" "carol!" carol whirled around sharply, and flushed, and swallowed hard. for prudence was just behind her. "i--i--i--" but she could get no further. upon occasion, prudence was quite terrible. "so i heard," she said dryly, but her eyes were hard. "now run down-stairs and out to the field, or to the barn, and play. and, carol, be sure and remind me of that speech to-night. i might forget it." the girls ran quickly out, carol well in the lead. "no wedding fee for me," she mumbled bitterly. "do you suppose there can be seven devils in my tongue, lark, like there are in the bible?" "i don't remember there being seven devils in the bible," said lark. "oh, i mean the--the possessed people it tells about in the bible,--crazy, i suppose it means. somehow i just can't help repeating----" "you don't want to," said lark, not without sympathy. "you think it's such fun, you know." "well, anyhow, i'm sure i won't get any wedding fee to-night. it seems to me prudence is very--harsh sometimes." "you can appeal to father, if you like." "not on your life," said carol promptly and emphatically; "he's worse than prudence. like as not he'd give me a good thrashing into the bargain. no,--i'm strong for prudence when it comes to punishment,--in preference to father, i mean. i can't seem to be fond of any kind of punishment from anybody." for a while carol was much depressed, but by nature she was a buoyant soul and her spirits were presently soaring again. in the meantime, the ladies of the aid society continued to arrive. prudence and fairy, freshly gowned and smiling-faced, received them with cordiality and many merry words. it was not difficult for them, they had been reared in the hospitable atmosphere of methodist parsonages, where, if you have but two dishes of oatmeal, the outsider is welcome to one. that is carol's description of parsonage life. but prudence was concerned to observe that a big easy chair placed well back in a secluded corner, seemed to be giving dissatisfaction. it was mrs. adams who sat there first. she squirmed quite a little, and seemed to be gripping the arms of the chair with unnecessary fervor. presently she stammered an excuse, and rising, went into the other room. after that, mrs. miller tried the corner chair, and soon moved away. then mrs. jack, mrs. norey, and mrs. beed, in turn, sat there,--and did not stay. prudence was quite agonized. had the awful twins filled it with needles for the reception of the poor ladies? at first opportunity, she hurried into the secluded corner, intent upon trying the chair for herself. she sat down anxiously. then she gasped, and clutched frantically at the arms of the chair. for she discovered at once to her dismay that the chair was bottomless, and that only by hanging on for her life could she keep from dropping through. she thought hard for a moment,--but thinking did not interfere with her grasp on the chair-arms,--and then she realized that the wisest thing would be to discuss it publicly. anything would be better than leaving it unexplained, for the ladies to comment upon privately. so up rose prudence, conscientiously pulling after her the thin cushion which had concealed the chair's shortcoming. "look, fairy!" she cried. "did you take the bottom out of this chair?--it must have been horribly uncomfortable for those who have sat there!--however did it happen?" fairy was frankly amazed, and a little inclined to be amused. "ask the twins," she said tersely, "i know nothing about it." at that moment, the luckless carol went running through the hall. prudence knew it was she, without seeing, because she had a peculiar skipping run that was quite characteristic and unmistakable. "carol!" she called. and carol paused. "carol!" more imperatively. then carol slowly opened the door,--she was a parsonage girl and rose to the occasion. she smiled winsomely,--carol was nearly always winsome. "how do you do?" she said brightly. "isn't it a lovely day? did you call me, prudence?" "yes. do you know where the bottom of that chair has gone?" "why, no, prudence--gracious! that chair!--why, i didn't know you were going to bring that chair in here--why,--oh, i am so sorry! why in the world didn't you tell us beforehand?" some of the ladies smiled. others lifted their brows and shoulders in a mildly suggestive way, that prudence, after nineteen years in the parsonage, had learned to know and dread. "and where is the chair-bottom now?" she inquired. "and why did you take it?" "why we wanted to make----" "you and lark?" "well, yes,--but it was really all my fault, you know. we wanted to make a seat up high in the peach tree, and we couldn't find a board the right shape. so she discovered--i mean, i did--that by pulling out two tiny nails we could get the bottom off the chair, and it was just fine. it's a perfectly adorable seat," brightening, but sobering again as she realized the gravity of the occasion. "and we put the cushion in the chair so that it wouldn't be noticed. we never use that chair, you know, and we didn't think of your needing it to-day. we put it away back in the cold corner of the sitting--er, living-room where no one ever sits. i'm so sorry about it." carol was really quite crushed, but true to her parsonage training, she struggled valiantly and presently brought forth a crumpled and sickly smile. but prudence smiled at her kindly. "that wasn't very naughty, carol," she said frankly. "it's true that we seldom use that chair. and we ought to have looked." she glanced reproachfully at fairy. "it is strange that in dusting it, fairy--but never mind. you may go now, carol. it is all right." then she apologized gently to the ladies, and the conversation went on, but prudence was uncomfortably conscious of keen and quizzical eyes turned her way. evidently they thought she was too lenient. "well, it wasn't very naughty," she thought wretchedly. "how can i pretend it was terribly bad, when i feel in my heart that it wasn't!" before long, the meeting was called to order, and the secretary instructed to read the minutes. "oh," fluttered miss carr excitedly, "i forgot to bring the book. i haven't been secretary very long, you know." "only six months," interrupted mrs. adams tartly. "how do you expect to keep to-day's minutes?" demanded the president. "oh, i am sure miss prudence will give me a pencil and paper, and i'll copy them in the book as soon as ever i get home." "yes, indeed," said prudence. "there is a tablet on that table beside you, and pencils, too. i thought we might need them." then the president made a few remarks, but while she talked, miss carr was excitedly opening the tablet. miss carr was always excited, and always fluttering, and always giggling girlishly. carol called her a sweet old simpering soul, and so she was. but now, right in the midst of the president's serious remarks, she quite giggled out. the president stared at her in amazement. the ladies looked up curiously. miss carr was bending low over the tablet, and laughing gaily to herself. "oh, this is very cute," she said. "who wrote it? oh, it is just real cunning." fairy sprang up, suddenly scarlet. "oh, perhaps you have one of the twins' books, and they're always scribbling and----" "no, it is yours, fairy. i got it from among your school-books." fairy sank back, intensely mortified, and miss carr chirped brightly: "oh, fairy, dear, did you write this little poem? how perfectly sweet! and what a queer, sentimental little creature you are. i never dreamed you were so romantic. mayn't i read it aloud?" fairy was speechless, but the ladies, including the president, were impatiently waiting. so miss carr began reading in a sentimental, dreamy voice that must have been very fetching fifty years before. at the first suggestion of poetry, prudence sat up with conscious pride,--fairy was so clever! but before miss carr had finished the second verse, she too was literally drowned in humiliation. "my love rode out of the glooming night, into the glare of the morning light. my love rode out of the dim unknown, into my heart to claim his own. my love rode out of the yesterday, into the now,--and he came to stay. oh, love that is rich, and pure, and true, the love in my heart leaps out to you. oh, love, at last you have found your part,-- to come and dwell in my empty heart." miss carr sat down, giggling delightedly, and the younger ladies laughed, and the older ladies smiled. but mrs. prentiss turned to fairy gravely. "how old are you, my dear?" and with a too-apparent effort, fairy answered, "sixteen!" "indeed!" a simple word, but so suggestively uttered. "shall we continue the meeting, ladies?" this aroused prudence's ire on her sister's behalf, and she squared her shoulders defiantly. for a while, fairy was utterly subdued. but thinking it over to herself, she decided that after all there was nothing absolutely shameful in a sixteen-year-old girl writing sentimental verses. silly, to be sure! but all sixteen-year-olds are silly. we love them for it! and fairy's good nature and really good judgment came to her rescue, and she smiled at prudence with her old serenity. the meeting progressed, and the business was presently disposed of. so far, things were not too seriously bad, and prudence sighed in great relief. then the ladies took out their sewing, and began industriously working at many unmentionable articles, designed for the intimate clothing of a lot of young methodists confined in an orphans' home in chicago. and they talked together pleasantly and gaily. and prudence and fairy felt that the cloud was lifted. but soon it settled again, dark and lowering. prudence heard lark running through the hall and her soul misgave her. why was lark going upstairs? what was her errand? and she remembered the wraps of the ladies, up-stairs, alone and unprotected. dare she trust lark in such a crisis? perhaps the very sight of prudence and the ladies' aid would arouse her better nature, and prevent catastrophe. to be sure, her mission might be innocent, but prudence dared not run the risk. fortunately she was sitting near the door. "lark!" she called softly. lark stopped abruptly, and something fell to the floor. "lark!" there was a muttered exclamation from without, and lark began fumbling rapidly around on the floor talking incoherently to herself. "lark!" the ladies smiled, and miss carr, laughing lightly, said, "she is an attentive creature, isn't she?" prudence would gladly have flown out into the hall to settle this matter, but she realized that she was on exhibition. had she done so, the ladies would have set her down forever after as thoroughly incompetent,--she could not go! but lark must come to her. "lark!" this was prudence's most awful voice, and lark was bound to heed. "oh, prue," she said plaintively, "i'll be there in a minute. can't you wait just five minutes? let me run up-stairs first, won't you? then i'll come gladly! won't that do?" her voice was hopeful. but prudence replied with dangerous calm: "come at once, lark." "all right, then," and added threateningly, "but you'll wish i hadn't." then lark opened the door,--a woeful figure! in one hand she carried an empty shoe box. and her face was streaked with good rich iowa mud. her clothes were plastered with it. one shoe was caked from the sole to the very top button, and a great gash in her stocking revealed a generous portion of round white leg. poor prudence! at that moment, she would have exchanged the whole parsonage, bathroom, electric lights and all, for a tiny log cabin in the heart of a great forest where she and lark might be alone together. and fairy laughed. prudence looked at her with tears in her eyes, and then turned to the wretched girl. "what have you been doing, lark?" the heart-break expressed in the face of lark would have made the angels weep. beneath the smudges of mud on her cheeks she was pallid, and try as she would, she could not keep her chin from trembling ominously. her eyes were fastened on the floor for the most part, but occasionally she raised them hurriedly, appealingly, to her sister's face, and dropped them again. not for worlds would she have faced the ladies! prudence was obliged to repeat her question before lark could articulate a reply. she gulped painfully a few times,--making meanwhile a desperate effort to hide the gash in one stocking by placing the other across it, rubbing it up and down in great embarrassment, and balancing herself with apparent difficulty. her voice, when she was able to speak, was barely recognizable. "we--we--we are making--mud images, prudence. it--it was awfully messy, i know, but--they say--it is such a good--and useful thing to do. we--we didn't expect--the--the ladies to see us." "mud images!" gasped prudence, and even fairy stared incredulously. "where in the world did you get hold of an idea like that?" "it--it was in that--that mother's home friend paper you take, prudence." prudence blushed guiltily. "it--it was modeling in clay, but--we haven't any clay, and--the mud is very nice, but--oh, i know i look just--horrible. i--i--connie pushed me in the--puddle--for fun. i--i was vexed about it, prudence, honestly. i--i was chasing her, and i fell, and tore my stocking,--and--and--but, prudence, the papers do say children ought to model, and we didn't think of--getting caught." another appealing glance into her sister's face, and lark plunged on, bent on smoothing matters if she could. "carol is--is just fine at it, really. she--she's making a venus de milo, and it's good. but we can't remember whether her arm is off at the elbow or below the shoulder----" an enormous gulp, and by furious blinking lark managed to crowd back the tears that would slip to the edge of her lashes. "i--i'm very sorry, prudence." "very well, lark, you may go. i do not really object to your modeling in mud, i am sure. i am sorry you look so disreputable. you must change your shoes and stockings at once, and then you can go on with your modeling. but there must be no more pushing and chasing. i'll see connie about that to-night. now----" "oh! oh! oh! what in the world is that?" this was a chorus of several ladies' aid voices,--a double quartette at the very least. lark gave a sharp exclamation and began looking hurriedly about her on the floor. "it's got in here,--just as i expected," she exclaimed. "i said you would be sorry, prue,--oh, there it is under your chair, mrs. prentiss. just wait,--maybe i can shove it back in the box again." this was greeted with a fresh chorus of shrieks. there was a hurried and absolute vacation of that corner of the front room. the ladies fled, dropping their cherished sewing, shoving one another in a most unladies-aid-like way. and there, beneath a chair, squatted the cause of the confusion, an innocent, unhappy, blinking toad! "oh, larkie!" this was a prolonged wail. "it's all right, prue, honestly it is," urged lark with pathetic solemnity. "we didn't do it for a joke. we're keeping him for a good purpose. connie found him in the garden,--and--carol said we ought to keep him for professor duke,--he asked us to bring him things to cut up in science, you remember. so we just shoved him into this shoe box, and--we thought we'd keep him in the bath-tub until morning. we did it for a good purpose, don't you see we did? oh, prudence!" prudence was horribly outraged, but even in that critical moment, justice insisted that lark's arguments were sound. the professor had certainly asked the scholars to bring him "things to cut up." but a toad! a live one!--and the ladies' aid! prudence shivered. "i am sure you meant well, larkie," she said in a low voice, striving hard to keep down the bitter resentment in her heart, "i know you did. but you should not have brought that--that thing--into the house. pick him up at once, and take him out-of-doors and let him go." but this was not readily done. in spite of her shame and deep dismay, lark refused to touch the toad with her fingers. "i can't touch him, prudence,--i simply can't," she whimpered. "we shoved him in with the broom handle before." and as no one else was willing to touch it, and as the ladies clustered together in confusion, and with much laughter, in the far corner of the other room, prudence brought the broom and the not unwilling toad was helped to other quarters. "now go," said prudence quickly, and lark was swift to avail herself of the permission. followed a quiet hour, and then the ladies put aside their sewing and walked about the room, chatting in little groups. with a significant glance to fairy, prudence walked calmly to the double doors between the dining-room and the sitting-room. the eyes of the ladies followed her with interest and even enthusiasm. they were hungry. prudence slowly opened wide the doors, and--stood amazed! the ladies clustered about her, and stood amazed also. the dining-room was there, and the table! but the appearance of the place was vastly different! the snowy cloth was draped artistically over a picture on the wall, the lowest edges well above the floor. the plates and trays, napkin-covered, were safely stowed away on the floor in distant corners. the kitchen scrub bucket had been brought in and turned upside down, to afford a fitting resting place for the borrowed punch bowl, full to overflowing with fragrant lemonade. and at the table were three dirty, disheveled little figures, bending seriously over piles of mud. a not-unrecognizable venus de milo occupied the center of the table. connie was painstakingly at work on some animal, a dog perhaps, or possibly an elephant. and---- the three young modelers looked up in exclamatory consternation as the doors opened. "oh, are you ready?" cried carol. "how the time has flown! we had no idea you'd be ready so soon. oh, we are sorry, prudence. we intended to have everything fixed properly for you again. we needed a flat place for our modeling. it's a shame, that's what it is. isn't that a handsome venus? i did that!--if you'll just shut the door one minute, prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it. and we're as sorry as we can be. you can have my venus for a centerpiece, if you like." [illustration: "if you'll just shut the door one minute, prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it."] prudence silently closed the doors, and the ladies, laughing significantly, drew away. "don't you think, my dear," began mrs. prentiss too sweetly, "that they are a little more than you can manage? don't you really think an older woman is needed?" "i do not think so," cried fairy, before her sister could speak, "no older woman could be kinder, or sweeter, or more patient and helpful than prue." "undoubtedly true! but something more is needed, i am afraid! it appears that girls are a little more disorderly than in my own young days! perhaps i do not judge advisedly, but it seems to me they are a little--unmanageable." "indeed they are not," cried prudence loyally. "they are young, lively, mischievous, i know,--and i am glad of it. but i have lived with them ever since they were born, and i ought to know them. they are unselfish, they are sympathetic, they are always generous. they do foolish and irritating things,--but never things that are hateful and mean. they are all right at heart, and that is all that counts. they are not bad girls! what have they done to-day? they were exasperating, and humiliating, too, but what did they do that was really mean? they embarrassed and mortified me, but not intentionally! i can't punish them for the effect on me, you know! would that be just or fair? at heart, they meant no harm." it must be confessed that there were many serious faces among the ladies. some cheeks were flushed, some eyes were downcast, some lips were compressed and some were trembling. every mother there was asking in her heart, "did i punish my children just for the effect on me? did i judge my children by what was in their hearts, or just by the trouble they made me?" and the silence lasted so long that it became awkward. finally mrs. prentiss crossed the room and stood by prudence's side. she laid a hand tenderly on the young girl's arm, and said in a voice that was slightly tremulous: "i believe you are right, my dear. it is what girls are at heart that really counts. i believe your sisters are all you say they are. and one thing i am very sure of,--they are happy girls to have a sister so patient, and loving, and just. not all real mothers have as much to their credit!" chapter iv a secret society carol and lark, in keeping with their twin-ship, were the dearest of chums and comrades. they resembled each other closely in build, being of the same height and size. they were slender, yet gave a suggestion of sturdiness. carol's face was a delicately tinted oval, brightened by clear and sparkling eyes of blue. she was really beautiful, bright, attractive and vivacious. she made friends readily, and was always considered the "most popular girl in our crowd"--whatever carol's crowd at the time might be. but she was not extremely clever, caring little for study, and with no especial talent in any direction. lark was as nearly contrasting as any sister could be. her face was pale, her eyes were dark brown and full of shadows, and she was a brilliant and earnest student. for each other the twins felt a passionate devotion that was very beautiful, but ludicrous as well. to them, the great rambling barn back of the parsonage was a most delightful place. it had a big cow-shed on one side, and horse stalls on the other, with a "heavenly" haymow over all, and with "chutes" for the descent of hay,--and twins! in one corner was a high dark crib for corn, with an open window looking down into the horse stalls adjoining. when the crib was newly filled, the twins could clamber painfully up on the corn, struggle backward through the narrow window, and holding to the ledge of it with their hands, drop down into the nearest stall. to be sure they were likely to fall,--more likely than not,--and their hands were splinter-filled and their heads blue-bumped most of the time. but splinters and bumps did not interfere with their pursuit of pleasure. now the twins had a secret society,--of which they were the founders, the officers and the membership body. its name was skull and crossbones. why that name was chosen perhaps even the twins themselves could not explain, but it sounded deep, dark and bloody,--and so was the society. lark furnished the brain power for the organization but her sister was an enthusiastic and energetic second. carol's club name was lady gwendolyn, and lark's was sir alfred angelcourt ordinarily, although subject to frequent change. sometimes she was lord beveling, the villain of the plot, and chased poor gwendolyn madly through corn-crib, horse stalls and haymow. again she was the dark-browed indian silently stalking his unconscious prey. then she was a fierce lion lying in wait for the approaching damsel. the old barn saw stirring times after the coming of the new parsonage family. "hark! hark!" sounded a hissing whisper from the corn-crib, and connie, eavesdropping outside the barn, shivered sympathetically. "what is it! oh, what is it?" wailed the unfortunate lady. "look! look! run for your life!" then while connie clutched the barn door in a frenzy, there was a sound of rattling corn as the twins scrambled upward, a silence, a low thud, and an unromantic "ouch!" as carol bumped her head and stumbled. "are you assaulted?" shouted the bold sir alfred, and connie heard a wild scuffle as he rescued his companion from the clutches of the old halter on which she had stumbled. up the haymow ladder they hurried, and then slid recklessly down the hay-chutes. presently the barn door was flung open, and the "society" knocked connie flying backward, ran madly around the barn a few times, and scurried under the fence and into the chicken coop. a little later, connie, assailed with shots of corncobs, ran bitterly toward the house. "peaking" was strictly forbidden when the twins were engaged in skull and crossbones activities. and connie's soul burned with desire. she felt that this secret society was threatening not only her happiness, but also her health, for she could not sleep for horrid dreams of skulls and crossbones at night, and could not eat for envying the twins their secret and mysterious joys. therefore, with unwonted humility, she applied for entrance. she had applied many times previously, without effect. but this time she enforced her application with a nickel's worth of red peppermint drops, bought for the very purpose. the twins accepted the drops gravely, and told connie she must make formal application. then they marched solemnly off to the barn with the peppermint drops, without offering connie a share. this hurt, but she did not long grieve over it, she was so busy wondering what on earth they meant by "formal application." finally she applied to prudence, and received assistance. the afternoon mail brought to the parsonage an envelope addressed to "misses carol and lark starr, the methodist parsonage, mount mark, iowa," and in the lower left-hand corner was a suggestive drawing of a skull and crossbones. the eyes of the mischievous twins twinkled with delight when they saw it, and they carried it to the barn for prompt perusal. it read as follows: "miss constance starr humbly and respectfully craves admittance into the ancient and honorable organization of skull and crossbones." the twins pondered long on a fitting reply, and the next afternoon the postman brought a letter for connie, waiting impatiently for it. she had approached the twins about it at noon that day. "did you get my application?" she had whispered nervously. but the twins had stared her out of countenance, and connie realized that she had committed a serious breach of secret society etiquette. but here was the letter! her fingers trembled as she opened it. it was decorated lavishly with skulls and crossbones, splashed with red ink, supposedly blood, and written in the same suggestive color. "skull and crossbones has heard the plea of miss constance starr. if she present herself at the parsonage haymow this evening, at eight o'clock, she shall learn the will of the society regarding her petition." connie was jubilant! in a flash, she saw herself admitted to the mysterious barnyard order, and began working out a name for her own designation after entrance. it was a proud day for her. by the time the twins had finished washing the supper dishes, it was dark. constance glanced out of the window apprehensively. she now remembered that eight o'clock was very, very late, and that the barn was a long way from the house! and up in the haymow, too! and such a mysterious bloody society! her heart quaked within her. so she approached the twins respectfully, and said in an offhand way: "i can go any time now. just let me know when you're ready, and i'll go right along with you." but the twins stared at her again in an amazing and overbearing fashion, and vouchsafed no reply. connie, however, determined to keep a watchful eye upon them, and when they started barnward, she would trail closely along in their rear. it was a quarter to eight, and fearfully dark, when she suddenly remembered that they had been up-stairs an unnaturally long time. she rushed up in a panic. they were not there. she ran through the house. they were not to be found. the dreadful truth overwhelmed her,--the twins were already in the haymow, the hour had come, and she must go forth. breathlessly, she slipped out of the back door, and closed it softly behind her. she could not distinguish the dark outlines of the barn in the equal darkness of the autumn night. she gave a long sobbing gasp as she groped her way forward. as she neared the barn, she was startled to hear from the haymow over her head, deep groans as of a soul in mortal agony. something had happened to the twins! "girls! girls!" she cried, forgetting for the moment her own sorry state. "what is the matter? twins!" sepulchral silence! and connie knew that this was the dreadful skull and bones. her teeth chattered as she stood there, irresolute in the intense and throbbing darkness. "it's only the twins," she assured herself over and over, and began fumbling with the latch of the barn door,--but her fingers were stiff and cold. suddenly from directly above her, there came the hideous clanking of iron chains. connie had read ghost stories, and she knew the significance of clanking chains, but she stood her ground in spite of the almost irresistible impulse to fly. after the clanking, the loud and clamorous peal of a bell rang out. "it's that old cow bell they found in the field," she whispered practically, but found it none the less horrifying. finally she stepped into the blackness of the barn, found the ladder leading to the haymow and began slowly climbing. but her own weight seemed a tremendous thing, and she had difficulty in raising herself from step to step. she comforted herself with the reflection that at the top were the twins,--company and triumph hand in hand. but when she reached the top, and peered around her, she found little comfort,--and no desirable company? a small barrel draped in black stood in the center of the mow, and on it a lighted candle gave out a feeble flickering ray which emphasized the darkness around it. on either side of the black-draped barrel stood a motionless figure, clothed in somber black. on the head of one was a skull,--not a really skull, just a pasteboard imitation, but it was just as awful to connie. on the head of the other were crossbones. "kneel," commanded the hoarse voice of skull, in which connie could faintly distinguish the tone of lark. she knelt,--an abject quivering neophyte. "hear the will of skull and crossbones," chanted crossbones in a shrill monotone. then skull took up the strain once more. "skull and crossbones, great in mercy and in condescension, has listened graciously to the prayer of constance, the seeker. hear the will of the great spirit! if the seeker will, for the length of two weeks, submit herself to the will of skull and crossbones, she shall be admitted into the ancient and honorable order. if the seeker accepts this condition, she must bow herself to the ground three times, in token of submission." "there's no ground here," came a small faint voice from the kneeling seeker. "the floor, madam," skull explained sternly. "if the seeker accepts the condition,--to submit herself absolutely to the will of skull and crossbones for two entire weeks,--she shall bow herself three times." constance hesitated. it was so grandly expressed that she hardly understood what they wanted. carol came to her rescue. "that means you've got to do everything lark and i tell you for two weeks," she said in her natural voice. then constance bowed herself three times,--although she lost her balance in the act, and carol forgot her dignity and gave way to laughter, swiftly subdued, however. "arise and approach the altar," she commanded in the shrill voice, which yet gave signs of laughter. constance arose and approached. "upon the altar, before the eternal light, you will find a small black bow, with a drop of human blood in the center. this is the badge of your pledgedom. you must wear it day and night, during the entire two weeks. after that, if all is well; you shall be received into full membership. if you break your pledge to the order, it must be restored at once to skull and crossbones. take it, and pin it upon your breast." constance did so,--and her breast heaved with rapture and awe in mingling. then a horrible thing happened. the flame of the "eternal light" was suddenly extinguished, and carol exclaimed, "the ceremony is ended. return, damsel, to thine abode." a sound of scampering feet,--and constance knew that the grand officials had fled, and she was alone in the dreadful darkness. she called after them pitifully, but she heard the slam of the kitchen door before she had even reached the ladder. it was a sobbing and miserable neophyte who stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later. the twins were bending earnestly over their latin grammars by the side of the kitchen fire, and did not raise their eyes as the seeker burst into the room. constance sat down, and gasped and quivered for a while. then she looked down complacently at the little black bow with its smudge of red ink, and sighed contentedly. the week that followed was a gala one for the twins of skull and crossbones. constance swept their room, made their bed, washed their dishes, did their chores, and in every way behaved as a model pledge of the ancient and honorable. the twins were gracious but firm. there was no arguing, and no faltering. "it is the will of skull and crossbones that the damsel do this," they would say. and the damsel did it. prudence did not feel it was a case that called for her interference. so she sat back and watched, while the twins told stories, read and frolicked, and constance did their daily tasks. so eight days passed, and then came waterloo. constance returned home after an errand downtown, and in her hand she carried a great golden pear. perhaps constance would have preferred that she escape the notice of the twins on this occasion, but as luck would have it, she passed carol in the hall. "gracious! what a pear! where did you get it?" demanded carol covetously. "i met mr. arnold down-town, and he bought it for me. he's very fond of me. it cost him a dime, too, for just this one. isn't it a beauty?" and connie licked her lips suggestively. carol licked hers, too, thoughtfully. then she called up the stairs, "lark, come here, quick!" lark did so, and duly exclaimed and admired. then she said significantly, "i suppose you are going to divide with us?" "of course," said connie with some indignation. "i'm going to cut it in five pieces so prudence and fairy can have some, too." a pause, while carol and lark gazed at each other soberly. mentally, each twin was figuring how big her share would be when the pear was divided in fives. then lark spoke. "it is the will of skull and crossbones that this luscious fruit be turned over to them immediately." constance faltered, held it out, drew it back. "if i do, i suppose you'll give me part of it, anyhow," she said, and her eyes glittered. "not so, damsel," said carol ominously. "the ancient and honorable takes,--it never gives." for a moment constance wavered. then she flamed into sudden anger. "i won't do it, so there!" she cried. "i think you're mean selfish pigs, that's what i think! taking my very own pear, and--but you won't get it! i don't care if i never get into your silly old society,--you don't get a bite of this pear, i can tell you that!" and constance rushed up-stairs and slammed a door. a few seconds later the door opened again, and her cherished badge was flung down upon skull and crossbones. "there's your old black string smeared up with red ink!" she yelled at them wildly. and again the door slammed. carol picked up the insulted badge, and studied it thoughtfully. lark spoke first. "it occurs to me, fair gwendolyn, that we would do well to keep this little scene from the ears of the just and righteous prudence." "right, as always, brave knight," was the womanly retort. and the twins betook themselves to the haymow in thoughtful mood. a little later, when prudence and fairy came laughing into the down-stairs hall, a white-faced constance met them. "look," she said, holding out a pear, divided into three parts, just like gaul. "mr. arnold gave me this pear, and here's a piece for each of you." the girls thanked her warmly, but prudence paused with her third almost touching her lips. "how about the twins?" she inquired. "aren't they at home? won't they break your pledge if you leave them out?" constance looked up sternly. "i offered them some half an hour ago, and they refused it," she said. "and they have already put me out of the society!" there was tragedy in the childish face, and prudence put her arms around this baby-sister. "tell prue all about it, connie," she said. but constance shook her head. "it can't be talked about. go on and eat your pear. it is good." "was it all right?" questioned prudence. "did the twins play fair, connie?" "yes," said constance. "it was all right. don't talk about it." but in two days constance repented of her rashness. in three days she was pleading for forgiveness. and in four days she was starting in on another two weeks of pledgedom, and the desecrated ribbon with its drop of blood reposed once more on her ambitious breast. for three days her service was sore indeed, for the twins informed her, with sympathy, that she must be punished for insubordination. "but after that, we'll be just as easy on you as anything, connie," they told her. "so don't you get sore now. in three days, we'll let up on you." a week passed, ten days, and twelve. then came a golden october afternoon when the twins sat in the haymow looking out upon a mellow world. constance was in the yard, reading a fairy story. the situation was a tense one, for the twins were hungry, and time was heavy on their hands. "the apple trees in avery's orchard are just loaded," said lark aimlessly. "and there are lots on the ground, too. i saw them when i was out in the field this morning." "some of the trees are close to our fence, too," said carol slowly. "very close." lark glanced up with sudden interest. "that's so," she said. "and the wires on the fence are awfully loose." carol gazed down into the yard where constance was absorbed in her book. "constance oughtn't to read as much as she does," she argued. "it's so bad for the eyes." "yes, and what's more, she's been getting off too easy the last few days. the time is nearly up." "that's so," said lark. "let's call her up here." this was done at once, and the unfortunate constance walked reluctantly toward the barn, her fascinating story still in her hand. "you see, they've got more apples than they need, and those on the ground are just going to waste," continued carol, pending the arrival of the little pledge. "the chickens are pecking at them, and ruining them." "it's criminal destruction, that's what it is," declared lark. connie stood before them respectfully, as they had instructed her to stand. the twins hesitated, each secretly hoping the other would voice the order. but lark as usual was obliged to be the spokesman. "damsel," she said, "it is the will of skull and crossbones that you hie ye to yonder orchard,--avery's, i mean,--and bring hither some of the golden apples basking in the sun." "what!" ejaculated connie, startled out of her respect. carol frowned. connie hastened to modify her tone. "did they say you might have them?" she inquired politely. "that concerns thee not, 'tis for thee only to render obedience to the orders of the society. go out through our field and sneak under the fence where the wires are loose, and hurry back. we're awfully hungry. the trees are near the fence. there isn't any danger." "but it's stealing," objected connie. "what will prudence----" "damsel!" and connie turned to obey with despair in her heart. "bring twelve," carol called after her, "that'll be four apiece. and hurry, connie. and see they don't catch you while you're about it." after she had gone, the twins lay back thoughtfully on the hay and stared at the cobwebby roof above them. "it's a good thing prudence and fairy are downtown," said lark sagely. "yes, or we'd catch it," assented carol. "but i don't see why! the averys have too many apples, and they are going to waste. i'm sure mrs. avery would rather let us have them than the chickens." they lay in silence for a while. something was hurting them, but whether it was their fear of the wrath of prudence, or the twinges of tender consciences,--who can say? "she's an unearthly long time about it," exclaimed lark, at last. "do you suppose they caught her?" this was an awful thought, and the girls were temporarily suffocated. but they heard the barn door swinging beneath them, and sighed with relief. it was connie! she climbed the ladder skilfully, and poured her golden treasure before the arch thieves, skull and crossbones. there were eight big tempting apples. "hum! eight," said carol sternly. "i said twelve." "yes, but i was afraid some one was coming. i heard such a noise through the grapevines, so i got what i could and ran for it. there's three apiece for you, and two for me," said connie, sitting down sociably beside them on the hay. but carol rose. "damsel, begone," she ordered. "when skull and crossbones feast, thou canst not yet share the festive board. rise thee, and speed." connie rose, and walked soberly toward the ladder. but before she disappeared she fired this parting shot, "i don't want any of them. stolen apples don't taste very good, i reckon." carol and lark had the grace to flush a little at this, but however the stolen apples tasted, the twins had no difficulty in disposing of them. then, full almost beyond the point of comfort, they slid down the hay-chutes, went out the back way, climbed over the chicken coops,--not because it was necessary, but because it was their idea of amusement,--and went for a walk in the field. at the farthest corner of the field they crawled under the fence, cut through a neighboring potato patch, and came out on the street. then they walked respectably down the sidewalk, turned the corner and came quietly in through the front door of the parsonage. prudence was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. fairy was in the sitting-room, busy with her books. the twins set the table conscientiously, filled the wood-box, and in every way labored irreproachably. but prudence had no word of praise for them that evening. she hardly seemed to know they were about the place. she went about her work with a pale face, and never a smile to be seen. supper was nearly ready when connie sauntered in from the barn. after leaving the haymow, she had found a cozy corner in the com-crib, with two heavy lap robes discarded by the twins in their flight from wolves, and had settled down there to finish her story. as she stepped into the kitchen, prudence turned to her with such a sorry, reproachful gaze that connie was frightened. "are you sick, prue?" she gasped. prudence did not answer. she went to the door and called fairy. "finish getting supper, will you, fairy? and when you are all ready, you and the twins go right on eating. don't wait for father,--he isn't coming home until evening. come up-stairs with me, connie; i want to talk to you." connie followed her sister soberly, and the twins flashed at each other startled and questioning looks. the three girls were at the table when prudence came into the dining-room alone. she fixed a tray-supper quietly and carried it off up-stairs. then she came back and sat down by the table. but her face bore marks of tears, and she had no appetite. the twins had felt small liking for their food before, now each mouthful seemed to choke them. but they dared not ask a question. they were devoutly thankful when fairy finally voiced their interest. "what is the matter? has connie been in mischief?" "it's worse than that," faltered prudence, tears rushing to her eyes again. "why, prudence! what in the world has she done?" "i may as well tell you, i suppose,--you'll have to know it sooner or later. she--went out into avery's orchard and stole some apples this afternoon. i was back in the alley seeing if mrs. moon could do the washing, and i saw her from the other side. she went from tree to tree, and when she got through the fence she ran. there's no mistake about it,--she confessed." the twins looked up in agony, but prudence's face reassured them. constance had told no tales. "i have told her she must spend all of her time up-stairs alone for a week, taking her meals there, too. she will go to school, of course, but that is all. i want her to see the awfulness of it. i told her i didn't think we wanted to eat with--a thief--just yet! i said we must get used to the idea of it first. she is heartbroken, but--i must make her see it!" that was the end of supper. no one attempted to eat another bite. after the older girls had gone into the sitting-room, carol and lark went about their work with stricken faces. "she's a little brick not to tell," whispered lark. "i'm going to give her that pearl pin of mine she always liked," said carol in a hushed voice. "i'll give her my blue ribbon, too,--she loves blue so. and to-morrow i'll take that quarter i've saved and buy her a whole quarter's worth of candy." but that night when the twins went up to bed, they were doomed to disappointment. they had no chance of making it up with constance. for prudence had moved her small bed out of the twins' room, and had placed it in the front room occupied by herself and fairy. they asked if they might speak to constance, but prudence went in with them to say good night to her. the twins broke down and cried as they saw the pitiful little figure with the wan and tear-stained face. they threw their arms around her passionately and kissed her many times. but they went to bed without saying anything. hours later, lark whispered, "carol! are you asleep?" "no. i can't go to sleep somehow." "neither can i. do you think we'd better tell prudence all about it?" carol squirmed in the bed. "i--suppose we had," she said reluctantly. "but--it'll be lots worse for us than for connie," lark added. "we're so much older, and we made her do it." "yes, and we ate all the apples," mourned carol. "maybe we'd better just let it go," suggested lark. "and we'll make it up to connie afterwards," said carol. "now, you be careful and not give it away, carol." "you see that you don't." but it was a sorry night for the twins. the next morning they set off to school, with no chance for anything but a brief good morning with connie,--given in the presence of prudence. half-way down the parsonage walk, carol said: "oh, wait a minute, lark. i left my note-book on the table." and lark walked slowly while carol went rushing back. she found prudence in the kitchen, and whispered: "here--here's a note, prudence. don't read it until after i've gone to school,--at ten o'clock you may read it. will you promise?" prudence laughed a little, but she promised, and laid the note carefully away to wait the appointed hour for its perusal. as the clock struck ten she went to the mantle, and took it down. this is what carol had written: "oh, prudence, do please forgive me, and don't punish connie any more. you can punish me any way you like, and i'll be glad of it. it was all my fault. i made her go and get the apples for me, and i ate them. connie didn't eat one of them. she said stolen apples would not taste very good. it was all my fault, and i'm so sorry. i was such a coward i didn't dare tell you last night. will you forgive me? but you must punish me as hard as ever you can. but please, prudence, won't you punish me some way without letting lark know about it? please, please, prudence, don't let larkie know. you can tell papa and fairy so they will despise me, but keep it from my twin. if you love me, prudence, don't let larkie know." as prudence read this her face grew very stern. carol's fault! and she was ashamed to have her much-loved twin know of her disgrace. at that moment, prudence heard some one running through the hall, and thrust the note hastily into her dress. it was lark, and she flung herself wildly upon prudence, sobbing bitterly. "what is the matter, lark?" she tried, really frightened. "are you sick?" "heartsick, that's all," wailed lark. "i told the teacher i was sick so i could come home, but i'm not. oh, prudence, i know you'll despise and abominate me all the rest of your life, and everybody will, and i deserve it. for i stole those apples myself. that is, i made connie go and get them for me. she didn't want to. she begged not to. but i made her. she didn't eat one of them,--i did it. and she felt very badly about it. oh, prudence, you can do anything in the world to me,--i don't care how horrible it is; i only hope you will. but, prudence, you won't let carol know, will you? oh, spare me that, prudence, please. that's my last request, that you keep it from carol." prudence was surprised and puzzled. she drew the note from her pocket, and gave it to lark. "carol gave me that before she went to school," she explained. "read it, and tell me what you are driving at. i think you are both crazy. or maybe you are just trying to shield poor connie." lark read carol's note, and gasped, and--burst out laughing! the shame, and bitter weeping, and nervousness, had rendered her hysterical, and now she laughed and cried until prudence was alarmed again. in time, however, lark was able to explain. "we both did it," she gasped, "the skull and crossbones. and we both told the truth about it. we made her go and get them for us, and we ate them, and she didn't want to go. i advised carol not to tell, and she advised me not to. all the way to school this morning, we kept advising each other not to say a word about it. but i intended all the time to pretend i was sick, so i could come and confess alone. i wanted to take the punishment for both of us, so carol could get out. i guess that's what she thought, too. bless her little old heart, as if i'd let her he punished for my fault. and it was mostly my fault, too, prue, for i mentioned the apples first of all." prudence laughed,--it was really ludicrous. but when she thought of loyal little connie, sobbing all through the long night, the tears came to her eyes again. she went quickly to the telephone, and called up the school building next door to the parsonage. "may i speak to constance starr, mr. imes?" she asked. "it is very important. this is prudence, her sister." and when connie came to the telephone, she cried, "oh, you blessed little child, why didn't you tell me? will you forgive me, connie? i ought to have made you tell me all about it, but i was so sorry, i couldn't bear to talk much about it. the twins have told me. you're a dear, sweet, good little darling, that's what you are." "oh, prudence!" that was all connie said, but something in her voice made prudence hang up the receiver quickly, and cry bitterly! that noon prudence pronounced judgment on the sinners, but her eyes twinkled, for carol and lark had scolded each other roundly for giving things away! "connie should have refused to obey you," she said gently, holding connie in her arms. "she knew it was wrong. but she has been punished more than enough. but you twins! in the first place, i right now abolish the skull and crossbones forever and ever. and you can not play in the barn again for a month. and you must go over to the averys this afternoon, and tell them about it, and pay for the apples. and you must send all of your spending money for the next month to that woman who is gathering up things for the bad little children in the reform school,--that will help you remember what happens to boys and girls who get in the habit of taking things on the spur of the moment!" the twins accepted all of this graciously, except that which referred to confessing their sin to their neighbors. that did hurt! the twins were so superior, and admirable! they couldn't bear to ruin their reputations. but prudence stood firm, in spite of their weeping and wailing. and that afternoon two shamefaced sorry girls crept meekly in at the averys' door to make their peace. "but about the skull and crossbones, it's mostly punishment for me, prue," said connie regretfully, "for the twins have been in it ever since we came to mount mark, and i never got in at all! and i wanted them to call me lady magdalina featheringale." and connie sighed. chapter v the twins stick up for the bible prudence had been calling on a "sick member." whenever circumstances permitted she gladly served as pastoral assistant for her father, but she always felt that raising the family was her one big job, and nothing was allowed to take precedence of it. as she walked that afternoon down maple street,--seemingly so-called because it was bordered with grand old elms,--she felt at peace with all the world. the very sunshine beaming down upon her through the huge skeletons of the leafless elms, was not more care-free than the daughter of the parsonage. parsonage life had been running smoothly for as much as ten days past, and prudence, in view of that ten days' immunity, was beginning to feel that the twins, if not connie also, were practically reared! "mount mark is a dear old place,--a duck of a place, as the twins would say,--and i'm quite sorry there's a five-year limit for methodist preachers. i should truly like to live right here until i am old and dead." then she paused, and bowed, and smiled. she did not recognize the bright-faced young woman approaching, but she remembered just in time that parsonage people are marked characters. so she greeted the stranger cordially. "you are miss starr, aren't you?" the bright-faced woman was saying. "i am miss allen,--the principal of the high school, you know." "oh, yes," cried prudence, thrusting forth her hand impulsively, "oh, yes, i know. i am so glad to meet you." miss allen was a young woman of twenty-six, with clear kind eyes and a strong sweet mouth. she had about her that charm of manner which can only be described as winsome womanliness. prudence gazed at her with open and honest admiration. such a young woman to be the principal of a high school in a city the size of mount mark! she must be tremendously clever. but prudence did not sigh. we can't all be clever, you know. there must be some of us to admire the rest of us! the two walked along together, chatting sociably on subjects that meant nothing to either of them. presently miss allen stopped, and with a graceful wave of her hand, said lightly: "this is where i am rooming. are you in a very great hurry this afternoon? i should like to talk to you about the twins. will you come in?" the spirits of prudence fell earthward with a clatter! the twins! whatever had they been doing now? she followed miss allen into the house and up the stairs with the joy quite quenched in her heart. she did not notice the dainty room into which she was conducted. she ignored the offered chair, and with a dismal face turned toward miss allen. "oh, please! what have they been doing? is it very awful?" miss allen laughed gaily. "oh, sit down and don't look so distressed. it's nothing at all. they haven't been doing anything. i just want to discuss them on general principles, you know. it's my duty to confer with the parents and guardians of my scholars." immensely relieved, prudence sank down in the chair, and rocked comfortably to and fro a few times. general principles,--ah, blessed words! "i suppose you know that carol is quite the idol of the high school already. she is the adored one of the place. you see, she is not mixed up in any scholastic rivalry. lark is one of the very best in her class, and there is intense rivalry between a few of the freshmen. but carol is out of all that, and every one is free to worship at her shrine. she makes no pretensions to stand first." "is she very stupid?" prudence was disappointed. she did so want both of her twins to shine. "stupid! not a bit of it. she is a very good scholar, much better than the average. our first pupils, including lark, average around ninety-six and seven. then there are others ranging between ninety and ninety-four. carol is one of them. the fairly good ones are over eighty-five, and the fairly bad ones are over seventy-five, and the hopeless ones are below that. this is a rough way of showing how they stand. lark is a very fine scholar, really the best in the class. she not only makes good grades, she grasps the underlying significance of her studies. very few freshmen, even among the best, do that. she is quite exceptional. we hope to make something very big and fine of larkie." prudence's eyes shone with motherly pride. she nodded, striving to make her voice natural and matter-of-fact as she answered, "yes, she is bright." "she certainly is! carol is quite different, but she is so sweet-spirited, and vivacious, and--un-snobbish, if you know what that means--that every one in high school, and even the grammar-grade children, idolize her. she is very witty, but her wit is always innocent and kind. she never hurts any one's feelings. and she is never impertinent. the professors are as crazy about her as the scholars,--forgive the slang. did the twins ever tell you what happened the first day of school?" "no,--tell me." prudence was clearly very anxious. "i shall never forget it. the freshmen were sent into the recitation room to confer with professor duke about text-books, etc. carol was one of the first in the line, as they came out. she sat down in her seat in the first aisle, with one foot out at the side. one of the boys tripped over it. 'carol,' said miss adams gently, 'you forgot yourself, didn't you?' and carol's eyes twinkled as she said, 'oh, no, miss adams, if i had i'd still be in the recitation room.'" miss allen laughed, but prudence's eyes were agonized. "how hateful of her!" "don't the twins tell you little things that happen at school,--like that, for instance?" "never! i supposed they were perfectly all right." "well, here's another. twice a week we have talks on first aid to the injured. professor duke conducts them. one day he asked carol what she would do if she had a very severe cold, and carol said, 'i'd soak my feet in hot water and go to bed. my sister makes me.'" miss allen laughed again, but prudence was speechless. "sometimes we have talks on normal work, practical informal discussions. many of our scholars will be country school-teachers, you know. miss adams conducts these normal hours. one day she asked carol what she would do if she had applied for a school, and was asked by the directors to write a thesis on student discipline, that they might judge of her and her ability by it? carol said, 'i'd get lark to write it for me.'" even prudence laughed a little at this, but she said, "why don't you scold her?" "we talked it all over shortly after she entered school. miss adams did not understand carol at first, and thought she was a little impertinent. but professor duke and i stood firm against even mentioning it to her. she is perfectly good-natured about it. you know, of course, miss starr, that we really try to make individuals of our scholars. so many, many hundreds are turned out of the public schools all cut on one pattern. we do not like it. we fight against it. carol is different from others by nature, and we're going to keep her different if possible. if we crush her individuality, she will come out just like thousands of others,--all one pattern! miss adams is as fond of carol now as any one of us. you understand that we could not let impudence or impertinence pass unreproved, but carol is never guilty of that. she is always respectful and courteous. but she is spontaneous and quick-witted, and we are glad of it. do you know what the scholars call professor duke?" "professor duck," said prudence humbly. "but they mean it for a compliment. they really admire and like him very much. i hope he does not know what they call him." "he does! one day he was talking about the nobility system in england. he explained the difference between dukes, and earls, and lords, etc., and told them who is to be addressed as your majesty, your highness, your grace and so on. then he said, 'now, carol, if i was the king's eldest son, what would you call me?' and carol said, 'i'd still call you a duck, professor,--it wouldn't make any difference to me.'" prudence could only sigh. "one other time he was illustrating phenomena. he explained the idea, and tried to get one of the boys to mention the word,--phenomenon, you know. the boy couldn't think of it. professor gave three or four illustrations, and still the boy couldn't remember it. 'oh, come now,' professor said, finally, 'something unusual, something very much out of the ordinary! suppose you should see a blackbird running a race down the street with a sparrow, what would you call it?' the boy couldn't imagine, and professor said, 'what would you call that, carol?' carol said, 'a bad dream.'" prudence smiled wearily. "sometimes we have discussions of moral points. we take turns about conducting them, and try to stimulate their interest in such things. we want to make them think, every one for himself. one day professor duke said, 'suppose a boy in this town has a grudge against you,--unjust and unfair. you have tried one thing after another to change his attitude. but he continues to annoy and inconvenience and even hurt you, on every occasion. remember that you have tried every ordinary way of winning his good will. now what are you going to do as a last resort?' carol said, 'i'll tell papa on him.'" miss allen laughed again, heartily. "it does have a disturbing effect on the class, i admit, and often spoils a good point, but professor duke calls on carol every time he sees her eyes twinkle! he does it on purpose. and miss adams is nearly as bad as he. one day she said, 'suppose you have unintentionally done something to greatly irritate and inconvenience a prominent man in town. he knows you did it, and he is very angry. he is a man of sharp temper and disagreeable manners. you know that he will be extremely unpleasant and insulting if you go to him with explanations and apologies. what are you going to do?' 'i think i'll just keep out of his way for a few weeks,' said carol soberly." "i hope she doesn't talk like that to you, miss allen." instantly miss allen was grave. "no, she does not, i am so sorry." leaning forward suddenly, she said, "miss starr, why do the twins dislike me?" "dislike you!" echoed prudence. "why, they do not dislike you! what in the world makes you think----" "oh, yes indeed they do,--both of them. now, why? people generally like me. i have always been popular with my students. this is my second year here. last year the whole high school stood by me as one man. this year, the freshmen started as usual. after one week, the twins changed. i knew it instantly. then other freshmen changed. now the whole class comes as near snubbing me as they dare. do you mean to say they have never told you about it?" "indeed they have not. and i am sure you are mistaken. they do like you. they like everybody." "christian tolerance, perhaps," smiled miss allen ruefully. "but i want them to like me personally and intimately. i can help the twins. i can do them good, i know i can. but they won't let me. they keep me at arm's length. they are both dear, and i love them. but they freeze me to death! why?" "i can't believe it!" "but it is true. don't they talk of their professors at home at all?" "oh, often." "what do they say of us?" "why, they say miss adams is a perfectly sweet old lamb,--they do not mean to be disrespectful. and they say professor duke is the dearest duck! they almost swear by 'professor duck'!" "and what do they say of me?" prudence hesitated, thinking hard. "come now, what do they say? we must get to the bottom of this." "why, they have said that you are very pretty, and most unbelievably smart." "oh! quite a difference between sweet old lamb, and the dearest duck, and being very pretty and smart! do you see it?" "yes," confessed prudence reluctantly, "but i hadn't thought of it before." "now, what is wrong? what have i done? why, look here. the twins think everything of professor duke, and i am sure carol deliberately neglects her science lessons in order to be kept in after school by him. but though she hates mathematics,--my subject,--she works at it desperately so i can't keep her in. she sits on mr. duke's table and chats with him by the hour. but she passes me up with a curt, 'good night, miss allen.'" "and larkie, too?" "lark is worse than carol. her dislike is deeper-seated. i believe i could win carol in time. sometimes i waylay her when she is leaving after school, and try my best. but just as she begins to thaw, lark invariably comes up to see if she is ready to go home, and she looks at both of us with superior icy eyes. and carol freezes in a second. ordinarily, she looks at me with a sort of sympathetic pity and wonder, but lark is always haughty and nearly contemptuous. it is different with the rest of the class. it is nothing important to them. the twins are popular in the class, you know, and the others, realizing that they dislike me, hold aloof on their account." "i can't fathom it," said prudence. "now, professor duke is very brilliant and clever and interesting. and he does like carol tremendously,--larkie, too. he says she is the cleverest girl he ever knew. but carol is his favorite. but he does not like teaching, and he has not the real interests of the scholars at heart. next year, he is to begin some very wonderful research work at a big salary. that is what he loves. that is where his interests lie. but this year, being idle, and his uncle being on the school board here, he accepted this place as a sort of vacation in the meanwhile. that is all it means to him. but i love teaching, it is my life-work. i love the young people, and i want to help them. why won't the twins give me a chance? surely i am as attractive as professor duke. they are even fond of miss adams, whom most people consider rather a sour old maid. but they have no use for me. i want you to find out the reason, and tell me. will you do it? they will tell you if you ask them, won't they?" "i think so. it is partly my fault. i am very strict with them about saying hateful things about people. i do not allow it. and i insist that they like everybody,--if they don't, i make them. so they have just kept it to themselves. but i will do my best." one would have thought that prudence carried the responsibility for the entire public-school system of the united states upon her shoulders that night, so anxious were her eyes, so grave her face. supper over, she quietly suggested to fairy that she would appreciate the absence of herself and connie for a time. and fairy instantly realized that the twins must be dealt with seriously for something. so she went in search of connie, and the two set out for a long walk. then prudence went to the kitchen where the twins were washing the dishes, and as usual, laughing immoderately over something. prudence sat down and leaned her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms. "i met miss allen to-day," she said, closely observing the faces of the twins. a significant glance flashed between them, and they stiffened instantly. "she's very pretty and sweet, isn't she?" continued prudence. "yes, very," agreed lark without any enthusiasm. "such pretty hair," added carol dispassionately. "she must be very popular with the scholars," suggested prudence. "yes, most of them are fond of her," assented lark. "she has rather winsome manners, i think," said carol. "which of your professors do you like best?" queried prudence. "duck," they answered unanimously, and with brightening faces. "why?" "because he is a duck," said carol, and they all laughed. but prudence returned to the charge without delay. "do you like miss allen?" she was going through these questions with such solemnity that the twins' suspicions had been aroused right at the start. what had miss allen told their sister? again that significant flash from twin to twin. "she certainly has very likeable ways," said lark shrewdly. "but do you like her?" insisted prudence. "i would like her very much under ordinary circumstances," admitted carol. "what is unusual about the circumstances?" prudence wanted to know. "look here, prudence, what did miss allen tell you? was she complaining about us? we've been very nice and orderly, i'm sure." lark was aggrieved. "she wasn't complaining. she likes you both. but she says you do not like her. i want to know why." "well, if you must know, miss allen is a heretic," snapped lark. then prudence leaned back in her chair and gazed at the flushed faces of the twins for two full minutes. "a--a--a what?" she ejaculated, when power of speech returned to her. "heretic," said carol with some relish. "a heretic! you know what heresy is, don't you? we'll tell you all about it if you like, now you've got things started." "we didn't tell you before because we thought you and father would feel badly about sending us to school to a heretic. but don't you worry,--miss allen hasn't influenced us any." "we haven't given her a chance," said carol, with her impish smile. "go on," begged prudence. "tell me. you're both crazy, i see that. but tell me!" "well," began lark, for carol always relegated the story-telling to her more gifted twin, "we've suspected miss allen right from the start. they used to have bible reading every morning in school, one chapter, you know, and then the lord's prayer. after the first week, miss allen dropped it. we thought that was a--a suspicious circumstance." "phenomenally so," said carol darkly. "but we kept our suspicions to ourselves, and we didn't come across anything else for several days. we wouldn't condemn anybody on--on circumstantial evidence, prue. we're very fair-minded, you know." "in spite of being twins," added carol. "what's that got to do with it?" prudence inquired, frowning at carol. "oh, nothing," admitted carol, driven into a corner. "i just wanted to make it emphatic." "go on, lark." "well, there's a girl at school named hattie simpson. you do not know her, prue. we don't associate with her. oh, yes, we like her very well, but she isn't parsonage material." "she's a goat," put in carol. "you needn't frown, prue, that's bible! don't you remember the sheep and the goats? i don't know now just what it was they did, but i know the goats were very--very disreputable characters!" "go on, lark." "well, her folks are atheists, and she's an atheist, too. you know what an atheist is, don't you? you know, prue, mount mark is a very religious town, on account of the presbyterian college, and all, and it seems the simpsons are the only atheists here. hattie says people look down on her terribly because of it. she says the church folks consider them, the simpsons, that is, the dust on their shoes, and the crumbs off the rich man's table. she got that terribly mixed up, but i didn't correct her." "i think she did very well for an atheist," said carol, determined not to be totally overlooked in this discussion. "what has all this to do with miss allen?" "well, one day hattie was walking home from school with us, and she was telling us about it,--the dust on their shoes, etc.,--and she said she liked miss allen better than anybody else in town. i asked why. she said miss allen believed the same things the simpsons believe, only miss allen daren't say so publicly, or they would put her out of the school. she said miss allen said that most church members were hypocrites and drunkards and--and just generally bad, and the ones outside the church are nearly always good and moral and kind. she said miss allen joined the presbyterian church here because most of the school board are presbyterians. she said miss allen said she didn't care if people were catholics or jews or atheists or--or just ordinary protestants, so long as they were kind to one another, and went about the world doing good works. and that's why miss allen wouldn't read the bible and say the lord's prayer in school." "what do you think of that?" demanded carol. "isn't that heresy? she's as bad as the priest and levite, isn't she?" "did you ask miss allen about it?" "no, indeed, we've just ignored miss allen ever since. we have watched her as closely as we could since then, to see if we could catch her up again. of course she has to be careful what she says in school, but we found several strong points against her. it's a perfectly plain case, no doubt about it." "and so you went among the other freshmen influencing them, and telling tales, and criticizing your----" "no indeed, prue, we wouldn't! but you know it says in the bible to beware of false doctrines and the sowers of bad seed,--or something like that--" "and we bewared as hard as we could!" grinned carol. "we have tried to explain these things to the other freshmen so miss allen could not lead them into--into error. oh, that's christian science, isn't it? well, minnie carlson is a christian scientist and she talks so much about falling into error that--honestly----" "we can't tell error from truth any more," interjected carol neatly. "and so i hope you won't punish us if we accidentally vary from the truth once in a while." this was quite beyond prudence's depth. she knew little of christian science save that it was a widely accepted creed of recent origin. so she brought the twins back to miss allen again. "but, twins, do you think it was kind, and christian, and--and like parsonage girls, to accept all this against miss allen without giving her a chance to defend herself?" "as i told you, prue, we have watched her very close since then. she has never come right out in the open,--she wouldn't dare,--but she has given herself away several times. nothing can get by us when we're on the watch, you know!" prudence knew. "what did miss allen say?" the twins thought seriously for a while. "oh, yes, lark," suggested carol finally, "don't you remember she said the bible was an allegory?" "what?" "yes, she did. she was explaining to the english class what was meant by allegory, and she said the purpose of using allegory was to teach an important truth in a homely impressive way that could be remembered. she mentioned several prominent allegories, and said the bible was one. and you know yourself prue, that the bible is gospel truth, and--i mean, it is so! i mean----" "what she means," said lark helpfully, "is that the bible is not just a pretty way of teaching people to be good, but it's solid fact clear through." "that's very well expressed, lark,"--prudence herself could not have expressed it half so well! "but how do you twins understand all these things so thoroughly?" "oh, you know mrs. sears is our sunday-school teacher, and she's always hot on the trail of the higher critics and heretics. she explained all about the--the nefarious system to us one sunday. she says the higher critics try to explain away the bible by calling it allegory. so we were ready for miss allen there. and whenever anything came up at school, we would ask mrs. sears about it on sunday,--without mentioning names of course. she's very much gratified that we are so much interested in such things. she thinks we're sure to be deaconesses, at the very least. but carol said she wouldn't be a deaconess,--she was going to be a red cross nurse and go to war. that stumped mrs. sears for a while, and then she said we could be red cross deaconess nurses." "i won't," said carol, "because the deaconess uniforms aren't as stylish as the red cross nurses'. i think i'll look pretty fine in a white uniform with a stiff little cap and a red cross on my arm. red crosses make a very pretty decoration, don't you think they do, lark?" "what else did miss allen say at school?" prudence demanded, leading the twins back to the subject. "well, one day she said,--you know she gives uplifting little moral talks quite often, prue. sometimes she tells us stories with inspiring points. she's really a moral person, i believe." "and i'm honestly sorry she's a heretic," said carol, "for i do want to be friendly enough with her to ask if she uses anything on her complexion to keep it so rose-leafy. if she does, i'll have some of it, if it takes all my next year's clothes!" lark laughed. "a rose-leaf complexion will be a poor substitute for----" "oh, for goodness' sake, twins, come back to miss allen. i am going right up to her house this minute, to ask her about it, and explain----" "she's the one to do the explaining, seems to me," said carol belligerently. "we've got to stick up for the bible, prue,--it's our business." "and i don't think you should tell her,--it may hurt her feelings," urged lark. "have heretics feelings?" queried carol. "i suppose it's a feeling of----" "carol! will you quit talking for a minute! this is a serious matter. if she believes all that nonsense, she's no proper teacher and--and she'll have to be put out of the high school. and if she doesn't believe it, she's a martyr! i'm going to find out about it at once. do you want to come with me?" "i should say not," said the twins promptly. "i think you're very foolish to go at all," added lark. "i wouldn't go for a dollar," declared carol. "it'd be very interesting to see how a heretic feels, but i don't care to know how ordinary christians feel when they fall into their hands. i'm not aching to see miss allen to-night." so prudence set forth, conscientiously, in the darkness. a brave and heroic thing for prudence to do, for she was a cowardly creature at heart. miss allen heard her voice in the lower hall, and came running down-stairs to meet her. "come up," she cried eagerly, "come on up." and before prudence was fairly inside the door, she demanded, "what is it? did you find out? is it my fault?" then prudence blushed and stammered, "why--it sounds--silly but--they think you are a--heretic." miss allen gasped. then she laughed. then she walked to her dressing-table and picked up a long hatpin. "will you kindly jab this into me?" she said. "i'm having a nightmare." prudence explained in detail. at first miss allen laughed, it must be confessed. then she grew very sober. "it is really my fault," she said, "for i should have remembered that young people read a ton of meaning into a pound of words. of course, i am not guilty, miss starr. professor duke and miss adams can swear to that. they call me goody-goody. they say i am an old-fashioned apostle, and they accuse me of wanting to burn them both at the stake! now, sit down and let me explain." prudence sat down. she was glad, so glad, that this sweet-faced, bright-eyed woman was an "ordinary christian," and not a "priest and a levite!" "about the allegory business, it is very simple. what i said was this,--'the bible is full of allegory.' i did not say, 'the bible is allegory.' i said the bible is full of allegory, and so it is. the parables, for instance,--what are they? do you see the difference?--but it is really more serious about poor little hattie simpson. as the twins told you, her parents are atheists. her father is a loud-voiced, bragging, boastful, coarse-hearted fellow. hattie herself does not know what her parents believe, and what they do not. she simply follows blindly after them. she thinks she is an eyesore in mount mark because of it. she resents it bitterly, but she feels the only decent thing for her to do is to stand by her folks. let me tell you about our conversation. i tried to make friends with her, for i truly pity her. she has no friends, she slinks about as though constantly ashamed of herself. she trusts no one, herself least of all. i tried to draw her out, and with partial success. she told me how she feels about it all. i said, 'hattie, won't you let some one--some minister, who knows how--tell you about christianity, and explain to you what christians really believe?' 'no,' she said passionately, 'i'll stand by my folks.' then i saw she was not ready yet. i said, 'well, perhaps it is just as well for the present, for you are too young now to take any definite stand for yourself. it is true,' i told her, 'that many church members are not christians, and are bad immoral people,--as your father says. they are not christians. and it is true that many outside of the church are good moral people,--but they are not christians, either.' and then i said, 'don't worry your head just now about whether people are catholics or jews or protestants, or what they are. just try to love everybody, and try to grow up to be such a sweet, kind, loving woman that you will be a blessing to the world. and what is more,' i said, 'do not puzzle your head now about why some believe the bible, and some do not. just wait. when you are older, you shall go into things for yourself, and make your own decision.'" prudence nodded. "i think you were very sweet about it," she said. "i wanted to win her confidence in the hope that some time, a little later, i myself may show her what christ is to us, and why we love the bible. but i did fight shy of the real point, for fear i might anger her and put a barrier between us. i just tried to win her confidence and her love, to pave the way for what i may be able to do later on. do you see? i have had several talks with her, but she is not ready. she is just a child, stubbornly determined to stand with her folks, right or wrong. i am trying now to cultivate the ground, i say nothing to make her dislike or distrust me. i did not think of her telling it to others,--and telling it wrong! surely no one but the twins could have read so much into it!" "well," and prudence smiled, "you know we are parsonage people! we have to stick up for the bible, as carol says." "oh, and about the bible reading," said miss allen suddenly, "i have nothing to do with that. as you know, there are jews and catholics and christian scientists and every branch of protestant represented in our little school. the jews and christian scientists are in a minority. the jews, have always objected to bible reading, but they were too few to be influential. with a catholic teacher, the catholics were quite willing to have it. with a protestant teacher, the protestants were strong for it. but there was always friction--one side objecting--so the school board ruled it out entirely. i did not explain this to the scholars. i did not want our young people to know of the petty bickering and scrapping going on among the elders in the town. so i simply said that hereafter we would dispense with the bible reading. but it was the direct order of the board. i argued against it, so did professor duke, so did miss adams. but as it happens, we are all three presbyterians! it did no good." then as prudence rose to go home, she asked eagerly, "do you think the twins will like me now?" "i don't see how in the world they can help it," declared prudence, smiling; "indeed, they admitted they were only too anxious to love you, but couldn't honestly do so because they had to stick up for the bible! i am so glad and relieved! this is the first time i have gone heresy-hunting, and i was quite bowed down with the weight of it. and if ever i can help with poor little hattie, will you let me know? i must have the twins invite her to spend some saturday with us. that's the way i make the girls like people,--by being with them a great, great deal." just before she said good night, prudence murmured hopefully, "i am sorry it happened, but it will be a good lesson for the twins. i am sure that after this, they will be less ready to listen to gossip, and more ready to give one the benefit of a doubt. it's a great responsibility, this raising a family, miss allen--and especially twins!" chapter vi an admirer it must be remembered that prudence did not live in a sheltered and exclusive city home, where girls are rigidly withheld from all unchaperoned intercourse with young men and old. we know how things are managed in the "best homes" of the big cities,--girls are sheltered from innocent open things, and, too often, indulge in really serious amusements on the quiet. but this was the middle west, where girls are to be trusted. not all girls, of course, but as a matter of fact, the girls who need watching, seldom get enough of it to keep them out of mischief. out in iowa, girls and boys are allowed to like each other, and revel in each other's company. and it is good for both. prudence was not a sentimental girl. perhaps this was partly due to the fact that at the age when most girls are head-full of boy, prudence was hands-full of younger sisters! and when hands are full to overflowing, there is small likelihood of heads being full of nonsense. prudence liked boys as she liked girls,--that was the end of it. romance was to her a closed book, and she felt no inclination to peep between the covers. soul-stirring had not come to her yet. but prudence was attractive. she had that indescribable charm that carries a deep appeal to the eyes, and the lips, and the hearts of men. happily prudence herself did not realize this. the first young man of mount mark to yield to the charms of prudence was a serious-minded lawyer, nearly ten years her senior. this was just the type of man to become enraptured with prudence. he gazed across at her solemnly during the church service. he waited patiently after the benediction until she finished her methodist practise of hand-shaking, and then walked joyously home with her. he said little, but he gazed in frank enchantment at the small womanly girl beside him. "he's not half bad, fairy," prudence would confide to her sister when they were snug in their bed. "he's not half bad at all. but at heart, he doesn't approve of me. he doesn't know that himself, and i certainly can't believe it is my duty to tell him. but i am convinced that it is true. for instance, he thinks every one, especially women, should have a mission in life, a serious, earnest mission. i told him i didn't believe anything of the kind,--i think we are just supposed to live along from day to day and do what we can, and be happy, and not say mean things about one another. but he said he considered that i was fulfilling the noblest mission a woman could have. now what do you reckon he meant by that, fairy? i've been puzzling my brain over it for days and days. anybody can tell i am not the sort of girl to have a mission! maybe he just said it to encourage me,--he's a very encouraging sort of man. he's very nice,--oh, very nice, indeed! but isn't it a nuisance to have him tagging along home with me, when i might be having such a good time with you and the twins, or father? can a girl tell a man she prefers to go home with her family, without hurting his feelings? is there any way to turn a person down without letting him know it? he's so nice i wouldn't hurt his feelings for anything, but--it's such a bother! i'm too young for beaus, and since i'm never going to get married it's just a waste of time." and fairy screamed with laughter, but told prudence she must solve her own love problems! and prudence, unwilling to give offense, and preferring self-sacrifice, endured his company until a gay young college lad slipped in ahead of him. "first come, first served," was the motto of heartless prudence, and so she tripped comfortably away with "jimmy," laughing at his silly college stories, and never thinking to give more than a parting smile at the solemn face she left behind. after jimmy came a grocery clerk named byron poe smith, and after him somebody else, and somebody else, and somebody else. and prudence continued to laugh, and thought it "awfully amusing, fairy, but i keep wondering what you and the twins are laughing about!" but it was fairy herself who brought a real disturbing element into the life of prudence. one of the lightest-minded of the many light-minded college men, had been deeply smitten by the charms of dignified fairy. he walked with her, and talked with her,--this young man was a great deal of a talker, as so pathetically many college men are! he planned many little expeditions and entertainments for her amusement, and his own happiness. his name was eugene babler. "oh, he talks a lot," said fairy coolly, "but he certainly shows one a good time, and that's the point, you know!" she came in from college one afternoon and rattled off this little tale to prudence. "a few of us were on the campus to-day, and we decided to go down the creek to-morrow afternoon and take our suppers. there'll be ellen stark, and georgia prentiss, and myself. and the boys will be tom angell, and frank morris, and eugene babler. and professor rayburn was there when we were talking about it, and so we asked him to go along, but we told him he must take a girl. and he said, 'i wonder if your sister wouldn't go? i have only met her once, but perhaps on your recommendation, miss fairy----' and he paused with his breath in the air, inquiringly. so i said, 'do you mean prudence, or one of the twins?' he smiled very kindly and said, 'i mean prudence.' i said i was sure you would go, and so you'll have to do it. it's a great honor, prue, for all the upper-class girls, and even the unmarried women on the fac. are crazy about him. he's so aloof, you know, and very intelligent. i swelled with pride at the public tribute to the parsonage!" "professor rayburn! of the fac.!" gasped prudence. "oh, i'm sure he didn't mean me, fairy. you must have misunderstood him. why, i wouldn't know what to say to a professor, you know! what is his line?" "bugs!" cried fairy. "he's the biology man. and this is his first year here, and he's very brilliant,--they say! i'm no authority on bugs myself. but anyhow every one just raves about him, and he showed very plainly that he was anxious to get acquainted with you, so you'll have to go." "but bugs!" wailed prudence. "what do i know about bugs! will he expect me to know how to divide them,--separate them, you know--" "i suppose you mean dissect them, you poor child," screamed fairy. "divide bugs! if professor could hear you now, prue, he would be sadly disillusioned. you must just trot up-stairs and get one of the twins' biology books and cram up a little. he won't expect you to be an advanced buggist. he can give you points himself. men do love to have girls appeal to their superior knowledge, and be admiring and deferent. maybe he will 'divide one' for you if you ask him 'please.'" "i won't do it," declared prudence. "i don't like bugs anyhow, and--why, the very pictures of them in the twins' books make me nervous. i won't do it. you can just tell him i don't feel qualified to go." "you've got to go," said fairy sternly, "for i said you would, and he's counting on it. he's going to phone you this afternoon and ask you himself. you've got to go." at that instant, the telephone rang. "there's professor!" cried fairy. "you tell him you are just delighted to go, and that you are so interested in bugs!" with a flushed face, prudence took down the receiver. "hello," she said, "this is the parsonage." and then, a second later, she said, "yes, this is prudence." after that she stood silent for some little time, with fairy crouched beside her, trying to hear. then spoke prudence. "yes, fairy has been telling me. and it's very kind of you, indeed, and i know i would enjoy it. but as i was telling fairy, i don't know a thing about bugs, and i don't like them anyhow, so i'm afraid you would find me rather stupid." fairy was striving to get a hand over her sister's lips to stem the words, but prudence eluded her. they were both somewhat astounded at the great peal of laughter which came over the telephone. "good! that's just what i was hoping for! you couldn't have said anything that would give me greater pleasure. then shall i come around with babler, for you and your sister, about one o'clock?--oh, that is very kind of you, miss starr. good-by! don't cultivate an interest in bugs between now and to-morrow, for my sake!" the girls looked at each other doubtfully when the receiver was once more on its hook. "i'm afraid he's laughing at me," said prudence questioningly. "i should hope so," cried fairy. "what in the world did you say that for? couldn't you have pretended to be interested? professor likes women to be dignified and intellectual and deep, and----" "then why on earth did he ask me to go?" demanded prudence. "any one could tell to look at me that i'm not dignified and intellectual and deep, and----" "and i know he admired you, for he was so eager when he asked about you. think how grand it would be to speak of 'my sister, mrs. professor rayburn,' and----" "don't be silly, fairy. if i was going to marry anybody, which i am not, i hope you do not think for one minute that i'd marry a buggist! gracious! goodness! i've a notion not to go a step! i'll call him up and----" but fairy only laughed. and after all, prudence looked forward to the little outing in the glorious october woods with eager anticipation. it was seldom indeed that she indulged in merry-making away from the parsonage. yet she was fond of gaiety. long before one o'clock on that eventful day, she was ready. and her face was so bright, and her eyes so starry, that placid self-satisfied fairy felt a twinge of something like envy. "you look like a creature from another world, prue," she said. "if professor rayburn has any sense in his bones, he will fall dead in love with you,--bugs or no bugs!" "people do not have sense in their bones, fairy, and--and--shall i say professor, or just plain mister?" "professor, i suppose,--every one calls him professor." "then i shall say mister," said prudence. "it will be so hard to enjoy myself if i keep remembering that he teaches bugs! i might as well be at school. i shall say mister." and she did say "mister," and she said it so sweetly, and looked up into professor rayburn's face so brightly, and with happiness so evident and so girlish, that the staid professor felt a quick unaccountable throbbing down somewhere beneath his coat. he did look eager! there was no doubt of it. and he looked at prudence, continuously. "just like ordinary men, isn't he?" whispered fairy to eugene babler,--called "babbie," for short and for humiliation,--for he enjoyed the reputation of being a "talker" even among college men! the three young couples struck off briskly down the road, creek-ward, and prudence followed sedately with her professor. "fairy says it was perfectly disgusting of me to tell you i didn't know anything about bugs," she said comfortably. "but i thought maybe, you were one of those professors who like one thing so much they can't be interested in anything else. and i wanted to warn you. but i guess you aren't that kind, after all?" "oh, no, indeed," he assured her fervently, looking deep into her blue eyes. "i like bugs, it is true. but really i like other things, one thing at least, much better." "is it a riddle?" she inquired. "am i supposed to guess?" "it isn't a riddle, but you may guess. think hard, now! it's a serious matter. please don't say 'food.'" "if i get below seventy will i be put down a grade?" she asked. then with intense solemnity, "i guess girls." they laughed together, youthfully. "you are right," he said. and with a sigh of relief, prudence answered, "that's the first time i ever got a hundred in anything in my life. i was very much accustomed to eighties when i was in school. i am very common and unbrilliant," she assured him. "fairy says you are perfectly horribly clever----" she glanced up when she heard his exclamation, and laughed at his rueful face. "oh, that isn't fairy's expression. she thinks brilliant and clever people are just adorable. it is only i who think them horrible." even prudence could see that this did not help matters. "i--i do not mean that," she stammered. "i am sure you are very nice indeed, and we are going to be good friends, aren't we? but i am such a dunce myself that i am afraid of real clever people. they are so superior. and so uninteresting, and--oh, i do not mean that either." then prudence laughed at her predicament. "i may as well give it up. what i really mean is that you are so nice and friendly and interesting, that i can hardly believe you are so clever. you are the nicest smart person i ever saw,--except my own family, i mean." she smiled up at him deliciously. "does that make it square?" "more than square," he said. "you are too complimentary. but the only thing that really counts to-day is whether we are going to be real good friends, as you suggested. we are, aren't we? the very best and closest of friends?" "yes," agreed prudence, dimpling. "i like men to be my friends,--nice men, i mean. but it isn't always safe. so many start out to be good friends, and then want to be silly. so a girl has to be very careful. but it's perfectly safe with you, and so we can be the very best of friends. i won't need to be watchful for bad symptoms." "do you think me so unmanly that i couldn't fall in love?" he asked, and his voice was curious, as though she had hurt him. "oh, of course, you'll fall in love," laughed prudence. "all nice men do.--but not with me,--that was what i meant i couldn't imagine a buggy professor--oh, i beg your pardon! but the twins are so silly and disrespectful, and they thought it was such a joke that i should even look at a professor of biology that they began calling you the buggy professor. but they do not mean any harm by it, not the least in the world. they're such nice sweet girls, but--young, you know. are your feelings hurt?" she asked anxiously. "not a bit! i think the twins and i will be tremendously good friends. i'm quite willing to be known as the buggy professor. but you were trying to explain why i couldn't fall in love with you. i suppose you mean that you do not want me to." "oh, not that at all," she hastened to assure him. then she stopped. "yes," she said honestly, "that is true, too. but that isn't what i was trying to say. i was just saying that no one realizes any more than i how perfectly impossible it would be for a clever, grown-up, brilliant professor to fall in love with such an idiot as i am. that's all. i meant it for a compliment," she added, seeing he was not well pleased. he smiled, but it was a sober smile. "you said it was true that you did not wish me to be--fond of you. why? don't you like me then, after all?" now, he realized that this was a perfectly insane conversation, but for the life of him, he couldn't help it. prudence was so alluring, and the sky was so warmly blue, the sunshine so mild and hazy, and the roadside so gloriously gay with colors! who could have sense on such a day, with such a girl as this? "oh, i do like you very much indeed," declared prudence. "it's a big relief, too, for i didn't expect to--oh, i beg your pardon again, but--well, i was scared when fairy told me how remarkable you are. i didn't want to disgrace the parsonage, and i knew i would. but--why, the reason i do not want you to fall in love with me,--that's very different from being fond of me, i do want you to be that,--but when people fall in love, they get married. i'm not going to get married, so it would be silly to fall in love, wouldn't it?" he laughed heartily at the matter-of-factness with which this nineteen-year-old girl disposed of love and marriage. "why aren't you going to be married?" he inquired, foolishly happy, and showing more foolishness than happiness, just as we all do on such occasions. "well, it will be ten or eleven years before connie is fairly raised." "yes, but you won't be a methuselah, in eleven years," he smiled. "no, but you forget father." "forget father! are you raising him, too?" "no, i'm not raising him, but i'm managing him." but when he laughed, she hastened to add, "that is, i take care of him, and keep house for him, and remind him of things he forgets." then with girlish honesty, she added, "though i must confess that he has to remind me of things i forget, oftener than i do him. i inherited my forgetfulness from father. i asked him once if he inherited his from grandfather, and he said he forgot whether grandfather was forgetful or not! father is very clever. so's fairy. and the twins are the smartest little things you ever saw,--and connie, too. connie is the oddest, keenest child. she's wonderful. they all are,--but me. it's kind of humiliating to be the only stupid one in a family of smart folks. i suppose you've no idea how it feels, and i can't explain it. but sometimes i think maybe i ought to go off and die, so the whole family can shine and sparkle together. as it is, there's just a dull glow from my corner, quite pale and ugly compared with the brilliant gleams the others are sending out." said professor rayburn, "ah, prudence, the faint, sweet mellow glows are always beautiful. not sparkling, perhaps, not brilliant! but comforting, and cheering, and--always to be trusted. it's just these little corner-glows, like yours, that make life worth living." this was rather deep for prudence, but she felt instinctively that he was complimenting her. she thanked him sweetly, and said, "and after all, i do not really mind being the stupid one. i think it's rather fun, for then i can just live along comfortably, and people do not expect much of me. it would wear me all out to be as clever as fairy, or as witty as carol, or as studious as lark. but i am most tremendously proud of them, i assure you." if professor rayburn had continued along this interesting and fruitful line of conversation, all would have been well. "but it came just like a clap of thunder in the sunshine," said prudence to fairy dramatically, as they sat in their room talking things over that night. "we were having a perfectly grand time, and i was just thinking he was as nice and interesting as if he didn't know one thing to his name, when--crash! that's how it happened." fairy wiped her eyes, and lay back weakly on the bed. "go on," she urged. "what happened?" "he stopped right in the middle of a sentence about me, something real nice, too, that i was awfully interested in, and said, 'look, miss starr!' then he got down on his knees and began cautiously scraping away the sticks and leaves. then he fished out the most horrible, woolly, many-legged little animal i ever saw in my life. he said it was a giminythoraticus billyancibus, and he was as tickled over it as though he had just picked up a million-dollar diamond. and what do you suppose the weird creature did with it? he wrapped it in a couple of leaves, and put his handkerchief around it and put it in his pocket!--do you remember when we were eating by the creek, and i got jam on my fingers? he offered me his handkerchief to wipe it off? do you remember how i shoved him away, and shuddered? i saw you look reprovingly at me! that's why! do you suppose i could wipe my fingers with a handkerchief that had been in one of his pockets?" "it wasn't the one that had the giminy billibus, was it?" "no, but goodness only knows what had been in this one,--an alligator, maybe, or a snake. he's very fond of snakes. he says some of them are so useful. i try to be charitable, fairy, and i believe i would give even satan credit for any good there was in him,--but it is too much to ask me to be fond of a man who is fond of snakes. but that is not the worst. he put the giminy thing in his pocket,--his left pocket! then he came on walking with me, on my right side. on my right side, fairy, do you understand what that means? it means that the giminy billibus, as you call it--oh, i wouldn't swear to the name, fairy, i do not claim to be smart, but i know how it looked! well, anyhow, name and all, it was on the side next to me. i stopped to look at a little stick, and switched around on the other side. then he stooped to look at a bunch of dirt, and got on the wrong side again. then i stopped, and then he did, and so we kept zig-zagging down the road. a body would have thought we were drunk, i suppose. four times that man stopped to pick up some wriggling little animal, and four times he deposited his treasure in one of his various pockets. don't ask why it is impossible for me to be friends with such a being,--spare me that humiliation!" but the fair daughter of the parsonage proved irresistibly attractive to the unfortunate professor, and he was not to be lightly shunted aside. he forsook the presbyterian church, of which he was a member, and attended the methodist meetings with commendable assiduity. after each service, he accompanied prudence home, and never failed to accept her invitations, feebly given, to "come in a minute." he called as often during the week as propriety, in the voice of prudence, deemed fitting. it was wholly unnatural for prudence to cater to propriety, but professor rayburn did not know this. weeks passed, a month slipped away, and another. professor rayburn was considered a fixture in the parsonage household by all except prudence herself, who chafed under her bondage. "i can't just blurt out that i think he's a nuisance," she mourned to fairy. "oh, if he'd just do something disgusting so i could fire him off,--pop! just like that. wouldn't it be glorious?" but the professor did not indulge in disgusting things, and prudence continued to worry and fret. then came a blessed evening when the minister and fairy were away from home, and the twins and connie were safely in their beds. professor rayburn sat with prudence in the cozy living-room, and prudence was charming, though quiet, and the professor was only human. prudence had made tea, and as she rose to relieve him of his empty cup, he also rose to return it to the table. laughing, they put it down on the tray, each holding one side of the saucer. then when it was safely disposed of, prudence turned toward him, still laughing at the silliness of it,--very alluring, very winsome. and mr. rayburn, unexpectedly to himself as to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. he was aghast at himself, once it was over, and prudence,--well, let us say frankly that prudence was only relieved, for it came to her in a flash that this was the "disgusting thing" for which she had so fervently longed. "mr. rayburn!" "that was very stupid and unpardonable of me, prudence," he said quickly, "i really did not think what i was doing. but you were so sweet, and--i'm awfully fond of you, prudence, you know that." prudence looked at him thoughtfully. she felt that this hardly gave her the desired opening. so she waited, hoping he would commit himself further. more humbled by her unnatural silence, he did go on. "you know, prudence, when a man cares for a girl as i care for you, it isn't always easy for him to be sober and sensible. you shouldn't have been so--so dear." prudence sighed happily. she was content. this gave her the long-desired cue. "mr. rayburn," she said gently but decidedly, "i think you ought not to come here any more." he walked over to her quickly, and stood beside the chair into which she had dropped when he kissed her. "don't say that, prudence," he said in a hurried low voice. "it is true," she persisted, feeling somehow sorry, though she did not understand why she should feel so. "i--i--well, you know i--you remember what i told you that first day, don't you? about getting married, and falling in love, and such things. it is true. i don't want to love anybody, and i don't want to get married, and fairy says--it is--remotely possible--that you might get--very fond of me." he smiled rather grimly. "yes, i think it is--remotely possible." "then that settles it," she said comfortably. "and besides, i have such a lot to do that i can't--well, bother--spending so much time outside as i have with you. i've been neglecting my work, and it isn't right. i haven't the time." "which is your way of saying that you do not like me, isn't it?" prudence stood up impulsively. "oh, i like you, but--" she threw out her hands expressively. he took them in his, tenderly, firmly. "but, prudence," he argued, "that is because the woman in you isn't awake. you may never love me--a dismal possibility, but it is true. but don't you think it only fair that you should give me a chance to try?" "oh, but that's just the point," she cried. "i do not want you to try. i do not want to run any risk, at all. i wouldn't marry you if i did love you--i told you that right in the beginning." he still held her hands in one of his, caressing them slowly with the other. "what is there about me that you do not like?" he demanded suddenly. "there is something, i know." and with her awful unbelievable honesty. prudence told him. "yes," she said, "that is true. i hated to mention it, but there is something! mr. rayburn, i just can't stand the bugs!" "good heavens! the what?" "the bugs! i can't bear for you to be near me, because i keep wondering if there are bugs and things in your pocket. i'm afraid they'll get over on me. even now it makes me shiver when you hold my hands, because i know you've been handling the horrible little creatures with yours." he dropped her hands abruptly, and stared at her. "and after you leave, i get down on my hands and knees and look over the floor, and examine the chairs, to see if any have crawled off! it's a terrible feeling, mr. rayburn. you know i told you i hated bugs.--i'm afraid i've hurt your feelings," she said sadly. "where in the world did you get such an idea as that?" he demanded rather angrily. "do you think i have pet bugs to carry around with me for company?" "no,--but don't you remember the picnic,--and how you kept gathering them up in your handkerchiefs and putting them in your pockets? and how i kept squirming around to get on the other side,--i was trying to get away from the bugs!" "but, my heavens, prudence, those were my field clothes. i don't put bugs in these pockets,--these are my sunday togs!" he smiled a little. "and i always wash my hands, you know." he found it humorous, and yet it hurt him. such a little thing to prejudice a girl so strongly,--and one he liked so marvelously well! "you might forget, and put them in these pockets,--it's a kind of habit with you, i suppose. and just plain washing won't take the idea of bugs off your hands." "prudence, you are only a girl,--a childish girl, but a very sweet one. i want you to like me. when you grow up, you are going to be a wonderfully good and lovely woman. i--i am going to want you then. i know it. let's just be friends now, can't we--until later--for a long time yet? i'll promise on my word of honor never to put another bug in my pockets, or my handkerchiefs. but i can't promise not to touch them, for i have to do it in class. that's how i earn my living! but i will wash my hands with ivory soap and sapolio, and rub them with cold cream, and powder them, and perfume them, before i ever come near you again. won't that do?" prudence shook her head. "i know you are laughing at me," she said, "but i always told you i was just a silly simpleton. and--it isn't the bugs altogether. i--i like it better to be with my sisters than----" "than with me? i see. as i said, the woman of you is still sleeping. well, we are young, and i will wait. i won't bother you any more for a long time, prudence, but i shan't forget you. and some day i will come back to you again." he stared at her moodily. then he put his hands beneath her elbows, and looked into her eyes searchingly. "you are a strange girl, prudence. in some ways, you are so womanly, and in other ways so--pitifully girlish! all the woman in your heart seems to be given to your sisters and your father, and-- but you will waken, and i won't hurry you." then he put his arms around her again, and whispered in her ear, "but i love you, prudence, and--if some one else should do the awakening--it would hurt!" then he kissed her, and went away. but prudence ran up-stairs, singing happily. "oh, i feel like a caged-up bird that has broken loose," she cried to her reflection in the mirror jubilantly. "oh, what fun it will be to come home from church with fairy and the twins, the way i used to do!" chapter vii lessons in etiquette connie was lying flat on her back near the register. the twins were sitting on the floor near her, hearing each other conjugate latin verbs. and prudence, with her darning basket, was earnestly trying to solve a domestic problem,--how to get three pairs of wearable stockings out of eleven hosiery remnants. so fairy found them as she came in, radiant and glowing. "glorious day," she said, glancing impartially at her sisters. "just glorious! why are you all hugging the register, may i ask? it is perfect weather. connie, you should be out-of-doors this minute, by all means. twins, aren't you grown-up enough to sit on chairs, or won't your footies reach the floor?--babbie, eugene babler, you know, is coming to spend the evening, prudence." "what is going on to-night?" queried prudence. "nothing is going on. that's why he is coming. it's too cold to meander around outdoors these nights, and so we shall have to amuse ourselves inside as best we can." the whole family came to attention at this. "oh, goody!" cried connie. "let's make taffy, shall we, fairy?" "certainly not. this isn't a children's party. you'll go to bed at eight o'clock as usual, connie mine.--now, we must have something to eat. the question is, what shall it be?" "yes," agreed carol with enthusiasm,--carol was always enthusiastic on the subject of something to eat. "yes, indeed, that is the question. what shall we have?" "you will likely have pleasant dreams, carol," was the cool retort. "babbie did not invite himself to spend the evening with you, i believe." "do you mean to suggest," demanded lark with withering scorn, "that it is your intention to shut yourself up alone with this--this creature, excluding the rest of us?" "yes, and have refreshments for just you two?" cried carol. [illustration: "yes, and have refreshments for just you two?"] "that is my intention most certainly. the twins and connie will not put in appearance at all. prue will serve the refreshments, and will eat with us. babbie and i shall spend the evening in the front room." "the front room?" echoed prudence. "this room is much cheerier, and more homelike." "well, babbie isn't a member of the family, you know," said fairy. "you are doing your best," sniffed carol. "now, you girls must understand right off, that things are different here from what they were at exminster. when boys came to the house there they came to have a good time with the whole family. but here it is very different. i've been looking around, and i've got on to the system. the proper thing is to receive callers privately, without the family en masse sitting by and superintending. that's etiquette, you know. and one must always serve refreshments. more etiquette. men are such greedy animals, they do not care to go places where the eats aren't forthcoming." "men! are you referring to this babbling creature now?" interposed carol. "ouch!" said lark. "but won't it be rather--poky--just sitting in the front room by yourselves all evening?" asked prudence doubtfully, ignoring the offended twins. "oh, i dare say it will. but it's the proper thing to do," said fairy complacently. "what are you going to do all evening?" connie wanted to know. "just sit and look at each other and admire yourselves?" the twins thought this very clever of connie, so they both said "ouch!" approvingly. "why, no, baby dear," said fairy good-naturedly. "we shall talk. feast our souls with a flow of reason, you know. we shall converse. we shall hold pleasant intercourse." "wouldn't it be more fun to have the girls in for a little while?" this from prudence. "oh, it might,--but it wouldn't be the proper thing at all. college men do not care to be entertained by babies." "no," snapped lark, "the wisdom of babies is too deep for these--these--these men in embryo." this was so exquisitely said that lark was quite restored to amiability by it. "in embryo," had been added to her vocabulary that very day in the biology class. it was only the sheerest good fortune which gave her the opportunity of utilizing it so soon. and carol said "ouch!" with such whole-souled admiration that lark's spirit soared among the clouds. she had scored! "and what shall we serve them?" urged prudence. "i suppose it would hardly do to--pop corn, would it?" "no, indeed. popping corn is very nice for the twins and the little boys in the neighborhood." fairy smiled with relish as she saw the twins wince at this thrust. "but babbie and i-- oh, never! it wouldn't do at all. now, oyster stew and crackers,--i mean wafers,----" "oysters are fearfully expensive, fairy," objected the frugal prudence. "oh, we can stand it for once," said fairy easily. "this is the first time, and we must do something extra. babbie is all the rage at school, and the girls are frantic with jealousy because i have cut everybody else out. to be honest about it, i can't understand it myself. babbie's such a giddy scatter-brained youngster, you'd think he'd prefer----" "do you like him, fairy? don't you think he's tiresome? he talks so much, it seems to me." "to be sure i like him. he's great fun. he's always joking and never has a sensible thought, and hates study. he's an amusing soul, i must say. he's going to attend here a couple of years, and then study pharmacy. his father is a druggist in ottumwa, and quite well off. the only reason babbie came here instead of going to a big college in the east is because his father is a trustee. trustees are in honor bound to send their offspring to the college they trustee,--just as ministers are obliged to trade with the members when possible." "even if they short-weight and long-charge you," put in carol. "carol!" exclaimed prudence reprovingly. "well, we'll serve oyster stew then. will you eat in the dining-room?" "no, we'll eat on the little table in the front room,--informally, you know. you must get it ready, and arrange it nicely on the big tray. then you must come to the door and say, 'wouldn't you like a little oyster stew?' say it carelessly, as if we always have something to eat before going to bed. and i'll say, 'oh, yes, prudence, bring it right in.' then you bring it in, and we'll all eat together.--that's the way to do it! babbie's had dates with the very swellest girls in school, and he knows about such things. we must do it up brown!" "swell!" mocked lark. "do it up brown! oh, you'll be a record-breaker of a college professor all right. i'm sure this young babler is just the type of man to interest the modern college professor! swell! do it up brown!" "ouch!" grinned carol. "now, will you twins run down-town for the oysters?" asked prudence briskly. "who? us?" demanded lark, indignantly and ungrammatically. "do you think we can carry home oysters for the--the--personal consumption of this babbling young prince? not so! let fairy go after the oysters! she can carry them home tenderly and appreciatively. carol and i can't! we don't grasp the beauty of that man's nature." "oh, yes, twinnies, i think you'll go, all right. hurry now, for you must be back in time to help me get supper. fairy'll have to straighten the front room, and we won't have time. run along, and be quick." for a few seconds the twins gazed at each other studiously. neither spoke. without a word, they went up-stairs to prepare for their errand. they whispered softly going through the upper hall. "we'd better make a list," said carol softly. so with heads close together they wrote out several items on a piece of paper. "it'll cost quite a lot," objected carol. "thirty cents, anyhow. and prudence'll make us pay for the oysters, sure. remember that." "we'd better let connie in, too," suggested lark. connie was hastily summoned, and the twins whispered explanations in her willing ears. "good!" she said approvingly. "it'll serve 'em right." "but it'll cost money," said carol. "how much have you got?" then connie understood why she had been consulted. the twins always invited her to join their enterprises when money was required. "a quarter," she faltered. "well, we'll go shares," said lark generously. "we'll pay a dime apiece. it may not take that much. but if prudence makes us pay for the oysters, you'll have to pay a third. will you do that?" "yes, indeed." connie was relieved. she did not always get off so easily! "twins! you must hurry!" this was prudence at the bottom of the stairs. and the twins set off quite hurriedly. their first tall was at the meat market. "a pint of oysters," said lark briefly. when he brought them to her, she smelled them suspiciously. then carol smelled. "are these rotten oysters?" she demanded hopefully. "no," he answered, laughing. "certainly not." "have you got any rotten ones?" "no, we don't keep that kind." he was still laughing. the twins sighed and hurried next door to the grocer's. "a nickel's worth of pepper--the strongest you have." this was quickly settled--and the grave-faced twins betook themselves to the corner drug store. "we--we want something with a perfectly awful smell," lark explained soberly. "what kind of a smell?" "we don't care what kind, but it must be perfectly sickening. like something rotten, or dead, if you have it. something that will stay smelly for several hours,--but it mustn't be dangerous, of course." "what do you want it for?" "we want it to put in a room to give it a horrible smell for an hour or so." lark winked at him solemnly. "it's a joke," she further elucidated. "i see." his eyes twinkled. "i think i can fix you up." a moment later he handed her a small bottle. "just sprinkle this over the carpet. it won't do any harm, and it smells like thunder. it costs a quarter." carol frowned. "i suppose we'll have to take it," she said, "but it's pretty expensive. i hate to have druggists get such a lot of money." he laughed aloud. "i hate to have you get a good licking to-morrow, too,--but you'll get it just the same, or i miss my guess." when the twins arrived home, fairy was just cutting the candy she had made. "it's delicious," she said to prudence. "here's a nice dishful for you and the girls.--pitch in, twins, and help yourselves. it's very nice." the twins waved her haughtily away. "no, thank you," they said. "we couldn't eat that candy with relish. we are unworthy." "all right," prudence put in quickly, as fairy only laughed. "i'll put it in the cupboard, and fairy and i will eat it to-morrow. it's perfectly fine,--simply delicious." but the twins were not to be tempted. before they went up-stairs, lark inquired sarcastically: "i suppose, fairy, you'll don your best blue silk in honor of this event?" "oh, no," was the ready answer, "i'll just wear my little green muslin. it's old, but very nice and comfortable--just right for an evening at home." "yes," scoffed carol, "and of course you are remembering that every one says it is the most becoming dress you have." "oh, yes," laughed fairy, "i'm remembering that, all right." then the twins went up-stairs, but not to their own room at once. instead they slipped noiselessly into the front bedroom, and a little later carol came out into the hall and stood listening at the head of the stairs, as though on guard. "be sure and leave quite a few stitches in, lark," she whispered once. "we want it to hang together until babbie gets here." that was all. presently lark emerged, and their own door closed behind them. "it's a good thing father has to go to the trustees' meeting to-night, isn't it?" asked carol. and lark agreed, absently. she was thinking of the oysters. as soon as they finished supper, lark said, "don't you think we'd better go right to bed, prue? we don't want to taint the atmosphere of the parsonage. of course, fairy will want to wash the dishes herself to make sure they are clean and shining." "oh, no," disclaimed fairy, still good-naturedly. "i can give an extra rub to the ones we want to use,--that is enough. i do appreciate the thought, though, thanks very much." so the twins plunged in, carefully keeping connie beside them. "she has such a full-to-overflowing look," said carol. "if we don't keep hold of her, she'll let something bubble over." connie had a dismal propensity for giving things away,--the twins had often suffered from it. to-night, they were determined to forestall such a calamity. then they all three went to bed. to be sure it was ridiculously early, but they were all determined. "we feel weak under this unusual strain. our nerves can't stand the tension. we really must retire to rest. maybe a good night's sleep will restore us to normal," lark explained gravely. fairy only laughed. "good!" she cried. "do go to bed. the only time i am sure of you is when you are in your beds. do you mind if i tie you in, to make assurance doubly sure?" but the twins and connie had disappeared. "you keep your eyes open, fairy," prudence whispered melodramatically. "those girls do not look right. something is hanging over our heads." and she added anxiously, "oh, i'll be so disappointed if things go badly. this is the first time we've ever lived up to etiquette, and i feel it is really a crisis." fairy was a little late getting up-stairs to dress, but she took time to drop into her sisters' room. they were all in bed, breathing heavily. she walked from one to another, and stood above them majestically. "asleep!" she cried. "ah, fortune is kind. they are asleep. how i love these darling little twinnies,--in their sleep!" an audible sniff from beneath the covers, and fairy, smiling mischievously, went into the front room to prepare for her caller. the bell rang as she was dressing. prudence went to the door, preternaturally ceremonious, and ushered mr. babler into the front room. she turned on the electric switch as she opened the door. she was too much impressed with the solemnity of the occasion to take much note of her surroundings, and she did not observe that the young man sniffed in a peculiar manner as he entered the room. "i'll call fairy," she said demurely. "tell her she needn't primp for me," he answered, laughing. "i know just how she looks already." but prudence was too heavily burdened to laugh. she smiled hospitably, and closed the door upon him. fairy was tripping down the stairs, very tall, very handsome, very gay. she pinched her sister's arm as she passed, and the front room door swung behind. but she did not greet her friend. she stood erect by the door, her head tilted on one side, sniffing, sniffing. "what in the world?" she wondered. then she blushed. perhaps it was something he had used on his hair! or perhaps he had been having his suit cleaned! "oh, i guess it's nothing, after all," she stammered. but eugene babler was strangely quiet. he looked about the room in a peculiar questioning way. "shall i raise a window?" he suggested finally. "it's rather--er--hot in here." "yes, do," she urged. "raise all of them. it's--do you--do you notice a--a funny smell in here? or am i imagining it? it--it almost makes me sick!" "yes, there is a smell," he said, in evident relief. "i thought maybe you'd been cleaning the carpet with something. it's ghastly. can't we go somewhere else?" "come on." she opened the door into the sitting-room. "we're coming out here if you do not mind, prue." and fairy explained the difficulty. "why, that's very strange," said prudence, knitting her brows. "i was in there right after supper, and i didn't notice anything. what does it smell like?" "it's a new smell to me," laughed fairy, "but something about it is strangely suggestive of our angel-twins." prudence went to investigate, and fairy shoved a big chair near the table, waving her hand toward it lightly with a smile at babbie. then she sank into a low rocker, and leaned one arm on the table. she wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully. "that smell," she began. "i am very suspicious about it. it was not at all natural----" "excuse me, fairy," he said, ill at ease for the first time in her knowledge of him. "did you know your sleeve was coming out?" fairy gasped, and raised her arm. "both arms, apparently," he continued, smiling, but his face was flushed. "excuse me just a minute, will you?" fairy was unruffled. she sought her sister. "look here, prue,--what do you make of this? i'm coming to pieces! i'm hanging by a single thread, as it were." her sleeves were undoubtedly ready to drop off at a second's notice! prudence was shocked. she grew positively white in the face. "oh, fairy," she wailed. "we are disgraced." "not a bit of it," said fairy coolly. "i remember now that lark was looking for the scissors before supper. aren't those twins unique? this is almost bordering on talent, isn't it? don't look so distressed, prue. etiquette itself must be subservient to twins, it seems. don't forget to bring in the stew at a quarter past nine, and have it as good as possible,--please, dear." "i will," vowed prudence, "i'll--i'll use cream. oh, those horrible twins!" "go in and entertain babbie till i come down, won't you?" and fairy ran lightly up the stairs, humming a snatch of song. but prudence did a poor job of entertaining babbie during her sister's absence. she felt really dizzy! such a way to introduce etiquette into the parsonage life. she was glad to make her escape from the room when fairy returned, a graceful figure in the fine blue silk! she went back to the dining-room, and painstakingly arranged the big tray for the designated moment of its entrance,--according to etiquette. fairy and babbie in the next room talked incessantly, laughing often and long, and prudence, hearing, smiled in sympathy. she herself thought it would be altogether stupid to be shut up in a room alone with "just a man" for a whole evening,--but etiquette required it. fairy knew about such things, of course. a little after nine, she called out dismally, "fairy!" and fairy, fearing fresh disaster, came running out. "what now? what----" "i forget what you told me to say," whispered prudence wretchedly, "what was it? the soup is ready, and piping hot,--but what is it you want me to say?" fairy screamed with laughter. "you goose!" she cried. "say anything you like. i was just giving you a tip, that was all. it doesn't make any difference what you say." "oh, i am determined to do my part just right," vowed prudence fervently, "according to etiquette and all. what was it you said?" fairy stifled her laughter with difficulty, and said in a low voice, "wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" prudence repeated it after her breathlessly. so fairy returned once more, and soon after prudence tapped on the door. then she opened it, and thrust her curly head inside. "wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" she chirped methodically. and fairy said, "oh, yes indeed, prudence,--this is so nice of you." the stew was steaming hot, and the three gathered sociably about the table. prudence was talking. fairy was passing the "crackers,"--prudence kicked her foot gently beneath the table, to remind her that etiquette calls them "wafers." so it happened that babbie was first to taste the steaming stew. he gasped, and gulped, and swallowed some water with more haste than grace. then he toyed idly with spoon and wafer until prudence tasted also. prudence did not gasp. she did not cry out. she looked up at her sister with wide hurt eyes,--a world of pathos in the glance. but fairy did not notice. "now, please do not ask me to talk until i have finished my soup," she was saying brightly, "i simply can not think and appreciate oyster stew at the same time." then she appreciated it! she dropped her spoon with a great clatter, and jumped up from the table. "mercy!" she shrieked. "it is poisoned!" babbie leaned back in his chair and laughed until his eyes were wet. prudence's eyes were wet, too, but not from laughter! what would etiquette think of her, after this? "what did you do to this soup, prudence?" demanded fairy. "i made it,--nothing else," faltered poor prudence, quite crushed by this blow. and oysters forty cents a pint! "it's pepper, i think," gasped babbie. "my insides bear startling testimony to the presence of pepper." and he roared again, while prudence began a critical examination of the oysters. she found them literally stuffed with pepper, there was no doubt of it. the twins had done deadly work! their patience, at least, was commendable,--it seemed that not one oyster had escaped their attention. the entire pint had been ruined by the pepper. "revenge, ye gods, how sweet," chanted fairy. "the twins are getting even with a vengeance,--the same twins you said were adorable, babbie." it must be said for fairy that her good nature could stand almost anything. even this did not seriously disturb her. "do you suppose you can find us some milk, prue? and crackers! i'm so fond of crackers and milk, aren't you, babbie?" "oh, i adore it. but serve a microscope with it, please. i want to examine it for microbes before i taste." but prudence did better than that. she made some delicious cocoa, and opened a can of pear preserves, donated to the parsonage by the amiable mrs. adams. the twins were very fond of pear preserves, and had been looking forward to eating these on their approaching birthday. they were doomed to disappointment! the three had a merry little feast, after all, and their laughter rang out so often and so unrestrainedly that the twins shook in their beds with rage and disappointment. mr. starr came in while they were eating, and joined them genially. but afterward, when prudence realized that etiquette called for their retirement, her father still sat complacently by the register, talking and laughing. prudence fastened her eyes upon him. "well, i must honestly go to bed," she said, gazing hypnotically at her father. "i know you will excuse me. i must store up my strength to deal with the twins in the morning." she got up from her chair, and moved restlessly about the room, still boring her father with her eyes. he did not move. she paused beside him, and slipped her hand under his elbow. "now, father," she said gaily, "we must put our heads together, and think out a proper punishment for the awful creatures." her hand was uplifting, and mr. starr rose with it. together they left the room with cordial good nights, and inviting mr. babler to "try the parsonage again." prudence listened outside the twins' door, and heard them breathing loudly. then she went to her own room, and snuggling down beneath the covers, laughed softly to herself. "etiquette!" she gurgled. "etiquette! there's no room for such a thing in a parsonage,--i see that!" it speaks well for the courage of babbie, and the attractions of fairy, that he came to the parsonage again and again. in time he became the best of friends with the twins themselves, but he always called them "the adorables," and they never asked him why. the punishment inflicted upon them by prudence rankled in their memories for many months. indeed, upon that occasion, prudence fairly surpassed herself in the ingenuity she displayed. the twins considered themselves very nearly as grown-up as fairy, and the fact that she was a young lady, and they were children, filled their hearts with bitterness. they never lost an opportunity of showing their independence where she was concerned. and with marvelous insight, prudence used fairy as her weapon of punishment,--in fact, the twins called fairy the "ducking-stool" for many days. "the offense was against fairy," said prudence, with a solemnity she did not feel, "and the reparation must be done to her. for three weeks, you must do all of her bedroom work, and run every errand she requires. moreover, you must keep her shoes well cleaned and nicely polished, and must do every bit of her darning!" the twins would have preferred whipping a thousand times. they felt they had got a whipping's worth of pleasure out of their mischief! but a punishment like this sat heavily upon their proud young shoulders, and from that time on they held fairy practically immune from their pranks. but prudence did not bother her head about etiquette after that experience. "i'm strong for comfort," she declared, "and since the two can not live together in our family, i say we do without etiquette." and fairy nodded in agreement, smiling good-naturedly. chapter viii the first dark shadow of winter prudence and fairy stood in the bay window of the sitting-room, and looked out at the thickly falling snow. already the ground was whitely carpeted, and the low-branched peach trees just outside the parsonage windows were beginning to bow down beneath their burdens. "isn't it beautiful, prudence?" whispered fairy. "isn't it beautiful? oh, i love it when it snows." "yes, and you love it when the sun shines, too," said prudence, "and when it rains, and when the wind is blowing. you have the soul of a poet, that's what is the matter with you. you are a nature-fiend, as carol would say." fairy turned abruptly from the window. "don't talk for a minute, prue,--i want to write." so prudence stood quietly in the window, listening to the pencil scratching behind her. "listen now, prue,--how is this?" fairy had a clear expressive voice, "a bright voice," prudence called it. and as she read her simple lines aloud, the heart of prudence swelled with pride. to prudence, fairy was a wonderful girl. "good night, little baby earth, going to sleep, tucked in your blankets, all woolly and deep. close your tired eyelids, droop your tired head, nestle down sweetly within your white bed. kind mother sky, bending softly above, is holding you close in her bosom of love. closely she draws the white coverlets warm, she will be near you to shield you from harm. soon she will set all her candles alight, to scatter the darkness, and save you from fright. then she will leave her cloud-doorway ajar, to watch you, that nothing your slumbers may mar. rest, little baby earth, rest and sleep tight, the winter has come, and we bid you good night." fairy laughed, but her face was flushed. "how is that?" she demanded. "oh, fairy," cried prudence, "it is wonderful! how can you think of such sweet little things? may i have it? may i keep it? oh, i think it is perfectly dear--i wish i could do that! i never in the world would have thought of baby earth going to sleep and mother sky tucking her in white blankets.--i think you are just wonderful, fairy!" fairy's eyes were bright at the praise, but she laughed as she answered. "you always think me and my scribbles perfection, prue,--even the love verses that shocked the ladies' aid. you are a bad critic. but doesn't the snow make you think--pretty things, prudence? come now, as you stood at the window there, what were you thinking?" "i was just wondering if connie wore her rubbers to school, and if father remembered to take his muffler." fairy burst into renewed laughter. "oh, you precious, old, practical prudence," she gurgled. "rubbers and mufflers, with such a delicious snowfall as this! oh, prudence, shame upon you." prudence was ashamed. "oh, i know i am a perfect idiot, fairy," she said. "i know it better than anybody else. i am so ashamed of myself, all the time." then she added rather shyly, "fairy, are you ashamed of me sometimes? when the college girls are here, and you are all talking so brilliantly, aren't you kind of mortified that i am so stupid and dull? i do not care if outsiders do think i am inferior to the rest of you, but--really i do not want you to be ashamed of me! i--oh, i know it myself,--that i do not amount to anything, and never will, but--it would hurt if i thought you and the twins were going to find me--humiliating." prudence was looking at her sister hungrily, her lips drooping, her eyes dark. for a long instant fairy stared at her incredulously. then she sprang to her feet, her face white, her eyes blazing. "prudence starr," she cried furiously, "how dare you say such things of us? do you think we are as despicable as all that? oh, prudence, i never was so insulted in all my life! ashamed of you! ashamed--why, we are proud of you, every one of us, daddy, too! we think you are the finest and dearest girl that ever lived. we think--oh, i think god himself must be proud of a girl like you, prudence starr! ashamed of you!" and fairy, bursting into tears, rushed wildly out of the room. for all her poetical nature, fairy was usually self-restrained and calm. only twice before in all her life had prudence seen her so tempest-tossed, and now, greatly disturbed, yet pleased at the passionate avowals, she hurried away in search of her sister. she needed no more assurance of her attitude. so the twins and connie came into an empty room, and chattered away to themselves abstractedly for an hour. then prudence came down. instantly connie was asked the all-important question: "are your feet wet?" connie solemnly took three steps across the room. "hear me sqush," she said proudly. she did sqush, too! "constance starr, i am ashamed of you! this is positively wicked. you know it is a law of the medes and persians that you change your shoes and stockings as soon as you come in when your feet are wet. do it at once. i'll get some hot water so you can soak your feet, too. and you shall drink some good hot peppermint tea, into the bargain. i'll teach you to sit around in wet clothes! do you think i want an invalid on my hands?" "oh, don't be so fussy," said connie fretfully, "wet feet don't do any harm." but she obligingly soaked her feet, and drank the peppermint. "are your feet wet, twins?" "no," said lark, "we have better judgment than to go splashing through the wet old snow.--what's the matter with you, carol? why don't you sit still? are your feet wet?" "no, but it's too hot in this room. my clothes feel sticky. may i open the door, prudence?" "mercy, no! the snow is blowing a hurricane now. it isn't very hot in here, carol. you've been running outdoors in the cold, and that makes it seem hot. you must peel the potatoes now, twins, it's time to get supper. carol, you run up-stairs and ask papa if he got his feet wet. between him and connie, i do not have a minute's peace in the winter time!" "you go, lark," said carol. "my head aches." "do you want me to rub it?" asked prudence, as lark skipped up-stairs for her twin. "no, it's just the closeness in here. it doesn't ache very bad. if we don't have more fresh air, we'll all get something and die, prudence.--i tell you that. this room is perfectly stuffy.--i do not want to talk any more." and carol got up from her chair and walked restlessly about the room. but carol was sometimes given to moods, and so, without concern, prudence went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. "papa says his feet are not wet, and that you are a big simpleton, and--oh, did you make cinnamon rolls to-day, prue? oh, goody! carrie, come on out! look,--she made cinnamon rolls." connie, too, hastened out to the kitchen in her bare feet, and was promptly driven back by the watchful prudence. "i just know you are going to be sick, connie,--i feel it in my bones. and walking out in that cold kitchen in your bare feet! you can just drink some more peppermint tea for that, now." "well, give me a cinnamon roll to go with it," urged connie. "peppermint is awfully dry, taken by itself." lark hooted gaily at this sentiment, but joined her sister in pleading for cinnamon rolls. "no, wait until supper is ready. you do not need to help peel the potatoes to-night, carol. run back where it is warm, and you must not read if your head aches. you read too much anyhow. i'll help lark with the potatoes. no, do not take the paper, carol,--i said you must not read." then lark and prudence, working together, and talking much, prepared the supper for the family. when they gathered about the table, prudence looked critically at connie. "are you beginning to feel sick? do you feel like sneezing, or any thing?--connie's awfully naughty, papa. her feet were just oozing water, and she sat there in her wet shoes and stockings, just like a stupid child.--aren't you going to eat any supper, carol? are you sick? what is the matter? does your head still ache?" "oh, it doesn't ache exactly, but i do not feel hungry. no, i am not sick, prudence, so don't stew about it. i'm just not hungry. the meat is too greasy, and the potatoes are lumpy. i think i'll take a cinnamon roll." but she only picked it to pieces idly. prudence watched her with the intense suspicious gaze of a frightened mother bird. "there are some canned oysters out there, carol. if i make you some soup, will you eat it?" this was a great concession, for the canned oysters were kept in anticipation of unexpected company. but carol shook her head impatiently. "i am not hungry at all," she said. "i'll open some pineapple, or those beautiful pickled peaches mrs. adams gave us, or--or anything, if you'll just eat something, carrie." still carol shook her head. "i said i wasn't hungry, prudence." but her face was growing very red, and her eyes were strangely bright. she moved her hands with unnatural restless motions, and frequently lifted her shoulders in a peculiar manner. "do your shoulders hurt, carol?" asked her father, who was also watching her anxiously. "oh, it feels kind of--well--tight, i guess, in my chest. but it doesn't hurt. it hurts a little when i breathe deep." "is your throat still sore, carol?" inquired lark. "don't you remember saying you couldn't swallow when we were coming home from school?" "it isn't sore now," said carol. and as though intolerant of further questioning, she left the dining-room quickly. "shall i put flannel on her chest and throat, father?" asked prudence nervously. "yes, and if she gets worse we will call the doctor. it's probably just a cold, but we must----" "it isn't diphtheria, papa, you know that," cried prudence passionately. for there were four reported cases of that dread disease in mount mark. but the pain in carol's chest did grow worse, and she became so feverish that she began talking in quick broken sentences. "it was too hot!--don't go away, larkie!--her feet were wet, and it kept squshing out.--i guess i'm kind of sick, prue.--don't put that thing on my head, it is strangling me!--oh, i can't get my breath!" and she flung her hand out sharply, as though to push something away from her face. then mr. starr went to the telephone and hurriedly called the doctor. prudence meanwhile had undressed carol, and put on her little pink flannel nightgown. "go out in the kitchen, girls, and shut the door," she said to her sisters, who stood close around the precious twin, so suddenly stricken. "fairy!" she cried. "go at once. it may be catching. take the others with you. and keep the door shut." but lark flung herself on her knees beside her twin, and burst into choking sobs. "i won't go," she cried. "i won't leave carrie. i will not, prudence!" "oh, it is too hot," moaned carol. "oh, give me a drink! give me some snow, prudence. oh, it hurts!" and she pressed her burning hands against her chest. "lark," said her father, stepping quickly to her side, "go out to the kitchen at once. do you want to make carrie worse?" and lark, cowed and quivering, rushed into the kitchen and closed the door. "i'll carry her up-stairs to bed, prue," said her father, striving to render his voice natural for the sake of the suffering oldest daughter, whose tense white face was frightening. together they carried the child up the stairs. "put her in our bed," said prudence. "i'll--i'll--if it's diphtheria, daddy, she and i will stay upstairs here, and the rest of you must stay down. you can bring our food up to the head of the stairs, and i'll come out and get it. they can't take carol away from the parsonage." "we will get a nurse, prudence. we couldn't let you run a risk like that. it would not be right. if i could take care of her properly myself, i----" "you couldn't, father, and it would be wicked for you to take such chances. what would the--others do without you? but it would not make any difference about me. i'm not important. he can give me anti-toxin, and i'm such a healthy girl there will be no danger. but she must not be shut alone with a nurse. she would die!" and carol took up the words, screaming, "i will die! i will die! don't leave me, prudence. don't shut me up alone. prudence! prudence!" down-stairs in the kitchen, three frightened girls clung to one another, crying bitterly as they heard poor carol's piercing screams. "it is pneumonia," said the doctor, after an examination. and he looked at prudence critically. "i think we must have a nurse for a few days. it may be a little severe, and you are not quite strong enough." then, as prudence remonstrated, "oh, yes," he granted, "you shall stay with her, but if it is very serious a nurse will be of great service. i will have one come at once." then he paused, and listened to the indistinct sobbing that floated up from the kitchen. "can't you send those girls away for the night,--to some of the neighbors? it will be much better." but this the younger girls stubbornly refused to do. "if you send me out of the house when carol is sick, i will kill myself," said lark, in such a strange voice that the doctor eyed her sharply. "well, if you will all stay down-stairs and keep quiet, so as not to annoy your sister," he consented grudgingly. "the least sobbing, or confusion, or excitement, may make her much worse. fix up a bed on the floor down here, all of you, and go to sleep." "i won't go to bed," said lark, looking up at the doctor with agonized eyes. "i won't go to bed while carol is sick." "give her a cup of something hot to drink," he said to fairy curtly. "i won't drink anything," said lark. "i won't drink anything, and i won't eat a bite of anything until carol is well. i won't sleep, either." the doctor took her hand in his, and deftly pushed the sleeve above the elbow. "you can twist my arm if you like, but i won't eat, and i won't drink, and i won't sleep." the doctor smiled. swiftly inserting the point of his needle in her arm, he released her. "i won't hurt you, but i am pretty sure you will be sleeping in a few minutes." he turned to fairy. "get her ready for bed at once. the little one can wait." an hour later, he came down-stairs again. "is she sleeping?" he asked of fairy in a low voice. "that is good. you have your work cut out for you, my girl. the little one here will be all right, but this twin is in nearly as bad shape as the one up-stairs." "oh! doctor! larkie, too!" "oh, she is not sick. but she is too intense. she is taking this too hard. her system is not well enough developed to stand such a strain very long. something would give way,--maybe her brain. she must be watched. she must eat and sleep. there is school to-morrow, isn't there?" "but i am sure lark will not go, doctor. she has never been to school a day in her life without carol. i am sure she will not go!" "let her stay at home, then. don't get her excited. but make her work. keep her doing little tasks about the house, and send her on errands. talk to her a good deal. prudence will have her hands full with the other twin, and you'll have all you can do with this one. i'm depending on you, my girl. you mustn't fail me." that was the beginning of an anxious week. for two days carol was in delirium most of the time, calling out, crying, screaming affrightedly. and lark crouched at the foot of the stairs, hands clenched passionately, her slender form tense and motionless. it was four in the afternoon, as the doctor was coming down from the sick room, that fairy called him into the dining-room with a suggestive glance. "she won't eat," she said. "i have done everything possible, and i had the nurse try. but she will not eat a bite. i--i'm sorry, doctor, but i can't make her." "what has she been doing?" "she's been at the foot of the stairs all day. she won't do a thing i tell her. she won't mind the nurse. father told her to keep away, too, but she does not pay any attention. when i speak to her, she does not answer. when she hears you coming down, she runs away and hides, but she goes right back again." "can your father make her eat? if he commands her?" "i do not know. i doubt it. but we can try. here's some hot soup,--i'll call father." so lark was brought into the dining-room, and her father came down the stairs. the doctor whispered an explanation to him in the hall. "lark," said her father, gently but very firmly, "you must eat, or you will be sick, too. we need all of our time to look after carol to-day. do you want to keep us away from her to attend to you?" "no, father, of course not. i wish you would all go right straight back to carrie this minute and leave me alone. i'm all right. but i can't eat until carol is well." her father drew a chair to the table and said, "sit down and eat that soup at once, larkie." lark's face quivered, but she turned away. "i can't, father. you don't understand. i can't eat,--i really can't. carrie's my twin, and--oh, father, don't you see how it is?" he stood for a moment, frowning at her thoughtfully. then he left the room, signing for the doctor to follow. "i'll send prudence down," he said. "she'll manage some way." "i must stay here until i see her eat it," said the doctor. "if she won't do it, she must be kept under morphine for a few days. but it's better not. try prudence, by all means." so prudence, white-faced, eyes black-circled, came down from the room where she had served her sister many weary hours. the doctor was standing in the center of the room. fairy was hovering anxiously near lark, rigid at the window. "larkie," whispered prudence, and with a bitter cry the young girl leaped into her sister's arms. prudence caressed and soothed her tenderly. "poor little larkie," she murmured, "poor little twinnie!--but carol is resting pretty well now, lark. she's coming through all right. she was conscious several times to-day. the first time she just looked up at me and smiled and whispered, 'hard luck, prue.' then a little later she said, 'tell larkie i'm doing fine, and don't let her worry.' pretty soon she spoke again, 'you make lark be sensible, prue, or she'll be sick, too.' once again she started to say something about you, but she was too sick to finish. 'larkie is such a--,' but that was as far as she could go. she was thinking of you all the time, lark. she is so afraid you'll worry and make yourself sick, too. she would be heartbroken if she was able to see you, and you were too sick to come to her. you must keep up your strength for carol's sake. if she is conscious to-morrow, we're going to bring you up a while to see her. she can hardly stand being away from you, i know. but you must get out-of-doors, and bring some color to your cheeks, first. it would make her miserable to see you like this." lark was still sobbing, but more gently now, and she still clung to her sister. "to-morrow, prudence? honestly, may i go up to-morrow? you're not just fooling me, are you? you wouldn't do that!" "of course i wouldn't. yes, you really may, if you'll be good and make yourself look better. it would be very bad for carrie to see you so white and wan. she would worry. have you been eating? you must eat lots, and then take a good run out-of-doors toward bedtime, so you will sleep well. it will be a good tonic for carol to see you bright and fresh and rosy." "oh, i can't bear to be fresh and rosy when carrie is sick!" "it hurts,--but you are willing to be hurt for carol's sake! you will do it on her account. it will do her so much good. now sit down and eat your soup, and i'll stay here a while and tell you all about her. i gave her the pansies you bought her,--it was so sweet of you, too, larkie. it must have taken every cent of your money, didn't it? i suppose you ordered them over the telephone, since you wouldn't leave the house. when i told carol you got them for her, she took them in her hand and held them under the covers. of course, they wilted right away, but i knew you would like carrie to have them close to her.'--oh, you must eat it all, lark. it looks very good. i must take a little of it up to carol,--maybe she can eat some.--and you will do your very best to be strong and bright and rosy--for carol--won't you?" "yes, i will,--i'll go and run across the field a few times before i go to bed. yes, i'll try my very best." then she looked up at the doctor, and added: "but i wouldn't do it for you, or anybody else, either." but the doctor only smiled oddly, and went away up-stairs again, wondering at the wisdom that god has placed in the hearts of women! dreary miserable days and nights followed after that. and prudence, to whom carol, even in delirium, clung with such wildness that they dare not deny her, grew weary-eyed and wan. but when the doctor, putting his hand on her shoulder, said, "it's all right now, my dear. she'll soon be as well as ever,"--then prudence dropped limply to the floor, trembling weakly with the great happiness. good methodist friends from all over mount mark came to the assistance of the parsonage family, and many gifts and delicacies and knick-knacks were sent in to tempt the appetite of the invalid, and the others as well. "you all need toning up," said mrs. adams crossly, "you've all gone clear under. a body would think the whole family had been down with something!" carol's friends at the high school, and the members of the faculty also, took advantage of this opportunity to show their love for her. and professor duke sent clear to burlington for a great basket of violets and lilies-of-the-valley, "for our little high-school song-bird," as he wrote on the card. and carol dimpled with delight as she read it. "now you see for yourself, prudence," she declared. "isn't he a duck?" when the little parsonage group, entire, gathered once more around the table in the "real dining-room," they were joyful indeed. it was a gala occasion! the very best china and silverware were brought out in carol's honor. the supper was one that would have gratified the heart of a bishop, at the very least! "apple pie, with pure cream, carol," said lark ecstatically, for apple pie with pure cream was the favorite dessert of the sweet-toothed twins. and lark added earnestly, "and i don't seem to be very hungry to-night, carol,--i don't want any pie. you shall have my piece, too!" "i said i felt it in my bones, you remember," said prudence, smiling at carol, "but my mental compass indicated connie when it should have pointed to carol! and i do hope, connie dear, that this will be a lesson to you, and impress upon you that you must always change your shoes and stockings when your feet are wet!" and for the first time in many days, clear, happy-hearted laughter rang out in the parsonage. chapter ix practising economy it was a dull dreary day early in december. prudence and fairy were sewing in the bay window of the sitting-room. "we must be sure to have all the scraps out of the way before connie gets home," said prudence, carefully fitting together pieces of a dark, warm, furry material. "it has been so long since father wore this coat, i am sure she will not recognize it." "but she will ask where we got it, and what shall we say?" "we must tell her it is goods we have had in the house for a long time. that is true. and i made this fudge on purpose to distract her attention. if she begins to ask questions, we must urge her to have more candy. poor child!" she added very sympathetically. "her heart is just set on a brand-new coat. i know she will be bitterly disappointed. if the members would just pay up we could get her one. november and december are such bad months for parsonage people. coal to buy, feed for the cow and the horse and the chickens, and carol's sickness, and larkie's teeth! of course, those last are not regular winter expenses, but they took a lot of money this year. every one is getting ready for christmas now, and forgets that parsonage people need christmas money, too. november and december are always my bitter months, fairy,--bitter months!" fairy took a pin from her mouth. "the velvet collar and cuffs will brighten it up a good bit. it's really a pretty material. i have honestly been ashamed of connie the last few sundays. it was so cold, and she wore only that little thin summer jacket. she must have been half frozen." "oh, i had her dressed warmly underneath, very warmly indeed," declared prudence. "but no matter how warm you are underneath, you look cold if you aren't visibly prepared for winter weather. it's a fortunate thing the real cold weather was so slow in coming. i kept hoping enough money would come in to buy her a coat for once in her life." "she has been looking forward to one long enough," put in fairy. "this will be a bitter blow to her. and yet it is not such a bad-looking coat, after all." and she quickly ran up a seam on the machine. "here comes connie!" prudence hastily swept a pile of scraps out of sight, and turned to greet her little sister with a cheery smile. "come on in, connie," she cried, with a brightness she did not feel. "fairy and i are making you a new coat. isn't it pretty? and so warm! see the nice velvet collar and cuffs. we want to fit it on you right away, dear." connie picked up a piece of the goods and examined it intently. "don't you want some fudge, connie?" exclaimed fairy, shoving the dish toward her hurriedly. connie took a piece from the plate, and thrust it between her teeth. her eyes were still fastened upon the brown furry cloth. "where did you get this stuff?" she inquired, as soon as she was able to speak. "oh, we've had it in the house quite a while," said prudence, adding swiftly, "isn't it warm, connie? oh, it does look nice, doesn't it, fairy? do you want it a little shorter, connie, or is that about right?" "about right, i guess. did you ever have a coat like this, prudence? i don't seem to remember it.'" "oh, no, it wasn't mine. take some more candy, connie. isn't it good?--let's put a little more fullness in the sleeves, fairy. it's more stylish this year.--the collar fits very nicely. the velvet gives it such a rich tone. and brown is so becoming to you." "thanks," said connie patiently. "was this something of yours, fairy?" "oh, no, we've just had it in the house quite a while. it comes in very handy right now, doesn't it? it'll make you such a serviceable, stylish coat. isn't it about time for the twins to get here, prudence? i'm afraid they are playing along the road. those girls get more careless every day of their lives." "well, if this didn't belong to one of you, whose was it?" demanded connie. "i know the twins never had anything like this. it looks kind of familiar to me. where did it come from?" "out of the trunk in the garret, connie. don't you want some more fudge? i put a lot of nuts in, especially on your account." "it's good," said connie, taking another piece. she examined the cloth very closely. "say, prudence, isn't this that old brown coat of father's?" fairy shoved her chair back from the machine, and ran to the window. "look, prue," she cried. "isn't that mrs. adams coming this way? i wonder----" "no, it isn't," answered connie gravely. "it's just miss avery getting home from school.--isn't it, prudence? father's coat, i mean?" "yes, connie, it is," said prudence, very, very gently. "but no one here has seen it, and it is such nice cloth,--just exactly what girls are wearing now." "but i wanted a new coat!" connie did not cry. she stood looking at prudence with her wide hurt eyes. "oh, connie, i'm just as sorry as you are," cried prudence, with starting tears. "i know just how you feel about it, dearest. but the people didn't pay father up last month, and nothing has come in for this month yet, and we've had so much extra expense.--i will have to wear my old shoes, too, connie, and you know how they look! the shoemaker says they aren't worth fixing, so i must wear them as they are.--but maybe after christmas we can get you a coat. they pay up better then." "i think i'd rather wear my summer coat until then," said connie soberly. "oh, but you can't, dearest. it is too cold. won't you be a good girl now, and not make sister feel badly about it? it really is becoming to you, and it is nice and warm. you know parsonage people just have to practise economy, connie,--it can't be helped. take some more fudge, dear, and run out-of-doors a while. you'll feel better about it presently, i'm sure." connie stood solemnly beside the table, her eyes still fastened on the coat, cut down from her father's. "can i go and take a walk?" she asked finally. "may i, you mean," suggested fairy. "yes, may i? maybe i can reconcile myself to it." "yes, do go and take a walk," urged prudence promptly, eager to get the small sober face beyond her range of vision. "if i am not back when the twins get home, go right on and eat without me. i'll come back when i get things straightened out in my mind." when connie was quite beyond hearing, prudence dropped her head on the table and wept. "oh, fairy, if the members just knew how such things hurt, maybe they'd pay up a little better. how do they expect parsonage people to keep up appearances when they haven't any money?" "oh, now, prue, you're worse than connie! there's no use to cry about it. parsonage people have to find happiness in spite of financial misery. money isn't the first thing with folks like us." "no, but they have pledged it," protested prudence, lifting her tear-stained face. "they must know we are counting on the money. why don't they keep their pledges? they pay their meat bills, and grocery bills, and house rent! why don't they pay for their religion?" "now, prue, you know how things go. mrs. adams is having a lot of christmas expense, and she thinks her four dollars a month won't really be missed. she thinks she will make it up along in february, when christmas is over. but she forgets that mrs. barnaby with two dollars, and mrs. scott with five, and mr. walter with seven, and mr. holmes with three, and about thirty others with one dollar each, are thinking the same thing! each member thinks for himself, and takes no account of the others. that's how it happens." prudence squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. "i wish you wouldn't mention names, fairy," she begged. "i do not object to lumping them in a body and wondering about them. but i can't feel right about calling them out by name, and criticizing them.--besides, we do not really know which ones they are who did not pay." "i was just giving names for illustrative purposes," said fairy quickly. "like as not, the very ones i named are the ones who did pay." "well, get this stuff out of the way, and let's set the table. somehow i can't bear to touch it any more. poor little connie! if she had cried about it, i wouldn't have cared so much. but she looked so--heartsick, didn't she, fairy?" connie certainly was heartsick. more than that, she was a little disgusted. she felt herself aroused to take action. things had gone too far! go to church in her father's coat she could not! but they hadn't the money. if connie's father had been at home, perhaps they might have reasoned it out together. but he had left town that morning, and would not be home until saturday evening,--too late to get a coat in time for sunday, and prudence had said that connie must be coated by sunday! she walked sturdily down the street toward the "city,"--ironically so called. her face was stony, her hands were clenched. but finally she brightened. her lagging steps quickened. she skipped along quite cheerfully. she turned westward as she reached the corner of the square, and walked along that business street with shining eyes. in front of the first national bank she paused, but after a few seconds she passed by. on the opposite corner was another bank. when she reached it, she walked in without pausing, and the massive door swung behind her. standing on tiptoe, she confronted the cashier with a grave face. "is mr. harold in?" she asked politely. mr. harold was the president of the bank! it was a little unusual. "yes, he is in," said the cashier doubtfully, "but he is very busy." "will you tell him that constance starr wishes to speak to him, privately, and that it is very important?" the cashier smiled. "the methodist minister's little girl, isn't it? yes, i will tell him." mr. harold looked up impatiently at the interruption. "it's the methodist minister's little daughter, and she says it is important for her to speak to you privately." "oh! probably a message from her father. bring her in." mr. harold was one of the trustees of the methodist church, and prominent among them. his keen eyes were intent upon connie as she walked in, but she did not falter. "how do you do, mr. harold?" she said, and shook hands with him in the good old methodist way. his eyes twinkled, but he spoke briskly. "did your father send you on an errand?" "no, father is out of town. i came on business,--personal business, mr. harold. it is my own affair." "oh, i see," and he smiled at the earnest little face. "well, what can i do for you, miss constance?" "i want to borrow five dollars from the bank, mr. harold?" "you--did prudence send you?" "oh, no, it is my own affair as i told you. i came on my own account. i thought of stopping at the other bank as i passed, but then i remembered that parsonage people must always do business with their own members if possible. and of course, i would rather come to you than to a perfect stranger." "thank you,--thank you very much. five dollars you say you want?" "i suppose i had better tell you all about it. you see, i need a winter coat, very badly. oh, very badly, indeed! the girls were ashamed of me last sunday, i looked so cold outside, though i was dressed plenty warm enough inside. i've been looking forward to a new coat, mr. harold. i've never had one yet. there was always something to cut down for me, from prudence, or fairy, or the twins. but this time there wasn't anything to hand down, and so i just naturally counted on a new one." connie paused, and looked embarrassed. "yes?" his voice was encouraging. "well, i'll tell you the rest, but i hope you won't say anything about it, for i'd feel pretty cheap if i thought all the sunday-school folks knew about it.--you see, the members need such a lot of money now just before christmas, and so they didn't pay us up last month, and they haven't paid anything this month. and we had to get coal, and feed, and larkie's teeth had to be fixed, and carol was sick, you remember. seems to me lark's teeth might have been put off until after christmas, but prudence says not.--and so there isn't any money left, and i can't have a coat. but prudence and fairy are making me one,--out of an old coat of father's!" constance paused dramatically. mr. harold never even smiled. he just nodded understandingly. "i don't think i could wear a coat of father's to church,--it's cut down of course, but--there's something painful about the idea. i wouldn't expect father to wear any of my clothes! you can see how it is, mr. harold. just imagine how you would feel wearing your wife's coat!--i don't think i could listen to the sermons. i don't believe i could be thankful for the mercy of wearing father's coat! i don't see anything merciful about it. do you?" mr. harold did not speak. he gazed at connie sympathetically, and shook his head. "it's too much, that's what it is. and so i thought i'd just have to take things into my own hands and borrow the money. i can get a good coat for five dollars. but if the bank is a little short right now, i can get along with four, or even three. i'd rather have the cheapest coat in town, than one made out of father's. do you think you can let me have it?" "yes, indeed we can." he seemed to find his voice with an effort. "of course we can. we are very glad to lend our money to responsible people. we are proud to have your trade." "but i must tell you, that it may take me quite a while to pay it back. father gives me a nickel a week, and i generally spend it for candy. there's another nickel, but it has to go in the collection, so i can't really count that. i don't believe father would let me neglect the heathen, even to pay for a winter coat! but i will give you the nickel every week, and at that rate i can pay it back in a couple of years easy enough. but i'd rather give the nickels as fast as i get them. it's so hard to keep money when you can get your hand on it, you know. sometimes i have quite a lot of money,--as much as a quarter at a time, from doing errands for the neighbors and things like that. i'll pay you as fast as i can. will that be all right? and the interest, too, of course. how much will the interest be on five dollars?" "well, that depends on how soon you repay the money, connie. but i'll figure it out, and tell you later." "all right. i know i can trust you not to cheat me, since you're a trustee. so i won't worry about that." mr. harold drew out a bulky book from his pocket, and handed connie a crisp new bill. her eyes sparkled as she received it. "but, connie," he continued, "i feel that i ought to give you this. we methodists have done a wicked thing in forgetting our november payments, and i will just give you this bill to make up for it." but connie shook her head decidedly. "oh, no! i'll have to give it back, then. father would not stand that,--not for one minute. of course, parsonage people get things given to them, quite a lot. and it's a good thing, too, i must say! but we don't hint for them, mr. harold. that wouldn't be right." she held out the bill toward him, with very manifest reluctance. "keep it,--we'll call it a loan then, connie," he said. "and you may pay me back, five cents at a time, just as is most convenient." the four older girls were at the table when connie arrived. she exhaled quiet satisfaction from every pore. prudence glanced at her once, and then looked away again. "she has reconciled herself," she thought. dinner was half over before constance burst her bomb. she had intended waiting until they were quite through, but it was more than flesh and blood could keep! "are you going to be busy this afternoon, prudence?" she asked quietly. "we are going to sew a little," said prudence. "why?" "i wanted you to go down-town with me after school." "well, perhaps i can do that. fairy will be able to finish the coat alone." "you needn't finish the coat!--i can't wear father's coat to church, prudence. it's a--it's a--physical impossibility." the twins laughed. fairy smiled, but prudence gazed at "the baby" with tender pity. "i'm so sorry, dearest, but we haven't the money to buy one now." "will five dollars be enough?" inquired connie, and she placed her crisp new bill beside her plate. the twins gasped! they gazed at connie with new respect. they were just wishing they could handle five-dollar bills so recklessly. "will you loan me twenty dollars until after christmas, connie?" queried fairy. but prudence asked, "where did you get this money, connie?" "i borrowed it,--from the bank," connie replied with proper gravity. "i have two years to pay it back. mr. harold says they are proud to have my trade." prudence was silent for several long seconds. then she inquired in a low voice, "did you tell him why you wanted it?" "yes, i explained the whole situation." "what did he say?" "he said he knew just how i felt, because he knew he couldn't go to church in his wife's coat.--no, i said that myself, but he agreed with me. he did not say very much, but he looked sympathetic. he said he anticipated great pleasure in seeing me in my new coat at church next sunday." "go on with your luncheon, twins," said prudence sternly. "you'll be late to school.--we'll see about going down-town when you get home to-night, connie. now, eat your luncheon, and don't talk about coats any more." when connie had gone back to school, prudence went straight to mr. harold's bank. flushed and embarrassed, she explained the situation frankly. "my sympathies are all with connie," she said candidly. "but i am afraid father would not like it. we are dead set against borrowing. after--our mother was taken, we were crowded pretty close for money. so we had to go in debt. it took us two years to get it paid. father and fairy and i talked it over then, and decided we would starve rather than borrow again. even the twins understood it, but connie was too little. she doesn't know how heartbreaking it is to keep handing over every cent for debt, when one is just yearning for other things.--i do wish she might have the coat, but i'm afraid father would not like it. she gave me the five dollars for safekeeping, and i have brought it back." mr. harold shook his head. "no, connie must have her coat. this will be a good lesson for her. it will teach her the bitterness of living under debt! besides, prudence, i think in my heart that she is right this time. this is a case where borrowing is justified. get her the coat, and i'll square the account with your father." then he added, "and i'll look after this salary business myself after this. i'll arrange with the trustees that i am to pay your father his full salary the first of every month, and that the church receipts are to be turned in to me. and if they do not pay up, my lawyer can do a little investigating! little connie earned that five dollars, for she taught one trustee a sorry lesson. and he will have to pass it on to the others in self-defense! now, run along and get the coat, and if five dollars isn't enough you can have as much more as you need. your father will get his salary after this, my dear, if we have to mortgage the parsonage!" chapter x a burglar's visit "prue!" a small hand gripped prudence's shoulder, and again came a hoarsely whispered: "prue!" prudence sat up in bed with a bounce. "what in the world?" she began, gazing out into the room, half-lighted by the moonshine, and seeing carol and lark shivering beside her bed. "sh! sh! hush!" whispered lark. "there's a burglar in our room!" by this time, even sound-sleeping fairy was awake. "oh, there is!" she scoffed. "yes, there is," declared carol with some heat. "we heard him, plain as day. he stepped into the closet, didn't he, lark?" "he certainly did," agreed lark. "did you see him?" "no, we heard him. carol heard him first, and she spoke, and nudged me. then i heard him, too. he was at our dresser, but he shot across the room and into the closet. he closed the door after him. he's there now." "you've been dreaming," said fairy, lying down again. "we don't generally dream the same thing at the same minute," said carol stormily. "i tell you he's in there." "and you two great big girls came off and left poor little connie in there alone with a burglar, did you? well, you are nice ones, i must say." and prudence leaped out of bed and started for the door, followed by fairy, with the twins creeping fearfully along in the rear. "she was asleep," muttered carol. "we didn't want to scare her," added lark. prudence was careful to turn the switch by the door, so that the room was in full light before she entered. the closet door was wide open. connie was soundly sleeping. there was no one else in the room. "you see?" said prudence sternly. "i'll bet he took our ruby rings," declared lark, and the twins and fairy ran to the dresser to look. but a sickening realization had come home to prudence. in the lower hall, under the staircase, was a small dark closet which they called the dungeon. the dungeon door was big and solid, and was equipped with a heavy catch-lock. in this dungeon, prudence kept the family silverware, and all the money she had on hand, as it could there be safely locked away. but more often than not, prudence forgot to lock it. mr. starr had gone to burlington that morning to attend special revival services for three days, and prudence had fifty whole dollars in the house, an unwonted sum in that parsonage! and the dungeon was not locked. without a word, she slipped softly out of the room, ran down the stairs, making never a sound in her bare feet, and saw, somewhat to her surprise, that the dungeon door was open. quickly she flung it shut, pushed the tiny key that moved the "catch," and was rushing up the stairs again with never a pause for breath. a strange sight met her eyes in the twins' room. the twins themselves were in each other's arms, sobbing bitterly. fairy was still looking hurriedly through the dresser drawers. "they are gone," wailed carol, "our beautiful ruby rings that belonged to grandmother." "nonsense," cried prue with nervous anger, "you've left them in the bathroom, or on the kitchen shelves. you're always leaving them somewhere over the place. come on, and we'll search the house just to convince you." "no, no," shrieked the twins. "let's lock the door and get under the bed." the rings were really valuable. their grandmother, their mother's mother, whom they had never seen, had divided her "real jewelry" between her two daughters. and the mother of these parsonage girls, had further divided her portion to make it reach through her own family of girls! prudence had a small but beautiful chain of tiny pearls. fairy's share consisted of a handsome brooch, with a "sure-enough diamond" in the center! the twin rubies of another brooch had been reset in rings for carol and lark, and were the priceless treasures of their lives! and in the dungeon was a solid gold bracelet, waiting until connie's arm should be sufficiently developed to do it justice. "our rings! our rings!" the twins were wailing, and connie, awakened by the noise, was crying beneath the covers of her bed. "maybe we'd better phone for mr. allan," suggested fairy. "the girls are so nervous they will be hysterical by the time we finish searching the house." "well, let's do the up-stairs then," said prudence. "get your slippers and kimonos, and we'll go into daddy's room." but inside the door of daddy's room, with the younger girls clinging to her, and fairy looking odd and disturbed, prudence stopped abruptly and stared about the room curiously. "fairy, didn't father leave his watch hanging on that nail by the table? seems to me i saw it there this morning. i remember thinking i would tease him for being forgetful." and the watch was not there. "i think it was sunday he left it," answered fairy in a low voice. "i remember seeing it on the nail, and thinking he would need it,--but i believe it was sunday." prudence looked under the bed, and in the closet, but their father's room was empty. should they go farther? for a moment, the girls stood looking at one another questioningly. then--they heard a loud thud down-stairs, as of some one pounding on a door. there was no longer any doubt. some one was in the house! connie and the twins screamed again and clung to prudence frantically. and fairy said, "i think we'd better lock the door and stay right here until morning, prue." but prudence faced them stubbornly. "if you think i'm going to let any one steal that fifty dollars, you are mistaken. fifty dollars does not come often enough for that, i can tell you." "it's probably stolen already," objected fairy. "well, if it is, we'll find out who did it, and have them arrested. i'm going down to telephone to the police. you girls must lock the door after me, and stay right here." the little ones screamed again, and fairy said: "don't be silly, prue, if you go i'm going with you, of course. we'll leave the kiddies here and they can lock the door. they'll be perfectly safe in here." but the children loudly objected to this. if prue and fairy went, they would go! so down the stairs they trooped, a timorous trembling crowd. prudence went at once to the telephone, and called up the residence of the allans, their neighbors across the street. after a seemingly never-ending wait, the kind-hearted neighbor left his bed to answer the insistent telephone. falteringly prudence explained their predicament, and asked him to come and search the house. he promised to be there in five minutes, with his son to help. "now," said prudence more cheerfully, "we'll just go out to the kitchen and wait. it's quiet there, and away from the rest of the house, and we'll be perfectly safe." to the kitchen, then, they hurried, and found real comfort in its smallness and secureness. prudence raked up the dying embers of the fire, and fairy drew the blinds to their lowest limits. the twins and connie trailed them fearfully at every step. when the fire was burning brightly, prudence spoke with great assurance. "i'll just run in to the dungeon and see for sure if the money is there. i do not honestly believe there is a soul in the house, but i can't rest until i know that money is safe." "you'll do nothing of the sort," said fairy, "you'll stay right here and wait with us. i do not believe there's any one in the house, either, but if there is, you shan't run into him by yourself. you stay right where you are, and don't be silly. mr. allan will do the investigating." every breath of wind against the windows drew startled cries from the younger girls, and both fairy and prudence were white with anxiety when they heard the loud voices of the allans outside the kitchen door. prudence began crying nervously the moment the two angels of mercy appeared before her, and fairy told their tale of woe. "well, there now," mr. allan said with rough sympathy, "you just got scared, that's all. everything's suspicious when folks get scared. i told my wife the other day i bet you girls would get a good fright some time left here alone. come on, jim, and we'll go over the house in a jiffy." he was standing near the dining-room door. he lifted his head suddenly, and seemed to sniff a little. there was undoubtedly a faint odor of tobacco in the house. "been any men in here to-night?" he asked. "or this afternoon? think, now!" "no one," answered prudence. "i was alone all afternoon, and there has been no one in this evening." he passed slowly through the dining-room into the hall, closely followed by his son and the five girls, already much reassured. as he passed the dungeon door he paused for a moment, listening intently, his head bent. "oh, mr. allan," cried prudence, "let's look in the dungeon first. i want to see if the money is safe." her hand was already on the lock, but he shoved her away quickly. "is there any way out of that closet besides this door?" he asked. "no. we call it the dungeon," laughed prudence, her self-possession quite recovered. "it is right under the stairs, and not even a mouse could gnaw its way out, with this door shut." "who shut that door?" he inquired, still holding prudence's hand from the lock. then without waiting for an answer, he went on, "let's go back in the other room a minute. come on, all of you." in the living-room, he hurried to the telephone, and spoke to the operator in a low voice. "call the police headquarters, and have them send two or three men to the methodist parsonage, right away. we've got a burglar locked in a closet, and they'll have to get him out. please hurry." at this, the girls crowded around him again in renewed fear. "don't be scared," he said calmly, "we're all right. he's in there safe enough and can't get out for a while. now, tell me about it. how did you get him in the closet? begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it." carol began the story with keen relish. "i woke up, and thought i heard some one in the room. i supposed it was prudence. i said, 'prudence,' and nobody answered, and everything was quiet.' but i felt there was some one in there. i nudged lark, and she woke up. he moved then, and we both heard him. he was fumbling at the dresser, and our ruby rings are gone. we heard him step across the room and into the closet. he closed the door after him, didn't he, lark?" "yes, he did," agreed lark. "his hand was on the knob." "so we sneaked out of bed, and went into prudence's room and woke her and fairy." she looked at connie, and blushed. "connie was asleep, and we didn't waken her because we didn't want to frighten her. we woke the girls,--and you tell the rest, prudence." "we didn't believe her, of course. we went back into their room and there was no one there. but the rings were gone. while they were looking at the dresser, i remembered that i forgot to lock the dungeon door, where we keep the money and the silverware, and i ran down-stairs and slammed the door and locked it, and went back up. i didn't hear a sound down-stairs." mr. allan laughed heartily. "well, your burglar was in that closet after the money, no doubt, and he didn't hear you coming, and got locked in. did you make any noise coming down the stairs?" "no. i was in my bare feet, and i tried to be quiet because if there was any one in the house, i did not want him coming at me in the dark. i ran back up-stairs, and we looked in father's room. i thought father had forgotten to take his watch with him, but it wasn't there.--do you really think it was sunday he forgot it, fairy?" "no," said fairy, "it was there this afternoon. the burglar's got it in the dungeon with him, of course.--i just said it was sunday to keep from scaring the twins." in a few minutes, they heard footsteps around the house and knew the officers had arrived. mr. allan let them into the house, four of them, and led them out to the hall. there could be no doubt whatever that the burglar was in the dungeon. he had been busy with his knife, and the lock was nearly removed. if the officers had been two minutes later, the dungeon would have been empty. the girls were sent up-stairs at once, with the allan boy as guard,--as guard, without regard for the fact that he was probably more frightened than any one of them. the chief officer rapped briskly on the dungeon door. then he clicked his revolver. "there are enough of us to overpower three of you," he said curtly. "and we have men outside the house, too. if you make any disturbance, we shall all fire the instant the door is opened. if you put your firearms on the floor, and hold both hands over your head, you'll be well treated. if your hands are not up, we fire on sight. get your revolvers ready, boys." then the officer opened the door. evidently the burglar was wise enough to appreciate the futility of fighting against odds. perhaps he did not wish to add the charge of manslaughter to that of robbery. certainly, he did not feel himself called to sudden death. at any rate, his hands were above his head, and in less than a second he was securely manacled. the chief officer had been eying him closely. "say!" he exclaimed. "aren't you limber-limb grant?" the burglar grinned, but did not answer. "by jove!" shouted the officer. "it is! call the girls down here," he ordered, and when they appeared, gazing at the burglar with mingled admiration, pity and fear, he congratulated them with considerable excitement. "it's limber-limb grant," he explained. "there's a reward of five hundred dollars for him. you'll get the money, as sure as you're born." then he turned again to the burglar. "say, grant, what's a fellow like you doing on such a fifth-rate job as this? a methodist parsonage is not just in your line, is it?" limber-limb laughed sheepishly. "well," he explained good-naturedly, "chicago got too hot for me. i had to get out in a hurry, and i couldn't get my hands on any money. i had a fine lot of jewels, but i was so pushed i couldn't use them. i came here and loafed around town for a while, because folks said mount mark was so fast asleep it did not even wake up long enough to read the daily papers. i heard about this parsonage bunch, and knew the old man had gone off to get more religion. this afternoon at the station i saw a detective from chicago get off the train, and i knew what that meant. but i needed some cash, and so i wasn't above a little job on the side. i never dreamed of getting done up by a bunch of preacher's kids. i went upstairs to get those family jewels i've heard about, and one of the little ones gave the alarm. i already had some of them, so i came down at once. i stopped in the dungeon to get that money, and first thing i knew the door banged shut. that's all. you're welcome to the five hundred dollars, ladies. some one was bound to get it sooner or later, and i'm partial to the ladies, every time." limber-limb grant was a modern thief of the new class. at that moment, in chicago, he had in storage, a hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels, which he could not dispose of on the pressure of the moment. the law was crowding him close, and he was obliged to choose between meeting the law, or running away from it. he ran. he reached mount mark, and trusted to its drowsiness for concealment for a few weeks. but that afternoon the arrival of a detective gave him warning, and he planned his departure promptly. a parsonage occupied by only five girls held no terrors for him, and with fifty dollars and a few fairly good jewels, a man of his talent could accomplish wonders. but mount mark had aroused from its lethargy. limber-limb grant was in the hands of the law. mr. starr had been greatly interested in the accounts of the evangelistic services being held in burlington. the workers were meeting with marked success, and mr. starr felt he should get in touch with them. so on thursday morning he took the early east-bound train to burlington. there he sought out a conveniently located second-class hotel, and took up residence. he attended the services at the tabernacle in the afternoon and evening, and then went to bed at the hotel. he slept late the next morning. when he finally appeared, he noticed casually, without giving it thought, that the clerk behind the desk looked at him with marked interest. mr. starr nodded cheerfully, and the clerk came at once from behind the desk to speak to him. two or three other guests, who had been lounging about, drew near. "we've just been reading about your girls, sir," said the clerk respectfully. "it's a pretty nervy little bunch! you must be proud of them!" "my girls!" ejaculated mr. starr. "haven't you seen the morning paper? you're mr. starr, the methodist minister at mount mark, aren't you?" "i am! but what has happened to my girls? is anything wrong? give me the paper!" mr. starr was greatly agitated. he showed it. but the clerk could not lose this opportunity to create a sensation. it was a chance of a life-time. "why, a burglar got in the parsonage last night," he began, almost licking his lips with satisfaction. "the twins heard him at their dresser, and when he stepped into the closet they locked him in there, and yelled for the rest of the family. but he broke away from them, and went, down-stairs and climbed down into the dungeon to get the money. then prudence, she ran down-stairs alone in the dark, and locked him in the dungeon,--pushed him down-stairs or something like that, i believe,--and then telephoned for the police. and she stayed on guard outside the dungeon until the police got there, so he couldn't get away. and the police got him, and found it was limber-limb grant, a famous gentleman thief, and your girls are going to get five hundred dollars reward for catching him." five minutes later, mr. starr and his suit-case were in a taxicab speeding toward union station, and within eight minutes he was en route for mount mark,--white in the face, shaky in the knees, but tremendously proud in spirit. arriving at mount mark, he was instantly surrounded by an exclamatory crowd of station loungers. "ride, sir? glad to take you home for nothing," urged harvey reel. mount mark was enjoying more notoriety than ever before in the two hundred years of its existence. the name of prudence was upon every tongue, and her father heard it with satisfaction. in the parsonage he found at least two-thirds of the ladies' aid society, the trustees and the sunday-school superintendent, along with a miscellaneous assortment of ordinary members, mixed up with presbyterians, baptists and a few unclassified outsiders. and prudence was the center of attraction. she was telling the "whole story," for perhaps the fifteenth time that morning, but she broke off when her father hurried in and flung her arms about him. "oh, papa," she cried, "they mustn't praise me. i had no idea there was a burglar in the house when i ran down the stairs, and if i hadn't been careless and left the dungeon unlocked the money would have been in no danger, and if the twins hadn't wakened me i wouldn't have known there was a burglar about the place, and if fairy hadn't kept me from rushing out to the dungeon to see if the money was safe, he would have got away, and--it took the policemen to get him out. oh, i know that is not very grammatical, father, but it's just as true as if it were! and i honestly can't see that much credit is due me." but mount mark did not take it so calmly. and as for the methodist church,--well, the presbyterian people used to say there was "no living with those methodists, since the girls caught a burglar in the parsonage." of course, it was important, from the methodist point of view. pictures of the parsonage and the church were in all the papers for miles around, and at their very next meeting the trustees decided to get the piano the sunday-school had been needing for the last hundred years! when the five hundred dollars arrived from chicago, prudence felt that personally she had no real right to the money. "we must divide it," she insisted, "for i didn't earn it a bit more than any of the others. but it is perfectly glorious to have five hundred dollars, isn't it? did you ever have five hundred dollars before? just take it, father, and use it for whatever we need. it's family money." but he would not hear of this. "no," he said, "put it in the bank, prudence, for there will come a time when you will want money very badly. then you will have it." "let's divide it then,--a hundred for each of us," she urged. neither the younger girls nor their father would consent to this. but when prudence stood very firm, and pleaded with them earnestly, they decided to divide it. "i will deposit two hundred and fifty dollars for the four younger ones," he said, "and that will leave you as much." so it was settled, and prudence was a happy girl when she saw it safely put away in the bank. "we can get it whenever we really need it, you know," she told her father joyfully. "it's such a comfort to know it's there! i feel just like a millionaire, i am sure. do you think it would be all right to send limber-limb grant a letter of thanks for it? we were horribly scared, but--well, i for one am willing to be horribly scared for such a lot of money as that!" chapter xi romance comes sometimes, methodists, or presbyterians or heretics, whatever we may be, we are irresistibly impelled to the conclusion that things were simply bound to happen! however slight the cause,--still that cause was predestined from the beginning of time. a girl may by the sheerest accident, step from the street-car a block ahead of her destination,--an irritating incident. but as she walks that block she may meet an old-time friend, and a stranger. and that stranger,--ah, you can never convince the girl that her stepping from the car too soon was not ordered when the foundations of the world were laid. even so with prudence, good methodist daughter that she was. we ask her, "what if you had not gone out for a ride that morning?" and prudence, laughing, answers, "oh, but i had to go, you see." "well," we continue, "if you had not met him that way, you could have met him some other way, i suppose." "oh, no," declares prudence decidedly, "it had to happen just that way." after all, down in plain ink on plain paper, it was very simple. across the street from the parsonage was a little white cottage set back among tall cedars. in this cottage lived a girl named mattie moore,--a common, unlovely, unexciting girl, with whom romance could not apparently be intimately concerned. mattie moore taught a country school five miles out from town, and she rode to and from her school, morning and evening, on a bicycle. years before, when prudence was young and bicycles were fashionable, she had been intensely fond of riding. but as she gained in age, and bicycles lost in popularity, she discarded the amusement as unworthy a parsonage damsel. one evening, early in june, when the world was fair to look upon, it was foreordained that prudence should be turning in at the parsonage gate just as mattie moore whirled up, opposite, on her dusty wheel. prudence stopped to interchange polite inanities with her neighbor, and mattie, wheeling the bicycle lightly beside her, came across the street and stood beneath the parsonage maples with prudence. they talked of the weather, of the coming summer, of mattie's school, rejoicing that one more week would bring freedom from books for mattie and the younger parsonage girls. then said prudence, seemingly of her own free will, but really directed by an all-controlling providence, "isn't it great fun to ride a bicycle? i love it. sometime will you let me ride your wheel?" "why, certainly. you may ride now if you like." "no," said prudence slowly, "i am afraid it would not do for me to ride now. some of the members might see me, and--well, i am very grown up, you know.--of course," she added hastily, "it is different with you. you ride for business, but it would be nothing but a frolic with me. i want to get up at six o'clock and go early in the morning when the world is fast asleep. let me take it to-morrow morning, will you? it is saturday, and you won't be going to school." "yes, of course you may," was the hearty answer. "you may stay out as long as you like. i'm going to sew to-morrow. you make take it in the parsonage now and keep it until morning. i always sleep late on saturdays." so prudence delightedly tripped up the parsonage board walk, wheeling the bicycle by her side. she hid it carefully in the woodshed, for the twins were rash and venturesome. but after she had gone to bed, she confided her plan to fairy. "i'm going at six o'clock, and i'll be back in time to get breakfast. but as you know, fairy, my plans do not always work out as i intend, so if i am a little late, you'll get breakfast for papa and the girls, like a dear, won't you?" fairy promised. and early the next morning, prudence, in a plain gingham house dress, with the addition of a red sweater jacket and cap for warmth, set out upon her secret ride. it was a magnificent morning, and prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country roads. the country was simply irresistible. it was almost intoxicating. and prudence rode farther than she had intended. east and west, north and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. she knew it was growing late, "but fairy'll get breakfast," she thought comfortably. finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves. dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her. no one was in sight. the nearest house was two miles behind, and the road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep. prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her skirts. this was not the new and modern model of bicycle. the pedals on mattie moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not. it seemed safe. the road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an incline on the other side. what more could one desire. the only living thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully grazing near the bottom of the hill. prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. she never laughed again in exactly that way. this was the last appearance of the old irresponsible prudence. the curtain was just ready to drop. "here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position. the pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had anticipated, and the wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way. but as she neared the bottom, a disastrous and totally unexpected thing happened. the placid mule, which had been righteously grazing beside the fence, suddenly stalked into the middle of the road. prudence screamed, jerked the handle-bar to the right, then to the left, and then, with a sickening thud, she landed head first upon some part of the mule's anatomy. she did not linger there, however. she bounced on down to the ground, with a little cry of pain. the bicycle crashed beside her, and the mule, slightly startled, looked around at her with ears raised in silent questioning. then he ambled slowly across the road, and deliberately continued his grazing. prudence tried to raise herself, but she felt sharp pain. she heard some one leaping over the fence near her, and wondered, without moving her head, if it could be a tramp bent on highway robbery. the next instant, a man was leaning over her. "it's not a tramp," she thought, before he had time to speak. "are you hurt?" he cried. "you poor child!" prudence smiled pluckily. "my ankle is hurt a little, but i am not a child." the young man, in great relief, laughed aloud, and prudence joined him rather faintly. "i'm afraid i can not walk," she said. "i believe i've broken my ankle, maybe my whole leg, for all i know. it--hurts--pretty badly!" "lie down like this," he said, helping her to a more comfortable position, "do not move. may i examine your foot?" she shook her head, but he removed the shoe regardless of her head-shake. "i believe it is sprained. i am sure the bone is not broken. but how in the world will you get home? how far is it to mount mark? is that where you live?" "yes," considering, "yes, i live there, and it must be four miles, anyhow. what shall i do?" in answer, he pulled off his coat, and arranged it carefully by the side of the road on the grass. then jerking open the bag he had carried, he took out a few towels, and three soft shirts. hastily rolling them together for a pillow, he added it to the bed pro tem. then he turned again to prudence. "i'll carry you over here, and fix you as comfortably as i can. then i'll go to the nearest house and get a wagon to take you home." prudence was not shy, and realizing that his plan was the wise one, she made no objections when he came to help her across the road. "i think i can walk if you lift me up." but the first movement sent such a twinge of pain through the wounded ankle that she clutched him frantically, and burst into tears. "it hurts," she cried, "don't touch me." without speaking, he lifted her as gently as he could and carried her to the place he had prepared for her. "will you be warm enough?" he asked, after he had stood looking awkwardly down upon the sobbing girl as long as he could endure it. "yes," nodded prudence, gulping down the big soft rising in her throat. "i'll run. do you know which way is nearest to a house? it's been a long time since i passed one coming this way." "the way i came is the nearest, but it's two miles, i think." "i'll go as fast as i can, and you will be all right this confounded cross-cut is so out of the way that no one will pass here for hours, i suppose. now lie as comfortably as you can, and do not worry. i'm going to run." off he started, but prudence, left alone, was suddenly frightened. "please, oh, please," she called after him, and when he came back she buried her face in shame, deep in the linen towel. "i'm afraid," she whispered, crying again. "i do not wish to be left alone here. a snake might come, or a tramp." he sat down beside her. "you're nervous. i'll stay with you until you feel better. some one may come this way, but it isn't likely. a man i passed on the road a ways back told me to cut through the hickory grove and i would save a mile of travel. that's how i happened to come through the woods, and find you." he smiled a little, and prudence, remembering the nature of her accident, flushed. then, being prudence, she laughed. "it was my own fault. i had no business to go coasting down like that. but the mule was so stationary. it never occurred to me that he contemplated moving for the next century at least. he was a bitter disappointment." she looked down the roadside where the mule was contentedly grazing, with never so much as a sympathetic glance toward his victim. "i'm afraid your bicycle is rather badly done up." "oh,--whatever will mattie moore say to me? it's borrowed. oh, i see now, that it was just foolish pride that made me unwilling to ride during decent hours. what a dunce i was,--as usual." he looked at her curiously. this was beyond his comprehension. "the bicycle belongs to mattie moore. she lives across the street from the parsonage, and i wanted to ride. she said i could. but i was ashamed to ride in the daytime, for fear some of the members would think it improper for a girl of the parsonage, and so i got up at six o'clock this morning to do it on the sly. somehow i never can remember that it is just as bad to do things when you aren't seen as when you are. it doesn't seem so bad, does it? but of course it is. but i never think of that when i need to be thinking of it. maybe i'll remember after this." she was silent a while. "fairy'll have to get breakfast, and she always gets father's eggs too hard." silence again. "maybe papa'll worry. but then, they know by this time that something always does happen to me, so they'll be prepared." she turned gravely to the young man beside her. he was looking down at her, too. and as their eyes met, and clung for an instant, a slow dark color rose in his face. prudence felt a curious breathlessness,--caused by her hurting ankle, undoubtedly. "my name is prudence starr,--i am the methodist minister's oldest daughter." "and my name is jerrold harmer." he was looking away into the hickory grove now. "my home is in des moines." "oh, des moines is quite a city, isn't it? i've heard quite a lot about it. it isn't so large as chicago, though, of course. i know a man who lives in chicago. we used to be great chums, and he told me all about the city. some day i must really go there,--when the methodists get rich enough to pay their ministers just a little more salary." then she added thoughtfully, "still, i couldn't go even if i had the money, because i couldn't leave the parsonage. so it's just as well about the money, after all. but chicago must be very nice. he told me about the white city, and the big parks, and the elevated railways, and all the pretty restaurants and hotels. i love pretty places to eat. you might tell me about des moines. is it very nice? are there lots of rich people there?--of course, i do not really care any more about the rich people than the others, but it always makes a city seem grand to have a lot of rich citizens, i think. don't you?" so he told her about des moines, and prudence lay with her eyes half-closed, listening, and wondering why there was more music in his voice than in most voices. her ankle did not hurt very badly. she did not mind it at all. in fact, she never gave it a thought. from beneath her lids, she kept her eyes fastened on jerrold harmer's long brown hands, clasped loosely about his knees. and whenever she could, she looked up into his face. and always there was that curious catching in her breath, and she looked away again quickly, feeling that to look too long was dangerous. "i have talked my share now," he was saying, "tell me all about yourself, and the parsonage, and your family. and who is fairy? and do you attend the college at mount mark? you look like a college girl." "oh, i am not," said prudence, reluctant to make the admission for the first time in her life. "i am too stupid to be a college girl. our mother is not living, and i left high school five years ago and have been keeping house for my father and sisters since then. i am twenty years old. how old are you?" "i am twenty-seven," and he smiled. "jerrold harmer," she said slowly and very musically. "it is such a nice name. do your friends call you jerry?" "the boys at school called me roldie, and sometimes hammie. but my mother always called me jerry. she isn't living now, either. you call me jerry, will you?" "yes, i will, but it won't be proper. but that never makes any difference to me,--except when it might shock the members! you want me to call you jerry, don't you?" "yes, i do. and when we are better acquainted, will you let me call you prudence?" "call me that now.--i can't be too particular, you see, when i am lying on your coat and pillowed with your belongings. you might get cross, and take them away from me.--did you go to college?" "yes, to harvard, but i was not much of a student. then i knocked around a while, looking at the world, and two years ago i went home to des moines. i have been there ever since except for little runs once in a while." prudence sighed. "to harvard!--i am sorry now that i did not go to college myself." "why? there doesn't seem to be anything lacking about you. what do you care about college?" "well, you went to college," she answered argumentatively. "my sister fairy is going now. she's very clever,--oh, very. you'll like her, i am sure,--much better than you do me, of course." prudence was strangely downcast. "i am sure i won't," said jerrold harmer, with unnecessary vehemence. "i don't care a thing for college girls. i know a lot of them, and--aw, they make a fellow tired. i like home girls,--the kind that stay at home, and keep house, and are sweet, and comfortable, and all that." jerrold flipped over abruptly, and lay on the grass, his face on his arms turned toward her face. they were quiet for a while, but their glances were clinging. "your eyes are brown, aren't they?" prudence smiled, as though she had made a pleasant discovery. "yes. yours are blue. i noticed that, first thing." "did you? do you like blue eyes? they aren't as--well, as strong and expressive as brown eyes. fairy's are brown." "i like blue eyes best. they are so much brighter and deeper. you can't see clear to the bottom of blue eyes,--you have to keep looking." and he did keep looking. "did you play football at college? you are so tall. fairy's tall, too. fairy's very grand-looking. i've tried my best to eat lots, and exercise, and make myself bigger, but--i am a fizzle." "yes, i played football.--but girls do not need to be so tall as men. don't you remember what orlando said about rosalind,--'just as tall as my heart'? i imagine you come about to my shoulder. we'll measure as soon as you are on your feet again." "are you going to live in mount mark now? are you coming to stay?" prudence was almost quivering as she asked this. it was of vital importance. "no, i will only be there a few days, but i shall probably be back every week or so. is your father very strict? maybe he would object to your writing to me." "oh, he isn't strict at all. and he will be glad for me to write to you, i know. i write to two or three men when they are away. but they are--oh, i do not know exactly what it is, but i do not really like to write to them. i believe i'll quit. it's such a bother." "yes, it is, that's so. i think i would quit, if i were you. i was just thinking how silly it is for me to keep on writing to some girls i used to know. don't care two cents about 'em. i'm going to cut it out as soon as i get home. but you will write to me, won't you?" "yes, of course." prudence laughed shyly. "it seems so--well, nice,--to think of getting letters from you." "i'll bet there are a lot of nice fellows in mount mark, aren't there?" "why, no. i can't think of any real nice ones! oh, they are all right. i have lots of friends here, but they are--i do not know what! they do not seem very nice. i wouldn't care if i never saw them again. but they are good to me." "yes, i can grasp that," he said with feeling. "is des moines just full of beautiful girls?" "i should say not. i never saw a real beautiful girl in des moines in my life. or any place else, for that matter,--until i came--you know when you come right down to it, there are mighty few girls that look--just the way you want them to look." prudence nodded. "that's the way with men, too. of all the men i have seen in my life, i never saw one before that looked just the way i wanted him to." "before?" he questioned eagerly. "yes," said prudence frankly. "you look just as i wish you to." and in the meanwhile, at the parsonage, fairy was patiently getting breakfast. "prudence went out for an early bicycle ride,--so the members wouldn't catch her," she explained to the family. "and she isn't back yet. she'll probably stay out until afternoon, and then ride right by the grocery store where the ladies have their saturday sale. that's prudence, all over. oh, father, i did forget your eggs again, i am afraid they are too hard. here, twins, you carry in the oatmeal, and we will eat. no use to wait for prudence,--it would be like waiting for the next comet." indeed, it was nearly noon when a small, one-horse spring wagon drove into the parsonage yard. mr. starr was in his study with a book, but he heard a piercing shriek from connie, and a shrill "prudence!" from one of the twins. he was downstairs in three leaps, and rushing wildly out to the little rickety wagon. and there was prudence! "don't be frightened, father. i've just sprained my ankle, and it doesn't hurt hardly any. but the bicycle is broken,--we'll have to pay for it. you can use my own money in the bank. poor mr. davis had to walk all the way to town, because there wasn't any room for him in the wagon with me lying down like this. will you carry me in?" connie's single bed was hastily brought downstairs, and prudence deposited upon it. "there's no use to put me up-stairs," she assured them. "i won't stay there. i want to be down here where i can boss the girls." the doctor came in, and bandaged the swollen purple ankle. then they had dinner,--they tried to remember to call it luncheon, but never succeeded! after that, the whole parsonage family grouped about the little single bed in the cheery sitting-room. "whose coat is this, prudence?" asked connie. "and where in the world did you get these towels and silk shirts?" added fairy. prudence blushed most exquisitely. "they are mr. harmer's," she said, and glanced nervously at her father. "whose?" chorused the family. and it was plain to be seen that lark was ready to take mental notes with an eye to future stories. "if you will sit down and keep still, i will tell you all about it. but you must not interrupt me. what time is it, fairy?" "two o'clock." "oh, two. then i have plenty of time. well, when i got to that little cross-cut through the hickory grove, about four miles out from town, i thought i would coast down the long hill. do you remember that hill, father? there was no one in sight, and no animals, except one hoary old mule, grazing at the bottom. it was irresistible, absolutely irresistible. so i coasted. but you know yourself, father, there is no trusting a mule. they are the most undependable animals." prudence looked thoughtfully down at the bed for a moment, and added slowly, "still, i have no hard feelings against the mule. in fact, i kind of like him.--well, anyway, just as i got to the critical place in the hill, that mule skipped right out in front of me. it looked as though he did it on purpose. i did not have time to get out of his way, and it never occurred to him to get out of mine, and so i went bang! right into him. and it broke mattie moore's wheel, and upset me quite a little. but that mule never budged! jerry--er harmer,--mr. harmer, you know,--said he believed an earthquake could coast downhill on to that mule without seriously inconveniencing him. i was hurt a little, and couldn't get up. and so he jumped over the fence,--no, connie, not the mule, of course! mr. harmer! he jumped over the fence, and put his coat on the ground, and made a pillow for me with the shirts and towels in his bag, and carried me over. then he wanted to go for a wagon to bring me home, but i was too nervous and scared, so he stayed with me. then mr. davis came along with his cart, and jerry--er--harmer, you know, helped put me in, and the cart was so small they both had to walk." "where is he now?" "is he young?" "is he handsome?" "did he look rich?" "don't be silly, girls. he went to the hotel, i suppose. anyhow, he left us as soon as we reached town. he said he was in a hurry, and had something to look after. his coat was underneath me in the wagon, and he wouldn't take it out for fear of hurting my ankle, so the poor soul is probably wandering around this town in his shirt-sleeves." already, in the eyes of the girls, this jerry--er--harmer, had taken unto himself all the interest of the affair. "he'll have to come for his coat," said lark. "we're bound to see him." "where does he live? what was he doing in the hickory grove?" inquired mr. starr with a strangely sinking heart, for her eyes were alight with new and wonderful radiance. "he lives in des moines. he was just walking into town, and took a short cut through the grove." "walking! from des moines?" prudence flushed uncomfortably. "i didn't think of that," she said. "but i do not see why he should not walk if he likes. he's strong and athletic, and fond of exercise. i guess he's plenty able to walk if he wants to. i'm sure he's no tramp, father, if that is what you are thinking." "i am not thinking anything of the kind, prudence," he said with dignity. "but i do think it rather strange that a young man should set out to walk from des moines to mount mark. and why should he be at it so early in the morning? doesn't he require sleep, as the rest of us do?" "how should i know? i guess if he likes to be but in the morning when it is fresh and sweet, it is all right. i like the morning myself. he had as much right out early as i had. his clothes were nice, and he is a harvard graduate, and his shoes were dusty, but not soiled or worn. anyhow, he is coming at four o'clock. if you want to ask if he is a tramp, you can do it." and prudence burst into tears. dramatic silence in the cheerful sitting-room! then fairy began bustling about to bathe the face and throat of "poor little prudence," and her father said sympathetically: "you're all nervous and wrought up, with the pain and excitement, prudence. i'm glad he is coming so we can thank him for his kindness. it was mighty lucky he happened along, wasn't it? a harvard graduate! yes, they are pretty strong on athletics at harvard. you'd better straighten this room a little and have things looking nice when he gets here," said father starr, with great diplomacy. and he was rewarded, and startled, by observing that prudence brightened wonderfully at his words. "yes, do," she urged eagerly. "get some of the roses from the corner bush, and put them on the table there. and when you go up-stairs, fairy, you'd better bring down that little lace spread in the bottom drawer of our dresser. it'll look very nice on this bed.--work hard, girls, and get everything looking fine. he'll be here at four, he said. you twins may wear your white dresses, and connie must put on her blue and wear her blue bows.--fairy, do you think it would be all right for you to wear your silk dress? of course, the silk is rather grand for home, but you do look so beautiful in it. father, will you put on your black suit, or are you too busy? and don't forget to wear the pearl cuff buttons aunt grace sent you." he went up-stairs to obey, with despair in his heart. but to the girls, there was nothing strange in this exactness on the part of prudence. jerrold harmer was the hero of the romance, and they must unite to do him honor. he was probably a prince in disguise. jerrold harmer was a perfectly thrilling name. it was really a shame that america allows no titles,--lord jerrold did sound so noble, and lady prudence was very effective, too. he and prudence were married, and had a family of four children, named for the various starrs, before one hour had passed. "i'll begin my book right away," lark was saying. she and carol were in the dining-room madly polishing their sunday shoes,--what time they were not performing the marriage ceremony of their sister and the hero. "yes, do! but for goodness' sake, don't run her into a mule! seems to me even prudence could have done better than that." "i'll have his automobile break down in the middle of the road, and prudence can run into it. the carbureter came off, and of course the car wouldn't run an inch without it." "yes, that's good," said carol approvingly. "it must be a sixty cylinder, eight horsepower--er--ford, or something real big and costly." "twins! you won't be ready," warned prudence, and this dire possibility sent them flying upstairs in a panic. while the girls, bubbling over with excitement, were dressing for the great event, mr. starr went down-stairs to sit with prudence. carol called to him on his way down, and he paused on the staircase, looking up at her. "lark and i are going to use some of fairy's powder, father," she said. "we feel that we simply must on an occasion like this. and for goodness' sake, don't mention it before him! it doesn't happen very often, you know, but to-day we simply must. now, don't you say anything about falling in the flour barrel, or turning pale all of a sudden, whatever else you do. we'd be so mortified, father." mr. starr was concerned with weightier matters, and went on down to prudence with never so much as a reproving shake of the head for the worldly-minded young twins. "father," began prudence, her eyes on the lace coverlet, "do you think it would be all right for me to wear that silk dressing-gown of mother's? i need something over my nightgown, and my old flannel kimono is so ugly. you know, mother said i was to have it, and--i'm twenty now. do you think it would be all right? but if you do not want me to wear it----" "i do want you to," was the prompt reply. "yes, it is quite time you were wearing it. i'll get it out of the trunk myself, and send fairy down to help you." then as he turned toward the door, he asked carelessly, "is he very good-looking, prudence?" and prudence, with a crimson face, answered quickly, "oh, i really didn't notice, father." he went on up-stairs then, and presently fairy came down with the dainty silk gown trimmed with fine soft lace. "i brought my lavender ribbon for your hair, prudence. it will match the gown so nicely. oh, you do look sweet, dearest. i pity jerrold harmer, i can tell you that. now i must hurry and finish my own dressing." but with her foot on the bottom stair, she paused. her sister was calling after her. "send father down here, quick, fairy." father ran down quickly, and prudence, catching hold of his hands, whispered wretchedly, "oh, father, he--he is good-looking. i--i did notice it. i didn't really mean to lie to you." "there, now, prudence," he said, kissing her tenderly, "you mustn't get excited again. i'm afraid you are too nervous to have callers. you must lie very quietly until he comes. that was no lie, child. you are so upset you do not know what you are saying to-day. be quiet now, prudence,--it's nearly time for him to come." "you are a dear good father," she cried, kissing his hands passionately, "but it was a lie. i did know what i was saying. i did it on purpose." and mr. starr's heart was heavy, for he knew that his fears were realized. chapter xii roused from her slumber at twenty minutes to four, the parsonage family clustered excitedly in the sitting-room, which the sunshine flooded cheerily. they were waiting for the hero of prudence's romance. "oh, larkie, will you run up-stairs and bring my lace handkerchief? it's on our dresser, in the burnt-wood box." and after lark had departed, she went on, "the flowers are not quite in the center of the table, fairy,--a little to the right.--if you would move the curtains the least little bit, those torn places would not show." then she sighed. "how nice you all look. oh, connie, won't you turn the clock a little this way, so i can see it? that's better, thank you, precious. thank you, lark,--isn't it a pretty handkerchief? i've only carried it three times, and i have never really used it. would you keep these pearls on, fairy, or would you take them off?" "i would keep them on, prue,--they catch the color of the gown a little, and are just beautiful. you do look so sweet, but your face is very flushed. i am afraid you are feverish. maybe we had better not let him see prue to-day, father. perhaps he can come back to-morrow." "fairy!" exclaimed prudence. "besides, he must come in to get his coat. we can't expect him to go coatless over sunday. listen,--listen, girls! look, fairy, and see if that is he! yes, it is, i know,--i can tell by his walk." warm rich color dyed her face and throat, and she clasped her hands over her heart, wondering if connie beside her could hear its tumult. "i'll go to the door," said father starr, and prudence looked at him beseechingly. "i--i am sure he is all right, father. i--you will be nice to him, won't you?" without answering, mr. starr left the room. he could not trust his voice. "listen, girls, i want to hear," whispered prudence. and she smiled as she heard her father's cordial voice. "you are mr. harmer, aren't you? i am prudence's father. come right in. the whole family is assembled to do you honor. the girls have already made you a prince in disguise. come back this way. prudence is resting very nicely." when the two men stepped into the sitting-room, prudence, for once, quite overlooked her father. she lifted her eyes to jerrold harmer's face, and waited, breathless. nor was he long in finding her among the bevy of girls. he walked at once to the bed, and took her hand. "my little comrade of the road," he said gaily, but with tenderness, "i am afraid you are not feeling well enough for callers to-day." "oh, yes, i am," protested prudence with strange shyness. he turned to the other girls, and greeted them easily. he was entirely self-possessed. "miss starr told me so much about you that i know you all to begin with." he smiled at fairy as he added, "in fact, she predicted that i am to fall in love with you. and so, very likely, i should,--if i hadn't met your sister first." they all laughed at that, and then he walked back and stood by prudence once more. "was it a bad sprain? does it pain you very badly? you look tired. i am afraid it was an imposition for me to come this afternoon." [illustration: "she predicted i'm to fall in love with you."] "oh, don't worry about that," put in connie anxiously. "she wanted you to come. she's been getting us ready for you ever since the doctor left. i think it was kind of silly for me to wear my blue just for one caller." the twins glared at her, realizing that she was discrediting the parsonage, but jerrold harmer laughed, and prudence joined him. "it is quite true," she admitted frankly. "the mule and i disgraced the parsonage this morning, and i wanted the rest of you to redeem it this afternoon." she looked at him inquiringly. "then you had another coat?" "no, i didn't. i saw this one in a window this morning, and couldn't resist it. was the ride very hard on your ankle?" mr. starr was puzzled. evidently it was not lack of funds which brought this man on foot from des moines to mount mark,--half-way across the state! he did not look like a man fleeing from justice. what, then, was the explanation? "you must have found it rather a long walk," he began tentatively, his eyes on the young man's face. "yes, i think my feet are a little blistered. i have walked farther than that many times, but i am out of practise now. sometimes, however, walking is a painful necessity." "how long did it take you coming from des moines to mount mark?" inquired carol in a subdued and respectful voice,--and curious, withal. "i did not come directly to mount mark. i stopped several places on business. i hardly know how long it would take coming straight, through. it would depend on one's luck, i suppose." "well," said lark, "taking it a little at a time it might be done, but for myself, i should never dream of undertaking so much exercise." "could you walk from here to burlington at one stretch?" asked connie. he looked rather surprised. "why, perhaps i could if i was in shape, but--seven miles was all i cared about this morning." "well, i think it was mighty brave of you to walk that far,--i don't care why you did it," announced connie with emphasis. "brave!" he repeated. "i have walked three times seven miles, often, when i was in school." "oh, i mean the whole thing--clear from des moines," explained connie. "from des moines," he gasped. "good heavens! i did not walk from des moines! did you--" he turned to prudence questioningly. "did you think i walked clear from des moines?" "yes." and added hastily, "but i did not care if you did. it did not make any difference how you came." for a moment he was puzzled. then he burst out laughing. "i am afraid we had too much to talk about this morning. i thought i had explained my situation, but evidently i did not. i drove from des moines in the car, and----" "the automobile!" gasped carol, with a triumphant look at lark. "yes, just so. i stopped several places on business as i came through. i drove from burlington this morning, but i got off the road. the car broke down on me, and i couldn't fix it,--broke an axle. so i had to walk in. that is what i was seeing about to-day,--sending a man out for the car and arranging about the repairs." he smiled again. "what in the world did you think i would walk from des moines for?" he asked prudence, more inquisitive than grammatical. "i did not think anything about it until they asked, and--i did not know about the car. you did not mention it." "no. i remember now. we were talking of other things all the time." he turned frankly to mr. starr. "perhaps you have heard of the harmer automobile company, of des moines. my father was harvey harmer. two years ago, when i was running around in europe, he died. it was his desire that i should personally take charge of the business. so i hurried home, and have had charge of the company since then. we are establishing sales agencies here, and in burlington, and several other towns. i came out for a little trip, and took advantage of the opportunity to discuss the business with our new men. that's what brought me to mount mark." to connie he added laughingly, "so i must sacrifice myself, and do without your praise. i did not walk until the car broke down and compelled me to do so." for the first time in her life, prudence distinctly triumphed over her father. she flashed him the glance of a conqueror, and he nodded, understandingly. he liked jerrold harmer,--as much as he could like any man who stepped seriously into the life of prudence. he was glad that things were well. but--they would excuse him, he must look after his sunday's sermons. a little later the twins and connie grew restless, and finally connie blurted out, "say, prue, don't you think we've upheld the parsonage long enough? i want to get some fresh air." the twins would never have been guilty of such social indiscretion as this, but they gladly availed themselves of connie's "break," and followed her out-of-doors. then fairy got up, laughing. "i have done my share, too. i think we'll leave the parsonage in your hands now, prue. i want to write to aunt grace. i'll be just at the head of the stairs, and if prudence wants me, you will call, won't you, mr. harmer? and won't you stay for dinner with us? i'm sure to disgrace the parsonage again, for i am no cook, but you can get along for once, surely. we spend more time laughing when the food is bad, and laughter is very healthful. you will stay, won't you?" jerrold harmer looked very eager, and yet he looked somewhat doubtfully at prudence. her eyes were eloquent with entreaties. finally he laughed, and said, "i should certainly like to stay, but you see i want to come back to-morrow. now, will i dare to come back to-morrow if i stay for dinner to-night? wouldn't connie say that was disgracing the parsonage?" fairy laughed delightedly. "that is very good," she said. "then you will stay. i'll try to fix it up with connie to save the reputation of the house. now, do not talk too much, prue, and--what shall we have for dinner? we only say dinner when we have company, mr. harmer. what we have is supper." prudence contracted her brows in the earnest endeavor to compose a menu suitable for this occasion. "mashed potatoes, and--use cream, fairy. you'd better let lark do the mashing, for you always leave lumps. and breaded veal cutlet," with a significant glance, "and creamed peas, and radishes, and fruit. will that be enough for you, mr. harmer?" "oceans," he said contentedly. "well, i'll collect the twins and connie and we will try to think up a few additions. where's the money?" "in the dungeon, and the key is on the nail above the door. and the silverware is there, too," with another significant glance. after that, prudence lay back happily on the pillows and smoothed the lace on her mother's silk dressing gown. "talk to me," she said, "tell me about where you live, and what you do,--your work, you know, and how you amuse yourself. i want you to amuse me now, mr. harmer." "you called me jerry this morning." "yes, i know. do you want me to call you jerry still?" "yes, prudence, i do. do you mind if i move my chair a little closer?" "no, put it right here. now, i am ready." "but there's nothing interesting about me. let's talk of----" "it's interesting to me. tell me about your business." "you don't care anything about business, i am sure." "i care about your business." "do you, prudence?--you look so sweet this afternoon. i nearly blurted it out before the whole family. wouldn't the twins have laughed? it would have disgraced the parsonage. i think mr. starr is awfully lucky to have five girls, and all of them pretty. but isn't it strange that the prettiest and dearest one of them all should be the oldest daughter?" "oh, but i'm not really--" prudence began earnestly. then she stopped, and added honestly, "but i am glad you think so." no, they did not quote poetry, they did not discuss the psychological intricacies of spontaneous attraction, they did not say anything deep, or wise, or learned. but they smiled at each other, with pleased investigating eyes. he put his hand on the coverlet, just near enough to touch the lace on the sleeve of her silk dressing gown. and together they found paradise in the shabby sitting-room of the old methodist parsonage that afternoon. "must you prepare meat for breading half an hour before cooking, or when?" demanded fairy, from the dining-room door. "what?--oh!--fifteen minutes before. don't forget to salt and pepper the crumbs, fairy." "perhaps some time your father will let you and a couple of the others come to des moines with me in the car. you would enjoy a few days there, i know. i live with my aunt, a dear, motherly little old soul. she will adore you, prudence, and you will like her, too. would your father let you spend a week? we can easily drive back and forth in the car." "maybe he will,--but who will keep the parsonage while i am away?" "fairy, to be sure. she must be a good fairy once in a while. we can take the twins with us, connie, too, if you like, and then fairy will only have to mother your father. do you like riding in a car?" "oh, i love it. but i have not ridden very much. willard morley took me quite often when he was here, but he is in chicago now." "when's he coming back?" suspiciously. "prudence, shall we have tea or coffee?" this was lark from the doorway. "fairy wants to know." "what?--oh!--which do you want, jerry?" "which does your father prefer?" "he doesn't drink either except for breakfast." "i generally drink coffee, but i do not care much for it, so do not bother----" "coffee, lark." "when's that morley chap coming back?" "i do not know." and then, "he is never coming back as far as i am concerned." jerrold relented promptly. "you are why he went away, i suppose." "at any rate, he is gone." "did you ever have a lover, prudence? a real lover, i mean." "no, i, never did." "i'm awfully glad of that. i'll----" "prudence, do you use half milk and half water for creamed tomato soup, or all milk?" "what?--oh!--all milk, connie, and tell fairy not to salt it until it is entirely done, or it may curdle." "what in the world would they ever do without you, prudence? you are the soul of the parsonage, aren't you?" "no, i am just the cook and the chambermaid," she answered, laughing. "but don't you see how hard it will be for me to go away?" "but it isn't fair! vacation is coming now, and fairy ought to take a turn. what will they do when you get married?" "i have always said i would not get married." "but don't you want to get married,--some time?" "oh, that isn't it. i just can't because i must take care of the parsonage, and raise the girls. i can't." "but you will," he whispered, and his hand touched hers for just a second. prudence did not answer. she lifted her eyes to his face, and caught in her breath once more. a little later he said, "do you mind if i go upstairs and talk to your father a few minutes? maybe i'd better." "but do not stay very long," she urged, and she wondered why the brightness and sunshine vanished from the room when he went out. "first door to the right," she called after him. mr. starr arose to greet him, and welcomed him to his combination study and bedroom with great friendliness. but jerrold went straight to the point. "mr. starr, it's very kind of you to receive a perfect stranger as you have me. but i understand that with a girl like prudence, you will want to be careful. i can give you the names of several prominent men in des moines, christians, who know me well, and can tell you all about me." "it isn't necessary. we are parsonage people, and we are accustomed to receiving men and women as worthy of our trust, until we find them different. we are glad to count you among our friends." "thank you, but--you see, mr. starr, this is a little different. some day, prudence and i will want to be married, and you will wish to be sure about me." "does prudence know about that?" "no," with a smile, "we haven't got that far yet. but i am sure she feels it. she hasn't--well, you know what i mean. she has been asleep, but i believe she is waking up now." "yes, i think so. do you mind if i ask you a few questions?" "no, indeed. anything you like." "well, first, are you a christian?" "not the kind you are, mr. starr. my parents were christians, but i've never thought much about it myself because i was young and full of fun. i have never been especially directed to religion. i go to church, and i believe the bible,--though i don't know much about it. i seldom read it. but i'll get busy now, if you like, and really study it and--try to come around your way. i know prudence would make me do that." and he smiled again. "do you drink?" "i did a little, but i promised prudence this morning i would quit it. i never got--drunk, and i have not formed the habit. but sometimes with the boys, i drink a little. but i do not care for it, and i swore off this morning.--i smoke, too,--not cigarettes, of course. prudence knows it, but she did not make me promise to quit that?" his voice was raised, inquiringly. "would you have promised, if she had asked it?" this was sheer curiosity. "i suppose i would." he flushed a little. "i know i was pretty hard hit, and it was such a new experience that i would have promised anything she asked. but i like smoking, and--i don't think it is wicked." "never mind the smoking. i only asked that question out of curiosity. we're not as strait-laced as we might be perhaps. the only things i would really object to, are those things that might seriously menace your happiness, yours and hers, if the time does come. but the next question,--can you pass a strict physical examination?" "yes, i can. i'll go with you to your physician to-night if you like. i'm all right physically, i know." "tell me about your relations with your mother when she was living." "she has been dead four years." jerrold spoke with some emotion. "we were great chums, though her health was always poor. i wrote her three times a week when i was away from home, and she wrote me a note every day. when i was in school, i spent all my vacations at home to be with her. and i never went abroad until after her death because she did not like the idea of my going so far from her." "jerrold, my boy, i do not want to seem too severe, but--tell me, has there been anything in your life, about women, that could come out and hurt prudence later on?" jerrold hesitated. "mr. starr, i have been young, and headstrong, and impulsive. i have done some things i wish now i hadn't. but i believe there is nothing that i could not explain to prudence so she would understand. if i had thought beforehand of a girl like her, there are things i would not have done. but there is nothing, i think, that would really hurt, after i had a chance to talk it over with her." "all right. if you are the man, god bless you. i don't suppose you are worthy of prudence, for she is a good, pure-hearted, unselfish girl,--there could be none better. but the real point is just whether you will love each other enough!--i like your coming up here like this. i think that was very decent and manly of you. and, do you mind if i just suggest that you go a little slow with prudence? remember that she has been sound asleep, until this morning. i do not want her awakened too rudely." "neither do i," said jerrold quickly. "shall i go down now? the girls have invited me to stay for supper, and prudence says i am to come back to-morrow, too. is that all right? remember, i'll be going home on monday!" "it is all right, certainly. spend as much time here as you like. you will either get worse, or get cured, and--whichever it is, you've got to have a chance. i like you, jerrold. prudence judges by instinct, but it does not often fail her." prudence heard him running down the stairs boyishly, and when he came in, before she could speak, he whispered, "shut your eyes tight, prudence. and do not scold me, for i can't help it." then he put his hands over hers, and kissed her on the lips. they were both breathless after that. prudence lifted her lashes slowly, and gazed at him seriously. it was she who spoke first. "i was never really kissed before," she whispered, "not really." then they sat in silence until fairy announced that supper was ready. "but i won't promise it is eatable," she assured them, laughing. "i wish i could go to the table, too," said prudence, looking at her father wistfully, "i could lie on the old lounge out there." "and have your supper on a tray, of course. can you carry her, father?" "i can!" volunteered jerrold promptly. "i have done it." "i think between us we can manage. we'll try it." and prudence heroically endured the pain of being moved, for the sake of seeing jerrold at the table with her parsonage family. for to her surprise, she realized that she could not bear that even a few minutes should pass, when she could not see the manly young face with the boyish mouth and the tender eyes! prudence, at last, was aroused from her slumber. chapter xiii she orders her life "prudence, are you going to aunt grace's early in the summer, or late?" demanded fairy. "oh, let's not talk of that now. there's plenty of time." "no, there isn't. school will be out in a week, and babbie wants to give a house party and have our little bunch at his home for a few days this summer. he wants to set the date, and i can't tell him when because i do not know when you are going to auntie's." they sat around the breakfast table, prudence and fairy and their father, talking of the summer. the twins and connie had long since excused themselves, and even now could be heard shouting gaily in the field beyond the old red barn. prudence looked restlessly from one to the other, when her sister insisted upon an answer. "why," she began, "i've about decided not to go to aunt grace's this summer." fairy rapped on the table with the spoon she held in her hand. "don't be silly! you have to go. you've never had a vacation in your life, and father promised aunt grace on his reputation as a minister, didn't you, papa?" "yes, i promised all right." "but, papa! i do not have to go, do i? a whole month,--oh, honestly, i do not want to." "why don't you? last fall you were wild about it. don't you remember dreaming----" "oh, but that was last fall," said prudence, smiling softly, and unconsciously she lifted one hand to where a bulky letter nestled inside her dress. "i didn't know i was going to sprain my ankle, and be so useless. it may be two weeks yet before i can walk on it." "what has that got to do with it?" "do you really prefer to stay at home, prudence?" queried her father. "the whole summer?" prudence blushed most gloriously. "oh, well," she began slowly. then she took the plunge recklessly. "why, you see, father, jerry lives with his aunt in des moines,--he told you that, didn't he? and they have quite a big house, and--he wants to take me and the twinnies to des moines in the car for a week or ten days. and fairy will take care of you and connie. and--if i can do that--i do not want any more vacation. i couldn't bear to stay at auntie's a whole month, away from you and the parsonage." she felt very guilty, for she did not add, as she was thinking, "besides, jerry is coming every two weeks, and if i were away, we would miss a visit!" fairy laughed in an irritating, suggestive way, but mr. starr only nodded. "i am sure you will not mind that, will you father? his aunt must be a perfectly good and nice woman, and--such a long drive in the auto, and--to see all over des moines." but prudence paused guiltily, for she did not add, "with jerry!" although the words were singing in her heart. "that will be very nice indeed, and of course i do not object. it will be a forty years' delight and wonder to the twins! yes, i will be glad to have you go. but you can still have your month at grace's if you wish." "but i do not wish," protested prudence promptly. "honestly, father, i'll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but--oh, please do not make me go!" "of course, we won't make you go, you goose," said fairy, "but i think you are very foolish." "and you can go, fairy," cried prudence hospitably. "aunt grace loves you so, and you've worked so hard all year, and,--oh, yes, it will be just the thing for you." prudence wished she might add, "and that will let me out," but she hardly dare say it. "well, when does your des moines tour come off? i must know, so i can tell babbie about the house party." "let babbie choose his own date. jerry says we shall go whenever i say--i mean whenever you say, father,--and we can decide later on. give babbie first choice, by all means." that was the beginning of prudence's golden summer. she was not given to self-analysis. she did what seemed good to her always,--she did not delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore. she hadn't the time. she took things as they came. she could not bear the thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and most prosaic of jerrold's letters. but she never asked herself the reason. it seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer. it was only natural and right to carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow. but prudence did not wonder why. the days when jerry came were tremulously happy ones for her,--she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was suffocatingly hot. but she took it as a matter of course. the nights when jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping jerry was sound asleep and comfortable. but she never asked herself why she could not sleep! she knew that jerry's voice was the sweetest voice in the world. she knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and the most tender. she knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands. she knew that his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes. but why? ah, prudence never thought of that. she just lived in the sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content. so the vacation passed, and indian summer came. and the girls went back to their studies once more, reluctantly, yet unaccountably glad even in their reluctance. it is always that way with students,--real students. they regret the passing of vacation days, but the thought of "going back to school" has its own tingling joys of anticipation. it was saturday evening. the early supper at the parsonage was over, the twins had washed the dishes, and still the daylight lingered. prudence and jerry sat side by side, and closely, on the front porch, talking in whispers. fairy had gone for a stroll with the still faithful babbie. connie and the twins had evidently vanished. ah--not quite that! carol and lark came swiftly around the corner of the parsonage. "good evening," said lark politely, and prudence sat up abruptly. the twins never wasted politeness! they wanted something. "do you mind if we take jerry around by the woodshed for a few minutes, prue?" "i'll come along," said prudence, rising. "oh, no," protested lark, "we do not want you,--just jerry, and only for a little while." prudence sniffed suspiciously. "what are you going to do to him?" she demanded. "we won't hurt him," grinned carol impishly. "we had intended to tie him to a stake and burn him alive. but since you have interceded on his behalf, we'll let him off with a simple scalping." "maybe he's afraid to come," said lark, "for there are two of us, and we are mighty men of valor." "that's all right," prudence answered defensively. "i'd sooner face a tribe of wild indians any day than you twins when you are mischief-bent." "oh, we just want to use him a few minutes," said carol impatiently. "upon our honor, as christian gentlemen, we promise not to hurt a hair of his head." "oh, come along, and cut out the comedy," jerry broke in, laughing. "i'll be back in two minutes, prue. they probably want me to shoo a chicken out of their way. or maybe the cat has been chasing them." once safely around the corner, the twins changed their tactics. "we knew you weren't afraid," said lark artistically, "we were just teasing prudence. we know we couldn't hurt you." "of course," emphasized carol. "we want to ask a favor of you, that's all. it's something we can't do ourselves, but we knew you could do it, all right." jerry perceived the drift of this argument. "i see! i'm paid in advance for my service. what's the job?" then the twins led him to the woodshed. this woodshed stood about twenty feet from the back door of the parsonage, and was nine feet high in front, the roof sloping down at the back. close beside the shed grew a tall and luxuriant maple. the lower limbs had been chopped off, and the trunk rose clear to a height of nearly twelve feet before the massive limbs branched out. the twins had discovered that by climbing gingerly on the rotten roof of the woodshed, followed by almost superhuman scrambling and scratching, they could get up into the leafy secrecy of the grand old maple. more than this, up high in the tree they found a delightful arrangement of branches that seemed positively made for them. these branches must be utilized, and it was in the act of utilizing them that they called upon their sister's friend for help. "do you see this board?" began lark, exhibiting with some pride a solid board about two feet in length. "my eyesight is quite unimpaired," answered jerry, for he knew his twins. "well, we found this over by the avery barn. they have a big scrap pile out there. we couldn't find anything around here that would suit, so we looked, over there. it's just a pile of rubbish, and we knew they wouldn't mind." "else you would not have taken it, eh? anything like apples, for instance, is quite under the ban." "yes, indeed," smiled lark. "we're too old to steal apples." "of course," added carol. "when we need our neighbor's apples, we send connie. and get nicely punished for it, too, i promise you." "quite so! and this exquisite board?" "well, we've found a perfectly gorgeous place up in the old tree where we can make a seat. it's quite a ways out from the trunk, and when the wind blows it swings splendidly. but it isn't very comfortable sitting on a thin limb, and so we want a seat. it's a fine place, i tell you. we thought you could nail this securely on to the limbs,--there are two right near each other, evidently put there on purpose for us. see what dandy big nails we have!" "from the avery's woodshed, i suppose," he suggested, smiling again. "oh, they are quite rusty. we found them in a sack in an old barrel. it was in the scrap heap. we're very good friends with the averys, very good, indeed," she continued hastily. "they allow us to rummage around at will--in the barn." "and see this rope," cried carol. "isn't it a dandy?" "ah! the avery barn must be inexhaustible in its resources." "how suspicious you are, jerry," mourned lark. "i wish we were that way, instead of innocent and bland and trustful. maybe we would get rich, too. this is the first time i ever really understood how you came to be a success in business." "but you are quite wrong this time," said lark seriously. "old mr. avery gave me this rope." "yes, he did! lark told him she was looking for a rope just exactly like this one, and then he gave it to her. he caught the idea of philanthropy right away. he's a very nice old gentleman, i tell you. he's so trusting and unsuspicious. i'm very fond of people like that." "we thought when you had the board nicely nailed on, you might rope it securely to the limbs above. they are in very good position, and that will make it absolutely safe. do you suppose you can do that, jerry? do you get seasick when you climb high?" "oh, no, high altitudes never make me seasick. i've a very good head for such purposes." "then suppose you get busy before it grows dark. we're in a great hurry. and we do not want connie to catch us putting it up. it'll be such fun to sit up there and swing when the wind blows, and have poor connie down beneath wondering how we manage to stick on. she can't see the seat from the ground. won't it be a good joke on her?" "oh, very,---yes, indeed.--well, let's begin.--now, observe! i will just loop this end of the rope lightly about my--er--middle. the other end will dangle on the ground to be drawn up at will. observe also that i bestow the good but rusty nails in this pocket, and the hammer here. then with the admirable board beneath my arm, i mount to the heights of--say, twins, didn't i see an old buggy seat out in the barn to-day? seems to me----" "oh, jerry!" the twins fairly smothered him. "oh, you darling. you are the nicest old thing.--now we can understand why prudence seems to like you. we never once thought of the old buggy seat! oh, jerry!" then they hastily brought the discarded seat from the barn, and with the help of jerry it was shoved up on the woodshed. from there, he lifted it to the lowest limb of the old maple, and a second later he was up himself. then it was lifted again, and again he followed,--up, and up, and up,--the loose end of the donated rope trailing loose on the ground below. the twins promptly,--as promptly as possible, that is,--followed him into the tree. "oh, yes, we'll come along. we're used to climbing and we're very agile. and you will need us to hold things steady while you hammer." and jerry smiled as he heard the faithful twins, with much grunting and an occasional groan, following in his wake. it was a delightful location, as they had said. so heavy was the leafy screen that only by lifting a branch here or there, could they see through it. the big seat fitted nicely on the two limbs, and jerry fastened it with the rusty nails. the twins were jubilant, and loud in their praises of his skill and courage. "oh, jerry," exclaimed carol, with deep satisfaction, "it's such a blessing to discover something really nice about you after all these months!" "now, we'll just----" "hush!" hissed lark. "here comes connie. hold your breath, jerry, and don't budge." "isn't she in on this?" he whispered. he could hear connie making weird noises as she came around the house from the front. she was learning to whistle, and the effect was ghastly in the extreme. connie's mouth had not been designed for whistling. "sh! she's the band of dark-browed gypsies trying to steal my lovely wife." "i'm the lovely wife," interrupted carol complacently. "but connie does not know about it. she is so religious she won't be any of the villain parts. when we want her to be anything real low-down, we have to do it on the sly. she would no more consent to a band of dark-browed gypsies than she would----" connie came around the corner of the parsonage, out the back walk beneath the maple. then she gave a gleeful scream. right before her lay a beautiful heavy rope. connie had been yearning for a good rope to make a swing. here it lay, at her very feet, plainly a gift of the gods. she did not wait to see where the other end of the rope was. she just grabbed what she saw before her, and started violently back around the house with it yelling, "prudence! look at my rope!" prudence rushed around the parsonage. the twins shrieked wildly, as there was a terrific tug and heave of the limb beside them, and then--a crashing of branches and leaves. jerry was gone! it did look horrible, from above as well as below. but jerry, when he felt the first light twinge as connie lifted the rope, foresaw what was coming and was ready for it. as he went down, he grabbed a firm hold on the branch on which he had stood, then he dropped to the next, and held again. on the lowest limb he really clung for fifteen seconds, and took in his bearings. connie had dropped the rope when the twins screamed, so he had nothing more to fear from her. he saw prudence, white, with wild eyes, both arms stretched out toward him. "o. k., prue," he called, and then he dropped. he landed on his feet, a little jolted, but none the worse for his fall. he ran at once to prudence. "i'm all right," he cried, really alarmed by the white horror in her face. "prudence! prudence!" then her arms dropped, and with a brave but feeble smile, she swayed a little. jerry took her in his arms. "sweetheart!" he whispered. "little sweetheart! do--do you love me so much, my dearest?" prudence raised her hands to his face, and looked intensely into his eyes, all the sweet loving soul of her shining in her own. and jerry kissed her. the twins scrambled down from the maple, speechless and cold with terror,--and saw prudence and jerry! then they saw connie, staring at them with interest and amusement. "i think we'd better go to bed, all three of us," declared lark sturdily. and they set off heroically around the house. but at the corner carol turned. "take my advice and go into the woodshed," she said, "for all the averys are looking out of their windows." prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly into the woodshed. now a woodshed is a hideously unromantic sort of place. and there was nothing for prudence to sit on, that jerry might kneel at her feet. so they dispensed with formalities, and he held her in his arms for a long time, and kissed her often, and whispered sweet meaningless words that thrilled her as she listened. it may not have been comfortable, but it was evidently endurable, for it is a fact that they did not leave that woodshed for over an hour. then they betook themselves to the darkest corner of the side porch,--and history repeated itself once more! at twelve, jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. at one o'clock, he stood at his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard. "she is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel," he whispered, and his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, "and she is going to be my wife! oh, god, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves." at two o'clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him. and he flung his arms out toward his closed door, wanting her. at three o'clock he dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her. with the first pale streaks of daylight stealing into his room, he awoke. it was after four o'clock. a little later,--just a few minutes later,--he heard a light tap on his door. it came again, and he bounded out of bed. "prudence! is anything wrong?" "hush, jerry, not so loud!" and what a strange and weary voice. "come down-stairs, will you? i want to tell you something. i'll wait at the foot of the stairs. be quiet,--do not wake father and the girls. will you be down soon?" "in two minutes!" and in two minutes he was flown, agonizingly anxious, knowing that something was wrong. prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately. "jerry," she whispered, "i--forgive me--i honestly-- oh, i didn't think what i was saying last night. you were so dear, and i was so happy, and for a while i really believed we could belong to each other. but i can't, you know. i've promised papa and the girls a dozen times that i would never marry. don't you see how it is? i must take it back." jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted. this was so like his conscientious little prudence! "dearest," he said gently, "you have said that because you were not awake. you did not love. but you are awake now. you love me. your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. the girls would not hear of it. they want you to be happy. and you can't be happy without me, can you?" suddenly she crushed close to him. "oh, jerry," she sobbed, "i will never be happy again, i know. but--it is right for me to stay here, and be the mother in the parsonage. it is wicked of me to want you more than all of them. don't you see it is? they haven't any mother. they haven't any one but me. of course, they would not allow it, but they will not know anything about it. i must do it myself. and father especially must never know. i want you to go away this morning before breakfast, and--never come again." she clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. "and you must not write to me any more. for, oh, jerry, if i see you again i can never let you go, i know it. will you do this for me?" "you've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?" "yes,--i remembered, and then i couldn't sleep." "what have you been doing all night? it is morning now." "i walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she admitted, with a mournful smile. "you are nervous and excited," he said tenderly. "let's wait until after breakfast. then we'll talk it all over with your father, and it shall be as he says. won't that be better?" "oh, no. for father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy. he must not know a thing about it. promise, jerry, that you will never tell him one word." "i promise, of course, prudence. i will let you tell him." but she shook her head. "he will never know. oh, jerry! i can't bear to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and-- it seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it." "sit down here in my lap. put your head on my shoulder, like that. let me rub your face a little. you're feverish. you are sick. go to bed, won't you, sweetheart? we can settle this later on." "you must go right away, or i can not let you go at all!" "do you mean you want me to get my things, and go right now?" "yes." she buried her face in his shoulder. "if--if you stay in your room until breakfast time, i will lock you in, so you can not leave me again. i know it. i am crazy to-day." "don't you think you owe me something, as well as your father and sisters? didn't god bring us together, and make us love each other? don't you think he intended us for each other? do you wish you had never met me?" "jerry!" "then, sweetheart, be reasonable. your father loved your mother, and married her. that is god's plan for all of us. you have been a wonderfully brave and sweet daughter and sister, i know. but surely fairy is old enough to take your place now." "fairy's going to be a professor, and--the girls do not mind her very well. and she isn't as much comfort to father as i am.--it's just because i am most like mother, you see. but anyhow, i promised. i can't leave them." "your father expects you to marry, and to marry me. i told him about it myself, long ago. and he was perfectly willing. he didn't say a word against it." "of course he wouldn't. that's just like father. but still, i promised. and what would the girls say if i should go back on them? they have trusted me, always. if i fail them, will they ever trust anybody else? if you love me, jerry, please go, and stay away." but her arm tightened about his neck. "i'll wait here until you get your things, and we can--say good-by. and don't forget your promise." "oh, very well, prudence," he answered, half irritably, "if you insist on ordering me away from the house like this, i can only go. but----" "let's not talk any more about it, jerry. please. i'll wait until you come down." when he came down a little later, with his suitcase, his face was white and strained. she put her arms around his neck. "jerry," she whispered, "i want to tell you that i love you so much that--i could go away with you, and never see any of them any more, or papa, or the parsonage, and still feel rich, if i just had you! you--everything in me seems to be all yours. i--love you." her tremulous lips were pressed against his. "oh, sweetheart, this is folly, all folly. but i can't make you see it. it is wrong, it is wickedly wrong, but----" "but i am all they have, jerry, and--i promised." "whenever you want me, prudence, just send. i'll never change. i'll always be just the same. god intended you for me, i know, and--i'll be waiting." "jerry! jerry! jerry!" she whispered passionately, sobbing, quivering in his arms. it was he who drew away. "good-by, sweetheart," he said quietly, great pity in his heart for the girl who in her desire to do right was doing such horrible wrong. "good-by, sweetheart. remember, i will be waiting. whenever you send, i will come." he stepped outside, and closed the door. prudence stood motionless, her hands clenched, until she could no longer hear his footsteps. then she dropped on the floor, and lay there, face downward, until she heard fairy moving in her room up-stairs. then she went into the kitchen and built the fire for breakfast. chapter xiv she comes to grief fairy was one of those buoyant, warm-blooded girls to whom sleep is indeed the great restorer. she slept soundly, sweetly, dreamlessly. and every morning she ran down-stairs so full of animation and life that she seemed all atingle to her finger-tips. now she stood in the kitchen door, tall, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and smiled at her sister's solemn back. "you are the little mousey, prue," she said, in her full rich voice. "i didn't hear you come to bed last night, and i didn't hear you getting out this morning. i am an abominably solid sleeper, am i not? shall i get the maple sirup for the pancakes? i wonder if jerry knows we only use maple sirup when he is here. i'm constantly expecting connie to give it away. why am i always so ravenously hungry in the morning? goodness knows i eat enough--why, what is the matter?" for prudence had turned her face toward her sister, and it was so white and so unnatural that fairy was shocked. "prudence! you are sick! go to bed and let me get breakfast. why didn't you call me? i'm real angry at you, prudence starr! here, get out of this, and i will----" "there's nothing the matter with me. i had a headache, and did not sleep, but i am all right now. yes, bring the sirup, fairy. are the girls up yet?" fairy eyed her suspiciously. "jerry is out unusually early, too, isn't he? his door is open. i didn't hear him coming down so he must have quite outdone himself to-day. he generally has to be called twice." "jerry has gone, fairy." prudence's back was presented to view once more, and prudence was stirring the oatmeal with vicious energy. "he left early this morning,--i suppose he is half-way to des moines by now." "oh!" fairy's voice was non-committal. "will you get the sirup now?" "yes, of course.--when is he coming back?" "he isn't coming back. please hurry, fairy, and then call the others. the oatmeal is ready." fairy went soberly down cellar, and brought up the golden sirup. then, ostensibly to call her sisters, she hurried up the stairs. "girls," she began, carefully closing the door of their room behind her. "jerry has gone, and isn't coming back any more. and for goodness' sake, don't keep asking questions about it. just eat your breakfast as usual, and have a little tact." "gone!" "yes." "a lovers' quarrel," suggested lark, and her eyes glittered greedily. "nothing of the sort. and don't keep staring at prue, either. and do not keep talking about jerry all the time. you mind me, or i will tell papa." "that's funny," said carol thoughtfully. "we left them kissing each other like mad in the back yard last night,--and this morning he has gone to return no more. they are crazy." "kissing! in the back yard! what are you talking about?" carol explained, and fairy looked still more thoughtful and perturbed. she opened the door, and called out to them in a loud and breezy voice, "hurry, girls, for breakfast is ready, and there's no time to waste in a parsonage on sunday morning." then she added in a whisper, "and don't you mention jerry, and don't ask prudence what makes her so pale, or you'll catch it!" then she went to her father's door. "breakfast is ready, papa," she called clearly. she turned the knob softly, and peeped in. "may i come in a minute?" standing close beside him, she told him all she knew of what had happened. "prudence is ghastly, father, just ghastly. and she can't talk about it yet, so be careful what you say, will you?" and it was due to fairy's kindly admonitions that the parsonage family took the departure of jerry so calmly. "fairy says jerry took the morning train," said mr. starr, as they were passing the cream and sugar for the oatmeal. "that is too bad! but it is just the worst of being a business man,--one never knows when one must be up and away. and of course, one can not neglect business interests.--the oatmeal is unusually good this morning, prudence." this was nothing short of heroic on his part, for her eyes upon her father's face were so wide and dark that the lump in his throat would not stay down. that was the beginning of prudence's bitter winter, when the brightest sunshine was cheerless and dreary, and when even the laughter of her sisters smote harshly upon her ears. she tried to be as always, but in her eyes the wounded look lingered, and her face grew so pale and thin that her father and fairy, anxiously watching, were filled with grave concern. she remained almost constantly in the parsonage, reading very little, sitting most of her leisure time staring out the windows. fairy had tried to win her confidence, and had failed. "you are a darling, fairy, but i really do not want to talk about it.--oh, no, indeed, it is all my own fault. i told him to go, and not come again.--no, you are wrong, fairy, i do not regret it. i do not want him to come any more." and fairy worried. what in the world had happened to separate in the morning these two who had been kissing so frankly in the back yard the evening before? mr. starr, too, had tried. "prudence," he said gently, "you know very often men do things that to women seem wrong and wicked. and maybe they are! but men and women are different by nature, my dear, and we must remember that. i have satisfied myself that jerry is good, and clean, and manly. i do not think you should let any foolishness of his in the past, come between you now." "you are mistaken, father. jerry is all right, and always was, i am sure. it is nothing like that. i told him to go, and not to come again. that is all." "but if he should come back now----" "it would be just the same. don't worry about it, father. it's all right." "prudence," he said, more tenderly, "we have been the closest of friends and companions, you and i, from the very beginning. always you have come to me with your troubles and worries. have i ever failed you? why, then, do you go back on me now, when you really need me?" prudence patted his shoulder affectionately, but her eyes did not meet his. "i do not really need you now, father. it is all settled, and i am quite satisfied. things are all right with me just as they are." then he took a serious step, without her knowledge. he went to des moines, and had a visit with jerry. he found him thinner, his face sterner, his eyes darker. when the office boy announced "mr. starr," jerry ran quickly out to greet him. "is she all right?" he cried eagerly, almost before he was within hailing distance. mr. starr did not mince matters. "jerry," he said abruptly, "did you and prudence have a quarrel? she declines to tell me anything about it, and after the conversations you and i have had, i think i have a right to know what has happened." "does she miss me? does she seem sorry that i am away? does----" his voice was so boyish and so eager there was no mistaking his attitude toward prudence. "look here, jerry, i want to know. why are you staying away?" "won't prudence tell you?" "no." "then i can not. she made me promise not to tell you a word. but it is not my fault, mr. starr. i can tell you that. it is nothing i have done or said. she sent me away because she thinks it was right for her to do so, and--you know prudence! it is wrong, i know. i knew it all the time. but i couldn't make her see it. and she made me promise not to tell." in the end mr. starr went back to the parsonage no wiser than he left, save that he now knew that jerry was really not to blame, and that he held himself ready to return to her on a moment's notice. the ladies of the methodist church were puzzled and exasperated. they went to the parsonage, determined to "find out what's what." but when they sat with prudence, and looked at the frail, pathetic little figure, with the mournful eyes,---they could only sigh with her and go their ways. the twins continued to play in the great maple, even when the leaves were fallen, "it's a dandy place, i tell you, prudence," cried carol. "jerry didn't have time to put up the rope before connie pulled him down, but we've fixed it ourselves, and it is simply grand. you can go up and swing any time you like,--unless your joints are too stiff! it's a very serious matter getting up there,---for stiff joints, of course, i mean. lark and i get up easy enough." for a moment, prudence sat silent with quivering lips. then she burst out with unusual passion, "don't you ever dare climb up in that tree again as long as you live, twins! mind what i say!" lark looked thoughtfully out of the window, and carol swallowed hard. it was she who said gently, "why, of course, prue,--just as you say." for the first time, prudence had dealt with them harshly and unfairly. they knew it. there was neither sense nor justice in her command. but they did not argue the point. they kept their eyes considerately away from her, and buried themselves in _julius caesar_,--it must be remembered the twins are sophomores now. five minutes later prudence spoke again, humbly. "i beg you pardon, twins,--that was a perfectly idiotic thing for me to say. of course, you may play in the maple whenever you like. but be careful. you couldn't save yourselves in falling as--as men can." "we won't play there if you want us not to," said carol kindly. "i do want you to play there," she answered. "it's a very nice place, and great fun, i know. i might try it myself if--my joints weren't so stiff! now, go on with your latin." but prudence did not pass under the maple for many weeks without clenching her hands, and shuddering. the twins were not satisfied. they marveled, and wondered, and pondered over the subject of jerry's disappearance. finally they felt it was more than human flesh could stand. they would approach prudence on the subject themselves. but they bided their time. they must wait until fairy was safely out of the house. fairy these days had an infuriating way of saying, "that will do, twins. you'd better go and play now." it enraged and distracted the twins almost to the point of committing crime. they had made several artistic moves already. professor duke, of their freshman biology class, had written carol a gay long letter. and carol was enthusiastic about it. she and lark talked of "dear old duck" for two weeks, almost without pausing for sleep. "i'm sure you would fall in love with him on the spot," carol had said to prudence suggestively. prudence had only smiled, evidently in sarcasm! "jerry was very nice,--oh, very nice,--but you ought to see our little duck!" carol rattled rashly. "i'm sure you wouldn't regret jerry any more if you could just get hold of duckie. of course, his being in new york is an obstacle, but i could introduce you by mail." "i do not care for ducks," said prudence. "of course, they look very nice swimming around on the water, but when it comes to eating,--i'll take spring chicken every time." carol did not mention "duck" again for three days. but there came a day when fairy was out in the country. connie had gone driving with her father. the moment had arrived. the twins had their plan of campaign memorized, and they sauntered in to prudence with a nonchalance that was all assumed. "prudence," lark began, "we're writing a book." "that's nice," said prudence. conversation languished. the subject seemed exhausted. carol came to the rescue. "it's a very nice book. it's a love-story, and perfectly thrilling. larkie does the writing, but i criticize and offer suggestions." "that's kind of you." a pause. "i'm going to dedicate it to carol,--to my beloved sister, to whose kindness and sympathy, i owe all that i am,--or something like that," lark explained hopefully. "how proud carol will be!" a long pause. "we're in a very critical place just now, though," lark seemed to be commencing at the beginning once more. "we have our heroine in a very peculiar situation, and we can't think what to do with her next." "how sad." another pause. "we thought maybe you could help us out." "i'm afraid not," prudence smiled a little. "i haven't any imagination. ask fairy. she's strong on love-stories." "maybe if we explain the situation to you, you could give us a suggestion. it is like this: the young people have had all kinds of thrilling experiences, but they are not yet betrothed. but they are just on the point of getting there,--and something crops up all of a sudden! the hero goes dashing away, and returns no more. the heroine lies upon her silken couch, weeping, weeping. and no one knows what to do about it, because no one knows what has happened. what do you suppose could have sent the lover away like that?" "maybe he hasn't enough money for the heroine." "oh, yes,--he's very rich." "maybe he is already married." "no, indeed. he's a bachelor." "maybe he didn't love her, after all." here carol chimed in helpfully. "oh, yes, he did, for we left him kissing her all over the back yard, and he wouldn't have done that if he hadn't loved her, you know." prudence's eyes twinkled a little, but her smile was sad. "now, what would you advise us to do?" inquired lark briskly, feeling instinctively that carol had explained too much. prudence rose slowly. "i think," she said very gently, "i think i would burn the book if i were you, and pay a little more attention to my studies." then she went up-stairs, and carol told lark sympathetically that they did not deserve an authoress in the parsonage when they didn't give her any more encouragement than that! on the day before christmas, an insured package was delivered at the parsonage for prudence. a letter was with it, and she read that first. "my dearest little sweetheart: i chose this gift for you long before i had the right to do it. i was keeping it until the proper moment. but the moment came, and went again. still i want you to have the gift. please wear it, for my sake, for i shall be happy knowing it is where it ought to be, even though i myself am banished. i love you, prudence. whenever you send for me, i am ready to come. entirely and always yours. jerry." with trembling fingers she opened the little package. it contained a ring, with a brilliant diamond flashing myriad colors before her eyes. and prudence kissed it passionately, many times. two hours later, she went quietly down-stairs to where the rest of the family were decorating a christmas tree. she showed the ring to them gravely. "jerry sent it to me," she said. "do you think it is all right for me to wear it, father?" a thrill of hopeful expectancy ran through the little group. "yes, indeed," declared her father. "how beautiful it is! is jerry coming to spend christmas with us?" "why, no, father,--he is not coming at all any more. i thought you understood that." an awkward silence, and carol came brightly to the rescue. "it certainly is a beauty! i thought it was very kind of professor duckie to send lark and me a five-pound box of chocolates, but of course this is ever so much nicer. jerry's a bird, i say." "a bird!" mocked fairy. "such language." lark came to her twin's defense. "yes, a bird,--that's just what he is." carol smiled. "we saw him use his wings when connie yanked him out of the big maple, didn't we, lark?" then, "did you send him anything, prue?" prudence hesitated, and answered without the slightest accession of color, "yes, carol. i had my picture taken when i was in burlington, and sent it to him." "your picture! oh, prudence! where are they? aren't you going to give us one?" "no, carol. i had only one made,--for jerry. there aren't any more." "well," sighed lark resignedly, "it's a pretty idea for my book, anyhow." from that day on, prudence always wore the sparkling ring,--and the women of the methodist church nearly had mental paralysis marveling over a man who gave a diamond ring, and never came a-wooing! and a girl who accepted and wore his offering, with nothing to say for the man! and it was the consensus of opinion in mount mark that modern lovers were mostly crazy, anyhow! and springtime came again. now the twins were always original in their amusements. they never followed blindly after the dictates of custom. when other girls were playing dolls, the twins were a tribe of wild indians. when other girls were jumping the rope, the twins were conducting a circus. and when other girls played "catch" with dainty rubber balls, the twins took unto themselves a big and heavy croquet ball,--found in the avery woodshed. to be sure, it stung and bruised their hands. what matter? at any rate, they continued endangering their lives and beauties by reckless pitching of the ungainly plaything. one friday evening after school, they were amusing themselves on the parsonage lawn with this huge ball. when their father turned in, they ran up to him with a sporting proposition. "bet you a nickel, papa," cried carol, "that you can't throw this ball as far as the schoolhouse woodshed!--by the way, will you lend me a nickel, papa?" he took the ball, and weighed it lightly in his hand. "i'm an anti-betting society," he declared, laughing, "but i very strongly believe it will carry to the schoolhouse woodshed. if it does not, i'll give you five cents' worth of candy to-morrow. and if it does, you shall put an extra nickel in the collection next sunday." then he drew back his arm, and carefully sighted across the lawn. "i'll send it right between the corner of the house and that little cedar," he said, and then, bending low, it whizzed from his hand. lark screamed, and carol sank fainting to the ground. for an instant, mr. starr himself stood swaying. then he rushed across the lawn. for prudence had opened the front door, and stepped quickly out on the walk by the corner of the house. the heavy ball struck her on the forehead, and she fell heavily, without a moan. chapter xv fate takes charge four hours prudence lay unconscious, with two doctors in close attendance. fairy, alert but calm, was at hand to give them service. it is a significant thing that in bitter anguish and grief, christians find comfort and peace in prayer. outsiders, as well as christians, pray in times of danger and mental stress. but here is the big difference between the prayers of christians and the prayers of "others." "others" pray, and pray, and pray again, and continue still in the agony and passion of grief and fear. and yet they pray. but christians pray, and find confidence and serenity. sorrow may remain, but anguish is stilled. mount mark considered this a unique parsonage family. their liveliness, their gaiety, their love of fun, seemed a little inapropos in the setting of a methodist parsonage. "they ain't sanctimonious enough by half," declared old harvey reel, the bus driver, "but, by jings! i tell you they are dandies!" but as a matter of fact, every one of the family, from connie up, had a characteristic parsonage heart. when they were worried, or frightened, or grieved, they prayed. fairy passing up the stairs with hot water for the doctors, whispered to her father as he turned in to his own room, "keep on praying, father. i can't stop now, because they need me. but i'm praying every minute between errands!" and mr. starr, kneeling beside his bed, did pray,--and the stony despair in his eyes died out, and he came from the little room quiet, and confident, and calm. connie had been unfortunate. in seeking a secluded corner to "pray for prudence," she had passed the door of the dungeon, and paused. a fitting place! so she turned in at once, drawing the door after her, but leaving it a couple of inches ajar. then in the farthest and darkest corner, she knelt on the hard floor, and prayed, and sobbed herself to sleep. fairy passing through the hall, observed the door ajar, and gave it a slight push. the lock snapped into place, but connie did not waken. lark remained loyally with carol until consciousness returned to her. as soon as she was able to walk, the two went silently to the barn, and climbed into the much-loved haymow. there they lay flat on the hay, faces downward, each with an arm across the other's shoulder, praying fervently. after a time they rose and crept into the house, where they waited patiently until fairy came down on one of her numerous errands. "is she better?" they whispered. and fairy answered gently, "i think she is a little better." then the twins, in no way deceived, went back to the haymow again. fairy prepared a hasty supper, and arranged it on the kitchen table. she drank a cup of hot coffee, and went in search of her father. "go and eat, dadsie," she urged. but he shook his head. "i am not hungry, but send the girls to the table at once." on their next trip into the house, fairy stopped the twins. "get connie, and eat your supper. it's just a cold lunch, and is already on the kitchen table. you must help yourselves,--i can't come now." the twins did not speak, and fairy went hurriedly up the stairs once more. "i do not think i can eat," said carol. "i know i can't," was lark's reply. "won't fairy make us? she'll tell papa." "we'd better take away about half of this food, and hide it. then she will think we have already eaten." this novel plan was acted upon with promptitude. "where's connie? she ought to eat something. we must make her do it." "she probably cried herself to sleep somewhere. we'd better let her alone. she'll feel much better asleep and hungry, than awake and sorry for prue." so the twins went back to the haymow. when it grew dark, they slipped into the kitchen, and huddled together on, the woodbox beside the stove. and down to them presently came fairy, smiling, her eyes tear-brightened. "she is better!" cried carol, springing to her feet. "yes," said fairy, dropping on her knees and burying her face in lark's lap, as she still sat on the woodbox. "she's better. she is better." lark patted the heaving shoulders in a motherly way, and when fairy lifted her face again it was all serene, though her lashes were wet. "she is conscious," said fairy, still on her knees, but with her head thrown back, and smiling. "she regained consciousness a little while ago. there is nothing really serious the matter. it was a hard knock, but it missed the temple. when she became conscious, she looked up at father and smiled. father looked perfectly awful, twins, so pale, and his lips were trembling. and prudence said, 'now, father, on your word of honor, did you knock me down with that ball on purpose?' she spoke very low, and weak, but--just like prudence! father couldn't say a word, he just nodded, and gulped. she has a little fever, and the doctors say we may need to work with her part of the night. father said to ask if you would go to bed now, so you can get up early in the morning and help us. i am to stay with prudence to-night, but you may have to take turns in the morning. and you'll have to get breakfast, too. so father thinks you would better go to bed. will you do that, twinnies?" "will we!" and carol added, "will you kiss prudence good night for us, and tell her we kept praying all the time? prudence is such a great hand for praying, you know." fairy promised, and the twins crept up-stairs. it was dark in their room. "we'll undress in the dark so as not to awake poor little connie," whispered lark. "it's nice she can sleep like that, isn't it?" and the twins went to bed, and fell asleep after a while, never doubting that connie, in her corner of the room, was already safe and happy in the oblivion of slumber. but poor connie! she had not wakened when fairy closed the dungeon door. it was long afterward when she sat up and began rubbing her eyes. she did not know where she was. then she remembered! she wondered if prudence-- she scrambled to her feet, and trotted over to the dungeon door. it was locked, she could not turn the knob. at first, she thought of screaming and pounding on the door. "but that will arouse prudence, and frighten her, and maybe kill her," she thought wretchedly. "i'll just keep still until some one passes." but no one passed for a long time, and connie stretched her aching little body and sobbed, worrying about prudence, fearful on her own account. she had no idea of the time. she supposed it was still early. and the parsonage was deathly quiet. maybe prudence had died! connie writhed in agony on the hard floor, and sobbed bitterly. still she would not risk pounding on the dungeon door. up-stairs, in the front room, prudence was at that time wrestling with fever. higher and higher it rose, until the doctors looked very anxious. they held a brief consultation in the corner of the room. then they beckoned to mr. starr. "has prudence been worrying about something this winter?" "yes." "has she been grieving, and fretting for something?" "yes, she has." "it is that young man, isn't it?" inquired the family doctor,--a methodist "member." "yes." "can you bring him here?" "yes,--as soon as he can get here from des moines." "you'd better do it. she has worn herself down nearly to the point of prostration. we think we can break this fever without serious consequences, but get the young man as soon as possible. she can not relax and rest, until she gets relief." so he went down-stairs and over the telephone dictated a short message to jerry. "please come,--prudence." when he entered the front bedroom again, prudence was muttering unintelligible words under her breath. he kneeled down beside the bed, and put his arms around her. she clung to him with sudden passion. "jerry! jerry!" she cried. her father caressed and petted her, but did not speak. "oh, i can't," she cried again. "i can't, jerry, i can't!" again her voice fell to low mumbling. "yes, go. go at once. i promised, you know.--they haven't any mother.--i promised. jerry! jerry!" her voice rang out so wildly that connie, down in the dungeon, heard her cries and sobbed anew, relieved that prudence was living, frightened at the wildness of her voice. "oh, i do want you--more than anybody. don't go!--oh, yes, go at once. i promised.--father needs me." and then a piercing shriek, "he is falling! connie, drop that rope!" she struggled up in the bed, and gazed wildly about her,--then, panting, she fell back on the pillows. but mr. starr smiled gently to himself. so that was the answer! oh, foolish little prudence! oh, sweet-hearted little martyr girl! hours later the fever broke, and prudence drifted into a deep sleep. then the doctors went downstairs with mr. starr, talking in quiet ordinary tones. "oh, she is all right now, no danger at all. she'll do fine. let her sleep. send fairy to bed, too. keep prudence quiet a few days,--that's all. she's all right." they did not hear the timid knock at the dungeon door. but after they had gone out, mr. starr locked the door behind them, and started back through the hall to see if the kitchen doors were locked. he distinctly heard a soft tapping, and he smiled. "mice!" he thought. then he heard something else,--a faintly whispered "father!" with a sharp exclamation he unlocked and opened the dungeon door, and connie fell into his arms, sobbing piteously. and he did the only wise thing to do under such circumstances. he sat down on the hall floor and cuddled the child against his breast. he talked to her soothingly until the sobs quieted, and her voice was under control. "now, tell father," he urged, "how did you get in the dungeon? the twins----" "oh, no, father, of course not, the twins wouldn't do such a thing as that. i went into the dungeon to pray that prudence would get well. and i prayed myself to sleep. when i woke up the door was locked." "but you precious child," he whispered, "why didn't you call out, or pound on the door?" "i was afraid it would excite prue and make her worse," she answered simply. and her father's kiss was unwontedly tender as he carried her upstairs to bed. prudence slept late the next morning, and when she opened her eyes her father was sitting beside her. "all right this morning, father," she said, smiling. "are the girls at school?" "no,--this is saturday." "oh, of course. well, bring them up, i want to see them." just then the distant whistle of a locomotive sounded through the open window, but she did not notice her father's sudden start. she nodded up at him again, and repeated, "i want to see my girls." her father sent them up to her at once, and they stood at the foot of the bed with sorry faces, and smiled at her. "say something," whispered carol, kicking lark suggestively on the foot. but lark was dumb. it was carol who broke the silence. "oh, prudence, do you suppose the doctors will let me come in and watch them bandage your head? i want to begin practising up, so as to be ready for the next war." then they laughed, and the girls realized that prudence was really alive and quite as always. they told her of connie's sad experience, and prudence comforted her sweetly. "it just proves all over again," she declared, smiling, but with a sigh close following, "that you can't get along without me to look after you. would i ever go to bed without making sure that connie was safe and sound?" down-stairs, meanwhile, mr. starr was plotting with fairy, a willing assistant. "he'll surely be in on this train, and you must keep him down here until i get through with prudence. i want to tell her a few things before she sees him. bring him in quietly, and don't let him speak loudly. i do not want her to know he is on hand for a few minutes. explain it to the girls, will you?" after sending the younger girls down-stairs again, he closed the door of prudence's room, and sat down beside her. "prudence, i can't tell you how bitterly disappointed i am in you." "father!" "yes, i thought you loved us,--the girls and me. it never occurred to me that you considered us a bunch of selfish, heartless, ungrateful animals!" "father!" "is that your idea of love? is that----" "oh, father!" "it really did hurt me, prudence. my dear little girl, how could you send jerry away, breaking your heart and his, and ours, too,--just because you thought us such a selfish lot that we would begrudge you any happiness of your own? don't you think our love for you is big enough to make us happy in seeing you happy? you used to say you would never marry. we did not expect you to marry, then. but we knew the time would come when marriage would seem beautiful and desirable to you. we were waiting for that time. we were hoping for it. we were happy when you loved jerry, because we knew he was good and kind and loving, and that he could give you all the beautiful things of life--that i can never give my children. but you thought we were too selfish to let you go, and you sent him away." "but father! who would raise the girls? who would keep the parsonage? who would look after you?" "aunt grace, to be sure. we talked it over two years ago, when her husband died. before that, she was not free to come to us. but she said then that whenever we were ready for her, she would come. we both felt that since you were getting along so magnificently with the girls, it was better that way for a while. but she said that when your flitting-time came, she would come to us gladly. we had it all arranged. you won't want to marry for a year or so, yet. you'll want to have some happy sweetheart days first. and you'll want to make a lot of those pretty, useless, nonsensical things other girls make when they marry. that's why i advised you to save your burglar money,--so you would have it for this. we'll have aunt grace come right away, so you can take a little freedom to be happy, and to make your plans. and you can initiate aunt grace into the mysteries of parsonage housekeeping." a bright strange light had flashed over prudence's face. but her eyes clouded a little as she asked, "do you think they would rather have aunt grace than me?" "of course not. but what has that to do with it? we love you so dearly that we can only be happy when you are happy. we love you so dearly that we can be happy with you away from us,--just knowing that you are happy. but you--you thought our love was such a hideous, selfish, little make-believe that----" "oh, father, i didn't! you know i didn't!--but--maybe jerry won't forgive me now?" "why didn't you talk it over with me, prudence?" "i knew you too well, father. i knew it would be useless. but--doesn't it seem wrong, father, that--a girl--that i--should love jerry more than--you and the girls? that he should come first? doesn't it seem--wicked?" "no, prudence, it is not wicked. after all, perhaps it is not a stronger and deeper love. you were willing to sacrifice him and yourself, for our sakes! but it is a different love. it is the love of woman for man,--that is very different from sister-love and father-love. and it is right. and it is beautiful." "i am sure jerry will forgive me. maybe if you will send me a paper and pencil--i can write him a note now? there's no use waiting, is there? fairy will bring it, i am sure." but when a few minutes later, she heard a step in the hall outside, she laid her arm across her face. somehow she felt that the wonderful joy and love shining in her eyes should be kept hidden until jerry was there to see. she heard the door open, and close again. "put them on the table, fairy dearest, and--leave me for a little while, will you? thank you." and her face was still hidden. then the table by the bedside was swiftly drawn away, and jerry kneeled beside her, and drew the arm from her face. "jerry!" she whispered, half unbelievingly. then joyously, "oh, jerry!" she gazed anxiously into his face. "have you been sick? how thin you are, and so pale! jerry harmer, you need me to take care of you, don't you?" but jerry did not speak. he looked earnestly and steadily into the joyful eyes for a moment, and then he pressed his face to hers. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) juvenile library girls series ethel morton at rose house by mabell s. c. smith the world syndicate publishing co. cleveland new york press of the commercial bookbinding co., cleveland [frontispiece: "here's where we should land"] chapter i roger's idea for the fortieth time that afternoon, it seemed to ethel brown morton and her cousin, ethel blue, they untangled the hopelessly mixed garlands of the maypole and started the weavers once more to lacing and interlacing them properly. "under, over; under, over," they directed, each girl escorting a small child in and out among the gay bands of pink and white which streamed from the top of the pole. may day in new jersey is never a certain quality; it may be reminiscent of the north pole or the equator. this happened to be the hottest day of the year so far, and both ethels had wiped their foreheads until their handkerchiefs were small balls too soaked to be of any further use. but they kept on, for this was the first community maypole that rosemont ever had had, and the united service club, to which the girls belonged, was doing its part to make the afternoon successful. helen, ethel brown's sister, and margaret hancock, another member of the club, were teaching the younger children a folk dance on the side of the lawn; roger morton, james hancock and tom watkins were marshalling a group of boys and marching them back and forth across the end of the grass plot nearest the schoolhouse. delia watkins, tom's sister, and dorothy smith, a cousin of the mortons, were going about among the mothers and urging them to let the little ones take part in the games. everybody was busy until dusk sent the small children home and the caretaker came to uproot the pole and to shake his head ruefully over the condition of the lawn whose smoothness had been roughened by the tread of scores of dancing feet. it was while the club members were sitting on the mortons' veranda, resting, that helen, who was president of the club, called them to order. "saturday afternoon is our usual time of meeting," she began, "and no one can say that we haven't put in a solid afternoon of service." groans as one and another shifted a cramped position to another more restful for weary feet confirmed her statement. "what i want to say now is that it's time for us to be thinking up some more service work. we are all studying pretty hard so we don't want to undertake anything that will use up our out-of-door time too much, but we haven't anything in prospect except helping with the town fourth of july celebration, over two months away, so we might as well be planning something else." "do i understand, madam president," asked roger, "that the chief officer of this distinguished club hasn't any ideas to suggest?" "the chief officer is so tired that not even another glass of lemonade--thank you, tom--can stir her gray matter." "hasn't anybody else any ideas?" silence greeted the question. "i seem to remember boasts that ideas never would fail this brilliant group," jeered roger. "there were some such remarks," james recalled meditatively; "and i remember that you prophesied that the day would come when we'd call on you for information about some stupendous scheme of yours that was literally as big as a house. let's have it now." "do i understand that you're really appealing to me to learn my scheme?" inquired roger, swelling with amusement. "if it's any satisfaction to you--yes," replied his sister. roger burst into a peal of laughter. "shoot off the answers, old man," urged james. "we're waiting." "breathlessly," added margaret. roger settled himself comfortably on the top step of the piazza and leaned his head against the post. "it certainly does me good to see you all at my feet begging like this," he declared. "bosh! you're at ours and i can prove it," asserted tom, stretching out a foot of goodly size. "peace! withdraw that battering ram!" pleaded roger. "i'll tell you all about it. tom's really responsible for this idea, anyway." "ideas, real fresh ones, aren't much in my line," admitted practical tom, "but i'm glad to have helped for once." "i don't suppose you remember that time last autumn when i went in to new york to see you and you took me down to the chapel where your father preaches on sunday afternoons?" "i remember it; we found father there talking with a lot of mothers and children." "that's the time. well, those women and children got on my nerves like anything. you see, out here in rosemont we haven't any real suffering like that. there are poor people, and mother always does what she can for them, and there's a charitable society, as you know, because you all helped with the donnybrook fair they had on st. patrick's day. but the people they help out here are regular rockefellers compared with those poor creatures that your father had in his office that day." "father says he could spend a million dollars a year on those people, and not have a misspent cent," said delia. "what hit me hardest was the thin little children. elisabeth hadn't come to us yet," roger went on, referring to a belgian baby that had been sent to the club to take care of, "and i wasn't so accustomed to thinness as i've grown to be since, and it made me--well, it just made me sick." "i don't wonder," agreed delia seriously. "that's the way they make me feel." "i know what you thought of," exclaimed ethel blue, who was so imaginative and sympathetic that she sometimes had an almost uncanny way of reading peoples' thoughts. "you wanted to bring some of those poor women out into the country so that the children could get well, and you told your grandfather about it and he offered you a house somewhere." "that's about it, kidlet. i heard one of the women say that she'd had a week in the country--some sort of fresh air business--and that the baby got a lot better, and then she had to go back to the city and the little creature was literally dying on her hands." "you want to give them a whole summer," guessed ethel brown. "that's the idea. since i've seen what proper care and good food and fresh air have done for that wretched little skeleton, elisabeth, i'm more than ever convinced that if we can give some of those mothers and babies a whole month or perhaps two months of rosemont air we'll be saving lives, actually saving lives." roger looked about earnestly from one grave face to another. all were in sympathy with him and all waited for the development of his plan, for they knew he would not have laid so much stress upon it if he had not thought out the details. "i've talked it over with grandfather and he rose to it right off. here's where the house comes in. he said he was going to build a new cottage for his farm superintendent this spring--you know it's almost done now--and that we could have the old farm house if we wanted to fix it up for a fresh air scheme." "mr. emerson is a brick. i pull my forelock to him," and tom illustrated his remark. "where's the money to come from?" asked james, who was both of scottish descent and the club treasurer, and so was not only shrewd but accustomed to look after details. "grandfather said he'd help in this way; if the club would study the old house and decide on the best way to make it answer the purpose he would provide two carpenters for a fortnight to help us. that will mean that if we want to do any whitewashing or papering or matters of that kind we'll have to do it ourselves, but the carpenters will put the house in repair and put up any partitions that we want and so on." "is it furnished?" "there's another problem. the superintendent has had his own furniture there and what will be left when he goes is almost nothing. there are some old things in the garret, but we'll have to use our ingenuity and invent furniture." "the way i did for our attic." dorothy reminded them of the room where the club had been meeting ever since its members returned from chautauqua where it had been formed the summer before. "just so. we'll have to make a raid on our mothers' attics and also on the stores in town that have their goods come in big boxes, and i imagine we shall be able to concoct things that will 'do,' though they may be remarkable to look upon." "the mothers and children will be out of doors all the time, so they won't sit around and examine the furniture," laughed delia. "it will be scanty, probably, but if we can get beds enough and a chair apiece, or a substitute for a chair, and a few tables, we can get along." "there's your house provided and furnished after a fashion--how are you going to run it?" inquired helen. "it takes shekels to buy even very plain food in these days of the 'high cost of living," and we've got to give these women and children nourishing food; they can't live on fresh air alone." "praise be, fresh air costs nothing!" "that's one thing we'll get free," laughed roger. "grandfather told me to investigate and see what i could find out about finances and then let him know. so i went in to see mr. watkins." "and never told me," said tom reproachfully. "of course not. all of you people were too sniffy. i told your father what the plan was and what grandfather had said. he thought it was great. he's a corker, your father is." delia and tom looked somewhat startled at this epithet describing their parent, but roger meant it to be complimentary, so they made no remonstrance. "he said right off that he could provide the women and children in any numbers and that he'd select the ones that needed the change most and would be most benefited by it." "it's not hard to find those," murmured delia. "then he said that he had certain funds that he could draw on for such cases and that he'd be just as willing to pay the board for these women and children at rosemont as anywhere else, so that we could depend on a small sum for each one of them from the treasurer of the chapel." "that ought to cover the expense of their food," said helen, "but we'll have to have a housekeeper and a cook." "that's what aunt louise said." "oho, you've been talking with mother about it!" exclaimed dorothy. "i knew the club would come to me sooner or later, it was only a matter of time, so i made ready to answer some of the questions you'd be asking me." they laughed at roger's preparedness, but nodded approvingly. "aunt louise said she'd pay the wages of the cook, and then i toddled off to grandmother emerson and told her i was planning to raid her attic for old furniture, and asked her incidentally if she thought we could run the thing without a housekeeper." "i hope she said 'yes'," exclaimed margaret, who liked to administer a household. "grandmother was very polite; she said she thought the u. s. c. could do anything it set out to do, but that there would be countless odds and ends that would occupy us all summer long--" "like making a continuous stream of furniture!" "and going marketing and doing errands." "and mowing the grass." "and playing games with the kids." "o, a thousand things would crop up; we never could be idle; and so she thought we'd better have a responsible woman as housekeeper. what's more she said she'd pay her." "it wouldn't be polite for me to say about a lady what you said about mr. watkins," said james-- "for which i apologize," declared roger parenthetically. "--but i'd like to remark that she's one of the most reliable grandmothers i ever had anything to do with!" they all laughed again. "where we'll get these two women i don't know," said roger. "my researches stopped there. but i suppose it wouldn't be difficult." "i've heard mother say that the 'responsible woman' was the hardest person on earth to find," said helen, thoughtfully. "but we can all hunt." "i know some one who might do if she'd be willing--and i don't know why she wouldn't," said ethel brown. "who? who? some one in rosemont?" "right here in rosemont. mrs. schuler." "mrs. schuler?" there was a cry of wonder, for mrs. schuler was the teacher of german in the high school. she had been engaged to mr. schuler, who taught singing in the rosemont schools, before the war broke out. mr. schuler was called to the colors and lost a leg in the early part of the war. since he could no longer be useful as a fighter he had been allowed to return to america, and his betrothed had married him at once so that she and her mother, mrs. hindenburg, might nurse him back to health. he had been slowly regaining his strength through the winter, and was now fairly well and as cheerful as his crippled state would permit. "you know i've been to see mrs. hindenburg a good deal ever since we got her to go to the home to teach the old ladies how to knit," said ethel brown. "i know her pretty well now. the other day she told me she had had an application from a family who wanted to board with her this summer, and she was so sorry to have to turn them away because she didn't have enough rooms for them." "i don't see how that helps us any." "you know mr. schuler hasn't been able to take many pupils this winter and i shouldn't wonder if mrs. schuler would be glad to have something to do this summer when school is closed. now if they would go to our fresh air house and take charge there for the summer it would leave mrs. hindenburg with enough space to take in her boarders. she'd be glad, and i should think the schulers would be glad." "and we'd be glad! why, fraulein is the grandest housekeeper," cried helen, using the name that mrs. schuler's old pupils never remembered to change to "frau." "german housekeepers are thrifty and neat and careful--why, she's exactly the person we want. how _great_ of you to think of her, ethel brown!" "you know she wanted to adopt our belgian baby, so i guess she's interested in poor children," volunteered ethel blue. "are our plans far enough along for us to ask her?" inquired margaret. "we ought to ask her as soon as we can, because mrs. hindenburg's plans will be affected by the schulers' decision," helen reminded them. "i think we are far enough along," decided roger. "you see, the idea is new to you, but i've been working at it for a good many months now, and if we all pull together to do our share i know we can depend on the grown-ups to do theirs." "shall we appoint ethel brown to call on mrs. schuler and talk it over with her? she knows her better than the rest of us because she's seen her at home oftener." "madam president, i move that ethel brown be appointed a committee of one to see our teutonic friends and work up their sympathies over the women and children we want to help so that they just can't resist helping too. is your eloquence equal to that strain, ethel?" ethel thought it was, and promised to go the very next afternoon. the discussion turned to the next step to take. "grandfather's superintendent is going to move into the new cottage next week," was roger's news, "so then we can go over the old house and see how it is arranged and decide how we'd like to change it." "and also find out just what furniture is left and draw up a list of what furniture we shall need." "had we better appoint committees for making the different investigations?" inquired tom, who was accustomed to the methods of a city church. "later, perhaps," decided helen. "at first i think we all want to know the whole situation and then we can make our plans to fit, and special people can volunteer for special work if we think it can be done best that way." "it's a great old plan you have there, roger," cried tom, thumping his friend affectionately on the shoulder. "i bow to your giant intellect. we'll do our best to make it a success." chapter ii moya and sheila elisabeth of belgium was walking sturdily now on the legs that had been too weak to uphold her when she first came to rosemont in november. her increasing strength was an increasing delight to all the people who loved her--and there was no one who knew her who did not love her--but her activity obliged her caretakers to be incessantly on the alert. miss merriam, the skilled young woman from the school of mothercraft, who had pulled her through her period of greatest feebleness, now found herself sometimes quite outdone by the energy of her little charge. the ethels were always glad to relieve her of her responsibilities for an hour or two, and it was the afternoon of the day after roger had reported his plan to the club that found the cousins strolling down church street, "ayleesabet" between them, clinging to a finger of each, not to help her stand upright but to serve as a pair of supports from which she might swing herself off the ground. "see! she lifted her whole weight then!" exclaimed ethel blue. "we shall have to give up calling her 'baby' soon. she's becoming an acrobat!" "it's all due to miss merriam. i wish she didn't look so tired the last few days." ethel blue made no reply. she guessed something of the reason that had made miss gertrude appear distressed and silent. a certain note that she herself had placed in a may basket and hung on miss merriam's door might have something to do with her appearance of anxiety. she changed the subject as a measure of precaution, for she had been in the confidence of dr. watkins, the elder brother of tom and delia and a warm admirer of miss merriam's, and she did not want the conversation to run into channels where she might have to answer inconvenient questions. "this scheme of roger's is pretty tremendous," she began by way of introducing a theme in which ethel brown would be sure to be interested. "we--the club, i mean--never has 'fallen down' yet on anything, even some of our 'shows' that we didn't have much time to get up, so we ought to have confidence in ourselves as a club." "with this next undertaking, though, we don't really know how the thing is done." "how to make over the house, you mean?" "how to make over the house and how to run the fresh air settlement when the house is made over." "there's no doubt we'll know more at the end of the summer than we know now! we've got to get information from every source we can." "the way roger has up to now." "we must think of every one we know who has made over a house, and dr. watkins ought to be able to tell us of some people who have had fresh air children staying with them, so we can get some idea about what they need and how a house is managed." "come, come." a chirp rose from near the ground. ayleesabet was tired of being disregarded for so long. "you blessed lamb!" cried ethel blue. "did you say, 'come, come,' just because you heard it? did you think we were talking very learnedly about things we didn't know much about! never mind, ducky daddles, we'll know a lot about them six months from now!" "just the way we've learned a lot about babies in the last six months from this little teacher!" added ethel brown. "come, come. home, home," remarked elisabeth insistently. "what's the matter? are your leggies tired? want the ethels to carry you?" elisabeth made it known that she would like some such method of transportation, and sat joyfully on a "chair" which the two girls made by interclasping their wrists. not for long did this please her ladyship. "down, down," she demanded in a few minutes. "we might as well go home if she's too tired to walk and too restless to ride," decided ethel brown, and they turned about, to the evident pleasure of the baby. as they were returning along church street but were still at a distance from dorothy's house elisabeth suddenly gave a chirrup of delight. the ethels looked about to see the cause of this unexpected expression of joy. crawling out through a hedge on to the sidewalk was a child of about elizabeth's age, but a thin and dirty little mite, with a face that betrayed her race as irish. "what's this morsel doing here all by herself!" exclaimed ethel blue. "she must have run away; or perhaps she isn't alone. let's look about for her mother." up and down the street they looked while elisabeth scraped acquaintance with the sudden arrival upon her path. "it doesn't seem as if she could be far off." in truth she was not far off, for as the girls wondered and exclaimed a weak voice made itself heard from the other side of the hedge. "don't take her away," it said. leaving the children to entertain each other on the sidewalk they enlarged the hole from which the new baby had crawled, and pushed their way through it. on the ground behind the hedge, and hidden from the sidewalk by its thick twigs lay a young woman, so pale that she frightened the girls. "don't take the baby away. i'll feel better in a little while. she crept off from me." "how did you get here?" asked ethel brown. "i came out from new york to look for work in the country. i felt so sick i lay down here." "did you get any work?" a slight movement of the head indicated that she had not. the ethels consulted each other by disturbed glances. there was no hospital nearer than glen point, and indeed, the woman seemed so ill that they did not see how she could reach the hospital even in the trolley. as they stood silent and perplexed the honk of a motor roused the almost unconscious woman. "is the baby in the street?" she inquired frantically. ethel brown crushed her way through the hedge, and found that the children were still on the sidewalk, but were so near its edge that the driver of the car had tooted to warn them back. to her delight she saw that the driver was grandfather emerson. she waved her hand to stop him. "you're a great caretaker!" he cried. "why do you leave elisabeth to look after herself in this fashion? and who's her friend?" ethel climbed into the machine beside him and told of the discovery that the girls had just made. mr. emerson drew the car alongside the curb and jumped out with anxiety written on his face. the hole in the hedge was too small for him to push through so he ran around the end, and approached the prostrate form of the woman. her eyes were closed and she lay so still that ethel blue, who was rubbing her hands, shook her head as she glanced up gratefully at the new arrival. "what's this, what's this?" asked mr. emerson in his full, rich voice. its mere sound seemed to carry comfort to the poor creature lying at his feet. he knelt beside her. "hungry, eh?" he asked. "we'll see about that right off. can you eat these cookies?" he took a thin tin box out of his pocket and opened it. "i have a little granddaughter named ethel brown who insists on my keeping cookies in my pocket all the time so that i can eat them when i'm driving. see if you can take a bite of this." a fluttering hand took the cooky and put it between the pale lips. helped by the girls the woman struggled to her feet and stood wavering before she tried to take a step. she was a young woman with very black hair and gray-blue eyes and a face that was meant to be unlined and pretty and not gaunt with hunger and furrowed by anxiety. "you're very good," she whispered feebly. supported on each side she managed to reach the sidewalk, where she looked about wildly for her baby. an expression that was sad but infinitely relieved came over her features when she saw the two children sitting in the gravel of the walk filling their tiny hands with pebbles. "a cooky won't hurt the baby either," decided mr. emerson, and he gave one to each of the children. the ethels had no chance to ask him what he meant to do without their discovery hearing them, so they helped the woman into the machine, put in the two children and climbed in themselves. to their great interest mr. emerson turned the car about and headed it for his own home. "i wonder what grandmother will say," murmured ethel brown to ethel blue, who was steadying the ill woman's head as it lay against the back of the seat. ethel blue lifted her eyebrows to indicate that she could not guess; but both girls knew in their hearts that mrs. emerson would do what was wisest and for the best good of the strays. she came to the door in answer to the sound of the horn. "how did you get back so soon?" she began to inquire of her husband when her eyes fell on the passengers in the car. "an accident?" she asked anxiously as she ran down the steps. "the girls found this woman and her child part way over here and i thought i'd better bring her on and get your opinion about her. i think she'd like something to eat," and the kind old gentleman smiled in friendly fashion as the woman opened frightened eyes at the sound of a new voice. among them they succeeded in getting her into the house and into a cool room, where she lay exhausted on the bed, her hand holding tight to the little hand of her baby, lying wearily beside her. "sunstroke?" asked grandmother. "hunger," replied mr. emerson, and he and ethel brown went down stairs at once in search of food, while mrs. emerson and ethel blue managed to undress their patient and put her into a fresh nightdress and bathe her face and hands. by the time they had done this and were undressing the baby, ethel brown and mrs. emerson's cook were at the door with jellied broth, milk, gruel and a cooling drink. ethel blue fed the woman, spoonful by spoonful, and ethel brown gave the baby alternate spoonfuls of gruel and milk. "sleepy now?" asked mrs. emerson when the dark head sank back on the pillow. "take a nap, then. see, the baby is right here where you can lay your hand on her. we'll look in now and then and just as soon as you wake up you must take some more food." "must!" repeated the girl, for she was hardly older than miss merriam they saw when her hair was pushed back from her face. "must! 'tis _glad_ i'll be to be doing it!" and a ghost of a smile fluttered her lips. outside of the bedroom door mrs. emerson asked for an explanation and the others for her advice. "i don't see how we can tell what we can do until we pull her through this trouble and find out what the poor soul wants to do herself." "she said she came out from new york to look for work in the country." "then we must find her work in the country. but the first thing for us to attend to is to get her poor body into such a condition that she can work. she's a sweet looking young woman. i'm glad you brought her home, father," and between mr. and mrs. emerson there passed a smile of such understanding as makes beautiful the lives of people long and happily married. chapter iii the farmhouse it took a long time to bring moya murphy and little sheila back to health and strength, but it was only a day or two before moya was able to tell her story to mrs. emerson. she was twenty-five, she said, and she had come to america with her father and mother five years before. the new world had not given a warm welcome to the new arrivals, for both of the parents had fallen ill with pneumonia only a few weeks after they landed, and both died within a few days of each other. moya, left alone and grieving, had soon after married patrick murphy, a lad she had known in the old country. a happy life they led, especially after little sheila came to bless them. when the declaration of war in europe upset business conditions in america, patrick lost his "job" and all summer long he walked the streets, working for a day now and then, but never securing a permanent position, and always growing weaker and less able to work because he was underfed. the little three-room flat that had been such a joy to them, had long been given up and they lived and ate and slept in one room, and thanked their stars that they had a landlord who did not insist on being paid regularly, as did some they knew about who put their tenants out on the street if the rent was not forthcoming promptly. "somehow it's the sudden things that happens to me," said moya to mrs. emerson. she was sitting on the latticed back porch of the emersons' house, her fingers busy shelling peas for kate, the old cook who had lived with mrs. emerson ever since she was married. "patrick was crossing the street--'tis only six weeks ago, but it seems years! an automobile with one of the shrieking horns screamed at him. 'twas the policeman on the crossing told me. patrick was light on his feet always, but that was when he had enough to eat ivery day. he thried to jump back and his foot slipped and he fell under the car and it killed him." she sobbed and mrs. emerson and kate wiped their eyes. "two days it was before i knew it; there was nothing on his clothes to tell who he was, and i only found out when he didn't come home and i went to the police and they took me to the morgue and there he lay. they gave me twenty dollars--the policemen did. they collected it among themselves." "didn't they arrest the driver of the car?" "'twas a light car and it sped away before any one saw the number." kate flanigan gave a grunt of disgust at the brutality of the driver. "i gave the landlord half the money the policemen gave me. i owed it for the rint. then i set out to hunt work. ivery day i walked and walked and ivery day i carried the baby, for where could i leave her? nobody wanted a girl who wasn't trained to do anything, and even if i had been able to do something well they wanted no baby. there's no room for babies when you have to work," she said bitterly. "i want you to feel that you are safe here, you and sheila," said mrs. emerson gently. "mrs. morton and mrs. smith and i have been talking it over with kate, and this is what we've planned, provided you agree." moya gathered up her baby jealously in her lap. "it will keep you and sheila together," said mrs. emerson quickly, noticing her gesture, and smiling approvingly as moya at once let the child slide off her lap on to the floor where she sat contentedly playing with some of the pods of the peas that had fallen from the pan. "perhaps kate has told you that we are planning to have some women and children who need country air come out from new york this summer and live in a farmhouse that we have on the place here." moya nodded. "she did." "we need a cook. we are going to give them simple food, but nourishing and well cooked." "if it's me you're thinking of for the cooking, ma'am, i'm a poor cook beyond potaties and stew." "you never were taught to cook?" "taught? no, ma'am. i picked up what little i know from me mother. 'tis simple enough, but too simple for what you need." "if you'll try to learn, here's what we've planned. kate needs a helper. not because she isn't strong and hearty, but because mr. emerson and i want her to have a little more time for pleasure than she has had for a good many years. she won't take a real vacation, so we are going to give her a partial vacation." "me being the helper?" inquired moya, her thin face lighting. "more than the helper. kate has agreed to teach you how to cook all the dishes that it will be necessary to cook for the women and children this summer. you couldn't have a better teacher." "i'm sure of it," answered the young woman, turning gratefully to kate. "i'll do my very best." "you shall have a room for yourself and the baby, and wages," and she named a sum that made moya's eyes burn. "i'm not worth that yet," she cried, "but i know you'll need me to dress respectable, so i'll not refuse it and i'll get some decent things for the baby and mesilf!" "if kate finds that you take hold well she'll teach you more elaborate cooking. there's always a place waiting somewhere for a good cook, and here's your chance to learn to be a really excellent cook." so the problem of obtaining a cook was settled without trouble, and as ethel brown found mrs. schuler not only ready but eager to act as matron, two of the possible difficulties seemed to have proved themselves no difficulties at all. chapter iv plans the work of the carpenters filled in very acceptably the time when the members of the club were toiling at school. a visit of inspection toward the end of june gave the onlookers the greatest satisfaction. "everything is as fine as a fiddle!" exclaimed roger as they all stopped in one of the upstairs rooms. "now it's up to us to do the papering and painting and to concoct some furniture." so it was decided that all the bedrooms should have white paint and walls of delicate hues and that mrs. schuler's office should be pink with white paint and white curtains at the windows. "we can get very pretty papers for ten cents a roll," said margaret. "i saw some beauties when i went to the paperers to get some flowery papers for james to cut out when he was pasting decorations on to our christmas ship boxes." "are you going to use wall paper?" asked miss merriam quickly. "aren't we?" inquired margaret. "it didn't occur to me that there was anything else. there is paper on the walls now." "it's a lot more sanitary to have the walls kalsomined, i know that," said james in a superior tone. "haven't you heard father say so a dozen times?" "i suppose i have, now i think about it," replied margaret. "it stands to reason that there would be less chance for germs to hide." "do you suppose these old walls are in good enough condition to go uncovered?" asked roger, passing his hand over a suspicious bulge that forced the paper out, and casting his eye at the ceiling which was veined with hair cracks. "probably the walls will not be in the pink of condition," returned mrs. morton; "but, even so, color-washing will be better than papering." "we can go over them and fill up the cracks," suggested tom, "and we can whitewash the ceilings." "that's what i should advise," said miss merriam. "put the walls and ceilings in as good condition as you can, and then put on your wash. kalsomining is rather expensive, but there are plenty of color washes now that any one can put on who can wield a whitewash brush." "me for the whitewash brush at an early date," roger sang gayly. "what do you suggest for these upstairs floors, miss merriam? grandfather thought they weren't bad enough to have new ones laid, but they do look rather rocky, don't they?" he cast a disparaging glance at the boards under his feet, and waited for help. "were you planning to paint them?" "yes," roger nodded. "then you ought to putty up the cracks first. that will make them smooth enough. they're not really rough, you see. it's the spaces between the planks that make them seem so." "that's easily done. we thought we'd paint these old floors and stain the new ones down stairs." "i'd do that. paint these floors tan or gray, if you want them to confess frankly that they're painted floors, or the shade of some wood if you want to pretend that they're hard wood floors." james moved uneasily. roger guessed the reason. "what's the matter, old man? treasury low?" "it always is," answered james uncomfortably. "how are we going to fill it?" "that's what i've been thinking," ethel brown said meditatively. "it's time we did something to earn something." "everybody i've sold cookies to all winter seems to have stopped eating them," complained ethel brown. "i'm thinking of getting up a cooky sale to relieve my financial distress." "there's an idea," cried tom. "why can't we have a cooky sale--with a few other things thrown in--and use the proceeds for the decoration and furnishing of rose house?" "we've had so many entertainments; can we do anything different enough for the rosemonters to be willing to come?" "and spend?" "i think the rosemonters have great confidence in our getting up something new and interesting; ditto the glen pointers," insisted margaret who lived at glen point and knew the opinions of her neighbors. "where could we have it--_it_ meaning our sale or whatever we decide to have?" "why not have it here? let's wait until the boys have the house all painted and whitewashed and colorwashed so it looks as fresh as possible, and then tell the town what it is we are trying to do this summer, and ask them over here to see what it looks like." "good enough. when they see that it's good as far as it goes, but that our fresh air people will be mighty uncomfortable if they don't have some beds to sleep in and a few other trifles of every day use, they'll buy whatever we have to sell. that's the way it seems to me," and roger threw himself down on the grass before the front door with an air of having said the final word. "let's ask the people of _rose_mont to come to _rose_ house to a _rose_ fête," cried ethel blue, while every one of her hearers waved his handkerchief at the suggestion. "i'll draw a poster with the announcement on it," she went on, "and we can have it printed on pink paper and the boys can go round on their bicycles and distribute them at every house." "we must have everything pink, of course. pink ice cream and cakes with pink icing--" "and pink strawberries--" "not green ones! no, sir!" "and watermelons if we can get some that won't make too much trouble for dr. hancock." "how are we going to serve them? we can't bring china way out here--and we won't have any for rose house until after we give this party to earn it!" "they have paper plates with pretty patterns on them now. and if they cost too much we might get the plain ones and lay a d'oyley of pink paper on each one," suggested margaret. "probably that will be the cheapest and the effect will be just as good, but i'll find out the prices in town," promised delia. "i have a scheme for a table of fancy things," offered dorothy. "let's have it under that tree over there and over it let's hang a huge rose. i think i know how to make it--two hoops, the kind dicky rolls, one above the other, the smaller one on top, and both suspended from the tree. cover them inside and out with big pink paper petals." "how are you going to make it look like a rose and not a pink bell?" inquired delia. "put a green calyx on the top and some yellow stamens inside and then make a stem that will look like the real thing, only gigantic." "how will you manage that?" "do you remember those wild grape vines that helen and ethel brown found in the west woods and used for hallowe'en decorations? if we could get a thick one and wind it with green paper and let it curve from the rose toward the ground it ought to look like a real stem." "we could hang the rose with dark string that wouldn't show, and fasten the stem to the branch of the tree with a pink bow. it would look as if some giant had tied it there for his ladylove." "i have an old pink sash i'll contribute to the good cause," laughed helen. "i've been wondering what to do with it for some time." "everything on the table must be pink and shaped like a rose or decorated with roses--cushions, pen-wipers, baskets, stencilled bureau sets--there are a thousand things to be made." "boxes covered with rose paper," suggested james solemnly. everybody shouted, for james's imagination always seemed to be stimulated whenever he saw a chance to make something with paste-pot and brush. "how about music?" this question brought silence, for it was not easy to arrange for music in the open. "i wish edward and his violin were here," said delia, referring to her brother, dr. watkins, who had recently gone to oklahoma to assist an older physician in a flourishing town there. he had been very attentive to miss merriam and she was annoyed to find herself blushing at the mention of his name. ethel blue, who had been in his confidence, was the only one of the young people who glanced at her, however, so her annoyance passed unnoticed. "he isn't, and a piano is out of the question. i wonder, if greg patton would bring his fiddle?" "why didn't we think of him before! he and some of the other high school boys have been getting up a little orchestra; i shouldn't wonder a bit if they'd be glad to help--glad of the experience of playing in public." "we haven't got to make oceans of paper roses, this time," remarked ethel brown gratefully. "nature is doing the work for us." she waved her hand at the clump of bushes which was to conceal dorothy's fortune telling operations, and which was pink with blossoms. "our bushes at home are loaded down with them, too," said margaret. "everybody's are, so i don't suppose it would be worth while to have a flower table." "there's no harm in trying. we could say on the poster that exceptionally choice roses will be on exhibition and sale and--and why couldn't we take orders for the bushes? use the beauties for samples and if people like them, get roots from the bushes they came from and supply them the next day!" ethel blue was quite breathless with the force of this suggestion and the others applauded it. "just as i think of ethel blue as all imagination and dreams she comes out with something practical like that and i have to study her all over again," said roger, observing his cousin with his head on one side. ethel blue threw a leaf at him which he dodged with exaggerated fear. they decided to have the rose fête just as soon as the boys put the house into presentable condition, and then the girls separated, ethel brown and dorothy to see mr. emerson about securing the boxes, helen and margaret to measure the windows for curtains, delia and ethel blue to work out the design for converting ordinary chinese lanterns into roses which they had thought of as lending a charm to the veranda and the lawn after the sun went down, and the boys to calculate the quantities of putty and paint and color-wash, based on information given roger by the local painter and decorator, who was quite willing to help with advice when he found that there was no chance of his own services being called into play. chapter v the rose fÃ�te the united service club had made so good a name for itself in rosemont during the few months of its existence that when ethel blue's posters brought to their doors the news that the u. s. c. was to give a rose fête at rose house the townspeople were eager to know what attraction the members had devised. the schools were still in session so the ethels and dorothy at the graded school and helen and roger and the orchestra boys at the high school made themselves into an advertising band and told everybody all about the purpose of the festival. the scholars carried the information home, and there were few houses in rosemont where it was not known that mr. emerson's old farmhouse was to be turned into a summer home for weary mothers and ailing babies. helen and margaret, after consulting with their mothers and mrs. smith and mrs. emerson, had decided that a cot or single bed and two cribs ought to go in each bedroom except moya's, where one crib would be enough. this meant that five beds and nine cribs must be provided, and the number made the girls look serious as they calculated the probable proceeds of the rose fête and subtracted from them the amount that they would have to pay the local furniture dealer, even though he, being a public spirited and charitable man, offered them a discount. for a day or two they went about in a state of depression, for they had hoped to be able to supply the furnishings without making any appeal to the grownups. thanks to dorothy they could discount any expense for bureaus and desks and tables, but their ambition did not soar to constructing bedsteads; these had to be bought or given. it became evident after a number of householders had inquired how they could help, that there was a chance that the u. s. c. treasury might not be reduced after all by the purchase of beds. when one lady was informed by helen of their schemes for filling the rooms--how the carpenters had provided them with a table that would do for the dining-room and how shelves innumerable were to do duty for innumerable purposes,--and she had added ruefully, "but we can't make very good beds, and we do want the women to sleep well, poor things. we've got to buy those--" she had cried, "why, i have a cot in my attic that i should be _delighted_ to let you have, and my daughter's little boy has outgrown his crib and i'm sure she'll contribute that." a week before the fête, however, they had been promised all the bedsteads they needed--though some lacked springs, some mattresses, and almost all were without pillows--four cribs, half a dozen chairs and two high chairs, and a collection of odd pieces. helen refused nothing but double beds; there was not space enough for those in a bedroom with three people in it; it would seem to the women too much like the crowded tenements they came from, she thought. miss merriam objected also, on the ground that it was not well for babies to sleep with grown people. "what do you think of this plan?" ethel brown asked her mother after the girls had made a careful list of their gifts. "we did think that if we didn't have a stick in the house the people would be interested in helping us because of our poverty. we've found out that they are awfully interested even without seeing the house. do you think it would be a good scheme to put into the rooms the things we have ready and to fasten on the door a notice saying 'this room needs' and under that a list of what is lacking? don't you think some of them would say, 'i've got an extra cushion at home that would do for a pillow here; i'll send it over'; or 'don't you remember that three legged chair that used to be in joe's room? i believe these children can mend it and paint it to look well enough for this room'?" "ethel brown, you're running ethel blue hard in the line of ideas!" cried roger admiringly from a position at the door which he had taken as he passed through the hall and heard discussion going on. "it's a capital idea," agreed mrs. morton. "you'd better ask grandfather again for a wagon and go around and collect the things that have been promised. you don't want to bother people to send them over themselves." every one worked with vigor during the last few days before the festival, for the renovating of old furniture takes more time than any one ever expects it to. the results were so satisfactory, however, that neither the boys nor the girls gave a thought to their tired hands and backs when evening brought them release from their labors. the great day was clear, and, for the last of june, cool. every plan worked out well and every helper appeared at the moment he was wanted. the box seats and tables, superintended by ethel brown and served by half a dozen friends all wearing white dresses and pink aprons, bloomed rosily on the veranda. under the large rose delia and ethel blue, dressed in pink, sold fancy articles. dorothy, sitting "under the rose" in the rose jungle, and dressed like a moss rose, with a filmy green tunic draping her pink frock, described brilliant futures to laughing inquirers. margaret, dressed to represent the yellow scottish roses, sold flowers from the ethels' garden and took orders for rose bushes. the boys were everywhere, opening ice cream tubs for moya in the background, guiding would-be players to the tennis court and the croquet ground, and directing new arrivals where to tie their horses and park their motors. every member of the club was provided with a small notebook wherein to jot down any bit of advice that was offered and seemed profitable or to record any offer of fittings that might be made. helen took no regular duty, leaving herself free to go over the house with any one who wanted to know the club's plans, and she had more frequent need than any of the others to use her book. ethel brown's scheme had been followed. on the door of each room was posted a list of articles needed to complete the furnishing of that room. "they certainly aren't greedy!" exclaimed one matron after reading the notice. "this says that this room is complete except for bed clothing." she waved her hand around with some scorn. helen dimpled with amusement. "we thought we'd make one room as nearly complete as we could," she explained. "you see this has a bed, two cribs, a looking-glass, and shelves as substitutes for a washstand and a closet and a table and a bureau. "there are no chairs, child!" "these two boxes are the chairs. we had a few chairs given us but they'll be needed down stairs. we think they'll have more exercise than any chairs ever had before. they'll be used in the dining-room for breakfast, and then they'll be moved to the veranda to spend the morning, and in they'll come again for dinner and out they'll go for the afternoon, and in for supper, and after supper they'll be moved into the hall which is to serve as the sitting room!" helen's hearer pressed her hand to her head. "you make me positively dizzy!" she exclaimed. "at any rate i'd like to make this room complete according to your notions, so i'll send you some sheets and pillow cases and blankets and a spread if you'll allow me." "we'll be glad to have them," accepted helen, beaming. "roger will call for them if that will be more convenient for you," and she made a note of the gift and the time when it should be sent after. other women remembered as they examined the door lists that they had a mattress that could be spared, or a pillow or two or a pair of summer blankets. "what are you going to do for ornaments," asked another. helen laughed. "james hancock has an idea for decorating the walls so that they'll interest the babies, and we're going to have fresh cheese-cloth curtains at all the windows, but that's the end of our possibilities." "i have several bureau scarves that are in good condition but they have been washed so many times that they're a little faded. if you'd like those--?" she ended with an upward inflection. "we would," replied helen promptly. "could you use some prints of pictures--good paintings?" inquired yet another, a person whose taste helen knew could be trusted. "we'd be glad of them. we can frame them in passepartout. we'd be especially glad of madonnas." "that's just what i was going to offer you. a club i once belonged to studied celebrated paintings of madonnas one winter and i made this collection. many of them are only penny prints and some are cut from magazines--". "they're perfectly good for us," helen reassured her, and made another note in her book. most of the visitors went home with the falling dark, but some stayed to see the rose lanterns lighted, and others, who had not been able to come in the afternoon, drove or walked out from town in the evening and were served with ice cream and strawberries from a supply that had been wonderfully well calculated. "let us have just a week to spend this money and to make up the sheets and pillow cases and curtains and you can tell mr. watkins to send out the women," helen announced triumphantly to delia. "i'm going to spend the week with margaret so i can come over with her every day and help," returned smiling delia. "then we shan't need a whole week. when you go home to-night please ask your father to be making his selection--four mothers with two children apiece. you and tom can escort them out on the tuesday after fourth of july." chapter vi furniture making it did not take the women long to adjust themselves to life at rose house, and as for the children, they loved it from the first. it was a great international gathering that was sheltered on the old farm. mrs. schuler was german; moya, irish. mrs. peterson, a swede, occupied the rooster room with her baby and her flaxen-haired daughter of three; mrs. paterno, an italian, found good pasturage among the cows of the violet room for her black-eyed boys of two and four; mrs. tsanoff, a bulgarian, told the matron that her twin girl babies were too young to pay attention to the kittens on the curtains of the yellow room; while mrs. vereshchagin, a russian, discovered that the puppies of the blue room were a great help to her in holding the attention of her boys of three and five when she was putting them to bed. mrs. schuler shook her head doubtfully when she took down their names and nationalities in her notebook on the day of their arrival. "if we get through the summer without quarrels over the war it will be a miracle!" she exclaimed to her husband. but she found that the poor creatures were too weary, too sad, too physically crushed to have spirit enough left to fight any battles, even those of words. with almost every one of them there had been a tragedy such as often comes to the immigrants who reach the united states equipped for success only with strong muscles--a tragedy of wasted hope and broken courage and failing vigor if not of death. mrs. paterno was the only one of them who could sympathize with moya's widowhood; her husband had seen the black hand death sign a few months before, had disregarded it and had been stabbed in the back one night as he came home from his work. conversation was not carried on fluently among them. they met on the common ground of english, but not one of them could speak it well, each one translated phrases of her own tongue quite literally, and the meaning of the whole talk was largely a matter of guesswork. what they did understand was nature's language of motherhood. they were content to sit for hours on the veranda or in the grove or behind the house, preparing vegetables for moya, chattering about their babies and explaining their meaning by gestures that seemed to be perfectly understood. the women had daily duties to perform according to a schedule worked out by mrs. schuler, who apportioned to each a share of the general work of the house in addition to the care of her own room and the washing for herself and her children. with so many fingers flying the tasks were soon done, and then they sat on the porch or in the grove among the sweet-smelling pines, or walked in the pasture or up and down the lane leading to the main road. once in a while they went to rosemont, but for the most part they were too languid to care to walk far and too glad of the change and the rest and quiet to want to weary themselves unnecessarily. the boys had built a platform across the back of the house, and it was here that they did their carpentry, an awning sheltering them from the sun or rain. a cupboard at one end held their tools, and their partly finished articles were neatly stacked in a corner. as they got out their tools now james made a confession. "to tell you the honest, unvarnished truth, i'm tired of making chairs. it seems as if we'd never have enough." "it takes an awful lot to furnish a house," commented roger wisely, "and you know we had very few given us so if we want enough we have to make them." "we've got all the chairs you've done upholstered all they're going to be," said ethel brown. "why can't ethel blue and i each make a high chair?" "no reason at all," agreed roger quickly. "you've watched james and me and seen our really superior workmanship; imitate it, my child!" the girls were already turning over the boys' supply of boxes to select those suitable for the chairs for the children. they took four that had held lemons or other fruit and were tall and narrow when stood on end. the boards they were made of were very light but quite solid enough to hold the weight of a small child. to make it firm upon the ground, however, they sawed a piece of heavy plank a little larger than the end upon which the box was to stand and nailed it on from the inside. when the high chair was done the boys complimented their co-workers on the success of their first experiment. "i hardly could have done it better myself," said roger grandly. all the high chairs were covered with blue and white cretonne to match the blue and white of the dining room and the girls set to work to tack on the outside covering and to cut out the covers of the small cushions that were to make the seat and back comfortable. the cushions themselves they had made from ticking filled with excelsior when they had calculated the number of high chairs they must have. the boys, meanwhile were constructing two chairs of quite different build. one was a heavy chair for the hall or the veranda, its original condition being a packing box a foot and a half deep, about twenty inches wide and three or four feet long. this also was set on end, and the other end and the cover were laid aside to be used in making the seat and in shutting in the openings below the seat. "how are you going to fasten that seat so it won't let the sitter down on the floor?" inquired ethel blue, as james explained what he was going to do. "do you see these cleats, ma'am? these are each a foot long. i nail one of these standing up straight at each edge of the sides and the back--six of them altogether. then i lay three other cleats across their tops--thusly." "o, you've made a sort of framework that will support the seat! i get that!" exclaimed ethel blue. "all you have to do now is to nail your seat boards on to those horizontal cleats and it's as firm as firm can be." "aren't you going to do something with those sides--those arms, or whatever you call them?" inquired ethel brown. "they seem sharp and uncomfortable and in the way to me." both boys studied the chair seriously before answering. then they took a pencil and paper and consulted. "i should think it would look pretty well to cut out a right angle on each aide," suggested james. "that would leave a sort of wing effect like a hall porter's chair, only not so high, and at the same time it would make an arm to rest your elbow on. how does that strike you ?" roger nodded. "it hits me all right. i was thinking of a curve instead of a right angle, but the right angle will be easier to make. go ahead." so the right angle was decided on and james proceeded to cut it. roger, meanwhile, had been sorting out the wood he needed for a chair of another pattern. "i wish dorothy would heave in sight," he growled as he piled some half inch thick strips in one heap. "she told me she'd tell me all she knew about chair legs when i reached this stage of proceedings." "she will," answered a cheerful voice, and gray-eyed dorothy appeared from the house. "i felt in my bones that you'd be beginning this lot this afternoon, so i ambled over to see if i could help in any way." "keep right on ambling till you reach this end of the platform and tell me whether you said that chair legs could be made of this stripping or whether i'll have to get solid pieces, square-ended, you know, joist or scantling or whatever it's called." "strips will do, only you'll have to use two for each leg. nail them together at right angles. it will make a two-sided leg, but it will be plenty strong enough, though perhaps not truly handsome." "if handsomeness means solidity--no. still, they'll do. can you give me the lengths for these strips?" and roger waved his saw at his cousin as if he were so impatient to begin that he could not wait to study out the lengths for himself. "for the one i made for the attic," replied his cousin, "i cut four strips each two inches wide and twenty-one inches long for the front legs and four strips each two inches wide and twenty-five inches long for the back legs. then there were two two-inch strips seventeen inches long to go under the seat to strengthen it front and back, and two two-inch strips each thirteen inches long to go under the seat and strengthen it on the sides. that's all the stock you need except the box." "i suppose you've got a particular box in mind to fit those sizes." "those sizes fit the box, rather. yes, i got a grocery box that was about eighteen inches long and thirteen wide and eleven deep. i saw one here just like it before i gave you those measurements, so you can go ahead sawing while i pull off one side of the box--the cover has gone already but we don't need it." quiet reigned for a few minutes while they all worked briskly. "now i'm ready to put this superb article together," announced roger. "how high from the ground does the seat go?" "nail your cleats across with their top edges fifteen inches from the ground and nail the bottom of the box on to the cleats. see how these two-sided legs protect the edges of the box as well as make it decent looking?" "so they do," admitted roger. "they aren't so bad after all." "i think those sides are going to be too high," decided dorothy after examining the chair carefully and sitting down in it. "don't you think it pushes your elbows up too high?" roger tried it and thought it did. "suppose you saw those sides down about five inches." roger obeyed and dorothy tried the chair again and pronounced it much improved. "it's comfy enough now, but these arms don't look very well, and they'd be liable to tear your sleeves," she said. "let's put on some strip covers. they'll give a finish to the whole thing, and hide the end of the two-sided legs and be smooth." "plenty of reason for having them. how many inches?" "twelve," answered dorothy after measuring. "the top of the back needs a strip cover, too. cut another nineteen inches long. there, _i_ think that's not such a bad looking chair!'" "do you want cushions for those chairs?" inquired ethel brown, appearing at the door with a piece of cretonne in her hand. "we've got material enough for at least seat cushions for both of them." "they'll be lots more comfy," admitted james, "if the excelsior crop is still holding out." "it is. i'll make them right off, and ethel blue can help you out there." she retired from view and sent out her cousin, and until the sun set the two boys and dorothy and ethel measured and sawed and nailed, with results that satisfied them so well that they did not mind being tired. chapter vii trouble at rose house "if it weren't that i could come out here and see you every day or so i should be wild to get back to work in oklahoma." edward watkins was the speaker. he and miss merriam were walking through a wooded path that ran from rosemont to rose house. the day was warm and the shade of the trees was grateful. "how is your patient?" asked gertrude. "getting on very well, but the doctors won't let him travel yet." "have you heard lately from your doctor in oklahoma?" "i hear about every day! i was with him just long enough for him to find that i was useful and he's wild to have me there again. i wired him that i'm ready to go, but that the sick man is nervous about making the return trip alone. of course he wants to keep on the good side of a good patient, so he answered, 'stay on'." "are you able to do anything for your patient? he's still in the hospital, isn't he?" "i go there every day and he sends me on errands all over town. i'm getting to know almost as much about oil as i do about medicine! but i'm rather tired of playing errand boy." "you have a chance to see your family." "and you. but i'm supposed to stay at the hotel, much to mother's disgust. i'm doing a little medical inspection among father's poor people, though. that whiles away a few hours every day, and of course, every time i go to the hospital the doctors there tell me about any interesting new cases, so i'm not 'going stale' entirely." "as if you could!" exclaimed gertrude admiringly. "you're just storing up ideas and information to startle the oklahoman natives with." "the 'natives' in oklahoma are all too young to be startled," laughed edward, "but of course i'm stowing away everything new i hear about methods of treatment and operations and so on to tell dr. billings when i get back. now let me hear what you've been doing. how are these kiddies at rose house?" "i want you to look them over and talk with the mothers. dr. hancock comes over when we send for him, but all these people are so delicate that i feel that they ought to have a physician's eye on them all the time." "they have you pretty often, don't they?" "i go over every day either in the morning or the afternoon, and i give them advice about the babies, and teach them and moya how to prepare their food, but they do such strange things that you can't forestall because you never had the wildest idea that any woman in her senses would treat a baby so." edward laughed. "russian and bulgarian peasant customs, i suppose. i never shall forget the first time i saw a two-day old negro baby sucking a bit of fat bacon. i nearly had a chill." "didn't the child have a chill?" "not the slightest! if they get ahead of you with some pleasing little trick like that you can console yourself with the thought that generally there is some basis of old-time experience that has shown it to be not so harmful as we are apt to think." "i've done enough tenement house work to know that the babies certainly survive extraordinary treatment, but these babies here are so delicate that they ought to have the most careful diet. most of them need real nursing." "do you think your talks are making any impressions on the mothers?" "sometimes mrs. schuler and i think so, and just then it almost always happens that one of them does something totally unexpected that gives our hopes a terrible blow." "let's trust that this is a good day; i'd rather talk to you than work over a case this fine afternoon." gertrude smiled at his tone and they walked on in silence out of the wood and across the brook and down the lane that brought them to the back of rose house where the club boys and girls were busy making a piece of furniture of some sort. mrs. schuler was talking to moya in the kitchen. "i've brought dr. watkins to see everybody," announced miss merriam gayly. "where are they all?" "the ones who are at home are up in the pine grove, but moya has just told me that mrs. paterno and her older boy and mrs. tsanoff and one of the twins have gone to town." "walked?" "walked by the road on this scorching day!" miss merriam turned to the doctor. "this is one of the unexpected events we were just talking about. little paterno is four and too large for that little woman to carry, and far too small and weak to take that long walk on his own legs even on a more suitable day than this, and the tsanoff twins are just holding on to life by the tips of their fingers!" she sat down in despair. dr. watkins looked serious. "is there any way of heading them off or bringing them back. can we reach them anywhere by telephone?" "no one knows where they can have gone. it seems it must have been about an hour and a half ago that they started and i should think they'd be back before long if they're able to come back--" "--under their own steam!" finished the doctor with a doubtful smile. "let's go to the grove and see the women and children there and perhaps the others will be in sight by the time you've finished your examination." they turned toward the pines whose thick needles cast a heavy shade upon the ground and gave forth a delicious fragrance under the rays of the sun. as they disappeared mrs. schuler went out on the platform where the carpentering operations were going on. "i'm so disturbed about those women," she said, "i've come to see what you're doing to divert my mind from them." "we're going to make two of these seats, one for your office and the other for the veranda," said ethel brown, standing erect and putting a hand upon her weary back. the rest of the young carpenters stopped their work and wiped their perspiring foreheads while they explained the construction of the piece of furniture to their friend. "this long narrow box is the seat, you see. it's a shoe case, and it's just the right height for comfort. roger has put hinges on the cover, so you can use it for a chest and keep rugs and cushions inside." "that's about as simple as it could be. does it take all of you to help roger do that?" "o, that's only a part of the entire affair. we're making these two sets of shelves to go at the ends of the seat." "i see. a great light breaks on me!" "they're to be fastened to the ends of the seat." "not for keeps. that's ethel blue's patent. she said it would be awkward to move about if it were all built together, so we're making it in three parts, and we're going to lock them together with hooks and screw eyes." "that is clever! then if you want to you can use these sets of shelves for little bookcases in another room or you can fasten on one of them and not the other." "ethel blue and i thought we'd make pink cushions for your office if you'd like them." "i think they'd be charming. that pink room raises my spirits when--" "--when you get _blue_?" suggested roger. "i'll have to go there now to get revived if those women who walked to town don't turn up soon," and the matron went to the corner of the house whence she could see the lane that led from the road. "if they come home ill i'll have to ask you to make two bed trays," she suggested as she peered across the grass. "how do you make them?" "ask ethel blue." "merely put legs on a light board so that the weight of the plates will be lifted from the sick person's legs as he sits up in bed." "what's to prevent the plates sliding off?" "nothing if he's much of a kicker, i should say," laughed roger; "but you could put a little fence an inch or two high at the back and sides and keep them on board." "you'd better begin them right off," said mrs. schuler dryly, "for here they come." she disappeared around the corner and the young people followed to see what was the matter. trouble there was in very truth. mrs. paterno led the way stumbling and running. her face was flushed a deep, threatening crimson and her breath came fast. by the arm she held little pietro, who from exhaustion had ceased to scream and merely gave a gulping moan when the gravel scraped his bare knees as his mother jerked him along regardless of whether he was on his feet or whether she dragged him. behind them at some distance came mrs. tsanoff carrying her baby in her arms--one of the twins that always seemed to be merely "holding on to life by the tips of its fingers," to use gertrude's expression, and now seemed to have lost even that frail hold. it lay in its mother's arms white and with its eyes closed. mrs. schuler ran to meet the italian woman and lifted the worn child into her arms where he sank against her shoulder as if in a faint. "run up in the grove and get dr. watkins and miss gertrude," helen said to roger. "ask them quietly to come here. don't frighten the women." roger dashed away, his swift feet slowing to a walk as he neared the bit of woods where he delivered his message in an undertone. ethel blue meanwhile, had rushed into the house to tell moya to heat plenty of water and to crack some ice, and margaret had opened mrs. schuler's closet of simple remedies and found the bottle of aromatic spirits of ammonia. ethel brown and james ran to meet mrs. tsanoff, ethel taking the baby from her and james steadying her shaking steps by a stout arm under her elbow. as dr. watkins ran around the corner of the house he came upon helen trying to help mrs. paterno, who was pushing her away with both hands, while she kept looking over her shoulder and screaming hysterically. edward seized her hands and commanded her attention at once by speaking to her in italian. although she did not know him she responded to his command to tell him of what she was afraid, and poured out a story of terror. "_mano, nera, mano nera_--the black hand," she repeated over and over again, and edward, who had heard her history, realized that something she had seen had set her mind in the old train of thought. while miss merriam attended to the children he calmed the woman and then turned her over to mrs. schuler with instructions to put her to bed in a darkened room and to see that some one stayed with her or just outside her door. fortunately for the doctor his experience with the people among whom his father worked in his east side chapel had given him a smattering of many languages and he was able to make out from mrs. tsanoff, although her fright and fatigue had made her forget almost all the english she knew, what had terrified her companion. they had gone to the stationery shop of the englishman who also sold ice cream and soda, she said, and they had had each a glass of soda and the children had each had an ice cream cone. edward groaned and over his shoulder directed delia to run and tell miss merriam that both babies had had ice cream cones. "it will help her to know what to do until i come," he explained. just as they were coming out of the store a dark man who looked like an italian had passed them. so far as she noticed he had paid no attention to them, but mrs. paterno had seized her arm, pointing after him, and then had picked up pietro and started to run toward home. neither far nor fast could she go in such heat with such a burden and the poor little chap was soon tossed down and forced to run with giant strides all the rest of the eternal mile that stretched between rosemont and rose house. mrs. tsanoff herself had followed as fast as she could because she was afraid that something, she knew not what, would happen to her friend. she, too, was sent to bed, with moya standing over her to lay cool compresses on her eyes, to sponge her wrists and ankles with cool water and to lay an occasional bit of cracked ice on her parched lips. the condition of the two children was pitiable. the heat, the sudden chill from the ice cream and the terrible homeward rush sent them both so nearly into a collapse that the doctor, mrs. schuler and miss merriam worked over them all night, resting only when dr. hancock, who had heard the story from james and margaret and came up to see the state of affairs, relieved them for an hour. "how are we ever going to teach them the madness of such behavior?" gertrude asked wearily as dr. watkins insisted that she and mrs. schuler should go to bed as the dawn broke. "the poor little italian woman is almost mad already, thanks to this black hand business. it will take her a long time to recover her balance, but i think i can teach the others a lesson from this experience of their friends. wait till to-morrow comes and hear me talk five languages at once," he promised cheerfully as he turned her over to mrs. schuler. chapter viii some entertainment the escapade of the italian and bulgarian women played havoc with the calm of rose house for several days. the women themselves had narrow escapes from illness and the children were so seriously ill that a trained nurse had to be sent up from the glen point hospital, as neither miss merriam nor mrs. schuler could undertake nursing in addition to their other work. when all was well again miss merriam redoubled her efforts to teach the women something of proper care of their children and themselves, and, with the help of dr. watkins's knowledge of languages, she began to hope that she was making some progress. mrs. tsanoff and mrs. peterson, who had little babies, were taught to modify milk for them, the dangers of giving small children foods unsuited to their age was talked about now with the recent experience to point the moral; and ways of keeping well in hot weather were explained and listened to with interest. substitutes for meat were discussed earnestly, chiefly on account of the high cost of living but also because meat was declared to be far too heating for warm weather use. each of the women knew of some dish which took the place of meat and she was glad to tell the others about it. mrs. paterno knew very well that cheese is one of the best substitutes for meat that there is. "americans eat cheesa after meata; then sick," she declared with truth. her receipt for a risotto moya wrote down in the blank book in which she was collecting recipes and mrs. paterno beamed when it came onto the table. chiefly for the purpose of giving the little italian woman a change of thought, the u. s. c. made a point of providing rose house with some sort of entertainment every few days. once they introduced the inmates to an american hayride, and the four women, with moya and the older children, screamed with delight as they found themselves moving slowly along on a real load of hay--for grandfather emerson declared that that was the only kind of hayride worth having. again they all stowed themselves away in the automobile and went to a pond ten miles away for a day's picnic. that proved not to be a success, for everybody was so tired all the next day that there was a nearer approach to disagreement among them than ever happened before. mrs. schuler made up her mind that home--meaning rose house--was the best place for them and that amusements must be found at home and not afield. chapter ix a new kind of grass seed "your grand-father told me once about a field he had that was filled with daisies," said ethel blue. "it looked awfully pretty, but it spoiled the field for a pasture; the cows wouldn't touch them." "i remember that field. we used to make daisy chains and trim mother's room with them," said ethel brown. "mr. emerson tried ploughing up the field and he had men working over it for two seasons, but on the third, up they grew again as gay as you please. they acted as if he had just been stirring up the soil so they would grow better than ever." "poor grandfather; he had a hard time with that field." "he said he really needed it for a pasture, so he made up his mind that if he couldn't root out the bad plants, he'd crowd them out. so he bought some seed of a kind of grass that has large, strong roots, and he sowed it in the field. as soon as it began to grow he could see that there certainly were not so many daisies there. he kept on another year and the cows began to look over the fence as if they'd like to get in. the third year there were so few daisies that they didn't count." "i remember all that," said ethel brown, "but what does it have to do with mrs. paterno?" "why, if we--or edward--could make her get a grip on herself and control herself that would be like mr. emerson's digging up the daisies. it would be hard work and an awfully slow process. but if we also could fill her mind with thoughts about working for her children and trying to make other people happy and with making embroidery which she loves to do, why wouldn't it help? these new things she's thinking about would be like the strong, new grass seed that didn't give the weeds a chance to grow." dorothy stared seriously at ethel blue. "she does perfectly beautiful embroidery," she said slowly, as she tried to think out a way to put ethel blue's suggestion into effect. "do you suppose she'd be willing to teach us how to do it? that beautiful italian cut work, you know. if we should call ourselves a class and ask her to teach us it might give her something quite new to think about." "i'd like to learn, too," agreed ethel blue. "i heard mother say once that there was a school in new york for italian lace work. let's get delia to find out about it, and when mrs. paterno grows stronger and goes back to the city she might go there. they have a shop uptown where they sell the pupils' work. the class here and the prospect of having regular employment when she went back--" "work she likes." "what are you youngsters plotting?" asked the cheerful voice of grandfather emerson, who came around the big oak from the grass grown lane so quietly that they did not hear him coming. they told him their plan, and he listened intently. "the poor little woman has had such a shock that it will be a long time before she can control herself, i'm afraid," he responded sympathetically, "but i believe you've hit on the right way." "then we'll get edward watkins to ask her whether she'll be willing to teach a class, and we'll all join it." "the other women might like to learn, too." "perhaps they could teach. bulgarian embroidery has been fashionable lately, you know, and the peasant women do it." "your grandmother and i went through a peasant's bazar when we were in petrograd and there were mounds of embroidery there that the peasant women had made." "the swedes do beautiful work. why don't we have a class for international embroidery?" laughed dorothy. "i think mother would like to learn the russian; she's crazy about russian music and everything russian." "we'll ask mother and grandmother, too, and perhaps the miss clarks would come and the women could charge a fee and make a little money teaching us and be amused themselves." "i dare say it will do the others good as well as the little italian. you've hit on something that will benefit all of them while you were trying to help mrs. paterno," surmised mr. emerson. "what i came over here this morning to see you about was this," he went on in a business-like tone that made them look at him attentively. "grandmother and i think that mrs. paterno has been a trifle too exciting for you young people the last few days. we think you need a change of thought as well as that young woman herself." they all sat and waited for what was coming, quite unable to guess what proposition he was going to make. "helen and roger are somewhat older and stand such upheavals a little better than you girls, so my plan doesn't include them." "just us three?" asked ethel brown. "just you three. here's my scheme; see if you like it. i have to go over to boston to-morrow on a matter of business and it occurred to me that it would be a pleasant sail on the sound and that you'd be interested in seeing the city--" "o--o!" gasped dorothy; "cambridge and longfellow's house." "concord and lexington!" cried ethel brown. "the art museum!" murmured ethel blue. "and bunker hill monument, and, of course, the navy yard especially for this daughter of a sailor," and he nodded gayly at his granddaughter. "grandmother will go, to take you around when i have to attend to my business, and we can stay a day or two and come back fresh to attend to mrs. paterno's affairs. how does it strike you?" without any preliminary conference, the three girls flung their arms around his neck and hugged him heartily. "have you talked about it with mother and aunt louise?" asked ethel brown. "i'm armed with their permission." "i guess we were all worrying about mrs. paterno," admitted ethel blue. "this will be the strong grass seed that will clear up our minds so that we can help her better after we come back." "i think you're the most magnificent grandfather that ever was born!" exclaimed ethel brown, standing back and gazing admiringly at her ancestor. "thank you," returned mr. emerson, bowing low, his hand on his heart, "i am quite overcome by such a wholesale tribute!" "had we better tell mrs. schuler about the embroidery class plan?" asked dorothy. "run up to rose house now and explain it to her and ask her to talk to the women about it while you are gone, and then when you get back she'll have it all ready to start," mr. emerson suggested. the next twenty-four hours were full of excitement. each of the girls had only a small handbag to pack, but the selection of what should go into each bag seemed a matter of infinite importance. the ethels filled their bags twice before they were satisfied that they had not left out anything that would be wanted, and dorothy confessed that she had first put in too much and then had gone to the other extreme, and that it had not been until after she had had a consultation with her mother that she had decided on just the number and kind of garments that she would need for a two-day trip to the hub of the universe. "why is it called that?" she asked of ethel brown. "i asked mother and she said that people from new york and other cities used to say that bostonians thought that their town was the centre of civilization. so they guyed it by calling it the 'hub'." roger and helen went into new york with the travellers and delia and margaret were on the pier to see the steamer leave. it was a glorious afternoon and the boat slipped around the end of the battery while the westering sun was still shining brilliantly on the water, touching it with sparkles on the tip of each tiny wave. the statue of liberty, with the sun behind it, towered darkly against the gold. the huge buildings of the lower city stretched skywards, the new equitable, the latest addition to the mammoth group, shutting off almost entirely the view of the singer tower from the harbor, just as the woolworth tower hides it from observers on the north. between them grandfather and grandmother emerson were able to point out nearly all of the sights of the east river--several parks and playgrounds, bellevue hospital, the vanderbilt model tenements for people threatened with tuberculosis, the junior league hotel for self-supporting women, the old dwelling where dorothy's friend, the "box furniture lady," had established a school to teach the folk of the neighborhood how to use tools for the advantage of their house-furnishings. the boat was one of those which steams around cape cod instead of stopping at fall river, rhode island, and sending its passengers to boston by train. early morning found them all on deck watching the waters of massachusetts bay and trying to place on a map that mr. emerson produced from his pocket the towns whose church spires they could see pointing skyward far off on their left. twin lighthouses they decided, marked gurnet point, the entrance to plymouth bay, and they strained their eyes to see the town that was the oldest settlement in massachusetts, and imagined they were watching the bulky little mayflower making her way landward between the headlands. mr. emerson convoyed his party to a hotel on copley square and left them there while he went out at once to meet his business friends. "how far away rosemont seems, and poor mrs. paterno with her troubles," she said an hour later as they stood before sargent's panel of the prophets in the public library. chapter x trolleying as for the art museum, they wandered delightedly from one room to another, but went away with a sensation of having seen too much that was almost as uncomfortable as that of having eaten too much. "i should like to come here or to go to the metropolitan in new york with some one who could tell me about every picture or every object in just one room and stay there for an hour and then go away and think about it," said ethel blue. "we will do that some day at the metropolitan," said mrs. emerson. "if the club would like to go in a body some day we can get one of the guides who do just what you describe. we can tell her the sort of thing we want to see--classical statuary or english artists or the morgan collection--and have it all shown to us from the standpoint of the expert critic. or we can put ourselves in the hands of the guide and say that we'd like to see the ten exhibits that the museum looks upon as the choicest." "either way would be wonderful!" beamed ethel blue, and the three girls promised themselves the delight of reporting mrs. emerson's offer to the club at its next meeting. the homeward trip was made by a route quite different from the one by which the party reached boston. grandfather proposed it at breakfast on the morning of the day on which they had intended to leave in the afternoon. "are you people very keen on this drive through the park system to-day?" he asked. the girls did not know what to say, but mrs. emerson scented a new idea and replied "not if you have something to suggest that we'd like better." "how would you like to trolley back to new york?" "trolley back to new york!" repeated the girls with little screeches of joy. "all the way by trolley? how long will it take? i never heard of anything so delightful in all my life!" after such a quick and satisfactory response mr. emerson did not need to lay his plan before them in any further detail. "i see you're 'game,' as roger would say, for anything, so we'll go that way if mother agrees." mrs. emerson did agree and even went so far as to say that she had wanted to do that very thing for a long time. "it's lucky grandfather insisted that we shouldn't bring anything but small handbags," said ethel brown. "these little things we have won't be any trouble at all, no matter how many times we have to change." they started in heavy inter-urban cars which rode as solidly as railroad cars and enabled them to be but very little tired at the end of the first "leg" of the journey. the wide windows permitted views of the country and the girls ran from one side to the other of the closed cars, so that they should not miss anything of interest, and sat on the front seat of the open cars into which they changed later, so that they might have no one in front of them to obstruct their view. they went out of the city straight westward through brookline, through chestnut hill, where is one of the reservoirs from which the city is supplied; past wellesley, where they saw the college buildings rising among the trees on the left. the party reached springfield at dusk and had time to take a walk after dinner. they admired the elm-bordered streets and the comfortable houses, and they thought the arsenal looked extremely peaceful outside in spite of its murderous activities within. it was a deep sleep that visited them all that night. a whole day in the open air with the gentle but continuous exercise provided by the car made them unconscious of their surroundings almost as soon as they touched their pillows. chapter xi the connecticut valley with a long and varied day ahead of them they were delighted to find the morning clear when they awoke. "there are almost as many points of interest in the connecticut river valley as there are on the concord and lexington road," mr. emerson told the girls. "we're going first to holyoke, which is one of the largest paper manufacturing towns in the world. i have a little business to do there and while i am seeing my man you people can take a little walk. be sure you notice the big dam. it's a thousand feet long. the holyoke water power is very unusual." perhaps because they were not experts on water power they were not greatly impressed by the floods of the connecticut river diverted into deep canals and swimming along so smoothly as to impart but little idea of their strength. only the whir of the great mills gave evidence that iron and steel were being moved by it. "how roger would enjoy this!" cried ethel brown, and "wouldn't helen be just crazy over all the history of this region?" added ethel blue, while dorothy, who had travelled much but never without her mother, silently wished that she were there to enjoy it all. "there's another girl's college of note," and mrs. emerson pointed out mt. holyoke at south hadley, northeast of mt tom. "and we're going to see smith college to-day! i feel as if i wanted to go to all of them!" cried ethel blue. "you might take a year at each and find out which was best suited to your temperament," laughed mrs. emerson. from the foot of the mountain they went northward again to northampton. "here's where i ought to go if names count for anything," decided dorothy. "if all the girls named smith who go to college anywhere should go here because of the name there wouldn't be room for any other students," said mr. emerson jokingly. "they say," returned dorothy on the defensive, "that in the beginning all the people in the world were named smith and it was only those who misbehaved who had their names changed." "you can at least pride yourself on their being an industrious lot. think of all their crafts--they were armorers and goldsmiths, and silversmiths and blacksmiths." chapter xii the berkshires and bennington greenfield, where the party spent the night, they found to be a pleasant old town with the wide, tree-bordered streets to which they were growing accustomed in this trolleying pilgrimage. a quiet hotel sheltered them and they slept soundly, their dreams filled with memories of colleges and rose gardens and indians in romantic confusion. the next day they started westward. pittsfield they found to be a large town whose old houses surrounded by ancient trees gave a feeling of solidity and comfort. "longfellow wrote 'the old clock on the stairs' here," said mr. emerson pointing out the appleton house. "the first stanza describes more than one of the old mansions," and he recited:-- "somewhat back from the village street stands the old-fashioned country seat. across its antique portico tall poplar-trees their shadows throw, and from its station in the hall an ancient timepiece says to all,-- 'forever--never! never--forever!'" "i remember that poem, but i never liked it much;" acknowledged dorothy; "it's too gloomy." "it is rather solemn," admitted mr. emerson. "you'll be interested to know that merry dr. holmes used to come to pittsfield in the summer. there are many associations with him in the town." "i'm sure he wrote gayer poems than 'the old clock on the stairs' when he was here." "is this a very old town?" ethel blue asked. "it was settled in . does that seem old to you?" [illustration: "it was settled in "] " ," ethel repeated, doing some subtraction by the aid of her fingers, for arithmetic was not her strong point. "a hundred and eighty-seven years," she decided after reflection. "yes, that seems pretty old to me. it's a lot older than rosemont but over a hundred years younger than plymouth or boston." "a sort of middle age," mr. emerson summed up her decision with a smile. after luncheon at the hotel an early afternoon car sped on with them to a station whence they took an automobile for a drive through stockbridge and lenox with their handsome estates and lovely views. the trolley whizzed them back over the same route to north adams and westward to williamstown. "one of my brothers--your great-uncle james, ethel brown--went to williams college," said mr. emerson, "and i shall be glad to spend the night here and see the town and the buildings i heard him talk so much about." "why don't we get out, then?" "we're going now to bennington, vermont." "vermont! into another state!" exclaimed ethel blue. "when we come back we'll leave the car here." "are those the green mountains?" asked dorothy as the trolley ran into a smoother country than they had been in while traveling in the berkshires, but one which showed a background of long wooded ranges rising length after length against the sky. "those are the green mountains; and this is the 'green mountain state,' and the men who fought in the revolution under ethan allen were the 'green mountain boys'." "but, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise, stood stalwart ethan allen and his 'green mountain boys' two hundred patriots listening as with the ears of one, to the echo of the muskets that blazed at lexington!" quoted mrs. emerson. "they were bound northward to the british fort at ticonderoga." "did they get there?" "they took the british completely by surprise. that was in may, . it was in august, two years later that the battle of bennington took place." "we'd better agree to have dinner or supper here if we don't want to get back to williamstown after all the food in the place has been eaten by those hungry college boys," suggested mrs. emerson. mr. emerson took a hasty glance at the setting sun. "you never spoke a truer word, my dear," applauded her husband, "though this is vacation and the boys won't be there! still, i'm as hungry as a bear. let's have our evening meal, whatever it proves to be, in bennington." they were all hungry enough to think the plan one of the best that their leader had offered for some time, so it was only after what turned out to be supper that they went back to williamstown. in the moonlight the towers of the college buildings glimmered mysteriously through the trees, and the girls went to bed happy in the promise of what the morning was going to bring them. ethel brown was sorry that there were no students to be seen on the grounds when they wandered about the next morning, for she would have liked to see what sort of boys they were, and, if she liked their looks, have suggested to tom or james that they come here to college amid such lovely surroundings. she liked it better than amherst but ethel blue preferred that compact little village, and dorothy clung to her deep-seated affection for cambridge. "after all, our club boys have their plans all made so we don't need to get excited over these colleges," decided ethel brown; "and i'm glad they're all going to different ones because when they graduate we'll have invitations to three separate class-days and other festivities." "what a perfectly beautiful tower," exclaimed dorothy. "it's the chapel. that light-colored stone is superb, isn't it!" "some of these other buildings look as old as some of the oldy-old harvard ones." "they can't be anywhere near as old. this college wasn't founded until ." "that's old enough to give it a settled-down air in spite of these handsome new affairs. there must be lovely walks about here." "hills almost as big as mountains to climb. but the boys don't have any girls to call on the way the amherst boys do, with the smith girls and the mt. holyoke girls just a little ride away." "perhaps they'd rather have mountains," remarked ethel brown wisely. as the college was not in session mr. emerson was not able to see any of the records that he had hoped to look over to search for his brother's name, and as almost all of the professors were out of town, he could not question any of the older men of the place as to their recollection of him. he was quite willing, therefore, to take a comparatively early train for albany. they arrived early enough to go over the capitol, seated at the head of a broad but precipitous street. it was very unlike the stern simplicity of the massachusetts state house, but they amused themselves by saying that at least the two buildings had one part of their decoration in common. in albany the tops of the columns were carved with fruits and flowers, all to be found in the united states. in boston a local product, the codfish, held a position of honor over the desk of the speaker of the house of representatives. "all made in the u. s. a.," laughed dorothy, quoting a slogan of the wartime, intended to help home industries. they wanted to see the cathedral and st. agnes' school as well as the state board of education building, and after they had hunted them out with the help of a map of the city, and had taken a trolley ride into the suburbs, and had eaten a hearty dinner they were glad to go to bed early so as to be up in time to catch the day boat for new york. "what splendid weather we've had," exclaimed mrs. emerson as they took their places on the broad deck of the handsome craft. it was not the same one that had taken them to west point at the end of may. this one was named after hendrik hudson, the explorer of the river. they found it to be quite as comfortable as the other, and the day went fast as they swept down the stream with the current to aid them. occasionally broad reaches of the river grew narrower and wider again as the soil had proven soft or more resistant and the water had spread or had cut out a deep channel. off to the west the catskills loomed against the sky, more varied than the green mountains and more rugged. "more beautiful, too, i think," decided ethel blue. "i like their roughness." a storm came up as they passed the mountains and the thunder rumbled unendingly among the hills. "listen to the dutchmen that rip van winkle saw playing bowls when he visited them during his twenty years' nap," laughed ethel brown who was a reader of washington irving's "sketch book." "i don't wonder he felt dozy in summer with such a lovely scene to quiet him," mrs. emerson said in his defence. "i feel a trifle sleepy myself," and she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes with an appearance of extreme comfort. they passed kingston which was burned by the british just two months after the battle of bennington; and by a large town which proved to be poughkeepsie. "here's where we should land if we were going to finish our investigation of colleges by seeing vassar," said mr. emerson. "i'm glad we aren't going to get off!" exclaimed ethel brown. "i'm so undecided now i don't see how i'll ever make up my mind where to go!" "something will happen to help you decide," consoled dorothy. "isn't this where the big college boat races are rowed?" she asked mr. emerson. "right here on this broad stretch of water. a train of observation cars--flat cars--follows the boats along the bank. i must bring the club up here to some of them some time." "o-oh!" all the girls cried with one voice, and they stared at the river and the shore as if they might even then see the shells dashing down the stream and the shouting crowds in the steamers and on the banks. below newburgh the river narrowed beneath upstanding cliffs and a point jutted out into the water. "do you recognize that piece of land?" mr. emerson asked. no one did. "you don't recall west point?" "we're in the position now of the steamers and tugs we watched while we were having our dinner at the hotel. do you see the veranda of the hotel? up on the headland?" they did, and they felt that they were in truth nearing home. the remainder of the way was over familiar waters, and they called to mind the historic tales that roger and mr. emerson had told them on the memorial day trip. "we've seen so much history in the last week, though," declared ethel blue, "that i don't believe i can ever realize that i'm living in the twentieth century!" chapter xiii hunting arrow heads the week after the home-coming from the massachusetts trolley trip was a time of busyness for the ethels and dorothy. helen and roger and the grown-ups who had stayed at home had to be made familiar with every step of the way, and the whole long history lesson that they had had was reviewed especially for helen's benefit. she looked up battle after battle in large histories in the library and was so full of questions as to how this place and that looked that the girls regretted that they had not taken a kodak so that they might have gratified her curiosity by showing her pictures of all the historical spots in their modern garb. affairs at rose house had to be brought up to date. mr. emerson undertook the management of mrs. tsanoff's affairs and went into town the very day after his return to call on mr. watkins and find out where tsanoff was working. he found that he had been discharged from his position but a few days before. he had become so downcast as a consequence that he had not sent word to his wife of this fresh disappointment, and he was unspeakably grateful to mr. emerson for the chance that he opened to him. a kodak of his dark, sensible face was easily obtained to send to massachusetts and mr. emerson went home feeling that the first step had been well taken. making mrs. tsanoff understand the new proposition was not easy, but mrs. schuler and moya had learned something of her language as she had learned more english during the summer and, when mr. emerson showed her a photograph of the deerfield farm and told her of its advantages for her husband and the children she was eager to go to it at once. "the fields, the cows," she kept saying over and over again, and the girls realized how strong within her was her love for the country for which she had made the poor exchange of the city, and they sympathized keenly. the result of the correspondence between mr. emerson and the deerfield people was that the bulgarians were put on the train for springfield within ten days, each one of them, even the twin babies, wearing a small american flag so that they might be recognized by their new employer who was to meet them at springfield and convoy them home. mrs. tsanoff left rose house in tears, kissing the hands of all the girls and murmuring her gratitude to all of them over and over again as she wept and smiled by turns. the other women had started the embroidery class, teaching each other and mrs. morton, mrs. smith and the miss clarks. the plan was working out very well, mrs. schuler thought, especially with mrs. paterno, who evidently loved the work and in it was already losing something of her fear and anxiety. roger had made a sideboard for the rose house dining room assisted by the members of the club who were "not off gallivanting," as he expressed it. "it's mighty good looking," commented dorothy as she examined it. "was it hard to make? it looks so." "no worse than that seat we made for mrs. schuler's room. we made two cupboard arrangements for the ends just like those, only we put a door over each one of them. instead of a big box between them to be used as a seat we put a shelf resting on the cleats that went across the backs of the bookshelves. then we connected the two cupboards with a long plank." "you put a back behind the shelf." "we put on thin boards for a back, but we haven't decided yet whether we made a mistake in putting doors in front or not. i like them with doors the way we have it, but margaret thinks it would have been rather good without any doors. what do you think?" "i think mrs. schuler will like it better with doors. the linen or whatever she keeps in there will be cleaner if it isn't exposed to the air on open shelves and the doors will serve as a protection against dust." they all agreed that it was one of the best pieces of furniture that they had yet made for the house, and the travellers were sorry that they had not had a hand in its construction on account of the experience the progress of the work would have afforded them. a few days later the ethels planned an excursion for the benefit of the younger children which was to be somewhat in the nature of a picnic, but it was arranged to have everyone attend who could do so. there was intense excitement among the smaller children when the announcement was made that the picnic would be held early the following week, providing the weather proved clear enough not to interfere with their plans. dicky's share in the excitement of the journey was the stirring up of a deep interest in indians. when the ethels told him that they were going over to the field that grandfather emerson was having cleared he insisted on going with them to hunt for arrow heads. they waited until a day after a rain had left the small stones washed free of earth, and they made an afternoon of it, all the club and all the rose house women and children going too. the boys carried hampers with the wherewithal for afternoon tea, and the expedition assumed serious proportions in the minds of those arranging it when dicky asked if they would need one of grandfather's wagons to bring home the arrow heads in. as a matter of fact they did not find many arrow heads. whether the earth had not yet been turned over to a sufficient depth or whether the indians who had lived about rosemont had been of a peaceful temper or whether the field happened not to be near any of their villages, no one knew, though every one made one guess or another. they planned the search methodically. "i saw a lot of boy scouts one day clear up the field in central park in which they had been drilling," said tom watkins. "they stretched in a long line across the whole field and then they walked slowly along looking for anything that might have been dropped in the course of their evolutions." "did they find much?" "you'd be surprised to know how much!" "let's do the same thing here. if we stretch across the field then every one is responsible for just a small section under his eyes--" "--and feet." "--and feet. i wish we had an arrow head to show the women so they'd know exactly what to look for." "father had one in the cabinet," said roger, "and i put it in my pocket for just this purpose. i don't know where he got it, and it may not be of exactly the kind of stone these new jersey indians used, but it will show the shape all right." "they always used flint, didn't they?" asked margaret. "flint or obsidian or the hardest stone they could find, whatever it was." "bone?" "sometimes. i saw quite large bone heads at the natural history museum." "i've seen life-size boneheads frequently," announced james solemnly, not smiling until roger and tom pelted him with bits of sod. the arrow head was passed from hand to hand and every one studied it carefully. then they stretched across the field and began their search. the result was not very satisfactory from dicky's point of view, for he concluded that he need not have worried as to how the load was to be carried home. there were only seven found. of these, however, dicky found two, one by his unaided efforts and the other through ethel blue's taking pains not to see one that lay between him and her. nobody else found more than one and several of them found none at all, so dicky, after all, was hilarious. in a corner of the field they built a fire and heated water for the tea in a kettle thrust among the coals. ears of corn still in the husk were roasted between heated stones, bits of bacon sizzled appetizingly from forked sticks and dripped on to the flames with a hissing sound, and biscuits, fresh from moya's oven, were reheated near the blaze. it was while they were sitting around the fire that dicky's mind turned to the remainder of the indian's equipment. "what did he do with thith arrowhead?" he inquired. "he tied it on to the end of an arrow, and shot bears with it." "what'th an arrow?" "a long, slender stick." "do you throw it?" "you shoot it from a bow." "what'th a bow?" "a curved piece of wood with a string connecting the ends." "how doeth it work?" roger heaved a sigh and then gave it up.. "me for the bushes," he cried. "language fails me; i'll have to make a bow and arrow." "it's the easiest way," nodded tom. "bring me a switch and i'll make the arrow while you make the bow." "who's got a piece of string?" inquired roger a few minutes later as he held up his handiwork for the admiration of his friends, james produced the necessary string and roger strung the bow. "now, then, let's see what it will do," he said. adjusting the arrow he drew the cord and sent the simple shaft whizzing through the air against a tree where it stuck in the bark for an instant before it fell to the ground. "do you think it's safe for dicky to have an arrow as sharp as that?" inquired helen. "that's not sharp enough to do any damage. it didn't hold in the tree." dicky was delighted with his new toy and went off to test its power, followed by elisabeth of belgium, sheila, luigi and pietro paterno, olga peterson and vasili and vladimir vereshchagin. the romper-clad band stirred the amused smiles of the elders watching them. "they certainly are the cunningest little dinks that ever happened!" cried ethel brown, establishing herself comfortably to help make small bows and arrows for the rest of the flock. the girls as well as the boys of the united service club knew how to use a jacknife and the diminutive weapons of the chase were soon ready. the ethels were hunting through the luncheon basket for string when a howl from the other side of the field made them drop what was in their hands and rush toward the trees where the children were playing. the mothers followed them, mrs. paterno and mrs. vereshchagin in the lead. "i certainly hope it's not the little paterno," said ethel blue breathlessly to ethel brown as they ran. "mrs. paterno never will forgive dicky if he's got him into trouble again." they concluded when they came in sight of the group of children that the italian woman had run from nervousness and the russian because she recognized the voice of her offspring, for it was vladimir whose yells were resounding through the air. dicky was bending over him and the other children were standing around so that the runners as they approached could not see what was the matter. mrs. vereshchagin increased her speed, uttering sounds that fell strangely on her listeners' ears. the group of children fell away as their elders came near, and the ethels, who were in front, saw that vladimir was pinned to a tree by dicky's arrow which had pierced the fullness of his rompers. he could not be hurt in the least, but the strangeness of his position had startled and angered him and was causing the shrieks that had frightened them all. fortunately for dicky, mrs. vereshchagin, unlike mrs. paterno, had a sense of humor, and as soon as she saw that her child was neither injured nor in danger she burst into laughter as loud as his cries of rage and terror. roger quickly unfastened him from the tree to which he was bound and handed him over to his mother, none the worse for his experience except that his rompers were torn. turning to dicky, roger decreed that the head must be taken from his arrow. "it's not your fault, old man," he said; "but helen was right--this thing is too sharp." "i'll tell you what to do, roger, get some of those rubber tips that slip on the ends of lead pencils. the english stationer must have some. if you put them on all these arrows they can't do any harm." "meanwhile the kiddies had better not have them," mrs. schuler decided, so they were put aside with the basket, to be finished later when the needed tips should be procured in rosemont. "you got off pretty well, that time, sir," laughed roger. "what were you trying to do?" "i wath an indian thooting bearth. vladimir wath a bear." "a russian bear. you got him all right; but let me tell you, young man; you must be mighty careful what you aim at, for international complications may follow." "what'th that?" "that means it's dangerous to aim at _anybody_. i'll make you a target and when you get so you can hit the bull's eye three times out of five at a distance of fifteen feet i'll give you a better bow. is it a bargain?" dicky shook hands on it solemnly. "remember now, no shooting at any living thing." "not a cat?" "not a cat or a bird, a dog or any other animal on two legs or four." "all right," nodded dicky, and roger knew that he would keep his word, for that is a part of the training of a soldier's son. the experiences of the afternoon were not yet ended. the arrow episode over the children looked about for other amusement. they drifted away from the group still gathered about the embers of the dying fire and made their way among the bushes standing uncut on the edge of the new clearing. once in a while their laughter was borne on the breeze. it was a long time before any one thought of seeing what they were doing. then ethel brown rose and sauntered in the direction whence the sounds came. "with dicky in the lead," she thought, "it's just as well to keep an eye on them." as she approached the woods she saw the little army of rompered youngsters, each armed with a switch, and each doing his best to strike something high over his head. they all stood with their eager faces looking upward and their arms working busily with what muscle the summer had given them. leaves were falling from the bushes and the lower branches of the saplings that were struck by their rods, and it was evident that they were causing great destruction to the foliage, whatever the real object of their attack. ethel's wonderment increased. "children do get the greatest amount of fun out of the smallest things," she thought. "what can they be doing?" when quite near the thicket, however, her slow steps quickened into a run. her sharp eyes discovered hanging from one of the trees over the heads of the children one of the large wasps' nests which seem to be made of gray paper. it had caught dicky's attention and he had coveted it for purpose of investigation. summoning his cohorts he had pointed it out to them and had urged them to bring it down. each one had broken a stick; some had stripped off the leaves entirely; others had left a tuft at the end. in both cases the weapons looked dangerously destructive to ethel, as she ran toward them and saw one pole after another swish past the home of the paper wasps and expected the colony to rush forth to defend their abode. with a cry of warning she bore down on them and with a sweep of her arms turned them all back into the open field. dicky was indignant. "what you doing that for?" he demanded angrily. "one more thwat and i'd a had it." "you don't know what it is," cried ethel breathlessly. "you'd all be stung if there were any wasps at home. that's their house and they get awfully mad." the children looked back fearfully at the object of their attack. "you've had a narrow escape," insisted ethel, and then to divert their minds from what had happened she made them stretch themselves in a line and hunt for arrow heads all the way back to their mothers. "thith ith a funny thtone," exclaimed dicky, picking up a rather large oblong stone that had a groove all around its middle. "it looks like lake chautauqua. doesn't it? you know they say that 'chautauqua' means 'the bag tied in the middle'." "did the indianth uthe it?" dicky asked as he laid his trophy in roger's hand. "i rather think they did," returned roger excitedly. "it looks to me as if this was a hammer or a hatchet. see--" and he held it out for the girls and james and tom to see, "they must have lashed this head on to a stout stick by a cord tied where this crease is." "it would make a first-rate hammer," commended james. "the indians didn't manufacture as many of these as they did arrow heads, because, of course, they didn't need as many. i rather guess you've made the big find of the afternoon," and dicky swelled with pride as his brother patted him on the shoulder. when it became time to go home the ethels offered to take the short cut to rosemont and get the rubber tips for the children's arrows. "if we go across the field and the west woods we come out not far from the stationer's, and we can leave the tips up at rose house on the way back so they'll be ready for you to put on to-morrow and the youngsters can have the bows and arrows to play with right off." "let me go," begged dicky. "all right," agreed roger. "be careful when you go over the railroad track, girls. mother isn't very keen on having dicky learn that road, you know." they promised to be careful and set forth in the opposite direction from the rest of the party whom they left putting together the remnants of the feast and packing away the plates. it was an interesting walk. they played indian all the way. ethel blue's imagination had been greatly stimulated by the tale of the attack on deerfield and she pretended to see an indian behind every tree. ethel brown pretended to shoot them all with unerring arrow, and dicky charged the bushes in handsome style and routed the enemy with awful slaughter. "this is just the kind of game we ought not to play if we want to make dicky think of peace and not of war," declared ethel blue at last when she had become breathless from the excitement of their countless adventures. "that's so. it's funny how you forget. it's just as delia says--we don't realize how fighting and soldiers and thinking about military things is put into our minds even in games when we're little." "i'm really sorry we've done this," confessed. ethel brown as they fell behind their charge. "dicky's 'pretending' works over time anyway, and he may dream about indians, or get scared to go to bed, and it will be our fault." "it's rather late to think about it--but let's try not to do it again. isn't there something we can call his attention to now to take his mind off indians?" dicky was marching ahead of them drawing an imaginary bow and bringing down a large bag of imaginary birds, while from the difficulty with which he occasionally dragged an imaginary something behind him it seemed that he had at least slain an imaginary deer. naturally, with his hunting blood up, the ethels found him not responsive to appeals to "see what a pretty flower this is" or to examine the hole of a chipmunk. he was after more thrilling adventures. still, by the time they reached the railroad track, everyday matters were beginning to command his attention. this short cut across the track was one that he had seldom been allowed to take, and the mere fact of doing it was exciting. he stopped in the middle and looked up and down the line while the girls tugged at him. it was only when he saw a bit or two of shining metal which, according to his arrow head game of the afternoon, he picked up and tucked away in the pocket of his rompers, that his attention was once more turned to the gathering of the wonders that seemed to be under his feet all the time if only he looked for them hard enough. the errand to the stationery shop was successful. the stationer said that most pencils now were made with erasers built into them, but that he thought he had a box of old tips left over. he hunted for them very obligingly, and set so small a price on them that the ethels took the whole box so that they might have a liberal supply in case any were lost off the arrow heads. dicky put one in his pocket so that he could place it on his arrow as soon as he got it into his hands once more, and he begged the ethels to go home by way of rose house so that he could fix it up that very night. "is it early enough?" asked ethel blue. ethel brown thought it was. "but we'll have to hurry," she warned; "there's an awfully black cloud over there. it looks like a thunder storm." they scampered as fast as their legs would carry them and reached the farm in the increasing darkness, but before any rain had fallen. they found all the bows and arrows standing in a trash basket which roger had made for the dining room. "mr. roger stood them up in that so the children wouldn't be apt to touch 'em," explained moya. dicky sat down on the hearth and set to work on the arrow which he recognized as his because of its greater length. "you'll have to hurry or we'll get caught," warned his sister. "we ought to start right off," urged ethel blue. "we'll have to run for it even if we go now." mrs. schuler brought in the cape of her storm coat. "take this for dicky," she said. "if it does break before you get home it will rain hard and his rompers won't be any protection at all." "put it on now, dicky," commanded ethel brown. "stand up." dicky rose reluctantly. "why do you fill up your pocket with such stuff," inquired ethel impatiently. "there, throw it into the fireplace--gravel, toadstools, old brass," she catalogued contemptuously, and dicky, swept on by her eagerness, obediently cast his treasures among the soft pine boughs that filled the wide, old fireplace. "i'll clear them away," promised mrs. schuler. "hurry," and she fairly turned them out of the house. "you made me throw away my shiny things," complained dicky as they ran down the lane as fast as they could go. "never mind; you'd have jounced them out of your pocket anyway, running like this," and dicky, taking giant strides as his sister and his cousin held a hand on each side, was inclined to think that he would be lucky if he were not jounced put of his clothes before he got home. chapter xiv the storm after all, they need not have jerked poor dicky over the ground at such a rapid pace for the storm, though it grumbled and roared at a distance, did not break until a late hour in the night. then it came with a vengeance and made up for its indecision by behaving with real ferocity. to the women at rose house, accustomed to the city, where nature's sights and sounds are deadened by the number of the buildings and the narrowness of the streets, the uproar was terrifying. flash after flash lit up their rooms so that the roosters and puppies and pigs and cows on the curtains stood out clearly in the white light. crash after crash sent them cowering under the covers of their beds. the children woke and added their cries to the tumult. as the electric storm swept away into the distance the wind rose and howled about the house. shutters slammed; chairs were over-turned on the porch; a brick fell with a thud from the top of the chimney to the roof; another fell down the chimney into the fireplace where its arrival was followed by a roar that seemed to shake the old building on its foundation. "grrreat scott!" ejaculated mr. schuler, who had learned some english expressions from his pupils. he was returning through the hall from a hobbling excursion to make sure that all the windows down stairs were closed. the candle dropped from his hand and he was left in the dark. his crutch slid from under his arm, and he was forced to cling to a table for support and call for his wife to come and find it for him. mrs. schuler reached him from the kitchen where she had been attending to the fastenings of the back door. fortunately her light had survived the gusty attack and she was able to help her husband to his prop. "what is it?" she cried breathlessly, "is the house falling? did you ever hear such a noise!" mr. schuler never had. the outcry upstairs was increased by the shrieks of sheila who had slept until the last shock and who woke at last to add her penetrating voice to the pandemonium. "do you smell something queer?" asked mrs. schuler. "do you think that was a lightning-bolt and it set the house on fire?" her husband shook his head doubtfully. "the lightning has gone by," he said, but they went together on a tour of investigation. nothing was burning in the kitchen, but the rays of the uplifted candle showed a zigzag crack on the wall behind the stove. "that wall is the chimney," said mrs. schuler. "something has happened to the chimney." "let's go into the dining-room and see if anything shows there." into the dining-room they went. an acrid smell filled the room, and as they entered a smouldering flame in the fireplace burst into a blaze, from the draught of the door. its fuel consisted only of some trash that had been tossed into the fireplace and hidden behind the fresh pine boughs that filled the opening through the summer. the drinking water in the pitcher on the table was enough to put an end to it. "it's hardly large enough to bother to put out," exclaimed mr. schuler, "if it weren't that the chimney seems to be so shaken that the flames might work through somewhere and set fire to the woodwork." "there's no doubt about something serious having happened to the chimney," and mrs. schuler stooped and pushed back three or four bricks that had tumbled forward on to the hearth. "the back is cracked," she announced from her knees. "with that big crack on the kitchen side i rather think moya had better use the oil stove until mr. emerson can send a bricklayer to examine the chimney." "everything but this seems all right here; you'd better go up and try to calm the women," advised mr. schuler. the wind storm was dying down and the inmates of rose house were becoming quieter as the din outside moderated. the matron went from room to room bringing comfort and courage as her candle shone upon one frightened face after another. "it's all over; there's nothing to be afraid of," she said over and over again. only to moya did she tell what had happened to the chimney, so that she might prepare breakfast on the oil stove. "it almost seems i heard a giant fall down the chimney," the irish girl whispered hoarsely. "i dare say you did hear the bricks falling. there's a gallon or two of soot in the dining-room fireplace for you to clean up in the morning." "'tis easy, that, compared wid cleaning up the whole house that seemed like to tumble!" said moya with a sigh of relief. the children were already asleep and the remainder of the night was unbroken by any sound save the dripping of the raindrops from the branches and the swish of wet leaves against each other when a light breeze revived their former activities. little vladimir was up early with a memory of something queer having happened in the night. he was eager to go downstairs and find out what it was all about and his mother dressed him and let him out of her room and then turned over to take another nap. when moya went down to set the oil stove in position for use he was amusing himself contentedly with the rubbish in the fireplace, his face and hands already in need of renewed attention from his mother. "'tis the sooty-faced young one ye are," she called to him good-naturedly. "run up to the brook and wash yerself an' save yer mother the throuble." she opened the back door and he ran out into the yard, but instead of going up the lane to the brook he scampered round the house and down the lane. moya called after him but he paid no attention. "sure, i've too much to do to be day-nursing that young russian," she murmured. there were wonderings and ejaculations in many tongues when all the women and children came down and examined the cracks in the kitchen side of the chimney and in the back of the dining-room fireplace and saw the heap of rubbish and bricks piled up in the fireplace. it gave them something to talk about all the morning. this was lucky, for the grass was too wet for the children to play on it, and when mothers and children were crowded on the veranda idle words sometimes changed to cross ones. "tis strange; they's good women, iv'ry wan, take 'em alone," moya had said one day to mrs. schuler and ethel blue when they heard from the kitchen the sounds of dispute upon the porch; "yit listen to 'em whin they gits together." "that's because each one of them gets out of the talk just what she puts into it," explained the matron. "manin' that if she comes to it cross it's cross answers she gits. it's right ye are, ma'am. 'tis so about likin' or hatin' yer work. days when yer bring happiness to yer work it goes like a bird, an' days when ye have the black dog on yer back the work turns round an' fights wid yer." ethel blue listened intently. things like that had happened to her but she had not supposed that grown people had such experiences. she remembered a day during the previous week when she had waked up cross. a dozen matters went wrong before she left the house to go to school. on the way the mud pulled off one of her overshoes, and her boot was soiled before she was shod again. the delay made her five minutes late and caused a black mark to deface her perfect attendance record. every recitation went wrong in one way or another, and every one she spoke to was as cross as two sticks. as she thought it over she realized that if what mrs. schuler and moya said was true the whole trouble came from herself. when she woke up not in the best of humor she ought to have smoothed herself out before she went down to breakfast, and then she would have picked her way calmly over the crossing and not tried to take a short cut through the mud; she would not have been delayed and earned a tardy mark; she would have had an unclouded mind that could give its best attention to the recitations so that she would have done herself justice; people would have been glad to talk to her because she looked cheerful and was in a sunny mood and no one would have been cross. "i guess it was all my fault," she thought. "i guess it will pay to straighten myself out before i get out of bed every morning." all was well in and out of rose house on the morning after the storm. every one told her experiences as if she were the only person affected and they all talked at once and enjoyed themselves immensely. vladimir came running up on to the porch in the middle of the morning and threw himself across his mother's lap. "where have you been now?" she asked him. he had come to breakfast only after being called a dozen times and he had disappeared immediately after breakfast. "what have you been doing?" the little fellow laughed and poured into her lap a handful of nickels and ten-cent pieces. "where in the world did you get those?" demanded mrs. vereshchagin. "who gave them to you?" "a man in the road." "a man in the road? all that money? what for?" "i gave him the shiny thing and he gave me those moneys." "what shiny thing?" "the shiny thing i found on the floor." "where on the floor?" "in the dining-room, and the youngster ran into the house to point out exactly the place where he had found the 'shiny thing.'" "a 'shiny thing'," repeated moya, who was putting the room in order and heard the russian woman's inquiries. "'tis two of 'em i found mesilf on the floor when i cleared up the mess from the fireplace this morning. 'twas two bits of brass. see, i saved 'em," and she shook from a scooped-out gourd which served as an ornament on the mantel two bits of metal. "was it like these, vladdy?" she asked, but vladimir was too tired of being questioned and ran away without answering. his mother shook her head as she gazed at the bits lying on her palm. "not worth all these moneys," she murmured as she counted forty cents in the small coins in her other hand. it was a mystery. moya put the bits of brass back into the gourd and went on with her dusting. mrs. schuler telephoned to mr. emerson early in the morning, telling him of the damage to the house and asking him to come and see what had happened go that the bricklayers might be set to work as soon as possible. "i'm afraid to let moya light the kitchen stove until i'm sure the chimney is sound," she explained. mr. emerson telephoned the news to his grandchildren and he and all the mortons with dorothy and her mother and miss merriam and elisabeth arrived at the farm at almost the same time. "i'm glad the house is in as good condition as it seems to be," exclaimed mrs. morton. "i couldn't bear to have the old homestead fall to ruin. i was startled at father's message." "not so startled as all the people here were in the night," laughed her father who had been talking with mrs. schuler. "it seems that the worst noise came after the electric storm was over, but while the wind was at its highest." "the chimney wasn't struck by lightning, then." "it was not lightning," asserted mr. schuler. "the wind knocked bricks from the top of the chimney. i saw one or two on the roof this morning. as you see, several fell down the chimney into the fireplace." "i can't see how bricks from the top of the chimney could have made the crack in the kitchen side of the chimney and this crack in the back of the fireplace." "nor i," agreed mr. schuler. "the roar was tremendous. i could not believe that i was seeing rightly when i beheld only these few fallen bricks." "it sounded as if the whole chimney had fallen," mrs. schuler confirmed her husband's assertion. "mrs. peterson says it sounded to her like an explosion, sir," said moya, who had been talking with the women on the porch. "her room is right over this. the bricks fell through the chimney, banging it all the way, says she, and thin there was a roar like powder had gone off, as far as i can understand what she says." "if mrs. paterno heard that she must have thought the black hand was getting in its fine work, sure enough," smiled mr. emerson. "praise be, her room is on the other side of the house. we were all wailing like banshees up there, but she no more than the rest. 'tis better she is," and moya nodded reassuringly to the grown-ups, who were, she knew, deeply interested in the italian woman's recovery of her nervous strength. "this explosion business i don't understand," mr. emerson said slowly to himself. "what did you find in the fireplace this morning, moya? i wish you had left all the stuff here for me to see." "i'm sorry, sir. i was only thinkin' about havin' it clean before breakfast. there was the bricks, sir, two of 'em; and a pile of soot and some bits of trash wid no meanin'--" "did you find my two thinieth i picked up on the track yesterday?" asked dicky. "ethels made me throw away all the thingth in my pocket and my thinieth went too." "what does he mean by his 'shinies'?" asked mr. emerson. "he picked up a lot of stuff yesterday when we were hunting arrow heads and walking to rosemont by the short cut over the track. when i was putting mrs. schuler's storm cape on him i emptied out his pocketful of trash into the fireplace." "what did the shinies look like, son?" inquired dicky's grandfather. dicky was entering into an elaborate and unintelligible explanation when moya took the bits of brass from the gourd. "would these be the shinies?" she asked. mr. emerson took them from her and examined them carefully. "i rather think the explanation of the explosion is here," he decided. "you say you picked these up on the track, dicky?" "yeth, i did, and ethel threw them away," repeated the youngster who was beginning to think that he had a real grievance, since his "shinies" seemed to have some importance. "these are two of the small dynamite cartridges that brakemen lay on the track to notify the engineer of a following train to stop for some reason. they use them in stormy weather or when there is reason to think that the usual flag or red light between the rails won't be seen." "dynamite!" exclaimed ethel brown, looking at her hand as she remembered that she had not been especially gentle when she tossed the contents of her brother's pocket into the fireplace. "there is enough dynamite in a cartridge to make a sharp detonation but not enough to do any damage, unless, as happened here, there were two of them in a small space that was enclosed on three sides--" "the trash was blown out on the floor of the room," interrupted mr. schuler. "--by walls that were none too strong. with a wind such as last night's knocking down the chimney at the top and bricks setting dynamite cartridges into action below i only wonder that the old thing is standing at all this morning." they gazed at it as if they expected the whole affair to fall before their eyes. "i'll call up the brickmason and find out when he can come to examine it; he may have to rebuild the entire chimney." mr. emerson was moving toward the hall where the telephone was when his eye fell on elisabeth sitting contentedly on the floor close to the wall turning over and over something that gleamed. "what have you got there, small blessing?" he asked, stooping to make sure that she was not intending to try the taste of whatever it might be. "hullo!" he cried, straightening himself. "hullo!" and he held up his discovery before the astonished eyes of the group. "it looks like a gold coin, grandfather!" exclaimed ethel brown. "that's just what it is. a guinea. its date is . where did you find it, ayleesabet?" he asked the child, who was reaching up her tiny hands for the return of her new plaything. "here, here," she answered, pointing to the floor where the casing of the chimney yawned from the planks for half an inch. "here," and she pushed her fingers into the crack. "i saw her pull something that was sticking out of there a little bit," said dorothy, "but i was interested in what mr. emerson was saying and i didn't pay much attention to what she was doing." miss merriam took elisabeth on her lap and peered between her lips to make sure that no dirt from the floor was visible. then she took a small emergency kit from her pocket, extracted a bit of sterile gauze and wiped out the little pink mouth. "i live in hopes that the day will come when she'll outgrow her desire to test everything with her mouth," she remarked amusedly. "is it guineas ye're speaking about?" asked moya. "perhaps 'twas a guinea young vladdy the russian found this morning. he said he found a 'shiny thing.' i thought 'twas one of thim cartridges, like i found myself." "another shiny thing? what did he do with it? let's see it?" demanded mr. emerson. "he said he gave it to a man in the road and the man gave him a handful of ten-cent pieces and nickels. there was forty cents of it. i heard mrs. vereshchagin counting 'em." "forty cents! it must have been a valuable shiny thing that a man in the road would give a child forty cents for. he knew its value. i should say vladimir and elisabeth had tapped the same till. helen, go and see if you can find out anything more from the child or his mother. and roger, get a chisel and hammer and hatchet and perhaps you and mr. schuler and i can take down these boards and see what there is to see behind them." "wouldn't it be thrilling if there should be a hidden treasure!" exclaimed ethel blue. "aren't you shivering all over with excitement, miss gertrude?" meanwhile roger and his grandfather were prying off the boards that covered in the chimney on the right side and supported the mantel-shelf. as it fell back into their hands two more gold coins tumbled to the floor. "just take off this narrow plank, roger and let me squint in there. stand back, please, all of you, and let us have as much light as we can." "i have a flashlight," said mr. schuler. "just the ticket. now, then--," and mr. emerson kneeled down, peering into the space that was disclosed when the boards fell away. "i see something; i certainly see something," he cried as the electricity searched into the darkness. he thrust in his arm but the something was too far off. "take my crutch," suggested mr. schuler. mr. emerson took it and tugged away with the top. "it's coming, it's coming," his muffled cry rose from the depths. another tug and a blackened leather pouch, slashed with a jagged tear from which gold pieces were pouring, tumbled into the room. "pick it all up and put it on the table, roger, while mr. schuler and i decide how it happened," ordered mr. emerson. the investigation seemed to prove that there probably had been a crack in the bricks at the back of the mantel at the time when algernon merriam, miss gertrude's ancestor, had thrust the bag into the mantel cupboard. it had fallen off the back of the shelf and into the little crevasse where it lay beyond the reach of arm or bent wire or candle light for over a hundred and thirty years. "evidently last night's big shaking widened the crack and let the bag fall down. the ragged edge of a broken brick tore the leather and the two coins that vladimir and elisabeth found slipped out and fell just inside the plank covering of the chimney and below it out on to the floor." "so did the two that fell out when we were working," added roger. "let's open it and count the money. this may be some other bag," suggested helen, who had brought back no farther information from the russian. "if it's algernon's it ought to have--how many guineas was it?" "five hundred and seventy-three, and a ring and a miniature," continued ethel brown who had heard his story. "in a box," concluded ethel blue. "i can't wait for roger to undo it!" they gathered around the table on which roger had placed the stained bag, the gold coins gleaming through a gash in its side. moya cleaned the outside as well as she could with a damp cloth. "see, here are some crumbs of sealing-wax still clinging to the cord," and grandfather emerson cut the string that still tied the mouth. before their amazed eyes there rolled first a small box and then guineas as bright as when they were tied up in their prison. "we shan't have to count the guineas; if the ring and the miniature are in the box that will prove that it's algernon's bag," said helen. "here, young woman; hands off," cried her grandfather as helen was preparing to open the box. "algernon and patience were no direct ancestors of yours. miss merriam is the suitable person to perform this ceremony." helen, smiling, pushed the basket toward miss gertrude who slipped off the string with trembling fingers. "i'm almost afraid to take off the cover," she whispered. "o, do hurry up, miss gertrude," implored ethel brown. "i think i shall burst if i don't know all about it soon!" with misty eyes gertrude slowly lifted the cover from the box. wrapped in a twist of cotton was a ring set with several large diamonds. "is it marked 'gertrude'?" asked dorothy breathlessly. miss merriam nodded. below the ring lay a miniature, the portrait of a fair woman with deep blue eyes. it was set round with brilliants and on the gold back was engraved, "gertrude merriam." miss merriam stared at it and then handed it to mr. emerson. "what a marvellous likeness!" he exclaimed. "you must be able to see it yourself." gertrude nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. "there's no question that she's your ancestor. now, i'd like to see if the correct number of coins is here if you'll let roger and me count your guineas for you." "count my guineas?" cried miss merriam. "certainly they're your guineas. you're a direct descendant of algernon and patience. the bag and its contents belong to you." gertrude stared at mr. emerson as if she could not understand him. "mine?" she repeated, "mine?" but when mr. emerson insisted and the other elders congratulated her and the girls kissed her and roger shook hands formally, she began, to realize that this little fortune really was hers by right and not through the kindness of her friends. the count of the coins proved exact. there were of them. "here are the two that fell on the floor when we were hammering," said roger, laying them on the table. "they make ." "and here is the one that ayleesabet found," added mr. emerson, drawing it from his pocket. "that is the five hundred and seventy-second. young vladimir's trophy has gone for good, i'm afraid. he must have sold it to some passer-by who knew enough to realize that it was a valuable coin and wasn't honest enough to hunt for the owner or to pay the child its full value." "every one of the is accounted for, anyway," declared roger. "you won't think it impertinent if i figure out how much you're worth, will you miss gertrude?" "i shall be glad if you will," she answered. "a guinea is shillings and a shilling is about cents in american money. that makes a guinea worth about $ . . five hundred-and-seventy-two times that makes $ . ." "almost three thousand dollars!" exclaimed gertrude, her face radiant; "why--why now--" she broke off suddenly and hid her face on mrs. smith's shoulder, sobbing. "now i can pay all my indebtedness and be free to do what i please," she said to her friend in an undertone. mrs. smith patted her gently, for she knew what it was she wanted to be free to do. "this fortune is going to mount up to more than three thousand dollars," declared mr. emerson. "there isn't a coin here that was minted later than . there can't be, because algernon came to this country in the early part of . pile them up according to the dates on them, children, and let's see what there is that will appeal to the dealer in antiquities." "at that rate every coin here, even the youngest, is worth more than $ . ," exclaimed roger. "you get the idea, my son," smiled his grandfather. "we'll sell these coins separately for miss gertrude and get a special price on each one. here's one, for instance, that ought to be worth a good bonus; it is dated . it was over a hundred years old when your respected great-great-grandfather brought it over here, and if i remember my english history correctly it was in that guineas were first minted. this is a 'first edition,' so to speak." gertrude leaned back in her chair, smiling happily. chapter xv gertrude changes her name the club had been prominent figures at mrs. schuler's wedding, but that was a very small affair at home, and miss gertrude's was to be in the church with a reception afterwards at dorothy's house. the club felt that they wanted to do every bit of the work that they could, not only because they loved miss gertrude but because she was going to marry the brother of two of the club members. she had said that she would like to have the church decorated with wild flowers so that she might take away with her the remembrance of the blossoms that she had seen and loved in the rosemont fields. the club held a special meeting to talk over their plans for the wedding. it was at rose house, for they had become accustomed to meeting there during the summer, when every moment could be utilized for work on something connected with the furnishing of the house while at the same time they could talk as they hammered and measured and screwed and sewed. they were gathered under the tree where the squirrel lived. as they established themselves, he was sitting on a branch above them, twitching his tail and making ready for a descent to search for cookies in their pockets. helen called the meeting to order and told them what miss gertrude had said about the decorations. "has any one any suggestions?" she asked. "shall we have all the different kinds of flowers we can find or select one kind?" asked ethel brown. "we can get goldenrod and asters now." "and cardinals and cat-tails." "and 'old-maids'." "and hollyhocks." "nobody has said 'queen anne's lace.' i think that's the prettiest of all," urged ethel blue. "wouldn't it be delicate and fairy-like if we trimmed the whole church with it!" "o, ethel, i see it in a flash!" cried delia. "not banked heavily anywhere, but always in feathery masses." "on the altar and winding the chancel rail." "a cluster on the end of each pew." "long garlands instead of ribbons to close the ends of the pews." "an arch about half way up the aisle." the whole scene grew on them as they talked and they waxed enthusiastic over the details. they had learned that flowers to be used for decoration should be picked the day beforehand and placed in water over night so that the moisture should have time to force itself into the stalks and to drive away the first wilting. they decided to gather all the queen anne's lace that they could find in all rosemont, accepting the help of all the children who had asked if they might help. mrs. smith was building a new house, and dorothy and the ethels had planted a flower garden on the new lot although the house was not yet done. they had arranged to have a succession of pink blossoms. for fear it would not turn out well because they had not been able to have the soil put in as good condition as they wanted on account of the disturbed state of the place with workmen constantly crossing, they had tried another pink garden at rose house, and the ethels had planted still another bed in their own yard. "among them all i should think we ought to find enough, if all the blossoms don't take it into their heads to fall off the very day before," said ethel brown gloomily. "don't talk that way!" insisted ethel blue. "we'll find lots of pink flowers and aunt louise's drawing-room will look lovely." "we can put some of the feathery white with it." "and we must find some soft green somewhere. the coloring of the room is so delicate that the pink and white effect will be charming," and helen leaned back against the tree trunk with a satisfied smile. "the next point is that aunt louise says she'd be very glad if we'd all assist at the reception just as we do at mother's teas--handing things to eat and being nice to people." they all nodded their understanding of their duties. "are all of you girls going to be dressed alike?" asked tom. "no, sir. delia is to be maid of honor. she's to wear the most delicate shade of pink you can imagine. the ethels are to have a shade that is just a wee bit darker, and margaret and i are to come last--" "being the tallest." "--wearing real rose-colored frocks. it's going to be beautiful." "i can easily believe it," declared james, making an attempt at a bow that was defeated by the fact that he was lying on his back and found the exploit too difficult to achieve. "i also seem to see you flitting around the house under those pink decorations. you'll run the bride hard." "edward won't think so," laughed tom. "now what are we going to give to gertrude--" "hear him say 'gertrude'," said ethel blue under her breath. "she asked us to. of course we call her by her name. she's going to be our sister." the ethels looked quite depressed, for calling miss gertrude by her first name was a privilege they knew they never should have. "i was inquiring what we're going to give gertrude as a club. we watkinses are going to give her something as a family, and delia and i have each picked out a special present from us ourselves--" "that's the way we're doing," came from the mortons. "--but i think it would be nice to give her something from the whole of us, because if it hadn't been for the club and the club baby she wouldn't have come here at all." "let's put our colossal intellects on it," urged roger. "if we could think of something that no one else would give her--" "and that would remind her of us and the things the club does." "the club makes furniture," laughed roger, "but i shouldn't suggest that we repeat our latest triumph and give her a sideboard made of old boxes." they all roared, but james came up with a serious expression after a roll that took him some distance away from his friends. "boxes am ree-diculous," he remarked, "but furniture isn't. isn't there some piece of furniture that they'd like better than anything else we could give them?" "i've got an idea," announced roger. "quick, quick; catch it!" and tom tossed over his cap to hold any notions that might trickle away from the main mass. "since we've been doing this furniture making for rose house i've spent a good deal of time in the carpenter shop on main street. you know it belongs to the son of those old people down by the bridge, mr. and mrs. atwood." "the ones we gave a 'show' for?" asked delia. "the same people. the son was pleased at our going there and he hasn't minded my fooling round his place and he's given me a lot of points. he makes good furniture himself." "as good as yours?" asked james dryly. "go on!" retorted roger. "he's a real joiner rather than a carpenter, but there isn't any chance for a joiner in a town like rosemont, so he does any kind of carpentering." "go ahead, roger. we don't care for the gentleman's biography." "yes, you do; it has some bearing on what i'm going to propose." "let her shoot, then." "mr. atwood has a whole heap of splendid mahogany planks in his shop. i came across them one day and asked him about them. he's been collecting them a long time and they're splendidly seasoned and he's just waiting for a chance to make them into something." "a light begins to break. we'll have him make our present. are you sure he'll make it well enough? it's got to be a crackerjack to be suitable for miss gertrude." "this is what i thought. the doctor and miss gertrude both like open bookcases. i heard them say once they liked to be able to take out a book without having to bother with a door." "me, too," agreed margaret. "and i never could see the use of a back." "that's what i say," said helen. "i'd rather dust the books more carefully and not have the extra weight added to the bookcase." "you know the furniture they call 'knockdown'?" everybody nodded. they had all become familiar with various makes of furniture since their attention had been called to the subject by their summer's interests. "i think mr. atwood can make us a bookcase that will consist of two upright end pieces with holes through them where each shelf is to go. the shelves will have two extensions on each end that will go through these square holes and they will be held in place by wedges driven through these extensions on the outside of the uprights. get me?" they all said they did. "that's all there is to the bookcase. it can be taken to pieces in ten minutes and packed flat and shipped from rosemont to oklahoma with some chance of its reaching there unbroken; and it can be set up in another ten minutes. what do you say?" there wasn't a dissenting voice, and they were so pleased with the scheme that they went to mr. atwood's that very afternoon, looked at the wood, talked over the finish, and left the order. it was so simple that the maker thought that he could have it done before the wedding and he agreed to take it apart and pack it for shipment so that there would be no danger of its not making its journey safely. the wedding day was a trifle too warm, dorothy thought as she gazed out early in the morning and considered the flowers that must be set in place several hours before the time when they were to be seen. "we must take care not to have them look like those dandelions in the book wedding that began so joyously and ended all in a wizzle," she murmured, and she was more than ever glad that they had taken the precaution to pick them the day before and have them in water. by early afternoon all was in readiness and the girls were resting. miss gertrude had not been allowed to help but had stayed quietly in her room. the wedding was at half past four, and at that hour the little church, which looked perfectly lovely in the opinion of the decorators, was pleasantly filled with murmuring groups of rosemont people, who agreed that the feathery decorations proved yet another plume in the caps of the club members, and of new york people who gazed at the modest country chapel and found it charming. there was a happy _brrrr_ of pleasant comment while the organ played softly. roger and james were two of the ushers. friends of edward's, young doctors, were the other two. as the organ broke into the lohengrin march and edward, with tom for his best man, appeared at the chancel, gertrude came down the aisle from the other end of the church. she wore a simple white trailing dress of soft silk, clasped at the breast with the ancient brilliant-framed miniature of another gertrude merriam. a pearl pendant, a gift from ayleesabet, hung from her neck. on her ungloved right hand the older gertrude merriam's ring blazed beside edward's more modest offering. the ethels held each others' hands as they stood behind the bride, wreaths of queen anne's lace over their arms, and a delicate blossom or two tucked under a pale blue ribbon in each filmy white hat. it seemed but a moment to them and it was all over and miss gertrude was no longer "miss gertrude" but "mrs. edward." the doctor seemed to have put on new dignity and the girls found themselves wondering if they should ever call him "edward" again. gertrude swept by them with her eyes full of happiness, but when she reached the back of the church she gave a lovely smile to the women and children of rose house seated in the last pews. "i want every one to see my lovely presents," miss gertrude had said, so the guests exclaimed over the pretty things grouped in the library. it was all simple and happy, and a bit of pathos at the end of the afternoon brought no depression. gertrude was just about to go upstairs to change her dress and she stood with her maids and ushers, around her, exchanging a laughing word or two with them, when a little procession made its way toward her from the dining-room. it consisted of all the women and children from rose house, dressed in the fresh clothes which the women had made for themselves and the children during the summer. they were all so smiling that they could hardly have been recognized as the forlorn creatures who had come to rosemont early in july. each woman held in her hand a centrepiece, embroidered in the characteristic work of her country. mrs. vereshchagin led the way, because she could speak english a little better than the others, but her english failed her when she came face to face with the bride. "we love you," she said simply, making a sweeping gesture that included the bridegroom and all the u. s. c. members who were standing about. "we give you these embroideries of our lands. we love all of you." and all the women and children cried in chorus, "we love all of you." at sunwich port by w. w. jacobs part . illustrations from drawings by will owen chapter xvi the two ladies received mr. hardy's information with something akin to consternation, the idea of the autocrat of equator lodge as a stowaway on board the ship of his ancient enemy proving too serious for ordinary comment. mrs. kingdom's usual expressions of surprise, "well, i never did!" and "good gracious alive!" died on her lips, and she sat gazing helpless and round-eyed at her niece. "i wonder what he said," she gasped, at last. miss nugent, who was trying to imagine her father in his new role aboard the conqueror, paid no heed. it was not a pleasant idea, and her eyes flashed with temper as she thought of it. sooner or later the whole affair would be public property. "i had an idea all along that he wasn't in london," murmured mrs. kingdom. "fancy that nathan smith standing in sam's room telling us falsehoods like that! he never even blushed." "but you said that you kept picturing father walking about the streets of london, wrestling with his pride and trying to make up his mind to come home again," said her niece, maliciously. mrs. kingdom fidgeted, but before she could think of a satisfactory reply bella came to the door and asked to speak to her for a moment. profiting by her absence, mr. hardy leaned towards miss nugent, and in a low voice expressed his sorrow at the mishap to her father and his firm conviction that everything that could be thought of for that unfortunate mariner's comfort would be done. "our fathers will probably come back good friends," he concluded. "there is nothing would give me more pleasure than that, and i think that we had better begin and set them a good example." "it is no good setting an example to people who are hundreds of miles away," said the matter-of-fact miss nugent. "besides, if they have made friends, they don't want an example set them." "but in that case they have set us an example which we ought to follow," urged hardy. miss nugent raised her eyes to his. "why do you wish to be on friendly terms?" she asked, with disconcerting composure. [illustration: "'why do you wish to be on friendly terms?' she asked."] "i should like to know your father," returned hardy, with perfect gravity; "and mrs. kingdom--and you." he eyed her steadily as he spoke, and miss nugent, despite her utmost efforts, realized with some indignation that a faint tinge of colour was creeping into her cheeks. she remembered his covert challenge at their last interview at mr. wilks's, and the necessity of reading this persistent young man a stern lesson came to her with all the force of a public duty. "why?" she inquired, softly, as she lowered her eyes and assumed a pensive expression. "i admire him, for one thing, as a fine seaman," said hardy. "yes," said miss nugent, "and--" "and i've always had a great liking for mrs. kingdom," he continued; "she was very good-natured to me when i was a very small boy, i remember. she is very kind and amiable." the baffled miss nugent stole a glance at him. "and--" she said again, very softly. "and very motherly," said hardy, without moving a muscle. miss nugent pondered and stole another glance at him. the expression of his face was ingenuous, not to say simple. she resolved to risk it. so far he had always won in their brief encounters, and monotony was always distasteful to her, especially monotony of that kind. "and what about me?" she said, with a friendly smile. "you," said hardy, with a gravity of voice belied by the amusement in his eye; "you are the daughter of the fine seaman and the niece of the good-natured and motherly mrs. kingdom." miss nugent looked down again hastily, and all the shrew within her clamoured for vengeance. it was the same masterful jem hardy that had forced his way into their seat at church as a boy. if he went on in this way he would become unbearable; she resolved, at the cost of much personal inconvenience, to give him a much-needed fall. but she realized quite clearly that it would be a matter of time. "of course, you and jack are already good friends?" she said, softly. "very," assented hardy. "such good friends that i have been devoting a lot of time lately to considering ways and means of getting him out of the snares of the kybirds." "i should have thought that that was his affair," said miss nugent, haughtily. "mine, too," said hardy. "i don't want him to marry miss kybird." for the first time since the engagement miss nugent almost approved of it. "why not let him know your wishes?" she said, gently. "surely that would be sufficient." "but you don't want them to marry?" said hardy, ignoring the remark. "i don't want my brother to do anything shabby," replied the girl; "but i shouldn't be sorry, of course, if they did not." "very good," said hardy. "armed with your consent i shall leave no stone unturned. nugent was let in for this, and i am going to get him out if i can. all's fair in love and war. you don't mind my doing anything shabby?" "not in the least," replied miss nugent, promptly. the reappearance of mrs. kingdom at this moment saved mr. hardy the necessity of a reply. conversation reverted to the missing captain, and hardy and mrs. kingdom together drew such a picture of the two captains fraternizing that miss nugent felt that the millennium itself could have no surprises for her. "he has improved very much," said mrs. kingdom, after the door had closed behind their visitor; "so thoughtful." "he's thoughtful enough," agreed her niece. "he is what i call extremely considerate," pursued the elder lady, "but i'm afraid he is weak; anybody could turn him round their little finger." "i believe they could," said miss nugent, gazing at her with admiration, "if he wanted to be turned." the ice thus broken, mr. hardy spent the following day or two in devising plausible reasons for another visit. he found one in the person of mr. wilks, who, having been unsuccessful in finding his beloved master at a small tavern down by the london docks, had returned to sunwich, by no means benefited by his change of air, to learn the terrible truth as to his disappearance from hardy. "i wish they'd shanghaid me instead," he said to that sympathetic listener, "or mrs. silk." "eh?" said the other, staring. "wot'll be the end of it i don't know," said mr. wilks, laying a hand, which still trembled, on the other' knee. "it's got about that she saved my life by 'er careful nussing, and the way she shakes 'er 'ead at me for risking my valuable life, as she calls it, going up to london, gives me the shivers." "nonsense," said hardy; "she can't marry you against your will. just be distantly civil to her." "'ow can you be distantly civil when she lives just opposite?" inquired the steward, querulously. "she sent teddy over at ten o'clock last night to rub my chest with a bottle o' liniment, and it's no good me saying i'm all right when she's been spending eighteen-pence o' good money over the stuff." "she can't marry you unless you ask her," said the comforter. mr. wilks shook his head. "people in the alley are beginning to talk," he said, dolefully. "just as i came in this afternoon old george lee screwed up one eye at two or three women wot was gossiping near, and when i asked 'im wot 'e'd got to wink about he said that a bit o' wedding-cake 'ad blowed in his eye as i passed. it sent them silly creeturs into fits a'most." [illustration: "he said that a bit o' wedding-cake 'ad blowed in his eye."] "they'll soon get tired of it," said hardy. mr. wilks, still gloomy, ventured to doubt it, but cheered up and became almost bright when his visitor announced his intention of trying to smooth over matters for him at equator lodge. he became quite voluble in his defence, and attached much importance to the fact that he had nursed miss nugent when she was in long clothes and had taught her to whistle like an angel at the age of five. "i've felt being cut adrift by her more than anything," he said, brokenly. "nine-an'-twenty years i sailed with the cap'n and served 'im faithful, and this is my reward." hardy pleaded his case next day. miss nugent was alone when he called, and, moved by the vivid picture he drew of the old man's loneliness, accorded her full forgiveness, and decided to pay him a visit at once. the fact that hardy had not been in the house five minutes she appeared to have overlooked. "i'll go upstairs and put my hat and jacket on and go now," she said, brightly. "that's very kind of you," said hardy. his voice expressed admiring gratitude; but he made no sign of leaving his seat. "you don't mind?" said miss nugent, pausing in front of him and slightly extending her hand. "not in the least," was the reply; "but i want to see wilks myself. perhaps you'll let me walk down with you?" the request was so unexpected that the girl had no refusal ready. she hesitated and was lost. finally, she expressed a fear that she might keep him waiting too long while she got ready--a fear which he politely declined to consider. "well, we'll see," said the marvelling miss nugent to herself as she went slowly upstairs. "he's got impudence enough for forty." she commenced her preparations for seeing mr. wilks by wrapping a shawl round her shoulders and reclining in an easy-chair with a novel. it was a good story, but the room was very cold, and even the pleasure of snubbing an intrusive young man did not make amends for the lack of warmth. she read and shivered for an hour, and then with chilled fingers lit the gas and proceeded to array herself for the journey. her temper was not improved by seeing mr. hardy sitting in the dark over a good fire when she got downstairs. "i'm afraid i've kept you waiting," she said, crisply. "not at all," said hardy. "i've been very comfortable." miss nugent repressed a shiver and, crossing to the fire, thoughtlessly extended her fingers over the blaze. "i'm afraid you're cold," said hardy. the girl looked round sharply. his face, or as much of it as she could see in the firelight, bore a look of honest concern somewhat at variance with the quality of his voice. if it had not been for the absurdity of altering her plans on his account she would have postponed her visit to the steward until another day. the walk to fullalove alley was all too short for jem hardy. miss nugent stepped along with the air of a martyr anxious to get to the stake and have it over, and she answered in monosyllables when her companion pointed out the beauties of the night. a bitter east wind blew up the road and set her yearning for the joys of mr. wilks's best room. "it's very cold," she said, shivering. hardy assented, and reluctantly quickened his pace to keep step with hers. miss nugent with her chin sunk in a fur boa looked neither to the right nor the left, and turning briskly into the alley, turned the handle of mr. wilks's door and walked in, leaving her companion to follow. the steward, who was smoking a long pipe over the fire, looked round in alarm. then his expression changed, and he rose and stammered out a welcome. two minutes later miss nugent, enthroned in the best chair with her toes on the fender, gave her faithful subject a free pardon and full permission to make hot coffee. "and don't you ever try and deceive me again, sam," she said, as she sipped the comforting beverage. "no, miss," said the steward, humbly. "i've 'ad a lesson. i'll never try and shanghai anybody else agin as long as i live." after this virtuous sentiment he sat and smoked placidly, with occasional curious glances divided between his two visitors. an idle and ridiculous idea, which occurred to him in connection with them, was dismissed at once as too preposterous for a sensible steward to entertain. "mrs. kingdom well?" he inquired. "quite well," said the girl. "if you take me home, sam, you shall see her, and be forgiven by her, too." "thankee, miss," said the gratified steward. "and what about your foot, wilks?" said hardy, somewhat taken aback by this arrangement. "foot, sir?" said the unconscious mr. wilks; "wot foot?" "why, the bad one," said hardy, with a significant glance. "ho, that one?" said mr. wilks, beating time and waiting further revelations. "do you think you ought to use it much?" inquired hardy. mr. wilks looked at it, or, to be more exact, looked at both of them, and smiled weakly. his previous idea recurred to him with renewed force now, and several things in the young man's behaviour, hitherto disregarded, became suddenly charged with significance. miss nugent looked on with an air of cynical interest. "better not run any risk," said hardy, gravely. "i shall be very pleased to see miss nugent home, if she will allow me." "what is the matter with it?" inquired miss nugent, looking him full in the face. hardy hesitated. diplomacy, he told himself, was one thing; lying another. he passed the question on to the rather badly used mr. wilks. "matter with it?" repeated that gentleman, glaring at him reproachfully. "it's got shootin' pains right up it. i suppose it was walking miles and miles every day in london, looking for the cap'n, was too much for it." "is it too bad for you to take me home, sam?" inquired miss nugent, softly. the perturbed mr. wilks looked from one to the other. as a sportsman his sympathies were with hardy, but his duty lay with the girl. "i'll do my best, miss," he said; and got up and limped, very well indeed for a first attempt, round the room. then miss nugent did a thing which was a puzzle to herself for some time afterwards. having won the victory she deliberately threw away the fruits of it, and declining to allow the steward to run any risks, accepted hardy's escort home. mr. wilks watched them from the door, and with his head in a whirl caused by the night's proceedings mixed himself a stiff glass of grog to set it right, and drank to the health of both of them. [illustration: "mr. wilks drank to the health of both of them."] the wind had abated somewhat in violence as they walked home, and, moreover, they had their backs to it. the walk was slower and more enjoyable in many respects than the walk out. in an unusually soft mood she replied to his remarks and stole little critical glances up at him. when they reached the house she stood a little while at the gate gazing at the starry sky and listening to the crash of the sea on the beach. "it is a fine night," she said, as she shook hands. "the best i have ever known," said hardy. "good-bye." chapter xvii the weeks passed all too quickly for james hardy. he saw kate nugent at her own home; met her, thanks to the able and hearty assistance of mr. wilks, at fullalove alley, and on several occasions had the agreeable task of escorting her back home. he cabled to his father for news of the illustrious stowaway immediately the _conqueror_ was notified as having reached port elizabeth. the reply--"left ship"--confirmed his worst fears, but he cheerfully accepted mrs. kingdom's view that the captain, in order to relieve the natural anxiety of his family, had secured a passage on the first vessel homeward bound. captain hardy was the first to reach home. in the early hours of a fine april morning the _conqueror_ steamed slowly into sunwich harbour, and in a very short time the town was revelling in a description of captain nugent's first voyage before the mast from lips which were never tired of repeating it. down by the waterside mr. nathan smith found that he had suddenly attained the rank of a popular hero, and his modesty took alarm at the publicity afforded to his action. it was extremely distasteful to a man who ran a quiet business on old-fashioned lines and disbelieved in advertisement. he lost three lodgers the same day. [illustration: "a popular hero."] jem hardy was one of the few people in sunwich for whom the joke had no charms, and he betrayed such an utter lack of sympathy with his father's recital that the latter accused him at last of wanting a sense of humour. "i don't see anything amusing in it," said his son, stiffly. captain hardy recapitulated one or two choice points, and was even at some pains to explain them. "i can't see any fun in it," repeated his son. "your behaviour seems to me to have been deplorable." "what?" shouted the captain, hardly able to believe his ears. "captain nugent was your guest," pursued the other; "he got on your ship by accident, and he should have been treated decently as a saloon passenger." "and been apologized to for coming on board, i suppose?" suggested the captain. "it wouldn't have been amiss," was the reply. the captain leaned back in his chair and regarded him thoughtfully. "i can't think what's the matter with you, jem," he said. "ordinary decent ideas, that's all," said his son, scathingly. "there's something more in it than that," said the other, positively. "i don't like to see this love-your-enemy business with you, jem; it ain't natural to you. has your health been all right while i've been away?" "of course it has," said his son, curtly. "if you didn't want captain nugent aboard with you why didn't you put him ashore? it wouldn't have delayed you long. think of the worry and anxiety you've caused poor mrs. kingdom." "a holiday for her," growled the captain. "it has affected her health," continued his son; "and besides, think of his daughter. she's a high-spirited girl, and all sunwich is laughing over her father's mishap." "nugent fell into his own trap," exclaimed the captain, impatiently. "and it won't do that girl of his any harm to be taken down a peg or two. do her good. knock some of the nonsense out of her." "that's not the way to speak of a lady," said jem, hotly. the offended captain regarded him somewhat sourly; then his face changed, and he got up from his chair and stood before his son with consternation depicted on every feature. "you don't mean to tell me," he said, slowly; "you don't mean to tell me that you're thinking anything of kate nugent?" "why not?" demanded the other, defiantly; "why shouldn't i?" captain hardy, whistling softly, made no reply, but still stood eyeing him. "i thought there was some other reason for your consideration besides 'ordinary decent ideas,'" he said, at last. "when did it come on? how long have you had it?" mr. hardy, jun., in a studiously unfilial speech, intimated that these pleasantries were not to his taste. "no, of course not," said the captain, resuming his seat. "well, i'm sorry if it's serious, jem, but i never dreamt you had any ideas in that quarter. if i had i'd have given old nugent the best bunk on the ship and sung him to sleep myself. has she given you any encouragement?" "don't know," said jem, who found the conversation awkward. "extraordinary thing," said the captain, shaking his head, "extraordinary. like a play." "play?" said his son, sharply. "play," repeated his father, firmly. "what is the name of it? i saw it once at newcastle. the lovers take poison and die across each other's chests because their people won't let 'em marry. and that reminds me. i saw some phosphor-paste in the kitchen, jem. whose is it?" "i'm glad to be the means of affording you amusement," said jem, grinding his teeth. captain hardy regarded him affectionately. "go easy, my lad," he said, equably; "go easy. if i'd known it before, things would have been different; as i didn't, we must make the best of it. she's a pretty girl, and a good one, too, for all her airs, but i'm afraid she's too fond of her father to overlook this." "that's where you've made such a mess of things," broke in his son. "why on earth you two old men couldn't--" "easy," said the startled captain. "when you are in the early fifties, my lad, your ideas about age will be more accurate. besides, nugent is seven or eight years older than i am." "what became of him?" inquired jem. "he was off the moment we berthed," said his father, suppressing a smile. "i don't mean that he bolted--he'd got enough starch left in him not to do that--but he didn't trespass on our hospitality a moment longer than was necessary. i heard that he got a passage home on the columbus. he knew the master. she sailed some time before us for london. i thought he'd have been home by this." it was not until two days later, however, that the gossip in sunwich received a pleasant fillip by the arrival of the injured captain. he came down from london by the midday train, and, disdaining the privacy of a cab, prepared to run the gauntlet of his fellow-townsmen. a weaker man would have made a detour, but he held a direct course, and with a curt nod to acquaintances who would have stopped him walked swiftly in the direction of home. tradesmen ran to their shop-doors to see him, and smoking amphibians lounging at street corners broke out into sunny smiles as he passed. he met these annoyances with a set face and a cold eye, but his views concerning children were not improved by the crowd of small creatures which fluttered along the road ahead of him and, hopeful of developments, clustered round the gate as he passed in. [illustration: "he met these annoyances with a set face."] it is the pride and privilege of most returned wanderers to hold forth at great length concerning their adventures, but captain nugent was commendably brief. at first he could hardly be induced to speak of them at all, but the necessity of contradicting stories which bella had gleaned for mrs. kingdom from friends in town proved too strong for him. he ground his teeth with suppressed fury as he listened to some of them. the truth was bad enough, and his daughter, sitting by his side with her hand in his, was trembling with indignation. "poor father," she said, tenderly; "what a time you must have had." "it won't bear thinking of," said mrs. kingdom, not to be outdone in sympathy. "he met these annoyances with a set face." "well, don't think of it," said the captain, shortly. mrs. kingdom sighed as though to indicate that her feelings were not to be suppressed in that simple fashion. "the anxiety has been very great," she said, shaking her head, "but everybody's been very kind. i'm sure all our friends have been most sympathetic. i couldn't go outside the house without somebody stopping me and asking whether there was any news of you. i'd no idea you were so popular; even the milkman----" "i'd like some tea," interrupted the captain, roughly; "that is, when you have finished your very interesting information." mrs. kingdom pursed her lips together to suppress the words she was afraid to utter, and rang the bell. "your master would like some tea," she said, primly, as bella appeared. "he has had a long journey." the captain started and eyed her fiercely; mrs. kingdom, her good temper quite restored by this little retort, folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him with renewed sympathy. "we all missed you very much," said kate, softly. "but we had no fears once we knew that you were at sea." "and i suppose some of the sailors were kind to you?" suggested the unfortunate mrs. kingdom. "they are rough fellows, but i suppose some of them have got their hearts in the right place. i daresay they were sorry to see you in such a position." the captain's reply was of a nature known to mrs. kingdom and her circle as "snapping one's head off." he drew his chair to the table as bella brought in the tray and, accepting a cup of tea, began to discuss with his daughter the events which had transpired in his absence. "there is no news," interposed mrs. kingdom, during an interval. mr. hall's aunt died the other day." "never heard of her," said the captain. "neither had i, till then," said his sister. "what a lot of people there are one never hears of, john." the captain stared at her offensively and went on with his meal. a long silence ensued. "i suppose you didn't get to hear of the cable that was sent?" said mrs. kingdom, making another effort to arouse interest. "what cable?" inquired her brother. "the one mr. hardy sent to his father about you," replied mrs. kingdom. the captain pushed his chair back and stared her full in the face. "what do you mean?" he demanded. his sister explained. "do you mean to tell me that you've been speaking to young hardy?" exclaimed the captain. "i could hardly help doing so, when he came here," returned his sister, with dignity. "he has been very anxious about you." captain nugent rose and strode up and down the room. then he stopped and glanced sharply at his daughter. "were you here when he called?" he demanded. "yes," was the reply. "and you--you spoke to him?" roared the captain. "i had to be civil," said miss nugent, calmly; "i'm not a sea-captain." her father walked up and down the room again. mrs. kingdom, terrified at the storm she had evoked, gazed helplessly at her niece. "what did he come here for?" said the captain. miss nugent glanced down at her plate. "i can't imagine," she said, demurely. "the first time he came to tell us what had become of you." the captain stopped in his walk and eyed her sternly. "i am very fortunate in my children," he said, slowly. "one is engaged to marry the daughter of the shadiest rascal in sunwich, and the other--" "and the other?" said his daughter, proudly, as he paused. "the other," said the captain, as he came round the table and put his hand on her shoulder, "is my dear and obedient daughter." "yes," said miss nugent; "but that isn't what you were going to say. you need not worry about me; i shall not do anything that would displease you." chapter xviii with a view to avoiding the awkwardness of a chance meeting with any member of the nugent family hardy took the sea road on his way to the office the morning after the captain's return. common sense told him to leave matters for the present to the healing hand of time, and to cultivate habits of self-effacement by no means agreeable to one of his temperament. despite himself his spirits rose as he walked. it was an ideal spring morning, cool and sunny. the short turf by the side of the road was fragrant under his heel, and a light wind stirred the blueness of the sea. on the beach below two grizzled men of restful habit were endeavouring to make an old boat waterproof with red and green paint. a long figure approaching slowly from the opposite direction broke into a pleasant smile as he drew near and quickened his pace to meet him. "you're out early," said hardy, as the old man stopped and turned with him. "'ave to be, sir," said mr. wilks, darkly; "out early and 'ome late, and more often than not getting my dinner out. that's my life nowadays." "can't you let her see that her attentions are undesirable?" inquired hardy, gravely. "can't you let her see that her attentions are undesirable?" [illustration: "'can't you let her see that her attentions are undesirable?'"] "i can't be rude to a woman," said the steward, with a melancholy smile; "if i could, my life would ha' been very different. she's always stepping across to ask my advice about teddy, or something o' that sort. all last week she kept borrowing my frying-pan, so at last by way of letting 'er see i didn't like it i went out and bought 'er one for herself. what's the result? instead o' being offended she went out and bought me a couple o' neck-ties. when i didn't wear 'em she pretended it was because i didn't like the colour, and she went and bought two more. i'm wearing one now." he shook his head ruefully, and hardy glanced at a tie which would have paled the glories of a rainbow. for some time they walked along in silence. "i'm going to pay my respects to cap'n nugent this afternoon," said mr. wilks, suddenly. "ah," said the other. "i knew what it 'ud be with them two on the same ship," continued mr. wilks. "i didn't say nothing when you was talking to miss kate, but i knew well enough." "ah," said hardy again. there was no mistaking the significance of the steward's remarks, and he found them somewhat galling. it was all very well to make use of his humble friend, but he had no desire to discuss his matrimonial projects with him. "it's a great pity," pursued the unconscious mr. wilks, "just as everything seemed to be going on smoothly; but while there's life there's 'ope." "that's a smart barge over there," said hardy, pointing it out. mr. wilks nodded. "i shall keep my eyes open this afternoon," he said reassuringly. "and if i get a chance of putting in a word it'll be put in. twenty-nine years i sailed with the cap'n, and if there's anybody knows his weak spots it's me." he stopped as they reached the town and said "good-bye." he pressed the young man's hand sympathetically, and a wink of intense artfulness gave point to his last remark. "there's always sam wilks's cottage," he said, in a husky whisper; "and if two of 'is friends _should_ 'appen to meet there, who'd be the wiser?" he gazed benevolently after the young man's retreating figure and continued his stroll, his own troubles partly forgotten in the desire to assist his friends. it would be a notable feat for the humble steward to be the means of bringing the young people together and thereby bringing to an end the feud of a dozen years. he pictured himself eventually as the trusted friend and adviser of both families, and in one daring flight of fancy saw himself hobnobbing with the two captains over pipes and whisky. neatly dressed and carrying a small offering of wallflowers, he set out that afternoon to call on his old master, giving, as he walked, the last touches to a little speech of welcome which he had prepared during dinner. it was a happy effort, albeit a trifle laboured, but captain nugent's speech, the inspiration of the moment, gave it no chance. he started the moment the bowing mr. wilks entered the room, his voice rising gradually from low, bitter tones to a hurricane note which bella. could hear in the kitchen without even leaving her chair. mr. wilks stood dazed and speechless before him, holding the wallflowers in one hand and his cap in the other. in this attitude he listened to a description of his character drawn with the loving skill of an artist whose whole heart was in his work, and who seemed never tired of filling in details. "if you ever have the hardihood to come to my house again," he concluded, "i'll break every bone in your misshapen body. get!" mr. wilks turned and groped his way to the door. then he went a little way back with some idea of defending himself, but the door of the room was slammed in his face. he walked slowly down the path to the road and stood there for some time in helpless bewilderment. in all his sixty years of life his feelings had never been so outraged. his cap was still in his hand, and, with a helpless gesture, he put it on and scattered his floral offering in the road. then he made a bee-line for the two schooners. though convivial by nature and ever free with his money, he sat there drinking alone in silent misery. men came and went, but he still sat there noting with mournful pride the attention caused by his unusual bearing. to casual inquiries he shook his head; to more direct ones he only sighed heavily and applied himself to his liquor. curiosity increased with numbers as the day wore on, and the steward, determined to be miserable, fought manfully against an ever-increasing cheerfulness due to the warming properties of the ale within. "i 'ope you ain't lost nobody, sam?" said a discomfited inquirer at last. mr. wilks shook his head. "you look as though you'd lost a shilling and found a ha'penny," pursued the other. "found a what?" inquired mr. wilks, wrinkling his forehead. "a ha'penny," said his friend. "who did?" said mr. wilks. the other attempted to explain and was ably assisted by two friends, but without avail; the impression left on mr. wilks's mind being that somebody had got a shilling of his. he waxed exceeding bitter, and said that he had been missing shillings for a long time. "you're labourin' under a mistake, sam," said the first speaker. mr. wilks laughed scornfully and essayed a sneer, while his friends, regarding his contortions with some anxiety, expressed a fear that he was not quite himself. to this suggestion the steward deigned no reply, and turning to the landlord bade him replenish his mug. "you've 'ad enough, mr. wilks," said that gentleman, who had been watching him for some time. mr. wilks, gazing at him mistily, did not at first understand the full purport of this remark; but when he did, his wrath was so majestic and his remarks about the quality of the brew so libellous that the landlord lost all patience. "you get off home," he said, sharply. "listen t' me," said mr. wilks, impressively. "i don't want no words with you," said the land-lord. "you get off home while you can." "that's right, sam," said one of the company, putting his hand on the steward's arm. "you take his advice." mr. wilks shook the hand off and eyed his adviser ferociously. then he took a glass from the counter and smashed it on the floor. the next moment the bar was in a ferment, and the landlord, gripping mr. wilks round the middle, skilfully piloted him to the door and thrust him into the road. [illustration: "he took a glass from the counter and smashed it on the floor."] the strong air blowing from the sea disordered the steward's faculties still further. his treatment inside was forgotten, and, leaning against the front of the tavern, he stood open-mouthed, gazing at marvels. ships in the harbour suddenly quitted their native element and were drawn up into the firmament; nobody passed but twins. "evening, mr. wilks," said a voice. the steward peered down at the voice. at first he thought it was another case of twins, but looking close he saw that it was mr. edward silk alone. he saluted him graciously, and then, with a wave of his hand toward the sky, sought to attract his attention to the ships there. "yes," said the unconscious mr. silk, sign of a fine day to-morrow. "are you going my way?" mr. wilks smiled, and detaching himself from the tavern with some difficulty just saved mr. silk from a terrible fall by clutching him forcibly round the neck. the ingratitude of mr. silk was a rebuff to a nature which was at that moment overflowing with good will. for a moment the steward was half inclined to let him go home alone, but the reflection that he would never get there softened him. "pull yourself t'gether," he said, gravely, "now, 'old on me." the road, as they walked, rose up in imitation of the shipping, but mr. wilks knew now the explanation: teddy silk was intoxicated. very gently he leaned towards the erring youth and wagged his head at him. "are you going to hold up or aren't you?" demanded mr. silk, shortly. the steward waived the question; he knew from experience the futility of arguing with men in drink. the great thing was to get teddy silk home, not to argue with him. he smiled good-temperedly to himself, and with a sudden movement pinned him up against the wall in time to arrest another` fall. [illustration: "the great thing was to get teddy silk home."] with frequent halts by the way, during which the shortness of mr. silk's temper furnished mr. wilks with the texts of several sermons, none of which he finished, they at last reached fullalove alley, and the steward, with a brief exhortation to his charge to hold his head up, bore down on mrs. silk, who was sitting in her doorway. "i've brought 'im 'ome," he said, steadying himself against the doorpost; "brought 'im 'ome." "brought 'im 'ome?" said the bewildered mrs. silk. "don' say anything to 'im," entreated mr. wilks, "my sake. thing might 'appen anybody." "he's been like that all the way," said mr. silk, regarding the steward with much disfavour. "i don't know why i troubled about him, i'm sure." "crowd roun 'im," pursued the imaginative mr. wilks. "'old up, teddy." "i'm sure it's very kind of you, mr. wilks," said the widow, as she glanced at a little knot of neighbours standing near. "will you come inside for a minute or two?" she moved the chair to let him pass, and mr. wilks, still keeping the restraining hand of age on the shoulder of intemperate youth, passed in and stood, smiling amiably, while mrs. silk lit the lamp and placed it in the centre of the table, which was laid for supper. the light shone on a knuckle of boiled pork, a home-made loaf, and a fresh-cut wedge of cheese. "i suppose you won't stay and pick a bit o' sup-per with us?" said mrs. silk. "why not?" inquired mr. wilks. "i'm sure, if i had known," said mrs. silk, as she piloted him to a seat, "i'd 'ave 'ad something nice. there, now! if i 'aven't been and forgot the beer." she left the table and went into the kitchen, and mr. wilks's eyes glistened as she returned with a large brown jug full of foaming ale and filled his glass. "teddy mustn't 'ave any," he said, sharply, as she prepared to fill that gentleman's glass. "just 'alf a glass," she said, winsomely. "not a drop," said mr. wilks, firmly. mrs. silk hesitated, and screwing up her forehead glanced significantly at her son. "'ave some by-and-by," she whispered. "give me the jug," said mr. silk, indignantly. "what are you listening to 'im for? can't you see what's the matter with 'im?" "not to 'ave it," said mr. wilks; "put it 'ere." he thumped the table emphatically with his hand, and before her indignant son could interfere mrs. silk had obeyed. it was the last straw. mr. edward silk rose to his feet with tremendous effect and, first thrusting his plate violently away from him, went out into the night, slamming the door behind him with such violence that the startled mr. wilks was nearly blown out of his chair. "he don't mean nothing," said mrs. silk, turning a rather scared face to the steward. "'e's a bit jealous of you, i s'pose." mr. wilks shook his head. truth to tell, he was rather at a loss to know exactly what had happened. "and then there's 'is love affair," sighed mrs. silk. "he'll never get over the loss of amelia kybird. i always know when 'e 'as seen her, he's that miserable there's no getting a word out of 'im." mr. wilks smiled vaguely and went on with his supper, and, the meal finished, allowed himself to be installed in an easy-chair, while his hostess cleared the table. he sat and smoked in high good humour with himself, the occasional remarks he made being received with an enthusiasm which they seldom provoked elsewhere. "i should like t' sit 'ere all night," he said, at last. "i don't believe it," said mrs. silk, playfully. "like t' sit 'ere all night," repeated mr. wilks, somewhat sternly. "all nex' day, all day after, day after that, day----" mrs. silk eyed him softly. "why would you like to sit here all that time?" she inquired, in a low voice. "b'cause," said mr. wilks, simply, "b'cause i don't feel's if i can stand. goo'-night." he closed his eyes on the indignant mrs. silk and fell fast asleep. it was a sound sleep and dreamless, and only troubled by the occasional ineffectual attempts of his hostess to arouse him. she gave up the attempt at last, and taking up a pair of socks sat working thoughtfully the other side of the fire-place. the steward awoke an hour or two later, and after what seemed a terrible struggle found himself standing at the open door with the cold night air blowing in his face, and a voice which by an effort of memory he identified as that of edward silk inviting him "to go home and lose no time about it." then the door slammed behind him and he stood balancing himself with some difficulty on the step, wondering what had happened. by the time he had walked up and down the deserted alley three or four times light was vouchsafed to him and, shivering slightly, he found his own door and went to bed. chapter xix any hopes which hardy might have entertained as to the attitude of miss nugent were dispelled the first time he saw her, that dutiful daughter of a strong-willed sire favouring him with a bow which was exactly half an inch in depth and then promptly bestowing her gaze elsewhere. he passed captain nugent next day, and for a week afterwards he had only to close his eyes to see in all its appalling virulence the glare with which that gentleman had acknowledged his attempt at recognition. [illustration: "captain nugent."] he fared no better in fullalove alley, a visit to mr. wilks eliciting the fact that that delectable thoroughfare had been put out of bounds for miss nugent. moreover, mr. wilks was full of his own troubles and anxious for any comfort and advice that could be given to him. all the alley knew that mrs. silk had quarrelled with her son over the steward, and, without knowing the facts, spoke their mind with painful freedom concerning them. "she and teddy don't speak to each other now," said mr. wilks, gloomily, "and to 'ear people talk you'd think it was my fault." hardy gave him what comfort he could. he even went the length of saying that mrs. silk was a fine woman. "she acts like a suffering martyr," exclaimed mr. wilks. "she comes over 'ere dropping hints that people are talking about us, and that they ask 'er awkward questions. pretending to misunderstand 'er every time is enough to send me crazy; and she's so sudden in what she says there's no being up to 'er. on'y this morning she asked me if i should be sorry if she died." "what did you say?" inquired his listener. "i said 'yes,'" admitted mr. wilks, reluctantly. "i couldn't say anything else; but i said that she wasn't to let my feelings interfere with 'er in any way." hardy's father sailed a day or two later, and after that nothing happened. equator lodge was an impregnable fortress, and the only member of the garrison he saw in a fortnight was bella. his depression did not escape the notice of his partner, who, after first advising love-philtres and then a visit to a well-known specialist for diseases of the heart, finally recommended more work, and put a generous portion of his own on to the young man's desk. hardy, who was in an evil temper, pitched it on to the floor and, with a few incisive remarks on levity unbecoming to age, pursued his duties in gloomy silence. a short time afterwards, however, he had to grapple with his partner's work in real earnest. for the first time in his life the genial shipbroker was laid up with a rather serious illness. a chill caught while bathing was going the round of certain unsuspected weak spots, and the patient, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, was taking a greater interest in medical works than his doctor deemed advisable. "most interesting study," he said, faintly, to hardy, as the latter sat by his bedside one evening and tried to cheer him in the usual way by telling him that there was nothing the matter with him. "there are dozens of different forms of liver complaint alone, and i've got 'em all." "liver isn't much," said his visitor, with the confidence of youth. "mine is," retorted the invalid; "it's twice its proper size and still growing. base of the left lung is solidifying, or i'm much mistaken; the heart, instead of waltzing as is suitable to my time of life, is doing a galop, and everything else is as wrong as it can be." "when are you coming back?" inquired the other. "back?" repeated swann. "back? you haven't been listening. i'm a wreck. all through violating man's primeval instinct by messing about in cold water. what is the news?" hardy pondered and shook his head. "nugent is going to be married in july," he said, at last. "he'd better have had that trip on the whaler," commented mr. swann; "but that is not news. nathan smith told it me this morning." "nathan smith?" repeated the other, in surprise. "i've done him a little service," said the invalid. "got him out of a mess with garth and co. he's been here two or three times, and i must confess i find him a most alluring rascal." "birds of a feather--" began hardy, superciliously. "don't flatter me," said swann, putting his hand out of the bed-clothes with a deprecatory gesture. "i am not worthy to sit at his feet. he is the most amusing knave on the coast. he is like a sunbeam in a sick room when you can once get him to talk of his experiences. have you seen young nugent lately? does he seem cheerful?" "yes, but he is not," was the reply. "well, it's natural for the young to marry," said the other, gravely. "murchison will be the next to go, i expect." "possibly," returned hardy, with affected calmness. "blaikie was saying something about it this morning," resumed swann, regarding him from half-closed lids, "but he was punching and tapping me all about the ribs while he was talking, and i didn't catch all he said, but i think it's all arranged. murchison is there nearly every day, i understand; i suppose you meet him there?" mr. hardy, whistling softly, rose and walked round the room, uncorking medicine bottles and sniffing at their contents. a smile of unaffected pleasure lit up his features as he removed the stopper from one particularly pungent mixture. [illustration: "sniffing at their contents."] "two tablespoonfuls three times a day," he read, slowly. "when did you have the last, swann? shall i ring for the nurse?" the invalid shook his head impatiently. "you're an ungrateful dog," he muttered, "or you would tell me how your affair is going. have you got any chance?" "you're getting light-headed now," said hardy, calmly. "i'd better go." "all right, go then," responded the invalid; "but if you lose that girl just for the want of a little skilled advice from an expert, you'll never forgive yourself--i'm serious." "well, you must be ill then," said the younger man, with anxiety. "twice," said mr. swann, lying on his back and apparently addressing the ceiling, "twice i have given this young man invaluable assistance, and each time he has bungled." hardy laughed and, the nurse returning to the room, bade him "good-bye" and departed. after the close atmosphere of the sick room the air was delicious, and he walked along slowly, deep in thought. from nathan smith his thoughts wandered to jack nugent and his unfortunate engagement, and from that to kate nugent. for months he had been revolving impossible schemes in his mind to earn her gratitude, and possibly that of the captain, by extricating jack. in the latter connection he was also reminded of that unhappy victim of unrequited affection, edward silk. it was early to go indoors, and the house was dull. he turned and retraced his steps, and, his thoughts reverting to his sick partner, smiled as he remembered remarks which that irresponsible person had made at various times concerning the making of his last will and testament. then he came to a sudden standstill as a wild, forlorn-hope kind of idea suddenly occurred to him. he stood for some time thinking, then walked a little way, and then stopped again as various difficulties presented themselves for solution. finally, despite the lateness of the hour, he walked back in some excitement to the house he had quitted over half an hour before with the intention of speaking to the invalid concerning a duty peculiarly incumbent upon elderly men of means. the nurse, who came out of the sick room, gently closing the door after her, demurred a little to this second visit, but, receiving a promise from the visitor not to excite the invalid, left them together. the odour of the abominable physic was upon the air. "well?" said the invalid. "i have been thinking that i was rather uncivil a little while ago," said hardy. "ah!" said the other. "what do you want?" "a little of that skilled assistance you were speaking of." mr. swann made an alarming noise in his throat. hardy sprang forward in alarm, but he motioned him back. "i was only laughing," he explained. hardy repressed his annoyance by an effort, and endeavoured, but with scant success, to return the other's smile. "go on," said the shipbroker, presently. "i have thought of a scheme for upsetting nugent's marriage," said hardy, slowly. "it is just a forlorn hope which depends for its success on you and nathan smith." "he's a friend of kybird's," said the other, drily. "that is the most important thing of all," rejoined hardy. "that is, next to your shrewdness and tact; everything depends upon you, really, and whether you can fool smith. it is a great thing in our favour that you have been taking him up lately." "are you coming to the point or are you not?" demanded the shipbroker. hardy looked cautiously round the room, and then, drawing his chair close to the bed, leaned over the prostrate man and spoke rapidly into his ear. "what?" cried the astounded mr. swann, suddenly sitting up in his bed. "you--you scoundrel!" "it's to be done," said hardy. "you ghoul!" said the invalid, glaring at him. "is that the way to talk to a sick man? you unscrupulous rascal!" "it'll be amusement for you," pleaded the other, "and if we are successful it will be the best thing in the end for everybody. think of the good you'll do." "where you get such rascally ideas from, i can't think," mused the invalid. "your father is a straightforward, honest man, and your partner's uprightness is the talk of sunwich." "it doesn't take much to make sunwich talk," retorted hardy. "a preposterous suggestion to make to a man of my standing," said the shipbroker, ignoring the remark. "if the affair ever leaked out i should never hear the end of it." "it can't leak out," said hardy, "and if it does there is no direct evidence. they will never really know until you die; they can only suspect." "very well," said the shipbroker, with a half-indulgent, half-humorous glance. "anything to get rid of you. it's a crack-brained scheme, and could only originate with a young man whose affections have weakened his head--i consent." "bravo!" said hardy and patted him on the back; mr. swann referred to the base of his left lung, and he apologized. "i'll have to fix it up with blaikie," said the invalid, lying down again. "murchison got two of his best patients last week, so that it ought to be easy. and besides, he is fond of innocent amusement." "i'm awfully obliged to you," said hardy. "it might be as well if we pretended to quarrel," said the invalid, reflectively, "especially as you are known to be a friend of nugent's. we'll have a few words--before my housekeeper if possible, to insure publicity--and then you had better not come again. send silk instead with messages." hardy thanked him and whispered a caution as a footstep was heard on the landing. the door opened and the nurse, followed by the housekeeper bearing a tray, entered the room. "and i can't be worried about these things," said swann, in an acrimonious voice, as they entered. "if you are not capable of settling a simple question like that yourself, ask the office-boy to instruct you. "it's your work," retorted hardy, "and a nice mess it's in." "h'sh!" said the nurse, coming forward hastily. "you must leave the room, sir. i can't have you exciting my patient." hardy bestowed an indignant glance at the invalid. "get out!" said that gentleman, with extraordinary fierceness for one in his weak condition. "in future, nurse, i won't have this person admitted to my room." "yes, yes; certainly," said the nurse. "you must go, sir; at once, please." "i'm going," said hardy, almost losing his gravity at the piteous spectacle afforded by the house-keeper as she stood, still holding the tray and staring open-mouthed at the combatants. "when you're tired of skulking in bed, perhaps you'll come and do your share of the work." mr. swann rose to a sitting position, and his demeanour was so alarming that the nurse, hastening over to him, entreated him to lie down, and waved hardy peremptorily from the room. "puppy!" said the invalid, with great relish. "blockhead!" [illustration: "'puppy!' said the invalid."] he gazed fixedly at the young man as he departed and then, catching sight in his turn of the housekeeper's perplexity, laid himself down and buried his face in the bed-clothes. the nurse crossed over to her assistant and, taking the tray from her, told her in a sharp whisper that if she ever admitted mr. hardy again she would not be answerable for the consequences. chapter xx charmed at the ease with which he had demolished the objections of mr. adolphus swann and won that suffering gentleman over to his plans, hardy began to cast longing glances at equator lodge. he reminded himself that the labourer was worthy of his hire, and it seemed moreover an extremely desirable thing that captain nugent should know that he was labouring in his vineyard with the full expectation of a bounteous harvest. he resolved to call. kate nugent, who heard the gate swing behind him as he entered the front garden, looked up and stood spellbound at his audacity. as a fairly courageous young person she was naturally an admirer of boldness in others, but this seemed sheer recklessness. moreover, it was recklessness in which, if she stayed where she was, she would have to bear a part or be guilty of rudeness, of which she felt incapable. she took a third course, and, raising her eyebrows at the unnecessarily loud knocking with which the young man announced his arrival, retreated in good order into the garden, where her father, in a somewhat heated condition, was laboriously planting geraniums. she had barely reached him when bella, in a state of fearsome glee, came down the garden to tell the captain of his visitor. [illustration: "bella, in a state of fearsome glee, came down the garden to tell the captain of his visitor."] "who?" said the latter, sharply, as he straightened his aching back. "young mr. hardy," said bella, impressively. "i showed 'im in; i didn't ask 'im to take a chair, but he took one." "young hardy to see me!" said the captain to his daughter, after bella had returned to the house. "how dare he come to my house? infernal impudence! i won't see him." "shall i go in and see him for you?" inquired kate, with affected artlessness. "you stay where you are, miss," said her father. "i won't have him speak to you; i won't have him look at you. i'll----" he beat his dirty hands together and strode off towards the house. jem hardy rose from his chair as the captain entered the room and, ignoring a look of black inquiry, bade him "good afternoon." "what do you want?" asked the captain, gruffly, as he stared him straight in the eye. "i came to see you about your son's marriage," said the other. "are you still desirous of preventing it?" "i'm sorry you've had the trouble," said the captain, in a voice of suppressed anger; "and now may i ask you to get out of my house?" hardy bowed. "i am sorry i have troubled you," he said, calmly, "but i have a plan which i think would get your son out of this affair, and, as a business man, i wanted to make something out of it." the captain eyed him scornfully, but he was glad to see this well-looking, successful son of his old enemy tainted with such sordid views. instead of turning him out he spoke to him almost fairly. "how much do you want?" he inquired. "all things considered, i am asking a good deal," was the reply. "how much?" repeated the captain, impatiently. hardy hesitated. "in exchange for the service i want permission to visit here when i choose," he said, at length; "say twice a week." words failed the captain; none with which he was acquainted seemed forcible enough for the occasion. he faced his visitor stuttering with rage, and pointed to the door. "get out of my house," he roared. [illustration: "'get out of my house,' he roared.] "i'm sorry to have intruded," said hardy, as he crossed the room and paused at the door; "it is none of my business, of course. i thought that i saw an opportunity of doing your son a good turn--he is a friend of mine--and at the same time paying off old scores against kybird and nathan smith. i thought that on that account it might suit you. good afternoon." he walked out into the hall, and reaching the front door fumbled clumsily with the catch. the captain watching his efforts in grim silence began to experience the twin promptings of curiosity and temptation. "what is this wonderful plan of yours?" he demanded, with a sneer. "just at present that must remain a secret," said the other. he came from the door and, unbidden, followed the captain into the room again. "what do you want to visit at my house for?" inquired the latter, in a forbidding voice. "to see your daughter," said hardy. the captain had a relapse. he had not expected a truthful answer, and, when it came, in the most matter-of-fact tone, it found him quite unprepared. his first idea was to sacrifice his dignity and forcibly eject his visitor, but more sensible thoughts prevailed. "you are quite sure, i suppose, that your visits would be agreeable to my daughter?" he said, contemptuously. hardy shook his head. "i should come ostensibly to see you," he said, cheerfully; "to smoke a pipe with you." "smoke!" stuttered the captain, explosively; "smoke a pipe with me?" "why not?" said the other. "i am offering you my services, and anything that is worth having is worth paying for. i suppose we could both smoke pipes under pleasanter conditions. what have you got against me? it isn't my fault that you and my father have quarrelled." "i don't want anything more to say to you," said the captain, sternly. "i've shown you the door once. am i to take forcible measures?" hardy shrugged his broad shoulders. "i am sorry," he said, moving to the door again. "so am i," said the other. "it's a pity," said hardy, regretfully. "it's the chance of a lifetime. i had set my heart on fooling kybird and smith, and now all my trouble is wasted. nathan smith would be all the better for a fall." the captain hesitated. his visitor seemed to be confident, and he would have given a great deal to prevent his son's marriage and a great deal to repay some portion of his debt to the ingenious mr. smith. moreover, there seemed to be an excellent opportunity of punishing the presumption of his visitor by taking him at his word. "i don't think you'd enjoy your smoking here much," he said, curtly. "i'll take my chance of that," said the other. "it will only be a matter of a few weeks, and then, if i am unsuccessful, my visits cease." "and if you're successful, am i to have the pleasure of your company for the rest of my life?" demanded the captain. "that will be for you to decide," was the reply. "is it a bargain?" the captain looked at him and deliberated. "all right. mondays and thursdays," he said, laconically. hardy saw through the ruse, and countered. "now swann is ill i can't always get away when i wish," he said, easily. "i'll just drop in when i can. good day." he opened the door and, fearful lest the other should alter his mind at the last moment, walked briskly down the path to the gate. the captain stood for some time after his departure deep in thought, and then returned to the garden to be skilfully catechized by miss nugent. "and when my young friend comes with his pipe you'll be in another room," he concluded, warningly. miss nugent looked up and patted his cheek tenderly. "what a talent for organization you have," she remarked, softly. "a place for everything and everything in its place. the idea of his taking such a fancy to you!" the captain coughed and eyed her suspiciously. he had been careful not to tell her hardy's reasons for coming, but he had a shrewd idea that his caution was wasted. "today is thursday," said kate, slowly; "he will be here to-morrow and saturday. what shall i wear?" the captain resumed his gardening operations by no means perturbed at the prophecy. much as he disliked the young man he gave him credit for a certain amount of decency, and his indignation was proportionately great the following evening when bella announced mr. hardy. he made a genial remark about shylock and a pound of flesh, but finding that it was only an excellent conversational opening, the subject of shakespeare's plays lapsed into silence. it was an absurd situation, but he was host and hardy allowed him to see pretty plainly that he was a guest. he answered the latter's remarks with a very ill grace, and took covert stock of him as one of a species he had not encountered before. one result of his stock-taking was that he was spared any feeling of surprise when his visitor came the following evening. "it's the thin end of the wedge," said miss nugent, who came into the room after hardy had departed; "you don't know him as well as i do." "eh?" said her father, sharply. "i mean that you are not such a judge of character as i am," said kate; "and besides, i have made a special study of young men. the only thing that puzzles me is why you should have such an extraordinary fascination for him." "you talk too much, miss," said the captain, drawing the tobacco jar towards him and slowly filling his pipe. miss nugent sighed, and after striking a match for him took a seat on the arm of his chair and placed her hand on his shoulder. "i can quite understand him liking you," she said, slowly. the captain grunted. "and if he is like other sensible people," continued miss nugent, in a coaxing voice, "the more he sees of you the more he'll like you. i do hope he has not come to take you away from me." [illustration: "i do hope he has not come to take you away from me."] the indignant captain edged her off the side of his chair; miss nugent, quite undisturbed, got on again and sat tapping the floor with her foot. her arm stole round his neck and she laid her cheek against his head and smiled wickedly. "nice-looking, isn't he?" she said, in a careless voice. "i don't know anything about his looks," growled her father. miss nugent gave a little exclamation of surprise. "first thing i noticed," she said, with commendable gravity. "he's very good-looking and very determined. what are you going to give him if he gets poor jack out of this miserable business?" "give him?" said her father, staring. "i met jack yesterday," said kate, "and i can see that he is as wretched as he can be. he wouldn't say so, of course. if mr. hardy is successful you ought to recognize it. i should suggest one of your new photos in an eighteenpenny frame." she slipped off the chair and quitted the room before her father could think of a suitable retort, and he sat smoking silently until the entrance of mrs. kingdom a few minutes later gave him an opportunity of working off a little accumulated gall. while the junior partner was thus trying to obtain a footing at equator lodge the gravest rumours of the senior partner's health were prevalent in the town. nathan smith, who had been to see him again, ostensibly to thank him for his efforts on his behalf, was of opinion that he was breaking up, and in conversation with mr. kybird shook his head over the idea that there would soon be one open-handed gentleman the less in a world which was none too full of them. "we've all got to go some day," observed mr. kybird, philosophically. "'ow's that cough o' yours getting on, nat?" mr. smith met the pleasantry coldly; the ailment referred to was one of some standing and had been a continual source of expense in the way of balsams and other remedies. "he's worried about 'is money," he said, referring to mr. swann. "ah, we sha'n't 'ave that worry," said mr. kybird. "nobody to leave it to," continued mr. smith. "seems a bit 'ard, don't it?" "p'r'aps if 'e 'ad 'ad somebody to leave it to 'e wouldn't 'ave 'ad so much to leave," observed mr. kybird, sagely; "it's a rum world." he shook his head over it and went on with the uncongenial task of marking down wares which had suffered by being exposed outside too long. mr. smith, who always took an interest in the welfare of his friends, made suggestions. "i shouldn't put a ticket marked 'look at this!' on that coat," he said, severely. "it oughtn't to be looked at." "it's the best out o' three all 'anging together," said mr. kybird, evenly. "and look 'ere," said mr. smith. "look what an out-o'-the-way place you've put this ticket. why not put it higher up on the coat?" "becos the moth-hole ain't there," said mr. kybird. mr. smith apologized and watched his friend without further criticism. "gettin' ready for the wedding, i s'pose?" he said, presently. mr. kybird assented, and his brow darkened as he spoke of surreptitious raids on his stores made by mrs. kybird and daughter. "their idea of a wedding," he said, bitterly, "is to dress up and make a show; my idea is a few real good old pals and plenty of licker." "you'll 'ave to 'ave both," observed nathan smith, whose knowledge of the sex was pretty accurate. mr. kybird nodded gloomily. "'melia and jack don't seem to 'ave been 'itting it off partikler well lately," he said, slowly. "he's getting more uppish than wot 'e was when 'e come here first. but i got 'im to promise that he'd settle any money that 'e might ever get left him on 'melia." mr. smith's inscrutable eyes glistened into something as nearly approaching a twinkle as they were capable. "that'll settle the five 'undred," he said, warmly. "are you goin' to send cap'n nugent an invite for the wedding?" [illustration: "are you goin' to send cap'n nugent an invite for the wedding?"] "they'll 'ave to be asked, o' course," said mr. kybird, with an attempt at dignity, rendered necessary by a certain lightness in his friend's manner. "the old woman don't like the nugent lot, but she'll do the proper thing." "o' course she will," said mr. smith, soothingly. "come over and 'ave a drink with me, dan'l it's your turn to stand." transcriber's note: bold text is denoted by =bold= and italic by _italic_. [illustration: "jack, don't you know me?"] the ranch girls series the ranch girls in europe --by-- margaret vandercook illustrated by mary pemberton ginther the john c. winston company philadelphia copyright, , by the john c. winston company contents chapter page i. birds of passage ii. salve! iii. new acquaintances iv. things present and things to come v. a soldier of fortune vi. ruth's attitude vii. gibraltar viii. a more important obligation ix. reflections x. italian violets xi. fontanone dell' acqua felice xii. afternoon tea xiii. jack xiv. the princess' mythological ball xv. a surprise xvi. leaving rome xvii. the overseer of the rainbow ranch xviii. relief or regret? xix. reconciliations xx. an english country place xxi. midnight confidences xxii. olive's answer xxiii. the wedding day list of illustrations "jack, don't you know me?" _frontispiece_ page her tone was that of absolute authority "don't be funny, dick; i'm lost again" ruth started up the aisle on lord kent's arm the ranch girls in europe chapter i birds of passage "it seems incredible, girls, but i simply can't find her." the young woman who made this remark was standing on the deck of an out-going ocean steamer. the great boat was ploughing its way through the ambrose channel, leaving the long nose of sandy hook a thin line of white on one side. fading away into the background like dim gray ghosts were the giant towers of new york city. the speaker was wearing a long, gray traveling coat with a blue lining, and a felt hat of the same colors rested close against her ash-brown hair. immediately three girls turned to face her. the minute before they had been leaning against the ship's railing. one of them revealed a suspicion of tears in her curiously dark eyes; the second had her lips shut unnecessarily tight to hide her emotion; while the third showed only rejoicing. "dear me, ruth drew," this girl now began in mock tragic tones, "you don't suppose that our infant has fallen overboard already, do you? or do you suspect some one of having run away with her? at this present moment i presume that frieda ralston is in our stateroom. but it is possible that she is engaged in making the acquaintance of some one on shipboard whom she has decided she is crazy to know. the most probable supposition, however, is that she is trying to persuade a steward to give her something to eat. for over an hour ago she informed me that she was starving to death and wished to open one of her boxes of candy before leaving the new york pier. she is sure to turn up in a moment or so. do please stay here with us and help jack and olive mourn. they are shedding tears over having to say farewell to the 'stars and stripes,' and incidentally to our best-beloved friends. but i can't even show a polite amount of emotion i am so happy over starting off on our trip at last." here jean bruce, one of the four ranch girls from the rainbow lodge, abruptly ceased talking. she had been noticing for the past few minutes that a stranger had been listening to her conversation with a kind of well-bred amusement. and as she happened to be the person whom jean had most admired since coming aboard the martha washington, it seeming annoying to be the subject of her smiles. however, jean should not have been offended, for her sallies had awakened the first animation in the young woman's face since the hour of their sailing. until recently she had been standing in a listless attitude within a few feet of the ranch girls, apparently uninterested in anything in the world. in her slender arms she carried what looked like an entire tree of american beauty roses. and now and then she had pressed her face against them. the traveler's costume had first attracted jean's attention--it was so beautiful and fashionable. the coat was of dull blue silk; the small hat emphasized the classic outline of the young woman's haughtily poised head with its crown of pale-gold hair, and at a respectful distance a maid and a courier waited in attendance upon her. jack and olive, even in the midst of their absorption, had been brought to admit that the stranger's appearance was fascinating. while to jean's more romantic fancy she suggested no less a heroine than the princess flavia in "the prisoner of zenda." in the moment of jean's silence jacqueline ralston drew their chaperon's arm through hers, giving it a reproachful squeeze. "if you are going to begin worrying over us, ruth, in the very first hour of what aunt ellen called 'our tower,' whatever is to become of you before we are through? i am sure frieda is all right. and this time jean is telling the truth. olive and i have been feeling low in our minds over saying good-by to jim and ralph and miss winthrop and peter and jessica and a few others. but just the same we are as happy over the prospect of our trip as jean bruce is, every single bit!" during this moment ruth had again allowed herself to be silenced, but now she moved determinedly back from jacqueline's detaining grasp. "i don't think you girls understand the situation," ruth argued a trifle impatiently. "of course i have already searched for frieda in every probable place on the ship and have had the stewardess helping me. she simply is not to be found! i don't like frieda's running off from the rest of us in this fashion and i don't understand it. where did you leave her, jean, when you came on board the second time after going ashore for another farewell to mr. colter? i was so busy having our steamer trunks put into our staterooms that i could not join you." and for an instant, remembering that there were other reasons why she did not wish to be present at this final parting with jim colter, ruth drew hesitated and flushed. would her new england conscience never allow her to be satisfied with telling only half the truth? but jean, forgetting the presence of her embarrassing audience, shook her head in protest. "frieda didn't come on board with me. i came on alone. why, jim and ralph had fairly to shove me up the gang-plank before the last 'all aboard' was sung out! frieda came on with jack and olive several minutes before. that is, i thought so. surely you can't mean----" in this same instant olive van mater's arm slipped around jacqueline ralston's waist. for although almost a year had passed since jack's recovery from her long illness and operation, she was not yet entirely strong. frequently she had to use a cane in walking. today, however, she had insisted that she was able to get along without it. so olive feared that this sudden and surprising news of her little sister might prove too much for her. it was characteristic of the two friends' relations that olive's first thought in this crisis was not so much for frieda as for jack. nevertheless her friend did not yet require her aid. although at jean's surprising words jacqueline ralston had turned pale, she was perhaps not more so than ruth and the other two girls. however, she was evidently doing her best to hold on to her self-control and not to allow the moment's bewilderment and fright to overwhelm her. "no, frieda did not come on the ship with us the second time, ruth," she explained, turning quietly toward their chaperon. "but please do not let us be alarmed. she must have come aboard by herself beforehand. for i can remember hearing her say her last good-by to jim while i was still talking to peter. frieda is nearly seventeen; why, it is ridiculous to suppose that she would be so foolish as to let the steamer sail off without her! besides, wasn't jim right there! and isn't he always possessed of the idea that we will be late for things and that unknown catastrophes will overtake us? if necessary he would have put frieda on board by main force. so let's go find her." very quickly, then, the little party of four turned from their former places. and jean's face, which had been the gayest in the group at the beginning of this conversation, was now the most terrified. "if frieda ralston isn't on board the martha washington with us, she most certainly is not on land with any of our friends," jean insisted, "for i know that frieda left them on the pier before i did. so if she isn't on this ship something dreadful must have happened to her; some one must have stolen her away. oh, what on earth shall we do?" jean was following the others in such a complete state of panic that she hardly knew what she was saying. so at first she scarcely heard the low voice sounding close to her ears. only one thought occupied her mind. frieda was lost before they had fairly started on their journey. if she could not be found on the ship, what were they to do? of course they could send marconigrams back to jim colter and ralph merrit, who had come all the way from the ranch to new york city to say farewell to them. but if frieda should happen not to be with them or with any of their other friends, must there not be days and days of horrible waiting and anxiety before they could return home? each moment the great steamer was carrying them farther and farther away from the united states and not all the gold in the rainbow mine could persuade her to alter her course or to stop until they reached gibraltar. the voice spoke again. evidently its owner must have pursued ruth and the three girls. "i am afraid you are in some difficulty. if my maid or courier can be of any service to you i shall be most happy. evidently you have not crossed before." this final suggestion, even in the midst of her anxiety, made jean flush uncomfortably. immediately she stopped and turned around, recognizing the young woman who had previously both attracted and annoyed her. something in jean's expression must have betrayed her irritation, for the stranger smiled again. "i hope i haven't offended you," she apologized. "i only wished to be useful. you _are_ in trouble, so you must let me try to serve you." in their overwhelming anxiety ruth, olive and jack had continued on the way to their staterooms, leaving jean to answer for all of them. now, to her chagrin, the tears began overflowing her eyes like a frightened baby's. and only a few moments before had she not secretly hoped to make a favorable impression upon this most interesting of their fellow voyagers? jean had believed that she was looking unusually well herself. for her blue silk dress with its touches of red embroidery, her blue chinchilla coat with its scarlet lining and her hat with the single red wing in it had been considered the most effective of the ranch party's going-away costumes. [illustration: her tone was that of absolute authority] so why should she be making herself so ridiculous before a total stranger? jean did not realize that the emotion of parting with her friends and of leaving her own country had been greater than she cared to admit even to herself. then this sudden overwhelming worry about frieda had left her nerves completely unstrung. therefore she was extremely grateful when the older woman led her to a more secluded part of the promenade deck. new york was now out of sight, and most of the passengers were hurrying off to their rooms. jean and her companion were almost entirely alone. "we--we have lost our little sister," the young girl began incoherently. "or at least we have been unable to find her and do not feel altogether sure that she came aboard with the rest of us. oh, i realize that this must sound absurd and impossible to you. it does to all of us. but what can have become of her?" with a slight but imperious nod of her head, which, even in her excitement, jean did not fail to observe, her new acquaintance summoned her courier. and although she spoke to him in italian the girl was able to understand. the man was told to await their return. then if ordered he was to see that the ship was thoroughly searched for a missing passenger without unnecessary notoriety. a little later the young woman moved away with jean. "your sister is probably in her own stateroom by this time. however, if she is not and is on the ship we shall find her in a few moments." her tone was that of absolute authority, as though the great vessel were her private yacht. jean wondered how any woman not more than twenty-eight could give such an impression of poise and experience. notwithstanding frieda had not yet been discovered in any one of the staterooms. she had been expected to occupy a room with jean. olive and jack were to be together and ruth to sleep alone. however, in ruth's stateroom, which the girls had chosen as being specially attractive, jean and her new friend found jacqueline ralston waiting alone. "i have promised to remain here while miss drew and olive have gone to speak to the proper authorities," jack explained, with the curious self-control which she was almost always able to summon under special strain. "we hope my sister has simply mistaken her stateroom and may come to us at any moment. but if you will be so kind as to have your man assist us in our search, why we shall be deeply grateful. you see, we are rather too frightened to be sensible, besides being inexperienced travelers. and frieda is so much the younger!" here, with a break in her self-command, jack dropped unexpectedly into the nearest chair. she had forgotten even to ask their visitor to be seated, nor did she have the faintest idea of her name, nor the reason for her interest in their predicament. an hour later and the martha washington had been thoroughly and quietly searched for the missing frieda ralston. yet there appeared to be absolutely no trace of her. of course her baggage had been brought aboard the ship with the other girls'. even her silver toilet bag, jim's parting gift, was safely stored in her stateroom. frieda had been last seen ashore with nothing in her hands except a small gold link purse. finally when the news reached the ranch party that frieda was positively not to be found on the steamer, for the first time in her career ruth drew collapsed. not that she was more wretched than the girls over frieda's disappearance, but because of her greater sense of responsibility. for almost a year, ever since their return from boarding school to the rainbow ranch, ruth had been separated from the ranch girls and living quietly in her old home in vermont. in that time she had never heard from jim colter nor of him, except what the girls had written in their letters. their meeting in new york had been entirely formal and without a word of private conversation. yet now it was the thought of jim's sorrow and indignation, should anything have happened to his baby, frieda, that ruth found the hardest thing she had to bear. for had she not once acted as jim colter's upright judge? what now must be his judgment of her? several hours of this interminable afternoon were spent by jack and olive waiting in the ship's office for answers to their marconigrams. but, when the answers finally did arrive, the news was only discouraging: "frieda had not been seen by either jim or ralph or by any one of their acquaintances since the sailing of the martha washington." yet, notwithstanding the many hours of searching and distress, jean's new friend had never deserted them. she had not even gone to her own room to remove her coat and hat. indeed, her whole time had been spent in encouraging ruth, in making suggestions to the three girls, and in having her maid and man do whatever was necessary toward assisting them. still no one of the ranch party even knew her name. twilight had come and the lights were shining brilliantly everywhere over the big ship. a fog horn had sounded and suddenly jean felt that she could bear the suspense no longer. she must break down, yet no one of the others must see or hear her. slipping out into a dark passageway, she hid herself and cried for half an hour. then making up her mind that since nothing more could be done toward finding frieda, she might at least devote herself to comforting ruth, she walked quietly back into ruth's stateroom. there she found their new friend just in the act of leaving. "you will be better by yourselves for a little while," she was saying, holding jack's hand in one of her own and olive's in the other, while looking sympathetically at ruth. "my man will see that dinner is served in your room, and by and by i will come again to say good-night. you must not lose courage. the american girl never loses courage or ceases to fight while there is still work to be done." having for the moment forgotten herself and her own sorrow, jean became more aware of their new acquaintance's unusual sympathy and kindness. "you have been wonderfully good to us," she began chokingly, "and perhaps at some time we may be able to show you our great appreciation. but tonight, tonight--" and jean could get no further. then, summoning more strength of character, she continued, "i wonder if you would mind telling us your name? you must already know most of our history, as we have talked so much of ourselves in speaking of frieda." for a moment jean's friend appeared to be hesitating. perhaps she did not wish to talk of herself, for she was now looking as weary as ruth and the ranch girls. "you must not think i am not a fellow countrywoman when i tell you my name," she replied slowly, and with the slightly foreign accent which the girls had neglected to notice in their distress. "i was once a western girl myself, oh, many years ago, in a little mining town. so i was able to recognize you as soon as i saw and heard you talking. now i am an italian, however, or at least my husband is. my name is beatrice, the princess beatrice colonna." jean actually gasped out loud. here she had been talking to a real live princess without knowing it, when in her most romantic moments she had only conceived of a literary one. if they had not been in such great trouble over frieda, how thrilling this meeting would have seemed! yet, except for their sorrow, they might never have spoken to the princess. and now here she was standing right in their midst talking just like any one else! a moment later and she had vanished with these parting words: "promise me not to be too unhappy while i am gone. and perhaps when i return we may have devised some better scheme for finding your little frieda." chapter ii salve! for several moments after the princess' withdrawal no one moved or spoke in ruth drew's stateroom. ruth was lying on her berth, almost in a state of prostration, with jean kneeling on the floor by her, resting her head upon the same pillow. on the divan olive and jack sat close together, olive trying her best to think of some new consolation to offer her friend. for although the four ranch girls loved one another with almost equal affection, after all jack and frieda were own sisters. for the past year the girls and ruth had been planning this trip to europe. when the school year at miss winthrop's had closed and jack had concluded her trying experience at the new york hospital, the girls, escorted by jim colter, had gone home to the rainbow ranch. in the autumn they then intended to join ruth again in the east and set sail. however, when the fall came around, jack was not so well, affairs at the mine were in a kind of a tangle and olive's grandmother desired her to spend another school term at primrose hall. so the european journey had been postponed until the following spring. now it was early march and the rainbow ranch party was starting forth upon the mediterranean trip. their plan had been to stop over for a day in gibraltar and afterwards to see italy thoroughly before entering any other country. however, on this, their first evening at sea, when they had anticipated so much happiness, there was but one question and one desire in the hearts of ruth, jack, olive and jean. how could they bear the ten unendurable days before their ship reached gibraltar and the second ten of their return journey to new york? for ruth and the girls had finally concluded that frieda had never sailed on the martha washington. of course a few passengers had been discovered who claimed to have seen a young girl answering frieda's description. however, no one would swear to it. and even if frieda had fallen overboard, surely some one would have seen or heard her. her disappearance had taken place among a crowd of apparently well-dressed and well-behaved people. it hardly seemed possible that she could have been kidnapped. nevertheless the steerage had been quietly investigated without the slightest clue having been established. it was the old story that was once more repeating itself. nothing seems more improbable than that any one whom we know and love can suddenly vanish without leaving a trace of his or her whereabouts. yet when this actually does take place, no one has a sensible suggestion to make. all is confusion, uncertainty and at last despair. however, neither ruth nor any one of the three ranch girls were making any noise, so that they suddenly became aware of a movement down the short hall leading to ruth's room. and then followed a knock at the door. ruth turned over, facing the wall. "the steward is bringing our dinner. do please do your best to eat something, girls, for we shall need all our strength," she pleaded. jacqueline shook her head. "not tonight. if you will let me get away to myself for a few hours i shall be stronger by tomorrow." for the first time there was something in jack's voice that brought her chaperon, cousin and friend to a quick realization of their own weakness. for, although jack's right to sorrow was certainly greater than theirs, until now, had she not been the strongest and most hopeful of them all? and this when two long years of illness had left her far from strong. possibly through suffering she had learned a finer self-control. as she moved toward the closed door with her face white as a sheet, suddenly jean flung herself in her cousin's path. "don't go until you have tried eating something," she begged. "we can't bear to have you ill again besides our anxiety about frieda." jean flung open the stateroom door, but stumbled back and was actually caught by jack. for there on their threshold stood the princess, holding by the hand a young girl with a quantity of light hair tumbled loosely about a flushed face. her blue eyes with their long lashes were looking indescribably sleepy and injured and in her other hand she held a small, gold-linked purse. jean sank down on the floor as jack released her hold on her. ruth started up with a cry; olive rose quickly to her feet, only to drop back into her old place again. therefore it was jack who reached the figures at the door first. and there her long-controlled self-restraint gave way, as she flung her arms about the newcomer's neck. "oh, frieda, frieda ralston," she sobbed. "where have you been and what has happened to you? who could have kept you away from us for all these hours. hours--why you must have been away years!" but frieda had now come into the stateroom, with the princess following her. and though she had kissed jack dutifully and affectionately enough, she gazed with astonishment and some resentment from one white face to the other. "i--i haven't been anywhere," she protested. "at least, i have just been asleep." "asleep!" jean whispered the single word over several times. "asleep!" yet certainly everything in frieda's appearance suggested this to be the truth. her face was as calm and untroubled as a big wax doll's, her color and eyes as serene. "but how, when, where?" ruth drew inquired, struggling between the hysterical desire to burst into laughter and tears at the same moment. "i made a mistake in our stateroom," frieda explained with that offended and yet apologetic air which the other girls knew so well. "you see, i came on the ship a little after olive and jack did and saw them standing together waving to people. i knew they would never stop until we got clear out of sight of new york. and i--i was so dreadfully tired! you remember we had been out to the theater two nights in succession and had just had the long trip from wyoming to new york; so i thought i would lie down for a few minutes' rest. i couldn't find ruth in our stateroom or in hers, but i supposed that she had gone up on deck. so i took off my hat and coat and lay down--and--that's all there is to it." olive started the laughter. the nervous tension of the past few hours had been too great for everybody. now frieda's voice, her manner, her explanation, had turned what had seemed a tragedy but a few minutes before into a ridiculous farce. "would you mind telling me, frieda," (olive struggled to be as serious as frieda might consider proper), "how you could find a stateroom in which you could sleep for five or six hours undisturbed, when every single room, every spot aboard this big ship has been ransacked to find you?" but here jean's princess, who had not spoken before, laughed gaily. "please, this is where i come in. isn't that the american slang?" she queried. "i found goldilocks asleep in my bed just as the little bear did in the old fairy story. remember, my stateroom is the only one that has never been investigated, since i have spent the entire time with you. it is true that my maid and courier have been into my sitting room, which adjoins my bedroom, several times. but they have also been too worried over your loss even to have unpacked my trunks. imagine what an odd sensation it was for me to discover two big, blue eyes staring at me from my very own pillow!" and the princess laughed as naturally and cheerfully as an ordinary american girl. "i wasn't asleep _then_!" frieda defended. catching the expression of her cousin jean bruce's face, she realized that she would never hear the last of this escapade. "then why, baby mine, when you came back from dreamland did you not struggle into the hall and find out what had become of your family?" jean demanded. "because i was cross," frieda whispered. "you see, i thought it hateful of you to have let me stay such a long time by myself. and i meant never to get up until you came and found me, even if i starved!" "and speaking of starving!" jean exclaimed, clasping her hands together in a dramatic fashion and gazing at frieda who now appeared as hungry as she had been sleepy a few moments before. but although ruth and the three ranch girls had done their best to make her remain so, frieda was not a baby. she turned to their new-found acquaintance. something in her sister's face showed at least a part of the strain which her family had been under. "i am afraid i hardly know how to thank you, mrs.--miss--" she hesitated. "she isn't a miss or a mrs. either; she is a princess!" jean whispered, supposing that no one else could overhear her. however, seeing frieda shake her head with indignation over her cousin's continued teasing, the four women, including the princess, laughed in chorus. "i am a princess, really, frieda, but my title does not mean anything serious in italy. and i hope you may not like me any the less well for it." the girls noticed that the princess had spoken as informally to frieda as though she were one of them, but now as she turned toward ruth again her manner changed. "for the second time let me bid you good-night and offer my congratulations," she said. and there again was the coldness, the hauteur and the superiority, which jean had resented before their misfortune had awakened the young woman's sympathy. in the midst of a murmur of thanks from every one else in the room, jean quietly opened the door for their visitor. but it was hardly possible for the princess successfully to pass two large men bearing enormous trays of dishes in their outstretched arms. "dinner!" jean murmured soulfully, forgetting her new-found dignity. and the princess' tired-looking, big blue eyes were immediately turned wistfully toward the food. "i am dreadfully hungry too," she announced, speaking like a girl again. "i wonder if you would let me have some of your dinner. you see, it is too late to dress now and i shall be all alone." five voices answered and several hands reached forward to draw their guest down into the most comfortable chair. a little later the table was laid with a bunch of roses, which ruth had received anonymously, to serve as the centerpiece. and seated between jean and frieda was a real live princess; when in their fondest dreams the ranch girls had only hoped to see one drive past some day in a coach and four. chapter iii new acquaintances ambition in this world is often gratified in a most unexpected fashion, and so it happened with frieda ralston! for weeks before leaving the rainbow ranch she had discussed with jim, with ralph merrit, who was still engineer at the mine, and with her sister jack, whether or not they believed she would be able to make agreeable acquaintances aboard ship or during the months of their travel on the other side. for frieda was certain that she should soon grow weary with nothing to entertain her but miles of salt water, hundreds of art galleries, thousands of pictures and statues. it was all very well for jack and olive to enthuse over these possibilities and for jean to pretend to feel the same way. she wanted _people_ for her diversion and hoped to be able to make a few friends in the course of their ocean crossing. though how this was to be accomplished without a single introduction frieda did not know. however, on the morning of the second day of their voyage the youngest ranch girl made the discovery. in a state of blissful unconsciousness and without reflecting on the events of the day before, she started down to breakfast with jean and olive. jack and ruth were a little too weary to care about making early appearances. the morning was a perfect one, with a smooth sea, and the dining room was crowded with passengers. one would hardly have expected that the quiet appearance of three young girls could have attracted any special attention. for a few moments they waited for the head steward to be found, and were then led to their seats at the first officer's table. it was all very quickly done, yet jean and olive were distinctly aware that a subdued murmur followed them; then that an entirely unnecessarily large number of heads were turned in their direction. of course frieda noticed this, too, but she merely presumed that their fellow travelers were curious and had not the good manners that they should have had. the idea that she or jean or olive could be exciting any particular attention never occurred to her at first, so deeply did the scene hold her attention. then, without warning, something took place which made frieda flush and tremble. except that she was holding a ménu card in her hand at the moment the tears would have shown in her eyes. seated just across the table opposite her was a large, middle-aged woman, dressed in black and wearing a quantity of handsome jewelry. she stared hard at frieda for the first few moments after her arrival. then, turning to the young fellow who sat next her, she announced in a loud enough voice to be heard from one end of the table to the other, "it was the plump, yellow-haired one, wasn't it, created such a stir? seems like it ain't possible she could have been asleep in some one's stateroom. much more likely she was in some kind of mischief! i am going to ask her what she _really_ was doing?" then she leaned half-way across the cloth and, except for the young man's agonized protest, most assuredly would have asked her question of frieda. but in an instant jean grasped the situation. she was quicker than any of the other girls to understand social matters, and now realized that something must be said and done at once. not only must she cover up the awkwardness of the present moment, but save frieda from further discussion later on. they had believed that their search yesterday had been conducted quietly, and yet questions must have been asked of many passengers aboard and the whole business of the lost girl thoroughly gone into. frieda herself should speak now and right the whole matter. of course this would have been the better way, jean thought. and yet one glance at frieda showed this possibility hopeless. should the strange woman ask her a single question or say another word concerning her escapade, it was apparent that the youngest of the ranch girls would burst into tears before the many strangers at the breakfast table! frieda was not feeling very well. perhaps because she had slept so long in the afternoon, or, perhaps, for more sentimental reasons she had lain awake several hours during the night past worrying over the events of the afternoon. not that she dreamed then that she might be talked about aboard ship, but because she was sorry for the girls' and ruth's anxiety. yet evidently persons had been commenting upon her! moreover, had she not just been called plump before everybody at their table? frieda was extremely sensitive on this subject and no one of her family or friends dared mention it. it was because jack and olive were both so absurdly thin and because jean had a remarkably beautiful figure for a girl of eighteen that frieda might seem a little large in comparison. the real truth was that she had only a soft roundness of outline, which put attractive dimples, and curves in the places where you might have expected angularities. therefore, in the pause following the older woman's speech, jean looked across the table with an air of quiet amusement. immediately she held the attention of the persons nearest them and at the same time gave the embarrassed young man a reassuring smile. he was not a young man, however. jean decided from the weight of her eighteen years of masculine experience that he was a college boy probably in his freshman year and certainly far more refined in his manner and appearance than his ordinary-looking mother. "if you were kind enough to be interested in our difficulty of yesterday, i should be glad to explain to you how it had a happy ending," she began in a friendly voice. "i suppose it was foolish for us to have been so frightened." and then in detail jean went through the history of the entire occurrence, beginning with their discovery of frieda's absence, closing with the moment of her appearance, and neglecting nothing to make her story a good one. this in spite of frieda's hot blushes and imploring although unuttered requests for silence. in the end, however, every member of the audience laughed, and frieda determined never to forgive jean's unkindness, while jean and olive were both silently congratulating themselves that any mystery surrounding her proceedings had been so soon and so easily cleared up. they were fully aware that their story would soon be circulated among a number of their fellow passengers. yet for a long time afterwards frieda ralston would always recall this first breakfast aboard the martha washington as one of the most uncomfortable meals of her whole lifetime. more than anything she hated being laughed at. and even the young man, whose mother had started the entire unpleasantness, had the impertinence to forget his own responsibility and to smile and exclaim "great scott" over her ability to sleep so long and well in the midst of such great excitement. later in the meal he attempted smiling at frieda once or twice, hoping that she might have come in time to regard the situation more humorously. but she had returned his glances with a reproachful coldness that apparently had reduced him to a proper state of silence and humility. one thought, however, upbore frieda until she was able to withdraw from the dining room. at least, she need never again recognize the presence of the two objectionable persons across the table from her. for not only should she never speak to them, she would not even incline her head in recognition of their existence at meal times, although she had heard that this was a polite custom among even the most exclusive of ocean travelers. seated in her steamer chair next her sister jacqueline half an hour later, with a veil tied close about her little scarlet velour hat, frieda was dumfounded to observe this same objectionable young man stopping calmly before them. looked at closely he had a well-shaped head with almost too heavy a jaw, a bright color, brown eyes and hair that he was vainly trying to train into a correct pompadour. his shoulders were broad and athletic, of a kind the younger miss ralston had previously been known to admire. first the young fellow bowed politely to jack. then he turned as directly toward frieda as though they had already been properly introduced. "i am awfully sorry my mother made you so uncomfortable this morning," he began bravely, and turned so crimson that frieda felt her heart relenting. "mother is an awfully good sort, but she hasn't been around much and did not guess how you would feel. and--oh, well a fellow can't be expected to apologize for his mother! only as she asked me to come and talk to you, i am trying to do my best." then, answering a nod of invitation from jack, who had liked his straightforward manner, he sat down in the vacant chair next frieda and pulling out a box of chocolates from his pocket began to tell her the story of his life. his name was richard grant. he and his mother came from crawford, indiana, where his father had been a candy manufacturer until his death a few months before. richard was in his second year at princeton when his father had died, so, as his mother felt a trip abroad might help her, he had dropped behind his class for half a year in order to do what she wished. he seemed so straightforward and so good-natured that by and by frieda forgot to remain angry. so when he begged her to come and be introduced to his mother she hardly knew how to refuse. nevertheless frieda found her first conclusion had been right. mrs. grant was as impossible as she had previously thought her. could she ever endure the mother's acquaintance for the sake of the son's? still, frieda continued walking the deck with her newest acquaintance until ruth was obliged to send olive and jean to look for her. and a number of persons aboard had been watching the youngest of the ranch girls with a good deal of pleasure. for frieda had never looked more attractive than she did in her scarlet steamer coat and cap, with her blue eyes as wide open and as deeply interested in everything about her as a clever baby's and her cheeks, without exaggeration, as deeply pink as a la france rose. chapter iv things present and things to come the ensuing week at sea was one of the most delightful in the ranch girls' lives and in many ways illustrative of their future history. an ocean steamer filled with passengers is in itself a miniature world, so many different types of people are represented, there is such freedom of association, such a leveling of artificial barriers that often exist on land. frequently a fellow traveler reveals more of his character and history to some stranger whom he may meet in crossing than ever he has confided to a life-long friend. until the present time the four ranch girls and their chaperon, ruth drew, had lived singularly sheltered lives. first brought up almost like boys under the care of their overseer, jim colter, three of the girls had known only the few neighbors scattered within riding distance of their thousand-acre ranch. while olive's acquaintance, owing to her curious childhood, had been even smaller and more primitive. then had come the year for jean, olive and frieda at primrose hall under miss katherine winthrop's charge, when their horizon had broadened, admitting a number of girls and a few young men to be their friends. but this could hardly be called real contact with the world, since always they were under miss winthrop's wise guidance. while as jack had spent exactly the same length of time at a hospital she had had even less experience with people. the last ten months with three of the girls again at the rainbow ranch had meant a return to the same kind of quiet every-day existence, varied only by the interests of the working of the mine. olive's six months apart from the others had simply been devoted to further study with miss winthrop with week-end visits to her grandmother at the towers. then, although ruth drew was almost ten years older than any one of the ranch girls, in many ways she was fully as ignorant of the world. it had never yet occurred to her that there were persons capable of misrepresenting themselves, nor of pretending to be what they were not and using innocent friendships for purposes of their own. nor had it occurred to her that the reputation of the four girls for having suddenly acquired great wealth might place them in danger. from the time ruth had been a little girl she had never had the disposition for making many friends. always she had been timid and retiring, devoting herself to her father until after his death. except for the year spent at the ranch and the winter at the hospital in new york with jack, ruth had never known anything outside the narrow circle of a vermont village life. not that a village does not furnish almost all there is to learn of human nature, but that she had shut herself in from most of it. the freedom of the wonderful ranch life, the contact and friendship with jim colter, which for a while had looked like something more than friendship, had widened the little vermont school teacher's horizon. then had come the break with jim, and the past winter at home she had shut herself up even more completely. during the many evenings alone in her small cottage there had been plenty of opportunity for ruth drew to regret her decision against jim, but whatever passed in her mind she had kept to herself. not even to jacqueline ralston, who at one time had been her confidante, had she made any confession. so perhaps from the standpoint of worldly wisdom the rainbow ranch party was none too well equipped for a long journey or for the meeting with many different types of people and the making of friendships which might be of grave importance in after years. and, notwithstanding the fact that ruth and the four girls were singularly devoted to one another, there was no question but that they were five widely unlike characters, and that their interests must often lie in as many different directions now that their opportunities were to be so much broader. for a disinterested observer (if ever there is such an one) it would have been difficult at this time in the ranch girls' lives to have decided which one was the most attractive--beauty and charm are in themselves so much a matter of personal taste. but perhaps to older and more thoughtful persons it was now jacqueline ralston who would make the strongest appeal. jack was only a few months older than her friend, olive van mater, less than a year older than her cousin, jean bruce, and yet looked a good deal more mature and felt so. this was true, not only because after her father's death she had been in a measure the head of the rainbow ranch, but because her year of illness had given her more time for introspection than is allowed most girls of her age. sometimes she believed that this whole year had been completely lost, and then again came the knowledge that she could have learned certain lessons in no other way. yet now she was determined to waste no further time, but to get as much as possible out of each passing day and to live fully and completely. jacqueline ralston did not look entirely like the brilliant, vigorous ranch girl who three years before had ridden alone across the prairie to search for her lost cattle. she had less color in her cheeks, perhaps, except under the pressure of some unusual excitement, but her hair was a deeper bronze, her eyes a clearer gray, and her rather full lips a brighter crimson. there was something about her expression not always easy to understand. the old wilfulness was still there, the old habit of knowing her own mind and wishing to have her own way, but with it a greater power of self-control than most girls of nineteen have--and something else. what this other trait was neither jack herself nor her friends yet knew. this trip abroad might mean more to her than to any one of the other four girls. in spite of her lameness, which was never apparent except when she was greatly fatigued, jack was tall--five feet seven inches--and held her shoulders with the erectness of other days. slender, jack would always be, but not thin, for sixteen years of outdoor life had given her too fine a beginning. in each person's atmosphere or aura, if you prefer to call it so, there is usually a suggestion of some one distinctive quality, some characteristic that shows above all others. with jacqueline ralston it was purity. she was straightforward and unafraid, without cowardice and without suspicion. having once believed in you, jack would stand by you through thick and thin. more than anything in the world she hated a lie. for some reason she had always been and always would be what for want of a better word is called "a man's woman," meaning that men would understand and sympathize with her point of view and she with theirs. olive van mater was just the opposite of jack. although the story of her strange early life was now fully explained, she would never lose her shyness and look of gentle mystery. nor would she ever be able to make friends among strangers so readily as the three other girls. many persons there would always be who would explain her shyness as coldness and a lack of interest. still she could reveal herself more easily to girls and to women than to men. and although her peculiar beauty and sweetness could not fail to win her admirers because of her sympathy and self-forgetfulness, all the days of her life her own sex would make the strongest appeal to her. in jean bruce the two types were mingled. jean wanted to attract people. she wanted to make everybody like her and she always had and always would. it did not matter to her who the people were, whether they were young or old, girls or boys, she simply had the desire to be liked and went about accomplishing it on shipboard just as she had at primrose hall and everywhere else. this proved that jean had the real social gift, but then her talent had never been disputed by any member of her family. with frieda ralston, however, the question of type was at this time not important. she was two years younger not only in years but in a great many other things, and when it did not interfere with her pleasure she meant to keep so. there was only one thing at present that frieda was interested in and that was having a good time, and certainly she was accomplishing it. when dick grant was not dancing attendance upon her, and very often when he was, there were a dozen other girls and young men of about frieda's age aboard, by whom she was constantly surrounded. it worried ruth a great deal, but then, unfortunately, ruth was the only member of the rainbow ranch party who was seasick. and the three girls simply did not take the trouble to spend much time looking after frieda. though neither of them wished her to know it, both olive and jean tried to be especially careful of jack. and this was particularly hard since jack resented any suggestion that she was not as strong as they were. she was under the impression that she could walk without difficulty in spite of the rolling and pitching of the ship. nevertheless she did finally promise ruth to remain in her steamer chair unless one of the girls could be with her, and though she did not see any sense in her promise, meant to keep her word. on the fourth afternoon out, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, the weather became unexpectedly heavy. ruth had long ago given up and gone to her room. frieda was playing games in the salon, but jack, olive and jean were on deck watching the approach of the storm. jack adored the water. she had wanted the ocean to look altogether different from her prairies, to bring a wholly new impression into her life. but until today the calm, gentle, even roll of the waves at a sufficient distance had not been so unlike the far-off rippling of the prairie fields. now, with the approach of a storm, with the blackness, everything seemed different. the three girls had been wrapped in their steamer rugs sitting quietly in their chairs, jack supposing that olive and jean were as interested in the storm as she was. suddenly jean sighed. "the face of the waters gets a bit tiresome after a while, don't you think so?" she asked. "remember the princess asked us to come and have tea with her some afternoon. suppose we go now. seems as though she is a chance that ought not to be neglected. who knows if the princess takes a truly fancy to us she may do something thrilling for us when we get to rome. ask us to a court ball perhaps!" jean laughed at the absurdity of her suggestion. but jack frowned a little. she was grateful to the stranger for her interest and former kindness to them; yet she rather resented the air of mystery and seclusion surrounding her and her haughty attitude toward the other passengers. a princess might of course be different from other human beings; jack felt she had no way of knowing. nevertheless the princess colonna had confessed that she was an american girl. why should a marriage have made so great a change in her point of view? in a vague fashion jack was a little resentful of the homage which ruth and the three other girls offered their new acquaintance. now she slowly shook her head. "you and olive go, jean. really i would prefer to stay by myself for a little while and watch the storm." five minutes afterwards the two girls had departed, leaving jack comfortably wrapped up in her steamer chair, and insisting that they would return in time to take her down to her stateroom to dress for dinner. chapter v a soldier of fortune jack may have been asleep for a little while. she was not quite sure. anyhow, when she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see how the storm had increased and how entirely the promenade deck had become deserted. there had been a few persons about when jean and olive had departed, but now she saw no one except a man walking quietly up and down as though the pitching of the ship in no way affected him. he was wearing an english mackintosh with the collar turned up past his ears, but neither his appearance nor his existence at present interested jack. her only thought was for the oncoming storm. as yet there was no rain falling, only a cold gray atlantic mist enveloped the sky and the sea. the waves had curling borders of white foam as they rolled and broke. there was no relief in the sky. once the thunder roared as though they were cannonading on the other side of the world and then a single flash of lightning split straight across the horizon. jack had thrown aside her steamer rug and was sitting upright in her chair, her hands clasping both sides. the color had gone from her cheeks (the storm was so wonderful, almost it was taking her breath away), but her head was thrown back, showing the beautiful line of her throat, and her lips were parted with the intensity of her admiration. then the boat dipped and half the ocean picture became obscured. it never occurred to jack that she would be running any risk of falling by moving from her place. never had she been able to think of herself as an invalid, even after her two years' experience. besides, was she not well by this time and the railing of the deck but a few feet away? when the ship had righted itself she stepped forward without any difficulty, laying her hand lightly on the rail for support. then she became wholly absorbed. the plunging and tossing of the great steamer was fairly regular, so that jack found no especial trouble in keeping her footing. so unconscious was she that she did not glance over her shoulder at the solitary passenger pacing the deck, although in the course of his march he must have passed her at least half a dozen times. nevertheless the man had not been so unmindful of his fellow traveler. he was possibly twenty years or more her senior. unexpectedly the ship gave an uneven lurch, almost twisting herself about, and at the same instant an immense amount of spray struck jack ralston full in the face. with a little cry of surprise straightway she lost her clasp on the rail and would have gone down in a heap if an arm had not immediately steadied her. "i beg your pardon; you might have fallen. at the moment i happened to be passing." the man spoke stiffly. in jack's position, after her long suffering from a fall, one might have expected her to be frightened. however, although she was being kept on her feet by a perfect stranger with no one else in sight, while a storm raged around them, she was not even embarrassed. catching hold on her old support again, this time more firmly, jack said "thank you" in an even voice. and then, as though she must have sympathy in her enjoyment from some quarter: "isn't this storm splendid? it seems to me that before i have seen nothing but land, land all my life! i thought i loved it, but somehow all this water gives one quite a different sensation. i feel as if i weren't a person, but just a pair of eyes and lungs!" jack spoke these last words with little gaspings for breath. so hard was the wind blowing that it had wrapped her heavy coat close about her; her hat had slipped backward and her heavy yellow-brown hair whipped across her face. her courage and frankness made her companion smile. and, although until this moment jack had not paid any special attention to her rescuer, she now observed that he had a skin so bronzed as to look almost like leather, that he had a closely clipped blonde moustache and equally light hair. also, that his eyes were of the deep blue seen only with that complexion, and that his bearing was distinctly military. "but the sea is after all not so unlike a distant view of your american prairies," he replied. and in answer to jack's expression of surprise: "i know your name, miss ralston. among many other things i have tried running a ranch in the west, although none too successfully." whatever the strange man's intentions, certainly his words succeeded in arousing jack's attention. for at once, without liking to ask, she was curious to find out how he had discovered her name. then she was always interested in any ranching experience. the people she had been meeting on board ship were most of them from cities and without any special outdoor knowledge. only a few persons actually have kinship with nature, and they have usually spent their youth in the _real_ country, in big, open, unpeopled spaces as jacqueline ralston had. this time she smiled more shyly. "i thought you were an englishman--a soldier." jack hesitated. she did not think that a few words of conversation with a stranger, who had been kind to her, made any difference, but it would not do to talk on indefinitely. instantly, as though divining her thought, the man's hat was lifted, and he moved a few paces away. but at this moment the storm broke. no rain had been falling up to this time, but now the clouds lightened, and from between two of them a heavy sheet of water descended, apparently straight on to the ship's deck. why did jack not run to shelter? still she stood clinging with both hands to the ship's rail, her head thrown back inhaling deep breaths of the salt spray air. she was enjoying the storm but actually was afraid to move. surely now that the storm had fairly broken either olive or jean would come for her. both girls had made her promise not to return to her stateroom alone and at the present time it was impossible. the decks were soaking wet and slippery and she was tired from too long standing and opposing her strength to the fury of the wind. yet the sailors were rushing about, lashing the tarpaulins to the balustrade, and in a few seconds she would be obliged to move. jack set her teeth. it was absurd to be afraid of falling just because of a former weakness. she turned, took a few steps forward and then the ship gave another sudden lurch. it was jean bruce, however, who made the outcry. she and olive were running down the deck without hats or coats and regardless of the storm for their own sakes. they were not yet near enough to save jack from slipping. however, there was no need for them. when captain madden turned and left jack he walked only a few steps away and then as the rain descended swung himself about to enter the door of the saloon about midway the promenade deck. naturally he expected the girl with whom he had just been talking to have run on before him, she was even less well prepared for the downpour. but to his surprise he saw that jack had remained fixed at her place. this was carrying a love of nature a little too far. not only would the young woman get a thorough soaking, she would be in positive danger in a few moments should a wave break over the deck. it was odd that no ship's officer had yet suggested that she go inside. captain madden did not wish to offend jack by officiousness. he had still no idea of her lameness, although he had been watching her more carefully than any one dreamed for the past few days. however, he did not wish to see her hurt and so put an end to his scarcely thought-out plan. the second time that the stranger held her up on her feet jack could only stammer and blush. it seemed rather absurd to have been rescued by the same person twice in ten minutes and yet she did not even now wish to confess her difficulty in walking alone. jean and olive saved the situation. "thank you ever so much," olive began, arriving first and a little out of breath. "we never can be sufficiently grateful to you!" jean exclaimed. "and oh, jack, i suppose you can't imagine what had become of us? we sent the stewardess for you half an hour ago. ruth is dreadfully worried." but jean was not in the habit of forgetting her manners and so stopped speaking of their private concerns. she and frieda had both seen and spoken of the man who was now with her cousin. he had his place at a table across from theirs and, possibly because of his soldierly appearance, had seemed unlike the other men aboard. "my cousin isn't very well, or at least she hasn't been," jean announced, remembering jack's sensitiveness. and then as jack and olive moved quickly away she added with a gracious condescension that made the older man smile: "our chaperon, miss drew, will express her appreciation to you in the morning." and fled out of the rain as though she had been eight instead of eighteen. notwithstanding, captain madden did not immediately leave the deck after the girls' withdrawal. "things have turned out rather better than i could have arranged them," he remarked thoughtfully, pulling at his moustache. "she is an uncommonly attractive girl. lots of spirit, but i've an idea she has yet to learn a great deal about men and women. it's worth trying anyhow. it's jolly odd my having run across them in this fashion and recalling what i was once told." chapter vi ruth's attitude by the next morning the storm had abated, and for the rest of that day and evening captain madden devoted the greater part of his time to making the acquaintance of the ranch girls' chaperon. more than this he accomplished, for he inspired in ruth drew a genuine admiration and liking. and while she and the older man talked together jack usually sat quietly by listening to everything that was said. in all their lives ruth and jack had never known anyone like this captain madden. here was a man who had traveled all over the world, who had fought in the boer war and more recently in mexico and had hunted big game in africa. indeed he had done most of the things and seen most of the people that had before appeared to them like events and figures to be known only through books. and yet he was modest, never once picturing himself as a hero or even a particularly important person, although there were times when both ruth and jack felt that he was being hardly fair to himself. and on those occasions, if the man observed any change in the young girl's face, there was no sign on his part. captain madden was not particularly good-looking, but had unusually charming manners and the soldierly carriage that can not fail to win admiration. then, as he was forty years old and had attracted considerable notice on board, it was something for the rainbow ranch party to be singled out for his attention. frankly, however, frieda ralston thought her sister's rescuer dreadfully elderly and a bore. olive and jean, although agreeing to her first conclusion, could not accept the second. nevertheless neither of the two girls from the beginning of their association liked captain madden particularly well. they both wondered why ruth and jack should find him so agreeable. then after the passing of another twenty-four hours, there was not so much a question of ruth's liking, as of jack's enjoying talking to a stranger for hours and hours. actually before the martha washington had sighted gibraltar jean had already complained to their chaperon of jack's intimacy with a stranger, besides almost quarreling with her cousin. it was true that peter drummond and jack had been and were specially devoted friends and peter was as old as their new ship acquaintance. but then peter had always seemed different somehow, and his fancy for jack had been largely explained by her likeness to jessica hunt. for while jessica was still teaching at primrose hall and no word had been spoken of an engagement between her and mr. drummond, the ranch girls were still convinced that something would develop between them later on. to jean's grumblings that jack was making herself conspicuous by seeming to prefer captain madden to any other one of their new friends on the ship ruth explained that it was but natural. for while jean and olive and frieda could walk endless miles with anybody who happened to please their fancy at the moment, jack could only take short walks now and then and with some one who understood her difficulty. and while they danced every afternoon and evening in the saloon, or pitched quoits for hours on deck, jack's only chance for amusement lay in conversation. it was only because captain madden knew more and talked better than their other new friends that jack seemed to prefer his society. since his discovery of her old accident he had shown her every consideration. of course if captain madden had had no introduction to the ranch girls and their chaperon, save that of his having assisted jack at a difficult moment, ruth drew would never have permitted their acquaintance to have taken so intimate a tone in a few days. however, half an hour after his first meeting with her, the mystery of his having appeared to guess jacqueline ralston's name in his first conversation with her had been explained. in this world it is perfectly useless to marvel over the coming together of persons in the most unlikely places, who happen to know exactly the same people that we do, and yet we will always go on exclaiming and being tremendously surprised by this fact. not only was captain madden intimately acquainted with the ranch girls' old friend, frank kent, but actually was a cousin of his. although, as he confessed, he belonged to the irish and therefore the poor branch of the kent family. it was not until frank had returned to england, after spending the winter at the norton place next the rainbow ranch, that captain madden had made up his mind to come to america and try his own fortune in the west. and there could be no question of the truth of his history, since he chanced to have a photograph of the kent house in surrey which frank had often in times past shown to jack. besides he knew the names and characters of every member of frank's immediate family. moreover, he had remembered frank's description of the rainbow ranch, jack's and frieda's names and jean bruce's and a little something of their discovery of olive. he had even heard of jack's and frank's finding of the first gold in rainbow creek. and on seeing a group of these same names printed together on the ship's sailing list, frank's story had come back to him and he had then guessed that jack was the oldest of the girls and must be miss ralston. as a matter of course it then followed that this kinship with frank kent proved a bond between captain madden and the ranch party, but more especially with jacqueline ralston, who had been frank's most intimate friend. for nearly two years there had been no meeting between frank and the girls, not since his sailing for home, when jack was taken to the new york hospital. nevertheless their former intimacy had largely continued, frank often writing to ruth and the four girls. perhaps jack had heard oftener than the others because of her illness; shortly before their sailing frank had written to ask if he might join the rainbow ranch party in italy. but to jack's letter begging him to wait until their coming to england in may there had been no time as yet for a reply. it was olive's argument in the beginning that jack's pleasure in captain madden's society was due to her past fondness for frank. but from the first jean's point of view was otherwise. it may have been caused by the old temperamental differences between jean and her cousin. fond as they would always be of one another, never had they been able to agree on liking the same people or things. so to jean's suggestion that she could see nothing in captain madden to make jack like to talk to him so much, jack had replied that she could see nothing in jean's american-italian princess to make jean wish to follow after her like an admiring shadow. at least captain madden had had exciting experiences that must always interest a girl of jacqueline ralston's disposition. she did not mind his age, for how could he have known all that he did had he been younger? jack, it must be remembered, had been brought up on a ranch, had ridden horseback, hunted, fished and done most things that usually appeal to a boy more than a girl. she could not help admiring physical bravery beyond anything else. if the time of her illness had taught her something of the value of spiritual courage, there was still a great deal that she had yet to learn. captain madden had fought with lord roberts in south africa, and had lately been with the mexicans under madero. what more reasonable than that the stories he was able to tell should be deeply entertaining to jack, who, after two years of being shut up indoors, was more than ever in love with the thought of an active life? and jean's princess would of course appeal to her, since her ideal of life and romance had always been of so different a kind. to her it seemed wonderful almost past belief that a princess should have taken a fancy to four inconspicuous american girls. jean did not say or even think that this liking was more for her than for the others, but this was plain enough to them. every day the princess invited jean alone to her stateroom for a little talk, and sometimes would walk about for hours on the deck with her. unlike captain madden in frankness, she had told jean little of herself. nevertheless in some unexplained fashion the young girl had guessed that in spite of wealth, beauty and position, her princess beatrice was not particularly happy. perhaps her husband was the trouble! only once or twice had she mentioned the prince's name, and that in such a casual fashion that it was impossible to get any real notion of him. jean was not without the hope of having her curiosity gratified later on, however, since in an idle moment (and perhaps without really meaning it) the princess had asked jean to come and bring her cousins and friends to see her when they reached rome. nobody except olive, who was always sympathetic with one's wishes and dreams, believed that this invitation meant anything serious. nevertheless jean cherished the hope of being a guest in a real palace some day. although the princess colonna seemed to have nothing to do with anybody aboard the martha washington, by an odd coincidence she appeared to have previously met captain madden. probably their acquaintance was a slight one, for they only bowed in passing and had never been seen talking to each other. indeed, jean's new friend was in a measure responsible for her prejudice against jack's. she had hinted several times in a veiled fashion that the girls must remember not to become too intimate with strangers in traveling abroad. there was no direct reference to captain madden. so when jean mentioned her own impression of the princess' meaning to her cousin, jack naturally suggested that the princess was equally a stranger and so equally to be avoided. however, it must not be supposed that this question of new friendships had become a really serious one during the early part of their ocean voyage. for after nine days, when the martha washington was to make her first stop at gibraltar, the girls were equally delighted at the prospect of being shown over the great english fort by a british army officer. also captain madden agreed to have any other friends that ruth or the ranch girls desired to join their party. and at ruth's invitation the princess colonna consented to be one of them. chapter vii gibraltar early on the morning of their steamship's first landing during the voyage, jack came up on deck. she had asked olive to come with her, but she was at the moment engaged in writing to miss winthrop at primrose hall, who had become more like her mother than a friend. she promised to join her room-mate in a few moments. it was an ideal morning, and jack hoped to have a long look at the sea before the other passengers were about to distract her with conversation. in a short while their steamer was due to pass cape trafalgar, where lord nelson won his famous victory over the french and spanish in , and from then on every traveler aboard, except the ill ones, would be crowding about the ship's railing for the best views. jack felt wonderfully well. only a few days more than a week at sea, and how much she had already improved! not since the winter at the ranch when she was sixteen had she felt so vigorous and had such joy in living. surely before their trip was over she would be her old self again. and if this part of their journey had been so unusually interesting, what would their trip through italy mean, with switzerland and england to follow in may? "how much of my young heart, o spain, went out to thee in days of yore, what dreams romantic filled my brain and summoned back to life again the paladins of charlemagne, the cid campeador." jack laughed, recognizing the speaker's voice at once. "i am the wrong person to be quoting poetry to, captain madden," she replied, scarcely turning her head. "i told you the other day that jean and olive are the literary members of our family. i hardly ever used to read a book, except now and then my school ones, until my accident. then i took to reading from necessity. i am not in the least clever or romantic, and reading has so often seemed to me like finding out things second-hand. i am afraid i really want to _do_ the exciting things myself." jack was hardly looking or thinking of her audience as she talked. one of the nicest things about their new acquaintance was that one was able to say almost anything to him and he would understand. she was feeling curiously gay this morning, as though something of unusual importance was about to happen to her. of course it was the thought of their first leaving the steamer after nine days of ocean travel. nevertheless, jack had dressed with unusual care, not intending to make another toilet before going ashore. instead of her usual brown steamer coat she was wearing a long, heavy white woolen one, with a soft white hat trimmed in a single feather curling close around the crown. and under the brim her hair was pure bronze in the sunlight and all the old color of the ranch days had this morning come back into her cheeks. "i am only quoting guide-book poetry," captain madden explained, after a moment's admiring glance at his young companion. suddenly jack ceased gazing over the water to look at him. "captain madden," she asked with the directness which some persons liked and others disliked in her, "you told us once that you were a british army officer, didn't you? then would you mind explaining why when you are to show us over the english fort at gibraltar today, you are not wearing an english officer's uniform?" if for the fraction of a second there was a slight hesitation before captain madden's reply jack failed to notice it. "i am very glad you asked me that question, miss ralston," he answered, coming to the edge of the ship's railing and leaning one arm upon it as he talked. "i am afraid i have been sailing under false colors with you and the other members of your little party. i simply meant you to understand that i was at one time a member of the british army. several years ago i resigned my commission. else, my dear young lady, how do you suppose i could have attempted to run a ranch in your west and been permitted to fight with the mexicans on the losing side? i am a soldier of fortune or misfortune, whichever way you may choose to put it." the older man spoke half in jest, but jacqueline ralston stared at him in a more critical fashion than she ever had before. could she have been making a hero in her mind of a man who was no hero at all? "but i can't understand how a man who has once been in the army could stop being," she remarked slowly. her companion shook his head. "no, of course you rich americans can't understand," he replied. "the fact of the matter was that i did not have money enough to keep up my position. though i can hardly expect a young american girl with a gold mine at her disposal to realize what a lack of money means." jack moved her shoulders impatiently, letting her clear gray eyes rest for the moment upon her companion's profile. he looked a soldier every inch of him and a brave man. yet what could his confession mean? "i haven't been a rich american girl always, captain madden," she returned. "and i don't know why you think i am one now. but a lack of money would never have made me give up my profession if i cared for it." it was perfectly self-evident that jack was feeling a sense of disappointment in her companion. although they had only known one another for a week, and captain madden was so much older, intimacies develop more rapidly aboard ship than anywhere else in the world, except perhaps on a desert island. jack suddenly realized that she had been giving more thought to her companion's history than there was any reason for doing. she looked back over her shoulder. numbers of persons with field glasses in their hands were coming on to the deck. "miss drew and the girls will soon be joining us," she suggested, meaning for captain madden to understand that she no longer wished to discuss his personal affairs. "i must go and search for them if they don't come at once. i think i can already see the point of cape trafalgar. in a short time we must be entering the straits of gibraltar." the next second jack started to move away, but a glance from the man at her side held her. it was curious that she, who had never yielded to any one in her life except of her own will, should feel his influence. "you are only a young girl and i am possibly twice your age," captain madden began, "yet our acquaintance aboard ship has been so pleasant that i do not wish to have you misunderstand me. there were other reasons for my leaving the british army, but you may believe this to be the chief one: i am not a good soldier in times of peace. when the boer war was over, i wanted to be where there was still fighting to be done. my country was weary of war and so i joined the russians in their war with japan." jack shyly extended her hand. "that is all right, captain madden," she replied. "i know ruth and olive think it dreadful for me to be interested in fighting. of course i hope there may never be any more great wars, but--" and here jack laughed at herself, "to save my life i can't help being interested in battles and heroes who fight on against losing odds. i had a grandfather who was a general in the confederate army." and jack, resting her chin on her hand with her elbow on the balustrade, gazed out to sea, apparently satisfied. indeed, she was so vitally interested in the view before her that she hardly heard captain madden add: "if your friend, frank kent, should ever offer you any other reason for my resignation--" but at this instant ruth drew and olive appeared between them, and ruth slipped her arm through jack's. at once captain madden stepped aside, surrendering his place to olive. it was odd, but as ruth approached jack and her companion, for just a passing moment an uncomfortable impression entered her mind. jack and captain madden did seem to be talking together like intimate friends. perhaps jean had been justified in her grumbling. nevertheless, captain madden was twice jack's age, and why should they not be friends? it was as absurd to feel uneasy over them as over frieda and her chocolate-drop boy. and hearing frieda's laugh behind her, the next second, ruth turned around with a smothered sigh of relief. here came frieda in her crimson coat and hat with dick grant at her side holding the inevitable box of candy in his hand. following them were jean and her princess. they were just in time, because the martha washington was at this moment entering the straits of gibraltar. to the right there loomed, like a gray mirage in the background, the mountain of the apes in africa. and there, directly ahead, was the historic rock of gibraltar. "isn't it thrilling to have reached a foreign country at last!" jack exclaimed, turning again to her first companion. but on her other side frieda pulled at her coat sleeve impatiently. "if you are going into raptures over everything you see while we are abroad, i don't know what is to become of you, jacqueline ralston!" she argued. "of course the rock of gibraltar is fairly large, but i have seen almost as big stones in wyoming. have a piece of candy." and when everybody in the little company laughed, frieda would have been offended if she had not already grown accustomed to starting just such foolish attacks of laughter. what had she said that was in the least amusing, when she had just made a plain statement of fact? for how could she possibly have guessed how her point of view typified that of many american travelers? chapter viii a more important obligation it was in the late afternoon of the same day and over toward the west appeared the flaming colors of an african sunset. since mid-day hundreds of the martha washington's passengers had been landed at gibraltar. they had been shown through the famous english stronghold, where guns and ammunition are so strangely stored for defense and had seen the town at the northwest foot of the rock protected by formidable batteries. then, weary in mind and body, they had been again transferred to the special tender and put aboard their steamer. standing at the edge of the water and leaning on olive's arm waiting her turn to be taken back, jack wondered if among all their fellow passengers there was one half so fatigued as she? she had not mentioned it, but this was hardly worth while, for jack's face, except for her lips and the shadows under her eyes, was perfectly colorless, yet that morning she had thought herself as strong as anyone else. however, jack need not have felt discouraged, for every member of the rainbow ranch party looked almost equally used up. the truth is that, through captain madden's guidance, they had seen more of the great fort than the other ship's passengers. then by accident they had lost their return places in the tender, and so been obliged to wait until a later trip. the celebrated rock of gibraltar runs north and south three miles and is about three-quarters of a mile in width. the entire rock is undermined with subterranean galleries containing cannon in great number. some of the lower galleries that are not in use may be visited by travelers, but both frieda and jean assured captain madden that if there were any possible passages which they had not journeyed through, it was indeed hard to believe. each member of the expedition was cross. for there is nothing more trying to the nerves and disposition than too strenuous sight-seeing. ruth was worried at having permitted jack to undertake a trip that was so plainly too much for her strength. jean was annoyed because the princess colonna, who had been one of their party all day, had scarcely spoken to any of her friends. even captain madden she had acknowledged only by the coldest greeting, while absolutely ignoring every one else. and although dick grant and his mother had been included in the ranch girls' immediate party, solely on frieda's account, she and the young man had been on the verge of quarreling at least half a dozen times. however, it was not altogether the young people's fault, because mrs. grant had been trying. every once in a while frieda had felt obliged to decide that in the future she must have nothing more to do with the son. if there was a possible stupid question to be asked, always mrs. grant had asked it; if there was a place where the rules forbade her entrance, that was the particular place which she had insisted upon seeing. indeed, if frieda had been able to foretell how mrs. grant was to end the long day with them, she would have wished that their original uncomfortable acquaintance could have closed on the morning it begun. suddenly from the signal station on top the rock of gibraltar the little company in waiting on shore heard the loud report of the six o'clock gun. six o'clock and yet here they were on land! the ship's officer had announced that the martha washington must steam away again promptly at six! nevertheless there seemed no real danger of the rainbow ranch party's being left behind. for half a mile out at sea their ship still waited at anchor, while approaching within a few yards of the spanish shore was the small boat known as the tender. watching it come toward them jack swayed and might have fallen except that olive kept a tight hold on her. "please help me up the gang-plank when we go on board, olive dear?" jack whispered, "i don't want any one to guess how wobbly i feel." and olive nodded reassuringly. a little later and the tender had reached the big ship. now, however, the transference of the passengers was not to be so easily made. the waves were no longer blue and quiet as they had been all day. from somewhere a high wind had blown up off the land and each time the smaller boat attempted anchoring alongside the big one, a breaker drove it backward or forward. there was grave danger of the tender's being shattered against the great ship. nevertheless no one aboard either of the two boats seemed seriously frightened, excepting mrs. grant. frieda was so scornful in watching the stout, elderly woman clutching at her son, asking dozens of hysterical questions that she quite forgot to be nervous herself. indeed, she almost failed to appreciate the scene, so unique to her experience. ruth and the other three ranch girls were not so oblivious. for the time being they were standing close together, having in the excitement forgotten all past weariness. the spanish and english sailors, manning their small boat, were splendidly capable. through a megaphone orders were called out to them from the big steamer, and instantly the men made ready to obey. but whatever the discipline and intelligence, the will of the sea was not to be soon conquered. had there been more time the smaller boat could have been finally brought alongside the larger one and her few remaining passengers safely put on board, but the night was coming down, and both the officers and travelers were growing impatient. a few moments afterward and the tender was brought to anchor within a safe distance of the martha washington. then a life boat was lowered. when this came alongside the tender a ladder was dropped overboard and the ranch party and their friends ordered to embark. the method appeared a simple enough one. one had only to climb down the ladder and be lifted into the small boat. nevertheless, five persons looked anxiously at jacqueline ralston, and jack purposely refused to return any gaze. not for worlds would she have ruth or the girls guess that she felt any nervousness at having to do so easy a thing, with several persons at hand to help her. during this period of waiting, captain madden had been standing not far away, talking in low tones to the princess. now he moved quietly forward. his face was flushed as though his conversation had not been agreeable. however, his manner toward jack was extremely kind. "if the climbing down the ladder will be too much for you, miss ralston, won't you allow me--" jack shook her head. already jean was descending the side of the boat, the princess following soon after. and although the small tender plunged with the movement of the waves and the rowboat rocked unceasingly, half a dozen hands held the ladder firm. there was no danger. jack joined frieda in frowning impatiently at mrs. grant, who was nervously protesting to her son that she could never make the necessary effort. then her gray eyes lighted with amusement. with a slight inclination of the head she suggested that captain madden play knight errant to the only female in distress. olive and frieda went down one after the other. ruth, however, would not leave the tender until she saw jack safely through the climb overboard. and in the meantime the rowboat had made a journey to the steamer, put its occupants aboard and returned once more to the smaller ship. but by this time the gorgeous sunset colors had faded and the twilight was fast closing down. and although mrs. grant, having at last mustered sufficient courage, insisted on being allowed to enter the rowboat first, ruth drew would not hear of it. she had waited, watching the other girls in order to see how difficult the climb might be for jack. now it was wiser to have no further delay. if jack had felt any nervousness previously it had now entirely passed. how absurd to be frightened by anything so simple! with a gesture to the man in the boat below she flung her heavy white coat down to him. then she swung herself over the side of the boat and commenced descending the ladder with all the ease of her athletic days. the distance was not great. although the boats were rocking and plunging the experience was exhilarating. it happened during the few moments required for jack's descent that captain madden and dick grant chanced to be standing on either side of mrs. grant. therefore, what afterwards occurred could hardly have been prevented. of course mrs. grant was under the impression that jack had reached the end of the ship's ladder. some call from below or some mental hallucination must have given her the idea. for without a word she suddenly darted forward and before any one could speak or move seized hold of the top rung of the overhanging rope ladder. it was only for an instant. immediately the sailor standing alongside, grasped her firmly by the arm, but the single movement had been sufficiently disastrous. jack had nearly reached the end of her climb. so near was she to stepping into the rowboat that one of the men below had his arms outstretched to receive her. so possibly she had relaxed the firmness of her hold. for when the surprising jerk came from the top of the ladder the girl wavered half a second and then appeared to let go altogether. she fell not backwards but over to one side. and only her own family understood why she had happened to collapse in this fashion. instantly, however, before an other sound could be heard, there came the queer rushing noise of the water closing over her. and then followed a cry that seemed to come from a hundred throats at once. above them all ruth believed she heard frieda on the deck of the big steamer. ruth did not utter a sound. really there seemed not to be time. almost instantaneously did captain madden's coat drop at her feet. then followed his dive overboard. there were plenty of people nearby to have pulled jack out of the water. perhaps his action was unnecessary. however, captain madden had at once recognized jack's grave danger. they were only half a mile from shore, where he suspected the undertow was dangerously strong. it was now almost dark so that her body might be drawn under one or the other of the two large boats. and his suspicion must have been true, because jack did not come up near the spot where she had gone down. there were half a dozen sailors ready to offer aid had it been necessary. but the moment after captain madden's dive, he rose again holding the girl easily with one hand and swimming. when they reached the side of the life-boat the sailors pulled them in, wet of course, but otherwise unhurt. "i am exceedingly sorry and ashamed and grateful," jack murmured in captain madden's ear later when, safely wrapped in his coat, she was being rowed back to the martha washington. "in the words of mr. peggoty, if it hadn't been for you i might have been 'drowndead.'" captain madden shook his head. more than anything else he admired jacqueline ralston's courage. indeed, he was beginning to think that the task which he had set for himself might not be so disagreeable to perform. "oh no, there were dozens of other men equally ready to do just what i did, only i managed to have the honor first," he returned lightly. and of course by his ignoring his own action, jack was the more impressed by it. for she looked at the older man gravely. "i can understand that you don't want to be thanked for what you have done. i know that from my own experience once. but just the same i shall always be grateful to you. and if ever there is a time when i can in any way show my gratitude--" to do captain madden justice he felt uncomfortable over jack's excessive gratitude, for whatever his other faults of character, he was a physically brave man. although insisting that she was perfectly well and that her wetting had not done her the least harm, jack was straightway put to bed and dosed with warm drinks. so that olive, in order to talk with the other girls and yet allow jack to sleep, was obliged to slip into ruth's stateroom soon after dinner. there she found ruth and jean engaged in argument. "of course i am grateful to captain madden," jean was saying in an irritated tone of voice, "but just the same, i don't see why he could not have waited for one of the sailors whose business it was to rescue jack. we all of us know what a queer disposition jack has and how if she once likes a person she sticks to him through thick and thin. and i--well, candidly, i don't want her to like this captain madden any too much. i don't trust him and i would write to old jim tonight if i knew a single thing to say against him or any reason for saying it." "but you are simply prejudiced, jean dear. anyhow we will be landing in naples in a few days and after that see no more of our ship friends," ruth argued. "so if i were you i would say and think nothing more about this. really, such a casual acquaintance is not of so great importance." and ruth frowned, because frieda was staring at her cousin with her big blue eyes wide open with the effort to guess what possible reason jean could have for showing so much unnecessary feeling. for her own part, her anger was directed entirely against mrs. grant and her son. and she firmly made up her mind not to speak to either one of them again, no matter how humble their apologies. chapter ix reflections ruth had her way. when the martha washington finally arrived in naples, good-byes were said to all their ship's acquaintances and the rainbow ranch party had their first ten days in italy to themselves. there was a little time of rest and then visits to the island of capri, to the ruins of pompeii, to mount vesuvius. and before very long ruth and the four girls found themselves yielding more than they had dreamed to the wonderful spell of southern italy. not that any one object or place made so great an impression beyond another, but because italy seemed so different from their own land. it was as though they had one day been transported by an airship for a journey through the planet jupiter or mars. the soft italian voices with their tuneful cadences, the laziness and air of having all eternity for the performance of a task, the big, brown-eyed beauty of the women and children--it was all irresistible. actually the girls felt their own characters changing. where was their old energetic desire to take long walks, to rise up early and certainly never to waste a moment in a nap in the afternoon? why in naples one felt always drowsy, less inclined to talk, and wished only to drive and dream and feast one's eyes and ears and nose, all the senses at once. for here was beauty, music and such fragrance, surely the three graces of nature! and the roses, they were everywhere in bloom, climbing over every ruined wall and broken gateway, covering whole hillsides, until at last jack was obliged to admit that they were as abundant and even more beautiful than her own wild prairie roses. but naples was only to be the ranch girls' first introduction to italy, their first taste of her delights. rome was really the central object of their pilgrimage, where the greater part of their time was to be spent. and rome ruth had decided must be taken seriously. in naples she had let things drift, had even felt as inactive and pleasure-loving as her younger companions. but then she had been tired from her sea voyage. many persons had said that it required a week or ten days for recovery if one had been seasick. also this may have explained why so frequently of late she had caught herself thinking of jim colter. why should the nights in naples recall moonlit evenings on the ranch which they had spent together years before? almost the only suggestion that jim had made to her before their sailing was that the girls should acquire enough culture on their european trip to compensate him for the loss of their society. and ruth had conscientiously determined to do her best. all the winter past she had devoted to the study of roman history. indeed, it had helped her pass many a lonely evening, when otherwise the picture of the rainbow lodge living room, with the girls seated about the fire and the big figure of their guardian stalking in and out half a dozen times within the hour, had a fashion of appearing before her eyes. ruth had begun her acquaintance with the ranch girls as their teacher. so that now, although they were nearly grown, it was hard for her to give up all her old principles and practices. in their different ways the four girls were charming, and yet there was much ruth felt that they should know. however, the past year had made more changes in their characters than she could ever have supposed. she had been surprised to find how much they now cared for people and society, and had been disappointed as well; for ruth had not realized that the ranch girls were yet old enough for these interests, in spite of the fact that jack was nearly twenty and olive and jean not so far away. jack in particular had been a revelation to ruth, who had been making special plans for her intellectual development. for she was the oldest of the four girls and yet had never had the advantage of primrose hall and miss winthrop. after their trip abroad then, there would be time enough for society, their chaperon decided, actually believing that the natural experiences of life can be persuaded to wait for set times and set places. so all the way along the road from naples to rome, ruth was making her own plans for the four girls, little guessing what was occupying their minds. nevertheless their thoughts were as eternal to youth as any symbol of eternity in the most wonderful of all cities. "'tis the center to which all gravitates. one finds no rest elsewhere than here. there may be other cities that please us for a while, but rome alone completely satisfies." or at least this was ruth drew's idea, as she sat watching the landscape fly past her window, with these lines keeping time to the turning of the car wheels. notwithstanding that, jean bruce sat exactly opposite, with her eyes closed showing the length of her dark lashes against the clear pallor of her cheeks, jean was not devoting all her energies to reflecting upon the historic curiosities of ancient rome. she wanted to see everything of importance, of course, but she was also wondering if the princess colonna would keep the promise made in their farewells on the steamship. would she call on them in rome and afterwards invite them to meet her friends? the invitation might possibly be to an afternoon tea; yet even then there was a chance of meeting some member of the italian nobility or other prominent person. and jean did not think herself a snob because she wanted to meet big people as well as to see big things. always they had led such a quiet life at the ranch, and boarding school had offered but few opportunities for making outside friends. indeed, her only other chances for mingling with the world had been their summer trip through the yellowstone and her week's visit to margaret belknap during the christmas holidays at primrose hall. so jean's social aspirations were possibly not unreasonable. and, curiously enough, olive van mater, for at least a portion of their pilgrimage to rome, was considering certain friends whom she might possibly meet there, instead of the marvels of the city itself. for she was expecting that her cousins, mrs. harmon, donald and elizabeth, might make their appearance. and although olive was fond of all three of them, she could not look forward to their meeting with pleasure. the truth is that olive's grandmother, as we must know from the past volume in this series, was a self-willed, unwise old woman. no sooner had she seen olive and donald together half a dozen times and noticed the young fellow's liking for her granddaughter, than she had made up her mind the way she intended to escape her own difficulty. why puzzle to decide whether she should leave her large fortune to the harmons, as she had so long promised, or give it to the newly found granddaughter? "let the two young persons marry and share the money between them. elizabeth could be comforted with a reasonable legacy." this decision madame van mater had confided to miss winthrop almost as soon as the idea had come into her head. and then, in spite of miss winthrop's openly expressed disapproval, after olive's return from the ranch for her second winter at primrose hall, her grandmother had made known her wishes to her. "so that you may not get any other love nonsense into your head," madame van mater explained to olive, as though there could be no possibility of her desire being disobeyed. and this in spite of the fact that olive had insisted that donald could never care for her or she for him, and that nothing would induce her to follow her grandmother's wishes. indeed, except for miss winthrop, olive might have been made extremely unhappy. but her friend had explained that madame van mater was growing childish with age and would probably change her mind in regard to the willing of her wealth many times before her death. also she assured her that madame van mater had never mentioned her purpose to donald harmon, and if miss winthrop could influence her, never should. nevertheless olive's peace of mind and pleasure in her cousin's society had been successfully destroyed by her grandmother's suggestion. actually the girl lived in a kind of shy dread of don's ever finding it out or attempting to follow madame van mater's wishes. she had always protested that the greater share of the family fortunes should be left to the harmons. she herself would be content with very little and wanted no special favors, since her grandmother had never brought herself to care for her. notwithstanding this, the old lady had seen that her granddaughter had an even larger sum than the three ranch girls for her traveling expenses in europe. and had said that she was to buy whatever she liked and to send for more money whenever it was necessary. yet ruth and the girls were traveling in a far more expensive fashion and spending more money than they ever had before. for, in spite of the discovery of the rainbow mine, they had continued to live simply. nevertheless, in starting off on their european trip, jim had advised them to have a good time and not to worry, as he guessed the gold mine could do the rest. so that jack in the course of her journey from naples rather wondered if captain madden had not received a wrong impression of the amount of their wealth. or possibly frank kent had told him. in any case it was annoying for frank to have mentioned their financial affairs to so complete a stranger as captain madden had then been. jack was glad she had written asking frank not to join them in italy. two years might have made a great change in his character, so that they could not be friends as they had once been. besides, had she not guessed, without actually having been told, that captain madden and frank, in spite of being cousins, were not particularly good friends? and as captain madden had mentioned that there was a bare chance of his spending the spring in rome it might be awkward meeting them together. of course jack had not spoken of the chance of running across captain madden in rome to any of her family. in the first place, captain madden had been by no means sure of his presence there, and in the second, jack had the impression that jean, olive and frieda did not like him. this was absurd, of course, with a man so much older! as he had traveled and spent other seasons in rome, surely he would be an agreeable guide and help them to see the right things in the right way? only frieda, besides ruth, was not looking forward with either pleasure or dread to any persons whom she might happen to run across in rome. certainly dick grant and his mother were to be there (dick had told her every detail of their plans in the course of their early acquaintance), but whether they were in rome or not was of no interest to frieda. for the younger miss ralston had been true to her decision and not once in the two-day-and-a-half sail from gibraltar to naples had she acknowledged the existence of either mrs. grant or her son. and this in spite of their humble apologies to jack, and her sister's ready acceptance of them. however, this much justice must be accorded the ranch girls that when, at sunset, they at last entered "the eternal city" all personal thoughts and considerations were swept from their minds. high in the distance they could see the tower of st. peter's; in the midst of the town ran the muddy stream of the tiber; and over all rome's beauty and antiquity hovered the golden atmosphere for which the city is also justly famous. chapter x italian violets "do make up your minds and let us go somewhere," frieda pleaded. "i don't see that it is so important where we go first." she was wearing a new lavender cloth frock trimmed in silk and a hat of the same shade, with a big bunch of violets resting against her yellow hair. from her hand dangled her adored gold-link pocketbook. so there was no question of frieda's preparedness for beginning their first day's sight-seeing in rome. ruth and the other three girls showed no such signs of being ready for immediate departure. they were together in their big sitting room, which overlooked a beautiful enclosed court, characteristic of italian hotels and homes. and at least half an hour of their morning the girls had devoted to gazing out of their windows. in the center of the courtyard a fountain played continually--not a fountain of an ordinary kind, but the figure of a beautiful boy, with his arms high in the air, holding two great shells into which the water poured and then splashed down to the ground below. around the enclosure were copies of famous statues and miniature orange and lemon trees. jack in a comfortable silk dressing gown was placidly gazing at this scene when frieda's speech arrested her attention. "why be in such a hurry, frieda mia?" she inquired. "you know we have firmly decided not to begin our labors too early. besides, this morning we are tired and don't you see that ruth, jean and olive are deeply engaged in laying out our plan of campaign? it has got to be arranged where we are to go, what we are to do on our arrival, what things we are to thrill over and what to pass by." and jack laughed, letting her eyes rest for a moment on ruth's face. their chaperon's expression was so serious. did jack guess that her education was about to be solemnly taken in hand? well, she felt very young this morning and very much in need of learning a great many things. rome gave one such an overpowering sense of ignorance! but frieda was much displeased. "you told me you would be ready at half-past ten, jacqueline ralston, and let me go and dress. now it is after eleven. and if nobody will come with me i shall just go out and walk up and down by myself." from the pages of her baedeker ruth looked up quickly. it was not often that she was positive with the girls, but she had insisted that during their stay in italy no one of them go anywhere alone. frieda blushed penitently. "i didn't mean it, ruth, of course. still, i think it's hateful for none of you even to start to get ready." "oh, do be quiet, frieda, and sit down and wait, or, if not, go to your own room," jack remarked impatiently. "i think you are forgetting our compact very soon. one more objection and you will kindly place your fine in ruth's charge." without replying, frieda marched haughtily out of the sitting room and into her own and jean's bed room. it was true that the night before leaving naples the rainbow ranch party had made a kind of "traveler's agreement society," setting down a number of rules for their mutual benefit and promising to follow them. the suggestion had come from olive who was always the peacemaker in all differences of opinion. for although the travelers had been only a few weeks upon their journey, already they had learned that there is nothing that is a surer test of one's amiability than constant sight-seeing, which entails a continuous moving from place to place of people who are expected to do the same things at the same time regardless of their personal tastes and inclination. from the top of her suit-case frieda drew forth a sheet of paper. possibly jack had been right, for the rules of their compact read: first: in all questions pertaining to travel, such as the selection of places to be visited, choice of hotels, etc., the rule of the majority shall prevail. second: in all questions in which there is a moral issue at stake, a matter of right or wrong to be decided, the chaperon's judgment is to be followed. third: if any member of the party becomes weary during the course of the journey, all are to rest. (this rule was made for jack's protection and was olive's proposal, knowing that her friend would never voluntarily give up, if she thought her fatigue might interfere with their pleasure.) fourth (and this was of jack's recommendation): each one shall try to be as agreeable as possible to the others' friends, since it is not to be expected that they could like the same people equally well. fifth: if any one of the five travelers shall make three cross speeches in the course of one day, the said traveler is to pay into the keeping of ruth drew a fine to the amount of fifty cents, united states money. for the fourth cross speech, one dollar, and so on, with the amount doubling. and at the end of the european trip, this sum, whatever the amount, is to be employed for the purchase of a gift for the girl against whose name there is the smallest number of bad counts. and frieda had rather expected that this prize would fall to her. indeed, she had quite made up her mind to attain it. for certainly she was far more amiable than jack or jean, and ruth was apt to grow nervous if things went wrong. for instance, take this question of her going out on the street alone. ruth might have known that she had had no real intention of being disobedient. indeed, olive was the only member of their party whom frieda believed she had reason to regard as her rival in amiability. and of course one opponent was necessary to make the contest interesting. really, frieda desired this prize more than most anything she could think of--not just for the prize itself, although there was no telling what its value might be, but because it could be retained forever like a conqueror's flag to be waved over her family. for ten minutes more, therefore, frieda sat down in an upright chair, waiting patiently. notwithstanding this, jean did not even come in for her coat and hat, or with any suggestion that they ever intended leaving the hotel. it was abominably stupid to continue loitering forever, so finally the young girl concluded to go down into the hotel lobby and watch the people moving in and out, until her family at last made up their minds to start. she would not go back into the sitting room again to argue the question with them, but leave a little note near jean's hat explaining where she might be found. in the corridor leading to the open front door frieda discovered an inconspicuous place and was entirely happy observing the hotel guests and the small vista of the roman street which she could see like a picture through the opening. an italian priest passed by, wearing a solemn, long black robe tied about his waist with a huge cord and a round, stiff black hat with a broad brim and a flat crown. frieda stared at him curiously. then a young fellow, evidently an artist from his costume, appeared, and, after hesitating a moment, entered the hotel corridor. a few moments afterwards he was joined by an older woman with two daughters in whom frieda at once became deeply interested. they were english girls--she guessed this by a kind of instinct, they were so tall and fair and slender, with drooping shoulders and pink and white complexions. the little party left the hotel together and then there was a short interval in which nothing happened to interest frieda particularly, except the foreign look of the people moving past in the street. weary of waiting, she was glancing at a queer carved clock on the wall opposite her, when unexpectedly a fragrance enveloped her. without understanding why, the young girl felt a sudden wave of homesick yearning for the rainbow ranch. why should she think of home so suddenly? for a few seconds frieda was unconscious of any special reason, and then, turning, she beheld standing in the doorway a small italian boy, beautiful as one of raphael's cherubs, with a great basket of italian violets hanging on his arm. frieda smiled. no wonder she had recalled her home and the violet beds planted next the lodge in the days when she had expected to add to the family fortunes by selling flowers. this was before there was ever a thought of a gold mine hidden in rainbow creek. what fun to buy a lot of violets for ruth and the girls and have great bunches of them to present, if ever they did decide to come down stairs! a western girl, frieda ralston had always been accustomed to doing things for herself. so now it never occurred to her to call a "facchino" to accomplish her errand, although this italian word for porter was one of the few words that frieda had already acquired from her phrase book. besides, was the boy not standing right there by the door? quickly she moved toward him. but at the same moment another customer must have called from the street or else some servant in the hotel frightened the child, for he slipped away and in an instant was half down the block. and frieda followed close behind, entirely oblivious of anything except her present purpose. the boy ran lightly along and danced around a corner like a sunbeam. there, where he made the turn, a fountain stood in the center of the square that frieda noticed particularly so there might be no danger of her getting lost. fortunately another customer stopped the lad when, quite out of breath, frieda finally managed to catch up with him. she didn't know the italian words which should be employed in purchasing violets, but fortunately the sign language was the original one with all the peoples of the world. very soon the basket of violets transferred from the child's arm was swinging on the young girl's. when, with a smile and a "buon giorno" (good morning) at the american signorita's prettiness and amazing wealth, the lad vanished as abruptly as he had arrived. frieda glowed with pleasure. the violets were so exquisite, the sky so blue, and the air so sparkling. surely by the time of her return to the hotel her family would be ready to begin their adventures. and there, just ahead, was the fountain that she had observed so as not to make any mistake about getting back safely. walking on in the direction of the fountain for a moment frieda stood admiring its beauty. but not for long of course, because ruth and the girls must never discover her absence. turning away from the fountain, straightway her puzzle began, for there were now half a dozen streets leading from this central square and the wanderer had no idea which one contained their hotel. certainly rome was very queer and unlike any other city she had ever seen before. many of the streets seemed to twist and curve, winding in and out among the others. nothing seemed to go straight ahead in any given direction. however, frieda, having concluded that one of them looked a little more familiar than the others, tried it first. there was nothing within a block, however, that resembled the hotel l'italia and she was convinced of only having followed the boy for a single street. she had best return to the fountain and start forth again. but by the time one has followed this method of procedure three or four times without success the effect is apt to be disheartening. chapter xi fontanone dell' acqua felice several tears watered the violets. frieda ralston was seated on one of a flight of stone steps bordering the antique fountain, with an immense stone lion on either side of her and in high eminence behind her the figures of the prophets. but frieda was not in the slightest degree interested at this moment in roman art. for one hour, recorded on the face of the small watch in her pocket, she had been engaged in wandering up and down likely looking streets in search of their hotel, only to return to her starting place again. and this when she had only gone a block and a half away in the first place. neither had the wayfarer trusted entirely to her own judgment. in spite of ruth's repeated warnings against talking to strangers, she had once accosted a man in a queer uniform, thinking him a policeman. he wore a dark blue coat, blue-gray trousers, a white cap and belt, so how could a newcomer have known him to be a member of the roman garrison? however, when once the soldier had discovered frieda's desire, his directions were so explicit, so accompanied by much waving of his hand and statements of "destra" (right) and "sinistra" (left), that frieda believed her way clear at last. nevertheless, though doing exactly what she believed she had been told, the result was the same. frieda had again to return to her fountain, a now painfully familiar spot. in the course of this wandering, however, she had passed an ancient church with a high flight of steps, where she paused to gaze for a few moments in awe and wonder. a number of pilgrims were climbing the wooden steps on their knees and children were running about among them offering rosaries and small wooden images for sale. frieda had purchased a st. joseph and then regretted her investment, for at least half the crowd of children followed her back to her resting place. they were still whining about her begging for pennies, when some time ago she had given them all the change she had. yet they would _not_ leave her alone. happening to glance down at her arm frieda now made the painful discovery that her beloved gold-link purse had disappeared. still the poor child had her violets! they were no great comfort, however, for, sighing, she glanced through an opening among her persecutors to see if aid might be found anywhere. there not far away did she not behold the familiar figures of richard grant and his mother, the acquaintances who had been so scorned toward the close of their sea voyage. with a little extra energy the lost girl might have called to them. for they were loitering and studying the pages of their guide-book, evidently on their way to visit the famous church which had previously attracted her attention. once frieda believed that she saw them glance in the direction of her fountain. but their purpose must have changed, for the next instant they moved off toward the church. nevertheless, in spite of her need, the wanderer did not stir or call out. for how could she ask assistance of people to whom she had been so rude and overbearing but a short time before? and she was so near their hotel, surely ruth would send some one to look for her or come herself in a few minutes. no, she must wait a while longer and perhaps, when rested, if no one had found her, try to discover her own way again. often jim colter had told the ranch girls to search for things first with their heads before beginning to explore with their hands and feet. yet it was pretty difficult to think clearly, and when weary and discouraged to remember how one has managed to get lost. this habit of getting separated from her family was a trying one, and certainly this time ruth and the girls would be angry as well as frightened. [illustration: "don't be funny, dick; i'm lost again"] not long after frieda was wishing sincerely that she had put her pride in her pocket and begged dick's and mrs. grant's help in spite of all that had passed. she was frightened as well as tired. the children had run away on finding that the signorita's purse had gone. but a few yards from her seat an italian had been curling his black mustache for quite an extraordinary length of time, staring all the while at the little blonde girl on the fountain steps. "if you don't mind speaking to me this once, miss frieda, would you explain just why you are ornamenting the steps of this particular fountain alone for so long a time?" a friendly voice inquired. frieda jumped to her feet. there were the amused brown eyes, the square jaw and the athletic shoulders of mr. richard grant. however, he was at the present moment engaged in holding his red baedeker open and in slowly reading aloud: "this fountain is known, i believe, as 'fontanone dell' acqua felice,' which, if i recall my latin correctly, means 'water of happiness.'" "don't be funny, dick, please," begged frieda, forgetting titles and squeezing two left-over tears out of her eyes; "i'm lost again!" "i rather supposed so," the young man replied, "so i left mother to moon among the saints in the church nearby, while i came back to look after you. you see, we thought we recognized you sitting here and yet could hardly believe our eyes. tell me what has happened and where you wish to go?" a moment later, after a second careful consultation of his guide book, frieda was escorted through the streets of rome by a youth, who was unconcernedly carrying her large basket of violets in one hand and feeding her chocolates from a box which he held in the other. he did not seem to bear the least malice, and frieda herself was extremely cheerful, considering her talent for getting into scrapes. she even promised gratefully to accept the gift of a red baedeker of her own and not to depend on their chaperon's possession of one. arriving at the hotel l'italia frieda begged that dick grant come in with her and let her family know of his presence in rome and of his kindness to her. in reality she wished for a stranger to be present so that she might in a measure escape the disapproval awaiting her. and this time frieda was correct in her judgment, for ruth and the girls were more irritated with her than alarmed. and even after her explanation as to just how the accident happened ruth seemed unreasonable. actually, right in richard grant's presence, she scolded frieda more than she had before in years. however, the young man did have the good sense to turn his back and be engaged in earnest conversation with jack during the worst of ruth's tirade, for which the younger miss ralston was truly grateful. she was also grateful to her sister jack for inquiring after mrs. grant just as though nothing unpleasant had occurred between them. for jack asked either that mrs. grant come to see them or that they be permitted to call on her. when dick had finally departed to join his mother (who must have been weary of waiting, except that her good nature was as certain as her bad taste), frieda found as usual that it was jean's teasing which was harder to bear than any scolding. for just as they were at last about to leave their hotel and right in the presence of the english lady and her two daughters who were returning, jean pulled a long pale blue ribbon from her pocket (one of frieda's own ribbons) and tied it in a kind of lasso about the younger girl's wrist. "better keep a string attached to our one ewe lamb, don't you think, ruth dear?" she inquired innocently. and the strangers stared with a kind of cold surprise, when ruth was obliged to produce the pair of scissors she always carried in her hand bag to cut the knot, so close had the ribbon been drawn. for the rest of the day frieda kept close to her sister and olive, feeling too deeply wounded with the other members of their party to care to have much to say to them. chapter xii afternoon tea "on pincian hill my father feeds his flocks," remarked frieda pensively one afternoon several days later. and while ruth, jack and jean tried their best to keep from laughing aloud, olive had to explain. "it was not pincian hills but grampian, frieda dear, and the speech refers to greece and not italy." but frieda was too blissfully happy and deliciously entertained to care either about her mistakes or the cause of the others' laughter. for at last the ranch girls were having afternoon tea in the beautiful gardens of the pincio. near them a military band was playing, and in their vicinity apparently most of the best people in rome, besides the summer travelers, had gathered. there were hundreds of carriages moving to and fro and stopping now and then while friends exchanged greetings. a short half hour ago little king victor emmanuel, whose stature is the only small part of him, and his beautiful big queen had driven by, giving the four girls and their chaperon one of the most delightful thrills of their whole trip. for no matter how good democrats we americans are at heart, the first sight of royalty cannot fail to be interesting. it is only after the royal persons have been viewed often enough and long enough that they appear like ordinary persons. then, beneath the hill of the pincio, lay the most wonderful of all the panoramas of rome. there was st. peter's again (and already the ranch party had spent one entire day in this largest and perhaps most beautiful church in the world). there the castle of st. angelo, the roof of the pantheon, and innumerable other churches and towers, which ruth even after an almost painful study of her map of rome was not able to name. but more fascinating than the buildings, at least to jacqueline ralston's outdoor loving vision, were the far-off hills with their groupings of cypress, palms and pines. the rainbow ranch party had found seats at a table not far from the small café in the center of the gardens. and although delectable sweets were being served to them, together with very poor tea, not even frieda had been able to display her usual appetite. unexpectedly a hand was placed on jean bruce's shoulder, and turning in surprise she saw standing by her side no other person than the princess colonna! if jean had thought her american-italian princess beautiful on shipboard, the sight of her now in her parisian toilet almost took away her breath. waiting a few feet away were her companions, two young italians of about twenty and twenty-five years of age, besides an elderly man, who was nearer sixty years old than half a century. "i thought my little miss bruce was to let me know when she and her friends reached rome," the princess began, shaking hands with ruth and the other three girls, while continuing to smile upon jean. "is it that you do not wish more of my society?" jean, having regained her self-possession, shook her head. "that is such a ridiculous question i shan't pretend to answer it," she returned. "it is only that we have been such a few days in rome and thought perhaps you--" the princess made a slight motion of her hand toward the three men back of her so that they approached. "_i_ have not a short memory, but _you_," she replied. "but permit me to introduce to you my husband, the prince colonna, and his two nephews." fortunately at this instant no one in the group chanced to be gazing toward frieda. for although the older girls had sufficient self-control to conceal any expressions of surprise, this was not true of her. at this moment her blue eyes opened wider than usual. the prince colonna with his snow-white hair and stately manner, bowing courteously over ruth drew's hand, was assuredly twice his wife's age. jean, olive and jack were feeling sufficiently embarrassed by the meeting with the two italian nephews. in less than a moment, however, jean gave a slight but characteristic shrug of her shoulders and then a sigh of relief. for both signor leon, the younger, and his brother giovanni colonna spoke excellent english. "we were so afraid we should not be able to talk to you," jean confessed so frankly that immediately any awkwardness in the situation passed away. "you see, we americans are dreadfully stupid about foreign languages. we never realize how important they are until we come abroad, and that is apt to occur after our school days have passed. nevertheless, we dearly love to hear ourselves talk." this was a long speech for the commencement of a conversation with strangers, but jean was soon glad to have had the first opportunity. for, drawing a chair close beside hers, signor giovanni colonna never gave her much of a chance afterwards. it seemed, by the young man's own confession, that he had always wanted to know american girls. his only acquaintance so far had been with his aunt, and of course she had increased his desire. but the princess had lately told him and his brother of meeting on the steamer four delightful western girls whom they might possibly see later on in rome. from the first giovanni seemed to prefer jean's society, leaving leon to the other three girls to entertain. the entire conversation between the young man and jean could hardly have lasted ten minutes. before saying farewell, however, the princess had made an engagement to call on ruth at her hotel on the following afternoon with the promise that she should bring the four girls to her villa later in the week. unfortunately jack laughed when the two young men were safely out of hearing, though still in sight. they were both below medium height, with clear, dark skins and curling black hair, and to jack's american ideas were almost too well dressed and formal of manner, although giovanni was really handsome except for a scar across his left cheek. "they are rather funny, don't you think?" she inquired idly and without any special meaning. "i don't believe i could ever learn to like foreigners as much as i do american men. they are not so big for one thing, are they, ruth?" and ruth, before whose eyes jim colter's big figure straightway loomed, shook her head. jean flushed slightly. she had liked the two young men fairly well. moreover, they were her princess' nephews. anyhow, her cousin's speech had irritated her, although jack had already forgotten what she had said and was once more gazing in fascination at the scene about her. "your dislike of foreigners does not include englishmen, does it, cousin of mine?" jean queried with a too great pretense of innocence. jack's clear gray eyes faced jean's dark ones in such surprise that jean's were the ones to droop. "if you mean frank kent or captain madden, why of course i like both of them, don't you?" she returned. and then, "whatever in the world, jean, has made you so cross about captain madden? i wonder what idea you have in your head! if you knew anything against him on shipboard why didn't you tell me?" jean discovered that ruth was frowning upon her more severely than usual. besides, what answer had she to make to her cousin? really, she had no actual reason for disliking their new acquaintance and the impression that had once or twice come into her mind on shipboard may have been absurd. ruth had thought it ridiculous and had not agreed with her. now certainly the stupidest possible thing she _could_ do would be to permit jack to guess her suspicion. "oh, of course i like them too, i was only bad tempered," jean replied, giving jack's gloved hand a penitent squeeze and thinking how unusually beautiful she was looking this afternoon. somehow no one appeared so well in white as jack did. she was so fine and pure, so different in many ways from other girls. it would never dawn on her to dream of evil in man or woman. jean found herself blushing. "i like frank kent better than most anybody, jack dear. he is one of our oldest and truest friends, i feel sure. sometimes i wish we were going to see him before arriving in england," she murmured. half an hour later, driving slowly down the long hill away from the wonderful pincian gardens into the city of rome, ruth and the four girls were equally surprised at seeing a stiff, military figure on horseback lift his hat to them. "it is captain madden, i do believe! i didn't know he was to be in rome!" frieda exclaimed, and no one made answer. later that evening, however, when a great box of her favorite red roses containing the english army officer's card mysteriously arrived for jack at their hotel jean did not know whether to be glad or sorry for having held her tongue. of course jack was pleased, just as any other girl would have been with the attention. but for the life of her jean could not have explained why she felt so convinced that in some fashion or other this captain madden was to be the evil genius of their european trip. however, ruth drew was her cousin jack's chaperon and she did not appear concerned. that night, after having thought the subject over for an hour when the other girls and ruth were probably asleep, jean finally came to this conclusion: undoubtedly she must be more foolish than anybody else. so no matter what she herself believed, if ruth and olive remained unsuspicious of captain madden's attentions the wrong thinking must be her own. chapter xiii jack ten days later if ruth and jean had again talked this same matter over together, it is possible that their points of view might not have been so far apart. but this was difficult, since jean was then spending several days with the princess colonna at her villa several miles from the city of rome. from the hour of meeting with captain madden near the gardens of the pincio, apparently his time had been entirely at the disposal of the rainbow ranch party. and ruth having completely banished her momentary fear that his kindness meant more than a passing fancy for jack, was at first glad enough to accept his attentions. if she thus revealed a lack of wisdom, there would be time enough for regret later on. it was extremely agreeable to have some one to act as their guide through rome. for in spite of her winter of study ruth found herself becoming dreadfully confused. rome was so overpowering that actually there were hundreds of things one wished to do all at once. then the girls developed such different interests! she and olive desired to make a real study of the many churches in rome, while jack curiously enough, as she had known nothing of art before, was enthusiastic over the old sculpture. jean and frieda had no great fancy for the antique, but were open in their preference for visiting the shops and for driving about to the wonderful gardens and villas about rome. so every now and then ruth, departing from her original rule of keeping their entire party together, had allowed captain madden to have charge of several of the girls, while she went elsewhere with the others. and more often than any other way it turned out that frieda was in the habit of accompanying captain madden and her sister. for frieda's attitude toward their elderly friend had lately changed. from her former dislike she had now become his warm advocate. and if ruth drew had been suspicious or even properly worldly-minded this fact in itself should have begun to open her eyes, so assiduously had captain madden been cultivating frieda's liking. when a box of flowers arrived for jack, or sometimes for ruth, a box of sweets came with them for the youngest of the ranch girls. in their morning riding parties captain madden announced his preference for keeping by frieda's side and leaving jack to ride a little in advance as she seemed to prefer. once, however, frieda had innocently repeated a conversation held between herself and her escort, which made jack angry and ruth uncomfortable. for it appeared that she had told captain madden the entire history of their rainbow mine, even to the amount of gold taken out of it the previous year. and this, when jack had particularly asked her younger sister never to discuss their affairs with strangers, and especially their recent wealth. older now and realizing the good taste of this, frieda, in explaining the subject to their chaperon, was puzzled to remember how she had been drawn into the conversation. of course no questions had been asked by captain madden, he was too much of a gentleman, but somehow in telling him of their past life on the ranch and of their acquaintance with his cousin, frank kent, naturally she had spoken of their mine. to ruth this explanation did not appear unreasonable. besides it did not seem of importance then whether or not captain madden might be too much concerned in their private affairs. afterwards an evening came while jean was away at the princess' villa when the ranch girls' chaperon had her first awakening. the incident was a slight one in itself, yet aroused great uneasiness. almost every pilgrim who makes his way to rome has the desire to see its ancient ruins by moonlight. and this had been olive's wish ever since their arrival in the eternal city. her suggestion was that some night they drive around the broken walls of the coliseum and afterwards wander about inside the forum romanum. surely in the moonlight it would be easier to forget the modern world! perhaps one might even conjure up a mental picture of the great days of pagan rome, when these same decaying arches, columns and temples were monuments and buildings of wonderful beauty. for it was past them that the roman generals used once to lead their victorious cohorts bringing home captive the barbarian armies of the western world. one evening, rather laughing over her friend's enthusiasm, jacqueline ralston had repeated olive's ambition to captain madden. and straightway he had suggested that the moonlight excursion actually take place, and that he be permitted to act as escort. the moon was now almost in the full and certainly rome was as well worth seeing under its glamor as under day-time skies. therefore, twenty-four hours afterward, at about nine o'clock, a party of seven persons set out from the ranch girls' hotel. ruth was riding in one carriage with captain madden and jack, while mrs. grant, frieda, olive and dick were together in the other. no one talked much. even frieda and mrs. grant, though not specially susceptible to beauty, were somehow silenced. the road to the coliseum led away from the crowded centers of rome into a kind of eerie stillness. although the radiance of the moon seemed partially to have obscured the stars, the night was brilliantly clear. twice both carriages drove about the outside walls of the coliseum. and through its broken spaces the riders could catch strange glimpses of the big amphitheater, the crumbling tiers of seats, and now and then the outline of a small stone chamber overgrown with moss and lichen, where the early christian martyrs, were once imprisoned before being fed to the lions. in the course of the drive ruth and captain madden spoke to one another occasionally, commenting on the unusual beauty of the night and the weird and fantastic shadows cast by the moon. but ruth noticed that jack hardly made a remark and that she was pale. this made no special impression, for jack was probably tired. she was wearing her long white cloth coat and a small white hat and for some reason or other looked almost younger than frieda. but by and by jack asked that their carriage stop at the entrance to the forum. there a guide could be found with a lantern, should the moonlight prove insufficient to light their way about the ruins. captain madden first assisted ruth to descend from the carriage and then something in his manner as he turned to help jack, gave ruth a sudden feeling of discomfort. what could he have to say to her which her chaperon should not hear? and yet captain madden did whisper to jack in a low voice as though there were some secret understanding between them. a moment later, when the second carriage had driven up and its occupants were alighting, for just a moment ruth drew had a brief chance to speak to olive alone. "don't leave jack by herself tonight if you can help it, and on no account let her be with captain madden without the rest of us." then, scarcely waiting for olive's reply, ruth moved off slipping her own arm firmly through jack's. certainly the next hour afforded no opportunity for interchange of confidences between jacqueline ralston and her new friend. but the girl seemed glad enough to have ruth and olive close beside her. now and then she even asked aid of one or the other of them. for stumbling about in semi-darkness among crumbling earth and stone seemed to be making her nervous. then came a moment when both olive and ruth lost sight of jack completely. it was the simplest possible accident. they were in a place of shadows, lit only by the moon, which made the spaces behind the ruined buildings of almost impenetrable blackness. and although their guide and dick grant carried lanterns, it was difficult to catch their reflections unless one were near. olive, believing ruth to be with her friend, had drawn closer to the guide to listen to some bit of information that he was struggling to impart to mrs. grant. while ruth, thinking that olive was discharging her task, and finding dick grant and frieda engaging in one of their frequent quarrels, had interposed herself between them. it was at this time that jack, wearier than she cared to confess, sat down on one of the steps beyond the arch of titus, descending toward the coliseum. for the moment a cloud had passed half over the moon, making the ancient ruin before her appear more gigantic and mysterious. the next instant a figure seated itself beside her and captain madden's voice spoke: "you think you don't care for poetry, miss jack, but surely tonight is made for poetry, or poetry is made for tonight. do you know these lines of byron's in childe harold?" captain madden moved nearer the girl so that he might see into her face. then he pointed toward the magical scene close by. "a ruin--yet what a ruin! from its mass walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd; yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, and marvel where the spoil could have appear'd, hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? alas! developed, opens the decay, when the colossal fabric's form is near'd: it will not bear the brightness of the day, which streams too much on all years, men, have reft away. "but when the rising moon begins to climb its topmost arch and gently pauses there; when the stars twinkle through the loops of time, and the low night breeze waves along the air the garland forest, which the gray walls wear, like laurels on the bald first cæsar's head; when the light shines serene, but doth not glare, then in the magic circle rise the dead; heroes have trod this spot--'tis on their dust ye tread. "'while stands the coliseum, rome shall stand; when falls the coliseum, rome shall fall; and when rome falls,--the world.'" jack made no answer for a moment. then she said quietly, "it is a beautiful description; thank you for repeating it to me." she did not feel in the mood for talking tonight. the world was too beautiful and too strange. here was she, jacqueline ralston, a girl raised on a ranch in far-off wyoming, in the ancient city of rome. and captain madden, the friend near her, why should a man so much older and wiser and with so great a knowledge of the world that even rome itself did not seem unfamiliar to him, feel an interest in her? she was neither beautiful nor clever like olive and jean. yet jack, though not twenty, was woman enough to realize that captain madden liked her best. the next instant she started to get up when, placing his hand on her arm, her companion held her back. "i don't want to speak to you too soon," he whispered. "i don't wish to hurry or frighten you. but you must know why i have so longed to be with you alone for a few minutes tonight." "please," jack faltered. and then, suddenly appearing from out of nowhere, ruth drew actually seemed to swoop down upon the man and girl. almost immediately she took tight hold on jack. "let us go to our carriage at once, if you please, captain madden," she demanded brusquely. "we have stayed out in the night air far too long as it is. it is time we were safe in bed." then, although jack kept obediently close to her chaperon until they were back in their hotel, that night when the three girls had fallen asleep, ruth was so restless that, putting on her dressing gown, she walked up and down her room for a quarter of an hour. it simply could not be possible that this captain madden was falling in love with their jack or that she could entertain the slightest interest in him! why jack was still a child and the man twice her age! besides, what in the world did they know of him except what he himself had told them? the man might be a fortune hunter, he might be most anything! ruth wiped her eyes in consternation at the thought of what jim colter would say and do if she allowed his splendid, brave jack to become entangled in an unfortunate romance. then she asked herself: was there no one in rome who could tell them of captain madden's history? recalling jean's statement that the princess colonna and captain madden were acquaintances before their meeting on board the martha washington, ruth relieved her anxiety by writing a long letter to jean. in it she confessed her own uneasiness and asked that jean inquire of the princess what knowledge she had of captain madden's past. but she also insisted that jean keep her reason for wishing to know a secret and that beyond everything else she should never betray their suspicions to jack. chapter xiv the princess' mythological ball for some little time before and after the event, the mythological ball given at her villa by the princess colonna was the most talked-of entertainment in roman society. the princess was young, an american and immensely rich. having married into one of the noblest families in italy, in spite of their poverty, it was but natural that she had soon become a conspicuous social leader in rome. her parties were always regarded with deep interest, but this latest ball was to outstrip all the others in novelty and beauty. for her guests were invited to appear as characters from ancient greek or roman mythology. surely the idea was sufficiently original and daring to excite wide curiosity. and to the ranch girls, naturally, the princess' ball was _the_ important social occasion of their lives. for days jean had written of nothing but the preparations going on at the villa and to inquire what parts they wished to impersonate and what costumes to wear. several times she had driven into the hotel for long consultations with ruth and the other girls, for jean had been asked to remain at the villa until after the costume ball. as a matter of course the four girls were a good deal overwhelmed at the decisions before them. for in the first place ruth positively declined to be present at the entertainment unless she were permitted to appear in a regulation evening dress. for ruth would always be a puritan at heart and the thought of arraying herself as a pagan goddess, or even as an humbler heroine, actually made the cold shivers run up and down her back. to ruth the princess' idea seemed fantastic and absurd. nevertheless, she did not wish to spoil the ranch girls' pleasure, and was in reality more deeply anxious than any one of them that they should make as beautiful an impression as possible. the girls were lovely enough, she felt sure; their only problem was to select suitable characters and to see that their toilettes were exquisite and appropriate. of course the princess colonna agreed to ruth's desire about herself, assuring her that there would be others of her guests who would dress as she did. however, she made a great point of the ranch girls' coming in costume. for she had been talking of her four american girls to her friends in rome and was counting on their making a sensation. she and jean together had decided on their heroines and also what they were both to wear. jean had then kept her character a secret from the other three girls and from ruth, wishing to be a complete surprise to them as well as to everybody else. the drive from the hotel to the princess' villa would require almost an hour. notwithstanding, when captain madden asked that he might accompany the rainbow ranch party, ruth thanked him and declined. there were only jack, frieda and olive, she herself making the fourth, so with jean away, one carriage would hold them all comfortably. she did not care to separate their little party. they would see captain madden later at the ball. no one could have guessed whether or not jacqueline ralston had noticed it, but it was perfectly true that her chaperon had never allowed her a minute alone with her new friend since the night of their moonlight excursion. captain madden was well aware of it, though he had not yet made any protest or given any sign. he had been studying jack pretty closely in the few weeks of their acquaintance and felt fairly sure that if she could once be persuaded to make a decision, no amount of opposition afterwards would have the power to change her. it was not for nothing that her chin had that slightly square outline and that she held her head with an unconscious and therefore a beautiful pride. jack had a look of purity and faithfulness that sometimes made older persons watch her with a kind of wistful anxiety. would life ever make her lose her faith in her ideals and in the few persons to whom she would give her undivided love? the entrance to the prince colonna's estate was through a long avenue of magnolia trees so that the night air was heavy with their fragrance. as there were several hundred guests driving into the grounds at nearly the same time, the ranch girls' carriage was compelled to move slowly. and for this they and ruth were devoutly thankful. because they were one instant thrilled beyond measure at the prospect of the brilliant scene before them, and the next terrified at the thought of the parts they were expected to play. "i don't see how jean bruce has ever managed to spend an entire week in such grandeur as this and with strangers. i should have died of embarrassment!" olive exclaimed, in a rather shaky voice, slipping her hand inside jack's and giving it a gentle squeeze. she wished to assure herself of the reality of the fairy world about her and also to receive strength for the coming ordeal from the sense of jack's presence. for never, for an instant, had these two friends swerved in their devotion to each other, the one always finding in the other just the qualities she herself lacked. jack laughed. "jean, you must remember, is never afraid of any one and is the only truly society person among us. then, if you please won't mention it, i've an idea that the italian nephew is entertaining miss bruce mightily. remember she confided that he was teaching her italian and she instructing him in english, poor ralph! i am afraid jean will never be content at the rainbow ranch any more after this experience of foreign life." with her pale blonde hair carefully concealed from the night air in clouds of pale blue chiffon, frieda, from the opposite seat, now leaned over toward her sister. "jack," she demanded seriously, as only freida could, "why do you say, 'poor ralph!' do you think ralph merrit has ever been in love with jean? they were always friends at the ranch, i know, but ralph is poor and isn't good-looking and doesn't care for society. i am sure he would never suit jean one bit." but before she had finished speaking, jack's gloved fingers were laid lightly on her small sister's lips. "for goodness sake, baby mine, do hush," she implored. "of course i was only joking about jean and ralph. i can see how ruth is frowning at me even in the dark. who would ever have supposed that an infant like you would talk about 'being in love' in such a solemn fashion! you don't know the meaning of the word." "do you?" frieda returned, speaking just as seriously. but jack only shook her head without replying. the wonderful ivory-colored house, built in the fashion of the italian renaissance, was now coming into view with hundreds of low-growing evergreen shrubs close at its base. the house itself was lighted with golden, shaded lights. to one side was the italian garden, where the girls had had tea with the princess several afternoons before. it was also lighted, but hardly discernible now from the driveway. by the princess' orders, ruth and the three ranch girls were shown immediately to jean's bedroom, which was apart from the dressing rooms provided for her other guests. there jean was waiting for them in her fancy costume and in a delicious state of excitement. as her door opened, the newcomers, forgetting themselves altogether, gave a cry of surprised admiration and were then curiously silent. jean had been standing in front of a long, gold-framed mirror, and now, turning swiftly, moved in their direction. her costume was of the palest pink. the little bodice was of pink silk and pink chiffon, simply made and cut with a girlishly rounded neck, trimmed with a narrow edging of old lace. but from her silk girdle the skirt showed a wonderful arrangement of chiffon drapery, falling below her feet into a slightly pointed train at the back. she wore pink sandals bound with pink ribbons. all this ruth and the three girls observed in the instant that she ran to greet them. but the next moment, swinging slowly around on one lightly poised toe that the full effect of her appearance might be disclosed, between jean's shoulders could be seen a tiny pair of butterfly wings. her dark hair was parted low over her forehead and drawn into a loose knot high toward the back of her head. the costume was a lovely one, and jean looked exquisite in it. "can you guess whom i represent?" she asked shyly, abashed by the admiration of her own family. in answer jack did something unusual between the two cousins, who were not usually as demonstrative with each other as with ruth or with olive and frieda. for suddenly she leaned over, and holding jean's chin in her white gloved hand kissed her, afterwards studying her face closely. "i think i can guess, jean," she returned. "i have been reading so much mythology lately, besides seeing so many famous statues. your butterfly wings tell me that you are psyche. i remember your story. psyche was the daughter of a king and so beautiful that venus, the goddess of beauty, grew jealous of her and sent her son cupid to punish her for her presumption. but cupid wounded himself with his own arrow and so fell in love with psyche. there is a great deal more to the story, of course; afterwards psyche and cupid quarreled and for many years she had to wander around the world performing difficult tasks before being reunited with her love again. psyche is the greek name for soul and a butterfly the ancient emblem of the soul. somehow you don't look like yourself tonight, jean," here jack hesitated; "you are like a spirit. please don't be finding your fate too soon and so flying away from us." but although jean blushed and seemed for half a second troubled by her cousin's suggestion, she shook her head and began helping frieda remove her wraps. when the blue cloak and the blue veil were thrown aside, the youngest of the ranch girls stepped into the center of the room. "do i look almost as well as jean?" she inquired earnestly. "i thought my costume so pretty when we left the hotel. but now that i have seen hers--" jean was dancing around frieda as though she had been in reality a butterfly. ruth, jack and olive would not allow the maids to take off their cloaks in order to give her their undivided attention. "frieda is the star of us all, isn't she?" jack declared, since the spoiling of her small sister was a sin upon which the entire ranch party agreed. unwrapping a round gold bowl, she then handed it to her. "frieda represents the lovely goddess, hebe, who served nectar and ambrosia to the high gods on mount olympus," she explained. quite oblivious of the admiring italian maids, ruth knelt down on the floor to rearrange frieda's skirt. the young girl's dress was of corn color, almost the shade of her blond hair. so her eyes looked bluer and her cheeks pinker than ever. it was odd that her toilet had been copied from an old greek model and yet was not unlike the modern style. a tunic of soft yellow crepe was loosely belted at the waist, the overskirt falling to her knees. about this was a border of gold braid in the trojan wall pattern and beneath it hung the narrow, plain skirt. frieda's yellow hair was caught together in a bunch of curls and a gold fillet encircled her head. olive was by this time ready to be admired. she seemed shy at being seen even by her dearest friends; but then olive would never entirely recover from her timidity. tonight she wore nile green, the shade always best suited to her. she was dressed as amphitrite, the wife of neptune. her costume was unlike the others. it was of india silk, because of its peculiar glistening quality, and strung with tiny sea shells. around her slender throat was a string of pearls, which she had lately bought for herself in rome as a gift from her friend, miss winthrop. in and out among the braids of her black hair were other strands of pearls. above the middle of her forehead was a jeweled spear with three points. this represented a tiny trident, the symbol of neptune's power over the sea. notwithstanding the assistance of the maids, after ruth drew had finally given a hurried glance at herself in jean's mirror and had seen that three of the girls were ready to go down to the ball room, to her surprise she found jack loitering. the girl had seated herself in a chair and, in the face of olive's and jean's protestations, still had her opera coat wrapped close about her. "are you ill, jack?" ruth queried, observing that she was paler than any one of them. but jack shook her head, smiling nervously. all of a sudden she did not seem like herself. "i am _frightened_," she confessed the next moment. "it does not seem possible for me to go down to the ball room dressed as i am before so many strangers. i don't want to keep the rest of you waiting, but can't i stay here by myself for a few moments, ruth? i want to think about something." but before ruth could answer jean had almost forcibly pulled off her cousin's wrap. "if you are not ill, jack dear, how can you be so absurd! if it were olive now who suddenly had an attack of stage fright we might forgive her. but you! why you have never been afraid of people or of things in your life. besides you will only have to speak to the princess and the prince colonna. we won't know any one else except captain madden and--perhaps a few other persons. the others we can just enjoy seeing." during her speech jean had tried to catch her cousin's expression. but jack had her eyes down. now she jumped hurriedly to her feet and went out of the room ahead of the others. evidently she did not wish to hear herself or her costume discussed. she did look unlike the other three ranch girls tonight--taller and older. and while their costumes were in colors, hers was pure white, nothing but soft folds of drapery from her shoulders to her feet. her only ornament was a half moon of brilliants in the bronze coils of her hair. for jacqueline, partly because the girls had used to call her diana in the old days at the ranch on account of her love of hunting and supposed coldness of character, had dressed as the far-famed latin goddess of the moon. slipping down the marble staircase in her gray evening gown, ruth drew felt like a chimney swallow amid an assemblage of brilliant, gaily colored birds. yet she was glad enough to be inconspicuous. never in their lives had the four ranch girls been so lovely. ruth was almost sorry. she did not wish them to attract too much attention. the interest they had taken in their toilets had been for their own and for her pleasure and because of the princess colonna's kindness. at this instant ruth decided that so soon as their greetings were spoken she would find a secluded place, where they might have their first sight of foreign society and yet be properly out of the limelight themselves. chapter xv a surprise jacqueline ralston was sitting alone in a quiet portion of the princess colonna's italian garden, listening to the soft splashing of a fountain at no great distance away. now and then she put her hands to her face. why were her fingers so cold and her cheeks so warm? for jack was no longer pale; indeed, her whole countenance was curiously flushed. no longer did she look the tall, stately goddess of a few hours before, but like a tremulous and startled girl. for jack had just received her first proposal and could not for the life of her tell whether she had accepted or rejected it. captain madden had gone away. she had sent him to find ruth, as she did not wish to remain alone; neither did she wish him to stay with her. it was not that jack wanted to confide what had taken place to her chaperon. nothing was further from her intention at the present time. for jack had not yet been able to make up her mind whether or not she cared for the man who had just told her that he loved her. and fortunately or unfortunately it was not jacqueline ralston's habit to ask the advice of other people about what seriously concerned herself. she must decide one way or the other, and then it would be time to tell ruth. but suddenly she had felt very young and lonely and forlorn with an absurd disposition to cry. if only ruth would come to her now she could say that she was tired and not feeling particularly well. it would be quite true. tonight had been the most wonderful in her whole life; never had she dreamed of such beauty and such splendor. yet suddenly jack had felt a kind of homesick longing for jim colter and the simplicity of their old life on the ranch. and yet jack could not truthfully have said that she had been taken completely by surprise by captain madden's proposal. ever since their meeting with him in rome, there had been times when she had wondered if it could be possible that he was learning to care for her with more than a friendly interest. for even a girl as young and as innocent as jack cannot be wholly blind. ruth had believed herself a careful chaperon. little did she dream of the intimate talks the girl and man had had together, standing side by side in some church or gallery, looking at some special object, when the other members of their party had wandered away. then had come tonight! jack had grown tired; ruth was talking to some new acquaintances, jean and frieda and olive were dancing. captain madden had asked that she walk into the garden with him to rest. there were many people about and yet they had managed to find a secluded place. jack could see a number of men and women passing near her, some of them in wonderfully beautiful costumes, others looking a trifle absurd. she closed her eyes, not wishing to see but to think! captain madden had told her that he loved her. he had confessed also that he was twice her age and poor. but could jack forget these things and care for him notwithstanding? one wonders how the man had come to appreciate jacqueline ralston's nature so thoroughly in the few weeks of their acquaintance? did he know that this appeal would be the surest way to awaken her sympathies? jack had always a passion for doing things for other people rather than having them do for her. if she loved captain madden, she would gladly share all her money with him. it was stupid of her, however, not to realize that no true man could have been willing to ask _all_ the sacrifices of her. jack's only present problem was: "did she care enough?" captain madden was older and wiser and so much better and braver! think of all the stories he had told them in which she felt sure he must have been a hero! although never once had he so spoken of himself! then, too, had he not saved her life? jack had never forgotten that moment of danger at gibraltar, however little her rescuer had made of his part in it. jack sat up suddenly. captain madden had consented that she have a week in which to make up her mind, but had asked that his suit be kept a secret. now some one was evidently coming toward her and there must be nothing in her face or manner to betray her. what a picture she made at this moment jacqueline ralston would never know! for nowhere could there be surroundings more beautiful nor a figure which seemed so unreal and yet so ideally lovely! surely diana had wandered to earth from the groves of high olympus and was resting here, waiting for her nymphs. she was sitting on a three-cornered marble bench under a group of palms, with the moonlight flooding her white dress and sending forth tiny sparks of light from the crescent of brilliants in her hair. in surprise she lifted her head to watch the stranger approaching her. she had thought at first that it might be captain madden with ruth or one of the other girls. but the man was taller, younger, more slender and was alone. who on earth could he be? jack rose hurriedly and took a step forward. the man was holding out both hands with an oddly familiar gesture. "jack," he said slowly, "don't you know me? aren't you glad to see me? i arrived in rome only an hour ago and came directly here. i have spoken to jean and ruth and now have found you." "frank kent!" jack repeated, too surprised by the young man's unexpected appearance to show any other emotion. "you _have changed_, but in the daylight of course i should have recognized you. it was only that i should never have dreamed of your coming to rome without letting us know. i asked you to wait to see us until we arrived in england." she had given both her hands to her old friend and was trying not to have her manner appear cold. yet she could feel rather than see that frank's face was flooding with color, just as it had so easily in those old days of their first acquaintance at the rainbow ranch. "that is a discouraging greeting after a two years' separation. i hoped you might feel more pleasure in seeing me," frank suggested. jack and the young man had walked slowly forth from her retreat and were now within the glow of the yellow-shaded electric lights. jack looked up into her companion's face. he was older and tonight seemed graver. also he wore the expression of dignified displeasure, which jack recalled so readily. she could almost remember this same look on his face the day she had run away to the round-up and so lost olive and brought tremendous unhappiness upon herself and her family. less than anybody in the world did jacqueline ralston desire to see frank kent during this particular week of her life. yet she could not willingly hurt his feelings. now she laughed, looking a little more like the girl of the past. "i didn't mean to sound ungracious, frank. of course i am glad to see you, for you must have had some good reason for coming to rome just now. otherwise i know you would have granted me my wish and waited until we got to england for our meeting. what was your reason?" but frank kent did not at the present moment have to answer this question. for within a few feet of them were captain madden, ruth and olive. and whatever of kindness jack's reception may have lacked was made up for by olive's enthusiasm. forgetting her shyness for one of the occasional times in her life, she ran forward with her eyes shining and a lovely color in her cheeks. jack thought she had never seen her friend prettier or happier. "oh, i am so delighted you have come, mr. kent--frank," she declared. "it seems too much like old times to be formal. ruth had just told me of your arrival and i could hardly give you time even to speak to jack." there could be no doubt of how much pleasure olive's frank welcome afforded the ranch girls' former friend. frank kent had always been much interested in olive and her peculiar history from the day when his presence saved her from being taken away from rainbow lodge by the indian woman laska and her son. he had seen her develop from an apparently poorly educated, part-indian into a gentle and charming american girl. and now she was no longer a girl, but almost a woman. the expression of frank's brown eyes changed. he gazed so steadily at olive that she blushed and then smiled. "i have been seeing so many visions tonight i ought to be prepared for most anything," he remarked. "but i confess i am not for this transformation of olive into a sea nymph." the young man made no effort to conceal his admiration as he held olive's hand in his own a little longer than was necessary. for just half an instant jack wondered; then she brought herself sharply to task. because of her own recent experience why should she be dwelling so much on one subject? besides, without wishing any one to guess it, she was interested in frank kent's and captain madden's manner toward each other. captain madden approached to shake hands with his cousin with entire amiability, but to jack's irritation frank's behavior was hardly civil. the young man never had been able to disguise his real feelings (the trait is not an english one); so now he bowed coldly. then he continued talking to ruth and olive, almost as though the older man were not present. if all of jack's friends had been doing their level best to force her into the championship of captain madden, they could hardly have arranged a better method. she slipped her arm through the older man's at this moment in a very pretty fashion and together they led the way back to the ball room. it was now a good deal past midnight and ruth decided that the time had come for saying farewell. jean was dancing with giovanni colonna and frieda with leon. but in a few moments they were persuaded to stop, and the ranch party found the princess colonna, to say good-night. the princess had appeared at her ball in the character of atalanta, the maiden who could run more swiftly than any man in the world. to all her suitors she had imposed the condition that she should be the prize of the man who could conquer her in a race, and had been finally won by the youth who dropped the golden apples at her feet, which she stooped to pick up. jean's princess wore a crimson robe and around her yellow hair a wreath of golden laurel leaves. in her hand she carried a golden apple. yet in spite of the magnificence of the scene about her, she excused herself from her guests and went with the ranch girls to jean's room. jean was going home tonight with her family. quite like another girl, who was neither a princess nor yet a mythological character, the princess colonna kissed jean good-by. "i do wish you could let one of your girls stay with me always," she said, when she and ruth were parting. "i think i am often homesick for america and the old life in the west which i led as a child. jean has made me feel almost young again." and though ruth and the four girls laughed at the suggestion of the princess' needing to feel young, each one of them noticed that when one studied her face closely there were lines about her mouth and eyes. on the way home, the five women crowded into one carriage, jean turned to her chaperon: "i know it isn't good taste to talk about people, ruth dear, when one has been visiting them, so please don't reproach me. but i could not help seeing while i was the princess' guest that, without knowing it, she has been a kind of atalanta. only in the race for happiness the golden apple she stopped to pick up was not money. she had wealth enough, but it was a title and a great position. the prince may be very nice. i did not learn to know him very well, but certainly he seemed more like his wife's father than her husband. how can a girl ever marry a man twice as old as she is?" chapter xvi leaving rome "i am sorry, jean, that you think no one could care for me for myself, and that it is my money that is my sole attraction. if that is true i could wish for my own part that the rainbow mine had never been discovered." the two cousins, jack and jean, were alone in their sitting room in their hotel in rome. it was about four o'clock in the afternoon, six days after the princess' ball, and although it was raining and a cold, disagreeable afternoon, ruth, olive and frieda had gone forth on another sight-seeing pilgrimage. jack had been writing letters, but had ceased and gone over to stand by the window when jean began her conversation. there was just a chance that it might be wiser for her cousin not to be able to see her face, for she was quicker to arrive at conclusions than any other one of them. but jean had said more than jack supposed she would have dared. now she turned from pretending to view the dismal picture of chilly orange trees and chillier marble statuary and her gray eyes met jean's brown ones coldly. jean sighed. somehow she and jack had so often managed to misunderstand each other, ever since they were little girls. and now, when she particularly wanted to keep her cousin from growing angry and to talk things over candidly, why, as usual, she had begun matters by putting her foot in it. jack had such an uncomfortable fashion of growing white and quiet when she was furious, instead of crimson and teary like jean and frieda. why on earth had ruth ever appointed her to tell jack frank kent's account of his cousin and to find out whether she cared for him. it was certainly ruth's place to have done it herself. why in the world hadn't she had the sense to decline. "but i never said anything in the least like that, jack, and it is not fair of you to suggest it," jean replied, doing her best to answer as gently as possible. "it was only that i told you we had good reason to believe that captain madden is a fortune-hunter. i don't know, of course, whether you care in the least who or what he is, but he is desperately poor, has had to resign from the british army because he didn't or couldn't pay his debts, and, and--do you care to hear anything else?" jack's eyes flashed curiously. jean remembered how ever since she was a little girl her cousin's eyes had had this fashion of turning dark when any one opposed her will. and they had all thought jack so entirely changed by her illness, so much softened, so much readier to give up her own way to other people's. at this instant jean wondered if any one ever really changed in the leading traits of character? "i don't care to learn anything more just now to captain madden's discredit," jack was saying quietly and reasonably enough, "but i would like very much to know how you and ruth, and olive and frieda for that matter, have heard so much in such a short time? is it frank kent who has told you? because if he has, i should like to tell you that captain madden had warned me frank was apt to say disagreeable things about him. as for his being poor and having had to leave the army because of it, why of course i knew that. and i don't believe i care to hear anything more on the subject that you may wish to say." "but you _must_, jack," jean ordered unwisely. "unless you can positively swear to me that captain madden means nothing in the world to you and that you do not intend having any further friendship with him. ruth told me if i could make you promise this, we need not speak of the matter again." jack bit her lips. however angry jean's interference might be making her, this was no time to be losing her temper like a silly child. "i can make you no such promise, jean, and i don't think ruth should have allowed you to ask it of me. but there is one thing i should like very much to have you tell me. how did frank kent happen to come to rome at this especial time? before we left america i asked him to wait until we reached england before joining us, and all of you knew of my letter and made no objections. i thought it would be better for us to have the first of our journey to ourselves while we were learning to be more experienced travelers. frank said he understood and agreed, and yet here he turns up in rome without writing me and straightway begins interfering in my affairs. i used to like frank very much in the old days at the ranch, but no amount of friendship can make me forgive--" "you need not be so unfair to frank, jack," jean interrupted, losing control of herself at this evidence of jack's liking for the middle-aged man whom she had always detested, and whom the other members of her family were now learning to dislike almost as much. "i wrote frank kent while i was staying with the princess colonna, begging him to join us here in rome at once. ruth had said she was afraid you were growing too much interested in captain madden and that we ought to be finding out more about him. i knew frank would know, and i thought you would believe what _he_ said. frank is here now, waiting downstairs to talk to you. perhaps he will have more influence than i can." and without daring to find out whether or not her cousin would consent, jean darted quickly from the room. something or other jack called after her. nevertheless jean preferred neither to hear nor heed and a few minutes after reappeared with frank kent. during her brief absence jacqueline was trying desperately hard to make up her mind what she had best do. to run away, declining to see frank, would look as though she feared what he might have to tell her. to stay--jack wondered how far in her present mood she might trust herself? certainly, on his entrance, frank appeared as supremely uncomfortable as a young man could, which should have softened jack's heart or her temper. however, his first words were as unfortunate as jean's had been. "i never could have dreamed it would be necessary for me to tell you all this, jack," he began. "i never have thought of you except as a child--well, not a child exactly, but a jolly, sensible kind of a girl. and now, oh, it is too absurd to find you thinking you have a liking for a man like bob madden! he is more or less of a rascal, you know," frank blurted with the dreadful english directness which the ranch girls had used to like in him. jack had been listening so quietly that he had no idea of what mood she was in. the next instant, however, it was easy enough for him to guess. jack was sitting quite still in a tall carved chair with her head bent a little forward and both hands clasped so tightly together in her lap that the knuckles showed white. the lines of the girl's face were always clearly cut, but today they seemed more so. even jean noticed how deeply gray her cousin's eyes looked and how crimson her lips. the bronze of her hair was of an even richer tone than usual. inwardly jean sighed again. if only jack could realize how splendidly handsome she was and how worth while, would she waste any more of her time and their's on such an undesirable friendship? but jack was speaking. "no, i am not a child, frank," she declared, "though i am sorry you think i am no longer a jolly or sensible girl. you see, i am nearly twenty and i don't believe you are more than three years older. ever since you and jean began talking to me this afternoon i have been wondering why you had agreed that i cared for captain madden. i have never said a word of his liking for me or of mine for him. and i am sure he has never spoken to ruth or anybody else." "that is just the horridest part of it," jean murmured irritably. but her cousin went on without heeding her. "the truth is i have been trying this whole week to find out whether or not i cared enough for captain madden to promise to be his wife. i was intending to write to him and beg him to wait a little longer, when jean came in to talk to me. now you have both helped me make up my mind. i shall not ask him to wait. i shall tell him that i do care and that i do not believe the things i hear against him. oh, he warned me long ago, frank, of the trouble he had had with your family, of how your father had inherited all the money so that no one else had any--" but the rest of jack's declaration was discontinued because of jean's bursting suddenly into tears and rushing out of the room. frank picked up his hat uncertainly. "i suppose it is not worth while for me to tell you anything further, jack, if you have determined not to believe me," he declared. "nevertheless i feel it my duty to warn you that i shall talk freely to your chaperon, miss drew, and that i shall also write jim colter. oh, say, jack, i can't bear it, you know, for you to go and throw yourself away like this!" frank had started his reproof like jack's grandfather, but the ending was a good deal more like the boy friend for whom she had once had such an affection. then for a moment jack's lips trembled and she wanted to say something kinder, except for her fear of following jean's example and beginning to cry. at this moment, however, ruth drew, still wearing her hat and coat, came hurrying into the room. she had just seen jean and knew what had passed between frank and the two girls. ruth put her arms around jack. "it is my fault, dear, and i shall never forgive myself. i have been blind and a coward straight through. you are too young to know anything of the world and have been left too much to your own judgment. i ought to have stopped this acquaintance at once and i ought to have talked to you myself this afternoon instead of having jean do it. i was just hoping against hope that we had all been mistaken and that you would laugh at our idea. but, oh jack, you won't write the letter you have just said. you _must not_, dear; i forbid it. you are not yet of age and i am here in europe as your chaperon, temporarily as your guardian. what will mr. colter think and say?" quietly jack drew herself away from ruth's agitated embrace. frank had already gone out of the room. "please don't talk to me as if i were a silly child, too, ruth, please," jack pleaded. "i am sorry to be disobedient; but you can't forbid my writing to the man who has asked me to be his wife. after all, it is _my_ life and _my_ love captain madden has asked for. but i don't want you and jean and olive and frieda to be angry with me and not love me any more. i must write captain madden, of course, but after that i will wait until you hear from jim." jack's self-control was giving way now and she covered her face with her hands. "of course you will tell jim what you think and what frank says, and poor jim will be nearly crazy. because he is sure to believe you as long as he has always been in love with you. but jim has more charity and sympathy and will want me to be happy and--" jack could not go on. ruth was by this time shedding tears herself, so that the atmosphere of the room with the rain pouring down outside was distinctly dismal. "don't we want you to be happy too, jack? you must believe that; but i suppose you consider we are unjustly prejudiced. still, dear, won't you promise me at least not to see captain madden again until we have heard from jim?" ruth implored. there was no immediate answer, and for this much the older woman was distinctly thankful. if jacqueline ralston would only once give her word there would be no going back upon it. "yes, ruth, i promise," she replied after a little while. the next moment ruth had led her to a chair and after jack had seated herself, she rested on the arm for a moment, pressing her cheek against the girl's golden-brown hair. for although ruth was a good many years the older, jack was now several inches taller than her chaperon. "are you so sure captain madden does mean your happiness?" ruth whispered, and then held her breath, so fearful did she feel of the answer. for the second time jack hesitated. "yes, i _think_ so; that is, captain madden says he will spend his life trying to make me happy. but, oh ruthie, please don't let's talk about anything more that is serious just now. it seems to me that everybody has been scolding me all afternoon and i'm tired." this was spoken so like a fretful child that actually ruth was able to summon a smile. before her reply, however, frieda came strolling in, carrying a box of chocolate drops and thoughtfully biting one in two. she extended her refreshments to her sister and chaperon. "dick grant has just brought me these; they are american, and i _am_ grateful to him," she remarked pensively. "that foolish mrs. grant told me that the candy business was such a be-au-ti-ful business and i laughed at her. now i am beginning to think so too. i am so homesick for most anything that is american. isn't rome dismal today? ruth took olive and me to another old picture gallery and just as we were trying to take an interest in things, suddenly she decided that we had to rush back to the hotel. don't you think we have had enough of rome? jean says she is tired and i am, and ruth and olive say they are a little bit. besides, if we are to see enough of europe to count, this summer, ought we not to be starting out again?" ruth had risen and walked toward the window. she was not sure of how much frieda knew of what was troubling all of them this afternoon. however, she devoutly hoped that there might be no further reference to it until the atmosphere was more peaceful. frieda placed herself on a stool facing her sister. "jack, let's go away from rome in a few days?" she demanded. "i am sure the rest of us would like to if you are willing." jack shook her head. "no, no, frieda, not for another week or two," she protested. "i am sure there are still lots of things that we ought to see." "there would be if we stayed here until we died," the younger girl grumbled. "look here, jack, you know you like to preach to me sometimes, though you are mostly pretty good about it, now i would like you to remember our compact. didn't we promise that if three of us decided that we wanted to go to a certain place or do a certain thing the other two had to follow suit. so if ruth and jean and olive and i are weary of rome and want to go away, don't you think it your duty to do what we like? just think it over, dear!" and frieda popped a chocolate drop into her sister's mouth and then one into her own with instant promptness. jack got up and moved toward the door. somehow, in the face of the question she was now having to solve, frieda's reference to their compact seemed childish and absurd. could she actually have felt young enough not a month ago to have entered into such an agreement with all seriousness? and yet to give one's word was final. "all right, frieda baby," jack assented, as she was about to cross the threshold, "if the others really do want to leave rome now, it would not be fair to keep you here on my account. wherever you go i will come along." when jack had finally disappeared and was safely out of hearing, ruth turned from pretending to stare out the window and gave frieda an ecstatic hug. "that is the best thing that has happened to us this day, baby!" she exclaimed, not pretending to explain her remark. frieda received the mark of affection placidly; she was perfectly accustomed to being embraced by her family at unexpected moments. "yes, i thought it would be best to get jack away from the chance of seeing him, though i did not want her to guess that was our reason," she remarked sagely. "of course captain madden is jack's first truly beau and she takes love and things like that so seriously. she and olive are not like jean and me. she'll get over it, though, i am pretty sure, if we can only get her into the country where she can hunt and fish and do the things she used to do. the sky is too blue and there are too many flowers in italy." then frieda went on pensively devouring dozens of chocolates, while ruth retired into her own room to lie down. she was half amused and half aghast at frieda's sudden burst of worldly wisdom. indeed, she was not at all sure whether she wished to shake the youngest of the ranch girls or whether she desired to embrace her again. chapter xvii the overseer of the rainbow ranch "oh," sighed frieda sleepily, "isn't it too delicious to hear the american language spoken once again!" ruth and the three other ranch girls laughed almost as sleepily as frieda had spoken. they were on the night train coming up from folkestone to london, after having crossed the english channel from boulogne earlier in the afternoon. it was now the first week of june. "bravo, frieda!" teased jean. "one can always count on the younger miss ralston's saying _the_ memorable thing as soon as the rainbow ranch party arrives on a new soil. who would have thought of the american tongue being employed in the british isles. i shall mention it to frank kent as soon as we see him." "oh, for goodness' sake, don't be funny, jean bruce," the first speaker protested, "for you know exactly what i mean. i suppose i should have said the english language. but even if the english do speak deep down in their throats and their voices are kind of choky and queer, at least one can understand what they mean without consulting a dictionary or trying to remember something one has learned at school. after having heard nothing but italian, german and french for over two months, i could almost have hugged that porter who carried our bags off the boat." frieda had been resting her head on her chaperon's shoulder, but now lifted it to continue her argument with jean. however, ruth drew her back to her former place. "don't be a purist at this late date, jean," ruth murmured, shaking her head in a kind of mild reproof. "i must confess i am feeling pretty much as frieda does. english or american, whichever you may prefer to call it, after our continental wanderings, england does seem almost like home." and ruth closed her eyes, she and frieda both dropping off into a gentle doze, while olive and jean talked in whispers, and jack stared out of the window into the darkness. since leaving rome, the five young women had become proverbial cook's tourists. they had been traveling almost continuously, sight-seeing during every possible hour, and allowing no time for loitering. for after rome had followed florence, venice and then paris, until now they were on their way to spend the fashionable season in london. such rapid journeying had not been ruth's original idea, but somehow after jack's experience in rome it had seemed best to keep her constantly busy, allowing as little time as possible for reflection or argument. faithful to her word, jacqueline ralston had not seen captain madden since the afternoon of her talk with ruth. at that time, it is true, she had promised to wait only until an answer could arrive from her own and ruth's letters to her guardian, jim colter, but later she had made a further promise to jim. almost from the day of his arrival at the rainbow lodge, the overseer of the ranch and afterwards the girls' devoted protector and friend, had had a peculiar understanding of jack's character. when she was a small girl, insisting on some order of hers being obeyed or angered because it had not been, jim's "steady, boss!" used always to help her control herself. for reasonableness was ordinarily one of jack's strongest characteristics. always she wished to be just and patient. her wilfulness came not so much from original sin as because she had had too much her own way as a child and had had to depend too much on her own wisdom. her mother had died when she was a very young girl and her father not so many years after. why, when jacqueline ralston was fourteen, virtually she was, under jim's guidance, the head of a thousand-acre ranch, and a kind of mother to little frieda and jean. so, though jim colter was more broken up by the news in ruth's and jack's letters than he had been by anything since ruth's refusal of his love, he wrote to jack with more tact than you could have expected from a big, blunt fellow like jim. it took him almost one entire night, however, to write the letter. for one thing, he did not say that he believed just what ruth drew had written him of captain madden, nor did he mention frank kent's information, which painted an even worse picture of jack's friend. nor did he demand that jack immediately break off her engagement or stop writing captain madden. he simply suggested, as he had in the old days at the ranch, that "the boss go slow" and would jack agree not to see captain madden and not to think of him more than she could help, until jim himself could find out something more about him? for of course frank kent might be prejudiced and ruth might be mistaken. jim would see to the whole matter himself, and jack could surely count on his wanting to give every man a square deal. jack had at once agreed to her guardian's request. she realized that jim's efforts must take time, as he was a long way from proper sources of information. so she had meant to be and had been very patient, trusting that jim would never believe captain madden the kind of villain that frank kent had declared him. jack was reflecting on this now as the lights from hundreds of small houses along the line of the road blinked at her like so many friendly eyes. probably jim would let her hear what conclusion he had reached some time during their stay in england. she was rather dreading this visit to london. for not once had she seen frank kent since their interview in the hotel sitting room in rome. frank had come to say good-bye the next day, as he was leaving that evening for home; but jack had excused herself from meeting him. now there would be no way of escaping, for frank was ruth's and the other girls' devoted friend, as he had formerly been hers. they would want to be with him as much as possible. jack glanced at olive. had she not imagined several years ago that olive liked frank better than any other young man of their acquaintance? certainly she had seemed to prefer him to donald harmon, in spite of don's devotion. well, for the sake of her family, she must conquer her own unfriendly attitude. candidly, she was sorry not to be able to like frank herself as she once had. how much they had used to talk of her first visit to england! then frank had insisted that ruth and the four ranch girls were to make a long visit at his country estate in surrey. he wished them to know his family intimately, as for several years he had been talking continuously of his western friends. jack regretted the loss of this visit. frank had made her almost love his beautiful english home in his homesick days in the west, when he was ill and had chosen her for his special confidante. just in time, a sigh that was about to escape into their compartment was surreptitiously swallowed. ruth was stirring and begging frieda to wake up. olive and jean were dragging down luggage from the racks overhead. and where the twinkling lights outside had been hundreds, now there were thousands. they must have reached the outskirts of london and would soon be entering the charing-cross station. "i believe," announced jack, who had not spoken for the past half hour, "that i have more real feeling about seeing london than any other city in the world. i think we have something more in common than just the language, baby." and she helped frieda get into her traveling coat. perhaps ruth had been asleep, for she appeared more than commonly flurried. "i hope you girls understand just exactly what we are to do," she began nervously. "i declare, i don't consider that i shall ever make a successful traveler, i do so hate the excitement and responsibility of arriving in places. i wish now i had allowed frank to meet us. he was good enough to offer to come in from the country, but i declined." "but, my beloved ruth, what have we to do but get ourselves and our belongings into cabs and drive to our hotel? i will manage if you prefer it," jack proposed. their train had stopped and a guard was opening the door. several porters soon had their bags and steamer rugs, and almost before they were aware of what they were doing the five young women were following the men down the station platform, jack in advance, ruth and olive together, and jean and frieda bringing up the rear. once inside the gate, however, the four girls were startled past speech on seeing the usually dignified jack stop for an instant, clasp her hands tight together, then stare and with a cry rush forward and positively fling herself into a tall man's arms. their silence and stupidity only lasted for an instant. ruth was next to run after jack and seize the man's one disengaged hand. "oh, jim, oh mr. colter, why didn't you tell us you were coming to london? i never was so glad to see anyone before in my life!" and this from the former dignified "school marm." probably ruth had never forgotten her reserve so completely in her life as at this moment. tears of delight gathered unheeded in her eyes. jack and ruth were both swept aside by the onslaught of frieda, jean and olive. "how on earth did you decide to come? when did you come? why did you come?" jean demanded all in one breath and then stopped to laugh at herself. jim was staring at the little party critically. he looked more western and unconventional than ever in his big, broad-brimmed, felt hat, his loose fitting clothes, with the tan of his outdoor life still showing on his strong, handsome face. jim's deeply blue eyes suddenly crinkled up at the corners in a way they had when he wanted to laugh or to show any particular emotion. "well," he drawled in his slowest and most exaggerated cowboy fashion. "i've been thinkin' lately that i was gittin' a bit tired of bein' everlastingly left at the post. seems like you been acquirin' so much culture and clothes i was kind of afraid you might not want to know me when you got back to the ranch. i ain't so sure about the culture, but i'll capture the glad rags all right soon as you girls are able to go on a shoppin' party or so with me." and jim, glancing at an englishman just passing them, attired in a top hat and frock coat, pretended to wink. no one was deceived in the least by his poor pretense of a joke. jim was really so much upset by the pleasure of seeing ruth and the girls that he was talking foolishness to cover his emotion. frieda's break, therefore, saved them all "oh jim, won't you look too funny, dressed like a gentleman!" she exclaimed, and in mock wrath jim marched the five of them off to their cabs. chapter xviii relief or regret? "tell me what you have found out, jim. i think i know why you have come all this way to london," jacqueline ralston said. the man and girl were seated on a bench in kew gardens, the wonderful park a few miles out from london, two afternoons after the arrival of the rainbow ranch party. ruth and the three other girls had gone to view westminster abbey. but jack, pleading a need of fresh air, arranged for a few quiet hours with jim. the man rose and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, started striding up and down. his blue eyes were curiously gentle, but his mouth was stern. indeed, he represented a strange combination of anger and nervousness. finally, before speaking, he placed himself on the seat next jack again, but this time so that he could look directly into her face. jack's eyes were down, her manner quiet and reserved. the man had no way of guessing how his news would affect her. "see here, boss," he began after a moment, "you and i've been pretty much on the level with each other _all the time_, haven't we? we ain't tried to keep things back 'cause they hurt." he took the girl's gloved hand, patting it softly. "sometimes, maybe, i've seemed harder with you, jack, than with the others. but i always thought you'd understand. you kind of like to face the music, to know the worst and have things settled quick. well--" possibly jacqueline's face turned a shade paler; certainly her lips did. nevertheless, they curved into a kind of a smile. "well, we aren't getting them settled very quickly today, are we, jim?" she returned. "you are right, though, i do like to know the truth. what have you found out about captain madden." "that he ain't no good," jim replied, forgetting his grammar and all his carefully planned methods of breaking the unpleasant news to the girl. "seems like the english know how to put it better than we do when they say a fellow is a _cad_. i tell you, jack, this is honest. i've found out every thing i could from the time this man was a boy. he has never done an honest day's work in his life. why, i even learned that he had written back to wyoming to ask what the rainbow mine was worth. 'course, i don't claim he don't care for you, child--most any man might be able to manage that. but to think of john ralston's daughter and my old boss of the rainbow ranch marrying a man old enough to be her father, and such a man!" jim had been trying his best to hold in, but now he swore softly under his breath. "say, jack, old girl, say you believe i'm telling you the truth. i hate to hurt you, the lord only knows how much, but if you don't tell me you'll break it all off, i think i'll go plumb crazy." and jim mopped the moisture from his brow, though it was a peculiarly cool day. jack was so painfully silent. could a girl not quite twenty suffer much over an interrupted love affair? jim did not know. he remembered his own grief when ruth refused him. it had been awful! he carried the ache inside of him to this day. glancing at the girl near him, he saw that the tears, which came so rarely, were now in her clear gray eyes. "i believe you, jim," she returned finally. "i believe you'd play fair with me and with captain madden even if you loathed the idea of my caring for him. don't worry, old man. i promise this is the end. but, please, would you mind if i cried a while? no one is paying any attention to us and i think i'd like to very much." without waiting for permission, jack's shoulders shook, and she covered her face with her hands. but a few seconds later jim sighed so miserably that jack slipped one of her hands inside his and held it close. "i am not crying because my heart is broken, jim dear," she explained; "i think i am crying because i am ashamed of myself. sometimes i wonder how many lessons it will take before i learn not to be so self-willed. i have made things so hard for ruth and for the other girls. yet i believed what captain madden told me; i thought people were prejudiced against him just because he was poor. and i hate that. so when ruth and frank said such horrid things i told him i would marry him if you would give your consent. and, oh jim, i have been so afraid lately--" jack began crying softly again. "been so afraid, poor little girl! if you only knew how i dreaded telling you this, i haven't had a good night's sleep in two weeks, and waiting for you to arrive in london nearly broke my nerve." jim colter probably had not shed any tears in almost twenty years, yet he looked perilously on the verge of them now. jack pulled at his coat sleeve uncertainly. "but jim, dear, you don't know what i have been afraid of! i have been afraid you would discover that captain madden was all right and that i would then _have_ to marry him. i had given him my word. it would not have been honest to go back on it. you see, when we were in rome i did believe i cared for him. he was awfully kind and interesting and different from any one i had ever known. then i suppose i was flattered in thinking a so much older, wiser man could care for a stupid girl like me. and ruth and frank were dreadfully dictatorial. but since we left rome, i've been thinking--i feel i have not been doing anything else _but_ think. and i realized that i did not really love captain madden. i felt as if i should die if he took me away from my family. still i didn't know just what to do. i was so frightened, jim, until i saw you there at charing cross." jim colter took off his big western hat. the english sky of a june day can be a very lovely thing--soft fleecy clouds, floating over a surface of translucent blue. jim looked up into it. "i thank thee, lord," he whispered reverently, and then, stooping over, kissed jack. the next moment he was up on his feet. and though he failed to electrify kew gardens by giving his celebrated cowboy yell, he waved his sombrero and the yell apparently took place inside him. "come on, jack, let's do something quick to celebrate or i'm liable to bust with gladness!" he exclaimed. "this is a right pretty park we're in. i hear it's one of _the_ most famous on the map, with every known tree growing inside it. wouldn't you like me to buy it for you, or maybe you can think of some other little remembrance?" jack hung on to his arm and the man and girl started off on their sight-seeing expedition together, both feeling as though they were treading on air instead of the velvet softness of the english turf. "i should like to go back and tell ruth at once and apologize for being a nuisance," jack confided, "but i don't want any one to guess i have been crying, and then ruth will probably be mooning over tombstones in the abbey until dinner time. i tell you what, jim, we will have a wonderful dinner party tonight to celebrate and you can wear the new evening clothes you bought yesterday. then, afterwards, you must take all of us to the theater. now i have got you to myself, we might as well see kew and have some tea. i am dreadfully hungry. you can bring ruth some time by herself and i will promise to keep the girls away." jim did not answer. but, under the circumstances, it is perfectly certain that he could have refused jack nothing in the world. for the next two hours he could hardly keep his eyes off her. and he seemed especially happy when she devoured three english scones and drank two cups of strong tea. "ain't intendin' to pine away, are you, jack?" he asked. and then, when the girl blushed, he laughed and held out his hand. "shake on it once more, boss," he demanded, "and you can count on this, sure thing. you ain't going to make but one man happier than you've made me this day. and that is when you say 'yes' to the right fellow." chapter xix reconciliations later that evening the four girls and ruth were dressed and waiting in their sitting room for jim colter to come to them, when frank kent's card was sent up to their room. by accident the man at the door gave it first to jack. the girl's face flooded with color, but she turned at once to ruth. "frank kent has come to see us," she explained, "and i want very much to see him by myself for a few minutes. if you don't mind, i will go down to meet him." and as ruth nodded, jack disappeared. before she got near enough to speak to him, frank realized that some change had taken place in his former friend since their last meeting in rome. for one thing, jack looked younger and happier. then she had on some thin white girlish dress, and was coming forward with a smile to greet him. "i have been perfectly horrid to you, frank, and i apologize with all my heart," she began immediately. "yet you knew i had a bad disposition years ago, and still managed to like me a little. please try again. our dear jim colter is here from the ranch and has made me see things in the right light. but don't let's talk about my mistakes. we are having a dinner and a theater party tonight. do join us. olive and ruth and everybody will be so glad." in the elevator on the way upstairs to their apartment, jack looked at frank critically for a moment. not until now had she been willing to make a fair estimate of the changes the two years had wrought in him. in the first place she could see that frank had grown a great deal better looking. he had lost the former delicacy which had sent him to the west, and seemed in splendid physical condition. he was six feet tall and had the clear, bright color peculiar to young englishmen. frank's expression had always been more serious than most young fellows', and this had been lately increased by his wearing glasses. tonight, however, his clever brown eyes positively shone with relief. and though he could hardly dare express himself so openly or so eloquently as jim colter, jack appreciated that he was unfeignedly happy over her escape. possibly the rainbow ranch party and their two men friends had never had a more delightful evening in their lives. they were in such blissfully good spirits. indeed, each one of the seven felt as though an individual load had been lifted. and particularly because jack appeared to be the gayest of them all. and jack _was_ happy in feeling herself released from an obligation which lately had begun to weigh upon her like a recurrent nightmare. moreover, she was particularly anxious not to have her family regard her as broken-hearted. she whispered to jean and frieda before starting for the theater that they were to leave ruth and jim and frank and olive together as much as possible, for in so large a party it was necessary to make divisions. olive and frank did sit next one another at the play, but the three girls were not so successful with jim colter and ruth. for there was no doubt but that jim avoided being alone with ruth whenever it was possible. he had always been perfectly polite to her, but not once since the night of their parting had he ever voluntarily spent an hour in her society, unless one of the ranch girls happened to be present. of course ruth was aware of this. what girl or woman can ever fail to be? nevertheless on their way back to the hotel ruth turned to jim. "would you mind, mr. colter, staying in the sitting room with me for a little while after the girls have gone to bed. i am so anxious to talk to you?" and there was a gentleness and a hesitation in her manner that made it impossible for the man to refuse. also, he understood what it was she wished to discuss. although jim's manner was gay enough as he told the four girls good-night, ruth saw with regret that it altered as soon as the last one of them had disappeared. he did not even sit down, but waited by the door, awkwardly fingering his hat like an embarrassed boy who wished to run away but did not quite dare. ruth did not ask him to have a chair. she, too, was standing by the open fire, with one foot resting on the fender and her head half turned to gaze at him. she looked a little unlike herself tonight, or else like her best self. for the ranch girls had seriously objected to their chaperon's nun-like costumes, which she had had made in vermont, and insisted on getting her some new clothes in paris, while they were making their own purchases. ruth had objected but olive had solved the problem. each one of the four girls had presented ruth with a toilet shortly before leaving paris. and so much care and affection had each donor put into her gift that she had not had the heart to decline. tonight she was wearing jean's offering, which had been voted the prettiest of the lot. over an underdress of flame-colored silk there were what jim considered floating clouds of pale gray chiffon. and at her waist, with a background of the chiffon, was a single flame-colored flower. ruth had lost a good deal of her puritan look; somehow the man thought she seemed more human, more alive. she had a vivid color, and her hair, which jean had insisted upon dressing, was looser about her face. jim remembered the moonlight ride they had had together when a lock of her hair had blown across his cheek. then he brought himself sharply to task. ruth had already begun speaking. "mr. colter," she said, "there are so many, many things i want to say to you i hardly know where to begin. i know how you must feel toward me, how you must feel that i have utterly failed in my duty toward jack, and how nearly i have come to allowing her to wreck her life. there is nothing that you can think about me that i do not about myself. of course, you know, i erred through ignorance, and yet ignorance is no excuse. a woman with so little knowledge, so little tact--" ruth's face was crimsoning all over and she had to put her handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away her tears. jim had stepped forward and stood towering above her so that he had to bend his handsome head to see into her face. "miss drew, you are not to go calling yourself bad names and then declare that i feel as you say i do. honest injun, miss ruth, i haven't had a single one of those feelings about you. since i have known about this tragedy that poor jack has nearly gotten us all into, i have been plumb sorry for you with all my heart. how could a little new england girl like you know anything about an accomplished rascal like this fellow madden? yet i guessed if jack wouldn't give in (and she is usually a hard-headed customer), why you'd be blaming yourself for a thing you couldn't prevent until the end of your days. i tell you, miss ruth, that thought, besides my love for jack, kept me hot on that man's trail. and it even helped me break the news to jack today, which was the hardest part." ruth looked up into the deeply blue eyes above hers. "jim colter," she announced quietly, "i believe you are the very best man in the world." but instead of being pleased, jim drew back as though his feelings had been deeply hurt. "don't say that, miss ruth," he begged. "and don't you go and believe because i don't mention it that i have forgotten that sin i committed a way back in my youth and the way it made you feel about me. you have been awfully good treating me so kind and polite whenever you have to meet me around with the girls. i've done my best not to worry you any more'n i could help." "oh, mr. colter, oh jim," ruth faltered, "please don't say a cruel thing like that to me. haven't you forgiven me after almost three years? you must have known that in a few months, as soon as i got away from the ranch, i realized how narrow and foolish and blind i had been. you are a good man; you are the bravest, kindest, most forgiving in the whole world. and i don't care, i know you have forgotten about me long ago, but i want you to know i love you. it seems to me sometimes a woman must have the right to say this just to prove she can be as generous as a man. but i don't care whether i have the right or not. i am just saying it because it is true." "for heaven's sake, stop, ruth," the big man implored. but the little new england school teacher, who had hardly ever dared show her real feelings before in her life, would not be silenced. "don't worry, jim, i shall never regret what i have said, though i shall never speak of it again--and perhaps never see you after you sail for america." jim swept the little woman off her feet and held her for a moment to his heart. "don't you dare say a thing like that to me, child," he threatened. "and don't you believe you are going to lose sight of me more than a few hours at a time while both of us are living in this world. why, you little white, new england snow-maiden. the very idea of your having the nerve to stand up right before my face and say you love a big, good-for-nothing, sinful fellow like me. but i kind of wish you'd wake jack and the other three girls up and tell them we are going to get married tomorrow." chapter xx an english country place two figures on horseback galloped rapidly across the english downs, the one a number of yards in advance of the other. a low stone fence divided the adjoining meadows. but at a slight touch from its rider the first horse rose easily in the air, clearing the fence without difficulty. on the farther side it stumbled, plunged forward until steadied by the hands on its reins and came gradually to the earth upon its knees. then the rider slid off and talking quietly to the horse brought it up on its feet again, just at the moment that her escort jumped the fence and drew up alongside her. "jacqueline ralston, i take off my hat to you. you are one of the best riders i ever saw in my life. goodness, but you gave me a nasty moment when you made that unexpected plunge forward and i had a vision of your going over head-foremost." frank kent's face was pale from the moment's alarm, but he tried making his voice as calm as possible. "yes, it was stupid of me," jack returned. "there evidently was a hole this side the fence and i managed to make straight for it. look, will you, frank, while i get my breath." jack took the reins of both horses and waited for a moment, while the young man made the search. it required hardly a second, for the depression in the ground was only a few feet back of them. there it was a hole not more than twelve inches in diameter and half as many inches deep, yet of a peculiarly dangerous character for horseback riders. "suppose i had broken your father's finest riding horse's leg!" jack exclaimed, when her companion had made the report and pointed out the spot to her. "gracious, i should have been so sorry, both because of him and because of the horse, too!" jack added. having now given up both bridles into frank's keeping, she continued patting the quivering sides of the beautiful animal, which had not yet recovered from its moment of danger. "let us sit down here a few moments and rest, jack," the young man suggested. "i can tie the horses nearby and it will be a good idea to let them have a short breathing space. the others won't miss us for a while yet; we were too far ahead." several yards beyond there was a clump of old chestnut trees, and jack sat down in the shade of one of them, where frank joined her a little later. flinging himself down lengthwise on the ground, the young man rested his head in his hands, facing his companion. jacqueline had taken off her riding hat and was adjusting the heavy braids of her hair, which had become loosened by her plunge. "i say, jack, you do look awfully fit these days. you turned a bit pale a few moments ago, but now your color is as good as ever. i was afraid you might feel kind of used up. it was like you to start talking about the possible loss of a horse when you might have been smashed up," frank began. jack laughed rather faintly. "oh, i had a bad moment too," she confessed. "what is the use of pretending to be a heroine when it is not true? but one can't be laid up for nearly two years as i was without even being able to walk and face the chance of another accident with altogether steady nerves. and just when i was feeling exactly like my old self. i tell you, frank, this visit to your father and mother has been a beautiful experience for all of us. i can't tell you how grateful we are. i believe it has been this delicious outdoor life and the news of ruth's and jim's engagement that has made me absolutely well in a hurry, after taking rather a long time to get fairly started." "it can't mean to you, jack, what it has to me," the young man answered in such a queer, constrained voice that the girl looked at him curiously from under her downcast lids. jack wondered if he were going to tell her of his love for olive. earnestly she hoped that he would not--at least, not today. she hated this business of growing up. perhaps her own unfortunate experience earlier in their trip had given her this foolish prejudice. that must be the reason why she had developed such an odd, choking sensation as soon as she believed that frank intended making her his confidante. she wished that they might all remain good friends as they had in the past. how dreadful it would be to have to give olive up--or frank! besides, think of donald harmon's feelings! a month ago donald had joined them in england and since had been olive's shadow. indeed, the young man had not made the slightest effort to disguise his attitude. he was in love with olive and did not seem to mind the whole world's knowing it. but olive! jack glanced carefully at frank and was glad to see that he was not looking at her, but was still trying to reach a decision. there could be little doubt in jack's mind that olive must prefer frank kent to donald. not that olive had ever confided in her. but there had always been something in her friend's manner to make jack feel this unconsciously. she believed that she had noticed it particularly in the past two weeks while they had been the guests of frank's parents, lord and lady kent, at their wonderful country estate. jack stirred. then she must not be keeping frank so long away. the entire house party from the castle was spending the day in the woods, and the others must have halted somewhere nearer home and would be expecting them to return and join them. "i think we had best go back now, frank, please. i am not in the least upset by my near tumble," the girl announced. "but you will not mention it to ruth or jim or any of the girls? it did not amount to anything, yet i don't want ruth and jim to have the slightest shade of anxiety to spoil their beautiful time of being engaged. poor jim was desperate at first at the thought of waiting almost six weeks before his marriage, but now the ceremony is so near i think he would not have given up this time for a great deal. you see, he and ruth are only going to take a week's honeymoon journey, as your mother has been good enough to promise to look after us. and then we are all going back to the ranch together. this time poor ruth will be dreadfully well chaperoned." "yes, i know, jack, but please don't go just yet. there is something that--" frank hesitated. evidently, however, jacqueline had not heard him, for she had gotten up as she finished speaking and was moving off. the young people found the rest of their party about half a mile back, where they had chosen their picnic grounds in the neighborhood of a brook. jim and ruth were not with them, but olive and donald harmon, frieda and dick grant, jean and the young italian, giovanni colonna, lord and lady kent and frank's two sisters, marcia and dorothy, were sitting in a great circle and in the center was evidently a gypsy woman. frank had met dick grant in london and thinking him a nice american boy had asked him down to kent castle for the day. giovanni colonna had been his guest for a week. apparently the advent of the two newcomers had interrupted the flow of the fortune-teller's narrative, for she was standing perfectly silent with her big, rather impertinent black eyes fastened on olive's face. "please send the gypsy away, lady kent," olive begged. "she seems to be making up her mind to say something to me. and years ago i had such a dismal fortune told me by a gypsy who stopped at the rainbow lodge that i have never been able to forget it." frank was paying off the woman and telling her to be gone, so that he did not hear the next few moments' conversation. "what did she tell you, olive?" frieda asked. "i remember we thought it queer at the time, but i have forgotten what it was." olive flushed. she had her old childish dislike of being the center of attention, and yet she had brought this upon herself. "oh, she told me that i was going to find out my parentage some day, and i have. then she told me that i would inherit a large fortune." olive glanced a little nervously at donald harmon, adding, "but of course that will never come true. and--and i can't remember much else. the story was told in a kind of jingle." "yes, and i recall it better than you do, olive dear," jack suddenly broke in. "the ridiculous woman suggested such abominable things about me. she said that without knowing it i was going to bring sorrow upon my best-beloved olive. i don't know just in what way she meant it, but of course it was a ridiculous falsehood." and jack flushed so hotly and spoke with such unnecessary intensity that her listeners laughed. at the same time a man servant appeared, announcing that luncheon was about to be served. and olive and donald, who had been informed where the lovers were to be found, went off together to summon ruth and jim. chapter xxi midnight confidences a faint knock at her bedroom door several nights after their picnic in the woods startled jean. it was half-past twelve o'clock, and thirty minutes before all the guests in the castle had gone to their own apartments, an informal dance having made them more tired than usual. but jean was not a coward, and, still brushing her hair, walked over to her door. immediately she heard jack's voice on the outside. "please let me in, jean dear, i hope i haven't frightened you." then jack slipped inside and stood irresolutely in the center of the big chamber. she was ready for retiring, clad in a pink dressing gown, with her hair hanging in two braids over her shoulders. "i was kind of lonely," she explained. "it is very grand for each one of us to have an apartment to ourselves, but i am not used to it." she sank down on a low cushion in front of the big open fire and in a few moments was staring into it, having apparently forgotten her cousin's presence in her own room. however, without speaking, jean went on quietly undressing. then, when she had finished, she too got into a kimona and piled her grate high with fresh logs. the next moment she had placed herself on another cushion by the side of her unexpected visitor. but jean asked no questions. "i hope you are not very sleepy, dear," jacqueline remarked finally. "of course you know that i wouldn't have disturbed you at such an unholy hour except that there was something important i felt i must talk to you about." "it isn't--" jean began. but to her intense relief jack immediately shook her head. "no, it isn't and never will be again. and the sooner that all of my family forget my miserable mistake, the happier you will make me. it is something different and yet it is such a kind of intimate, personal thing, i can't decide whether i have the right to mention it even to you." "ruth and jim?" the other girl queried. for the second time jack demurred. "no." but she kept on gazing at the fire rather than at her confidante. "see here, jean," she inquired suddenly. "i wonder if it has ever occurred to you that frank kent cared, well, cared more than just an ordinary lot for olive? perhaps it does not seem exactly square of me to be prying into frank's and olive's feelings for each other, but on my honor i have a real reason for wishing to know." jean's big brown eyes opened wide with amazement. was there any question in the world farther from her imagination than this unexpected one? notwithstanding, jean gave the subject a few moments of serious consideration. "no," she replied at length, "i have been thinking over all the time i can recall from olive's and frank's first acquaintance with each other. and i don't remember a single occasion when he seemed more than just a good friend of hers. to tell you the truth, jack, i personally should never have dreamed of frank's being in love with olive in a thousand years! whatever put it into your mind? why you and frank, after you got over your first prejudice against his being the guest of our old enemies, the nortons, were much more intimate than the rest of us. i always took it as a matter of course that he liked you best until you had that quarrel in rome. lately, though, you seem to have made up." jack frowned. "oh, certainly we were more intimate then. but in those days olive was too shy to reveal her real self or her emotions to anyone except us. besides, we were only children. still, i used to notice even then that olive grew more cheerful and animated when frank was around. and afterwards in rome and the last month since our arrival in england, why haven't you _seen_ the change in her? please think, jean dear, for it may be of the very greatest importance what you tell me. you see, i am so stupid and make such dreadful mistakes about people caring or not caring for each other; but somehow you are wiser. i feel i may trust to your judgment. do you think olive--" jack stumbled a little bit over the fashion for putting her next question. "do you think that olive likes frank kent better than anybody else?" the silence was longer this time and jean did not happen to catch a glimpse of her cousin's face, being too deeply concerned over her inquiry. "i should never have conceived of such a thing myself, jack," she declared after pondering for two or three minutes, "but as you have put it into my mind, why, possibly olive _may_ be interested in frank. he has always been awfully good to her ever since their first meeting, and he thinks her wonderfully beautiful and charming. i can't say, though, that i am at all convinced that her feeling is serious. oh, dear me, why can't you two girls be as frivolous over affairs of the heart as i am! i should like at least a dozen romances before i settle upon one." "well, i presume you are in a fair way to have them, sweet cousin," jacqueline returned. "and tonight i feel as though i could almost echo your wicked wish. but, jean dearest, i have _got_ to find out how olive really feels. i can't tell you why now, yet it is of more interest to me to know than anything else in the world." and suddenly jack's face flushed with such a wonderful, radiant color that jean caught her breath. what she saw, however, made her turn her eyes away. "i will find out for you if i possibly can, jack," she then replied quietly, without asking any further questions or attempting to probe the mystery of why olive's attitude toward their host should be of such vital import to jacqueline ralston. "you know though that olive is desperately shy and reserved," jean added, "and has never confided in anybody except you and miss winthrop. don't you think, after all, perhaps olive likes donald harmon more than we guess? she and don would be such a suitable match and her grandmother is so anxious for it." but jack shook her head. "no, i am afraid not," she returned and was not aware of how much the word "afraid" meant to her cousin's ears. "olive told me yesterday that don had asked her to marry him and that she had refused him. she told him that she would take the whole responsibility for the refusal upon her shoulders, that she would write her grandmother and explain that don had done his best. the opposition to the plan had been hers. so madame van mater must do as she had threatened and leave don the larger share of the fortune. poor don was dreadfully broken up over olive's thinking that he had asked her on account of her grandmother's desire, or because of the money that they were to share if she accepted him. don honestly loves olive, i think, though i don't believe she returns it in the least. indeed, olive told me that she had never given up her old plan of going out west to teach the indians as soon as she feels she has learned enough through her studying with miss winthrop at primrose hall. actually she announced that she was going to take a teacher's place there next winter for the experience it would give her. but of course i don't think that olive means this not if she cares--if she cares for frank." jack got up from the floor. "dear, i won't keep you awake any longer. only there is one more favor i should like to beg. will you stay with me as much as possible until you can find out what i have asked you?" and jean only nodded, as her cousin kissed her good-night and went away. she sat for some time gazing into the fire instead of getting into bed. not a particularly good mathematician in her school days, still mistress jean had rather a talent for putting two and two together under certain circumstances. she had not felt it fair to ask questions of jack, yet there could be nothing disloyal in trying to penetrate a mystery for herself. especially as she should never betray her conclusions. jean pondered. in the first place there was not the least doubt in her own mind that among the four ranch girls frank kent certainly liked jack best. he always had liked her and it was perfectly plain how much her unfortunate affair with captain madden and her unkind treatment of him had hurt him, although he was not the type of man to betray himself so openly as donald harmon had. jack's feeling for frank, jean had believed until tonight to be merely friendly. they had many of the same interests, both loved horses, animals of all kinds, and the business that went with the running of a big place like their old ranch or the immense estate, which had been in the kent family for many generations. however, since the last hour, jean was no longer assured of jack's impersonal attitude. there was no doubt that her cousin had in her mind at present two fears--one that olive, her dearest friend, cared for frank, the other that frank, instead of returning olive's affection, was beginning to fall in love with her. something must have recently occurred to give jack this impression. jean did not believe that she would ever have attempted to probe olive's emotions unless this had been the case. so here was the difficulty of the situation according to her train of thought. if olive really did care for frank kent, jean understood jacqueline ralston well enough to realize that nothing could induce her to accept his suit. for jack would never accept her own happiness at the price of another's; and surely not when the other person was her dearest friend, for whom she had always felt a kind of protecting devotion. yet if olive did not love frank, and jack felt herself able to return his affection, it would be both cruel and unnecessary to refuse to listen to him. at last jean tumbled into her big, four-posted bed; but even then she could not go at once to sleep. what a delicate mission she had taken upon herself and how ever was she to perform it? for olive must never suspect any possible motive behind her questioning. chapter xxii olive's answer jean bruce's task did not prove any simpler than she had anticipated. for one thing, events at the castle left little time for leisure or for making individual plans of one's own. almost every hour there were visits from the neighbors of surrounding country estates, calls to be returned, riding parties, dinners and dances. for the kents seemed determined to give ruth and the ranch girls as agreeable an impression as possible of english country life. and the time was short, since ruth and jim were soon to be married. undoubtedly frank's family had taken a decided fancy to his american friends, but if one of the number was a greater favorite than the others, assuredly it was jim colter. at first jim had strenuously resented becoming a visitor at kent castle. the idea of having to hobnob with titles, as he put it, was extremely distasteful. he was sure that he would turn out to be an embarrassment to ruth and the girls, and that frank would be sorry for having invited him. nevertheless, when ruth, and therefore the four ranch girls, positively refused to leave without him, jim was compelled to give in. and now, when there was no opportunity for the overseer of the rainbow ranch to be with ruth, he and lord kent were inseparable. the two men were as unlike as any two extremes could be, and yet they were alike in that each man was absolutely himself. lord kent represented all that money, education and a high position can do; jim only what good sense, a strong heart and energy can accomplish. yet so far had jim colter learned to forgive lord and lady kent, that actually he had consented that his marriage to ruth take place from their home and that the ceremony be performed at the little english church nearby. he and ruth had both been unwilling to delay their wedding until their return home and had also objected to the strangeness of a wedding in london. so now everything had been delightfully arranged. they were to be married at high noon with the ranch girls as their attendants and only a few intimate friends of their host and hostess present. yet, in spite of their expressed wish to have "no fuss or feathers," according to jim's description, necessarily there were many reasons why jean found it peculiarly hard just then to have her quiet interview alone with olive. especially when the interview must appear as an entirely accidental one. nevertheless, jean did manage to keep one of her promises to her cousin. she did very often succeed in interfering with any situation which would apparently throw frank and jack together without the rest of the party. and many times in the face of this, frank would then seek out olive's companionship. so that in the days of her watchfulness jean herself became more and more puzzled and anxious. finally, however, came her desired opportunity. frank had begged as a particular favor that the house party ride or drive as they preferred to a famous old ruin in the neighborhood. and just as they were about to leave olive had suddenly pleaded a headache, entreating to be left behind. to jack's and ruth's requests to remain with her, olive had insisted that she would be far more apt to recover if she might stay alone. and as this was a perfectly sensible statement, both her friends agreed. jean, however, made no such offer, said nothing of her own intentions, but simply, when the party started, could not be found. nevertheless, she had left a proper explanation with one of the servants, so that no time was lost in searching for her. as olive had looked really ill, jean first went for a long walk, hoping to give her a chance to recover before having their talk. tip-toeing softly in at about four o'clock in the afternoon, she found her friend lying on the bed with a shawl thrown over her. and even in the semi-light of the great oak chamber jean could see that olive's face was white, and that there were circles about her eyes. "i would not have let you come in if i had known who you were. i thought you were one of the maids," olive protested querulously. and her manner was so unlike her usual gentle one that the other girl's heart sank. "i didn't know; i am sorry. i thought you were better or that i might do something for you," jean explained hurriedly, making up her mind not to approach the subject she had anticipated for anything in the world. then both girls were silent for a few moments. and finally jean tried to slip quietly out of the room. a voice from the bed called her back. "don't go, dear. i am sorry i was cross. i believe i am homesick today. i have been thinking a whole lot of miss winthrop and wanting to go back to my own country. dear me, i am glad ruth and jim are so soon to be married and we shall then be sailing for home!" jean smoothed olive's dark hair back from her lovely spanish face. "i am glad jack is not hearing you say this, olive child," she whispered. "think how jealous it would make poor jack feel to hear that you felt nearer miss winthrop than you do to her. i thought you used to love her best." "i did. i do," olive replied faintly. "but jean, haven't you or ruth guessed that we are not going to be able to keep jack at the old ranch always, much as she adores it. frank kent is deeply in love with jack. and i believe jack cares for him. of course i know you will think this strange after the other affair with captain madden. but that is just the reason why jack will be able to realize she is in love with frank. her feeling for him is so entirely different." jean was glad that her own face was in shadow. this was her opportunity. but what could she, what should she say? "why olive, i don't believe for a moment old jack cares a great deal about frank," jean protested, trying to make her manner appear as light as possible under the circumstances. "indeed, i am almost sure of it. it must be a fancy on your part, for i am almost sure jack thinks that frank cares for you." "then she is very foolish," olive returned. "but why foolish? it seems to me frank is always preferring to go off alone with you. and he always has been tremendously fond of you. once he told me that he thought you quite the prettiest of the four of us." the other girl laughed. and jean wondered if it was her imagination or if there was a sound in olive's laugh which she did not like. "frank has always cared for jack. it would have been absurd of me ever to have failed to see it. why, he began caring when we were almost children at the ranch. he has always been a good friend to me, but nothing else. and lately, if you have suspected anything because we have been alone together, it was only because poor frank wished to talk to me about jack. he does not believe that she cares for him in the least. he says that once when he began to try to tell her she stopped him immediately. frank is afraid jack may still have some feeling about the old affair. i have done my best to make him see things differently. and he has no right not to make jack listen to him, even if he believes she may refuse him. deep down in her heart jack has always cared for frank. don't you think so yourself, jean?" "i--oh, i don't know anything about it. i am so surprised!" jean stammered. "frank has asked me to talk to jack, to find out if she would be wounded by his telling her of his love so soon after captain madden. but somehow, jean," and here olive's voice faltered, "i don't believe i know how to do it very well. why, if i began poor jack might think that i had believed frank in love with me and was telling her this to prove to her i had no feeling for him. it would be like old jack to get some such absurd fancy as that into her head. and then, of course, we both know that jack would rather die than give poor frank the slightest chance." "but don't you care for frank?" it was on the tip of jean bruce's tongue to ask olive this question. yet just in time she stopped it. never so long as she or any one else lived could this question be put to olive van mater. by her own words and manner had she not chosen forever to silence it. and actually jean herself did not know what to think. it was so easy in this world to receive a false impression. "would you like me to tell jack then, olive dear?" jean queried, for her own sake keeping her eyes away from her friend's. "of course i should not dare say anything about frank's feelings. but i could kind of intimate what you have just told me." olive drew the cover a little closer about her. "you are awfully good, jean. yes, that will be best. now, please, you won't mind if i ask you to leave me. and will you make my excuses to lady kent at dinner? my head really aches too severely for me to come down." chapter xxiii the wedding day in england the roses bloom all the summer through. and nowhere are they more lovely and plentiful than in the county of surrey. so the little english church on the kent estate was filled one august morning with white, pink, red and yellow roses. ruth wore a simple white tulle dress and hat. for she did not wish a wedding veil, and jim announced that he did not intend having his ruth's face concealed at the time he most desired to see it. olive, jean and frieda were bridesmaids, and jack maid of honor. frank kent was best man, richard grant, giovanni colonna and another friend of frank's acted as ushers. donald harmon had returned to london, explaining that he felt compelled to join his mother and sister there. since the bride would have no unnecessary adornments, the ranch girls' toilets were of the same character--french organdies trimmed in irish point lace, and big picture hats. the three bridesmaids wore white, and jack, pale yellow. of course ruth carried a big loose bunch of white roses and the four girls yellow ones. indeed, all the wedding arrangements were perfect in their simplicity. there was only one possible flaw in the success of the program and that was the behavior of the bridegroom. for jim began by insisting in the early days of the preparations that he was more than likely to give a cowboy yell of triumph at the conclusion of the ceremony, and the day of the wedding rehearsal became so nervous and unreasonable that frieda decided he would never be able to go through with the real thing. jim did look white as a ghost as he came out into the chancel, supported by frank, to wait for ruth. the english vested choir was chanting, "oh, perfect love;" the atmosphere of the church was heavy with the odor of flowers; the light through the old stained glass windows shone dimly golden. there was a moment when jim colter had a strange and incongruous sensation. what a queer setting this for _his_ wedding! surely he would have felt more at home under a group of tall pines somewhere out in his western plains or under the roof of one of their homely neighborhood churches. [illustration: ruth started up the aisle on lord kent's arm.] nevertheless, when ruth started up the aisle toward him on lord kent's arm and jim caught the expression of her face, he did not know or care about anything else in the world. frieda always insisted that he never answered the responses, since not a single sound was she able to hear fall from his lips. there were other witnesses though, jack and frank for instance, who agreed that the bridegroom did mutter "i will" at the critical moment after being prompted by the bride. so that frieda was finally persuaded to believe that the ceremony was fairly legal. back at the castle ruth had entreated that they need have only the family to breakfast with them. mr. and mrs. colter were leaving in little more than an hour for london to take the train to harwich and cross on the night boat for holland, where they meant to spend their week of honeymoon. and ruth had also said that she wanted a few quiet moments alone with each one of the girls. the marriage was probably as satisfactory a one as had ever taken place, yet unquestionably the bride and the four ranch girls were uncommonly teary all during the wedding feast. indeed, frieda actually sniffled when she drew the thimble from the cake proclaiming that she would be the old maid of the group, and only recovered when olive insisted that some mistake had been made and exchanged the ring for the thimble. but jim had entirely regained his spirits, and he and frank devoted their best energies toward making the breakfast party as cheerful as possible. nevertheless, both jean and olive guessed that frank kent was not so gay as he pretended to be. for his brown eyes had a way of looking grave, even while he was actually laughing. and at least one of the two girls believed that he had a definite purpose in his mind, which must be accomplished before the day was past. by and by ruth slipped away to her room, asking that jack be alone with her for the first five minutes, and then that each one of the other girls follow in turn, according to age. because jim liked her best in the colors that he had been used to seeing her wear in the old times at the ranch, ruth's traveling costume was as puritanical a gray as in her most nun-like new england days. but the hat was a coquettish parisian creation with a pink rose under the brim. besides, ruth's expression had so changed in the last weeks that there was no chance of her ever again suggesting an old maid. she had only taken off her wedding gown, however, when jack, putting her arms about her, stooped to kiss her. "ruth, dearest," jack announced, holding the older woman at a little distance from her, "i want to tell you again that nothing that has ever happened to me in my whole life had made me so happy as your marriage to jim. i know i have always given both of you about twice as much trouble as the other three of us. yet i kind of feel it has been made up to you by having known each other through your coming to teach us at the lodge. but i am grown-up now, i think. and this last experience has taught me more than any of you can guess. if you and jim can make up your minds to live on at the old ranch i will try my best never to be a nuisance again, not if i live to be a hundred years old!" "do you expect to live always at rainbow lodge, jack?" ruth asked, smiling, but watching jack's face pretty closely. jack nodded. "i don't think i shall dare trust myself again." but ruth shook her gently. "that is what i wanted to speak to you about alone, dear. it was a foolish fancy of mine, wishing to say farewell to each one of you this way. you must remember how much happiness i have kept from jim and myself because of a mistaken idea. don't repeat it, my dear. if ever you feel you can care a great deal for any one and that your love is returned, don't get any silly fancies in your head. don't let your one mistake--" "but, ruth," jack interrupted, more seriously than the older woman had expected, "suppose your foolish fancy happened to be connected with some one else? suppose you could only be happy at another's expense! you see, you never had a rival in jim's affections." "and i never would have paid any attention to her if i had," ruth replied so emphatically that her companion laughed. "if a man loves a woman and she loves him, that is the end of it. the third person i am afraid is the one that must suffer. for can't you see that she must suffer any way if her affection is not returned!" there was no thought in ruth's mind at the present moment that jack's words had any special bearing on her own case. for although ruth and jim had suspected frank's feeling for jack, their imaginations had gone no further. indeed, they were both afraid that the girl had no more than a passing affection for her former friend. ruth now walked over toward her mirror to fasten a diamond brooch in her dress, which had been the ranch girls' engagement present. "i believe our time alone is almost up, and olive will be appearing in another moment. but jim and i have a gift for each one of you which we want you to keep always if you can in remembrance of our wedding day." and jack noticed that there were four jewel cases side by side on ruth's bureau, a white, a green, a blue and a scarlet one. ruth opened the white one first and clasped a string of pearls about jack's throat. then before the oldest of the ranch girls could thank her, she gave her a gentle push toward her bedroom door. "go now, jack, i hear olive outside. and promise not to let any one shed a single tear when jim and i drive away." olive flung her arms about the bride with more emotion than ruth had ever seen her show. "i wish i could say things like the other girls!" she exclaimed. "but oh, ruth, you do understand how grateful i am to you and mr. colter for all you have done for me? because, however kind the girls wanted to be, they could not have succeeded without your aid and jim's." "you are as dear as the other girls to me, olive, i know no difference between you," ruth answered, choking a little over olive's unusual display of feeling. and as she clasped an emerald chain about her neck she whispered, "i can hope in return that some day you may be as happy as i am." olive said nothing; only shook her dark head quietly, but before ruth could speak again, jean danced into the room. "jack stayed so long there won't be any good by turns for frieda and me," she pouted, "unless olive comes away at once. jim is already raging up and down the veranda like a bear, saying that he is sure you will miss the train." jean's gift was a necklace of sapphires set with tiny diamonds in between. and ruth had only a chance to kiss her favorite ranch girl (for jean was her favorite, though she would never have admitted it) and whisper: "if you don't leave giovanni alone while we are away, i will make jim lock you up alone in your stateroom for the entire voyage home." then frieda, with a slice of wedding cake in her hand, made her appearance. "i didn't have a chance to eat hardly any at the table," she defended immediately, answering jean's teasing glance. "jim says you must say what you have to say to me when you get back from your trip, ruth; you simply must come on down now right away." so ruth had only time to push the scarlet jewel case into the hand frieda did not have occupied with cake. and begging her to be a good baby and not eat too many of dick's chocolate drops in her absence, she hurried off to her impatient bridegroom. faithfully the four girls kept their promises and not a tear followed the departing carriage. however, when the last sounds of the wheels had rolled away they stared at one another as though the world had suddenly come to an end. "well," frieda remarked, as she held her pretty chain of rubies in her hand, "i must say i never supposed that ruth and jim would ever want to get married. they _knew_ each other so well. now take the rest of us. nobody would ever want to marry any one of us except a stranger. jack is too high-tempered and wants her own way too much, jean is a perfectly horrid tease, olive goes and stays by herself and cries when her feelings are hurt--" the day was saved! the three ranch girls burst into laughter instead of tears, in which frank and his sisters, who were standing near, joined. "and what about you, frieda ralston?" jack demanded, pulling at one of frieda's blond curls. "could anybody ever know you and love you? tell us, because a good many times we have felt the strain." frieda blushed slightly. "oh, i suppose i have some faults," she conceded. "but though i suppose ruth's wedding has made you forget it, i would like to mention that i have been cross fewer times than any one of us on our european trip. ruth showed me the record and i am to have the prize when she gets back." in the face of this evidence there was no chance for a dispute, so within a few minutes the girls disappeared to their rooms. they were tired, and each one of them wanted to be alone and to rest in her own particular way. to jacqueline resting meant being out of doors, now that she was strong again. so within an hour, after the bride and groom's departure, their maid of honor slipped down the big oak staircase, arrayed in a very different toilet. she wore a short brown corduroy skirt, leather boots and leggings, and a soft hat, much the same style of costume that she had been accustomed to wearing at the rainbow ranch. five minutes later she was off across the fields on the riding horse which her host had designated for her especial use during her visit. it was not a customary thing for an english girl to ride alone; nevertheless jack refused the services of the groom. she knew the english roads and lanes in the neighborhood thoroughly well by this time. all afternoon she rode, sometimes galloping across an open stretch of meadow, often walking her horse along a narrow, wild rose-bordered lane. the english country was fascinating to jack, perhaps because of its utter unlikeness to her own broad, open country. she had been amused at first by its smallness, its trimness and look of dignified old age. yet she had since learned to love the wonderful greenness of the english landscapes, the quantities of exquisite flowers and trees, such as she had never seen in her own land. certainly the scenery on this special afternoon must have been unusually fascinating, for suddenly jack realized that the darkness was coming down and that she was some distance from the castle. she must not allow lord and lady kent to become uneasy on account of her absence. her horse was comparatively fresh; she would enjoy a hard gallop home. so jack paid little attention for the first half mile or so to the sound of another horse's hoofs pounding after hers. finally, however, frank got within calling distance. "look here, jack," he said, "this style of riding after you reminds me of our first meeting on the norton ranch. remember how you rushed off without allowing me to show you the trail. i was pretty well out of breath when i caught up with you then, and i am now." jack laughed and slowed her horse down a trifle. "no such thing, frank; you look cool as a cucumber. you english people never seem to get upset and disheveled as americans do. but it is awfully jolly, frank, that you are perfectly strong these days. you used to look pretty sick sometimes when we first knew you." "wyoming gave me two great gifts, jack; it gave me back my health and it gave me my love for you." frank said this so quietly and so simply that jack felt she must have been mistaken. surely she had not understood him! he ought to have given her some warning, allowed her a few moments of preparation. she could never have imagined that a man could declare his love in such a matter-of-fact tone of voice. jack hardly knew what to do or say. surreptitiously she made a movement of her bridle so that her horse quickened his pace. but frank's hand reached out and caught hold of hers firmly. "you must not run away from me, jack," he protested. "for you would not like to have me ride after you shouting out my love for you for all the neighborhood to hear. and if you won't listen to me quietly, that is exactly what i will do. why is it you have been unwilling to listen, jack? if it is only that you don't love me in return, i understand that. but a girl like you has got to get used to refusing men." "oh, frank," jack protested, "please don't say such foolish things." nevertheless, she slowed down her horse, seeing that frank was determined that she should listen this time. "i have loved you always, jack, from the first day of meeting you. i have never cared for any one else. i think it only fair to let you know that i mean to make you love me in return some day." frank's tone was so quiet and so positive that jack smiled. she was not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion, but she was not at all sure she disliked it. "why don't you answer me?" frank asked a few moments afterwards. "by and by, when you have gone back to the ranch, i suppose you know i shall follow you. will you give me my answer then?" just for a moment jack's face turned the warm, radiant color jean had seen there once before. bending slightly from her horse she took frank's hand that was now hanging at his side and an instant held it close. "don't think, frank, i don't appreciate what you have told me, or that i am so cold and unfeeling, as you seem to think i am. it is only that i don't know, that there is something i may be mistaken about, that i can't trust to any one else's judgment except my own. but, frank dear, if you think i am worth coming across the water and the land to far off wyoming to see, why then, then i shall know what to say." frank kissed the hand that had held his the moment before. they were now riding up the avenue within a short distance of kent castle. "there is no land and no water that can divide us, jack," frank answered, "if ever there is a chance of my hearing you say you love me on the other side." the fifth and closing volume of the well-known ranch girls series will be known as "the ranch girls at home again." in this volume the love stories of the four girls will be finally concluded. it will also introduce old and new characters at the rainbow ranch. eclipse series of the lowest price alger books [illustration] this low-priced series of books comprises the most popular stories ever written by =horatio alger, jr.= as compared with other low-priced editions it will be found that the books in this series are better printed, on better paper, and better bound than similar books in any competing line. each volume is handsomely and durably bound in cloth with new style colored inlay, assorted designs, and stamped in three colors of ink. new and attractive colored jackets. mo. cloth. titles. adrift in the city andy grant's pluck ben's nugget bob burton bound to rise boy's fortune, a chester rand digging for gold do and dare facing the world frank and fearless frank hunter's peril frank's campaign helping himself herbert carter's legacy in a new world jack's ward jed, the poorhouse boy lester's luck luck and pluck luke walton only an irish boy paul prescott's charge paul, the peddler phil, the fiddler ragged dick rupert's ambition shifting for himself sink or swim strong and steady struggling upward tattered tom telegraph boy, the victor vane wait and hope walter sherwood's probation young bank messenger, the young circus rider young miner, the young salesman, the price per volume, . cents * * * * * the john c. winston co., _publishers_ winston building philadelphia every child's library books "that every child can read" for four reasons: because the subjects have all proved their lasting popularity. because of the simple language in which they are written. because they have been carefully edited, and anything that might prove objectionable for children's reading has been eliminated. because of their accuracy of statement. =this series of books= comprises subjects that appeal to all young people. besides the historical subjects that are necessary to the education of children, it also contains standard books written in language that children can read and understand. =carefully edited.= each work is carefully edited by rev. jesse lyman hurlbut, d.d., to make sure that the style is simple and suitable for young readers, and to eliminate anything which might be objectionable. dr. hurlbut's large and varied experience in the instruction of young people, and in the preparation of literature in language that is easily understood, makes this series of books a welcome addition to libraries, reading circles, schools and home. issued in uniform style of binding. =cloth, mo. illustrated. price, $ . = * * * * * list of titles dickens' stories about children. every child can read lives of our presidents. every child can read leather stocking tales. every child can read pilgrim's progress. every child can read stories about children of all nations. every child can read stories of great americans. every child can read stories of our naval heroes. every child can read story of jesus, the. every child can read story of our country, the. every child can read (others in preparation) =catalogue mailed on application= * * * * * the john c. winston co., _publishers_ winston building philadelphia new edition of alger's greatest set of books --the-- famous ragged dick series new type-set plates made in in response to a demand for a popular-priced edition of this series of books--the most famous set ever written by =horatio alger, jr.=--this edition has been prepared. each volume is set in large, new type, printed on an excellent quality of paper, and bound in uniform style, having an entirely new and appropriate cover design, with heavy gold stamp. as is well known, the books in this series are copyrighted, and consequently none of them will be found in any other publisher's list. ragged dick series. by horatio alger, jr. vols. ragged dick fame and fortune mark, the match boy rough and ready ben, the luggage boy rufus and rose each set is packed in a handsome box mo. cloth sold only in sets price per set, =$ . =. postpaid * * * * * recommended by rear admiral melville, who commanded three expeditions to the arctic regions --the-- new popular science series by prof. edwin j. houston =the north pole series.= by prof. edwin j, houston. this is an entirely new series, which opens a new field in juvenile literature. dr. houston has spent a lifetime in teaching boys the principles of physical and scientific phenomena and knows how to talk and write for them in a way that is most attractive. in the reading of these stories the most accurate scientific information will be absorbed. the search for the north pole the discovery of the north pole cast away at the north pole handsomely bound. the volumes, mo. in size, are bound in extra english cloth, and are attractively stamped in colors and full gold titles. sold separately or in sets, boxed. price $ . per volume. postpaid * * * * * the john c. winston co., _publishers_ winston building philadelphia harry castlemon's books for boys new popular edition [illustration] this series comprises thirty titles of the =best stories= ever written by =harry castlemon=. but few of these titles have ever been published in low-priced editions, many of them are copyright titles which will not be found in any other publisher's list. we now offer them in this =new low-priced edition=. the books are printed on an excellent quality of paper, and have an entirely new and handsome cover design, with new style colored inlay on front cover, and stamped in ink. mo. cloth. titles. =a sailor in spite of himself= =buried treasure= =carl, the trailer= =floating treasure, the= =frank, the young naturalist= =frank among the rancheros= =frank before vicksburg= =frank in the mountains= =frank in the woods= =frank on a gunboat= =frank on don carlos' rancho= =frank on the lower mississippi= =frank on the prairie= =haunted mine, the= =houseboat boys, the= =mail carrier= =marcy, the refugee= =missing pocketbook, the= =mystery of the lost river canyon, the= =oscar in africa= =rebellion in dixie= =rod and gun club= =rodney, the overseer= =rodney, the partisan= =steel horse= =ten-ton cutter, the= =tom newcomb= =two ways of becoming a hunter= =white beaver, the= =young game warden, the= =the volumes in this series comprise some of the best writings of this popular author= =price per volume, . cents= * * * * * the john c. winston co., _publishers_ winston building philadelphia rod and gun club series by harry castlemon price cents per volume don gordon's shooting box rod and gun club the young wild fowler deerfoot series by edward s. ellis price cents per volume hunters of the ozark camp in the mountains the last war trail new deerfoot series by edward s. ellis price cents per volume deerfoot in the forest deerfoot in the mountains deerfoot on the prairie boy pioneer series by edward s. ellis price cents per volume ned in the blockhouse ned on the river ned in the woods log cabin series by edward s. ellis price cents per volume lost trail camp fire and wigwam footprints in the forest ragged dick series by horatio alger price cents per volume ragged dick fame and fortune mark, the match boy rough and ready ben, the luggage boy rufus and rose * * * * * the john c. winston co., _publishers_ winston building philadelphia universally approved books for boys [illustration] a collection of books by well known authors that have been generally approved by competent critics and library committees as safe books for young people. =world famous books for boys= jack hazard series by j. t. trowbridge price $ . per volume jack hazard and his fortunes a chance for himself doing his best fast friends the young surveyor lawrence's adventures frank nelson series by harry castlemon price cents per volume snowed up frank in the forecastle the boy traders sportsman club series by harry castlemon price cents per volume the sportsman club in the saddle the sportsman club afloat the sportsman club among the trappers roughing it series by harry castlemon price cents per volume george in camp george at the fort george at the wheel [illustration] launch boys series launch boys' cruise in the deerfoot launch boys' adventures in northern waters arizona series off the reservation trailing geronimo the round up flying boys series the flying boys in the sky the flying boys to the re [illustration] catamount camp series captain of the camp catamount camp mo. cloth. illustrated. price per volume, cents * * * * * the john c. winston co., _publishers_ winston building philadelphia notable novels _and_ gift books of verse _by_ john trotwood moore jack ballington, forester the story concerns the fortunes of jack ballington, who, on account of his apparent lack of fighting qualities, seems to be in danger of losing his material heritage and the girl he loves, but in the stirring crisis he measures up to the traditions of his forefathers. "will captivate by its humor, set all the heart strings to vibrating by its pathos, flood one's being in the great surge of patriotism ... a story that vastly enriches american fiction."--_albany times-union._ = mo.= =cloth.= = pages= =price= $ . net. postage cents. the bishop of cottontown a story of the tennessee valley love, pathos and real humor run through the book in delightful measure. over all is shed the light of the "old bishop," endearing himself to every reader by his gentleness, his strength and his uncynical knowledge of the world which he finds so good to live in. editions have already been sold. = mo.= =cloth.= = pages= =price= $ . postpaid. uncle wash: his stories a book of stories centering about the character of "uncle wash," which even in the brief time since its publication has achieved a large and notable success among all classes of readers. many editions have already been sold. "one of the few great books."--_rochester union and advertiser._ "a mine of humor and pathos."--_omaha world-herald._ = mo.= =cloth.= = pages= =price= $ . postpaid a summer hymnal a romance of tennessee the story of edward ballington and his love affairs with two delightful girls in charming contrast, forms the plot of this captivating love story. on the threads of * * * * * transcriber's note: two different copies of this book were searched and both end in the middle of the final ad. obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "rock" changed to "rock" (historic rock) page , "along side" changed to "alongside" (anchoring alongside the) page , "chaperone" changed to "chaperon" to match rest of usage (turned to her chaperon) page , "to night" changed to "tonight" (theater party tonight) advertising page, harry castlemon's books, "the" changed to "the" (houseboat boys, the) google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=iukpaaaaqaaj (oxford university) novels by popular authors. * * * mistress nancy molesworth. by joseph hocking. judith boldero. by william j. dawson. the harvest of sin. by marie connor leighton. by roaring loom. by j. marshall mather. paul carah, cornishman. by charles lee. through battle to promotion. by walter wood. the story of phil enderby. by adeline sergeant. a rose-coloured thread. by jessie mansergh. the house by the lock. by mrs. c. n. williamson. wanderers. by sydney pickering. the 'paradise' coal boat. by cutcliffe hyne. the pride of the family. by ethel f. heddle. an idyll of the dawn. by mrs. fred reynolds. the birthright. by joseph hocking. 'and shall trelawney die?' by joseph hocking. dead selves. by julia magruder. just a girl. by charles garvice. the charmer. by shan f. bullock. a deserter from philistia. by e. p. train. frivolities. by richard marsh. tom ossington's ghost. by richard marsh. lady mary of the dark house. by mrs. williamson. the last lemurlan. by g. firth scott. folks from dixie. by paul lawrence dunbar. the rogues' paradise. by edwin pugh and c. gleig. at friendly point. by g. firth scott. * * * london: james bowden. by richard marsh. * * * frivolities: for those who are tired of being serious. _crown vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, s. nd edition_. "brimful of fun."--_daily telegraph_. "mr. marsh is a humorist who is genuinely funny."--_st. james's gazette_. "for pure amusement we have not of late met anything to equal 'frivolities.' the title is a little misleading, for the careless might imagine the book to contain nothing but trifles. in reality the stories are finished with the utmost skill. their humour is irresistible."--_the yorkshire post_. "you do not merely smile as you read, but laugh outright, and you laugh all the time. deliciously funny, and could not be better told."--_the scotsman_. tom ossington's ghost. _crown svo, cloth_, s. d. illustrated by harold piffard. "opens with a singularly dramatic and exciting situation, and the interest thus at once aroused is sustained steadily to the close."--_the sketch_. "mr. marsh has been inspired by an entirely original idea, and has worked it out with great ingenuity. we like this weird but not repulsive story better than anything he has ever done."--_the world_. * * * london: james bowden. the woman with one hand * * * * * mr. ely's engagement [illustration: "this time i succeeded in warding him off." (_page_ .)] the woman with one hand and mr. ely's engagement by richard marsh _author of "frivolities," "tom ossington's ghost," "in full cry_." _"the beetle: a mystery," etc_. _with frontispiece by stanley l. wood_ second edition london james bowden , henrietta street, covent garden, w.c. [_all rights reserved_.] the woman with one hand chapter i an "agony" it caught my eye at once. when a man is dining off his last half-crown he is apt to have his eyes wide open. having just disposed of a steak which, under the circumstances, did not seem to be so large as it might have been, i picked up a paper which, as he had laid it down, the diner in front appeared to have done with. as it was folded, the agony column stared me in the face. and among the "agonies" was this:-- "if james southam, at one time of dulborough, will apply to the undersigned, he will hear of something to his advantage.--messrs. cleaver and caxton, solicitors, thirteen, bacup street, london, s.e." now, i am james southam, at one time of dulborough, but, although i do answer to that description, a very clear something told me that if i did hear of anything to my advantage by applying to anybody, then the age of miracles was not yet done with. still, as, when a man has spent on a doubtful meal one-and-sevenpence out of his last half-crown, something to his advantage is exactly what he wants to hear of, i clipped that advertisement out of the paper under the waiter's nose, and put it in my waistcoat pocket. on referring to a directory in a convenient post-office, i found that bacup street was in the neighbourhood of the old kent road. that did not seem to be a promising address, and, so far as appearances went, it fulfilled its promise. it struck me that bacup street, speaking generally, looked more than a trifle out at elbows, and number thirteen seemed to be the shabbiest house which it contained. an untidy youth received me. after keeping me waiting for a quarter of an hour in what might have served as an apology for a cupboard, he ushered me into a room beyond. in this inner room there were two men. one was seated at a table, the other was standing with his hat at the back of his head in front of the empty fireplace. they looked at me, then they looked at each other; and, unless i am mistaken, they exchanged a glance of surprise. the man at the table addressed me, without evincing any desire to rise. "well, sir, and what can we do for you?" "that," i said, "is what i want to know." the man smiled, as if he was not quite sure that there was anything to smile at. i took the newspaper cutting out of my waistcoat pocket. "i have just seen this advertisement. i am james southam, at one time of dulborough, and if you are messrs. cleaver and caxton, i have come to you to hear of something to my advantage." for some moments my words remained unanswered. they both stared at me as if they were endeavouring by mere force of visual inspection to find out what sort of person i really was. then the man at the table spoke again. "of course you have evidence as to the truth of what you say?" "i have my card in my pocket; here are letters which have been addressed to me. if you will tell me what i am going to hear of to my advantage i will place you in the way of obtaining a sufficiency of any sort of evidence you may require." i placed a card on the table, and some old envelopes, having first of all taken out the letters. the two men forgathered. they examined my "documents." they spoke to each other in whispers. holding out one of the envelopes, the man who had already spoken pointed with a stubby and unclean first finger to the address which was on the front of it. "is this your present address?" "no; at present i have no address." "what do you mean?" "i have been presented with the key of the street." "do you mean that you are impecunious?" "i do." the individual with the hat on who had not yet spoken to me, spoke to me now, with a decidedly unpleasant grin. "stone-broke?" he said. i did not like to turn myself inside-out to strangers, especially to such strangers: but i had recently had to do a good many things which i had not liked. above all, i had begun to realise the truth of the adage which tells us that beggars must not be choosers. "i am as nearly stone-broke as a man can be who is in possession of a fair variety of pawn-tickets, the clothes he stands up in, and elevenpence in cash." there was some further whispering between the pair, then the individual with the hat on addressed me again. "if you will step outside, in a few minutes we will speak to you again." i stepped outside. they kept me outside longer than i altogether relished. i was on the point of, at all hazards, asserting my dignity, when the man with the hat on, opening the door of the inner office, invited me to enter. it was he, when i entered, who took up the conversation. "we are not, you must understand, at liberty to furnish you with particulars of the matter referred to in our advertisement without first of all communicating with our client." "who is your client?" "that, without having received permission, we cannot tell you either. can you not guess?" the fellow stared at me in a manner which i instinctively resented. his glance conveyed a meaning which seemed to be the reverse of flattering. "i certainly cannot guess, nor have i the least intention of trying. i have the pleasure of wishing you good-day." i turned to go; the fellow stopped me. "one moment! where are you off to?" i turned to him again. this time he was eyeing me with what i felt was an insolent grin. "for a man in the position in which you say you are you don't seem over anxious to hear of something to your advantage." "nor do you seem over anxious to tell it me." "we are solicitors, man, not principals. it is our business to act on the instructions we have received. listen to me." i listened. "we have reason to believe that our client would desire to be acquainted with your address, so that he may be able to place himself in immediate communication with you, should you turn out to be the james southam he is in search of. as you don't appear, at present, to have an address of your own, we are willing to provide you with one." "explain yourself." "we will take you to an hotel, and we will guarantee your reasonable expenses there until you hear from us again. should you not turn out to be the required james southam, we will pay your bill, withdraw our guarantee, and there will be an end of the matter, so far as we are concerned. you will have received some advantage, at any rate." i accepted the proposition. when the sum of elevenpence stands between a man and starvation he is apt not to be over particular in picking holes in proffered offers of board and lodging. the untidy youth fetched a cab. the individual with the hat on accompanied me in it, there and then, to one of those innumerable private hotels which are found in the side streets off the strand. he went inside, while i waited for him in the cab. when he reappeared he fetched me in, introduced me to a tall, thin woman, whom he called mrs. barnes, drew me aside, told me that he had made all arrangements, that i should hear from him again, and that, in the meantime, i should find myself all right. then he went, leaving me in that private hotel, for all i knew to the contrary, a pensioner on his bounty. chapter ii the waiter--and the hand when i had dined--they gave me for nothing a better dinner than the one i had had in the middle of the day for one-and-sevenpence--the feeling that, to say the least of it, i was in an equivocal position, began to chasten. instead, i began to feel, as the schoolboys have it, that i was in for a lark. that i really was going to hear, either through messrs. cleaver and caxton, or through anybody else, of something to my advantage, i never for a moment believed. i was an orphan. i had what i take it are the best of reasons for knowing i have not a single living relative. i have no friends: i never had. i was, at my mother's death, employed in an office from which i was shortly after ignominiously ejected, owing to a difference of opinion i was so unfortunate as to have with the senior clerk. i had spent my substance, such as it was, and twelve months, in seeking for other occupation. my story was a prosaic and a sordid one. that i could hear of something to my advantage, from any source whatever, was an idea i utterly scouted. i dined alone. the waiter informed me that, for the moment, i was the only visitor in the house. no doubt, under those circumstances, i was welcome. this waiter was a man with iron-grey hair and a pair of curiously big, black eyes; i noticed them as he flitted about the room, but i had much better reason to notice them a little later on. as i rose from the table i gave outspoken utterance to words which were a sort of tag to the sequence of my thoughts-- "well, james southam," i exclaimed, "you're in for it at last." this i said out loud, foolishly, no doubt. the waiter was moving towards the door. he had some plates in his hand; as i spoke, he dropped these plates. they smashed to pieces on the floor. he turned to me as if he turned on a pivot. the fashion of his countenance changed; he glared at me as if i or he had suddenly gone mad. the pupils of his eyes dilated--it was then i realised what curious eyes they were. "who the devil are you?" he cried. "how do you know my name's james southam?" i do not know how it was, but a splash of inspiration seemed all at once to come to me--i do not know from where. "you are james southam," i said; "at one time of dulborough." i could plainly see that the man was trembling, either with fear or with rage, and it struck me that it was with a mixture of both. "what has that to do with you?" he gasped. "it has this to do with me--that i want you." an empty beer-bottle was on the table. with the rapidity of some frantic wild animal, rushing forward he caught this bottle by the neck, and, before i had realised his intention, he struck me with it on the head. he was a smaller man than i, but, when next i began to take an interest in the things of this world, i was lying on the floor, and the room was empty. my namesake, all the evidence went to show, had felled me like a log, and, without any sort of ceremony, had left me where i fell. i sat up on the floor, i put my hand to my head. it ached so badly that i could scarcely see out of my eyes. with some difficulty i sprang to my feet. on attaining a more or less upright position i became conscious that the trepidation of my legs inclined me in another direction. "if this," i told myself, "is hearing of something to my advantage, i've heard enough." as i endeavoured to obtain support by leaning against the mantelpiece the room door opened, and the tall, thin woman, whom i had been told was mrs. barnes, came in. "i beg your pardon," she began. she looked round the room, then she looked at me. so far as i could judge in the then state of my faculties, she appeared surprised. "i thought the waiter was here." "he was here." "how long has he been gone?" "some minutes." "it is very odd! i have been looking for him everywhere. i thought that he was still upstairs with you." she glanced at the ruined crockery. "what has happened?--who has broken the plates?" "the waiter--he dropped them. he also dropped the bottle." i did not explain that he had dropped the latter on my head, and almost broken it into as many pieces as the plates. "it is very careless of him. i must see where he is." i fancied, from the expression of her face, that she perceived that there was more in the matter than met the eye. but, if so, she did not give audible expression to her perceptions. she left the room, and, when she had gone, i also left the room, and went to bed. i realised that the complications, and, if i may be permitted to say so, the ramifications of the situation, were for the moment beyond my grasp. in the morning i might be able to look the position fairly in the face, but, just then--no! i hastened to put myself between the sheets. scarcely was i between them than i fell asleep. i was awakened, as it seemed to me, just after i had fallen asleep, by some one knocking at the bedroom door. the knocking must have startled me out of a dreamless slumber, because it was a moment or two before i could remember where i was. then i understood that some one was endeavouring to attract my attention from without. "who's there?" i said. "it is i, mrs. barnes, the landlady. i wish to speak to you." "what, now? what time is it? won't the morning do? "no, i must speak to you at once." it seemed that, in my hurry to get into bed, i had forgotten to put the gas out. slipping into some garments i opened the door. there stood mrs. barnes, with a lighted candle in her hand. for some cause or other she was in a state of unmistakable uneasiness. she looked white and haggard. "i cannot find the waiter," she said. "you cannot find the waiter!" i stared. "i am sorry to hear it, if you want to find him. but may i ask what that has to do with me?" "i believe it has a good deal to do with you. what took place between you in the coffee-room?" "really, i am not aware that anything took place between us in the coffee-room that was of interest to you." she came a step forward. raising the lighted candle, she almost thrust it in my face. she stared at me with strained and eager eyes. she seemed to see something in my face: though what there was to see, except bewilderment, was more than i could guess. "i don't believe you. you are deceiving me. did you quarrel with him? who are you? tell me! i have a right to know--i am his wife!" "his wife!" complications seemed to be increasing. "i thought your name was barnes." "so is his name barnes. what has happened? what do you know about him? tell me." "what do i know about him? i know nothing. so far as i am aware, i never saw the man in my life before." "i don't believe you--you are lying! where has he gone, and why? you shall tell me--i'll make you!" she forced her way into the room; in doing so she forced me back. when she was in, she shut the door and stood with her back to it. her voice had risen to a scream. her manner almost threatened personal violence. i felt that the hotel to which i had been introduced was conducted on lines with which i had not been hitherto familiar. "if, as you say, and as i have no reason to doubt, this person is your husband, and he has really disappeared, i can understand that your excitement is not unjustified; but you are mistaken if you suppose that i am in any way to blame. i will tell you exactly what happened between us." i turned aside so that i might have some sort of chance of making up my mind as to how much, on the spur of the moment, it might be advisable to tell her. "your husband waited on me at dinner. during dinner we scarcely exchanged half a dozen words. after dinner i said something which, although it was spoken out loud, was said to myself, but which affected him in the most extraordinary and unexpected manner." "what did you say?" "i said 'i want you.'" "you said, 'i want you'?" the woman gave a sort of nervous clutch at the door behind her. "are you a policeman?" "i am nothing of the kind. you ought to know better than i what your husband has on his conscience. i can only suppose that, for some cause, he stands in terror of the officers of the law; because, no sooner had i innocently uttered what, i believe, is a regular policeman's formula, than, without a word of warning, he caught up the empty bottle which was on the table, like a madman, and knocked me down with it." "knocked you down with it!" the woman's face was as white as her own sheets. i saw that she needed the support of the door to aid her stand. "you said nothing to me when i came in." "i was so astounded by the man's behaviour, and so stunned by his violence, that i was not in a fit state for saying anything. i intended to wait till the morning, and then have it out both with you and with him." "you are telling me the truth?" "i am." so i was, though i might not have been telling all of it. i appeared to have told enough of it for her, because immediately afterwards she departed--unless i err, not much easier in her mind because of the visit she had paid to me. in the morning, as might have been expected, i woke with a headache. i did not feel in the best of health, either physical or mental, when i went down to breakfast. that meal was served by a maidservant. bringing in a letter on a waiter, she asked if it was for me. as it was addressed to me by name--"mr. james southam "--i not only claimed, i opened it. it contained a letter and some enclosures. here is the letter, word for word:-- "dear sir,--i have just had a telegram from messrs. cleaver and caxton, acquainting me with your address. it gives me great pleasure to write to you. i am just now detained by business, but i hope to call on you at the very earliest opportunity, at latest in the course of a day or two. i assure you that it will be greatly to your advantage. as some slight guarantee of this i beg your acceptance of the enclosed. you need have no fear. you will find in me, in all respects, a friend. "i will let you know, by telegram, when i am coming. until then, "believe me, your sincere well-wisher, "duncan rothwell." the "enclosed" took the shape of four five-pound bank-notes. who "duncan rothwell" was i had not the faintest notion. to me the name was wholly unfamiliar. the letter was neither addressed nor dated. the post-mark on the envelope was manchester. messrs. cleaver and caxton must have telegraphed so soon as i had left them, and clearly mr. rothwell had written immediately on receipt of their wire. the letter was fairly worded, but something about the writing, and indeed about the whole get up of the thing, suggested that it had not been written by a highly educated man--a gentleman. in any case it seemed sufficiently clear that it was not intended for me, until, fingering the thing, and turning it over and over, i chanced to open the sheet of paper on which it was written. it was a large sheet of business letter-paper. the communication was all contained on the front page, and as there was still plenty of room to spare, it did not occur to me that there could be additions, say, for instance, in the shape of a postscript. it was by the purest chance that my fidgety fingers pulled the sheet wide open. so soon as they had done so i perceived that i was wrong. in the middle of the third page was this:-- "p.s.--it was with great regret that i heard of your mother's lamented death at putney. i had the melancholy satisfaction of visiting her grave in wandsworth cemetery. this will facilitate matters greatly." then the letter was intended for me after all. my mother had died at putney--she had been buried in wandsworth cemetery. there might, although i had not been aware of it, have been two james southams in dulborough; the coincidence was credible. but it was scarcely credible that the other james southam's mother could also have died at putney, and have been buried in wandsworth cemetery. why, or in what sense, my mother's death might facilitate matters, was more than i could say. but, in the face of that postscript, there still seemed sufficient doubt as to which james southam was about to hear of something to his advantage, to justify me in remaining where i was, and allowing events to take their course. as i was standing at the window, meditating whether or not i should go for a stroll, the maidservant appeared with a message. "mrs. barnes's compliments, and if you are at liberty, could she speak to you in the private parlour?" i was not anxious to see mrs. barnes. i had a suspicion that if i was not careful i might become more involved than was desirable in her private affairs. still, if i remained in her house i could scarcely avoid speaking to her. my impulse was to go to messrs. cleaver and caxton, and ask them to shift my quarters. but they might decline, and--well, i shrugged my shoulders, and went and spoke to her. the private parlour proved to be a small room, and a stuffy one. mrs. barnes received me on the threshold. she opened the door to permit me to enter, and having followed me in she shut it behind us. "he has not returned," she said. "you mean----?" "i mean my husband." "frankly, i think it is almost as well that he should not have returned--at least, while i remain an inmate of your house. you can scarcely expect me to pass over his extraordinary behaviour in silence." she stood staring at me in that strained, eager manner which i had noticed overnight. her hands were clasped in front of her, her fingers were twisting and untwisting themselves in what seemed pure nervousness. "i have been married to mr. barnes twelve months." as she paused, i nodded--i did not know what else to do. "i have regretted it ever since. there is a mystery about him." "i am bound to admit that there is a good deal about him which is mysterious to me; but whether it is equally mysterious to you is another question." "he is a mystery to me--he always has been." she paused again. she drew in her lips as if to moisten them. "you are a stranger to me, but i want a confidant. i must speak to some one." "i beg that you will not make a confidant of me--i do assure you----" as she interrupted me, her voice rose almost to a scream. "i must speak to you--i will! i can endure no longer. sit down and let me speak to you." perceiving that, unless i made a scene, i should have to let her at least say something, i did as she requested and sat down. i wished that she would sit down also, instead of standing in front of the door, twisting her hands and her body, and pulling faces--for only so can i describe what seemed to be the nervous spasms which were continually causing her to distort her attenuated countenance. "i never wished to marry him," she began. "he made me." "i suppose you mean that he made you in the sense in which all ladies, when their time comes, are made to marry." "no, i don't. i never wanted to marry him--never. he was almost as great a stranger to me as you are. why should i marry a perfect stranger, without a penny to his name--me, who had been a single woman, and content to be a single woman, for nearly forty years?"--i could not tell her; i am sure i had no notion.--"this house belongs to me; it was my mother's house before me. he came in one day and asked me if i wanted a waiter--came in with hardly a shoe to his foot. it was like his impudence! i did not want a waiter, and i told him so; but he mesmerised me, and made me have him!" "mesmerised you, mrs. barnes! you are joking!" "i'm not joking." to do her justice any one who looked less like joking i never saw. "i've always been a nervous sort of a body. directly he saw me he could do anything he liked with me. he was always mesmerising me. in less than a month he had mesmerised me into marrying him. as soon as we were married i began to think that he was mad!"--in that case, i told myself, that most promising couple must have been something very like a pair!--"he was always asking me if i would like to sell myself to the devil. he used to say that he would arrange it for me if i wanted. then he used to dream out loud--such dreams! night after night i've lain and listened to him, frightened half out of my wits. then he took to walking in his sleep. the only thing he brought into the place was a little wooden box, tied up in a pocket-handkerchief. i never could make out what was in this box. once when i asked him i thought he would have killed me. one night, in the middle of a dream, he got out of bed and went downstairs. although i was so frightened that my knees were knocking together, i went after him. he came in here. this box of his was in that bureau--it's in that bureau now." she pointed to a tall, old-fashioned bureau which was just behind my chair. "he kept muttering to himself all the time; i could not catch all that he said, he spoke so low, but he repeated over and over again something about the devil. he took this box of his out of the bureau. he did something to it with his hands. what he did i don't know. i suppose there was a secret spring about it, or something. but though i've tried to make it out over and over again since then, i've never been able to find the secret of it to this day. when he handled it the top flew open. he put the box down upon that table; and i stood watching him in the open doorway--just about where i am standing now--without his having the least notion i was there. i believe that, if he had known, he would have killed me." "do you mean to say, while he was doing all you have described, that he was asleep?" "fast asleep." "you are quite sure, mrs. barnes, that you also were not fast asleep?" "not me; i almost wish i had been. i've never had a good night's sleep from that hour to this. i've grown that thin, for want of it, that i'm nothing but a skeleton. as i was saying, when he had opened it he put the box down on the table. he gave a laugh which made my blood run cold."--she struck me as being the sort of woman whose blood on very slight provocation would run cold.--"then he took something out of the box. when i saw what it was i thought i should have fainted." a nervous paroxysm seemed to pass all over her; her voice dropped to a whisper: "it was a woman's finger!" "a woman's finger, mrs. barnes?" "it was a woman's finger. there was a wedding-ring on it: it was too small for the finger, so that the ring seemed to have eaten into the flesh. he stood staring at this wedding-ring." "what! staring! and he was fast asleep!" "i don't know much about sleep-walkers; he was the first i ever saw, and i hope he'll be the last. but i do know that when he was sleep-walking his eyes were wide open, and he used to stare at things which, i suppose, he wanted to see, in a way which was horrible to look at. it was like that he stared at this wedding-ring. then he said, right out loud: 'i'll cut you off one of these fine days, and see how you look upon my finger.' then he put the finger down on the table, and out of the box he took three other fingers and a thumb." "you are quite sure they were real, genuine, human fingers, mrs. barnes?" "i know fingers when i see them, i suppose. you hear me out. he placed them on the table, nails uppermost, close together, just as the fingers are upon your own hand. he spoke to them. 'you'll never play any more of your devil's tricks with me that's a certainty!' he said. and he leered and grinned and chuckled more like a demon than a man. then he took something out of the box, wrapped in a piece of calico. i saw that on the calico there were stains of blood. out of it he took the palm of a woman's hand. raising it to his lips, he kissed it, looking like the perfect devil that he was. he put it down palm downwards on the table, and he did something to the fingers. then"--mrs. barnes gave utterance to a gasping sound, which it did not do one good to hear--"he picked it up, and i saw that by some devil's trickery he had joined the separate parts together, and made it look as if it were a perfect hand." she stopped. i do not mind owning that if i had had my way, she would have stopped for good. unfortunately i did not see my way to compel her to leave her tale unfinished. "i suppose that at that dreadful sight i must have fainted, because the next thing i can remember is finding myself lying on the floor and the room all dark. for some time i dared scarcely breathe, far less move; i did not know where my husband might be. how i summoned up courage to enable me to creep upstairs, to this hour i do not know. when i did i found my husband fast asleep in bed." "you really must excuse my asking, mrs. barnes, but do you happen to recollect what you ate for supper that night, and are you in the habit of suffering from nightmare?" "nightmare! that was the first time i watched him. i have watched him over and over again since then. i soon found out that regularly every friday night he walked in his sleep, and went downstairs, and gloated over that dreadful hand." "you say that he did this every friday. are you suggesting that with him friday was some sort of anniversary?" "i don't know. what was i to think? what was any one to think? don't laugh at me--don't! you think i am a fool, or lying. you shall see the hand for yourself, and tell me what you make of it. i will show it you, if i have to break his box open with a hammer." in a state of considerable and evident excitement, she crossed the room. i rose to enable her to approach the bureau. she took a small canvas bag out of the pocket of her dress. out of this bag she took some keys. "he has my keys. he made me give him them. he never knew that i had duplicates. but i always have had. he seldom went outside the front door; i think he was afraid of being seen in the streets. whenever he did go i used to lock myself in here, and try to find the spring which opened the box. i had an idea that there might be something in it which i had not seen. i will open it now, if i have to smash it into splinters." she let down the flap of the bureau. within there were nests of drawers, and one small centre cupboard. this cupboard she unlocked. when she had done so, she gave a stifled exclamation. "it has gone!" she said. i stooped beside her. "what has gone?" she turned to me a face which was ghastly in its revelation of abject terror. her voice had suddenly degenerated into a sort of panting hiss. "the box! it was here last night. after he had gone i unlocked the bureau, and i looked, and saw it was there." she caught me by the arm, she gripped me with a strength of which, in her normal condition, i should imagine her incapable. "he must have come back like a thief in the night and taken it. he may be hidden somewhere in the house this moment. oh, my god!" chapter iii the man in the doorway i called at messrs. cleaver and caxton's to ask what i should do with the four five-pound notes which had arrived in the letter. the individual who had taken me to the hotel was the only person in the office. it seemed, from his own statement, that he was mr. cleaver, the senior partner. when he learned why i had come, he laughed. "do with them? why, spend them, or throw them into the river, or give them to me." i hesitated. the truth is, the situation threatened to become too complicated. i had an uneasy consciousness that the something which james southam was to hear of might be something to his exceeding disadvantage. i had heard enough of that sort of thing of late. i did not wish to stand in somebody else's shoes for the sake of hearing more. i resolved to have some sort of understanding with mr. cleaver. "who is duncan rothwell? is he the client for whom you are acting?" mr. cleaver was occupying himself in tearing a piece of paper into tiny shreds with his fingers. he replied to my question with another. "why do you ask?" "because the signature attached to the letter which brought the bank-notes is duncan rothwell; and, as to my knowledge, i know no duncan rothwell, i should like to know who duncan rothwell is." "do you mind my looking at the letter?" i did not mind. i let him look at it. he read it through. "if you will take a hint from me, mr. southam, i think i should advise you to restrain your not unnatural curiosity, and wait for things to take their course." "but, unless i am careful, i may find myself in a false position. i may not be the required james southam. in fact, i don't mind telling you that i don't believe i am. i am acquainted with no duncan rothwell. his whole letter is double dutch to me. there may be dozens of james southams about." "recent inhabitants of dulborough? i thought dulborough was a mere hamlet." "so it is." "how long did you live there?" "i was born and bred in the place." "have you any relatives of your own name?" "i have not a relative in the world." "if, as you say, you were born and bred in such a place as dulborough, i presume that you had some knowledge of the inhabitants?' "i believe i knew something of every creature in all the country side." "and did you know anything of another james southam?" "that is the queer part of it. so far as i know, i was the only southam thereabouts." mr. cleaver laughed. "according to your own statement, it appears that, to put it mildly, there is at least a possibility of your being the james southam we have been instructed to find. frankly, mr. southam, we know very little more about the matter than you do yourself. we have simply been instructed to discover the present address of james southam, at one time of dulborough, and we have done so." "is that the case?" from their manner the day before i had suspected that messrs. cleaver and caxton might be merely, as it were, lay figures, and that it was somebody else who held the strings. "there is something else i should like to mention: i wish to change my hotel." mr. cleaver stared. "change your hotel? why? isn't it good enough?" "it is not that exactly. it is the domestic arrangements which are not to my taste." "the domestic arrangements? what do you mean?" i did not know how to explain; or rather, i did not know how much to explain. "what do you know of mrs. barnes's husband?" "really, mr. southam, your bump of curiosity appears to be fully developed. what has mrs. barnes's husband to do with you--or with me? if you don't like your present quarters you are at perfect liberty to change them;--only in that case you must become responsible for your own expenditure." i turned to go. "one moment. if you intend to change your quarters, perhaps, under the circumstances, you will be so good as to let us know where you propose to go." "i will let you know if i do go. at any rate, until to-morrow i intend to remain where i am." whether it would have been better for me, considering the tragedy which followed, never to have returned to mrs. barnes's house at all, is more than i can say. that particular tragedy might not have happened, but, looking at the matter from a purely personal and selfish point of view, whether that would have been better for me, or worse, is another question altogether. that night i went to a music-hall, changing one of mr. rothwell's notes to enable me to do so. afterwards i supped at a restaurant in the strand. then i returned to the hotel to bed. i was more than half afraid of being waylaid by mrs. barnes. but, to my relief, it was the maidservant who let me in. i saw and heard nothing of the landlady. i spent the night in peace. a telegram was brought me the next morning after breakfast. it was short and to the point-- "shall be with you at twelve-thirty.--duncan rothwell." as i perceived that it had been despatched from derby station, i concluded that mr. rothwell had telegraphed while in the very act of journeying to town. half-past twelve arrived, and no one, and nothing came for me. about a quarter to one i went into the hall with some vague idea of seeing if some likely looking person might be coming down the street. the hall was really nothing but a narrow passage. the front door was open. with his feet just inside the open doorway was a man lying face downwards on the floor. my first impulse was to beat a retreat, because i at once jumped to the conclusion that mr. barnes, or mr. james southam, or whatever the landlady's mysterious husband's name might be, had returned to the bosom of his family, not only unpleasantly inclined, but drunk. a brief inspection from the other end of the passage, however, made it sufficiently clear that, whoever the recumbent individual was, it was not the gentleman who had first waited on and then assaulted me. i could see that he was, in every way, a larger man. his silk hat had fallen sufficiently off his head to enable one to perceive that he was bald. as i stood and watched him, i began to be conscious of a curiously unpleasant feeling. he lay so still; and in such an uncomfortable posture. he was a big, fat man; it struck me that he must weigh some seventeen or eighteen stone. he had fallen flat upon his stomach; his face was so close to the floor that he must have found it difficult to breathe. his right arm was bent under him, in a way which disagreeably suggested a broken limb. the man must surely be something more than drunk. he must, i told myself, have fallen in a fit. with an indefinable feeling of repugnance, i advanced to give him aid. i bent over him. i laid my hand upon his shoulder; i withdrew it with a start. the man's coat was wet. i glanced at my own palm; it was covered with some red pigment. thoroughly aroused i sprang to my feet. "help! mrs. barnes!" i cried. mrs. barnes and the maidservant came running up together. "mrs. barnes," i said, still staring at the patch of red upon my hand, "i believe there has been murder done." "murder! oh, my god! do you think he did it?" i looked at her. i knew what she meant, but i did not answer her, "you had better send for the police, and for a medical man." it was the servant who retained sufficient presence of mind to catch at my suggestion. "doctor granger lives across the road. i'll fetch him!" she did fetch him. luckily the doctor was at home. so soon as he learned what urgent need there was for his services, he came hurrying to render them. presently a policeman came upon the scene. he was followed by others. they kept the street clear, for some distance from the hotel, of the crowd which began rapidly to gather. the whole house, as it were, was taken in charge. chapter iv the alias "this man was alive within the last few minutes." that was the doctor's verdict. "he is still quite warm." the doctor looked at me. "what do you know about the matter?" "nothing. i was expecting a visitor. as he was late, i came down from the coffee-room, and went into the hall with the intention of seeing if he was coming. as i was coming down the stairs i saw this man lying on the floor." the body had been moved into the little front room on the ground floor, which, i afterwards learned, was used as a private sitting-room for such visitors to the house as chose to pay for one. there were present in the room, besides myself, the doctor, a young man with a shrewd but kindly face, an inspector of police, a sergeant, who kept the door, while mrs. barnes and the maid kept each other close company in the corner by the fireplace. when i had answered the doctor, the inspector questioned me upon his own account. "what is that upon your hand?" i held out the hand to which he referred. "blood! this unfortunate man's blood! when i saw him lying on the floor my impression was that he was either drunk or in a fit. i laid my hand upon his shoulder with a view of rousing him. directly i did so i found that his coat was wet. when i withdrew my hand i saw that it was covered with blood. it was then i realised that there had been foul play." the dead man had been laid on the table. it was not large enough to hold the whole of him, so that his feet hung over the edge. he was a big man all over--in particular, he had one of the biggest heads i ever saw. there was not a hair on the top. but on his large, fat cheeks were what used to be called mutton-chop whiskers, which were in colour a dirty red. he was dressed from top to toe in glossy black broadcloth. he wore black kid gloves upon his hands. in the centre of his wide expanse of shirtfront was, so far as i was a judge of such things, a large diamond stud. a heavy gold chain spanned his waistcoat. "is this the person you were expecting?" inquired the inspector. "that is more than i can tell you. the person i was expecting was to me personally a stranger." "what was his name?" "duncan rothwell. i received a telegram from him this morning to say that he would be here by half-past twelve. here is the telegram." i handed it to the inspector. "half-past twelve. and when do you say that you discovered this man on the floor?" "about a quarter to one. when i gave the alarm the landlady of the hotel and the servant came running to me immediately. they will be able to tell you what time it was; and i should say that the doctor was here within five minutes." the inspector turned to the doctor. "and what was the time, sir, when you arrived?" "i should say as nearly as possible about ten minutes to one. i lunch at one; i was just going to wash when i was called." "and how long do you say, sir, he had then been dead?" "he had probably been alive five minutes before." "then, in that case, he must have been alive when this man says he entered the hall." the inspector pointed to me. "i do not say that. the man was stabbed in the back, under the left shoulder, probably just as he was in the act of entering the house. i have only made a superficial examination, but i think it probable that the blow killed him in an instant--before, that is, he could breathe the breath which he was breathing, as it were, right out. and i do say this, that if this gentleman had entered the hall a minute before he actually did, he would have seen the man in the very act of being murdered." the inspector turned again to me. "where did this mr. duncan rothwell live?" "that also is more than i can tell you. the fact is, i know nothing whatever about him. a firm of solicitors placed him in communication with me." "what was he coming to see you about?" "with reference to this advertisement." i gave the inspector the advertisement which had placed me in the position which, so far, did not promise to be much to my advantage. "what is your name?" "james southam." "are you the james southam here alluded to?" "that, again, is more than i can tell you. i saw that advertisement the day before yesterday. i at once communicated with messrs. cleaver and caxton. yesterday i received this letter, and this morning the telegram which you already have." the inspector carefully read the letter which had come to me signed "duncan rothwell." then, without asking with your leave or by your leave, he placed the letter, the advertisement, and the telegram in his pocket-book, and the pocket-book in his pocket. the action struck me as extremely, and indeed unpleasantly, significant. an examination of the dead man's pockets disclosed the somewhat curious fact that they contained nothing but a massive gold watch, without a maker's name; a sheaf of bank-notes, which, unenclosed in any cover, was simply thrust in the breast-pocket of his coat, and consisted of no less than one hundred ten-pound notes; some gold and silver coins--four pounds, thirteen shillings, if i remember rightly--in a plain leather purse; and, in an apparently forgotten corner of his right-hand waistcoat pocket, was a torn scrap of a visiting card. on it was the name, "raymond." but the card was torn in such a manner that, whether this was a surname or a christian name, there was, as the police would themselves have said, no evidence to show. but beyond these articles there was absolutely nothing which would serve or could be used as a means of identification. it almost seemed as if the dead man had taken care that there should be nothing about him by means of which he could be identified. as soon as the inspector seemed disposed to allow me to quit his presence i went straight away to messrs. cleaver and caxton. again i found the senior partner alone. my appearance seemed to surprise him; possibly in my bearing there was something which was a trifle suggestive of the condition of my mind. "well, has mr. rothwell been?" i shut the door behind me, looking him full in the face. "you appear to have let me in for a nice little thing, mr. cleaver." "what do you mean?" "it is what you mean i intend to understand before i leave this room. you will be so good as to answer me one or two questions, mr. cleaver. first, is mr. duncan rothwell the name of the client for whom you have been acting?" he leaned back in his chair, regarding me with rather a curious smile. "you have a singular method of address, mr. southam. before i answer this question perhaps you will answer mine. has mr. rothwell been to see you?" "what does he look like?" "look like!" again the curious smile. "you continue to answer question with question. tell me, sir, has any one calling himself duncan rothwell been to see you? we will discuss the question of what he looked like afterwards." i paused before i spoke again, then keenly noted the effect of my words. "for all i know, mr. duncan rothwell lies murdered at mrs. barnes's hotel." mr. cleaver sprang to his feet. "murdered!" "precisely! some one lies there murdered. if you will tell me what he looks like i will tell you if it is mr. duncan rothwell." not unnaturally, mr. cleaver appeared bewildered. "explain yourself a little more clearly, mr. southam; and, to begin with, will you be so good as to answer yes or no to my question. has any one calling himself duncan rothwell been to see you?" i told him what had happened--so far as i understood it. his amazement unmistakably was genuine. "you say that the dead man had nothing on him by means of which he could be recognised. then, in that case, we can do nothing to assist in his identification; we ourselves have never seen mr. duncan rothwell in our lives. all our communications with him have been by letter." he acknowledged one thing: that the person for whom they had been acting was mr. duncan rothwell. but, beyond that one fact, i learned nothing at all. he protested that mr. duncan rothwell had instructed them, by letter, to advertise for a james southam, of dulborough, and that that was all they knew of the matter. he even suggested that, since i was james southam, i, if i chose, could fill up the blanks. when i returned to the hotel, little wiser than i left it, as soon as i set foot inside the door the inspector of police, clapping his hand upon my shoulder, drew me aside. i did not like the fashion in which he addressed me at all. "see here, mr. southam. i do not wish to make myself disagreeable, but i need scarcely point out to you that there are circumstances in this case which are, to say the least of it, peculiar. i may as well tell you that your movements will be under the surveillance of the police; and, should you make any attempt to elude us we may consider it our duty to place you in safe custody." "that's all right," i replied. "lock me up and hang me, do! it only needs some little trifle of that kind to make the situation altogether what it should be. the man is a perfect stranger to me, and i know no more how he came to his death than the man in the moon; which things are, possibly, a sufficient reason why the police should make of me one of their proverbial examples." it struck me that the inspector did not altogether know what to make of me; although he did not arrest me, to all intents and purposes he might almost as well have done. until the inquest took place the hotel was practically in charge, with everybody in it. a policeman slept on the premises; other policemen were continually about the premises, asking questions and making themselves objectionable both by day and night. i myself began to feel that i had a haunted, hangdog sort of air. as for mrs. barnes, if she had not a great crime upon her conscience, it was not because she did not look it. she seemed to be growing hourly thinner. i knew very well that she was full of a great anxiety to say a word or two to me in private, but dared not for fear of prying eyes and ears. she solved the difficulty in her own way by pinning a note to my pillow, so that i found it on going to bed on the night before the inquest. it had neither beginning nor end, and ran something like this; every word was underlined-- "say nothing to-morrow about my husband, for god's sake! i am quite sure that he had nothing to do with this deed of horror--you know that he had not--and i know! no good purpose will be served by dragging him into it, and so bringing on me greater ruin than has come already!" as i read this scarcely judicious appeal i told myself that mrs. barnes was certainly wrong in saying that i knew that her mysterious husband had had nothing to do with the crime which had been wrought. as a matter of fact, i knew nothing. the more i reflected, however, the less i liked the look of the circumstances, which seemed to suggest a guilty knowledge on the part of my whilom friend, the waiter. it appeared at least possible that he was the james southam who had been actually advertised for, and that he was very well aware that duncan rothwell had something to say to him which was, very distinctly, not to his advantage. looking at the violence which, without hesitation, he had used towards me, was it not conceivable that he might have, and indeed had, used still greater violence towards mr. rothwell? the inquest was not over in a day, though the only light it threw upon the crime went to prove the identity of the murdered man. a singular state of things the evidence upon this point revealed--by no means tending to elucidate the mystery. the dead man actually turned out to be jonas hartopp--the head, and, in fact, the sole remaining partner, in the well-known firm of manufacturing jewellers--hartopp and company. the strange part of the business was that he seemed to have been duncan rothwell as well--that is, he had assumed that name for reasons which were very far from being plain. hartopp and company were a birmingham firm--a wealthy one. jonas hartopp himself had had the reputation of being as rich as a reasonable man would care to be. duncan rothwell had written to messrs. cleaver and caxton from liverpool, where he had taken rooms, as it would seem, for the special purpose of communicating with them. he had never occupied the rooms, but had given the most peremptory instructions that all letters and telegrams should at once be forwarded to an address at aston. the address at aston turned out to be a tobacconist's shop. the tobacconist at once recognised the dead man as being the person he had known as duncan rothwell. why the wealthy birmingham jeweller, jonas hartopp, had chosen to masquerade as duncan rothwell, or what was the something to his advantage which he proposed to communicate to james southam, there was not a shred or tittle of evidence to show; nor was there a thread of light thrown upon the shadows which enveloped the mystery of his sudden death. as it chanced, no question was asked me while i was in the witness-box which gave me an opportunity of bringing in the incident of mrs. barnes's husband. i had a sufficiently bad time of it without being actuated by a burning desire to involve myself in further complications. never in my life had i been so badgered. they would not accept my plain statement that i had not the faintest notion why james southam had been advertised for, or who had advertised for him, or what was the something which he was to learn to his advantage. the coroner and the police, and, for the matter of that, the public too, appeared to be under the impression that, since i owned that my name was james southam, therefore i held the key of the mystery in the hollow of my hand; or, at any rate, that i ought to. they had raked up the circumstances of my life from my earliest days; they had made all sorts of inquiries about me in all sorts of directions, yet they could find nothing which could fairly be said to tell against me; and that for the sufficient, and, from my point of view, satisfactory reason, that there was nothing to find. notwithstanding which, when the inquiry closed, i was conscious that more than one person in court, and a good many out of it, cherished the impression that i had had a hand indirectly, if not directly, in the murdered man's despatch, the verdict of the coroner's jury being that jonas hartopp, otherwise known as duncan rothwell, had been murdered by some person or persons unknown. chapter v the new guest oddly enough it was not until i was smarting under the feelings occasioned by the reflection that i had come out of the inquiry with a smirch upon my character that it occurred to me what a fool i had been, when i was in the witness-box, in not going even out of my way to transfer suspicion from myself to the scamp whom mrs. barnes had assured me was her husband. i arrived, then and there, at a resolution. i would play, on lines of my own, that favourite part in fiction--the role of the amateur detective. i would trace to their sources the various threads which had become complicated in such a tangled web of crime. i would unravel them, one by one. single-handed, if necessary, i would make the whole thing plain. in theory, an excellent resolution; situated as i was, not an easy one to put into practice. before the end of the coroner's inquest messrs. cleaver and caxton informed me that their guarantee to provide for the expenses of my sojourn at mrs. barnes's establishment thenceforward was withdrawn. of the four banknotes which had come to me in duncan rothwell's letter about fifteen pounds remained. if that sum might be credited to my account, on the debit side of the column was the injury which my connection with the affair had, at least temporarily, done my character. if before i had found it difficult to obtain remunerative employment, i should find it now still harder. on the morning after the close of the inquiry i was meditating taking an immediate departure from the house in which i had met with experiences which had been to anything but my advantage, when mrs. barnes came into the room. her worries had worn her almost to a shadow. i felt that, if she continued to diminish at the same rate long, she soon, literally, would entirely waste away. her nervous tricks seemed to have become accentuated. she stood rubbing her hands together, apparently for the moment at a loss for something to say. "i hope, sir, that you are not going?" "then you hope wrong, mrs. barnes. i certainly am going, and that at once." "you mustn't sir--you really mustn't." "you are wrong again, mrs. barnes, for i really must, if on one account only--that i am not in a position to pay your terms." she gave a sudden movement forward, coming to lean with both her hands upon the table. her voice dropped to that odd, palpitating whisper of which she seemed to be so fond. "you needn't let that trouble you. you can live board and lodging free, and you'll be welcome." i observed her closely. in her face there was something which was positively uncanny. if ever a person had a haunted look it was mrs. barnes. "why do you make to me such a proposition? do you consider that i am the sort of person who would be willing to snatch at anybody's charity, or are you in the habit of giving strangers board and lodging free?" "indeed, no; but it's different with you. if you leave me now i shall not dare to stay in the house, and that's the truth. i feel as if you were guarding me; as if hungry eyes were on the house, seeking for a chance to work me evil, but that the hidden watchers dare not come in to do that to me which they desire while my roof still shelters you. sir, do you think that 'he' did it?" "do i think that who did what?" "do you think that my husband killed that man?" "to be frank with you, i think it extremely possible that he knows as much of the business as may altogether be good for him--more, for instance, than you or i. i have been reproaching myself for having done as you requested, and not having at least alluded to the gentleman in question when giving my evidence before the coroner." my words set her trembling. "you did quite right. you would have been sorry for it afterwards. i cannot tell you why or how, but i am certain that my husband had no more to do with that deed of blood than you or i." the woman's intense earnestness made me stare. "i can only say, mrs. barnes, that i regret that i am unable to share your certainty." "that is one reason why i ask you--why i implore you to stay. there is a cloud hanging over you and over me--it is the same cloud! if you stay i feel that it may be lifted; but, if you leave, it may rest on us for ever." what she said was nonsense pure and simple. still, i suffered myself to be persuaded. i agreed to stay on--at any rate, for a time. the satisfaction with which she received my decision was so pronounced that one might have thought that i had done her the greatest service in the world. i went out in the afternoon. when i came back in the evening, not a little to my surprise, my food was brought me by a man. i stared at him askance. hitherto the whole service of the house, in which i had been the only guest, had been done by the maid. now i found myself confronted by a quite irreproachable-looking waiter, attired in the orthodox costume of his kind. his presence was so unexpected that i found it impossible to conceal my astonishment. "who the deuce are you?" i blurted out. the fellow began to smirk in reply. "new waiter, sir--only came this afternoon, sir!" "i had no notion that mrs. barnes contemplated making such an addition to her establishment." "no, sir; perhaps not, sir. business is very slack just now, but the season is coming on, and the house will very soon be full." this was emphatically a lie. so far from the season just coming on, in an hotel-keeper's sense, it was rapidly drawing to an end; and so far as mrs. barnes was personally concerned, apparently a bitter one, too. what she wanted, circumstanced as she was, with such a gorgeous individual as this about the place, or what she could find for him to do, surpassed my comprehension. the fellow bustled about the room, pretending to busy himself, in accordance with a trick of his trade, with nothing at all. "been here long, sir?" "you know very well how long i have been here." "beg pardon, sir, how's that?" "you have read it in the papers. don't feign ignorance with me, my man." the fellow turned away. he was industriously polishing an already spotless glass. "you allude to the recent unfortunate occurrence, sir? i believe that i did see something about it." "you believe! is that all? you are perfectly aware that you are as well up in what you call the recent occurrence as i am. you know all about me; how i came into the house, when i came, my name, and everything." i do not know why i said this, but i did say it, and i felt that it was true. the man seemed taken aback. "mrs. barnes did mention your name," he murmured. "you knew it without her mentioning it. you can leave the room. when i want you i will ring." i was glad to be rid of him. his presence seemed to chafe me. i knew not why. he was not ill-looking. his bearing was wholly respectful; and yet some instinct had seemed to warn me that while i was in his near neighbourhood it would be just as well that i should be upon my guard. when i had eaten i sallied forth in quest of mrs. barnes. her nervous system had not improved since the morning; even the sight of me seemed to fill her with terror. her eyes looked at everything except at me. i wondered if some disaster had been added to the sum of her already over-numerous troubles. "you have a new waiter," i began. "yes." she spoke in a stammering whisper. her features were agitated with the former reminiscence of st. vitus's dance. "yes; a new waiter." "i hope very sincerely, for your sake, mrs. barnes, that he may ere long have other guests to wait upon besides myself." "yes." the same irresolute muttering. "yes; i hope he may." "i had no idea that you thought of making an engagement of the kind just now." "no--i don't think--i told you." what was the matter with the woman? why did she persist in speaking in that tone of voice, as if she was fearful of being overheard! and why did she apparently not dare to allow her eyes to rest, even for a moment, on my face? she had been so effusive in the morning. now, on a sudden, she had returned to the condition of almost doddering terror which had marked her bearing during the time we had a policeman quartered in the house. "where did you get the man? what is his name? and what do you know of him?" as i put my questions i thought for a moment that she was going to favour me with one of her frenzied bursts of confidence. but while i waited for her to speak, all at once her frame became rigid. i seemed to see the unspoken words lying on her lips. turning to discover the cause of the obvious change in her manner, i found that the new waiter had opened the door and, unannounced, had entered the room. at sight of him her agitation again assumed the upper hand. "i--i must ask you to excuse me, sir. i have something which i must do." i did excuse her; but when i had left her i decided in my own mind that my instinct had been right, and that there was more in the new waiter than met the eye. it seemed scarcely likely that even a landlady of such an eccentric type as mrs. barnes would increase her staff when the only guest which her house contained was such an emphatically unprofitable one as i bade fair to be. however, in one respect the position of affairs was destined to be speedily changed. the house received not only another guest, but also one who bade fair to be as profitable a one as a landlady's heart could wish. it was on the day immediately following that mrs. lascelles-trevor arrived. i had been out all the morning and afternoon, renewing the weary search for employment which might provide me with the means for obtaining my daily bread. the first intimation i had of her arrival was when, having dined, i was thinking of a quiet pipe, and of an early retirement to bed. chapter vi the woman with one hand "mrs. lascelles-trevor's compliments, sir, and would you mind stepping upstairs?" i had a lighted match in my hand, and was in the very act of applying it to the bowl of my pipe when the latest importation in waiters brought me the message. "mrs. lascelles-trevor?" i let the match go out. "and pray who may mrs. lascelles-trevor be?" "the lady who arrived to-day, sir, and who has taken a private sitting-room--no. ." "indeed! and what does mrs. lascelles-trevor want with me?" "i don't know, sir; she asked me to give you her compliments, and would you be so kind as to step upstairs." i stepped upstairs, wondering. i was received by a tall and somewhat ponderous woman, who was dressed in a dark-blue silk costume, almost as if she were going to a ball. she half rose from the couch as i came in, inclining her head in my direction with what struck me as a slightly patronising smile. she spoke in a loud, hearty tone of voice, which was marked by what struck me as being a yorkshire twang. "it is so good of you to come to see me, mr. southam. i was really more than half afraid to ask you. as it is, i beg ten thousand pardons, but i do so want you to write me a letter." "to write you a letter? i am afraid i am a little slow of comprehension." "i have lost my hand." she stretched out her right arm. both arms were bare to the shoulder. i could not but notice how beautifully they were moulded, their massive contours, their snowy whiteness. she wore gloves which reached nearly to her elbows. so far as i could judge there appeared to be a hand inside of both. she seemed to read my thoughts, still continuing to hold her right arm out in front of her. "you think my hand is gloved? i always wear it so. but the glove conceals a dummy. come and feel it." i bowed. i was content to take her at her word; i had no wish to put her to the actual test. "i have never been able to gain complete control over my left hand--to use it as if it were my right. i suppose it is because i am not clever enough. i can scribble with it, but only scribble. when i desire to have a letter properly written i am dependent upon outsiders' help. will you write one for me now?" it was an odd request for a new-comer at an hotel to address to a perfect stranger, but i complied. the letter she dictated, and which i wrote at her dictation, seemed to me the merest triviality--a scribble would have served the purpose just as well. she chattered all the time that i was writing, and, when i had finished, she went on chattering still. all at once she broke into a theme to which i ought to have become accustomed, but had not. "do you know, mr. southam, that i have been reading about this dreadful murder case? how the papers have all been full of it! and i don't mind telling you, as a matter of fact, that in a sort of a way it was that which has brought me to this hotel." if that were so, i retorted, then her tastes were individual; she perceived attractions where the average man saw none. she laughed. "i don't know that it was exactly that, but the truth is, mr. southam, i was interested in you." the way in which she emphasised the pronoun a little startled me. "i made up my mind that i would ferret you out directly i got to the hotel, and that then, if i liked the look of you, would make you an offer. you see how frank i am." she certainly was frank to a fault, in one sense. and yet i wondered. as i replied to her my tone was grim. "it is very good of you. and now that, as i take it for granted that you do like the look of me--as you can scarcely fail to do--may i inquire what is the nature of the offer you propose to make?" she laughed again. possibly my perceptions were unusually keen, but, all the time, it occurred to me that there was about her a something--an atmosphere, if you will--which was not exactly suggestive of laughter. unless i was mistaken, her faculties were as much on the alert as mine were. she was engaged in summing me up when she feigned to be least observant. "you must understand, mr. southam, that i know all about you which the papers had to tell, and that was not a little! so we are not exactly strangers. at least, that is, you are not wholly a stranger to me. besides which, i myself once knew a person whose name was southam." i started. the woman's eyes were fixed on me, although she pretended to be trifling with her dress. "you knew a person whose name was southam. indeed! who was it, a man or a woman?" she ignored my question. "have you any relatives of your own name? "not that i am aware of, though there seems to be more than one southam about in the world. what southam was it you knew?" her tone was ostentatiously indifferent. "oh, it doesn't matter. it was a long time ago, and, as you say, i suppose there are heaps of southams about in the world. i only wanted to explain to you that you were not so absolutely unknown to me as the fact that this is our first actual meeting might lead you to imagine. will you allow me to ask if you are still seeking employment? i thought, from what i read in the papers, that it was just possible you might be." "you have supposed correctly. i am." "would you like to fill the post of secretary?" "of secretary?" i paused for a moment to consider--not the suggestion of such a post, but the source from whence the suggestion came. "to whom?" "to me." "it is very kind of you, but do you clearly understand, madam, that you are speaking to a person whose character is under a cloud?" "because you were suspected of having murdered that man?" her question was brutal in its candour. "precisely. because i was suspected, and, for all i know, still am." "the people who suspected you were fools. i will back my capacity as a judge of character, even at sight, against their suspicions. you are not of the stuff of which murderers are made." her tone was short and sharp--i had almost written sarcastic--as if she thought it a shame to a man not to be made of the stuff of which murderers are. she went on, speaking quickly, even brusquely. "i will trust you, if you, on your part, will trust me. as i have told you, and as i will prove to you, if--as i almost believe--you doubt me, i have lost my hand. see!" hastily, before i could stop her, she began to unbutton her right glove. she only unloosed a button or two, when the whole thing, glove, hand and all, came clean away, and she held out towards me her handless arm. i stared, at a loss for words, not a little shocked--the disfigurement was so dreadful, and seemed to have been so recent. her voice grew bitter. "i lost that hand under circumstances which impressed its loss upon my memory. as it were, i seem to be losing it anew, every hour of every day. it has left me impotent. will you relieve my impotence? will you become my secretary? there will not be much for you to do, but there will be something; the salary which i shall pay you will not be a large one, but it will, perhaps, suffice till something better offers; i will give you a hundred pounds a year, and, as they say in the advertisements, all found. do not give me your answer at once. it may be that i shall stay in the hotel some time, and, at any rate, while i am here, possibly you will not refuse to act as my amanuensis. you can see with your own eyes how much i am in want of one." again she drew my attention to her mangled arm. as she suggested, i neither accepted nor declined her offer there and then; it was one which needed consideration from more points than one. for instance, while she did know something of me--if what she had read in the newspaper reports could be called knowledge--i knew literally nothing of her; for all i could tell, she might be an adventuress lately freed from the purlieus of a gaol. i did consent to do any secretarial work she might require during her stay in the hotel. by the time she left it i might be able to see my way more clearly than i did just then. i saw a good deal of mrs. lascelles-trevor during the few days which followed, and the more i saw of her the less i could make her out. there was a good deal of work for me to do, such as it was. i wondered if she had brought it with her in order to furnish her with an excuse to give me occupation. there were papers for me to copy--papers which seemed to be of the very slightest importance. while i was supposed to be engaged in copying them, she interrupted me without remorse, and talked and talked and talked. during those conversations she learned a great deal of my history, while i ascertained nothing at all of hers. i found that she was a woman of quick and imperious temper: to fence with one of her interminable questions annoyed her; to have declined point-blank to answer one would have involved an immediate breach. if i took service with her, it would be with my eyes open; i should have to be prepared for squalls. though she gave me employment as if she were bestowing charity, she would expect and require perfect obedience from me in return. i do not think that, as a rule, i am quick in taking dislike at a person, but there did, in spite of myself, grow up in my mind a sense of antipathy towards mrs. lascelles-trevor. i felt as if she were watching me; pumping me, turning me inside out, as if i were some old glove; playing with me with that cruel sort of enjoyment with which a cat plays with a mouse, and i did not find the feeling an agreeable one. to add to my comfort, i had an uneasy consciousness that the new waiter had an attentive eye upon my movements in a non-waiterial sense. it was an eye for which i did not thank him; i almost suspected that he was playing the part of a sleepless spy. i half believed that, not infrequently, he was an unseen auditor of my interviews with mrs. lascelles-trevor--i should like to have caught him in the act! one night i could not sleep, i found that i had left my pipe downstairs. i started off to get it; i had scarcely got outside the bedroom door when i all but stumbled over the new waiter. before i had discovered who it was, i had pinned him to the floor. he was profuse in his apologies, but i do not think that he could altogether have liked the way in which i handled him. chapter vii the second encounter i began, as the days went by, to be more and more a prey to unhealthy, and apparently unreasonable doubts and fears--fears which, in truth, were so intangible that they were without form and void, but which were very real for all that. i began to feel as if a net were being drawn tighter and tighter round me, and as if every step i took was beset by hidden dangers. such a mental condition was as i have said, an unhealthy one. i realised that well enough, and i had been wandering one evening to and fro on the embankment, striving to free myself, if only for a time, from the imaginary mists and shadows which seemed to compass me about, when as i was turning into the street in which stood mrs. barnes's hotel, i saw a man crouching in the darkness of the wall. what was the man's purpose i had no doubt: he was seeking for concealment. he had seen me before i saw him, and was endeavouring to escape my scrutiny. i took him to be the new waiter. i supposed that i had caught him in the act of spying on me at last. i turned swiftly on him, and before he could retreat i had him by the shoulders. "before i let you go, my friend, you will be so good as to tell me, now and here, what is the cause of the extreme interest which you evidently take in my proceedings." that was what i said to him; but already, before i had said my say right out, i perceived that i was wrong: that the man i had hold of was not the man i thought he was. this man was shorter and of slighter build, and he showed more signs of fight than, within my experience, the other had evinced. he wriggled in my grasp like an eel, but, holding tightly on to him, i dragged him a little into the light. when i succeeded in getting a glimpse at him there came from between my lips a series of interjections:-- "you!--james southam!--mr. barnes! good god!" i had hardly spoken when he knocked me down. i was so taken by surprise that i was unable to offer the least resistance; he felled me again, as he had felled me before, as if i had been a ninepin. by the time i had realised what had happened i was lying on my back on the pavement. his hand was on my throat, and his knee was on my chest. he was peering closely into my face--so closely that i could feel his breath upon my cheeks. "it's you again, is it? i thought it was. don't you make a noise, or i'll choke the life right out of you. you tell me, straight out, what it is you want with me--do you hear?" as if to drive his question well home, he gave my head a sharp tap against the pavement. his strength must have been prodigious. i was conscious that, with him above me thus and with that iron grasp upon my throat, i was wholly at his mercy. the hour was late. although almost within a stone's throw of the strand, the place was solitary; not a creature might pass just where we were the whole night through. "take your hand from my windpipe--i cannot speak--you are choking me," i gasped. "give me your word you will make no noise if i do. see here!" he was clutching a knife--as ugly a looking knife as ever i saw. he brandished it before my eyes. "i give my word," i managed to utter. he relaxed his hold. it was a comfort to be again able to freely inflate my lungs, though the continued presence of his knee on my chest was none too pleasant. with the point of his knife he actually pricked my nose. "don't you try to move, or i will cut your throat as if you were a pig. lie still and answer my questions--and straight, mind, or you'll be sorry. what is it you want with me?" "i want nothing from you--i have never wanted anything. you have been under an entire misapprehension throughout." once more, with gruesome sportiveness, he tickled my nose with his knife. "stow that, my lad! it's no good trying to catch this bird with salt. how did you come to know that my name was james southam?" "i never did know it. the simple truth is that that name happened to be mine." "what's that?" "i say that that name happens to be mine--i am james southam." bending down he glared at me with eyes which seemed to glow like burning coal. "what do you mean?" "i mean precisely what i say. if you choose to examine the contents of my pockets--they are at your mercy--you will find ample proof of the truth of what i say. besides, i take it that you have had truth of this proof from the contents of the papers." "the contents of the papers--what papers?" i looked at him to see if his seeming ignorance of what i meant was real. it appeared to be. "you and i, mr. southam, or mr. barnes, or whatever your name is, have been, and it would seem still are, at cross purposes. i take no more interest in your affairs than you take in mine--perhaps not so much. the mention of my name seems to have awoke uncomfortable echoes in your breast, which fact is of the nature of an odd coincidence." "you are not a policeman, or a detective, or a private inquiry agent, or anything of that kind--you swear it?" "very willingly. i am simply a poor devil of a clerk out of a situation. why you should object to me, or, still more, why you should fear me, i have not the faintest notion." he hesitated before he spoke again--then his tone was sullen. "i don't know if you are lying: i expect you are: but anyhow, i'll chance it. i fancy that i'm about your match, if it's tricks you're after. if i let you get up, can i trust you?" "you can: again i give you my word for it." he let me rise. when i had done so, and was brushing the dust off my clothes, i took his measure. even by the imperfect light i could see how shabby he was, and how hollow his cheeks were. he seemed to have shrunk to half his size since that first short interview i had had with him. "you will excuse my saying you don't look as if you have been living in clover." "i haven't. i am nearly starving. it is that which has brought me back." "why did you ever go? mrs. barnes tells me that you are her husband. i should imagine that you had a pretty comfortable birth of it." he glowered at me with renewed suspicion. "oh, she has told you so much, has she? what has she told you more?" "very little. she has been half beside herself trying to think what has become of you, especially since this affair of duncan rothwell." we had crossed the road and were on the embankment, walking towards the city side by side. although i had made the allusion of set purpose, i was scarcely prepared for the effect which it had on him. plainly, he was a person of ungovernable impulses. he stopped, swung, round, again the knife was gleaming in his grasp, and his hand was at my throat. but this time i succeeded in warding him off. "what is the matter with you, man? are you stark mad?" he was breathing in great gasps. "what name--was that--you said?" "surely the name must be a familiar one to you by now. it has been to the front enough in all the papers." "the paper! what papers?" "the newspapers, man, of course!" "how do i know what is in the newspapers? i never look at them. there is nothing in them which is of interest to me. what name was that you said? tell me if you dare!" he made a threatening gesture with his knife, seeming to be half frenzied with excitement. "duncan rothwell--the man who was murdered at your wife's front door." "duncan rothwell! murdered--at my wife's--front door!" the knife fell from his hand. he gave such a backward lurch that i half expected to see him fall down after it. in an instant, stooping, i had the knife in my grasp. i felt strongly that such a weapon was safer in my possession than in his. he did not seem for the moment to be conscious of what it was which he had lost and i had gained. he stood staring in front of him with an air of stupefaction. he repeated his own words over to himself, stammeringly, as if he were unable to catch their meaning: "murdered--at my wife's--front door!" "where have you been living not to have heard of it? it has been the topic of every tongue." i could see that he was struggling to collect his scattered senses. he spoke at last as if he were waking from a dream. "i have heard nothing. i do not understand what you are talking about. tell me everything." i told him all that there was to tell. evidently the whole of it was news to him. he listened greedily, gulping down, as it were, every word i uttered, as if i had been feeding him with physical food as well as mental. as i noted his demeanour, it seemed incredible that he could have been the chief actor in the tragedy to the details of which he listened with such apparently unfeigned amazement. i had been guilty of an unintentional injustice in doubting him. as i told my tale we leaned upon the parapet--he never looking at me once, but straight into the heart of the river. when i had finished he was silent for some moment. then he put to me a question: "do you mean to say that nothing has been found out to show who did it?" "absolutely nothing." unless i erred, he smiled. had i not done him an injustice after all? could the man be such a consummate actor? "and yet you almost saw him killed?" "had i come into the hall half a moment sooner i might have seen the murderer in the act of perpetrating his crime." this time he laughed right out--an evil laugh. "for goodness' sake, man, don't laugh like that--it makes me shiver." he was still, with a stillness which, somehow, i did not care to break. a far-away look began to come into his face. he seemed to become lost in thought. when, after a long interval, during which i was sufficiently engaged in watching the different expressions which seem to chase each other across his face, he broke the silence, it was as though he muttered to himself, oblivious of his companion and of the place in which he was: "what a woman she is!" that was what he said. i caught the words as he uttered them beneath his breath--uttered them, as it seemed, half in admiration, half in scorn. and he again was still. chapter viii "murderer!" he would not go home. i spent, i daresay, an hour in seeking to persuade him. i pointed out the injury he was doing to himself, the wrong which he was doing his wife. i went further--i more than hinted at the suspicions which might fall upon him in connection with the rothwell murder; plainly asserting that it would be the part of wisdom, to speak of nothing else, for him to put in an appearance on the scene, look the business squarely in the face, and see it boldly through. but he was not to be induced. the most that i could get from him was a promise that he would come to the front, to use his own words, "when the time was ripe"--what he meant by them was more than i could tell. in return, he extracted a promise from me that i would say nothing of our meeting to his wife until he gave me leave--a promise which was only given on the strength of his solemn asseveration that such silence on my part would be best for his wife's sake, and for mine. he would give me no address. in reply to my fishing inquiries into the mystery of his personal action he maintained an impenetrable reserve--he was not to be drawn. one thing he did condescend to do: he borrowed all the loose cash which i had in my pockets. mrs. barnes had supplied me with a latchkey; i had been accustomed to let myself in with it when i was late. my surprise was therefore considerable when, directly i inserted the key in the lock, the door was opened from within, and there confronting me stood the ubiquitous new waiter, with the inevitable smile upon his face. "what are you sitting up for at this hour of the night? you know very well that i have a key of my own." he continued to stand in the stiff, poker-like attitude which always reminded me of a soldier rather than of a waiter. not a muscle of his countenance moved. "i have been accustomed to act as a night porter, sir." "then you needn't trouble yourself to act as a night porter to me. let me take this opportunity to speak to you a word of a sort. what is the nature of the interest you take in my proceedings, i do not know. that you do take a peculiar interest is a little too obvious. while i remain in this house i intend to come, and to go, and to do exactly as i please. the next time i have cause to suspect you of spying upon my movements you will be the recipient of the best licking you ever had in all your life. you understand? i shall keep my word, so you had better make a note of it." the fellow said nothing in return; his lips were closely pursed together. i might have been speaking to a dummy, except that there came a gleam into his eyes which scarcely suggested that his heart was filled with the milk of human kindness. when i had reached my bedroom, and, having undressed, was opening my night shirt preparatory to putting it on, there fell from one of the folds of the garment a scrap of paper. "what now?" i asked myself, as i watched it go fluttering to the floor. i picked it up; it only contained four words, and they were in mrs. barnes's writing: "you are in danger." this, veritably, was an hotel of all the mysteries. whether the husband or the wife was the more curious character, was, certainly, an open question. for days she had avoided me. in spite of my attempts to induce her to enter into conversation i had scarcely been able to get a word out of her edgeways. why had she chosen this eccentric method of conveying to me such an enigmatic message? i was in danger! of what? it struck me forcibly, and not for the first time, that if i remained much longer an inmate of barnes's hotel i should be in distinct danger of one thing--of going mad! i had still some papers left to copy, out of the last batch which mrs. lascelles-trevor had given me. i had been accustomed to do my work in her private sitting-room, it being my habit, as i understood it, in accordance with her wish, first to have breakfast, and then to go upstairs and ask her if she was prepared for me to commence my duties. the next morning i followed the ordinary course of procedure, and was at her door, if anything, rather before the usual hour. but instead of vouchsafing me a courteous greeting, as it was her wont to do, she commenced to rate me soundly, asking me if i thought that her time was of no account, since i kept her waiting till it suited me to give her my attention. i made no attempt to excuse myself, imagining that she was suffering from an attack of indigestion, or from some other complaint which female flesh is peculiarly heir to, contenting myself with repeating my inquiry as to whether she was ready to avail herself of my proffered services. the fashion of her rejoinder hardly suggested that the lady who made it was stamped with the stamp which is, poetically, supposed to mark the caste of vere de vere. "don't ask me such absurd questions! you don't suppose that i'm the servant, and you're the master. sit down, and begin your work at once, and don't try any of your airs with me!" i sat down, and began my work at once. it was not for me to argue with a lady. beggars may not be choosers, and i could only hope that the infirmities of a feminine temper might not be too frequently in evidence as a sort of honorary addition to the charms of my salary. that the lady meant to be disagreeable i could have no doubt as the minutes went by; and scarcely had i commenced to write than she began at me again. she found fault with my work, with what i had done, with what i had left undone, as it seemed to me, quite causelessly. i bore her reproaches as meekly as the mildest mortal could have done. my meekness seemed to inflame rather than to appease her. she said things which were altogether uncalled for, and which beyond doubt an office boy would have resented. that i should keep my temper in face of her continued provocation evidently annoyed her. suddenly springing out of her chair, she bounced from the room. "i trust," i said, apostrophising her when she had gone, "that when you do return your temperature will be appreciably lower. in any case, i fancy, mrs. lascelles-trevor, that you and i shall not long stand towards each other in the position of employee and employer. even by a lady one does not care to be called over the coals--and such coals!--for nothing at all. one had almost better starve than be treated, in and out of season, as a whipping boy." the papers which i was engaged in copying comprised all sorts of odds and ends, more worthy, i should have thought, of the rubbish heap than of transcription. they were about all sorts of things, and were in no sort of order, and why they should be deemed worthy of being enshrined in the beautiful manuscript book with which mrs. lascelles-trevor had supplied me was beyond my comprehension. i had finished transcribing one paper. laying it down, i drew towards me another. it was a letter, and was in a hand which i had not previously encountered. the caligraphy, even the paper on which the letter was written, filled me with a strange sense of familiarity. where had i seen that carefully crabbed, characteristic handwriting before?--every letter as plain as copperplate, yet the whole conveying the impression of coming from an unlettered man. i had had a previous acquaintance with it, and that quite recently. i had it--it came to me in a flash of memory! the writing was that which had come to me in the communication which had been signed duncan rothwell. this letter and that letter had emanated from the same scribe. i could have sworn to it. even the paper was the same. i remembered taking particular notice of the large sheet of post, with the unusually coarse grain; here was that sheet's twin brother! what was a letter from duncan rothwell doing among mrs. lascelles-trevor's papers? it was my duty to copy the thing. it was, therefore, necessary that i should read it. it bore no date and no address. it began:--"my dearest amelia." who was my dearest amelia? a glance sufficed to show me that it was a love-letter, and a love-letter of an uncommon kind. clearly, there had been some blunder. such an epistle could not intentionally have been lumped with that olla podrida of scraps and scrawls. it was out of place in such a gallery. what was i to do? the question was answered for me. while i still hesitated, mrs. lascelles-trevor reappeared. i said nothing, but i daresay that the expression of my features and the gingerly style in which i held the letter out in front of me, conveyed a hint that i had lighted on something out of the way. probably, too, she recognised the letter directly she caught sight of it, even from the other side of the room. anyhow, she came striding forward--she was a woman who could stride--and, without any sort of ceremony, leaning across the table, she snatched it from my hand. for an instant i expected she would strike me--she was in such a passion. the veins stood out on her brow like bands; her lips gave convulsive twitches. since it seemed that rage had deprived her of the faculty of speech, i endeavoured to explain the situation by feigning ignorance that there was a situation to explain. "do you wish me to copy this letter in the same way as the others?" my voice was suave; hers, when it came, was not. "you beast!" that was the epithet which she was pleased to hurl at me. "i might have guessed you were a thief!" "madam!" her language was so atrocious, and her anger, so far as i was concerned, so unjustifiable, that i knew not what to make of her. "where did you steal that letter?" i stood up. "mrs. lascelles-trevor, you go too far. you appear to be under the, i assure you, erroneous impression that, in engaging a man to fill the honourable post of your secretary, you buy him body and soul to do as you will." "you smooth-tongued hound! don't think to play the hypocrite with me, or you will find yourself in custody on a charge of theft." i looked her steadily in the face--fury seemed to have distended her naturally generous proportions. "i fear, madam, that this morning you are suffering from ill-health. when you are yourself again, i feel sure you will tender your apologies." i moved towards the door. but she would not let me go. she placed herself in front of me. "don't think that you deceive me! don't think that your attitudinising can impose on me! if you do, you are in error. i have known you from the first--yes, before i saw you in the actual flesh. i knew jonas hartopp as well as you, and when he fell i swore that i would gibbet the wretch who slew him. all this time i have been watching you, the avenger of blood; i have been tracking you, step by step, playing the very sleuth-hound: it only needs a very little to enable me to prove your guilt up to the hilt; and you may be very sure of this, james southam, that though you seek to hide yourself in the nethermost corners of the earth, i will have you brought back to hang!" her words were so wild, and the charge with which she sought to brand me such a monstrous birth of a diseased imagination, that the most charitable supposition could be that the woman was mentally unhinged. i treated her with the contempt she merited. "possibly, madam, when at your leisure you have credited me with all the vices, you will suffer me to leave the room." "that is the tone you take up; you sneer, and sneer, and sneer! i foresaw it. do not suppose that this further proof of your deficiency in all sense of shame takes me by surprise. so black-hearted a villain was not likely to have a conscience which could be easily pricked. you may go--still this once! it will not be for long; your wings will soon be clipped. i shall soon have you in a cage. be sure of this: i will show you as little mercy as you showed your helpless victim when he had walked into the trap which you had set for him. you had best be careful. and never forget that wherever you go my emissaries keep you well in sight; whatever you do is known to me within the hour. i have no intention of letting the cord which holds you run too loose." when she stopped to take breath, i bowed. "i thank you, madam, for your permission to leave the room, and do protest that i esteem myself highly honoured, in that you should take so acute an interest, as you say you do, in my humble person." she let me go, though seemingly not a little against her will. even at the last moment i should not have been surprised if she had assailed me with actual physical violence. but she retained sufficient vestiges of self-control to refrain from doing that. when i opened the door she caught hold of the handle to prevent my shutting it. as i went out she followed me on to the landing. i, supposing she desired to go downstairs, moved aside so as to permit of her passage. she took no notice of my action, so i went downstairs. as i went, she stood at the head of the flight, observing me as i descended, and she said, in a tone of voice which was too audible to be pleasant for me-- "murderer!" chapter ix thrown in her face i must admit that, in spite of my efforts to keep up the outward semblance of indifference, when i reached the hall i was at a loss what next to do. a man scarcely ever has a passage of arms with an angry woman without suffering some loss of dignity, and that no matter how much in the right he is. i had a mine sprung on me from a wholly unexpected quarter; i had been accused of being an assassin by the woman who, for at any rate one sanguine second, i had fondly fancied was about to play the part of my good fairy; and now, as i was endeavouring with the finest air of conscious rectitude which i had at my command, to remove myself from the lash of her vigorous tongue, she had thrown after me in public that hideous epithet. i was aware that the maid, with eyes and ears wide open, was peeping at me from the banisters above, while standing stolidly at the foot of the stairs was that much too attentive waiter. as he moved to let me pass mrs. lascelles-trevor--i was always fond of double-barrelled names, being persuaded that they were invariably marks of birth and breeding--gave me an assurance that i was still in range. she addressed the waiter with perfect spontaneity. "you may let him go, my man, for the present. but his course is nearly run, and he will be in the hands of the police sooner than he thinks." i did not feel myself entitled to knock the man down because the woman insulted me, though my inclination went that way. i was still less disposed to turn and slang her back again, being convinced that in such a contest i should not be her equal. my impulse was to seek out mrs. barnes, as the landlady, and therefore responsible for all that took place in her establishment, and submit my grievances to her. but a glimpse that i caught of her, beating a precipitate retreat into her sanctum, directly she saw me glance in her direction, informed me that such a mode of procedure would be worse than vain. i turned into the coffee-room. then, feeling that i must go somewhere to cool my brain, i quitted it almost immediately, to sally forth into the street. i had brought my wares to a pretty market! disaster seemed to be heaped upon disaster's head. mrs. lascelles-trevor might be mad, but there seemed to be method in her madness, and if she really was possessed by the fixed idea that i was an assassin, though i might not stand in actual peril of my life, i could hardly be in a more awkward situation. no wonder i had felt towards her an instinctive antagonism, even when she had appeared to be most friendly. i was not sure that i had done wrong in not seeking to rebut even the wildest of her wild words with a greater show of gravity. the levity with which i had received them might be urged against me if it came to an arrest. an arrest! at the mere thought of such a climax i involuntarily stood still. cold sweat was on my brow. i remembered what mrs. lascelles-trevor had said about her emissaries being always on my track. for some time past i had had an uneasy feeling that my footsteps were being dogged and that i was being watched. i turned to see if any one was shadowing me now: he would have a bad time of it if i found him. i noted no one whose obvious attentions i could resent. but then i was in the strand; in that busy thoroughfare the merest tyro could ply his trade of spy without fear of premature detection. i turned towards waterloo bridge, a sudden thought striking me as i did so. i would go for advice to messrs. cleaver and caxton: it was through them, in the first place, i had got into this scrape; it ought to be their business to get me out of it. i went, though i might have saved myself the trouble. they expressed their willingness to undertake my defence, if it came to that, and if funds were forthcoming. but so far from giving me the sort of advice i wanted--advice which would enable me to escape the dreadful ordeal of the prisoner's dock--i could see from their manner, if not from their words, that they thought it as likely as not that i was guilty of the crime which, as it seemed, was about to be imputed against me. i left them, feeling very little reassured, and sick at heart returned to the hotel. on one point i was finally resolved: under that roof i would not sleep another night. after what had happened in the morning, even mrs. barnes would not have the hardihood to suggest that i should continue with her any longer--even as a gratuitous guest. i went straight upstairs to my bedroom meaning to put the few things together which were mine, and then, and only then, i would have an interview and an explanation with mrs. barnes. this was my programme, but, like so many other programmes i had arranged, it was not destined to be carried out. directly i reached the bedroom door i became conscious that some one was inside. supposing it was the maid, who was performing her necessary routine duties, i unceremoniously entered. the person within was not, however, the attendant abigail--it was a man. he lay on his stomach on the floor, with half his length beneath the bed. it was the new waiter. there could be no mistake about the nature of his occupation--i had caught him in the act. so engrossed was he with his researches, that, before he had realised my presence, i had my knee on the small of his back and a stick in my hand. "as you wouldn't take my friendly warning, take that!" i brought the stick down smartly on the nether portion of his frame. he had woke to the consciousness of what was happening at last. with unlooked-for agility, twisting himself partially free, he scrambled from beneath the bed, i continuing, as he struggled, to get in my blows wherever i could. "stop this," he gasped, "or you'll regret it!" "i fancy," i retorted, "that the regret will be yours." he showed more fight than i had expected. it occurred to me that perhaps, after all, the whipping might not be confined to one side only. but my blood was up--i was not likely to allow such trifles to affect me. all at once, just as i was in the very act of bringing down on him the best blow of any, he caught my wrist and gave it a sharp wrench which numbed the muscles of my arm as if they had been attacked by temporary paralysis. "you fool!" he said. "you don't know what it is you are doing. i am an officer of police, and i arrest you on a charge of murder." he had taken my breath away with a vengeance. i gazed at him askance. "it is false. you are one of that woman's spies." "i am nothing or the kind, as a shrewd man like you ought to be aware. i have had this case in hand from the first. i came here to play the part of a waiter with the special intention of keeping an eye on you--and i have kept an eye upon you, i fancy, to some purpose." "it's all a lie!" "don't talk nonsense. the game is up, my lad, and you know it. the question is, are you going to come quietly, or am i to use the bracelets--i can get plenty of assistance, i assure you, if i choose to call." "if you can prove to me the truth of what you say, and can show me that you really are an officer of police, i can have no objection to your doing what you conceive to be your duty, though, i declare to you, as there is a god above us, that in arresting me you are making a grievous mistake." the fellow eyed me with what struck me as being a grin of genuine admiration. "you're a neat hand--i never saw a chap carry a thing off neater, though it's my duty to warn you that anything which you may say will be used against you. but you've made a slight mistake, my lad--perhaps you didn't think i found it." he picked up something from the coverlet. it was a long, thin blade, of a fashion which i had never seen before. it had a point of exquisite fineness. here and there the gleaming steel was obscured by what seemed stains of rust. "perhaps it is owing to my stupidity that i am unable to grasp your meaning. this is not mine, nor have i seen it before." "haven't you? that remains to be seen. unless i am out of my calculations, i shall not be surprised to learn that that knife killed jonas hartopp. oddly enough, i found it just as you were coming into the room--inside the wainscotting, in a little slit in the wall which was not half badly concealed, and which was hidden by your bed. i rather reckon that that small bit of evidence will just round my case up nicely." "if it is true that you found it where you say you did, i can only assert that i do not know who put it there. i certainly did not." "no? that is a point which must be left open for further consideration. now i am afraid that i shall have to trouble you to walk downstairs. you perfectly understand, mr. southam, that you are my prisoner." the bedroom door, in the hurry of my entrance, had been left wide open. turning, i perceived that mrs. lascelles-trevor was staring in at us. "your prisoner!" she echoed the fellow's words. "mr. southam is your prisoner? who, then, are you?" she put her hand to her breast as if to control her agitation. "i am a detective." "and you have arrested mr. southam--for what?" "for the murder of jonas hartopp." she clasped her hands together in a kind of ecstasy. "i am so glad! so glad! i congratulate you, sir, on having brought the crime home to the real criminal at last." she addressed me with an air of triumph which was wholly unconcealed. "did i not tell you that your course was nearly run? it was nearer its close even than i thought." "i am obliged to you for your prognostication, madam, but i may assure you that though i am not the first person who has been wrongfully accused of a crime of which he was completely innocent, i do venture to indulge in a hope that this is the first occasion on which a woman has permitted herself to gloat over the misfortunes of a man who, without having wronged a living creature, is himself friendless, helpless, and injured." so far from my words succeeding in reaching the sympathetic side of her--if she had one--she glared at me, if it were possible, more malignantly than before. "you hypocrite!" she hissed. my captor placed his hand upon my shoulder. "come," he said, in a tone which was unmistakably official. "it is no use staying here to bandy words. downstairs, mr. southam, if you please, and mind, no tricks upon the way." i told him that he need not apprehend anything in the nature of what he called tricks from me. we went downstairs, mrs. lascelles-trevor close at our heels. "step into the coffee-room, mr. southam, if you please. i am going to send for a cab. mrs. barnes!" that lady appeared. "i have effected this man's capture, as i told you that i probably should do." so she had known all along who he was, and in concealing the fact, in a sense, had betrayed me. and this was the meaning of her futile, eleventh-hour attempt at warning of the night before. "let me have a cab at once. and allow no one to enter this man's bedroom until i have had an opportunity of examining all that it contains. i shall hold you responsible." i saw that mrs. barnes's head was nodding like a chinese mandarin's, and that it was set in motion evidently by the agitated condition of her nerves. the detective perceived that it would be as well for him to repeat his instructions if he wished them to be acted on. "now then, mrs. barnes, pull yourself together! let me have that cab." as mrs. barnes moved aside, with the possible intention of taking steps to execute the officer's commands, i observed that some one was standing at her back. it was her husband. he stood just inside the hall door as if he had just come in, and was wondering what was taking place. he was as shabbily and as poorly dressed as he very well could have been. but there was something in his face and in his bearing which, for some reason which i will not stay to fathom, brought good hope into my heart. "it's you? thank god!" i cried. "they have arrested me for murder! i hope you have come to help me!" at the sound of my voice they turned to see to whom it was i was speaking. when mrs. barnes saw her husband, without any sort of notice she broke into a fit of hysterics, laughing and screaming and kicking all at once so that the maid had to hold her tightly round the waist to prevent her making an untimely descent to the ground. but there was one person on whom his sudden appearance seemed to have an even greater effect than it had on mrs. barnes, and that was mrs. lascelles-trevor. when she realised who it was who had come so unexpectedly on the scene, she began to stare at him as if he exercised over her the fabulous fascination of the snake. she shrank from before his glance, crouching closer and closer to the wall. she seemed to actually diminish in size. "you!--you!" she gasped. "no!--no!--not you!" she put up her hands as if to ward him off her. as he made a forward movement, one could see that she shivered, as if in mortal terror. "and you!" he said, with an intensity of meaning in his voice of which i had not thought it capable. "and you!" he turned to me, pointing an accusatory finger at the woman in whose bearing so strange a metamorphosis had taken place. "if you had told me last night that she was here, i would have solved the mystery for you there and then. her presence here makes the thing as clear as daylight. it was she who killed duncan rothwell. acknowledge it, you woman with the blood-red hand!" he addressed her with a gesture of terrible denunciation. his stature seemed to have magnified, even as the woman seemed to have decreased. his face and eyes were blazing. i understood then how it came about that he had mesmerised poor, weak-minded, nerveless mrs. barnes. "no!" wailed mrs. lascelles-trevor. "no! i never touched him!" "you dare to deny it!" in the man's voice there seemed to be a wonderful resonance, in his bearing a singular air of command. he took from his pocket a box, and from wrappings in the box the ghastly relics which still haunted mrs. barnes in dreams. "here are the four fingers and the thumb, and the palm of your right hand, woman, with which you would have made an end of me. clearly, therefore, it was with your left hand that you murdered duncan rothwell. deny it if you dare!" as he spoke he threw at her the dreadful fragments. they struck her full in the face. "i did it! i own it! don't touch me--not that!" she screamed. she fell to the ground--as with amazement and, so far as i was concerned, with horror, we stared at her--in what proved to be an epileptic fit. chapter x the jewel king the story of duncan rothwell's murder, when it came to be unfolded in a court of law, proved to be not the least strange of the many strange tales which have been unfolded there. its turnings and twistings and involutions were many, but briefly summed up it came to this: the man who had married the landlady of that hotel in the turning off the strand, and who, in marrying her, had brought such havoc on her head, turned out to be a man with many names. what his real name was, if he ever had one, was never clearly shown. but there had been a time during which the name by which he had been best known to a certain section of society had been that of the "jewel king." he had been the perpetrator of most of the remarkable jewel robberies which have so much disturbed society during recent years--a scamp, in short, on a truly notorious scale. jonas hartopp had played receiver to his thief. these two had been really remarkable men--men of parts which, fortunately for the world at large, are not often found joined in two individuals. for years these two had been close friends--colleagues--with souls but for a single thought, which thing was plunder, until a woman came between. this was the woman who has figured in these pages as mrs. lascelles-trevor, but whose real patronymic was shown to be rather more plebeian--amelia martin. the man who, for the sake of convenience, i will continue to call mr. barnes, was in his way a genius, and a little mad. he lived for a long time with amelia martin as her husband, without ever having married her. it is probable that during the whole of this period the woman was in a state of daily and hourly terror. he had a pleasant habit of playing tricks with women, particularly mesmeric tricks, of a sort which would hardly have endeared any husband to any wife. it was seriously alleged, for instance, that on a monday he would throw her into a mesmeric sleep, and leave her quite alone in the house, and in a state of trance, until he returned on the saturday to restore her, at his leisure--very much at his leisure--to a condition of consciousness. thus she was continually losing large slices out of her life, under circumstances which no one could describe as wholly satisfactory. by degrees she transferred her affections to jonas hartopp, and with them she decided to transfer herself as well. mr. barnes had just made a great coup. the world will remember the disappearance of the countess of crawley's wedding presents. mr. barnes walked away from crawley house with those priceless gems packed comfortably away in his pockets. amelia martin persuaded jonas hartopp to rob his friend, if, in a little transaction of that peculiar kind, one may speak of robbery. she offered mr. hartopp the countess's gems for nothing if he would take her with them. in a weak moment mr. hartopp yielded to temptation. unfortunately mr. barnes detected her in the very act of flight. she struck a blow for freedom--with a knife. the injury which she inflicted was, however, a superficial one. before she could strike again he had her in a mesmeric sleep. while she was in that state he cut off at the wrist her right hand, the one with which she had tried to stab him. restoring her, he showed her what he had done. in her agony she vowed that she would turn queen's evidence and betray him to the tender mercies of the police, let the consequences to herself be what they might. in short, she made herself so extremely disagreeable that, all things considered, mr. barnes thought it the better part of wisdom to decamp. it was while he was in full flight that he lighted on that hotel in the street off the strand, on the landlady of which he so generously and rapidly bestowed the name of barnes. he perfectly realised that his friend and his mistress were leagued together against him, and he took it that barnes's hotel would form a convenient resting-place and cover until such time as he saw his way to crying quits with the pair. it is here that the odd part of the story begins, having its origin in one of those freaks of coincidence which, after all, are not so common in fiction as they are in actual life, and are certainly not stranger. the _soi-disant_ mr. barnes had, in his palmy days, taken up his residence for business purposes, of all places in the world, at dulborough. finding that there had been a james southam thereabouts, and conceiving that it would be as well, in case of accidents, that the credit of his misdeeds should stand a chance of being fathered on the real james southam instead of on the false one, he had not only taken to himself my name, but had actually located himself in the house in which i had been bred and born. jonas hartopp regretted his treachery almost as soon as he had played the traitor. either he did not find the lady such a good bargain as he thought he should, or, at any rate, not a commensurate exchange for the good offices of his ingenious and profitable friend. he decided after a while to extend the olive branch towards his whilom colleague. it was with that idea in view that he had inserted the advertisement addressed to james southam, of dulborough, which had caught my eye. under the circumstances, when the newly-fledged mr. barnes, acting his _rôle_ of waiter, heard the stranger on whom he was attending pronounce his quondam cognomen, it was not surprising that he jumped to the conclusion that the philistines had tracked him to his lair, and that, in consequence, he turned tail and ran. amelia martin, having played the part of traitor herself, was quick at suspecting intended treachery in another. she had an inkling of what it was jonas hartopp, _alias_ duncan rothwell, proposed to do. the pair had a violent quarrel the night before he went to town. she followed him without his being conscious of the fact, on that eventful journey, in a dangerous mood; and in what, doubtless, was a moment half of fear and half of frenzy, she struck him dead. the evidence at the inquest, and the discovery that there was a real james southam in the world, and that "duncan rothwell," therefore, had started on a futile quest, gave her the idea of removing suspicion from herself by attributing the crime to me--which ingenious plan she might have carried to a successful issue, and i been hanged for what i never had the faintest thought of doing, if the false james southam had not come on the scene in the very nick of time. it was she who placed the knife with which she had done the deed behind the wainscot in my bedroom! the trial of amelia martin for the murder of jonas hartopp, during which this tale was unfolded, continued for a week. on her behalf medical evidence was brought to show that she suffered from periodical attacks of mania, during which she could not justly be held responsible for her actions--for which condition of affairs mr. barnes's mesmeric experiments had probably something to do. she was sentenced to be confined as a criminal lunatic during her majesty's pleasure. mr. barnes's suicide in his cell, on the night before he was to be brought to trial--for, in spite of the assistance which he rendered in the case of amelia martin, the police, apparently, had no intention of letting him go "scot free"--was the sensation of a "special edition." "mrs. barnes" sold the hotel and retired into private life. at present, i believe, she is residing with some relatives in a corner of far-off canada. as for me, i still seem very far from being on the road which leads to the making of a fortune; but, at any rate, i am not at present out of employment, and i sincerely trust that the time is very far distant when i shall be. the end. mr. ely's engagement chapter i the first wooer number two, draper's gardens, the office of mr. john ash, dealer in stocks and shares. time, noon. mr. ash, with his hat pushed on to the back of his head, seated at a table studying a letter. "whatever women find to write about beats me. a man puts a volume inside two lines. a woman puts two lines inside a volume." mr. ash rustled the letter irritably in his hands. it was a voluminous production, written by a feminine pen, crossed and recrossed in a way which, in these days of cheap paper and cheap postage, none but a feminine pen would dream of. "however a man is supposed to read it is more than i can tell. i can just make out the opening: 'my dearest guardian,'--yes, dear at any price! and the signature--where is it? i know i saw it somewhere. yes, of course, there it is--straggling across the date and the address: 'your affectionate ward, lily truscott'!" he laid the letter down, and thrust his hands into his breeches-pockets, leaned back in his chair, and began to whistle softly beneath his breath. "i wish i could get some one to marry her--a decent sort of man. though, upon my word, if this sort of thing is to go on"--he glanced at the letter with a look of mild despair--"i sha'n't mind who it is. she knows i hate letters--that's why she keeps on writing them. if two men can't know each other without one of them dying and leaving the other with his daughter on his hands, no wonder a man likes to keep his circle of acquaintance small. and when the girl's got looks and money, god help the man who's got to stay and mind her! well, here goes. i suppose i'll have to answer it, or she'll be writing again to-morrow to know if i am ill." taking up the letter he regarded it with a look of ineffable disgust. "what she says i don't know. rather than decipher these hieroglyphics i'd lose a hundred pounds. anyhow, here goes to make the best of it." drawing towards him a sheet of paper and a pen he began to nibble the end of the pen. "what the dickens shall i say? how can a man answer a letter when he doesn't know what is in it!" he began to write, indulging in a sort or commentary by the way. "my dear lily,--i have read your charming letter with the greatest interest. (i have! i have!) you are indeed a mistress of the epistolary art. (i hope she won't imagine that's writ sarkastick. now, what shall i say?) the account which you give of the doings of your neighbourhood (i hope that's safe--it ought to be, women always do talk about that kind of thing) is most entertaining. (most!) it is with the greatest pleasure that i hear of your continuance in good health. (i wonder if she says anything about her being ill?) i am glad to hear, too, that your aunt, mrs. clive, is still in the enjoyment of nature's greatest blessing. (i wonder if she mentions the old girl's name!) pray convey to her my compliments. (old fool! now for something to wind up with.) i envy you your peaceful sojourn amidst summer's scenic splendours. (not so bad! 'summer's scenic splendours.') tied as i am to the juggernaut of commerce, i can, however, but look and long. (i wouldn't live in a place like that for thirty thousand a year.) "your affectionate guardian, "john ash." "i think that'll do. it will, at any rate, prevent her writing again to-morrow to know if i am ill." while he was examining, with a certain satisfaction, this example of polite correspondence, a voice was heard inquiring for him in the office without: "mr. ash in?" when mr. ash heard the voice, an acidulated expression appeared upon his countenance. "ely! what does the fool want here? it's not so very long ago since i very nearly had to hurt his head." "all right; you needn't trouble him. i'll show myself in." the owner of the voice did show himself in. he was a dapper little man, with fair hair and a little fair moustache, the ends of which were arranged with the utmost nicety, and a pair of rather washed-out blue eyes, which could, however, look keen enough when they pleased. he was what might be described as a bandbox sort of man. beautiful grey trousers fitted over exquisite patent shoes. a spotless white waistcoat relieved an irreproachable black coat. his necktie was arranged in an absolutely perfect little bow. his hat gleamed as though it had just that moment left the manufacturer's hands. he carried a metal pencil-case, and one of those long, thin note-books which gentlemen of the stock exchange use to enter their bargains in. a diamond ring sparkled on the little finger of his left hand, and in the button-hole of his coat, backed by a sprig of maiden-hair, was a sweet blush-rose. this beautiful little gentleman seemed to be satisfied with himself and all the world. "surprised to see me, i daresay." his rather metallic voice did not altogether accord with the radiancy of his appearance. one expected flute-like notes to come from him. his actual tones were sharp and shrill. "i am; considering that last time i had the privilege of your conversation you were good enough to say i was a thief." the dapper little man stood before the empty stove picking his beautiful white teeth with his metal pencil-case. "well, ash, business is business, and no man likes to be robbed, you know." "is that what you have come to tell me? because, if so, you can impart the information equally well while i am pitching you through the window." the little man did not seem at all annoyed. he did not even seem amused. he appeared to be quite accustomed to that sort of speech. he seemed to take it for granted, at any rate. "well, no--quite the other way. fact is, i'm looking for a wife." "a what?" "a wife." "the deuce you are! and do you think i've a selection on view here?" "not a selection. you've got one." "what the dickens do you mean?" "come, ash, you know. it's your ward, miss truscott." mr. ash gave a loud whistle of surprise. then he turned in his chair and stared at the dapper little man. the dapper little man went on, in the calmest, matter-of-fact sort of way-- "the fact is, i'm sick of chambers, and i'm sick of dining at the club. i want a house, and i don't care to take a house unless i take a wife. why shouldn't it be miss truscott, ash?" he paused as if for a reply. but if he did, none came. "there's another thing. you know rosenbaum?" mr. ash signified assent. "he wants to plant one of his girls on me. all six of them, so far as i can see. he's always shying them at my head. besides, he's been hammered twice. if he went again, where should i be, i'd like to know. not to mention that the whole six of them have got carbuncles instead of noses, and moustaches quite as good as mine." "i did hear that you were engaged to a miss rosenbaum." "then you heard wrong; i ain't. why shouldn't it be miss truscott, ash? i've got something and she's got something. i tell you fairly, if she hadn't it wouldn't do. and if we pulled together, you and i, we might put something in each other's way." he winked at mr. ash. mr. ash grinned, and turned aside. he regarded the letter on his desk. "have you spoken to her yet?" "not a word. i wanted first to have things clear with you. i'll run down to-morrow if it's all serene." mr. ash appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind. "there's no man in england that girl need ask to marry her." "i'm sure i never said there was." "ah, i daresay if you were to take nine men out of ten and heap them in a crowd, she might take her pick out of the lot!" "if it comes to that, i might take my pick out of a few. frederic ely's a man who never need go begging." mr. ash smiled. his smile was scarcely flattering to his friend. he continued to turn the matter over in his mind. suddenly he got up. "ely, i like you. we've had our differences, but as you say, that's because we're both men of business, and like to see the entries on the right side of the ledger." that was not exactly what mr. ely had said but no matter. "lily truscott's a girl in a thousand--in million, sir. i know her--i know her well. there's nothing in that girl's heart which is hidden from me, and that girl's heart's all good, and that's something to say of a girl at this time of day. if she were my daughter, and i were her father, there's no man to whom i should be more willing to give her, sir, than you. take her, sir; take her! and i wish you joy!" he turned away, but whether it was to hide a tear or even some deeper sign of heartfelt emotion, is a difficult thing to say. mr. ely did not appear much touched. "that's the time of day, old man. you send her along a line to say i'm on the road; prepare her mind, you know." if mr. ash did not know, at least mr. ely winked. "i'll be up in time. if you write to her now, she'll get it the first thing in the morning, and she'll have time to settle herself before i come. ta, ta! see you in the house!" mr. ely moved towards the door. mr. ash spoke to him just as he reached it. "how about that erie syndicate?" mr. ely paused. he stared steadily at mr. ash's back. for some reason mr. ash continued with his back turned away. "you help me with this and i'll help you with that. i can't say fairer than that, my boy." apparently mr. ash did not seem to think he could, for when mr. ely was gone, and the door was closed, he indulged in a little quiet laughter. he reseated himself in his chair and began to nurse his knee. "i think--yes--i think that will do. ely's a curious combination; in business matters one of the shrewdest men i know, out of them one of the greatest idiots on earth. however, i think that it will do. i'll just add a postscript to that letter of mine." he drew the letter towards him, and to the end of it tagged the following-- "p.s.--by the way, a friend of yours--mr. frederic ely--will be with you to-morrow morning--perhaps almost as soon as you get this. he is a gentleman for whose character i have the greatest respect. he will ask my dear lily a question in which both he and i are deeply interested. i earnestly trust that my dear lily's heart will answer 'yes.'" he scanned the p.s. with admiring eyes. "i call that neat but not gaudy. none of the awful guardian there. and, upon my word, i don't see why she shouldn't have him; one idiot's as good as another, and if he chooses he can be as good as a hundred thousand pounds to me." folding the letter, he placed it in an envelope and addressed it: "miss truscott, the cliff, shanklin, isle of wight." while he was still engaged in this proceeding, the clear, ringing tones of a man's voice was heard in the outer office, and for the second time that morning the door of mr. ash's sanctum was unceremoniously opened, and, again unannounced, a second visitor came in. chapter ii the second wooer a very different visitor this to the first. a tall, stalwart fellow, with a guardsman's chest, a long fair beard which hid his neck, and a huge pair of the most ridiculous moustaches. no bandbox fellow he! dressed in a shooting suit, crowned by a soft, deer-stalker's hat, flourishing what was a bludgeon rather than a stick in his hand, he seemed hardly the type of figure which is generally to be found in the neighbourhood of capel court. "hallo, ash, tracked you down, old man." his voice was like himself: there was plenty of it. it should have been worth a fortune to him on the stock exchange. "summers! whatever brings you here?" "what doesn't often bring a man to the city--love, and my lady's eyes." "what!" mr. ash fairly sprang out of his chair. he stared at his visitor with bewildered surprise. "you may well stare, and stare your fill. i'm worth staring at to-day, for i just don't feel as though i know whether i'm standing on my head or heels. the greatest stroke of luck has happened to me that ever happened to a man before--i've sold my picture for a thousand pounds." "you've done what?" "ah, i knew you wouldn't believe it. it does sound incredible, doesn't it? but it is a fact, though, all the same. i've sold my new gallery picture, 'a dream of love: an idyll, by william summers,' for a thousand pounds." "and have you come all the way to draper's gardens to tell me so? it's very good of you, i'm sure. "it would be good of me if that was all, but it's not; there happens to be more. what does that sale mean? it means that i've made a hit--that i've got a commission for another at the same price--that my fortune is made. i'm a man of fortune, sir." "i assure you i am very glad to hear it; but i hope you will excuse my mentioning that i still have my fortune to make, and that this is the busiest hour of the day." "all right, wait half a jiffy, man. keep yourself in hand, for upon my soul i can't. what does my being a man of fortune mean? it means that i have become a marrying man--a man who has a right to marry. so i'm going to marry." "i congratulate you with all my heart. do i know the lady?" "well, rather, considering that she's your ward." "what!" "miss truscott's going to be my wife. i thought i would just drop in and let you know." "drop in and let me know! if this isn't the coolest proceeding i ever heard of in my life!" the amazed mr. ash stared at his visitor, who seemed, so to speak, to be laughing all over his face. then he dropped into his chair, and stared at the addressed letter which lay upon his desk. he appeared to be conscious of a certain confusion of mind. "good gad!" he told himself; "just now i was wishing that some one would come along and marry her. this is a case of one's wishes being too plentifully granted. it strikes me there's one too many." then he addressed himself to his visitor aloud-- "really, mr. summers, i fail to understand you." "it's plain enough." "it may be plain enough to you. you must allow me to say that it is anything but plain enough to me. may i ask when you made what i must call this surreptitious request to my ward for her hand?" "oh, that's just the point. i haven't spoken to her yet." "you haven't spoken to her yet! i understood you to say that she was going to marry you?" "that's right enough--so she is." "this may be plain enough to you, but it is really getting still less plain to me. you evidently think that her guardian's consent is not required. may i ask if you think that the lady's is unnecessary too?" "there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy--i see that plainly, ash! don't you know that there is a language more eloquent than speech? that it is possible for a man and woman to understand each other perfectly and yet not interchange a word? we understand each other like that, my friend." "i should be sorry to say anything which might lessen your self-conceit, but i think you are mistaken, mr. summers." "oh, no, i'm not." "but i say you are! hang it, sir, i never saw a more 'came, saw, and conquered' style about a man before. if i were you, i would wait for victory to forward your despatch. as it is, i happen to know that miss truscott is engaged already." so saying, mr. ash slipped his letter into the inner pocket of his coat. "what!" "for goodness' sake, mr. summers, don't shout the ceiling down! you will have the people coming in from the street, not to speak of the clerks outside." "if i didn't know that you meant it for a jest, i should say it was a lie." "you may say exactly what you please, it won't alter the fact." "the fact! you call that a fact! i'll go down to shanklin by the next train, and learn the truth from her own lips." mr. summers made for the door, but mr. ash interposed; he was conscious that it would be advisable to induce this impetuous suitor to hasten slowly. "one moment, mr. summers. i am sure you would be unwilling to do another an injury, even unconsciously. if you will restrain your impatience i will endeavour to explain to you exactly how the matter lies." "how the matter lies? that's just what it does do--it lies! or some one does, at any rate." "mr. summers, you are a man of honour--we are both men of honour, i trust. would you have me break my plighted word?" "break your plighted word? that depends. if you've plighted your word to break my heart, by george! i'd have you break it, then!" "let me remove this matter from the realms of romance into the regions of common sense." "when you city men begin to talk about common sense you mean something very common indeed." "mr. summers, this is a very solemn subject to me." "solemn subject to you! i wonder what sort of subject you think it is to me. is she going to be my wife or yours?" "miss truscott will be the wife of neither." "won't she? by george, we'll see!" again mr. summers made helter-skelter for the door. again mr. ash made haste to interpose. "if you will permit me to speak half a dozen consecutive words without interruption, i will make it plain to you that what i have at heart is the interest of all concerned." "except me! never mind, i'll listen. out with your half a dozen words." mr. summers dropped into a chair in a way which must have been a severe test of its solidity, and brought his bludgeon down upon the floor with a bang. mr. ash started. he felt that this was a sort of suitor he had not bargained for. "the case in a nutshell is simply this. just before you came there was a gentleman here who made exactly the same proposal you have done. he, too, solicited the honour of miss truscott's hand." mr. summers was up like a rocket. again his bludgeon came down with a bang. "the devil there was! confound his impudence! what was the scoundrel's name?" "the scoundrel's name is immaterial. the point is that i agreed that he should go down to shanklin to-morrow, and, in proper form, make to the lady the offer of his hand." "to-morrow, did you? then i am off tonight." "still one moment, mr. summers, if you please. you appeared to be so certain of the lady's affection that i was scarcely prepared to find you so alarmed at the prospect of a rival in the field." "alarmed! not i! i will back my darling's truth against the world!" "then supposing, instead of confining yourself to words, you prove your faith by deeds. let this man try his luck to-morrow. if he fails, there is the next day left for you. "look here, ash; when he's failed, will you consent to lily being mine?" "if he fails and miss truscott gives her consent, then i will." "then it's agreed! to-morrow, the beggar shall have his chance! the day after, i'll try mine." just then the door opened and mr. ely appeared. mr. summers rushed to him with outstretched hand. "hallo, ely, haven't seen you for an age! you're looking queer! you ought to try a change of air." "think so? to-morrow i'm going out of town." "are you? that's odd! the day after i'm going too." these remarks were exchanged while the two gentlemen shook hands. chapter iii mr. ely arrives miss truscott was evidently not in the pleasantest frame of mind. it was unfortunate, for she was the kind of maid one feels instinctively ought always to be in a pleasant frame of mind. tall, slender, with great, big eyes, sunny hair, and the sweetest smile. the latter, however, was conspicuous by its absence, as she sat at the breakfast-table with an open letter in her hand. she was at breakfast with her aunt. mrs. clive was a precise old lady, who always indoors wore lace cuffs and collar, and the neatest of caps. it was a peculiarity of hers that she was never known to be anything but cool and self-possessed. sometimes her niece was neither. then it increased the young lady's sense of aggravation to observe how her aunt's demeanour contrasted with her own--as, for instance, it did now. "you don't seem to be in the least surprised or annoyed or hurt. you quite take it for granted that i should be insulted." mrs. clive considered for a moment before she answered. she sat bolt upright, her hands in her lap, the model of decorum. "my dear lily, the younger generation is impetuous." miss truscott sighed. to be called impetuous under the circumstances of the case seemed almost more than she could bear. "i write to my guardian on the whole four sides of a sheet of paper to tell him that i must get away from this dreadful place or i shall die, and this is the answer he sends." she spread the letter out before her on the table and read it aloud, with comments by the way. "'my dear lily' (yes, dear at any price, i know), 'i have read your charming letter with the greatest interest.' (did anybody ever hear the like of that? he read my charming letter with the greatest interest, when i wrote to tell him that i quite believed that i should die!) 'you are indeed a mistress of the epistolary art.' (that is a pretty compliment to pay when you write and tell a person that life is not worth living!) 'the account which you give of the doings of your neighbours is most entertaining.' (now i never mentioned a single word about anything but the state of my mind!) 'it is with the greatest pleasure that i hear of your continuance in good health.' (when the whole letter was written to tell him that i was nearly dead!) 'i am glad to hear, too, that your aunt, mrs. clive, is still in the enjoyment of nature's greatest blessing.' (what nature's greatest blessing is i don't know, but i am sure i never even breathed your name.) 'pray convey to her my compliments.' (with pleasure, aunt!) 'i envy you your sojourn amidst summer's scenic splendours.' (that is what he says, and i actually told him that i was convinced that if i stayed any longer amidst what he calls 'summer's scenic splendours' i should just go raving mad!) 'tied as i am to the juggernaut of commerce, i can, however, but look and long.' now did you--did you ever hear anything like that? and yet you say the younger generation is impetuous! i should just like to have my affectionate guardian here; i'd let him know what the juggernaut really was!" the young lady seemed a little excited, but the elder one was still quite calm. "you have forgotten the postscript, my dear." "forgotten the postscript! oh, aunty, don't i wish i could!' by the way, a friend of yours, mr. frederic ely, will be with you to-morrow morning, perhaps almost as soon as you get this.' perhaps the wretch is actually on the doorstep now!" "lily, lily! how can you talk like that!" "so he is a wretch! but never mind, it's all the same to me. 'he is a gentleman for whose character i have the greatest respect. he will ask my dear lily a question in which both he and i are deeply interested. i earnestly trust that my dear lily's heart will answer yes.' talk about a woman's postscript! mr. ash puts nothing in his letter, and the whole library of the british museum in his p.s.! well, aunty, what do you think of that?" "i congratulate you, my dear, on the near approach of your settlement in life." miss truscott gave a little shriek, and then was dumb. she glared at her aunt as though she could believe neither her eyes or ears. mrs. clive went placidly on. "it is indeed gratifying to learn that mr. ash has made his choice." "who has made his choice?" asked miss truscott between her little teeth. "one for whose character he has the greatest respect. such words coming from mr. ash are satisfactory in the extreme. you are indeed fortunate in possessing a guardian who has your interests so entirely at heart." "what are you talking about?" asked miss truscott. "do you think i shall marry this man?" "lily!" exclaimed mrs. give. "you have such a singular way of expressing yourself. but perhaps"--the old lady smoothed her gown--"perhaps you are a little surprised." miss truscott gave a sort of gasp. "i am," she said. "i am a little surprised!" "i suppose we are all when our turns come. i remember in my young days when my dear mother told me that i was to marry mr. clive." "told you you were to marry mr. clive?" "yes, my dear. and i remember quite well how bewildered i was at first." "didn't you love him, then?" "my dear, how can you ask me such a question! we were comparative strangers. i had only been acquainted with him about three months." "three months! good gracious! why, i thought three minutes was long enough to fall in love!" "lily, i am amazed to hear you talk so flippantly! it is plain that it is quite time that you had more settled views of life. among the new responsibilities on which you are now about to enter i trust that you will learn the solemnity of woman's position in the world, and the deference which she owes to the married state." miss truscott laughed. her laughter was of rather an hysterical kind, as though it were near akin to tears. but mrs. clive was shocked. she regarded miss truscott with what she intended to be considered as severe disapprobation. then, with her most stately air, she rose and left the room. pausing at the door, however, she delivered herself of a final expression of her opinion. "lily, i am disappointed in you. i can only hope that mr. ely will not have cause to be disappointed too." when miss truscott was left alone she sat quite still, looking into vacancy. the smile about the corners of her mouth was hardly up to its usual character for sweetness. there was a glitter in her eyes which gave them quite a new expression. suddenly she leaned her face upon her hands and shivered. it could hardly have been with cold, for the sun was shining and the day was warm. then she got up, and began pacing restlessly about the room. "is it a dream? is it a dream?" her hands were clasped with a sort of hysteric energy. "what does it matter! he has forgotten me! what fools we women are!" she took out a locket which was hidden in the bosom of her dress, and gazed upon the face which it contained. "willy!"--how softly she breathed the name--"twelve months since you told me that story with your eyes--twelve months ago! where have you been this weary time! i suppose it was an incident with you. i have heard those sort of things are incidents with men. what a fool i was to take it seriously! what fools we women are! i ought to have known that it was the fashion with mr. summers to love and ride away." she stood gazing at the portrait. all at once something angered her--some recollection, perhaps, of long ago. she snapped the slender chain to which it was attached, and flung the locket on the floor. as if not content with this degradation of her treasure, she placed her little foot upon it and crushed it beneath her heel. "what fools we women are!" for a moment she looked upon the ruins she had wrought. the pretty little locket was crushed all out of shape. then came penitence, and stooping down with streaming eyes she picked the broken locket up and pressed it to her lips; and, still upon her knees, flinging herself face downwards on to the seat of a great arm-chair, she cried as though her heart would break. "i didn't mean to do it, willy, i didn't mean to do it; but it's all the same, it doesn't matter whom i marry now!" she was only a girl: and it is a charming characteristic of the better sort of girls that they will do foolish things at times. but there was very little of the girl about her when mr. ely came; she was the stateliest of young ladies then. the air of having just come out of a bandbox was more apparent about mr. ely in the country even than in town. he was one of those very few men who are never seen out of a frock-coat. throgmorton street or a devonshire lane it was the same to him. wherever he was his attire remained unaltered. but it must be allowed that he was conscious that things were not compatible--patent shoes, top-hat, frock-coat, and a devonshire lane. so from the devonshire lane he religiously stayed away. he did his ruralising in centres of fashion where his frock-coat was in place, and not in the equivalents of the devonshire lane. he was not affected by the modern craze for the country side. he objected to it strongly: a fact which he made plain as soon as he appeared on the scene. mrs. clive received him. she began the conversation on what she fondly conceived were the usual lines. "how glad you must be to get into the country. it must be such a change from town." "change! i should think it is a change! beastly change, by george!" mrs. clive was a little shocked. the adverb did not fall sweetly on her ear. but mr. ely went glibly on. he had a grievance which he wished to air. "why they don't have decent cabs at the station i don't know. if there was a live man in the place he'd put some hansoms on the road. fly, they called the thing i came up in! fly! i should like to know what's the aboriginal definition of 'to crawl'! and dusty! i left my mark upon that seat, and that seat left its mark on me. i feel like a regular dustman--upon my word i do." miss truscott made her first appearance at the luncheon-table. the meal was not an entire success. this was partly owing to the fact that miss trustcott seemed to have gone back into the glacial or prehistoric period, and partly because mr. ely still had his grievance on his mind. mrs. clive did her best to entertain the company, but in spite of her meritorious efforts the conversation languished. "and how are things in the city?" she felt that this was the sort of question she ought to ask. "all over the shop!" mrs. clive started. she felt that the answer was not so explanatory as it might have been. still she bravely persevered. "dear me! i suppose that commercial matters are affected by the seasons." she thought that this sort of remark would go home to the commercial mind. "eh? oh, yes; rather! i should think they were! in fine weather traffics go up all round. noras have gone up one, doras one seven-eighths, trunks are flat: there's a rig-out there and rates are pooled, but this side bulls are in the right hole pretty near all along the line. bertha's about the only one got stuck." mrs. clive was speechless. she looked at miss truscott with imploring eyes. but that young lady was tranquilly engaged with the contents of her plate. "poor girl!" it was a study to see mr. ely's face when the old lady made this innocent remark. "i beg your pardon! what did you say?" "i said, poor girl! i hope she has done nothing wrong." "who's done nothing wrong?" "the young lady you mentioned. miss bertha, i think you said. i am not acquainted with her surname." mr. ely was silent. he was not a man gifted with a keen sense of humour, and was not at all clear in his own mind that the old lady was not amusing herself at his expense. mrs. clive, conscious that something was wrong, went painfully plodding on. "i trust, mr. ely, that i have not, unintentionally, said something to hurt your feelings. is the young lady a friend of yours?" "what young lady?" mr. ely placed his knife and fork together, with a little clatter, on his plate. was she at it again? this was more than a man could stand. "miss bertha--the young lady you mentioned." "bertha's not a lady." "not a lady! dear me! one of the lower classes! i perceive! now i understand. ah, i'm afraid that from them anything may be expected nowadays." mr. ely turned pink, not with suppressed mirth, but with what was very much like rage. for some moments an unprejudiced spectator might have debated in his own mind as to whether he was not about to be profane. but if it were so, he conquered his impious tendency, and adopted another line of conduct instead. he rose from his seat. "if you will allow me, i'll go outside for a change of air"; and without waiting for the required permission he marched through the french window out on to the lawn. the old lady turned to her niece-- "my dear lily, what have i said or done?" "my dear aunt, i believe that bertha, in the slang of the stock exchange, signifies the london, brighton, and south coast railway. i suspect that mr. ely imagines that you have been amusing yourself at his expense." mrs. clive was aghast. "go to him, lily. don't leave him alone in his present state of mind. he might return at once to town!" miss truscott rose with her most tranquil air. "we might survive his departure if he did." but her aunt was shocked. "lily, it pains me to hear such language from your lips. you are now approaching one of the most solemn moments of your life. rise to the occasion, child, and show that, although still a child in years, you have within you the wherewithal with which to make a woman in good time." miss truscott looked as if she could have said something if she would, but she refrained. she left the room without a word. chapter iv mr. ely wooes the interview between mr. ely and the object of his heart's devotion was not so solemn as it might have been. possibly that was in a measure owing to what had gone before. but it must be owned that miss truscott's mood was hardly attuned to the occasion. we must also, at the same time, allow that mr. ely's demeanour was hardly that of the ideal wooer. "your aunt seems to have a nice idea of business! i've heard a few things, but she beats all! i thought she was getting at me, upon my word i did!" this was scarcely the remark with which to open a tender interview. miss truscott said nothing. she was seated in a low garden-chair, hatless, her little feet peeping from under the hem of her summer gown. she seemed sufficiently cool just then, but her silence did not appear to be altogether to mr. ely's liking. he himself did not seem to be as cool as he might have been. "i believe, miss truscott, that mr. ash has told you what's brought me here." mr. ely's tone seemed even waspish--not loverlike at all. "indeed!" miss truscott just parted her lips and let the word drop out, that was all. "may i ask what i am to understand by that?" just then a fat white dog, of the doormat species, appeared on the top of the steps. miss truscott addressed this animal-- "pompey! pompey! good dog! come here!" the "good dog" referred to slowly waddled across the grass, and on reaching miss truscott's chair was raised to the seat of honour upon that lady's knee. "are you interested in dogs, mr. ely? if so, i am sure you must like pompey. he generally bites strangers at first, but perhaps after a time he won't bite you!" "i'll take care he doesn't get a chance--either first or last." "why not? he bit a piece of cloth out of the curate's trousers the other day, but mr. staines says that he doesn't think his teeth quite met in the calf of his leg." mr. ely gasped. his temperature seemed rapidly to increase. "i did not come here to talk about dogs: and you'll excuse my mentioning that you have not yet informed me as to whether mr. ash has told you what i did come for." "let me see!" miss truscott took out her guardian's letter and referred to it before mr. ely's distended eyes. "hum--hum--pompey, lie down! there, now pompey has torn it all to bits!" as indeed the animal had, and was now chewing some of the fragments as though they were a sort of supplementary meal. "what shall i do? pompey has the most extraordinary taste. it runs in the family, i think. do you know that his mother once ate nearly the whole of a pair of my old shoes?" mr. ely wiped his brow. he was becoming very warm indeed. he seated himself in another garden chair. for a moment he contemplated drawing it closer to miss truscott's side, but the thought of pompey and his extraordinary taste--which ran in his family--induced him to refrain. "miss truscott, i'm a business man, and i like to do things in a business kind of way." mr. ely paused. he felt that he was feeling his way. but the young lady disarranged his plans. "by the way, mr. ely, have you been up regent street just lately?" "been up regent street?" "can you tell me if there are any nice things in the shop-windows?" mr. ely did not exactly gasp this time. he choked down something in his throat. what it was we cannot say. "miss truscott, i'm a business man----" "you said that before." the words were murmured as miss truscott stroked pompey's woolly head. "said it before! i say it again! i wish you'd allow me to get right through." "right through what?" "right through what! right through what i have to say!" "oh, go on, pray. i hope i haven't interrupted you?" "interrupted me!" mr. ely snorted; no other word will describe the sound he made. "i say, i'm a business man----" "third time of asking!" mr. ely got up. he looked very cross indeed. pompey snarled. that faithful animal seemed to scent battle in the air. "well, i'm--hanged!" we fear that mr. ely would have preferred another termination, but he contented himself with "hanged." miss truscott looked up. she allowed her long, sweeping eyelashes gradually to unveil her eyes. she regarded mr. ely with a look of the sweetest, most innocent surprise. "mr. ely! whatever is there wrong?" mr. ely was obliged to take a step or two before he could trust himself to speak. as he was sufficiently warm already the exercise did not tend to make him cool. under the circumstances, he showed a considerable amount of courage in coming to the point with a rush. "miss truscott, i want a wife!" "you want a what?" "a wife! don't i say it plain enough? i want a wife!" "i see. you want a wife." with her calmest, coolest air miss truscott continued stroking pompey's head. "did you notice how they are wearing the hats in town?" mr. ely sprang--literally sprang!--about an inch and a half from the ground. "what the dickens do i know about the hats in town?" "mr. ely! how excited you do get! i thought everybody knew about the hats in town--i mean, whether they wear them on the right side or the left." mr. ely was not an excitable man as a rule, but he certainly did seem excited now. his handkerchief, which he had kept in his hand since the commencement of the interview, he had kneaded into a little ball which was hard as stone. "miss truscott, i'll--i'll give a sovereign to any charity you like to name if you'll stick to the point for just two minutes." "hand over the sovereign!" mr. ely was taken aback. miss truscott held out her small, white hand with a promptitude which surprised him. "i--i said that i would give a sovereign to any charity you like to name if you'll stick to the point for just two minutes." "cash in advance, and i'll keep to any point you like to name for ten." mr. ely was doubtful. miss truscott looked at him with eyes which were wide enough open now. her hand was unflinchingly held out. mr. ely felt in the recesses of his waistcoat pocket. he produced a sovereign purse, and from this sovereign purse he produced a coin. "it's the first time i ever heard of a man having to pay a sovereign to ask a woman to be his wife!" "hand over the sovereign!" she became possessed of the golden coin. "this sovereign will be applied to the charitable purpose of erecting a monument over pompey's mother's grave. now, mr. ely, i'm your man." mr. ely seemed a little subdued. the business-like way in which he had been taken at his word perhaps caused him to feel a certain respect for the lady's character. he reseated himself in the garden-chair. "i've already said that i want a wife." "do you wish me to find you one? i can introduce you to several of my friends. i know a young lady in the village, aged about thirty-eight, who has an impediment in her speech, who would make an excellent companion for your more silent hours." "the wife i want is you." "that is very good of you, i'm sure." there was a pause. the lady, with a little smile, tranquilly tickled pompey with the sovereign she had earned. the gentleman fidgeted with his handkerchief. "well, miss truscott, am i to be gratified?" "why do you want me? won't some one else do as well?" immediately the gentleman became a little rose. "may i ask you for an answer to my question?" "you haven't asked me a question yet." "will you be my wife?" the question was put in a rather louder key than, in such cases, is understood to be the rule. miss truscott raised her head, and for some moments kept her glance fixed upon the gentleman, as though she were trying to read something in his face. then she lowered her glance and made answer thus-- "frankly--you say you are a business man--let us, as you suggest, understand each other in a business kind of way. in asking me to be your wife, you are not asking for--love?" as she spoke of love her lips gave just the tiniest twitch. "i believe that a wife is supposed to love her husband--as a rule." "in your creed love comes after marriage?" "at this present moment i'm asking you to be my wife." "that's exactly what i understand. you're not even making a pretence of loving me?" "miss truscott, as you put it, i'm a business man. i have money, you have money----" "let's put the lot together and make a pile. really, that's not a bad idea on the whole." it was the young lady who gave this rather unexpected conclusion to his sentence. then she looked at him steadily with those great eyes of hers, whose meaning for the life of him he could not understand. "i suppose that all you want from me is 'yes'; and that in complete indifference as to whether i like you or do not?" "if you didn't like me you wouldn't be sitting here." "really, that's not a bad idea again. you arrive at rapid conclusions in your own peculiar way. i suppose if i told you that i could like a man--love him better than my life--you would not understand." "that sort of thing is not my line. i'm not a sentimental kind of man. i say a thing and mean a thing and when i say i'll do a thing it's just as good as done." "then all you want me to be is--mrs. ely?" "what else do you suppose i want you to be? it's amazing how even the most sensible women like to beat about the bush. here have i asked you a good five minutes to be my wife, and you're just coming to the point. why can't you say right out--yes or no." miss truscott shrugged her shoulders. "i suppose it doesn't matter?" "what doesn't matter?" "what i say." "by george, though, but it does!" miss truscott leaned her head back in her chair. she put her hand before her mouth as if to hide a yawn. she closed her eyes. she looked more than half asleep. "then i will." "will what?" "say 'yes.'" "you mean that you will be my wife? it's a bargain, mind!" "it is a bargain. that's just the proper word to use." "that's all right. then i'll send a wire to ash to let him know it's done." "yes, send a wire up to town to let him know it's done." mr. ely moved towards the house. from her voice and manner miss truscott still seemed more than half asleep; but hers was a curious kind of sleepiness, for in the corner of each of her closed eyelids there gleamed something that looked very like a drop of diamond dew. prosaic people might have said it was a tear. chapter v mr. ely departs mr. ely returned to town on the following morning, and miss truscott was an engaged young woman. the interval between the moment of her becoming engaged and the departure of the gentleman was not--we are rather at a loss for the proper word to use--let us put it, was not exactly so pleasant as it might have been. although the man and the maid had plighted troth they certainly did not seem like lovers; they scarcely even seemed to be friends. the position seemed to be a little strained. mr. ely noticed this as the day wore on. he resented it. in the garden after dinner he relieved his mind. the lady was seated, the admirable pompey on her knee, so engaged in reading as to appear wholly oblivious that the gentleman was in her neighbourhood. for some time mr. ely fidgeted about in silence. the lady did not appear even to notice that. at last he could keep still no longer. "you seem very fond of reading?" "i am." the lady did not even take her eyes off her book to answer him, but read tranquilly on. "i hope i'm not in your way." "not at all"; which was true enough. he might have been miles away for all the notice the lady appeared to take of him. "one has to come into the country to learn manners." "one has to come into the country to do what?" as if conscious that he was skating on thin ice, mr. ely endeavoured to retrace his steps. "considering that only this morning you promised to be my wife, i think that you might have something to say." partially closing the book, but keeping one slender finger within it to mark the place, the lady condescended to look up. "why should you think that?" "i believe it is usual for persons in our situation to have something to say to each other, but i don't know, i'm sure." the lady entirely closed her book and placed it on a little table at her side. "what shall we talk about?" the gentleman was still. under such circumstances the most gifted persons might have found it difficult to commence a conversation. "are you interested in questions of millinery?" "in questions of millinery!" "or do you take a wider range, and take a living interest in the burning questions of the progress of revolution and the advance of man?" mr. ely felt clear in his own mind that the lady was chaffing him, but he did not quite see his way to tell her so. "i'm fond of common sense." "ah, but common sense is a term which conveys such different meanings. i suppose, that, in its strictest definition, common sense is the highest, rarest sense of all. i suppose that you use the term in a different way." this was exasperating. mr. ely felt it was. "i suppose you mean that i'm a fool." "there again--who shall define folly? the noblest spirits of them all have been by the world called fools." miss truscott gazed before her with a rapt intensity of vision, as though she saw the noble spirits referred to standing in the glow of the western sky. "i must say you have nice ideas of sociability." "i have had my ideas at times. i have dreamed of a social intercourse which should be perfect sympathy. but they were but dreams." mr. ely held his peace. this sort of thing was not at all his idea of conversation. it is within the range of possibility to suspect that his idea of perfect conversation was perfect shop--an eternal reiteration of the ins-and-outs and ups-and-downs of stocks and shares. however that might be, it came to pass that neither of these two people went in a loverlike frame of mind to bed. but this acted upon each of them in different ways. for instance, it was hours after miss truscott had retired to her chamber before the young lady placed herself between the sheets. for a long time she sat before the open window, looking out upon the star-lit sky. then she began restlessly pacing to and fro. all her tranquillity seemed gone. "i have been ill-mannered--and a fool!" and again there was that hysteric interlacing of her hands which seemed to be a familiar trick of hers when her mind was much disturbed. "i have made the greatest mistake of all. i have promised myself to a man i--loathe." she shuddered when she arrived at that emphatic word. "a man with whom i have not one single thing in common; a man who understands a woman as much as--less than pompey does. i believe that selfish pompey cares for me much more. a man whose whole soul is bound up in playing conjuring tricks with stocks and shares. and where are all my dreams of love? oh! they have flown away!" then she threw herself upon the bed and cried. "oh, willy! willy! why have you been false? if you had been only true! i believe that i am so weak a thing that if you should call to me to-morrow, i would come." after she had had enough of crying--which was only after a very considerable period had elapsed--she got up and dried her eyes--those big eyes of hers, whose meaning for the life of him mr. ely could not understand! "what does it matter? i suppose that existence is a dead level of monotony. if even for a moment you gain the heights, you are sure to fall, and your state is all the worse because you have seen that there are better things above." this was the lady's point of view. the gentleman's was of quite another kind. as he had said, sentiment was not at all his line. when he reached his room, he wasted no time getting into bed. while he performed his rapid toilet he considered the situation in his own peculiar way. "that's the most impudent girl i ever met." this he told himself as he took off his coat. "i like her all the better for it, too." here he removed his vest. "she doesn't care for me a snap--not one single rap. i hate your spoony kind of girl, the sort that goes pawing a man about. if she begins by pawing you she'll be pawing another fellow soon. oh! i've seen a bit of it, i have!" here he removed his collar and tie. "what i want's a woman who can cut a dash--not the rag-bag sort, all flounces and fluster--but a high-toned dash, you know. the sort of woman that can make all the other women want to have her life; who can sit with two hundred other women in a room and make 'em all feel that she doesn't know that there's another person there. by jove! she'd do it, too!" mr. ely laughed. but perhaps--as he was a sort of man who never laughed, in whom the bump of humour was entirely wanting--it would be more correct to describe the sound he made as a clearing of the throat. at this point he was engaged in details of the toilet into which it would be unwise to enter. but we really cannot refrain from mentioning what a very little man he looked in his shirt. quite different to the mr. ely of the white waistcoat and frockcoat. the next morning he took his departure. he had been under the painful necessity of spending one day away from town; he could not possibly survive through two. in fact he tore himself away by the very earliest train--in his habits he was an early little man--not with reluctance but delight: by so early a train, indeed, that he had left long before his lady-love came down. mrs. clive did the honours and sped the parting guest. she, poor lady, was not used to quite such early hours and felt a little out of sorts, but she did her best. "shall i give dear lily a message when you are gone?" mr. ely was swallowing ham and eggs as though he were engaged in a match against time. a healthy appetite for breakfast was one of his strong points. "tell her that dog of hers is ever so much too fat." pompey, who was at that moment reclining on a cushion on the rug, was perhaps a trifle stout--say about as broad as he was long. still, mrs. clive did not like the observation all the same. "pompey is not lily's dog, but mine." "ah! then if i were you, i'd starve the beggar for a week." mrs. clive bridled. if she had a tender point it was her dog. "i can assure you, mr. ely, that the greatest care is taken in the selection of dear pompey's food." "that's where it is, you take too much. shut him in the stable, with a spratt's biscuit to keep him company." "a spratt's biscuit!--pompey would sooner die!" "it wouldn't be a bad thing for him if he did. by the look of him he can't find much fun in living--it's all that he can do to breathe. it seems to me every woman must have some beast for a pet. an aunt of mine has got a cat. her cat ought to meet your dog. they'd both of them be thinner before they went away." it is not surprising that mr. ely did not leave an altogether pleasant impression when he had gone. that last allusion to his aunt's cat rankled in the old lady's mind. "a cat! my precious pompey!" she raised the apoplectic creature in her arms; "when you have such an objection to a cat! it is dreadful to think of such a thing, even when it is spoken only in jest." but mr. ely had not spoken in jest. he was not a jesting kind of man. when miss truscott made her appearance she asked no questions about her lover. if he had sent a message, or if he indeed had gone, she showed no curiosity upon these points at all. she seemed in a dreamy frame of mind, as if her thoughts were not of things of life but of things of air. she dawdled over the breakfast-table, eating nothing all the while. and when she had dismissed the meal she dawdled in an easy chair. such behaviour was unusual for her, for she was not a dawdling kind of girl. chapter vi the wooing in the wood in the afternoon she took a book and went for a ramble out of doors. it was a novel of the ultra-sentimental school, and only the other day the first portion of the story had impressed her with the belief that it was written by a person who had sounded the heights and depths of life. she thought differently now. it was the story of a woman who, for love's sake, had almost--but not quite--thrown her life away this seemed to her absurd, for, in the light of her new philosophy, she thought she knew that the thing called love was non-existent in the world. and for love's sake to throw one's life away! it was not until she reached a leafy glade which ran down to the edge of the cliff that she opened the book. she seated herself on a little mossy bank with her back against the trunk of a great old tree, and placed the book on her knees. after she had read for a time she began to be annoyed. the heroine, firmly persuaded that life without love was worthless, was calmly arranging to sacrifice as fine prospects as a woman ever had, so as to enable her to sink to the social position of her lover, an artisan. the artisan belonged to the new gospel which teaches that it is only artisans who have a right to live. he was a wood-engraver, she was the daughter of a hundred earls. as a wood-engraver--who declined to take large prices for his work--he considered that she was in an infinitely lower sphere than he: a state of degradation to be sorrowed over at the best. so she was making the most complicated arrangements to free herself from the paternity--and wealth--of the hundred earls. miss truscott became exceedingly annoyed at the picture of devotion presented by these two, and threw the book from her in disgust. "what nonsense it all is! how people do exaggerate these things. i don't believe that love makes the slightest difference in anybody's life. i do believe that people love a good dinner, or a pretty frock, or ten thousand pounds a year, but anything else----!" she shrugged her shoulders with a significant gesture. "there may be weak-minded people somewhere who believe in love, but even that sort is the love that loves and rides away. as for love in married life! in the present state of society, if it did exist it is quite clear to me that it would be the most uncomfortable thing about the whole affair. mr. ely is a sensible man. he wants a wife, not a woman who loves him. that's the royal road to marriage!" as miss truscott arrived at this conclusion, she rose from her mossy seat and shook herself all over, as if she were shaking off the last remnants of her belief in love. "miss truscott!" she stood amazed, motionless, with a curious, sudden fascination as the sound of a voice fell on her ears. it came again. "miss truscott, won't you turn and look at me?" she turned and looked, and there was a man. she seemed wonderstruck. a very perceptible change came over her. she became more womanly as she looked: softer, more feminine. the scornful look passed from her eyes and face and bearing. she became almost afraid. "mr. summers! is it you?" it was a new voice which spoke, a voice which mr. ely would never live to hear. and in it there was a hidden music which was sweeter that the music of the birds. "yes, miss truscott, it is i." he held out his hand. she timidly advanced, and he advanced a step, and their two hands met. and their eyes met, too. and both of them were still. then she gently disengaged her hand, and looked at the bracken at her feet. "some spirit of the wild wood must have led me. i have come straight up from the station here. it must have been some curious instinct which told me where you would be found." "oh, i am often here--you know that i am often here." "i know you used to be." "i think that most of my habits are still unchanged. and where have you been this great, long time? i thought that you would never come again." "did you think that? is that true?" he leaned forward. he spoke in a low, eager, insistent tone, which, for some cause, made the blood surge about the region of her heart, and made her conscious that new life was in her veins. "oh! i did not think of it at all. out of sight is out of mind, you know!" "and i have been thinking of you all the time. you have been with me in my dreams both day and night. your face has stared at me from every canvas which i touched. you were at the end of every brush. everything i tried to paint turned into you. i thought my heart would burst at the anticipation of meeting you again." she was silent: for the world she could not have spoken then. this sceptic maiden, who but a moment back was so incredulous of the existence of the thing called love, was stricken dumb, conquered by the magic of the spell woven by this man's tongue and eyes. "i tried to paint you, and i failed--there are fifty failures in my room! but one night there came to me the glamour of my lady's eyes. at the first dawn of day i stood before my canvas, and all at once, as if it were by witchcraft, i had you there. you shall look at that portrait one fine day, and you shall know that i have you even when you are not near. and so, through all the weary time, you have been there; sleeping and waking i have had you by my side. and you--not once--have thought of me!" silence. then she raised her head and looked at him. "i have thought of you--at times." "what times?" there was a pause before she spoke, as if each was conscious of a fascination in the other's glance; eyes continued looking into eyes. "all times--i think." "lady of my heart's desire!" he still carried the bludgeon which we have seen he had in mr. ash's office. he let it fall upon the ground. he stretched out his two hands, and, as if unconsciously, she yielded hers to his. so they were face to face, hands clasped in hands. "love lives no longer now. they tell us that it is only in the fables it is found. yet i think that they are wrong--nay, it is certain that i know they are--for i love you better than my life!" silence. even the myriad sounds of nature seemed to be suddenly quite still. there was no rustling of leaves, no twittering of birds, there was not even audible the murmuring of the sea. and he went on-- "i pray you tell me--do you love me?" "willy!" that was all she said. then he stooped and kissed her on the lips. "my dear!" he said. then they were still. he did not even draw her to him. he only held her hands and looked upon her face. and she regarded him with shy, proud eyes. "why have you been so long?" "because i had made myself a promise." "what promise?" "that i would earn my prize." "how could you do that?" "ah! how indeed! for, truly, it could not be earned. but when i saw you first i was the laziest of men. until that hour i had thrown my life away. i told myself that until i had done something to redeem the past, until i had made my mark upon the time, i might not make my petition for the prize." "then it is your fault, my friend." "if there is a fault, it certainly is mine, for i am full of fault. but what especial evil have i done?" she removed her hands from his, and tapping a pebble with her little foot, she smiled. "you can never guess." "is it so black a crime?" suddenly she put her two hands to her face and laughed. but her cheeks were crimson all the same. "oh! what have i done? i shall never dare to tell." she peeped at him round the edges of her hands. "shall you be angry with me, will?" "never, if you call me will!" "do you know--- but let me begin at the beginning." she removed her hands, and putting them behind her back, looked at him shyly, and then looked down. "do you know, i thought that you would never come again." he laughed, and there was something in his laughter made her laugh too. "so i was not happy--for i loved you all the time." he laughed again, and, putting his arm about her waist, drew her closer to his side. "do you know what happened yesterday?" "did the cat drink all the cream?" "no, worse than that--for we haven't got a cat. have you forgotten pompey, sir? somebody asked me to be his wife!" "what! who?" "do you know mr. frederic ely?" "good heavens! was he the man?" "what man? willy--surely you do not know!" "so that was what he was coming into the country for! to think of the little beggar's impudence. and i wished him luck, by gad!" he laughed. but she was still. "willy! what do you mean? do you know all about it, then?" "why, it was a bargain, sweet. he was to try his luck, and then i mine. i was so sure of you, you see!" she released herself from his embrace, and again covering her face with her hands, she shivered. "what have you done?" "it was this way; let me unfold the tale. i went to mr. ash and told him what you know: how all my life was centred in my love for you. he told me that just before i came another man had brought to him the self-same tale." "surely not quite the same? surely he did not say that all his life was centred in his love for me?" "no, not exactly that! yet, sweet, why not? for who shall know you and not love you as his life? but at least another man had come to him who wished to win your hand--that priceless hand! and he had given him his word. so it was agreed that he should try his fortune first, and if he failed--i knew that he would fail!--i should try mine. and if i won--ah, how i longed to win!--mr. ash would crown success with his consent." silence reigned again. they stood a little way apart, he with his eyes fixed on her face, she with hers upon the ground. "what have i done?" the words were whispered in an undertone. then she looked up at him with a sudden fire in her eyes. "do you know what i have done? i have promised this other man to be his wife." "what! good god! lily! what do you mean?" "he asked me to be his wife. i said i would. i thought that you were false, you see." "you thought that i was false! but--it is madness! it is a foolish dream!" "do not look so utterly dismayed. you said that you would not be vexed, you know. besides, now it is another thing." "another thing! but--lily, tell me exactly what it is that you have done." "i will tell you just exactly what it is that i have done. to begin, then. you see, i have not been happy--ever since you went away." "you foolish maid! and yet you wisest of them all." "i waited--oh, will, i waited such a weary time! i thought that you would write, or--or do something that you never did. and at last i began to think that waiting was in vain. and when i was in the most hopeless of my hopeless moods--it was no further back than yesterday, yet it seemed years ago!"--she put forth her hand and touched his arm, and he laughed beneath his breath--"a letter came from mr. ash. he said that mr. ely was coming here. i showed the letter to my aunt. she seemed to take it for granted that i would do exactly what my guardian wished me to--as though it were a decree that was written in the skies. so when he came, and asked me to be his wife--just out of spite and wickedness i said i would. he never asked me if i loved him; he never pretended even to love me. it was just a bargain: i was to be his wife." "my little love! what is it you have done? and now, pray, what is it that you mean to do?" "i shall write and tell him i have changed my mind." "changed your mind! what do you suppose that he will say to that?" "why, what can he say? it is like a commercial treaty which is in the air. there are some of the clauses to which i am unable to agree. so i withdraw from the negotiations and refuse to sign." "one thing is sure: you cannot be his wife." "will, i am just like you! i love you better than my life!" "sweetheart! then i have won the prize! i thought that i had won the prize! will you forgive me my presumption in that i thought that i had won the prize?" "you should not have kept me so long waiting. it is your fault that i have sinned." "you shall not have cause again to esteem me false; and observe, fair maid, i had a higher estimate of you." "willy! that is unkind!" then she turned her face up to his, and when he saw that sweet face upturned and those sweet eyes, what could he do but kiss, not once nor twice, but many times, those sweetest lips? and by this time the two were close together. he had his arm about her waist and pressed her to his breast. "do you know that, from my point of view, fair queen, this was worth waiting for?" "and do you know, sir, that is my point of view as well?" then there was silence, and they feasted on the love that was in each other's eyes. "lily! mr. summers!" and while they were still engaged in this delectable pursuit, all at once their names were spoken from behind; and turning, they saw that mrs. clive was standing in the shadow of the trees. chapter vii mrs. clive--and pompey mrs. clive had the faithful pompey in her arms. that faithful animal was out for exercise, and exercise meant as a rule, to him, being carried all the way. his mistress stared at the lovers, and the lovers, taken aback for a moment, stared at her. "can i believe my eyes!" in her amazement she let the faithful creature fall. pompey gave a dismal groan. he did not belong to the order of dogs who can fall with comfort to themselves. where he fell he lay. in the agitation of her feelings mrs. clive did not notice the quadruped's distress. "lily! is it possible it is my niece!" quite possible, it seemed, and not at all surprising, either. recovering from the first momentary shock, miss truscott was the most charming niece alive. removing herself from the gentleman's near neighbourhood, she inclined her body and gave a little graceful curtsey--a prettier curtsey never yet was seen. "yes, aunty, it is i." then she drew herself up straight. "you always said i was your niece." then she turned to the gentleman. "willy, don't you know my aunt?" mr. summers laughed. the old lady bridled, but the gentleman, not at all abashed, took off his hat and advanced to her with outstretched hand. "mrs. clive, it is twelve months since i saw you. i am afraid you have forgotten me." but he was mistaken if he thought that she would take his hand. there never was an old lady with a stiffer mien, and she was at her stiffest now. she had her mittened hands down by her sides, and looked him in the face as though she could not see that he was there. "i have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir." this was a fib, but there are occasions when fibs must be expected. "my name is summers--william summers. i thought i heard you just now mention me by name. and i, at least, have not forgotten the pleasant hours i spent with you last year." "lily, i must trouble you to come with me." that was the only answer he received to his small compliment. with her most unbending air the old lady turned to go. but the impression she desired to convey was in a measure spoiled. in sweeping round--her action could only be described as sweeping round--she kicked the faithful pompey; and when the faithful pompey received that kick he raised a dreadful howl, and that dreadful howl awoke the echoes far and wide. in an instant mr. summers had the ill-used creature in his arms. "poor pompey! i am afraid you have hurt him, mrs. clive. how well he looks! see, mrs. clive, he seems in pain. i'm afraid you must have kicked him in the side, and in his condition that is rather a serious thing. don't you know me, pompey?" it appeared that pompey did, for, in a feeble kind of way, he put out his tongue and licked his protector's nose. such a sight could not but touch the lady's heart. still, of course, it was out of the question that she should unbend. "i must trouble you, sir, to let me have my dog." "permit me to carry him for you towards the house. i'm sure he is in pain--see how still he is." if stillness were a sign of pain, then the faithful beast must have been pretty constantly in pain, for motion--or emotion--of any sort was not in pompey's line. mrs. clive would have grasped the subterfuge if she had been left alone, but her perfidious niece came to the gentleman's aid. she began to stroke and caress the faithful beast. "poor pompey! poor 'ickle pompey, then! i hope he has not broken any bones. do you think it is his ribs?" miss truscott's back was turned to mrs. clive. if the aunt had seen the way in which her niece glanced under her long eyelashes at the gentleman in front of her she would have seized the animal and marched away. "i scarcely think it is his ribs." it was not probable, considering how they were swathed in fat. "perhaps it is his leg." "i hope that it is not." mr. summers threw such a tone of doubt into this expression of his hopes that mrs. clive's heart gave quite a jump. her pompey's leg! broken! and by her! but she was not by any means going to give in yet. there was the bearded gentleman holding the wheezing quadruped as though it were the most precious thing on earth, and there was her niece very close in front of him. all her sense of moral rectitude was up in arms. "lily! i am surprised at you!" "surprised at me, aunty! why? because you have broken pompey's leg? i didn't do it, it was you. supposing he should die? you know what a delicate constitution he always had." "it is quite possible the injury is less serious than we suppose"; this the gentleman suggested in a consoling kind of way, "though"--here some one gave the dog a pinch, and the dog gave expression to his feelings in a howl--"though decidedly he seems in pain. i think that i had better go on with him straight to the house." "lily! i insist upon your coming here." miss truscott did as she was told. with meek face and downcast eyes she fell in decorously by the old lady's side. mr. summers, ignored and snubbed, but still triumphant, bore pompey away in front. "lily, what is the meaning of all this?" "i think you must have let pompey fall, and then have kicked him when he fell. i cannot see how you can have done it; you are so careful as a rule." "i am not speaking about the dog; you know that very well. i am speaking of the--the extraordinary scene i interrupted." "willy was telling me that he loved me." "willy was telling you what! and who is willy, pray?" "willy is mr. summers's christian name." "lily, are you stark, raving mad? have you forgotten what happened yesterday? are you aware that it is not four-and-twenty hours since you promised mr. frederic ely to be his wife?" "yes, auntie; but i have changed my mind." "you have--what?" "i have changed my mind." mrs. clive was so overcome that she sank down on a grassy bank which they were passing. it was a thing she had not done for years. she was always under the impression that the grass was damp--even when it burned you as you touched it with the palm of your hand. "lily, either you are mad or i must be. changed your mind! do you think that in such a matter it is possible for a woman to change her mind?" "it would seem to be, wouldn't it? especially when you look at me." "you treat it as a jest! the most astounding behaviour i ever heard of! i don't wish to forget myself if you have done so; i simply call it the most astounding behaviour i ever heard of! a niece of mine!" "perhaps that's it. i--i have such a remarkable aunt." the temptation was irresistible, but the effect was serious. for some moments mrs. clive sat speechless with indignation. then she rose from the mossy bank and walked away without a word. left behind, miss truscott covered her face with her hands and laughed--a little guiltily, it seemed. then she went after. so the march to the house resolved itself into a procession of three. chapter viii mr. rosenbaum's six daughters in the meantime mr. ely was dreaming of his love. it sounds contradictory at first, bearing in mind that he was not a man of sentiment; but the fact was that in his case absence made the heart grow distinctly fonder. by the time he reached ryde miss truscott occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all else; he never even troubled himself about the purchase of a paper--which was fortunate, for at that hour none had yet arrived from town, and to him the local prints were loathsome. all the way on the boat he dreamed--yes, literally dreamed--of the girl he left behind him. more than once, incredible though it may appear, he sighed. "she don't care for me a snap, not a single rap, by jove she don't!" he sighed when he said this, for, for some occult reason, the idea did not seem to amuse him so much as it had done last night. "i don't know why she shouldn't, though. perhaps she thought i didn't want her. more i didn't then, though i don't see why she shouldn't if i did. i know how to make a girl like me as well as any man--look at the rosenbaums!" he sighed again. it was "look at the rosenbaums," indeed! when he thought of those six young women, with their well-developed noses and the fringe of hair upon their upper lips, and of their twice-hammered father, and then of miss truscott, that vision of a fair woman, with her noble bearing, her lovely face, and her wondrous eyes, the contrast went deeply home. he felt that he was a lucky--and yet not altogether a lucky--man. "she's going to be my wife, that's one thing, anyhow." the isle of wight is a great place for honeymoons. it lends itself naturally to couples in a certain phase of their existence. such a couple were on board the boat with mr. ely. their demeanour was tender towards each other. "couple of idiots!" said mr. ely to himself as he observed this pair; "it makes a man feel ill to look at them!" she was a pretty girl, and he was not an ugly man; she hung upon his arm and looked into his eyes. it was plain the honeymoon was not yet done for them. in spite of his disgust, mr. ely found himself thinking, almost unconsciously, of another figure and of another pair of eyes--of that other figure hanging upon his arm, and of that other pair of eyes looking into his. he sighed again. "she doesn't care for me a snap, by jove!" instead of amusing him, it seemed that this reflection began to give him pain. the little man looked quite disconsolate. "i'll make her, though! i will! if--if it costs me a thousand pounds!" he had been on the point of stating the cost he was willing to incur at a much higher sum than this. he had been on the very verge of saying that he would make her care for him if it cost him every penny he had. but prudence stepped in, and he limited the amount to be squandered to a thousand pounds, which was not so bad for a man who did not believe in sentiment. but a singular change had come over him between shanklin and stokes bay. the change was emphasised by a little encounter which he had with a friend in the train. he had taken his seat in the corner of a carriage, when the door was darkened by a big, stout man, who was all hair and whiskers and gorgeous apparel. "what, ely! my boy, is it bossible it is you! "rosenbaum! what the devil brings you here?" "ah! what the teffel is it brings you?" mr. rosenbaum spoke with a decidedly german accent. he settled himself in the seat in front of mr. ely, and beamed at him, all jewellery and smiles. it was as though some one had applied a cold douche to the small of mr. ely's back. he was dreaming of the sweetest eyes, and his too-friendly six-daughtered friend--the man who had been hammered twice!--appeared upon the scene. it was a shock. but mr. rosenbaum seemed beamingly unconscious of anything of the kind. the train started, and he began a conversation--which rather hung fire, by the way. "it is some time since we have seen you in queen's gate." queen's gate was where mr. rosenbaum resided. after each "hammering"--mysterious process!--he had moved into a larger house. it had been first earl's court, then cromwell road, and now queen's gate. "been so much engaged." mr. rosenbaum was smoking a huge cigar, and kept puffing out great clouds of smoke. mr. ely was engaged on a smaller article, which scarcely produced any smoke at all. they had the compartment to themselves; mr. ely would rather have seen it full. he knew his friend. "miriam has missed you." miriam was the eldest of the six: the one whose nose and moustache were most developed; a sprightly maiden of thirty or thirty-one. "so has leah." leah was a year or so younger than her sister, and quite as keen. mr. ely drew in his lips. he had once played cards with miss leah rosenbaum, and detected her in the act of cheating. he admired the woman of business, but regretted his eighteenpence. "i've no doubt she has." "that's a fine girl, leah! a smart girl, too." mr. ely had not the slightest doubt of her "smartness," not the least. "she'll be a fortune to any man. she's very fond of you." mr. ely was certainly not fond of her, but he could scarcely say so to her father's face. so he kept still. "rachel, she miss you too." silence. mr. ely saw plainly that he was going to be missed by all the six. since he could not escape from the train while it was travelling at the rate of forty miles an hour, the only course open was to sit still and say as little as he could. he knew his friend too well to suppose that anything he could say would induce him to turn the conversation into other channels. the fond father went blandly on. "she say you gave her a little gift, eh? that so?" "never gave her anything in my life." "no! she says you gave her a lock of your hair; it was little to you, it was much to her. rachel, she treasures up these little things. she show it me one day; she says she keep it here." mr. rosenbaum patted his waistcoat in the region where his heart might anatomically be supposed to be. "i tell you what it is, rosenbaum, your girls are like their father, smart." "we're not fools," admitted mr. rosenbaum. "one night, when i was asleep on the couch in that back room of yours in cromwell road--before you failed last time"--it is within the range of possibility that this allusion was meant to sting, but mr. rosenbaum smoked blandly on--"that girl of yours cut off some of my hair, and drew blood in doing it, by george!" "ah! she says you give it her--from sympathy, my friend. she admire you very much, that girl." mr. ely kept silence. if there was any one of the six he disliked more than the others it was the young lady whom her father said admired him very much--miss rachel rosenbaum. some fathers, if they had had the names of three of their daughters received in this rather frigid way, would have changed the subject perhaps. but if mr. rosenbaum had not been a persevering man, his address would not have been queen's gate. besides, mrs. rosenbaum was dead, and he had to act the parts of mother and father too. and there were six. "judith, she miss you too." this was the fourth; there still were two to follow. mr. ely resolved to have a little plunge upon his own account. "doing anything in unified?" mr. rosenbaum looked at him, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and smiled. "i say, judith, she miss you too." "and i said, 'doing anything in unified?'" mr. rosenbaum leaned forward and laid his great, fat, jewelled hand on mr. ely's knee. "now, my friend, there is a girl for you; plump, tender--what an eye!" "and what a nose! and a moustache!" was on mr. ely's lips, but he refrained. "that girl just twenty-four, and she weigh a hundred and seventy pound--she do credit to any man. and, my goodness, how she is fond of you, my boy!" a vision passed before mr. ely's mental eye of the girl whom he had left behind. and then he thought of the young lady whose chief qualification was that she weighed a hundred and seventy pounds at twenty-four. "she not a worrying girl, that judith; that's the sort of wife for a man to have who wants to live an easy life. she let him do just what he please, and never say a word." mr. ely fidgeted in his seat. "i say, rosenbaum, i wish you'd try some other theme." mr. rosenbaum held up his fat forefinger, with its half a dozen rings, and wagged it in mr. ely's face. "but the great point is sarah, my good friend; there is something between you and she." "what the dickens do you mean?" "oh! you know what i mean. what passed between you on the river that fine day?" "what fine day?" "what fine day! so there has been more than one! that i did not know; the one it was enough for me." "and upon my word, with all due respect to miss sarah rosenbaum, it was enough for me." "you did not kiss her, eh? you did not kiss her that fine day?" "i don't know if i kissed her or she kissed me. i say, rosenbaum, those girls of yours don't seem to keep many secrets from their father." "that is as good a girl as ever lived; you will do justice to her, eh?" "i hope i should do justice to every girl." "so! that is it! you would marry half a dozen, perhaps!" "by george, i don't believe you'd offer any objection if i wanted to!" mr. rosenbaum sat back in his seat. apparently this observation did go home. he appeared to reflect, but he showed that he was by no means beaten by suddenly discovering a fresh attack. "my good friend, you think you are a clever man. i allow you are no fool, but you have met your match in me." in his secret heart mr. ely was quite willing to allow the fact. "you have played with my six daughters--very good! you have trifled with their hearts. i say not any word, but there is one of them you must marry, and ruth is she." mr. ely was silent. he kept his eyes cast down. mr. rosenbaum, on the other hand, kept his eyes fixed upon his good friend's face. "come, i am her father. when is it to be?" then mr. ely did look up. the two friends' glances met; mr. ely certainly did not flinch. "it won't do; try some other lay." "what you mean--try some other lay?" "mean what i say." "you never asked her to marry you?" "i swear i never did." "you never gave her to understand that you wished her for your wife, eh?" "i'm not responsible for her understanding." "so--that is it!--i see! griffith of tokenhouse yard is your solicitor--not so?" mr. rosenbaum took out a note-book and a pencil-case. "what's it matter to you?" "my good friend, it matters this. before we reach waterloo you tell me the day on which you marry ruth, or to-morrow a writ issues for breach of promise." "issue fifty writs for all i care." "you have played hanky-panky with my six daughters, but we have you on the last; at least, we'll see." "i guess we will. take my advice, rosenbaum, and don't you be a fool. i never asked your daughter in my life to marry me." "we'll talk of that a little later on. there is a letter and some other little things which will make a sensation when they are produced in court. you understand that it is my duty to see that you do not break my daughter's heart." "which of them? all six?" "at present it is with ruth we are concerned." "oh, ruth be hanged!" with that observation the conversation closed. the remainder of the journey passed in silence. but when they reached waterloo mr. rosenbaum remarked-- "well, my friend, what is it to be? will you name the day?" "name your grandmother!" mr. ely courteously rejoined. and with that courteous rejoinder he left the train. chapter ix mr. ely has a letter mr. ely took a cab into the city. on the road he stopped to buy a ring. he was the kind of man whose determination is intensified by opposition. he had been half in love with miss truscott before he met his german friend; now, in his own peculiar way, he was quite. miss ruth rosenbaum was the youngest and most prepossessing of the six, and that there had been certain passages between them he was well aware. but in any case her father's attempt to force his daughter down his throat would have had the effect of making him fly off at a tangent in quite another direction. now the effect it had upon him was to send him off helter-skelter to purchase miss truscott an engagement-ring. but he was the man of business even then. the jeweller found some difficulty in meeting his requirements. what mr. ely wanted was an article of the greatest value at the smallest cost. for instance, for a ring priced at a hundred and fifty guineas he offered fifteen pounds--and this with such an air of making a first-rate bid that the tradesman did not know whether to treat it as an insult or a jest. finally he expended twenty pounds, and had his value for it, rest assured. directly he entered the stock exchange he encountered mr. ash. "i had your wire," began that gentleman. "i congratulate you, my dear boy." "yes." mr. ely looked the other straight in the face, which was a trick he had when there was something which he particularly wished to say. then he slipped his arm through mr. ash's, and drew that gentleman aside. "she's a fine girl, ash--finer than i thought she was. finest girl in england, in the world, by george she is!" mr. ash was a little surprised at his friend's enthusiasm. but he let no sign of this escape him. "she's a good girl too, my boy." "best girl ever yet i came across." "and she's true--true as a die." "truer--truest girl ever yet i saw." "and when she says she loves a man----" mr. ash paused. he glanced at his friend. mr. ely gave no sign. "when she says she loves a man, you may be quite certain that she does." mr. ely looked down at his toes, then up at mr. ash. "i've bought the ring." "what! the wedding-ring!" "the wedding-ring! good gad, no! i never thought of that. it's the engagement ring i've got." "the other one comes after, eh?" "i gave twenty sovereigns for it." "that's a pile." what the smile meant in mr. ash's eyes it would be difficult to say. "he wanted forty-five. i beat him down. said i'd seen its own brother at attenborough's for ten." there was a pause. then mr. ely began again. "i say, ash, when do you think the wedding could come off?" "in a hurry? well, what do you say to twelve months, my boy?" "twelve months! twelve months be hanged! a month's enough for me." "a month! the girl won't have time to turn herself round. and you've a house to take, and all the rest of it." "you say the word, and i'll have a house by to-morrow night, and get it furnished in a week." "but, my dear boy, you don't seem to be aware that the lady generally has a voice in that kind of thing." "you say a month, and i'll make it right with her." "you may marry her to-morrow for all i care. "i should like to marry her to-morrow," said mr. ely candidly; "but--i suppose it'll have to be a month." but even a month was not an impassable space of time. mr. ely reflected that there were a good many things which must be done--it should be a lunar month, he decided in his own mind--his time would be much occupied, the days would quickly pass, and then--then the maid with the big eyes, the finest girl in the world, the best and the truest, would be his bride. his happiness was consummated on the following morning. it had never occurred to him to suggest that there should be any correspondence. he was not a man who was fond of writing himself, and a love-letter--the idea of a sane man writing a love-letter!--was an idea which up to the present moment had never entered his mind. and that in spite of a certain unfortunate document which was in the possession of miss ruth rosenbaum. so when he found upon his breakfast table the following morning a large square envelope, addressed to "frederic ely, esq." in an unmistakably feminine hand, the postmark of which was shanklin, his heart gave quite a jump. it was from miss truscott, as sure as fate: the first letter from his love? chapter x the amazing contents of mr. ely's letter mr. ely played with that letter as a cat plays with a mouse. it was a tender morsel, a _bonne bouche_, which must not be hastily dismissed. he turned it over and over, examining first the superscription, the bold, flourishing hand in which she had penned his name--how well it looked; the first time his name had been inscribed by her! then he examined the reverse--the monogram. he could make it out quite well--l. t.--lily truscott. he blushed as he caught himself in the act of raising the magic letters to his lips. then he laid it down in a prominent position in front of his plate, and studied the exterior as he began to eat. "i wonder what she has to say!" ah, what! "i wonder if--if she's come round to my point of view? got--got spoony, and--and all that. by george, i hope she has!" what with the food he had in his mouth, and the sigh, he was almost choked. "i think every woman ought to love the man she's going to marry. i love her--i know i do." he began to know that fact too well. the man who had had nothing to do with sentiment was painfully conscious that he was on the point of becoming the most sentimental of men. "i mismanaged the affair all through. i ought to have told her that i loved her. how can a man expect a girl to love him if she don't believe that he loves her? perhaps she has written to say that she can conceal the fact no longer: that she loves me whether i want her to or don't. by george! i hope she has." he feasted his eyes again upon the envelope, and helped himself to another serving of ham and eggs. "i thought her behaviour was a trifle cold. it was that beastly dog that did it. how can a man make himself agreeable to a woman when there's a dog ready to bite his nose off sitting on her knee? still, i thought her behaviour was a trifle cold. she didn't seem to pay much attention to what i had to say; i believe she would have preferred to read; and when she did begin to talk she was taking pot-shots at one all over the place, as it were." he sighed, and took another egg. "and when i asked her to marry me i might have been asking her to take a tart; she didn't seem to be interested in the least. she was most uncommon anxious to treat the thing in a business-like kind of way. i oughtn't to have been so particular about saying i was a business man. that was a mistake; i know it was." he sighed again. he put down his knife and fork. "by george, if she writes to say she loves me, i--i'd give a hundred pounds!" he took the letter in his hands. "i wonder if she does!" in his anxiety he rose from his seat and began to pace the room, holding the letter tightly in his hand. he paused before the mantelshelf and regarded himself in the glass. "well, upon my word, i never thought that i should come to this--i never did. here's all the papers, and goodness knows what news from paris, and i haven't looked at one, and don't want to neither, that's the truth. if she's only written to say she loves me, whether i want her to or don't, i--i'd give a thousand pounds. here goes! i can't stand fooling here all day! goodness knows what the state of things in the city may be." he was about to tear the envelope open with his finger. he changed his mind. "she may have written something on the flap. i'd better use a knife." he used a knife. to see him use it, opening an envelope might have been the most delicate operation on earth. "now for it!" he heaved the greatest sigh of all. "by george, if it's only to confess her love!" he seated himself at the table with the letter spread out in front of him. it might have been as fragile as it was priceless to observe the ginger way in which he opened it and spread it out. then he arrayed himself for its perusal with as much precision as though it were some formal and rather complicated revelation just to hand from the gods. "'dear mr. ely' (i say! she might have said 'dear fred,' or even 'frederic'! 'dear mr. ely'! it's rather a stiffish way of writing to the man you're going to marry, don't you know.) 'just a line with reference to what passed between us yesterday. i have changed my mind. i thought it better to let you know at the earliest possible moment. it is quite impossible for me to be your wife. the fact is, i am going to marry mr. summers instead. yours truly, lily truscott.'" mr. ely read this note through without, in his astonishment, being in the least able to grasp its meaning. "what--what the blazes is all this!" he ploughed through it again. "'dear mr. ely' (it's evidently meant for me), 'just a line with reference to what passed between us yesterday'! (what passed between us yesterday--what's she mean? she hasn't put a date; i suppose she means my asking her to be my wife. that's a pretty good way of referring to it, anyhow.) 'i have changed my mind!' (oh, has she? about what? it didn't strike me she had a mind to change.) 'i thought it better to let you know at the earliest possible moment'! (if she had only told me what it was she thought it better to let me know, it would have been perhaps as well. if this is a love-letter, give me the other kind of thing.) 'it is quite impossible for me to be your wife.' (what--what the blazes does she mean?) 'the fact is, i am going to marry mr. summers instead'!" mr. ely's jaw dropped, and he stared at the letter as though it were a ghost. "well--i'm--hanged!' the fact is, i am going to marry mr. summers instead.' that takes the cake!' yours truly, lily truscott.'--if that isn't the sweetest thing in love-letters ever yet i heard of!" quite a curious change had come over mr. ely. if we may be forgiven a vulgarism which is most expressive--he seemed to have been knocked all of a heap. his head had fallen forward on his chest, one limp hand held miss truscott's letter, the other dangled nerveless by his side. "and i gave twenty pounds for an engagement-ring!" they were the first words in which he gave expression to the strength of his emotion. "good lord, if i had given him what he asked, and stumped up forty-five!" the reflection sent a shudder all through his frame. the horror of the picture thus conjured up by his imagination had the effect of a tonic on his nerves, it recalled him to himself. "i'll have another read at this. there isn't much of it, but what there is requires a good deal of digesting." he pulled himself together, sat up in his chair, and had another read. "'dear mr. ely' (yes, by george, dear at any price, i'll swear! like her impudence to call me 'dear'! i wonder she didn't begin it 'sir'), 'just a line with reference to what passed between us yesterday.' (that is, i think, about the coollest bit i ever heard of. quite a casual allusion, don't you know, to a matter of not the slightest importance to any one, especially me. that young woman's graduated in an establishment where they teach 'em how to go.) 'i have changed my mind!' (that's--that's about two stone better than the other. she's changed her mind! holy moses! about something, you know, about which we change our minds as easily and as often as we do our boots.) 'i thought it better to let you know at the earliest possible moment.' (she certainly has done that. unless she had changed her mind before she had made it up, she could scarcely have let me know it sooner. she might have wired, to be sure! but perhaps she never thought of that.) 'it is quite impossible for me to be your wife.' (it is as well that the explanation follows immediately after, or echo would have answered 'why?') 'the fact is, i am going to marry mr. summers instead.' i suppose there never was a larger amount of meaning contained in a smaller number of words. among the remarkable women the world has seen the record's hers; she is certainly unique." rising from his seat, he put the letter back in the envelope, and placed the envelope within his letter-case. "i'll take that letter up to ash; i'll have a word to say to him. i wonder if he knows what sort of a ward he's got? that's the best and truest girl alive; a woman whose word is just her bond; who, when she says a thing, sticks to it like glue. and to think that i spent twenty pounds on an engagement-ring!" he put his hands into his trousers pockets. he balanced himself upon his toes and heels. "twenty pounds for an engagement-ring! i wonder how much mr. summers intends to pay?" the reflection angered him. "by george, i'll let her know if she's going to pitch me overboard quite so easily as that. i'll make her marry me, or i'll know the reason why." when he left for the city his first business was to pay a visit to mr. ash. he dismissed the cab at the corner of throgmorton street. he had not taken half a dozen steps along that rather narrow thoroughfare when a hand was laid upon his shoulder; turning, he saw mr. rosenbaum. "my good friend, i have a little paper here for you." and mr. rosenbaum deftly slipped a paper into his good friend's hand. "rosenbaum! what's this?" "it's a writ, my friend; a writ. you would not tell me the name of your solicitor, so i try personal service instead." with a beaming smile and a nod of his head, mr. rosenbaum swaggered away. in a somewhat bewildered state of mind mr. ely stared after him, the paper in his hand. "it never rains but it pours! here's two strokes of luck in a single day, and i've only just got out of bed!" he opened the legal-looking document with which he had been so unexpectedly presented by his generous friend, and glanced at its contents. it was headed "rosenbaum _v_. ely," and, so far as he could judge from his hasty glance, it purported to relate to an action brought by ruth rosenbaum against frederic ely, to recover damages for breach of promise of marriage. "well! this is a pretty go!" he could scarcely believe his eyes; the damages were laid at thirty thousand pounds! and he had already spent twenty pounds for an engagement-ring! his first impulse was to tear the paper up and scatter the pieces in the street. his second--which he followed--was to place it in the inner pocket of his coat as a companion to his letter-case. "rosenbaum must be a greater fool even than i thought. thirty thousand pounds! by george! one girl values me at a considerably higher figure than another does." he found that mr. ash was still in his office, and alone; so, without troubling to have himself announced, he marched straight in. "hallo, ely, here again! anything settled about the date? or is it something more tangible than love?" mr. ash was engaged with a file of correspondence, from which he looked up at mr. ely, with a laugh. "i have to get through all this before i can put in an appearance in the house. and here's a man who gives me so many minute directions about what he wants to do that i can't for the life of me understand what it is he wants. why people can't just say 'buy this,' 'sell that,' is more than i can tell. but what's the matter? you look quite glum." "so would you look glum if you had as much cause for looking glum as me." "i don't know! you've won one of the prettiest girls in england--and one of the nicest little fortunes, too. after that it would take something to make me look glum." "she's one of the prettiest girls in england." "there's no mistake about that. any man might be proud of such a prize. i've been thinking about it all night." "i've been thinking about it, too." "and the result is to give you that dyspeptic look? not flattering to her, eh?" there was a pause before mr. ely answered. with much deliberation he put his hand into his pocket and drew out his letter-case. "i'm sorry you don't think it's flattering." another pause before he spoke again; then it was with an even more acidulated expression of countenance. "i have received a letter by this morning's post." "no! from her? she's going it." "yes, she is going it, i think." "that sort of thing's hardly your line, eh?" "that sort of thing hardly is my line." "don't care for love-letters--as a rule?" "i should like to refer to a dictionary to know what a love-letter is. if this is a love-letter, i prefer a summons." it was on his tongue to say a writ, but he remembered that he already had one in his pocket, and chose another word. "ah, ely, you must remember that this is a romantic girl. if her language seems too flowery--too kissy-kissy--you must bear in mind that in romantic girls affection is apt to take such shapes. besides, i should think you'd rather have that than the other kind of thing--i know i would." "perhaps, before you pass an opinion on that subject, you'll allow me to read to you the letter i've received." "read it! i say! is that quite fair? men don't read their love-letters even to their young women's guardians as a rule. especially the first--i thought that was sacred above the rest." "look here, ash, i'm the mildest-mannered man alive, but you never came nearer having an inkstand at your head than since i've been inside this room." "ely! good gracious, man! what's the matter now?" "i repeat--perhaps you'll allow me to read to you the letter i've received." with the same air of excessive deliberation, mr. ely opened his letter-case, took from it an envelope, and from it a letter, unfolded the epistle, and looked at mr. ash. mr. ash did nothing but stare at him. "this is my first love-letter--the one which you thought was sacred above the rest. i don't know about the rest. this is quite enough for me. you are sure you're listening?" "i'll take my oath on that." "'dear mr. ely' (you observe how warmly she begins! kissy-kissy kind of way, you know), 'just a line with reference to what passed between us yesterday.' (that's a gentle allusion to the trivial fact that on the day before she pledged herself to be my wife. we're getting warm, you see.) 'i have changed my mind.'" "she has what?" "she says that she has changed her mind." "what does she mean by she's changed her mind?" "ah, that's what we have to see. it's an obscure allusion which becomes clearer later on; an example of the flowery language in which romantic girls indulge. 'i thought it better to let you know at the earliest possible moment.' (you'll observe that she wastes no time. perhaps that's another characteristic of the romantic state of mind.) 'it is quite impossible for me to be your wife.'" "what's that?" "she says that it's quite impossible for her to be my wife." "but--good heavens!--i thought you told me she said yes." "she did say yes." "but an unhesitating--a final and decisive yes?" "it was an unhesitating, a final and decisive yes. "you sent me up a wire!" "it was agreed between us that i should send you up a wire." "you talked about having the marriage in a month." "i did talk, about having the marriage in a month." "and buying a house and furniture, and all the rest of it." "precisely; and all the rest of it." "and you told me that you had bought a ring." "that's a fact. i did. i paid twenty pounds for an engagement-ring. it's in my pocket now. that's one of the pleasantest parts of the affair." "then what the dickens does she mean? is the girl stark mad? are you sure the letter comes from her?" "you shall examine it for yourself in a moment, and then you'll be able to decide. you understand it is the first love-letter i ever had, and therefore sacred above the rest. as for what she means, the explanation comes a little further on--in the next sentence, in fact, perhaps you will allow me to proceed!" "oh, go on! it is plain the girl is mad." "'the fact is, i am going to marry mr. summers instead.'" "good----! what--what's that?" "she says that she's going to marry mr. summers instead." "instead! instead of whom?" "instead of me." "well, i'm--hanged!" "yes, that's exactly what i am. and as this is the result of my first love-letter, i don't want to have a second experience of the same kind, you understand." "then he's done it after all! what a fool i've been!" "well, it does seem that there's a fool somewhere in the case." "i've done it all!" "the deuce you have!" "do you know this man summers?" "of course i do. didn't you see i did when i met him here the other day?" "do you know what he came for then?" "how should i? for half a crown, i shouldn't be surprised. he's one of those painter fellows who run up pictures by the yard." "he came for lily." "what the dickens do you mean?" "i mean exactly what i say. he came to ask my consent to make my ward an offer of his hand." "what! before i did?" "no; directly you had gone." "but you had given your consent to me!" "i told him so. he didn't seem to think that it mattered in the least." "well, he's a cool hand, upon my sam!" "when i told him what i had arranged with you, he wanted to start off for shanklin there and then. it was with the greatest difficulty that i got him to listen to common sense--i never saw a man in such a state of imbecility. finally, i agreed that if you failed then he should have his chance." "but i didn't fail." "well, it looks queer." "looks queer! do you want to drive me mad? and i paid twenty pounds for my engagement-ring! do you think i should buy engagement-rings if i wasn't sure that it was clear? a girl promises to be my wife, and another man comes directly after and eggs her on to break her word! looks queer! i should think it does, by george! look here, ash, if you think i'm going to sit down quietly and stand this sort of thing, you're wrong!" "shall i tell you what my own opinion of the matter is?" "get it out!" "the girl's a fool!" "she's either that or something worse." "i have only to go down and talk the matter over with her quietly, and you'll see it will be all right." "you go down! and where do you suppose that i shall be?" "you leave the matter in my hands, and you'll find that i will make it all right." "i'll be shot if i will! the girl has promised to be my wife, and if there's any man who's got a right to talk to her it's me. i've had one day out of town; i think i'll spare myself another. you've got a time-table, haven't you? when is there a train?" producing a bradshaw, mr. ash plunged into its intricacies. "it's now eleven. there's a train leaves waterloo eleven thirty-five. reaches shanklin three forty-three. it's too late for that." "eleven thirty-five? is it too late--we'll see. you don't seem to be aware of the fact that at this moment, for all i know, that man's amusing himself with the woman who promised to be my wife. it don't occur to you that there is any necessity for haste. i'm off; you may come or stay, just as you please." "i'll come--it's a little awkward, but i'll come." "it is awkward! you'd think it awkward if you were in the pair of shoes that i'm wearing now." "half a minute! just let me speak one word to my managing man." mr. ash called in his clerk. mr. ely passed into the street, and engaged a hansom cab. in a remarkably short space of time he was joined by mr. ash. mr. ely gave instructions to the cabman. "waterloo! main line! and go like blazes!" and the cab was off. chapter xi an encounter in the train mr. ely's last journey from shanklin up to town had not been exactly of a cheerful kind. mr. rosenbaum's appearance on the scene had put a damper on to that. the tale of the six daughters had banished peace from the successful wooer's mind. the journey from town to shanklin was not exactly pleasant either. under the best of circumstances mr. ely was not the most cheerful of companions. under existing circumstances he was the most cheerless man alive. he showed his mettle at the start. "first-class smoking," mr. ash suggested to the guard. mr. ely pulled up short. "not for me." "what do you mean?" "no smoking carriage for me. i've got enough on my hands already, without having to disinfect myself immediately i arrive." so they were shown into a non-smoking compartment. mr. ash wished his friend at jericho. the idea of a journey to portsmouth without the aid of a cigar did not commend itself to him. besides, he knew that miss truscott had liberal-minded notions on the subject of tobacco. but he deemed it prudent to refrain from treading on the tail of the coat which mr. ely was obviously trailing on the ground. and he had his revenge! just as the train was actually starting there was a cry of "stop!" some one came rushing down the platform, the door was opened, and first a lady and then a gentleman were assisted in. "that was a narrow squeak!" exclaimed the gentleman. then he turned laughing to the lady: "that's a nice beginning, mrs. b." the lady laughed at him again. "it's a matter of no importance, but i suppose all our luggage is left behind." he put his head out of the window to see. "no, they're putting it in! in such a style! what a scene of ruin will greet our eyes when we reach the other end." he drew his head into the compartment and took a survey of his surroundings. "what, ash! what, ely! here's a go! what brings you two thieves in here? quite a happy family, my boys." the gentleman extended one hand to mr. ash and the other to mr. ely. mr. ash laughingly grasped the one which came his way; mr. ely acidly declined the other, but the gentleman did not seem to be in the least cast down. he gave mr. ely a resounding thwack upon the shoulder, which doubled him up as though he were some lay figure. "ely, my boy, you look as though you had been living on sour apples for a week! what's the matter with him, ash? been induced to lend his aged mother half a crown? he'll never get over it, you know." "mr. bailey," gasped mr. ely, "i'll trouble you not to play your practical jokes on me." mr. bailey laughed. behind the cover of his paper mr. ash laughed too. mr. bailey--better known as "jack" bailey--was also a member of the "house," and as such known both to mr. ely and to ash. one of those hearty, healthy englishmen, who having not the slightest reserve themselves have no notion of the existence of such a sense in anybody else. he was mr. ely's particular abhorrence. when mr. bailey had done laughing, he turned to the lady who accompanied him. she was a feminine repetition of himself: a tall, strapping, buxom wench, with bright black eyes and bright red cheeks; the very embodiment of health and strength; the sort of damsel who is in her element on the tennis-lawn or on the river, or doing four-and-twenty dances off the reel. "who do you think that is?" the lady laughed. "jack! shut up," she said. "just hark at her! we've not been married an hour, and she's beginning to order me about already! allow me to introduce you to my wife, mrs. bailey--miss williamson that was. married this morning in the church of st. michael and all angels, six bridesmaids, and such a wedding-cake! only we couldn't stop to eat this wedding-cake, we had to catch the train!" mr. and mrs. bailey laughed again. mr. ash laughed too. but mr. ely--he turned green. mr. ash raised his hat and bowed to the lady. "allow me to offer you my congratulations, mrs. bailey. am i justified in supposing that you are starting on your honeymoon?" "justified! i should think you are!" seating himself, mr. bailey slipped his arm about the lady's waist. "i say, bess, it's lucky we've fallen among men i know. i should have had to apologise for kissing you in front of strangers." he kissed her then. but the lady only laughed. "you know jack," she explained. "every one knows jack! he has a way of his own." "i should think i have got a way of my own!" cried the gentleman referred to. and he slipped the lady on to his knee. "i wouldn't give a button for the man who hadn't; eh, ely, what do you say? i say, ely, why don't you go in for something in this line?" and he nodded towards his wife. "i'm afraid i do not understand you." "he says he doesn't understand me, bess. isn't that a funny man?" "are you not married, mr. ely?" inquired the bride of an hour. "i have not that happiness." for the life of him mr. ash could not have resisted the chance which offered. "but he's going to be--he's engaged," he said. mr. ely turned the colour of a boiled beetroot. but mr. and mrs. bailey quite mistook the reason. it was not because he was shy; it was because the exigencies of civilisation debarred him from cutting mr. ash's throat. "i wish you joy!" exclaimed the gentleman. "when's it going to be!" chimed in the lady. "i'll be best man!" "if you promise to send me a piece of the cake i'll let you have a piece of mine." mr. bailey turned to his wife. "to look at him you wouldn't think he was engaged, now, would you?" "why? is there anything funny about the looks of a man when he's engaged?" "funny! i should think there is! ely, what do you think? don't you feel funny? you ought to if you don't." "may i inquire, mr. bailey, what you mean?" there was such a savage tone in mr. ely's voice that even the not quick-witted mr. bailey was struck by it. "hallo! what's up now? i say, ash, you ought to tip a fellow the wink when a man's had an unfortunate misunderstanding with his best girl." "mr. bailey--i beg mrs. bailey's pardon,--but i suppose that in the presence of a lady you take it for granted that you may permit yourself the utmost license of speech." mr. bailey whistled, mrs. bailey laughed, then looked out of the window with a look of innocent surprise--that look of innocent surprise which means so much. mr. bailey nudged his wife with his elbow. "beautiful scenery, isn't it?" they were then passing a long, level stretch of what seemed turnip-fields. mrs. bailey laughed again. "ah, it's a serious thing to have a misunderstanding with your best girl!" mrs. bailey laughed again. "it's all very well to laugh, but i've had more than one, and nobody knows what it feels like who hasn't gone through it all. poor chap, no wonder he feels down!" "mr. ely," explained the lady, "never you mind jack, it's a way he's got; he will always have his joke." then she showed the tact for which women are so famous. "i hope that there really has been no misunderstanding with--with the lady?" "s--sh!--bess!--for shame!--i'm surprised at you! i wouldn't have asked such a question, not for a thousand pounds!" "mr. bailey, if the worst comes to the worst, i feel quite convinced that you will be able to provide mrs. bailey with an excellent establishment by becoming a professional buffoon." this was mr. ely's final word. the train just then drew up at guildford. mr. bailey rose with the air of a martyr. "i'm afraid, my dear bess, we must really tear ourselves away. we ought to find a separate compartment. our friends are most anxious to smoke, and the presence of a lady prevents them, you know." when the pair were gone, mr. ely turned upon mr. ash with something that was very much like a snarl. "i have to thank you for that." "for what? what do you mean?" "you know very well what i mean. for that clown's impertinence--great, lumbering buffoon!" "good gracious, ely, you don't seem to be in the pleasantest of moods. what did i tell him? i only said you were engaged. what harm is there in that? i don't know what good you expect to come from keeping it hidden from the world." mr. ely turned the matter over in his mind. he gnashed his teeth, not figuratively, but very literally indeed. "by george, i'll make her marry me, or i'll know the reason why!" "one way to that desirable consummation is to compromise the lady's name. advertise the fact that she has promised to be your wife." "if i thought that, i'd stick it up on every dead wall in town." "let's try milder means at first. leave more vigorous measures to a little later on. unless i'm much mistaken, you'll find the milder means will serve. there's a little misunderstanding, that is all." "little misunderstanding you call it, do you? i should like to know what you call a big one, then." if they did not actually come to blows they did more than one little bit of figurative sparring on the way. mr. ash found it best to keep quite still. directly he opened his mouth mr. ely showed an amazing disposition to snap at his nose. for instance, once when the train stopped at a station-- "this is rowland's castle, isn't it?" "no, it isn't rowland's castle. i should like to know what on earth makes you think it's rowland's castle. i wonder you don't say it's colney hatch." mr. ash gazed mildly at his friend, and subsided into his paper. he felt that with things as they were conversation might be labelled "dangerous." chapter xii the rivals--new version when they reached shanklin, mr. ely was shown into the drawing-room, while mr. ash disappeared upstairs. "you wait in there," suggested mr. ash; "there's a word or two i want to say to the old lady. i want to get to the bottom of the thing, because it's quite possible we've come on a wild goose chase after all. you wait half a minute, and i'll see miss lily's sent to you. i shouldn't be at all surprised to see her come flying headlong into your arms. then you'll find out that it's almost worth while to fall out for the sake of the reconciliation." left alone in the drawing-room, mr. ely was not by any means so sure. he was inclined to be sceptical as to the young lady's flying leap into his arms. and as to falling out for the sake of the reconciliation--well, there might be something, perhaps, in that, but he would like to have felt as sure about the reconciliation as he did about the falling out. he seated himself on an ottoman, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and stared at his patent toes. a minute passed, more than a minute, more than five minutes, indeed, still he was left alone. he looked at his watch. ten minutes had elapsed since he entered the room. "this is a pretty state of things; ten living minutes have i sat stewing here! and ash said that in less than half a minute he wouldn't be surprised to see her in my arms. it looks like it!" he got up and surveyed the apartment. "i wonder where she is? and where the other fellow is? that's the man to whom i ought to apply for information. i lay my hat that she's done some bounding into his arms since yesterday. that's a pleasant thought to think about the woman who's promised to be your wife!" mr. ely disconsolately paced the room. "and to think that i paid twenty pounds for an engagement-ring! and i might have forked up forty-five! that's what gets at me! and i've got rosenbaum's writ in my coat pocket. damages laid at thirty thousand pounds! oh, lor! this is a nice day's work i've done!" pausing before the fireplace he leaned his elbow on the mantelshelf, and his head upon his hand, and groaned. "excuse me, but can you tell me where miss truscott is?" there was a voice behind him. mr. ely turned. "hallo, ely! i had no idea that it was you! how are you, dear old man?" mr. ely turned--metaphorically--into a pillar of ice. into a pillar of red-hot ice, if we may confound our metaphors. for while his exterior demeanour was several degrees below zero, his interior economy left boiling point at the post. a gentleman had strolled into the room through the opened window--mr. william summers. mr. william summers as large as life, and larger. there were no signs of guilt upon his countenance; certainly there were none in his bearing. he held a soft crush hat in one hand, the other he held out to mr. ely. "well, i'm--hanged!" "i say, ely, what's the row?" speechless with indignation, mr. ely turned and strode towards the door. when he reached it he paused, and turning again, he gazed at the intruder. the intruder did not seem to be at all abashed. "that's the way they used to do it at the coburg. exit vanquished vice." "sir!" "that's a little coburg, too. they used to roll their r's." mr. summers tugged at his beard. retracing his steps, mr. ely strode on until he was in a measurable distance of mr. summers's nose. "understand this once for all: you are a perfect stranger, sir, to me." "that's all right; i thought i was. excuse one stranger speaking to another, but could you tell me where miss truscott is?" mr. ely gasped. "this--this beats anything i ever heard of! mr. summers!" "that's right, ely, i'm awake. wire in and lay me flat; i sha'n't mind a bit." "in all this there may be something funny, sir, which commends it to your mind--if you have a mind--but i see nothing comic in desecrating nature's most sacred ties and in corrupting the innocence of youth." "more don't i, ely; not the way you put it--and i couldn't put it better if i tried." "are you aware that miss truscott has promised to be my wife?" "ah, that was a mistake!" "a mistake! what the devil do you mean?" "you see, ely, i've been in love with her a good twelve months--aye, that and more. i fell in love with her the first moment she came across my path." "what the dickens do i care if you've been in love with her twelve years? more shame you! do you consider that a justification to the scoundrel who betrays another fellow's wife?" "in love with her in a sense you do not understand--in love with her with my whole life." "what on earth has that to do with me?" "i have lived for her, and worked, and hoped, and dreamed, until she has grown to be the centre of my being. does she mean all that to you?" "what business have you to ask me such a question? when you have ruined mrs. jones do you put a similar inquiry to jones? i should think jones would feel that you were a logical sort of person if you did." "ah, but here she is not your wife." "but she's going to be!" "as i live she never will." "hang it, sir; don't i tell you that she promised?" "and don't i tell you that was a mistake. if you will keep cool i will give you an explanation. if you decline to listen to an explanation, you must be content to realise the fact." "look here, mr. summers, you are a sort of man with whom i have had very little to do----" "my misfortune--not your fault." "but i suppose you have some idea of common decency, if you have none of honour----" "i hope i have." "and i ask you if you think it's decent, directly a woman has promised a man to be his wife, to go behind his back and induce the woman to dishonour herself and him?" "but that is not what i have done." "it is what you have done. one day miss truscott promises to be my wife, the next--directly my back is turned--you come and persuade her to be false to herself and me." "my good ely, there is one factor you are omitting from your calculations, and that is--love." "which with you stands higher--love or honesty?" "oh, they both go hand-in-hand. would it have been honest for her to have married you when she loved me?" "pooh! stuff and nonsense! i never heard such impudence! what the dickens do you mean by saying that the woman who has promised to be my wife loves you?" "you perceive, it is from that that i saved you--that curse of all existence, that canker which eats into the very root of life--a loveless marriage. but there are not many signs of gratitude, that i can see." and mr. summers sighed. mr. ely gasped. "look here, mr. summers, i am not a fighting man." "no?" "but if i were----!" "yes. if you were? go on!" "by george, sir, if i were----!" at this moment mr. ash entered the room. "i'm sorry, ash, that you have come. you've interrupted the most agreeable interview that i ever had in all my life." "i'm surprised, mr. summers, after what has passed, to see you here." "why? i assure you i'm not at all surprised at seeing you." rising, mr. summers held out his hand. but mr. ash declined to see it. "oh, take his hand! for goodness' sake take his hand! shake it off his wrist! don't let him suppose that you're not delighted to have the pleasure." "our friend ely----" "your friend ely! what the dickens, sir, do you mean by calling me your friend?" very red in the face, mr. ely struck an attitude in front of mr. summers which was probably intended to express ferocity. mr. summers tugged at his beard, and smiled. mr. ash interposed. "i can hardly think, mr. summers, that it is necessary for me to suggest that your presence is not required here." "my dear fellow, i am only waiting to obtain a little information." "what information can you possibly expect to receive?" "i only want to know where miss truscott is." "yes, that's all! that's all he wants to know! a more modest request i never heard! he only wants to know where my wife is!" "excuse me, ely, but miss truscott is not your wife!" "but she's going to be!" "that she will never be!" "hang it, sir!" mr. ely rushed forward. but again mr. ash thought it advisable to interpose. "mr. summers, be so kind as to leave this house." "oh, don't turn him out! for goodness' sake don't turn him out! pray tell him where the lady is! and also acquaint him with the situation of the spoons! and entreat him, next time he calls, to bring his burglar friends, and other relatives." mr. ash endeavoured to pacify his friend. but the attempt was vain. mr. ely's blood was up. his wrongs were more than he could bear. "my dear ely, i beg that you will not pay the slightest attention to this--gentleman." "attention! not me! i'm not paying the attention! it's he! and to my young woman, by the lord!" still tugging at his beard, mr. summers laughed and turned away. "i'm sorry you cannot give me the information i require. and you really are inhospitable, ash, you really are. but never mind, i'll have my revenge! when you come to see me i'll not show you the door; nor ely, if he'll condescend to call." he had reached the window when the door opened, and mrs. clive appeared. "ah, here is mrs. clive! i am sure that mrs. clive will take pity on a man, especially a man in the forlorn situation which i am. may i ask if you can tell me where i am likely to find miss truscott?" "mr. summers!" mrs. clive's attitude was a study. it was as though all the pokers in england were down her back. but mr. summers did not show any sign of discomposure. "surely you will not be hard upon a man, especially upon a man in love. consider our position. i seek lily, she seeks me. life's summer-time is short. you would not have us waste its sweetness?" "mr. summers, i am more amazed than i can say." "oh, don't be amazed! for goodness' sake don't be amazed! and don't be hard upon a man--especially upon a man in love! consider his position, and don't waste the sweetness of life's summer-time--oh, don't, for gracious' sake!" mr. ely pulled up his shirt-collar and "shot" his cuffs. "i reckon i'm spending one of the pleasantest half hours i ever had in all my life." "mrs. clive, will you not listen to the all-conquering voice, the voice of love?" "mr. summers, i must decline to listen to another word. and i am amazed to think that you should attempt to address me at all, especially as i have given you to understand that our acquaintance, sir, had ceased." "ceased! and i am going to marry your niece! could you so divide the family? she who loves you so! and whom, for her sweet sake and pompey's, i love too?" "well, this--this does beat cock-fighting! that allusion to pompey was one of the most touching things i've heard. and he is going to marry your niece, so you and i, ash, had better go back to town." and again mr. ely's collar and cuffs came into play. mr. ash advanced. "mr. summers, i have already requested you to go. you can scarcely wish us to use force." "no, not force--not that. if it must be then--goodbye! after all, parting is such sweet sorrow. goodbye, mrs. clive, you will weep for me when i am gone. ta-ta, ely, we shall meet at philippi--i leave you--yes, you three!--perchance to wrangle, in very truth thinking angry thoughts--in such an air of discord, too! while i--i go under the shadow of the trees, where love lies dreaming--and waiting perhaps for me. if i meet miss truscott, ely--and i shall under the trysting tree--i will tell her that if you had been a fighting man you certainly would have murdered me." chapter xiii the lover greets the lady there was a pause when he had gone. mrs. clive, the very essence of dignified disapprobation, stood in the centre of the room. mr. ash, a little flustered, was near the window, first gazing through it in the direction which mr. summers had taken, and then, a little dubiously, out of the corners of his eyes at his indignant friend. mr. ely's hands were in his trouser pockets, his legs were wide apart his countenance was red. he seemed to be in a very dissatisfied frame of mind indeed. it was he who broke the silence. "you see, ash, it was a wild goose chase we came upon! that man looks like it, by george!" "my dear fellow, i hope you will not pay the slightest attention to what that person says. he is the kind of man who will say anything. i assure you there is not the slightest occasion for you to feel concerned." from mr. ash's manner it almost seemed as though he desired to convey a greater feeling of assurance that he quite felt himself. he cast several glances in the direction of mrs. clive, as though seeking for support. "it depends upon what you call the 'slightest occasion' for concern," retorted mr. ely drily. "when a man tells you that he is going to marry the girl who has promised to be your wife, and that he is going to meet her underneath the trysting tree--where love lies dreaming, he said, by gad!--some people would think that there was some reason to feel concerned!" mr. ash smiled and rubbed his hands, and fidgeted upon his feet, and looked at mrs. clive. he seemed to find some difficulty in finding something suitable to say. but mrs. clive came nobly to his rescue. she advanced to mr. ely with a smiling countenance and an outstretched hand. "good afternoon, mr. ely; you have not spoken to me yet. i am pleased to have you back with us so soon." mr. ely seemed in two minds at first as to whether he should take her hand. then he just touched it with his own. "good afternoon, ma'am! if you're pleased, i'm sure i am--though i must say your pleasure's easily found." but the old lady was not to be so easily put down. her cue seemed to be to assume unconsciousness of there being anything unpleasant in the air. "the pleasure of your visit is heightened by its unexpectedness. lily has been working all the morning in her room upstairs--you have no idea how industrious she is." mr. ely looked at her suspiciously, as though he doubted if she were a strict exponent of the truth. "i thought he said that he was going to meet her underneath the trysting tree!" the old lady smiled a superior smile. "you really must not believe such nonsense as that. i assure you it is the greatest presumption upon his part." "it would require a good deal of assurance to make me believe that it was not." "lily will be with us directly. young ladies cannot rush into a gentleman's presence quite at a moment's notice, you know." "i beg that miss truscott will take her time!" mr. ely marched to the other end of the room, and stood looking in rather too obvious admiration at an engraving after landseer which hung upon the wall. mrs. clive, a little disconcerted, was left to make conversation with mr. ash. but mr. ash was in a distinctly uneasy frame of mind. "i suppose," he said in a whisper to the lady, keeping one eye fixed on mr. ely all the time, "i suppose she'll come?" "my dear mr. ash, what do you mean?" the lady's modulated tones betrayed the most intense surprise. mr. ash coughed. his manner was apologetic. but without volunteering an explanation he sauntered off towards mr. ely. he had hardly taken a step when the door opened and miss truscott appeared. the young lady's entrance, in its way, was perfect. she was so extremely at her ease. she stood at the door a moment, and then advanced with outstretched hands and the sweetest smile to mr. ash. she did not seem to notice mr. ely. he, on his part, continued to admire the engraving. "guardian! how kind of you to take me by surprise like this!" mr. ash took the two hands she offered and looked at her. certainly this was a woman whom no man need be ashamed to call his wife. tall above the average of her sex, yet her figure was exquisitely feminine--she bore herself with the daintiest grace. she was dressed in white from head to foot; a silver belt went round her waist; in the belt were some red roses; there was another rosebud in the bosom of her dress. as mr. ash held her two soft, white hands in his he involuntarily glanced in the direction of the dapper little gentleman who was continuing to examine the engraving which hung upon the wall. even if they made a match of it they would scarcely make a pair, these two. "what have you to say for yourself?" asked the lady, seeing that he was still. "do you know how long it is since you came to look upon my face? does your conscience not reproach you, sir? i suppose it is the juggernaut of commerce which has kept you so long away?" mr. ash smiled, and pressed her hands. possibly the source from which she drew the reference to the juggernaut of commerce was still fresh in his mind, for there was something a little uneasy in his smile. "i think you will allow that i have atoned for my misconduct when you perceive whom i have brought as my companion." mr. ash motioned towards mr. ely with his now disengaged hand. miss truscott turned with her most innocent air. when she perceived the little gentleman, her countenance was illumined with a seraphic smile. "mr. ely! who would have thought of seeing you? this is a compliment! to be able to tear yourself away again so quickly from your noras and doras, and bulls and bears." mr. ely ceased to examine the engraving. turning, he pulled his spotless white waistcoat down into its place, and then thrust his thumbs into the armholes. he looked the lady in the face. "i knew you would be surprised," he said. "surprised! surprised is not the word!" then she turned again to mr. ash. "guardian, would you like to look at the garden? you have no idea how beautiful it is." mr. ash cleared his throat. he felt that this was a defiance, that in these seemingly innocent words the gage of challenge was thrown down. miss truscott was quite aware that he had not come down to look at the garden. he looked at mr. ely, but that gentleman kept his eyes fixed upon his faithless fair one with a sort of glare. he looked at mrs. clive, but there were no signs that help was likely to come from there. the stockbroker felt that it was incumbent upon him to come to the point. "my dear lily, i shall be delighted to see the garden--delighted--by and by!" this interpolation was necessary because the young lady sailed towards the window as though she wished to fly into the garden on the wings of the wind. "before i can give myself that pleasure, there is one little point which i should like to have cleared up." miss truscott, brought to a standstill, looked down at the toe of the little shoe with which she was tapping the floor. "yes, guardian. what is that?" nothing could be better--in its way--than the air of shy, sweet modesty with which she asked the question. but mr. ash felt that it was a little disconcerting all the same. "it's--eh!--rather a delicate point for an old--and crusty--bachelor like me to handle." mr. ash said this with an air of forced joviality which was anything but jovial. his gruesome effort to be cheerful seemed to strike miss truscott, for she gave him a quick, penetrating glance which took him considerably aback. "guardian! aren't you well?" "well? god bless the girl, yes! what do you mean?" back went the eyes to the toe, which again began tapping the floor. "i didn't know." mr. ash pulled himself together. he made another effort, and began again. he was not a man who was deficient in tact as a rule, but he was conscious that his was a position in which even something more than tact might be required. joining the tips of his fingers, he balanced himself upon his toes and heels, assuming what he intended to be a judicial attitude. "my dear lily, you are quite aware that you have reached an age at which it is no longer possible to treat you as a girl." "would you treat me as an old woman, then?" this was disconcerting; even more disconcerting was the glance with which it was accompanied. mr. ash--who had the sense of humour which mr. ely lacked--was quite aware that the young lady was laughing in her sleeve, and he had very clearly in his mind the memory of previous occasions on which the young lady had beaten him with weapons against which none of his were of the least avail. still, he stuck to his guns. was not mr. ely looking on? and mrs. clive? "i would treat you as a person who has arrived at years of discretion, who is conscious of the meaning of the words which she may use. one moment!" for miss truscott murmured something about her not being yet twenty-one, and he felt that interruption might be fatal. "lily, you are at least aware of what a promise means." the young lady sighed. "it depends," she said. "depends!--depends on what?" she looked up. feeling that it would be impossible for him to preserve his gravity and yet meet the wicked light which he knew was in her eyes, mr. ash's glance in turn sought refuge on the ground. "supposing," she explained, "when you were suffering from an attack of indigestion you promised a friend to cut your throat--you know what one is inclined to promise when one does feel ill. would you feel constrained to carry out your promise when you found that a dose of somebody's medicine had brought you round?" mr. ash was still. mrs. clive took up the parable instead. "lily! i'm amazed at you!" "my dear aunt, why are you amazed?" "i never thought a niece of mine could have acted so." miss truscott sighed. "it seems to me that of late i'm always doing wrong. i don't know how it is. i think i had better go into the garden all alone." she gave a half-step towards the window. mr. ash cleared his throat with rather a suspicious "hem!" "it won't do, lily. i know your genius for turning serious questions upside down, but i ask you to put it to your conscience if, on the present occasion, that is fair. a matter which affects the lives of a man and of a woman ought to be approached with gravity at least." "is the woman me?" she looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. "oughtn't that to be--is the woman i?" then she broke into a smile. "what can you expect when even the elementary rules of grammar are not there?" so far mr. ely had kept a judicious, if not a judicial, silence. but when he saw that miss truscott was smiling at mr. ash, and more than suspected that mr. ash was smiling back at her, he felt that it was time for him to speak. "if you will allow me, ash, i'll manage this myself." "delighted, my dear fellow, i am sure!" "i fancy i am the person principally concerned." "quite so, quite so!" "if you will leave me alone with miss truscott, i've no doubt that in a few minutes we shall understand each other very well indeed." "i'm sure you will! i feel quite sure you will!" mr. ash's tone was cheerful--mr. ely felt that it was even exasperatingly cheerful. advancing, he laid his hand upon his ward's well-rounded arm. "mind you behave yourself," he told her. then he left the room. "lily," said mrs. clive, when mr. ash had gone, "i trust you will do credit to the precepts which i have so constantly, and i hope conscientiously, endeavoured to instil into your mind, and that i shall not have cause to blush for my own sister's child." then mrs. clive went after mr. ash, and the two were left alone. chapter xiv the lady endeavours to explain "sounds like the last words of a funeral sermon," muttered mr. ely, directly the door was closed. "it does sound a little that way, doesn't it?" then the two were still. mr. ely took up the position in front of the fireplace which had been occupied by mr. ash; miss truscott seated herself by a five-o'clock tea-table, and pensively regarded so much of her toes as she permitted to peep from under the hem of her dress. a considerable pause ensued. possibly mr. ely was endeavouring to find words with which to clothe his thoughts. "this is like a quaker's meeting," murmured the lady. mr. ely started. but he checked the retort which rose to his lips, and continued his reflections. at last he spoke. the words issued from his lips with excessive deliberation, as though he weighed each one to be quite sure it was of proper weight. "miss truscott, the exigencies of modern civilisation compel from man a chivalrous attitude towards the weaker sex." she looked up at the first sound of his voice--and he immediately wished she would look down again. "but there are occasions on which chivalry should give place to even higher things." he certainly wished she would look down again. her countenance was perfectly grave, but he had a horrid suspicion that there was laughter in her eyes. she murmured something to herself. "what was that you said?" he asked, with a sudden departure from his air of ceremonious state. "nothing." she looked down--and smiled. mr. ely felt that he was growing warm. he was not a man easily put out of countenance as a rule, but this young lady had an effect upon him which was quite unprecedented. he changed his method of attack, and from excessive deliberation passed to excessive haste. "miss truscott, i am a plain business man." "you are." "the day before yesterday i asked you to be my wife." "you did." "you said you would." "and immediately afterwards i changed my mind." she said this with her sweetest smile. "changed your mind! what do you mean? do you know i spent twenty pounds on an engagement-ring?" mr. ely produced a little leather case from his waistcoat pocket, and from the case a ring. "do you see that? do you know i paid twenty pounds for that? and it might have cost me forty-five." taking the ring, miss truscott slipped it on her long, slender finger. "what a pretty ring! how well it fits me, too. i'll buy it from you if you'll let me have it cheap." mr. ely was for a moment speechless. "cheap! do you think i buy engagement-rings to sell them at a profit, then?" "i don't know. you say you are a business man." "say i'm a business man! i should have to be a very funny business man if i did that kind of thing." taking off the ring, miss truscott put it back into the case. "never mind, mr. ely; as a business man you know that a good investment is never thrown away. if you don't meet with a good offer for it at once it is sure to come in by and by. if you go on asking girls to marry you, possibly in time you will light on one who will not change her mind." "miss truscott, i don't think you quite know what sort of man i am." "you say you are a business man." "but, excuse me, you don't seem to know what a business man is either. a business man is a man who sticks to his own bargains, and expects other people to stick to theirs." "is he, indeed. how very interesting!" "you promised to be my wife." "always supposing that i did not change my mind." "always supposing nothing of the kind. there was no sort of supposition even hinted at. it was as plain and unequivocal a promise as was ever made by a to b." "don't you see, mr. ely, that you're placing me in a delicate position?" "in what sort of a position do you think you're placing me?" "would you have me marry you--now?" "by george, i would!" rising from her seat, miss truscott placed her two hands behind her back--in the manner in which the children do at school---and looked him boldly in the face. "when i love another man?--when my whole heart only beats for him?--when, in a sense which you shall never understand, i am his, and he is mine?" mr. ely fidgeted beneath the clear scrutiny of her wide-open eyes. "look here, miss truscott, i've told you already that i am not a man of sentiment." "do you call this a question of sentiment? would you marry a woman who frankly tells you that she loathes you, and that she yearns for another man?" "loathes me, by gad! nice thing, by george! look here, miss truscott, you promised to be my wife----" mr. ely was accentuating his words by striking together the palms of his hands, but miss truscott cut him short. "really, mr. ely, you are like a child. you indulge in the vainest repetitions. i promised fiddlesticks, for all i know! i don't intend to marry you, so there's an end of it." "don't you? we shall see!" "we certainly shall see!" "miss truscott, if you decline to fulfil the promise which you made to me--according to your own confession--i go straight from here to my solicitor and instruct him to immediately commence an action against you for breach of promise of marriage. you will find that even a woman is not allowed to play fast-and-loose exactly as she pleases." "you threaten me! you dare to threaten me! now i see the business man, indeed! it is damages you want to mend your broken heart--the money, not the wife. how foolish i was not to understand all that before! can we not compromise the case, we principals? why should all the plunder go into the lawyer's hands? let me beg your acceptance of a ten-pound note." miss truscott took out her purse. "ten pounds!" mr. ely remembered the writ which he had in the pocket of his coat. "i'll get thirty thousand pounds at least!" "thirty thousand pounds! what a sum am i not valued at! i am afraid, mr. ely, that i am not able to treat with you when you speak of such noble figures as that. you see, at present, my guardian has the charge of my pecuniary affairs. but i beg you to believe that i am glad to learn that you can find compensation even in the prospect of such a sum as that. i had feared that your wounded affections were incurable." "compensation! oh, yes, i'll find compensation fast enough! and you shall find it too! that letter of yours shall be produced in court. you shall have as first rate an advertisement as ever yet a woman had. i'll give summers cause to be proud of his wife." "i am so pleased to hear you speak like that, because, of course, i hope he always will be proud of me, you know. i hope you will not put it down to my insufferable conceit, but i don't think he's ashamed of me, as yet. but it is quite a relief to my mind to think that we are agreed. for we are agreed, are we not?" "agreed! on what?" "on the principle of compensation." "oh, yes, there's no doubt that we agree on that--as you will see directly i get back to town." "that is most gratifying, isn't it? as we do agree now, won't you take my hand?" before he knew it she had her hand in his. she was looking at him with laughter lighting all her face. "i knew that we should understand each other after all." and while they still stood there hand in hand, looking at each other--but with such different expressions on their faces--the door opened and mr. ash came in. chapter xv the lady explains still further "when a woman says she will, she will! you may depend on't! and when she says she won't, she won't! and there's an end on't!" "i knew you would! i knew you had only got to get together to understand each other perfectly." this was what mr. ash said as he entered the room. he had caught miss truscott's words, but misapplied their meaning. he advanced towards mr. ely with beaming countenance. "i congratulate you, ely; i do with all my heart. who was right about the little misunderstanding, now? did i not tell you that there was a romantic side about the feminine character with which you were unacquainted, a sort of airy nothing which is a source of continual perplexity to the most experienced man. and wasn't it worth it all for the sake of the reconciliation at the end?" mr. ely gasped. "this--this is the final straw!" "ah, my boy, i know more about a woman than you. we old bachelors are not quite blind, after all." it was with difficulty that mr. ely obtained sufficient self-control to enable him to speak. "do i understand that you are offering me your congratulations?" "certainly! i congratulate you with all my heart, my boy." mr. ash held out his hand. mr. ely ignored it. he did more. he looked as though he would have liked to have spurned it from him. he eyed mr. ash with withering scorn. "i'm a fit subject for congratulations. i'm the happiest man alive. i suppose there's no man in england who has more cause to bless his stars than i have." "i am so glad to hear it, mr. ely, i cannot tell." mr. ely started as though he had been shot. mrs. clive had, in her turn, made her appearance on the scene. she, too, had overheard his words. she came sailing across the room all smiles and condescension. "i knew my niece, you see. who should know her if not i? the girl has been to me as my own child. what i learnt at my mother's knees i, in my turn, have taught to her--what she is she owes to me. receive my sincerest congratulations, mr. ely, upon this fortunate event." mr. ely stared at the old lady as though his eyes were starting from his head. it was only after an interval that his thoughts were able to find expression in speech. "i don't know if all the world has lost its mental equilibrium, or if it's only i! what she is she owes to you? i don't know that i should like to be owed a debt like that, by george! you have taught her what you yourself learnt at your mother's knee? you must have learnt some funny things! and as for your congratulations--as for your congratulations, madam"--mr. ely settled his waistcoat in its place--"i don't know if a deliberate insult is intended, but in any case you may postpone your congratulations to a future date." mr. ash looked surprised, mrs. clive bewildered. but miss truscott laughed--the most musical of little laughs. "you see, my good people, although you are all of you older than i, there is not one of you who understands." "that's one consolation," said mr. ely, "at any rate." miss truscott, without heeding him, went on, to mr. ash's and mrs. clive's increasing bewilderment-- "one would really think that love was quite a new creation--you seem never to have heard of it before! you see, guardian"--she turned with an air of the most bewitching frankness to mr. ash--"when your letter came i was more than twelve months gone in love. i think that love must be a sort of disease which has to run its course through different stages. i was in the stage of dark despair. at that moment i would have married pompey had he asked me--i looked on mr. ely just as i would have looked on pompey, you understand." "flattering, upon my word!" mr. ely was just able to articulate. but miss truscott only looked at him and laughed. "but the morning after, that stage had passed away, and with it all the things which appertained to it had gone--whether you call it pompey or mr. ely, it is just the same, those things had gone--i was sane again, in my right mind. love claimed me on that day, and, of course when love claimed me i was his. for to think"--she bore herself quite straight, with her head a little back, so that, in some strange way, she seemed to have grown in stature before their very eyes--"for to think that this to me means love"--she motioned to mr. ely with her hand--"this little gentleman of stocks and shares--it is the most foolish thing that ever yet i heard. none knows better than this gentleman himself that love is just the thing he does not even care to understand; and to me, love, with the eternity of meaning the little word conveys, is all the world." she favoured mr. ely with her most sweeping curtsey, the sweetest mockery of laughter in her eyes. "mr. ely, i wish you, sir, good day. for the engagement-ring which cost you twenty pounds i hope that you will find a wearer soon." she went to the window, and stood just outside, with her finger on her lips. "one word in confidence. next time you ask a girl to be your wife, do not insist upon it as your chiefest qualification for the married state that you are indeed a business man!" she passed down the steps, and across the lawn, and went away; and directly she was out of sight they heard her voice upraised in a burst of joyous song. chapter xvi thunder in the air there was silence in the room--an awkward silence. for some moments nobody seemed to think that there was anything left to say. it was noticeable that neither of the trio seemed to care to look the other in the face. mr. ely stood with his hands thrust to the extremest depths of his trouser pockets, staring moodily, not to say savagely, at the window through which miss truscott had disappeared. mr. ash stroked his chin with something of an embarrassed air--he did not seem to know where to rest his eyes. from the expression of her countenance, and from her bearing altogether, mrs. clive seemed to have had the faculty of speech knocked out of her. as perhaps was natural, mr. ely was the first who found his tongue. he pointed his words by looking at mrs. clive out of the corners of his eyes. "that's a nice way in which to bring up a girl!" his tone was distinctly venomous. mr. ash continued to stroke his chin. "it does seem," he hazarded, in a sort of deprecatory undertone, "it does seem as though she had imbibed some curious ideas." "that's the sort of girl to do anybody credit." "i confess," said mr. ash with a little cough, as though he wished to apologise for his confession, "i confess that i am surprised." mrs. clive, blissfully unconscious that it could enter into anybody's philosophy to think of attacking her, remained sublimely statuesque. "i say, without the slightest hesitation, that the person who is responsible for the education of that young woman has committed a crime against society." mr. ely turned on mrs. clive with something that was very like a snarl. the old lady started. for the first time it seemed to occur to her that the words were spoken with intention. mr. ash, who was still engaged upon his chin, did not appear to be able to go quite as far as his friend. "that--eh--is perhaps a strongish thing to say--hardly crime--but it really does appear that blame rests somewhere--it really does." but mr. ely was not to be gainsayed. no toning down of truths for him! "i said, and i say again, that the person who is responsible for the bringing up of that young woman has committed a crime against society." he turned so that he looked mrs. clive straight in the face. "a girl is entrusted to her aunt to receive her education. if that aunt betrays her trust--miseducates the child!--then i challenge contradiction when i say that that aunt pulls away one of the props, the absence of whose support threatens to undermine the very fabric of society." "eh--there is--eh--of course one must admit that there is a certain substratum of truth in that." "is it possible"--smoothing the front of her dress with her two hands, it was evident that mrs. clive was awaking to the nature of the outrageous attack of which she was being made the victim--"is it possible that these remarks are directed against me?" thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes, mr. ely began to stride about the room. "oh, it's easy to throw about oneself the cloak of womanhood, and to claim that the privilege of sex exonerates from blame, but i should like to know, if this is to be the fate of the coming generation of young women, what will our future mothers be?" imitating mr. ely, mr. ash also thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes. "just so! what will our future mothers be?" "our future mothers! am i not a mother, then?" but neither of the gentlemen paid the slightest attention to mrs. clive. "it is not a question of our mothers only, it is a question of our fathers, too!" "that is so. there can be no doubt that the maternal and paternal questions are closely intertwined." "i never thought"--mrs. clive produced her handkerchief--"i never thought that i should have lived to see this day!" mrs. clive began to cry; but neither of the gentlemen seemed at all abashed. they had a duty to perform, and evidently meant to carry it through. "'our acts our judges are, for good or ill. fatal shadows--which march by us still!'" it was such an unusual thing for mr. ely to essay quotation that it was not surprising if the poet's words got slightly mangled in production. "the thing you do is like the seed you sow, it grows and grows until it assumes gigantic proportions, and blights your life and the lives of all whose paths you cross. you cannot get away from that!" "you certainly cannot get away from that! that is well put--very well put, indeed!" but mrs. clive was not to be trampled upon in silence. she turned on mr. ely with undaunted mien. "may i ask, mr. ely, for an explanation of the language which you use?" "your niece, ma'am, is sufficient explanation. you say that what she is she owes to you. i presume her singular notions of morality among the rest!" "ahem!" mr. ash contented himself with clearing his throat. "mr. ely, i am as much surprised at my niece's behaviour as you can possibly be." "surprised, madam! why are you surprised? you say that you have handed on to her the precepts which you yourself imbibed at your mother's knee!" "sir!" mrs. clive turned towards mr. ash with her grandest air. "mr. ash, may i ask you to protect me from this gentleman?" "i certainly understood you to say," stammered mr. ash, when he was thus appealed to, "that you had handed on to her the precepts which you had imbibed at your mother's knees?" "mr. ash!" up went the handkerchief to the injured lady's eyes. "it's easy enough to cry," sneered mr. ely. "i believe that some people keep a stock of tears on hand. at the same time"--he turned on mr. ash with a sudden ferocity that was really startling--"don't suppose for a moment that i acquit you entirely from blame." mrs. clive's tears were checked in the very act of starting to her eyes. mr. ash, about to move from the position in front of the fireplace which he had occupied until then, was apparently momentarily turned into stone. this sudden change of front seemed to take him very much aback. "oh, i know! i know!" continued mr. ely. "you may stare at me as much as you please, but i'm not to be frightened by your looks! i've not forgotten how you tried to rob me once before." "this," exclaimed mr. ash, looking up, as though he apostrophised the skies, "is the most outrageous attack of which i ever heard!" he had apparently forgotten that mrs. clive had just been the victim of a very similar attack in which he and his present antagonist had joined their forces. "bah!" cried mr. ely; "stuff and nonsense! whenever there is any dirty work about i always see your hand. who robbed me of a thousand pounds!" "this," exclaimed mr. ash, extending his hands as though he were addressing an unseen audience, "is the man who robbed me of five hundred and thirty-three pounds thirteen and fourpence!" mr. ely flung himself upon a seat and nursed his knee. "if i had done what i ought to have done, i should have locked you up." "locked me up!" the words were gasped rather than spoken. mr. ash turned to mrs. clive with the apparent intention of explaining to her the situation--it perhaps required explanation. "madam, you see this man" ("this man" was the recent friend of his bosom, frederic ely), "he is so incapable of concealing his true character that even an inexperienced girl has found him out, and because she--very properly--refuses to have anything to do with him at any price, he turns on me! madam," mr. ash became warmer as he spoke, "you are not acquainted with the intricacies of the stock exchange, but i think you will understand me when i tell you that i once sold him a quantity of a certain stock, and when there was a fall, so that there was a profit in my favour of five hundred and thirty-three pounds thirteen shillings, he had the audacity to say that i had bought, not sold, and he actually declared that the transaction had referred to double amount of the stock than was in reality the case, and he even preferred a claim against me for over a thousand pounds!" "how shocking!" said mrs. clive. though it may be suspected that she would have found it difficult to explain what was shocking if she had been required to do so on the spot. mr. ely rose from his seat. he seemed more at his ease than he had been since he entered the room, as though falling out with mr. ash had relieved his mind. "ah," he observed, "that's the sort of man he is; if he robbed his mother he would swear that she'd robbed him. but perhaps he's not to blame. according to the new philosophy that sort of thing is in the blood." mr. ash turned pale. "mrs. clive, may i ask you to withdraw?" "that's another of his dodges; he doesn't want you to know what sort of man he is. but i don't mind telling you, not the least. he's not the sort of man i should care to choose to be trustee to my girl. he is the sort of man who regards a trusteeship as the royal road to wealth." mr. ash began to grow angry, which was not surprising on the whole. "mrs. clive, that man is the greatest thief in town." "that's why he wanted me to marry his ward--that we might go halves, you know." this remark so evidently enraged mr. ash that mrs. clive actually feared that hostilities would be commenced upon her drawing-room floor. she endeavoured to interpose. "gentlemen, i must beg of you to consider where you are!" "you mustn't ask from him impossibilities; he can't realise that he's in a respectable house, you know." mr. ash almost foamed at the lips. "if you will not withdraw, mrs. clive, then in your presence i shall be compelled to thrash this man within an inch of his life." "gentlemen! i do beg of you!--i pray!" "there's not the slightest occasion to be alarmed. threatened men proverbially live long. honest men know from experience that they can listen unmoved to the tall language used by the more doubtful members of society." mr. ely ostentatiously jingled the money in his trouser pockets, and smiled a beatific smile. "you hound!" mrs. clive was in time to seize mr. ash's uplifted arm. "mr. ash!" she cried. "hallo, ash! what's the matter, ash? want to exhibit a little valour on the cheap?" "you cur!" mr. ash caught mr. ely by the collar, and mr. ely sprang at mr. ash's throat. the lady screamed. a very pretty fight was spoiled by the sudden appearance of other actors on the scene. chapter xvii mr. ely throws the lady over "guardian! mr. ely! what is the matter now?" miss truscott and mr. summers were standing at the window. they had approached unperceived in the excitement of the little argument which had been taking place within. the lady's face was lighted with her sweetest, happiest smile. the gentleman, too, seemed at his ease; he had the lady's hand in his. the perfect agreement which evidently existed between the lovers was in striking contrast to the perfect disagreement which was conspicuous within. outside the room, perfect peace; inside the room, a raging storm. on the appearance of this united pair the combatants had the grace to let each other go. all signs of actual violence vanished into space. the old lady ceased to scream. mr. ash hastened to the window; his plumes were still a little ruffled. "lily, you have been better advised than i. i commend your choice. rather than see you the wife of such a man as frederic ely, i would cut your throat." miss truscott looked surprised. mr. ash's language was strong in an unexpected place. mr. summers laughed outright. mr. ely picked up his hat, which had been up to now reposing on a chair, and settled it upon his head. "mr. summers, i can't congratulate you--i really can't. not that i have anything to say against the lady--at least not much. but the man ash--her guardian--is the most notorious character in town. rather than become in any way connected with such a person as that i would march single to the silent grave. good day, mrs. clive. i hope that pompey continues in the enjoyment of good health." nodding slightly to mrs. clive, mr. ely swaggered from the room. miss truscott's look of surprise when he had gone was comical. "guardian, what does this mean?" mr. ash still seemed a little uncomfortable, but he tried to pass it off as lightly as he could. "nothing, my dear, nothing. let me beg of you to dismiss the incident wholly from your mind. mr. ely has revealed an unexpected phase in his character, but it was a phase which was better discovered early than late. i assure you that your engagement with my old friend summers gives me complete content. may your days be happy and your love live long." the lady looked her lover in the face. "it will live long, i think." "i am sure it will," said he. they clasped each other by the hand; the old lady and the stockbroker turned away. there is a candour about true love which worldly minds find at times embarrassing. shortly afterwards the following announcement appeared in a daily paper-- "ely--rosenbaum.--on the th instant, at st. philip's, south kensington, frederic ely, esq., of the stock exchange, to ruth, sixth and youngest daughter of myer rosenbaum, esq., of queen's gate, s.w., and the stock exchange. no cards." miss truscott showed this to mr. summers. they laughed together when they read it. not many weeks elapsed before their names appeared in the same column of the _times_. unwin brothers, the gresham press, woking and london. at sunwich port by w. w. jacobs part . illustrations from drawings by will owen chapter vi for the first few days after his return sunwich was full of surprises to jem hardy. the town itself had changed but little, and the older inhabitants were for the most part easily recognisable, but time had wrought wonders among the younger members of the population: small boys had attained to whiskered manhood, and small girls passing into well-grown young women had in some cases even changed their names. the most astounding and gratifying instance of the wonders effected by time was that of miss nugent. he saw her first at the window, and with a ready recognition of the enchantment lent by distance took the first possible opportunity of a closer observation. he then realized the enchantment afforded by proximity. the second opportunity led him impetuously into a draper's shop, where a magnificent shop-walker, after first ceremoniously handing him a high cane chair, passed on his order for pins in a deep and thrilling baritone, and retired in good order. [illustration: "the most astounding and gratifying instance of the wonders effected by time was that of miss nugent."] by the end of a week his observations were completed, and kate nugent, securely enthroned in his mind as the incarnation of feminine grace and beauty, left but little room for other matters. on his second sunday at home, to his father's great surprise, he attended church, and after contemplating miss nugent's back hair for an hour and a half came home and spoke eloquently and nobly on "burying hatchets," "healing old sores," "letting bygones be bygones," and kindred topics. "i never take much notice of sermons myself," said the captain, misunderstanding. "sermon?" said his son. "i wasn't thinking of the sermon, but i saw captain nugent there, and i remembered the stupid quarrel between you. it's absurd that it should go on indefinitely." "why, what does it matter?" inquired the other, staring. "why shouldn't it? perhaps it's the music that's affected you; some of those old hymns--" "it wasn't the sermon and it wasn't the hymns," said his son, disdainfully; "it's just common sense. it seems to me that the enmity between you has lasted long enough." "i don't see that it matters," said the captain; "it doesn't hurt me. nugent goes his way and i go mine, but if i ever get a chance at the old man, he'd better look out. he wants a little of the starch taken out of him." "mere mannerism," said his son. "he's as proud as lucifer, and his girl takes after him," said the innocent captain. "by the way, she's grown up a very good-looking girl. you take a look at her the next time you see her." his son stared at him. "she'll get married soon, i should think," continued the other. "young murchison, the new doctor here, seems to be the favourite. nugent is backing him, so they say; i wish him joy of his father-in-law." jem hardy took his pipe into the garden, and, pacing slowly up and down the narrow paths, determined, at any costs, to save dr. murchison from such a father-in-law and kate nugent from any husband except of his choosing. he took a seat under an old apple tree, and, musing in the twilight, tried in vain to think of ways and means of making her acquaintance. meantime they passed each other as strangers, and the difficulty of approaching her only made the task more alluring. in the second week he reckoned up that he had seen her nine times. it was a satisfactory total, but at the same time he could not shut his eyes to the fact that five times out of that number he had seen dr. murchison as well, and neither of them appeared to have seen him. he sat thinking it over in the office one hot afternoon. mr. adolphus swann, his partner, had just returned from lunch, and for about the fifth time that day was arranging his white hair and short, neatly pointed beard in a small looking-glass. over the top of it he glanced at hardy, who, leaning back in his chair, bit his pen and stared hard at a paper before him. "is that the manifest of the north star?" he inquired. "no," was the reply. mr. swann put his looking-glass away and watched the other as he crossed over to the window and gazed through the small, dirty panes at the bustling life of the harbour below. for a short time hardy stood gazing in silence, and then, suddenly crossing the room, took his hat from a peg and went out. "restless," said the senior partner, wiping his folders with great care and putting them on. "wonder where he's put that manifest." he went over to the other's desk and opened a drawer to search for it. just inside was a sheet of foolscap, and mr. swann with growing astonishment slowly mastered the contents. [illustration: "mr. swann with growing astonishment slowly mastered the contents."] "see her as often as possible." "get to know some of her friends." "try and get hold of the old lady." "find out her tastes and ideas." "show my hand before murchison has it all his own way." "it seems to me," said the bewildered shipbroker, carefully replacing the paper, "that my young friend is looking out for another partner. he hasn't lost much time." he went back to his seat and resumed his work. it occurred to him that he ought to let his partner know what he had seen, and when hardy returned he had barely seated himself before mr. swann with a mysterious smile crossed over to him, bearing a sheet of foolscap. "try and dress as well as my partner," read the astonished hardy. "what's the matter with my clothes? what do you mean?" mr. swann, in place of answering, returned to his desk and, taking up another sheet of foolscap, began to write again, holding up his hand for silence as hardy repeated his question. when he had finished his task he brought it over and placed it in the other's hand. "take her little brother out for walks." hardy crumpled the paper up and flung it aside. then, with his face crimson, he stared wrathfully at the benevolent swann. "it's the safest card in the pack," said the latter. "you please everybody; especially the little brother. you should always hold his hand--it looks well for one thing, and if you shut your eyes--" "i don't want any of your nonsense," said the maddened jem. "what do you mean by reading my private papers?" "i came over to look for the manifest," said mr. swann, "and i read it before i could make out what it was. you must admit it's a bit cryptic. i thought it was a new game at first. getting hold of the old lady sounds like a sort of blind-man's buff. but why not get hold of the young one? why waste time over--" "go to the devil," said the junior partner. "any more suggestions i can give you, you are heartily welcome to," said mr. swann, going back to his seat. "all my vast experience is at your service, and the best and sweetest and prettiest girls in sunwich regard me as a sort of second father." "what's a second father?" inquired jim, looking up--"a grandfather?" "go your own way," said the other; "i wash my hands of you. you're not in earnest, or you'd clutch at any straw. but let me give you one word of advice. be careful how you get hold of the old lady; let her understand from the commencement that it isn't her." mr. hardy went on with his work. there was a pile of it in front of him and an accumulation in his drawers. for some time he wrote assiduously, but work was dry after the subject they had been discussing. he looked over at his partner and, seeing that that gentleman was gravely busy, reopened the matter with a jeer. "old maids always know most about rearing children," he remarked; "so i suppose old bachelors, looking down on life from the top shelf, think they know most about marriage." "i wash my hands of you," repeated the senior, placidly. "i am not to be taunted into rendering first aid to the wounded." the conscience-stricken junior lost his presence of mind. "who's trying to taunt you?" he demanded, hotly. "why, you'd do more harm than good." "put a bandage round the head instead of the heart, i expect," assented the chuckling swann. "top shelf, i think you said; well, i climbed there for safety." "you must have been much run after," said his partner. "i was," said the other. "i suppose that's why it is i am always so interested in these affairs. i have helped to marry so many people in this place, that i'm almost afraid to stir out after dark." hardy's reply was interrupted by the entrance of mr. edward silk, a young man of forlorn aspect, who combined in his person the offices of messenger, cleaner, and office-boy to the firm. he brought in some letters, and placing them on mr. swann's desk retired. "there's another," said the latter, as the door closed. "his complaint is amelia kybird, and he's got it badly. she's big enough to eat him, but i believe that they are engaged. perseverance has done it in his case. he used to go about like a blighted flower--" "i am rather busy," his partner reminded him. mr. swann sighed and resumed his own labours. for some time both men wrote in silence. then the elder suddenly put his pen down and hit his desk a noisy thump with his fist. "i've got it," he said, briskly; "apologize humbly for all your candour, and i will give you a piece of information which shall brighten your dull eyes, raise the corners of your drooping mouth, and renew once more the pink and cream in your youthful cheeks." "look here--" said the overwrought hardy. "samson wilks," interrupted mr. swann, "number three, fullalove alley, at home fridays, seven to nine, to the daughter of his late skipper, who always visits him on that day. don't thank me, hardy, in case you break down. she's a very nice girl, and if she had been born twenty years earlier, or i had been born twenty years later, or you hadn't been born at all, there's no saying what might not have happened." "when i want you to interfere in my business," said hardy, working sedulously, "i'll let you know." "very good," replied swann; "still, remember thursdays, seven to nine." "thursdays," said hardy, incautiously; "why, you said fridays just now." mr. swann made no reply. his nose was immersed in the folds of a large handkerchief, and his eyes watered profusely behind his glasses. it was some minutes before he had regained his normal composure, and even then the sensitive nerves of his partner were offended by an occasional belated chuckle. although by dint of casual and cautious inquiries mr. hardy found that his partner's information was correct, he was by no means guilty of any feelings of gratitude towards him; and he only glared scornfully when that excellent but frivolous man mounted a chair on friday afternoon, and putting the clock on a couple of hours or so, urged him to be in time. the evening, however, found him starting slowly in the direction of fullalove alley. his father had gone to sea again, and the house was very dull; moreover, he felt a mild curiosity to see the changes wrought by time in mr. wilks. he walked along by the sea, and as the church clock struck the three-quarters turned into the alley and looked eagerly round for the old steward. the labours of the day were over, and the inhabitants were for the most part out of doors taking the air. shirt-sleeved householders, leaning against their door-posts smoking, exchanged ideas across the narrow space paved with cobble-stones which separated their small and ancient houses, while the matrons, more gregariously inclined, bunched in little groups and discussed subjects which in higher circles would have inundated the land with libel actions. up and down the alley a tiny boy all ready for bed, with the exception of his nightgown, mechanically avoided friendly palms as he sought anxiously for his mother. [illustration: "fullalove alley."] the object of mr. hardy's search sat at the door of his front room, which opened on to the alley, smoking an evening pipe, and noting with an interested eye the doings of his neighbours. he was just preparing to draw himself up in his chair as the intruder passed, when to his utter astonishment that gentleman stopped in front of him, and taking possession of his hand shook it fervently. "how do you do?" he said, smiling. mr. wilks eyed him stupidly and, releasing his hand, coyly placed it in his trouser-pocket and breathed hard. "i meant to come before," said hardy, "but i've been so busy. how are you?" mr. wilks, still dazed, muttered that he was very well. then he sat bolt upright in his chair and eyed his visitor suspiciously. "i've been longing for a chat with you about old times," said hardy; "of all my old friends you seem to have changed the least. you don't look a day older." "i'm getting on," said mr. wilks, trying to speak coldly, but observing with some gratification the effect produced upon his neighbours by the appearance of this well-dressed acquaintance. "i wanted to ask your advice," said the unscrupulous hardy, speaking in low tones. "i daresay you know i've just gone into partnership in sunwich, and i'm told there's no man knows more about the business and the ins and outs of this town than you do." mr. wilks thawed despite himself. his face glistened and his huge mouth broke into tremulous smiles. for a moment he hesitated, and then noticing that a little group near them had suspended their conversation to listen to his he drew his chair back and, in a kind voice, invited the searcher after wisdom to step inside. hardy thanked him, and, following him in, took a chair behind the door, and with an air of youthful deference bent his ear to catch the pearls which fell from the lips of his host. since he was a babe on his mother's knee sixty years before mr. wilks had never had such an attentive and admiring listener. hardy sat as though glued to his chair, one eye on mr. wilks and the other on the clock, and it was not until that ancient timepiece struck the hour that the ex-steward suddenly realized the awkward state of affairs. "any more 'elp i can give you i shall always be pleased to," he said, looking at the clock. hardy thanked him at great length, wondering, as he spoke, whether miss nugent was of punctual habits. he leaned back in his chair and, folding his arms, gazed thoughtfully at the perturbed mr. wilks. "you must come round and smoke a pipe with me sometimes," he said, casually. mr. wilks flushed with gratified pride. he had a vision of himself walking up to the front door of the hardys, smoking a pipe in a well-appointed room, and telling an incredulous and envious fullalove alley about it afterwards. "i shall be very pleased, sir," he said, impressively. "come round on tuesday," said his visitor. "i shall be at home then." mr. wilks thanked him and, spurred on to hospitality, murmured something about a glass of ale, and retired to the back to draw it. he came back with a jug and a couple of glasses, and draining his own at a draught, hoped that the example would not be lost upon his visitor. that astute person, however, after a modest draught, sat still, anchored to the half-empty glass. "i'm expecting somebody to-night," said the ex-steward, at last. "no doubt you have a lot of visitors," said the other, admiringly. mr. wilks did not deny it. he eyed his guest's glass and fidgeted. "miss nugent is coming," he said. instead of any signs of disorder and preparations for rapid flight, mr. wilks saw that the other was quite composed. he began to entertain a poor idea of mr. hardy's memory. "she generally comes for a little quiet chat," he said. "indeed!" "just between the two of us," said the other. his visitor said "indeed," and, as though some chord of memory had been touched, sat gazing dreamily at mr. wilks's horticultural collection in the window. then he changed colour a little as a smart hat and a pretty face crossed the tiny panes. mr. wilks changed colour too, and in an awkward fashion rose to receive miss nugent. "late as usual, sam," said the girl, sinking into a chair. then she caught sight of hardy, who was standing by the door. [illustration: "she caught sight of hardy."] "it's a long time since you and i met, miss nugent," he said, bowing. "mr. hardy?" said the girl, doubtfully. "yes, miss," interposed mr. wilks, anxious to explain his position. "he called in to see me; quite a surprise to me it was. i 'ardly knowed him." "the last time we three met," said hardy, who to his host's discomfort had resumed his chair, "wilks was thrashing me and you were urging him on." kate nugent eyed him carefully. it was preposterous that this young man should take advantage of a boy and girl acquaintance of eleven years before--and such an acquaintance!--in this manner. her eyes expressed a little surprise, not unmixed with hauteur, but hardy was too pleased to have them turned in his direction at all to quarrel with their expression. "you were a bit of a trial in them days," said mr. wilks, shaking his head. "if i live to be ninety i shall never forget seeing miss kate capsized the way she was. the way she----" "how is your cold?" inquired miss nugent, hastily. "better, miss, thankee," said mr. wilks. "miss nugent has forgotten and forgiven all that long ago," said hardy. "quite," assented the girl, coldly; "one cannot remember all the boys and girls one knew as a child." "certainly not," said hardy. "i find that many have slipped from my own memory, but i have a most vivid recollection of you." miss nugent looked at him again, and an idea, strange and incredible, dawned slowly upon her. childish impressions are lasting, and jem hardy had remained in her mind as a sort of youthful ogre. he sat before her now a frank, determined-looking young englishman, in whose honest eyes admiration of herself could not be concealed. indignation and surprise struggled for supremacy. "it's odd," remarked mr. wilks, who had a happy knack at times of saying the wrong thing, "it's odd you should 'ave 'appened to come just at the same time as miss kate did." "it's my good fortune," said hardy, with a slight bow. then he cocked a malignant eye at the innocent mr. wilks, and wondered at what age men discarded the useless habit of blushing. opposite him sat miss nugent, calmly observant, the slightest suggestion of disdain in her expression. framed in the queer, high-backed old chair which had belonged to mr. wilks's grandfather, she made a picture at which jem hardy continued to gaze with respectful ardour. a hopeless sense of self-depreciation possessed him, but the idea that murchison should aspire to so much goodness and beauty made him almost despair of his sex. his reverie was broken by the voice of mr. wilks. "a quarter to eight?" said that gentleman in-credulously; "it can't be." "i thought it was later than that," said hardy, simply. mr. wilks gasped, and with a faint shake of his head at the floor abandoned the thankless task of giving hints to a young man who was too obtuse to see them; and it was not until some time later that mr. hardy, sorely against his inclinations, gave his host a hearty handshake and, with a respectful bow to miss nugent, took his departure. "fine young man he's growed," said mr. wilks, deferentially, turning to his remaining visitor; "greatly improved, i think." miss nugent looked him over critically before replying. "he seems to have taken a great fancy to you," she remarked. mr. wilks smiled a satisfied smile. "he came to ask my advice about business," he said, softly. "he's 'eard two or three speak o' me as knowing a thing or two, and being young, and just starting, 'e came to talk it over with me. i never see a young man so pleased and ready to take advice as wot he is." "he is coming again for more, i suppose?" said miss nugent, carelessly. mr. wilks acquiesced. "and he asked me to go over to his 'ouse to smoke a pipe with 'im on tuesday," he added, in the casual manner in which men allude to their aristocratic connections. "he's a bit lonely, all by himself." miss nugent said, "indeed," and then, lapsing into silence, gave little occasional side-glances at mr. wilks, as though in search of any hidden charms about him which might hitherto have escaped her. at the same time mr. james hardy, walking slowly home by the edge of the sea, pondered on further ways and means of ensnaring the affection of the ex-steward. chapter vii the anticipations of mr. wilks were more than realized on the following tuesday. from the time a trim maid showed him into the smoking-room until late at night, when he left, a feted and honoured guest, with one of his host's best cigars between his teeth, nothing that could yield him any comfort was left undone. in the easiest of easy chairs he sat in the garden beneath the leafy branches of apple trees, and undiluted wisdom and advice flowed from his lips in a stream as he beamed delightedly upon his entertainer. [illustration: "undiluted wisdom and advice flowed from his lips."] their talk was mainly of sunwich and sunwich people, and it was an easy step from these to equator lodge. on that subject most people would have found the ex-steward somewhat garrulous, but jem hardy listened with great content, and even brought him back to it when he showed signs of wandering. altogether mr. wilks spent one of the pleasantest evenings of his life, and, returning home in a slight state of mental exhilaration, severely exercised the tongues of fullalove alley by a bearing considered incompatible with his station. jem hardy paid a return call on the following friday, and had no cause to complain of any lack of warmth in his reception. the ex-steward was delighted to see him, and after showing him various curios picked up during his voyages, took him to the small yard in the rear festooned with scarlet-runner beans, and gave him a chair in full view of the neighbours. "i'm the only visitor to-night?" said hardy, after an hour's patient listening and waiting. mr. wilks nodded casually. "miss kate came last night," he said. "friday is her night, but she came yesterday instead." mr. hardy said, "oh, indeed," and fell straight-way into a dismal reverie from which the most spirited efforts of his host only partially aroused him. without giving way to undue egotism it was pretty clear that miss nugent had changed her plans on his account, and a long vista of pleasant friday evenings suddenly vanished. he, too, resolved to vary his visits, and, starting with a basis of two a week, sat trying to solve the mathematical chances of selecting the same as kate nugent; calculations which were not facilitated by a long-winded account from mr. wilks of certain interesting amours of his youthful prime. before he saw kate nugent again, however, another old acquaintance turned up safe and sound in sunwich. captain nugent walking into the town saw him first: a tall, well-knit young man in shabby clothing, whose bearing even in the distance was oddly familiar. as he came closer the captain's misgivings were confirmed, and in the sunburnt fellow in tattered clothes who advanced upon him with out-stretched hand he reluctantly recognized his son. "what have you come home for?" he inquired, ignoring the hand and eyeing him from head to foot. "change," said jack nugent, laconically, as the smile left his face. the captain shrugged his shoulders and stood silent. his son looked first up the road and then down. "all well at home?" he inquired. "yes." jack nugent looked up the road again. "not much change in the town," he said, at length. "no," said his father. "well, i'm glad to have seen you," said his son. "good-bye." "good-bye," said the captain. his son nodded and, turning on his heel, walked back towards the town. despite his forlorn appearance his step was jaunty and he carried his head high. the captain watched him until he was hidden by a bend in the road, and then, ashamed of himself for displaying so much emotion, turned his own steps in the direction of home. "well, he didn't whine," he said, slowly. "he's got a bit of pride left." meantime the prodigal had reached the town again, and stood ruefully considering his position. he looked up the street, and then, the well-known shop of mr. kybird catching his eye, walked over and inspected the contents of the window. sheath-knives, belts, tobacco-boxes, and watches were displayed alluringly behind the glass, sheltered from the sun by a row of cheap clothing dangling from short poles over the shop front. all the goods were marked in plain figures in reduced circumstances, mr. kybird giving a soaring imagination play in the first marking, and a good business faculty in the second. at these valuables jack nugent, with a view of obtaining some idea of prices, gazed for some time. then passing between two suits of oilskins which stood as sentinels in the doorway, he entered the shop and smiled affably at miss kybird, who was in charge. at his entrance she put down a piece of fancy-work, which mr. kybird called his sock, and with a casual glance at his clothes regarded him with a prejudiced eye. "beautiful day," said the customer; "makes one feel quite young again." "what do you want?" inquired miss kybird. [illustration: "'what do you want?' inquired miss kybird."] mr. nugent turned to a broken cane-chair which stood by the counter, and, after applying severe tests, regardless of the lady's feelings, sat down upon it and gave a sigh of relief. "i've walked from london," he said, in explanation. "i could sit here for hours." "look here----" began the indignant miss kybird. "only people would be sure to couple our names together," continued mr. nugent, mournfully. "when a handsome young man and a good-looking girl----" "do you want to buy anything or not?" demanded miss kybird, with an impatient toss of her head. "no," said jack, "i want to sell." "you've come to the wrong shop, then," said miss kybird; "the warehouse is full of rubbish now." the other turned in his chair and looked hard at the window. "so it is," he assented. "it's a good job i've brought you something decent to put there." he felt in his pockets and, producing a silver-mounted briar-pipe, a battered watch, a knife, and a few other small articles, deposited them with reverent care upon the counter. "no use to us," declared miss kybird, anxious to hit back; "we burn coal here." "these'll burn better than the coal you buy," said the unmoved customer. "well, we don't want them," retorted miss kybird, raising her voice, "and i don't want any of your impudence. get up out of our chair." her heightened tones penetrated to the small and untidy room behind the shop. the door opened, and mr. kybird in his shirt-sleeves appeared at the opening. "wot's the row?" he demanded, his little black eyes glancing from one to the other. "only a lovers' quarrel," replied jack. "you go away; we don't want you." "look 'ere, we don't want none o' your nonsense," said the shopkeeper, sharply; "and, wot's more, we won't 'ave it. who put that rubbish on my counter?" he bustled forward, and taking the articles in his hands examined them closely. "three shillings for the lot--cash," he remarked. "done," said the other. "did i say three?" inquired mr. kybird, startled at this ready acceptance. "five you said," replied mr. nugent, "but i'll take three, if you throw in a smile." mr. kybird, much against his inclinations, threw in a faint grin, and opening a drawer produced three shillings and flung them separately on the counter. miss kybird thawed somewhat, and glancing from the customer's clothes to his face saw that he had a pleasant eye and a good moustache, together with a general air of recklessness much appreciated by the sex. "don't spend it on drink," she remarked, not unkindly. "i won't," said the other, solemnly; "i'm going to buy house property with it." "why, darn my eyes," said mr. kybird, who had been regarding him closely; "darn my old eyes, if it ain't young nugent. well, well!" "that's me," said young nugent, cheerfully; "i should have known you anywhere, kybird: same old face, same old voice, same old shirt-sleeves." "'ere, come now," objected the shopkeeper, shortening his arm and squinting along it. "i should have known you anywhere," continued the other, mournfully; "and here i've thrown up a splendid berth and come all the way from australia just for one glimpse of miss kybird, and she doesn't know me. when i die, kybird, you will find the word 'calais' engraven upon my heart." mr. kybird said, "oh, indeed." his daughter tossed her head and bade mr. nugent take his nonsense to people who might like it. "last time i see you," said mr. kybird, pursing up his lips and gazing at the counter in an effort of memory; "last time i see you was one fifth o' november when you an' another bright young party was going about in two suits o' oilskins wot i'd been 'unting for 'igh and low all day long." jack nugent sighed. "they were happy times, kybird." "might ha' been for you," retorted the other, his temper rising a little at the remembrance of his wrongs. "have you come home for good? inquired miss kybird, curiously. have you seen your father? he passed here a little while ago." "i saw him," said jack, with a brevity which was not lost upon the astute mr. kybird. "i may stay in sunwich, and i may not--it all depends." "you're not going 'ome?" said mr. kybird. "no." the shopkeeper stood considering. he had a small room to let at the top of his house, and he stood divided between the fear of not getting his rent and the joy to a man fond of simple pleasures, to be obtained by dunning the arrogant captain nugent for his son's debts. before he could arrive at a decision his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a stout, sandy-haired lady from the back parlour, who, having conquered his scruples against matrimony some thirty years before, had kept a particularly wide-awake eye upon him ever since. "your tea's a-gettin' cold," she remarked, severely. her husband received the news with calmness. he was by no means an enthusiast where that liquid was concerned, the admiration evoked by its non-inebriating qualities having been always something in the nature of a mystery to him. "i'm coming," he retorted; "i'm just 'aving a word with mr. nugent 'ere." "well, i never did," said the stout lady, coming farther into the shop and regarding the visitor. "i shouldn't 'ave knowed 'im. if you'd asked me who 'e was i couldn't ha' told you--i shouldn't 'ave knowed 'im from adam." jack shook his head. "it's hard to be forgotten like this," he said, sadly. "even miss kybird had forgotten me, after all that had passed between us." "eh?" said mr. kybird. "oh, don't take any notice of him," said his daughter. "i'd like to see myself." mr. kybird paid no heed. he was still thinking of the son of captain nugent being indebted to him for lodging, and the more he thought of the idea the better he liked it. "well, now you're 'ere," he said, with a great assumption of cordiality, "why not come in and 'ave a cup o' tea?" the other hesitated a moment and then, with a light laugh, accepted the offer. he followed them into the small and untidy back parlour, and being requested by his hostess to squeeze in next to 'melia at the small round table, complied so literally with the order that that young lady complained bitterly of his encroachments. "and where do you think of sleeping to-night?" inquired mr. kybird after his daughter had, to use her own expressive phrase, shown the guest "his place." mr. nugent shook his head. "i shall get a lodging somewhere," he said, airily. "there's a room upstairs as you might 'ave if you liked," said mr. kybird, slowly. "it's been let to a very respectable, clean young man for half a crown a week. really it ought to be three shillings, but if you like to 'ave it at the old price, you can." "done with you," said the other. "no doubt you'll soon get something to do," continued mr. kybird, more in answer to his wife's inquiring glances than anything else. "half a crown every saturday and the room's yours." mr. nugent thanked him, and after making a tea which caused mr. kybird to congratulate himself upon the fact that he hadn't offered to board him, sat regaling mrs. kybird and daughter with a recital of his adventures in australia, receiving in return a full and true account of sunwich and its people up to date. "there's no pride about 'im, that's what i like," said mrs. kybird to her lord and master as they sat alone after closing time over a glass of gin and water. "he's a nice young feller, but bisness is bisness, and s'pose you don't get your rent?" "i shall get it sooner or later," said mr. kybird. "that stuck-up father of 'is 'll be in a fine way at 'im living here. that's wot i'm thinking of." "i don't see why," said mrs. kybird, bridling. "who's captain nugent, i should like to know? we're as good as what 'e is, if not better. and as for the gell, if she'd got 'all amelia's looks she'd do." "'melia's a fine-looking gal," assented mr. kybird. "i wonder----" he laid his pipe down on the table and stared at the mantelpiece. "he seems very struck with 'er," he concluded. "i see that directly." "not afore i did," said his wife, sharply. "see it afore you come into the shop," said mr. kybird, triumphantly. "it 'ud be a strange thing to marry into that family, emma." "she's keeping company with young teddy silk," his wife reminded him, coldly; "and if she wasn't she could do better than a young man without a penny in 'is pocket. pride's a fine thing, dan'l, but you can't live on it." "i know what i'm talking about," said mr. kybird, impatiently. "i know she's keeping company with teddy as well as wot you do. still, as far as money goes, young nugent 'll be all right." "'ow?" inquired his wife. mr. kybird hesitated and took a sip of his gin and water. then he regarded the wife of his bosom with a calculating glance which at once excited that lady's easily kindled wrath. [illustration: "he regarded the wife of his bosom with a calculating glance."] "you know i never tell secrets," she cried. "not often," corrected mr. kybird, "but then i don't often tell you any. wot would you say to young nugent coming into five 'undred pounds 'is mother left 'im when he's twenty-five? he don't know it, but i do." "five 'undred," repeated his wife, "sure?" "no," said the other, "i'm not sure, but i know. i 'ad it from young roberts when 'e was at stone and dartnell's. five 'undred pounds! i shall get my money all right some time, and, if 'e wants a little bit to go on with, 'e can have it. he's honest enough; i can see that by his manner." upstairs in the tiny room under the tiles mr. jack nugent, in blissful ignorance of his landlord's generous sentiments towards him, slept the sound, dreamless sleep of the man free from monetary cares. in the sanctity of her chamber miss kybird, gazing approvingly at the reflection of her yellow hair and fine eyes in the little cracked looking-glass, was already comparing him very favourably with the somewhat pessimistic mr. silk. chapter viii mr. nugent's return caused a sensation in several quarters, the feeling at equator lodge bordering close upon open mutiny. even mrs. kingdom plucked up spirit and read the astonished captain a homily upon the first duties of a parent--a homily which she backed up by reading the story of the prodigal son through to the bitter end. at the conclusion she broke down entirely and was led up to bed by kate and bella, the sympathy of the latter taking an acute form, and consisting mainly of innuendoes which could only refer to one person in the house. kate nugent, who was not prone to tears, took a different line, but with no better success. the captain declined to discuss the subject, and, after listening to a description of himself in which nero and other celebrities figured for the purpose of having their characters whitewashed, took up his hat and went out. jem hardy heard of the new arrival from his partner, and, ignoring that gentleman's urgent advice to make hay while the sun shone and take master nugent for a walk forthwith sat thoughtfully considering how to turn the affair to the best advantage. a slight outbreak of diphtheria at fullalove alley had, for a time, closed that thoroughfare to miss nugent, and he was inclined to regard the opportune arrival of her brother as an effort of providence on his behalf. for some days, however, he looked for jack nugent in vain, that gentleman either being out of doors engaged in an earnest search for work, or snugly seated in the back parlour of the kybirds, indulging in the somewhat perilous pastime of paying compliments to amelia kybird. remittances which had reached him from his sister and aunt had been promptly returned, and he was indebted to the amiable mr. kybird for the bare necessaries of life. in these circumstances a warm feeling of gratitude towards the family closed his eyes to their obvious shortcomings. he even obtained work down at the harbour through a friend of mr. kybird's. it was not of a very exalted nature, and caused more strain upon the back than the intellect, but seven years of roughing it had left him singularly free from caste prejudices, a freedom which he soon discovered was not shared by his old acquaintances at sunwich. the discovery made him somewhat bitter, and when hardy stopped him one afternoon as he was on his way home from work he tried to ignore his outstretched hand and continued on his way. [illustration: "he even obtained work down at the harbor."] "it is a long time since we met," said hardy, placing himself in front of him. "good heavens," said jack, regarding him closely, "it's jemmy hardy-- grown up spick and span like the industrious little boys in the school-books. i heard you were back here." "i came back just before you did," said hardy. "brass band playing you in and all that sort of thing, i suppose," said the other. "alas, how the wicked prosper--and you were wicked. do you remember how you used to knock me about?" "come round to my place and have a chat," said hardy. jack shook his head. "they're expecting me in to tea," he said, with a nod in the direction of mr. kybird's, "and honest waterside labourers who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow--when the foreman is looking --do not frequent the society of the upper classes." "don't be a fool," said hardy, politely. "well, i'm not very tidy," retorted mr. nugent, glancing at his clothes. "i don't mind it myself; i'm a philosopher, and nothing hurts me so long as i have enough to eat and drink; but i don't inflict myself on my friends, and i must say most of them meet me more than half-way." "imagination," said hardy. "all except kate and my aunt," said jack, firmly. "poor kate; i tried to cut her the other day." "cut her?" echoed hardy. nugent nodded. "to save her feelings," he replied; "but she wouldn't be cut, bless her, and on the distinct understanding that it wasn't to form a precedent, i let her kiss me behind a waggon. do you know, i fancy she's grown up rather good-looking, jem?" "you are observant," said mr. hardy, admiringly. "of course, it may be my partiality," said mr. nugent, with judicial fairness. "i was always a bit fond of kate. i don't suppose anybody else would see anything in her. where are you living now?" "fort road," said hardy; "come round any evening you can, if you won't come now." nugent promised, and, catching sight of miss kybird standing in the doorway of the shop, bade him good-bye and crossed the road. it was becoming quite a regular thing for her to wait and have her tea with him now, an arrangement which was provocative of many sly remarks on the part of mrs. kybird. [illustration: "miss kybird standing in the doorway of the shop."] "thought you were never coming," said miss kybird, tartly, as she led the way to the back room and took her seat at the untidy tea-tray. "and you've been crying your eyes out, i suppose," remarked mr. nugent, as he groped in the depths of a tall jar for black-currant jam. "well, you're not the first, and i don't suppose you'll be the last. how's teddy?" "get your tea," retorted miss kybird, "and don't make that scraping noise on the bottom of the jar with your knife. it puts my teeth on edge." "so it does mine," said mr. nugent, "but there's a black currant down there, and i mean to have it. 'waste not, want not.'" "make him put that knife down," said miss kybird, as her mother entered the room. mrs. kybird shook her head at him. "you two are always quarrelling," she said, archly, "just like a couple of--couple of----" "love-birds," suggested mr. nugent. mrs. kybird in great glee squeezed round to him and smote him playfully with her large, fat hand, and then, being somewhat out of breath with the exertion, sat down to enjoy the jest in comfort. "that's how you encourage him," said her daughter; "no wonder he doesn't behave. no wonder he acts as if the whole place belongs to him." the remark was certainly descriptive of mr. nugent's behaviour. his easy assurance and affability had already made him a prime favourite with mrs. kybird, and had not been without its effect upon her daughter. the constrained and severe company manners of mr. edward silk showed up but poorly beside those of the paying guest, and miss kybird had on several occasions drawn comparisons which would have rendered both gentlemen uneasy if they had known of them. mr. nugent carried the same easy good-fellowship with him the following week when, neatly attired in a second-hand suit from mr. kybird's extensive stock, he paid a visit to jem hardy to talk over old times and discuss the future. "you ought to make friends with your father," said the latter; "it only wants a little common sense and mutual forbearance." "that's all," said nugent; "sounds easy enough, doesn't it? no, all he wants is for me to clear out of sunwich, and i'm not going to--until it pleases me, at any rate. it's poison to him for me to be living at the kybirds' and pushing a trolley down on the quay. talk about love sweetening toil, that does." hardy changed the subject, and nugent, nothing loath, discoursed on his wanderings and took him on a personally conducted tour through the continent of australia. "and i've come back to lay my bones in sunwich churchyard," he concluded, pathetically; "that is, when i've done with 'em." "a lot of things'll happen before then," said hardy. "i hope so," rejoined mr. nugent, piously; "my desire is to be buried by my weeping great-grandchildren. in fact, i've left instructions to that effect in my will--all i have left, by the way." "you're not going to keep on at this water-side work, i suppose?" said hardy, making another effort to give the conversation a serious turn. "the foreman doesn't think so," replied the other, as he helped himself to some whisky; "he has made several remarks to that effect lately." he leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully, by no means insensible to the comfort of his surroundings. he had not been in such comfortable quarters since he left home seven years before. he thought of the untidy litter of the kybirds' back parlour, with the forlorn view of the yard in the rear. something of his reflections he confided to hardy as he rose to leave. "but my market value is about a pound a week," he concluded, ruefully, "so i must cut my coat to suit my cloth. good-night." he walked home somewhat soberly at first, but the air was cool and fresh and a glorious moon was riding in the sky. he whistled cheerfully, and his spirits rose as various chimerical plans of making money occurred to him. by the time he reached the high street, the shops of which were all closed for the night, he was earning five hundred a year and spending a thousand. he turned the handle of the door and, walking in, discovered miss kybird entertaining company in the person of mr. edward silk. "halloa," he said, airily, as he took a seat. "don't mind me, young people. go on just as you would if i were not here." mr. edward silk grumbled something under his breath; miss kybird, turning to the intruder with a smile of welcome, remarked that she had just thought of going to sleep. "going to sleep?" repeated mr. silk, thunder-struck. "yes," said miss kybird, yawning. mr. silk gazed at her, open-mouthed. "what, with me 'ere?" he inquired, in trembling tones. "you're not very lively company," said miss kybird, bending over her sewing. "i don't think you've spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour, and before that you were talking of death-warnings. made my flesh creep, you did." "shame!" said mr. nugent. "you didn't say anything to me about your flesh creeping," muttered mr. silk. "you ought to have seen it creep," interposed mr. nugent, severely. "i'm not talking to you," said mr. silk, turning on him; "when i want the favour of remarks from you i'll let you know." "don't you talk to my gentlemen friends like that, teddy," said miss kybird, sharply, "because i won't have it. why don't you try and be bright and cheerful like mr. nugent?" mr. silk turned and regarded that gentleman steadfastly; mr. nugent meeting his gaze with a pleasant smile and a low-voiced offer to give him lessons at half a crown an hour. "i wouldn't be like 'im for worlds," said mr. silk, with a scornful laugh. "i'd sooner be like anybody." "what have you been saying to him?" inquired nugent. "nothing," replied miss kybird; "he's often like that. he's got a nasty, miserable, jealous disposition. not that i mind what he thinks." mr. silk breathed hard and looked from one to the other. "perhaps he'll grow out of it," said nugent, hopefully. "cheer up, teddy. you're young yet." "might i arsk," said the solemnly enraged mr. silk, "might i arsk you not to be so free with my christian name?" "he doesn't like his name now," said nugent, drawing his chair closer to miss kybird's, "and i don't wonder at it. what shall we call him? job? what's that work you're doing? why don't you get on with that fancy waistcoat you are doing for me?" before miss kybird could deny all knowledge of the article in question her sorely tried swain created a diversion by rising. to that simple act he imparted an emphasis which commanded the attention of both beholders, and, drawing over to miss kybird, he stood over her in an attitude at once terrifying and reproachful. "take your choice, amelia," he said, in a thrilling voice. "me or 'im-- which is it to be?" [illustration: "me or 'im--which is it to be?"] "here, steady, old man," cried the startled nugent. "go easy." "me or 'im?" repeated mr. silk, in stern but broken accents. miss kybird giggled and, avoiding his gaze, looked pensively at the faded hearthrug. "you're making her blush," said mr. nugent, sternly. "sit down, teddy; i'm ashamed of you. we're both ashamed of you. you're confusing us dreadfully proposing to us both in this way." mr. silk regarded him with a scornful eye, but miss kybird, bidding him not to be foolish, punctuated her remarks with the needle, and a struggle, which mr. silk regarded as unseemly in the highest degree, took place between them for its possession. mr. nugent secured it at last, and brandishing it fiercely extorted feminine screams from miss kybird by threatening her with it. nor was her mind relieved until mr. nugent, remarking that he would put it back in the pincushion, placed it in the leg of mr. edward silk. mr. kybird and his wife, entering through the shop, were just in time to witness a spirited performance on the part of mr. silk, the cherished purpose of which was to deprive them of a lodger. he drew back as they entered and, raising his voice above miss kybird's, began to explain his action. "teddy, i'm ashamed of you," said mr. kybird, shaking his head. "a little joke like that; a little innercent joke." "if it 'ad been a darning-needle now--" began mrs. kybird. "all right," said the desperate mr. silk, "'ave it your own way. let 'melia marry 'im--i don't care---i give 'er up." "teddy!" said mr. kybird, in a shocked voice. "teddy!" mr. silk thrust him fiercely to one side and passed raging through the shop. the sound of articles falling in all directions attested to his blind haste, and the force with which he slammed the shop-door was sufficient evidence of his state of mind. "well, upon my word," said the staring mr. kybird; "of all the outrageyous--" "never mind 'im," said his wife, who was sitting in the easy chair, distributing affectionate smiles between her daughter and the startled mr. nugent. "make 'er happy, jack, that's all i arsk. she's been a good gal, and she'll make a good wife. i've seen how it was between you for some time." "so 'ave i," said mr. kybird. he shook hands warmly with mr. nugent, and, patting that perturbed man on the back, surveyed him with eyes glistening with approval. "it's a bit rough on teddy, isn't it?" inquired mr. nugent, anxiously; "besides--" "don't you worry about 'im," said mr. kybird, affectionately. "he ain't worth it." "i wasn't," said mr. nugent, truthfully. the situation had developed so rapidly that it had caught him at a disadvantage. he had a dim feeling that, having been the cause of miss kybird's losing one young man, the most elementary notions of chivalry demanded that he should furnish her with another. and this idea was clearly uppermost in the minds of her parents. he looked over at amelia and with characteristic philosophy accepted the position. "we shall be the handsomest couple in sunwich," he said, simply. "bar none," said mr. kybird, emphatically. the stout lady in the chair gazed ax the couple fondly. "it reminds me of our wedding," she said, softly. "what was it tom fletcher said, father? can you remember?" "'arry smith, you mean," corrected mr. kybird. "tom fletcher said something, i'm sure," persisted his wife. "he did," said mr. kybird, grimly, "and i pretty near broke 'is 'ead for it. 'arry smith is the one you're thinking of." mrs. kybird after a moment's reflection admitted that he was right, and, the chain of memory being touched, waxed discursive about her own wedding and the somewhat exciting details which accompanied it. after which she produced a bottle labelled "port wine" from the cupboard, and, filling four glasses, celebrated the occasion in a befitting but sober fashion. "this," said mr. nugent, as he sat on his bed that night to take his boots off, "this is what comes of trying to make everybody happy and comfortable with a little fun. i wonder what the governor'll say." [illustration: "i wonder what the governor'll say."] chapter ix the news of his only son's engagement took captain nugent's breath away, which, all things considered, was perhaps the best thing it could have done. he sat at home in silent rage, only exploding when the well-meaning mrs. kingdom sought to minimize his troubles by comparing them with those of job. her reminder that to the best of her remembrance he had never had a boil in his life put the finishing touch to his patience, and, despairing of drawing-room synonyms for the words which trembled on his lips, he beat a precipitate retreat to the garden. his son bore his new honours bravely. to an appealing and indignant letter from his sister he wrote gravely, reminding her of the difference in their years, and also that he had never interfered in her flirtations, however sorely his brotherly heart might have been wrung by them. he urged her to forsake such diversions for the future, and to look for an alliance with some noble, open-handed man with a large banking account and a fondness for his wife's relatives. to jem hardy, who ventured on a delicate re-monstrance one evening, he was less patient, and displayed a newly acquired dignity which was a source of considerable embarrassment to that well-meaning gentleman. he even got up to search for his hat, and was only induced to resume his seat by the physical exertions of his host. "i didn't mean to be offensive," said the latter. "but you were," said the aggrieved man. hardy apologized. "talk of that kind is a slight to my future wife," said nugent, firmly. "besides, what business is it of yours?" hardy regarded him thoughtfully. it was some time since he had seen miss nugent, and he felt that he was losing valuable time. he had hoped great things from the advent of her brother, and now his intimacy seemed worse than useless. he resolved to take him into his confidence. "i spoke from selfish motives," he said, at last. i wanted you to make friends with your father again." "what for?" inquired the other, staring. "to pave the way for me," said hardy, raising his voice as he thought of his wrongs; "and now, owing to your confounded matrimonial business, that's all knocked on the head. i wouldn't care whom you married if it didn't interfere with my affairs so." "do you mean," inquired the astonished mr. nugent, "that you want to be on friendly terms with my father?" "yes." mr. nugent gazed at him round-eyed. "you haven't had a blow on the head or anything of that sort at any time, have you?" he inquired. hardy shook his head impatiently. "you don't seem to suffer from an excess of intellect yourself," he retorted. "i don't want to be offensive again, still, i should think it is pretty plain there is only one reason why i should go out of my way to seek the society of your father." "say what you like about my intellect," replied the dutiful son, "but i can't think of even one--not even a small one. not--good gracious! you don't mean--you can't mean--" hardy looked at him. "not that," said mr. nugent, whose intellect had suddenly become painfully acute--"not her?" "why not?" inquired the other. mr. nugent leaned back in his chair and regarded him with an air of kindly interest. "well, there's no need for you to worry about my father for that," he said; "he would raise no objection." "eh?" said hardy, starting up from his chair. "he would welcome it," said mr. nugent, positively. "there is nothing that he would like better; and i don't mind telling you a secret--she likes you." hardy reddened. "how do you know?" he stammered. "i know it for a fact," said the other, impressively. "i have heard her say so. but you've been very plain-spoken about me, jem, so that i shall say what i think." "do," said his bewildered friend. "i think you'd be throwing yourself away," said nugent; "to my mind it's a most unsuitable match in every way. she's got no money, no looks, no style. nothing but a good kind heart rather the worse for wear. i suppose you know she's been married once?" "_what!_" shouted the other. "_married?_" mr. nugent nodded. his face was perfectly grave, but the joke was beginning to prey upon his vitals in a manner which brooked no delay. "i thought everybody knew it," he said. "we have never disguised the fact. her husband died twenty years ago last----" "twenty" said his suddenly enlightened listener. "who?--what?" mr. nugent, incapable of reply, put his head on the table and beat the air frantically with his hand, while gasping sobs rent his tortured frame. "dear--aunt," he choked, "how pleas--pleased she'd be if--she knew. don't look like that, hardy. you'll kill me." "you seem amused," said hardy, between his teeth. "and you'll be kate's uncle," said mr. nugent, sitting up and wiping his eyes. "poor little kate." he put his head on the table again. "and mine," he wailed. "_uncle jemmy!_--will you tip us half-crowns, nunky?" mr. hardy's expression of lofty scorn only served to retard his recovery, but he sat up at last and, giving his eyes a final wipe, beamed kindly upon his victim. "well, i'll do what i can for you," he observed, "but i suppose you know kate's off for a three months' visit to london to-morrow?" the other observed that he didn't know it, and, taught by his recent experience, eyed him suspiciously. "it's quite true," said nugent; "she's going to stay with some relatives of ours. she used to be very fond of one of the boys--her cousin herbert--so you mustn't be surprised if she comes back engaged. but i daresay you'll have forgotten all about her in three months. and, anyway, i don't suppose she'd look at you if you were the last man in the world. if you'll walk part of the way home with me i'll regale you with anecdotes of her chilhood which will probably cause you to change your views altogether." in fullalove alley mr. edward silk, his forebodings fulfilled, received the news of amelia kybird's faithlessness in a spirit of' quiet despair, and turned a deaf ear to the voluble sympathy of his neighbours. similar things had happened to young men living there before, but their behaviour had been widely different to mr. silk's. bob crump, for instance, had been jilted on the very morning he had arranged for his wedding, but instead of going about in a state of gentle melancholy he went round and fought his beloved's father--merely because it was her father--and wound up an exciting day by selling off his household goods to the highest bidders. henry jones in similar circumstances relieved his great grief by walking up and down the alley smashing every window within reach of his stick. [illustration: "a spirit of quiet despair."] but these were men of spirit; mr. silk was cast in a different mould, and his fair neighbours sympathized heartily with him in his bereavement, while utterly failing to understand any man breaking his heart over amelia kybird. his mother, a widow of uncertain age, shook her head over him and hinted darkly at consumption, an idea which was very pleasing to her son, and gave him an increased interest in a slight cold from which he was suffering. "he wants taking out of 'imself," said mr. wilks, who had stepped across the alley to discuss the subject with his neighbour; "cheerful society and 'obbies--that's what 'e wants." "he's got a faithful 'eart," sighed mrs. silk. "it's in the family; 'e can't 'elp it." "but 'e might be lifted out of it," urged mr. wilks. "i 'ad several disappointments in my young days. one time i 'ad a fresh gal every v'y'ge a'most." mrs. silk sniffed and looked up the alley, whereat two neighbours who happened to be at their doors glanced up and down casually, and retreated inside to continue their vigil from the windows. "silk courted me for fifteen years before i would say 'yes,'" she said, severely. "fifteen years!" responded the other. he cast his eyes upwards and his lips twitched. the most casual observer could have seen that he was engaged in calculations of an abstruse and elusive nature. "i was on'y seven when 'e started," said mrs. silk, sharply. mr. wilks brought his eyes to a level again. "oh, seven," he remarked. "and we was married two days before my nineteenth birthday," added mrs. silk, whose own arithmetic had always been her weak point. "just so," said mr. wilks. he glanced at the sharp white face and shapeless figure before him. "it's hard to believe you can 'ave a son teddy's age," he added, gallantly. "it makes you feel as if you're getting on," said the widow. the ex-steward agreed, and after standing a minute or two in silence made a preliminary motion of withdrawal. "beautiful your plants are looking," said mrs. silk, glancing over at his window; "i can't think what you do to 'em." the gratified mr. wilks began to explain. it appeared that plants wanted almost as much looking after as daughters. "i should like to see 'em close," said mrs. silk. "come in and 'ave a look at 'em," responded her neighbour. mrs. silk hesitated and displayed a maidenly coyness far in excess of the needs of the situation. then she stepped across, and five seconds later the two matrons, with consternation writ large upon their faces, appeared at their doors again and, exchanging glances across the alley, met in the centre. they were more surprised an evening or two later to see mr. wilks leave his house to pay a return visit, bearing in his hand a small bunch of his cherished blooms. that they were blooms which would have paid the debt of nature in a few hours at most in no way detracted from the widow's expressions of pleasure at receiving them, and mr. wilks, who had been invited over to cheer up mr. silk, who was in a particularly black mood, sat and smiled like a detected philanthropist as she placed them in water. [illustration: "a return visit."] "good evenin', teddy," he said, breezily, with a side-glance at his hostess. "what a lovely day we've 'ad." "so bright," said mrs. silk, nodding with spirit. mr. wilks sat down and gave vent to such a cheerful laugh that the ornaments on the mantelpiece shook with it. "it's good to be alive," he declared. "ah, you enjoy your life, mr. wilks," said the widow. "enjoy it!" roared mr. wilks; "enjoy it! why shouldn't i? why shouldn't everybody enjoy their lives? it was what they was given to us for." "so they was," affirmed mrs. silk; "nobody can deny that; not if they try." "nobody wants to deny it, ma'am," retorted mr. wilks, in the high voice he kept for cheering-up purposes. "i enjoy every day o' my life." he filled his pipe, chuckling serenely, and having lit it sat and enjoyed that. mrs. silk retired for a space, and returning with a jug of ale poured him out a glass and set it by his elbow. "here's your good 'ealth, ma'am," said mr. wilks, raising it. "here's yours, teddy--a long life and a 'appy one." mr. silk turned listlessly. "i don't want a long life," he remarked. his mother and her visitor exchanged glances. "that's 'ow 'e goes on," remarked the former, in an audible whisper. mr. wilks nodded, reassuringly. "i 'ad them ideas once," he said, "but they go off. if you could only live to see teddy at the age o' ninety-five, 'e wouldn't want to go then. 'e'd say it was crool hard, being cut off in the flower of 'is youth." mrs. silk laughed gaily and mr. wilks bellowed a gruff accompaniment. mr. edward silk eyed them pityingly. "that's the 'ardship of it," he said, slowly, as he looked round from his seat by the fireplace; "that's where the 'ollowness of things comes in. that's where i envy mr. wilks." "envy me?" said the smiling visitor; "what for?" "because you're so near the grave," said mr. silk. mr. wilks, who was taking another draught of beer, put the glass down and eyed him fixedly. "that's why i envy you," continued the other. "i don't want to live, and you do, and yet i dessay i shall be walking about forty and fifty years after you're dead and forgotten." "wot d'ye mean--near the grave?" inquired mr. wilks, somewhat shortly. "i was referring to your age," replied the other; "it's strange to see 'ow the aged 'ang on to life. you can't 'ave much pleasure at your time o' life. and you're all alone; the last withered branch left." "withered branch!" began mr. wilks; "'ere, look 'ere, teddy----" "all the others 'ave gone," pursued mr. silk, and they're beckoning to you." "let 'em beckon," said mr. wilks, coldly. "i'm not going yet." "you're not young," said mr. silk, gazing meditatively at the grate, "and i envy you that. it can only be a matter of a year or two at most before you are sleeping your last long sleep." "teddy!" protested mrs. silk. "it's true, mother," said the melancholy youth. "mr. wilks is old. why should 'e mind being told of it? if 'e had 'ad the trouble i've 'ad 'e'd be glad to go. but he'll 'ave to go, whether 'e likes it or not. it might be to-night. who can tell?" mr. wilks, unasked, poured himself out another glass of ale, and drank it off with the air of a man who intended to make sure of that. it seemed a trifle more flat than the last. "so many men o' your age and thereabouts," continued mr. silk, "think that they're going to live on to eighty or ninety, but there's very few of 'em do. it's only a short while, mr. wilks, and the little children'll be running about over your grave and picking daisies off of it." "ho, will they?" said the irritated mr. wilks; "they'd better not let me catch 'em at it, that's all." "he's always talking like that now," said mrs. silk, not without a certain pride in her tones; "that's why i asked you in to cheer 'im up." "all your troubles'll be over then," continued the warning voice, "and in a month or two even your name'll be forgotten. that's the way of the world. think 'ow soon the last five years of your life 'ave passed; the next five'll pass ten times as fast even if you live as long, which ain't likely." "he talks like a clergyman," said mrs. silk, in a stage whisper. mr. wilks nodded, and despite his hostess's protests rose to go. he shook hands with her and, after a short but sharp inward struggle, shook hands with her son. it was late in the evening as he left, but the houses had not yet been lit up. dim figures sat in doorways or stood about the alley, and there was an air of peace and rest strangely and uncomfortably in keeping with the conversation to which he had just been listening. he looked in at his own door; the furniture seemed stiffer than usual and the tick of the clock more deliberate. he closed the door again and, taking a deep breath, set off towards the life and bustle of the two schooners. [illustration: "he set off towards the life and bustle of the two schooners."] chapter x time failed to soften the captain's ideas concerning his son's engagement, and all mention of the subject in the house was strictly forbidden. occasionally he was favoured with a glimpse of his son and miss kybird out together, a sight which imparted such a flavour to his temper and ordinary intercourse that mrs. kingdom, in unconscious imitation of mr. james hardy, began to count the days which must elapse before her niece's return from london. his ill-temper even infected the other members of the household, and mrs. kingdom sat brooding in her bedroom all one afternoon, because bella had called her an "overbearing dish-pot." the finishing touch to his patience was supplied by a little misunderstanding between mr. kybird and the police. for the second time in his career the shopkeeper appeared before the magistrates to explain the circumstances in which he had purchased stolen property, and for the second time he left the court without a stain on his character, but with a significant magisterial caution not to appear there again. [illustration: "for the second time he left the court without a stain on his character."] jack nugent gave evidence in the case, and some of his replies were deemed worthy of reproduction in the sunwich herald, a circumstance which lost the proprietors a subscriber of many years' standing. one by one various schemes for preventing his son's projected alliance were dismissed as impracticable. a cherished design of confining him in an asylum for the mentally afflicted until such time as he should have regained his senses was spoilt by the refusal of dr. murchison to arrange for the necessary certificate; a refusal which was like to have been fraught with serious consequences to that gentleman's hopes of entering the captain's family. brooding over his wrongs the captain, a day or two after his daughter's return, strolled slowly down towards the harbour. it was afternoon, and the short winter day was already drawing towards a close. the shipping looked cold and desolate in the greyness, but a bustle of work prevailed on the conqueror, which was nearly ready for sea again. the captain's gaze wandered from his old craft to the small vessels dotted about the harbour and finally dwelt admiringly on the lines of the whaler seabird, which had put in a few days before as the result of a slight collision with a fishing-boat. she was high out of the water and beautifully rigged. a dog ran up and down her decks barking, and a couple of squat figures leaned over the bulwarks gazing stolidly ashore. there was something about the vessel which took his fancy, and he stood for some time on the edge of the quay, looking at her. in a day or two she would sail for a voyage the length of which would depend upon her success; a voyage which would for a long period keep all on board of her out of the mischief which so easily happens ashore. if only jack---- he started and stared more intently than before. he was not an imaginative man, but he had in his mind's eye a sudden vision of his only son waving farewells from the deck of the whaler as she emerged from the harbour into the open sea, while amelia kybird tore her yellow locks ashore. it was a vision to cheer any self-respecting father's heart, and he brought his mind back with some regret to the reality of the anchored ship. he walked home slowly. at the kybirds' door the proprietor, smoking a short clay pipe, eyed him with furtive glee as he passed. farther along the road the hardys, father and son, stepped briskly together. altogether a trying walk, and calculated to make him more dissatisfied than ever with the present state of affairs. when his daughter shook her head at him and accused him of going off on a solitary frolic his stock of patience gave out entirely. [illustration: "the proprietor eyed him with furtive glee as he passed."] a thoughtful night led to a visit to mr. wilks the following evening. it required a great deal of deliberation on his part before he could make up his mind to the step, but he needed his old steward's assistance in a little plan he had conceived for his son's benefit, and for the first time in his life he paid him the supreme honour of a call. the honour was so unexpected that mr. wilks, coming into the parlour in response to the tapping of the captain's stick on the floor, stood for a short time eyeing him in dismay. only two minutes before he had taken mr. james hardy into the kitchen to point out the interior beauties of an ancient clock, and the situation simply appalled him. the captain greeted him almost politely and bade him sit down. mr. wilks smiled faintly and caught his breath. "sit down," repeated the captain. "i've left something in the kitchen, sir," said mr. wilks. "i'll be back in half a minute." the captain nodded. in the kitchen mr. wilks rapidly and incoherently explained the situation to mr. hardy. "i'll sit here," said the latter, drawing up a comfortable oak chair to the stove. "you see, he don't know that we know each other," explained the apologetic steward, "but i don't like leaving you in the kitchen." "i'm all right," said hardy; "don't you trouble about me." he waved him away, and mr. wilks, still pale, closed the door behind him and, rejoining the captain, sat down on the extreme edge of a chair and waited. "i've come to see you on a little matter of business," said his visitor. mr. wilks smiled; then, feeling that perhaps that was not quite the right thing to do, looked serious again. "i came to see you about my--my son," continued the captain. "yes, sir," said mr. wilks. "master jack, you mean?" "i've only got one son," said the other, unpleasantly, "unless you happen to know of any more." mr. wilks almost fell off the edge of the chair in his haste to disclaim any such knowledge. his ideas were in a ferment, and the guilty knowledge of what he had left in the kitchen added to his confusion. and just at that moment the door opened and miss nugent came briskly in. her surprise at seeing her father ensconced in a chair by the fire led to a rapid volley of questions. the captain, in lieu of answering them, asked another. "what do you want here?" "i have come to see sam," said miss nugent. "fancy seeing you here! how are you, sam?" "pretty well, miss, thank'ee," replied mr. wilks, "considering," he added, truthfully, after a moment's reflection. miss nugent dropped into a chair and put her feet on the fender. her father eyed her restlessly. "i came here to speak to sam about a private matter," he said, abruptly. "private matter," said his daughter, looking round in surprise. "what about?" "a private matter," repeated captain nugent. "suppose you come in some other time." kate nugent sighed and took her feet from the fender. "i'll go and wait in the kitchen," she said, crossing to the door. both men protested. the captain because it ill-assorted with his dignity for his daughter to sit in the kitchen, and mr. wilks because of the visitor already there. the face of the steward, indeed, took on such extraordinary expressions in his endeavour to convey private information to the girl that she gazed at him in silent amazement. then she turned the handle of the door and, passing through, closed it with a bang which was final. mr. wilks stood spellbound, but nothing happened. there was no cry of surprise; no hasty reappearance of an indignant kate nugent. his features working nervously he resumed his seat and gazed dutifully at his superior officer. "i suppose you've heard that my son is going to get married?" said the latter. "i couldn't help hearing of it, sir," said the steward in self defence-- "nobody could." "he's going to marry that yellow-headed jezebel of kybird's," said the captain, staring at the fire. mr. wilks murmured that he couldn't understand anybody liking yellow hair, and, more than that, the general opinion of the ladies in fullalove alley was that it was dyed. "i'm going to ship him on the seabird," continued the captain. "she'll probably be away for a year or two, and, in the meantime, this girl will probably marry somebody else. especially if she doesn't know what has become of him. he can't get into mischief aboard ship." "no, sir," said the wondering mr. wilks. "is master jack agreeable to going, sir?" "that's nothing to do with it," said the captain, sharply. "no, sir," said mr. wilks, "o' course not. i was only a sort o' wondering how he was going to be persuaded to go if 'e ain't." "that's what i came here about," said the other. "i want you to go and fix it up with nathan smith." "do you want 'im to be _crimped,_ sir?" stammered mr. wilks. "i want him shipped aboard the _seabird,_" returned the other, "and smith's the man to do it." "it's a very hard thing to do in these days, sir," said mr. wilks, shaking his head. "what with signing on aboard the day before the ship sails, and before the board o' trade officers, i'm sure it's a wonder that anybody goes to sea at all." "you leave that to smith," said the captain, impatiently. "the seabird sails on friday morning's tide. tell smith i'll arrange to meet my son here on thursday night, and that he must have some liquor for us and a fly waiting on the beach." mr. wilks wriggled: "but what about signing on, sir?" he inquired. "he won't sign on," said the captain, "he'll be a stowaway. smith must get him smuggled aboard, and bribe the hands to let him lie hidden in the fo'c's'le. the seabird won't put back to put him ashore. here is five pounds; give smith two or three now, and the remainder when the job is done." the steward took the money reluctantly and, plucking up his courage, looked his old master in the face. "it's a 'ard life afore the mast, sir," he said, slowly. "rubbish!" was the reply. "it'll make a man of him. besides, what's it got to do with you?" "i don't care about the job, sir," said mr. wilks, bravely. "what's that got to do with it?" demanded the other, frowning. "you go and fix it up with nathan smith as soon as possible." mr. wilks shuffled his feet and strove to remind himself that he was a gentleman of independent means, and could please himself. "i've known 'im since he was a baby," he murmured, defiantly. "i don't want to hear anything more from you, wilks," said the captain, in a hard voice. "those are my orders, and you had better see that they are carried out. my son will be one of the first to thank you later on for getting him out of such a mess." mr. wilks's brow cleared somewhat. "i s'pose miss kate 'ud be pleased too," he remarked, hope-fully. "of course she will," said the captain. "now i look to you, wilks, to manage this thing properly. i wouldn't trust anybody else, and you've never disappointed me yet." the steward gasped and, doubting whether he had heard aright, looked towards his old master, but in vain, for the confirmation of further compliments. in all his long years of service he had never been praised by him before. he leaned forward eagerly and began to discuss ways and means. in the next room conversation was also proceeding, but fitfully. miss nugent's consternation when she closed the door behind her and found herself face to face with mr. hardy was difficult of concealment. too late she understood the facial contortions of mr. wilks, and, resigning herself to the inevitable, accepted the chair placed for her by the highly pleased jem, and sat regarding him calmly from the other side of the fender. [illustration: "miss nugent's consternation was difficult of concealment."] "i am waiting here for my father," she said, in explanation. "in deference to wilks's terrors i am waiting here until he has gone," said hardy, with a half smile. there was a pause. "i hope that he will not be long," said the girl. "thank you," returned hardy, wilfully misunderstanding, "but i am in no hurry." he gazed at her with admiration. the cold air had heightened her colour, and the brightness of her eyes shamed the solitary candle which lit up the array of burnished metal on the mantelpiece. "i hope you enjoyed your visit to london," he said. before replying miss nugent favoured him with a glance designed to express surprise at least at his knowledge of her movements. "very much, thank you," she said, at last. mr. hardy, still looking at her with much comfort to himself, felt an insane desire to tell her how much she had been missed by one person at least in sunwich. saved from this suicidal folly by the little common sense which had survived the shock of her sudden appearance, he gave the information indirectly. "quite a long stay," he murmured; "three months and three days; no, three months and two days." a sudden wave of colour swept over the girl's face at the ingenuity of this mode of attack. she was used to attention and took compliments as her due, but the significant audacity of this one baffled her. she sat with downcast eyes looking at the fender occasionally glancing from the corner of her eye to see whether he was preparing to renew the assault. he had certainly changed from the jem hardy of olden days. she had a faint idea that his taste had improved. "wilks keeps his house in good order," said hardy, looking round. "yes," said the girl. "wonder why he never married," said hardy, musingly; "for my part i can't understand a man remaining single all his life; can you?" "i never think of such things," said miss nugent, coldly--and untruthfully. "if it was only to have somebody to wait on him and keep his house clean," pursued hardy, with malice. miss nugent grew restless, and the wrongs of her sex stirred within her. "you have very lofty ideas on the subject," she said, scornfully, "but i believe they are not uncommon." "still, you have never thought about such things, you know," he reminded her. "and no doubt you have devoted a great deal of time to the subject." hardy admitted it frankly. "but only since i returned to sunwich," he said. "caused by the spectacle of sam's forlorn condition, i suppose," said miss nugent. "no, it wasn't that," he replied. miss nugent, indignant at having been drawn into such a discussion, lapsed into silence. it was safer and far more dignified, but at the same time she yearned for an opportunity of teaching this presumptuous young man a lesson. so far he had had it all his own way. a way strewn with ambiguities which a modest maiden had to ignore despite herself. "of course, wilks may have had a disappointment," said hardy, with the air of one willing to make allowances. "i believe he had about fifty," said the girl, carelessly. hardy shook his head in strong disapproval. "no man should have more than one," he said, firmly; "a man of any strength of will wouldn't have that." "strength of will?" repeated the astonished miss nugent. their eyes met; hers sparkling with indignation; his full of cold calculation. if he had had any doubts before, he was quite sure now that he had gone the right way to work to attract her attention; she was almost quivering with excitement. "your ideas will probably change with age--and disappointment," she said, sweetly. "i shall not be disappointed," said hardy, coolly. "i'll take care of that." miss nugent eyed him wistfully and racked her brains for an appropriate and crushing rejoinder. in all her experience--and it was considerable considering her years--she had never met with such carefully constructed audacity, and she longed, with a great longing, to lure him into the open and destroy him. she was still considering ways and means of doing this when the door opened and revealed the surprised and angry form of her father and behind it the pallid countenance of mr. wilks. for a moment anger deprived the captain of utterance. "who----" he stammered. "what----" "what a long time you've been, father," said miss nugent, in a reproving voice. "i began to be afraid you were never going." "you come home with me," said the captain, recovering. the command was given in his most imperious manner, and his daughter dropped her muff in some resentment as she rose, in order to let him have the pleasure of seeing mr. hardy pick it up. it rolled, however, in his direction, and he stooped for it just as hardy darted forward. their heads met with a crash, and miss nugent forgot her own consternation in the joy of beholding the pitiable exhibition which terror made of mr. wilks. "i'm very sorry," said hardy, as he reverently dusted the muff on his coat-sleeve before returning it. "i'm afraid it was my fault." "it was," said the infuriated captain, as he held the door open for his daughter. "now, kate." miss nugent passed through, followed by her father, and escorted to the front door by the steward, whose faint "good-night" was utterly ignored by his injured commander. he stood at the door until they had turned the corner, and, returning to the kitchen, found his remaining guest holding his aching head beneath the tap. [illustration: "he found his remaining guest holding his aching head beneath the tap."] "and now," said the captain, sternly, to his daughter, "how dare you sit and talk to that young cub? eh? how dare you?" "he was there when i went in," said his daughter. "why didn't you come out, then?" demanded her father. "i was afraid of disturbing you and sam," said miss nugent. "besides, why shouldn't i speak to him?" "why?" shouted the captain. "why? because i won't have it." "i thought you liked him," said miss nugent, in affected surprise. "you patted him on the head." the captain, hardly able to believe his ears, came to an impressive stop in the roadway, but miss nugent walked on. she felt instinctively that the joke was thrown away on him, and, in the absence of any other audience, wanted to enjoy it without interruption. convulsive and half-suppressed sounds, which she ascribed to a slight cold caught while waiting in the kitchen, escaped her at intervals for the remainder of the journey home. distributed proofreaders canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net [illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the happy average by brand whitlock author of "her infinite variety," "the th district, etc." illustrated by howard chandler christy a. l. burt company publishers new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright, the bobbs-merrill company october ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the happy average chapter i a young man's fancy "come on, old man." lawrence led the way with a jaunty step that was intended to show his easy footing with the carters. but marley lagged behind. even if calling on girls had not been such a serious business with him, he could not forget that he was just graduated from college and that a certain dignity befitted him. he wished lawrence would not speak so loud; the girls might hear, and think he was afraid; he wished to keep the truth from them as long as possible. he had already caught a glimpse of the girls, or thought he had, but before he could make sure, the vague white figures on the veranda stirred; he heard a scurrying, and the loose bang of a screen door. then it was still. lawrence laughed--somehow, as marley felt, derisively. the way from the sidewalk up to the carters' veranda was not long, of course, though it seemed long to marley, and marley's deliberation made it seem long to lawrence. they paused at the steps of the veranda, and lawrence made a low bow. "good evening, mrs. carter," he said. "ah, captain, you here too?" marley had not noticed the captain, or mrs. carter; they sat there so quietly, enjoying the cool of the evening, or such cool as a july evening can find in central ohio. "my friend, mr. marley, mrs. carter--glenn marley--you've heard of him, captain." marley bowed and said something. the presentation there in the darkness made it rather difficult for him, and neither the captain nor his wife moved. lawrence sat down on the steps and fanned himself with his hat. "been a hot day, captain," he said. "think there's any sign of rain?" he sniffed the air. the captain did not need to sniff the air to be able to reply, in a voice that rumbled up from his bending figure, that he had no hope of any. "mayme's home, ain't she?" asked lawrence, turning to mrs. carter. "i'll go see," said mrs. carter, and she rose quickly, as if glad to get away, and the screen door slammed again. "billy was in the bank to-day," lawrence went on, speaking to captain carter. "he said your wheat was ready to cut. did you get foose all right?" "yes," said the captain, "he'll give me next week." "do you have to board the threshers?" "no, not this year; they bring along their own cook, and a tent and everything." "je-rusalem!" exclaimed lawrence. "things _are_ changing in these days, ain't they? harvesting ain't as hard on the women-folks as it used to be." "no," said the captain, "but i pay for it, so much extra a bushel." his head shook regretfully, but he would have lost his regrets in telling of the time when he had swung a cradle all day in the harvest field, had not mrs. carter's voice just then been heard calling up the stairs: "mayme!" "whoo!" answered a high, feminine voice. "come down. there's some one here to see you." mrs. carter turned into the parlor, and the tall windows that opened to the floor of the veranda burst into light. "she'll be right down, john," said mrs. carter, appearing in the door. "you give me your hats and go right in." "all right," said lawrence, and he got to his feet. "come on, glenn." mrs. carter took the hats of the young men and hung them on the rack, where they might easily have hung them themselves. then she went back to the veranda, letting the screen door bang behind her, and lawrence and marley entered the parlor. marley took his seat on one of the haircloth chairs that seemed to have ranged themselves permanently along the walls, and lawrence went to the square piano that stood across one corner of the room, and sat down tentatively on the stool, swinging from side to side. marley glanced at the pictures on the walls. one of them was a steel engraving of lincoln and his cabinet; another, in a black oval frame, portrayed captain carter in uniform, his hair dusting the strapped shoulders of a coat made after the pattern that seems to have been worn so uncomfortably by the heroes of the civil war. there was, however, a later picture of the captain, a crayon enlargement of a photograph, that had taken him in civilian garb. this picture, in its huge gilt frame, was the most aggressive thing in the room, except, possibly, the walnut what-not. marley had a great fear of the what-not; it seemed to him that if he stirred he must topple it over, and dash its load of trinkets to the floor. presently he heard the swish of skirts. then a tall girl came in, and lawrence sprang to his feet. "hello, mayme. what'd you run for?" he said. he had crossed the room and seized the girl's hand. she flashed a rebuke at him, though it was evident that the rebuke was more out of deference to the strange presence of marley than for any real resentment she felt. "this is my friend, mr. marley, miss carter," lawrence said. "you've heard me speak of him." marley edged away from the what-not, rose and took the hand the girl gave him. then miss carter crossed to the black haircloth sofa and seated herself, smoothing out her skirts. "didn't know what to do, so we thought we'd come out and see you," said lawrence. "oh, indeed!" said miss carter. "well, it's too bad about you. we'll do when you can't find anybody else to put up with you, eh?" "oh, yes, you'll do in a pinch," chaffed lawrence. "well, can't you find a comfortable seat?" the girl asked, still addressing lawrence, who had gone back to the piano stool. "i'm going to play in a minute," said lawrence, "and sing." "well, excuse _me_!" implored miss carter. "do let me get you a seat." lawrence promptly went over to the sofa and leaned back in one corner of it, affecting a discomfort. "can't i get you a pillow, mr. lawrence?" miss carter asked presently. "or perhaps a cot; i believe there's one somewhere in the attic." "oh, i reckon i can stand it," said lawrence. marley had regained his seat on the edge of the slippery chair. "where's vinie?" asked lawrence. "she's coming," answered miss carter. "taking out her curl papers, eh?" said lawrence. "she needn't mind us." miss carter pretended a disgust, but as she was framing a retort, somehow, the eyes of all of them turned toward the hall door. a girl in a gown of white stood there clasping and unclasping her hands curiously, and looking from one to another of those in the room. "come in, lavinia," said miss carter. something had softened her voice. the girl stepped into the room almost timidly. "miss blair," said miss carter, "let me introduce mr. marley." the sudden consciousness that he had been sitting--and staring--smote marley, and he sprang to his feet. embarrassment overpowered him and he bowed awkwardly. lawrence had been silent, and his silence had been a long one for him. seeming to recognize this he hastened to say: "well, how's the world using you, vinie?" the girl smiled and answered: "oh, pretty well, thank you, jack." it grated on marley to hear her called vinie. lavinia blair! lavinia blair! that was her name. he had heard it before, of course, yet it had never sounded as it did now when he repeated it to himself. the girl had seated herself in a rocking-chair across the room, almost out of range, as it were. he was rather glad of this, if anything. it seemed to relieve him of the duty of talking to her. he supposed, of course, they would pair off somehow. the young people always did in macochee. he supposed he had been brought there to pair off with lavinia blair. he liked the thought, yet the position had its responsibilities. somehow he never could forget that he could not dance. he hoped they would not propose dancing. he always had a fear of that in making calls, and all the calls he made seemed to come to it soon or late; some one always proposed it. marley was aware that lawrence and mayme carter had resumed the exchange of their rude repartee, though he did not know what they had said. they kept laughing, too. lavinia blair seemed to join in the laughter if not in the badinage. marley wished he might join in it. jack lawrence was evidently funnier than ever that night; mayme carter was convulsed. now and then lawrence said something to her in a tone too low for the others to hear, and these remarks pushed her to the verge of hysterics. marley had a notion they were laughing at him. meanwhile lavinia blair sat with her hands in her lap, smiling as though she were amused. marley wondered if he amused her. he felt that he ought to say something, but he did not know what to say. he thought of several things, but, as he turned them over in his mind, he was convinced that they were not appropriate. so he sat and looked at lavinia blair, looked at her eyes, her mouth, her hair. he thought he had never seen such a complexion. mayme carter had snatched her handkerchief back from lawrence, and retreated to her end of the sofa. there she sat up stiffly, folded her hands, and, though her mirth still shook her spasmodically, she said: "now, jack, behave yourself." lawrence burlesqued a surprise, and said: "i'll leave it to vine if i've done anything." marley wondered how much further abbreviation lavinia blair's name would stand, but he was suddenly aware that he was being addressed. miss carter, with an air of dismissing lawrence, said: "you have not been in macochee long, have you, mr. marley?" marley admitted that he had not, but said that he liked the town. when lawrence explained that marley was going to settle down there and become one of them, miss carter said she was awfully glad, but warned him against associating too much with lawrence. this embarrassed marley, if it did not lawrence, and he immediately gave the scene to lawrence, who guessed he would sing his song. to do so he went to the piano, and began to pick over the frayed sheets of music that lay on its green cover. to forestall him, however, miss carter rushed across the room and slid on to the piano stool herself, saying breathlessly: "anything to stop that!" she struck a few vagrant chords, and marley, glad of a subject on which he could express himself, pleaded with her to play. at last she did so. when she had finished, lawrence clapped his hands loudly, and stopped only when a voice startled them. it was mrs. carter calling through the window: "play your new piece, mayme!" miss carter demurred, but after they had argued the question through the window, the daughter gave in, and played it. the music soothed lawrence to silence, and when miss carter completed her little repertoire, his mockery could recover itself no further than to say: "won't you favor us, miss blair?" when lavinia blair declined, he struck an imploring attitude and said: "oh, please do! we're dying to hear you. you didn't leave your music at home, did you?" marley heard the chairs scraping on the veranda, and the screen door slammed once more. then he heard captain carter go up the stairs, while mrs. carter halted in the doorway of the parlor long enough to say: "you lock the front door when you come up, mayme." mayme without turning replied "all right," and when her mother had disappeared she said: "it's awful hot in here, let's go outside." marley found himself strolling in the yard with lavinia blair. the moon had not risen, but the girl's throat and arms gleamed in the starlight; her white dress seemed to be a cloud of gauze; she floated, rather than walked, there by his side. they paused by the gate. about them were the voices of the summer night, the crickets, the katydids, far away the frogs, chirping musically. they stood a while in the silence, and then they turned, and were talking again. marley did most of the talking, and all he said was about himself, though he did not realize that this was so. he had already told her of his life in the towns where his father had preached before he came to macochee, and of his four years in college at delaware. he tried to give her some notion of the sense of alienation he had felt as the son of an itinerant methodist minister; for him no place had ever taken on the warm color and expression of home. he explained that as yet he knew little of macochee, having been away at college when his father moved there the preceding fall. it was so easy to talk to her, and as he told her of his ambitions, the things he was going to do became so many, and so easy. he was going to become a lawyer; he thought he should go to cincinnati. "and leave macochee?" said lavinia blair. marley caught his breath. "would you care?" he whispered. she did not answer. he heard the crickets, the katydids, the frogs again; there came the perfume of the lilacs, late flowering that year; the heavy odor of a shrub almost overpowered him. "my father is a lawyer," lavinia said. they had turned off the path, and were wandering over the lawn. the dew sparkled on it; and marley became solicitous. "won't you get your feet wet?" he asked. the girl laughed at the idea, but she caught up her skirts, and they wandered on in the shade of the tall elms. marley did not know where they were. the yard seemed an endless garden, immense, unknown, enchanted; the dark trees all around him stood like the forest of some park, and the lawn stretched away to fall over endless terraces; he imagined statues and fountains gleaming in the heavy shadows of the trees. the house seemed lost in the distance, though he felt its presence there behind him. once he saw the twinkle of a passing light in an upper story. he could no longer hear the voices of mayme and lawrence, but he caught the tinkling notes of a banjo, away off somewhere. its music was very sweet. they strolled on, their feet swishing in the damp grass, then suddenly there was a rush, a loud barking, and a dog sprang at them out of the darkness. lavinia gave a little cry. marley was startled; he felt that he must run, yet he thought of the girl beside him. he must not let her see his fear. he stepped in front of her. he could feel her draw more closely to him, and he thrilled as the sense of his protectorship came to him. he must think of some heroic scheme of vanquishing the dog, but it stopped in its mad rush, and lavinia, standing aside, said: "why, it's only sport!" they laughed, and their laugh was the happier because of the relief from their fear. "we must have wandered around behind the house," said lavinia. "there's the shed." they turned, and went back. the enchantment of the yard had departed. marley seemed to see things clearly once more, though his heart still beat as he felt the delicious sense of protectorship that had come over him as lavinia shrank to his side at the moment the dog rushed at them. nor could he ever forget her face as she smiled up at him in the little opening they came into on the side lawn. the young moon was just sailing over the trees. as they approached the veranda, lawrence's voice called out of the darkness: "well, where have you young folks been stealing away to?" chapter ii wade powell marley halted at the threshold and glanced up at the sign that swung over the doorway. the gilt lettering of the sign had long ago been tarnished, and where its black sanded paint had peeled in many weathers the original tin was as rusty as the iron arm from which it creaked. yet macochee had long since lost its need of the shingle to tell it where wade powell's law office was. it had been for many years in one of the little rooms of the low brick building in miami street, just across from the court house; it was almost as much of an institution as the court house itself, with which its triumphs and its trials were identified. marley gathered enough courage from his inspection of the sign to enter, but once inside, he hesitated. then a heavy voice spoke. "well, come in," it said peremptorily. wade powell, sitting with his feet on his table, held his newspaper aside and looked at marley over his spectacles. marley had had an ideal of wade powell, and now he had to pause long enough to relinquish the ideal and adjust himself to the reality. the hair was as disordered as his young fancy would have had it, but it was thinner than he had known it in his dreams, and its black was streaked with gray. the face was smooth-shaven, which accorded with his notion, though it had not been shaven as recently as he felt it should have been. but he could not reconcile himself to the spectacles that rested on powell's nose, and pressed their bows into the flesh of his temples--the eagle eyes of the wade powell of his imagination had never known glasses. when wade powell slowly pulled his spectacles from his nose and tossed them on to the table before him, he bent his eyes on marley, and their gaze, under their heavy brows, somewhat restored him, but it could not atone for the disappointment. perhaps the disappointment that marley felt in this moment came from some dim, unrealized sense that wade powell was growing old. the spectacles, the gray in his hair, the wrinkles in his face, the looseness of the skin at his jaws and at his throat--where a fold of it hung between the points of his collar--all told that wade powell had passed the invisible line which marks life's summit, and that his face was turned now toward the evening. there was the touch of sadness in the indistinct conception of him as a man who had not altogether realized the ambitions of his youth or the predictions of his friends, and the sadness came from the intuition that the failure or the half-failure was not of the heroic kind. the office in which he sat, and on which, in the long years, he had impressed his character, was untidy; the floor was dirty, the books on the shelves were dusty and leaning all awry; the set of the ohio reports had not been kept up to date; one might have told by a study of them at just what period enterprise and energy had faltered, while the gaps here and there showed how an uncalculating generosity had helped a natural indolence by lending indiscriminately to other lawyers, who, with the lack of respect for the moral of the laws they pretended to revere, had borrowed with no thought of returning. two or three pictures hung crookedly on the walls; the table at which powell sat was old and scarred; its ink-stand had long ago gone dry and been abandoned; a cheap bottle, with its cork rolling tipsily by its side, had taken the ink-stand's place. the papers scattered over the table had an air of hopelessness, as though they had grown tired, like the clients they represented, in waiting for powell's attention. the half-open door at the back led into a room that had been, and possibly might yet be, used as a private office or consulting room, should any one care to brave its darkness and its dust; but as for wade powell, it was plain that he preferred to sit democratically in the outer office, where all might see him, and, what was of more importance to him, where he might see all. the one new thing in the room was a typewriter, standing on its little sewing-machine table, in the corner of the room. there was no stenographer nor any chair for one; marley imagined powell, whenever he had occasion to write, sitting down to the machine himself, and picking out his pleadings painfully, laboriously and slowly, letter by letter, using only his index fingers. and this somehow humbled his ideal the more. marley almost wished he hadn't come. "what's on your mind, young man?" said wade powell, leaning back in his chair and dropping his long arm at his side until his newspaper swept the floor. marley had seated himself in a wooden chair that was evidently intended for clients, and he began nervously. "well, i--" here he stopped, overcome again by an embarrassment. a smile spread over wade powell's face, a gentle smile with a winning quality in it, and his face to marley became young again. "tell your troubles," he said. "i've confessed all the young men in macochee for twenty-five years. yes--thirty-five--" he grew suddenly sober as he numbered the years and then exclaimed as if to himself: "my god! has it been that long?" he took out his watch and looked at it as if it must somehow correct his reckoning. for a moment, then, he thought; his gaze was far away. but marley brought him back when he said: "i only want--i only want to study law." "oh!" said powell, and he seemed somehow relieved. "is that all?" to marley this seemed quite enough, and the disappointment he felt, which was a part of the effect wade powell's office had had on him, showed suddenly in his face. powell glanced quickly at him, and hastened to reassure him. "we can fix that easily enough," he said. "have you ever read any law?" "no," said marley. "been to college?" marley told him that he had just that summer been graduated and when he mentioned the name of the college powell said: "the methodists, eh?" he could hardly conceal a certain contempt in the tone with which he said this, and then, as if instantly regretting the unkindness, he observed: "it's a good school, i'm told." he could not, however, evince an entire approval, and so seeming to desert the subject he hastened on: "what's your name?" "glenn marley." "oh!" wade powell dropped his feet to the floor and sat upright. "are you preacher marley's son?" marley did not like to hear his father called "preacher," and when he said that he was the son of doctor marley, powell remarked: "i've heard him preach, and he's a damn good preacher too, i want to tell you." marley warmed under this profane indorsement. he had always, from a boy, felt somehow that he must defend his father's position as a preacher from the world, as with the little world of his boyhood and youth he had always had to defend his own position as the son of a preacher. "yes, sir, he's a good preacher, and a good man," powell went on. he had taken a cigar from his pocket and was nipping the end from it with his teeth. he lighted it, and leaned back comfortably again to smoke, and then in tardy hospitality he drew another cigar from his waistcoat pocket and held it toward marley. "smoke?" he said, and then he added apologetically, "i didn't think; i never do." marley declined the cigar, but powell pressed it on him, saying: "well, your father does, i'll bet. give it to him with wade powell's compliments. he won't hesitate to smoke with a publican and sinner." marley smiled and put the cigar away in his pocket. "i don't know, though," powell went on slowly, speaking as much to himself as to marley, while he watched the thick white clouds he rolled from his lips, "that he'd want you to be in my office. i know some of the _brethren_ wouldn't approve. they'd think i'd contaminate you." marley would have hastened to reassure powell had he known how to do so without seeming to recognize the possibility of contamination; but while he hesitated powell avoided the necessity for him by asking: "did your father send you to me?" he looked at marley eagerly, and with an expression of unfounded hope, as he awaited the answer. "no," replied marley, "he doesn't know. i haven't talked with him at all. i have to do something and i've always thought i'd go into the law. i presume it would be better to go to a law school, but father couldn't afford that after putting me through college. i thought i could read law in some office, and maybe get admitted that way." "sure," said powell, "it's easy enough. you'll have to learn the law after you get to practising anyway--and there isn't much to learn at that. it's mostly a fake." marley looked at him in some alarm, at this new smiting of an idol. "i began to read law," powell went on, "under old judge colwin--that is, what i read. i used to sit at the window with a book in my lap and watch the girls go by. still," he added with a tone of doing himself some final justice, "it was a liberal education to sit under the old judge's drippings. i learned more that way than i ever did at the law school." he smoked on a moment, ruminating on his lost youth; then, bringing himself around to business again, he said: "how'd you happen to come to me?" "well," said marley, haltingly, "i'd heard a good deal of you--and i thought i'd like you, and then i've heard father speak of you." "you have?" said powell, looking up quickly. "yes." "what'd he say?" "well, he said you were a great orator and he said you were always with the under dog. he said he liked that." powell turned his eyes away and his face reddened. "well, let's see. if you think your father would approve of your sitting at the feet of such a gamaliel as i, we can--" he was squinting painfully at his book-shelves. "is that blackstone over there on the top shelf?" marley got up and glanced along the backs of the dingy books, their calfskin bindings deeply browned by the years, their red and black labels peeling off. "here's blackstone," he said, taking down a book, "but it's the second volume." "second volume, eh? don't see the first around anywhere, do you?" marley looked, without finding it. "then see if walker's there." marley looked again. "walker's _american law_," powell explained. "i don't see it," marley said. "no, i reckon not," assented powell, "some one's borrowed it. i seem to run a sort of circulating library of legal works in this town, without fines--though we have statutes against petit larceny. well, hand me swan's _treatise_. that's it, on the end of the second shelf." marley took down the book, and gave it to powell. while marley dusted his begrimed fingers with his handkerchief, powell blew the dust off the top of the book; he slapped it on the arm of his chair, the dust flying from it at every stroke. he picked up his spectacles, put them on and turned over the first few leaves of the book. "you might begin on that," he said presently, "until we can borrow a blackstone or a walker for you. this book is the best law-book ever written anyway; the law's all there. if you knew all that contains, you could go in any court and get along without giving yourself away; which is the whole duty of a lawyer." he closed the book and gave it to marley, who was somewhat at a loss; this was the final disappointment. he had thought that his introduction into the mysteries of the noble profession should be attended by some sort of ceremony. he looked at the book in his hand quite helplessly and then looked up at powell. "is that--all?" he said. "why, yes," powell answered. "isn't that enough?" "i thought--that is, that i might have some duties. how am i to begin?" "why, just open the book to the first page and read that, then turn over to the second page and read that, and so on--till you get to the end." "what will my hours be?" "your hours?" said powell, as if he did not understand. "oh, just suit yourself." marley was looking at the book again. "don't you make any entry--any memorandum?" he asked, still unable to separate himself from the idea that something formal, something legal, should mark the beginning of such an important epoch. "oh, you keep track of the date," said powell, "and at the end of three years i'll give you a certificate. you may find that you can do most of your reading at home, but come around." marley looked about the office, trying to imagine himself in this new situation. "i'd like, you know," he said, "to do something, if i could, to repay you for your trouble." "that's all right, my boy," said powell. then he added as if the thought had just come to him: "say, can you run a typewriter?" "i can learn." "well, that's more than i can do," said powell, glancing at his new machine. "i've tried, but it would take a stationary engineer to operate that thing. you might help out with my letters and my pleadings now and then. and i'd like to have you around. you'd make good company." "well," said marley, "i'll be here in the morning." he still clung to the idea that he was to be a part of the office, to be an identity in the local machinery of the law. as he rose to go, a young man appeared in the doorway. he was tall, and the english cap and the rough scotch suit he wore, with the trousers rolled up over his heavy tan shoes, enabled marley to identify him instantly as young halliday. he was certain of this when powell, looking up, said indifferently: "hello, george. raining in london?" "oh, i say, powell," replied halliday, ignoring a taunt that had grown familiar to him, "that zeller case--we would like to have that go over to the fall term, if you don't mind." "why don't you settle it?" asked powell. halliday was leaning against the door-post, and had drawn a short brier pipe from his pocket. before he answered, he paused long enough to fill it with tobacco. then he said: "you'll have to see the governor about that--it's a case he's been looking after." "oh, well," said powell, with his easy acquiescence, "all right." halliday had pressed the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe and struck a match. "then, i'll tell old bill," he said, pausing in his sentence to light his pipe, "to mark it off the assignment." marley watched halliday saunter away, with a feeling that mixed admiration with amazement. he could not help admiring his clothes, and he felt drawn toward him as a college man from a school so much greater than his own, though he felt some resentment because halliday had never once given a sign that he was aware of marley's presence. his amazement came from the utter disrespect with which halliday referred to judge blair. old bill! marley had caught his breath. he would have liked to discuss halliday with powell, but the lawyer seemed to be as indifferent to halliday's existence as halliday had been to marley's, and when marley saw that powell was not likely to refer to him, he started toward the door. as he went powell resumptively called after him: "i'll get a blackstone for you in a day or two. be down in the morning." marley went away bearing swan's _treatise_ under his arm. he looked up at the court house across the way; the trees were stirring in the light winds of summer, and their leaves writhed joyously in the sun. the windows of the court house were open, and he could hear the voice of some lawyer arguing a cause to the jury. marley thought of judge blair sitting there, the jury in its box, the sleepy bailiff drowsing in his place, the accustomed attorneys and the angry litigants, and his heart began to beat a little more rapidly, for the thought of judge blair brought the thought of lavinia blair. and in the days to come, when he should be arguing a cause to a jury, as that lawyer, whose voice came pealing and echoing in sudden and surprising shouts through the open windows, was arguing a cause now, would lavinia blair be interested? he had imagined that a day so full of importance for him would be marked by greater ceremonials, and yet while he was disappointed, he was reassured. he had solved a problem, he had done with inaction, he had made a beginning, he was entered at last upon a career. as all the events of the recent years rushed on him, the years of college life, the decisions and indecisions of his classmates, their vague troubles about a career, he felt a pride that he had so soon solved that problem. he felt a certain superiority too, that made him carry his head high, as he turned into main street and marched across the square. it required only decision and life was conquered. he saw the years stretching out prosperously before him, expanding as his ambitions expanded. he was glad that he had tackled life so promptly, that he had come so quickly to an issue with it; it was not so bad, viewed thus close, as it had been from a distance. he laughed at the folly of all the talk he had heard about the difficulty of young men getting a start in these days; he must write to his fraternity fellows at once, and tell them what he had done and how he was succeeding. they would surely see that at the bar he would do, not only himself, but them, the greatest credit, and they would be proud. chapter iii greenwood lake the girls, flitting about with nervous laughter and now and then little screams, had spread long cloths over the table of plain boards that had served so many picnic parties at greenwood lake; the table-cloths and the dresses of the girls gleamed white in the amber light that streamed across the little sheet of water, though the slender trees, freshened by the morning shower that threatened to spoil the outing, were beginning to darken under the shadows that diffused themselves subtly through the grove, as if there were exudations of the heavy foliage. lawrence, in his white ducks, stood by the table, assuming to direct the laying of the supper. his immense cravat of blue was the only bit of color about him, unless it were his red hair, which he had had clipped that very morning, and his shorn appearance intensified his comic air. marley, sitting apart on the stump of a small oak, could hear the burlesque orders lawrence shouted at the girls. the girls were convulsed by his orders; at times they had to put their dishes down lest in their laughter they spill the food or break the china; just then marley saw mayme carter double over suddenly, her mass of yellow hair lurching forward to her brow, while the woods rang with her laughter. the other men were off looking after the horses. lavinia moved quickly here and there, smiling joyously, her face flushed; though she laughed as the others did at lawrence's drollery, she did not laugh as loudly, and she did not scream. just now she rose from bending over the table, and brushed her brown hair from her brow with the back of her hand, while she stood and surveyed the table as if to see what it lacked. when she raised her hand the sleeve of her muslin gown fell away from her wrist and showed her slender forearm, white in the calm light of evening. marley could not take his eyes from her. she ran into the pavilion, her little low shoes flashed below her petticoats, and he grew sad; when she reappeared, all her movements seemed to be new, to have fresh beauties. then he suspected that the girls were laughing at him and he felt miserable. he thought of himself sitting alone and apart, an awkward, ungainly figure. he longed to go away, yet he feared that, if he did, he would not have the courage to come back. he shifted his position, only to make matters worse. then suddenly his feeling took the form of a rage with lawrence; he longed to seize lawrence and kick him, to pitch him into the lake, to humiliate him before the girls. he thought he saw all at once that lawrence had been making fun of him, surreptitiously; that was what had made the girls laugh so. there was some little consolation in the thought that lavinia did not laugh as much as the others; perhaps, if she did not care to defend him, she at least pitied him. and then he began to pity himself. the whole evening stretched before him; pretty soon he would have to move up to the table, and sit down on the narrow little benches that were fastened between the trees; then after supper they would begin their dancing and when that came he did not see what he could do. the only pleasure he had had that afternoon had been on the way out; he had been alone with lavinia, and the four miles of pleasant road that lay between the town and greenwood lake were too short for all the happiness marley found in them. he could feel lavinia again by his side, her hands folded on the thin old linen lap-robe. he could not recall a word they had said, but it seemed to him that the conversation had flowed on intimately and tranquilly; she had been so close and sympathetic; and he would always remember how her eyes had been raised to his. the fields with the wheat in shock had swept by in the beauty of harvest time; the road, its dust laid by the morning shower, had rolled under the wheels of the buggy softly, smoothly and noiselessly; the air had been odorous with the scent of green things freshened by the rain, and had vibrated with the sounds of summer. then suddenly his reverie was broken. the men were gathering about the table with the girls; all of them looked at him expectantly. "here, you!" called lawrence. "do you think we're going to do all the work? come, get in the game, and don't look so solemn--this ain't a funeral." they all laughed, and marley felt his face flame, but he rose and went over to the table, halting in indecision. "run get some water," ordered lawrence, imperatively waving his hand. "mayme," he shouted, "hand him the pitcher! step lively, now. the men-folks are hungry after their day's work. has any one got a pitcher concealed about his person? what did you do with the pitcher, glenn? take it to water your horse?" they were laughing uproariously, and marley was plainly discomfited. but lavinia stepped to his side, a large white pitcher in her hand. "i'll show you," she said. they started away together, and marley felt a protection in her presence. a little way farther he suddenly thought of the pitcher, which lavinia still was bearing, and he took it from her. as he seized the handle their fingers became for an instant entangled. "did i hurt you?" he asked. "oh, no!" she assured him, and as they walked on, out of the sight of the laughing group behind them, an ease came over him. "do you know where the well is?" he asked. "oh, yes," she answered. "it's down here. i could have come just as well as not." "i'm glad to come," he said; and then he added, "with _you_." they had reached the wooden pump behind the pavilion. the little sheet of water curved away like a crescent, following the course of the stream of which it was but a widening. its little islands were mirrored in its surface. the sun was just going down, the sky beyond the lake was rosy, and the same rosy hue now suffused everything; the waters themselves were reddened. it was very still, and the peace of the evening lay on them both. lavinia stood motionless, and looked out across the water to the little ohio hills that rolled away toward the west. she stood and gazed a long time, her hands at her sides, yet with their fingers open and extended, as if the beauty of the scene had suddenly transfixed her. marley did not see the lake or the sun, the islands or the hills; he saw only the girl before him, the outline of her cheek, the down on it showing fine in the pure light, the hair that nestled at her neck, the curve from her shoulder to her arms and down to her intent fingers. at last she sighed, and looked up at him. "isn't it all beautiful?" she said solemnly. "beautiful?" he repeated, as if in question, not knowing what she said. just then they heard lawrence hallooing, and marley began to pump vigorously. he rinsed out the pitcher, then filled it, and they went back, walking closely side by side, and they did not speak all the way. mayme carter, who, as it seemed, had a local reputation as a compounder of lemonade, had the lemons and the sugar all ready when marley and lavinia rejoined the group, and lawrence, as he seized the pitcher, said: "i see that, between you, you've spilled nearly all of the water, but i guess mayme and i'll have to make it do." the others laughed at this, as they did at all of lawrence's speeches, and then they turned and laughed at marley and lavinia, though the men, who as yet did not feel themselves on terms with marley, had a subtile manner of not including him in their ridicule, however little they spared lavinia. the supper was eaten with the hunger their spirits and the fresh air had given them and marley, placed, as of course, by lavinia's side, felt sheltered by her, as he felt sheltered by all the talk that raged about him. he wished that he could join in the talk, but he could not discover what it was all about. once, in a desperate determination to assert himself, he did mention a book he had been reading, but his remark seemed to have a chilling effect from which they did not recover until lawrence, out of his own inexhaustible fund of nonsense, restored them to their inanities. he tried to hide his embarrassment by eating the cold chicken, the ham and sardines, the potato chips and pickles, the hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches that went up and down the board in endless procession, and he was thankful, when he thought of it, that lawrence seemed to forget him, though lawrence had forgotten no one else there. he seemed to note accurately each mouthful every one took. "hand up another dozen eggs for miss winters, joe," he called to one of the men, and then they all laughed at miss winters. when the cake came, lawrence identified each kind with some remark about the mother of the girl who had brought it, and tasted all, because, as he said, he could not afford to show partiality. the fun lagged somewhat as the meal neared its end, but lawrence revived it instantly and sensationally by rising suddenly, bending far over toward lavinia in a tragic attitude and saying: "why, vine, child, you haven't eaten a mouthful! i do believe you're in love!" the company burst into laughter, but they suddenly stopped when they saw marley. his face showed his anger with them, and he made a little movement, but lavinia smiled up at lawrence, and said: "well, jack, it's evident that _you're_ not." and then they all laughed at lawrence, and the girls clapped their hands, while marley, angry now with himself, tried to laugh with them. when they stopped laughing lawrence produced his cigarettes, and tossing one to marley in a way that delicately conveyed a sense of intimacy and affection, he said: "when you girls get your dishes done up we'll be back and see if we can't think up something to entertain you," and then he called marley and with him and the other men strolled down to the lake. chapter iv moonlight the dance was proposed almost immediately. marley had hoped up to the very last minute that something, possibly a miracle, would prevent it, but scarcely had the men finished their first cigarettes before howard was saying: "well, let's be getting back to the girls. they'll want to dance." howard spoke as if the dancing would be a sacrifice on the part of the men to the pleasure of the girls, but they all turned at once, some of them flinging their cigarettes into the water, as if to complete the sacrifice, and started back. when they reached the pavilion, payson and gallard took instruments out of green bags, payson a guitar and gallard a mandolin, and lawrence, bustling about over the floor, shoving the few chairs against the unplastered wooden walls, was shouting: "tune 'em up, boys, tune 'em up!" the first tentative notes of the strings twanged in the hollow room, and lawrence was asking the girls for dances, scribbling their names on his cuff with a disregard of its white polished linen almost painful. "i'll have to divide up some of 'em, you know, girls," he said. "jim and elmer have to play, and that makes us two men shy. but i'll do the best i can--wish i could take you all in my arms at once and dance with you." the girls, standing in an expectant, eager little group, clutched one another nervously, and pretended to sneer at lawrence's patronage. marley was standing with lavinia near the door. he was trying to affect an ease; he knew by the way the other girls glanced at him now and then that they were speculating on his possibilities as a partner; he tried just then to look as if he were going to dance as all the other men were, yet he felt the necessity of confessing to lavinia. "you know," he said contritely, "that i don't dance." she looked up, a disappointment springing to her eyes too quickly for her to conceal it. she was flushed with pleasure and excitement, and tapping her foot in time with the chords payson and gallard were trying on their instruments. marley saw her surprise. "i ought not to have come," he said; "i've no business here." the look of disappointment in lavinia's eyes had gone, and in its place was now an expression of sympathy. "it makes no difference," she said. and then she added in a low voice: "i'll not dance either; there are too many of us girls anyway." "oh, don't let me keep you from it," said marley, and yet a joy was shining in his eyes. she turned away and blushed. "i'll give you all my dances," she said; "we can sit them out." "but it won't be any fun for you," protested marley. and just then lawrence came up. "say, glenn," he said, "if you don't want to dance i'll take lavinia for the first number." the guitar and mandolin, after a long preliminary strumming to get themselves in tune, suddenly burst into _the georgia campmeeting_, and the couples were instantly springing across the floor. "come on, vine," said lawrence, his fingers twitching. and lavinia, eager, trembling, alive, casting one last glance at marley, said "just this one!" and went whirling away with lawrence. marley moved aside, awkwardly, when the couples, sweeping in a long oval stream around the little room, whirled past him. lavinia danced with a grace that almost hurt him; she was laughing as she looked up into lawrence's face, talking to him as they danced. marley felt a gloom, almost a rage, settle on him. he looked up and down the room. at the farther end, through the door by which the musicians sat swinging their feet over their knees in time to the tune they played, he could see the man who kept the grounds at the lake, looking on at the dance; his wife was with him, and they smiled contentedly at the joy of the young people. marley could not bear their joy, any more than he could bear the joy of the dancers, and he looked away from them. glancing along the wall he saw a girl, sitting alone. it was grace winters; she was older than the others, and she sat there sullenly, her dark brows contracted under her dark hair. marley felt drawn toward her by a common trouble, and he thought, instantly, that he might appear less conspicuous if he went and sat beside her. as he approached, her sallow face brightened with a brilliant smile of welcome and she drew aside her skirts to make a place for him, though there was no one else on all that side of the room. marley sat down. "it's warm, isn't it?" he said. "yes," miss winters replied, "almost too warm to dance, don't you think?" marley tried to express his acquiescence in the polite smile he had seen the other men use before the dance began, but he did not feel that he carried it off very well. "i should think you'd be dancing, mr. marley," miss winters said. "i hear you are a splendid dancer. don't you care to dance this evening?" "i can't dance," said marley, crudely. he was looking at lavinia, following her young figure as it glided past with lawrence. miss winters turned away. her face became gloomy again, and she said nothing more. marley was absorbed in lavinia, and they sat there together silent, conspicuous and alone, in a wide separation. marley thought the dance never would end. it seemed to him that the dancers must drop from fatigue; but at last the mandolin and guitar ceased suddenly, the girls cried out a disappointed unisonant "oh!" and then they all laughed and clapped their hands. lavinia and lawrence were coming up, glowing with the joy of the dance. "oh, that was splendid, jack!" lavinia cried, putting back her hair with that wave of her hand. lawrence's face was redder than ever. he leaned over and in a whisper that was for lavinia and marley together he said: "lavinia, you're the queen dancer of the town." and then he turned to miss winters. "grace," he said, distributing himself with the impartiality he felt his position as a social leader demanded, "you've promised me a dance for a long time. now's my chance." "why certainly, jack," miss winters said, with her brilliant smile, and then she took lawrence's arm and drew him away, as if otherwise he might escape. "take me outdoors!" said lavinia to marley. "those big lamps make it _so_ hot in here." marley was glad to leave, and they went out on to the little piazza of the pavilion. lavinia stood on the very edge of the steps, and drank in the fresh air eagerly. "oh!" she said. "oh! isn't it delicious!" the darkness lay thick between the trees. the air was rich with the scent of the mown fields that lay beyond the grove. the insects shrilled contentedly. marley stood and looked at lavinia, standing on the edge of the steps, her body bent a little forward, her face upturned. she put back her hair again. "let's go on down!" she said, a little adventurous quality in her tone. she ran lightly down the steps, marley after her. "won't you take cold?" he asked, bending close to her. she looked up and laughed. they were walking on, unconsciously making their way toward the edge of the little lake. marley felt the white form floating there beside him and a happiness, new, unknown before, came to him. they were on the edge of the little lake. before them the water lay, dark now, and smooth. a small stage was moored to the shore and a boat was fastened to it. they could hear the light lapping of the water that barely stirred the boat. presently lavinia ran out on to the stage. she gave a little spring, and rocked it up and down; then smiled up at marley like a child venturing in forbidden places. marley stepped carefully on to the stage. "isn't it a perfect night?" lavinia said, looking up at the dark purple sky, strewn with all the stars. marley looked at her white throat. "the most beautiful night i ever knew!" he said. he spoke solemnly, devoutly, and lavinia turned and gazed on him. marley touched the boat with the toe of his shoe. "we might row," he said almost timidly. "could we?" inquired lavinia. "if we may take the boat." "oh, of course--anybody may. can you row?" marley laughed. he had rowed in the college crew on the old olentangy at delaware. his laugh was a complete answer to lavinia. she approached the boat, and marley bent over and drew it alongside the stage. "get in," he said. it was good to find something he could do. he helped her carefully into the boat, and held it firmly until she had arranged herself in the stern, her feet against the cleats, and her white skirts tucked about her. then he took his seat, shipped the oars and shoved off. he swept the boat out into the deep water, and rowed away up the lake. he rowed precisely, feathering his oars, that she might see how much a master he was. they did not speak for a long time. first one, then the other, of the little islands swept darkly by; the water slapped the bow of the boat as marley urged it forward. the lights of the pavilion on the shore twinkled an instant, then went out behind the trees. they could hear the distant mellow thrumming of the guitar and the tinkle of the mandolin. "are you too cool?" he asked presently. "oh, no, not at all!" said lavinia. "hadn't you better take my coat?" marley persisted. the idea of putting his coat about her thrilled him. "you'll need it," she said. "no, i'll be warm rowing." she shook her head, and smiled. they drifted on. still came the distant strumming of the guitar and the tinkle of the mandolin. marley thought of the young people dancing, and then, noting lavinia's silence, he asked, out of the doubt that was his one remaining annoyance: "wouldn't you rather be back there dancing?" "no, no!" she answered softly. "i'm ashamed of myself." "why?" she started a little. "because i can't dance!" there was guilt in his tone. "you mustn't feel that way about it," lavinia said. "it's nothing." "isn't it?" "no. it's easy to learn." "i never could learn." lavinia was still, and marley thought she assented to this. but in another moment she spoke again. "i--" she began, and then she hesitated. marley stopped rowing and rested on his oars. the water lapped the bows of the boat as it slackened its speed. "i could teach you," lavinia went on. "could you?" marley leaned forward eagerly. "i'd like to." she was trailing one white hand in the water. "will you?" "yes," she said. "we can do it over at mayme's--any time. she'll play for us." marley felt a great gratitude, and he wondered how he could pour it forth upon her. "you are too good to me," he exclaimed. then, suddenly, a change came over the dark surface of the waters. a mellow quality touched them; they seemed to tremble ecstatically, then they broke into sparkling ripples; the air quivered with a luminous beauty and a light flooded the little valley. marley and lavinia turned instinctively and looked up, and there, over the tops of the trees, black a moment before, now rounded domes of silver, rose the moon. they gazed at it a long time. finally marley turned and looked at lavinia. her white dress had become a drapery, her arms gleamed, her eyes were lustrous in the transfiguration of the moonlight. he could see that her lips were slightly parted, and her fingertips, dipped in the cool water over the gunwale of the boat, trailed behind them a long narrow thread of silver. they looked into each other's eyes, and neither spoke. they drifted on. at last, marley said: "lavinia!" she stirred. "do you know--" he began, and then he stopped. "don't you know," he went on, "can't you see, that i love you?" he rested his arms on the oars, and leaned over toward her. "i've loved you ever since that first night--do you remember? i know--i know i'm not good enough, but can't you--can't i--love you?" he saw her eyelids fall, and as she turned and looked over the side of the boat, she put forth her hand, and he took it. they were awakened from the dream by a call, and after what seemed to marley a long time, he finally remembered the voice as lawrence's. "we must go back," he said reluctantly. "how long have we been gone?" "i don't know," said lavinia. he heard her sigh. marley pulled the boat in the direction whence came the hallooing voice; he had quite lost all notion of their whereabouts. but presently they saw the lights of the pavilion, and then the dark figures of the men, and the white figures of the girls on shore. as they pulled up and marley sprang out of the boat to the landing stage, lawrence said: "well, where have you babes been?" marley helped lavinia out of the boat. "we've been rowing," he said. "we thought you'd been drowned," said lawrence. marley and lavinia drove home together in silence. in the light of the moon, the road was silver, and the fields with their shocks of wheat were gold. chapter v the serenade "i don't know what ails lavinia," said mrs. blair to her husband as he sat on the veranda after dinner the next day. the judge laid his paper in his lap, and looked up at his wife over his glasses. "isn't she well?" he asked. "m--yes," replied mrs. blair, prolonging the word in her lack of conviction, "i guess so." "don't you know?" the judge demanded in some impatience with her uncertainty. "she says she feels all right." "well, then, what makes you think she isn't?" "oh, i don't know," replied mrs. blair, "she seems so quiet, that's all." "lavinia is not a girl given to excitement or demonstration," said the judge, lapsing easily into the manner of speech he had cultivated on the bench. "no, that's so," assented mrs. blair. "but she's always cheerful and bright." "is she gloomy?" "no, i wouldn't exactly call it that, but she seems preoccupied--rather wistful i should say, yes--wistful." she seemed pleased to have found the right word. "oh, she's all right. that picnic last night may have fatigued her. i presume there was dancing." "yes." "i don't know that we should let her go out that way." the judge took off his glasses and twirled them by their black cord while he gazed across the street, apparently at some dogs that were tumbling each other about in the chenowiths' yard. the judge had a subconscious anxiety that they would get into mrs. chenowith's flower beds. "you and i used to go to them; they never hurt us," argued mrs. blair. "no, i suppose not. but then--that was different." mrs. blair laughed lightly, and the laugh served to dissipate their cares. she went to the edge of the veranda and pulled a few leaves from the climbing rose-vine that grew there, and the judge put on his glasses and spread out his paper. "i'll take her out for a drive this afternoon," said mrs. blair, turning to go indoors. "she'll be all right," said the judge, already deep in the political columns. that night at supper, the judge looked at lavinia closely, and after a while he said: "you're not eating, lavinia. don't you feel well?" lavinia turned to her father and smiled. "oh, i'm all right." her smile perplexed the judge. "you look pale," he said. mrs. blair glanced warningly at him the length of the table. "my girl's losing her color," he forged ahead. lavinia dropped her eyelids, and a look of pain appeared in her face, causing it to grow paler. "please don't worry about me, papa," she said. mrs. blair divined lavinia's dislike of this personal discussion. she tried to catch her husband's eye again, but he was looking at lavinia narrowly through his glasses. "did you go riding this afternoon?" he asked as if he were examining a witness whom counsel had not drawn out properly. "yes," mrs. blair hastened to say. "we drove out the ludlow a long way." "she was riding last night, too," said connie. "who with?" demanded chad, turning to connie with the challenge he always had ready for her. "who with?" retorted connie. "why, glenn marley, of course. who else?" "well, what of it?" demanded chad. "what's it to you?" "oh, children, children!" protested mrs. blair, wearily. "do give us a little peace!" "well, she began it," said chad. connie was eating savagely, but she whirled on chad, speaking with difficulty because her mouth was filled with food: "you shut up, will you?" chad laughed with a contempt almost theatrical, waved his hand lightly and said: "run away, little girl, run away." mrs. blair asked the judge why he did not correct his children, and though the sigh he gave expressed the hopelessness, as it seemed to him, of bringing the two younger members of his train into anything like decorous behavior, he laid his knife and fork in his plate. "this must cease," he said. "it is scandalous. one might conclude that you were the children of some family in lighttown." "it is very trying," said mrs. blair, acquiescing in her husband's reproof. "they are just like fire and tow." she said this quite impersonally and then turned to connie: "if you can't behave yourself, i'll have to send you from the table." "that's it!" wailed connie. "that's it! blame everything on to me!" mrs. blair looked severely at her, and connie's face reddened. she glanced angrily at her mother and began again: "well, i--" the judge rapped the table smartly with his knuckles. "now i want this stopped!" he said. "and right away. if it isn't i'll--" he was about to say if it wasn't he would clear the room, as he was fond of saying whenever the idle spectators in his court showed signs of being human, but he did not finish his sentence. chad was subdued and decorous, and connie drooped her head, and began to gulp her food. her eyes were filling with tears and the tears began to fall, slowly, one by one, splashing heavily into her plate. lavinia was trembling; she tried to control herself, tried to lift her glass, but when she did, her hand shook so that the water was likely to spill. this completed the undoing of her nerves, her eyes suddenly flooded with tears, and she snatched her handkerchief from her lap, rose precipitately, and hurried from the room, dropping her napkin as she went. they heard her going up the stairs, and presently the door of her room closed. connie had followed lavinia with her misty eyes as she left the table and now she too prepared to leave. she felt a sudden pity springing from her great love of her older sister, and her great pride in her, and she felt a contrition, though she tried to convict chad, as the latest object of her fiery and erratic temper, by glowering at him. "i'll go to her," she said, "_i_ can comfort her!" "no, stay where you are," said her mother. "just leave her alone." the evening light of the summer day flooded into the dining-room; outside a robin was singing. in the room there was constraint and heavy silence, broken only by the slight clatter of the silver or the china. but after a while the judge spoke: "did lavinia go to the picnic with young marley?" he asked. he regretted instantly that he had revived the topic that had given rise to the difficulty, but as it lay on the minds of all, it was impossible, just then, to escape its influence. "i believe so," said mrs. blair. "he really seems like a nice young man." the judge scowled. "i don't know," he said. "he's in the office of wade powell--i suppose he is the one, isn't he?" he thought it unbecoming that a judge should show an intimate knowledge of the relations of young men who were merely studying law. "yes, sir," said chad, maintaining his own dignity. "everybody seems to speak well of him," said mrs. blair. "but i can't quite reconcile that with his selecting wade powell as a preceptor. i would hardly consider his influence the best in the world, and i would imagine that doctor marley would hold to the same opinion." judge blair spoke with a certain disappointment in doctor marley. he had gone to hear him preach once or twice, and found, as he said, an intellectual quality in his utterances that he missed in the sermons mr. hill had been preaching for twenty years in the presbyterian church. "perhaps he doesn't know wade powell," said mrs. blair. "doctor marley is comparatively a stranger here, you know." "yes, i presume that explains it. but--" he shook his head. he could not forgive any one who showed respect for wade powell. "powell has little business except a certain criminal practice, and now and then a personal injury case." "is there anything wrong in personal injury cases?" asked mrs. blair. the judge looked at his wife in surprise. "well, i suppose you know, don't you," he said, "that such cases are taken on contingent fees?" he spoke with the natural judicial contempt of the poor litigant. "of course, dear," she replied, "i shall not undertake to defend mr. powell. he's a wild sort." "yes; a drunkard, practically," said judge blair, "and an infidel besides. the moral environment there is certainly not one for a young man--" "is he really an _infidel_?" asked mrs. blair, abruptly dropping her knife and fork. "well," replied the judge with the judicial affectation of fairness, "he's at least a free-thinker. perhaps agnostic were the better word. that is one reason why i can not understand doctor marley's permitting his son to be associated with him. it seems to me to argue a weakness, or a lack of observation in the doctor, as it does a certain depravity of taste in his son." they discussed marley until the meal was done, and connie and chad had gone out of doors. judge blair followed his wife into the sitting-room. "i'm worried, i'll admit," said the judge. "what could it have been that so distressed her?" "oh well, the children's little quarrels were too much for her nerves." "i suppose so." they were silent and thoughtful, sitting together, rocking gently in their chairs as the twilight stole into the room. "it's too bad he's going to study law," the judge said after a while. he shook his gray head dubiously. "but you always say that about any one who's going to study law," mrs. blair argued. "you even said it about george halliday when his father took him into partnership." "well, it's bad business nowadays unless a young man wants to go to the city, and it's hard to get a foothold there." "but you began as a lawyer," she urged, as though he had finished as something else. "it was different in my day." "and you've always done well in the law," mrs. blair went on, ignoring his distinction. "oh yes," the judge said in a tone that expressed a sense of individual exception. "but i went on the bench just in time to save my bacon. there's no telling what might have become of us if i had remained in the practice." they were silent long enough for him to feel the relief he had always found in his salaried position, and then he said: "you don't suppose--" "oh, certainly not!" his wife hastened to assure him. "well, i think it would be well, perhaps, to watch her closely. i don't just like the notion." "but his father is--" "yes, but after all, we really know nothing about him." "that is true." "and then lavinia's so young." "yes." "i'd go to her." "after a while," mrs. blair said. they heard steps on the veranda, and then the voices of mr. and mrs. chenowith who had run across, as mrs. chenowith said, when mrs. blair met them in the darkness that filled the wide hall, to see how they all were. the chenowiths begged mrs. blair not to light the gas; they preferred to sit out of doors. the chenowiths remained all the evening. when they had gone, the judge drew the chairs indoors, while mrs. blair rolled up the wide strip of red carpet that covered the steps of the veranda. and when they had gone up to their room, mrs. blair stole across to lavinia, softly closing the door behind her. she found the girl stretched on her bed, her face buried in the pillows, which were wet with her tears. "what is troubling my little girl?" she asked. she sat down on the side of the bed, and lightly stroked lavinia's soft hair. the girl stirred, and drew herself close to her mother. mrs. blair did not speak, but continued to stroke her hair, and waited. presently lavinia cried out: "oh, mama! mama!" and then she was in her mother's arms, weeping on her mother's breast. "i've never kept anything from you before, mama," lavinia cried. "no," mrs. blair whispered. "can't you tell mama now?" and then with her mother's arms about her lavinia told her all. when she had finished she lay tranquilly. mrs. blair was relieved and yet her troubles had but grown the more complicated. she saw all the intricate elements with which she would have to deal, and she quailed before them, realizing what tact would be required of her. "the coming of love should be a time of joy, dear," she said presently. even in the darkness, she could see the white blur of lavinia's face change its expression. a smile had touched it. "it should, shouldn't it, mama?" "yes, indeed." "but i never kept anything from you before." mrs. blair laughed. "but you kept this only a day, dear. that doesn't count." "it was a long day." "i know, sweetheart." the mother kissed her, and they were silent a while. "i do love him so," said lavinia, presently. "and you'll love him too, mama, i know you will." "i'm sure of that, dear." "but what of papa?" mrs. blair felt the girl grow tense in her arms. "that will all come right in time," said mrs. blair. "will you tell him?" "not just now, dear. we'll have this for a little secret of our own. there's plenty of time. you are young, you know, and so is glenn." "i love to hear you call him glenn." mrs. blair remained with lavinia until she had tucked her into her bed. "just my little child," the mother whispered over the girl. "just my little child." "yes, always that," said lavinia. and her mother kissed her again and again, and left her in the dark. when mrs. blair rejoined her husband, he laid down the book he always read before retiring, and looked up with the question in his eyes. "she's just a little nervous and tired," mrs. blair said. "she'll be all right in the morning. i think it best not to notice her." "do you think we'd better have doctor pierce see her?" "oh, not at all!" mrs. blair laughed, and the judge, reassured, went back to his book. they were awakened from their first doze that night by voices singing. "it's some of the darkies from gooseville," said mrs. blair. "they're out serenading." "yes," said the judge. "it is sweet to fall asleep by." at the sound of the singing lavinia had crept from her bed and crouched in her white night-dress before the open window; the shutters were closed. she heard the melody from far down the street. the singing ceased, then began again, drawing nearer and nearer. presently she heard the fall of feet on the sidewalk before the house, and the low tones of voices in hurried consultation. and then a clear baritone voice rose, and she heard it begin the song: "oh the sun shines bright in my old kentucky home, 'tis summer, the darkies are gay." she knew the voice. her heart swelled and the tears came again and there alone in the fragrant night she opened her arms and stretched them out into the darkness. chapter vi love's arrears the days following the picnic had been no easier for marley than they had been for lavinia. as he looked back on that night, a fear took hold of him; the whole experience, the most wonderful of his life, grew more and more unreal. much as he longed to see lavinia again, he was afraid to go to her home; he wondered whether he should write her a note; perhaps she would think him false, perhaps she would think he had already forgotten her; the idea tormented him; he did not know what to do. he had seen her but once, and then at a distance; the blairs' well-known surrey had stopped in the middle of the square, and george halliday stood leaning into the carriage chatting with lavinia. marley had but a glimpse of lavinia's face, pink in the shadow of the surrey-top. as they drove away she had turned with a smile and a nod at halliday. the sight had affected marley strangely. he felt himself so weak and incapable in this affair that he longed to discuss it with some one, and on sunday afternoon he found his mother at her window with the _christian advocate_, which replaced, in her case, the nap nearly every one else took at that hour. "how old was father when you were married, mother?" he began. he spoke out of that curious ignorance of the lives of their parents so common to children; he had never been able to realize his parents as having separate and independent existences before his own. mrs. marley laid her paper by, and a smile came to her face. "he was twenty-two," she said. "just my age," observed marley. mrs. marley looked up hastily. "you're not thinking of getting married, are you, glenn?" she asked. "no." he said with a laugh. "my goodness! you're just a boy!" "but i'm as old as father was." "y--es," said mrs. marley, "but then--" "but then, what?" "that was different." marley smiled. "had father entered the ministry yet?" he said presently. "yes, we were married in his first year. he had been teaching school, and the fall he was admitted to the conference he was sent out to the gibsonburg circuit in green county. we were married in the spring." her face flushed, and she turned the pages of her paper with a dreamy deliberation. "ah, but your father was a handsome young man, glenn!" she said presently. "he's handsome yet," marley replied with the pride he always felt in his father. and then he asked: "did he have any money?" "yes," she said, and she laughed, "just a hundred dollars!" "a hundred dollars! well, he had nerve, didn't he? and so did you!" "we had more than that," said mrs. marley, solemnly. marley looked at his mother suddenly. her face seemed for an instant to be transfigured in the afternoon glow. he might have told her then; he was on the point of it, but a footfall on the brick walk outside caused him to look up, and he saw lawrence coming into the yard. lawrence beckoned him and he went out. "come on," said lawrence. "let's go out to carters'." marley looked a question at him, and the smile which lawrence never could repress long at a time was twitching at the corners of his large mouth. "she'll be there." "how do you know?" asked marley. lawrence smiled a little more significantly. when they got to the carters' they found mayme and lavinia together in the yard, strolling about in apparent aimlessness, yet with an expectancy in their manner that belied its quality of mere idleness. in the look lavinia gave him all of marley's perplexities vanished. lawrence stood by with a grin on his red face, and mayme carter's eyes danced. she and lawrence assumed almost immediately an elder, paternal manner, and looked on at the lovers' meeting as from far heights that were to be reached only after all such youthful experiences had long since become possible in retrospect alone. still smiling, they edged away, and left the lovers alone. "is it really true?" marley asked. lavinia colored a little as she smiled up at him. "and you are happy?" he asked. "so happy!" she said. and then all at once a cloud came over her eyes. she closed them an instant. "what is it?" he asked in alarm. "nothing." "tell me." "it's nothing." she was smiling again, as if to show that her happiness was complete. "see?" her eyes were blinking rapidly. "i'm glad," he said. as they turned and walked across the yard marley looked at her nervously. "do you know," he said, "that i couldn't remember what color your eyes were?" he spoke with all the virtue there is in confession. "what color are they?" she asked, suddenly closing her eyes. "they're blue," marley replied, saying the word ecstatically, as if it had a new, wonderful meaning for him. "connie says they're green." "connie?" "yes, don't you know? she's my younger sister." "oh." he did not know any of her family, and the baffling sense of unreality came over him again. "you'll know her," said lavinia, and added thoughtfully: "i hope she'll like you. then there's chad, my little brother." marley was growing alarmed at the intricacies of an introduction into a large family, the characters of which were as yet like the characters in the first few chapters of a novel, but he thought it would not reflect on him to admit that he did not know chad, seeing that he was merely a little brother. "he admires you immensely," said lavinia. "does he?" said marley, eagerly, instantly loving chad. "how does he know me?" "he says you were a football player at college." marley laughed a modest deprecation of his own prowess. "but i knew your voice," said lavinia. "did you? when did you hear it?" "as if you didn't know!" "honestly," he protested. "tell me." "why, that night that you serenaded me." he was regretting that she had outdone him in observation, but she suddenly looked up and said: "oh, glenn! what a beautiful voice you have!" it was the first time she had ever called him glenn, and it produced in him a wonderful sensation. they had come to a little bench, and, sitting there, they could only look at each other and smile. marley noticed that a little line of freckles ran up over the bridge of lavinia's nose. they were very beautiful, he thought, and yet he had never heard of freckles as one of the elements of a woman's beauty. then he leaned back and looked about the yard. he had always thought of it as it seemed that first night, enormous, enchanted, with wide terraces and fountains, and white statues gleaming through the green shrubbery. but now he saw no terraces, no statuary, no fountains, and no wide lawns; nothing but a cramped little yard crowded with bushes and trees, and surrounded by a weathered fence that had lost several pickets. he looked around behind the house where he had fancied long stables with big iron lamps over the doors, but now he saw nothing but an old woodshed and a barn on the rear end of the lot. the cracks in the barn were so wide that he could see the light of day between them as through a kinetoscope. he heard a horse stamping fretfully at the flies. "it was here," he said, "that i first saw you." he did not speak his whole thought. "yes," she answered. "i remember." "that was a wonderful night, the most wonderful of my life, except the one at the lake." he drew close to her. "i loved you at first sight," he whispered. "did you?" she looked at him in reverence. "yes,--from the very first moment. when you came into the room, i knew that--" "what?" "that you were the woman i had always loved and waited for; that i had found my ideal. and yet they say we never discover our ideals in this life!" he laughed at this philosophical absurdity. "what did you think then?" he asked. she cast down her eyes, and probed the turf with the toe of her little shoe. "i loved you then too." he gazed at her tenderly, rapturously. "isn't it wonderful?" he said presently, "this love of ours? it came to us all at once!" she looked at him suddenly. her short upper lip was raised. "it _was_ love at first sight, wasn't it?" "yes. we were intended for each other." they sat there, and went over that first night of their meeting and that other night at greenwood lake, finding each moment some new and remarkable feature of their love, something that proved its divine and providential quality, something that convinced them that no one before had ever known such a remarkable experience. they marveled at the mystery of it. but at last they must return to practical questions, and they resumed the account of their family relations. marley told lavinia about his father and mother, about his sister who had died, and then about his grandparents, and his uncles and aunts. he told her even of dolly, behind whom she had driven to greenwood lake, and of his father's love for fast horses, a love which sometimes drew upon his father the criticism parishioners ever have ready for their pastor. and he told her about his home, and how frequently his mother had to entertain transient ministers, and how the church laid missionary work upon her, until he feared the heathen would unwittingly break her down. he was not conscious of it, but he felt it necessary to bring up all at once the arrears of her knowledge of him and his family, of all his affairs. meeting as they had so strangely, so romantically, and falling in love at first sight, according to the prearrangement of the ages, they could excuse this otherwise strange ignorance of each other's lives. they bemoaned all the years they had been compelled to live without knowing each other, and their one quarrel with fate was that they had had to wait until so late in life before meeting; and yet they finally consoled themselves for this deprivation by discovering that they had really always known and loved each other. they were now able to compare strange experiences of soul and, in the new light they possessed, to identify them as communings of their spirits across time and space. "i've always believed somehow in the sweden-borgians," lavinia said, "but i never really understood before what they meant by affinities." they looked at each other in a silence that became somber, and was broken at last by lavinia. "i've told mama," she said. "you have?" marley gasped. "yes." "and she--?" "she was sweet about it. she will love you, i know." marley felt a sudden love for lavinia's mother. and then his fear returned at lavinia's sinister, "but--" "but what?" "she says we must wait." "oh!" marley said with a relief. he felt their present happiness so great that he could afford to waive any claim on the future. and yet he was troubled; he felt that somehow a depression lay on lavinia. he wondered what its cause could be. presently it came to him suddenly. "and your father?" he asked. "he doesn't know--yet." "will he--?" "he's very--" she hesitated, not liking to seem disloyal to her father. finally she said "peculiar," and then further qualified it by adding "sometimes." the sadness that lies so near to the joy in lovers' hearts came over them, and yet they found a kind of joy in that too. "i'll go to him, of course," marley said presently. "oh, you're so brave!" but this tribute did not tend to reassure marley. it rather suggested terrors he had not thought of. yet in the necessity of maintaining the manly spirit he forced a laugh. "of course," he continued, "i'll go to him. i meant to from the first." "but not just yet," she pleaded. "well," he yielded, not at all unwillingly, "it shall be as you say." he could not dispel her sadness, nor could he conquer his own. a little tremor ran through her, and he felt it electrically along his arm. "what is it, sweetheart?" he pleaded. "tell me, won't you? we must have no secrets, you know." "oh, glenn," she broke out, "i'm afraid!" she spoke with intuitive apprehension. "of what?" "our happiness!" he tried to laugh again. "do you think it will ever be?" she asked. "i know it," he said earnestly. "i have nothing but faith--our love is strong enough for anything!" "you comfort me," she said simply. lavinia spent the night with mayme carter, and the house sounded until long after midnight with the low, monotonous drone of their confidential voices. chapter vii an unnecessary opposition marley heard on monday evening that judge blair had gone to cincinnati, and the news filled him with a high if somewhat culpable joy. he found lavinia and her mother on the veranda, and lavinia said, with a grave simplicity: "mama, this is glenn." "i'm very glad to have you come," said mrs. blair, trying instantly to rob the situation of the embarrassment she felt it must have for the young man. marley could not say a word, but he put all his gratitude in the pressure he gave mrs. blair's hand. the light that came from the hall was dim, and though mrs. blair could see that marley was straight and carried himself well, his face was blurred by the shadows. she turned to lavinia. "will you bring out another chair, dear, or would you prefer to go indoors?" then, seeing an advantage in this latter alternative, she decided for them: "perhaps we'd better go in, i fear it's cool out here." she held back the screen door and lavinia whisked excitedly into the hall. mrs. blair led the way to the parlor and sent lavinia for a match. then, turning to marley, waiting there in the darkness, she said: "she has told me, glenn." marley felt something tender, maternal in her voice; the way she spoke his name affected him. "but she is young, very young; she is just a girl. we wish, of course, for nothing but her happiness, and you must be patient, very patient. it must not be, if it is to be, for a long time. what does your own mother think of it?" "i haven't told her." "you haven't!" "no. i felt i hardly had the right yet--not before i spoke to judge blair, you know. i think i shall speak to him just as soon as he gets home." he spoke impulsively; until that moment he had been thrusting the thought from him, but mrs. blair's manner led him into confidences. in the immediate fear that he had been precipitant, he looked to her for help; she seemed the sort of woman to wish to save others all the trouble she could, one whose life was full of sacrifices, none the less noble, perhaps, because she made so little of them herself. but a perplexity showed in her eyes and before she could reply, lavinia was back. with an intimate, domestic impulse lavinia pressed the match into marley's hand, and said: "you do it; i can't reach." marley groped with his upheld hand, and when lavinia guided him to the middle of the room, he lighted the gas. mrs. blair looked at him for a moment and lavinia, standing by, as if awaiting her decision, glowed with happiness. mrs. blair's smile completed the fond, maternal impression marley had somehow felt when she was standing by him in the darkness. her full matronly figure, even in the tendency to corpulence of her middle years, had preserved its graceful lines; and marley regretted the disappearance of this wholesome, cheerful woman as she passed out of the room. judge blair got home from cincinnati on sunday morning, worn by his work, and maddened by the din of the city to which he was so unaccustomed. walking up the familiar streets, he had been glad of their shade and that pervading sense of a sunday that still remains a sabbath in macochee. he had been a little piqued, at first, because his wife had not met him at the train, though she had not, to be sure, known that he was coming. she had gone to sunday-school, and connie gave him his breakfast--that is, she sat at the table with him, watching him eat and answering the questions he put to her about the happenings in macochee while he had been away. it was not strange that connie should talk mostly, after she yielded to the gnawing temptation to tell him at all, of the nightly visits marley had made to the house. she did this in a certain resentment she felt with lavinia, a resentment that came from an annoying jealousy she was beginning to have of marley, as if, in installing himself in her sister's heart, he had evicted all other affections from it. the judge, with his constant affectation of what he considered the judicial attitude of mind, tried to weigh connie's somewhat prejudiced evidence impartially, but he was troubled and annoyed that the peace he had been looking forward to all the week should be jeopardized immediately on his coming home. it was not until afternoon that he had an opportunity to question his wife, and he began with a severity in his attitude that had as its fundamental cause, as much as anything else, her failure to meet him at the train that morning, and her remaining to church after sunday-school. "what do you know about this business between lavinia and that young marley?" he asked. "it seems to have developed rapidly during my absence." "oh, connie has been talking to you, i suppose!" laughed mrs. blair. "you know that connie is apt to be sensational." judge blair eyed his wife narrowly. connie was his favorite child, though he would not, of course, admit as much, and he was ever ready to spring to her defense. "she has very bright eyes," he said. "oh, now, dear," said mrs. blair, "don't overestimate this thing. lavinia's nothing but a child." "that's just the point. has the young man been here much?" "yes, he was here quite often--several evenings, in fact." "humph! he seems to have taken advantage of the sunshine of my absence to make his hay." "don't do him an injustice. he didn't meet lavinia until just about the time you went away." "well, we'll see about it," said the judge, darkly. "now see here, will, don't make the matter serious by an unnecessary opposition; don't drive the children into a position where they will consider themselves persecuted lovers." mrs. blair had not until that instant thought of this argument, and she was so pleased with it, as justifying her own course with the children, as she had artfully called them, that she pressed it. "no, don't do that. just let them alone. they're as likely as not to outgrow it; that is, if there is anything between them to outgrow. they'll probably imagine themselves in love a dozen times before either of them is married." "don't talk of marriage!" said the judge, with a little shudder. mrs. blair, who had so well dispelled her own fears, could laugh at her husband's. "just let them alone," she said; "or leave it to me." "yes," said the judge peevishly, "leave it to you. you'd probably aid and abet them." and then, instantly regretting his ill humor, he added hastily: "you're so kind-hearted." mrs. blair kissed his white hair gently and gave his cheek a little pat. "you'd better take a nap," she said. chapter viii a judicial decision the judge refused to take a nap, though when he sat down on the veranda he did take one, lying back in his chair with one of the many sections of the sunday paper spread over his face. it was from this somewhat undignified posture that he was aroused by a step; he started up hastily. "i beg your pardon," said the young man, who stood on the steps twirling his straw hat round and round in his hands. the young man went on with an anxious smile: "this is judge blair, i presume? my name is marley--glenn marley." if marley had known that there were men then in the ohio penitentiary serving terms that were longer by years than they would have been had judge blair digested his breakfast, or been allowed to finish his afternoon nap, he would have chosen another hour to press his suit. but he had youth's sublime confidence, and its abiding faith in the abstract quality of justice. he had dreaded this moment, but it had forced itself upon his keen conscience as a duty, and when he heard that morning that judge blair had returned he resolved to have it out at once. "may i have a word with you?" he asked, advancing a little. the judge nodded, but slightly, as if it were necessary for him, as a fattening man advanced in middle life, to conserve his energies. his nod seemed to include not only an assent, however reluctant, but a permission as well, to take the other chair that stood, all ready to rock comfortably, on the veranda. marley took the chair but he did not rock, nor did he yield himself to it, but sat somewhat tensely on its very edge. "it's warm this afternoon, isn't it?" he said, trying to keep up his smile. he felt hopeless about it, but the thought, darting through his mind, that lavinia was near, braced his purpose. the judge sat hunched in his chair, with his short white hair tumbled rather picturesquely, and his chin low in his collar. his lips were set firmly, his brows contracted. he breathed heavily, and on his strong aquiline nose, marley could see tiny drops of perspiration. "i have come," said marley, "to speak to you, judge blair, on a matter of, that is, importance. that is, i have come to ask you if i might--ah--pay my addresses to your daughter." marley thought this form of putting it rather fine, and he was glad that that much of it, at least, was over. and yet, much as he liked this old-fashioned formula about paying his addresses, he instantly felt its inadequacy, and so nerved himself to do it all over. "i mean lavinia," he said hurriedly, as if to correct any error of identification he might have led the judge into. "i want to marry her." the judge, still breathing heavily, looked at marley out of his narrowed eyes. "you know," marley said, in an explanatory way, "i love her." he waited then, but the judge was motionless, even to the hand that hung at his side over the arm of his chair, still holding his paper. now and then, at what seemed to be long, unequal intervals, his eyelids fell slowly in heavy winks. "how long have you and lavinia known each other?" he asked finally. "i met her several weeks ago, out at captain carter's. but i did not see her again, that is to speak to her, until about a week ago. in one way i have known her, you might say, but a week; yet i feel that i have known her a long time, always, in fact. i--i--well, i loved her at first sight." marley dropped his face at this speech, for it seemed that he had made it too sentimental; he had a feeling that the judge so regarded it. he sat and picked at the braids of straw in his hat. "and have you spoken to her?" asked the judge. "oh yes!" said marley, looking up quickly. "and she--?" "she loves me." the judge closed his eyes as if in pain. then he stirred, the paper dropped from his fingers, and he drew himself up in his chair, as if to deal with the matter. "how old are you, mr. marley?" he inquired. "i am twenty-two," said marley, confidently, as if this maturity must incline the judge in his favor. "i cast my first vote for mckinley." he thought this, too, would help matters, and possibly it did. "you have completed your education?" "i graduated this summer from the ohio wesleyan." "and what are you doing now, or proposing to do?" "just now, i am studying law," he announced. "i'm going to make the law my profession." marley looked up with a high faith in this final appeal, but even that did not impress the judge as marley felt a tribute thus delicately implied should affect him. "you are reading with a preceptor, i take it?" "yes, sir, in mr. powell's office." judge blair looked at marley as if he were deciding what to do with him. after he had looked a while he gazed off across the street, drumming with his finger-tips on the arm of his chair. presently, without turning, and still gazing abstractedly into the distance--and in that instant marley remembered that he had seen the judge stare at the ceiling of the court room in exactly the same way while sentencing a culprit--he began to speak. "lavinia is yet very young, mr. marley," he said, "with no knowledge of the world, and, perhaps, little of the state of her own mind. you too, are young, very young, and as yet without an occupation. you are, it is true, studying law, but it will be three years before you can be admitted, and many years after that before you can command a practice that would warrant you in marrying. in this day, the outlook for the young lawyer is not encouraging. i do not think i would wish a son of mine to choose that profession; the great changes that have transpired, and are transpiring in our industrial development, have greatly reduced the chances of the young lawyer's success. the practice in the smaller county-seats, like our own, for instance, has almost entirely vanished. the settlement of titles to real estate, so lucrative a branch of the law in the early days of my own practice, has deprived the later practitioners of that source of revenue; the field of criminal law has become narrowed, unremunerative and almost disreputable. the corporation work can be handled by one or two firms in each town, and all that seems to be left is the prosecution of personal injury suits, and that is a work that hardly appeals to the man of dignity and self-respect. the large cities have a wider, i might say, the only field, but there the young lawyer must spend years of the hardest, most unremitting toil before he can come to anything like success." the judge paused. he had not intended to speak at such length, but the habit of the courts was on him, and once started, he found his own didacticism so pleasing to himself, that it was with reluctance that he paused at all. he might not have stopped when he did, but gone on almost indefinitely, as he did when he delivered what were always spoken of as his beautiful charges to juries, had he not recalled, with something like a pang of resentment, that the happiness of his own, instead of another's child, lay at the bottom of all this. he turned then to face marley. the young man was sitting there, his eyes wide, and his face long. the color that flamed in it when he first appeared, was now quite gone. it was gray and cold instead. "you will see, mr. marley," the judge resumed, "that you are hardly in a position to ask for my daughter's hand. of course," the judge allowed a smile to soften somewhat the fixity of his lips, "i appreciate your manliness in coming to me, and i do not want to be understood as making any reflections upon, or in the least questioning, your character, your worth, or the honor of your intentions. but in view of your youth and of lavinia's, and in view of your own, as yet, unsettled position in life, you must see how impossible it is that anything like an engagement should subsist between you. i say this because i wish only for lavinia's happiness. i may say that i am not unmindful of your happiness, too, and i esteem it my duty to reach the conclusions i have just presented to you." "and i--i can not even see her?" stammered marley, in his despair. "i have not said that," the judge said. "i shall always be pleased to extend to you the hospitality of my house, of course; but i would not consider it necessary for you to see her regularly, or intimately, and i certainly would not want you to monopolize her society to the exclusion of other young men with whom she has been in the habit of associating." marley sat there, after this long harangue, with his head downcast. he sat and turned his hat round and round. at last he did look up with an appeal in his eyes, but when he saw that the judge was sitting there, as he had at first, sunk in his chair, breathing heavily and looking at him out of those sluggish eyes, he arose. he stood a moment, and looked off across the street somewhere, anywhere. then he smote one hand lightly into the other, turned, and said: "well--good afternoon, judge blair." "good afternoon, mr. marley," the judge replied. he watched marley go down the walk and out of the gate. chapter ix a filial rebuke "father!" judge blair turned and saw lavinia standing in the wide front door. her face was red, her eyes were flashing, her arms hung straight and tense at her sides. the judge stirred uneasily in his chair. "oh!" she cried, rigidly clenching her little fists. "what have you done! you have sent him away!" "come here, my daughter," he said. lavinia moved toward him, halting each moment, then taking a few nervous steps forward. at last she stood before him, challenging, defiant. "sit down, lavinia, and listen," implored the judge. "you have sent him away!" she repeated. "you were harsh and cruel and unkind to him!" "lavinia!" cried the judge, flushing with the anger parents call by different names. there was now a peremptory quality in his tone. but the girl did not heed him. "oh, how could you!" she went on, "how could you! think how you must have wounded him! you not only reproached him with being poor, but you discouraged him as to his prospects! do you think i cared for that? do you think i couldn't have waited? do you think i can't wait anyhow? what had you when you proposed to mama? you were poor--you had no prospects; you had no more right--" "lavinia! lavinia!" the judge commanded, grasping the arms of his chair in an effort to rise. "you are beside yourself! you don't know what you are saying!" "and you pretended to be doing it all for my happiness, too! oh! oh! oh!" her anger vented itself impotently in these exclamations, and then her mother, white and alarmed, appeared in the doorway behind her. "lavinia," she said quietly. the girl trembled violently, then whirled about, pressed her hands to her face, and ran in, brushing by her mother in the doorway. mrs. blair glanced after her irresolutely. then she went to her husband. "be calm, dear," she said. the judge sank back in his chair and looked at her in amazement. "what has happened?" she drew the empty chair up and sat down in it. she leaned forward and took one of his hands, and pressed it between both of her own. she waited for the judge to speak. "i hardly know," he began. "i never heard lavinia break out so." "you must remember how excited and overwrought she is," mrs. blair exclaimed. "you must make allowances." "i didn't know the girl had such spirit," he continued. mrs. blair smiled rather wanly, and stroked her husband's hand. it was very cold and moist, and it trembled. "i had no idea it was so serious," he went on, as if summing up the catalogue of his surprises. "tell me how it all came about," said mrs. blair. "marley was here, first," the judge began. he had to pause, for he seemed to find it difficult to catch his breath. "it was a great surprise to me; it was very painful." the judge withdrew his hand and wiped his brow. then he gazed again as he had done before, across the street. mrs. blair, though eying him closely and with concern, waited patiently. "i didn't wish to wound him," the judge resumed, speaking as much to himself as to her. "i hope i said nothing harsh; he really was quite manly about it." he paused again. "i presume i may have seemed cold, unfeeling, unsympathetic," he went on; and then as if he needed to reassure and justify himself, he added, "but of course it was impossible, utterly impossible." after another pause, he drew a deep breath, and as if he had already outlined his whole interview with marley, continued: "and then lavinia appeared; she must have heard it all, standing there in the hall." the judge leaned heavily against the back of his big chair; his face was drawn, his wrinkles were deeper than they had been, and he wore an aspect of weariness and pain. his form, too, seemed to have shrunk, and he sat there in an almost helpless mass, limp and inert. "i am only afraid, dear," mrs. blair said quietly, "that we have taken this thing too seriously." "possibly," he said. "but it is serious, very serious. i don't know what is to be done." "we must have patience," mrs. blair counseled. "it will require all our delicacy and tact, now." "perhaps you had better go in to her," the judge said presently. "poor little girl; she is passing through the deep waters. and i tried to act only for her interest and happiness." mrs. blair arose. "she will see that, dear, in time." "i hope so," said the judge. mrs. blair went up to lavinia's room, and listened for a moment at the closed door. she heard a voice, low and indistinct, but she knew it for the voice of connie, and she could tell from its tone that the little girl was trying in her way to comfort and console her sister. so she stepped away, silently, almost stealthily, going on tiptoe. the judge sat on the veranda all the afternoon. he scarcely moved, and never once did he pick up the sunday paper. now and then he bowed, in his dignified way, to some acquaintance passing in the street. the chenowiths came out on to their front porch, evidently hot and stupefied from their sunday afternoon naps and ready now for the cool refreshment of the evening breeze they could usually rely on in macochee with the coming of the evening. the judge bowed to them, and he tried to put into his bow an indolent unconcern, lest the chenowiths should penetrate his manner and discover the trouble that lay on his heart. the chenowiths had gone to the end of their porch, and the judge could hear their laughter. he thought it strange and unnatural that any one should laugh. he decided that he would review this whole affair of lavinia's love calmly and judicially. he went back to the beginning of marley's visit, trying to see wherein he himself had been in the wrong, then he went over the hot scene with lavinia. he could not recover from his surprise at this; that lavinia, who was usually so gentle, so mild, so unselfish, should have given way to such anger was incomprehensible. he had always said that she had her mother's disposition. he could see her, all the time, distinctly, as she had stood there, in a rage he had never known her to indulge before, and yet, as he looked at the image of her that was in his mind, and recalled certain expressions, certain attitudes, certain tones of voice, it came over him all at once that she was exactly as her mother had been at her age, though he could not reconcile lavinia's mood with the resemblance. then he went back to his own days of courtship, with their emotions, their uncertainties, their doubts and illusions. they seemed a long way off. he was trying to think calmly and logically, but he found that he could not then control his mind, for suddenly he saw lavinia as a little girl, with her mother kneeling before her, shaking out and straightening her starched frock. and with this thought came the revelation, sudden, irresistible, that lavinia was no longer a child as, with the habit of the happy years, he had thought of her, up to that very afternoon, in fact, until an hour ago, and he bowed before the changes that hour had wrought. he accepted the conviction now that he himself had grown old. he forgot his purpose to probe to its first cause this unhappiness that had come to him; he saw that what he mourned was the loss of a child, the loss of his own youth. he glanced across at the chenowiths again, and they seemed remote from him, of another generation in fact, though but a few moments before he had looked on them as contemporaries. and then suddenly there came to him the fear that mr. chenowith might run over to chat with him, as was his habit, and the judge hastily rose, and almost surreptitiously went off the end of the porch and around into the side yard. under the new impression of age that he had grown into, he walked slowly, with a senile stoop, and dragged his feet as he went. he wandered about in the yard for a long while, looking at the shrubs and bushes and trees he had planted himself so long ago, when he was young. it occurred to him that here in this garden he would potter around, and pass his declining years. he remained in the yard until his wife came to call him in to the supper she had prepared, in the sunday evening absence of the hired girl, and with an effort he brought himself back from the future to the present. "how is she?" "oh, she's all right," said mrs. blair, in her usual cheery tone. "i didn't go to her, i thought it best to leave her alone." the judge looked at his wife, with her rosy face, and her full figure still youthful in the simple summer gown she wore. he looked at her curiously, wondering why it was she seemed so young; a width of years seemed all at once to separate them. mrs. blair noted this look of her husband's. she noted it with pity for him; he looked older to her. "i think it would be nice for you to take lavinia with you when you go to put-in-bay to the bar association meeting," she said. it seemed strange and anomalous to judge blair that he should still be attending bar association meetings. "i'll see," he said; and then he qualified, "if i go." "if you go?" his wife exclaimed. "why, you're down for a paper!" "so i am," said the judge. they turned toward the house, and the judge took his wife's arm, leaning rather heavily on it. "will!" she said, after they had gone a few steps in this fashion. "what is the matter with you! you walk like an old man!" she shook his arm off, and said: "hurry up now. the coffee will be getting cold." indoors, they passed connie going through the hall; she had just come down the stairs, and the sight of her girlish figure, and her short skirts just sweeping the tops of her shoes, gladdened the judge's heart, and he smiled. he could rely on connie, anyway, for sympathy. but the girl gave him a sharp reproachful stare from her dark eyes, and the judge felt utterly deserted. lavinia did not come down to her supper, though her mother, knowing she would want it later, kept the coffee warm on the back of the kitchen stove. chad had gone away with one of the weston boys. so the three, the judge, mrs. blair and connie, ate their supper alone. after supper, mrs. blair and connie went immediately to lavinia and the judge had a sense of exclusion from the mysteries that were enacting up there, an exclusion that seemed to proceed from his own culpability. he went to his library and tried to read, but he could only sit with his head in his hand, and stare before him. but finally he was aroused from his reveries by a stir in the hall, and glancing up he saw lavinia in the door. she came straight to him, and said: "forgive me, papa, if i was rude and unkind." he seized her in his arms, hugging her head against his shoulders, and he said again and again, while stroking her hair clumsily: "my little girl! my little girl!" chapter x put-in-bay the little steamer for the islands rolled out of sandusky bay with lavinia sitting by the forward rail. she had yielded to her father's wishes with an easy complaisance that made him suspicious, and yet, as he stood solicitously by, he was persistent in his determination to realize for her all the delights he had so extravagantly predicted for the journey. he tried to rouse her interest by pointing out johnson's island, but it did not possess for her, as the place where the confederate prisoners were confined during the war, the interest an old soldier was able to discover in it, and though he tried his best, with an effort at entertainment that was well-nigh pathetic, she only smiled wanly. he left her, after a while, her chin in her hands, looking over into the light green waters, watching the curve of the waves the steamer tossed away from its sharp prow. the lake was in one of its most smiling and happy moods, though they were then at a point where storms easily lash its shallow depths into billows that might satisfy the rage of the north atlantic. the lighthouse on the rocks at marblehead had a fascination for lavinia; it seemed waiting for her humor, and she watched it until the steamer had gone far on toward kelly's island, and left the lighthouse behind, a white spot gleaming in the sun. when they entered the little archipelago of the wine islands, with their waters a deeper green than those out in the lake and overcast in strange ways by mysterious shadows and cool weird reflections of the green of the islands all about, judge blair came back to her and asked if she had been seasick and how she had enjoyed the little journey. as she met him with her strange perplexing smile, he began to doubt her again; something assured him that she still clung to her purpose of love, and he found himself almost wishing that she had kept to her defiant temper of the sunday afternoon that now seemed so far away. when they had reached put-in-bay and bounded on the trolley across the island to the huge hotel, they had their dinner and lavinia perplexed the judge further by retiring to her room. she said she would rest, though she had persisted all the morning that she was not tired. as soon as she had closed the door on her father, leaving him in doubt and confusion, she began a long letter to marley. she described her trip in detail, jealous of every trifle of experience that had befallen her; she told him of the bridal couple she had seen board the train at clyde, and of the showers of rice that had been thrown by the laughing bridal party, though she omitted the lone father of the bride standing apart on the platform craning his head anxiously for another sight of his daughter, and trying to smile. but she gave him a sense of the romance that had stirred in her at the sight of the lighthouse on its lonely point of rocks and the stone towers that made the wine-cellars on kelly's island look like castles. after supper lavinia left her father to the pleasure of renewing acquaintance with the lawyers who thronged the lobby, and stole down to the rocks that marked the shelving shore of the island. she saw stately schooners, with white sails spread, and she watched, until its black banner of smoke was but a light wraith, a big propeller towing its convoy of grain barges across the far horizon. this calm serene passing of the life of the lakes soothed her, filled her with a thousand fancies, and stirred her emotions with deep, hidden hints of the mystery of all life. as she sat there and gazed, now and then tears came to her eyes. the waters were spread smoothly before her under the last reflection of the sun, the twilight was coming across the lake; and as the light followed the sun and the darkness crept behind, she looked toward the south in the direction, as she felt, of macochee, and thought of her home and of her mother, of connie and of chad, and then she thought of glenn. far out in the lake a cluster of yellow lights moved swiftly along--one of the big passenger steamers that nightly ply between detroit and buffalo, and she read in that moving girdle of light new meanings; then suddenly a fear seized her, a fear that was part of the ache in her heart, and she ran into the hotel and up to her room. then she took up her letter again and poured out all her new sensations, her longings, and her fears in a lengthy postscript. when she had finished, she began to address the envelope; and she wrote on it, with pride: "mr. glenn--" and then she paused. she did not know whether he spelt his name "marly," or "marley," or "marlay." she tried writing it each way, dozens of times, but the oftener she tested it the less able she was to decide. it was too ridiculous; she became exasperated with herself; then humiliated and ashamed. when she heard her father's step in the hall, she hastily locked her letter in her little traveling bag. the judge greeted her warmly; he was flushed and happy, and in the highest spirits. during the afternoon he had been meeting lawyers from all over ohio; the evening boats from cleveland and toledo had brought more of them to the island; they were all eminent, respectable, rich, the attorneys of big corporations. the judges of the supreme court and of the circuit courts were there, and the excitement had reached its height when the boat from cleveland brought an associate justice of the united states supreme court to deliver the chief address of the meeting. judge blair reveled in meeting all these distinguished men; he enjoyed the flattery in their way of addressing and introducing him. but his conscience smote him when he saw lavinia. he drew up a chair and sat beside her, holding his cigar at arm's length. it was an excellent cigar, better than he ordinarily smoked, and the thin thread of smoke that wavered up from it filled the room almost instantly with its delicate perfume. "did my little girl think her father had deserted her?" he said, speaking of her in the third person, after the affectionate way of parents. "he must pay better attention to her. she must come down and meet the lawyers; they will be delighted; a justice of the supreme court has just come on from washington! she will want to meet him!" the judge paused and twisted his head about for a puff at his cigar, and then waited for lavinia to glow at the prospect. but when she looked at him, and tried to smile again, he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. "why come, come, dear!" he said. "what's the matter? aren't you having a good time? never mind, when this meeting's over we'll go to detroit, and maybe up the lakes for a little trip. that'll bring the roses back!" he pinched her cheeks playfully, but she did not respond; she looked at him pleadingly. "why, lavinia," he cried, "you aren't homesick?" she winked bravely to stem the flood of tears and then nodded. "well!" he said, nonplussed. "you know, dear, we can't--" the tears were brimming in her blue eyes, and he left his sentence uncompleted to go on: "so you're homesick, eh? for mama, and connie?" she nodded, and he studied her closely for a moment, and then he could not resist the question that all along had been torturing him. "and for--?" she confirmed his fear, with quick decisive little nods. she got out her handkerchief and hastily brushed her tears away, and then with an effort to control herself, she looked at him and said, as if she were ready to have it all out then: "yes, father, i haven't treated him right. i came away without telling him." judge blair scowled and turned away, and bit the end of his cigar. then he sat and studied it. lavinia waited; she was ready for the final contest. presently the judge arose. "well, dear," he said. "well--we'll see; of course, we can't go back just yet--i have my address to read to-morrow, and besides, some of the boys are talking of me for president of the bar association. and i had thought, i had thought, that a little trip over to detroit, and maybe up to mackinac--" "father," said lavinia, looking at him now calmly, "i don't want to go to detroit or up to mackinac. i'll do, of course, as you say; i'll wait until the bar meeting is over, but i want to go home. you might as well know now, father--we might as well understand each other--it can be no other way." judge blair looked at his daughter a moment, and she kept her eyes directly and firmly in his. "oh well," he said with a sigh, "of course, dear, if you say. i'd like to stay until after the election though. will you?" "of course," she consented. chapter xi macochee marley had not learned of lavinia's departure until monday afternoon; he had the news from lawrence, who had it from the hackman who had taken judge blair and lavinia to the train; for whenever any of the quality go away from macochee they always ride to the station in the hack, though at other times they walk without difficulty all over the town. when marley reached the office, and found wade powell, as he usually found him, sitting with his feet on his table, smoking and reading a cincinnati paper, the lawyer looked up casually, but when he saw marley's expression he suddenly exclaimed: "hello! what's the matter?" marley shook his head. "something's troubling you," said powell. marley shook his head again, and powell looked at him as at a witness he was cross-examining. "i know better," he said. marley affected to busy himself at his desk, but after a while, he turned about and said: "something is troubling me, mr. powell; my--prospects." he had been on the point of confessing his real trouble, but with the very words on his lips, he could not utter them, and so let the conversation take another turn. "oh, prospects!" said powell. "i can tell you all about prospects; i've had more than any man in gordon county. when i was your age, opinion was unanimous in this community that my prospects were the most numerous and the most brilliant of any one here!" powell laughed, a little bitterly. "if i'd only been prudent enough to die then, glenn," he went on, "i'd have been mourned as a potential judge of the supreme court, senator and president." "it'll be three years before i can be admitted, won't it?" asked marley. "yes," said powell; "but that isn't long; and it isn't anything to be admitted." "well, it takes time, anyway," said marley, "and then there's the practice after that--how long will that take?" "well, let's see," said powell, plucking reflectively at the flabby skin that hung between the points of his collar. "let's see." his brows were twitching humorously. "it's taken me about thirty years--i don't know how much longer it'll take." powell smoked on for a few moments, and then added soberly: "of course, i had to fool around in politics for about twenty-five years, and save the people." "do you think," marley said, after a moment's silence that paid its own respect to powell's regrets, "that there's an opening for me here in macochee?" "no, glenn, i'll tell you. there's no use to think of locating in macochee or any other small town. the business is dead here. it's too bad, but it's so. when i began there was plenty of real estate law to do, and plenty of criminal law, but the land titles are all settled now--" "that's what judge blair said," interrupted marley. "so you've been to him, have you?" marley blushed. "well, not exactly," he said. "i heard him say that." "yes," mused powell. "well, he feathered his nest pretty well while they were being settled. but as i was saying--the criminal business has died out, or rather, it has changed. the criminals haven't any money any more, that is, the old kind of criminals; the corporations have it all now--if you want to make money, you'll have to have them for clients. of course, the money still goes to the criminal lawyer just as it used to." "i like macochee," said marley, his spirits falling fast. "well, it's a nice old town to live in," powell assented. "but the devil of it is how're you going to live? of course, you can study here just as well as anywhere; better than anywhere, in fact; you have plenty of time, and plenty of quiet. but as for locating here--why, it's utterly out of the question for a man who wants to make anything of himself and has to get a living while he's doing it--and i don't know any other kind that ever do make anything out of themselves." "i had hoped--" persisted marley, longing for powell to relent. "oh, i know," the lawyer replied almost impatiently, "but it's no use, there's nothing in it. no one with ambition can stay here now. the town, like all these old county-seats, is good for nothing but impecunious old age and cemeteries. it was nothing but a country cross-roads before the railroad came, and since then it's been nothing but a water-tank; if it keeps on it'll be nothing but a whistling-post, and the trains won't be bothered to stop at all. its people are industrious in nothing but gossip, and genuine in nothing but hypocrisy; they are so mean that they hate themselves, and think all the time they're hating each other. just look at our leading citizen, brother dudley, over there in his bank; he owns the whole town, and he thinks he's a bigger man than old grant. sundays he sits in his pew with a black coat on, squinting at the preacher out of his sore little eyes, and waiting for him to say something he can get the bishop to fire him for, and he calls that religion. mondays he goes back to his business of skinning farmers and poor widows out of their miserable little pennies, and he calls that business; does he ever look at a flower or a tree, or turn round in the street at the laugh of a child? he's the kind of man that runs this town, and he makes the rest of the people like it. well, he don't run me! god! if i'd only had some sense twenty years ago i'd have pulled out and gone to the city and been somebody to-day." it pained marley to hear powell berate macochee; he had never heard him rage so violently at the town, though he was always sneering at it. to marley the very name of macochee meant romance; he liked the name the indian village had left behind when it vanished; he liked the old high-gabled buildings about the square; he longed to identify himself with macochee, to think of it as his home. "but i'll tell you one thing," powell went on, his tone suddenly changing to one of angry resolution as he flung his feet heavily to the bare floor and struck his desk a startling blow with his fist, "i'll tell you one thing, i'm through working for nothing; they've got to pay me! i'm going to squeeze the last cent out of them after this, same as old dudley does, same as old bill blair did before he went on the bench; that's what i'm going to do. i'm getting old and i've got to quit running a legal eleemosynary institution." powell's eyes flamed, but a shadow fell in the room, and powell and marley glanced at the door. "well, what do you want?" said powell. an old woman, bareheaded in the hurry of a crisis, was on the threshold. "oh, mr. powell," she began in a wailing voice, "would you come quick!" "what for?" "charlie's in ag'in." "got any money?" demanded powell, in the angry resolution of a moment before. he clenched his fist again on the edge of his table. marley glanced at him in surprise, and then at the old woman. the woman hung her head and stammered: "well, you know--i hain't just now, but by the week's end, when i get the money for my washin'--" "oh, that's all right," said powell, getting to his feet, "that's all right. we won't talk of that now. i beg your pardon. we'll walk down to the calaboose and see the boy; we can talk it over with him and see what's to be done." he picked up his slouch hat and clapped it on his head. "what's he been doing this time?" he said to the old woman as they went out the door. marley watched them as they passed the open window and disappeared. a smile touched his lips an instant, and then he became serious and depressed once more. he had had no word from lavinia, and her going away immediately after his scene with judge blair confused him. he tried to think it out, but he could reach no conclusion save that it was all at an end. lavinia's sudden, unexplained departure proved that. and yet he could not, he would not, think that she had changed; no, her father had borne her away--that was it--forcibly and cruelly borne her away. for a long while he sat there finding a certain satisfaction in the melancholy that came over him, and then suddenly he was aroused by the boom of the town clock. the heavy notes of the bell rolled across to him, and he counted them--five. it was time to go. and powell had not returned. it was not surprising; powell often went out that way and did not come back, and, often, somehow to marley's chagrin, men and women sat and waited long hours in the dumb patience of the poor and then went away with their woes still burdening them. they must have been used to woes, they carried them so silently. marley was walking moodily down main street, feeling that he had no part in the bustling happiness of the people going home from their day's work, when, lifting his head, he saw mrs. blair in her surrey. instantly she jerked the horse in toward the curb and beckoned to him. "why, glenn! i'm so glad i met you!" she said, her face rosy with its smile. "i have something for you." she raised her eyebrows in a significant way and began fumbling in her lap. presently she leaned out of the surrey and pressed something into his hand. "just between ourselves, you know!" she said, with the delicious mystery of a secret, and then gathering up her reins, she clucked at her lazy horse. he looked after her a moment, then at the thick envelope he held in his hand. on it was written in the long anglican characters of a young girl, these words: "for glenn." chapter xii a conditional surrender judge blair and lavinia returned home saturday. "i guess it's no use," the judge said to mrs. blair when she had followed him up stairs, where he had gone to wash off the dust he had accumulated during the six hours the train had consumed in jerking itself from sandusky to macochee. "no, i could see how relieved she was to get home," replied mrs. blair, musing idly out of the window. she was not so sure that she was pleased with the result she had done her part to accomplish. "i guess you were right," the judge said. "i?" asked mrs. blair, suddenly turning round. "yes--in saying that it would be best not to dignify it by too much notice. that might only add to its seriousness." mrs. blair looked out of the window again. "of course," the judge went on presently, "i wouldn't want it considered as an engagement." "of course not," mrs. blair acquiesced. "you'd better have a talk with her," he said. she saw that he was seeking his usual retreat in such cases, and she was now determined not to take the responsibility. spiritually they tossed this responsibility back and forth between them, like a shuttlecock. "but wouldn't that make it look as if we were taking too much notice of it?" "well," the judge said, "i don't know. do just as you think best." "didn't you talk to her about it when you were away?" mrs. blair asked. "m-m yes," the judge said slowly. "and what did she say?" "nothing much, only--" "only what?" "only that she would not give him up." "oh!" mrs. blair waited, and the judge dawdled at his toilet. some compulsion she could not resist, though she tried, distrusting her own weakness, drove mrs. blair to speak first, and even then she sought to minimize the effect of her surrender. "of course, will," she said, "i want to be guided by you in this matter. it's really quite serious." "oh, well," he said, "you're capable of managing it." "you said you knew his father, didn't you?" she asked after a while. "slightly; why?" "i was just wishing that we knew more of the family. you know they have not lived in macochee long." "that's true," the judge assented, realizing all that the objection meant. "and yet," mrs. blair reassured him, though she was trying to reassure herself at the same time, "his father is a minister; that ought to count for something." "yes, it ought, and still you know they say that ministers' sons are always--" "but," mrs. blair interrupted, as if he were wholly missing the point, "ministers' families always have a standing, i think." they were silent, then, until mrs. blair began: "i suppose i really ought to call on mrs. marley." "why?" "well, it seems, you know--it seems to me that i ought." "but wouldn't that--?" "i considered that, and still, it might seem more so if i didn't, don't you see?" the judge tried to grasp the attenuated point, and expressed his failure in the sigh with which he stooped to fasten his shoes. then he drew on his alpaca coat, and just as he was leaving the room, his wife stopped him with: "but, will!" he halted with his hand on the door-knob. for an instant his wife looked at him in pleasure. he was rather handsome, with his white hair combed gravely, his ruddy face fresh from his shaving, and his stiff, white collar about his neck. "what did you say?" he asked, recalling her from her reverie of him. "oh!" she said; "only this--maybe he won't feel like coming around here any more. you know you practically sent him away." the judge gave a little laugh. "i guess that will work itself out. anyway i'll leave it to you--or to them." still smiling at his own humor, he turned the door-knob, and then hesitated. his smile had vanished. "she's so young," he said with a regret. "she's so young. how old did you say you were when we were married?" "eighteen," mrs. blair replied. "and lavinia can't be more than--" "why, she's twenty," said mrs. blair. "so she is," said the judge. "so she is. but then you--" mrs. blair had come close to him, and stood picking a bit of thread from his shoulder. "it was different with us, wasn't it, dear?" she said, looking up at him. he kissed her. chapter xiii summer the dust lay thick in ward street, sifting its fine powder on the leaves of the cottonwoods that grew at the weedy gutter. the grass in the yard grew long, and the bushes languished in the heat. judge blair's beans clambered up their poles and turned white; and connie's sweet peas grew lush and rank, running, as she complained, mostly to leaves. the house seemed to have withdrawn within itself; its green shutters were closed. in the evening dim figures could be seen on the veranda, and the drone of voices could be heard. at eleven o'clock, the deep siren of the limited could be heard, as it rounded the curve a mile out of town. after that it was still, and night lay on macochee, soft, vast, immeasurable. the clock in the court house tower boomed out the heavy hours. sometimes the harmonies of the singing negroes were borne over the town. and to marley and lavinia those days, and those evenings of purple shadows and soft brilliant stars, were but the setting of a dream that unfolded new wonders constantly. they were but a part of all life, a part of the glowing summer itself, innocent of the thousand artificial demands man has made on himself. lavinia went about with a new expression, exalted, expectant; a new dignity had come to her and a new beauty; all at once, suddenly, as it were, character had set its noble mark upon her, and about her slender figure there was the aureola of romance. "have you noticed lavinia?" mrs. blair asked her husband. "no, why?" he said, in the alarm that was ever ready to spring within him. "she has changed so; she has grown so beautiful!" one morning the judge saw a spar of light flash from her finger, and he peered anxiously over his glasses. "what's that, lavinia?" he asked, and when she stood at his knee, almost like a little girl again in all but spirit, he took her finger. "a ring," she said simply. "what does it mean?" "glenn gave it to me." "glenn?" "yes." "but i thought there was to be no engagement?" the judge looked up, as if there had been betrayal. but lavinia only smiled. the judge looked at her a moment, then released her hand. "i wouldn't wear it where any one could see it," he said. the summer stretched itself long into september; and then came the still days of fall, moving slowly by in majestic procession. with the first cool air, a new restless energy awoke in marley. all the summer he had neglected his studies; but now a change was working in him as wonderful as that which autumn was working in the world. he looked back at that happy, self-sufficient summer, and, for an instant, he had a wild, impotent desire to detain it, to hold it, to keep things just as they were; but the summer was gone, the winter at hand, and he felt all at once the impact of practical life. he faced the future, and for an instant he recoiled. lavinia was standing looking up at him. she laid her hand on his shoulder. "what is it, glenn?" "i was just thinking," he said, "that i have a great assurance in asking you to marry me." "what do you mean?" "why, dear, just this: i can't get a practice in macochee; i might as well look it in the face now as any time. i have known it all along, but i've kept it from you, and i've tried to keep it from myself. there's no place here for me; everybody says so, your father, wade powell, everybody. there's no chance for a young man in the law in these small towns. i've tried to make myself think otherwise. i've tried to make myself believe that after i'd been admitted i could settle down here and get a practice and we could have a little home of our own--but--" "can't we?" lavinia whispered the words, as if she were afraid utterance would confirm the fear they imported. "well--that's what they all say," marley insisted. "but papa's always talking that way," lavinia protested. "i suppose all old men do. they forget that they were ever young, and i don't see what right they have to destroy your faith, your confidence, or the confidence of any young man!" lavinia blazed out these words indignantly. it was consoling to marley to hear them, he liked her passionate partizanship in his cause. he longed for her to go on, and he waited, anxious to be reassured in spite of himself. he could see her face dimly in the starlight, and feel her figure rigid with protest beside him. "it's simply wicked in them," she said presently. "i don't care what they say. we can and we will!" "i like to have you put it that way, dear," said marley. "i like to have you say 'we'!" she drew more closely to him. "and you think we can?" he said presently. "i know it." "and have a little home, here, in one of these quiet streets, with the shade, and the happiness--" "yes!" "and it wouldn't matter much if we were poor?" "no!" "just at first, you know. i'd work hard, and we could be so happy, so happy, just we two, together!" "yes, yes," she whispered. "i love macochee so," marley said presently. "i just couldn't leave it!" "don't! don't!" she protested. "don't even speak of it!" chapter xiv one sunday morning it was sunday morning and marley sat in church looking at a shaft of soft light that fell through one of the tall windows. from gazing at the shaft of light, he began to study the symbols in the different windows, the cross and crown, the lamb, the triangle that represented the trinity, all the roman symbols that protestantism still retains in its decorations. then he counted the pipes in the organ, back and forth, never certain that he had counted them correctly. all about him the people were going through the service, but it had lost all meaning for marley, because he had been accustomed to it from childhood. having been reassured by lavinia, he felt that he should be happy, yet a strong sense of dissatisfaction, of uncertainty, flowed persistently under all his thoughts, belying his heart's assurance of its happiness. when doctor marley, advancing to the pulpit, buttoned his coat down before him, pushed aside the vase of flowers the ladies' committee always put in his way, and stood with his strong, expressive hand laid on the open bible, marley's thoughts fixed themselves for a moment in the pride and love he had always had for his father. there swept before him hundreds of scenes like this when his father had stood up to preach, and then suddenly he realized that his father had grown old: he was white-haired and in his rugged, smooth-shaven face deep lines were drawn--the lines of a beautiful character. he remembered something his father had said to the effect that the pulpit was the only place in which inexperienced youth was desired, showing the insincerity of what people call their religion, and then he remembered the ambitions he had dimly felt in his father in his earlier days; it had been predicted that his father would be a bishop. but he was not a bishop, and now in all probability never would be one; he was not politician enough for that. and marley wondered whether or not his father could be said to have been successful; he had come to know and to do high things, he had lived a life full of noble sacrifice and the finest faith in humanity and in god; but was this success? he heard his father's voice: "the text will be found in the third chapter of the lamentations of jeremiah." but marley never listened to sermons; now and then he caught a phrase, or a period, especially when his father raised his voice, but his thoughts were elsewhere, anywhere--not on the sermon. the men and women sitting in front of him kept shifting constantly, and he grew tired of slipping this way and that and craning his neck in order to see his father. and then the constant fluttering of fans hurt his eyes, and they wandered here and there, each person they lighted on suggesting some new train of thought. presently they fell on a girl in a white dress, and in some way she suggested lavinia. and instantly he felt that he should be perfectly happy when thinking of lavinia, but, as suddenly, came that subconscious uncertainty, that deep-flowing discontent. he went over his last conversation with lavinia, in which he had found such assurance, but now away from her he realized that he had lulled himself into a sense of security that was all false; and the conviction that macochee had no place for him, at least as a lawyer, came back. he tried to put it away from him, and think of something else. his eyes fell on old selah dudley, sitting like all pillars of the church, at the end of his pew. dudley's back was narrow, and rounded out between the shoulders so that marley wondered how he could sit comfortably at all; his head was flat and sheer behind, and marley could see with what care the old banker had plastered the scant hair across his bald poll--the only sign of vanity revealed in him, unless it were in the brown kid gloves he wore. marley looked at dudley with the feeling that he was looking at the most successful man in macochee, and yet he had a troubled sense of the phariseeism that is the essential element of such success. he remembered what wade powell had said; immediately he saw dudley in a new light; the old man sat stolid, patient and brutal, waiting for some heterodoxy, or something that could be construed as heterodoxy, theological or economic, like a savage with a spear waiting to pierce his prey, and glad when the moment came. but marley, seeing the young girl in the white dress, again thought of lavinia, who would be sitting at that very moment with her father and mother and connie and chad over in the presbyterian church. how long would it be before he could sit there beside her, as her husband? then with a flash it came to him that they would, in all likelihood, be married in that very church. instantly he saw the spectators gathered, he saw the pulpit and the chancel-rail hidden in flowers, he saw his father with his ritual in his hands, waiting; and then while the organ played the wedding march, lavinia coming down the aisle, her eyes lowered under her veil. his heart beat faster, he felt a wave of emotion, joyous, exciting. but there was much to do before that moment could come--the long days and nights of study; the examination looming like a mountain of difficulties, then months and years of waiting for a practice. he tried to imagine each detail of the coming of a practice, but he could not; he could not conceive how it was possible for a practice to come to any one, much less to him. there were many lawyers in macochee now, and all of them were more or less idle. there was certainly no need of more. judge blair and wade powell and every one had told him that, and suddenly he felt an impatience with them all, as if they were responsible for the conditions they described; they all conspired against him, men and conditions, making up the elements of a harsh, intractable fate. and marley grew bitter against every one in macochee; they all gossiped about him, they were all determined to drive him away; well, let them; he would go; but he would come back again some day as a great, successful lawyer, looking down on them and their little interests, and they would be filled with envy and respect. but what of lavinia? what right had he to ask her to marry him? what right had he to place her in the position he had? he realized it now, clearly, he told himself, for the first time. she had given up all for him. she would go out no more, she had foregone her parties, calls, picnics, dances, everything; in her devotion she had estranged her friends. he had given her parents concern, he had placed her in a false, impossible position. he must rescue her from it. but how? by breaking the engagement? he blushed for the thought. by going away quietly, silently, without a word? that would only increase the difficulty of her position. by keeping her waiting, year after year, until he could find a foothold in the world? even that was unfair. no, he could not give up lavinia and he could not go away from macochee, hence it followed that he must give up the law. he must get some work to do, and at once; something that would pay him enough to support a wife. he began to canvass the possibilities in macochee. he thought of all the openings; surely there would be something; there were several thousand persons in macochee, and they lived somehow. he did not wish to give up the law; not that he loved it so, but because he disliked to own himself beaten. but it was necessary; he could suffer this defeat; he could make this sacrifice. there was something almost noble in the attitude, and he derived a kind of morbid consolation from the thought. his father was closing the bible--sure sign that the sermon was about to end. there was another prayer, then a hymn, and while the congregation remained standing for the benediction, he heard his father's voice: "the peace of god which passeth all understanding--" the words had always comforted him in the sorrows he was constantly imagining, but now they brought no peace. in another moment the congregation was stirring joyously, in unconscious relief that the sitting was over. the hum of voices assumed a pleasant social air, as friend and acquaintance turned to greet one another. the people moved slowly down the aisle. he caught a glimpse of his father, smiling and happy--happy that his work was done--passing his handkerchief over his reddened brow and bending to take the hands of those who came to speak to him and to congratulate him. just then selah dudley gave his father his hand; the sight pleased marley; and suddenly an idea came to him. chapter xv a saint's advice on monday morning marley found dudley at his post in the first national bank. he halted at the little low gate in the rail that ran round dudley's desk until dudley looked up and saw him, and then marley smiled. dudley, conceiving it to be the propitiatory smile of the intending borrower, narrowed his eyes as he regarded him. "well?" he said. marley went in and sat down on the edge of the hard chair that was placed near dudley. "i wish to have a little talk with you, mr. dudley," he said. he waited then for dudley to reply, thinking perhaps he would be interested in the son of his pastor. dudley had turned his chair a little, and seemed to have sunk a little lower in its brown leather cushions, worn to a hard shine during the long years he had sat there. the lower part of him was round and full and heavy, while his shoulders were narrow and sloping, and his chest sunken, as if, from sitting there so many years, his vitals had settled, giving him the figure of a half emptied bag of grain. his legs were thin, and his trousers crept constantly up the legs of the boots he wore; the boots were blackened as far as the ankles, above the ankles they were wrinkled and scuffed to a dirty brown. marley noted these details hurriedly, for it was the face of the man that held him. a scant beard, made up of a few harsh, wiry hairs, partly covered the banker's cheeks and chin; his upper lip was clean-shaven, and his hair, scant but still black, was combed forward at the temples, and carefully carried over from one side of his head to the other, ineffectually trying to hide the encroaching baldness. his nose was large; his eyes narrow under his almost barren brows and red at the edges of the lids that lacked lashes. "what do you want?" said dudley, never moving, as if to economize his energies, as he economized his words and every other thing of value in his narrow world. marley did not know just what reply to make: this was a critical moment to him, and he must make no mistake. "i came," he began, "to--to ask you for a little advice." dudley, at this, settled a little more into his chair, possibly a little more comfortably; he seemed to relax somewhat, and his eyes were not quite so narrow as they had been. but he blinked a moment, and then cautiously asked: "what about?" "well, it's just this," marley began, smiling persistently; "you see i've begun the study of law; i had intended to be a lawyer." "we've got plenty o' lawyers," said dudley. "that's just the conclusion i have come to, and i was thinking somewhat of making a change. and so i thought i'd come and ask you, that is, your advice." dudley, still cautious, made no reply, and marley almost despaired of getting on easy terms. he began to wish he had not come; he might have known this, he said to himself, and his smile and the confidence with which he had come began to leave him. but he must make another effort. "you see, mr. dudley," he said, "i thought, as things are nowadays, i would have to wait years before i could really do anything in the law, and as i have my own way to make in the world, i thought, you know, i might get into something else." "what, for instance?" asked dudley. "well, i didn't exactly know; i had hardly thought it out,--that's why i came to you, knowing you to be a man of large affairs." dudley had an instant's vision of his bank, of his stocks, and of the many farms all over gordon county on which he held mortgages, but he checked his impulse; these very possessions must be guarded; people envied him them, and while this envy in one way was among the sources of his few joys, it nevertheless gave rise to covetousness which was prohibited by the tenth commandment. "so you want my advice, eh?" he asked, looking hard at marley. "yes, sir." "and that's all?" he asked suspiciously. "well--any suggestions," marley said. dudley still hesitated. he continued to study marley out of his little eyes. presently he inquired, as if by way of getting a basis to start on: "you been to college, ain't you?" "yes, sir," marley answered promptly; "i graduated in june." "how long was you there?" "why," marley replied in some surprise, "the full four years." "four years," dudley repeated. "how old?" "twenty-two." "well, that's that much time wasted. if a young man's going to get along these times, and make anything of himself, he has to start early, learn business ways and habits. he's got to begin at the bottom, and feel his way up." the banker was speaking now with a reckless waste of words that was surprising. "the main thing at first is to work; it ain't the money. now, when i come to macochee, forty-seven years ago, i hadn't nothing. but i went to work, i was up early, and i went to bed early; i worked hard all day, i 'tended to business, and i saved my money. that's it, young man, that's the only way--up early, work hard, and save your money." dudley leaned back in his chair to let marley contemplate him. "but what did you work at? at first, i mean." "why," said dudley, as if in surprise, "at anything i could get. i wan't proud; i wan't 'fraid o' work." marley leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and began twirling his hat in his hands. then, thinking the attitude lacking in respect, he sat up again. "then, i was careful of my habits," dudley went on. "i never touched a bit o' tobacco, nor tasted a drop o' liquor in my life." he paused, and then: "do you use tobacco?" he asked. "sometimes," marley hesitated to confess. "cigarettes?" "now and then." "humph! learned that at college, i suppose." marley made no reply. "well, you've started wrong, young man. that wan't the way i made myself. i never touched a drop of liquor nor tasted tobacco. i worked hard and god prospered me--yes, god prospered me." dudley's voice sank piously. "now, i'll tell you." he seemed to be about to impart the secret of it all. "when i was your age, i embraced religion, and i promised god that if he'd prosper me i'd give a tenth of all i made to the church; a tenth, yes, sir, a full tenth." the banker paused again as if making a calculation, and a trouble gathered for an instant at his hairless brows, but, as if by an effort, he smoothed them so that they became meek and submissive. and then he went on, as if he had found a species of relief: "but it was the best bargain i ever made. it paid; yes, it paid; i kep' my word, and the lord kep' his; he prospered me." he had folded his hands, and sat blinking at marley. "so my advice to you, young man, is to give up tobacco and all your other bad habits, to be up early in the morning, to work hard, and remember god in all your ways, and he shall direct thy paths." dudley stirred, and moved his swivel chair a little, as if it were time to resume work. but marley sat there. "that's my advice to you, young man," dudley repeated, "and it won't cost you a cent." he said this generously, at the same time implying a hint of dismissal. still marley did not move, and dudley eyed him in some concern. marley saw the look and forced a smile. "i thank you, mr. dudley," he said, "for your advice. i am sure it is good. i was wondering, though," he went on, with a reluctance that he knew impaired the effect of his words, "if you wouldn't have something here in your bank for me--" at this dudley suddenly seemed to shrink in size. his eyes became small, mere inflamed slits beneath his hairless brows, and he said: "i thought you said you wanted advice?" "well, i did," marley explained, "but i thought maybe--" he did not finish the sentence. he rose and stood, still twirling his hat in his hand. "and you have nothing, you know of nothing?" dudley slowly shook his head from side to side, once or twice, having resumed his economical habits. "good morning," marley said, and left. as he went out, the cashier and the assistant cashier looked at him through the green wire screen. then they lifted their heads from their tasks cautiously and exchanged surreptitious glances. chapter xvi love and a living marley was not surprised by the result of his visit to selah dudley. he made an effort to convince himself that there was truth in what dudley had said to him, even if he could not remember exactly what it was that dudley had said. he tried to put down the instinctive feeling of dislike he had for the old banker; he told himself that such a feeling was unworthy of him, if not unworthy of dudley, and in thinking the matter over he tried to clear himself of all suspicion of envy or jealousy of dudley's success. the whole town considered dudley its leading man, and marley tried so to consider him; and he tried to consider him in this light because he was a good man and not because he was a rich man, just as the town pretended to do. he wanted to talk about dudley with some one, but he did not want to talk about him with lavinia, because he felt a shame in his failure with dudley that he feared lavinia might share. he did talk with his father about him, but his father did not seem to be interested; he smiled his tolerant smile, but made no comment. and when marley pressed him for an opinion of dudley his father said: "they make broad their phylacteries." and that was all. however, marley found wade powell willing to talk of selah dudley, as he was willing to talk of almost anything. marley did not tell powell that he had been to dudley to ask for a position; he merely let it be understood that he had met the old man in the course of the day and talked with him casually. "by the way," he asked, as if the thought had just come to him, "how did selah dudley make his money?" "he didn't make it," powell answered. "he didn't? did he inherit it?" "no." "then how did he get it?" "he gathered it." "gathered it? i don't know what you mean." powell laughed. "you don't? well, there's a difference." "he wasn't in the army, was he?" "in the army! great god!" powell threw into his voice the contempt he could not find the word to express. "you think he'd risk his hide in the army? well, i should say not! though he would have been perfectly safe--" powell said it as a parenthetical afterthought--"no bullet could ever have pierced his hide, and he had no blood to shed." powell bit the end from his cigar and spat out the damp little pieces of tobacco viciously. "no, i'll tell you, glenn," he said, "he stayed at home and got his start, as he calls it, by skinning the poor. widows were his big game and he gathered a little pile that has been growing ever since. to-day he owns gordon county." "he seems to be a prominent man in the church," ventured marley. "he'll be a prominent man in hell," said powell, angrily. and then he added thoughtfully: "my one regret in going there myself is that i'll have to see him every day." the most curious effect of marley's visit to dudley, however, was one he did not observe himself. having been defeated in his plan to secure a place in the bank, he felt at first, with a certain consolation, that he still had the law to fall back on, and he returned to his studies. but he made little headway; once having decided to give up the law, the decision remained, and his mind was constantly occupied with schemes for securing a foothold in some other occupation. he considered, one after another, every possibility in macochee, and as fast as he thought of some opening, he went for it, but invariably to find it either no opening at all, or else, if it were an opening, one that closed at his approach. gradually he gave up his studies altogether, and sat idle, his book before him; but one day powell said to him: "say, glenn, you're not getting along very fast, are you?" marley started, and flushed with a sense of guilt. "well, no," he admitted. "what's the matter, in love?" marley blushed, from another cause this time, though the guilt remained in his face. but powell instantly was gentle. "i beg your pardon," he said, "i was just joking, of course; i didn't mean to be inquisitive. you mustn't mind my boorishness." marley looked at him gratefully and powell, to whom any show of affection was confusing, turned away self-consciously. but marley whirled his chair around toward powell. "i am in love," he said. "i've wanted to tell you, but i--you know who she is." "lavinia blair?" "yes. and that's what's troubling me," marley went on. "i want to get married, and i can't. i can't," he repeated, "the law's too slow; i've realized it for a long while, but i tried to keep the fact away, i tried not to see it. but now i have to face it. why," he said, rising to his feet, "it'll take a thousand years to get a practice in this town, and i'm not even admitted yet." he walked to and fro, his brows pinched together, his lower lip thrust out, his teeth nipping his upper one. powell glanced at him, but said nothing. he knew human nature, this lawyer, and the fact made every one in the county tremble at the thought of his cross-examinations; sometimes he carried too far his love of laying souls bare, and as often hurt as helped his cause. he never had been able to turn his knowledge to much practical account; in a city he would have had numerous retainers as a trial lawyer, though few as a counselor. in macochee he was out of place, and he chafed under a semi-consciousness of the fact. he waited, knowing that marley would burst forth again. "i'll have to get a job," marley said at that moment, bitterly, "and go to work; that's all." and then he laughed harshly. "humph, get a job--that's the biggest job of all. what can i get here in macochee, i'd like to know?" he halted and turned suddenly, fiercely, almost menacingly on powell, as if he were the cause of his predicament. "i've told you already it's no place for you," said powell, quietly. "but where'll i go?" marley held out his hands with a gesture that was pleading, pathetic. thus he waited for powell's reply. powell smoked thoughtfully for a moment and then began: "when i was going to the law school in cincinnati, there was a young fellow in my class--a great friend of mine. he was poor, and i was poor--god! how poor we were!" powell paused in this retrospect of poverty. "that was why we were such friends,--our poverty gave us a common interest. this fellow came from up in hardin county; he was tall, lean and gawky, the worst jay you ever saw. when we had graduated, i supposed he would go home, maybe to kenton--that was his county-seat. when we were bidding each other good-by--i'll never forget the day, it was june, hot as hell; and we had left the old law school in walnut street and were standing there by the tyler-davidson fountain in fifth street. i said, 'well, we'll see each other once in a while; we won't be far apart.' he looked at me and said, 'i don't know about that.' 'why?' i asked. 'well,' he said, 'i'm going to chicago.' i looked at him in surprise. he was out at the elbows then, and had hardly enough money to get home on. then the ridiculousness of it struck me, and i laughed. 'why, you'll starve to death there!' i said. he only smiled." powell paused, to whet marley's appetite, perhaps, for the foregone dénouement. "that jay," powell said, when he had allowed sufficient time to elapse, "that jay i laughed at is judge johnson, of the united states circuit court." the story saddened marley. with his faculty of conceiving a whole drama at once, he caught in an instant the trials judge johnson had gone through before he won to his station of ease and honor; he saw the privations, the sacrifices, the hardships, the endless strivings, plottings, schemings; it wearied and depressed him; his frightened mind hung back, clung to the real, the present, the known, found a relief in picturing the seeming security of a man like wade powell, in a town where he knew everybody and was known by everybody. he shrank from hearing more of the judge; he wished to stay with his thought in macochee. "how _do_ young men get a start in places like macochee?" he asked, and then he added in despairing argument: "they _do_ stay, they _do_ get along somehow, they make livings, and raise families; the town grows and does business, the population increases, it doesn't die off." "well," said wade powell, approaching the problem with the generalities its mystery demanded, "some of them marry rich women, but that industry is about played out now; the fortunes are divided up; some of them, most of them, are content to eke out small livings, clerking in stores and that kind of thing; about the only ones that get ahead any are traders; they barter around, first in one business, then in another; they run a grocery, then sell it out and buy a livery-stable; then they dabble in real estate a while; finally they skin some one out of a farm and then they go on skinning, a little at a time; by the time they're old, people forget their beginnings and they become respectable; then they join the church, like selah dudley." powell stopped a moment, then he began again. "the lawyers get along god knows how; the doctors, well, they never starve, for people will get sick, or think they're sick, which is better yet; then there are a few preachers who are supported in a poor way by their congregations. when a man fails, he goes into the insurance business." powell smoked contemplatively for a few moments. "sometimes," he resumed presently, "i feel as if i were tottering on the verge of the insurance business myself." marley looked at powell, who had relapsed into silence, his head lowered, his eyes fixed in the distance, and there was something pathetic in the figure, or would have been, but for the humor that saved every situation for powell. there was, however, something appealing, and something to inspire affection, too. marley's gaze recalled powell, and he glanced up with a smile. "i reckon you've gathered from my remarks," said powell, "that i consider success chiefly from a monetary standpoint, but i don't. the main business of life is living, and the trouble with the world is that it is too busy getting ready to live to find the time for life; it has tied itself up with a thousand chains of its own forging and it has had to postpone living from time to time until most people have put the beginning of life at the gateway of death; meanwhile they're busy gathering things, like magpies, and those that gather the most are considered the best; they have come to think that people are divided into two classes, good and bad; the good are those who own, the bad those who don't, and the good think their business is to put down the bad. now, here in gordon county, we have about everything a man needs; the spring comes and the summer, and the autumn and the winter; the rain falls and the winds blow and the sun shines, and i've noticed that lighttown gets about as much rain as main street, and gooseville about as much wind as scioto street; the sun seems to shine pretty much alike on the niggers loafing in market space and on old selah dudley and judge blair, bowing like christians to each other in the square. the trees are the same color wherever they grow, and i don't see any reason why people shouldn't be happy if they'd only let one another be happy. now, i would have lived, but i didn't have time. i thought when i began that i'd have to do as the rest were doing, get hold of things, and i saw that if i did, i'd have to get my share away from them; well, i made a failure of that, being too soft inside someway; that was all right too, but meanwhile i was wasting time, and putting off living--now it's too late." marley looked at him in perplexity, not knowing how to take him. "i know," he said presently. "but what am i going to do? i can live all right, but i have to do better than that; i want to get married." "married," mused powell, "married! well, i got married." marley was interested. he had never heard powell speak of his wife, and he feared what he was about to say; for that instant powell's standing in his estimation trembled. "and that was the only sensible thing i ever did." marley felt a great relief. "but i don't know that i did right by mary; i didn't do her any good, i reckon; still, she's borne up somehow; i wish i had a sky full of sunlight to pour over her." powell walked to his window, and looked across into the court-house yard where the leaves were falling slowly from the maple-trees. marley hoped that he would go on, and say more of his wife, but he was silent. presently he turned about. "well, glenn," he said; "i see you're stuck on staying in macochee, and i don't blame you; and you want to get married, and that's all right. maybe i can help you do it." "how?" said marley, eagerly. "i've got a scheme." "what is it?" "well, maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. i'd better wait till i see whether it will or not before i tell you." he stood and smiled at marley a moment, and then said: "you wait here." and he turned and left the office. marley watched powell's fine figure as he walked across the street toward the court house, a great love of the man surging within him. he felt secure and safe; a new warmth spread through him. at the door of the court house marley saw him stop and shake hands with garver, the sheriff. the two talked a moment, then turned and went down toward the big iron gate in main street, and disappeared. marley waited until noon and then he went home to his dinner. he returned, but powell did not come back to the office all the afternoon. chapter xvii the county fair marley did not see wade powell again for four days; a sunday intervened, and powell did not come back to the office until monday morning. he came in with a solemn air upon him, and a new dignity that made impressive the seriousness with which he set to work at the pile of papers on his desk, as if he were beginning a new week with new resolutions. he was freshly shaved, and his hair had been cut; it was shorter at the sides and, against his rough sunburnt neck, showed an edge of clean white skin. his newly cropped hair gave him a strange, brisk appearance; his black clothes were brushed, his linen fresh. he spoke to marley but a few times and then from the distant altitude of his new dignity. once he sent marley on an errand to snider's drug store to buy a large blank book; he said he was going to keep an office docket after that. he worked on his new docket half the morning, then he carried the docket and the bundle of papers over to marley's table, flung them down and asked marley if he would not continue the work for him. he explained the system he had devised for keeping a record of his cases; it was intricate and complete, but in many of his cases the numbers and in some instances the names of opposing parties were missing; powell told marley to go over to the court house and get the missing data from the clerk. "i've got to go out for a while," powell explained. then he hurried away; he seemed to be glad to escape from the office and the drudgery of the task he had set for himself. powell's absence weighed on marley; he was lonesome in the deserted office, and found himself wondering just where powell was at each moment; he pictured him with his companions, colonel devlin, marshall scarff, sheriff garver, old man brockton and doc hall; lately it had been rumored that george halliday had been admitted to the merry group, and that they played poker nightly in a room in the coleman block. then marley would picture to himself wade powell's wife; he had never seen her, but he had an idea of her appearance, formed from no description of her, but created out of his own fancy. he pictured her as a graceful little woman, with a certain droop to her figure; but try as he would, he could not see her face; it was a blur to him, yet it gave somehow a certain expression of sweetness and patience; sometimes, by an effort, he could see her brow, and the hair above it; the hair was dark, and parted in the middle with some gray in its rather heavy mass. marley could never discuss wade powell with any kind of satisfaction with lavinia. when he spoke of him, she would smile and affect an interest, but he could detect the affectation, and he could detect, also, a certain distance in her attitude toward wade powell or the thought of him, which he ascribed to the influence of judge blair's dislike. marley saw that lavinia never would accept wade powell, and he had ceased to mention him except in a casual manner. for some like reason he had ceased to mention wade powell at home; he found that he had many views which he could not share with those nearest him, and his inner life at that time was somewhat lonely and aloof. he had not told lavinia of wade powell's offer of assistance, nor had he spoken of it at home. in those four days he had thought much of it and built countless hopes upon it; he had thought of all the possibilities, and taken a fine delight in examining each one, working it out to its logical end in its effect upon lavinia and him and upon their fortunes. he was disappointed when wade powell failed to refer to the subject again; he would have liked to discuss the disappointment with lavinia; usually, out of her youthful optimism and faith in the life of which she was so innocent, she could reassure him; but of late he had had so many disappointments and had drawn so heavily on lavinia's resources of comfort and hope that he had grown wary, almost superstitiously wary, of making any further drafts. when monday came and powell did not renew the subject, nor even say what his scheme had been, marley concluded that powell had forgotten all about it, and so he relinquished the hope with a sigh, and tried to forget it himself. he took up his studies once more; but he made poor headway; he saw with chagrin that he had not read ten pages of law in as many days, and what he had read he could not remember. when he tried to review it, the words had no meaning for him, nor could he wrest any from them, even though he ground his elbows in the table with the book between them and dug his fists into his hair. that was the week of the gordon county fair. for a month every fence along the white pikes in the country had borne the bills, flaming from afar in red ink the date, "oct. - ." there were, too, lithographs everywhere--on boards at the monument, at the court house, on the town hall, on the covered bridge over mad river--lithographs picturing the exciting finish of a trotting race, and a sedate concourse of fat cattle. the fair opened monday, but it was understood that that day would be devoted to preparing and arranging the exhibits; the fair would not begin in earnest until tuesday; the big day would be thursday. marley was glad that fair week had come, for the chance of novelty which it offered, and, too, for the excuse it gave him; he would not study that week, but in the general festivity try to forget the problem that so oppressed him. he would have liked to go to the fair every day, but he could not, for the expense, insignificant as it seemed to be to every one else in the county, was not insignificant to him. he went, however, on wednesday with his father, who, with the love of horses he had inherited from the saddle-bag days of methodism, recklessly attended the races. marley thought that this visit would be his last, but on thursday morning he met lawrence in the square. "just the man i'm looking for!" said lawrence. he was brisk, alert, important, and had an official air which was explained when marley observed, on the lapel of his coat, the badge of blue ribbon that proclaimed an officer of the fair. "i have charge of the tickets this year," he said. "want to go? i'll pass you in." marley was glad enough to accept. "i'll have to go around to the office and tell powell," he said. "i was away all day yesterday." "oh, nonsense," replied lawrence, "that won't make any difference; he's been full for two days. this is his big time." marley had a pang as he saw with what small seriousness lawrence regarded his relation to the law; it reflected, doubtless, the common attitude of the community toward him and his efforts. "i've got to hurry," lawrence went on; "i've got a rig waiting here; you can ride out with me." it was one of the incomparable afternoons that autumn brings to ohio; the retreating sun was flashing in the high, blue sky; the air was fresh and marley felt it full of energy and hope. lawrence drove rapidly through the throng of hurrying vehicles that crowded the road to the fair-grounds, stirring up a cloud of dust that covered everything with its white powder. lawrence left him at the gate, being too full of business to engage in the weary search for pleasure, and marley set out alone across the scorched and trampled turf for the grand stand, black with people for the races. he could hear the nervous clamor of the bell in the judges' stand, the notes of the hand-organ at the squeaking merry-go-round, the incessant thumping of the bass drum that made its barbaric music for the side-show, and the cries of venders, dominating all the voices of the thousands bent in their silly way on pleasure. once, calling him back to the real, to the peace of the commonplace, he heard the distant tones of the town clock in the tower that stood, a mile away, above the autumnal trees. he pressed into the space between the grand stand and the whitewashed fence that surrounded the track; through the palings he could see the stoop-shouldered drivers, bent over the heavily breathing trotters they jogged to and fro; above him, in the grand stand, he could distinguish cries and laughs, now and then complete excited sentences, sometimes voices he knew. all around him the farmers, clumsy in their ready-made clothes and bearing their buggy whips as some insignia of office, solemnly watched the races and talked of horses. the sense of kinship with the crowd that had unerringly drawn marley left him the moment he was in the crowd, and a loneliness replaced the sense of kinship. he looked about for some one he knew. he began, here and there, to recognize faces, just as he had recognized voices in the din above him; he began to analyze and to classify the crowd, and he laughed somewhat cynically when he saw numbers of politicians going about among the farmers, shaking their hands, greeting them effusively, calling them by their christian names. then suddenly he saw wade powell. the crowd at the point where powell stood, nucleated with him as its center; by the way the men were laughing, and by the way powell was trying not to laugh, marley knew that he had been telling them one of his stories, and from the self-conscious, guilty expressions on certain of the faces, marley knew that the story was probably one that should not have been told. several countrymen hung on the edge of the group, not identifying themselves with it, yet anxious to have a look at wade powell, who enjoyed the fame of the county's best criminal lawyer. when powell saw marley he called to him, and when marley drew near, he introduced him, somehow mysteriously, almost surreptitiously, to the man at his elbow. powell's face was very red, and his eyes were brilliant. the mystery he put into his introduction was but a part of his manner. "this is mr. carman, of pleasant grove township, glenn," he said, bending over, as if no one should hear the name; and then he added, in a husky whisper: "he's our candidate for county clerk, you know." marley saw something strange, forbidding, in carman's face, but he could not tell what it was. it was a red, sunburnt face, closely shaven, with a short mustache burned by the sun; the smile it wore seemed to be fixed and impersonal. plainly the man had spent his days out of doors, though, it seemed, not healthfully, for his skin was dry and hardened, and his neck thin and wrinkled; he seemed to have known the hard work and the poor nourishment of a farm. marley wondered what was the matter with carman's face. but powell was drawing them aside. "come over here," he was saying, "where we can be alone." he led them to a corner of the little yard; no one was near; they were quite out of the crowd which was pressing to the whitewashed picket fence, attracted by the excitement of the race for which the horses were just then scoring. "now, jake," powell began, speaking to carman, "this is the young man i was talking to you about." carman, still smiling his dry meaningless smile, turned his face half away. "i reckon," powell went on, "that i might be able to do you some good, if i took off my coat." powell spoke with a pride in his own influence; marley had never known him to come so near to boasting before. carman was looking away; and powell, his own eyes narrowed, was watching him closely. once he winked at marley, and marley was mystified; he did not know what play was going on here; he looked from carman to powell, and back to carman again. there was some strange fascination about carman; marley felt a slight relief when he discovered that there was something peculiar about carman's eyes. "i haven't said anything to marley about the matter, jake," powell said. "maybe i'd better tell him. hell! he might not want it--i don't know." carman turned suddenly; his face had been in the shadow; now it came into the sunlight, and marley saw that while the pupil of carman's right eye contracted suddenly, the pupil of his left eye remained fixed; it was larger than the pupil of the right eye, which had shrunk to a pin-point in the sharp light of the sun. marley looked closely, the left eye seemed to be swimming in liquid; it almost hurt marley's eyes to look at it. "i've been telling carman, glenn," powell was explaining, "that if he is elected--and gets into the court house--" marley looked at powell expectantly. "i want him," powell went on, "to make you his deputy." marley saw it all in a flash; this was what powell had meant that day a fortnight ago; he felt his great affection for powell glow and warm; lavinia would appreciate powell after this. it meant salary, position, a place in which he might complete his law studies at his leisure; it meant a living, a home, marriage, lavinia! he looked all his gratitude at powell, who smiled appreciatively. carman had turned his face away again, he was still smiling, and plucking now at his chin; marley waited, and powell finally grew impatient. "well, jake, what do you say?" carman waited a moment longer, then slowly turned about. marley watched him narrowly, he saw the pupil of his right eye contract, the pupil of the watery left eye remained fixed; then, for the first time, carman looked steadily at marley and for the first time he spoke. "well," he said, and he stopped to spit out his tobacco, "you know i'm always ready to do a friend a good turn." powell looked carman over carefully a moment, and then he said, "all right, jake." just then there was a rush of hoofs, a shock of excitement, and they heard a loud yell: "go!" and they rushed to the fence of the whitewashed palings. chapter xviii the road to mingo lavinia sat rocking quietly back and forth, and stitched away with her colored silks on her tambourine frames, while marley told her of the fortune wade powell had brought them. he told the story briefly, and he tried to tell it simply; he did not comment on powell's kindness or generosity, but let his deeds speak for themselves in powell's behalf. when he had done, marley waited for lavinia's comment, but she rocked on a moment and then held her tambourine frames at arm's length to study the sweet pea she was making. when she had done so, she dropped her sewing suddenly into her lap, and looking up, said: "he thinks everything of you, doesn't he?" "i believe he likes me," marley said, as modestly as he could put it. "who could help it?" lavinia looked at marley, and he leaned over, and took her hands. "i am glad you can't, sweetheart," he said. "do you know," she went on, "i think it is because you have been kind and good to him--just as you are kind and good to every one. his life is lonely; he is an outcast, almost; no one cares for him, and he appreciates your goodness." pity was the utmost feeling she could produce for wade powell out of her kindly heart. but marley, though he could accept her homage to the full without embarrassment, could not acquiesce to this length, and he laughed at her. "nonsense, lavinia," he said. "you have the thing all topsy-turvy. it is wade powell who has been kind to me; it is he and not i who is good to every one. he has a heart brimful of the milk of human kindness. you have no idea, and no one has, of the good he does in a thousand little ways. he tries to hide it all; he acts as if he were ashamed of it, but there are hundreds of people in macochee who worship him, and would be ready to die for him, if it would help him any. don't think he has no friends! he has them by the score--of course, they are all poor; i reckon that's why they are generally unknown." "but isn't he cruel?" marley's eyes widened in astonishment. "i mean," lavinia said correctively, "isn't he kind of sarcastic?" "well," marley admitted, "he is that at times. i think he tries to hide his better qualities; i think he tries to cloak his finer nature with a rough garb. perhaps it is because he is really so sensitive. but he is, to my mind, a truly great man. he is a sort of tribune of the people." "but, glenn, what about his drinking?" "well, that's the trouble," marley said, shaking his head. "if he had let liquor alone he'd have been away up." lavinia was silent a moment, her brow was knit in little wrinkles. "glenn," she said presently, "i have been thinking." "well?" "that with your influence you might reform him--out of his liking for you, don't you know?" she raised her blue eyes. he laughed outright, and then took her face between his two hands. "you dear little thing!" he said, with the patronage of a lover. lavinia regained her dignity. "but couldn't you?" she demanded. "why, dear heart," marley said, "he would think it presumption. i wouldn't dare." lavinia shook her head in the hopelessness of the reformer, and took up her tambourine frames again with a sigh. "it's a pity," she said, relinquishing the subject with the hope, "it's such a pity." "but you haven't told me what you think of the scheme." "you know, dear, that whatever you think best i think best." marley was disappointed. "you don't seem to be very enthusiastic over the prospect," he complained. "i thought you'd be glad as i to know that i can at last make a place for myself in the world--and a home and a living for you." lavinia looked up. "i never had any doubt of that, glenn," she said simply. he saw the trust and confidence she had in him, a trust and a confidence he had never felt himself, and had never before been wholly aware of in her. he saw that she had never shared those fears which had so long oppressed him, and into his love there came a devout thankfulness. he felt strong, hopeful, confident, victorious. he had a sudden fancy that it would be like this when they were married; he would sit at his own hearth, with a fire crackling merrily, and the rain and wind beating outside--for the first time he could indulge such a fancy; it allowed him, now that his future was assured, to come up to it and to take hold of it; it became a reality. the judge was not at home that night. now and then marley could hear mrs. blair speak a word to connie and chad, over their lessons in the sitting-room; school had commenced, and connie having that year entered the high school had taken on a new dignity, in consequence of which she was treating chad with a divine patience that brought its own peace into the blair household. they talked for a long time of their plans. marley would take his new place in december when the new county clerk went into office, and he told lavinia all the advantages of the position. it would extend his acquaintance, it would give him a familiarity with court proceedings that otherwise he could not have acquired in years. he meant to study hard, and be admitted to the bar. they could have a little cottage and live simply and economically; he would save part of his salary, and when he hung out his shingle he would have enough money laid by to support them, modestly, until he could establish himself in a practice. he laid it all before her plainly, convincingly. he was charmed with the practicability of the plan, with its conservatism, its common sense. they might as well be married. "can't we?" he asked. he trembled as he asked; his happiness had never come so close before. lavinia dropped her embroidery frames into her lap and looked up at him. the question in her eyes was almost born of fear. "right away?" exclaimed lavinia. "well, almost right away," marley answered. "sometime this winter, anyway." "this winter! so soon?" "so soon!" marley repeated her words, almost in mockery. "but we mustn't be married in the winter," she said, "we've always planned to be married in june--our month, you know." "what's the use of waiting?" "but papa and mama--" this quick rushing to the parental cover, this clinging to the habit of years struck a jealousy through marley's heart. his face fell and he looked hurt. "can't we, dear?" he pleaded. lavinia looked at him, and she said shyly: "if you say so, glenn." they were solemn in their joy and made their plans in detail. they would be married quietly, lavinia said, and at home. doctor marley would perform the ceremony, and marley was touched by this recognition of his father. the fall worked a new energy in marley, and, with the assurance that his labors were now soon to bear fruit, he found that he could study better than ever before. he worked faithfully over his books every morning, and he worked so hard that he felt himself entitled to a portion of each afternoon. he would leave the office at four o'clock. lavinia would be waiting for him, and they would try to get out of sight before connie returned from school. she might be expected any moment to come slowly down ward street entwined with one of her school-girl friends. they did not like, somehow, to meet connie. the smile she gave them was apt to be disconcerting. they met smiles in the faces of others they encountered in their walks, but they were of a quality more kindly than connie's smile. they had walked one afternoon to the edge of town where ward street climbed a hill and became the road to mingo. at their feet lay the little fields, in the distance they could see a man plowing with two white horses; off to the right lay the water-works pond, gleaming in the afternoon sun. "what are you thinking of?" marley said. "i was thinking that it would be nice to live in the country." "i was thinking that very thing myself!" exclaimed marley. their eyes met, and they thrilled over this unity in their thoughts. it was marvelous to them, mysterious, prophetic. "some day i could buy a farm," marley said; "out that way." "yes," lavinia replied, "away off there, beyond those low trees. do you see?" she pointed, but marley did not look in the direction of the trees; he looked at her finger. it was so small, so round, so white. he bent forward, and kissed the finger. "oh, but you must look where i'm pointing," said lavinia. they drew closely together. marley took lavinia's hand and they stood long in silence. "we could have a country home there," marley said after a while, "with a hedge about it and stables and horses and dogs. it would be close to town; i could go in in the morning and out again in the afternoon." "and i could drive you in, and then come for you in the afternoon--when court adjourned." "oh, i would have a man to drive me," said marley. "but couldn't i ride in beside you?" "yes; you could sit beside me, on the back seat; we'd have an open carriage." "a victoria!" exclaimed lavinia. "it would be the only one in macochee!" "is that what they call them?" "victorias?" "yes." "you know, with a low seat behind and a high seat for the driver. you have a green cushion for your feet. you would look so handsome in one, glenn. you would sit very erect and proud, with your hands on a cane. you would have white hair then." "we would be old?" he asked in some dismay. "no, no," said lavinia, trying to reconcile her dreams, "not old exactly. but i dote on white hair. it's so distinguished for a lawyer with a country home. of course we'll have to get old sometime." "we'll grow old together, dear." "yes," she whispered, "and think of the long years of happiness!" they stood and gazed, looking down the long vista of years that stretched before them as smooth and peaceful as the white road to mingo. a subtile change was passing over the face of the road; shadows were stealing toward it, and it was growing gray. the trees that still were green were darkening to a deeper green, but the colors of those that had changed flamed all the brighter. the sun shone more golden on the shocks of corn, the sky was glowing pink in the west, the water-works pond was glistening as the sun's shafts struck it more obliquely. a fine powder hung in the peaceful air. "how beautiful the fall is!" said lavinia. "yes, i love it," said marley. "but do you know, dear, that i never liked it before? it always seemed sad to me. but you have taught me to love many things. you don't know all that you have done for me!" she stood in her blue dress, with her hands folded before her. marley looked at her hands, and at her white throat, and at her hair, its brown turned to a golden hue by the clear light; then he looked into her eyes. a sudden emotion, almost religious in its ecstasy, came over him. he bent forward. "oh!" he exclaimed. "do you know how beautiful you are! i worship you!" "don't, glenn," she said, "don't say that!" the reflection of a superstitious fear lay in her eyes. "why?" he said defiantly. "it's all true. you are my religion." "you frighten me," she said. marley laughed. "why!" he exclaimed, "there's nothing to fear. isn't our future assured now?" chapter xix waking carman was inducted into office the first monday in december, quietly, as the _republican_ said, as though it reflected credit on the new county clerk as a man who modestly avoided the demonstration that might have been expected under such circumstances. marley, in the hope of seeing his own name, eagerly ran his eyes down the few lines that were devoted to the occurrence, but his name was not there, the _republican's_ reporter, as he felt, being a man who lacked a sense of the relative importance of events. marley had taken no part in the campaign, though wade powell wished him to, and suggested every now and then that he speak at some of the meetings that were being held in the country schoolhouses. powell said it would be good practice for him in a profession where so much talking has to be done, and he found other reasons why marley should do this, as that it would extend his acquaintance, and give him a standing with the party; but, though marley was always promising, he was always postponing; the thought of standing up and speaking to the vast audiences his imagination was able to crowd into a little school-room filled him with fear, and he never could bring himself to consent to any definite time. besides this, he could not find an evening he was willing to spend away from lavinia. when election was over, he expected that he would hear from carman, but he had no word from him. several times he was on the point of mentioning the subject to wade powell, but somehow, with a reticence for which he reproached himself, he could not bring himself to do it. he watched the papers closely, but he found it quite as hard to find in them any information about carman as on any other subject, except, possibly, the banal personalities of the town as they related themselves to the coming and going of the trains. but at last, on the day it had occurred to the reporter to chronicle the fact that carman had been inducted into office, the little item struck marley sadly; he felt a sense of detachment from carman; he could not altogether realize that intimate relationship to carman in his new official position that he felt belonged to one who was to be carman's deputy. in his imagination he saw carman shambling about in the dingy room where the county clerk kept the records of the court, his knees unhinging loosely at each step, his shoulders bent, his hands in his trousers pockets, his right eye squinting here and there observantly, the left fixed, impervious to light and shadow, to all that was going on in the world. he wondered if carman, as he looked about, had been thinking in any wise of him or had seen him as a part of the place where his life was to be lived for the next three years. marley read the paper at supper time; in the evening he went to see lavinia. she too had read the paper. "i know," she said simply, and he was grateful for her quick intuition. "have you seen him?" "no." "are you going to?" "would you?" "why, certainly, at once." marley went to the court house the first thing in the morning. he feared he might have arrived too early, but carman had the virtue that goes farther perhaps than any other in the affections and approval of men, he rose early. he had been at his office since long before seven o'clock. marley found the new county clerk at his desk, obviously ready for business. the desk was clean, with a cleanness that was rather a barrenness than an order. the ink-wells, the pens, with their shining new steel points, the fresh blotters, all were laid on the clean pad with geometrical exactness. the pigeon holes were empty, but they were all lettered as if the mind of the new county clerk had grappled with the future, come off victorious, and provided for every possible emergency, though there were certain contingencies that had impressed him as "miscellaneous." carman looked up with the obliging expression of the new public official, but marley's heart instantly sank with a foreboding that told him he might as well turn about then and go. it was plain that carman saw nothing in the call beyond a mere incident of the day's work. marley took a chair near carman's desk. he looked at carman once, and then looked instantly away; the eye that lacked the power of accommodation was fixed on him, and it made him nervous. "do you remember me, mr. carman?" asked marley; and then fearing the reply he hastened to add: "i'm glenn marley; mr. powell introduced me to you out at the fair-grounds last fall." "yes, i remember," said carman. "i suppose you know what i came for?" carman's right eye widened somewhat in an expression of mild surprise. "you know," urged marley, "the clerkship." "what clerkship was that?" "why, don't you know? the chief clerkship, i reckon." "here?" "why, yes. don't you remember?" carman's right eye wore a puzzled look. "don't you remember?" "well, you've got me," said carman, with a little laugh of apology. "why, i understood," marley went on, "that in the event of your election i was to have a position here." "what as?" "why--as chief deputy." that right eye of carman's was fixed on him questioningly. "chief deputy?" he said finally. "here--in my office?" "why, yes," said marley. "don't you remember?" the question in the right eye had given way to a surprise that was growing in carman's mind, and spreading contagiously to a surprise, deeper and more acute, in marley's mind. the eye had something reproachful in its steady stare. marley leaned over impulsively. "why, surely you haven't forgotten--that day out at the fair-grounds, when mr. powell introduced me to you? i understood, i always understood that i was to have the place. i never mentioned it to you afterward, i didn't like to bother you, you know. i waited along, feeling that everything was all right. but when election was over--and afterward, when you took your office, and i didn't hear anything--i thought i'd come around and see you." despite the sinister left eye, marley leaned close to carman and waited. carman was long in bringing himself to speak. even then he did not seem to be sure of the situation he was dealing with. "you say you understood you was to have a job under me as chief clerk?" "why, yes," replied marley. "who'd you understand it from, me or wade powell?" "well--" marley hesitated, "i thought i understood it from you; i certainly understood it from mr. powell." "you say you got the idea from something i said out at the fair-grounds?" "yes, sir, at the fair-grounds." carman turned away and knitted his brows. "at the fair-grounds," he said presently, as though talking more to himself than to marley. "the fair-grounds, h-m. yes, i do remember--" marley's heart stirred with a little hope. "i do remember seeing you there, and talking to you. but i don't remember making you any promises. did you ask me?" "no; mr. powell did that." "and what did i say?" "well," marley answered, "i can't recall your exact words, but i got the impression, and so did mr. powell, i'm sure, that it was all right, i--i counted on it." "well, say, glenn," he said; "i'm awfully sorry, honest i am. i remember now, come to think of it, that wade did say something like that, and maybe i said something to lead you to think i'd do it; i don't say i didn't--i don't just remember. but i reckon you've banked more on what wade told you than on what i did. course, i reckon i didn't turn you down--a feller never does that in a campaign, you know. but wade takes a lot o' things for granted in this life." he smiled indulgently, as if powell's weaknesses were commonly known and understood. "i reckon you relied too much on what wade told you," carman went on. his right eye was fixed on marley, but marley did not return the look. he had turned half-way round and thrown his arm over the back of his chair. he looked out the window, his eyes vacant and sad. he was thinking of lavinia, of their hopes and plans, of the little home that had become almost a reality to them; the trees in the court-house yard held their gaunt limbs helplessly up against the cold december day; the ugly clouds were hurrying desperately across the sky; he thought of the little law office across the street, with the dusty law books lying on the table, and the hopelessness of it all overwhelmed him. but there beside him carman still was speaking: "it's like wade," he was saying. "i'm sorry, derned if i hain't." marley scarcely heard him. he was looking ahead. how many years-- "he hadn't ought to of done it," carman was going on; "no, sir, he hadn't ought." how many years, marley was thinking, would they have to wait now? would lavinia be lost with all the rest? ought he to ask her to wait any longer? but carman kept on: "i've got all my arrangements made now, you see." he swept his arm about the office where the few clerks were bending over the big records in which they were copying the pleadings they could not understand. marley did not see; he saw nothing but the ruin of all his hopes. it was still in there; the atmosphere held the musty odor of a public office; the clock ticked; once a stamping machine clicked sharply as a clerk marked a filing date on some document. and then a great disgust overwhelmed him, a disgust with himself for being so fatuous, so credulous. he had taken so much for granted, he had acted as a child, not as a man, and he felt a hatred for himself, he felt almost like striking himself. "i guess i've been a fool," he said suddenly, rising from his chair. "no, you haven't neither," said carman, "but wade powell has; he had no business--" marley did not wait to hear carman finish his sentence. shame and mortification were the final aspects of his defeat; he put on his hat, drew it down over his eyes and stalked away. carman looked at him as he disappeared through the lofty door. the pupil of his right eye widened as he looked, and when glenn had passed from his sight he turned to his desk, and began to rearrange the tools to which he was so unaccustomed. chapter xx heart of grace marley sighed in relief when he went up the steps of the blair house that evening. somehow he had got through the long, desolate day. he was sore from his great defeat, but the worst, at any rate, was over; the pang had been sharp, but now the pain had been dulled. he had spent the day in the office. wade powell had been in and out, but never once had he spoken of the clerkship, and marley was too deep in humiliation to mention it. his one consolation was in the fact that he had never told any one of his prospect, not even his own mother; it had been a secret which he and lavinia had shared luxuriously; though, as marley now looked back on their joy, he realized that what had kept him from telling any one was a prudent skepticism, a lack of faith in the possibility of human happiness, an inherited dread of the calamity that stalks every joy. lavinia flung the hall door wide for him before he could ring the bell. "what is the matter?" "how did you know anything was?" he asked. "why," she exclaimed, "i could tell the minute i heard your step. tell me--what is it?" marley, ever sensitive to atmospheres, instantly felt the peace of the household. the glow from the living-room, a quiet voice speaking a commonplace word now and then, told him that mrs. blair was there with connie and chad, and he knew the children were at their lessons; he caught the faint odor of a cigar, and he knew that judge blair was in his library reading peacefully of the dead and silent past, whose men had left all their troubles in the leaves of printed books; all round him life was flowing on, unconsciously, and normally; the tumult and strife in his own soul were nothing to the world. all this flashed on him in an instant--and there was lavinia, standing before him, her white brow knit in perplexity. "tell me," she was saying, "what it is." "well, i don't get the job, that's all." he felt a momentary savage pleasure in the pain he inflicted, justifying it in the thought that he eased his own suffering by giving it to another. then as quickly he repented, and felt ashamed. "is that all?" she said. she had come close to him, smiling in her sympathy, and then lifting a hand to his forehead. "don't do that," she said, as if she would erase the scowl. when they were seated he gave her the details of his meeting with carman, and with the recital of his disappointment its sharpness was repeated. he leaned over, his elbows on his knees, and clutched his hair in his fists. for an instant a kind of relief came to lavinia, a relief that a crisis in her life had been postponed, a crisis from which, instinctively, she had shrunk. her life could go on for a while as it had always gone on; change, which mortals dread, was delayed. then in another moment her sympathy went out to him; she was on the floor at his knees, her arms about him. "don't, dear, don't," she pleaded. "why, it is nothing. what does it matter? what does anything matter, so long as we have each other?" she stroked his hair, she called him by all her endearing names. she tried to take his hands from his face, that she might get him to look at her. but he resisted. "no," he said. "i'm no good; i'm a failure; i'm worse than a failure. i'm a fool, a poor, weak, silly fool." "hush, glenn, hush!" she whispered, as if he were uttering blasphemies. "you must not, you must not!" she shook him in a kind of fear. "look at me!" she said. "look at me!" he remained obdurate, slowly shaking his head from side to side. "look at me!" lavinia repeated. "don't you see--don't you see that--i love you?" a change came over him, subtile, but distinct. slowly he raised his head, and then he put his arms about her and held her close, and gradually a comfort stole over him,--a comfort so delicious that he felt himself hardly worthy, because he now saw that all through the day he had had a subconsciousness that it would come to him at evening, and that he had somehow exaggerated his own grief in order to make this certain comfort the sweeter when it came. it seemed to marley, after he and lavinia had sat there for a while, that he had come out of some nightmare; sanity returned, things assumed once more their proper proportions and relations to each other. he found himself smiling, if not laughing just yet, and with lavinia's hope and confidence the future opened to him once more. now and then, of course, his disappointment would roll over him as a great wave, and once he said ruefully: "but think of the little home we were going to have!" "but we're going to have it," lavinia replied, smiling on him, "we're going to have it, just the same!" "but we'll have to wait!" "well, we're young," said lavinia, "and it won't be so very long." "but i wanted it to be in the spring." "may be it will be, who knows?" lavinia could smile in this reassurance, now that she knew it could not be in the spring. they discussed their future in all its phases, with the hope that lavinia could so easily inspire in him; marley was to keep on with his law studies; there was nothing else now to do--unless something should turn up--there was always that hope. "and it will, you'll see," said lavinia. they discussed, too, carman and wade powell. marley thought that lavinia might return to her old severity with powell; when he expected her to do this, he was preparing to defend powell; when she did not, but was generous with him, and urged marley to reflect that he had done all he had done out of a spirit of kindness, marley was disposed to be severe with powell himself. carman, they agreed, had acted handsomely; they could not find cause to blame him. "no," said marley, "he treated me all right; i believe he was really sorry for me." and then, at the thought of carman's having pity for him, his rebellion flamed up again. "it's humiliating, that's what it is. wade powell had no business making a monkey of me in that way; though it doesn't take much to make a monkey of me; i had the job almost completed myself, just waiting for some one to come along and put the finishing touches on. and wade powell did that!" marley spoke in the sardonic humor the wounded and beaten spirit likes to employ in dealing with itself. but lavinia hushed him. "you just can not talk that way about yourself, glenn," she declared with her finest air of ownership. "i won't let you." "well, it's so humiliating," he said. "why, no, it can't be that," lavinia argued. "you can not feel humiliated. you have done nothing that need cause you any humiliation. we are the only ones who can humiliate ourselves; nothing but our own actions can humiliate us; no one else can." lavinia had a smiling little triumph in her own philosophy, but she quickly compromised it by an inconsistency. "besides, no one else knows about it." "no," marley agreed thoughtfully, and without noticing her inconsistency. "no one else knows anything about it. we have that to be thankful for, anyway." chapter xxi christmas eve lawrence was arranging for a grand ball in the odd fellows' hall, on christmas eve, and he had, as he came around to the office one day to assure marley, counted him and lavinia in. marley, glad enough to close the law-book he was finding more and more irksome, listened to lawrence's enthusiasm for a while, but said at last: "i'm afraid i can't go." "why not? lavinia will want to go; she always does." "i know that," marley admitted, "but i can't, that's all." lawrence looked at him intently for a moment. "say, glenn, what's the matter with you?" he said. "anything been going wrong lately? you look like you were in the dumps." marley shook his head with a negative gesture that admitted all lawrence had said. "you ain't fretting over that job, are you?" "what job?" marley looked up suddenly. "why, with carman." "how'd you know?" "oh, everybody knows about that," lawrence replied with a light air that added to marley's gloom; "but what of it? i wouldn't let that cut me up; come out and show yourself a little more! you don't want to keep lavinia housed up there, away from all the fun that's going on, do you? mayme and i were talking about it the other night; you and lavinia haven't been to a thing for months; it isn't right, i tell you." marley looked sharply at lawrence for a minute, and lawrence marking the resentment in his eyes, hastened on: "don't get mad, now; i don't mean anything. i'm only saying it for your good. i think you need a little shaking up, that's all." "lavinia can do as she likes," marley said with dignity. "i shall not hinder her; i never have." "well, don't get sore now, old man; i didn't mean to hurt your feelings. the holidays are here and you want to cut into the game; it's a time to forget your troubles and have a little fun; you've only got one life to live; what's the use of taking it so seriously?" marley looked at lawrence with a genuine envy for an instant, as at a man who never took anything in life very seriously; he looked at the new overcoat lawrence held over his knee, showing its satin lining; and then, reflecting that lawrence's father had left with his estate a block of bank stock which had given lawrence his position in the bank, marley's impatience with him returned and he said: "oh, it's easy enough for you to talk; if you were in my place you might find it different." "that's all right," lawrence went on, a smile on his freckled face. "you just come to the party; it'll cost you only five, and lavinia would like it. i know that. so do you." marley did know it; and he felt a new disgust with himself that remained with him long after lawrence had put on his new overcoat and left. he reproached himself bitterly, and he told himself that the best thing he could do would be to go away somewhere, and not tell lavinia, or anybody. "i'm only in her way, that's all," he thought as he opened his law-book, and bent it back viciously, so that it would stay open. ever since the fiasco of his plans as to a place with carman, he had been seeking consolation in a new resolution to keep on patiently in the law; but it was a consolation that he had to keep active by a constant contemplation of himself as a young man who was making a brave and determined fight against heavy odds. it was difficult to sustain this heroic attitude in his own eyes and at the same time maintain that modesty which he knew would become him best in the eyes of others. the approach of the holiday season, the visible preparations on every hand and the gay spirits everywhere apparent had isolated him more than ever, and he had felt his alienation complete whenever he went to see lavinia and found the whole blair family in an excitement over their own festival. marley would have liked to make lavinia handsome gifts, but his debts were already large, relatively, and he rose to heights of self-denial that made him pathetic to himself, when he decided that he could give her nothing. now that lawrence was getting up a ball to which he knew lavinia would like to go, as she had always gone to the balls that were not so frequent in macochee as lawrence wished they might be, he felt his humiliation deeper than ever. he put the matter honestly to lavinia, however, and she said promptly: "why, i wouldn't think of going." she looked up at him brightly, and then in an instant she looked down again. she relished the nobility of the attitude she had so promptly taken, but the woman in her prevailed over the saint, and told what a moment before she had determined not to tell: "i've already declined one invitation." she saw the look of pain come into marley's eyes, and instantly she regretted. "you have?" he said. "why, yes." she looked at him with her head turned to one side; her face wore an expression he did not like to see. it was on marley's lips to ask who had invited her, but his pride would not let him do that; somehow a sense of separation fell suddenly between them. he examined with deep interest the arm of his chair. "well," he began presently, "i wouldn't have you stay away on my account, you know." he looked up suddenly. "please don't stay away, lavinia. i'd like to have you go." there was contrition in her voice as she almost flew to reply: "why, you dear old thing, it was only george halliday who asked me; and when i told him i wouldn't go he was actually relieved; he said he didn't want to go himself; he hates our little functions out here, you know, and has ever since he came back from harvard. i suppose he was used to so much more in cambridge!" lavinia had a sneer in her tone, and it took on a shade of irritation as she added: "he asked me only because he was sorry for me." "yes, sorry for you," marley repeated bitterly. "that's another thing i've done for you." "please don't, dear," said lavinia, "don't let yourself get bitter. it'll be all right. we'll spend christmas eve here at home and have ever so much more fun by ourselves." mrs. blair told marley that she wished lavinia might go to the ball; her father wished it, too. mrs. blair told him that she could easily get george halliday to take her,--their lifelong intimacy with the hallidays permitted that. marley assured her that he wished lavinia to accept halliday's invitation, but that she would not do so. "i'd take her myself," he added, "only i can't dance, and--i have no money. i'd like to have her go, if it would give her pleasure." "i know you would, you dear boy," said mrs. blair, laying her hand on his shoulder in her affectionate way. mrs. blair urged lavinia to go, and so did marley, and when he saw that she was determined not to go, he urged her all the more strongly, because, now that he was sure of her position, he could so much more enjoy his own disinterestedness and magnanimity. they desisted when lavinia complained that they were making her life miserable. though marley could deny lavinia the dance, he found, after all, that he could not deny himself the distinction of giving her a christmas present. his heroic attitude gradually broke under the temptation of hoffman's jewelry store, glittering with its holiday display. marley already owed hoffman for lavinia's ring, but like most of the merchants in macochee, hoffman had to do business on an elastic credit, if he wished to do any business at all, and marley, after many pains of selection, did not have much difficulty in inducing hoffman to let him have the pearl opera-glasses he finally chose in the despair of thinking of anything better. the opera-glasses might have atoned for the deprivation of the ball, had marley been able to think of them with any comfort. the delight lavinia expressed in a gift she could never use in macochee, and the enthusiasm with which connie admired them, made him nervous and guilty. connie had temporarily foregone her claims to young-ladyhood, and was a child again for a little while. her excitement and that of chad should have made any christmas eve merry, but it was not a merry christmas eve for marley. as lavinia and he sat in the parlor they caught now and then, or imagined they caught, the strains of the orchestra that was playing for the dancers in the odd fellows' hall, and they were both conscious that life would be tolerable for them only when the music should cease and the ball take its place among the things of the past, incapable of further trouble in the earth. "it's very trying," said judge blair to his wife that night. "i wish there was something we could do." "so do i," his wife acquiesced. "i don't like to see lavinia cut off this way from every enjoyment. the strain must be very wearing." "i suppose it is very wearing with most lovers," said mrs. blair. "i don't see how they ever endure it; but they all do." "have you talked with her about it?" the judge put his question with a guarded look, and was not surprised when his wife quickly replied: "gracious, no. i'd never dare." "no, i presume not. i don't know who would, unless it might be connie." mrs. blair was silent for a while in the trouble that was all the more serious because they dared not recognize its seriousness, and then she asked: "couldn't you help him to something?" "i don't know what," the judge replied. "there's really no opening in a little town." "if you were off the bench and back in the practice--" "great heavens!" he interrupted her. "don't mention such a thing!" "i meant that you might take him in with you." "i'd be looking around for some one to take me in," the judge said. "i'm glad i haven't the problem to face." he enjoyed for a moment the snug sense he had in his own position and then he sighed. "he's young, he has that, anyway. he'll work it out somehow, i suppose, though i don't know how. as for us, all we can do is to have patience, and wait." "yes, that's all," said mrs. blair. "i don't believe in long engagements." "how long has it been?" he asked. "nearly a year now." "i thought it had been ten." mrs. blair laughed as she said: "connie was wishing this morning that he'd marry her and get it over with." chapter xxii an advertisement of destiny the first days of spring contrasted strongly with marley's mood. because of some mysterious similarity in the two seasons he found the melancholy suggestion of fall in this spring, just as, with his high-flown hopes, he had found some of the joyous suggestion of spring in the autumn before. but as failure followed failure, he began to feel more and more an alien in macochee; he had a sense of exile among his own kind, he was tortured by the thought that here, in a world where each man had some work to do and where, as it seemed, all men had suddenly grown happy in that work, there was no work for him to do. he was young, healthy, and ambitious; he had given years to what he had been taught was a necessary preparation, and then suddenly, just as he felt himself ready for life, he found that there was no place in life for him. as he went about seeking employment there was borne in on him a sense of criticism and opposition, and he was depressed and humiliated. by the end of the winter he disliked showing himself anywhere; he no longer stopped in the mcbriar house of an afternoon to watch lawrence and halliday at the billiards they played so well; he thought he detected a coolness in lawrence's treatment of him. he felt, or imagined, this coolness in everybody's attitude now, and finally began to suspect it in the blairs. "what's the matter?" asked powell, one morning. "you ain't sick, are you?" marley shook his head. "well, something ails you. i can see that." he waited for marley to speak. "is there anything i can do for you?" "no," said marley, "thank you. i've just been feeling a little bit blue, that's all." "what about?" "oh, i don't know. i'm kind o' discouraged. it seems to me that i'm wasting time; i'm not making any headway and then everybody in town is--" "i wouldn't mind that," said powell, divining the trouble at once. "they've had me on the gridiron for about forty years, and they never get tired of giving it a twist. it doesn't bother me much any more, and i don't see why you should let it bother you, especially as all they say about you is a damn lie." the speech touched marley, and he lost himself in an impulse of sympathy for powell, but he could not put his sympathy before powell in the way he would like and his mind soon returned to himself. "i've got to do something," he said. "i wish i knew what." "well," said powell, "you know what i've always told you. i know what i'd do if i were your age. of course--" powell did not finish his sentence. he was looking out the window again, lost in introspection. powell's reiteration of his old advice expressed the very thought that had been nebulous in marley's mind for days, and while he was conscious of it, he feared the consciousness, and struggled to prevent it from positing itself. but now that powell had voiced it for him, he could escape it no longer, and it filled him with a fear. he went about all the day with this fear appalling him; more and more under its perverse influence he felt himself an alien, and the people he met in the street seemed unreal and strange, outlandish persons whom he had never known. they came upon him as ghosts, or if they did something to prove their reality, he seemed to be some ghost himself. in the afternoon he received a note from lavinia; she said that she was going that evening with george halliday to a concert in the opera house. she did not want to go a bit, she said, but her mother, and especially her father, had urged her to go; arguing that she now went out so seldom that it must do her good, and besides, they had urged her so often that she felt it to be her duty in this instance; she had held out as long as she could, and then had yielded. marley tried to look upon the note reasonably; he could see the influence that had compelled lavinia to go, and he knew he had no right to blame her, and yet, try as he would, he could not escape a feeling of bitterness. when he went home at evening his mother instantly noticed his depression, and implored him for the reason. he did not answer for a while, that is, it seemed a while to mrs. marley, but at last he said: "mother, i've got to leave." "leave?" she repeated, pronouncing the word in a hollow note of fear. "yes, leave." "but what for?" "well, you know i'm no good; i'm making no headway; there's no place for me here in macochee; i've got to get out into the world and _make_ a place for myself, somewhere." "but where?" "i don't know--anywhere." marley moved his hand in a wide gesture that included the whole world, and yet was without hope of conquest. "but you must have some plans--some idea--" "well, i've thought of going to cincinnati; maybe to chicago." "but what will you do?" mrs. marley looked at him with pain and alarm. "do!" he said, his voice rising almost angrily. "why, anything i can get to do. anything, anything, sweeping streets, digging ditches, anything!" mrs. marley looked at her son, sitting there before her with his head bowed in his hands. in her own face were reflected the pain and trouble that darkened his, and yet she felt herself helpless; she vaguely realized that he was engaged in a battle that he must after all fight alone; she could not help him, though she wished that she knew how to impart to him the faith she had that he would win the battle, somehow, in the end. "poor boy!" she said at length, rising; "you are not yourself just now. think it all over and talk to your father about it." it was the first evening in months that marley had not spent with lavinia, and his existence being now so bound up with hers, he found that he could not spend the evening as the other young men in town spent their evenings. however, he went down to the mcbriar house and there a long bill hanging on the wall instantly struck his eye. the bill announced an excursion to chicago. it took away his breath; he stood transfixed before it, fascinated and yet repelled; he read it through a dozen times. the cheerful way in which the railroad held out this trip intensified his own gloom; he wondered how he might escape, but there was no way; it was plainly the revelation of his destiny, prophetic, absolute, final, and he bowed before it as to a decree of fate; he knew now that he must go. as he went home, as he walked the dark streets in the air that was full of the balm of the coming spring, he felt as one to whom a great sorrow had come. he thought of leaving macochee, of leaving his father and mother, and then, more than all, of leaving lavinia, and his throat ached with the pain of parting that, even now, before any of his plans had been made, began to assail him. his plans were nothing now; they had become the merest details; the great decision had been reached, not by him, but for him; the destiny toward which all the lines of his existence for months had been converging, was on him, the moment had arrived, and he had a sense of being the mute and helpless victim of forces that were playing with him, hurrying him along to a future as dark as the moonless night above him. he told his father of the excursion, though he gave him no notion of it as an expression of his fate, and he was all the more distressed at the calm way in which his father acquiesced in what he put before him as a decision he would have liked to have appear as less final. his father in his mildness could not object to his trying, and he would provide the money for the experiment. it gave marley a moment's respite to have his father speak of it as an experiment, for that included the possibility of failure, and hence of his return home, but this meager consolation was immediately dissipated in the surer sense he felt that this was the end--the end of macochee, the end of home, and the beginning of a new life. chapter xxiii the break marley went to lavinia the next morning, and told her as they sat there on the veranda in the spring sunlight. she looked at him with distress in her wide blue eyes. "when?" she asked. "to-night!" "tonight? oh glenn!" her eyes had filled with tears, and she was winking hard to keep them back. "to-night." she repeated the word over and over again. "and to think," she managed to say at last, "to think that the last night i should have been away from you! how can i ever forgive myself!" her lip trembled, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. she drew out her handkerchief and said: "let's go in." all that day marley went about faltering over his preparations. wade powell was the only one of the few who were interested in him that was enthusiastic over his going, and he praised and congratulated him, and pierced his already sore heart by declaring that he had known all along it was what marley would be compelled to do. he would give him a letter to his old friend, judge johnson, he said; the judge would be a great man for him to know, and powell sat down at once, with more energy and enterprise than marley had ever known him to show, and began to elaborate his letter of introduction. marley dreaded saying good-by; he wished to shirk it as to powell as he intended to shirk it in the cases of his few friends; he was to return to the office a last time in the afternoon to get the letter; and then he would bid powell good-by. he had the day before him, but that thought could give him no comfort. he would see lavinia again in the afternoon; he would see her once more, for the last time, in the evening, and in the meantime he would see his father and his mother, and his home; he had still two meals to eat with them, but it was as if he had already gone; there was no reality in his presence there among them; the blow that fate had decreed had fallen, and all that was to be was then actually in being; all about him the men and women of macochee were pursuing their ordinary occupations just as if he were not so soon to go away and be of this scene no more; a few hours, and another day, and they would be going on with their concerns just the same, and he would have disappeared out of their lives and out of their memories. he looked at everything that had been associated with his life, and everything called up some memory,--the little office where he had tried to study law, the court house, and the blind goddess of justice holding aloft her scales, the familiar square, the cloaked cavalryman on the monument, every tree, every fence, every brick in the sidewalk somehow called out to him--and he was leaving them all. he looked up and down main street, wide and ugly, littered with refuse, ragged with its graceless signs; he thought of the people who had gossiped about him, the people whom he had hated, but now he could not find in his heart the satisfaction he had expected in leaving them. he felt tenderly, almost affectionately, toward them all. but it was worse at home. he wandered about the house, looking at every piece of furniture, at every trinket; he went into the woodshed, and the old ax, the old saw, everything he had known for years, wrung his heart; he went to the barn, he looked at the muddy buggy in which he had driven so often with his father; he reproached himself because he had not kept the buggy cleaner for him; he went into the stall and patted the flank of dolly, finally he put his arms about her warm neck, laid his face against it, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. one of the preachers that were always dropping in on them was there to dinner, and in the blessing he invoked on the temporalities, as he called them, he prayed with professional unction for the son who was about to leave the old roof-tree, and this made the ordeal harder for them all. doctor marley spoke to the preacher of little things that he was to do within the next few days and marley wondered how he could mention them, for they were to be done at a time when he would be there no more. because he conceived of life, as all must conceive of it, solely in its relation to himself, he could not imagine life going on in macochee without him. the afternoon wore on, he passed his hour with lavinia; they were to meet then but once again; he returned home, his mother had packed his trunk; it was waiting. he was tender with his mother, and he wondered now, with a wild regret, why he had not always been tender with her; he was tender now with all things; a tenderness suffused his whole being; it seemed as if it might dissolve in tears. still he shrank back; there was one thing more to do; he was to go up-town and get his ticket, and the letter to judge johnson, and bid wade powell good-by. a wild hope leaped in his heart; perhaps--but no, it was irrevocable now. he went, and got his letter, but powell refused to bid him good-by; he said he would be at the train to see him off. he bought his ticket and went home. old man downing had been there with his dray and hauled away his trunk; it was settled. he could only wait and watch the minutes tick by. it seemed to marley that all things that evening conspired to accentuate all that he was leaving behind, and to make the grief of parting more poignant. his mother, who was then in that domestic exigency described by the ladies of macochee as being without a girl, had prepared an unusually elaborate supper, and while there was no formal observance of the fact, it was eaten, so far as any of them could eat that evening, under a sense of its significance as a parting ceremonial. they talked, or tried to talk, indifferently of commonplace things, and doctor marley even sought to add merriment to their feast by a jocularity that was unusual with him. marley, who knew his father so well, could easily detect the heavy heart that lay under his father's jokes, and he suffered a keener misery from the pathos of it. then he would catch his mother looking at him, her eyes deep and sad, and it seemed to him that his heart must burst. marley's train was to leave at eleven o'clock; he had arranged to go to lavinia's and remain with her until ten o'clock; then he was to stop in at his home for his last good-by. those last two hours with lavinia were an ordeal; into the first hour they tried to crowd a thousand things they felt they must say, and a thousand things they could only suggest; when the clock struck nine, they looked at each other in anguish; they did little after that but mentally count the minutes. the clock ticked loudly, aggressively, until in the soul of each, unconfessed, there was a desire to hasten the moments they felt they would like to stay; the agony was almost beyond endurance; it exhausted them, beat them down, and rendered them powerless to speak. finally the clock struck the half-hour; they could only sit and look at each other now; at a quarter of ten they began their good-bys. at ten o'clock mrs. blair, connie and chad came into the room solemnly, and bade marley farewell; the judge himself came in after them, his glasses in his hand and the magazine he had been reading, which, as marley thought with that pang of things going on without him, he would in a few moments be reading again as calmly as ever. he took marley's hand, and wished him success; for the first time he spoke gently, almost affectionately to him, and although marley tried to bear himself stoically, the judge's farewell touched him more than all the others. the shameless children would have liked to remain and see the tragedy to its close, but mrs. blair drew them from the room with her. the last moment had come, and marley held lavinia in his arms; at last he tore himself from her, and it was over. he looked back from out the darkness; lavinia was still standing in the doorway; he saw her slender, girlish figure outlined against the hall light behind her; somehow he knew that she was bravely smiling through her tears. she stood there until his footfall sounded loud in the spring night, then the light went out, the door closed as he had heard it close so often, and she was gone. he saw the light in his father's study as he approached his home, and there came again that torturing sense: the sermon his father then was working on would be preached when he was far away; his mother, as he knew by the light in the sitting-room window, was waiting for him; she had waited there so many nights, and now she was waiting for the last time. she rose at his step, and took him to her arms the minute he entered the door. "be brave, dear," he said, stroking her gray hair; "be brave." he was trying so hard to be brave himself, and she was crying. he had not often seen her cry. she could not speak for many minutes; she could only pat him on the shoulder where her head lay. "remember, my precious boy," she managed to say at last, "that there's a strong arm to lean upon." he saw that she was turning now to the great faith that had sustained her in every trial of a life that had known so many trials; and the tears came to his own eyes. he would have left her for a moment but she followed him. he had an impulse he could not resist to torture himself by going over the house again; he went into the dining-room which in the darkness wore an air of waiting for the breakfast they would eat when he was gone; he went to the kitchen and took a drink of water, from the old habit he was now breaking; then he went up stairs and looked into his own room, at the neatly made bed where he was to sleep no more; at last he stood at the door of the study. he could catch the odor of his father's cigar, just as he had in standing there so many times before; he pushed the door open and felt the familiar hot, close, smoke-laden atmosphere which his father seemed to find so congenial to his studies. doctor marley took off his spectacles and pushed his manuscript aside, and marley felt that he never would forget that picture of the gray head bent in its earnest labors over that worn and littered desk; it was photographed for all time on his memory. his words with his father had always been few; there were no more now. "well, father," he said, "i've come to say good-by." his father pushed back his chair and turned about. he half-rose, then sank back again and took his son's hand. "good-by, glenn," he said. "you'll write?" "yes." "write often. we'll want to hear." "yes, write often," the doctor said. "and take care of yourself." "i will, father." "wait a moment." doctor marley was fumbling in his pocket. he drew forth a few dollars. "here, glenn," he said. "i wish it could be more." there was nothing more to do, or say. they went down stairs; marley's bag was waiting for him in the hall. he kissed his mother again and then again; he shook his father's hand, and then he went. "write often," his father called out to him, as he went down the walk. it was all the old man could say. the door closed, as the door of the blairs' had closed. inside doctor marley looked at his wife a moment. "well," he said, "he's gone." mrs. marley made no answer. "i suppose," he said, "i ought to have gone to the train with him." then he toiled up the stairs to his study and the sermon he was to preach when glenn was gone. marley walked rapidly down market street toward the depot; in the dark houses that suddenly had taken on a new significance to him, people were sleeping, people who would awake the next morning in macochee. he could not escape the torture of this thought; his mind revolved constantly about the mystery of his being still in macochee, still within calling distance, almost, of lavinia, of his father and mother, of all he loved in life, when in reality they had in an instant become as inaccessible to him as though the long miles of his exile already separated them. twenty minutes later, lavinia, in her room, mrs. marley, at her prayers, and doctor marley sitting in deep absorption at his desk, heard the sonorous whistle of a locomotive sound ominously over the dark and quiet town. chapter xxiv the gates of the city it was a relief to marley when morning came and released him from the reclining chair that had held his form so rigidly all the night. he had not taken a sleeper because he felt himself too poor, and he had somewhere got the false impression that comfort was to be had in the chair car. he had stretched himself in the cruel rack when the porter came through and turned the lights down to the dismal point of gloom, but he had not slept; all through the night the trainmen constantly passed through the car talking with each other in low tones; the train, too, made long, inexplicable stops; he could hear the escape of the weary engine, through his window he could see the lights of some strange town; and then the trainmen would run by outside, swinging their lanterns in the darkness, and calling to each other, and marley would fear that something had happened, or else was about to happen, which was worse. finally the train would creak on again, as if it were necessary to proceed slowly and cautiously through vague dangers of the night. through his window he could see the glint of rails, the two yards of gleaming steel that traveled always abreast of him. toward morning marley wearily fell asleep, and then the sorrow and heart-ache of his parting from lavinia and his home distorted themselves in fearful dreams. when he awoke at last, and looked out on the ugly prairie that had nothing to break its monotony but a few scraggly scrub-oak bushes, and some clumps of stunted trees, the dawn was descending from the gray sky. the car presented a squalid, hideous sight; all about him were stretched the bodies of sleeping passengers, flaccid, inert, having cast aside in utter weariness all sense of decency and shame; the men had pulled off their boots, and sprawled on the chairs, their stockinged feet prominently in view; women lay with open mouths, their faces begrimed, their hair in slovenly disarray. the baby that had been crying in the early part of the night had finally gone to sleep while nursing, and its tired mother slept with it at her breast. the jewish drummer across the aisle was sleeping in shirt-sleeves; his head had rolled from the little rest on the back of his chair and now lolled off his shoulder, his sallow face turned toward marley was greasy with perspiration; his closed eyes filled out their blue hemispherical lids, and his cheeks puffed with his intermittent snoring. at times his snoring grew so loud and so troubled that it seemed as if he must choke; he would reach a torturing climax, then suddenly the thick red lips beneath his black mustache would open, his sallow cheeks would collapse, and relief would come. marley wished the passengers would wake up and end the indecencies they had tried to hide earlier in the night. glancing up and down the long car he could recognize none of them as having been there when he had boarded the car at macochee; those who had got on with him had gone short distances, and then got off, breaking the last tie that bound him to his home. he found it impossible now to conceive of the car as having been in macochee so short a time before. presently he saw an old lady sitting up in the remote end of the car; she was winding her thin wisp of gray hair in a little knob at the back of her head. then, feeling that he might bestir himself, marley got up and went forward; he washed his face, and tried to escape the discomfort of clothes he had worn all the night by readjusting them. the train was evidently approaching the city; now and then he saw a building, lonely and out of place: on the hideous sand-dunes, as if it waited for the city, in the growth it boasted, to catch up with it. the train ran on; it had reached an ever-widening web of tracks; it passed long lines of freight-cars, stock-cars from the west, empty gondolas that had come with coal from the hocking valley; a switch tower swept by, its bell jangling peevishly in alarm; long processions of working-men trooped with their dinner-pails between the tracks. the train stopped, finally, still far from its destination. the air in the car was foul from the feculence of all those bodies that had lain in it through the night, and marley went out on the platform. he could hear the engine wheezing--the only sound to break the silence of the dawn. the cool morning air was grateful to marley, though it was not the air of the spring they were already having in macochee. he risked getting down off the platform and looked ahead. beyond the long train, coated with its black cinders, he saw chicago, dim through the morning light, lying dark, mysterious and grim under its pall of smoke. he shuddered and went back into the car. after a while the train creaked and strained and pulled on again. the passengers had begun to stir, and now were hastening to rehabilitate themselves in the eyes of the world; the woman with the baby fastened her dress, the drummer put on his collar and coat, the men drew on their boots, but it was long before they felt themselves presentable again. the women could achieve but half a toilet, and though they were all concerned about their hair, they could not make themselves tidy. the train was running swiftly, now that it was in the city, where it seemed it should have run more slowly; the newsboy came in with the morning papers, followed by the baggage agent with his jingling bunch of brass checks. the porter doffed his white jacket and donned his blue, and waited now for the end of his labors, so near at hand. he made no pretense of brushing his passengers, for those in his charge were plainly not of the kind with tips to bestow. as the train rushed over unknown streets, marley caught visions of the crowds blockaded by the crossing gates, street-cars already filled with people, empty trucks going after the great loads under which they would groan all the day; and people, people, people, ready for the new day of toil that had come to the earth. at last the train drew up under the black shed of the union station, and marley stood with the passengers that huddled at the door of the car. he went out and down; he joined the crowd that passed through the big iron gates into the station; and then he turned and glanced back for one last look at the train that had brought him; only a few hours before it had been in macochee; a few hours more and it would be there again. in leaving the train he felt that he was breaking the last tie that bound him to macochee, and he would have liked to linger and gaze on it. but a man in a blue uniform, with the official surliness, ordered him not to hold back the crowd. he climbed the steps, went out into canal street, ran the gantlet of the cabmen, and was caught up in the crowd and swept across the bridge into madison street. he was in chicago, and here among these thousands of people, each hurrying along through the sordid crowd to his own task, here in this hideous, cruel city, he must make a place for himself, and gain the foothold from which he could fight his battle for existence in the world. chapter xxv letters home "how does she seem since he went away?" asked judge blair of his wife two days after marley had gone. he spoke in his usual habit of deference to his wife's observation, though his own opportunities for observing lavinia might have been considered as great as hers. "i haven't noticed any difference in her," said mrs. blair, and then she added a qualifying and significant "yet." "well," observed the judge, "i presume it's too early. has she heard from him?" "she had a letter this morning; that is, i suppose it was from him; she ran to meet the postman, and then went up stairs." "you didn't mention it to her?" mrs. blair looked at her husband in surprise, and he hastened to make amends by acquiescing in the propriety of her conduct, when he said: "oh, of course not." he seemed to drop the subject then, but that it remained uppermost in his mind was shown later, when he said: "i think she will be weaned away from him after a while, don't you? that is--if he stays long enough." mrs. blair was not so hopeful; perhaps, too, in her romantic ideal of devotion, she did not wish lavinia to be weaned away. but she avoided a direct answer by the suggestion: "perhaps he will be weaned away from her." this possibility had not occurred to the judge. "why, the idea!" he said resentfully. "do you think him capable of such baseness?" mrs. blair laughed. "would you like to think of _your_ daughter as fickle, and forgetting a young man who was eating his heart out for her far away in a big city?" a condition of such mild romantic sorrow might have attracted mrs. blair in the abstract, but it could not of course appeal to her when it came thus personally. as for the judge, he dismissed the problem, as he had so many times before, with the remark: "well, we can only wait and see." the letter which lavinia received from marley had been written the day he reached chicago. it was a long letter, conceived largely in a facetious spirit, and he had labored over it far into the night in the little room of the boarding-house he had found in ohio street. "i chose ohio street," he wrote, "because its name reminded me of home. ohio street may once have been the street of the well-born, but it has degenerated and it is now the abode of a long row of boarding--places, one of which houses me. my room is a little corner eyrie in the second story, back, and from its one window i get an admirable view of the garbage dump, the atmosphere and certain intensely red bricks which go to make the wall of the house next door. and my landlady, ah, i should have to be a balzac to describe my landlady! she wears large, vociferous ear-rings, and she says 'y-e-e-a-a-s' for yes; just kind o' rolls it off her tongue as if she didn't care whether it ever got off or not. she is truly a beauteous lady, given much to a scarlet hue of her nasal appendage; also, her molar system is unduly prominent, too much to the fore, as it were. as for form or figure, i'm afraid i couldn't say with truth that she goes in for the sinuous, far from it; she leans more to the elephantine style of feminine architecture. and she has a way of reaching out that is very attractive; probably because of the necessity of reaching for room rent. she bears the air of one bent on no earthly thing, of a continual soaring in quest of the unexpected; there is about her the charm of the intangible, the unknowable. "the boarding-house itself isn't so bad; i get my room and two meals for three-fifty a week; my noon luncheons i have to take down-town. they have dinner here, you know, in the evening. i haven't seen much of the people in the boarding-house; the men are mostly clerks, and the women have bleached hair. they all looked at me when i went into the dining-room this evening. there is one young man who sits at my table who is in truth a very unwise and immature youth. he is given greatly to the use of words of awful and bizarre make-up. for instance, he said something about the jokes they get off in the shows here about irishmen, but instead of saying jokes, he said 'traversities'! what do you think of that?" marley had already described his journey to chicago in terms similar to those in which he described his boarding-house; of chicago itself he said: "it seems that ages ago when the gods, or maybe the demons, were making over plans and specifications of the infernal region, chicago was mentioned and considered by the committee. when it came to a vote for choice of sites the place that won had only three more votes than chicago. they didn't locate the brimstone plant here, and from what i can learn chicago was a candidate for both the plant and the honor. it was a mistake on somebody's part, as chicago is certainly an ideal place for it." but the letter discussed mostly the things of macochee, where marley's spirit still dwelt. the passages lavinia most liked, of course, were those in which he declared his love for her; it was the first love-letter she had ever received, and this tender experience went far to compensate her for the loneliness she felt in his absence. it grew upon her after she had read her letter many times, that it would be a kindness to take it over and read to mrs. marley those parts, at least, that were not personal. it was a hard thing for lavinia to do; she had a fear of mrs. marley; but she felt more and more the kindness of it, and so in the morning she set out. lavinia was surprised and a little disappointed, when mrs. marley told her that she too had received in the same mail a letter from glenn. it somehow took away from her own act, the more when mrs. marley calmly passed her letter over for lavinia to read. lavinia, who had not been able to resist a pang that marley had written his mother quite as promptly as he had written her, found some consolation in the fact that his letter to his mother was not nearly so long as his letter to her, and it contained, too, the same information; in some instances, identical phrases, as letters do that are written at the same time. she felt that she should be happy in them both, and she wished she could determine which of the letters had been written first. after she had read mrs. marley's letter, she could not speak for a moment; the letter closed with a description of the sensations it gave marley to open his trunk and come across the bible his mother had packed in it. but she controlled herself, and when she had finished reading parts of her own letter to mrs. marley, she said: "well, he seems to be in good spirits, doesn't he? he writes so amusingly of everything." mrs. marley looked up at lavinia with a curious smile. "why, don't you see?" she said. "what?" asked lavinia, glancing in alarm at the two letters which she still held in her lap. "why, the poor boy is dying of homesickness; that's what makes him write in that mocking vein." "do you think that is so?" lavinia leaned forward. "why, i know it," replied mrs. marley, with a little laugh. "he's just like his father." for a moment lavinia felt a satisfaction in marley's loneliness, but she denied the satisfaction when she said: "he'll get over it, after a while." "not for a long while, i'm afraid," said mrs. marley. "not until some one can be with him." lavinia blushed, and before she knew it mrs. marley had bent over and kissed her cheek. "he has a long hard battle before him, my dear," she said, "in a great cruel city. we must help him all we can." lavinia hesitated a moment, then she put her arms about mrs. marley and drew her down for the kiss which sealed their friendship. they sat and talked of marley for a long time, and at last when lavinia rose to go, she held out to mrs. marley the letter her son had written her. she looked at it a moment before handing it to mrs. marley. "would you like to keep it?" mrs. marley asked. "may i?" "if you wish. but you must come often; i shall be lonely now, you know, and you must bring his letters and read parts of them. he'll be writing so many more to you than he will to me." lavinia received a letter from marley every day; it was not long before clemmons, the postman, smiled significantly when, each morning at the sound of his whistle, she ran to meet him at the door. and lavinia wrote to marley as regularly herself, sitting at the little desk in her room every night long after the house was dark and still. the judge could find no hope in the observations mrs. blair reported to him. "she seems to have developed a new idea of constancy," said mrs. blair. "she will not allow herself to do a thing, or go to a single place; she will hardly accept any pleasure because he isn't here to share it. i believe she tries not to have a thought that is not of him. she is almost fanatical about it." "oh dear!" said the judge. "i thought the nightly calls were a severe strain, but they can not compare to the strain of nightly letters." "he writes excellent letters, however," mrs. blair said. "i wish you could read the one he wrote his mother. a boy who writes like that to his mother--" "how did you get to see a letter he wrote his mother?" interrupted the judge. "lavinia showed it to me." "has she been over there?" "yes. why?" the judge shook his head gravely, as if the situation were now hopeless, indeed. chapter xxvi the army of the unemployed "i am very tired to-night," marley wrote to lavinia a day or so later. "i have been making the rounds of the law offices; i have been to all the leading firms, but--here i am, still without a place. i thought i might get a place in one of them where i could finish my law studies, and make enough to live on, meanwhile; i had dreams of working into the firm in time, but they were only dreams, and all my hopes have gone glimmering. the men who are employed in the law offices are already admitted to the bar; most of them are young fellows, but some are old and gray-headed, and the sight of them gave me the blues. "i did not get to see many of the firm members themselves; their offices are formidable places. there is no office in macochee like them; they have big outer rooms, full of stenographers and clerks and there is a boy at a desk who makes you tell your business before you can get in to see any of the lawyers themselves. they seem to be mighty big, important fellows. most of them would not see me at all; several said they had no place for me and dismissed me with a kind of pitying smile; one man, when i asked him if he thought there was an opening, said he supposed there ought to be, as one lawyer in chicago had died of starvation only the day before. but some were kinder; one, whom i shall never forget, took pains to sit down and talk with me a long time, but he was no more encouraging than the others. he said the profession was terribly overcrowded, 'that is,' he corrected himself with a tired smile, 'if you can call it a profession any longer. it is more of a business nowadays and the only ones who get ahead are those who have big corporations for clients. how they all live is a mystery to me!' he thought i had better not undertake it and advised me to go into some business. but then most of them did that. "but i must tell you of my visit to judge johnson. you will remember my telling you of him; he was wade powell's chum in the law school in cincinnati, and mr. powell had given me a letter to him. i had a hard time seeing him; the hardest of all. when i went into the big stone government building he was holding court, and a lawyer was making an argument before him. i waited till they were all done, and then when the crier had adjourned court--he said 'oyez, oyez, oyez,' instead of the 'hear ye, hear ye, hear ye' we have in ohio; it sounded so old and quaint, even if he did say 'oh yes,' for 'oyez!' it comes from the old norman-french, you know; ask your father about it, he'll explain it--i tried to get in to him. i succeeded at last, but it was hard work. he didn't seem glad to see me; he looked at me coldly, and made me feel as if i ought to hurry up and state my business promptly and get away. when i gave him wade powell's letter he put on his gold glasses and read it; but--what do you think?--i don't believe he remembered wade powell at all! at least he seemed not to. of course he may have been putting it on. wouldn't it make wade powell mad to know that? i'd give a dollar--and i haven't any to spare either--to see him when he hears that his old friend, judge johnson of the united states circuit court, couldn't remember him! well, the judge didn't let me detain him long, he looked at his watch a moment, and then he advised me not to try it in chicago; he said there were too many lawyers here anyhow, and that he thought a young man made a mistake in coming to a city at all. "'why don't you stay in a small town?' he asked, looking at me sternly over his glasses. 'living is cheaper there, and life is much more simple than it is in the cities. i've often wished i had stayed in a little town.' "i came away, as you can imagine, feeling pretty much cast down and humbled in spirit. there are four thousand lawyers in chicago; just think of it, almost as many lawyers as there are people in macochee! as i walked through the crowded streets with men and women rushing along, i wondered how they all lived. what do they do? where are they all going, and how do they get a place to stand on? as i came across the bridge over to the north side i felt that there was no place for me here in this great, dirty, ugly city, just as there is no place for me back in peaceful macochee, where every minute of the day i long to be. anyway, i am sure that there is no place for me here in the law, and i shall have to look for something else. i see so much wretchedness and poverty and squalor; it is in the street everywhere--pale, gaunt men, who look at you out of sick, appealing eyes. "this morning i saw a sight down-town that filled me with horror; it was noon, and a great crowd of ragged men were waiting in front of the _daily news_ office in fifth avenue. they were all standing idly and yet expectantly about; i stood and watched them. presently, as at some signal, they all rushed for the office door, and then all at once they seemed to be enveloped in a white, rustling cloud. each one had a newspaper, and they all turned to one page and began to read rapidly; sometimes two or three men bent over the same paper; in another moment they had scattered, going in all directions. then it flashed upon me: they had been waiting for the noon edition of the paper and the page they had all turned to was the page with the 'want ads' on it; they were all looking for jobs! it made me inexpressibly sad. i do not wish to inflict my own sorrow upon you, dear heart, but it made me shudder; what if i--but no, the thought is too horrible to mention. and yet i, too, belong to this great army of the unemployed. "as i write the clock in the steeple of a church a block away chimes the hour of midnight; so you see that i've retained my nocturnal habits. when the poets of a coming generation sing of me (as they doubtless will, after my death) their songs will be called nocturnes." that same day doctor marley received a letter from his son which mrs. marley, though her husband passed it over to her to read, did not show to lavinia. it ran: "it's rather expensive living here, i find; especially for one who belongs to the great army of the unemployed. my contract with my basiliscine landlady calls for two meals a day and a bed at night--also for three-fifty per week in payment of said two meals and bed. my lunches i get down-town; that is, i did get them down-town; for two days i have gone without lunches, and the aforesaid landlady looks reproachfully at me at night when she sees me laying in an extra supply of dinner. i don't mind the lack of the lunches, even if she does, but i'll have to pay her in a day or so now. i'm in poor spirits to-night, so can't write well; cause of said low mental temperature, only eighty cents in the world between me, my landlady and ultimate starvation. it's funny how much hungrier a fellow gets as the food supply gets low. a word to the wise, etc. "what do you think? i met charlie davis on the street this morning. he is living here now, working in some big department store. my, it was good to see some one from macochee! how small the world is, after all! "how are you all? how is dolly? does smith johnson still clap his hands at his dog every evening as he comes home, and does the dog run out to meet him as joyously as of yore? and does hank delphy still go down-town in his shirt-sleeves? and has charlie fouly had any fits in the square lately? and, father, has mother got a girl yet? give her an ocean of love and tell her not to work too hard, and to let the heathen shift for themselves a while. they haven't any trusts to monopolize the jobs as yet, and they ought to be able to get along. oh, how i'd like to see you all! answer all my questions: i propounded numerous ones to you. i don't remember now what all of them were, but i know they were all momentous and had much to do with my well-being, spiritual and physical, not to say financial. and see that the moss doesn't get too thickly overlaid on my memory." marley's new life in chicago, as somewhat vaguely reflected in his letters, impressed those who had a sense of having been left behind in macochee, as but a continuation of the life he had led there, that is, it was presented to them as one long, hopeless search for employment. he told of his daily tramps up and down the city, of his dutiful applications for work in every place where the boon of work might be bestowed, and of the unvarying refusals of those in whose hands had been intrusted, by some inscrutable decree of the providence of economics, the right to control the opportunity of labor. it was as if the primal curse of earning his bread were in a fair way to be taken from man, had not the primal necessity of eating his bread continued unabated. the routine through which he went each day had begun to weary marley, and it might have begun to weary his readers in macochee, had they not all felt their own fortunes somehow bound up with his. he apologized in his nightly letters for the monotony of their recitals, but he hoped it might be condoned as the most realistic portrayal of his life that he could give. he tried at times to give his letters a lighter tone by describing, with a facility that grew with practice, the many incidents that attracted him in a city whose life was all so new and strange to him; he could not help a growing interest in it all, and while lavinia was probably unconscious of the change, his letters were now less concerned with the things of the life he had left in macochee, and more and more with the things of the life he had entered upon in chicago; as on a palimpsest, the old impressions were erased to make way for new ones. but try as he would to give to his letters a cheer that was far from expressing his own spirit, he could not save them from the despair that was laying hold of him, a despair which finally communicated itself in the declaration that it was now no longer with him a question of selecting employment. "i must take," he wrote, "whatever i can get, and that will probably be some kind of manual, if not menial, work. sometimes," so he let himself go on, "i feel as if i would give up and go back to macochee, defeated and done for. but i can not come to that yet, though i would like to; oh, how i would like to! but i don't dare, my pride won't let me act the part of a coward, though i know i am one at heart. one thing keeps me up and that is the thought of you; i see your face ever before me, and your sweet eyes ever smiling at me--" lavinia's eyes were not smiling as she read this; and she poured out her own grief and sympathy in a long letter that she promptly tore up, to pen in its stead a calmer, braver one, that should hearten him in the struggle which, as she proudly assured him, he was making for her. marley's description of his straits partly prepared lavinia for the shock of the letter in which he said he had found a job at last, but she was hardly prepared to learn that it was anything so far from her conception of what was due him as a job trucking freight for a railroad. the mockery he put into the picture of himself in a blue jumper and overalls could not console her, and she kept the truth from every one, except her mother; she preferred rather that they number marley still with the army of the unemployed than to count him among those who toiled so desperately with the muscles of their arms and backs. she tried to conceal in encouraging congratulations the chagrin of which she felt she should be ashamed, and she tried to show her appreciation of his droll sarcasms about the preparation his four years of college had given him for the task of trundling barrels of sugar and heaving pianos down from box-cars. "i'm sure it's honest work," she wrote, "but do be careful, dear, not to hurt yourself in lifting such heavy loads." it was a comfort to remind him that he was not intended to do such work. there was a relief, however, that she did not dare admit, when he told her three days later that he had lost his job. "i realize for the first time my importance in the great scheme of things," he wrote. "i was fired because i do not belong to the freight handlers' union. it took them three days to find this out, and then they threatened to strike if the railroad company did not immediately discharge me. the railroad company, after due consideration, decided to let me out, and--i'm out. it makes me tremble to think of the consequences that would have followed had they decided otherwise. think of it! the railroad tied up, business at a standstill and the commerce of the nation paralyzed, and all because of glenn marley, a. b. it is really encouraging to know that my presence on the earth is actually known to my fellow-mortals; it has at least been discovered that i am alive and in chicago, even if my diploma is not recognized by freight handlers' union no. . and now," he concluded, "as kipling says, it's 'back to the army again, sergeant, back to the army again'--the army of the unemployed." lavinia was shocked again a day or so later when on opening her letter she met the announcement that he had been offered a job with another railroad as a freight handler. "but you need not be alarmed," she was reassured to read--though it was not until she thought it all over afterward that she began to wonder how he had divined her dislike of his being in such work--"i haughtily declined, and turned them down. you see this road is just now in the throes of a strike, and all their freight handlers are out. consequently, they have had to employ scabs to do the work of the strikers. they take anybody--that's why they were ready to take me. but as i said, i declined. somehow, i couldn't bring myself to take a place away from a union man." lavinia mistook her satisfaction in marley's declination of the position for a satisfaction in the nobility of his sacrifice, and in her elation she related the circumstance at dinner. now that marley had declined such an employment she felt safe in doing this. but her father did not see it in her light, or at least in marley's light. "humph!" he sneered; "so he sympathizes with unionism, does he? well, those unions will own the whole earth if they keep on." "but he says he thought of the wives and children of the union men--" "well, but why doesn't he think of the wives and children of the scabs, as he calls them? they have as much right to live and work as the union men." lavinia, as an opponent of union labor herself, could not answer this argument, though she felt it her duty to defend marley. but before she could proceed in his defense, her father, strangely enraged at the mere mention of the policies of the unions, hurried on: "the union didn't show any consideration for him when it took his other job away from him." lavinia shot a reproachful glance at her mother, who did not see it because she was shooting a glance more than reproachful at her husband, and it had the effect of silencing and humbling the judge, as all of lavinia's arguments, or all of the arguments known to the propaganda of union labor, could not have done. chapter xxvii a foothold the next letter the postman gave lavinia began ecstatically: "i've got a job at last! i'm now working for the c. c. and p. railroad, in their local freight office, and i'm not trucking freight either, but i'm a clerk--a bill clerk, to be more exact. my duties consist in sitting at a desk and writing out freight bills, for which by some inscrutable design of providence my study of common carriers and contracts in the law was doubtless intended to prepare me. "to-day i wrote out a bill for freight to cook and jennings, macochee, ohio, and you can imagine my sensations. it made me homesick for a while; i wished that by some necromancy i might conceal myself in the bill and go to macochee with it; i had a notion to write a little word of greeting on the bill, but i didn't; it might have worried old man cook's brain and he couldn't stand much of a strain of that kind. but i'm getting nearer macochee every day now. i guess i'm to be a railroad man after all, and some day you'll be proud to tell your friends that i started at the bottom. 'oh, yes,' you'll be boasting, 'mr. marley began as a common freight trucker; and worked his way up to general manager.' then we'll go back to macochee in my private car. i can see it standing down by the depot, on the side track close to market street, baking in the hot sun, and the little boys from across the tracks will be crowding about it, gaping at the white-jacketed darky who'll be getting the dinner ready. we'll have jack and mayme down to dine with us, and your father and mother and chad and connie, and my folks, too, and maybe, if you'll let me, wade powell. then, of course, the macochee people will think better of me; they won't be saying that i'm no good, but instead they'll stand around, in an easy, careless way, and say, 'oh, yes, i knew glenn when he was a boy. i always said he'd get up in the world.' "but, ah me, just now i'm a bill clerk at fifty dollars a month, thank you, and glad of the chance to get it; so is my voluptuous landlady glad; she'll get her board money a little more regularly now. "i suppose you'll want to know something about my surroundings. they are not elegant; the office is a big barn of a place, crowded full of desks, where we sit and write from eight in the morning until any hour at night when it occurs to the boss to tell us we can go. last night it was ten o'clock before the idea struck him. they kindly allow us an hour in which to run out to a restaurant for supper. the windows in the office were washed, so tradition runs, in , the year after columbus landed. outside, the freight trains rush by constantly so as to keep the noise going. my boss, whose name is clark, strikes me as being a sort of fool of an innocuous sort. he is a conscientious ass, but a poor, unfortunate, deluded simpleton. he's one of those close-fisted reubs whose chief care is the pennies, and whose only interest in life is the c. c. and p. railroad. he makes his business his own personal affair and the c. c. and p. his god. he lunches down-town and pays twenty cents for his lunch, never more, often fifteen. one of the first things he told me was, now that i had come under his protecting wing, to begin to save money. they have a young man in the office here, whose desk is next to mine, who was born somewhere in canada, and is always 'a-servin' of her majesty the queen,' as kipling says. he told me with much gusto how he had hung out of the office window last new year's a canadian flag. he seemed proud of having done so, and also told me, boasted to me, in fact, that he was going to hang the same flag out of the same window on the fourth of july. 'oh, yes, you are!' thinks i. so i got the flag and ripped it into shreds and started it through the waste-basket on a hurried trip to oblivion. _� bas_ the canadian flag! he'll probably get another one, but if i get hold of it, it'll meet the same fate as the first one. then i have something to think of that'll keep my mind off my horrible fate in being here in chicago, while i smile in ghoulish glee with a cynical leer overspreading my classic features, at the young man's disapproval of my actions. the rest of the men in the office aren't much to boast of. they're a diluted mixture of nijni norgordian and bill hoffman the jeweler. i still hate this town; i wish it were buried under seven hundred and thirty feet of lake michigan." marley's next letter to lavinia opened thus: "extract from the diary of j. h. anderson, esq., canadian, clerk in the freight office of the c. c. and p. ry., at chicago, ill., april . "'new man on desk next to mine; young, about . rather decent fellow, but conceited. do not think he will last. took me to lunch with him this evening.' "now what do you think of that? the youth i described to you at such length keeps a diary, and the foregoing is culled therefrom. he left it by some mistake on top of his desk, and i picked it up innocently enough to-night, to see what it was, and that was the first thing my eye lit on. he is evidently an adept at coming to conclusions, apparently he can sum one up in two whisks of a porter's broom. i was much surprised to find myself so well done. done on every side in those few words. i've rather enjoyed it; strikes me as being uproariously funny. maybe his dictum is correct. you'll agree with me as to his richness. tell every one about it and see what they will think. tell your mother and my mother. tell jack and give him a chance to laugh. tell mayme carter, too." lavinia ran at once to her mother. "listen," she said. and she read it. mrs. blair laughed. "how funny!" she said, "and how well he writes! i should think he'd go into literature." lavinia laid the letter down in her lap and looked at her mother as if she had been startled by a striking coincidence. "why, do you know, i've thought of that very thing myself." "but read on," urged mrs. blair. lavinia picked up the letter again and began: "well, de--" "oh," she exclaimed, blushing hotly, "i can't read you that. let's see--" she leafed over the letter, one, two, three, four sheets. mrs. blair was smiling. "aren't you leaving out the best parts?" she asked archly. "oh, there's nothing," lavinia said, not looking up. "but--oh, well, this is all. he says-- "'there is a good deal of unrest and uneasiness here just now, because the first of may is coming. the road is anticipating trouble with the freight handlers; they may go out on a strike that day.' "oh, dear," sighed lavinia, "more strikes, and i suppose that means more trouble for glenn." "why, the strike of those men can't affect him," mrs. blair assured her. "he's a clerk now." "yes, i know, but what if he gets the notion he ought to help them by quitting too?" chapter xxviii the talk of the town macochee's common interest in marley was sharpened by his leaving town, and out of the curiosity that raged, lawrence and mayme carter one evening made a call on lavinia. "well, lavinia," said lawrence, almost as soon as they were seated in the parlor, "what's the news about glenn? how's he getting along?" "oh, pretty well," she said, smiling. "does he like chicago?" "oh, yes; that is, fairly well." "run get his letters and let us read them." "why, jack! the idea!" mayme rebuked him. but lavinia instantly got up. "well, i'll read you part of one or two," she said. "he can tell you much better than i all about himself." she was gone from the room a moment and then returned with two thick envelopes. "my, lavinia, you don't intend to read all that, do you?" lawrence made a burlesque of looking at his watch. "oh, you needn't be afraid," said lavinia, smiling. she opened a letter. "here's one that came several days ago. he mentions you both in this one." "you don't mean to say he connects our names?" lawrence affected consternation. "can't you be serious a moment?" mayme said, "i want to hear what he says; do go on, lavinia, and don't mind jack." lavinia read the extract from the diary and marley's comment. "doesn't he say anything about you?" said lawrence. "why don't you read that? you skip the most interesting parts. you'd better let me read them. here--" and he held out his hand for the letter. but lavinia laid one letter securely in her lap and opened the other. "listen to this," she began, and then she glanced over the first page and half-way down the second. "here you're skipping again," cried lawrence. "why don't you play fair?" "'i have made a friend,' he says," she began, "'and it all came about through the strike. you know the freight handlers went out on the first of may, and since then there has been more excitement than work in the office. the freight house is stacked high with freight, and only a few men are working there and they are afraid of their lives. all around the outside of the big, long shed are policemen and detectives, and the strikers' pickets. all day they walk up and down, up and down, at a safe distance, just off the company's ground, and they waylay everybody and try to get them not to go to work here. i happened to see the strike when it began. it was day before yesterday morning. i had gone out in the freight house on some little errand and just at ten o'clock i noticed a man walk down by the platform that runs along outside the shed. i saw him stop by one of the big doors and look in. suddenly he gave a low whistle, then another. the men in the freight house stopped and looked up. then the man outside raised his arm, and held up two fingers--'" "he wanted them to go swimming probably," interrupted lawrence. "oh, jack, do stop," said mayme, irritably. "right at the most interesting part, too! do go on, lavinia." lavinia read on: "'then the man outside raised his arm, and held up two fingers, and instantly every truck in the shed dropped to the floor, bang, the men all went and put on their coats, marched out of the freight house--and the strike was on. well, after that came the policemen and the detectives and the pickets, to say nothing of the reporters. it is about these last that i mean to tell you, for among them i have found this new friend. the other day a young man came into the office to see clark, our boss. i was attracted by him at once. he was tall, and his smooth-shaven face was refined and thoughtful; i call him good-looking; his eyes were dark and his nose straight and full of character; his lips were thin and level; his hair was not quite black and stopped just on the right side of being curly. he was dressed modestly, but stylishly; i remember he wore gloves--he always does--and i thought him somewhat dudish. but what was my pleasure to see on his waistcoat the little white cross of my fraternity! i rushed up to him instantly, and gave him the grip. he was a sig., from an indiana college, and he is a reporter on the _courier_. his name is james weston; no, he is no relation to bob weston of macochee at all. i asked him that the first thing; but he is some relation to the cliffords, distant, i suppose.'" "i wonder if that isn't the young man who visited them summer before last?" asked mayme. "i'll bet it is!" "no, it can't be," said lavinia, "i thought of that the very first thing, but you see he says," and lavinia read on: "'he says he hasn't been there for years. we chatted together for a few minutes and were friends at once. to-morrow night, if i can get off in time, i'm to dine with him at a café down-town. my, but it was good to see some one wearing that little white cross! you see my college training has done me some good after all.'" in their conversation afterward, lavinia and mayme celebrated marley's abilities as a writer, but lawrence begged lavinia to read them more, particularly, as he assured her, those parts about herself, saying he could judge better of marley's abilities after he heard how he treated romantic subjects. "i want to know how he handles the love interest," he said. "oh, you got that from george halliday," said mayme. "it sounds just like him when he's discussing some book none of us has read, doesn't it, lavinia?" lavinia admitted that it did sound like halliday, and mayme returned to her attack on lawrence by saying: "what do you know about writing, anyway?" they might have gone farther along this line had not mrs. blair entered with a plate of cake and some ice-cream that had been left over from their dessert at supper. these refreshments instantly seemed to affect mayme with the idea that the call had assumed the formality of a social function, and as she nibbled at her cake, she asked with a polite interest: "just what is mr. marley's position with the railroad, lavinia?" "oh," lavinia answered, "he has a place in the office of the freight department; he's a clerk there." "i'm so glad to know," said mayme, as if in relief. "why?" lavinia looked up in alarm. "oh, well, you know--how people talk." mayme raised her pale eyebrows significantly. lavinia was disturbed, but lawrence, detecting the danger, instantly turned it off in a joke. "she heard he was a section hand," he said. "the idea!" laughed lavinia. "isn't this just the worst place for gossip you ever heard of?" said mayme. "the worst ever," said lawrence. "if i were you i'd quit and start a reform movement." when they had gone and were strolling toward the carters', lawrence grumbled at mayme: "what did you want to give it all away to lavinia for?" "why, jack, i didn't say anything, did i?" "oh, no, nothing--only you tipped off the whole thing to her." "why, what did i say that hinted at it, even?" "'oh, you know how people talk!'" lawrence mimicked her tone as he repeated her words. "well, you know they do, jack, and you know all the mean things they've been saying about glenn. and you remember charlie davis' mother told mama that charlie ran across him in the street: in chicago and that--" "oh, charlie davis!" said lawrence, as impatiently as he could say anything. "what's he? anyway, you didn't have to tell lavinia." "well, i'm glad we got the truth anyway." "yes, so am i." "we must tell everybody." "sure," acquiesced lawrence, "if we can get the gossips started the other way they'll have him president of the road in a few days." chapter xxix a man of letters the macochee gossips, after they were assured he was engaged in clerical, and not manual work, might have promoted marley much more rapidly than his railroad would have done, had it not been for the news that he had changed his employment. they had gone far enough to noise it about that marley was chief clerk in the office, where he was only a bill clerk, when the _republican_, with the impartial good nature with which it treated all of macochee's folk, so long as they kept out of politics, mentioned him for the first time since his departure, and then, to tell of the advancement he was rapidly making in the metropolis that loomed so large and important in their provincial eyes. lavinia had the facts in a letter from marley a day or so before the _republican_ had them, though she never could imagine, as she told everybody, where the _republican_ got its information. "i have a big piece of news to tell you," he wrote. "last night i dined with weston. it was the first really enjoyable evening i have had since i struck the town. luckily, the strikers had everything tied up so tight that we could do little work, and i had no trouble in getting off in time. i met him about six o'clock, and we went to the swellest restaurant in town. weston is the finest fellow you ever saw; as it was pay night, he said he would blow me off to a good dinner. and he did, the best dinner i have ever eaten; there were half a dozen courses, and as we ate we talked, talked about everything, college days, the hard days that come after college, and you, and everything. weston's experience has been about the same as mine--one long, hopeless search for a job. he, however, did not wait so long as i did; he said that he realized there was no place for him in a small town, and so he set out for the city almost at once. his father wanted him to study medicine, but he said he hadn't the money or the patience to wait, and he hated medicine anyway, and, as newspaper work offered the quickest channel to making a living he chose that. his secret ambition, he confessed, is literature, and i believe he is writing a book, but he would not, or did not, tell me as much. he says he thinks newspaper work a bad business for any one to get into, but then i have discovered that that is the way every man talks about his own calling. "after we had finished our dinner, we sat there for a long, long time over our coffee and cigarettes, and we finally got to talking about the strike. weston, you know, has been working on it, and i was glad to be able to tell him a good many things he said he could use. finally, i don't know just how it came about, but i told him how the strike started with us, about the man appearing in the street alongside the freight house, whistling, and then holding up two fingers--i think i described it to you in a letter the other night. weston was greatly interested; i can see him still, sitting across the table from me, knocking the ashes from his cigarette into his empty coffee-cup and looking so intently at me out of his brown eyes that he almost embarrassed me. and what was my surprise when i finished to have him say: "'by jove, marley, i'll have to use that. i've been wondering how to lead my story to-night.' "now you know the strike at our place occurred several days ago, but since then it has been spreading, and to-day the men on another road walked out. this morning when i picked up the _courier_ and turned to the strike news, here is what i read, under big head-lines: "'a short man with a brown derby hat cocked over his eye walked leisurely down canal street at ten o'clock yesterday morning. the short man walked a block and then turned and walked back. at the open door of the c. and a.'s big freight house he stopped. suddenly he whistled, once, twice, thrice, in low notes. then he raised his hand with a gesture that was graceful and yet commanding, and held up two fingers. inside the freight house the men who were heaving away at the big bales and boxes, attracted by the whistle, paused in their labor and looked up; they saw the man raise his two fingers; and, with the discipline of well-trained troops, they dropped their trucks, put on their coats and marched out of the freight house. and the alton had been added to the list of railroads whose men were on strike.' "of course, i was surprised and puzzled, and a little pleased too, that i had had a hand in the article. as i read it, though, i thought of a hundred details i might have told weston, and i began to wish i had written the account myself. this afternoon he came around to the office again, and the first thing he said was: "'did you see your story this morning?' "i told him i had, of course. 'but,' i added, 'that was the way it happened on our road; not on the alton.' "but he only laughed, and said something about the tricks of the trade. "and now for the news i was going to tell you. i told weston, as we talked the story over, of my little wish that i had written the article myself, and he looked at me intently for a moment. then he said: "'how'd you like to break into newspaper business?' "my heart leaped; it came to me suddenly that it wasn't the law, nor railroad work, but journalism that i wanted to enter. i told him so frankly and he said: "'well, it's a dog's life and i don't know whether i'm doing you a good turn or not, but i'll speak to the city editor tonight. he's a little short of men just now. "my heart is in my mouth. i can hardly wait till to-morrow, when i'm to see him again. think of it, dear, and all it means! it means more money, association with men of my own kind, men like weston, and a fine, interesting life; and it means you; oh, it means you!" marley was able in this letter to communicate to lavinia some of his enthusiasm and some of his suspense, and she found it difficult to await the result of his next interview with weston. she began to count the hours until marley and weston should meet again, and then in a flash it came over her that they had doubtless already met, that the decision was already known, the fate determined, and she was still in ignorance. she had a sense of mystery in it, and she grew impatient, wondering why he did not telegraph. the next day came, and a letter with it; but the letter did not decide anything. marley wrote that weston had spoken to the city editor, and that he had told him to bring marley around that evening. and so, other hours of waiting, and then, at last, another letter. marley announced the result with what self-repression he could command. "it's settled," he wrote. "i'm to go to work monday--as a reporter on the staff of the _courier_. the salary to begin with is to be fifteen dollars a week. i'm glad to quit railroad work; i'm not built to be a railroad man; i can't adhere to rules as they want me to, and i can't bow down as it seems i should. i didn't tell you that my boss and i had not been getting along very well lately; i thought i wouldn't worry you. i was glad to be able to tell him to-day that i'd quit saturday. i did it in a proud and haughty manner; he seemed surprised and shocked--even pained. and when i broke the news gently to the young canuck he expressed great sorrow and regret, but in his secret heart i knew he was glad, for now as a prophet he can vindicate himself, at least partly, in his diary." lavinia was glad that marley had gone into newspaper work; much as she had tried she had not been able to conceive of him in exactly the ideal light as a clerk in a railroad office; that position, while it may have had its own promise, nevertheless did not envelope him in the atmosphere she considered native to him. in his new relation to literature, which, in her ignorance, she confounded with journalism, she felt a deep satisfaction, and a new pride, and she was glad when the _republican_ announced the fact of marley's new position; she felt that it was a fitting vindication of her lover in the eyes of the people of macochee and a rebuke for the distrust they had shown in him. thereafter her mail was increased, for in addition to his letter marley sent her the _courier_ with his work marked; often he marked weston's as well, and early in june he wrote: "i want you to read weston's story in sunday's paper about the derby; it's a peach; it's the best piece of frill writing that the town has seen in many a day." the tone of marley's letters now became more cheerful; it was evident to lavinia that he was finding an interest in life, and in his descriptions of his daily work and the places all over chicago it took him to and the people of all sorts it brought him in contact with, she found a new interest for her own life. when he wrote that his salary had been increased because of his story about a sunday evening service in a church of the colored people in dearborn street, it seemed to her that happiness at last had come to them, and if, with the passing of june, she felt a pang at marley's grieving in one of his letters that this was the month in which they had intended to be married, she was consoled by the rapid progress he was making in his work. his salary had been raised a second time; he was receiving now twenty-five dollars a week; it seemed large to her, and she could not understand why it did not seem large to marley, even when he wrote that weston was paid forty dollars a week. her chief joy, perhaps, lay in the fact that he seemed to be living more comfortably than he had before. now that he had left his dismal boarding-house she found a relief from its subtly communicated influence of the stranded wrecks of life, as marley surely found it in the apartments he was sharing with weston. she parted as gladly from the knowledge of his landlady as marley did himself, assuring her that the landlady had "not decreased any in value as a zoo exhibit since first i rhapsodized about her." lavinia felt that she could dispense with much of the worry her womanly concern for his comfort had given her, and she turned with a new joy to the books he was constantly recommending. "did you ever read," he wrote, "turgenieff's _fathers and sons_? i know that you didn't and therefore i know what a treat you have coming. i'll send you the book if you can't get it in macochee, and i presume you can't. snider's sign 'drugs and books' is a lure to deceive an unwary public that doesn't care as much for books as it does for soda-water; and the stock there, as i recall it, consists largely of forty-cent editions of books on which the copyright has expired, and which, printed on cheap, pulp paper, are to be introduced for the first time to the natives of macochee. i wish you could see weston's little book-case, with its rows of his favorites. besides turgenieff and tolstoi--he says the russians are the greatest novel writers the world has yet produced--he has all of george eliot; i have just read over again _middlemarch_ and _daniel deronda_. he likes jane austen, too, and he says you would like her; i haven't read any but _emma_ as yet. i'm going to read them all. and if you like, you can read the set of little volumes i am sending you to-day; we can read them thus together. and henry james--do read him--_daisy miller_ especially; you will like that. besides these, weston has most of ibsen's plays, and sometimes he reads parts of them aloud to me; he reads them well. some day, he says, he's going to write a play himself; he is fond of the theater, and we often go. one of the fine things about being on a newspaper is that we get theater tickets, though we can't always get tickets to the theater we want. now and then the dramatic editor--a fine old fellow with a magnificent shock of white hair, who may be seen about the office late at night looking very _distingué_ in his evening clothes--gets weston to write a criticism on some play; and often the literary editor lets him review books. weston said to-day he'd get the literary editor to let me review some books, and when i told him i didn't know how, he laughed in a strange way and said that wouldn't make the slightest difference. there's another book you _must_ read, and that is _a modern instance_. the chief character is bartley hubbard, a newspaper man. weston and i had a big argument about the character to-day. i said i thought it was a libel on the newspaper profession and weston laughed and said it was only the truth, and that i'd agree with him after i'd been in the work longer. 'newspaper work isn't a profession anyway,' he said, 'but a business.' he speaks of journalism--though he won't call it journalism, nor let me--just as lawyers speak of the law. he is urging me, by the way, to keep up my law studies, and i'm thinking of going to the law school here, if i find i can carry it on with my other work. weston declares i can; he says a man has to carry water on both shoulders if he wants to amount to anything in the world--wade powell said something like that to me once. weston says i'll want to get out of newspaper work after a while. he disturbed me a little to-day, and he hurt me, too, by saying that a newspaper man has no business to be married; and he knows all about you, too. of course, he didn't mean to hurt me, it's merely his way of looking at things." happy as she was, lavinia still had to have her woman's worries, and they began to express themselves in constant adjuration to marley to guard his health; she feared the effect of night work, and she feared, too, that he could not carry on his law studies and do his duty as a reporter at the same time. she sympathized with the spirit of pride and determination which made him wish to finish his law studies and be admitted to the bar, but she found a greater satisfaction in thinking of him as a journalist than as a lawyer; the figure he thus presented to her mind was so much more romantic than the prosaic one of a lawyer to which she had been all her life accustomed; on a large metropolitan daily he was almost as romantic to her as an army officer or a naval officer would have been. and while she did not like the night work, and had her fears of it for marley, she nevertheless felt strongly its picturesque quality. the picture marley drew in one of his letters of the strange shifting of the scene that is to be observed in the streets of a great city as darkness falls, when those that work in the prosaic day disappear and in their places appears the vast and mysterious army of the toilers by night, many of them in callings demanding the cover of the night, thrilled her strangely. but she did not know how from all the temptations of the irregular life he was leading he was saved, partly by the gentle friend he had found in james weston, but more by the constant thought of the girl whom he had left behind at home. chapter xxx home again marley, after a year or more in chicago, found the excitement of his first return home growing upon him as he looked out the car window and long before the train entered the borders of gordon county he eagerly began watching for familiar things. in the spirit of holiday which had come in this his first vacation, he had felt justified in taking a chair in the parlor car, though from the associations he had formed in his newspaper work it was more difficult now for him to resist than to yield to extravagances. he had recalled with a smile how in those first hard days in the freight office he had joked about going home in a private car, and he had had all day a childish pleasure in pretending that the empty pullman was a private car; he could almost realize such a distinction when he showed the conductor the pass his newspaper had got for him. but even if he now felt glad that he was a newspaper man instead of a railroad man, he was quite willing to return to macochee on any terms. he had tried to convince himself that he knew the very moment the train swept across the indiana line into ohio, and he felt a fine glow of state pride. he held his pride somewhat in check until he heard some one speak a name that he recognized as that of an ohio town and then he boasted to the porter: "well, i'm back in my own state again." the porter, though ready to admit that ohio was a pretty good old state, was nevertheless not very responsive, and marley saw that he would have to enjoy his sensations all alone. he could view with satisfaction the figure of a tolerably well-dressed city man reflected in the long mirror that swayed with the rushing of the heavy coach. he knew that his return would create a sensation in macochee, though he was resolved to be modest about it. even if he was not returning to macochee in the ceremony he had dreamed of, he was returning in a way that was distinguished enough for him and for macochee. he was eager to see the old town; he tried to imagine his return in its proper order and sequence, first, the little depot, blistering in the hot sun of the august afternoon, the rails gleaming in front of it, and the air above them trembling in the heat; he could see the baggage trucks tilted up on the platform; from the eating-house came the odor of boiled ham compromised by the smell of the grease frying on the scorching cinders that were heaped about the ties; beyond was the grain elevator that once appeared so monstrous in his eyes; across the tracks, the weed-grown field; and the only living things in sight the two men unloading agricultural machines from a box-car abandoned on a siding, the only sound, the ticking of a telegraph instrument; the target was set, but the station officials had not yet appeared. thence, in thought, he went up miami street; he saw the court house and, lounging along the stone base of the fence, the loafers whom no one had ever seen move, but who yet must have made some sort of imperceptible astronomical progress, for they kept always just in the shadow of the building; then the old law office across the way; then main street, with its crazy signs, its awnings, and the horses hitched to the racks, then the square with its old gabled buildings, the monument and the cavalryman, the long street leading to his own home, and at last, ward street, arched by its cottonwoods,--and he recalled his unfinished verses which had taken ward street for a subject: "i know a place all pastoral, where streams in winter flow, and where down from the cottonwoods there falls a summer snow." and then, at last, the old house of the blairs' with its cool veranda, its dark bricks, its broad overhanging cornices, and lavinia standing in the doorway! he had never forgotten the anguish of his parting that night in spring, and he had looked forward to this return as an experience that would expiate it, and restore the lost balance of his life. but now as he thought of his life in chicago, of the new scenes and associations, it came to him that that night after all had been final; the youth who had then gone forth had indeed gone forth never to return; another being was coming back in his stead. he had been successful in a way which at first flattered his pride, but a new sense of proportion had been growing in him that had lately made him mistrust newspaper work; he had for it a dislike almost as definite as that which used to displease him in weston. he was growing tired of his life as a reporter; it had so many irregularities, so many hardships; it detached him from wholesome, every-day existence. he longed for some calling more definite, more permanent, a work in which he might do things, instead of record them in an ephemeral way. he had for a while been envious of weston's progress in his literary efforts, and for a while he had emulated him, but he had not been long in recognizing that he lacked literary talent. out of this dissatisfaction with himself he had lately gone in earnestly to complete his law studies, which all along he had pursued in a desultory fashion. he found some consolation in the hope that he might be admitted to the bar in the fall, though how or when he was to get into a practice was still as much of a problem as it had been in the old days in macochee. he clung steadfastly, however, to the feeling that his newspaper work was but a makeshift; weston and he had constantly supported each other in this view--it was their one hope. with thoughts somewhat like these marley had been whiling away the hours of his long day's journey from chicago to macochee. he had read thoroughly, and with a professionally critical faculty, all the chicago papers, and had long ago thrown them aside in a disorderly pile. now he had the tired sense that his journey was nearing its end. at last he saw the old mill-pond, and his heart leaped in affection; then he got his umbrella and sticks, took off his traveling cap and put it in his bag. he stood up for the porter to brush him off, and when he had selected a half-dollar as a tip, he asked the porter to get his luggage together, and in a conscious affectation he could not forego, began to pull on his new gloves. they were nearing macochee now; and suddenly the tears started to his eyes, as in a flash he saw his white-haired father standing on the platform, anxiously craning his neck for a first glimpse of the boy who was coming home. marley's mother did not reproach him when he ate a hurried supper that evening and then set off immediately for lavinia's. he renewed some of the emotions of the earlier days of his courtship as the familiar houses along the way gradually presented themselves to his recognition; he was glad to note the changeless aspect of a town that never now could change, at least in the way of progress, and he discovered a novel satisfaction--one of the many experiences that were so rapidly crowding in with his impressions--in the feeling that here, at least, in macochee, things would remain as they were, and defy that inexorable law of change which makes so many tragedies in life. lavinia must have recognized his step, for there she was, standing in the doorway, a smile on her face, and her eyelashes somehow moist. marley felt a strange discomposure; there was a little effort, the intimacy of their letters must now give way to the intimacy of personal contact. but in another second she was in his arms, and her face was hidden against his breast. "at last," she said, "you're here!" he felt her tremble, and he held her more closely. when he released her she put her hands up to his shoulders and held him away from her, while she scanned him critically. "you've grown broader," she said, "and heavier, and--oh, so much handsomer!" the blairs filed in presently, and marley had the curious sense of this very scene having been enacted in his presence before, but it lacked the usual baffling effect of this psychological experience, for he was able to recall, in an incandescent flash of memory, that it was almost a repetition of their good-bys that night when he had gone away; mrs. blair was as tender, and if connie and chad were a little shy of his new importance, judge blair was as dignified, and as anxious as ever to get back to his reading. marley felt once more that permanence of things in macochee; this household had remained the same, and it made him feel more than ever the change that had occurred in him. in lovers' intense subjectivity, he and lavinia discussed this change seriously. they reviewed their old dreams, and now they could laugh at their defeated wish to live, even in an humble way, in macochee. "it was funny, wasn't it?" said marley. "i was very young then,--nothing, in fact, but a kid." "are you so very much older now?" asked lavinia with a slight hint of teasing in her tender voice. "well," marley replied, with a seriousness that impressed him, at least, as the ripe wisdom of maturity, "i am not much older in years, but i am in experience, and in knowledge of life. you see, dear, you can measure time by the calendar, but you can't measure life that way. and weston says that there is no calling that will give a man experience so quickly as newspaper work. you know we see everything, and we get a smattering of all kinds of knowledge. weston says that is all that reconciles him to the business; he says a man learns more there than he ever does in college. he considers the training invaluable; he says it will be of great help to him in literature, if he can ever get into literature--he isn't sure yet that he can. he can tell better after his book is published. and he says a newspaper experience will help me in the law, too, that is," marley added, with a whimsical imitation of weston's despairing uncertainty, "if i can ever get into the law." "you think a great deal of mr. weston, don't you?" said lavinia. "he's the finest fellow in the world, and the best friend i ever had." marley had a curious intuition that lavinia was a little jealous of weston. he immediately sought to allay the feeling with this argument: "you see, when a man does all for a fellow that jim has done for me, and when you have lived with him, and shared your haversack with him, and he with you, like two soldier comrades, you get right down to the bottom of him. and i want you to know him, dear, i know you'll like him." lavinia was silent, and marley had a fear that she might not accept weston quite so readily. "he has done me a world of good," he went on. "he has taught me much, he has corrected my reckoning in more ways than one. he has taught me much about books; and he has taught me to look sanely on a life that isn't, he says, always truthfully reflected in books. and besides all, if it hadn't been for him, if he had not kept me at it and urged me on, i think i should have been doomed for ever to remain a poor newspaper man." "don't you like newspaper work?" she asked with a shade of disappointment in her tone. "i did, but i like it less every day. it's a hard and unsatisfactory life, and it has no promise in it. a man very soon reaches its highest point, and then he must be content to stay there. it's the easiest thing for a young fellow to get a start in, if he's bright; i suppose i'm making more money than any of the young lawyers in chicago; but because it is so easy is the very reason why it is hardly worth while. things that are easily won are not worth striving for." "and you're going to get out of it?" "yes, as soon as i can. as soon as i can, i'm going to get into the law. when weston first began urging me to keep up my studies, and when finally he made me go to the night law school, i consented chiefly because i had always felt the chagrin of defeat in having been compelled to give it up; lately, i've begun to see things differently, and i've determined to carry out my first intention and get into the law somehow. of course, it's going to be hard. and one has to have a pull there as everywhere else in these days." marley was silent for a moment and, lavinia thought, a little depressed. she watched him sympathetically, and yet she was a little troubled by a sense of detachment. she felt that weston was now more closely associated with marley's struggle than she, and she was disturbed, too, by the disappointment of finding that his struggles were not at all ended. "weston says," marley went on presently, "that newspaper work is a good stepping-stone, and by it i may be able to arrange for some place in the law which will give me the start i want." "i thought you liked your work," lavinia said; "i thought you were happy in it." marley detected her regret, and was on the point of speaking, when lavinia went on: "i don't see why you can't go into literature as well as mr. weston." marley laughed. "the reason is that i haven't his talent," he said "i don't see why," lavinia argued with some resentment of his humility. "you haven't enough confidence in your own powers; you let mr. weston dominate you too much." "now, dearest," he pleaded, "you mustn't do jim that injustice. he doesn't dominate me; but he is so much wiser than i, he knows so much more. you will understand when you meet him." "well," she tentatively admitted, "that is no reason why you shouldn't in time be a literary man as well as he. why can't you?" "because i can't write, that's why." "why, glenn, how can you say that? your letters disprove that. every one who read them said that they were remarkable, and that you should go into literature. they said you had such good descriptive powers." marley was looking at her in amazement. "why, lavinia, you didn't show them!" "you simpleton!" she said, with a smile in her eyes, "of course not; but i have read parts of them to mama and to your mother now and then." "oh, well, that's all right," sighed marley in relief, and then he resumed his defense of weston and his analysis of himself. "of course, i suppose i can write a fairly good newspaper story; at least they say so at the office." he indulged a little look of pride, and then he went on: "but that isn't literature." "i don't see why it isn't," she said. "i should think it would be the most natural thing in the world to go from one into the other." "not at all. literature requires style, personality, distinction, and the artistic temperament." "i'd say you were talking now like george halliday if i didn't know you were talking like mr. weston." "i wish you could hear weston talk about literature," he said. "he'd convince you." "he couldn't convince me that he can write any better than you can." lavinia compressed her lips in a defiant loyalty. marley paused to kiss the lips for their loyalty, and he compromised the validity of his own argument by saying: "as a matter of fact, the law, in america and in england, has given more men to literature than journalism ever has." "then maybe you can enter literature through the law," said lavinia, seizing her advantage. "no," said marley, shaking his head. "i'm not cut out for it, as weston is. some day he will be a great man, and we shall be proud to have known him so intimately. and we will have him at our home; i have many a dream about that." he looked fondly at her, and her eyes brightened. "and there is another reason why i want to get out of newspaper work," he went on, speaking tenderly, "and that is because everybody says a newspaper man has no more right to be married than a soldier has." "but they all are," said lavinia. "yes, they all are, or most of them." "and i suppose it is the married ones who say that." "well, i know one who is going to be married just as soon as he can." "who is that,--mr. weston?" "no, but mr. weston knows him, and knows his intentions, and he has promised to be at the wedding and act as best man." "oh, it would be fine to have a literary man at the wedding, wouldn't it." they talked then about the wedding, and they found all their old delicious joy in it. marley said it must be soon now, though with a pang that laid a weight on his heart, he wondered, as he thought of all the extravagances he had allowed himself to drift into, where he was to get the money. he could reassure himself only by telling himself that he was going to live as an anchorite when he got back to chicago; even if he had to give up the pleasant apartment with weston and go back to the boarding-house in ohio street. "how shall you like living in chicago?" he asked. "can you be happy in a little flat, without knowing anybody, and without being anybody?" "i shall be happy anywhere with you, glenn!" she said, looking confidently into his eyes. chapter xxxi illusions and disillusions it was a pleasure to marley to accept the homage the people paid him; they confounded his success in journalism with a success in literature, and under the impression that all writers are somehow witty, they laughed extravagantly at his lightest observation. but much as marley relished all this, much as he enjoyed being at home again, with lavinia and with his father and mother, he was disturbed by a certain restlessness that came over him after he had been in macochee a few days and the novelty and excitement of his return had worn off. the glamour the town had worn for him had left it; it seemed to have withered and shrunk away. he could no longer, by any effort of the imagination, realize it as the place he had carried affectionately in his heart during the long months of his absence; its interests were so few and so petty, and he found himself battling with a wish to get away. he was fearful of this feeling; he did not dare to own it to himself, much less to his father and mother or to lavinia. he was glad that lavinia would not let him mention going back to chicago, and as the days swept by with the swiftness of vacation time, he was troubled that he did not feel more acutely the sorrow he felt would best become the prospect of another separation. he was comforted, finally, when he was able to analyze his sensations sufficiently to discover that it was neither his sweetheart nor his parents that had changed, but his own attitude toward life in a small town; he was vastly relieved when he succeeded in separating his feelings and saw that it was macochee alone that he had lost his affection for, though he could not analyze his sensations deeply enough to recognize himself as at that period of life when external conditions are accepted for more than their real value; he was still too young for that. and so he could spend his days happily with lavinia and grudge the moments which lawrence and mayme carter filched from them by their calls, and he was as resentful of mayme's invitation to the supper which she exalted into a dinner with a reception afterward, as was lavinia herself. when marley went to pay his call on wade powell, he found many sensations as he glanced about the dingy little office where he had begun his studies. wade powell himself, smoking and reading his cincinnati paper, was sitting at his old desk, with the same aspect of permanence he had always given the impression of. marley rushed in on him with a face red and smiling and when powell looked up, he threw down his paper, and leaped to his feet, saying: "well, i'll be damned!" but when their first greetings were over, powell's manner changed; he began to show marley a certain respect, and he paid him the delicate tribute of letting him do most of the talking, whereas he used to do most of the talking himself. he was not prepared to hear that marley was still studying law; and it cost him an effort to readjust his conception of marley as a successful journalist to the old one of a struggling student. he gave marley some intelligence of this, and of his disappointment when he said with a meekness marley did not like to see in him: "well, of course, you know your own business best." but when marley had taken pains to explain his position and when he had described the chicago law offices, powell grew more reconciled. "i've watched you," he said, "i've watched you, and i've asked your father about you every time i've seen him; my one regret was that you were not working on a cincinnati paper; then i could have read what you were writing. i did try to get a chicago paper--but you know what this town is." powell was deeply interested in marley's description of his old friend, judge johnson, and as marley gave him some notion of the judge's importance and prosperity powell could only exclaim from time to time: "well, i'll be damned!" marley did not tell powell that judge johnson had appeared to have forgotten him; he felt that it would be more handsome to accept the moral responsibility of a prevarication than to hurt powell's feelings in the way he knew the truth would hurt them. even as it was, judge johnson's success, now so keenly realized by powell when it had been brought home to him in this personal way, seemed to subdue him, and he was only lifted out of his gloom when marley said: "but i'll tell you one thing, there isn't a lawyer in chicago who can try a case with you." powell's eye brightened and his face glowed a deeper red; then the look died away as he said: "well, i made a mistake. i ought to have gone there." "is it too late?" powell thought a moment, and marley regretted having tempted him with an impossibility. he was relieved when powell shook his head and said: "yes, it's too late now." powell, with something of the pathos of age and failure that was stealing gradually over him, begged marley to come in and see him every day while he was at home. "you see i've always kept your desk," he said, in a tone that apologized for a weakness he perhaps thought unmanly, "just as it was when you went away." marley thought cynically that powell had kept everything else just as it was when he went away, but he was instantly ashamed of the thought, and ashamed, too, of the fact that he and lavinia both considered even this little morning call a waste of time, and a sacrifice almost too great to be borne. powell went with marley out into the street, and it gave him evident pride to walk by his side down main street and around the square. "i want them all to see you," he said frankly. he made marley go with him to the mcbriar house and then to con's corner, and, in every place where men stopped him and shook marley's hand and asked him how he was getting along, powell took the responsibility of replying promptly: "look at him; how does he seem to be getting along?" powell found a delight that must have been keener than marley's in marley's fidelity to chicago, expressed quite in the boastful frankness of the citizens of that city when abroad, though to marley it seemed that he was putting it on them by doing so. he found them all, however, in a spirit of loyalty to macochee that might easily have become combative. "well, little old macochee's good enough for us, eh, wade?" they would say. marley would not let them be ahead of him in praise of macochee, and powell himself softened enough to admit that old ohio was a pretty good place to have come from. when they suddenly encountered carman in the street, marley flushed with confusion, first for himself and then vicariously for powell. but there was no escape from a situation that no doubt exaggerated itself to his sensitiveness, and he was soon allowing carman to hold his hand in his right palm while with the other carman solicitously held marley's left elbow, and transfixed him with that left eye which still refused to react to light and shade. "well, how are you?" asked carman. "how are you, anyway?" "oh, i'm all right." "guess you're glad now i didn't give you that job, eh?" marley could not look at powell, but he hastened to say: "yes, i'm glad, now." "maybe it was for the best," said carman. when they had left him marley quickly and crudely tried to change the subject, but powell insisted on saying: "i want you to know that i've always felt like a dog over that." "oh, don't mention it," marley begged. "i was honest when i told carman i was glad it turned out as it did." "yes," said powell, "i guess it was all for the best." to marley's relief they dropped the matter then, and went over to con's corner. there powell lighted a cigar, and marley could not resist asking for a brand of cigarettes, the kind that weston smoked, though he knew that con would not have them. he felt mean about it afterward, but he could not forego some of the petty distinctions of living in a city and he indulged a little revenge toward the people who had deserted him in what had seemed to him his need, and now, in what seemed to them his prosperity, were so ready to rally to him. marley went home at noon feeling that his triumph had been almost as great as if he had come home in a private car. his triumph soon was at an end; they came to the afternoon of the day when marley was to return to chicago. it was a golden day, with a sun shining out of a sky without clouds, and yet a delicious breeze blew out of the little hills. marley and lavinia walked out the white and dusty pike that made the road to mingo. they walked slowly along the edge of the road, in silence, under the sadness of the parting that was before them. they longed ineffably that the moments might be stayed; somehow they felt they might be stayed by their silence. but when they had ascended the hill and stood beside the old oak-tree which grew by the road, they looked out across the valley of the mad river, miles and miles away--across fields now golden with the wheat, or green with the rustling corn that glinted in the sun, off and away to the trees that became vague and dim in the hazy distance. back whence they had come lay macochee; they could see the tower of the court house, the red spire of the methodist church, the gleam of the sun on some great window in the roof of the car-shops; on the other side of town crawled a train, trailing its smoke behind it. marley looked at lavinia--she was leaning against the tree, and as he looked he saw that her blue eyes were filling slowly with tears. "isn't it beautiful!" he said, looking away from her to the simple scenery of ohio. "do you remember that day?" "when we picked out our farm--where was it?" "wasn't it over there?" "yes," he said. "we could come and live here when we are old." he knew he was but seeking to console himself for what now could not be. "and there is the old town," he said. "it looks beautiful from here, nestling among those trees, it seems peaceful, and calm, and simple. but it is different when you are in it; for there are gossip and envy and spite, and i can never quite forgive it because it had no place for me. well," he went on defiantly, in the relief he had been able to make for himself out of his immature reading of macochee's character; "i don't need it any more; it is little and narrow and provincial, and the real life is to be lived out in the larger world. it's a hard fight, but it's worth it." "don't you regret leaving it?" asked lavinia, in a voice that was tenderer than marley had ever known it. marley looked at macochee and then he looked at her. "i regret leaving it, dear heart, because i must leave you behind in it." "would you never care to come back if it were not for me?" she asked. "i might," he admitted, "when we are old. we could come back here then and settle down on our farm over there." he pointed. "i'm half-afraid of the city," lavinia said. he turned and took her in his arms. "dearest," he said, "you must not say that; for the next time i come it will be to take you away from macochee." "will it?" she whispered. "yes; and it can't be long now. how we have had to wait!" "yes," she repeated, "how we have had to wait!" chapter xxxii at last marley, in that compensatory pleasure we find in difficulties in the retrospect, was afterward fond of saying that if he had waited until he had the money and the position to warrant his marrying, he never would have married at all. just what moved him to take the decisive step he did he would have found it hard to tell. he had grown accustomed to the life he was living in chicago, he had succumbed, as it were, to his environment; he no longer regretted macochee and he found a satisfaction in declaring, whenever he had the chance, that the kindest thing the town had ever done for him was to refuse him a place within its borders. as he looked back at all the plans he had formed, he marveled at their number, but he marveled more that he should have had such regret in the failure of all of them; he was glad now that they had failed; had any one of them succeeded his life would have been diverted into other channels, and it gave him a kind of fear when he tried to imagine his life in those other channels; he could see himself in those relations only as some other identity, and it gave him a gruesome feeling to do this. not that he was satisfied with himself or his surroundings; he did not like newspaper work, and he did not like chicago very well. he was determined to get out of newspaper work at any rate, and while he could not yet clearly see a way of getting into the law, he had a calm assurance that he would do it, in the end. weston sustained him in this hope by saying: "a man can't control circumstances; they control him; but sometimes he can dodge them, and, after all, every sincere prayer is answered." during the winter that followed the summer when he had paid his visit to his home he worked hard at the law, spending in study the hours the other men on his newspaper spent in their dissipations, and in the spring he stole away almost secretly to springfield, took the examination, and was admitted to the bar. after it was done, it seemed but a little thing; he wrote lavinia and he wrote wade powell, knowing the interest powell would have in the fact, that he felt no different now as a lawyer than he had when he was merely a layman. weston had spent the winter over the book he was writing; in the spring he found a publisher, and _the clutch of circumstance_ was given to the world. marley thought it a wonderful book, and so did lavinia, and while it made but little noise in the world, weston said it had done better than he expected--so well, in fact, that he was going to give up newspaper work, and give his attention wholly to writing another book. it was a shock to marley when weston told him they would have to give up their apartment; it was a break in the life to which he had grown accustomed. but it seemed a time of change, and it was then he wrote lavinia that he thought it useless for them to wait any longer; he thought they might as well be married then as at any time. unconsciously, perhaps, he wrote this letter as if he and not she had been waiting, and if he had known the state of the sensitive public opinion in macochee, he might have felt himself justified in the attitude. ever since his visit there the summer before his apparent prosperity had given the sentiment of the town an impetus in his favor; the people had turned their criticism toward lavinia; for months it was a common expression that it was a shame she was keeping marley waiting so long. they would nod in a sinister way, and insinuate the worldliest of motives; it was generally under stood that she was waiting for marley to make a fortune, and this, they held, was demanding too much. she had withdrawn utterly from the society of macochee; and she had not gone to one of the balls lawrence had arranged that winter at the odd fellows' hall; her position, outwardly at least, was as isolated as that of the misses cramer, the fragile and transparent old maids who lived so many years in their house sheltered by the row of cedars behind the high school grounds. when judge blair received the formal letter in which marley told him he had asked lavinia to name the day and requested his approval, the judge gave his consent with a promptness that surprised him almost as much as it did mrs. blair and lavinia. he justified his inconsistency to his wife, in order perhaps, the more thoroughly to justify it to himself, by saying that he had long felt lavinia's position keenly. "if the strain has been to her anything like what it has been to me," he said to his wife, "they could not have endured it much longer." "it will be lonely here without her," said mrs. blair, pensively. "yes," the judge assented, and then after a moment's thought he added: "but we can now begin to worry about connie." "don't you dare mention that, william!" said mrs. blair, almost viciously. "she mustn't begin to think of such a thing." "but she's in long dresses now, and she seems to walk home more and more slowly every night with those boys from the high school." "well, i don't propose to go through such an experience as we have had for these last three years, not right away, at any rate." the judge tried to laugh, as he said: "well, i'll turn connie over to you; i'm going to have a little peace now." the judge complained that he could find no peace, however, anywhere, so great was the preparation that raged thereafter in the house, driving him with his book and cigar from place to place. mrs. blair and lavinia and connie were in fine excitement over the gowns that were being fashioned, and miss ryan lived at the blairs' for weeks, while in every room there were billowy clouds of white garments, and threads and ravelings over all the floors. meanwhile it was understood that marley, too, was making arrangements in chicago. he had leased a small flat on the south side, and had arranged with weston to remove most of the furniture of their apartment into the new home where the lovers were to set up housekeeping. mrs. marley was to spare them some of the things from her home, and mrs. blair, from time to time, designated certain articles which she was willing to devote to the cause. chad's contribution was merely a suggestion; he said they could depend on the wedding presents to fill up the gaps. they were married in the middle of june. the ceremony was pronounced by doctor marley in the parlor of the blair home; everybody bore up well until, under the stress of his emotion, the doctor's voice broke, and then mrs. blair wept and the judge wiped his eyes and his reddened, anguished face. mrs. marley cried too, though every one tried to comfort her with the assurance that she was not losing a son, but gaining a daughter. connie, in her first long gown, acted as maid for her sister, but it was evident that she was desperately impressed by the young author of _the clutch of circumstance_, who had come on from chicago to act as groomsman. the company that had been invited was as much impressed by weston as connie was; they had never had an author in macochee before, and though most of them had such confused notions of weston's performances in literature that they grew cold with fear when they talked with him, they nevertheless braved it out for the sake of an experience they could boast of afterward. most of them took refuge in a discussion of marley's achievements with him, and they gave him the unflattering impression that marley's work was as important as his own. many of them had plots they wished him to use in his stories, others wished to know if he took his characters from real life; and mrs. carter was of such an acuteness that she identified marley as his hero, though weston had tried to keep his book from having any hero. george halliday, however, was able to save the day; he could discriminate; he had read _the clutch of circumstance_, having borrowed lavinia's autograph copy, and he told weston that while he did not go in for realism, because it was too photographic, too materialistic and lacked personality, he nevertheless had enjoyed a pleasant half-hour with the volume, and considered it not half-bad. this conversation was held in plain hearing of all in that difficult moment after the ceremony, when the relatives of the bride had solemnly kissed her, and her most intimate friends, like mayme carter, had wept on her neck. the people were standing helplessly about; marley noticed wade powell, as dignified as a clergyman, in his black garments and white tie standing apart with his wife. marley had never seen mrs. powell before, but he recalled in a flash that she filled his conception of her; and this delicate, sensitive little face completed the picture he remembered long ago to have formed. when he saw powell standing there, his hands behind him, unequal to the ordeal of being entertained in judge blair's house, bowing stiffly and forcing a smile on the few occasions when he was spoken to or thought he was being spoken to, he had a wish to go to him, but he could not then leave his place by lavinia's side. he was glad a moment later when he saw his father and wade powell in conversation, and as he and lavinia passed them on their way out to the dining-room he heard his father say: "well, i'll tell you, mr. powell, when i was young my creed was founded on the fact of sin in man; but now that i am old, i find it more and more founded on the fact of the good that is in all of them." when the supper was over, lawrence gave the cheer that every one wished to see come to the wedding by clearing the parlor for a dance, and marley was glad that his position now permitted him to refrain from dancing with a valid excuse. marley thought that lavinia never looked so pretty as she did when she stood at the head of the stairs after she had donned her blue traveling gown, drawing on her gloves and waiting for the carriage that was to drive them to the station. her face was rosy in the light that filled the house, and she met his eyes with a fond, contented glance. "are you happy?" he asked. "don't you see?" she said, looking up at him. "and will you be happy in that big city, away from every one you know, as the wife of a newspaper man?" "i shall be happy anywhere with you." "our dreams are coming true," marley said, "after a fashion. and yet not just as we dreamed them, after all." "in all the essentials they are, aren't they?" "yes, but you know our dream was that i was to practise law." "well, we still have that dream." "yes, we still have it; maybe it will come true. weston says that our dreams are as much realities in our lives as anything else." the end at sunwich port by w. w. jacobs part . illustrations from drawings by will owen chapter i the ancient port of sunwich was basking in the sunshine of a july afternoon. a rattle of cranes and winches sounded from the shipping in the harbour, but the town itself was half asleep. somnolent shopkeepers in dim back parlours coyly veiled their faces in red handkerchiefs from the too ardent flies, while small boys left in charge noticed listlessly the slow passing of time as recorded by the church clock. it is a fine church, and sunwich is proud of it. the tall grey tower is a landmark at sea, but from the narrow streets of the little town itself it has a disquieting appearance of rising suddenly above the roofs huddled beneath it for the purpose of displaying a black-faced clock with gilt numerals whose mellow chimes have recorded the passing hours for many generations of sunwich men. regardless of the heat, which indeed was mild compared with that which raged in his own bosom, captain nugent, fresh from the inquiry of the collision of his ship _conqueror_ with the german barque _hans muller_, strode rapidly up the high street in the direction of home. an honest seafaring smell, compounded of tar, rope, and fish, known to the educated of sunwich as ozone, set his thoughts upon the sea. he longed to be aboard ship again, with the court of inquiry to form part of his crew. in all his fifty years of life he had never met such a collection of fools. his hard blue eyes blazed as he thought of them, and the mouth hidden by his well-kept beard was set with anger. mr. samson wilks, his steward, who had been with him to london to give evidence, had had a time upon which he looked back in later years with much satisfaction at his powers of endurance. he was with the captain, and yet not with him. when they got out of the train at sunwich he hesitated as to whether he should follow the captain or leave him. his excuse for following was the bag, his reason for leaving the volcanic condition of its owner's temper, coupled with the fact that he appeared to be sublimely ignorant that the most devoted steward in the world was tagging faithfully along a yard or two in the rear. the few passers-by glanced at the couple with interest. mr. wilks had what is called an expressive face, and he had worked his sandy eyebrows, his weak blue eyes, and large, tremulous mouth into such an expression of surprise at the finding of the court, that he had all the appearance of a beholder of visions. he changed the bag to his other hand as they left the town behind them, and regarded with gratitude the approaching end of his labours. at the garden-gate of a fair-sized house some half-mile along the road the captain stopped, and after an impatient fumbling at the latch strode up the path, followed by mr. wilks, and knocked at the door. as he paused on the step he half turned, and for the first time noticed the facial expression of his faithful follower. "what the dickens are you looking like that for?" he demanded. "i've been surprised, sir," conceded mr. wilks; "surprised and astonished." wrath blazed again in the captain's eyes and set lines in his forehead. he was being pitied by a steward! "you've been drinking," he said, crisply; "put that bag down." "arsking your pardon, sir," said the steward, twisting his unusually dry lips into a smile, "but i've 'ad no opportunity, sir--i've been follerin' you all day, sir." a servant opened the door. "you've been soaking in it for a month," declared the captain as he entered the hall. "why the blazes don't you bring that bag in? are you so drunk you don't know what you are doing?" mr. wilks picked the bag up and followed humbly into the house. then he lost his head altogether, and gave some colour to his superior officer's charges by first cannoning into the servant and then wedging the captain firmly in the doorway of the sitting-room with the bag. "steward!" rasped the captain. "yessir," said the unhappy mr. wilks. "go and sit down in the kitchen, and don't leave this house till you're sober." mr. wilks disappeared. he was not in his first lustre, but he was an ardent admirer of the sex, and in an absent-minded way he passed his arm round the handmaiden's waist, and sustained a buffet which made his head ring. "a man o' your age, and drunk, too," explained the damsel. mr. wilks denied both charges. it appeared that he was much younger than he looked, while, as for drink, he had forgotten the taste of it. a question as to the reception ann would have accorded a boyish teetotaler remained unanswered. in the sitting-room mrs. kingdom, the captain's widowed sister, put down her crochet-work as her brother entered, and turned to him expectantly. there was an expression of loving sympathy on her mild and rather foolish face, and the captain stiffened at once. "i was in the wrong," he said, harshly, as he dropped into a chair; "my certificate has been suspended for six months, and my first officer has been commended." "suspended?" gasped mrs. kingdom, pushing back the white streamer to the cap which she wore in memory of the late mr. kingdom, and sitting upright. you?" "i think that's what i said," replied her brother. mrs. kingdom gazed at him mournfully, and, putting her hand behind her, began a wriggling search in her pocket for a handkerchief, with the idea of paying a wholesome tribute of tears. she was a past-master in the art of grief, and, pending its extraction, a docile tear hung on her eyelid and waited. the captain eyed her preparations with silent anger. "i am not surprised," said mrs. kingdom, dabbing her eyes; "i expected it somehow. i seemed to have a warning of it. something seemed to tell me; i couldn't explain, but i seemed to know." she sniffed gently, and, wiping one eye at a time, kept the disengaged one charged with sisterly solicitude upon her brother. the captain, with steadily rising anger, endured this game of one-eyed bo-peep for five minutes; then he rose and, muttering strange things in his beard, stalked upstairs to his room. mrs. kingdom, thus forsaken, dried her eyes and resumed her work. the remainder of the family were in the kitchen ministering to the wants of a misunderstood steward, and, in return, extracting information which should render them independent of the captain's version. "was it very solemn, sam?" inquired miss nugent, aged nine, who was sitting on the kitchen table. mr. wilks used his hands and eyebrows to indicate the solemnity of the occasion. "they even made the cap'n leave off speaking," he said, in an awed voice. "i should have liked to have been there," said master nugent, dutifully. "ann," said miss nugent, "go and draw sam a jug of beer." "beer, miss?" said ann. "a jug of beer," repeated miss nugent, peremptorily. ann took a jug from the dresser, and mr. wilks, who was watching her, coughed helplessly. his perturbation attracted the attention of his hostess, and, looking round for the cause, she was just in time to see ann disappearing into the larder with a cream jug. [illustration: "his perturbation attracted the attention of his hostess."] "the big jug, ann," she said, impatiently; "you ought to know sam would like a big one." ann changed the jugs, and, ignoring a mild triumph in mr. wilks's eye, returned to the larder, whence ensued a musical trickling. then miss nugent, raising the jug with some difficulty, poured out a tumbler for the steward with her own fair hands. "sam likes beer," she said, speaking generally. "i knew that the first time i see him, miss," re-marked the vindictive ann. mr. wilks drained his glass and set it down on the table again, making a feeble gesture of repulse as miss nugent refilled it. "go on, sam," she said, with kindly encouragement; "how much does this jug hold, jack?" "quart," replied her brother. "how many quarts are there in a gallon?" "four." miss nugent looked troubled. "i heard father say he drinks gallons a day," she remarked; "you'd better fill all the jugs, ann." "it was only 'is way o' speaking," said mr. wilks, hurriedly; "the cap'n is like that sometimes." "i knew a man once, miss," said ann, "as used to prefer to 'ave it in a wash-hand basin. odd, ugly-looking man 'e was; like mr. wilks in the face, only better-looking." mr. wilks sat upright and, in the mental struggle involved in taking in this insult in all its ramifications, did not notice until too late that miss nugent had filled his glass again. "it must ha' been nice for the captain to 'ave you with 'im to-day," remarked ann, carelessly. "it was," said mr. wilks, pausing with the glass at his lips and eyeing her sternly. "eighteen years i've bin with 'im--ever since 'e 'ad a ship. 'e took a fancy to me the fust time 'e set eyes on me." "were you better-looking then, sam?" inquired miss nugent, shuffling closer to him on the table and regarding him affectionately. "much as i am now, miss," replied mr. wilks, setting down his glass and regarding ann's giggles with a cold eye. miss nugent sighed. "i love you, sam," she said, simply. "will you have some more beer?" mr. wilks declined gracefully. "eighteen years i've bin with the cap'n," he remarked, softly; "through calms and storms, fair weather and foul, samson wilks 'as been by 'is side, always ready in a quiet and 'umble way to do 'is best for 'im, and now--now that 'e is on his beam-ends and lost 'is ship, samson wilks'll sit down and starve ashore till he gets another." at these touching words miss nugent was undisguisedly affected, and wiping her bright eyes with her pinafore, gave her small, well-shaped nose a slight touch _en passant_ with the same useful garment, and squeezed his arm affectionately. "it's a lively look-out for me if father is going to be at home for long," remarked master nugent. who'll get his ship, sam?" "shouldn't wonder if the fust officer, mr. hardy, got it," replied the steward. "he was going dead-slow in the fog afore he sent down to rouse your father, and as soon as your father came on deck 'e went at 'arfspeed. mr. hardy was commended, and your father's certifikit was suspended for six months." master nugent whistled thoughtfully, and quitting the kitchen proceeded upstairs to his room, and first washing himself with unusual care for a boy of thirteen, put on a clean collar and brushed his hair. he was not going to provide a suspended master-mariner with any obvious reasons for fault-finding. while he was thus occupied the sitting-room bell rang, and ann, answering it, left mr. wilks in the kitchen listening with some trepidation to the conversation. "is that steward of mine still in the kitchen?" demanded the captain, gruffly. "yessir," said ann. "what's he doing?" mr. wilks's ears quivered anxiously, and he eyed with unwonted disfavour the evidences of his late debauch. "sitting down, sir," replied ann. "give him a glass of ale and send him off," commanded the captain; "and if that was miss kate i heard talking, send her in to me." ann took the message back to the kitchen and, with the air of a martyr engaged upon an unpleasant task, drew mr. wilks another glass of ale and stood over him with well-affected wonder while he drank it. miss nugent walked into the sitting-room, and listening in a perfunctory fashion to a shipmaster's platitude on kitchen-company, took a seat on his knee and kissed his ear. chapter ii the downfall of captain nugent was for some time a welcome subject of conversation in marine circles at sunwich. at the goblets, a rambling old inn with paved courtyard and wooden galleries, which almost backed on to the churchyard, brother-captains attributed it to an error of judgment; at the two schooners on the quay the profanest of sailormen readily attributed it to an all-seeing providence with a dislike of over-bearing ship-masters. [illustration: "a welcome subject of conversation in marine circles."] the captain's cup was filled to the brim by the promotion of his first officer to the command of the _conqueror_. it was by far the largest craft which sailed from the port of sunwich, and its master held a corresponding dignity amongst the captains of lesser vessels. their allegiance was now transferred to captain hardy, and the master of a brig which was in the last stages of senile decay, meeting nugent in the goblets, actually showed him by means of two lucifer matches how the collision might have been avoided. a touching feature in the business, and a source of much gratification to mr. wilks by the sentimental applause evoked by it, was his renunciation of the post of steward on the ss. _conqueror_. sunwich buzzed with the tidings that after eighteen years' service with captain nugent he preferred starvation ashore to serving under another master. although comfortable in pocket and known to be living with his mother, who kept a small general shop, he was regarded as a man on the brink of starvation. pints were thrust upon him, and the tale of his nobility increased with much narration. it was considered that the whole race of stewards had acquired fresh lustre from his action. his only unfavourable critic was the erring captain himself. he sent a peremptory summons to mr. wilks to attend at equator lodge, and the moment he set eyes upon that piece of probity embarked upon such a vilification of his personal defects and character as mr. wilks had never even dreamt of. he wound up by ordering him to rejoin the ship forthwith. "arsking your pardon, sir," said mr. wilks, with tender reproach, "but i couldn't." "are you going to live on your mother, you hulking rascal?" quoth the incensed captain. "no, sir," said mr. wilks. "i've got a little money, sir; enough for my few wants till we sail again." "when i sail again you won't come with me," said the captain, grimly. "i suppose you want an excuse for a soak ashore for six months!" mr. wilks twiddled his cap in his hands and smiled weakly. "i thought p'r'aps as you'd like me to come round and wait at table, and help with the knives and boots and such-like," he said, softly. "ann is agreeable." "get out of the house," said the captain in quiet, measured tones. mr. wilks went, but on his way to the gate he picked up three pieces of paper which had blown into the garden, weeded two pieces of grass from the path, and carefully removed a dead branch from a laurel facing the window. he would have done more but for an imperative knocking on the glass, and he left the premises sadly, putting his collection of rubbish over the next garden fence as he passed it. but the next day the captain's boots bore such a polish that he was able to view his own startled face in them, and at dinner-time the brightness of the knives was so conspicuous that mrs. kingdom called ann in for the purpose of asking her why she didn't always do them like that. her brother ate his meal in silence, and going to his room afterwards discovered every pair of boots he possessed, headed by the tall sea-boots, standing in a nicely graduated line by the wall, and all shining their hardest. for two days did mr. wilks do good by stealth, leaving ann to blush to find it fame; but on the third day at dinner, as the captain took up his knife and fork to carve, he became aware of a shadow standing behind his chair. a shadow in a blue coat with metal buttons, which, whipping up the first plate carved, carried it to mrs. kingdom, and then leaned against her with the vegetable dishes. the dishes clattered a little on his arm as he helped the captain, but the latter, after an impressive pause and a vain attempt to catch the eye of mr. wilks, which was intent upon things afar off, took up the spoon and helped himself. from the unwonted silence of miss nugent in the presence of anything unusual it was clear to him that the whole thing had been carefully arranged. he ate in silence, and a resolution to kick mr. wilks off the premises vanished before the comfort, to say nothing of the dignity, afforded by his presence. mr. wilks, somewhat reassured, favoured miss nugent with a wink to which, although she had devoted much time in trying to acquire the art, she endeavoured in vain to respond. it was on the day following this that jack nugent, at his sister's instigation, made an attempt to avenge the family honour. miss nugent, although she treated him with scant courtesy herself, had a touching faith in his prowess, a faith partly due to her brother occasionally showing her his bicep muscles in moments of exaltation. "there's that horrid jem hardy," she said, suddenly, as they walked along the road. "so it is," said master nugent, but without any display of enthusiasm. "halloa, jack," shouted master hardy across the road. "the suspense became painful." "halloa," responded the other. "he's going to fight you," shrilled miss nugent, who thought these amenities ill-timed; "he said so." master hardy crossed the road. "what for?" he demanded, with surprise. "because you're a nasty, horrid boy," replied miss nugent, drawing herself up. "oh," said master hardy, blankly. the two gentlemen stood regarding each other with uneasy grins; the lady stood by in breathless expectation. the suspense became painful. [illustration: "the suspense became painful."] "who are you staring at?" demanded master nugent, at last. "you," replied the other; "who are you staring at?" "you," said master nugent, defiantly. there was a long interval, both gentlemen experiencing some difficulty in working up sufficient heat for the engagement. "you hit me and see what you'll get," said master hardy, at length. "you hit me," said the other. "cowardy, cowardy custard," chanted the well-bred miss nugent, "ate his mother's mustard. cowardy, cowardy cus--" "why don't you send that kid home?" demanded master hardy, eyeing the fair songstress with strong disfavour. "you leave my sister alone," said the other, giving him a light tap on the shoulder. "there's your coward's blow." master hardy made a ceremonious return. "there's yours," he said. "let's go behind the church." his foe assented, and they proceeded in grave silence to a piece of grass screened by trees, which stood between the church and the beach. here they removed their coats and rolled up their shirt-sleeves. things look different out of doors, and to miss nugent the arms of both gentlemen seemed somewhat stick-like in their proportions. the preliminaries were awful, both combatants prancing round each other with their faces just peering above their bent right arms, while their trusty lefts dealt vicious blows at the air. miss nugent turned pale and caught her breath at each blow, then she suddenly reddened with wrath as james philip hardy, having paid his tribute to science, began to hammer john augustus nugent about the face in a most painful and workmanlike fashion. she hid her face for a moment, and when she looked again jack was on the ground, and master hardy just rising from his prostrate body. then jack rose slowly and, crossing over to her, borrowed her handkerchief and applied it with great tenderness to his nose. "does it hurt, jack?" she inquired, anxiously. "no," growled her brother. he threw down the handkerchief and turned to his opponent again; miss nugent, who was careful about her property, stooped to recover it, and immediately found herself involved in a twisting tangle of legs, from which she escaped by a miracle to see master hardy cuddling her brother round the neck with one hand and punching him as hard and as fast as he could with the other. the unfairness of it maddened her, and the next moment master hardy's head was drawn forcibly backwards by the hair. the pain was so excruciating that he released his victim at once, and miss nugent, emitting a series of terrified yelps, dashed off in the direction of home, her hair bobbing up and down on her shoulders, and her small black legs in an ecstasy of motion. master hardy, with no very well-defined ideas of what he was going to do if he caught her, started in pursuit. his scalp was still smarting and his eyes watering with the pain as he pounded behind her. panting wildly she heard him coming closer and closer, and she was just about to give up when, to her joy, she saw her father coming towards them. master hardy, intent on his quarry, saw him just in time, and, swerving into the road, passed in safety as miss nugent flung herself with some violence at her father's waistcoat and, clinging to him convulsively, fought for breath. it was some time before she could furnish the astonished captain with full details, and she was pleased to find that his indignation led him to ignore the hair-grabbing episode, on which, to do her justice, she touched but lightly. that evening, for the first time in his life, captain nugent, after some deliberation, called upon his late mate. the old servant who, since mrs. hardy's death the year before, had looked after the house, was out, and hardy, unaware of the honour intended him, was scandalized by the manner in which his son received the visitor. the door opened, there was an involuntary grunt from master hardy, and the next moment he sped along the narrow passage and darted upstairs. his father, after waiting in vain for his return, went to the door himself. "good evening, cap'n," he said, in surprise. nugent responded gruffly, and followed him into the sitting-room. to an invitation to sit, he responded more gruffly still that he preferred to stand. he then demanded instant and sufficient punishment of master hardy for frightening his daughter. even as he spoke he noticed with strong disfavour the change which had taken place in his late first officer. the change which takes place when a man is promoted from that rank to that of master is subtle, but unmistakable--sometimes, as in the present instance, more unmistakable than subtle. captain hardy coiled his long, sinewy form in an arm-chair and, eyeing him calmly, lit his pipe before replying. [illustration: "captain hardy lit his pipe before replying."] "boys will fight," he said, briefly. "i'm speaking of his running after my daughter," said nugent, sternly. hardy's eyes twinkled. "young dog," he said, genially; "at his age, too." captain nugent's face was suffused with wrath at the pleasantry, and he regarded him with a fixed stare. on board the _conqueror_ there was a witchery in that glance more potent than the spoken word, but in his own parlour the new captain met it calmly. "i didn't come here to listen to your foolery," said nugent; "i came to tell you to punish that boy of yours." "and i sha'n't do it," replied the other. "i have got something better to do than interfere in children's quarrels. i haven't got your spare time, you know." captain nugent turned purple. such language from his late first officer was a revelation to him. "i also came to warn you," he said, furiously, "that i shall take the law into my own hands if you refuse." "aye, aye," said hardy, with careless contempt; "i'll tell him to keep out of your way. but i should advise you to wait until i have sailed." captain nugent, who was moving towards the door, swung round and confronted him savagely. "what do you mean?" he demanded. "what i say," retorted captain hardy. "i don't want to indulge sunwich with the spectacle of two middle-aged ship-masters at fisticuffs, but that's what'll happen if you touch my boy. it would probably please the spectators more than it would us." "i'll cane him the first time i lay hands on him," roared captain nugent. captain hardy's stock of patience was at an end, and there was, moreover, a long and undischarged account between himself and his late skipper. he rose and crossed to the door. "jem," he cried, "come downstairs and show captain nugent out." there was a breathless pause. captain nugent ground his teeth with fury as he saw the challenge, and realized the ridiculous position into which his temper had led him; and the other, who was also careful of appearances, repented the order the moment he had given it. matters had now, however, passed out of their hands, and both men cast appraising glances at each other's form. the only one who kept his head was master hardy, and it was a source of considerable relief to both of them when, from the top of the stairs, the voice of that youthful solomon was heard declining in the most positive terms to do anything of the kind. captain hardy repeated his command. the only reply was the violent closing of a door at the top of the house, and after waiting a short time he led the way to the front door himself. "you will regret your insolence before i have done with you," said his visitor, as he paused on the step. "it's the old story of a beggar on horseback." "it's a good story," said captain hardy, "but to my mind it doesn't come up to the one about humpty-dumpty. good-night." chapter iii if anything was wanted to convince captain nugent that his action had been foolish and his language intemperate it was borne in upon him by the subsequent behaviour of master hardy. generosity is seldom an attribute of youth, while egotism, on the other hand, is seldom absent. so far from realizing that the captain would have scorned such lowly game, master hardy believed that he lived for little else, and his jack-in-the-box ubiquity was a constant marvel and discomfort to that irritable mariner. did he approach a seat on the beach, it was master hardy who rose (at the last moment) to make room for him. did he stroll down to the harbour, it was in the wake of a small boy looking coyly at him over his shoulder. every small alley as he passed seemed to contain a jem hardy, who whizzed out like a human firework in front of him, and then followed dancing on his toes a pace or two in his rear. this was on week-days; on the sabbath master hardy's daring ingenuity led him to still further flights. all the seats at the parish church were free, but captain nugent, whose admirable practice it was to take his entire family to church, never thoroughly realized how free they were until master hardy squeezed his way in and, taking a seat next to him, prayed with unwonted fervour into the interior of a new hat, and then sitting back watched with polite composure the efforts of miss nugent's family to re-strain her growing excitement. charmed with the experiment, he repeated it the following sunday. this time he boarded the seat from the other end, and seeing no place by the captain, took one, or more correctly speaking made one, between miss nugent and jack, and despite the former's elbow began to feel almost like one of the family. hostile feelings vanished, and with an amiable smile at the half-frantic miss nugent he placed a "bull's-eye" of great strength in his cheek, and leaning forward for a hymn-book left one on the ledge in front of jack. a double-distilled perfume at once assailed the atmosphere. miss nugent sat dazed at his impudence, and for the first time in her life doubts as to her father's capacity stirred within her. she attempted the poor consolation of an "acid tablet," and it was at once impounded by the watchful mrs. kingdom. mean-time the reek of "bull's-eyes" was insufferable. the service seemed interminable, and all that time the indignant damsel, wedged in between her aunt and the openly exultant enemy of her house, was compelled to endure in silence. she did indeed attempt one remark, and master hardy, with a horrified expression of outraged piety, said "h'sh," and shook his head at her. it was almost more than flesh and blood could bear, and when the unobservant mrs. kingdom asked her for the text on the way home her reply nearly cost her the loss of her dinner. the _conqueror,_ under its new commander, sailed on the day following. mr. wilks watched it from the quay, and the new steward observing him came to the side, and holding aloft an old pantry-cloth between his finger and thumb until he had attracted his attention, dropped it overboard with every circumstance of exaggerated horror. by the time a suitable retort had occurred to the ex-steward the steamer was half a mile distant, and the extraordinary and unnatural pantomime in which he indulged on the edge of the quay was grievously misinterpreted by a nervous man in a sailing boat. [illustration: "mr. wilks watched it from the quay."] master hardy had also seen the ship out, and, perched on the extreme end of the breakwater, he remained watching until she was hull down on the horizon. then he made his way back to the town and the nearest confectioner, and started for home just as miss nugent, who was about to pay a call with her aunt, waited, beautifully dressed, in the front garden while that lady completed her preparations. feeling very spic and span, and still a trifle uncomfortable from the vigorous attentions of ann, who cleansed her as though she had been a doorstep, she paced slowly up and down the path. upon these occasions of high dress a spirit of sabbath calm was wont to descend upon her and save her from escapades to which in a less severe garb she was somewhat prone. she stopped at the gate and looked up the road. then her face flushed, and she cast her eyes behind her to make sure that the hall-door stood open. the hated scion of the house of hardy was coming down the road, and, in view of that fact, she forgot all else--even her manners. the boy, still fresh from the loss of his natural protector, kept a wary eye on the house as he approached. then all expression died out of his face, and he passed the gate, blankly ignoring the small girl who was leaning over it and apparently suffering from elephantiasis of the tongue. he went by quietly, and miss nugent, raging inwardly that she had misbehaved to no purpose, withdrew her tongue for more legitimate uses. "boo," she cried; "who had his hair pulled?" master hardy pursued the even tenor of his way. "who's afraid to answer me for fear my father will thrash him?" cried the disappointed lady, raising her voice. this was too much. the enemy retraced his steps and came up to the gate. "you're a rude little girl," he said, with an insufferably grown-up air. "who had his hair pulled?" demanded miss nugent, capering wildly; "who had his hair pulled?" "don't be silly," said master hardy. "here." he put his hand in his pocket, and producing some nuts offered them over the gate. at this miss nugent ceased her capering, and wrath possessed her that the enemy should thus misunderstand the gravity of the situation. "well, give 'em to jack, then," pursued the boy; "he won't say no." this was a distinct reflection on jack's loyalty, and her indignation was not lessened by the fact that she knew it was true. "go away from our gate," she stormed. "if my father catches you, you'll suffer." "pooh!" said the dare-devil. he looked up at the house and then, opening the gate, strode boldly into the front garden. before this intrusion miss nugent retreated in alarm, and gaining the door-step gazed at him in dismay. then her face cleared suddenly, and master hardy looking over his shoulder saw that his retreat was cut off by mr. wilks. "don't let him hurt me, sam," entreated miss nugent, piteously. mr. wilks came into the garden and closed the gate behind him. "i wasn't going to hurt her," cried master hardy, anxiously; "as if i should hurt a girl! "wot are you doing in our front garden, then?" demanded mr. wilks. he sprang forward suddenly and, catching the boy by the collar with one huge hand, dragged him, struggling violently, down the side-entrance into the back garden. miss nugent, following close behind, sought to improve the occasion. "see what you get by coming into our garden," she said. the victim made no reply. he was writhing strenuously in order to frustrate mr. wilks's evident desire to arrange him comfortably for the administration of the stick he was carrying. satisfied at last, the ex-steward raised his weapon, and for some seconds plied it briskly. miss nugent trembled, but sternly repressing sympathy for the sufferer, was pleased that the long arm of justice had at last over-taken him. "let him go now, sam," she said; "he's crying." "i'm not," yelled master hardy, frantically. "i can see the tears," declared miss nugent, bending. mr. wilks plied the rod again until his victim, with a sudden turn, fetched him a violent kick on the shin and broke loose. the ex-steward set off in pursuit, somewhat handicapped by the fact that he dare not go over flower-beds, whilst master hardy was singularly free from such prejudices. miss nugent ran to the side-entrance to cut off his retreat. she was willing for him to be released, but not to escape, and so it fell out that the boy, dodging beneath mr. wilks's outspread arms, charged blindly up the side-entrance and bowled the young lady over. there was a shrill squeal, a flutter of white, and a neat pair of button boots waving in the air. then miss nugent, sobbing piteously, rose from the puddle into which she had fallen and surveyed her garments. mr. wilks surveyed them, too, and a very cursory glance was sufficient to show him that the case was beyond his powers. he took the outraged damsel by the hand, and led her, howling lustily, in to the horrified ann. "my word," said she, gasping. "look at your gloves! look at your frock!" but miss nugent was looking at her knees. there was only a slight redness about the left, but from the right a piece of skin was indubitably missing. this knee she gave ann instructions to foment with fair water of a comfortable temperature, indulging in satisfied prognostications as to the fate of master hardy when her father should see the damage. the news, when the captain came home, was broken to him by degrees. he was first shown the flower-beds by ann, then mrs. kingdom brought in various soiled garments, and at the psychological moment his daughter bared her knees. "what will you do to him, father?" she inquired. the captain ignored the question in favour of a few remarks on the subject of his daughter's behaviour, coupled with stern inquiries as to where she learnt such tricks. in reply miss nugent sheltered herself behind a list which contained the names of all the young gentlemen who attended her kindergarten class and many of the young ladies, and again inquired as to the fate of her assailant. jack came in soon after, and the indefatigable miss nugent produced her knees again. she had to describe the injury to the left, but the right spoke for itself. jack gazed at it with indignation, and then, without waiting for his tea, put on his cap and sallied out again. he returned an hour later, and instead of entering the sitting-room went straight upstairs to bed, from whence he sent down word by the sympathetic ann that he was suffering from a bad headache, which he proposed to treat with raw meat applied to the left eye. his nose, which was apparently suffering from sympathetic inflammation, he left to take care of itself, that organ bitterly resenting any treatment whatsoever. he described the battle to kate and ann the next day, darkly ascribing his defeat to a mysterious compound which jem hardy was believed to rub into his arms; to a foolish error of judgment at the beginning of the fray, and to the sun which shone persistently in his eyes all the time. his audience received the explanations in chilly silence. "and he said it was an accident he knocked you down," he concluded; "he said he hoped you weren't hurt, and he gave me some toffee for you." "what did you do with it?" demanded miss nugent. "i knew you wouldn't have it," replied her brother, inconsequently, "and there wasn't much of it." his sister regarded him sharply. "you don't mean to say you ate it?" she screamed. "why not?" demanded her brother. "i wanted comforting, i can tell you." "i wonder you were not too--too proud," said miss nugent, bitterly. "i'm never too proud to eat toffee," retorted jack, simply. he stalked off in dudgeon at the lack of sympathy displayed by his audience, and being still in need of comforting sought it amid the raspberry-canes. his father noted his son's honourable scars, but made no comment. as to any action on his own part, he realized to the full the impotence of a law-abiding and dignified citizen when confronted by lawless youth. but master hardy came to church no more. indeed, the following sunday he was fully occupied on the beach, enacting the part of david, after first impressing the raving mr. wilks into that of goliath. [illustration: "master hardy on the beach enacting the part of david."] chapter iv for the next month or two master hardy's existence was brightened by the efforts of an elderly steward who made no secret of his intentions of putting an end to it. mr. wilks at first placed great reliance on the saw that "it is the early bird that catches the worm," but lost faith in it when he found that it made no provision for cases in which the worm leaning from its bedroom window addressed spirited remonstrances to the bird on the subject of its personal appearance. to the anxious inquiries of miss nugent, mr. wilks replied that he was biding his time. every delay, he hinted, made it worse for master hardy when the day of retribution should dawn, and although she pleaded earnestly for a little on account he was unable to meet her wishes. before that day came, however, captain nugent heard of the proceedings, and after a painful interview with the steward, during which the latter's failings by no means escaped attention, confined him to the house. [illustration: "mr. wilks replied that he was biding his time."] an excellent reason for absenting himself from school was thus denied to master hardy; but it has been well said that when one door closes another opens, and to his great satisfaction the old servant, who had been in poor health for some time, suddenly took to her bed and required his undivided attention. he treated her at first with patent medicines purchased at the chemist's, a doctor being regarded by both of them as a piece of unnecessary extravagance; but in spite of four infallible remedies she got steadily worse. then a doctor was called in, and by the time captain hardy returned home she had made a partial recovery, but was clearly incapable of further work. she left in a cab to accept a home with a niece, leaving the captain confronted with a problem which he had seen growing for some time past. "i can't make up my mind what to do with you," he observed, regarding his son. "i'm very comfortable," was the reply. "you're too comfortable," said his father. you're running wild. it's just as well poor old martha has gone; it has brought things to a head." "we could have somebody else," suggested his son. the captain shook his head. "i'll give up the house and send you to london to your aunt mary," he said, slowly; "she doesn't know you, and once i'm at sea and the house given up, she won't be able to send you back." master hardy, who was much averse to leaving sunwich and had heard accounts of the lady in question which referred principally to her strength of mind, made tender inquiries concerning his father's comfort while ashore. "i'll take rooms," was the reply, "and i shall spend as much time as i can with you in london. you want looking after, my son; i've heard all about you." his son, without inquiring as to the nature of the information, denied it at once upon principle; he also alluded darkly to his education, and shook his head over the effects of a change at such a critical period of his existence. "and you talk too much for your age," was his father's comment when he had finished. "a year or two with your aunt ought to make a nice boy of you; there's plenty of room for improvement." he put his plans in hand at once, and a week before he sailed again had disposed of the house. some of the furniture he kept for himself; but the bulk of it went to his sister as conscience-money. master hardy, in very low spirits, watched it taken away. big men in hob-nailed boots ran noisily up the bare stairs, and came down slowly, steering large pieces of furniture through narrow passages, and using much vain repetition when they found their hands acting as fenders. the wardrobe, a piece of furniture which had been built for larger premises, was a particularly hard nut to crack, but they succeeded at last--in three places. [illustration: "a particularly hard nut to crack."] a few of his intimates came down to see the last of him, and miss nugent, who in some feminine fashion regarded the move as a triumph for her family, passed by several times. it might have been chance, it might have been design, but the boy could not help noticing that when the piano, the wardrobe, and other fine pieces were being placed in the van, she was at the other end of the road a position from which such curios as a broken washstand or a two-legged chair never failed to entice her. it was over at last. the second van had disappeared, and nothing was left but a litter of straw and paper. the front door stood open and revealed desolation. miss nugent came to the gate and stared in superciliously. "i'm glad you're going," she said, frankly. master hardy scarcely noticed her. one of his friends who concealed strong business instincts beneath a sentimental exterior had suggested souvenirs and given him a spectacle-glass said to have belonged to henry viii., and he was busy searching his pockets for an adequate return. then captain hardy came up, and first going over the empty house, came out and bade his son accompany him to the station. a minute or two later and they were out of sight; the sentimentalist stood on the curb gloating over a newly acquired penknife, and miss nugent, after being strongly reproved by him for curiosity, paced slowly home with her head in the air. sunwich made no stir over the departure of one of its youthful citizens. indeed, it lacked not those who would have cheerfully parted with two or three hundred more. the boy was quite chilled by the tameness of his exit, and for years afterwards the desolate appearance of the platform as the train steamed out occurred to him with an odd sense of discomfort. in all sunwich there was only one person who grieved over his departure, and he, after keeping his memory green for two years, wrote off fivepence as a bad debt and dismissed him from his thoughts. two months after the _conqueror_ had sailed again captain nugent obtained command of a steamer sailing between london and the chinese ports. from the gratified lips of mr. wilks, sunwich heard of this new craft, the particular glory of which appeared to be the luxurious appointments of the steward's quarters. language indeed failed mr. wilks in describing it, and, pressed for details, he could only murmur disjointedly of satin-wood, polished brass, and crimson velvet. jack nugent hailed his father's departure with joy. they had seen a great deal of each other during the latter's prolonged stay ashore, and neither had risen in the other's estimation in consequence. he became enthusiastic over the sea as a profession for fathers, and gave himself some airs over acquaintances less fortunately placed. in the first flush of liberty he took to staying away from school, the education thus lost being only partially atoned for by a grown-up style of composition engendered by dictating excuses to the easy-going mrs. kingdom. at seventeen he learnt, somewhat to his surprise, that his education was finished. his father provided the information and, simply as a matter of form, consulted him as to his views for the future. it was an important thing to decide upon at short notice, but he was equal to it, and, having suggested gold-digging as the only profession he cared for, was promptly provided by the incensed captain with a stool in the local bank. [illustration: "a stool in the local bank."] he occupied it for three weeks, a period of time which coincided to a day with his father's leave ashore. he left behind him his initials cut deeply in the lid of his desk, a miscellaneous collection of cheap fiction, and a few experiments in book-keeping which the manager ultimately solved with red ink and a ruler. a slight uneasiness as to the wisdom of his proceedings occurred to him just before his father's return, but he comforted himself and kate with the undeniable truth that after all the captain couldn't eat him. he was afraid, however, that the latter would be displeased, and, with a constitutional objection to unpleasantness, he contrived to be out when he returned, leaving to mrs. kingdom the task of breaking the news. the captain's reply was brief and to the point. he asked his son whether he would like to go to sea, and upon receiving a decided answer in the negative, at once took steps to send him there. in two days he had procured him an outfit, and within a week jack nugent, greatly to his own surprise, was on the way to melbourne as apprentice on the barque _silver stream_. he liked it even less than the bank. the monotony of the sea was appalling to a youth of his tastes, and the fact that the skipper, a man who never spoke except to find fault, was almost loquacious with him failed to afford him any satisfaction. he liked the mates no better than the skipper, and having said as much one day to the second officer, had no reason afterwards to modify his opinions. he lived a life apart, and except for the cook, another martyr to fault-finding, had no society. in these uncongenial circumstances the new apprentice worked for four months as he had never believed it possible he could work. he was annoyed both at the extent and the variety of his tasks, the work of an a.b. being gratuitously included in his curriculum. the end of the voyage found him desperate, and after a hasty consultation with the cook they deserted together and went up-country. letters, dealing mainly with the ideas and adventures of the cook, reached sunwich at irregular intervals, and were eagerly perused by mrs. kingdom and kate, but the captain forbade all mention of him. then they ceased altogether, and after a year or two of unbroken silence mrs. kingdom asserted herself, and a photograph in her possession, the only one extant, exposing the missing jack in petticoats and sash, suddenly appeared on the drawing-room mantelpiece. the captain stared, but made no comment. disappointed in his son, he turned for consolation to his daughter, noting with some concern the unaccountable changes which that young lady underwent during his absences. he noticed a difference after every voyage. he left behind him on one occasion a nice trim little girl, and returned to find a creature all legs and arms. he returned again and found the arms less obnoxious and the legs hidden by a long skirt; and as he complained in secret astonishment to his sister, she had developed a motherly manner in her dealings with him which was almost unbearable. "she'll grow out of it soon," said mrs. kingdom; "you wait and see." the captain growled and waited, and found his sister's prognostications partly fulfilled. the exuberance of miss nugent's manner was certainly modified by time, but she developed instead a quiet, unassuming habit of authority which he liked as little. "she gets made such a fuss of, it's no wonder," said mrs. kingdom, with a satisfied smile. "i never heard of a girl getting as much attention as she does; it's a wonder her head isn't turned." "eh!" said the startled captain; "she'd better not let me see anything of it." "just so," said mrs. kingdom. the captain dwelt on these words and kept his eyes open, and, owing to his daughter's benevolent efforts on his behalf, had them fully occupied. he went to sea firmly convinced that she would do something foolish in the matrimonial line, the glowing terms in which he had overheard her describing the charms of the new postman to mrs. kingdom filling him with the direst forebodings. it was his last voyage. an unexpected windfall from an almost forgotten uncle and his own investments had placed him in a position of modest comfort, and just before miss nugent reached her twentieth birthday he resolved to spend his declining days ashore and give her those advantages of parental attention from which she had been so long debarred. mr. wilks, to the inconsolable grief of his ship-mates, left with him. he had been for nearly a couple of years in receipt of an annuity purchased for him under the will of his mother, and his defection left a gap never to be filled among comrades who had for some time regarded him in the light of an improved drinking fountain. chapter v on a fine afternoon, some two months after his release from the toils of the sea, captain nugent sat in the special parlour of the goblets. the old inn offers hospitality to all, but one parlour has by ancient tradition and the exercise of self-restraint and proper feeling been from time immemorial reserved for the elite of the town. the captain, confident in the security of these unwritten regulations, conversed freely with his peers. he had been moved to speech by the utter absence of discipline ashore, and from that had wandered to the growing evil of revolutionary ideas at sea. his remarks were much applauded, and two brother-captains listened with grave respect to a disquisition on the wrongs of shipmasters ensuing on the fancied rights of sailor men, the only discordant note being struck by the harbour-master, a man whose ideas had probably been insidiously sapped by a long residence ashore. "a man before the mast," said the latter, fortifying his moral courage with whisky, "is a human being." "nobody denies it," said captain nugent, looking round. one captain agreed with him. "why don't they act like it, then?" demanded the other. nugent and the first captain, struck by the re-mark, thought they had perhaps been too hasty in their admission, and waited for number two to continue. they eyed him with silent encouragement. "why don't they act like it, then?" repeated number two, who, being a man of few ideas, was not disposed to waste them. captain nugent and his friend turned to the harbour-master to see how he would meet this poser. "they mostly do," he replied, sturdily. "treat a seaman well, and he'll treat you well." this was rank heresy, and moreover seemed to imply something. captain nugent wondered dismally whether life ashore would infect him with the same opinions. "what about that man of mine who threw a belaying-pin at me?" the harbour-master quailed at the challenge. the obvious retort was offensive. "i shall carry the mark with me to my grave," added the captain, as a further inducement to him to reply. "i hope that you'll carry it a long time," said the harbour-master, gracefully. "here, look here, hall!" expostulated captain number two, starting up. "it's all right, cooper," said nugent. "it's all right," said captain number one, and in a rash moment undertook to explain. in five minutes he had clouded captain cooper's intellect for the afternoon. he was still busy with his self-imposed task when a diversion was created by the entrance of a new arrival. a short, stout man stood for a moment with the handle of the door in his hand, and then came in, carefully bearing before him a glass of gin and water. it was the first time that he had set foot there, and all understood that by this intrusion mr. daniel kybird sought to place sea-captains and other dignitaries on a footing with the keepers of slop-shops and dealers in old clothes. in the midst of an impressive silence he set his glass upon the table and, taking a chair, drew a small clay pipe from his pocket. [illustration: "a diversion was created by the entrance of a new arrival."] aghast at the intrusion, the quartette conferred with their eyes, a language which is perhaps only successful in love. captain cooper, who was usually moved to speech by externals, was the first to speak. "you've got a sty coming on your eye, hall," he remarked. "i daresay." "if anybody's got a needle," said the captain, who loved minor operations. nobody heeded him except the harbour-master, and he muttered something about beams and motes, which the captain failed to understand. the others were glaring darkly at mr. kybird, who had taken up a newspaper and was busy perusing it. "are you looking for anybody?" demanded captain nugent, at last. "no," said mr. kybird, looking at him over the top of his paper. "what have you come here for, then?" inquired the captain. "i come 'ere to drink two o' gin cold," returned mr. kybird, with a dignity befitting the occupation. "well, suppose you drink it somewhere else," suggested the captain. mr. kybird had another supposition to offer. "suppose i don't?" he remarked. "i'm a respect-able british tradesman, and my money is as good as yours. i've as much right to be here as you 'ave. i've never done anything i'm ashamed of!" "and you never will," said captain cooper's friend, grimly, "not if you live to be a hundred." mr. kybird looked surprised at the tribute. "thankee," he said, gratefully. "well, we don't want you here," said captain nugent. "we prefer your room to your company." mr. kybird leaned back in his chair and twisted his blunt features into an expression of withering contempt. then he took up a glass and drank, and discovered too late that in the excitement of the moment he had made free with the speaker's whisky. "don't apologize," interrupted the captain; "it's soon remedied." he took the glass up gingerly and flung it with a crash into the fireplace. then he rang the bell. "i've smashed a dirty glass," he said, as the bar-man entered. "how much?" the man told him, and the captain, after a few stern remarks about privacy and harpies, left the room with his friends, leaving the speechless mr. kybird gazing at the broken glass and returning evasive replies to the inquiries of the curious charles. he finished his gin and water slowly. for months he had been screwing up his courage to carry that room by assault, and this was the result. he had been insulted almost in the very face of charles, a youth whose reputation as a gossip was second to none in sunwich. "do you know what i should do if i was you?" said that worthy, as he entered the room again and swept up the broken glass. "i do not," said mr. kybird, with lofty indifference. "i shouldn't come 'ere again, that's what i should do," said charles, frankly. "next time he'll throw you in the fireplace." "ho," said the heated mr. kybird. "ho, will he? i'd like to see 'im. i'll make 'im sorry for this afore i've done with 'im. i'll learn 'im to insult a respectable british tradesman. i'll show him who's who." "what'll you do?" inquired the other. "never you mind," said mr. kybird, who was not in a position to satisfy his curiosity--"never you mind. you go and get on with your work, charles, and p'r'aps by the time your moustache 'as grown big enough to be seen, you'll 'ear something." "i 'eard something the other day," said the bar-man, musingly; "about you it was, but i wouldn't believe it." "wot was it?" demanded the other. "nothing much," replied charles, standing with his hand on the door-knob, "but i wouldn't believe it of you; i said i couldn't." "wot--was--it?" insisted mr. kybird. "why, they said you once gave a man a fair price for a pair of trousers," said the barman, indignantly. he closed the door behind him softly, and mr. kybird, after a brief pause, opened it again and, more softly still, quitted the precincts of the goblets, and stepped across the road to his emporium. [illustration: "he stepped across the road to his emporium."] captain nugent, in happy ignorance of the dark designs of the wardrobe dealer, had also gone home. he was only just beginning to realize the comparative unimportance of a retired shipmaster, and the knowledge was a source of considerable annoyance to him. no deferential mates listened respectfully to his instructions, no sturdy seaman ran to execute his commands or trembled mutinously at his wrath. the only person in the wide world who stood in awe of him was the general servant bella, and she made no attempt to conceal her satisfaction at the attention excited by her shortcomings. he paused a moment at the gate and then, walking slowly up to the door, gave it the knock of a master. a full minute passing, he knocked again, remembering with some misgivings his stern instructions of the day before that the door was to be attended by the servant and by nobody else. he had seen miss nugent sitting at the window as he passed it, but in the circumstances the fact gave him no comfort. a third knock was followed by a fourth, and then a distressed voice upstairs was heard calling wildly upon the name of bella. at the fifth knock the house shook, and a red-faced maid with her shoulders veiled in a large damp towel passed hastily down the staircase and, slipping the catch, passed more hastily still upstairs again, affording the indignant captain a glimpse of a short striped skirt as it turned the landing. "is there any management at all in this house?" he inquired, as he entered the room. "bella was dressing," said miss nugent, calmly, "and you gave orders yesterday that nobody else was to open the door." "nobody else when she's available," qualified her father, eyeing her sharply. "when i give orders i expect people to use their common sense. why isn't my tea ready? it's five o'clock." "the clock's twenty minutes fast," said kate. "who's been meddling with it?" demanded her father, verifying the fact by his watch. miss nugent shook her head. "it's gained that since you regulated it last night," she said, with a smile. the captain threw himself into an easy-chair, and with one eye on the clock, waited until, at five minutes to the hour by the right time, a clatter of crockery sounded from the kitchen, and bella, still damp, came in with the tray. her eye was also on the clock, and she smirked weakly in the captain's direction as she saw that she was at least two minutes ahead of time. at a minute to the hour the teapot itself was on the tray, and the heavy breathing of the handmaiden in the kitchen was audible to all. "punctual to the minute, john," said mrs. kingdom, as she took her seat at the tray. "it's wonderful how that girl has improved since you've been at home. she isn't like the same girl." she raised the teapot and, after pouring out a little of the contents, put it down again and gave it another two minutes. at the end of that time, the colour being of the same unsatisfactory paleness, she set the pot down and was about to raise the lid when an avalanche burst into the room and, emptying some tea into the pot from a canister-lid, beat a hasty re-treat. "good tea and well-trained servants," muttered the captain to his plate. "what more can a man want?" mrs. kingdom coughed and passed his cup; miss nugent, who possessed a healthy appetite, serenely attacked her bread and butter; conversation languished. "i suppose you've heard the news, john?" said his sister. "i daresay i have," was the reply. "strange he should come back after all these years," said mrs. kingdom; "though, to be sure, i don't know why he shouldn't. it's his native place, and his father lives here." "who are you talking about?" inquired the captain. "why, james hardy," replied his sister. "i thought you said you had heard. he's coming back to sunwich and going into partnership with old swann, the shipbroker. a very good thing for him, i should think." "i'm not interested in the doings of the hardys," said the captain, gruffly. "i'm sure i'm not," said his sister, defensively. captain nugent proceeded with his meal in silence. his hatred of hardy had not been lessened by the success which had attended that gentleman's career, and was not likely to be improved by the well-being of hardy junior. he passed his cup for some more tea, and, with a furtive glance at the photograph on the mantelpiece, wondered what had happened to his own son. "i don't suppose i should know him if i saw him," continued mrs. kingdom, addressing a respectable old arm-chair; "london is sure to have changed him." "is this water-cress?" inquired the captain, looking up from his plate. "yes. why?" said mrs. kingdom. "i only wanted information," said her brother, as he deposited the salad in question in the slop-basin. mrs. kingdom, with a resigned expression, tried to catch her niece's eye and caught the captain's instead. miss nugent happening to glance up saw her fascinated by the basilisk glare of the master of the house. "some more tea, please," she said. her aunt took her cup, and in gratitude for the diversion picked out the largest lumps of sugar in the basin. "london changes so many people," mused the persevering lady, stirring her tea. "i've noticed it before. why it is i can't say, but the fact remains. it seems to improve them altogether. i dare say that young hardy--" "will you understand that i won't have the hardys mentiond in my house?" said the captain, looking up. "i'm not interested in their business, and i will not have it discussed here." "as you please, john," said his sister, drawing herself up. "it's your house and you are master here. i'm sure i don't want to discuss them. nothing was farther from my thoughts. you understand what your father says, kate?" "perfectly," said miss nugent. "when the desire to talk about the hardys becomes irresistible we must go for a walk." the captain turned in his chair and regarded his daughter steadily. she met his gaze with calm affection. "i wish you were a boy," he growled. "you're the only man in sunwich who wishes that," said miss nugent, complacently, "and i don't believe you mean it. if you'll come a little closer i'll put my head on your shoulder and convert you." "kate!" said mrs. kingdom, reprovingly. "and, talking about heads," said miss nugent, briskly, "reminds me that i want a new hat. you needn't look like that; good-looking daughters always come expensive." she moved her chair a couple of inches in his direction and smiled alluringly. the captain shifted uneasily; prudence counselled flight, but dignity forbade it. he stared hard at mrs. kingdom, and a smile of rare appreciation on that lady's face endeavoured to fade slowly and naturally into another expression. the chair came nearer. "don't be foolish," said the captain, gruffly. the chair came still nearer until at last it touched his, and then miss nugent, with a sigh of exaggerated content, allowed her head to sink gracefully on his shoulder. "most comfortable shoulder in sunwich," she murmured; "come and try the other, aunt, and perhaps you'll get a new bonnet." [illustration: "'most comfortable shoulder in sunwich,' she murmured."] mrs. kingdom hastened to reassure her brother. she would almost as soon have thought of putting her head on the block. at the same time it was quite evident that she was taking a mild joy in his discomfiture and eagerly awaiting further developments. "when you are tired of this childish behaviour, miss," said the captain, stiffly---- there was a pause. "kate!" said mrs. kingdom, in tones of mild reproof, how can you?" "very good," said the captain, we'll see who gets tired of it first. "i'm in no hurry." a delicate but unmistakable snore rose from his shoulder in reply. at sunwich port by w. w. jacobs part . illustrations from drawings by will owen chapter xxi gossip from one or two quarters, which reached captain nugent's ears through the medium of his sister, concerning the preparations for his son's marriage, prevented him from altering his mind with regard to the visits of jem hardy and showing that painstaking young man the door. indeed, the nearness of the approaching nuptials bade fair to eclipse, for the time being, all other grievances, and when hardy paid his third visit he made a determined but ineffectual attempt to obtain from him some information as to the methods by which he hoped to attain his ends. his failure made him suspicious, and he hinted pretty plainly that he had no guarantee that his visitor was not obtaining admittance under false pretences. "well, i'm not getting much out of it," returned hardy, frankly. "i wonder you come," said his hospitable host. "i want you to get used to me," said the other. the captain started and eyed him uneasily; the remark seemed fraught with hidden meaning. "and then?" he inquired, raising his bushy eyebrows. "then perhaps i can come oftener." the captain gave him up. he sank back in his chair and crossing his legs smoked, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. it was difficult to know what to do with a young man who was apparently destitute of any feelings of shame or embarrassment. he bestowed a puzzled glance in his direction and saw that he was lolling in the chair with an appearance of the greatest ease and enjoyment. following the direction of his eyes, he saw that he was gazing with much satisfaction at a photograph of miss nugent which graced the mantelpiece. with an odd sensation the captain suddenly identified it as one which usually stood on the chest of drawers in his bedroom, and he wondered darkly whether charity or mischief was responsible for its appearance there. in any case, it disappeared before the occasion of hardy's next visit, and the visitor sat with his eyes unoccupied, endeavouring to make conversation with a host who was if anything more discourteous than usual. it was uphill work, but he persevered, and in fifteen minutes had ranged unchecked from north pole explorations to poultry farming. it was a relief to both of them when the door opened and bella ushered in dr. murchison. the captain received the new arrival with marked cordiality, and giving him a chair near his own observed with some interest the curt greeting of the young men. the doctor's manner indicated polite surprise at seeing the other there, then he turned to the captain and began to talk to him. for some time they chatted without interruption, and the captain's replies, when hardy at last made an attempt to make the conversation general, enabled the doctor to see, without much difficulty, that the latter was an unwelcome guest. charmed with the discovery he followed his host's lead, and, with a languid air, replied to his rival in monosyllables. the captain watched with quiet satisfaction, and at each rebuff his opinion of murchison improved. it was gratifying to find that the interloper had met his match. hardy sat patient. "i am glad to have met you to-night," he said, after a long pause, during which the other two were discussing a former surgical experience of the captain's on one of his crew. "yes?" said murchison. "you are just the man i wanted to see." "yes?" said the doctor, again. "yes," said the other, nodding. "i've been very busy of late owing to my partner's illness, and you are attending several people i want to hear about." "indeed," said murchison, with a half-turn towards him. "how is mrs. paul?" inquired hardy. "dead!" replied the other, briefly. "dead!" repeated mr. hardy. "good heavens! i didn't know that there was much the matter with her." "there was no hope for her from the first," said murchison, somewhat sharply. it was merely a question of prolonging her life a little while. she lived longer than i deemed possible. she surprised everybody by her vitality." "poor thing," said hardy. "how is joe banks?" "dead," said murchison again, biting his lip and eyeing him furiously. "dear me," said hardy, shaking his head; "i met him not a month ago. he was on his way to see you then." "the poor fellow had been an invalid nearly all his life," said murchison, to the captain, casually. "aye, i remember him," was the reply. "i am almost afraid to ask you," continued hardy, "but shut up all day i hear so little. how is old miss ritherdon?" murchison reddened with helpless rage; captain nugent, gazing at the questioner with something almost approaching respect, waited breathlessly for the invariable answer. "she died three weeks ago; i'm surprised that you have not heard of it," said the doctor, pointedly. "of course she was old," said hardy, with the air of one advancing extenuating circumstances. "very old," replied the doctor, who knew that the other was now at the end of his obituary list. "are there any other of my patients you are anxious to hear about?" [illustration: "are there any other of my patients you are anxious to hear about?"] "no, thank you," returned hardy, with some haste. the doctor turned to his host again, but the charm was broken. his talk was disconnected, owing probably to the fact that he was racking his brain for facts relative to the seamy side of shipbroking. and hardy, without any encouragement whatever, was interrupting with puerile anecdotes concerning the late lamented joe banks. the captain came to the rescue. "the ladies are in the garden," he said to the doctor; "perhaps you'd like to join them." he looked coldly over at hardy as he spoke to see the effect of his words. their eyes met, and the young man was on his feet as soon as his rival. "thanks," he said, coolly; "it is a trifle close indoors." before the dismayed captain could think of any dignified pretext to stay him he was out of the room. the doctor followed and the perturbed captain, left alone, stared blankly at the door and thought of his daughter's words concerning the thin end of the wedge. he was a proud man and loth to show discomfiture, so that it was not until a quarter of an hour later that he followed his guests to the garden. the four people were in couples, the paths favouring that formation, although the doctor, to the detriment of the border, had made two or three determined attempts to march in fours. with a feeling akin to scorn the captain saw that he was walking with mrs. kingdom, while some distance in the rear jem hardy followed with kate. he stood at the back door for a little while watching; hardy, upright and elate, was listening with profound attention to miss nugent; the doctor, sauntering along beside mrs. kingdom, was listening with a languid air to an account of her celebrated escape from measles some forty-three years before. as a professional man he would have died rather than have owed his life to the specific she advocated. kate nugent, catching sight of her father, turned, and as he came slowly towards them, linked her arm, in his. her face was slightly flushed and her eyes sparkled. "i was just coming in to fetch you," she observed; "it is so pleasant out here now." "delightful," said hardy. "we had to drop behind a little," said miss nugent, raising her voice. "aunt and dr. murchison _will_ talk about their complaints to each other! they have been exchanging prescriptions." the captain grunted and eyed her keenly. "i want you to come in and give us a little music," he said, shortly. kate nodded. "what is your favourite music, mr. hardy?" she inquired, with a smile. "unfortunately, mr. hardy can't stay," said the captain, in a voice which there was no mistaking. hardy pulled out his watch. "no; i must be off," he said, with a well-affected start. "thank you for reminding me, captain nugent." "i am glad to have been of service," said the other, looking his grimmest. he acknowledged the young man's farewell with a short nod and, forgetting his sudden desire for music, continued to pace up and down with his daughter. "what have you been saying to that--that fellow?" he demanded, turning to her, suddenly. miss nugent reflected. "i said it was a fine evening," she replied, at last. "no doubt," said her father. "what else?" "i think i asked him whether he was fond of gardening," said miss nugent, slowly. "yes, i'm sure i did." "you had no business to speak to him at all," said the fuming captain. "i don't quite see how i could help doing so," said his daughter. "you surely don't expect me to be rude to your visitors? besides, i feel rather sorry for him." "sorry?" repeated the captain, sharply. "what for?" "because he hasn't got a nice, kind, soft-spoken father," said miss nugent, squeezing his arm affectionately. the appearance of the other couple at the head of the path saved the captain the necessity of a retort. they stood in a little knot talking, but miss nugent, contrary to her usual habit, said but little. she was holding her father's arm and gazing absently at the dim fields stretching away beyond the garden. at the same time mr. james hardy, feeling, despite his bold front, somewhat badly snubbed, was sitting on the beach thinking over the situation. after a quarter of an hour in the company of kate nugent all else seemed sordid and prosaic; his own conduct in his attempt to save her brother from the consequences of his folly most sordid of all. he wondered, gloomily, what she would think when she heard of it. [illustration: "he wondered, gloomily, what she would think when she heard of it."] he rose at last and in the pale light of the new moon walked slowly along towards the town. in his present state of mind he wanted to talk about kate nugent, and the only person who could be depended upon for doing that was samson wilks. it was a never-tiring subject of the steward's, and since his discovery of the state of hardy's feelings in that quarter the slightest allusion was sufficient to let loose a flood of reminiscences. it was dark by the time hardy reached the alley, and in most of the houses the lamps were lit behind drawn blinds. the steward's house, however, was in darkness and there was no response when he tapped. he turned the handle of the door and looked in. a dim figure rose with a start from a chair. "i hope you were not asleep?" said hardy. "no, sir," said the steward, in a relieved voice. "i thought it was somebody else." he placed a chair for his visitor and, having lit the lamp, slowly lowered the blind and took a seat opposite. "i've been sitting in the dark to make a certain party think i was out," he said, slowly. "she keeps making a excuse about teddy to come over and see me. last night 'e talked about making a 'ole in the water to celebrate 'melia kybird's wedding, and she came over and sat in that chair and cried as if 'er 'art would break. after she'd gone teddy comes over, fierce as a eagle, and wants to know wot i've been saying to 'is mother to make 'er cry. between the two of 'em i 'ave a nice life of it." "he is still faithful to miss kybird, then?" said hardy, with a sudden sense of relief. "faithful?" said mr. wilks. "faithful ain't no word for it. he's a sticker, that's wot 'e is, and it's my misfortune that 'is mother takes after 'im. i 'ave to go out afore breakfast and stay out till late at night, and even then like as not she catches me on the doorstep." "well, perhaps she will make a hole in the water," suggested hardy. mr. wilks smiled, but almost instantly became grave again. "she's not that sort," he said, bitterly, and went into the kitchen to draw some beer. he drank his in a manner which betokened that the occupation afforded him no enjoyment, and, full of his own troubles, was in no mood to discuss anything else. he gave a short biography of mrs. silk which would have furnished abundant material for half-a-dozen libel actions, and alluding to the demise of the late mr. silk, spoke of it as though it were the supreme act of artfulness in a somewhat adventurous career. hardy walked home with a mind more at ease than it had been at any time since his overtures to mr. swann. the only scruple that had troubled him was now removed, and in place of it he felt that he was acting the part of a guardian angel to mr. edward silk. chapter xxii mr. nathan smith, usually one of the most matter-of-fact men in the world, came out of mr. swann's house in a semi-dazed condition, and for some time after the front door had closed behind him stood gaping on the narrow pavement. he looked up and down the quiet little street and shook his head sadly. it was a street of staid and substantial old houses; houses which had mellowed and blackened with age, but whose quaint windows and chance-opened doors afforded glimpses of comfort attesting to the prosperity of those within. in the usual way mr. nathan smith was of too philosophical a temperament to experience the pangs of envy, but to-day these things affected him, and he experienced a strange feeling of discontent with his lot in life. "some people 'ave all the luck," he muttered, and walked slowly down the road. [illustration: "'some people 'ave all the luck,' he muttered."] he continued his reflections as he walked through the somewhat squalid streets of his own quarter. the afternoon was wet and the houses looked dingier than usual; dirty, inconvenient little places most of them, with a few cheap gimcracks making a brave show as near the window as possible. mr. smith observed them with newly opened eyes, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, thought of the draw-backs and struggles of the poor. in his own untidy little den at the back of the house he sat for some time deep in thought over the events of the afternoon. he had been permitted a peep at wealth; at wealth, too, which was changing hands, but was not coming his way. he lit his pipe and, producing a bottle of rum from a cupboard, helped himself liberally. the potent fluid softened him somewhat, and a half-formed intention to keep the news from mr. kybird melted away beneath its benign influence. "after all, we've been pals for pretty near thirty years," said mr. smith to himself. he took another draught. "thirty years is a long time," he mused. he finished the glass. "and if 'e don't give me something out of it i'll do 'im as much 'arm as i can," he continued; and, buttoning up his coat, he rose and set out in the direction of the high street. the rain had ceased and the sun was making faint efforts to break through watery clouds. things seemed brighter, and mr. smith's heart beat in response. he was going to play the part of a benefactor to mr. kybird; to offer him access, at any rate, to such wealth as he had never dreamed of. he paused at the shop window, and, observing through a gap in the merchandise that mr. kybird was be-hind the counter, walked in and saluted him. "i've got news for you," he said, slowly; "big news." "oh," said mr. kybird, with indifference. "big news," repeated mr. smith, sinking thoughtlessly into the broken cane-chair and slowly extricating himself. "something that'll make your eyes start out of your 'ed." the small black eyes in question were turned shrewdly in his direction. "i've 'ad news of you afore, nat," remarked mr. kybird, with simple severity. the philanthropist was chilled; he fixed his eyes in a stony stare on the opposite wall. mr. kybird, who had ever a wholesome dread of falling a victim to his friend's cuteness, regarded him with some uncertainty, and reminded him of one or two pieces of information which had seriously depleted his till. "banns up yet for the wedding?" inquired mr. smith, still gazing in front of him with fathomless eyes. "they'll be put up next week," said mr. kybird. "ah!" said his friend, with great emphasis. "well, well!" "wot d'ye mean by 'well, well'?" demanded the other, with some heat. "i was on'y thinking," replied mr. smith, mildly. "p'r'aps it's all for the best, and i'd better 'old my tongue. true love is better than money. after all it ain't my bisness, and i shouldn't get much out of it." "out of wot, nat?" inquired mr. kybird, uneasily. mr. smith, still gazing musingly before him, appeared not to hear the question. "nice after the rain, ain't it?" he said, slowly. "it's all right," said the other, shortly. "everything smells so fresh and sweet," continued his nature-loving friend; "all the little dickey-birds was a-singing as if their little 'arts would break as i come along." "i don't wonder at it," said the offended mr. kybird. "and the banns go up next week," murmured the boarding-master to himself. "well, well." "'ave you got anything to say agin it?" demanded mr. kybird. "cert'nly not," replied the other. "on'y don't blame me when it's too late; that's all." mr. kybird, staring at him wrathfully, turned this dark saying over in his mind. "too late for wot?" he inquired. "ah!" said nathan smith, slowly. "nice and fresh after the rain, ain't it? as i come along all the little dickey-birds--" "drat the little dickey-birds," interrupted mr. kybird, with sudden violence. "if you've got anything to say, why don't you say it like a man?" [illustration: "if you've got anything to say, why don't you say it like a man?"] the parlour door opened suddenly before the other could reply, and revealed the face of mrs. kybird. "wot are you two a-quarrelling about?" she demanded. "why don't you come inside and sit down for a bit?" mr. smith accepted the invitation, and following her into the room found miss kybird busy stitching in the midst of a bewildering assortment of brown paper patterns and pieces of cloth. mrs. kybird gave him a chair, and, having overheard a portion of his conversation with her husband, made one or two casual inquiries. "i've been spending a hour or two at mr. swann's," said mr. smith. "and 'ow is 'e?" inquired his hostess, with an appearance of amiable interest. the boarding-master shook his head. "'e's slipping 'is cable," he said, slowly. "'e's been making 'is will, and i was one o' the witnesses." something in mr. smith's manner as he uttered this simple statement made his listeners anxious to hear more. mr. kybird, who had just entered the room and was standing with his back to the door holding the handle, regarded him expectantly. "it's been worrying 'im some time," pursued mr. smith. "'e 'asn't got nobody belonging to 'im, and for a long time 'e couldn't think 'ow to leave it. wot with 'ouse property and other things it's a matter of over ten thousand pounds." "good 'eavens!" said mr. kybird, who felt that he was expected to say something. "dr. blaikie was the other witness," continued mr. smith, disregarding the interruption; "and mr. swann made us both promise to keep it a dead secret till 'e's gone, but out o' friendship to you i thought i'd step round and let you know." the emphasis on the words was unmistakable; mrs. kybird dropped her work and sat staring at him, while her husband wriggled with excitement. "'e ain't left it to me, i s'pose?" he said, with a feeble attempt at jocularity. "not a brass farden," replied his friend, cheerfully. "not to none of you. why should 'e? "he ain't left it to jack, i s'pose?" said miss kybird, who had suspended her work to listen. "no, my dear," replied the boarding-master. "e's made 'is will all ship-shape and proper, and 'e's left everything--all that 'ouse property and other things, amounting to over ten thousand pounds--to a young man becos 'e was jilt--crossed in love a few months ago, and becos 'e's been a good and faithful servant to 'im for years." "don't tell me," said mr. kybird, desperately; "don't tell me that 'e's been and left all that money to young teddy silk." "well, i won't if you don't want me to," said the accommodating mr. smith, "but, mind, it's a dead secret." mr. kybird wiped his brow, and red patches, due to excitement, lent a little variety to an otherwise commonplace face; mrs. kybird's dazed inquiry. "wot are we a-coming to?" fell on deaf ears; while miss kybird, leaning forward with lips parted, fixed her eyes intently on mr. smith's face. "it's a pity 'e didn't leave it to young nugent," said that gentleman, noting with much pleasure the effect of his announcement, "but 'e can't stand 'in: at no price; 'e told me so 'imself. i s'pose young teddy'll be quite the gentleman now, and 'e'll be able to marry who 'e likes." mr. kybird thrust his handkerchief into his tail-pocket, and all the father awoke within him. "ho, will 'e?" he said, with fierce sarcasm. "ho, indeed! and wot about my daughter? i 'ave 'eard of such things as breach o' promise. before mr. teddy gets married 'e's got to 'ave a few words with me." "'e's behaved very bad," said mrs. kybird, nodding. "'e come 'ere night after night," said mr. kybird, working himself up into a fury; "'e walked out with my gal for months and months, and then 'e takes 'imself off as if we wasn't good enough for'im." "the suppers 'e's 'ad 'ere you wouldn't believe," said mrs. kybird, addressing the visitor. "takes 'imself off," repeated her husband; "takes 'imself off as if we was dirt beneath 'is feet, and never been back to give a explanation from that day to this." "i'm not easy surprised," said mrs. kybird, "i never was from a gal, but i must say teddy's been a surprise to me. if anybody 'ad told me 'e'd ha' behaved like that i wouldn't ha' believed it; i couldn't. i've never said much about it, becos my pride wouldn't let me. we all 'ave our faults, and mine is pride." "i shall bring a breach o' promise action agin 'im for five thousand pounds," said mr. kybird, with decision. "talk sense," said nathan smith, shortly. "sense!" cried mr. kybird. "is my gal to be played fast and loose with like that? is my gal to be pitched over when 'e likes? is my gal--" "wot's the good o' talking like that to me?" said the indignant mr. smith. "the best thing you can do is to get 'er married to teddy at once, afore 'e knows of 'is luck." "and when'll that be?" inquired his friend, in a calmer voice. "any time," said the boarding-master, shrugging his shoulders. "the old gentleman might go out to-night, or again 'e might live on for a week or more. 'e was so weak 'e couldn't 'ardly sign 'is name." "i 'ope 'e 'as signed it all right," said mr. kybird, starting. "safe as 'ouses," said his friend. "well, why not wait till teddy 'as got the money?" suggested mrs. kybird, with a knowing shake of her head. "becos," said mr. smith, in a grating voice, "be-cos for one thing 'e'd be a rich man then and could 'ave 'is pick. teddy silk on a pound or thereabouts a week and teddy silk with ten thousand pounds 'ud be two different people. besides that 'e'd think she was marrying 'im for 'is money." "if 'e thought that," said mrs. kybird, firmly, "i'd never forgive 'im." "my advice to you," said nathan smith, shaking his forefinger impressively, "is to get 'em married on the quiet and as soon as possible. once they're tied up teddy can't 'elp 'imself." "why on the quiet?" demanded mr. kybird, sharply. the boarding-master uttered an impatient exclamation. "becos if mr. swann got to 'ear of it he'd guess i'd been blabbing, for one thing," he said, sharply, "and for another, 'e left it to 'im partly to make up for 'is disappointment--he'd been disappointed 'imself in 'is younger days, so 'e told me." "suppose 'e managed to get enough strength to alter 'is will?" mr. kybird shivered. "it takes time to get married, though," he objected. "yes," said mr. smith, ironically, "it does. get round young teddy, and then put the banns up. take your time about it, and be sure and let mr. swann know. d'ye think 'e wouldn't understand wot it meant, and spoil it, to say nothing of teddy seeing through it? "well, wot's to be done, then?" inquired the staring mr. kybird. "send 'em up to london and 'ave 'em married by special license," said mr. smith, speaking rapidly--"to-morrow, if possible; if not, the day after. go and pitch a tale to teddy to-night, and make 'im understand it's to be done on the strict q.t." "special licenses cost money," said mr. kybird. "i 'ave 'eard it's a matter o' thirty pounds or thereabouts." mr. nathan smith rose, and his eyes were almost expressive. he nodded good-night to the ladies and crossed to the door. mrs. kybird suddenly seized him by the coat and held him. [illustration: "mrs. kybird suddenly seized him by the coat."] "don't be in a 'urry, nat," she pleaded. "we ain't all as clever as you are." "talk about looking a gift-'orse in the mouth--" began the indignant mr. smith. "sit down," urged mr. kybird. "you can't expect us to be as quick in seeing things as wot you are." he pushed his partly mollified friend into his chair again, and taking a seat next him began to view the affair with enthusiasm. "'melia shall turn young nugent off to-night," he said, firmly. "that's right," said the other; "go and do a few more silly things like that and we shall be 'appy. if you'd got a 'ead instead of wot you 'ave got, you wouldn't talk of giving the show away like that. nobody must know or guess about anything until young teddy is married to 'melia and got the money." "it seems something like deceitfulness," said miss kybird, who had been listening to the plans for her future with admirable composure. "it's for teddy's own sake," said nathan smith. "everybody knows 'e's half crazy after you." "i don't know that i don't like 'im best, even without the money," said miss kybird, calmly. "nobody could 'ave been more attentive than 'im. i believe that 'e'd marry me if 'e 'ad a hundred thousand, but it looks better your way." "better all round," said nathan smith, with at approving nod. "now, dan'l, 'op round to teddy and whistle 'im back, and mind 'e's to keep it a dead secret on account o' trouble with young nugent. d'ye twig?" the admiring mr. kybird said that he was a wonder, and, in the discussion on ways and means which followed, sat listening with growing respect to the managing abilities both of his friend and his wife. difficulties were only mentioned for the purpose of being satisfactorily solved, and he noticed with keen appreciation that the prospect of a ten thousand pound son-in-law was already adding to that lady's dignity. she sniffed haughtily as she spoke of "that nugent lot"; and the manner in which she promised mr. smith that he should not lose by his services would have graced a duchess. "i didn't expect to lose by it," said the boarding-master, pointedly. "come over and 'ave a glass at the chequers, dan, and then you can go along and see teddy." chapter xxiii the summer evening was well advanced when mr. kybird and his old friend parted. the former gentleman was in almost a sentimental mood, and the boarding-master, satisfied that his pupil was in a particularly appropriate frame of mind for the object of his visit, renewed his instructions about binding mr. silk to secrecy, and departed on business of his own. [illustration: "mr. kybird and his old friend parted."] mr. kybird walked slowly towards fullalove alley with his head sunk in meditation. he was anxious to find mr. silk alone, as otherwise the difficulty of his errand would be considerably increased, mrs. silk's intelligence being by no means obscured by any ungovernable affection for the kybird family. if she was at home she would have to invent some pretext for luring teddy into the privacy of the open air. the lamp was lit in the front room by the time he reached the house, and the shadows of geraniums which had won through several winters formed a straggling pattern on the holland blind. mr. kybird, first making an unsuccessful attempt to peep round the edges of this decoration, tapped gently on the door, and in response to a command to "come in," turned the handle and looked into the room. to his relief, he saw that mr. silk was alone. "good evening, teddy," he said, with a genial smile, as he entered slowly and closed the door behind him. "i 'ope i see you well?" "i'm quite well," returned mr. silk, gazing at him with unconcealed surprise. "i'm glad to 'ear it," said mr. kybird, in a somewhat reproachful voice, "for your sake; for every-body's sake, though, p'r'aps, i did expect to find you looking a little bit down. ah! it's the wimmen that 'ave the 'arts after all." mr. silk coughed. "what d'ye mean?" he inquired, somewhat puzzled. "i came to see you, teddy, on a very delikit business," said mr. kybird, taking a seat and gazing diffidently at his hat as he swung it between his hands; "though, as man to man, i'm on'y doing of my dooty. but if you don't want to 'ear wot i've got to say, say so, and dan'l kybird'll darken your door no more." "how can i know whether i want to 'ear it or not when i don't know wot it is?" said mr. silk, judiciously. mr. kybird sat biting his thumb-nail, then he looked up suddenly. "'melia," he said, with an outburst of desperate frankness, "'melia is crying 'er eyes out." mr. silk, with a smothered exclamation, started up from his chair and regarded him eagerly. "if she knew i'd been 'ere," pursued mr. kybird, "she'd i don't know wot she wouldn't do. that's 'er pride; but i've got my pride too; the pride of a father's 'art." "what--what's she crying about?" inquired mr. silk, in an unsteady voice. "she's been looking poorly for some time," continued the veracious mr. kybird, "and crying. when i tell you that part o' the wedding-dress wot she was making 'ad to be taken away from 'er because o' the tears she dropped on it, you may 'ave some idea of wot things are like. she's never forgot you, teddy, and it was on'y your quick temper that day that made 'er take on with young nugent. she's got a temper, too, but she give 'er love once, and, being my daughter, she couldn't give it agin." he stole a glance at his listener. mr. silk, very pale and upright, was standing on the hearthrug, shaking all over with nervous excitement. twice he tried to speak and failed. "that's 'ow it is, teddy," sighed mr. kybird, rising as though to depart. "i've done my dooty. it was a 'ard thing to do, but i've done it." "do you mean," said mr. silk, recovering his voice at last, "do you mean that amelia would marry me after all?" "do i mean?" repeated mr. kybird, naturally indignant that his very plain speaking should be deemed capable of any misconstruction. "am i speaking to a stock or a stone, teddy?" mr. silk took a deep breath, and buttoned up his coat, as though preparing to meet mr. nugent there and then in deadly encounter for the person of miss kybird. the colour was back in his cheeks by this time, and his eyes were unusually bright. he took a step towards mr. kybird and, pressing his hand warmly, pushed him back into his seat again. "there's 'er pride to consider, teddy," said the latter gentleman, with the whisper of a conspirator. "she can't stand being talked about all over the town and pointed at." "let me see anybody a-pointing at 'er," said the truculent mr. silk; "let me see 'em, that's all." "that's the way to talk, teddy," said mr. kybird, gazing at him with admiration. "talk!" said the heroic mr. silk. "i'll do more than talk." he clenched his fists and paced boldly up and down the hearthrug. "you leave things to me," said mr. kybird, with a confidential wink. "i'll see that it's all right. all i ask of you is to keep it a dead secret; even your mother mustn't know." "i'll be as secret as the grave," said the overjoyed mr. silk. "there's lots o' things to be taken into consideration," said mr. kybird, truthfully; "it might be as well for you to be married immediate." "immediate?" said the astonished mr. silk. "she 'asn't got the nerve to send young nugent about 'is business," explained mr. kybird; "she feels sorry for 'im, pore fellow; but 'e's got a loving and affectionate 'art, and she can't bear 'im making love to 'er. you can understand what it is, can't you?" "i can imagine it," said mr. silk, gloomily, and he flushed crimson as the possibilities suggested by the remark occurred to him. "i've been thinking it over for some time," resumed mr. kybird; "twisting it and turning it all ways, and the only thing i can see for it is for you to be married on the strict q.t. of course, if you don't like--" "like!" repeated the transported mr. silk. "i'll go and be married now, if you like." mr. kybird shook his head at such haste, and then softening a little observed that it did him credit. he proceeded to improve the occasion by anecdotes of his own courting some thirty years before, and was in the middle of a thrilling account of the manner in which he had bearded the whose of his future wife's family, when a quick step outside, which paused at the door, brought him to a sudden halt. "mother," announced mr. silk, in a whisper. mr. kybird nodded, and the heroic appearance of visage which had accompanied his tale gave way to an expression of some uneasiness. he coughed behind his hand, and sat gazing before him as mrs. silk entered the room and gave vent to an exclamation of astonishment as she saw the visitor. she gazed sharply from him to her son. mr. kybird's expression was now normal, but despite his utmost efforts mr. silk could not entirely banish the smile which trembled on his lips. "me and teddy," said mr. kybird, turning to her with a little bob, which served him for a bow, "'ave just been having a little talk about old times." "he was just passing," said mr. silk. "just passing, and thought i'd look in," said mr. kybird, with a careless little laugh; "the door was open a bit." "wide open," corroborated mr. silk. "so i just came in to say ''ow d'ye do?'" said mr. kybird. mrs. silk's sharp, white face turned from one to the other. "ave you said it?" she inquired, blandly. "i 'ave," said mr. kybird, restraining mr. silk's evident intention of hot speech by a warning glance; "and now i'll just toddle off 'ome." "i'll go a bit o' the way with you," said edward silk. "i feel as if a bit of a walk would do me good." left alone, the astonished mrs. silk took the visitor's vacated chair and, with wrinkled brow, sat putting two and two together until the sum got beyond her powers of calculation. mr. kybird's affability and teddy's cheerfulness were alike incomprehensible. she mended a hole in her pocket and darned a pair of socks, and at last, anxious for advice, or at least a confidant, resolved to see mr. wilks. she opened the door and looked across the alley, and saw with some satisfaction that his blind was illuminated. she closed the door behind her sharply, and then stood gasping on the doorstep. so simultaneous were the two happenings that it actually appeared as though the closing of the door had blown mr. wilks's lamp out. it was a night of surprises, but after a moment's hesitation she stepped over and tried his door. it was fast, and there was no answer to her knuckling. she knocked louder and listened. a door slammed violently at the back of the house, a distant clatter of what sounded like saucepans came from beyond, and above it all a tremulous but harsh voice bellowed industriously through an interminable chant. by the time the third verse was reached mr. wilks's neighbours on both sides were beating madly upon their walls and blood-curdling threats strained through the plaster. she stayed no longer, but regaining her own door sat down again to await the return of her son. mr. silk was long in coming, and she tried in vain to occupy herself with various small jobs as she speculated in vain on the meaning of the events of the night. she got up and stood by the open door, and as she waited the clock in the church-tower, which rose over the roofs hard by, slowly boomed out the hour of eleven. as the echoes of the last stroke died away the figure of mr. silk turned into the alley. "you must 'ave 'ad quite a nice walk," said his mother, as she drew back into the room and noted the brightness of his eye. "yes," was the reply. "i s'pose 'e's been and asked you to the wedding?" said the sarcastic mrs. silk. her son started and, turning his back on her, wound up the clock. "yes, 'e has," he said, with a, sly grin. mrs. silk's eyes snapped. "well, of all the impudence," she said, breathlessly. "well, 'e has," said her son, hugging himself over the joke. "and, what's more, i'm going." he composed his face sufficiently to bid her "good-night," and, turning a deaf ear to her remonstrances and inquiries, took up a candle and were off whistling. [illustration: "he took up his candle and went off whistling."] chapter xxiv the idea in the mind of mr. james hardy when he concocted his infamous plot was that jack nugent would be summarily dismissed on some pretext by miss kybird, and that steps would at once be taken by her family to publish her banns together with those of mr. silk. in thinking thus he had made no allowance for the workings and fears of such a capable mind as nathan smith's, and as days passed and nothing happened he became a prey to despair. he watched mr. silk keenly, but that gentleman went about his work in his usual quiet and gloomy fashion, and, after a day's leave for the purpose of arranging the affairs of a sick aunt in camberwell, came back only a little less gloomy than before. it was also clear that mr. swann's complaisance was nearly at an end, and a letter, couched in vigorous, not to say regrettable, terms for a moribund man, expressed such a desire for fresh air and exercise that hardy was prepared to see him at any moment. it was the more unfortunate as he thought that he had of late detected a slight softening in captain nugent's manner towards him. on two occasions the captain, who was out when he called, had made no comment to find upon his return that the visitor was being entertained by his daughter, going so far, indeed, as to permit the conversation to gain vastly in interest by that young person remaining in the room. in face of this improvement he thought with dismay of having to confess failure in a scheme which apart from success was inexcusable. the captain had also unbent in another direction, and mr. wilks, to his great satisfaction, was allowed to renew his visits to equator lodge and assist his old master in the garden. here at least the steward was safe from the designs of mrs. silk and the innuendoes of fullalove alley. it was at this time, too, that the widow stood in most need of his advice, the behaviour of edward silk being of a nature to cause misgivings in any mother's heart. a strange restlessness possessed him, varied with occasional outbursts of hilarity and good nature. dark hints emanated from him at these times concerning a surprise in store for her at no distant date, hints which were at once explained away in a most unsatisfactory manner when she became too pressing in her inquiries. he haunted the high street, and when the suspicious mrs. silk spoke of amelia he only laughed and waxed humorous over such unlikely subjects as broken hearts and broken vows. it was a week after mr. kybird's visit to the alley that he went, as usual, for a stroll up and down the high street. the evening was deepening, and some of the shops had already lit up, as mr. silk, with his face against the window-pane, tried in vain to penetrate the obscurity of mr. kybird's shop. he could just make out a dim figure behind the counter, which he believed to be amelia, when a match was struck and a gas jet threw a sudden light in the shop and revealed mr. jack nugent standing behind the counter with his hand on the lady's shoulder. [illustration: "he could just make out a dim figure behind the counter."] one glance was sufficient. the next moment there was a sharp cry from miss kybird and a bewildered stare from nugent as something, only comparable to a human cracker, bounced into the shop and commenced to explode before them. "take your 'and off," raved mr. silk. "leave 'er alone. 'ow dare you? d'ye hear me? 'melia, i won't 'ave it! i won't 'ave it!" "don't be silly, teddy," remonstrated mr. nugent, following up miss kybird, as she edged away from him. "leave 'er alone, d'ye 'ear?" yelled mr. silk, thumping the counter with his small fist. "she's my _wife!_" "teddy's mad," said mr. nugent, calmly, "stark, staring, raving mad. poor teddy." he shook his head sadly, and had just begun to recommend a few remedies when the parlour door opened and the figure of mr. kybird, with his wife standing close behind him, appeared in the doorway. "who's making all this noise?" demanded the former, looking from one to the other. "i am," said mr. silk, fiercely. "it's no use your winking at me; i'm not going to 'ave any more of this nonsense. 'melia, you go and get your 'at on and come straight off 'ome with me." mr. kybird gave a warning cough. "go easy, teddy," he murmured. "and don't you cough at me," said the irritated mr. silk, "because it won't do no good." mr. kybird subsided. he was not going to quarrel with a son-in-law who might at any moment be worth ten thousand pounds. "isn't he mad?" inquired the amazed mr. nugent. "cert'nly not," replied mr. kybird, moving aside to let his daughter pass; "no madder than you are. wot d'ye mean, mad?" mr. nugent looked round in perplexity. "do you mean to tell me that teddy and amelia are married?" he said, in a voice trembling with eagerness. "i do," said mr. kybird. "it seems they've been fond of one another all along, and they went up all unbeknown last friday and got a license and got married." "and if i see you putting your 'and on 'er shoulder ag'in" said mr. silk, with alarming vagueness. "but suppose she asks me to?" said the delighted mr. nugent, with much gravity. [illustration: "'but suppose she asks me to?' said the delighted mr. nugent, with much gravity."] "look 'ere, we don't want none o' your non-sense," broke in the irate mrs. kybird, pushing her way past her husband and confronting the speaker. "i've been deceived," said mr. nugent in a thrilling voice; "you've all been deceiving me. kybird, i blush for you (that will save you a lot of trouble). teddy, i wouldn't have believed it of you. i can't stay here; my heart is broken." "well we don't want you to," retorted the aggressive mrs. kybird. "you can take yourself off as soon as ever you like. you can't be too quick to please me." mr. nugent bowed and walked past the counter. "and not even a bit of wedding-cake for me," he said, shaking a reproachful head at the heated mr. silk. "why, i'd put you down first on my list." he paused at the door, and after a brief intimation that he would send for his effects on the following day, provided that his broken heart had not proved fatal in the meantime, waved his hand to the company and departed. mr. kybird followed him to the door as though to see him off the premises, and gazing after the receding figure swelled with indignation as he noticed that he favoured a mode of progression which was something between a walk and a hornpipe. mr. nugent had not been in such spirits since his return to sunwich, and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, he walked on in a state of growing excitement until he was clear of the town. then he stopped to consider his next move, and after a little deliberation resolved to pay a visit to jem hardy and acquaint him with the joyful tidings. that gentleman, however, was out, and mr. nugent, somewhat irritated at such thoughtlessness, stood in the road wondering where to go next. it was absolutely impossible for him to sleep that night without telling the good news to somebody, and after some thought he selected mr. wilks. it was true that relations had been somewhat strained between them since the latter's attempt at crimping him, but he was never one to bear malice, and to-night he was full of the kindliest thoughts to all mankind. he burst into mr. wilks's front room suddenly and then pulled up short. the steward, with a pitiable look of anxiety on his pallid features, was leaning awkwardly against the mantelpiece, and opposite him mrs. silk sat in an easy-chair, dissolved in tears. "busy, sam?" inquired mr. nugent, who had heard of the steward's difficulties from hardy. "no, sir," said mr. wilks, hastily; "sit down, sir." he pushed forward a chair and, almost pulling his visitor into it, stood over him attentively and took his hat. "are you quite sure i'm not interrupting you?" inquired the thoughtful mr. nugent. "certain sure, sir," said mr. wilks, eagerly. "i was just 'aving a bit of a chat with my neighbour, mrs. silk, 'ere, that's all." the lady in question removed her handkerchief from her eyes and gazed at him with reproachful tenderness. mr. wilks plunged hastily into conversation. "she came over 'ere to tell me a bit o' news," he said, eyeing the young man doubtfully. "it seems that teddy----" mr. nugent fetched a mighty sigh and shook his head; mrs. silk gazed at him earnestly. "life is full of surprises, sir," she remarked. "and sadness," added mr. nugent. "i hope that they will be happy." "it struck me all of a 'eap," said mrs. silk, rolling her handkerchief into a ball and placing it in her lap. "i was doing a bit of ironing when in walks teddy with amelia kybird, and says they was married last friday. i was that shaken i didn't know what i did or what i said. then i came over as soon as i could, because i thought mr. wilks ought to know about it." mr. wilks cleared his throat and turned an agonized eye on mr. nugent. he would have liked to have asked why mrs. silk should think it necessary to inform him, but the fear of precipitating a crisis stayed his tongue. "what i'm to do, i don't know," continued mrs. silk, feebly. you can't 'ave two queens in one 'ouse, so to speak." "but she was walking out with teddy long ago," urged mr. wilks. "it's no worse now than then." "but i wouldn't be married by license," said mrs. silk, deftly ignoring the remark. "if i can't be asked in church in the proper way i won't be married at all." "quite right," said mr. nugent; "there's something so sudden about a license," he added, with feeling. "me and mr. wilks was talking about marriage only the other day," pursued mrs. silk, with a bashfulness which set every nerve in the steward's body quivering, "and we both agreed that banns was the proper way. "you was talking about it," corrected mr. wilks, in a hoarse voice. "you brought up the subject and i agreed with you--not that it matters to me 'ow people get married. that's their affair. banns or license, it's all one to me." "i won't be married by license," said mrs. silk, with sudden petulance; "leastways, i'd rather not be," she added, softening. mr. wilks took his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose violently. mrs. silk's methods of attack left him little opportunity for the plain speaking which was necessary to dispel illusions. he turned a watery, appealing eye on to mr. nugent, and saw to his surprise that that gentleman was winking at him with great significance and persistence. it would have needed a heart of stone to have been unaffected by such misery, and to-night mr. nugent, thankful for his own escape, was in a singularly merciful mood. "all this sounds as though you are going to be married," he said, turning to mrs. silk with a polite smile. the widow simpered and looked down, thereby affording mr. nugent an opportunity of another signal to the perturbed steward, who sat with such a look of anxiety on his face lest he should miss his cue that the young man's composure was tried to the utmost. "it's been a understood thing for a long time," she said, slowly, "but i couldn't leave my son while 'e was single and nobody to look after 'im. a good mother makes a good wife, so they say. a woman can't always 'ave 'er own way in everything, and if it's not to be by banns, then by license it must be, i suppose." "well, he'll be a fortunate man, whoever he is," said mr. nugent, with another warning glance at mr. wilks; "and i only hope that he'll make a better husband than you do, sam," he added, in a low but severe voice. mrs. silk gave a violent start. "better husband than 'e does?" she cried, sharply. "mr. wilks ain't married." mr. nugent's baseless charge took the steward all aback. he stiffened in his chair, a picture of consternation, and guilt appeared stamped on every feature; but he had the presence of mind to look to mr. nugent's eye for guidance and sufficient strength of character to accept this last bid for liberty. "that's my business, sir," he quavered, in offended tones. "but you ain't _married?_" screamed mrs. silk. "never mind," said nugent, pacifically. "perhaps i ought not to have mentioned it; it's a sore subject with sam. and i daresay there were faults on both sides. weren't there, sam?" "yes, sir," said mr. wilks, in a voice which he strove hard to make distinct; "especially 'ers." "you--you never told me you were married," said mrs. silk, breathlessly. "i never said i wasn't," retorted the culprit, defiantly. "if people liked to think i was a single man, i don't care; it's got nothing to do with them. besides, she lives at stepney, and i don't 'ear from 'er once in six months; she don't interfere with me and i don't interfere with her." mrs. silk got up from her chair and stood confronting him with her hand grasping the back of it. her cold eyes gleamed and her face worked with spite as she tried in vain to catch his eye. of mr. nugent and his ingenuous surprise at her behaviour she took no notice at all. "you're a deceiver," she gasped; "you've been behaving like a single man and everybody thought you was a single man." [illustration: "'you're a deceiver,' she gasped."] "i hope you haven't been paying attentions to anybody, sam," said mr. nugent in a shocked voice. "a-ah," said mrs. silk, shivering with anger. "ask 'im; the deceiving villain. ask anybody, and see what they'll tell you. oh, you wicked man, i wonder you can look me in the face!" truth to tell, mr. wilks was looking in any direction but hers. his eyes met nugent's, but there was a look of such stern disdain on that gentleman's face that he was fain to look away again. "was it a friend of yours?" inquired the artless mr. nugent. "never mind," said mrs. silk, recovering herself. "never mind who it was. you wait till i go and tell teddy," she continued, turning to the trembling mr. wilks. "if 'e's got the 'art of a man in 'im you'll see." with this dire threat, and turning occasionally to bestow another fierce glance upon the steward, she walked to the door and, opening it to its full extent, closed it behind her with a crash and darted across the alley to her own house. the two men gazed at each other without speaking, and then mr. wilks, stepping over to the door, turned the key in the lock. "you're not afraid of teddy?" said the staring nugent. "teddy!" said mr. wilks, snapping his huge fingers. "i'm not afraid o' fifty teddies; but she might come back with 'im. if it 'adn't ha' been for you, sir, i don't know wot wouldn't 'ave happened." "go and draw some beer and get me a clean pipe," said nugent, dropping into a chair. "we've both been mercifully preserved, sam, and the best thing we can do is to drink to our noble selves and be more careful for the future." mr. wilks obeyed, and again thanking him warmly for his invaluable services sat down to compile a few facts about his newly acquired wife, warranted to stand the severest cross-examination which might be brought to bear upon them, a task interspersed with malicious reminiscences of mrs. silk's attacks on his liberty. he also insisted on giving up his bed to nugent for the night. "i suppose," he said later on, as mr. nugent, after a faint objection or two, took his candle--"i suppose this yarn about my being married will get about?" "i suppose so," said nugent, yawning, as he paused with his foot on the stair. "what about it?" "nothing," said mr. wilks, in a somewhat dissatisfied voice. "nothing." "what about it?" repeated mr. nugent, sternly. "nothing, sir," said mr. wilks, with an insufferable simper. "nothing, only it'll make things a little hit slow for me, that's all." mr. nugent eyed him for a space in speechless amazement, and then, with a few strong remarks on ingratitude and senile vanity, mounted the winding little stairs and went to bed. chapter xxv the day after mr. silk's sudden and unexpected assertion of his marital rights mr. kybird stood in the doorway of his shop, basking in the sun. the high street was in a state of post-prandial repose, and there was no likelihood of a customer to interfere with his confidential chat with mr. nathan smith, who was listening with an aspect of great severity to his explanations. "it ought not to 'ave happened," he said, sharply. "it was teddy done it," said mr. kybird, humbly. [illustration: "'it was teddy done it,' said mr. kybird, humbly."] mr. smith shrugged his shoulders. "it wouldn't 'ave happened if i'd been there," he observed, arrogantly. "i don't see 'ow" began mr. kybird. "no, o' course you don't," said his friend. "still, it's no use making a fuss now. the thing is done. one thing is, i don't suppose it'll make any diff----" "difference," suggested mr. kybird, after waiting for him to finish. "difference," said mr. smith, with an obvious effort. his face had lost its scornful expression and given way to one almost sheepish in its mildness. mr. kybird, staring at him in some surprise, even thought that he detected a faint shade of pink. "we ain't all as clever as wot you are, nat," he said, somewhat taken aback at this phenomenon. "it wouldn't do." mr. smith made a strange noise in his throat and turned on him sharply. mr. kybird, still staring in surprise at his unwonted behaviour, drew back a little, and then his lips parted and his eyes grew round as he saw the cause of his friend's concern. an elderly gentleman with a neatly trimmed white beard and a yellow rose in his button-hole was just passing on the other side of the road. his tread was elastic, his figure as upright as a boy's, and he swung a light cane in his hand as he walked. as mr. kybird gazed he bestowed a brisk nod upon the bewildered mr. smith, and crossed the road with the evident intention of speaking to him. "how do, smith?" he said, in a kindly voice. the boarding-master leaned against the shop-window and regarded him dumbly. there was a twinkle in the shipbroker's eyes which irritated him almost beyond endurance, and in the doorway mr. kybird--his face mottled with the intensity of his emotions--stood an unwelcome and frantic witness of his shame. "you're not well, smith?" said mr. swann, shaking his head at him gently. "you look like a man who has been doing too much brain-work lately. you've been getting the better of some-body, i know." mr. smith gasped and, eyeing him wickedly, strove hard to recover his self-possession. "i'm all right, sir," he said, in a thin voice. "i'm glad to see you're looking a trifle better, sir." "oh, i'm quite right, now," said the other, with a genial smile at the fermenting mr. kybird. "i'm as well as ever i was. illness is a serious thing, smith, but it is not without its little amusements." mr. smith, scratching his smooth-shaven chin and staring blankly in front of him, said that he was glad to hear it. "i've had a long bout of it," continued the ship-broker, "longer than i intended at first. by the way, smith, you've never spoken to anybody of that business, of course?" "of course not, sir," said the boarding-master, grinding his teeth. "one has fancies when one is ill," said mr. swann, in low tones, as his eye dwelt with pleasure on the strained features of mr. kybird. "i burnt the document five minutes after you had gone." "did you, reely?" said mr. smith, mechanically. "i'm glad it was only you and the doctor that saw my foolishness," continued the other, still in a low voice. "other people might have talked, but i knew that you were a reliable man, smith. and you won't talk about it in the future, i'm quite certain of that. good afternoon." mr. smith managed to say, "good afternoon," and stood watching the receding figure as though it belonged to a species hitherto unknown to him. then he turned, in obedience to a passionate tug at his coat sleeve from mr. kybird. "wot 'ave you got to say for yourself?" demanded that injured person, in tones of suppressed passion. "wot do you mean by it? you've made a pretty mess of it with your cleverness." "wonderful old gentleman, ain't he?" said the discomfited mr. smith. "fancy 'im getting the better o' me. fancy me being 'ad. i took it all in as innercent as you please." "ah, you're a clever fellow, you are," said mr. kybird, bitterly. "'ere's amelia lost young nugent and 'is five 'undred all through you. it's a got-up thing between old swann and the nugent lot, that's wot it is." "looks like it," admitted mr. smith; "but fancy 'is picking me out for 'is games. that's wot gets over me." "wot about all that money i paid for the license?" demanded mr. kybird, in a threatening manner. "wot are you going to do about it?" "you shall 'ave it," said the boarding-master, with sudden blandness, "and 'melia shall 'ave 'er five 'undred." "'ow?" inquired the other, staring. "it's as easy as easy," said mr. smith, who had been greatly galled by his friend's manner. "i'll leave it in my will. that's the cheapest way o' giving money i know of. and while i'm about it i'll leave you a decent pair o' trousers and a shirt with your own name on it." while an ancient friendship was thus being dissolved, mr. adolphus swann was on the way to his office. he could never remember such a pleasant air from the water and such a vivid enjoyment in the sight of the workaday world. he gazed with delight at the crowd of miscellaneous shipping in the harbour and the bustling figures on the quay, only pausing occasionally to answer anxious inquiries concerning his health from seafaring men in tarry trousers, who had waylaid him with great pains from a distance. he reached his office at last, and, having acknowledged the respectful greetings of mr. silk, passed into the private room, and celebrated his return to work by at once arranging with his partner for a substantial rise in the wages of that useful individual. "my conscience is troubling me," he declared, as he hung up his hat and gazed round the room with much relish. "silk is happy enough," said hardy. "it is the best thing that could have happened to him." "i should like to raise everybody's wages," said the benevolent mr. swann, as he seated himself at his desk. "everything is like a holiday to me after being cooped up in that bedroom; but the rest has done me a lot of good, so blaikie says. and now what is going to happen to you?" [illustration: "pausing occasionally to answer anxious inquiries."] hardy shook his head. "strike while the iron is hot," said the ship-broker. "go and see captain nugent before he has got used to the situation. and you can give him to understand, if you like (only be careful how you do it), that i have got something in view which may suit his son. if you fail in this affair after all i've done for you, i'll enter the lists myself." the advice was good, but unnecessary, mr. hardy having already fixed on that evening as a suitable opportunity to disclose to the captain the nature of the efforts he had been making on his behalf. the success which had attended them had put him into a highly optimistic mood, and he set off for equator lodge with the confident feeling that he had, to say the least of it, improved his footing there. captain nugent, called away from his labours in the garden, greeted his visitor in his customary short manner as he entered the room. "if you've come to tell me about this marriage, i've heard of it," he said, bluntly. "murchison told me this afternoon." "he didn't tell you how it was brought about, i suppose?" said hardy. the captain shook his head. "i didn't ask him," he said, with affected indifference, and sat gazing out at the window as hardy began his narration. two or three times he thought he saw signs of appreciation in his listener's face, but the mouth under the heavy moustache was firm and the eyes steady. only when he related swann's interview with nathan smith and kybird did the captain's features relax. he gave a chuckling cough and, feeling for his handkerchief, blew his nose violently. then, with a strange gleam in his eye, he turned to the young man opposite. "very smart," he said, shortly. "it was successful," said the other, modestly. "very," said the captain, as he rose and confronted him. "i am much obliged, of course, for the trouble you have taken in the affairs of my family. and now i will remind you of our agreement." "agreement?" repeated the other. the captain nodded. "your visits to me were to cease when this marriage happened, if i wished it," he said, slowly. "that was the arrangement," said the dumb-founded hardy, "but i had hoped----. besides, it has all taken place much sooner than i had anticipated." "that was the bargain," said the captain, stiffly. "and now i'll bid you good-day." "i am sorry that my presence should be so distasteful to you," said the mortified hardy. "distasteful, sir?" said the captain, sternly. "you have forced yourself on me for twice a week for some time past. you have insisted upon talking on every subject under the sun, whether i liked it or not. you have taken every opportunity of evading my wishes that you should not see my daughter, and you wonder that i object to you. for absolute brazenness you beat anything i have ever encountered." "i am sorry," said hardy, again. "good evening," said the captain "good evening." crestfallen and angry hardy moved to the door, pausing with his hand on it as the captain spoke again. "one word more," said the older man, gazing at him oddly as he stroked his grey beard; "if ever you try to come bothering me with your talk again i'll forbid you the house." "forbid me the house?" repeated the astonished hardy. "that's what i said," replied the other; "that's plain english, isn't it?" hardy looked at him in bewilderment; then, as the captain's meaning dawned upon him, he stepped forward impulsively and, seizing his hand, began to stammer out incoherent thanks. "you'd better clear before i alter my mind," said captain nugent, roughly. "i've had more than enough of you. try the garden, if you like." he took up a paper from the table and resumed his seat, not without a grim smile at the promptitude with which the other obeyed his instructions. miss nugent, reclining in a deck-chair at the bottom of the garden, looked up as she heard hardy's footstep on the gravel. it was a surprising thing to see him walking down the garden; it was still more surprising to observe the brightness of his eye and the easy confidence of his bearing. it was evident that he was highly pleased with himself, and she was not satisfied until she had ascertained the reason. then she sat silent, reflecting bitterly on the clumsy frankness of the male sex in general and fathers in particular. a recent conversation with the captain, in which she had put in a casual word or two in hardy's favour, was suddenly invested with a new significance. "i shall never be able to repay your father for his kindness," said hardy, meaningly, as he took a chair near her. "i expect he was pleased at this marriage," said miss nugent, coldly. "how did it happen?" mr. hardy shifted uneasily in his chair. "there isn't much to tell," he said, reluctantly; "and you--you might not approve of the means by which the end was gained." "still, i want to hear about it," said miss nugent. for the second time that evening hardy told his story. it seemed more discreditable each time he told it, and he scanned the girl's face anxiously as he proceeded, but, like her father, she sat still and made no comment until he had finished. then she expressed a strong feeling of gratitude that the nugent family had not been mixed up in it. "why?" inquired hardy, bluntly. "i don't think it was a very nice thing to do," said miss nugent, with a superior air. "it wouldn't have been a very nice thing for you if your brother had married miss kybird," said the indignant jem. "and you said, if you remember, that you didn't mind what i did." "i don't," said miss nugent, noticing with pleasure that the confident air of a few minutes ago had quite disappeared. "you think i have been behaving badly?" pursued hardy. "i would rather not say what i think," replied miss nugent, loftily. "i have no doubt you meant well, and i should be sorry to hurt your feelings." "thank you," said hardy, and sat gloomily gazing about him. for some time neither of them spoke. "where is jack now?" inquired the girl, at last. "he is staying with me for a few days," said hardy. "i sincerely hope that the association will not be injurious to him." "are you trying to be rude to me?" inquired miss nugent, raising her clear eyes to his. "i am sorry," said hardy, hastily. "you are quite right, of course. it was not a nice thing to do, but i would do a thousand times worse to please you." miss nugent thanked him warmly; he seemed to understand her so well, she said. "i mean," said hardy, leaning forward and speaking with a vehemence which made the girl instinctively avert her head--"i mean that to please you would be the greatest happiness i could know. i love you." miss nugent sat silent, and a strong sense of the monstrous unfairness of such a sudden attack possessed her. such a declaration she felt ought to have been led up to by numerous delicate gradations of speech, each a little more daring than the last, but none so daring that they could not have been checked at any time by the exercise of a little firmness. "if you would do anything to please me," she said at length in a low voice, and without turning her head, "would you promise never to try and see me or speak to me again if i asked you?" "no," said hardy, promptly. miss nugent sat silent again. she knew that a good woman should be sorry for a man in such extremity, and should endeavour to spare his feelings by softening her refusal as much as possible, little as he might deserve such consideration. but man is impatient and jumps at conclusions. before she was half-way through the first sentence he leaned forward and took her hand. "oh, good-bye," she said, turning to him, with a pleasant smile. "i am not going," said hardy, quietly; "i am never going," he added, as he took her other hand. captain nugent, anxious for his supper, found them there still debating the point some two hours later. kate nugent, relieved at the appearance of her natural protector, clung to him with unusual warmth. then, in a kindly, hospitable fashion, she placed her other arm in that of hardy, and they walked in grave silence to the house. [illustration: "she placed her other arm in that of hardy."] the end at sunwich port by w. w. jacobs part . illustrations from drawings by will owen chapter xi jack nugent's first idea on seeing a letter from his father asking him to meet him at samson wilks's was to send as impolite a refusal as a strong sense of undutifulness and a not inapt pen could arrange, but the united remonstrances of the kybird family made him waver. "you go," said mr. kybird, solemnly; "take the advice of a man wot's seen life, and go. who knows but wot he's a thinking of doing something for you?" "startin' of you in business or somethin'," said mrs. kybird. "but if 'e tries to break it off between you and 'melia i hope you know what to say." "he won't do that," said her husband. "if he wants to see me," said mr. nugent, "let him come here." "i wouldn't 'ave 'im in my house," retorted mr. kybird, quickly. "an englishman's 'ouse is his castle, and i won't 'ave him in mine." "why not, dan'l," asked his wife, "if the two families is to be connected?" mr. kybird shook his head, and, catching her eye, winked at her with much significance. "'ave it your own way," said mrs. kybird, who was always inclined to make concessions in minor matters. "'ave it your own way, but don't blame me, that's all i ask." urged on by his friends mr. nugent at last consented, and, in a reply to his father, agreed to meet him at the house of mr. wilks on thursday evening. he was not free him-self from a slight curiosity as to the reasons which had made the captain unbend in so unusual a fashion. mr. nathan smith put in an appearance at six o'clock on the fatal evening. he was a short, slight man, with a clean-shaven face mapped with tiny wrinkles, and a pair of colourless eyes the blankness of whose expression defied research. in conversation, especially conversation of a diplomatic nature, mr. smith seemed to be looking through his opponent at something beyond, an uncomfortable habit which was a source of much discomfort to his victims. "here we are, then, mr. wilks," he said, putting his head in the door and smiling at the agitated steward. "come in," said mr. wilks, shortly. mr. smith obliged. "nice night outside," he said, taking a chair; "clear over'ead. wot a morning it 'ud be for a sail if we was only young enough. is that terbacker in that canister there?" the other pushed it towards him. "if i was only young enough--and silly enough," said the boarding-house master, producing a pipe with an unusually large bowl and slowly filling it, "there's nothing i should enjoy more than a three years' cruise. nothing to do and everything of the best." "'ave you made all the arrangements?" inquired mr. wilks, in a tone of cold superiority. mr. smith glanced affectionately at a fish-bag of bulky appearance which stood on the floor between his feet. "all ready," he said, cheerfully, an' if you'd like a v'y'ge yourself i can manage it for you in two twos. you've on'y got to say the word." "i don't want one," said the steward, fiercely; "don't you try none o' your larks on me, nathan smith, cos i won't have it." [illustration: "mr. nathan smith."] "lord love your 'art," said the boarding-master, "i wouldn't 'urt you. i'm on'y acting under your orders now; yours and the captin's. it ain't in my reg'lar way o' business at all, but i'm so good-natured i can't say 'no.'" "can't say 'no' to five pounds, you mean," retorted mr. wilks, who by no means relished these remarks. "if i was getting as much out of it as you are i'd be a 'appy man," sighed mr. smith. "me!" cried the other; do you think i'd take money for this--why, i'd sooner starve, i'd sooner. wot are you a-tapping your nose for?" "was i tapping it?" demanded mr. smith, in surprise. "well, i didn't know it. i'm glad you told me." "you're quite welcome," said the steward, sharply. "crimping ain't in my line; i'd sooner sweep the roads." "'ear, 'ear," exclaimed mr. smith, approvingly. "ah! wot a thing it is to come acrost an honest man. wot a good thing it is for the eyesight." he stared stonily somewhere in the direction of mr. wilks, and then blinking rapidly shielded his eyes with his hand as though overcome by the sight of so much goodness. the steward's wrath rose at the performance, and he glowered back at him until his eyes watered. "twenty past six," said mr. smith, suddenly, as he fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket and drew out a small folded paper. "it's time i made a start. i s'pose you've got some salt in the house?" "plenty," said mr. wilks. "and beer?" inquired the other. "yes, there is some beer," said the steward. "bring me a quart of it," said the boarding-master, slowly and impressively. "i want it drawed in a china mug, with a nice foaming 'ead on it." "wot do you want it for?" inquired mr. wilks, eyeing him very closely. "bisness purposes," said mr. smith. "if you're very good you shall see 'ow i do it." still the steward made no move. "i thought you brought the stuff with you," he remarked. mr. smith looked at him with mild reproach. "are you managing this affair or am i?" he inquired. the steward went out reluctantly, and drawing a quart mug of beer set it down on the table and stood watching his visitor. "and now i want a spoonful o' sugar, a spoonful o' salt, and a spoonful o' vinegar," said mr. smith. "make haste afore the 'ead goes off of it." mr. wilks withdrew grumbling, and came back in a wonderfully short space of time considering, with the articles required. "thankee," said the other; "you 'ave been quick. i wish i could move as quick as you do. but you can take 'em back now, i find i can do without 'em." "where's the beer?" demanded the incensed mr. wilks; where's the beer, you underhanded swab?" "i altered my mind," said mr. smith, "and not liking waste, and seeing by your manner that you've 'ad more than enough already to-night, i drunk it. there isn't another man in sunwich i could ha' played that trick on, no, nor a boy neither." mr. wilks was about to speak, but, thinking better of it, threw the three spoons in the kitchen, and resuming his seat by the fire sat with his back half turned to his visitor. "bright, cheerful young chap, 'e is," said mr. smith; "you've knowed 'im ever since he was a baby, haven't you?" mr. wilks made no reply. "the conqueror's sailing to-morrow morning, too," continued his tormentor; "his father's old ship. 'ow strange it'll seem to 'im following it out aboard a whaler. life is full o' surprises, mr. wilks, and wot a big surprise it would be to you if you could 'ear wot he says about you when he comes to 'is senses." "i'm obeying orders," growled the other. "quite right," said mr. smith, approvingly, as he drew a bottle of whisky from his bag and placed it on the table. "two glasses and there we are. we don't want any salt and vinegar this time." mr. wilks turned a deaf ear. "but 'ow are you going to manage so as to make one silly and not the other?" he inquired. "it's a trade secret," said the other; "but i don't mind telling you i sent the cap'n something to take afore he comes, and i shall be in your kitchen looking arter things." "i s'pose you know wot you're about?" said mr. wilks, doubtfully. "i s'pose so," rejoined the other. "young nu-gent trusts you, and, of course, he'll take anything from your 'ouse. that's the beauty of 'aving a character, mr. wilks; a good character and a face like a baby with grey whiskers." mr. wilks bent down and, taking up a small brush, carefully tidied up the hearth. "like as not, if my part in it gets to be known," pursued mr. smith, mournfully, "i'll 'ave that gal of kybird's scratching my eyes out or p'r'aps sticking a hat-pin into me. i had that once; the longest hat-pin that ever was made, i should think." he shook his head over the perils of his calling, and then, after another glance at the clock, withdrew to the kitchen with his bag, leaving mr. wilks waiting in a state of intense nervousness for the arrival of the others. captain nugent was the first to put in an appearance, and by way of setting a good example poured a little of the whisky in his glass and sat there waiting. then jack nugent came in, fresh and glowing, and mr. wilks, after standing about helplessly for a few moments, obeyed the captain's significant nod and joined mr. smith in the kitchen. "you'd better go for a walk," said that gentle-man, regarding him kindly; "that's wot the cap'n thought." mr. wilks acquiesced eagerly, and tapping at the door passed through the room again into the street. a glance as he went through showed him that jack nugent was drinking, and he set off in a panic to get away from the scene which he had contrived. he slackened after a time and began to pace the streets at a rate which was less noticeable. as he passed the kybirds' he shivered, and it was not until he had consumed a pint or two of the strongest brew procurable at the _two schooners_ that he began to regain some of his old self-esteem. he felt almost maudlin at the sacrifice of character he was enduring for the sake of his old master, and the fact that he could not narrate it to sympathetic friends was not the least of his troubles. [illustration: "it was not until he had consumed a pint or two of the strongest brew that he began to regain some of his old self-esteem."] the shops had closed by the time he got into the street again, and he walked down and watched with much solemnity the reflection of the quay lamps in the dark water of the harbour. the air was keen and the various craft distinct in the starlight. perfect quiet reigned aboard the seabird, and after a vain attempt to screw up his courage to see the victim taken aboard he gave it up and walked back along the beach. by the time he turned his steps homewards it was nearly eleven o'clock. fullalove alley was quiet, and after listening for some time at his window he turned the handle of the door and passed in. the nearly empty bottle stood on the table, and an over-turned tumbler accounted for a large, dark patch on the table-cloth. as he entered the room the kitchen door opened and mr. nathan smith, with a broad smile on his face, stepped briskly in. "all over," he said, rubbing his hands; "he went off like a lamb, no trouble nor fighting. he was a example to all of us." "did the cap'n see 'im aboard?" inquired mr. wilks. "certainly not," said the other. "as a matter o' fact the cap'n took a little more than i told 'im to take, and i 'ad to help 'im up to your bed. accidents will 'appen, but he'll be all right in the morning if nobody goes near 'im. leave 'im perfectly quiet, and when 'e comes downstairs give 'im a strong cup o' tea." "in my bed?" repeated the staring mr. wilks. "he's as right as rain," said the boarding master. "i brought down a pillow and blankets for you and put 'em in the kitchen. and now i'll take the other two pound ten and be getting off 'ome. it ought to be ten pounds really with the trouble i've 'ad." mr. wilks laid the desired amount on the table, and mr. nathan smith placing it in his pocket rose to go. "don't disturb 'im till he's 'ad 'is sleep out, mind," he said, pausing at the door, "else i can't answer for the consequences. if 'e should get up in the night and come down raving mad, try and soothe 'im. good-night and pleasant dreams." he closed the door after him quietly, and the horrified steward, after fetching the bed-clothes on tiptoe from the kitchen, locked the door which led to the staircase, and after making up a bed on the floor lay down in his clothes and tried to get to sleep. he dozed off at last, but woke up several times during the night with the cold. the lamp burnt itself out, and in the dark he listened intently for any sounds of life in the room above. then he fell asleep again, until at about half-past seven in the morning a loud crash overhead awoke him with a start. in a moment he was sitting up with every faculty on the alert. footsteps blundered about in the room above, and a large and rapidly widening patch of damp showed on the ceiling. it was evident that the sleeper, in his haste to quench an abnormal thirst, had broken the water jug. mr. wilks, shivering with dread, sprang to his feet and stood irresolute. judging by the noise, the captain was evidently in a fine temper, and mr. smith's remarks about insanity occurred to him with redoubled interest. then he heard a hoarse shout, the latch of the bedroom door clicked, and the prisoner stumbled heavily downstairs and began to fumble at the handle of the door at the bottom. trembling with excitement mr. wilks dashed forward and turned the key, and then retreating to the street door prepared for instant flight. he opened the door so suddenly that the man on the other side, with a sudden cry, fell on all fours into the room, and raising his face stared stupidly at the steward. mr. wilks's hands dropped to his sides and his tongue refused its office, for in some strange fashion, quite in keeping with the lawless proceedings of the previous night, captain nugent had changed into a most excellent likeness of his own son. [illustration: "the man on the other side fell on all fours into the room."] chapter xii for some time mr. wilks stood gazing at this unexpected apparition and trying to collect his scattered senses. its face was pale and flabby, while its glassy eyes, set in rims of red eyelids, were beginning to express unmistakable signs of suspicion and wrath. the shock was so sudden that the steward could not even think coherently. was the captain upstairs? and if so, what was his condition? where was nathan smith? and where was the five pounds? a voice, a husky and discordant voice, broke in upon his meditations; jack nugent was also curious. "what does all this mean?" he demanded, angrily. "how did i get here?" "you--you came downstairs," stammered mr. wilks, still racking his brains in the vain effort to discover how matters stood. mr. nugent was about to speak, but, thinking better of it, turned and blundered into the kitchen. sounds of splashing and puffing ensued, and the steward going to the door saw him with his head under the tap. he followed him in and at the right time handed him a towel. despite the disordered appearance of his hair the improvement in mr. nugent's condition was so manifest that the steward, hoping for similar results, turned the tap on again and followed his example. "your head wants cooling, i should think," said the young man, returning him the towel. "what's it all about?" mr. wilks hesitated; a bright thought occurred to him, and murmuring something about a dry towel he sped up the narrow stairs to his bedroom. the captain was not there. he pushed open the small lattice window and peered out into the alley; no sign of either the captain or the ingenious mr. nathan smith. with a heavy heart he descended the stairs again. [illustration: "he pushed open the small lattice window and peered out into the alley."] "now," said mr. nugent, who was sitting down with his hands in his pockets, "perhaps you'll be good enough to explain what all this means." "you were 'ere last night," said mr. wilks, "you and the cap'n." "i know that," said nugent. "how is it i didn't go home? i didn't understand that it was an all-night invitation. where is my father?" the steward shook his head helplessly. "he was 'ere when i went out last night," he said, slowly. "when i came back the room was empty and i was told as 'e was upstairs in my bed." "told he was in your bed?" repeated the other. "who told you?" he pushed open the small lattice window and peered out into the alley. mr. wilks caught his breath. "i mean i told myself 'e was in my bed," he stammered, "because when i came in i see these bed-clothes on the floor, an' i thought as the cap'n 'ad put them there for me and taken my bed 'imself." mr. nugent regarded the litter of bed-clothes as though hoping that they would throw a little light on the affair, and then shot a puzzled glance at mr. wilks. "why should you think my father wanted your bed?" he inquired. "i don't know," was the reply. "i thought p'r'aps 'e'd maybe taken a little more than 'e ought to have taken. but it's all a myst'ry to me. i'm more astonished than wot you are." "well, i can't make head or tail of it," said nugent, rising and pacing the room. "i came here to meet my father. so far as i remember i had one drink of whisky--your whisky--and then i woke up in your bedroom with a splitting headache and a tongue like a piece of leather. can you account for it?" mr. wilks shook his head again. "i wasn't here," he said, plucking up courage. "why not go an' see your father? seems to me 'e is the one that would know most about it." mr. nugent stood for a minute considering, and then raising the latch of the door opened it slowly and inhaled the cold morning air. a subtle and delicate aroma of coffee and herrings which had escaped from neighbouring breakfast-tables invaded the room and reminded him of an appetite. he turned to go, but had barely quitted the step before he saw mrs. kingdom and his sister enter the alley. mr. wilks saw them too, and, turning if anything a shade paler, supported himself by the door-pest. kate nugent quickened her pace as she saw them, and, after a surprised greeting to her brother, breathlessly informed him that the captain was missing. "hasn't been home all night," panted mrs. kingdom, joining them. "i don't know what to think." they formed an excited little group round the steward's door, and mr. wilks, with an instinctive feeling that the matter was one to be discussed in private, led the way indoors. he began to apologize for the disordered condition of the room, but jack nugent, interrupting him brusquely, began to relate his own adventures of the past few hours. mrs. kingdom listened to the narrative with unexpected calmness. she knew the cause of her nephew's discomfiture. it was the glass of whisky acting on a system unaccustomed to alcohol, and she gave a vivid and moving account of the effects of a stiff glass of hot rum which she had once taken for a cold. it was quite clear to her that the captain had put his son to bed; the thing to discover now was where he had put himself. "sam knows something about it," said her nephew, darkly; "there's something wrong." "i know no more than a babe unborn," declared mr. wilks. "the last i see of the cap'n 'e was a-sitting at this table opposite you." "sam wouldn't hurt a fly," said miss nugent, with a kind glance at her favourite. "well, where is the governor, then?" inquired her brother. "why didn't he go home last night? he has never stayed out before." "yes, he has," said mrs. kingdom, folding her hands in her lap. "when you were children. he came home at half-past eleven next morning, and when i asked him where he'd been he nearly bit my head off. i'd been walking the floor all night, and i shall never forget his remarks when he opened the door to the police, who'd come to say they couldn't find him. never." a ghostly grin flitted across the features of mr. wilks, but he passed the back of his hand across his mouth and became serious again as he thought of his position. he was almost dancing with anxiety to get away to mr. nathan smith and ask for an explanation of the proceedings of the night before. "i'll go and have a look round for the cap'n," he said, eagerly; "he can't be far." "i'll come with you," said nugent. "i should like to see him too. there are one or two little things that want explaining. you take aunt home, kate, and i'll follow on as soon as there is any news." as he spoke the door opened a little way and a head appeared, only to be instantly withdrawn at the sight of so many people. mr. wilks stepped forward hastily, and throwing the door wide open revealed the interesting features of mr. nathan smith. "how do you do, mr. wilks?" said that gentleman, softly. "i just walked round to see whether you was in. i've got a message for you. i didn't know you'd got company." he stepped into the room and, tapping the steward on the chest with a confidential finger, backed him into a corner, and having got him there gave an expressive wink with one eye and gazed into space with the other. [illustration: "tapping the steward on the chest with a confidential finger, he backed him into a corner."] "i thought you'd be alone," he said, looking round, "but p'r'aps it's just as well as it is. they've got to know, so they may as well know now as later on." "know what?" inquired jack nugent, abruptly. "what are you making that face for, sam?" mr. wilks mumbled something about a decayed tooth, and to give colour to the statement continued a series of contortions which made his face ache. "you should take something for that tooth," said the boarding-master, with great solicitude. "wot do you say to a glass o' whisky?" he motioned to the fatal bottle, which still stood on the table; the steward caught his breath, and then, rising to the occasion, said that he had already had a couple of glasses, and they had done no good. "what's your message?" inquired jack nugent, impatiently. "i'm just going to tell you," said mr. smith. "i was out early this morning, strolling down by the harbour to get a little appetite for breakfast, when who should i see coming along, looking as though 'e 'ad just come from a funeral, but cap'n nugent! i was going to pass 'im, but he stopped me and asked me to take a message from 'im to 'is old and faithful steward, mr. wilks." "why, has he gone away?" exclaimed mrs. kingdom. "his old and faithful steward," repeated mr. smith, motioning her to silence. "'tell 'im,' he says, 'that i am heartily ashamed of myself for wot took place last night--and him, too. tell 'im that, after my father's 'art proved too much for me, i walked the streets all night, and now i can't face may injured son and family yet awhile, and i'm off to london till it has blown over.'" "but what's it all about?" demanded nugent. why don't you get to the point?" "so far as i could make out," replied mr. smith, with the studious care of one who desires to give exact information, "cap'n nugent and mr. wilks 'ad a little plan for giving you a sea blow." "me?" interrupted the unfortunate steward. "now, look 'ere, nathan smith----" "them was the cap'n's words," said the boarding-master, giving him a glance of great significance; "are you going to take away or add to wot the cap'n says?" mr. wilks collapsed, and avoiding the indignant eyes of the nugent family tried to think out his position. "it seems from wot the cap'n told me," continued mr. smith, "that there was some objection to your marrying old--mr. kybird's gal, so 'e and mr. wilks, after putting their 'eads together, decided to get you 'ere and after giving you a little whisky that mr. wilks knows the trick of--" "me?" interrupted the unfortunate steward, again. "them was the cap'n's words," said mr. smith, coldly. "after you'd 'ad it they was going to stow you away in the seabird, which sailed this morning. however, when the cap'n see you overcome, his 'art melted, and instead o' putting you aboard the whaler he took your feet and mr. wilks your 'ead, and after a great deal o' trouble got you upstairs and put you to bed." "you miserable scoundrel," said the astonished mr. nugent, addressing the shrinking steward; "you infernal old reprobate--you--you--i didn't think you'd got it in you." "so far as i could make out," said mr. smith, kindly, "mr. wilks was only obeying orders. it was the cap'n's plan, and mr. wilks was aboard ship with 'im for a very long time. o' course, he oughtn't to ha' done it, but the cap'n's a masterful man, an' i can quite understand mr. wilks givin' way; i dessay i should myself if i'd been in 'is place--he's all 'art, is mr. wilks--no 'ead." "it's a good job for you you're an old man, sam," said mr. nugent. "i can hardly believe it of you, sam," said miss nugent. "i can hardly think you could have been so deceitful. why, we've trusted you all our lives." the unfortunate steward quailed beneath the severity of her glance. even if he gave a full account of the affair it would not make his position better. it was he who had made all the arrangements with mr. smith, and after an indignant glance at that gentleman he lowered his gaze and remained silent. "it is rather odd that my father should take you into his confidence," said miss nugent, turning to the boarding-master. "just wot i thought, miss," said the complaisant mr. smith; "but i s'pose there was nobody else, and he wanted 'is message to go for fear you should get worrying the police about 'im or something. he wants it kep' quiet, and 'is last words to me as 'e left me was, 'if this affair gets known i shall never come back. tell 'em to keep it quiet.'" "i don't think anybody will want to go bragging about it," said jack nugent, rising, "unless it is sam wilks. come along, kate." miss nugent followed him obediently, only pausing at the door to give a last glance of mingled surprise and reproach at mr. wilks. then they were outside and the door closed behind them. "well, that's all right," said mr. smith, easily. "all right!" vociferated the steward. "wot did you put it all on to me for? why didn't you tell 'em your part in it?" "wouldn't ha' done any good," said mr. smith; "wouldn't ha' done you any good. besides, i did just wot the cap'n told me." "when's he coming back?" inquired the steward. mr. smith shook his head. "couldn't say," he returned. "he couldn't say 'imself. between you an' me, i expect 'e's gone up to have a reg'lar fair spree." "why did you tell me last night he was up-stairs?" inquired the other. "cap'n's orders," repeated mr. smith, with relish. "ask 'im, not me. as a matter o' fact, he spent the night at my place and went off this morning." "an' wot about the five pounds?" inquired mr. wilks, spitefully. "you ain't earned it." "i know i ain't," said mr. smith, mournfully. "that's wot's worrying me. it's like a gnawing pain in my side. d'you think it's conscience biting of me? i never felt it before. or d'ye think it's sorrow to think that i've done the whole job too cheap you think it out and let me know later on. so long." he waved his hand cheerily to the steward and departed. mr. wilks threw himself into a chair and, ignoring the cold and the general air of desolation of his best room, gave way to a fit of melancholy which would have made mr. edward silk green with envy. chapter xiii days passed, but no word came from the missing captain, and only the determined opposition of kate nugent kept her aunt from advertising in the "agony" columns of the london press. miss nugent was quite as desirous of secrecy in the affair as her father, and it was a source of great annoyance to her when, in some mysterious manner, it leaked out. in a very short time the news was common property, and mr. wilks, appearing to his neighbours in an entirely new character, was besieged for information. his own friends were the most tiresome, their open admiration of his lawlessness and their readiness to trace other mysterious disappearances to his agency being particularly galling to a man whose respectability formed his most cherished possession. other people regarded the affair as a joke, and he sat gazing round-eyed one evening at the two schooners at the insensible figures of three men who had each had a modest half-pint at his expense. it was a pretty conceit and well played, but the steward, owing to the frenzied efforts of one of the sleeper whom he had awakened with a quart pot, did not stay to admire it. he finished up the evening at the chequers, and after getting wet through on the way home fell asleep in his wet clothes before the dying fire. [illustration: "he finished up the evening at the chequers."] he awoke with a bad cold and pains in the limbs. a headache was not unexpected, but the other symptoms were. with trembling hands he managed to light a fire and prepare a breakfast, which he left untouched. this last symptom was the most alarming of all, and going to the door he bribed a small boy with a penny to go for dr. murchison, and sat cowering over the fire until he came. "well, you've got a bad cold," said the doctor, after examining him." you'd better get to bed for the present. you'll be safe there." "is it dangerous?" faltered the steward. "and keep yourself warm," said the doctor, who was not in the habit of taking his patients into his confidence. "i'll send round some medicine." "i should like miss nugent to know i'm bad," said mr. wilks, in a weak voice. "she knows that," replied murchison. "she was telling me about you the other day." he put his hand up to his neat black moustache to hide a smile, and met the steward's indignant gaze without flinching. "i mean ill," said the latter, sharply. "oh, yes," said the other. "well, you get to bed now. good morning." he took up his hat and stick and departed. mr. wilks sat for a little while over the fire, and then, rising, hobbled slowly upstairs to bed and forgot his troubles in sleep. he slept until the afternoon, and then, raising himself in bed, listened to the sounds of stealthy sweeping in the room below. chairs were being moved about, and the tinkle of ornaments on the mantelpiece announced that dusting operations were in progress. he lay down again with a satisfied smile; it was like a tale in a story-book: the faithful old servant and his master's daughter. he closed his eyes as he heard her coming upstairs. "ah, pore dear," said a voice. mr. wilks opened his eyes sharply and beheld the meagre figure of mrs. silk. in one hand she held a medicine-bottle and a glass and in the other paper and firewood. [illustration: "the meagre figure of mrs. silk."] "i only 'eard of it half an hour ago," she said, reproachfully. "i saw the doctor's boy, and i left my work and came over at once. why didn't you let me know?" mr. wilks muttered that he didn't know, and lay crossly regarding his attentive neighbour as she knelt down and daintily lit the fire. this task finished, she proceeded to make the room tidy, and then set about making beef-tea in a little saucepan. "you lay still and get well," she remarked, with tender playfulness. "that's all you've got to do. me and teddy'll look after you." "i couldn't think of troubling you," said the steward, earnestly. "it's no trouble," was the reply. "you don't think i'd leave you here alone helpless, do you?" "i was going to send for old mrs. jackson if i didn't get well to-day," said mr. wilks. mrs. silk shook her head at him, and, after punching up his pillow, took an easy chair by the fire and sat there musing. mr. edward silk came in to tea, and, after remarking that mr. wilks was very flushed and had got a nasty look about the eyes and a cough which he didn't like, fell to discoursing on death-beds. "good nursing is the principal thing," said his mother. "i nursed my pore dear 'usband all through his last illness. he couldn't bear me to be out of the room. i nursed my mother right up to the last, and your pore aunt jane went off in my arms." mr. wilks raised himself on his elbow and his eyes shone feverishly in the lamplight. "i think i'll get a 'ospital nurse to-morrow," he said, decidedly. "nonsense," said mrs. silk. "it's no trouble to me at all. i like nursing; always did." mr. wilks lay back again and, closing his eyes, determined to ask the doctor to provide a duly qualified nurse on the morrow. to his disappointment, however, the doctor failed to come, and although he felt much better mrs. silk sternly negatived a desire on his part to get up. "not till the doctor's been," she said, firmly. "i couldn't think of it." "i don't believe there's anything the matter with me now," he declared. "'ow odd--'ow very odd that you should say that!" said mrs. silk, clasping her hands. "odd!" repeated the steward, somewhat crustily. "how do you mean--odd?" "they was the very last words my uncle benjamin ever uttered in this life," said mrs. silk, with dramatic impressiveness. the steward was silent, then, with the ominous precedent of uncle benjamin before him, he began to talk until scores of words stood between himself and a similar ending. "teddy asked to be remembered to you as 'e went off this morning," said mrs. silk, pausing in her labours at the grate. "i'm much obliged," muttered the invalid. "he didn't 'ave time to come in," pursued the widow. "you can 'ardly believe what a lot 'e thinks of you, mr. wilks. the last words he said to me was, 'let me know at once if there's any change.'" mr. wilks distinctly felt a cold, clammy sensation down his spine and little quivering thrills ran up and down his legs. he glared indignantly at the back of the industrious mrs. silk. "teddy's very fond of you," continued the unconscious woman. "i s'pose it's not 'aving a father, but he seems to me to think more of you than any-body else in the wide, wide world. i get quite jealous sometimes. only the other day i said to 'im, joking like, 'well, you'd better go and live with 'im if you're so fond of 'im,' i said." "ha, ha!" laughed mr. wilks, uneasily. "you'll never guess what 'e said then," said mrs. silk dropping her dustpan and brush and gazing at the hearth. "said 'e couldn't leave you, i s'pose," guessed the steward, gruffly. "well, now," exclaimed mrs. silk, clapping her hands, "if you 'aven't nearly guessed it. well, there! i never did! i wouldn't 'ave told you for anything if you 'adn't said that. the exact words what 'e did say was, 'not without you, mother.'" mr. wilks closed his eyes with a snap and his heart turned to water. he held his breath and ran-sacked his brain in vain for a reply which should ignore the inner meaning of the fatal words. something careless and jocular he wanted, combined with a voice which should be perfectly under control. failing these things, he kept his eyes closed, and, very wide-awake indeed, feigned sleep. he slept straight away from eleven o'clock in the morning until edward silk came in at seven o'clock in the evening. "i feel like a new man," he said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "i don't see no change in your appearance," said the comforting youth. "'e's much better," declared his mother. "that's what comes o' good nursing; some nurses would 'ave woke 'im up to take food, but i just let 'im sleep on. people don't feel hunger while they're asleep." she busied herself over the preparation of a basin of arrowroot, and the steward, despite his distaste for this dish, devoured it in a twinkling. beef-tea and a glass of milk in addition failed to take more than the edge off his appetite. "we shall pull 'im through," said mrs. silk, smiling, as she put down the empty glass. "in a fortnight he'll be on 'is feet." it is a matter of history that mr. wilks was on his feet at five o'clock the next morning, and not only on his feet but dressed and ready for a journey after such a breakfast as he had not made for many a day. the discourtesy involved in the disregard of the doctor's instructions did not trouble him, and he smirked with some satisfaction as he noiselessly closed his door behind him and looked at the drawn blinds opposite. the stars were paling as he quitted the alley and made his way to the railway station. a note on his tumbled pillow, after thanking mrs. silk for her care of him, informed her that he was quite well and had gone to london in search of the missing captain. hardy, who had heard from edward silk of the steward's indisposition and had been intending to pay him a visit, learnt of his departure later on in the morning, and, being ignorant of the particulars, discoursed somewhat eloquently to his partner on the old man's devotion. "h'm, may be," said swann, taking off his glasses and looking at him. "but you don't think captain nugent is in london, do you?" "why not?" inquired hardy, somewhat startled. "if what wilks told you is true, nathan smith knows," said the other. "i'll ask him." "you don't expect to get the truth out of him, do you?" inquired hardy, superciliously. "i do," said his partner, serenely; "and when i've got it i shall go and tell them at equator lodge. it will be doing those two poor ladies a service to let them know what has really happened to the captain." "i'll walk round to nathan smith's with you," said hardy. "i should like to hear what the fellow has to say." "no, i'll go alone," said his partner; "smith's a very shy man--painfully shy. i've run across him once or twice before. he's almost as bashful and retiring as you are." hardy grunted. "if the captain isn't in london, where is he?" he inquired. the other shook his head. "i've got an idea," he replied, "but i want to make sure. kybird and smith are old friends, as nugent might have known, only he was always too high and mighty to take any interest in his inferiors. there's something for you to go on." he bent over his desk again and worked steadily until one o'clock--his hour for lunching. then he put on his hat and coat, and after a comfortable meal sallied out in search of mr. smith. [illustration: "in search of mr. smith."] the boarding-house, an old and dilapidated building, was in a bystreet convenient to the harbour. the front door stood open, and a couple of seamen lounging on the broken steps made way for him civilly as he entered and rapped on the bare boards with his stick. mr. smith, clattering down the stairs in response, had some difficulty in concealing his surprise at the visit, but entered genially into a conversation about the weather, a subject in which he was much interested. when the ship-broker began to discuss the object of his visit he led him to a small sitting-room at the back of the house and repeated the information he had given to mr. wilks. "that's all there is to tell," he concluded, artlessly; "the cap'n was that ashamed of hisself, he's laying low for a bit. we all make mistakes sometimes; i do myself." "i am much obliged to you," said mr. swann, gratefully. "you're quite welcome, sir," said the boarding-master. "and now," said the visitor, musingly--"now for the police." "police!" repeated mr. smith, almost hastily. "what for?" "why, to find the captain," said mr. swann, in a surprised voice. mr. smith shook his head. "you'll offend the cap'n bitter if you go to the police about 'im, sir," he declared. "his last words to me was, 'smith, 'ave this kept quiet.'" "it'll be a little job for the police," urged the shipbroker. "they don't have much to do down here; they'll be as pleased as possible." "they'll worry your life out of you, sir," said the other. "you don't know what they are." "i like a little excitement," returned mr. swann. "i don't suppose they'll trouble me much, but they'll turn your place topsy-turvy, i expect. still, that can't be helped. you know what fools the police are; they'll think you've murdered the captain and hidden his body under the boards. they'll have all the floors up. ha, ha, ha!" "'aving floors up don't seem to me to be so amusing as wot it does to you," remarked mr. smith, coldly. "they may find all sorts of treasure for you," continued his visitor. "it's a very old house, smith, and there may be bags of guineas hidden away under the flooring. you may be able to retire." "you're a gentleman as is fond of his joke, mr. swann," returned the boarding-master, lugubriously. "i wish i'd got that 'appy way of looking at things you 'ave." "i'm not joking, smith," said the other, quietly. mr. smith pondered and, stealing a side-glance at him, stood scraping his foot along the floor. "there ain't nothing much to tell," he grumbled, "and, mind, the worst favour you could do to the cap'n would be to put it about how he was done. he's gone for a little trip instead of 'is son, that's all." "little trip!" repeated the other; "you call a whaling cruise a little trip?" "no, no, sir," said mr. smith, in a shocked voice, "i ain't so bad as that; i've got some 'art, i hope. he's just gone for a little trip with 'is old pal hardy on the _conqueror_. kybird's idea it was." "don't you know it's punishable?" demanded the shipbroker, recovering. mr. smith shook his head and became serious. "the cap'n fell into 'is own trap," he said, slowly. "there's no lor for 'im! he'd only get laughed at. the idea of trying to get me to put little amelia kybird's young man away. why, i was 'er god-father." mr. swann stared at him, and then with a friendly "good morning" departed. half-way along the passage he stopped, and retracing his steps produced his cigar-case and offered the astonished boarding-master a cigar. "i s'pose," said that gentleman as he watched the other's retreating figure and dubiously smelt the cigar; "i s'pose it's all right; but he's a larky sort, and i 'ave heard of 'em exploding. i'll give it to kybird, in case." [illustration: "i 'ave heard of 'em exploding."] to mr. smith's great surprise his visitor sat down suddenly and began to laugh. tears of honest mirth suffused his eyes and dimmed his glasses. mr. smith, regarding him with an air of kindly interest, began to laugh to keep him company. chapter xiv captain nugent awoke the morning after his attempt to crimp his son with a bad headache. not an ordinary headache, to disappear with a little cold water and fresh air; but a splitting, racking affair, which made him feel all head and dulness. weights pressed upon his eye-lids and the back of his head seemed glued to his pillow. he groaned faintly and, raising himself upon his elbow, opened his eyes and sat up with a sharp exclamation. his bed was higher from the floor than usual and, moreover, the floor was different. in the dim light he distinctly saw a ship's forecastle, untidy bunks with frouzy bedclothes, and shiny oil-skins hanging from the bulkhead. for a few moments he stared about in mystification; he was certainly ill, and no doubt the forecastle was an hallucination. it was a strange symptom, and the odd part of it was that everything was so distinct. even the smell. he stared harder, in the hope that his surroundings would give place to the usual ones, and, leaning a little bit more on his elbow, nearly rolled out of the bunk. resolved to probe this mystery to the bottom he lowered himself to the floor and felt distinctly the motion of a ship at sea. there was no doubt about it. he staggered to the door and, holding by the side, looked on to the deck. the steamer was rolling in a fresh sea and a sweet strong wind blew refreshingly into his face. funnels, bridge, and masts swung with a rhythmical motion; loose gear rattled, and every now and then a distant tinkle sounded faintly from the steward's pantry. he stood bewildered, trying to piece together the events of the preceding night, and to try and understand by what miracle he was back on board his old ship the _conqueror_. there was no doubt as to her identity. he knew every inch of her, and any further confirmation that might be required was fully supplied by the appearance of the long, lean figure of captain hardy on the bridge. captain nugent took his breath sharply and began to realize the situation. he stepped to the side and looked over; the harbour was only a little way astern, and sunwich itself, looking cold and cheerless beyond the dirty, tumbling seas, little more than a mile distant. at the sight his spirits revived, and with a hoarse cry he ran shouting towards the bridge. captain hardy turned sharply at the noise, and recognizing the intruder stood peering down at him in undisguised amazement. [illustration: "he stepped to the side and looked over."] "put back," cried nugent, waving up at him. "put back." "what on earth are you doing on my ship?" inquired the astonished hardy. "put me ashore," cried nugent, imperiously; "don't waste time talking. d'ye hear? put me ashore." the amazement died out of hardy's face and gave way to an expression of anger. for a time he regarded the red and threatening visage of captain nugent in silence, then he turned to the second officer. "this man is not one of the crew, mr. prowle?" he said, in a puzzled voice. "no, sir," said mr. prowle. "how did he get aboard here?" captain nugent answered the question himself. "i was crimped by you and your drunken bullies," he said, sternly. "how did this man get aboard here? repeated captain hardy, ignoring him. "he must have concealed 'imself somewhere, sir," said the mate; "this is the first i've seen of him." "a stowaway?" said the captain, bending his brows. "he must have got some of the crew to hide him aboard. you'd better make a clean breast of it, my lad. who are your confederates?" captain nugent shook with fury. the second mate had turned away, with his hand over his mouth and a suspicious hunching of his shoulders, while the steward, who had been standing by, beat a hasty retreat and collapsed behind the chart-room. "if you don't put me ashore," said nugent, restraining his passion by a strong effort, "i'll take proceedings against you for crimping me, the moment i reach port. get a boat out and put me aboard that smack." he pointed as he spoke to a smack which was just on their beam, making slowly for the harbour. "when you've done issuing orders," said the captain, in an indifferent voice, "perhaps you'll explain what you are doing aboard my crag." captain nugent gazed at the stern of the fast-receding smack; sunwich was getting dim in the distance and there was no other sail near. he began to realize that he was in for a long voyage. "i awoke this morning and found myself in a bunk in vow fo'c's'le," he said, regarding hardy steadily. "however i got there is probably best known to yourself. i hold you responsible for the affair." "look here my lad," said captain hardy, in patronizing tones, "i don't know how you got aboard my ship and i don't care. i am willing to believe that it was not intentional on your part, but either the outcome of a drunken freak or else a means of escaping from some scrape you have got into ashore. that being so, i shall take a merciful view of it, and if you behave yourself and make yourself useful you will not hear anything more of it. he has something the look of a seafaring man, mr. prowle. see what you can make of him." "come along with me, my lad," said the grinning mr. prowle, tapping him on the shoulder. the captain turned with a snarl, and, clenching his huge, horny fist, let drive full in the other's face and knocked him off his feet. "take that man for'ard," cried captain hardy, sharply. "take him for'ard." half-a-dozen willing men sprang forward. captain nugent's views concerning sailormen were well known in sunwich, and two of the men present had served under him. he went forward, the centre of an attentive and rotating circle, and, sadly out of breath, was bestowed in the forecastle and urged to listen to reason. for the remainder of the morning he made no sign. the land was almost out of sight, and he sat down quietly to consider his course of action for the next few weeks. dinner-time found him still engrossed in thought, and the way in which he received an intimation from a good-natured seaman that his dinner was getting cold showed that his spirits were still unquelled. by the time afternoon came he was faint with hunger, and, having determined upon his course of action, he sent a fairly polite message to captain hardy and asked for an interview. the captain, who was resting from his labours in the chart-room, received him with the same air of cold severity which had so endeared captain nugent himself to his subordinates. "you have come to explain your extraordinary behaviour of this morning, i suppose?" he said, curtly. "i have come to secure a berth aft," said captain nugent. "i will pay a small deposit now, and you will, of course, have the balance as soon as we get back. this is without prejudice to any action i may bring against you later on." "oh, indeed," said the other, raising his eyebrows. "we don't take passengers." "i am here against my will," said captain nu-gent, "and i demand the treatment due to my position." "if i had treated you properly," said captain hardy, "i should have put you in irons for knocking down my second officer. i know nothing about you or your position. you're a stowaway, and you must do the best you can in the circumstances." "are you going to give me a cabin?" demanded the other, menacingly. "certainly not," said captain hardy. "i have been making inquiries, and i find that you have only yourself to thank for the position in which you find yourself. i am sorry to be harsh with you." "harsh?" repeated the other, hardly able to believe his ears. "you-- harsh to me?" "but it is for your own good," pursued captain hardy; "it is no pleasure to me to punish you. i shall keep an eye on you while you're aboard, and if i see that your conduct is improving you will find that i am not a hard man to get on with." captain nugent stared at him with his lips parted. three times he essayed to speak and failed; then he turned sharply and, gaining the open air, stood for some time trying to regain his composure before going forward again. the first mate, who was on the bridge, regarded him curiously, and then, with an insufferable air of authority, ordered him away. the captain obeyed mechanically and, turning a deaf ear to the inquiries of the men, prepared to make the best of an intolerable situation, and began to cleanse his bunk. first of all he took out the bedding and shook it thoroughly, and then, pro-curing soap and a bucket of water, began to scrub with a will. hostile comments followed the action. "we ain't clean enough for 'im," said one voice. "partikler old party, ain't he, bill?" said another. "you leave 'im alone," said the man addressed, surveying the captain's efforts with a smile of approval. "you keep on, nugent, don't you mind 'im. there's a little bit there you ain't done." [illustration: "you keep on, nugent, don't you mind 'im."] "keep your head out of the way, unless you want it knocked off," said the incensed captain. "ho!" said the aggrieved bill. "ho, indeed! d'ye 'ear that, mates? a man musn't look at 'is own bunk now." the captain turned as though he had been stung. "this is my bunk," he said, sharply. "ho, is it?" said bill. "beggin' of your pardon, an' apologizing for a-contradictin' of you, but it's mine. you haven't got no bunk." "i slept in it last night," said the captain, conclusively. "i know you did," said bill, "but that was all my kind-'artedness." "and 'arf a quid, bill," a voice reminded him. "and 'arf a quid," assented bill, graciously, "and i'm very much obliged to you, mate, for the careful and tidy way in which you've cleaned up arter your-self." the captain eyed him. many years of command at sea had given him a fine manner, and force of habit was for a moment almost too much for bill and his friends. but only for a moment. "i'm going to keep this bunk," said the captain, deliberately. "no, you ain't, mate," said bill, shaking his head, "don't you believe it. you're nobody down here; not even a ordinary seaman. i'm afraid you'll 'ave to clean a place for yourself on the carpet. there's a nice corner over there." "when i get back," said the furious captain, "some of you will go to gaol for last night's work." "don't be hard on us," said a mocking voice, "we did our best. it ain't our fault that you look so ridikerlously young, that we took you for your own son." "and you was in that state that you couldn't contradict us," said another man. "if it is your bunk," said the captain, sternly, "i suppose you have a right to it. but perhaps you'll sell it to me? how much?" "now you're talking bisness," said the highly gratified bill, turning with a threatening gesture upon a speculator opposite. "wot do you say to a couple o' pounds?" the captain nodded. "couple o' pounds, money down," said bill, holding out his hand. the captain examined the contents of his pocket, and after considerable friction bought the bunk for a pound cash and an i o u for the balance. a more humane man would have shown a little concern as to his benefactor's sleeping-place; but the captain never gave the matter a thought. in fact, it was not until three days later that he discovered there was a spare bunk in the forecastle, and that the unscrupulous seaman was occupying it. it was only one of many annoyances, but the captain realizing his impotence made no sign. from certain remarks let fall in his hearing he had no difficulty in connecting mr. kybird with his discomfiture and, of his own desire, he freely included the unfortunate mr. wilks. he passed his time in devising schemes of vengeance, and when captain hardy, relenting, offered him a cabin aft, he sent back such a message of refusal that the steward spent half an hour preparing a paraphrase. the offer was not repeated, and the captain, despite the strong representations of bill and his friends, continued to eat the bread of idleness before the mast. chapter xv mr. adolphus swann spent a very agreeable afternoon after his interview with nathan smith in refusing to satisfy what he termed the idle curiosity of his partner. the secret of captain nugent's whereabouts, he declared, was not to be told to everybody, but was to be confided by a man of insinuating address and appearance--here he looked at himself in a hand-glass--to miss nugent. to be broken to her by a man with no ulterior motives for his visit; a man in the prime of life, but not too old for a little tender sympathy. "i had hoped to have gone this afternoon," he said, with a glance at the clock; "but i'm afraid i can't get away. have you got much to do, hardy?" "no," said his partner, briskly. "i've finished." "then perhaps you wouldn't mind doing my work for me, so that i can go?" said mr. swann, mildly. hardy played with his pen. the senior partner had been amusing himself at his expense for some time, and in the hope of a favour at his hands he had endured it with unusual patience. "four o'clock," murmured the senior partner; "hadn't you better see about making yourself presentable, hardy?" [illustration: "hadn't you better see about making yourself presentable, hardy?"] "thanks," said the other, with alacrity, as he took off his coat and crossed over to the little washstand. in five minutes he had finished his toilet and, giving his partner a little friendly pat on the shoulder, locked up his desk. "well?" he said, at last. "well?" repeated mr. swann, with a little surprise. "what am i to tell them?" inquired hardy, struggling to keep his temper. "tell them?" repeated the innocent swann. "lor' bless my soul, how you do jump at conclusions, hardy. i only asked you to tidy yourself for my sake. i have an artistic eye. i thought you had done it to please me." "when you're tired of this nonsense," said the indignant hardy, "i shall be glad." mr. swann looked him over carefully and, coming to the conclusion that his patience was exhausted, told him the result of his inquiries. his immediate reward was the utter incredulity of mr. hardy, together with some pungent criticisms of his veracity. when the young man did realize at last that he was speaking the truth he fell to wondering blankly what was happening aboard the _conqueror_. "never mind about that," said the older man. "for a few weeks you have got a clear field. it is quite a bond between you: both your fathers on the same ship. but whatever you do, don't remind her of the fate of the kilkenny cats. draw a fancy picture of the two fathers sitting with their arms about each other's waists and wondering whether their children----" hardy left hurriedly, in fear that his indignation at such frivolity should overcome his gratitude, and he regretted as he walked briskly along that the diffidence peculiar to young men in his circumstances had prevented him from acquainting his father with the state of his feelings towards kate nugent. the idea of taking advantage of the captain's enforced absence had occurred to other people besides mr. james hardy. dr. murchison, who had found the captain, despite his bias in his favour, a particularly tiresome third, was taking the fullest advantage of it; and mrs. kybird had also judged it an admirable opportunity for paying a first call. mr. kybird, who had not taken her into his confidence in the affair, protested in vain; the lady was determined, and, moreover, had the warm support of her daughter. "i know what i'm doing, dan'l," she said to her husband. mr. kybird doubted it, but held his peace; and the objections of jack nugent, who found to his dismay that he was to be of the party, were deemed too trivial to be worthy of serious consideration. they started shortly after jem hardy had left his office, despite the fact that mrs. kybird, who was troubled with asthma, was suffering untold agonies in a black satin dress which had been originally made for a much smaller woman, and had come into her husband's hands in the way of business. it got into hers in what the defrauded mr. kybird considered an extremely unbusinesslike manner, and it was not without a certain amount of satisfaction that he regarded her discomfiture as the party sallied out. [illustration: "it was not without a certain amount of satisfaction that he regarded her discomfiture."] mr. nugent was not happy. mrs. kybird in the snug seclusion of the back parlour was one thing; mrs. kybird in black satin at its utmost tension and a circular hat set with sable ostrich plumes nodding in the breeze was another. he felt that the public eye was upon them and that it twinkled. his gaze wandered from mother to daughter. "what are you staring at?" demanded miss kybird, pertly. "i was thinking how well you are looking," was the reply. miss kybird smiled. she had hoisted some daring colours, but she was of a bold type and carried them fairly well. "if i 'ad the woman what made this dress 'ere," gasped mrs. kybird, as she stopped with her hand on her side, "i'd give her a bit o' my mind." "i never saw you look so well in anything before, ma," said her daughter. mrs. kybird smiled faintly and continued her pilgrimage. jem hardy coming up rapidly behind composed his amused features and stepped into the road to pass. "halloa, hardy," said nugent. "going home?" "i am calling on your sister," said hardy, bowing. "by jove, so are we," said nugent, relieved to find this friend in need. "we'll go together. you know mrs. kybird and miss kybird? that is mrs. kybird." mrs. kybird bade him "go along, do," and acknowledged the introduction with as stately a bow as the black satin would permit, and before the dazed jem quite knew how it all happened he was leading the way with mrs. kybird, while the young people, as she called them, followed behind. "we ain't looking at you," she said, playfully, over her shoulder. "and we're trying to shut our eyes to your goings on," retorted nugent. mrs. kybird stopped and, with a half-turn, play-fully reached for him with her umbrella. the exertion and the joke combined took the remnant of her breath away, and she stood still, panting. "you had better take hardy's arm, i think," said nugent, with affected solicitude. "it's my breath," explained mrs. kybird, turning to the fuming young man by her side. "i can 'ardly get along for it--i'm much obliged to you, i'm sure." mr. hardy, with a vain attempt to catch jack nugent's eye, resigned himself to his fate, and with his fair burden on his arm walked with painful slowness towards equator lodge. a ribald voice from the other side of the road, addressing his companion as "mother kybird," told her not to hug the man, and a small boy whom they met loudly asseverated his firm intention of going straight off to tell mr. kybird. [illustration: "mr. hardy resigned himself to his fate."] by the time they reached the house mr. hardy entertained views on homicide which would have appeared impossible to him half an hour before. he flushed crimson as he saw the astonished face of kate nugent at the window, and, pausing at the gate to wait for the others, discovered that they had disappeared. a rooted dislike to scenes of any kind, together with a keen eye for the ludicrous, had prompted jack nugent to suggest a pleasant stroll to amelia and put in an appearance later on. "we won't wait for 'im," said mrs. kybird, with decision; "if i don't get a sit down soon i shall drop." still clinging to the reluctant hardy she walked up the path; farther back in the darkness of the room the unfortunate young gentleman saw the faces of dr. murchison and mrs. kingdom. "and 'ow are you, bella?" inquired mrs. kybird with kindly condescension. "is mrs. kingdom at 'ome?" she pushed her way past the astonished bella and, followed by mr. hardy, entered the room. mrs. kingdom, with a red spot on each cheek, rose to receive them. "i ought to 'ave come before," said mrs. kybird, subsiding thankfully into a chair, "but i'm such a bad walker. i 'ope i see you well." "we are very well, thank you," said mrs. kingdom, stiffly. "that's right," said her visitor, cordially; "what a blessing 'ealth is. what should we do without it, i wonder?" she leaned back in her chair and shook her head at the prospect. there was an awkward lull, and in the offended gaze of miss nugent mr. hardy saw only too plainly that he was held responsible for the appearance of the unwelcome visitor. "i was coming to see you," he said, leaving his chair and taking one near her, "i met your brother coming along, and he introduced me to mrs. kybird and her daughter and suggested we should come together." miss nugent received the information with a civil bow, and renewed her conversation with dr. murchison, whose face showed such a keen appreciation of the situation that hardy had some difficulty in masking his feelings. "they're a long time a-coming," said mrs. kybird, smiling archly; "but there, when young people are keeping company they forget everything and everybody. they didn't trouble about me; if it 'adn't been for mr. 'ardy giving me 'is arm i should never 'ave got here." there was a prolonged silence. dr. murchison gave a whimsical glance at miss nugent, and meeting no response in that lady's indignant eyes, stroked his moustache and awaited events. "it looks as though your brother is not coming," said hardy to miss nugent. "he'll turn up by-and-by," interposed mrs. kybird, looking somewhat morosely at the company. "they don't notice 'ow the time flies, that's all." "time does go," murmured mrs. kingdom, with a glance at the clock. mrs. kybird started. "ah, and we notice it too, ma'am, at our age," she said, sweetly, as she settled herself in her chair and clasped her hands in her lap "i can't 'elp looking at you, my dear," she continued, looking over at miss nugent. "there's such a wonderful likeness between jack and you. don't you think so, ma'am?" mrs. kingdom in a freezing voice said that she had not noticed it. "of course," said mrs. kybird, glancing at her from the corner of her eye, "jack has 'ad to rough it, pore feller, and that's left its mark on 'im. i'm sure, when we took 'im in, he was quite done up, so to speak. he'd only got what 'e stood up in, and the only pair of socks he'd got to his feet was in such a state of 'oles that they had to be throwed away. i throwed 'em away myself." "dear me," said mrs. kingdom. "he don't look like the same feller now," continued the amiable mrs. kybird; "good living and good clothes 'ave worked wonders in 'im. i'm sure if he'd been my own son i couldn't 'ave done more for 'im, and, as for kybird, he's like a father to him." "dear me," said mrs. kingdom, again. mrs. kybird looked at her. it was on the tip of her tongue to call her a poll parrot. she was a free-spoken woman as a rule, and it was terrible to have to sit still and waste all the good things she could have said to her in favour of unsatisfying pin-pricks. she sat smouldering. "i s'pose you miss the capt'in very much?" she said, at last. "very much," was the reply. "and i should think 'e misses you," retorted mrs. kybird, unable to restrain herself; "'e must miss your conversation and what i might call your liveliness." mrs. kingdom turned and regarded her, and the red stole back to her cheeks again. she smoothed down her dress and her hands trembled. both ladies were now regarding each other in a fashion which caused serious apprehension to the rest of the company. "i am not a great talker, but i am very careful whom i converse with," said mrs. kingdom, in her most stately manner. "i knew a lady like that once," said mrs. kybird; "leastways, she wasn't a lady," she added, meditatively. mrs. kingdom fidgeted, and looked over piteously at her niece; mrs. kybird, with a satisfied sniff, sat bolt upright and meditated further assaults. there were at least a score of things she could have said about her adversary's cap alone: plain, straightforward remarks which would have torn it to shreds. the cap fascinated her, and her fingers itched as she gazed at it. in more congenial surroundings she might have snatched at it, but, being a woman of strong character, she suppressed her natural instincts, and confined herself to more polite methods of attack. "your nephew don't seem to be in no hurry," she remarked, at length; "but, there, direckly 'e gets along o' my daughter 'e forgits everything and everybody." "i really don't think he is coming," said hardy, moved to speech by the glances of miss nugent. "i shall give him a little longer," said mrs. kybird. "i only came 'ere to please 'im, and to get 'ome alone is more than i can do." miss nugent looked at mr. hardy, and her eyes were soft and expressive. as plainly as eyes could speak they asked him to take mrs. kybird home, lest worse things should happen. "would it be far out of your way?" she asked, in a low voice. "quite the opposite direction," returned mr. hardy, firmly. "how i got 'ere i don't know," said mrs. kybird, addressing the room in general; "it's a wonder to me. well, once is enough in a lifetime." "mr. hardy," said kate nugent, again, in a low voice, "i should be so much obliged if you would take mrs. kybird away. she seems bent on quarrelling with my aunt. it is very awkward." it was difficult to resist the entreaty, but mr. hardy had a very fair idea of the duration of miss nugent's gratitude; and, besides that, murchison was only too plainly enjoying his discomfiture. "she can get home alone all right," he whispered. miss nugent drew herself up disdainfully; dr. murchison, looking scandalized at his brusqueness, hastened to the rescue. "as a medical man," he said, with a considerable appearance of gravity, "i don't think that mrs. kybird ought to go home alone." "think not?" inquired hardy, grimly. "certain of it," breathed the doctor. "well, why don't you take her?" retorted hardy; "it's all on your way. i have some news for miss nugent." miss nugent looked from one to the other, and mischievous lights appeared in her eyes as she gazed at the carefully groomed and fastidious murchison. from them she looked to the other side of the room, where mrs. kybird was stolidly eyeing mrs. kingdom, who was trying in vain to appear ignorant of the fact. [illustration: "the carefully groomed and fastidious murchison."] "thank you very much," said miss nugent, turning to the doctor. "i'm sorry," began murchison, with an indignant glance at his rival. "oh, as you please," said the girl, coldly. "pray forgive me for asking you." "if you really wish it," said the doctor, rising. miss nugent smiled upon him, and hardy also gave him a smile of kindly encouragement, but this he ignored. he crossed the room and bade mrs. kingdom good-bye; and then in a few disjointed words asked mrs. kybird whether he could be of any assistance in seeing her home. "i'm sure i'm much obliged to you," said that lady, as she rose. "it don't seem much use for me waiting for my future son-in-law. i wish you good afternoon, ma'am. i can understand now why jack didn't come." with this parting shot she quitted the room and, leaning on the doctor's arm, sailed majestically down the path to the gate, every feather on her hat trembling in response to the excitement below. "good-natured of him," said hardy, glancing from the window, with a triumphant smile. "very," said miss nugent, coldly, as she took a seat by her aunt. "what is the news to which you referred just now? is it about my father?" [illustration: cover] the little colonel's knight comes riding works of annie fellows johnston the little colonel series (_trade mark, reg. u. s. pat. of._) each one vol., large mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel stories $ . (containing in one volume the three stories, "the little colonel," "the giant scissors," and "two little knights of kentucky.") the little colonel's house party . the little colonel's holidays . the little colonel's hero . the little colonel at boarding-school . the little colonel in arizona . the little colonel's christmas vacation . the little colonel: maid of honor . the little colonel's knight comes riding . mary ware: the little colonel's chum . the above vols., _boxed_ . the little colonel good times book . illustrated holiday editions each one vol., small quarto, cloth, illustrated, and printed in colour the little colonel $ . the giant scissors . two little knights of kentucky . big brother . cosy corner series each one vol., thin mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel $. the giant scissors . two little knights of kentucky . big brother . ole mammy's torment . the story of dago . cicely . aunt 'liza's hero . the quilt that jack built . flip's "islands of providence" . mildred's inheritance . other books joel: a boy of galilee $ . in the desert of waiting . the three weavers . keeping tryst . the legend of the bleeding heart . the rescue of the princess winsome . asa holmes . songs ysame (poems, with albion fellows bacon) . l. c. page & company summer street boston, mass. [illustration: "with the donning of the ancient dress she seemed to have put on the sweet shy manner that had been the charm of its first wearer." (_see page _)] the little colonel's knight comes riding by annie fellows johnston author of "the little colonel series," "big brother," "ole mammy's torment," "joel: a boy of galilee," "asa holmes," etc. illustrated by etheldred b. barry "and sometimes in the mirror blue, the knights come riding, two by two." the lady of shalott. [illustration] boston l. c. page & company publishers _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _entered at stationers' hall, london_ _all rights reserved_ first impression, october, second impression, april, _colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, u. s. a._ contents chapter page i. the hanging of the mirror ii. bed-time confidences iii. a knight comes riding iv. betty's novel v. a camera helps vi. "garden fancies" vii. spanish lessons viii. "shadows of the world appear" ix. more shadows x. by the silver yard-stick xi. the end of several things xii. six months later xiii. the miracle of blossoming xiv. the royal mantle xv. "as it was written in the stars" and betty's diary list of illustrations page "with the donning of the ancient dress she seemed to have put on the sweet shy manner that had been the charm of its first wearer" (_see page _) _frontispiece_ "the other grasped some dark object that seemed to be a picture frame" "drew rein a moment at the gate, to look down the stately avenue" "he was bending anxiously over a bubbling saucepan" "making a cup of her white hands" "for once the red and green bird was on its good behaviour" "she poured the corn into the popper and began to shake it over the red coals" "'she looked to me just like one of her own lilies'" the little colonel's knight comes riding chapter i the hanging of the mirror it was a june morning in kentucky. the doctor's nephew coming at a gallop down the pike into lloydsboro valley, reined his horse to a walk as he reached the railroad crossing, and leaning forward in his saddle, hesitated a moment between the two roads. the one along the railroad embankment was sweet with a tangle of wild honeysuckle, and led straight to the little post-office where his morning mail awaited him. the other would take him a mile out of his way, but it was through a thick beech woods, and the cool leafage of its green aisles tempted him. a red-bird darting on ahead suddenly decided his course, for following some quick impulse, as if the cardinal wings had beckoned him, he turned off the highway into the woods. "i might as well go around and have a look at that lindsey cabin," he said to himself, as an excuse for turning aside. "if it's in as good shape as i think it is, maybe i can persuade the van allens to rent it for the summer. it's a pity to have a picturesque place like that standing empty when it has such possibilities for hospitality, and the van allen girls a positive genius for giving jolly house-parties. to get that family out to lloydsboro for the summer would be paving the way to no end of good times." the farther he rode into the cool woods the better the idea pleased him, and where the bridle-path crossed a narrow creek he paused a moment before plunging down the bank. somewhere up the ravine a spring was trickling out in a ceaseless flow. he could not see it, but he could hear the gurgle of the water, as cold and crystal clear it splashed down into its rocky basin. "they could picnic here to their hearts' content," he said aloud, glancing up and down the ravine at the rank growth of fern and maidenhair which festooned the rocks. alex shelby had spent only part of two summers in lloydsboro valley, but the woodsy smell of mint and pennyroyal, mingling with the fern, brought back the recollection of at least a dozen picnics he had enjoyed near this spot, most of them moonlight affairs, and all of them so pleasant that he was determined to bring about their repetition if possible. of course this summer he would not have as much time for outings as he had had then. now that he had finished his medical course he intended to shoulder as much as possible of his uncle's work. the old doctor's practice had grown far too heavy for him. but at the same time there need be no limit to the pleasant things that the summer could bring forth, especially if the van allen family could be installed in the lindsey cabin. a quarter of a mile more brought him almost to the edge of the woods and to the beginning of the lindsey place. the spacious, two-story log cabin standing back among the great forest trees, might have been a relic of daniel boone's day, so carefully had his pioneer pattern been copied by skilful architects. but the resemblance was only outward. inside it was luxuriously equipped with every modern convenience. for a year it had stood tenant-less, and alex shelby never passed it without regretting that such a charming old place should be abandoned to dust and spiders. the last time he had gone by it, he had noticed that it was beginning to show the effect of its long neglect. some of the windows were completely overgrown by ragged rose-vines and virginia creeper, and a tin waterspout that had blown loose from its fastenings, dangled from the eaves. now as he came near he saw in surprise that the place seemed to have an alert, live air, as if just awakened from sleep. the windows were all thrown open, the vines were trimmed, and were a mass of bloom, the dead leaves were raked neatly in piles and the cobwebs no longer hung from the cornices in dusty festoons. a long ladder leaning against the front of the house, rested on the sill of an upper window, and alex wondered if the agents had painters at work. he hoped so. the more thorough the renovation, the more attractive it would be to the van allens. suddenly his pleased expression changed to one of surprise and dismay, as he saw that the place was already inhabited. empty packing-boxes, excelsior and wrapping paper littered the front porch. a new hammock hung between the posts. somebody's garden-hat lay on the steps. moreover, a slender girl in a white dress stood at the foot of the ladder, evidently about to ascend, for she shook it to test its balance, and then cautiously stepped up on the first round. her back was toward alex, and he fervently hoped that she would turn around so that he might see her face, then more fervently hoped that she wouldn't, since it would be somewhat embarrassing to be caught staring as inquisitively as he was doing. unconsciously at sight of her he had brought his horse to a standstill, and now sat wondering who she could be and what she was about to do. it was as if a curtain had gone up on the first scene of an intensely interesting play, and for the moment he forgot everything else in admiration of the stage setting, and the graceful little figure poised on the ladder. "probably going up for an armful of roses," he thought. "hold tight, ca'line allison! don't let it slip!" she called in a high sweet voice, almost as if she were singing the words, and alex noticed for the first time, a small coloured girl behind the ladder, bracing herself against it to hold it steady. the ascent was a slow one. twice she tripped on her skirts, and with a little shriek almost slipped through between the rounds. only one hand was free for climbing. the other grasped some dark object that seemed to be a picture frame, though why one should be carrying a picture frame up the outside of a house was more than the young man could imagine, and he concluded he must be mistaken. [illustration: "the other grasped some dark object that seemed to be a picture frame."] the last step brought her head on a level with the second story window, and up where the sun struck through the trees in a broad shaft of light. her hair had been beautiful in the shadow; a rare tint of auburn with bronze gold glints, but now in the sunshine it was an aureole. what was it it reminded him of? a fragment of a half-forgotten poem came to his mind, although he was not given to remembering such things: "sandalphon the angel of glory, sandalphon the angel of prayer." then he almost laughed aloud at the comparison, for a dazzling flash of light, blinding him for an instant, was reflected into his eyes from the object she carried, and he saw that it was a looking-glass that she was taking up the ladder with such care. "what a very human and very feminine angel of glory it is," he thought. but the next instant, still with the amused smile on his face, he was spurring his horse down the road as fast as it could gallop. the girl on the ladder had caught sight of his reflection in the mirror as she reached up to lay it on the window sill, and had turned a startled face towards him. not for worlds would he have had her know that he had been so discourteous as to sit staring at her. he had forgotten himself in the interest of the moment. eager to find out who the new tenants were at the lindsey cabin, he rode rapidly on, turning from the woodland road into a maple-lined avenue leading back to the post-office. just as he made the turn another surprise confronted him. he almost collided with two girls who were hurrying along arm in arm, under a red parasol. both lloyd sherman and kitty walton were old friends of his, but he had to look twice to assure himself that he saw aright. they had been away at school all year, and he had not heard of their return. "i thought you were still at warwick hall!" he exclaimed, dismounting and stepping forward with bared head, to shake hands in his most cordial way. "when did you get home?" "only this mawning," answered lloyd. "all the commencement exercises were ovah last thursday, and we're school girls no longah. '_beyond, the alps lies italy!_' kitty can tell you all about it, for she had the valedictory." kitty met alex's amused smile with a flash of her black eyes, but before she could deny having used the trite subject that had been so popular in the old lloydsboro seminary as to have become a standing joke, alex answered, "well, you've certainly lost no time in starting out to explore the wide world that lies before you. i've always heard that there's nothing to equal the zeal of a sweet girl graduate about to scale her alps. you've barely reached home, haven't been off the cars three hours, i'll bet, and yet here you are on the war-path again. what italy are you climbing after now?" ordinarily his banter would have been promptly resented by both girls, but now it served only to recall the amazing news that had sent them hurrying away from the post-office on an excited quest. with a dramatic gesture, kitty drew a letter from her belt and held it out to him. "think of it!" she exclaimed, her cheeks pink with excitement. "gay melville's here in the valley! right here in lloydsboro! settled in the lindsey cabin for the summer, and we didn't know anything about it till ten minutes ago." "gay melville," repeated alex, instantly alert at mention of the cabin. "oh he doesn't know her, kitty," interposed lloyd. "he wasn't out in the valley the wintah she spent her christmas vacation with you." "then you've something to live for!" declared kitty with emphasis. "she's one of the old warwick hall girls. was in last year's class with allison and betty, and she's just the sweetest, dearest--" "don't tell him any moah," interrupted lloyd. "let him find out for himself." "what's she doing at the lindsey cabin?" he asked. he kept a straight face, although inwardly chuckling over the fact that he knew well enough what she was doing, at least what she had been doing three minutes ago. "they've taken it for the summer, that is, her sister lucy and husband have, mr. and mrs. jameson harcourt. they're from san antonio, and you know the lindseys spend their winters there. it seems they interested mr. harcourt in the cabin, and of course gay was wild to get back to the valley, and she persuaded them to come. she wrote to me just as soon as it was decided, but the letter never reached me till this morning. she thought i would get it before i started home; but it's just like gay to mix up her address with mine. she was so excited when she wrote that she addressed it to warwick hall station, texas, instead of district of columbia. it has been travelling all over the country, and it's a wonder that it ever reached me at all." "and the worst of it is," added lloyd, "of co'se she expected we'd all be heah to meet her. but we stayed ovah in washington two days, and when they came in last night there wasn't a soul at the station to welcome them. the ticket agent told me about it just now as we came past. she seemed surprised, he said, and disappointed. she must have thought it queah that none of us were there." "won't she be funny when she's found what a mistake she's made!" exclaimed kitty. "she's always making mistakes, and is always perfectly ridiculous over them when she finds it out. we're going to take you to call on her, alex, just as soon as they're settled. she plays the violin divinely." "i'll go right back with you now," he offered promptly. "no you won't," they cried in the same breath, and kitty explained, "no telling what sort of a mess they'll be in with their unpacking. but if they're ready to see company by night, i'll telephone to you, and we'll all go over." "i shall live only for that moment," he declared, laughing, then added as he turned to mount his horse, "i'm mighty glad i met you, and i'm more than glad that you've both come home to stay." a flourish of the red parasol answered the courtly sweep of his hat as they parted. he rode on rapidly towards the post-office, wondering if they would find the girlish, white-clad figure still perched on the ladder, up among the roses, with the sun making an aureole of her shining hair. he had never seen such hair. "sandalphon, the angel of glory"--but the quotation broke off with a laugh. her name was gay, and it was a looking glass that she was carrying up the ladder. "well, she's an original little thing," he mused, "and if she lives up to her name the lindsey cabin will be just as lively a social centre as if the van allen girls had possession." the encounter with alex had delayed the girls but a moment or two, still they walked on faster than ever to make up the lost time. "what do you suppose we'll find her doing?" queried lloyd. "something unexpected, i'll be bound," was the answer. "will you ever forget that first time we saw her, when she came out to play the violin at the freshman reception? such a pretty white dress, and that rapt, uplifted look on her face that makes you think of st. cecilias and seraphim, and with one foot in a white kid shoe, and the other in that awful old red felt bedroom slipper, edged in black fur!" "or the time she lost her belt in washington," suggested lloyd. "probably we'll find her unpacking if the trunks came. but gay's trunks nevah were known to arrive on time. we may have to be lending her shirtwaists and collahs for a month." by this time they had reached the rustic footbridge leading over a ravine to the cabin, and were in full view of the front windows. gay was still on the ladder. she had made several trips up and down it since alex passed. it was hard to decide at what angle to hang the mirror on the window casing, as she had seen them in old dutch houses in holland; and in marking the place with the point of the only nail that she had provided on which to hang the mirror, she dropped the nail. several minutes had been wasted in a fruitless search for it. others were to be had for the pulling, if one could extract them from the empty packing-boxes, but no hammer could be found on the premises, and it was only after much twisting and struggling that the little coloured girl finally managed to pull one with her teeth. another five minutes had been wasted in searching for something with which to drive the nail. then gay gingerly ascended the ladder again, armed with a pair of heavy old tongs, taken from the porch fireplace. she had just reached the top of the ladder when the girls caught sight of her. "mercy!" exclaimed kitty in a low tone. "it'll never do in the world to appear at _this_ juncture. she's pretty sure to drop through the ladder anyhow, or upset herself, or have some exhibition of the usual melville luck, even if she's left to herself. and if she should suddenly discover us there's no telling what dreadful thing might happen." "let's slip up behind the arbour and watch till she's safely down to earth," whispered lloyd. "what _do_ you suppose she's trying to do, and where do you suppose she managed to pick up ca'line allison?" "sh!" was the answer. "that's the dutch mirror she got in amsterdam last summer. she wrote that it was the triumph of her life when she got home with it whole. she carried it all the way, instead of packing it in her trunk. listen! what's that she's saying?" the words floated down to them distinctly. "ca'line allison, you'll have to get me something besides these tongs to drive this nail with. i might as well try to do it with a pair of stilts. besides it's making dents in them, and it's wicked to spoil such beautiful old brasses. mercy! don't get up _yet_!" she shrieked wildly, as the shifting of ca'line allison's small body made the ladder slip a trifle. "wait till i poke these tongs through the window and take hold with both hands. now! hunt around and find me a stone or a piece of brick." the girls behind the arbour could not see her face, but the sight of the familiar little figure clinging to the ladder, and the sound of the beloved voice made them long to rush out and squeeze her. "isn't her hair a glory, up there in the sunshine?" whispered kitty. "the idea of anybody calling it plain red--such a fluff of bronzy auburn with all those little crinkles of gold! and listen to that whistle! you'd think it was a real mocking bird." wholly unconscious of her audience, gay teetered on the ladder, whistling and trilling like a happy bobolink, until the little black girl climbed up after her with a brick which she had dug out from the well curb. the girls waited until the nail was securely in place, the mirror hung and gay had begun to crawl down the ladder backward, before they rushed out from their hiding-place. they pounced upon her just as she reached the bottom round, and then ensued what kitty called a pow-wow--an enthusiastic welcome known only to old school chums who have been separated so long a time as a whole twelvemonth. questions, answers, explanations, a bubbling over of delight at once more being together, kept them talking all at once for nearly ten minutes. then gay, remembering her duty as hostess led the way into the house. "come in and see lucy and her fond spouse," she exclaimed. "they're still at breakfast although it's ten o'clock. none of us could make a fire in the range. it simply wouldn't burn. but we had brought a chafing dish in one of the boxes, and we found another in the pantry, and they've been mussing around for the last two hours with them, having the time of their lives. lucy made fudge and omelette and tea for her breakfast, being the things she knows best how to make, and brother jameson is trying flap-jacks and coffee." "what did you have?" asked lloyd. "i? oh i emulated the example of 'the old person of crewd' who said "'we use sawdust for food. it's cheap by the ton and it nourishes one, and that's the main object of food.' i munched a handful of some sort of new breakfast straw, but it wasn't very satisfying, and i was just going in to get a cup of brother jameson's coffee. i told him to put my name in the pot. come on in and have some too." throwing open the dining-room door she began a series of breezy introductions that set them all to laughing and swept away every vestige of formality. both lloyd and kitty protested against taking a single mouthful at that hour, but the young host poured out a cup of very muddy coffee with such a beaming smile, and the little bride offered a very bitter cup of tea in competition, with a merry insistence so like gay's, that they could not refuse. "it's going to be lovely," kitty managed to whisper under cover of the bustle of bringing in more hot water. "they're almost as harum-scarum and hap-hazard as gay herself, and 'brother jameson' looks as if he might be the 'gibson man's' youngest brother." "these 'babes in the wood' would have perished but for me," began gay, who was rattling along as if she were wound up. "_i_ was the robin who came to the rescue. i went over to stumptown bright and early--you see i remembered the short cut through the woods--and as luck would have it, found some one willing to come, at the very first house where i inquired. (but she can't come till nearly noon, hence this disorderly feasting and rioting.) ca'line allison was swinging on the gate, with her finger in her mouth. i didn't know her, but she remembered me, and complimented me by asking if i'd done brought my fiddle along. i think i'll engage her for the summer for my little maid-in-waiting. she's as quick as a monkey and would look so cunning diked up in a cap and apron. what's that rhyme betty made about her when she was flower-girl at her own mother's wedding? oh by the way, where _is_ betty? why didn't she come with you?" "for the good reason that we didn't know we were coming heah ourselves when we left home," answered lloyd. "betty went on to commencement with all the rest of the family, but it was hard for her to tear herself away from her beloved writing. we hadn't been back at locust half an houah this mawning till she was at it again." "betty is mrs. sherman's god-daughter," explained gay in an aside to her brother-in-law. "the one who i told you is such a genius. she's writing a book." then turning to lloyd. "it isn't that same old one she was at work on at school, is it?" "no, it's something she began last fall. mothah wanted her to make her début in louisville when she was through school, just as i am going to do next wintah, but betty begged to be allowed to stay in the country. she said she'd nevah be a brilliant success socially, but that she'd do her best to be a credit to the family in some other way." "she will, too," prophesied gay. "some day we'll all be proud of the little song-bird you rescued from the cuckoo's nest. dear old betty! i'd like to hug her this very minute." the grandfather's clock in the hall was striking eleven when they rose from the table, but gay would not listen when the girls attempted to take their leave. "you haven't seen my room," she insisted, "nor my mirror. come on up stairs and look into my mirror. it's the joy of my heart, and maybe we'll all see our fate in it. i like to pretend that it's a sort of magic glass--that some wizard of the wood has laid a spell on it, so that at certain times all the figures that have ever been reflected in it must march across it again. wouldn't it be lovely if all the good times it is going to reflect this summer could be made to pass over it again whenever i wanted to recall them?" "we'd lead the procession," announced kitty, "for we were the first objects that crossed the path after you got it hung. if we were not 'a group of damsels glad' we were at least a couple of them." "but you were not the first," confessed gay. "just as i held it up to adjust it, i had such a thrillingly romantic experience that i nearly fell off the ladder. it showed me the reflection of an awfully good looking young man on horse-back. but when i turned to look over my shoulder at the original he was galloping down the road like a blue streak." "i wondah who it could have been," mused lloyd. "we met alex shelby on hawseback just a few minutes befoah we got heah, but he nevah said a word about having seen anybody, and he seemed surprised when we told him that the cabin had been rented." they were up in gay's room now, and running to the window, kitty seated herself in the low chair beside it. "oh how fine!" she called. "it's at exactly the right angle, for i can see everything along the path without looking out. it'll be a sort of hildegarde's mirror, won't it! like the lady of shalott's." half under her breath she began to recite the lines they had learned so long ago, and from force of habit lloyd joined the sing-song chant: "and moving through the mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear." smiling to see how well they remembered it, they went on in unison down to the couplet: "and sometimes through the mirror blue the knights come riding two by two." there kitty broke off to say "i don't see how that can happen here _this_ summer. it will be sheer luck if they come even in singles. there never were so few boys left in the valley, and it's too bad to have it happen so the summer that you're here. nearly everybody is going away. you can count on the fingers of one hand the few who will stay." "what about the two knights of kentucky?" asked gay. "you're a lucky girl, kitty, to have two such splendid cousins as keith and malcolm macintyre." "they are already gone. they sailed for england with uncle sydney and aunt elise last week. you know i wrote you they were going and that allison was to be in the party too. and oh gay! didn't you get that letter? then you haven't heard the most important thing of all! _allison is engaged!_ it didn't happen till a few days before they sailed, and it isn't announced yet, but of course she wanted you to know and i wrote to you right away." gay bounced out of her chair as if a bomb exploded in the room. "oh you don't mean it!" she cried tragically, clasping her hands. "why she's only been out of school a year! the first of our class to go! oh tell me all about it! begin at the beginning and don't skip a thing!" throwing herself down on the floor at kitty's feet, she propped her chin on her hands, and her elbows in kitty's lap, prepared to listen. "there isn't much to tell. you know the fortune that mammy easter predicted for her was nice, but it wasn't very exciting. she was to 'wed wid de quality and ride in her ca'iage.' well, his family is certainly quality, the claibornes of virginia, and she'll live in washington and have several kinds of carriages. isn't it odd? we knew him when he was just a boy. he was on the same transport with us when we went to the philippines, and we never imagined then that we'd ever see him again." "but i thought that that young lieutenant logan," began gay. kitty interrupted her with a laugh. "why my dear, he is a mere _child_ compared to raleigh claiborne. that little affair was the mere a. b. c. of romance. he's paying attention to our youngest now. he sends music and bon bons to _elise_." "think of elise being old enough to receive such attentions!" groaned gay. "it makes me feel like a patriarch. but never mind my hoary sensations, go on and tell me some more. she's going to get her trousseau abroad i suppose." "only part of it, for the wedding isn't to take place for a year. allison didn't care much about going--thought she'd rather wait and take the trip with raleigh. but he is so busy it may be several years before he can get off for a whole summer, and aunt elise persuaded her to go with them. she said it wouldn't be so easy for her to go when she once assumed the responsibility of a big establishment." gay clasped her hands around her knees and rocked herself back and forth on the floor. "i'm glad she's sensible enough to wait a year," she declared. "i don't see why girls are in such a hurry to tie themselves up in a knot. i suppose it's perfectly fascinating to be engaged and to have the choosing of a lovely trousseau, and the opening of all the wedding presents. everybody takes so much interest in a prospective bride. but the fun comes to an end so quickly. it's like fourth of july fire works. there's a big blaze and excitement while it lasts. then it's all over and they settle down to be just prosy common-place married people. i should think that the reaction would be deadly, and that if a girl could see past the time of the rocket's shooting up, and realize that it can't stay among the stars, but must fall to earth again with a dull thud, she'd profit by other people's experiences, and not give up all the good times of her girlhood before she'd half enjoyed them." gay spoke so feelingly that her two listeners exchanged glances of surprise. this was not the way gay had been wont to talk a year ago, and each wondered to herself if lucy's marriage had caused this radical change in her opinion. suddenly she changed the subject, with the unexpectedness of a grasshopper's leap. "which one of you girls is going to stay all night with me?" kitty answered first. "neither of us ought to, for we've only just returned to the bosom of our families. you could hardly call us entirely arrived yet, for our trunks haven't come." lloyd started up, and looked at her watch in alarm. "it's a good thing you reminded me that i have a home," she laughed. "i told mothah i'd just stroll down to the post-office and be right back, and when i met kitty with yoah lettah it drove everything else out of my head. she'll be wondering what has happened to me. i'll come some night next week and be glad to." "no, one of you has to come back and stay with me _to-night_," gay insisted. "so settle it between yourselves. you may as well draw straws to decide which is to be my victim." then, glancing around the room--"i don't happen to see any straws at hand, but you might pull hairs for the honour. here! my head is at your service, ladies." dropping to her knees she made a profound salaam, and waited for them to draw. "the one who pulls the shortest hair comes back." laughing over the absurd manner of deciding such a matter, each girl reached out and plucked a hair by its roots, so vigorously that the pull was followed by a long drawn "ouch!" "mine's the shortest," giggled lloyd, comparing it with the one that kitty held up. "but i'm suah my family will object if i propose leaving them the very first night of my arrival, aftah i've been away at school all yeah." "don't leave them then," said gay. "bring them all over here to spend the evening. i'm wild for lucy and brother jameson to meet them as soon as possible. then when bedtime comes let them leave you. tell them that kitty is going to bring all her family, and that everybody in the valley who is anybody is coming to the harcourt's housewarming to-night at the 'cabin in the wood.'" kitty began unfurling her red parasol. "that certainly sounds alluring. you can count on all my family, especially ranald, and i'll go straight home and telephone to alex shelby." "who may he be?" inquired gay, scrambling up from the floor, to follow her guests down stairs. kitty began an enthusiastic description of him, which lloyd cut short with the laughing remark, "go look in your little dutch mirror. i'm not positive, but i _think_ he's yoah first 'knight of the looking-glass.'" chapter ii bed-time confidences that night a series of interesting shadows trooped across the little dutch mirror, in the moonlight, but nobody watched beside it to see how faithfully it reflected the procession of guests, straggling up the path below. after the first pleased glance gay had flown down-stairs to throw open the front door and bid them welcome. it was almost more than she had dared to hope that the old colonel would come, and "papa jack" and kitty's grandmother macintyre. but they had needed no urging. gay was reaping the aftermath now, of her first visit to the valley. they had not forgotten the obliging little guest who had entertained them with her violin playing, amused them with her quaint unexpected speeches, and charmed old and young alike with her enthusiastic interest in everything and everybody. ranald had more than that to remember, for he had carried on a vigorous correspondence with gay for the last six months, started by a "dare" from allison. alex shelby's memory of her dated back only to that morning, but the picture of a sunny little head up among the roses, and that line "sandalphon the angel of glory" had been in his thoughts all day. their effort to show the newcomers how cordial a lloydsboro welcome could be, was met by a hospitality which held them in its spell till after midnight. lucy was in her element. as the popular daughter of a popular army officer, she had played gracious hostess ever since she had learned to talk. as for gay, so anxious was she that her friends should be pleased with her family and her family with her friends, that she threw herself with all her might into the task of making each show off to the other. an outside fire-place on the broad front porch was one of the features of the cabin. the june night was cool enough to make the blaze on its hearth acceptable, and lucy turned the picturesque old kettle, bubbling on the crane, to practical use, making coffee to serve with the marsh-mallows, which jameson handed around on long sticks, that each one might toast his own over the glowing coals. the informality of it all, and the good cheer, made every one relax into his jolliest mood, and gay, hearing the old colonel's laugh, as stretched out on the settle by the fire, he told stories and toasted marsh-mallows with a zest, felt that they had struck the right key-note in this first evening's entertainment. it was the harbinger of many others that would follow during the summer. it was her violin that held them longest. standing just inside the door where kitty could accompany her on the piano, she played one after another of the favourite tunes that were called for in turn, till the fire burned low on the porch hearth, and even the voices of the night were stilled in the dense beech woods around the cabin. it was later than any one had supposed when mrs. sherman made the discovery that the hall clock had stopped. "she didn't know that i stopped it on purpose," confessed gay, when the last carriage had driven away, and lloyd was following her sleepily up-stairs. she paused to bolt the bed-room door behind them. "this has been a lovely evening for me. it gives one such a comfortable i-told-you-so sort of feeling to have everything turn out as you prophesied it would. of course i knew that lucy would feel the charm of the valley, and like it a thousand times better than the mountains or seashore or anywhere else, but i wasn't so sure of jameson. now my mind is completely at rest for the summer. i stopped worrying when i saw him hobnobbing with the colonel and your father about those lexington horses he wants to buy. he was so tickled over those letters of introduction they gave him. and he was so charmed to air his knowledge of the philippines to mrs. walton. he spent a month there you know. i fairly patted myself on the back all the time he was talking. somehow i feel so responsible for this household. there! i forgot to remind them to bring that bothersome old silver pitcher upstairs!" hastily unbolting the door she called out in sepulchral tones that echoed through the dark house, "_remember the maine!_" there was a laugh in the room across the hall, then her brother-in-law who had just come up-stairs, shuffled down again in his slippers. "i suppose i'll have to remind them every night this summer," continued gay. "i don't like to call out 'remember the silver pitcher that was our great-great-grandmother melville's, and the soup ladle that some old spanish grandee gave to one of jameson's castilian ancestors,' for if a burglar were prowling around he would be all the more anxious to break in. so the month i visited them, before we came here, i adopted that slogan for my war-cry: '"_remember the main_" thing in life to be saved from burglars!' it always sends one or the other of them skipping, for they feel the responsibility of preserving such heirlooms for posterity. i used to wish that i were the oldest daughter, so that that pitcher would be handed down to me on my wedding day. i didn't realize what a bore it would be to be tied for life to such a responsibility. i asked jameson why he didn't put it and the ladle in a safety vault and be done with it, and he read me such a lecture on the sacredness of old associations and family ties that i somehow felt that his old soup-ladle expected me to send it a written apology." gay had bolted the door again, and as she talked, drew the curtains across the casement windows. now she sat on the edge of the bed, shaking out her wealth of sunny hair, to brush and braid it for the night. it was a cosy room, with low ceiling and old-fashioned wall paper. with the curtains drawn and the candles in the quaint pewter sticks lighting up the claw-footed mahogany furniture, it was an ideal place for the exchanging of bedtime confidences. gay was the first to break the silence. "what was the matter with betty tonight? she was as quiet as a mouse. hardly had a word to say, and all the time i was playing, she sat looking out into the night as if she were ready to cry." "no wondah! they were so beautiful, some of those nocturnes and things, that we all had lumps in our throats. nothing's the mattah with betty. it's just the last chaptah she can't get to suit her. she's gone around in a sawt of dream all day." "who's playing the devoted to her now?" "nobody as far as i know. _all_ the boys love betty. they've been perfectly devoted to her ever since she came to locust to live; but not--not in the sentimental way you mean; for instance the way that alex shelby cares for kitty." "oh _don't_ tell me there is anything in that," wailed gay, "at least on kitty's part, for i've set my heart on her marrying a friend of mine in san antonio, so she'll always be near me. you know when mammy easter told her fortune, it was that her fate would come through running water when the weather vane points _west_. i'm wild to have her visit me at fort sam houston next year, and this frank percival is the very one of all others for her. he's a banker and as good as gold and--oh well, there's no use wasting time singing his praises to _you_ when i want him for kitty! but about this alex shelby, kitty told me this very afternoon that it is _you_ he admires so much. she told me all about that bernice howe affair, and said that ever since katie mallard up and told him how honourably you acted in the matter, he has put you on a pedestal and given you a halo. she said you could have him crazy about you if you'd so much as lift an eyelash in encouragement." "don't you believe it!" cried lloyd. "that's just kitty's way of throwing you off the track. we've been unusually good friends evah since he found out why i broke my engagement to go riding with him, but he is at the beeches every bit as much as he is at the locusts, and it's you he'll be in love with befoah the summah is ovah. he was the first one reflected in yoah looking glass, for he confessed this evening how he sat and watched you on the laddah, and how he'd thought of you all day; and he even quoted poetry about it, and that's a very serious symptom for alex to show. he nevah was known to do such things befoah! then tonight he was simply carried away by yoah playing. he adores a violin and you played all his favourites. oh i see yoah finish!" there was a pause in which gay kicked off her slippers and sat absently gazing at them, while lloyd tied the ribbons which fastened the lace in the collar of her dainty gown. again it was gay who spoke first. "doesn't it seem queer to think of allison's being engaged? it is such a little while since we were all school girls together. nobody knows whose turn will come next. it makes me feel like a soldier on a battle field--comrades being shot down all around you right and left and you never knowing how soon it'll be your turn to fall. it's awful! lloyd, what's become of that boy out in arizona, the one who sent you those orange-blossoms in joyce's letter when i was here before? he was best man at eugenia forbes' wedding." "oh, you mean phil tremont!" answered lloyd placidly, without the conscious blush that gay had expected to see. "he is out west again, doing splendidly, eugenia writes." "i thought you wrote to him yourself." lloyd, stooping to pick up her dress and hang it over a chair, did not see with what keen interest gay watched her as she questioned. "oh, we still keep up a sawt of hit and miss correspondence. he writes every few weeks and i manage to reply once in two months or so. it's dreadfully uphill work for me to write to people whom i nevah see. it's been two yeahs since he was heah, and i nevah know what he'll be interested in." "i suppose it's easier writing to some one you've known all your life, like malcolm macintyre for instance. i'm so sorry he and keith are abroad this summer." lloyd's face dimpled mischievously as she began to see the drift of gay's questioning. "i can't tell you how easy it is to write to malcolm, because i've nevah done it. now it's my turn to ask questions. where did you get this new photograph of ranald walton on yoah dressing table? beg it from kitty as you did that one at warwick hall, when he was a little cadet, or get it from headquartahs?" "direct from headquarters," confessed gay with a laugh. "he isn't so afraid of girls as he used to be. wasn't he charming tonight?" so the questioning and answering went on for quarter of an hour longer, each anxious to find how far the other had drifted into the unexplored country of their dreams. then gay blew out the candles and climbed into the high four-posted bed beside lloyd, where they lay looking out through the open window into the starlight. the moon had been down for some time. it was so still here in the heart of the beech woods that the silence could almost be felt. the girls spoke in whispers. "it settles down on one like a pall," said gay. "are you sleepy?" "not very," answered lloyd, stifling a yawn. "then there's one more person in the valley i want to ask about. i believe i've heard an account of every one else. where's rob moore and what is he doing? i thought he would come over with you all tonight." "poah old rob," answered lloyd, swallowing another yawn. "his fathah died a little ovah a yeah ago, and he's nevah been like himself since. he seemed to grow into a man in just a few hours. it was awfully sudden--mistah moore's death. the shock neahly killed rob's mothah, and the deah old judge, his grandfathah, you know, was simply heartbroken. rob just gave up his entire time to them aftah that. he was such a comfort. nevah left the place, and took charge of all the business mattahs, to spare them every worry. when things were settled up they found there wasn't as much left as they had thought there would be, and rob wouldn't touch a cent to finish his law course. he was afraid his mothah would have to deny herself some luxury she had always been used to, and he didn't want her to miss a single one she had had in his fathah's lifetime. so he took a position in louisville, and has been working like a dawg evah since. he reads law at night with the old judge, so i scarcely evah see him. we've just drifted apart, till it seems as if the little old bobby i grew up with is dead and gone. i missed him dreadfully at first, all last summah, for he'd almost lived at our house, and was just like a brothah. i haven't seen him at all this vacation, though to be suah i've only been home this one day." in the dim starlight lloyd could not see the complacent smile on gay's face, but her voice showed that she was well pleased with the answers to her string of questions. "now i'll tell you why i put you through such a catechism," she began. "i wanted to make sure that the coast is clear, so that you can undertake a mission that is to be laid at your door this summer. jameson's brother leland will be here to-morrow afternoon. if he takes a fancy to the place he will probably stay as long as we do, and we are all very anxious for him to stay. he's only three years younger than jameson, but the two were left alone in the world when they were just little tots, and jameson has been like a father to him. he feels so responsible for him and so does lucy. i do too, now, although he's only my brother-in-law's brother, because i persuaded them to come here for the summer, and jameson wanted to go somewhere where leland would be satisfied to stay." "what's the mattah with him, that he needs so much looking aftah? if he's twenty-three yeahs old it seems to me that he might take the responsibility of himself on his own shouldahs. is he wild?" "no. jameson says he's always been too high-minded to do the things men mean when they talk about sowing their wild oats; but he is as utterly irresponsible as a will-o-the-wisp. he won't stay tied down to anything--just drifts around, here and there, having a good time. it's a pity that he isn't as poor as a church mouse. then he'd have to do something. he's so bright he easily could make something splendid of himself. now jameson has good sensible ideas about not squandering his money, and although he doesn't have to work any more than leland does, he looks after the details of his own business as a man should. "he knows all about the mines he has stock in down in mexico, and he studies mineralogy and labour problems and investments, and has an office that he goes to regularly every morning. he takes after his father's side of the house, practical english people. but leland is like his mother's family (they were proud old spaniards just a generation or so back). he is adventurous and roving and romantic, and has the _dolce far niente_ in the blood. jameson says that all that leland needs is to be kept keyed up to the right pitch, for he is so impetuous and headstrong that he always gets what he starts after, no matter what stands in the way; and that if he could just fall heels over head in love with some girl with great force of character, who wouldn't look at him till he'd measured up to her standards, it would be the making of him." lloyd yawned. "excuse me for saying it," she began teasingly, "but i don't see how you can get up so much interest in anybody like that, even if he is yoah brothah-in-law's brothah. it sounds to me as if he is just plain _lazy_ and i nevah did have any use for a man that had to be nagged all the time to keep his ambition up to high-watah mark." gay sat up in bed in her earnestness. "oh lloyd, don't say that!" she protested. "don't judge him till you've seen him. he's perfectly dear in lots of ways, in spite of his faults. you'll find him fascinating. everybody does. and i'm going to be entirely honest with you--i've fairly _prayed_ that you'd like him. you are so strong yourself, the strongest character of any girl i know, and you influence people so forcibly in spite of themselves, that i've felt from the start it would be the making of leland if you'd take him in hand this summer." lloyd smothered a laugh in the pillow. "'why don't you speak for yourself, john,'" she said mischievously. "why don't _you_ take him in hand? you are already interested so much that you'd only be combining pleasuah with duty." gay was too much in earnest to tolerate any levity, and went on in her intense eager way. "oh i've already worn myself out trying to influence him, but it's of no use. he knows me too well. he's called me 'pug' and 'red-bird' ever since we went to kindergarten together. i'm just one of the family. but i've showed him your picture and told him what an unapproachable, unattainable creature you are, and whetted his curiosity till it's as keen as a razor. oh i've played my little game like an expert, and he doesn't suspect in the faintest degree what i want. he thinks i'm trying to interest him in kitty walton. i told him she's the darlingest, jolliest, prettiest thing in ten states, and that i'd guarantee he wouldn't feel bored once this entire summer if he'd make her acquaintance. "but you--i've painted as so indifferent and entirely above his reach, that just to prove to me i'm mistaken, he'll nearly break his neck to put himself on good terms with you. it's just as jameson says, he'll ride rough-shod over everything that stands in his way, to get what he wants." lloyd raised herself on her elbow and turned a protesting face towards her eloquent bed-fellow. "well of all cool things," she began, half inclined to be indignant, yet so amused at gay's masterly management that the exclamation ended in a giggle. "where do _i_ come in, pray? you say he always gets what he goes aftah. did it evah occur to you that i might not want to be taken possession of in that high-handed way? that _i_ might have something to say in the mattah? haven't you as much interest in my welfare as in yoah sistah's husband's brothah?" "of course! you blessed little goose!" exclaimed gay, giving the arm next hers an impetuous squeeze. "don't i know the haughty princess well enough to be sure that all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't budge her against her will? i'm not looking ahead any farther than this summer. but if you could just shake him up and put him on his mettle that long, that's all i ask of you. and seriously, dear, you might go the world over and not find one who measures up to your ideals in more ways. he's well born and talented and rich and fairly good-looking. he's so entertaining one never tires of his company, good-hearted and generous to a fault, and--oh lloyd, _please_ say you'll take enough interest to keep him keyed up to the right pitch for awhile. it's all he lacks to make a splendid man." "do you know, i think that's a mighty big lack," said lloyd, honestly. "i've had strings on my harp that wouldn't stay strung. it's the most exasperating thing in the world. you know how it is, with a violin. right in the midst of the loveliest passages one will begin to slip back--just a trifle, maybe, not more than a hair's breadth, but enough to make it flat and spoil the harmony. then you stop and tune it up again, and go on for awhile, but back it will slip just when you've gotten to depending on it. you know i couldn't have any respect for a man who had to be kept up to the notch that way. it would spoil the whole thing to have him flat on a single note when i'd depended on him to ring clear and true." gay had no reply ready for this unexpected argument, and her experience with stringed instruments made it very forcible. it was several minutes before she answered, then she spoke triumphantly. "but you know what a master can do where a novice would fail. he can fit the keys to hold any position he gives them. leland has never felt the touch of a master-hand. no one has ever controlled him. he has always been petted and spoiled. he has never known a girl like you. i'm sure that if you were only willing to make the attempt to arouse his pride and ambition, you could do wonders for him." it was the most potent appeal gay could have made. to feel that her influence may sway a man to higher, better things, will make even the most frivolous girl draw quicker breath with a sense of power, and to a conscientious girl like lloyd this seemed an opportunity and a responsibility that could not be lightly thrust aside. "well," she said finally, after a moment of hesitation, "i'll try." gay reached over with an impulsive kiss. "oh you _dear_! i knew you would. now i can let you go to sleep in peace. 'something accomplished, something done, has earned a night's repose.' it must be awfully late. goodnight dear." long after gay had fallen asleep, lloyd lay thinking of the mission thus thrust upon her. if this leland harcourt had needed reforming, she told herself, she wouldn't have had anything to do with him. her poor violet's experience with ned bannon had taught her one lesson--how mistaken any girl is who thinks she can accomplish _that_. but to be the master-hand that could put in tune some really splendid instrument (ah, gay's appeal was subtle and strong) _any_ girl would be glad and proud to be _that_: the inspiration, the power for good, the beckoning hand that would lead a man to the noblest heights of attainment. there was something exhilarating, uplifting in the thought, that banished sleep. night often brings exalted moods that seem absurd next day. lying there, looking out at the stars, the pleasing fancy came to her that each one was a sacred altar-flame, given into the keeping of some unseen vestal virgin. now she too had joined this star-world sisterhood, and had lighted a vestal fire on the altar of a promise. in its constant watch, she would keep tryst with all that life demanded of her. chapter iii a knight comes riding next morning lloyd found that her exalted mood had faded away with the stars. any fire must pale before the broad light of day, and her vestal-maiden fervour had given place to a very lively but mundane interest in the brother-in-law's brother. she was glad to hear at breakfast that he liked tennis, was a good horseman, that private theatricals were always a success when he had a hand in them. she stored away in her memory for future use, the information that he had lived several years in spain and mexico, and spoke spanish like a native, that unlike jameson he was prouder of his castilian ancestors than his english ones, and that two of his fads were collecting pipes and rare old ivory carvings. [illustration: "drew rein a moment at the gate, to look down the stately avenue."] the more she heard about him the less sure she felt of being able to keep her promise to gay. it began to seem presumptuous to her that a mere school-girl should imagine that she could exert any influence over such an accomplished man of the world as he evidently was. all that day she pictured to herself at intervals how she should meet him and what she should say. it was a new experience for the haughty princess who had always been so indifferent to the opinions of her boy friends. gay's request had made her self-conscious. fortunately she had a glimpse of him before he saw her, which helped her to adjust herself to the rôle she wanted to assume. the morning after his arrival in the valley, he and ranald rode past the locusts, and drew rein a moment at the gate, to look down the stately avenue which was always pointed out to strangers. lloyd watched their approach from behind a leafy screen of lilac bushes. the gleam of a wild strawberry had lured her over there from the path, a few minutes before. then the discovery of a patch of four-leaf clovers near by had tempted her to a seat on the grass. she was arranging the long stems of the clovers in a cluster when the sound of hoof-beats made her look up. so thickset were the lilacs between her and the road that not a glimpse of her white dress or the flutter of a ribbon betrayed her presence, and they paused to admire the avenue, unknowing that a far prettier picture was hidden away a few yards from them, in full sound of their voices--a girl half lying in the grass, with june's own fresh charm in her glowing face, and the sunshine throwing dappled leaf shadows over her soft fair hair. the mischievous light in her hazel eyes deepened as she watched them. "'the knights come riding two by two,'" she quoted in a whisper, closely scrutinizing the stranger. "he rides well, anyhow," was her first thought. the next was that he looked much older than gay's description had led her to imagine. probably it was because he wore a moustache, while rob and malcolm and alex and ranald were all smooth-shaven. maybe it was that same black moustache, with the gleam of white teeth and the flashing glance of his black eyes that gave him that dashing cavalier sort of look. how wonderfully his dark face lighted up when he smiled, and how distinctly one recalled it when he had passed on. and yet it wasn't a handsome face. she wondered wherein lay its charm. gay's words recurred to her: "so fiery and impetuous he would ride rough-shod over anything that stood in his way to get what he wants." "he looks it," she thought, raising her head a trifle to watch them out of sight. "i'm afraid i can't do as much for him as gay expects for i'll simply not stand his putting on any of his lordly ways with _me_." gathering up her clovers, she started back to the house, her head held high unconsciously, in her most princess-like pose. some one else had watched the passing of the two young men on horseback. from his arm chair on the white pillared porch, old colonel lloyd reached out to the wicker table beside him for his field-glass, to focus it on the distant entrance gate. "i don't seem to place them," he said aloud. "it looks like young walton on the roan, but the other one is a stranger in these parts." then as he saw they were not coming in, he shifted the glass to other objects. slowly his gaze swept the landscape from side to side, till it rested on lloyd, sitting on the grass by the lilac thicket, sorting her lapful of clovers. something in her childish occupation and the sunny gleam of the proud little head bowed intently over her task, recalled another scene to the old colonel; that morning when through this same glass he had watched her first entrance into locust. was it fourteen or fifteen years ago? it seemed only yesterday that he had found her near that same spot coolly feeding his choicest strawberries to an elfish looking dog. time had gone so fast since his imperious little grand-daughter had come into his life to fill it with new interests and deeper meaning. yes, it certainly seemed no longer ago than yesterday that she was tyrannizing over him in her adorable baby fashion, making an abject slave of him, whom every one else feared. and now here she was coming towards him across the lawn, a tall, fair girl in the last summer of her teens. why amanthis was no older than she when he had brought her home to locust, a bride. and no doubt some one would be coming soon, wanting to carry away lloyd, the light of his eyes and the life of the place. it made him angry to think of it, and when she stopped beside his chair to give him a soft pat on the cheek her first remark sent a jealous twinge through him. "so _that's_ who the stranger was with young walton," he responded. "_humph!_ i don't think much of him." "but grandfathah, how could you tell at such a distance?" laughed lloyd. "it isn't fair to form an opinion at such long range. you'd bettah come with us tonight again ovah to the cabin, and make his acquaintance. there's to be anothah housewahming, especially for him. kitty and ranald are engineering it. they've invited all the young people in the neighbourhood--sawt of a surprise you know. at least they call it that, although gay and lucy are expecting us. even rob is going, for kitty waylaid him as he got off the train yestahday evening, and talked him into consenting." "i'm glad of that," answered the old colonel heartily. "'all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.' this last year has been hard on the lad. the judge tells me he's never left the place a single night since his daddy died. he just grinds along in that hardware store all day, and is into his law books as soon as he gets home. he's getting to be an old man before his time. i'm glad your little friend gay is here this summer, on his account, if for no other reason. she'll draw him out of his shell if anybody can. i remember how much he seemed to be taken with her that christmas vacation she spent in the valley." lloyd gaped at him in astonishment. "why grandfathah! i nevah dreamed that you noticed things like _that_!" "i certainly do, my dear," he answered playfully. "i was young myself once upon a time. it's easy to recognize familiar landmarks on a road you've travelled. but why," he said suddenly in a changed tone, "if i may be so bold as to ask, _why_ is this young texan to be ushered into the valley with this blare of trumpets and torchlight effect? is he anything out of the ordinary?" "no, but it will make him feel that he hasn't dropped down into a poky inland village with nothing doing, but into a lovely social whirl instead. they want him to be so pleased with the place that he'll be satisfied to stay all summah." it was almost on the tip of her tongue to tell why his family were so desirous of keeping him with them, but another scornful "_humph!_" checked her. for some unaccountable reason the old colonel seemed to have taken a dislike to this stranger, and she knew that this information would deepen it to such an extent, that he would not want her to have anything to do with him. "he'd be furious if he knew what i promised gay," she thought, "for he takes such violent prejudices that the least thing 'adds fuel to the flame.' he might not want me to let him call heah or anything." "what do you keep saying '_humph!_' to me foh?" she asked saucily, "when i'm trying to tell you the news and am so kind and polite as to ask you to go to the pahty with us. it's dreadful to have such an old ogah of a grandfathah, who makes you shake in yoah shoes every time he opens his mouth." her arm was round his neck as she spoke, and her cheek pressed against his. the caress drove away every other thought save that it was good to have his little colonel home again, and he gave a pleased chuckle as she went on scolding him in a playful manner that no one else in the world ever dared assume with him. but all the while that she was twisting his white moustache, and braiding his napoleon-like goatee into a funny little tail, she was thinking about the evening, and the indifferent air with which she intended to meet leland harcourt. she would have to be indifferent, and oblivious of his existence as far as she could politely, because gay had told him that she was unapproachable and unattainable. she would talk to rob most of the evening, she decided. she was glad that she would have the opportunity, for she had not seen him since coming home. he had called at the locusts the night after her return from school, but that was the night she had stayed at the cabin with gay, and she had missed him. "did you know that your trunks came while you were at the post-office?" asked the colonel presently. owing to some mistake in checking their baggage in washington, lloyd's trunks had been delayed, and she had been wearing some of betty's clothes the two days she had been at home. "why didn't you tell me soonah?" she asked, springing up from her seat on the arm of his chair. "i've been puzzling my brains all mawning ovah what i could weah tonight." hastily gathering up the handful of clovers that she had dropped on the wicker table, she ran upstairs. everything in her pink bower of a room was in confusion. her commencement gown lay on the bed like an armful of thistledown, with her gloves and lace fan beside it. on the mantel stood the little white slippers in which she had tripped across the rostrum at warwick hall to receive her diploma from madam chartley's hands. now the diploma with its imposing red seals and big blue satin bow, was reposing on top of the clock on the same mantel with the slippers, and from the open trunks which mom beck was unpacking, a motley collection of books, clothing, sorority banners and school-girl souvenirs flowed out all over the floor. the old coloured woman was garrulous this morning. her trip to washington "with all her white folks, to her baby's finishment" (she couldn't understand why it should be called commencement), had been the event of her life; and when she could get no one else to listen, she talked to herself, recounting each incident of her journey with unctuous enjoyment. she was on her knees now before one of the trunks, talking so earnestly into its depths, that lloyd, entering the room, looked around to see who her audience could be. at the sound of lloyd's step the monologue came to a sudden stop, and the wrinkled old face turned with a smile. "what you want me to do with all these yeah school books, honey, now you done with 'em fo' evah?" "mercy, mom beck! don't talk as if i had come to the end of every thing, and am too old to study any moah! i expect to keep up my french and german all next wintah, even if i am a débutante. don't you remembah what madam chartley said in her lovely farewell speech to the graduating class? what's the good of taking you to commencement, if that's all the impression it made?" a pleased cackle of a laugh answered her. "law, honey, i couldn't listen to speeches! i was too busy thinkin' of becky potah in her black silk dress that ole cun'l give me for the grand occasion, an' the purple pansies in my bonnet. the queen o' sheby couldn't held a can'le to me _that_ day." she was off on another chapter of reminiscences now, but lloyd paid no attention. as she picked up the books and found places for them on the low shelves that filled one side of the room, she felt as if she were assisting at the last sad rites of something very dear; for each page was eloquent with happy memories of her last year at school. every scribbled margin recalled some pleasant recitation hour, and most of the fly-leaves were decorated by kitty's ridiculous caricatures. she and kitty had been room-mates this last year. in order to find place for these books, which she had just brought home, she had to carry a row of old ones down to the library. they were juvenile tales, most of them, which she laid aside; girls' stories that had once been a never failing source of delight. she could remember the time (and not so very long ago, either) when it had seemed impossible that she could out-grow them. and now as she trailed down stairs with an armful of her old favourites, she felt as if the shadowy figure of her childhood, the little lloyd that used to be, followed her with reproachful glances for her disloyalty to these discarded friends. on her way back to her room for a second armful, she stopped outside betty's door for a moment, hoping to hear some noise within, which would indicate that betty was not at her desk. there was so much that she wanted to talk to her about. one of the things she had looked forward to most eagerly in her home-coming was the long, sisterly talks they would have together. now it was a disappointment to find her so absorbed in her writing that she was as inaccessible as if she had withdrawn into a cloister. "i'll be glad when the old book is finished," thought lloyd impatiently as she tip-toed away from the door. to her, betty's ability to write was a mysterious and wonderful gift. not for anything would she have interrupted her when "genius burned," but she resented the fact that it should rise between them as it had done lately. even when betty was not shut up in her room actually at work, her thoughts seemed to be on it. she was living in a world of her own creating, more interested in the characters of her fancy than those who sat at table with her. since beginning the last chapter she had been so preoccupied and absent-minded, that lloyd hardly knew her. she was so unlike the old betty, the sympathetic confidante and counsellor, who had been interested in even the smallest of her griefs and joys. if lloyd could have looked on the other side of the closed door just then, the expression on betty's face would have banished every feeling of impatience or resentment, and sent her quietly away to wait and wonder, while betty passed through one of the great hours of her life. with a tense, earnest face bent over the manuscript, she reached the climax of her story--the last page, the last paragraph. then with a throbbing heart, she halted a moment, pen in hand, before adding the words, _the end_. she wrote them slowly, reverently almost, and then realizing that the ambition of her life had been accomplished, looked up with an expression of child-like awe in her brown eyes. it was done at last, the work that she had pledged herself to do so long ago, back there in the little old wooden church at the cuckoo's nest. for a time she forgot the luxurious room where she sat, and was back at the beginning of her ambition and high resolves, in that plain old meeting house in the grove of cedars. again she tiptoed down the empty aisle, that was as still as a tomb, save for the buzzing of a wasp at the open window through which she had climbed. again she opened the little red book-case above the back pew, that held the remnants of a scattered sunday-school library. the queer musty smell of the time-yellowed volumes floated out to her as strong as ever, mingling with the warm spicy scent of pinks and cedar, from the graveyard just outside the open window. those tattered books, read in secret to davy on sunny summer afternoons, had been the first voices to whisper to her that she too was destined to leave a record behind her. and now that she had done it, they seemed to call her back to that starting place. sitting there in happy reverie, she wished that she could make a pilgrimage back to the little church. she would like to slip down its narrow aisle just when the afternoon sun was shining yellowest on its worn benches and old altar, and dropping on her knees as she had done years ago in a transport of gratitude, whisper a happy "thank you, god" from the depths of a glad little heart. presently the whisper did go up from her desk where she sat with her face in her hands. then reaching out for the last volume of the white and gold series that chronicled her good times, she opened it to where a blotter kept the place at a half written page, and added this entry. "june th. truly a red-letter day, for hereon endeth my story of '_aberdeen hall_.' the book is written at last. two chapters are still to be copied on the typewriter, but the 'web' itself is woven, and ready to be cut from the loom. i am glad now that i waited; that i did not attempt to publish anything in my teens. the world looks very different to me now at twenty. i have outgrown my early opinions and ideals with my short dresses, just as mrs. walton said we would. now the critics can say 'thou waitedst till thy woman's fingers wrought the best that lay within thy woman's heart.' i can say honestly i have put the very best of me into it, and the feeling of satisfaction that i have accomplished the one great thing i started out to do so many years ago, gives me more happiness i am sure, than any 'diamond leaf' that any prince could bring." such elation as was betty's that hour, seldom comes to one more than once in a life-time. years afterward her busy pen produced far worthier books, which were beloved and bethumbed in thousands of libraries, but none of them ever brought again that keen inward thrill, that wave of intense happiness which surged through her warm and sweet, as she sat looking down on that first completed manuscript. she was loath to lay it aside, for the joy of the creator possessed her, and in the first flush of pleased surveyal of her handiwork, she humbly called it good. she went down to lunch in such an uplifted frame of mind that she seemed to be walking on air. but betty was always quiet, even in her most intense moments. save for the brilliant colour in her cheeks and the unusual light in her eyes there was no sign of her inward excitement. she slipped into her seat at table with the careless announcement "well, it's finished." it was lloyd who made all the demonstration amid the family congratulations. waving her napkin with one hand and clicking two spoons together like castanets, she sprang from her chair and rushed around the table to give vent to her pleasure by throwing her arms around betty in a delighted embrace. "oh you little mouse!" she cried. "how can you sit there taking it so calmly? if i had done such an amazing thing as to write a book, i'd have slidden down the ban'istahs with a whoop, to announce it, and come walking in on my hands instead of my feet. "of co'se i'm just as proud of it as the rest of the family are," she added when she had expended her enthusiasm and gone back to her seat, "but now that it's done i'll confess that i've been jealous of that old book evah since i came home, and i'm mighty glad it's out of the way. now you'll have time to take some interest in what the rest of us are doing, and you'll feel free to go in, full-swing, for the celebration at the cabin tonight." all the rest of that day seemed a fête day to betty. her inward glow lent a zest to the doing of even the most trivial things, and she prepared for the gaieties at the cabin, as if it were her own entertainment, pleased that this red-letter occasion of her life should be marked by some kind of a celebration. it was to do honour to the day and not to the harcourt's guest, that she arrayed herself in her most becoming gown. rob dropped in early, quite in the old way as if there had never been a cessation of his daily visits, announcing that he had come to escort the girls to the cabin. lloyd who was not quite ready, leaned over the banister in the upper hall for a glimpse of her old playmate, intending to call down some word of greeting; but he looked so grave and dignified as he came forward under the hall chandelier to shake hands with betty, that she drew back in silence. the next instant she resented this new feeling of reserve that seemed to rise up and wipe out all their years of early comradery. why shouldn't she call down to him over the banister as she had always done? she asked herself defiantly. he was still the same old rob, even if he had grown stern and grave looking. she leaned over again, but this time it was the sight of betty that stopped her. she had never seen her so beaming, so positively radiant. in that filmy yellow dress, she might have posed as the daffodil maid. her cheeks were still flushed, her velvety brown eyes luminous with the joy of the day's achievement. lloyd watched her a moment in fascinated admiration, as she stood laughing and talking under the hall light. then she saw that rob was just as much impressed with betty's attractiveness as she was, and was looking at her as if he had made a discovery. his pleased glance and the frank compliment that followed sent a thought into lloyd's mind that made her wonder why it had never occurred to her before. how well betty would fit into the establishment over at oaklea. what a dear daughter she would make to mrs. moore, and what a joy she would be to the old judge! rob seemed to be finding her immensely entertaining. well, there was no need for her to hurry down now. she could take her time about changing her dress. lloyd could not have told what had made her decide so suddenly that her dress needed changing. she had put on a pale green dimity that she liked because it was simple and cool-looking, but now after a glance into the mirror she began to slip it off. "it looks like a wilted lettuce leaf," she said petulantly to her reflection, realizing that nothing but white could hold its own when brought in contact with betty's gown. that pale exquisite shade of glowing yellow would be the dominating colour in any place it might be worn. "i must live up to gay's expectations," she thought, "so white it shall be, señor harcourt!" his dark face with its flashing smile rose before her, and stayed in the foreground of her thoughts, all the time she was arraying herself in her daintiest, fluffiest white organdy. clasping the little necklace of roman pearls around her throat, and catching up her lace fan, she swept up to the mirror for a last anxious survey. it was a thoroughly satisfactory one, and with a final smoothing of ribbons she smiled over her shoulder at the charming reflection. "now i'll go down and practise my airs and graces on rob and betty for awhile. but i'll leave them in peace after we get to the cabin, for if there should be any possibility of their beginning to care for each othah, i wouldn't get in the way for worlds. now _this_ is the way i'll sail in to meet mistah harcourt!" thus it happened that the hauteur with which she intended to impress him was in her manner when she swept in to greet rob. it was not meant for rob but it had the same effect as if it were, making him feel as if she wished to drop the friendly familiarity of their school days, and meet him on the footing of a recent acquaintance. he had been looking forward all year to her home-coming, and now it gave him a vague sense of disappointment and injury, that she should be as conventionally gracious to him as if he were the veriest stranger. his eyes followed her wistfully, as if looking for something very precious which he had lost. wholly unconscious of the way she was spoiling the evening for him lloyd went on playing the part of serene highness, laid out for her. never to gay's admiring eyes had she seemed more beautiful, more the fair unattainable princess, than she was in her meeting with leland harcourt. gay wanted to pat her on the back, for she saw that she had made the very impression expected of her. long practice had made gay quick in interpreting leland's slightest change of expression, and she was well pleased now with what she read in his face. but to lloyd, the dark, smiling eyes, regarding everything with a slightly amused expression, showed nothing more than the superficial interest which ordinary politeness demanded of him. he made some pretty speech about the valley and his pleasure in meeting its charming people, and then stood talking only long enough to make her feel that gay was right in her estimate of him. he was entertaining, even fascinating in his manner, more entertaining than any man she had ever met. but just as she reached this conclusion she found herself handed over in some unaccountable way to some one else, and that was the last of his attention to her that night. he seemed immensely entertained by kitty, and much interested in betty and the fact that she had finished writing a book that very day. gay heralded her advent with that news. lloyd could overhear little scraps of conversation that made her long to have a share in it. his repartee was positively brilliant she found herself thinking; the kind that one reads of in books, but never hears elsewhere. for the first time in her life lloyd felt herself calmly and deliberately ignored, just as she had planned to ignore him. "maybe it's because gay told him that i would be so indifferent," she thought, "and he doesn't think it worth the effort to put himself out to make me be nice to him. i don't care." nevertheless a little feeling of disappointment and pique crept in to spoil her evening also, for in the limited wisdom of her school-girl experiences she did not recognize that this worldly-wise young man was ignoring her because he was interested; that he had only adopted her own tactics as the surest way of gaining his end. chapter iv betty's novel it was gay's voice over the telephone. "oh lloyd, _can't_ you come? do arrange it some way. lucy is frightened stiff at the thought of being left here alone all night with just me. and she thought it would be such a good time for betty to read us her novel, as she promised, before she sends it away to the publishers. there'll be no callers to interrupt us on such a rainy day." "hold the phone a minute," answered lloyd. "i'll see. it's gay," she explained to her mother who had come out into the hall at the first tinkle of the bell, thinking the summons might be for her. "mistah harcourt and his brothah went to lexington this mawning to buy those hawses, and gay and lucy are afraid to stay there tonight. the cook had promised to sleep at the house, but something turned up at her home a little while ago to prevent. so they want kitty and betty and me to come ovah right away and spend the aftahnoon and night. it's raining cataracts and i know you don't like to take the new carriage out in such weathah, but couldn't alec put the curtains on the old one?" mrs. sherman glanced dubiously towards the windows, against which the rain was beating in torrents. "and leave me all alone, when i've been looking forward to this same good, rainy afternoon with you," almost slipped from mrs. sherman's tongue. but the eager desire shining in the faces of both girls kept back the words. "it's only a warm summer rain," interposed betty, seeing her hesitate. "very well, then," consented mrs. sherman with a smile, but as she went back to her room she stifled a little sigh of disappointment. "i suppose it's only natural they should want to be going," she thought. "but if it wasn't so selfish i could almost wish that gay hadn't come to the valley for the summer. she will take lloyd away from home so often, and i have looked forward so long to the companion she would be when her school days were ended." wholly unconscious of her mother's disappointment lloyd was answering merrily, "we'll be ovah right away! ring up kitty again, and tell her we'll drive by for her." an hour later the five girls (for the bride of a year seemed the youngest of them all at times) were seated in an upstairs room at the lindsey cabin, each in a comfortable rocking chair. lucy had taken them to her room saying it was cozier up near the roof where they could hear the rain patter on the shingles. also her dormer windows faced the west, and they would have daylight longer there. it took a little while for them to get settled for the reading. lucy brought out the family darning with a matronly air, when she saw that lloyd had brought a square of linen to start a piece of drawn-work, and kitty had some napkins to hem. mrs. walton had turned over the management of the house to kitty only that day (allison had had it the year before) and with house-wifely zeal she had begun with an exploration of the linen closet where she had found a pile of unhemmed linen. not wanting to be idle while all the rest were occupied, gay kept them waiting while she burrowed through her trunk for an intricate piece of knitting work which she had begun two years before. it had been intended for a christmas present, and she had brought it with her intending to finish it before another christmas or perish in the attempt. "don't pay any attention to me," she warned. "there'll be places where i have to stop and count stitches and fairly wrestle with it, but i'll be listening in spite of my bodily contortions." they were all ready at last, so betty picked up the first chapter and cleared her throat. she had been anxious to read her novel to the girls, she had been so sure of its merit. but now as she glanced down the page she was assailed by misgivings. after all she might not have been an impartial judge, and maybe it wasn't as good as it seemed to her. "you'll recognize some of the incidents," she explained, "and one character is a composite portrait of three lloydsboro people. he looks like mr. jaynes, stutters like captain bedel and has experiences that once happened to doctor shelby. i've put miss marietta waring's romance into it too." betty read well. she loved the characters she had fashioned, and with her sympathetic voice to interpret them, they became almost as real to her listeners as they were to herself. presently the girls began to exchange approving nods. she watched them from the corner of her eye. now and then there were low murmurs of approbation at some particularly pleasing incident or turn of expression, and at the end of the first chapter there was outspoken applause. they complimented enthusiastically while betty rested and took breath for the next. as she felt the genuine pleasure she was affording them, all her fears as to its short-comings fled. she began to see that her story was even better than she had thought it. she saw it in better perspective through their eyes. its plot moved so smoothly. there was more life, more _go_ in it than she had been conscious of in her solitary readings. it was certainly worth all the painstaking effort it had cost her. she could look at it now and no longer humbly, but confidently call it good. when in one scene she stole a furtive glance around to note the effect, and caught lucy stealthily slipping out her handkerchief, gay looking up with tears on her lashes and lloyd with the peculiar tightening of the lips that showed she was trying to swallow the lump in her throat, she was so happy she could have sung for joy. she read on and on, and they forgot the rain beating against the windows, forgot everything but their interest in the story. lucy pushed her darning basket aside and leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped behind her head. the work over which lloyd had been bending, dropped in her lap and her little gold thimble rolled away into a corner unheeded. there was a personal interest in the story for each of them. lloyd saw herself as plainly in betty's heroine as she could see her reflection in the mirror door of the huge mahogany wardrobe opposite her. some of kitty's ridiculous speeches that had become historical in her family, found a place here and there, and once lucy laughed outright, exclaiming, "why that's just like gay! you must have been thinking of her when you wrote it." the reading went on without interruption until it was so dark that betty had to hold her manuscript close to the window. "i'll ring for lights," thought lucy, "just as soon as she comes to the end of this chapter." but with the end of the chapter came ca'line allison with a message from the kitchen. lucy started up in dismay. "there! i forgot all about that salad. how could i be so careless when i'm to have a real live authoress to dinner? i was so interested i hadn't a thought for anything but the story." "such appreciation is a thousand times better than salad," laughed betty, so jubilant over her triumph that her eyes were full of a happy light. "this is a good place to stop until after dinner. i've read until my throat is tired." lucy hurried down stairs to hasten the dinner preparations, in order that they might get back to the reading as soon as possible. the four girls folded their work, and sat in the twilight, talking. "what does this make you think of?" asked lloyd. "i know what's in your mind," answered kitty. "i was just about to speak of it myself; that rainy day at boarding school, when ida shane read 'the fortune of daisy dale' to us, behind locked doors. wasn't it thrilling?" gay who had heard the incident mentioned many times at warwick hall, said plaintively, "you girls always make me feel that i have missed half my life, because i wasn't with you when ida shane read that story. i'd certainly like to get my hands on such a wonderful piece of literature." "but it wasn't wonderful," betty hastened to explain. "it made that deep impression on us simply because it was the first novel we had ever read. it was sentimental and melodramatic and trashy as we've since discovered, but then it seemed all that was lovely and romantic. it gave us thrills up and down our spines and sent us around with our heads in the clouds for days. we were seeing embryo guy wolverings in every boy we met. as i listened to ida i thought that if i could only write a book that would hold my listeners spellbound as that held us, i'd ask no more of life. i could die happy." "well, you've done it, dear," said gay warmly. "we scarcely breathed during the last two chapters, and i'm so eager to know how it ends that i'd willingly cut dinner to go on with it." "now how does that make you feel, miss elizabeth lloyd lewis?" asked kitty teasingly. "fair uplifted, i've nae doot." "yes, it does," was the honest answer. "it's what i've hoped for and worked for and prayed for these last ten years. can you wonder that it makes me radiantly happy to have you girls think that i have in a measure succeeded?" dinner was announced a little later, and when the girls went into the dining-room, they found lucy herself bringing it in. "poor sylvia had another message from home," she explained, "so i told her and ca'line allison to go on; that we'd wait on ourselves and clear the table, and they could wash the dishes in the morning. it's not raining quite so hard now, but it is dark as a pocket outside." as she placed the soup tureen on the table, they heard the outer kitchen door close, and sylvia turn the key in the lock. "ugh!" exclaimed lucy with a shiver. "now we're abandoned to our fate! i wish you'd pull that window-shade farther down, gay. there's just room for somebody to peep under it, and there's nothing more terrifying to me than the thought of eyes peering in at one from the outer darkness." "'the gobelins will git you if you don't watch out,'" sang gay. "do for pity's sake put your mind on something else, lucy, and don't spoil this festive occasion with a case of high jinks!" seeing that their little hostess was really nervous and timid, kitty began to divert them all by impersonating different characters in the valley. she was a fine mimic, and kept them laughing all through the first course. lucy carried out the plates, and hurried back with the second course. "you've got to get the salad when the time comes," she said to gay. "it's so spooky out there in the kitchen with sylvia gone, that i was afraid to look over my shoulder. queer, isn't it! for it's just as warm and well-lighted and cheerful now as when she was there. i wouldn't go into the pantry alone for a fortune." "nonsense!" cried kitty. "five valiant females are enough to keep any lloydsboro foe at bay. we'll be your brave defenders." gay, who had risen to circle around the table with a plate of hot biscuit, paused dramatically beside lucy's chair to say in a stage whisper, "hist! i have a weapon of defence ye wot not of. one that a doughty knight did leave behind him." "oh," said the literal lucy. "i suppose you mean mr. shelby's boxing-glove that he left on the piano, when he came in yesterday to bring you those books. it was awfully funny, girls, the way he _seemed_ to leave it by accident. i couldn't help laughing, for it was so evident he did it on purpose, to have an excuse to come again sooner than he would have done otherwise." gay smiled knowingly. it was not a boxing-glove she meant, but for reasons of her own she did not enlighten lucy as to the kind of weapon she had in reserve. it was after eight when they rose from the table, and they made such a frolic of carrying out the dishes, that the grandfather clock on the stairs chimed the half-hour as they finished. before ca'line allison left she had started a cheerful blaze in the fireplace of the huge living room, for the night was chilly as well as damp. but lucy partly covered it with ashes, and proposed spending the evening up-stairs. "somehow one feels so much safer up-stairs when there are no men in the house," she explained. "we'll light two big lamps, and that will make it as warm and cosy as if we had a fire." so in a body they made the rounds of the down-stairs rooms, bolting windows and locking doors. then satisfied that every entrance was securely fastened, they went up-stairs to resume the reading. this time there was no attempt to do any needlework. with folded hands they waited in expectant silence, while betty found her place. but just as she raised the sheet of paper, the great door of the mahogany wardrobe swung slowly and stealthily open. not a sound did it make, and there was something so ghostly in its silent undoing that lucy gave a little shriek and hid her face in her hands. each one of them acknowledged to a queer chilly sensation just for an instant, even gay, who explained that it was only a little habit that the wardrobe had. "i don't mind it in the day-time," she added, "but it _is_ spooky at night when everything is still to have it unexpectedly pop open, and swing out with that slow gliding motion." "it's because the latch is worn and the catch works loose," said matter-of-fact kitty, who had crossed the room to examine it. she turned the key. "now it will not interrupt us for awhile. go on with the story, betty." again the manuscript was raised and again lucy stopped her with the wail, "oh, gay! we've forgotten to bring up the silver pitcher and jameson's ladle. i put them on the dining-room table after i'd washed them, and then marched off and forgot them." "well, i'll go down for them," volunteered gay. "there's no use in your doing it and getting another fit of shivers." the other three sprang up, but gay waved betty back. "save your breath for the reading. kitty and lloyd will be enough. i don't mind acknowledging that i'll be glad to have both a rear and a vanguard going through that dark hall." lighting a candle and holding it high above her head, lloyd led the way down-stairs. gay was inwardly quaking, for she was almost as timid as her sister, but the fearlessness of her two companions made her keep up a pretence of bravery. as the three pairs of little heels clattered down the dark polished steps, lloyd and kitty kept time in a singsong chant: "there was a man and he had naught and robbers came to rob him. he got up on the chimney top and then they thought they had him. but he got down on the other side and then they couldn't find him he went _fourteen miles in fifteen days_ and never looked behind him." it was almost cruel of kitty to seize that opportunity to tell the scariest burglar tale that she had ever heard, but a fine appreciation of dramatic situations urged her to it. "ugh! don't!" begged gay, as they filed into the dining-room and began looking around for the silver heirlooms. lucy was mistaken. it was the kitchen table on which she had left them. "the goose-flesh is standing out all over me! that's the most gruesome tale i ever heard." "but i'm in the most interesting part," insisted kitty. "when she saw the black face leering over the transom--" "hush!" chattered gay. "i won't listen to another word. it's so creepy i can feel things grabbing at my ankles. let me have the candle a minute, please, lloyd, i want to get something out of the hat-rack drawer." there was a faint glow on the hearth from the few embers lucy had left uncovered, and the two stood within it as they waited for gay to come back with the candle. kitty went on with her tale, for lloyd was as fearless as herself. she did not get further than a sentence or two, however, before gay came hurrying back. to their astonishment she blew out the candle as she reached them, and in the brief glimpse they had of her face they saw that it was ghastly white. in the dim glow of the embers they were scarcely visible to each other. she clutched them with trembling fingers. "there's some one prowling around the house!" she whispered. "some one was creeping around under the windows, and then up on the porch. i heard them plain as day. i blew out the light so they couldn't see in!" "pooh!" began lloyd, but enough of gay's excitement had been communicated to both her listeners to make their hearts thump a little faster, when they, too, heard a noise at the window. there certainly were steps on the porch. then the knocker on the front door was lifted and a hollow clang echoed through the hall. "burglars don't knock," said lloyd with a sigh of relief. "let's all go to the doah togethah and ask who's there. we needn't open it." "no, don't!" begged gay, almost in tears. "it's just like that awful story kitty started to tell--the knock at the door, the lone woman's voice answering, and the burglar forcing his way over the transom! our only safety is in keeping perfectly still. if worst comes to worst, _then_ i'll make them think there's a man in the house, but i won't do it till i'm driven to it." "if it's one of the neighbours he'll knock again," said kitty. for a moment they waited, their hearts in their mouths, as they remembered what a lonely place was this dark beech woods, and how near it was to stumptown, with its many drunken negroes. the knock was not repeated, but the steps sounded as if the intruder were prowling back and forth on the porch. then the slats of the window-shutters turned stealthily. "thank heaven the shades are down!" chattered gay hysterically. "oh, girls, i'm growing gray-headed. i can't stand this suspense another second." then as the steps once more crossed the porch, "cut up-stairs! quick! both of you! i'll follow." she darted out of the dim circle of light on the hearth, and they could not see what happened, but almost instantly a pistol shot rang out. up till that moment neither kitty nor lloyd had been much alarmed. now they clutched each other wildly. "it's some crazy man escaped from the lakeland asylum," began kitty, but her words were cut short by another shot, then another and another and another, in such rapid succession that they lost count. a series of piercing screams from lucy, up-stairs, made their blood run cold, but the shrieks were not half as terrifying as the sight of gay staggering back out of the hall. as they sprang towards her she leaned against them limply. "is she shot?" gasped kitty in a horrified whisper. "oh, _where's_ the light?" with shaking hands lloyd caught up the daily paper, left lying on the settle, and threw it on the coals. it blazed up instantly, and by its light she found the candle. the shrieks were still going on up-stairs and betty was calling out frantically to know what was the matter. she could not come down to see for herself, for lucy had caught her in a hysterical grasp and was holding her like a vise. as the candle flared up something fell from gay's nerveless hand to the floor. the girls looked at each other in blank astonishment. it was a revolver. gay herself had fired the shots. now in the midst of their bewilderment they became conscious of shouts outside. some one was calling: "mrs. harcourt! miss melville! don't be alarmed! it's only alex shelby!" recognizing the voice, lloyd flew to open the door, candle in hand. "oh, you gave us such a scare!" she began in a tone of relief. "we thought it was a burglar doing the shooting. we nevah dreamed that _gay_ had a revolvah." "it was mine," explained alex, laughing so that he could hardly close his umbrella. "i loaded it for her and loaned it to her yesterday, but i had no idea it would come back at me in that boomerang fashion. she popped loose and shot at me bang through the front door. the first shot whistled just over my head, and if i hadn't dodged behind a post i surely would have stopped them all. hottest welcome i ever had." then as he came on in, he continued, apologetically, "i'm mighty sorry i gave you all such a fright. i ought to have gone away without knocking when i saw there was no light down-stairs, but i knew you were all here, and it was so early, i never dreamed of being taken for a burglar." he kept on with his apologies after he came into the hall, but gay was not there to hear. mortified that she had been so rash, and horrified by the thought of how serious the consequences of her wild shooting might have been, she could not face him. at the first sound of his voice she ran for the stairs, her wild dash almost upsetting lucy and betty on their way down. when repeated callings failed to bring her back, kitty went up to look for her and found her in a woebegone heap on the foot of her bed. "oh, you mustn't take it to heart that way," she said soothingly, in response to gay's tearful protests that she could never look him in the face again, never, _never_! that he'd always think what a fool she was and how near she came to killing him. "nonsense!" was kitty's brisk answer. "he insists that it is all his own fault, that he ought to have known what to expect when he called on a native texan. he says he's always heard that they punctuate their remarks with bullets and will shoot at the drop of a hat. hereafter he will herald his approach by telephone or else come in a coat of mail warranted to turn even the fire of a gatling gun. he's making a joke of it, and it's silly of you not to do the same. get up this minute and come down-stairs, and make him have such a good time that he'll gladly risk another shooting to come again." [illustration: "he was bending anxiously over a bubbling saucepan."] it was a long time before gay could screw her courage to the point of following kitty meekly down-stairs, and in the meantime lucy took an effective way to make him forget his inhospitable reception. her chafing dish was her panacea for many ills. she had tried it at the post too many times with the different boys who flocked there, not to know its full value. so when gay came into the room she found alex already being initiated into the mysteries of candy-making. with a white apron tied around his waist, and a big spoon in his hand, he was bending anxiously over a bubbling sauce-pan. heretofore his calls at the cabin had been of the most formal kind; but this little escapade was doing more to further their acquaintance and put him on the same privileged footing that the boys at the post enjoyed, than dozens of casual meetings could have done. it was a novel experience to alex, and he made the most of it, exerting himself to be entertaining, in hopes of having the occasion repeated. after the first painful moment of greeting and apology, gay subsided into a corner of the old settle, but she did not stay there long. it was impossible to resist the infection of alex's high spirits. when the reaction began it swung her to the farthest extreme, into an irresistible gale of merriment. betty's thoughts turned regretfully to the manuscript up-stairs. she was sorry that the reading had been interrupted. she knew the girls would have gained a better impression of the book if they could have heard it without this interruption. there was no telling when there would be an opportunity to finish it as good as this would have been. once she had a hope that alex would not stay long and that there would still be time to finish the reading after his departure. but while the candy cooled gay started lloyd and alex to singing duets, she and kitty accompanying them with violin and piano, and she knew that it was useless to hope any longer. so she settled down to enjoy the sweets and the music as heartily as the rest of them. in one of the pauses, while they were searching through a pile of songs for some duet they wanted, lloyd crossed over to the settle where lucy was sitting beside the candy, and helped herself to a piece. "i'm sorry leland is missing this," said lucy. "it was a time like this that gave him his nickname of 'brer tarrypin.' he used to be devoted to candy-pulls, and came up to the post every time he thought we were going to have one; and he always was like brer tarrypin, you know, in the uncle remus stories." "how is that?" inquired lloyd, keenly interested. she knew the uncle remus stories by heart and wondered in what way this one had been applied to the elegant and fastidious mr. harcourt. "why, you know, brer b'ar he helped miss meadows bring the wood, brer fox he mend the fire, brer wolf he kept the dogs off, brer rabbit he greased the bottoms of the plates to keep the candy from sticking, but 'brer tarrypin he klum up in a cheer an' say he watch an' see dat de 'lasses didn't bile over.' the boys always used to say that the only part in the game leland would take was _watching the lasses_. he'd talk to their girls while they did the work." gay, over at the piano, drew her brows together in a little frown. she wished that lucy would be more discreet in her reminiscences, for she felt that lloyd was already prejudiced against leland more than was desirable. she called out suddenly, "sister, can't you find that duet for us? you had it last." lucy rose obediently, but lingered a moment to add, as lloyd laughed, "leland doesn't mind it a bit. the boys all got to hailing him in uncle remus fashion, 'heyo, brer tarrypin, wha'r you bin dis long-come-short?' and he'd answer as a matter of course, 'lounjun roun', brer fox, lounjun roun'." "it's mighty interesting to know the history of a nickname," observed lloyd, with an amused smile, which gay interpreted as meaning that this bit of history was being tucked away for future use. it was late when alex went home, taking his revolver with him. he would be staying all night near by, with a friend of his, he told them, and if anything else frightened them they were to telephone. he'd come post-haste to their rescue. then he made the rounds of all the down-stairs windows and doors, seeing that each was properly fastened, and started lucy on her way up-stairs with the silver pitcher and ladle safe in her hands. he seemed to leave the sense of his strong protecting presence behind him. as they bolted the door and heard him go whistling cheerily down the road, lucy declared enthusiastically: "he's a nice boy and he's made us have such a jolly evening that i'm all wound up and don't feel a bit sleepy. let's make a night of it and hear the rest of betty's story. it doesn't make any difference if it is nearly midnight. we can sleep as late as we please in the morning, for jameson isn't here, and we won't have to consider his convenience." for once they were of the same mind, all loath to go to bed. so betty slipped into a borrowed kimona, shook down her hair and settled herself comfortably in a cushioned chair beside the lamp. "if they keep awake to the end," she thought, "that will be a good test. i'll know then that it has real interest and i'll not be afraid to give it to the public." so she kept an anxious watch out of the corner of her eye, intending to stop at the first sign of weariness. but the attention of her audience was as profound as it had been during the afternoon. stifling an occasional yawn herself, she read on and on. it was half-past two when she laid aside the last page of her manuscript and looked up timidly to receive the verdict. lloyd spoke first. "betty lewis, it's perfectly splendid! i'm so proud of you--i've always been suah you'd make a name for yoahself some day, but i nevah dreamed you'd do it so early in life, at only twenty!" "i haven't made it yet, you know," betty reminded her smiling. "my friends may be willing to 'pass my imperfections by,' but i've still to run the gauntlet of the critics." there was a chorus of protests from the other girls, and betty's heart grew warm as she listened to their cordial praise and predictions of success. "i'm dying to have a finger in the launching of this little bark," said gay. "let's wrap it up tonight and have it all ready to send off in the morning. it would be so fine to be able to brag to my grandchildren that _i_ helped. i have a strong flat box just the size of the manuscript. i'm sure it will fit it exactly. wait and i'll go and get it." she ran out of the room, and, while she rummaged through a trunk to find it, lucy climbed up on a chair to look on the wardrobe shelf for some heavy wrapping-paper which she had folded away. "let me have some part in it too," cried kitty. "although i've no idea what it can be when i'm so far from the source of supplies. oh, i know now," she said after an instant's thought. "you'll need a string to tie around the box. here's something that will do." opening the wicker satchel she had brought with her she took out a dainty nightgown. it was the work of only a moment to slip out the fresh, new pink ribbons that had been run through the lace beading. "now let me tie it!" she insisted. "see what an artistic bow i can make!" when the manuscript had been placed in gay's box, tied with kitty's ribbon and wrapped in lucy's paper, it was gravely handed over to lloyd, who had suggested that as it was to be sent by express it ought to be sealed. "there's a stick of sealing-wax in the drawer of the library table," said lucy, "if anybody's brave enough to go down and get it at this 'wee sma' hour.' it must be nearly three o'clock." before she had finished her sentence lloyd had lighted a candle to carry down-stairs. she was back in a moment. they all stood around in a circle while she melted the red wax in the heat of the candle. "somebody ought to say an abracadabra charm ovah it," she suggested. "you do it, kitty." then she looked around her helplessly. "what am i going to do for a seal? quick, somebody, hand me something off the dressing-table. the stoppah of that vinaigrette will do." before lucy could hand her the bottle gay caught up the old silver ladle and pressed the end of its handle down on the soft wax. "there's a crest on it," she explained, holding it firmly in place. "the motto will read backwards, but that won't make any difference. there!" she lifted the ladle, and they all crowded around to see the clear-cut impression left in the red wax, of a dagger thrust through a crown. the tiny reversed letters of the motto were undecipherable, but gay translated them. "jameson says it's the latin for 'i strive till i overcome,' and that's a fine war-cry for betty. she's striven so long it's bound to bring a crown, only that other thing ought to be a pen instead of a dagger." "let me put one seal on, just for luck," begged kitty when lloyd had carefully fastened both ends of the package. she held the wax to the flame. "everybody make a wish," she ordered. "wish _hard_." they wished in silence. in silence they looked on while kitty dropped the third red drop on the package and pressed into it the crown and the dagger of the ladle's crest. then they stood over betty while she addressed it to the publisher to whom long ago she had decided to send it. then gay laid it solemnly beside the silver heirlooms as one of the things "to be carried out first in case of fire." "three o'clock and all is well," called kitty as the chime on the stair began its warning. "the deed is done and all the omens are auspicious." "that will be a scene to remember always," thought betty gratefully, looking around at the four pretty girls in the candlelight, as they made a ceremony of the launching of her little ship, their faces filled with loving interest. the chickens were crowing for daylight before she fell asleep, for she could not hinder her happy thoughts from straying off to the future, when this same little ship should come home from sea with its cargo of fame and fortune that the girls had predicted. she had dedicated the book simply "to my godmother," and she pictured to herself the supreme moment when she could lay the published volume in her hands. she would send one to madam chartley, she decided, and one to miss chilton, whose instructions in english had been such an inspiration to her. then, of course, each one of the girls must have one. strangers would write to her, people would thrill with pleasure over her pages as she had thrilled over other authors, and--oh, yes! _davy_ must have one of the very first copies of the book, since he had been the first lover of her stories. she almost sat up in bed in the excitement of her next thought. she wondered why it never had occurred to her before. if the book should be really successful it would bring her money of her own. she could be the good fairy of the cuckoo's nest. how many comforts she could slip into it to make life easier for poor tired, over-worked cousin hetty! and--_davy could go away to school_! that last thought sent a warm glad tingle over her. how good god had been to give her this delightful way of making a road of the loving heart in every one's memory--with her pen! she felt that her whole life ought to be a perpetual thanksgiving, and when she fell asleep with a smile on her lips, she was repeating drowsily: "my lines have fallen to me in pleasant places. yea, i have a goodly heritage." chapter v a camera helps several days after his return from lexington, leland harcourt sauntered out of the house, after a late breakfast alone. the bored expression on his face showed plainly what he thought of the valley as a summer resort. his brother and lucy were off somewhere about the grounds, and for more than an hour the faint sound of gay's violin had been floating up from the rustic arbour, which she claimed as her private domain. it was a pleasant little retreat, far back from the road in the dense beech shade, and at such a distance from the house that her energetic practising could disturb no one. here every morning before the distractions of the day began, she religiously devoted an hour to her music. the time always slipped past that limit if no one came to stop her, for an absorbing devotion to her work made her oblivious to everything else when her beloved violin was once tucked under her chin. scales and trills and chords, all the finger exercises that kept her touch supple and sure, were gone through with in faithful routine. then the new music she was mastering had its share of careful attention, and after that she played on and on, as a bird sings, from sheer love of it. she was improvising when leland came out on the porch, a light rollicking little tune, to fit a verse from an uncle remus song. it was a verse which alex shelby had repeated as he escorted them over to the beeches, the time they spent the night there, the next night after their burglar scare at the cabin. lucy had been so frightened that she gladly accepted mrs. walton's invitation to stay with her until the men of the family returned. they had had such a good time. now the recollection of it was finding voice in the tune which gay was trying to manufacture for the words which alex had laughingly sung when lucy stuck in the barb wire fence on the way over: "hop light, ladies, oh, miss loo, hit take a heap er scrougin' fer to git you throo. hop light, ladies, oh, miss loo!" gay recalled the straggling little procession through the woods with a smile, as her bow quavered again through the refrain. they must have looked ridiculous. there was lucy lugging the heavy silver pitcher and jameson's ladle because she was afraid to leave them behind, and she herself with her violin case, and alex carrying the lindsey spoons and forks and the enormous seven-branched silver candle-sticks, because lucy felt responsible for their safety, since she had rented them with the house. and there was ranald bringing up the rear with their suit-cases, and kitty laughing at them all for bringing these household gods. she called lucy "ephraim joined to his idols," because she would not put down the pitcher and ladle even while she crawled through the barb wire fence. they had cut across lots in the twilight, instead of going around by the road, not wanting to be seen with a load which looked so much like burglar's booty. "if leland only could have been with us then!" thought gay regretfully. "and the night before that when we had such a jolly time with the taffy and the duets. he would have been on a real friendly footing with them all by this time. but he's beginning to find it dull. i know he is. he'll be off again before long if we can't get him interested in something." while she was worrying over his evident restlessness and discontent, the odour of his cigar came floating out to her, and she knew by that token that he had finished breakfast and needed to be amused. locking her violin in its case, she carried it back to the house, prepared to shoulder her share of this responsibility. "good morning, brer tarrypin," she called as she came in sight of him lolling in the hammock. "lounjoun' roun' as usual, i see. well, the mail train is in, so you can come with me to the post-office as soon as i get my hat." "good heavens, pug!" he groaned. "i vow you're worse than a little volcano--always in action." nevertheless he got up, as she knew he would, and strolled along beside her. the road in front of the post-office was almost blocked with carriages. on summer mornings like this nearly every one in the valley found some excuse to be at the station when the mail train came in; for while they waited for the delivery window to open, there was time not only to attend to the day's marketing, but to meet all one's friends. at such times the little box of a post-office was the very centre of neighbourhood sociability, and since everybody knew everybody else, the gathering was as informal as a family reunion. even gay felt like an old settler. her previous visit to the valley had given her so many acquaintances. as she passed down the straggling line of men and boys who were leaning against the fence or sitting on the top rail while they waited, hats were swept off as if a sudden breeze had scurried along the path. several of the old confederate soldiers spoke her name as they saluted. she had played for them up at the home twice on that former visit. "oh, the dear little, queer little valley," she began, but was interrupted by leland's calling her attention to the sherman carriage, which was moving in and out at a snail's pace through the blockade of vehicles, stopping repeatedly as greetings were called out to it from the other carriages. gay's face brightened as she saw lloyd on the back seat, looking as fresh as a snowdrop in her white linen dress. "oh, if she'd only ask us up to locust to spend the morning!" thought gay so earnestly that it seemed to her that lloyd must feel the force of the "thought-wave" she was trying to project. "it's high time for her to remember her promise if she expects to accomplish anything." lloyd was remembering her promise. it recurred to her the instant that she caught sight of leland's dark interesting face as he turned the corner. as instantly she had looked away, remembering how pointedly he had ignored her that night at the cabin. this was the first time she had seen him since. now gay's request seemed utterly absurd. the colour surged up in her face as she remembered her high resolve about lighting a vestal fire on the altar of a promise. how ridiculous of her to have worked herself up into such an exalted mood over nothing. a positive dislike for the man who had been the cause of it took possession of her, and she wished heartily that she need never meet him again. but an encounter could not be avoided long. gay was pushing eagerly through the crowd towards the carriage. she would call her in a moment, then she would have to turn around and at least be decently polite. just then a stylish little runabout stopped opposite the carriage, and a lady leaned out to accost lloyd. thankful for the opportunity, lloyd turned her back squarely on the post-office and plunged into an animated conversation. without glancing in their direction she was conscious that gay and mr. harcourt were on the curbstone directly behind her, and would come up the moment that she stopped talking. "yes, of co'se, miss jennie," they heard her say. "i'm going to town on the next car, and i'll be glad to get it for you. yes, we're all going in for a day's shopping. mothah and betty are ovah at the trolley station now, waiting for me to get the mail." miss jennie, giving voluble directions, began hunting through her pocketbook for a sample of ribbon which she wanted matched. gay's hopes fell. she had counted confidently on taking leland up to the locusts to spend the morning. but just then lloyd waved her handkerchief to some one coming down the avenue, and turning, gay's face brightened. it was kitty walton to whom lloyd had waved. strolling along under a white parasol, in a pale pink dress and with a great bunch of sweet peas in her hand, she looked so attractive, that gay felt that leland would find the beeches fully as entertaining a loafing-place as the locusts. she decided to take him up there. again she was doomed to disappointment, for kitty's cordial greeting was followed by the almost breathless announcement that she was about to take her departure from the valley. "oh, when?" called lloyd, turning to the girls with the friendliest of smiles, and acknowledging mr. harcourt's greeting with a frosty little bow. "when, where and whyfoah?" "this evening," answered kitty, "over to the martinsville springs in indiana, and because mother is firmly convinced that they are the panacea for all the ills that flesh is heir to. really they do help her wonderfully, and she needs the change, and i like the place myself so i'm not sorry to go for some reasons. but i do hate to take ten whole days out of your visit, gay." "you can't hate it half as much as i do," answered gay gloomily, who had not overlooked lloyd's cool little bow to leland. for lloyd to act snippy and kitty to be away ten whole days right in the beginning of things was fatal to all her plans. it was just then that help came from a most unexpected source. not that she realized then that it was help, but weeks afterward she traced back several important things to that small beginning. miss katherine marks came out of the post-office with a handful of letters. she was about to pass the group beside the sherman carriage with only a brief "good morning," when the sight of kitty's sweet peas made her pause. "that reminds me, kitty," she said. "i've finished mounting that garden photograph. you may see it now, whenever you come over." "i'll come right now, miss katherine," was the eager response. "i'm wild to see it, and as we're going to martinsville this evening this will be my only chance." seeing the unspoken wish in gay's eager eyes, miss marks included all of them in the invitation. lloyd glanced at her watch and excused herself, finding that the car she wanted to take was almost due. she would have to hurry to reach the station she said. but even in her haste she noticed that leland did not join in the regret which the others expressed, and grown unduly sensitive in regard to his opinion, she fancied that he looked pleased when she refused. he lifted his hat perfunctorily, not even glancing at her as he moved away, seemingly absorbed in adjusting kitty's parasol, which he had taken possession of, and was holding over her. gay walked on with miss marks. kitty had to stop a moment at the bisbee cottage, to leave the sweet peas with a message from her mother. leland waited for her at the gate. "what is this you're getting me into?" he asked, nodding towards miss marks and gay, who were almost out of sight. if he had asked the question of gay she would have explained eagerly that they were on their way to clovercroft, to see a collection of amateur photographs which had taken prizes and gold medals all over the country, and among them were three at least, that she knew he would want so desperately, that he would fall all over himself trying to get them. but it would be of no use to try. he could neither beg, borrow, buy nor steal them. he might thank his lucky stars that he was permitted just to stand afar off and gaze at them in hopeless admiration. but kitty, instead of enlightening him in any such way turned the talk into channels of more personal interest, and made the short stroll so agreeable that it came to an end entirely too soon. he followed her through the gate wishing that he could invent some excuse whereby to prolong the pleasure of making her blush and seeing her dark eyes look up laughingly at him from under the white parasol. at the same time he wanted to escape the bore of being expected to grow enthusiastic over some amateur collection in which he felt no interest. something of this he expressed in an undertone to kitty as they stepped up on to the porch. "don't flatter yourself," she advised him, dropping into a seat, "that you'll be allowed a peep into miss katherine's studio. strangers never get any farther than the court of the gentiles." "gay has gone in," he answered, "and her introduction antedates mine not more than two seconds. why shouldn't i?" "gay is one of the elect. she has the artist soul herself, and miss katherine recognizes the earmarks." "you insinuate that i haven't them?" kitty smiled tantalizingly, and swung her parasol back and forth by its ivory crook. "no, indeed. i'm not insinuating anything. i'm simply stating a broad truth. you can't get in. she'll bring out dozens of pictures for your inspection, but she'll not invite you inside that studio. very few people are so favoured." up to that moment he had not had the faintest wish to set foot inside the studio, but her provoking assertions suddenly seemed to make it the one desirable spot for him to enter. "i'll show you," he declared rashly. "i'll see it before we leave here. i always get what i want. now watch me." miss marks came out with a large photograph exquisitely tinted. so artistic it was, both in colouring and composition, that leland's admiration was as great as his surprise. he had expected to see some little snap shots such as he had made himself when he had the kodak fever, the kind that are interesting only to those who take them and those who are taken. this was so beautiful that no sooner was it in his hands than he was fired with a desire to possess it. it was the picture of a rose garden, every bush a glory of bloom, and in the path, her pink dress caught by a clinging brier, was kitty herself like another rose, looking down over her shoulder at the bramble which held her a prisoner in its thorny clasp. "it is to illustrate a fairy-tale," explained miss marks. "when naughty esmerelda runs away from the good prince, everything in the garden is in league to help him, and brier rose catches at her skirts as she hurries by, and holds her fast." "isn't it lovely?" cried gay, flashing out of the studio with an armful which miss marks had given her permission to show. "here's betty taken as a nun--_sister doloroso_--and lloyd as an easter angel. it's perfectly fascinating to hear miss marks tell how she got that effect of flying. arranged the draperies with lloyd lying on the floor, and photographed her from a trap door above. tell him how you added the doves' wings please." much to her surprise miss marks found herself telling things to this young man that she would not have dreamed of telling to another stranger; some of the remarkable makeshifts she had used in costumes and backgrounds. his flattering air of interest drew these confidences from her as irresistibly as a magnet draws steel. "you ought to do a series of these garden pictures," he declared, "and call them 'garden fancies' after that poem of browning's. by the way, there is a couplet in that which would lend itself charmingly to illustration, and i saw the very garden that you should use for it, while i was out driving yesterday. it was one of those straight walk prim bordered affairs that go with old english cottages." he could have found no surer path to miss marks's good graces. gay, not knowing that he had a purpose to gain by it, listened in amazement as he proceeded to outline picture after picture for the series of garden fancies, even planning costumes and suggesting clever means by which various obstacles might be overcome. her astonishment showed itself in her face, when he even consented to pose himself, as a spanish troubadour in a moonlit garden with a guitar. kitty, who knew the object of this sudden interest in photography, laughed outright, but nobody noticed her irrelevant mirth. miss marks was too interested in the new plan, and gay was too puzzled over his rapidly growing enthusiasm. presently, darting a triumphant look at kitty, from the corner of his eye, he rose to follow miss marks. she was actually taking him into her inner courts. kitty made a little grimace behind his back. she resented his i-told-you-so air, but she could not help admiring the masterful way in which he had gained his end. one hasty glance around the studio changed his assumed interest into real. impressed by the wonderful results miss marks had obtained by the combination of brush and camera, he was seized by a wish to do something in the same line himself. accustomed to the impulsiveness of his enthusiasms, gay was not surprised when he began to persuade miss marks to start to work on the garden fancies then and there. the english garden was too far away for them to attempt that morning, but miss marks finally agreed that the moonlight scene might be managed. it was just the right time of day to take a moonlight picture, while the sunshine was so direct that it would cast the blackest of shadows. she could retouch the plate to give it the right effect, and paint in a moon. "you'll have to hurry if i'm to be in it," ordered kitty, "for mother is waiting for me this blessed minute. i've a world of things to do in the next few hours." "give us just a quarter of one of them," begged leland. "i'll attend to the balcony part if miss marks will look after the costumes and tell me where to find a step-ladder." "leland has plenty to amuse him now," thought gay happily, as she watched him giving directions to frazer, the coloured man, who came in answer to miss marks's call. "his foot is on his native heath and his name's 'mcgregor' when it comes to a thing of this sort." ten minutes later kitty found herself looking out of an improvised balcony, a charming affair outwardly, but most laughable within. a tall step-ladder had been dragged into the bay window of the music room, and the upper sash of the middle window pushed down from the top. the thick vines that grew over it were pulled back to leave an oval opening. it was out of this leafy oval she leaned from her seat on the top of the ladder, to smile down on the troubadour below. there was a rose in her dark hair, a half-furled fan in her hand, and a coquettish glance in her laughing black eyes. leland's costume had been hastily constructed from scraps of stage property kept for such occasions. it took but a moment to drape a long cape over one shoulder in graceful folds, twist a piece of velvet into a little cap and pin a white plume on one side. a row of potted plants laboriously put in place by frazer hid the fact that he wore modern trousers instead of the more picturesque knee breeches which such a costume demanded. "fire away," he ordered, adjusting the guitar to a more comfortable position. "suppose you sing a verse of a real serenade," suggested miss marks, "so as to get into the proper spirit of the thing. then just as you finish, while you're looking soulfully into each other's eyes, i'll squeeze the bulb." kitty, seeing the seamy side of his improvised cap, and feeling the absurdity of her position on the top of the step-ladder, could only giggle when she tried to look soulful. but leland had taken part in too many private theatricals to be disconcerted now. with as impassioned a gaze as any romeo ever fixed on his juliet, he struck the soft chords of a spanish serenade, and began to sing so meaningly that kitty's giggle was silenced, and she looked down with a conscious blush: "thine eyes are stars of morning, thy lips are crimson flowers. good night, good night, beloved, while i count the weary hours." "there! that ought to be perfect," cried miss marks, emerging from under the black cloth which covered the camera. "mr. harcourt, you're the most satisfactory man i've ever had pose for me. it's easy enough to get a score of pretty girls any time i need them, but it isn't once in a decade one finds such an altogether desirable model of a man. you seem to know by intuition exactly the right positions to fall into. i'm sure the series will be a success now." leland bowed his appreciation of the compliment, and gay, knowing his vulnerable spot and how secretly pleased he was, could have danced a breakdown in her delight. as they were all eager to see the result, miss marks took herself at once to the dark room with the plate, promising they should have a proof before time for the martinsville train. then gay and leland walked home with kitty, and stayed talking awhile on the shady porch. "it's been a very decent sort of morning," leland admitted on his way home to lunch. a siesta in the hammock shortened the afternoon. he was in a most agreeable mood when they drove over to the station to see the waltons off on their train. better than her promise, miss marks had sent a finished picture instead of a proof. it was fully as good as the one of brier rose and esmerelda, and leland was enthusiastic in his admiration of the balcony he had improvised, and the spanish beauty within it. when it had passed around the circle he coolly took possession of it, although kitty claimed it, as frazer had brought it up to the beeches. "i'll keep it till your return, miss kitty," he said. "you have your mirror, so you don't need this. it may inspire me to run over to the springs myself a few days to see the original if you stay away too long." something in the light tone made gay glance up quickly. she groaned as she saw the admiration his expressive eyes showed so plainly. "now he's gone and done it!" she thought in dismay. "he's taken a fancy to kitty instead of lloyd, when i've set my heart on saving kitty for frank percival. may blessings light on those old martinsville springs for taking her out of the way for awhile! maybe i can get him switched off on the other track before she comes back." chapter vi "garden fancies" "oh, where are you going, my pretty maid?" it was alex shelby who called out the question, leaning forward from the doctor's buggy, to look down the locust avenue. lloyd was coming toward the gate, swinging a hunter's horn back and forth by its green cord. she waved it gaily as she sang in response: "i'm going a posing, sir, she said." he turned the wheel and sprang out, asking eagerly, "is it anywhere that i can take you?" "no, you're going in exactly the opposite direction, for i'm bound for the spring in the lindsey woods. miss marks asked me to meet her there at eleven o'clock, but her note didn't come until aftah mothah had gone out with the carriage." alex glanced at his watch. "if you could wait till i take this case of instruments up to uncle, i could drive you over as well as not. it would detain you ten minutes, but even then you'd get to the spring much sooner than if you were to walk." "i'll certainly accept yoah offah," exclaimed lloyd gratefully, looking down the long hot way that lay between her and the lindsey woods. "no, i'll not drive ovah to the doctah's with you, thanks. that is such a hot, dusty stretch of road. i'll just sit heah in the shade and wait." laying the hunter's horn on the stone bench near the gate, she sat down beside it and began to fan herself with her hat. "what's going on at the spring?" he asked as he climbed back into the buggy. "i can't tell you. all i know is that old frazer came up with a note asking me to pose as olga, the flax-spinnah's maiden. miss marks is always illustrating some old fairy-tale. she wanted me to bring grandfathah's hunting hawn for the prince. i've been wondering evah since who she's found to take that paht." "harcourt, i'll bet you anything!" was alex's emphatic answer as he gathered up the reins. "i saw him over at clovercroft yesterday morning, setting up a tripod in front of the bay window. well, here goes. i'll be back in ten minutes." as lloyd watched the cloud of dust whirling along behind the rapidly disappearing buggy, the impulse seized her to call out after him that he needn't come back to take her to the spring, for she was not going. several times that morning the suspicion had crossed her mind that miss marks's new model might prove to be leland harcourt, and alex's emphatic answer seemed to confirm her misgivings. if that were the case she felt that she could not possibly go. he had made such a point of avoiding her that night at the cabin, that even betty had noticed it, and she was very sure she didn't want to have her picture taken with a man who had showed his aversion to her so plainly as all that. it would be horribly awkward, she thought, if miss marks had asked him to pose with her. he would have to stoop and drink out of her hands as the prince had done out of olga's. of course he couldn't refuse, and it would be disagreeable to him and embarrassing to her, knowing as she did how he felt towards her. it was unlike lloyd to be sensitive over little things, and to magnify trifles, and she had been unhappy for several days because she had done so in this instance. if she had met leland harcourt like any other stranger, she would not have given his manner toward her a second thought; but gay's plea beforehand in his behalf made her self-conscious. of course he couldn't possibly know that she had lain awake, looking at the stars, picturing herself as a sort of guardian angel, who should lead him to great heights of achievement (as gay had assured her she could do). but she felt that he must have divined her intentions toward him, and was secretly amused at her presumption. her face burned every time she thought of the regal manner in which she had swept into the room, trying to make her entrance impressive, and then the polite way in which he had handed her over to some one else as if she were a mere child to whom he must be civil, but whose school-girl prattle bored him. "i can't _beah_ him!" she said in a disgusted tone to a black ant, which was crawling along towards the stone bench where she sat. but the little ant, intent on its own affairs, hurried past her as unheedingly as if she had been part of the bench. "and i suppose my opinion is of no moah impawtance to him than it is to you," she added, with a shrug of the shoulders. then she laughed, for the comparison suddenly seemed to put the affair in a different light. "i'm certainly glad you happened along this way, mistah ant," she said, bending over to stop him with a stick while she made her whimsical speech. "because i'm going to profit by yoah example from now on. heah me? i'm going to quit worrying over what people may think of me and go along about my business just as you are doing. _you_ nevah think about yoahself, do you! you don't even know that you _have_ a self, so of co'se you can't feel slighted and sensitive." lifting the stick so that the little creature might go on its eager way again, she watched it disappear, and then began idly tracing figures in the dust at her feet. "i wish i had an enchanted necklace like olga's," she mused, recalling the old fairy-tale for which she was soon to pose. "not one that could give me gorgeous dresses whenevah i repeated the charm, but one that would sawt of clothe my mind--put me into such a beautifully serene mental state that i wouldn't mind slights, and would be as unconscious of self as that little old ant." then a surprised, pleased expression lighted her face, as a sudden recollection seemed to illuminate the old fairy-tale, and give it a new meaning. "why, it's like that lovely verse in the psalms that miss allison read to the king's daughters, the first time i went to a meeting of the circle. '_the king's daughter is all glorious within. her clothing is of wrought gold._'" sentences from miss allison's earnest little talk of long ago began coming back to lloyd like fragments of forgotten music. something about being anointed with the "oil of gladness" and wearing garments that smelled of myrrh and aloes and cassia "out of the ivory palaces whereby they have made thee glad." now in the story when olga would change her gown of tow to one befitting her royal station, she had only to clasp a bead of her magic rosary and whisper: "for love's sweet sake, in my hour of need, blossom and deck me, little seed," and straightway she would be clad in a garment, fine and fair as the shimmer of moonbeams. and lloyd, casting about in her mind for a like charm that would make her "all glorious within" as olga's made her glorious without, suddenly bethought herself of her little necklace of roman pearls. she had not taken it back to school with her in her senior year, for she felt that she had outgrown its childish symbolism. she could "keep tryst" with life's obligations now without the visible reminder of a little white bead, slipped daily over a silken cord. still, it had helped her to remember, so many times in the past, that she was strongly tempted to try the efficacy of her little talisman just once more. glancing at her watch, she saw that alex had been gone only five minutes. then dropping the stick with which she had been writing in the dust, she ran lightly up the avenue, into the house and up to her room. "maybe it is sawt of childish," she thought as she opened the sandal-wood box and clasped the rosary around her neck. "but i don't care, if it will only help me to remembah not to be snippy and sensitive and to go about my business like that little black ant. it's funny how such a little thing started me on the right path." when alex came back she met him with such a shining face that he glanced at her curiously. "you look as if you had heard good news," he said as he helped her into the buggy. "what's happened?" "oh, nothing," she laughed. "i've just been practising my paht while i waited for you. i'm the princess olga, and i've gotten rid of my gown of tow, and i'm so relieved to find the real king's-daughtah attire, that i'm as happy as a june-bug." he did not understand her allusion, but it would have made no difference if she had talked to him in greek, with that charming dimple coming and going as she laughed. it was a pleasure just to sit and watch her, while she rattled on in her inimitable way about june-bugs, wondering how happy they were anyhow, and why people chose them as the unit of measurement when they were measuring joy. * * * * * over at the spring while they waited for lloyd to come, miss marks and leland harcourt experimented at picture-making with gay for a victim. stretched out on the rocks of the creek bank, with her hands lying in the shallow water and her hair streaming over her shoulders, she was obligingly trying to obey instructions to "look as wet and dead as possible." lloyd and alex, coming on her unexpectedly as they picked their way up the ravine, having tied the horse where the woodland road ended, were horrified to find her lying there so limp and still. but the next instant leland's voice sounded somewhere up among the bushes: "that's great, pug. try to keep the pose a little longer till we get one more plate. with a sea-gull and some rolling waves painted in in the background, it will be a perfect copy of that painting i saw in brittany." "well, hurry, please!" called gay plaintively. "i can't stand it much longer. the sun on my wet face is burning it to a blister, and the rocks are cutting my elbow, and i know it's a spider that's crawling over the back of my neck." lloyd gave a toot of the hunter's horn to warn them of their approach and the extra plate was never made. for with a little shriek the "drowned fishermaiden" scrambled up from the rocks in embarrassed haste, and when she caught sight of alex, fled away into the bushes to gather up her dishevelled hair and otherwise put herself to rights. she was too agitated to notice lloyd's meeting with leland, but while she made herself presentable the sound of laughter floated in among the bushes to her most reassuringly. "they're laughing at me," she thought, "but i don't care how ridiculous i looked. _anything to_ break the ice between them and put them on a friendly footing." at the sight of leland's dark face with its cynical, slightly amused expression, lloyd's resentment returned, but the touch of the little necklace recalled her resolve. "i'll _not_ be snippy and sensitive," she repeated to herself, clasping one of the beads in her fingers as if it really held some potent charm to help her change her mental attitude. so when gay joined them she found that lloyd had dropped her distant, disdainful manner of the day before and was her own sweet, winsome self. it was with a sigh of relief that gay left them to the discussion of poses and costumes, and turned to alex, who was about to take his departure. the one word, picnic, was enough to stop him. it was what he had been hoping for ever since the harcourts had taken the cabin. gay's appeal for help set him to work with the zest of a truant school-boy. while he made a fire and carried water from the spring, gay emptied the baskets they had brought, and spread the contents out on a great flat rock. then while the water boiled for the coffee, and the potatoes were roasting in the ashes, she sent him to look for a wild grape-vine. "i want a lot of grape-leaves to make into little baskets to serve the berries in," she told him. "and bring them up here where i can keep an eye on what is going on at the spring. there seems to be a hitch in the performance somewhere." the difficulty was with the prince's costume. nothing they had brought gave quite the effect they wanted, so finally leland proposed bringing the story down to date. "the modern princess is the summer girl," he said. "so take miss sherman just as she is, and i'll go back to the cabin and put on a bicycle suit." [illustration: "making a cup of her white hands."] "they are getting on famously," thought gay as she listened to lloyd's merry response to something he called back, as he went crashing away through the bushes. the last little basket was made and filled with berries before leland came back, dragging his wheel up the ravine. gay and alex, having finished their preparations, climbed up the bank to watch the pretty tableau, lloyd making a cup of her white hands and catching the water in them, that the prince might stoop and drink. "let's try it again, miss marks," cried leland enthusiastically. "how is this pose?" he dropped gracefully to one knee, baring his head as he bowed it over lloyd's hands. "is the change in him or is it in me?" thought lloyd as the dark eager face smiled up at her, with its quick flashing smile that she found so peculiarly attractive. "he certainly is the most entahtaining man i evah talked to." "the show is over," called gay as miss marks began to put up her camera. "if your royal highnesses will deign to descend, dinner will be served immediately." it was an attractive table she led them to, the red berries shining in luscious heaps in their little green baskets, mounds of fresh watercress beside every plate, and a big bouquet of wildflowers in the centre of the rock table. "what is the peculiar charm of a picnic?" queried alex as he fished an ant out of the sugar and opened a half-cooked potato. "at home one would send such a dish back to the kitchen in red-hot wrath. here one eats it in a sort of solemn joy." "it's the spell of the june woods," suggested miss marks. "no, it's youth in the blood," said leland. "all the junes in the world and all outdoors wouldn't make a half-baked potato fit for the gods unless one has 'the sun and the wind in his pulses.'" "no," insisted gay. "it can't be that, for jameson isn't much older than you, and he despises prowling around in the woods, as he calls it. he made so much fun of it that lucy went driving with him instead of coming with us, and she adores such outings, just as much now as she did before she was married." "maybe no one feels the charm unless the gods have given him a sort of midas touch that will turn everything disagreeable, like ants and underdone potatoes, into golden experiences," said alex. "the midas imagination let us call it. and the way to keep it in good working order is to give it constant practice. let's have a picnic every day." "to-morrow," announced leland, "i'll take you all over to that old english garden that i discovered, to take that garden fancy of browning's we were discussing." gay looked up quickly. it had been understood only yesterday that they were to wait for kitty's return for that picture. his taking it for granted that lloyd would assume the part augured well for her hopes. "you know that poem of browning's, don't you, miss sherman?" he asked, smiling across at her. now lloyd had never cared for browning. in fact she frankly admitted that she had never got far enough into many of his poems to know what he was talking about. at warwick hall miss chilton had been such an enthusiastic interpreter of his that ten of the girls in lloyd's class had formed a browning club. although she declined their invitation to join them, she was more complimented by that invitation than any other of that school term, and envied them their apparent enjoyment of what to her was a tangle of vague meanings. now when, she saw leland take a well worn copy from his pocket and flip over the leaves to find the place, with an ease that showed long familiarity with it, she wished that she had joined the club. it made her feel childish and immature to think that she could not discuss this subject with him as any one of those ten girls could have done. but it was one of the simple poems to which the book opened. from her seat opposite, lloyd could see the marked margins and underscored lines, as he read aloud: "'here is the garden she walked across arm in my arm such a short while since. * * * * * down this side of the gravel walk she went, while her robe's edge brushed the box. and here she paused in her gracious talk to point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.'" "oh, i can just _see_ that picture," cried miss marks enthusiastically. "i wish we had time to take it to-day." "but wait, here's a better one," he added, turning the page. "'this flower she stopped at, finger on lip, stooped over in doubt, as settling its claim, till she gave me with pride to make no slip, its soft, meandering spanish name. what a name! was it love or praise? speech half-asleep or song half-awake? i must learn spanish one of these days only for that slow, sweet name's sake.'" lloyd picked up the book open at the place where he laid it, face downward, on the rock. "i wondah what flowah browning meant," she said, "that had such a 'soft, meandering spanish name. speech half-asleep or song half-awake--' it must have been something exquisitely beautiful or he wouldn't have been willing to learn a language just for the sake of knowing that one name." farther down the page were other underscored lines. she read them softly, almost under her breath. "'where i find her not, beauties vanish. whither i follow her beauties flee. is there no method to tell her in spanish june is twice june since she's breathed it with me?'" "isn't that sweet?" cried gay. "say it for us, leland. say it in spanish so we can hear how it sounds." with an indulgent smile, as if amused at her childishness, he lazily did gay's bidding, then as she began exclaiming over the musical syllables to alex, he turned to lloyd and repeated the line with an emphasis which made it altogether personal. of course she could not understand it, but the words were like bird-notes, and there was no mistaking the language of those dark expressive eyes that held hers a moment in their admiring gaze. they said as plainly as if they had spoken aloud, "june is twice june, since _you've_ breathed it with me." lloyd felt the colour surge up into her face, and to hide it, turned quickly and began examining a grass stain on the hem of her skirt, with apparent concern. but an exultant little thrill flashed over her. he liked her. she was sure of it, and it made her glad, so glad that it amazed her to think that only two hours before she had confided emphatically to a little black ant crawling over her path, that she couldn't bear him. when she had finished a critical examination of the grass stain she glanced back again, hoping that gay had not seen her embarrassment. to her relief gay's entire attention was absorbed in an argument with alex as to the exact meaning of the quotation, whether twice june meant a lengthening of the calendar or an intensifying of its pleasures. miss marks, like a good chaperone, could not have noticed, for she was busy gathering up the dishes, and lloyd sprang up to help her. presently, as they started away from the spring, leland came around to lloyd's side. "you must let me teach you spanish, miss sherman," he said in his masterful way which seemed to leave her no choice in the matter. "an hour a day wouldn't take much of your time, and would be enough to give you some idea of the charm of the language. gay tells me you play the harp. some of the songs are exquisite." "oh, i nevah in the world could learn it, i am suah!" she answered lightly, with a shrug that seemed to indicate the uselessness of undertaking such a task. "you don't know," he answered authoritatively. "you've never had me for a teacher." again that flashing look that made his eyes deepen so wonderfully and curved the cynical lips into an altogether gentle and winning smile. it seemed to photograph itself on lloyd's memory, recurring to her again and again in the most unexpected moments. she saw it on the way home with alex, all the time she was laughingly recounting some of her warwick hall escapades. it came between her and her book when she tried to read herself to sleep that afternoon, and the last thing that night when her eyes were closed and the lights were out she saw again that glance that said as plainly as the slow music of his spanish words, "june is _twice_ june since _you've_ breathed it with me." chapter vii spanish lessons the harcourt carriage swung rapidly along the road, for the little colonel held the reins, and was testing the speed of the new horses, just sent down from lexington. "isn't it glorious?" she cried, with a quick glance over her shoulder at gay and miss marks on the back seat. "it's like flying, the way they take us through the air, and they're the best matched team in the country." leland, on the seat beside her, watched with growing admiration her expert handling of the horses, and gay watched him. swathed in a white chiffon veil, she was paying the penalty for being so obliging the day before. she had lain so long on the rocks in her pose of the drowned fishermaiden, that her face was burned to a blister, and she could not touch it without groaning. but she would willingly go through the ordeal again, she told herself, in order to bring about the present desirable state of affairs. "now which way?" asked lloyd as they came to a turn. "i feel like a columbus on an unsailed sea. i thought i knew every gah'den around heah within a radius of five miles, but i've nevah seen any that fits the description of the one you're taking us to." "turn to the right," leland directed. "then it's just a short way down a woodland road. you'll come to an old-fashioned wicket gate and a straight, box-bordered walk leading up to the back of such a quaint vine-covered old house with a red door, that you'll expect to see a thatched roof and hear an english skylark." "well, of all things," laughed lloyd, "why didn't you say little red doah in the first place. that would have located it for me. you've simply discovahed the back premises of old doctah shelby's place, and yoah wondahful english gah'den is their kitchen gah'den. we could have reached their front gate in ten minutes from our house, and heah you have led us all around robin hood's bahn to find it. that loop around rollington took us a good two miles out of the way." "well, that's the only way i knew how to reach it," he answered, with the flashing smile she had learned to look for. "i hope that you don't feel that it has been time wasted. _i_ don't." "not behind hawses like these," she answered. "we'll forgive you for the sake of the ride. i nevah get tiahed of driving when i can go this fast." she turned into a narrow lane leading around to the front of the house, and waited for leland to open the gate. "how natural everything looks," she exclaimed. "i haven't been heah for yeahs, and when i was a little thing of six or seven i used to be a weekly visitah. i'd bring my dawg fritz, and stay from breakfast till bedtime. i called doctah shelby 'mistah-_my_-doctah' and his wife 'aunt alicia,'" she went on as leland resumed his seat in the carriage. "they said that i reminded them of their only daughtah, who was dead, and they used to borrow me by the day. they spoiled me so that it was perfectly scandalous the way i acted sometimes." "why did you stop coming?" asked gay. "mrs. shelby had a fall that made an invalid of her, and she has been away at sanitariums and hospitals most of the time since. i've seen her often, of co'se, but not heah. it's only lately that they've opened up the house and come home to live." places exercised a strong influence over lloyd. just as she felt the challenge of the locust-trees in the avenue at home, and could not pass those old family sentinels without an unconscious lifting of the head and that pride of bearing which they seemed to expect from all the lloyds, so this old homestead had its peculiar effect upon her. as she went up the path she had the same feeling of absolute sovereignty that she had had a dozen years before when her slightest wish was law in this adoring household, and where every act of hers, no matter how outbreaking, passed unchided. if she chose to empty the sugar into the middle of the garden walk and fill the bowl with pebbles, "aunt alicia" took her afternoon tea unsweetened, rather than ring for more, and thus call mom beck's attention to the naughtiness of her little charge. once, some babyish whim prompting her to order every picture turned to the wall, the doctor meekly obeyed, and when some chance caller remonstrated, he protested that it was a very small thing to do to give a child pleasure, and that there was no reason why she shouldn't have them upside down if she wished. so strong was the old spell now, that as she stepped up on the porch and saw the same ugly little chinese idol sitting against the front door to prop it open, that had sat there on all her former visits, she stooped and stood it on its head. "why on earth did you do that?" gasped gay. "simply fo'ce of habit," laughed lloyd. "i used to hate it so because it was such an ugly old thing that i always stood it on its head to punish it for staring at me. i did it this time without thinking." leland laughed. never in the short time he had known her had she seemed quite so adorable as she did at this moment, relapsing into the childish imperiousness of her little colonel ways. while they waited for mrs. shelby to come down he watched her going around the room, renewing her acquaintance with all the old objects that had once held a fascination for her. she called his attention to the tapestry on the wall, a shepherd and shepherdess beside a trellis on which hung roses as big as cabbages, and told him the quaint fancies she had once had about the romantic figures. the stuffed birds under the glass case on the mantel each had a name she had given it. she remembered them all, from the yellow canary, to the mite of a humming-bird, poised at the top. stopping before a queer old whatnot, filled with bric-à-brac and shells, she caught up a round china box. a gilt eagle, hovering over a nest of little eaglets formed the lid, and her face began to dimple as she lifted the china bird by its imposing beak. "there ought to be peppahmints inside," she said. "there always used to be, because i'd howl if there wasn't, and they couldn't beah to have me disappointed. well, i wish you'd look! deah old aunt alicia! she's remembahed all these yeahs and kept it ready for me." she held the box out towards him, and he saw that it had been freshly filled with delectable little striped drops. "it hurts my conscience," she said, looking up wistfully, as the familiar odour of the peppermint greeted her, "to think how i have neglected her. heah i have been going to picnics and pahties and all sawts of things evah since i came home from school, and have nevah been neah her. i'm going to find her this minute, and not wait for her to come down as if i were some strangah." the quaintly furnished old room straightway lost its charm for leland when she left it, but gay, pushing aside her veil to taste the contents of the eagle's nest, which lloyd had deposited in her lap, scrutinized everything with interest. this was alex's home now, and she wondered how he would look in the midst of such surroundings. she couldn't imagine him with such an antiquated background. miss marks picked up a basket of daguerreotypes from the marble-topped table, and began examining them. they could hear lloyd calling at the top of the stairs, "aunt alicia," and then mrs. shelby's voice, tremulous with pleased surprise: "why it's the little colonel! oh, my dear! my _dear_! what a joy it is to have you here again!" then they heard lloyd laughingly explaining their mission, and after that they seemed to pass into another room, for a low hum of voices was all that could be distinguished. presently mrs. shelby came down alone. she was a gentle little old lady, with faded blue eyes, and a sweet patient face. she wore a bunch of gray curls over each ear in the fashion of her girlhood. there was a lingering charm of youth about her, just as there was a faint suggestion of lavender still clinging to the fine old lace that fell over her little hands. almost as soon as she had finished welcoming them an old coloured man followed her into the room, bearing a huge tray with tinkling glasses, a decanter of raspberry shrub, and a plate of little nut-cakes. while he served the guests she explained lloyd's delay with almost girlish eagerness. "i have taken a great liberty with your model, miss marks, but lloyd assured me you would be perfectly willing. this last day of june is a very happy anniversary of mine and the doctor's. i have been thinking of it all morning, and when lloyd came up the stairs just now, so glowing and bright, it seemed to me i saw my own lost youth rising up before me, and i asked her to put on a gown i have treasured many years, and be photographed in that. "it is the one i had on when richard proposed to me," she explained, a faint pink tingeing her soft old cheeks. "fifty years ago to-day, in that same old garden. this was my grandmother's place then. richard bought it afterwards. and a year from to-day if we live, we will keep our golden wedding. if you can use the gown in the photograph it will make me very happy, for it is falling to pieces, despite my care of it. lloyd thought it very picturesque and appropriate." while miss marks was expressing her delight over the privilege, for the unearthing of old costumes was one of her pet diversions, lloyd came down the stairs and stopped shyly in the doorway. she had tucked up her shining hair with a tall ivory comb, and it hung in soft curls on each side of her glowing face, in the old fashion of mrs. shelby's girlhood. the thin, clinging dress enveloped her like a pale blue cloud, and a flat, wide-brimmed garden hat swung from her arm by its blue ribbons. with the donning of the ancient dress she seemed to have put on the sweet shy manner that had been the charm of its first wearer. a long-drawn "oh!" of admiration from gay and miss marks greeted her appearance, and she turned a timid glance towards leland, who had risen quickly. his glance and his silence were more eloquent than their words, for she turned away blushing. "now if i may have a bit of paper to make a moth to pin on the milk-white phlox," began miss marks, but mrs. shelby stopped her eagerly. "oh, my dear, we will have the picture perfect in every way. richard has a case of butterflies and moths in his office. i shall send a servant to bring it and to call him over, for he will want to see lloyd in that gown i am sure. how i wish alex were here to be photographed with her. he is so broad shouldered and erect he reminds me daily of what his uncle was at his age." "maybe he will come before we are through," suggested miss marks. at the mere thought of his coming, gay pulled her veil down hastily over her blistered face. behind its protecting screen she watched the old couple keenly, when the doctor arrived. they had eyes for nothing but lloyd, and their gaze followed her tenderly wherever she went. "they're just _daffy_ about her," thought gay. "it's plain to be seen they'd give anything in the world to get her into the family. i hope doctor alex won't come in time to be photographed with her. if he'd never fallen in love with her before he'd have to do it now. he couldn't help himself when she looks like that, and then where would all my plans be for poor leland?" but leland was taking care of his own interests. as soon as miss marks had taken enough plates to satisfy herself he led lloyd off to the end of the garden to show her a flower which he had found with a soft meandering spanish name. "we'll begin the lessons to-morrow," he said, as if it were all settled. the masterfulness of his tone had pleased her the day before, but here in the place where she had done all the dictating and others had obeyed, it aroused a feeling that mom beck would have labelled "the lloyd stubbo'ness." she didn't want to consent, simply because he had taken it for granted that she would, so she laughingly contradicted him. "we'll begin to-morrow," he repeated, smiling down at her so insistently that she dropped her eyes before his. then to her surprise she found that her opposition had completely vanished. she felt that it would be one of the pleasantest pastimes that could be devised, to study such a musical language under such a teacher. but she had no intention of letting him know how she felt about it for a long while, so she was thankful for the interruption which came just then. miss marks, who was exploring the rest of the premises in search of further possibilities, sent gay to summon her to the front of the house. "she says to 'come into the garden, maud.' she is going to add a tennysonian pose to her series of fancies, and she's found a place where there's a bit of terrace for you to come tripping down, à la maud, to the tune of 'she is coming, my own, my sweet!'" catching up her long filmy blue skirt, lloyd hurried away, leaving gay and leland to follow as they chose. leland finished the verse in a clear tenor voice as if singing to himself, but it followed lloyd down the walk as if meant for her alone: "'she is coming, my own, my sweet! were it ever so airy a tread my heart would hear her and beat though 'twere earth in an earthy bed. would start and tremble under her feet and blossom in purple and red.'" then he hummed it almost under his breath, the entire verse again, forgetful of gay at his elbow until she spoke. "wouldn't kitty have looked adorable in that darling old hat tied under her chin? it's too bad she couldn't have been here to pose as maud." "oh, i don't know," he answered absently. "she's too dark for the part. miss lloyd looks it to perfection." gay's eyes shone delightedly behind the white veil, and for a few steps she could not help skipping, as she blessed the martinsville springs, which had taken kitty off in the nick of time to save her for a different fate. by the time maud's picture was taken alex arrived, and miss marks was promptly seized with an inspiration. "i am going to have two pictures of _darby and joan_," she exclaimed, "to add to the series. alex, you take lloyd down into the garden again beside the phlox, and turn so that i'll get your profile. it is so like your uncle's. i'll call that one '_hand in hand when our life was may._' then i'll take mrs. shelby and the doctor in exactly the same position as a companion piece, and call that '_hand in hand when our hair is gray._'" they made a joke of it, the two old people, and obligingly took the places that lloyd and alex left, but a mist sprang to lloyd's eyes a moment later, watching the devoted old couple who for fifty years had been lovers and for forty-nine years had been wed. marriage like that seemed a beautiful thing; she wondered if such an experience would ever be hers. she wished mammy easter had found a better fortune for her than the one she told over her tea-cup. it was noon by the time the pictures were all taken, and leland took miss marks home in the carriage while lloyd went up-stairs to change her dress. she wanted gay and leland to stop at the locusts for lunch, but gay refused because she couldn't go to the table in a veil and under the circumstances she couldn't go without one. she got out of the carriage, however, and sat on the porch while leland took the old colonel for a short spin down the road, to try the new horses. "it's been a mighty nice morning," she said. "i wish lucy could have been with us. she adores discovering old places like that and doing unexpected things. it almost spoiled my good times thinking of the wistful way she looked after us when we drove off." "but she's married!" exclaimed lloyd. "i shouldn't think she'd care for those things in quite the same way as she did before. i should think she'd rather stay with her husband." "bosh!" said gay. "being married doesn't change a person's disposition and make tame old hens out of lively little humming-birds. that's just what lucy was, a dear little humming-bird, always in a flutter of doing and going; and you needn't tell me that she enjoys poking there at home with nobody but jameson, as much as she would enjoy going out with us and doing things." "but he's her husband!" insisted lloyd, as if that term covered all that could be desired of human companionship. then she hummed meaningly: "'hand in hand when our life was may, hand in hand when our hair is gray!'" gay shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "oh, that darby and joan business is all right when your hair _is_ gray, but lucy is only a year older than i am, and jameson doesn't interest himself in a single thing that she likes. he's devoted to her, so devoted he doesn't want her out of his sight; but it's the kind of devotion that has taught me a lesson. if ever i tie myself up that way it will not be while life is may. i'll have a good time first." lloyd had no answer for such heresy. she was going over in her mind the list of people from whom she had unconsciously taken her exalted impressions of married life: her mother and papa jack, the old colonel and amanthis, doctor shelby and aunt alicia, rob's father and mother. she felt that gay was mistaken. to be sure there were old mr. and mrs. apwall, who quarrelled like cats and dogs, but somehow even they had given her the impression that they enjoyed their little encounters, and quarrelled to pass the time, rather than because they bore each other any ill-will. then she reflected that these were all people of an older generation than lucy, and maybe there was a difference in the times. surely gay must have good reason for speaking so feelingly. this was not the first time that she had spoken of lucy with tears in her eyes, and when she did that, lloyd, recalling mammy easter's tea-cups, was vaguely glad that it had been foretold that hers would be empty. the old colonel came back in a few minutes loud in his praise of the new horses, and to lloyd's surprise, in high good humour with their owner. evidently leland had improved his opportunity and had exerted himself to make friends with the old colonel, for to lloyd's amazement he cordially insisted on leland's considering the locusts a second home as long as he should be in the valley, and to come at any hour he chose. the latch-string would be out for him. "i shall certainly avail myself of the privilege very soon," he responded, "for to-morrow i have the honour to begin giving miss lloyd lessons in spanish. so few young ladies nowadays play the harp, that when one has the ability she owes it to the world to learn the spanish songs. don't you think so?" lloyd opened her mouth to protest that she had not yet given her consent, but closed it again as the old colonel began expressing his pleasure at such an arrangement. she felt trapped. it was to please him that she had learned to play on her grandmother's harp. any reference to it always put him in a gentle humour. she wanted him to be cordial and friendly with leland, and was glad that he was no longer prejudiced against him, so she held her peace; but it exasperated her to have her consent taken for granted in such a high-handed way. he had ridden over her objection as regardlessly as if she had never made any. she had boasted to herself, "he needn't put on any of his lordly ways with _me_!" and here she was submitting meekly, without a word. it worried her after they had driven away. all the time she was up in her room, getting ready for lunch, she kept thinking about it. "i'll just give him to undahstand that it was on grandfathah's account," she decided finally. "instead of my influencing him as gay expected, it looks as if _he_ were winding _me_ around his fingah. but he isn't! he sha'n't! i'll take the lessons, but i'll have no foolishness about it. i'll surprise him by sticking strictly to business, and i'll set him a good example of the way to live up to his own family motto." mrs. sherman, who made no objection to the lessons since the old colonel approved of them so heartily, was on the front porch with her embroidery when leland came up the next morning, the first of july, to give the first lesson. she smiled to see how energetically lloyd threw herself into it, thinking it was a matter of pride with her to show him what rapid progress she could make. it certainly was a matter of pride with the colonel, who enjoyed being waylaid to hear how beautifully she could count to one hundred or name the months of the year. it became his habit to take the book, while, perched on the arm of his chair, she rattled off the vocabulary for the day's lesson, and reviewed all the others. "that's right! that's right!" he would say encouragingly. "at this rate you'll soon be ready for a trip to the alhambra, and i'm blessed if i don't take you some of these days. i've always wanted to go." when kitty came home from the springs lloyd insisted on her joining the class, but she declared she was too far behind to attempt catching up. besides she was in charge of affairs at home now, and elise was to have a house-party soon. there were half a dozen good reasons why she could not take the time. the principal one, which she did not give however, was that it was plain to be seen that leland was more interested in studying lloyd than in teaching her a language, and under such circumstances, kitty preferred not to make the third party. so while kitty's mornings were filled with her housekeeping duties, betty's with her writing and gay's with her music and plans to keep lucy occupied, it gradually came about that leland spent more and more of his time at the locusts. the lessons lasted only an hour, but after that he usually found some excuse to stay: there was a new song that he wanted to hear, or a game of tennis, or a stroll down to the post-office. sometimes when he had no excuse at all he lingered anyhow, lounging on the shady porch, and talking of anything that happened to come uppermost. then at night he was often there again, either because the locusts was the gathering place of the clan, and a frolic was afoot, or he went to escort lloyd and betty to the cabin or the beeches to some entertainment the other girls had planned. "my oh! what a buttahfly i'm getting to be!" laughed lloyd one evening as she went into her mother's room to have her dress buttoned. "a hawse-back ride this mawning, a picnic this aftahnoon, and now the rustic dance in the mallards' barn to-night. but nevah mind, little mothah," she added with a hug, as she caught a wistful look on mrs. sherman's face. "it'll all be ovah soon. this is the last summah of my teens. when i am old and twenty i'll nevah leave yoah side. 'i'll sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam' and take all the housekeeping cares off yoah shouldahs as a dutiful daughtah should." mrs. sherman gave her shoulder a caressing pat as she fastened the last button. "i'm glad to have you go, dear," she answered, "especially to all the out-door merry-makings. they keep you young and well. papa jack and i will walk over after awhile and look on." "the mallard barn dances are always so much fun," said lloyd, lingering to give a final touch to her mother's toilet. "wait! yoah side combs are in too high, and yoah collah isn't pinned straight in the back. how did you evah manage to dress yoahself right befoah i grew up to tend to you?" as she made the changes with all a young girl's particularity about trifles, she went on, "that last one they had three yeahs ago was lovely. will you evah forget the way rob cake-walked with mrs. bisbee? it makes me laugh to this day, whenevah i think of it." "i suppose rob will hardly be there to-night," said mrs. sherman, smiling as she recalled the ridiculous appearance he had made. his cake-walk had been the feature of the evening. "no, indeed," answered lloyd. "he's no moah likely to be there than the man in the moon. i wish he would though. he used to be the life of everything. we saw him this evening as we drove home from the picnic. he had just come out from town, and he looked so hot and dusty and ti'ahed it made me feel bad. he's like a strangah now, didn't stop to speak, only lifted his hat and turned in at the gate at oaklea, as if he hadn't gone on a thousand drives with us. he ought to have been interested in what we were doing for old times' sake." lloyd had not thought of rob for days, but she was reminded of him many times that evening, the affair at the mallards' barn was so much like the one to which he had taken her three years before. the same old negro fiddlers furnished the music. the same flickering lantern light made weird shadows on the rough walls, and the same sweet smell of new hay filled the place. as the music of the virginia reel began she thought of the way rob had romped through it that other time, and wished she could see him once more as jolly and care-free as he was then. "why can one nevah have two good times exactly alike?" she wondered wistfully. she was standing near the wide double doors, looking out across the fields as she thought about it later, recalling how many things were alike on the two occasions, even the colour of the dress she wore. she remembered that because rob had said she looked like an apple-blossom, and it was rare indeed for him to make such complimentary speeches. it wasn't best for girls to hear nice things about themselves often, he said. it made them hard to get along with, too uppity. the music stopped and leland harcourt came to find her. she was looking so pensively past the gay scene that he bent over her, humming in a low tone: "'what's this dull town to me? robin adair? what was 't i wished to see? what wished to hear?'" she started with a little laugh, blushing slightly because he seemed to have read her thoughts. "robin adair" was one of mrs. moore's old names for rob, and she _had_ been wishing for him. over at oaklea, rob sat scowling at a book spread out before him on the library table. he was thinking of harcourt as he had seen him on the front seat beside lloyd, in his cool-looking white flannels, the very embodiment of gentlemanly leisure. no doubt she noticed the contrast between them, he all dusty and dishevelled from his day's work and the trip home on the hot car. not that he would change places, not that he regretted for an instant the part he had to take in the grimy working world. but the chance encounter had suddenly opened his eyes to all that he had had to sacrifice for that work. until now it had not even left him time to realize how much he had given up. now to find this stranger enjoying all that was once his, stung him to envy. he smiled grimly as he recognized it as envy. he had thought himself free from such a childish trait. but he could not smile away the feeling. it persisted till it accomplished more than the old judge's advice and his mother's pleadings, that all work and no play was bad for him. closing his book he announced his intention of walking over to the locusts. as he went up the avenue he heard the distant scraping of fiddles and the rhythmic beating of feet in the mallard barn. he had forgotten that it was the night of the rustic dance. he was disappointed at finding no one at home but the old colonel. but his welcome was so cordial that he stayed even longer than he had intended. the colonel always had the latest news of every one, but to-night he had to talk first of the wonderful progress lloyd was making in spanish, and what a fine fellow that young harcourt was. "didn't like the chap at all at first," he confided. "thought he was too much of a confounded foreigner; but i'm a big enough man i hope to acknowledge a mistake, and i own up i was prejudiced." when rob finally rose to start home, the colonel would not let him go until he had promised to come again the next night, when lloyd and betty should be at home. afterwards he regretted having made the promise. although he went early harcourt was already there, seemingly as much at home as if he were a member of the family. it made rob feel like a stranger to see this newcomer usurping the place that he had always filled in the sherman household. it grated on him also to hear lloyd saying, "si, señor" and "gracias" when she addressed harcourt, and grated still more for harcourt to turn to her as he did continually with some aside in spanish. never more than a phrase or a word, and "just for practice," they laughingly explained, but it seemed to emphasize a tie that had drawn them together, and--rob's remoteness. he left early. walking slowly down the avenue he thought of the hundreds of times he had passed under those old locust-trees on sweet starlighted summer nights like this. what a goodly company of old friends they were! the kind that never change. he looked up, vaguely grateful for the soft lisping of leaves above him. they seemed to understand why he was going, why he could not stay. half-way down the avenue he heard the tinkle of lloyd's harp, and then her voice beginning to sing. the seat beside the measuring tree was just ahead and he made his way to it, quietly, on tip-toe almost, that he might lose no note. but it was an unknown tongue she was singing, a song that harcourt had taught her, and rob could not understand a word. it was so symbolical of the change that had come between them that a fierce impulse seized him to rush back to the house and throw the interloper out of the window. then he smiled bitterly at his own vehemence. what right had he to be so savage over her friendship? he was her big brother only, and even that merely in name, because she had chosen to call him so in those years that they had been such loyal good chums. it was little and mean and selfish of him to begrudge her the slightest thing that would give her pleasure. this man with his fortune, his accomplishments, his rare social gifts had everything to offer, while he,--he had not even _time_ to put at her disposal. time to find bypaths to happiness for her-- the sweet clear voice sang on, the old locusts rustled softly as the night wind stirred them. then the song stopped, and for a long time he sat staring ahead of him with unseeing eyes. at last he rose, and taking a step towards the tree beside the bench, passed his hand over the bark, groping for the notches he knew were there but could not see. he paused at the one a little higher than his shoulder, and then his fingers found the four leaf clover he had carved beside it, the last time lloyd had stood up to be measured. he could almost see her standing there again like elaine, the lily-maid, fair-haired and smiling while he repeated the charm of the four leaf clover: "'love be true to her-- joy draw near to her-- fortune find what your gifts can do for her--'" he had forgotten how the lines went but it made no difference. anyhow they voiced what had always been his dearest wish for her, and standing there in the dark he vowed savagely that any man who stood in the way of the old charm's coming true, should have him to reckon with. when he swung off down the path, taking the short cut to oaklea, his hat was pulled grimly down over his eyes, and his mouth was set in a firm hard line. he did not open his books again that night. lying on the couch by his open window, he watched the lights at the locusts shining through the trees, till the last one went out, and he knew that harcourt had gone. chapter viii "shadows of the world appear" the long july days slipped by, and lloyd, looking back on them as hildegarde looked into her magic glass, saw only pleasant scenes mirrored in their memory. the fortunate things, the smiling faces, the pleasant happenings were hers, and for a time even other people's troubles, those shadows of the world that are always with us, left her daily outlook undimmed. like hildegarde, too, she went on with her weaving, but wholly unconscious that the shuttle of her thoughts was shaping her web to fit the shoulders of the dark-eyed knight who came oftenest. mrs. sherman saw it and was troubled. "jack," she said to her husband one afternoon, when he had come out from town earlier than usual, and they were wandering around the shady grounds together, planning some improvements, "i'm afraid those spanish lessons are a mistake. lloyd is seeing entirely too much of mr. harcourt. he is here morning, noon and night." mr. sherman gave a quick glance towards the tennis court where the two were finishing a lively game. "don't you worry, elizabeth," was his placid answer. "it isn't as if she'd never been used to such devotion. she's never known anything else. malcolm and keith used to spend fully as much time with her, and rob moore fairly lived over here." "yes, but this is different," protested mrs. sherman. "they were mere boys, and she dominated them, but leland harcourt is a man, and an experienced one socially, and he is dominating her. i can see it in her quick deference to his opinions, and her evident desire to please him. not evident to him, perhaps, but plain enough to me. i've been thinking that it might be a good thing for us to go to the springs for awhile or to the sea-shore or some place where she'd meet other people. in a quiet little country place like this a man like leland harcourt looms up big on a young girl's horizon; a girl just out of school, eager for new interests. it isn't wise in us to allow her to be restricted just to his society, when we could so easily give her the safe-guard of contrasts." mr. sherman looked down at his wife with an indulgent smile. "don't you worry," he repeated. "lloyd will do a lot of romantic day-dreaming probably, but she has my 'yard-stick' and i have her promise." "but jack, i verily believe the child thinks he measures up to all your requirements. and really there is nothing one can urge against his character. it's more a matter of temperament. i am sure she couldn't be happy with him. she's just at the romantic age now to be very much impressed with that kind of a man. if she were older she would see his shallowness--his lack of purpose, his intense selfishness. i don't think that we ought to shut our eyes to the possible outcome of this constant companionship we are allowing." "well," he answered hesitatingly, slow to acknowledge his wife's distrust of lloyd's judgment, yet quick to see the wisdom of her point of view. "maybe you are right. but," he added wistfully, "i had hoped to keep her home this summer. she has been away at school so long--and she'll be in town so much next winter if she makes her début. wait till i have had a talk with her before you plan any trips." "but don't you see," urged mrs. sherman, "it is something too intangible to discuss. to speak to her about it now, to make any opposition to him at all, may quicken her interest in him and make her champion his cause. that would be fatal, and yet it's just as dangerous to wait. love at that age is like a fog. it comes creeping up so gradually that you don't realize what is enveloping you, till you're completely lost in it, and all the rest of the world shut out." "you speak from experience?" he said teasingly. "you know very well," she confessed laughingly, "what a befogged state _i_ was in. all papa's breathing out of 'threatening and slaughter' didn't make the slightest difference. i was blind and deaf to everything but you. and i'd want lloyd to be the same," she added hastily, "if you were as unreasonable as papa was then. but the circumstances are too different to be compared. i'm simply warning you that the little colonel's name was not lightly given. she has not only all my determination in her makeup, but her grandfather's as well." here the gardener met them, and the conversation dropped. the next half hour was spent in consultation over some changes to be made in the conservatory. when they went back to the house leland harcourt had gone, and lloyd was just stepping into doctor shelby's buggy, which was drawn up in front of the house. the old doctor waited for them to come within hearing distance before he leaned out and called: "i'm just borrowing the little colonel for awhile. there's a case over at rollington that needs the attention of her king's daughters circle, and i'm taking her over to investigate it. we'll be home before dark." "all right," called mr. sherman, waving his hat as lloyd looked back at them with a smile and a flutter of her handkerchief. during the winter that lloyd had joined the circle, and in the summer vacations following, it had been a matter of frequent occurrence for the old doctor to take her with him on such errands. remembering how interested lloyd had become in many of the cases, mrs. sherman breathed a sigh of thankfulness, hoping that this might prove to be one that would enlist her sympathies and occupy so much of her time that it would make a serious break in the spanish lessons. it had been a happy afternoon for lloyd. if she had stopped and tried to recall what made it so, she could not have mentioned any particular thing. to be young and well and filled with the same glow that made the summer day a joy was enough, but to feel that some one whose opinion she valued very much found her charming, and said so with every glance of his dark eyes, was more than enough. it made her cup of happiness complete and brimmed it over. the doctor was pouring out a tale of somebody's woes, but the trace of a smile lingered on her lips as she made a polite attempt to listen. she could not quite shut out the thought of that last game of tennis, and the trivial pleasantries that had gone to make up the sum of her great content. there was a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes as she listened. the spanish serenade that leland harcourt had sung before he left kept repeating itself over and over, a sort of undercurrent to what the doctor was saying. she beat time to it with her finger-tips on the side of the buggy. once it rose so insistently that she lost what the doctor was saying, and came to herself with a start when a familiar name arrested her attention. "ned bannon's wife!" she repeated in astonishment. "you suahly can't mean that it's ida shane who's sick ovah in that tumbledown cottage of the mccarty's!" "i surely do," he answered. "she didn't want to come back to this part of the country, goodness knows. she remembers what a commotion it raised when she eloped from the seminary with ned, five years ago. but ned has scarcely drawn a sober breath for the last year. she's sure of getting needlework here, and with little wardo to consider there was nothing for her to do but put her pride in her pocket and come." "little wardo!" breathed lloyd wonderingly. the ride seemed full of surprises. "yes, she has a little son about four years old, i judge. and it is on his account that i have asked the help of the king's daughters. he'll have to be taken away from her till she's better, for she is morbidly sensitive about keeping ned's failings from him. she has never allowed him to find out that his father is a drunkard. she makes a hero of him to the little fellow. seems to think that he'll blame her for giving him such a father by marrying a man whom she had been warned would bring her nothing but trouble and disgrace. she's desperately ill, and of course in her weak condition she magnifies the matter. it has become a mania with her." "poah violet!" exclaimed lloyd in distress, her thoughts flying back to the scene in the school orchard five years ago, when watching the glimmer of the pearl on ida's white hand in the moonlight she had been thrilled by her whisper: "he says that's what my life means to him--a pearl; and that my influence can make him the man i want him to be. oh, princess! i'd give my life to keep him straight!" not even an echo of the serenade was in her memory now. her knowledge of ida's nearness seemed to bring her old school-friend actually before her: the faint odour of violets, the shy glance of her appealing violet eyes under the long lashes, the bewitching dimple at the corner of her mouth, the flash of her rings, the sweep of her long skirts, the soft hair gleaming under the big-plumed picture hat, more than all the air of romance and mystery that surrounded her because of the pearl and the secret engagement to her "edwardo." "i hadn't intended for her to see you," said the doctor, when her exclamations and questions revealed to him the intimacy that had once existed between them. "but under the circumstances it will be the best thing i can do. i'll go in first and prepare her for the meeting, however. she thinks she hasn't a friend left on earth, on account of her unhappy marriage. everybody warned her against it." the front door stood open, and lloyd sat down on the broken step to wait. it seemed impossible that she was going to find ida, the embodiment of daintiness and refinement, in this dilapidated old place. the whitewash had long ago dropped in scales from the rough walls. the window-panes were broken, the shutters sagging, half the pickets off the fence. not a spear of grass ventured up in the barren yard, where a rank unpruned peach-tree struggled for its life in the baked earth. the house stood so near the road that the thick summer dust rolled in suffocatingly whenever a vehicle passed. "how can people exist in such an awful desolate, forsaken spot?" she wondered, looking around with a shudder of disgust. that ida, dainty beauty-loving ida, who scorned everything that was common and coarse, should be lying inside in that dark room was more than she could believe. a wagon rattled by, and she put her handkerchief up to her face, stifled by the cloud of dust that rose in its wake. when she ventured to take it down again and draw a long breath, a chubby, barefooted child was standing in the path in front of her, regarding her curiously. the wagon made so much noise that she had not heard his bare feet pattering around the house. she gave a little start of surprise, then smiled at him, for he was an attractive little fellow, despite the fact that his face was smeared with the remains of the bread and jam he had just been enjoying at one of the neighbours, and his gingham apron was in rags. he had caught it on the barb wire fence as he climbed through. as he smiled back at her shyly from under his long lashes, lloyd's interest quickened, for there was no mistaking the likeness of those violet eyes and the dimple that came at the corner of his cupid's bow of a mouth. they were so like ida's that she smiled and said confidently, "you're wardo. aren't you!" he nodded gravely, then after another long silent scrutiny, turned away to pour the sand out of the old tin can he was carrying, in a pile under the peach-tree. if it had not been for the jam and the dirt lloyd would have caught him up and kissed him, he was such a dear little thing, with a thatch of short golden curls. but her fastidious dislike of touching anything dirty made her draw back. it was well for the furtherance of their acquaintance that she did so. he was not accustomed to caresses from strangers. he accepted her presence on the door-step without question, and presently, as the moments passed and she made no movement towards him, he went up to her with friendly curiosity. "is you got a sand-pile to your house?" he asked. "no," she confessed, feeling that he would consider her lacking on that account and that she must hasten to mention other attractions. "but i have a red and green bird that can talk, and a little black pony named 'tarbaby.' it's so little that there's nobody at my house now small enough to ride it. so it stays all day long in the field and eats grass." "i'm little enough to ride it," he began confidently. just then the doctor came out, and she sprang up, her heart throbbing. "i'm going now for the nurse," he said in a low tone. "she's due on the next train. keep her as quiet as possible. of course you'll have to let her free her mind, but promise her almost anything to soothe her. i'll be back in quarter of an hour." frightened at being left alone with such a weight of responsibility thrust upon her, lloyd tiptoed into the house. in the dim light she almost stumbled over the cot on which ned bannon lay in a drunken stupor, and her first glance at the bed beyond made her draw back in dismay. she never would have recognized the white face on the pillow as ida's, had it not been for the appealing eyes turned towards her. five years of poverty and illness and neglect had changed the pretty little school-girl into a faded, care-worn woman. she had been crying ever since she was taken sick, and now was so weak and hysterical that she caught at lloyd with a cry, and clung to her sobbing. "oh, it kills me to have you find me this way!" she gasped, "when i've tried so long to hide what we've come to. but i'm glad you've come, for the baby's sake! oh, lloyd, what's going to become of my little wardo!" it was several minutes before she could talk coherently, and then she began to sob out the story of her married life, her miserable failure to reform ned. lloyd tried to stop her presently, thinking she was becoming delirious, but she might as well have tried to stop a high tide. "oh, i have been so proud!" she sobbed. "i couldn't tell anybody. i couldn't tell you now if i wasn't afraid that i might die, like that poor woman across the street last night. she's left five little children. but i can't leave my little wardo like that!" she broke out desperately. "i _know_ he has inherited ned's awful appetite. i must stay and help him fight it, _for it's all my fault_. i gave him such a father. a father that he can never be proud of! a father that will be only a disgrace to him! oh, why didn't somebody warn me that it was not only a husband i was choosing but my little wardo's father! nobody ever told me _that_, and i was so young i never thought of any one but myself. and now the poor little innocent soul will have to suffer for it all his life long!" she was throwing herself about so wildly that lloyd was frightened, and rose from her chair to call one of the neighbours. but she could not break away. ida caught at her dress and held her fast in her frenzied clasp. "but i tell you i won't let him grow up to be like that!" she cried with her eyes glaring wildly at the drunken man on the cot across the room. "i'll kill him with my own hands first, while he is little and good. god would understand, wouldn't he? he couldn't blame me for trying to save my baby! but if he did i'd have to do it anyway. i'd have to do it and take the punishment. i can't have my little wardo grow up to be like _that_." the sound of his name brought the child to the door. he came pattering in, and climbing up on the bed beside his mother, stroked her face with his dirty little dimpled hand. the soft touch quieted ida in an instant, and with an effort to speak calmly she looked up at lloyd. "the doctor said the baby must go away for awhile, for fear of the fever. but i can't give him up to just anybody, lloyd. the neighbours have been good and kind, but i'm afraid he might find out from some of the children about ned--you know. but with you--oh, lloyd, would it be asking too much if--" she stopped with her question half uttered, but the imploring look in her eyes was a prayer that lloyd could not resist, and she held out her arms toward the little figure cuddled up on the bed. "i'll take him till you're better," she promised impulsively. the tears welled up in ida's eyes again. she was so weak the least thing started them. "he's never been away from me a single night in his life," she said brokenly. "i couldn't give him up to anybody but you." then seeing the frightened look that crept into the child's face as he listened to the conversation which he but half understood, she wiped her eyes and smiled at him tremulously. "dear little son, you want to help mother get well, don't you, lamb? then go with mother's dearest friend for awhile. she'll take care of you while the good doctor makes me well. and she'll tell you stories and make you have such a happy time." "and let you ride on the black pony," broke in lloyd eagerly, anxious to clear away the troubled pucker on the child's face that came at mention of a separation. "an' hear the wed and gween bird talk!" he added himself, his face lighting up at the thought. then he laid his plump little hand on ida's hot cheek to compel her attention. it was a gesture she loved, and she kissed his fingers passionately as he said with an eager voice, "she has a bird that can talk, muv'ah. i'll go and hear what it says an' n'en i'll come back an' tell you." evidently his idea of separation was based on the length of the neighbourhood visits he had made, and he accepted lloyd's invitation willingly, expecting a speedy return. "let's go wite away, dea'st fwend," he exclaimed, wriggling down off the bed. "i'll get my hat." if anything had been needed to complete lloyd's surrender to the little fellow's charms, it was the sweet way in which he gave her the title "dearest friend." that was what his mother had called her, and he thought it was her name. she caught him up and kissed him, despite the jam streaks and the dirt. "come on and have yoah face washed and yoah curls brushed, so we'll be all ready when the buggy comes back," she said, hurrying to make him presentable before his mood could change. as she gathered his clothes together and packed them for the short journey in a dress box which she found under the bed, it made an ache grip her throat to see how ida had thrown the shield of her mother-love around him in every way possible. there was no mark of poverty here. she had cut up her own clothes, relics of a happier time, to make the little linen suits that were so pretty and becoming. no child in the valley was better clad, or looked so much like a little aristocrat, as long as she was able to give him her daily attention. he was so accustomed to being washed and brushed and dressed that he made no objection to what most children of that age consider an unnecessary process, and when lloyd went about it with unpractised fingers, he gravely corrected her mistakes, and laughed when she made a play of the buttonholes being hungry mouths, that swallowed the buttons in a hurry. never in her life had she exerted herself so much to be entertaining, for she wanted to take him away without a scene. she wanted, too, for him to look his best, that he might win his own way at the locusts. she thought with a trifle of uneasiness that her impulsive act might not meet her family's entire approval. ida's separation from him was a painful one, for she realized her condition, and knew that it was possible that this might be her last sight of him. as lloyd turned away with her parting cry ringing in her ears, "oh, be good to him! be good to him!" a great tenderness sprang up in her heart for the child who put his hand in hers so trustingly, and trotted away beside her obediently at his mother's bidding. at the cot he stopped to clamber up and kiss the red face, burrowed down in the pillows in a sodden sleep. "my poor farvah's sick too," he explained looking up at her, as if bespeaking sympathy for him also. once in the buggy, while they waited for the doctor to unfasten the hitch-rein, he reached up and put his hand on her cheek in his baby fashion to ask her a question. the touch brought the tears to her eyes, it was so confiding, and she was still so shaken by the scene she had just witnessed. in a great throb of tenderness for the helpless little body given over to her care, she drew him closer, with a hasty kiss on the top of his curly head. "dea'st fwend," he said, smiling up at her as if he understood the reason of her sudden caress. then he cuddled his head against her shoulder in a satisfied way, saying, "tell me again what the wed and gween bird says." as they drove in at the entrance gate to the locusts, lloyd recalled an experience she had not thought of in years; an autumn day, when only a baby herself, not yet six, she had been left to make her way alone up this same avenue. she had never spent a night away from her mother, and she was to stay a week alone with her grandfather, who did not know how to sing her to sleep and kiss her eye-lids down so she wouldn't be afraid of the black shadows in the corners. here by this very gate she had stood, assailed by such a great ache of loneliness and homesickness that she was sure she would die if she had to endure it another moment. and there was the spot where, rustling around in the dead leaves, fritz had found the little gray glove her mother had dropped when she stooped to kiss her good-bye. as she remembered how she had carried that glove, all week, rolled up in a little wad in her pocket, to help her to be good and not to cry, she resolved that wardo should not have the same experience if any effort of hers could prevent it. she would devote her time to him night and day and keep him so happily employed, there would be no time for "the sorry feelin's" that had been her childish undoing. there was no care or accustomed tenderness he should miss. it was nearly dark when she reached home, and so afraid was she that the nightfall itself would make wardo homesick, that she began to provide for his entertainment even before she made any explanation to her astonished family. [illustration: "for once the red and green bird was on its good behaviour."] "oh, papa jack," she called. "please find the parrot right away for wardo to see, then i'll explain everything." for once the red and green bird was on its good behaviour, and began to show off as soon as it was brought to the front. while wardo watched it, wide-eyed and absorbed, lloyd gave an excited and tearful account of her visit to ida. the old colonel said something about the fever and the danger of infection, but when she had finished her story nobody else had the heart to show displeasure at what she had done. "and i won't let him be a trouble to anybody!" she added. "i'll take care of him every bit myself, and keep him out of the way." as mrs. sherman watched her leading the child up-stairs, talking to him at every step to keep his thoughts diverted from home, and then heard her giving orders to walker about her old high chair and little white crib to be brought down from the attic, she turned to mr. sherman with a sigh of relief. "she's found her own antidote for the spanish lessons, jack. we won't have to go away to the springs or the mountains now, i'm sure." chapter ix more shadows from that first night, wardo had the entire household at his feet. lloyd scarcely touched her own dinner in her anxiety to anticipate his wants. he was very near tears sometimes, when his furtive glances around the table showed only strange faces, but he was "a game little chap" as the colonel said, and "a credit to whoever had taught him his manners." he could not be induced to speak save in whispers, when lloyd put a protecting arm around the high chair where he sat, and with an indulgent smile leaned over with her ear almost touching his lips. before the dinner was over he fell asleep, worn out by the unusual excitement of the day, his curly head laid confidingly on "dea'st fwend's" shoulder. "sh!" whispered lloyd warningly to the coloured man who came in to change the plates for dessert. "wait a minute. carry him up-stairs first, please, papa jack. if i can get him undressed without waking him he'll miss one homesick crying spell anyhow." leland harcourt came just as she had accomplished the task, and betty tiptoed into the room to tell her. lloyd looked down at the little white-gowned figure in the crib, and shook her head as it stirred restlessly. "i'll stay with him," offered betty. "no, i must wait till i'm suah he's sound asleep. you explain to mistah harcourt, please, and i'll come down aftah awhile. oh, betty! isn't he a darling? it's going to be moah fun taking care of him than dressing dolls used to be!" it wasn't so much fun next morning, however, when he cried to be taken to his mother. every sob that shook the little shoulders tore lloyd's heart also, for remembering the violence of her own childish grieving, she put herself into wardo's place so completely that she cried too. then everybody in the house rose to the occasion. papa jack brought out tarbaby, and walked him up and down the avenue as long as wardo was pleased to sit in the saddle. mrs. sherman took him to the stables to see half a dozen gray kittens that had made their home in the hay, and walker carried him pick-a-back to look at the calves. after that the old colonel unsheathed his sword and got out his spurs, and started to tell the bloodiest battle tales he knew, and when they did not meet with the approval he expected, he actually invented a game of bear, which they played in his den. they played it till wardo began shrieking with thrills of real fear at the fearsome growling and the big fur gloves thrust at him from behind the leather couch. he grew so nervous and excited that the colonel was at a loss to know how to calm the whirlwind he had unintentionally stirred up. it was betty who came to the rescue. she led him down to the orchard, and taking him on her lap in the old swing, swung him so high up into the top of the apple-tree that they could look over and see the eggs in a blue-bird's nest. then little by little she stopped their swinging, till presently they were swaying very gently back and forth near the ground, and she had charmed him into quietness with one of the old tales that she used to tell davy, about the elves who live in the buttercups and ride far miles on the bumblebees. glancing up towards the house, she saw leland harcourt mounting the steps. it was the hour for lloyd's lesson. so although she had intended to spend the morning outlining a magazine story which she had in mind, she took a fresh grip on the swing rope, and began another tale. that was the way wardo's entertainment went on for the next few days. he was not allowed an idle moment in which to think of going home. so what with all these amusements and the novelty of constant attention from his elders, it was not long before he developed into a veritable little tyrant, demanding attention every moment of his waking hours. but when her unremitting service grew irksome lloyd had only to think of ida, tossing helpless and delirious at the mercy of the wasting fever. her daily visits to the cottage kept her in full realization of the seriousness of the case, and a deeper feeling of tenderness swept over her whenever she came back to wardo after one of these visits, for each time she knew that the dreaded crisis was nearer, and she could not bear to think of his being left motherless. "it will just kill him!" she thought with tears in her eyes, as she watched the pitiful quivering of his mouth and the manly attempt to choke back his sobs, whenever ida's name was mentioned. so to make sure that he was happily employed she took him wherever she went, except on that one short drive which she made daily to rollington. when she and betty spent the day at the beeches or the cabin, he was one of the party. when miss marks had another expedition to finish her garden fancies, he was included in the group, and a charming picture he made, as with a butterfly net in his hand, he stooped to point to the figures on the old sun-dial, that marked the flight of the happy summer. it was from this expedition that they drove back one evening in the early august twilight. he had been asleep most of the way home, but roused up as the carriage turned in at the gate. betty, leaning forward in her seat, drew a long breath. "oh, smell the lilies!" she exclaimed, looking across the lawn to where they stood, like tall white ghosts in the twilight. "how heavenly sweet! such a delicious ending to such a nice day. do you know, lloyd, i've been feeling all the way home as if i were going to hear from my book to-night. the publishers have had plenty of time to read it since i sent it. i feel it in my bones that there'll be a letter waiting for me." "_how_ do you feel fings wif your bones, betty?" asked wardo, sleepily raising his curly head from lloyd's shoulder. "oh, i couldn't make you understand," she answered. "it's just a sort of happy flutter all through you that tells you something nice is going to happen." "what's flutter?" asked the tireless questioner, but betty paid no heed. the carriage had reached the steps, and with a spring she was out, calling eagerly as she stepped into the broad path of light streaming across the porch from the hall door, "any mail for me, godmother?" "nothing but a package," answered mrs. sherman, coming out to meet them. "and it will keep. better run on in and eat your dinner first. cindy has been keeping it hot for you all." but betty could not wait. as she darted into the hall mrs. sherman turned to lloyd, who was half dragging, half lifting the sleepy wardo up the steps. "poor little girl," she said in a low tone. "i wanted to put off her disappointment as long as possible, and not spoil her happy day with such an ending. her manuscript has come back from the publishers." "oh, mothah!" exclaimed lloyd in distress. "you don't mean that they've refused it! they suahly couldn't have done _that_! maybe they've just sent it back for her to make some changes in it." betty's voice in the door stopped her. as long as she lived, lloyd never again smelled the odour of august lilies when they were heavy with dew, that she did not see the tragic misery of betty's white face as it appeared that moment in the light of the hall lamp. "they've sent it back, godmother," she said in a low even tone. "it wasn't good enough. it's all a miserable mistake to think that i can write, for i put the very best of myself into this and it is a failure." "no! no!" began lloyd, but betty would not wait for any attempted comfort. "i don't want any dinner," she said, then with her mouth twitching piteously as she fought back the tears, she ran up-stairs, and they heard the door close and the key turn in the lock. nobody ever knew what went on behind that locked door, for betty was as quiet in her griefs as she was in her joy and made no audible moan. she threw herself across the foot of the bed and lay there staring out of the window in the hopelessness of utter defeat. the katydids shrilling in the locusts seemed to fill the night with an unbearable discord. she put her hands over her ears to shut out the hateful sound. it seemed to her that nothing mattered any more. as she slowly recalled all her months of painstaking work, the keen pleasure that each hour of it had afforded her was turned into bitterness by the thought that it had proved a failure. only once before had she felt such hopelessness. that was at the first house-party, when she thought she was doomed to be blind. they had brought her the newspaper containing her first published poem. it was called "night," and as they guided her finger over the page that it might rest proudly on the place where her name was printed, she had faltered, "it's going to be such a long night, and there are no stars in this one!" now the outlook seemed even more hopeless, bereft of the star of her great hope. the ambition to be an author had been a part of her so long, that it seemed even more indispensable than her eye-sight. the slow hot tears began to drop down on her pillow after awhile, tears of mortification as well as disappointment. the girls would have to know. she had been foolish to make such a parade of her attempt. she should have waited. but then she had been so _sure_ that her story was a good one. that was the hardest part to bear, that she had been so mistaken. it would have been easier, she thought bitterly, if her rebuffs had come earlier; if some of her first contributions had been returned. but the way had been made so easy for her. her very first poems had been accepted, printed, praised. everybody had predicted success, everybody expected great things of her, even old bishop chartley. the girls at school had openly proclaimed her as a genius, the teachers had praised every effort and urged her to greater, the whole valley looked upon her as one set apart by a special gift. was it any wonder, she asked herself, that she had come to believe in her own ability. it was as if she had been urged down a flowery path by each one she met, to find that every guide was mistaken, and that the way they pointed out ended in a dismal slough of disappointment. presently she heard wardo's little feet on the stairs, pattering up to bed, and his voice raised in his ceaseless questioning; then a little later lloyd's voice singing him to sleep. after that there was the sound below of people coming and going, leland harcourt's laugh and the scrape of wheels on the gravelled drive. she felt a dull throb of gratitude that the family left her alone. a long time after she heard the closing and locking of doors, and then steps again on the stairs. some one stopped outside her door. "good-night, betty deah." "good-night," she answered in a voice which she tried to keep steady, but there was a sob in it, and divining that the kindest thing would be not to notice it, lloyd choked back the word of sympathy she longed to speak, and went on to her room. nearly an hour after betty got up, and lighting her lamp, sat down at the desk where the rejected manuscript lay. turning it over listlessly, she read a paragraph here and there, trying to see it through the eyes of the publisher who had returned it. if he had sent merely a printed notice of refusal, such as she had been told was customary, stating impersonally that it was returned with regret because unavailable, she would have started it off again at daybreak to another place, knowing that what does not fill the special need of one firm may be seized with alacrity by another. but this man had taken the trouble to explain why it was unavailable. now, in the light of that explanation, she wondered with burning cheeks how she could have thought for one instant that it was good. she could see, herself, that it was crude and childish and ineffectual; not the style in which it was written. betty was sure of her ability there. she was as conscious that her diction and composition measured up to the best standards, as an athlete is conscious of his strength. it was her view-point of life that had amused the great publisher. he hadn't ridiculed it in words, but she felt his covert smile at her schoolgirl attempt to deal with the world's big problems, and the knowledge that he had been amused cut her like a knife. pushing the package aside, she took out the last volume of her diary, and from force of habit made an entry, the record of the return of her manuscript. "it has come back to me, the little bark that the girls launched so gaily, with ceremony and good wishes. it has come back a shipwreck! it was almost easier to face blindness than it is to face this failure. how can i give up this hope that has grown with my growth till it means more than everything else in the world to me? how can i live all the rest of my life without it? somehow for years i have felt that the lord wanted me to write. the feeling was like the king's call to edryn, and i have gone on answering it as he did: "'oh list! thou heart and hand of mine, keep tryst, keep tryst or die!' "of course it would be folly for me to go on now, when it has been proved beyond all doubt that i am not able to keep the great tryst worthily, and yet--life seems so empty with this one high hope and purpose taken out of it, that i am not brave enough to face it cheerfully." it had long been a habit of betty's, formed in the early days at the cuckoo's nest, to comfort herself when things went wrong by imagining how much worse they might have been. now there was a drop of consolation in the fact that she had never displayed her pride in her book to any but the girls. it had been a temptation to show it to her godmother and papa jack and the colonel, especially after the girls had applauded it so enthusiastically; but the wish for them to see it at its best had made her withhold it in its manuscript form. the climax of her triumph was to be when she placed in their hands a real, full-fledged book. their criticism might have spared her the humiliation of a rejected manuscript, but she acknowledged to herself that it was easier to have the sentence passed on it by a stranger than by the three whose opinion she valued most. tiptoeing noiselessly around the room in order not to disturb any one at that late hour, she undressed slowly, and creeping into bed sobbed herself to sleep. betty had always been a sensible little soul, taking her small troubles like a philosopher, and next morning, when she was awakened by the first bird-calls and lay watching the light creep up the wall, the old childish habit of thought asserted itself, bringing an unexpected balm to her sore heart. she had always loved allegories. at the cuckoo's nest she had helped herself over all the rough places in her road by imagining that she was christian in "pilgrim's progress," and that no matter how hard a time she was having then, the house beautiful and the delectable mountains and the city of the shining ones lay just ahead. now in her greater trouble it was the allegory of edryn that brought comfort, because he, too, had heard the king's call and striven to keep tryst, and she remembered that when he knelt to receive his knighthood, something else besides pearls and diamonds flashed on his vestment above his heart, to form the letters "semper fidelis." "_an amethyst glowed on his breast in purple splendour to mark his patient meeting with defeat!_" "maybe without that amethyst he couldn't have spelled all the motto perfectly," thought betty. she sat up in bed, her face alight with the inspiration of the thought. she had met defeat and she had fallen into a grievous dungeon of disappointment, but she needn't stay in it. she sprang out of bed echoing edryn's words: "full well i know that heaven always finds a way to help the man who helps himself, and even dungeon walls must harbour help for him who boldly grasps the first thing that he sees and makes it serve him!" it was a brave way to begin the day, and it carried her over the first part of it so cheerfully that mrs. sherman began to think that she had overestimated betty's disappointment. it surely could not have been as overwhelming as she imagined. she did not know how many times that day betty's courage failed her. edryn's high-sounding words seemed like a hollow mockery and she brooded over the failure till she began to grow morbid and ultra-sensitive. late that afternoon mrs. sherman met her in the back hall with the manuscript in her hands. she was on her way to put it in the kitchen stove. promptly rescuing it, mrs. sherman finally obtained her reluctant consent to let her read it. "it is your right," said betty bitterly, "no matter how much it humiliates me. you have done everything for me, lavished everything on me as if i were really your daughter, and i have disappointed you at every turn. i couldn't be the brilliant social success you hoped for, it was useless to try. and i couldn't be the success in literature you had a right to expect, though i did try that with all my soul, mind and strength. i've been thinking about it all day, and i made up my mind at last, that i'd burn up that miserable story that i wasted so many months on, and then i'd go to you and tell you that under the circumstances it would be better for me to go away, and not be an expense to you any longer. as long as there was a prospect of my amounting to something some day that would make you proud of me, that would repay you in part for all you've done, i didn't mind deepening my obligation to you, but _now_--" she turned to the window to hide her face, but the next instant she found herself sitting on the top stair with her head on her godmother's shoulder, listening to such loving remonstrances that they should have driven away the last vestige of her bitter self-condemnation. it did help wonderfully to hear that her godmother and papa jack were not disappointed in _her_ though grieved for her disappointment; that they loved her for her own dear little self alone, and not for the things they hoped she would achieve, and that they couldn't let her go away, for nobody could ever fill the place of their dear little daughter betty. she wiped her eyes after awhile and smiled like an april day, but she still persisted that she must go away somewhere and teach if only to prove that she was good for something. much troubled by her evident distress, mrs. sherman finally went to talk the matter over with the old colonel. mr. sherman was away from home. several days after she called betty into her room. "papa has read your manuscript," she said, "and he thinks it would be a good thing to let you have your own way, and go off somewhere for awhile. he says that in his opinion your writing shows unusual promise, and that its only lack is the lack of nearly all young writers, your ignorance of life. you must know more of the world before you can have a message for it that it will stop to listen to. you must live and grow and gain experience, and he thinks the best way for you to do all that, is to depend on your own resources for awhile, and that the kindest thing we can do is to open the cage and give the little bird a chance to try its own wings. it will never learn to fly as long as we keep it hedged about so carefully. "he finally convinced me by quoting that legend of 'camelback mountain' to me. he says you are like shapur now, a vendor of salt who as yet can only follow in the train of others--write what has already been written. you haven't _the wares_ with which to gain a royal entrance to the city of your desire. you need some desert of waiting in which to learn the secret of omar's alchemy." "i know," said betty. "i know now what my writing lacks--the attar that gained him his royal entrance." she quoted softly, "'and no man fills his crystal vase with it until he has first been pricked by the world's disappointments and bowed by its tasks.'" "oh, betty, my dear little girl," said mrs. sherman taking the earnest face between her hands and looking down fondly into the trusting brown eyes raised to hers. "i suppose it's true, but i can't help wanting to save you from the pricks and the burdens. still i won't stand in your way. go ahead, little shapur, and may the golden gates swing wide for you, for i know you'll force them open some day, with the filling of your crystal vase." a quarter of an hour later betty was hurrying down the road in happy haste, a telegram in her hand for warwick hall. it was to madam chartley asking if she knew of any vacant position for teachers, in any of the schools of her acquaintance. chapter x by the silver yard-stick with her days shadowed by anxiety over ida's illness, the care and responsibility of wardo and her sympathy for betty's disappointment, lloyd still found one bright spot, untouched by other people's troubles. if, like the old sun-dial at warwick hall, she had taken for her motto: "i only mark the hours that shine," those hours when leland harcourt came to teach her spanish were the ones that would have been numbered. if she had felt that he regarded it as a bore, or that it cost him the slightest effort, she would have dropped the study immediately; but when he made it plain that it was the chief interest of his days, and the one thing that made his summer in the valley endurable, she could not help being flattered by his assertions, and exerted herself all the more to make the hour a pleasant one. it was an agreeable sensation to know that she could interest a man who had known so many interests; that it was she who held him in lloydsboro; that every turn of her head, every inflection of her voice, every phase of her varying moods had a charm for him. it made her tingle with satisfaction when she realized that she had justified gay's confidence in her power, but sometimes after he had gone she felt that she was not exerting it to the extent she had promised. she wasn't "keying him up to any higher pitch." she wasn't inspiring him with the ambition which his family seemed to think was all that was necessary to make him capable of any achievement. the idea of her influencing him did not seem as preposterous and ridiculous as it had the first few weeks of their acquaintance, but somehow it did not seem so necessary. sometimes she wondered if the "sweet doing nothing" that gay said was in his blood had not affected her also. maybe that was why she liked his very indolence, and forgave in him what she would have condemned in any other chronic idler. maybe he was influencing _her_. "but he sha'n't!" she declared to herself when the thought first startled her, and to prove that he hadn't she seized the first opportunity which came in her way to take him to task. his signet ring bore the same crest that was on the silver ladle, and he used it one morning to seal a note for her. with a significant glance in its direction she asked saucily, "señor tarrypin, when are you going to put your family motto into actual use? when are you going to begin striving till you ovahcome--till you do something really worth while in the world?" with the question came the quick remembrance of a winter day by the churchyard stile, and malcolm's boyish voice protesting earnestly--"i'll be anything you want me to be, lloyd." and then like a flash came that other scene and phil's pleading voice, "i say it in all humility, lloyd, this little bit of turquoise kept me 'true blue.'" if she had expected any such earnestness in leland's reply she was soon disillusioned, for with an amused side-glance at her, as if he found this serious mood the most diverting of all, he said indifferently: "oh--_mañana_." "to-morrow!" she translated quickly. "but to-morrow never comes." "then neither need the effort." "but without the effort--the striving," she persisted, looking down at the imprint of the tiny dagger on the seal, "there never will be any crown." he shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "what's the odds, when one doesn't care for a crown?" "you're just plain lazy!" she cried, provoked that her effort to inspire him had met with such a reception. he smiled as if she had paid him the greatest of compliments, then sat up with an air of interest. "this is a topic we've never struck before," he said lightly. "it's like coming across an inviting bypath we've never travelled over. now suppose you tell me just what is your ideal way for a man to spend his life in order to get the most out of it." lloyd stole a quick glance at him to see if he were in earnest. the light tone seemed almost mocking, but the half-closed eyes gazing out across the lawn were serious enough, and she studied her reply a moment, feeling that maybe her opportunity had come at last. "i think," she began timidly, "that the man who gets the most out of life is the one who makes most of himself--who starts out as they did in the old days to win his spurs and his accolade. maybe you know the story of edryn, the one that gave warwick hall its motto." he nodded, with that slightly amused smile which always disconcerted her. "yes, i know. that's gay's pet war-cry--'keep tryst.' but go on, i'd like to hear your version of it." in the face of such an invitation she found it very hard to proceed, but after a moment's hesitation she said almost defiantly: "oh, i know you'll considah it a bit of school-girl sentiment to look at life in such a figurative way, but i think it's beautiful: "'_to duty and to sorrow_,'" she quoted softly, "'_to disappointment and defeat thou mayst be called. no matter what the tryst there is but one reply if thou wouldst win thy knighthood!_'" "but suppose one never hears any call," he asked teasingly. "never feels the spirit move him to make any particular exertion." "then it's yoah own fault!" cried lloyd. "it's just as it says in the legend. '_only those will hear who wake at dawn to listen in high places, and only those will heed who keep the compass needle of their soul true to the north star of a great ambition!_'" "pretty strenuous work, isn't that, for an august day?" he answered. "and that's all very well for poets and priests and young idealists to dream of, but when all's said and done, what's the good? what's the use?" clasping his hands behind his head he leaned back in his chair and began reciting in a dreamy way, as if he were chanting the rhythmical lines, a poem called "drifting." it was like an incantation, and lloyd sat listening as if he were weaving some spell around her: "'my soul to-day is far away sailing the vesuvian bay. my winged boat, a bird afloat, swims round the purple peaks remote. * * * * * "'i heed not if my rippling skiff float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; with dreamful eyes my spirit lies, under the walls of paradise.'" as he went musically on, verse after verse, lloyd sat listening, wholly under the spell of his voice, yet with a baffled impotent sense of being carried along by a current in exactly the opposite direction from the one in which she had started to go. "'no more, no more the worldly shore upbraids me with its wild uproar--'" it was a lotus land of irresponsibility and ease and personal gratification that he was revealing to her as his ideal of life. he hadn't openly made fun of her enthusiasm and zeal, but he had chilled her ardour and silenced her, and left her with the feeling that her knights with their struggles after accolades and ambitions and all those things were silly folk who made much ado about nothing. it made her cross. in the silence that followed there was a shriek from wardo, somewhere back near the servants' quarters, and then such a lusty crying that lloyd sprang up frightened, and ran to the rescue. she was conscience-smitten for having left him so long to the care of enoch, cindy's little grandson, whom she had bribed to amuse him for an hour. it was only because his constant presence and interruptions seemed to bore leland that she had done it. wardo did make tyrannical demands on her attention, she had to admit, dearly as she loved the child. but when she found him crying from a bee-sting, and his poor little lip swollen out of all resemblance to a cupid's bow she felt a twinge of resentment towards leland. if she hadn't sent wardo away from her, she thought reproachfully, he wouldn't have been stung, and she wouldn't have sent him if leland had acted nicer about having him around. he had actually muttered in mom beck's hearing that it was "a beastly bore always having that kid poking in." she had resented it at the time mom beck repeated it, but excused it on the ground that he was not used to children, and that wardo's persistent questions and demands did tax one's patience dreadfully sometimes. but now as he clung to her, sobbing and screaming, she thought reproachfully, "he might at least have come around to find out what was the mattah, when he knows how devoted i am to the poah little thing, even if he didn't take any interest in him himself. i'll keep wardo with me all the time aftah this, even if it does bo'ah him." leading him back to the porch she took him in her lap and quieted him with the promise of a wonderful box of paints which he should have next day, with which to colour all the pretty pictures in all the magazines. and she quite ignored leland for awhile to punish him, not knowing that he understood her pique and was amused at it, and that he was enjoying the picture she made rocking back and forth in the low chair, with wardo's golden curls pressed against her shoulder, and the dimpled arms clinging around her neck. next day she forgot the paints until it was too late for her to get them, and betty who was going over to the beeches and past the store, offered to take wardo and let him have the pleasure of buying them himself. after they had gone she went down to the porch to wait for leland. it was almost lesson time. yesterday's feeling of resentment had entirely passed, and she looked down the avenue expectantly from her seat behind the vines. any moment he might turn in at the gate. the thought gave her a pleasant thrill of anticipation. as the moments slipped by she opened her book and began repeating the verses marked for her to memorize. presently she looked up to see a small coloured boy wandering up the avenue as if he had no particular destination in view and no great desire to arrive anywhere. she supposed he was the bearer of a message to the cook, but instead of going around the house he came towards her with a note in his hand. it was from leland she saw at the first glance, and written in spanish at the second. she could read enough of it to understand that he was not coming that morning, but for the rest of it she had to turn to her lexicon for help in translating. after some time and with much difficulty she managed to make out the reason. he had gone to louisville for the day quite unexpectedly with his brother--a matter of business. he was sorry not to be able to keep his engagement with her. only dire necessity kept him away, and he would be with her in the evening. until then adieu. she had to turn to her lexicon again for that next word, and having found it wondered how he had dared to put it in--that caressing little name, that word of endearment which he would not have presumed to use in english. it made the colour flame up in her face. but he was not coming. she let the note fall to her lap with an exclamation of disappointment. then wide eyed and surprised she sat up straight, suddenly aware how deep that disappointment was; suddenly realizing what she had never known till this moment, how large a place leland harcourt had grown to hold in her thoughts. everywhere she turned she could see his face with that quick flashing smile she loved to bring to it. she could see that impetuous toss of the head, the eager gesture of his long slender hand, the easy grace of his manner that gave him his distinguished, patrician air. "why, i'm like hildegarde!" she whispered wonderingly. "'his eyes are so blue they fill all my dreams!' only mistah harcourt's are dark." now if lloyd had never heard the story of the three weavers, never been a member of the order of hildegarde, never made the promise to her father about the silver yard-stick, her reverie in the hammock that morning might have led to a very different result. but because she had promised, and because she must keep tryst no matter how hard it was to do, she faced the matter squarely. "he wouldn't have put that word in the note if he wasn't beginning to care for me," she admitted, "and it wouldn't make me have that queah little sawt of half-way glad feeling if i wasn't beginning to care for him." the hammock swung faster. she was thinking of a day on the seashore years before, when she had been playing out on the rocks. and while she built her little castles the tide came creeping in, creeping so quietly that she did not know it was there until all the sand between her and safety was covered and a fisherman had to wade in and carry her out. although she did not put the comparison into words, that was what she felt was happening now, and much as she liked him and loved to be with him and missed him when he did not come, she felt that his influence over her was creeping up like a tide that would surely drown her ability to keep her promise to her father. "he _does_ influence me," she admitted to herself. "i might as well be honest about it. sometimes he can almost make me believe that black is white. how do i know but what i might grow to be like poah mistaken hertha? he was only a page, but she called him prince in her thought until she really believed him one." then as yesterday's conversation came back to her she sprang from the hammock saying to herself, "and he isn't even a knight, or he wouldn't have made fun of my poah little attempt to make him listen to the king's call. i'll not think about him a minute longah. it would only be squandahing the golden thread that clotho left me." running up the stairs she got her hat and started to follow betty. but all the way up and all the way down and all the way that she went towards the beeches that little word at the end of the letter--that sweet caressing bird-note of a name, sang itself over and over to her. he had called her that, and to-night he was coming. she did not go all the way to the beeches, for she met betty on the way back, wardo proudly bearing his box of paints, and betty re-reading a letter which she had found in the office. it was from madam chartley. there was a vacancy in warwick hall itself and she was to fill it; was to be her beloved miss chilton's assistant in the english classes. her happiness was as great over this news as her disappointment had been over the return of her manuscript. as madam chartley wanted her at the school by the first of september there were only two weeks in which to make her preparations to leave. although lloyd had heard the matter discussed she never fully believed that betty was going away from locust until she had the letter in her own hands and read madam chartley's expression of pleasure at the prospect of having betty with her permanently. it swept away all thought of her own affairs, for betty had grown as dear to her as a sister in the years they had been together. she followed her mournfully into the white and gold room, offering to help her with her preparations, and pouring out her regret and her disapproval of betty's plans. it wasn't necessary at all she insisted for betty to leave them, and locust wouldn't be the same place with her gone. wardo required less attention than usual that afternoon, for charmed with his new paints, he sat at a low table in betty's room while the girls sewed and talked, and coloured the pictures in every magazine he could lay his hands on. it was sunset when lloyd noticed how long he had been bending over the table, and persuaded him to lay aside his brush till next day. "look at the pretty red sunset," she urged, trying to interest him in something else. "it's as red as a cherry." he looked at it solemnly, considering her comparison. "no, it's wed as the blood of a thousand dwagons," he answered. lloyd looked at him in astonishment. "what do you know about dragons, child?" "betty telled me, when i painted one wif my paints, here in this book." he began turning the leaves of one of the magazines. "dwagons is the stwongest fings there is," he added with a knowing wag of his head, feeling that she needed enlightenment. "but my fahvah could fight one--he's so stwong. my fahvah could fight anyfing." "always the same old story," said lloyd in a low tone to betty. "isn't it dreadful? always harping on the perfection of his hero. seems to me it would have been bettah if she had not tried to keep the truth from him. the disillusionment is going to be feahful some of these days. it will shake his belief in everything." as she rocked back and forth with his warm little body nestled against her, she thought how differently ida would have chosen could she have known that this precious little soul was to be given into her keeping. if somebody had only gone to her with old hildgardmar's warning--"remember that in the right weaving of this web depends not only thy own happiness but the happiness of _all those who come after thee,_" it might have made a world of difference. but nobody had opened her eyes to the enormity of the responsibility she was assuming, and now, maybe despite all her careful training and frantic efforts to make her little son what she would have him be, she might not be able to turn his life out of the channel of his inherited tastes and appetites. it must be _awful_ she thought, hugging him closer, to love a child with the passionate devotion that ida loved this one, and have it grow up into a worthless vagabond like ned bannan. then a stray wonder crossed her mind if leland harcourt's mother would have been disappointed in him if she could have lived to see him wasting his splendid talents and opportunities; just drifting along in an aimless, thistledown sort of existence when he might be such a power for good if he would only exert himself. "he doesn't measuah up to the third notch at all," she admitted with a feeling of regret. just then there was a long distance call for her at the telephone, and hastily putting wardo down she went to answer it. "it's from mistah harcourt," she called carelessly, in answer to her mother's inquiry from the next room. "he was coming ovah to-night but something detained him in louisville, and he called me up to tell me not to expect him." she hoped that she had kept the flutter out of her voice that the sound of his voice brought into her pulses. for at the close of this commonplace message was the request that she make no engagement with any one else for the next night. he had something to tell her, and then--there was that same word with which he had closed his note--that soft musical name, seeming twice as personal and significant because of the tone in which he said it. she felt that he must be conscious of the quick blush it brought to her face as she hastily hung up the receiver. that night for the first time that summer lloyd was alone with her father and mother. betty had madam chartley's letter to answer, and the old colonel had gone out to dinner. the three sat on the broad white-pillared porch in the moonlight, lloyd on the step at her father's feet, her arm on his knee. ever since the telephone message her thoughts had been in a tumult. it was useless for her to pretend that she didn't know why leland wanted to see her alone, and what it was he was coming to tell her. she was glad and sorry and half frightened and altogether confused. "he isn't the prince at all," she kept saying to herself as if it were a charm that would help her ward off his approach and keep her true to her hildegarde promise. and yet--his wooing was the kind one reads of in books. she would be sorry to have _that_ come to an end. it was so delightful to have some one write poems to her and sing songs in such a way that every tone and glance dedicated them to her alone. if one could only go on that way through all the summers, being adored in that fashion, knowing she was crowned queen in somebody's heart, how delightful it would be. but she didn't want things to come to a crisis when she would have to make grave decisions and solemn promises. she didn't want to go one step farther than this borderland of romance where they lingered now. what she wanted was just to go on building her little castles as she had done that day on the sea-shore, and yet be assured that the tide wouldn't come creeping up any farther. it was just far enough now to be interesting. she wished they would begin to talk about things like that, but she shrank from bringing up such a subject herself. after awhile she broached one almost akin. "mothah," she asked, breaking a long comfortable silence that had fallen on them, "do you think that lucy is happy?" "no, not entirely--that is just at present," mrs. sherman answered slowly, as if considering. "she's hardly adjusted herself yet to the new order of things, but she will in time because she's such a yielding little soul, and is really devoted to her husband. for instance, when he insisted she gave up her church to please him and joined his. it meant a great struggle and a sacrifice on her part, and he is not at all devout, doesn't attend services more than twice a year; so it couldn't have made such a vital difference to him where she went. then at home her father always placed a certain amount in the bank every month to his wife's credit, so there never was any unpleasantness about money matters. while jameson is very wealthy and lavishes luxuries and beautiful clothes on her, he reserves the pleasure of buying and spending entirely to himself. treats her like a child in their financial arrangements, and doles out little allowances as if she couldn't be trusted to spend it intelligently. she's so sensitive that she'd rather go without than ask him for a cent, and it often puts her in an embarrassing position to be without." "in other words," put in papa jack, "he's thoroughly inconsiderate and selfish, although i imagine he'd be mightily amazed if any one applied that term to him since he is so lavish in giving things in his own way." "yes, he is," was the answer. "i've noticed it in a dozen little ways. it's always _his_ wishes and _his_ tastes that have to be consulted, never lucy's. yet aside from that trait he is a thoroughly fine man, and because she respects him and looks up to him and is such a sweet yielding little creature, he'll come in time to be the centre of her universe, and she'll revolve around him like a loyal little planet. but a girl of a different temperament wouldn't. if she were impetuous and highstrung like you for instance," she added with a smile at lloyd, "she would see the injustice of it and resent it so bitterly that there would be continual friction and jar. with your temperament you couldn't live peaceably with anybody like that." "i know i couldn't," admitted lloyd frankly, "especially if he showed any jealousy. mistah jameson is jealous of every friend lucy evah had at the post. he doesn't like it a bit when she refers to the good times she used to have with the boys there, even when they were just ordinary friends. half a dozen times i've seen the tears come to her eyes at some inconsiderate thing he'd say, and i'd think if i were lucy i couldn't sit there and take it like a martyr. i'd have to jump up and shake him till his teeth rattled." "what a cat and dog time you would have," laughed mrs. sherman. "worse than little mary ware's nightmare that she had after eugenia's wedding." "by the way," exclaimed mr. sherman, slapping his pockets to find a letter he had placed in one of them, "i knew there was something i intended to tell you. jack ware is on his way here now." then in answer to the surprise and the questions that greeted his announcement he explained, "i suggested making him assistant manager of the mines and the company wants to have a look at him, and put him through a sort of examination. he's so young they rather doubt my judgment in the matter. but they'll find out when they see him. we telegraphed him to come, and he left arizona several days ago. he'll be here only a day and night probably." lloyd left her seat on the step and took a chair beside her father, sitting straight and alert in her interest. it was hard to realize that jack ware was grown. he was only fourteen when she had known him on the desert. "oh, will you evah forget," she laughed, "the way he looked when we surprised him at the washtub, all tied up in an apron, helping joyce with the family washing?" "his readiness to pitch in to whatever is to be done is his chief characteristic," was the answer. "that is what makes him so valuable at the mines. patient and reliable and strong, he is one of the finest young fellows of my acquaintance. he'll be one of the big men of the west some day, for young as he is, he is into everything that makes for the welfare and development of the territory he lives in." all the rest of the evening was spent in recalling that visit to ware's wigwam, and when lloyd went up to bed, although leland harcourt's name had not been mentioned, she felt that her doubts and unspoken questions about him had been answered. she must not listen any more to that little name, that caressing little name that left such a thrill in its wake. "wise old hildgardmar," said mrs. sherman in a playful tone after lloyd had left them. "i don't suppose when you sent for jack that it entered your head you were giving her the very safeguard of contrast that i hoped she might have, but you will be doing it all the same." "no, i didn't," he confessed, "but i think you are magnifying the interest she has in harcourt. she never mentioned his name all evening." "but she talked all around him," answered mrs. sherman, "and i think she came to the conclusion before she went up-stairs that he does not measure up to your standards, and is almost sure that he does not even meet hers." chapter xi the end of several things the old colonel was in the library, telling for the hundredth time to the small listener on his knee the story of the battle that had taken his right arm. for since wardo had found that his father's father was in the same wild charge against the yankees, and had fought like a tiger till a wound in the head and another in the knee sent him to the rear on a stretcher, he could not hear the story often enough. and that led to other tales of things that had happened when the two soldier-friends were schoolboys. it puzzled wardo to find any resemblance between the mischievous boy whom the colonel referred to as cy bannon, and the dignified judge whose picture hung on the wall of the colonel's den. "oh, his name was cyrus edward then, just as yours is now," explained the colonel when he finally understood the difficulty. "but it was too long a name for such a grasshopper of a lad. he'd have been out of sight before you could say it all. so they cut it down to cy, just as yours is cut to wardo." "will i be judge cywus edwa'd bannon then when i'm gwoed up?" asked wardo. the seriousness of the big innocent eyes fixed on him made the colonel move uneasily. "heaven knows," he muttered. "_i_ don't. but it's to be hoped you'll take after him instead of the one next in line of succession." the question made such a profound impression on him he could not shake it off, and acting on the impulse of the moment he decided to take it to the judge himself for an answer. he would show him the winsome little lad who bore his name. he would demand of him what right he had to withhold from him the protection and shelter that was his heritage. the child's father had been cast off in proud scorn for his profligate ways. secretly the colonel had always thought that his old friend had shirked responsibility, and that the open repudiation of him by his family had given ned his final downward shove. it made no difference to the colonel that ned's name was a forbidden one in the household. _he'd_ tell cy bannon a few things. then his face softened and he smiled a trifle foolishly, muttering something about its being a case of the pot calling the kettle black. the judge might come back at him with the argument that he had been just as harsh with his own child for far less cause; but that would only give him a chance to urge a reconciliation on the ground that _he_ had surrendered gracefully, and had been glad of it ever since. cy would be a mighty queer sort of man, he concluded, if he could hold out against such a little grandson as wardo. he was a child to walk into anybody's affections. lloyd had left the pair so deeply absorbed in war-stories, that she was surprised on her return to the library a little later, to find no trace of either of them. they'd gone for a trolley ride walker told her, and expected to be gone most of the morning. so relieved of her responsibility lloyd made a longer visit in rollington than usual. the crisis had been passed some time now, and ida was so much better she was beginning to talk about wardo's return. she would be able to sit up in a few days. as lloyd entertained her with accounts of wardo's sayings and doings she realized more and more what a large place he had come to fill in the household, and how sorely they would all miss him when they had to give him up. ida's future looked so hopeless. it would be a long time before she would be strong enough to begin sewing again. she talked wearily of the burden she must assume as soon as possible, and lloyd came away weighed down with a sense of the injustice and wrong in the world and her helplessness to right it. it was nearly noon when she reached the house. wardo, who had just come in with her grandfather, rushed down the steps to meet her, his sailor hat on the back of his head, and his arms outstretched to give her glad welcome. he clasped her around the knees, and put up his face to be kissed. his morning's adventures made him feel that he had been away an age. then his voice trembling with the importance of his news, he announced the three things of his visit which had made the most impression on him. "i saw the place on my gwan'fahvah's head where the yankee bullet hit him, wite over his eye! an' the colonel he shaked his stick at my gwan'fahvah, and got wed in the face when he talked." then digging down into the mite of a pocket that graced his blouse, he triumphantly brought out the third item, a silver dollar that judge bannon had given him. by this time the colonel had come out, and in answer to lloyd's excited questions confessed the truth of wardo's tale. he _had_ shaken his stick at the judge. they had had a stormy interview and he lost his temper. he was sorry at first that he had taken wardo, the child was so frightened, but it proved a good move, for his appealing little face pleaded his cause better than anything else could have done, and in the end the judge was completely won over by his handsome little namesake. "_and_," concluded the colonel triumphantly, "he's promised to take ned back and give him one more chance. he'll keep the lad and his mother in any event, and he's to send for them just as soon as she's able to be moved." "oh, you blessed old peace-makah!" cried lloyd running up the steps to throw her arms around his neck and give him as rapturous a hug as wardo had given her. "you're a perfect darling, and you've made me so happy i don't know what to do or say. i believe i'm as happy as ida will be when she heahs it, and i'm going ovah there the minute i've had lunch, to tell her. you're a public benefactah and everything else in the dictionary that's extra nice and fine." it was joy to the colonel to have his praises sung like that, and he went around the rest of the week with a self-satisfied virtuous feeling that kept him beaming benignly on everything and everybody. in such an angelic humour was he, that walker confided to mom beck that he was "right sma'ht worried 'bout ole marse." it was a day of surprises for the whole family. on lloyd's return from her second visit to rollington, about the middle of the afternoon, she saw jack ware on the rear platform of the trolley-car, which passed the carriage when she was nearly home. he had arrived two days sooner than any one expected he could. taller, broader and browner by far than the slim lad who waved her farewell from the wigwam, he was unmistakably the same jack, and she would have recognized him anywhere. the second glance showed her father standing just behind him. they both leaned out and waved their hats as they passed the carriage. a moment later they were stepping off the car opposite the entrance gate, and waiting for her to come up. "anothah knight comes riding," she thought with a smile, wondering what put the whimsical notion in her head, for she did not count jack in that class. he was simply her good comrade of the plains, nothing picturesque about _him_. "i don't suppose there could be about the modern knight," she thought, amused that such fancies should come to her. "his only thought is to 'get there.' when young lochinvar comes out of the west now, his 'steed _is_ the best' from that standpoint, but you can't make the pictuahs and poems out of trolley-cars that you can out of hawses in those old-time fancy trappings." stepping out of the carriage, she sent it on ahead and turned to jack with such a cordial welcome that he reddened with pleasure under the brown of his sunburned cheeks. "this is my 'promised land' as well as mary's," he said as they walked slowly towards the house, and he paused to look up at the grand old trees arching over them. "you've no idea how i've looked forward to seeing all this. mother always pictured it as a sort of beulah land. then joyce took up the same tune, and lastly mary. she's the most enthusiastic of all, and sat up till midnight the day she found i was coming, to make a list of all the things she said i mustn't fail to see or ask about." taking a memorandum book from his pocket he opened it and held it out for lloyd and her father to see. there were three pages whereon mary had set down instructions for him to follow. lloyd laughed as she glanced at the head-line. things to do without fail make mr. rob moore's acquaintance, and see oaklea. see the beeches and all mrs. walton's curios, especially the bells of luzon and mother-of-pearl fire-screen. see if elise walton is as pretty as she used to be, and notice how she does her hair now. ask lloyd to play on the harp and sing the dove song, when the candles are lighted in the drawing-room. the list was such a long one that lloyd did not read farther, but glanced at the page headed-- things not so important, but i'd like to know ask about girlie dinsmore if you have a chance. is she as much of a baby as ever? what has become of that horrid bernice howe? does betty still correspond with the "pilgrim father?" look in the book-case on the north side of the library, and copy the name of that book on spiders. find out all you can about the man allison is going to marry. there were a dozen similar items. "isn't that characteristic of mary?" exclaimed lloyd. "she's such a deah little bunch of curiosity. maybe i oughtn't to call it that. a live, intense interest in everything and everybody would be moah like it. but only twenty-foah hours to do it all in! how can we manage it?" "not even that," answered mr. sherman, "for part of it must be spent with the stock-holders." "and you couldn't stay longah?" began lloyd. "no, i'm due back at the mines very shortly, and i want to make a flying visit to joyce in new york before i return, and stop over at annapolis for a glimpse of holland. you know i've never been east before, and i want to make the most of it." "well," said lloyd, planning rapidly as they walked on. "we'll crowd just as much as possible into this one evening. there'll be time for a drive befoah dinnah, that will give you a bird's-eye view of the valley, and a short call at oaklea and the beeches. we can ansah mary's questions as we drive along. befoah we start i'll telephone in to town and ask rob to come ovah and take dinnah with you to-night, and we'll ask the waltons to come ovah--" she would have paused just there even if they had not reached the house and her sentence been interrupted by jack's introduction to her mother and betty, for as she mentioned telephoning it flashed across her what leland had telephoned her, not to make any engagement for that evening, that he wanted to see her alone. "but suahly," she thought, "he'll undahstand that that is impossible undah the circumstances--the only night jack will be heah." the next few hours flew by as if winged. they caught lloyd up out of the dream-world in which she had been living and thoroughly wakened her. it was such a busy, breezy world from jack's outlook, so much to do and see and conquer. as she listened to his description of the little mining camp that had grown into a town in the short time he had been there, and then to the enthusiastic plans he unfolded to her father of what the mine owners might do to develop and civilize it, she found herself regarding this young aladdin of the west with growing consideration. he and rob found mutual interests from the moment of meeting. she noted with surprise how oddly alike they were in their views. she hadn't known before that rob was interested in so many things that she knew nothing about, political situations and juvenile court reforms, and trusts and unions and all those things. but then she had scarcely seen him since he had taken a man's place in the world. good old rob! she was proud of the way he was discussing these things with jack and her father and the colonel. there was a note of authority in what he said that the older men respected. but it did seem so funny for him to be talking of anything weightier than tennis and skating and his latin exams, or college scrapes. he talked almost as well as leland harcourt she admitted. after dinner jack took out his memorandum and crossed off all the items that had been attended to. while they were laughing over mary's questions and dictating answers for him to write lest he forget them, the waltons arrived with gay, who had been spending the day with them. a little later alex shelby followed. he was on mary's list, and had a number of messages to send to the little girl who had amused him so greatly at eugenia's wedding with her quaint speeches and unexpected questions. from the sound of voices and the number of people in the drawing-room, one might have imagined that a reception was in full swing when leland harcourt came up on the porch. lloyd, recognizing his step, hurried out to meet him and explain why she had been unable to grant his request. she ushered him into the drawing-room to meet their guest, anxious that they should be favourably impressed with each other. one could always count on leland for doing the graceful thing socially she thought complacently, but this one time he failed her. he had been at the house so constantly all summer that she did not think it necessary to make any special effort for his entertainment now, other than to draw him into the conversation with jack and rob. they were the comparative strangers and she was giving them the most of her attention. rob had been at the house only twice that summer. he was as interested as she in hearing about joyce and mary, so when she found that leland did not seem to care to talk, she went back to their former conversation, recalling the duck hunt, the picnic at hole-in-the-rock, and their dinner at "coffe al's" with phil tremont. everybody else was talking. everybody else seemed in good spirits but leland harcourt. lloyd could almost feel his silence it became so marked. "he's sulky," she thought. "it's just his horrid jealousy cropping out like his brothah jameson's. he doesn't want me to be nice to my oldest and deahest friends. i wish he wouldn't act that way." then she sang, since it was next in order on mary's memorandum, and while she sang, although she did not once look at him directly, she was uncomfortably conscious that his eyes were fixed on her with the determined gaze which they always wore when he had some resolve which he intended to carry out at all hazards. as she turned from the harp he was the first to rise and place a chair for her. bending over her he said, under cover of the applause, "i'll not be put off any longer. you must let me see you a few minutes just as soon as i can make an opportunity for you to slip out of the room." low as his voice was, rob, who was sitting just behind him, heard what he said, and then something else that he added in spanish. just a word, but it seemed to carry some potent appeal, for with a slight flush she rose. leland made the opportunity he wished, by saying to jack that one of the pleasures not to be missed was hearing gay play the violin. of course jack immediately asked for the nocturne which he suggested, and gay, always obliging, at once complied. under cover of the music leland stepped into the hall, holding the portière aside with a bow for lloyd to pass through. rob's glance followed them across the hall, across the moonlighted porch to the avenue, where the locust shadows fell dense and black. then he turned his attention resolutely to the music, listening as if in rapt enjoyment, but in reality never hearing a note. the nocturne came to an end, and there was an encore and still another before lloyd came back into the room. she was alone, and rob, in one quick glance, saw that all the bright colour had left her face. she was gripping her little lace fan nervously, and her hazel eyes had deepened almost to black as they always did under the strain of unusual excitement or emotion. he was sure that she was very near tears, and with his usual impulse to shield her from all that was unpleasant, he moved his chair so that no one else saw her agitation and began talking volubly about the first thing he could think of. it happened to be mary ware's method of getting rid of an unwelcome guest by playing fox and stork, and as she listened to the lengthy story he purposely made of it, she had time to regain her composure before any one else came up. afterwards he heard her explaining to mrs. walton, "mistah harcourt had to leave early, and didn't want to break up the pah'ty by coming in to say good night." when rob heard next day that leland was leaving the valley at once for a trip to south america, he thought he understood the cause of lloyd's agitation. it distressed her to have him go so far away. he had been positive for some time that there was some understanding between them. now this confirmed his suspicions. lloyd was grieved over the parting, but not to the extent rob imagined. many a night after, she sat curled up on the window-seat in her room, looking down through the trees to the place where she had stood with leland the night she bade him good-bye. she had not dreamed of such a stormy interview as that, she had not imagined any wooing could be so impassioned, reaching to such heights and depths. he hadn't paid the slightest attention when she tried to stop him, but had asserted triumphantly that he always got what he started out to win, and that this was a matter of life and death, and he'd win her love or die in the attempt. sometimes, in thinking it over, she was afraid he would make his threats true, and then sometimes she thought with a quick indrawn breath, remembering how his wild protestations had thrilled her, that it would have been sweet to listen if she could only have been sure that it was right. he vowed he would come back when he could prove to her that he had won the accolade which she seemed to think was so essential, but she did not look for him. in her heart she said that the one real romance of her life was at an end. everything seemed to come to an end just then. jack left the next morning, and before the close of the week wardo was taken away. ida was able to be moved to the old bannon homestead near anchorage. although it was the one great thing lloyd had wished for, she missed her little charge at every turn, and the days stretched out ahead of her long and empty. the first of september betty went away with elise walton under her wing, happy in the fact that she was to enter freshman at warwick hall, where the older girls had had such glorious times. the next day the harcourts closed the cabin and went back to san antonio. gay spent her last night in the valley at the locusts, and there were more bed-time confidences before they fell asleep, long after midnight. "seems as if the end of the summah brings the end of everything," sighed lloyd regretfully. "it's more like the beginning of everything for you," contradicted gay. "you'll be beginning your shopping soon, and your trips to the tailor and the dressmaker and the milliner, and you know you'll enjoy getting all the lovely clothes you're to have as a débutante. it'll be as much fun as planning a trousseau. then there'll be your début party in your aunt jane's lovely big town house, and all the rest that's to follow. it'll be just _grand_! a regular procession of social successes and triumphs. "and as for leland," she continued, mentioning him for the first time since his departure. "you needn't worry about _that_. of course we knew what had happened just as soon as he bounced in looking like a thunder-cloud, and announced his intention of leaving next morning. we'd seen it coming on all summer. jameson is tickled to death over it, for this trip to south america is one he has been wanting him to take for a long time. they have some property there that needs looking after, and he thinks now that his ambition is roused he'll take some interest in things." "but no mattah what he does," said lloyd firmly, "i'll nevah change my mind. i don't want to get married, gay," she added almost tearfully. "i read a story the othah day, the diary of a young girl that made me think of myself. she said, 'i don't want to be married. just to be loved and adored and written to and crowned queen of somebody's heart.' of co'se any girl wants _that_." "that's just the way i feel," confided gay after a moment's pause. then, "you've been so busy this summer with your own affairs i don't suppose you've noticed what's been going on around you; but i'm afraid i've got myself into a pickle. you see i've already invited kitty down to san antonio to spend lent with me, and i've written to frank percival about her, and told her about him and got them interested in each other. you know ever since i've been so intimate with kitty i've wanted her to marry frank, so that she'd always live near me. and now--now i'm not so sure that i'm going to live there myself." "you dreadful little match-makah," laughed lloyd, so amused by gay's confession that she never thought to inquire what had caused her change of mind about her own residence. "you oughtn't to meddle in such things. just look what a pickle you got _me_ into. if you hadn't made me promise what you did about being nice to mistah harcourt, and told him the things you did about me, we'd nevah have had the scene we did, and would have been good friends always. but look what you've done. sent him on a hopeless chase aftah a shadow, for he says he'll nevah change his mind, and i _know_ i won't change mine." gay giggled. "when an irresistible force meets an immovable body, what _does_ happen? i've always wondered." "just what will happen when mistah harcourt comes back," was lloyd's dignified answer. "_i'll_ not be moved." "and he's not to be resisted," said gay. "so there we go in the same old circle. but i'm glad for some reasons that you're so determined, for if i _should_ make up my mind to live in the valley then i'd be glad you were here instead of in san antonio." "oh, are you all going to buy the cabin?" exclaimed lloyd, sitting up in bed in her eagerness. "how lovely." "no, 'we all' are not," confessed gay. "i _knew_ you didn't have any idea of what was going on this summer. but--well, you know who my first 'knight of the looking-glass' was. he says the scripture says that 'the first shall be last,' and he insists he is _both_. he wants to buy the cabin some day, so that my little mirror can hang there always, up among the roses where he first saw me. it _would_ be sweet and romantic, wouldn't it? but it doesn't seem exactly fair to kitty to get her tied up down there and then skip out and leave her." "kitty isn't tied up yet, by a long shot," laughed lloyd, who found it hard to take gay's shy confession seriously. "but i can't get used to this lightning change in you. you were so suah you'd not have any darby and joan emotions in yours while 'life is may.' you've talked all summah against early marriages." "i'm not an 'immovable body' like you. and i would be a little nearer gray hairs if we waited for two years as we'd certainly have to do, but even if we didn't wait it wouldn't be the same as it is with lucy and jameson, and some other young married people i know. alex is so _different_. well, he is," she insisted indignantly. "what are you laughing at? you know he's different." "yes, i do know it," answered lloyd, instantly sobered by her realization of the fact that gay was no longer joking, but was laying bare her heart's dearest secret. "he's a deah, good fellow, and he'll be just as loving and true and sweet to you always as the old doctah is to aunt alicia. nobody could want moah than that i'm suah. so heah's my blessing and the hope that you'll live to keep yoah golden wedding as happily as they are going to do." she leaned over and kissed her tenderly. they talked so late that night that gay almost missed her train next morning, but as she scrambled breathlessly on to the rear platform she called back happily, "what's the odds, even if it did make me late? it was such a nice wind-up to such a glorious summer." chapter xii six months later it was a cold snowy afternoon, late in january. rob moore, looking at his watch as he hurried along the street, found that he was ten minutes ahead of the time at which the next car was due to start to the valley. rather than wait on the windy corner or take refuge in the already crowded drug-store, he walked on down to the car-shed. he rarely left town this early. as he sprang up the steps and took his seat in the waiting car, he saw that it was the one usually filled by the school-children living in the suburbs. it was already nearly filled now by half-grown boys and girls, flocking in with their book straps and lunch-baskets. it made him think of his own high school days. they laughed and joked and called messages back and forth as freely as if they were at home. here and there he recognized the younger sisters and brothers of some of his old classmates, so like them that it gave him a curious sense of having stepped backward several years. there was wat sewall wriggling and writhing out of his overcoat with the same contortions that fred always went through with. that slap on the back with its accompanying "hi, there, old man," was exactly like t. d. williams' salutation. he nearly always laid a fellow out flat when he spoke to him. and the couple on the seat in front of him, exchanging class pins, was only a repetition of a scene he had witnessed dozens of times. with a reminiscent smile he shook out the pages of the evening paper which he had bought as he came along and glanced at the head-lines. but before he had time to read further the girl in front of him exclaimed, "look, harry! here comes miss sherman! isn't she perfectly stunning in that dark blue broadcloth? i think she's the prettiest débutante of the season." "she's a peach," was the enthusiastic answer. "i say, ethel, she looks like you." rob did not see the girlish blush which rose to ethel's cheeks, for at the first exclamation he had lowered his paper to peer quickly through the window. he had just a glimpse of a slender stylish figure hurrying into the ticket office. the girl in front was speaking. "i suppose i've been more interested in the débutantes this year than any other because cousin amy is one of them. she comes out to anchorage for a week-end now and then to rest up, and i keep her talking the whole time about what they do. she says that miss sherman is the most popular of them all, with the girls as well as the men. she's had so many beautiful entertainments given in her honour, and she's been asked to help receive or pour tea or do something or other at every single function that's been given in louisville this winter. i think it's perfectly grand to be out in society when you can be as great a success as that. they say that the american beauties sent to her in just one day sometimes would fill a florist's shop window. there's a man from cincinnati who sends them all the time. he's crazy about her. i should be too if i were a man. cousin amy has a photograph of her taken in evening dress, and she's simply regal looking. i don't wonder she makes a sensation wherever she goes." "here she comes now," interrupted the boy, turning with a stare of frank admiration. rob turned too, as lloyd came down the aisle, glancing from one side to another for an empty seat. her face was glowing from her walk in the cold wind, and the little hat of dark blue velvet and her rich dark furs made her seem fairer than ever by contrast. hers was a delicate, patrician style of beauty, and rob in one critical glance saw that this winter in society had given the graceful girl the ease and poise of a charming woman. the little school-girl on the seat in front had good reason for admiring her so extravagantly. he rose as she came nearer, and stepped out in the aisle to give her the seat by the window. "oh, rob! this is great!" the little school-girl heard her exclaim cordially. "i haven't seen you for an age. how does it happen you are going out on such an early train?" much as she was interested in "harry's" remarks, she wished he would keep still at least until the car started. she wanted to hear how this big handsome man answered her adorable miss sherman. she would have been shocked could she have heard his second remark. "there's a big flake of soot on your nose, lloyd." "thanks," she said, almost looking cross-eyed in her endeavour to locate it. "there usually is in this dirty town. there! is it off?" she scrubbed away with a bit of a handkerchief she took from her muff. "and i was flattering myself as i came along that i looked especially spick and span," she sighed. "it's refreshing to have somebody tell you the truth about yoahself, and you nevah were one to mince mattahs, bobby." the old name on the lips of this pretty girl so like the old lloyd in some ways, yet so bewilderingly unlike in others, stirred him strangely. "better throw off your furs and that heavy jacket in this over-heated car," was his only answer. "you'll take cold when you get off if you don't." she thanked him for the suggestion, and, as he hung her wraps over the back of the seat, settled herself comfortably for the hour's ride. "now tell me all about it," he began as the car started. "all that you've been doing these last months. of course i've kept up with you in the papers. i know that you went here and went there, and that you wore sky-blue pink folderols at this banquet and velvet satin crêpe de chine at the country club dinner, with feathers and jewels to match, but that's no more than all the rest of the world knows. i want to be let in on the ground floor and told about the inner workings of this social whirl. how have you managed to do it all? to vibrate between town and country and not peg out. you look as fresh as a daisy; as if the pace that kills agrees with you." "i haven't vibrated much," she answered. "i've made aunt jane's house my headquartahs, and you know what a crank she is about hygiene. every moment not actually engaged in 'whirling' she had reduced to a system of simple living. what i have suffered in the way of naps in a darkened room when i wasn't sleepy, and hot milk when i loathed the idea of swallowing anything, and gymnastic exercises in the attic when the weathah was too bad for long walks, would fill a volume." "is the game worth the candle?" he asked soberly. she hesitated. "well, yes. for a season anyhow. i wouldn't want to keep up such a round yeah aftah yeah, but i _have_ had a good time, and i must confess it's awfully nice to be really grown up and have everybody treat you with the consideration due yoah age." they were out in the open country now. the car stopped, and as the door opened to admit a passenger, the shrill voices of some children skating on an ice pond near the road floated cheerily in. lloyd looked out the window with a smile at the gay scene. "i'd like to be out there with them," she confessed. "look at that little girl in the red mittens and tam o'shanter. she skates exactly the way katie mallard used to. oh, deah, didn't we used to have fun with her down on our ice pond?" "do you remember the day malcolm broke through when he was trying to cake-walk on the ice?" asked rob with a reminiscent grin. "he was laughing about that only last week when he took me to the country club dinnah. i've seen a lot of malcolm this wintah." "i thought he was rushing molly standforth." "well, he is, pah't of the time, but he's rushed me too, as you call it, just as much." rob gave her a keen glance, but she made the announcement in such a calm way that he said to himself there couldn't be much in it as far as she was concerned, or she wouldn't have spoken of it in the way she did. at anchorage the boy and girl in front left the car, he with such open solicitude for her comfort as he helped her off that lloyd's eyes met rob's with a twinkle. "aftah all, it's good to be young like that," she said. "don't you remembah kitty and guy ferris at that age? how we used to tease kitty for keeping a dead rose and a valentine and a brass button from his military coat, tied up with a blue ribbon in a candy box?" "but we boys had a better time teasing guy about the lock of kitty's hair that he carried around in the back of his watch. his watch got out of order, and when the jeweller opened it and found all that hair in the back, he didn't say a word, but with a most disgusted look tossed it into the wastebasket as if it hadn't been guy's most sacred possession. i was along with him, and i simply roared. guy didn't have the nerve to ask for it, just stood there looking like the big silly he must have felt." the series of reminiscences that this story started lasted all the way out to the valley. the red streak of the wintry sunset had faded out of the west when the car stopped there, and lloyd looking out into the cold gray gloaming saw that the snow was beginning to fall again. "let's get out and walk the rest of the way," she exclaimed impetuously, snatching up her jacket and furs as she rose. "i haven't had a twilight walk in the country this wintah, when it's all good and gray like this, with snow-flakes in yoah face." they were off in another instant, and as he stood on the station platform helping her on with her wraps, she held up her face to feel the stray flakes blowing cold and soft against it. he smiled at her childish delight in them, and seeing the smile she started up the narrow path ahead of him, laughing over her shoulder. "there's no use denying it," she called back. "when i want to be the propah dignified young lady i'll have to stay in town. just the smell of the country, the fresh earth, the fallen leaves, has such a rejuvenating effect that i want to tuck up my skirts and skip and run as i used to." "come on," he exclaimed gaily, falling in with her mood. "i'll race you to that dead sycamore up the road." she looked up at him, her face dimpling as she noticed how he towered above her and how broad were the shoulders in the big overcoat. then she shook her head sadly. "nevah again, bobby! we're too old and dignified. i'd almost as soon think of racing with the judge as with you now. what if somebody should see us? they'd be shocked to death. there's some one now," she added, peering forward through the dusk. "only old unc' andy coming back from his rabbit traps," answered rob, as the grizzled old coloured man shuffled nearer. uncle andy had been the gardener at oaklea more years than lloyd could remember, and now as he stepped out of the path with elaborate courtesy to let her pass, she delighted his soul by stopping with a friendly inquiry about himself and family. "lawd, if it aint the little cun'l herself!" he chuckled. "all growed up and a bloomin' like a piney! i reckon, miss lloyd, youse forgot the time that you pulled up all the pansies in my flowah beds 'cause you said they was makin' faces at you." "no, indeed, uncle andy," she answered with a laugh, and started to pass on. but the encounter with the old servant seemed somehow to set her back among the days when she had been almost as much at home at oaklea as she was at the locusts, and prompted by some sudden impulse she called over her shoulder as she had often called then: "unc' andy, tell mrs. moore that mistah rob won't be home for dinnah. he's going to stay at the locusts." it was a familiar message although it had been several years since andy had heard it. he looked back bowing and scraping, and then walked on chuckling to himself. taken by surprise, rob did not remonstrate when she thus took his consent for granted. if she had waited to ask his permission to send such a message home he would have made some excuse to decline, and then left her at the gate. that night under the measuring tree when he listened to her singing he had resolutely made up his mind to keep out of the way of temptation. since then he had become convinced that she was engaged to leland harcourt and had put her out of his dreams as far as possible. now that she had left him no choice, he gladly accepted the opportunity that fate seemed to throw in his way, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of it. the fitful snow had stopped falling again by the time they reached the gate, and the stars were beginning to glimmer through the bare branches of the locust-trees. as lloyd looked up the avenue, and saw the lights from many windows streaming out across the white-pillared porch into the winter night, her gay mood suddenly changed to one of intense feeling. "isn't it deah?" she said in a low voice. "i nevah had it come ovah me so overwhelmingly, how good it is to come back to the things that nevah change--that nevah fail! the home-lights and the home-loves, the same old trees and the same old sta'hs and the same old chum!" rob made no answer, but his silence was only another proof to lloyd that she had found her old chum unchanged. he never answered at the times when she knew he felt most deeply. rob's silences expressed more sometimes than other people's speeches. he was talkative enough at dinner, however, and between them he and lloyd made the meal such a lively one that the old colonel heaved a sigh when it was over. "i'd give a good deal if our whist club didn't meet to-night," he said in response to lloyd's question. "i surely would have asked them to postpone it if i had known you were coming out to-night." "suahly not a time-honahed institution like that!" exclaimed lloyd teasingly, "and when it's yoah turn to entahtain it. rob, we haven't found out what refreshments mothah has for them. think of wasting all this time without knowing." it had always been a matter of interest with them in earlier times to have a finger in this particular pie. it was one thing in which mrs. sherman was most careful to humour her father's whims, and she always pleased him by giving her personal attention to the dainty little suppers which she served after the game. lloyd led the way to the pantry and they lifted covers and opened doors, smelling and peering around till they unearthed all the tempting dishes that had been so carefully prepared for the occasion. "we'll be in at the end," warned lloyd as the colonel's old cronies began to arrive, "and in the meantime i'll pop some cawn. i used to think that old majah timberly came for my cawn as much as he did for the game." to his great annoyance a telephone message called mr. sherman over to the confederate home. he had looked forward to a quiet evening in front of the great log fire, and was loath to leave the cosy room and cheerful company. presently some household matters claimed mrs. sherman's presence up-stairs, and she too had to go, leaving lloyd at the piano, playing runs and trills and snatches of songs as a sort of undercurrent to their conversation. rob in a big armchair in front of the fire, looking comfortable enough to want to purr, glanced around the familiar old room that long association had made as dear to him as home. "why don't you read your letters?" he asked, his gaze happening to rest on a pile of various sized envelopes lying on the table near him, all bearing lloyd's name. she turned around on the piano stool and held out her hand for them as he rose to take them to her. "i forgot all about the possibility of there being any mail for me," she said, tearing open the first one. "this is from betty. i know you want to hear that, so i'll read it aloud." crossing the room she seated herself under one of the silver sconces in the chimney corner, so that the candlelight fell on the paper. she had never relinquished the idea that came to her on her return from school that rob was growing especially fond of betty. it seemed to her such a desirable state of affairs that she longed to deepen his interest in her. "i am not being carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease, by any manner of means," wrote betty. "life at warwick hall as a pupil is one thing. it is quite another to be a teacher. but i'm gaining experience and that's what i came for, and best of all i'm having some little successes that make me take heart and feel like attempting more. i have had two little sketches of school-girl life accepted and _paid for_ (mark the paid for) by the _youth's companion_, and a request for more. '_true hope is swift and flies with swallows' wings. kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings._' you can imagine how happy i am over it, and what castles in the air i am already building again." it was a long newsy letter, telling of a reception she had attended at the white house, to which she took half a dozen girls in madam chartley's place, and describing a famous lecturer who had been at the hall the day before. "betty's a girl in a thousand!" said rob approvingly as she slipped the letter back in its envelope. "she's a dear little piece, with sense and pluck enough for a dozen." his hearty tone confirmed lloyd's suspicions, and she looked as pleased as if he had paid her a compliment instead of betty. she led him on to express a still deeper appreciation, by telling of some of the things that elise walton had written home about betty's kindness to the new girls and how they all adored her. then she opened the next letter. "from phil tremont," she said, glancing down the page. "he's back in new york and has just seen eugenia, who is still delighted with housekeeping, and makes an ideal home for stewart and the doctor. and he's seen joyce," she added, turning the page, "and joyce is as happy as a clam, struggling along with a lot of art-students in a flat, and really doing well with her book-cover designs and illustrations." she read a paragraph aloud here and there, then hastily looked over the last part in silence, laying it down with a little sigh. rob glanced up inquiringly. "i wish he wouldn't make such a to-do about my writing moah regularly. it makes a task of a correspondence instead of a pleasuah, to know that every two weeks, rain or shine, i'm expected to send an answah. i like to write if i can choose my own time, and wait till the spirit moves me, but i despise to be nagged into doing it." "you write to betty every week," he suggested. "yes, sometimes twice or three times. but that's different. i haven't seen phil for two yeahs and when you don't see people for a long time you can't keep in touch with them." "the song says, 'absence makes the heart grow fonder,'" quoted rob mischievously. "maybe it does if you're old friends, and have lots to remembah togethah, but it seems to me that absence builds up a sawt of wall between people sometimes, especially if you've known each othah only a little while, and at a time when you're both growing up and changing all the time. do you know," she added musingly, dropping the letter into her lap and leaning forward to gaze into the fire, "i believe if phil and i had been togethah daily i'd have grown awfully fond of him. when we were out on the desert in arizona, i was only fou'teen that spring, he was my ideal of all that was lovely and romantic, and i believe if it hadn't been for those talks papa jack and i used to have about hildegarde and her weaving, i'd have done like foolish hertha, cut my web for him then and there. i did imagine for awhile that he was a prince, and the one written for me in the sta'hs." "and now?" asked rob, in a low tone, as if afraid of interrupting the confession she was making more to the fire and herself than to him. "now," she answered, "when he came back to be best man at eugenia's wedding i still liked him awfully well, but i could see that my ideals had changed and that they didn't fit him any moah 'as the falcon's feathahs fit the falcon.' still i don't know, maybe if we had been thrown togethah a great deal from the time i first met him, it might have been different, but as i say, absence made a sawt of wall between us and we seem to be growing farthah and farthah apart." "and now you're sure he's not the one the stars have destined for you?" "perfectly suah," she answered with a laugh, then leaning back in the chimney corner again, opened the third letter. the envelope slipped to the floor as she read, and stooping over to return it, he saw quite unintentionally that it bore a south american stamp. she was reading so intently that she did not notice when he laid it in her lap, but as soon as she finished she tossed it into the fire without a word. her face flushed and her eyes had an angry light in them. as she caught his grave look, she shrugged her shoulders with a careless little laugh, to hide the awkward pause, and then said lightly: "i think mammy eastah's fortune will come true. there won't be any prince in my tea-cup." "why?" "wait till i get the cawn-poppah and i'll tell you." she was back in a moment with the popper and several ears of corn which she divided with rob, and started to shell into the big dish which she placed on the floor between them. she shelled in silence a moment or two. "it's this wintah in society that's given me that opinion," she said finally. "the view i've had of it through my hildegarde mirror. the knights have come riding, lots of them, and maybe among them i might have found my prince in disguise, but the shadows of the world blurred everything. out heah in the country i'd grown up believing that it's a kind, honest old world. i'd seen only its good side. i took my conception of married life from mothah and papa jack, doctah shelby and aunt alicia, and yoah fathah and mothah. they made me think that marriage is a great strong sanctuary, built on a rock that no storm can hurt and no trouble move. but this wintah i found that that kind of marriage has grown out of fashion. it's something to jest about, and it's a mattah of scandal and divorce and unhappiness. sometimes it made me heart-sick, the tales i heard and the things i saw. i came to little mary ware's conclusion, that it's safah to be an old maid." [illustration: "she poured the corn into the popper and began to shake it over the red coals."] drawing a low stool nearer the fire, she poured the corn into the popper and began to shake it over the red coals. "it's dreadful to be disillusioned," said rob, smiling at her serious face. "that's one reason why i keep so 'far from the madding crowd.' my old friends have been good about remembering me with invitations and i've been sorely tempted to accept some of them just to see what kind of a show was going on. but i couldn't accept one and refuse another and i couldn't afford to go in wholesale; carriages and flowers and the bummed up feeling that follows make it too expensive for a poor man like me. it's nearly over now, i suppose, anyway." "yes, the fancy dress ball on valentine's night will be the last big thing befoah lent." "who is to be your escort?" "mistah whitlow, probably. he hasn't asked me yet, but he saw aunt jane this mawning and told her not to let me make any engagement, for he was coming to ask me as soon as i got back to town monday." "bartrom whitlow!" exclaimed rob, shifting his easy lounging position to an upright one, and looking very stern. "lloyd, you don't mean to say you're going with _that_ man! he isn't fit to be invited to decent people's houses, much less fit to shake hands with their daughters. some of the others are bad enough, goodness knows, but he is the limit. you simply can't go with him." "well, you needn't ro'ah so," exclaimed lloyd with a little pout, as if she resented his dictatorial, big-brother tone. secretly it pleased her, for it had been a long time since she had heard it. "rather than let you go with him i'll accept my invitation and take you myself!" "what a sweet martyr-like spirit!" laughed lloyd, teasingly. "i certainly feel flattered at the way you put it, and i appreciate the great sacrifice you're willing to make for my sake. of co'se i don't want to go with mistah whitlow if that's the kind of man he is, but it seems rathah late in the day to raise a row. he's called on me several times this wintah and sent me flowahs and danced with me, just as he does with all the othah girls. i know aunt jane believes he is all right, because she is very particulah about my company. i can't see any way to get out of going with him as long as she's given him to undahstand that i would, but for me to hold you to yoah offah and make you make a martyr of yoahself on the altah of friendship." "you know very well, lloyd sherman, _no_ fellow would count it martyrdom to escort the most popular débutante of the season to the last great function." she opened her eyes wide, astonished at such an unusual thing as a compliment from rob. "oh, i'm just quoting," he added to tease her. "that's what i heard an enthusiastic admirer of yours call you on the car this evening. but i'm in dead earnest, too. my offer is a sincere one." "very well," responded lloyd quickly, "i'll hold you to it. i suppose you've seriously considahed it. you'll have to go in fancy costume, you know." his face showed plainly that he had not thought how much his offer involved, but after an instant's hesitation he made a wry grimace and laughed. "that's all right. i die game. i haven't been to anything for two years, but i'll see you through on this deal. 'i'll never desert micawber.' name the character i'm to represent and i'll get the costume." "i think a teddy beah would be most in keeping if you're going to glowah and growl the way you did a moment ago, or anything fierce and furious; bluebeard for instance. that would be fine, and i'll carry a bloody key and you can drag me around by the hair as an object lesson to all thoughtless girls who weave their mantles to fit unworthy shouldahs instead of using their yah'd sticks to do it right." "that old tale seems to worry you a lot, lloyd." "it does," she confessed. "i've thought about it every day this wintah. now this is all ready for the salt and buttah," she added as the last grain in the wire cage burst into snowy bloom. "i'll take it ovah to the old gentlemen while it's hot. you can be popping the next lot while i'm gone." mrs. sherman joined them presently, and the question of costumes was settled. "there's no use of yoah going to any expense for one," said lloyd, with her usual delicate consideration. "there are trunkfuls of lovely things still in the attic. come ovah next week and we'll look through them." so it came to pass that the old intimacy was, in a measure, resumed, for several calls were necessary to complete the arrangements for valentine night. that those arrangements were highly satisfactory might have been inferred from the account of the affair which appeared in the society columns next day, in which miss sherman and mr. rob moore were awarded the palm for the most unique and striking costumes. they had gone as bluebeard and his beautiful fatima. it was the crowning good time of the season, lloyd declared, for rob under cover of his disguise entered into the spirit of the occasion with all his old zest, and when rob tried, nobody could be better company than he. after that he fell into the way of an occasional call at the locusts. he was too busy to spare many evenings, but when lloyd came back to the valley, nearly every sunday afternoon was spent in their old way, taking long tramps together through the quiet country lanes and winter woods. chapter xiii the miracle of blossoming the beginning of lent was the end of all the social gaieties and most of the girls who had flittered through the season with lloyd fluttered away like a bevy of scattered butterflies to various resorts on the florida coast. kitty departed to make her long-talked-of visit to gay in san antonio, katie mallard went with an invalid aunt to biloxi, and lloyd came back to the country. she was almost as much alone as she had been that winter when she had not been allowed to return to warwick hall after the christmas vacation. true, allison was at home after her interesting trip abroad, with the macintyres, and lloyd spent many hours at the beeches. but raleigh claiborne's sister from washington was there on a visit part of the time, and raleigh himself made several flying trips, and although allison's engagement made her doubly interesting to the younger girls, it seemed to rise up as a sort of wall between them and their old intimacy. she had so many new interests now that she did not enter quite so heartily into the old ones. so it came about that lloyd fell quite naturally into her former habit of dropping in to see mrs. bisbee and mrs. apwell and all the other old ladies, who welcomed her with open arms. one blowy afternoon in march she took her embroidery and went to sit with mrs. bisbee awhile, beside the window that mrs. walton had laughingly dubbed the "window in thrums." the old lady, growing chatty and confidential over her quilt-piecing, seemed so unusually companionable, that lloyd remarked: "it really seems as if i'm catching up to you all, mrs. bisbee. as i get oldah everybody else gets youngah. why, this wintah mothah has been just like a sistah. i had no idea she could be so much fun. we do everything togethah now. i help with the housekeeping so that she can hurry through with it early in the mawning and then we practise, piano and harp, or she plays the accompaniments for my songs. and then we read french awhile and we go for long walks and we discuss every subject undah the sun, just as betty and i used to do. and we plan things to do in the deliciously long cosy evenings--surprises, you know, for grandfathah and papa jack. i believe i'm enjoying this pah't of my yeah bettah than the first." mrs. bisbee looked out of the window wistfully at nothing. "that's the way that it used to be here when daughter was at home," she sighed. "sometimes i think if i'd had the planning of the universe i'd have fixed it differently. just when your little girl is grown up to be a comfort and a joy, and the best company in the world, some man steps in and takes her away from you. i had daughter to myself only one short year after she got through school. then she married. of course it would have been selfish to have stood in the way of her happiness, yet--" she shook her head with another sigh, and left the sentence unfinished. "i have often wondered how i could have stood it if her marriage had been an unhappy one, like poor amy cadwell's. you know her." "only slightly," answered lloyd, recalling a face that always aroused her interest; a face with thin compressed lips and watchful defiant eyes, that seemed to have grown so from the long guarding of a family skeleton. it was not gossip the way mrs. bisbee told the story, only the plain recital of a sad bit of human history that had fallen under her observation. the cloud of it rested on lloyd's face as she listened. "that's the worst thing about growing up," she exclaimed bitterly when mrs. bisbee paused, "the finding out that everybody isn't good and happy as i used to think they were. lately, just these last few months that i've been out in society i've heard so much of people's jealousies and rivalries and meannesses and insincerity, that i'd sometimes be tempted to doubt everybody, if it were not for my own family and some of the people out in this little old valley that i've trusted all my life. "there's minnie wayland, whose engagement was announced last month to mistah maybrick. i don't see how she dares marry when her own fathah and mothah made such a failure of it, that they can't live togethah, and mistah maybrick's wife got a divorce from him on account of some dreadful scandal the papahs were full of. i couldn't go up and wish her joy when the othah girls did. she talked about it in such a flippant mattah of business way, as if millions atoned for everything. one of the girls laughed at me for taking it so seriously, and said that matches aren't made in heaven nowadays, and that i'd have to get ovah my old-fashioned puritanical notions and ideals if i expected to keep up with the sma'ht set. i thought for awhile that maybe it was only the sma'ht set who are that way, but what you've just told me about mrs. cadwell, and what i've heard lately about several families right in our own little neighbahhood, shows that it's _all_ a bad old world, and these yeahs i've been thinking it so good i've been blind and ignorant. i suppose it's for the best, but i'm sorry sometimes that my eyes have been opened." mrs. bisbee sighed again at her vehemence, and then quite unexpectedly piped up in a thin tremulous voice, with one of the songs of her youth. in a high minor key and full of quavers, it was so ridiculous that they both laughed. "'i sat beneath a hollow tree, the blast it hollow blew. i thought upon the hollow world, and all its hollow crew. ambition and its hollow schemes, the hollow hopes we follow, the world and all its hollow dreams-- all hollow, hollow, hollow!'" "that's the way it seems to you now," she said. "it's the reaction. but you mustn't let it make you pessimistic. when you get to feeling like that you'll have to do like old abraham did, quit looking at all the sinners in sodom, and hunt around for the ten good men." a whole row of sunday-school lessons rose up in mrs. bisbee's mind. she had taught a class for thirty years in the vine-covered stone church whose spire she could see from her window, and lloyd was used to her startling and unexpected application of scripture texts. "or better still," she continued, "turn your back on entire sodom, and look away to the plains where the faithful pitched their tents. the world is full of that kind of people to-day as it was then, the faithful who never join themselves to the idols of the heathen, but who tend their flocks and live good peaceful lives, and in all their journeyings, wherever they go, _raise an altar to the lord_. "it's the marriages that are founded on _that_ rock that never fall," she added reverently, her mind skipping from the tent-dwellers of genesis to the wise builder in the parables with the ease of long practice. "'_and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not; for it was founded upon a rock._'" "sometimes just the wife's part is built on it. she's the only one that raises the altar. sometimes the man is the one. of course that's better than all being on the sand, and saves many a marriage from being the wreck it would have been if they'd left god out of it altogether. there! i never did think it all out in words quite as straight and clear and convincing to myself before. but i've often had the idea come to me when i'd be sitting in church looking at old judge moore's white head in the front pew, and thinking of the trouble _he'd_ had--the sorrow and accidents and misfortune that have beat on _his_ house--and his faith standing up bigger and stronger than ever. even his wife's death couldn't shake it." here she paused to lean nearer the window and nod and smile at some one driving past the house. "it's agnes waring," she explained, as lloyd looked up too late. "or agnes bond, i should say. i never can remember to call her that, although she's been married over two years. now _there's_ a happy marriage if ever there was one. the good old-fashioned sort like the judge's, for they're both of the faithful. and do you know, my dear," she continued lightly, "i shall always hold you responsible for that. it was your making such a picture out of agnes at that martha washington affair that brought her out of her shell and gave john bond a chance to discover her. miss sarah thinks so too. by the way, she was here yesterday, and she told me that she has about consented to break up housekeeping and go to live with agnes. it's so lonely for her since poor miss marietta died." "yes, i know," said lloyd softly, thinking of the happy release that had come to miss marietta only the week before. "now, there was another case," resumed mrs. bisbee. "nobody who saw her lying there in that beautiful dress that was to have been her wedding gown, and with that wonderful smile lighting up her face, could doubt what sort of a foundation she and murray cathright built on. that was a love that outlasted time and reached past even death into eternity itself. so don't you go to doubting that it doesn't exist any more, my dear." lloyd made one more call on the way home, stopping in at the apwalls' with a magazine which mrs. bisbee had asked her to leave. oddly enough the conversation turned to the same subject that she and mrs. bisbee had been discussing, but she went away in a very different mood from the one in which she left the first place. old mr. apwall irritated her. he was in one of his sprightly facetious humours, when he delighted in making personal remarks in a teasing way. "well, my little lady," he began. "i hear you've had a whole string of admirers dangling in your wake this last year. oh, you needn't deny it!" he added, shaking a finger at her in a way he considered playful. "we've heard the gossip about that young texas fellow and that man from the north who nearly wore out his private car coming down to see you every whip-stitch and that old duck from cincinnati that you refused. refused them all! oh, yes, you did, though. we heard about it. but you must remember the story of the lass who went through the forest looking for a straight stick. she kept throwing them away and throwing them away, getting harder to please at every step, until she'd gone through the whole forest, and had to pick up a crooked one at the last." he laughed childishly at his own tale. "look out that you don't get a crooked stick!" mrs. apwall broke in sourly. "that's about all there is left lying around to choose from these days, to _my_ notion. but land sakes, alexander, quit teasing the child. you talk as if all her chances are gone by and that she's doomed to be an old maid. the happiest lot of all, _i_ say, for there's no man living but has some crook in him, and most of 'em are all crookedness." she darted a warlike glance in his direction. lloyd left as soon as she could get away politely, wondering how they had heard so much of her affairs. she had refused both proposals, but she didn't know that any one outside the family knew anything about it. she wondered now if she had been over particular, for the crook that mrs. apwall insisted was in every man was only a slight one in the case of the owner of the private car, principally a matter of little refinements of speech and appearance which one had a right to expect of a man in his position and whose lack argued to a dainty girl like lloyd some corresponding coarseness of nature. she had seen the other man slightly intoxicated one night at a theatre party, and could never quite forget the maudlin smile with which he poured out complimentary speeches by the wholesale. the conversation at the apwalls' brought back two very disagreeable occasions that she did not care to remember, and she made up her mind as she walked rapidly along towards home that it would be many a day before she went back there. they always gave her a gloomy impression of life. the roads were so muddy that she had to take to the railroad track, stepping from one cross-tie to another to avoid the sharp cinders between. presently she found herself walking along the rail as she and betty used to do on the way to school, balancing themselves with outstretched arms and counting how many steps they could take without slipping off. that was the way she and rob had taken their walk the week before. it had been too muddy to go anywhere save along the track and they had walked the cross-ties for two miles in the face of a keen march wind. it was soft and balmy to-day, fluttering her hair and skirts in a playful way wholly unlike the boisterous flapping with which it had ushered in the month. as she went along she peered into fence corners and up at the budding branches, happy over every sign of spring. if the roads were dry enough by the end of the week she and rob intended to take a long tramp through tanglewood in search of wild flowers. anemones, harebells and spiderwort, foxgloves and dog-tooth violets, she knew them all, and the haunts where they came the earliest. she rarely gathered them, but went from one hiding-place to another for a glimpse of their shy faces, welcoming them as she would old friends. lloyd loved the woods like an indian, and one of the most satisfactory things about rob's companionship was that he enjoyed them in the same way. often they tramped along, scarcely saying a word a mile, finding the vibrant silences of the wood better than speech, and their mutual pleasure in them sufficient. after the winter in town, which had been an unusually cold and severe one, lloyd longed for the beginning of spring, and from the call of the first robin and the budding of the first pussy-willow, spent as much time as possible out of doors. april came in with a week of sunny days which hurried everything into luxuriant leafage and bud. when rob came over one warm day for his usual sunday afternoon walk, the whole world seemed so near the verge of bursting into full bloom that the very air was aquiver with its half-whispered secrets. faint delicious odours stole up from the moist earth and the green growing things that crowded up out of it. even the old locusts, conscious of a hidden wealth of sweetness which was soon to make a glory of their gnarled branches, nodded in sympathy with all that was young and riotous. there were so many things to discover near at hand that lloyd and rob sauntered about the place first, before starting farther afield. there were spring beauties covering the little knolls in the pasture, like a fall of rosy snow. there were violets down by the ice-house, and early columbines starting out from the crevices of the rockery, holding up slender stems, whereon by and bye their airy blossoms would poise like a flock of light-winged butterflies. lloyd, happy over every tiny frond she found unfolding itself in the fern bed, and every yellow dandelion that added its mite of gold to the young year's coffers, was so absorbed in her quest that she did not notice any difference in rob's manner. he walked along beside her, saying little, but with the same air of repressed eagerness that the whole april day seemed to share, as if like the locusts, he too was conscious of some inner wealth of bloom, some secret happiness whose time for sharing with the spring had not yet come. once when he answered her enthusiastic discovery of a snowdrop with only an absent-minded monosyllable, she glanced up at him curiously. there was such a light in his eyes and such an unwonted tenderness in his expression that she wondered what he could be thinking about. across the pasture they went, down through the orchard where the peach-trees were turning pink and the clusters of tiny white plum buds were already calling the bees, and around again to the beech-grove at the back of the house. it was a sweet flower-starred way, and lloyd, bubbling over with the spirit of the hour, began to hum a happy little tune. suddenly she stopped short in the path, turning her head slightly with the alert motion of a young fawn. "what is it that smells so delicious?" she demanded. "it's almost heavenly, it's so sweet." then after another long indrawn breath, "i'd think it was lilies-of-the-valley if it were any place but out heah on the edge of the wood-lot. they _couldn't_ be way out heah. it must be some rare kind of wild flowah we've nevah discovered." leaving the path, they both began searching through the underbrush, pushing aside the dead leaves, and stooping now and then to examine some plant that did not seem entirely familiar. "i'm positive it's a _white_ flowah," declared lloyd, closing her eyes and drawing in another breath of the faint, elusive fragrance. "only a white flowah could have such an ethereal odah. it makes you think of white things, doesn't it? snow crystals and angel wings! oh, they _are_ lilies-of-the-valley!" she cried the next instant, stooping over a bed of green from which rob was raking the dead leaves with a stick. "and don't you remembah now," she cried, her eyes like eager stars as she recalled the incident, "_we_ planted them heah ourselves, yeahs ago. i remembah digging up a whole apronful of some thrifty green things out of the flowah bed undah yoah mothah's window and lugging them ovah home all the way from oaklea. you planted them in this place for me, because we thought we'd build a play-house heah, but aftahwards we changed our minds and built it by the grape-vine swing." "it seems to me i do have a faint recollection of something of that sort," rob answered. "i know i had a row with unc' andy once for digging up some of his pet borders and transplanting them over here, but i didn't know they were lilies." "i suppose we didn't know because we nevah happened to wandah this way aftahward when they were in bloom," she continued, seating herself beside them and parting the thickest sheaths of green to reveal the perfect white flowers hidden away among them. throwing aside her hat, she bent over to thrust her face into their midst, revelling in the purity and exquisite fragrance. "there's nothing like them!" she exclaimed, so intent on the beauty of the tiny white bells that she did not see the expression with which rob was looking down on her. there was a likeness between the two, he was thinking, the white-gowned girl and the white, white blossoms. they seemed spiritually akin. she touched one of the racemes softly. "it's a miracle, isn't it!" she said in a low, reverent tone. "a miracle that anything so sweet and white and perfect can suddenly come into being like this. it must have made those old lily bulbs wondah at themselves the first time they unfolded and woke up to find that such a heavenly thing had happened to them,--their hearts filled with this unearthly beauty and sweetness. don't you suppose it made the whole world seem different, that they're not yet done wondering ovah the surprise and joy of it?" she said it with a shy side-glance as if half-afraid he would laugh at such a childish fancy. then she looked up startled, at the unexpected intensity of his answer. "i _know_ it made the whole world different," he said in such a strange exultant voice that she hardly knew it for rob's. dropping to one knee beside her he singled out one of the lilies just beginning to burst from its sheath, and folded it close shut again in its green leaves. "look!" he said in the same exultant voice. "that's the way i've been for years, with something hidden away in my heart, unrecognized at first, then its sweetness only half-guessed at. and i kept it hid, and i thought never to tell you. but this morning in church it happened to _me_, this miracle of blossoming. i was sitting looking at you as i've done a thousand times before, and all of a sudden it came over me, just as sweet and unexpected as the bursting of these lilies, the knowledge that life is dear and the world beautiful because _you_ are in it. i think i've always held the thought of you in my heart, lloyd, but it has come to such full flower now, dear, i couldn't hide it from you long, even if i tried. it seems to me now that all of my life must have been a gradual growing up for this one thing--to love you!" then his face, glowing with an eager gladness that almost transfigured it, paled a little before the mute misery in hers. "oh, rob!" she stammered, finding it hard to believe that she had heard aright. "_don't_ tell me that! i've always loved you deahly, but not _that_ way." then as she saw all the light fade out of his eyes and his face settle into grim stern lines, she reached out both hands crying, "oh, you deah old bobby! i wouldn't have had it happen for the world! i can't _beah_ to hurt you this way!" her eyes filled and two big tears splashed down on the hands she had thrust impulsively into his. with a gentleness that stirred her even more than his words had done, he bent and touched them with his lips. "never mind, dear," he said with a great tenderness that brought a sob up into her throat. "don't think of it any more if it makes you unhappy. if you could have loved me it would have been heaven, but as you can't we won't talk about it any more. and--i still have my miracle. nothing can change that." she could not answer, the tears came crowding so fast, and as they walked back towards the house together all the brightness seemed to have dropped out of the april day. the sweetness of the lilies still followed them, however, and when she glanced around, wondering why, she saw that rob still held the one he had knelt to pick for her. he twirled it absently in his fingers, but as they parted at the steps he held it out to her with a smile so tender and full of understanding, that another sob came up in her throat and she took it without a word. chapter xiv the royal mantle the week that followed was an unhappy one for lloyd. everywhere she went it seemed to her that lilies-of-the-valley were thrust into her face. on the way to town people got on the car at nearly every station with great bunches of them that they were carrying to offices or to their friends. the florists' windows were full of them. men passed her on the street wearing them on their coats, and even the little shop-girl, who waited on her at the ribbon counter, had them stuck in her belt. when she called at mrs. bisbee's there was a box of them growing on her window-sill, and at home the whole house was permeated by the fragrance that floated out from the great crystal bowl on the library table. she could not get away from them, and they kept rob constantly in her thoughts. she told herself that she had never known anything quite so considerate and sweet as the way he had taken her answer. the more she thought of his quick putting aside of self in order that she might not be unhappy, the more it grieved her that he must be disappointed. she did not see him again until the following sunday. he came into church behind the old judge and mrs. moore, and lloyd dropped her eyes to her hymn-book, her heart in such a flutter that it sent a queer little tingle all over her. she was afraid to meet his glance, for fear the consciousness of their last meeting would send the telltale red to her face. in the pew just behind the moores' sat katie mallard with a girl from frankfort, who was visiting her, and as rob took his seat lloyd saw the guest's pretty eyes fixed inquiringly on him. then she whispered something to katie behind her fan. instantly the wonder crossed lloyd's mind what the newcomer thought of him, and then she wondered how he would appear to her if she could see him with the eyes of a stranger, without the intimate knowledge their long acquaintance had given her. she stole a glance in his direction, as the organist pulled out the stops and struck the opening chords of the voluntary. he was certainly good to look at, and, she concluded, the veriest stranger, if he were any judge at all of such things, must see at a glance that his was a strong character, that he would scorn to do a dishonourable thing and that the years behind him were clean and honest. then with a start she realized that she had been holding him up to her silver yardstick, and that he not only met its three requirements, but went far beyond. he had family, social position, everything that her father had desired for her save wealth, and she remembered how earnestly he had added, on that solemn watch-night, "but all these are nothing when weighed in the balance with the love of an honest man." this greatest of all had been given her, but she could not accept because--well, she didn't know why--but probably because it was just _bobby_ who had offered it, and she couldn't think of _him_ as being the one the stars had destined for her--a boy that she had made mud pies with. the old hildegarde story had been good for her in many ways, but it had made the prince of her dreams a vague personality unlike any man she had ever met. she had never put into words, even to herself, what she expected him to be like, but the shadowy image that her imagination sometimes held up had no flaw like ordinary mortals, no human faults and failings. and she would know him when he came, in some strange, mysterious way that needed no speech--his coming would be heralded like hebe's: "_before her ran an influence sweet, that bowed my heart like barley bending._" the congregation rose for the gloria and her eyes met rob's. for one instant in the quick lighting of his face she had a revelation of all that his "miracle of blossoming" meant to him, then he flashed her a reassuring smile that seemed to say: "never mind, old chum. we'll go on just as we've always done." that she had interpreted it aright lloyd knew when he came that afternoon as usual and proposed a walk over past the lindsey cabin. he seemed to have put himself into her place so fully that he understood just how she felt towards him; knew that it hurt her to have to withhold the one great thing he desired, and that his friendship was still as dear to her as ever. so with a fine consideration that she was quick to appreciate, he came back to his old place so naturally, and as such a matter of course, that it put her at her ease with him and made it possible for her to ignore the episode of the lilies as if it had never been. may came with its locust blossoms and the birthday anniversary that made her "old and twenty." one of her gifts was a beautiful saddle-horse, and she began her daily rides again. several times when rob could arrange to leave town earlier than usual he rode with her. early in june betty wrote that she was going up into the pine woods of maine for her vacation. she had been offered a position to teach an hour a day in a sort of summer school, a girls' camp, and the position had too many advantages to refuse. she would be back in time for a week or ten days at the locusts before the opening of the fall term at warwick hall. lloyd, who had looked forward to betty's companionship for the entire summer, was sorely disappointed. the same day that that letter came, rob told her that he was going away for awhile. some investments his father had made years ago had turned out to be worth investigating, and he was sure he could dispose of them advantageously. at any rate he was going to birmingham to try. he might be back in a week or two, and he might be away the entire month of june. if betty had been at home probably lloyd would not have missed him at all, but because she had to take so many of her walks and rides alone, he was often in her thoughts. "i can't expect to have every summah as gay as last one was," she said to herself one morning, as she busied herself about her room, changing the arrangement of the pictures. she leaned over to dust the ones above her low bookcase. they ran in a long panel, just above it, the series of garden fancies that leland harcourt had suggested. it was on a june morning like this almost a year ago that she had posed for some of them in doctor shelby's old garden. it seemed at least four times as long as that. she had grown so much older and wiser. she stooped to look again at the picture of darby and joan, under which was written, "hand in hand while our hair is gray." as she passed her duster lightly over the glass which covered the two dear old faces, she remembered that next week this devoted couple were to celebrate their golden wedding, and that she had promised to let them "borrow" her for a whole week before, to help with the preparations. an hour later she was opening the gate that led to the old-fashioned door where the ugly little chinese idol still kept guard and held it open. she found mrs. shelby out on her cool upper piazza, behind the moon-vines, in a low sewing chair. she was stitching daintily away on a bit of fine linen. "a wristband for one of richard's shirts," she explained, after her first moments of delighted greeting. "and i'll go right on with it, for i'm making him a set all by hand for my anniversary present to him. he's always been so proud of my needlework and had so much sentiment for the things i've made myself. i can't begin to tell you how glad i am to have you here. i've been sitting here all morning thinking that if my little alicia had lived what an interest she would have taken in all my preparations. i keep forgetting that she wouldn't be a young girl like you. it's alicia's granddaughter who would have been your age." it took only a question or two to open the gates into this gentle old soul's happy yesterdays, and lloyd listened and questioned, enjoying the quiet romance that she gathered bit by bit as one gathers the posies of an old garden and clasps them into a full-rounded nosegay. "aunt alicia," she asked presently, "were you _suah_ at the time that you were making no mistake? didn't you have any doubts or misgivings about the doctah's being the right one?" mrs. shelby laughed. "i must confess that i was a very silly girl who had read so many sentimental stories that my head was full of dreams of some faultless being who should appear like the prince to the sleeping beauty and change the whole world for me with a kiss. it was a long time before i could recognize him in the disguise of a poor country doctor. but i think we are apt to be that way about most things in life, my dear. familiarity disguises the real worth of most of our blessings. we don't appreciate them till we are forced to miss them for awhile." "but what finally showed you?" persisted lloyd. "what made you see through the disguise?" "oh, my dear," laughed mrs. shelby again. "i couldn't explain a thing like that! how do these moon-flowers know what calls them to open, or the tide when it is time to rise? they _feel_ it, i suppose. they just _know_! that is the way it was with me." lloyd came again next day prepared to spend the week. it would be hard to tell who enjoyed the visit the most. gentle aunt alicia fluttered around, hugging the sweet pretence to her heart that for this little space at least she had a real own daughter beside her, hers to call upon for any service that the little alicia would have gladly tendered. the old doctor spent every moment he could spare from his office in the spacious screened porch leading from the kitchen, where all the preparations were carried gaily forward. here, after the invitations were sent, lloyd spent her time. under her supervision the old satin wedding gown was brought out and aired and pressed and slightly altered. its white folds had turned to a mellow ivory in the years it had been laid away, just as the sentiment which cherished it had grown deeper and richer with time. once as lloyd intercepted a glance the old doctor exchanged with his wife as they brought out these reminders of their far-away bridal, it made her feel that she was touching with intimate fingers the heart of a sweet and tender old romance. from the yellowed pages of an old diary, she read a description of the original wedding feast, and with an enthusiasm which went ahead of mrs. shelby's own prepared to copy it in every detail for the golden wedding. jellies and cakes and salads, candied rose-leaves and rare spiced confections that had graced the first were all reproduced for this great occasion. lloyd beat eggs and shelled nuts and stirred icing with a zest, while she planned the decorations and gave orders right and left to a household who joyed to do her bidding. it was not until next to the last great day that mrs. shelby made the discovery they had overlooked a certain gold-cake, whose recipe was missing. "and i don't suppose it's to be found anywhere in the valley," she mourned, "unless they've kept phronie moore's old cook-book. she was one of my bridesmaids, and she made it with her own hands. it was one of her own special recipes that she was noted for, and i wouldn't have lost it for anything." "you know the judge must have kept it, alicia," the old doctor gently insisted. "you know the slightest thing she ever handled was sacred to him, and it stands to reason that anything she'd taken so much pride in, and written every page with her own hands, as you say, would be preserved. no doubt his daughter-in-law can find it for you without the least trouble." "even if she could i wouldn't want to borrow it," began mrs. shelby, but lloyd interrupted briskly. "i'll fix it all right for you, aunt alicia. i'll run right ovah to oaklea as soon as daphne gets this in the oven, and ask mrs. moore to let me copy the recipe for you." so that is how it came about that late that afternoon, lloyd opened the great iron gate at oaklea, and, following the familiar path under the giant oaks, reached the house to which she had long been a stranger. rob's dog, a fine gordon setter, came out with a boisterous barking, but seeing who it was, leaped up, licking her hands and wagging a friendly welcome. it seemed as if rob ought to be somewhere near. everything about the place suggested him. a familiar wide-brimmed gray hat lay on the hall table, his riding-whip beside it. up-stairs whither the coloured maid led her, there were other reminders of him: indian clubs and a tennis racquet in a corner of the hall, and a cabinet holding the various collections that had been his fads from time to time. "come in here, dear," called mrs. moore from the depths of a sleepy hollow chair. "i'm too tired to move, so i knew you'd excuse my sending down for you to come up-stairs." it was rob's room into which she was ushered. mrs. moore held out both cordial hands without rising, and drew her down for a kiss. "rob's coming home to-night," she explained, "so of course everything had to be swept and garnished for so grand an occasion, and i've nearly used myself up making things fine in his honour." her eyes filled with tears. "it's the first time he's been away since the dear 'daddy' left us, and i had no idea four weeks could be such an age. i'm so excited and happy over his coming that i can scarcely talk about it calmly. but you know what a dear good son my 'robin adair' is to me, so you can make allowances for a fond mother's foolishness." it was some moments before lloyd had an opportunity to make known her errand, apologizing profusely for putting her to any exertion when she was so tired. "oh, it's no trouble," answered mrs. moore. "i think i know right where to put my hand on the book in father's room. i'll step across the hall and see." left to herself lloyd gave a shy glance around the room, remembering the time when it had been a familiar playground, but now she had an embarrassed sense of intruding. many an hour she had spent romping in it while mom beck and dinah gossiped by the fire. they had had their menagerie and lions' den in that curtained alcove. here on the hard-wood floor between the chimney-corner and the window they had chalked the ring for their marble games. she leaned over and examined the floor at her feet with a smile. those were undoubtedly the dents that their top-spinning had left. mom beck had told them at the time, no amount of polishing could ever wipe out such holes. the little tin soldiers that used to stand guard on the window-sill had given place to other things now. the rocking-horse that had carried them such long journeys of adventure together had been stabled for years in the attic at the locusts. college trophies and pennants hung on the walls. a rifle and a shotgun stood in the corner where a wooden gun and a toy sword used to stay. the low table and the picture books had given place to a massive desk and rows on rows of heavy volumes bound in leather. then she recognized several things belonging to a later period. there was the shaving-paper case she made him the day he bought his first razor. she had been so proud of the monogram she burnt into the leather. it looked decidedly amateurish to her now. on the leather couch among its many cushions was the pillow she had embroidered in his fraternity colours and sent to him while he was at college. between the front windows where the desk stood, and just above it, ran four long rows of photographs set in narrow panels. most of them were group pictures, the first dating back to the time of her first house-party, and ending with some that had been taken the week of eugenia's wedding. it was like a serial story of all their good times, and hastily changing her seat she leaned her elbows on the desk for another look. but the nearer view revealed something that she had not seen at the first glance. _she_ was the central figure of every group. it was _her_ face that one noticed first, laughing back from every picture. abashed at her discovery, she scuttled back to her former seat, but not before her quick glance had showed her another photograph on the desk, in a silver frame. it was the last one miss marks had taken of her, in her commencement gown. she did not know that rob had one of them. she had not given it to him. mrs. moore called out something to her from across the hall, and as she turned to reply she faced still another picture of herself, this one in an old-fashioned silver locket swinging from the side of the mirror. it was the princess winsome with the dove. she was afraid to look any further. she felt like an eavesdropper, for the very walls were calling out to her those words of rob's that she had been trying for weeks to forget: "all my life seems to have been a growing up for this one thing--to love you!" she sprang up with the impulse to leave the room, to get away from these telltale voices that she had no right to listen to. but just then mrs. moore came back with the book. "you can copy it here at the desk," she said, laying out a sheet of paper and rob's big heavy-handled pen. she did not sit down while lloyd wrote the few lines, but stood with her hand on the back of the chair till she had finished. then she said with an amused smile, "i want to show you something funny, lloyd. i came across it this morning while i was looking over some old things of rob's. it's your first piece of needlework. you made it over here one rainy day under mom beck's instructions. it's so long ago i suppose you've forgotten, but i remember that rob tried to make one too, and stuck his fingers so often that he cried and gave it up, and you gave him yours to comfort him." opening a box which she brought from some drawer, she took out a sorry little pin-cushion. all puckered and drawn, its long straggling stitches scarcely kept in place the cotton with which it was stuffed. the faded blue silk was streaked and dirty as if it had been used for a foot-ball at some stage of its existence, and the pins that formed the crooked letter l had rusted in their places. but that it was accounted something precious, one could see from the way in which it was tied and wrapped and carefully put away in this box by itself. it was a relief to lloyd to find that mrs. moore did not attach any significance to the fact that rob thus treasured her old gift. she only laughed and said he was like her in that regard. she couldn't bear to throw away anything connected with his childhood. only that morning she had come across the little blue shoes that he had learned to walk in, and nearly cried over them, they recalled so plainly those happy days. "we are both full of sentiment for old things," she continued. "i believe it will hurt him nearly as much as me if we decide to leave oaklea and try to make a home somewhere else." "leave oaklea!" repeated lloyd wonderingly. "yes, rob has had such a splendid opening offered him in birmingham that he has been strongly tempted to move there. oh, i haven't told you the good news, have i! he succeeded in selling that property to a big corporation that needed it to extend their manufactories, and was able to get such a fine figure for it that now he can give up that horrid grind in the hardware business and go away in the fall for the last year of his law course. he has studied so hard with his grandfather that this one year is all that is necessary, and he will be the youngest lawyer to be admitted to the louisville bar when he gets through. his grandfather is prouder of that possibility than anything else connected with the boy." "but about your going away," began lloyd, anxiously, when she had expressed proper interest in the news. "oaklea won't be the same place with strangahs living heah. i can't imagine such a thing." "it isn't settled yet," mrs. moore answered cheerfully, and then rambled on to some other topic. but lloyd heard no word of what she was saying. a sudden panic had seized her at the possibility of rob's being taken out of her life for ever. the bare thought gave her a sinking of the heart and a sense of desolation such as a little child might have at being left alone in the dark. as she sat there trying to imagine how it would seem never to see him again, such a revelation of her own self came to her that it sent the colour surging up in her face and set her heart to fluttering like a startled bird. she knew now for whom she had been weaving all these years. this moment of self insight had torn away the disguise. _her prince had come into his kingdom!_ a pause in mrs. moore's remarks brought the embarrassing knowledge that she had not heard the question whose reply was being waited for, and she started to stammer some incoherent excuse, when a shrill whistle from below made them both start. the familiar sound was followed by a joyous barking from the gordon setter, and then rob's voice called gaily, "where are you, mother? six whole hours ahead of time, just to surprise you!" mrs. moore sprang up, all her weariness forgotten, and ran down-stairs to meet him. lloyd stood hesitating in the middle of the floor. she didn't want to intrude on this meeting, yet she couldn't stay there in his room, the room that babbled his secrets and reflected him on every side like a mirror. still hesitating, then going forward and halting again, she reached the landing midway on the stairs and saw him standing with his arm around his mother, who had forgotten everything else save the joy of his return. then he glanced up and saw her standing there, one hand on the polished rail, and her white dress trailing down the steps behind her. and the late afternoon sunshine stealing through the amber medallion window above her rested with such soft touch on her fair hair that it seemed that a halo of dim gold surrounded her. for an instant he thought he must be dreaming, and stood gazing at her with a look of happy wonder as if this were only another vision of the dream-saint always enshrined in his heart. but his next glance showed him that it was lloyd in reality, for at his adoring gaze she went all rosy red, and looked away in shy confusion. stopping only for the briefest greeting, she hurried past him, saying that aunt alicia was waiting, and the wonderful cake wouldn't be done in time, that his mother would tell him about it, and she'd see him at the wedding to-morrow. what happened afterward was all a sort of golden haze to lloyd. the afternoon of the anniversary came and went. she greeted the guests who came in a constant stream with their gifts and good wishes. she sang the old songs when they asked her to, she saw that every one was served to the sumptuous refreshments in the dining-room; she played her rôle of daughter of the house to such perfection that aunt alicia caught her hand gratefully every time she passed, and followed her with loving eyes as she flitted from room to room. she carried away the impression that it was all a beautiful sacred occasion, for the whole valley bared its heart for that little space to show its love for the good doctor who for half a century had been its standby in its times of stress and anxiety and bitter bereavement. yet the only moment that stood out quite clearly was the one when rob passed down the receiving line and stopped for a word about the perfect june day, and how sweet the white-haired bride of fifty years looked in her old-time satin gown and white roses. lloyd had answered gaily, fluttering her fan and adjusting the slender bracelet on her arm, in a careless way, but she had not looked up at him in her usual straightforward fashion. the festivities were not extended into the evening. because aunt alicia was not strong the invitations were only for the afternoon, and by sundown the last guest had departed. even lloyd went, saying merrily that she left them to begin their second honeymoon, but that she would be back next morning to help put things in order. there was company at the locusts that night, some business acquaintances of mr. sherman's whom he had invited to dinner, and who were interested in nothing but statistics about the south and other like stupid things. tired by the day's exhausting demands, lloyd left them when they went into the drawing-room, and stepping out on the porch sat down on the steps. the moon was coming up, turning the locusts to silver. presently she heard the sound of hoof-beats down the pike, and as she listened a solitary horseman turned in at the gate. she was not expecting rob, but even at that distance she recognized the familiar slouch of his broad-brimmed hat and the erect way he sat in the saddle. and she knew before a word was spoken, the moment he dismounted and stood before her that he had not come for a call, only to bring some message. but he did not deliver it at once, only asked who the guests were, and sat down beside her on the steps and talked about the trivial happenings of the afternoon. then a few minutes later she was walking along beside him under the locusts. the moonlight lay in silver patches among the black shadows and the air was heavy with the breath of roses. they stopped at the old measuring tree, and rob dropped the light tone in which he had been jesting, and his face grew tense in his deep earnestness. "it's no use trying any longer, lloyd," he said abruptly. "i can't give you up. the golden wedding to-day was too much for me." he took a step nearer. "dear, isn't there _anything_ i could do to make myself worthier in your sight? in the old days knights could go out and _prove_ their valour and fealty. couldn't you give me some such chance? set me a task? i'd go to the world's end to do it!" lloyd did not answer for a moment. leaning against the trunk of the gnarled locust, she stood idly tracing the outline of the four-leaf clover that he had cut beside the date the last time they measured there. then she said in a low tone: "yes, you can bring me the diamond leaf that we've talked about so often. by that token you'd prove that you were not only a true knight, but that all these yeahs you've been my prince in disguise." he smiled ruefully, thinking she had purposely set him a hopeless task. they had read the legend together, and he knew full well that abdallah found the diamond leaf of happiness only in paradise, but he took out his watch and opened the back of the case, saying hopefully, "my lucky charm has never failed me yet, how long will you give me to find it?" she held out her hand for the little talisman, the four-leaf clover she had given him so many years ago, but as he picked it up, the dry leaves crumbled to dust at his touch, and only one fell unbroken into her outstretched palm. "my good omen has failed me when i needed it most!" he said bitterly, but lloyd answered shyly, "no, don't you see? this is the _fo'th_ leaf. you have brought me what i asked for." for an instant he stood there, an incredulous joy dawning in his face, then grasping the little hand that closed over the clover, he asked wonderingly, "and my unworthy shoulders really fit your royal mantle _now_, dear? you are sure?" she looked up at him then, not a doubt in her trusting face as she slowly made answer, "yes, rob, 'as the falcon's feathahs fit the falcon!'" and then the old locusts, looking down on the ending of a story that they had watched from its beginning, stopped their swaying for a space, with a soft "sh!" each to each as one lays finger on lip in holy places. chapter xv "as it was written in the stars" and betty's diary "the lights are out and gone are all the guests." it is very late, but i must sit up and write the full account of it while it is all fresh and clear in my mind. besides i am too wide awake to sleep even if i should try. it was a beautiful, beautiful wedding; but i must go back ever so far if i am to have no gaps in this record. it is three years now since i went away to warwick hall to teach; full, hard years, but so rich in experiences and so helpful in my work that i'd gladly go on with them if i were not needed here at home. but they do need me now that lloyd is married and gone, and although she has not gone far and will be in and out every day, and her room is just as she left it, and her place will always be hers, still i am the daughter of the house in many ways, and can in a measure make up to godmother and papa jack all they have done for me. i think they do feel repaid to a great extent by my little successes and the prospect of more to follow by and by. it made me so glad and proud when i heard papa jack telling the doctor to-day about the essays the _atlantic_ had accepted of mine, and how pleased he was over the series of sketches that the new york publishers are going to bring out in book form in time for the holidays. the same publishers that refused my poor old novel too. it does not seem possible that two years and a half have gone by since lloyd wrote to me of her engagement, but it seemed a long time to look forward to then. her father and mother would not have consented to give her up any sooner even if rob had been in a position to ask it. now he has been a member of his grandfather's firm for a full year, and everybody says he is one of the most promising young lawyers ever admitted to the louisville bar. he has gone into his life work as he went into all his games--to win! and he is so big and strong and _dependable_, i know that godmother and papa jack feel perfectly safe in giving lloyd up to him. i think that even the old colonel finds it a little easier to be reconciled to the idea of her leaving because he is so fond and proud of rob. but he seems to take it to heart more than any one else. lloyd thought he did, too, and when she first began to plan her wedding she asked her father if he would feel hurt if she asked her grandfather instead of him to go with her to the altar and give her away. "you know, papa jack," she said in that saucy way of hers that no one about the place can resist, "you cut him off from the one chance he should have had to perform that ceremony, by running away with mothah. so it's only fair you should make it up to him now by giving him the honah of escorting me. besides you and she have each othah, and he feels so left out and lonely and is making such a deadly serious affair of my going away." papa jack saw it from her point of view and was entirely willing to do as she wished. when the old colonel found out what lloyd wanted, he was so touched and pleased and complimented that i think he must have lain awake nights trying to think of things to show his appreciation. this last week she called presentation week, because every single day he surprised her with some lovely present. the first day he gave her the little silver sugar-bowl with butterfly handles and the cream-pitcher shaped like a lily that he had promised her the first time she had a "pink party" up in his room, when she was a tiny little girl. the next day it was a purse full of bright new gold pieces, and the next a locket that had been his mother's, all set round with sapphires, and with sapphires strung at intervals on the slender chain that held it. one day the gift was a treasure of a rosewood chair and writing-desk that had belonged to lloyd's grandmother amanthis, with all the little mother-of-pearl articles that go with a desk, just as she had used them. she was too surprised for anything the day he gave her the harp. it had been called hers since she started to learn to play on it, but she never for a moment supposed he would allow it taken away from the locusts. the sixth present had no intrinsic value, but he had treasured it for years, a medal bestowed on one of his virginia ancestors by the king, as a reward for his services to the crown in those early days of struggle and stress in the colonies. then last and best of all in lloyd's eyes was a splendid copy of the beautiful portrait of her grandmother amanthis. i cannot distinguish it from the original that has always hung over the mantel in the drawing-room. the colonel had a fine artist come on from new york to paint it, while lloyd was at the seashore this summer. she was so happy over it and all her heirlooms. she said she didn't want her father and mother to give her any new silver. they had talked about a full set. she said there was so much old family plate over at oaklea, which she would far rather use. so godmother gave her a chest of linen, and papa jack some shares in the arizona mines. she has actually seemed to take pleasure in the thought that she is marrying a poor man, and has been preparing for it all during her engagement by keeping her expenses within a certain limit instead of spending in the lavish way she has always been accustomed to. she's taken such pride too in learning all the housewifely arts that her grandmother and the judge's wife were so noted for. eugenia and stuart tremont came several days ago, and joyce came with them to be one of the bridesmaids. phil could not leave his work just now long enough to come, but he sent the dearest little gift--a cut-glass honey dish and cover, with a honey spoon to go with it. the spoon is a flat gold one with a cluster of bees on the handle. the note he sent with it was dear, too, thanking her so beautifully for the inspiration and help her friendship had been to him, and for her good advice that sent him to "the school of the bees." lloyd was so pleased that she hunted up a little unset turquoise he had once given her as a friendship stone, and rob took it to town and had a jeweller set it into a tiny stick-pin for her, and she wore it as the "something blue" at her wedding. rob couldn't afford to give her an expensive present like the diamond pendant that raleigh claiborne gave allison when they were married last summer, but it pleased lloyd more than a queen's tiara could have done. it was just a little clasp to fasten her bridal veil. he had it made to order--only a four-leaf clover, but the fourth leaf was diamond-set, because, like the one abdallah found in paradise, it was the leaf of happiness. it was just a quiet church wedding, as simple as it could possibly be made, in the late afternoon of one of the sweetest, goldenest october days that ever shone on the valley. only her most intimate friends were invited to the ceremony, because the little stone church is so small, but the doors were thrown open to everybody at the reception that followed at the locusts. since the church has been frescoed inside and done over in soft cool greens, it makes me think of the heart of a deep beech woods. the light slips in through its narrow deep-set windows just as it does between the trees in the dim forest aisles. lloyd wouldn't have it filled with hothouse roses. she said nothing could be as appropriate as the wild flowers growing all around it in the country lanes and meadows. so there was nothing but tall plumes of goldenrod nodding in every open window, while the altar was a bank of snowy asters. she wanted them she said because aster means star, and it was at the altar her happiness would be written for her in the stars. she said, too, that as long as it was in the country and she needn't think of the conventions and could have things just as she pleased, she wanted it to be a white wedding--everybody in the bridal party to wear white. she said the old colonel wouldn't look natural to her in anything else that time of year, and all the others would appear to better advantage. every one said afterward what a beautiful picture it made. rob and malcolm and keith and ranald and alex are all handsome young fellows anyhow, and they looked bigger and handsomer than ever in their immaculate white suits. malcolm was best man and i was maid of honour. kitty and joyce and katie mallard were the bridesmaids. we girls carried armfuls of the starry asters and the men wore them as boutonnières. [illustration: "'she looked to me just like one of her own lilies.'"] as for lloyd, when she came out of her room, her dress trailing behind her like a soft, pure-white cloud, so light and airy it seemed as if it must have been woven on some fairy loom, and with a great cluster of lilies-of-the-valley in her hands, she looked to me just like one of her own lilies. poor old mom beck, who had dressed her, stood behind her with the tears streaming down her black face, saying, "honey, you sho'ly nevah will look moah like a blessed angel when you git through the pearly gates than you do this minute!" from the look on rob's face as he met her at the white starry-crowned altar, i am sure he felt that he had already gone through "the pearly gates." it was all so sweet and solemn, and as we listened to the words, "_whom god hath joined together_," i think we all felt that heaven's own benediction rested on them, and would follow them all their way to the "land o' the leal." how the people of the valley poured in at the locusts afterward to wish them joy! old and young, rich and poor, white and black, for of course all the old servants of both families had to come in to pay their respects. i am sure that no more heartfelt good wishes were uttered than their "god bless you, miss lloyd, honey," or "i wish you joy, mistah rob," as the faithful black hands that had served them from babyhood grasped theirs with loyal good-will. they seem to count this year that joins the two old families and estates as a sort of year of jubilee. it isn't often that a wedding has everybody's approval as this one has. lloyd has always been as much of a favourite at oaklea as rob is at the locusts. the judge is radiantly happy and mrs. moore has been as sweet and considerate about everything as if lloyd were really her own daughter. she wants lloyd to take the place as mistress of the house just as she did when _she_ went there a bride. she and rob's father didn't take a wedding journey, but went straight home to oaklea to spend their honeymoon, and she was so pleased when she found that lloyd and rob wanted to do the same. she and the judge waited just long enough to welcome them home to-night, and then took the train for alabama to visit some of her people. they have long been wanting to make the trip, and so chose this time. all the details of the supper were carried out just as they were at eugenia's wedding, excepting the charms. lloyd vowed she had lost faith in them since mammy easter's fortune had failed to come true. by rights joyce should have been married before either allison or herself because she caught eugenia's bouquet. but because the girls still believed in them she did throw her bouquet from the top of the steps just before she left, and kitty caught it. it is only a step over to oaklea, so she went away in her bridal gown and veil. i'll never forget the picture she made as she stood there in the moonlight, waiting for the carriage to drive up for them, or the adoring look in rob's eyes as he turned to lead her down the steps. somehow it makes the tears come crowding up in such a mist i can hardly see to write. and now i have come to the last page of this volume of my good-times book. dear lloyd, dear little sister who was the beginning of all my good times, i am glad that heaven has sent you this happy day for me to chronicle! what a beautiful road of the loving heart your girlhood has left in the memory of all your friends! what a spirit of joy you have been in this old home, and what an aching void you have left behind you! no matter what the years may hold in store, you will _be_ a blessing wherever you go, for you have learned to keep tryst with all that life demands of you. and because you were true to your hildegarde promise and wove only according to the silver yardstick, i can close this record in the same words that end the old story we have both loved so long: "_so with her father's blessing light upon her, she rode away beside the prince; and ever after all her life was crowned with happiness as it had been written for her in the stars!_" the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. varied hyphenation retained, for example, upstairs and up-stairs. page , "vestage" changed to "vestige" (swept away every vestige) page , "it" changed to "is" (is he anything) page , "van guard" changed to "vanguard" (rear and a vanguard) page , "ilke" changed to "like" (marks, like a good) page , "thinkng" changed to "thinking" (in thinking it over)