Promises of that kind are easier to make than to keep. The captain
promised promptly enough, but the Fates were against him. He made it his
business to go to town the very next day and called upon his friend. He
found the young man in a curiously excited and optimistic frame of mind,
radically different from that of the past few months. The manuscript of
the novel was before him on the desk, also plenty of blank paper.
His fountain-pen was in his hand, although apparently, he had written
nothing that morning. But he was going to--oh, yes, he was going to! He
was feeling just in the mood. He had read his manuscript, and it was not
so bad; by George, some of the stuff was pretty good! And the end
was not so far off. Five or six chapters more and the thing would be
finished. He would have to secure a publisher, of course, but two had
already expressed an interest; and so on.
Captain Elisha drew his own conclusions. He judged that his niece’s
letter had reached its destination. He did not mention it, however, nor
did Pearson. But when the captain hinted at the latter’s running out to
the house to see him some time or other, the invitation was accepted.
“That’s fine, Jim,” declared the visitor. “Come any time. I want you
to see what a nice little place I’ve got out there. Don’t stand on
ceremony, come--er--next week, say.” Then, mindful of his promise, he
added, “You and I’ll have it all to ourselves. I’ve been cal’latin’ to
hire a sail-boat for the summer; got my eye on a capable little sloop
belongin’ to a feller on the Sound shore. If all goes well I’ll close
the deal in a few days. I’ll meet you at the depot and we’ll have a sail
and get dinner at a hotel or somewheres, and then we’ll come up to the
house and take a whack at Cap’n Jim’s doin’s in the new chapters. Just
you and I together in the settin’ room; hey?”
Pearson did not seem so enthusiastic over this programme, although he
admitted that it sounded tip-top.
“How is Miss Warren?” he asked, mentioning the name with a nonchalance
remarkable, considering that he had not done so before for weeks. “She
is well, I hope?”
“Yes, she’s fust-rate, thank you. Very well, everything considered. She
keeps to herself a good deal. Don’t care to meet many folks, and you
can’t hardly blame her.”
Pearson admitted that, and the remainder of the call was largely a
monologue by Captain Elisha.
“Well, then, Jim,” said the latter, when he rose to go, “you come up
Monday or Tuesday of next week. Will you?”
“Yes. I--I think so.”
“Don’t think, do it. Let me know what train you’re comin’ on, and I’ll
meet you at the depot.”
This last remark was what upset calculations. Pearson came on Monday,
having written the day before. He did not mail the note himself, but
trusted it to Mrs. Hepton, who was going out to attend evening service.
She forgot it until the next day. So it happened that when he alighted
from the train at the suburban station the captain was not there to
meet him. He waited a while, and then, inquiring the way of the station
agent, walked up to the house by himself. As he turned in at the front
walk, Caroline came out of the door. They met, face to face.
It was a most embarrassing situation, particularly for Caroline; yet,
with feminine resourcefulness, she dissembled her embarrassment to some
extent and acknowledged his stammered, “Good afternoon, Miss Warren,”
with a cool, almost cold, “How do you do, Mr. Pearson?” which chilled
his pleasure at seeing her and made him wish devoutly that he had not
been such a fool as to come. However, there he was, and he hastily
explained his presence by telling her of the captain’s invitation for
that day, how he had expected to meet him at the station, and, not
meeting him, had walked up to the house.
“Is he in?” he asked.
No, Captain Elisha was not in. He had gone to see the sail-boat man. Not
hearing from his friend, he concluded the latter would not come until
the next day.
“He will be so sorry,” said Caroline.
Pearson was rather thankful than otherwise. The captain’s absence
afforded him an opportunity to escape from a place where he was plainly
unwelcome.
“Oh, never mind,” he said. “It is not important. I can run out
another day. Just tell him I called, Miss Warren, please; that I wrote
yesterday, but my letter must have gone astray. Good afternoon.”
He was turning to go, but she stopped him. She had fully made up her
mind that, when he came, she would not meet him--remembering how she had
treated him on the evening of her birthday, she would be ashamed to
look him in the face. Besides, she could not meet him after writing that
letter; it would be too brazen; he would think--all sorts of things.
When he visited her uncle she would remain in her room, or go to the
city or somewhere.
But now she had met him. And he had come in response to her uncle’s
invitation, given because she herself had pleaded that it should be. To
let him go away would be rude and ridiculous; and how could she explain
to the captain?
“You mustn’t go, Mr. Pearson,” she said. “You must come in and wait;
Captain Warren will be back soon, I’m sure.”
“Thank you; but I think I won’t wait. I can come another time.”
“But you must wait. I insist. Uncle Elisha will be dreadfully
disappointed if you don’t. There isn’t a train for an hour, and he will
return before that, I am sure. Please come in.”
Pearson was reluctant, but he could think of no reasonable excuse. So he
entered the house, removed his overcoat and hat, and seated himself in
the living room to await the captain’s return. Caroline excused herself,
saying that she had an errand at the shop in the village. She made that
errand as long as she could, but when she returned he was still there,
and Captain Elisha had not appeared.
The conversation was forced, for a time. Each felt the embarrassment,
and Pearson was still resentful of the manner in which she had greeted
him on his arrival. But, as he looked at her, the resentment vanished,
and the other feeling, that which he had determined to forget, returned.
Captain Elisha had told him how brave she had been through it all, and,
contrasting the little house with the former home, remembering the loss
of friends and fortune, to say nothing of the unmasking of those whom
she believed were her nearest and dearest, he wondered and admired more
than ever. He understood how very hard it must have been for her to
write that letter to him, a letter in which she justified his course
at the cost of her own father’s honor. He longed to tell her that he
understood and appreciated.
At last he could not resist the temptation.
“Miss Warren,” he said, “please excuse my speaking of this, but I must;
I must thank you for writing me as you did. It was not necessary, it
was too much to expect, too hard a thing for you to do. It makes me feel
guilty. I--”
“Please don’t!” she interrupted. “Don’t speak in that way. It was right.
It was what I should have done long ago.”
“But it was not necessary; I understood. I knew you had heard another
version of the story and that you felt I had been ungrateful and mean,
to say the least, in my conduct toward your father. I knew that; I have
never blamed you. And you writing as you did--”
“I did it for my uncle’s sake,” she broke in, quickly. “You are his
closest friend.”
“I know, but I appreciate it, nevertheless. I--I wish you would consider
me your friend as well as his. I do, sincerely.”
“Thank you. I need friends, I know. I have few now, which is not
strange,” rather bitterly.
He protested earnestly. “I did not mean it in that way,” he said. “It
is an honor and a great privilege to be one of your friends. I had that
honor and privilege once. May I have it again?”
“Thank you, Mr. Pearson.... Now tell me about your novel. I remember
it all so well. And I am very much interested. You must have it nearly
completed. Tell me about it, please.”
They were deep in the discussion of the novel when Captain Elisha walked
into the living room. He was surprised, stating his feelings at their
mildest, to find them together, but he did not express his astonishment.
Instead, he hailed Pearson delightedly, demanded to know if they had
dared tackle Cap’n Jim without the “head doctor’s” being on the scene;
and insisted upon the author’s admitting him to the “clinic” forthwith.
Pearson did not take the next train, nor the next. Instead, he stayed
for dinner and well into the evening, and when he did go it was after a
prompt acceptance of the captain’s invitation to “come again in a mighty
little while.”
Caroline, when she and her uncle were alone after their visitor’s
departure, made no protest against the invitation having been given.
She did not speak of Pearson at all. Captain Elisha also talked of other
things, principally about the sail-boat, the summer lease of which he
had arranged that afternoon. He declared the sloop to be an “able craft
of her tonnage” and that they would have some good times aboard her or
he missed his guess. In his own room, when ready for bed, he favored his
reflection in the glass with a broad smile and a satisfied wink, from
which proceeding it may be surmised that the day had not been a bad one,
according to his estimate.
Pearson came again a week later, and thereafter frequently. The sessions
with Cap’n Jim and his associates were once more regular happenings
to be looked forward to and enjoyed by the three. As the weather grew
warmer, the sloop--Captain Elisha had the name she formerly bore painted
out and Caroline substituted--proved to be as great a source of pleasure
as her new skipper had prophesied. He and his niece--and occasionally
Pearson--sailed and picnicked on the Sound, and Caroline’s pallor
disappeared under the influence of breeze and sunshine. Her health
improved, and her spirits, also. She seemed, at times, almost happy,
and her uncle seldom saw her, as after the removal to the suburb he
so frequently used, with tears in her eyes and the sadness of bitter
memories in her expression and manner. Her work at the University grew
steadily more difficult, but she enjoyed it thoroughly and declared that
she would not give it up for worlds.
In June two very important events took place. The novel was finished,
and Stephen, his Sophomore year at an end, came home from college. He
had been invited by some classmates to spend a part of his vacation with
them on the Maine coast, and his guardian had consented to his doing so;
but the boy himself had something else to propose. On an evening soon
after his return, when, his sister having retired, he was alone with the
captain, he broached the idea.
“Say,” he said, “I’ve been thinking a good deal while I’ve been away
this last time.”
“Glad to hear it, I’m sure,” replied his uncle, dryly.
“Yes. I’ve been thinking--about a good many things. I’m flat broke; down
and out, so far as money is concerned. That’s so, isn’t it?”
Captain Elisha looked at him keenly for an instant. Then:
“It appears that way, I’m afraid,” he answered. “What made you ask?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t asking, really; I was just stating the case. Now, the
way I look at it, this college course of mine isn’t worth while. You’re
putting up for it, and I ought to be much obliged; I am, of course.”
“You’re welcome, Stevie.”
“I know; but what’s the use of it? I’ve got to go to work when it’s
over. And the kind of work I want to do doesn’t need university
training. I’m just wasting time; that’s what I’m doing.”
“Humph! I ain’t so sure about that. But what sort of work do you want to
do?”
“I want to be down on the Street, as the governor was. If this Rubber
Company business hadn’t knocked us out, I intended, as soon as I was of
age, to take that seat of his and start in for myself. Well, that chance
has gone, but I mean to get in some way, though I have to start at the
foot of the ladder. Now why can’t I leave college and start now? It will
be two years gained, won’t it?”
Captain Elisha seemed pleased, but he shook his head.
“How do you know you’d like it?” he asked. “You’ve never tried.”
“No, I never have; but I’ll like it all right. I know I shall. It’s what
I’ve wanted to do ever since I was old enough to think of such things.
Just let me start in now, right away, and I’ll show you. I’ll make good;
you see if I don’t.”
He was very earnest. The captain deliberated before answering.
“Stevie,” he said, doubtfully, “I rather like to hear you talk that
way; I own up it pleases me. But, as to your givin’ up college--that’s
different. Let me think it over for a day or two; that is, if you can
put off the Maine trip so long as that.”
“Hang the Maine trip! You let me get into business, the business I want
to get into, and I won’t ask for a vacation; you can bet on that!”
“All right then. I’ll think, and do some questionin’ around, and report
soon’s I’ve decided what’s best.”
He laid the stump of his cigar in the ash receiver and rose from his
chair. But his nephew had not finished.
“There was something else I intended to say,” he announced, but with
less eagerness.
“That so? What?”
“Why--why, just this.” He fidgeted with his watch chain, colored and
was evidently uneasy. “I guess--” he hesitated--“I guess that I haven’t
treated you as I ought.”
“I want to know! You guess that, hey? Why?”
“Oh, you know why. I’ve been thinking since I went back to New Haven.
I’ve had a chance to think. Some of the fellows in the set I used to be
thick with up there have learned that I’m broke, and they--they aren’t
as friendly as they were. Not all of them, of course, but some. And
I wouldn’t chase after them; not much! If they wanted to drop me they
could. You bet I didn’t try to hang on! I was pretty sore for a while
and kept to myself and--well, I did a lot of thinking. I guess Caro is
right; you’ve been mighty decent to her and me.”
He paused, but Captain Elisha made no comment.
“I guess you have,” continued Stephen, soberly. “When you first came,
you know, Caroline and I couldn’t understand. We thought you were
butting in and weren’t our sort, and--and--”
“And a hayseed nuisance generally; I know. Heave ahead, son; you
interest me.”
“Well, we didn’t like it. And Mal Dunn and his mother were always
sympathizing and insinuating, and we believed they were our best
friends, and all that. So we didn’t try to understand you or--or even
make it livable for you. Then, after the news came that the money had
gone, I acted like a kid, I guess. That business of making Mal stick
to the engagement was pretty silly. I was nearly desperate, you see,
and--and--you knew it was silly. You never took any stock in it, did
you?”
The captain smiled.
“Not a heap,” he admitted.
“No. All you wanted was to show them up. Well, you did it, and I’m glad
you did. But Caro and I have talked it over since I’ve been home, and
we agree that you’ve been a great deal better to us than we deserve. You
didn’t _have_ to take care of us at all, any more, after the money went.
By gad! considering how we treated you, I don’t see why you did. _I_
wouldn’t. But you did--and you are. You’ve given us a home, and you’re
putting me through college and--and--”
“That’s all right, son. Good night.”
“Just a minute. I--I--well, if you let me, I’d like to thank you
and--and ask your pardon.”
“Granted, my boy. And never mind the thanks, either. Just keep on
thinkin’ and actin’ as you have to-night, and I’ll be satisfied. I want
to see my nephew makin’ a man of himself--a real man; and, Steve, you
talk more like a man to-night than I’ve ever heard you. Stick to it, and
you’ll do yet. As for goin’ to work, you let me chew on that for a few
days.”
The next morning he called on Sylvester, who in turn took him to a
friend of his, a broker--employing a good-sized staff of clerks. The
three had a consultation, followed, the day after, by another. That
evening the captain made a definite proposal to Stephen. It was,
briefly, that, while not consenting to the latter’s leaving college, he
did consider that a trial of the work in a broker’s office might be
a good thing. Therefore, if the young man wished, he could enter the
employ of Sylvester’s friend and remain during July and August.
“You’ll leave about the first of September, Steve,” he said, “and
that’ll give you time for the two weeks vacation that you ought to have.
Then you can go back to Yale and pitch in till the next summer, when the
same job’ll be ready for you. After you’re through college for good, if
what you’ve learned about brokerin’ ain’t cured you of your likin’ for
it--if you still want to go ahead with it for your life job, then--well,
then we’ll see. What do you say?”
Stephen had a good deal to say, principally in the line of objection to
continuing his studies. Finding these objections unavailing, he agreed
to his guardian’s proposition.
“All right,” said the captain; “then you can go to work next Monday. But
you’ll _have_ to work, and be just the same as any other beginner, no
better and no worse. There’ll be no favoritism, and, if you’re really
wuth your salt, you won’t want any. Show ‘em, and me, that you’re wuth
it.”
The novel, the wonderful tale which Captain Elisha was certain would
make its author famous, was finished that very day in June when Stephen
came back from New Haven. The question of title remained, and the
“clinic,” now reënforced by Steve--whose dislike for Pearson
had apparently vanished with others of his former likes and
dislikes--considered that at several sessions. At last “The Man at the
Wheel” was selected, as indicating something of the hero’s profession
and implying, perhaps, a hint of his character. Then came the
fateful task of securing a publisher. And the first to whom it was
submitted--one of the two firms which had already expressed a desire to
read the manuscript--accepted it, at what, for a first novel, were
very fair terms. During the summer there was proof to be read and
illustrations to be criticized. Captain Elisha did not wholly approve of
the artist’s productions.
“Jerushy!” he exclaimed, “look at that mainmast! Look at the rake of it!
More like a yacht than a deep-water bark, she is enough sight. And the
fust mate’s got a uniform cap on, like a purser on a steamboat. Make
that artist feller take that cap off him, Jim. He’s got to. I wish he
could have seen some of my mates. They wa’n’t Cunarder dudes, but they
could make a crew hop ‘round like a sand-flea in a clam bake.”
Or, when the picture happened to be a shore view:
“What kind of a house is that? Did you ever see a house like that
Down-East? I’ll leave it to anybody if it don’t look like a sugar man’s
plantation I used to know down Mobile way. All that feller standin’
by the door needs is to have his face blacked; then he’d start singin’
‘S’wanee River.’ This ain’t ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Bah!”
The advance copy, the first one, was ready early in September, and the
author, of course, brought it immediately to his friends. They found
the dedication especially interesting: “To C. W. and E. W., consulting
specialists at the literary clinics, with grateful acknowledgments.”
Probably Captain Elisha was never prouder of anything, even his first
command, than of that dedication.
And the story, when at last it appeared for sale, was almost from the
beginning a success. The reviewers praised it, the reading public--that
final court of appeal which makes or unmakes novels--took kindly to it,
and discussed and recommended it; and, most important of all, perhaps,
it sold and continued to sell. There was something in it, its humanity,
its simplicity, its clearly marked characters, which made a hit. Pearson
no longer needed to seek publishers; they sought him. His short stories
were bid for by the magazines, and his prices climbed and climbed.
He found himself suddenly planted in the middle of the highway to
prosperity, with a clear road ahead of him, provided he continued to do
his best.
In September Stephen gave up his work at the broker’s office, spent the
weeks with his friends in Maine, and then returned to Yale. He gave up
the position on the Street with reluctance. He was sure he liked it
now, he declared. It was what he was fitted for, and he meant, more than
ever, to take it up permanently as soon as he was free. And his employer
told Captain Elisha that the youngster was bright, clever, and apt. “A
little conceited, needs taking down occasionally, but that is the only
trouble. He has been spoiled, I should imagine,” he said.
“Yup,” replied the captain, with emphasis; “your imagination’s a good
one. It don’t need cultivatin’ any.”
The novel being out of the way, and its successor not yet far enough
advanced in plot or general plan for much discussion, the “literary
clinics” were no longer as frequent. But Pearson’s visits to the Warren
house were not discontinued. All summer long he had been coming out,
once, and usually twice, a week. Captain Elisha had told him not to
stand on formality, to come any time, and he did. On most of these
occasions he found the captain at home; but, if only Caroline was there,
he seemed quite contented. She did not remark on the frequency of his
visits. In fact, she mentioned him less and less in conversation with
her uncle. But, as the autumn came and moved towards its prime she
seemed, to the captain’s noticing eye, a trifle more grave, a little
more desirous of being by herself. Sometimes he found her sitting by
the open fire--pleasant in the cool October evenings--and gazing very
soberly at the blaze. She had been in good spirits, more merry and
light-hearted than he had ever seen her, during the latter part of
the summer; now her old sadness seemed to be returning. It would have
troubled him, this change in her mood, if he had not believed he knew
the cause.
He was planning a glorious Thanksgiving. At least, it would be glorious
to him, for he intended spending the day, and several days, at his own
home in South Denboro. Abbie Baker had made him promise to do it, and he
had agreed. He would not leave Caroline, of course; she was going with
him. Steve would be there, though he would not come until Thanksgiving
Day itself. Sylvester, also, would be of the party; he seemed delighted
at the opportunity.
“I’m curious to see the place where they raise fellows like you,” the
lawyer said. “It must be worth looking at.”
“Graves don’t think so,” chuckled the captain. “I invited him, and
he said, ‘No, thank you’ so quick that the words was all telescoped
together. And he shivered, too, when he said it; just as if he felt
that sou’west gale whistlin’ between his bones even now. I told him
I’d pretty nigh guarantee that no more trees would fall on him, but it
didn’t have any effect.”
Pearson was asked and had accepted. His going was so far a settled thing
that he had commissioned Captain Elisha to purchase a stateroom for him
on the Fall River boat; for of course the captain would not consider
their traveling the entire distance by train. At an interview in the
young man’s room in the boarding house, only three days before the date
set for the start, he had been almost as enthusiastic as the Cape Codder
himself. The pair had planned several side excursions, time and weather
permitting, among them a trip across the Sound to Setuckit Point, with
the possibility of some late sea-fowl shooting and a long tramp to one
of the life-saving stations, where Pearson hoped to pick up material for
his new book. He was all anticipation and enthusiasm when the captain
left him, and said he would run out to the house the following day, to
make final arrangements.
That day Sylvester ‘phoned, asking Captain Elisha to come to his office
on a matter of business. When, having done so, the captain, returning,
alighted at his home station, he was surprised to see Pearson standing
on the platform.
“Why, hello, Jim!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Just come,
have you?”
His friend shook his head. “No, Captain Warren,” he said; “I’m just
going.”
“Goin’? What for? Been up to the house, of course? Caroline told you
where I’d gone and that I was cal’latin’ to hurry back, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, course you ain’t goin’! You’re goin’ to stay to dinner.
I’ve got some things to tell you about that life-savin’ station cruise.
I’ve been thinkin’ that I know the cap’n and most of the crew on the
lightship off back of the Point. How’d you like to go aboard of her? You
could get some yarns from those fellers that might be wuth hearin’.”
“I have no doubt I should. But I’m afraid I can’t go. The fact is,
Captain, I’ve decided not to spend Thanksgiving with you, after all.”
“Hey?” Captain Elisha could scarcely believe he had heard correctly.
“You can’t go--to South Denboro?”
“No.”
“Why not, for the land sakes?”
“Well, I’ve decided--I’ve decided not to.”
“But, Jim! Why, I can’t have it so! I’m dreadful disappointed. I’ve
counted on your goin’. So has Abbie. She’s read your book, and she says
she’s crazy to see the feller that wrote it. She’s told the minister
and a whole lot more, and they’re all comin’ in to look at you. ‘Tain’t
often we have a celebrated character in our town. You’ve _got_ to go.”
“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the invitation and your kindness,
but,” with decision, “I can’t accept.”
“Can’t you come later? Say Thanksgivin’ mornin’? Or even the day after?”
“No.”
“But why not? What’s the matter with you all of a sudden? Come here! let
me look at you.”
He took the young man by the arm and led him, almost by main strength,
close to the lighted window of the station. It was late, and the
afternoon was gloomy. Here, by the lamplight streaming through the
window, he could see his face more clearly. He looked at it.
“Humph!” he grunted, after a moment’s scrutiny. “You’ve made up your
mind; I can see that. Have you told Caroline? Does she know?”
“Yes. You’ll have to excuse me, Captain Warren; my train is coming.”
“What did she say?”
Pearson smiled, but there was little mirth in the smile. “I think she
agrees with me that it is best,” he observed.
“Humph! She does, hey? I want to know! Look here, Jim! have you and
she--”
He got no further, for Pearson broke away, and, with a hurried “Good
night,” strode up the platform to meet the city-bound train. Captain
Elisha watched it go and then walked slowly homeward, his hands in his
pockets, troubled and wondering.
He entered the house by the back door, a remnant of South Denboro habit,
and found Annie in the kitchen.
“Where’s Caroline?” he asked.
“She’s in the living room, sir, I think. Mr. Pearson has been here and
just gone.”
“Um-hm. So I heard. Say, Annie, you needn’t hurry dinner; I ain’t ready
for it yet awhile.”
He hung his coat and hat in the back hall and quietly entered the living
room. The lamp was not lighted, and the room was dark, but he saw his
niece, a shadowy figure, seated by the window. He crossed to her side.
“Well, Caroline,” he said, cheerfully, “I’m home again.”
She turned. “I see you are,” she answered.
“Humph! your eyes must be better than mine then. I can’t see anything in
here. It’s darker than a nigger’s pocket. Suppose we turn on the glim.”
He struck a match as he said it. By its light he saw her face. The match
burned down to his finger tips and then he extinguished it.
“I don’t know but the dark is just as good and more economical,” he
observed. “No use of encouragin’ the graspin’ ile trust unless it’s
necessary. Let’s you and me sit here in the dark and talk. No objection
to talkin’ to your back country relation, have you?”
“No.”
“That’s good. Well, Caroline, I’m goin’ to talk plain again. You can
order me to close my hatch any time you feel like it; that’s skipper’s
privilege, and you’re boss of this craft, you know. Dearie, I just met
Jim Pearson. He tells me he’s decided not to go on this Cape cruise of
ours. He said you agreed with him ‘twas best he shouldn’t go. Do you
mind tellin’ me why?”
She did not answer. He waited a minute and then continued.
“Course, I know I ain’t got any real right to ask,” he went on; “but I
think more of you and Jim than I do of anybody else, and so maybe you’ll
excuse me. Have you and he had a fallin’ out?”
Still she was silent. He sighed. “Well,” he observed, “I see you have,
and I don’t blame you for not wantin’ to talk about it. I’m awful sorry.
I’d begun to hope that.... However, we’ll change the subject. Or we
won’t talk at all, if you’d rather not.”
Another pause. Then she laid her hand on his.
“Uncle,” she said, “you know I always want to talk to you. And, as for
the right to ask, you have the right to ask anything of me at any time.
And I should have told you, of my own accord, by and by. Mr. Pearson and
I have not quarreled; but I think--I think it best that I should not see
him again.”
“You do? Not see him--any more--at all? Why, Caroline!”
“Not for a long, long time, at least. It would only make it harder--for
him; and it’s of no use.”
Captain Elisha sighed again. “I guess I understand, Caroline. I presume
likely I do. He--he asked somethin’ of you--and you couldn’t say yes to
him. That was it, I suppose. Needn’t tell me unless you really want to,
you understand,” he added, hastily.
“But I do. I ought to tell you. I should have told you before, and
perhaps, if I had, he would not have ... Uncle Elisha, Mr. Pearson asked
me to be his wife.”
The captain gave no evidence of surprise.
“Yes,” he replied, gravely, “I judged that was it. And you told him you
couldn’t, I suppose. Well, dearie, that’s a question nobody ought to
answer but the one. She’s the only one that knows what that answer
should be, and, when other folks interfere and try to influence, it
generally means trouble. I’m kind of disappointed; I’ll own up to that.
I think Jim is a fine, honest, able young man, and he’d make a good
husband, I’m sure. And, so far as his business, or profession, or
whatever you call it, goes, he’s doin’ pretty well and sartin to do
better. Of course, ‘twa’n’t that that kept you from--”
“Uncle Elisha! Am _I_ so rich that I should--”
“There! there, my girl! I know ‘twa’n’t that, of course. I was only
thinkin’ out loud, that’s all--tryin’ to find reasons. You didn’t care
for him enough, I suppose. Caroline, you don’t care for anybody else, do
you? You don’t still care for that other feller, that--”
“Uncle!” she sprang up, hurt and indignant. “How can you?” she cried.
“How could you ask that? What must you think of me?”
“Please, Caroline,” he protested; “please don’t. I beg your pardon. I
was a fool! I knew better. Don’t go. Tell me the real reason. Sit down
again and let’s talk this out. Do sit down! that’s it. Now tell me; was
it that you couldn’t care for Jim enough?”
She hesitated.
“Was it?” he repeated.
“I--I like Mr. Pearson very much. I respect and admire him.”
“But you don’t love him. I see. Well,” sadly, “there’s another one of my
dreams gone to smash. However, you did just right, dearie. Feelin’ that
way, you couldn’t marry him, of course.”
He would have risen now, and she detained him.
“That was not the reason,” she said, in a low tone.
“Hey?” he bent toward her. “What?” he cried. “That wa’n’t the reason,
you say? You do care for him?”
She was silent.
“Do you?” he repeated, gently. “And yet you sent him away. Why?”
She faltered, tried to speak, and then turned away. He put his arm about
her and stroked her hair.
“Don’t you cry, dearie,” he begged. “I won’t bother you any more. You
can tell me some other time--if you want to. Or you needn’t tell me
at all. It’s all right; only don’t cry. ‘Cause if you do,” with sudden
determination, “I shall cry, too; and, bein’ as I ain’t used to the
exercise, I may raise such a row that Annie’ll send for the constable.
You wouldn’t want that to happen, I know.”
This unexpected announcement had the desired effect; Caroline laughed
hysterically and freed herself from his arm.
“I mustn’t be so silly,” she said. “I had made up my mind to tell you
everything, and I shall. My not caring for Mr. Pearson was not my reason
for refusing him. The reasons were two--you and Steve.”
“Me and Steve? What in the world have we got to do with it?”
“Everything. He would marry me, poor as I am; and perhaps I--perhaps
I should say yes if things were different. Oh, there is no use my
deceiving you, or trying to deceive myself! I know I should say yes, and
be very, very happy. But I can’t! and I won’t! I _won’t_!”
“But why? And where, for mercy’s sake, do Steve and I come in?”
“Uncle Elisha, I suppose you think I have been perfectly satisfied to
let you take care of me and of my brother, and give us a home and all
that we needed and more. No doubt you thought me selfish enough to be
contented with that and go on as I am--as we are--living on your bounty.
You had reason to think so. But I have not been contented with that, nor
has Steve. He and I have made our plans, and we shall carry them out. He
will leave college in two years and go to work in earnest. Before that
time I shall be ready to teach. I have been studying with just that idea
in view.”
“Good land! Why, no, you ain’t! You’ve been studyin’ to help me and
Annie run this house.”
“That was only part of it--the smallest part. I haven’t told you before,
Uncle, but one of the Domestic Science teachers at the University is a
girl I used to know slightly. She is going to be married next year, and,
if all goes well, I may be appointed to her position when she leaves. I
have a conditional promise already. If I am, why, then, you see, I shall
really be earning my own living; you will not have to give up your own
home and all your interests there to make me comfortable: you can--”
“Here! here!” Captain Elisha put in, desperately; “don’t talk so
ridiculous, Caroline. I ain’t givin’ up anything. I never was more happy
than I’ve been right here with you this summer. I’m satisfied.”
“I know, but I am not. And neither is Steve. He and I have planned it
all. His salary at first will be small, and so will mine. But together
we can earn enough to live somehow and, later on, when he earns more,
perhaps we may be able to repay a little of all that you have given us.
We shall try. _I_ shall insist upon it.”
“Caroline Warren, is _that_ the reason you sent Jim away? Did you tell
him that? Did you tell him you wouldn’t marry him on account of me?”
“No, of course I did not,” indignantly. “I told him--I said I must not
think of marriage; it was impossible. And it is! You _know_ it is, Uncle
Elisha!”
“I don’t know any such thing. If you want to make me happy, Caroline,
you couldn’t find a better way than to be Jim Pearson’s wife. And you
would be happy, too; you said so.”
“But I am not thinking of happiness. It is my duty--to you and to my own
self-respect. And not only that, but to Steve. Someone must provide a
home for him. Neither he nor I will permit you to do it a day longer
than is necessary. I am his sister and I shall not leave him.”
“But you won’t have to leave him. Steve’s future’s all fixed. I’ve
provided for Steve.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I say.” The captain was very much excited and, for once,
completely off his guard. “I’ve had plans for Steve all along. He’s
doin’ fust-rate in that broker’s office, learnin’ the trade. Next summer
he’ll have another whack at it and learn more. When he’s out of college
I’m goin’ to turn over your dad’s seat on the Stock Exchange to him. Not
give it to him, you know--not right off--but let him try; and then, if
he makes a good fist at it, he’ll have it permanent. Steve’s got the
best chance in the world. He couldn’t ask much better, seems to me. You
ain’t got to fret yourself about Steve.”
He paused, almost out of breath. He had been speaking rapidly so as to
prevent interruption. Caroline’s astonishment was too great for words,
just then. Her uncle anxiously awaited her reply.
“You see, don’t you?” he asked. “You understand. Steve’s goin’ to have
the chance to make a good livin’ at the very thing he declares he’s set
on doin’. I ain’t told him, and I don’t want you to, but it’s what I’ve
planned for him and--”
“Wait! wait, Uncle, please! The Stock Exchange seat? Father’s seat? I
don’t see.... I don’t understand.”
“Yes, yes!” eagerly; “your pa’s seat. I’ve meant it for Steve. There’s
been chances enough to sell it, but I wouldn’t do that. ‘Twas for him,
Caroline; and he’s goin’ to have it.”
“But I don’t see how.... Why, I thought--”
The door of the dining room opened. Annie appeared on the threshold.
“Dinner is served,” she announced.
“Be right there, Annie. Now you see that you ain’t got to worry about
Steve, don’t you, Caroline?”
His niece did not answer. By the light from the doorway he saw that she
was gazing at him with a strange expression. She looked as if she was
about to ask another question. He waited, but she did not ask it.
“Well,” he said, rising, “we won’t talk any more just now. Annie’s
soup’s gettin’ cold, and she’ll be in our wool if we don’t have dinner.
Afterwards we can have another session. Come, Caroline.”
She also rose, but hesitated. “Uncle Elisha,” she said, “will you excuse
me if I don’t talk any more to-night? And, if you don’t mind, I won’t
dine with you. I’m not hungry and--and my head aches. I’ll go to my
room, I think.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, hastily, “of course. I’m afraid I’ve talked too
much as ‘tis. You go up and lie down, and Annie can fetch you some toast
and tea or somethin’ by and by. But do just answer me this, Caroline, if
you can: When you told Jim marryin’ was out of the question for you, did
he take that as final? Was he contented with that? Didn’t he say he was
willin’ to wait for you, or anything?”
“Yes, he said he would wait, always. But I told him he must not. And I
told him he must go and not see me again. I couldn’t see him as I have
been doing; Uncle, I couldn’t!”
“I know, dearie, I know. But didn’t you say anything more? Didn’t you
give him _any_ hope?”
“I said,” she hesitated, and added in a whisper, “I said if I should
ever need him or--or change my mind, I would send for him. I shouldn’t
have said it. It was weak and wicked of me, but I said it. Please let me
go now, Uncle dear. Good night.”
She kissed him and hurried away. He ate his lonely dinner
absent-mindedly and with little appetite. After it was finished he sat
in the living room, the lamp still unlighted, smoking and thinking.
And in her chamber Caroline, too, sat thinking--not altogether of the
man she loved and who loved her. She thought of him, of course; but
there was something else, an idea, a suspicion, which over and over
again she dismissed as an utter impossibility, but which returned as
often.
The Stock Exchange seat had been a part of her father’s estate, a
part of her own and Steve’s inheritance. Sylvester had told her so,
distinctly. And such a seat was valuable; she remembered her brother
reading in the paper that one had recently sold for ninety thousand
dollars. How could Captain Warren have retained such a costly part of
the forfeited estate in his possession? For it was in his possession;
he was going to give it to her brother when the latter left college. But
how could he have obtained it? Not by purchase; for, as she knew, he was
not worth half of ninety thousand dollars. Surely the creditor, the man
who had, as was his right, seized all Rodgers Warren’s effects, would
not have left that and taken the rest. Not unless he was a curiously
philanthropic and eccentric person. Who was he? Who was this mysterious
man her father had defrauded? She had never wished to know before; now
she did. And the more she pondered, the more plausible her suspicion
became. It was almost incredible, it seemed preposterous; but, as she
went back, in memory, over the events since her father’s death and the
disclosure of his astonishing will, little bits of evidence, little
happenings and details came to light, trifles in themselves, but all
fitting in together, like pieces of an inscription in mosaic, to spell
the truth.