THREE days later the North Atlantic squadron of the British Navy sailed
down the coast from Halifax, did not even pause at Bar Harbor, but sent
a wireless telegram to the “Consternation,” which pulled up anchor and
joined the fleet outside, and so the war-ships departed for another
port.
Katherine stood by the broad window in the sewing room in her favorite
attitude, her head sideways against the pane, her eyes languidly gazing
upon the Bay, fingers drumming this time a very slow march on the window
sill. Dorothy sat in a rocking-chair, reading a letter for the second
time. There had been silence in the room for some minutes, accentuated
rather than broken by the quiet drumming of the girl’s fingers on the
window sill. Finally Katherine breathed a deep sigh and murmured to
herself:
“‘Far called our Navy fades away,
On dune and headland sinks the fire.
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre.’
I wonder if I’ve got the lines right,” she whispered to herself. She had
forgotten there was anyone else in the room, and was quite startled when
Dorothy spoke.
“Kate, that’s a solemn change, from Gilbert to Kipling. I always judge
your mood by your quotations. Has life suddenly become too serious for
‘Pinafore’ or the ‘Mikado’?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Katherine, without turning round. “They are
humorous all, and so each furnishes something suitable for the saddened
mind. Wisdom comes through understanding your alphabet properly.
For instance, first there was Gilbert, and that gave us G; then came
Kipling, and he gave us K; thus we get an algebraic formula, G.K., which
are the initials of Chesterton, a still later arrival, and as the mind
increases in despondency it sinks lower and lower down the alphabet
until it comes to S, and thus we have Barn-yard Shaw, an improvement on
the Kail-yard school, who takes the O pshaw view of life. And relaxing
hold of him I sink deeper until I come to W--W. W. Jacobs--how I wish he
wrote poetry! He should be the humorist of all sailors, and perhaps some
time he will desert barges for battleships. Then I shall read him with
increased enjoyment.”
“I wouldn’t give Mark Twain for the lot,” commented Dorothy with
decision.
“Mark Twain isn’t yours to give, my dear. He belongs to me also. You’ve
forgotten that comparisons are odious. Our metier is not to compare, but
to take what pleases us from each.
‘How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
Watts. You see, I’m still down among the W’s. Oh, Dorothy, how can
you sit there so placidly when the ‘Consternation’ has just faded from
sight? Selfish creature!
‘Oh, give me tears for others’ woes
And patience for mine own.’
I don’t know who wrote that, but you have no tears for others’ woes,
merely greeting them with ribald laughter,” for Dorothy, with the
well-read letter in her hand, was making the rafters ring with her
merriment, something that had never before happened during her long
tenancy of that room. Kate turned her head slowly round, and the
expression on her face was half-indignant, half-humorous, while her eyes
were uncertain weather prophets, and gave equal indication of sunshine
or rain.”
“Why, Katherine, you look like a tragedy queen, rather than the spirit
of comedy! Is it really a case of ‘Tit-willow, tit-willow, tit-willow’?
You see, I’m a-rescuing you from the bottom of the alphabet, and
bringing you up to the Gilbert plane, where I am more accustomed to you,
and understand you better. Is this despondency due to the departure of
the ‘Consternation,’ and the fact that she carries away with her Jack
Lamont, blacksmith?”
The long sigh terminated in a woeful “yes.”
“The ship that has gone out with him we call she. If he had eloped with
a real she, then wearing the willow, or singing it, however futile,
might be understandable. As it is I see nothing in the situation to call
for a sigh.”
“That is because you are a hardened sinner, Dorothy. You have no heart,
or at least if you have, it is untouched, and therefore you cannot
understand. If that note in your hand were a love missive, instead of a
letter from your lawyers, you would be more human, Dorothy.”
The hand which held the paper crumpled it up slightly as Katherine
spoke.
“Business letters are quite necessary, and belong to the world we
live in,” said Dorothy, a glow of brighter color suffusing her cheeks.
“Surely your acquaintance with Mr. Lamont is of the shortest.”
“He has called upon me every day since the night of the ball,”
maintained Katherine stoutly.
“Well, that’s only three times.”
“Only three! How you talk! One would think you had never been schooled
in mathematics. Why, three is a magic figure. You can do plenty of
amazing things with it. Don’t you know that three is a numeral of love?”
“I thought two was the number,” chimed Dorothy, with heartless mirth.
“Three,” said Katherine taking one last look at the empty horizon, then
seating herself in front of her friend, “three is a recurring decimal.
It goes on and on and on forever, and if you write it for a thousand
years you are still as far from the end as when you began. It will
carry you round the world and back again, and never diminish. It is the
mathematical emblem of the nature of true love.”
“Is it so serious as all that, Kate, or are you just fooling again?”
asked Dorothy, more soberly than heretofore. “Has he spoken to you?”
“Spoken? He has done nothing but speak, and I have listened--oh, so
intently, and with such deep understanding. He has never before met such
a woman as I, and has frankly told me so.”
“I am very glad he appreciates you, dear.”
“Yes, you see, Dorothy, I am really much deeper than the ordinary woman.
Who, for instance, could find such a beautiful love simile from a
book of arithmetic costing twenty-five cents, as I have unearthed from
decimal fractions? With that example in mind how can you doubt that
other volumes of college learning reveal to me their inner meaning? John
presented to me, as he said good-by, a beautifully bound copy of
that celebrated text-book, ‘Saunders’ Analytical Chemistry,’ with
particularly tender passages marked in pencil, by his own dear hand.”
Rather bewildered, for Kate’s expression was one of pathos, unrelieved
by any gleam of humor, Dorothy nevertheless laughed, although the laugh
brought no echo from Katherine.
“And did you give him a volume of Browning in return?”
“No, I didn’t. How can you be so unsympathetic? Is it impossible for
you to comprehend the unseen link that binds John and me? I rummaged
the book store until I found a charming little edition of ‘Marshall’s
Geologist’s Pocket Companion,’ covered with beautiful brown limp Russia
leather--I thought the Russia binding was so inspirational--with a sweet
little clasp that keeps it closed--typical of our hands at parting.
On the fly-leaf I wrote: ‘To J. L., in remembrance of many interesting
conversations with his friend, K. K.’ It only needed another K to be
emblematic and political, a reminiscence of the olden times, when you
people of the South, Dorothy, were making it hot for us deserving folks
in the North. I hadn’t time to go through the book very thoroughly,
but I found many references to limestone, which I marked, and one
particularly choice bit of English relating to the dissolution and
re-consolidation of various minerals I drew a parallelogram around in
red ink. A friend of mine in a motor launch was good enough to take the
little parcel direct to the ‘Consternation,’ and I have no doubt that
at this moment Jack is perusing it, and perhaps thinking of the giver. I
hope it’s up-to-date, and that he had not previously bought a copy.”
“You don’t mean to say, Kate, that your conversation was entirely about
geology?”
“Certainly not. How could you have become imbued with an idea so absurd?
We had many delightful dalliances down the romantic groves of chemistry,
heart-to-heart talks on metallurgy, and once--ah, shall I ever forget
it--while the dusk gently enfolded us, and I gazed into those bright,
speaking, intelligent eyes of his as he bent nearer and nearer; while
his low, sonorous voice in well-chosen words pictured to me the promise
which fortified cement holds out to the world; that is, ignorant person,
Portland cement strengthened by ribs of steel; and I sat listening
breathless as his glowing phrases prophesied the future of this
combination.”
Katherine closed her eyes, rocked gently back and forth, and crooned,
almost inaudibly:
“‘When you gang awa, Jimmie,
Faur across the sea, laddie,
When ye gang to Russian lands
What will ye send to me, laddie?’
I know what I shall get. It will probably be a newly discovered recipe
for the compounding of cement which will do away with the necessity of
steel strengthening.”
“Kate, dear, you are overdoing it. It is quite right that woman should
be a mystery to man, but she should not aspire to become a mystery to
her sister woman. Are you just making fun, or is there something in all
this more serious than your words imply?”
“Like the steel strengthening in the cement, it may be there, but
you can’t see it, and you can’t touch it, but it makes--oh, such
a difference to the slab. Heigho, Dorothy, let us forsake these
hard-headed subjects, and turn to something human. What have your
lawyers been bothering you about? No trouble over the money, is there?”
Dorothy shook her head.
“No. Of course, there are various matters they have to consult me about,
and get my consent to this project or the other.”
“Read the letter. Perhaps my mathematical mind can be of assistance to
you.”
Dorothy had concealed the letter, and did not now produce it.
“It is with reference to your assistance, and your continued assistance,
that I wish to speak to you. Let us follow the example of the cement and
the steel, and form a compact. In one respect I am going to imitate the
‘Consternation.’ I leave Bar Harbor next week.”
Katherine sat up in her chair, and her eyes opened wide.
“What’s the matter with Bar Harbor?” she asked.
“You can answer that question better than I, Kate. The Kempt family are
not visitors, but live here all the year round. What do you think is the
matter with Bar Harbor?”
“I confess it’s a little dull in the winter time, and in all seasons it
is situated a considerable distance from New York. Where do you intend
to go, Dorothy?”
“That will depend largely on where my friend Kate advises me to go,
because I shall take her with me if she will come.”
“Companion, lady’s-maid, parlor maid, maid-of-all-work, cook, governess,
typewriter-girl--which have I to be? Shall I get one afternoon a week
off, and may my young man come and see me, if I happen to secure one,
and, extremely important, what are the wages?”
“You shall fix your own salary, Kate, and my lawyer men will arrange
that the chosen sum is settled upon you so that if we fall out we can
quarrel on equal terms.”
“Oh, I see, it’s an adopted daughter I am to be, then?”
“An adopted sister, rather.”
“Do you think I am going to take advantage of my friendship with an
heiress, and so pension myself off?”
“It is I who am taking the advantage,” said Dorothy, “and I beg you to
take compassion, rather than advantage, upon a lone creature who has no
kith or kin in the world.”
“Do you really mean it, Dot?”
“Of course I do. Should I propose it if I didn’t?”
“Well, this is the first proposal I’ve ever had, and I believe it
is customary to say on those occasions that it is so sudden, or so
unexpected, and time is required for consideration.”
“How soon can you make up your mind, Kate?”
“Oh, my mind’s already made up. I’m going to jump at your offer, but I
think it more ladylike to pretend a mild reluctance. What are you going
to do, Dorothy?”
“I don’t know. I’ve settled on only one thing. I intend to build a
little stone and tile church, very quaint and old-fashioned, if I get
the right kind of architect to draw a plan for it, and this church is to
be situated in Haverstock.”
“Where’s Haverstock?”
“It is a village near the Hudson River, on the plain that stretches
toward the Catskills.”
“It was there you lived with your father, was it not?”
“Yes, and my church is to be called the Dr. Amhurst Memorial Church.”
“And do you propose to live at Haverstock?”
“I was thinking of that.”
“Wouldn’t it be just a little dull?”
“Yes, I suppose it is, but it seems to me a suitable place where two
young women may meditate on what they are going to do with their lives.”
“Yes, that’s an important question for the two. I say, Dorothy, let’s
take the other side of the river, and enter Vassar College. Then we
should at least have some fun, and there would be some reasonably
well-educated people to speak to.”
“Oh, you wish to use your lately acquired scientific knowledge in order
to pass the examinations; but, you see, I have had no tutor to school me
in the mysteries of lime-burning and the mixing of cement. Now, you have
scorned my side of the river, and I have objected to your side of the
river. That is the bad beginning which, let us hope, makes the good
ending. Who is to arbitrate on our dispute?”
“Why, we’ll split the difference, of course.”
“How can we do that? Live in a house-boat on the river like Frank
Stockton’s ‘Budder Grange’?”
“No, settle in the city of New York, which is practically an island in
the Hudson.”
“Would you like to live in New York?”
“Wouldn’t I! Imagine any one, having the chance, living anywhere else!”
“In a hotel, I suppose--the Holldorf for choice.”
“Yes, we could live in a hotel until we found the ideal flat, high up
in a nice apartment house, with a view like that from the top of Mount
Washington, or from the top of the Washington Monument.”
“But you forget I made one proviso in the beginning, and that is that I
am going to build a church, and the church is to be situated, not in the
city of New York, but in the village of Haverstock.”
“New York is just the place from which to construct such an edifice.
Haverstock will be somewhere near the West Shore Railway. Very well. We
can take a trip up there once a week or oftener, if you like, and see
how the work is progressing, then the people of Haverstock will respect
us. As we drive from the station they’ll say:
“‘There’s the two young ladies from New York who are building the
church.’ But if we settle down amongst them they’ll think we’re only
ordinary villagers instead of the distinguished persons we are. Or,
while our flat is being made ready we could live at one of the big
hotels in the Catskills, and come down as often as we like on the
inclined railway. Indeed, until the weather gets colder, the Catskills
is the place.
‘And lo, the Catskills print the distant sky,
And o’er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,
So softly blending that the cheated eye
Forgets or which is earth, or which is heaven.’”
“That ought to carry the day for the Catskills, Kate. What sort of
habitation shall we choose? A big hotel, or a select private boarding
house?”
“Oh, a big hotel, of course--the biggest there is, whatever its name
may be. One of those whose rates are so high that the proprietor daren’t
advertise them, but says in his announcement, ‘for terms apply to the
manager.’ It must have ample grounds, support an excellent band, and
advertise a renowned cuisine. Your room, at least, should have a private
balcony on which you can place a telescope and watch the building
of your church down below. I, being a humble person in a subordinate
position, should have a balcony also to make up for those deficiencies.”
“Very well, Kate, that’s settled. But although two lone women may set
up housekeeping in a New York flat, they cannot very well go alone to a
fashionable hotel.”
“Oh, yes, we can. Best of references given and required.”
“I was going to suggest,” pursued Dorothy, not noticing the
interruption, “that we invite your father and mother to accompany us.
They might enjoy a change from sea air to mountain air.”
Katherine frowned a little, and demurred.
“Are you going to be fearfully conventional, Dorothy?”
“We must pay some attention to the conventions, don’t you think?”
“I had hoped not. I yearn to be a bachelor girl, and own a latch-key.”
“We shall each possess a latch-key when we settle down in New York. Our
flat will be our castle, and, although our latch-key will let us in, our
Yale lock will keep other people out. A noted summer resort calls for
different treatment, because there we lead a semi-public life. Besides,
I am selfish enough to wish my coming-out to be under the auspices of so
well-known a man as Captain Kempt.”
“All right, I’ll see what they say about it. You don’t want Sabina, I
take it?”
“Yes, if she will consent to come.”
“I doubt if she will, but I’ll see. Besides, now that I come to think
about it, it’s only fair I should allow my doting parents to know that I
am about to desert them.”
With that Katherine quitted the room, and went down the stairs
hippety-hop.
Dorothy drew the letter from its place of concealment, and read it for
the third time, although one not interested might have termed it a most
commonplace document. It began:
“Dear Miss Amhurst,” and ended “Yours most sincerely, Alan Drummond.” It
gave some account of his doings since he bade good-bye to her. A sailor,
he informed her, needs little time for packing his belongings, and on
the occasion in question the Prince had been of great assistance. They
set out together for the early morning train, and said “au revoir” at
the station. Drummond had intended to sail from New York, but a friendly
person whom he met on the train informed him that the Liverpool liner
“Enthusiana” set out from Boston next day, so he had abandoned the New
York idea, and had taken passage on the liner named, on whose note-paper
he wrote the letter, which epistle was once more concealed as Dorothy
heard Katherine’s light step on the stair.
That impulsive young woman burst into the sewing room.
“We’re all going,” she cried. “Father, mother and Sabina. It seems
father has had an excellent offer to let the house furnished till the
end of September, and he says that, as he likes high life, he will put
in the time on the top of the Catskills. He abandons me, and says that
if he can borrow a shilling he is going to cut me off with it in his
will. He regrets the departure of the British Fleet, because he thinks
he might have been able to raise a real English shilling aboard. Dad
only insists on one condition, namely, that he is to pay for himself,
mother and Sabina, so he does not want a room with a balcony. I said
that in spite of his disinheritance I’d help the family out of my
salary, and so he is going to reconsider the changing of his will.”
“We will settle the conditions when we reach the Catskills,” said
Dorothy, smiling.