AT four that afternoon Reliance Clark was alone in the millinery shop at the rear of the post office building, sewing this time not upon the material for a bonnet or hat, but a much-needed dress for herself, which she was making over from an old one. Business at the Clark-Makepeace shop was distressingly dull. The summer season was at an end. The cottages, most of them, were closed. Even the Wheelers, usually among the very last to leave, had departed for New Haven. Margery, so people said, was responsible for the curtailing of their stay. “The poor child,” so her mother explained to Mrs. Colton, “is tired out. She worked so hard to make the ‘Pinafore’ performance a success. If it had not been for her persistence and patience—yes, and talent, if I do say so, my dear—I don’t know how we should have come through. And then this distressing accident—if it was an accident—to Mr. Covell. It was the last straw. Such a shock to her nerves. She and poor Seymour were great friends. Of course Margery says little about it, even to me, but she has not been herself since it happened. Yes, we are closing the cottage. Where we shall spend the winter I am not yet just sure. I rather fancy California, but Margery seems more inclined toward the Riviera. Of course what Mr. Wheeler may decide is uncertain, but it will, without doubt, be one or the other.”
Skeptics, remembering similar declarations of former years, smiled behind the lady’s back. Captain Ben Snow said to his wife:
“Um-hum. Yes. Well, California’s a good place and so, I shouldn’t wonder, is this River-what-d’ye-call-it, but they are a long way off—and expensive. Adeline Wheeler may talk California and Margery somewhere else, but when papa begins to say things he’ll say New Haven, Connecticut, same as he always has before. As my grandfather used to tell, ‘Talk is cheap, but it takes money to buy Medford rum.’ You can address your Wheeler mail to New Haven, Mary, and I guess it won’t fetch up in the dead letter office.”
Whether this prophecy was or was not a true one remained, of course, to be seen, but at all events the Wheeler household had joined the general exodus from Harniss. The gatherings in the post office at mail times had shrunk almost to mid-winter size. Reliance found time to do her housekeeping in the manner which, according to her New England ideas, housekeeping should be done, and to attend to her own dressmaking. On this particular afternoon, Abbie Makepeace had gone home early to write her column for the Item.
Millard Fillmore Clark was on duty in the little room behind the racks of letter boxes. Mr. Clark had passed a most unhappy eighteen hours. The trouble began immediately after his return home the previous evening, following the impromptu excursion to and from Denboro. He had delayed that return until ten, hoping that Reliance might have gone to bed. She was up and awaiting him, however, and he was subjected to a questioning which developed into a cross-examination and continued as a tongue lashing lasting far into the morning. He slunk upstairs with a very definite idea of the position he occupied in his sister’s estimation.
Rising, cowed and humble, he ate a lonely breakfast, washed the dishes and then, still in obedience to orders, reported at the millinery shop. Reliance was out, but she had left instructions with Miss Makepeace. He was to go into the little room at the rear of the letter boxes and stay there. “She said for me to tell you she was likely to be away most of the forenoon,” said Abbie, “and that you was to ’tend the office till she came back, no matter what time it was. And—oh, yes!—she said to be sure and tell you to remember this wasn’t healthy weather for you to go outdoors in. I don’t know what she meant by that. Are you sick, Millard? You don’t look real lively this mornin’, that’s a fact.”
Millard grumbled something to the effect that he didn’t know but he was a little mite under the weather and shut off further conversation by closing the door between the post office and millinery department. He spent the forenoon waiting upon the few customers who came for their mail or to buy stamps, looking out of the window of his prison cell, reading every postal card available, and reflecting dismally upon his prospects for the immediate future. They were dismal enough. In the course of their midnight session Reliance had expressed pointed opinion concerning the pleasant little games of “seven-up” at the scallop shanty.
“I wondered what was keepin’ you out half the night four nights in a week,” she said. “I thought of a good many things that might be doin’ it—of course I never paid any attention to what you told me; I knew better than that—but I never once thought of your bein’ down in that shanty, gamblin’ with that crew. You, a Clark! I declare! I am more ashamed of you than ever, which is sayin’ somethin’.”
“Now, now, hold on, Reliance! I wasn’t gamblin’. That is— Why, confound it all, how could I gamble, if I wanted to? I don’t have money enough in my pocket to buy tobacco hardly. Here I am, workin’ for the United States government, takin’ care of all the mail that comes into this town—a responsible position, by godfreys! And what do they pay me for all the work and responsibility? Eh? I ask you now! What do I get for it?”
“Oh, be still! In the first place the government doesn’t hire you. I hire you, and I pay you about twice what I could get real help for. If I paid you what you were worth you would owe me money every Saturday night. But you are my half-brother—more shame to me—and so— Oh, well, never mind! We won’t argue about that. You say you weren’t gamblin’. You were playin’ cards for money, weren’t you?”
“Why—why, I don’t know’s you’d call it money. Some of the fellows there seemed to think that heavin’ cards back and forth across the table for nothin’ was kind of dull work, so they figgered ’twould be better to have a little mite on the cards. Say a cent a point, or somethin’ like that, you understand.”
“Yes, yes!” sharply. “I understand well enough. A cent a point! And you without money enough in your pocket to buy tobacco! How much have you won since these interestin’ games got goin’?”
Millard fidgeted. “We-el,” he confessed, “I—well, you see, Reliance, I haven’t really won much of anything, as you might say. I have had the darnedest streak of bad luck. All the boys say it’s as bad a streak as they ever saw.”
“Um. I see. Well, how much have you lost?”
“Eh? Lost?... We-ll, I figger I’m out about eleven dollars and eighty-one cents just now. Course the luck is bound to turn any minute. All the fellers say it is and they keep tellin’ me to stick right along till it does.”
“Yes,” sarcastically, “I guess likely they do. I should think they would. The longer you stick the more they can stick you. You have lost about twelve dollars. Why, look here, Millard Clark; where did you get twelve dollars to pay gamblin’ debts with?”
Mr. Clark tried to answer, but any adequate answer was beyond his imagining just then. Reliance did not wait long.
“I see,” she said, scornfully. “I see. It is plain enough now. You didn’t pay. You owe that crowd the twelve dollars and that was what sent you chasin’ at Foster Townsend’s heels. You happened to see Bob and the Covell man on the lower road that night—and if you had been in your bed at home here where you belonged, instead of gamblin’ with the town riff-raff until two in the mornin’, you wouldn’t have seen them—you saw them and, knowin’ how Cap’n Foster hates any of Elisha Cook’s family you— Oh, my soul! You expected Foster would pay you for what you had to tell him. You were goin’ to get your twelve dollars out of him.... That’s enough from you. Go to bed!”
“But, but, Reliance,” desperately. “I—I— Oh, you’re all wrong. I wasn’t cal’atin’ to ask Cap’n Foster to pay me. I—well, I thought maybe, considerin’ that I’d been kind enough to tell him what he’d ought to know, and what I hadn’t told another soul, I thought maybe he’d lend me a little somethin’. I was goin’ to pay him back.”
“Pay him back! Yes, I guess so! And to think that you are my half-brother and Esther’s own uncle! Well, I have shirked my duty long enough. Now it is time I began to do it. I don’t know who would hire you for a steady job at hard work, but perhaps there is some one. I might be able to coax Seth Francis to ship you aboard his schooner for a trip to the Banks. It would take a lot of coaxin’, but I might; he hasn’t lived in Harniss very long, so he doesn’t know you quite as well as the rest of us. No, I won’t hear another word. Go to bed!”
So the future, as Mr. Clark was viewing it through the little panes of the post office window, was far from alluring. He almost wished that he had not attempted winning Foster Townsend’s favor by revealing the secret of the meeting on the lower road. Of course his sister had not been in earnest when she threatened him with a trip to the Banks as green hand on a fishing boat, but—well, she would never again trust him. His easy berth in the post office, with its ample leisure, its opportunities to show off and to air his importance before his fellow townsmen, his comfortable room in the cottage, his three well-cooked meals a day—all these were in danger. Reliance was thoroughly angry. He was in disgrace. The more he reflected the more uneasy he became and, although he resented his imprisonment behind the letter boxes, he resolved to serve out his term, no matter how long it might be, with an assumption of cheerful eagerness. He considered himself a persecuted martyr, but he would play the rôle of a sinner seeking forgiveness. It was a polite pretense which had worked well on other occasions; it might work even in the present crisis.
About ten o’clock he saw, through the window, Reliance Clark enter the yard. Esther Townsend was with her and they went into the house together. It was after twelve when they came out. They separated at the gate, Esther walked away along the sidewalk and her aunt entered the millinery shop. Millard heard her speak with Miss Makepeace; then she opened the door of the little room.
“Your dinner is ready,” she announced, curtly. “Go in and eat it this minute.”
Mr. Clark was smilingly eager. “All right, Reliance,” he agreed. “Yes, yes, just as you say, of course. You have had your dinner already, have you?”
“I have, all I want. I’m not hungry to-day.”
“Ain’t you? Well, now that’s too bad. I am afraid you have been workin’ too hard. Say, why don’t you go and lay down a spell? Never mind about me. I can get along without eatin’. I’ll stay here and attend to everything and you just—”
“Sshh! Go in and eat your dinner. And hurry up about it. I want you here when the mail comes. You understand that? All right. Then go.”
Millard went. He was back before the arrival of the mail.
“That was as good a meal as ever I ate,” he announced, with enthusiasm. “You certainly are a fine cook, Reliance. I washed up the dishes myself. Course you didn’t tell me to, but I knew you was tired and I wanted to help you out.”
“Yes? Humph! Well, I am tired. I heard enough from you last night to make me tired the rest of my life. Here is the mail wagon. Now let me see you work. See you—not hear you.”
When the mail was distributed she again shut him in the little room and went out to join Miss Makepeace in the shop. At three she came in and superintended the preparation of the outgoing mail sacks. Then once more the door of his cell closed and he was left in solitary confinement.
Abbie went home at three-thirty. Reliance sewed briskly on her gown. She was thankful for the work, for it helped to keep her mind as well as her fingers occupied. She had had a distressful night, a hard, trying morning, and her recent interviews with Esther, at the mansion and in her own home, left her anxious and apprehensive. The girl’s manner was most disturbing. Reliance had expected tears, recriminations—against Millard and Foster Townsend—hysterical outbursts, almost anything except the silent, stony, callousness with which her disclosures had been received. Esther, after her first expressions of astonishment at the mention of Carrie Campton’s name, had listened intently, asked questions occasionally, but had neither wept nor exclaimed. She had accompanied her aunt to the cottage and remained there during dinner. She ate almost nothing and Reliance had eaten little more.
“But what are you goin’ to do. Esther?” pleaded Reliance as they parted at the gate. “What are you goin’ to say to your Uncle Foster?”
Esther looked away, across the road.
“I know what I shall say to him,” she answered. “First I want to hear what he has to say to me.”
“But, Esther—oh, my dear, you must be careful! You must! Remember, he thinks more of you than anybody else on earth. He has been very, very kind to you, in his way. I know he has been—well, selfish and stubborn and—and all that, but, after all, he was trying to do what he considers the best thing for you. And perhaps I am a little bit to blame, too. I am afraid I put the idea in his head of sendin’ you away. I told you how that happened. Oh, Esther, do be careful! Don’t do anything rash, will you?”
Esther did not turn. Her hand, however, groped for that of her aunt and pressed it tightly.
“Good-by, Auntie,” she said. “I—I can’t talk any more now, I shall see you again—and soon, I think.”
“But promise me you won’t do anything that you will be sorry for always, anything that will make us all miserable.”
“I promise that, whatever I do, you shall know about it—and from me. I promise that.”
She hurried away. And now, as Reliance sat there, trying to sew, her thoughts were not upon the stitches she was taking in the made-over gown; in spite of her resolution they strayed to the Townsend mansion, to the girl who had just gone there and the man she had gone to meet.
A cautious tap sounded on the shop door. Then the door opened and the head of Varunas Gifford appeared between it and the jamb.
“Hello!” hailed Mr. Gifford. “That you, Reliance? Can you come out here a minute? I’ve got somethin’ for you.”
Reliance put down her sewing and followed him out to the step. At the gate one of the Townsend horses and the Townsend dog-cart were standing. On the step, beside Varunas, was a large leather traveling bag. Reliance looked at the bag and then at the man who had brought it.
“Why!” she exclaimed. “What is this? This is Esther’s bag, isn’t it?”
Varunas nodded. “Um-hum,” he replied. “That’s whose ’tis. Seen it afore, I guess likely, ain’t you?”
“Of course I have. But what have you brought it here for?”
“’Cause she told me to. I was settin’ out in the barn readin’ the Item. You see, I ain’t got much on hand to do this afternoon. Cap’n Foster, he give me orders, soon’s ever I fetched him from the depot, to be ready to drive him over to Ostable when he got through dinner. Had a telegram, he did, callin’ him over there to one of them lawyers’ meetin’s. So I was all ready and waitin’. But at the last minute he changed his mind and decided to drive himself.”
“Yes, yes. What about Esther’s bag?”
“I’m tellin’ you fast as I can. I was settin’ around, readin’ the Item, when Esther she come and called me. ‘Harness up the dog-cart or the buggy or somethin’, Varunas,’ says she, ‘and fetch it ’round to the front door. I’ve got an errand I want you to do.’ So I done it. Then down the stairs come she, totin’ this bag. ‘You take that to my Aunt Reliance’s,’ she says. ‘Give it to her and ask her to take care of it till I come.’ That’s what she said, and ’twas all she said, too.”
“But—but why did she send it to me? What is in it?”
“Ask me somethin’ easy. I don’t know what’s in it. Stone ballast, maybe; it’s heavy enough. Say, Reliance, don’t you know nothin’ about it?... Humph! that’s kind of funny, seems to me.”
Reliance thoroughly agreed with him. Sending that traveling bag to her, to be taken care of until its owner came, was “funny” to say the least. And disturbing, also. She looked at the bag and tried to think, to imagine. And what she imagined frightened her.
Mr. Gifford had an inspiration. “Say,” he suggested, eagerly; “why don’t you open it? Probably there’s somethin’ there for you, a present, maybe. Here! I’ll open it for you.”
But Reliance caught his hand. “No, you won’t,” she ordered, sharply. “You let it alone.... Wait! Wait where you are just a minute.”
She hurried back through the shop to the door of the little room where her brother was imprisoned. She listened at the crack. What she heard would, at any other time, have aroused her to indignant action. Now, however, she seemed relieved. Cautiously she opened the door and peeped in. Millard Fillmore Clark was seated in the corner, upon the official stool, his head against an empty mail bag, his mouth open, snoring placidly. Reliance shook her head, a shake which presaged trouble for the slumberer later on. Then she carefully closed the door and hastened out to the step.
Varunas was bending over the traveling bag. He looked up when she appeared.
“It’s locked,” he said, in righteous resentment. “I was goin’ to open it for you and blessed if she ain’t been and locked it. That’s a healthy thing to do, I must say! A body’d think she didn’t trust me. I don’t like her doin’ that. I’ve a good mind to tell her so.”
Reliance made no comment. “Take it in the house,” she ordered. “Come right along. I’ll show you where to put it.”
Mr. Gifford, under her pilotage, bore the bag to the house, where it was placed on the floor of the dining-room closet. He would have lingered to ask more questions and offer surmises, but Reliance would neither linger nor listen. She got rid of him as soon as possible and, after she had seen him drive away from the gate, returned to her rocker in the millinery shop. She made no attempt to sew, however. She sat there thinking, thinking. What did Esther’s sending that bag mean? What had happened? And what more was to happen?
The early fall twilight deepened. At five-thirty Reliance rose from the rocker, marched to the door of the mail room and threw it open.
“Get up!” she ordered. “Get up out of that this minute!”
Millard heard, started, opened his eyes and closed his mouth simultaneously.
“Eh?” he cried, the mouth reopening. “Eh?... Oh, is that you, Reliance? Well, I’ve been wonderin’ where you was. I was sittin’ here thinkin’ about—oh, about different things, and—er—”
His sister interrupted.
“Get up off that stool,” she said. “Come out here.”
She led the way to the shop. Mr. Clark followed her.
“Been a kind of a stupid afternoon,” he announced. “Not much doin’ in the office there. How’s your new dress gettin’ on, Reliance?”
Reliance ignored the question. She opened the drawer of the table by the sewing machine and took therefrom her worn pocketbook.
“Millard,” she said, crisply, “I want you to listen to me and do what I tell you. I am too tired to bother with you any longer to-night. Get out of this buildin’ and stay out.”
“Stay out? What do you mean by that? What are you puttin’ me outdoors for, like a—like a cat? Aw, Reliance, what are you mad about? I suppose you think I was asleep in yonder. Well, I wasn’t.”
“Ssshh! I don’t care whether you were asleep or not. You are as much use one way as the other. And I’m not mad. I’m just tired, same as I told you, and I can’t be bothered with you. Here! here is some money. Go down to the Seaside House and get your supper there. Then, after that—well, I don’t care what you do after that, so long as you don’t come back here and worry me.”
Millard stared. This was too good to be true—so good and so non-understandable that he did not dare accept it at its face value. There must be something behind it.
“Why—why, what on earth—?” he stammered. “Well—yes, I can get my supper at the Seaside. They turn out a pretty good meal there for thirty-five cents. But—but— Say, what about the mail when it comes in? Don’t you want me to help you with that?”
“No. There won’t be much of it and I had rather handle it myself, than have to handle you along with it. I don’t need you and I don’t want you.”
“Well, I declare!... Humph! All right. I’m kind of tired, myself, and I’d just as soon have a little change and rest. I’ll go, to please you, Reliance. I’ll come back early.”
“I don’t want you to come back early. I don’t care if you stay out all night. Get out! That is all I ask.”
Mr. Clark got out, got out hastily and thankfully. What this remarkable change in his sister’s attitude might mean he could not imagine, nor did he try. Supper at the Seaside House, where there were likely to be Boston “drummers” to listen to and gossip with, where the gang played pool every evening, where one might smoke a good five-cent cigar and not be nagged because of ashes on the floor—why, it was the promise of Paradise after Purgatory; and he had been in Purgatory ever since ten o’clock the previous night. And she did not care when he came home. She had said that very thing. The game of high-low-Jack would be going on in the scallop shanty. He might—
He almost ran along the sidewalk in his haste to get beyond the sound of her voice.
At six Reliance locked the door of the shop and went into the house. She set about preparing supper. She was even less hungry now than she had been at dinner time, but she would, at least, drink a cup of tea—even two cups, although that was double her usual allowance. Tea was supposed to be a bracer, a strengthener for the nerves, and she was certain that her nerves would need strengthening before the night was over. She filled the kettle, set it on the kitchen stove, and then, returning to the dining room, she opened the door of the closet and stood looking down upon the traveling bag, bulky and black and menacing, on the floor beside the cooky jar. That bag, sent to her as it had been, could mean, she was certain, but one thing. That thing she must prevent if she could. But could she? Well, she could at least try. She sighed heavily and turned away.
She set the table. A knife and fork, a spoon, the loaf of bread, the butter, the milk pitcher—and all the time she listened, listened for the step upon the path leading to her door, the step she was expecting—and dreading.
And, at last, it came. She did not wait for a knock, but, hurrying through the sitting-room to the outer door, threw it open. Esther was standing there, as she expected, but she was not alone. Bob Griffin was with her. The words with which Reliance had intended welcoming her niece were not spoken. She said nothing.
Esther did not wait for her to speak. She turned to her companion.
“Go in, Bob,” she said, quickly. “Quick! before any one sees us.”
She pushed by her aunt and entered the dining room. Griffin followed her. It was Esther, herself, who closed the door.
“Are you alone, Auntie?” she asked, eagerly. “Where is Uncle Millard?”
Reliance came out of her gaze with a start.
“Eh?” she queried. “Who? Oh, Millard? He—he’s gone out for the evenin’; I told him to. And, if he knows what is good for him, he won’t be back for a long time.... Well!” with a long breath. “Well, Esther, you have surprised me this time, certain sure.”
Esther did not understand. “Why, you expected me, didn’t you?” she cried. “You must have. I told Varunas to tell you I should come here to-night.... He brought my bag, didn’t he? He told me he did.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, he brought it. It is here. And I expected you. But I—well, I didn’t expect any one else.”
Her look at Griffin was significant. Bob noticed it and smiled. Of the three he alone seemed capable of smiling. Esther was pale and nervous and Reliance haggard and worn, after her night and day of shock and worry. Griffin was nervous also, but his face was flushed and his eyes bright. He was obviously excited and just as obviously neither downcast nor anxious.
“You mean you didn’t expect me, Miss Clark,” he suggested. “Well, I don’t wonder at that. I surely did not expect to be here. I can scarcely believe it, even yet. Esther, shall I tell her? Or will you?”
Before Esther could reply, Reliance, now thoroughly awake to the realities, put in a word.
“Before you tell me anything,” she said, “I think we might as well begin to behave like common-sense folks and not stand in the middle of the floor, you with your things on and me with my kitchen apron. Mr. Griffin, take off your things. Sit down, both of you.”
But, although she pulled forward a rocker and an armchair, they did not sit. Esther turned a troubled face to her escort.
“I don’t think we had better, do you, Bob?” she asked. “We mustn’t stay here long. We must get away just as soon as we can.”
Bob nodded emphatic agreement. “You are quite right, Esther,” he replied. “The sooner we get out of Harniss the better.”
Reliance took a step toward them.
“What!” she exclaimed. “What was that? Get out of Harniss? What do you mean? Where are you goin’?” Then, her voice rising, she demanded sharply: “Come, come! What is all this? Esther, tell me this minute!”
Esther involuntarily put out a hand. “Oh, don’t, Aunt Reliance!” she pleaded. “Don’t speak like that. I— Oh, we came to you because you were the one person we could come to, the only one who would understand and—and help. If you knew how I have counted on your help and your sympathy and—oh, everything! Don’t you begin by being angry with me. I—I don’t think I could stand it now.”
Her aunt crossed to her side and put an arm about her. “There, there, dear!” she said, heartily. “Don’t you fret about that. If you can’t count on me I don’t know who you can count on. And I’m not cross, either. I am—well, I’m surprised—and a little scared, perhaps, but I am not cross.... There, there!... Now will you—one of you—please tell me what this means, this goin’ away from Harniss?”
It was Bob who answered. His answer was prompt and to the point.
“I will tell you, Miss Clark,” he said. “Esther and I are going to be married. We have decided that, caring for each other as we do, no one else shall be considered any longer. No one else has the right to be considered. She sent for me this afternoon, telegraphed me to come to my studio and meet her there. She told me that she had decided she could not live with her uncle any longer. She told me that she would marry me and go away with me, to Europe or anywhere else. That was enough, so far as I was concerned. We are leaving Harniss to-night—together. We came to tell you so and to say good-by. That is the whole truth, isn’t it, Esther?” Esther lifted her head from her aunt’s shoulder and stepped back to his side.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “We are going to be married, Aunt Reliance. It is settled and no one can prevent it.”
Reliance looked from one to the other. She put a hand to her forehead.
“My soul!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my soul! Wait—wait! Let me understand this. Esther Townsend, does this mean that you and—and he are goin’ to run away—elope—whatever you call it—now, to-night?”
Esther nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That is just what it means. Oh, Aunt Reliance, can’t you see? I have made up my mind at last. I have thought of others and for others long enough. They haven’t been thinking of me at all, but of their own selfish pride and prejudices. It is time—high time—I thought of my own happiness. I could never be happy without Bob, nor he without me. So we are going to be happy together, that is all.”
Again Reliance looked at them both. There were no symptoms of faltering determination in either face. She looked long and steadily. Then she sighed.
“Oh, dear!” she murmured. “Oh, dear, dear! Well, I expected almost anything, after that bag was brought here this afternoon. Almost anything, but not just this. This is dreadful.”
Griffin frowned. Esther straightened. Her eyes flashed.
“Dreadful!” she cried, indignantly. “Is that the way you feel about it, Aunt Reliance? You! Well, if you think my marrying Bob is dreadful then we made a mistake in coming here. I thought you would understand—and sympathize—and help. But if you are going to—”
Her aunt broke in. “Hush, hush,” she said, quickly. “Don’t be foolish, Esther.... I don’t think your marryin’ him is dreadful.”
“You said you did.”
“Said!” with an involuntary burst of impatience. “Well, perhaps I did, I don’t know. Considerin’ what I have been through since last night—and now with you two comin’ here—this way—I—well, it is a wonder I haven’t said—the Lord knows what. But, Esther Townsend, you must listen and you must let me say things. I don’t think your marryin’ Bob here is dreadful. If you care enough for him to give up everything and every one else for his sake, then it is exactly what you ought to do. It is the way you are doing it that is the dreadful part. Esther, dear, have you thought what this will mean to your Uncle Foster? He worships the ground you walk on. And he has been awfully good to you—you can’t deny that. And, if everything folks say is true, old Mr. Cook idolizes his grandson. They will think your runnin’ off, without so much as a word to them, is dreadful. Indeed and indeed they will! Oh, why be in such a hurry? Why not wait?”
She paused, out of breath, for she had delivered this long speech with all the force that was in her. It had no effect whatever, so far as she could judge by their expressions. And Bob’s immediate reply proved that it had not.
“I know, Miss Clark,” he said. “We both know how they will feel toward us and we have considered it very carefully. But the situation isn’t changed at all. Esther and I mean to marry. You may not believe it—grandfather and Captain Townsend certainly won’t believe it—but neither of us would have hurt their feelings or acted contrary to their wishes if we could have helped it. I am very fond of my grandfather, he has been mighty good to me, and Esther loves her uncle. He has not treated her fairly or honestly, she feels, but she loves him and always will. That is true, isn’t it, Esther?”
“Yes, Bob, absolutely true.”
“Yes, it is. But the fact remains that neither Captain Townsend nor my grandfather would ever consent to our marriage. They hate each other—you know it; everybody knows it. If we waited a year they would not consent. If we waited ten years they would not. So why should we wait? I have money enough of my own to support us for a while and I hope to earn more. It is Esther here who is making the real sacrifice, of course, but she says she is willing to make it. Waiting won’t help anybody. It will only stretch out the quarreling and misery. So, as we see it, it is simply plain common sense, our marrying now. And we shall marry now, just as soon as we can. You can’t stop us—no one can.”
Reliance was silent. She would have liked to say much, to continue her protest—but how could she? The essential fact in this statement was beyond contradiction. Neither Townsend nor Cook would ever consent to such a marriage—she knew it. What Bob Griffin had just said was common sense and nothing else. And yet, conscious of the responsibility forced upon her, she did not entirely surrender. She made one more plea.
“Oh, Esther,” she begged, “are you sure you care enough to—to go through with this? Not just now, but later, all your life? No matter if it means doin’ without all the fine things you have been used to, bein’ poor perhaps—and—”
“Hush! Yes, Auntie, I am sure.”
Her aunt wrung her hands. “Well,” she groaned, “I give up. I have said my say, I guess. I have done what I could. The dear Lord knows I hope we will none of us be too sorry in the years to come.”
She walked across the room, stood there a moment and then turned. Her manner now was brisk and businesslike.
“There!” she said. “The milk is spilled. No use tryin’ to pick it up or talk about it. What are your plans? Where is the weddin’ to be?”
Esther looked at Bob and it was Bob who answered.
“We haven’t decided that exactly,” he said. “All this decision of ours is so sudden that we haven’t had time to plan much of anything. My horse and buggy are out at the gate. I am going to take Esther over to my cousin’s house in South Denboro to-night. I shall go home. Then, in the morning, she will meet me at the station and we will take the early train for Boston. As soon as we can—sometime to-morrow, of course—we shall be married. Then, if I can get a stateroom and passage on the steamer, we shall—”
“Hush! Wait, wait, wait! Let me understand this plan. You aren’t going to be married until to-morrow—in Boston? You were goin’ to go away from Harniss without bein’ married?”
Bob stared at her. “I told you,” he said, slowly, “that I should take Esther to my cousin’s house in South Denboro. I shall leave her there and go home. Look here, Miss Clark, I don’t quite understand what you mean by—”
“Oh, hush! Mercy on us, what children you two are, after all. I am not worried about you. I know you are all right, both of you. But I am worried about what everybody else will say. Haven’t you lived long enough to know that the average person is only too delighted to get a chance to say a mean thing? Haven’t you heard what has been said about other young idiots in this town who have— Oh, but there! They shan’t have the chance to say them about you. I’ll see to that. Esther, take off your things. Bob, you keep yours on, for I shall want you to go out on an errand in a minute.... Dear, dear, dear! If we only had more time. Esther, when did your uncle expect to be back from Ostable?”
“Why, I don’t know exactly. Not until late; he said that to me.”
“Late! Well, I wish I knew how late. Tell me, will he know you have come here?”
“I suppose Varunas, if he is up, will tell him I sent my bag here.”
“Yes, of course. And he will come chasin’ down here first thing. You didn’t tell him you were leavin’ him for good?”
“No. I meant to write him a letter telling him why I could not live with him any longer and how terribly I felt at leaving him, although I knew it was right. But I wanted to see Bob first. I shall write that letter this evening, at South Denboro.”
“No, you won’t. You will write it right here in this house. That is one of the things you must do before you go to South Denboro. And it is important; but not as important as somethin’ else.”
“Auntie!... How strange you look—and act. What is it?”
“Strange! I feel strange—but I haven’t got time to think about it. Oh, dear, dear! I ought to go out and open that post office this minute. Esther, come into the front room with me. Mr. Griffin will excuse us, I guess. He’ll have to. Come.”
She hurried her niece into the little parlor, a room of course almost never used. Bob, left in the sitting-room, heard the clink of a lamp chimney and the scratch of a match. Then the hum of hurried conversation. Esther’s voice rose in an exclamation, apparently in expostulation, but her aunt’s sharp command hushed it to silence. A few minutes later Reliance hurried out.
“She’s writin’ the note to her Uncle Foster,” she explained, quickly. “Poor thing, it will be terribly hard to do. As for him, when he reads it— Well, I mustn’t think about him now. For the rest, she will do it. She agreed with me that it may be best. Whether she agreed or not it would be done just the same. I know it is best.”
Bob shook his head.
“If I knew what this was all about,” he began, with a shrug, “I—”
“You’re goin’ to learn. It is just this: You aren’t goin’ to be married in Boston to-morrow—or to-morrow anywhere else. You are goin’ to be married to-night, right here in this sittin’ room, by a Harniss minister. You are goin’ to be married right here where I can see it done, and be a witness to it. Then, if anybody dares to say anything out of the way, they’ll have me to reckon with.... Don’t stop to argue about it; neither of us have got time for that. I must go out and open the office and you must chase right up to Ezra Farmer’s house—Ezra’s the town clerk, probably you know him—and get the license or certificate or whatever is necessary.... Don’t talk! Don’t!”
Bob did talk, of course, but not for long. Reliance’s sharp, to the point sentences convinced him that she was right. Gossip—a certain kind of gossip—would be smothered before it was uttered if he and Esther were married there and then, with her aunt as witness. And, if Esther was willing, surely he was. In a daze he listened to Miss Clark’s final instructions.
“That Farmer man,” she said, “may sputter a little about givin’ you the certificate. It’s past his office hours and he may want to use that as an excuse to put you off. The real trouble is that he will be afraid of what Foster Townsend will say to him to-morrow. Don’t let him scare you a mite. And, if worse comes to worst offer him four or five times his regular fee. That will stiffen his backbone—if I know Ezra.”
She was flying about the sitting-room, trying to untie her apron strings with shaking fingers, and chattering continuously.
“Better not leave your horse and team out here,” she said. “Some of the mail-time crowd will be sure to see it and want to know why. Take it up to the livery stable and leave it there.... No, I tell you what to do. Drive it right through my yard and hitch it out in the dark back of the hen house. You can walk to Farmer’s; it’s only a little way.... I’ll attend to the minister myself.... Now is there anything else? I haven’t had any supper, but never mind that. Before you go you might see to the tea kettle; it’s boilin’ all over the stove.... I’ll shut up the post office at half past eight to-night and I’ll be in a little while after that, minister and all.... I wonder now if— But there, I can’t stop. Don’t let Esther worry or get frightened. Everything will be all right. What a mercy I sent Millard away! I must have had a message from heaven, I guess, when I did that.... Be sure and make Farmer give you that certificate.... If there is anything else.... Well, if there is it will have to wait. I’ll be back just as soon as I can. Don’t worry.”