Esther’s hours of sleep that night were few indeed. She was happy one
moment and miserable the next. Bob loved her--he told her so. And
she loved him, she was sure of it now. But did they love each other
enough? Were they sufficiently certain of that love to go on to face
its inevitable consequences, regardless of what those consequences must
mean to themselves and to others? For if they were not, both of them,
absolutely sure, those consequences were too tremendous to be faced.
Her uncle had permitted friendship between Elisha Cook’s grandson and
herself--the fact of his doing so was still an unexplainable mystery to
her--but she was certain that he would never consent to their marriage.
And Bob’s grandfather would be equally resolute in his opposition. It
was one thing to say, as Bob had said, that the family feud had no part
in their lives. It had. She loved her uncle dearly and she knew that
he idolized her. She owed him a debt of gratitude beyond the limits of
measure. Only one reason could ever be strong enough to warrant her
risking the end of their affectionate association and the repudiation
of that debt. If she were certain that she loved Bob Griffin--really
loved him and would always love him--then nothing else mattered.
Except, of course, the same certainty of his enduring love for her. But
were they certain? They had known each other such a short time.
And there were other considerations. Her future with her beloved music,
the career she had dreamed. She had no money of her own. Bob had some,
but not a great deal. He was almost as dependent upon his grandfather
as she was upon Foster Townsend. Might not his chances for fame and
success as an artist be wrecked if he married her? She must think of
that, too. There was so much to think of. She thought and thought,
but morning brought no definite conclusion except one, which was that
she must continue to think and, meanwhile, there must be no plighted
troth, no engagement, no definite promise of any kind between them. She
would tell Bob that when they next met. If he really loved her he would
understand and be willing to wait, as she would wait, and see.
She came downstairs early and found that her uncle was an even earlier
riser. He had gone out to the stable, so Nabby said, but would, of
course, come in to breakfast when called. And he had already told Mrs.
Gifford of Esther’s coming trip abroad. Nabby was excited and even more
voluble than usual.
“I suspicioned there was somethin’ up,” she declared. “He’s been
nervous and uneasy for over a fortni’t. And cranky--my soul! He was
like a dog with one flea, you never could tell the place he’d snap
at next. Varunas noticed it too, of course, and he was consider’ble
worried about it. Honest, I cal’late Varunas was beginnin’ to be afraid
that your uncle was losin’ his mind or somethin’. ‘He’s touched in
the head, I do believe,’ he said. ‘If he ain’t why does he allow that
grandson of ’Lisha Cook’s to come here so twice a week reg’lar? A Cook
don’t belong in this house and you know it, Nabby. What is he let come
here for?’
“Well, I didn’t know why, of course, but I never see Foster Townsend
yet when he didn’t have a reason for doin’ things and I spoke right up
and said so. ‘When Cap’n Foster gets ready to put that Griffin boy out
he’ll do it,’ I told him. ‘You say yourself the cap’n don’t act natural
these days. Well, maybe there’s the reason. Probably he don’t really
like that young feller’s ringin’ our front doorbell any better than you
do, and he’s just waitin’ for a good excuse to tell him so.’ That’s
what I said, but I wan’t so terrible satisfied with _what_ I said and
Varunas he was less satisfied than I was.
“‘Hugh!’ says he, disgusted. ‘When I see Foster Townsend waitin’ for an
excuse to do what he wants to, then I won’t guess he’s gone crazy, I’ll
_know_ it. When he sets out to tell the President of the United States,
or the minister, or Judas Iscariot, or anybody else, to go to Tophet
he tells ’em so and then thinks up the excuse afterwards. You bet he
ain’t actin’ natural! Nabby Gifford, if Foster Townsend don’t need a
doctor, or a keeper or somethin’, then I do. This kind of goin’s on is
too much for _me_!’”
Having contributed this conversational gem from the Gifford family
treasury, Nabby paused. Possibly she expected Esther to offer some
explanation of the Griffin visits. If so she was disappointed, for
Esther said nothing. Nabby picked up a fork from the breakfast table
and then put it down again.
“Well, anyhow,” she continued, “be that as it will or must, as the
sayin’ is, your uncle has acted queer for quite a spell and ’twan’t
until this very mornin’ that he give me the least hint of why he was
doin’ it. When he told me no longer than twenty minutes ago, that
he had been layin’ his plans for you to go over to live along with
them--er--heathen in foreign lands--when he told me you was goin’ and
he was goin’ to stay here to home alone--I got my answer, or part of
it anyhow. The poor soul is about crazy with lonesomeness at the very
idea. That’s what ails him. Are you really truly goin’ to go, Esther?”
Esther nodded. “Uncle says I must,” she replied. “He wants me to go on
with my singing and my music and he can’t go himself--at present.”
She went on to tell of the proposed trip, of Mrs. Carter, and the
details as she had been told them by Townsend.
“Goodness knows I don’t want to leave him,” she said, “but he insists
that I must. He has arranged for everything. I tried to say No, but he
won’t listen. He will have his own way, as he always does, I suppose. I
know how lonesome he will be. I shall be almost as lonely without him,”
she added.
Nabby seemed to be thinking. There was an odd expression upon her face.
“You don’t suppose--” she began, and stopped in the middle of the
sentence.
“I don’t suppose what?” Esther asked.
“Oh, nothin’! It’s silly, I guess. I just wondered--it come across
my mind--if it might be he was sendin’ you off so’s to get you away
from--well, from this Bob Griffin.... Humph! No, ’tain’t likely he’d do
that, because--”
Esther broke in. Her face was flushed and her tone indignantly
resentful.
“The idea!” she cried. “What do you mean by saying such a thing, Nabby
Gifford? How ridiculous! What has Bob Griffin got to do with my going
abroad? Uncle and I had planned to go together; we have talked about it
ever so many times. What on earth are you talking about?”
Mrs. Gifford hastily protested that she had not meant anything.
“’Twas just a foolish notion, I know,” she admitted. “Don’t know why
I said it, I don’t. Of course if Cap’n Foster wanted to get clear of
that Cook boy he’d have told him his room was a whole lot better’n his
company. He don’t _have_ to let him come here.”
“Oh, stop! Why shouldn’t he come here? He hasn’t anything to do with
the old lawsuit. Yes, and so far as that goes, Uncle Foster asked him
to call.”
Nabby stared. For an instant her mouth, which had opened to speak,
closed and remained so. Varunas had vowed, during one of their domestic
conferences, that he would give something for a tintype of her in that
condition. “Only ’twould be so mirac’lous nobody’d believe ’twas you,”
he had added.
The miraculous condition lasted but the fraction of a second. The mouth
opened again.
“_What!_” gasped Nabby. “Do you mean to tell me that Cap’n Foster
_asked_ that Griffin one to come to this house--really asked him?”
Esther hesitated. She had spoken too hastily. And what she had said
was not the exact truth. Her uncle had not invited Bob to call; he had
merely prophesied that he would call. But at all events he had not
forbidden him to do so.
“Oh, never mind!” she said, turning impatiently away. “What difference
does it make?... Here is Uncle now, thank goodness!”
He came into the dining room, smilingly bade her good-morning, and
they sat down to breakfast. She was apprehensive. They had agreed that
neither should keep a secret from the other, but, in spite of this
agreement, she was certain that this secret--hers and Bob’s--must be
kept, at least until she was sure what her final answer to Bob should
be. When her mind was fully made up, either one way or the other, she
would tell him, but meanwhile it was far better for all concerned to
say nothing. So she tried her best to appear at ease and, while pouring
the coffee, commented upon the weather and similar safe and everyday
topics. His replies were equally casual. Nevertheless she was still
fearful. It seemed to her that those sharp eyes of his must see through
her pretense.
Apparently they did not. He spoke of the Paris trip, of course. She was
to sail in a few weeks. He had written another letter to Mrs. Carter
and bade the latter make preparations to leave as soon as possible.
“Not that I’m in a hurry to get rid of you,” he added, with a rueful
smile. “I guess you know it isn’t that. But I am something like Sarah
Bigsby, after she lost her husband. She told Colton, the minister, that
she didn’t know but she wished Isaac had died sooner, because if he had
she would have had more time to get used to missing him in.”
It was not until they were about to rise from the table that he
mentioned the subject she most dreaded.
“Humph!” he observed, folding his napkin. “Well, young Griffin was as
surprised when you told him the news as we thought he would be, eh?”
Esther was thankful that her own napkin required folding. She could
look at that and not at him.
“Yes, Uncle Foster,” she answered. “He was very much surprised.”
“I’ll bet! And glad to have you go, of course?”
She pretended not to notice the irony in the question.
“Why, he was glad I was to have such a wonderful trip and the
opportunity to keep on with my music,” she replied.
“Um-hum. I’m sure of that. Coming around Friday night, as usual, is he?”
“I--I don’t know.... Why, yes, I do know, too. He said he should come,
so I suppose he will.”
The statement seemed, for some reason, to irritate him. He thrust the
folded napkin into the ornate and massive silver ring--it had been a
birthday gift from his wife--and rose to his feet.
“Humph!” he growled. “I’ll bet! If he ’tends church as regular as he
does here he’ll stand a better chance for heaven than any of his crew
I ever heard of.... There, there!” he added, his ill-humor vanishing
as quickly as it came. “Don’t mind my crankiness. I am liable to be
that way for a while. Every time I think of sitting down to breakfast
here without you I want to bite somebody. For the first few mornings
after you leave I guess likely ’twill be better to have Nabby wait on
table, instead of the other girl. Nabby would be moderately safe. I
don’t imagine I should bite her; she’s too old and stringy to tempt my
appetite.”
He mentioned Bob’s name but once more that morning. Then he asked a
question he had asked before.
“Has he told his grandfather yet about how sociable and friendly he has
got to be with us?” he inquired. “No?... Humph! Saving the news for the
old man’s birthday, maybe, the way you and he saved up that picture for
mine. Well, many happy returns, Elisha. Ho, ho!”
Esther made no comment. The speech, however, strengthened her
conviction concerning her uncle’s real feeling toward Bob. If he
knew--or when he knew.... She shuddered at the thought and endeavored
to put it from her mind. Meanwhile she tried her best to show by every
word and act her devotion and love for Foster Townsend. She and her
uncle were closer during this period than ever before. Later she was to
be very thankful that this was so.
Bob came on Friday evening at the usual hour, and, also as usual, soon
after his arrival Townsend went to his own room. His keen dislike for
any member of what he contemptuously called the “Cook tribe” was now,
in Griffin’s case, augmented by a bitter jealousy. Yet he could not
bring himself to remain there and stand guard upon them. He had told
Esther he trusted her. Well, he would carry the trust to the limit,
and, thank heaven, that limit was close at hand. Foster Townsend prided
himself upon never having, in trade or politics or horse racing,
played the sneak. He would beat his competitor by what he considered
fair means--that is, by craft or shrewdness or even force--but not by
sneaking or spying. To remain in that room during Bob Griffin’s visits
seemed to him just that, and he would not stoop to it.
Esther, for her part, was always conscious of the trust which her uncle
placed in her. It was noble of him, she thought. And this particular
evening, as he left the room and she turned to face her lover, the
consciousness strengthened her determination to say what must be said.
That it would be hard to say she knew. But when they were alone and Bob
came toward her, his hands outstretched and his face alight, it was
harder than she had dreamed.
He would have taken her in his arms, but she avoided the embrace.
“No, Bob, no!” she protested. “You mustn’t. Please don’t!”
He persisted, of course, but she was firm.
“You mustn’t,” she repeated. “It isn’t right.”
He laughed. “Right!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course, it is right. I have
been waiting for it--forever, it seems to me. Nothing else _is_ right.
Come, Esther!”
Still she avoided him. “No, Bob,” she insisted, “it isn’t right. It
is wrong--now, at least. Oh, don’t make it so hard for me! Sit down,
please. I have so much to say to you.”
He hesitated. Then, with a shrug and a smile, he threw himself into the
easy-chair.
“Well,” he observed, still smiling. “I don’t know what this is all
about, but here I am. I am going to listen because you ask me to, but
nothing you may say will make the slightest difference between you and
me. I tell you that in the beginning.”
“Oh, yes, it will! It must.”
“But it won’t. When you told me you loved me--”
“But I didn’t! I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. At any rate, you couldn’t say you didn’t love me and
that amounted to the same thing.... Oh, my dear, what is the use of
pretending? You know we love each other. Nothing else matters but that.”
“Yes, something else does matter. It must matter. Oh, Bob, _please_
be reasonable and help me, instead of making it harder. Even if I do
care--even if we both care--”
“And we do ... now, don’t we?”
“Oh, please! Don’t you _see_? There is so much to be thought of. I have
been thinking every minute since--since you went away. Bob, haven’t you
thought at _all_?”
He shook his head. “I have been thinking of just one thing,” he
declared. “The essential thing. That is enough for me.”
“It isn’t enough. It can’t be. How can we be so selfish? When I think
of Uncle Foster and of your grandfather and what this would mean to
them, and to me, if they knew it--”
“Esther!”
“Bob--_do_ think a little! If you and I were to--to--well, to tell them
we were engaged, that we dreamed of such a thing, they would--I don’t
know what they might do. They hate each other. Uncle loves me dearly,
but he never, never would be reconciled to my marrying you. He would
turn me out of his house, I know, and--”
Bob interrupted. “Esther, _dear_!” he protested. “What are you talking
about? People don’t turn their relations out of doors into the snow
nowadays, except on the stage. Captain Townsend would be mad at first,
perhaps; although if he does worship you, as you say, I can’t think he
would be mad long. Naturally, _if_ he loved you, he would want you to
do what would make you happiest. But, mad or not, he wouldn’t turn you
out. That is foolish.”
“No, it isn’t. And I am sure your grandfather would have nothing more
to do with you. They aren’t like other people. This lawsuit has--well,
it has made them almost crazy--in that way.”
Her earnestness had its effect. Bob’s lip tightened. “Well, then,” he
said, grudgingly, “suppose they did--turn us out, as you say? Probably
they wouldn’t, but if they did--what of it? We would have each other.
I have a little money and I could earn more. Look here, Esther; if you
care as much for me as I do for you you won’t mind being poor. That
won’t count at all. We’ll be together and--well, give me the chance and
I swear you shan’t be poor long.... Of course, if you _don’t_ care for
me as much as that--if what you think about is money, why--”
“Bob! Bob, how can you! If money were all--yes, and if I, myself,
were all, I should-- No, I don’t even know that. I must be very, very
certain before I even consider what I might do.”
“Certain! Certain of what? Do you mean that you don’t know whether you
love me or not?... Esther!”
He was very appealing as he leaned forward in the chair, his eyes fixed
upon hers. But she fought against the appeal as she had determined to
fight.
“Why--why, yes, Bob,” she said, “perhaps I mean just that. I like you
very much. Perhaps I may even--”
“Esther, dearest--”
“No. There must not be any ‘perhaps.’ There can’t be if you and I are
to give up everything--and everybody--and think only of ourselves.
And then--if I were absolutely sure I loved you enough to do that--I
should--yes, then more than ever, I should have to think of you. If
I came to be the cause of spoiling your life, your success with your
painting and all that, I should never forgive myself.”
“Nonsense! You spoil my life! You! Why, you will be the one who will
make me sure to succeed. With you to work for, and to help me, I can do
anything. Just give me the chance to prove it.... But there! I guess I
see how it is. You don’t love me, after all.”
“You mustn’t say that. Bob, you said just now that if Uncle Foster
really cared for me he would want to do what would make me happiest. If
you really care, as you say you do, you, too, will want me to be happy.
How can I be, knowing that what I am doing is sure to make my uncle and
your grandfather miserable, and might, unless we were both very sure,
make you and me miserable later on? I can’t. You mustn’t ask me to.”
He leaned back in the chair. For a moment he looked at her. Then he
rose to his feet.
“Yes,” he said, gloomily. “I see. You _have_ thought it over, haven’t
you?... Well, all right. If the idea of marrying me makes you miserable
I should be the last to coax you into doing it. You are right there, I
guess.... Well, good-by.”
She, too, rose.
“No,” she said, hurriedly. “No, Bob, it isn’t good-by. That is, unless
you want it to be.”
“What is it, then?”
“It is just--just wait. Wait and see. We needn’t--no, we
mustn’t--consider ourselves engaged. We mustn’t even talk about that
yet awhile between ourselves. If you are willing for us to go on as
friends, good friends, and wait until--until we both _know_ the right
thing to do, then--well, I should like that very much indeed. That
_would_ make me happy.”
He turned and caught her hand.
“Esther,” he pleaded, earnestly, “before I answer that will you answer
one question of mine, just one? You say you aren’t sure you love me?”
“I said I was not sure I loved you enough to warrant the sacrifice both
of us would have to make.”
“I see. Well, just one more. Are you sure you don’t love me at all?”
“No, Bob.”
“You just want us to keep on being friends and wait until you are sure?”
“Until I am sure one way or the other. Yes.”
“All right. I will wait until we are both a hundred years old and have
our wedding in the home for aged couples, if that’s necessary. The
waiting will end in just one way, because that is the way it has got to
end. You are worth waiting for, and I’ll be game. It’s a bargain....
And now what?”
“Why, now sit down and we’ll talk about other things, just as we always
have.”
Which was easy to say, but hard to do. They tried to confine the
conversation to the safe channels of everyday travel, but those
channels were tremendously dull and uninteresting. Esther told the
little more she had learned of her uncle’s plan for her European trip
and Bob listened absently. It seemed to her--and in spite of her good
resolutions she felt a pang of disappointment--that he was surprisingly
resigned to the parting and long separation. Instead of groaning when
she told him she might remain abroad for even two years instead of
one, he smiled and agreed that one year’s study was not sufficient to
complete her musical education. It was not until he had risen to go
that he gave the reason for his complacency.
“I haven’t told you that you weren’t the only one who had a plan, have
I?” he asked, with a twinkle. “I should have told it at first if you
hadn’t washed everything else out of my head with that bucket of cold
water about not being sure that you cared a continental for me. I’ve
had a surprise up my sleeve for you all the evening. I am going to
Paris, myself.”
She gasped. “Bob Griffin!” she cried. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I can’t have you climbing up to be a prima donna while I
stay here and keep on daubing at two-for-a-cent pictures. No, I’ll be
studying to be a Rembrandt. And in the same city. I sail for Paris
about as soon as you do. If I dared it would be on the same ship....
Hold on! Let me tell you about it.”
It was the idea he had already mentioned, that which had come to
him just before their parting on Tuesday evening. The money he had
inherited was sufficient to pay his expenses. He had always intended
using it for some such purpose.
“Of course,” he added, with a rather rueful grin, “there was a time, a
little while ago, when I began to hope I--well, you and I--might use
some of that money in other ways; but when you said you were going
abroad, to leave me biting my brush ends on this side of the pond, I
saw a new light. I told grandfather and, of course, there was a rumpus.
He gave in, finally, as he usually does, because he is a good old
sport and also, I guess, because he saw fighting was no use in this
case. I am going, and going pretty soon. I’ll be in Paris when you are
and as long as you are; be there waiting for you to make up your mind
concerning that matter we mustn’t talk about. We’ll be there together,
and waiting together.... Now what do you think of that?”
She did not know what to think, still less what to say. And she could
not trust herself to say much of anything at the moment. She was
conscious of a thrill, a dangerous thrill, of delight. They were not to
be separated, after all. He was to be near her during her exile, she
would see him often, perhaps almost as often as now. Why--
And, as they stood there in the doorway of the hall, the clock in that
hall chimed eleven.
“Well, what _do_ you think?” he repeated. She shook her head.
“I can’t think at all--now,” she confessed. “I-- Well, you have taken
my breath away. Are you sure-- But I mustn’t talk about it to-night.
It is eleven o’clock and you must go. The next time I see you you will
tell me all about it, of course.”
“Of course. And that will be Tuesday evening, or sooner. But tell me
this: Aren’t you glad?”
“Of course I am glad. You know I am.... Good-night.”
He lingered for an instant. This was not the sort of “good-night” he
had counted upon when he came. But it was a part of the bargain. He had
sworn to be “game.”
“Good-night, Esther,” he said, and walked down the path.