In Which I Play Golf and Cross the Channel
And so we began “to live for each other again,” Hephzy and I. This
meant, of course, that Hephzy forgot herself entirely and spent the
greater part of her time trying to find ways to make my living more
comfortable, just as she had always done. And I--well, I did my best to
appear, if not happy, at least reasonably calm and companionable. It was
a hard job for both of us; certainly my part of it was hard enough.
Appearances had to be considered and so we invented a tale of a visit
to relatives in another part of England to account for the unannounced
departure of Miss Morley. This excuse served with the neighbors and
friends not in the secret and, for the benefit of the servants, Hephzy
elaborated the deceit by pretending eagerness at the arrival of the
mails and by certain vague remarks at table concerning letters she was
writing.
“I AM writing 'em, too, Hosy,” she said. “I write to her every few days.
Of course I don't mail the letters, but it sort of squares things with
my conscience to really write after talking so much about it. As for her
visitin' relatives--well, she's got relatives somewhere in England, we
know that much, and she MAY be visitin' 'em. At any rate I try to think
she is. Oh, dear, I 'most wish I'd had more experience in tellin' lies;
then I wouldn't have to invent so many extra ones to make me believe
those I told at the beginnin'. I wish I'd been brought up a book agent
or a weather prophet or somethin' like that; then I'd have been in
trainin'.”
Without any definite agreement we had fallen into the habit of not
mentioning the name of Little Frank, even when we were alone together.
In consequence, on these occasions, there would be long intervals
of silence suddenly broken by Hephzy's bursting out with a surmise
concerning what was happening in Bayport, whether they had painted the
public library building yet, or how Susanna was getting on with the cat
and hens. She had received three letters from Miss Wixon and, as news
bearers, they were far from satisfactory.
“That girl makes me so provoked,” sniffed Hephzy, dropping the most
recent letter in her lap with a gesture of disgust. “She says she's got
a cold in the head and she's scared to death for fear it'll get 'set
onto her,' whatever that is. Two pages of this letter is nothin' but
cold in the head and t'other two is about a new hat she's goin' to have
and she don't know whether to trim it with roses or forget-me-nots. If
she trimmed it with cabbage 'twould match her head better'n anything
else. I declare! she ought to be thankful she's got a cold in a head
like hers; it must be comfortin' to know there's SOMETHIN' there. You've
got a letter, too, Hosy. Who is it from?”
“From Campbell,” I answered, wearily. “He wants to know how the novel is
getting on, of course.”
“Humph! Well, you write him that it's gettin' on the way a squid gets
ahead--by goin' backwards. Don't let him pester you one bit, Hosy. You
write that novel just as fast or slow as you feel like. He told you to
take a vacation, anyway.”
I smiled. Mine was a delightful vacation.
The summer dragged on. The days passed. Pleasant days they were, so far
as the weather was concerned. I spent them somehow, walking, riding,
golfing, reading. I gave up trying to work; the half-written novel
remained half written. I could not concentrate my thoughts upon it and I
lacked the courage to force myself to try. I wrote Campbell that he must
be patient, I was doing the best I could. He answered by telling me not
to worry, to enjoy myself. “Why do you stay there in England?” he wrote.
“I ordered you to travel, not to plant yourself in one place and die
of dry rot. A British oyster is mighty little improvement on a Cape Cod
quahaug. You have been in that rectory about long enough. Go to Monte
Carlo for change. You'll find it there--or lose it.”
It may have been good advice--or bad--according to the way in which
it was understood, but, good or bad, it didn't appeal to me. I had no
desire to travel, unless it were to travel back to Bayport, where I
belonged. I felt no interest in Monte Carlo--for the matter of that, I
felt no interest in Mayberry or anywhere else. I was not interested in
anything or anybody--except one, and that one had gone out of my life.
Night after night I went to sleep determining to forget and morning
after morning I awoke only to remember, and with the same dull, hopeless
heartache and longing.
July passed, August was half gone. Still we remained at the rectory. Our
lease was up on the first of October. The Coles would return then and we
should be obliged to go elsewhere, whether we wished to or not. Hephzy,
although she did not say much about it, was willing to go, I think. Her
“presentiment” had remained only a presentiment so far; no word came
from Little Frank. We had heard or learned nothing concerning her or her
whereabouts.
Our neighbors and friends in Mayberry were as kind and neighborly as
ever. For the first few days after our interview with Doctor Bayliss,
Senior, Hephzy and I saw nothing of him or his family. Then the doctor
called again. He seemed in better spirits. His son had yielded to his
parents' entreaties and had departed for a walking tour through the
Black Forest with some friends.
“The invitation came at exactly the right time,” said the old gentleman.
“Herbert was ready to go anywhere or do anything. The poor boy was in
the depths and when his mother and I urged him to accept he did so. We
are hoping that when he returns he will have forgotten, or, if not that,
at least be more reconciled.”
Heathcroft came and went at various times during the summer. I met him
on the golf course and he was condescendingly friendly as ever. Our talk
concerning Frances, which had brought such momentous consequences to
her and to Hephzy and to me, had, apparently, not disturbed him in the
least. He greeted me blandly and cheerfully, asked how we all were, said
he had been given to understand that “my charming little niece” was no
longer with us, and proceeded to beat me two down in eighteen holes.
I played several times with him afterward and, under different
circumstances, should have enjoyed doing so, for we were pretty evenly
matched.
His aunt, the Lady of the Manor, I also met. She went out of her way to
be as sweetly gracious as possible. I presume she inferred from Frances'
departure that I had taken her hint and had removed the disturbing
influence from her nephew's primrose-bordered path. At each of our
meetings she spoke of the “invitation golf tournament,” several times
postponed and now to be played within a fortnight. She insisted that
I must take part in it. At last, having done everything except decline
absolutely, I finally consented to enter the tournament. It is not
easy to refuse to obey an imperial decree and Lady Carey was Empress of
Mayberry.
After accepting I returned to the rectory to find that Hephzy also had
received an invitation. Not to play golf, of course; her invitation was
of a totally different kind.
“What do you think, Hosy!” she cried. “I've got a letter and you can't
guess who it's from.”
“From Susanna?” I ventured.
“Susanna! You don't suppose I'd be as excited as all this over a letter
from Susanna Wixon, do you? No indeed! I've got a letter from Mrs.
Hepton, who had the Nickerson cottage last summer. She and her husband
are in Paris and they want us to meet 'em there in a couple of weeks and
go for a short trip through Switzerland. They got our address from Mr.
Campbell before they left home. Mrs. Hepton writes that they're countin'
on our company. They're goin' to Lake Lucerne and to Mont Blanc and
everywhere. Wouldn't it be splendid!”
The Heptons had been summer neighbors of ours on the Cape for several
seasons. They were friends of Jim Campbell's and had first come to
Bayport on his recommendation. I liked them very well, and, oddly
enough, for I was not popular with the summer colony, they had seemed to
like me.
“It was very kind of them to think of us,” I said. “Campbell shouldn't
have given them our address, of course, but their invitation was well
meant. You must write them at once. Make our refusal as polite as
possible.”
Hephzy seemed disappointed, I thought.
“Then you think I'd better say no?” she observed.
“Why, of course. You weren't thinking of accepting, were you?”
“Well, I didn't know. I'm not sure that our goin' wouldn't be the right
thing. I've been considerin' for some time, Hosy, and I've about come to
the conclusion that stayin' here is bad for you. Maybe it's bad for both
of us. Perhaps a change would do us both good.”
I was astonished. “Humph!” I exclaimed; “this is a change of heart,
Hephzy. A while ago, when I suggested going back to Bayport, you
wouldn't hear of it. You wanted to stay here and--and wait.”
“I know I did. And I've been waitin', but nothin' has come of it. I've
still got my presentiment, Hosy. I believe just as strong as I ever did
that some time or other she and you and I will be together again. But
stayin' here and seein' nobody but each other and broodin' don't do us
any good. It's doin' you harm; that's plain enough. You don't write and
you don't eat--that is, not much--and you're gettin' bluer and more thin
and peaked every day. You have just got to go away from here, no matter
whether I do or not. And I've reached the point where I'm willin' to go,
too. Not for good, maybe. We'll come back here again. Our lease isn't
up until October and we can leave the servants here and give them our
address to have mail forwarded. If--if she--that is, if a letter or--or
anything--SHOULD come we could hurry right back. The Heptons are real
nice folks; you always liked 'em, Hosy. And you always wanted to see
Switzerland; you used to say so. Why don't we say yes and go along?”
I did not answer. I believed I understood the reason for Campbell's
giving our address to the Heptons; also the reason for the invitation.
Jim was very anxious to have me leave Mayberry; he believed travel and
change of scene were what I needed. Doubtless he had put the Heptons up
to asking us to join them on their trip. It was merely an addition to
his precious prescription.
“Why don't we go?” urged Hephzy.
“Not much!” I answered, decidedly. “I should be poor company on a
pleasure trip like that. But you might go, Hephzy. There is no reason in
the world why you shouldn't go. I'll stay here until you return. Go, by
all means, and enjoy yourself.”
Hephzy shook her head.
“I'd do a lot of enjoyin' without you, wouldn't I,” she observed.
“While I was lookin' at the scenery I'd be wonderin' what you had for
breakfast. Every mite of rain would set me to thinkin' of your gettin'
your feet wet and when I laid eyes on a snow peak I'd wonder if you had
blankets enough on your bed. I'd be like that yellow cat we used to have
back in the time when Father was alive. That cat had kittens and Father
had 'em all drowned but one. After that you never saw the cat anywhere
unless the kitten was there, too. She wouldn't eat unless it were with
her and between bites she'd sit down on it so it couldn't run off. She
lugged it around in her mouth until Father used to vow he'd have eyelet
holes punched in the scruff of its neck for her teeth to fit into and
make it easier for both of 'em. It died, finally; she wore it out,
I guess likely. Then she adopted a chicken and started luggin' that
around. She had the habit, you see. I'm a good deal like her, Hosy. I've
took care of you so long that I've got the habit. No, I shouldn't go
unless you did.”
No amount of urging moved her, so we dropped the subject.
The morning of the golf tournament was clear and fine. I shouldered my
bag of clubs and walked through the lane toward the first tee. I never
felt less like playing or more inclined to feign illness and remain at
home. But I had promised Lady Carey and the promise must be kept.
There was a group of people, players and guests, awaiting me at the tee.
Her ladyship was there, of course; so also was her nephew, Mr. Carleton
Heathcroft, whom I had not seen for some time. Heathcroft was in
conversation with a young fellow who, when he turned in my direction,
I recognized as Herbert Bayliss. I was surprised to see him; I had not
heard of his return from the Black Forest trip.
Lady Carey was affable and gracious, also very important and busy. She
welcomed me absent-mindedly, introduced me to several of her guests,
ladies and gentlemen from London down for the week-end, and then bustled
away to confer with Mr. Handliss, steward of the estate, concerning the
arrangements for the tournament. I felt a touch on my arm and, turning,
found Doctor Bayliss standing beside me. He was smiling and in apparent
good humor.
“The boy is back, Knowles,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes,” said I, “I have seen him, although we haven't met yet. I was
surprised to find him here. When did he return?”
“Only yesterday. His mother and I were surprised also. We hadn't
expected him so soon. He's looking very fit, don't you think?”
“Very.” I had not noticed that young Bayliss was looking either more or
less fit than usual, but I answered as I did because the old gentleman
seemed so very anxious that I should. He was evidently gratified. “Yes,”
he said, “he's looking very fit indeed. I think his trip has benefited
him hugely. And I think--Yes, I think he is beginning to forget
his--that is to say, I believe he does not dwell upon the--the recent
happenings as he did. I think he is forgetting; I really think he is.”
“Indeed,” said I. It struck me that, if Herbert Bayliss was forgetting,
his memory must be remarkably short. I imagined that his father's wish
was parent to the thought.
“He has--ah--scarcely mentioned our--our young friend's name since his
return,” went on the doctor. “He did ask if you had heard--ah--by the
way, Knowles, you haven't heard, have you?”
“No.”
“Dear me! dear me! That's very odd, now isn't it.”
He did not say he was sorry. If he had said it I should not have
believed him. If ever anything was plain it was that the longer we
remained without news of Frances Morley the better pleased Herbert
Bayliss's parents would be.
“But I say, Knowles,” he added, “you and he must meet, you know. He
doesn't hold any ill-feeling or--or resentment toward you. Really he
doesn't. Herbert! Oh, I say, Herbert! Come here, will you.”
Young Bayliss turned. The doctor whispered in my ear.
“Perhaps it would be just as well not to refer to--to--You understand
me, Knowles. Better let sleeping dogs lie, eh? Oh, Herbert, here is
Knowles waiting to shake hands with you.”
We shook hands. The shake, on his part, was cordial enough, perhaps, but
not too cordial. It struck me that young Bayliss was neither as “fit”
nor as forgetful as his fond parents wished to believe. He looked rather
worn and nervous, it seemed to me. I asked him about his tramping trip
and we chatted for a few moments. Then Bayliss, Senior, was called by
Lady Carey and Handliss to join the discussion concerning the tournament
rules and the young man and I were left alone together.
“Knowles,” he asked, the moment after his father's departure, “have you
heard anything? Anything concerning--her?”
“No.”
“You're sure? You're not--”
“I am quite sure. We haven't heard nor do we expect to.”
He looked away across the course and I heard him draw a long breath.
“It's deucedly odd, this,” he said. “How she could disappear so entirely
I don't understand. And you have no idea where she may be?”
“No.”
“But--but, confound it, man, aren't you trying to find her?”
“No.”
“You're not! Why not?”
“You know why not as well as I. She left us of her own free will and her
parting request was that we should not follow her. That is sufficient
for us. Pardon me, but I think it should be for all her friends.”
He was silent for a moment. Then his teeth snapped together.
“I'll find her,” he declared, fiercely. “I'll find her some day.”
“In spite of her request?”
“Yes. In spite of the devil.”
He turned on his heel and walked off. Mr. Handliss stepped to the first
tee, clapped his hands to attract attention and began a little speech.
The tournament, he said, was about to begin. Play would be, owing to the
length and difficulty of the course, but eighteen holes instead of the
usual thirty-six. This meant that each pair of contestants would play
the nine holes twice. Handicaps had been fixed as equitably as possible
according to each player's previous record, and players having
similar handicaps were to play against each other. A light lunch and
refreshments would be served after the first round had been completed
by all. Prizes would be distributed by her ladyship when the final round
was finished. Her ladyship bade us all welcome and was gratified by our
acceptance of her invitation. He would now proceed to read the names
of those who were to play against each other, stating handicaps and the
like. He read accordingly, and I learned that my opponent was to be Mr.
Heathcroft, each of us having a handicap of two.
Considering everything I thought my particular handicap a stiff one.
Heathcroft had been in the habit of beating me in two out of three
of our matches. However, I determined to play my best. Being the only
outlander on the course I couldn't help feeling that the sporting
reputation of Yankeeland rested, for this day at least, upon my
shoulders.
The players were sent off in pairs, the less skilled first. Heathcroft
and I were next to the last. A London attorney by the name of Jaynes
and a Wrayton divine named Wilson followed us. Their rating was one plus
and, judging by the conversation of the “gallery,” they were looked upon
as winners of the first and second prizes respectively. The Reverend Mr.
Wilson was called, behind his back, “the sporting curate.” In gorgeous
tweeds and a shepherd's plaid cap he looked the part.
The first nine went to me. An usually long drive and a lucky putt on the
eighth gave me the round by one. I played with care and tried my
hardest to keep my mind on the game. Heathcroft was, as always, calm and
careful, but between tees he was pleased to be chatty and affable.
“And how is the aunt with the odd name, Knowles?” he inquired. “Does she
still devour her--er--washing flannels and treacle for breakfast?”
“She does when she cares to,” I replied. “She is an independent lady, as
I think you know.”
“My word! I believe you. And how are the literary labors progressing? I
had my bookselling fellow look up a novel of yours the other day. Began
it that same night, by Jove! It was quite interesting, really. I should
have finished it, I think, but some of the chaps at the club telephoned
me to join them for a bit of bridge and of course that ended literature
for the time. My respected aunt tells me I'm quite dotty on bridge. She
foresees a gambler's end for me, stony broke, languishing in dungeons
and all that sort of thing. I am to die of starvation, I think. Is it
starvation gamblers die of? 'Pon my soul, I should say most of those I
know would be more likely to die of thirst. Rather!”
Later on he asked another question.
“And how is the pretty niece, Knowles?” he inquired. “When is she coming
back to the monastery or the nunnery or rectory, or whatever it is?”
“I don't know,” I replied, curtly.
“Oh, I say! Isn't she coming at all? That would be a calamity, now
wouldn't it? Not to me in particular. I should mind your notice boards,
of course. But if I were condemned, as you are, to spend a summer among
the feminine beauties of Mayberry, a face like hers would be like a
whisky and soda in a thirsty land, as a chap I know is fond of saying.
Oh, and by the way, speaking of your niece, I had a curious experience
in Paris a week ago. Most extraordinary thing. For the moment I began
to believe I really was going dotty, as Auntie fears. I... Your drive,
Knowles. I'll tell you the story later.”
He did not tell it during that round, forgot it probably. I did not
remind him. The longer he kept clear of the subject of my “niece” the
more satisfied I was. We lunched in the pavilion by the first tee. There
were sandwiches and biscuits--crackers, of course--and cakes and sweets
galore. Also thirst-quenching materials sufficient to satisfy even the
gamblers of Mr. Heathcroft's acquaintance. The “sporting curate,” behind
a huge Scotch and soda, was relating his mishaps in approaching the
seventh hole for the benefit of his brother churchmen, Messrs. Judson
and Worcester. Lady Carey was dilating upon her pet subject, the talents
and virtues of “Carleton, dear,” for the benefit of the London attorney,
who was pretending to listen with the respectful interest due blood and
title, but who was thinking of something else, I am sure. “Carleton,
dear,” himself, was chatting languidly with young Bayliss. The latter
seemed greatly interested. There was a curious expression on his face.
I was surprised to see him so cordial to Heathcroft; I knew he did not
like Lady Carey's nephew.
The second and final round of the tournament began. For six holes
Heathcroft and I broke even. The seventh he won, making us square for
the match so far and, with an equal number of strokes. The eighth we
halved. All depended on the ninth. Halving there would mean a drawn
match between us and a drawing for choice of prizes, provided we were in
the prize-winning class. A win for either of us meant the match itself.
Heathcroft, in spite of the close play, was as bland and unconcerned as
ever. I tried to appear likewise. As a matter of fact, I wanted to win.
Not because of the possible prize, I cared little for that, but for the
pleasure of winning against him. We drove from the ninth tee, each got
a long brassy shot which put us on the edge of the green, and then
strolled up the hill together.
“I say, Knowles,” he observed; “I haven't finished telling you of my
Paris experience, have I. Odd coincidence, by Jove! I was telling young
Bayliss about it just now and he thought it odd, too. I was--some other
chaps and I drifted into the Abbey over in Paris a week or so ago and
while we were there a girl came out and sang. She was an extremely
pretty girl, you understand, but that wasn't the extraordinary part of
it. She was the image--my word! the very picture of your niece, Miss
Morley. It quite staggered me for the moment. Upon my soul I thought it
was she! She sang extremely well, but not for long. I tried to get near
her--meant to speak to her, you know, but she had gone before I reached
her. Eh! What did you say?”
I had not said anything--at least I think I had not. He misinterpreted
my silence.
“Oh, you mustn't be offended,” he said, laughing. “Of course I knew
it wasn't she--that is, I should have known it if I hadn't been so
staggered by the resemblance. It was amazing, that resemblance. The
face, the voice--everything was like hers. I was so dotty about it that
I even hunted up one of the chaps in charge and asked him who the
girl was. He said she was an Austrian--Mademoiselle Juno or Junotte or
something. That ended it, of course. I was a fool to imagine anything
else, of course. But you would have been a bit staggered if you had
seen her. And she didn't look Austrian, either. She looked English or
American--rather! I say, I hope I haven't hurt your feelings, old chap.
I apologize to you and Miss Morley, you understand. I couldn't help
telling you; it was extraordinary now, wasn't it.”
I made some answer. He rattled on about that sort of thing making one
believe in the Prisoner of Zenda stuff, doubles and all that. We reached
the green. My ball lay nearest the pin and it was his putt. He made
it, a beauty, the ball halting just at the edge of the cup. My putt
was wild. He holed out on the next shot. It took me two and I had to
concentrate my thought by main strength even then. The hole and match
were his.
He was very decent about it, proclaimed himself lucky, declared I had,
generally speaking, played much the better game and should have won
easily. I paid little attention to what he said although I did, of
course, congratulate him and laughed at the idea that luck had anything
to do with the result. I no longer cared about the match or the
tournament in general or anything connected with them. His story of the
girl who was singing in Paris was what I was interested in now. I wanted
him to tell me more, to give me particulars. I wanted to ask him a dozen
questions; and, yet, excited as I was, I realized that those questions
must be asked carefully. His suspicions must not be aroused.
Before I could ask the first of the dozen Mr. Handliss bustled over to
us to learn the result of our play and to announce that the distribution
of prizes would take place in a few moments; also that Lady Carey wished
to speak with her nephew. The latter sauntered off to join the group by
the pavilion and my opportunity for questioning had gone, for the time.
Of the distribution of prizes, with its accompanying ceremony, I seem
to recall very little. Lady Carey made a little speech, I remember that,
but just what she said I have forgotten. “Much pleasure in rewarding
skill,” “Dear old Scottish game,” “English sportsmanship,” “Race not to
the swift”--I must have been splashed with these drops from the fountain
of oratory, for they stick in my memory. Then, in turn, the winners were
called up to select their prizes. Wilson, the London attorney, headed
the list; the sporting curate came next; Heathcroft next; and then I.
It had not occurred to me that I should win a prize. In fact I had not
thought anything about it. My thoughts were far from the golf course
just then. They were in Paris, in a cathedral--Heathcroft had called it
an abbey, but cathedral he must have meant--where a girl who looked like
Frances Morley was singing.
However, when Mr. Handliss called my name I answered and stepped
forward. Her Ladyship said something or other about “our cousin from
across the sea” and “Anglo-Saxon blood” and her especial pleasure in
awarding the prize. I stammered thanks, rather incoherently expressed
they were, I fear, selected the first article that came to hand--it
happened to be a cigarette case; I never smoke cigarettes--and retired
to the outer circle. The other winners--Herbert Bayliss and Worcester
among them--selected their prizes and then Mr. Wilson, winner of the
tournament, speaking in behalf of us all, thanked the hostess for her
kindness and hospitality.
Her gracious invitation to play upon the Manor-House course Mr. Wilson
mentioned feelingly. Also the gracious condescension in presenting the
prizes with her own hand. They would be cherished, not only for their
own sake, but for that of the donor. He begged the liberty of proposing
her ladyship's health.
The “liberty” was, apparently, expected, for Mr. Handliss had full
glasses ready and waiting. The health was drunk. Lady Carey drank ours
in return, and the ceremony was over.
I tried in vain to get another word with Heathcroft. He was in
conversation with his aunt and several of the feminine friends and,
although I waited for some time, I, at last, gave up the attempt and
walked home. The Reverend Judson would have accompanied me, but I
avoided him. I did not wish to listen to Mayberry gossip; I wanted to be
alone.
Heathcroft's tale had made a great impression upon me--a most
unreasonable impression, unwarranted by the scant facts as he related
them. The girl whom he had seen resembled Frances--yes; but she was an
Austrian, her name was not Morley. And resemblances were common enough.
That Frances should be singing in a Paris church was most improbable;
but, so far as that went, the fact of A. Carleton Heathcroft's attending
a church service I should, ordinarily, have considered improbable.
Improbable things did happen. Suppose the girl he had seen was Frances.
My heart leaped at the thought.
But even supposing it was she, what difference did it make--to me? None,
of course. She had asked us not to follow her, to make no attempt to
find her. I had preached compliance with her wish to Hephzy, to Doctor
Bayliss--yes, to Herbert Bayliss that very afternoon. But Herbert
Bayliss was sworn to find her, in spite of me, in spite of the Evil One.
And Heathcroft had told young Bayliss the same story he had told me. HE
would not be deterred by scruples; her wish would not prevent his going
to Paris in search of her.
I reached the rectory, to be welcomed by Hephzy with questions
concerning the outcome of the tournament and triumphant gloatings over
my perfectly useless prize. I did not tell her of Heathcroft's story.
I merely said I had met that gentleman and that Herbert Bayliss had
returned to Mayberry. And I asked a question.
“Hephzy,” I asked, “when do the Heptons leave Paris for their trip
through Switzerland?”
Hephzy considered. “Let me see,” she said. “Today is the eighteenth,
isn't it. They start on the twenty-second; that's four days from now.”
“Of course you have written them that we cannot accept their invitation
to go along?”
She hesitated. “Why, no,” she admitted, “I haven't. That is, I have
written 'em, but I haven't posted the letter. Humph! did you notice
that 'posted'? Shows what livin' in a different place'll do even to
as settled a body as I am. In Bayport I should have said 'mailed' the
letter, same as anybody else. I must be careful or I'll go back home
and call the expressman a 'carrier' and a pie a 'tart' and a cracker a
'biscuit.' Land sakes! I remember readin' how David Copperfield's aunt
always used to eat biscuits soaked in port wine before she went to bed.
I used to think 'twas dreadful dissipated business and that the old
lady must have been ready for bed by the time she got through. You see
I always had riz biscuits in mind. A cracker's different; crackers don't
soak up much. We'd ought to be careful how we judge folks, hadn't we,
Hosy.”
“Yes,” said I, absently. “So you haven't posted the letter to the
Heptons. Why not?”
“Well--well, to tell you the truth, Hosy, I was kind of hopin' you might
change your mind and decide to go, after all. I wish you would; 'twould
do you good. And,” wistfully, “Switzerland must be lovely. But there! I
know just how you feel, you poor boy. I'll mail the letter to-night.”
“Give it to me,” said I. “I'll--I'll see to it.”
Hephzy handed me the letter. I put it in my pocket, but I did not
post it that evening. A plan--or the possible beginning of a plan--was
forming in my mind.
That night was another of my bad ones. The little sleep I had was filled
with dreams, dreams from which I awoke to toss restlessly. I rose and
walked the floor, calling myself a fool, a silly old fool, over and
over again. But when morning came my plan, a ridiculous, wild plan from
which, even if it succeeded--which was most unlikely--nothing but added
trouble and despair could possibly come, my plan was nearer its ultimate
formation.
At eleven o'clock that forenoon I walked up the marble steps of the
Manor House and rang the bell. The butler, an exalted personage in
livery, answered my ring. Mr. Heathcroft? No, sir. Mr. Heathcroft had
left for London by the morning train. Her ladyship was in her boudoir.
She did not see anyone in the morning, sir. I had no wish to see her
ladyship, but Heathcroft's departure was a distinct disappointment. I
thanked the butler and, remembering that even cathedral ushers accepted
tips, slipped a shilling into his hand. His dignity thawed at the silver
touch, and he expressed regret at Mr. Heathcroft's absence.
“You're not the only gentleman who has been here to see him this
morning, sir,” he said. “Doctor Bayliss, the younger one, called about
an hour ago. He seemed quite as sorry to find him gone as you are, sir.”
I think that settled it. When I again entered the rectory my mind was
made up. The decision was foolish, insane, even dishonorable perhaps,
but the decision was made.
“Hephzy,” said I, “I have changed my mind. Travel may do me good. I have
telegraphed the Heptons that we will join them in Paris on the evening
of the twenty-first. After that--Well, we'll see.”
Hephzy's delight was as great as her surprise. She said I was a dear,
unselfish boy. Considering what I intended doing I felt decidedly mean;
but I did not tell her what that intention was.
We took the two-twenty train from Charing Cross on the afternoon of the
twenty-first. The servants had been left in charge of the rectory. We
would return in a fortnight, so we told them.
It was a beautiful day, bright and sunshiny, but, after smoky, grimy
London had been left behind and we were whizzing through the Kentish
countryside, between the hop fields and the pastures where the sheep
were feeding, we noticed that a stiff breeze was blowing. Further on,
as we wound amid the downs near Folkestone, the bending trees and shrubs
proved that the breeze was a miniature gale. And when we came in sight
of the Channel, it was thickly sprinkled with whitecaps from beach to
horizon.
“I imagine we shall have a rather rough passage, Hephzy,” said I.
Hephzy's attention was otherwise engaged.
“Why do they call a hill a 'down' over here?” she asked. “I should think
an 'up' would be better. What did you say, Hosy? A rough passage? I
guess that won't bother you and me much. This little mite of water can't
seem very much stirred up to folks who have sailed clear across the
Atlantic Ocean. But there! I mustn't put on airs. I used to think Cape
Cod Bay was about all the water there was. Travelin' does make such
a difference in a person's ideas. Do you remember the Englishwoman at
Bancroft's who told me that she supposed the Thames must remind us of
our own Mississippi?”
“So that's the famous English Channel, is it,” she observed, a moment
later. “How wide is it, Hosy?”
“About twenty miles at the narrowest point, I believe,” I said.
“Twenty miles! About as far as Bayport to Provincetown. Well, I don't
know whether any of your ancestors or mine came over with William the
Conquerer or not, but if they did, they didn't have far to come. I
cal'late I'll be contented with having my folks cross in the Mayflower.
They came three thousand miles anyway.”
She was inclined to regard the Channel rather contemptuously just then.
A half hour later she was more respectful.
The steamer was awaiting us at the pier. As the throng of passengers
filed up the gang-plank she suddenly squeezed my arm.
“Look! Hosy!” she cried. “Look! Isn't that him?”
I looked where she was pointing.
“Him? Who?” I asked.
“Look! There he goes now. No, he's gone. I can't see him any more. And
yet I was almost certain 'twas him.”
“Who?” I asked again. “Did you see someone you knew?”
“I thought I did, but I guess I was mistaken. He's just got home; he
wouldn't be startin' off again so soon. No, it couldn't have been him,
but I did think--”
I stopped short. “Who did you think you saw?” I demanded.
“I thought I saw Doctor Herbert Bayliss goin' up those stairs to the
steamboat. It looked like him enough to be his twin brother, if he had
one.”
I did not answer. I looked about as we stepped aboard the boat, but
if young Bayliss was there he was not in sight. Hephzy rattled on
excitedly.
“You can't tell much by seein' folks's backs,” she declared. “I remember
one time your cousin Hezekiah Knowles--You don't remember him, Hosy; he
died when you was little--One time Cousin Hezzy was up to Boston with
his wife and they was shoppin' in one of the big stores. That is, Martha
Ann--the wife--was shoppin' and he was taggin' along and complainin',
same as men generally do. He was kind of nearsighted, Hezzy was, and
when Martha was fightin' to get a place in front of a bargain counter he
stayed astern and kept his eyes fixed on a hat she was wearin'. 'Twas a
new hat with blue and yellow flowers on it. Hezzy always said, when he
told the yarn afterward, that he never once figured that there could
be another hat like that one. I saw it myself and, if I'd been in his
place, I'd have HOPED there wasn't anyway. Well, he followed that hat
from one counter to another and, at last, he stepped up and said, 'Look
here, dearie,' he says--They hadn't been married very long, not long
enough to get out of the mushy stage--'Look here, dearie,' he says,
'hadn't we better be gettin' on home? You'll tire those little feet of
yours all out trottin' around this way.' And when the hat turned around
there was a face under it as black as a crow. He'd been followin' a
darkey woman for ten minutes. She thought he was makin' fun of her feet
and was awful mad, and when Martha came along and found who he'd taken
for her she was madder still. Hezzy said, 'I couldn't help it, Martha.
Nobody could. I never saw two craft look more alike from twenty foot
astern. And she wears that hat just the way you do.' That didn't help
matters any, of course, and--Why, Hosy, where are you goin'? Why don't
you say somethin'? Hadn't we better sit down? All the good seats will be
gone if we don't.”
I had been struggling through the crowd, trying my best to get a glimpse
of the man she had thought to be Herbert Bayliss. If it was he then my
suspicions were confirmed. Heathcroft's story of the girl who sang in
Paris had impressed him as it had me and he was on his way to see for
himself. But the man, whoever he might be, had disappeared.
“How the wind does blow,” said Hephzy. “What are the people doin' with
those black tarpaulins?”
Sailors in uniform were passing among the seated passengers distributing
large squares of black waterproof canvas. I watched the use to which the
tarpaulins were put and I understood. I beckoned to the nearest sailor
and rented two of the canvases for use during the voyage.
“How much?” I asked.
“One franc each,” said the man, curtly.
I had visited the money-changers near the Charing Cross station and was
prepared. Hephzy's eyes opened.
“A franc,” she repeated. “That's French money, isn't it. Is he a
Frenchman?”
“Yes,” said I. “This is a French boat, I think.”
She watched the sailor for a moment. Then she sighed.
“And he's a Frenchman,” she said. “I thought Frenchmen wore mustaches
and goatees and were awful polite. He was about as polite as a pig.
And all he needs is a hand-organ and a monkey to be an Italian. A body
couldn't tell the difference without specs. What did you get those
tarpaulins for, Hosy?”
I covered our traveling bags with one of the tarpaulins, as I saw our
fellow-passengers doing, and the other I tucked about Hephzy, enveloping
her from her waist down.
“I don't need that,” she protested. “It isn't cold and it isn't rainin',
either. I tell you I don't need it, Hosy. Don't tuck me in any more. I
feel as if I was goin' to France in a baby carriage, not a steamboat.
And what are they passin' round those--those tin dippers for?”
“They may be useful later on,” I said, watching the seas leap and
foam against the stone breakwater. “You'll probably understand later,
Hephzy.”
She understood. The breakwater was scarcely passed when our boat, which
had seemed so large and steady and substantial, began to manifest a
desire to stand on both ends at once and to roll like a log in a rapid.
The sun was shining brightly overhead, the verandas of the hotels along
the beach were crowded with gaily dressed people, the surf fringing
that beach was dotted with bathers, everything on shore wore a look of
holiday and joy--and yet out here, on the edge of the Channel, there was
anything but calm and anything but joy.
How that blessed boat did toss and rock and dip and leap and pitch! And
how the spray began to fly as we pushed farther and farther from land!
It came over the bows in sheets; it swept before the wind in showers,
in torrents. Hephzy hastily removed her hat and thrust it beneath the
tarpaulin. I turned up the collar of my steamer coat and slid as far
down into that collar as I could.
“My soul!” exclaimed Hephzy, the salt water running down her face. “My
soul and body!”
“I agree with you,” said I.
On we went, over the waves or through them. Our fellow-passengers curled
up beneath their tarpaulins, smiled stoically or groaned dismally,
according to their dispositions--or digestions. A huge wave--the upper
third of it, at least--swept across the deck and spilled a gallon or two
of cold water upon us. A sturdy, red-faced Englishman, sitting next me,
grinned cheerfully and observed:
“Trickles down one's neck a bit, doesn't it, sir.”
I agreed that it did. Hephzy, huddled under the lee of my shoulder,
sputtered.
“Trickles!” she whispered. “My heavens and earth! If this is a trickle
then Noah's flood couldn't have been more than a splash. Trickles!
There's a Niagara Falls back of both of my ears this minute.”
Another passenger, also English, but gray-haired and elderly, came
tacking down the deck, bound somewhere or other. His was a zig-zag
transit. He dove for the rail, caught it, steadied himself, took a fresh
start, swooped to the row of chairs by the deck house, carromed from
them, and, in company with a barrel or two of flying brine, came head
first into my lap. I expected profanity and temper. I did get a little
of the former.
“This damned French boat!” he observed, rising with difficulty. “She
absolutely WON'T be still.”
“The sea is pretty rough.”
“Oh, the sea is all right. A bit damp, that's all. It's the blessed
boat. Foreigners are such wretched sailors.”
He was off on another tack. Hephzy watched him wonderingly.
“A bit damp,” she repeated. “Yes, I shouldn't wonder if 'twas. I suppose
likely he wouldn't call it wet if he fell overboard.”
“Not on this side of the Channel,” I answered. “This side is English
water, therefore it is all right.”
A few minutes later Hephzy spoke again.
“Look at those poor women,” she said.
Opposite us were two English ladies, middle-aged, wretchedly ill and so
wet that the feathers on their hats hung down in strings.
“Just like drowned cats' tails,” observed Hephzy. “Ain't it awful!
And they're too miserable to care. You poor thing,” she said, leaning
forward and addressing the nearest, “can't I fix you so you're more
comfortable?”
The woman addressed looked up and tried her best to smile.
“Oh, no, thank you,” she said, weakly but cheerfully. “We're doing quite
well. It will soon be over.”
Hephzy shook her head.
“Did you hear that, Hosy?” she whispered. “I declare! if it wasn't off
already, and that's a mercy, I'd take off my hat to England and the
English people. Not a whimper, not a complaint, just sit still and soak
and tumble around and grin and say it's 'a bit damp.' Whenever I read
about the grumblin', fault-findin' Englishman I'll think of the folks on
this boat. It may be patriotism or it may be the race pride and reserve
we hear so much about--but, whatever it is, it's fine. They've all got
it, men and women and children. I presume likely the boy that stood on
the burnin' deck would have said 'twas a bit sultry, and that's all....
What is it, Hosy?”
I had uttered an exclamation. A young man had just reeled by us on his
way forward. His cap was pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar
was turned up, but I recognized him. He was Herbert Bayliss.
We were three hours crossing from Folkestone to Boulogne, instead of the
usual scant two. We entered the harbor, where the great crucifix on the
hill above the town attracted Hephzy's attention and the French signs
over the doors of hotels and shops by the quay made her realize, so she
said, that we really were in a foreign country.
“Somehow England never did seem so very foreign,” she said. “And the
Mayberry folks were so nice and homey and kind I've come to think of 'em
as, not just neighbors, but friends. But this--THIS is foreign enough,
goodness knows! Let go of my arm!” to the smiling, gesticulating porter
who was proffering his services. “DON'T wave your hands like that; you
make me dizzy. Keep 'em still, man! I could understand you just as well
if they was tied. Hosy, you'll have to be skipper from now on. Now I
KNOW Cape Cod is three thousand miles off.”
We got through the customs without trouble, found our places in the
train, and the train, after backing and fussing and fidgeting and
tooting in a manner thoroughly French, rolled out of the station.
We ate our dinner, and a very good dinner it was, in the dining-car.
Hephzy, having asked me to translate the heading “Compagnie
Internationale des Wagon Lits” on the bill of fare, declared she
couldn't see why a dining-car should be called a “wagon bed.” “There's
enough to eat to put you to sleep,” she declared, “but you couldn't
stay asleep any more than you could in the nail factory up to Tremont. I
never heard such a rattlin' and slambangin' in my life.”
We whizzed through the French country, catching glimpses of little
towns, with red-roofed cottages clustered about the inevitable church
and chateau, until night came and looking out of the window was no
longer profitable. At nine, or thereabouts, we alighted from the train
at Paris.
In the cab, on the way to the hotel where we were to meet the Heptons,
Hephzy talked incessantly.
“Paris!” she said, over and over again. “Paris! where they had the Three
Musketeers and Notre Dame and Henry of Navarre and Saint Bartholomew and
Napoleon and the guillotine and Innocents Abroad and--and everything.
Paris! And I'm in it!”
At the door of the hotel Mr. Hepton met us.
Before we retired that night I told Hephzy what I had deferred telling
until then, namely, that I did not intend leaving for Switzerland with
her and with the Heptons the following day. I did not tell her my real
reason for staying; I had invented a reason and told her that instead.
“I want to be alone here in Paris for a few days,” I said. “I think I
may find some material here which will help me with my novel. You and
the Heptons must go, just as you have planned, and I will join you at
Lucerne or Interlaken.”
Hephzy stared at me.
“I sha'n't stir one step without you,” she declared. “If I'd known you
had such an idea as that in your head I--”
“You wouldn't have come,” I interrupted. “I know that; that's why I
didn't tell you. Of course you will go and of course you will leave me
here. We will be separated only two or three days. I'll ask Hepton to
give me an itinerary of the trip and I will wire when and where I will
join you. You must go, Hephzy; I insist upon it.”
In spite of my insisting Hephzy still declared she should not go. It was
nearly midnight before she gave in.
“And if you DON'T come in three days at the longest,” she said, “you'll
find me back here huntin' you up. I mean that, Hosy, so you'd better
understand it. And now,” rising from her chair, “I'm goin' to see about
the things you're to wear while we're separated. If I don't you're
liable to keep on wet stockin's and shoes and things all the time and
forget to change 'em. You needn't say you won't, for I know you too
well. Mercy sakes! do you suppose I've taken care of you all these years
and DON'T know?”
The next forenoon I said good-by to her and the Heptons at the railway
station. Hephzy's last words to me were these:
“Remember,” she said, “if you do get caught in the rain, there's dry
things in the lower tray of your trunk. Collars and neckties and shirts
are in the upper tray. I've hung your dress suit in the closet in case
you want it, though that isn't likely. And be careful what you eat, and
don't smoke too much, and--Yes, Mr. Hepton, I'm comin'--and don't spend
ALL your money in book-stores; you'll need some of it in Switzerland.
And--Oh, dear, Hosy! do be a good boy. I know you're always good, but,
from all I've heard, this Paris is an awful place and--good-by. Good-by.
In Lucerne in two days or Interlaken in three. It's got to be that,
or back I come, remember. I HATE to leave you all alone amongst these
jabberin' foreigners. I'm glad you can jabber, too, that's one comfort.
If it was me, all I could do would be to holler United States language
at 'em, and if they didn't understand that, just holler louder. I--Yes,
Mr. Hepton, I AM comin' now. Good-by, Hosy, dear.”
The train rolled out of the station. I watched it go. Then I turned and
walked to the street. So far my scheme had worked well. I was alone
in Paris as I had planned to be. And now--and now to find where a girl
sang, a girl who looked like Frances Morley.