Foster Townsend drove straight home, turned the horses and carriage
over to the care of Varunas and went into the house. There, in the
library, with the portières drawn and the hall door tightly closed, he
sprawled in the big chair and, chewing an unlighted cigar, set himself
to the task of facing this entirely unforeseen setback. His carefully
laid plan had gone to smash; that fact could not be dodged. Paris
with Esther in Jane Carter’s company, three thousand miles away from
young Griffin, was one thing. Paris, with those two together, and he,
Townsend, on this side of the water, was quite another. No, if it was
true that Griffin was going there, then Esther was not. So much was
certain.
It was a galling conclusion, his pride winced under it. To think that
a boy in his twenties had forced a wily, shrewd veteran of his years
and experience to back water was almost too much to bear. It was
humiliating and the more he pondered over it the angrier he became. The
plan had been a good one. He had given it careful consideration before
he adopted it. He had tried to think of every possible objection,
but such a one as this he would have considered beyond the bounds of
possibility. And yet it was so simple. How that Griffin cub must be
chuckling in his sleeve. Of course he had seen through the strategy
behind the move and with one move of his own had checkmated it. Esther
was being sent to Paris to get her away from him, was she? All right,
he would go there, too. Easy enough!
Foster Townsend’s big body squirmed in the leather chair. He was
tempted, almost resolved, to go straight to Bob Griffin, wherever he
might be, even in his grandfather’s house, and have it out between
them, man to man--or man to boy. The prospect of an open battle was
appealing. And he was practically sure that Elisha Cook would, for
once, be fighting on his side. Elisha would, he was willing to bet, be
as firmly set against a marriage between a Cook and a Townsend as he
was, although their objections would be based upon exactly opposite
grounds. It would be amusing, at least, to watch his former partner’s
face when he learned why his grandson proposed to leave him--and for
whom. For Bob had not told, of course. Humph! Between them they could
give that smart young rooster a happy half hour.
It would not do, though; no, it would not do. Mistakes enough had been
made and he, Townsend, must not make another. Whatever was done now
must be right and he could not afford to be too hasty. At any rate,
the first thing to be done was to think of good excuses for canceling
Esther’s European trip. He had little time for that and he must act
quickly.
So, setting his teeth, he endeavored to forget anger, hurt pride, and
all the rest of the non-essentials. The checkmating was partly his own
fault. He had taken a woman’s advice, instead of depending upon his own
judgment, and was paying for it. It was Reliance Clark who had put into
his head the fool notion of sending his niece away. Neither she, nor
any one else, should put another there. Henceforward he would, as he
had told her, handle the reins. And the race was by no means lost.
He was in his room on the second floor, writing a letter, when he heard
Esther’s voice in the library.
“Uncle,” she was calling. “Uncle Foster, where are you?”
“Here I am,” he answered, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
He signed the letter he had written and addressed the envelope to
Mrs. Jane Carter in Boston. He had given her orders, short, sharp and
compelling. She was not to waste time asking questions. She was to
write what he told her to write and do it at once. And when he saw her
he would tell her why. He was as sorry as she could be that the affair
had turned out as it had.
Esther’s good humor at supper time was as pronounced as it had been
in the morning. She was nervous, however; he could see that. He did
his best to appear good-humored also. When they were in the library
together the cause for her nervousness was disclosed. She told him at
once about Bob Griffin’s going to Paris to study art. His reception
of the news was far different from what she feared it might be. He
appeared to regard it as a good thing for Bob to do.
“Why, Uncle Foster!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you awfully surprised? I
was, when Bob told me, last evening. I had no idea he even thought of
such a thing--for the present, at least.”
Her uncle rubbed his beard. “He is studying to paint pictures, just as
you are studying to sing,” he observed. “According to what I hear, they
teach both those things better over yonder than they do here. I don’t
wonder he wants to go. Good idea, I should say. When is he going?”
“Very soon. In a few weeks, he says. His grandfather has said that he
might.”
“Has, eh? Humph! Elisha must have more money than I thought he had.
Paying lawyers can’t be as expensive for him as it is for me. Or,” with
a twist of his mouth, “perhaps he doesn’t pay ’em.”
Esther hastened to explain. “Bob has some money of his own,” she said.
“His grandfather won’t have to pay any of his expenses.”
“Oh!... Oh, yes, yes! He’s rich, then, as well as handsome--and smart?”
He had not meant to emphasize the “smart,” but he did, a little. She
noticed it.
“Bob _is_ smart,” she declared. “Every one says he is.”
“And I suppose he lets ’em say it. Well, maybe he is as smart as he
thinks he is. We’ll see how it turns out.”
“What turns out? His painting, do you mean? Oh, I am sure he is going
to be a wonderful artist. Just look at that portrait he did of me, with
scarcely any study at all.”
He did not look at the portrait and he talked very little during the
evening. Esther did not mind. She was relieved that he had not shown
resentment when told that Griffin was to be in Paris during her own
stay there. Well, at all events, this proved that Nabby Gifford’s
insinuation had not a word of truth behind it.
Nothing of moment happened in the Townsend household until Tuesday
morning. Then, when breakfast was over, her uncle called her into the
library. He had a letter in his hand and there was a serious expression
on his face. He asked her to sit down, but he did not sit. Instead he
paced up and down the floor, a sure sign that he was much disturbed in
mind.
“Esther,” he said, turning toward her, “I’ve got some bad news for you.
I’m afraid you will think it is pretty bad, when I tell you what it is.
I got a letter yesterday. I didn’t say anything about it then. I always
think the morning is the time to face bad news; you have all day to
get used to it in and consequently you can sleep better when bedtime
comes.... Well, we might as well get it over. Esther, it looks as if
you wasn’t going abroad, after all--now, I mean.”
She caught her breath. She had been trying to surmise what the bad news
might be, but she had not thought of this.
“Not going abroad!” she repeated, aghast. “You mean I am not going to
Paris?”
He nodded. “That is just about what I do mean, I guess,” he affirmed.
“It looks as if you couldn’t go--for the present, anyhow. Of course, by
and by, later on, you and I will go together, same as we used to plan;
but your cruise with Mrs. Carter is off, I’m afraid.... It is a big
disappointment for you, isn’t it? Yes, I can see that it is.”
Any one could have seen it. The expression upon her face was sufficient
indication of the shock of that disappointment. He, himself, was
anything but happy. This thing he was doing was for her good; some
of those days she would realize that and be grateful to him, but
now--well, now the doing of it made him feel meanly guilty. He put his
hand on her shoulder.
“Sorry, Esther,” he said, with a shake in his voice. “I’m sorry enough
things have turned out as they have, but--well, it is for the best, I
guess. Yes,” with a nod of stubborn determination, “I _know_ it is.
Now, don’t feel too bad, my girl. Try and brace up. Come!”
She was trying, but it was hard work. If he had told her this before
Bob had told her of his going she would not have minded so much.
Since then--and particularly since the time when she had told him
of Bob’s proposed trip and he had received the tidings with such
complacency--she had thought of little else but the wonderful days to
come.
He patted her shoulder.
“Brace up, Esther,” he said. “It isn’t off for good, remember. You and
I will go over there together by and by, just as sure as I live. It is
just put off for the present, that’s all.”
“But why, Uncle Foster?” she faltered. “Why? What has happened?”
He told her Mrs. Carter had written saying she could not go. Various
things had turned up--he was not specific concerning the nature of
these things--which made it impossible for her to leave her Boston
house for some months at least.
“It’s too late to get any one else,” he explained, gently. “And,
besides, I don’t know of any one else I could trust to pilot a cruise
like that with you aboard. We must face it as it is. There are lots
of disappointments in life; I have had my share of them. And pretty
generally,” with another dogged nod, “they turn out to be for the best
in the end. You just try and believe this one will turn out that way.”
She told him that she would try, but her tone was so forlorn that
his feeling of meanness and guilt increased. And her next speech
strengthened them still more.
“I won’t be a baby, Uncle Foster,” she bravely answered him. “I know
you are as sorry as I am. It isn’t your fault at all, of course. And,”
with an attempt at a smile, “I know, too, that I ought to be glad for
your sake. I have never felt right about leaving you.”
He shifted uneasily and gave the “cricket” before the easy-chair a kick
which sent it sliding across the floor.
“Don’t talk that way,” he growled. “I--Humph! Well, I’ll make this all
up to you before we finish, I’ll swear to that.... Say,” with a sudden
inspiration, “I tell you one thing we’ll do! I shall have to go to
Washington one of these days and I’ll take you with me. We’ll have a
regular spree along with the President and the rest of the big-bugs.
That will be something to look forward to, anyhow.”
Perhaps, but, compared to that toward which she had been looking,
it was a very poor substitute. And all the rest of that day her
disappointment increased rather than diminished. She dreaded Bob’s call
that evening. Poor fellow! he would be as disappointed as she was.
But he must go, just the same. He must not sacrifice his opportunity
for travel and study because hers was postponed. He must go as he had
planned. She should insist upon that.
There were other thoughts, too, but she tried not to think them. It had
seemed to her that her uncle’s reasons--or Mrs. Carter’s reasons--for
canceling the trip had been rather vague and not altogether sufficient
to warrant upsetting the plans of so many people. And the decision was
so sudden. Her last letter from the lady had contained not a hint of
change. It was full of enthusiastic anticipation. Her uncle--
She resolutely refused to think along that line. Her uncle had felt so
badly when he broke the news to her. She remembered the tremble in his
voice. No, she would not be so disloyal or ungrateful as to suspect....
Never mind Nabby’s suggestion. Nabby was what her employer sometimes
called her, a clucking old hen.
She would have gone to her Aunt Reliance and sought consolation there,
but the Welfare Society met again that afternoon and she felt bound to
attend the meeting.
Bob Griffin, when he came that evening, was in such a glow of high
spirits that he could scarcely wait for Foster Townsend to leave the
library before voicing his feelings. Townsend appeared to notice his
condition.
“You look fit as a fiddle to-night, seems to me,” he observed.
“Counting the days till you get to Paris, I suppose; eh? Well, I don’t
wonder. Pretty big thing for a young fellow.”
Bob was a little surprised.
“Oh, then Esther has told you about it?” he asked.
“Um-hum. She told me.”
“What do you think of the idea, sir? Of my going there to study, I
mean?”
“Think it is just what you should do. If you’ve made up your mind to
paint for a living then the better painter you learn to be the better
living you’ll make--if you can live at all at that job.... Oh, yes,
yes!” he added, before either of the pair could reply. “I suppose
likely you think you can. And you may be right. _I_ don’t know about
such things.”
The moment the hall door had closed behind him Bob turned to Esther and
seized her hands.
“Only a few more weeks,” he announced, triumphantly. “In less than
a month you and I will be sauntering down the Champs Elysées or the
‘Boul Mich’ or somewhere. I have engaged my passage. I am going on the
_Lavornia_. She sails from New York just eight days after your ship
leaves. We shan’t be separated long, shall we?”
She withdrew her hands from his and shook her head.
“Bob,” she said, “I have dreaded seeing you to-night. I have something
to tell you that you won’t like at all. I don’t like it either, but it
can’t be helped. All our plans are changed. I am not going to Paris.”
He stared. “Not going to Paris?” he repeated. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, for the present. I am going to stay here in Harniss.... Wait!
Please wait, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She told him of the letter from Mrs. Carter and her uncle’s decision
that the European trip must be postponed. He would have interrupted a
half dozen times, but she begged him not to.
“So you see, Bob,” she said, in conclusion, “you and I won’t meet over
there as soon as we expected. I can’t go now, although perhaps some day
I shall. I am glad you are going. I am awfully glad of that.”
He had risen and was standing before her. His lips were set and he was
frowning. Now he laughed scornfully.
“Esther,” he protested, “don’t! Don’t be silly. You can’t really think
I would go if you didn’t.”
“Why, of course I do. You must go. Certainly you are going.”
“Certainly I am not. Huh! I should say not! If you don’t go neither do
I. If they make you wait I’ll wait, too.”
“Bob! Oh, please, Bob, be reasonable. Think of what it means to you.
Your chance to study, to go on with your painting, to get ahead in the
world! Do you suppose I shall let you give up your opportunity just
because mine is postponed for a while? Did you think me as selfish as
that?”
He shook his head. “You bet I don’t go!” he muttered. “Indeed I don’t!
They don’t get me away from you as easily as that comes to.”
“Bob!... What do you mean by that? No one is trying to get you away
from me.”
Again he laughed. “Oh, Esther,” he said, impatiently, “don’t let’s
pretend. You know what this means as well as I do. It is as plain as
print. Captain Townsend--”
“It isn’t his fault. It is Mrs. Carter who can’t go. That is the
reason.”
“Esther! Can’t you _see_? Oh, but of course you do! This Mrs. Carter
is doing what your uncle has told her to do. She has called it off,
trumped up the excuse, because he ordered her to do it.”
“Bob!” sharply. “Stop! You mustn’t say such things. You know they
aren’t true. Why, it was Uncle Foster who persuaded Mrs. Carter to go,
in the first place.”
“Yes, and now he has ordered her not to. Bah!” with an angry wave of
the hand, “it is as plain as if it was painted on the wall. He doesn’t
want me coming here to see you; he never did.”
“Then why did he let you come at all?”
“I don’t know--unless it was because he thought we might be seeing each
other somewhere else anyhow, and he could keep an eye on us as long as
we were in his house.”
“Bob! If you say another word like that I shall go away and leave you.
Uncle Foster knows that he doesn’t need to keep an eye on me. He trusts
me absolutely.”
She was indignant, but he was angry and sure of the correctness of his
suspicions.
“He doesn’t trust _me_, then,” he declared, stubbornly. “He hates me,
because I am a Cook. He was sending you to Europe to get you where I
couldn’t see you. Well, I guessed that little trick right away and
played a better one on him. I decided to go to Paris myself. He had not
thought of that, I guess. It must have jolted him when you told him.”
“Bob, I won’t listen to such things.”
“And then, when you did tell him, he saw his little game was up and so
he has made up his mind to keep you here. Well, all right, then he can
keep me here, too. He isn’t the only one who can change their mind. I’d
like to tell him so.”
He strode to the hall door and stood there almost as if determined
to follow Foster Townsend to his room and tell him there and then.
She was silent for a moment. The things he had said were in exact
confirmation of the suspicion voiced by Nabby Gifford and which she had
not permitted herself to consider.
“The sly old rat!” he muttered between his teeth. She caught her breath.
“No!” she cried. “No, I don’t believe a word of it.... And even if
it were true--which it isn’t--it mustn’t make any difference in your
going. You must sail on the _Lavornia_ just as you planned.”
He spoke over his shoulder. “I shan’t,” he vowed, determinedly. “I stay
right here.”
“No, you mustn’t do any such thing. I shan’t let you.”
“You can’t stop me.... No, and he can’t either. The scheming old
hypocrite!”
She walked to the door now and opened it.
“You had better go home,” she said. “I don’t care to hear you speak
in this way any longer. When you are ready to talk and behave like a
sensible person you may come back and perhaps I will listen to you. But
not until you beg my pardon for saying such things about Uncle Foster.”
He swung about to face her. “But, Esther,” he cried, “you know they are
true.”
“I know you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying them, for
calling him a hypocrite and all the rest.”
“Well, what else is he? Making believe to you that--”
“Stop! Will you go now, please?”
“Of course I shan’t! I have only just come. Esther, dear, I am sorry
if I said more than I should. I am mad clear through. Oh, we must not
quarrel because--because he--”
“_Will_ you stop talking about him? And will you go this minute?”
He jammed his hands into his pockets. His face was flushed and hers
white, but the fire in his eyes was dying. He tried to take her hand,
but she drew it away.
“Do you really want me to go--now?” he asked, incredulously. “You can’t
mean it, dear.”
“I do mean it. I think it is very much better that you should. You have
said enough to-night, more than enough. I don’t want to hear more and I
don’t feel like talking, myself. Please go.”
He hesitated, then he surrendered.
“Perhaps you are right,” he admitted. “I guess I am not very good
company; shan’t be until I get over this. When I come again I’ll try
to behave more like a Christian. I am awfully sorry, dear. You will
make allowances and forgive me, won’t you? Good heavens, think what a
disappointment this has been for me. All my plans--”
“They were my plans, too.”
“Yes, so they were. Well, when may I come again? I shan’t have to wait
until Friday, shall I? This little bit of a half hour doesn’t really
count, you know. May I come to-morrow night?”
“No. I want you to take time to think this all over. And when you come
I want to hear you say that you will go ahead just as you intended.”
“Without you?”
“Certainly; without me for the present.”
“Esther Townsend, are _you_ in on this? Are _you_ trying to get rid of
me?”
She looked at him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said,
icily. “Good-night.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it! You know I didn’t. I am--I am talking like
a fool, of course. But you don’t really expect me to go across the
Atlantic Ocean and leave you on this side? You don’t really ask me to
do that?”
“I do. It is for your sake. For the sake of your work and all it means.
I don’t want to see you again until you are ready to promise me just
that.”
His chin lifted. “Then I am afraid you won’t see me very soon,” he
declared.
“That is for you to say. If you don’t care enough, or trust me enough,
to make a promise I ask you to make, especially when what I ask is
entirely for your good, then--well then, perhaps you had better not
come at all.”
“Esther, the other night you said--you told me-- And now you want me to
go off three thousand miles and leave you! Well, I must say!”
“Bob, will you make me that promise?”
“I--I-- Oh, I don’t know! It doesn’t seem as if I could.”
“And if you do make it, will you keep it? You promised me weeks ago
that you would tell your grandfather of your coming to this house to
see me. Have you told him?”
He frowned. That promise had been on his mind every waking moment since
it was made. Time and time again he had been on the point of telling
Elisha Cook of his visits to the Townsend mansion, but always the time
had seemed inopportune. He was no coward, but he knew, better than she
or any one else knew, the storm which was sure to follow. It might mean
a complete break between his grandfather and himself, and he loved the
old man dearly. Yet he had meant to keep his promise, still meant to do
so.
He shook his head.
“Well, no, Esther, I haven’t yet. We have had one tremendous row in the
family lately, when I told him I was going abroad. I haven’t had the
spunk to risk another. I shall tell him, though--and soon. Please don’t
think--”
“Oh, hush! What need is there to think? I can see. Good-night.”
The door closed. He stood, for a minute, looking at the ground glass
in its panels. Then the light behind those panels went out. He turned
away, in a state of mind divided between disgust, resentment and
discouragement. Women were a non-comprehensible lot, and the best of
them seemed to be as illogical and unreasonable as the worst. It was
a thought by no means original, but he considered it a discovery all
his own. He walked to the stable, climbed into his buggy and drove, in
miserable reverie, to Denboro.
Upstairs in the pink room Esther was lying upon the bed, her wet cheeks
buried in the pillows. The things Bob had said about her uncle were
wicked--wicked. But if they were true then her uncle was wicked. And,
in that case, she, herself, for having treated Bob as she had, was the
most wicked of all. It was a wicked, hateful world altogether.