the faintest pretense of not understanding. He gave me a glance--I
wasn't sure whether it was just bold or whether there was a sense of
drama in it--and said in a quiet voice: "No, thank you; nothing at
all."
The one way of escaping the encounter would have been to run for it,
which would, of course, only have made matters worse; so we marched
straight on into the jaws of detection. I would have given much to know
whether Jack and Pat had heard Peter's exclamation, and if they guessed
in the least what a scene we might be in for. (No, not a _scene_! I
couldn't, even then, associate Peter with a "scene" in public; despite
his temper, he is always so cool in every emergency, and has such a
peculiar way of carrying things off!)
Much as I wanted to know, however, I dared not turn. Does a mouse turn
to the mice behind it and say, "Here is Mr. Camera-eyed Cat?" No! We
walked along, my knees feeling like pats of butter, and presently Ed
Caspian and his companion blocked our way, filling the whole horizon. "I
want to introduce my friend Mr. Moyle, Mrs. Winston," said Ed. "And Mr.
Moyle, this is Mr. Peter Storm."
Beads of perspiration came out on my nose, which Aunt Mary always used
to tell me was most unladylike and ought never to happen. My heart and I
just stood still together!
Murmuring something more like a hiccup than a "How do you do?" I saw
Peter use his eyes like grappling irons on the camera-eyes of Mr. Moyle.
Then his magnetism, like a band of pirates, swarmed aboard of the
other's mentality. He put out his hand and shook the hand of the man,
whether Camera eyed Dick wished to shake hands or not, and with that
shake, the lamp seemed suddenly to be snatched away from behind the
aquamarines.
"How do you do, Mr. Moyle? Pleased to meet you," Peter said slowly.
"Pleased to meet _you_," echoed Mr. Moyle. His Shakespearean forehead
had turned red, and there was a slight gasp in his voice, a tone sliding
up instead of down. His queer eyes (rather bald-looking because his
light lashes curl right up and away from them, leaving them very wide
open) turned off their lights, as I said. But though they were vacant
compared to what they had been when professionally on the alert, they
had a curious effect as if they would _burst_ if he couldn't laugh. This
may have been produced by the lashes turning up so much. I couldn't make
it out at all, anyhow. And the whole _affair_ is past my making out.
Now, what should _you_ say Peter did to quell Camera-eyed Dick? Was it
the look, or was it the way he shook hands?
For he _was_ quelled. There's no doubt--or very little doubt--about
that. He was _friendly_ with Peter Storm. He and Peter and Caspian
talked together, and it was Camera-eyes who went away first. Ed was
ready to _cry_, I'm sure.
I asked Jack afterward (of course I breathed not a word to Pat), and he
said that she and he had guessed nothing of what was going on under the
surface of the introduction. They hadn't heard Peter's give-away words;
and without that clue there was no reason to suspect.
I shan't sleep to-night because of that "misunderstood virtue" of mine.
In other words, Curiosity is gnawing my vitals.
Your modern Pandora, alias
MOLLY.
XXIII
PETER STORM TO JAMES STRICKLAND
_Boston._
DEAR STRICKLAND:
Caspian has "let loose the dogs of war" on me, or, rather, the first dog
is loose. There will no doubt be others yapping on my track. You'll grin
when I tell you the first of the breed was your old henchman,
Camera-eyed Dick!
Hotel halls seem to be fatal to me lately. I shall get jumpy going into
one. Caspian was lying in wait for me to appear with Miss Moore and the
Winstons, we having "lost" the others and gone for a walk. Camera-eyes
was with him, and I thought it was touch and go for me. However, I
turned the tables by doing the camera-eye act myself. Also, I gave
Dick's hand a friendly grip. You remember that he's a Mason? Going away,
he contrived to palm me a card with a scrawled address: a small hotel
where he was spending the night.
Late in the evening I walked round there, taking it for granted that
Dick would be in, and that he had recognized me with certainty despite
the lapse of time. I counted on his not giving me away to his employer,
so I didn't hurry to pay my respects. And I hadn't trusted the old chap
in vain. He was loyal to Caspian, so far as not betraying any
instructions he may have had; but he did not mind admitting that he'd
come from New York to Boston on receipt of a telegram. I felt I owed him
the reward of an explanation, so gave a somewhat garbled one, in which
Dick was intensely interested. He confessed that he was "flabbergasted"
at sight of "the gentleman he'd come to be introduced to" (me) and for
once was disinclined to believe his eyes. He promised silence, refused a
reward, as near the V.C. as I'm able to bestow, and I told him to call
on you. You're sure to hear from him soon.
This is the second narrow escape I've had within a week. I oughtn't to
take these risks till I'm ready to face the consequences, whatever they
may be. But I'd do more to be in sight of Patricia Moore's profile which
is about all I see of her in the car these days when (in every sense of
the word) I'm obliged to take "a back seat." Do, for heaven's sake,
finish up your end of the business and give me a free hand, since you
yourself say I may in honour take it. I probably should take it even if
you said the opposite--that I tell you frankly, as I believe I've told
you before. But it's good to have your backing.
I've been to Plymouth to-day, thanks to a chap I've hired to do my work
for me, and have returned to Boston, which we shall leave to-morrow for
good and all. Caspian had an accident just before starting time--had
been out in a taxi on a hurried errand to some shop, and the chauffeur,
trying to be helpful, banged the door with C.'s finger in it. The finger
was in a glove, or the hurt would have been more serious, but even as it
was, when he tried to take the wheel of the G.-G. he found the pain
unbearable. I was called--like a male Cinderella--from the ashes (those
of a cigarette) and ordered to drive. In an instant the secretary had
become the chauffeur. I can do these fairy godmother trick-acts like
lightning; and as Miss Moore didn't think it necessary to change her
seat, I knew that Fate was going, anyhow, to give me one good day.
I had never been by road from Boston to Plymouth, and as I'd not
expected to drive, I hadn't looked up the route. Caspian probably had,
but I didn't want help from him, and I determined to die rather than
look at a map. You, a Harvard man, no doubt know the way well, though a
motor car was a rare if not unknown species of animal when you were an
undergrad.
In the beginning it was easy enough. We simply went out of Boston along
the road by which we'd come in: past the Arnold Arboretum of which you
Harvard fellows are so proud; Forest Hill, parklike Morton Street, and
across the Neponset River, where my dear little seat-mate (who couldn't
have guessed how I felt to be by her side again) was enraptured with the
view of Boston Harbour. She was gayer than I had seen her since that
moonlight night when I came to myself--too late, as it turned out; yet I
don't feel somehow that it's _irrevocably_ too late. I can't! It was
good to hear her laugh again. "Do look," she said, "at the funny little
porches on the funny little houses! They put hammocks on ones that are
so narrow people have to fall off the porch when they want to get out!
Yet see how happy the women look! They must have husbands they love."
Caspian heard, and leaned forward to suppress her. "Patricia, I wouldn't
talk so much to the chauffeur if I were you, while he's driving. He
doesn't know the way, and he'd better give his attention to the
sign-posts."
Of course I could say nothing. But I reminded myself that snubs
generally come home to roost. I hoped he'd "get _his_," as you say, and
I hadn't long to wait before poetical justice fell. The man kept up a
running fire of information, which he had doubtless culled from a
guide-book to impress his fiancee, having no personal interest in
history except that it has led up to him. The landscape left him cold;
the seas of wild blue chicory and forget-me-not didn't suggest to him
the colour of a certain girl's eyes as it did to another chap who had no
right to make the comparison. He didn't care for the "Golden Wedding
House," or any of the other pretty old houses so beautifully fitted to
the pretty old ladies rocking on their "piazzas" under the shade of
giant trees. The facts with which he had primed himself, like pocketsful
of dry cracknels, were such as "Here" (at East Milton) "was built the
first railway in the country. It was horse drawn, and over it was
carried" (I think he used the word "transported," which proved the
guide-book) "stone from the quarries of Quincy to construct the Bunker
Hill Monument." "Here" (at Quincy) "in the middle of the city stands the
Stone Temple where are buried the two Presidents, John Adams and John
Quincy Adams."
It was then that the snub flew home, with a strong impetus from the
exasperated Pat.
"I don't want to know about Bunker Hill Monument being built," she
turned round to snap. "I want to think it built itself. And I don't want
to know where Presidents are buried. I only want to know where they had
their golden weddings, and where they lived happily. Besides, it gives
me a crick in my neck to be always listening to some one behind. If I
can't talk to Mr. Stor-r-rm for fear of upsetting him, I won't talk to
anybody, please!"
There was one in the eye for Caspian; and it gave me my opportunity to
murmur with mere perfunctory politeness (?) that it didn't "upset" me in
the least to talk or be talked to while I "chauffed."
After that we did converse a little, about Captain John Smith and Miles
Standish, without Caspian venturing to butt in; but I must say he got
revenge through my losing myself in Hingham. You remember that wonderful
street of lawns and trees with a perfect specimen of an old church? I
believe it's the oldest church, still in use, in the United States, but
I dared not state this lest C. should seize the chance to snap me up and
say I was mistaken. Well, anyhow, I shared so recklessly in Pat's
admiration of the said church and the quaint, pleasant houses with
flag-staffs sticking out over their doors, that I fulfilled Caspian's
prophecy and got lost. The first thing I knew we were bumping over an
appalling road, and had to turn back.
"I told you so!" I heard C. muttering like distant thunder, and asked
him mildly if he preferred to take the wheel; but his finger was even
more painful than his temper. I felt his glare like a gimlet in the
back; but Pat more loudly than needful expressed her delight in seeing
Hingham a second time. "It is exactly like Cranford," she said. "New
England seems to be full of Cranfords, but Hingham is the most Cranfordy
of all. And I don't believe even the Old England Cranford could have
such elms in such a wonderful street. They are like tall, transparent
green wine glasses set for a dinner party of Titans."
"You get these exaggerated ideas from Mrs. Winston," came another mutter
from behind, but no reply was vouchsafed. Speaking of Mrs. Winston, I'd
happened to hear her talking with her husband last night, about the
day's run to Plymouth, and a word here and there had caught my
attention. I remembered that a "sky pilot" named Hobart had come from
Hingham in England, and somehow got the new place named after the old. I
remembered, too, a romantic story they spoke of: the hiding of "The
Nameless Nobleman" between the floors of a South Hingham house, and his
marrying the girl who saved him, Molly Wilder. (Jack Winston thinks that
all the nicest women since the Christian era have been named Mary.) I
hurried to tell Pat about these things, and a few others which I either
recalled or made up on the spot. While I talked, in defiance of orders,
I somehow contrived to get onto a splendid road to Cohasset: woods for
miles and miles; and an idea came into my head--which I passed on--that
Abraham Lincoln's ancestors flourished in this region. So, to Scituate,
though over a wrong road again (Pat called it "a dear little wrong
road"), to Marshfield, where Daniel Webster died and was laid to rest.
On the way we "guessed" that a detestable yellow house we saw, with a
well and a bucket, were the house, well and bucket of Samuel Woodworth
himself, the "Old Oaken Bucket" man. Caspian was sure it wasn't the
house, and this seemed to make the darling Pat equally sure it _was_.
(Don't you think from what I tell you that the signs and omens are
good?)
I dared to believe that the girl wasn't sorry to have me beside her
again. Once in a while I threw a glance at her face as we spun over the
perfect road through woods which might never have been touched by the
hand of man, and there was a rapt look on it, the sweetest look you ever
saw--sweeter than you ever saw, because you haven't seen _her_ yet. But
you will--you will!--when you've finished your work and I've finished
mine.
Fortunately for me I have a good memory, and luckily I'd kept my ears
open while Molly and Jack Winston discussed the route, for I know
nothing of this country, which, by the way, I find so beautiful. I
reproach myself for thinking too little of my own land, and seeking
adventure in others. In Duxbury, you know probably, Miles Standish and
John Alden both had houses. John's second house is still standing, and
Pat insisted on stopping to see it; though I take courage from her
confession that she likes the bold rough Standish best. Queer to
remember, in a sleepy little place like Duxbury, that a man who chose to
build there had in his mind memories of fierce, wild fighting against
the Duke of Alva!
Past a nice-smelling tarry rope factory we sailed into Plymouth and
joined forces with the other cars. It's a fine entrance into the old
Pilgrim town, isn't it? Bowers of trees, and some of the noblest elms on
earth.
"How do things go?" Molly Winston whispered to me, when we had all
crowded hungrily into that jolly old-fashioned yellow-painted hotel
you're sure to remember, even though you didn't lunch in it with a
Patricia Moore.
I knew what she meant, because we three (she, her husband, and I)
started out with a secret pact against the firm of Caspian and Shuster.
And it gave me a good warm feeling to be asked the question, because the
fair Molly hasn't been quite as gracious since I voluntarily fell out of
ranks at Boston. I hope I shall be able to explain that defection to her
some day. Meanwhile, I was glad of a sign of trust and friendship, and
replied that I had an idea "things" were looking up for us. "The little
lady is ready to bite his head off," I added. Molly shuddered. "He uses
the wrong sort of brilliantine," she mentioned. "But even honey and
flowers wouldn't make it a pleasant act."
While Caspian (I could almost have pitied him) saw a doctor about his
damaged digit, the rest of us, even my reluctant employeress, wandered
about looking at the ancient landmarks and watermarks we pretended to
have come to see. Perhaps some of us really had come for the
purpose--Jack Winston, for instance, who's as keen as mustard on linking
New World with Old World history. But, then, he doesn't have to make
excuses to snatch a little of his best girl's society, as I, Tom, Dick,
and Harry do. As for Moore, it's the opposite. He spends his time making
excuses to get away from his fair lady; and most of those excuses are
found in the society of Another! I could almost pity Mrs. Shuster, too,
she is so ingenuously miserable. But I harden my heart. Neither of the
pair is worthy of a pang. And few neglected loveresses have senators to
fall back upon. (She's done that literally, once or twice, and heavily,
because she's a champion stumbler.)
None of us feel drawn toward monuments, though we may approve of them on
principle, but if ever a monument was called for, at any place in the
world, that place is Plymouth. All the same, I'm not sure, if I'd had a
voice in the matter, that I shouldn't have let the Rock, with its date,
tell the story in its own simple way without any further emphasis. What
with that, and the welcoming beauty of the Harbour which no Pilgrim with
his eyes open could resist, and the Museum, and the ancient houses, I
think Plymouth could have held her own.
Somehow or other that witch of a Molly Winston contrived to gather the
clan together round her and Jack, and give me a chance to play guide to
Pat. To be sure, Mrs. Shuster, loyal to her absent partner, tried to
form a hollow square around us. But she couldn't spare more than half an
eye from Larry; and half one of Mrs. Shuster's eyes isn't dangerous.
There are quite a lot of things to be "done" in Plymouth, you know, and
if they are being done in couples or trios you can always go and gaze at
the old Common House while the others are revering Forefathers' Rock.
You can bow and smile as you meet them hurrying to the Museum, and
search industriously for the Town Brook which decided the Pilgrims to
settle at Plymouth. You can make your companion look up into your eyes
by telling her what you know or pretend to know about Priscilla, and
pretend that the Puritan maid gathered cowslips for her cowslip wine on
the shores of the said "very sweet brook." This, and more chat of the
same order, will suffice to hold the dear one's attention until you are
pretty sure that if you say, "Shall we walk along to Pilgrim Hall and
see the relics?" you and she will be astonished to meet the rest of the
party just coming away.
Apropos of Pilgrim Hall, my only failure was there. We did meet the
party issuing from the Doric doorway. I'd managed that all right, but
Mrs. Shuster turned on the threshold, kindly volunteering to remain and
point out objects best worth seeing. I wished her in Halifax, or almost
any other place which could be catalogued under the same letter, but
short of telling her to go there, I saw no escape.
Whether it was an infliction for Pat or not, I couldn't be sure. I never
knew much or wanted to know much, until just lately, about the workings
of girls' minds. But I will tell you what she did: she said, "Oh, that
is so good of you, Mrs. Shuster! _Do_ come with us. It's nice to have
some one really interested to go about with. Now Larry, much as I love
him, is a worry in a place like this. He and Idonia will just go
comfortably back to the hotel and have tea in some nice nook and wait
for you, so we shall know where to find them much better than if they
loved sight-seeing as the others do!"
There are lilies and lilies. This Lily of ours looked suddenly like a
tiger lily, rather a faded one, badly in need of water, as Pat took hold
of her arm and affectionately pulled her into the marble vestibule. She
did not break away with a roar and a bound, as I half expected her to
do, but meekly let the cruel child lead her on. I knew then, however,
that it was a question only of moments. You've seen a cat, caught up
against its will into a lap, feign contentment, while with muscles
braced it waits its opportunity to take the lap unawares and spring.
That is about what happened with Mrs. Shuster. She pointed us out a
painting of the "Mayflower on Her First Morning at Sea," all _couleur de
rose_; she indicated the chairs of Elder Brewster and Governor Carroll
which were wobbling about on the _Mayflower_ that very morning no doubt;
and having brought us to a stand before the Damascus blade of Miles
Standish, she considered her duty done.
"I'm tireder than I thought I was," she said. "I believe I shall have to
go back to the hotel myself, and rest a bit before we start for Boston.
I wouldn't stay long here if I were you. If Mr. Storm buys a guide-book
at the hotel, or some postcards, you'll have pictures of everything
without standing on your feet."
Pat replied meekly that she would return to the hotel the minute she
felt tired, but did want to see John Adams' Bible and a few things like
that. Mrs. Shuster mustn't at all mind leaving her.
Mrs. Shuster did mind, but she went nevertheless. I longed to catch
Pat's eye, and smile; but she didn't appear to have a smile in her. Such
innocent gravity you never saw, and when Mrs. S. had left us, the girl
made no reference to the episode.
I did buy some picture postcards, but not until we'd seen everything
they represented. I bought also, at the same shop, a pretty little box
containing three green candles made of bayberry wax. Both cards and
candles I offered to Miss Moore, and she accepted them, sniffing with
childlike ecstasy at the candles, which are supposed to give forth, in
burning, the perfume which the bayberries pour out in the heat of the
sun. Afterward I was told by Molly Winston the sentimental superstition
about bayberry candles. I wonder if Miss Moore knew it, and if she
thought I knew.
I haven't, as you see, given up hope that the forced association of this
motor trip may make the child realize how impossible for her would be a
permanent association with that worm C. If she breaks her engagement
before anything happens, so much the better; but the thing, in one form
or other, will now have to happen, of course.
A letter from you could reach me at Bretton Woods, and I should be glad
to hear there just when you think affairs might be settled.
I'm hideously impatient, but I'm not unhappy.
Yours as ever, and a little more,
P. S.
We came back from Plymouth to-night, along the short road, Caspian
patched up but sulky as an owl. Luckily I didn't lose the way once.
XXIV
EDWARD CASPIAN TO RICHARD MOYLE, KNOWN PROFESSIONALLY AS "CAMERA-EYED
DICK"
_Portsmouth, New Hampshire._
DEAR MR. MOYLE:
The more I think of it, the more I feel that you are keeping back
something from me. You say that the face of this man Storm "recalls
nothing and nobody" to you. I must accept your word. Yet I got the
impression that at least he reminded you of some one. I was watching
your face at the moment you met.
Since you left me, refusing to interest yourself further in the affair,
I have thought of it unceasingly. A sudden and extremely interesting
idea has come into my head. I cannot afford to waste it, though without
the aid of a competent detective like yourself I may not be able to put
it to good use. If you will not change your mind and take up the matter
again on new lines, I shall be glad if you can send me a smart man from
your agency, a person in whose discretion as well as intelligence you
have implicit confidence.
Kindly wire me to the post-office, Ogunquit, Me.
Yours truly,
E. CASPIAN.
(Telegram from Richard Moyle to Edward Caspian, Post-office, Ogunquit,
Maine):
_Sorry have no one can recommend for job mentioned. Nothing in it.
Advise you leave it alone._
(Richard Moyle to Peter Storm, Ogunquit, Maine. Try all hotels):
_Excuse liberty, but look out for E. C. May make you trouble._
(Peter Storm to Richard Moyle, at New York):
_Many thanks. Am looking out._
_P. S._
XXV
MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCEDES LANE
_Wenham._
MERCEDES DEAR:
My first thought as I waked yesterday morning was Aunt Mary. I thought
of her in my bath--a cold porcelain bath, rapidly filling up with hot
water, and giving me rather the feeling of eating an ice with hot
chocolate sauce. I thought of Aunt M. with breakfast and choked her down
with my coffee. When we had left our happy home--the Boston hotel--the
"chug chug" of our motor sang the song which the West Point cadets have
made up for "church call."
_"You've got to go, whether you want to or not!
You've got to go, so you'd better turn out!
Oh, h--ades!"_
But after a while the road was so pretty that I succeeded in forgetting
her now and then, as you might forget you were on the way to the
dentist's when you passed splendid jewellery and hat shops.
We were also on the way to Marblehead and Salem; Aunt Mary wasn't till
afterward.