A TELEGRAM
As Miss Frink was leaving the store the floorwalker intercepted her. He
had in his hands a letter.
“I wonder if you can throw any light on this, Miss Frink. A letter that
came several days ago to Mr. Hugh Stanwood in care of the store. We have
no employee of that—”
“No, but you will have,” interrupted Miss Frink, almost snatching the
letter. “Hugh Stanwood is the man who hindered the rendezvous my horses
were trying to keep with that express train a few weeks ago.”
“You don’t say so. The young hero who put us all under such obligation?”
“Me, anyway. I’m in no hurry to play the harp. Yes, he was on his way to
Ross Graham’s when he stubbed his toe, poor boy.”
Mr. Ramsay bowed. “I’ve heard that you are caring for him royally. I’m
sure we shall be very glad to welcome him into our ranks if it is your
wish.”
“Well, we’ll let him catch his breath first, anyway. He’s doing well and,
believe me, I couldn’t sleep nights if he wasn’t. I’ve just been getting
him a dressing-gown; you don’t sell dressing-gowns for your health here,
do you?”
The floorwalker smiled deferentially. “Do you find us exorbitant?”
“Do I! I’ll have to pay for this on the installment plan.”
“Ha, ha! Very good. Very good, indeed. Glad we had something that pleased
you. Good-afternoon, Miss Frink.”
On the way home the lady gazed at the letter she was carrying.
“John Ogden has beat me to it,” she reflected. At certain moments the
lady of the old school found a relief to her feelings in slang. “Saber
cuts of Saxon speech,” Mark Twain called it, and Miss Frink liked saber
cuts. She hadn’t time to beat about the bush.
Leaving her box below stairs where her secretary and Mrs. Lumbard could
if they wished whet their curiosity on its shape and the Ross-Graham
label, she went in to lunch with her bonnet on.
The others of her family dutifully took their places. Adèle’s ivory tints
were somewhat flushed. She knew from Miss Damon that she had scored a
triumph with her invisible audience, and it was a certainty that that
meant credit with Miss Frink. She cast an occasional unforgiving glance
at the secretary who kept to his usual safe programme of speaking when he
was spoken to.
Miss Frink addressed him now. “Here is a letter from John Ogden to our
patient,” she said.
Adèle’s brown eyes suddenly glanced up, startled. Still, there were
probably hundreds of John Ogdens in the world.
“Yes. I do feel mortified not to have written him as soon as I received
his letter of introduction. He will think I’m a savage when he learns why
he hasn’t heard from his young friend.” The speaker regarded the letter
beside her plate. “He addressed it in care of the store. Mr. Stanwood was
headed for Ross Graham’s, you know; and they had no more idea _there_ who
Hugh Stanwood was than the man in the moon.”
“That is a little embarrassing,” returned Grimshaw circumspectly. “Is
there anything I can do about it?”
“No,” returned Miss Frink good-naturedly, “since you didn’t stand over me
and make me answer that letter.”
“You never showed me the letter of introduction,” said the secretary, “or
I might have ventured—”
“Oh, you would have ventured,” returned Miss Frink, “though I don’t
think, Grim, that your slogan is ‘Nothing venture, nothing have.’”
“My duty is to protect you, dear lady,” declared Leonard, unsmiling.
“Oh, I know that, and you’re a good boy,” said Miss Frink carelessly. She
set down her tea-cup. “Well, I’ll go upstairs and take my medicine. I
hope both the boy and Mr. Ogden will forgive me. Will you both excuse me,
please?”
She left the room. Adèle longed to comment on the interesting-looking box
she had passed in the hall, but she was still too angry with Grimshaw to
address him.
“Miss Frink is in remarkably good spirits,” he observed; and because
Adèle knew she could irritate him, she responded:
“Yes. She must have succeeded in finding something very fine for her
protégé.”
“It is going rather far to call that young person her protégé,” said the
secretary stiffly.
Adèle shrugged her shoulders. “Personally I think it is a mild name for
him.”
“She will give him the employment he seeks, doubtless, when he is about
again,” remarked Leonard.
“Unless she just passes over half her kingdom to him,” said Adèle. “You
have been seeing him. Is he really such a beauty as he seemed that first
day?”
“Remarkable,” answered the secretary dryly, “with a flaming red beard and
mustache.”
“Horrors!” ejaculated Adèle. Then: “Poor thing, I suppose he couldn’t be
shaved.”
The secretary pushed his chair back from the table. “Only a most common
person could have demanded the music you played for him.”
Adèle grimaced. “Go on. I know what you want to say—And only the
commonest sort of person could have played it. Go on. Have courage, the
courage of your convictions.”
“I think Miss Frink will be the best person to comment on your actions,
in this as in all other matters while you are a guest in her house.”
The two exchanged a dueling glance. Again Adèle experienced that fear of
her antagonist which she sometimes experienced. She didn’t dare to allow
him to dislike her.
“Oh, what’s the use, Leonard,” she said with a sudden change of tone and
manner, and she held out her hand.
He drew back. “Persons shake hands when they are about to fight,” he
said. “I hope there is nothing of that sort in the air.”
Adèle dropped her hand. “I should hope not,” she returned, trying to hold
him with her soft brown glance; but he was impervious and left the room.
Miss Frink, armed with her box, went to the White Room and knocked on the
door. As the nurse opened it, her grave little mouth was smiling.
“We’ve nearly cured Mr. Stanwood while you have been gone,” she said
cheerfully. “I’ve heard that music was being used a good deal now to heal
the sick; and here we have an example.”
Hugh was smiling, too, above his blanket wrappings. “Some pianist you
have here,” he said.
“Oh, did you like that?” asked Miss Frink. “Mrs. Lumbard played, then.”
“By George, it was all I could do to stay in the chair,” said Hugh.
“Well, now I’m glad to hear that,” said Miss Frink. “Music is one thing
we can give you. I’m glad you’re in a good mood, too, for I’m just a
little bit more ashamed than I ever thought I should be again.” She
dropped her box on a chair, and, advancing, held out the letter. “From
Mr. Ogden,” she continued, “and I don’t know how old it is, and I’m real
sorry I’m too old to blush.” She noted that the invalid’s hands were
enveloped in the blanket. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
“No, oh, no,” returned Hugh hastily, thrusting out a hand for the letter.
“I can read it all right.”
The caller crossed to a window and sat down; and as Hugh opened his
letter Miss Frink noticed that he was not too old to blush.
DEAR HUGH (he read)
I am nonplussed at not hearing from you. A little more and I
will have to institute a search; for as you know I left orders
for your mail to be forwarded to me, and a letter has come from
your sister. I am being heroic not to open it, and I don’t dare
forward it until I know surely where you are. The earth seems
to have opened and swallowed you up. Please send me a wire as
soon as you get this.
Yours sincerely
JOHN OGDEN
“Say, Miss Frink”—Hugh’s brow was troubled as he folded the letter. “I
ought to send a wire to Ogden. He has been the best sort of a friend to
me and—and sending me with that letter of—of introduction to you—he can’t
understand not hearing from me—whether I got the job or—or anything
you—you understand.”
Long before the stammering speech was over, Miss Frink was beside Hugh’s
chair. “Don’t you worry another minute,” she said. “I’ll send a wire at
once explaining everything, and Mr. Ogden will know I am the only villain
in the plot.”
“Plot,” thought Hugh, his heart beating with repugnance to the situation.
There was a knock on the door. It was a maid announcing the barber. “Oh,
yes, Miss Frink,” said Miss Damon. “While you were gone Dr. Morton called
up and said he was sending the barber.”
“Let him come up,” said Miss Frink, “and don’t let him cut your head off,
boy, because I want you to hear the telegram I’ll be sending John Ogden.”
She proceeded downstairs to her study and dashed in with the novel
excitability she had displayed ever since the runaway. The shell-rimmed
spectacles glanced up and the secretary rose. His dignity of manner was
exceptional to-day.
“Grim, I wish to send a wire. I don’t want to send it over the phone nor
by a servant. I want you please to take it down for me.”
The secretary inclined his head in silence.
An hour later John Ogden in his office read the following:
Have been very remiss not to tell you that your friend Mr.
Stanwood on day of arrival stopped my runaway, saved my life,
broke his arm and head, very ill for a time at my house. Doing
well now. If you wish to come to see him happy to entertain you
long as you can stay. He called constantly in delirium for Aunt
Sukey, but will not let me send for her. Advise me and forgive
my carelessness.
SUSANNA FRINK
John Ogden stared at this communication for a full minute with an
incredulous gaze before he emitted a peal of laughter that brought tears
to his eyes, and an office boy from the next room.
He sent a prompt reply:
Thank you. Will be with you next Thursday.
When Miss Frink returned to the White Room, she found the invalid
transformed from the rôle of Faust, to that of some famous movie hero of
the present day. He was in bed again too tired and worried to smile at
her.
“I guess a nap will be the next thing, Miss Frink, and then perhaps Mrs.
Lumbard will give us some more music,” said Miss Damon.
“Very well,” returned the lady briskly. “Here’s what I sent to Ogden.”
She stood by the bedside and read the telegram. At the mention of Aunt
Sukey, Hugh started to laugh. He was afraid to let himself go. He felt
capable of a fit of schoolgirl hysterics.
“Yes, sir,” said Miss Frink stoutly; “it shall be just as Mr. Ogden
says, not as you say, about sending for her. I know you, and your
modesty about making trouble. Next time he gets up, Miss Damon, put this
on your patient.” Miss Frink opened the waiting box and took out her
gorgeous gift. She unfolded it before Hugh’s dazzled eyes, and Miss Damon
exclaimed her admiration.
“You see Ross Graham isn’t such a country store, Mr. Stanwood,” declared
Miss Frink.
Hugh whistled. “You called me modest,” he said. “Is it your idea that I
shall ever wear that?”
“The clerk called it a dressing-gown for Prince Charming,” said Miss
Frink triumphantly, “and here are the slippers, Mr. Stanwood. Of course,
they’ll fit you because they haven’t any heels. I think the girl said
they were called donkeys.”
“Queer,” remarked Hugh, “when donkey’s heels are their long suit.” But
because his hostess was holding the satin near his hand and evidently
wished it, he felt the rich fabric admiringly, again wishing himself back
in that familiar basement, packing boxes, honestly.
“So music means a great deal to you, Mr. Stanwood,” said Miss Frink,
regarding the patient thoughtfully.
“I don’t like that Mr. Stanwood from you,” he returned restlessly. “Hugh
is my name, and I’d like you to use it.”
“Of course I shall, then, boy,” returned his hostess promptly. “You like
music, Hugh?”
“Well,” put in the nurse with a little laugh, “if you had seen his eyes
when Mrs. Lumbard was playing!”
“H’m,” grunted Miss Frink. “Well, that’s easy. Now go to sleep, Prince
Charming, and later this afternoon you shall have another concert.”
Hugh stifled a groan and held out his pale right hand. “You know I thank
you, Miss Frink, for all your kindness.”
“Ho,” returned that lady, taking the hand in her dry grasp, and quickly
dropping it. “If I should begin thanking _you_, when do you suppose I
should stop talking?”
She swept out of the room and Hugh closed his eyes.