NEWS FROM NOWHERE
Florence Hathaway was extremely astonished when, upon Sunday morning,
she heard the voice of Tom Dennis on the telephone, and received a
request to join him down-town for noon dinner.
"Come up to the school, Tom!" she returned. "You can dine in hall as
my guest. And what brought you to town?"
"Can't talk now, Florence. And I'll have to refuse your
invitation--because we'll all three have to dine down-town. Better
make it the 'Royton'; then we can have comparative privacy."
"All three?" she echoed. "Who's with you?"
"A man who has news of your father, dear. He's to join us at the
'Royton' at one sharp, but I want to see you for a few moments first.
Why not meet me at the Art Institute about twelve-thirty? I'll be in
the Japanese Room. Believe me, it's important!"
"News of--father? Why, yes! I'll be there on time, Tom. Japanese
Room!"
So, at the hour when the galleries were totally deserted, Tom Dennis
was striding up and down in the Japanese Room, past the cases filled
with lacquer ware. In his present mood of frowning meditation, his
features looked almost forbidding; they were strong features, rugged
with an uncompromising virility. Looking at them, one could
understand how this man, unaided, had first worked his way through
college and had later gone to the top of an overcrowded profession.
On time almost to the minute, Florence Hathaway appeared. Dennis met
her at the door, his hand to hers; a swift glance around, and he bent
his lips to hers.
"This way, dear!" he said, turning. "There'll be no interruptions
then."
Together they made their way outside to one of the little balconies
overlooking the smoky park and lake front. Brushing off two of the
chairs, Tom Dennis set them by the stone rail.
"What on earth is it all about, Tom?" asked the girl wonderingly.
"Me, first--then you," smiling he filled his pipe and lighted it.
Then he set about his tale, beginning with his own situation of the
previous afternoon, and passing on to the coming of Boatswain Joe.
He described his own hopeless case very bluntly and frankly.
Florence Hathaway did not interrupt him, but sat in silence, her eyes
fastened upon his rugged face, reading there the signs of his past
worries and failure. They were fine eyes, those that dwelt upon him
with love and tenderness. An artist might have said that they were
too large for her face, that their glowing brown depths held too
passionate a fervor, too calmly poised a radiance, to match her
almost colourless cheeks. By no rule could Florence Hathaway be
adjudged beautiful; and yet Marshville had missed her more than all
its other absent daughters put together.
In her eyes, indeed, lay the brave and tender soul of Florence
Hathaway. Frail seemed her slender, almost girlish body; yet one who
gazed into her level eyes knew that hers was an indomitable spirit--a
heritage perhaps, from that lost father whose iron soul had battled
the men and winds and seas of half the world.
"Then you've left Marshville for good?" she asked quietly when Dennis
paused.
"Yes." He nodded curtly. "The place will be shut for six months.
If I've not returned by that time, if I've not struck some lucky
vein, old Dribble can foreclose his mortgage and be blessed! Of
course, I'm not gambling on striking it rich in a hurry; it's just a
long chance that still remains. Well, now that's settled, let's get
on about your friend Ericksen. You never heard of anyone by that
name?"
"No. He may have known my father----"
"I'm coming to that. Ericksen had come from the Pacific Coast to
find you--in person; mark that down as Point One, upper case! Why in
person, when a letter or telegram would have fetched you? Point
One--Query! I don't like that fellow's looks.
"Point Two: he tells a very fishy sort of tale--namely, that your
father was not lost at sea at all, but was rescued----"
"What?" broke in the girl, leaning forward. Again Dennis nodded,
imperturbable.
"Yes, if you care to believe it. I don't! He says that your father
was taken into Unalaska by some natives who had found him on one of
the Aleut islands--he was then down with something like what used to
be called 'brain fever'. It left him quite paralysed. He was taken
to Vancouver and is now in a sailors' home there. Being paralysed,
barely able to keep alive, he has been unable to tell his name--mind
you, this is all Boatswain Joe's narrative.
"Ericksen, or some of his friends, saw your father there and
recognized him, and promptly took him in charge. Do you get that,
Florence? They have him in a house in Vancouver now, taking care of
him. Point Two! They are not philanthropists; why did they do this?
Why did they not communicate with the authorities? Why do they send
Boatswain Joe to get you?"
"To get--me?" The girl's brown eyes shone eagerly.
"Yes. Ericksen wants you to go and see your father, wants you to try
to communicate with him. Why? I don't know. Probably your father
knows something that Ericksen or his friends want to know. Well, I
suppose you'd go quick enough, if you believed the story?"
"Go?" she flashed. "Of course! To-day--now!"
"Ericksen seemed to think you might not," said Dennis dryly. "He
offered me a thousand dollars to persuade you to go. I refused to
give him your address; we came to Chicago together last night, and I
told him you'd meet us for dinner. That's all. Point Three, why did
he offer me that money?"
He was silent for a minute, then knocked out his pipe and swung
around to face her.
"Look squarely at it, Florence: there's something mighty queer in the
wind! Point one: why did Boatswain Joe come in person to get you?
Point two: why are his friends taking care of your father? Point
three: why do they try to bribe me to persuade you to go? I don't
like it."
She gazed at him silently, frowningly.
"I can't answer any of those questions," she said at last, slowly.
"But if my father is alive, and in that condition--my place is with
him! Let's leave it until we see this man. He will perhaps have
some proofs to offer me. He would have no incentive to tell such a
story if it were not true.... About yourself, Tom: what do you
intend to do now?"
He laughed shortly. "I've scarcely thought about it, Florence; this
other thing has been on my mind all night. But I know this: I'll not
let you go West in company with that sailor! That's dead sure. If
his story is really true, then I'm going along, somehow!"
He glanced at his watch, and rose. "Time! Say nothing definite to
Ericksen. Listen to him and form your own conclusions. Make an
appointment with him for to-morrow to give him your answer; better
make it for the 'Royton' again. Make him agree to pay our expenses
West."
"You know I'll not take his money, Tom--on such an errand."
"I will, though." And Dennis laughed. "I'm down to thirty-four
dollars! Besides, I want to see just how readily he'll agree to
shell out real money. There's something queer about that crowd's
being willing to pay so high to get you to Vancouver!"
"All sailors are generous," said the girl softly. "Perhaps some
friends of father's are behind it."
"They didn't telegraph you, did they? Well, we shall see.
Anyway--draw him out!"
In silence they regained the corridors, descended the wide staircase,
and sought the street. Presently they entered a deserted lobby and
gained the elevator running to the restaurant above.
When they stepped out of the car, they found Boatswain Joe awaiting
them, manifestly ill at ease, and obviously an object of some
suspicion on the part of the restaurant people. Dennis, knowing the
head waiter of old, gained a quiet table in a corner and ordered
dinner.
He was covertly watching Florence, to see how she took to the seaman;
but she was plainly doing her best to put Ericksen at his ease. Amid
these surroundings, he was anything but comfortable. The linen and
silver, the table appointments, the orchestra, the general
surroundings--all abashed and discomfited him. Tom Dennis grinned to
himself, for this was precisely what he had aimed at.
But Boatswain Joe was there for a purpose and lost no time getting
about it. Florence Hathaway, too, was wildly eager to authenticate
the news of her father, and urged him to tell his story at once. So
Ericksen, by the time the soup arrived, was into it full swing and
was forgetting his own awkwardness and the girl's presence;
bashfulness left him, and he told the story more in detail than he
had to Dennis--perhaps under the spell of those glowing brown eyes.
And Dennis, studying the man, realized that Ericksen was no fool. He
had guessed as much from the twisted lines of the face. Now, the
more he listened, the more Dennis felt that Boatswain Joe had been
well chosen for his present errand. The man presented the story of
Captain Hathaway with a simplicity which carried conviction.
"So, ma'am, the skipper and the missus are takin' care of him," he
concluded. "The skipper says to me: 'If the lady wants proof,
boatswain, you give it to her!' So, ma'am, I got some pictures took
showin' all of us."
Ericksen took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to the girl.
She drew forth some photographs--and her face went white.
"Look here, Ericksen!" Dennis leaned forward, his eyes gripping the
gaze of the sailor. "There are some things we don't understand. Why
did you come in person to find Miss Hathaway? Who's your skipper,
and why is he taking care of Captain Hathaway? Why are you spending
so much money on the project?"
The arrogant, light-blue eyes flashed suddenly--a flash of suspicion,
of anger.
"Sailormen don't count pennies," said the man curtly. "Besides, the
skipper--Cap'n Pontifex--he used to know Cap'n Hathaway. Friends,
they were."
"And he expects to get some information through Miss Hathaway?"
Ericksen's freckled features reddened. His one satanic eyebrow
twitched upward.
"Aye, that's true enough; but what it is, ain't for me to say. 'You
mind your jaw-tackle, boatswain,' says the skipper. That's all."
"Mr. Dennis will go West with us," said Florence Hathaway softly,
extending the pictures to Dennis. "You will furnish expenses, Mr.
Ericksen?"
"Aye, miss." In the light-blue eyes Dennis read a sudden avid gleam.
They were very dangerous, those eyes, very predatory and
unscrupulous. "Aye, miss--here an' now."
The seaman drew from his pocket a small roll of bills and counted off
three fifties which he extended to Dennis. The latter took them.
The eyes of the two men met and held; and again Dennis felt that
sense of enmity, of forced geniality, as though the man were
concealing a deadly hostility beneath a show of eager conciliation.
First Boatswain Joe had desired to propitiate him; now he desired to
propitiate Florence Hathaway.
Dennis shoved the money into his pocket, despite a glance of entreaty
from the girl.
The photographs numbered four; in each was shown a figure in a
wheel-chair--and the figure was that of Captain Hathaway. Dennis had
seen other and older pictures of Florence Hathaway's father, and he
recognized at once that massive countenance, that giant frame, those
wide and unafraid eyes. He looked less at this figure, however, than
at those others showing in the pictures.
One was Captain Pontifex--a man tall and thin, face cavernous and
pallid, with deep-sunk eyes and a curled black moustache. Another
was that of Mrs. Pontifex--"the Missus", as Boatswain Joe termed her;
her face was indistinct, although her figure seemed very large. In
two of the pictures Ericksen himself showed. The only other figure
was that of a black man, quite indistinct, whom Ericksen described as
the skipper's mate, Manuel Mendez, a "black Portuguese" from the Cape
Verde Islands. Tom Dennis returned the envelope to Ericksen.
"I don't want your thousand dollars," he said quietly. "I've told
Miss Hathaway all you said to me, and your offer of a bribe; it is
not necessary."
Ericksen was quite unperturbed.
"Then, miss, I take it that you'll go?"
Florence smiled at him; and when she smiled, her frail features were
suddenly lighted as by warm sunshine.
"Meet us here for luncheon to-morrow, Mr. Ericksen, and I'll give you
my decision."
"Yes, ma'am--and if I may say so, there's a bit o' haste."
"Certainly. If we go, we'll be ready to catch the limited at eight
to-morrow night."
"Couldn't ask no better, miss!" exclaimed the sailor. "Shipshape
talk; that's what it is. 'If we go,' says you, 'we'll go on the
jump'--just like that! Aye, all Bristol-fashion and trim! I'm proud
to ha' met you, Miss Hathaway, and I hope you'll be able to get a few
words out o' your poor father."
Ericksen checked himself abruptly, as though he had said too much.
But he did not ask any questions concerning the money he had given
Dennis; and this, to the mind of Dennis was an unnatural and puzzling
fact, for Ericksen would hardly have handed over the money unless he
were certain of Florence Hathaway's decision. The entire attitude of
this seaman was puzzling in the extreme. His money carelessness
might be explained by the fact that Captain Pontifex was backing
him--but it looked queer.
Something of these thoughts was troubling Tom Dennis as he left the
building with Florence Hathaway; they had parted with Ericksen in the
restaurant lobby, seemingly to the entire satisfaction of the seaman.
Dennis had already phoned for a taxicab, and as they went bowling up
toward the North Shore, the girl noticed his silence.
"Well, Tom? A penny for your thoughts!"
"I was wondering what Ericksen's game can be--and who that Cap'n
Pontifex is!"
"I never heard of him. Certainly father never mentioned him. Well,
you're going to keep that money?"
"Yes. It's fair loot from the enemy."
"Enemy? But, Tom--surely you don't think Ericksen and his
friends----"
"I'm convinced that there's something back of it all, Florence,
something we don't know about! And that it's nothing very good."
The girl laughed. "Oh, Tom, you're delicious! Well, suit yourself;
we'll go West to-morrow night--that is, I'm going. You can only go
on one condition."
"Yes?" He looked at her, suspicious of the twinkle in her eyes.
"What is it?"
"Tell you in a minute, dear. Now, it's true that you've failed in
Marshville?"
"Absolutely and utterly."
"And you don't know what you're going to do?"
"No."
"It would be very foolish for us to marry, wouldn't it--especially
with poor father to be taken care of? I have eight hundred dollars
in the bank--a little surprise for you dear; but we shall probably
have to stay West and get a fresh start. And, Tom, it'll take a long
time before we get on our feet, won't it?"
He stared gloomily at the taxicab window, bitterly conscious that she
spoke the truth.
"Of course," he assented. "I had no intention of coming to you, a
failure, and holding you to your promise, Florence." His voice was
harsh. "I doubt if I would have come, only that this other affair
brought me. You're quite right. It would be criminal for us to
marry, with only a few dollars in the world, and your helpless
father----"
"Hush!" Her hand fluttered over his lips, and he promptly kissed it.
"Don't say that it would be criminal, Tom; it would only be foolish."
"What's the condition?" he insisted.
"I'm coming to that. You admit, then, that in our present
circumstances we should play the safe game, wait until we get
established in the West, and until we get on our feet financially?"
"We ought to, of course," he nodded, storm in his eyes. "It would be
folly to face poverty, to assume everything----"
"Isn't it very foolish to be in love at all, Tom, dear?"
"Not with you! That's something nobody could help."
"Then this is my condition; and if you refuse, you can't go West!
To-morrow morning we shall be married. We shall deliberately be
foolish--assume our burdens, have each other and make the best of
things! Oh, don't stare at me. Don't you think my love and
confidence and faith in you are supreme, dear? They are. We'll only
win by daring--so we shall dare everything! And with each other,
Tom--we shall win!"