“A thing?” repeated Bray, bewildered.
“Yes, a measure--you know--two fingers of whiskey.”
“Oh, a 'gill,'” said Bray.
“That's what I said, young man,” returned Parkhurst gravely.
Bray choked back a hysterical laugh; spelling was notoriously not one of
Parkhurst's strong points. “But what has a 'gill' got to do with it?” he
asked quickly.
“It's one of them Sphinx things, don't you see? A sort of riddle or
rebus, you know. You've got to study it out, as them old chaps did. But
I fetched it. What comes after 'gills,' eh?”
“Pints, I suppose,” said Bray.
“And after pints?”
“Quarts.”
“QUARTZ, and there you are. So I looked about me for quartz, and sure
enough struck it the first pop.”
Bray cast a quick look at Parkhurst's grave face. The man was evidently
impressed and sincere. “Have you told this to any one?” he asked
quickly.
“No.”
“Then DON'T! or you'll spoil the charm, and bring us ill luck! That's
the rule, you know. I really don't know that you ought to have told
me,” added the artful Bray, dissembling his intense joy at this proof of
Eugenia's remembrance.
“But,” said Parkhurst blankly, “you see, old man, you'd been the last
man at the spring, and I kinder thought”--
“Don't think,” said Bray promptly, “and above all, don't talk; not a
word to the boys of this. Stay! Give me the paper and the sprig. I've
got to go to San Francisco next week, and I'll take care of it and think
it out!” He knew that Parkhurst might be tempted to talk, but without
the paper his story would be treated lightly. Parkhurst handed him the
paper, and the two men returned to the camp-fire.
That night Bray slept but little. The superstition of the lover is
no less keen than that of the gambler, and Bray, while laughing at
Parkhurst's extravagant fancy, I am afraid was equally inclined to
believe that their good fortune came through Eugenia's influence.
At least he should tell her so, and her precious note became now an
invitation as well as an excuse for seeking her. The only fear that
possessed him was that she might have expected some acknowledgment of
her note before she left that afternoon; the only thing he could not
understand was how she had managed to convey the note to the spring,
for she could not have taken it herself. But this would doubtless be
explained by her in San Francisco, whither he intended to seek her. His
affairs, the purchasing of machinery for their new claim, would no doubt
give him easy access to her father.
But it was one thing to imagine this while procuring a new and
fashionable outfit in San Francisco, and quite another to stand before
the “palatial” residence of the Neworths on Rincon Hill, with the
consciousness of no other introduction than the memory of the Neworths'
discourtesy on the mountain, and, even in his fine feathers, Bray
hesitated. At this moment a carriage rolled up to the door, and Eugenia,
an adorable vision of laces and silks, alighted.
Forgetting everything else, he advanced toward her with outstretched
hand. He saw her start, a faint color come into her face; he knew he
was recognized; but she stiffened quickly again, the color vanished, her
beautiful gray eyes rested coldly on him for a moment, and then, with
the faintest inclination of her proud head, she swept by him and entered
the house.
But Bray, though shocked, was not daunted, and perhaps his own pride was
awakened. He ran to his hotel, summoned a messenger, inclosed her note
in an envelope, and added these lines:--
DEAR MISS NEWORTH,--I only wanted to thank you an hour ago, as I should
like to have done before, for the kind note which I inclose, but which
you have made me feel I have no right to treasure any longer, and to
tell you that your most generous wish and prophecy has been more than
fulfilled.
Yours, very gratefully,
EDMUND BRAY.
Within the hour the messenger returned with the still briefer reply:--
“Miss Neworth has been fully aware of that preoccupation with his good
fortune which prevented Mr. Bray from an earlier acknowledgment of her
foolish note.”
Cold as this response was, Bray's heart leaped. She HAD lingered on the
summit, and HAD expected a reply. He seized his hat, and, jumping into
the first cab at the hotel door, drove rapidly back to the house. He
had but one idea, to see her at any cost, but one concern, to avoid a
meeting with her father first, or a denial at her very door.
He dismissed the cab at the street corner and began to reconnoitre the
house. It had a large garden in the rear, reclaimed from the adjacent
“scrub oak” infested sand hill, and protected by a high wall. If he
could scale that wall, he could command the premises. It was a bright
morning; she might be tempted into the garden. A taller scrub oak grew
near the wall; to the mountain-bred Bray it was an easy matter to swing
himself from it to the wall, and he did. But his momentum was so great
that he touched the wall only to be obliged to leap down into the garden
to save himself from falling there. He heard a little cry, felt his feet
strike some tin utensil, and rolled on the ground beside Eugenia and her
overturned watering-pot.
They both struggled to their feet with an astonishment that turned to
laughter in their eyes and the same thought in the minds of each.
“But we are not on the mountains now, Mr. Bray,” said Eugenia, taking
her handkerchief at last from her sobering face and straightening
eyebrows.
“But we are quits,” said Bray. “And you now know my real name. I only
came here to tell you why I could not answer your letter the same day. I
never got it--I mean,” he added hurriedly, “another man got it first.”
She threw up her head, and her face grew pale. “ANOTHER man got it,” she
repeated, “and YOU let another man”--
“No, no,” interrupted Bray imploringly. “You don't understand. One of my
partners went to the spring that afternoon, and found it; but he neither
knows who sent it, nor for whom it was intended.” He hastily recounted
Parkhurst's story, his mysterious belief, and his interpretation of
the note. The color came back to her face and the smile to her lips and
eyes. “I had gone twice to the spring after I saw you, but I couldn't
bear its deserted look without you,” he added boldly. Here, seeing her
face grew grave again, he added, “But how did you get the letter to the
spring? and how did you know that it was found that day?”
It was her turn to look embarrassed and entreating, but the combination
was charming in her proud face. “I got the little schoolboy at the
summit,” she said, with girlish hesitation, “to take the note. He knew
the spring, but he didn't know YOU. I told him--it was very foolish, I
know--to wait until you came for water, to be certain that you got the
note, to wait until you came up, for I thought you might question him,
or give him some word.” Her face was quite rosy now. “But,” she added,
and her lip took a divine pout, “he said he waited TWO HOURS; that you
never took the LEAST CONCERN of the letter or him, but went around the
mountain side, peering and picking in every hole and corner of it, and
then he got tired and ran away. Of course I understand it now, it wasn't
YOU; but oh, please; I beg you, Mr. Bray, don't!”
Bray released the little hand which he had impulsively caught, and which
had allowed itself to be detained for a blissful moment.
“And now, don't you think, Mr. Bray,” she added demurely, “that you had
better let me fill my pail again while you go round to the front door
and call upon me properly?”
“But your father”--
“My father, as a well-known investor, regrets exceedingly that he did
not make your acquaintance more thoroughly in his late brief interview.
He is, as your foreman knows, exceedingly interested in the mines on
Eureka ledge. He will be glad if you will call.” She led him to a little
door in the wall, which she unbolted. “And now 'Jill' must say good-by
to 'Jack,' for she must make herself ready to receive a Mr. Bray who is
expected.”
And when Bray a little later called at the front door, he was
respectfully announced. He called another day, and many days after. He
came frequently to San Francisco, and one day did not return to his old
partners. He had entered into a new partnership with one who he declared
“had made the first strike on Eureka mountain.”
MR. BILSON'S HOUSEKEEPER
I
When Joshua Bilson, of the Summit House, Buckeye Hill, lost his wife,
it became necessary for him to take a housekeeper to assist him in the
management of the hotel. Already all Buckeye had considered this a mere
preliminary to taking another wife, after a decent probation, as the
relations of housekeeper and landlord were confidential and delicate,
and Bilson was a man, and not above female influence. There was,
however, some change of opinion on that point when Miss Euphemia Trotter
was engaged for that position. Buckeye Hill, which had confidently
looked forward to a buxom widow or, with equal confidence, to the
promotion of some pretty but inefficient chambermaid, was startled
by the selection of a maiden lady of middle age, and above the medium
height, at once serious, precise, and masterful, and to all appearances
outrageously competent. More carefully “taking stock” of her, it was
accepted she had three good points,--dark, serious eyes, a trim but
somewhat thin figure, and well-kept hands and feet. These, which in
so susceptible a community would have been enough, in the words of one
critic, “to have married her to three men,” she seemed to make of little
account herself, and her attitude toward those who were inclined to make
them of account was ceremonious and frigid. Indeed, she seemed to occupy
herself entirely with looking after the servants, Chinese and Europeans,
examining the bills and stores of traders and shopkeepers, in a fashion
that made her respected and--feared. It was whispered, in fact, that
Bilson stood in awe of her as he never had of his wife, and that he was
“henpecked in his own farmyard by a strange pullet.”
Nevertheless, he always spoke of her with a respect and even a reverence
that seemed incompatible with their relative positions. It gave rise
to surmises more or less ingenious and conflicting: Miss Trotter had a
secret interest in the hotel, and represented a San Francisco syndicate;
Miss Trotter was a woman of independent property, and had advanced large
sums to Bilson; Miss Trotter was a woman of no property, but she was
the only daughter of--variously--a late distinguished nobleman, a ruined
millionaire, and a foreign statesman, bent on making her own living.
Alas, for romance! Miss Euphemia Trotter, or “Miss E. Trotter,” as she
preferred to sign herself, loathing her sentimental prefix, was really
a poor girl who had been educated in an Eastern seminary, where
she eventually became a teacher. She had survived her parents and a
neglected childhood, and had worked hard for her living since she
was fourteen. She had been a nurse in a hospital, an assistant in a
reformatory, had observed men and women under conditions of pain and
weakness, and had known the body only as a tabernacle of helplessness
and suffering; yet had brought out of her experience a hard philosophy
which she used equally to herself as to others. That she had ever
indulged in any romance of human existence, I greatly doubt; the lanky
girl teacher at the Vermont academy had enough to do to push herself
forward without entangling girl friendships or confidences, and so
became a prematurely hard duenna, paid to look out for, restrain, and
report, if necessary, any vagrant flirtation or small intrigue of her
companions. A pronounced “old maid” at fifteen, she had nothing to
forget or forgive in others, and still less to learn from them.
It was spring, and down the long slopes of Buckeye Hill the flowers were
already effacing the last dented footprints of the winter rains, and the
winds no longer brought their monotonous patter. In the pine woods there
were the song and flash of birds, and the quickening stimulus of the
stirring aromatic sap. Miners and tunnelmen were already forsaking
the direct road for a ramble through the woodland trail and its sylvan
charms, and occasionally breaking into shouts and horseplay like great
boys. The schoolchildren were disporting there; there were some older
couples sentimentally gathering flowers side by side. Miss Trotter was
also there, but making a short cut from the bank and express office, and
by no means disturbed by any gentle reminiscence of her girlhood or any
other instinctive participation in the wanton season. Spring came, she
knew, regularly every year, and brought “spring cleaning” and other
necessary changes and rehabilitations. This year it had brought also
a considerable increase in the sum she was putting by, and she
was, perhaps, satisfied in a practical way, if not with the blind
instinctiveness of others. She was walking leisurely, holding her gray
skirt well over her slim ankles and smartly booted feet, and clear of
the brushing of daisies and buttercups, when suddenly she stopped. A few
paces before her, partly concealed by a myrtle, a young woman, startled
at her approach, had just withdrawn herself from the embrace of a young
man and slipped into the shadow. Nevertheless, in that moment, Miss
Trotter's keen eyes had recognized her as a very pretty Swedish girl,
one of her chambermaids at the hotel. Miss Trotter passed without a
word, but gravely. She was not shocked nor surprised, but it struck
her practical mind at once that if this were an affair with impending
matrimony, it meant the loss of a valuable and attractive servant; if
otherwise, a serious disturbance of that servant's duties. She must look
out for another girl to take the place of Frida Pauline Jansen, that
was all. It is possible, therefore, that Miss Jansen's criticism of Miss
Trotter to her companion as a “spying, jealous old cat” was unfair. This
companion Miss Trotter had noticed, only to observe that his face and
figure were unfamiliar to her. His red shirt and heavy boots gave no
indication of his social condition in that locality. He seemed more
startled and disturbed at her intrusion than the girl had been, but
that was more a condition of sex than of degree, she also knew. In
such circumstances it is the woman always who is the most composed and
self-possessed.
A few days after this, Miss Trotter was summoned in some haste to the
office. Chris Calton, a young man of twenty-six, partner in the Roanoke
Ledge, had fractured his arm and collar-bone by a fall, and had been
brought to the hotel for that rest and attention, under medical advice,
which he could not procure in the Roanoke company's cabin. She had
a retired, quiet room made ready. When he was installed there by the
doctor she went to see him, and found a good-looking, curly headed young
fellow, even boyish in appearance and manner, who received her with that
air of deference and timidity which she was accustomed to excite in the
masculine breast--when it was not accompanied with distrust. It struck
her that he was somewhat emotional, and had the expression of one who
had been spoiled and petted by women, a rather unusual circumstance
among the men of the locality. Perhaps it would be unfair to her to say
that a disposition to show him that he could expect no such “nonsense”
THERE sprang up in her heart at that moment, for she never had
understood any tolerance of such weakness, but a certain precision and
dryness of manner was the only result of her observation. She adjusted
his pillow, asked him if there was anything that he wanted, but took her
directions from the doctor, rather than from himself, with a practical
insight and minuteness that was as appalling to the patient as it was an
unexpected delight to Dr. Duchesne. “I see you quite understand me, Miss
Trotter,” he said, with great relief.
“I ought to,” responded the lady dryly. “I had a dozen such cases, some
of them with complications, while I was assistant at the Sacramento
Hospital.”
“Ah, then!” returned the doctor, dropping gladly into purely
professional detail, “you'll see this is very simple, not a comminuted
fracture; constitution and blood healthy; all you've to do is to see
that he eats properly, keeps free from excitement and worry, but does
not get despondent; a little company; his partners and some of the boys
from the Ledge will drop in occasionally; not too much of THEM, you
know; and of course, absolute immobility of the injured parts.” The lady
nodded; the patient lifted his blue eyes for an instant to hers with
a look of tentative appeal, but it slipped off Miss Trotter's dark
pupils--which were as abstractedly critical as the doctor's--without
being absorbed by them. When the door closed behind her, the doctor
exclaimed: “By Jove! you're in luck, Chris! That's a splendid woman!
Just the one to look after you!” The patient groaned slightly. “Do what
she says, and we'll pull you through in no time. Why! she's able to
adjust those bandages herself!”
This, indeed, she did a week later, when the surgeon had failed to call,
unveiling his neck and arm with professional coolness, and supporting
him in her slim arms against her stiff, erect buckramed breast, while
she replaced the splints with masculine firmness of touch and serene
and sexless indifference. His stammered embarrassed thanks at the
relief--for he had been in considerable pain--she accepted with a
certain pride as a tribute to her skill, a tribute which Dr. Duchesne
himself afterward fully indorsed.
On re-entering his room the third or fourth morning after his advent at
the Summit House, she noticed with some concern that there was a slight
flush on his cheek and a certain exaltation which she at first thought
presaged fever. But an examination of his pulse and temperature
dispelled that fear, and his talkativeness and good spirits convinced
her that it was only his youthful vigor at last overcoming his
despondency. A few days later, this cheerfulness not being continued,
Dr. Duchesne followed Miss Trotter into the hall. “We must try to keep
our patient from moping in his confinement, you know,” he began, with
a slight smile, “and he seems to be somewhat of an emotional nature,
accustomed to be amused and--er--er--petted.”
“His friends were here yesterday,” returned Miss Trotter dryly, “but I
did not interfere with them until I thought they had stayed long enough
to suit your wishes.”
“I am not referring to THEM,” said the doctor, still smiling; “but you
know a woman's sympathy and presence in a sickroom is often the best of
tonics or sedatives.”
Miss Trotter raised her eyes to the speaker with a half critical
impatience.
“The fact is,” the doctor went on, “I have a favor to ask of you for our
patient. It seems that the other morning a new chambermaid waited upon
him, whom he found much more gentle and sympathetic in her manner than
the others, and more submissive and quiet in her ways--possibly because
she is a foreigner, and accustomed to servitude. I suppose you have no
objection to HER taking charge of his room?”
Miss Trotter's cheek slightly flushed. Not from wounded vanity, but
from the consciousness of some want of acumen that had made her make a
mistake. She had really believed, from her knowledge of the patient's
character and the doctor's preamble, that he wished HER to show some
more kindness and personal sympathy to the young man, and had even been
prepared to question its utility! She saw her blunder quickly, and at
once remembering that the pretty Swedish girl had one morning taken the
place of an absent fellow servant, in the rebound from her error, she
said quietly: “You mean Frida! Certainly! she can look after his
room, if he prefers her.” But for her blunder she might have added
conscientiously that she thought the girl would prove inefficient, but
she did not. She remembered the incident of the wood; yet if the girl
had a lover in the wood, she could not urge it as a proof of incapacity.
She gave the necessary orders, and the incident passed.
Visiting the patient a few days afterward, she could not help noticing a
certain shy gratitude in Mr. Calton's greeting of her, which she quietly
ignored. This forced the ingenuous Chris to more positive speech.
He dwelt with great simplicity and enthusiasm on the Swedish girl's
gentleness and sympathy. “You have no idea of--her--natural tenderness,
Miss Trotter,” he stammered naively. Miss Trotter, remembering the
wood, thought to herself that she had some faint idea of it, but did not
impart what it was. He spoke also of her beauty, not being clever enough
to affect an indifference or ignorance of it, which made Miss Trotter
respect him and smile an unqualified acquiescence. Frida certainly was
pretty! But when he spoke of her as “Miss Jansen,” and said she was so
much more “ladylike and refined than the other servants,” she replied by
asking him if his bandages hurt him, and, receiving a negative answer,
graciously withdrew.
Indeed, his bandages gave him little trouble now, and his improvement
was so marked and sustained that the doctor was greatly gratified,
and, indeed, expressed as much to Miss Trotter, with the conscientious
addition that he believed the greater part of it was due to her capable
nursing! “Yes, ma'am, he has to thank YOU for it, and no one else!”
Miss Trotter raised her dark eyes and looked steadily at him. Accustomed
as he was to men and women, the look strongly held him. He saw in her
eyes an intelligence equal to his own, a knowledge of good and evil, and
a toleration and philosophy, equal to his own, but a something else that
was as distinct and different as their sex. And therein lay its charm,
for it merely translated itself in his mind that she had very pretty
eyes, which he had never noticed before, without any aggressive
intellectual quality. And with this, alas! came the man's propensity to
reason. It meant of course but ONE thing; he saw it all now! If HE, in
his preoccupation and coolness, had noticed her eyes, so also had the
younger and emotional Chris. The young fellow was in love with her! It
was that which had stimulated his recovery, and she was wondering if he,
the doctor, had observed it. He smiled back the superior smile of our
sex in moments of great inanity, and poor Miss Trotter believed he
understood her. A few days after this, she noticed that Frida Jansen was
wearing a pearl ring and a somewhat ostentatious locket. She remembered
now that Mr. Bilson had told her that the Roanoke Ledge was very rich,
and that Calton was likely to prove a profitable guest. But it was not
HER business.
It became her business, however, some days later, when Mr. Calton was so
much better that he could sit in a chair, or even lounge listlessly
in the hall and corridor. It so chanced that she was passing along
the upper hall when she saw Frida's pink cotton skirt disappear in an
adjacent room, and heard her light laugh as the door closed. But the
room happened to be a card-room reserved exclusively for gentlemen's
poker or euchre parties, and the chambermaids had no business there.
Miss Trotter had no doubt that Mr. Calton was there, and that Frida knew
it; but as this was an indiscretion so open, flagrant, and likely to be
discovered by the first passing guest, she called to her sharply. She
was astonished, however, at the same moment to see Mr. Calton walking in
the corridor at some distance from the room in question. Indeed, she was
so confounded that when Frida appeared from the room a little flurried,
but with a certain audacity new to her, Miss Trotter withheld her
rebuke, and sent her off on an imaginary errand, while she herself
opened the card-room door. It contained simply Mr. Bilson, her employer;
his explanation was glaringly embarrassed and unreal! Miss Trotter
affected obliviousness, but was silent; perhaps she thought her employer
was better able to take care of himself than Mr. Calton.
A week later this tension terminated by the return of Calton to Roanoke
Ledge, a convalescent man. A very pretty watch and chain afterward were
received by Miss Trotter, with a few lines expressing the gratitude of
the ex-patient. Mr. Bilson was highly delighted, and frequently borrowed
the watch to show to his guests as an advertisement of the healing
powers of the Summit Hotel. What Mr. Calton sent to the more attractive
and flirtatious Frida did not as publicly appear, and possibly Mr.
Bilson did not know it. The incident of the cardroom was forgotten.
Since that discovery, Miss Trotter had felt herself debarred from taking
the girl's conduct into serious account, and it did not interfere with
her work.
II
One afternoon Miss Trotter received a message that Mr. Calton desired
a few moments' private conversation with her. A little curious, she had
him shown into one of the sitting-rooms, but was surprised on entering
to find that she was in the presence of an utter stranger! This was
explained by the visitor saying briefly that he was Chris's elder
brother, and that he presumed the name would be sufficient introduction.
Miss Trotter smiled doubtfully, for a more distinct opposite to Chris
could not be conceived. The stranger was apparently strong, practical,
and masterful in all those qualities in which his brother was charmingly
weak. Miss Trotter, for no reason whatever, felt herself inclined to
resent them.
“I reckon, Miss Trotter,” he said bluntly, “that you don't know anything
of this business that brings me here. At least,” he hesitated, with a
certain rough courtesy, “I should judge from your general style and gait
that you wouldn't have let it go on so far if you had, but the fact is,
that darned fool brother of mine--beg your pardon!--has gone and got
himself engaged to one of the girls that help here,--a yellow-haired
foreigner, called Frida Jansen.”
“I was not aware that it had gone so far as that,” said Miss Trotter
quietly, “although his admiration for her was well known, especially to
his doctor, at whose request I selected her to especially attend to your
brother.”
“The doctor is a fool,” broke in Mr. Calton abruptly. “He only thought
of keeping Chris quiet while he finished his job.”
“And really, Mr. Calton,” continued Miss Trotter, ignoring the
interruption, “I do not see what right I have to interfere with the
matrimonial intentions of any guest in this house, even though or--as
you seem to put it--BECAUSE the object of his attentions is in its
employ.”
Mr. Calton stared--angrily at first, and then with a kind of wondering
amazement that any woman--above all a housekeeper--should take such a
view. “But,” he stammered, “I thought you--you--looked after the conduct
of those girls.”
“I'm afraid you've assumed too much,” said Miss Trotter placidly. “My
business is to see that they attend to their duties here. Frida Jansen's
duty was--as I have just told you--to look after your brother's room.
And as far as I understand you, you are not here to complain of her
inattention to that duty, but of its resulting in an attachment on your
brother's part, and, as you tell me, an intention as to her future,
which is really the one thing that would make my 'looking after her
conduct' an impertinence and interference! If you had come to tell me
that he did NOT intend to marry her, but was hurting her reputation, I
could have understood and respected your motives.”
Mr. Calton felt his face grow red and himself discomfited. He had come
there with the firm belief that he would convict Miss Trotter of a grave
fault, and that in her penitence she would be glad to assist him in
breaking off the match. On the contrary, to find himself arraigned and
put on his defense by this tall, slim woman, erect and smartly buckramed
in logic and whalebone, was preposterous! But it had the effect of
subduing his tone.
“You don't understand,” he said awkwardly yet pleadingly. “My brother is
a fool, and any woman could wind him round her finger. SHE knows it.
She knows he is rich and a partner in the Roanoke Ledge. That's all she
wants. She is not a fit match for him. I've said he was a fool--but,
hang it all! that's no reason why he should marry an ignorant girl--a
foreigner and a servant--when he could do better elsewhere.”
“This would seem to be a matter between you and your brother, and not
between myself and my servant,” said Miss Trotter coldly. “If you
cannot convince HIM, your own brother, I do not see how you expect me
to convince HER, a servant, over whom I have no control except as a
mistress of her WORK, when, on your own showing, she has everything
to gain by the marriage. If you wish Mr. Bilson, the proprietor, to
threaten her with dismissal unless she gives up your brother,”--Miss
Trotter smiled inwardly at the thought of the card-room incident,--“it
seems to me you might only precipitate the marriage.”
Mr. Calton looked utterly blank and hopeless. His reason told him
that she was right. More than that, a certain admiration for her
clear-sightedness began to possess him, with the feeling that he would
like to have “shown up” a little better than he had in this interview.
If Chris had fallen in love with HER--but Chris was a fool and wouldn't
have appreciated her!
“But you might talk with her, Miss Trotter,” he said, now completely
subdued. “Even if you could not reason her out of it, you might find
out what she expects from this marriage. If you would talk to her as
sensibly as you have to me”--
“It is not likely that she will seek my assistance as you have,” said
Miss Trotter, with a faint smile which Mr. Calton thought quite pretty,
“but I will see about it.”
Whatever Miss Trotter intended to do did not transpire. She certainly
was in no hurry about it, as she did not say anything to Frida that day,
and the next afternoon it so chanced that business took her to the bank
and post-office. Her way home again lay through the Summit woods. It
recalled to her the memorable occasion when she was first a witness to
Frida's flirtations. Neither that nor Mr. Bilson's presumed gallantries,
however, seemed inconsistent, in Miss Trotter's knowledge of the world,
with a serious engagement with young Calton. She was neither shocked nor
horrified by it, and for that reason she had not thought it necessary to
speak of it to the elder Mr. Calton.
Her path wound through a thicket fragrant with syringa and southernwood;
the faint perfume was reminiscent of Atlantic hillsides, where, long
ago, a girl teacher, she had walked with the girl pupils of the Vermont
academy, and kept them from the shy advances of the local swains. She
smiled--a little sadly--as the thought occurred to her that after this
interval of years it was again her business to restrain the callow
affections. Should she never have the matchmaking instincts of her sex;
never become the trusted confidante of youthful passion? Young Calton
had not confessed his passion to HER, nor had Frida revealed her secret.
Only the elder brother had appealed to her hard, practical common sense
against such sentiment. Was there something in her manner that forbade
it? She wondered if it was some uneasy consciousness of this quality
which had impelled her to snub the elder Calton, and rebelled against
it.
It was quite warm; she had been walking a little faster than her usual
deliberate gait, and checked herself, halting in the warm breath of the
syringas. Here she heard her name called in a voice that she recognized,
but in tones so faint and subdued that it seemed to her part of her
thoughts. She turned quickly and beheld Chris Calton a few feet
from her, panting, partly from running and partly from some nervous
embarrassment. His handsome but weak mouth was expanded in an
apologetic smile; his blue eyes shone with a kind of youthful appeal so
inconsistent with his long brown mustache and broad shoulders that she
was divided between a laugh and serious concern.
“I saw you--go into the wood--but I lost you,” he said, breathing
quickly, “and then when I did see you again--you were walking so fast
I had to run after you. I wanted--to speak--to you--if you'll let me. I
won't detain you--I can walk your way.”
Miss Trotter was a little softened, but not so much as to help him out
with his explanation. She drew her neat skirts aside, and made way for
him on the path beside her.
“You see,” he went on nervously, taking long strides to her shorter
ones, and occasionally changing sides in his embarrassment, “my brother
Jim has been talking to you about my engagement to Frida, and trying to
put you against her and me. He said as much to me, and added you half
promised to help him! But I didn't believe him--Miss Trotter!--I know
you wouldn't do it--you haven't got it in your heart to hurt a poor
girl! He says he has every confidence in you--that you're worth a dozen
such girls as she is, and that I'm a big fool or I'd see it. I don't
say you're not all he says, Miss Trotter; but I'm not such a fool as he
thinks, for I know your GOODNESS too. I know how you tended me when
I was ill, and how you sent Frida to comfort me. You know, too,--for
you're a woman yourself,--that all you could say, or anybody could,
wouldn't separate two people who loved each other.”
Miss Trotter for the first time felt embarrassed, and this made her a
little angry. “I don't think I gave your brother any right to speak
for me or of me in this matter,” she said icily; “and if you are quite
satisfied, as you say you are, of your own affection and Frida's, I do
not see why you should care for anybody'sinterference.”
“Now you are angry with me,” he said in a doleful voice which at any
other time would have excited her mirth; “and I've just done it. Oh,
Miss Trotter, don't! Please forgive me! I didn't mean to say your talk
was no good. I didn't mean to say you couldn't help us. Please don't be
mad at me!”
He reached out his hand, grasped her slim fingers in his own, and
pressed them, holding them and even arresting her passage. The act was
without familiarity or boldness, and she felt that to snatch her hand
away would be an imputation of that meaning, instead of the boyish
impulse that prompted it. She gently withdrew her hand as if to continue
her walk, and said, with a smile:--
“Then you confess you need help--in what way?”
“With her!”
Miss Trotter stared. “With HER!” she repeated. This was a new idea. Was
it possible that this common, ignorant girl was playing and trifling
with her golden opportunity? “Then you are not quite sure of her?” she
said a little coldly.
“She's so high spirited, you know,” he said humbly, “and so attractive,
and if she thought my friends objected and were saying unkind things
of her,--well!”--he threw out his hands with a suggestion of hopeless
despair--“there's no knowing what she might do.”
Miss Trotter's obvious thought was that Frida knew on which side her
bread was buttered; but remembering that the proprietor was a widower,
it occurred to her that the young woman might also have it buttered on
both sides. Her momentary fancy of uniting two lovers somehow weakened
at this suggestion, and there was a hardening of her face as she said,
“Well, if YOU can't trust her, perhaps your brother may be right.”
“I don't say that, Miss Trotter,” said Chris pleadingly, yet with a
slight wincing at her words; “YOU could convince her, if you would only
try. Only let her see that she has some other friends beside myself.
Look! Miss Trotter, I'll leave it all to you--there! If you will only
help me, I will promise not to see her--not to go near her again--until
you have talked with her. There! Even my brother would not object
to that. And if he has every confidence in you, I'm showing you I've
more--don't you see? Come, now, promise--won't you, dear Miss Trotter?”
He again took her hand, and this time pressed a kiss upon her slim
fingers. And this time she did not withdraw them. Indeed, it seemed to
her, in the quick recurrence of her previous sympathy, as if a hand
had been put into her loveless past, grasping and seeking hers in its
loneliness. None of her school friends had ever appealed to her like
this simple, weak, and loving young man. Perhaps it was because they
were of her own sex, and she distrusted them.
Nevertheless, this momentary weakness did not disturb her good common
sense. She looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then said, with a
faint smile, “Perhaps she does not trust YOU. Perhaps you cannot trust
yourself.”
He felt himself reddening with a strange embarrassment. It was not so
much the question that disturbed him as the eyes of Miss Trotter; eyes
that he had never before noticed as being so beautiful in their color,
clearness, and half tender insight. He dropped her hand with a new-found
timidity, and yet with a feeling that he would like to hold it longer.
“I mean,” she said, stopping short in the trail at a point where a
fringe of almost impenetrable “buckeyes” marked the extreme edge of the
woods,--“I mean that you are still very young, and as Frida is
nearly your own age,”--she could not resist this peculiarly feminine
innuendo,--“she may doubt your ability to marry her in the face of
opposition; she may even think my interference is a proof of it; but,”
she added quickly, to relieve his embarrassment and a certain abstracted
look with which he was beginning to regard her, “I will speak to her,
and,” she concluded playfully, “you must take the consequences.”
He said “Thank you,” but not so earnestly as his previous appeal might
have suggested, and with the same awkward abstraction in his eyes. Miss
Trotter did not notice it, as her own eyes were at that moment fixed
upon a point on the trail a few rods away. “Look,” she said in a lower
voice, “I may have the opportunity now for there is Frida herself
passing.” Chris turned in the direction of her glance. It was indeed the
young girl walking leisurely ahead of them. There was no mistaking
the smart pink calico gown in which Frida was wont to array her rather
generous figure, nor the long yellow braids that hung Marguerite-wise
down her back. With the consciousness of good looks which she always
carried, there was, in spite of her affected ease, a slight furtiveness
in the occasional swift turn of her head, as if evading or seeking
observation.
“I will overtake her and speak to her now,” continued Miss Trotter. “I
may not have so good a chance again to see her alone. You can wait here
for my return, if you like.”
Chris started out of his abstraction. “Stay!” he stammered, with a
faint, tentative smile. “Perhaps--don't you think?--I had better go
first and tell her you want to see her. I can send her here. You see,
she might”--He stopped.
Miss Trotter smiled. “It was part of your promise, you know, that you
were NOT to see her again until I had spoken. But no matter! Have it as
you wish. I will wait here. Only be quick. She has just gone into the
grove.”
Without another word the young man turned away, and she presently saw
him walking toward the pine grove into which Frida had disappeared. Then
she cleared a space among the matted moss and chickweed, and, gathering
her skirts about her, sat down to wait. The unwonted attitude, the
whole situation, and the part that she seemed destined to take in this
sentimental comedy affected her like some quaint child's play out of her
lost youth, and she smiled, albeit with a little heightening of color
and lively brightening of her eyes. Indeed, as she sat there listlessly
probing the roots of the mosses with the point of her parasol, the
casual passer-by might have taken herself for the heroine of some love
tryst. She had a faint consciousness of this as she glanced to the right
and left, wondering what any one from the hotel who saw her would think
of her sylvan rendezvous; and as the recollection of Chris kissing her
hand suddenly came back to her, her smile became a nervous laugh, and
she found herself actually blushing!
But she was recalled to herself as suddenly. Chris was returning. He
was walking directly towards her with slow, determined steps, quite
different from his previous nervous agitation, and as he drew nearer she
saw with some concern an equally strange change in his appearance: his
colorful face was pale, his eyes fixed, and he looked ten years older.
She rose quickly.
“I came back to tell you,” he said, in a voice from which all trace of
his former agitation had passed, “that I relieve you of your promise. It
won't be necessary for you to see--Frida. I thank you all the same, Miss
Trotter,” he said, avoiding her eyes with a slight return to his boyish
manner. “It was kind of you to promise to undertake a foolish errand for
me, and to wait here, and the best thing I can do is to take myself off
now and keep you no longer. Please don't ask me WHY. Sometime I may tell
you, but not now.”
“Then you have seen her?” asked Miss Trotter quickly, premising Frida's
refusal from his face.
He hesitated a moment, then he said gravely, “Yes. Don't ask me any
more, Miss Trotter, please. Good-by!” He paused, and then, with a
slight, uneasy glance toward the pine grove, “Don't let me keep you
waiting here any longer.” He took her hand, held it lightly for a
moment, and said, “Go, now.”
Miss Trotter, slightly bewildered and unsatisfied, nevertheless passed
obediently out into the trail. He gazed after her for a moment, and
then turned and began rapidly to ascend the slope where he had first
overtaken her, and was soon out of sight. Miss Trotter continued her way
home; but when she had reached the confines of the wood she turned, as
if taking some sudden resolution, and began slowly to retrace her steps
in the direction of the pine grove. What she expected to see there,
possibly she could not have explained; what she actually saw after a
moment's waiting were the figures of Frida and Mr. Bilson issuing from
the shade! Her respected employer wore an air of somewhat ostentatious
importance mingled with rustic gallantry. Frida's manner was also
conscious with gratified vanity; and although they believed themselves
alone, her voice was already pitched into a high key of nervous
affectation, indicative of the peasant. But there was nothing to suggest
that Chris had disturbed them in their privacy and confidences. Yet he
had evidently seen enough to satisfy himself of her faithlessness. Had
he ever suspected it before?
Miss Trotter waited only until they had well preceded her, and then took
a shorter cut home. She was quite prepared that evening for an interview
which Mr. Bilson requested. She found him awkward and embarrassed in her
cool, self-possessed presence. He said he deemed it his duty to inform
her of his approaching marriage with Miss Jansen; but it was because he
wished distinctly to assure her that it would make no difference in Miss
Trotter's position in the hotel, except to promote her to the entire
control of the establishment. He was to be married in San Francisco at
once, and he and his wife were to go abroad for a year or two; indeed,
he contemplated eventually retiring from business. If Mr. Bilson
was uneasily conscious during this interview that he had once paid
attentions to Miss Trotter, which she had ignored, she never betrayed
the least recollection of it. She thanked him for his confidence and
wished him happiness.
Sudden as was this good fortune to Miss Trotter, an independence she
had so often deservedly looked forward to, she was, nevertheless,
keenly alive to the fact that she had attained it partly through Chris's
disappointment and unhappiness. Her sane mind taught her that it was
better for him; that he had been saved an ill-assorted marriage; that
the girl had virtually rejected him for Bilson before he had asked
her mediation that morning. Yet these reasons failed to satisfy her
feelings. It seemed cruel to her that the interest which she had
suddenly taken in poor Chris should end so ironically in disaster to
her sentiment and success to her material prosperity. She thought of his
boyish appeal to her; of what must have been his utter discomfiture in
the discovery of Frida's relations to Mr. Bilson that afternoon, but
more particularly of the singular change it had effected in him. How
nobly and gently he had taken his loss! How much more like a man he
looked in his defeat than in his passion! The element of respect which
had been wanting in her previous interest in him was now present in her
thoughts. It prevented her seeking him with perfunctory sympathy and
worldly counsel; it made her feel strangely and unaccountably shy of any
other expression.
As Mr. Bilson evidently desired to avoid local gossip until after his
marriage, he had enjoined secrecy upon her, and she was also debarred
from any news of Chris through his brother, who, had he known of Frida's
engagement, would have naturally come to her for explanation. It also
convinced her that Chris himself had not revealed anything to his
brother.
III
When the news of the marriage reached Buckeye Hill, it did not, however,
make much scandal, owing, possibly, to the scant number of the sex
who are apt to disseminate it, and to many the name of Miss Jansen was
unknown. The intelligence that Mr. Bilson would be absent for a year,
and that the superior control of the Summit Hotel would devolve upon
Miss Trotter, DID, however, create a stir in that practical business
community. No one doubted the wisdom of the selection. Every one knew
that to Miss Trotter's tact and intellect the success of the hotel had
been mainly due. Possibly, the satisfaction of Buckeye Hill was due to
something else. Slowly and insensibly Miss Trotter had achieved a social
distinction; the wives and daughters of the banker, the lawyer, and the
pastor had made much of her, and now, as an independent woman of means,
she stood first in the district. Guests deemed it an honor to have a
personal interview with her. The governor of the State and the Supreme
Court judges treated her like a private hostess; middle-aged Miss
Trotter was considered as eligible a match as the proudest heiress
in California. The old romantic fiction of her past was revived
again,--they had known she was a “real lady” from the first! She
received these attentions, as became her sane intellect and cool
temperament, without pride, affectation, or hesitation. Only her dark
eyes brightened on the day when Mr. Bilson's marriage was made known,
and she was called upon by James Calton.
“I did you a great injustice,” he said, with a smile.
“I don't understand you,” she replied a little coldly.
“Why, this woman and her marriage,” he said; “you must have known
something of it all the time, and perhaps helped it along to save
Chris.”
“You are mistaken,” returned Miss Trotter truthfully. “I knew nothing of
Mr. Bilson's intentions.”
“Then I have wronged you still more,” he said briskly, “for I thought at
first that you were inclined to help Chris in his foolishness. Now I see
it was your persuasions that changed him.”
“Let me tell you once for all, Mr. Calton,” she returned with an
impulsive heat which she regretted, “that I did not interfere in any way
with your brother's suit. He spoke to me of it, and I promised to see
Frida, but he afterwards asked me not to. I know nothing of the matter.”
“Well,” laughed Mr. Calton, “WHATEVER you did, it was most efficacious,
and you did it so graciously and tactfully that it has not altered
his high opinion of you, if, indeed, he hasn't really transferred his
affections to you.”
Luckily Miss Trotter had her face turned from him at the beginning of
the sentence, or he would have noticed the quick flush that suddenly
came to her cheek and eyes. Yet for an instant this calm, collected
woman trembled, not at what Mr. Calton might have noticed, but at what
SHE had noticed in HERSELF. Mr. Calton, construing her silence and
averted head into some resentment of his familiar speech, continued
hurriedly:--
“I mean, don't you see, that I believe no other woman could have
influenced my brother as you have.”
“You mean, I think, that he has taken his broken heart very lightly,”
said Miss Trotter, with a bitter little laugh, so unlike herself that
Mr. Calton was quite concerned at it.
“No,” he said gravely. “I can't say THAT! He's regularly cut up, you
know! And changed; you'd hardly know him. More like a gloomy crank than
the easy fool he used to be,” he went on, with brotherly directness. “It
wouldn't be a bad thing, you know, if you could manage to see him, Miss
Trotter! In fact, as he's off his feed, and has some trouble with his
arm again, owing to all this, I reckon, I've been thinking of advising
him to come up to the hotel once more till he's better. So long as SHE'S
gone it would be all right, you know!”
By this time Miss Trotter was herself again. She reasoned, or thought
she did, that this was a question of the business of the hotel, and
it was clearly her duty to assent to Chris's coming. The strange yet
pleasurable timidity which possessed her at the thought she ignored
completely.
He came the next day. Luckily, she was so much shocked by the change in
his appearance that it left no room for any other embarrassment in the
meeting. His face had lost its fresh color and round outline; the lines
of his mouth were drawn with pain and accented by his drooping mustache;
his eyes, which had sought hers with a singular seriousness, no longer
wore the look of sympathetic appeal which had once so exasperated her,
but were filled with an older experience. Indeed, he seemed to have
approximated so near to her own age that, by one of those paradoxes of
the emotions, she felt herself much younger, and in smile and eye showed
it; at which he colored faintly. But she kept her sympathy and inquiries
limited to his physical health, and made no allusion to his past
experiences; indeed, ignoring any connection between the two. He had
been shockingly careless in his convalescence, had had a relapse in
consequence, and deserved a good scolding! His relapse was a reflection
upon the efficacy of the hotel as a perfect cure! She should treat him
more severely now, and allow him no indulgences! I do not know that
Miss Trotter intended anything covert, but their eyes met and he colored
again. Ignoring this also, and promising to look after him occasionally,
she quietly withdrew.
But about this time it was noticed that a change took place in Miss
Trotter. Always scrupulously correct, and even severe in her dress, she
allowed herself certain privileges of color, style, and material. She,
who had always affected dark shades and stiff white cuffs and collars,
came out in delicate tints and laces, which lent a brilliancy to her
dark eyes and short crisp black curls, slightly tinged with gray.
One warm summer evening she startled every one by appearing in white,
possibly a reminiscence of her youth at the Vermont academy. The
masculine guests thought it pretty and attractive; even the women
forgave her what they believed a natural expression of her prosperity
and new condition, but regretted a taste so inconsistent with her age.
For all that, Miss Trotter had never looked so charming, and the faint
autumnal glow in her face made no one regret her passing summer.
One evening she found Chris so much better that he was sitting on
the balcony, but still so depressed that she was compelled so far to
overcome the singular timidity she had felt in his presence as to ask
him to come into her own little drawing-room, ostensibly to avoid the
cool night air. It was the former “card-room” of the hotel, but now
fitted with feminine taste and prettiness. She arranged a seat for him
on the sofa, which he took with a certain brusque boyish surliness, the
last vestige of his youth.
“It's very kind of you to invite me in here,” he began bitterly, “when
you are so run after by every one, and to leave Judge Fletcher just
now to talk to me, but I suppose you are simply pitying me for being a
fool!”
“I thought you were imprudent in exposing yourself to the night air on
the balcony, and I think Judge Fletcher is old enough to take care of
himself,” she returned, with the faintest touch of coquetry, and a smile
which was quite as much an amused recognition of that quality in herself
as anything else.
“And I'm a baby who can't,” he said angrily. After a pause he burst out
abruptly: “Miss Trotter, will you answer me one question?”
“Go on,” she said smilingly.
“Did you know--that--woman was engaged to Bilson when I spoke to you in
the wood?”
“No!” she answered quickly, but without the sharp resentment she had
shown at his brother's suggestion. “I only knew it when Mr. Bilson told
me the same evening.”
“And I only knew it when news came of their marriage,” he said bitterly.
“But you must have suspected something when you saw them together in the
wood,” she responded.
“When I saw them together in the wood?” he repeated dazedly.
Miss Trotter was startled, and stopped short. Was it possible he had not
seen them together? She was shocked that she had spoken; but it was too
late to withdraw her words. “Yes,” she went on hurriedly, “I thought
that was why you came back to say that I was not to speak to her.”
He looked at her fixedly, and said slowly: “You thought that? Well,
listen to me. I saw NO ONE! I knew nothing of this! I suspected nothing!
I returned before I had reached the wood--because--because--I had
changed my mind!”
“Changed your mind!” she repeated wonderingly.
“Yes! Changed my mind! I couldn't stand it any longer! I did not love
the girl--I never loved her--I was sick of my folly. Sick of deceiving
you and myself any longer. Now you know why I didn't go into the wood,
and why I didn't care where she was nor who was with her!”
“I don't understand,” she said, lifting her clear eyes to his coldly.
“Of course you don't,” he said bitterly. “I didn't understand myself!
And when you do understand you will hate and despise me--if you do not
laugh at me for a conceited fool! Hear me out, Miss Trotter, for I am
speaking the truth to you now, if I never spoke it before. I never asked
the girl to marry me! I never said to HER half what I told to YOU, and
when I asked you to intercede with her, I never wanted you to do it--and
never expected you would.”
“May I ask WHY you did it then?” said Miss Trotter, with an acerbity
which she put on to hide a vague, tantalizing consciousness.
“You would not believe me if I told you, and you would hate me if you
did.” He stopped, and, locking his fingers together, threw his hands
over the back of the sofa and leaned toward her. “You never liked me,
Miss Trotter,” he said more quietly; “not from the first! From the day
that I was brought to the hotel, when you came to see me, I could see
that you looked upon me as a foolish, petted boy. When I tried to catch
your eye, you looked at the doctor, and took your speech from him. And
yet I thought I had never seen a woman so great and perfect as you were,
and whose sympathy I longed so much to have. You may not believe me, but
I thought you were a queen, for you were the first lady I had ever seen,
and you were so different from the other girls I knew, or the women who
had been kind to me. You may laugh, but it's the truth I'm telling you,
Miss Trotter!”
He had relapsed completely into his old pleading, boyish way--it had
struck her even as he had pleaded to her for Frida!
“I knew you didn't like me that day you came to change the bandages.
Although every touch of your hands seemed to ease my pain, you did it so
coldly and precisely; and although I longed to keep you there with me,
you scarcely waited to take my thanks, but left me as if you had
only done your duty to a stranger. And worst of all,” he went on more
bitterly, “the doctor knew it too--guessed how I felt toward you, and
laughed at me for my hopelessness! That made me desperate, and put me up
to act the fool. I did! Yes, Miss Trotter; I thought it mighty clever
to appear to be in love with Frida, and to get him to ask to have her
attend me regularly. And when you simply consented, without a word or
thought about it and me, I knew I was nothing to you.”
Miss Trotter felt a sudden thrill. The recollection of Dr. Duchesne's
strange scrutiny of her, of her own mistake, which she now knew might
have been the truth--flashed across her confused consciousness in swift
corroboration of his words. It was a DOUBLE revelation to her; for what
else was the meaning of this subtle, insidious, benumbing sweetness that
was now creeping over her sense and spirit and holding her fast. She
felt she ought to listen no longer--to speak--to say something--to get
up--to turn and confront him coldly--but she was powerless. Her reason
told her that she had been the victim of a trick--that having deceived
her once, he might be doing so again; but she could not break the spell
that was upon her, nor did she want to. She must know the culmination of
this confession, whose preamble thrilled her so strangely.
“The girl was kind and sympathetic,” he went on, “but I was not so great
a fool as not to know that she was a flirt and accustomed to attention.
I suppose it was in my desperation that I told my brother, thinking he
would tell you, as he did. He would not tell me what you said to him,
except that you seemed to be indignant at the thought that I was only
flirting with Frida. Then I resolved to speak with you myself--and I
did. I know it was a stupid, clumsy contrivance. It never seemed so
stupid before I spoke to you. It never seemed so wicked as when you
promised to help me, and your eyes shone on me for the first time with
kindness. And it never seemed so hopeless as when I found you touched
with my love for another. You wonder why I kept up this deceit until you
promised. Well, I had prepared the bitter cup myself--I thought I ought
to drink it to the dregs.”
She turned quietly, passionately, and, standing up, faced him with a
little cry. “Why are you telling me this NOW?”
He rose too, and catching her hands in his, said, with a white face,
“Because I love you.”
*****
Half an hour later, when the under-housekeeper was summoned to receive
Miss Trotter's orders, she found that lady quietly writing at the table.
Among the orders she received was the notification that Mr. Calton's
rooms would be vacated the next day. When the servant, who, like most of
her class, was devoted to the good-natured, good-looking, liberal Chris,
asked with some concern if the young gentleman was no better, Miss
Trotter, with equal placidity, answered that it was his intention to put
himself under the care of a specialist in San Francisco, and that
she, Miss Trotter, fully approved of his course. She finished her
letter,--the servant noticed that it was addressed to Mr. Bilson at
Paris,--and, handing it to her, bade that it should be given to a groom,
with orders to ride over to the Summit post-office at once to catch the
last post. As the housekeeper turned to go, she again referred to the
departing guest. “It seems such a pity, ma'am, that Mr. Calton couldn't
stay, as he always said you did him so much good.” Miss Trotter smiled
affably. But when the door closed she gave a hysterical little laugh,
and then, dropping her handsome gray-streaked head in her slim hands,
cried like a girl--or, indeed, as she had never cried when a girl.
When the news of Mr. Calton's departure became known the next day, some
lady guests regretted the loss of this most eligible young bachelor.
Miss Trotter agreed with them, with the consoling suggestion that he
might return for a day or two. He did return for a day; it was thought
that the change to San Francisco had greatly benefited him, though some
believed he would be an invalid all his life.
Meantime Miss Trotter attended regularly to her duties, with the
difference, perhaps, that she became daily more socially popular and
perhaps less severe in her reception of the attentions of the masculine
guests. It was finally whispered that the great Judge Boompointer was a
serious rival of Judge Fletcher for her hand. When, three months later,
some excitement was caused by the intelligence that Mr. Bilson was
returning to take charge of his hotel, owing to the resignation of Miss
Trotter, who needed a complete change, everybody knew what that meant.
A few were ready to name the day when she would become Mrs. Boompointer;
others had seen the engagement ring of Judge Fletcher on her slim
finger.
Nevertheless Miss Trotter married neither, and by the time Mr. and Mrs.
Bilson had returned she had taken her holiday, and the Summit House knew
her no more.
Three years later, and at a foreign Spa, thousands of miles distant from
the scene of her former triumphs, Miss Trotter reappeared as a handsome,
stately, gray-haired stranger, whose aristocratic bearing deeply
impressed a few of her own countrymen who witnessed her arrival, and
believed her to be a grand duchess at the least. They were still
more convinced of her superiority when they saw her welcomed by the
well-known Baroness X., and afterwards engaged in a very confidential
conversation with that lady. But they would have been still more
surprised had they known the tenor of that conversation.
“I am afraid you will find the Spa very empty just now,” said the
baroness critically. “But there are a few of your compatriots here,
however, and they are always amusing. You see that somewhat faded blonde
sitting quite alone in that arbor? That is her position day after day,
while her husband openly flirts or is flirted with by half the women
here. Quite the opposite experience one has of American women, where
it's all the other way, is it not? And there is an odd story about her
which may account for, if it does not excuse, her husband's neglect.
They're very rich, but they say she was originally a mere servant in a
hotel.”
“You forget that I told you I was once only a housekeeper in one,” said
Miss Trotter, smiling.
“Nonsense. I mean that this woman was a mere peasant, and frightfully
ignorant at that!”
Miss Trotter put up her eyeglass, and, after a moment's scrutiny,
said gently, “I think you are a little severe. I know her; it's a Mrs.
Bilson.”
“No, my dear. You are quite wrong. That was the name of her FIRST
husband. I am told she was a widow who married again--quite a
fascinating young man, and evidently her superior--that is what is so
funny. She is a Mrs. Calton--'Mrs. Chris Calton,' as she calls herself.”
“Is her husband--Mr. Calton--here?” said Miss Trotter after a pause, in
a still gentler voice.
“Naturally not. He has gone on an excursion with a party of ladies to
the Schwartzberg. He returns to-morrow. You will find HER very stupid,
but HE is very jolly, though a little spoiled by women. Why do we always
spoil them?”
Miss Trotter smiled, and presently turned the subject. But the baroness
was greatly disappointed to find the next day that an unexpected
telegram had obliged Miss Trotter to leave the Spa without meeting the
Caltons.