THE AMAZING WIDOW
As soon as Torrence left I returned to the garage, feeling that with
Mrs. Bashford on American soil my use of the residence even as a
loafing-place was unbecoming. Mrs. Bashford was not only in America, but
with a motor at her command she might reach Barton at any hour. And the
vigorous, dominating woman who had captured my uncle Bash, buried him in
a far country, and then effected a hop, skip, and jump from Bangkok to
Seattle, was likely to be a prodigal spender of gasoline. Her propensity
for travelling encouraged the hope that she would quickly weary of
Barton and pine for lands where the elephant and jinrickisha flourish.
I had brought with me the manuscript of Searles's play, and I fell upon
it irritably and began reading the first act. The dialogue moved
briskly, and I read on as though enfolded in the air of a crisp spring
morning. It was Searles's whimsical stroke, only with a better vehicle
than he had ever before found for it. My grouch over the upsetting of my
plans yielded under the spell of his humor.
"Lady Larkspur" was the name assumed by the daughter of a recluse
naturalist in the valley of Virginia. She had known no life but that of
the open country, where she ran wild all summer, aiding her father in
collecting plants and butterflies. At twenty she had never seen a city,
and her social contacts had been limited to the country folk, who viewed
her with commiseration as the prisoner of her misanthrope father, who in
the fifteen years of his exile had maintained a hostile attitude toward
his neighbors. He had, however, educated the girl in such manner that
only the cheer and joy of life were known to her. Hating mankind, he had
encouraged her in nature-worship. She knew no literature except the
classics; all history, even the history of the storied valley in which
she lived, was a sealed book to her.
The girl's curiosity is roused by the sudden appearance of strangers
from the unknown world beyond, whom she mystifies by her quaint
old-worldishness. Searles had taken an old theme and given a novel twist
to it. The solution of the mystery of the father's exile and an amusing
complication of lovers afforded a suspensive interest well sustained to
the end. There were innumerable charming scenes, as where the girl in
the outlandish costume in which she roamed the hills perches on a
boulder and recites the "Iliad" to her suitors. In the last act she
appears at a ball at a country house in sophisticated raiment, and the
story ends in the key of mirth in which it began.
It was a delightful blending and modernization of Diana, Atalanta,
Cinderella, and Rosalind; but even in the typewritten page it was
amazingly alive and well calculated to evoke tears and laughter. That a
play so enthralling should be buried in a safety-vault was not to be
thought of, and I sat down and wrote Searles a long letter demanding
that he at once forget the lost star for whom he had written the piece,
suggesting the names of several well-known actresses I thought worth
considering for the difficult leading rôle. Not satisfied with this, I
telephoned a telegram to the agent at Barton for transmission to
Searles at the Ohio address he had given me.
The next day passed without incident, and on the second, hearing nothing
from Torrence, I began to doubt Mrs. Bashford's proximity. On the third,
still hearing nothing, I harkened to an invitation from friends at New
London and drove over in the runabout for dinner. It was midnight when I
got back, and when I reached the gates several men dashed out of the
lodge and halted me.
"She's come, sir," announced Antoine, emerging from the darkness, and
speaking under stress of deep emotion; "madame the widow has arrived,
sir!"
"Why not Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba?" I exclaimed testily to cover
my annoyance that my aunt had effected her descent in my absence. "Well,
she was expected; the house is hers; what do you want me to do about
it?" I ended with affected jocularity.
"We received her the best we could; but it was most unfortunate, your
not being here, sir."
"Is that your idea, Antoine, or do you reflect the lady's sentiments?
I'm properly humiliated either way. Tell me just what she said."
"Well, sir, she just laughed when I took the liberty of apologizing."
"The sneering laughter of outraged dignity! Go ahead and give me the
rest of it."
"It was at ten she came, sir, and the guard held her up, not recognizing
her, here at the gate, and when the car didn't stop the boys chased her
and fired at the tires of her machine. It was very dreadful, sir. And at
the house--at the door, sir--the guard was very harsh with her, sir,
most regrettable."
"You certainly made a mess of it!" I ejaculated. "But you did let her
in--into her own house, we must remember--you did grant her the courtesy
of a lodging for the night?" I inquired ironically.
"She's retired, sir. There was a lady with her; maybe a maid; I can't
exactly say; and we did everything, sir, to make her comfortable. She
was not what you might say fussy, sir, but quite human-like. We was all
relieved, sir, the way she took everything. I hope you'll pardon us,
sir, which was due to not being warned."
"Oh, it's all right with me, but in the morning she'll probably bounce
the whole lot of us. An old lady fatigued from a journey cross country
and shot at on her own premises--it's a very pretty story."
They were a picturesque lot, the ancient waiters and bell-hops grouped
about Antoine with their lanterns and garden implements and firearms.
Antoine was swallowing hard in his effort to continue his recital.
"You say an old lady, sir; the mistress is not really what you would
call so old--not exactly, sir."
"Really a youngish party, I should say," volunteered Graves, the
gardener.
Just what these veterans would call old was a matter of conjecture.
"Um," I murmured, and considered the situation.
"Young or old, she would hardly relish her reception. There was a maid,
and they came in a machine? Did you put up the chauffeur or did you
shoot him on the spot?"
"It was a hired machine, sir; and madame sent it away. The driver was a
good deal upset over the shooting. One of the rear tires was quite
blown away."
"You're in luck if he doesn't have you all arrested to-morrow," I
remarked consolingly.
"Mrs. Bashford seemed quite amused by the occurrence," Antoine
continued. "'Wonderful America!' she kept saying after we'd got her
inside. We gave her tea, which was all she asked for. She takes her tea
with cream, sir. We did our best to make her comfortable. And there was
a dog, sir. I recall that the master was not fond of dogs. There was
never one on the place."
Antoine spoke truly; if there was anything my Uncle Bash detested it was
a dog, but I reflected that a world-skipping widow who could corral so
difficult a subject as my uncle would be quite capable of inspiring him
with delight in the canine species. My respect for the woman's powers of
persuasion was intensified by this disclosure.
She had failed to wire Torrence as she promised or he had neglected to
warn me of her coming; either way it was a pretty kettle of fish, and I
shuddered at the thought of facing her wholly pardonable indignation.
To make sure that nothing was required of me until morning, I drove past
the house with the army hanging to the footboard. The lower rooms were
dark, but lights twinkled through the second-story shutters. My aunt was
established on the premises, and her coming and the circumstances of her
advent constituted a good joke of which I and not she was the victim.
When I reached my quarters in the garage I sat down and laughed until
Flynn appeared, frightened by my noisy mirth that had penetrated to his
quarters. I got rid of him and smoked a pipe and began the packing I
meant to finish early in the morning.
I wakened early, rang a bell connecting my rooms with the chauffeur's
end of the garage as a warning to the Flynns to prepare breakfast, and
was dressed when the Irishman came in with the tray. In the absence of a
morning paper I clung to him for company.
"I trust you will not be leaving, sorr," he remarked, eyeing my
half-packed trunk.
"Very soon, Flynn."
"Then Elsie and I will be going too, sorr. It's most uncomfortable
they're making us--Dutch and the rest. That Antoine and his army keep
pesterin' us and callin' us Huns."
"You raise a very interesting question, Flynn, a very delicate question
of fact and propriety. Satisfied as you and Elsie are of your entire
loyalty to the United States and the associated Powers, I think you
should remain, a martyr, if need be, to the great cause of world
democracy."
"It's most disagreeable we find it, the wife and me," he said
mournfully.
"Suffer and be strong--that's the watchword! We will hope that Mrs.
Bashford is a woman of sound sense and tact who will exert herself to
restore peace on her property. When I call to pay my respects and make
my adieus I shall speak to her of the situation and vouch for your
loyalty. You may count on me. You haven't, I suppose, seen the widow
yet--she's probably sleeping late."
"Quite the contrary, sorr. She's been up and around for an hour an'
more. She's been all over the place and stopped for a squint at the
garage, her and the pup."
"She's been here, inspecting the garage?" I asked, glancing at my watch.
It was not yet eight o'clock. The banter died out of me; clearly it had
been my duty to be on hand to pilot her over the estate, or at least to
receive her at the garage. "Just what was the lady's frame of mind--as
to things generally. Peeved, was she, over the row last night?"
"Oh, no, sorr; quite cheerful an' friendly. She's ordered a big car from
New York and told me it would be coming up to-day and to make a place
for it."
Here was news indeed, destroying all my hopes that she meditated only a
brief sojourn. The purchase of a machine meant definitely that she would
remain for some time, perhaps for the winter. I poured a second cup of
coffee, swallowed it, grabbed my hat and stick, and asked enlightment as
to the course taken by Mrs. Bashford when she left the garage.
"She took the lower road, sorr, toward the Sound and stepped off quite
brisk-like."
It was the serenest of September mornings, and I hurried away, thinking
the cloudless blue arch, the twinkling sea, and the crisp air might
serve to soften my aunt's displeasure at her hostile reception. From the
conservatories I caught a glimpse of a woman on the beach--a slender,
agile woman throwing a ball for the amusement of a fox-terrier. She
threw the ball with a boy's free swing, occasionally varying a hot one
down the shore with a toss high in air which she caught up herself
before the terrier could reach it. The two were having no end of a good
time. She laughed joyfully when the ball fell into her hands and the
terrier barked his discomfiture and eagerness for a chance to redeem
himself.
Antoine's equivocal statement as to Mrs. Bashford's age was ridiculous.
Instead of the middle-aged woman whom I was prepared to meet, here was
beyond question a vigorous, healthy being whose every movement spoke for
youth and the joy of life. It might, after all, be the maid of whom
Antoine had spoken; I advanced slowly, anxious not to break in upon her
romp with the terrier--they made a charming picture--and trying to
formulate an introduction. I reached a low stone wall that separated the
lawn from the beach just as she effected a running pick-up of the ball.
She turned swiftly and flung it straight at my head. Involuntarily I
put up my hand and caught it just as she saw me and cried out--a cry of
warning and contrition. I tossed the ball to the dog.
"What must you think of me!" she exclaimed. "I was blinded by the
sunlight and I didn't see you--really I did not!"
"I had no business being in the way," I laughed, noting first her
glowing color, her violet eyes--amazingly fine eyes they were--her fair
hair with its golden glint, her plain black gown with lawn collar and
wristbands. It was her age, however, that roused me to instant
speculation. Twenty-five, I decided, was a maximum; more likely she was
not more than twenty-two, and if I had been told that eighteen was the
total of her years I shouldn't have had the heart to dispute it.
"Bob Singleton," I said and stupidly added, "and you are Mrs. Bashford?"
unable for the life of me to avoid turning the statement into an
inquiry.
"I am your aunt Alice," she said with a smile, putting out her hand.
"Down, Rex!" she commanded the dancing terrier; "lie down; school's over
now"; whereupon Rex obediently sprawled in the sand and began trying to
swallow the ball.
"Wasn't that silly of me to try to kill you the first time we met!" Her
eyes danced with merriment. "I didn't know, of course, that any one was
about. But you made a very nice catch of it! I had expected to receive
you most formally in the drawing-room, but this really serves very well.
That tree down yonder is inviting; suppose we stay out here and talk a
bit."
This struck me as the pleasantest thing imaginable, though I was still
dazed and my tongue seemed to have died in my mouth. This girl, this
wholly charming and delightful young woman, was the monstrous being I
had conjectured as the globe-trotting widow who had kidnapped and
married my uncle! Not only had she married my uncle Bash and in due
course buried him; she had been a widow when she married him! I
furtively studied her face--a face that invited scrutiny--and her candid
eyes that met my gaze of wonder and frank admiration easily and without
a trace of self-consciousness. On the third finger of her left hand was
a slender band of gold. The thing was staggering, bewildering. She was
clearly anxious to be friendly, but nothing that I had thought of saying
to her fitted the situation.
"In the first place," I finally began, "I must apologize most humbly for
the earnest efforts of the servants to murder you last night. Mr.
Torrence had promised to let me know when you would reach here, but he
must have forgotten it. I had motored to a friend's house to dine and
didn't get back until the mischief was done. I'm very sorry. You must
have thought you had driven into a camp of savages!"
"Not for worlds would I have missed that," she exclaimed with a merry
laugh. "It was perfectly delicious! And it was all my fault. I meant to
remain a day at Hartford, you know, and send a message to Mr. Torrence
from there, but I found that by pushing on I could reach here yesterday.
Then the machine I hired showed every weakness that motors are subject
to and we were hours later than the Hartford garage man promised. And
you know we English always expect strange things to happen in America. I
don't understand yet why those people at the gates were so jolly
anxious to kill us; but it doesn't matter; you would only spoil the joke
by explaining it."
However, I did my best--it was a weak attempt--to explain the
nervousness of the veteran servants and their display of violence. Her
arrival made it likely that we should soon know more about the "parties"
whose visits and inquiries had so alarmed Antoine and his comrades. Now
that I saw Mrs. Bashford the idea that any one could entertain
malevolent designs upon her was more preposterous than ever, and I
resolved that she must be shielded from annoyances of every kind. I told
her with all the humor I could throw into the recital of the drilling of
the bell-hops and of the uncomfortable relations between the Allied
forces and the Teutonic minority on the estate.
"It was dear of Mr. Bashford to provide a home for these people; wasn't
he really the kindest soul that ever lived?" she said softly.
She gazed wistfully seaward, and I saw the gleam of tears on her long
lashes. My uncle had, then, meant something to her! No one, in speech
or manner, could have suggested the adventuress less; Uncle Bash was a
gentleman, a man of æsthetic tastes, and the girl was adorable. More
remarkable things had happened in the history of love and marriage than
that two such persons, meeting in a far corner of the world, would
honestly care for each other. My respect for Uncle Bash grew; he had
married the most attractive girl in the world, and here she was with the
bloom of her girlhood upon her, tripping alone through a world that
might have been created merely that she might confer light and cheer
upon it.
"You stopped at Hartford," I began, breaking a long silence. "You have
friends there----?"
"Not one! I had made a pious pilgrimage to Mark Twain's last home at
Redding, and, hearing that he had lived at Hartford, I came through
there to render my fullest homage. He has always been one of my heroes,
you know." She laughingly lifted her hands and counted upon her
fingers--"'The Jumping Frog,' Tom and Huck, and 'Mulberry Sellers,' 'The
Prince and the Pauper,' and 'Pudd'nhead Wilson'! I know them all by
heart!"
"Our introduction is complete," I said reverently. "Let's consider
ourselves old friends."
"I rather thought we'd understand each other," she said in her even,
mellow tones. "You know, we had your photograph out East--a very good
one, it seems--so I had an idea of what you looked like."
"The photograph gave you an unfair advantage! And I didn't know Uncle
Bash carried one away with him."
"He was very fond of you," she said gravely. "He was very proud that you
had gone into the war."
"I am glad to hear that; I thought he disapproved of me for refusing to
go into business. He offered me a substantial interest before he sold
out."
"I know that; but I think he liked you rather better for refusing it.
Business with him was merely a means to an end. And it was doubly sad
that he should die just when he was free to enjoy the beautiful things
he loved."
It was at the tip of my tongue to say that the loss of her companionship
was even more grievous; but nothing in her manner invited such a
comment. Her grave moods were to be respected, and she talked for some
time of Uncle Bash's life in the East, of his short illness and quite
unexpected death.
"But I'm keeping you," she exclaimed suddenly, jumping down from the
wall. "And I must finish my unpacking."
As we walked to the house I answered her questions about the
neighborhood, and promised to telephone Torrence immediately of her
arrival.
"You will have luncheon with us--or maybe dinner would be better--or
both? Antoine told me of your bachelor establishment, but eating alone
is bad for the digestion. I shall think you resent my coming if you
don't dine at the house every day. Mrs. Farnsworth--my friend and
companion--is a very interesting woman. I am sure you will like her."
The information that she was protected in her youthful widowhood by a
companion was imparted neatly.
"It was really much nicer, meeting this way," she said, giving me her
hand. "We shall expect you at seven."
I found them on the veranda, which had been transformed since my last
glimpse of it. Rugs, wicker furniture, wall-pockets of flowers, and
paper lanterns dropped over the electric lights gave it the appearance
of a prettily set scene. She came toward me, a slender figure in white.
She seemed taller in white; as she took a few steps toward me, I was
aware of a stateliness I had missed at the shore. A queenly young
person, but as unaffectedly cordial and friendly as in the bright
morning sunlight.
"Mrs. Farnsworth, Mr. Singleton."
Mrs. Farnsworth was a pleasant-faced, white-haired woman with remarkably
fine, dark eyes. If the positions had been changed--if Mrs. Farnsworth
had been my uncle's choice of a wife, the situation would have been much
more real. I instantly liked Mrs. Farnsworth. She uttered a few
commonplaces in an uncommonplace tone without pausing in her knitting.
Mrs. Bashford had been knitting too, and as she sat down she took up her
yarn and needles. It was a sweater, I think; it doesn't matter. What
matters is that her hands moved swiftly and deftly. Her manner of
knitting was charming. She knew that I was watching her hands and
remarked with a graceful turn of the head:
"For an English boy somewhere! I began by knitting for my brother and
cousins, but"--her head bent lower--"that isn't for me to do any more."
Her eyes, turned upon me for a moment, were bright with tears.
I was speaking of the splendid valor of Englishmen I had known in France
when Antoine announced dinner.
It had been years since the house had known a woman's hand, and it was
astonishing how humanized it had become in a few hours. The long
dining-room, always a bare, forbidding place, had been reduced to cosey
proportions by screens, and a small round table replaced the massive,
oblong affair that always looked as though it had been built into the
house by the carpenters.
"I found those lovely screens in the garret and thought we might as well
enjoy them, and that Lang Yao jar you see on the sideboard oughtn't to
be hidden in the vault."
"I am sure Uncle Bash would be happy to know you care for these things
so much," I said, noting that the white roses she had chosen for the
jar--I knew the choice was hers--served to emphasize the deep red of its
exquisite glaze.
"I am among the unelect," remarked Mrs. Farnsworth. "When I am told that
such things are beautiful I am immediately convinced. I say they are
beautiful, and that is enough."
"That has always been enough for me," I replied. "My uncle used to try
to interest me, and I wore out a good many pairs of shoes following him
through museums and salesrooms, but he gave me up when he found that my
pagan soul was aroused by nothing but pottery idols. It wasn't the
pottery that interested me even there, but only the ugliest designs. I
am a heathen!"
"I am gratified that you make the admission so frankly," said Mrs.
Farnsworth. "I have always been a great admirer of the heathen."
"I like them when they are nice," said Mrs. Bashford.
"Yes; I have found you very discriminating in your choice of the
species, Alice. But, you know, Mr. Singleton, Alice and I never can
agree as to just what a heathen is. All our squabbles have been about
that. The old hymn pictured the heathen in his blindness bowing down to
wood and stone; but I'm disposed to broaden my definition to include all
who believe in fairies good or bad, and persons who honestly believe in
signs, omens, and lucky stones and all who have the receipt of fern-seed
and walk invisible--there's Shakespeare for that. Some very good
Christians are also very nice heathens: we mustn't be narrow and bigoted
about such things."
"I think," said Mrs. Bashford soberly, "that I have always believed in
witches; and if I keep on believing I shall see one some day. We shall
find anything in this world that we believe in hard enough. Now a
witch--the kind of witch I have always expected to wake up and find
flourishing a broom at me from the foot of my bed----"
She was talking very gravely, as though witches were the commonest topic
of conversation, but finding my eyes turned upon her in frank wonder,
she laughed at my amazement.
"Let us be honest with you, Mr. Singleton," Mrs. Farnsworth explained,
"and tell you that we are just testing you. It may be a breach of
hospitality, and you are all but a stranger, but we are curious to know
whether you are of that small company of the favored of heaven who can
play at being foolish without becoming idiotic. Alice is sometimes very
near idiocy. You admit that, Alice!"
"I not only admit it, but I might even boast of it!" my aunt replied.
At the mention of witches I had caught Antoine crossing himself as he
turned to the sideboard. I confess that I myself had been startled by
the drift of the talk. Mrs. Farnsworth was far from being the grim
duenna I had feared might be my aunt's chaperon, and there was certainly
nothing in her appearance to suggest that she was a believer in witches.
She and my aunt treated each other as though they were contemporaries,
and it was Alice and Constance between them. As the talk ran
exhaustively through the lore of witches and goblins I had hoped that
one or the other would drop some clew as to the previous history of my
amazing aunt. It was as plain as day that she and Mrs. Farnsworth
indulged in whims for the joy of it, and her zest in the discussion of
witches, carried on while Antoine served the table, lips tightly
compressed, and with an exaggeration of his stately tread, was the more
startling from the fact that my aunt's companion was a woman of years, a
handsome woman with a high-bred air who did not look at all like a
person who would discuss witches as though they had been made the topic
of the day by the afternoon newspapers. And when the shape of a witch's
chin became the immediate point of discussion I knew it was in Antoine's
mind that such conversation was unbecoming, an offense to the memory of
Raymond Bashford. Mrs. Farnsworth's brown eyes sparkled, and the color
deepened in my aunt's cheeks as we discoursed upon witches and the chins
thereof. I had a friend in college who used to indulge in the same sort
of piffling, but that my uncle's widow and her elderly companion should
delight in such absurdities bewildered me. I had been addressing my aunt
as Mrs. Bashford--it seemed ridiculous to call her Aunt Alice--and in
the heat of our argument as to whether witches are necessarily naughty
and malign beings I had just uttered the "Mrs." when she bent toward me
and said gravely and with no hint of archness: "Can't we make it Alice
and Bob? I think that would be a lot friendlier."
I experienced a curious flutter of the heart the first time I tried it,
but after that it came very easily. I found it impossible to think of
her in terms of auntship, and it was a relief to have the relationship
waived. She was simply the jolliest, prettiest girl that had ever
crossed my horizon, and to be talking to her across the table gave me
thrills compared with which sliding out of clouds in an airplane is only
a rocking-chair pastime for old men.
The veteran chef of the Tyringham had produced an excellent dinner,
though the witch talk made Antoine a trifle nervous in serving it.
We had coffee on the veranda (Alice thought it would be nicer there),
and as Antoine gave me my cup he edged close to my chair to whisper:
"That party, sir. If he should come----"
"Tell the troops not to attack any visitors," I said, loud enough for
the others to hear. "Mr. Torrence will be here shortly, and it would be
annoying to have him ushered in on a shutter. We must establish a rule
that callers are not to be fired upon at the gate."
"I know why this is the land of the free and the home of the brave,"
laughed Alice. "One has to be brave to live here."
Antoine departed with a resentful twist of the shoulders, and I decided
to meet squarely the matter of the visitors who had so troubled him.
"Please don't be frightened," I said as lightly as possible, "but these
old fellows haven't enough to do, and they are full of apprehensions.
With nobody here to keep them busy it's remarkable they haven't found a
ghost."
"If they only would!" murmured Mrs. Farnsworth.
"No such luck! They have been alarmed by an agent of some sort who wants
to welcome you to America by selling you a piano on easy payments."
Antoine had been hovering inside, and my remark brought him to the
door.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Singleton, but that party is not an agent, but quite
different, sir. He came to the house, quite like a gentleman, several
times, and asked if Mrs. Bashford had arrived. He came in a big car, and
seemed disappointed, madame, that you were not here and not expected.
The second time he said he was just passing on his way to the city and
thought he would stop again. A very well-spoken gentleman, and we'd have
thought nothing of it except that a few days later I caught a man I was
sure was the same party, but dressed in rough clothes, sneaking across
the veranda right there where you're sitting. When I called to him he
ran as hard as he could, and Graves--he's the vegetable-gardener--saw
him leaving the property by the back way."
"It's hardly possible that a man who impressed you as a gentleman when
you saw him at the door should have returned in disguise and tried to
break into the house. The two things don't hang together, Antoine."
"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Farnsworth, "it would be so much more delightful if
that were true! Any one in disguise is bound to be interesting. A
disguise suggests most beautiful possibilities. And to be sought, asked
for by a stranger!"
I could not be sure in the dim light of the veranda, but I thought I
detected a white slipper cautiously reach out and touch a black one. At
any rate, Mrs. Farnsworth lapsed into silence.
"Thank you very much, Antoine," said Alice. "It is very proper for you
to tell me anything of any stranger on the property, but I see nothing
here to be alarmed about. If the same gentleman calls again, let me know
instantly."
"Very good, madame." And then, turning as though conferring upon me a
part of his responsibility for the security of the premises: "It's a
party with a limp; just a trifling limp, sir; you'd hardly notice it. It
was worse the last time as he ran away. A smallish man, rather dark,
with a little mustache turned up at the ends."
"I have noted all these details, Antoine," I replied; and again I
thought there was a telegraphic exchange between the ladies, though
this time a black slipper was the means of communication.
Torrence arrived in a moment, and nothing has ever given me keener joy
than his shock of surprise at beholding Mrs. Bashford. As I introduced
the ladies he was so overcome that he greeted Mrs. Farnsworth as Mrs.
Bashford--a not unnatural mistake--and there was an embarrassing moment
as I set him right. Having done this, I seated myself beside Mrs.
Farnsworth that Torrence might be free to talk business with my aunt. I
was devoutly grateful that he had not been present at the dinner-table,
for my own efforts to interest Torrence in anything but the most
practical matters had always been highly unsuccessful, and the
discussion of ghosts and witches would hardly have amused him. As Mrs.
Farnsworth and I took up the recent movements on the western front I
overheard Torrence putting all the machinery of the trust company at
Mrs. Bashford's disposal. It seemed almost a blasphemy to be talking of
income and like matters to a woman like Alice Bashford!
They continued their conference for some time, but I got nothing out of
Mrs. Farnsworth that shed any light on my aunt's history beyond what
she had told me herself, which was precious little. Mrs. Farnsworth's
talk was that of a cultivated woman. Her voice interested me
unaccountably; the tones had all manner of shadings and inflections; it
was curiously musical, but in speaking of the great war a passionate
note crept into it that stirred me deeply.
"This has been a dark year for Alice," she remarked. "Mr. Bashford's
death, followed quickly by that of her brother--an only son--piled a
cruel burden of grief upon the dear child. She wants to go back to
England to nurse the wounded, to do anything for our dear country, but I
want to keep her here a little while until she can readjust herself. You
must not think, Mr. Singleton, that she has no feeling; you have no idea
of the depths of that child's nature; they are unfathomable! It is my
task to encourage her in frivolity and the make-believe she loves--hence
our absurdities at the table. She's the drollest child, but with
wonderful understanding. And at times it's not easy to keep the divine
spark of play alive in her heart."
The light of one of the porch lamps fell upon Alice's face as she
patiently gave heed to Torrence's account of his stewardship. One of her
hands gently stroked the terrier that lay quietly in a chair beside her.
I was sure that his painstaking description of assets and market values
was boring her. Once her voice rose in expostulation. Torrence, I
judged, was suggesting that legal means could be found to expel the old
Tyringham employees from the Barton property.
"Oh, never in the world! It was quite like Mr. Bashford to want to care
for these people in their old age. And"--she laughed and turned toward
me--"they can't be dislodged while Bob lives; and we don't want to part
with him just yet."
I was glad to have him hear her address me in this intimate fashion.
Torry always inspired in me a desire to shock him. He was trying to
assure Alice that his only concern was to make her comfortable; he
wished to save her from every annoyance and that sort of thing.
"I shall help Alice to break them in, Torry," I said, lingering upon her
name for his special edification.
"Of course, Singleton," he replied. "I wasn't sure you meant to stay on.
Pardon me, but I didn't----"
"Oh, it isn't that Bob hasn't a right to stay," said Alice quickly;
"Mrs. Farnsworth and I are hoping that he will like us well enough to
share our exile on other accounts. We are so unfamiliar with everything
American that it would be most unkind for him to desert us."
"I am engaging Mr. Singleton to explain American jokes to me," announced
Mrs. Farnsworth. "Alice seems to get them, but I'm never sure."
It is a part of Torrence's business to counsel widows, which he does
like the honorable man he is, but as he rose to go presently, remarking
that his wife would motor down to call shortly, I caught a glimpse of
his face that indicated deep perplexity. I wanted to warn him that Alice
Bashford was not an ordinary widow, who vexes officers of trust
companies with foolish questions and is prone to overdraw her account,
so I left when he did.
"I want to talk to you," he said nervously when we were outside. "I'll
send the car ahead to the gate."
When the shrubbery cut us off from the house he stopped abruptly and
seized my arm. "What do you make of it?" he demanded.
"Make of what?" I asked.
"That girl!" he exclaimed testily.
"If you insist, I must avow that she's adorable, nothing else."
"Don't be a fool! You knew Raymond Bashford much better than I did, and
you know perfectly well he never married a young girl of that sort!
Those women are playing a trick, and I'm surprised that you don't see
through it."
"My uncle was a man of taste and a gentleman," I answered deliberately.
"There's nothing in the least improbable in his being infatuated with a
young woman of charm and wit like this girl. And it is hardly profitable
or decent to speculate as to her interest in him. You mustn't forget
that Uncle Bash was an unusual man, a man with whom a young girl might
easily fall in love without reference to his age or money or anything
else."
"I tell you it won't do," he insisted. "If either of those women at the
house is Raymond Bashford's widow, it's the one who calls herself
Farnsworth."
"You did your best to convict them of fraud the first jump out of the
box," I said, laughing at the recollection of his confusion when I
introduced him.
"My mistake was a natural one," he said defensively. "They're playing a
game of some kind and it's no laughing matter, but it won't take long to
find out what they're up to."
"You'll hardly go the length of having them arrested as imposters,
Torrence--not without some data to work on!"
"Certainly not. You seem to be hitting it off with both of them, but I
advise you to be on guard. Are you sure your uncle never sent you his
wife's photograph? That would have been a perfectly natural thing to
do."
"If I'd got a photograph, I should have headed for Japan, not for
France." I laughed, but I was thinking deeply. His line of reasoning as
to the incongruity of the marriage was not so different from my own that
I could sneer at his suspicions. Very convincingly, as became a
practical-minded man, he expanded his views as to the unlikelihood of my
uncle's marrying a girl but little beyond school age. I shrank from
telling him that I didn't care a hang whether the widow was a fraud or
not. If the two women who had settled themselves on the Barton estate
were imposters, they were extraordinarily daring and clever. My attitude
toward them was wholly defensive. If women of their quality were
perpetrating a fraud, I was for giving them every chance, and I had no
intention of allowing Torrence to spoil the unfolding of the conspiracy.
We were nearing a gateway where his car waited, and I saw several of the
guard hanging about at a discreet distance. "Look here, Singleton," he
said angrily, "you don't seem to take this business very seriously. You
don't want to make the mistake of letting a pretty girl pull the wool
over your eyes. If we're not careful, we're all of us likely to get into
trouble." He lowered his voice and added tensely: "Those women are under
suspicion of something more serious than an attempt to rob an estate.
An agent of the American State Department called on me yesterday and
asked embarrassing questions about Mrs. Bashford. Not a Secret Service
man, you understand, or anything of that kind, but an important man in
the State Department."
"Of course you knew nothing to tell," I suggested as he beat the walk
impatiently with his stick.
"I took a chance at lying to him about her expected arrival. I thought
it only decent to have a look at the woman first. He told me nothing
except that the British Embassy had made inquiries and that the matter
was delicate and must be handled carefully."
"Was this inquirer lame--a small dark man with a black mustache?" I
asked, suddenly interested. "Such a person has been hanging about here,
so the boys tell me?"
"Not at all! I may as well tell you it was Raynor--you probably remember
him. He's a specialist in international law, and they took him into the
State Department just after the _Lusitania_ business. He's a gentleman
and a good fellow--I've played golf with him a good deal--and I hated
to lie to him. Of course, with the whole United States back of him he
can pursue his inquiries without my help; but I thought I'd see this
woman before telling him she had reached America."
I confess that I was a trifle dismayed by this. Raynor I knew slightly.
Professionally and socially he stood high, and even without the prestige
of his official position he was not a chap to sneeze at; but I didn't
want Torrence to know I had any doubts as to the perfect authenticity of
my uncle's widow.
"Oh, every transcontinental pilgrim is probably scrutinized closely
these days," I remarked carelessly. "Mrs. Bashford has lost a brother in
the war, and I haven't heard any one talk more bitterly against Germany.
And her companion certainly has no illusions about the Kaiser. You'd
have to show me the proof to make me believe we're harboring spies."
"I don't like the business," he declared stubbornly.
"Let's do nothing foolish," I insisted. "If Raynor has reason to suspect
either or both of these women, we'll hear further from him."
"I've put myself in a hole," he said angrily. "Of course I've got to
advise him immediately that Mrs. Bashford is here. I promised to let him
know as soon as I heard from her."
"Just wait a few days; I undertake to keep them under surveillance; you
can put the whole responsibility on me. If they attempt to leave, I'll
warn you and Raynor instantly, but they have settled themselves as
though they expected to spend the rest of their lives here. Remembering
your visit the other night, you ought to be satisfied with the policing
of the place!"
I told him of Mrs. Bashford's adventures in reaching the house without
convincing him that there was anything funny in her experiences, and he
left on my promise to report to him daily at a given hour and instantly
if anything unusual occurred. I waited for the guards to lock the gates
and bade them keep watch every night until further orders, and was on my
way back through the grounds when Antoine arrested me.
"Pardon me, but I'd like to ask what you think of it, sir?" he asked
hoarsely, falling into step.
"If you mean what do I think of Mrs. Bashford," I replied sharply, "I
think she's quite charming and delightful and all any one could ask in
every way."
"It's her manner of speaking of spookish things, Mr. Singleton. It
doesn't seem fitting in a widow and her so lately bereaved. And the
older lady's quite as bad, sir. The maids tell me they keep talking all
day about fairies and pretending they're queens and such like, and
talking poetry to each other."
"Quoting poetry is a harmless amusement, Antoine, and believing in
fairies and goblins is no crime. Such pastimes argue for sweetness and
innocence of character."
"But the late master never indulged in such things, sir."
"He would have lived longer if he had! It was probably the poetry and
fairies that attracted him to Mrs. Bashford."
"Yes, sir," he acquiesced with a gulp. "I suppose you're right, sir."
"You should be grateful to Mrs. Bashford for not bouncing you all for
the row you made last night. It could be done; in fact, Mr. Torrence has
suggested that legal means could be found for getting rid of you."
"That would be very sad, sir," he said humbly.
"Isn't Mrs. Bashford kind to you? Hasn't she taken pains to make you all
feel at home?"
"Well, yes, sir. But she's taken Elsie back into the house, and there's
no work for her, there being two women in the laundry already; and she's
told me Dutch must be given his old place in charge of the poultry; and
both being Germans, you will recall."
"It's just her kind heart, you idiot! You've all been spoiled; that's
what's the matter with you. Elsie and Dutch are as law-abiding and
honest as the best of you."
"It causes feeling; that's all, sir."
"It needn't cause it if you brace up and act like a man," I retorted.
Then, sorry I had been so harsh, I added: "We must take good care of
Mrs. Bashford, Antoine. It would be your old master's wish. It will do
no harm to keep a guard at the house for the present in case your
mysterious stranger turns up again."
He couldn't have failed to note my change of tone about the unknown
visitor, but he made no comment.
"The guard's set, sir; front and rear."
"While there's no danger whatever it's just as well to take no chances.
Please tell the boys to send for me immediately at any hour of the night
if they see any prowlers about."
"Very good, sir. But if you please, sir"--he had reached the garage and
he lingered, fingering his hat nervously--"if it wasn't for the ladies
talking about spirits, we'd all feel better, sir. It's creepy, sir, all
the talk about witches and ghosts, no matter what names you call 'em
by."
"You're far from being a fool, Antoine. Those ladies just play at
believing in such rubbish. If they really believed in ghosts, you may be
sure they wouldn't talk about it at table before strangers like you and
me."
Though this seemed to impress him, a moment later, as I was drawing down
the shades in my bedroom, I saw him running across the lawn like a
frightened rabbit.