BOB GRIFFIN answered that knock reluctantly. He had half a mind not to answer it at all. He had stopped in at the Eldridge home on his way down from the station—he had come from Denboro by train that afternoon—with the intention of telling his landlord that he intended vacating the shanty immediately, by the following noon at the latest. The announcement would not have come as a great surprise to Tobias; his tenant had warned him that, in all probability, he should not occupy the building longer than another week. Neither of the Eldridges was at home, however, so Griffin had left a note announcing his prompt departure, and was now packing together his easels, brushes, canvas and other paraphernalia. He intended driving over for them the next day.
Hearing the knock he took it for granted that the caller was Tobias. If it was he who knocked he would get rid of him quickly. If it were any one else—well, he would not let him in. He would not answer questions and he would not talk. He had talked far too much already.
In his shirt-sleeves, a hammer in his hand, he threw open the door. Then he stood there in silence, gazing at the girl before him.
She spoke first. “Bob,” she asked, quickly, “may I come in? Please let me. I don’t want any one to see me here; if I can help it.”
He did not answer; but, still without taking his eyes from her face, he stepped aside. She brushed past him and entered the room. It was the first time she had crossed its threshold since the day when she brought her uncle there to see her portrait.
“Please shut the door,” she said. He did so. Then he would have spoken, but she did not give him the opportunity.
“Don’t ask me why I am here,” she begged. “I just came because—because I felt that I had to. Don’t ask me anything. I will ask and—and you must answer. Bob, will you please tell me all about this thing? Tell me the truth—all of it.”
He had had no time in which to collect his thoughts. He made no attempt to answer. His hand struck the back of a chair and he moved it toward her.
“Won’t you sit down?” he faltered.
She pushed the chair impatiently away. “Oh, don’t!” she cried. “Don’t waste time. Of course I won’t sit down. Did you think I had come to make a formal call? Bob! Bob, please answer my questions! Tell me everything, just as it was, where and how you found him that night. And if— Oh, everything!”
He understood now. She, too, had heard the rumor, the story to which Foster Townsend had referred. In all probability every one had heard it by this time. But what did she believe concerning him—and his part in the affair? That was what he must know.
“I see,” he said, slowly. “Of course—yes.... Well, what do you want me to tell?”
“Bob! Why must I say it again? I want you to tell me just what happened that night after you left the hall. They are saying—I have heard— Oh, I know it isn’t true! I want you to tell me it isn’t.”
“I can’t tell that until I know what you have heard.”
“I have heard—I heard it this morning—that you and Seymour were seen together down here somewhere on the lower road, hours after the hall was closed and locked. You were seen here together—some one saw you, I don’t know who. That is the story. Bob—”
“Wait a minute. It isn’t the whole story, is it?”
“No, it is not. Bob, they say—they say you and he were—disagreeing—quarreling—”
“Bob! Why— Do you think it is a joke? Don’t you realize—”
“Hush, Esther! Certainly I realize. I realize quite as plainly as you can what else they will be saying soon—may be saying now, for all I know. What do you expect me to do about it?”
“Do! I want you to deny it all, of course. Speak out plainly and say it is all a lie.”
“Suppose it isn’t all a lie? As a matter of fact, most of it, so far, is true. Covell and I were together down on this road at two o’clock that morning. We did meet and we did quarrel.... There, there, Esther—”
She had turned pale. He stepped toward her, but she drew back.
“No, don’t,” she gasped.
He came no nearer. She was silent, for a moment, looking at him. Then, with a sharp catch of the breath, she leaned forward.
“Go on!” she said quickly. “Why don’t you go on? Tell me the rest.”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell any more,” he answered.
“But you must tell me. Don’t you see you must?”
“No, I don’t. I have not told any one else as much as that. I did not mean to tell anything.”
“But you must tell. And they know—every one knows—or guesses. Some one saw you here. Oh, Bob!” with a desperate stamp of the foot, “can’t you see what this may mean? They will begin to think—to say—”
He lifted his hand. “I understand,” he said. “You mean they will soon be saying that it was not your uncle’s horse that hurt Covell that night. They will say that I did it, knocked him down, tried to kill him, perhaps. Well, I expected that.... Tell me: Do you believe it?”
Her eyes flashed.
“You know I don’t!” she cried, fiercely. “You know it. It is because I don’t that I came to find out the truth. Bob, won’t you tell me? For your own sake? And for mine?”
He had been standing by the work bench, his face turned toward the window. Now he wheeled suddenly.
“Does it make so much difference to you?” he asked.
“Yes, it does.”
“Esther—”
“Bob, are you going to tell me any more?”
He took a turn up and down the room. Then he stopped before her. “Esther,” he said, “I will tell you what I can. This is what happened.”
He told of his leaving the hall that night, of his walk along the beach, his stay at the studio, his noticing the Townsend span beside the road. There he hesitated.
“Yes,” she urged. “And then—?”
“Well, then when Covell came along we got to talking. He said some things I didn’t like and—and I told him I didn’t like them. He said them again. I—well, in the midst of it he jumped back against the carriage. The horses started and reared. He fell under their feet. Before I could pull him out of the way the horse had kicked him. It was an accident and nothing more. That is the exact truth. I should like to have you believe it. Do you?”
She waved the question aside almost contemptuously.
“I never for a moment believed anything else,” she said. “But you haven’t told me at all what I really wanted to know. What was Seymour Covell doing down here on this road so late? Tell me that?”
Bob shook his head.
“That I can’t tell you,” he replied.
“But you know, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Nonsense! I am sure you do. Or, at least, you are convinced in your own mind. Will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Because I—well, because it is not any of my business. You must wait and ask him. Perhaps, when he is well enough, he will tell you.”
“I can’t wait. If I’m to stop this dreadful talk I must know everything. He is unable to defend himself and—and his friends must do it for him.”
So it was Covell she was so anxious to defend. He might have guessed it.
“No,” he said, sharply. “I shall tell you nothing about him. He accused me of spying on him—told me that night that I was hanging about here to learn what he did and then carry tales to—to his friends. It was a lie, of course; but he shall never be able to say that I told those tales. No, indeed he shan’t.”
She was regarding him intently.
“Was that why you quarreled?” she asked.
“That—and other things. Yes.”
“Bob,” earnestly, “you and he weren’t—weren’t— Tell me: Was my name mentioned between you?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t mention it,” he said. “Esther, don’t ask me any more. I shall not tell you or any one else another word, now or ever. Don’t worry. I am going away from here just as soon as I can get away. Then you will all be rid of one nuisance, at least.”
“When are you going?”
“On the first ship that will take me. Early next week, I hope.”
Her lips parted. Then they closed. Whatever she had been about to say remained unsaid. When she did speak it was to ask concerning a different matter.
“When Uncle Foster was here yesterday did you tell him what you have told me?” she asked.
“No. He had heard this story—that about the fellow, whoever he was, who saw me with Covell—”
“Wait! Don’t you know who he was?”
“Haven’t the least idea. What difference does it make? Somebody saw us; that was enough.”
“And you didn’t tell Uncle Foster?”
“I didn’t tell him anything, except that I should not tell.... Oh, yes, I did, too! I told him something I had been longing to tell him. I told him I knew that he was happy because his plans and schemes to keep me away from you had worked out so well. And I also told him that I had been quite aware of those schemes from the beginning, that he hadn’t fooled me in the least. Yes, and that if he and his tricks had been all I should never have given you up. I told him—and it did me good to tell him. The old— Oh well! why call him names now? He has won as usual.”
“You told him—you told my uncle that he had schemed and planned?... Well?” proudly. “He denied it, of course?”
“Ha!” with a short laugh. “He did not deny it, not a word of it. He admitted that it was true. Seemed to be proud of it, if you must know. He told me in so many words that he had worked to get one of us in Europe and the other here; said he had never intended for a minute that you and I should, as he called it, get ‘too friendly.’ Oh, he made a clean breast of it—if you care to call such dirty business ‘clean.’... Bah!”
He walked to the far end of the room. She remained standing by the chair, her fingers intertwined, looking straight before her.
“Bob,” she said, after a moment.
“Well?”
“Tell me what else he said—please.”
“He said a good deal. For instance, he informed me that the man you married would be some one he picked out for you, some one who was ‘good enough for you.’ But there! don’t ask me to tell you any more. It ended by his offering to lend me money to help on with my art studies. Having driven me to Europe he was willing to pay me to stay there.... Oh, by George! That was the last straw!”
There was another pause. He heard her move and turning, saw that she was standing by the door, her hand upon the latch. The expression upon her face caused him to wish he had not spoken so frankly.
“I’m sorry, Esther,” he said, impulsively. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you this—about your uncle. It is the truth, but I guess it would have been better if I had kept my mouth shut. I wish I had.”
If she heard and understood she gave no sign.
“Bob,” she said, “may I ask you just one more question?”
“Oh, Esther, don’t! I have told you all I can.”
“It isn’t about—that night. It is about us—about you. You are not going away until next week?”
“No. I would if I could, but I can’t.”
“Where will you be till then?”
“At home, in Denboro, I suppose.”
“Bob, if—if I should want to see you before you go—if I should send for you, would you come? Could you meet me—somewhere—if I asked you to?”
“Of course.... But, Esther, what do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I don’t mean anything. Good-by.”
He ran to the door, but she was hurrying up the beach and, although he called after her, she did not turn.
Nabby Gifford was in the library when Esther reached home and Nabby had something to tell. Esther had no desire to hear it; she had hoped to reach her own room unobserved and to remain there, offering a headache or some other trite excuse for her non-appearance at the supper table. She could not talk with any one, nor listen while others talked. If her uncle were only there! She had much to say to him and—what—what could he say to her?
But Foster Townsend was in Boston and Nabby was in the library. And Nabby blocked her way as she tried to hurry through to the hall and stairs.
“Well,” began Mrs. Gifford, “they got away all right. Varunas says the special car was waitin’ for ’em and they hi’sted poor Mr. Covell into it just as careful as if he was a crate of hens’ eggs. Last Varunas see of him, the doctor was settin’ one side of him and the nurse t’other. And he was layin’ there comf’table, almost, as if he was to home.”
Esther nodded absently and said she was glad to hear it. She put her hand to her forehead, preparatory to mentioning the “headache,” but before she could mention it Nabby was rattling on.
“Yes sir-ee,” said Nabby, “he looked just as if he was in his own bed, so Varunas says. He’ll be all right, with a whole car to himself—just him and Doctor Bailey and the nurse and Cap’n Foster.... That is, that’s all there’ll be after they get by Denboro. Millard will get out there—at the Denboro depot—because Varunas heard your uncle tell him he must.”
Esther had paid little heed to this chatter, but the name caught her attention.
“What?” she asked. And then, turning, to look at the housekeeper. “What was that you said then, Nabby?”
Nabby was dusting the library table. She kept on with the dusting.
“Eh?” she queried, with careful carelessness. “What did I say? When?”
“Just now. You said something about—about Uncle Millard, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, I did. Varunas says he heard Cap’n Foster tell him he could ride fur as Denboro, if he wanted to, but he’d have to get out there and come back on the night train. Course he’ll have to wait quite a spell for that train, but—”
“Wait! Wait a minute. Uncle Millard! My Uncle Millard Clark, are you talking about?”
“Sartin. He’s the only Millard in this town, fur’s I know.”
“Why was he going to Denboro?”
“Oh, ’cause your Uncle Foster told him to, so Varunas says. Whatever Millard wanted to talk with the cap’n about must have been pretty important, I guess.... But there! probably you know what it was a whole lot better than I do, so I won’t take up your time. Far as I’m concerned I can’t imagine Mil Clark’s talk bein’ important enough to—”
“Nabby! Nabby, stop! What is all this? Tell me.”
Nabby’s air of surprise was a fairly successful counterfeit. “Oh!” she exclaimed, with lifted eyebrows. “Dear me! Don’t you know anything about it? Humph! I cal’lated of course you did. ’Twan’t none of my affairs, I realized that, but I thought you, bein’ one of the family—one of both families, as you might say—would be let in on all the secrets there was goin’. Course the hired help—well, we ain’t expected to—”
“Nabby! Do you want me to shake you? Now tell me the whole story, right away.”
Which Nabby proceeded to do, it being precisely the purpose for which she had been waiting in the library. Millard Clark was on the station platform when the Townsend carriage drew up beside it. At the first opportunity he had seized Foster Townsend by the arm.
“Said he had somethin’ important to say,” went on Mrs. Gifford. “Said he’d been tryin’ hard to get a word with Cap’n Foster for two, three days. Been here to the house a couple of times, he had, but—”
“Wait!” broke in Esther. “Was that true? Has he been here? I didn’t know it.”
Nabby sniffed contemptuously. “Neither did Cap’n Foster, fur’s that goes,” she declared. “Yes, yes, he’s been here a couple of times—yesterday and the day afore ’twas—and he was in a turrible sweat to see your uncle. Well, your uncle wasn’t in and neither was you, but if you had been I don’t know’s I’d bothered you on his account. I never imagined he was worth botherin’ anybody about—much. I judged maybe he’d run short of money. I understand he’s joined in with that good for nothin’ crew that plays high-low-jack all night long at Elbert Peters’ scallop shanty up the beach a mile or so beyond Tobe Eldridge’s—and I guess likely he’d come to see if he couldn’t borrow a couple of dollars. So I never took the trouble to tell you or the cap’n that he’d been here.
“Well, anyhow, there he was at the depot and he grabbed right aholt of your Uncle Foster soon’s ever he got the chance. Varunas was standin’ right alongside—course he wasn’t tryin’ to listen, you understand, but he just heard—and he heard the cap’n say he was busy and for Millard to let him alone. Mil, he wouldn’t let him alone. ‘It’s mighty important,’ says he. ‘It’s somethin’ you’d ought to know, Cap’n Foster. Somethin’ you’ll thank me for tellin’ you when you do know it.’ Varunas says the cap’n turned ’round then and looked at him, kind of funny and more interested, as Varunas thought. ‘What’s it about?’ says he. Now Varunas, he couldn’t hear what Millard said next on account of Millard’s standin’ up on tiptoes and whisperin’ it in your uncle’s ear. Varunas says if he’d realized Mil was goin’ to start in whisperin’ he’d have come over nigher. But he didn’t.”
“Well, well! What then?”
“Well, then, accordin’ to Varunas’s story, your Uncle Foster stood there, pullin’ his whiskers and lookin’ at Millard queerer than ever. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. ‘Get in that car,’ he says. ‘You can ride with me far as Denboro,’ says he, ‘and tell me on the way.’ Millard said somethin’ about having no change along with him to pay fare, and how he didn’t know’s he’d ought to leave Reliance alone at mail time. Cap’n Foster barked at him, the way he does at folks he don’t like—yes, and them he does like, sometimes. The way he’s barked at me when I haven’t done a thing except what was my business to do, is enough—but there! I understand him. Lord knows I’d ought to! And—”
“Is there any more?”
“Why, not much. Cap’n Foster barked out that he’d attend to the fare and if Millard took the night train back from Denboro he’d get home same time the mail did. So they got into the cars together and—and that’s all.... But, Esther, don’t you know what your Uncle Millard wanted to see your Uncle Foster about? Varunas and me, we’ve been tryin’ to guess and guess, but— Mercy me! You ain’t goin’ away now, are you? Why, you ain’t said a word, scurcely.”
Esther might have made the justifiable retort that she had been given no opportunity to say a word. She did not make it, however. She spoke of her headache and that she would not be down for supper. She went up to her room and remained there.