“IF” is one of the shortest words in the English language and also one of the most important. “If” Elisha Cook had not been taken ill with a cold, accompanied by complications threatening pneumonia, the complications now threatening the love story of his grandson and Foster Townsend’s niece might not have been aggravated. The disagreement between the young people was serious, but not too dangerous. Had that particular “if” not arisen— But it did arise.
Bob, when he reached Denboro that evening, had made up his mind on one point, namely, that he would, the very next morning, keep his promise to Esther and tell his grandfather that he had been calling at the big house in Harniss and why he had done so. The prospect was anything but cheerful and what its consequences might be he did not dare consider. He was ashamed of his procrastination, although he still believed his reasons for the delay to be good ones. If left to himself he would have waited even longer, for, as he saw it, nothing was to be gained and perhaps much lost by premature disclosure of his secret. But, right or wrong, he would disclose it now. She should not have another opportunity to taunt him with lack of courage and failure to keep his word.
As to the other promise she had demanded, that he carry out his plan to go abroad regardless of the fact that she was to remain at home, that was harder to give. He was not sure that he would give it. He would wait until they met again and he had further opportunity to plead his side of the case. She was unreasonable in demanding such a thing and he hoped, after she had had time to think it over, she would realize that unreasonableness.
Her uncle—there was the trouble. Foster Townsend was to blame. He was a sly, scheming old hypocrite, just as Bob had declared him to be. He had been sending her abroad just to separate them and then, after she told him that he—Bob—was going also, he had trumped up the transparent excuse for keeping her in Harniss. Esther should realize that this was precisely what had happened. And, too, she must realize that if he—Bob again—did go alone, then Foster Townsend’s underhand scheme would be working just exactly as he hoped. Surely it was obvious enough. She must see through it; she would, just as soon as she considered it calmly and deliberately.
He was surprised when he drove into the yard, to find the windows of his grandfather’s room alight and to see the Denboro doctor’s horse and buggy standing by the door. The Cook housekeeper met him when he entered. Mr. Cook’s cold had grown suddenly worse, she told him, and the doctor seemed somewhat alarmed.
“You had better go right up, Bob,” she said. “Mr. Cook’s been askin’ for you every other minute for the last two hours. He’s frightened about himself—you know how he is when there’s anything the matter with him—and he won’t lay still or keep from frettin’ unless you are there.”
Bob stood watch beside his grandfather’s bed until the old gentleman at last fell asleep. Dodging the questions of the querulous patient was the hardest part of the vigil. Elisha Cook was anxious to know where his grandson had been, why he kept going away and leaving him all alone like this—to die, for all he knew—and if he intended to keep on doing it until he went off to Europe and left him to die or not, just as it happened. Bob promised to remain at home that night and other nights for the present, at least. And he reluctantly dismissed all idea of disclosing his feeling for Esther until his grandfather should be well and strong once more. He would write her and explain the situation; that was all he could do now.
The next morning there was little change. Cook was no worse, nor was he appreciably better.
“He will get along,” said the doctor, “provided he keeps still and doesn’t try to get up, or worry about that lawsuit or anything else. You are the only person who seems to have any real control over him. If you can just stick around and fight off callers, lawyers especially, and see that he takes his medicine and eats what he should and when he should—if you’ll just stay here with him for a week or two he will get over this upset. There will be others, of course. You know as well as I do that a man at his age is likely to—well, step off almost any time, but I don’t think it is going to be this time. I am counting on you to hold the fort for me.”
So Bob held the fort, but it was nearly a fortnight later before Elisha Cook was sufficiently recovered to permit his grandson’s spending an evening elsewhere than in that house. Bob wrote two letters, one to Esther explaining why he could not come to see her, and one to the steamship company canceling his passage on the Lavornia. And during that fortnight many things happened in Harniss.
The Welfare Society decided to give a performance of “Pinafore” in the town hall. Among the native and summer population of the village and of Bayport and Orham, there were several individuals who sang well and a larger number whose singing was passable. The committee chosen to select the cast picked Esther Townsend for the part of Josephine. The vote was not unanimous. Mrs. Wheeler and a few intimate friends seemed to feel sure that Margery, the Wheeler daughter, was exactly suited for that part and should have it. There was much discussion, resulting in Margery’s being given the part of Little Buttercup. “After all,” Mrs. Wheeler confided to the Reverend Mr. Colton, “perhaps it is just as well. If Margery did sing Josephine the Townsend girl would have to be Buttercup and every one knows that she hasn’t a bone of humor in her body. We should be willing to sacrifice the rights of an individual for the good of the whole, shouldn’t we, Mr. Colton? And if Margery is anything it is self-sacrificing. She has a beautiful spirit.”
Bob Griffin’s name was mentioned in the discussion as a possible member of the cast, but, unfortunately, Bob could not sing. Then it was suggested that, as in the case of the Old Folks’ Concert, he might be given charge of costumes and scenery. Mrs. Wheeler was firm on this point. “It is quite unnecessary,” she declared. “The play book tells us exactly what the costumes should be and, if we really need scenery, we can hire a set in Boston. I see no reason for complicating matters by dragging Mr. Griffin into the affair. You know how fussy he was about the Old Folks’ costumes. He won’t be satisfied unless he can superintend everything and that will mean more time than we can spare. The first week in September is the very latest date when we may expect a good-sized audience; every one will be leaving directly after that. Besides, the story is that Mr. Griffin is going abroad soon to study art. I don’t think we should interfere with anything as necessary as study for his art. Ha, ha!”
Some of the listeners to this decided expression of opinion exchanged side-long glances as they heard it. They remembered how very enthusiastic the Wheeler mother and daughter had formerly been concerning Griffin’s services and ability. Mrs. Captain Ben Snow whispered to Mrs. Colton that she guessed Esther Townsend had put Margery’s nose out of joint so far as Bob Griffin was concerned.
“That nose is where the shoe pinches just now,” asserted Mrs. Snow. Mrs. Colton was aware of some peculiarities in the metaphor, but she agreed with the truth of the statement.
Who should play Ralph Rackstraw was the casting committee’s most difficult problem and Fate solved it in an unexpected way. A stranger came to Harniss, a stranger who could sing, who had had much experience in amateur theatricals, and who in age and physical charm was the ideal Rackstraw. Best of all he had sung the part elsewhere and in a big city. Mrs. Wheeler declared his coming was a dispensation of Providence. Margery agreed with her. So, for the matter of that, did every female—especially every young female—in the cast. At the first rehearsal the new Ralph Rackstraw made a hit even before he opened his mouth to sing. When he did sing the hit assumed the proportions of a triumph. Margery Wheeler’s regret that she was not to play Josephine was bitterer than ever and her hatred of Esther Townsend more implacable.
Bob Griffin knew nothing of all this. Esther had written him, in her reply to his note, that a visitor was expected at the mansion, and he had heard rumors that Foster Townsend was entertaining some one from “out West,” but he paid little attention. The sole dweller in that house in whom he was the least interested was Esther and he was looking forward to seeing her very soon. Elisha Cook was steadily improving in health and the moment his grandson received the doctor’s permission to leave him for an evening that evening would find Bob Griffin knocking at the Townsend door.
Esther’s letter, written the day following that upon which she received his note, was a long one. Its tone was kindly and, remembering only too well the manner of their parting, he found comfort in that. She expressed sorrow at the news of his grandfather’s illness, but hoped, as he did, that it would prove neither serious nor prolonged.
“It is too bad that you were obliged to cancel your reservation on the Lavornia,” she wrote. “Of course you will go on another ship and as soon as it is safe for you to leave Mr. Cook. I have not changed my mind in that matter at all, Bob. You must go, for your own sake. I shall insist upon it. I don’t want to think that you were only pretending when you told me how you were counting upon the opportunity to study under the great masters there in Paris. I am sure some of the things I said to you the other night were too hard and they must have hurt you. I am sorry I said them and I have worried about them ever since. But I am just as sure as ever that you must not give up your chance simply because I have to give up mine. And I do want to have you tell me that you were wrong in saying what you did about Uncle Foster. If you could see him now, every day, as I see him, you would know that he is as sorry as I—yes, or you—that our disappointment had to be. I have never known him to be so kind and indulgent. And he says so many nice things about you, too. I am glad enough that he will never know what you said about him. And, Bob, I want you to go abroad and study hard, not only for yourself, but—well, yes, for me. Nothing will make me so proud as to have you prove to him and every one else that you are a wonderful painter and will be famous some day. That will be worth working for—yes, and waiting for.”
There was a postscript.
“I haven’t told you a word of news, have I?” added Esther. “Well, there isn’t much. The Welfare Society has decided to give ‘Pinafore’ in the town hall early in September and they have coaxed me into trying to play Josephine. She is the captain’s daughter, you remember, and what I suppose you might call the heroine of the piece. The prospect frightens me rather, but I am going to try. Uncle seems to want me to and—well, Bob, it may help to keep my mind occupied during a part of the time when some one I am very much interested in is so far away. The other news is that we are expecting a visitor here at home. He comes from Chicago and is the son of an old friend of Uncle Foster’s out there. I will tell you more about this—yes, and about everything, when you call. I hope that will be soon.”
It was not soon, as Bob reckoned time just then, but at last the doctor admitted that his patient might be left in the care of the housekeeper without endangering the progress of his convalescence and the housekeeper herself persuaded Elisha Cook that his grandson needed at least one evening’s rest.
“He has been shut up here for more than two weeks,” she said, “and he ought to get a breath of fresh air. You go right out, Bob, and stay as long as you want to. There’s one of those mesmerizin’ men at the hall to-night and if I was you I’d go and see him. They tell me he’s somethin’ wonderful. Taylor Hadley told me that he saw this same man over to Hyannis last week and the things he done were nothin’ short of miraculous. He put a boy to sleep right on the stage and then stuck pins in him just as if he was a—a cushion or somethin’. Taylor said it was the funniest thing he ever saw. He laughed till he thought he’d die.”
Old Mr. Cook stirred impatiently in the bed.
“Must have been funny, especially for the boy,” he observed. “It isn’t such a great trick to stick pins in people, seems to me. Bob doesn’t need to go to the town hall for that. Suppose I stick a few in you right now, Sarah; then we can all have a good time.”
The housekeeper did not accept the suggestion. She tartly explained that the boy was mesmerized and didn’t know anything about it.
“Anyhow,” she declared, “Bob doesn’t have to go to the show unless he wants to. But he ought to go out somewhere. He needs the fresh air and exercise after bein’ shut up in this house as long as he has.”
“He hasn’t been shut up in it any longer than I have.... Oh, well, well! never mind. Stop arguing, for heaven’s sake! Where are you going, Bob?”
Bob thought he might go for a walk, or a drive, perhaps.
“Where are you going to drive?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps over to Harniss, or thereabouts.”
“Harniss! Humph! You go to Harniss a lot lately, seems to me. Can’t paint pictures in the night, can you?... Oh, well, go ahead! go ahead!... Say, if you see Foster Townsend you tell him for me that he better be saving up his money. He’s going to need a good many dollars to pay the bill the Supreme Court will hand him pretty soon. He, he! I’m going to get him this time and I only hope he’s beginning to realize it.”
The housekeeper cautioned him to be quiet.
“The doctor said you mustn’t talk or even think about that lawsuit,” she protested. “You want to get well, don’t you?”
“Who said I wasn’t going to get well? You don’t suppose I’ll be fool enough to die until I win that case, do you?... Oh, do shut up! Bob, go, if you want to. Don’t stay too long, that’s all. And come in here and see me when you get back. I’ll be awake. Nobody is going to mesmerize me and stick pins in me.... Clear out!”
Bob “cleared out,” glad of the opportunity to escape. The Cook horse never made better time than during that evening’s trip to Harniss.
The Townsend maid—not Nabby Gifford, but the other—answered his ring and ushered him into the library. Esther was there and there was no doubt whatever that she was glad to see him. In her manner was no trace of the angry resentment with which she had bade him good-by two weeks before. Her letter proved that she had repented of her treatment of him that night and now, as her hand returned the pressure of his, his heart leaped joyfully. She was the most glorious girl in all the world and she was his. Nothing could ever part them. There should be no more misunderstandings.
Foster Townsend was in the library also, seated in the big leather chair. His greeting of the caller was as cordial as usual, no more so but no less. He did not rise, however.
“Hello, Griffin,” he observed. “How are you? You’re quite a stranger. Had sickness over at your house, I hear. Esther told me.”
“Yes, sir. My grandfather has been under the weather. He is much better now.”
Townsend did not say he was glad to hear it. He said nothing and, picking up his newspaper, proceeded to read. Bob accepted Esther’s invitation to be seated and he and she exchanged casual comments on unimportant subjects. Bob was impatiently awaiting her uncle’s leaving them alone together. He had always done this heretofore; now, however, he remained. A moment later he dropped his paper and spoke.
“Esther says you have had to put off your trip to the other side for a week or so,” he said. “When are you going?”
Bob hesitated. Esther was regarding him intently and he was aware of her scrutiny.
“I—well, I don’t exactly know, Captain Townsend,” he replied.
“Humph! I see. That doesn’t mean you aren’t going at all, does it?”
“No, sir. No, I don’t know that it does. I haven’t made up my mind just what I shall do.”
“Humph! Good deal of a disappointment this having to put it off must have been to you, I should imagine. I judged from what you said to me, and what Esther says you said to her, that going over there to learn to paint is the one thing you’ve wanted to do all your life.”
“Yes, sir. Why—why, yes, it is.”
“Um-hum. Then you’ll go just as soon as you can, of course? Eh?”
Bob hesitated. Townsend bit the end from a cigar.
“Nothing to keep you here now that this sickness is out the way, is there?” he inquired, carelessly.
“Why—why, no sir. I suppose not.”
“Glad to hear it. Looks like too good a chance for you to miss. Esther agrees with me there; don’t you, Esther?”
Esther nodded. “He is going, of course,” she said, quickly. “You are, aren’t you, Bob?”
Bob was in trouble. He had come there fully determined to make one more plea to Esther’s common sense and justice. He meant to make her understand how impossible it would be for him to leave her, how their separation would be precisely what her scheming uncle had hoped and for which he had planned. And now, in Foster Townsend’s presence, he could not tell her that. And this cross-examination was placing him in a very bad position. If he said that he was not going until she did the fat would be in the fire. If he said that he was going without her, she would accept that statement as the promise she had demanded. He did not know what to say.
“Bob,” persisted Esther, “I asked you a question. Didn’t you hear it? You are going abroad now—very soon—aren’t you?”
He set his teeth. He must make some sort of answer.
“I— Oh, I—I don’t know exactly what I shall do,” he stammered. “Grandfather’s sickness has—he isn’t very well and—and perhaps I shouldn’t leave him, for the present.”
Esther was silent. Foster Townsend stretched his legs and jingled the change in his pocket.
“I see,” he observed, in a tone of understanding solicitude which made Bob long to choke him; “that’s it, eh? Well, now that’s the right way for you to feel and it’s gratifying, these days, to find young folks so thoughtful of their elders. What does—er—what does your grandfather say about it? Thinks you had better stay at home, does he?”
“I haven’t talked with him about it yet. Not since he was taken sick.”
“Oh, haven’t you? Well, you will, of course. And when you do I guess likely he will tell you to go just the same. A friend of mine here in Harniss met your Denboro doctor yesterday and he says the doctor told him that Cook would be as well as ever inside of a week. He wanted you to go in the first place, didn’t he?”
“He was willing I should go.”
“Then I guess he will be just as willing now. From what I hear he thinks the world of you and he wouldn’t let you do anything that would hurt you any more than you would do anything to hurt him. No, nor Esther here would to hurt me; eh, Esther?... But there, your business isn’t mine, as I know of. Hello, here’s Seymour! You two haven’t met yet, I guess.”
The hall door had opened and a young man entered the library. He was a dark-haired, dark-eyed young fellow, with good looks far beyond the ordinary, and he was dressed in a summer suit of light gray which fitted perfectly and was very becoming.
Foster Townsend rose from the easy-chair.
“Esther and I have been wondering what had become of you, Seymour,” he observed. “Been for a walk, have you?”
The young man smiled, showing teeth as perfect as the rest of him.
“I went to the post office, that’s all, Captain Townsend,” he said. “I tried to coax Esther to go with me, but she wouldn’t.”
“Guess she was expecting a caller, maybe. Anyway, she has got one. Esther, suppose you do the introducing.”
Esther colored slightly, but she accepted the suggestion.
“Bob,” she said, “this is Seymour Covell, from Chicago. He is visiting us. You remember I—” She paused, noticing the expression upon the two faces. “Why!” she cried, in astonishment. “What is it? Do you know each other?”
It was quite evident that they did. Griffin had risen when Covell entered. He was gazing at the latter in incredulous surprise. And Covell, when he turned to face Bob, seemed quite as much astonished. The hand which he had extended dropped at his side. Of the two, he appeared the more taken aback by the meeting.
“Do you know each other?” repeated Esther. “You look as if you did.”
Seymour Covell’s embarrassment, if he was embarrassed, was but momentary. The hand shot forward again to seize Bob’s and shake it heartily. His handsome face beamed.
“Well, well!” he declared, with a delighted smile, “this is a surprise! Griffin, who on earth would have expected to find you down here! How are you, old man? Glad to see you!”
Bob’s gladness was more restrained. He accepted the handshake, but he did not return it, and his smile seemed, so Esther thought, somewhat forced. He looked from her to Covell and back again.
“Why, how are you, Covell?” he said. “Where did you come from?”
Covell laughed. “From Chicago. Chicago is my home port. That is the proper seafaring way to put it, isn’t it, Captain Townsend?... But the last time I saw you, Griffin, was in New York. What are you doing in Harniss, Massachusetts?”
Bob shook his head. “Harniss, or next door to it, is where I belong,” he answered. “This is my home port. But I—well, it is the last port I ever expected to find you in.”
Foster Townsend interrupted. “Here, here!” he ordered. “Come up into the wind a minute, you two. Seymour, I didn’t know you and this boy had ever met before. What is this all about, anyway?”
Covell explained. He was quite at ease now. “Griffin and I are old friends,” he said. “We were fellow students at what we used to call the ‘Art Abattoir’ in New York. That is, he was a real student and I was—well, what can you honestly say I was, Griffin? Say it for me, will you? I am ashamed to try.”
The laugh which accompanied the speech was infectious. Foster Townsend laughed, too, and so did Esther. Bob also attempted a laugh, but it was not a huge success.
“I guess you were as much of a student as I was,” he said, rather awkwardly. “But what I can’t understand is why you are here—in Harniss.”
“And in this house” was the thought in his mind, although he did not utter it. Esther answered the unspoken question.
“Seymour is visiting us,” she put in. “He is that son of Uncle Foster’s old friend, the one I wrote you about. Don’t you remember I said we were expecting a visitor?”
Bob did remember it, although it had made little impression when he read her letter. If she had told him that visitor’s name he would have remembered. He remembered many things about Seymour Covell.
“I am an invalid, Griffin,” Covell himself explained cheerfully. “You may not think it to look at me, but I am. I am down here for my health and my health and I are having a grand old time of it so far, thanks to the captain—and Esther. I believe the idea is that eventually Captain Townsend is to put me to work somewhere at something or other, but just now I am an invalid, strong enough only to enjoy life and sing in light opera. Esther is responsible for the opera part of it. On her head be it. She knows most of our audience personally, provided we have an audience—and I don’t, so I shall be the most care-free sailor that ever spliced the main brace. Is ‘splicing the main brace’ correct, Captain Townsend?”
Foster Townsend, with a chuckle, declared it sounded all right to him. It was evident that his visitor had already captured his fancy. Esther, who had been watching Bob intently, now spoke.
“The Welfare Society has persuaded Seymour to take the part of Ralph Rackstraw in our ‘Pinafore’ play,” she said, quickly. “It is ever so kind of him to do it and I am sure I don’t know what we should have done if he had refused. There is nobody else in town, or near it, who can sing that part as it should be sung.”
Covell lifted a hand in protest. “Between you and me, Griffin,” he said, with a doubting shake of the head, “that ‘care-free’ business I boasted of is all counterfeit. I am shaking in my shoes. These good people don’t know what they have been let in for. By the time I get to the place in that performance where I announce that I ‘go to a dungeon cell,’ I’m betting that the audience will be perfectly satisfied to have me go there, provided I don’t come back. Oh, Josephine!” with a laughing glance at Esther, “I am sorry for you!”
Esther laughed, too, and declared that she was not afraid. Townsend chuckled. Bob Griffin’s smile was more than ever a product of main strength and determination. He had seen at least a half dozen performances of “Pinafore”—in those days every child on the street knew the most of it by heart—and he remembered only too well the love scenes between Rackstraw and the captain’s daughter. He and Seymour Covell had never been friends during their studio days in New York. They were acquaintances, that was all, and never once during that acquaintanceship had he hailed Bob affectionately as “old man” or expressed delight in meeting him. Bob recalled very distinctly a certain air of condescending amusement in the Covell attitude toward him and the other fellows who took their work in deadly earnest. Covell had talent, too. When he cared to take the trouble he could draw or paint well; but he seldom cared. He had been a favorite with the instructors, with members of his own crowd—chaps who, like himself, were fond of a good time and were liberally supplied with money—and the girls adored him, even the uncomely ones upon whom he wasted little attention. There was always a cluster of femininity about the Covell drawing board when the day’s lesson was over.
And there were stories about him. He had the reputation of being a lady-killer and, if the stories were true, a ruthless one. Of all the men on earth this Seymour Covell was the very last whom Bob Griffin cared to see in Esther Townsend’s company, and the thought of his holding her in his arms and singing love ditties in her ear—even “in public on the stage”—was unbearable. He was living in the same house with her; he had made himself a favorite there already, just as he always did wherever and whenever he cared to try. Captain Townsend liked him immensely, that was plain enough. Yes, and Esther liked him, too. She ought to have more discernment. She ought to see the sort of fellow he was.
Bob Griffin was an even-tempered young man and as sensible as the average, but he was young and head over heels in love. The manner in which Covell appealed to Esther and hinted at understandings and confidences between them made him furious. He was jealous, and growing more so every minute.
There was further conversation among the four, although Covell did the most of the talking. He was curious concerning Bob’s progress with his painting; much interested in the beach studio, and proclaimed his intention of visiting it some day soon.
“Griffin has the gift; we all used to tell him so,” he declared. “He will go far, that was the general prophecy among the crowd at the old Abattoir. I was one of the loudest prophets.”
Which was a lie and Bob was strongly tempted to tell him so. But Foster Townsend put in a word.
“Griffin is going far now,” he announced. “He is sailing for Paris in a week or so to keep on with his painting over there.”
Covell said he was delighted. “First rate,” he exclaimed. “Just what you ought to do. The old Quarter is the place to find out what is what.”
Bob remembered something he had heard.
“Seems to me,” he began. “Why, yes, didn’t I hear that you went over there yourself, Covell? Some one told me you had studied in Paris.”
Again Covell favored the trio with that pleasant laugh of his.
“Oh, yes!” he admitted, “I was there for awhile. Plugging along pretty well for me, too, and enjoying it. But the old health machine lost a cog or something and the doctors sent me home again. The toughest break of luck I ever had, that was,” he added, with a shrug. “Well, maybe I shall have another chance by and by. I hope so.”
Townsend grunted in sympathy and Esther said she was sure he would have that chance.
“We are all so glad Bob is to have his,” she added.
Foster Townsend rose to his feet. “Well, come on, Seymour,” he ordered. “Let’s you and I go out and see Varunas for a spell. I want you to go around the Circle with me behind Claribel to-morrow. You haven’t seen her do a mile yet and it is high time you did. The mare is growing older, like the rest of us, but she can make some of the trotters around here carry all the sail they can spread and fall astern—even now.”
They left the room together, Covell pausing to shake Bob’s hand once more and express his pleasure at their reunion. Left alone—something Griffin had become to believe was not likely to happen that evening—he and Esther faced each other. His expression was somber enough. She, too, seemed a little uneasy.
“Isn’t it nice that Uncle Foster has some one with him at last who will take an interest in his trotting horses,” she said. “I used to pretend to, but he soon found out it was only make-believe. Seymour really does like horses; any one can see that he does.”
Bob sniffed. “He used to have the name of liking anything that was fast,” he said; and was immediately sorry that he had said it. Esther looked at him.
“Now what do you mean by that?” she queried.
Bob hesitated and then replied that perhaps he had not meant anything in particular.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” he added. “How long has he been with you in this house?”
“Why, I don’t know; ten days or so. How could I tell you before? I haven’t seen you for more than two weeks. And I wrote you in my letter that we were expecting some one.”
“You didn’t tell me his name.”
“Why should I? I didn’t suppose the name would mean anything to you. I hadn’t the least idea that you knew each other.... Bob, what is the matter with you this evening? I never saw you so queer. When Uncle Foster was asking you about going abroad you scarcely answered him. And you were almost rude to Mr. Covell. The way you glared at him! I am awfully afraid he noticed it; I don’t see how he could help it. I was ashamed of you. What is it all about?”
He was glowering at that moment, not at her, but at the carpet.
“He seems to have made himself mighty popular in his ten days,” he observed, bitterly. “Look here! Is he going to take part with you in that ‘Pinafore’ thing?”
“Certainly he is. The committee were at their wits’ end to know who to pick for the Ralph Rackstraw part. His coming was the luckiest thing that ever happened. He sings well and he has had lots of experience in amateur theatricals. And he was so nice about it. He didn’t want to take the part, here, among strangers.... What did you say?”
He had muttered an inaudible something. A thought came to her.
“Why, Bob,” she cried, “you’re not cross because you weren’t invited to take part, are you? You don’t sing. You refused to sing even in the chorus at the Old Folks’ Concert. And we—I mean the committee—seemed to think it wasn’t necessary to have any one select the costumes this time; the books tells us just what to wear. You mustn’t feel slighted. I never supposed for a minute that you would.”
He shook his head impatiently. “Of course I don’t feel slighted,” he declared. “That doesn’t amount to anything.”
“Then what is it? Why are you so grumpy? I never saw you act so before.”
He frowned. “Esther,” he blurted, after a moment of indecision, “I don’t like this business at all. I don’t like it.”
“What business?”
“Having this fellow here in the house with you, going everywhere with you and—and, well, I don’t like it.”
She gazed at him in incredulous astonishment. Then she laughed merrily.
“Bob!” she exclaimed. “Why, Bob Griffin! You are not jealous, are you? You are not silly enough to be that.”
He was precisely that, but of course—perhaps for that very reason—he hotly denied the accusation.
“Of course I’m not jealous,” he declared. “Don’t be foolish, Esther.... And don’t laugh either. There is nothing to laugh about.”
She tried her best to obey, but the laugh still lingered at the corner of her lips. She leaned forward to take his hand.
“Bob!” she said, reproachful. He drew his hand away.
“I don’t like his being with you,” he insisted. “I don’t like it at all. He ought not to be here.”
“But I can’t help his being here, can I? He is uncle’s visitor, not mine. And his father was one of uncle’s best friends years ago. And so, when old Mr. Covell wrote—”
“Oh, never mind! I don’t care how he got here. He isn’t the sort of fellow you ought to be with. And I don’t want you to take part in that ‘Pinafore’ play with him.”
“But I must take part. I have promised that I would. Bob, don’t be so unreasonable.... Why do you say that he isn’t the sort of fellow I should be with? What makes you say that?”
“Because it is the truth. He is a—well, he is—oh, he isn’t your kind, that’s all.”
“What does that mean? What is my kind?”
“You know well enough. He is— Oh, I won’t talk about him behind his back!”
“But you have talked about him. You have said too much or not enough, one or the other. Why don’t you like him? He likes you. He said you and he were friends there in New York.”
“He lied when he said it. He never had anything to do with me. He and his gang were too busy high-rolling to bother with a fellow who was there just to study painting. He had a pocketful of money and— Why, Esther, if you knew half of the stories I have heard about him you wouldn’t like him any better than I do.”
“What sort of stories?”
“Oh—well, I’m not going to tell them to you. They aren’t stories you ought to hear.”
“Do you know they are true?”
“Why shouldn’t they be true? Everybody said—”
“I don’t care what every one said. People say all sorts of things, especially when they are envious of other people. Do you know they were true?”
“No-o. At least I never saw anything out of the way, if that is what you mean. Why should I? I never was invited to any of his—parties. He hadn’t any use for me; I told you that.”
“Yes, you did tell me. You didn’t like him then and you don’t like him now and so, because you don’t like him, you sit here and hint—hint at things that, for all you know, may have been just mean gossip without a word of truth behind them. Rich people are always gossiped about. I have lived with Uncle Foster long enough to learn that.... Bob, if you can’t prove anything against Mr. Covell I think it would be much better for you not to talk about him at all.”
Her temper was rising now. If his own had not been at the boiling point he might have noticed the symptoms and been more careful. But he was past taking care.
“I tell you this,” he cried, determinedly: “If you think I am going off to Europe and leave you here with him you are very much mistaken. That much is settled, anyhow.”
She rose to her feet.
“Do you mean that you don’t trust me enough to—to leave me with anybody?” she demanded.
“I mean that I won’t leave you with him. I should say not! With him—and with that uncle of yours standing behind him, helping him play his cards and—and.... Oh, Esther, think a little bit! Can’t you see that getting this Covell here is just a part of your uncle’s whole scheme? Get me out of the way, send me across the water, and—well, then maybe, with this chap around to help you forget, you will forget. And everything will be all serene for Foster Townsend. Not much! I wasn’t going before—I told you so—and if I wouldn’t then I certainly shan’t now. I’m not an absolute fool. Why—”
She broke in upon the tirade. “Wait!” she ordered. “Wait before you say anything more. Does this mean that when you came here to-night you intended telling me that you weren’t going to do what I had asked; that you weren’t going abroad unless I did?”
“Until you did—yes. Oh, Esther,” with a sudden outburst of tenderness, “don’t look like that and don’t speak like that—to me. How could I go? If you knew how hard I had tried to make myself see that I ought to do what you asked! But I couldn’t! I know I shouldn’t go. I came to beg you not to insist on it. And I haven’t seen you for so long, two whole weeks! I have looked forward to to-night— Oh, dearest, please! Let’s not quarrel again. Let’s—”
He came toward her. She stepped back.
“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t! I— Oh, I can hardly believe all this! It doesn’t seem possible that it is you who have said such things. The last time you were here, when you said what you did about Uncle Foster I—well, after you had gone I tried to find excuses for you. I knew you were disappointed and—well, I was sure you didn’t mean what you said and would tell me so when we met again. And now, instead of that, you say the same things—or worse. So you did mean them, after all.”
“Well—well—oh, hang it all! Esther, I said—I said what I believed—yes. And I believe it now.”
“Then you believe my uncle is a scamp and a hypocrite and a liar—and I don’t know what beside. You believe that!”
“I didn’t call him a liar. But I do believe all this keeping you at home and telling me that I ought to go is just a part of his scheme to separate us. Yes, and I believe you think it is, too—or you would if you weren’t so loyal to him and would let yourself think honestly.... I won’t say that he has lied, exactly, but—”
“Why not? You have called Seymour Covell a liar. Not to his face—oh, no! But behind his back—to me.”
“Well—I—”
“That is enough. I don’t want to hear any more. Not a word.”
“But, Esther—”
“No. I have learned a great deal to-night. You paid no attention to my wishes. You say yourself that you had no intention of promising what I asked, even when you knew it was as hard for me as it could be for you, and that I asked it just for your sake. And then—as if that wasn’t enough—you let me see that you are going to stay here because you don’t trust me out of your sight.”
“I do. I didn’t say—”
“Yes, you did. Well, you may do as you please. And I shall do as I please. Good-night.”
“Esther—”
“Good-night.”
He held out his arms. Then, as she made no move nor spoke, the temper, which he had fought so hard to conquer, got the better of him again.
“All right,” he said, turning. “All right, then. I said I wasn’t a fool. I was wrong, I guess; I have been one, even if I’m not now. You care a whole lot more for your old scamp of an uncle than you do for me, and you can order me out and let this Covell stay.... I have learned a few things myself this evening.... Good-night!”
He strode from the room and, a moment later, the front door of the Townsend mansion closed behind him.
This time the parting was absolute, irrevocable, final; they were sure of it, both of them. And they were too angry to care—then.