* * * * *
Mr. Claybourne left early after dinner, as was his custom, to play
bridge at the club. Mrs. Claybourne knitted in the front room, and Helen
and I had thus our evening to ourselves. Leonidas curled up on a
goatskin rug and snored while we alternately talked and read. Spring was
coming on, although April, with its cold winds off the lake, was not
very spring-like. But the approach of spring made us look forward more
definitely to a possible date for our marriage. So far I had not been
able to gain my father's permission either to return to England or to
set an actual date for the wedding. He hoped that it could be arranged
by mid-summer. Beyond that, he refused to commit himself. Helen thought
June, as the most conventional time, would probably please her mother
best. Already Mrs. Claybourne was threatening to go to the coast of
Maine at the end of June and carry Helen with her. We knew that nothing
but a definite date could forestall this plan. We figured that we could
almost live upon my salary, but there were practical difficulties in the
way of taking temporary quarters, if we were going to England soon
afterwards. We were therefore a little reluctant to defy matters and get
married at once. At least, so Helen's commonsense concluded. We could
not afford to quarrel with either family, and a matter of a few extra
weeks seemed hardly worth general displeasure. I agreed with Helen,
chiefly because it never occurred to me to disagree with her. We were
each so sure of the other's love that we did not pass through those
agonies of suspense, petty jealousies, and quarrels that seem to be,
according to novels, the stock-in-trade of lovers' conduct. We were
simply, insanely, and also calmly happy. We lived in our own world,
allowed no one across its threshold, and never dreamed of stepping
outside it ourselves. Leonidas alone was privileged to share our bliss.
As we sat and talked in whispers of the days to come, the telephone bell
rang. It was a cable from my father, and, like mine, in code. The girl
at the other end spelled it out to me while Helen wrote it down. At last
we had it all, and it was a fairly long one. I walked into the hall to
get my copy of the code book, and discovered that I had left it at the
telegraph office. Helen scolded me soundly, for our evening was spoiled.
It meant that I had to go back down town after the book, and it would
then be too late to return. There was nothing for it but to go.
The girl at the office was quite sorry for me. She had found and kept my
book.
"You might have sent it out by messenger," I said reproachfully.
"I thought of it, Mr. Jevons," she said, "but I didn't know if you would
want it that bad. A messenger costs thirty cents."
"Yes," I agreed, "but some evenings are priceless."
With this rather flat remark, I left her. I went home to decode the
message at my leisure. Another postponement awaited me there, for I
found Knowlton ensconced in my study, reading one of my books, his feet
upon my table. He came and went as he pleased at my rooms, an
arrangement to which I had never objected. But I could not tell him
about my father's cable until I knew what answer I had received. If my
father refused my suggestion, obviously I could not let Knowlton know
anything about it. He sat and talked until well past midnight, while the
unread cable burned a hole in my pocket.
"By the way," said Knowlton suddenly, "a cable came through for you this
evening. Anything in it?"
"From the family," I replied, mentally damning Deep Harbor's skill in
publicity. "But how did you know?"
Knowlton grinned. "I happened to be sending a telegram, and the young
lady with the auburn hair mentioned that she had just 'phoned one out to
you at the Claybournes'. In code, she said. It was all by way of making
conversation, Ted. She thought I'd be interested to know. I'll bet she
knows the day I leave off my flannels and put on my summer underwear,"
Knowlton added, with his trenchant vulgarity. He got upon his feet,
stretched himself, and said good-night. I saw him to the door and well
on his way to the Otooska House, and then returned to my code book. It
was a slow job. Each word in the code stood for either a phrase or a
complete sentence. I had to look each one up in the book and then fit
the meanings together, bit by bit, like a mosaic. At last the whole was
clear. I could hardly believe my eyes. Here is what I saw:
"Good offer received for sale of business. Cancel any subscriptions of
local capital. Give K. five per cent bonus net proceeds above salary.
Necessary papers follow first mail. T. sail England August first. Bring
H."
And all because I was such a blithering, blistering idiot as to leave my
code book at the telegraph office, Helen missed hearing the good news
that night. Twice my hand reached for the telephone, and twice I paused.
I couldn't call Helen up at one-thirty in the morning, not even to tell
her she was to be married in July. At least, I couldn't with Mrs.
Claybourne in the house. It would have meant an all-night session of
hysterics, I felt sure, and I had to spare Helen that. But I could tell
Knowlton! I grabbed the telephone and demanded the Otooska House until
the central operator must have thought there was a madman at the other
end. At last I heard Knowlton's sleepy voice.
"What the hell is it, Ted? Factory on fire or Prospero's ghost haunting
you?"
"Neither," I shouted at him. "I'm going to be married."
"Great God, kid, are you drunk?" he came back. "Go to bed and let a man
sleep. It's a dirty joke getting me up at this hour."
"It's the cable from father--I've decoded it."
"Hello," his voice came sharper. "I knew darned well you were lying to
me earlier in the evening. What is it?"
"The business has been sold," I said, waiting to hear what the effect
would be.
There was a moment's pause; then his voice came steady. "I'm glad to
hear it, kid. I guess that means your uncle Dudley is out of a job."
"No, it doesn't," I cut in, a little regretful that I had teased him.
"I'm instructed to pay you a bonus of five per cent of the net proceeds
over and above your salary. Looks as if my father thought enough of you
to put you on something else."
There was another pause--so long a one that Central almost cut us off.
"Listen, kid," came Knowlton's voice, when vigorous protests from us
both had restored connection again. "What did you cable your father
early this afternoon?"
"None of your darned business," I replied. "How did you know I cabled
him?"
"The auburn haired little bird whispered it to me when she told me about
the reply that came." I could almost feel Knowlton's grin travelling
over the wire to me. "What did you say?"
"It's a long story. I'll tell you in the morning."