Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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LADY LARKSPUR
BY
MEREDITH NICHOLSON
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1919
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COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published March, 1919
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY P. F. COLLIER & SONS, INC.
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TO BENNETT AND PEGGY GATES
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE "TROOPS" 1
II. THE AMAZING WIDOW 38
III. A FAN 79
IV. PURSUING KNIGHTS 112
V. ALICE 138
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CHAPTER I
THE "TROOPS"
"It was hard luck," said Searles, "that I should spend a year writing a
play for a woman only to find that she had vanished--jumped off the
earth into nowhere. This was my highest flight, Singleton, the best
writing I ever did, and after the vast pains I took with the thing, the
only woman I ever saw who could possibly act it is unavailable; worse
than that, absolutely undiscoverable! Nobody knows I have this script;
I've kept quiet about it simply because I'm not going to be forced into
accepting a star I don't want. I have a feeling about this play that I
never had about my other things. That girl was its inspiration. The
public has been so kind to my small offerings that I'm trying to lead
'em on to the best I can do; something a little finer and more
imaginative, with a touch of poetry, if you please. And now----"
He rose from his broad work-table (he scorned the familiar type of desk)
and glared at me as though I were responsible for his troubles. As he
knew I had been flying in the French Aviation Corps for two years and
had just been invalided home, I didn't think it necessary to establish
an alibi. But I hastened to express my sympathy for his predicament.
Fate had been kind to Dick Searles. In college he had written a play or
two that demonstrated his talent, and after a rigid apprenticeship as
scene-shifter and assistant producer he had made a killing with "Let
George Do It," a farce that earned enough to put him at ease and make
possible an upward step into straight comedy. Even as we talked a
capacity house was laughing at his skit, "Who Killed Cock Robin?" just
around the corner from his lodgings. So his story was not the invention
of a rejected playwright to cover the non-appearance of a play which
nobody would produce.
"Isn't it always a mistake to write a play for a particular star?" I
suggested. "Seems to me I've read somewhere that that is among the
besetting sins of you playwrights."
"Old stuff, my boy; but this isn't one of those cases. The person I had
in mind for this play wasn't a star, but a beginner, quite unknown. It
was when I was in London putting on 'Fairy Gold' that I saw her; she had
a small part in a pantomime, and pantomime is the severest test of an
actor's powers, you know. A little later she appeared in 'Honourable
Women,' a capital play that died early, but there again I felt her
peculiar charm--it was just that. Her part was a minor one, but she wore
it as she might wear a glove; she was exquisite! No one ever captured my
imagination as she did. I watched her night after night. I was afraid
that when I heard her voice it would break the spell, and I actually
shook like a man with an ague when she tripped out on the stage as the
ingénue in 'Honourable Women.' And her laughter! You know how hollow the
usual stage mirth is, but that girl's laugh had the joy of the lark
ascending!"
"By Jove!" I ejaculated, "there's more here than appears. You're in love
with the girl!"
"Rubbish," he cried impatiently. "You'll think I'm talking rot, but
this girl was the visualization of a character I had dreamed of and
groped after for years. That's all; but it's a whole lot, I can tell
you!"
"Of course, you established lines of communication and gave her a hint
that you meant to write a play for her?"
"Certainly not! That would have spoiled the whole thing. It was her art,
not the woman, that interested me. I didn't want to take the chance of
being disillusioned. I have been through that experience, and I prefer
not to meet the people who act in my pieces. I want their art, not their
views on human destiny or the best place to get lobster à la Newburg."
"Let us be practical for a moment, Searles," I urged. "Emperors,
presidents, and popular murderers are not more conspicuous than the
people of the stage. No girl talented enough to get two engagements,
even for small parts, in a first-class London theatre could vanish. With
your acquaintance in the profession you'd be able to trace her anywhere
on earth. By the way, what did the paragon call herself?"
"Violet Dewing was her stage name and the only name the managers knew
her by. I assumed that, of course, all I had to do was to finish my play
and then have Dalton, who represents me over there, make an appointment
to read it to her; but Dalton worked for three months trying to find
her, without success. She clearly wasn't the product of the provincial
theatres--hadn't any of the marks. I wasn't the only person who was
interested in her. Dalton said half a dozen managers had their eye on
her, but after 'Honourable Women' closed she stepped into the void. I
know what you're thinking--that the other members of the two companies
she appeared with must have had some inkling of her identity, but I tell
you Dalton and I exhausted the possibilities. It was by accident that
she got her chance in the pantomime--some one wouldn't do at the last
minute, and they gave Miss Dewing a trial. She was well liked by her
associates in spite of the fact that she was a bit offish and vanished
from their world the minute the curtain fell."
"A clever governess out of a job, satisfying a craving for excitement
and playing the mysterious rôle as part of the adventure. Am I to
assume that you've burned your play and that the incident is closed?"
"Oh, I didn't burn it; I have a copy locked in a safety vault, and
Dalton left one heavily sealed at a small exclusive London hotel where,
he found after much difficulty, the girl had lodged during her two
engagements."
"You're morbid," I said. "Show me her photograph."
He laughed ironically. "Never a chance, Singleton! You haven't yet got
the idea that this young woman is out of the ordinary. She refused to be
photographed--wrote it into her two contracts that this was not to be
asked. I never saw her off the stage, and I can't give you a description
of her that would be of the slightest assistance to the keenest
detective alive. As I've tried to convey to your practical mind, it's
the spirit of the girl--the spirit of comedy, that I've dramatized--not
a girl you take out to supper only to find that she has no wit, no
charm, no anything but a monstrous appetite for indigestible food and a
silly ambition to play rôles the gods never intended her to play. In
that pantomime she was a frolic, the clown's daughter, and, though
nobody saw it, she was the whole piece, the elusive sprite that could
evoke laughter and tears by a gesture, a lifting of the brows, a
grimace. By utterly different methods in 'Honourable Women' she proved
her wide range of appeal. The chap who produced 'Honourable Women' told
me that after the first rehearsal Bayley, the author, begged him for
God's sake to let the girl do it her own way, so as not to lose her
freshness and spontaneity. Hers was the one true characterization in the
piece. When Terry was in her prime you remember how we used to say that
only one bird sang like that, and from paradise it flew? Well, this bird
sings on the same branch! Her voice was her charm made audible! She's
the most natural being I ever saw on the stage, and she can _look_ more
comedy than anybody else I ever saw act!"
"Rave some more!" I pleaded. "You never talked better in your life."
"Don't be an ass," he said sourly. "Let's forget her and take a squint
at your affairs. Just what do you mean to do with yourself?"
"My shoulder still creaks a little, and the doctors advise me to sit
around for a while. They offered me some jobs in Washington, but desk
work and inspection duty are too tame after a couple of years spent in
star climbing. The doctors tell me to cultivate repose for a few months
and maybe they'll pass me into our flying corps, but they don't promise
anything. I'm going up to Barton-on-the-Sound and I'll camp in the
garage on my uncle's place. You remember that I built the thing myself,
and the quarters are good enough for a busted veteran."
"Your uncle played you a nasty trick," interrupted Searles; "getting
married and then adding to the crime by dying. You couldn't beat that
for general spitefulness."
"Do you remember the immortal lines:
"'Oh, skip your dear uncle!'
The Bellman exclaimed
As he angrily tingled his bell"?
"Oh, I'm not knocking the dead!" he protested. "Mr. Bashford always
struck me as a pretty decent, square sort of chap, and not at all the
familiar grouchy uncle of fiction and the drama. I made notes on him
from time to time with a view to building a play around him--the perfect
uncle, unobtrusive, never blustering at his nephew; translating the
avuncular relationship into something remote and chaste like a distant
view of Mount Washington in winter. As I recall, there were only two
great passions in your uncle's life--Japanese art and green-turtle soup.
It was just like him to retire from business on his sixtieth birthday
and depart for the Orient, there to commit the shameless indiscretion of
matrimony."
"Like him! It was the greatest shock of my life. To the best of my
knowledge he never knew any women except the widow of his partner in the
importing house. He used to dine with her now and then, and I caught him
once sending her flowers at Easter--probably an annual stunt. She was
about eighty and perfectly safe. He spent twenty years in the Tyringham,
the dullest and most respectable hotel in the world, and his chief
recreation was a leisurely walk in the park before going to bed. You
could set your clock by him. Pretty thin picking for a dramatist, I
should think. He used to take me to the theatre regularly every other
Thursday--it was a date--and his favorite entertainment was vaudeville
with black-face embellishment preferred. You should add that to Japanese
pottery and potage à la tortue. He joined the yacht club just because
the green turtle at that joint is the best in New York. Yachts! He never
sailed in anything but the biggest steamers, and got no fun out of that.
I crossed with him twice, and he never left his bunk. But in his shy
fashion he was kind and generous and mighty good to me."
"If you hadn't gone to war, but had kept right at his elbow, the
marriage might have been averted," suggested Searles. "He did leave you
something, didn't he?"
"Fifty thousand cash and the right to use the garage at the Barton farm.
Calling it a farm is a joke; it's rocks mostly. He bought the house to
have a place to store his prints and ceramics. He hated motoring except
in taxis up and down town, and when I urged him to set up a machine, he
told me to go ahead and buy one and build the garage. He rather sniffed
at the writing I do, but told me I'd better fix up a studio in the
garage and have it as a place to work in. His will provides that I may
lodge in the garage for life."
"The estate footed a million, as I remember, so I can't praise his
generosity. But the widow, your unknown auntie, the body-snatcher who
annexed the old boy--what of her?"
"I've asked the trust company people whether she's in sight anywhere,
and they assure me that she is not on these shores. Torrence, the third
vice-president--you know Torry; he was in the class ahead of us at
college, the man who never smiles--Torry seemed anxious to learn about
her from me, which is certainly droll. He said she acknowledged her last
remittance three months ago from Bangkok--wherever that is. Torry
couldn't see that Bangkok is so absurdly remote that the idea of a
widow's strolling off there is funny. I suppose the old girl's resumed
her tour of the world looking for another retired merchant to add to her
list."
"Very likely. To what nation, tribe, or human group does this predatory
person belong?"
"I'll tell you all I know. Just as I was sailing for France I got a
letter from Uncle Bash stating in the most businesslike fashion that he
was about to be married to a lady he had met on his trip out to Japan.
The dire event was to occur at the American Embassy the following day.
From which I judged that my presence at the ceremony was neither
expected nor desired. Oddly enough, months afterward, I picked up an
English paper in a French inn that contained an announcement of the
marriage in the usual advertisement form. The lady was succinctly
described as Mrs. Alice Wellington Cornford, widow of the late Archibald
Reynolds Cornford, Pepperharrow Road, Hants. All Torrence knows of the
subsequent proceedings is what he got in official reports of Uncle
Bash's death from the consul-general at Tokyo. He was buried over there
and the life-insurance companies were rather fussy about the legal
proof, Torry says. Whether the widow expects to come to America
ultimately or will keep moving through the Orient marrying husbands and
burying them is a dark mystery. If she should turn up, the house at
Barton is hers, of course, but with her roving disposition I fancy my
aunt Alice wouldn't like the place. The Jap stuff is worth a bit of
money, and if the lady is keen for such things and not a mere
adventuress she may take it into her head one of these days to come over
and inspect the loot."
"I can see the vampire," said Searles musingly, "landing at the Grand
Central with enough hand-luggage to fill a freight-car; a big, raw-boned
creature, with a horse face and a horrible mess as to clothes. You will
be there to meet her, deferential, anxious to please. You will pilot her
up the coast to Barton, tip the servants heavily to keep them from
murdering her, and twiddle your thumbs in your garage as you await her
further pleasure. By the way, are those ancient freaks still on the
place--those broken-down hotel employees who were your uncle's sole
experiment in philanthropy?"
"Torrence assures me that they are all very much there."
Searles yielded himself to laughter. "An Englishwoman with lofty ideas
of domestic service would certainly enjoy a romp with that crew. I
supposed the trust company had brushed them into the Sound before this."
"Oh, they are in the same class with me," I explained. "The place can't
be sold till I die, and while I live they're to be harbored--about
thirty of them--clothed and victualled."
"I think there's a farce in the idea, and I may try it one of these
days," he said, scribbling in his note-book. "A refuge for broken-down
chambermaids, venerable bell-hops grown gray in the service, and the
head waiter who amassed a fortune in tips and then toyed with the market
once too often and lost his ill-gotten gains. What was the head waiter's
name who presided with so much stateliness in the dining-room of the
Tyringham? I mean the white-haired chap who was so particular about the
foot-cushions for the nice old ladies in caps and lavender ribbons and
India shawls--I think I can work him in somewhere."
"That's Antoine, who married the assistant housekeeper at the
Tyringham. He's the butler and has charge of the place--a sort of
commander-in-chief of the outfit. When I get settled I'll ask you up and
you can study the bunch at leisure."
"Splendid! Reserve one room for me on the sunny side of the garage and
I'll be up in a couple of weeks. I'm going to Ohio to-morrow for a
family reunion and a look at the loved spots my infancy knew."
"You're lucky to have home-folks even in Ohio," I remarked enviously.
"Well, there's always your distant auntie, cruising the seven seas in
pursuit of husbands. Nobody with an aunt to his credit can pretend to be
alone in the world. There _is_ something about an aunt, Singleton! Aunts
must rank just a little below mothers in the heavenly kingdom. When I
was a boy out in Ohio there were two great occasions every year in my
life--one when I went to visit a grand old aunt I had in the country,
the other when she visited us, arriving with a wagon-load of jam, jelly,
salt-rising bread, pound-cake, and other unpurchasable manna."
"Stop! or I'll call the food censor," I pleaded, picking up my hat.
"Send me your copy of 'Lady Geranium,' and I'll tell you whether it's a
classic or not."
"'Lady Larkspur,'" he corrected with a shudder. "You shall have it by
trusted messenger to-morrow."
I wired Antoine that I would reach Barton-on-the-Sound the following
day. This was September, 1917. The former servants of the Tyringham were
established on the place by my uncle the year before he dropped business
cares and departed for the Japan of his dreams, and as I had been often
at the hotel where he spent so many of the years of his life, I knew
most of the old retainers. They were deeply appreciative of his
kindness, and when I had gone to the farm for an uninterrupted month in
finishing some piece of writing they had shown me the greatest
consideration.
As the train rolled along the familiar shore toward Barton I shook off
the depression occasioned by my enforced retirement from the great
struggle overseas. I had done under the French flag all that it was
possible for me to do; and there was some consolation in the fact that
by reason of my two years on the battle-line I was just so much ahead of
the friends I met in New York who were answering the call to the colors
and had their experience of war all before them. The tranquil life that
had been recommended by the doctors was not only possible at Barton, but
it was the only life that could be lived there. Plenty of exercise in
the open and regular habits would, I had been assured, set me up again,
and my leisure I meant to employ in beginning a novel that had been
teasing me ever since I sailed for home.
Of my uncle Bash I had only the happiest and most grateful memories.
Quite naturally it had occurred to me at times, and my friends had
encouraged the idea, that my uncle would die some day and leave me his
money. There was no particular reason why he should do so, as he had
never manifested any unusual affection for me and I had certainly never
done anything for him.
Antoine was at the Barton station with the touring-car Uncle Bash had
bought to establish communication with the village. Flynn, the big
Irishman who had been the doorman at the Tyringham for years and retired
because of rheumatism acquired from long exposure to the elements at the
hostelry's portals, was at the wheel.
Antoine greeted me with that air of lofty condescension tempered with a
sincere kindliness that had made him a prince among head waiters. As I
shook hands with him his lips quivered and tears came to his eyes.
Flynn, standing beside the car, saluted with a welcoming grin.
"Very glad to see you, sorr. The trunk came this mornin' all right,
sorr, and we put it in your room."
I bade Antoine join me in the back seat that he might the more easily
bring me up to date as to affairs on the estate.
"It must be a little slow up here after the years you lived in town," I
suggested, "but of course you're all old friends."
"Well, yes; all friends," he acquiesced, but with so little enthusiasm
that I glanced at him quickly. He pretended to be absorbed in the flying
landscape at the moment. Flynn, I noticed, was giving ear to our
conversation from the wheel.
"It was sad, very sad, Mr. Bashford passing away so far from home, sir.
It was a great shock. And he had looked forward for years to a quiet
life abroad. It must have been ten years ago he first mentioned his hope
of retiring to Japan."
Uncle Bash had given me no such forecast of his intentions, and I felt
humble before this proof of Antoine's greater intimacy. Once at the
beginning of our acquaintance, when I had complimented Antoine on his
English, he explained that he was born in England of French parents. His
father had been chef and his mother housekeeper for an American banker
who lived for many years in London. Antoine's speech was that of a
well-trained English upper servant, and I imagined that in his youth he
had taken some English butler as his model. He used to pretend that he
knew French very imperfectly, and I was surprised when he now addressed
me quite fluently in that language.
"You have been with the armies of dear France," he remarked. "The war is
very dreadful. My parents were of Verdun; it grieves me to know of the
suffering in the land of my people."
As I replied sympathetically in French I saw Flynn straighten himself at
the wheel with an impatient fling of his head. Antoine indicated him
with a contemptuous nod: "Married Elsie, the German woman who worked in
the linen-room at the Tyringham! This has caused some trouble, and
there is a pantry girl, Gretchen, who was ill a long time before the
master left, and he sent her here for the country air. She is a little
devil with her dear Fatherland."
I laughed at the old fellow's gravity and earnestness. That the war
should be making itself felt on the quiet acres at Barton-on-the-Sound
was absurd.
"But there can be no trouble; everything is peaceful, of course, save
for a little foolish talk----"
The Gaul asserted itself in a shrug, a form of expression rare in him. I
was pondering the recrudescence of race hatreds due to the upheaval in
Europe when he startled me by a statement uttered close to my ear:
"There have been inquiries for the widow; these have caused me much
anxiety."
"Widow! Whose widow?"
"Madame, the widow of the dear master. It seems that there are persons
anxious to see her. There have been inquiries, one--two--three times."
"Probably some of her American friends anxious to pay their respects,
or some of the neighbors making calls of courtesy," I suggested.
"A foreign gentleman who acts very queerly," Antoine persisted.
My uncle's widow was a vague, unknown being whom I had never expected to
cross my horizons. If she meditated a descent upon Barton-on-the-Sound,
the trust company would certainly have had some hint of her approach,
but Torrence clearly had had no tidings of her beyond her last
communication from Bangkok. Still, it was wholly possible that a
globe-trotting widow would have friends in many parts of the world, and
I could see nothing disturbing in the fact that inquiries had been made
for her. I said as much. Antoine's answer was another shrug and a jerk
of his head toward Flynn, as though even the employment of an alien
tongue might not conceal our conversation from the big Irishman. Antoine
was manifestly impatient at my refusal to be aroused by his hints of
discord among his associates and my lack of interest in the inquiries
for Mrs. Bashford. When we had reached the farm and were running
through the grounds Antoine spoke again:
"We thought we would put you up at the house, Mr. Singleton, and not in
the garage," he said inquiringly.
"Not at all, Antoine," I answered quickly. "We must stick close to the
law in such matters."
"Very good, sir. Stop at the garage, Flynn."
To the casual observer the garage was a charming two-story house
following the general lines of the plaster and timber residence, from
which it was separated by a strip of woodland and a formal garden. The
garage and quarters for the chauffeur were at one end and at the other
were a down-stairs living-room, with a broad fireplace, and three
chambers above so planned as to afford a charming view of the Sound,
whose shore curved in deeply at this point. On the chauffeur's side was
a small kitchen from which I had been served with my meals when I lodged
there. This thoroughly convenient establishment was the only place I
could call home, and I experienced a pleasurable sense of comfort as I
opened the door into the snug living-room.
"The house is in order. You will have your meals at the residence, I
suppose, sir," Antoine suggested.
I debated this a moment, and when he hinted that dinner could be more
conveniently served there than in my own quarters, I said that for the
present the Flynns might give me breakfast and luncheon at the garage,
but that I would dine at the house. The original owner of the property,
from whose executor my uncle had purchased it with all its belongings,
had accumulated a remarkable library, rich in the Elizabethan stuff for
which I have a weakness, and it occurred to me that it would be pleasant
to eat my solitary dinner at the residence and loaf in the library for
an hour afterward. Like most slaves of the inkpot, I habitually postpone
actual labor as long as possible, and if I were to dine at the garage I
should have no excuse for not plunging at once into my novel. The
Tyringham people were domiciled in cottages scattered over the estate,
though a full staff of house servants was established in the residence.
It was five o'clock when I reached the garage, and Antoine left me after
opening my bags with the suggestion that I could summon Zimmerman, a
former valet of the Tyringham, for any service I might require. I knew
Zimmerman very well and said I would call him when occasion required.
"He is of that race," said Antoine plaintively in the French which now
seemed to come readily enough to his lips.
"Race? Botheration! You mustn't trouble yourself about race questions
out here, Antoine. Zimmerman is a good old chap, who's probably
forgotten the very name of the German town he was born in."
"They do not forget," Antoine replied with emphasis. "There has been
much discussion--much----"
"Forget it, Antoine! I supposed you were all living here like a happy
family. You've been sticking too close to the farm, and it would do you
good to run into town for a week. Please tell them at the residence that
I'll dine at seven."
"Very good, sir," he said in his pompous Tyringham manner, but I saw
that he was miffed by my indifference.
Flynn, having disposed of the car, came to ask if there was anything he
could do for me. When I had explained my arrangement with Antoine he
still lingered.
"Tony's against the wife and me," he said mournfully. "It's the war,
sorr, and she and me that lile, sorr, the American flag floats from the
garage every day. And if a heart can be lile, Elsie's as true to America
as though she was born in Boston State-house."
"I believe you, Flynn," I said, touched by his earnestness. "Don't you
worry about Antoine and the rest of them; they're just a little nervous;
I'll see what I can do to straighten things out."
As I went about my unpacking I was sorry that I had discouraged
Antoine's confidences. That these old hotel servants, flung upon a farm
with little to do, should fall to quarrelling was not surprising, but
what he had said as to the inquiries for Mrs. Bashford had roused my
curiosity. In spite of my legal right to live on the farm, I had no
intention of remaining if my uncle's widow turned up. Alone on the
estate I could lodge in the garage without any loss of dignity, but with
an aunt on the premises my status would be decidedly uncomfortable. She
could hardly fail to regard me as an intruding poor relation, no matter
how strictly I kept to my own quarters. It was possible that she might
even confuse me with the veterans of the Tyringham, and, while I am no
snob, I did not relish the idea of being classed by a strange aunt with
a crowd of broken-down hotel employees.
I whistled myself into good humor as I dressed and started for the house
along the driveway, which followed the shore, veering off for a look at
the sunken garden, one of the few features of the place that had ever
interested my uncle.
As I paused on the steps I caught sight of a man sitting dejectedly on a
stone bench near a fountain whose jet tossed and caught a ball with
languid iteration. I had identified him as an old Tyringham bell-hop,
known familiarly as Dutch, before he heard my step and sprang to his
feet, grabbing a pitchfork whose prongs he presented threateningly.
"Oh, it's you, sir," he faltered, dropping the implement. "Excuse me,
sir!"
"What's your trouble, Dutch? You're not expecting burglars, are you?"
"Well, no, sir, but things on the place ain't what they wuz. It's my
name, which ain't my name, not reg'lar, that's caused feelin'. They've
drove me out, an' I'm campin' in the tool-house. An' me born right there
in New York an' American clean through. My grandpap came across when he
wuz a kid, but it ain't my fault he wuz Goiman. I'd 'a' made 'im a
Frenchy or a Dago or somethin' else if I could 'a' done it. Mr.
Singleton, I don't know no Goiman except pretzel, sauerkraut, wiener
wurst, and them kind o' woids."
"Those belong to the universal language, Dutch," I answered consolingly.
"What is your name, anyhow?"
"Augustus Schortemeier, and I say it ain't no worse'n Longfellow," he
protested.
The point was delicate and not one that I felt myself qualified to
discuss. To cover my confusion I suggested that poets enjoy a certain
license, but I was honestly sorry for Dutch. If he was not the oldest
living bell-hop, he was at least entitled to honorable mention among the
most ancient veterans of the calling, vocation, or avocation of the
bell-hopper. I bade him cheer up and passed on.
As I reached the house I heard a sharp command in an authoritative voice
and saw at a curve of the driveway a number of men in military formation
performing evolutions in the most sprightly manner. They carried
broomsticks, and at sight of me the commander brought his company to a
very ragged "Present arms!" Their uniform was that of the Tyringham
bell-hops and waiters, and it dawned upon me that this was an army of
protest representing the Allied armies on the shores of Connecticut.
There was a dozen of them, and the captain I recognized as Scotty, a hop
who had long worn the Tyringham livery. I waved my hand to them and
turned to find Antoine awaiting me at the door.
"It's the troops, sir," he explained. "It's to keep Dutch and Gretchen
and Elsie--she's the wife of that Flynn--in proper order, sir."
"Troops" was a large term for the awkward squad of retired waiters and
bell-hops, and it was with difficulty that I kept my face straight.
"It's most unfortunate, but we was forced to it. Dinner is served, sir."
From the table in the long dining-room I caught glimpses through the
gathering dusk of Scotty's battalion at its evolutions.
"They keep a guard all night, sir," Antoine explained, not without
pride. "The goings on has been most peculiar."
"Antoine!" I said sharply, "what do you mean by these hints of trouble
on the place? You're not silly enough to imagine that Dutch and a couple
of women can do anything out here to aid America's enemies! The rest of
you ought to be ashamed of yourselves for annoying them. And as for
these inquiries about Mrs. Bashford, they couldn't possibly have
anything to do with the war. Specifically, who are the persons who've
asked for her?"
"There's the party I told you about, most persistent, who's motored here
three times, and another person who seems to be looking for _him_, sir.
It's most singular."
"It's singularly ridiculous; that's all. They're probably piano-tuners
or rival agents for a rug house or something of that sort who don't know
that Mrs. Bashford isn't here or at all likely to be."
"They may be agents, but not that kind, sir." His lips quivered, either
from fear or vexation at my refusal to take his story seriously.
"If anything tangible happens, Antoine," I said kindly, "anything we can
really put our hands on, we'll certainly deal with it. But you mustn't
get nervous or allow yourself to suspect everybody who turns up here of
evil designs against the Republic. I've come here for quiet, you know,
and we can't have every passing stranger throwing the place into a
panic."
I had no sooner reached the library, where he gave me coffee, than I
heard a slow, measured tread on the broad brick terrace that ran along
the house on the side toward the Sound. The windows were open and the
guard was in plain view. I glanced at Antoine, whose attitude toward me
was that of one benevolently tolerant of stupidity. He meant to save me
in spite of my obtuseness. "Tell the picket to remove himself where I
won't hear him, if you please, Antoine."
He disappeared through one of the French windows and in a moment I saw
the guard patrolling a walk some distance from the house. I now made
myself comfortable with a book and a cigar, but I had hardly settled
myself for a quiet hour before I heard a commotion from the direction of
the gate, followed a few minutes later by a shout and a noisy colloquy,
after which a roadster arrived in haste at the front door.
"Mr. Torrence, sir," announced Antoine. "I'm sorry, sir, but he ran by
the guard at the gate, and our man below the house stopped him. It's a
precaution we've been taking, sir."
Torrence's sense of humor was always a little feeble, and I hastened
into the hall to reassure him as to his welcome. He was wiping the
perspiration from his face and swearing under his breath.
"For God's sake, Singleton, what's happened here? A band of pirates
jumped on my running-board, and after I'd knocked them off a road-agent
stopped me right there in sight of the house and poked the muzzle of a
shotgun in my face."
"Mighty sorry you were annoyed, but there have been some queer
characters about, tramps and that sort of thing, and the people on the
place are merely a little anxious. Have a cigar?"
"All I can say is that you'd better send your friends the password! That
fool out there with the gun----"
"Only a bell-hop, nothing more," I interrupted.
"--That fool, I say, is likely to kill somebody. Antoine"--he turned to
the butler, who was drawing the curtains at the windows--"if the
property's been threatened, you should have informed me immediately."
"Yes, sir; but it's only been quite recent, and, knowing Mr. Singleton
was coming, we didn't like to bother you."
"We can only apologize, Torry," I interposed. "The employees have been
alarmed, but we're bound to commend their zeal."
"Humph!" he ejaculated, the wounds to his dignity still rankling.
I forced a cigar upon him and talked of the weather to cover Antoine's
retreat. I resolved not to tell him the real cause of the servant's
apprehensions, knowing his disposition to magnify trifles and fearing he
might send the police to investigate. He lived only five miles from
Barton, a fact to which he now referred.
"Hadn't heard of any tramps over my way," he said, frowning. "These old
lunatics your uncle left here are simply hipped; that's all. Mr.
Bashford made a mistake in turning the place over to them; it was silly,
downright silly. It's a wonder you didn't think of upsetting his will on
the ground of mental unsoundness. It's not up to me to suggest such a
thing, but I believe you could knock it out!"
"Oh, chuck it! They're well-meaning helpless people, and it's bully that
Uncle Bash provided a home for them. There's nobody else to use the
place."
His cigar had proved soothing, but my last remark caused him to sit up
straight in his chair.
"By George! my hold-up almost made me forget what I came for. I have
news for you, Singleton; good or bad, as you may take it; Mrs. Bashford
is in America."
"Mrs. Bashford," I repeated faintly, "where do you get these pleasant
tidings?"
"This," he answered, producing a telegram, "is all I know about it. Got
it just as I was leaving the office this afternoon, and thought I'd
motor over and give you a pleasant surprise."
He seemed to enjoy my discomfiture. The message read:
PITTSFIELD, MASS., Sept. 20.
J. B. TORRENCE,
_Bainbridge Trust Co., New York._
Landed at Seattle a week ago, and have been motoring east from
Chicago to see the country. Will reach Barton in four or five days.
Please wire me at the Washington Inn, Lenox, whether house is in
order for occupancy.
ALICE BASHFORD.
"Well, what do you say to that?" he demanded.
"I say it's taking unfair advantage," I answered savagely. "I've got to
clear out; that's the first thing."
"Not necessarily. Your right to the garage is settled; she couldn't oust
you if she wanted to. You've got to stay here anyhow till she comes;
there's no ducking that. The widow of an uncle who did a lot for you, a
stranger to the country; it's up to you to see her established. There
are many little courtesies she would naturally expect from you."
"I'm delighted that you see my duty so clearly! If you hadn't assured me
that she was safe at the end of the world I wouldn't have set foot
here."
"The house is in order, I judge," he remarked, glancing about the room.
"I've got to wire her that we're ready for her."
"You most certainly have! Your duty is as plain as a smoke-stack. You
might add that she's causing serious inconvenience to her late husband's
only nephew."
"You really don't mean that?" he inquired anxiously.
"Oh, thunder, no!"
I had forgotten how trying Torrence could be. He now suggested that we
summon Antoine and take a look at the house. Torrence is a conscientious
fellow with an exact and orderly mind, and there was no corner of the
place from cellar to garret that we didn't explore. It was highly
creditable to the old Tyringham servants that the house was thoroughly
habitable. All that need be done before Mrs. Bashford arrived was to lay
linen on the beds and take the jackets from the furniture; a couple of
hours would suffice, Antoine said.
As we were on our way down-stairs the old fellow detained me a moment.
"Have you told him about the parties? Pardon me, sir," he whispered,
"but him and the trust company is responsible. I thought likely you'd
tell him."
I shook my head in angry rejection of the idea that I should tell
Torrence about "the parties," and dismissed him as soon as we reached
the hall.
"I suggest," said Torrence, "that when she comes you have flowers in all
the rooms; the conservatory will supply enough. And it occurs to me that
the more inconspicuous you make this bunch of lazy dependents the more
agreeable it will be for Mrs. Bashford."
"You don't expect much of me! It was never in the contract that I should
become the patriarch of these venerable relics. But I'll warn them to
conceal themselves as much as possible. I fully expect to leave the
reservation for good just one hour after the lady arrives."
"That's your affair, of course. As she's motoring, we can't just time
her arrival, but when I get a wire that she's on the way I'll telephone
you. And, of course, after she gets here I'll come at once to pay my
respects."
"You can't come too soon!" I answered spitefully.