There was an early breakfast the next day, for John’s train left
Melville at a little before eight. He had begged that Margaret would
not come down to see him off and she had answered with a noncommittal
smile. But when he entered the lamplighted dining-room she was already
seated behind the shimmering urn, fresh and bright. A big fire roared
and crackled in the chimney place, for the morning was cold and
lowering, and the scene was so warm and cozy and homelike that John was
sorely tempted to invent some desperate excuse and remain at Elaine.
Why not? he asked himself. Was it incumbent upon him to hurry away
merely because Margaret had not thrown herself into his arms at the
first opportunity? Why not stay and go on as though yesterday’s episode
had never been? She liked him; she had owned that; then why not remain
and find what pleasure he could in that friendship she was ready to
give him? But no, he could not go on as though nothing had happened;
that was impossible. His presence would prove an embarrassment to
Margaret every hour of the day. Besides, yesterday’s occurrence had
proved that he could not trust himself. No; it was better to take his
departure now before he did anything to impair Margaret’s regard.
The reasons he had given for his sudden leaving were decidedly vague;
it was necessary that he should be in Washington that evening; Corliss
had telegraphed; it was all very important. Phillip damned Corliss
heartily and didn’t hesitate to express dark suspicion. Even this
morning found him still grumbling and lamenting. John could not flatter
himself that he had deceived Margaret. She had expressed sincere
regret upon the news of his intended departure, but she had asked no
questions; she had even reprimanded Phillip when he had overstepped the
bounds of politeness and had shown undue curiosity as to the contents
of the telegram.
Breakfast was a dismal affair. The outside world, seen through the
tall windows, was gray and chilly. Phillip was out of temper; John
depressed. Of the three, Margaret alone seemed possessed of her usual
good spirits, and talked brightly and cheerfully until John mentally
accused her of hard-heartedness and told himself bitterly that she was
probably glad to be rid of him. He had said good-by to Mrs. Ryerson
overnight and had been touched and pleased at the warmth of feeling she
had shown.
“You must come back, Mr. North,” she said. “I want you to feel that
here at Elaine there’s a room always ready and waiting for you, and a
welcome from us all. I’ve adopted you, sir, so don’t――don’t let it be
too long before you return.”
“My dear Mrs. Ryerson,” he had answered warmly, “no one could be
sorrier to go than I, and no one happier to come back.”
“That is a promise,” she had replied, well pleased. “We shall remember
it. And you’ll look after Phillip, won’t you? You see, I’m not
altogether disinterested, am I? Good-night and good-by, Mr. North;
and――I suppose you don’t care to kiss old women, do you?”
“I love to kiss young women who call themselves old,” John had answered.
But Mrs. Ryerson was not the only member of the household at Elaine who
had fallen victim to John. Uncle Casper had learned of his departure
with comical but genuine sorrow, and all through breakfast he stole
about the table with gloom depicted on his countenance. He passed
every dish to John again and again, accompanying each with low-voiced
advice and entreaties.
“Better have some mo’ cakes, Mister No’th, sir; traveling mighty tryin’
bizness.”
“’Nother aig, sir? Yo’ got a long journey ahaid, sir!”
“Please, sir, let me git yo’ some mo’ coffee. It’s pow’ful cold an’
crampy out do’s this mawnin’!”
Will was awaiting them with the buckboard, in which John’s trunk and
luggage were already piled. Margaret accompanied them to the porch, and
when Phillip, who for some inexplicable reason had come out without his
hat, returned inside, John seized the opportunity to bid her good-by.
The smile she had worn all during breakfast left her face as he took
her hand.
“I wish I were not driving you away,” she said regretfully.
“But you’re not; I have to go.”
She shook her head. “I fear I’m as distrustful of that telegram as Phil
is,” she answered with a smile. “I’m sorry. We shall miss you. But you
will come again, won’t you? You won’t let this――this mistake keep you
away?”
“Do you want me to come back?” he asked with a note of hope in his
voice.
“Yes,” she replied evenly. “I always want my friends to come back.”
“Good-by,” he sighed, dropping her hand. “Here’s one friend who will
be mighty glad to get back. And if―――― Well, good-by, Miss Ryerson.
Remember your promise.”
“Yes; but please, _please_ don’t think of that!”
“You mean don’t hope anything from it? I fear I can’t promise that. I
was born hopeful, I guess, and it’s too late now to reform. All ready,
Phil. Say good-by to ‘Uncle Bob’ for me, Miss Ryerson; tell him I hope
his gout will improve.”
Phillip touched Cardinal with the lash and they sped off down the
avenue into the raw, chill mist. At the last turn John looked back.
Margaret and Uncle Casper were still standing under the portico,
indistinct forms in the gray morning gloom.
John found George Corliss at his office that afternoon and went out
to his house with him. He remained in Washington until Sunday morning
and then went on to New York. David’s welcome was hearty, the new
automobile was tantalizing and mysterious in its actions, the holiday
attractions at the theatres were excellent, and the remaining days of
recess sped rapidly.
Back at Elaine John’s departure left a vacancy that was apparent for
many days. Phillip moped about the house and grounds and refused to be
comforted until “Uncle Bob” reminded him that the season for partridges
ended with the last day of December. Then he picked up spirits, and
during the next few days they shot far and wide. Margaret went back to
her somewhat neglected household affairs cheerfully enough, but found
to her surprise and dismay that, with John North’s departure, things
seemed less well worth doing.
She strove to find a reason for this, but failed. She did not love him;
of that she was certain. A woman, she told herself, does not fall in
love with a man on six days’ acquaintance. She liked him, yes, very
much; she was amazed to find how much. She liked him far better than
any man she had known. She mentally compared him with these, with Nate
Willis, with several quasi and would-be suitors of the town, with
the wealthy gentleman breeder who came over regularly from Prentiss
every week to dinner and made open love to her over the roast; and he
emerged triumphant from every comparison.
She owned to herself that John North was what she would have the man
she loved: strong, gentle; capable, considerate; manly, tender and good
to look upon. He was all these, and yet――no, she did not care for him
in the way he would have her care for him, in the way she must care for
the man whose wife she was to be. She wondered why. Perhaps, after all,
in spite of her denials, if he should come again, if she were to meet
him day after day―――― She paused at her work and stared speculatingly
out of the window. Couldn’t she, after all, grow to care for him?
Surely, it wouldn’t be impossible? Impossible! Of a sudden it seemed
to her that it would be very easy, and she seized her work again and
sewed hurriedly as though to change the current of her thoughts. But
presently the needle was again idle. She had promised――such a promise!
What had possessed her to make it! Supposing――some day――it should
become incumbent upon her to keep it! She gave a little gasp of dismay.
Suddenly she had become fearful of that promise!
“Uncle Bob” left them three days after John had gone and went back to
Richmond with a hamper of birds and a surcease from gout. Phillip was
preparing for his own departure, and Margaret began, in anticipation,
to feel lonely.
One afternoon she was seated by the hall fireplace busy with some of
Phillip’s garments which she had rescued from his trunk in various
states of disrepair. Uncle Casper had just put a massive oak log on the
andirons, and the silence of the darkening hall was broken only by the
hissing and sputtering of the flames as they attacked the damp wood.
The door from the drawing-room opened suddenly and Phillip strode in.
“Margey!”
Something in his tone caused her to drop the garment in her hands and
turn quickly toward him. He came into the radius of the firelight, and
she saw that his face was pale and troubled. Something white fluttered
in his hand. She knew then what had happened, but she only asked
quietly:
“What is it, Phil, dear?”
“This,” he answered. He put the letter he carried into her hand. “I
want you to read it to me, Margey. There is something there I don’t
understand.”
She held it to the light. It was, as she had feared, an old letter from
George Corliss.
“You haven’t read it?” she asked with sudden hope.
“Read it!” he answered. “No; it’s a letter of yours or mamma’s. I went
to your room to find a pen; mamma said you had some. It was lying open
in the little drawer of the desk and I couldn’t help seeing it. I saw
some words: ‘He has learned you want to sell Elaine!’ What does it
mean, Margey? Who is it from? I want to know!”
For an instant the idea of putting him off presented itself to her; if
she lied to him he would believe her and he need not know until summer.
She was silent a moment. Phillip moved impatiently, stretched forth a
hand toward the letter and drew it back again, staring down at her with
troubled eyes.
“Margey! What is it?”
“It’s from Mr. Corliss, Phil,” she answered quietly. “You are right,
dear; you ought to know. Maybe we――I have done wrong in keeping it from
you. Get down here beside me, Phil, and I will tell you everything.”
“Everything? Why――what――Margey; it isn’t true, is it? We’re not going
to sell Elaine?” he cried sharply.
“Come,” she answered. He sank to his knees beside her chair and she
put one arm over his shoulders, drawing him to her and laying her
head against his. Phillip gazed white-faced at the flames. “Don’t say
anything until I have finished dear,” she begged.
Then she told him.
He let her finish uninterrupted. Then he removed her arm quietly and
arose and walked back into the shadows toward the doorway. She remained
motionless and silent, her eyes on the sputtering flames, until a tear
welled over and she brushed it away. Phillip came back and stood beside
her, looking not at her but into the fire.
“You ought to have told me,” he said in low voice, “you ought to have
told me.”
Margaret kept silence.
“I had a right to know,” he went on. And then, bitterly: “God! what a
fool you’ve made me act, Margey! Squandering money up there while our
home is being offered for sale to any stranger that can buy it! While
you and mamma were struggling along――starving, for all I know――――!”
“No, Phil!”
“And selling things out of the stable to get enough to pay my damned
bills. I understand now about the harness. What――what did that money go
for?”
“It was needed, Phil.”
“But what for? For me? Did you send it to me?” he demanded.
“I――I don’t remember now, dear. What does it matter?”
“Don’t lie, please, Margey. Did you send it to me?”
“Phil!... Yes, dear, I did. You needed money. We had none in the house
and mamma could not get any for a week or more. So――there was that old
harness, Phil, and――surely, that was better than borrowing from――any
one?”
“Mamma couldn’t get any for a week! Then――then it was to pay――you sold
the harness to get money to pay my poker debts?”
“Does it matter, dear?”
“Matter? No, I reckon not; it’s of a piece with the rest of it all.” He
was silent a minute. Then:
“Oh, I know you did it out of kindness, Margey; I understand that;
but――but you shouldn’t have treated me like a child that has to be
pampered and cuddled! I ought to have known; it was my place to know!”
“But we thought――and Mr. Corliss agreed that it would be best, dear,
that――――”
“Corliss! What right has Corliss coming into our private affairs?”
“He was your father’s best friend, dear,” answered Margaret simply.
“And he has been a good friend to us all, Phil. Don’t you see, we
didn’t want your first year at college spoiled by the knowledge of your
poverty. Father would not have wanted it, Phil. He hoped so much of
Harvard for you. All along I have comforted myself when there have been
doubts with the sure knowledge that father would have approved, Phil.”
Phillip stared at the flames. Suddenly he turned almost fiercely.
“After I lost at poker, Bassett would never play again with me,” he
cried. “Why was that? Did he know? Did any one up there know?”
“Mr. North knew, Phil. I――I wrote and asked him to――to keep you away
from cards. Phil! What else could I do? I didn’t want you to know!”
Phillip turned back to the flames abruptly.
“John knew!” he muttered. “He knew! And he told Bassett! Every one
seems to have known save I that I was a beggar! They were all laughing
at me behind my back, I daresay; at me, playing cards and spending
money and joining clubs when my folks had to sell things to pay my
bills! And so John knew; and he professed to be my friend!” He turned
with clenched hands. “He should have told me, the cheat! Why didn’t he
tell me instead of every one else?”
“I made him promise not to, Phil. You’re doing him――――”
“Was that what a friend would have done? Seen me the laughing-stock of
that crowd? David knew, and Chester, and Kingsford, and――――!”
Betty? Had Betty known?
“I’ve done with him now, though,” he went on fiercely. “He can go hang
for all I care. Friend? A nice friend he has proved!” He faced Margaret
again and took a step toward her. “Look here! I don’t know what took
place between you and John; and I don’t ask. But drop it! Do you hear?
I won’t have him making love to my sister. I――――”
“Phillip! Be still!”
“I mean what I say,” he went on angrily, his eyes flashing. “He’s a
cur! He’s――――”
“Phil, dear, you’re angry! Don’t say anything more now, please! For my
sake, Phil!” She went to him and put one arm around him and kissed the
cheek that strove to draw away. “Wait until to-morrow, Phil, _please_.”
He gulped; then he drew the hand from his shoulder and turned away.
“All right, Margey,” he answered quietly. “I’m――I’m a little bit――I
reckon I’ll go out for awhile.”
He picked his cap from the table and passed out onto the porch.
Margaret took up the letter from the hearth, sighed, and then in a
passion of rage tore it into bits and hurled it into the flames.
Sinking into the chair, she leaned her face in her hands and sat there
long, motionless, in the firelight.
After supper Phillip sought her again. The trouble was not gone from
his face, but his first anger was past.
“I’ve been thinking it over, Margey,” he said quietly. “We must make
the best of it. I beg your pardon for――for the way I went on, for the
things I said. It――it’ll be all right, won’t it?”
She smiled back at him gladly.
“Yes, Phil, it will be all right if we stick together, dear. And we
will, won’t we?”
“Always, Margey.”
“And――and what you said, Phil, about Mr. North wasn’t――――”
“We’ll leave him out of it, if you please, Margey,” he said coldly.
Margaret sighed.