FOSTER TOWNSEND drove straight home, turned the horses and carriage over to the care of Varunas and went into the house. There, in the library, with the portières drawn and the hall door tightly closed, he sprawled in the big chair and, chewing an unlighted cigar, set himself to the task of facing this entirely unforeseen setback. His carefully laid plan had gone to smash; that fact could not be dodged. Paris with Esther in Jane Carter’s company, three thousand miles away from young Griffin, was one thing. Paris, with those two together, and he, Townsend, on this side of the water, was quite another. No, if it was true that Griffin was going there, then Esther was not. So much was certain.
It was a galling conclusion, his pride winced under it. To think that a boy in his twenties had forced a wily, shrewd veteran of his years and experience to back water was almost too much to bear. It was humiliating and the more he pondered over it the angrier he became. The plan had been a good one. He had given it careful consideration before he adopted it. He had tried to think of every possible objection, but such a one as this he would have considered beyond the bounds of possibility. And yet it was so simple. How that Griffin cub must be chuckling in his sleeve. Of course he had seen through the strategy behind the move and with one move of his own had checkmated it. Esther was being sent to Paris to get her away from him, was she? All right, he would go there, too. Easy enough!
Foster Townsend’s big body squirmed in the leather chair. He was tempted, almost resolved, to go straight to Bob Griffin, wherever he might be, even in his grandfather’s house, and have it out between them, man to man—or man to boy. The prospect of an open battle was appealing. And he was practically sure that Elisha Cook would, for once, be fighting on his side. Elisha would, he was willing to bet, be as firmly set against a marriage between a Cook and a Townsend as he was, although their objections would be based upon exactly opposite grounds. It would be amusing, at least, to watch his former partner’s face when he learned why his grandson proposed to leave him—and for whom. For Bob had not told, of course. Humph! Between them they could give that smart young rooster a happy half hour.
It would not do, though; no, it would not do. Mistakes enough had been made and he, Townsend, must not make another. Whatever was done now must be right and he could not afford to be too hasty. At any rate, the first thing to be done was to think of good excuses for canceling Esther’s European trip. He had little time for that and he must act quickly.
So, setting his teeth, he endeavored to forget anger, hurt pride, and all the rest of the non-essentials. The checkmating was partly his own fault. He had taken a woman’s advice, instead of depending upon his own judgment, and was paying for it. It was Reliance Clark who had put into his head the fool notion of sending his niece away. Neither she, nor any one else, should put another there. Henceforward he would, as he had told her, handle the reins. And the race was by no means lost.
He was in his room on the second floor, writing a letter, when he heard Esther’s voice in the library.
“Uncle,” she was calling. “Uncle Foster, where are you?”
“Here I am,” he answered, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
He signed the letter he had written and addressed the envelope to Mrs. Jane Carter in Boston. He had given her orders, short, sharp and compelling. She was not to waste time asking questions. She was to write what he told her to write and do it at once. And when he saw her he would tell her why. He was as sorry as she could be that the affair had turned out as it had.
Esther’s good humor at supper time was as pronounced as it had been in the morning. She was nervous, however; he could see that. He did his best to appear good-humored also. When they were in the library together the cause for her nervousness was disclosed. She told him at once about Bob Griffin’s going to Paris to study art. His reception of the news was far different from what she feared it might be. He appeared to regard it as a good thing for Bob to do.
“Why, Uncle Foster!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you awfully surprised? I was, when Bob told me, last evening. I had no idea he even thought of such a thing—for the present, at least.”
Her uncle rubbed his beard. “He is studying to paint pictures, just as you are studying to sing,” he observed. “According to what I hear, they teach both those things better over yonder than they do here. I don’t wonder he wants to go. Good idea, I should say. When is he going?”
“Very soon. In a few weeks, he says. His grandfather has said that he might.”
“Has, eh? Humph! Elisha must have more money than I thought he had. Paying lawyers can’t be as expensive for him as it is for me. Or,” with a twist of his mouth, “perhaps he doesn’t pay ’em.”
Esther hastened to explain. “Bob has some money of his own,” she said. “His grandfather won’t have to pay any of his expenses.”
“Oh!... Oh, yes, yes! He’s rich, then, as well as handsome—and smart?”
He had not meant to emphasize the “smart,” but he did, a little. She noticed it.
“Bob is smart,” she declared. “Every one says he is.”
“And I suppose he lets ’em say it. Well, maybe he is as smart as he thinks he is. We’ll see how it turns out.”
“What turns out? His painting, do you mean? Oh, I am sure he is going to be a wonderful artist. Just look at that portrait he did of me, with scarcely any study at all.”
He did not look at the portrait and he talked very little during the evening. Esther did not mind. She was relieved that he had not shown resentment when told that Griffin was to be in Paris during her own stay there. Well, at all events, this proved that Nabby Gifford’s insinuation had not a word of truth behind it.
Nothing of moment happened in the Townsend household until Tuesday morning. Then, when breakfast was over, her uncle called her into the library. He had a letter in his hand and there was a serious expression on his face. He asked her to sit down, but he did not sit. Instead he paced up and down the floor, a sure sign that he was much disturbed in mind.
“Esther,” he said, turning toward her, “I’ve got some bad news for you. I’m afraid you will think it is pretty bad, when I tell you what it is. I got a letter yesterday. I didn’t say anything about it then. I always think the morning is the time to face bad news; you have all day to get used to it in and consequently you can sleep better when bedtime comes.... Well, we might as well get it over. Esther, it looks as if you wasn’t going abroad, after all—now, I mean.”
She caught her breath. She had been trying to surmise what the bad news might be, but she had not thought of this.
“Not going abroad!” she repeated, aghast. “You mean I am not going to Paris?”
He nodded. “That is just about what I do mean, I guess,” he affirmed. “It looks as if you couldn’t go—for the present, anyhow. Of course, by and by, later on, you and I will go together, same as we used to plan; but your cruise with Mrs. Carter is off, I’m afraid.... It is a big disappointment for you, isn’t it? Yes, I can see that it is.”
Any one could have seen it. The expression upon her face was sufficient indication of the shock of that disappointment. He, himself, was anything but happy. This thing he was doing was for her good; some of those days she would realize that and be grateful to him, but now—well, now the doing of it made him feel meanly guilty. He put his hand on her shoulder.
“Sorry, Esther,” he said, with a shake in his voice. “I’m sorry enough things have turned out as they have, but—well, it is for the best, I guess. Yes,” with a nod of stubborn determination, “I know it is. Now, don’t feel too bad, my girl. Try and brace up. Come!”
She was trying, but it was hard work. If he had told her this before Bob had told her of his going she would not have minded so much. Since then—and particularly since the time when she had told him of Bob’s proposed trip and he had received the tidings with such complacency—she had thought of little else but the wonderful days to come.
He patted her shoulder.
“Brace up, Esther,” he said. “It isn’t off for good, remember. You and I will go over there together by and by, just as sure as I live. It is just put off for the present, that’s all.”
“But why, Uncle Foster?” she faltered. “Why? What has happened?”
He told her Mrs. Carter had written saying she could not go. Various things had turned up—he was not specific concerning the nature of these things—which made it impossible for her to leave her Boston house for some months at least.
“It’s too late to get any one else,” he explained, gently. “And, besides, I don’t know of any one else I could trust to pilot a cruise like that with you aboard. We must face it as it is. There are lots of disappointments in life; I have had my share of them. And pretty generally,” with another dogged nod, “they turn out to be for the best in the end. You just try and believe this one will turn out that way.”
She told him that she would try, but her tone was so forlorn that his feeling of meanness and guilt increased. And her next speech strengthened them still more.
“I won’t be a baby, Uncle Foster,” she bravely answered him. “I know you are as sorry as I am. It isn’t your fault at all, of course. And,” with an attempt at a smile, “I know, too, that I ought to be glad for your sake. I have never felt right about leaving you.”
He shifted uneasily and gave the “cricket” before the easy-chair a kick which sent it sliding across the floor.
“Don’t talk that way,” he growled. “I—Humph! Well, I’ll make this all up to you before we finish, I’ll swear to that.... Say,” with a sudden inspiration, “I tell you one thing we’ll do! I shall have to go to Washington one of these days and I’ll take you with me. We’ll have a regular spree along with the President and the rest of the big-bugs. That will be something to look forward to, anyhow.”
Perhaps, but, compared to that toward which she had been looking, it was a very poor substitute. And all the rest of that day her disappointment increased rather than diminished. She dreaded Bob’s call that evening. Poor fellow! he would be as disappointed as she was. But he must go, just the same. He must not sacrifice his opportunity for travel and study because hers was postponed. He must go as he had planned. She should insist upon that.
There were other thoughts, too, but she tried not to think them. It had seemed to her that her uncle’s reasons—or Mrs. Carter’s reasons—for canceling the trip had been rather vague and not altogether sufficient to warrant upsetting the plans of so many people. And the decision was so sudden. Her last letter from the lady had contained not a hint of change. It was full of enthusiastic anticipation. Her uncle—
She resolutely refused to think along that line. Her uncle had felt so badly when he broke the news to her. She remembered the tremble in his voice. No, she would not be so disloyal or ungrateful as to suspect.... Never mind Nabby’s suggestion. Nabby was what her employer sometimes called her, a clucking old hen.
She would have gone to her Aunt Reliance and sought consolation there, but the Welfare Society met again that afternoon and she felt bound to attend the meeting.
Bob Griffin, when he came that evening, was in such a glow of high spirits that he could scarcely wait for Foster Townsend to leave the library before voicing his feelings. Townsend appeared to notice his condition.
“You look fit as a fiddle to-night, seems to me,” he observed. “Counting the days till you get to Paris, I suppose; eh? Well, I don’t wonder. Pretty big thing for a young fellow.”
Bob was a little surprised.
“Oh, then Esther has told you about it?” he asked.
“Um-hum. She told me.”
“What do you think of the idea, sir? Of my going there to study, I mean?”
“Think it is just what you should do. If you’ve made up your mind to paint for a living then the better painter you learn to be the better living you’ll make—if you can live at all at that job.... Oh, yes, yes!” he added, before either of the pair could reply. “I suppose likely you think you can. And you may be right. I don’t know about such things.”
The moment the hall door had closed behind him Bob turned to Esther and seized her hands.
“Only a few more weeks,” he announced, triumphantly. “In less than a month you and I will be sauntering down the Champs Elysées or the ‘Boul Mich’ or somewhere. I have engaged my passage. I am going on the Lavornia. She sails from New York just eight days after your ship leaves. We shan’t be separated long, shall we?”
She withdrew her hands from his and shook her head.
“Bob,” she said, “I have dreaded seeing you to-night. I have something to tell you that you won’t like at all. I don’t like it either, but it can’t be helped. All our plans are changed. I am not going to Paris.”
He stared. “Not going to Paris?” he repeated. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, for the present. I am going to stay here in Harniss.... Wait! Please wait, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She told him of the letter from Mrs. Carter and her uncle’s decision that the European trip must be postponed. He would have interrupted a half dozen times, but she begged him not to.
“So you see, Bob,” she said, in conclusion, “you and I won’t meet over there as soon as we expected. I can’t go now, although perhaps some day I shall. I am glad you are going. I am awfully glad of that.”
He had risen and was standing before her. His lips were set and he was frowning. Now he laughed scornfully.
“Esther,” he protested, “don’t! Don’t be silly. You can’t really think I would go if you didn’t.”
“Why, of course I do. You must go. Certainly you are going.”
“Certainly I am not. Huh! I should say not! If you don’t go neither do I. If they make you wait I’ll wait, too.”
“Bob! Oh, please, Bob, be reasonable. Think of what it means to you. Your chance to study, to go on with your painting, to get ahead in the world! Do you suppose I shall let you give up your opportunity just because mine is postponed for a while? Did you think me as selfish as that?”
He shook his head. “You bet I don’t go!” he muttered. “Indeed I don’t! They don’t get me away from you as easily as that comes to.”
“Bob!... What do you mean by that? No one is trying to get you away from me.”
Again he laughed. “Oh, Esther,” he said, impatiently, “don’t let’s pretend. You know what this means as well as I do. It is as plain as print. Captain Townsend—”
“It isn’t his fault. It is Mrs. Carter who can’t go. That is the reason.”
“Esther! Can’t you see? Oh, but of course you do! This Mrs. Carter is doing what your uncle has told her to do. She has called it off, trumped up the excuse, because he ordered her to do it.”
“Bob!” sharply. “Stop! You mustn’t say such things. You know they aren’t true. Why, it was Uncle Foster who persuaded Mrs. Carter to go, in the first place.”
“Yes, and now he has ordered her not to. Bah!” with an angry wave of the hand, “it is as plain as if it was painted on the wall. He doesn’t want me coming here to see you; he never did.”
“Then why did he let you come at all?”
“I don’t know—unless it was because he thought we might be seeing each other somewhere else anyhow, and he could keep an eye on us as long as we were in his house.”
“Bob! If you say another word like that I shall go away and leave you. Uncle Foster knows that he doesn’t need to keep an eye on me. He trusts me absolutely.”
She was indignant, but he was angry and sure of the correctness of his suspicions.
“He doesn’t trust me, then,” he declared, stubbornly. “He hates me, because I am a Cook. He was sending you to Europe to get you where I couldn’t see you. Well, I guessed that little trick right away and played a better one on him. I decided to go to Paris myself. He had not thought of that, I guess. It must have jolted him when you told him.”
“Bob, I won’t listen to such things.”
“And then, when you did tell him, he saw his little game was up and so he has made up his mind to keep you here. Well, all right, then he can keep me here, too. He isn’t the only one who can change their mind. I’d like to tell him so.”
He strode to the hall door and stood there almost as if determined to follow Foster Townsend to his room and tell him there and then. She was silent for a moment. The things he had said were in exact confirmation of the suspicion voiced by Nabby Gifford and which she had not permitted herself to consider.
“The sly old rat!” he muttered between his teeth. She caught her breath.
“No!” she cried. “No, I don’t believe a word of it.... And even if it were true—which it isn’t—it mustn’t make any difference in your going. You must sail on the Lavornia just as you planned.”
He spoke over his shoulder. “I shan’t,” he vowed, determinedly. “I stay right here.”
“No, you mustn’t do any such thing. I shan’t let you.”
“You can’t stop me.... No, and he can’t either. The scheming old hypocrite!”
She walked to the door now and opened it.
“You had better go home,” she said. “I don’t care to hear you speak in this way any longer. When you are ready to talk and behave like a sensible person you may come back and perhaps I will listen to you. But not until you beg my pardon for saying such things about Uncle Foster.”
He swung about to face her. “But, Esther,” he cried, “you know they are true.”
“I know you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying them, for calling him a hypocrite and all the rest.”
“Well, what else is he? Making believe to you that—”
“Stop! Will you go now, please?”
“Of course I shan’t! I have only just come. Esther, dear, I am sorry if I said more than I should. I am mad clear through. Oh, we must not quarrel because—because he—”
“Will you stop talking about him? And will you go this minute?”
He jammed his hands into his pockets. His face was flushed and hers white, but the fire in his eyes was dying. He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away.
“Do you really want me to go—now?” he asked, incredulously. “You can’t mean it, dear.”
“I do mean it. I think it is very much better that you should. You have said enough to-night, more than enough. I don’t want to hear more and I don’t feel like talking, myself. Please go.”
He hesitated, then he surrendered.
“Perhaps you are right,” he admitted. “I guess I am not very good company; shan’t be until I get over this. When I come again I’ll try to behave more like a Christian. I am awfully sorry, dear. You will make allowances and forgive me, won’t you? Good heavens, think what a disappointment this has been for me. All my plans—”
“They were my plans, too.”
“Yes, so they were. Well, when may I come again? I shan’t have to wait until Friday, shall I? This little bit of a half hour doesn’t really count, you know. May I come to-morrow night?”
“No. I want you to take time to think this all over. And when you come I want to hear you say that you will go ahead just as you intended.”
“Without you?”
“Certainly; without me for the present.”
“Esther Townsend, are you in on this? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
She looked at him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said, icily. “Good-night.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it! You know I didn’t. I am—I am talking like a fool, of course. But you don’t really expect me to go across the Atlantic Ocean and leave you on this side? You don’t really ask me to do that?”
“I do. It is for your sake. For the sake of your work and all it means. I don’t want to see you again until you are ready to promise me just that.”
His chin lifted. “Then I am afraid you won’t see me very soon,” he declared.
“That is for you to say. If you don’t care enough, or trust me enough, to make a promise I ask you to make, especially when what I ask is entirely for your good, then—well then, perhaps you had better not come at all.”
“Esther, the other night you said—you told me— And now you want me to go off three thousand miles and leave you! Well, I must say!”
“Bob, will you make me that promise?”
“I—I— Oh, I don’t know! It doesn’t seem as if I could.”
“And if you do make it, will you keep it? You promised me weeks ago that you would tell your grandfather of your coming to this house to see me. Have you told him?”
He frowned. That promise had been on his mind every waking moment since it was made. Time and time again he had been on the point of telling Elisha Cook of his visits to the Townsend mansion, but always the time had seemed inopportune. He was no coward, but he knew, better than she or any one else knew, the storm which was sure to follow. It might mean a complete break between his grandfather and himself, and he loved the old man dearly. Yet he had meant to keep his promise, still meant to do so.
He shook his head.
“Well, no, Esther, I haven’t yet. We have had one tremendous row in the family lately, when I told him I was going abroad. I haven’t had the spunk to risk another. I shall tell him, though—and soon. Please don’t think—”
“Oh, hush! What need is there to think? I can see. Good-night.”
The door closed. He stood, for a minute, looking at the ground glass in its panels. Then the light behind those panels went out. He turned away, in a state of mind divided between disgust, resentment and discouragement. Women were a non-comprehensible lot, and the best of them seemed to be as illogical and unreasonable as the worst. It was a thought by no means original, but he considered it a discovery all his own. He walked to the stable, climbed into his buggy and drove, in miserable reverie, to Denboro.
Upstairs in the pink room Esther was lying upon the bed, her wet cheeks buried in the pillows. The things Bob had said about her uncle were wicked—wicked. But if they were true then her uncle was wicked. And, in that case, she, herself, for having treated Bob as she had, was the most wicked of all. It was a wicked, hateful world altogether.