There was never such a summer of enchanting weather as that particular
summer in Wells. The whole population of Somersetshire, save those who
had crops requiring rain, were in a heaven of delight from morning
till night. Miss Tommy Tucker was very busy with some girl pupils, and
as accompanist for oratorio practice; but there were blissful hours
when she "studied" the cathedral with Fergus Appleton, watching him
sketch the stately Central Tower, or the Lady Chapel, or the Chain
Gate. There were afternoon walks to Tor Hill, winding up almost daily
with tea at the palace, for the bishop and his wife were miracles of
hospitality to the two Americans.
Fergus Appleton had declared the state of his mind and heart to Mrs.
Kennion a few days after his arrival, though after his confidence had
been received she said that it was quite unnecessary, as she had
guessed the entire situation the moment she saw them together.
"If you do, it is more than Miss Tucker does," said Appleton, "for I
can't flatter myself that she suspects in the least what I am about."
"You haven't said anything yet?"
"My dear Mrs. Kennion, I've known her less than a fortnight! It's bad
enough for a man to fall in love in that absurd length of time, but I
wouldn't ask a girl to marry me on two weeks' acquaintance. It would
simply be courting refusal."
"I am glad you feel that way about it, for we have grown greatly
attached to Miss Tucker," said the bishop's wife. "She is so simple
and unaffected, so lovable, and such good company! So alone in the
world, yet so courageous and independent. I hope it will come out all
right for your dear mother's son," she added affectionately, with a
squeeze of her kind hand. "Miss Tucker is dining here to-morrow, and
you must come, too, for she has offered to sing for our friends."
Everybody agreed that Mrs. Kennion's party for the young American
singer was a delightful and memorable occasion. She gave them song
after song, accompanying herself on the Erard grand piano, at which
she always made such a pretty picture. It drifted into a request
programme, and Tommy, whose memory was inexhaustible, seemed always to
have the wished-for song at the tip of her tongue, were it English,
Scotch, Irish, or Welsh. There was general laughter and surprise when
Madame Eriksson, a Norwegian lady who was among the guests, asked her
for a certain song of Halfdan Kjerulf's.
"I only know it in its English translation," Tommy said, "and I
haven't sung it for a year, but I think I remember it. Forgive me if I
halt in the words:
"'I hardly know, my darling,
What mostly took my heart,
Unless perhaps your singing
Has done the greater part.
I've thrilled to many voices,
The passionate, the strong,
But I forgot the singer,
And I forgot the song.
But there's one song, my darling,
That I can ne'er forget.
I listened and I trembled,
And felt my cheek was wet;
It seemed my heart within me
Gave answer clear and low
When first I heard you sing, dear,
Then first I loved you so!'"
Tommy had sung the song hundreds of times in earlier years, and she
had not the slightest self-consciousness when she began it; but just
as she reached the last four lines her eyes met Fergus Appleton's. He
was seated in a far corner of the room, leaning eagerly forward, with
one arm on the back of a chair in front of him. She was singing the
words to the company, but if ever a man was uttering and confirming
them it was Fergus Appleton at that moment. The blindest woman could
see, the deafest could hear, the avowal.
Tommy caught her breath quickly, looked away, braced her memory, and
finished, to the keen delight of old Madame Eriksson, who rose and
kissed her on both cheeks.
Tommy was glad that her part of the evening was over, and to cover her
confusion offered to sing something of her own composing, the Mother
Goose rhyme of "Little Tommy Tucker Sings for His Supper," arranged as
an operatic recitative and aria. The humor of this performance
penetrated even to the remotest fastnesses of the staid cathedral
circle, and the palace party ended in something that positively
resembled merriment, a consummation not always to be reached in
gatherings exclusively clerical in character.
The bishop's coachman always drove Miss Tucker home, and Appleton
always walked to his lodgings, which were in the opposite direction,
so nothing could be done that night, but he determined that another
sun should not go down before he put his fate to the touch.
How could he foresee what the morning post would bring and deposit,
like an unwelcome bomb, upon his breakfast tray?
His London publishers wanted to see him at once, not only on a
multitude of details concerning his forthcoming book, but on a
subject, as they hoped, of great interest and importance to him.
Thinking it a matter of a day or so, Appleton scribbled notes to Mrs.
Kennion and Miss Tucker, with whom he was to go on an excursion, and
departed forthwith to London.
Everything happened in London. The American publishers wanted a
different title for the book and four more chapters to lengthen it to
a size selling (at a profit) for two dollars and a half. The English
publishers thought he had dealt rather slightingly with a certain very
interesting period, and he remembered, guiltily, that he had been at
Bexley Sands when he wrote the chapters in question. It would take
three days' labor to fill up these gaps, he calculated, and how
fortunate that Miss Thomasina Tucker was safely entrenched in the
heart of an ecclesiastical stronghold for the next month or two; a
town where he had not, so far as he knew, a single formidable rival.
He wrote her regarding his unexpected engagements, adding with
legitimate pride that one of England's foremost critics had offered to
write a preface for his book; then he settled to his desk and slaved
at his task until it was accomplished, when he departed with a beating
heart for the town and county that held Miss Thomasina Tucker in their
keeping.
Alighting at the familiar railway station, he took a hansom, intending
to drop his portmanteau at his lodgings and go on to the palace for
news, but as he was driving by the deanery on the north side of
Cathedral Green, he encountered Mrs. Kennion in her victoria. She
signaled him with her hand and spoke to her coachman, who drew up his
horses. Alighting from his hansom, he strode forward to take her
welcoming hand, his face radiating the pleasure of a home-coming
traveler.
"If you'll let the cabman take your luggage, I'd like to drive you
home myself. I have something to tell you," said Mrs. Kennion, making
room for him by her side.
"Nothing has happened, I hope?" he asked anxiously.
"Miss Tucker is leaving for America to-morrow morning."
"Going away?" Appleton's tone was one of positive dismay.
"Yes. It is all very sudden and unexpected."
"Sailing to-morrow?" exclaimed Appleton, taking out his watch. "From
where? How can I get there?"
"Not sailing to-morrow--leaving Wells to-morrow on an early train and
sailing Saturday from Southampton."
"Oh, the world is not lost entirely, then!"--and Appleton leaned back
and wiped his forehead. "What has happened? I ought never to have gone
to London."
"She had a cable yesterday from her Brooklyn church, offering her a
better position in the choir, but saying that they could hold it only
ten days. By post on the same day she received a letter from a New
York friend--"
"Was it a Carl Bothwick?"
"No; a Miss Macleod, who said that a much better position was in the
market in a church where Miss Tucker had influential friends. She was
sure that if Miss Tucker returned immediately to sing for the
committee she could secure a thousand-dollar salary. We could do
nothing but advise her to make the effort, you see."
"Did she seem determined to go?"
"No; she appeared a little undecided and timid. However, she said
frankly that, though she had earned enough in England to pay her
steamer passage to America, and a month's expenses afterward, she
could not be certain of continuing to do so much through a London
winter. 'If I only had a little more time to think it out,' she kept
saying, 'but I haven't, so I must go!'"
"Where is she now?"
"At her lodgings. The bishop is detained in Bath and I am dining with
friends in his stead. I thought you might go and take her to dinner at
the Swan, so that she shouldn't be alone, and then bring her to the
palace afterward--if--if all is well."
"If I have any luck two churches will be lamenting her loss to-morrow
morning," said Fergus gloomily; "but she wouldn't have consented to go
if she cared anything about me!"
"Nonsense, my dear boy! You were away. No self-respecting girl would
wire you to come back. She was helpless even if she did care. Here we
are! Shall I send a hansom back in half an hour?"
"Twenty-five minutes will do it," Appleton answered briskly. "You are
an angel, dear lady!"
"Keep your blarney! I hope you'll need it all for somebody else
to-night! Good fortune, dear boy!"