Next day, sure enough, the cablegram didn’t come. This was an immense
disaster; for Tracy couldn’t go into the presence without that ticket,
although it wasn’t going to possess any value as evidence. But if the
failure of the cablegram on that first day may be called an immense
disaster, where is the dictionary that can turn out a phrase sizeable
enough to describe the tenth day’s failure? Of course every day that
the cablegram didn’t come made Tracy all of twenty-four hours’ more
ashamed of himself than he was the day before, and made Sally fully
twenty-four hours more certain than ever that he not only hadn’t any
father anywhere, but hadn’t even a confederate—and so it followed that
he was a double-dyed humbug and couldn’t be otherwise.
These were hard days for Barrow and the art firm. All these had their
hands full, trying to comfort Tracy. Barrow’s task was particularly
hard, because he was made a confidant in full, and therefore had to
humor Tracy’s delusion that he had a father, and that the father was an
earl, and that he was going to send a cablegram. Barrow early gave up
the idea of trying to convince Tracy that he hadn’t any father, because
this had such a bad effect on the patient, and worked up his temper to
such an alarming degree. He had tried, as an experiment, letting Tracy
think he had a father; the result was so good that he went further,
with proper caution, and tried letting him think his father was an
earl; this wrought so well, that he grew bold, and tried letting him
think he had two fathers, if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to, so
Barrow withdrew one of them and substituted letting him think he was
going to get a cablegram—which Barrow judged he wouldn’t, and was
right; but Barrow worked the cablegram daily for all it was worth, and
it was the one thing that kept Tracy alive; that was Barrow’s opinion.
And these were bitter hard days for poor Sally, and mainly delivered up
to private crying. She kept her furniture pretty damp, and so caught
cold, and the dampness and the cold and the sorrow together undermined
her appetite, and she was a pitiful enough object, poor thing. Her
state was bad enough, as per statement of it above quoted; but all the
forces of nature and circumstance seemed conspiring to make it
worse—and succeeding. For instance, the morning after her dismissal of
Tracy, Hawkins and Sellers read in the associated press dispatches that
a toy puzzle called Pigs in the Clover, had come into sudden favor
within the past few weeks, and that from the Atlantic to the Pacific
all the populations of all the States had knocked off work to play with
it, and that the business of the country had now come to a standstill
by consequence; that judges, lawyers, burglars, parsons, thieves,
merchants, mechanics, murderers, women, children, babies—everybody,
indeed, could be seen from morning till midnight, absorbed in one deep
project and purpose, and only one—to pen those pigs, work out that
puzzle successfully; that all gayety, all cheerfulness had departed
from the nation, and in its place care, preoccupation and anxiety sat
upon every countenance, and all faces were drawn, distressed, and
furrowed with the signs of age and trouble, and marked with the still
sadder signs of mental decay and incipient madness; that factories were
at work night and day in eight cities, and yet to supply the demand for
the puzzle was thus far impossible. Hawkins was wild with joy, but
Sellers was calm. Small matters could not disturb his serenity. He
said—
“That’s just the way things go. A man invents a thing which could
revolutionize the arts, produce mountains of money, and bless the
earth, and who will bother with it or show any interest in it?—and so
you are just as poor as you were before. But you invent some worthless
thing to amuse yourself with, and would throw it away if let alone, and
all of a sudden the whole world makes a snatch for it and out crops a
fortune. Hunt up that Yankee and collect, Hawkins—half is yours, you
know. Leave me to potter at my lecture.”
This was a temperance lecture. Sellers was head chief in the Temperance
camp, and had lectured, now and then in that interest, but had been
dissatisfied with his efforts; wherefore he was now about to try a new
plan. After much thought he had concluded that a main reason why his
lectures lacked fire or something, was that they were too transparently
amateurish; that is to say, it was probably too plainly perceptible
that the lecturer was trying to tell people about the horrid effects of
liquor when he didn’t really know anything about those effects except
from hearsay, since he had hardly ever tasted an intoxicant in his
life. His scheme, now, was to prepare himself to speak from bitter
experience. Hawkins was to stand by with the bottle, calculate the
doses, watch the effects, make notes of results, and otherwise assist
in the preparation. Time was short, for the ladies would be along about
noon—that is to say, the temperance organization called the Daughters
of Siloam—and Sellers must be ready to head the procession.
The time kept slipping along—Hawkins did not return—Sellers could not
venture to wait longer; so he attacked the bottle himself, and
proceeded to note the effects. Hawkins got back at last; took one
comprehensive glance at the lecturer, and went down and headed off the
procession. The ladies were grieved to hear that the champion had been
taken suddenly ill and violently so, but glad to hear that it was hoped
he would be out again in a few days.
As it turned out, the old gentleman didn’t turn over or show any signs
of life worth speaking of for twenty-four hours. Then he asked after
the procession, and learned what had happened about it. He was sorry;
said he had been “fixed” for it. He remained abed several days, and his
wife and daughter took turns in sitting with him and ministering to his
wants. Often he patted Sally’s head and tried to comfort her.
“Don’t cry, my child, don’t cry so; _you_ know your old father did it
by mistake and didn’t mean a bit of harm; you know he wouldn’t
intentionally do anything to make you ashamed for the world; you know
he was trying to do good and only made the mistake through ignorance,
not knowing the right doses and Washington not there to help. Don’t cry
so, dear, it breaks my old heart to see you, and think I’ve brought
this humiliation on you and you so dear to me and so good. I won’t ever
do it again, indeed I won’t; now be comforted, honey, that’s a good
child.”
But when she wasn’t on duty at the bedside the crying went on just the
same; then the mother would try to comfort her, and say:
“Don’t cry, dear, _he_ never meant any harm; it was all one of those
happens that you can’t guard against when you are trying experiments,
that way. You see _I_ don’t cry. It’s because I know him so well. I
could never look anybody in the face again if he had got into such an
amazing condition as that a-purpose; but bless you his intention was
pure and high, and that makes the _act_ pure, though it was higher than
was necessary. We’re not humiliated, dear, he did it under a noble
impulse and we don’t need to be ashamed. There, don’t cry any more,
honey.”
Thus, the old gentleman was useful to Sally, during several days, as an
explanation of her tearfulness. She felt thankful to him for the
shelter he was affording her, but often said to herself, “It’s a shame
to let him see in my crying a reproach—as if he could ever do anything
that could make me reproach him! But I can’t confess; I’ve got to go on
using him for a pretext, he’s the only one I’ve got in the world, and I
do need one so much.”
As soon as Sellers was out again, and found that stacks of money had
been placed in bank for him and Hawkins by the Yankee, he said, “_Now_
we’ll soon see who’s the Claimant and who’s the Authentic. I’ll just go
over there and warm up that House of Lords.” During the next few days
he and his wife were so busy with preparations for the voyage that
Sally had all the privacy she needed, and all the chance to cry that
was good for her. Then the old pair left for New York—and England.
Sally had also had a chance to do another thing. That was, to make up
her mind that life was not worth living upon the present terms. If she
_must_ give up her impostor and die, doubtless she must submit; but
might she not lay her whole case before some disinterested person,
first, and see if there wasn’t perhaps some saving way out of the
matter? She turned this idea over in her mind a good deal. In her first
visit with Hawkins after her parents were gone, the talk fell upon
Tracy, and she was impelled to set her case before the statesman and
take his counsel. So she poured out her heart, and he listened with
painful solicitude. She concluded, pleadingly, with—
“_Don’t_ tell me he is an impostor. I suppose he is, but doesn’t it
look to you as if he isn’t? You are cool, you know, and outside; and
so, maybe it can look to you as if he isn’t one, when it can’t to me.
_Doesn’t_ it look to you as if he isn’t? Couldn’t you—_can’t_ it look
to you that way—for—for my sake?”
The poor man was troubled, but he felt obliged to keep in the
neighborhood of the truth. He fought around the present detail a little
while, then gave it up and said he couldn’t really see his way to
clearing Tracy.
“No,” he said, “the truth is, he’s an impostor.”
“That is, you—you feel a little certain, but not entirely—oh, not
_entirely_, Mr. Hawkins!”
“It’s a pity to have to say it—I do hate to say it, but I don’t think
anything about it, I know he’s an impostor.”
“Oh, now, Mr. Hawkins, you _can’t_ go that far. A body _can’t_ really
know it, you know. It isn’t _proved_ that he’s not what he says he is.”
Should he come out and make a clean breast of the whole wretched
business? Yes—at least the most of it—it ought to be done. So he set
his teeth and went at the matter with determination, but purposing to
spare the girl one pain—that of knowing that Tracy was a criminal.
“Now I am going to tell you a plain tale; one not pleasant for me to
tell or for you to hear, but we’ve got to stand it. I know all about
that fellow; and I _know_ he is no earl’s son.”
The girl’s eyes flashed, and she said:
“I don’t care a snap for that—go on!”
This was so wholly unexpected that it at once obstructed the narrative;
Hawkins was not even sure that he had heard aright. He said:
“I don’t know that I quite understand. Do you mean to say that if he
was all right and proper otherwise you’d be indifferent about the earl
part of the business?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’d be entirely satisfied with him and wouldn’t _care_ for his not
being an earl’s son,—that _being_ an earl’s son wouldn’t add any value
to him?”
“Not the least value that I would care for. Why, Mr. Hawkins, I’ve
gotten over all that day-dreaming about earldoms and aristocracies and
all such nonsense and am become just a plain ordinary nobody and
content with it; and it is to _him_ I owe my cure. And as to anything
being able to add a value to him, nothing can do that. He is the whole
world to me, just as he is; he comprehends _all_ the values there
are—then how can you _add_ one?”
“She’s pretty far gone.” He said that to himself. He continued, still
to himself, “I must change my plan again; I can’t seem to strike one
that will stand the requirements of this most variegated emergency five
minutes on a stretch. Without making this fellow a criminal, I believe
I will invent a name and a character for him calculated to disenchant
her. If it fails to do it, then I’ll know that the next rightest thing
to do will be to help her to her fate, poor thing, not hinder her.”
Then he said aloud:
“Well, Gwendolen—”
“I want to be called Sally.”
“I’m glad of it; I like it better, myself. Well, then, I’ll tell you
about this man Snodgrass.”
“Snodgrass! Is _that_ his name?”
“Yes—Snodgrass. The other’s his nom de plume.”
“It’s hideous!”
“I know it is, but we can’t help our names.”
“And that is truly his real name—and not Howard Tracy?”
Hawkins answered, regretfully:
“Yes, it seems a pity.”
The girl sampled the name musingly, once or twice—
“Snodgrass. Snodgrass. No, I could not endure that. I could not get
used to it. No, I should call him by his first name. What is his first
name?”
“His—er—his initials are S. M.”
“His initials? I don’t care anything about his initials. I can’t call
him by his initials. What do they _stand_ for?”
“Well, you see, his father was a physician, and he—he—well he was an
idolater of his profession, and he—well, he was a very eccentric man,
and—”
“What do they _stand_ for! What are you shuffling about?”
“They—well they stand for Spinal Meningitis. His father being a phy—”
“I never heard such an infamous name! Nobody can ever call a person
_that_—a person they love. I wouldn’t call an enemy by such a name. It
sounds like an epithet.” After a moment, she added with a kind of
consternation, “Why, it would be _my_ name! Letters would come with it
on.”
“Yes—Mrs. Spinal Meningitis Snodgrass.”
“Don’t repeat it—don’t; I can’t bear it. Was the father a lunatic?”
“No, that is not charged.”
“I am glad of that, because that is transmissible. What do you think
_was_ the matter with him, then?”
“Well, I don’t really know. The family used to run a good deal to
idiots, and so, maybe—”
“Oh, there isn’t any maybe about it. This one was an idiot.”
“Well, yes—he could have been. He was suspected.”
“Suspected!” said Sally, with irritation. “Would one _suspect_ there
was going to be a dark time if he saw the constellations fall out of
the sky? But that is enough about the idiot, I don’t take any interest
in idiots; tell me about the son.”
“Very well, then, this one was the eldest, but not the favorite. His
brother, Zylobalsamum—”
“Wait—give me a chance to realize that. It is perfectly stupefying.
Zylo—what did you call it?”
“Zylobalsamum.”
“I never heard such a name: It sounds like a disease. Is it a disease?”
“No, I don’t think it’s a disease. It’s either Scriptural or—”
“Well, it’s not Scriptural.”
“Then it’s anatomical. I knew it was one or the other. Yes, I remember,
now, it _is_ anatomical. It’s a ganglion—a nerve centre—it is what is
called the zylobalsamum process.”
“Well, go on; and if you come to any more of them, omit the names; they
make one feel so uncomfortable.”
“Very well, then. As I said, this one was not a favorite in the family,
and so he was neglected in every way, never sent to school, always
allowed to associate with the worst and coarsest characters, and so of
course he has grown up a rude, vulgar, ignorant, dissipated ruffian,
and—”
“He? It’s no such thing! You ought to be more generous than to make
such a statement as that about a poor young stranger who—who—why, he is
the very opposite of that! He is considerate, courteous, obliging,
modest, gentle, refined, cultivated—_oh_, for shame! how can you say
such things about him?”
“I don’t blame you, Sally—indeed I haven’t a word of blame for you for
being blinded by—your affection—blinded to these minor defects which
are so manifest to others who—”
“Minor defects? Do you call these minor defects? What are murder and
arson, pray?”
“It is a difficult question to answer straight off—and of course
estimates of such things vary with environment. With us, out our way,
they would not necessarily attract as much attention as with you, yet
they are often regarded with disapproval—”
“Murder and arson are regarded with disapproval?”
“Oh, frequently.”
“With disapproval. Who _are_ those Puritans you are talking about? But
wait—how did you come to know so much about this family? Where did you
get all this hearsay evidence?”
“Sally, it isn’t hearsay evidence. That is the serious part of it. I
_knew_ that family—personally.”
This was a surprise.
“You? You actually knew them?”
“Knew Zylo, as we used to call him, and knew his father, Dr. Snodgrass.
I didn’t know your own Snodgrass, but have had glimpses of him from
time to time, and I heard about him all the time. He was the common
talk, you see, on account of his—”
“On account of his not being a house-burner or an assassin, I suppose.
That would have made him commonplace. Where did you know these people?”
“In Cherokee Strip.”
“Oh, how preposterous! There are not enough people in Cherokee Strip to
_give_ anybody a reputation, good or bad. There isn’t a quorum. Why the
whole population consists of a couple of wagon loads of horse thieves.”
Hawkins answered placidly—
“Our friend was one of those wagon loads.”
Sally’s eyes burned and her breath came quick and fast, but she kept a
fairly good grip on her anger and did not let it get the advantage of
her tongue. The statesman sat still and waited for developments. He was
content with his work. It was as handsome a piece of diplomatic art as
he had ever turned out, he thought; and now, let the girl make her own
choice. He judged she would let her spectre go; he hadn’t a doubt of it
in fact; but anyway, let the choice be made, and he was ready to ratify
it and offer no further hindrance.
Meantime Sally had thought her case out and made up her mind. To the
major’s disappointment the verdict was against him. Sally said:
“He has no friend but me, and I will not desert him now. I will not
marry him if his moral character is bad; but if he can prove that it
isn’t, I will—and he shall have the chance. To me he seems utterly good
and dear; I’ve never seen anything about him that looked
otherwise—except, of course, his calling himself an earl’s son. Maybe
that is only vanity, and no real harm, when you get to the bottom of
it. I do _not_ believe he is any such person as you have painted him. I
want to see him. I want you to find him and send him to me. I will
implore him to be honest with me, and tell me the whole truth, and not
be afraid.”
“Very well; if that is your decision I will do it. But Sally, you know,
he’s poor, and—”
“Oh, _I_ don’t care anything about that. That’s neither here nor there.
Will you bring him to me?”
“I’ll do it. When?—”
“Oh, dear, it’s getting toward dark, now, and so you’ll have to put it
off till morning. But you _will_ find him in the morning, _won’t_ you?
Promise.”
“I’ll have him here by daylight.”
“Oh, _now_ you’re your own old self again—and lovelier than ever!”
“I couldn’t ask fairer than that. Good-bye, dear.”
Sally mused a moment alone, then said earnestly, “I love him in _spite_
of his name!” and went about her affairs with a light heart.