THE MYSTERY OF THE NAME
It being Saturday and market-day, Satira Pegrim had gone to Bridgeton
with 'Lisha Potts to look at furniture, for liberal as to matters of
time though Potts was as a wooer, he had told Satira on Christmas Day
that when a man reached fifty it was time he did something more about
settling down than talk of it. Satira, on the whole, had enjoyed a very
pleasant courtship during the years of her reign at the post-office. It
is given to few women to attend the county fair for thirteen consecutive
years at the expense of the same man without incurring further
responsibility.
She was now divided between conscientious motives about leaving her
brother until Poppea was able to keep house, and the fear lest 'Lisha
become discouraged and transfer his affections to Judith, daughter of
the widow Baker. This veteran, having failed to secure a second spouse
for herself, was now trying to checkmate in turn every available man in
the county for the benefit of her daughter. The Bakers lived almost
opposite the Pegrim farm that 'Lisha leased, and well Satira knew that
nearness means a good deal, especially in winter, so she had consented
to look at furniture, saying demurely at the same time:--
"Of course, if you wish my housekeepin' 'xperience in trading, it'll
pleasure me to give it, but if you want a woman that can rush into
things helterskelter and unthinkin', why not try Judy Baker?"
"No old maids for me, Satiry," he flung back, slapping his knees to give
emphasis to his words. "When I get spliced, it'll hev to be either a
young woman or a widder, the last bespoke and preferred."
"Sakes alive! and what's Judy but a young woman? She's only turning
twenty-four."
"Age hasn't got a thing to do with it; there's old maids at twenty and
women folks turning forty that though unmarried ain't, and is young."
"Oliver Gilbert, he hit them differences plumb on the head once't some
years back, when he was havin' considerable trouble in making folks
understand that he wasn't calculatin' to take a second. Gilbert he's
read lots of unor'nary thoughts in books, and he says, says he: ''Lisha,
there's three kinds o' females when it comes to considerin' matrimony:
widders that understand us men through 'xperience; just plain nice women
folks that know what's necessary about us by intooition, as the Lord
meant they should; and old maids that thinks they're dead wise, but all
they know's by suspicion. Now don't you take one of those last, 'cause
they suspect so much more bad of us than we really are that their idee
is darned hard to live up tew!' Well, just at that time what I took to,
was not gettin' married, but to the woods, and went in for trapping and
lumbering for quite a spell.
"Judy Baker's terrible knowin' by suspicion. When she shakes hands,
she'll jerk hern away before a man's really caught his grip, like she
most _knew_ he was goin' to squeeze it, which he, bein' I, hadn't no
such idee. Then she looks mad, 'cause he, bein' I, didn't."
After this complete understanding, Satira Pegrim, who felt that in
addition to the trip of inspection 'Lisha deserved some more positive
encouragement, told him that if he would begin and mend the fence up at
the farm and reshingle the buildings, she would begin to sew her carpet
rags and sheets, and that would give them both time to be ready by
Poppea's sixteenth birthday--this being the earliest age in Newfield
County at which a well-brought-up girl could be expected to keep house,
with a neighbor to accommodate in matter of washing and house cleaning.
'Lisha, jubilant over something so definite, not only bought tickets for
Christy's Minstrels that chanced to be in Bridgeton that night, but
insisted that they two sup at the Railway Hotel as well. Hence Satira's
prolonged absence.
Thus it chanced that in two days after the night of Poppea's awakening,
the post-office house, put in order from attic to porch, was left in her
charge, and in the afternoon she read Gilbert's record written in the
old ledger, they two sitting together in the long kitchen where the
first scene had been set.
As she read, Gilbert, from the south window, where he sat fitting and
adjusting an intricate bit of clockwork, furtively watched the varying
color and expression of her face. After slowly reading his simple story,
Poppea could not feel for a second that she was an unloved intruder, or
fail herself to be filled anew with love for the old man who had opened
his door. Her quick intuition and rapidly developing mentality scanned
between the lines, learning of many acts of self-sacrifice and devotion
that Gilbert believed locked securely in his own thoughts. It was the
_why_ of it all that rankled: the circumstances, people, or both that
had made the charity necessary. When the girl thought of this, a steely
flash came from her eyes, and the will that had been latent, except for
childish bursts of impetuosity, set its signals at the corners of lips
and nostrils, making the watcher sigh.
"Well, perhaps she may need it to stiffen her up by and by, who knows,"
said Gilbert to himself; "if only the Lord lets her always love
something harder than she hates something else."
Dear, patient Oliver Gilbert, in those few words he summed up the
struggle that Poppea must fight her way through in the next ten years.
Would she be victor or vanquished? As a girl glides unconsciously into
womanhood, the mysteries that surround her are like the intangible, yet
real, mists of daybreak that may clear away before the purifying rays of
the sun, or solidify into angry storm clouds to blot out the entire day.
In addition to these, over Poppea there hung what to her was a darker
cloud,--the mystery of the name; and the only rays that could penetrate
its shadow must come from the sun of love.
Presently Poppea closed the book, and after resting with her arms
clasped about it for a moment, laid it on the table. Going to the window
where Gilbert was sitting, she stood behind him, stroking his hair
gently and smoothing back one troublesome lock that kept falling over
his eyes. Then stooping and laying her cheek upon his, she whispered:--
"Daddy, please say that I need not go away anywhere to school. I can
learn a great deal more at the Academy if I try, and besides the Felton
Aunties and Mr. Oldys lend me so many books, and they are going to have
a French teacher next summer, and Miss Emmy has asked me to read with
them. I want to work hard at my music, so that by and by I can play an
organ perhaps, or sing in a Bridgeton choir. And I must help you in the
post-office. You've said so often lately that people are more careless
of their spelling than they used to be, and do not write the addresses
well, that I'm quite sure your eyes are getting tired. Please, Daddy? It
will make things so much easier."
Gilbert paused a moment in order to control his eagerness to assent.
"I never wanted you to go away, child, but for your own good, and
now--it doesn't seem to me that I could bear it. Miss Emmy thinks,
though, that you'd be better of a little change, and she's spoken with
me about your going down to them next month to spend a fortnight or so,
to see the city, hear some good singing, the Opery she calls it, and
things like that. Wouldn't you like it, Poppy? Yes, I thought so. Well,
you go try your wings outside of Harley's Mills a bit, dearie. Mayhap
you'll think you've never tasted life before, but if you get homesick
for Daddy and the post-office, and feel peeky for a sight o' the river
again and a sniff of the salt harbor wind that blows over Quality Hill,
they'll be here, and all you've got to do is just to come right back."
* * * * *
A month later, Poppea was standing between the heavy crimson curtains of
one of the Feltons' parlor windows on Madison Avenue, overlooking the
Square. The sound of the traffic from the opposite side where Fifth
Avenue and Broadway meet and cross was deadened to a sullen roar by the
heavy double windows except when the stages passed, and then for a
moment the distinct sound of hoof and wheel was distinguishable.
Over in the park many children were playing, rolling hoops to and fro,
or wheeling about on roller-skates, having a row of small wheels set
lengthwise under the foot that made the sport as much a matter of
equipoise as ice skating.
Poppea longed to join them, to rush along and feel the air around her
and facing the wind, meet it halfway. For an airing she went to drive
every day with the Felton ladies in the new landau which was lined with
tufted blue satin, with little mirrors let into the side panels.
Sometimes they drove up Fifth Avenue to Central Park, through the east
drive to the turn and back again, at a decorous and leisurely pace,
Poppea and Mr. Esterbrook sitting opposite the ladies, who were
continually bowing and smiling to those in other carriages that they
passed. Even as late as 1874 to 1876, all those who kept private
equipages were well known to one another, and if a stranger appeared in
Mrs. ---- barouche, the identity was soon revealed by the sending out of
cards for a more or less stately reception to meet the guest. The
informal and irresponsible afternoon teas of the last two decades of the
century, their chief motive, as voiced by the Autocrat, being to
"gabble, gobble, and git," were as yet unconceived. Sometimes a party of
young folks on horseback, followed by an instructor, would come in
sight, winding among the trees that separate drive from bridlepath, and
pass before Poppea, all eagerness, could really see them, for except on
very mild days the carriage windows were closed in spite of Miss Emmy's
protestation that she never really breathed except in the open air. The
windows of Madam Felton's coach had always been closed against the east
winds of Boston fifty years before, and Miss Elizabeth felt that to do
otherwise would be too much of an exhibition of change. If Miss Emmy
chose to sleep with her bedroom window open, that was a different
matter; eccentric, of course, but inconspicuous.
One day Mr. Esterbrook had suggested that they two should leave the
carriage, walk back to the entrance gate and take a stage or a horse-car
home. How Poppea had enjoyed it. There had been enough wind to ripple
the water of the reservoir, and the gulls were flying over it, preparing
to bed down for the night as they did on Moosatuck. Another time, the
ladies always being interested in everything concerning the good of the
city, had driven across the park and out the west side of it to see
where the building of the Museum of Natural History was to be located,
the laying of the corner-stone by President Grant having been set for
the following June. Continuing on over poorly paved streets or muddy
roadways that ran between partly decayed country houses, or the shanties
of squatter settlements, they came within sight of the Hudson, making
their way northward through Manhattanville and Bloomingdale to a hill
called Claremont, where there was a place of refreshment in an old
farm-house.
The sight of the glorious river sweeping down between the high walls of
the palisades, with shadowy suggestion of headlands and mountains, made
the young girl's breath come quick and short. She could not keep her
eyes from the window and she spoke either in monosyllables or kept
silent. Could she, might she go out on the bank and see, not through the
glass, and feel the wind that was bending the old tulip trees with the
rattling seed cups?
Alas, no; it was a place of public entertainment where one, especially a
young lady, must be very careful to do nothing unusual. So, though Miss
Emmy looked as though she would not only have encouraged Poppea in her
desire but gone with her if it had not been so cruelly windy, they
turned their backs on the wonderful panorama, while Patrick sought an
easier, if less picturesque, way home.
He, in fact, scowled upon the whole trip to such an extent that it was
not repeated. The horses, used to half a dozen miles at most, had
sweated unduly; the rim of one of the newly painted wheels had sunk
between two cobbles and become badly scratched, while Patrick himself
had been jolted to such an extent that he had been obliged, in order to
keep his seat, to adapt himself to circumstances and do something more
than sit on the box and hold the reins, a new condition which raised his
ire. It may be said with truth that the tyrannical family coachman of
the old régime in New York was the logical and fitting ancestor of the
arbitrary chauffeur of to-day. The first, however, having only the "lame
horse" plea as his weapon; the other, any one of an endless series of
complicated intestinal diseases concealed in the corpulent tonneau.
Thus, after the first week, Poppea's exercise was limited to the correct
walk for girls of her age, up or down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square,
or with Nora for attendant, dressed in the neat garb of a city maid,
down Twenty-third Street and eastward to Gramercy Park, a key to which
exclusive enclosure had been given to the Misses Felton by one of their
many friends in the surrounding houses. She often looked longingly at
the girls of her own age who walked in groups of twos and threes,
chatting vivaciously, the maid following far enough away to be out of
sight if not out of mind. At home she had never felt lonely. Now, for
the first time, she realized that she had no real girl companions of
her own age.
This particular afternoon when she stood between the curtains, a hand on
each, looking alternately out into the square and then down the length
of the three great rooms, divided by marble columns, their size further
magnified by the vistas seen in the pier and mantel mirrors, she felt
like some wild thing at bay. The ladies had gone in the carriage to
Staten Island to visit a distant relative who was ill, taking Nora with
them. Mr. Esterbrook had lunched as usual at his club, the Union League,
only a few blocks further up the avenue, it having been his considerate
custom to leave the house to the ladies and their friends at mid-day
ever since luncheon had taken the place of early dinner.
Poppea tried to open first a front and then a back window to get a
breath of air, but without success. She was too wise now to refresh
herself by sitting on the outer doorstep, since the doing of it, during
the first week, had brought a very decided remonstrance from the usually
sympathetic Miss Emmy.
For a minute she was minded to get her hat and join the children in the
square; then some street musicians with harp and violins struck up
before the next house, riveting her attention. The playing was spirited
and the time good, though imperfect as to technique. The pent-up energy
in Poppea began to surge and sway her body to the music. Stepping from
the recessed window before the long mirror, where there was a space
clear of furniture, she began to dance, not with set steps or
calculated gestures, merely letting the music lead her.
When she finally stopped, head forward, a sort of half-mocking courtesy
to the looking-glass, laughing,--her good temper restored,--she was
startled to see a reflection besides her own, that of a young man of
perhaps eight and twenty, of medium height, clean shaven at a time when
this was uncommon, immaculate as to clothes, having an air of being
perfectly at ease in unusual surroundings that Poppea noticed even in
her confusion.
Caleb had ushered him through the sliding door unthinkingly, for the
colored servitor was standing transfixed, one hand raised in warning,
saying in the brief time that it took Poppea to prepare for flight:--
"Sho, I didn't know you was here, Miss Poppy; I 'lowed Marsa Esterbrook
was corned in."
Then in a confidential whisper to the caller as the girl slipped past
him and flew rather than ran up the thickly padded stairs, he added:--
"It's jest Miss Poppy, a young missy from de country that Miss Emmy
thinks a mighty heap of. She was lonesome-like I reckon, and just
a-dancin' to keep up her spirits. Do set down, Marsa Winslow; the ladies
should shuah be back by now and they'll feel powerful bad to have missed
you. I well recomember your lady mother back in the old Boston time; she
and Miss Emmy was like two twins for standing up for each other.
"Oh, so you'se livin' in New York an' can drop in any time. I'll deliber
your message wif honah, sah, to the ladies' pleasure," and Caleb bowed
the young man out, laying the silver salver with the bit of pasteboard
in a spot upon the hall table where it could not fail to attract
attention. The card read, Bradish Winslow, The Loiterers' Club.
"I should like to meet that girl four or five years hence; she's a
wonderful bit of live color already," was Winslow's mental comment as he
went down the steps, hesitating at the foot whether he should go up or
down the avenue, or across the square.
Poppea, having gained her room, where the windows consisted of a single
sash, threw one of them wide open, and kneeling on the floor so that her
chin rested on the sill, drew in a long, refreshing breath.
For a moment she wondered who the caller might be, and thought of her
dancing with regret, but on the return of the Misses Felton they had
such a delightful bit of news to impart that she forgot even to ask his
name. The following week the opera of Lohengrin was to be sung,
Christine Nilsson taking the part of Elsa for the last time in New York.
No such voice, Miss Felton declared, had been heard in America, except
possibly that of Nilsson's countrywoman, Jenny Lind. To hear her would
be a musical education in itself for Poppea; so not only had a box been
secured for the night, but Stephen Latimer and his wife were coming to
complete the party, in spite of the fact that there were some who
thought the witnessing of all dramatic performances unclerical. That
evening Miss Emmy played some fragments of the opera on the grand piano,
promising Poppea that Stephen Latimer should explain its construction
and motive to her when he came.
For a few days Poppea forgot her desire to run away in thinking of the
opera, and trying to pick out bits from the score, but its complication
baffled her and she had to content herself with persuading Nora to
continue their walk from Gramercy Park down Irving Place to Fourteenth
Street that she might look at the outside of the Academy of Music that
was her Mecca.
When the strain began again and she was once more longing for freedom
and a five-mile walk up the bank of the Moosatuck, alone or with Hugh,
the magic day came and with it the Latimers, Mrs. Stephen dimpling under
a bewitching spring bonnet entirely of her own manufacture, a cherished
possession. This, Miss Emmy told her playfully but firmly, she could
_not_ wear to the opera, but that Bachmann should dress her hair when
she came to do theirs.
"No matter what Stephen may say to-night, I'm going to dress you to suit
myself," said Miss Emmy. "This pink brocade with the silver trimmings,
your hair loosened into a crown of puffs with the pink feather at the
side, and the coral comb. The coral necklace and the white lace shawl
for shoulder drapery, if you think low neck a trifle too much for a
clergyman's lady, and these white gloves topped with coral bands."
"I will wear the white gloves gladly," said Jeanne Latimer, looking at
her two forefingers rather ruefully. One was roughened by the use of the
vegetable knife, for the times had been hard and houseworkers scarce at
Harley's Mills that winter; while the other was pricked deep from the
sewing of harsh muslin for the clothing that some would otherwise have
lacked. "But really, Miss Emmy, don't you think it would look more
honest if I wore my own gown?"
Miss Emmy laughingly acknowledged that perhaps it might, yet held her
point with determination, and eight o'clock saw the party of six
gathered in the opera-box, their faces differing almost as much in
expression as the details of their clothing.
Jeanne Latimer and Miss Emmy were what might be called very much dressed
without having overstepped the bounds of good taste. Miss Emmy wore pale
blue satin with much fine lace and pearl ornaments; though pale in the
morning, her color always grew somewhat hectic at night and helped
justify a combination by far too young for her years.
While Jeanne Latimer enjoyed the novel sensation of wearing her gay
attire, Miss Emmy's pleasure came from the conscious result of wearing
hers. Miss Felton, who sat behind her sister, wore an almost straight
robe of black velvet; the point lace fichu crossed in front and fastened
by a heavy diamond brooch, her only ornament, covered all but her slim
white throat. Her hair was parted in bandeaux and coiled at the back of
her head as usual, the only addition being two waxy white camelias
tucked into the mass. During the last two years, however, a decided
thread of silver had woven itself among the dark coils. Talking in short
sentences to, rather than with, Mr. Esterbrook, who sat next her, she
had an anxious air and seemed to be striving to keep him awake, for
scarcely had they been seated when an air of intense weariness came over
his elaborately dressed person, and he began to nod.
The remaining two of the party thus had the right-hand corner of the box
to themselves, Poppea, in her simple white summer muslin relieved by a
cherry sash, sitting in a low chair, with Stephen Latimer back of her.
From the moment of their entrance, he had busied himself in explaining
the great building to her, from the arrangement of the seats, boxes, and
orchestra, to the uses of the prompter's egg-shaped box. Music and
certain phases of human nature that he felt allied to the Divine were
the food for this man's dreams, and to-night he would have both very
near.
Presently the orchestra took their places, falling into silence at the
tap of the leader's baton and the prelude to the first act began with
the high notes of the Grail motif, rising to a climax of trumpets and
trombones, then fading away to silence again. With a word here and there
to focus the story of the libretto, Latimer called Poppea's attention to
the new theme, where the Herald calls for a champion for the accused
girl, the Elsa motif is voiced by the wood-wind instruments, and
presently Lohengrin appears in the boat drawn by the swan.
To Poppea the scene had the mystery of fairyland, but it was, at the
same time, her first glimpse of visible active romance, and through the
scenes that followed came her primal realization of the love of man and
woman as separate from the friendship of girl and boy.
When Lohengrin sets the one condition for the marriage that Elsa shall
never ask him his name and Latimer explained the _Mystery of the Name_
motif, Poppea with hands clasped in the folds of her gown sat with
strained eyes and parted lips scarcely breathing. Once heard, this motif
never left her ears, whether it was whispered by the wood-wind
instruments, the horn, or proclaimed by the whole orchestra, as when in
the scene of the bridal chamber the knight calls Elsa passionately by
name, but she, not knowing his, may not speak it, and so at last rebels
and demands to know.
As Latimer watched Poppea's face, he saw the change that fell upon it.
The joy of music, color, and pageant faded from it, until, finally, when
the boat, now guided by the Dove of the Grail, bears Lohengrin, its
knight, away and Elsa falls fainting, he saw Poppea's lips, from which
the color had fled, frame rather than say:--
"She would not marry him because she did not know his name, and when at
last she knew it, he had to go away; suppose, oh, suppose--?" Poppea
turned her head from him, but Latimer, through the music and the
dreaming, read the thought that had taken possession of her.
The Latimers returned to Harley's Mills the next afternoon, and Stephen,
at his wife's instigation, asked Miss Emmy if Poppea might not accompany
them. "It's very hard for her, Stephen," she said; "she isn't in a
natural frame of mind now at best, and all the new things she sees and
feels exaggerate it. I know how it is; last night, at first I loved my
fine feathers and then they pricked like pins, and I thought, 'Oh!
suppose I should have to wear them always and play a part and turn into
some one else and never go back to tell you what day of the week it is,
Stevie, or play the organ and peel potatoes and make nighties for stiff
old Mrs. Ricker, who scolds because it is so much trouble to wear and
wash them!' It simply paralyzes me.
"I _know_ that Poppy feels, 'Suppose I should turn out to be somebody
else, who was born to live indoors and be shut in by these double
windows and never get back to Daddy and the post-office, and never any
more hunt for lady's-slippers and arbutus in the Moosatuck woods with
Hugh.'
"I never could understand why people's friends always try to get them
away from home if there's anything they want them to forget. At home I
can always keep a worry in one place and needn't go out of my way to
look at it, but when one is away, it may turn up unexpectedly at any
corner."
Miss Emmy, however, had replied: "Send Poppea home with you when she's
only been here two weeks? Not a bit of it. The house hasn't been so gay
in my memory, besides, I'm having Nora and the seamstress turn her out
such a lot of pretty clothes. I'm sure, too, I'm giving her as nice a
time as any girl could ask."
A few days later the roving mood returned, and would not be restrained.
When the ladies had gone to a morning charitable meeting, leaving Poppea
practising some little ballads she had found in one of their many music
books, she slipped on her going-out things and, closing the front door,
made her way quickly across the square to where the omnibus passed that
Mr. Esterbrook had taken the day they two had left the carriage in
Central Park. Once in the park, she felt sure she could find her way to
that high bank overlooking the river, where she could feel the wind from
the hills on her face and look at the water that was always coming,
always passing, and yet never left one behind.
She had a small netted purse of dimes and nickels that Satira Pegrim had
given her on parting, with the admonition, "'Tain't but what they'll
feed and lodge you, Poppy, and more too; 'tisn't that, but mebbe you'd
fancy an apple or a bit of spruce gum, and not be able to lay hand on it
without buying, or need a penny for an organ monkey, for they do say
that all the organs that goes through here in summer heads for New York
in winter, and consequently monkeys must be plenty. There's 'busses in
New York, too, they say, and most like you'd like to make a change from
carriage riding."
Thus equipped, Poppea paid her fare and stole into a corner, where she
remained until the omnibus reached the end of its route. Her walk up
through the park to the northern outlet was easy, but after that, the
other mile was broken and irregular; for though there were old country
houses here and there, interspersed with newer buildings, the ground was
hilly, many shanties perched upon the rocks and huddled together in the
open fields.
Once she asked her way of a pleasant-faced woman at the gate of a large,
brown building which proved to be an orphan asylum, and her informant
told her that the location was called Bloomingdale, that another large
building set in ample grounds that they could see to the northward was
the asylum, and that if in going back she would walk down the
Bloomingdale Road (Broadway) a piece, she would find a stage that would
take her back through Manhattanville and Harlem into the heart of the
city. Also she cautioned Poppea not to loiter, for the water side was a
lonesome spot for girls.
At last the river was in sight. Getting her bearings, she crossed a lot
where a friendly cow followed her, trying to lick the rough woollen of
her coat, and crawling between some rails, reached the bank that she had
remembered, sitting to rest upon a low stump, where had been laid low
one of a group of giant tulip trees.
The grandeur of it almost oppressed Poppea for a moment, then it seemed
to compact itself and close up until the river became the Moosatuck
winding its way from the hill country down to the Mills, and then onward
through the marshes to the bay. There were not many boats upon it, but
one was hers, built by 'Lisha Potts, and one was Hugh Oldys's, and they
two were deciding which boat they should use, and whether both should
row or only Hugh, for often they rowed together. Then the second boat
disappeared, and Poppea rowed her boat, and in the stern sat Daddy
fishing--Daddy, who seldom took a holiday. How young he looked when he
caught that fine big bass; what jolly stories he told, and how good
Satira Pegrim's basket lunch had tasted. This vision was vivid, and
reminded Poppea that she was hungry.
Close in some bushes beside her a song-sparrow warbled his clear spring
ditty, and the lump that had been gathering in her throat tightened and
would not be swallowed. Scrambling to her feet she took one final look
up and down before turning homeward, and, as she did so, her eyes fell
upon a small marble shaft surmounted by an urn that stood not a dozen
feet from where she had been sitting.
There were several like it in the hill graveyard at home, but this could
not be a graveyard with only a single stone. Going near she looked for a
name or date, but found only these words, _Erected to an Amiable Child_.
Who was it? Was this another mystery of a name. Had the child none?
Waving her hand good-by to the great river, she retraced her steps
toward the Bloomingdale Road, and at that moment she heard in her ear,
with bell-like clearness, the voice of Gilbert, calling to her as he
often did when she stayed out late in the bank garden below the orchard:
"Come home, Poppy, it's lonesome for you out there by yourself; besides,
Daddy needs you!" Yes, Daddy needed her; that must be the answer to
everything that troubled her.
The next day it was Poppea who asked if she might go home, and Miss Emmy
said yes.