"'Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;There would I weep my woes,There seek my lost repose,Till grief my eyes should close,Ne'er to wake more.
"'Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;There would I weep my woes,There seek my lost repose,Till grief my eyes should close,Ne'er to wake more.
"'Every time you mention a birdie in one of your letters, Margaret, I am driven to desperation. Why have I not the charms of the woodland warblers to pierce with dulcet note the inmost fortresses of your heart buttressed to strong resistance against my awkward protestations of undying love? Nature has taught these creatures of the wild to woo with a finer art. Man is but a clod—too sordid to rise on wings of song into that vast expanse of heaven, a woman's heart. Let me learn of the birds:
"'Every time you mention a birdie in one of your letters, Margaret, I am driven to desperation. Why have I not the charms of the woodland warblers to pierce with dulcet note the inmost fortresses of your heart buttressed to strong resistance against my awkward protestations of undying love? Nature has taught these creatures of the wild to woo with a finer art. Man is but a clod—too sordid to rise on wings of song into that vast expanse of heaven, a woman's heart. Let me learn of the birds:
"'O, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!Nor quit for me the trembling spray;A hapless lover courts thy lay,Thy soothing, fond complaining."'Again, again, that tender part,That I may catch thy melting art,For surely that would touch her heart,Wha kills me wi' disdaining.'"
"'O, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!Nor quit for me the trembling spray;A hapless lover courts thy lay,Thy soothing, fond complaining.
"'Again, again, that tender part,That I may catch thy melting art,For surely that would touch her heart,Wha kills me wi' disdaining.'"
"Why, how apt those quotations are and how full!" laughed Gabrielle. "You don't suppose the writer could have been so cruel as to deliberately copy them, and yet he must have done so, of course. Just think of it: some man sitting there wildly in love, seeking counsel of the inspired poets to plead his cause. His great devotion leads him to select the tenderest passages; only those verses that speak the deep sentiments of his flaming heart does he see, and with them he presents his case. Why, really, I find that I am arguing myself into a friendly attitude toward this poor soul. Perhaps it is not right for us to laugh at that which is so real to this earnest pleader. Still, it is funny to stand aside and see two people in love, isn't it, Jim? Really one can't help laughing, and as we don't know whose letters these are, why shouldn't we laugh? Then think of the poor girl, up there in the country, writing long letters in return, proud of her lover's ardor, yet shy in penning words of devotion. Isn't it an attractive picture, Jim?—full of that 'soothing, fond complaining' for them, and comedy for the rest of us? Go on, my dear, and let us hear more of this poetic woe; although Jim doesn't say anything, I can see that he is listening.
Does it make you tired, Jim?"
"Oh, no. No, no, Gabrielle—not at all!" Jim managed to spruce up enough to deny the intimation.
"Then please continue," urged Gabrielle.
Hygeia was delighted to find her entertainment so successful, and proceeded, not noting, of course, the inward groans which spread through the quaking man in the bed. Jim could see that unless a great stroke of luck turned up there would be another fire, and he would take a fall that would probably kill him next time.
It is dangerous to leave waste paper like those letters lying around close to such highly inflammable material.
Poor Hygeia! She played with the fire like a child. What did she know about the rules of the Board of Underwriters! Neither had she ever heard of the Bureau of Combustibles!
It's a mighty lucky thing for my nerves that I was dreaming an easier plot.
If Jim had been able to reach over the back of his bed and slit me with a cleaver into rosette ribbons, one-quarter inch wide, I believe he would have done it and been proud of the job.
Hygeia continuing, with Gabrielle expectant and Jim well muffled,must have presented a picture I would give anything to have preserved in oil paint.
"'How dearly I cherish the lock of hair I stole from you the evening we parted! You are not angry with me, are you, Margaret?'" read Hygeia."'Her hair is like the curling mistThat climbs the mountain sides at e'en,When flow'r-reviving rains are past."'Really I do not wonder at the volumes of poetry that have been written on the beautiful tresses of the fair enshrined in lovers' hearts. Sweet dreams hover near this soft remembrance and I only regret that I did not snip off enough to have a jeweler braid it for my watch-charm locket. Enclosed please find some of mine in return.'"
"'How dearly I cherish the lock of hair I stole from you the evening we parted! You are not angry with me, are you, Margaret?'" read Hygeia.
"'Her hair is like the curling mistThat climbs the mountain sides at e'en,When flow'r-reviving rains are past.
"'Her hair is like the curling mistThat climbs the mountain sides at e'en,When flow'r-reviving rains are past.
"'Really I do not wonder at the volumes of poetry that have been written on the beautiful tresses of the fair enshrined in lovers' hearts. Sweet dreams hover near this soft remembrance and I only regret that I did not snip off enough to have a jeweler braid it for my watch-charm locket. Enclosed please find some of mine in return.'"
"Here it is," exclaimed Hygeia, and she produced the small allotment of Jim's, tied with a cotton thread in the middle. Fortunately the original quantity had dwindled in fondling or transit, so that with an exhibit of only eighteen strands, as per my inventory, there was not enough to bulk and show the same depth of shade as the original on the neighboring pillow. Gabrielle took thefragmentary token and held it up, playfully remarking:
"Why, the dear fellow was a blond; almost your color, Jim, I should imagine; perhaps a little lighter. He probably had eyes like yours, Jimmy. Now, what a fortunate girl she was! Oh, my! Some men are so tender and thoughtful about these little matters. Jim, you never teased me by stealing a lock of my hair, did you? and so of course I never asked for yours. What a slow old chap you are! These letters will teach you a lesson, which I hope you will heed. Put the lock back with that poetry to preserve it, and do let us hear the rest of it."
"Listen, then," said Hygeia, continuing:
"'How the fresh breezes must be painting their ruddy hues on those cheeks of yours, Margaret, for you write me that you are spending most of your time in the open these beautiful days. How I long to be with you and behold, for as the poet would sing of you—"'Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,The pride of all the flow'ry scene,Just opening on its thorny stem."'Aye, and then—"'Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,That sunny walls from Boreas screen—They tempt the taste and charm the sight;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.'"
"'How the fresh breezes must be painting their ruddy hues on those cheeks of yours, Margaret, for you write me that you are spending most of your time in the open these beautiful days. How I long to be with you and behold, for as the poet would sing of you—
"'Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,The pride of all the flow'ry scene,Just opening on its thorny stem.
"'Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,The pride of all the flow'ry scene,Just opening on its thorny stem.
"'Aye, and then—
"'Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,That sunny walls from Boreas screen—They tempt the taste and charm the sight;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.'"
"'Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,That sunny walls from Boreas screen—They tempt the taste and charm the sight;An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.'"
At this point I awoke, sat up in bed and reached out for the suspended electric button, which I pushed for two long rings and a short one, my private signal. I was thirsty for grape-juice. Hygeia seldom traveled beyond range of my bell. As soon as she heard it, she stopped reading and asked to be excused for a few minutes, until she could attend to my wants.
It was now my eighth week at the hospital, and it found me with little to do. I pined silently. The nurse flitting in and out cheered and then distracted me; she was too busy elsewhere most of the time to suit me. I dared not think too much of my troubles, for I found it discouraging and weakening. The letters from Obreeon furnished the material I needed to sustain a happy train of thought. Sitting up in bed with this precious poetic patchwork piled over my lap, I had many a good sneeze. I am sure I got some of my money back by reading them over and over again, with the memory of the original spirit in whichthey were slapped together. For a time the happy days of the fifth flat came back to me, and I smiled and chuckled over the wildest specimens in suppressed glee. Robert Burns, of Scotland, and I were responsible for many of these lone lover's laments. I must say that Burns held up his end fairly well, because I knew just where to place his underpinning to make it support my magnificent prose. The Byron and Shakespeare-built letters were also good. Scott rumbled a little too hard; his stride was too firm to answer the purpose, except for short fillers now and then. All the big licks were put in with Byron and Burns, and Morris occasionally as a substitute. Those fellows warmed up to the subject in a way that pleased me; they took right hold of a girl with as little timidity as a dancing professor and poured their song into her inclining ear, happy in the understanding that they were delivering the goods she wanted. Early in the business I had come to the conclusion that it was useless to fool with the cold-blooded wooers if results were wanted. Shakespeare, of course, was a leader, but his best stuff was getting to be so common in the language I found it impossible to quote him and maintain an air of dignified originality, so as to make it appear that the gems fell naturally by suggestion fromJim's well-stocked poem reservoir. If the maiden should get the idea that the prose was written around the poetry the scenic effect would be destroyed. The great thing was to make a hit by getting the sincerity in the prose boiled down so thick that the following poetry would seem to be only a breath of steam arising from the solid mass of seething sentiment. It was assumed that the lady would know who the poet was, but give Jim credit for selecting the verses the same as if he had written them; she would not doubt him on the prose, for occasionally I brought that down to the style of a plain business letter to destroy suspicion.
The more I read those letters over at the hospital, the prouder I became. My calm judgment was that they were well worth the price and any woman might be proud to have them sent to her. Perhaps I would copy them off again some time when I needed help that way myself; at any rate, I was so proud of them I decided I would always keep them for their literary value.
When Hygeia entered, I was deeply interested in this documentary mass. I had forgotten about my thirst, imbibing from this fount of poetic inspiration. She asked me what it was that pleased me so much, but I dodged that question politely.
Soon I began to regret my evasive answer. When a man gets to be real proud of his work of art, he wants somebody to admire it with him and tell him how nice it is. I had believed I should be close-mouthed about those letters, but when I had taken off the few at the top signed with Jim's name I noticed there was nothing in them to tell who wrote them. Why shouldn't Hygeia enjoy them with me? If a few seemed to affect her, a clue to her heart's entrance would appear, and then I could undertake the composition of more with greater earnestness than ever. A man can do better in such business for himself. Just a few would do no harm, at any rate. She would not know who "Devoted Darling" and "Jamie" and "My Dearest Own" might be, with no envelopes and addresses to give the thing away, and if she did, what would it matter? She would soon forget me as well as the letters. Why not brighten the dull moments?
There is no limit to the persuasive questions a fool can put to himself.
"I thought you rang for something," she said.
"Why, I remember—I was thirsty. Please let me have some grape-juice off the ice."
While she was gone I thought it all out carefully and decided not to show the letters. Itwould be better to be a little cagy for a while. When Hygeia returned, I again changed my mind and passed over to her a dozen or so choice specimens.
"Please sit right down and read these and tell me what you think of them," said I.
She went over to the window and presently began to laugh a little louder than the regulations would permit. That suited me, because it proved the style would melt if addressed to her; taken second-hand and cold that way, she was bound to laugh at them. Letters in divorce cases referring to the defendant woman as "a dream in curves" were no joke to the fair one who had sighed over them. Buckwheat cakes and love-letters must be done to order and served hot, or the steam dews on them and soggy fermentation ensues, giving off laughing-gas.
"Why, who in the world could have written this nonsense?" laughed Hygeia. "It sounds exactly like that letter one of the nurses found in the sun parlor the other day—the same in many respects as that letter—which has been passed around for the entertainment of the nurses and the doctors. That also must belong to you. Shall I get it for you?"
"Perhaps I dropped some carelessly, but it's no matter," said I. "Let me see it some time and I can tell you. What do you think of them?"
"WHY, WHO IN THE WORLD COULD HAVE WRITTEN THIS NONSENSE?" LAUGHED HYGEIA—Page 214
"Think of them!" And she smiled as if she was pleased, as she continued to turn page after page. "Surely you could not have written them, did you, Mr. Hopkins?"
"I? A friend of mine—you showed him in the other day—thought they would keep my mind occupied, so he brought them here."
"Well, I'm glad he did and that you let me read them. I think the other nurses would enjoy them. May I not read a few to them?"
"Certainly, take all you want and read all you please; only return them in order."
"But did your friend say who wrote them? If they concerned you personally at all, or your friend, Mr. Hosley, of course I should not want to take such liberties with them. Do they?"
"Why, my friend who brought them to me thought of publishing those letters," said I, "just before he brought them to me, but I persuaded him not to. Both the woman and her husband—"
"Why, did he really win her heart with them, and did they get married?"
"Certainly. Letters like that are written to win," I answered, with quiet satisfaction, even though murder had been the outcome of my art."The lady and her husband dead and gone (honesty would have made me say 'or gone'), the letters fell into the possession of my friend, who in a way deals in such curios. I bought them from him for a song (some songs are worth one thousand dollars), although he was not over-anxious to sell them."
"Well, if you bought them from a dealer in letters, then they must have belonged to strangers. Really, are you fooling? Are you telling me the truth?"
"I have not, since I have known you, told you a single thing which is not true. But tell me, why do you doubt my sincerity? Why do you care if they concern me?" I wondered if I could have smitten her slightly, and my shoulders began to broaden against the pillow and a sensation of feeling handsome passed over me, although I had not been to a barber in weeks.
"Well, it would seem cruel to take your love-letters, you know, Mr. Hopkins, and read them to the other nurses to laugh over, now wouldn't it?"
"As you state it, perhaps it would," said I. "But what do you care about Hosley? Why do you ask if they concern him? Has Miss Tescheron spoken to you about him?" I was gettingsuspicious again, for she had refused, on one excuse or another, to let me see Mr. Marshall. It had flashed on me several times again that there was a bare chance of Marshall being Hosley under another name given to him by a person mistaken in identifying him, or that he was trying to hide from me under an alias so easy for him to assume, and had induced Miss Tescheron, perhaps, to avoid meeting me. The flowers, perhaps, were only to mislead me.
"Did I really ask if they concerned Mr. Hosley?" And she looked at me with such a teasing air.
"You surely did."
"Well, you used to have so much to say about him I thought perhaps you might have heard from him, you know, through this gentleman who called, and if you are still friendly to him you would not want to have his letters read around the hospital to furnish entertainment. Still, these letters were written by a married man, and I understand you and Mr. Hosley are bachelors. Mr. Hosley might have written these letters as a bachelor, I feared, and might not be proud to hear them now. He—"
"Tell me, if you thought of reading them to Mr. Hosley, where is he? It might interest meto know. You sometimes talk strangely, as if you know where he is, and yet you will not tell me. Has Miss Tescheron confided his whereabouts to you? If so, please tell me, for I would, indeed, like to confront that gentleman mighty well."
"Then you are really friendly to Mr. Hosley, and may look for him when you leave here?" She spoke as if I were about to confirm her impression that I knew only good of Hosley.
"I shall certainly find him, never fear. But my friendship for that man is dead—slain by his own hand," said I, bitterly.
This seemed to shock her rudely, but she quickly recovered and asked:
"Why look for a man in whom you have no interest? Has he committed some crime that you would track him down?"
"I will track that man down to his very grave," said I, solemnly, shaking my forefinger at her as she rested one hand on the foot of the bed and looked at me with breathless interest. "Miss Tescheron shall know all that I learn. If she should ever happen to call here to see you, be sure to tell her that, if you please; but you need not say I told you to tell her. Only, I shall be willing to have her know that I am on the trail of that scoundrel. There—I did not mean to burden youwith my opinion of Hosley. I had intended to leave here quietly without saying a word about him. The secret has clawed at my heart so that I have not been able to keep it. And what matters it? You do not know him. I am satisfied that he has skipped to parts unknown, because he fears that officers are watching for him here. My, but it is terrible! Terrible! How can such villains achieve their dastardly ends with women and escape detection! Some mysterious influence seems to cover them, in all their devilish ways, from the suspicion of innocent people. Perhaps their victims in many cases shrink from exposing them. Oh, forgive me for burdening you with this awful mystery! It almost drives me mad!"
"Mystery! What has he done? In heaven's name, tell me!" And she almost screamed as she clenched the bed with both hands and leaned far toward me, those wonderful eyes staring in horror. The effect of my eloquence was greater than I suspected, but I continued to expand with commensurate pride.
"He murdered a woman but two days before he sought to marry Miss Tescheron"; and as I said it, I sank upon my pillow with a hand across my eyes to stay the tears which a more vivid presentation of the crimes of Hosley brought to my eyes.When I looked up, the nurse, pale but calm, was looking at me.
How wide I was of the mark! Instantly she had conceived the idea that the letter she had been reading to furnish diverting comedy in the next room was burdened with tragedy for the young woman to whom she had become deeply attached. Her training had taught her to maintain self-control in the emergency. Another woman, brought face to face with a murderer fondling his next victim with gory hands, might have swooned or excitedly rushed to the rescue of the fair prey with wild denunciations of the criminal.
"My! but you seem pale," I said anxiously.
"Your ghost story frightened me, Mr. Hopkins. Please don't tell me any more like that. It is now time for your luncheon."
There were so many things on my schedule of routine that it was always time for some cruel requirement to steal her away from me.
As she passed out I noticed a strange expression of care upon her beautiful face. I could not account for it, unless my earnestness had impressed her. Her point of view made the serious letters comedy for her at first; perhaps this was the reaction. There could be no reason for her agitation, based on her transient interest in Miss Tescheron,I imagined, for she had only met her for a few minutes at a time. It must have been my eloquence, the power of my dramatic art to so vividly portray the hideous Hosley that she became quite as much affected as if she had intimately known the criminal, and had followed his creeping, serpentine ways for bringing the next creature into his power. It rather pleased me to find that I could exercise this wonderful influence—a force so long latent in a superior intellectual equipment, obscured by a disenchanting personal appearance, especially unconvincing then, for I never looked particularly well in bed.
A nurse I had not seen before brought my luncheon, and with it the letter, which I quickly recognized belonged to my thousand-dollar collection.
"Your nurse sends this letter, which I am told is yours," said my new guardian. "She is ill and the doctor has ordered her to rest."
"Ill? Why, I am very, very sorry to hear that," said I. "Tell me, please, how seriously ill she is. Only a moment ago she left here looking very pale. Do tell me about her."
"Why, that is all I know."
The next day I learned that Hygeia had gone to her home in Connecticut for a brief vacation.Something had happened; I did not know what. The doctor, it appears, advised that a vacation would be the thing. I could learn no more. I was able to get her address, and wrote a long letter to her, but no reply came. I began to doubt the strength of my magnetic power over her, so encouragingly demonstrated, and was utterly miserable again. Every other worldly interest became dim; the last ray of hope had gone and through the dark valley of despair I stumbled alone.
Marshall, I learned, had left the same day Hygeia departed, but I did not care. I should not have spoken to him. I was in no humor to talk with him over that tame experience passed through while I was unconscious. When burning over a slow fire, a man is not fit for reminiscence. Two weeks later, after an illness of ten weeks, I was discharged from the hospital with all wounds healed except the one I received there, and perhaps that other—the maddening effect of Hosley's infidelity.
It was an unfortunate day for Mr. Tescheron and his family when I isolated him among the scheming natives of Hoboken, that seat of wonderful mechanical learning. When the birds had been shipped to Stukeville, Mrs. Tescheron insisted that the family return home at once, and, if necessary, take the consequences of a terrible publicity. Life without her friends had become unbearable. She must have the comforts of her home. Daily she begged, implored, teased and pined. Gabrielle, too, urged her father to consider her mother's health, for Hoboken had gotten upon Mrs. Tescheron's nerves to a dangerous degree.
"I care nothing now for the publicity," said Mrs. Tescheron. "It cannot be worse than this sort of privacy. Albert, I hope you will see the folly of remaining longer."
"Mr. Smith tells me it would not be safe to return yet, Marie. Be patient; in a little whileeverything will have blown over. Remember, we are paying Mr. Smith, who is experienced in these matters, and it is good business to take his advice."
Gabrielle remained silent during the conversation between her father and mother. She had, as usual, spent the best part of the day attending her hero at the hospital, protecting him from the consequences of her foolish father's acts and from his traitorous chum. Her plans were carrying well, and were it not for her mother's fretfulness Hoboken or any spot within a reasonable distance from the hospital would be a satisfactory abiding place for her.
Gabrielle's disinterestedness had already aroused her father's suspicion.
"You seem to be satisfied here, Gabrielle," said he, turning to his daughter, whose air of contentment seemed to him to be based on something more than a sustaining faith in Jim Hosley; it must, he thought, include a full knowledge of Jim's retreat. That night she seemed to be most aggravatingly self-satisfied, although she had really never been otherwise from the moment of his first denunciation of Jim, closely followed by the family's flight. This must be something more than stoicism. She had outgeneraled him in some way.
"Yes, I am perfectly satisfied, father," replied Gabrielle. "Mother, however, needs her home. The days drag heavily here. A few weeks' change was well enough, and I believe it might have helped her; but you can see that she is worrying a great deal now. Is it worth while, do you think, to sacrifice mother's comfort, perhaps her health?"
"These rooms are not to my liking so well as those in Ninety-sixth Street, but Mr. King wrote to me again the other day that the same fellow was around again to serve me with that subpœna. Hoboken may not be so desirable as home, but I think you would both be sorry to return and undergo the ordeal we have been delivered from by coming here. I am trying a little plan now which, if it works, may bring us home soon. I think it is the safe way out. Mr. Smith and I are now at work on it. If all goes well, Marie, you will be happily returned to your home very soon, so please be as patient as you can a few days longer. This miserable incident will then be closed forever, and we may walk abroad again among our friends, with our reputations unsullied and no one the wiser for our leaving as we did. Ah! it will please me, mother, to have it so."
"Indeed, it will please us all, Albert," Mrs. Tescheron assured him sadly, although it seemedto her there could be nothing more disappointing than an indefinite postponement of her heart's desire.
What those plans were Gabrielle would have given Smith a retainer to know, for if they involved the arrest of her Jim and his extradition to another State. She wondered how her father could believe they would get away safely in a week. If the detectives had lost track of the fugitive during the time he was in the hospital she did not believe they would find him now in the hiding-place she had in mind. The moment the hospital physicians consented, Jim Hosley would be removed to a spot where he might convalesce without fear of molestation. Not a soul, not even her mother, should know of that place, for if the pursuit was to be renewed in earnest, her vigilance must be all the greater.
Gabrielle's fears, as is usually the case with lovers whose wisdom is intuitional, were not well founded. The detectives had long ago ceased to do any actual work in following clues to determine the whereabouts of the bad man. Why should they? Their idea was to keep him mysteriously at large, with the district attorney and police always just around the corner. Suspended interest pays well, for the service was charged atso much per week with occasionally a bonus for an "extra."
Mr. Tescheron did not have in mind a further pursuit of Hosley after he had paid the detective bureau for weeks of service, which brought no results other than rumors. To have the disturber of his peace in hiding where no man could find him would have pleased Mr. Tescheron; but from the reports of Smith it seemed certain that a crisis was about to be reached. Hosley had been located in South Dakota, claiming a residence antedating our fire by several weeks. A man who has had trouble with his wives generally goes there. The officials were about to send men on to arrest him, and then await his extradition. There was enough evidence, Mr. Smith said, in the Browning case alone to warrant the belief that the authorities would readily secure the transfer of their man to New York; but long before that time, all the horrible details would appear in the papers.
"We have staved this thing off for five weeks, Mr. Tescheron," said Mr. Smith, in one of his private interviews with his client at the Stuffer House. They sat that afternoon in a corner of the writing-room adjoining the large living-room.
"Yes, I think you have done well," replied Mr. Tescheron. "But how much have I paid youaltogether? About one thousand eight hundred dollars, isn't it?"
"Yes, or a trifle more or less, one way or the other. I can't remember just now. It has involved me in heavy expense, this case has, Mr. Tescheron. If I had it to do over again, I could not possibly quote such favorable terms for our facilities—I could not possibly. No, sir, I could not possibly think of doing so." Mr. Smith's emphasis took the form of dwindling repetition so common to men of business, who have hold of the best end of the bargain, and have decided to keep their hold.
"Well, in the fish business, one thousand eight hundred dollars stands for enough to feed ten thousand people," remarked Mr. Tescheron, glumly. "I feel as if it ought to pay for a lot of detective work. I am sorry you think you are so underpaid."
There was a trace of a sneer that Mr. Smith did not like, and as he held the upper hand in the detective business he did not need to tolerate such conduct in his client.
"Perhaps we'd better call the thing off," said Mr. Smith. "You and your family remain here—or you might go down to Lakewood. In that way you will escape much of the disagreeable notoriety—quite a good deal of it, at any rate. Yes, sir, a considerable amount of it."
Mr. Smith snapped some documentary-looking papers, and as he drew his lips together and nervously twisted his head, he thrust the papers deep in an inside pocket. They contained a memorandum of the estimated price for engineering the return of the Tescheron family to New York under an iron-clad guarantee of protection.
But the sarcasm was more of an irritant than the client could stand.
"See here, Smith, you talk to me in a way I don't like"; and Mr. Tescheron glared as he became more combative than he had ever been in his dealings with this prosperous leech. "I don't care to have you threaten me in this underhanded manner. Perhaps I have been a fool to have placed so much confidence in you from the start. You have kept me scared and away from my home for five weeks, and now you hint that the end is not in sight. We are all sick and tired of this place. Hoboken is no paradise, let me tell you. I am bored to death here. For the money paid to you to date, you have produced nothing but discomfort. I am thinking of packing up and starting back to-morrow, let the consequences be what they may. I think I have been a victim quite longenough, and have paid just about all a fool ought to pay for a vacation of five weeks."
"Well, you know your own business best, of course, Mr. Tescheron. If you really don't fear the publicity, why did you engage me at all? Why did you go to any expense whatever? Of course, it is foolish, as you say, to spend money to avoid that which you do not fear. Go back and take your medicine; let your wife and daughter take theirs. Go back by all means; start to-morrow. Don't delay."
That fellow Smith certainly knew enough about fishing for men to fill a volume with pointers on the best lines, rods, and bait—artificial, worms or minnows. He knew just what he could do with a man restrained by fear, and filled with the idea that his money and superior business judgment would enable him to gain his ends in every emergency. A poor man is protected against many parasites by his lean purse. It gets back to the saying, "A fool and his money are soon parted"; but what impresses me at this turn of our narrative is the fact that the fool is only interesting up to the point of the parting. After that he is dropped from the plans of his pursuers. Notice of the failure of Mr. Tescheron's business in the reports of the day would have removed him fromthe realm of mystery to sure footing on the hard-pan of tough luck.
Mr. Tescheron had in his haste begun to find fault before he knew just what move to make. He realized that Smith read that fact in his manner and peevish complaining. He felt the hook in his gills. Smith felt the tug on the line. Perhaps at that interview he thought how like my advice this sarcastic statement from Smith seemed. At times he felt like a coward, and then encouraged himself to believe he was really a brave man,savinghis loved ones from the blasting breath of scandal more awful than any calamity that might overtake them.
Smith's shrewd little brain turned on cash. Gold dollars were the ball bearings that eased its frictionless revolutions. Pine forests have their charms, no doubt, for those misguided creatures who enjoy the bracing ozone of the balsam-laden air. To Smith the pungent sap of the evergreen tree was a poor substitute for the stimulating essence of greenback, the cologne of greasy bills, and it would take a big pile of them to make the room "stuffy" enough to have him raise the window. When it came to drawing nigh to money, Mr. Smith was the pink of propinquity.
Noting that Mr. Tescheron had been subdued,Mr. Smith started to go. He bade his patron to be of good cheer, and promised him the outlook would surely brighten in time.
"Keep your seat a minute, Smith," urged Mr. Tescheron, whose ideas had been strengthened by the tonic of Smith's stimulating rejoinder, and I may add that the turn was about what Smith had planned to happen. "What are those papers you put back in your pocket?" The observing, gullible man of business was trying to swim where the current was a little too swift for him.
"Why, I had here a memorandum of what it would cost to have you go back and have the whole business hushed up forever."
"How much?"
"Three thousand dollars."
"Whew! That's a scorcher."
"Flanagan wanted six, but I got next to him myself and I think—I'm not sure—but I think he would take three."
"I can't think of it. I'll give a thousand, but not a cent more. And say—how much do you keep out of it, Smith?"
Mr. Tescheron cast a suspicious eye on the detective, who proceeded to apply his formula for suspicion.
"That is an insult, Mr. Tescheron," exclaimedMr. Smith. "You may not have intended it as such, but really that is too much for me to bear. I have served you untiringly and faithfully, and really you should give me better treatment. I cannot allow you to insinuate that I would be guilty of—"
"There, there, Smith, forget it. I shouldn't have accused you of that. But this expense is too heavy. I'll stay here a while longer. As there seems to be no danger of the case being revived, I think we may return in a week or so without paying the hush money."
"Just as you say, but I confess the newspaper reports have scared me, even though you—"
"The reports!" Tescheron colored and blanched in turn. "The reports! Where?"
"You saw them."
"Certainly I did not. Where did they appear? When? Why have you not told me?"
"But you read the papers, and I understood you did not fear them while over here."
"Fear them! What am I here for except to escape the scandal that would attach to my family? Smith, are you lying to me? There were no reports. Had there been I could not have missed them; my man King or some one would have called my attention to them."
Mr. Smith handed a carefully folded newspaper clipping, with ragged edges, to Mr. Tescheron. It had the appearance of being hastily torn from a paper. Mr. Tescheron read it slowly, and as he did so Smith watched the victim writhe as the prepared venom paralyzed it for the death-blow. I have seen this clipping. It read as follows:
MURDER HIDDEN BY THE POLICE.Mysterious Death of a Woman Not Reported for Six Weeks.The mysterious death of a woman, supposed to have been murdered in an apartment house in this city by her husband, two days prior to an incendiary fire that took place six weeks ago and destroyed all traces of the crime, was considered by the Grand Jury to-day, with Coroner Flanagan as one of the witnesses. The names of the parties concerned in the tragedy could not be learned at the Central Office, and Coroner Flanagan refused to give any details concerning the autopsy. He admitted, however, that the matter had been called to his attention anonymously, and his subsequent investigations had led him to report the matter to the Central Office. The police say that publicity at this time might make it impossible for themto secure the presence of the murderer, who has been found in a Western State. As the case has reached the Grand Jury, an indictment may follow at any time.A well-known merchant who has been absent from the city since the date of the fire is in some way said to be involved as an important witness.
The mysterious death of a woman, supposed to have been murdered in an apartment house in this city by her husband, two days prior to an incendiary fire that took place six weeks ago and destroyed all traces of the crime, was considered by the Grand Jury to-day, with Coroner Flanagan as one of the witnesses. The names of the parties concerned in the tragedy could not be learned at the Central Office, and Coroner Flanagan refused to give any details concerning the autopsy. He admitted, however, that the matter had been called to his attention anonymously, and his subsequent investigations had led him to report the matter to the Central Office. The police say that publicity at this time might make it impossible for themto secure the presence of the murderer, who has been found in a Western State. As the case has reached the Grand Jury, an indictment may follow at any time.
A well-known merchant who has been absent from the city since the date of the fire is in some way said to be involved as an important witness.
On the back of the clipping, Mr. Tescheron's dazed eyes noted a market report dated at Chicago, but he did not scan the paper more closely. Nervously he handed it to Smith. When he had pondered a moment he said:
"I'll pay it."
What should I do with myself? That was my problem, when I went out into the world again. No boarding-house could satisfy me, so I determined to set up in light housekeeping, which is a city imitation of Robinson Crusoe in two rooms. There I could be melancholy without interruption; it would not be necessary to chatter with the other boarders either to keep them from observing my absent-mindedness or to divert my own attention from the dull routine of cannery products, synthetic meats, and "laid down eggs"—laid only a little way down by the hen and away down in a barrel by a man under water-glass for eight months and eight cents more per dozen. Besides, if you keep house in the city an arrangement may be made with your milkman so that you may irrigate your milk to suit yourself. You simply request him to deliver the water he usually blends with the milk in a separate vessel, which, of course, you are glad to provide. Then if you get only a pint of cow's milkfor the price of a quart, you are satisfied, because you have the privilege of seasoning it by superior home-methods of irrigation to suit yourself. I was too much of a farmer to ever board comfortably in the city.
Jim always agreed with me in those days before nervousness induced by woman drove us through fire and over the bumpy paths of error, that housekeeping was the ideal life. Knowledge of what the people will stand is power, and it has packed some powerful doses in cans. They used to throw away half the hog until they got knowledge. Some epicure who lived on rats and bats' eyes, announced that the black spot in the oyster is the best part. What he had to say was published in a bulletin or a report—let me see, was it from the Department of Agriculture? I've read a good many of their bulletins, but I can't be sure if they did that for the country or not. At any rate, the report went into oysters from away back, quoted authorities from Egypt and Persia, who were fond of dogs, and gave the needed impetus to the captains of the canning industry, who are always on the lookout for pointers—or pugs. Since then all the black spots have been saved on the farm, whether in hogs or apples, done up at some factory in neat glass jars, with a chemist's certificatethat they do not contain boracic acid or turpentine, and will not eat the enamel off a stew-kettle; sterilized, gold-labeled and rechristened "Meadfern" crab apples, mince-meat, gelatine, invalid's food and what not, until it is hard to tell where the economy will stop. The latest thing in this line is the current information that it pays to feed the stimulating prickers from the wild gooseberries to make the hens lay.
I once asked a fellow who ran a cannery why he used such expensive labels.
"To please the goats," he answered.
And so his business is largely human nature, too. We laugh at the foolish goats for eating the label off a can—we eat the same thing ourselves. When I come to drink the bitter hemlock, I pray it may be labeled so as to take the pucker out of it.
I would rather starve than board, so I started out to find my desert island.
"You advertise rooms for light housekeeping," said I to a sad-faced, middle-aged woman, who answered my ringing of the bell of a three-story brownstone house in East Thirty-eighth Street. Some prosperous merchant had probably lived there twenty years before, but it had been converted into a nest for workers.
"YOU ADVERTISE ROOMS FOR LIGHT HOUSEKEEPING."
"Yes, sir," she replied. "Two back rooms."
"What floor?" I asked, having in mind the force of gravity.
"Second floor. How many in your family?"
"Only me."
"You keep house alone?"
"Certainly. I know how."
"Don't you find it lonesome?"
"I hope so. I want to be lonesome."
"Well, I don't know." She hesitated and looked me over with great care. "Have you anybody to recommend you?"
"I see that you doubt my sanity, madam. My nerves are a little out of line; I have just left the hospital and must be quiet. Do you see? If you must have references, I work for the Department of Health."
"Oh, that's all right, then, if you work for the Department of Health."
The rooms suited me. The small hall-room was the kitchen, and the larger room was the living-room, equipped with one of those furniture alligators and diabolical economizers of space, a folding bed, and a few chairs bravely presenting a polished but brittle front, under the bracing influence of the gluepot, as I afterward learned. Every time one of those chairs broke down underme, my heart also went out to the poor soul, Mrs. Dewey, the landlady, who made her living by pinching a profit out of every penny. She was a generous creature, so far as she could be; but a hard world's exactions squeezed her to a meanness she herself detested, but must practice or starve. When I think long of poor Mrs. Dewey, whom I knew for only a few weeks, I want to begin life over again as a reformer. I'd take an axe to Mr. Dewey, and begin my reforms on him as a typical subject in need of annihilation, and get as far as a man a few centuries ahead of his time might expect to.
Old Dewey—the Mr. Dewey herein before referred to—was the black background and cellar of the institution. Like a rat, he came from the coal heap or a hidden corner unawares and was gone into further darkness before you could turn to learn the cause of the noise he made. His shadowy participation in home management contributed to the family's progress as a millstone about the neck of its mistress, and did not follow over-stimulation, the common cause of chronic depression in husbands of boarding-house keepers and women who rent furnished rooms. Bone-laziness filling the marrow and changing its natural pink to a Roquefort verdigris of decay, wasmy diagnosis of old Dewey's ailment. He moved with a premeditation which nine times out of ten amounted to standing still; rest resulted from two opposing forces, Mrs. Dewey's beseeching and threats colliding with his will traveling against her purpose with counter-balancing velocity and mass. A hired man would have left her long ago under such tongue-lashing, but old Dewey could not leave, because to leave is an act. There were no verbs in his vocabulary comprehending possibilities of usefulness within range of the present tense. What an irony in names! I often thought.
A man who is employed in the Department of Health has a pass to the good wishes of a woman who rents a house in New York. Mrs. Dewey regarded me as a person of influence with the governing powers, one who could probably get her landlord to "do something with the old-fashioned bathtub" by prying him through the official lever of departmental requirements. It was far from my purpose to deceive her, but nothing I could say in denial was strong enough to change her conviction. My presence under her roof induced in Mrs. Dewey a state of expectancy over a new enameled bathtub that carried with it at first more deference than she paid to the other tenants. When my milk-bottle fell off the back window-sill intothe yard below, she swept up what the cat left without complaining.
A few short weeks before I was a man with some confidence in my fellows; life had its charms, hope sustained me. Rosy views are for those whose faith has not been shattered. Optimism could find no support in my bitter experiences. Hermits may find seclusion in crowds, thought I. No one could find me at my new address, and it was my intention to seek no new friends, and to avoid every one I knew. I did not want to answer questions about Jim, and I did not want to hear anything more of him. I had read all the published accounts of the fire and was glad to note that the secret had not been revealed. As for Miss Tescheron, she had probably lost faith in him and suspected me by this time. As I could not explain to her my change of heart toward Jim without implicating myself, I proposed to wash my hands of the whole affair and go it alone in future—for a time at any rate. Should I not write to her and thank her for sending flowers to me when I was ill? Was it not the grateful thing to do? I had written Hygeia and no reply came. I had quite a bunch of Jim's letters on hand also to demonstrate my powers as a letter-writer. Writing, I concluded, was not fortunate for me.It would be better to have Miss Tescheron regard me as an ungrateful wretch, a fit associate of the scoundrel who had toyed with her affections.
Robinson Crusoe started his island home with about as many clothes as I had when I left the hospital. It was fortunate that the city was such a kind employer; that my pay went on while I was ill, and that my connection with the Health Department secured the best hospital service at a nominal charge. I ordered a new trunk and a new outfit of clothing the day after my arrival, and when the clothes came I proceeded to try them on, but there was no fun in it without Jim to guy me. I fought hard to keep that fellow out of my mind, but he was with me day and night. I could not get away from him and my sorrow. Was it his ghost hovering near, longing to return to its earthly habitation, and propose a housekeeping merger with me? My fried onions might have penetrated the other world and recalled him with such longings, for there are worse places than home at dinner-time.
Mrs. Dewey entered one day and found me with my feet on the window-trim and the rest of me crouched in the most substantial rocker. I was smoking and cogitating. It was so quiet andI was so far out of sight that she did not know I was there until she started to dust the chair. The smoke had not suggested my presence, for old Dewey was always doing that—he had learned how when young, and so it was no trouble.
"Oh, excuse me, I didn't know you were in the room. You're always so quiet," she said.
"Sorrow makes a man quiet."
"Sorrow? Yes, you're right; but what have you—"
"Yes, I have much," I answered. "I know your tragedy, but you can't guess mine. You have my sympathy, and if I could help you I would; but you can't help me."
"Some woman, Mr. Hopkins—I did not think you were married. You must be—"
"No," said I, and I spoke slowly, with some choking. "I have been wronged by a man, a friend in whom I had faith; with whom I lived for ten years. We were closer than brothers. He deserted me in my hour of need—but go on with your dusting; what matters it? I tell you so that you may understand why I feel so badly. Heaviness grows upon me, so that I doubt if I shall ever see the bright side of things again."
Mrs. Dewey wiped away the tears from her careworn face.
"Ten weeks ago," I continued, "we parted, and he has fled, branded as a criminal in my eyes, by evidence which no one can doubt. I am alone, despondent, and insanity or hard work must be my escape. As I cannot get my mind on my business, I fear the worst. The blow is more than I can bear."
"Pshaw! You're only a young man. You don't know what sorrow is. When you spoke so sad, you brought a tear to my eye, but I never let the tears get the best of me. I think you are weak in body yet. You need better food. You don't eat right. You ought to go out to some good restaurant and get three square meals a day. You have the money to pay for them, and you ought to do it."
"Eat! Don't speak of eating. My appetite is all gone. Some day I may get over this dismal feeling and take your kind advice, but not now."
"Men have no grit. It takes a woman, I'm thinking, to carry a heart-load. If it was a woman you were worrying about, I'd coddle you a little; but I never knew a man who ran away from his friends who was worth a tear. You'll soon see the folly of it."
"I don't blame you for hating all men," said I, knowingly. "You judge the sex by the specimen you have at home. All women do the same at your age."
"You're crazy, now, Mr. Hopkins," blurted the woman, her anger quickly rising. "Two days in my house and you undertake to advise me against my husband with whom I have lived in peace for twenty-five years. Have I given you license to interfere in my affairs? You astonish me with your impertinence! You amaze me! No man has ever dared to offer me such an insult! I will have you understand, sir, that Mr. Dewey is my husband, and I will allow no one to slightingly refer to him in my presence." She was heaving and grasping the broom pretty firmly. I crawled into a farther chair.
"Why, madam, I overheard you in the hall this morning berating him as the laziest vagabond that ever breathed, and you prayed—"
"Never mind. He's my husband. When I want some one to interfere, I'll go to a lawyer, who's in that business. I won't peddle my troubles to strangers. If you haven't any more sense than to interfere in our affairs, you must be crazy now, and if I were you I wouldn't worry about getting crazy."
Mrs. Dewey passed out and slammed the door.
I wanted to go right down and jump off thedock when this counter-irritant blistered me and her tonic bitters were poured into my lethargic circulation. Stimulation brought a reaction of brighter views, however. Mrs. Dewey's old-fashioned drubbing held the mirror so that I could behold a life-sized burro every time I looked into it. There never can be any use for a middleman, before or after the marriage contract, thought I. Shame took the place of conceit; my pride was humbled and fear was swept away. I mended with amazing rapidity under the earnest eloquence of that short sermon, delivered by a woman with a broom.
Four of the happiest weeks of their lives, Gabrielle and Jim spent with the Gibsons in their Produce Exchange tower, far out of the way of enemies, if any there might be in pursuit. Gabrielle had confided in Mrs. Gibson, and was urged by her to bring Jim there to convalesce, as the doctor said he ought not to walk much for two or three months. The lovers were delighted to transfer their trysting place to those romantic quarters—a castle tower in the heart of New York, surrounded by a harbor moat, and an elevator which served well the purpose of a bridge leading to the portcullis of the upper floors. Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, and their daughter, the winsome Nellie, were delighted to have them as visitors, and entered into their defense against the cruel father and his co-conspirators, the faithless chum and the unfeeling world in general, with hearty warmth, cheering Gabrielle and filling the soul of Jim with heavenly contentment. There he hadmet his darling and the spot would be sacred to him always; it was doubly blessed when her sweet voice sounded near him within its walls, and her tender glances drew fond response from his eyes. On the floors below they sold grain and bulletined the price of tallow at "five and one-half cents for city"; but in the far-away tower the din of the wheat pit was not heard. From the round windows the ships of commerce appeared to ride the tide care-free as the darting gulls that dived for their prey or swung on resting wings in broad circles from shore to shore. Dreams fairer than those lovers pictured in quiet ecstasy have never been outlined by brush or melodious line. Just a little cube of heaven had been caught from the realms of bliss, and they dwelt together there for four weeks.
Now, four weeks in heaven is a very brief period. Whole eternities pass there in what seems to be an interval too brief to record on Cupid's chronometer. Joy in my lady's tower, traveling with swift, winged feet, marks not the hour like Terror in the castle dungeon, where the outcast prisoner lies upon the damp stones writhing in feverish despair. While they were up in heaven together, I was down in—the hospital or at Mrs. Dewey's. Mr. and Mrs. Tescheron were at homein Ninety-sixth Street. The bill of folly had been paid and Mr. Tescheron hoped the episode had closed, although Gabrielle's manner continued to indicate that she had not suffered so deeply as the strength of her attachment to the outlaw had led him to believe she would. What was the secret? He did not ask her, for having paid nearly $5,000 (more, but he didn't know it), working along his own lines, he did not care to admit that his daughter had outgeneraled him. A premonition that she had done so prepared him in moments of reflection to hear the truth. He fought against the concept every time it flashed before him, but with weakening strength, as the outclassed fighter staggers groggily to the ropes. What match was he, what adversary I, for Cupid, lacking the inspiration the god gave to his faithful adherents? If you ask me why I am so familiar with Mr. Tescheron's fears and numerous other matters recorded here, I make reply that I have investigated all the sources of information in any way connected with these events, and have drawn out the persons who were involved in Hosley's career by many conversations. If this statement does not satisfy, then I have one that will. I quote that great authority, William Makepeace Thackeray, who tells us in Vanity Fair that a novelist is supposed to know everything, and am I not treating the subject as a novelist, using for the most part fictitious names and places to shield from public ridicule the good people whose judgment may seem weak, and actions exaggerated, in the temperature of cold type scanned by prudent, judicial-minded readers? Icebergs will boil under certain conditions. Human beings, I find, have their solid, liquid and gaseous states. Be not surprised, therefore, if Tescheron, frigid when surrounded by his cracked ice and cold-storage products at the fish market, becomes pliable or volatile material in Hoboken under the heat of fear and temper, and, before cooling, is wrought into strange shapes by the artisan, Smith. Poor Tescheron! Innocently I made him pay a pretty penny! But he needed a good hammering.
"Gabrielle, are you really to be married against your father's wishes, my dear?" asked Mrs. Gibson, sadly, drawing Gabrielle to her. "Could we not win him over to our view of Jim? Should we not try?"
Mrs. Gibson, Gabrielle, Nellie and Jim were in the large tower sitting-room at the time of this questioning. "No, Mrs. Gibson"; and Gabrielle was most serious as she spoke. "My father will in time come to admire Jim as you do; I knowfather so well. Mother and I understand him. He jumps at conclusions regarding people for whom he has a dislike, and time and again has acknowledged to me how he regretted his haste. In good time father will ask my forgiveness. Not before the wedding, though, I fear; but I hope on. It is my intention to proceed, with mother's approval."
"Almost an elopement," laughed Nellie, ready for a wedding as eagerly as an opposed bride.
"Not quite, though, for mother will be there," smiled Gabrielle.
"I'll be there without these crutches," said Jim, dropping his supports to the floor, while he made an effort to stump across the room and demonstrate that he could creep to the tune of a wedding march.
"You'll do, Jim," said Nellie, as she took him by the arm to support him, and aired the Lohengrin selection. "You are just speedy enough to-day. In three weeks you will be able to run."
"Only three weeks off!" exclaimed Mrs. Gibson. "How the time passes! We must hurry. Nellie, go at once to the dressmaker's and get her positive assurance that our gowns will be ready. And you, too, have so much to do, Gabrielle."
"The more time the more there is to do always," said Gabrielle. "A bride is never quite ready, but in three weeks I am sure I shall be, if I am not disappointed by all the people I have engaged to help me. But let us think no more of our worries. You have not told me what impression those two gowns made that came last night. Didn't you see them? Let me show them to you."
Gabrielle brought out the gowns, and the critics went into tucks, trimmings, opalescent spangles, Malines lace, China-ribbed embroidery and many other bewildering technicalities. One of the dresses was all white, fashioned out of net, and was ribbon-sashed, girdled, looped, shirred, tucked, tuck-shirred, shirr-tucked, fulled, grilled, padded, scrolled, rolled, appliquéd, tasseled, rosetted, knotted, banded, edged, picot-edged, ruffled, plaited, bowed, buckled, buckle-bowed, yoked and choked with ribbon. It was a pretty gown, and a hat and muff built on the same style went with it. The hat was to be held in place by long streamer ribbons—I think eighteen inches wide—tied in a bow to be knotted over the left ear, and ramify from the chin-dimple to the crest of the hair-wave. Eiderdown, lightly packed in a hollow cylinder about the size of a pint preserving jar, covered with ten-inch frills of chiffon, piecedout with ribbon, wadded negligé, were points that made the muff more dainty than warm. The combination was designed to be worn without the muff on an ocean boardwalk about sunset, when the wind dies down. Cosy comfort was to be supplied by the muff on a windy day, for only a real mermaid could wear a plain fish net in all kinds of weather.
"It's a most stunning affair!" exclaimed Nellie, admiring with close scrutiny all the fine points in the shirring, hemstitching and accordeon plaiting.
"Very airy, but pretty," was Mrs. Gibson's view. "What is it to be worn over? Oh, I see; this beautiful soft white taffeta. Well, Gabrielle, you will look a bride with that gown, I am sure."
"That is one of the fine things I have gained by delay. If we had been married five weeks ago, I would not have thought of this gem." And the girls laughed, while Jim looked on in surprised delight. The details of dressmaking he was not competent to discuss.
"Why does it take so many clothes to get married?" asked Jim, evidently not understanding that every event in a woman's life is a peg for more clothes.
"What a strange question! How foolish, Jim!" exclaimed the women.
"Don't you know that a wedding is a ceremonial affair, where all the grand formalities must be observed?" asked Nellie. "You wouldn't have us scuffle through it in old shoes and walking skirts, would you?"
"Jim's notion of getting married," said Gabrielle, "is extremely primitive. For my part, I like nice things. I'm so sorry they do not appeal to Jim." Gabrielle feigned disappointment.
"I should say they did appeal to me," Jim hastily assured the critics. "They are so surprising!"
"Surprising! How so?" asked Nellie.
"Like a sunrise, I suppose," answered Jim. "I've never seen many, but those who have rave over them. What a pity the styles change so often! Next year the net in that dress will all have to be taken off and put in place of the bead trimming on the lamp shades; the bead trimming must then be sent to Staten Island and dyed green to make it proper for hat ornamentation, a necklace or—"
"Amber is the proper color for a necklace," laughed Mrs. Gibson. "Nellie cut her teeth on amber beads."
Then they all laughed, and Jim saw that it wasgood policy to admire without attempting to suggest reforms.
"And this silk gauze affair, what is this?" asked Nellie. "My! it is so light you could mail it for a cent."
"That is just a cobweb I fancied," said Gabrielle, proudly, as she gently shook out the folds of a light creation. "How beautifully it fits and yet it affords such freedom!"
"It's an Empire modification," remarked Nellie, who discerned the basic neck-waisted feature of the cobweb's architecture. "Lovely short sleeves—"
"Bad for mosquitoes," said Jim.
"Hush!" admonished Gabrielle. "We can't restrict art to such limitations."
"If it really is a cobweb, the mosquitoes won't go near it," said Jim. "Perhaps the designer had that in mind when he cut down the sleeves."
"What a heavy lace insertion—Valenciennes, a good part of it, isn't it, Gabrielle?" asked Mrs. Gibson. "Why, it's simply beyond words, I think."
"Three deep embroidered flounces, and such frills and frills of lace! My! It's grand!" So Nellie believed and declared.
Jim's imagination was not fired. "I hope I never step on it," he said.
"Don't you dare!" commanded Nellie. "This cobweb is meant to catch the eye only—not a whole man."
While Jim was laughing and attempting to thrust his opinions still farther upon the critics, they restored the art treasures to the boxes and placed them in the store-room, where the bride's purchases were gathering day by day as they arrived from the shopping district. Fortunately, the tower was larger than it appears from Broadway, or it would not have held all the packages and allowed the Gibsons room to live.
Nellie had forgotten the dressmaker, but now started, and Mrs. Gibson resumed her household duties in another room.
"Gabrielle, you are making altogether too much preparation," said Jim. "You have undertaken too much. With your regular duties I can see that it is wearing on you. Could you not be satisfied with less shopping and less dressmaking?"
"No, Jim, it is not this preparation that burdens me," she replied, seating herself at the side of her lame hero.
"Tell me what it is, then—is it that miserablefancied conspiracy against me? I thought your father had forgotten that now."
"He believes that you are gone, and yet I can see that he knows what I am about to do; at least I fear so. Mother may have told him, for I have confided in her everything but telling her where you are. Naturally, Jim, I feel sad not to have my father's support in this matter. But we shall have his good-will later on, I am sure. In the meantime I am made unhappy by his present attitude—how can I help it? I know he is wrong—"
"Gabrielle, you have firmly refused to tell me just what it is your father has against me. Time and again I have asked, but I cannot learn, and of course I cannot imagine what his flight to Hoboken was for. He charges me with some crime—but in heaven's name, what crime? Come, Gabrielle, do tell me now, won't you?"
"Jim, have I not always told you in reply to your questioning that the charges made against you by my poor, misguided father and Mr. Hopkins are too absurd to repeat? If I should tell you now, it would only prove my father to be a hot-headed man, one who is so easily misled by those who arouse his fears. Let it all rest with my statement that his position is taken becauseof those absurd conclusions. Then it will not be necessary for me to make my dear father appear ridiculous."
"I shan't think that," said Jim, softly. It appeared that he could say or do nothing to extricate himself from the work of the plotters, whose shadows disappeared as he drew nigh. "But if you would only give me, the accused, a chance to make a defense, I could incidentally prove Hopkins innocent and have him at our wedding. That I should like to do. It pains me more than I can tell to ignore that poor chap. I often wonder where he is, and think myself a coward and an inhuman scoundrel not to make an effort to find him."
"Why do you bother about him, Jim? Didn't the nurse hurry us from the hospital that day because she said Mr. Hopkins had told her you were a rogue? Don't you see that both father and he have been impressed by the story of those villainous detectives, who would do anything for money?"
"Well, Gabrielle, tell me what those detectives have told your father about me. He has told you, has he not? Have these charges raised no suspicion in your mind against me? Are you not anxious to question me? How proud, then, I amto have won the heart of such a grand little woman!"
Before he could wait for replies to his questions the burly invalid clutched his chair, rose to his feet and stretching out his arms gathered up his treasure of loyalty and fondly caressed her. "How fortunate for me," he continued, "that your heart has not been poisoned against me! How priceless this love of yours! for without it I should not be saved. Let the whole world forsake me, and you remain true, what care I? Gabrielle, you have guarded me like an angel."
Jim could say no more. He choked and could not go on. Was sincerity to be doubted when so emphasized? Could there be aught of guile in that embrace?
"Jim, I have never doubted you—I never could doubt you, for do I not know your heart as you know mine?" assured Gabrielle, meeting his frank eyes steadily with hers. "You are my plain hero, untrumpeted, except by all your friends who have known you here for years. Never ask me again of the base charges father has listened to. I trust my love, which I see answered in those boyish eyes—in every kind word and act. Jim, I love you and we shall be married; we shall plan our own life in the light of this love, and doing thatwe have naught to fear. We shall welcome true friends, who will be loyal to us because we are loyal to our own ideals, and so father shall be won to us, and Mr. Hopkins may turn toward us again. Our troubles are largely our fears, Mr. MacDonald says, and I believe him. How foolish to fear when we may enjoy repose through faith and love!"
"Gabrielle, my darling, you will never again be questioned by me. So long as you have faith, let the rest of the world go hang! Poor Ben Hopkins, I would like to see him, though."