In the Harniss post office Reliance Clark was sorting the evening
mail. The post office was a small building on the Main Road. It sat
back fifteen or twenty feet from that road and a white picket fence
separated the Clark property from the strip of sidewalk before it. A
boardwalk, some of its boards in the last stages of bearability, led
from the gap in that fence to the door. Over the door a sign, black
letters on a white ground, displayed the words “POST OFFICE.” On the
inner side of that door was a room of perhaps fifteen by ten feet,
lighted in the daytime by two windows and at night by three kerosene
lamps in brackets. There was a settee at either end of the room, a
stove in the middle, and a wooden box filled with beach sand beside
the stove. The plastered walls were covered with handbills and printed
placards. The advertisement of the most recent entertainment at the
town hall, that furnished by “Professor Megenti, the World Famous
Ventriloquist and Necromancer,” was prominently displayed, partially
obscuring the broadside of “The Spalding Bell Ringers” who had visited
Harniss two weeks earlier. Beneath these were other announcements
still more passé, dating back even as far as the red, white and blue
placards of the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia in ’76. The room
was crowded with men and boys, dressed as befitted the weather, and the
atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke and the smells of wet clothing,
fishy oilskins and damp humanity.
Across the side of the room opposite the door was a wooden partition,
divided by another door into two sections. On the left was a glass
showcase displaying boxes of stick candy, spools of thread, papers of
pins and needles, and various oddments of the sort known as “Notions.”
Behind the showcase was standing room for the person who waited upon
purchasers of these; behind this a blank wall.
At the right of the door, and extending from floor to ceiling, was a
wooden frame of letter boxes with a sliding, ground-glass window in the
center. This window was closed while the mail was in process of sorting
and opened when it was ready for distribution. In the apartment on the
inner side of the letter boxes and window, an apartment little bigger
than a good-sized closet, Reliance Clark, postmistress of the village
of Harniss, was busy, and Millard Fillmore Clark, her half-brother, was
making his usual pretense of being so.
Reliance was plump, quick-moving, sharp-eyed. Her hair had scarcely a
trace of gray, although she was nearly fifty. The emptied leather mail
bag was on the floor by her feet, packages of first and second class
mail matter lay upon the pine counter before her and her fingers flew
as she shot each letter or postal into the box rented by the person
whose name she read.
Millard Fillmore Clark was older by five years. He was short, thin
and inclined to be round-shouldered. He was supposed to be sorting
also, but his fingers did not fly. They lingered over each envelope
or post card they touched. Certain of the envelopes he held, after
a precautionary glance at his half-sister, between his eyes and the
hanging lamp, and the postal cards he invariably read.
“Humph! Sho!” he muttered aloud, after one such reading. Reliance heard
him and turned.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s the matter now?”
Millard, who had spoken without being aware of it, looked guilty.
“Why, nothin’ special,” he answered, hurriedly. “I just-- Humph! Seems
that Peter Eldridge’s wife’s nephew has had another baby. That’s news,
ain’t it!”
Reliance sniffed.
“Yes, I should say it was,” she observed, dryly, “if it was the way you
put it. His wife’s niece, you mean, I suppose.”
“Well, it’s his wife’s nephew’s wife. That’s the same thing, ain’t it.
He’s the one that married the girl from up to Middleboro. Simpson--or
Simpkins--seems to me her name was, as I recollect. She--”
“Mil Clark, you put that postal in the box where it belongs. This mail
is late enough already and I don’t want to stay out here in this office
all night. If you would only mind your own business as well as you do
everybody else’s you’d be the smartest man in this town, which--”
She did not finish the sentence. Mr. Clark regarded her suspiciously.
“Well, which what?” he demanded, after a momentary pause. “Which what?
What was you goin’ to say?”
“Nothin’ in particular. Go to work and stop talkin’.”
“I know what you was goin’ to say. You’ve said it too many times afore.
I’m gettin’ sick of havin’ it hove up to me, too. Just about sick of
it, I am. A man can stand about so much and then he gets desperate.
He don’t care what he does to himself. Some of these days you’ll be
surprised, Reliance Clark--you and Esther and all the rest of ’em.”
His sister did not seem greatly alarmed.
“Um-hum,” she sniffed. “Well, just now you can surprise me by doin’
your share of this mail sortin’.... Oh, my soul and body!” she added,
snatching the postal from his hand. “Either go to work or get out of my
way, one or the other. Go out in the back room and sit down. You can
_sit down_ as well as anybody I ever saw.”
Millard Fillmore did not accept the suggestion. With the expression of
a martyr he proceeded to cut the twine binding the bundles of papers
and second class matter, muttering to himself and shaking his head as
he did so. The contents of the bundles followed the letters and postals
into the boxes. At last Reliance heaved a sigh of relief.
“There!” she exclaimed. “That’s done. Open the window.”
Mr. Clark slid back the ground-glass window. An eager crowd was
standing at the other side of the partition. Millard faced his
fellow-citizens with an air of importance. This was the part of the
post-office routine which he liked.
“All right!” he announced, briskly. “Now then! Cap’n Snow’s first. Yes,
sir! here you are. Quite a bunch of mail you’ve got this evenin’. All
right, Hamilton, you’re next ... just a minute, Mr. Doane; I’ll attend
to you in a jiffy.... Now, now, you boy! you hold on; you take your
turn. No use shovin’, you won’t get it any sooner. This business has to
be done systematic.”
The group before the window thinned as its members received their
shares of the mail matter. Some departed immediately, others lingered
to open envelopes or for a final chat. Suddenly there was a stir and
a turning of heads toward the door. Some one had entered, some one of
importance. There was a buzz of respectful greeting.
“Why, good evening, Cap’n Townsend!”... “How d’ye do, Cap’n?”... “Kind
of bad night to be out in, ain’t it? Yes, ’tis.”
The salutations in general were of this kind. There were a few, and
these from persons of consequence, which were more familiar. Judge
Wixon said “Good evening, Foster,” and paused to shake hands, but even
he was not in the least flippant. The Reverend Mr. Colton, minister of
the old First Church, was most cordial, even anxiously so. “I stopped
at your door, Captain Townsend,” he began, “but Mrs. Gifford told me--I
gathered from what she said--”
The great man broke in. “Yes, all right, Colton,” he said. “I’ll see
you pretty soon. I haven’t made up my mind yet. To-morrow or next day,
maybe. Hello, Ben! Evening, Paine.”
He moved forward to the window, those before him making way for his
passing. Millard Fillmore Clark’s bow was a picture, his urbanity a
marvel. He brushed aside a lad who was clamoring for the copy of the
Cape Cod _Item_ in the family box and addressed the distinguished
patron of the postal service.
“Good evenin’, Cap’n Townsend,” he gushed, “Yes, _sir_! I’ve got your
mail all ready for you. It’s such a mean night I didn’t hardly expect
you’d come for it yourself, but I had it all laid out cal’latin’ if
Vaninas showed up, I’d--Eh? Oh, yes, here ’tis! There’s consider’ble of
it, same as there generally is. Yes, indeed!”
Foster Townsend paid no attention to the flow of language. He took
the packet of letters and papers and thrust it into the pocket of his
ulster, and, pushing the speaker unceremoniously out of the way, leaned
through the window and addressed the postmistress.
“Reliance,” he said.
Miss Clark, already tidying up the little room preparatory to closing
for the night, looked over her shoulder.
“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”
“Come here a minute. I want to speak to you.”
Reliance finished brushing the counter before she complied. Then,
pushing her half-brother a little farther from the window, she stepped
to the place he had occupied. Millard accepted the push with as much
dignity as was possible under the circumstances. It was no novelty; he
was pushed out of some one’s way at least a dozen times a day.
“Well?” queried Reliance, briskly. Her tone in addressing Ostable
County’s first citizen was precisely that which she used when
addressing others less consequential. Of the two, it was Foster
Townsend who seemed embarrassed, and embarrassment was not usual with
him.
“Is--is that niece of yours in the house?” he asked.
For just an instant Reliance hesitated. She was regarding him intently.
“I suppose likely she is,” she said. “Why?”
“Hasn’t gone to bed, has she?”
“She usually sits up till I come in.”
“Um.... How much longer will you be out here in the office?”
“I expect to lock up at nine, same as I usually do.”
“I see. Going into the house then, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am. I don’t expect to go out walkin’ in a pourin’ down
rainstorm like this one.”
Townsend’s embarrassment seemed to increase. He pulled at his beard.
“Well,” he said, “I--I want to have a talk with the girl and--er----”
Again he paused. Reliance, her gaze fixed upon his face, broke in.
“What’s that?” she asked, sharply. “Do you mean to say you want to talk
with _her_--with Esther?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve got something to say to her, something rather
important. I want you to be there when I say it. I’ll wait and go into
the house with you when you’re ready. That is, if it’s all right.”
Another momentary pause. Then Miss Clark nodded.
“No reason why it shouldn’t be all right,” she said. “You better come
into the shop and wait.... Be still, Millard! Here, you let Cap’n
Townsend through into the shop and light the lamp there. Yes, and when
you’ve done it you come straight back and help me sweep up. Bring the
broom with you. Hurry now!”
Mr. Clark, whose eager ears had been strained to catch this
conversation, hastened to unlock the door between the post-office
waiting-room and the official quarters. He ushered the visitor into
the large apartment at the rear of the building--or would have done
so if the said visitor had not pushed him aside and gone in first.
About this room were stands displaying finished hats and bonnets.
Others, but partially finished, lay about upon tables and chairs. In
the room also were two sewing-machines, workbaskets, scraps of ribbons
and cloth, spools of thread, and the general disorder of the workroom
of a millinery shop. Reliance Clark was the town milliner as well as
its postmistress. “I and Esther and Mil have to live on somethin’,”
Reliance had more than once told Abbie Makepeace, the middle-aged
spinster who was her partner in the millinery business, “and what
Uncle Sam pays me for sortin’ letters is nothin’, or next door to it.”
Millard Fillmore, agog with excitement, pulled forward a chair,
carefully wiping its seat with a soiled handkerchief, and Foster
Townsend sat down. Mr. Clark cleared his throat and offered apologies.
“We don’t usually look so--so sort of messed up out here, Cap’n
Foster,” he explained; “but the mail’s been so extry heavy
lately--election day comin’ and all--that we ain’t neither of us had
hardly a minute to spare.... It ain’t any of my business, Cap’n,” he
added, lowering his voice, “but did I understand you to say you’d come
here to-night to see--to see--Esther? I wasn’t quite sure as I heard it
straight, but--”
From the adjoining room his sister’s voice issued an order. “Bring that
broom,” she commanded.
Mr. Clark hesitated.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Cap’n Foster,” he explained.
“You see, there’s a little too much work for Reliance to handle, and
she--yes, yes, I’m comin’, Reliance. Heavens and earth! can’t you wait
a _minute_?”
He took the broom from the corner and joined his sister. Foster
Townsend, left alone, crossed his knees and leaned back in the chair.
At eight fifty-nine Miss Clark extinguished the bracket lamps in
the waiting-room and locked the front door. A half minute later she
appeared in the workshop, threw a black cloth waterproof over her
shoulders and turned to her caller.
“All ready,” she announced. “Millard, put out that light.”
The trio emerged from the side entrance of the building just as the
clock presented to the First Church by the late Arabella Townsend
struck the hour. It was still raining heavily. They followed a path
across a small yard and stood beneath a latticed portico covered with
honeysuckle, the dry tendrils of the latter rattling as the rain fell
upon them. Reliance opened the door beneath the lattice and they
stepped into a tiny sitting-room. By a table, with a paper-shaded lamp
upon it, a girl of seventeen was sitting, reading a public library
book. She turned as Miss Clark and her brother entered, but when the
bulky figure of Foster Townsend came through the doorway she rose,
an expression of astonishment upon her pretty face. She was Esther
Townsend, daughter of Freeling Townsend, Foster Townsend’s much younger
brother, and Eunice, his wife. Freeling Townsend died in eighteen
sixty-nine. Eunice, Millard Clark’s own sister and half-sister to
Reliance, died five years later. Esther had lived with the Clarks ever
since. And during that time not once, until this evening, had her
father’s brother come to that house. She stood and gazed, but she did
not speak.
Characteristically it was Millard Fillmore who broke the silence and,
just as characteristically, it was Reliance who interrupted him.
“Esther,” began Mr. Clark, with bustling importance, “don’t you see
you’ve got a caller? Can’t you say good evenin’? Take off your things,
Cap’n Foster. Here! let me help you with your coat. Esther, can’t you
see he’s holdin’ his umbrella? Don’t stand there gawpin’. Get--”
And here Reliance broke in. “Millard,” she ordered, “be still! Yes,
you’d better take off your coat, Foster; that is, if you’re goin’ to
stay any time. It’s warm in here. Esther usually has this house hot
enough to roast a Sunday dinner. Esther, get him a chair.”
The girl brought forward the rocker she had been sitting in. Townsend
pulled off his ulster and handed it and his hat and umbrella to Mr.
Clark who was obsequiously waiting to receive them. He lowered himself
into the rocker. Then he turned to the others.
“You better sit down, all of you,” he said. “What I’ve got to say may
take a little time. Sit down, Reliance. Sit down, Esther.”
Mr. Clark’s name was not included in the invitation, but he was the
first to sit. Esther took a chair at the other side of the table.
Reliance was shaking out her waterproof.
“Sit down, Reliance,” repeated Townsend. Miss Clark’s reply was
promptly given.
“I intend to, soon as I’m ready,” she declared, with some tartness.
The caller looked up at her. “Reliance,” he observed, with a grim
smile, “you don’t change much. When you were a girl I remember you used
to say ‘Black’ whenever anybody else said ‘White.’ Well, independence
is a good thing, if you can afford it.”
Reliance, having arranged the waterproof to her satisfaction, hung it
on a hook by the door. She drew forward a chair from the wall.
“I’ve managed to scratch along on it so far,” she announced, placing
herself in the chair. “Well, what is it you’ve come to this house for,
after all these years, Foster Townsend?”
Townsend was looking at his niece, not at her. And it was the niece
whom he addressed.
“Esther,” he said, after a moment, “how long has it been since your
father died?”
The girl met his keen gaze for an instant, then looked down at the book
upon the table.
“Ten years,” she said. Her tone was not too cordial. This rich uncle
of hers had been a sort of bugbear in her family. Her father never
mentioned his name while he lived and, although her mother had
mentioned it often enough, it was only to call its owner a selfish,
proud, wicked, stubborn man. When their daughter and Foster Townsend
met on the street he sometimes acknowledged the meeting with a nod and
sometimes not. His wife had been quite different; she always sent the
girl presents at Christmas and was kindly gracious. Esther would have
liked her, or would have liked to like her. And she envied her, of
course; every female in Harniss did that. She envied Foster Townsend,
too, but she was far from liking him.
He repeated her words. “Ten years, eh?” he observed, meditatively.
“Humph! is it possible! It doesn’t seem so long--yet, of course it is.
And the last time I was in this house was at his funeral. No wonder
you’re surprised to see me here now. I’m surprised, myself, to be
here.... You’re surprised, too, aren’t you, Reliance?”
Millard hastened to declare that he was, but was awful glad, of course.
His sister’s reply was a surprise in itself.
“I don’t know that I am, altogether,” she said. “I’ve been rather
expectin’ you, if you want to know.”
Townsend swung about in the rocker. “You have!” he exclaimed, sharply.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean what I say. I don’t _know_ what you’ve come for, but I might
guess, maybe. Most of us have got a conscience somewheres on the
premises, even if some of us have kept it packed away up-attic so long
we’ve pretty nigh forgot it.”
The captain regarded her with what appeared to be sincere, if somewhat
grudging, admiration. “You’re a smart woman, Reliance Clark,” he
declared. “Yes, you are! If Freeling had had sense enough to pick
you out instead of-- Well, well! there’s no use wasting breath about
that.... You say you’ve guessed what I’ve come here for. If you have
perhaps Esther hasn’t. I’m going to make her a proposition. I don’t
expect her to answer it, one way or the other, to-night. I want to make
it; then I want her and you, Reliance, to think it over and talk it
over between you. When you’ve done that you can say yes or no. Esther,”
turning to the girl once more, “how would you like to come up to my
house and live with me?”
The question, thus bluntly put, had a varied effect upon his listeners.
Millard Clark’s eyes and mouth opened and he gasped audibly. His
half-sister nodded two or three times, as if with satisfaction at
finding her suspicions confirmed. Esther gazed at the speaker in mute
bewilderment. Townsend looked from one to the other and smiled.
“So you had guessed right, had you, Reliance,” he observed. “Well,
whether you had or not, there it is. I am lonesome in that big house
of mine, lonesome as the devil. I don’t suppose I’m what you’d call
a sentimental man; I try to use my common sense and face what can’t
be helped in a sensible way, but since Mother died I’m lonesome. For
the last week I’ve been making up my mind what to do. I might travel,
I suppose, but when I went to sea I cruised a whole lot and there
wouldn’t be much that was new to look at and no satisfaction in looking
at it alone. And I’d rather stay at home, anyhow. This is my town. I
helped to make it grow and I’m more interested in it, and the folks in
and around it, than I am in anything else. I might move out of my house
to a smaller one, but I won’t. Mother and I built that house together.
She thought the world of it and so do I. She lived in it till she died
and that’s what I want to do. But I’d rather not live in it by myself.
I want somebody to talk to and to talk to me, and I’d rather have a
Townsend than anybody else. So I thought of Esther. If she wants to,
she can move up there and call it home. I’ll look out for her and be as
decent as I can to her. She can have all the things she wants--things
she can’t have now--and all the money she wants--all I think it good
for her to have, anyhow. What I’m trying to say is,” he added, with
deliberate emphasis, “that, if you, Esther, come to live with me you’ll
be the same as my daughter. And when I’m dead you’ll have what I
have.... That’s the proposition--or part of it.”
The last sentence of his long speech was delivered with the snap of
finality. The speaker leaned back in the rocker, extended his legs in
order to more easily get at his trousers pockets, thrust his hands into
those pockets, and looked at his niece, then at Reliance and then back
at Esther. He did not look at Mr. Clark; the latter might have been
one of the pair of crockery lambs on the mantel as far as receiving
attention was concerned.
Yet it was Millard who broke the silence.
“Well--I _vow_!” he exclaimed, fervently.
His sister put him back in place just as she might have replaced one of
the lambs. “Hush, Millard!” she ordered. “Wait, Esther!... So that’s
only part of your proposition, is it?” she asked, addressing Townsend.
“And what’s the other part?”
The great man jingled the change in his pocket. “It’s just this,” he
replied. “I realize, of course, that Esther has been here with you,
Reliance, so long that you’re about the same as a mother to her. She
would miss you--at first, anyhow--and, for the matter of that, I
suppose she ought to have a woman to talk to. I never had a girl of my
own to bring up, or a boy either, so far as that goes--I wish to God
I had--and there are some things a woman can advise her about better
than a man. If I didn’t know you had sense, Reliance--as well as the
stubbornness of a balky horse--I shouldn’t think of saying what I am
going to say. I want you to shut up this house here. It is mine and I
can sell it, I guess; or rent it, anyhow. And if I can’t do either I
can afford to let it stand empty. Shut it up and come along with Esther
to my place. There’s room enough there, too much room. I’ll make a home
for you and pay your bills. Yes, and I’ll guarantee you’ll be more
comfortable there, and have less care, than you ever had in your life.
That’s the other half of my offer. Think it over.”
During this blunt statement of an astonishing proposal the face
of Millard Fillmore Clark might have been worth looking at, had
any one dreamed of doing such a thing. At first it had expressed
eagerness and overwhelming curiosity. Then, when Foster Townsend
extended the invitation--or delivered the command, for it was quite
as much an order as a request--to his half-sister, the curiosity was
superseded by joyful excitement. And now, when the speech from the
rocking-chair throne had ended without mention of his own name, or even
acknowledgment of his connection with the household, all symptoms of
the aforementioned emotions were superseded by those of anxiety and
alarmed indignation.
“Here! hold on!” he protested, springing to his feet. “What’s that
you’re sayin’, Cap’n Foster? You’re cal’latin’ to take Reliance
and--and Esther to--to live along with you and--and--” Reliance lifted
a hand. “Ssh!” she said.
“No, I won’t ssh neither! He--he says he wants to--to take you and her
away and shut up this house and--and-- What about _me_?” his voice
rising to a falsetto. “Where am _I_ goin’? Eh! Who’s goin’ to--”
Townsend, even then, did not take the trouble to turn and look at him,
but he did speak over his shoulder. “All right, all right,” he broke
in, with careless contempt. “You can come, too. There’ll be a room for
you and Varunas can find something for you to do around the stables,
I guess. You’ll be looked after, don’t worry. Have to take the tail
with the hide, I realize that,” he added, philosophically. “... Well,
Esther,” turning to his niece, “how does it sound to you, now you’ve
heard the whole of it?”
The girl, thus addressed, looked at him in faltering hesitancy. She
turned to her aunt as if seeking the latter’s help in a situation too
hopelessly impossible to be met without it.
“Well?” repeated her uncle.
Esther looked at Reliance, but the latter was looking at the captain,
not at her. The girl turned back, to meet the searching scrutiny of the
eyes beneath the heavy brows. The look in those eyes was not unkindly,
in fact, it was the opposite, but she was frightened. This was the man
who had quarreled with her father, whose prideful arrogant self-will
was responsible, so Eunice Townsend had always declared, for the
poverty and privation of their lives since his death. This was the man
she had been taught to hate. And now he was bidding her come to live
with him! She couldn’t do such a thing--of course she couldn’t--and
yet, if her aunt came also, she--even then she was beginning to realize
a little of the marvelous possibilities of that invitation.
The look in her uncle’s eyes was still kindly, but insistent. He
had asked a question and he was expecting an answer. She must say
something. She caught her breath, almost with a sob.
“Oh, oh, I don’t know!” she cried, desperately. “I don’t know! It
doesn’t seem as if--but--oh, please don’t ask me--not now! I don’t know
what to say.”
Townsend nodded. “Of course you don’t,” he agreed. “I didn’t expect you
to say yes or no now, to-night. I was wondering how the idea sounded
to you, that’s all. You and Reliance think it over and talk it over
together and when you’ve made up your mind let me know. To-morrow--yes,
or the next day--will be time enough. There’s no particular hurry.”
He rose from the rocker and took his hat and coat from the side table
where Millard had reverently laid them. Mr. Clark sprang to help with
the ulster, but he and his proffered assistance were ignored, as usual.
“There’s just one thing more that maybe I ought to say,” the captain
added, turning to Reliance, who had risen when he did. “And that is
this: She,” with a jerk of the head in Esther’s direction, “doesn’t
understand yet all this proposition is liable to mean. If she comes
to be with me, and we get along all right and I like her, she’ll be
what I said before, just the same as my daughter. If she wants to go
away to boarding school she can go, I guess; I’ll decide that later
on. She’s got a good voice, they tell me. Everybody says she sings
pretty well and that she could sing better if she was learned how by
somebody that knew. Well, I’ll see that she _is_ learned. I’ve got a
good piano up at the house. At least I suppose it’s good; it was the
best I could buy and I paid enough for it. Mother used to pick at it a
little, but she always said it was a pity it wasn’t used more. Esther
can use it all she wants to. I don’t know anything about music. I never
had much use for a man who fooled with pianos and fiddles; fact is, I
never considered that kind of fellow a man at all. But I haven’t any
objections to a woman’s fooling with ’em. There’s the piano and there’s
the music teacher, or there can be one as well as not. Think of that,
too, while you are thinking.... I guess that’s all. Good-night.”
He picked up his umbrella and strode to the door. Reliance spoke once
more.
“Just a minute,” she said. “Maybe it isn’t quite all. I can see what
you mean to do for Esther and perhaps I can see a little of what
Millard will have to do. But where do I come in? What will _I_ do up in
that twenty-odd room house of yours, Foster Townsend? You don’t expect
_me_ to play your piano, do you?”
He laughed, laughed aloud, something which he seldom did.
“No,” he said, “I don’t expect that, Reliance. I don’t care what you
do. You can do nothing, if you want to. Or you can be my housekeeper,
if that suits you better. Mother kept house the way it ought to be kept
and she has told me more than once that you were about the only other
woman she ever ran across who was as particular as she was. You can
boss Nabby and whatever hired help we have, and run things to please
yourself--provided they please me, too. That is fair, isn’t it?”
Miss Clark nodded grimly. “Maybe so,” she observed. “We won’t argue
about it to-night. There’s one other thing, though, that I guess you’ve
forgot. I’m postmistress here in Harniss. I run a milliner shop, too,
but that is my own, or two-thirds of it is, and I can do what I like
with it. But the post office is different. Do you expect me to walk out
of that office and leave a note for Uncle Sam sayin’ ‘You and the mail
can go to Jericho. I’ve gone to Foster Townsend’s!’ Do you expect me to
do that?”
Townsend laughed again. He seemed in far better spirits than when he
entered that sitting-room.
“Not exactly--no,” he replied. “As for the post office,--well, who had
you made postmistress in the first place?”
Miss Clark stared at him. “Who had me made postmistress?” she repeated.
“Why, the U.S. government appointed me, if that’s what you mean. And
that was nine years ago. What do you ask such a question as that for?”
“I’ll ask you another one. When Sylvanus Oaks died you sent in a
petition asking for his job, didn’t you?... Oh, never mind! I know you
did, and so did Frank Parker and Reuben Hatch and a couple more. Why do
you suppose the government people picked you out instead of one of the
others? Their petitions were as long as yours. Well, I’ll tell you. It
was because I told them to.”
She was surprised now, there was no doubt of that. “You told ’em!” she
repeated, sharply. “_You_ did! Why, you didn’t even sign my petition.
Not that I asked you to sign it. I didn’t.”
“No. I wondered if you were going to, but you were your own pig-headed
self and didn’t bring it near me. But I didn’t sign any one else’s
either; you know that.”
“I don’t know it. I never cared enough to find out.”
“No?” with a chuckle. “Well, you know it now. What you haven’t known
all this time is that I wrote to a friend of mine who was in Congress
from this district and told him you were the fittest candidate for the
place and to see that you got it. He saw just that. I put you into that
post office, Reliance, just as I’ve rented you this house of mine, and
if I take you out of both I can’t see that anybody has any ground for
complaint. I’ll hear from you in a day or two, of course. Good-night.
Good-night, Esther.”
He did not include Mr. Clark in his good-night, but the latter ran out
after him in the rain and caught his arm.
“It’ll be all right, Cap’n Foster,” whispered Millard, eagerly. “Don’t
you fret a mite. It’ll come out all right. Reliance she always has to
argue and fetch up objections to ’most anything, but she’ll come round.
We’ll be up there along with you inside of a week, all hands of us. You
leave it to me. I’ll ’tend to it.”
Foster Townsend made no reply. He shook off the clutch upon his coat
sleeve and walked away into the rain-striped blackness beyond the light
from the open door. Millard Fillmore hurried back to the sitting-room.
“Gosh!” he whooped ecstatically, “Oh, my _gosh_! Say, ain’t it
_wonderful_! Ain’t it--”
He stopped, for his half-sister was speaking to their niece and he
caught a word or two--unbelievable, horrifying words which caused his
pæan of triumphant rejoicing to break off in the middle of the first
strophe.
“I should say not!” declared Reliance. “Well, I should say _not_!
Humph! the idea! I could have slapped his face for him for darin’ to
think such a thing, let alone sayin’ it out loud--to me. When I get so
worn out and good for nothin’ that I can’t earn my own livin’ I’ll find
the cheapest way to die and do it, and I’ll take care to have enough
put by to pay for my buryin’. I won’t go up to his palace and live on
the leavin’s from _his_ table. _I’m_ no Lazarus. Saucy patronizin’
thing! The idea!”
Esther might have spoken, but Mr. Clark cut in ahead of her.
“What!” he shouted, in a frenzy. “What’s that you’re tellin’ her,
Reliance Clark? Do you mean to say you ain’t goin’ to take up with a
chance like _that_? My gosh, woman, you’re crazy!”
She whirled on him. “You keep still!” she commanded. “This isn’t any of
your business at all. Don’t you say another word.”
“But it _is_ my business. Why ain’t it my business? Didn’t he ask me
same as he did the rest of you? Didn’t--”
She did not let him finish. “No, he did not,” she declared, with fierce
contempt. “He said he supposed he would have to take the tail with
the hide, that’s what he said, and if you like bein’ called a tail, I
don’t.”
“Aw, come now, Reliance! He never meant--he asked me--”
“He didn’t ask you; he took you same as he might take a--the scales
on a codfish, because he knew he couldn’t catch the critter without
’em. It is Esther he’s after and he was shrewd enough to think that
maybe she might not go unless I did. Yes, and that I couldn’t leave a
helpless thing like you to float around creation with nobody to steer
you. Oh, _don’t_ make me any madder than I am, Mil Clark!”
“Aw, Reliance, have some sense! Why--”
“Be still, Mil Clark!... Oh, when he had the impudence to tell me that
he got me that post-office appointment, I--I-- Oh, that was the last
straw!”
She was sputtering sparks like a pinwheel. Esther tried to soothe her.
“There, there, Auntie,” she protested, “you mustn’t get into such a
state. I don’t care at all, really. I’m glad. I don’t want to live with
him. Of course I don’t. I want to stay with you, right here in this
house, just as I always have. Don’t worry about it any more--please.”
The thunder cloud upon her aunt’s brow was thinning. Her comely face
was still crimson, but the fire in her eyes was beginning to die. She
walked over to the window, stood there for a moment, and, when she
turned, there was a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips.
“My!” she exclaimed, with a sigh. “I don’t wonder Millard called me
crazy. I haven’t been so upset for I don’t know when. It was findin’
out that he was responsible for my bein’ made postmistress that got me
so. The rest of it I kind of expected--that is, I rather guessed he had
come to ask for Esther. Yes, I did. Nabby Gifford told me how lonesome
he was nowadays and before Arabella Townsend died--a fortni’t or two
before she was taken sick--she came to see me about a hat I was makin’
for her, and somethin’ she said then set me thinkin’. She was pretty
confidential--she was like that sometimes with me--and she told me that
the greatest trial of hers and Foster’s lives was that the only child
they had died when it was a baby and that they didn’t have any more.
She asked a lot about you, Esther, about what sort of a girl you were
and about your singin’ and all, and--well, it made me wonder. And I
knew perfectly well that whatever she wanted her husband would let her
have. She was the only person on earth who could get past that stubborn
streak of his.... Humph! And he called _me_ pig-headed! _He_ did!”
Her half-brother had kept quiet as long as he could.
“Well, well, well!” he cried. “What if he did! He didn’t mean nothin’.
You and Esther don’t seem to realize what else he said. He’s offerin’
us a home in the finest house in Ostable County. Horses and teams to
ride around in, no bills to pay, nothin’ to worry about, no work--that
is, nothin’ except--”
“Oh, do stop! I declare I believe you’d just as soon be a ‘tail’ as
anything else. All a tail has to do is brush off flies and that would
just suit you.”
“Look here! I don’t care to have you talk to me that way.”
“All right, I’m not talkin’ to you. I’m talkin’ to somebody else. So I
wasn’t so surprised when he offered to adopt you, Esther, for adoption
is what it amounts to. When he took me aboard too--yes, yes, and you,
Millard--I was surprised, but of course I could see why he did it,
anybody could. If he hadn’t crowed over me about that post-office
appointment! I never once supposed _he_ got it for me.... Oh, I don’t
doubt he did! He runs everything in this part of the state. But it
hurts my pride--and it makes me just as mad now when I think of it.”
Again Esther tried to calm her.
“Never mind whether he did or not, Auntie dear,” she urged. “You have
kept it ever since and everybody says you are the best postmistress
the town ever had. And, after all,” she added, “if he did get the
appointment, he did it to help you, didn’t he? It seems to me that
was--well, kind of him.”
Her aunt turned quickly. “Kind!” she repeated. “Of course it was kind,
or he meant it to be. But I like to know about kindnesses when they’re
done, not have ’em sprung on me as a good joke nine years afterwards.
He has been chucklin’ to himself over that joke ever since. In a lot of
ways,” she went on earnestly, “Foster Townsend is a kind man and a good
man. The trouble is that he has got so used to bein’ told that he is
the greatest man in the world that he has come to believe it.”
Esther was amazed. “Why, how can you call him good!” she exclaimed.
“Mother always said he--”
Reliance interrupted. “I know,” she put in hastily. “Well, your mother
may have been a little prejudiced, perhaps. She had reason to be.”
The girl’s lips tightened.
“At any rate,” she declared, “his adopting me is ridiculous. I don’t
want to be adopted and I shan’t be. That is settled.”
Miss Clark shook her head. “No,” she said, firmly. “That part isn’t
settled--yet. He isn’t goin’ to adopt me, or Millard either. Millard,
do hush!... But for you, Esther, it isn’t settled at all. There is a
whole lot to be said and thought over before that is settled. I’m goin’
to bed. Millard, put out the lamp.”
Mr. Clarke made one more desperate appeal.
“If I didn’t know,” he declared, with angry sarcasm, “I’d swear all
hands in this house had been drinkin’--all hands but me, I mean. You
give out that it’s settled and Esther gives out that it’s settled, but
_I_ haven’t settled nothin’ yet as I know of. Cap’n Foster Townsend
asked me to come and live with him. Right here in this room he asked it
and you two heard him. All right. Then I guess I’m the one to say yes
or no--to my part of it, anyhow.”
Reliance looked at him. “Then if I was you I’d say it,” she agreed,
sweetly. “You go right up to his house to-morrow and tell him that no
matter what Esther and I do, you’ll move in before sunset. You tell him
that and see what he says about it.... Come, Esther. Don’t you leave
that lamp burnin’ all night, Millard.”
She and Esther left the room, and a few moments later, their footsteps
were heard upon the stairs. Millard Fillmore Clark, left alone, threw
himself into the rocker and relapsed into the pessimistic meditations
of a hurt and insulted spirit. For an hour he sat there, scowling and
biting his nails. Then he rose and went out into the dining room, where
he opened the door of a dark closet and reached down into a corner
behind a tall crockery cooky jar. Hidden in that corner was a black
bottle. It contained home-made wild-cherry rum and his half-sister
had cached it there, fondly believing that he could never find it. He
removed the cork, took a long drink, and then another. Soon afterward
he, too, went upstairs and to bed.