At four that afternoon Reliance Clark was alone in the millinery
shop at the rear of the post office building, sewing this time not
upon the material for a bonnet or hat, but a much-needed dress for
herself, which she was making over from an old one. Business at the
Clark-Makepeace shop was distressingly dull. The summer season was at
an end. The cottages, most of them, were closed. Even the Wheelers,
usually among the very last to leave, had departed for New Haven.
Margery, so people said, was responsible for the curtailing of their
stay. “The poor child,” so her mother explained to Mrs. Colton, “is
tired out. She worked _so_ hard to make the ‘Pinafore’ performance a
success. If it had not been for her persistence and patience--yes,
and talent, if I do say so, my dear--I don’t know how we should have
come through. And then this distressing accident--if it _was_ an
accident--to Mr. Covell. It was the last straw. Such a shock to her
nerves. She and poor Seymour were _great_ friends. Of course Margery
says little about it, even to me, but she has not been herself since
it happened. Yes, we are closing the cottage. Where we shall spend the
winter I am not yet just sure. I rather fancy California, but Margery
seems more inclined toward the Riviera. Of course what Mr. Wheeler may
decide is uncertain, but it will, without doubt, be one or the other.”
Skeptics, remembering similar declarations of former years, smiled
behind the lady’s back. Captain Ben Snow said to his wife:
“Um-hum. Yes. Well, California’s a good place and so, I shouldn’t
wonder, is this River-what-d’ye-call-it, but they are a long way
off--and expensive. Adeline Wheeler may talk California and Margery
somewhere else, but when papa begins to say things he’ll say New Haven,
Connecticut, same as he always has before. As my grandfather used to
tell, ‘Talk is cheap, but it takes money to buy Medford rum.’ You can
address your Wheeler mail to New Haven, Mary, and I guess it won’t
fetch up in the dead letter office.”
Whether this prophecy was or was not a true one remained, of course, to
be seen, but at all events the Wheeler household had joined the general
exodus from Harniss. The gatherings in the post office at mail times
had shrunk almost to mid-winter size. Reliance found time to do her
housekeeping in the manner which, according to her New England ideas,
housekeeping should be done, and to attend to her own dressmaking. On
this particular afternoon, Abbie Makepeace had gone home early to write
her column for the _Item_.
Millard Fillmore Clark was on duty in the little room behind the racks
of letter boxes. Mr. Clark had passed a most unhappy eighteen hours.
The trouble began immediately after his return home the previous
evening, following the impromptu excursion to and from Denboro. He had
delayed that return until ten, hoping that Reliance might have gone
to bed. She was up and awaiting him, however, and he was subjected to
a questioning which developed into a cross-examination and continued
as a tongue lashing lasting far into the morning. He slunk upstairs
with a very definite idea of the position he occupied in his sister’s
estimation.
Rising, cowed and humble, he ate a lonely breakfast, washed the dishes
and then, still in obedience to orders, reported at the millinery shop.
Reliance was out, but she had left instructions with Miss Makepeace. He
was to go into the little room at the rear of the letter boxes and stay
there. “She said for me to tell you she was likely to be away most of
the forenoon,” said Abbie, “and that you was to ’tend the office till
she came back, no matter what time it was. And--oh, yes!--she said to
be sure and tell you to remember this wasn’t healthy weather for you
to go outdoors in. I don’t know what she meant by that. Are you sick,
Millard? You don’t look real lively this mornin’, that’s a fact.”
Millard grumbled something to the effect that he didn’t know but he was
a little mite under the weather and shut off further conversation by
closing the door between the post office and millinery department. He
spent the forenoon waiting upon the few customers who came for their
mail or to buy stamps, looking out of the window of his prison cell,
reading every postal card available, and reflecting dismally upon his
prospects for the immediate future. They were dismal enough. In the
course of their midnight session Reliance had expressed pointed opinion
concerning the pleasant little games of “seven-up” at the scallop
shanty.
“I wondered what was keepin’ you out half the night four nights in a
week,” she said. “I thought of a good many things that might be doin’
it--of course I never paid any attention to what you _told_ me; I knew
better than that--but I never once thought of your bein’ down in that
shanty, gamblin’ with that crew. You, a Clark! I declare! I am more
ashamed of you than ever, which is sayin’ somethin’.”
“Now, now, hold on, Reliance! I wasn’t gamblin’. That is-- Why,
confound it all, how could I gamble, if I wanted to? I don’t have money
enough in my pocket to buy tobacco hardly. Here I am, workin’ for the
United States government, takin’ care of all the mail that comes into
this town--a responsible position, by godfreys! And what do they pay me
for all the work and responsibility? Eh? I ask you now! What do I get
for it?”
“Oh, be still! In the first place the government doesn’t hire you.
_I_ hire you, and I pay you about twice what I could get real help
for. If I paid you what you were worth you would owe me money every
Saturday night. But you are my half-brother--more shame to me--and so--
Oh, well, never mind! We won’t argue about that. You say you weren’t
gamblin’. You were playin’ cards for money, weren’t you?”
“Why--why, I don’t know’s you’d call it money. Some of the fellows
there seemed to think that heavin’ cards back and forth across the
table for nothin’ was kind of dull work, so they figgered ’twould be
better to have a little mite _on_ the cards. Say a cent a point, or
somethin’ like that, you understand.”
“Yes, yes!” sharply. “I understand well enough. A cent a point! And you
without money enough in your pocket to buy tobacco! How much have you
won since these interestin’ games got goin’?”
Millard fidgeted. “We-el,” he confessed, “I--well, you see, Reliance, I
haven’t really won much of anything, as you might say. I have had the
darnedest streak of bad luck. All the boys say it’s as bad a streak as
they ever saw.”
“Um. I see. Well, how much have you lost?”
“Eh? Lost?... We-ll, I figger I’m out about eleven dollars and
eighty-one cents just now. Course the luck is bound to turn any minute.
All the fellers say it is and they keep tellin’ me to stick right along
till it does.”
“Yes,” sarcastically, “I guess likely they do. I should think they
would. The longer you stick the more they can stick you. You have lost
about twelve dollars. Why, look here, Millard Clark; where did you get
twelve dollars to pay gamblin’ debts with?”
Mr. Clark tried to answer, but any adequate answer was beyond his
imagining just then. Reliance did not wait long.
“I see,” she said, scornfully. “I see. It is plain enough now. You
didn’t pay. You owe that crowd the twelve dollars and that was what
sent you chasin’ at Foster Townsend’s heels. You happened to see Bob
and the Covell man on the lower road that night--and if you had been
in your bed at home here where you belonged, instead of gamblin’ with
the town riff-raff until two in the mornin’, you wouldn’t have seen
them--you saw them and, knowin’ how Cap’n Foster hates any of Elisha
Cook’s family you-- Oh, my soul! You expected Foster would _pay_ you
for what you had to tell him. You were goin’ to get your twelve
dollars out of him.... That’s enough from you. Go to bed!”
“But, but, Reliance,” desperately. “I--I-- Oh, you’re all wrong. I
wasn’t cal’atin’ to ask Cap’n Foster to pay me. I--well, I thought
maybe, considerin’ that I’d been kind enough to tell him what he’d
ought to know, and what I hadn’t told another soul, I thought maybe
he’d lend me a little somethin’. I was goin’ to pay him back.”
“Pay him back! Yes, I guess so! And to think that you are my
half-brother and Esther’s own uncle! Well, I have shirked my duty long
enough. Now it is time I began to do it. I don’t know who would hire
you for a steady job at hard work, but perhaps there is some one. I
might be able to coax Seth Francis to ship you aboard his schooner for
a trip to the Banks. It would take a lot of coaxin’, but I might; he
hasn’t lived in Harniss very long, so he doesn’t know you quite as well
as the rest of us. No, I won’t hear another word. Go to bed!”
So the future, as Mr. Clark was viewing it through the little panes of
the post office window, was far from alluring. He almost wished that
he had not attempted winning Foster Townsend’s favor by revealing the
secret of the meeting on the lower road. Of course his sister had not
been in earnest when she threatened him with a trip to the Banks as
green hand on a fishing boat, but--well, she would never again trust
him. His easy berth in the post office, with its ample leisure, its
opportunities to show off and to air his importance before his fellow
townsmen, his comfortable room in the cottage, his three well-cooked
meals a day--all these were in danger. Reliance was thoroughly angry.
He was in disgrace. The more he reflected the more uneasy he became
and, although he resented his imprisonment behind the letter boxes, he
resolved to serve out his term, no matter how long it might be, with an
assumption of cheerful eagerness. He considered himself a persecuted
martyr, but he would play the rôle of a sinner seeking forgiveness. It
was a polite pretense which had worked well on other occasions; it
might work even in the present crisis.
About ten o’clock he saw, through the window, Reliance Clark enter
the yard. Esther Townsend was with her and they went into the house
together. It was after twelve when they came out. They separated at the
gate, Esther walked away along the sidewalk and her aunt entered the
millinery shop. Millard heard her speak with Miss Makepeace; then she
opened the door of the little room.
“Your dinner is ready,” she announced, curtly. “Go in and eat it this
minute.”
Mr. Clark was smilingly eager. “All right, Reliance,” he agreed. “Yes,
yes, just as you say, of course. You have had your dinner already, have
you?”
“I have, all I want. I’m not hungry to-day.”
“Ain’t you? Well, now that’s too bad. I am afraid you have been workin’
too hard. Say, why don’t you go and lay down a spell? Never mind about
me. I can get along without eatin’. I’ll stay here and attend to
everything and you just--”
“Sshh! Go in and eat your dinner. And hurry up about it. I want you
here when the mail comes. You understand that? All right. Then go.”
Millard went. He was back before the arrival of the mail.
“That was as good a meal as ever I ate,” he announced, with enthusiasm.
“You certainly are a fine cook, Reliance. I washed up the dishes
myself. Course you didn’t tell me to, but I knew you was tired and I
wanted to help you out.”
“Yes? Humph! Well, I am tired. I heard enough from you last night to
make me tired the rest of my life. Here is the mail wagon. Now let me
see you work. _See_ you--not hear you.”
When the mail was distributed she again shut him in the little room
and went out to join Miss Makepeace in the shop. At three she came in
and superintended the preparation of the outgoing mail sacks. Then
once more the door of his cell closed and he was left in solitary
confinement.
Abbie went home at three-thirty. Reliance sewed briskly on her
gown. She was thankful for the work, for it helped to keep her mind
as well as her fingers occupied. She had had a distressful night,
a hard, trying morning, and her recent interviews with Esther, at
the mansion and in her own home, left her anxious and apprehensive.
The girl’s manner was most disturbing. Reliance had expected tears,
recriminations--against Millard and Foster Townsend--hysterical
outbursts, almost anything except the silent, stony, callousness with
which her disclosures had been received. Esther, after her first
expressions of astonishment at the mention of Carrie Campton’s name,
had listened intently, asked questions occasionally, but had neither
wept nor exclaimed. She had accompanied her aunt to the cottage and
remained there during dinner. She ate almost nothing and Reliance had
eaten little more.
“But what are you goin’ to do. Esther?” pleaded Reliance as they parted
at the gate. “What are you goin’ to say to your Uncle Foster?”
Esther looked away, across the road.
“I know what I shall say to him,” she answered. “First I want to hear
what he has to say to me.”
“But, Esther--oh, my dear, you must be careful! You must! Remember,
he thinks more of you than anybody else on earth. He has been very,
very kind to you, in his way. I know he has been--well, selfish and
stubborn and--and all that, but, after all, he was trying to do what
he considers the best thing for you. And perhaps I am a little bit
to blame, too. I am afraid I put the idea in his head of sendin’ you
away. I told you how that happened. Oh, Esther, do be careful! Don’t do
anything rash, will you?”
Esther did not turn. Her hand, however, groped for that of her aunt and
pressed it tightly.
“Good-by, Auntie,” she said. “I--I can’t talk any more now, I shall see
you again--and soon, I think.”
“But promise me you won’t do anything that you will be sorry for
always, anything that will make us all miserable.”
“I promise that, whatever I do, you shall know about it--and from me. I
promise that.”
She hurried away. And now, as Reliance sat there, trying to sew, her
thoughts were not upon the stitches she was taking in the made-over
gown; in spite of her resolution they strayed to the Townsend mansion,
to the girl who had just gone there and the man she had gone to meet.
A cautious tap sounded on the shop door. Then the door opened and the
head of Varunas Gifford appeared between it and the jamb.
“Hello!” hailed Mr. Gifford. “That you, Reliance? Can you come out here
a minute? I’ve got somethin’ for you.”
Reliance put down her sewing and followed him out to the step. At
the gate one of the Townsend horses and the Townsend dog-cart were
standing. On the step, beside Varunas, was a large leather traveling
bag. Reliance looked at the bag and then at the man who had brought it.
“Why!” she exclaimed. “What is this? This is Esther’s bag, isn’t it?”
Varunas nodded. “Um-hum,” he replied. “That’s whose ’tis. Seen it
afore, I guess likely, ain’t you?”
“Of course I have. But what have you brought it here for?”
“’Cause she told me to. I was settin’ out in the barn readin’ the
_Item_. You see, I ain’t got much on hand to do this afternoon. Cap’n
Foster, he give me orders, soon’s ever I fetched him from the depot,
to be ready to drive him over to Ostable when he got through dinner.
Had a telegram, he did, callin’ him over there to one of them lawyers’
meetin’s. So I was all ready and waitin’. But at the last minute he
changed his mind and decided to drive himself.”
“Yes, yes. What about Esther’s bag?”
“I’m tellin’ you fast as I can. I was settin’ around, readin’ the
_Item_, when Esther she come and called me. ‘Harness up the dog-cart or
the buggy or somethin’, Varunas,’ says she, ‘and fetch it ’round to the
front door. I’ve got an errand I want you to do.’ So I done it. Then
down the stairs come she, totin’ this bag. ‘You take that to my Aunt
Reliance’s,’ she says. ‘Give it to her and ask her to take care of it
till I come.’ That’s what she said, and ’twas all she said, too.”
“But--but why did she send it to me? What is in it?”
“Ask me somethin’ easy. _I_ don’t know what’s in it. Stone ballast,
maybe; it’s heavy enough. Say, Reliance, don’t you know nothin’ about
it?... Humph! that’s kind of funny, seems to me.”
Reliance thoroughly agreed with him. Sending that traveling bag to her,
to be taken care of until its owner came, was “funny” to say the least.
And disturbing, also. She looked at the bag and tried to think, to
imagine. And what she imagined frightened her.
Mr. Gifford had an inspiration. “Say,” he suggested, eagerly; “why
don’t you open it? Probably there’s somethin’ there for you, a present,
maybe. Here! I’ll open it for you.”
But Reliance caught his hand. “No, you won’t,” she ordered, sharply.
“You let it alone.... Wait! Wait where you are just a minute.”
She hurried back through the shop to the door of the little room where
her brother was imprisoned. She listened at the crack. What she heard
would, at any other time, have aroused her to indignant action. Now,
however, she seemed relieved. Cautiously she opened the door and peeped
in. Millard Fillmore Clark was seated in the corner, upon the official
stool, his head against an empty mail bag, his mouth open, snoring
placidly. Reliance shook her head, a shake which presaged trouble for
the slumberer later on. Then she carefully closed the door and hastened
out to the step.
Varunas was bending over the traveling bag. He looked up when she
appeared.
“It’s locked,” he said, in righteous resentment. “I was goin’ to open
it for you and blessed if she ain’t been and locked it. That’s a
healthy thing to do, I must say! A body’d think she didn’t trust me. I
don’t like her doin’ that. I’ve a good mind to tell her so.”
Reliance made no comment. “Take it in the house,” she ordered. “Come
right along. I’ll show you where to put it.”
Mr. Gifford, under her pilotage, bore the bag to the house, where
it was placed on the floor of the dining-room closet. He would have
lingered to ask more questions and offer surmises, but Reliance would
neither linger nor listen. She got rid of him as soon as possible and,
after she had seen him drive away from the gate, returned to her rocker
in the millinery shop. She made no attempt to sew, however. She sat
there thinking, thinking. What did Esther’s sending that bag mean? What
had happened? And what more was to happen?
The early fall twilight deepened. At five-thirty Reliance rose from the
rocker, marched to the door of the mail room and threw it open.
“Get up!” she ordered. “Get up out of that this minute!”
Millard heard, started, opened his eyes and closed his mouth
simultaneously.
“Eh?” he cried, the mouth reopening. “Eh?... Oh, is that you, Reliance?
Well, I’ve been wonderin’ where you was. I was sittin’ here thinkin’
about--oh, about different things, and--er--”
His sister interrupted.
“Get up off that stool,” she said. “Come out here.”
She led the way to the shop. Mr. Clark followed her.
“Been a kind of a stupid afternoon,” he announced. “Not much doin’ in
the office there. How’s your new dress gettin’ on, Reliance?”
Reliance ignored the question. She opened the drawer of the table by
the sewing machine and took therefrom her worn pocketbook.
“Millard,” she said, crisply, “I want you to listen to me and do what
I tell you. I am too tired to bother with you any longer to-night. Get
out of this buildin’ and stay out.”
“_Stay_ out? What do you mean by that? What are you puttin’ me
outdoors for, like a--like a cat? Aw, Reliance, what are you mad about?
I suppose you think I was asleep in yonder. Well, I wasn’t.”
“Ssshh! I don’t care whether you were asleep or not. You are as much
use one way as the other. And I’m not mad. I’m just tired, same as I
told you, and I can’t be bothered with you. Here! here is some money.
Go down to the Seaside House and get your supper there. Then, after
that--well, I don’t care what you do after that, so long as you don’t
come back here and worry me.”
Millard stared. This was too good to be true--so good and so
non-understandable that he did not dare accept it at its face value.
There must be something behind it.
“Why--why, what on earth--?” he stammered. “Well--yes, I can get my
supper at the Seaside. They turn out a pretty good meal there for
thirty-five cents. But--but-- Say, what about the mail when it comes
in? Don’t you want me to help you with that?”
“No. There won’t be much of it and I had rather handle it myself, than
have to handle you along with it. I don’t need you and I don’t want
you.”
“Well, I declare!... Humph! All right. I’m kind of tired, myself, and
I’d just as soon have a little change and rest. I’ll go, to please you,
Reliance. I’ll come back early.”
“I don’t want you to come back early. I don’t care if you stay out all
night. _Get_ out! That is all I ask.”
Mr. Clark got out, got out hastily and thankfully. What this remarkable
change in his sister’s attitude might mean he could not imagine, nor
did he try. Supper at the Seaside House, where there were likely to be
Boston “drummers” to listen to and gossip with, where the gang played
pool every evening, where one might smoke a good five-cent cigar and
not be nagged because of ashes on the floor--why, it was the promise of
Paradise after Purgatory; and he had been in Purgatory ever since ten
o’clock the previous night. And she did not care when he came home.
She had said that very thing. The game of high-low-Jack would be going
on in the scallop shanty. He might--
He almost ran along the sidewalk in his haste to get beyond the sound
of her voice.
At six Reliance locked the door of the shop and went into the house.
She set about preparing supper. She was even less hungry now than
she had been at dinner time, but she would, at least, drink a cup of
tea--even two cups, although that was double her usual allowance. Tea
was supposed to be a bracer, a strengthener for the nerves, and she
was certain that her nerves would need strengthening before the night
was over. She filled the kettle, set it on the kitchen stove, and
then, returning to the dining room, she opened the door of the closet
and stood looking down upon the traveling bag, bulky and black and
menacing, on the floor beside the cooky jar. That bag, sent to her as
it had been, could mean, she was certain, but one thing. That thing she
must prevent if she could. But could she? Well, she could at least try.
She sighed heavily and turned away.
She set the table. A knife and fork, a spoon, the loaf of bread, the
butter, the milk pitcher--and all the time she listened, listened
for the step upon the path leading to her door, the step she was
expecting--and dreading.
And, at last, it came. She did not wait for a knock, but, hurrying
through the sitting-room to the outer door, threw it open. Esther was
standing there, as she expected, but she was not alone. Bob Griffin
was with her. The words with which Reliance had intended welcoming her
niece were not spoken. She said nothing.
Esther did not wait for her to speak. She turned to her companion.
“Go in, Bob,” she said, quickly. “Quick! before any one sees us.”
She pushed by her aunt and entered the dining room. Griffin followed
her. It was Esther, herself, who closed the door.
“Are you alone, Auntie?” she asked, eagerly. “Where is Uncle Millard?”
Reliance came out of her gaze with a start.
“Eh?” she queried. “Who? Oh, Millard? He--he’s gone out for the
evenin’; I told him to. And, if he knows what is good for him, he won’t
be back for a long time.... Well!” with a long breath. “Well, Esther,
you have surprised me this time, certain sure.”
Esther did not understand. “Why, you expected me, didn’t you?” she
cried. “You must have. I told Varunas to tell you I should come here
to-night.... He brought my bag, didn’t he? He told me he did.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, he brought it. It is here. And I expected you. But
I--well, I didn’t expect any one else.”
Her look at Griffin was significant. Bob noticed it and smiled. Of the
three he alone seemed capable of smiling. Esther was pale and nervous
and Reliance haggard and worn, after her night and day of shock and
worry. Griffin was nervous also, but his face was flushed and his eyes
bright. He was obviously excited and just as obviously neither downcast
nor anxious.
“You mean you didn’t expect me, Miss Clark,” he suggested. “Well,
I don’t wonder at that. I surely did not expect to be here. I can
scarcely believe it, even yet. Esther, shall I tell her? Or will you?”
Before Esther could reply, Reliance, now thoroughly awake to the
realities, put in a word.
“Before you tell me anything,” she said, “I think we might as well
begin to behave like common-sense folks and not stand in the middle of
the floor, you with your things on and me with my kitchen apron. Mr.
Griffin, take off your things. Sit down, both of you.”
But, although she pulled forward a rocker and an armchair, they did not
sit. Esther turned a troubled face to her escort.
“I don’t think we had better, do you, Bob?” she asked. “We mustn’t
stay here long. We must get away just as soon as we can.”
Bob nodded emphatic agreement. “You are quite right, Esther,” he
replied. “The sooner we get out of Harniss the better.”
Reliance took a step toward them.
“What!” she exclaimed. “What was that? Get out of Harniss? What do
you mean? Where are you goin’?” Then, her voice rising, she demanded
sharply: “Come, come! What is all this? Esther, tell me this minute!”
Esther involuntarily put out a hand. “Oh, don’t, Aunt Reliance!” she
pleaded. “Don’t speak like that. I-- Oh, we came to you because you
were the one person we could come to, the only one who would understand
and--and help. If you knew how I have counted on your help and your
sympathy and--oh, everything! Don’t _you_ begin by being angry with me.
I--I don’t think I could stand it now.”
Her aunt crossed to her side and put an arm about her. “There, there,
dear!” she said, heartily. “Don’t you fret about that. If you can’t
count on me I don’t know who you can count on. And I’m not cross,
either. I am--well, I’m surprised--and a little scared, perhaps, but I
am not cross.... There, there!... Now will you--one of you--please tell
me what this means, this goin’ away from Harniss?”
It was Bob who answered. His answer was prompt and to the point.
“I will tell you, Miss Clark,” he said. “Esther and I are going to
be married. We have decided that, caring for each other as we do, no
one else shall be considered any longer. No one else has the right
to be considered. She sent for me this afternoon, telegraphed me
to come to my studio and meet her there. She told me that she had
decided she could not live with her uncle any longer. She told me that
she would marry me and go away with me, to Europe or anywhere else.
That was enough, so far as I was concerned. We are leaving Harniss
to-night--together. We came to tell you so and to say good-by. That
is the whole truth, isn’t it, Esther?” Esther lifted her head from her
aunt’s shoulder and stepped back to his side.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “We are going to be married, Aunt Reliance. It
is settled and no one can prevent it.”
Reliance looked from one to the other. She put a hand to her forehead.
“My soul!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my soul! Wait--wait! Let me understand
this. Esther Townsend, does this mean that you and--and he are goin’ to
run away--elope--whatever you call it--now, to-night?”
Esther nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That is just what it means. Oh, Aunt
Reliance, can’t you see? I have made up my mind at last. I have thought
of others and for others long enough. They haven’t been thinking of me
at all, but of their own selfish pride and prejudices. It is time--high
time--I thought of my own happiness. I could never be happy without
Bob, nor he without me. So we are going to be happy together, that is
all.”
Again Reliance looked at them both. There were no symptoms of faltering
determination in either face. She looked long and steadily. Then she
sighed.
“Oh, dear!” she murmured. “Oh, dear, dear! Well, I expected almost
anything, after that bag was brought here this afternoon. Almost
anything, but not just this. This is dreadful.”
Griffin frowned. Esther straightened. Her eyes flashed.
“Dreadful!” she cried, indignantly. “Is _that_ the way you feel
about it, Aunt Reliance? You! Well, if you think my marrying Bob is
dreadful then we made a mistake in coming here. I thought you would
understand--and sympathize--and help. But if _you_ are going to--”
Her aunt broke in. “Hush, hush,” she said, quickly. “Don’t be foolish,
Esther.... I don’t think your marryin’ him is dreadful.”
“You said you did.”
“Said!” with an involuntary burst of impatience. “Well, perhaps I
did, I don’t know. Considerin’ what I have been through since last
night--and now with you two comin’ here--this way--I--well, it is a
wonder I haven’t said--the Lord knows what. But, Esther Townsend, you
must listen and you _must_ let me say things. _I_ don’t think your
marryin’ Bob here is dreadful. If you care enough for him to give up
everything and every one else for his sake, then it is exactly what
you ought to do. It is the way you are doing it that is the dreadful
part. Esther, dear, have you thought what this will mean to your Uncle
Foster? He worships the ground you walk on. And he has been awfully
good to you--you can’t deny that. And, if everything folks say is true,
old Mr. Cook idolizes his grandson. _They_ will think your runnin’ off,
without so much as a word to them, is dreadful. Indeed and indeed they
will! Oh, why be in such a hurry? Why not wait?”
She paused, out of breath, for she had delivered this long speech with
all the force that was in her. It had no effect whatever, so far as she
could judge by their expressions. And Bob’s immediate reply proved that
it had not.
“I know, Miss Clark,” he said. “We both know how they will feel
toward us and we have considered it very carefully. But the situation
isn’t changed at all. Esther and I mean to marry. You may not believe
it--grandfather and Captain Townsend certainly won’t believe it--but
neither of us would have hurt their feelings or acted contrary to their
wishes if we could have helped it. I am very fond of my grandfather,
he has been mighty good to me, and Esther loves her uncle. He has not
treated her fairly or honestly, she feels, but she loves him and always
will. That is true, isn’t it, Esther?”
“Yes, Bob, absolutely true.”
“Yes, it is. But the fact remains that neither Captain Townsend nor
my grandfather would ever consent to our marriage. They hate each
other--you know it; everybody knows it. If we waited a year they would
not consent. If we waited ten years they would not. So why should we
wait? I have money enough of my own to support us for a while and I
hope to earn more. It is Esther here who is making the real sacrifice,
of course, but she says she is willing to make it. Waiting won’t help
anybody. It will only stretch out the quarreling and misery. So, as we
see it, it is simply plain common sense, our marrying now. And we shall
marry now, just as soon as we can. You can’t stop us--no one can.”
Reliance was silent. She would have liked to say much, to continue her
protest--but how could she? The essential fact in this statement was
beyond contradiction. Neither Townsend nor Cook would ever consent to
such a marriage--she knew it. What Bob Griffin had just said was common
sense and nothing else. And yet, conscious of the responsibility forced
upon her, she did not entirely surrender. She made one more plea.
“Oh, Esther,” she begged, “are you _sure_ you care enough to--to go
through with this? Not just now, but later, all your life? No matter if
it means doin’ without all the fine things you have been used to, bein’
poor perhaps--and--”
“Hush! Yes, Auntie, I am sure.”
Her aunt wrung her hands. “Well,” she groaned, “I give up. I have said
my say, I guess. I have done what I could. The dear Lord knows I hope
we will none of us be too sorry in the years to come.”
She walked across the room, stood there a moment and then turned. Her
manner now was brisk and businesslike.
“There!” she said. “The milk is spilled. No use tryin’ to pick it up or
talk about it. What are your plans? Where is the weddin’ to be?”
Esther looked at Bob and it was Bob who answered.
“We haven’t decided that exactly,” he said. “All this decision of ours
is so sudden that we haven’t had time to plan much of anything. My
horse and buggy are out at the gate. I am going to take Esther over to
my cousin’s house in South Denboro to-night. I shall go home. Then, in
the morning, she will meet me at the station and we will take the early
train for Boston. As soon as we can--sometime to-morrow, of course--we
shall be married. Then, if I can get a stateroom and passage on the
steamer, we shall--”
“Hush! Wait, wait, wait! Let me understand this plan. You aren’t going
to be married until to-morrow--in Boston? You were goin’ to go away
from Harniss _without_ bein’ married?”
Bob stared at her. “I told you,” he said, slowly, “that I should take
Esther to my cousin’s house in South Denboro. I shall leave her there
and go home. Look here, Miss Clark, I don’t quite understand what you
mean by--”
“Oh, _hush_! Mercy on us, what children you two are, after all. I am
not worried about you. I know you are all right, both of you. But I am
worried about what everybody else will _say_. Haven’t you lived long
enough to know that the average person is only too delighted to get a
chance to say a mean thing? Haven’t you heard what has been said about
other young idiots in this town who have-- Oh, but there! They shan’t
have the chance to say them about you. I’ll see to that. Esther, take
off your things. Bob, you keep yours on, for I shall want you to go
out on an errand in a minute.... Dear, dear, dear! If we only had more
time. Esther, when did your uncle expect to be back from Ostable?”
“Why, I don’t know exactly. Not until late; he said that to me.”
“Late! Well, I wish I knew how late. Tell me, will he know you have
come here?”
“I suppose Varunas, if he is up, will tell him I sent my bag here.”
“Yes, of course. And he will come chasin’ down here first thing. You
didn’t tell him you were leavin’ him for good?”
“No. I meant to write him a letter telling him why I could not live
with him any longer and how terribly I felt at leaving him, although I
knew it was right. But I wanted to see Bob first. I shall write that
letter this evening, at South Denboro.”
“No, you won’t. You will write it right here in this house. That is one
of the things you must do before you go to South Denboro. And it is
important; but not as important as somethin’ else.”
“Auntie!... How strange you look--and act. What is it?”
“Strange! I feel strange--but I haven’t got time to think about it. Oh,
dear, dear! I ought to go out and open that post office this minute.
Esther, come into the front room with me. Mr. Griffin will excuse us, I
guess. He’ll have to. Come.”
She hurried her niece into the little parlor, a room of course
almost never used. Bob, left in the sitting-room, heard the clink of
a lamp chimney and the scratch of a match. Then the hum of hurried
conversation. Esther’s voice rose in an exclamation, apparently in
expostulation, but her aunt’s sharp command hushed it to silence. A few
minutes later Reliance hurried out.
“She’s writin’ the note to her Uncle Foster,” she explained, quickly.
“Poor thing, it will be terribly hard to do. As for him, when he reads
it-- Well, I mustn’t think about him now. For the rest, she will do it.
She agreed with me that it may be best. Whether she agreed or not it
would be done just the same. I know it is best.”
Bob shook his head.
“If I knew what this was all about,” he began, with a shrug, “I--”
“You’re goin’ to learn. It is just this: You aren’t goin’ to be married
in Boston to-morrow--or to-morrow anywhere else. You are goin’ to
be married to-night, right here in this sittin’ room, by a Harniss
minister. You are goin’ to be married right here where I can see it
done, and be a witness to it. Then, if anybody dares to say anything
out of the way, they’ll have me to reckon with.... Don’t stop to argue
about it; neither of us have got time for that. I must go out and open
the office and you must chase right up to Ezra Farmer’s house--Ezra’s
the town clerk, probably you know him--and get the license or
certificate or whatever is necessary.... Don’t talk! Don’t!”
Bob did talk, of course, but not for long. Reliance’s sharp, to the
point sentences convinced him that she was right. Gossip--a certain
kind of gossip--would be smothered before it was uttered if he and
Esther were married there and then, with her aunt as witness. And,
if Esther was willing, surely he was. In a daze he listened to Miss
Clark’s final instructions.
“That Farmer man,” she said, “may sputter a little about givin’ you the
certificate. It’s past his office hours and he may want to use that as
an excuse to put you off. The real trouble is that he will be afraid of
what Foster Townsend will say to him to-morrow. Don’t let him scare you
a mite. And, if worse comes to worst offer him four or five times his
regular fee. That will stiffen his backbone--if I know Ezra.”
She was flying about the sitting-room, trying to untie her apron
strings with shaking fingers, and chattering continuously.
“Better not leave your horse and team out here,” she said. “Some of the
mail-time crowd will be sure to see it and want to know why. Take it up
to the livery stable and leave it there.... No, I tell you what to do.
Drive it right through my yard and hitch it out in the dark back of the
hen house. You can walk to Farmer’s; it’s only a little way.... I’ll
attend to the minister myself.... Now is there anything else? I haven’t
had any supper, but never mind that. Before you go you might see to
the tea kettle; it’s boilin’ all over the stove.... I’ll shut up the
post office at half past eight to-night and I’ll be in a little while
after that, minister and all.... I wonder now if-- But there, I can’t
stop. Don’t let Esther worry or get frightened. Everything will be all
right. What a mercy I sent Millard away! I must have had a message from
heaven, I guess, when I did that.... Be sure and make Farmer give you
that certificate.... If there is anything else.... Well, if there is it
will have to wait. I’ll be back just as soon as I can. Don’t worry.”