In Which We Are Received at Bancroft's Hotel and I Receive a Letter
It was late when we reached London, nearly eleven o'clock. The long
train journey was a delight. During the few hours of daylight and dusk
we peered through the car windows at the scenery flying past; at the
villages, the green fields, the hedges, the neat, trim farms.
“Everything looks as if it has been swept and dusted,” declared Hephzy.
“There aren't any waste places at all. What do they do with their spare
land?”
“They haven't any,” I answered. “Land is too valuable to waste. There's
another thatched roof. It looks like those in the pictures, doesn't it.”
Hephzy nodded. “Just exactly,” she said. “Everything looks like the
pictures. I feel as if I'd seen it all before. If that engine didn't
toot so much like a tin whistle I should almost think it was a picture.
But it isn't--it isn't; it's real, and you and I are part of it.”
We dined on the train. Night came and our window-pictures changed
to glimpses of flashing lights interspersed with shadowy blotches of
darkness. At length the lights became more and more frequent and began
to string out in long lines marking suburban streets. Then the little
locomotive tooted its tin whistle frantically and we rolled slowly under
a great train shed--Paddington Station and London itself.
Amid the crowd on the platform Hephzy and I stood, two lone wanderers
not exactly sure what we should do next. About us the busy crowd jostled
and pushed. Relatives met relatives and fathers and mothers met sons and
daughters returning home after long separations. No one met us, no
one was interested in us at all, except the porters and the cabmen.
I selected a red-faced chunky porter who was a decidedly able person,
apparently capable of managing anything except the letter h. The
acrobatics which he performed with that defenceless consonant were
marvelous. I have said that I selected him; that he selected me would be
nearer the truth.
“Cab, sir. Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he said. “Leave that to me, sir.
Will you 'ave a fourwheeler or a hordinary cab, sir?”
I wasn't exactly certain what a fourwheeler might be. I had read about
them often enough, but I had never seen one pictured and properly
labeled. For the matter of that, all the vehicles in sight appeared to
have four wheels. So I said, at a venture, that I thought an ordinary
cab would do.
“Yes, sir; 'ere you are, sir. Your boxes are in the luggage van, I
suppose, sir.”
I took it for granted he meant my trunks and those were in what I, in my
ignorance, would have called a baggage car:
“Yes, sir,” said the porter. “If the lidy will be good enough to wait
'ere, sir, you and I will go hafter the boxes, sir.”
Cautioning Hephzy not to stir from her moorings on any account I
followed my guide to the “luggage van.” This crowded car disgorged
our two steamer trunks and, my particular porter having corraled a
fellow-craftsman to help him, the trunks were dragged to the waiting
cab.
I found Hephzy waiting, outwardly calm, but inwardly excited.
“I saw one at last,” she declared. “I'd about come to believe there
wasn't such a thing, but there is; I just saw one.”
“One--what?” I asked, puzzled.
“An Englishman with side-whiskers. They wasn't as big and long as those
in the pictures, but they were side-whiskers. I feel better. When you've
been brought up to believe every Englishman wore 'em, it was kind of
humiliatin' not to see one single set.”
I paid my porters--I learned afterward that, like most Americans, I had
given them altogether too much--and we climbed into the cab with our
bags. The “boxes,” or trunks, were on the driver's seat and on the roof.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.
I hesitated. Even at this late date I had not made up my mind exactly
“where to.” My decision was a hasty one.
“Why--er--to--to Bancroft's Hotel,” I said. “Blithe Street, just off
Piccadilly.”
I think the driver was somewhat astonished. Very few of his American
passengers selected Bancroft's as a stopping place, I imagine. However,
his answer was prompt.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he said. The cab rolled out of the station.
“I suppose,” said Hephzy, reflectively, “if you had told him or that
porter man that they were everlastin' idiots they'd have thanked you
just the same and called you 'sir' four times besides.”
“No doubt they would.”
“Yes, sir, I'm perfectly sure they would--thank you, sir. So this is
London. It doesn't look such an awful lot different from Boston or New
York so far.”
But Bancroft's, when we reached it, was as unlike a Boston or New
York hotel as anything could be. A short, quiet, eminently respectable
street, leading from Piccadilly; a street fenced in, on both sides, by
three-story, solid, eminently respectable houses of brick and stone. No
signs, no street cars, no crowds, no glaring lights. Merely a gas
lamp burning over the fanlight of a spotless white door, and the words
“Bancroft's Hotel” in mosaic lettering set in a white stone slab in the
pavement.
The cab pulled up before the white door and Hephzy and I looked out of
the window. The same thought was in both our minds.
“This can't be the place,” said I.
“This isn't a hotel, is it, Hosy?” asked Hephzy.
The white door opened and a brisk, red-cheeked English boy in uniform
hastened to the cab. Before he reached it I had seen the lettering in
the pavement and knew that, in spite of appearances, we had reached our
destination.
“This is it, Hephzy,” I said. “Come.”
The boy opened the cab door and we alighted. Then in the doorway of
“Bancroft's” appeared a stout, red-faced and very dignified person, also
in uniform. This person wore short “mutton-chop” whiskers and had the
air of a member of the Royal Family; that is to say, the air which a
member of the Royal Family might be expected to have.
“Good evening, sir,” said the personage, bowing respectfully. The bow
was a triumph in itself; not too low, not abject in the least, not
familiar; a bow which implied much, but promised nothing; a bow which
seemed to demand references, but was far from repellant or bullying.
Altogether a wonderful bow.
“Good evening,” said I. “This is Bancroft's Hotel, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wish to secure rooms for this lady and myself, if possible.”
“Yes, sir. This way, sir, if you please. Richard,” this to the boy and
in a tone entirely different--the tone of a commanding officer to a
private--“see to the gentleman's luggage. This way, sir; thank you,
sir.”
I hesitated. “The cabman has not been paid,” I stammered. I was a trifle
overawed by the grandeur of the mutton-chops and the “sir.”
“I will attend to that, sir. If you will be good enough to come in,
sir.”
We entered and found ourselves in a narrow hall, old-fashioned, homelike
and as spotless as the white door. Two more uniforms bowed before us.
“Thank you, sir,” said the member of the Royal Family. It was with
difficulty that I repressed the desire to tell him he was quite welcome.
His manner of thanking me seemed to imply that we had conferred a favor.
“I will speak to Mr. Jameson,” he went on, with another bow. Then he
left us.
“Is--is that Mr. Bancroft?” whispered Hephzy.
I shook my head. “It must be the Prince of Wales, at least,” I whispered
in return. “I infer that there is no Mr. Bancroft.”
It developed that I was right. Mr. Jameson was the proprietor of the
hotel, and Mr. Jameson was a pleasant, refined, quiet man of middle age.
He appeared from somewhere or other, ascertained our wants, stated that
he had a few vacant rooms and could accommodate us.
“Do you wish a sitting-room?” he asked.
I was not sure. I wanted comfort, that I knew, and I said so. I
mentioned, as an afterthought, that Mr. Heathcroft had recommended
Bancroft's to me.
The Heathcroft name seemed to settle everything. Mr. Jameson summoned
the representative of royalty and spoke to him in a low tone. The
representative--his name, I learned later, was Henry and he was butler
and major-domo at Bancroft's--bowed once more. A few minutes later we
were shown to an apartment on the second floor front, a room large,
old-fashioned, furnished with easy-chairs, tables and a big, comfortable
sofa. Sofa and easy-chairs were covered with figured, glazed chintz.
“Your sitting-room, sir,” said Henry. “Your bedrooms open hoff it, sir.
The chambermaid will 'ave them ready in a moment, sir. Richard and the
porter will bring up your luggage and the boxes. Will you and the lady
wish supper, sir? Thank you, sir. Very good, sir. Will you require a
fire, sir?”
The room was a trifle chilly. There was a small iron grate at its
end, and a coal fire ready to kindle. I answered that a fire might be
enjoyable.
“Yes, sir,” said Henry. “Himmediately, sir.”
Soon Hephzy and I were drinking hot tea and eating bread and butter and
plum cake before a snapping fire. George, the waiter, had brought us the
tea and accessories and set the table; the chambermaid had prepared the
bedrooms; Henry had supervised everything.
“Well,” observed Hephzy, with a sigh of content, “I feel better
satisfied every minute. When we were in the hack--cab, I mean--I
couldn't realize we weren't ridin' through an American city. The houses
and sidewalks and everything--what I could see of 'em--looked so much
like Boston that I was sort of disappointed. I wanted it to be more
different, some way. But this IS different. This may be a hotel--I
suppose likely 'tis--but it don't seem like one, does it? If it wasn't
for the Henry and that Richard and that--what's his name? George--and
all the rest, I should think I was in Cap'n Cyrus Whittaker's
settin-room back home. The furniture looks like Cap'n Cy's and the
pictures look like those he has, and--and everything looks as stiff and
starched and old-fashioned as can be. But the Cap'n never had a Henry.
No, sirree, Henry don't belong on Cape Cod! Hosy,” with a sudden burst
of confidence, “it's a good thing I saw that Lord Erskine first. If I
hadn't found out what a live lord looked like I'd have thought Henry
was one sure. Do you really think it's right for me to call him by his
Christian name? It seems sort of--sort of irreverent, somehow.”
I wish it were possible for me to describe in detail our first days at
Bancroft's. If it were not for the fact that so many really important
events and happenings remain to be described--if it were not that the
most momentous event of my life, the event that was the beginning of the
great change in that life--if that event were not so close at hand, I
should be tempted to linger upon those first few days. They were strange
and wonderful and funny to Hephzibah and me. The strangeness and the
wonder wore off gradually; the fun still sticks in my memory.
To have one's bedroom invaded at an early hour by a chambermaid who,
apparently quite oblivious of the fact that the bed was still occupied
by a male, proceeded to draw the curtains, bring the hot water and fill
the tin tub for my bath, was astonishing and funny enough, Hephzibah's
comments on the proceeding were funnier still.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she demanded, “that that hussy was brazen
enough to march right in here before you got up?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am only thankful that I HADN'T got up.”
“Well! I must say! Did she fetch the water in a garden waterin'-pot,
same as she did to me?”
“Just the same.”
“And did she pour it into that--that flat dishpan on the floor and tell
you your 'bawth' was ready?”
“She did.”
“Humph! Of all the--I hope she cleared out THEN?”
“She did.”
“That's a mercy, anyhow. Did you take a bath in that dishpan?”
“I tried.”
“Well, I didn't. I'd as soon try to bathe in a saucer. I'd have felt as
if I'd needed a teaspoon to dip up the half pint of water and pour
it over me. Don't these English folks have real bathtubs for grown-up
people?”
I did not know, then. Later I learned that Bancroft's Hotel possessed
several bathrooms, and that I might use one if I preferred. Being an
American I did so prefer. Most of the guests, being English, preferred
the “dishpans.”
We learned to accept the early morning visits of the chambermaid as
matters of course. We learned to order breakfast the night before and
to eat it in our sitting-room. We tasted a “grilled sole” for the
first time, and although Hephzy persisted in referring to it as “fried
flatfish” we liked the taste. We became accustomed to being waited upon,
to do next to nothing for ourselves, and I found that a valet who
laid out my evening clothes, put the studs in my shirts, selected my
neckties, and saw that my shoes were polished, was a rather convenient
person to have about. Hephzy fumed a good deal at first; she declared
that she felt ashamed, an able-bodied woman like her, to sit around
with her hands folded and do nothing. She asked her maid a great many
questions, and the answers she received explained some of her puzzles.
“Do you know what that poor thing gets a week?” she observed, referring
to the maid. “Eight shillin's--two dollars a week, that's what she gets.
And your valet man doesn't get any more. I can see now how Mr. Jameson
can afford to keep so much help at the board he charges. I pay that
Susanna Wixon thing at Bayport three dollars and she doesn't know enough
to boil water without burnin' it on, scarcely. And Peters--why in the
world do they call women by their last names?--Peters, she's the maid,
says it's a real nice place and she's quite satisfied. Well, where
ignorance is bliss it's foolish to be sensible, I suppose; but _I_
wouldn't fetch and carry for the President's wife, to say nothin' of an
everyday body like me, for two dollars a week.”
We learned that the hotel dining-room was a “Coffee Room.”
“Nobody with sense would take coffee there--not more'n once, they
wouldn't,” declared Hephzy. “I asked Peters why they didn't call it the
'Tea Room' and be done with it. She said because it was the Coffee Room.
I suppose likely that was an answer, but I felt a good deal as if I'd
come out of the same hole I went in at. She thanked me for askin' her,
though; she never forgets that.”
We became accustomed to addressing the lordly Henry by his Christian
name and found him a most obliging person. He, like everyone else,
had instantly recognized us as Americans, and, consequently, was
condescendingly kind to strangers from a distant and barbarous country.
“What SORT of place do they think the States are?” asked Hephzy. “That's
what they always call home--'the States'--and they seem to think it's
about as big as a pocket handkerchief. That Henry asked me if the red
Indians were numerous where we lived. I said no--as soon as I could say
anything; I told him there was only one tribe of Red Men in town and
they were white. I guess he thought I was crazy, but it don't make any
difference. And Peters said she had a cousin in a place called Chicago
and did I know him. What do you think of that?”
“What did you tell her?” I inquired.
“Hey? Oh, I told her that, bein' as Chicago was a thousand miles from
Bayport, I hadn't had time to do much visitin' there. I told her the
truth, but she didn't believe it. I could see she didn't. She thinks
Chicago and San Francisco and New York and Boston are nests of wigwams
in the same patch of woods and all hands that live there have been
scalped at least once. SUCH ignorance!”
Henry, at my request, procured seats for us at one of the London
theaters. There we saw a good play, splendidly acted, and Hephzy laughed
and wept at the performance. As usual, however, she had a characteristic
comment to make.
“Why do they call the front seats the 'stalls'?” she whispered to me
between the acts. “Stalls! The idea! I'm no horse. Perhaps they call 'em
that because folks are donkeys enough to pay two dollars and a half
for the privilege of sittin' in 'em. Don't YOU be so extravagant again,
Hosy.”
One of the characters in the play was supposed to be an American
gentleman, and his behavior and dress and speech stirred me to
indignation. I asked the question which every American asks under
similar circumstances.
“Why on earth,” I demanded, “do they permit that fellow to make such
a fool of himself? He yells and drawls and whines through his nose and
wears clothes which would make an American cry. That last scene was
supposed to be a reception and he wore an outing suit and no waistcoat.
Do they suppose such a fellow would be tolerated in respectable society
in the United States?”
And now it was Hephzy's turn to be philosophical.
“I guess likely the answer to that is simple enough,” she said. “He's
what they think an American ought to be, even if he isn't. If he behaved
like a human bein' he wouldn't be the kind of American they expect on
the stage. After all, he isn't any worse than the Englishmen we have in
the Dramatic Society's plays at home. I haven't seen one of that kind
since I got here; and I've given up expectin' to--unless you and I go to
some crazy asylum--which isn't likely.”
We rode on the tops of busses, we visited the Tower, and Westminster
Abbey, and Saint Paul's. We saw the Horse Guard sentinels on duty in
Whitehall, and watched the ceremony of guard changing at St. James's.
Hephzy was impressed, in her own way, by the uniforms of the “Cold
Streams.”
“There!” she exclaimed, “I've seen 'em walk. Now I feel better. When
they stood there, with those red jackets and with the fur hats on their
heads, I couldn't make myself believe they hadn't been taken out of a
box for children to play with. I wanted to get up close so as to see if
their feet were glued to round pieces of wood like Noah's and Ham's and
Japhet's in the Ark. But they aren't wood, they're alive. They're men,
not toys. I'm glad I've seen 'em. THEY are satisfyin'. They make me more
reconciled to a King with a Derby hat on.”
She and I had stood in the crowd fringing the park mall and seen King
George trot by on horseback. His Majesty's lack of crown and robes and
scepter had been a great disappointment to Hephzy; I think she expected
the crown at least.
I had, of course, visited the London office of my publishers, in Camford
Street and had found Mr. Matthews, the manager, expecting me. Jim
Campbell had cabled and written of my coming and Matthews' welcome was a
warm one. He was kindness itself. All my financial responsibilities were
to be shifted to his shoulders. I was to use the office as a bank, as a
tourist agency, even as a guide's headquarters. He put his clerks at my
disposal; they would conduct us on sight-seeing expeditions whenever
and wherever we wished. He even made out a list of places in and about
London which we, as strangers, should see.
His cordiality and thoughtfulness were appreciated. They made me feel
less alone and less dependent upon my own resources. Campbell had
arranged that all letters addressed to me in America should be forwarded
to the Camford Street office, and Matthews insisted that I should write
my own letters there. I began to make it a practice to drop in at
the office almost every morning before starting on the day's round of
sight-seeing.
Bancroft's Hotel also began to seem less strange and more homelike.
Mr. Jameson, the proprietor, was a fine fellow--quiet, refined, and
pleasant. He, too, tried to help us in every possible way. His wife, a
sweet-faced Englishwoman, made Hephzy's acquaintance and Hephzy liked
her extremely.
“She's as nice as she can be,” declared Hephzy. “If it wasn't that she
says 'Fancy!' and 'Really!' instead of 'My gracious!' and 'I want to
know!' I should think I was talking to a Cape Codder, the best kind
of one. She's got sense, too. SHE don't ask about 'red Indians' in
Bayport.”
Among the multitude of our new experiences we learned the value of
a judicious “tip.” We had learned something concerning tips on the
“Plutonia”; Campbell had coached us concerning those, and we were
provided with a schedule of rates--so much to the bedroom steward, so
much to the stewardess, to the deck steward, to the “boots,” and all the
rest. But tipping in London we were obliged to adjust for ourselves, and
the result of our education was surprising.
At Saint Paul's an elderly and impressively haughty person in a black
robe showed us through the Crypt and delivered learned lectures before
the tombs of Nelson and Wellington. His appearance and manner were
somewhat awe-inspiring, especially to Hephzy, who asked me, in a
whisper, if I thought likely he was a bishop or a canon or something.
When the round was ended and we were leaving the Crypt she saw me put a
hand in my pocket.
“Mercy sakes, Hosy,” she whispered. “You aren't goin' to offer him
money, are you? He'll be insulted. I'd as soon think of givin' Mr.
Partridge, our minister, money for takin' us to the cemetery to see the
first settlers' gravestones. Don't you do it. He'll throw it back at
you. I'll be so ashamed.”
But I had been watching our fellow-sight-seers as they filed out,
and when our time came I dropped two shillings in the hand of the
black-robed dignitary. The hand did not spurn the coins, which I--rather
timidly, I confess--dropped into it. Instead it closed upon them tightly
and the haughty lips thanked me, not profusely, not even smilingly, but
thanked me, nevertheless.
At our visit to the Law Courts a similar experience awaited us. Another
dignified and elderly person, who, judging by his appearance, should
have been a judge at least, not only accepted the shilling I gave him,
but bowed, smiled and offered to conduct us to the divorce court.
“A very interesting case there, sir, just now,” he murmured,
confidingly. “Very interesting and sensational indeed, sir. You and the
lady will enjoy it, I'm sure, sir. All Americans do.”
Hephzy was indignant.
“Well!” she exclaimed, as we emerged upon the Strand. “Well! I must say!
What sort of folks does he think we are, I'd like to know. Divorce
case! I'd be ashamed to hear one. And that old man bein' so wicked and
ridiculous for twenty-five cents! Hosy, I do believe if you'd given him
another shillin' he'd have introduced us to that man in the red robe and
cotton wool wig--What did he call him?--Oh, yes, the Lord Chief Justice.
And I suppose you'd have had to tip HIM, too.”
The first two weeks of our stay in London came to an end. Our plans were
still as indefinite as ever. How long we should stay, where we should go
next, what we should do when we decided where that “next” was to be--all
these questions we had not considered at all. I, for my part, was
curiously uninterested in the future. I was enjoying myself in an idle,
irresponsible way, and I could not seem to concentrate my thoughts upon
a definite course of action. If I did permit myself to think I found my
thoughts straying to my work and there they faced the same impassable
wall. I felt no inclination to write; I was just as certain as ever that
I should never write again. Thinking along this line only brought back
the old feeling of despondency. So I refused to think and, taking Jim's
advice, put work and responsibility from my mind. We would remain in
London as long as we were contented there. When the spirit moved we
would move with it--somewhere--either about England or to the Continent.
I did not know which and I did not care; I did not seem to care much
about anything.
Hephzy was perfectly happy. London to her was as wonderful as ever. She
never tired of sight-seeing, and on occasions when I felt disinclined
to leave the hotel she went out alone, shopping or wandering about the
streets.
She scarcely mentioned “Little Frank” and I took care not to remind her
of that mythical youth. I had expected her to see him on every street
corner, to be brought face to face with unsuspecting young Englishmen
and made to ask ridiculous questions which might lead to our being taken
in charge as a pair of demented foreigners. But my forebodings were not
realized. London was so huge and the crowds so great that even Hephzy's
courage faltered. To select Little Frank from the multitude was a task
too great, even for her, I imagine. At any rate, she did not make the
attempt, and the belief that we were “sent” upon our pilgrimage for that
express purpose she had not expressed since our evening on the train.
The third week passed. I was growing tired of trotting about. Not tired
of London in particular. The gray, dingy, historic, wonderful old city
was still fascinating. It is hard to conceive of an intelligent person's
ever growing weary of the narrow streets with the familiar names--Fleet
Street, Fetter Lane, Pudding Lane and all the rest--names as familiar
to a reader of history or English fiction as that of his own town. To
wander into an unknown street and to learn that it is Shoreditch, or to
look up at an ancient building and discover it to be the Charterhouse,
were ever fresh miracles to me, as I am sure they must be to every
book-loving American. No, I was not tired of London. Had I come there
under other circumstances I should have been as happy and content
as Hephzy herself. But, now that the novelty was wearing off, I was
beginning to think again, to think of myself--the very thing I had
determined, and still meant, not to do.
One afternoon I drifted into the Camford Street office. Hephzy had left
me at Piccadilly Circus and was now, it was safe to presume, enjoying a
delightful sojourn amid the shops of Regent and Oxford Streets. When she
returned she would have a half-dozen purchases to display, a two-and-six
glove bargain from Robinson's, a bit of lace from Selfridge's, a
knick-knack from Liberty's--“All so MUCH cheaper than you can get 'em in
Boston, Hosy.” She would have had a glorious time.
Matthews, the manager at Camford Street, was out, but Holton, the head
clerk--I was learning to speak of him as a “clark”--was in.
“There are some American letters for you, sir,” he said. “I was about to
send them to your hotel.”
He gave me the letters--four of them altogether--and I went into the
private office to look them over. My first batch of mail from home;
it gave me a small thrill to see two-cent stamps in the corners of the
envelopes.
One of the letters was from Campbell. I opened it first of all. Jim
wrote a rambling, good-humored letter, a mixture of business, news,
advice and nonsense. “The Black Brig” had gone into another edition.
Considering my opinion of such “slush” I should be ashamed to accept
the royalties, but he would continue to give my account credit for them
until I cabled to the contrary. He trusted we were behaving ourselves in
a manner which would reflect credit upon our country. I was to be sure
not to let Hephzy marry a title. And so on, for six pages. The letter
was almost like a chat with Jim himself, and I read it with chuckles and
a pang of homesickness.
One of the envelopes bore Hephzy's name and I, of course, did not
open it. It was postmarked “Bayport” and I thought I recognized the
handwriting as Susanna Wixon's. The third letter turned out to be not
a letter at all, but a bill from Sylvanus Cahoon, who took care of our
“lots” in the Bayport cemetery. It had been my intention to pay all
bills before leaving home, but, somehow or other, Sylvanus's had been
overlooked. I must send him a check at once.
The fourth and last envelope was stained and crumpled. It had traveled
a long way. To my surprise I noticed that the stamp in the corner was
English and the postmark “London.” The address, moreover, was “Captain
Barnabas Cahoon, Bayport, Massachusetts, U. S. A.” The letter had
obviously been mailed in London, had journeyed to Bayport, from there
to New York, and had then been forwarded to London again. Someone,
presumably Simmons, the postmaster, had written “Care Hosea Knowles”
and my publisher's New York address in the lower corner. This had been
scratched out and “28 Camford Street, London, England,” added.
I looked at the envelope. Who in the world, or in England, could have
written Captain Barnabas--Captain Barnabas Cahoon, my great-uncle, dead
so many years? At first I was inclined to hand the letter, unopened, to
Hephzy. She was Captain Barnabas's daughter and it belonged to her
by right. But I knew Hephzy had no secrets from me and, besides,
my curiosity was great. At length I yielded to it and tore open the
envelope.
Inside was a sheet of thin foreign paper, both sides covered with
writing. I read the first line.
“Captain Barnabas Cahoon.
“Sir:
“You are my nearest relative, my mother's father, and I--”
“I uttered an exclamation. Then I stepped to the door of the private
office, made sure that it was shut, came back, sat down in the chair
before the desk which Mr. Matthews had put at my disposal, and read the
letter from beginning to end. This is what I read:
“Captain Barnabas Cahoon.
“Sir:
“You are my nearest relative, my mother's father, and I, therefore,
address this letter to you. I know little concerning you. I do not know
even that you are still living in Bayport, or that you are living at
all. (N.B. In case Captain Cahoon is not living this letter is to be
read and acted upon by his heirs, upon whose estate I have an equal
claim.) My mother, Ardelia Cahoon Morley, died in Liverpool in 1896. My
father, Strickland Morley, died in Paris in December, 1908. I, as their
only child, am their heir, and I am writing to you asking what I might
demand--that is, a portion of the money which was my mother's and which
you kept from her and from my father all these years. My father told me
the whole story before he died, and he also told me that he had written
you several times, but that his letters had been ignored. My father was
an English gentleman and he was proud; that is why he did not take legal
steps against you for the recovery of what was his by law in England
OR ANY CIVILISED COUNTRY, one may presume. He would not STOOP to
such measures even against those who, as you know well, so meanly and
fraudulently deprived him and his of their inheritance. He is dead
now. He died lacking the comforts and luxuries with which you might
and SHOULD have provided him. His forbearance was wonderful and
characteristic, but had I known of it sooner I should have insisted
upon demanding from you the money which was his. I am now demanding it
myself. Not BEGGING; that I wish THOROUGHLY understood. I am giving you
the opportunity to make a partial restitution, that is all. It is what
he would have wished, and his wish ALONE prevents my putting the whole
matter in my solicitor's hands. If I do not hear from you within a
reasonable time I shall know what to do. You may address me care Mrs.
Briggs, 218 ---- Street, London, England.
“Awaiting your reply, I am, sir,
“Yours,
“FRANCIS STRICKLAND MORLEY.
“P. S.
“I am not to be considered under ANY circumstances a subject for
charity. I am NOT begging. You, I am given to understand, are a wealthy
man. I demand my share of that wealth--that is all.”
I read this amazing epistle through once. Then, after rising and walking
about the office to make sure that I was thoroughly awake, I sat down
and read it again. There was no mistake. I had read it correctly. The
writing was somewhat illegible in spots and the signature was blotted,
but it was from Francis Strickland Morley. From “Little Frank!” I think
my first and greatest sensation was of tremendous surprise that there
really was a “Little Frank.” Hephzy had been right. Once more I should
have to take off my hat to Hephzy.
The surprise remained, but other sensations came to keep it company. The
extraordinary fact of the letter's reaching me when and where it did,
in London, the city from which it was written and where, doubtless, the
writer still was. If I chose I might, perhaps, that very afternoon, meet
and talk with Ardelia Cahoon's son, with “Little Frank” himself. I could
scarcely realize it. Hephzy had declared that our coming to London was
the result of a special dispensation--we had been “sent” there. In the
face of this miracle I was not disposed to contradict her.
The letter itself was more extraordinary than all else. It was that of
a young person, of a hot-headed boy. But WHAT a boy he must be! What an
unlicked, impudent, arrogant young cub! The boyishness was evident in
every line, in the underscored words, the pitiful attempt at dignity and
the silly veiled threats. He was so insistent upon the statement that he
was not a beggar. And yet he could write a begging letter like this. He
did not ask for charity, not he, he demanded it. Demanded it--he, the
son of a thief, demanded, from those whom his father had robbed, his
“rights.” He should have his rights; I would see to that.
I was angry enough but, as I read the letter for the third time, the
pitifulness of it became more apparent. I imagined Francis Strickland
Morley to be the replica of the Strickland Morley whom I remembered, the
useless, incompetent, inadequate son of a good-for-nothing father. No
doubt the father was responsible for such a letter as this having been
written. Doubtless he HAD told the boy all sorts of tales; perhaps he
HAD declared himself to be the defrauded instead of the defrauder; he
was quite capable of it. Possibly the youngster did believe he had a
claim upon the wealthy relatives in that “uncivilized” country, America.
The wealthy relatives! I thought of Captain Barnabas's last years, of
Hephzibah's plucky fight against poverty, of my own lost opportunities,
of the college course which I had been obliged to forego. My indignation
returned. I would not go back at once to Hephzy with the letter. I
would, myself, seek out the writer of that letter, and, if I found him,
he and I would have a heart to heart talk which should disabuse his mind
of a few illusions. We would have a full and complete understanding.
I hastily made a memorandum of the address, “Care Mrs. Briggs,” thrust
the letter back into the envelope, put it and my other mail into my
pocket, and walked out into the main office. Holton, the clerk, looked
up from his desk. Probably my feelings showed in my face, for he said:
“What is it, Mr. Knowles? No bad news, I trust, sir.”
“No,” I answered, shortly. “Where is ---- Street? Is it far from here?”
It was rather far from there, in Camberwell, on the Surrey side of the
river. I might take a bus at such a corner and change again at so and
so. It sounded like a journey and I was impatient. I suggested that I
might take a cab. Certainly I could do that. William, the boy, would
call a cab at once.
William did so and I gave the driver the address from my memoranda.
Through the Strand I was whirled, across Blackfriars Bridge and on
through the intricate web of avenues and streets on the Surrey side. The
locality did not impress me favorably. There was an abundance of “pubs”
and of fried-fish shops where “jellied eels” seemed to be a viand much
in demand.
---- Street, when I reached it, was dingy and third rate. Three-storied
old brick houses, with shops on their first floors, predominated. Number
218 was one of these. The signs “Lodgings” over the tarnished bell-pull
and the name “Briggs” on the plate beside it proved that I had located
the house from which the letter had been sent.
I paid my cabman, dismissed him, and rang the bell. A slouchy
maid-servant answered the ring.
“Is Mr. Francis Morley in?” I asked.
The maid looked at me.
“Wat, sir?” she said.
“Does Mr. Francis Morley live here?” I asked, raising my voice. “Is he
in?”
The maid's face was as wooden as the door-post. Her mouth, already open,
opened still wider and she continued to stare. A step sounded in the
dark hall behind her and another voice said, sharply:
“'Oo is it, 'Arriet? And w'at does 'e want?”
The maid grinned. “'E wants to see MISTER Morley, ma'am,” she said, with
a giggle.
She was pushed aside and a red-faced woman, with thin lips and scowl,
took her place.
“'OO do you want to see?” she demanded.
“Francis Morley. Does he live here?”
“'OO?”
“Francis Morley.” My answer was sharp enough this time. I began to think
I had invaded a colony of imbeciles--or owls; their conversation seemed
limited to “oos.”
“W'at do you want to see--to see Morley for?” demanded the red-faced
female.
“On business. Is Mrs. Briggs in?”
“I'm Mrs. Briggs.”
“Good! I'm glad of that. Now will you tell me if Mr. Morley is in?”
“There ain't no Mr. Morley. There's a--”
She was interrupted. From the hall, apparently from the top of the
flight of stairs, another was heard, a feminine voice like the others,
but unlike them--decidedly unlike.
“Who is it, Mrs. Briggs?” said this voice. “Does the gentleman wish to
see me?”
“No, 'e don't,” declared Mrs. Briggs, with emphasis. “'E wants to see
Mister Morley and I'm telling 'im there ain't none such.”
“But are you sure he doesn't mean Miss Morley? Ask him, please.”
Before the Briggs woman could reply I spoke again.
“I want to see a Francis Morley,” I repeated, loudly. “I have come here
in answer to a letter. The letter gave this as his address. If he isn't
here, will you be good enough to tell me where he is? I--”
There was another interruption, an exclamation from the darkness behind
Mrs. Briggs and the maid.
“Oh!” said the third voice, with a little catch in it. “Who is it,
please? Who is it? What is the person's name?”
Mrs. Briggs scowled at me.
“Wat's your name?” she snapped.
“My name is Knowles. I am an American relative of Mr. Morley's and I'm
here in answer to a letter written by Mr. Morley himself.”
There was a moment's silence. Then the third voice said:
“Ask--ask him to come up. Show him up, Mrs. Briggs, if you please.”
Mrs. Briggs grunted and stepped aside. I entered the hall.
“First floor back,” mumbled the landlady. “Straight as you go. You won't
need any showin'.”
I mounted the stairs. The landing at the top was dark, but the door
at the rear was ajar. I knocked. A voice, the same voice I had heard
before, bade me come in. I entered the room.
It was a dingy little room, sparely furnished, with a bed and two
chairs, a dilapidated washstand and a battered bureau. I noticed these
afterwards. Just then my attention was centered upon the occupant of the
room, a young woman, scarcely more than a girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed,
slender and graceful. She was standing by the bureau, resting one hand
upon it, and gazing at me, with a strange expression, a curious compound
of fright, surprise and defiance. She did not speak. I was embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered. “I am afraid there is some mistake.
I came here in answer to a letter written by a Francis Morley, who
is--well, I suppose he is a distant relative of mine.”
She stepped forward and closed the door by which I had entered. Then she
turned and faced me.
“You are an American,” she said.
“Yes, I am an American. I--”
She interrupted me.
“Do you--do you come from--from Bayport, Massachusetts?” she faltered.
I stared at her. “Why, yes,” I admitted. “I do come from Bayport. How in
the world did you--”
“Was the letter you speak of addressed to Captain Barnabas Cahoon?”
“Yes.”
“Then--then there isn't any mistake. I wrote it.”
I imagine that my mouth opened as wide as the maid's had done.
“You!” I exclaimed. “Why--why--it was written by Francis Morley--Francis
Strickland Morley.”
“I am Frances Strickland Morley.”
I heard this, of course, but I did not comprehend it. I had been working
along the lines of a fixed idea. Now that idea had been knocked into a
cocked hat, and my intellect had been knocked with it.
“Why--why, no,” I repeated, stupidly. “Francis Morley is the son of
Strickland Morley.”
“There was no son,” impatiently. “I am Frances Morley, I tell you. I am
Strickland Morley's daughter. I wrote that letter.”
I sat down upon the nearest of the two chairs. I was obliged to sit.
I could not stand and face the fact which, at least, even my benumbed
brain was beginning to comprehend. The mistake was a simple one, merely
the difference between an “i” and an “e” in a name, that was all.
And yet that mistake--that slight difference between “Francis” and
“Frances”--explained the amazing difference between the Little Frank of
Hephzibah's fancy and the reality before me.
The real Little Frank was a girl.