In Which the Truth Is Told at Last
I said nothing to Hephzibah or Frances of my talk with Lady Carey or
with Heathcroft. I was not proud of my share in the putting up of “the
notice boards.” I did not mention meeting either the titled aunt or the
favored nephew. I kept quiet concerning them both and nervously awaited
developments.
There were none immediately. That day and the next passed and nothing of
importance happened. It did seem to me, however, that Frances was rather
quiet during luncheon on the third day. She said very little and
several times I found her regarding me with an odd expression. My guilty
conscience smote me and I expected to be asked questions answering which
would be difficult. But the questions were not asked--then. I went to my
study and attempted to write; the attempt was a failure.
For an hour or so I stared hopelessly at the blank paper. I hadn't an
idea in my head, apparently. At last I threw down the pencil and gave up
the battle for the day. I was not in a writing mood. I lit my pipe, and,
moving to the arm-chair by the window, sat there, looking out at the
lawn and flower beds. No one was in sight except Grimmer, the gardener,
who was trimming a hedge.
I sat there for some time, smoking and thinking. Hephzy dressed in her
best, passed the window on her way to the gate. She was going for a call
in the village and had asked me to accompany her, but I declined. I did
not feel like calling.
My pipe, smoked out, I put in my pocket. If I could have gotten rid of
my thoughts as easily I should have been happier, but that I could
not do. They were strange thoughts, hopeless thoughts, ridiculous,
unavailing thoughts. For me, Kent Knowles, quahaug, to permit myself to
think in that way was worse than ridiculous; it was pitiful. This was a
stern reality, this summer of mine in England, not a chapter in one of
my romances. They ended happily; it was easy to make them end in that
way. But this--this was no romance, or, if it was, I was but the comic
relief in the story, the queer old bachelor who had made a fool of
himself. That was what I was, an old fool. Well, I must stop being
a fool before it was too late. No one knew I was such a fool. No one
should know--now or ever.
And having reached this philosophical conclusion I proceeded to dream
of dark eyes looking into mine across a breakfast table--our table; of a
home in Bayport--our home; of someone always with me, to share my life,
my hopes, to spur me on to a work worth while, to glory in my triumphs
and comfort me in my reverses; to dream of what might have been if--if
it were not absolutely impossible. Oh, fool, fool, fool!
A quick step sounded on the gravel walk outside the window. I knew the
step, should have recognized it anywhere. She was walking rapidly toward
the house, her head bent and her eyes fixed upon the path before
her. Grimmer touched his hat and said “Good afternoon, miss,” but she
apparently did not hear him. She passed on and I heard her enter the
hall. A moment later she knocked at the study door.
She entered the room in answer to my invitation and closed the door
behind her. She was dressed in her golfing costume, a plain white
shirtwaist--blouse, she would have called it--a short, dark skirt and
stout boots. The light garden hat was set upon her dark hair and her
cheeks were flushed from rapid walking. The hat and waist and skirt were
extremely becoming. She was pretty--yes, beautiful--and young. I was far
from beautiful and far from young. I make this obvious statement because
it was my thought at the moment.
She did not apologize for interrupting me, as she usually did when she
entered the study during my supposed working periods. This was strange,
of itself, and my sense of guilt caused me to fear all sorts of things.
But she smiled and answered my greeting pleasantly enough and, for the
moment, I experienced relief. Perhaps, after all, she had not learned of
my interview with Heathcroft.
“I have come to talk with you,” she began. “May I sit down?”
“Certainly. Of course you may,” I answered, smiling as cheerfully as I
could. “Was it necessary to ask permission?”
She took a chair and I seated myself in the one from which I had just
risen. For a moment she was silent. I ventured a remark.
“This begins very solemnly,” I said. “Is the talk to be so very
serious?”
She was serious enough and my apprehensions returned.
“I don't know,” she answered. “I hope it may not be serious at all, Mr.
Knowles.”
I interrupted. “Mr. Knowles!” I repeated. “Whew! this IS a formal
interview. I thought the 'Mr. Knowles' had been banished along with
'Uncle Hosea'.”
She smiled slightly then. “Perhaps it has,” she said. “I am just a
little troubled--or puzzled--and I have come to you for advice.”
“Advice?” I repeated. “I'm afraid my advice isn't worth much. What sort
of advice do you want?”
“I wanted to know what I should do in regard to an invitation I have
received to motor with Doctor Bayliss--Doctor Herbert Bayliss. He has
asked me to go with him to Edgeboro to-morrow. Should I accept?”
I hesitated. Then: “Alone?” I asked.
“No. His cousin, Miss Tomlinson, will go also.”
“I see no reason why you should not, if you wish to go.”
“Thank you. But suppose it was alone?”
“Then--Well, I presume that would be all right, too. You have motored
with him before, you know.”
As a matter of fact, I couldn't see why she asked my opinion in such a
matter. She had never asked it before. Her next remark was more puzzling
still.
“You approve of Doctor Bayliss, don't you,” she said. It did seem to me
there was a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
“Yes--certainly,” I answered. I did approve of young Bayliss, generally
speaking; there was no sane reason why I should not have approved of him
absolutely.
“And you trust me? You believe me capable of judging what is right or
wrong?”
“Of course I do.”
“If you didn't you would not presume to interfere in my personal
affairs? You would not think of doing that, of course?”
“No--o,” more slowly.
“Why do you hesitate? Of course you realize that you have no shadow of
right to interfere. You know perfectly well why I consented to remain
here for the present and why I have remained?”
“Yes, yes, I know that.”
“And you wouldn't presume to interfere?”
“Doctor Herbert Bayliss is--”
She sprang to her feet. She was not smiling now.
“Stop!” she interrupted, sharply. “Stop! I did not come to discuss
Doctor Bayliss. I have asked you a question. I ask you if you would
presume to interfere in my personal affairs. Would you?”
“Why, no. That is, I--”
“You say that to me! YOU!”
“Frances, if you mean that I have interfered between you and the Doctor,
I--”
She stamped her foot.
“Stop! Oh, stop!” she cried. “You know what I mean. What did you say to
Mr. Heathcroft? Do you dare tell me you have not interfered there?”
It had come, the expected. Her smile and the asking for “advice” had
been apparently but traps to catch me off my guard. I had been prepared
for some such scene as this, but, in spite of my preparations,
I hesitated and faltered. I must have looked like the meanest of
pickpockets caught in the act.
“Frances,” I stammered, “Frances--”
Her fury took my breath away.
“Don't call me Frances,” she cried. “How dare you call me that?”
Perturbed as I was I couldn't resist making the obvious retort.
“You asked me to,” I said.
“I asked you! Yes, I did. You had been kind to me, or I thought you
had, and I--I was foolish. Oh, how I hate myself for doing it! But I
was beginning to think you a gentleman. In spite of everything, I was
beginning to--And now! Oh, at least I thought you wouldn't LIE to me.”
I rose now.
“Frances--Miss Morley,” I said, “do you realize what you are saying?”
“Realize it! Oh,” with a scornful laugh, “I realize it quite well; you
may be sure of that. Don't you like the word? What else do you call a
denial of what we both know to be the truth. You did see Mr. Heathcroft.
You did speak with him.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You did! You admit it!”
“I admit it. But did he tell you what I said?”
“He did not. Mr. Heathcroft IS a gentleman. He told me very little and
that only in answer to my questions. I knew you and he met the other
day. You did not mention it, but you were seen together, and when he did
not come for the ride to which he had invited me I thought it strange.
And his note to me was stranger still. I began to suspect then, and when
we next met I asked him some questions. He told me next to nothing, but
he is honorable and he does not LIE. I learned enough, quite enough.”
I wondered if she had learned of the essential thing, of Heathcroft's
engagement.
“Did he tell you why I objected to his intimacy with you?” I asked.
“He told me nothing! Nothing! The very fact that you had objected, as
you call it, was sufficient. Object! YOU object to my doing as I please!
YOU meddle with my affairs! And humiliate me in the eyes of my friends!
I could--I could die of shame! I... And as if I did not know your
reasons. As if they were not perfectly plain.”
The real reason could not be plain to her. Heathcroft evidently had not
told her of the Warwickshire heiress.
“I don't understand,” I said, trying my hardest to speak calmly. “What
reasons?”
“Must I tell you? Did you OBJECT to my friendship with Doctor Bayliss,
pray?”
“Doctor Bayliss! Why, Doctor Bayliss is quite different. He is a fine
young fellow, and--”
“Yes,” with scornful sarcasm, “so it would appear. You and my aunt and
he have the most evident of understandings. You need not praise him
for my benefit. It is quite apparent how you both feel toward Doctor
Bayliss. I am not blind. I have seen how you have thrown him in my
company, and made opportunities for me to meet him. Oh, of course, I can
see! I did not believe it at first. It was too absurd, too outrageously
impertinent. I COULDN'T believe it. But now I know.”
This was a little too much. The idea that I--_I_ had been playing the
matchmaker for Bayliss's benefit made me almost as angry as she was.
“Nonsense!” I declared. “Miss Morley, this is too ridiculous to go on.
I did speak to Mr. Heathcroft. There was a reason, a good reason, for my
doing so.”
“I do not wish to hear your reason, as you call it. The fact that you
did speak to him concerning me is enough. Mr. Knowles, this arrangement
of ours, my living here with you, has gone on too long. I should have
known it was impossible in the beginning. But I did not know. I was
alone--and ill--and I did need friends--I was SO alone. I had been
through so much. I had struggled and suffered and--”
Again, as in our quarrel at Wrayton, she was on the verge of tears. And
again that unreasonable conscience of mine smote me. I longed to--Well,
to prove myself the fool I was.
But she did not give me the opportunity. Before I could speak or move
she was on her way to the door.
“This ends it,” she said. “I shall go away from here at once. I
shall put the whole matter in my solicitor's hands. This is an end of
forbearance and all the rest. I am going. You have made me hate you and
despise you. I only hope that--that some day you will despise yourself
as much. But you won't,” scornfully. “You are not that sort.”
The door closed. She was gone. Gone! And soon--the next day at the
latest--she would have been gone for good. This WAS the end.
I walked many miles that day, how many I do not know. Dinner was waiting
for me when I returned, but I could not eat. I rose from the table, went
to the study and sat there, alone with my misery. I was torn with the
wildest longings and desires. One, I think, was to kill Heathcroft
forthwith. Another was to kill myself.
There came another knock at the door. This time I made no answer. I did
not want to see anyone.
But the door opened, nevertheless, and Hephzy came in. She crossed the
room and stood by my chair.
“What is it, Hosy?” she said, gently. “You must tell me all about it.”
I made some answer, told her to go away and leave me, I think. If that
was it she did not heed. She put her hand upon my shoulder.
“You must tell me, Hosy,” she said. “What has happened? You and Frances
have had some fallin' out, I know. She wouldn't come to dinner, either,
and she won't see me. She's up in her room with the door shut. Tell me,
Hosy; you and I have fought each other's battles for a good many years.
You can't fight this one alone; I've got to do my share. Tell me,
dearie, please.”
And tell her I did. I did not mean to, and yet somehow the thought that
she was there, so strong and quiet and big-hearted and sensible, was, if
not a comfort to me, at least a marvelous help. I began by telling her a
little and then went on to tell her all, of my talk with Lady Carey, my
meeting with Heathcroft, the scene with Frances--everything, word for
word.
When it was over she patted my shoulder.
“You did just right, Hosy,” she said. “There was nothin' else you could
do. I never liked that Heathcroft man. And to think of him, engaged to
another girl, trottin' around with Frances the way he has. I'D like to
talk with him. He'd get a piece of MY mind.”
“He's all right enough,” I admitted grudgingly. “He took my warning in a
very good sort, I must say. He has never meant anything serious. It was
just his way, that's all. He was amusing himself in her company,
and doubtless thought she would be flattered with his aristocratic
attentions.”
“Humph! Well, I guess she wouldn't be if she'd known of that other girl.
You didn't tell her that, you say.”
“I couldn't. I think I should, perhaps, if she would have listened. I'm
glad I didn't. It isn't a thing for me to tell her.”
“I understand. But she ought to know it, just the same. And she ought to
know how good you've been to her. Nobody could be better. She must know
it. Whether she goes or whether she doesn't she must know that.”
I seized her arm. “You mustn't tell her a word,” I cried. “She mustn't
know. It is better she should go. Better for her and for me--My God,
yes! so much better for me.”
I could feel the arm on my shoulder start. Hephzy bent down and looked
into my face. I tried to avoid the scrutiny, but she looked and looked.
Then she drew a long breath.
“Hosy!” she exclaimed. “Hosy!”
“Don't speak to me. Oh, Hephzy,” with a bitter laugh, “did you ever
dream there could be such a hopeless lunatic as I am! You needn't say
it. I know the answer.”
“Hosy! Hosy! you poor boy!”
She kissed me, soothing me as she had when I came home to our empty
house at the time of my mother's death. That memory came back to me even
then.
“Forgive me, Hephzy,” I said. “I am ashamed of myself, of course. And
don't worry. Nobody knows this but you and I, and nobody else shall. I'm
going to behave and I'm going to be sensible. Just forget all this for
my sake. I mean to forget it, too.”
But Hephzy shook her head.
“It's all my fault,” she said. “I'm to blame more than anybody else.
It was me that brought her here in the first place and me that kept you
from tellin' her the truth in the beginnin'. So it's me who must tell
her now.”
“Hephzy!”
“Oh, I don't mean the truth about--about what you and I have just said,
Hosy. She'll never know that, perhaps. Certainly she'll never know it
from me. But the rest of it she must know. This has gone far enough. She
sha'n't go away from this house misjudgin' you, thinkin' you're a thief,
as well as all the rest of it. That she sha'n't do. I shall see to
that--now.”
“Hephzy, I forbid you to--”
“You can't forbid me, Hosy. It's my duty, and I've been a silly, wicked
old woman and shirked that duty long enough. Now don't worry any more.
Go to your room, dearie, and lay down. If you get to sleep so much the
better. Though I guess,” with a sigh, “we sha'n't either of us sleep
much this night.”
Before I could prevent her she had left the room. I sprang after her, to
call her back, to order her not to do the thing she had threatened.
But, in the drawing-room, Charlotte, the housemaid, met me with an
announcement.
“Doctor Bayliss--Doctor Herbert Bayliss--is here, sir,” she said. “He
has called to see you.”
“To see me?” I repeated, trying hard to recover some measure of
composure. “To see Miss Frances, you mean.”
“No, sir. He says he wants to see you alone. He's in the hall now, sir.”
He was; I could hear him. Certainly I never wished to see anyone less,
but I could not refuse.
“Ask him to come into the study, Charlotte,” said I.
The young doctor found me sitting in the chair by the desk. The long
English twilight was almost over and the room was in deep shadow.
Charlotte entered and lighted the lamp. I was strongly tempted to order
her to desist, but I could scarcely ask my visitor to sit in the dark,
however much I might prefer to do so. I compromised by moving to a seat
farther from the lamp where my face would be less plainly visible. Then,
Bayliss having, on my invitation, also taken a chair, I waited for him
to state his business.
It was not easy to state, that was plain. Ordinarily Herbert Bayliss was
cool and self-possessed. I had never before seen him as embarrassed as
he seemed to be now. He fidgeted on the edge of the chair, crossed and
recrossed his legs, and, finally, offered the original remark that it
had been an extremely pleasant day. I admitted the fact and again there
was an interval of silence. I should have helped him, I suppose. It
was quite apparent that his was no casual call and, under ordinary
circumstances, I should have been interested and curious. Now I did
not care. If he would say his say and go away and leave me I should be
grateful.
And, at last, he said it. His next speech was very much nearer the
point.
“Mr. Knowles,” he said, “I have called to--to see you concerning your
niece, Miss Morley. I--I have come to ask your consent to my asking her
to marry me.”
I was not greatly surprised. I had vaguely suspected his purpose when
he entered the room. I had long foreseen the likelihood of some such
interview as this, had considered what I should say when the time came.
But now it had come, I could say nothing. I sat in silence, looking at
him.
Perhaps he thought I did not understand. At any rate he hastened to
explain.
“I wish your permission to marry your niece,” he repeated. “I have no
doubt you are surprised. Perhaps you fancy I am a bit hasty. I suppose
you do. But I--I care a great deal for her, Mr. Knowles. I will try
to make her a good husband. Not that I am good enough for her, of
course--no one could be that, you know; but I'll try and--and--”
He was very red in the face and floundered, amid his jerky sentences,
like a newly-landed fish, but he stuck to it manfully. I could not help
admiring the young fellow. He was so young and handsome and so honest
and boyishly eager in his embarrassment. I admired him--yes, but I
hated him, too, hated him for his youth and all that it meant, I was
jealous--bitterly, wickedly jealous, and of all jealousy, hopeless,
unreasonable jealousy is the worst, I imagine.
He went on to speak of his ambitions and prospects. He did not intend to
remain always in Mayberry as his father's assistant, not he. He should
remain for a time, of course, but then he intended to go back to London.
There were opportunities there. A fellow with the right stuff in him
could get on there. He had friends in the London hospitals and they had
promised to put chances his way. He should not presume to marry Frances
at once, of course. He would not be such a selfish goat as that. All he
asked was that, my permission granted, she would be patient and wait a
bit until he got on his feet, professionally he meant to say, and then--
I interrupted.
“One moment,” said I, trying to appear calm and succeeding remarkably
well, considering the turmoil in my brain; “just a moment, Bayliss, if
you please. Have you spoken to Miss Morley yet? Do you know her feelings
toward you?”
No, he had not. Of course he wouldn't do that until he and I had had our
understanding. He had tried to be honorable and all that. But--but he
thought she did not object to him. She--well, she had seemed to like him
well enough. There had been times when he thought she--she--
“Well, you see, sir,” he said, “she's a girl, of course, and a fellow
never knows just what a girl is going to say or do. There are times when
one is sure everything is quite right and then that it is all wrong. But
I have hoped--I believe--She's such a ripping girl, you know. She would
not flirt with a chap and--I don't mean flirt exactly, she isn't a
flirt, of course--but--don't you think she likes me, now?”
“I have no reason to suppose she doesn't,” I answered grudgingly. After
all, he was acting very honorably; I could scarcely do less.
He seemed to find much comfort in my equivocal reply.
“Thanks, thanks awfully,” he exclaimed. “I--I--by Jove, you know, I
can't tell you how I like to hear you say that! I'm awfully grateful
to you, Knowles, I am really. And you'll give me permission to speak to
her?”
I smiled; it was not a happy smile, but there was a certain ironic humor
in the situation. The idea of anyone's seeking my “permission” in any
matter concerning Frances Morley. He noticed the smile and was, I think,
inclined to be offended.
“Is it a joke?” he asked. “I say, now! it isn't a joke to me.”
“Nor to me, I assure you,” I answered, seriously. “If I gave that
impression it was a mistaken one. I never felt less like joking.”
He put his own interpretation on the last sentence. “I'm sorry,” he
said, quickly. “I beg your pardon. I understand, of course. You're very
fond of her; no one could help being that, could they. And she is your
niece.”
I hesitated. I was minded to blurt out the fact that she was not my
niece at all; that I had no authority over her in any way. But what
would be the use? It would lead only to explanations and I did not
wish to make explanations. I wanted to get through with the whole inane
business and be left alone.
“But you haven't said yes, have you,” he urged. “You will say it, won't
you?”
I nodded. “You have my permission, so far as that goes,” I answered.
He sprang to his feet and seized my hand.
“That's topping!” he cried, his face radiant. “I can't thank you
enough.”
“That's all right. But there is one thing more. Perhaps it isn't my
affair, and you needn't answer unless you wish. Have you consulted your
parents? How do they feel about your--your intentions?”
His expression changed. My question was answered before he spoke.
“No,” he admitted, “I haven't told them yet. I--Well, you see, the Mater
and Father have been making plans about my future, naturally. They have
some silly ideas about a friend of the family that--Oh, she's a nice
enough girl; I like her jolly well, but she isn't Miss Morley. Well,
hardly! They'll take it quite well. By Jove!” excitedly, “they must.
They've GOT to. Oh, they will. And they're very fond of--of Frances.”
There seemed nothing more for me to say, nothing at that time, at any
rate. I, too, rose. He shook my hand again.
“You've been a trump to me, Knowles,” he declared. “I appreciate it, you
know; I do indeed. I'm jolly grateful.”
“You needn't be. It is all right. I--I suppose I should wish you luck
and happiness. I do. Yes, why shouldn't you be happy, even if--”
“Even if--what? Oh, but you don't think she will turn me off, do you?
You don't think that?”
“I've told you that I see no reason why she should.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. Is there anything else that you might
wish to say to me?”
“Not now. Perhaps some day I--But not now. No, there's nothing else.
Good night, Bayliss; good night and--and good luck.”
“Good night. I--She's not in now, I suppose, is she?”
“She is in, but--Well, I scarcely think you had better see her to-night.
She has gone to her room.”
“Oh, I say! it's very early. She's not ill, is she?”
“No, but I think you had best not see her to-night.”
He was disappointed, that was plain, but he yielded. He would have
agreed, doubtless, with any opinion of mine just then.
“No doubt you're right,” he said. “Good night. And thank you again.”
He left the room. I did not accompany him to the door. Instead I
returned to my chair. I did not occupy it long, I could not. I could not
sit still. I rose and went out on the lawn. There, in the night mist, I
paced up and down, up and down. I had longed to be alone; now that I was
alone I was more miserable than ever.
Charlotte, the maid, called to me from the doorway.
“Would you wish the light in the study any longer, sir?” she asked.
“No,” said I, curtly. “You may put it out.”
“And shall I lock up, sir; all but this door, I mean?”
“Yes. Where is Miss Cahoon?”
“She's above, sir. With Miss Morley, I think, sir.”
“Very well, Charlotte. That is all. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
She went into the house. The lamp in the study was extinguished. I
continued my pacing up and down. Occasionally I glanced at the upper
story of the rectory. There was a lighted window there, the window of
Frances' room. She and Hephzy were together in that room. What was going
on there? What had Hephzy said to her? What--Oh, WHAT would happen next?
Some time later--I don't know how much later it may have been--I heard
someone calling me again.
“Hosy!” called Hephzy in a loud whisper; “Hosy, where are you?”
“Here I am,” I answered.
She came to me across the lawn. I could not, of course, see her face,
but her tone was very anxious.
“Hosy,” she whispered, putting her hand on my arm, “what are you doin'
out here all alone?”
I laughed. “I'm taking the air,” I answered. “It is good for me. I am
enjoying the glorious English air old Doctor Bayliss is always talking
about. Fresh air and exercise--those will cure anything, so he says.
Perhaps they will cure me. God knows I need curing.”
“Sshh! shh, Hosy! Don't talk that way. I don't like to hear you. Out
here bareheaded and in all this damp! You'll get your death.”
“Will I? Well, that will be a complete cure, then.”
“Hush! I tell you. Come in the house with me. I want to talk to you.
Come!”
Still holding my arm she led me toward the house. I hung back.
“You have been up there with her?” I said, with a nod toward the lighted
window of the room above. “What has happened? What have you said and
done?”
“Hush! I'll tell you; I'll tell you all about it. Only come in now. I
sha'n't feel safe until I get you inside. Oh, Hosy, DON'T act this way!
Do you want to frighten me to death?”
That appeal had an effect. I was ashamed of myself.
“Forgive me, Hephzy,” I said. “I'll try to be decent. You needn't worry
about me. I'm a fool, of course, but now that I realize it I shall try
to stop behaving like one. Come along; I'm ready.”
In the drawing-room she closed the door.
“Shall I light the lamp?” she asked.
“No. Oh, for heaven's sake, can't you see that I'm crazy to know what
you said to that girl and what she said to you? Tell me, and hurry up,
will you!”
She did not resent my sudden burst of temper and impatience. Instead she
put her arm about me.
“Sit down, Hosy,” she pleaded. “Sit down and I'll tell you all about it.
Do sit down.”
I refused to sit.
“Tell me now,” I commanded. “What did you say to her? You didn't--you
didn't--”
“I did. I told her everything.”
“EVERYTHING! You don't mean--”
“I mean everything. 'Twas time she knew it. I went to that room meanin'
to tell her and I did. At first she didn't want to listen, didn't want
to see me at all or even let me in. But I made her let me in and then
she and I had it out.”
“Hephzy!”
“Don't say it that way, Hosy. The good Lord knows I hate myself for
doin' it, hated myself while I was doin' it, but it had to be done.
Every word I spoke cut me as bad as it must have cut her. I kept
thinkin', 'This is Little Frank I'm talkin' to. This is Ardelia's
daughter I'm makin' miserable.' A dozen times I stopped and thought I
couldn't go on, but every time I thought of you and what you'd put up
with and been through, and I went on.”
“Hephzy! you told her--”
“I said it was time she understood just the plain truth about her father
and mother and grandfather and the money, and everything. She must know
it, I said; things couldn't go on as they have been. I told it all. At
first she wouldn't listen, said I was--well, everything that was mean
and lyin' and bad. If she could she'd have put me out of her room, I
presume likely, but I wouldn't go. And, of course, at first she wouldn't
believe, but I made her believe.”
“Made her believe! Made her believe her father was a thief! How could
you do that! No one could.”
“I did it. I don't know how exactly. I just went on tellin' it all
straight from the beginnin', and pretty soon I could see she was
commencin' to believe. And she believes now, Hosy; she does, I know it.”
“Did she say so?”
“No, she didn't say anything, scarcely--not at the last. She didn't cry,
either; I almost wish she had. Oh, Hosy, don't ask me any more questions
than you have to. I can't bear to answer 'em.”
She paused and turned away.
“How she must hate us!” I said, after a moment.
“Why, no--why, no, Hosy, I don't think she does; at least I'm tryin' to
hope she doesn't. I softened it all I could. I told her why we took her
with us in the first place; how we couldn't tell her the truth at first,
or leave her, either, when she was so sick and alone. I told her why
we brought her here, hopin' it would make her well and strong, and how,
after she got that way, we put off tellin' her because it was such a
dreadful hard thing to do. Hard! When I think of her sittin' there,
white as a sheet, and lookin' at me with those big eyes of hers, her
fingers twistin' and untwistin' in her lap--a way her mother used to
have when she was troubled--and every word I spoke soundin' so cruel
and--and--”
She paused once more. I did not speak. Soon she recovered and went on.
“I told her that I was tellin' her these things now because the
misunderstandin's and all the rest had to stop and there was no use
puttin' off any longer. I told her I loved her as if she was my very own
and that this needn't make the least bit of difference unless she wanted
it to. I said you felt just the same. I told her your speakin' to that
Heathcroft man was only for her good and for no other reason. You'd
learned that he was engaged to be married--”
“You told her that?” I interrupted, involuntarily. “What did she say?”
“Nothin', nothin' at all. I think she heard me and understood, but she
didn't say anything. Just sat there, white and trembling and crushed,
sort of, and looked and looked at me. I wanted to put my arms around
her and ask her pardon and beg her to love me as I did her, but I didn't
dare--I didn't dare. I did say that you and I would be only too glad to
have her stay with us always, as one of the family, you know. If she'd
only forget all the bad part that had gone and do that, I said--but she
interrupted me. She said 'Forget!' and the way she said it made me
sure she never would forget. And then--and then she asked me if I would
please go away and leave her. Would I PLEASE not say any more now, but
just leave her, only leave her alone. So I came away and--and that's
all.”
“That's all,” I repeated. “It is enough, I should say. Oh, Hephzy, why
did you do it? Why couldn't it have gone on as it has been going? Why
did you do it?”
It was an unthinking, wicked speech. But Hephzy did not resent it. Her
reply was as patient and kind as if she had been answering a child.
“I had to do it, Hosy,” she said. “After our talk this evenin' there
was only one thing to do. It had to be done--for your sake, if nothin'
else--and so I did it. But--but--” with a choking sob, “it was SO hard
to do! My Ardelia's baby!”
And at last, I am glad to say, I began to realize how very hard it had
been for her. To understand what she had gone through for my sake and
what a selfish brute I had been. I put my hands on her shoulders and
kissed her almost reverently.
“Hephzy,” said I, “you're a saint and a martyr and I am--what I am.
Please forgive me.”
“There isn't anything to forgive, Hosy. And,” with a shake of the head,
“I'm an awful poor kind of saint, I guess. They'd never put my image up
in the churches over here--not if they knew how I felt this minute. And
a saint from Cape Cod wouldn't be very welcome anyway, I'm afraid. I
meant well, but that's a poor sort of recommendation. Oh, Hosy, you DO
think I did for the best, don't you?”
“You did the only thing to be done,” I answered, with decision. “You did
what I lacked the courage to do. Of course it was best.”
“You're awful good to say so, but I don't know. What'll come of it
goodness knows. When I think of you and--and--”
“Don't think of me. I'm going to be a man if I can--a quahaug, if
I can't. At least I'm not going to be what I have been for the last
month.”
“I know. But when I think of to-morrow and what she'll say to me, then,
I--”
“You mustn't think. You must go to bed and so must I. To-morrow will
take care of itself. Come. Let's both sleep and forget it.”
Which was the very best of advice, but, like much good advice,
impossible to follow. I did not sleep at all that night, nor did I
forget. God help me! I was realizing that I never could forget.
At six o'clock I came downstairs, made a pretence at eating some
biscuits and cheese which I found on the sideboard, scribbled a brief
note to Hephzy stating that I had gone for a walk and should not be back
to breakfast, and started out. The walk developed into a long one and
I did not return to the rectory until nearly eleven in the forenoon. By
that time I was in a better mood, more reconciled to the inevitable--or
I thought I was. I believed I could play the man, could even see her
married to Herbert Bayliss and still behave like a man. I vowed and
revowed it. No one--no one but Hephzy and I should ever know what we
knew.
Charlotte, the maid, seemed greatly relieved to see me. She hastened to
the drawing-room.
“Here he is, Miss Cahoon,” she said. “He's come back, ma'am. He's here.”
“Of course I'm here, Charlotte,” I said. “You didn't suppose I had run
away, did you?... Why--why, Hephzy, what is the matter?”
For Hephzy was coming to meet me, her hands outstretched and on her face
an expression which I did not understand--sorrow, agitation--yes, and
pity--were in that expression, or so it seemed to me.
“Oh, Hosy!” she cried, “I'm so glad you've come. I wanted you so.”
“Wanted me?” I repeated. “Why, what do you mean? Has anything happened?”
She nodded, solemnly.
“Yes,” she said, “somethin' has happened. Somethin' we might have
expected, perhaps, but--but--Hosy, read that.”
I took what she handed me. It was a sheet of note paper, folded across,
and with Hephzibah's name written upon one side. I recognized the
writing and, with a sinking heart, unfolded it. Upon the other side was
written in pencil this:
“I am going away. I could not stay, of course. When I think how I have
stayed and how I have treated you both, who have been so very, very
kind to me, I feel--I can't tell you how I feel. You must not think me
ungrateful. You must not think of me at all. And you must not try to
find me, even if you should wish to do such a thing. I have the money
which I intended using for my new frocks and I shall use it to pay
my expenses and my fare to the place I am going. It is your money, of
course, and some day I shall send it to you. And someday, if I can,
I shall repay all that you have spent on my account. But you must not
follow me and you must not think of asking me to come back. That I shall
never do. I do thank you for all that you have done for me, both of you.
I cannot understand why you did it, but I shall always remember. Don't
worry about me. I know what I am going to do and I shall not starve or
be in want. Good-by. Please try to forget me.
“FRANCES MORLEY.
“Please tell Mr. Knowles that I am sorry for what I said to him this
afternoon and so many times before. How he could have been so kind and
patient I can't understand. I shall always remember it--always. Perhaps
he may forgive me some day. I shall try and hope that he may.”
I read to the end. Then, without speaking, I looked at Hephzy. Her eyes
were brimming with tears.
“She has gone,” she said, in answer to my unspoken question. “She must
have gone some time in the night. The man at the inn stable drove her
to the depot at Haddington on Hill. She took the early train for London.
That is all we know.”