CHAPTER VIIIUNEXPECTED ARRIVALS
From this day forth the life of Cleve and Palma changed. They made friends and went much into company through the introductions of Mrs. Walling. They were young and innocently fond of gayety, and they were led on by Ran, who was liberally supplied with money advanced by his solicitors, and who, from being a daily visitor at their apartments, had at last taken up his abode under the same roof for the sake of being nearer to them until he should sail for England, accompanied by Mr. William Walling.
Unfortunately, neither Randolph Hay nor the Wallings suspected the impoverished condition of their new friends, else they would not have tempted or led the young pair into a way of life so much above their means.
As it was, their scanty little fund had to be drawn upon for such additions to Palma’s toilet, and even to Cleve’s, in the way of nice boots and fresh gloves, that seemed really indispensable to them when they went out in the evening. Had Palma even suspected their own poverty she would not have gone anywhere if it cost money to go there. But, unsuspicious as she was, believing, as she did, that her husband was in very easy circumstances, she went out a great deal; and Cleve, seeing how much she enjoyed society, had not the heart to check her enjoyment by telling her the truth.
Only gloves and boots and car fare her pleasures cost them. She had two dresses, the crimson cashmere, much worn, but carefully preserved, and often cleaned and repaired for continual use by the careful hands of Mrs. Pole. This was her dress for dinners and afternoon teas. Her white India muslin—her confirmation robe, and afterward her wedding suit—was now her only evening dress. Neither of these were at all stylish, but they were neat and clean; and then her boots and gloves were perfectly fitting, fresh and faultless.
Every day Cleve went forth to seek employment, andevery night returned disappointed to find himself poorer by the day’s expenditures than he had been the day before.
Everything was going out and nothing coming in; and yet he shrank from saying to Palma:
“We cannot afford another pair of new gloves even, dear,” or to do anything but smile in her face when she would only ask him to go with her to a lunch party at Mrs. Duncan’s, or to a five-o’clock tea at Miss Christiansen’s.
If Ran had only known their straits as he bounded daily up and down the stairs, too full of life and energy to avail himself of the elevator, how gladly, how joyously, would he have poured into his cousin’s lap wealth from his own abundant means, nor ever dreamed of offering offense in proffering what he himself, in their reversed circumstances, would have been frankly willing to receive from them.
But he knew nothing, suspected nothing, of their poverty; and even if he had known, and had offered to give assistance, Cleve Stuart, in his spirit of pride or independence, would have refused it.
Ran held firmly to his purpose of giving his cousin a fair share of their grandfather’s estate, as soon as he himself should be put in lawful possession, which was only a question of a few weeks’ time; but he said nothing more about it to either Palma or Cleve. He thought they understood his intentions, and believed in them, and that it would be in bad taste to refer to them again. Besides, he did not suspect how dark the future looked to one of them at least, and what a source of anxiety it was.
What the young pair really thought of their cousin’s offer to share, was just this—that it had been made, not from a delicate sense of justice that would stand the test of time and opportunity, but from a sudden impulse of generosity that might yield to cool afterthought. Neither of them placed much reliance on the offer, especially as they had repudiated it at the time, and Ran had never renewed it.
The day for young Hay’s departure for England was at length fixed. He was to sail on the second of December. It had been first suggested that Mr. Samuel Walling should attend him to England, and introduce him personally to the London solicitors of the Hays of Haymore; but, as usual, Mr. Will put in his plea of overwork, brain exhaustion, want of change, and so on, and, as usual, his claim wasallowed, and it was decided that he should accompany the young heir.
The aged priest, Father Pedro de Leon, having under oath testified to the identity of Randolph Hay, had bidden an affectionate good-by to his pupil and returned to his flock in San Francisco.
It was remarkable that while Mr. Sam Walling, the head of the firm of Walling & Walling, took all the heaviest responsibilities, did all the hardest work, seldom left his desk during the office hours, and never left the city except on business, Mr. Will, the junior partner, required all the relaxation in frequent visits to Newport and Saratoga during the summer months, and Washington and even Savannah during the winter season. And now it seemed absolutely necessary that Mr. Will should have a sea voyage to restore the shaken equilibrium of his overtasked mind and body.
“That’s just it!” Mrs. Walling said one day to Ran when speaking of the trip to England. “Our firm, as a firm, is always full of work, yet manages to have a good deal of play also; only Sam takes the work and Will the play.”
As the month of November drew to a close and the day of his departure came near, Ran grew more and more uneasy. He had not heard a word from Judy for more than three weeks, though in that time he had written so many letters; nor had Mrs. Walling lately heard from Mrs. Moseley.
Ran was not of a temperament to borrow trouble. Quite the contrary; he always looked on the bright side. He was willing to make every allowance for the well-known uncertainty of the mails in those unsettled regions guarded by the frontier forts; but still it seemed strange and alarming that for a month past no mail had come safely through contingent dangers.
His greatest anxiety now was that he should have to sail for Europe without having heard from Judy.
He confided his trouble to Cleve and Palma, with whom he now spent every evening whenever they were at home.
One evening, about a week before he was to sail, he was sitting with Cleve and Palma in their tiny parlor.
Cleve had been reading aloud, but laid down his book on the entrance of Ran. Palma was knitting a woolen wristlet, the last of four pair that she had been making for Cleve andMrs. Pole, and she continued to knit after greeting her cousin.
Ran brought a chair to the little table at which the other two sat, threw himself into it, sighed and said:
“This is Saturday night, the twenty-fifth, and in one week from to-day, on Saturday, the second of December, I must sail for England.”
“Yes, Cousin Randolph, I know. And I am very sorry it should be necessary that you should have to go—very. But you will soon return,” sympathetically replied Palma.
“It is about Judy,” frankly exclaimed Ran. “I have not had a letter from her for nearly a month.”
“But you yourself have told us of the uncertainty of the mails.”
“Yes, and that might have been an explanation, and therefore a kind of comfort, for failing to get a single letter in time. But when three or four that I should have got have failed to come, it is strange and alarming.”
Neither Cleve nor Palma found anything to answer to this. They knew and felt that it was both “strange and alarming.”
“Let us hope that you will get a letter within a few days,” at length ventured Stuart.
“Why, you may get one even to-morrow,” hopefully exclaimed Palma.
“Oh, yes! And I may have to sail for England in the most agonizing anxiety as to Judy’s fate!” said Ran with a profound sigh.
“But there is no reason for such an intense anxiety. She is in excellent hands,” said Palma.
“Oh! but when I came away there was a talk of the intended rising of the Indians! Good Heaven! the fort may have been stormed and all hands massacred for all I know!” exclaimed the youth, growing pallid at the very thought.
“Randolph!” cried Palma in horror.
“Nothing of that sort could have happened without our having heard of it before this. The authorities at Washington would have received the news, and it would have been in all the papers. Some survivor would have escaped to the nearest telegraph station and sent the message flying to Washington,” said Cleve.
“Oh, yes—certainly. But I never thought of that! It isa real relief to me! I hope I may get a letter before I go! If I do not, and could have my own way, I would sacrifice the passage and wait here until I could hear from Judy. But Mr. Walling says it is absolutely necessary that I should go no later certainly than the day set for sailing.”
“But if a letter should come we will immediately send it after you,” said Palma.
“Thank you, cousin, dear; I know that you will do all that you can. Well, I have learned one lesson from all this,” said Ran so solemnly that both his companions looked up inquiringly, and Palma asked:
“What is it, Cousin Randolph?”
“It is this: If Heaven ever should bring my dear Judy and myself together again I will never part with her—no, never while we both shall live! Nothing shall ever part us again except the will of Heaven!”
“But how about school and college that was to have prepared you both for the sphere of life to which you are called?” Palma inquired with some little amusement.
“Oh, bother that! It was all the nonsense about ‘the sphere of life to which we are called’ that parted Judy and me! And it shall never part us again! We will go to school and college, but we need not part and live in school and college. We will marry and go to housekeeping in some city where there are educational advantages. I will attend the college courses. Judy shall have teachers at home. And so we will live until we are polished up bright enough to show ourselves to my grandfather’s neighbors and tenants at Haymore. Then we will settle there for good, and no one will ever know that the successors of Squire Hay were first of all a pair of little ragamuffins and ignoramuses from a California mining camp! Yes, that is what I will do, and no prudence, and no policy, and no consideration for ‘that sphere of life to which we are called,’ nor for anything else but Judy herself, shall influence me! When we meet again we shall be married out of hand and nothing but death shall part us! When we meet again! But when will that be? Ah, me!” sighed poor Ran.
There came a rap at the door, and the “boy” put in his head and said:
“The lady and ge’men would come up, sir, which theysaid there wasn’t no call to send up no card,” then withdrew his head and ran away.
The three cousins looked up to see a tall, martial-looking man with a gray mustache, and clothed in a military overcoat and fatigue cap, enter the room with a slender, graceful girl, in a long gray cloth ulster and a little gray plush hat, hanging on his arm.
The three companions stared for a moment, and then Ran sprang up, overturning his chair in his haste, and rushed toward them, exclaiming:
“Col. Moseley! Judy! Oh, Judy!”
And in another instant Judy was pressed to his heart.
“Now, introduce us to your friends, Mr. Hay,” said the colonel, taking off his cap and bowing to the lady and gentleman, who had risen to their feet to receive the unknown and unexpected guests.
“Oh, pardon me,” exclaimed Ran, raising Judy, drawing her arm through his own and taking her up to his cousins.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stuart, this is Miss Judith Man, my betrothed. Judy, darling, these are my Cousin Palma and her husband,” he said.
It was to be thought that the young girl would have made her quaint, parish school courtesy; but she did not. She bowed, blushed and smiled very prettily. Cleve Stuart shook hands with her and said that he was very glad to see her. But Palma drew the girl to her bosom and kissed her, with a few murmured words of welcome.
Then Ran presented:
“Col. Moseley, Mrs. Stuart, Mr. Stuart.”
And all shook hands in the old-time, cordial manner.
And when all were seated, Col. Moseley in Ran’s vacated chair at the little table with Cleve and Palma, and Ran and Judy, side by side, on the little sofa near them, there came the natural question from Stuart:
“When did you reach New York, colonel?”
“At noon to-day,” replied Moseley.
“At noon to-day, and I see nothing of Judy until eight o’clock this evening!” exclaimed Ran.
“Patience, my dear fellow; I had to find you before I could bring her. I arrived, with a large party, at noon, as I said; took them all to an old-fashioned hotel downtown, where the prices are not quite ruinous; left them all there,and went to hunt up you at your hotel, found that you had left it, but could not find out where you had gone; went back to own place and dined with my family; after dinner went out to hunt up the Wallings, with the view of finding you, and also of finding the furnished house I had commissioned Walling to engage for me; looked in at the office first, but found no one there but the janitor cleaning up; office hours were over; Mr. Samuel Walling gone home to his dinner; got his address; went to the house; found Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Walling, who were as much amazed at seeing me as if I had been a ghost risen from the dead. In fact, they had not got my letter of advice, and, consequently, had not engaged any furnished house for my tribe. However, they insisted on making it all right for us. They told me where to find you, Hay; and then when I said I must go back to the hotel to pick up Judy, Mrs. Walling insisted on going with me to see her old schoolmate and dear friend, and she went with me. Well, in brief, when she met my wife, nothing would do but she must take her and all the girls home to her own house to stay until we can find a home for ourselves. I and the boys remain at the hotel. Judy is to join Mrs. Moseley and the girls at the Wallings’.”
“Indeed, then, Judy is to do nothing of the sort. Judy is to stay here with me. I am her natural protector under the circumstances,” said little Palma, drawing herself up with an assumption of matronly dignity that was very amusing to the colonel.
“Very well, my dear lady. It shall be as you please, or as Miss Judith pleases; only, I do not know how I shall face Mesdames Walling and Moseley without taking her to them.”
“I will write a note and relieve you of responsibility in the matter,” exclaimed Palma, rising and going toward a little writing-desk.
“But you have not consulted Miss Judith,” said the colonel.
“Oh, I know she will stay with us,” exclaimed Palma, going toward the girl and putting her arms around her neck and murmuring:
“You will stay with us, will you not, dear Judy? I may call you Judy, may I not? I have known you as Judy, andloved you as Judy, before I ever saw you. Shall I call you Judy?”
“Sure and ye may, ma’am!” exclaimed the girl with cordial impetuosity; but then, catching herself up suddenly, she blushed and added softly: “If you please, ma’am, I should like you to call me so.”
Palma smiled, kissed her forehead, and then went to her tiny desk and wrote the note to Mrs. Moseley.
The colonel had but little time to stay, and soon arose to say good-night.
“By the way,” he said, “I had almost forgotten. I am the bearer of an invitation for you all to come and dine with us at Mrs. Walling’s to-morrow, at seven.”
Palma looked at her husband, understood his eyes, and answered for both:
“Love to Mrs. Walling, and we will go with much pleasure.”
Col. Moseley shook hands all around, like the plain, old-fashioned soldier that he was, and then went away.
There remained Ran and Judy, sitting on the sofa, and Cleve and Palma at the table.
The lovers were comparing notes, giving in their experience of the time while they were separated, speaking in subdued tones that presently sank so low as to be quite inaudible to any other ears than their own; so it might be surmised that Ran was imparting to Judy his new scheme of life for the future.
The married pair at the table with the truest politeness ignored the presence of the just reunited lovers, and took up their occupations that had been interrupted by the visitors. Cleve opened his book and resumed his reading, but now in a lower tone, quite audible to Palma, but not disturbing to Ran or Judy. He was reading Marmion, the scene of the meeting between the pilgrim and the abbess on the balcony. But Palma, knitting mechanically, could not listen. She was seized with a terrible anxiety that filled her mind and crowded out everything else. She had, from the impulse of a warm heart, invited Judy to stay, and Judy was staying.
But where on the face of the earth was she to put Judy? They had in their doll’s house of a flat but four tiny rooms—parlor, kitchen and two bedrooms. What was to be done?How could she listen to the story the abbess was telling the pilgrim, and the minutes passing so rapidly, and bedtime coming on, and no bed to put her invited guest in? And there was Cleve utterly unconscious of her dilemma, although he knew as well as she did the extent—or rather limits—of their accommodation.
Cleve finished the canto and closed the book in complacent ignorance that Palma had not heard a word of it.
The clock on the mantel struck eleven. It was a cheap clock and it struck loudly.
Ran arose to bid good-night.
“I really ought to beg your pardon for keeping you up. But you will excuse me for this once,” he said.
“Why, certainly! Certainly! Don’t go yet. We shall not retire for hours. Oh, pray! pray! don’t go yet!” pleaded Palma with her curly hair fairly stiffening itself on end; for, when Ran had left, what, in the name of Heaven, was she to do with Judy? Take the girl in with herself and Cleve? Or lay her over Mrs. Pole on that narrow slab of a cot that could not hold two side by side?
Palma had got into a terrible dilemma which she feared, by the creepy coldness of her scalp, was going to turn her hair white!
She would have been very much relieved if—after the old-fashioned New England style—the betrothed lovers should sit up all night.
“Oh, do, do, do stay longer!” she still pleaded, looking beseechingly at Ran.
But Ran was looking at his sweetheart, and replied gravely:
“You are very kind! Too kind! And I thank you so much! But, even for Judy’s sake, I ought to go. She is very tired from her long journey. Good-night.”
And he turned to go, Judy following him to the door of the parlor, where, of course, they lingered over their adieus.
Then Stuart got a chance to speak apart with Palma. He looked into her dismayed face and broke into a little, low laugh.
“Oh! what in the name of goodness shall I do?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and gazing appealingly up into his face.
Then he pitied her evident distress and answered:
“Why, dear, you will have to share your own bed with Miss Judy and give me a rug on the sofa.”
Her face brightened.
“Oh, Cleve!” she exclaimed, “you are an angel of light in a cutaway coat! You have saved my life—or reason!”
Then suddenly growing grave she added:
“But the little sofa is so short, and you are so long!”
“Now don’t look so distressed, dear. The inconvenience is nothing at all. And it is only for one night. To-morrow I will see the janitor and try to get a room for our little friend contiguous to our own, so that she may remain with us.”
Stuart spoke of incurring this additional expense with apparent cheerfulness, although his small funds were nearly exhausted, and his efforts to procure employment were quite fruitless.
But he said no more then, for Ran, who had lingered at the door over his last words with Judy, now kissed her good-night and went away, and the girl rejoined her friends in the little parlor.