matter of the letters. He might have objected to their being written at
all, but beyond that they were innocuous. For all the personality they
contained they might have been transcripts of Jimmie's reports to his
firm. He clung doggedly to his prescribed topics, and he could not have
devised a surer method of arousing the curiosity and the interest of
this spoiled young person. She spent hours, which should have been
devoted to the contemplation of approaching bliss, in reading between
the prosaic lines, in searching for sentiment in a catalogue of railway
stations, for tenderness in description of eccentric _tables d'hôte_.
Finding no trace of his old gallantry in all the closely written pages,
she attributed its absence to obedience and accepted it as the higher
tribute to her power. She was forced to judge her lover's longing by the
quantity rather than by the ardor of his words, and to detect the
yearning of a true lover's heart through such effectual disguise as:
"Drewitt is a fine old chap; as placid and as bright as this country
and a great deal more so than anyone you'll see in the windows of the
Union League Club. He received me so cordially that I felt awkward about
introducing the object of my visit, but when I had admired everything in
sight from the mountains in the distance to the rug I was sitting on, I
finally faced the situation and did it.
"'Dear me,' said he, 'are those directors still troubling themselves
about their transaction with me?' I admitted apologetically that they
were; that their books refused to close over the gap left by the
vanishing of $50,000, and that he was earnestly requested to return to
New York and to lend his acknowledged business acumen, etc., etc. He
never turned a hair. Said they--and I--were very kind. Nothing could
give him greater pleasure. But the ladies preferred Japan. Therefore he,
etc., etc., etc. But he would be delighted to explain the matter fully
to me; to supply me with all the figures and information I desired. (And
that, of course, is as much as I am expected to bring back.) But he
would have to postpone his return until--and you should have seen the
whimsical, quizzical old eye of his--until the nations would agree upon
new extradition treaties. Then, of course, etc., etc., etc. Meanwhile,
as there was no immediate urgency about the matter, as he hoped that I
would stay with them for as long a time as I cared to arrange, he would
suggest that we should join Mrs. Drewitt in the garden. She would
welcome news of our American friends. 'I need not ask you,' he added as
we went out through the wall-like people in a dream or a fairy tale, to
be discreet and casual in your conversation with the ladies. My daughter
is away this week visiting an old friend of hers who is married to a
missionary in a neighboring village. She knows the reason for our being
here. My wife does not. It need not be discussed with either of them.'
I should think not!
"And there in the garden was Mrs. Drewitt, a fat little old lady in a
flaming kimono and spectacles. She wears her hair as your Aunt Matilda
does, stuck to her forehead in scrolls. 'Water curls,' I think, is the
technical term. She was holding the head of a dejected marigold while a
native propped it up with a stick. It seemed she remembered my mother,
and we spent a delightful tea-time in a garden which was a part of the
same dream as the phantom wall. Then the old gentleman led me off by
myself and wanted to hear all about Broadway. Whether Oscar was still at
the Waldorf. Whether Fields and Weber made 'a good thing of it' apart.
Then the old lady led me off by myself and wanted to know who was now
the pastor of the Brick Church, and what was Maude Adam's latest play,
and whether skirts were worn long or short in the street.
"'You see this dress,' she said, 'is not really made for a woman of my
age. In fact, in this country all the bright and pretty colors are worn
by the waitresses. Geishas they call them. But Mr. Drewitt always liked
bright colors, and red is very becoming to me.' She was such a wistful,
pathetic, and incongruous little figure that I said something about
hoping that she would soon be in New York again. 'But,' she said, 'Mr.
Drewitt cannot leave his work here. Didn't you know that he is stationed
here to report the changes of the weather to Washington? It is very
important, and we can't go home until he is recalled. And, besides,'"
she went on with a half sob in her voice and a look in her eyes that
made her seem as young as her own daughter, 'and, besides, I would much
rather be here. In New York my husband was too busy. He had so many
calls upon his time, so many people to meet, and so many places to go,
that sometimes I hardly felt as though he belonged to me. But now for
days and weeks at a time we are together. And he has no business
worries. And his salary,' she brightened up to tell me, 'is almost as
good here as it used to be in the Trust Company for _much_ harder work.'
She's a sweet old thing--must have been quite a beauty once--and I wish
you could see old Drewitt's manner with her--so courteous and
affectionate--and hers with him--so adoring and confiding. It's
wonderful!
"It will take some time to get all the information I want from the old
man. He has the papers and he is quite willing to explain everything,
but we spend the larger part of every day in entertaining the old lady
and keeping her happy and unsuspicious."
A series of such letters covering several placid weeks reduced Miss
Knowles to a condition of moodiness and abstraction which all the
resources at her command failed to dissipate. In vain were the
practical blandishments of Mr. Stevenson; in vain her mother's shopping
triumphs; in vain were dinners given in her honor and receptions at
which she reigned supreme. None of her other experiments had resulted in
an engagement--an immunity which she now humbly attributed to the
watchful Jimmie--and she was dismayed at the determined and
matter-of-fact way in which she was called upon to fulfil her promise.
"If only Jimmie were at home!" she realized, "he would save me." This
was when the happy day was yet a great way off. "If only Jimmie would
come home," she wailed as the weeks grew to months, and even the comfort
of his letters failed her. For two months there had been no news of him,
and Fate--and Mr. Stevenson--were very near when, at last, she heard
from him again. He sent a telegram nearly as brief as his first letter.
"I am coming home," it announced, "I am coming home, and I'm going to
be married."
And the simple little words, waited for so long, remembered so clearly,
and coming, at last, so late, did what all Jimmie's more eloquent
pleadings had failed to do.
Sylvia Knowles, a creature made of vanities, realized that she loved
better than all her other vanities her place in this one man's regard.
No contemplation of Mr. Stevenson's estate on the Hudson, his shooting
lodge on a Scottish moor, his English abbey, and his Italian villa could
nerve her for the first meeting with Jimmie, could fortify her against
his first laughing repetition:
"_You_ married to Gilbert Stevenson," or his later scornful, "You
_married_ to Gilbert Stevenson."
So she dismissed Mr. Stevenson with as little feeling as she had annexed
him, and sought comfort in the knowledge that her mother was furious,
her own fortune ample, and that marrying for love was a graceful,
becoming pose and an unusual thing to do.
Her rejected suitor bore his disappointment as correctly as he had borne
his joy. He stormed the special center of philanthropy in which old
Marvin's little girl had buried herself, and she was most incorrectly
but refreshingly glad to see him. She destroyed forever his poise and
his pride in it when she sat upon his unaccustomed knee, rested her
tired head upon his immaculate shirt front, and wept for very happiness.
* * * * *
"And I remember," said Miss Knowles, "that you always take cream."
"Nothing, thank you," Jimmie corrected. "Just plain unadulterated tea. I
learned to like it in Japan. But don't bother about it. I haven't long
to stay. I came in to tell you--"
"That you're going to be married."
"How did you guess?"
"You didn't leave me to guess. Your telegram."
"Ah, yes!" quoth Jimmie. "I sent a lot of them before I sailed. But in
my letters--"
"You mentioned absolutely nothing but that stupid old Drewitt affair.
Never a word of the places you saw, the people you met, or even the
people you missed. Nothing of the customs, the girls, the clothes.
Nothing but that shuffling old Drewitt and his stuffy old wife. Nothing
about yourself."
"Orders are orders," quoth Jimmie, "and those were yours to me. I
remember exactly how it came about. We had been talking personalities. I
have an idea that I made rather a fool of myself, and that you told me
so. Then you, wisely conjecturing that I might write as foolishly as I
had talked, made out a list of subjects for my letters. My name, I noted
with some care, was not upon that list."
"Jimmie," said Miss Knowles, "I was cruel and heartless that day. I've
thought about it often."
"You've thought!" cried the genial Jimmie. "How had you time to think?
Where were all those 'anothers'?"
"There were none," lied Miss Knowles soulfully with a disdainful
backward glance toward Mr. Stevenson. "For a time I thought there was
one. But whenever I thought of that last talk of ours--you remember it,
don't you?"
"Of course. I told you I was going to be married as soon as I came home.
Well, and so I am."
"So you are. But I used to think that if you hesitated to tell me; if
you felt that I might still be hard about it and unsympathetic; if you
decided to confide no more in me--"
"But you would be sure to know. Even if I had not telegraphed I never
could have kept it a secret from you."
"Not easily. I should have been, as you observe, sure to know. Do you
remember how I always refused to believe you? It was not until you were
in that horrid Japan, where all the women are supposed to be
beautiful--"
"Yes," Jimmie acquiesced. "It was when I was in Japan."
"It was then that it began to seem possible that you would be married
when you came home. It was then that I began to realize that I didn't
deserve to be told of your plans. For I had been a fool, Jimmie. You had
been a fool, too, but not in the way you think. And so, if you will sit
where I sat that horrid day, we will begin that conversation all over
again and end it differently. The first speech was yours. Do you
remember it?"
"But I'm going to be married," said Jimmie.
"Good boy. He knows his lesson. And now I say, 'To the most beautiful
woman in the world?'"
"To the most beautiful woman God ever made. The dearest, the most
clever, the most simple."
"Simple," repeated Miss Knowles with some natural surprise. "Did you say
simple?"
"Simple and jolly and unaffected. As true and as bright as the stars.
And I'm going to marry her--"
"Now this," Miss Knowles interjected, "is where the difference comes.
You are to sit quite still and listen to me because a thing like
this--however long and carefully one had thought it out--is difficult in
the saying. So, I stand here before you where I can look at you; for
four months are long; and where you may, when I have quite finished,
kiss my hand again; for again four months are long. And I begin thus:
Jimmie, you are going to be married--"
"I told you first," cried Jimmie.
"But I knew it first," she countered, "to a woman who has learned to
love you during the past three months, but who could not do it more
utterly, more perfectly, if she had practiced through all the years that
you and I have been friends."
"So she says," Jimmie interrupted with sudden heat. "So she says. God
bless her!"
"And, ah, _how_ she is fond of you. 'Fond' is a darling of a word. It
keeps just enough of its old 'foolish' meaning to be human. Proud of
you, glad of you, fond of you--I think that this is, perhaps, the time
for you to kiss my hand."
"You're a darling," he said as he obeyed. "But what I can't
understand--"
"It's not your turn. You may talk after I finish if I leave anything for
you to say. See, I go on: You are going to marry--"
"The most beautiful woman in the world."
"That reminds me. What is she like? I've not heard her described for ages."
"Because there was no one in New York who could do justice to her."
"You are the knightliest of knights. Go on. Describe her."
"Well, she is neither very tall nor very small. But the grace of her,
the young, surpassing grace of her, makes you know as soon as your eyes
have rested on her that her height, whatever it chances to be, is the
perfect height for a woman. And then there is the noble heart of her.
What other daughter would have buried herself, as she has done, in a
little mountain village--"
Miss Knowles looked quickly about the luxurious room, then out upon the
busy avenue, then back at him, suspecting raillery. But he was staring
straight through her; straight into the land of visions. His eyes never
wavered when she moved slowly out of their range and sat, huddled and
white-faced, in the corner of a big chair.
"And all," Jimmie went on, "so bravely, so cheerily, that it makes
one's throat ache to see. And one's heart hot to see. Then there is the
beauty of her. Her hair is dark, her eyes are dark, but her skin is the
fairest in the world."
Miss Knowles pushed back a loose lace cuff and studied the arm it had
hidden. _La reine est morte_, she whispered, _morte, morte, morte_.
"But what puzzles me,", said the genial Jimmie, "is your knowing about
it all. I never wrote you a word of it, and as for Sylvia--by the way,
did you know that her name, like yours, is Sylvia?"
"Yes," said Miss Knowles, "I had even guessed that her name would be
Sylvia."
"You're a wonderful woman," Jimmie protested. "The most wonderful woman
in the world."
"Except?"
"Except, of course, Sylvia Drewitt."
"Ah, yes," said Miss Knowles. "Yes, of course."
THE SPIRIT OF CECELIA ANNE
"And all the rest and residue of my estate," read the lawyer, his
voice growing more impressive as he reached this most impressive clause,
"I give and bequeath to my beloved granddaughter and godchild Cecelia
Anne Hawtry for her own use and benefit forever."
The black-clothed relations whose faces had been turned toward the front
of the long drawing-room now swung round toward the back where a
fair-haired little girl, her hands spread guardian-wise round the new
black hat on her knees, lay asleep in her father's arms. For old Mrs.
Hawtry's "beloved granddaughter Cecelia Anne" was not yet too big to
find solace in sleep when she was tired and uninterested, being indeed
but nine years old and exceedingly small of stature and babyish of
habit. So she slept on and missed hearing all the provisions which were
meant to protect her in the enjoyment of her estate but which were
equally calculated to drive her guardian distracted.
"I leave nothing to my beloved son, James Hawtry," the document
continued, "because I consider that he has quite enough already. And I
leave nothing to his son, James Hawtry, Junior, the twin-brother of
Cecelia Anne Hawtry, because, though he and I have met but seldom, I
have formed the opinion that he is capable of winning his way in the
world without any aid from me."
James Hawtry, Junior, sitting beside the heiress, failed to derive much
satisfaction from this clause. If things were being given away, he was
not quite certain as to what "rest and residue" might mean, but if
things of any kind were being doled out he would fain have enjoyed them
with the rest.
Presently the lawyer read the final codicil and gathered his papers
together, then addressed the blank and disappointed assemblage with: "As
you have seen that all the minor bequests are articles of a household
nature--portraits, tableware and the like, 'portable property' as my
immortal colleague, Mr. Wemmick, would have said--I should suggest the
present to be an admirable time for their removal by the fortunate
legatees who may not again be in this neighbourhood. And now I have but
to congratulate the young lady who has succeeded to this property, a
really handsome property I may say, though the amount is not stated nor
even yet fully ascertained. If Miss Cecelia Anne Hawtry is present, I
should like to pay my respects to her and to wish her all happiness in
her new inheritance. I have never had the pleasure of meeting the
principal legatee. May I ask her to come forward and accept my
congratulations."
"Take her, Jimmie," commanded Mr. Hawtry, setting Cecelia down upon her
thin little black legs, while he tried to smooth her into presentable
shape in anticipation of the anxious cross-examination he was sure to
undergo when he returned with the children to his New York home and wife.
"She looked as fit as paint," he afterward assured that anxious
questioner. "I stood the bow out on her hair and pushed her dress down
just as I've seen you do hundreds of times. Jimmie helped, too, and I
declare to you, you'd have been as proud of those two kids as I was when
that boy led his little sister through the hostile camp. Funny, he felt
the hostility instantly, though of course, he didn't understand it. But
she--well, you know what a confiding little thing she is, and having
been asleep made her eyes look even more babyish than they always
do--walked beside him, smiling her soft little smile and looking about
three inches high in her little black dress."
"If I had been there," interrupted Mrs. Hawtry warmly, "I should have
murdered your sister Elizabeth before I allowed her to put that baby
into mourning. The black bow I packed for her hair would have been quite
enough."
"Well, she had it on. I saw it bobbing up the room while tenth and
fifteenth cousins seven or eight times removed, stared at it and at her.
But the person most surprised was old Debrett when Jimmie introduced them."
"'This is her,' remarked your son with more truth than polish, and I'm,
well, antecedently condemned, if that dry-as-dust old lawyer didn't
stoop and kiss her as he wished her joy."
"Ah, I'm glad he's as nice as that," said Mrs. Hawtry, "since he is to
be your co-trustee. However," she added a little wistfully, "I don't
like the idea of anybody dictating to us about the baby. It makes her
seem somehow not quite so much our very own. And we could have taken
care of her quite well without your mother's money and advice."
"Why, my dear," laughed her husband, "that's a novel attitude to adopt
toward a legacy. The baby is ours as much as she ever was. The advice is
as good as any I ever read. And the money will leave us all the more to
devote to Jimmie. There's the making of a good business man in Jimmie."
* * * * *
It was part of what Mrs. Hawtry for a long time considered the
interference of Cecelia Anne's grandmother that the child should have a
monthly allowance, small while she was small and growing with her
growth. She was to be allowed to spend it without supervision and to
keep an account of it. At the end of each year the trustees were to
examine these accounts and to judge from them the trend of their ward's
inclinations. They would be then in a position to curb or foster her
leanings as their judgment should dictate.
Now, Cecelia Anne, restored to her friends from a wonderland sort of
dream, called going--West--with--papa--on--the--train--and--living--
with--Aunt--Elizabeth, was too full of narration and too excited by the
envious regard of untraveled playmates to trouble overmuch about that
scene in the long drawing-room which she had never clearly understood.
The first monthly payment of her allowance failed to connect itself in
her mind with the journey. Her predominant emotion on the subject of
legacies was one of ardent gratitude to Jimmie. He had given her a
quarter out of the change they had received at the toyshop where they
had purchased the most beautiful sloop-yacht they had ever seen or
dreamed of. A quarter for her very own; Jimmie's generosity and
condescension extended even further than this. He also allowed her, the
day being warm, to carry the yacht for a considerable part of their
homeward journey, and, when the treasure was exhibited upon the topmost
of their own front steps, he allowed her twice to pull the sails up and
down. When he went to Central Park to sail the _Jennie H_, that being as
near the feminine form of Jimmie Hawtry as their learning carried them,
James, Junior, frequently allowed his sister to accompany him and his
envious fellows. Then it was her proud privilege to watch the _Jennie
H's_ wavering course and to rush around the margin of the lake ready to
"stand by" to receive her beloved bowsprit wherever she should dock.
Then all proudly would she set the rudder straight again and turn the
_Jennie H_ back to the landing-stage where Jimmie, surrounded by his
cohorts, all calm and cool in his magnificence, awaited this first
evidence of "the trend of Cecelia Anne's inclinations."
Not quite a year elapsed before Mr. Hawtry's genial co-trustee visited
his little ward. The reading of the will had taken place in November,
and on the last week of the following June, Mr. Debrett, chancing to be
in New York, decided to cultivate the acquaintance of Cecelia Anne. Mrs.
Hawtry and the twins were by this time settled in their country home in
Westchester, and Debrett, driving up from the station in the evening
with Mr. Hawtry, found it difficult to accept the freckled, barelegged,
blue-jumpered form which he saw in the garden, polishing the spokes of a
bicycle, as the ward who had lived all these months in his memory: a
fragile little figure in funeral black. Never had he seen so altered a
child, he assured Mrs. Hawtry with many congratulations. She seemed
taller, heavier, more self-assured. But the smile with which she put a
greasy little hand into his extended hand was misty and babyish still.
Presently, while the two men rested with long chairs and long glasses
and Mrs. Hawtry ministered to them, Jimmie appeared on the scene and
after exchanging proper greetings turned to inspect Cecelia Anne and her
work. "I think you've got it bright enough," he said with kindly
condescension. "You can go and get dressed for dinner now. And to-morrow
morning if I'm not using the wheel maybe I'll let you use it awhile."
"Oh, fank you!" said Cecelia Anne who had never quite outgrown her
babyhood's lisp, "and can I have the saddle lowered so's I can reach the
pedals?"
"Oh, I s'pose so," said Jimmie grudgingly. "Sometimes you act just like
a girl. You give 'em something and they always want, more. Now you run
on and open the stable door. I'm goin' to try if I can ride right into
the harness-room without getting off. Don't catch your foot in the door
and don't get too near Dolly's hind legs."
When the children had vanished around the corner of the house, Mrs.
Hawtry turned to Mr. Debrett.
"There's the explanation of Cecelia Anne's ruggedness," said she. "She
and Jimmie are inseparable. He has taught her all kinds of boys'
accomplishments. And she's as happy as a bird if she's only allowed to
trot around after him. It doesn't seem to make her in the least ungentle
or hoydenish and I feel that she's safer with him than with the gossipy
little girls down at the hotel."
"Not a doubt of it," Debrett heartily endorsed. "She couldn't have a
better adviser. Her grandmother, a very clever lady by the way, had a
high opinion of your son's practical mind. A useful antidote, I should
say, to his sister's extreme gentleness."
He found further confirmation of old Mrs. Hawtry's acumen when Mr.
Hawtry proposed that they should look over Cecelia Anne's disbursement
account, kept by herself, as the will had specified.
Cecelia Anne was delighted with the idea. Jimmie had wandered out to see
about the sports that were going to be held on the Fourth of July, and
so the burden of explanation fell upon the little heiress. She drew her
account book from its drawer in her father's desk, settled herself
comfortably in the hollow of his arm and proceeded to disclose the
"trend of her inclinations" as is evidenced by her shopping list:
"One sloop yat _Jennie H_ swoped for hockey skates when it got cold.
One air riffle.
Three Tickets.
One riding skirt.
Two Tickets.
Six white rats two died.
Four Tickets.
Leather Stocking Tales. Three Books.
Three Tickets.
Four Boxing Gloves.
Eight Tickets.
One bull tarrier dog and collar he fought Len Fogerty's dog bit him all
up and father sent him away."
"I remember him," said Mr. Hawtry, "a well-bred beast but a holy terror,
go on dear."
"One Byccle.
Three Tickets.
Stanley's Darkest Africa two books but not very new.
One printing press.
Two Tickets.
Treasure Island. One Book."
"And that's all the big things," finished Cecelia Anne in evident
relief. "Jimmie wrote down the prices, wouldn't you like to see them?"
And she crossed to Mr. Debrett and laid the open book on his knee.