THINKRIGHT'S LETTER
Back in the dingy offices of Calvin Trent the sunshine revealed
time-honored ink stains and other immovable relics which held their own
despite a thorough house-cleaning which Hannah had recently given the
rooms.
The judge had apologized to Dunham at the time.
"Until this affair of the Lacey girl is settled," he said, "Miss Martha
is liable to come in upon us at any time, and we might as well be
prepared."
"By all means," Dunham had responded devoutly. "Unless there is a
chemical change brought about in the anteroom I shall be obliged to ask
you to attend the door yourself."
This particular sunshiny morning, as John was opening the mail, he
found a letter beginning, "Dear Cal:"
It was postmarked Maine, and he passed it over to his employer in
silence. Judge Trent was reading the morning paper at the time, and
just glancing at his cousin's writing, he clutched the sheet in his
left hand and went on with his editorial.
Dunham smiled down at his pile of correspondence. "Absence hasn't made
the heart grow any fonder," he reflected. "The governor's interest in
Curly Head appears to be about where it was."
Then he thought of Miss Lacey and the contrasting eagerness with which
she would greet a letter from Maine. He breathed an involuntary sigh of
satisfaction that whatever the bulletin his own responsibility in the
matter was over, and that the lesson he had received concerning the
unwisdom of rushing in where relatives feared to tread was likely to
last during his lifetime.
"'M, h'm," breathed the judge at last, laying down the paper and
setting his hat a little farther back on his head. His thought was
evidently still busy with the morning news as his eyes moved vacantly
to the letter; but beginning to read, the corners of his lips drew
down, not in scorn, but with a movement habitual to him when
interested.
He read slowly; even read the letter twice. It ran as follows:--
* * * * *
"DEAR CAL,--Laura's little girl was very willing to come up here
with me, and I was exceedingly glad to bring her, for poor
influences in her life have made her a victim. I've had several
talks with her. She has received only a desultory education, and
isn't fitted for any life-work. She has been fed on froth mentally,
and in Sam's worst straits has evidently never been obliged to do
anything more severe in the way of manual labor than to mend her
father's clothes; but withal she is innocent and honest, and not to
blame, in the absence of a mother or any wise guidance, for not
rising higher than her father's standards. You and Martha gave her
heart and pride a great shock. Her mother used always to talk much
about you in particular, and taught her little girl to kiss your
picture good-night. So you can understand the surprise and
disappointment of the sequel. You know what Laura meant to me, and
while I would in any case do what I could for this child, it is my
pleasure, and in your and Martha's default, seems to be my duty, to
assume charge of her. I have determined upon this, for the girl is
a starved specimen, and very needy. I tell you this in advance in
case the new responsibility should take me away from the farm for
any reason, so that all may be understood, and we may be guided.
Edna Derwent looked in on us for one night. She says Martha is to
be with her again this summer, and bade me beg you to take time to
call on her the next time you are in Boston. She is exulting in her
summer's prospect of sea, sky, and freedom, in her usual winning
manner. Her parents are to travel with friends for some time,
leaving Edna to be a child again. She says she is often tempted to
feel old and tired."
The rest of the letter was devoted to mention of the farm matters, and
Judge Trent glanced through it with a careless frown. The increasing
absorption with which he had made his perusal roused Dunham's
curiosity. Twice the lawyer's feelings carried him to the pitch of
audible expression. His exclamations were brief and monotonous. When he
arrived at the point describing his niece's caressing his picture he
slowly ejaculated, "_Get_ out." And when the matter concerned
Thinkright's renouncing his care of the farm the reader made use of the
same words, vigorously varying the emphasis thus: "Get _out_."
John speculated upon the information Judge Trent was receiving. Perhaps
Sylvia had revolted against being immured on a New England farm and had
escaped to Nat.
The judge dropped the letter and stared ahead of him. Thinkright's
implied accusation nettled him more than all Miss Martha's tearful
reproaches. For the first time his duty toward his niece presented
itself as so reasonable as to be impossible of escape.
He looked at Dunham, who sedulously did not look at him. The young man
was thinking of a _mignonne_ face as he had last seen it with quivering
lips, trying to smile in response to his encouraging parting words. At
last the judge spoke:--
"Well, Thinkright took her up there."
"Ah?" responded Dunham. Whatever his curiosity, he determined that his
conversation on this embarrassing subject should never exceed
monosyllables.
"Sickly looking, is she?" pursued the lawyer after a pause.
"Yes," replied John; then memory reminding him that this was not
strictly the case, he availed himself of the remainder of his
vocabulary: "and no," he added.
"I should like to know what Thinkright means by her being starved,"
said Judge Trent irritably.
Silence from Dunham, frowning at his papers.
"I believe I'll send you up there," began the lawyer after a minute.
"I believe you won't," retorted his subordinate with surprising
promptness.
The older man stared. "I should like to know how the girl is carrying
sail; how she eats, whether she seems contented. An eyewitness, now"--
"Not me," said John briefly.
"Lost your conceit, eh?" asked the judge, grinning.
"No more family parties for me," returned Dunham doggedly.
"Oh, come now, be good-natured and obliging."
"Never again while I live," was the response.
"I've never praised you half enough for your work on that job," said
the judge ingratiatingly. "The more I think of it the more I wonder
where we'd have brought up in the affair if it hadn't been for you."
"You might as well flatter the Sphinx," remarked John impersonally.
Judge Trent laughed. "Afraid of a little girl, eh?"
Dunham shrugged his shoulders. "I shouldn't be the first man. Why don't
you send Miss Lacey?"
"H'm," grunted the judge thoughtfully.
John smiled. "Provide her with a full suit of chain-armor and I fancy
she'd accept the detail."
"I'm going in town to-morrow," soliloquized the judge aloud. "I might
go and ask Edna Derwent."
"Who?" demanded Dunham, looking up with sudden alertness.
"Edna Derwent."
"Of Commonwealth Avenue?"
"Yes. What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I am only surprised that your calling list includes her."
"Well, now, why should you be?"
"No reason, of course," returned John, smiling, "except that she's a
girl; and girls,--I thought they were all under the ban. You'll have to
take your hat off, you know."
"H'm," grunted the judge again.
"I'll tell you what," suggested John, "send me there. I'll go."
"Do you know her?"
"Used to--well. I haven't seen her for years. It's her family I
referred to when I spoke of friends of mine going up into Casco Bay."
"Yes. Hawk Island."
"That's the place. I was invited there once, but couldn't accept."
"Very nice girl, Edna," remarked the judge.
Dunham emitted a noiseless whistle. "She must be a wonder," he replied.
"I didn't know there were any nice girls."
"You think you're smart, don't you?" said the judge.
"I shall if I get an errand to Miss Derwent to-morrow."
"Then who's to go to the Tide Mill?" demanded the lawyer.
"You and Miss Lacey, hand in hand. It's fitting that you should protect
one another."
"Miss Lacey lives with Edna Derwent at the island in the summer,--keeps
house for her, plays watch-dog, and all that sort of thing."
"Indeed? How small the world is! I knew I felt drawn to Miss Lacey. I'd
forgotten until you mentioned it how I adore Miss Derwent. Do give me
the detail, Judge."
"Get out. You can't do that Boston business. I suppose you'd better
mail this letter to Miss Lacey," tossing the missive over to the young
man's desk.
"I can take it to her house this evening. I have to go to thank her for
my handkerchief that she sent back. Do you want me to--no!" with a
sudden turn back to his desk.
"Do I want you to what?"
"Nothing."
"Don't be an idiot!" exclaimed the lawyer, exasperated by his own
indecision concerning this affair so foreign to his experience.
"No, it's none of my business," said Dunham.
"Do I want you to ask Miss Lacey if she'll go up to the farm? Yes, I
do. Tell her all expenses paid."
After supper that night, for they had supper at six in this rural city
of Seaton, John Dunham took a trolley car for the tree-lined street
where Miss Lacey's cottage stood behind its row of poplars.
"Utterly inappropriate," mused Dunham, smiling to himself as he glanced
up at these "old maids of the forest." "They would be far better placed
in front of Judge Trent's. He is a bachelor by conviction."
Miss Lacey saw the young man coming up the walk, and herself opened the
door, although she kept a little maid of fourteen, who attended school
by day and assisted Miss Martha in her free hours for her board and
lodging.
"How do you do, Mr. Dunham?" she said, brow and voice anxious. "I hope
nothing bad has brought you."
"Do you call gratitude and admiration bad?" asked John, as she hastily
shook hands with him.
"There's very little of either ever walks in this door," returned Miss
Martha dejectedly. "Step into the parlor, please. I'll pull up the
shades in one minute."
She suited the action to the word, and as she threw open a window the
scent of lilacs floated into the room. "These are nice long evenings,
aren't they?" she pursued lugubriously. "What are you grateful for, Mr.
Dunham?"
"My handkerchief, of course."
"Law! Your handkerchief!" repeated Miss Lacey. "Do sit down."
A swift glance at the spider-legged furniture caused John to choose the
haircloth sofa, whose shining surface bulged substantially. He wondered
where the judge used to sit. Any of the chairs would have held him, but
perhaps they both used this sofa. If so, they must have led a migratory
existence; and perhaps its slipperiness had infected and undermined the
stability of the judge's affections.
"You didn't need to make any fuss about the handkerchief," added Miss
Martha.
"Indeed I should," replied Dunham, immediately conscious of beginning
to glide, and anchoring himself with an arm across the mahogany back.
"It would be sacrilege ever to use such a miracle of whiteness and
shine, with a cameo monogram."
"How foolish," returned Miss Martha, visibly cheered.
"No, indeed," continued John; "I'm going to have it framed and hung
where my laundress can use it for a model."
His companion emitted a faint laugh. "I'm glad you can joke," she said,
"and it's real kind of you to come and thank me for such a trifle. Oh,
Mr. Dunham, I haven't had a happy minute since that day we were in
Boston. I was just now sitting down to write a letter to Thinkright. He
doesn't know the suspense I'm in. I suppose she's told him how hateful
I was, and he thinks I don't care."
"Yes, a letter came only to-day. Here it is. It was one of my errands
to bring it."
"Good news? Oh, is it good news?" Miss Lacey's attitude changed
alertly, and she seized the offered envelope.
"I don't know," replied John. "She's there."
His companion had already torn open the sheet, and was reading
greedily.
"Oh, dear--_dear_!" she ejaculated above her breath. At last she looked
up. "The judge showed you this, of course?"
"No."
"Then"--
"No, really, Miss Lacey, it's none of my business, you see."
"None of your business, after you've been so _kind_ and taken such an
_interest_? I should say it is! Listen."
John brought his teeth together in a resigned sigh while his hostess
read aloud, occasionally lifting her eyes to comment. At the close he
spoke.
"I was surprised to learn that you and Miss Derwent are friends."
"Oh, you know her?" asked Miss Martha absently.
"Up to a few years ago, I did, very well."
"You can see what opinion Thinkright has of Judge Trent and me."
"Yes," returned John, harking back to his monosyllables.
"No doubt you have the same," said Miss Lacey dismally, "even though I
explained to you fully"--
"Well, your mind can be at rest now," returned Dunham. "The young lady
is provided for."
"Thinkright is certainly a good man," said Miss Lacey, her brow still
drawn, "although he isn't exactly what folks would call a professor. No
one that knows him has a particle of doubt that he means well, and I
feel that his notions can't do Sylvia any real harm when he lives such
a good life."
"What are his notions? Do you mean that he is a freethinker?"
"Well," responded Miss Lacey, "I don't see how anybody could be _more_
free. I should feel that I was tempting Providence to expect everything
was coming my way, the way he does. I should expect a thunderbolt
instead of prosperity. I told him so once, and he smiled and said then
I'd probably get the thunderbolt. He says it's all a matter of what you
expect and why you expect it. He asked me if the reason I expected the
thunderbolt was because I believed that God was Love. He hasn't got a
spark of the humility that most good folks know they must have. Why, if
every Christian was like him there wouldn't be a professor left who'd
call himself a poor worm or a sinner. I don't agree with Thinkright,
because I'd never be so presuming with my Creator as he is, nor be
certain that my Father wouldn't see fit to send me any afflictions; but
I must say he has as lively a dread of sin as anybody I ever knew.
There's no mistake about his being a good soul, and that's why I don't
mind his notions; and, oh, I'm so glad he's got that flighty child
under his wing. She'll never get any harm from his example, however
queer his talk is. Edna Derwent, now, she sympathizes with him, and
thinks she gets along a lot better since she's had his ideas to work
on. So," Miss Lacey looked at her caller with a sudden speculative
curiosity, "so you're one of Miss Derwent's satellites, are you?"
Dunham shrugged his shoulders. "I used to be, but I've been so frozen
by years of her silence that now I might better be classed among her
stalactites. She has a number. I've been trying to get Judge Trent to
send me to Boston on business to-morrow and to call on her. He wishes
to ask some questions about his niece."
"Does he, indeed?" Miss Martha sat up very straight and her eyes
snapped. "Well, it's about time. I guess Thinkright's letter hurt _his_
pride a little, too."
"It did seem to stir him. Of course you are both pleased that this
friend--this relative of yours has decided to adopt your niece."
"It sounds awfully,--just awfully, doesn't it, Mr. Dunham?" returned
Miss Lacey, a nervous color mounting in her face. "_Our_ niece, and
Thinkright adopting her; partly from a romantic feeling which does him
the highest credit,--he adored poor Laura,--and partly from duty which
I should think would be a sermon to Cal--to Judge Trent." Sudden tears
sprang to the speaker's eyes, and she touched them with her
handkerchief. "I've condemned myself, for, after all, while I thought I
was justified, I certainly didn't stop to think enough from Sylvia's
standpoint, I was so afraid I was going to be imposed upon. I'm so
grateful to Thinkright, and so grateful to you, Mr. Dunham. What should
we have done without you!"
"Oh, don't--don't mention it."
"But I must, I'm so grateful. I wish Judge Trent would send you on some
business errand to the farm so that"--
"No, indeed," interrupted John hastily; "but he does want to send you,
Miss Martha. He empowered me to request that you take the trip,
permitting him to be at all expense."
"He did, did he?" retorted Miss Lacey, her eyes drying and snapping
again. "Well, I should think it was about time he stopped sending folks
on that errand," she continued, with a superior contempt for
consistency. "It's about time he went himself. I guess he feels pretty
small about the whole thing if the truth were known. Isn't that
touching about Sylvia's kissing his picture? How did he feel when he
read that, Mr. Dunham?"
"Impossible to tell. All he said was 'get out.'"
Miss Lacey's nostrils dilated. "Well," she ejaculated, "all is I know
if I'd mar--that is," she added faintly, "I'm glad Laura didn't live to
see this day. He has a great deal less excuse than I have, Mr. Dunham,
and I have little enough." Miss Martha finished with sincere feeling.
"You tell Judge Trent for me, Mr. Dunham, that he had better go to that
farm himself."