Make feasts, invite friends and proclaim the banns.—_Taming of
the Shrew_, iii, 2.
The three men came up to the East porch where Miss Esther gave them
their tea. She was plainly in a mood of the utmost complacency. Nor were
her guests less complacent. George Washington Dodd, with the knowledge
that he had arranged his little comedy quite to his liking, was placidly
awaiting its working out. Brewster was in a seventh heaven. The trifling
affair of the penknife was to him a wind-proving straw, and, always
self-confident, he felt now not the slightest doubt of his ability to
win Helen Fairbanks.
However, as time went on and the three girls did not appear, the edge of
Miss Esther’s complacency was dulled, and she grew more and more
perturbed.
“I don’t see what can be keeping them,” she said. “They said they’d come
over for tea, and then we would all start for the Crossways together.”
“Where’s Lincoln?” said his father.
“He went off to do an errand for me,” said Miss Esther, casually. “He’ll
be back very soon. I told him particularly not to dawdle by the way. If
we start by six we’ll have plenty of time.”
But at half-past five Dodd had not returned, nor had any of the girls
come. Miss Esther began to show signs of nervousness. Putnam’s brow
clouded, and the senior Dodd began to fidget.
At twenty minutes to six a decided gloom had settled upon the whole
party, and at ten minutes of six, consternation was palpably apparent.
“I can’t imagine why those girls don’t come,” said Miss Esther.
“At least one of them,” said Putnam. “She said she’d be here at five.”
Miss Esther smiled happily at her cousin; but her face clouded again as
she said, “I wish Lincoln would come, then we could start and pick up
the girls on the way.”
Six o’clock struck, and still there were no signs of the expected ones.
“I believe I’ll go over to Miss Fairbanks’s,” said Brewster, “and see
why they don’t come.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Putnam. “I hope nothing has happened to her.”
“Your pronoun is ambiguous,” said Dodd, “but never mind; we understand.”
Before the investigating party could start, the automobile came romping
up the driveway, and in it were Lincoln Dodd and the three girls. They
all seemed to be in unusually good spirits.
“We’ve had the loveliest ride,” cried Jean. “We’ve been over to
Farmington!”
“What!” cried Miss Esther.
“Yes,” began Helen; “we went with Mr. Dodd and the loveliest—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Miss Esther, “I’ve no doubt you had a lovely
time.”
“She’s certainly a peach,” said Lincoln, winking at Miss Esther.
“Oh, you mean your automobile. Has she acted well to-day? She certainly
is a beauty,” said Miss Esther, fearful lest he refer more explicitly to
Julia Fowler.
“Yes, she certainly is a beauty,” replied Dodd; “and she acted very
well.”
“Come, come,” said Miss Esther, still a bit nervously; “we must be
starting.”
“All right,” said Lillian; “and on the way I’ll tell you how Mr. Dodd
picked us girls up and took us over to Farmington. As a traveling
companion we had the most beautiful—”
“Do you consider Lincoln Dodd such a raving beauty,” said Miss Esther,
looking at him critically.
“Oh, I didn’t mean him,” replied Lillian; “I—”
“Oh, then you mean Helen? We all acknowledge her beauty.”
“I wish she had meant me,” said Helen; “but she meant—”
“She meant me!” cried Jean, whose quick wit perceived that Miss Esther
did not care to discuss Julia Fowler.
“You would be a beautiful traveling companion,” said Putnam, judicially,
“if your hat were on straight and that bunchy fluff which is supposed to
decorate the back of your neck hadn’t twisted itself around under one
ear.”
“That’s where it belongs,” said Jean. “That’s where they’re wearing them
now, and my hat is at the very latest fashionable angle. I’m not one of
those women who get all disheveled just because they take a little
automobile ride.”
“We’re obliged to believe your statement,” said Lincoln Dodd; “but you
are certainly giving a very good imitation of the type.”
“Well, I don’t look a bit more tumbled than your friend Julia did. Her
veil hung by one pin.”
“Julia who?” asked Putnam, looking up.
Jean caught Miss Esther’s bothered look, and good-naturedly helped her
out. “I don’t mean Julia, exactly,” she said. “I mean—er—Alice.”
“Alice who?” inquired the elder Dodd.
“Alice Ben Bolt,” said Miss Esther, shortly.
“Oh, that one? By the way, did anybody ever remember her? I always hear
people tunefully inquiring.”
“I didn’t know she wore an automobile coat,” said Lincoln, doubtfully.
“At any rate, her costume must have been awfully queer.”
“How do you know what she wore?” said Lillian. “Have you ever seen her
picture?”
“No, but the song says they fitted a slab of granite so gray; it must
have been a very superior tailor that could do it.”
“All women look well in gray,” said Brewster, glancing approvingly at
Helen.
“Do you know, I like green best,” said George Washington Dodd, staring
at Lillian’s crisp linen costume.
“This isn’t green; it’s reseda,” said Lillian, scornfully; “and if I’d
known you’d like it, I wouldn’t have worn it.”
When Dodd admired Lillian’s gown Miss Esther looked distinctly pleased,
but when that young lady spoke so rudely in reply her hopes fell again.
Dodd, however, realized that she was reminding him of his almost
forgotten rôle, and taking his cue, he replied, “I don’t like it. I said
I liked green.”
“Huh!” said Lillian.
* * * * *
Crossways Inn is one of the few survivals of that class of hostelry that
had its beginnings in the eighteenth century. Around many of them
hamlets sprang up,—some grew into cities. In the stage-coach days they
were the resting places of the weary travelers. When the railroads came
the travelers rushed by in trains, and the inns were forgotten.
No hamlet had sprung up about Crossways. Standing at the intersection of
two country roads it had held its own through a century and a half of
varying fortunes. There was little travel thereabouts, until the
automobiles came. Then, after a time, the drivers of the machines came
to understand that at Crossways there was to be had a dinner like
grandmother used to cook, and now scarcely a day went by without some
merry party from Richfield Springs, Farmington, or even Utica, making a
pilgrimage in the direction of the fried chicken and green corn in the
season.
It was at a dinner of this sort that the Matrimonial Bureau entertained
its clients. If gayety be a proof of appreciation, then were the
clients, though unsuspecting of their claim to that title, deeply
appreciative.
“This would be a fine place to establish a rest-cure,” said Lillian. “It
is the quietest place I ever saw.”
“If you’ll establish one,” said George Washington Dodd, “I’ll be press
agent for you. I’ll engage to get you a lot of patients.”
“I’ll do better than that,” said Lincoln; “I’ll be a patient.”
“Good idea,” said Putnam; “you need a rest-cure.”
“He does,” said his father; “he certainly needs to be cured of the
resting habit. It has become chronic with him.”
“What will be your course of treatment?” asked Helen.
“At first I shall only have the patients stop resting three times a
day,” said Lillian, consideringly.
“For meals?” suggested Lincoln.
“Yes; and then after that, oftener, until they can go without resting
for an hour at a time.”
“A whole hour?” asked Jean.
“Yes; and if they show signs of a relapse I shall make them work.”
“Work!” exclaimed Lincoln; “then I withdraw my application.”
“Oh,” said Lillian, “I don’t mean manual labor; I mean brain work.”
“Oh, that would be the same to me as resting. My brain works
automatically without any exertion on my part.”
“I’ve often thought so,” observed Putnam.
“Yes,” said Lincoln; “it’s a great convenience. I just set it going and
then I go off and leave it.”
“Where did you leave it to-night?” asked Jean, innocently.
“I left it at home, working out a great problem. You see, Miss Esther
and I—”
“This is good pie,” said Miss Esther, hurriedly.
“It is,” said Lincoln. “As I was saying, Miss Esther and I are very much
worried—”
“This is good pie,” said Miss Esther, glaring at him.
“Yes, I said it was,” said Lincoln. “Miss Esther and I are trying very
hard—”
“This is good pie,” remarked Miss Esther, determinedly.
“That speech is getting to be a habit with you, Cousin Esther,” said
Putnam. “Why don’t you take something for it?”
“Well,” said Lincoln’s father, “if you have quite finished that exciting
story about yourself and Miss Esther, I will tell you a little story.
Miss Hastings and I—”
“This is good pie,” said Lillian, blushing furiously.
“It seems to have gone to your head,” remarked Jean, looking at Lillian,
inquiringly.
“Miss Hastings and I,” went on Dodd, “are engaged to be married.”
To say that Miss Esther’s face beamed with delight, would be an
inadequate expression of the illumination that took place on her
countenance. She fairly radiated happiness and coruscated with joy.
“One home, and two on bases,” cried Lincoln, exultantly; but no one
heard him in the tumult and the shouting consequent upon the
announcement.
As is usual with the inspirers of great movements, Miss Esther was
entirely forgotten at the moment of final triumph. Oblivious to this,
however, she sat in silent rapture, gloating over her first and
irrevocable success.
“Ah! King John,” she said, though not aloud, “at last Victory doth perch
upon one of my dancing banners; and as to the other two, I am Sir
Oracle, and when I ope my mouth, let no dog bark!”