THE LAWYER'S WARNING.
Mr. Gilbert appeared in no hurry to revisit his friends at Kent Farm. It
was late in the afternoon of the next day before he came slowly along
the quiet country road. He had passed the morning idly enough, staring
from the hotel window, down at the peaceful street and the few
straggling passers by. After his three o'clock dinner he had put on hat
and overcoat, and leisurely taken his way over the familiar ground.
It was a gray December afternoon, with a threatening of coming storm in
the overcast sky. A few feathery flakes whirled already through the
leaden air, an icy blast blew up from the sea, the road was deserted,
the dreary fields snow-shrouded and forsaken. And only yesterday it
seemed he had walked here by her side, the golden grain breast high, and
the scarlet poppies aflame in the gardens. His youth had come back to
him with that sunlit holiday. If he had spoken then, who knew what her
answer might have been. But he had let the hour and the day go by, and
now it was too late.
The snow flakes were whirling faster and faster as Mr. Gilbert opened
the gate and approached the house. He could see the rose light of the
fire through the curtained windows, and a slight, graceful figure
seated at one, sewing. The brown rattling stems of hop vines twining
around it, like sere serpents, made a framework for the girlish head and
fair young face. All the floss silk curls were bound back with scarlet
ribbon, and the luminous black eyes were fixed on her work. They saw the
tardy visitor, however, and with a bright, welcoming smile she sprang
up, and ran to open the door.
"How late you are. We thought you were not coming at all. I have been
looking for you all day." She held out her hand, far more like Norine of
old than last night, and led the way back into the parlor. There on his
comfortable sofa, by his comfortable fire, reposed of course the five
feet, eleven inches of Mr. Laurence Thorndyke. Mr. Gilbert gave that
invalid a nod several degrees icier than the elements out doors.
"Ah, you have come! I told Norine you would."--Norine! it had come to
that then--"I know you to be one of those uncompromising sort of
characters, Gilbert, who never break their word. Have you your cigar
case about you? I should like a smoke."
"Miss Bourdon is present, Mr. Thorndyke."
"So she is--for which Allah be praised. But Miss Bourdon is the most
sensible, as she is most charming of young ladies. She gave me _carte
blanche_ ages ago to smoke as much as I please. Didn't you Norry? She
fills my pipe, she even lights it when this confounded shoulder twitches
more than usual."
Richard Gilbert set his teeth with inward fury. To sit here, and listen
to Laurence Thorndyke's insolent familiarity, his lover like--"Norry,"
drove him half wild.
"I have not my cigar case," he answered, more and more frigidly; "and
if I had, I don't know that I should countenance such a trespass on
common decency as to let you smoke one here. How long before your doctor
thinks you fit to be removed?"
"Oh, not for weeks yet; it was a deuce of a fracture, I can tell you.
Why, pray? My insignificant movements, as a rule, are all unworthy Mr.
Gilbert's attention."
"Your uncle is my friend, sir," the lawyer replied, "and I prefer not to
see him hoodwinked. I recommend you strongly to write and explain your
position, or I shall take an early opportunity of doing so myself."
"Will you? How very kind you are. But isn't it a pity to give yourself
so much unnecessary trouble? I believe Mr. Hugh Darcy did invest you
with a species of authority over my actions, but at six-and-twenty,
don't you think a fellow ought to be let loose from the leading strings?
And what would you have? I couldn't help accepting Tom Lydyard's
invitation. I couldn't help my horse taking fright and throwing me. I
couldn't help breaking my arm, and spraining my ankle, and I can't help
being in the seventh heaven of happiness and comfort with two such
nurses as Miss Kent and Miss Bourdon. Don't be unreasonable, Gilbert.
Norine--_ma belle_, I am utterly exhausted with all this talking. What
are you laughing at? Do pray favor me with my meerschaum and a light."
The pleasant lazy voice stopped, the pleasant smile turned upon Norine.
Miss Bourdon laughing at this passage of arms arose with alacrity to
obey, and the lawyer, looking unspeakably grim got up, too.
"Permit me to say good-by, Miss Bourdon. I start for New York to-night.
Can I see your uncle a moment before I go?" The door opened as he asked
the question and Aunt Hester came into the room.
"I heard your voice as I passed through the hall," she said. "Surely you
ain't going so soon?"
"I regret I must, my business requires my immediate return. I have only
time to say good-by and speak a word to your brother. Where shall I find
him?"
"In the stable, most likely. I'll go with you."
"Thanks. Farewell, Miss Bourdon."
Again their hands met, she looked perplexed and wistful, but she did not
urge him to stay. With a second stiff nod to Mr. Thorndyke, the lawyer
strode out of the room after Aunt Hetty.
"A word to her brother," muttered Mr. Thorndyke to himself looking after
them. "I think I know what that means. 'That fellow, Thorndyke, is a
spendthrift, a gambler, a flirt, an engaged man. Don't let him have
anything to say to Norine.' That will be about the sum and substance of
it. To think of his falling in love at his time of life, when he's old
enough and big enough to know better. But then middle-aged fools are the
worst of all fools. And you come a day after the fair, Mr. Richard
Gilbert. Your word of warning is just two weeks too late. I owe you two
or three little grudges for your _espionage_ of the past, and for two or
three little games blocked, and I think I see my way clearly to wiping
them out at last. A thousand thanks my charming little nurse." Aloud to
Norine, entering with pipe and pipe-light:
"What should I ever do without you?"
Mr. Gilbert, escorted by Aunt Hester, reached the stable, where Uncle
Reuben stood busily curry-combing Kitty.
"I want to speak half-a-dozen words in private to you, Kent," the
lawyer began, abruptly enough. "You will tell your good sister here at
your convenience, if you see fit. You must excuse my seeming rudeness,
Miss Kent, and say good-by, now."
He shook hands with her cordially, and watched her out of sight. Then he
turned to her brother.
"We are quite alone?" he asked.
"Quite, squire. Take a seat."
He brought forward a stool, but Mr. Gilbert waved it away.
"No, no, what I have to say will take but a minute, and then I shall be
going. I want to speak to you of that young man who is your
guest--Laurence Thorndyke."
"Wal, squire."
"You have not known me very long, Mr. Kent, but I think, I hope, you
have known me long enough to trust me, to believe what I say, to
understand I have no selfish motive. It is for"--he paused a moment--"it
is for your niece's sake I speak, you can hardly take a deeper interest
in her welfare than I do."
Was there ever so slight a tremor in the grave, steady voice, or did
Reuben Kent only fancy it? He paused in Kitty's toilet and looked at him
keenly.
"Wal, squire?" he said again.
"Laurence Thorndyke is no fit, no safe companion for your niece. He is
not a good man, he is as false as he is fascinating. She is only
seventeen, she knows nothing of the world, nothing of such men as he,
and believe me, Kent, it won't do."
Reuben Kent looked up, a sudden flash in his eye, a sudden redness in
his face.
"Go on," he said, curtly.
"I am afraid Miss Bourdon cares more for him already than--" He paused
again and averted his face. "You know what I mean. He is handsome, and
she is only a girl. She will grow to love him, and he could not marry
her if he would, he is already engaged, and unless I mistake him
greatly, would not if he could. Mr. Kent, this young man will go away,
and Norine will be neither the better nor the happier for his coming."
His voice was husky. Something of the pain he felt was in his face. The
farmer stretched forth and caught the lawyer's hand in a hard grip.
"Thanky, squire," he said; "I ain't a man to jaw much, but I believe
_you_, and am obliged to you for this. If that young jacknapes from York
tries to come any of his city games down here, by the Lord Jehosaphat!
I'll lay him up with something worse than a broken arm!"
"Can you not avert the danger?" suggested Mr. Gilbert. "It may not be
too late. Send the fellow away."
"Wal, squire, you see that mightn't be doing the square thing by him. It
would look unpleasantly like turning him out. No, I can't send him away
until the doctor says he's fit to go, but, by ginger, I'll send her!"
"Will she go?"
Uncle Reuben chuckled.
"We won't ask her. I'll fix it off. We've some cousins thirty miles up
country, and they've invited her time and again, but, somehow, we've
never felt--Joe and me--as though we could spare her afore. It's
powerful lonesome, I tell ye, squire, when Norry ain't around. But
now--I'll take her to-morrow morning."
"The best thing you can do. And now, before it gets any later and
stormier, I will be off. Good-by, Mr. Kent, for the present."
"Good-by, and thanky, squire, thanky. You'll be along again soon, hey?"
"Well, perhaps so," replied the lawyer, coloring slightly. "Take care of
your niece, Kent, and good-by to you."
They parted at the gate. Reuben Kent watched the stalwart form of the
lawyer out of sight, then walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the
house and the sitting-room. Mr. Thorndyke, in a deep, melodious tenor,
was reading aloud "Lucille," and Miss Bourdon, with flushed cheeks and
glistening eyes of light, was listening.
The reading ceased at the farmer's entrance; the spell was broken, and
Norine looked up.
"Has Mr. Gilbert gone, Uncle Reuben?"
"Yes."
He said it with unusual gravity, regarding young Thorndyke. The girl saw
the change in his usually good humored, red-and-tan face, and went over
and threw an arm around his neck.
"What is it, uncle? Something gone wrong?"
"No--yes. Nothing that can't be set right, I hope. Where's your aunt?"
"In the kitchen baking cake. Shall I run and call her?"
"No, I'll go myself."
He left the room. Mr. Thorndyke watched him.
"It is as I thought," he said to himself. "My label is up, 'dangerous.'
What has Gilbert been saying? Has he given Uncle Reuben my whole
interesting biography? Has he told him I drink, I gamble, I make love to
pretty girls wherever I meet them? All right, my legal duffer; you have
set your forty-years-old heart on pretty, black-eyed, belle Norine, and
so have I. Now, let's see who'll win."
Mr. Kent found his sister in the kitchen, baking, as Norine had said,
cakes for tea, their fragrant sweetness perfuming the hot air. In very
few words he repeated to her the lawyer's warning.
"We might a seen it ourselves, Hetty, if we hadn't been blinder than
bats. I'll take her up to Abel Merryweather's to-morrow, and just leave
her thar till this ere chap goes."
"Will you tell her, Reuben?" Aunt Hetty asked.
"No; I kinder don't like to, somehow. She'll guess without any telling,
I reckon. If I told her, she might tell him, there ain't never no
countin' on gals, and then he'd be after her hot foot. Least said's
soonest mended. Jest call her down to help you, Hetty, and keep her here
as long as you can. What with his poetry reading, his singing, his fine
talk, and good-lookin' face, he's enough to turn any gal's head."
"It was very good of Mr. Gilbert to tell you, Reuben."
"Very."
They looked at each other, and smiled. Poor Richard Gilbert! Your
cherished secret was very large print after all.
"Mr. Gilbert's her best friend, and sets heaps by her," said Uncle
Reuben rising. "Call the girl at once, Hetty."
He left the kitchen and Aunt Hester obeyed. Norine was summoned from
"Lucille," and Mr. Thorndyke--to look after the cakes, to make tea, to
roll out the short-cake, to butter the biscuits, to set the table. For
once Aunt Hester turned lazy and left everything to Norine. She had not
breathing space until supper was on the table.
After supper it was as bad. Contrary to all precedent, instead of going
to the piano, Norine got a basket of socks to darn. She looked at the
heap and the rents with laughing dismay.
"All these for me, Aunty! I'll never get through in the world, and I
want to practice my new songs with Mr. Thorndyke."
"Mr. Thorndyke will excuse you, I am sure," Aunt Hetty answered quietly.
"You sing a great deal more for him than you darn for me. You darn very
badly--it is time that you learned something useful. Here is your needle
and ball, my dear, go to work at once."
Miss Bourdon made a little wry face; Mr. Thorndyke's laughing blue eyes
looked knowing. Love and music were to be exchanged for cooking and
darning, all thanks to Mr. Gilbert.
Aunt Hester placed herself between her guest and her niece, and kept her
post like a very duenna all the evening. No poetry, no music, no
compliments, no love-making, only silence and sock-darning. Laurence
Thorndyke reclining on his lounge, even his efforts at conversation
falling flat, saw and understood it all perfectly. By Gilbert's order
the ewe lamb was to be guarded from the wolf. And his spirit rose with
the resistance.
"Guard her as you like," he said inwardly,--"watch her as you will, I'll
baffle the whole of you yet. If I cared nothing for the girl, and I
don't care much, I would still conquer you here, if only for the
pleasure of paying off Richard Gilbert. Meddling old prig! There was
that affair of Lucy West, he had to bring that to light, and old Darcy
was within an ace of disinheriting me. He wants to marry this little
black-eyed, sentimental French girl himself--more fool he--and it shall
be my pleasant and profitable occupation to nip that middle-aged romance
in the bud. I flatter myself I am rather more than a match for Aunt
Hetty."
But Mr. Thorndyke was yet to learn whether he was or no. At no time,
well or ill, was this elegant young doctor addicted to the vice of
early-rising. It was mostly noon when, half-carried in the strong arms
of Uncle Reuben and Joe, he reached the parlor.
Norine, however, was up with the lark--that is to say there were no
larks in December, but with the striking six of the kitchen clock. On
the morning following the stocking darning, as the family assembled
together for their seven o'clock breakfast, Uncle Reuben said:
"Norry, I'm a going to give you a treat to-day--something you've been
wanting this long time."
Norine opened her black eyes, and held the portion of buckwheat cake on
her fork, suspended in space.
"A treat! Something I've been wanting this long time! You darling old
dear, what is it?"
"Don't ask me, it's a secret, it's to be a surprise. Have you finished
breakfast? Wal, run and put on the best duds you've got, while I go
round and gear up Kitty."
"Kitty! Then we're going somewhere. Now Uncle Reuben----"
"It ain't a mite o' use, Norry, I ain't agoin' to tell. Be off and clap
on your Sunday fixins, while I get around the cutter."
"You're going to take me to the city and buy me some thing--a silk
dress, perhaps. Oh, uncle! what a dear old love you are! I'll be ready
in ten minutes."
Uncle Reuben's heart smote him a little as he received Norine's
rapturous kiss, but there was no drawing back. He left the house, while
Miss Bourdon flew off singing like a skylark, to make her toilet. A new
silk--yes, that was it--a new wine-colored silk with black lace
trimming. If Mr. Thorndyke admired her in last winter's dingy red
merino, how would he be dazzled by the wine-colored silk? In fifteen
minutes her rapid toilet was made, and looking charming in her holiday
attire she came running back to Uncle Reuben. The sleigh was drawn up
before the door; she sprang into her seat beside him. Aunt Hetty, in the
doorway, was smiling good-by, the bells jingled, the whip cracked, Kitty
tossed her head and darted away into the frosty morning sunshine.
"_Not_ going to the city, uncle!" cried Norine "now, where on earth can
you be taking me?"
"To Merryweather's my dear," calmly responded Uncle Reuben, "where you
have been teasing me to take you these three months. There! ain't that a
pleasant surprise?"
There was a blank silence for a moment--the silence of great amaze. He
looked at her askance. A surprise beyond a doubt, but a pleasant one.
Well, that was another question. Her face had changed ominously all in a
moment.
"To Merryweather's?" she repeated. "Thirty miles!"
"Exactly, my dear--to stay two or three weeks, as they've been wanting
you to do. I didn't tell you, because I wanted to surprise you. I knew
you would be pleased to death."
"But uncle I can't!" exclaimed the girl, vehemently. "I can't go. I have
nothing to wear. My trunk and all my things are at home."
"Jest so; the cutter wouldn't hold your trunk; but Joe, he's going out
'bout the end of the week, and he'll fetch it. Make your mind easy, my
dear; Aunt Hetty will forget nothin'."
Norine made no reply. The sunny face wore the darkest expression Uncle
Reuben had ever seen it wear yet. Was Mr. Gilbert right--was the
mischief done--was it too late, after all?
He drove on. The blank silence lasted. He had never dreamed the laughing
face of his little Norine could wear the look it wore now. She spoke
after a long pause, in a tone of sullen inquiry:
"I wish you had told me last night, Uncle Reuben. It seems very odd
going off in this way. What will Mr. Thorndyke say?"
"What business is it of his?" placidly inquired Uncle Reuben.
An angry flush rose up over Norine's face.
"He will think it very strange--_very_ strange; I did not even say
good-by."
"I'll explain all that."
"And Aunt Hetty--how will she ever get along without me, with the house
work to do, and Mr. Thorndyke to wait on, and everything."
"He won't be to wait on long, he'll be able to return to his friends in
Portland in a week, and to tell the truth, I shan't be sorry to be rid
of him. As for you, Norry, by the way you object, one would think you
didn't want to go, after all."
Again Norine flushed angrily.
"I don't object to going," she said, in a tone that contradicted her
words. "It is the manner of going I don't like. I do think you might
have told me last night, Uncle Reuben."
Uncle Reuben stopped the cutter abruptly, and looked at her.
"Shall I turn and drive back?" he asked.
What could she say? The black eyes emitted an angry flash, the voice
that answered was sharp and petulant.
"No--go on."
He drove on, without another word. Norine lay back in the sleigh,
wrapped her cloak about her, pulled a little veil she wore, over her
face, and was silent. A great fear, a great dismay, a great foreboding
filled Uncle Reuben's heart. Had this girl lived with them so long, made
herself so dear, and hidden the nature that was within her, after all?
What lay under that sparkling surface that had seemed as clear as limpid
water? Dark depths he could never fathom, depths undreamed of as yet by
herself. Was she--he wondered this vaguely, with a keen sense of
pain--the gentle, affectionate, yielding child they had thought her, or
a self-willed, passionate, headstrong woman, ready, woman-like, to throw
over her oldest and truest friends if they stood between her and the man
she loved?