In Which I, as Well as Mr. Solomon Cripps, Am Surprised
“And to think,” cried Hephzy, for at least the fifth time since I told
her, “that those Crippses are her people, the cousins she lived with
after her pa's death! No wonder she was surprised when I told her how
you and I went to Leatherhead and looked at their 'Ash Dump'--'Ash
Chump,' I mean. And we came just as near hirin' it, too; we would have
hired it if she hadn't put her foot down and said she wouldn't go there.
A good many queer things have happened on this pilgrimage of ours, Hosy,
but I do believe our goin' straight to those Crippses, of all the folks
in England, is about the strangest. Seems as if we was sent there with a
purpose, don't it?”
“It is a strange coincidence,” I admitted.
“It's more'n that. And her goin' back to them is queerer still. She
hates 'em, I know she does. She as much as said so, not mention' their
names, of course. Why did she do it?”
I knew why she had done it, or I believed I did.
“She did it to please you and me, Hephzy,” I said. “And to get rid of
us. She said she would do anything to please us, and she knew I did not
want her to remain here in Paris. I told her I should stay here as long
as she did, or at least as long as she sang at--at the place where she
was singing. And she asked if, provided she gave up singing there, you
and I would go back to England--or America?”
“Yes, I know; you told me that, Hosy. But you said you didn't promise to
do it.”
“I didn't promise anything. I couldn't promise not to follow her. I
didn't believe I could keep the promise. But I sha'n't follow her,
Hephzy. I shall not go to Leatherhead.”
Hephzy was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Why not?”
“You know why. That night when I first met her, the night after you had
gone to Lucerne, she told me that if I persisted in following her and
trying to see her I would force her to give up the only means of earning
a living she had been able to find. Well, I have forced her to do that.
She has been obliged to run away once more in order to get rid of us.
I am not going to persecute her further. I am going to try and be
unselfish and decent, if I can. Now that we know she is safe and among
friends--”
“Friends! A healthy lot of friends they are--that Solomon Cripps and his
wife! If ever I ran afoul of a sanctimonious pair of hypocrites they're
the pair. Oh, they were sweet and buttery enough to us, I give in, but
that was because they thought we was goin' to hire their Dump or Chump,
or whatever 'twas. I'll bet they could be hard as nails to anybody they
had under their thumbs. Whenever I see a woman or a man with a mouth
that shuts up like a crack in a plate, the way theirs do, it takes more
than Scriptur' texts from that mouth to make me believe it won't bite
when it has the chance. Safe! poor Little Frank may be safe enough at
Leatherhead, but I'll bet she's miserable. WHAT made her go there?”
“Because she had no other place to go, I suppose,” I said. “And
there, among her relatives, she thought she would be free from our
persecution.”
“There's some things worse than persecution,” Hephzy declared; “and,
so far as that goes, there are different kinds of persecution. But what
makes those Crippses willin' to take her in and look after her is what
_I_ can't understand. They MAY be generous and forgivin' and kind, but,
if they are, then I miss my guess. The whole business is awful queer.
Tell me all about your talk with Doctor Bayliss, Hosy. What did he say?
And how did he look when he said it?”
I told her, repeating our conversation word for word, as near as I could
remember it. She listened intently and when I had finished there was an
odd expression on her face.
“Humph!” she exclaimed. “He seemed surprised to think you weren't goin'
to Leatherhead, you say?”
“Yes. At least I thought he was surprised. He knew I had chased her from
Mayberry to Paris and was there at the hotel trying to learn from him
where she was. And he knows you are her aunt. I suppose he thought it
strange that we were not going to follow her any further.”
“Maybe so... maybe so. But why did he call you a--what was it?--a silly
donkey?”
“Because I am one, I imagine,” I answered, bitterly. “It's my natural
state. I was born one.”
“Humph! Well, 'twould take more than that boy's word to make me believe
it. No there's something!--I wish I could see that young fellow myself.
He's at the Continental Hotel, you say?”
“Yes; but he leaves to-morrow. There, Hephzy, that's enough. Don't talk
about it. Change the subject. I am ready to go back to England--yes,
or America either, whenever you say the word. The sooner the better for
me.”
Hephzy obediently changed the subject and we decided to leave Paris the
following afternoon. We would go back to the rectory, of course, and
leave there for home as soon as the necessary arrangements could be
made. Hephzy agreed to everything, she offered no objections, in fact
it seemed to me that she was paying very little attention. Her lack of
interest--yes, and apparent lack of sympathy, for I knew she must know
what my decision meant to me--hurt and irritated me.
I rose.
“Good night,” I said, curtly. “I'm going to bed.”
“That's right, Hosy. You ought to go. You'll be sick again if you sit up
any longer. Good night, dearie.”
“And you?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”
“I'm going to set up a spell longer. I want to think.”
“I don't. I wish I might never think again. Or dream, either. I am awake
at last. God knows I wish I wasn't!”
She moved toward me. There was the same odd expression on her face and a
queer, excited look in her eyes.
“Perhaps you aren't really awake, Hosy,” she said, gently. “Perhaps this
is the final dream and when you do wake you'll find--”
“Oh, bosh!” I interrupted. “Don't tell me you have another presentiment.
If you have keep it to yourself. Good night.”
I was weak from my recent illness and I had been under a great nervous
strain all that evening. These are my only excuses and they are poor
ones. I spoke and acted abominably and I was sorry for it afterward. I
have told Hephzy so a good many times since, but I think she understood
without my telling her.
“Well,” she said, quietly, “dreams are somethin', after all. It's
somethin' to have had dreams. I sha'n't forget mine. Good night, Hosy.”
The next morning after breakfast she announced that she had an errand
or two to do. She would run out and do them, she said, but she would be
gone only a little while. She was gone nearly two hours during which I
paced the floor or sat by the window looking out. The crowded boulevard
was below me, but I did not see it. All I saw was a future as desolate
and blank as the Bayport flats at low tide, and I, a quahaug on those
flats, doomed to live, or exist, forever and ever and ever, with nothing
to live for.
Hephzy, when she did return to the hotel, was surprisingly chatty and
good-humored. She talked, talked, talked all the time, about nothing in
particular, laughed a good deal, and flew about, packing our belongings
and humming to herself. She acted more like the Hephzy of old than she
had for weeks. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her which
I could not understand. I attributed it to the fact of our leaving for
America in the near future and her good humor irritated me. My spirits
were lower than ever.
“You seem to be remarkably happy,” I observed, fretfully.
“What makes you think so, Hosy? Because I was singin'? Father used
to say my singin' was the most doleful noise he ever heard, except
a fog-horn on a lee shore. I'm glad if you think it's a proof of
happiness: I'm much obliged for the compliment.”
“Well, you are happy, or you are trying to appear so. If you are
pretending for my benefit, don't. I'M not happy.”
“I know, Hosy; I know. Well, perhaps you--”
She didn't finish the sentence.
“Perhaps what?”
“Oh, nothin', nothin'. How many shirts did you bring with you? is this
all?”
She sang no more, probably because she saw that the “fog-horn” annoyed
me, but her manner was just as strange and her nervous energy as
pronounced. I began to doubt if my surmise, that her excitement and
exaltation were due to the anticipation of an early return to Bayport,
was a correct one. I began to thing there must be some other course and
to speculate concerning it. And I, too, grew a bit excited.
“Hephzy,” I said, suddenly, “where did you go when you went out this
morning? What sort of 'errands' were those of yours?”
She was folding my ties, her back toward me, and she answered without
turning.
“Oh, I had some odds and ends of things to do,” she said. “This plaid
necktie of yours is gettin' pretty shabby, Hosy. I guess you can't
wear it again. There! I mustn't stop to talk. I've got my own things to
pack.”
She hurried to her own room and I asked no more questions just then.
But I was more suspicious than ever. I remembered a question of hers
the previous evening and I believed.... But, if she had gone to the
Continental and seen Herbert Bayliss, what could he have told her to
make her happy?
We took the train for Calais and crossed the Channel to Dover. This time
the eccentric strip of water was as calm as a pond at sunset. No jumpy,
white-capped billows, no flying spray, no seasick passengers. Tarpaulins
were a drag on the market.
“I wouldn't believe,” declared Hephzy, “that this lookin'-glass was
the same as that churned-up tub of suds we slopped through before. It
doesn't trickle down one's neck now, does it, Hosy. A 'nahsty' cross-in'
comin' and a smooth one comin' back. I wonder if that's a sign.”
“Oh, don't talk about signs, Hephzy,” I pleaded, wearily. “You'll begin
to dream again, I suppose, pretty soon.”
“No, I won't. I think you and I have stopped dreamin', Hosy. Maybe we're
just wakin' up, same as I told you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Mean? Oh, I guess I didn't mean anything. Good-by, old France! You're a
lovely country and a lively one, but I sha'n't cry at sayin' good-by to
you this time. And there's England dead ahead. Won't it seem good to
be where they talk instead of jabber! I sha'n't have to navigate by the
'one-two-three' chart over there.”
Dover, a flying trip through the customs, the train again, an English
dinner in an English restaurant car--not a “wagon bed,” as Hephzy said,
exultantly--and then London.
We took a cab to the hotel, not Bancroft's this time, but a modern
downtown hostelry where there were at least as many Americans as
English. In our rooms I would have cross-questioned Hephzy, but she
would not be questioned, declaring that she was tired and sleepy. I was
tired, also, but not sleepy. I was almost as excited as she seemed to
be by this time. I was sure she had learned something that morning in
Paris, something which pleased her greatly. What that something might
be I could not imagine; but I believed she had learned it from Herbert
Bayliss.
And the next morning, after breakfast, she announced that she had
arranged for a cab and we must start for the station at once. I said
nothing then, but when the cab pulled up before a railway station, a
station which was not our accustomed one but another, I said a great
deal.
“What in the world, Hephzy!” I exclaimed. “We can't go to Mayberry from
here.”
“Hush, hush, Hosy. Wait a minute--wait till I've paid the driver. Yes,
I'm doin' it myself. I'm skipper on this cruise. You're an invalid,
didn't you know it. Invalids have to obey orders.”
The cabman paid, she took my arm and led me into the station.
“And now, Hosy,” she said, “let me tell you. We aren't goin' to
Mayberry--not yet. We're going to Leatherhead.”
“To Leatherhead!” I repeated. “To Leatherhead! To--her? We certainly
will do no such thing.”
“Yes, we will, Hosy,” quietly. “I haven't said anything about it before,
but I've made up my mind. It's our duty to see her just once more, once
more before--before we say good-by for good. It's our duty.”
“Duty! Our duty is to let her alone, to leave her in peace, as she asked
us.”
“How do you know she is in peace? Suppose she isn't. Suppose she's
miserable and unhappy. Isn't it our duty to find out? I think it is?”
I looked her full in the face. “Hephzy,” I said, sharply, “you know
something about her, something that I don't know. What is it?”
“I don't know as I know anything, Hosy. I can't say that I do. But--”
“You saw Herbert Bayliss yesterday. That was the 'errand' you went upon
yesterday morning in Paris. Wasn't it?”
She was very much taken aback. She has told me since that she had no
idea I suspected the truth.
“Wasn't it?” I repeated.
“Why--why, yes, it was, Hosy. I did go to see him, there at his hotel.
When you told me how he acted and what he said to you I thought 'twas
awfully funny, and the more I thought it over the funnier it seemed. So
I made up my mind to see him and talk with him myself. And I did.”
“What did he tell you?” I asked.
“He told me--he told me--Well, he didn't tell me so much, maybe, but he
gave me to understand a whole lot. She's gone to those Crippses, Hosy,
just as I suspicioned, not because she likes 'em--she hates 'em--or
because she wanted to go, but because she thought 'twould please us if
she did. It doesn't please us; it doesn't please me, anyway. She sha'n't
be miserable for our sake, not without a word from us. No, we must go
there and see her and--and tell her once more just how we feel about it.
It's our duty to go and we must. And,” with decision, “we're goin' now.”
She had poured out this explanation breathlessly, hurrying as if fearful
that I might interrupt and ask more questions. I asked one of them the
moment she paused.
“We knew all that before,” I said. “That is, we were practically sure
she had left Paris to get rid of us and had gone to her cousins, the
Crippses, because of her half-promise to me not to sing at places like
the Abbey again. We knew all that. And she asked me to promise that we
would not follow her. I didn't promise, but that makes no difference.
Was that all Bayliss told you?”
Hephzy was still embarrassed and confused, though she answered promptly
enough.
“He told me he knew she didn't want to go to--to those Leatherheaded
folks,” she declared. “We guessed she didn't, but we didn't know it for
sure. And he said we ought to go to her. He said that.”
“But why did he say it? Our going will not alter her determination to
stay and our seeing her again will only make it harder for her.”
“No, it won't--no it won't,” hastily. “Besides I want to see that Cripps
man and have a talk with him, myself. I want to know why a man like
him--I'm pretty well along in years; I've met folks and bargained and
dealt with 'em all my grown-up life and I KNOW he isn't the kind to do
things for nothin' for ANYBODY--I want to know why he and his wife are
so generous to her. There's somethin' behind it.”
“There's something behind you, Hephzy. Some other reason that you
haven't told me. Was that all Bayliss said?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said, after a moment, “that's all, all I can
tell you now, anyway. But I want you to go with me to that Ash Dump and
see her once more.”
“I shall not, Hephzy.”
“Well, then I'll have to go by myself. And if you don't go, too, I
think you'll be awfully sorry. I think you will. Oh, Hosy,” pleadingly,
“please go with me. I don't ask you to do many things, now do I? I do
ask you to do this.”
I shook my head.
“I would do almost anything for your sake, Hephzy,” I began.
“But this isn't for my sake. It's for hers. For hers. I'm sure--I'm
ALMOST sure you and she will both be glad you did it.”
I could not understand it at all. I had never seen her more earnest. She
was not the one to ask unreasonable things and yet where her sister's
child was concerned she could be obstinate enough--I knew that.
“I shall go whether you do or not,” she said, as I stood looking at her.
“You mean that, Hephzy?”
“I surely do. I'm goin' to see her this very forenoon. And I do hope
you'll go with me.”
I reflected. If she went alone it would be almost as hard for Frances
as if I went with her. And the temptation was very strong. The desire to
see her once more, only once....
“I'll go, Hephzy,” I said. I didn't mean to say it; the words seemed to
come of themselves.
“You will! Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad! And I think--I think you'll be
glad, too, Hosy. I'm hopin' you will.”
“I'll go,” I said. “But this is the last time you and I must trouble
her. I'll go--not because of any reason you have given me, Hephzy, but
because I believe there must be some other and stronger reason, which
you haven't told me.”
Hephzy drew a long breath. She seemed to be struggling between a desire
to tell me more--whatever that more might be--and a determination not to
tell.
“Maybe there is, Hosy,” she said, slowly. “Maybe there is. I--I--Well,
there! I must go and buy the tickets. You sit down and wait. I'm skipper
of this craft to-day, you know. I'm in command on this voyage.”
Leatherhead looked exactly as it had on our previous visit. “Ash Clump,”
the villa which the Crippses had been so anxious for us to hire, was
still untenanted, or looked to be. We walked on until we reached the
Cripps home and entered the Cripps gate. I rang the bell and the maid
answered the ring.
In answer to our inquiries she told us that Mr. Cripps was not in. He
and Mrs. Cripps had gone to chapel. I remembered then that the day was
Sunday. I had actually forgotten it.
“Is Miss Morley in?” asked Hephzy.
The maid shook her head.
“No, ma'am,” she said. “Miss Morley ain't in, either. I think she's gone
to chapel, too. I ain't sure, ma'am, but I think she 'as. She's not in.”
She asked if we would leave cards. Hephzy said no.
“It's 'most noon,” she said. “They'll be back pretty soon. We'll wait.
No, we won't come in. We'll wait out here, I guess.”
There was a rustic seat on the lawn near the house and Hephzy seated
herself upon it. I walked up and down. I was in a state of what Hephzy
would have called “nerves.” I had determined to be very calm when I
met her, to show no emotion, to be very calm and cool, no matter what
happened. But this waiting was hard. I grew more nervous every minute.
“I'm going to stroll about, Hephzy,” I said. “About the garden and
grounds. I sha'n't go far and I'll return soon. I shall be within call.
Send one of the servants for me if she--if the Crippses come before I
get back.”
Hephzy did not urge me to remain. Nor did she offer to accompany me. As
usual she seemed to read my thoughts and understand them.
“All right, Hosy,” she said. “You go and have your walk. I'll wait here.
But don't be long, will you.”
I promised not to be long. The Cripps gardens and grounds were not
extensive, but they were well kept even if the beds were geometrically
ugly and the color masses jarring and in bad taste. The birds sang, the
breeze stirred the leaves and petals, and there was a Sunday quiet, the
restful hush of an English Sunday, everywhere.
I strolled on along the paths, through the gap in the hedge dividing
the kitchen garden from the purely ornamental section, past the stables,
until I emerged from the shrubbery at the top of a little hill. There
was a pleasant view from this hill, the customary view of hedged fields
and meadows, flocks of sheep and groups of grazing cattle, and over all
the soft blue haze and misty sky.
I paused. And then close beside me, I heard a startled exclamation.
I turned. In a nook of the shrubbery was another rustic seat. Rising
from that seat and gazing at me with a look of amazed incredulity,
was--Frances Morley.
I did not speak. I could not, for the moment. She spoke first.
“You!” she exclaimed. “You--here!”
And still I did not speak. Where was the calm with which I was to meet
her? Where were the carefully planned sentences which were to explain
how I had come and why? I don't know where they were; I seemed to
know only that she was there, that I was alone with her as I had never
thought or meant to be again, and that if I spoke I should say things
far different from those I had intended.
She was recovering from her surprise. She came toward me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why did you come?”
I stammered a word or two, some incoherences to the effect that I had
not expected to find her there, that I had been told she was at church.
She shook her head, impatiently.
“I mean why did you come here--to Leatherhead?” she asked. “Why did you
come? Did you know--”
I interrupted her. If ever I was to explain, or attempt to explain, I
realized that it must be at that moment. She might listen to me then,
before she had had time to think. Later I knew she would not.
“I knew you were here,” I broke in, quickly. “I--we--your aunt knew and
we came.”
“But HOW did you know? Who told you?”
“The--we learned,” I answered. “And we came.”
It was a poor explanation--or none at all. She seemed to think it so.
And yet she seemed more hurt than offended.
“You came--yes,” she said. “And you knew that I left Paris because--Oh,
you knew that! I asked you not to follow me. You promised you would
not.”
I was ashamed, thoroughly ashamed and disgusted with myself for yielding
to Hephzy's entreaties.
“No, no,” I protested, “I did not promise. I did not promise, Frances.”
“But you know I did not wish you to do it. I did not wish you to follow
me to Paris, but you did it. I told you you would force me to give up my
only means of earning money. You did force me to give it up. I gave it
up to please you, for your sake, and now--”
“Did you?” I cried, eagerly. “Did you give it up for my sake, Frances?
Did you?”
“You know I did. You must know it. And now that I have done it, now that
I have given up my opportunity and my--my self-respect and my one chance
and come here to this--to this place, you--you--Oh, how could you!
Wasn't I unhappy enough before? And unhappy enough now? Oh, how could
you!”
I was more ashamed than ever. I tried desperately to justify my action.
“But that was it,” I persisted. “Don't you see? It was your happiness,
the thought that you were unhappy which brought me here. I know--you
told your aunt how unhappy you had been when you were with these people
before. I know how much you disliked them. That was why I came. To ask
you to give this up as you did the other. To come with us and BE happy.
I want you to come, Frances. Think! Think how much I must want you.”
And, for the moment I thought this appeal had some effect. It seemed to
me that her resolution was shaken, that she was wavering.
“You--you really want me?” she repeated.
“Yes. Yes, I can't tell you--I must not tell you how much I want you.
And your aunt--she wants you to come. She is here, too. She will tell
you.”
Her manner changed once more. The tone in which she spoke was different.
There were no signs of the wavering which I had noticed--or hoped I
noticed.
“No,” she said. “No. I shall not see my aunt. And I must not talk with
you any longer. I asked you not to follow me here. You did it, in spite
of my asking. Now, unless you wish to drive me away from here, as you
did from Paris, you will leave me and not try to see me again. Oh, don't
you see--CAN'T you see how miserable you are making me? And yet you
talk of my happiness!”
“But you aren't happy here. ARE you happy?”
“I am happy enough. Yes, I am happy.”
“I don't believe it. Are these Crippses kind to you?”
“Yes.”
I didn't believe that, either, but I did not say so. Instead I said what
I had determined to say, the same thing that I should have said before,
in Mayberry and in Paris--if I could have mustered the courage and
decency to say it.
“Frances,” I said, “there is something else, something which may have
a bearing on your happiness, or may not, I don't know. The night before
you left us, at Mayberry, Herbert Bayliss came to me and asked my
permission to marry you, if you were willing. He thought you were my
niece--then. I said that--I said that, although of course I had no
shadow of authority over you, I did care for your happiness. I cared for
that a great deal. If you loved him I should certainly--”
“I see,” she broke in, scornfully. “I see. He told you I was here. That
is why you came. Did he send you to me to say--what you are trying to
say?”
“Oh, no, no! You are mistaken. You wrong him, Frances. He did not do
that. He's not that sort. He's a good fellow, an honorable man. And he
does care for you. I know it. He cares greatly. He would, I am sure,
make you a good husband, and if you care for him, he would do his best
to make you happy, I--”
Again she interrupted. “One moment,” she said, “Let me understand. Are
you urging me to marry Herbert Bayliss?”
“No. I am not urging you, of course. But if you do care for him--”
“I do not.”
“Oh, you don't love him?”
I wonder if there was relief in my tone. There should not have been, of
course, but I fear there was.
“No, I do not--love him. He is a gentleman and I like him well enough,
but not in that way. Please don't say any more.”
“Very well. I only meant--Tell me this, if you will: Is there someone
you do care for?”
She did not answer. I had offended her again. She had cause to be
offended. What business was it of mine?
“I beg your pardon,” I said, humbly. “I should not have asked that. I
have no right to ask it. But if there is someone for whom you care in
that way and he cares for you, it--”
“Oh, don't, don't! He doesn't.”
“Then there is someone?”
She was silent. I tried to speak like a man, like the man I was
pretending to be.
“I am glad to know it,” I said. “If you care for him he must care for
you. He cannot help it. I am sure you will be happy by and by. I can
leave you here now with more--with less reluctance. I--”
I could not trust myself to go on, although I tried to do so. She
answered, without looking at me.
“Yes,” she said, “you can leave me now. I am safe and--and happy.
Good-by.”
I took her hand.
“Good-by,” I said. “Forgive me for coming. I shall not trouble you
again. This time I promise. You may not wish to write us, but we shall
write you. And I--I hope you won't forget us.”
It was a lame conclusion and trite enough. She must have thought so.
“I shall not forget you,” she said, simply. “And I will try to write
occasionally. Yes, I will try. Now please go. Good-by.”
I went, without looking back. I strode along the paths, scarcely
noticing where I was going. As I neared the corner of the house I heard
voices, loud voices. One of them, though it was not as loud as the
others, was Hephzy's.
“I knew it,” she was saying, as I turned the corner. “I knew it. I knew
there was some reason, some mean selfish reason why you were willin' to
take that girl under your wing. I knew it wasn't kind-heartedness and
relationship. I knew it.”
It was Solomon Cripps who answered. Mr. and Mrs. Cripps, arrayed in
their Sabbath black and white, were standing by the door of their villa.
Hephzy was standing before them. Her face was set and determined and she
looked highly indignant. Mr. Cripps' face was red and frowning and he
gesticulated with a red hand, which clasped a Testament. His English was
by no means as pure and undefiled as when he had endeavored to persuade
us into hiring “Ash Clump.”
“Look 'ere,” he snarled. “Don't you talk to me like that. Don't you
suppose I know what I'm doing. You Yankees may be clever at your tricks,
but you can't trick me. Don't I know about the money you stole from 'er
father? Don't I, eh? You can tell 'er your lies about it being stolen by
someone else, but I can see a 'ole through a millstone. You can't trick
me, I tell you. They're giving that girl a good 'ome and care and all
that, but we're goin' to see she 'as 'er rights. You've filled 'er silly
'ead with your stories. You've made 'er think you're all that's good
and--”
I was at hand by this time.
“What's all this, Hephzy?” I asked.
Before Hephzy could reply Mrs. Cripps spoke.
“It's him!” she cried, seizing her husband's arm with one hand and
pointing at me with the other. “It's him,” she cried, venomously. “He's
here, too.”
The sight of me appeared to upset what little self-control Mr. Cripps
had left.
“You!” he shouted, “I might 'ave known you were 'ere. You're the one
that's done it. You're responsible. Filling her silly 'ead with lies
about your goodness and all that. Making her fall in love with you
and--”
I sprang forward.
“WHAT?” I cried. “What are you saying?”
Hephzy was frightened.
“Hosy,” she cried, “don't look so. Don't! You frighten me.”
I scarcely heard her.
“WHAT did you say?” I demanded, addressing Cripps, who shrank back,
rather alarmed apparently. “Why, you scoundrel! What do you mean by
saying that? Speak up! What do you mean by it?”
If Mr. Cripps was alarmed his wife was not. She stepped forward and
faced me defiantly.
“He means just what he says,” she declared, her shrill voice quivering
with vindictive spite. “And you know what he means perfectly well. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself, a man as old as you and she an innocent
young girl! You've hypnotized her--that is what you've done, hypnotized
her. All those ridiculous stories about her having no money she believes
because you told them to her. She would believe the moon was made of
green cheese if you said so. She's mad about you--the poor little fool!
She won't hear a word against you--says you're the best, noblest man in
the world! You! Why she won't even deny that she's in love with you; she
was brazen enough to tell me she was proud of it. Oh.... Stop! Where are
you going? Solomon, stop him!”
Solomon did not stop me. I am very glad he didn't try. No one could have
stopped me then. I was on my way back along the garden path, and if I
did not keep to that path, but plunged ruthlessly through flower beds
and shrubbery I did not care, nor do I care now.
She was sitting on the rustic seat where I had left her. There were
tears on her cheeks. She had heard me coming--a deaf person would have
heard that--and she rose as I burst into view.
“What is it?” she cried, in alarm. “Oh, what is it?”
At the sight of her I paused. I had not meant to pause; I had intended
to take her in my arms, to ask her if what I had just heard was true, to
make her answer me. But now, as she stood there before me, so young, so
girlish, so beautiful, the hopeless idiocy of the thing struck me with
overwhelming force. It WAS idiocy. It couldn't be true.
“What is it?” she repeated. “Oh, Kent! what is the matter? Why did you
come back? What has happened?”
I stepped forward. True or false I must know. I must know then and
there. It was now or never for me.
“Frances,” I stammered, “I came back because--I--I have just
heard--Frances, you told me you loved someone--not Bayliss, but someone
else. Who is that someone?”
She had been pale. My sudden and unexpected appearance had frightened
her. Now as we faced each other, as I stood looking down into her face,
I saw the color rise and spread over that face from throat to brow.
“Who is it?” I repeated.
She drew back.
“I--I can't tell you,” she faltered. “You mustn't ask me.”
“But I do ask. You must tell me, Frances--Frances, it isn't--it can't be
that you love ME. Do you?”
She drew back still further. If there had been a way of escape I think
she would have taken it. But there was none. The thick shrubbery was
behind her and I was between her and the path. And I would not let her
pass.
“Oh, Frances, do you?” I repeated. “I never meant to ask you. I never
meant that you should know. I am so much older, and so--so unworthy--it
has seemed so hopeless and ridiculous. But I love you, Frances, I have
loved you from the very beginning, although at first I didn't realize
it. I--If you do--if you can--I--I--”
I faltered, hesitated, and stopped. She did not answer for a moment, a
long, long moment. Then:
“Mr. Knowles,” she said, “you surprise me. I didn't suspect--I didn't
think--”
I sighed. I had had my answer. Of course it was idiotic. I should have
known; I did know.
“I see,” I said. “I understand. Forgive me, please. I was a fool to even
think of such a thing. I didn't think it. I didn't dare until--until
just now. Then I was told--your cousin said--I might have known he
didn't mean what he said. But he said it and--and--”
“What did he say? Mr. Cripps, do you mean? What did he say?”
“He said--he said you--you cared for me--in that way. Of course you
don't--you can't. I know better. But for the moment I dared to hope. I
was crazy, of course. Forgive me, Frances.”
She looked up and then down again.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said.
“Yes, there is. There is a great deal. An old--”
“Hush! hush, please. Don't speak like that. I--I thank you. I--you
mustn't suppose I am not grateful. I know you pity me. I know how
generous you are. But your pity--”
“It isn't pity. I should pity myself, if that were all. I love you
Frances, and I shall always love you. I am not ashamed of it. I shall
have that love to comfort me till I die. I am ashamed of having told
you, of troubling you again, that is all.”
I was turning away, but I heard her step beside me and felt her hand
upon my sleeve. I turned back again. She was looking me full in the face
now and her eyes were shining.
“What Mr. Cripps said was true,” she said.
I could not believe it. I did not believe it even then.
“True!” I repeated. “No, no! You don't mean--”
“I do mean it. I told him that I loved you.”
I don't know what more she would have said. I did not wait to hear. She
was in my arms at last and all England was whirling about me like a top.
“But you can't!” I found myself saying over and over. I must have
said other things before, but I don't remember them. “You can't! it is
impossible. You! marry an old fossil like me! Oh, Frances, are you sure?
Are you sure?”
“Yes, Kent,” softly, “I am sure.”
“But you can't love me. You are sure that your--You have no reason to be
grateful to me, but you have said you were, you know. You are sure you
are not doing this because--”
“I am sure. It is not because I am grateful.”
“But, my dear--think! Think what it means, I am--”
“I know what you are,” tenderly. “No one knows as well. But, Kent--Kent,
are YOU sure? It isn't pity for me?”
I think I convinced her that it was not pity. I know I tried. And I was
still trying when the sound of steps and voices on the other side of
the shrubbery caused us--or caused her; I doubt if I should have heard
anything except her voice just then--to start and exclaim:
“Someone is coming! Don't, dear, don't! Someone is coming.”
It was the Crippses who were coming, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Cripps and
Hephzy. They would have come sooner, I learned afterwards, but Hephzy
had prevented it.
Solomon's red face was redder still when he saw us together. And Mrs.
Cripps' mouth looked more like “a crack in a plate” than ever.
“So!” she exclaimed. “Here's where you are! I thought as much. And
you--you brazen creature!”
I objected strongly to “brazen creature” as a term applied to my future
wife. I intended saying so, but Mr. Cripps got ahead of me.
“You get off my grounds,” he blurted, waving his fist. “You get out of
'ere now or I'll 'ave you put off. Do you 'ear?”
I should have answered him as he deserved to be answered, but Frances
would not let me.
“Don't, Kent,” she whispered. “Don't quarrel with him, please. He is
going, Mr. Cripps. We are going--now.”
Mrs. Cripps fairly shrieked. “WE are going?” she repeated. “Do you mean
you are going with him?”
Hephzy joined in, but in a quite different tone.
“You are goin'?” she said, joyfully. “Oh, Frances, are you comin' with
us?”
It was my turn now and I rejoiced in the prospect. An entire brigade of
Crippses would not have daunted me then. I should have enjoyed defying
them all.
“Yes,” said I, “she is coming with us, Hephzy. Mr. Cripps, will you be
good enough to stand out of the way? Come, Frances.”
It is not worth while repeating what Mr. and Mrs. Cripps said. They said
a good deal, threatened all sorts of things, lawsuits among the rest.
Hephzy fired the last guns for our side.
“Yes, yes,” she retorted, impatiently. “I know you're goin' to sue. Go
ahead and sue and prosecute yourselves to death, if you want to. The
lawyers'll get their fees out of you, and that's some comfort--though
I shouldn't wonder if THEY had to sue to get even that. And I tell you
this: If you don't send Little Frank's--Miss Morley's trunks to Mayberry
inside of two days we'll come and get 'em and we'll come with the
sheriff and the police.”
Mrs. Cripps, standing by the gate, fell back upon her last line of
intrenchments, the line of piety.
“And to think,” she declared, with upturned eyes, “that this is the 'oly
Sabbath! Never mind, Solomon. The Lord will punish 'em. I shall pray to
Him not to curse them too hard.”
Hephzy's retort was to the point.
“I wouldn't,” she said. “If I had been doin' what you two have been up
to, pretendin' to care for a young girl and offerin' to give her a home,
and all the time doin' it just because I thought I could squeeze money
out of her, I shouldn't trouble the Lord much. I wouldn't take the risk
of callin' His attention to me.”