About five o'clock that afternoon Ephraim was sitting in his
shirt-sleeves by the window of his room, and Cynthia was reading aloud to
him an article (about the war, of course) from a Washington paper, which
his friend, Mr. Beard, had sent him. There was a knock at the door, and
Cynthia opened it to discover a colored hall-boy with a roll in his hand.
"Mistah Ephum Prescott?" he said.
"Yes," answered Ephraim, "that's me."
Cynthia shut the door and gave him the roll, but Ephraim took it as
though he were afraid of its contents.
"Guess it's some of them war records from Amasy," he said.
"Oh, Cousin Eph," exclaimed Cynthia, excitedly, "why don't you open it?
If you don't I will."
"Guess you'd better, Cynthy," and he held it out to her with a trembling
hand.
Cynthia did open it, and drew out a large document with seals and
printing and signatures.
"Cousin Eph," she cried, holding it under his nose, "Cousin Eph, you're
postmaster of Brampton!"
Ephraim looked at the paper, but his eyes swam, and he could only make
out a dancing, bronze seal.
"I want to know!" he exclaimed. "Fetch Jethro."
But Cynthia had already flown on that errand. Curiously enough, she ran
into Jethro in the hall immediately outside of Ephraim's door. Ephraim
got to his feet; it was very difficult for him to realize that his
troubles were ended, that he was to earn his living at last. He looked at
Jethro, and his eyes filled with tears. "I guess I can't thank you as I'd
ought to, Jethro," he said, "leastways, not now."
"I'll thank him for you, Cousin Eph," said Cynthia. And she did.
"D-don't thank me," said Jethro, "I didn't have much to do with it, Eph.
Thank the President."
Ephraim did thank the President, in one of the most remarkable letters,
from a literary point of view, ever received at the White House. For the
art of literature largely consists in belief in what one is writing, and
Ephraim's letter had this quality of sincerity, and no lack of vividness
as well. He spent most of the evening in composing it.
Cynthia, too, had received a letter that day--a letter which she had read
several times, now with a smile, and again with a pucker of the forehead
which was meant for a frown. "Dear Cynthia," it said. "Where do you keep
yourself? I am sure you would not be so cruel if you knew that I was
aching to see you." Aching! Cynthia repeated the word, and remembered the
glimpse she had had of him in the dining room with Miss Janet Duncan.
"Whenever I have been free" (Cynthia repeated this also, somewhat
ironically, although she conceded it the merit of frankness), "Whenever I
have been free, I have haunted the corridors for a sight of you. Think of
me as haunting the hotel desk for an answer to this, telling me when I
can see you--and where. P.S. I shall be around all evening." And it was
signed, "Your friend and playmate, R. Worthington."
It is a fact--not generally known--that Cynthia did answer the
letter--twice. But she sent neither answer. Even at that age she was
given to reflection, and much as she may have approved of the spirit of
the letter, she liked the tone of it less. Cynthia did not know a great
deal of the world, it is true, but the felt instinctively that something
was wrong when Bob resorted to such means of communication. And she was
positively relieved, or thought that she was, when she went down to
supper and discovered that the table in the corner was empty.
After supper Ephraim had his letter to write, and Jethro wished to sit in
the corridor. But Cynthia had learned that the corridor was not the place
for a girl, so she explained--to Jethro that he would find her in the
parlor if he wanted her, and that she was going there to read. That
parlor Cynthia thought a handsome room, with its high windows and lace
curtains, its long mirrors and marble-topped tables. She established
herself under a light, on a sofa in one corner, and sat, with the book on
her lap watching the people who came and went. She had that delicious
sensation which comes to the young when they first travel--the sensation
of being a part of the great world; and she wished that she knew these
people, and which were the great, and which the little ones. Some of them
looked at her intently, she thought too intently, and at such times she
pretended to read. She was aroused by hearing some one saying:--"Isn't
this Miss Wetherell?"
Cynthia looked up and caught her breath, for the young lady who had
spoken was none other than Miss Janet Duncan herself. Seen thus
startlingly at close range, Miss Duncan was not at all like what Cynthia
had expected--but then most people are not. Janet Duncan was, in fact,
one of those strange persons who do not realize the picture which their
names summon up. She was undoubtedly good-looking; her hair, of a more
golden red than her brother's, was really wonderful; her neck was
slender; and she had a strange, dreamy face that fascinated Cynthia, who
had never seen anything like it.
She put down her book on the sofa and got up, not without a little tremor
at this unexpected encounter.
"Yes, I'm Cynthia Wetherell," she replied.
To add to her embarrassment, Miss Duncan seized both her hands
impulsively and gazed into her face.
"You're really very beautiful," she said. "Do you know it?"
Cynthia's only answer to this was a blush. She wondered if all city girls
were like Miss Duncan.
"I was determined to come up and speak to you the first chance I had,"
Janet continued. "I've been making up stories about you."
"Stories!" exclaimed Cynthia, drawing away her hands.
"Romances," said Miss Duncan--"real romances. Sometimes I think I'm going
to be a novelist, because I'm always weaving stories about people that I
see people who interest me, I mean. And you look as if you might be the
heroine of a wonderful romance."
Cynthia's breath was now quite taken away.
"Oh," she said, "I--had never thought that I looked like that."
"But you do," said Miss Duncan; "you've got all sorts of possibilities in
your face--you look as if you might have lived for ages."
"As old as that?" exclaimed Cynthia, really startled.
"Perhaps I don't express myself very well" said the other, hastily; "I
wish you could see what I've written about you already. I can do it so
much better with pen and ink. I've started quite a romance already."
"What is it?" asked Cynthia, not without interest.
"Sit down on the sofa and I'll tell you," said Miss Duncan; "I've done it
all from your face, too. I've made you a very poor girl brought up by
peasants, only you are really of a great family, although nobody knows
it. A rich duke sees you one day when he is hunting and falls in love
with you, and you have to stand a lot of suffering and persecution
because of it, and say nothing. I believe you could do that," added
Janet, looking critically at Cynthia's face.
"I suppose I could if I had to," said Cynthia, "but I shouldn't like it."
"Oh, it would do you good," said Janet; "it would ennoble your character.
Not that it needs it," she added hastily. "And I could write another
story about that quaint old man who paid the musicians to go away, and
who made us all laugh so much."
Cynthia's eye kindled.
"Mr. Bass isn't a quaint old man," she said; "he's the greatest man in
the state."
Miss Duncan's patronage had been of an unconscious kind. She knew that
she had offended, but did not quite realize how.
"I'm so sorry," she cried, "I didn't mean to hurt you. You live with him,
don't you--Coniston?"
"Yes," replied Cynthia, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
"I've heard about Coniston. It must be quite a romance in itself to live
all the year round in such a beautiful place and to make your own
clothes. Yours become you very well," said Miss Duncan, "although I don't
know why. They're not at all in style, and yet they give you quite an air
of distinction. I wish I could live in Coniston for a year, anyway, and
write a book about you. My brother and Bob Worthington went out there one
night and serenaded you, didn't they?"
"Yes," said Cynthia, that peculiar flash coming into her eyes again, "and
I think it was very foolish of them."
"Do you?" exclaimed Miss Duncan, in surprise; "I wish somebody would
serenade me. I think it was the most romantic thing Bob ever did. He's
wild about you, and so is Somers they have both told me so in
confidence."
Cynthia's face was naturally burning now.
"If it were true," she said, "they wouldn't have told you about it."
"I suppose that's so," said Miss Duncan, thoughtfully, "only you're very
clever to have seen it. Now that I know you, I think you a more
remarkable person than ever. You don't seem at all like a country girl,
and you don't talk like one."
Cynthia laughed outright. She could not help liking Janet Duncan, mere
flesh and blood not being proof against such compliments.
"I suppose it's because my father was an educated man," she said; "he
taught me to read and speak when I was young."
"Why, you are just like a person out of a novel! Who was your father?"
"He kept the store at Coniston," answered Cynthia, smiling a little
sadly. She would have liked to have added that William Wetherell would
have been a great man if he had had health, but she found it difficult to
give out confidences, especially when they were in the nature of
surmises.
"Well," said Janet, stoutly, "I think that is more like a story than
ever. Do you know," she continued, "I saw you once at the state capital
outside of our grounds the day Bob ran after you. That was when I was in
love with him. We had just come back from Europe then, and I thought he
was the most wonderful person I had ever seen."
If Cynthia had felt any emotion from this disclosure, she did not betray
it. Janet, moreover, was not looking for it.
"What made you change your mind?" asked Cynthia, biting her lip.
"Oh, Bob hasn't the temperament," said Janet, making use of a word that
she had just discovered; "he's too practical--he never does or says the
things you want him to. He's just been out West with us on a trip, and he
was always looking at locomotives and brakes and grades and bridges and
all such tiresome things. I should like to marry a poet," said Miss
Duncan, dreamily; "I know they want me to marry Bob, and Mr. Worthington
wants it. I'm sure, of that. But he wouldn't at all suit me."
If Cynthia had been able to exercise an equal freedom of speech, she
might have been impelled to inquire what young Mr. Worthington's views
were in the matter. As it was, she could think of nothing appropriate to
say, and just then four people entered the room and came towards them.
Two of these were Janet's mother and father, and the other two were Mr.
Worthington, the elder, and the Honorable Heth Sutton. Mrs. Duncan, whom
Janet did not at all resemble was a person who naturally commanded
attention. She had strong features, and a very decided, though not
disagreeable, manner.
"I couldn't imagine what had become of you, Janet," she said, coming
forward and throwing off her lace shawl. "Whom have you found--a school
friend?"
"No, Mamma," said Janet, "this is Cynthia Wetherell." "Oh," said Mrs.
Duncan, looking very hard at Cynthia in a near-sighted way, and, not
knowing in the least who she was; "you haven't seen Senator and Mrs.
Meade, have you, Janet? They were to be here at eight o'clock."
"No," said Janet, turning again to Cynthia and scarcely hearing the
question.
"Janet hasn't seen them, Dudley," said Mrs. Duncan, going up to Mr.
Worthington, who was pulling his chop whiskers by the door. "Janet has
discovered such a beautiful creature," she went on, in a voice which she
did not take the trouble to lower. "Do look at her, Alexander. And you,
Mr. Sutton--who are such a bureau of useful information, do tell me who
she is. Perhaps she comes from your part of the country--her name's
Wetherell."
"Wetherell? Why, of course I know her," said Mr. Sutton, who was greatly
pleased because Mrs. Duncan had likened him to an almanac: greatly
pleased this evening in every respect, and even the diamond in his bosom
seemed to glow with a brighter fire. He could afford to be generous
to-night, and he turned to Mr. Worthington and laughed knowingly. "She's
the ward of our friend Jethro," he explained.
"What is she?" demanded Mrs. Duncan, who knew and cared nothing about
politics, a country girl, I suppose."
"Yes," replied Mr. Sutton, "a country girl from a little village not far
from Clovelly. A good girl, I believe, in spite of the atmosphere in
which she has been raised."
"It's really wonderful, Mr. Sutton, how you seem to know every one in
your district, including the women and children," said the lady; "but I
suppose you wouldn't be where you are if you didn't."
The Honorable Heth cleared his throat.
"Wetherell," Mr. Duncan was saying, staring at Cynthia through his
spectacles, "where have I heard that name?"
He must suddenly have remembered, and recalled also that he and his ally
Worthington had been on opposite sides in the Woodchuck Session, for he
sat down abruptly beside the door, and remained there for a while. For
Mr. Duncan had never believed Mr. Merrill's explanation concerning poor
William Wetherell' s conduct.
"Pretty, ain't she?" said Mr. Sutton to Mr. Worthington. "Guess she's
more dangerous than Jethro, now that we've clipped his wings a little."
The congressman had heard of Bob's infatuation.
Isaac D. Worthington, however, was in a good humor this evening and was
moved by a certain curiosity to inspect the girl. Though what he had seen
and heard of his son's conduct with her had annoyed him, he did not
regard it seriously.
"Aren't you going to speak to your constituent, Mr. Sutton?" said Mrs.
Duncan, who was bored because her friends had not arrived; "a congressman
ought to keep on the right side of the pretty girls, you know."
It hadn't occurred to the Honorable Heth to speak to his constituent. The
ways of Mrs. Duncan sometimes puzzled him, and he could not see why that
lady and her daughter seemed to take more than a passing interest in the
girl. But if they could afford to notice her, certainly he could; so he
went forward graciously and held out his hand to Cynthia; interrupting
Miss Duncan in the middle of a discourse upon her diary.
"How do you do, Cynthia?" said Mr. Sutton. Had he been in Coniston, he
would have said, "How be you?"
Cynthia took the hand, but did not rise, somewhat to Mr. Sutton's
annoyance. A certain respect was due to a member of Congress and the
Rajah of Clovelly.
"How do you do, Mr. Sutton?" said Cynthia, very coolly.
"I like her," remarked Mrs. Duncan to Mr. Worthington.
"This is a splendid trip for you, eh, Cynthia?" Mr. Sutton persisted,
with a praiseworthy determination to be pleasant.
"It has turned out to be so, Mr. Sutton," replied Cynthia. This was not
precisely the answer Mr. Sutton expected, and to tell the truth, he
didn't know quite what to make of it.
"A great treat to see Washington and New York, isn't it?" said Mr.
Sutton, kindly, "a great treat for a Coniston girl. I suppose you came
through New York and saw the sights?"
"Is there another way to get to Washington?" asked Cynthia.
Mrs. Duncan nudged Mr. Worthington and drew a little nearer, while Mr.
Sutton began to wish he had not been lured into the conversation. Cynthia
had been very polite, but there was something in the quiet manner in
which the girl's eyes were fixed upon him that made him vaguely uneasy.
He could not back out with dignity, and he felt himself on the verge of
becoming voluble. Mr. Sutton prided himself on never being voluble.
"Why, no," he answered, "we have to go to New York to get anywhere in
these days." There was a slight pause. "Uncle Jethro taking you and Mr.
Prescott on a little pleasure trip?" He had not meant to mention Jethro's
name, but he found himself, to his surprise, a little at a loss for a
subject.
"Well, partly a pleasure trip. It's always a pleasure for Uncle Jethro to
do things for others," said Cynthia, quietly, "although people do not
always appreciate what he does for them."
The Honorable Heth coughed. He was now very uncomfortable, indeed. How
much did this astounding young person know, whom he had thought so
innocent?
"I didn't discover he was in town until I ran across him in the corridor
this evening. Should have liked to have introduced him to some of the
Washington folks--some of the big men, although not many of 'em are
here," Mr. Sutton ran on, not caring to notice the little points of light
in Cynthia's eyes. (The idea of Mr. Sutton introducing Uncle Jethro to
anybody!) "I haven't seen Ephraim Prescott. It must be a great treat for
him, too, to get away on a little trip and see his army friends. How is
he?"
"He's very happy," said Cynthia.
"Happy!" exclaimed Mr. Sutton. "Oh, yes, of course, Ephraim's always
happy, in spite of his troubles and his rheumatism. I always liked
Ephraim Prescott."
Cynthia did not answer this remark at all, and Mr. Sutton suspected
strongly that she did not believe it, therefore he repeated it.
"I always liked Ephraim. I want you to tell Jethro that I'm downright
sorry I couldn't get him that Brampton postmastership."
"I'll tell him that you are sorry, Mr. Sutton," replied Cynthia, gravely,
"but I don't think it'll do any good."
Not do any good!--What did the girl mean? Mr. Sutton came to the
conclusion that he had been condescending enough, that somehow he was
gaining no merit in Mrs. Duncan's eyes by this kindness to a constituent.
He buttoned up his coat rather grandly.
"I hope you won't misunderstand me, Cynthia," he said. "I regret
extremely that my sense of justice demanded that I should make David
Wheelock postmaster at Brampton, and I have made him so."
It was now Cynthia's turn to be amazed.
"But," she exclaimed, "but Cousin Ephraim is postmaster of Brampton."
Mr. Sutton started violently, and that part of his face not hidden by his
whiskers seemed to pale, and Mr: Worthington, usually self-possessed,
took a step forward and seized him by the arm.
"What does this mean, Sutton?" he said.
Mr. Sutton pulled himself together, and glared at Cynthia.
"I think you are mistaken," said he, "the congressman of the district
usually arranges these matters, and the appointment will be sent to Mr.
Wheelock to-morrow."
"But Cousin Ephraim already has the appointment," said Cynthia; "it was
sent to him this afternoon, and he is up in his room now writing to thank
the President for it."
"What in the world's the matter?" cried Mrs. Duncan, in astonishment.
Cynthia's simple announcement had indeed caused something of a panic
among the gentlemen present. Mr. Duncan had jumped up from his seat
beside the door, and Mr. Worthington, his face anything but impassive,
tightened his hold on the congressman's arm.
"Good God, Sutton!" he exclaimed, "can this be true?"
As for Cynthia, she was no less astonished than Mrs. Duncan. by the fact
that these rich and powerful gentlemen were so excited over a little
thing like the postmastership of Brampton. But Mr. Sutton laughed; it was
not hearty, but still it might have passed muster for a laugh.
"Nonsense," he exclaimed, making a fair attempt to regain his composure,
"the girl's got it mixed up with something else--she doesn't know what
she's talking about."
Mrs. Duncan thought the girl did look uncommonly as if she knew what she
was talking about, and Mr. Duncan and Mr. Worthington had some such
impression, too, as they stared at her. Cynthia's eyes flashed, but her
voice was no louder than before.
"I am used to being believed, Mr. Sutton," she said, "but here's Uncle
Jethro himself. You might ask him."
They all turned in amazement, and one, at least, in trepidation, to
perceive Jethro Bass standing behind them with his hands in his pockets,
as unconcerned as though he were under the butternut tree in Coniston.
"How be you, Heth?" he said. "Er--still got that appointment
p-practically in your pocket?"
"Uncle Jethro," said Cynthia, "Mr. Sutton does not believe me when I tell
him that Cousin Ephraim has been made postmaster of Brampton. He would
like to have you tell him whether it is so or not."
But this, as it happened, was exactly what the Honorable Heth did not
want to have Jethro tell him. How he got out of the parlor of the Willard
House he has not to this day a very clear idea. As a matter of fact, he
followed Mr. Worthington and Mr. Duncan, and they made their exit by the
farther door. Jethro did not appear to take any notice of their
departure.
"Janet," said Mrs. Duncan, "I think Senator and Mrs. Meade must have gone
to our sitting room." Then, to Cynthia's surprise, the lady took her by
the hand. "I can't imagine what you've done, my dear," she said
pleasantly, "but I believe that you are capable of taking care of
yourself, and I like you."
Thus it will be seen that Mrs. Duncan was an independent person.
Sometimes heiresses are apt to be.
"And I like you, too," said Janet, taking both of Cynthia's hands, "and I
hope to see you very, very often."
Jethro looked after them.
"Er--the women folks seem to have some sense," he said. Then he turned to
Cynthia. "B-be'n havin' some fun with Heth, Cynthy?" he inquired.
"I haven't any respect for Mr. Sutton," said Cynthia, indignantly; "it
serves him right for presuming to think that he could give a post-office
to any one."
Jethro made no remark concerning this presumption on the part of the
congressman of the district. Cynthia's indignation against Mr. Sutton was
very real, and it was some time before she could compose herself
sufficiently to tell Jethro what had happened. His enjoyment as he
listened may be imagined but presently he forgot this, and became aware
that something really troubled her.
"Uncle Jethro," she asked suddenly, "why do they treat me as they do?"
He did not answer at once. This was because of a pain around his
heart--had she known it. He had felt that pain before.
"H-how do they treat you, Cynthy?"
She hesitated. She had not yet learned to use the word patronize in the
social sense, and she was at a loss to describe the attitude of Mrs.
Duncan and her daughter, though her instinct had registered it. She was
at a loss to account for Mr. Worthington's attitude, too. Mr. Sutton's
she bitterly resented.
"Are they your enemies?" she demanded.
Jethro was in real distress.
"If they are," she continued, "I won't speak to them again. If they can't
treat me as--as your daughter ought to be treated, I'll turn my back on
them. I am--I am just like your daughter--am I not, Uncle Jethro?"
He put out his hand and seized hers roughly, and his voice was thick with
suffering.
"Yes, Cynthy," he said, "you--you're all I've got in the world."
She squeezed his hand in return.
"I know it, Uncle Jethro," she cried contritely, "I oughtn't to have
troubled you by asking. You--you have done everything for me, much more
than I deserve. And I shan't be hurt after this when people are too small
to appreciate how good you are, and how great."
The pain tightened about Jethro's heart--tightened so sharply that he
could not speak, and scarcely breathe because of it. Cynthia picked up
her novel, and set the bookmark.
"Now that Cousin Eph is provided for, let's go back to Coniston, Uncle
Jethro." A sudden longing was upon her for the peaceful life in the
shelter of the great ridge, and she thought of the village maples all red
and gold with the magic touch of the frosts. "Not that I haven't enjoyed
my trip," she added; "but we are so happy there."
He did not look at her, because he was afraid to.
"C-Cynthy," he said, after a little pause, "th-thought we'd go to
Boston."
"Boston, Uncle Jethro!"
"Er--to-morrow--at one--to-morrow--like to go to Boston?"
"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I remember parts of it. The Common, where
I used to walk with Daddy, and the funny old streets that went uphill. It
will be nice to go back to Coniston that way--over Truro Pass in the
train."
That night a piece of news flashed over the wires to New England, and the
next morning a small item appeared in the Newcastle Guardian to the
effect that one Ephraim Prescott had bean appointed postmaster at
Brampton. Copied in the local papers of the state, it caused some
surprise in Brampton, to be sure, and excitement in Coniston. Perhaps
there were but a dozen men, however, who saw its real significance, who
knew through this item that Jethro Bass was still supreme--that the
railroads had failed to carry this first position in their war against
him.
It was with a light heart the next morning that Cynthia, packed the
little leather trunk which had been her father's. Ephraim was in the
corridor regaling his friend, Mr. Beard, with that wonderful encounter
with General Grant which sounded so much like a Fifth Reader anecdote of
a chance meeting with royalty. Jethro's room was full of visiting
politicians. So Cynthia, when she had finished her packing, went out to
walk about the streets alone, scanning the people who passed her, looking
at the big houses, and wondering who lived in them. Presently she found
herself, in the middle of the morning, seated on a bench in a little
park, surrounded by colored mammies and children playing in the paths. It
seemed a long time since she had left the hills, and this glimpse of
cities had given her many things to think and dream about. Would she
always live in Coniston? Or was her future to be cast among those who
moved in the world and helped to sway it? Cynthia felt that she was to be
of these, though she could not reason why, and she told herself that the
feeling was foolish. Perhaps it was that she knew in the bottom of her
heart that she had been given a spirit and intelligence to cope with a
larger life than that of Coniston. With a sense that such imaginings were
vain, she tried to think what the would do if she were to become a great
lady like Mrs. Duncan.
She was aroused from these reflections by a distant glimpse, through the
trees, of Mr. Robert Worthington. He was standing quite alone on the edge
of the park, his hands in his pockets, staring at the White House.
Cynthia half rose, and then sat down and looked at him again. He wore a
light gray, loose-fitting suit and a straw hat, and she could not but
acknowledge that there was something stalwart and clean and altogether
appealing in him. She wondered, indeed, why he now failed to appeal to
Miss Duncan, and she began to doubt the sincerity of that young lady's
statements. Bob certainly was not romantic, but he was a man--or would be
very soon.
Cynthia sat still, although her impulse was to go away. She scarcely
analyzed her feeling of wishing to avoid him. It may not be well, indeed,
to analyze them on paper too closely. She had an instinct that only pain
could come from frequent meetings, and she knew now what but a week ago
was a surmise, that he belonged to the world of which she had been
dreaming--Mrs. Duncan's world. Again, there was that mysterious barrier
between them of which she had seen so many evidences. And yet she sat
still on her bench and looked at him.
Presently he turned, slowly, as if her eyes had compelled his. She sat
still--it was too late, then. In less than a minute he was standing
beside her, looking down at her with a smile that had in it a touch of
reproach.
"How do you do, Mr. Worthington?" said Cynthia, quietly.
"Mr. Worthington!" he cried, "you haven't called me that before. We are
not children any more," she said.
"What difference does that make?"
"A great deal," said Cynthia, not caring to define it.
"Cynthia," said Mr. Worthington, sitting down on the beach and facing
her, "do you think you've treated me just right?"
"Of course I do," she said, "or I should have treated you differently."
Bob ignored such quibbling.
"Why did you run away from that baseball game in Brampton? And why
couldn't you have answered my letter yesterday, if it were only a line?
And why have you avoided me here in Washington?"
It is very difficult to answer for another questions which one cannot
answer for one's self.
"I haven't avoided you," said Cynthia.
"I've been looking for you all over town this morning," said Bob, with
pardonable exaggeration, "and I believe that idiot Somers has, too."
"Then why should you call him an idiot?" Cynthia flashed.
Bob laughed.
"How you do catch a fellow up!" said he; admiringly. "We both found out
you'd gone out for a walk alone."
"How did you find it out?"
"Well," said Bob, hesitating, "we asked the colored doorkeeper."
"Mr. Worthington," said Cynthia, with an indignation that made him quail,
"do you think it right to ask a doorkeeper to spy on my movements?"
"I'm sorry, Cynthia," he gasped, "I--I didn't think of it that way--and
he won't tell. Desperate cases require desperate remedies, you know."
But Cynthia was not appeased.
"If you wanted to see me," she said, "why didn't you send your card to my
room, and I would have come to the parlor."
"But I did send a note, and waited around all day."
How was she to tell him that it was to the tone of the note she
objected--to the hint of a clandestine meeting? She turned the light of
her eyes full upon him.
"Would you have been content to see me in the parlor?" she asked. "Did
you mean to see me there?"
"Why, yes," said he; "I would have given my head to see you anywhere,
only--"
"Only what?"
"Duncan might have came in and spoiled it."
"Spoiled what?"
Bob fidgeted.
"Look here, Cynthia," he said, "you're not stupid--far from it. Of course
you know a fellow would rather talk to you alone."
"I should have been very glad to have seen Mr. Duncan, too."
"You would, would you!" he exclaimed. "I shouldn't have thought that."
"Isn't he your friend?" asked Cynthia.
"Oh, yes," said Bob, "and one of the best in the world. Only--I shouldn't
have thought you'd care to talk to him." And he looked around for fear
the vigilant Mr. Duncan was already in the park and had discovered them.
Cynthia smiled, and immediately became grave again.
"So it was only on Mr. Duncan's account that you didn't ask me to come
down to the parlor?" she said.
Bob was in a quandary. He was a truthful person, and he had learned
something of the world through his three years at Cambridge. He had seen
many young women, and many kinds of them. But the girl beside him was
such a mixture of innocence and astuteness that he was wholly at a loss
how to deal with her--how to parry her searching questions.
"Naturally--I wanted to have you all to myself," he said; "you ought to
know that."
Cynthia did not commit herself on this point. She wished to go
mercilessly to the root of the matter, but the notion of what this would
imply prevented her. Bob took advantage of her silence.
"Everybody who sees you falls a victim, Cynthia," he went on; "Mrs.
Duncan and Janet lost their hearts. You ought to have heard them praising
you at breakfast." He paused abruptly, thinking of the rest of that
conversation, and laughed. Bob seemed fated to commit himself that day.
"I heard the way you handled Heth Sutton," he said, plunging in. "I'll
bet he felt as if he'd been dropped out of the third-story window," and
Bob laughed again. "I'd have given a thousand dollars to have been there.
Somers and I went out to supper with a classmate who lives in Washington,
in that house over there," and he pointed casually to one of the imposing
mansions fronting on the park. "Mrs. Duncan said she'd never heard
anybody lay it on the way you did. I don't believe you half know what
happened, Cynthia. You made a ten-strike."
"A ten-strike?" she repeated.
"Well," he said, "you not only laid out Heth, but my father and Mr.
Duncan, too. Mrs. Duncan laughed at 'em--she isn't afraid of anything.
But they didn't say a word all through breakfast. I've never seen my
father so mad. He ought to have known better than to run up against Uncle
Jethro."
"How did they run up against Uncle Jethro?" asked Cynthia, now keenly
interested.
"Don't you know?" exclaimed Bob, in astonishment.
"No," said Cynthia, "or I shouldn't have asked."
"Didn't Uncle Jethro tell you about it?"
"He never tells me anything about his affairs," she answered.
Bob's astonishment did not wear off at once. Here was a new phase, and he
was very hard put. He had heard, casually, a good deal of abuse of Jethro
and his methods in the last two days.
"Well," he said, "I don't know anything about politics. I don't know
myself why father and Mr. Duncan were so eager for this post-mastership.
But they were. And I heard them say something about the President going
back on them when they had telegraphed from Chicago and come to see him
here. And maybe they didn't let Heth in for it. It seems Uncle Jethro
only had to walk up to the White House. They ought to have sense enough
to know that he runs the state. But what's the use of wasting time over
this business?" said Bob. "I told you I was going to Brampton before the
term begins just to see you, didn't I?"
"Yes, but I didn't believe you," said Cynthia.
"Why not?" he demanded.
"Because it's my nature, I suppose," she replied.
This was too much for Bob, exasperated though he was, and he burst into
laughter.
"You're the queerest girl I've ever known," he said.
Not a very original remark.
"That must be saying a great deal," she answered.
"Why?"
"You must have known many."
"I have," he admitted, "and none of 'em, no matter how much they'd
knocked about, were able to look out for themselves any better than you."
"Not even Cassandra Hopkins?" Cynthia could not resist saying. She saw
that she had scored; his expressions registered his sensations so
accurately.
"What do you know about her?" he said.
"Oh," said Cynthia, mysteriously, "I heard that you were very fond of her
at Andover."
Bob could not help pluming himself a little. He thought the fact that she
had mentioned the matter a flaw in Cynthia's armor, as indeed it was. And
yet he was not proud of the Cassandra Hopkins episode in his career.
"Cassandra is one of the institutions at Andover," said he; "most fellows
have to take a course in Cassandra to complete their education."
"Yours seems to be very complete," Cynthia retorted.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, looking at her, "no wonder you made
mince-meat of the Honorable Heth. Where did you learn it all, Cynthia?"
Cynthia did not know. She merely wondered where she would be if she
hadn't learned it. Something told her that if it were not for this anchor
she would be drifting out to sea: might, indeed, soon be drifting out to
sea in spite of it. It was one thing for Mr. Robert Worthington, with his
numerous resources, to amuse himself with a girl in her position; it
would be quite another thing for the girl. She got to her feet and held
out her hand to him.
"Good-by," she said.
"Good-by?"
"We are leaving Washington at one o'clock, and Uncle Jethro will be
worried if I am not in time for dinner."
"Leaving at one! That's the worst luck I've had yet. But I'm going back
to the hotel myself."
Cynthia didn't see how she was to prevent him walking with her. She would
not have admitted to herself that she had enjoyed this encounter, since
she was trying so hard not to enjoy it. So they started together out of
the park. Bob, for a wonder, was silent awhile, glancing now and then at
her profile. He knew that he had a great deal to say, but he couldn't
decide exactly what it was to be. This is often the case with young men
in his state of mind: in fact, to be paradoxical again, he might hardly
be said at this time to have had a state of mind. He lacked both an
attitude and a policy.
"If you see Duncan before I do, let me know," he remarked finally.
Cynthia bit her lip. "Why should I?" she asked.
"Because we've only got five minutes more alone together, at best. If we
see him in time, we can go down a side street."
"I think it would be hard to get away from Mr. Duncan if we met him--even
if we wanted to," she said, laughing outright.
"You don't know how true that is," he replied, with feeling.
"That sounds as though you'd tried it before."
He paid no attention to this thrust.
"I shan't see you again till I get to Brampton," he said; "that will be a
whole week. And then," he ventured to look at her, "I shan't see you
until the Christmas holidays. You might be a little kind, Cynthia. You
know I've--I've always thought the world of you. I don't know how I'm
going to get through the three months without seeing you."
"You managed to get through a good many years," said Cynthia, looking at
the pavement.
"I know," he said; "I was sent away to school and college, and our lives
separated."
"Yes, our lives separated," she assented.
"And I didn't know you were going to be like--like this," he went on,
vaguely enough, but with feeling.
"Like what?"
"Like--well, I'd rather be with you and talk to you than any girl I ever
saw. I don't care who she is," Bob declared, "or how much she may have
traveled." He was running into deep water. "Why are you so cold,
Cynthia?" "Why can't you be as you used to be? You used to like me well
enough."
"And I like you now," answered Cynthia. They were very near the hotel by
this time.
"You talk as if you were ten years older than I," he said, smiling
plaintively.
She stopped and turned to him, smiling. They had reached the steps.
"I believe I am, Bob," she replied. "I haven't seen much of the world,
but I've seen something of its troubles. Don't be foolish. If you're
coming to Brampton just to see me, don't come. Good-by." And she gave him
her hand frankly.
"But I will come to Brampton," he cried, taking her hand and squeezing
it. "I'd like to know why I shouldn't come."
As Cynthia drew her hand away a gentleman came out of the hotel, paused
for a brief moment by the door and stared at them, and then passed on
without a word or a nod of recognition. It was Mr. Worthington. Bob
looked after his father, and then glanced at Cynthia. There was a trifle
more color in her cheeks, and her head was raised a little, and her eyes
were fixed upon him gravely.
"You should know why not," she said, and before he could answer her she
was gone into the hotel. He did not attempt to follow her, but stood
where she had left him in the sunlight.
He was aroused by the voice of the genial colored doorkeeper.
"Wal, suh, you found the lady, Mistah Wo'thington. Thought you would,
suh. T'other young gentleman come in while ago--looked as if he was
feelin' powerful bad, Mistah Wo'thington."