Those men are happy; and so are all are near her.—_Henry_ VIII,
iv, 1.
After she had dismissed Putnam, Miss Esther sat disconsolately in her
library, worrying over the imminent breaking of Jean’s heart. She was
fully convinced that Jean’s interest in Putnam was very real, and she
feared the effect on her emotional nature when she should discover
Putnam’s attitude toward Julia Fowler.
Possibly Miss Esther had taken too much for granted. Neither Jean
herself nor Putnam had told her definitely of any intention that either
had in relation to the future happiness or unhappiness of the other. But
still, Miss Esther had observed the drifting of the straws, and being
used to the drawing of conclusions from seemingly unimportant premises,
she had decided in her own mind at least, that there was only one
conclusion to be drawn. This was one which pleased her very much.
On the whole, Miss Esther, up to this time, had thought that the plans
which had been so whimsically made in the beginning had been brought to
a conclusion that was not only quite to her liking, but which was
entirely fitting from every point of view.
And now, just as she had dreamed that beside being the architect of the
fortunes of her beloved girls, she had helped, too, in the detailed
drawings of the plans for Putnam’s future, he had come in with the
startling announcement that the design was not at all satisfactory, and
that he had decided upon using some home-made affair that she knew was
not drawn to a proper scale.
Somehow, though, even in spite of the fact that one of her pet plans had
apparently failed, Miss Esther believed that she should win. Nor was it
in a sense of winning that she thought of it. Rather, she believed that
now that two of her protégées had found what she chose to call their
Fates, the other one of the three should, sometime, come to a place
where there should be the proverbial happy ending of the chapter. How it
was all to come about she did not know. Her faith was secure in the fact
that she knew what she knew. She had said long ago that the Adams pluck
would ultimately win, and while the mere planning of the summer had been
begun in the same spirit of romantic whimsicality which made her as a
child play with the people of her dreams—on the stairs, on the lawns,
and through the severe old halls of the Adams house—and which later had
made her make these same heroes and heroines of her dreams her playmates
through a life that would have been otherwise very lonely—“Ah,” she
said, “some dreams come true; and after all, the jesting word is not so
often false but that it may be true.”
Perhaps Miss Esther did not realize that the whole summer had been a
living of the dream which, though built of the flimsiest of fabrics in
the beginning, had proved, at the last, to be constructed of very solid
materials.
Begun, as it was, it seemed that the summer, after all, had shaped
itself with a sort of seriousness of which Miss Esther had not dreamed.
She cared too much for the girls to play with them—and particularly she
would not have played a game that would bring to them anything but the
most perfect happiness. In planning it all, she had believed that it was
rather a bit of a game—such as she played with her characters in the
plays in the old volumes in her library—hers and her father’s—and
before that the father’s father’s—and even his father before him—they
had all lived and dreamed among the books which had been to Esther Adams
an inspiration and a delight which had lasted through the years of her
life.
That these dreams, in some subtle fashion, had really carried out the
mental suggestion of a mere advertisement in a Sunday newspaper, brought
to her notice in a way that was little short of providential—all this
entered not at all into the calculations of the woman who now faced a
condition which was far from being merely theoretical.
So far as two of her girls were concerned, she was satisfied. Not that
she—in thinking it all over—would admit to herself that she had
deliberately brought Helen and Brewster together, or that she had thrown
Lillian in the face of George Washington Dodd—far from it. That she was
satisfied, there could be no doubt. But, as she put it to herself, “It
was fortunate that Mr. Brewster came to visit Dr. Bushnell, and it was
fortunate that Mr. Dodd came to visit his son.”
Still—and this is the perversity of reasoning—she felt that Putnam’s
failure to carry out a cherished plan of her own was something for which
she was directly responsible—not alone because of the fact that she
felt that he would fail to do as she wished—and she disliked
antagonism, like all the Adamses—but she felt, too, that somehow she
was responsible to Jean in having brought her to the place where she
might by any chance fall in love with a man who was fickle enough to be
drawn away by the first pretty face that rose above the horizon.
There was in it all something which was altogether too like the
suggestion of failure to appeal to Miss Esther. A battle fairly
fought—won or lost—it didn’t matter, so long as it was in the open:
this was her delight. But to make an attempt, under cover, with however
good intentions, and then fail—that was a sting, and one which made her
feel that it would have been better never to have tried. Logic entered
into the discussion not at all. She would not admit that she had tried
to accomplish anything. And yet, behind it all, there was the haunting
shadow of a failure.
She was as much annoyed as surprised when at that late hour Dr. Bushnell
called upon her.
“How do you do,” she said, with a perfunctory politeness. “What is the
charity this time?”
“Ah, Miss Esther, you will have your little joke,” said her visitor,
blandly, “but it is not a charity this time. I come upon a far different
errand. I bring news that will surprise you—ay, that will surprise you
greatly. I come as winged messenger—as winged messenger—the quotation
has escaped me.”
“But what is your important news?”
“It is indeed important news. Mr. Dodd—Mr. Lincoln Dodd—”
“Has anything happened to Lincoln?” broke in Miss Esther.
“I do not know that ‘happened’ is the term which I should use, but
certainly something has occurred. Something has occurred to Mr. Lincoln
Dodd. But a half hour since, I married Mr. Lincoln Dodd to my niece,
Miss Jean Richards.”
“What!” exclaimed Miss Esther, excitedly. “What! Jean married!”
“Yes,” continued Dr. Bushnell, calmly, “they are married. My wife and I
were very much surprised, as you are; but Jean is impulsive, you know,
and Mr. Dodd said that it was absolutely necessary for them to catch the
twelve forty-five train from Utica—”
“From Utica,” gasped Miss Esther; “have they gone?”
“Yes, they have gone, and Mr. Dodd begged me to offer you his deepest
apologies for seeming to leave you thus suddenly. But he said he would
write.”
“Write!” exclaimed Miss Esther; “I should think he’d better! I never
heard of such a performance. Jean! Lincoln!”
Whistling blithely, George Washington Dodd came through the hall.
“_Will_ you come in here!” called out Miss Esther. “What _do_ you
think!”
“What has happened,” inquired Mr. Dodd, as he came smilingly into the
library.
“Tell him, Dr. Bushnell,” said Miss Esther.
“Prepare yourself, my dear sir,” began Dr. Bushnell, “for a great
surprise. As I was seated in my study this evening—”
“Lincoln took Jean over there and married her,” broke in Miss Esther.
“Exactly so,” agreed Dr. Bushnell; “exactly so.”
“Lincoln!” said Mr. Dodd, bewilderedly, “and Jean! Are you sure you mean
Lincoln?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Bushnell; “he came in his automobile. I am sure it was
Mr. Lincoln Dodd.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Dodd, reflectively; “it must have been he. On the whole,
I am rather pleased than otherwise.”
“Pleased!” cried Miss Esther, “pleased! It’s glorious. It’s perfectly
magnificent.”
“I am glad you feel that way, Miss Esther,” said Dr. Bushnell,
cheerfully. “As Shakespeare—as Shakespeare says—”
“As Shakespeare says,” said Miss Esther, interrupting him, “‘O, rejoice
beyond a common joy! and set it down with gold on lasting pillars.’”
* * * * *
Lincoln’s promised letter came. Miss Esther read it in the library. A
part of it ran thus:
“Although my most abject apologies are due for running away as I did,
with apparent ingratitude for your hospitality, I maintain that the
exigencies of the plans of the Matrimonial Bureau demanded quick action.
As Chairman of the Executive Committee and President of the Advisory
Board, I felt the responsibilities of my position, and I trust you will
approve and ratify my action in the matter.
“Your orders, when I enlisted in your service, I have carried out in
spirit if not in letter. You may remember that the first duty you
required of me was to marry one of your clients. This I have done, and
being thus disqualified for further assistance in your noble work, I am
forced regretfully to offer you my resignation.
“If I may be pardoned for referring to one small favor I was happily
enabled to grant, I will say, in connection with the fact of my bringing
my father to Whitfield, that my great regret is that I have only one
father to lay at the feet of the Matrimonial Bureau.”
“One was enough,” said Miss Esther, placidly. “I think I may
congratulate myself on the unqualified success of my plans. Fortune
brings in some boats that are not steered, and though I steered some
myself, Fortune played into my hands.”
“What are you doing, Couthin Ethter?” cried Chub, dancing into the room
with her arms full of flowers.
“I’m winding up the affairs of the Matrimonial Bureau,” replied Miss
Esther, taking the baby up in her lap.
“Whath that mean?” demanded Chub.
“It was an effort to make some people happy, which succeeded beyond
anything I ever dreamed of.”
“Thath nithe,” said Chub, contentedly. “Did it make _you_ happy?”
“Very happy,” said Miss Esther.
[Illustration]