"Then I'll get it for you."
"No, no; that would spoil everything." Page took his hostess by her
plump, comfortable arms and forced her back into her seat.
"There ain't a bit o' light in there," remarked Miss Berry resignedly.
"That was the condition of things when my aim for the cookies used to be
most unerring," returned the visitor, disappearing into the house.
He returned shortly, carrying in one hand a cookie which already had
lost from its side a generous semicircle, and in the other a round, deep
tin box which he placed at an impartial distance between his own chair
and Miss Lovina's.
"Those are not my usual cookies," stated the latter, meditatively
regarding the box as her guest settled himself with a sigh of content.
Page smiled. "That's all right," he answered. "You know they never
were."
"Now I deny it, Gorham Page," rejoined Miss Berry warmly. "I was never
one to make excuses all the time, and you can't say I was; not
truthfully you can't."
"These are exactly right, anyway," returned the other calmly. "There
never was a cookie outside this house that tasted as good."
"Oh now, that's silly, Mr. Gorham," returned Miss Berry with a pleased
smile.
"No, it is sound sense. I feel old, and tired of things very often. If
I could only get hold of one of these at such moments, I should be young
again in a minute, with an appetite for everything. If you should some
day receive a telegram asking for a cookie, you may know that I need to
be rejuvenated, and mail me one at once."
"Have you forgotten my currant wine?" asked Miss Berry radiantly.
"Well, I guess not! But you never let me know where you kept that."
His hostess laughed. "No sir, indeed I didn't. You set where you are,
and I'll fetch it out."
She was as good as her word, and in a short time a little table stood at
Page's elbow, and upon it a bottle and two glasses.
"I am sure I'm a big boy now," he laughed, as he poured the wine, "since
you trust me with this. I well remember the half glasses you used to
give me as a treat. How many summers did we come here, Aunt Love?"
"Pretty near every year after you was ten years old till you went to
college."
A little silence fell between them, for it was that summer before Page's
collegiate life began that his mother bade him a last good-by upstairs
in this very house, in the low-ceiled chamber where the branches of the
oriole elm cast their shadow.
"How's your cousin Jack? I wonder if he remembers Pearfield too,"
continued Miss Berry.
"Indeed he does. He graduated from Harvard this year, and of course I
attended the Commencement. He asked for you, and I told him I didn't
know half as much about you as I ought to; so when your business letter
reached me last week, I determined to answer it in person, and I hope
you will pardon what was unbusinesslike delay, for I could not arrange
to come at once."
"I feel as though I"--Miss Berry was beginning diffidently, when a small
dark whirlwind rattled the tin cake box, jostled the table, and leaped
frantically against Miss Lovina's arm, upsetting some drops of wine upon
the clean white apron.
"Get out! get down! Your paws are dirty!" she exclaimed, emphasizing
her unflattering protests with slaps at the panting, bounding, shaggy
terrier, who at last seated himself for an instant on his stump of a
tail, before rising to take a minute survey of the visitor's pantaloons.
"Oh, you nuisance!" apostrophized Miss Lovina, wiping up the wine drops
with her handkerchief. "He's been to get the cow with Obed. He goes
every night, and he always races home like a mad thing, just as though
it had come over him up in the pastur' that p'raps I'd give him the slip
and go off somewheres without him. No sir, don't you touch that cookie
box!" for the terrier's eyes were gleaming through the mat of hair, and
his mobile nose worked hungrily, first toward Page's hand, and then
toward the base of supplies.
"H'm! He evidently knows those cookies, and agrees with my estimate of
them," said the young man, breaking a piece and offering it to the dog
as he returned alertly from Miss Berry's vigorous push. The creature
swallowed the morsel, and at each mouthful Page took thereafter, became
convulsed throughout his rough body, then planted his four feet firmly
and expectantly, and emitted a little bark. "This is an innovation,"
continued the guest. "Pearfield does move, it seems, after all."
"Oh, well," sighed Miss Lovina, lifting the cookie box to a safe perch
on the table, "it's none o' my doin'. Since the last season you spent
here I haven't made it any reg'lar thing to keep summer boarders; but
last year a lady was here with her children, and nurse, and this dog.
They had him new for a plaything for the children, and they was too
little to like him. He's the livest thing, Blitzen is, that ever
walked, anyway. No, I ain't talkin' to you. Keep down! And he scared
the children with his wild ways. The upshot of it was, they all went
off and left him on my hands. Mrs. Siddall said it was so much trouble
to travel with him that if he bothered me I might give him away to
somebody in the village. Humph! That was all very well to say. I've
given him to four folks already."
Page smiled and gave the dog another mouthful. "Wise Blitzen. He knows
which side his bread is buttered on," was his comment.
"He wouldn't stay tied up, nor shut up, no more 'n a witch," continued
Miss Berry, "and every time he'd come back, he looked rougher than the
last time; and when he'd catch sight o' me, he'd act foolish and
actually laugh. It's a fact. He'd grin till he showed every tooth in
his head. Of course I gave in at last. I had to. He's a knowin'
critter," sighed Miss Lovina; "he knows everything on earth only just
that I don't want him. He's set out to deny that, and he'll stick to
it."
"He seems to be a fine dog of his kind," said Page.
"Yes. They said he cost a lot o' money," returned Miss Berry, regarding
the terrier dubiously. "I did think though, first off, that I should
never get to tell quick which was which end of him. He hasn't got tail
enough to wag, and he's so rough and queer he's given me a start many a
time barkin' in the direction I didn't expect. What were we talkin'
about when Blitzen broke in?"
"I was asking pardon for my delay in responding about your business
matter. I told you when I met you at the gate that I knew you were
thinking, as you stood there, that it was strange that I should be
neglectful of you."
"Well, I wasn't. I was wonderin' if I'd done the right thing to bother
you about the matter anyway."
"Decidedly you did. It is a problem I can solve for you with very
little trouble, I'm sure, if you will show me the papers you spoke of.
I have robbed the tin box shamefully and the light has gone; supposing
we go into the house and talk the matter over. My time in Pearfield is
limited. I sail for Germany next Saturday, and I have considerable to
do between now and then."
"Well, if you ain't clever to me," said Miss Berry gratefully, as she
rose and led the way into the house, while Page followed with the
impedimenta of box and bottle, and the further embarrassment of Blitzen,
who writhed ingeniously about his legs, evidently intending to make
clear his adherence to one who could command cake at such an astonishing
time and place.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*THE UNEXPECTED GUEST.*
Miss Berry's legal question was at last disposed of. Page carefully
mapped out a plan of action for her, and explained each detail with
painstaking kindness.
"You are clever to me, Mr. Gorham," she repeated gratefully, when all
was made clear. "Now I want to pay you exactly as any of your clients
would," she added, in a business-like tone.
"You can't," he answered, throwing himself back in his chair, "for they
don't any of them make such cookies as you do."
"Now please don't joke," she begged, half-laughing. "You've had the
cookies already."
"Of course, just a retaining fee as it were. Blitzen and I want some
more before I go to bed."
"But such an obligation," pleaded Miss Berry.
"Such a pleasure, Aunt Love," rejoined her lawyer. "Now, to change the
subject, what is Pearfield's opinion about the World's Fair? Where do
you think it ought to be held?"
"I don't know enough about the different cities to say," returned Miss
Berry. "I see by the papers some o' the Western cities think they have
as good a right as anybody. Chicago is after it. Such an idea! As
though folks want to have to traipse way across the country to see the
Fair. I don't know much about public questions," continued Miss Lovina,
complacently smoothing her apron, "but I know enough to see that there
ain't any sense in that notion, and reasonable folks won't listen to it;
not but what Chicago's a good deal of a city, I s'pose."
"Chicagoans have that idea," answered Page, smiling. "I have a friend
who recently returned from Europe; and he says that one day in the
boat's music-room he found on the table a book purporting to portray
only Chicago and its suburbs. There were pictures in it of Niagara Falls
and the Yellowstone Park."
"Do tell!" exclaimed Miss Berry, laughing. "Well, where do you want the
Fair to be, Mr. Gorham?"
"Oh, I feel as though New York were the proper place. I think it is the
general feeling that it would be a risk to trust a matter like that to
Chicago. There has been a very clever cartoon published recently in New
York, showing our principal cities represented as pretty women standing
in a semicircle around Uncle Sam waiting to see which shall receive a
bouquet which he holds in his hands labeled 'World's Fair,'--that is,
they are all pretty women except Chicago, who is a half-grown, scrawny
girl, arrayed in an evening gown covered with a pattern of little pigs.
She has huge diamonds blazing in her breast and ears, her thin arms are
bare, and the hands she wildly stretches out to Uncle Sam wear white kid
gloves with one button at the wrist. Her mouth is wide open, and she is
evidently vociferously demanding the prize, while New York, a beautiful
society girl, gazes at her with well-bred scorn. For my own part, I
think New York may overdo the nonchalant business, and if she does, the
energetic maiden stands a good chance to gain her end."
"How do you suppose your cousin Jack likes to have his city made such
game of?" asked Miss Lovina.
"Oh, I fancy Jack has learned by this time to view the Garden City from
a Bostonian standpoint. I don't know what his views are on the subject
of the Fair. I have seen very little of him the last years."
"You are liable to make up for it in the year to come," said a new voice
suddenly.
Blitzen had already run growling toward a window, and now barked
furiously as Jack Van Tassel walked into the room and Miss Lovina and
her guest sprang to their feet.
"Forgive the intrusion," added the new-comer, in the handshaking that
ensued. "I looked through the window and saw you sitting here so
comfortably, I thought it a pity to make you the trouble of coming to
the door. Aunt Love, how are you? You didn't expect to see me here,
Gorham?"
"Where have you dropped from? You were in Chicago day before
yesterday," rejoined his cousin.
"I don't deny it. Thank you, Aunt Love. I used to like this rocking
chair when my feet wouldn't touch the floor as I sat in it. What do I
see? If there isn't the cookie box!"
"Yes, and you're in great luck to come as soon as you have, for I was
just meditating another onslaught upon it."
"Well, if you two great boys ain't as bad as you ever were!" exclaimed
Miss Berry in high delight, as she hastened to bring forth the currant
wine again for the delectation of her new guest.
"Perhaps you will explain yourself," remarked Page curiously, hospitably
reaching out the tin box and meanwhile making attempts to hold Blitzen
off with his foot; an effort which met the success attendant on similar
treatment of quicksilver.
"Why, I've come to see Aunt Love," responded Jack. "Why shouldn't I?"
Miss Berry looked at his brilliant, graceful face and figure admiringly.
"Why not, indeed?" she said, laughing. "I was always good to you,
wasn't I, Mr. Jack?"
"Too good. Far too good. I remember everything."
"That is all very well; but why did you bid me a long farewell a week
ago, and then turn around and come back again?" persisted Page.
Jack tossed off a glass of wine. "Better than ever!" he exclaimed,
sending Miss Berry one of the caressing, admiring looks which warmed any
feminine heart toward which they were directed. Then he turned to his
cousin. "Because, my dear Gorham, I have repented of my rejection of
your offer, and after I've talked over old times sufficiently with Aunt
Love, it is my intention to accompany you to Germany. Do you accept my
apology?"
"Good enough," commented Page briefly, but with evident satisfaction.
"Your decision must have been sudden, though. What was the matter? Did
Chicago grate upon your aesthetic sense in her scramble for the Fair?"
"She isn't scrambling, that I know of. She doesn't need to. She'll get
the Fair all right. Any one can see with half an eye that Chicago is the
only place for it,--the foreordained place."
Page laughed quietly and skeptically, and there followed one of the
arguments of which every American citizen knows the pros and cons.
That night Miss Berry put her unexpected guests into two bedrooms which
communicated. When her last good wishes for their comfort had been
expressed and good-nights said, the two men looked at each other as they
listened to her retreating footsteps.
"Of course," said Page, "if the explanation you gave me downstairs is
all you care to say, I'm satisfied."
The brightness had faded from Van Tassel's face. He looked moody and
worn.
"No, I meant to tell you, of course," he answered, seating himself on
the side of the bed. "I found when I reached home that father had
assumed charge of an orphan asylum, and I thought I should be better off
out of the way."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. He is going to marry the eldest member, in order
to facilitate matters."
"Uncle Richard is going to marry again, and you have quarreled with
him?"
Jack shook his head quickly. "I don't quarrel with father," he replied
briefly.
Page sat down in a blue chintz armchair by the window and pushed open
the blind; then recollecting that one of Aunt Love's last warnings had
been not to do so on account of mosquitoes, he closed it again.
"Uncle Richard has been a widower for fifteen years," he said. "He is
scarcely over fifty years old. Aren't you unreasonable to resent his
marrying?"
Van Tassel, his sombre eyes fixed on the palm-leaves in the ingrain
carpet, emitted an inarticulate sound.
"What more appropriate," continued his cousin, "than that he should
select a widow, even supposing she has children. He has plenty of
money. I can see how it would make you feel sore and change your home
feeling at first; but Uncle Richard has such a level head, you may be
certain that the lady is such a one as you will like after a time."
Jack gave a short, unmirthful laugh. "The lady hasn't any children.
What a pity you can't see her! She is a little girl who went to school
with me at home; and she has an invalid mother, some younger sisters,
and a brother on her hands."
Page raised his heavy eyebrows and gave a soft whistle.
"As they have nothing in the world, they have roped father in."
"That's bad!" admitted the older man with some sympathetic disgust.
"Then you have quarreled with Uncle Richard, for of course you attempted
to dissuade him."
"Not at all. I arrived home to find the engagement a fixed fact and all
the parties satisfied. What was there to be done?"
"You didn't come away without saying anything?"
"No, no. I wouldn't do that, and I believe that in place of anything
else to be proud of, I shall always be proud of having had some
self-control in that last interview with father. I knew all the time,
hot and angry as I was, that if I said to him what I felt, I should
repent of hurting him all my life. He is the noblest man, the best
father, that ever lived." The speaker's eyes grew bright, and Page
believed it was with moisture.
"I'm glad to hear you say that," he rejoined heartily. "You are right,
I know. Uncle Richard is one man in a thousand, and it would be easy
enough to believe that even a young girl might feel a deep and romantic
attachment for him."
Van Tassel shook his head. "You are all off again. Say all you like in
praise of father, but"--
"But why be prejudiced?" suggested Page hopefully. "This Miss--Miss"--
"Bryant."
"Why should you, on the circumstantial evidence of her family's need,
decide that she is only mercenary? Perhaps she loves"--
"And perhaps she doesn't," interrupted Jack impatiently. "She says she
doesn't."
"What?"
"Yes, Clover is a very honest girl, and she was good enough to inform me
of the neutral state of her affections."
"Well, well! I must say Uncle Richard is beginning to puzzle me. He
has seen this girl grow up. Is she so irresistibly beautiful?"
"What an idea! No. My father puzzles me too, I assure you, but I must
believe he loves her, and in the face of that, Gorham," Van Tassel
looked up with strong feeling in face and voice, "that dear old fellow
made sure that he wouldn't be interfering with me before he spoke to
her. He came to me just before leaving Cambridge, and asked me if I
cared for her. Of course I didn't suspect anything. It seemed only a
consistent carrying out of the desire he has always had to anticipate my
every wish. He urged nothing, but persisted gently till he discovered
what he was after; and I tell you it touches me--in the light of present
circumstances it touches me to think about it. He would have given up
his wishes; no one would ever have been allowed to suspect them, had
they conflicted with mine." The speaker rose, crossed the room, and
stood with his back to his cousin, while he regarded the antlered cows
in a framed sampler executed by Miss Lovina's mother.
"No wonder you are glad that you said nothing offensive at parting,"
remarked Page.
"Yes," replied Jack, turning back. "I have been in twenty different
minds since taking the train for Boston, as to whether I do right or
wrong to go to Europe now. Very few words passed between father and me
about it. I had some hours to think before meeting him, after learning
what he had done, and I merely told him that Clover had told me of their
engagement. He looked right at me and he understands me pretty well.
'Does it displease you, Jack?' he asked. 'It surprises me, sir,' I
answered, 'and it makes me feel that while matters are in the transition
state which is coming, I might perhaps as well put in that year abroad
you spoke of.' He was silent for a minute, and I knew that, try as I
might, I couldn't mislead him much as to my feelings, so I braced up and
spoke as naturally as I could, about how deeply I desired his happiness,
and said that if my staying at home would conduce to it, I would stay.
He thought a minute more, and then he said as quietly as he always says
everything, 'You had better go, Jack.'"
The speaker paid one more visit to the sampler with its angular green
trees.
After a minute Page broke the silence: "I believe you have decided
wisely. I believe you had better come with me."
*CHAPTER VII.*
*ON THE RAIL.*
The following week the two sailed for Germany; but when home-coming time
for Page arrived, his cousin did not accompany him. Mr. Van Tassel had
married the month after his son left, and although his affectionate
letters held out an invariable welcome, they made it easy for Jack to
stay amid the novel scenes which allured him. Gorham Page, therefore,
was alone when he reentered Boston, one day in the following August. The
sister-in-law with whom he made his home was, he knew, at the seashore,
and after a brief visit to her deserted flat, and a hasty repacking, he
took a cab for the Boston and Maine depot.
He was rather late for his train, and he boarded it to find it crowded.
Passing from one car to another in vain search for a seat, he descried,
standing in an aisle, a tall young girl, who attracted his attention at
once, by reason of her superb figure fashionably clothed in plainest
black, and the annoyance on her fresh face. She held a satchel in her
hand, and was vainly endeavoring to appear indifferent, after a heated
appeal to a badgered conductor who had apparently sought relief from a
suffering public in deafness.
When Page, who was slightly short-sighted, approached near enough to
discern the impatient golden lights in her hazel eyes, and the underlip
caught beneath her teeth, he took in the situation, and gave one more
searching glance around the crowded day-car; the parlor car he had
already discovered to be hopeless.
"This is very uncomfortable," he said, addressing the girl and raising
his hat. "I have not quite despaired of finding a seat. Won't you
follow me?"
"I have been all through," she answered, but she followed him.
The next car was packed with equal solidity; but Page moved forward, and
on the platform was motioned away by a brakeman.
"Back, please. Next car's a sleeper. Takin' it to Portland. No
passengers."
"Is it locked?" asked Page, pushing by.
"No, 't ain't locked, but"--
Page interrupted the slow drawl decidedly, and put aside the detaining
hand. "Oh, well, people can't stand, you know," and with an encouraging
look around at the damsel in distress, who followed him with alacrity,
he opened the door of the Pullman, and ushered her into the luxurious
empty car.
"Thank you so much," said the girl gratefully, as she took possession of
one section and her benefactor seated himself across the way.
One by one a dozen other passengers came in and availed themselves of
this unexpected privilege, and the pessimistic conductor contented
himself by collecting fifty cents from each individual.
Page had an eye for beauty, and as his position made it possible to do
so undetected, he regarded his neighbor appreciatively. The world is
full of pretty girls, thank heaven, but this one was unusual inasmuch as
she was built on such large lines as to make approval a matter of taste.
Page did approve. He mentally called her a young Juno as he regarded
her flat back and fine shoulders, her clear healthy skin and the Cupid's
bow of her upper lip. Her thick brown hair was uncrimped and smoothly
brushed toward the coil at the back of her head. She was what is called
in the parlance of the day a tailor-made girl, and her physique
suggested rowing and tennis.
Page thought this, and wished he had an excuse to speak with her. The
fact that he had happened to do her a slight favor made this more than
usually impossible, so after a while he abandoned his regard of her
piquant profile, in favor of the landscape from his own window.
About now the conversation between two men in the section behind this
_fin de siecle_ maiden became loud enough to take half the car into
their confidence. They were discussing the incongruous situation of the
World's Fair; for in the previous April Uncle Sam had yielded, and
thrown his bouquet to that one of his daughters which, according to the
cartoonist, had clamored and importuned the loudest. The crude,
unformed, ill-bred creature now had this treasure in her keeping, and
the righteous indignation and despair of those two New Hampshire men
filled the car. What could be expected but national disgrace? What was
the matter with the powers at Washington that they had not in some way
averted such a disaster? A good many people thought it a joke; these
gentlemen could see nothing amusing in having our country held up to
ridicule.
As the discussion waxed and waned, Page listened to it perforce, at
first indifferently, then with more interest as he discovered that it
was affecting his fair neighbor. He could see her cheek grow hot, could
see that she held herself with greater rigidity. She bit her lip from
time to time, and once she moved her head slowly around as if inclined
to glance at the noisy talkers; but half way her deep luminous eyes shot
their golden lightning straight into Page's, and recovering herself she
turned back and looked ahead again.
The sunshine had begun to pour in at her window, and she suddenly seized
the blind to pull it down. It fitted tightly after the manner of its
kind, and her first effort was not successful. It was probably not a
case for assistance, as the young woman looked as though her muscle
would be equal to considerable strain, but Page spontaneously left his
seat.
"Allow me," he said, and drew the blind down.
The girl thanked him rather severely. Page's shipboard experience of
comparative informality with strangers was fresh upon him. He spoke on
the impulse of the moment, feeling sure that the severity was not
intended for him.
"Wouldn't you prefer to change seats with me? Perhaps you would be less
annoyed there by conversation as well as sunlight."
"You heard something of it, then," the girl exclaimed; "but I think they
have said all the ignorant, stupid things they can think of."
"I saw that the remarks were troubling you," said Page, seating himself
opposite in her section. "The Garden City has one champion, I'm sure."
"Dear, generous Chicago!" ejaculated the girl, and her youthful wrath
was very entertaining to her neighbor. "It is the best thing that ever
happened to the country that we are to have the Fair. Perhaps," with
interest, "you are a Chicagoan?"
Page was obliged to deny this with a novel reluctance which amused him.
The girl gave the slightest toss of her head. "I suppose the Eastern
people think we enjoy the prospect of being jostled, and crowded, and
having our streets torn up and our city extended, and all our comfort
taken away for two years while we live in a perfect Pandemonium. No.
We do not enjoy it, but we do it as our duty because we know that we can
and shall do it well. It is not best to trust such an enterprise to an
old, slow town."
Page regarded the speaker with curiosity and interest. She spoke softly
but emphatically in a contralto voice, and did not look at him, but
beyond him. It occurred to her companion that with her superb vitality
and unconscious audacity she might be a truer type of the triumphant
young city than that shown in the cleverly insulting picture which had
so tickled his imagination.
"I see you take a strong interest in the matter," he remarked.
"Yes. My sister's husband has been busy about it from the first; so I
have heard much concerning the subject; but then all Chicagoans are
interested. It is their way."
The evident pride with which the girl referred to this "way" caused Page
to declare meekly, as a means of raising himself in her estimation, that
he had relatives in Chicago.
"That will be very pleasant for you in '93," she returned, with a slight
smile which made her face bewitching.
"I have been spending the last year with a Chicago cousin in Germany,"
continued Page. "He has taken a warm interest in every phase of the
discussion."
"Naturally," returned the girl; then having relieved her surcharged
heart she apparently recollected that she was prolonging an interview
with a strange man, and leaning back in her seat she took a copy of
"Life" from her satchel. Fine streaks of sunshine sifted across the
sheet.
"Won't you accept that shady seat?" asked Page.
"Thank you, no. I am only going as far as R-----."
"That is my destination, too. You might as well be comfortable."
The girl looked up again with some interest.
"Are you going to R-----? Then I shall ask you to be kind enough to
direct me to the Ocean House. I am afraid that there has been a
misunderstanding, and that Mrs. Page--that the friend whom I am going to
visit does not expect me this morning."
The young man regarded her with a new expectancy. "I am going to the
Ocean House also, and, by another coincidence, to see a Mrs. Page. She
is my sister."
His neighbor returned his gaze at first with surprise, then a demure
spirit of mischief danced in her eyes. It had a brief struggle with
cautious propriety, but it conquered. Caution usually did make a losing
fight in the case of this young lady.
"I wonder if you can be Gorham," she said slowly, and Page flushed to
his temples under the fascination of his own name.
"I am," he laughed.
"I know a lot about you," declared the girl quietly, and her companion
thought the dip in her upper lip when she smiled the prettiest thing he
had ever seen.
"That is unfair," he returned, "for I know absolutely nothing about
you."
"Very likely. Your sister only came to Pearfield three weeks ago."
"Pearfield? Have you been at Pearfield? How strange!"
"Oh, it is very simple. My sister's husband was not well,--he was all
tired out with the Fair business, and one thing and another, and the
doctor frightened him into thinking he must have absolute rest; so he
bethought him of this little village and Aunt Love. Of course you know
Aunt Love? She is one of your stanchest admirers. I am not at all sure
that when you take your hat off I shan't see a little halo clinging to
your locks."
"Oh, come now. That is too bad."
"Well, we went there the middle of June, and we have been there ever
since. Three weeks ago, as I said, your sister came up--or your
sister-in-law, isn't she?"
"Yes, but all the sister I have, so I claim her."
"I should think you would. She is lovely. She and Blitzen have been the
bright spots in my summer."
"Oh, of course, Blitzen. I had forgotten him."
"He is delightful. So sympathetic! Our temperaments are just alike."
Page listened with interest. He could imagine the small dog and this
young woman in a romp. He could picture her, and he liked to, in a light
cambric gown, going at evening with Blitzen up into the pasture to get
the cow.
"Aunt Love has given him to me," continued the girl complacently.
Her companion smiled reminiscently.
"What does Blitzen say to the transfer?" he asked.
"I sometimes suspect he doesn't know it," she returned seriously. "I
mention it to him every day, though. Mr. Van Tassel laughs at me, and
says that I needn't expect to take the dog,--that Blitzen thinks I'm a
humbug."
Page was not listening. "Mr. Van Tassel?" he repeated in blank
surprise.
"Yes. Didn't I say? Excuse me. He is my sister's husband--and your
uncle. I forgot that. The dearest man that ever lived."
Page felt staggered, and confusedly afraid that he should show the shock
he felt. His eyes fell. This was one of that obscure family who had
"roped Uncle Richard in." Like lightning there flashed across his mind
the consideration that beauty had made his uncle weak.
"Yes--ahem"--he stammered, for he feared it might have been long that he
had sat there dazed. "I'm sorry to hear that my uncle is ailing.
Jack--his son knows nothing of it."
"No; it is Mr. Van Tassel's wish that his son should not be informed of
his indisposition." The girl's reply sounded curiously stilted in
contrast to her previous ease of manner. Page blamed himself for the
new coldness.
"Just like his unselfishness, isn't it?" he returned cordially. "I
can't help thinking how surprised Hilda will be to see me appear with
you. She does not know when to expect me."
Mrs. Page was indeed surprised when the train stopped at R----, and she
stood on the platform and beheld her brother and her guest leave the car
together. She was a vivacious little woman with a trim figure, and keen
blue eyes that looked out beneath her sailor hat, full of lively
interest in everything and everybody. She pounced upon the pair, and
kissed them both with enthusiasm.
"How perfectly delightful!" she exclaimed. "I couldn't help worrying a
little about you, Miss Bryant." ("Oh yes, Bryant was the name," thought
Page.) "I knew you were not familiar with Boston, and although I had
given you such detailed directions, I should have been frantic if you
hadn't come out of the car just when you did. Gorham, how did you
happen to find her? Did you go out to Pearfield? How is Uncle Richard,
Miss Bryant? There, Gorham, don't let that stage go without us. Not
the white one, the yellow. Is there room for three?"
When they were in the stage that was to take them to the hotel, these
queries and many more were answered before the long extent of surf came
in sight, vividly blue beyond the firm white shore on which a foamy
lacework melted.
Mrs. Page ensconced her guest in a pleasant room near her own, and then
returned to her own quarters with an impatient hope that her brother
would seek her there. She had not long to wait, and she welcomed him
eagerly.
"What do you think of my new acquisition?" she asked, as she gave him a
seat that commanded the ocean, and took one near by.
"I was greatly surprised."
"I thought you would be," said Hilda triumphantly; "but what do you
think of her? Isn't she handsome?"
"Very," answered Page, looking dreamily out upon the water.
"Haven't you fallen in love with her, you wooden man?"
"Hardly, yet. I suppose I shall, though," he added resignedly.
Mrs. Page laughed so gleefully that he smiled. "It is all the queerest
thing," she said with sudden serious zest. "I was belated in every sort
of way about getting down here this year, and when I was finally ready
it suddenly came over me that Uncle Richard was with Aunt Love in the
character of a semi-invalid, and that it would be civil in me to call on
him once, as he had come to see me on his way through the city."
"It is odd that Jack hasn't mentioned his father's being at Pearfield,
or his not being well. To be sure, I haven't seen Jack since last March,
still he would naturally have mentioned it in the few letters I've had
from him."
Mrs. Page lifted her finger impressively. "Jack doesn't know one word
about his father's illness. Be sure you don't mention it to him."
"Call it fatigue. It isn't illness, is it?"
"Why, Gorham Page, he had a stroke early this spring."
"No! Why, that is too bad. Surely it is wrong to keep it from Jack,"
said Page with a strong mental uprising of resentment against unknown
scheming Bryants. Of course that innocent, inexperienced young creature
of the train would have no word in the matter.
"Well, I don't know," returned his sister dubiously. "It was only a
warning, the doctors said, and I suppose Uncle Richard thinks he is all
right now with care; and there's a wheel within a wheel there, Gorham.
Didn't you notice to-day," lowering her voice dramatically, "that I
didn't say a word about Jack? Jack is a sore subject." She nodded her
head several times by way of emphasis.
"I dare say," returned the other. "The Bryants must have known that he
was very much cut up by his father's marriage."
"Oh, they did; or the girls did. The mother never was allowed to know.
I became very well acquainted with this child Mildred in the few days I
stayed at Pearfield, but she told me nothing. Aunt Love told me the
whole story, for Mrs. Van Tassel had confided in her. Aunt Love is
perfectly devoted to Uncle Richard's wife."
"Humph!"
"They have been through a great deal in a year. I suppose you heard
through Jack, though I knew nothing about it, that Mrs. Van Tassel's
little brother and sister took scarlet fever and died in the same week."
"Yes, I knew that. Jack felt it deeply. I am sure he must have written
home very kindly about it. It occurred only about a month after the
wedding."
"Very likely he did. I don't know. Then Mrs. Bryant grew weaker and
weaker through the winter. They took her South, and surrounded her with
every luxury, but in April she died."
"No. I didn't know that."
"Yes, she died very peacefully and happily; but she had not been gone a
fortnight when Uncle Richard had that stroke."
"What a procession of calamities!"
"I should think so. Well, Aunt Love says the worst part of it is, that
Mrs. Van Tassel seems to connect all this misfortune with Jack's anger
at her. Something on the old idea of a curse, I suppose."
Page's lip curled slightly under his mustache.
"I saw very little of Mrs. Van Tassel myself," continued his voluble
sister. "Uncle Richard's head was very easily tired. He had to keep
very quiet, and she was with him constantly. You never saw such
devotion."
"No doubt," said Page ambiguously. "I can easily believe that she will
not allow him out of her sight. It looks to me as if it were our duty
to inform Jack of his father's condition."
"No, no. I saw enough of Uncle Richard to discover his wishes about
that. He does not want to have Jack hurried. He does not consider his
condition in the least alarming."
Page's face indicated his disapproval. "So Mrs. Van Tassel is to
succeed in keeping Jack at a distance," he remarked.
"I don't think it is her doing."
"Of course it is," said Page without heat. "Uncle Richard must know the
circumstances."
"He may suspect something, of course," replied Hilda, "but Aunt Love
tells me they do not avoid the subject of Jack at all. Mrs. Van Tassel
speaks of him with perfect naturalness, whenever necessity demands, and
she has never told Uncle Richard of the angry parting that worried her
so. He never asked her about it."
"Wise Uncle Richard! He knew better." Page shook his head. "It is a
bad business."
His sister demurred. "I do not know that it is such a bad business for
Uncle Richard to have gained such a devoted nurse. He needs it now. As
for Miss Bryant, I pitied the girl, cooped up there in that lonely,
monotonous village, and begged Mrs. Van Tassel to allow her to stay with
me a week or two. She consented very willingly, even gladly. I wanted
to give people a chance to look at her. I'm a philanthropist. The
sight of her will do a weakly person as much good as the sea air; and
she was"--
A knock at the door interrupted. Mrs. Page gave her brother a knowing
little nod, and when she answered the call, it was her guest who
entered. The girl had exchanged her black dress for one all white.
"You told me to come as soon as I was ready," she said, looking from one
to the other.
"Yes, I was in haste to have you see my view. Isn't it a fine one?"
Mildred moved to the window, followed by Page's unconscious, openly
admiring gaze. He had risen at once upon her entrance and stood, his
hands resting on a chair-back, forgiving Mrs. Van Tassel's arts for the
moment, in entire approval of her sister's appearance.
Hilda, to whom her brother-in-law's potential love affairs were a
constant entertainment, kept his ingenuous face in view, even while her
tongue rattled on.
"For a conscientious, well-intentioned man," she had once said to her
husband, "Gorham Page can be the most dangerous creature. Any girl
receiving such a look as his would believe him deeply smitten. Then he
will go on, getting acquainted with her in his way, inquiring into her
thoughts and opinions, even probing her hidden feelings, getting at the
real woman, as he calls it, and having exchanged theories with her for a
while, his mind will go mooning off, perhaps in the test of some new
thought she has suggested, while the girl, gradually neglected, is soon
as entirely forgotten as last year's fashions. It amounts to
unprincipled flirting, and yet he doesn't suspect it in the least. He
is too modest, really. A queer paradox."
Hilda suddenly finished the description of a distant lighthouse, and
turning, walked straight up to her brother, who was still lost in
critical approval of the noble lines and curves of her guest's tall
figure.
"But come," she said, smiling with significant sauciness into his face.
"We cannot live entirely on the beautiful things we can take in through
our eyes. I fancy there is some dinner downstairs somewhere."
"Yes," agreed Page, stirring. He had finished his soup before he
realized that there had been any personal intention in her speech.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*THE TELEGRAM.*
Mrs. Page promised herself to keep a sharp lookout in behalf of the
young girl of whom she had assumed temporary charge. At the very first
of those exclusive walks and sails which she foresaw, she meant to
reason with her brother, and indirectly to warn Mildred of his
idiosyncrasy. Her guest seemed wonderfully well-poised and
self-possessed for a girl of her age. Doubtless she had already become
accustomed to admiration; but Gorham's attentions would be of an unusual
sort. Mrs. Page meant to keep an eye on him.
She was disappointed, however. The very day following, he mentioned his
intention of returning to the city.
"You must have known that I only came down to call on you," he replied
to Hilda's expressions of surprise and dismay. "After such a prolonged
holiday as I have had, you surely didn't suppose I was going to idle
away more time here."
"I think it is very shabby of you," pouted Mrs. Page, with no thought of
her own inconsistency. "Miss Bryant and I need you to entertain us while
Robert is away. Don't we, Miss Bryant?"
Mildred assented. "It is hard to be deprived of both Blitzen and Mr.
Page," she said feelingly, and her hostess wished she had not appealed
to her.
Page regarded his sister thoughtfully. "Shall I send you some books?"
he asked. "Miss Bryant said last night that she had not brought any
books with her."
"You needn't trouble yourself," returned Hilda quickly. "His first
symptom of interest," she noted mentally. "I know you," she added
aloud. "The lightest entertainment we could hope for would be Buckle's
'History of Civilization.' No. Leave us if you must; but don't send us
any literature!"
So he departed, and Mrs. Page was left to sound his praises instead of
his defects, to her friend. After Mildred's saucy speech, she was
determined that the girl should appreciate how far above the common run
of men this _rara avis_ of a brother was; and she rang the changes upon
his high principle, his conscientiousness, his unselfishness, until the
faint light of ironical amusement in her guest's eyes arrested her.
"I wouldn't have you think Gorham a prig," she added hastily. "He is
the furthest from it."
Mildred's week at the beach slipped quickly and pleasantly away, and
then she was recalled to Pearfield by her sister, who wrote that Mr. Van
Tassel felt so much stronger that he wished to return home at once.
Mrs. Page received one letter from the girl, after they reached Chicago,
descriptive of the journey, and the parting from Pearfield. Blitzen,
she said, they were obliged to leave behind, as on the day of departure
he was nowhere to be found. Humiliating as it was to confess it, they
all believed he had heard the plans for his removal, and had gone into
hiding.
September passed and October was nearly gone, when one morning as he
opened his mail in his office, Gorham Page found a letter from his
cousin Jack.
It began by responding to some theories and warnings, which Page had
recently written him, relative to the unwholesomeness of beer-drinking.
DEAR GORHAM,--Your interesting and instructive letter just received. It
has been an unusual length of time on the road, and it was an ill fate
that delayed your temperance lecture, and deprived me of that aid to
sobriety any longer than was necessary, in view of the rapidity with
which I am traveling the downward road. It arrived, however, at a
critical period. A friend in the pension, whose besotted fancy could
not rise from the miry slough in which intemperance has sunk her, has
just made me a philopena present. Instead of bestowing upon me some airy
and diverting German philosophy, or fascinating English tract, or an
elevating necktie,--instead of finding something which, in the guise of
a trifling gift, should have brought to a debauched young man blessed
suggestions of a reformed life and renewed respectability, she presented
me a beer mug with a painting of Lohengrin, Swan and Co. on the outside,
and a line or two of German words around the rim, having some reference
to Parsifal and the Holy Grail!
That of course drives the last nail into my coffin! That puts me beyond
the pale of--water! In vain do you exclaim, "Be a man! Have some
backbone about you! Be content to look at your new beer mug, without
making other use of it. Keep it as bric-a-brac, dry, and always
perpendicular! Let its rigid uprightness be also that of your moral
character. Resist the dreadful power of this unrighteous alliance of a
refined taste for aesthetic pottery with a depraved taste for strong
drink!"
Alas, I cannot. How appalling and yet how interesting it is to observe
how Fate inclines to kick a fellow when he's down. Everything conspires
against the reform of one who has fallen.
As to my own case, even if I could overcome my craving for liquor, I
should still be obliged to go right on drinking my pint of beer at
dinner every day, for it seems that the German words around the rim of
my mug are not "fast colors;" they come off gradually as I drink; and
after long-drawn-out attempts by the other process, I conclude that this
is the only way in which I can ever get any German into me, so I must go
on to the bitter end. _Bitte sehr!_
I have decided to come home before the New Year. I dread it, as you
know, but the plunge into the new family circle must be taken some time,
and I want to see my father. I am sure he wants to see me, too, though
he doesn't say much about it. In a recent letter, he admitted that he
had not been very well during the summer. Bless him! I suppose _her_
griefs have shaken him very much. Of course I'm sorry for her, but I
can't be resigned to father's having had to shoulder the Bryants'
affairs. I tell you I am glad to know he is himself again. His letter
made me feel an intolerable distance away. Yes, I shall see him by the
New Year, whatever happens.
Page was folding this letter into its envelope, when a telegraph boy
entered the office.
"Want an answer?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
So while his clerk signed, the lawyer tore open the message. He started
as he read it, and a slow color rose over his face.