THE PASSING OF THE COLONEL
Irene and her uncle were seated in the dining room in hushed silence.
They had come immediately at Mary Louise’s summons. Mr. Conant was
bowed over, his gray head in his hands. Occasionally, he emitted a deep
groan and muttered to himself:
“I never should have said it, even to Hannah--even to Hannah!”
“Never mind, Uncle Peter--you were always in your heart faithful to the
poor Colonel,” Irene would try to comfort him, and again they would
drop back into the gloomy silence.
As Dr. Coles came into the room, they greeted him eagerly, “Any change?
How is he now?”
“About the same--but his pulse is fairly good. I think he will be
coming around soon, perhaps--of course, there is no predicting for sure
anything in cases like this--cases of any sort in fact. My opinion of
doctors is not very great you know. They do their best but, when all
is told, they are a feeble lot.”
“But their best is very wonderful, sometimes,” said Irene, “and Mary
Louise has great faith in you.”
“Poor child, poor child! Are you sure her husband sailed on the
Spokane, about ten days ago?”
“Yes, I am sure! Isn’t that what she told you?”
“Yes--but I hadn’t the courage to tell her something that she will
have to know. I saw a late bulletin as I passed the newspaper office
on my way up here and it said the Spokane had been signalling for help
by wireless all during yesterday and that it is feared she has been
wrecked. Of course, she may be all right by now, but the latest report
is that there is no trace of her so far.”
“You mean Danny Dexter may be lost?” gasped Irene.
“Yes--lost! It may be a false alarm but I doubt it. Anyhow, we need not
tell the poor little wife yet, not until there is something definite to
tell her,” said the doctor sadly and Uncle Peter groaned aloud.
“Brute! Brute that I am! I haven’t been over here for days and weeks
and all the time my old friend was ill and here I was irritated with
him--I even blamed the poor child a little. I felt somehow she was
lacking backbone in allowing the old man to ride over her so. I’m a
worm! A worm! Nothing but a miserable boneless invertebrate.”
The doctor smiled at the incongruous epithets Mr. Conant was so
ruthlessly applying to himself. Irene patted her uncle on the shoulder.
“Now Uncle Peter, let’s not worry about what we might have done, but
just do what is to be done now. Suppose you go down to the newspaper
office and find out what they know and stop and tell Aunt Hannah that
I shall have to stay over here for the night and get her to send me a
dressing gown and some toilet things.”
“That’s right!” agreed the doctor, looking at Irene with appreciation.
“Now, Miss Macfarlane, you get the nurse’s registrar on the ’phone and
have them send us a good nurse immediately. Mrs. Dexter insists that
she can do the nursing with your help, but I do not intend to have her
break herself down. She may have more to stand than she realizes. Pray
God the report about the Spokane is false!”
A night of anxiety followed. Colonel Hathaway was still unconscious
when gray dawn crept down the quiet city streets. In spite of the
arrival of a comfortably efficient nurse, Mary Louise could not be
persuaded to leave her grandfather’s bedside.
“He might awake and ask for me,” she declared over and over when she
was told she had better take a little rest.
As the first rays of the morning sun found their way into his room,
the old man opened his eyes. In them was the expression of a wondering
child.
“What is the matter?” he whispered faintly.
“Oh, Grandpa Jim, good morning!” said Mary Louise taking his hand in
hers.
“Good morning, child! Aren’t you up early? Where is my boy?”
“Who, Grandpa Jim?”
“My boy! Danny, of course! What other boy have I? I have been having a
horrid nightmare that he and I had been having some misunderstanding. I
am glad morning has come and it is all a dream. I can’t bear to have
trouble between Danny and me even in a dream. Call him, Mary Louise! I
must speak to him.”
“He is not here right now, Grandpa Jim,” said Mary Louise, trying hard
to keep back the sob that was almost mastering her.
“Not here! Where on earth has the rascal gone?”
How different was his manner of speaking of Danny! A short time ago
he would have called him a rascal, meaning it, and with a hard tone
of voice; now his way of calling him a rascal was purely loving and
playful.
“Where has he gone, child? Not far I hope, because I have a queer
feeling about me somehow--a feeling that perhaps I am not going to be
here very long and I must see Danny. Where is he? Don’t hide anything
from me!”
“He is--he is--on the water,” answered Mary Louise slowly.
“Oh, now I seem to remember,” faltered Colonel Hathaway. His voice was
strangely husky and Mary Louise had to put her ear close to catch the
words.
“I seem to remember something about a telegram--a telegram sent
collect. That wasn’t much like Danny to send a telegram collect--”
“It was a wireless, Grandpa Jim, and perhaps he could not prepay on
shipboard.”
“Of course--of course--a wireless--I remember now. Poor Danny, poor
Danny. And did you finish your bonnet in time?”
“In time for what, Grandpa Jim?”
“In time to wear. Well never mind if you didn’t. You can buy plenty
more. I have left you everything, Mary Louise dear, everything--but I
wish I had left Danny something, not that he will want it. He is an
independent lad and wanted to pay me board. Ha! Ha! That was a joke
indeed. But I liked the spirit in him. I am going back to sleep now,
honey. Please tell Peter Conant to come see me a little later in the
day. I shall want his advice.” The old man closed his eyes and, with a
tired sigh, sank into a state of coma.
He passed away a few hours later. His death was quiet and painless.
One moment he was breathing gently and the next moment he was not.
Mary Louise stood bravely by. She was able to thank the Creator that
her poor grandfather was not to live a life of misery, with his once
powerful mind gone. She repeated to herself over and over his last
sweet words and was grateful beyond expression for what he had said
about her dear Danny.
“If Danny only knew!” she kept on repeating. “If he only knew how much
Grandpa Jim really loved him.”
“He did know once,” Irene assured her. Irene had been taken into her
friend’s confidence at last and they had had a heart to heart talk
about the whole wretched matter. “Perhaps he knows now how the Colonel
really felt about him.”
“But he couldn’t know unless some one has tried to reach him by
wireless. Indeed I wish we could.”
“Well, he may just sort of feel it. People do sometimes,” Irene
hastened to mend the break she had made.
There was no doubt in the minds of Danny Dexter’s many friends at
Dorfield that the boat on which he had sailed had gone to the bottom
with all on board unless some of them had taken to lifeboats. Even
then, the storm that raged for days in that latitude from which the
Spokane had sent her agonizing S.O.S. calls had, without doubt, done
for those boats. It was reported that no one could possibly have lived
at sea in an open boat during the terrible hurricane that had swept
the seas. Danny was given up for lost and to Irene fell the sad task of
breaking the news to Mary Louise.
Colonel Hathaway’s funeral was over, the simple impressive rites
suitable for the fine old character. The little peculiarities developed
during the last few months of his life were entirely forgotten by
the many friends who sincerely mourned his loss. He had been a good
citizen, public spirited and generous, a fine staunch friend and a man
to whom the business world looked with interest, as he had a genius
for making good investments. The papers were full of his praises and
appreciation of him was on every tongue.
It was natural for Mary Louise to want to see these newspaper notices
and, in seeing the papers, it was almost inevitable that she should
run across something about the possibility of the Spokane’s being in
distress, perhaps lost. Up to that time there had been nothing said
about Danny Dexter’s being on the ill-starred vessel, as it was not
known generally to the newspaper world. His old friend, Bob Dulaney,
the one who had figured so largely in the capture of Felix Markle on
Danny and Mary Louise’s wedding day, of course, knew all about Danny
but, at the instigation of Irene Macfarlane he had promised not only to
keep his own paper from mentioning Danny’s name in connection with the
Spokane but also to use his influence to keep the news concerning Danny
out of the other papers. All of Mary Louise’s friends agreed that she
should be allowed to recover from the shock of her grandfather’s death
before anything should be told her of the possibility of Danny’s ship
being lost.
“What shall we do about the newspapers when she asks for them?” wailed
Irene, who had come to the Higgledy Piggledy for advice. “While Danny’s
name is not mentioned, we are never sure when the Spokane will appear
in the telegrams from the Pacific coast. She is sure to want to see
everything that is written about Colonel Hathaway.”
“Use the clipping bureau,” suggested Josie. “What are we for but to
save readers the trouble of going over the whole paper to see what is
said about them?”
“Of course!” cried Elizabeth. “I’ll get busy immediately.” She
accordingly grabbed up her long shears and began clipping items
concerning Grandpa Jim and then neatly pasting them on the little
printed slips in which the clipping bureau had seen fit to indulge to
give a prosperous air to the business.
“I don’t believe for an instant that Danny Dexter is dead,” declared
Josie stoutly. “It is simply unbelievable.”
“But don’t you think Mary Louise should know the Spokane is reported
lost?” asked Irene.
“Of course! We have no right to keep it from her much longer. Mary
Louise is no child although somehow she seems one. She is so young and
so gentle and there is a look to her now that makes me feel as though I
should like to take her in my lap and hold her like a little baby.”
Elizabeth and Irene could not help smiling at the picture of Josie
holding Mary Louise in her lap, since Mary Louise was a good half head
taller than Josie but they all agreed that Mary Louise seemed like a
child.
“Matrimony doesn’t seem to have aged her a single bit,” said Elizabeth.
“Her grandfather’s death has hit her terribly hard and she is looking
as pale as a ghost, but somehow like a little child ghost,” sighed
Irene.
“Dr. Coles says not to let her know about Danny until it is a
certainty--that there is no use in harrowing her soul if there is the
slightest chance of his being alive.”
“Who is to tell her?” shuddered Elizabeth.
“I am,” said Irene.
“I don’t see how you can,” said Elizabeth. “It would be a job that I
just wouldn’t know how to go about starting.”
“I am praying for strength and direction,” said Irene, whose religion
was such a vital part of her that she spoke of it with a faith and
simplicity that was often surprising to others.
“Well I’m glad the poor girl has plenty of money,” said Elizabeth. “I
know money isn’t everything but it’s a good deal. Anyhow, it helps a
lot to boost one over the rough places.”
“Maybe it does,” mused Josie, “But for my part, I’d like to see Mary
Louise without a sou to her name. It would be good for the lamb to have
to start in and make her living tomorrow. With her old grandfather gone
and poor Danny reported missing, what pleasure will there be for her
in that great house with not even a bit of dusting to do? Aunt Sally
and Uncle Eben won’t let her do a lick of work about the house and
Mary Louise is very capable. Just see how she pitched in and organized
for war work. I guess she’ll have to go in for charity and then all of
these boards and what not will bleed her to death. That kind of work is
just a time-killer anyhow. What girls need is jobs--good, hard-working,
paying jobs.”
“But what could Mary Louise do if she had to make a living?” laughed
Elizabeth.
“Plenty of things!” declared Josie.