In Which Hephzy and I Agree to Live for Each Other
I shall condense the record of that day as much as possible. I should
omit it altogether, if I could. We tried to trace her, of course. That
is, I tried and Hephzy did not dissuade me, although she realized, I am
sure, the hopelessness of the quest. Frances had left the rectory very
early in the morning. The hostler at the inn had been much surprised to
find her awaiting him when he came down to the yard at five o'clock.
She was obliged to go to London, she said, and must take the very
first train: Would he drive her to Haddington on Hill at once? He did
so--probably she had offered him a great deal more than the regular
fare--and she had taken the train.
Questioning the hostler, who was a surly, uncommunicative lout, resulted
in my learning very little in addition to this. The young lady seemed
about as usual, so far as he could see. She might 'ave been a bit
nervous, impatient like, but he attributed that to her anxiety to make
the train. Yes, she had a bag with her, but no other luggage. No, she
didn't talk on the way to the station: Why should she? He wasn't the man
to ask a lady questions about what wasn't his affair. She minded her own
business and he minded his. No, he didn't know nothin' more about it.
What was I a-pumpin' him for, anyway?
I gave up the “pumping” and hurried back to the rectory. There Hephzy
told me a few additional facts. Frances had taken with her only the
barest necessities, for the most part those which she had when she
came to us. Her new frocks, those which she had bought with what she
considered her money, she had left behind. All the presents which we had
given her were in her room, or so we thought at the time. As she came,
so she had gone, and the thought that she had gone, that I should never
see her again, was driving me insane.
And like an insane man I must have behaved, at first. The things I
did and said, and the way in which I treated Hephzy shame me now, as I
remember them. I was going to London at once. I would find her and bring
her back. I would seek help from the police, I would employ detectives,
I would do anything--everything. She was almost without money; so far as
I knew without friends. What would she do? What would become of her? I
must find her. I must bring her back.
I stormed up and down the room, incoherently declaring my intentions and
upbraiding Hephzy for not having sent the groom or the gardener to find
me, for allowing all the precious time to elapse. Hephzy offered no
excuse. She did not attempt justification. Instead she brought the
railway time-table, gave orders that the horse be harnessed, helped me
in every way. She would have prepared a meal for me with her own hands,
would have fed me like a baby, if I had permitted it. One thing she did
insist upon.
“You must rest a few minutes, Hosy,” she said. “You must, or you'll
be down sick. You haven't slept a wink all night. You haven't eaten
anything to speak of since yesterday noon. You can't go this way. You
must go to your room and rest a few minutes. Lie down and rest, if you
can.”
“Rest!”
“You must. The train doesn't leave Haddington for pretty nigh two hours,
and we've got lots of time. I'll fetch you up some tea and toast or
somethin' by and by and I'll be all ready to start when you are. Now go
and lie down, Hosy dear, to please me.”
I ignored the last sentence. “You will be ready?” I repeated. “Do you
mean you're going with me?”
“Of course I am. It isn't likely I'll let you start off all alone, when
you're in a state like this. Of course I'm goin' with you. Now go and
lie down. You're so worn out, poor boy.”
I must have had a glimmer of reason then, a trace of decency and
unselfishness. For the first time I thought of her. I remembered that
she, too, had loved Little Frank; that she, too, must be suffering.
“I am no more tired than you are,” I said. “You have slept and eaten no
more than I. You are the one who must rest. I sha'n't let you go with
me.”
“It isn't a question of lettin'. I shall go if you do, Hosy. And a woman
don't need rest like a man. Please go upstairs and lie down, Hosy. Oh,”
with a sudden burst of feeling, “don't you see I've got about all I can
bear as it is? I can't--I can't have YOU to worry about too.”
My conscience smote me. “I'll go, Hephzy,” said I. “I'll do whatever you
wish; it is the least I can do.”
She thanked me. Then she said, hesitatingly:
“Here is--here is her letter, Hosy. You may like to read it again.
Perhaps it may help you to decide what is best to do.”
She handed me the letter. I took it and went to my room. There I read it
again and again. And, as I read, the meaning of Hephzy's last sentence,
that the letter might help me to decide what was best to do, began to
force itself upon my overwrought brain. I began to understand what she
had understood from the first, that my trip to London was hopeless,
absolutely useless--yes, worse than useless.
“You must not try to find me... You must not follow me or think of
asking me to come back. That I shall never do.”
I was understanding, at last. I might go to London; I might even,
through the help of the police, or by other means, find Frances Morley.
But, having found her, what then? What claim had I upon her? What right
had I to pursue her and force my presence upon her? I knew the shock she
had undergone, the shattering of her belief in her father, the knowledge
that she had--as she must feel--forced herself upon our kindness and
charity. I knew how proud she was and how fiercely she had relented the
slightest hint that she was in any way dependent upon us or under
the least obligation to us. I knew all this and I was beginning to
comprehend what her feelings toward us and toward herself must be--now.
I might find her--yes; but as for convincing her that she should return
to Mayberry, to live with us as she had been doing, that was so clearly
impossible as to seem ridiculous even to me. My following her, my
hunting her down against her expressed wish, would almost surely make
matters worse. She would probably refuse to see me. She would consider
my following her a persecution and the result might be to drive her
still further away. I must not do it, for her sake I must not. She had
gone and, because I loved her, I must not follow her; I must not add to
her misery. No, against my will I was forcing myself to realize that my
duty was to make no attempt to see her again, but to face the situation
as it was, to cover the running away with a lie, to pretend she had
gone--gone somewhere or other with our permission and understanding; to
protect her name from scandal and to conceal my own feelings from all
the world. That was my duty; that was the situation I must face. But how
could I face it!
That hour was the worst I have ever spent and I trust I may never be
called upon to face such another. But, at last, I am glad to say, I
had made up my mind, and when Hephzy came with the tea and toast I was
measurably composed and ready to express my determination.
“Hephzy,” said I, “I am not going to London. I have been thinking, and
I'm not going.”
Hephzy put down the tray she was carrying. She did seem surprised, but I
am sure she was relieved.
“You're not goin'!” she exclaimed. “Why, Hosy!”
“No, I am not going. I've been crazy, Hephzy, I think, but I am fairly
sane now. I have reached the conclusion that you reached sometime ago,
I am certain. We have no right to follow her. Our finding her would only
make it harder for her and no good could come of it. She went, of her
own accord, and we must let her go.”
“Let her go? And not try--”
“No. We have no right to try. You know it as well as I do. Now, be
honest, won't you?”
Hephzy hesitated.
“Why,” she faltered; “well, I--Oh, Hosy, I guess likely you're right. At
first I was all for goin' after her right away and bringin' her back
by main strength, if I had to. But the more I thought of it the more
I--I--”
“Of course,” I interrupted. “It is the only thing we can do. You must
have been ashamed of me this morning. Well, I'll try and give you no
cause to be ashamed again. That part of our lives is over. Now we'll
start afresh.”
Hephzy, after a long look at my face, covered her own with her hands
and began to cry. I stepped to her side, but she recovered almost
immediately.
“There! there!” she said, “don't mind me, Hosy. I've been holdin' that
cry back for a long spell. Now I've had it and it's over and done with.
After all, you and I have got each other left and we'll start fresh,
just as you say. And the first thing is for you to eat that toast and
drink that tea.”
I smiled, or tried to smile.
“The first thing,” I declared, “is for us to decide what story we shall
tell young Bayliss and the rest of the people to account for her leaving
so suddenly. I expect Herbert Bayliss here any moment. He came to see me
about--about her last evening.”
Hephzy nodded.
“I guessed as much,” she said. “I knew he came and I guessed what 'twas
about. Poor fellow, 'twill be dreadful hard for him, too. He was here
this mornin' and I said Frances had been called away sudden and wouldn't
be back to-day. And I said you would be away all day, too, Hosy. It was
a fib, I guess, but I can't help it if it was. You mustn't see him now
and you mustn't talk with me either. You must clear off that tray the
first thing. We'll have our talk to-morrow, maybe. We'll--we'll see the
course plainer then, perhaps. Now be a good boy and mind me. You ARE
my boy, you know, and always will be, no matter how old and famous you
get.”
Herbert Bayliss called again that afternoon. I did not see him, but
Hephzy did. The young fellow was frightfully disappointed at Frances'
sudden departure and asked all sorts of questions as to when she would
return, her London address and the like. Hephzy dodged the questions as
best she could, but we both foresaw that soon he would have to be told
some portion of the truth--not the whole truth; he need never know that,
but something--and that something would be very hard to tell.
The servants, too, must not know or surmise what had happened or the
reason for it. Hephzy had already given them some excuse, fabricated on
the spur of the moment. They knew Miss Morley had gone away and might
not return for some time. But we realized that upon our behavior
depended a great deal and so we agreed to appear as much like our
ordinary selves as possible.
It was a hard task. I shall never forget those first meals when we
two were alone. We did not mention her name, but the shadow was always
there--the vacant place at the table where she used to sit, the roses
she had picked the morning before; and, afterward, in the drawing-room,
the piano with her music upon the rack--the hundred and one little
reminders that were like so many poisoned needles to aggravate my
suffering and to remind me of the torture of the days to come. She had
bade me forget her. Forget! I might forget when I was dead, but not
before. If I could only die then and there it would seem so easy by
comparison.
The next forenoon Hephzy and I had our talk. We discussed our future.
Should we leave the rectory and England and go back to Bayport where
we belonged? I was in favor of this, but Hephzy seemed reluctant. She,
apparently, had some reason which made her wish to remain for a time, at
least. At last the reason was disclosed.
“I supposed you'll laugh at me when I say it, Hosy,” she said; “or at
any rate you'll think I'm awful silly. But I know--I just KNOW that
this isn't the end. We shall see her again, you and I. She'll come to us
again or we'll go to her. I know it; somethin' inside me tells me so.”
I shook my head.
“It's true,” she went on. “You don't believe it, but it's true. It's a
presentiment and you haven't believed in my presentiments before, but
they've come true. Why, you didn't believe we'd ever find Little Frank
at all, but we did. And do you suppose all that has happened so far has
been just for nothin'? Indeed and indeed it hasn't. No, this isn't the
end; it's only the beginnin'.”
Her conviction was so strong that I hadn't the heart to contradict her.
I said nothing.
“And that's why,” she went on, “I don't like to have us leave here right
away. She knows we're here, here in England, and if--if she ever should
be in trouble and need our help she could find us here waitin' to give
it. If we was away off on the Cape, way on the other side of the ocean,
she couldn't reach us, or not until 'twas too late anyhow. That's why
I'd like to stay here a while longer, Hosy. But,” she hastened to add,
“I wouldn't stay a minute if you really wanted to go.”
I was silent for a moment. The temptation was to go, to get as far from
the scene of my trouble as I could; but, after all, what did it matter?
I could never flee from that trouble.
“All right, Hephzy,” I said. “I'll stay, if it pleases you.”
“Thank you, Hosy. It may be foolish, our stayin', but I don't believe
it is. And--and there's somethin' else. I don't know whether I ought to
tell you or not. I don't know whether it will make you feel better or
worse. But I've heard you say that she must hate you. She doesn't--I
know she doesn't. I've been lookin' over her things, those she left in
her room. Everythin' we've given her or bought for her since she's been
here, she left behind--every single thing except one. That little pin
you bought for her in London the last time you was there and gave her to
wear at the Samsons' lawn party, I can't find it anywhere. She must have
taken it with her. Now why should she take that and leave all the rest?”
“Probably she forgot it,” I said.
“Humph! Queer she should forget that and nothin' else. I don't believe
she forgot it. _I_ think she took it because you gave it to her and she
wanted to keep it to remind her of you.”
I dismissed the idea as absurd, but I found a ray of comfort in it which
I should have been ashamed to confess. The idea that she wished to be
reminded of me was foolish, but--but I was glad she had forgotten to
leave the pin. It MIGHT remind her of me, even against her will.
A day or two later Herbert Bayliss and I had our delayed interview. He
had called several times, but Hephzy had kept him out of my way. This
time our meeting was in the main street of Mayberry, when dodging him
was an impossibility. He hurried up to me and seized my hand.
“So you're back, Knowles,” he said. “When did you return?”
For the moment I was at a loss to understand his meaning. I had
forgotten Hephzy's “fib” concerning my going away. Fortunately he did
not wait for an answer.
“Did Frances--did Miss Morley return with you?” he asked eagerly.
“No,” said I.
His smile vanished.
“Oh!” he said, soberly. “She is still in London, then?”
“I--I presume she is.”
“You presume--? Why, I say! don't you know?”
“I am not sure.”
He seemed puzzled and troubled, but he was too well bred to ask why I
was not sure. Instead he asked when she would return. I announced that I
did not know that either.
“You don't know when she is coming back?” he repeated.
“No.”
He regarded me keenly. There was a change in the tone of his next
remark.
“You are not sure that she is in London and you don't know when she is
coming back,” he said, slowly. “Would you mind telling me why she left
Mayberry so suddenly? She had not intended going; at least she did not
mention her intention to me.”
“She did not mention it to anyone,” I answered. “It was a very sudden
determination on her part.”
He considered this.
“It would seem so,” he said. “Knowles, you'll excuse my saying it, but
this whole matter seems deucedly odd to me. There is something which
I don't understand. You haven't answered my question. Under the
circumstances, considering our talk the other evening, I think I have a
right to ask it. Why did she leave so suddenly?”
I hesitated. Mayberry's principal thoroughfare was far from crowded, but
it was scarcely the place for an interview like this.
“She had a reason for leaving,” I answered, slowly. “I will tell you
later, perhaps, what it was. Just now I cannot.”
“You cannot!” he repeated. He was evidently struggling with his
impatience and growing suspicious. “You cannot! But I think I have a
right to know.”
“I appreciate your feelings, but I cannot tell you now.”
“Why not?”
“Because--Well, because I don't think it would be fair to her. She would
not wish me to tell you.”
“She would not wish it? Was it because of me she left?”
“No; not in the least.”
“Was it--was it because of someone else? By Jove! it wasn't because of
that Heathcroft cad? Don't tell me that! My God! she--she didn't--”
I interrupted. His suspicion angered me. I should have understood his
feelings, should have realized that he had been and was disappointed
and agitated and that my answers to his questions must have aroused all
sorts of fears and forebodings in his mind. I should have pitied him,
but just then I had little pity for others.
“She did nothing but what she considered right,” I said sharply. “Her
leaving had nothing to do with Heathcroft or with you. I doubt if she
thought of either of you at all.”
It was a brutal speech, and he took it like a man. I saw him turn pale
and bite his lips, but when he next spoke it was in a calmer tone.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I was a silly ass even to think such a thing.
But--but you see, Knowles, I--I--this means so much to me. I'm sorry,
though. I ask her pardon and yours.”
I was sorry, too. “Of course I didn't mean that, exactly,” I said. “Her
feelings toward you are of the kindest, I have no doubt, but her reason
for leaving was a purely personal one. You were not concerned in it.”
He reflected. He was far from satisfied, naturally, and his next speech
showed it.
“It is extraordinary, all this,” he said. “You are quite sure you don't
know when she is coming back?”
“Quite.”
“Would you mind giving me her London address?”
“I don't know it.”
“You don't KNOW it! Oh, I say! that's damned nonsense! You don't know
when she is coming back and you don't know her address! Do you mean you
don't know where she has gone?”
“Yes.”
“What--? Are you trying to tell me she is not coming back at all?”
“I am afraid not.”
He was very pale. He seized my arm.
“What is all this?” he demanded, fiercely. “What has happened? Tell me;
I want to know. Where is she? Why did she go? Tell me!”
“I can tell you nothing,” I said, as calmly as I could. “She left us
very suddenly and she is not coming back. Her reason for leaving I can't
tell you, now. I don't know where she is and I have no right to try and
find out. She has asked that no one follow her or interfere with her in
any way. I respect her wish and I advise you, if you wish to remain her
friend, to do the same, for the present, at least. That is all I can
tell you.”
He shook my arm savagely.
“By George!” he cried, “you must tell me. I'll make you! I--I--Do you
think me a fool? Do you suppose I believe such rot as that? You tell me
she has gone--has left Mayberry--and you don't know where she has gone
and don't intend trying to find out. Why--”
“There, Bayliss! that is enough. This is not the place for us to
quarrel. And there is no reason why we should quarrel at all. I have
told you all that I can tell you now. Some day I may tell you more, but
until then you must be patient, for her sake. Her leaving Mayberry had
no connection with you whatever. You must be contented with that.”
“Contented! Why, man, you're mad. She is your niece. You are her
guardian and--”
“I am not her guardian. Neither is she my niece.”
I had spoken involuntarily. Certainly I had not intended telling him
that. The speech had the effect of causing him to drop my arm and step
back. He stared at me blankly. No doubt he did think me crazy, then.
“I have no authority over her in any way,” I went on. “She is Miss
Cahoon's niece, but we are not her guardians. She has left our home of
her own free will and neither I nor you nor anyone else shall follow
her if I can help it. I am sorry to have deceived you. The deceit was
unavoidable, or seemed to be. I am very, very sorry for you. That is all
I can say now. Good morning.”
I left him standing there in the street and walked away. He called after
me, but I did not turn back. He would have followed me, of course, but
when I did look back I saw that the landlord of the inn was trying to
talk with him and was detaining him. I was glad that the landlord had
appeared so opportunely. I had said too much already. I had bungled this
interview as I had that with Heathcroft.
I told Hephzy all about it. She appeared to think that, after all,
perhaps it was best.
“When you've got a toothache,” she said, “you might as well go to the
dentist's right off. The old thing will go on growlin' and grumblin' and
it's always there to keep you in misery. You'd have had to tell him some
time. Well, you've told him now, the worst of it, anyhow. The tooth's
out; though,” with a one-sided smile, “I must say you didn't give the
poor chap any ether to help along.”
“I'm afraid it isn't out,” I said, truthfully. “He won't be satisfied
with one operation.”
“Then I'll be on hand to help with the next one. And, between us, I
cal'late we can make that final. Poor boy! Well, he's young, that's one
comfort. You get over things quicker when you're young.”
I nodded. “That is true,” I said, “but there is something else, Hephzy.
You say I have acted for the best. Have I? I don't know. We know he
cares for her, but--but does she--”
“Does she care for him, you mean? I don't think so, Hosy. For a spell
I thought she did, but now I doubt it. I think--Well, never mind what
I think. I think a lot of foolish things. My brain's softenin' up, I
shouldn't wonder. It's a longshore brain, anyhow, and it needs the
salt to keep it from spoilin'. I wish you and I could go clammin'.
When you're diggin' clams you're too full of backache to worry about
toothaches--or heartaches, either.”
I expected a visit from young Bayliss that very evening, but he did not
come to the rectory. Instead Doctor Bayliss, Senior, came and requested
an interview with me. Hephzy announced the visitor.
“He acts pretty solemn, Hosy,” she said. “I wouldn't wonder if his son
had told him. I guess it's another toothache. Would you like to have me
stay and help?”
I said I should be glad of her help. So, when the old gentleman was
shown into the study, he found her there with me. The doctor was very
grave and his usually ruddy, pleasant face was haggard and careworn. He
took the chair which I offered him and, without preliminaries, began to
speak of the subject which had brought him there.
It was as Hephzy had surmised. His son had told him everything, of his
love for Frances, of his asking my permission to marry her, and of our
talk before the inn.
“I am sure I don't need to tell you, Knowles,” he said, “that all this
has shaken the boy's mother and me dreadfully. We knew, of course, that
the young people liked each other, were together a great deal, and all
that. But we had not dreamed of any serious attachment between them.”
Hephzy put in a word.
“We don't know as there has been any attachment between them,” she said.
“Your boy cared for her--we know that--but whether she cared for him or
not we don't know.”
Our visitor straightened in his chair. The idea that his son could love
anyone and not be loved in return was plainly quite inconceivable.
“I think we may take that for granted, madame,” he said. “The news was,
as I say, a great shock to my wife and myself. Herbert is our only child
and we had, naturally, planned somewhat concerning his future. The--the
overthrow of our plans was and is a great grief and disappointment
to us. Not, please understand, that we question your niece's worth or
anything of that sort. She is a very attractive young woman and would
doubtless make my son a good wife. But, if you will pardon my saying
so, we know very little about her or her family. You are comparative
strangers to us and although we have enjoyed your--ah--society
and--ah--”
Hephzy interrupted.
“I beg your pardon for saying it, Doctor Bayliss,” she said, “but you
know as much about us as we do about you.”
The doctor's composure was ruffled still more. He regarded Hephzy
through his spectacles and then said, with dignity.
“Madame, I have resided in this vicinity for nearly forty years. I think
my record and that of my family will bear inspection.”
“I don't doubt it a bit. But, as far as that goes, I have lived in
Bayport for fifty-odd years myself and our folks have lived there for
a hundred and fifty. I'm not questionin' you or your family, Doctor
Bayliss. If I had questioned 'em I could easily have looked up the
record. All I'm sayin' is that I haven't thought of questionin', and I
don't just see why you shouldn't take as much for granted as I have.”
The old gentleman was a bit disconcerted. He cleared his throat and
fidgeted in his seat.
“I do--I do, Miss Cahoon, of course,” he said. “But--ah--Well, to
return to the subject of my son and Miss Morley. The boy is dreadfully
agitated, Mr. Knowles. He is quite mad about the girl and his mother
and I are much concerned about him. We would--I assure you we would do
anything and sacrifice anything for his sake. We like your niece,
and, although, as I say, we had planned otherwise, nevertheless we
will--provided all is as it should be--give our consent to--to the
arrangement, for his sake.”
I did not answer. The idea that marrying Frances Morley would entail a
sacrifice upon anyone's part except hers angered me and I did not trust
myself to speak. But Hephzy spoke for me.
“What do you mean by providin' everything is as it should be?” she
asked.
“Why, I mean--I mean provided we learn that she is--is--That is,--Well,
one naturally likes to know something concerning his prospective
daughter-in-law's history, you know. That is to be expected, now isn't
it.”
Hephzy looked at me and I looked at her.
“Doctor,” she said. “I wonder if your son told you about some things
Hosy--Mr. Knowles, I mean--told him this mornin'. Did he tell you that?”
The doctor colored slightly. “Yes--yes, he did,” he admitted. “He said
he had a most extraordinary sort of interview with Mr. Knowles and
was told by him some quite extraordinary things. Of course, we could
scarcely believe that he had heard aright. There was some mistake, of
course.”
“There was no mistake, Doctor Bayliss,” said I. “I told your son the
truth, a very little of the truth.”
“The truth! But it couldn't be true, you know, as Herbert reported it
to me. He said Miss Morley had left Mayberry, had gone away for some
unexplained reason, and was not coming back--that you did not know
where she had gone, that she had asked not to be hindered or followed or
something. And he said--My word! he even said you, Knowles, had declared
yourself to be neither her uncle nor her guardian. THAT couldn't be
true, now could it!”
Again Hephzy and I looked at each other. Without speaking we reached the
same conclusion. Hephzy voiced that conclusion.
“I guess, Doctor Bayliss,” she said, “that the time has come when you
had better be told the whole truth, or as much of the whole truth about
Frances as Hosy and I know. I'm goin' to tell it to you. It's a kind of
long story, but I guess likely you ought to know it.”
She began to tell that story, beginning at the very beginning, with
Ardelia and Strickland Morley and continuing on, through the history of
the latter's rascality and the fleeing of the pair from America, to
our own pilgrimage, the finding of Little Frank and the astonishing
happenings since.
“She's gone,” she said. “She found out what sort of man her father
really was and, bein' a high-spirited, proud girl--as proud and
high-spirited as she is clever and pretty and good--she ran away and
left us. We don't blame her, Hosy and I. We understand just how she
feels and we've made up our minds to do as she asks and not try to
follow her or try to bring her back to us against her will. We think
the world of her. We haven't known her but a little while, but we've
come--that is,” with a sudden glance in my direction, “I've come to love
her as if she was my own. It pretty nigh kills me to have her go. When
I think of her strugglin' along tryin' to earn her own way by singin'
and--and all, I have to hold myself by main strength to keep from goin'
after her and beggin' her on my knees to come back. But I sha'n't do it,
because she doesn't want me to. Of course I hope and believe that some
day she will come back, but until she does and of her own accord, I'm
goin' to wait. And, if your son really cares for her as much as we--as I
do, he'll wait, too.”
She paused and hastily dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
I turned in order that the Doctor might not see my face. It was an
unnecessary precaution. Doctor Bayliss' mind was busy, apparently, with
but one thought.
“An opera singer!” he exclaimed, under his breath. “An opera singer!
Herbert to marry an opera singer! The granddaughter of a Yankee sailor
and--and--”
“And the daughter of an English thief,” put in Hephzy, sharply. “Maybe
we'd better leave nationalities out, Doctor Bayliss. The Yankees have
the best end of it, 'cordin' to my notion.”
He paid no attention to this.
He was greatly upset. “It is impossible!” he declared. “Absolutely
impossible! Why haven't we known of this before? Why did not Herbert
know of it? Mr. Knowles, I must say that--that you have been most
unthinking in this matter.”
“I have been thinking of her,” I answered, curtly. “It was and is her
secret and we rely upon you to keep it as such. We trust to your honor
to tell no one, not even your son.”
“My son! Herbert? Why I must tell him! I must tell my wife.”
“You may tell your wife. And your son as much as you think necessary.
Further than that it must not go.”
“Of course, of course. I understand. But an opera singer!”
“She isn't a real opera singer,” said Hephzy. “That is, not one of those
great ones. And she told me once that she realized now that she never
could be. She has a real sweet voice, a beautiful voice, but it isn't
powerful enough to make her a place in the big companies. She tried and
tried, she said, but all the managers said the same thing.”
“Hephzy,” I said, “when did she tell you this? I didn't know of it.”
“I know you didn't, Hosy. She told me one day when we were alone. It was
the only time she ever spoke of herself and she didn't say much then.
She spoke about her livin' with her relatives here in England and what
awful, mean, hard people they were. She didn't say who they were nor
where they lived, but she did say she ran away from them to go on
the stage as a singer and what trials and troubles she went through
afterward. She told me that much and then she seemed sorry that she had.
She made me promise not to tell anyone, not even you. I haven't, until
now.”
Doctor Bayliss was sitting with a hand to his forehead.
“A provincial opera singer,” he repeated. “Oh, impossible! Quite
impossible!”
“It may seem impossible to you,” I couldn't help observing, “but I
question if it will seem so to your son. I doubt if her being an opera
singer will make much difference to him.”
The doctor groaned. “The boy is mad about her, quite mad,” he admitted.
I was sorry for him. Perhaps if I were in his position I might feel as
he did.
“I will say this,” I said: “In no way, so far as I know, has Miss Morley
given your son encouragement. He told me himself that he had never
spoken to her of his feelings and we have no reason to think that she
regards him as anything more than a friend. She left no message for him
when she went away.”
He seemed to find some ground for hope in this. He rose from the chair
and extended his hand.
“Knowles,” he said, “if I have said anything to hurt your feelings or
those of Miss Cahoon I am very sorry. I trust it will make no difference
in our friendship. My wife and I respect and like you both and I think I
understand how deeply you must feel the loss of your--of Miss Morley. I
hope she--I hope you may be reunited some day. No doubt you will be. As
for Herbert--he is our son and if you ever have a son of your own, Mr.
Knowles, you may appreciate his mother's feelings and mine. We have
planned and--and--Even now I should not stand in the way of his
happiness if--if I believed happiness could come of it. But such
marriages are never happy. And,” with a sudden burst of hope, “as you
say, she may not be aware of his attachment. The boy is young. He may
forget.”
“Yes,” said I, with a sigh. “He IS young, and he may forget.”
After he had gone Hephzy turned to me.
“If I hadn't understood that old man's feelin's,” she declared, “I'd
have given him one talkin' to. The idea of his speakin' as if Frances
wouldn't be a wife anybody, a lord or anybody else, might be proud of!
But he didn't know. He's been brought up that way, and he doesn't know.
And, of course, his son IS the only person on earth to him. Well, that's
over! We haven't got to worry about them any more. We'll begin to live
for each other now, Hosy, same as we used to do. And we'll wait for the
rest. It'll come and come right for all of us. Just you see.”