THE letter for which Reliance had so anxiously waited came in the evening mail next day. Esther had written it from Boston. She had spent the night at the house of Bob’s cousin in South Denboro, and she and her husband had taken the early train from that station, as they had planned. They were going at once to the steamship office to see what arrangements could be made for their passage to Europe. She would write again as soon as those arrangements were made. Bob had broken the news to his grandfather and there had been another distressing scene.
“It is all so dreadful,” wrote Esther, “that I don’t want to think about it now. Poor Bob! And poor Mr. Cook! And Uncle Foster! And you, Auntie! I feel as if I must be a wicked, ungrateful girl. He says I am not and that we have done the only thing that could be done. He is a dear fellow and I love him. He is sure we will never be sorry and that by and by everything will be right again. Oh, I hope so!... You will tell Uncle Foster how sorry I was to leave him, won’t you? Make him understand just why I had to do it, Aunt Reliance. And then write me what he says. I will write him as soon as I hear from you that he cares to have me write. Do you think he will ever forgive me?”
Reliance felt no certainty on this point. She had not seen Foster Townsend that day. Nor had she heard from him. Varunas came for the mail, as usual, but he had nothing to tell. “The old man is glum as an oyster,” he said. “Ain’t hardly spoke a word all day and Nabby she’s scared he’s goin’ to be sick or somethin’. Say, where’s Esther gone? I thought likely she was down here to your house, Reliance, but Millard says she ain’t. He’s struck dumb, too, seems so. What’s the matter with all hands?”
His question was answered next morning. Where, or from where, the amazing rumor first came is uncertain. Whether the Reverend Mr. Barstow told of the marriage ceremony, or Ezra Farmer told of issuing the certificate—whether the news was first made public in Denboro, or South Denboro, or there in Harniss, is still but a guess. And very few guessed or tried. The essential fact was all that mattered. Within a dozen hours the whole county buzzed. The great Foster Townsend’s niece had married the grandson of the almost as famous Elisha Cook. They were married and had run away together to Boston—to Chicago—to Europe—to nobody knew for certain where. Mrs. Benjamin Snow said, “Heavens and earth!” when she heard it. Mrs. Tobias Eldridge said, “My good land of love!” Every one said something and followed it with: “What will Foster Townsend do? Has anybody seen him since it happened?”
No one had, for he had kept out of their way. The few who called at the mansion—Mr. Colton, Captain Ben Snow, and others who had a claim to close acquaintanceship—were told by the maid or Nabby Gifford that he was busy with “law papers” and could not see anybody. Reliance Clark was the next best bet and they hurried to the post office. Reliance was quite willing to talk, up to a certain point. Yes, it was true. Esther Townsend was now Mrs. Robert Griffin. They had been married in her sitting-room by the Baptist minister and she was present at the wedding. Why the haste? Was it true that they had run off? Did Foster Townsend know of it before it happened? Where were they now? All these queries she parried or answered non-committally. To too-persistent questioners, of a certain type, she replied in another fashion. “If you are so terribly anxious to know how Cap’n Townsend takes it,” she observed, “why don’t you go and ask him? Bob and Esther are married. That much I do know. And you can advertise it to all creation.”
This was so far the greatest sensation of a sensational season. Following so closely upon the accident to Seymour Covell it drove even that and its trail of gossip and surmise from the public mind. The whisperings concerning Bob Griffin’s part in that accident, or his responsibility for it, were forgotten. Covell, in the Boston hospital, was reported to have regained consciousness and to be on the road to recovery. The question of what he was doing on the lower road—of who saw him and Griffin there, if indeed any one saw them—ceased to be debated. Carrie Campton and her parents began to breathe more easily. So did Millard Clark, although breathing was practically the only luxury his sister permitted him to indulge in just then. Millard’s position was hard indeed. To be an inmate of the very house in which the amazing marriage had taken place, to be as wildly excited concerning it as every one else, and to be ordered to hush, or be still, or to mind his own business whenever he dared venture to hint a request for inside information, was torture indeed for Mr. Clark. And, worst of all, his orders—orders which, in fear of Foster Townsend and his sister, he did not dare disobey—were to say that he knew nothing and keep on saying it. “It is the truth,” declared Reliance. “You don’t know anything and, so far as I am concerned, you never will. And, if my shoulder was as lame as yours is, I don’t think I should run the risk of doin’ anything likely to bring Cap’n Foster down on me again. He might break your neck next time.”
Many pairs of eyes were on the watch for the first public appearance of the big mogul. He would have to show himself sometime and when he did—how would he look and act? What would he have to say? They knew already what Elisha Cook was saying. According to Denboro reports he declared himself to be through with his grandson for good and all. “He is a fool, let him go his fool way. I’m done with him.” This, according to gossip, was the proclamation from Cook headquarters. And the Denboro doctor was reported to have added that the old man’s sole comfort in the situation was the thought of Foster Townsend’s fury. “I only wish I was where I could see him squirm,” chuckled Elisha.
So all Harniss was agog, and rushed excitedly to its windows when, two days after the elopement, the Townsend span was again seen trotting majestically along the main road. Varunas, of course, was driving and his employer sat alone upon the rear seat of the carriage. He looked heavy-eyed and drawn and tired, that was the consensus of opinion, but to the bows and hat lifting of those he passed his own bow was as coolly dignified as ever. It was noon—mail time—and the group at the post office watched, with bated breath, as he alighted and walked into the building.
Tobias Eldridge told it all to his wife when he reached home.
“Everybody just stood around, or set on the settee, and looked at him when he come in,” narrated Tobias. “We didn’t none of us hardly dast to speak, or so much as say, ‘How are you, Cap’n Foster?’ Didn’t know how he’d take it, you understand. But he was just same as ever, seemed so. Just as grand and top lofty and off-hand to us bugs and worms under his feet as if nothin’ had happened. When somebody—Nathan Doane, seems to me ’twas—spunked up enough to say ‘Good day,’ he nodded his head and says ‘Good day’ back. Course he must know that every man, woman and child old enough to talk has been talkin’ about nothing but him and his family for two days and nights. You’d think he’d realize it and act sort of—well, fussed and ashamed, but not him, no sir! Darned if it wasn’t kind of disappointin’! Yes, ’twas so.
“And,” went on Mr. Eldridge, “when he went up to the window after his mail and Reliance Clark handed it out to him, we was all set to see how he’d act to her. ’Twas in her house them two was married and we didn’t know but he’d tell her what he thought of her right there and then. And what happened? Nothin’!” in high disgust. “Nothin’ at all! ‘Good mornin’, Foster,’ says she, not lookin’ even so much as nervous. ‘Mornin’, Reliance,’ he says; grunted it just same as he’s grunted good mornin’ to her for two year. And that’s all there was to it. Can you beat that? I don’t know how you’re goin’ to.”
It was an attitude that could not be beaten and reluctantly Harniss was forced to that realization. At home, when the inevitable callers came, eager to learn details, ready to offer sympathy and express indignation at Esther’s wickedness, it was just the same. Foster Townsend flatly refused to discuss the subject. The Reverend Mr. Colton ventured to persist a trifle more than the rest.
“Of course, Captain Townsend,” he said, sadly, “we all know the burden you are bearing. If you knew—I shall be glad to tell you if you wish to hear—the expressions of sympathy for you which are poured into my ears, they might perhaps comfort you a little. And the poor, misguided girl! Ungrateful—yes. But—”
Townsend, who was standing by the chair in the library, a cigar in one hand and a match in the other, swung about.
“Here, here!” he broke in, gruffly. “What is all this about sympathy? Sympathy for what?”
The minister was taken aback. “Why—why,” he faltered, “I mean— Why, we all know what a shock to you this—this must be. Your niece—”
“Sshh!” The match was scratched and held to the end of the cigar. Townsend blew a puff of smoke. “Colton,” he observed, in a tone so polite as to be almost ominous, “you came here to talk about church business, didn’t you? That was what I understood you to say you came for.”
“Why—why, yes, I did. But, in my position as—as a friend of long standing, as well as your clergyman, I ventured—”
“In a business talk I like to stick to business. And,” with a slight emphasis, “the church is your business. Well, what about it?”
He came to church the following Sunday and on other Sundays thereafter. His attendance was far more regular than it had been while Esther lived in the big house. It seemed almost as if he made it a point to be seen in public and to show to that public a countenance serene, unruffled, dignified—even defiant. He visited the post office every day, sometimes twice a day. His trotting horses began once more to show their paces about the Circle. Varunas Gifford was delighted, of course. “The old man’s gettin’ sensible again,” declared Varunas. “Was a time there when I snum it seemed as if he never cared two cents whether Claribel or Hornet or any of the rest of ’em could trot fast enough to get out of the way of an ox team. Never paid no attention to ’em, scurcely. Now he’s beginnin’ to show some signs of life! talkin’ about Sam Baker again, he is, and askin’ what kind of cattle Sam is cal’latin’ to send around the track over to Ostable when it comes Fair time. Looks to me as if I might be sailin’ around that track myself and fetchin’ a few dollars into port for him, same as I used to. Nabby, she’s growlin’ about it already, says I’m gettin’ too old for horse-racin’. ‘Gosh!’ I told her, says I, ‘don’t you fret yourself about that. When I get so old I can’t drive a trottin’ gig I’ll be just about old enough to have somebody else drive me in a hearse. Say,’ I says to her— He, he!—‘make ’em hitch a couple of high steppers onto that hearse, won’t you, Nabby. I wouldn’t want nobody to beat me to the cemetery.’ That stirred her up. He, he!”
Reliance had received one more letter from Esther. It, like the first one, was written from Boston. She and Bob had been obliged to wait another week before sailing for Europe. That week had gone and they had sailed. Presumably they were in Paris now and Reliance was anxiously awaiting a third letter which should tell of their arrival and what had transpired since. Day after day she had been hoping that Foster Townsend might come to see her and that, as a result of their interview, she could write Esther that her uncle would, if not welcome, at least receive and read, a letter from her. But her hope was dying. Townsend did not call. She saw him almost daily through the little delivery window of the post office, but, although they exchanged greetings, his was always perfunctory and in his manner was no hint of a desire for conversation.
But once only had a message come to her from the big house. This was at the end of the week following the elopement, when Varunas, in the Townsend two-seater, brought Esther’s trunk to the Clark cottage. Mr. Gifford had much to say concerning his errand.
“It’s the cap’n’s doin’s,” he explained. “He told Nabby to pack up Esther’s things and have me fetch ’em down to you. ‘What’ll I tell her to do with ’em?’ says I. He just glowered at me and walked away. ‘She can do what she wants to with ’em,’ he growled, over his shoulder. ‘I don’t want to know what she does. Don’t you mention ’em to me again.’ So that’s what I know about it, and it ain’t much. Say,” he added, “there was a whole lot more things of hers around. Not clothes, you know, but—oh, well, photograph pictures and knickknacks and doodads, all sorts of junk she’s picked up around, when he and she was off cruisin’ and travelin’ and the like of that. He made Nabby pick up every one of them things and stow ’em away out of sight. Seem’s if he couldn’t bear to have anything that belonged to her ’round where he was liable to lay eyes on it. There was only one item he left off the bill of ladin’ and that was kind of queer, too—queer he should leave that out, I mean. There was a big photograph of her on the settin’-room mantel-piece. You’ve seen it; you know the one ’twas. Naturally Nabby cal’lated that would be the first thing he’d be for gettin’ out of sight. Well, ’tis out of sight, so far as that goes, but where he’s put it we don’t know. ’Tain’t in this trunk and it ain’t with the stuff Nabby’s hid up attic. What do you suppose he’s ever done with that photograph, Reliance?”
Reliance sent the trunk to Esther at her Boston address, hoping it would reach her before the date of sailing. Whether it did or not she had not yet heard. She made it a point to see Mrs. Gifford occasionally and from her learned what was taking place at the mansion.
“It’s about the same as it used to be,” declared Nabby. “Reminds me of that time just after his wife passed away, I mean. He sits around in the library all by himself, readin’ the paper and smokin’ his cigar. Smokes too much, he does, and I tell him so. Sometimes when I go in there, he won’t be readin’ at all; just settin’ in his big chair, puffin’ away, and lookin’ at nothin’. It makes me feel bad to see him so, but if I mention it he takes my head off. He is prouder than ever and touchier than ever. Cap’n Ben Snow comes to see him and so does the minister and some of the other folks, but, so far as I can make out, he don’t ever go to see them. About the most pitiful sight is to see him, early mornin’ afore breakfast, out mopin’ around the flower garden all alone. ’Bella—his wife, I mean—she set a lot of store by that garden and Esther set about as much. You’d almost think he’d keep away from it, think ’twould be the last place he’d want to see, but he’s there ’most every mornin’. He’s a queer man, and always was, but I know I never felt so sorry for anybody in all my days.... If I told that to anybody but you, Reliance, they’d laugh. They’d think bein’ sorry for Foster Townsend was about as silly as bein’ sorry for the Governor of Massachusetts—or—or the President of the Old Colony Railroad or somebody, wouldn’t they?
“You know how I hate horse trottin’,” she went on, “but I do declare if I ain’t almost happy to see him takin’ an interest in it again. Yes, and he’s gettin’ back in politics some, too. They help to take up his mind, so I don’t complain, though I do wish some of them Selectmen and Represent’ives and Poundkeepers, or whatever they be, knew enough to wipe their boots when they come in on a decent, clean floor. Yes, horses and politics and that everlastin’ lawsuit and lawyers do a little to keep him busy. I don’t know how much the lawyers help, though; it does look to me as if they worried him as much as they helped lately. He used to love that lawsuit. I only hope nothin’s gone wrong with that.”
The long expected letter from Paris came at last. It covered many pages and was, on the whole, reassuring and comforting. The trunk had been received in time. The voyage was a marvelous experience. Paris was the most beautiful city in the whole world. They—Esther and Bob—had lodgings in a funny little out of the way street, where no one save themselves spoke English, and where Esther had to make her wants known by signs “just like a deaf and dumb person, although Bob says there is nothing dumb about our landlady. I say a few words in English and she says a thousand in French, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. It will though, Auntie, pretty soon. I shall learn to speak French if I die for it. I can read it a little already; my music studies helped me there. You will be glad to know that I am keeping on with those studies. Not in the grand way I used to think I should, but a little and inexpensively. Bob is having a glorious time with his painting. The masters at the classes have said most encouraging things. We—”
And so on, page after page. Reliance gathered that the young couple were very, very happy. There were no signs of doubt as to the wisdom of their hasty marriage.
At the end Esther wrote:
“And in every letter, Aunt Reliance, be sure and write me a lot about Uncle Foster. Do you think he has begun to feel any more reconciled? Oh, I hope he has! Remember, I am waiting to hear from you before writing him. The moment you say that I may I shall do it.”
Reliance sighed when she read this. So far no hint of softening or change of feeling on Foster Townsend’s part had reached her ear. As far as she could learn his resentment against his niece was quite as bitter. Yes, and the bitterness extended to her—Reliance—also. He never visited her, he was cold and formal when they met. He spoke to her, but that was all she could truthfully say. She could only advise Esther to wait a little longer before venturing upon a letter to him.
The fall drew to an end and winter came. The Townsend horses were entered in the races at the Ostable County Fair and Cattle Show and won a goodly share of prizes. Huge elation and much vainglorious boasting on the part of Varunas Gifford, of course. Nabby said—quoting her husband—that Captain Foster did not appear greatly excited over his triumph.
“Wouldn’t crow over it at all, so Varunas says,” declared Nabby. “And told Varunas to shut up when he crowed too long. Only signs of real interest he showed was the way he bet. Varunas says he never knew the cap’n to bet so many times or so much money. Kind of acted foolish about it, or as if he didn’t care what he did, so long’s ’twas somethin’. Yet—this is more of Varunas’s talk, of course—when them bets was paid him, and when he got the prizes, or purses or whatever you call ’em, he didn’t seem to care much about them either. Just shoved the money in his pocket without countin’ it. Well, his not carin’ about the money he gets that way don’t fret me. I don’t like to have him gamble, though. It’s a bad sign, no matter how rich a man is. Why, he might start drinkin’ next. Some of them politicians from out of town that come to see him last night had been takin’ somethin’ stronger than cambric tea, I tell you that, Reliance Clark. I smelt ’em when I opened the door, and ’twan’t Florida water I smelt neither. The Honorable Mooney was one. They tell me he’s goin’ to be elected Congressman to Washin’ton this fall sure.”
He was, by the customary—at that period—huge Republican majority. Townsend took an active part in the campaign. Through the winter he continued active in local politics, although he did not attend the February town meeting. In April he left Harniss for Washington. The famous Townsend-Cook lawsuit was to have its hearing before the Supreme Court. The final verdict would be reached at last.
The eager crowds at the post office snatched the newspapers from Millard Clark’s hands day after day. Harniss resented the small amount of space given by the Boston dailies to the town’s all-absorbing topic. Often there was not a word about the great trial. Only in the Item was its progress reported as it should be, for there, what the editor lacked in authentic news he made up by quoting opinions and guesses throughout the county.
And one day, near the end of April, a telegram came to Captain Benjamin Snow from his Boston bankers. It was brief, but stunning.
“Just had word from Washington over the wire,” so read the telegram. “Cook has won the suit.”