Mrs. Carter had not yet replied to his letter. He wrote another,
stating his case more succinctly and intimating that he expected
compliance with his wishes. He even dropped a hint concerning her
obligation to him, something he had never done before.
“It may upset your plans a little,” he wrote, “and I suppose you feel
that you can’t shut up that house of yours and turn your other lodgers
adrift. Well, I don’t ask you to do that. Find some one who can handle
the craft while you are away and I will pay the bill. I have heard
you say that it was the dream of your life to go where I am planning
to send you. Here is your dream come true. You like the girl and she
likes you. You are the only one in sight that I should feel safe to
trust as skipper of a cruise like this one, with her aboard. You have
always declared that, if ever you could do anything for me, you would
do it if it killed you. Well, this won’t kill you. It may do you good.
If anything can shake the reefs out of that Boston canvas of yours I
should say this might be the thing. You will sail freer afterwards and
you will have something to talk about besides the gilding on the State
House dome. Let me hear from you right away.”
He did not hear, however. Another week passed and he had not heard.
Bob Griffin called twice more during that week. And on Sunday, after
service, while Foster Townsend stood on the church steps chatting with
Captain Ben Snow, from the corner of his eye he saw Esther and Bob
talking together and noticed, quite as clearly, the significant glances
and whisperings of his fellow worshipers as they, too, watched the pair.
Harniss was beginning to talk, of course. Neighbors had seen Griffin
entering the yard of the mansion evening after evening. Curious eyes
had remained open later than was their custom to note the hour at which
he left that yard. And they were noting that, whereas the said hour was
in the beginning as early as nine-thirty, it was now ten-thirty or, on
one occasion, close to eleven. “What is Cap’n Foster thinking about?”
people wanted to know. “Elisha Cook’s grandson coming to _that_ house!
Doesn’t the Cap’n realize what is going on? If he don’t somebody ought
to tell him.”
Nobody did tell him; no one would have dared. Various reasons for his
permitting the visits were suggested. For the most part these reasons
were connected with the lawsuit. Perhaps Griffin had quarreled with
his grandfather. That might be why he had hired Tobias Eldridge’s
shanty and was spending his days there instead of in Denboro, where he
belonged. Perhaps he and Elisha Cook had had a row and Bob had deserted
to the enemy. He might be giving Townsend inside information which
would help the latter and his lawyers. Perhaps Townsend had bought the
boy off. He had money enough to buy anybody or anything, if he cared to
use it.
Millard Fillmore Clark, as an “in-law” and a possible though but
remotely possible, source of information was questioned. Mr. Clark’s
replies to all queries were non-committal and dignified. One gathered
that he knew a great deal but was under oath to reveal nothing.
“You let us alone,” he said, loftily, “We ’tend to our business and we
generally know what that business is. Wait a little spell. Just wait.
Then I guess you’ll see what you do see.”
The few who dared drop a hint to Reliance left unsatisfied. Mrs.
Wheeler, who boasted that she made it a point to give her custom to
the “native tradespeople” whenever possible, was one of these few. She
had graciously permitted the Clark-Makepeace millinery shop to fashion
for her what she called a “garden hat,” and she dropped in at the room
in the rear of the post office building ostensibly to see how the
fashioning was progressing. After the usual preliminaries of weather,
health and church matters had been touched upon, she broached another
subject.
“I hear Captain Townsend’s attractive niece has developed a new
talent,” she observed, with a smile. “I always supposed music was her
specialty. Now I understand she has taken up painting.”
Reliance looked up from the garden hat, which was in her lap. Then she
looked down again.
“Has she?” she asked, calmly. “I didn’t know it.”
Mrs. Wheeler smiled once more. “So they say,” she affirmed. “She has
developed a fondness for art.”
“Is that so.... Don’t you think the bow would look better on the side
than right in front, Mrs. Wheeler?”
Considering how very particular--not to say fussy--the lady had
hitherto been concerning that hat she seemed surprisingly indifferent
to the position of the bow.
“No doubt,” she said, carelessly. “Arrange it as you think best, Miss
Clark.... Yes, Miss Townsend seems to be devoted to art at present--or,
at least, to an artist. Ha, ha! I know nothing of it, of course, but I
have heard such a rumor.”
Abbie Makepeace, who was a little deaf although she would never admit
it, put in a word.
“You can’t put too much dependence on what Maria Bloomer says,” she
declared. “She’ll say anything that comes into her head. All them
Bloomers are alike that way.”
Their patron regarded her coldly. “I said ‘rumor,’ not Bloomer,” she
corrected.
“Oh! Yes, yes, I see. One of Seth Payne’s roomers, was it? He’s got a
houseful of ’em this summer, so they tell me. Why, there’s a couple
there from somewheres out West--Milwaukee--or Missouri, or somewheres;
begins with a M, anyway. They’re awful queer folks. Take their meals at
Emeline Ryder’s and Emeline says she never had such cranky mealers at
_her_ table, before nor since. Why, one day, so she says, the man--I
do wish I could remember his name--found fault with the beefsteak
they had for dinner; said ’twas too tough to eat. Now, accordin’ to
Emeline ’twas as good top of the round steak as she could buy out of
the butcher cart, and she’d pounded it with the potato masher for half
an hour before she put it in the fryin’ pan. She lost her patience and
says she: ‘Now, look here, Mr. ----’. Oh, dear, dear! What _is_ that
man’s name? Funny I can’t remember it. What is it, Reliance? Do tell
me, for mercy sakes!”
Reliance could not remember, either, but she suggested various names,
none of which was exactly right. Mrs. Wheeler departed in disgust
before the matter was settled. Miss Makepeace commented upon the manner
of her exit.
“What made her switch out that way?” she inquired, in surprise. “Acted
as if she was out of sorts about somethin’, seemed to me. Don’t you
suppose she liked the hat, Reliance?”
Reliance smiled. “It wasn’t the hat that brought her here,” she
observed. “That woman was fishin’, Abbie.”
“Fishin’! What are you talkin’ about? Fishin’ for what?”
“For what she didn’t get. She wouldn’t have got it from me, anyhow,
but you saved me the trouble of tellin’ her so and, maybe, losin’ us a
customer. Do you remember that man in the Bible who wanted bread and
somebody gave him a stone? Well, that Wheeler woman wanted news and
what she got was a tough beefsteak. Serve her right. Much obliged to
you, Abbie.”
Abbie had not listened to the last part of this speech. Now she clapped
her hands in satisfaction.
“There!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got it at last. When you said somethin’
about a stone it came to me. Stone made me think of brick and brick was
what I wanted. That man’s name is Clay. Tut, tut! Well, I shan’t forget
it next time.”
That evening, when Esther came down to supper, it seemed to her
that her uncle was in far better humor than he had been for some
time. During the past week he had been somewhat taciturn and grumpy.
She suspected that matters connected with the lawsuit might not be
progressing to his satisfaction, but when she asked he brusquely told
her that was all right enough, so far as it went, although it went
almighty slow. Then her suspicions shifted and she began to fear that,
perhaps, he did not like Bob’s calling so frequently. He had never
offered objections to the calls, greeted the young man pleasantly and
usually left the pair together for the greater part of the evening.
Nevertheless--or so she fancied--his greetings were a trifle less
hearty now than they had been at first. And, on the morning following
Griffin’s most recent call, he said something at the breakfast table
which was disturbing. She had thought of it many times since.
“Well,” he observed, after the maid had left them together, “how is
the great picture painter these days? Getting to be a pretty regular
visitor, isn’t he? Coming again Tuesday night, I suppose? Eh?”
Esther, taken by surprise, colored and hesitated.
“Why--why, I don’t know, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “He didn’t say he
was.”
“Didn’t need to, perhaps. Probably thought you might take it for
granted by this time. Tuesdays and Fridays on his calendar seem to be
marked with your initials. Those other young chaps who used to drop in
here once in a while appear to have sheered off. I wonder why.”
Esther looked at him. He was smiling, so she smiled also.
“If you mean George Bartlett,” she said. “He has gone back to Boston.
His vacation is over. And Fred Winthrop is--well, I don’t know why he
doesn’t come, I am sure. I don’t like him, anyway.”
“Perhaps he guessed as much. You do like this Griffin, I take it.”
Esther had ceased to smile. “Why, yes, I do,” she declared. “I told you
I did. He is a nice boy and I do like him. But, Uncle Foster, I don’t
see why you speak this way. If you think--”
“There, there!” rather testily. “I said, in the beginning, that I
wasn’t going to think anything. You and I agreed that we wouldn’t have
any secrets from each other, so why should I think?”
“You shouldn’t. Uncle Foster, if you don’t want Bob to come here--”
“Sshh! I told you he could come--if he didn’t come too often.”
“So you do think he is coming too often?”
“I didn’t say so. I was just wondering what his grandfather might be
thinking about it. He has told the old man, of course?”
He had not and Esther knew it. Bob had announced his intention of
telling his grandfather of his friendship with Foster Townsend’s niece,
but he had put off the telling, waiting, he said, for a favorable
opportunity. Townsend, keenly scrutinizing the girl’s face, read his
answer there.
“Well, well,” he added, before she could reply. “That is his business,
not yours nor mine, my dear. Only,” he said, with a grim chuckle, “I
shall be interested to hear how Elisha takes the news.”
It was this which had troubled Esther ever since. And now Tuesday
evening had arrived and, in an hour or two, unless her surmise was very
wrong indeed, Bob himself would come. If he had not told Mr. Cook he
must do so at once. She should insist upon it.
She thought about this during supper, but afterward, when they were
together in the library, her uncle made an announcement that drove
every other thought from her mind. He seated himself as usual in the
big easy-chair, but he did not pick up the newspaper which lay upon the
table. Instead he thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at her.
“Esther,” he said, “I’ve got some news for you. You’re going to be
surprised. How long will it take you to get ready to start for Paris?”
She stared at him in utter amazement.
“To Paris!” she repeated.
“Um-hum. That is what I said. To Paris, France. How long before you
can get ready to start for there? I hope not too long, because now that
it is settled you are going the sooner you get away the better.”
She caught her breath. He must be joking--he must be. Yet he seemed
quite sincere.
“To Paris?” she cried. “Why, Uncle Foster! What do you mean? Are we
going to Paris--_now_?”
He shook his head. “Not quite such good luck as that,” he answered,
with a sigh. “I had intended that we should go together. I had promised
myself that cruise with you and I had counted on it. But I can’t get
away for a while. My lawyers say they need me here and that I can’t be
spared. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go. Ever since that
concert I have heard nothing but what a fine voice you’ve got and that
it ought to be cultivated up to the top notch. Paris is the place where
they do that kind of cultivating and there is where you ought to be.
No use wasting time. I have been tempted to be selfish and keep you
here along with me. I’ve thought up every excuse for keeping you, but
they aren’t good enough. The minute this blasted suit is tried--or
settled--or put off again or something, I’ll take the next ship and
come to you as quick as it will take me. But you must go now. And I’ve
got exactly the right person to go with you,” he added, earnestly.
She would have spoken, have protested perhaps, but he held up his hand.
“No, wait,” he commanded. “Just wait and listen. It’s all planned,
every bit of it.”
He went on to tell of the plan. The person who was to accompany her,
who was to be in charge of everything, was Mrs. Jane Carter of Boston.
She was very fond of Esther and the latter was equally fond of her. She
was wise and capable and refined and educated; she was everything which
a companion for the finest girl in the world should be. He and she had
been in correspondence for some time. Mrs. Carter was to leave her
house and her lodgers in charge of a friend and was prepared to start
within two or three weeks, if necessary.
“You and she can spend the summer traveling together, if you want to,”
he went on. “There will be arrangements to make, and lots of things to
find out about before you begin with your studies. You’ll have a good
time--and I’ll have as good a time as I can until I can get over there
with you. There! that’s the plan. Pretty good one, too, I think. What
do you say to it?”
She did not know what to say. The suddenness of its disclosure, the
surprise, the conviction by this time forced upon her that her trip
abroad was to be an actual, immediate reality and not the vaguely
marvelous dream which had been in her mind for so long, were too
overwhelming to permit her to think at all, much less speak or reason.
In the endeavor to answer, to say something, she turned toward him and
caught him off his guard. He was regarding her with a look of love and
longing, which touched her to the core. It vanished as he saw her look
and he smiled again, but she sprang from the rocker and, running to his
side, put her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his.
“Oh, no, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “No, I can’t do it. It is wonderful
of you to plan such a thing for me. It is just like you. You are--oh,
you are-- But I can’t go. It would be too selfish. I can’t go and leave
you--all alone, here at home. It wouldn’t be right at all. No, I’ll
wait until we can go together.”
He took her hand in his and held it tight. “Oh, yes, you will, dearie,”
he declared. “You’ll go because I want you to. I’ll be lonesome
without you. Good Lord, yes! I’ll be lonesome, but I can stand it for
a while. You’ll go. I want you to go. It is all settled--Eh? Confound
it! there’s the bell. Who is coming here to-night? I don’t want to see
anybody.”
She, too, had heard the bell and she knew who had rung it. She had
forgotten, but now she remembered. She withdrew her hand from her
uncle’s grasp:
“It is--I suppose it is--” she began; and then added, impulsively: “Oh,
I wish he hadn’t come!”
Foster Townsend looked up at her.
“Eh?” he queried. “Oh, yes, yes! I forgot. Tuesday night, isn’t it.
Well, all right; you and I can finish our talk to-morrow just as
well.... Here! Where are you going?”
She was on her way to the door.
“I am going to tell him I can’t see him to-night,” she said.
“No, no! Don’t do any such thing. Of course you’ll see him. You’ve got
some news for him, too. He’ll be surprised, of course--and delighted,
maybe.”
There was an odd significance in the tone of this last speech which
caused her to turn quickly and look at him. At that moment Bob’s voice
was heard in the hall and, an instant later, he entered the library.
One glance at the pair made him aware that he had interrupted a scene
of some kind. Esther’s eyes were wet and her manner oddly excited.
Her “good evening” was almost perfunctory and she kept looking at her
uncle instead of at him. Foster Townsend, also, seemed a little queer.
His handshake was as off-hand as usual; Bob never considered it more
than a meaningless condescension to the formalities. That there was
behind it any real cordiality he doubted. Esther’s uncle could scarcely
be expected to love him; that was natural enough, considering whose
grandson he was. And there was an occasional tartness or sarcasm in the
Townsend speech and a look or two in his direction from the Townsend
eyes, which confirmed his suspicion that, although Captain Foster, for
some reason, permitted him to call at the mansion, he was far from
overjoyed to see him there.
To-night--or perhaps he imagined it--the sarcasm was even more in
evidence.
“Hello, Griffin!” said the captain. “How are you?”
Bob thanked him and said that he was well.
“That’s good. Painted any more pictures to give away, lately?”
Bob smilingly shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said.
“That so? Haven’t sold any either, I suppose?”
“No, sir.”
“Humph! Kind of dull times in the trade, I should say. Take you a good
while to make a million at that rate, won’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. But I shall be satisfied with a good deal less than a
million.”
“So? You aren’t as grasping as some of your family, then.”
Bob thought it time to change the subject. He turned to the other
member of the trio.
“How are you, Esther?” he asked. “Any news since I saw you?”
Esther absently replied that there was no news. Her uncle laughed.
“She doesn’t mean that, Griffin,” he declared. “There is some news,
big news. We were just talking about it when you came in. Weren’t we,
Esther?”
“Why--why yes, Uncle Foster, we were.”
“Yes, we were. Well, I’ll leave you to tell it. Good-night.”
He turned toward the hall door. She had not forgotten the look she
had seen upon his face that instant when the smiling mask had fallen.
It had shown her a little of his real feeling, something of what the
sacrifice of her companionship meant to him. She had never loved him as
she loved him now.
“Oh, don’t go away, Uncle Foster,” she begged. “You’re not going to bed
so soon. Stay here with us. We want you to. Don’t we, Bob?”
“Certainly, of course,” agreed Bob. Townsend shook his head.
“Can’t,” he declared, cheerfully. “I’ve got another letter to write
Jane Carter and I want it to go in the morning mail. Good-night,
Esther. Good-night, Griffin.”
He went out and the door closed. Esther remained standing, looking
after him. Bob grinned. Then he drew a long breath.
“Whew!” he exclaimed in evident relief. “That storm blew over quicker
than I thought it would. The way he lit into me when I first came--and
the queer way you both looked and acted when I walked into this
room--made me wonder what had happened. What _is_ up, Esther?”
She did not answer. His grin became a laugh.
“Did you hear him give me that dig about painting pictures to give
away?” he asked. “And that other one about not being grasping as
some one else in the family? That was a whack at grandfather and the
lawsuit, of course. I thought I might be in for a row, but he was
pleasant enough when he said good-night. I wonder--”
She surprised him then.
“Oh, don’t!” she broke in, impatiently. “Don’t! He is the best, the
kindest man in the whole world. Don’t you dare say he isn’t.”
He looked at her in astonishment. Then he whistled.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Don’t take my head off. I didn’t say he
wasn’t good and kind and all that. I think he is. I rather like him, as
a matter of fact; even if he doesn’t like me.”
She turned upon him. “Now why do you say that?” she demanded. “If he
doesn’t like you why does he let you come here--to this house? You
haven’t any reason to say he doesn’t like you.”
“Maybe not. Perhaps he does like me. I hope he does. I want him to. As
for his letting me come here to see you, I must say it’s mighty decent
of him. I doubt if I should, if I were in his place--considering who I
am. Come, Esther, don’t pitch into me this way. What have I done?”
She smiled then. “Oh, you haven’t done anything, Bob,” she said. “I am
just--oh, excited and upset, that’s all. Uncle Foster has just told me
the most wonderful thing. He is going to let me do what I have wanted
to do for years and--and I ought to be very happy. I think I should be
if it weren’t that I know how terribly lonely he is going to be without
me.”
“Without you! What do you mean by that? Are you going somewhere? Is
this the big news he was hinting at? Why, Esther! You aren’t going
away, are you?”
She sat in the rocker. He was regarding her anxiously. She nodded.
“Yes, Bob,” she said, gravely. “I am. I am going abroad to study. I
didn’t know a word about it until a few minutes ago. Uncle has planned
it all. I am going with Mrs. Carter and--”
He interrupted. “What!” he cried. “You are going abroad?... When?”
“I don’t know exactly. But very soon.”
“How long are you going to stay there?”
“I don’t know that, either. A year at least, I suppose. Perhaps longer.”
“Indeed you are not!”
“Why, Bob Griffin! What do you mean?”
“I mean--well, never mind now. I guess I don’t know what I mean. Or, if
I do, it can wait. Tell me all about it. Tell me!”
So she told him, told as much of the plan as her uncle had told her.
He listened without speaking. At the end she said: “If I weren’t for
leaving him I should be so wildly happy I shouldn’t know what to do.
But, oh, Bob, I know what letting me go means to him. And he had
planned to go with me. He and I have talked ever so many times about
going to Paris together. Now he can’t go. That miserable suit and the
horrid lawyers are keeping him here. But because he thinks I ought to
go he is sending me and not thinking of himself at all. He will be
perfectly wretched without me. I know it. I almost feel like saying
that I won’t go until he does. Perhaps I ought to say it--and stick to
it. What do you think?”
He did not reply, nor did he look at her. She bent forward to look at
him.
“Why, Bob!” she cried. “What is the matter?”
He shook his head. “I wonder if you think your uncle is going to be
the only wretched person in this neighborhood?” he muttered. “Do you
think that?”
“Why--why, I suppose Aunt Reliance will miss me.”
He looked up then. “How about me?” he asked.
“You! You?... Why--why, Bob, I don’t believe I thought of you.”
“I don’t believe you did. I am afraid you didn’t. But do you imagine I
shall be--well, altogether joyful?”
She could not answer. For, all at once, she _was_ thinking of him. It
seemed strange that she had not done it before. She had not realized
that her glorious trip meant the end of their companionship. If not
the end, then at least a year of separation. And suddenly, with the
realization, came a new feeling--a rush of feelings. She gasped.
“Why--why, Bob--” she faltered.
He had risen and was standing beside her, bending over her.
“Esther,” he pleaded, desperately, “do you suppose I shan’t be
completely miserable if you go away and leave me? Why--why, you know
it! You must know it! What do you suppose my knowing you and--and being
with you, like this, means to me? Esther, doesn’t it mean anything to
you--anything at all?”
She was beginning to comprehend what it did mean. But she knew she must
not think it. It was impossible--it was insane--it was--
“Oh, don’t, Bob! Don’t!” she begged. “You--you mustn’t--”
“I must. I’ve got to. It may be my only chance. Esther, don’t you care
anything about me? I thought--I was beginning to hope-- Oh, Esther, you
are the only girl in the world for me. I love you.”
“Bob! Bob! Don’t!”
“I do. I love you. Say you love me! Say it! Say it!”
She had risen to her feet. Some wild idea of escape--of running from
the room--was in her mind. But his arms were about her.
“Say it! Say it, dear!” he pleaded.
“No, no! I mustn’t! You mustn’t--”
“You do love me? You do, don’t you, Esther?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I-- Oh, of course I don’t! I mustn’t! Let me go.”
“No, I shan’t let you go until you tell me. You do care for me, dear?
Tell me you do.”
“No, Bob.... Oh, please let me go!”
She was crying. He released her and stepped back from the chair. For
an instant he stood there and then, lifting his hands and letting them
fall again in surrender, turned away.
“Oh, well!” he sighed, miserably. “Well--there! I see how it is. I was
a fool, of course. I ought to have known. I am sorry, Esther. Forgive
me, if you can.”
She had sunk down into the rocker once more and was sobbing, her face
buried in the cushion upon its back. He spoke again.
“I hope you can forgive me,” he begged. “I didn’t mean to say those
things to you--yet. Some day of course, after you had known me
longer--and--but I had no idea of saying them now. It was your telling
me you were going away--for years--and leaving me-- Well, it drove
me crazy, that’s all. I am sorry. Of course I don’t blame you in the
least. There is no reason why you should care for me--and plenty why
you shouldn’t, I suppose. I don’t amount to much, I guess. Don’t cry
any more. I am awfully sorry I hurt your feelings.”
The head pressed against the cushion moved back and forth.
“You haven’t hurt them,” she murmured, chokingly. “I don’t know why I
am crying. I--I won’t any more.”
She sat up, fumbled for her handkerchief, and hurriedly wiped her eyes.
“Then you do forgive me?” he urged.
“There was nothing to forgive.... No,” earnestly. “No, Bob, you
mustn’t. Please don’t!... I--I think you had better go now.”
He took a step toward the door. Then he paused and turned.
“Then it is all over, I suppose?” he said. “You don’t care for me at
all?”
Her lips opened to form the No which she knew must be said, which
she had determined to say. But when her eyes met his the resolution
faltered--broke.
“Don’t ask me, Bob, please!” she begged, in desperation. “I--I--
Oh, even if I did, what difference would it make? It is perfectly
impossible--you and I-- You _know_ it is!”
He was at her side again and this time he would not be denied. He held
her close and kissed her. Then he stepped back and laughed aloud.
“That is all I wanted to know,” he cried, in triumph. “You do care.
That is enough. That is all that matters. Now let’s see them keep us
apart! You are mine--and you are going to be mine, always, forever and
ever, amen. Ha! _Now_ let them try to stop it!”
She regarded him in wonder.
“You can laugh!” she exclaimed, reproachfully.
“You bet I can laugh! I was beginning to think I never should laugh
again, but now-- Ha! They may send you to Paris or to Jericho, it
doesn’t make any difference now, Esther--”
But she held out her hands imploringly.
“Please go now, Bob,” she urged. “I must think this all over,
before--before we talk any more. I must. It is--oh, it is all as crazy
as can be and I must think it over by myself.... You will go now, won’t
you, for my sake?”
He hesitated. Then he nodded.
“Certainly I will, if you want me to,” he said. “But no matter how much
you think it doesn’t change the fact that we love each other and belong
to each other. That is settled.... Good-night, dearest. I’ll see you
Friday evening, of course. And then we can talk, can’t we.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t know what I
may have decided by that time. I am not sure that I am doing right
in letting you come on Friday--or any more at all. I am not sure of
anything.”
“I am. And I shall be thinking, too. This Paris business--well, I may
have something to say about that. I have an idea of my own--or a part
of one. It has just this minute come to me. I’ll tell you about it
then. Good-night.”
When Esther tiptoed up the stairs to her room she devoutly hoped that
her uncle’s door might be closed. She simply could not face him, or
speak with him. She dreaded those keen eyes of his. The door was open,
however, and he called to her.
“What!” he cried. “That young fellow gone so early? He’s been standing
longer watches than this lately. What’s the matter? Anything happened?”
She did not pause and she tried hard to make her tone casual.
“Oh, no,” she answered. “Nothing has happened. Good-night, Uncle dear.”
He chuckled to himself. In spite of her care there had been a tremor
in her voice. He guessed the reason, or thought he did. She had told
Griffin of the European trip and he--and perhaps she--had come to
realize that it meant the end of their association. Well, that is
exactly what he intended it to mean. No doubt they both regretted the
parting. Never mind. Esther would soon get over it. Better a trifling
heartache now than a big one later on. She should not marry Elisha
Cook’s grandson if he were the only man on earth. His own heartache at
the thought of losing her for a time was soothed by the certainty that
once more he was having his own way.