UNEXPECTED ARRIVALS
From this day forth the life of Cleve and Palma changed. They made
friends and went much into company through the introductions of Mrs.
Walling. They were young and innocently fond of gayety, and they were
led on by Ran, who was liberally supplied with money advanced by his
solicitors, and who, from being a daily visitor at their apartments, had
at last taken up his abode under the same roof for the sake of being
nearer to them until he should sail for England, accompanied by Mr.
William Walling.
Unfortunately, neither Randolph Hay nor the Wallings suspected the
impoverished condition of their new friends, else they would not have
tempted or led the young pair into a way of life so much above their
means.
As it was, their scanty little fund had to be drawn upon for such
additions to Palma’s toilet, and even to Cleve’s, in the way of nice
boots and fresh gloves, that seemed really indispensable to them when
they went out in the evening. Had Palma even suspected their own poverty
she would not have gone anywhere if it cost money to go there. But,
unsuspicious as she was, believing, as she did, that her husband was in
very easy circumstances, she went out a great deal; and Cleve, seeing
how much she enjoyed society, had not the heart to check her enjoyment
by telling her the truth.
Only gloves and boots and car fare her pleasures cost them. She had two
dresses, the crimson cashmere, much worn, but carefully preserved, and
often cleaned and repaired for continual use by the careful hands of
Mrs. Pole. This was her dress for dinners and afternoon teas. Her white
India muslin—her confirmation robe, and afterward her wedding suit—was
now her only evening dress. Neither of these were at all stylish, but
they were neat and clean; and then her boots and gloves were perfectly
fitting, fresh and faultless.
Every day Cleve went forth to seek employment, and every night returned
disappointed to find himself poorer by the day’s expenditures than he
had been the day before.
Everything was going out and nothing coming in; and yet he shrank from
saying to Palma:
“We cannot afford another pair of new gloves even, dear,” or to do
anything but smile in her face when she would only ask him to go with
her to a lunch party at Mrs. Duncan’s, or to a five-o’clock tea at Miss
Christiansen’s.
If Ran had only known their straits as he bounded daily up and down the
stairs, too full of life and energy to avail himself of the elevator,
how gladly, how joyously, would he have poured into his cousin’s lap
wealth from his own abundant means, nor ever dreamed of offering offense
in proffering what he himself, in their reversed circumstances, would
have been frankly willing to receive from them.
But he knew nothing, suspected nothing, of their poverty; and even if he
had known, and had offered to give assistance, Cleve Stuart, in his
spirit of pride or independence, would have refused it.
Ran held firmly to his purpose of giving his cousin a fair share of
their grandfather’s estate, as soon as he himself should be put in
lawful possession, which was only a question of a few weeks’ time; but
he said nothing more about it to either Palma or Cleve. He thought they
understood his intentions, and believed in them, and that it would be in
bad taste to refer to them again. Besides, he did not suspect how dark
the future looked to one of them at least, and what a source of anxiety
it was.
What the young pair really thought of their cousin’s offer to share, was
just this—that it had been made, not from a delicate sense of justice
that would stand the test of time and opportunity, but from a sudden
impulse of generosity that might yield to cool afterthought. Neither of
them placed much reliance on the offer, especially as they had
repudiated it at the time, and Ran had never renewed it.
The day for young Hay’s departure for England was at length fixed. He
was to sail on the second of December. It had been first suggested that
Mr. Samuel Walling should attend him to England, and introduce him
personally to the London solicitors of the Hays of Haymore; but, as
usual, Mr. Will put in his plea of overwork, brain exhaustion, want of
change, and so on, and, as usual, his claim was allowed, and it was
decided that he should accompany the young heir.
The aged priest, Father Pedro de Leon, having under oath testified to
the identity of Randolph Hay, had bidden an affectionate good-by to his
pupil and returned to his flock in San Francisco.
It was remarkable that while Mr. Sam Walling, the head of the firm of
Walling & Walling, took all the heaviest responsibilities, did all the
hardest work, seldom left his desk during the office hours, and never
left the city except on business, Mr. Will, the junior partner, required
all the relaxation in frequent visits to Newport and Saratoga during the
summer months, and Washington and even Savannah during the winter
season. And now it seemed absolutely necessary that Mr. Will should have
a sea voyage to restore the shaken equilibrium of his overtasked mind
and body.
“That’s just it!” Mrs. Walling said one day to Ran when speaking of the
trip to England. “Our firm, as a firm, is always full of work, yet
manages to have a good deal of play also; only Sam takes the work and
Will the play.”
As the month of November drew to a close and the day of his departure
came near, Ran grew more and more uneasy. He had not heard a word from
Judy for more than three weeks, though in that time he had written so
many letters; nor had Mrs. Walling lately heard from Mrs. Moseley.
Ran was not of a temperament to borrow trouble. Quite the contrary; he
always looked on the bright side. He was willing to make every allowance
for the well-known uncertainty of the mails in those unsettled regions
guarded by the frontier forts; but still it seemed strange and alarming
that for a month past no mail had come safely through contingent
dangers.
His greatest anxiety now was that he should have to sail for Europe
without having heard from Judy.
He confided his trouble to Cleve and Palma, with whom he now spent every
evening whenever they were at home.
One evening, about a week before he was to sail, he was sitting with
Cleve and Palma in their tiny parlor.
Cleve had been reading aloud, but laid down his book on the entrance of
Ran. Palma was knitting a woolen wristlet, the last of four pair that
she had been making for Cleve and Mrs. Pole, and she continued to knit
after greeting her cousin.
Ran brought a chair to the little table at which the other two sat,
threw himself into it, sighed and said:
“This is Saturday night, the twenty-fifth, and in one week from to-day,
on Saturday, the second of December, I must sail for England.”
“Yes, Cousin Randolph, I know. And I am very sorry it should be
necessary that you should have to go—very. But you will soon return,”
sympathetically replied Palma.
“It is about Judy,” frankly exclaimed Ran. “I have not had a letter from
her for nearly a month.”
“But you yourself have told us of the uncertainty of the mails.”
“Yes, and that might have been an explanation, and therefore a kind of
comfort, for failing to get a single letter in time. But when three or
four that I should have got have failed to come, it is strange and
alarming.”
Neither Cleve nor Palma found anything to answer to this. They knew and
felt that it was both “strange and alarming.”
“Let us hope that you will get a letter within a few days,” at length
ventured Stuart.
“Why, you may get one even to-morrow,” hopefully exclaimed Palma.
“Oh, yes! And I may have to sail for England in the most agonizing
anxiety as to Judy’s fate!” said Ran with a profound sigh.
“But there is no reason for such an intense anxiety. She is in excellent
hands,” said Palma.
“Oh! but when I came away there was a talk of the intended rising of the
Indians! Good Heaven! the fort may have been stormed and all hands
massacred for all I know!” exclaimed the youth, growing pallid at the
very thought.
“Randolph!” cried Palma in horror.
“Nothing of that sort could have happened without our having heard of it
before this. The authorities at Washington would have received the news,
and it would have been in all the papers. Some survivor would have
escaped to the nearest telegraph station and sent the message flying to
Washington,” said Cleve.
“Oh, yes—certainly. But I never thought of that! It is a real relief to
me! I hope I may get a letter before I go! If I do not, and could have
my own way, I would sacrifice the passage and wait here until I could
hear from Judy. But Mr. Walling says it is absolutely necessary that I
should go no later certainly than the day set for sailing.”
“But if a letter should come we will immediately send it after you,”
said Palma.
“Thank you, cousin, dear; I know that you will do all that you can.
Well, I have learned one lesson from all this,” said Ran so solemnly
that both his companions looked up inquiringly, and Palma asked:
“What is it, Cousin Randolph?”
“It is this: If Heaven ever should bring my dear Judy and myself
together again I will never part with her—no, never while we both shall
live! Nothing shall ever part us again except the will of Heaven!”
“But how about school and college that was to have prepared you both for
the sphere of life to which you are called?” Palma inquired with some
little amusement.
“Oh, bother that! It was all the nonsense about ‘the sphere of life to
which we are called’ that parted Judy and me! And it shall never part us
again! We will go to school and college, but we need not part and live
in school and college. We will marry and go to housekeeping in some city
where there are educational advantages. I will attend the college
courses. Judy shall have teachers at home. And so we will live until we
are polished up bright enough to show ourselves to my grandfather’s
neighbors and tenants at Haymore. Then we will settle there for good,
and no one will ever know that the successors of Squire Hay were first
of all a pair of little ragamuffins and ignoramuses from a California
mining camp! Yes, that is what I will do, and no prudence, and no
policy, and no consideration for ‘that sphere of life to which we are
called,’ nor for anything else but Judy herself, shall influence me!
When we meet again we shall be married out of hand and nothing but death
shall part us! When we meet again! But when will that be? Ah, me!”
sighed poor Ran.
There came a rap at the door, and the “boy” put in his head and said:
“The lady and ge’men would come up, sir, which they said there wasn’t no
call to send up no card,” then withdrew his head and ran away.
The three cousins looked up to see a tall, martial-looking man with a
gray mustache, and clothed in a military overcoat and fatigue cap, enter
the room with a slender, graceful girl, in a long gray cloth ulster and
a little gray plush hat, hanging on his arm.
The three companions stared for a moment, and then Ran sprang up,
overturning his chair in his haste, and rushed toward them, exclaiming:
“Col. Moseley! Judy! Oh, Judy!”
And in another instant Judy was pressed to his heart.
“Now, introduce us to your friends, Mr. Hay,” said the colonel, taking
off his cap and bowing to the lady and gentleman, who had risen to their
feet to receive the unknown and unexpected guests.
“Oh, pardon me,” exclaimed Ran, raising Judy, drawing her arm through
his own and taking her up to his cousins.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stuart, this is Miss Judith Man, my betrothed. Judy,
darling, these are my Cousin Palma and her husband,” he said.
It was to be thought that the young girl would have made her quaint,
parish school courtesy; but she did not. She bowed, blushed and smiled
very prettily. Cleve Stuart shook hands with her and said that he was
very glad to see her. But Palma drew the girl to her bosom and kissed
her, with a few murmured words of welcome.
Then Ran presented:
“Col. Moseley, Mrs. Stuart, Mr. Stuart.”
And all shook hands in the old-time, cordial manner.
And when all were seated, Col. Moseley in Ran’s vacated chair at the
little table with Cleve and Palma, and Ran and Judy, side by side, on
the little sofa near them, there came the natural question from Stuart:
“When did you reach New York, colonel?”
“At noon to-day,” replied Moseley.
“At noon to-day, and I see nothing of Judy until eight o’clock this
evening!” exclaimed Ran.
“Patience, my dear fellow; I had to find you before I could bring her. I
arrived, with a large party, at noon, as I said; took them all to an
old-fashioned hotel downtown, where the prices are not quite ruinous;
left them all there, and went to hunt up you at your hotel, found that
you had left it, but could not find out where you had gone; went back to
own place and dined with my family; after dinner went out to hunt up the
Wallings, with the view of finding you, and also of finding the
furnished house I had commissioned Walling to engage for me; looked in
at the office first, but found no one there but the janitor cleaning up;
office hours were over; Mr. Samuel Walling gone home to his dinner; got
his address; went to the house; found Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Walling, who
were as much amazed at seeing me as if I had been a ghost risen from the
dead. In fact, they had not got my letter of advice, and, consequently,
had not engaged any furnished house for my tribe. However, they insisted
on making it all right for us. They told me where to find you, Hay; and
then when I said I must go back to the hotel to pick up Judy, Mrs.
Walling insisted on going with me to see her old schoolmate and dear
friend, and she went with me. Well, in brief, when she met my wife,
nothing would do but she must take her and all the girls home to her own
house to stay until we can find a home for ourselves. I and the boys
remain at the hotel. Judy is to join Mrs. Moseley and the girls at the
Wallings’.”
“Indeed, then, Judy is to do nothing of the sort. Judy is to stay here
with me. I am her natural protector under the circumstances,” said
little Palma, drawing herself up with an assumption of matronly dignity
that was very amusing to the colonel.
“Very well, my dear lady. It shall be as you please, or as Miss Judith
pleases; only, I do not know how I shall face Mesdames Walling and
Moseley without taking her to them.”
“I will write a note and relieve you of responsibility in the matter,”
exclaimed Palma, rising and going toward a little writing-desk.
“But you have not consulted Miss Judith,” said the colonel.
“Oh, I know she will stay with us,” exclaimed Palma, going toward the
girl and putting her arms around her neck and murmuring:
“You will stay with us, will you not, dear Judy? I may call you Judy,
may I not? I have known you as Judy, and loved you as Judy, before I
ever saw you. Shall I call you Judy?”
“Sure and ye may, ma’am!” exclaimed the girl with cordial impetuosity;
but then, catching herself up suddenly, she blushed and added softly:
“If you please, ma’am, I should like you to call me so.”
Palma smiled, kissed her forehead, and then went to her tiny desk and
wrote the note to Mrs. Moseley.
The colonel had but little time to stay, and soon arose to say
good-night.
“By the way,” he said, “I had almost forgotten. I am the bearer of an
invitation for you all to come and dine with us at Mrs. Walling’s
to-morrow, at seven.”
Palma looked at her husband, understood his eyes, and answered for both:
“Love to Mrs. Walling, and we will go with much pleasure.”
Col. Moseley shook hands all around, like the plain, old-fashioned
soldier that he was, and then went away.
There remained Ran and Judy, sitting on the sofa, and Cleve and Palma at
the table.
The lovers were comparing notes, giving in their experience of the time
while they were separated, speaking in subdued tones that presently sank
so low as to be quite inaudible to any other ears than their own; so it
might be surmised that Ran was imparting to Judy his new scheme of life
for the future.
The married pair at the table with the truest politeness ignored the
presence of the just reunited lovers, and took up their occupations that
had been interrupted by the visitors. Cleve opened his book and resumed
his reading, but now in a lower tone, quite audible to Palma, but not
disturbing to Ran or Judy. He was reading Marmion, the scene of the
meeting between the pilgrim and the abbess on the balcony. But Palma,
knitting mechanically, could not listen. She was seized with a terrible
anxiety that filled her mind and crowded out everything else. She had,
from the impulse of a warm heart, invited Judy to stay, and Judy was
staying.
But where on the face of the earth was she to put Judy? They had in
their doll’s house of a flat but four tiny rooms—parlor, kitchen and two
bedrooms. What was to be done? How could she listen to the story the
abbess was telling the pilgrim, and the minutes passing so rapidly, and
bedtime coming on, and no bed to put her invited guest in? And there was
Cleve utterly unconscious of her dilemma, although he knew as well as
she did the extent—or rather limits—of their accommodation.
Cleve finished the canto and closed the book in complacent ignorance
that Palma had not heard a word of it.
The clock on the mantel struck eleven. It was a cheap clock and it
struck loudly.
Ran arose to bid good-night.
“I really ought to beg your pardon for keeping you up. But you will
excuse me for this once,” he said.
“Why, certainly! Certainly! Don’t go yet. We shall not retire for hours.
Oh, pray! pray! don’t go yet!” pleaded Palma with her curly hair fairly
stiffening itself on end; for, when Ran had left, what, in the name of
Heaven, was she to do with Judy? Take the girl in with herself and
Cleve? Or lay her over Mrs. Pole on that narrow slab of a cot that could
not hold two side by side?
Palma had got into a terrible dilemma which she feared, by the creepy
coldness of her scalp, was going to turn her hair white!
She would have been very much relieved if—after the old-fashioned New
England style—the betrothed lovers should sit up all night.
“Oh, do, do, do stay longer!” she still pleaded, looking beseechingly at
Ran.
But Ran was looking at his sweetheart, and replied gravely:
“You are very kind! Too kind! And I thank you so much! But, even for
Judy’s sake, I ought to go. She is very tired from her long journey.
Good-night.”
And he turned to go, Judy following him to the door of the parlor,
where, of course, they lingered over their adieus.
Then Stuart got a chance to speak apart with Palma. He looked into her
dismayed face and broke into a little, low laugh.
“Oh! what in the name of goodness shall I do?” she exclaimed, clasping
her hands and gazing appealingly up into his face.
Then he pitied her evident distress and answered:
“Why, dear, you will have to share your own bed with Miss Judy and give
me a rug on the sofa.”
Her face brightened.
“Oh, Cleve!” she exclaimed, “you are an angel of light in a cutaway
coat! You have saved my life—or reason!”
Then suddenly growing grave she added:
“But the little sofa is so short, and you are so long!”
“Now don’t look so distressed, dear. The inconvenience is nothing at
all. And it is only for one night. To-morrow I will see the janitor and
try to get a room for our little friend contiguous to our own, so that
she may remain with us.”
Stuart spoke of incurring this additional expense with apparent
cheerfulness, although his small funds were nearly exhausted, and his
efforts to procure employment were quite fruitless.
But he said no more then, for Ran, who had lingered at the door over his
last words with Judy, now kissed her good-night and went away, and the
girl rejoined her friends in the little parlor.