BRINGS ABOUT TWO NEW COMBINATIONS
For some time Beth Blanchard had been changing back to her old self.
Once unburdened by confession, her heart seemed free again, and Beth
began to think of Jim Wayne as a part of a past which could in no way
affect her future. Sorry for him as she was, with her pity she mingled
shame at those remembered kisses. She found pleasure in the society of
Pease, partly because he stood for so much that Jim was not. Solid,
sober, incapable of concealment, his qualities gave her satisfaction,
and the more because she knew his thoughts to be so much of her. She
took to teasing him again, a process to which he submitted with
bewildered delight, and to which Miss Cynthia made Judith a party by
getting her out of the room whenever Beth and Pease were in it. Under
such favouring circumstances, which would have tried the stoicism of any
one, Pease was proving himself quite human, and was harbouring new
hopes. He could not fail to suspect that Beth mourned her father more
than Jim, and what he imagined Miss Pease made sure.
"You've never told me, Peveril," she asked him, "if you lost much by Mr.
Wayne?"
"Two weeks' wages of our men," he answered.
"Worth what you get for it?" she asked.
"What do I get?" he inquired.
"Her!" she answered emphatically.
"If you suppose," he said, with an appearance of confidence which was
utterly false, "that Miss Blanchard will forget Mr. Wayne, you are quite
mistaken."
"You are right," said Miss Cynthia, "she never will forget him." Her
cousin's heart sank. "She thinks of him every day" (Miss Cynthia was
watching him, and made a purposeful pause) "as something that she has
escaped from. And _now_ the way is open for a man that is a man!" Then
she smiled as she noted his relief.
The way was indeed open, and the two were progressing along it very
fast, when suddenly a position was offered to Beth. Old Mrs. Grimstone
had, for the twelfth time, lost her attendant, and some one recommended
the younger Miss Blanchard. It was a handsome offer that the old lady
made; money was nothing to her, and she had learned that she must pay
high for such service as she demanded. For she was, notoriously, the
most exacting, crabbed, fractious old woman that ever wore false teeth,
and any one who attended her lived a dog's life. Pease was utterly
dismayed, and came to Judith to beg her to prevent this calamity.
"But what can I do?" she asked. "Mrs. Grimstone offers a hundred dollars
a month--much more than any one else ever pays. How can Beth refuse?"
"Think," Pease adjured her, "of what she will have to bear!"
"I think her disposition is equal to it," Judith said.
"Oh, I don't doubt that," he hurriedly explained. "But Mrs. Grimstone is
so rough!"
"Beth seems to think she must go," was all Judith could reply. "She
usually knows her own mind, Mr. Pease."
"She does," he admitted mournfully. But he was not subdued, and blazed
out with a fitful courage: "I will do my best to prevent it!"
"Do!" said Judith heartily.
Pease did his best; knowing how weak he was against Beth, he spent no
time in discussion, but rushing into the subject he declared to Beth
that she ought not go to Mrs. Grimstone, and that was all there was to
it. Then he stood breathless at his own audacity.
"Ought not?" asked Beth, surprised at such precipitation in one who was
usually so slow. "If few persons are willing to go to Mrs. Grimstone,
isn't that a very good reason why I should?"
"It isn't that; it isn't that!" he replied, and wished, despairing, that
he could voice his thoughts. But Beth's brown eyes, just a little
quizzical, took away his courage, and all his impetus was spent. He
gasped with vexation.
"Then what is it?" she asked, smiling outright.
"Promise me three days?" was all he could say. "I'm busy now--this
street-railway----Oh, don't laugh!" he begged as Beth's smile grew
merrier. "Please promise me three days!"
To his delight she promised, and he went and began to draught a letter
of such importance that its composition was to take nearly all of the
seventy-two hours which she had accorded him. He hoped that what he had
to say would not be too sudden--but he need not have worried. A man
cannot note a girl's every movement, be solicitous at each little cold,
know to a minute the calendar of her engagements, and gradually perfect
himself in knowledge of her tastes, without declaring himself,
unconsciously, in every sentence.
Upon this pleasant by-play Judith smiled, yet knew that her future would
change with Beth's. For if Beth went to Mrs. Grimstone, Judith must find
work; she could no longer bear the consciousness that she was not
earning. A little envy stirred in her, as she feared that she could not
possibly, in spite of all her preparation, earn so much as Beth. In
this belief the principal of her school confirmed her when she asked him
if he could not find her a position.
"You understand that with your experience your salary will be small?" he
asked her.
"Have I not done well since I came?" she inquired.
"I never had a better pupil," he replied. "But a few more months, Miss
Blanchard----"
"How much could I earn to begin with?" she persisted.
"Forty dollars a month," he answered.
"So little?" she asked, disappointed.
"Perhaps fifty, if you have luck," he conceded. "But you'd better wait."
"I can't," Judith answered. "Will you tell me of any chance that you
hear of?"
He promised that he would, yet gave her no immediate hope of a position.
Judith was depressed; more and more it seemed to her that she was
nothing, and her debt loomed large before her eyes. It seemed a great
weight to carry--alone.
Nevertheless, she maintained her interest in the great combination
against Ellis, could not fail to maintain it, for soon came the strike.
It was an orderly strike and a good-natured public; people were saying
cheerfully that the cars would be running again in a week, when Mr.
Mather was president; but believing that no one could be sure of that,
and ignorant of her own deep influence, Judith wished for the fiftieth
time that she could learn how matters stood. The vagueness and
uncertainty were wearing her.
And at last came the information. At the supper table, on the evening of
the strike, Pease seemed as untroubled as usual, and as genial. Miss
Cynthia broke in upon his calm.
"Peveril," she demanded, "what do the men hope to gain by striking now?"
"To-morrow," he explained, "the transfer books close. Only to-morrow's
holders of stock can vote at the meeting a week hence."
"Oh," she said, "I see. The men hope to scare some of Ellis's supporters
into selling out."
He nodded. "The men have very clever leaders."
"And will this help you?"
"I hope so."
She followed up the indirect admission. "Then you need help?"
"Get me forty shares," he said, "and the matter is settled. But----" he
realised that he was talking shop.
"The butter, please, Cynthia?"
"Well," she said in triumph, as she passed the dish, "I have at last
learned something from you."
"Good!" he returned, undisturbed. "And I'll tell you this much more,
that I haven't the slightest idea where I can find those forty shares."
"Oh!" she cried, dismayed. "What does Mr. Mather think?"
"Mather knows nothing about it," said Pease. "His friends are working
for him without his knowledge, because they have never been sure that
they could help him."
Judith, listening to the talk, told herself that Mather would never be
president of the road; she had heard Ellis describe the little ring of
men who stood solidly around him--men whom he had made. That ring would
never be broken. Yet amid her disappointment she felt relief. Mather had
never told her of the projects of his friends because, like herself, he
had not been sure of them.
Before the meal was ended Mr. Fenno came--only for a minute, he said,
and bade them not to rise. Judith admired the picture that he made as he
stood and talked with Pease; his white hair and mustache seemed whiter
still by contrast with his coal-black eyebrows, while the dead
black-and-white evening clothes were relieved by the soft sable which
lined his overcoat. He questioned Pease with his accustomed bluntness.
"No go?"
"Nothing yet," Pease answered.
"Ah, he's clever!" said Mr. Fenno, to which encomium of Ellis Pease
assented by a nod, but seemed not inclined to pursue the subject
further. Then the servant, entering, announced that Mr. Price was at the
door, asking for Mr. Pease. As Pease started from his seat his inquiring
glance met Fenno's. The old man knit his heavy brows.
"Do you suppose----" he said.
"May be!" Pease answered with visible excitement.
"He must see you alone," added the maid.
"Show him into the parlour," Pease directed. For a minute he was alone
with the jeweller; Fenno, forgetting the presence of the ladies, stared
after him and waited. Then Pease returned.
"Can we have you with us, Mr. Fenno?" he asked.
The three shut themselves up in the parlour. Judith, as she controlled
her deep interest, felt how often it was now her part to wait. But at
last the parlour door opened again, and voices were heard. It was Price
who spoke first.
"You understand, Mr. Pease--my family----"
"Yes, yes," Pease answered.
"And my position, you see," the explanation continued. Judith saw the
jeweller, bowing and rubbing his hands together nervously.
"Yes," repeated Pease shortly, opening the outer door for him. "At my
office, Mr. Price, the first thing in the morning."
The door shut on the jeweller, and the two others came into the
dining-room. Pease looked glum, the older man scornful, and in
absorption they spoke before the others.
"It is settled, then," Mr. Fenno said grimly.
"I feel," responded Pease, "as if I had touched pitch."
"You will get over it," was the cynical retort. "Now, then, to finish
all this up. Can you answer for Mather?"
Pease shook his head. "He must answer for himself."
"He shall, to-morrow," said Mr. Fenno. "What do you say to a meeting at
my office--all of us?"
"You will need all," Pease answered.
"We can settle everything," went on Fenno in his heavy voice. "We will
have it all in writing--I'll have a stenographer on hand."
A stenographer! Judith started with eagerness, and Mr. Fenno turned to
her. "What do you say?" he asked. "Will you help us?"
Her eyes sparkled. "Gladly!" she cried.
"Good!" he said bluffly. "Nine o'clock at my office. Pease, have
everybody there, except Mather, at three; George at half-past." Pease
nodded, and Mr. Fenno smote him on the shoulder. "Come, cheer up, man!
Everything is clear at last."
But Pease could not smile. "In such a way!" he grumbled.
"Through no fault of ours." Then Mr. Fenno turned to Beth. "Beth, I
leave him to you." And next he looked on Judith with a sudden change of
manner, losing both his animation and his cynicism, and becoming very
grave. "To-morrow," he said, "you shall see what you have done."
"I?" she asked in astonishment. "I, sir?" But he merely nodded, and
hastened away.
And Pease was left to Beth. Reminded by Fenno's words that his three
days were nearly at an end, he forgot Price, forgot Mather, and
remembered only a letter which suddenly seemed to be burning a hole in
his pocket. Miss Cynthia and Judith left him alone in the parlour with
Beth, who for a while watched with amusement his nervous movements about
the room. She tried to make him talk, but failed.
"Something is very much on your mind," she said at last.
"Everything is!" he exclaimed in desperation, and dragged out the
letter. "Won't you--will you--read this, to-night?" He put the letter in
her hand, and moved toward the door.
"Why do you go?" she asked innocently, opening the envelope.
He had reached the threshold. "I will come again."
But she poised the paper in her hand and looked at him reflectively. "I
don't think you'd better go," she said, and then added positively, "No,
I can't have you go. Please sit down in that chair."
Obeying the nod of her determined little head, he dragged himself from
the door, sat down, and watched her miserably while she studied his
letter. She read it once, and sat with pursed lips; she read it again,
and knit her brows; she read it a third time and looked at him
thoughtfully. Then she read parts of it aloud.
"I apprehend much unhappiness to you in your proposed occupation ....
Admirable qualities--tender nature.... Am emboldened to say what
otherwise I might not ... if you will give yourself into my care, I will
promise you that so far as it is possible for a man to avert them, you
will never know trouble or need----"
She broke off, and looked at him. "This is a proposal of marriage, Mr.
Pease?"
He shivered. "I meant it so."
She put the letter in her lap with a regretful sigh. "I thought that
when a man asked a girl to marry him he always said something about--his
feelings for her."
"But respect, admiration--" he was beginning eagerly.
"Oh," she interrupted, "those go without saying. And I understand," she
glanced at the letter, "that you write this only because you wish to
relieve me of work. It is very good of you to sacrifice yourself."
"It is no sacrifice!" he cried.
She folded the note and thrust it into its envelope. "I never believed,"
she said emphatically, "in proposals by letter."
"I am sorry," faltered miserable Pease.
"And what you say," continued Beth, holding the note out for him to
take, "is not my idea of the essentials of a proposal."
He came and received the letter, but could answer nothing.
"I think," Beth set forth reflectively, "that just two things are
necessary to a proposal: a statement and a question. A man need only
say: 'I love you. Will you marry me?' Just seven words--no more." She
folded her hands in her lap, looked at him innocently, and waited.
Gazing at her, fascinated, slowly he grew red. An idea found lodgment,
worked deeper, penetrated to the springs of action. He crushed the
letter in his hand. "I love you!" he cried. "Will you marry me?"
She dimpled into smiles. "Yes," said little Beth.