A DISTINCT SENSATION
For two days the storm continued, increasing to a gale which whipped
the waters of the placid river to a yellow angry flood, and beat the
few remaining leaves from their clasp on the trees. During this time
Linda and Miss Ri kept indoors as closely as they could, their chief
visitor being Mr. Jeffreys. Miss Parthy, to be sure, paddled up the
walk to the back door in all the rain, and Bertie Bryan's rosy face
peeped in at them one afternoon, but Berkley did not come near, and no
one guessed his reason for staying away.
How great a struggle had been going on in the young man's mind none
associated with him imagined. Since that night when it was disclosed
to him through the papers which Mr. Jeffreys had left in his care,
that there was a possibility of Linda's losing her chance to inherit
Talbot's Angles, he had fought his giants; one his love for the girl,
the other the temptation to withhold the more important papers. He
need not destroy them; he would only set them aside, and tell Jeffreys
there was not sufficient evidence to warrant a legal claim. At last,
however, when he must really face the issue, he laughed at such an
idea, and realized that there was but one thing for him to do. He
would give up Linda to his rival. Why should Jeffreys not possess
the property as well as Grace? So, perhaps, would Linda be given her
dearest wish. That day at the postoffice it had been revealed to him
what his feeling for the girl really meant, and from that moment his
love had grown stronger, deeper, fuller. On that rainy night he had
nearly spoken of his feeling for her. Had she spoken less lightly he
might have done so, even though at that time his cursory glance at the
papers had given him some belief in the justice of Jeffreys' claim.
But he had recognized that the girl herself was still heart free, and
therefore, though there might be a chance for him he must keep away,
must make excuses not to see her. He must assume a great air of one too
absorbed in business to spare time for visiting his friends. He could
manage all that. But first he must pave the way. He would go and tell
them all that to Jeffreys would probably fall the old homestead, and
he would say: "Better into the hands of an honest and honorable man,
the descendant of the old stock, than to Grace Talbot." He would praise
this future owner, and would plant the seeds which should blossom into
regard and affection. Jeffreys was a good fellow, a little stiff,
maybe, but a man of strict morality and--the fight was bitter--he
would make her a good husband.
He shrank from making the revelation which should first suggest to
Linda that it was really Talbot's Angles to which the papers referred.
He could see her startled look, her fluttering hands, the color coming
and going in her cheeks. He bit his lip fiercely and tramped up and
down his small office savagely. Why should this ordeal be his to meet?
He would turn it over to some other, Miss Ri, perhaps.
"I can't do it," he cried aloud. "I'll fling the whole dog-goned pack
of papers into the river first." Her dearest wish! He stopped short.
Could he supply it? Was he able to buy Talbot's Angles supposing it
were for sale? What nonsense. He laughed mirthlessly. "I am a pretty
sort of duffer," he exclaimed. "What am I thinking of?"
He jammed his hat upon his head, slammed the door behind him and strode
down the street, passing Uncle Moke without a word and with such a set
look on his face as caused the old man to mumble, "Mr. Berk sholy is
riled. Look lak he gwine 'res' some o' dese bank robbers, or sumpin."
Berkley's step never faltered as he marched on with head up, as one
going to battle. His savage peal of the door-bell brought Miss Ri in
haste. Her face cleared when she saw who it was. "Well, Berk," she
exclaimed, "what a mighty pull you did give, to be sure. Come in, come
in and help us celebrate. We've a great piece of news for you."
He entered the room, where Linda sat, her face all alight, and some
distance away, Mr. Jeffreys, with a queer strained expression in his
eyes, but a forced smile upon his lips. On the table stood a tray with
glasses filled with some of Miss Ri's famous homemade wine. "Here comes
another to help us celebrate," cried Miss Ri. "Get another glass,
Verlinda." She filled it, when brought, from the heavy old decanter
and, holding her own glass aloft, she exclaimed: "Here's to the next
owner of Talbot's Angles!"
Berkley's hand shook so that his glass overflowed and a few drops were
spilled. His eyes met those of the other man. Neither spoke, nor did
either touch the wine.
"You don't understand my toast," cried Miss Ri, looking from one to the
other. "Grace Talbot is going to marry Major Forbes, and Linda will
have her heart's desire."
"Of course, I'll drink to Linda, if that is what you mean," said
Berkley, recovering himself and tossing off the contents of the glass,
while Mr. Jeffreys echoed: "Of course, we'll drink to Miss Linda."
Berkley sat down, his head in a whirl. This put an entirely different
face on the matter. He would have to think it over. This was no time
to force conclusions. He scarcely heard Linda's eager account of the
letter she had that day received from her sister-in-law. "It was so
like Grace," she told him. "Major Forbes was such an old friend--"
"Quite old," put in Miss Ri. "He must be sixty, if he's a day."
"And she was such a dependent creature," Linda went on. "It seemed only
proper that these two starved hearts should be united. She hoped Linda
would not think she had been precipitate, but it had been eight months
since poor Martin--not darling Martin any more--" Linda commented
sadly, "and she would, of course, wait for the full year to pass. She
felt that dear Linda would be pleased, not only because of Grace's
happiness, but because it would benefit her. She must not think that
little Grace was unmindful of that part of it. She had it in mind to
do what she could for Martin's sister and, though it was a sacrifice
to give up her home to Linda, it was done cheerfully. Linda must feel
assured of that."
"Now, isn't it like that woman to take such an attitude," sneered Miss
Ri. "Give it up? She can't help herself, as I see it."
"Major Forbes is abundantly able to keep me in the style to which I
have been accustomed," Linda read--another sneer from Miss Ri--"and I
am sure I shall be happier than living a lonely and forlorn widowhood,"
and so on and so on.
As Linda's soft slow tones ceased, Berkley roused himself to say, "I
only dropped in for a minute. I am terribly busy these days. I must run
right back to the office." He did not look at Mr. Jeffreys, but shook
hands with Miss Ri. "Sorry I can't stay," he said nervously. "I'll come
again as soon as I get time, Miss Ri."
Linda followed him to the door. "Aren't you glad, Berk?" she asked
wistfully.
He looked past her down the street. "Glad? Of course, I'm glad," he
said, then he ran down the steps, Linda looking after him with a
quivering lip.
She returned to find that Mr. Jeffreys, too, had gone. "By the side
door," explained Miss Ri.
Linda went over to the fireplace and put her foot on the fender,
her back to Miss Ri, that the latter might not see the tears which
filled her eyes. "They weren't a bit glad, either of them," she said
presently. "I thought Berk would be, anyhow. Don't you think he acted
queerly, Aunt Ri?"
"I think they both did; but it may have been that they were completely
bowled over with surprise. You know we could scarcely believe it at
first, ourselves, and men are much slower to grasp things than women.
They were dumbfounded, that was all and, no doubt, Berk is busy. I hope
he is. So much the better for him, my dear."
Linda made no response. She was not aware that Berkley had gone back
to his office to wage another battle. What a turn of fate, to be
sure, and now what was to be done? It would be Linda, Linda who was
to be deprived of her own, and his must be the hand to deal the blow.
Those papers! He struck them with his clenched fist, as he stood over
his desk, and if a smothered oath escaped him, it is to be hoped the
recording angel failed to register it against him. "There is one thing
certain," he told himself; "if the thing is to be carried on, I'll
throw up the case. I'll be hanged if I have anything to do with it."
He picked up a letter which he had laid aside, sat down, and began to
read it over. It was from Cyrus Talbot to his brother Madison, and it
read:
"You say that your property Addition has not suffered as much as some
others, but that on account of hard times, you do not feel it possible
at this time to rebuild the house burnt some months ago; therefore,
since evil times have befallen you by reason of the ravages of war,
I am quite willing that you should continue to occupy the house at
Talbot's Angles; but as soon as peace visits our land, I would esteem
it a favor, if you would find someone to take the plantation itself,
paying me a yearly rental, which shall be fixed as circumstances
allow. My own affairs here continue to prosper, and I do not think I
shall return to Maryland, having found me a wife whose relatives live
in close proximity and are a God-fearing and industrious people. I
shall be glad to hear from you as occasion permits, and subscribe
myself
"Your aff. brother,
"CYRUS."
This letter appeared never to have been sent, but there were others
bearing upon the subject from Madison to his brother. It seemed from
them that Madison was able to find a tenant for the Angles, but in
time he proved unsatisfactory, as there were many reports of his
thriftlessness, and at the time of Cyrus's death the place lay idle.
That this place was Talbot's Angles appeared evident from references
to certain fields lying next the old church, and in an account of some
disaster befalling the old windmill in a heavy storm. There were,
too, old receipts and bills which identified the property and proved
that, at least during the life of Cyrus Talbot, it had been in his
possession, whatever may have happened afterward. Owing to the fact
that many deeds and records had been destroyed during the War of 1812
and later during the Civil War, when neglect and indifference caused
many legal papers to be lost, it promised to be a difficult thing to
trace the ownership through succeeding years, unless further proof
could be found.
At last Berkley happened upon a letter dated much later, a letter from
Linda's own father to Charles Jeffreys. It said: "I have looked into
the matter you bring to my notice, and I find that you are right in
most of your surmises; but, as the place lay idle and neglected for a
number of years, tenantless and abandoned, it was in no condition to
bring in any return when I took it in hand. I have spent a good deal on
it, and if you are willing to consider this outlay as rental for the
time being, I shall be glad to be considered as your tenant, otherwise
I must give up the place. Since the slaves were freed, labor is
difficult to get, and I cannot afford to bring up so neglected a place
at my own expense and pay rent besides. We have continued to live in
the old house, which has been kept in good repair. Later on, we may be
able to come to a different arrangement; but at present it seems to me
it would be to your better advantage if you allow matters to remain as
they are. If you take the property into your own hands, much money will
have to be spent on it before it can bring you any appreciable return."
"Twenty-five years ago," mused Berkley. "I wonder if Martin knew, or
whether a different arrangement was at last made. I imagine not and
that the place was allowed to remain in James Talbot's hands in return
for what he might do for it. That is the latest information to be had,
that I can see, and there is really nothing more to be found out from
these papers."
He rested his head on his hand and remained lost in deep thought. For
all Miss Ri's decided announcement that he might even perjure himself
for one he loved, that was something Berkley Matthews would never do.
No, there was no help for it; facts were facts, and he must let them be
known. Could he ever expect to win Linda's love and respect, if he had
won her by such unworthy means? Would he not always be playing a false
part, and would not the result fail of good to him and to her? No, a
dishonorable transaction, no matter what its motive, would never do to
base true love upon. Let things take their course, and let the best
man win. It might be, after all, that she would not marry Jeffreys, in
spite of his prospects. But this hope he dared not cherish. He pressed
his hand over his eyes, as if he would shut out too bright a vision,
and just then the door of his office opened and in walked Mr. Jeffreys.
Berkley turned sharply at the sudden entrance. "Ah," he exclaimed, "you
are just the man I was thinking of. I've been going over these papers
again, Jeffreys, and so far as I can judge, it looks like a pretty good
case. Sit down and we'll talk it over."
Jeffreys drew up a chair. Berkley wheeled around and the two sat
facing one another. "Of course," Berkley began, "you realize that the
property referred to is Miss Talbot's old home, Talbot's Angles."
Mr. Jeffreys looked down. "Yes, I inferred so, although at first I was
uncertain, not knowing as much as I do now."
"The records will have to be searched, of course, and we can find out
who has been paying taxes and all that, you understand. I don't know
that I shall have time to attend to it myself; I am pretty busy just
now."
"That is too bad; I depended on you, Matthews."
"I know you did, but--"
Wyatt Jeffreys leaned forward. "Is it only because you are busy? Is
that the only reason?"
Berkley did not answer at once; then he parried the question.
"What other reason could there be?"
"Your interest in Miss Talbot. I realize, Matthews, that I have come
down here a perfect stranger to deprive a very lovely young woman of
her property, and that you should in all reason feel antagonistic is
not to be wondered at. I think you have known for some time that it was
her property that I claimed."
"I have known it only since I made a closer examination of these
papers."
"Very well; that does not alter the fact that you have been uniformly
kind and considerate so far as I was concerned, and therefore I feel
that I can speak as man to man." He paused. "Unless you have a prior
claim, there is no need of Miss Talbot's losing her property if--"
"She will take you with it," Berkley filled the pause. "I understand."
The crucial moment had come. Berkley suddenly swung his chair around,
his face, turned from the other, was white and set, but he said
steadily, "That would certainly be the best way out of the difficulty.
I have no prior claim, Jeffreys, and I wish you success." He swung
himself back again and held out his hand.
The other took it in a firm grip. "That is good of you, Matthews. I
appreciate your kindness more than I can say." There was silence,
broken by Mr. Jeffreys, who went on: "If it is only the matter of delay
then, Matthews, I can wait your good pleasure, if you will take up my
case."
Berkley gave himself time before he answered. Why shouldn't he take
the case? What odds, now, what Linda thought? He had relinquished
all rights to her consideration. If he did not hunt up the evidence,
someone else would, and she be no better off. If he must disregard her,
he could at least be true to Jeffreys. "I'll not go back on my word.
I'll take it," he said shortly.
"I've kept a busy man too long," said Jeffreys rising, "but I hope some
day I can show my appreciation of what you are doing for me, in more
ways than one," he added with a smile. He held out his hand. Berkley
took it mechanically, saying, "Good-night."
"Good-evening," returned Mr. Jeffreys, and he went out.
It was not late, though growing dark, but to Berkley it had become
darkest night. Never, till that moment, had he realized how strong a
hold upon him his affection for Linda had taken. She was so sweet,
so gentle, one whose presence always brought calm and peace, yet she
could be very droll and merry, very bright and entertaining, with
a blessed grace of humor. With all her poetic fancy there was the
domestic side, too, which had made her the successful housekeeper when
yet but a school girl. And how dainty she always was, how womanly her
little frills and simple ornaments. Even the way her dark hair grew
around her pretty low forehead, and was worn parted above it, made her
distinctive from other girls, whose monstrous puffs and braids gave
them a top-heavy look. What a woman for a man to come home to after a
day of stress. She, who had striven for her daily bread, how well she
would understand what a man's battle of life meant. His first impulse
was to throw everything to the winds, to snatch up his hat and rush off
to her, beg her to listen to him, tell her he would work for her, live
for her, die for her. He stood for a moment, trembling with intensity
of feeling, then he sat heavily down again. "I can't do it," he
whispered. "I must think of her, of what is best for her."
Moments passed. The street lamps shone out, footsteps echoed and
reëchoed. Some boys went by singing. In the darkness Berkley sat very
quietly, only once in a while he whispered, "Oh, God! oh, God!" as one
who has found his Gethsemane. The hours wore on, the street grew very
quiet, the rumbling of wagons, the tread of passers-by ceased. Lights
in the lower stories of the houses began to be extinguished, while
those above showed in first one room and then another. Berkley finally
arose, stumbled uncertainly across the street and up to his room, where
he threw himself across his bed, face down, and lay there all night
wrestling with himself.