THE DELIBERATE CONSCIENCE
In spite of having already made up her mind when she left Miss Ri,
Linda conscientiously devoted an hour's serious thought to the subject
of Wyatt Jeffreys; for she told herself that it was only fair to him.
She took down her hair, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and gave
herself up to contemplation. "It wouldn't be so hard," she thought,
drawing her brows together, "if he had determined to live at Talbot's
Angles, for I should at least have my old home."
"And see Berkley Matthews whenever you went to town," something
whispered.
"Oh, well," the argument came as if in reply, "would that be any worse
than it will be now when I have to stay in town and run the risk of
meeting him at any time?"
"But now there is a little hope," again came the inward voice.
"There isn't! there isn't!" Linda contradicted. "I can't believe there
is. Look how he has acted: avoiding me openly, sending me only a little
trifling card at Christmas, taking up this case which defies my
rights. Tell me such a thing? It is not so."
"But Miss Ri has talked to his mother. Margaret herself told you that
Berk never wearied of sounding your praises."
"That is all a blind. He doesn't care; he couldn't, and act as he is
doing." She resolutely shut her ears to the voice of the charmer and
turned her attention to the other claimant to regard. He had many fine
qualities, but comparisons would crop up. Mr. Jeffreys had praised her
work and had congratulated her upon appearing in print; but it was more
on account of the recognition, than because of what she wrote. Berk, on
the other hand, perceived the spirit rather than the commercial value.
She had shown both men other little writings; Berk had commented upon
the thought, the originality of some fancy; Mr. Jeffreys had praised
the metre, or the quality which would make it marketable. "There is the
difference," thought Linda; "Mr. Jeffreys does not lack intellectual
perception but Berk has a spiritual one. I saw deep into that one day
when I was talking to him about Martin. He may be flippant and boyish
on the surface, but back of it all there is that in his soul which
can penetrate behind the stars. If he loved anyone he would not care
for her looks, her position, her wealth, or for anything but just her
individual self. Mr. Jeffreys would weigh the qualities which go to
make a satisfactory wife. It was his dearest wish. I was the first, he
would try to make me happy; all that, and not a word of his feelings
toward me. His heart did not speak, his deliberate conscience did, for
I don't doubt he has one, and it makes him uncomfortable when he thinks
of wresting Talbot's Angles from me. Well, my good man, keep your
conscience. You have done your duty and there is an end of it. Go back
to where you belong."
She pondered awhile longer and then took out her writing-materials.
"I'll have this ready when he comes," she said to herself. "In
case Aunt Ri is at hand and I do not have a chance to speak to him
privately." She wrote the note, addressed the envelope and sealed it
with an emphasis which had an air of finality about it, and then she
went to bed. What her dreams were she did not tell, but no doubt Queen
Mab galloped through her brain.
Prompt to the minute, Mr. Jeffreys arrived. Miss Ri and Linda, hurrying
back from a call, found him there, and as fate would have it Miss Ri
sat down for a chat. She would like to have the gossip of the town from
Mr. Jeffreys. How was Parthy and how were the dogs, and what was going
on? Had he seen Berk? and all the rest of it. The young man, whatever
may have been his impatience, answered quietly and politely, giving at
length certain little details which he knew would interest Miss Ri,
and for this he deserved more credit than he received.
After half an hour he asked if Linda would take a walk with him, but
Miss Ri objected, saying that Linda was tired and that she was going
out to dinner and must not be late, which hint started the young man
off, though not before he had given the girl a deprecating, inquiring
look. She responded by handing him the little note she had written the
night before.
"Here is what you asked me for," she said, the color rising to her
cheeks and a little regret to her heart when she realized that she was
dealing him a blow.
He looked at her searchingly, but she dropped her eyes, and he was
obliged to go without receiving a spark of satisfaction.
As girls will be, in such cases, Linda was a little hard on the man
whom she had just refused. She gave him less credit than he deserved,
for he was honestly and fervently in love with her, though having lived
in an atmosphere of repression, and where it was considered almost a
crime to show a redundance of affection, he had betrayed little of what
he really felt, but it is a comment upon his eagerness to state that he
wasted no time in finding out the contents of the note she gave him. It
was brief, but to the point, and was enough to send the young man back
to Sandbridge on the evening boat which he had barely time to catch.
He felt rather badly treated, for in her sweet sympathetic manner he
had read a deeper concern than existed. Now he realized that it was
nothing more than she would show anyone thrown upon her generosity,
or at the most, presenting a claim to kinship of blood. He credited
her with magnanimity in yielding up Talbot's Angles without showing
resentment, and he valued her invariable attention to his confidences,
as he reported the various ups and downs of his affairs, but in his
heart of hearts he charged her with a little coquetry, failing to
understand her spontaneous sympathy as a man of her own locality would
have done.
He had the wisdom to believe that her decision was final, yet he
lingered in Sandbridge till her return, giving himself up to brooding
over his troubles more pessimistically, if less passionately than a
more impulsive man would have done, and his cheerful little remarks to
Miss Parthy, clipped off with the usual polite intonation, gave her no
evidence that he was most unhappy.
But one day he walked into Berkley's office. Berkley looked up from the
litter of legal documents crowding his desk. "Well, Jeffreys, old man,
how goes it? Been up to town, I hear. When did you get back?"
"Several days ago," was the answer. "I did not stay long."
"Sit down and tell me about it."
Mr. Jeffreys took the vacant chair, but ignored the invitation to
"tell about it." "I came in to say that I am thinking of returning to
Hartford," he began. "I suppose you can continue to push my business
without my presence."
"Why, yes, I imagine so. You could run down if necessary. I don't
suppose you mean to stay away very long in any event."
"I should probably not return except in case of necessity." He paused,
then said with an effort, "You were good enough, Matthews, to encourage
me in my addresses to Miss Talbot so I think it is due you to say that
she has refused me."
"My dear man!" Berk leaned forward and laid his hand on the other's
knee. "You mustn't give up so easily. You know a woman's No isn't
always final."
"I believe this to be. You wouldn't accuse Miss Linda of being an
undecided character.
"No, I must confess I wouldn't. She is very gentle but she generally
knows her own mind pretty thoroughly. Jeffreys, my dear fellow, I am
sorry. I don't wonder you are cut up and are thinking of leaving us.
It would be a desperately hard fight to stay and be obliged to see
her every now and then. For a man to lose a girl like Linda Talbot is
pretty tough lines. I shouldn't want my worst enemy to go through such
a purgatory."
"You speak feelingly," returned Mr. Jeffreys with a little bitter
smile. Then his better manhood asserting itself, "Matthews, you know
you love her yourself."
Berkley tossed up his head proudly. "What if I do? I am not ashamed of
it."
"And you deliberately gave me the chance of winning her if I could.
Why?"
Berkley made savage dabs with his pen upon the blotting pad before him,
thereby injuring the pen hopelessly and doing the blotter no good.
He suddenly threw the pen aside. "What sort of chump would I be if I
hadn't done it? Her happiness was the first thing to be considered,
not mine. I knew she wanted Talbot's Angles more than anything in the
world, and that ought to have made it dead easy for a man who really
loved a girl in the right way."
"And you have been doing everything in your power to win the property
for me. You have been loyal to both of us. Shake hands, Berkley
Matthews, you are far and away a better man than I am, but I will not
be outdone. Do you think I have no pride? I may have a deliberate
conscience, as Miss Talbot herself once told me, but I hope it is as
well developed as yours. I'll fight it out and then we shall see. What
right had I to expect that I could throw a sop to my conscience by
asking her to marry me? I see it all now. You love her; so do I, and I
will prove it to you both."
"Do you suppose I doubted the truth of your feeling for her?" cried
Berkley. "That would be a poor compliment to her. I think you are too
easily downed, Jeffreys. Cheer up. Take another chance. Wait awhile.
Do your best to better your chances. Unbend a little. Be more free and
easy. Make her dependent upon you for encouragement and sympathy. Oh,
there are a thousand ways."
Jeffreys regarded him with a half smile. "You mean I must substitute a
Southern temperament for a Northern one. That is easier said than done.
The day of miracles is past."
"You've not known her so very long," Berkley persisted in his argument.
"I've seen her almost every day, sometimes twice a day for three
months. I have known young ladies for years whom I seem to know less
well. Certainly there has been no bar to our becoming well acquainted."
"Well, I wouldn't give up this early in the game," Berk continued his
pleading.
"You think there is a chance for me, do you? I can tell you there is
not," replied Mr. Jeffreys with emphasis.
Berkley accompanied him to the street where they stood talking a few
minutes longer. A horse and buggy were there in waiting for Berkley.
"I promised John Emory to go with him to sign a deed," he said, "and
he left his buggy. I am to pick him up further along. Can I take you
anywhere, first, Jeffreys?"
"No, thank you. I have no special errand. I'm not a man of business
just now, you remember."
Berkley took his place in the vehicle, was about to gather up the reins
when around the corner dashed an automobile. The horse threw up his
head, gave a sudden plunge, and in another second would have swung the
buggy directly in the path of the rushing car, but that Jeffreys sprang
forward and seized the horse's head to jerk him to one side, but this
was not done before the car grazed him sufficiently to send him to the
ground, close to the horse's hoofs. Without stopping the car sped on.
By this time Berkley had grabbed the reins and had spoken commandingly
to the horse which fortunately, stood still. Several by-standers sprang
to Jeffreys' aid and dragged him from his precarious position.
Berkley threw the reins to Billy, who had run out at the sound of this
commotion, and leaped to where Jeffreys now stood. "Are you hurt, old
man?" he asked as Jeffreys limped to the sidewalk. "Come right into the
office." He dismissed the little crowd which had gathered and assisted
Jeffreys inside.
The latter shook himself. "I'm not actually hurt," he answered "only a
little bruised, I think, and slightly shaken up."
"You were within an ace of being killed, man," said Berkley gravely.
"And you risked your life for me. I am not going to forget that,
Jeffreys."
The young man smiled. "It evens up matters a little," he returned,
"though we are not quits yet. I haven't lost sight of that fact."
"Doesn't saving a man's life come about as near settling any existing
score as a thing could?" asked Berkley.
"Oh, we won't strain a point so far as to say it was saving your life.
You might not have been hurt at all, and it merely happened that I was
the first to grab the bridle. There were others ready to do it if I had
not."
"Bah!" cried Berkley. "That's all wrong argument; if the horse had not
been there; if the car had not come along; we could go on indefinitely
with conjecturing, but what we face is a visible truth. You risked your
life and limbs for me, and that is the exact statement of the case.
Thank you, is a very feeble way to say what I feel."
"I'm quite all right now," returned the other, setting aside further
discussion. "If you will let me have a brush or something to get rid of
this dust on my clothes, I'll be as good as ever. That's it, thanks,"
for Berkley was vigorously applying a whisk broom to his dusty coat
and trousers. He refused further aid, insisting that there was no need
of any assistance in getting home. He would rather walk; it would be
good for him. So Berkley was perforce to see him leave, and himself
reëntered the buggy, and drove off to keep his appointment.
He was very grateful to and infinitely sorry for his rival, but there
was an undercurrent of joy singing through his heart. She had refused
him, bless her, and she would return home that very day. He took out
a note received from Miss Ri the day before, saying that they would
arrive by the morning's boat. He reread the lines. "It isn't decent of
me; it really isn't," he exclaimed, stuffing the note back into his
pocket. "It's like dancing on another man's grave, and after what he
has just done for me, too. What right have I to be glad anyway? It is
losing her the comfort of living again in her old home, and, dickens
take it, how do I know that I am any better off? Simmer down, Berkley
Matthews; it won't do for you to go galloping off with an idea before
you have all the facts in the case. At least you will have the grace to
keep quiet while the other fellow is around." And he altered his train
of thought with the determination of one who has learned the art of
concentration under difficulties.
He had restrained himself from rushing off to the boat to meet the
returning travellers, but, after his return to his office, Miss Ri
called him up and imperiously demanded his presence to dinner, and he
accepted without a word of protest.
"You're looking better," remarked Miss Ri, after they had shaken hands.
"I knew Phebe would be as good for you as untold bottles of tonic. Come
right in. Linda is waiting in the dining-room."
And there Linda was. Berkley wondered if she could hear the thumping
of his heart. Here was her hand in his. What a wonderful fact! She
was there before him,--free--as possible for him as for any other. He
longed to ask if she were the least little bit glad to see him, but he
didn't; all he said was: "Glad to see you back, Linda. I hear you have
been having a great time."
"Who told you?" she asked with a sudden bright smile.
"Mother wrote me a long letter. I'll tell you about it another time. I
suppose you were sorry to come away."
"No, not at all, though we had a lovely time. If you want a thoroughly
skilled designer of good times you must employ Aunt Ri.
"I think the trip did much for me in many ways. One must get off from
things to acquire a really true perspective, you know, and now I am so
happy to be here again, to see the dear blue river, and this blessedly
stupid town and all that. There is no place like it, Berk."
What pure joy to hear her speak like that. Berkley wished she would
go on forever, but she was waiting for some response, he suddenly
realized. "That is the way I like to hear you talk," he said quite
honestly. "I've noticed myself, that when I have been away for any
length of time I am always glad to get back to the simple life."
"Very simple with such a dinner," laughed Linda. "Phebe has prepared
all this in honor of our home-coming."
"It seemed a pity that you should not be here to share it," spoke up
Miss Ri. "There was no need to send you back to husks this very first
day."
"I came near not being here at all," he answered. Then he recounted the
episode of the morning, sparing no praise of Mr. Jeffreys, but looking
at Miss Ri rather than at Linda as he told the tale over which his
hearers were much excited.
Fain as he was to linger after dinner, he would not allow himself such
a luxury, but rushed off almost immediately, saying he must get back
to work. Miss Ri watched him with tender eyes as he hurried down the
path. "It is good to get him back," she said turning from the window.
"I don't know what I should have done if anything serious had happened
to him. He is looking very well, I think. That troubled, anxious
expression has left his face. I think the poor boy must have been under
some great strain. If you go off with that waxen image to Hartford
I'll adopt Berk as sure as you live."
"Oh, Aunt Ri," expostulated Linda, "you know he is no tailor's dummy,
but a very fine-looking man, and just think of what a heroic thing he
has just done. There was no deliberation then, but the quick sacrifice
of himself at the critical moment. Berk might have been killed but for
him. I don't see how you can talk so about my brave cousin."
"Cousin is it? Well, so long as he remains only that I have no
complaint to make of him. I suppose now we shall have to have more
respect for him than ever."
Linda had to laugh at the aggrieved tone. "_I_ certainly have," she
answered emphatically. "I think he was perfectly splendid."
"Berk, or any other half way decent man would have done the same thing
under like circumstances," argued Miss Ri. "I don't see that it was
anything for him to crow over."
"I think it was decidedly." Linda stood her ground.
"Well, we won't quarrel over it," continued Miss Ri. "Let's change the
subject. I was just thinking, Linda, that I have discovered something
since I have had you here with me, though, by the way, one does that
all through life; some truth, some moral of living is suddenly revealed
at a given stage. Life is nothing more than a series of revelations."
"And what has been revealed to you, wisest of Aunt Ris." Linda came
over and took her friend's face between her hands.
"That one must have somebody to work for in order to get the best out
of existence."
Linda's hands dropped; her face grew wistful. "And I have no one but
myself to work for," she shook her head sadly.
"You have me, in a certain sense, and it is too early yet for you to
despair of having someone else." Miss Ri laughed wickedly.
Linda pretended to box her ears. "You are a naughty old thing. I am
going out to talk to Mammy, and leave you to meditate upon your sins,"
she said.
Mammy was sitting at the table lingering over her dinner. She never
liked to cut short this happy hour of the day, and was fond of picking
here and picking there, though she would not remain at the table if
anyone entered. It would never do to have "white folkes" see you eat.
"I thes gwine to cl'ar away," she said with a beaming smile as she
swept bones and potato skins into her empty plate.
"Oh, Mammy, you haven't finished your dinner," exclaimed Linda.
"Yas, I done et all I wants. I thes res'in' up a little 'fo' I does
mah dishes. Set down, honey, an' tell yo' Mammy what yuh-all been
a-doin' whilst yuh was up in de city. Mighty fine doin's, I reckon. Yuh
stay at de big hotel?"
"Yes."
"An' w'ar dat nice floppity white frock?"
"Yes, I wore it several times."
"An' yuh has uver so many nice young gem'mans come to see yuh?"
"Not very many. You see I don't know a great many people, and I am not
going to dances this winter, of course. Mr. Jeffreys came up while I
was there, and he is a nice young gentleman, I am sure."
Mammy began delicately to wipe her tumblers. "Miss Lindy, yuh ain't
gwine ma'y dat man, is yuh?"
"No, Mammy." Linda spoke quite decidedly, "but you know he is a kind of
cousin, and I must be as nice to him as possible, besides I like him
very much."
"He kain't hol' a can'le to Mr. Berk; he de likenes' young man I uvver
see."
"You'll make me jealous if you talk that way," said Linda fondly and to
please her Mammy.
Mammy ducked her head and laughed, shaking her head from side to side.
"I'll not go away again if you are going to get so fond of someone
else while I am gone," Linda went on with a pretence of pouting.
Mammy fairly doubled up at this. "Ain' it de troof?" she cried. "Law,
chile," she continued appeasingly, "I ain't so t'arin' fond o' him; he
ain't tall enough."
It was Linda's turn to laugh, and she went back to Miss Ri to repeat
Mammy's criticism.