A PACKAGE OF LETTERS
Under the influence of the new arrival it was not at all strange that
many changes were wrought in the domestic life at Cobden Manor.
My lady was a sensuous creature, loving color and flowers and the
dainty appointments of life as much in the surroundings of her home as
in the adornment of her person, and it was not many weeks before the
old-fashioned sitting-room had been transformed into a French boudoir.
In this metamorphosis she had used but few pieces of new furniture--one
or two, perhaps, that she had picked up in the village, as well as some
bits of mahogany and brass that she loved--but had depended almost
entirely upon the rearrangement of the heirlooms of the family. With
the boudoir idea in view, she had pulled the old tables out from the
walls, drawn the big sofa up to the fire, spread a rug--one of her
own--before the mantel, hung new curtains at the windows and ruffled
their edges with lace, banked the sills with geraniums and begonias,
tilted a print or two beside the clock, scattered a few books and
magazines over the centre-table, on which she had placed a big,
generous lamp, under whose umbrella shade she could see to read as she
sat in her grandmother's rocking-chair--in fact, had, with that taste
inherent in some women--touched with a knowing hand the dead things
about her and made them live and mean something;--her talisman being an
unerring sense of what contributed to personal comfort. Heretofore
Doctor John had been compelled to drag a chair halfway across the room
in order to sit and chat with Jane, or had been obliged to share her
seat on the sofa, too far from the hearth on cold days to be
comfortable. Now he could either stand on the hearth-rug and talk to
her, seated in one corner of the pulled-up sofa, her work-basket on a
small table beside her, or he could drop into a big chair within reach
of her hand and still feel the glow of the fire. Jane smiled at the
changes and gave Lucy free rein to do as she pleased. Her own nature
had never required these nicer luxuries; she had been too busy, and in
these last years of her life too anxious, to think of them, and so the
room had been left as in the days of her father.
The effect of the rearrangement was not lost on the neighbors. They at
once noticed the sense of cosiness everywhere apparent, and in
consequence called twice as often, and it was not long before the
old-fashioned sitting-room became a stopping-place for everybody who
had half an hour to spare.
These attractions, with the aid of a generous hospitality, Lucy did her
best to maintain, partly because she loved excitement and partly
because she intended to win the good-will of her neighbors--those who
might be useful to her. The women succumbed at once. Not only were her
manners most gracious, but her jewels of various kinds, her gowns of
lace and frou-frou, her marvellous hats, her assortment of parasols,
her little personal belongings and niceties--gold scissors, thimbles,
even the violet ribbons that rippled through her transparent
underlaces--so different from those of any other woman they knew--were
a constant source of wonder and delight. To them she was a beautiful
Lady Bountiful who had fluttered down among them from heights above,
and whose departure, should it ever take place, would leave a gloom
behind that nothing could illumine.
To the men she was more reserved. Few of them ever got beyond a
handshake and a smile, and none of them ever reached the borders of
intimacy. Popularity in a country village could never, she knew, be
gained by a pretty woman without great discretion. She explained her
foresight to Jane by telling her that there was no man of her world in
Warehold but the doctor, and that she wouldn't think of setting her cap
for him as she would be gray-haired before he would have the courage to
propose. Then she kissed Jane in apology, and breaking out into a
rippling laugh that Martha heard upstairs, danced out of the room.
Little Ellen, too, had her innings; not only was she prettily dressed,
presenting the most joyous of pictures, as with golden curls flying
about her shoulders she flitted in and out of the rooms like a sprite,
but she was withal so polite in her greetings, dropping to everyone a
little French courtesy when she spoke, and all in her quaint, broken
dialect, that everybody fell in love with her at sight. None of the
other mothers had such a child, and few of them knew that such children
existed.
Jane watched the workings of Lucy's mind with many misgivings. She
loved her lightheartedness and the frank, open way with which she
greeted everybody who crossed their threshold. She loved, too, to see
her beautifully gowned and equipped and to hear the flattering comments
of the neighbors on her appearance and many charms; but every now and
then her ear caught an insincere note that sent a shiver through her.
She saw that the welcome Lucy gave them was not from her heart, but
from her lips; due to her training, no doubt, or perhaps to her
unhappiness, for Jane still mourned over the unhappy years of Lucy's
life--an unhappiness, had she known it, which had really ended with
Archie's safe adoption and Bart's death. Another cause of anxiety was
Lucy's restlessness. Every day she must have some new excitement--a
picnic with the young girls and young men, private theatricals in the
town hall, or excursions to Barnegat Beach, where they were building a
new summer hotel. Now and then she would pack her bag and slip off to
New York or Philadelphia for days at a time to stay with friends she
had met abroad, leaving Ellen with Jane and Martha. To the older sister
she seemed like some wild, untamable bird of brilliant plumage used to
long, soaring flights, perching first on one dizzy height and then
another, from which she could watch the world below.
The thing, however, which distressed Jane most was Lucy's attitude
towards Archie. She made every allowance for her first meeting at the
station, and knew that necessarily it must be more or less constrained,
but she had not expected the almost cold indifference with which she
had treated the boy ever since.
As the days went by and Lucy made no effort to attach Archie to her or
to interest herself either in his happiness or welfare, Jane became
more and more disturbed. She had prayed for this home-coming and had
set her heart on the home-building which was sure to follow, and now it
seemed farther off than ever. One thing troubled and puzzled her: while
Lucy was always kind to Archie indoors, kissing him with the others
when she came down to breakfast, she never, if she could help it,
allowed him to walk with her in the village, and she never on any
occasion took him with her when visiting the neighbors.
"Why not take Archie with you, dear?" Jane had said one morning to
Lucy, who had just announced her intention of spending a few days in
Philadelphia with Max Feilding's sister Sue, whom she had met abroad
when Max was studying in Dresden--Max was still a bachelor, and his
sister kept house for him. He was abroad at the time, but was expected
by every steamer.
"Archie isn't invited, you old goosie, and he would be as much out of
place in Max's house as Uncle Ephraim Tipple would be in Parliament."
"But they would be glad to see him if you took him. He is just the age
now when a boy gets impressions which last him through--"
"Yes, the gawky and stumble-over-things age! Piano-stools, rugs,
anything that comes in his way. And the impressions wouldn't do him a
bit of good. They might, in fact, do him harm," and she laughed merrily
and spread her fingers to the blaze. A laugh was often her best shield.
She had in her time dealt many a blow and then dodged behind a laugh to
prevent her opponent from striking back.
"But, Lucy, don't you want to do something to help him?" Jane asked in
a pleading tone.
"Yes, whatever I can, but he seems to me to be doing very well as he
is. Doctor John is devoted to him and the captain idolizes him. He's a
dear, sweet boy, of course, and does you credit, but he's not of my
world, Jane, dear, and I'd have to make him all over again before he
could fit into my atmosphere. Besides, he told me this morning that he
was going off for a week with some fisherman on the beach--some person
by the name of Fogarty, I think."
"Yes, a fine fellow; they have been friends from their boyhood." She
was not thinking of Fogarty, but of the tone of Lucy's voice when
speaking of her son.
"Yes--most estimable gentleman, no doubt, this Mr. Fogarty, but then,
dear, we don't invite that sort of people to dinner, do we?" and
another laugh rippled out.
"Yes, sometimes," answered Jane in all sincerity. "Not Fogarty, because
he would be uncomfortable if he came, but many of the others just as
humble. We really have very few of any other kind. I like them all.
Many of them love me dearly."
"Not at all strange; nobody can help loving you," and she patted Jane's
shoulder with her jewelled fingers.
"But you like them, too, don't you? You treat them as if you did."
Lucy lifted her fluted petticoat, rested her slippered foot on the
fender, glanced down at the embroidered silk stocking covering her
ankle, and said in a graver tone:
"I like all kinds of people--in their proper place. This is my home,
and it is wise to get along with one's neighbors. Besides, they all
have tongues in their heads like the rest of the human race, and it is
just as well to have them wag for you as against you."
Jane paused for a moment, her eyes watching the blazing logs, and asked
with almost a sigh:
"You don't mean, dear, that you never intend to help Archie, do you?"
"Never is a long word, Jane. Wait till he grows up and I see what he
makes of himself. He is now nothing but a great animal, well built as a
young bull, and about as awkward."
Jane's eyes flashed and her shoulders straightened. The knife had a
double edge to its blade.
"He is your own flesh and blood, Lucy," she said with a ring of
indignation in her voice. "You don't treat Ellen so; why should you
Archie?"
Lucy took her foot from the fender, dropped her skirts, and looked at
Jane curiously. From underneath the half-closed lids of her eyes there
flashed a quick glance of hate--a look that always came into Lucy's
eyes whenever Jane connected her name with Archie's.
"Let us understand each other, sister," she said icily. "I don't
dislike the boy. When he gets into trouble I'll help him in any way I
can, but please remember he's not my boy--he's yours. You took him from
me with that understanding and I have never asked him back. He can't
love two mothers. You say he has been your comfort all these years.
Why, then, do you want to unsettle his mind?"
Jane lifted her head and looked at Lucy with searching eyes--looked as
a man looks when someone he must not strike has flung a glove in his
face.
"Do you really love anything, Lucy?" she asked in a lower voice, her
eyes still fastened on her sister's.
"Yes, Ellen and you."
"Did you love her father?" she continued in the same direct tone.
"Y-e-s, a little-- He was the dearest old man in the world and did his
best to please me; and then he was never very well. But why talk about
him, dear?"
"And you never gave him anything in return for all his devotion?" Jane
continued in the same cross-examining voice and with the same incisive
tone.
"Yes, my companionship--whenever I could. About what you give Doctor
John," and she looked at Jane with a sly inquiry as she laughed gently
to herself.
Jane bit her lips and her face flushed scarlet. The cowardly thrust had
not wounded her own heart. It had only uncovered the love of the man
who lay enshrined in its depths. A sudden sense of the injustice done
him arose in her mind and then her own helplessness in it all.
"I would give him everything I have, if I could," she answered simply,
all her insistency gone, the tears starting to her eyes.
Lucy threw her arms about her sister and held her cheek to her own.
"Dear, I was only in fun; please forgive me. Everything is so solemn to
you. Now kiss me and tell me you love me."
That night when Captain Holt came in to play with the little "Pond
Lily," as he called Ellen, Jane told him of her conversation with Lucy,
not as a reflection on her sister, but because she thought he ought to
know how she felt toward Archie. The kiss had wiped out the tears, but
the repudiation of Archie still rankled in her breast.
The captain listened patiently to the end. Then he said with a pause
between each word:
"She's sailin' without her port and starboard lights, Miss Jane. One o'
these nights with the tide settin' she'll run up ag'in somethin' solid
in a fog, and then--God help her! If Bart had lived he might have come
home and done the decent thing, and then we could git her into port
some'er's for repairs, but that's over now. She better keep her lights
trimmed. Tell her so for me."
What this "decent thing" was he never said--perhaps he had but a vague
idea himself. Bart had injured Lucy and should have made reparation,
but in what way except by marriage--he, perhaps, never formulated in
his own mind.
Jane winced under the captain's outburst, but she held her peace. She
knew how outspoken he was and how unsparing of those who differed from
him and she laid part of his denunciation to this cause.
Some weeks after this conversation the captain started for Yardley to
see Jane on a matter of business, and incidentally to have a romp with
the Pond Lily. It was astonishing how devoted the old sea-dog was to
the child, and how she loved him in return. "My big bear," she used to
call him, tugging away at his gray whiskers. On his way he stopped at
the post-office for his mail. It was mid-winter and the roads were
partly blocked with snow, making walking difficult except for sturdy
souls like Captain Nat.
"Here, Cap'n Holt, yer jest the man I been a-waitin' for," cried Miss
Tucher, the postmistress, from behind the sliding window. "If you ain't
goin' up to the Cobdens, ye kin, can't ye? Here's a lot o' letters jest
come that I know they're expectin'. Miss Lucy's" (many of the village
people still called her Miss Lucy, not being able to pronounce her dead
husband's name) "come in yesterday and seems as if she couldn't wait.
This storm made everything late and the mail got in after she left.
There ain't nobody comin' out to-day and here's a pile of 'em--furrin'
most of 'em. I'd take 'em myself if the snow warn't so deep. Don't
mind, do ye? I'd hate to have her disapp'inted, for she's jes' 's sweet
as they make 'em."
"Don't mind it a mite, Susan Tucher," cried the captain. "Goin' there,
anyhow. Got some business with Miss Jane. Lord, what a wad o' them!"
"That ain't half what she gits sometimes," replied the postmistress,
"and most of 'em has seals and crests stamped on 'em. Some o' them
furrin lords, I guess, she met over there."
These letters the captain held in his hand when he pushed open the door
of the sitting-room and stood before the inmates in his rough
pea-jacket, his ruddy face crimson with the cold, his half-moon
whiskers all the whiter by contrast.
"Good-mornin' to the hull o' ye!" he shouted. "Cold as blue blazes
outside, I tell ye, but ye look snug enough in here. Hello, little Pond
Lily! why ain't you out on your sled? Put two more roses in your cheeks
if there was room for 'em. There, ma'am," and he nodded to Lucy and
handed her the letters, "that's 'bout all the mail that come this
mornin'. There warn't nothin' else much in the bag. Susan Tucher asked
me to bring 'em up to you count of the weather and 'count o' your being
in such an all-fired hurry to read 'em."
Little Ellen was in his arms before this speech was finished and
everybody else on their feet shaking hands with the old salt, except
poor, deaf old Martha, who called out, "Good-mornin', Captain Holt," in
a strong, clear voice, and in rather a positive way, but who kept her
seat by the fire and continued her knitting; and complacent Mrs.
Dellenbaugh, the pastor's wife, who, by reason of her position, never
got up for anybody.
The captain advanced to the fire, Ellen still in his arms, shook hands
with Mrs. Dellenbaugh and extended three fingers, rough as lobster's
claws and as red, to the old nurse. Of late years he never met Martha
without feeling that he owed her an apology for the way he had treated
her the day she begged him to send Bart away. So he always tried to
make it up to her, although he had never told her why.
"Hope you're better, Martha? Heard ye was under the weather; was that
so? Ye look spry 'nough now," he shouted in his best quarter-deck voice.
"Yes, but it warn't much. Doctor John fixed me up," Martha replied
coldly. She had no positive animosity toward the captain--not since he
had shown some interest in Archie--but she could never make a friend of
him.
During this greeting Lucy, who had regained her chair, sat with the
letters unopened in her lap. None of the eagerness Miss Tucher had
indicated was apparent. She seemed more intent on arranging the folds
of her morning-gown accentuating the graceful outlines of her
well-rounded figure. She had glanced through the package hastily, and
had found the one she wanted and knew that it was there warm under her
touch--the others did not interest her.
"What a big mail, dear," remarked Jane, drawing up a chair. "Aren't you
going to open it?" The captain had found a seat by the window and the
child was telling him everything she had done since she last saw him.
"Oh, yes, in a minute," replied Lucy. "There's plenty of time." With
this she picked up the bunch of letters, ran her eye through the
collection, and then, with the greatest deliberation, broke one seal
after another, tossing the contents on the table. Some she merely
glanced at, searching for the signatures and ignoring the contents;
others she read through to the end. One was from Dresden, from a
student she had known there the year before. This was sealed with a
wafer and bore the address of the cafe where he took his meals. Another
was stamped with a crest and emitted a slight perfume; a third was
enlivened by a monogram in gold and began: "Ma chere amie," in a bold
round hand. The one under her hand she did not open, but slipped into
the pocket of her dress. The others she tore into bits and threw upon
the blazing logs.
"I guess if them fellers knew how short a time it would take ye to
heave their cargo overboard," blurted out the captain, "they'd thought
a spell 'fore they mailed their manifests."
Lucy laughed good-naturedly and Jane watched the blaze roar up the wide
chimney. The captain settled back in his chair and was about to
continue his "sea yarn," as he called it, to little Ellen, when he
suddenly loosened the child from his arms, and leaning forward in his
seat toward where Jane sat, broke out with:
"God bless me! I believe I'm wool-gathering. I clean forgot what I come
for. It is you, Miss Jane, I come to see, not this little curly head
that'll git me ashore yet with her cunnin' ways. They're goin' to build
a new life-saving station down Barnegat way. That Dutch brig that come
ashore last fall in that so'easter and all them men drownded could have
been saved if we'd had somethin' to help 'em with. We did all we could,
but that house of Refuge ain't half rigged and most o' the time ye got
to break the door open to git at what there is if ye're in a hurry,
which you allus is. They ought to have a station with everything 'bout
as it ought to be and a crew on hand all the time; then, when somethin'
comes ashore you're right there on top of it. That one down to Squam is
just what's wanted here."
"Will it be near the new summer hotel?" asked Lucy carelessly, just as
a matter of information, and without raising her eyes from the rings on
her beautiful hands.
"'Bout half a mile from the front porch, ma'am"--he preferred calling
her so--"from what I hear. 'Tain't located exactly yet, but some'er's
along there. I was down with the Gov'ment agent yesterday."
"Who will take charge of it, captain?" inquired Jane, reaching over her
basket in search of her scissors.
"Well, that's what I come up for. They're talkin' about me," and the
captain put his hands behind Ellen's head and cracked his big knuckles
close to her ear, the child laughing with delight as she listened.
The announcement was received with some surprise. Jane, seeing Martha's
inquiring face, as if she wanted to hear, repeated the captain's words
to her in a loud voice. Martha laid down her knitting and looked at the
captain over her spectacles.
"Why, would you take it, captain?" Jane asked in some astonishment,
turning to him again.
"Don't know but I would. Ain't no better job for a man than savin'
lives. I've helped kill a good many; 'bout time now I come 'bout on
another tack. I'm doin' nothin'--haven't been for years. If I could get
the right kind of a crew 'round me--men I could depend on--I think I
could make it go."
"If you couldn't nobody could, captain," said Jane in a positive way.
"Have you picked out your crew?"
"Yes, three or four of 'em. Isaac Polhemus and Tom Morgan--Tom sailed
with me on my last voyage--and maybe Tod."
"Archie's Tod?" asked Jane, replacing her scissors and searching for a
spool of cotton.
"Archie's Tod," repeated the captain, nodding his head, his big hand
stroking Ellen's flossy curls. "That's what brought me up. I want Tod,
and he won't go without Archie. Will ye give him to me?"
"My Archie!" cried Jane, dropping her work and staring straight at the
captain.
"Your Archie, Miss Jane, if that's the way you put it," and he stole a
look at Lucy. She was conscious of his glance, but she did not return
it; she merely continued listening as she twirled one of the rings on
her finger.
"Well, but, captain, isn't it very dangerous work? Aren't the men often
drowned?" protested Jane.
"Anything's dangerous 'bout salt water that's worth the doin'. I've
stuck to the pumps seventy-two hours at a time, but I'm here to tell
the tale."
"Have you talked to Archie?"
"No, but Tod has. They've fixed it up betwixt 'em. The boy's dead set
to go."
"Well, but isn't he too young?"
"Young or old, he's tough as a marline-spike--A1, and copper fastened
throughout. There ain't a better boatman on the beach. Been that way
ever since he was a boy. Won't do him a bit of harm to lead that kind
of life for a year or two. If he was mine it wouldn't take me a minute
to tell what I'd do."
Jane leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the crackling logs, and
began patting the carpet with her foot. Lucy became engrossed in a book
that lay on the table beside her. She didn't intend to take any part in
the discussion. If Jane wanted Archie to serve as a common sailor that
was Jane's business. Then again, it was, perhaps, just as well for a
number of reasons to have him under the captain's care. He might become
so fond of the sea as to want to follow it all his life.
"What do you think about it, Lucy?" asked Jane.
"Oh, I don't know anything about it. I don't really. I've lived so long
away from here I don't know what the young men are doing for a living.
He's always been fond of the sea, has he not, Captain Holt?"
"Allus," said the captain doggedly; "it's in his blood." Her answer
nettled him. "You ain't got no objections, have you, ma'am?" he asked,
looking straight at Lucy.
Lucy's color came and went. His tone offended her, especially before
Mrs. Dellenbaugh, who, although she spoke but seldom in public had a
tongue of her own when she chose to use it. She was not accustomed to
being spoken to in so brusque a way. She understood perfectly well the
captain's covert meaning, but she did not intend either to let him see
it or to lose her temper.
"Oh, not the slightest," she answered with a light laugh. "I have no
doubt that it will be the making of him to be with you. Poor boy, he
certainly needs a father's care."
The captain winced in turn under the retort and his eyes flashed, but
he made no reply.
Little Ellen had slipped out of the captain's lap during the colloquy.
She had noticed the change in her friend's tone, and, with a child's
intuition, had seen that the harmony was in danger of being broken. She
stood by the captain's knee, not knowing whether to climb back again or
to resume her seat by the window. Lucy, noticing the child's
discomfort, called to her:
"Come here, Ellen, you will tire the captain."
The child crossed the room and stood by her mother while Lucy tried to
rearrange the glossy curls, tangled by too close contact with the
captain's broad shoulder. In the attempt Ellen lost her balance and
fell into her mother's lap.
"Oh, Ellen!" said her mother coldly; "stand up, dear. You are so
careless. See how you have mussed my gown. Now go over to the window
and play with your dolls."
The captain noted the incident and heard Lucy's reproof, but he made no
protest. Neither did he contradict the mother's statement that the
little girl had tired him. His mind was occupied with other things--the
tone of the mother's voice for one, and the shade of sadness that
passed over the child's face for another. From that moment he took a
positive dislike to her.
"Well, think it over, Miss Jane," he said, rising from his seat and
reaching for his hat. "Plenty of time 'bout Archie. Life-savin' house
won't be finished for the next two or three months; don't expect to git
into it till June. Wonder, little Pond Lily, if the weather's goin' to
be any warmer?" He slipped his hand under the child's chin and leaning
over her head peered out of the window. "Don't look like it, does it,
little one? Looks as if the snow would hold on. Hello! here comes the
doctor. I'll wait a bit--good for sore eyes to see him, and I don't git
a chance every day. Ask him 'bout Archie, Miss Jane. He'll tell ye
whether the lad's too young."
There came a stamping of feet on the porch outside as Doctor John shook
the snow from his boots, and the next instant he stepped into the room
bringing with him all the freshness and sunshine of the outside world.
"Good-morning, good people," he cried, "every one of you! How very snug
and cosey you look here! Ah, captain, where have you been keeping
yourself? And Mrs. Dellenbaugh! This is indeed a pleasure. I have just
passed the dear doctor, and he is looking as young as he did ten years
ago. And my Lady Lucy! Down so early! Well, Mistress Martha, up again I
see; I told you you'd be all right in a day or two."
This running fire of greetings was made with a pause before each inmate
of the room--a hearty hand-shake for the bluff captain, the pressing of
Mrs. Dellenbaugh's limp fingers, a low bow to Lucy, and a pat on
Martha's plump shoulder.
Jane came last, as she always did. She had risen to greet him and was
now unwinding the white silk handkerchief wrapped about his throat and
helping him off with his fur tippet and gloves.
"Thank you, Jane. No, let me take it; it's rather wet," he added as he
started to lay the heavy overcoat over a chair. "Wait a minute. I've
some violets for you if they are not crushed in my pocket. They came
last night," and he handed her a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper.
This done, he took his customary place on the rug with his back to the
blazing logs and began unbuttoning his trim frock-coat, bringing to
view a double-breasted, cream-white waistcoat--he still dressed as a
man of thirty, and always in the fashion--as well as a fluffy scarf
which Jane had made for him with her own fingers.
"And what have I interrupted?" he asked, looking over the room. "One of
your sea yarns, captain?"--here he reached over and patted the child's
head, who had crept back to the captain's arms--"or some of my lady's
news from Paris? You tell me, Jane," he added, with a smile, opening
his thin, white, almost transparent fingers and holding them behind his
back to the fire, a favorite attitude.
"Ask the captain, John." She had regained her seat and was reaching out
for her work-basket, the violets now pinned in her bosom--her eyes had
long since thanked him.
"No, do YOU tell me," he insisted, moving aside the table with her
sewing materials and placing it nearer her chair.
"Well, but it's the captain who should speak," Jane replied, laughing,
as she looked up into his face, her eyes filled with his presence. "He
has startled us all with the most wonderful proposition. The Government
is going to build a life-saving station at Barnegat beach, and they
have offered him the position of keeper, and he says he will take it if
I will let Archie go with him as one of his crew."
Doctor John's face instantly assumed a graver look. These forked roads
confronting the career of a young life were important and not to be
lightly dismissed.
"Well, what did you tell him?" he asked, looking down at Jane in the
effort to read her thoughts.
"We are waiting for you to decide, John." The tone was the same she
would have used had the doctor been her own husband and the boy their
child.
Doctor John communed with himself for an instant. "Well, let us take a
vote," he replied with an air as if each and every one in the room was
interested in the decision. "We'll begin with Mistress Martha, and then
Mrs. Dellenbaugh, and then you, Jane, and last our lady from over the
sea. The captain has already sold his vote to his affections, and so
must be counted out."
"Yes, but don't count me in, please," exclaimed Lucy with a merry laugh
as she arose from her seat. "I don't know a thing about it. I've just
told the dear captain so. I'm going upstairs this very moment to write
some letters. Bonjour, Monsieur le Docteur; bonjour, Monsieur le
Capitaine and Madame Dellenbaugh," and with a wave of her hand and a
little dip of her head to each of the guests, she courtesied out of the
room.
When the door was closed behind her she stopped in the hall, threw a
glance at her face in the old-fashioned mirror, satisfied herself of
her skill in preserving its beautiful rabbit's-foot bloom and
freshness, gave her blonde hair one or two pats to keep it in place,
rearranged the film of white lace about her shapely throat, and
gathering up the mass of ruffled skirts that hid her pretty feet,
slowly ascended the staircase.
Once inside her room and while the vote was being taken downstairs that
decided Archie's fate she locked her door, dropped into a chair by the
fire, took the unopened letter from her pocket, and broke the seal.
"Don't scold, little woman," it read. "I would have written before, but
I've been awfully busy getting my place in order. It's all arranged
now, however, for the summer. The hotel will be opened in June, and I
have the best rooms in the house, the three on the corner overlooking
the sea. Sue says she will, perhaps, stay part of the summer with me.
Try and come up next week for the night. If not I'll bring Sue with me
and come to you for the day.
"Your own Max."
For some minutes she sat gazing into the fire, the letter in her hand.
"It's about time, Mr. Max Feilding," she said at last with a sigh of
relief as she rose from her seat and tucked the letter into her desk.
"You've had string enough, my fine fellow; now it's my turn. If I had
known you would have stayed behind in Paris all these months and kept
me waiting here I'd have seen you safe aboard the steamer. The hotel
opens in June, does it? Well, I can just about stand it here until
then; after that I'd go mad. This place bores me to death."