Nabby Gifford did not serve her employer’s breakfast next morning.
Ellen Dooley, the red-cheeked Irish “second maid,” did that. Nabby
cooked the breakfast, of course, and she made it a point to pass
through the library after the meal was over. Foster Townsend was seated
in the leather easy-chair reading the _Item_, a copy of which was
included in the mail handed him by Millard Clark at the post office
the previous evening. Mrs. Gifford lingered by the hall door and the
captain looked up at her over his spectacles.
“Well, Nabby,” he inquired, “what is it?”
Nabby affected surprise at the question.
“Why, nothin’,” she said. “I was just goin’ upstairs a minute and I
come this way ’cause ’twas the shortest. That’s all.”
“Yes, yes, I know. That’s all--but what is the rest?”
“Well--I was goin’ to tell you that the minister was here last night
right after you left.”
“I know he was. I met him downtown and he told me he called. What else?”
“Nothin’ else--except-- Well, I was wonderin’ if you’d thought over
what I said to you last night about--” She finished the sentence with a
wink and a jerk of the head in the direction of the dining room, where
Ellen was clearing the table. At that moment the second maid departed
to the kitchen with a double handful of dishes and Nabby seized the
opportunity to come close to the easy-chair.
“She never got home from that Odd Fellers’ ball till one o’clock this
mornin’,” Nabby announced, in an indignant whisper. “Quarter past one
’twas when she come up the back stairs. Any self-respectin’ Christian
is sound asleep at that ungodly time of night, and thinks I--”
“Wait a minute. How did you know it was quarter past one?”
“Because I looked at my alarm clock and see ’twas, that’s how. And I
woke up Varunas and he see it, too.”
“Humph! I always thought you were a Christian, Nabby.”
“Eh? Well, I am. Anyhow I _hope_ I am. Who said I wasn’t?”
“You just told me that every self-respecting Christian was asleep at
that hour.... Oh, never mind! Did Varunas behave like a Christian when
you woke him up?”
Mrs. Gifford’s face expressed horrified consternation. “My soul!” she
exclaimed. “Don’t tell me _you_ could hear what he said away off in the
front of the house, Cap’n Foster!”
“All right, Nabby. You leave Ellen to me. If I decide to take your
advice and keep only one girl I’ll let you know. If I don’t we’ll go
on as we are. And I may have a surprise for you pretty soon, anyway.
Where’s Varunas now?”
“Out in the barn, I suppose. He’s there from mornin’ till night. Yes,
and when it’s neither mornin’ nor night, too. That’s another thing,
Cap’n Foster. That man of mine has been gettin’ up at four o’clock for
the last two, three mornin’s, and he won’t tell me what he’s doin’ it
for, neither. I asked him this very mornin’--five minutes of four by
the clock, ’twas--and all he done was look foolish and laugh. ‘Early to
rise makes you healthy and wealthy and wise,’ he says. ‘Ain’t you never
heard that, Nabby?’ I told him, says I, ‘Humph!’ I says, ‘maybe I have
heard it, but I never heard anybody call you wealthy; and as for bein’
_wise_!’”
Townsend lifted a hand. He rose from the chair.
“All right, Nabby,” he broke in. “I shouldn’t wonder if Varunas was
wise for once in his life. At least I’m hoping he is wiser just now
than some other folks who think they are.”
The great barn, towered and cupolaed in corresponding magnificence with
the house, was situated at the rear of the yard, the vegetable garden
at one side and the flower beds, beloved by the late Arabella Townsend,
upon the other. Behind the barn were hen yards, pigsties, and, beyond
these, the rolling acres of Townsend pastures, meadows and pine groves.
In the white painted stables beyond the carriage house the captain
found Mr. Gifford seated upon an overturned bucket. Upon his shriveled
little face was an expression of huge satisfaction. His puckered lips
widened in a grin as Townsend came in.
“Been waitin’ for you, Cap’n Foster,” he announced. “Ain’t touched a
thing. Left the whitewashin’ job just as ’twas for you to see. You stay
right where you be and I’ll fetch him out.”
He moved down the row of stalls, where polished flanks and carefully
brushed tails indicated the care bestowed upon each occupant, and
from one led out a horse with a white forehead and a ring of white
encircling one of its legs.
“There!” crowed Varunas. “There we be!... No, no! Don’t come no closer,
Cap’n Foster. Just stand where you are and get a gen’ral view. Looks
enough like Claribel to fool a nigh-sighted person on a dark mornin’,
don’t he? He, he!”
Townsend smiled. “Good work, Varunas!” he grunted. “Well? How did it
go?”
Mr. Gifford winked. “_He_ went fine,” he declared. “Done that Circle in
jig time, he did, and I was hangin’ back on him at that. I give you my
word I never realized Hornet had it in him. Why, when I see--”
“Never mind. It is what Seth Emmons saw that interests me just now. Was
Seth on hand at the Circle this morning?”
Varunas winked again. “I have a suspicion he was,” he chuckled. “’Twas
dark and kind of foggy after the rain, and a body that wan’t up to
snuff, or hadn’t been tipped off same as I was, would have swore there
wan’t another soul within a half mile. But--well, you know that old
fish shanty over at the fur side of the Circle, on the rise next the
beach? Um-hum. Well, when Hornet and me went past that shanty the first
time round it looked to me as if the door was open just a crack. When
we went round the second time the crack was wider. It _might_ have been
the wind that blowed it open--only there wan’t any wind. He, he, he!”
He slapped his knee in gleeful triumph. Townsend’s smile became a grin.
“All right, Varunas,” he said. “How was the betting the last time you
heard?”
“There ain’t much--or there wasn’t yesterday. There might be a little
more to-day. Some of them Bayporters might drift over and begin to
loosen up; ’specially if Sam and Seth spread the news that Claribel
couldn’t do no better’n he done this mornin’.”
“If they do you might let me know.”
“You bet you I will! I’ll let myself know, too, about seven or eight
dollars’ worth.... Say, Cap’n, don’t for mercy sakes tell Nabby I said
that. She’s death on bettin’ anyhow; and--” with aggrieved indignation,
“if I won she’d make me hand her over the heft of the money. The only
way for me to keep my winnin’s is to spend ’em quick. I’ve learned that
much.”
Foster Townsend left the house soon afterward and strolled, as was
his morning custom, about the place, his hands in the pockets of his
coat, the soft hat at the back of his head, and his after-breakfast
cigar between his teeth. He lingered by the poultry yards, looked at
the hogs in their pens, made mental notes of a section of fence which
needed repair, decided that the strip of lawn on the left-hand side
of the drive should be plowed and reseeded in the spring. His tour of
inspection was leisurely, for he enjoyed it. He loved every inch of his
domain. It was his. He had earned it. It represented success, the prize
at the top of the ladder which he had climbed unaided. He had been a
poor boy; now he was a rich man. In his youth the aristocrats of his
native town scarcely deigned to notice him; now he was the aristocrat
and his was the voice of authority. He had fought his way up from cabin
boy to captain of a ship, from captain to owner, from that, through
keen trading and daring speculation, to the day when he could afford
to retire from active business. The break with his partner, Elisha
Cook, and the lawsuit which followed the break, had threatened disaster
time after time, but during the years of expensive and worrisome
litigation he had never lost his nerve. If Cook won and was awarded
even the greater part of the sum for which he was suing, it meant
ruin to Townsend, but the risk but made the battle more enjoyable.
And Cook had not won. True, the latter and his lawyers had not openly
conceded the Townsend victory, but their talk of further fighting was
but talk. Foster Townsend’s luck had held, as it had held before, and
“luck”--as he saw it--was but the wage of foresight, good judgment,
and the courage to back one’s convictions to the limit of safety--yes,
and sometimes beyond that limit. He considered himself entitled to the
rewards which were his and he enjoyed their possession, the money and
the power--particularly the power.
His walk that morning was as satisfactory as usual for a time. It was
only when he reached the lattice frame enclosing the flower garden
that his complacency departed. The sight of the neat beds and the dead
stalks in those beds brought with it a staggering shock. His wife had
set out many of those plants with her own hands. She had superintended
the setting out of all. Those flowers and that garden were her joy.
From early summer until fall she had filled the rooms with blossoms.
She would never do it again. She had left that garden and the mansion
and him forever and all his money and authority were useless in the
face of that irrevocable fact. His loneliness came over him once
more, as it had come so often during the week since her funeral. He
felt a savage resentment. He was accustomed to having his own way, to
forcing his will against all obstacles. Now he--Foster Townsend--was as
helpless against this stroke of Fate as the weakest-willed creature in
the world.
He returned to the house, the easy-chair, and the paper in the library.
He glanced at the clock. The time was nearly eleven. At the close of
the interview in the Clark cottage the previous evening he had casually
told Esther and Reliance that they might take their time in reaching
a decision concerning his proposal. He had told them this, but he
had meant it merely as a gracious gesture. He considered the matter
settled and had expected an early call and the grateful announcement of
acceptance. No one had called and no word had been sent him. He could
not understand why and, in his present frame of mind, he resented the
delay. What was the matter with those people? Was it possible they did
not realize what his offer meant to them and their future? They had
best realize it; it would not be repeated.
Dinner was a necessary nuisance to be endured and he got through with
it as quickly as possible. Alone in the big dining room, waited upon
by Ellen, with the chair at the other end of the table unoccupied,
it was no wonder that appetite failed him. In the old days--and they
were not so old--his dinner was an event. He was particular about the
choice of dishes, insisted upon an abundance of everything, lingered
over the dessert, smoked his cigar and listened while Mother chatted
of the affairs of the household or repeated town gossip. Very often
there were guests--leading politicians of the county; his lawyers down
from Boston on business connected with the eternal suit; Judge Baxter
and Mrs. Baxter from Ostable; other prominent--though of course less
prominent--fellow townspeople like the Snows or the Taylors; on Sundays
the minister and his wife. Pleasant company, in complete agreement
with his opinions on all subjects, substantial people, people of
consequence. They would come now if he asked them, but he had no mind
to ask. With that vacant chair opposite his own, the filling of the
others would be only an emphasis of his wretchedness.
Arabella had liked their niece, had more than once spoken of that
liking, had even dared so far on rare occasions as to hint that a girl
like Esther might be “kind of nice to have around; somebody outside
of just us two old folks to take an interest in. Don’t you think so,
dear?” He had refused to listen to the hints then. Freeling Townsend
had chosen to follow his own road in open defiance of the brother who
had lifted him out of the mire so often. Let those who were responsible
for his taking that road tramp it to the end; that was his brusque
ultimatum. Only since his wife’s death had he changed his mind. That
conscience to which Reliance Clark had referred as having been “pushed
away up-attic” had been shaken from its camphor. Perhaps he had been
too hard. He had been right, of course, but even so he might have
yielded, to please Mother. It would have pleased her then; if the
talk which the minister and the rest so wearisomely offered him as
consolation _should_ be true it might please her now. He was a regular
church-goer at the old First Meeting House on Sunday, but he was so
more because it was the conservative, orthodox thing to do than from
any deep-rooted religious convictions. Nevertheless--
And Esther was a Townsend. It was risky experiment, but for Mother’s
sake he had decided to give it a trial. His own loneliness and the
growing certainty that he could not continue to live in that house
without companionship were the weights which tipped the balance.
Well; it had been tipped. He had gone as far as even Arabella could
have wished. Farther, for he had offered a home to Reliance and that
worthless half-brother of hers, not because he wanted to, but because
he felt certain that Esther would not leave her aunt. He had gone far
enough. As the afternoon passed and no answer came he began to think
that he had gone too far. Confound their impudence!
By four he was pacing up and down the library in a state of mind
divided between anger and alarm. He was tempted to sit down at his desk
and write a curt note withdrawing his offer altogether. He did not do
so because--well, because, in spite of his resentment and chagrin, he
realized that such a withdrawal would leave him exactly where he was
now, alone--and doomed to remain alone always. There was no one else,
no one except a paid companion, and companionship of that kind would be
worse than none. And, too, he had begun already to make plans for the
girl, plans which were alluring as a means of occupying his own mind
in their execution and had become more alluring since his meeting with
their principal the previous evening. She was a pretty girl, modest and
attractive; in spite of prejudice he had been forced to admit that. And
she looked like a Townsend; there was scarcely a trace of Clark about
her. Put a girl like that in the surroundings such as he could give
her, with the opportunities and the money--why, there might be a new
interest in life for him, just as Mother had suggested.
But where was she? Why hadn’t he heard from her? It was Reliance who
was responsible for the delay, he was certain of that. He had known
Reliance Clark ever since she was a schoolgirl and he a young sea
captain. She was poor then as now, but pretty and popular, and as
independent as a “hog on ice,” to use a Cape Cod simile. There was a
time when she and he were very friendly indeed, but the friendship
was a stormy one. Two such natures were bound to clash. She resented
the slightest hint of patronizing and was as set in her way as he was
in his, which is saying not a little. They had quarreled, made it up,
quarreled again and drifted apart. Now he was the Harniss mogul and she
was its postmistress, because he had made her so. Even in the midst of
his irritation he chuckled as he remembered her astonishment when he
told her that she owed her appointment to his influence. He had given
her self-satisfaction one jolt, at all events.
It was quite natural that, in all his thinking and surmising, he gave
not one thought to Millard Clark. Very few people who knew him did
waste thought on Millard.
Nabby Gifford’s voice sounded behind the drawn portières.
“Cap’n Foster,” said Nabby. “Cap’n Foster, you in there? If you be
there’s somebody come to see you.”
Townsend was standing by the desk. He turned.
“Who is it?” he demanded. “If it is the minister tell him I’m busy.”
“’Tain’t the minister. It’s Reliance Clark.”
“What!... Humph! How did she get here? I’ve been watching the front
gate.”
“She never come in that gate. Come across lots, I cal’late. She’s at
the side door. I told her I wan’t sure that you could talk to her now.”
“Who is with her?”
“Eh? Why, nobody’s with her. She’s all alone. Kind of funny, her
comin’, ain’t it?”
Townsend frowned. Alone? What might that mean?
“Bring her in here,” he ordered. “Light that lamp on the table. It’s
getting dark.”
Nabby lighted the student lamp and hurried out. A moment later she
ushered Reliance into the library.
“Good afternoon, Foster,” said Reliance, pleasantly. Townsend nodded.
Then he turned to the housekeeper.
“You needn’t wait, Nabby,” he said. “You better go out in the kitchen.
Yes, and shut the door after you.”
Mrs. Gifford’s reception of this blunt dismissal was characteristic.
She went, but she fired a parting shot.
“The kitchen was where I was bound, so fur as that goes,” she observed,
with dignity. “And I don’t need to be reminded to shut the door,
neither. It ain’t me that leaves doors open in _this_ house.”
Foster Townsend waited until a vigorous slam proved that his order had
been obeyed. Then he turned to his visitor.
“Sit down,” he said, motioning toward a chair. “Better take off your
things, hadn’t you?”
Reliance shook her head.
“I’ll sit down a minute,” she replied, “but I’ll keep my things on. I
can’t stop very long. I must get back to the shop. I left Abbie workin’
on Jane Snow’s hat and mercy knows what she’ll do with it unless I’m
there to watch her. And if that isn’t enough to make me uneasy the post
office is. Millard is supposed to be attendin’ to that; ‘supposed’ is
what I said.”
Townsend smiled appreciation of the sarcasm. He lowered himself into
the easy-chair.
“Where is the girl?” he asked. “Why didn’t you bring her with you?”
“She is at home, getting her things together. At least I suppose
she is, that is what I told her she had better do. She’ll be here
to-morrow--to stay.”
Townsend’s big body relaxed against the leather cushions. His
expression, however, did not change. He took pains that it did not do
so. No one--least of all the astute Miss Clark--should guess the relief
the blunt announcement gave him.
“Oh!” he said, carelessly. “So you’ve decided to take up with my offer,
have you. You made up your minds pretty promptly, seems to me. I told
you to take all the time you wanted.”
“Yes, I know you did. And I imagine you thought we wouldn’t take much.
Well, you were right in one way. _My_ mind was made up before I went to
bed last night.”
“Um-hum.... And you are coming to-morrow? That is quick business, but
it suits me if it does you. You can’t give up the post office as soon
as that, though. You’ll have to attend to that until I can pick out
somebody to take your place. It won’t take long. Once let it be known
that the job is vacant and there’ll be plenty of candidates.”
“I don’t doubt it, but it isn’t goin’ to be known. I’m postmistress
here at Harniss and I’m goin’ to keep the place. That is,” she added,
tartly, “I am unless you or some of the rest of the smart wire-pullers
work your schemes to have me put out.”
He regarded her keenly. “Now what do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“Look here, Reliance, you ought to understand that if you come to
my house to live you come as--well, as part of the family. You are
Esther’s aunt and when you and she come here I can’t have you running
back and forth to that post office. I’m figuring to take care of you
and pay your bills.”
She silenced him with an impatient movement of her hand.
“There, there!” she exclaimed. “Don’t talk that way, or I shall lose my
temper and say things that might just as well not be said. I haven’t
yet quite got over your tellin’ me how you had me appointed to that
office. You won’t have to pay my bills--no, nor Millard’s either. We
aren’t comin’ to live with you.”
He bent forward in the chair. “What’s that!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t you
just tell me you were coming?”
“Of course I didn’t. I told you that Esther Townsend was comin’. She
is; she will be here to-morrow. But Reliance Clark isn’t comin’. No,
nor Millard--unless he does somethin’ for once on his own hook and even
then he’d have to do it over my dead body. The Clarks will stay in the
house they rent of you--provided you don’t order ’em out--and pay that
rent and their own bills same as they always have.... Oh, don’t pretend
to look so surprised!” she added, sharply. “I can’t think you ever
really expected me to do anything else.”
He was surprised, however. For a moment he stared at her, his brows
drawn together and his eyes fixed upon her face. He saw no wavering
resolution or pretense there.
“Humph!” he grunted, leaning back slowly against the cushions. “So
that’s it, eh?... I see.”
“I certainly hope you do see. I should hate to believe you ever really
saw anything else. Honestly now, Foster Townsend, you never expected
that I would drop my work and my self-respect and everything else of my
own and move in here to live on your charity like--like a pauper goin’
to the poorhouse? You didn’t really expect me to do that? Come now!”
Whatever he expected, or had expected up to that time, he kept to
himself. He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and smiled.
“The same old Reliance, aren’t you,” he observed. “I told you last
night that you hadn’t changed, and I was right. You’re just as contrary
as ever.”
“Perhaps I am. I’m glad I’ve got spunk enough to be contrary when it is
necessary. And it is necessary now.”
“Humph! Answer me this: Why do you suppose I asked you and your brother
to come here if I didn’t expect you to come? If I hadn’t wanted you I
shouldn’t have asked you. I usually know what I mean.”
“Yes, you do. So do I. That’s one thing we’ve got in common, anyhow.
And--”
“Hold on! As for your coming here being like going to the
poorhouse--well, I don’t know that I’d call this place a poorhouse,
exactly. As for work, I told you I could find plenty of work for you to
do, if you wanted it.”
“Yes, but you told me you’d have to _find_ it. You didn’t say you
needed me, because you know perfectly well you don’t. Foster, I used
to know you pretty well and you haven’t changed any more than I
have--except that you’ve grown rich, and mercy knows I am as poor as I
ever was. When you used to come to see me and take me to ride and to
parties and all the rest of it--a hundred years ago, or whenever it
was--you always set out to have your own way. I must do the things you
wanted done and not do the things you didn’t want.”
He was amused. “Maybe so,” he admitted, with a chuckle, “but I remember
you generally did what you wanted to, in the end. And you’ve done it
ever since, so far as I can make out.”
“Well, haven’t you?”
“Maybe. I’ve usually tried to have my own way--yes. But you bet I made
certain that it was a good way before I started. I’ve done fairly well
by having it, too, I guess.”
“I guess you have. And I have had my way and haven’t done much; that is
what you’re thinkin’ and I may as well say it for you.”
“Now, now, Reliance, I wasn’t thinking any such thing. You’re wrong
when you say I didn’t want you to come here along with Esther. I did.”
“Yes, you did in a way. That is, you were lonesome, and that up-attic
conscience I reminded you of got to botherin’ you. You wanted somebody
to keep you company and, after all, Esther was one of your own
relations and you knew she was a nice girl. And Arabella always--” She
paused, because of the expression upon his face. “Never mind that,” she
added, hurriedly, and in a tone less sharp. “I know what Arabella was
to you and I have been awfully sorry for you this past week, Foster;
I truly have.... You wanted Esther and made up your mind to get her
here with you; but when you got to thinkin’ of that ‘good way’ you
mentioned--the surest way to have your own way about her--you thought
of me. You realized a little of how much she and I were to each other
and you were afraid you couldn’t coax her up to this house unless I
came, too. And you couldn’t get me unless Millard was thrown into the
bag. So you asked us all, hide and tail. That is the truth of it and
you know it. What is the use of makin’ believe?”
He rubbed his beard and slowly shook his head.
“You are smart, Reliance,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Part of what you
say is true. It isn’t all true, though. It would have been rather fun
to have you around. The fights we would be bound to have would have
given me something new to think about, and the way I feel just now
I need it. And I can’t see any reason why you should fly up like a
setting hen because I made the offer. There’s no charity about it. It
is what I wanted and I can afford to have what I want.”
“You can’t afford to have me. Or, anyhow, I can’t afford to come.
Oh, for mercy sakes, Foster! do you suppose you are the only soul on
earth who has any pride? About everybody who has anything to do with
you gets down on their knees and sings Psalms when you take notice of
’em. I don’t; I’m not much of a singer.... Well, well! we’ve talked
enough about what was settled in the beginnin’. Esther is comin’ here
to-morrow. We must talk about her in these few minutes I’ve got to
spare.”
He nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “Talk about her.”
“I’m goin’ to. Her position isn’t a bit like mine; it’s just the
opposite. I shouldn’t think of takin’ up with your offer. She shouldn’t
think--or be let think--of anything else. She is young, and pretty,
and she’s got a lot of sense for a girl of her age. With your money and
your influence and the chance they will give her she can have a happy
life--yes, a pretty wonderful life, and I’d be the last to say she
shouldn’t have it. I’ve done my best to make her understand that and
she has finally agreed to give you a trial.”
She had surprised him again and this time he showed his feeling.
“Humph!” he grunted, frowning. “So she’s going to give me a trial,
is she? That’s kind of her. I had an idea it might be the other way
around.”
“Yes, you would. Well, it isn’t all that way, not by a good deal. If
you think that girl is goin’ to come here and wait for you to say ‘Boo’
and then say it back, like an echo off a stone wall, you don’t know
her, that’s all. She’s sensitive and high strung and proud and she’s
got a will of her own; she’s a Townsend, too, you mustn’t forget that.
You’ve got to handle her the way you handle one of those trottin’
horses of yours, with judgment, not with a whip. You’ve got to be
awfully careful, Foster Townsend.”
Not since his early days at sea had any one lectured him in this
manner. Even his wife, in her few and rare moments of self-assertion,
had never spoken her mind as bluntly or with so little regard for his
importance. He resented it.
“Here, here!” he commanded, sharply. “We’ve had about enough of this,
seems to me. I’m not begging for the girl. She doesn’t have to say yes,
unless she wants to. Yes,” rising to his feet, “and you better tell her
I said so. If she’s fool enough not to appreciate what I planned to do
for her I don’t want her here. Call the whole thing off. I’m satisfied.”
Miss Clark did not rise. Instead she remained in her chair.
“Oh, dear!” she said, with a sigh of resignation. “It must be a
dreadful thing to be bowed down to and worshiped so long that you
come to believe you are the Lord of Creation. Foster, stop actin’
like a child. Esther is comin’ here to live; I’ve told you so a dozen
times. It is settled that she is. What I’m tryin’ to do is to make
you understand how and why she is doin’ it. She’s comin’ because I
practically forced her into it; that’s the plain truth. She didn’t want
to come.”
“Then she can stay where she is. You’ve said enough. It’s off, so far
as I’m concerned.”
“No, it’s only begun. Use your common sense, Foster. Of course she
didn’t want to come here. Perhaps in one way she did; she’s wise enough
to see what a wonderful chance it was for her to have all the nice
things in the world, go on with her music and all that. But so far as
you are concerned--why, she hardly knows you. And what she does know,
or thinks she knows, isn’t to your credit. Her mother--”
He interrupted. “That’s the meat in the nut, is it,” he growled. “I
might have known it. That woman was responsible for Freeling’s going to
the devil. I told him, before he married her, that she would be, and
that if he did marry her he could go just there; I’d never lift my hand
again to stop him. And she lied to her daughter, of course. Told her--”
“Oh, never mind what she told her. She was my half-sister and nobody
knows her faults, if you can call them that, any better than I do.
But so far as your brother is concerned, he was on his way to the Old
Harry long before he married Eunice. She helped him up more than she
pushed him down. And while we’re on the subject I might as well say the
whole of it: If you hadn’t been so high and mighty and pig-headed and
_had_ lifted that hand of yours once in a while towards the last of
his life he might not have failed in that little business of his. It
wasn’t drink that killed him; he hadn’t touched a drop since he married
Eunice. It was fightin’ to keep that business goin’ that broke him
down. If he could have come to you--”
“Well, why didn’t he come to me?”
“Oh, you--you _man_! He didn’t come because, as you just said, you had
told him never to come. You didn’t speak to him, nor his wife. And he
was a Townsend, too, and as proud as the rest of ’em. And that means
Esther. She is proud.”
“Well, if that mother of hers--”
“Oh, I know how you always felt about her mother.... But there,
Foster, all this rakin’ up of old squabbles isn’t gettin’ us anywhere.
What I set out to tell you was that Esther didn’t want to come to an
uncle who had hardly noticed her all her life and who she probably
believes--yes, of course she does, in spite of all I’ve been able to
say--was responsible for her father and mother’s troubles, and leave
me who have taken care of her for years. If I had come she wouldn’t
have hesitated--much--I guess. To come alone was different. I’ve been
all the forenoon arguin’ and advisin’ and it wasn’t until an hour or
so ago she said yes. I left her packin’ her trunk and cryin’ into it.
She doesn’t know I’m here now. I came to show you, if I could, the kind
of girl she is and what a ticklish position we are all in. You’ve got
to be gentle and forebearin’ with her, Foster, or you’ll have another
smash in the Townsend family; that’s the plain truth.”
He was leaning against the table, his hands in his pockets. For some
few minutes he had been looking at the carpet, not at her. Now he
stirred impatiently.
“Well, all right,” he said, “I’ll be as decent as I can--with my
limitations.”
“Now don’t get mad. You see what I mean. You’ll have to overlook some
things. She’ll be homesick at first. She’ll want to run down and see me
and I guess you’ll have to let her.”
“Why shouldn’t I let her? I don’t care how much she goes to see you.”
“You think you don’t, but perhaps you will. I know you pretty well. You
like to have folks jump when you give an order and to stay where they
are when you don’t. Be patient with her, won’t you?”
“I said I would.”
“Well, there’s another thing. She may expect me to come up here and see
her, sometimes, along in the beginnin’.”
“Come ahead! I don’t care how often you come.”
“I’ll try not to be a nuisance. And she’ll forget me in a little while,
of course. It will be better for her if she does. Her way of livin’
and the people she’ll have for friends won’t be my kind and she’ll be
ashamed of us by and by.”
He turned and looked down at her.
“No, no, she won’t,” he protested, with a change of tone. “If she does
I won’t own her. Don’t worry, Reliance. You’ll see her about as often
as you always have.... It’s pretty hard for you to give her up, isn’t
it? Eh?”
She rose. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”
“You needn’t do it, if you don’t want to. I won’t force either of you
into it. I’m not sure,” he added, with a shrug, “that, since you’ve
hammered the facts into me with a sledge hammer, I’m not taking the
biggest chance of the lot.”
“I guess not. It ought to be a wonderful thing for her. And as for
you--well, if you play your cards right you will have a lot of fun in
the game. Esther will be here to-morrow forenoon, she and her trunk.
You can send a wagon later on for any other of her things she may want
to keep. Good-night.”
He walked with her as far as the front door. The early dark of a cloudy
fall evening was already shrouding the yard and its surroundings. A
chill, damp breeze was whining through the bare branches of the elms
and silver-leaf poplars. Puddles of steely gray water, left after
the rain, gleamed coldly here and there. The Winslows, his neighbors
across the road, were away in Boston, so there was not even the cheer
of their lighted windows to brighten the desolation. It was the most
depressing hour of a gloomy day in the dreariest season of the year.
And he was the loneliest man on earth, just then he was sure of it.
People respected him, or pretended to; they, as Miss Clark had said,
bowed down to him; they all envied him; but was there a single soul
of them all who really cared for him, who would shed an honest tear
if he dropped dead that moment? He did not believe there was one.
And, because of his own wretchedness he felt a twinge of pity for the
woman who, because she knew it was best for Esther, was giving up
the companionship which meant so much to her. She was going to be as
lonesome, almost, as he was now.
“Say, Reliance!” he hailed.
She turned. “What is it?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing in particular.” His tone was as gruff as usual, but it
lacked a little of its customary sharp decision. “I just wanted to say
that--er--well, you needn’t worry about that post-office job. You can
have it as long as you want it. I’ll see that you do.”
“You won’t have to do any seein’, I guess. I haven’t heard of anybody’s
plannin’ to put me out.”
“You never can tell.... Oh, and say, if you should change your mind, if
you should feel, between now and to-morrow, that you--well, that you
didn’t want to have Esther leave you--if you should decide you might as
well come along with her, after all--why--”
“Don’t be silly. Good-night.”