HUMBLE pie is not a tasty dish even to the palate accustomed to it. Foster Townsend’s palate was distinctly not of that kind. Even to himself he seldom acknowledged that his judgment had been wrong, almost never to another person. Reliance Clark alone, of all his friends and acquaintances, dared tell him that he had behaved foolishly. He bore her blunt criticisms and tart reproofs with a patience the reasons for which he could scarcely have supplied under cross-examination. Her advice concerning Esther had, in previous instances, been good. In this case, although it was neither flattering nor agreeable, it seemed to at least promise a temporary way out and he resolved to take it. If it worked it was worth the brief humiliation. If it did not then he would try something else. That he would not gain his own way in the end was, of course, an impossibility. He always gained it.
Reliance had prescribed the “humble pie.” That very evening, after supper, he ate it in his niece’s presence. He called her into the parlor and, as he would have said, “got down on his knees.” He frankly begged her pardon for losing his temper, for speaking to her as he had done about her visiting Bob Griffin’s studio. He explained how he had learned of her doing so.
“I don’t suppose I should have minded so much if you had told me about it, yourself,” he said. “Of course the idea of your picking out ’Lisha Cook’s grandson to be a friend of yours might have stuck in my craw. Naturally I can’t help but be prejudiced against any of that scamp’s kith and kin. But I realize—I do now that I have had time to think it over—that it was natural enough you should want to see the picture this young Griffin is making of you. I don’t blame you for that. If you had only told me about it. That was the thing that hurt most. It did hurt me, Esther. Yes, it did! I would have sworn you and I didn’t have any secrets from each other. Seems to me we shouldn’t have.”
This was the right touch, just as he meant it to be. Esther’s resentment melted under it. The tears sprang to her eyes and this time they were not tears of anger or wounded pride. She stammered a confession of her own consciousness of guilt at having kept the secret from him.
“I am so sorry I didn’t tell you, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “I was going to—I meant to—and then—oh, I guess I was afraid. I know it was wrong. But the portrait is so good—really, it is wonderful. And—and we thought—I thought if I gave it to you for a birthday surprise you might—you might forgive me for letting him paint it.”
He held out his arms. She ran to them and with her head upon his shoulder, sobbed repentantly. He stroked her hair.
“There, there!” he said, soothingly. “It’s all right now. We won’t fret any more about it, will we? And you must take me down to the shanty, or studio, or whatever you call it, and let me see the thing for myself. Will you do that sometime? Sometime pretty soon, eh?”
She lifted her head to look at him.
“Do you really mean it?” she gasped. “Do you mean you will go—there—with me? And you won’t say anything to—to him—about—about—”
“Of course I won’t! We’re going to let bygones be bygones, you and I. No more secrets and rows between you and your old uncle, eh? No, no, I guess not. We’ll go down there together; we’ll go this afternoon. And if folks wonder what on earth I am getting so sociable with a Cook for—why, well let ’em wonder, that’s all.”
She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“You are the dearest man in the world!” she declared. “I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am. Do you forgive me, Uncle Foster, really?”
So the reconciliation was complete and the Clark plan had worked satisfactorily so far. But that afternoon, as they walked along the beach together, Esther had no idea of the emotions hidden behind her uncle’s smiling countenance, nor the struggle it cost him to cross the threshold of the Eldridge shanty and meet, with that same smile, the astonished gaze of its young tenant.
Astonishment is a very inadequate word to describe Bob’s feelings when Foster Townsend walked in upon him. He turned pale, then red and involuntarily squared his shoulders for the battle he was certain was upon him. And when, instead of opening for a warlike blast, the Townsend lips curved pleasantly and the Townsend hand was extended in greeting, he was too dumbfounded to do or say anything. He stood still, breathed rapidly, and stared.
Esther, quite aware of what his feelings must be, hastened to explain.
“I have told Uncle Foster all about the portrait,” she said, quickly. “He couldn’t wait until his birthday and made me bring him right down here to see it.... Uncle Foster, you remember Bob. At the horse race that day, he was the one who—”
Townsend interrupted. “Of course I remember,” he said, with a very plausible imitation of heartiness. “How are you, young man? I understand you’ve got to be what they call an artist. Esther says you have painted a picture of her that does everything but walk around and talk. She praised it up so that I had to come and see it for myself. Not that I know much about such things.... This it, eh?... Humph! Well, I declare!”
He had walked over and was standing before the easel. His niece joined him and looked anxiously from his face to the portrait and back again. Griffin, still dazed, looked at his visitors. Foster Townsend whistled.
“Good enough!” he exclaimed. “Well, well! Yes, indeed! Good enough!”
Esther asked a question.
“You like it, Uncle Foster?” she queried, anxiously. “Do you really like it?”
He nodded. “Certainly I like it,” he said. “How could I help liking it? For a thing that isn’t a photograph it is mighty good, I should say. That dress, now. Why, that’s just the way that dress looked on you, Esther. Yes, it is.”
“But the likeness, Uncle Foster? Don’t you think it looks like me?”
He jingled the change in his pocket. “Why, yes,” he admitted, though with not quite the same heartiness. “It does look like you—considerably. It’s just hand-done, of course, and you can’t expect a hand-done thing to be like a photograph. But I should know who it was meant for. Honest, I should,” he added, as if with some surprise at the truth of the concession.
Esther was disappointed. “Why, Uncle Foster!” she protested. “I think it is the very image of me.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that, quite,” he observed. “It isn’t as good looking as you are. I’m right there, eh, Griffin? Doesn’t flatter her, does it?”
Bob spoke for the first time. He seemed to be in hearty accord.
“You bet it doesn’t!” he agreed, with emphasis. “I’m not satisfied with it, of course.”
“Why, Bob Griffin!” cried Esther. “How can you say that? You told me yourself you thought it was awfully good.”
“Well, I—I think it is pretty fair, considering who painted it; but Captain Townsend is right when he says it doesn’t do you justice. I knew that all along.”
Townsend may have thought the conversation had proceeded far enough on this line. He stepped back from before the easel and turned to the artist.
“It’s a good job, anyhow,” he vowed. “I’ll be glad to have it. Now then, young fellow, how much do you want for it? What is the price?”
Bob Griffin looked at Esther and she at him. She answered the question.
“Why, there isn’t any price,” she said. “Bob has given it to me and I am giving it to you, for your birthday present, Uncle Foster. I told you that before we came down here.”
Her uncle paid no attention to this. He jingled his change and repeated his inquiry.
“How much will it be, Griffin?” he asked.
Bob smilingly shook his head. “Esther has told you, sir,” he said. “I gave it to her. There isn’t any price.”
“Humph! That won’t do, son.... Hush, Esther!... No, that won’t do. You are figuring to earn a living at this sort of work, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I—well, I hope to some day. But—”
“There aren’t any ‘buts.’ You’ve worked a good many days at this job—must have. No reason why you shouldn’t get your regular wages. I want this picture and I can afford to pay for it. How much?”
Again Griffin shook his head.
“It isn’t for sale, Captain Townsend,” he declared. “I have given it to Esther. It is hers. Of course, if she wants to sell it, that is different. But I can’t. It isn’t mine.”
“Rubbish! There’s no reason why you should give it to anybody. And I don’t intend you shall. I’m going to buy it. That is settled.”
“No, sir, I’m afraid it isn’t settled—in that way. You can’t buy it from me.”
Foster Townsend’s brows drew together in the way which his niece recognized as a storm signal. She tried to avert the hurricane.
“It is mine, Uncle Foster,” she protested. “Don’t you see? It is mine now and it is going to be yours. I—”
“Hush! See here, young fellow, you’ve forgotten one thing, I guess. Maybe I don’t care to have Esther take presents from—” he paused, coughed and added gruffly, “from anybody. Perhaps I don’t.... Here, I tell you! If you won’t sell it to me, sell it to her. I’ll see that she gets the money to pay for it. Now, then, how much?”
Bob still smiled. His reply was just as good-natured, but also just as firm.
“Esther can’t buy it, either,” he said. “No one can. If she won’t have it as a present from me—why, then I’ll keep it for my own. I shouldn’t mind having it in the least,” he added, with a twinkle.
It was this last sentence which caused Foster Townsend to hesitate. The roar which his niece had dreaded and which Griffin had expected was not uttered. He scowled, took a turn to the doorway, stood there for a moment looking out, and when he turned back the scowl had disappeared. The corner of his lip lifted in a one-sided smile of surrender.
“You are a stubborn young mule, aren’t you,” he observed. “All right, do as you please. If money is no object to you it is to me and I ought to be thankful to save a little, I suppose. Esther, I’m much obliged for my birthday present.... Well, Griffin, you’ll go so far as to let me send Varunas for the thing, won’t you? Won’t insist on fetching it up to the door with your own hands?”
Bob, very much surprised—he could scarcely believe that his all powerful opponent had actually capitulated—laughed and stammered that he guessed there would be no objection to Varunas’s acting as carrier. Before he could say more his visitors had bade him good afternoon and departed. It was not until they had gone that he remembered that neither he, nor Esther, had mentioned meeting again.
His surprise would have been still greater if he could have heard a remark made by Foster Townsend to his niece as the pair walked along the path toward home.
“There’s just one thing I do want you to promise me, Esther,” Townsend said. “I want you to promise me that you won’t go down to that shanty again alone. Harniss isn’t a very big place and there is always talk enough in it for a square meal. No use giving it a Thanksgiving indigestion unless it’s necessary. Will you promise me that?”
She hesitated. She, too, had suddenly become conscious of the fact that the parting between Bob Griffin and herself was, in all probability, a final one.
“Why—why, yes, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “I will promise, if you want me to. But—oh, please don’t think—”
“There, there! I don’t think anything. If he wants to see you, and you want to see him, let him come to the house once in a while. I shan’t make any objections to that—if he doesn’t come too often.”
She caught her breath. This was unbelievable.
“Why—why, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “Of course he won’t come there!”
He smiled, grimly. “Won’t he?” he observed. “Humph! I notice there are other young squirts dropping in on us now and then, these days. Maybe he won’t, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Judging by the way he stood up to me about that picture he’ll do ’most anything he sets out to do, or try to, anyhow.... Humph! Well, we’ll see.”
Esther was overwhelmed. Knowing, as she did, how fiercely bitter was the hatred borne by her uncle to any one remotely connected with the name of Cook, such a concession as this amounted to tremendous personal sacrifice. And he was making that sacrifice solely because of her. If any compelling force was needful to strengthen her resolve to keep the promise just made this proof of his devotion furnished it. She then and there made up her mind that, if Bob did call—which, of course, he would not—she would not be too cordial. She would be nice to him, just as she was to others, but she would not encourage him to call often. And, if the calls became too frequent, she would see that they were discontinued. And Captain Foster Townsend, looking down at her as she walked in silence beside him, guessed her thought and smiled in triumph.
His estimate of the young man’s determination and character was soon proved correct. On an evening of that same week the Townsend doorbell rang. The maid was out and Nabby opened the door. She came back to the library wearing an expression which caused her employer to look at her in surprise.
“Well?” he demanded. “What’s happened? Is the meeting-house on fire?”
Nabby shook her head. “It’s somebody come,” she stammered.
Esther, who was reading a book, looked up. Her uncle sniffed impatiently.
“Somebody come!” he repeated, with sarcasm. “Humph! You surprise me! Naturally, when I heard the bell ring I thought it was somebody just going.... Well, well! Who is it? Don’t you know?”
Mrs. Gifford nodded. “Course I know!” she declared. “If I didn’t know I wouldn’t have been so took back. It’s—” she leaned forward to whisper the incredible name—“it’s a Cook!”
Townsend did not understand. “A cook!” he snorted. “Whose cook? What does she want? What in the devil is she doing at the front door?”
Nabby raised a warning hand. “Sshh!” she begged, in alarm. “My soul and body, Cap’n Foster! he’ll hear you if you holler like that.... It ain’t that kind of a cook. It’s a—a ’Lisha Cook.”
“What!”
He leaped from the chair. Esther rose, too. She caught his sleeve.
“Hush, Uncle Foster!” she whispered. “Nabby doesn’t mean old Mr. Cook himself. I am sure she doesn’t.”
Something in her tone caused her uncle to look down at her. A thought came to him.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Do you know who it is, Esther?”
“No-o. No, I don’t. But I just wondered if—you know you said he might come and—”
He interrupted. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes.... Is it young Griffin, Nabby?”
Nabby nodded. “That’s just who ’tis,” she said. “He’s a Cook, ain’t he? And when I see him standin’ there right in front of me, as bold as brass, I vow I—”
Townsend broke in once more. He laughed, shortly. “I see,” he said. “Well, bring him in, Nabby.”
Nabby gasped. “You mean fetch him in here?” she demanded, incredulously.
“Yes. And hurry up about it.” Then, turning to his niece, he added, “Told you he would come, didn’t I, Esther? He’s a Cook, right enough.”
But when Bob followed Nabby into the library he greeted him pleasantly, bade him be seated, and even offered him a cigar. He was the least embarrassed of the three. Esther was confused and Bob, himself, was not wholly self-possessed. He apologized for calling without an invitation, but said he just simply could not wait longer to see how the portrait looked in its new quarters.
“I know you are surprised to see me here, Captain Townsend,” he went on. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. My family and yours—are—well, they aren’t, of course. But I did want to see that portrait.”
Townsend nodded. “Natural enough you should,” he agreed. “And you didn’t bring your family with you, I guess likely. Well, the picture is in the parlor and Esther will show it to you. If you will excuse me I’m going upstairs. I’ve got some letters to write.”
He went out, leaving the two alone. Esther had not expected this and was not altogether pleased. She comprehended—or thought she did—that her uncle’s leaving her alone with the caller was his way of showing that he trusted her. It was very noble of him, but it made her uncomfortable, almost as if she were doing something wicked. Consequently her manner was distrait and her replies to Bob’s sallies brief and perfunctory. The call was a short one. He left before ten, but at the door he said:
“You’ll come down to the shanty again before long, won’t you, Esther?”
She shook her head. “No,” she replied. “I shan’t come there any more.”
“Why not?”
“Because Uncle Foster thinks I shouldn’t. He says people would talk if I did. He is right, of course. Perhaps they are talking now.”
“Talk! They’ll talk anyway. They’ll talk after they are dead, some of them.... Well, then I shall come here to see you. I can do that, can’t I?”
“I—I don’t think you had better.”
“Don’t you want to see me?”
She hesitated. “That hasn’t anything to do with it, really,” she declared. “You know it hasn’t, Bob. When you think of your grandfather and my uncle—”
“I won’t,” he broke in, emphatically. “That is just what I won’t do. And you mustn’t either. You and I ought to think of ourselves. We agreed, that afternoon of the thunderstorm, that we hadn’t anything to do with a family row which is already years and years old. If you can’t come to see me I am coming to see you. And I shall.”
“But uncle—”
“I’m not coming to see him. And—why, he was nice enough to me this evening. I rather expected he might tell me to clear out, but he didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t. But I am sure he doesn’t like it. How can he? Your grandfather—”
“Oh, forget my grandfather! Esther Townsend, I shall come here again—yes, and soon. How about next Tuesday evening? Are you free then?”
“Why—why, yes, I suppose I shall be. But, Bob—”
“All right. I’ll be on hand. Good-night.”
When she went up to her room the door of her uncle’s room was open and he called to her.
“Didn’t stay very long, did he?” he observed.
“No, Uncle Foster, not very.”
“Coming again pretty soon, I suppose?”
“Why—why, he said he might call Tuesday evening. Of course if you had rather he didn’t—”
“I told you I hadn’t any objections, provided he doesn’t come too often. Asked you to drop in at the Tobias Eldridge place, I suppose?”
“Ye-es. Yes, he said something about it; but I told him I couldn’t do that.”
“Good girl.... Well, all right. Good-night.”
She bent over his chair back and kissed him.
“I think it is very sweet of you to let him come here at all,” she said. “I—I don’t see how you can—considering who he is.”
“Who he is?... Humph!... Well, he is a friend of yours and I don’t want to stand between you and your friends. Besides—which is what you mean, of course—he is a Cook and when I deal with one of them I always feel safer if he is where—”
He did not finish the sentence. “Where—? What were you going to say?” she asked.
He was fearful that he had already said too much. “Nothing, nothing,” he said. “Good-night, dearie. I must finish my letter.”
The letter was to Mrs. Jane Carter, in Boston, and he did finish it before he went to bed.
Bob came on Tuesday evening and again Foster Townsend left the young people alone in the library. The stay this time was longer. He came again on Friday and on the following Tuesday. Townsend said nothing, but he thought a good deal. He began to wish that he had followed his own inclination and forbidden the pair of young idiots to see each other at all. His questions to Esther, put very guardedly, seemed to warrant the belief that, so far at least, her feeling toward Griffin was merely that of friendship; but friendship at that age was dangerous. It must be broken off—and soon.