THE OPTIMIST.
“_He is a father to the town._”—_Latin Proverb._
After dinner, Freda was left suddenly alone. Her mother was up the river
at a bridge party on Courtney’s elegant yacht, the _Cinderella_. Her
father was at home, but she felt that after her year’s absence it would
be necessary to become acquainted with him again. When he finished his
paper, he strolled with her about the wide lawn, asking many questions
about her work in Merlton. He was very impersonal and almost polite and,
although Freda was sure he was not much interested in her work, she
admired his consummate smoothness. During all the years of her grown-up
life he had been just as impervious and just as winningly polished as
to-night. She felt the same attraction as if she were talking with any
cultivated and gentlemanly stranger.
“It must be nice, Dad, to be the whole cheese in this town,” she said,
teasingly.
“If you’re referring to me,” he replied, “I’ll enquire—before thanking
you for the compliment—whether or not you’re seeking municipal favor?”
“Not for myself, but for somebody else,” she answered quickly.
“Who on earth?”
“Will you promise to do something for me?” she asked, taking his arm
prettily.
“Yes, I guess so,” he smiled.
“No matter what I ask?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Listen, Dad, to me,” she said, stopping and looking up into his big,
curious, black eyes. “If a young gentleman named Mauney Bard tries to get
on the collegiate staff will you tell Henry Dover that he’s one of the
brightest boys in Canada, and will you put in a good word with the Board
of Education?”
“What’s his name?”
“Mauney Bard.”
“All right. I’ll do it,” agreed MacDowell. “Hum! Brightest boy in Canada,
is he? That’s going some. Who is this Mauney Bard?”
“Oh, just a nice chap who boarded at Franklin Street with me.”
“You’re always given to exaggeration, if I may so express myself,” he
smiled. “I suppose when you get it all boiled down, Mauney Bard is just a
man after a job.”
“No, no, you’re all wrong, Dad. He’s more than that—I’m in love with him.”
“Who? Mauney Bard?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” said MacDowell, complacently. “You’ve been in love before
now.”
“You’re wrong again, Dad,” she replied. She wanted to tell her father—or
somebody—how she felt about Mauney, but her father’s interest seemed only
casual. Freda consequently remained silent and became very unhappy. That
silence and unhappiness of Lockwood would always arrive sooner or later.
To-night was typical of her home—her mother off to a game of cards and
her father chatting just as any interesting, but total, stranger might do.
Lockwood always caused a little flutter in her heart and then a
depression. Her mother’s social ambition had constituted a problem which
she had solved only by leaving home. Fawning upon the plutocracy was,
without exception, the most disgusting practice of which Freda could
conceive.
“Are we always going to go on living in this hide-bound community, Dad?”
she asked, as they strolled together. “I hate it just like snakes. I
could murder that Mrs. Courtney and the whole raft of them.”
“Oh, they’ re all right as far as they go,” he replied lightly, “The
Courtneys, Turnbulls, Beechers, Squires and that ilk don’t help Lockwood
much. They don’t spend their money here. This is only a pivot for them.
They’re off to California, Honolulu or Europe half the time. And they
don’t want industries here—they’re afraid of the coal smoke. But, never
mind! They won’t always run the town. Some day some big concern is going
to see the—”
“Some day,” Freda said, seriously, “you and I, Dad, are both going to be
dead. Why can’t we leave Lockwood and live in Merlton?”
“Simply because,” he replied firmly, “we’re not going to forsake the old
town. That would be unfaithful.” His black eyes flashed with concealed
amusement. “Lockwood will be a city some day. It’s bound to be. Just you
wait!”
Freda was deliciously impatient and vexed and sad when she retired that
night. From her bed, she gazed at the grey St. Lawrence out under the
cliff, and realized at length that she was already lonesome for Mauney.