The next morning when Gaites came down to breakfast he had a question
which solved itself contrary to his preference as he entered the
dining-room. He was so early that the head waiter had to jump from his
own unfinished meal, and run to pull out his chair; and Gaites saw that
he left at his table the landlord's family, the clerk, the housekeeper,
and Miss Axewright. It appeared that she was not only staying in the
hotel, but was there on terms which indeed held her above the servants,
but separated her from the guests.
He hardly knew how to dissemble the feeling of humiliation mixed with
indignation which flashed up in him, and which, he was afterwards
afraid, must have made him seem rather curt in his response to the head
waiter's civilities. Miss Axewright left the dining-room first, and he
hurried out to look her up as soon as he had despatched the coffee and
steak which formed his breakfast, with a wholly unreasoned impulse to
offer her some sort of reparation for the slight the conditions put upon
her. He found her sitting on the veranda beside the friendly tabby of
his last night's acquaintance, and far, apparently, from feeling the
need of reparation through him. She was very nice, though, and after
chatting a little while she rose, and excused herself to the tabby, with
a politeness that included Gaites, upon the ground of a promise to Miss
Desmond that she would come up, the first thing after breakfast, and see
how the piano was getting along.
When she reappeared, in her hat, at the front of the Inn, Gaites
happened to be there, and he asked her if he might walk with her and
make his inquiries too about the piano, in which, he urged, they were
mutually interested. He had a notion to tell her all about his pursuit
of Miss Desmond's piano, as something that would peculiarly interest
Miss Desmond's friend; but though she admitted the force of his
reasoning as to their common concern in the fate of the piano, and had
allowed him to go with her to rejoice over its installation, some subtle
instinct kept him from the confidence he had intended, and they walked
on in talk (very agreeable talk, Gaites found it) which left the subject
of the piano altogether intact.
This was fortunate for Miss Desmond, who wished to talk of nothing else.
The piano had arrived in perfect condition. "But I don't know where the
poor thing _hasn't_ been, on the way," said the girl. "It left Boston
fully two weeks ago, and it seems to have been wandering round to the
ends of the earth ever since. The first of last week, I heard from it at
Kent Harbor, of all places! I got a long despatch from there, from some
unknown female, telling me it had broken down on the way to Burymouth,
and been sent by mistake to Kent Harbor from Mewers Junction. Have you
ever been at Kent Harbor, Mr. Gaites?"
"Oh, yes," said Gaites. This was the moment to come out with the history
of his relation to the piano; but he waited.
"And can you tell me whether they happen to have a female freight agent
there?"
"Not to my knowledge," said Gaites, with a mystical smile.
"Then _do_ you know anybody there by the name of Elaine W. Maze?"
"Mrs. Maze? Yes, I know Mrs. Maze. She has a cottage, there."
"And can you tell me _why_ Mrs. Maze should be telegraphing me about my
piano?"
There was a note of resentment in Miss Desmond's voice, and it silenced
the laughing explanation which Gaites had almost upon his tongue. He
fell very grave in answering, "I can't, indeed, Miss Desmond."
"Perhaps she found out that it had been a long time on the way, and did
it out of pure good-nature, to relieve your anxiety."
This was what Miss Axewright conjectured, but it seemed to confirm Miss
Desmond's worst suspicions.
"That is what I should like to be _sure_ of," she said.
Gaites thought of all his own anxieties and interferences in behalf of
the piano of this ungrateful girl, and in her presence he resolved that
his lips should be forever sealed concerning them. She never would take
them in the right way. But he experimented with one suggestion. "Perhaps
she was taken with the beautiful name on the piano-case, and couldn't
help telegraphing just for the pleasure of writing it."
"Beautiful?" cried Miss Desmond. "It was my grandmother's name; and I
wonder they didn't call me for my great-grandmother, Daphne, and be done
with it."
The young man who had chosen himself master of ceremonies at the hop the
night before now proposed from the social background where he had
hitherto kept himself, "_I_ will call you Daphne."
"_You_ will call me Miss Desmond, if you please, Mr. Ellett." The owner
of the name had been facing her visitors from the piano-stool with her
back to the instrument. She now wheeled upon the stool, and struck some
chords. "I wish you'd thought to bring your fiddle, Millicent. I should
like to try this piece." The piece lay on the music-rest before her.
"I will go and get it for her," said the ex-master of ceremonies.
"Do," said Miss Desmond.
"No, no," Gaites protested. "I brought Miss Axewright, and I have the
first claim to bring her fiddle."
"I'm afraid you couldn't either of you find it," Miss Axewright began.
"We'll both try," said the ex-master of ceremonies. "Where do you think
it is?"
"Well, it's in the case on the piano."
"That doesn't sound very intricate," said Gaites, and they all laughed.
As soon as the two men were out of the house, the ex-master of
ceremonies confided: "That name is a very tender spot with Miss Desmond.
She's always hated it since I knew her, and I can't remember when I
_didn't_ know her."
"Yes, I could see that--too late," said Gaites. "But what I can't
understand is, Miss Axewright seemed to hate it, too."