MRS. CARTER had not yet replied to his letter. He wrote another, stating his case more succinctly and intimating that he expected compliance with his wishes. He even dropped a hint concerning her obligation to him, something he had never done before.
“It may upset your plans a little,” he wrote, “and I suppose you feel that you can’t shut up that house of yours and turn your other lodgers adrift. Well, I don’t ask you to do that. Find some one who can handle the craft while you are away and I will pay the bill. I have heard you say that it was the dream of your life to go where I am planning to send you. Here is your dream come true. You like the girl and she likes you. You are the only one in sight that I should feel safe to trust as skipper of a cruise like this one, with her aboard. You have always declared that, if ever you could do anything for me, you would do it if it killed you. Well, this won’t kill you. It may do you good. If anything can shake the reefs out of that Boston canvas of yours I should say this might be the thing. You will sail freer afterwards and you will have something to talk about besides the gilding on the State House dome. Let me hear from you right away.”
He did not hear, however. Another week passed and he had not heard. Bob Griffin called twice more during that week. And on Sunday, after service, while Foster Townsend stood on the church steps chatting with Captain Ben Snow, from the corner of his eye he saw Esther and Bob talking together and noticed, quite as clearly, the significant glances and whisperings of his fellow worshipers as they, too, watched the pair.
Harniss was beginning to talk, of course. Neighbors had seen Griffin entering the yard of the mansion evening after evening. Curious eyes had remained open later than was their custom to note the hour at which he left that yard. And they were noting that, whereas the said hour was in the beginning as early as nine-thirty, it was now ten-thirty or, on one occasion, close to eleven. “What is Cap’n Foster thinking about?” people wanted to know. “Elisha Cook’s grandson coming to that house! Doesn’t the Cap’n realize what is going on? If he don’t somebody ought to tell him.”
Nobody did tell him; no one would have dared. Various reasons for his permitting the visits were suggested. For the most part these reasons were connected with the lawsuit. Perhaps Griffin had quarreled with his grandfather. That might be why he had hired Tobias Eldridge’s shanty and was spending his days there instead of in Denboro, where he belonged. Perhaps he and Elisha Cook had had a row and Bob had deserted to the enemy. He might be giving Townsend inside information which would help the latter and his lawyers. Perhaps Townsend had bought the boy off. He had money enough to buy anybody or anything, if he cared to use it.
Millard Fillmore Clark, as an “in-law” and a possible though but remotely possible, source of information was questioned. Mr. Clark’s replies to all queries were non-committal and dignified. One gathered that he knew a great deal but was under oath to reveal nothing.
“You let us alone,” he said, loftily, “We ’tend to our business and we generally know what that business is. Wait a little spell. Just wait. Then I guess you’ll see what you do see.”
The few who dared drop a hint to Reliance left unsatisfied. Mrs. Wheeler, who boasted that she made it a point to give her custom to the “native tradespeople” whenever possible, was one of these few. She had graciously permitted the Clark-Makepeace millinery shop to fashion for her what she called a “garden hat,” and she dropped in at the room in the rear of the post office building ostensibly to see how the fashioning was progressing. After the usual preliminaries of weather, health and church matters had been touched upon, she broached another subject.
“I hear Captain Townsend’s attractive niece has developed a new talent,” she observed, with a smile. “I always supposed music was her specialty. Now I understand she has taken up painting.”
Reliance looked up from the garden hat, which was in her lap. Then she looked down again.
“Has she?” she asked, calmly. “I didn’t know it.”
Mrs. Wheeler smiled once more. “So they say,” she affirmed. “She has developed a fondness for art.”
“Is that so.... Don’t you think the bow would look better on the side than right in front, Mrs. Wheeler?”
Considering how very particular—not to say fussy—the lady had hitherto been concerning that hat she seemed surprisingly indifferent to the position of the bow.
“No doubt,” she said, carelessly. “Arrange it as you think best, Miss Clark.... Yes, Miss Townsend seems to be devoted to art at present—or, at least, to an artist. Ha, ha! I know nothing of it, of course, but I have heard such a rumor.”
Abbie Makepeace, who was a little deaf although she would never admit it, put in a word.
“You can’t put too much dependence on what Maria Bloomer says,” she declared. “She’ll say anything that comes into her head. All them Bloomers are alike that way.”
Their patron regarded her coldly. “I said ‘rumor,’ not Bloomer,” she corrected.
“Oh! Yes, yes, I see. One of Seth Payne’s roomers, was it? He’s got a houseful of ’em this summer, so they tell me. Why, there’s a couple there from somewheres out West—Milwaukee—or Missouri, or somewheres; begins with a M, anyway. They’re awful queer folks. Take their meals at Emeline Ryder’s and Emeline says she never had such cranky mealers at her table, before nor since. Why, one day, so she says, the man—I do wish I could remember his name—found fault with the beefsteak they had for dinner; said ’twas too tough to eat. Now, accordin’ to Emeline ’twas as good top of the round steak as she could buy out of the butcher cart, and she’d pounded it with the potato masher for half an hour before she put it in the fryin’ pan. She lost her patience and says she: ‘Now, look here, Mr. ——’. Oh, dear, dear! What is that man’s name? Funny I can’t remember it. What is it, Reliance? Do tell me, for mercy sakes!”
Reliance could not remember, either, but she suggested various names, none of which was exactly right. Mrs. Wheeler departed in disgust before the matter was settled. Miss Makepeace commented upon the manner of her exit.
“What made her switch out that way?” she inquired, in surprise. “Acted as if she was out of sorts about somethin’, seemed to me. Don’t you suppose she liked the hat, Reliance?”
Reliance smiled. “It wasn’t the hat that brought her here,” she observed. “That woman was fishin’, Abbie.”
“Fishin’! What are you talkin’ about? Fishin’ for what?”
“For what she didn’t get. She wouldn’t have got it from me, anyhow, but you saved me the trouble of tellin’ her so and, maybe, losin’ us a customer. Do you remember that man in the Bible who wanted bread and somebody gave him a stone? Well, that Wheeler woman wanted news and what she got was a tough beefsteak. Serve her right. Much obliged to you, Abbie.”
Abbie had not listened to the last part of this speech. Now she clapped her hands in satisfaction.
“There!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got it at last. When you said somethin’ about a stone it came to me. Stone made me think of brick and brick was what I wanted. That man’s name is Clay. Tut, tut! Well, I shan’t forget it next time.”
That evening, when Esther came down to supper, it seemed to her that her uncle was in far better humor than he had been for some time. During the past week he had been somewhat taciturn and grumpy. She suspected that matters connected with the lawsuit might not be progressing to his satisfaction, but when she asked he brusquely told her that was all right enough, so far as it went, although it went almighty slow. Then her suspicions shifted and she began to fear that, perhaps, he did not like Bob’s calling so frequently. He had never offered objections to the calls, greeted the young man pleasantly and usually left the pair together for the greater part of the evening. Nevertheless—or so she fancied—his greetings were a trifle less hearty now than they had been at first. And, on the morning following Griffin’s most recent call, he said something at the breakfast table which was disturbing. She had thought of it many times since.
“Well,” he observed, after the maid had left them together, “how is the great picture painter these days? Getting to be a pretty regular visitor, isn’t he? Coming again Tuesday night, I suppose? Eh?”
Esther, taken by surprise, colored and hesitated.
“Why—why, I don’t know, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “He didn’t say he was.”
“Didn’t need to, perhaps. Probably thought you might take it for granted by this time. Tuesdays and Fridays on his calendar seem to be marked with your initials. Those other young chaps who used to drop in here once in a while appear to have sheered off. I wonder why.”
Esther looked at him. He was smiling, so she smiled also.
“If you mean George Bartlett,” she said. “He has gone back to Boston. His vacation is over. And Fred Winthrop is—well, I don’t know why he doesn’t come, I am sure. I don’t like him, anyway.”
“Perhaps he guessed as much. You do like this Griffin, I take it.”
Esther had ceased to smile. “Why, yes, I do,” she declared. “I told you I did. He is a nice boy and I do like him. But, Uncle Foster, I don’t see why you speak this way. If you think—”
“There, there!” rather testily. “I said, in the beginning, that I wasn’t going to think anything. You and I agreed that we wouldn’t have any secrets from each other, so why should I think?”
“You shouldn’t. Uncle Foster, if you don’t want Bob to come here—”
“Sshh! I told you he could come—if he didn’t come too often.”
“So you do think he is coming too often?”
“I didn’t say so. I was just wondering what his grandfather might be thinking about it. He has told the old man, of course?”
He had not and Esther knew it. Bob had announced his intention of telling his grandfather of his friendship with Foster Townsend’s niece, but he had put off the telling, waiting, he said, for a favorable opportunity. Townsend, keenly scrutinizing the girl’s face, read his answer there.
“Well, well,” he added, before she could reply. “That is his business, not yours nor mine, my dear. Only,” he said, with a grim chuckle, “I shall be interested to hear how Elisha takes the news.”
It was this which had troubled Esther ever since. And now Tuesday evening had arrived and, in an hour or two, unless her surmise was very wrong indeed, Bob himself would come. If he had not told Mr. Cook he must do so at once. She should insist upon it.
She thought about this during supper, but afterward, when they were together in the library, her uncle made an announcement that drove every other thought from her mind. He seated himself as usual in the big easy-chair, but he did not pick up the newspaper which lay upon the table. Instead he thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at her.
“Esther,” he said, “I’ve got some news for you. You’re going to be surprised. How long will it take you to get ready to start for Paris?”
She stared at him in utter amazement.
“To Paris!” she repeated.
“Um-hum. That is what I said. To Paris, France. How long before you can get ready to start for there? I hope not too long, because now that it is settled you are going the sooner you get away the better.”
She caught her breath. He must be joking—he must be. Yet he seemed quite sincere.
“To Paris?” she cried. “Why, Uncle Foster! What do you mean? Are we going to Paris—now?”
He shook his head. “Not quite such good luck as that,” he answered, with a sigh. “I had intended that we should go together. I had promised myself that cruise with you and I had counted on it. But I can’t get away for a while. My lawyers say they need me here and that I can’t be spared. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go. Ever since that concert I have heard nothing but what a fine voice you’ve got and that it ought to be cultivated up to the top notch. Paris is the place where they do that kind of cultivating and there is where you ought to be. No use wasting time. I have been tempted to be selfish and keep you here along with me. I’ve thought up every excuse for keeping you, but they aren’t good enough. The minute this blasted suit is tried—or settled—or put off again or something, I’ll take the next ship and come to you as quick as it will take me. But you must go now. And I’ve got exactly the right person to go with you,” he added, earnestly.
She would have spoken, have protested perhaps, but he held up his hand.
“No, wait,” he commanded. “Just wait and listen. It’s all planned, every bit of it.”
He went on to tell of the plan. The person who was to accompany her, who was to be in charge of everything, was Mrs. Jane Carter of Boston. She was very fond of Esther and the latter was equally fond of her. She was wise and capable and refined and educated; she was everything which a companion for the finest girl in the world should be. He and she had been in correspondence for some time. Mrs. Carter was to leave her house and her lodgers in charge of a friend and was prepared to start within two or three weeks, if necessary.
“You and she can spend the summer traveling together, if you want to,” he went on. “There will be arrangements to make, and lots of things to find out about before you begin with your studies. You’ll have a good time—and I’ll have as good a time as I can until I can get over there with you. There! that’s the plan. Pretty good one, too, I think. What do you say to it?”
She did not know what to say. The suddenness of its disclosure, the surprise, the conviction by this time forced upon her that her trip abroad was to be an actual, immediate reality and not the vaguely marvelous dream which had been in her mind for so long, were too overwhelming to permit her to think at all, much less speak or reason.
In the endeavor to answer, to say something, she turned toward him and caught him off his guard. He was regarding her with a look of love and longing, which touched her to the core. It vanished as he saw her look and he smiled again, but she sprang from the rocker and, running to his side, put her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his.
“Oh, no, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “No, I can’t do it. It is wonderful of you to plan such a thing for me. It is just like you. You are—oh, you are— But I can’t go. It would be too selfish. I can’t go and leave you—all alone, here at home. It wouldn’t be right at all. No, I’ll wait until we can go together.”
He took her hand in his and held it tight. “Oh, yes, you will, dearie,” he declared. “You’ll go because I want you to. I’ll be lonesome without you. Good Lord, yes! I’ll be lonesome, but I can stand it for a while. You’ll go. I want you to go. It is all settled—Eh? Confound it! there’s the bell. Who is coming here to-night? I don’t want to see anybody.”
She, too, had heard the bell and she knew who had rung it. She had forgotten, but now she remembered. She withdrew her hand from her uncle’s grasp:
“It is—I suppose it is—” she began; and then added, impulsively: “Oh, I wish he hadn’t come!”
Foster Townsend looked up at her.
“Eh?” he queried. “Oh, yes, yes! I forgot. Tuesday night, isn’t it. Well, all right; you and I can finish our talk to-morrow just as well.... Here! Where are you going?”
She was on her way to the door.
“I am going to tell him I can’t see him to-night,” she said.
“No, no! Don’t do any such thing. Of course you’ll see him. You’ve got some news for him, too. He’ll be surprised, of course—and delighted, maybe.”
There was an odd significance in the tone of this last speech which caused her to turn quickly and look at him. At that moment Bob’s voice was heard in the hall and, an instant later, he entered the library. One glance at the pair made him aware that he had interrupted a scene of some kind. Esther’s eyes were wet and her manner oddly excited. Her “good evening” was almost perfunctory and she kept looking at her uncle instead of at him. Foster Townsend, also, seemed a little queer. His handshake was as off-hand as usual; Bob never considered it more than a meaningless condescension to the formalities. That there was behind it any real cordiality he doubted. Esther’s uncle could scarcely be expected to love him; that was natural enough, considering whose grandson he was. And there was an occasional tartness or sarcasm in the Townsend speech and a look or two in his direction from the Townsend eyes, which confirmed his suspicion that, although Captain Foster, for some reason, permitted him to call at the mansion, he was far from overjoyed to see him there.
To-night—or perhaps he imagined it—the sarcasm was even more in evidence.
“Hello, Griffin!” said the captain. “How are you?”
Bob thanked him and said that he was well.
“That’s good. Painted any more pictures to give away, lately?”
Bob smilingly shook his head.
“That so? Haven’t sold any either, I suppose?”
“No, sir.”
“Humph! Kind of dull times in the trade, I should say. Take you a good while to make a million at that rate, won’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. But I shall be satisfied with a good deal less than a million.”
“So? You aren’t as grasping as some of your family, then.”
Bob thought it time to change the subject. He turned to the other member of the trio.
“How are you, Esther?” he asked. “Any news since I saw you?”
Esther absently replied that there was no news. Her uncle laughed.
“She doesn’t mean that, Griffin,” he declared. “There is some news, big news. We were just talking about it when you came in. Weren’t we, Esther?”
“Why—why yes, Uncle Foster, we were.”
“Yes, we were. Well, I’ll leave you to tell it. Good-night.”
He turned toward the hall door. She had not forgotten the look she had seen upon his face that instant when the smiling mask had fallen. It had shown her a little of his real feeling, something of what the sacrifice of her companionship meant to him. She had never loved him as she loved him now.
“Oh, don’t go away, Uncle Foster,” she begged. “You’re not going to bed so soon. Stay here with us. We want you to. Don’t we, Bob?”
“Certainly, of course,” agreed Bob. Townsend shook his head.
“Can’t,” he declared, cheerfully. “I’ve got another letter to write Jane Carter and I want it to go in the morning mail. Good-night, Esther. Good-night, Griffin.”
He went out and the door closed. Esther remained standing, looking after him. Bob grinned. Then he drew a long breath.
“Whew!” he exclaimed in evident relief. “That storm blew over quicker than I thought it would. The way he lit into me when I first came—and the queer way you both looked and acted when I walked into this room—made me wonder what had happened. What is up, Esther?”
She did not answer. His grin became a laugh.
“Did you hear him give me that dig about painting pictures to give away?” he asked. “And that other one about not being grasping as some one else in the family? That was a whack at grandfather and the lawsuit, of course. I thought I might be in for a row, but he was pleasant enough when he said good-night. I wonder—”
She surprised him then.
“Oh, don’t!” she broke in, impatiently. “Don’t! He is the best, the kindest man in the whole world. Don’t you dare say he isn’t.”
He looked at her in astonishment. Then he whistled.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Don’t take my head off. I didn’t say he wasn’t good and kind and all that. I think he is. I rather like him, as a matter of fact; even if he doesn’t like me.”
She turned upon him. “Now why do you say that?” she demanded. “If he doesn’t like you why does he let you come here—to this house? You haven’t any reason to say he doesn’t like you.”
“Maybe not. Perhaps he does like me. I hope he does. I want him to. As for his letting me come here to see you, I must say it’s mighty decent of him. I doubt if I should, if I were in his place—considering who I am. Come, Esther, don’t pitch into me this way. What have I done?”
She smiled then. “Oh, you haven’t done anything, Bob,” she said. “I am just—oh, excited and upset, that’s all. Uncle Foster has just told me the most wonderful thing. He is going to let me do what I have wanted to do for years and—and I ought to be very happy. I think I should be if it weren’t that I know how terribly lonely he is going to be without me.”
“Without you! What do you mean by that? Are you going somewhere? Is this the big news he was hinting at? Why, Esther! You aren’t going away, are you?”
She sat in the rocker. He was regarding her anxiously. She nodded.
“Yes, Bob,” she said, gravely. “I am. I am going abroad to study. I didn’t know a word about it until a few minutes ago. Uncle has planned it all. I am going with Mrs. Carter and—”
He interrupted. “What!” he cried. “You are going abroad?... When?”
“I don’t know exactly. But very soon.”
“How long are you going to stay there?”
“I don’t know that, either. A year at least, I suppose. Perhaps longer.”
“Indeed you are not!”
“Why, Bob Griffin! What do you mean?”
“I mean—well, never mind now. I guess I don’t know what I mean. Or, if I do, it can wait. Tell me all about it. Tell me!”
So she told him, told as much of the plan as her uncle had told her. He listened without speaking. At the end she said: “If I weren’t for leaving him I should be so wildly happy I shouldn’t know what to do. But, oh, Bob, I know what letting me go means to him. And he had planned to go with me. He and I have talked ever so many times about going to Paris together. Now he can’t go. That miserable suit and the horrid lawyers are keeping him here. But because he thinks I ought to go he is sending me and not thinking of himself at all. He will be perfectly wretched without me. I know it. I almost feel like saying that I won’t go until he does. Perhaps I ought to say it—and stick to it. What do you think?”
He did not reply, nor did he look at her. She bent forward to look at him.
“Why, Bob!” she cried. “What is the matter?”
He shook his head. “I wonder if you think your uncle is going to be the only wretched person in this neighborhood?” he muttered. “Do you think that?”
“Why—why, I suppose Aunt Reliance will miss me.”
He looked up then. “How about me?” he asked.
“You! You?... Why—why, Bob, I don’t believe I thought of you.”
“I don’t believe you did. I am afraid you didn’t. But do you imagine I shall be—well, altogether joyful?”
She could not answer. For, all at once, she was thinking of him. It seemed strange that she had not done it before. She had not realized that her glorious trip meant the end of their companionship. If not the end, then at least a year of separation. And suddenly, with the realization, came a new feeling—a rush of feelings. She gasped.
“Why—why, Bob—” she faltered.
He had risen and was standing beside her, bending over her.
“Esther,” he pleaded, desperately, “do you suppose I shan’t be completely miserable if you go away and leave me? Why—why, you know it! You must know it! What do you suppose my knowing you and—and being with you, like this, means to me? Esther, doesn’t it mean anything to you—anything at all?”
She was beginning to comprehend what it did mean. But she knew she must not think it. It was impossible—it was insane—it was—
“Oh, don’t, Bob! Don’t!” she begged. “You—you mustn’t—”
“I must. I’ve got to. It may be my only chance. Esther, don’t you care anything about me? I thought—I was beginning to hope— Oh, Esther, you are the only girl in the world for me. I love you.”
“Bob! Bob! Don’t!”
“I do. I love you. Say you love me! Say it! Say it!”
She had risen to her feet. Some wild idea of escape—of running from the room—was in her mind. But his arms were about her.
“Say it! Say it, dear!” he pleaded.
“No, no! I mustn’t! You mustn’t—”
“You do love me? You do, don’t you, Esther?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I— Oh, of course I don’t! I mustn’t! Let me go.”
“No, I shan’t let you go until you tell me. You do care for me, dear? Tell me you do.”
“No, Bob.... Oh, please let me go!”
She was crying. He released her and stepped back from the chair. For an instant he stood there and then, lifting his hands and letting them fall again in surrender, turned away.
“Oh, well!” he sighed, miserably. “Well—there! I see how it is. I was a fool, of course. I ought to have known. I am sorry, Esther. Forgive me, if you can.”
She had sunk down into the rocker once more and was sobbing, her face buried in the cushion upon its back. He spoke again.
“I hope you can forgive me,” he begged. “I didn’t mean to say those things to you—yet. Some day of course, after you had known me longer—and—but I had no idea of saying them now. It was your telling me you were going away—for years—and leaving me— Well, it drove me crazy, that’s all. I am sorry. Of course I don’t blame you in the least. There is no reason why you should care for me—and plenty why you shouldn’t, I suppose. I don’t amount to much, I guess. Don’t cry any more. I am awfully sorry I hurt your feelings.”
The head pressed against the cushion moved back and forth.
“You haven’t hurt them,” she murmured, chokingly. “I don’t know why I am crying. I—I won’t any more.”
She sat up, fumbled for her handkerchief, and hurriedly wiped her eyes.
“Then you do forgive me?” he urged.
“There was nothing to forgive.... No,” earnestly. “No, Bob, you mustn’t. Please don’t!... I—I think you had better go now.”
He took a step toward the door. Then he paused and turned.
“Then it is all over, I suppose?” he said. “You don’t care for me at all?”
Her lips opened to form the No which she knew must be said, which she had determined to say. But when her eyes met his the resolution faltered—broke.
“Don’t ask me, Bob, please!” she begged, in desperation. “I—I— Oh, even if I did, what difference would it make? It is perfectly impossible—you and I— You know it is!”
He was at her side again and this time he would not be denied. He held her close and kissed her. Then he stepped back and laughed aloud.
“That is all I wanted to know,” he cried, in triumph. “You do care. That is enough. That is all that matters. Now let’s see them keep us apart! You are mine—and you are going to be mine, always, forever and ever, amen. Ha! Now let them try to stop it!”
She regarded him in wonder.
“You can laugh!” she exclaimed, reproachfully.
“You bet I can laugh! I was beginning to think I never should laugh again, but now— Ha! They may send you to Paris or to Jericho, it doesn’t make any difference now, Esther—”
But she held out her hands imploringly.
“Please go now, Bob,” she urged. “I must think this all over, before—before we talk any more. I must. It is—oh, it is all as crazy as can be and I must think it over by myself.... You will go now, won’t you, for my sake?”
He hesitated. Then he nodded.
“Certainly I will, if you want me to,” he said. “But no matter how much you think it doesn’t change the fact that we love each other and belong to each other. That is settled.... Good-night, dearest. I’ll see you Friday evening, of course. And then we can talk, can’t we.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t know what I may have decided by that time. I am not sure that I am doing right in letting you come on Friday—or any more at all. I am not sure of anything.”
“I am. And I shall be thinking, too. This Paris business—well, I may have something to say about that. I have an idea of my own—or a part of one. It has just this minute come to me. I’ll tell you about it then. Good-night.”
When Esther tiptoed up the stairs to her room she devoutly hoped that her uncle’s door might be closed. She simply could not face him, or speak with him. She dreaded those keen eyes of his. The door was open, however, and he called to her.
“What!” he cried. “That young fellow gone so early? He’s been standing longer watches than this lately. What’s the matter? Anything happened?”
She did not pause and she tried hard to make her tone casual.
“Oh, no,” she answered. “Nothing has happened. Good-night, Uncle dear.”
He chuckled to himself. In spite of her care there had been a tremor in her voice. He guessed the reason, or thought he did. She had told Griffin of the European trip and he—and perhaps she—had come to realize that it meant the end of their association. Well, that is exactly what he intended it to mean. No doubt they both regretted the parting. Never mind. Esther would soon get over it. Better a trifling heartache now than a big one later on. She should not marry Elisha Cook’s grandson if he were the only man on earth. His own heartache at the thought of losing her for a time was soothed by the certainty that once more he was having his own way.