In Which the Pilgrimage Ends Where It Began
We did not go to Mayberry that day. We went to London and to the hotel;
not Bancroft's, but the hotel where Hephzy and I had stayed the previous
night. It was Frances' wish that we should not go to Bancroft's.
“I don't think that I could go there, Kent,” she whispered to me, on the
train. “Mr. and Mrs Jameson were very kind, and I liked them so much,
but--but they would ask questions; they wouldn't understand. It would be
hard to make them understand. Don't you see, Kent?”
I saw perfectly. Considering that the Jamesons believed Miss Morley to
be my niece, it would indeed be hard to make them understand. I was not
inclined to try. I had had quite enough of the uncle and niece business.
So we went to the other hotel and if the clerk was surprised to see us
again so soon he said nothing about it. Perhaps he was not surprised. It
must take a good deal to surprise a hotel clerk.
On the train, in our compartment--a first-class compartment, you may be
sure; I would have hired the whole train if it had been necessary; there
was nothing too good or too expensive for us that afternoon--on the
train, discussing the ride to London, Hephzy did most of the talking.
I was too happy to talk much and Frances, sitting in her corner and
pretending to look out of the window, was silent also. I should have
been fearful that she was not happy, that she was already repenting her
rashness in promising to marry the Bayport “quahaug,” but occasionally
she looked at me, and, whenever she did, the wireless message our eyes
exchanged, sent that quahaug aloft on a flight through paradise. A
flying clam is an unusual specimen, I admit, but no other quahaug in
this wide, wide world had an excuse like mine for developing wings.
Hephzy did not appear to notice our silence. She chatted and laughed
continuously. We had not told her our secret--the great secret--and if
she suspected it she kept her suspicions to herself. Her chatter was a
curious mixture: triumph over the detached Crippses; joy because, after
all, “Little Frank” had consented to come with us, to live with us
again; and triumph over me because her dreams and presentiments had come
true.
“I told you, Hosy,” she kept saying. “I told you! I said it would all
come out in the end. He wouldn't believe it, Frances. He said I was an
old lunatic and--”
“I didn't say anything of the kind,” I broke in.
“You said what amounted to that and I don't know as I blame you. But
I knew--I just KNEW he and I had been 'sent' on this course and that
we--all three of us--would make the right port in the end. And we
have--we have, haven't we, Frances?”
“Yes,” said Frances, simply. “We have, Auntie--”
“There! do you hear that, Hosy? Isn't it good to hear her call
me 'Auntie' again! Now I'm satisfied; or”--with a momentary
hesitation--“pretty nearly satisfied, anyway.”
“Oh, then you're not quite satisfied, after all,” I observed. “What more
do you want?”
“I want just one thing more; just one, that's all.”
I believed I know what that one thing was, but I asked her. She shot a
look at me, a look of indignant meaning.
“Never mind,” she said, decidedly. “That's my affair. Oh, Ho!” with a
reminiscent chuckle, “how that Cripps woman did glare at me when I said
'twas pretty risky her callin' the Almighty's attention to their doin's.
I hope it did her good. Maybe she'll think of it next time she goes to
chapel. But I suppose she won't. All such folks care for is money. They
wouldn't be so anxious to get to Heaven if they hadn't read about the
golden streets.”
That evening, at the hotel, Frances told us her story, the story
of which we had guessed a good deal, but of which she had told so
little--how, after her father's death, she had gone to live with the
Crippses because, as she thought, they wished her to do so from motives
of generosity and kindness.
“They are not really relatives of mine,” she said. “I am glad of that.
Mrs. Cripps married a cousin of my father's; he died and then she
married Mr. Cripps. After Father's death they wrote me a very kind
letter, or I thought it kind at the time. They said all sorts of kindly
things, they offered me a home, they said I should be like their own
daughter. So, having nowhere else to go, I went to them. I lived there
nearly two years. Oh, what a life it was! They are very churchly people,
they call themselves religious, but I don't. They pretend to be--perhaps
they think they are--good, very good. But they aren't--they aren't. They
are hard and cruel. Mr. Cripps owns several tenements where poor people
live. I have heard things from those people that--Oh, I can't tell you!
I ran away because I had learned what they really were.”
Hephzy nodded. “What I can't understand,” she said, “is why they offered
you a home in the first place. It was because they thought you had money
comin' to you, that's plain enough now; but how did they know?”
Frances colored. “I'm afraid--I'm afraid Father must have written them,”
she said. “He needed money very much in his later years and he may have
written them asking--asking for loans and offering my 'inheritance' as
security. I think now that that was it. But I did not think so then.
And--and, Oh, Auntie, you mustn't think too harshly of Father. He was
very good to me, he really was. And DON'T you think he believed--he had
made himself believe--that there was money of his there in America? I
can't believe he--he would lie to me.”
“Of course he didn't lie,” said Hephzy, promptly. I could have hugged
her for saying it. “He was sick and--and sort of out of his head, poor
man, and I don't doubt he made himself believe all sorts of things. Of
course he didn't lie--to his own daughter. But why,” she added, quickly,
before Frances could ask another question, “did you go back to those
precious Cripps critters after you left Paris?”
Frances looked at me. “I thought it would please you,” she said, simply.
“I knew you didn't want me to sing in public. Kent had said he would be
happier if he knew I had given up that life and was among friends. And
they--they had called themselves my friends. When I went back to them
they welcomed me. Mr. Cripps called me his 'prodigal daughter,' and
Mrs. Cripps prayed over me. It wasn't until I told them I had no
'inheritance,' except one of debt, that they began to show me what they
really were. They wouldn't believe it. They said you were trying to
defraud me. It was dreadful. I--I think I should have run away again
if--if you had not come.”
“Well, we did come,” said Hephzy, cheerfully, “and I thank the good Lord
for it. Now we won't talk any more about THAT.”
She left us alone soon afterward, going to my room--we were in hers,
hers and Frances'--to unpack my trunk once more. She wouldn't hear of my
unpacking it. When she was gone Frances turned to me.
“You--you haven't told her,” she faltered.
“No,” said I, “not yet. I wanted to speak with you first. I can't
believe it is true. Or, if it is, that it is right. Oh, my dear, do you
realize what you are doing? I am--I am ever so much older than you. I am
not worthy of you. You could have made a so much better marriage.”
She looked at me. She was smiling, but there was a tiny wrinkle between
her brows.
“Meaning,” she said, “I suppose, that I might have married Doctor
Bayliss. I might perhaps marry him even yet, if I wished. I--I think he
would have me, if I threw myself at his head.”
“Yes,” I admitted, grudgingly. “Yes, he loves you, Frances.”
“Kent, when we were there in Mayberry it seemed to me that my aunt and
you were almost anxious that I should marry him. It seemed to me that
you took every opportunity to throw me in his way; you refused my
invitations for golf and tennis and suggested that I play with him
instead. It used to annoy me. I resented it. I thought you were eager to
get rid of me. I did not know then the truth about Father and--and the
money. And I thought you hoped I might marry him and--and not trouble
you any more. But I think I understand now. You--you did not care for me
so much then. Was that it?”
I shook my head. “Care for you!” I repeated. “I cared for you so much
that I did not dare trust myself with you. I did not dare to think of
you, and yet I could think of no one else. I know now that I fell in
love with you when I first met you at that horrible Briggs woman's
lodging-house. Don't you see? That was the very reason why. Don't you
see?”
“No, I'm afraid I don't quite see. If you cared for me like that how
could you be willing for me to marry him? That is what puzzles me. I
don't understand it.”
“It was because I did care for you. It was because I cared so much, I
wanted you to be happy. I never dreamed that you could care for an old,
staid, broken-down bookworm like me. It wasn't thinkable. I can scarcely
think it now. Oh, Frances, are you SURE you are not making a mistake?
Are you sure it isn't gratitude which makes you--”
She rose from her chair and came to me. Her eyes were wet, but there was
a light in them like the sunlight behind a summer shower.
“Don't, please don't!” she begged. “And caring for me like that you
could still come to me as you did this morning and suggest my marrying
him.”
“Yes, yes, I came because--because I knew he loved you and I
thought that you might not know it. And if you did know it I
thought--perhaps--you might be happier and--”
I faltered and stopped. She was standing beside me, looking up into my
face.
“I did know it,” she said. “He told me, there in Paris. And I told
him--”
“You told him--?”
“I told him that I liked him; I do, I do; he is a good man. But I told
him--” she rose on tiptoe and kissed me--“I told him that I loved you,
dear. See! here is the pin you gave me. It is the one thing I could
not leave behind when I ran away from Mayberry. I meant to keep that
always--and I always shall.”
After a time we remembered Hephzy. It would be more truthful to say that
Frances remembered her. I had forgotten Hephzy altogether, I am ashamed
to say.
“Kent,” she said; “don't you think we should tell Auntie now? She will
be pleased, I hope.”
“Pleased! She will be--I can't think of a word to describe it. She loves
you, too, dear.”
“I know. I hope she will love me more now. She worships you, Kent.”
“I am afraid she does. She doesn't realize what a tinsel god I am. And
I fear you don't either. I am not a great man. I am not even a famous
author. I--Are you SURE, Frances?”
She laughed lightly. “Kent,” she whispered, “what was it Doctor Bayliss
called you when you offered to promise not to follow me to Leatherhead?”
I had told her the whole story of my last interview with Bayliss at the
Continental.
“He called me a silly ass,” I answered promptly. “I don't care.”
“Neither do I; but don't you think you are one, just a little bit of
one, in some things? You mustn't ask me if I am sure again. Come! we
will go to Auntie.”
Hephzy had finished unpacking my trunk and was standing by the closet
door, shaking the wrinkles out of my dinner coat. She heard us enter and
turned.
“I never saw clothes in such a mess in my life,” she announced. “And I
packed this trunk, too. I guess the trembles in my head must have got
into my fingers when I did it. I--”
She stopped at the beginning of the sentence. I had taken Frances by the
hand and led her up to where she was standing. Hephzy said nothing, she
stood there and stared at us, but the coat fell to the floor.
“Hephzy,” said I, “I've come to make an apology. I believe in dreams
and presentiments and Spiritualism and all the rest of it now. You were
right. Our pilgrimage has ended just as you declared it would. I know
now that we were 'sent' upon it. Frances has said--”
Hephzy didn't wait to hear any more. She threw her arms about
Frances' neck, then about mine, hugged us both, and then, to my utter
astonishment, sat down upon the closed trunk and burst into tears. When
we tried to comfort her she waved us away.
“Don't touch me,” she commanded. “Don't say anything to me. Just let me
be. I've done all kinds of loony things in my life and this attack
is just natural, that's all. I--I'll get over it in a minute. There!”
rising and dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, “I'm over it now.
Hosy Knowles, I've cried about a million times since--since that awful
mornin' in Mayberry. You didn't know it, but I have. I'm through now.
I'm never goin' to cry any more. I'm goin' to laugh! I'm going to sing!
I declare if you don't grab me and hold me down I shall dance! Oh, Oh,
OH! I'm so glad! I'm so glad!”
We sat up until the early morning hours, talking and planning. We were
to go back to America as soon as we could secure passage; upon that we
all agreed in the end. I was the only one who hesitated. I had a vague
feeling of uneasiness, a dread, that Frances might not wish it, that her
saying she would love to go was merely to please me. I remembered how
she had hated America and Americans, or professed to hate them, in the
days of our first acquaintanceship. I thought of quiet, sleepy, humdrum
old Bayport and the fear that she might be disappointed when she saw it,
that she might be lonely and unhappy there, was strong. So when Hephzy
talked of our going straight to the steamship offices next day I
demurred. I suggested a Continental trip, to Switzerland, to the
Mediterranean--anywhere. I forgot that my means were limited, that I had
been idle for longer than I should have been, and that I absolutely must
work soon. I forgot everything, and talked, as Hephzy said afterward,
“regardless, like a whole kerosene oil company.”
But, to my surprise, it was Frances herself who was most insistent upon
our going to America. She wanted to go, she said. Of course she did
not mean to be selfish, and if Auntie and I really wished to go to the
Continent or remain in England she would be quite content.
“But, Oh Kent,” she said, “if you are suggesting all this merely because
you think I will like it, please don't. I have lived in France and I
have been very unhappy there. I have been happier here in England, but
I have been unhappy here, too. I have no friends here now. I have no
friends anywhere except you. I know you both want to see your home
again--you must. And--and your home will be mine now.”
So we decided to sail for America, and that without delay. And the
next morning, before breakfast, Hephzy came to my room with another
suggestion.
“Hosy,” she said, “I've been thinkin'. All our things, or most of 'em,
are at Mayberry. Somebody's got to go there, of course, to pack up and
make arrangements for our leavin'. She--Frances, I mean--would go, too,
if we asked her, I suppose likely; she'd do anything you asked, now. But
it would be awful hard for her. She'd meet all the people she used to
know there and they wouldn't understand and 'twould be hard to explain.
The Baylisses know the real truth, but the rest of 'em don't. You'd have
all that niece and uncle mess again, and I don't suppose you want any
more of THAT.”
“I should say I didn't!” I exclaimed, fervently.
“Yes, that's the way it seemed to me. So she hadn't ought to go
to Mayberry. And we can't leave her here alone in London. She'd be
lonesome, for one thing, and those everlastin' Crippses might find out
where she was, for another. It may be that that Solomon and his wife
will let her go and say nothin', but I doubt it. So long as they think
she's got a cent comin' to her they'll pester her in every way they can,
I believe. That woman's nose can smell money as far as a cat can smell
fish. No, we can't leave Little Frank here alone. Of course, I might
stay with her and you might go by yourself, but--”
This way out of the difficulty had occurred to me; so when she seemed to
hesitate, I asked: “But what?”
“But it won't be very pleasant for you in Mayberry. You'd have
considerable explainin' to do. And, more'n that, Hosy, there's all that
packin' up to do and I've seen you try to pack a trunk too often before.
You're just as likely to pack a flat-iron on top of a lookin' glass as
to do the other thing. No, I'm the one to go to Mayberry. I must go by
myself and you must stay here in London with her.”
“I can't do that, Hephzy,” I said. “How could I?”
“You couldn't, as things are, of course. But if they were different.
If she was your wife you could. And then if that Solomon thing came you
could--”
I interrupted. “My wife!” I repeated. “Hephzy, what are you talking
about? Do you mean--”
“I mean that you and she might be married right off, to-day perhaps.
Then everything would be all right.”
I stared at her.
“But--but she wouldn't consent,” I stammered. “It is impossible. She
wouldn't think of such a thing.”
Hephzy nodded. “Oh, yes, she would,” she said. “She is thinkin' of it
now. She and I have just had a long talk. She's a sensible girl, Hosy,
and she listened to reason. If she was sure that you wanted to marry her
so soon she--”
“Wanted to!” I cried. “Hephzy!”
Hephzy nodded again. “Then that's settled,” she said. “It's a big
disappointment to me, I give in. I'd set my heart on your bein' married
at our meetin'-house in Bayport, with Mr. Partridge to do the marryin',
and a weddin' reception at our house and--and everything. But I guess
this is the best, and I know it's the most sensible. But, Oh Hosy,
there's one thing I can't give up. I want you to be married at the
American Ambassador's or somewhere like it and by an American minister.
I sha'n't feel safe if it's done anywhere else and by a foreigner, even
if he's English, which don't seem foreign to me at all any more.
No, he's got to be an American and--and, Oh, Hosy! DO try to get a
Methodist.”
I couldn't get a Methodist, but by consulting the hotel register I found
an American clergyman, a Congregationalist, who was a fine fellow and
consented to perform the ceremony. And, if we were not married at
the American Embassy, we were at the rooms of the London consul,
whom Matthews, at the Camford Street office, knew and who was another
splendid chap and glad to oblige a fellow-countryman, particularly after
seeing the lady he was to marry.
The consul and his wife and Hephzy were our only witnesses. Frances'
wedding gown was not new, but it was very becoming--the consul's wife
said so, and she should know. Also she said she had never seen a
sweeter or more beautiful bride. No one said anything concerning the
bridegroom's appearance, but he did not care. It was a drizzly, foggy
day, but that made no difference. A Kansas cyclone and a Bayport
no'theaster combined could not have cast a damper on that day.
When it was over, Hephzy, who had been heroically struggling to keep her
vow not to shed another tear during our pilgrimage, hugged us both.
“I--I--” she faltered, “I--I can't say it, but you know how I feel.
There's nothin' I sha'n't believe after this. I used to believe I'd
never travel, but I have. And there in Mayberry I believed I'd never
be happy again, but I am. HAPPY! hap--hap--Oh dear! WHAT a fool I am!
I ca--I can't help it! I expect I look like the most miserable thing on
earth, but that's because I AM so happy. God bless you both! Now--now
don't so much as look at me for a few minutes.”
That afternoon she left for Mayberry to do the “packing up” and my wife
and I were alone--and together.
I saw London again during the next few days. We rode on the tops of
busses, we visited Kew Gardens and Hampton Court and Windsor. We took
long trips up and down the Thames on the little steamers. Frances called
them our honeymoon trips. The time flew by. Then I received a note
from Hephzy that the “packing up” was finished at last and that she was
returning to London.
It was raining hard, the morning of her arrival, and I went alone to
meet her at the railway station. I was early there and, as I was walking
up, awaiting the train, I heard someone speak my name. I turned
and there, immaculate, serene and debonair as ever, was A. Carleton
Heathcroft.
“Ah, Knowles,” he said, cheerfully. “Thought it was you. Haven't seen
you of late. Missed you at Burgleston, on the course. How are you?”
I told him I was quite well, and inquired concerning his own health.
“Topping,” he replied. “Rotten weather, eh--what? And how's Miss--Oh,
dear me, always forget the name! The eccentric aunt who is so intensely
patriotic and American--How is she?”
“She is well, too,” I answered.
“Couldn't think of her being ill, somehow,” he observed. “And where have
you been, may I ask?”
I said I had been on the Continent for a short stay.
“Oh, yes! I remember now. Someone said you had gone. That reminds me:
Did you go to Paris? Did you see the girl who sang at the Abbey--the one
I told you of, who looked so like that pretty niece of yours? Hope you
did. The resemblance was quite extraordinary. Did you see her?”
I dodged the question. I asked him what he had been doing since the day
of the golf tournament.
“I--Oh, by Jove!” he exclaimed, “now I am going to surprise you. I have
been getting ready to take the fatal step. I'm going to be married.”
“Married!” I repeated. “Really? The--the Warwickshire young lady, I
presume.”
“Yes. How did you know of her?”
“Your aunt--Lady Carey--mentioned that your--your affections were
somewhat engaged in that quarter.”
“Did she? Really! Yes, she would mention it, I suppose. She mentions it
to everybody; it's a sort of hobby of hers, like my humble self, and the
roses. She has been more insistent of late and at last I consented to
oblige her. Do you know, Knowles, I think she was rather fearful that I
might be smitten by your Miss Morley. Shared your fears, eh?”
I smiled, but I said nothing. A train which I believed to be the one
upon which Hephzy was expected, was drawing into the station.
“A remarkably attractive girl, your niece,” he went on. “Have you heard
from her?”
“Yes,” I said, absently. “I must say good-by, Heathcroft. That is the
train I have been waiting for.”
“Oh, is it. Then, au revoir, Knowles. By the way, kindly remember me to
your niece when you see her, will you.”
“I will. But--” I could not resist the temptation; “but she isn't my
niece,” I said.
“Oh, I say! What? Not your niece? What is she then?”
“She is my wife--now,” I said. “Good-by, Mr. Heathcroft.”
I hurried away before he could do more than gasp. I think I shook even
his serene composure at last.
I told Hephzy about it as we rode to the hotel in the cab.
“It was silly, I suppose,” I said. “I told him on the spur of the
moment. I imagine all Mayberry, not to mention Burgleston Bogs, will
have something to talk about now. They expect almost anything of
Americans, or some of them do, but the marriage of an uncle and niece
ought to be a surprise, I should think.”
Hephzy laughed. “The Baylisses will explain,” she said. “I told the old
doctor and his wife all about it. They were very much pleased, that was
plain enough. They knew she wasn't your niece and they'll tell the other
folks. That'll be all right, Hosy. Yes, Doctor and Mrs. Bayliss were
tickled almost to death. It stops all their worry about their son and
Frances, of course. He is in Switzerland now, poor chap. They'll write
him and he'll come home again by and by where he ought to be. And he'll
forget by and by, too. He's only a boy and he'll forget. So THAT'S all
right.
“Everybody sent their love to you,” she went on. “The curates and the
Samsons and everybody. Mr. Cole and his wife are comin' back next week
and the servants'll take care of the rectory till they come. Everybody
was so glad to see me, and they're goin' to write and everything. I
declare! I felt real bad to leave 'em. They're SUCH nice people, these
English folks. Aren't they, Hosy.”
They were and are. I hope that some day I may have, in my own country,
the opportunity to repay a little of the hospitality and kindness that
my Mayberry friends bestowed on me in theirs.
We sailed for home two days later. A pleasant voyage it was, on a good
ship and with agreeable fellow-passengers. And, at last, one bright,
cloudless morning, a stiff breeze blowing and the green and white
waves leaping and tossing in the sunlight, we saw ahead of us a little
speck--the South Shoal lightship. Everyone crowded to the rail, of
course. Hephzy sighed, a sigh of pure happiness.
“Nantucket!” she said, reading the big letters on the side of the little
vessel. “Nantucket! Don't that sound like home, Hosy! Nantucket and
Cape Cod are next-door neighbors, as you might say! My! the air seems
different already. I believe I can almost smell the Bayport flats. Do
you know what I am goin' to do as soon as I get into my kitchen? After
I've seen some of my neighbors and the cat and the hens, of course. I'm
going to make a clam chowder. I've been just dyin' for a clam chowder
ever since we left England.”
And the next morning we landed at New York. Jim Campbell was at the
wharf to meet us. His handshake was a welcome home which was good to
feel. He welcomed Hephzy just as heartily. But I saw him looking
at Frances with curiosity and I flattered myself, admiration, and I
chuckled as I thought of the surprise which I was about to give him.
It would be a surprise, sure enough. I had written him nothing of the
recent wonderful happenings in Paris and in London, and I had sworn
Matthews to secrecy likewise. No, he did not know, he did not suspect,
and I gloried in the opportunity which was mine.
“Jim,” I said, “there is one member of our party whom you have not met.
Frances, you have heard me speak of Mr. Campbell very often. Here he is.
Jim, I have the pleasure of presenting you to Mrs. Knowles, my wife.”
Jim stood the shock remarkably well, considering. He gave me one glance,
a glance which expressed a portion of his feelings, and then he and
Frances shook hands.
“Mrs. Knowles,” he said, “I--you'll excuse my apparent lack of
intellect, but--but this husband of yours has--I've known him a good
while and I thought I had lost all capacity for surprise at anything
he might do, but--but I hadn't. I--I--Please don't mind me; I'm really
quite sane at times. I am very, very glad. May we shake hands again?”
He insisted upon our breakfasting with him at a near-by hotel. When he
and I were alone together he seized my arm.
“Confound you!” he exclaimed. “You old chump! What do you mean by
springing this thing on me without a word of warning? I never was as
nearly knocked out in my life. What do you mean by it?”
I laughed. “It is all part of your prescription,” I said. “You told me I
should marry, you know. Do you approve of my selection?”
“Approve of it! Why, man, she's--she's wonderful. Approve of YOUR
selection! How about hers? You durned quahaug! How did you do it?”
I gave him a condensed and hurried resume of the whole story. He did
not interrupt once--a perfectly amazing feat for him--and when I had
finished he shook his head.
“It's no use,” he said. “I'm too good for the business I am in. I am
wasting my talents. _I_ sent you over there. _I_ told you to go. _I_
prescribed travel and a wife and all the rest. _I_ did it. I'm going to
quit the publishing game. I'm going to set up as a specialist, a brain
specialist, for clams. And I'll use your face as a testimonial: 'Kent
Knowles, Quahaug. Before and After Taking.' Man, you look ten years
younger than you did when you went away.”
“You must not take all the credit,” I told him. “You forget Hephzy and
her dreams, the dream she told us about that day at Bayport. That dream
has come true; do you realize it?”
He nodded. “I admit it,” he said. “She is a better specialist than I.
I shall have to take her into partnership. 'Campbell and Cahoon.
Prescribers and Predictors. Authors Made Human.' I'll speak to her about
it.”
As he said good-by to us at the Grand Central Station he asked me
another question.
“Kent,” he whispered, “what are you going to do now? What are you going
to do with her? Are you and she going back to Bayport to be Mr. and Mrs.
Quahaug? Is that your idea?”
I shook my head. “We're going back to Bayport,” I said, “but how long
we shall stay there I don't know. One thing you may be sure of, Jim; I
shall be a quahaug no more.”
He nodded. “I think you're right,” he declared. “She'll see to that, or
I miss my guess. No, my boy, your quahaug days are over. There's nothing
of the shellfish about her; she's a live woman, as well as a mighty
pretty one, and she cares enough about you to keep you awake and in the
game. I congratulate you, Kent, and I'm almost as happy as you are. Also
I shall play the optimist at our next directors' meeting; I see signs
of a boom in the literature factory. Go to it, my son. You have my
blessing.”
We took the one o'clock train for Boston, remained there over night, and
left on the early morning “accommodation”--so called, I think, because
it accommodates the train hands--for Cape Cod. As we neared Buzzard's
Bay my spirits, which had been at topnotch, began to sink. When the sand
dunes of Barnstable harbor hove in sight they sank lower and lower.
It was October, the summer people, most of them, had gone, the station
platforms were almost deserted, the more pretentious cottages were
closed. The Cape looked bare and brown and wind-swept. I thought of
the English fields and hedges, of the verdant beauty of the Mayberry
pastures. What SORT of a place would she think this, the home to which I
was bringing her?
She had been very much excited and very much interested. New York,
with its sky-scrapers and trolleys, its electric signs and clean white
buildings, the latter so different from the grimy, gray dwellings and
shops of London, had been a wonderland to her. She had liked the Pullman
and the dining-car and the Boston hotel. But this, this was different.
How would she like sleepy, old Bayport and the people of Bayport.
Well, I should soon know. Even the morning “accommodation” reaches
Bayport some time or other. We were the only passengers to alight at the
station, and Elmer Snow, the station agent, and Gabe Lumley, who drives
the depot wagon, were the only ones to welcome us. Their welcome was
hearty enough, I admit. Gabe would have asked a hundred questions if I
had answered the first of the hundred, but he seemed strangely reluctant
to answer those I asked him.
Bayport was gettin' along first-rate, he told me. Tad Simpson's youngest
child had diphtheria, but was sittin' up now and the fish weirs had
caught consider'ble mackerel that summer. So much he was willing to say,
but he said little more. I asked how the house and garden were looking
and he cal'lated they were all right. Pumping Gabe Lumley was a new
experience for me. Ordinarily he doesn't need pumping. I could not
understand it. I saw Hephzy and he in consultation on the station
platform and I wondered if she had been able to get more news than I.
We rattled along the main road, up the hill by the Whittaker place--I
looked eagerly for a glimpse of Captain Cy himself, but I didn't see
him--and on until we reached our gate. Frances said very little during
our progress through the village. I did not dare speak to her; I was
afraid of asking her how she liked what she had seen of Bayport. And
Hephzy, too, was silent, although she kept her head out of the window
most of the time.
But when the depot wagon entered the big gate and stopped before the
side door I felt that I must say something. I must not appear fearful or
uneasy.
“Here we are!” I cried, springing out and helping her and Hephzy to
alight. “Here we are at last. This is home, dear.”
And then the door opened and I saw that the dining-room was filled
with people, people whom I had known all my life. Mr. Partridge, the
minister, was there, and his wife, and Captain Whittaker and his wife,
and the Dimicks and the Salterses and more. Before I could recover from
my surprise Mr. Partridge stepped forward.
“Mr. Knowles,” he said, “on this happy occasion it is our privilege
to--”
But Captain Cy interrupted him.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, “don't make a speech to him now, Mr.
Partridge. Welcome home, Kent! We're all mighty glad to see you back
again safe and sound. And Hephzy, too. By the big dipper, Hephzy, the
sight of you is good for sore eyes! And I suppose this is your wife,
Kent. Well, we--Hey! I might have known Phoebe would get ahead of me.”
For Mrs. Whittaker and Frances were shaking hands. Others were
crowding forward to do so. And the table was set and there were flowers
everywhere and, in the background, was Susanna Wixon, grinning from ear
to ear, with the cat--our cat--who seemed the least happy of the party,
in her arms.
Hephzy had written Mrs. Whittaker from London, telling her of my
marriage; she had telegraphed from New York the day before, announcing
the hour of our return. And this was the result.
When it was all over and they had gone--they would not remain for
dinner, although we begged them to do so--when they had gone and Hephzy
had fled to the yard to inspect the hens, I turned to my wife.
“Frances,” I said, “this is home. Here is where Hephzy and I have lived
for so long. I--I hope you may be happy here. It is a rather crude
place, but--”
She came to me and put her arms about my neck.
“Don't, my dear, don't!” she said. “It is beautiful. It is home.
And--and you know I have never had a home, a real home before.”
“Then you like it?” I cried. “You really like it? It is so different
from England. The people--”
“They are dear, kind people. And they like you and respect you, Kent.
How could you say they didn't! I know I shall love them all.”
I made a dash for the kitchen. “Hephzy!” I shouted. “Hephzy! She does
like it. She likes Bayport and the people and everything.”
Hephzy was just entering at the back door. She did not seem in the least
surprised.
“Of course she likes it,” she said, with decision. “How could anybody
help likin' Bayport?”