IV

It was impossible to break that silence without an intolerable sacrifice

of pride. Yet, so very, very small a thing would have sufficed; one

entreating glance from Mr. Anderson, and Miss Selby would have responded

willingly; just a shade of warmth in her smile, and the young man would

have made an impetuous apology. But he was not going to give entreating

glances to persons who laughed at him, and her smile showed no warmth at

all, but instead an extreme chilliness.

They smiled when they met every evening in the dining room, simply to

keep up appearances--and it was a complete failure. The old ladies

noticed at once that something had gone wrong; they discussed it with

unflagging interest all week, wondering what had happened, and whose

fault it was. They all hoped that matters would be adjusted by Sunday.

Sunday came, and it was a sweet, bright, warm day. The hour for taking

walks came, and Mr. Anderson went out--alone. The old ladies were truly

sorry to see this. Miss Selby also saw it. She came out on the veranda

just as he was going down the steps and, although she did not turn her

head, she had caught a glimpse of his tall, broad-shouldered figure

going off--alone. She had a book with her, and, siting down in a

sheltered corner, she began to read.

It was impossible. On this gay spring morning nothing printed in books

could interest her. Not that she cared what Mr. Anderson did or where he

went. Only, she was homesick and so very lonely. There was nobody to

talk to, and it would be such a long, long time before she could afford

to take a vacation and go back to Boston to see her own people.

“Er--good morning!” said Mr. Quincey, in his apologetic way.

For two months Mr. Quincey had been apologetically making attempts to

talk to Miss Selby. He was a most inoffensive young man, a teller in the

local bank; he had virtually all the virtues there are: thrift,

industry, sobriety, honesty--and he knew people in Boston. Yet hitherto

Miss Selby had discouraged him, for no good reason at all, but simply

because she wished so to do.

Imagine his surprise and delight when this morning she replied to him

with something like cordiality. The old ladies saw him sit down on the

railing near her chair, they saw his pleased smile, and they decided

that Miss Selby was a fickle and a heartless girl.

Then presently they saw Miss Selby go out for a walk with Mr. Quincey.

In the meantime, Mr. Anderson was striding along the quiet country roads

at a tremendous pace. No; he did not like the country.

Except for his unique and wonderful paper mill, he could wish with all

his heart that he were back in the city, where there were numbers of

people he knew, friendly faces to see, jolly voices to hear. He could

think of no particular person he was especially anxious to see, yet it

seemed to him that he missed somebody, badly.

So, he went up that hill again. Again Sandy was there, and Mrs. Granger;

again he was invited to look at the garden, and this time he accepted.

V

Mrs. Granger was a widow, and she admitted herself that the loss of Mr.

Granger had made her very sympathetic. She told Mr. Anderson that she

“understood,” and he firmly believed this, without exactly knowing what

there was to be understood.

Anyhow, her manner was wonderfully soothing to one who had recently been

laughed at, and the young man appreciated it. Twice they strolled round

the garden, followed by Sandy, and Mrs. Granger, in a charming and

playful way, made a chaperon of Sandy.

“You know you’re Sandy’s friend,” she said. “He discovered you.”

Mr. Anderson found this very touching.

Then, when they had come round to the gate for the second time, she said

that she would be very pleased to see him if he would like to come in

for a cup of tea that afternoon.

“Thank you!” he replied heartily. “That’s very kind of you.”

And he really did think it was very kind of her, and that she was a

charming, gracious, kindly little lady, yet he had not said definitely

whether he would come to tea or not.

For all the time, in the back of his mind, there was a queer, miserable

feeling he could not define, a sense of guilt, as if he had been very

careless about something very dear to him. He thought that he would not

make up his mind until--well, until he saw--

What he saw was Miss Selby coming home from a walk with Mr. Quincey. She

was carrying a small bouquet of violets, so he supposed that she had

been in the woods--in those same woods--and with Mr. Quincey. So Mr.

Anderson did go to tea with Mrs. Granger.

Mrs. Granger said he might come on Wednesday evening, and he went. She

played on the piano and sang for him, and he praised her music so much

that she was charmingly confused. Never did she guess that it was not

admiration that moved him, but pity because she made so many mistakes in

technique.

And he accounted all these mistakes to her credit; he thought, like many

another man, that the worse her performance in any art, the more

domestic and womanly she must be. He felt a fine, chivalrous regard for

the poor thing.

But still he kept waiting for some sign of relenting on the part of Miss

Selby. Every evening, as he crossed the dining room to the little table

he thought that perhaps to-night it would be different; perhaps to-night

it would be as it had been during that time when they had talked to each

other.

Of course, if she didn’t care, he wasn’t going to force his unwelcome

conversation upon her. She was a woman; it was her place to make the

first move.

What had he done, anyhow? Maybe he had been a little hasty, but at least

he hadn’t laughed at her, or ever had the slightest desire to do such a

thing. And if, in her unreasonable feminine way, she wanted him to

apologize for things he hadn’t done, he was ready so to do--if she would

make the first move.

“Very well!” thought Miss Selby every evening when she saw him. “If he’s

satisfied to--to let things go on like this, I’m sure I don’t care.”

She was much better able to wear a calm expression of not caring than he

was. He looked dejected and sulky. But when out of the public eye, he

did better than she, for he merely walked up and down his room, or gazed

out gloomily upon those depressing trees, while she, locked in her own

room, often cried.

The next Sunday it rained, but nevertheless he went out early in the

afternoon, and Miss Selby knew very well where he was going.

“Let him!” she said to herself. “If he’s so easily taken in by

that--that designing woman and her dog, _I_ don’t care! She’s probably

trained the dog to behave like that.”

This was unjust. Mrs. Granger had no need to train dogs to bring guests

into her house. Undoubtedly she liked Mr. Anderson, but if he had not

come there would still have been Captain MacGregor, whom she had been

liking for a good many years. Mr. Anderson was soon made aware of the

captain’s existence by Leroy.

Now, there is no denying that Leroy himself was a shock to the young

man. To begin with, it seemed incredible that any one who looked as

young as Mrs. Granger should have a son eight years old, and in the

second place, if she did have a son, it should have been a different

kind of child.

Leroy was a nice enough boy in his way, but completely lacking in the

plaintive and poetic charm of the mother. Indeed, he seemed more akin to

Sandy, a rough, cheerful, headstrong young thing. But he had none of

Sandy’s admirable instinct for judging human nature, and in the

beginning he did not like Mr. Anderson.

He was frank about it. He said that Mr. Anderson’s watch was markedly

inferior to Captain MacGregor’s, and he expressed a belief that Captain

MacGregor could, if he wished, lick Mr. Anderson. He said a good many

things of this sort, so that the young man was badly prejudiced against

this unknown captain some time before he met him.

And when he did meet him, on that rainy Sunday, nothing occurred to

soften the prejudice. He found MacGregor installed as an old friend. He

found also that the man had brought to Mrs. Granger, as a gift, six silk

umbrellas.

Six! It was an overwhelming gift. Anderson himself had brought a box of

chocolates, but this was completely overshadowed by the umbrellas, just

as he himself was overshadowed by the impressive silence of the other

man.

A big, weather-beaten fellow of forty-five or so was this MacGregor,

with the face and the manner of a gigantic Sphinx; he was neither

handsome nor entertaining, but it was impossible to ignore or despise

him. The solid worth of him, the honest self-respect, and the massive

obstinacy, were plainly apparent.

He was not worried by the appearance of a strange young man; on the

contrary, he seemed mildly amused. He let Anderson do all the talking,

and just sat in a corner of the veranda, smoking his pipe.

This aroused in Anderson an unworthy spirit of emulation. He did not

enjoy being so completely overshadowed by this man and his six

umbrellas, and he returned the very next evening with four superb

phonograph records. He found MacGregor there, just opening a paper

parcel containing fourteen pairs of white gloves.

He waited until Wednesday, and then he arrived with a long box of the

most costly roses. The captain was not there, but Mrs. Granger showed

Anderson a little gift she had received from him the night before--five

mahogany clocks.

The unhappy young man was almost ready to give up then, until Mrs.

Granger casually explained that Captain MacGregor was a marine insurance

adjuster and, in the course of his business, was often able to buy

articles which had been part of damaged cargoes and yet were themselves

in nowise damaged.

“So that he sometimes brings me the most wonderful things,” she said.

“He _is_ so thoughtful and generous. Don’t you like him, Mr. Anderson?”

“Well, you see, I don’t know him very well,” Anderson replied.

He went home somewhat comforted. Not only had Mrs. Granger been

unusually sympathetic and charming, but her words had inspired him with

a new idea.

On Friday evening he arrived with a very large package, which he left in

the hall. He then entered the sitting room, and found Mrs. Granger

sweetly admiring the captain’s latest gift--seven handsome black silk

blouses, all exactly alike.

He let her go on admiring, and even generously said himself that they

were “very nice.” Then, after a decent interval--“By the way,” he

remarked, and went out into the hall and fetched in his package.

It was pretty imposing. He had spoken to the foreman of the paper mill,

and the foreman had shown a friendly interest, so that he was now able

to present to Mrs. Granger: