IV

It was impossible to break that silence without an intolerable

sacrifice of pride. Yet, so very, very small a thing would have

sufficed; one entreating glance from Mr. Anderson, and Miss Selby

would have responded willingly; just a shade of warmth in her smile,

and the young man would have made an impetuous apology. But he was not

going to give entreating glances to persons who laughed at him, and

her smile showed no warmth at all, but instead an extreme chilliness.

They smiled when they met every evening in the dining room, simply to

keep up appearances—and it was a complete failure. The old ladies

noticed at once that something had gone wrong; they discussed it with

unflagging interest all week, wondering what had happened, and whose

fault it was. They all hoped that matters would be adjusted by Sunday.

Sunday came, and it was a sweet, bright, warm day. The hour for taking

walks came, and Mr. Anderson went out—alone. The old ladies were truly

sorry to see this.

Miss Selby also saw it. She came out on the veranda just as he was

going down the steps and, although she did not turn her head, she had

caught a glimpse of his tall, broad-shouldered figure going off—alone.

She had a book with her, and, sitting down in a sheltered corner, she

began to read.

It was impossible. On this gay spring morning nothing printed in books

could interest her. Not that she cared what Mr. Anderson did or where

he went. Only, she was homesick and so very lonely. There was nobody

to talk to, and it would be such a long, long time before she could

afford to take a vacation and go back to Boston to see her own people.

“Er—good morning!” said Mr. Quincey, in his apologetic way.

For two months Mr. Quincey had been apologetically making attempts to

talk to Miss Selby. He was a most inoffensive young man, a teller in

the local bank; he had virtually all the virtues there are: thrift,

industry, sobriety, honesty—and he knew people in Boston. Yet hitherto

Miss Selby had discouraged him, for no good reason at all, but simply

because she wished so to do.

Imagine his surprise and delight when this morning she replied to him

with something like cordiality. The old ladies saw him sit down on the

railing near her chair, they saw his pleased smile, and they decided

that Miss Selby was a fickle and a heartless girl.

Then presently they saw Miss Selby go out for a walk with Mr. Quincey.

In the meantime, Mr. Anderson was striding along the quiet country

roads at a tremendous pace. No; he did not like the country.

Except for his unique and wonderful paper mill, he could wish with all

his heart that he were back in the city, where there were numbers of

people he knew, friendly faces to see, jolly voices to hear. He could

think of no particular person he was especially anxious to see, yet it

seemed to him that he missed somebody, badly.

So, he went up that hill again. Again Sandy was there, and Mrs.

Granger; again he was invited to look at the garden, and this time he

accepted.

V

Mrs. Granger was a widow, and she admitted herself that the loss of

Mr. Granger had made her very sympathetic. She told Mr. Anderson that

she “understood,” and he firmly believed this, without exactly knowing

what there was to be understood.

Anyhow, her manner was wonderfully soothing to one who had recently

been laughed at, and the young man appreciated it. Twice they strolled

round the garden, followed by Sandy, and Mrs. Granger, in a charming

and playful way, made a chaperon of Sandy.

“You know you’re Sandy’s friend,” she said. “He discovered you.”

Mr. Anderson found this very touching.

Then, when they had come round to the gate for the second time, she

said that she would be very pleased to see him if he would like to

come in for a cup of tea that afternoon.

“Thank you!” he replied heartily. “That’s very kind of you.”

And he really did think it was very kind of her, and that she was a

charming, gracious, kindly little lady, yet he had not said definitely

whether he would come to tea or not.

For all the time, in the back of his mind, there was a queer,

miserable feeling he could not define, a sense of guilt, as if he had

been very careless about something very dear to him. He thought that

he would not make up his mind until—well, until he saw—

What he saw was Miss Selby coming home from a walk with Mr. Quincey.

She was carrying a small bouquet of violets, so he supposed that she

had been in the woods—in those same woods—and with Mr. Quincey. So Mr.

Anderson did go to tea with Mrs. Granger.

Mrs. Granger said he might come on Wednesday evening, and he went. She

played on the piano and sang for him, and he praised her music so much

that she was charmingly confused. Never did she guess that it was not

admiration that moved him, but pity because she made so many mistakes

in technique.

And he accounted all these mistakes to her credit; he thought, like

many another man, that the worse her performance in any art, the more

domestic and womanly she must be. He felt a fine, chivalrous regard

for the poor thing.

But still he kept waiting for some sign of relenting on the part of

Miss Selby. Every evening, as he crossed the dining room to the little

table he thought that perhaps tonight it would be different; perhaps

tonight it would be as it had been during that time when they had

talked to each other.

Of course, if she didn’t care, he wasn’t going to force his unwelcome

conversation upon her. She was a woman; it was her place to make the

first move.

What had he done, anyhow? Maybe he had been a little hasty, but at

least he hadn’t laughed at her, or ever had the slightest desire to do

such a thing. And if, in her unreasonable feminine way, she wanted him

to apologize for things he hadn’t done, he was ready so to do—if she

would make the first move.

“Very well!” thought Miss Selby every evening when she saw him. “If

he’s satisfied to—to let things go on like this, I’m sure I don’t

care.”

She was much better able to wear a calm expression of not caring than

he was. He looked dejected and sulky. But when out of the public eye,

he did better than she, for he merely walked up and down his room, or

gazed out gloomily upon those depressing trees, while she, locked in

her own room, often cried.

The next Sunday it rained, but nevertheless he went out early in the

afternoon, and Miss Selby knew very well where he was going.

“Let him!” she said to herself. “If he’s so easily taken in by

that—that designing woman and her dog, _I_ don’t care! She’s probably

trained the dog to behave like that.”

This was unjust. Mrs. Granger had no need to train dogs to bring

guests into her house. Undoubtedly she liked Mr. Anderson, but if he

had not come there would still have been Captain MacGregor, whom she

had been liking for a good many years. Mr. Anderson was soon made

aware of the captain’s existence by Leroy.

Now, there is no denying that Leroy himself was a shock to the young

man. To begin with, it seemed incredible that any one who looked as

young as Mrs. Granger should have a son eight years old, and in the

second place, if she did have a son, it should have been a different

kind of child.

Leroy was a nice enough boy in his way, but completely lacking in the

plaintive and poetic charm of the mother. Indeed, he seemed more akin

to Sandy, a rough, cheerful, headstrong young thing. But he had none

of Sandy’s admirable instinct for judging human nature, and in the

beginning he did not like Mr. Anderson.

He was frank about it. He said that Mr. Anderson’s watch was markedly

inferior to Captain MacGregor’s, and he expressed a belief that

Captain MacGregor could, if he wished, lick Mr. Anderson. He said a

good many things of this sort, so that the young man was badly

prejudiced against this unknown captain some time before he met him.

And when he did meet him, on that rainy Sunday, nothing occurred to

soften the prejudice. He found MacGregor installed as an old friend.

He found also that the man had brought to Mrs. Granger, as a gift,

_six_ silk umbrellas.

Six! It was an overwhelming gift. Anderson himself had brought a box

of chocolates, but this was completely overshadowed by the umbrellas,

just as he himself was overshadowed by the impressive silence of the

other man.

A big, weather-beaten fellow of forty-five or so was this MacGregor,

with the face and the manner of a gigantic Sphinx; he was neither

handsome nor entertaining, but it was impossible to ignore or despise

him. The solid worth of him, the honest self-respect, and the massive

obstinacy, were plainly apparent.

He was not worried by the appearance of a strange young man; on the

contrary, he seemed mildly amused. He let Anderson do all the talking,

and just sat in a corner of the veranda, smoking his pipe.

This aroused in Anderson an unworthy spirit of emulation. He did not

enjoy being so completely overshadowed by this man and his six

umbrellas, and he returned the very next evening with four superb

phonograph records. He found MacGregor there, just opening a paper

parcel containing fourteen pairs of white gloves.

He waited until Wednesday, and then he arrived with a long box of the

most costly roses. The captain was not there, but Mrs. Granger showed

Anderson a little gift she had received from him the night before—five

mahogany clocks.

The unhappy young man was almost ready to give up then, until Mrs.

Granger casually explained that Captain MacGregor was a marine

insurance adjuster and, in the course of his business, was often able

to buy articles which had been part of damaged cargoes and yet were

themselves in nowise damaged.

“So that he sometimes brings me the most wonderful things,” she said.

“He _is_ so thoughtful and generous. Don’t you like him, Mr.

Anderson?”

“Well, you see, I don’t know him very well,” Anderson replied.

He went home somewhat comforted. Not only had Mrs. Granger been

unusually sympathetic and charming, but her words had inspired him

with a new idea.

On Friday evening he arrived with a very large package, which he left

in the hall. He then entered the sitting room, and found Mrs. Granger

sweetly admiring the captain’s latest gift—seven handsome black silk

blouses, all exactly alike.

He let her go on admiring, and even generously said himself that they

were “very nice.” Then, after a decent interval—“By the way,” he

remarked, and went out into the hall and fetched in his package.

It was pretty imposing. He had spoken to the foreman of the paper

mill, and the foreman had shown a friendly interest, so that he was

now able to present to Mrs. Granger: