"Do you want to do that?"
"Why not?"
Linda did not give any reason, and Miss Ri went to the 'phone. Mr. Jeffreys himself answered it, and promised to come over immediately.
He was met by the question: "What report?"
"Not much of any account. I went to see the express people," he told them, "and they admitted that there were such things as drunken drivers who might hand over orders to others who, in turn, would maybe deliver a trunk to the wrong place; that had sometimes happened. And if the trunk were not marked, or if the tag were torn, there would be little chance of its reaching the proper owner, unless he held the express company's receipt. So I came away with nothing more than a warning not to trust any but the regular expressmen, and that is about all the satisfaction I could get."
"Too bad!" declared Miss Ri. "And now, I suppose you know Berk is off duck-shooting, and that is another delay for you."
"Yes, I heard about that. I went to the hotel,but couldn't very well ask to be allowed to break into his room, where the trunk probably is; and Billy would think me a most suspicious character, if I asked for a second view of the valise. I am beginning to think that, after all, we have made a mistake, and that he has not my property at all, or he surely would have notified me."
"It does look that way, and it is very provoking to be kept in suspense. I will tell you what I will do. If you can't get into Berk's room, I can. I know the proprietor of the Jackson House, and his wife, as well; so I am sure I can manage. I'll make an effort this very afternoon. Berk won't mind when I tell him and he learns it was in a good cause. I will bring away a pile of stockings to mend, and that will be an excellent excuse. I can make a strict examination of the trunk and bring you an accurate description, so if there are any identifying marks, I can tell you. How will that do?"
"Miss Hill, you are a miracle of ingenuity. That is a great scheme."
Miss Ri looked up at the clock. "It isn't so late. I believe I will go now. No time like the present. You can stay here with Linda till I get back. I won't be long."
"Isn't she wonderful?" said Mr. Jeffreys, looking after the stout figure admiringly. "She is so direct, and so initiative. A woman like that is a friendworth having. I liked her from the moment I saw her out in this old garden."
Linda warmed to the praise of her friend. She was somewhat annoyed at Berkley's readiness to allow other matters to interfere with his visits to the house, and with his attention to Mr. Jeffreys' affairs. She felt sorry for the young man who, like herself, was lonely and bereft. She was too tender-hearted not to show sympathy for anyone so unfortunate, and she was very gentle in her manner toward him, so the two sat there talking of those personal things which draw those with similar interests together, and Miss Ri's absence seemed a very short one.
She came in flushed and panting from a rapid walk, a bundle of stockings, done up in newspaper, under her arm, and in her hand a bit of paper which she laid triumphantly on the table. It was getting dark, and she called for lights, as she threw aside her wraps. "Find the matches, Verlinda, and get Mr. Jeffreys to light the gas. I really think I have found something worth while."
While Linda was searching for the matches, Mr. Jeffreys had taken the bit of paper to the window and was examining it by the waning light. He came back to take the matches from Linda's hand and to say, "Miss Hill, I really think you have brought me proof positive."
"Wait till we get a light," she returned.
Another moment furnished this, and then, under the lighted chandelier, he showed them the paper, a piece of a tag from which more than half had been torn. That remaining showed but four letters, though they were enough. "You see here," said Mr. Jeffreys, "on this first line was W. B. Jeffreys. The W. B., in my handwriting, remains. On the second line was Sandbridge, of which the S alone is left. The third line showed Md., and you see not quite all of the M. I would swear to it in any court."
"Which will not be necessary, as no doubt you have the trunk key and can describe the contents."
"Tell us how you managed, Aunt Ri," urged Linda.
"Well, first I hunted up Mrs. Beall, told her I wanted to get some of Berk's socks to mend in order to surprise him; so she told the chambermaid to open his room for me. I hunted out the holey socks and then I turned my attention to the trunk. There it sat with its J. S. D. as plain as day. It was locked and, of course, I couldn't get at the inside; but on one of the handles I saw this piece of tag hanging, so I took it off and brought it away. Of course, I examined it and came to my own conclusions, which were the same as yours, Mr. Jeffreys. So now, let me congratulate you. Since there seemsno doubt but that you have found your trunk, the waiting for Berk will not be so trying."
"I congratulate you, too," added Linda, holding out her hand.
"Thank you," replied the young man, taking Miss Ri's proffered hand rather than Linda's, and then turning somewhat confusedly to examine again the piece of paper.
But, as if to make up for this seeming rudeness, for the next few days he was rarely absent from the house when Linda was there. He was at the gate when she started forth to school; he was at the corner to join her when she came home. Supper was scarcely over before his step was heard upon the porch, and if there was no open love-making, there was at least a sufficient show of interest to make the girl feel that no word of hers passed unnoticed.
"I believe the man is falling in love with you," averred Miss Ri bluntly, when he left them one evening; "if he is not already there."
Linda flushed, but replied steadily: "You must remember that I am a relative, and naturally he turns to me for sympathy and advice. The poor fellow has neither mother nor sister, and, of course—"
"Take care, Verlinda. That 'poor fellow' sounds very dangerous. You know what pity is akin to."
But Linda did not reply. She turned out the light by the piano, busied herself in straightening the room, and then, kissing Miss Ri good-night, went directly upstairs. She stood a long time before her mirror, thoughtfully gazing at the reflection she saw there, and after she had turned out her light, she went to the window which opened upon the back garden, looking across to where a twinkling beam shone out from Miss Parthy's house. "It is rather nice to have a new cousin," she said to herself, as she drew down the shade again and turned to open a window further away from her bed.
On the other side of the entry, Miss Ri, in her room, was frowning and saying savagely to herself: "Maria Hill, you are an idiot. It is just like you to be carried away by some new excitement, never looking far enough ahead to discover what it is all leading to. I say you are an idiot, and you are not the only one, if the truth were known."
Linda, though spontaneous enough in ordinary matters like most Southern girls, was reticent when it came to those things which touched her most nearly. She was but fifteen when her mother died; her sisters, older than herself, had passed out of her life before she had really known them well. The elder had married and had died within a year, the younger, Linda remembered only as a delicate girl, who was too frail to go so far as town to school, and who one day was covered with flowers and was borne to the little churchyard. So at the very time Linda had needed someone to whom to give her confidences she had only her older brother, Martin, a busy man, and one who could hardly sympathize with her youthful fancies, her flights of imagination, however kind he might be. Therefore because she must have some outlet for her fanciful thoughts she began to scribble, for her own pleasure at first, later with the hope that she might one day write something worth publishing. It was not till she had taken up her abode with Miss Ri that she did timidly send forth some little verses,very doubtful of their finding a place in the columns of the newspaper to which she sent them.
Time went on and she had heard nothing of her small venture, but one Saturday morning, having gone to the school-house for some book she needed, she stopped at the postoffice for the mail, forestalling the postman who could deliver it later.
On the threshold she met Berk Matthews. "Why, hallo, Linda," he exclaimed. "Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays."
"And whose fault is that, I'd like to know," she answered.
"Whose fault? Why, the ducks, of course. I didn't have any luck and am going out again. By the way when did you turn poet?"
Linda paled, flushed, looked down nervously, shuffled the letters and papers she held. "What do you mean?" she asked at last.
"There's only one Verlinda Talbot, isn't there? Unless someone has borrowed your very pretty and unusual name. Look at this." He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and drew forth a paper, opened the sheet and pointed out the following:
THE MARCHING PINESUp from the hill-slope and over the ridgeAn army is coming of marching pines.The cloud-shadows lurking, lie low on the bridgeWrought out by the moonbeams in delicate lines.They march from the meadow land over the snowWith bayonets pointed, a solid phalanx,Save where, on their outlying edges, they showA few timid stragglers who've broken the ranks.And down in the field, set in orderly rowsAre wigwams, one sees by the light of the moon.Hark! Hark! Does a war-whoop discover the foes?From out of the marsh comes the laugh of a loon.Verlinda Talbot.
THE MARCHING PINES
Up from the hill-slope and over the ridgeAn army is coming of marching pines.The cloud-shadows lurking, lie low on the bridgeWrought out by the moonbeams in delicate lines.
They march from the meadow land over the snowWith bayonets pointed, a solid phalanx,Save where, on their outlying edges, they showA few timid stragglers who've broken the ranks.
And down in the field, set in orderly rowsAre wigwams, one sees by the light of the moon.Hark! Hark! Does a war-whoop discover the foes?From out of the marsh comes the laugh of a loon.
Verlinda Talbot.
"Here, let me take your things," said the young man gently as he perceived by her shaking hands and changing color that she was agitated. He watched her read the lines through and as she raised sweet questioning eyes, he bit his lip and drew in his breath quickly and sharply. "I like it, Linda," he said as she folded the paper and handed it back to him. "How did you manage to do it? I am as proud as can be of you."
"Are you really, Berk? That is very nice of you. To think you saw it before I did. Why I didn't even know they were going to print it."
"You didn't? Then I'm the discoverer. I'm proud of that, too. Very likely you will find a copy of the paper in your mail. Are they paying you well for it?"
"Oh, no, I don't think they pay at all. I don'texpect that. I am paid sufficiently by seeing it in print this time. Perhaps—some day—if I keep on—"
"You will be a great writer."
"Oh, never that, but I may be able to write something worth while. I long to."
"And give up teaching? You don't like teaching."
"I don't believe I do very much."
"Yet I hear good accounts of you."
"Really, Berk?"
"Certainly I do. Mr. Willis told me you were very satisfactory, and had broken in your class so they trotted along without a break."
"I think we do get along better," Linda acknowledged a little dubiously, "and I believe the small boys do begin to like me more than they did, at least some of them do."
"All of them will in time, I am sure."
"You're a nice encouraging friend, Berk. Is this where we part?"
"Yes, I have an appointment with Judge Morris this morning. Good-by. Tell Miss Ri I'll be around soon."
He gave the budget into her hands, raised his hat and entered the little one-storied building at the side of whose door were signs denoting the calling of those whose offices were within, lawyers all, two judges among them.
The trees over-arching the long street had lost most of their leaves, but the river was as blue as ever, and the gardens still held late blooms. A tall cosmos peeped over the fence of one, chrysanthemums made a brave showing in another. A few courageous nasturtiums started brilliantly from amid their yellowing leaves, scarlet salvia shot out myriads of little tongues of flame before almost every house. The streets were quite full of people this Saturday morning. Country vehicles, mud-stained, and in many cases rickety and drawn by shabby mules, jostled more pretentious teams. Lolling darkies singing some monotonous camp-meeting hymn, drove their brick carts to a new building which was going up near by. Dogs were seen everywhere, some at the heels of the young men who, in hunting attire, were making ready to start out for a day's shooting, some lying on the porches ready to bark at any passer-by, some sportively chasing one another up and down the street, playfully catching at the long silky ear of a companion, or rolling him over and over, then off again in hot chase. One or two thrust their cold noses into Linda's hand as she passed them, and with wagging tail received her caress and "Nice doggie" as something not only expected but deserved. The air was soft, sweet and languorous, for Indian summer was here and the days still held suggestions of the earlier season.
Linda turned in at the gate leading to Miss Ri's house, and pushing her feet through the drift of crisp leaves which covered the gravelled walk, enjoyed the exhilaration of the hour. She was buoyant, hopeful, really happy. Life was opening up wonderful possibilities. The music of the spheres was hers. She read the spirit of the universe in each dancing leaf, in each scarlet flower-flame.
Seeing Phebe at the back of the house she ran around to her. The old woman raised herself ponderously from where she was spreading her dish-towels on the grass. "Do you like it here? Are you happy, Mammy?" asked Linda.
"Jes listen to de chile," exclaimed Mammy. "Is I happy? I done got 'ligion long ago, honey, and I ain't back-slid fo' many a ye'r. Co'se I is happy. I ain't shoutin' but I ain't mo'nin', an' I hopes I ain't lak dese young things dat hollers hallelujah at nights and steals from de madam in de mawnin'. Co'se I is happy long as mah baby ain't down in de mouf. Yuh sutt'nly looks peart, honey, an' bless mah Lord an' Marster dat I kin say it. Whar all yo' beaux, honey chile?"
Linda laughed. "Oh, they'll be around after a while."
Mammy chuckled and Linda entering by the back door, after some searching, at last found Miss Ri upstairs looking over the house linen.
"Well, Verlinda, you have a fine color," said thelady looking up. "It does you good to get out into the fresh air. Any news up town?"
"I met Berk."
"You did? What did he say about the trunk?"
Linda stopped in the act of tearing the wrapper from a newspaper she held. "Aunt Ri, I declare I never said a word to him about it. Never once did it enter my mind."
"Verlinda Talbot! I can scarce believe that. What were you talking about to make you forget it?"
Linda finished freeing the paper from its wrapper. Her eyes were downcast, and the flush lingered in her cheeks; a smile played around her lips. "This," she answered holding out the paper on which her verses were printed.
Miss Ri adjusted her spectacles, read the lines, laid the paper aside and took the girl's hands in hers. "You dear, sentimental child," she said, "I am proud of you."
"That is what Berk said," returned Linda with a little pleased smile.
"Did he? Well, he may be. Why, my dear, we shall all be proud of you, the whole town. We must have you in the club; you will be an ornament to it."
Linda fairly laughed at this. "One meagre little set of verses will not give more than a rushlight's beam," she answered, "even in Sandbridge, AuntRi. But maybe I shall be a real shining light some day. Anyhow it is great fun."
"Of course it is to those who can do it. I couldn't to save me."
"And, you see, in the excitement of the discovery, the reason of my forgetting the trunk. Please don't tell Mr. Jeffreys that I have seen Berk; he will think me a very indifferent cousin if he knows."
"What did Berk have to say besides mentioning that he was proud of you?"
"He said he had no luck shooting and that he was going out again. I imagine he has been pretty busy, but he said I was to tell you he'd be around soon."
"Ducks or no ducks?"
"The ducks weren't mentioned."
"Well, he'd better come if he knows what is good for him. Here is your other swain heading this way. Go down and see him and keep the trunk out of the conversation when I am around or I might forget myself and tell on you. I think you'd better take him off somewhere if you want to be quite safe. It's a fine day to be out of doors."
"We can sit on the porch or go out on the river," responded Linda as she left the room.
She felt a little diffident about showing her newspaper to her visitor, but, reflecting that Miss Ri would be sure to speak of it, she decided to havethe matter over with, and at once displayed her verses. If Mr. Jeffreys did not openly express the same appreciation that Berkley had done he was at least as effusive as Linda expected, being at no time a person who showed ardent enthusiasm. His call was not a long one, for Linda felt a little ill at ease, condemning herself for having forgotten a thing so important to him, and in consequence she was not able to talk of his affairs with the same show of interest, a fact which he, however, attributed to her excitement over the printing of her verses.
As the two walked to the gate together they saw Berkley drive by with a friend. Both men were equipped for hunting, and from between Berkley's knees looked out the intelligent face of a fine brown setter who was all a-quiver with the prospect in view.
Mr. Jeffreys gave a sudden call after the buggy, but checked himself directly, turning to Linda with an air of apology. "I should not have done that, but I was carried away by my interest in seeing Mr. Matthews. I didn't know he was in town."
"He is going off with Elmer Dawson, evidently," rejoined Linda, looking after the buggy.
"And there is no telling when he will return. The fates are against me, Miss Linda."
"You certainly are having a lesson in patience," Linda admitted. "Never mind, Mr. Jeffreys, thecase won't suffer by reason of delay. Why don't you write a note to Mr. Matthews?" she asked suddenly catching at the idea. "Tell him you think he has happened upon your trunk, describe it, and ask him to let you see it. You must remember his attention has not been called to it yet, and he hasn't a notion that you are in a state of suspense."
"Unless he has examined the contents."
"Which he may or may not have done. At all events, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have brought the subject to his notice. He seems such a difficult person to get at these days that it might be as well to write."
"Thank you for the suggestion; it might not be a bad idea. I will go home and think it over." He lifted his hat and Linda watched him thoughtfully walking down the street. "If Berk does know it is pretty mean of him," she said to herself, and she voiced the opinion to Miss Ri when she went indoors.
"It is mighty mean if he really knows it, and it almost seems as if he must," agreed Miss Ri. "One might almost think he was doing it on purpose, if it were not really a serious matter. Berk is something of a tease, you know. I'll call him up to-night and tell him to come and get his socks. He doesn't deserve to have me mend them, the rascal."
But Mr. Matthews was not at the hotel, camethe news over the 'phone that evening. Neither did he appear on Sunday. On Monday it was learned that he had returned but was at Court when Mr. Jeffreys tried to see him. The day went by and there was no response to the note Mr. Jeffreys mentioned having written.
"It begins to look very queer," said Miss Ri soberly when Monday had passed and no Berkley appeared. "I'm beginning to lose faith, Linda, and that is something I have never done before where Berk was concerned. He can't want to steal such a paltry thing as a trunk."
"Perhaps to his legal mind it is his own property since he bought it," remarked Linda in excuse.
"But there are the papers."
"True, there are the papers. He has no right to them. Dear me, my head fairly buzzes with trying to account for it. I wish we had never heard of Wyatt Jeffreys and his old trunk. Why did he come here to disturb our peace?"
"It certainly is queer for Berk to act so," continued Miss Ri, "and the queerest part of the whole business to me is that he has not been near us for two weeks."
"He did come, you remember, that day you went to the country with Mrs. Becky."
"Yes, I had forgotten that."
"And he was as nice and friendly as could be the day I met him at the postoffice."
"But he hasn't sent us those ducks," contended Miss Ri.
The very next morning after this talk Wyatt Jeffreys met Berkley Matthews on the street just outside the Jackson House. "Hallo," cried the latter. "Just have your note. I've been staying with John Emory, and we've been off ducking so I didn't get my mail till this morning. It certainly would be a good joke if I had captured your trunk. Suppose you come and have a look at it, and if you identify it, of course you shall have it without delay. Come up to my room."
As Mr. Jeffreys followed the springing step all suspicion fled. Once in the room the trunk was easily recognized. "There were some papers," said Mr. Jeffreys.
"Oh, yes, they are over at my office. I had to get a locksmith to open the trunk for me, and he had to put on a new lock, as you see. I took out the clothing over here, sent the trunk across the way, dumped out the papers in a valise without looking at them, and there they are. You can get them any time."
"I'd like you to go over them with me when you have time, Matthews."
"Very well. Just now I am a little rushed, but we can take it up later when I get this case through I am now at work upon. In the meantime I will see that you get the trunk and the rest of the things. I'll try to get them off this afternoon. I am certainly glad I happened to take a fancy to your trunk, but what a queer coincidence it is. I never associated it with you at all. Those initials, J. S. D. would have misled me in any event. I told Miss Ri they stood for Judge Some Day, and I think they are about the only part of the trunk I feel loth to give up."
Mr. Jeffreys smiled. It was like a sentimental Southerner, he thought. Then, after some discussion about cost of transportation and all that, the matter was settled to the satisfaction of both.
With the delivery of the trunk came the ducks, not inside the trunk, of course, for that contained everything which was in it at the time of Berkley's first possession, everything except the papers. The trunk was brought to Miss Parthy's by an old colored man picturesquely antique both as regarded his costume and himself. Uncle Moke everyone called him, his real name of Moses having fallen into disuse so long before that no one remembered it. He was general factotum around town and a trusty messenger. He had delivered his firstcharge at Miss Parthy's door, and then was ready for Miss Ri. Nothing pleased him more than such an errand. "Evenin' Miss Ri," said the old fellow with many a bow and scrape, his ragged hat in his hand. "Mr. Berk Matthews' compliments, Miss Ri, an' dese yer ducks, Miss. He say he hopes yuh-alls have 'em fo' suppah, an' he be 'long 'bout seben fo' to he'p yuh-alls eat 'em," the last with a little chuckle of pleasure at delivering such a message.
"Very well, Uncle Moke," returned Miss Ri, taking the ducks. "Whether I have them for supper or not is my look out, you tell Mr. Berk."
"Dey nice fat ducks," remarked Uncle Moke with the privilege of an old acquaintance.
"I see they are."
"Yuh got some cu'ant jelly, is yuh, Miss Ri? Ef yuh ain't mah ole woman got a little she kin spare yuh."
"I know Aunt Welcome's jelly is good, Uncle Moke, but I reckon I have enough for some time to come. How is your wife?"
"She thes tollable, Miss Ri."
"And you?"
"I thes tollable. I has mis'ry in mah j'ints f'om de rheumatiz dese col' days. I kin skeerce tote de rale heavy trunks. Dat one I thes now taken to Miss Parthy's fo' de strange young man wa'n't de heavy kin'."
"Did you take a trunk to Miss Parthy's for Mr. Jeffreys?"
"Yas'm. Mr. Berk he done sont it f'om de hotel. Little weenchy trunk, kinder old-fashion."
"Um-hm," said Miss Ri, nodding her head. "So that's done. Have you good warm flannels, Uncle Moke?" Miss Ri looked him over, perceiving the shabbiness of his attire, ragged shirt, threadbare trousers.
"I ain't had time to buy no winter flannins yet, Miss Ri," responded the old man with a pride that forbade giving the real reason.
"Well, you stop by to-morrow," said Miss Ri. "I shouldn't in the least wonder if there were some things in the house that you could wear, and there is no use to buy anything when I'd be glad to get rid of some underwear that I have on hand."
"Thanky, ma'am, thanky." The bowing and scraping were continued to a degree. "I sholy is obleedged to yuh, Miss Ri. It save me a lot o' bother. I nuvver was no han' at buyin' flannins, and Welky she don' git about much."
Miss Ri watched him stiffly mount his creaking wagon drawn by a scrubby mule, then she went in with the ducks. "Well," she announced, "here they are at last. Don't let me forget, Verlinda, to hunt up some things for Uncle Moke, and if I haven't anything I must buy some. The poor old soul hasn't enough to keep him warm. I don't supposehe makes a great deal these days, for the younger and stronger men are employed where he used to be. He is not able to carry heavy burdens. By the way, the trunk seems to have been delivered, too. Aren't you curious to hear the report. Berk, the impudent boy, sent word he was coming over to help eat the ducks, and wouldn't we please to have them for supper to-night. Isn't that just like him? He does not deserve to be treated decently after the way he has neglected us, but I suppose we shall have to be nice to him as long as he has sent us the ducks." She went on to the kitchen to see Phebe about supper of which she was ready enough to make a true feast.
True to his promise, Berkley arrived promptly for supper. "You renegade," cried Miss Ri. "We were beginning to think all manner of evil about you."
"You were? I didn't expect that of you. What have I done?"
"You have neglected us abominably."
"It does look that way, but I really couldn't help it. I had a tough week of it off with Judge Baker, and then to limber up my brain I took a little outing with some of the boys. We all went down to John Emory's little shack. Didn't I send you the first fruits of my chase? I hope Unc' Moke understood he was to leave the ducks here, and that he didn't take them to Miss Parthy's."
"They came safely enough, and our thanks are ready. We accept your excuses since they seem moderately reasonable, don't we, Verlinda?"
She smiled her response and came forward to greet the young man.
"And how goes the school? Does the verse-making continue?" he asked looking down with interest showing in his eyes.
"The school hasn't finished me yet, and the verses," she blushed a little, "go spasmodically. I haven't sent out any more effusions."
"You must do it. Aren't we proud of her, Miss Ri? Oh, did you hear that the trunk had been found, and that mine was the great mind that happened to realize its value?"
"It was accident, pure accident," cried Miss Ri. "Your great mind had nothing to do with it. You have sent it back to the owner?"
"Yes, worse luck. I wanted to keep it on account of the letters upon it. Now I have nothing to cheer me in my despondent moments. It was quite a fillip to my ambitions to see those letters. I don't know where I shall get another mascot."
"What of the papers?" asked Linda.
"Oh, we haven't come to those yet; they are at my office, and there they will stay till Jeffreys and I can look them over. Ducks ready? Good! May I escort you, Miss Ri. Will you take my other arm, Linda?" They marched solemnly tothe dining-room. For some reason Berkley was suddenly subdued and was so long in taking the initiative in the carving of the ducks that Miss Ri spoke up. "Where are your thoughts, Berk?" Then he picked up the wrong knife and fork in confusion and laughed a little nervously.
But though the ducks were done to a turn, and everything was as it should be, Berkley was distrait and ill at ease all the evening, though he stayed quite as late as usual and went off with a jest.
The door had no sooner closed behind him than Miss Ri turned to Linda to say. "I can't think what is the matter with Berk. Did it strike you that he was embarrassed and unlike himself."
"I did think so, but put away the thought as coming from my own vain imaginings. What do you suppose is the matter?"
"I should say it was one of two things; either he is in love or there is something in those papers that is bothering him. I wonder if, after all, it was his mother whom he was so eager to see in the city. I'm beginning to get suspicious."
"But about the papers; what could be in them?"
"That is just what I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I have a deal of thinking to do, Verlinda, my dear. Go to bed and let me puzzle out a few things. Berk said he had seen Grace Talbot, didn't he?" Linda paused, her foot on the stair."Yes, he spoke of her, said she was looking unusually well." Then a little laugh rippled out. "You don't imagine he has fallen in love with Grace, do you?"
"Some men are fools enough to do anything," returned Miss Ri crossly.
"Then, of course, you don't get mad with such," vouchsafed Linda. Then she turned, a slim graceful figure in trailing black, and came swiftly up to Miss Ri. "You dear old thing," she said, "you mustn't get notions in your head like that; it doesn't make any difference; nothing makes very much difference. Suppose he should marry Grace, then I'd have Talbot's Angles."
"And I'd lose you," returned Miss Ri ruefully. "Are you sleepy? No? Come in then, and let's talk over people and things."
"Let's leave out Berkley and Grace."
"Very well, we'll talk of your new cousin. By the way, if Berk has examined those papers he must know the relationship. Possibly that is just what is the matter."
"I don't think so, besides, I had the impression that he had not looked at them. But we weren't going to talk of Berk, you know. Tell me plainly, what do you think of my new cousin?"
"YOU DON'T IMAGINE HE HAS FALLEN IN LOVE WITH GRACE, DO YOU?"
"YOU DON'T IMAGINE HE HAS FALLEN IN LOVE WITH GRACE, DO YOU?"
"I think he is an out and out Yankee. Clever enough in some directions, rather whimsical, deadly afraid you will find out what he is thinking about,frightfully cautious of showing his feelings, with a conscience which worries him because his inclination isn't always to follow it exactly, wherein he differs from another who follows his impulses, and whose impulses are always generous ones. Your Mr. Jeffreys sits down and pros and cons for hours. Someone, whose name we don't mention, plunges out, impelled by an unselfish motive, and does the thing that the other deliberates over. Yet I won't say the cousin doesn't do fine honorable things once he makes up his mind it is right. Very likely he rises to his heights by a different process, and doesn't ever make the mistake of over zeal, of going at too brisk a pace like the unmentioned sometimes does. What the latter does is with his whole heart. I think he might almost perjure himself for one he loved; I know he would cheerfully die in the same cause."
Linda, leaning with elbows on table, thoughtfully tapped one hand with an ivory paper-cutter. "You are analytical, Aunt Ri, but probably you are right. Yet, after all if a man, through evolutions of reasoning, reaches a point where his conscience bids him do a noble deed, isn't he just as much to be approved as he who rushes out, never asking for reasons, and does a like noble thing? And isn't he more to be approved than the man who sacrifices his integrity, or does a wrong thing for love's sake?"
"Oh, yes, I don't doubt it though it depends largely upon one's view of the case. For my part I admire the spontaneous, intrepid man more than the deliberate one, but that is a matter of preference."
"Which do you think would be the easier to live with?" Linda balanced the paper-cutter on the tips of her fingers. "Wouldn't the impetuous man be more difficult, more trying, for the very reason of his impetuosity?"
"Yes, but he'd be vastly more entertaining, to my mind, because of his uncertainty."
"In perjuring himself, for example?"
"Oh, we needn't go so far as that, Verlinda. A really good man would never go so far unless—"
"Unless?"
"He felt the cause for which he criminated himself was a greater thing than his own state of well-being. I can imagine certain men who would sacrifice their immortal welfare for the sake of a sacred cause."
"And you think Berkley Matthews is like that?"
"No, I don't say so? I won't go so far in my estimate of him, though I do say there are few things he wouldn't do for one he loved. But you remember we were not to mention him."
"We don't appear to be doing much else. We are comparing him all the time with Mr. Jeffreyswhether we mention his name or not. I agree with you in thinking Berk is capable of fine things, but so I believe is Mr. Jeffreys."
"Berk has the tenderest of hearts," continued Miss Ri, "and he has thoughtful little ways that please an elderly woman like myself. I could but notice the difference when I was walking with Mr. Jeffreys. Did he help me over a gutter, or up a steep curb? Not he. Not that I wanted help, but it was the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace that I missed. Berk watches out for your every step, makes way for you, as it were. If he wore a Sir Walter Raleigh cloak it would be mud from end to end so readily would he spread it for a woman's feet to tread on. He may not have the tall and graceful figure of your cousin, but he can bow like a courtier, and will stand with his head uncovered in any weather rather than wear his hat in a lady's presence."
"I have noticed all those things," admitted Linda. "So far, in your opinion, his side of the scales tip far, far below my cousin's, but then one must make allowances for your partiality. You've known Berk since he was born. Perhaps Mr. Jeffreys' mother may have had just so good an opinion of him."
"Being his mother she probably had. What have you to put in his side of the scales?"
"Oh, good looks, a very dignified bearing, and aperfectly well-trained conscience which wouldn't run away with him."
"You know I don't call that so desirable a quality as the impulsive generosity."
"But I do, so if you leave your impulsive generosity in the scales, I must have the well-trained conscience."
"Very well. Go on."
"Then, there's your mud-spattered cloak which I will balance with—let me see—"
"You can't find anything to equal that," cried Miss Ri triumphantly.
"Oh, yes, I can. There is a certain beautiful dignity and a certain indescribable charm; I don't know exactly wherein it lies, but it is there. Bertie Bryan has discovered it, too, and very probably it has not escaped you."
"I don't see it at all."
"There we are again, so you will have to take the courtesy and I'll have the dignity and charm. I haven't a doubt but if we knew Mr. Jeffreys better we should find a host of other things."
"He is not sympathetic in the way Berk is."
The paper-cutter was at work again. "No-o," Linda admitted, "he doesn't seem to be, but perhaps he really is, inside."
"Then I don't see what use it is to anyone. Berk shows that quality in his eyes. He has dear eyes, I think."
Linda neither affirmed nor denied though she suddenly remembered the eager, tender look bestowed upon her that day in the postoffice when she gave back the newspaper after reading her little poem in it. "We certainly have discussed those two long enough," she said lightly. "How their ears must burn. What next, Aunt Ri?"
"I've been thinking I'd like to get some facts for you from some other source than Wyatt Jeffreys. There's our old family lawyer, Judge Goldsborough, who was your family's lawyer as well. He retired from active life long ago, and is a very old man now, but I believe he could tell us things. He knew your grandfather and all that. Some day we will go to see him. We'll make it an ancestral pilgrimage. He lives up in the next county where his son has a fine estate. On the way we can take in that old church where my grandparents were married; they were Roman Catholics, you see, and I have always wanted to see that old church. How do you like the idea of such a trip?"
"Immensely. You are very clever to have thought of it, Aunt Ri."
"Then some Saturday we will go. The judge will be delighted to see you, and me, too, I am not too modest to say. He is a dear old man and, though his memory is not what it was, the way back things are those he remembers the best. Now go to bed. We've talked long enough. Go to bed."
Miss Ri was not one to be dilatory when an idea once took possession of her, and she therefore began planning at once for the trip to "Mary's Delight," where Judge Goldsborough lived. It was a roundabout journey involving several changes, if one went all the way by rail to the nearest station, but was not nearly so far if one drove from Sandbridge to the point where a train could be had which would go direct to the little village of Mackenzie. Miss Ri finally decided upon the latter course, naturally choosing a Saturday as being the day when Linda could most easily leave. It was not a matter to be made secret, and Berkley was consulted as to the best method of getting to the desired point.
"You'd better take the train from Boxford to Mackenzie," he told them. "Of course you must drive from here to Boxford, and you would better send word ahead to Mackenzie to have some sort of vehicle ready for you there to take you to 'Mary's Delight,' unless you prefer to let the Goldsboroughs know you are coming."
Miss Ri shook her head. "I think I'll let thatgo, and trust to luck, for it might be a bad day which would prevent our going, and I don't want them to make preparations, as they might do; besides we want to stop at the old church, and I should prefer a hired team if we are to do that."
"Very well, then, suppose I drop a line to Mackenzie, to the postmaster there, he knows me, and I'll tell him two ladies are coming from Sandbridge. He will do all he can for you. You can go right to the postoffice, and then it will be plain sailing."
"You are a good thoughtful boy, Berk, to smooth our way so nicely," Miss Ri told him. "By the way," she added, "aren't you feeling well these days? You seem so serious. Anything wrong?"
The young man flushed up and turned over some papers on his desk. They were in his office where Miss Ri had stopped to consult him. "I'm all right," he replied in reply. "Working a little hard, maybe. I must, you know, if I want to get ahead."
"And that is why you don't drop in so often," returned Miss Ri. Then after waiting a moment for the answer which did not come, she went on. "Well, you know you are always welcome, Berk. I may bamboozle you, but you know it is all talk. Come when you can and thank you very much for straightening out this route. I did not want to go around the other way and be all day getting there,spending half the time waiting at stations to make connections."
"I find the most direct way is generally the best," he told her. "When you want to go across country you'd better drive instead of depending upon trains. Good luck to you, Miss Ri." And he turned to his desk as she went out.
Saturday furnished all that anyone could ask in the way of weather. It was almost too warm for the season, and a few clouds piled up in the west, but it could not be a finer day, as everyone declared with satisfaction, and the two travellers sat down to their morning meal in happy anticipation of what was before them.
"We're going to have a lovely time, Verlinda," remarked Miss Ri. "The judge will have some good tales for us, I know. I am sure he will be interested to know you are a great-niece of the Verlinda Talbot he used to know, and, if report speaks the truth, with whom he was much in love, but like the gallant gentleman he was, when she married someone else he made no sign though he was hard hit, and he was always a devoted friend to her and to your grandfather. His son Dick isn't unlike him. He has a nice wife and half a dozen children, someofwhom are grown up by now." She was silent for a little while and then she said, with half a laugh and half a sigh, "I didn't expect to be visiting Dick Goldsborough's house in my old age."
Linda looked up from the coffee she was sipping. "That sounds very much as if there were a story, a romance hidden in your remark."
Miss Ri gave a little comfortable laugh. "Well, there was something like it once."
"Oh, Aunt Ri, and you never told me. Were you—were you engaged to Mr. Dick Goldsborough?"
"No-o. You see there were two of us, Julia Emory and I, and it seemed hard for him to make up his mind which he liked best—but finally—he did."
"Oh, dear Aunt Ri! And he married the other girl? Did it—were you—"
"Oh, yes, I was dreadfully cut up for a time, I can frankly say. The first year I thought I'd die and wanted to; the second I was not averse to living, though in a sort of twilight world; the third I was quite glad to live; the fourth I wondered how I could ever have been such a sentimental goose, and the fifth I thanked the Lord that I had escaped."
"Oh, Aunt Ri, Aunt Ri, you are dreadful."
"It is a fact, I can assure you, and I have been thankful ever since, not that Dick isn't a fine man, for he is, but, dear me, he would never have suited me, as I came to find out, and he suits Julia to a T. They are as happy as two clams at high tide."
"Then that is why you never married."
"It probably had something to do with it, for during the two or three years when I was wearingthe willow came other chances which I didn't take, and when I had reached the stage of thanking the Lord for my escape my patient suitors had become impatient and had danced off to those who, in their opinions, had better taste. But, Verlinda, bear this truth in mind; I am still thanking the Lord. Come, if you have finished we'll be off. I see Nichols has sent around the man with the surrey; he is waiting outside."
The ride to Boxford over level shell roads would have been pleasant enough with a less companionable person than Miss Ri, but she who knew every house along the way had innumerable stories to tell, humorous, pathetic, romantic, and the time seemed very short before they reached the station from which they were to start on the second and more commonplace stage of their journey which ended at Mackenzie. This was a small settlement which appeared to consist of the station, a country store, and a few houses straggling along an unpaved street which stretched out into the country road, leading on and on indefinitely. There were few people in sight; a half dozen darkies lounged around the station, inside which the telegraph operator clicked away at his transmitter industriously, some children played in the street further up, but no one else was to be seen.
"Where do you suppose the postoffice is?" asked Miss Ri, looking around.
"At the store in all probability," replied Linda.
"We'll go over and see."
But, contrary to their expectation, they found the postoffice was not there but at the second house up the street. They could read the sign outside, they were told.
Its location known, the place was easy enough to find; a small white house, like any other of its type. The door was ajar and the travellers entered to find themselves in a square enclosure, a door to their left, and in front of them a box-like structure with a sort of window cut in it. Before the window hung a calico curtain. From behind this curtain presently appeared the head of a man.
"Good morning, ladies," the voice came with pleasant eagerness; "you're the ladies from Sandbridge? Mr. Matthews wrote to me about you. Will you just walk into the front room there, and take seats while I am sorting the mail. I'll be with you as soon as it is distributed."
Linda opened the only door in sight, and the two entered a plainly furnished room, which, however, provided two comfortable chairs, and in these they seated themselves to wait the postmaster's leisure.
They were mistaken if they thought their arrival was the unimportant matter it would seem to be, for, as the villagers began to come in, each made some excuse to enter the room, the first leaving the door ajar so the visitors could distinctly hear thepostmaster, as he handed out the mail, importantly informing his friends: "The ladies from Sandbridge have come." So one after another made some pretext for seeing the strangers. "Where can I get a match?" one would inquire. "Oh, I've opened the wrong door," the next would say, while the third showed his ardent curiosity simply and honestly by merely standing in the doorway and beaming on the two ladies. Once or twice a salutation was offered, though more often it was not.
The finale occurred when two little girls, with hair slicked tightly back and braided in flaxen pigtails, appeared, each holding the hand of a little boy with as shining a face as her own. Each little girl grasped a large red apple, in one hand, taking frequent succulent bites as she stared with round china-blue eyes at the strangers. The little roly-poly boy stared quite as fixedly, but at the first question addressed, the three fled, though Miss Ri and Linda could hear them shrilly reporting their experiences to someone in the next room.
In due time the postmaster appeared. "You wanted a fix, ladies, I believe. I meant to have gotten Jo Wilson's, but he's gone to his wife's brother's funeral. Maybe I can get Tom Skinner's; I'll see. I reckon a buggy will do, and you can drive yourselves. Going to the old church, I hear."
"I don't think we can drive," spoke up Miss Ri."We don't know the road, in the first place, and in the second I don't care to drive a strange horse."
The man looked quite taken aback; he had not counted on these complications. "Now, that's too bad," he said. "I just depended on Jo, you see, but funerals won't wait. I'll look around and find out what we can do." He departed, leaving the two to be peeped at over the window-sill by three pairs of china-blue eyes. Evidently the children's curiosity was not yet satisfied.
"I feel as if I belonged to a menagerie," laughed Linda, "and as if they'd be feeding me peanuts next."
Miss Ri laughed and beckoned to the children who incontinently took to their heels.
After some time the postmaster returned saying he had been able to get a buggy and a boy to drive it. He hoped the ladies wouldn't mind sitting three on a seat; the boy wasn't so very big. It was the best he could do; he hoped they would be comfortable and if it hadn't been for Jo Wilson's wife's brother all would have been well.
If Linda had been of Miss Ri's proportions they would have found it a tight squeeze, but the boy, as reported, was not very big, and they assured the postmaster that they could manage. The lad evidently had been gathered in hastily from the fields to don his Sunday best, and to make such ablutions as consisted in clearing a circular expanse in thecenter of his face, and then wiping his wet hands on his hair which was still moist from the application. With many charges to the boy and with many anxious queries as to the comfort of the strangers, the postmaster at last sped them on their way, and before many miles were covered the old church appeared dully through the trees. It had a decayed, unkempt aspect even at a distance, and a nearer view showed it set amidst riots of thorny bushes, and old trees, which had never been trimmed.
In what probably had been the priest's quarters in bygone days, they found an old woman who lived there as care-taker. She hobbled to the door to open to their knock, showing one foot swathed in bandages. She was as unkempt as the rest of it, but was both surprised and pleased to see visitors, and was ready to display to them remnants of tawdry hangings, shrines from which the paint was scaling, and in the dingy church, a company of dusty saints who looked out dimly from altar and niche, bedecked with once garish but now faded and discolored artificial flowers. Miss Ri gazed around with an expression half contemptuous, half pitying. "And this is where my grandparents worshipped. Poor dears, I hope it was better in their day."
"Oh, it was a fine church once," spoke up their guide, "but very few comes to it now, and there's a service only once a month."
They were glad to escape out into the sunlight. The old woman led the way back to her own quarters, discoursing all the time upon her ailments and asking for remedies. Being thirsty after the drive Linda begged for a glass of water, but when a brass thimble was fished out of a murky tumbler before it was filled, she concluded that nothing would induce her to drink it, and finally she made the excuse of speaking to the boy outside, when she found an opportunity of emptying the glass upon the grass.
This turning aside to visit the church had occupied some time, and it was noon when they reached "Mary's Delight," a beautiful old place bordering upon one of the many salt rivers which pierce Maryland's eastern shore. A tall, grey-haired man met them at the gate to open to them. "Howdy, Dick Goldsborough," cried Miss Ri.
"Of all things, Maria Hill," he responded. "Get right out. Well, this is a surprise. This your niece?"
"An adopted one. This is Betty Dorsey's daughter, Verlinda Talbot."
"Is that so? You are doubly welcome, Miss Talbot, for your father's as well as your mother's sake. I declare, Maria, this does take me back to old times. Come right in and I'll see about your horse. Where did you drive from?"
"We came up from Mackenzie. I wanted to seethe old church, and the little boy has been our driver."
"Well, we can send him back and you shall return in a more comfortable way when you are ready to go. The boy must have some dinner. Just drive around to the stable, my boy, and one of the men will fix you up. You are going to make us a good visit, I hope, Maria. Father will be perfectly charmed to see you, and so will Julia."
They were ushered into a fine hall with a noble staircase rising on either side to the floor above. On one side the hall was a large room with a great fireplace now filled with crackling logs, in spite of the mildness of the day. Before the fire sat an old white-haired man who rose at the entrance of visitors.
"Here's a surprise for you, Father," said the younger man, raising his voice slightly. "Here is an old friend and the daughter of another. Miss Ri Hill and Jim Talbot's daughter have come to see us."
The old gentleman's fine face brightened as he held out a slender frail hand. "My dears, I am delighted, pleased beyond measure to see you. Won't you come to the fire after your drive?"
"It is very mild out, Judge; we won't come too near," Miss Ri told him.
He waited till they were seated and then took his old place, looking at first one then the other. Lindathought him charming with a nobly intellectual head, hair white and fine as floss, waving thickly around a face full of strength and sweetness, eyes both wise and kind, still showing brilliancy. The rather high and prominent nose was saved from coarseness by delicate nostrils, the mouth had not lost its shapeliness nor the chin its firmness.
Before Linda had time for many words with the judge Mrs. Goldsborough entered to welcome them warmly and to carry them upstairs to lay aside their wraps. A white-curtained room exhibiting the beauty lent by handsome old furniture and exquisite neatness was placed at their disposal. The windows on one side looked out on the river, on the other was obtained a view of fields and garden. A little negro boy chasing chickens was the liveliest object in sight. It was quite necessary that chickens be caught for a company dinner, as Linda well knew.
The children were all at school, Mrs. Goldsborough told them, all but the eldest daughter who was in Baltimore where an aunt would chaperon her in this her débutante season. The younger children had a governess at home, the two older boys were at St. John's in Annapolis. Mrs. Goldsborough, a very neat, still rather pretty woman, was graciousness itself, and would fain have carried Miss Ri off for a long talk, but that she must be down-stairs to oversee the rather inefficient servantswhich the country supplied. So the visitors were handed over to the judge and his son.
Miss Ri was not long in bringing the conversation around to where she wanted it, and began her queries on the subject of the Talbot estates, giving the judge her reasons for asking. With the intricacies of a conjectural case in view the judge threw up his head like an old war horse and declared his opinion. "Any flaw in the title to Jim Talbot's property? Of course not. He was the eldest son as his father and grandfather were before him. The home plantation was always left to the eldest son. Madison Talbot bought Addition from his brother Cyrus when he went west, I am sure of that. Talbot's Addition was what Cyrus inherited from his father, while Madison had the Angles. Oh, I can't make any mistake there. Anyone who claims the Angles can't have a shred of proof. I've a lot of papers somewhere; I'll get them out, Maria, and you shall hear from me. Dick, don't let me forget that. I think the papers are in the old secretary in my office, but I am not sure; they may have been moved. Who is this young man, Maria, who says he is the great grandson of Cyrus Talbot? Let me see. Hm!" He put the tips of his delicate fingers together and bent his gaze on the fire. "Cyrus had a son who was killed in the War of 1812, I remember that, but this son was unmarried. There was a daughter who went away with him."
"Lovina, wasn't it?"
"Yes, that was the name. I remember all that. You can't get me confused when it comes to those old matters, Maria; it is what happened yesterday that I forget. I'll look up those papers, however, and we will see if there is any sort of complication. Dinner, did you say, Julia? Maria, allow me. Dick, will you take out Miss Talbot?" And in this stately and formal manner they were conducted to the dining-room where was spread such a meal as one rarely sees except in just such a house in just such a locality. A great platter of fried chicken stood at one end of the table, a home-cured ham at the other, oysters, numerous vegetables smothered in rich cream, homemade jellies, pickles and sauces, the ever-present beaten biscuits, corn bread, wheat bread, all were there, and at the last a dainty dessert served with thick cream and pound cake.
The judge entertained them with many a tale of the days when he was young, when Martin Talbot, Senior, and he were chums, when old Admiral Hill used to sail over to Sandbridge from Annapolis to spend a holiday in his old home and to stir the boys' young blood with his sea stories.
It was after dinner that Miss Ri had a chance to talk to the old man in confidence and to tell him of Linda's misfortunes while he frowned and shook his head and spoke of men who disgraced themselves and their families by marrying beneath them,and at last he became so scornful of "John Blair's people," that Miss Ri was glad Linda was not at hand to hear. She was with the children and their pretty young governess out in the little school-house where the day's lessons were had, and it was only when she was sent for that she realized how happy a time she was having.