herself together, and then she seized the handle of the door with the
full intention of walking indignantly into the parlor and demanding an
explanation. But she had hardly got the door open by the merest crack
when the discourse of Mr. John Hatterly paralyzed her as thoroughly as
had his previous actions.
“My dear Mrs. Billington,” he was saying, in what Carmelita always
called his “florid” voice, “I thoroughly understand your position, and I
know the nature of the ties that bind Carmelita to her father’s home.
Had I known of them earlier, I might have avoided an association that
could only have one ending for me. But it is not for myself that I speak
now. Perhaps I have been unwise, and even wrong; but what is done is
done, and I know now that she loves me as she could love no other man.”
[Illustration]
“Good gracious!” said Carmelita to herself, behind the door; “how does
he know that?”
“Is it not possible, Mr. Hatterly, that there is some
misunderstanding?” asked Mrs. Billington.
“My dear Mrs. Billington,” said Jack, impressively; “there is no
possible misunderstanding. She told me so herself.”
Carmelita opened her eyes and her mouth, and stood as one petrified.
“Well, if I ever--!” was all that she whispered to herself, in the
obscurity of her mother’s room. She had addressed just seven words to
Jack Hatterly on the fishing trip, and five of these were “Apple pie, if
you please;” and the other two, uttered later, were “Not very.”
“But, Mr. Hatterly,” persisted Mrs. Billington, “when did you receive
this assurance of my daughter’s feelings? You tell me that you spoke to
her on this subject only the night before last, and I am sure she has
hardly been out of my sight since.”
“Yesterday,” said Jack, in his calmest and most assured tone; “on the
boat, coming home, during the squall.”
MISS BILLINGTON (_behind the door, aside_).--“The shameless wretch! Why,
he doesn’t seem even to _know_ that he’s lying!”
“But, Mr. Hatterly,” exclaimed Mrs. Billington; “during the squall we
were all in the cabin, and you were outside, steering!”
“Certainly,” said Jack.
“Then--excuse me, Mr. Hatterly--but how could my daughter have conveyed
any such intelligence to you?”
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before_).--“What _is_ the man going to say now? He
must be perfectly crazy!”
Mr. Hatterly was calm and imperturbed.
“My dear Mrs. Billington,” he responded, “you may or may not have
observed a small heart-shaped aperture in each door or hatch of the
cabin, exactly opposite the steersman’s seat. It was through one of
these apertures that your daughter communicated with me. Very
appropriate shape, I must say, although their purpose is simply that of
ventilation.”
“It was very little ventilation we had in that awful place, Mr.
Hatterly!” interjected Mrs. Billington, remembering those hours of
horror.
[Illustration]
“Very little, indeed, my dear Mrs. Billington,” replied Mr. Hatterly, in
an apologetic tone; “and I am afraid your daughter and I, between us,
were responsible for some of your discomfort. She had her hand through
the port ventilator about half the time.”
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before_).--“I wonder the man isn’t struck dead,
sitting there! Of all the wicked, heartless falsehoods I ever heard--!”
“And may I ask, Mr. Hatterly,” inquired Mrs. Billington, “what my
daughter’s hand was doing through the ventilator?”
“Pressing mine, God bless her!” responded Mr. Hatterly, unabashed.
MISS BILLINGTON, (_as before, but conscious of a sudden, hideous
chill_).--“Good heavens! the man can’t be lying; he’s simply mistaken.”
“I see, my dear Mrs. Billington,” said Mr. Hatterly, “that I shall have
to be perfectly frank with you. Such passages are not often repeated,
especially to a parent; but under the circumstances I think you will
admit that I have no other guarantee of my good faith to give you. I
have no doubt that if you were to ask your daughter at this minute about
her feelings, she would think she ought to sacrifice her affection to
the duty that she thinks is laid out for her in a distant life. Did I
feel that she could ever have any happiness in following that path,
believe me, I should be the last to try to win her from it, no matter
what might be my own loneliness and misery. But after what she confided
to me in that awful hour of peril, where, in the presence of imminent
death, it was impossible for her to conceal or repress the deepest
feelings of her heart, I should be doing an injustice to her as well as
to myself, and even to you, my dear Mrs. Billington--for I know how
sincerely you wish her happiness--if I were to let any false delicacy
keep me from telling you what she said to me.” Jack Hatterly could talk
when he got going.
MISS BILLINGTON, (_as before, but hot, not cold_).--“Now, I am going to
know which one of those girls was talking to him, if I have to stay here
all day.”
It was with a quavering voice that Mrs. Billington said:
“Under the circumstances, Mr. Hatterly, I think you might tell me all
she said--all--all--”
Here Mrs. Billington drew herself up and spoke with a certain dignity.
“I should explain to you, Mr. Hatterly, that during the return trip I
was not feeling entirely well, myself, and I probably was not as
observant as I should have been under other circumstances.”
MISS BILLINGTON, (_as before, reflectively_).--“Poor Ma! She was so sick
that she went to sleep with her head on my feet. I believe it was that
Peterson girl who was nearest the port ventilator.”
Mr. Hatterly’s tone was effusively grateful. “I knew that I could rely
upon your clear sense, my dear Mrs. Billington,” he said, “as well as
upon your kindness of heart. Very well, then; the first thing I knew as
I sat there alone, steering, almost blinded by the spray, Carmelita
slipped her hand through the ventilator and caught mine in a pressure
that went to my heart.”
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before, but without stopping to reflect_).--“If I
find out the girl that did that--”
Mr. Hatterly went on with warm gratitude in his voice: “And let me add,
my dear Mrs. Billington, that every single time I luffed, that dear
little hand came out and touched mine, to inspire me with strength and
confidence.”
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before, with decision_).--“I’ll cut her hand off!”
“And in the lulls of the storm,” Mr. Hatterly continued, “she said to me
what nothing but the extremity of the occasion would induce me to
repeat, my dear Mrs. Billington; ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I am yours, I am all
yours, and yours forever.’”
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before, but more so_).--“That wasn’t the Peterson
girl. That was Mamie Jackson, for I have known of her saying it twice
before.”
Mrs. Billington leaned back in her chair, and fanned herself with her
handkerchief.
“Oh, Mr. Hatterly!” she cried.
Mr. Hatterly leaned forward and captured one of Mrs. Billington’s hands,
while she covered her eyes with the other.
“Call me Jack,” he said.
“I--I’m afraid I shall have to,” sobbed Mrs. Billington.
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before, grimly_).--“Mamie Jackson’s mother won’t; I
know _that_!”
“And then,” Mr. Hatterly continued, “she said to me, ‘Jack, I am glad of
this fate. I can speak now as I never could have spoken before.’”
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before, but highly charged with
electricity_).--“Now I want to know what she did say when she spoke.”
Mr. Hatterly’s clear and fluent voice continued to report the
interesting conversation, while Mrs. Billington sobbed softly, and
permitted her kind old hand to be fondled.
“‘Jack,’ she said,” Mr. Hatterly went on, “‘life might have separated
us, but death unites us.’”
MISS BILLINGTON (_as before, but with clenched hands and set
lips_).--“_That_ is neither one of those girls. They haven’t got the
sand. Whoever it is, that settles it.” She flung open the door and swept
into the room.
“Jack,” she said, “if I did talk any such ridiculous, absurd,
contemptible, utterly despicable nonsense, I don’t _choose_ to have it
repeated. Mama, dear, you know we _can_ see a great deal of each other
if you can only make Papa come and spend the Summer here by the sea, and
we go down to Los Brazos for part of the Winter.”
* * * * *
That evening Miss Carmelita Billington asked her Spanish maid if she had
dropped the letter addressed to Mr. Hatterly in the letter-box. The
Spanish maid went through a pleasing dramatic performance, in which she
first assured her mistress that she _had_; then became aware of a sudden
doubt; hunted through six or eight pockets which were not in her dress,
and then produced the crumpled envelope unopened. She begged ten
thousand pardons; she cursed herself and the day she was born, and her
incapable memory; and expressed a willingness to drown herself, which
might have been more terrifying had she ever before displayed any
willingness to enter into intimate relations with water.
Miss Billington treated her with unusual indulgence.
“It’s all right, Concha,” she said; “it didn’t matter in the least, only
Mr. Hatterly told me that he had never received it, and so I thought I’d
ask you.”
Then, as the girl was leaving the room, Carmelita called her back, moved
by a sudden impulse.
“Oh, Concha!” she said; “you wanted one of those shell breast-pins,
didn’t you Here, take this and buy yourself one!” and she held out a
dollar-bill.
When she reached her own room, Concha put the dollar-bill in a
gayly-painted little box on top of a new five-dollar bill, and hid them
both under her prayer-book.
[Illustration]
“Women,” she said, in her simple Spanish way; “women are pigs. The
gentleman, he gives me five dollars, only that I put the letter in my
pocket; the lady, she gets the gentleman, and she gives me one dollar,
and I hasten out of the room that she shall not take it back.
Women--women are pigs!”