It was with difficulty that the two visitors were able to take their leave that afternoon, and only the promise to come again and stay longer gave them liberty to go without hurting the feelings of these old friends. The little lad from Mackenzie had been dismissed long before, and it was Mr. Dick Goldsborough himself who insisted upon setting them upon their way. The dear old judge stood on the porch to wave a last farewell and to repeat his promise to look into the matter of Talbot plantations.
Linda wondered how it must seem to Miss Ri to be driving behind the horses of her former lover, himself holding the reins. She tried to place herself in a like position but when she attempted to replace Mr. Goldsborough in her mind with some other, two quite different persons would appear, and she could decide on neither.
Instead of going around by the old church they took the shorter way to the village which brought them to the borders of a stream where Mr. Goldsboroughleft them to be ferried across, thus saving some miles of travel. It was a very usual way of getting about in that part of the country where waterways were so numerous. From the old church at Talbot's Angles one could watch many of the congregation approaching in boats from the opposite shore of the creek, and when, before an approaching gale the tide would rise to cover the road, the little boats would be rowed in through the gateway half way up the path that they might land their passengers. It was therefore no novelty to be transported to the upper end of the village by means of the little boat, though it involved a walk down the long street to the lower end.
Miss Ri looked at her watch as they started on this walk. "It is earlier than I thought," she remarked. "The days are getting so short one cannot realize the time. The train doesn't leave till seven, and we have over an hour to spare. What shall we do with ourselves?"
"We don't want to go to the postoffice to be stared at," returned Linda, "so perhaps we'd better entertain one another as best we can at the station; it seemed rather a horrid little place, but what better can we do?"
However, this experiment was spared them, for they had not gone more than half way to their destination when they were pleasantly accosted by a man who was coming from the other direction. "Ibelieve you are the ladies who came from Sandbridge on the train this morning," he began. "I am Mr. Brown, the agent of the railroad, and as such I feel that I must extend you such hospitality as we have to offer. Our accommodations at the station are rather poor, and you have a long wait before you, for I suppose you take the seven o'clock train."
"Yes, we intended to," Miss Ri told him.
"Then I beg that you will make yourselves comfortable at my house. It is only a step away. I am sure you will find it a better place to wait than the station." He was so evidently anxious for the good repute of the village, and was so earnestly sincere in his invitation that there was but one thing to do, and that to accept.
Mr. Brown conducted them up on the porch of a neat little house, opened the door and ushered them into an orderly sitting-room where he saw that they were provided with the most comfortable of the chairs and then he settled himself to entertain them. But a very few remarks had been exchanged before he sprang to his feet with a shocked expression on his face. "Ladies," he exclaimed, "I am entirely forgetting that you will not be able to get any supper before you reach home, and that it will be then very late. What was I thinking of? We have only just finished our own meal, and—Excuse me, but I must speak to Mrs. Brown," and before theycould utter a word of protest he rushed from the room.
"Do you suppose he has gone to fetch the keys of the city?" whispered Linda. "What are we to do, Aunt Ri? We can't run, for there is nowhere that we can escape, and—"
She was interrupted by the entrance of their host with his wife, who, though somewhat less importunate, was nevertheless quite determined that the strangers should not leave the town without being properly fed, and this in spite of Miss Ri's protest that they had brought some fruit and biscuits with them, and that they really needed nothing more.
Mr. Brown waved all such suggestions aside. Therefore, seeing that it would be less rude to accept the proffered hospitality they followed Mrs. Brown to the small dining-room where a dainty little meal was soon spread for them, served by Mrs. Brown and her sister, Miss Weedon.
The rain, which the gathering clouds in the west had threatened that morning, and which had begun to drop before they entered the house, was coming down in torrents by the time the meal was over, and was accompanied by heavy rolls of thunder and vivid lightning. At each resounding peal and sharp flash the hostess and her sister would disappear within the recesses of a darkened room somewhere beyond, issuing only when there was a lull in the storm.
"It is rather unusual to have so heavy a thunderstorm this late in the season," Miss Ri was remarking when from the station someone came in haste to say that lightning had struck the building and would Mr. Brown come at once. He hurried off, though not without the parting assurance that he would soon return, leaving his wife and Miss Weedon divided between the responsibility of remaining with their guests and their desire to escape to the darkened room.
The storm, however, seemed to have spent its fury in hurling a final bolt at the station, and the timid women had the hardihood to remain in the outer room while only sullen mutterings once in a while reached them. Miss Ri and Linda did their best to reassure them, but in the face of the fact that lightning had struck so near, this was not easy to do.
It was getting on toward train time, and though the station was but a short walk the two visitors wondered how they were to reach it without umbrellas, but in spite of the confusion occasioned by the lightning shock, they were not forgotten by good Mr. Brown, who, true to his feeling of responsibility as agent, appeared with umbrellas at the proper moment, and bore them off with the manner of one who would furnish a band of music if he could. He was faithful to the last, piloting them to seats in the car, telling the conductor to lookafter them, and at the last expressing regret at the coming of the storm as if he were in some way accountable for it. He came to the car window to urge them to come again when it should be made more agreeable for them, then as the train began to move off, he stood, hat in hand till darkness hid him from sight.
"That is what I call a true Maryland gentleman," said Miss Ri. "Did you ever meet such beautiful hospitality, and isn't it worth while to find out that it has not entirely disappeared from the land?"
"I wouldn't have missed it for anything," declared Linda. "It has been a wonderful trip, Aunt Ri, from beginning to end."
"And the end is not yet," responded Miss Ri with prophetic vision.
"I don't see what more could happen," rejoined Linda.
What could happen was made very obvious as they stepped from the train at Boxford, for they had hardly alighted before Berkley Matthews rushed up to them. "Here you are," he cried, as if it were quite to be expected that he would meet them. "It has been a pretty bad storm and I didn't know whether you would venture or not, but I thought I'd be on the safe side. Now—"
But he had not finished his sentence when another figure loomed up in the doorway of the dimly lighted waiting-room, and who should come forwardbut Wyatt Jeffreys. The two men looked at one another and each gave a little embarrassed laugh. "I didn't know you were here, Jeffreys," said Berkley.
"Nor did I know you were," was the reply. "How long since you came?"
"Oh, half an hour or so. When did you get in?"
"Just at this moment. I suppose I don't know the road quite as well as you do."
"Linda, will you give me the pleasure of taking you to Sandbridge in my buggy," broke in Berkley with visible haste.
Miss Ri chuckled. "Go with him, Linda, and I'll give Mr. Jeffreys the inestimable privilege of taking me, that is, if he intends going back to-night. Perhaps you were going on by train, Mr. Jeffreys?"
"Oh, no, I came up—I came up," he was not so ready to announce his purpose as Berkley. "I thought you ladies might not be provided against the storm," he continued, "and it seemed to me that I might perhaps be of use in some way."
"And you were quite right," Miss Ri returned. "It saves me the bother of hunting up a team from the stables, or of deciding upon the other alternative of spending the night in Boxford, something I would much prefer not to do. Where is your buggy? I know the road perfectly." So Mr. Jeffreys was forced to hide whatever disappointmenthe might feel while Berkley bore off Linda to where his buggy, well provided with rain-proof covers, stood under shelter of the station's shed.
Well protected from the weather Linda and her escort drove off hidden behind the oilcloth curtains on which the rain pattered steadily. The lights of the buggy sent long beams over the wet shell road, the air had a mingled odor of salt marsh and moist, fallen autumn leaves. From the clouds rolling off overhead, once in a while rumbled muffled peals of thunder. Berk's horse responded to his master's slightest word, and on a worse night and over worse roads could be depended upon, so Berkley assured his companion.
"So you've been to see the old judge," said the young man by way of beginning conversation. "Isn't he a fine old fellow?"
"He is the dearest old man I ever saw," returned Linda enthusiastically. "He has such a beautiful head, and if one wanted to meet the very pattern of an old time courtly gentleman he would have to go no further than Judge Goldsborough."
"I quite agree with you, and I wish I could ever hope to become anything like him, but nature has not endowed me with his fine presence nor with his brains."
"But you can hope to be J. S. D., you know."
"I don't know. The some day seems a very farcry, just now." He was silent a moment before he asked: "What did the judge have to say to you, Linda?"
"Miss Ri asked him about the Talbot estates and he appeared quite sure that there could be no complications as regards Talbot's Angles, at least. He said he had some old papers which might give him some points about the other places."
"He ought to know if anyone does," returned Berkley. "Suppose there should be complications, Linda, and suppose it should be Talbot's Angles that Jeffreys lays claim to, and that he proved a legitimate claim, what then?"
"I'd not be much worse off than I am now."
"Oh, yes, you would. There is the chance of your sister-in-law marrying again."
"Which I don't think she is liable to do. I don't know that I would mind Mr. Jeffreys' having it any more than I do that Grace should. He, at least, is of the Talbot blood."
"There is something in that. I wish it were all yours; I can't bear the idea of your wearing yourself out teaching, Linda." The words came with caressing concern.
"I am more fortunate than most. Think of my having a home with Miss Ri, and among my own people. I suppose it actually isn't so much that the teaching is difficult as that I am so constituted thatI can't really love it. It is a great thing to make one's living in the way one likes best; that seems to me to be half the battle."
"And what is it you like best?"
"To scribble."
"Have you sent out any more of your work?"
"No, but I intend to."
"And I hope you will finally meet such success that you can give yourself up to that kind of work. I agree with you that one ought to discover what are his best powers and make the best use of them he possibly can; if he would be happy."
"You are happy in your work, Berk, aren't you?"
"Yes, I love it, thank fortune, and I am beginning to see glimpses of a future."
"That is good," returned Linda with satisfaction. "You deserve success, Berk."
"No more than others."
"Much more than most others. Was ever a better son, or brother, if it comes to that?"
"Oh, nonsense, it is no sacrifice to do things for those you love; in fact, I've been rather selfish in pleasing myself, indulging my love of bestowing. It is really no credit to give because one enjoys it."
"Then there is no such thing as unselfishness in the world."
"Oh, yes, there is; when one does a thing he doesn't like, or gives up something he really wants very much; that is my idea of unselfishness."
"Then am I or am I not to consider that you have performed a selfish act in coming all the way to Boxford for me in all this rain?" asked Linda laughing. There may have been a little coquetry in the question, but she was hardly prepared for the seriousness of the reply.
"It was purely and entirely selfish on my part. It was the one thing I wanted most to do, and I would go much further and through a thousand greater difficulties for you. In fact, there is nothing I wouldn't do to make you happy, Linda Talbot."
"There's chivalry for you," returned Linda, determined to take the answer as lightly as possible.
The warmth but not the earnestness had gone out of his tones when he made the next remark: "I wish I could make it possible for you to stop teaching, Linda."
"Marry Grace off and get back Talbot's Angles for me, and I will stop," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Then would you go down there to live?"
"No, I'd still let Phillips have the place, but I would go down there often, and it would bring me enough to live on. I could persuade Miss Ri to spend part of the year there, maybe, and—oh, wouldn't it be lovely?"
Berkley did not reply, but spoke to his horse, "Go on there, Jerry." They had been driving soslowly that the other buggy had passed them though Berkley's was the fleeter horse. But now they sped along over the hard wet road, silence between them. Linda's imagination was busy picturing the delights of having the old homestead for her very own, and was fancying days spent there with Miss Ri and Mammy, for of course Mammy would go.
She was roused by hearing Berkley say in a hard dispassionate voice, "Then your dearest wish on earth is to possess Talbot's Angles."
"I really think it is. I don't suppose it is very nice of me to feel so about what belongs to another, but I confess to you, Berk, that I can't help counting a little on Grace's marrying again."
"That is perfectly natural, and it isn't half so bad as wishing her dead, though some might think so," he added. Then after a moment's silence: "Linda, I was selfish to carry you off this way without giving you any choice in the matter. Perhaps you would rather have gone with Jeffreys. It isn't too late to change now, if you say so. We can easily overtake his buggy."
"At the eleventh hour? No, I thank you, not after I am comfortably settled and safe from the rain. You have tucked me in so well, Berk. I don't believe Mr. Jeffreys could have done it half so well, but probably he has not had the experience you have. I might enjoy variety of companionship,but my bodily comfort is worth more to me." Linda was very skilful in giving non-committal replies it seemed.
Berkley drew a little sigh; whether of relief or disappointment Linda could not determine.
They had nearly overtaken the other two by now and soon had passed them, reaching home before the others. Berkley refused to come in; spite of inducements in the shape of hot coffee and sandwiches. Mr. Jeffreys, however, was not averse to joining in a late supper, and taking his horse around to shelter, he returned to the house while Berkley bade all good-night and drove off in the rain.
Anyone noticing the little office opposite the Jackson House would have seen a light there burning nearly all night, and could he have looked in he would have observed a young man whose earnest eyes were bent upon pages of yellow manuscript. These absorbed him so closely that the clock in the church tower struck three before he aroused himself. Even then he did not leave the place, but sat with elbows on desk and head in hands for another hour. Then, turning out the light and locking the door he crossed the street to the hotel where the watchman, snoring in his chair, paid no heed to the quiet entrance of this late guest.
Long before this Linda had said good-night to her departing relative, but the words which hauntedher before she dropped asleep were not his unemotional and polite phrases, but the words spoken softly, caressingly yet with subdued fire: "There is nothing I would not do to make you happy, Linda Talbot." Was there a confession? Dared she understand it so?
For two days the storm continued, increasing to a gale which whipped the waters of the placid river to a yellow angry flood, and beat the few remaining leaves from their clasp on the trees. During this time Linda and Miss Ri kept indoors as closely as they could, their chief visitor being Mr. Jeffreys. Miss Parthy, to be sure, paddled up the walk to the back door in all the rain, and Bertie Bryan's rosy face peeped in at them one afternoon, but Berkley did not come near, and no one guessed his reason for staying away.
How great a struggle had been going on in the young man's mind none associated with him imagined. Since that night when it was disclosed to him through the papers which Mr. Jeffreys had left in his care, that there was a possibility of Linda's losing her chance to inherit Talbot's Angles, he had fought his giants; one his love for the girl, the other the temptation to withhold the more important papers. He need not destroy them; he would only set them aside, and tell Jeffreys there was not sufficientevidence to warrant a legal claim. At last, however, when he must really face the issue, he laughed at such an idea, and realized that there was but one thing for him to do. He would give up Linda to his rival. Why should Jeffreys not possess the property as well as Grace? So, perhaps, would Linda be given her dearest wish. That day at the postoffice it had been revealed to him what his feeling for the girl really meant, and from that moment his love had grown stronger, deeper, fuller. On that rainy night he had nearly spoken of his feeling for her. Had she spoken less lightly he might have done so, even though at that time his cursory glance at the papers had given him some belief in the justice of Jeffreys' claim. But he had recognized that the girl herself was still heart free, and therefore, though there might be a chance for him he must keep away, must make excuses not to see her. He must assume a great air of one too absorbed in business to spare time for visiting his friends. He could manage all that. But first he must pave the way. He would go and tell them all that to Jeffreys would probably fall the old homestead, and he would say: "Better into the hands of an honest and honorable man, the descendant of the old stock, than to Grace Talbot." He would praise this future owner, and would plant the seeds which should blossom into regard and affection. Jeffreys was a good fellow, a little stiff, maybe, buta man of strict morality and—the fight was bitter—he would make her a good husband.
He shrank from making the revelation which should first suggest to Linda that it was really Talbot's Angles to which the papers referred. He could see her startled look, her fluttering hands, the color coming and going in her cheeks. He bit his lip fiercely and tramped up and down his small office savagely. Why should this ordeal be his to meet? He would turn it over to some other, Miss Ri, perhaps.
"I can't do it," he cried aloud. "I'll fling the whole dog-goned pack of papers into the river first." Her dearest wish! He stopped short. Could he supply it? Was he able to buy Talbot's Angles supposing it were for sale? What nonsense. He laughed mirthlessly. "I am a pretty sort of duffer," he exclaimed. "What am I thinking of?"
He jammed his hat upon his head, slammed the door behind him and strode down the street, passing Uncle Moke without a word and with such a set look on his face as caused the old man to mumble, "Mr. Berk sholy is riled. Look lak he gwine 'res' some o' dese bank robbers, or sumpin."
Berkley's step never faltered as he marched on with head up, as one going to battle. His savage peal of the door-bell brought Miss Ri in haste. Her face cleared when she saw who it was. "Well, Berk," she exclaimed, "what a mighty pull you didgive, to be sure. Come in, come in and help us celebrate. We've a great piece of news for you."
He entered the room, where Linda sat, her face all alight, and some distance away, Mr. Jeffreys, with a queer strained expression in his eyes, but a forced smile upon his lips. On the table stood a tray with glasses filled with some of Miss Ri's famous homemade wine. "Here comes another to help us celebrate," cried Miss Ri. "Get another glass, Verlinda." She filled it, when brought, from the heavy old decanter and, holding her own glass aloft, she exclaimed: "Here's to the next owner of Talbot's Angles!"
Berkley's hand shook so that his glass overflowed and a few drops were spilled. His eyes met those of the other man. Neither spoke, nor did either touch the wine.
"You don't understand my toast," cried Miss Ri, looking from one to the other. "Grace Talbot is going to marry Major Forbes, and Linda will have her heart's desire."
"Of course, I'll drink to Linda, if that is what you mean," said Berkley, recovering himself and tossing off the contents of the glass, while Mr. Jeffreys echoed: "Of course, we'll drink to Miss Linda."
Berkley sat down, his head in a whirl. This put an entirely different face on the matter. He would have to think it over. This was no time to forceconclusions. He scarcely heard Linda's eager account of the letter she had that day received from her sister-in-law. "It was so like Grace," she told him. "Major Forbes was such an old friend—"
"Quite old," put in Miss Ri. "He must be sixty, if he's a day."
"And she was such a dependent creature," Linda went on. "It seemed only proper that these two starved hearts should be united. She hoped Linda would not think she had been precipitate, but it had been eight months since poor Martin—not darling Martin any more—" Linda commented sadly, "and she would, of course, wait for the full year to pass. She felt that dear Linda would be pleased, not only because of Grace's happiness, but because it would benefit her. She must not think that little Grace was unmindful of that part of it. She had it in mind to do what she could for Martin's sister and, though it was a sacrifice to give up her home to Linda, it was done cheerfully. Linda must feel assured of that."
"Now, isn't it like that woman to take such an attitude," sneered Miss Ri. "Give it up? She can't help herself, as I see it."
"Major Forbes is abundantly able to keep me in the style to which I have been accustomed," Linda read—another sneer from Miss Ri—" and I am sure I shall be happier than living a lonely and forlorn widowhood," and so on and so on.
As Linda's soft slow tones ceased, Berkley roused himself to say, "I only dropped in for a minute. I am terribly busy these days. I must run right back to the office." He did not look at Mr. Jeffreys, but shook hands with Miss Ri. "Sorry I can't stay," he said nervously. "I'll come again as soon as I get time, Miss Ri."
Linda followed him to the door. "Aren't you glad, Berk?" she asked wistfully.
He looked past her down the street. "Glad? Of course, I'm glad," he said, then he ran down the steps, Linda looking after him with a quivering lip.
She returned to find that Mr. Jeffreys, too, had gone. "By the side door," explained Miss Ri.
Linda went over to the fireplace and put her foot on the fender, her back to Miss Ri, that the latter might not see the tears which filled her eyes. "They weren't a bit glad, either of them," she said presently. "I thought Berk would be, anyhow. Don't you think he acted queerly, Aunt Ri?"
"I think they both did; but it may have been that they were completely bowled over with surprise. You know we could scarcely believe it at first, ourselves, and men are much slower to grasp things than women. They were dumbfounded, that was all and, no doubt, Berk is busy. I hope he is. So much the better for him, my dear."
Linda made no response. She was not aware that Berkley had gone back to his office to wageanother battle. What a turn of fate, to be sure, and now what was to be done? It would be Linda, Linda who was to be deprived of her own, and his must be the hand to deal the blow. Those papers! He struck them with his clenched fist, as he stood over his desk, and if a smothered oath escaped him, it is to be hoped the recording angel failed to register it against him. "There is one thing certain," he told himself; "if the thing is to be carried on, I'll throw up the case. I'll be hanged if I have anything to do with it."
He picked up a letter which he had laid aside, sat down, and began to read it over. It was from Cyrus Talbot to his brother Madison, and it read:
"You say that your property Addition has not suffered as much as some others, but that on account of hard times, you do not feel it possible at this time to rebuild the house burnt some months ago; therefore, since evil times have befallen you by reason of the ravages of war, I am quite willing that you should continue to occupy the house at Talbot's Angles; but as soon as peace visits our land, I would esteem it a favor, if you would find someone to take the plantation itself, paying me a yearly rental, which shall be fixed as circumstances allow. My own affairs here continue to prosper, and I do not think I shall return to Maryland, having found me a wife whose relatives live in close proximity andare a God-fearing and industrious people. I shall be glad to hear from you as occasion permits, and subscribe myself"Your aff. brother,"Cyrus."
"You say that your property Addition has not suffered as much as some others, but that on account of hard times, you do not feel it possible at this time to rebuild the house burnt some months ago; therefore, since evil times have befallen you by reason of the ravages of war, I am quite willing that you should continue to occupy the house at Talbot's Angles; but as soon as peace visits our land, I would esteem it a favor, if you would find someone to take the plantation itself, paying me a yearly rental, which shall be fixed as circumstances allow. My own affairs here continue to prosper, and I do not think I shall return to Maryland, having found me a wife whose relatives live in close proximity andare a God-fearing and industrious people. I shall be glad to hear from you as occasion permits, and subscribe myself
"Your aff. brother,
"Cyrus."
This letter appeared never to have been sent, but there were others bearing upon the subject from Madison to his brother. It seemed from them that Madison was able to find a tenant for the Angles, but in time he proved unsatisfactory, as there were many reports of his thriftlessness, and at the time of Cyrus's death the place lay idle.
That this place was Talbot's Angles appeared evident from references to certain fields lying next the old church, and in an account of some disaster befalling the old windmill in a heavy storm. There were, too, old receipts and bills which identified the property and proved that, at least during the life of Cyrus Talbot, it had been in his possession, whatever may have happened afterward. Owing to the fact that many deeds and records had been destroyed during the War of 1812 and later during the Civil War, when neglect and indifference caused many legal papers to be lost, it promised to be a difficult thing to trace the ownership through succeeding years, unless further proof could be found.
At last Berkley happened upon a letter dated much later, a letter from Linda's own father toCharles Jeffreys. It said: "I have looked into the matter you bring to my notice, and I find that you are right in most of your surmises; but, as the place lay idle and neglected for a number of years, tenantless and abandoned, it was in no condition to bring in any return when I took it in hand. I have spent a good deal on it, and if you are willing to consider this outlay as rental for the time being, I shall be glad to be considered as your tenant, otherwise I must give up the place. Since the slaves were freed, labor is difficult to get, and I cannot afford to bring up so neglected a place at my own expense and pay rent besides. We have continued to live in the old house, which has been kept in good repair. Later on, we may be able to come to a different arrangement; but at present it seems to me it would be to your better advantage if you allow matters to remain as they are. If you take the property into your own hands, much money will have to be spent on it before it can bring you any appreciable return."
"Twenty-five years ago," mused Berkley. "I wonder if Martin knew, or whether a different arrangement was at last made. I imagine not and that the place was allowed to remain in James Talbot's hands in return for what he might do for it. That is the latest information to be had, that I can see, and there is really nothing more to be found out from these papers."
He rested his head on his hand and remained lost in deep thought. For all Miss Ri's decided announcement that he might even perjure himself for one he loved, that was something Berkley Matthews would never do. No, there was no help for it; facts were facts, and he must let them be known. Could he ever expect to win Linda's love and respect, if he had won her by such unworthy means? Would he not always be playing a false part, and would not the result fail of good to him and to her? No, a dishonorable transaction, no matter what its motive, would never do to base true love upon. Let things take their course, and let the best man win. It might be, after all, that she would not marry Jeffreys, in spite of his prospects. But this hope he dared not cherish. He pressed his hand over his eyes, as if he would shut out too bright a vision, and just then the door of his office opened and in walked Mr. Jeffreys.
Berkley turned sharply at the sudden entrance. "Ah," he exclaimed, "you are just the man I was thinking of. I've been going over these papers again, Jeffreys, and so far as I can judge, it looks like a pretty good case. Sit down and we'll talk it over."
Jeffreys drew up a chair. Berkley wheeled around and the two sat facing one another. "Of course," Berkley began, "you realize that the propertyreferred to is Miss Talbot's old home, Talbot's Angles."
Mr. Jeffreys looked down. "Yes, I inferred so, although at first I was uncertain, not knowing as much as I do now."
"The records will have to be searched, of course, and we can find out who has been paying taxes and all that, you understand. I don't know that I shall have time to attend to it myself; I am pretty busy just now."
"That is too bad; I depended on you, Matthews."
"I know you did, but—"
Wyatt Jeffreys leaned forward. "Is it only because you are busy? Is that the only reason?"
Berkley did not answer at once; then he parried the question.
"What other reason could there be?"
"Your interest in Miss Talbot. I realize, Matthews, that I have come down here a perfect stranger to deprive a very lovely young woman of her property, and that you should in all reason feel antagonistic is not to be wondered at. I think you have known for some time that it was her property that I claimed."
"I have known it only since I made a closer examination of these papers."
"Very well; that does not alter the fact that you have been uniformly kind and considerate so far asI was concerned, and therefore I feel that I can speak as man to man." He paused. "Unless you have a prior claim, there is no need of Miss Talbot's losing her property if—"
"She will take you with it," Berkley filled the pause. "I understand." The crucial moment had come. Berkley suddenly swung his chair around, his face, turned from the other, was white and set, but he said steadily, "That would certainly be the best way out of the difficulty. I have no prior claim, Jeffreys, and I wish you success." He swung himself back again and held out his hand.
The other took it in a firm grip. "That is good of you, Matthews. I appreciate your kindness more than I can say." There was silence, broken by Mr. Jeffreys, who went on: "If it is only the matter of delay then, Matthews, I can wait your good pleasure, if you will take up my case."
Berkley gave himself time before he answered. Why shouldn't he take the case? What odds, now, what Linda thought? He had relinquished all rights to her consideration. If he did not hunt up the evidence, someone else would, and she be no better off. If he must disregard her, he could at least be true to Jeffreys. "I'll not go back on my word. I'll take it," he said shortly.
"I've kept a busy man too long," said Jeffreys rising, "but I hope some day I can show my appreciation of what you are doing for me, in more waysthan one," he added with a smile. He held out his hand. Berkley took it mechanically, saying, "Good-night."
"Good-evening," returned Mr. Jeffreys, and he went out.
It was not late, though growing dark, but to Berkley it had become darkest night. Never, till that moment, had he realized how strong a hold upon him his affection for Linda had taken. She was so sweet, so gentle, one whose presence always brought calm and peace, yet she could be very droll and merry, very bright and entertaining, with a blessed grace of humor. With all her poetic fancy there was the domestic side, too, which had made her the successful housekeeper when yet but a school girl. And how dainty she always was, how womanly her little frills and simple ornaments. Even the way her dark hair grew around her pretty low forehead, and was worn parted above it, made her distinctive from other girls, whose monstrous puffs and braids gave them a top-heavy look. What a woman for a man to come home to after a day of stress. She, who had striven for her daily bread, how well she would understand what a man's battle of life meant. His first impulse was to throw everything to the winds, to snatch up his hat and rush off to her, beg her to listen to him, tell her he would work for her, live for her, die for her. He stood for a moment, trembling with intensity of feeling, thenhe sat heavily down again. "I can't do it," he whispered. "I must think of her, of what is best for her."
Moments passed. The street lamps shone out, footsteps echoed and reëchoed. Some boys went by singing. In the darkness Berkley sat very quietly, only once in a while he whispered, "Oh, God! oh, God!" as one who has found his Gethsemane. The hours wore on, the street grew very quiet, the rumbling of wagons, the tread of passers-by ceased. Lights in the lower stories of the houses began to be extinguished, while those above showed in first one room and then another. Berkley finally arose, stumbled uncertainly across the street and up to his room, where he threw himself across his bed, face down, and lay there all night wrestling with himself.
The days slipped by till the Christmas holidays were at hand. Linda was busy with her school. Miss Ri occupied herself with the hundred things which kept her interests alive. Her clubs, church meetings, visits to sick neighbors, public and private charities, all filled her days to overflowing. Mr. Jeffreys called regularly, so it came to be an understood thing that he would appear either afternoon or evening. Berkley visited the house seldom, and rarely when Linda was at home. He would run in once in a while, asserting that he was too busy to stay and had only dropped in to say "Howdy." He would question Miss Ri about her affairs, but before she could turn her queries upon him, he would be off. After that one bitter fight, he had himself well in hand, and the fact that he worked far into the night and was fast gaining a reputation for industry and exactness, not only bore out his statements, but caused him to stand well with the older lawyers.
"That's a young man who will make his mark," said Judge Baker to Miss Ri one morning when he met her on the street—Berkley had just passedthem with a swift bow—"though I am afraid he is working too hard."
"I'll have to haul him over the coals," returned Miss Ri. "You know he is a great favorite of mine, Judge."
"So I have observed. Give him a little motherly advice, Miss Ri. He needs it. He mustn't be burning the candle at both ends; but I prophecy, that if he continues to exhibit the keenness and skill he is developing, he will be judge some day."
The words returned to Miss Ri as she walked down street, and her thoughts went back to the trunk and then to the papers. There had been no news from Judge Goldsborough, and there appeared to be an absolute lull. Mr. Jeffreys had announced that Berkley was going to take up the case as soon as he had time, and so it stood.
If Linda missed Berkley, she did not say so, and never commented upon his sins of omission. She accepted Mr. Jeffreys' constant attention as a matter of course, was chagrined only when he refused to tell her about his claim, for he always set aside the question with, "We cannot tell definitely as yet."
"He is such a cautious, deliberate person," complained the girl one day to Miss Ri. "I wish he would show a little more spontaneity."
"I thought you admired his beautiful dignity and reserve."
"Oh, I do; except when I want my curiosity satisfied,"laughed Linda. "I don't doubt but that he says what he really means, which is more than can be believed of some persons I know."
Miss Ri gave her a sharp, quick look, but made no comment. Her crochet needle moved swiftly in and out the meshes of white wool she held. "Verlinda," she said presently, "how would you like to go up to the city for your holiday? I invite you as my guest. We can get someone to stay here in the house to keep Phebe satisfied, and we'll have a real rollicking time going to the theatre, shopping, seeing our friends, and giddy-gadding generally. What do you say to it?"
"Oh, Aunt Ri, it would be perfectly delightful, but—"
"But what?"
"Won't it be very expensive?"
"It won't be too expensive. I've just had a dividend I didn't expect, and I can't think of a pleasanter way of spending it. I hate to go poking around by myself, and I don't know anyone whom it would be more real joy to have with me."
"Not Miss Parthy?"
"Oh, Parthy's an old stick when it comes to the city. She isn't young enough," Miss Ri laughed comfortably.
Linda sat bending over an embroidered piece she was doing for Grace's Christmas. There was a reminiscent look on her face. This would be herfirst Christmas since Martin died. It would be hard not to spend the day as usual in the old home, and harder still not to hear the voice of him who had always made Christmas a happy day for her. Yet, after all, it would be less lonely with Miss Ri, for had not the dear woman made this a true home for her? It was like her to plan this outing, that the girl might not yearn too deeply for past joys. There would not be the old church to decorate, as in the years gone by, but on Christmas Eve she could take wreaths to the churchyard. Her thoughts were far away when Miss Ri's voice roused her.
"Well, shall we go?"
"If you really think you would enjoy having me," answered Linda, coming back to the present. "I think you are a darling to ask me."
"Of course I'd enjoy having you. We can have our Christmas here—Phebe would be broken-hearted if we didn't allow her to cook our Christmas dinner—and then we'll pack up our duds and go. I don't know that I can take you to any big functions, but we can have a mighty good time, I truly believe. We ought to have someone to dine with us on Christmas Day to make it more festive. I'd ask Berk, but he wouldn't miss spending the day with his mother for worlds. We might have Parthy and Mr. Jeffreys. Parthy hasn't any toogood a woman in the kitchen, and it would suit all around; give her a rest and please the cook."
So it was arranged, and Linda looked forward quite joyously to the ten days in the city. Never before had such a treat been hers; a few days at a time had been the utmost of her stay. She had gone to her brother's wedding, a showy affair in which she had little heart, and had several times remained with a friend over Sunday, but this was a very different affair.
Phebe, on being consulted as to whom she would prefer to look after while the two were absent, gave an unqualified vote for Mr. Berk. "He so jokey, Miss Ri," she said, "an' he do look at my wittles lak he can't wait. Den he a gem'man. I laks to wait on a rale gem'man, one o' de ole fambly kin'. Mr. Jeffs he a gem'man, too, I specs, but he don' know nuffin how to talk to us niggers. He so solemn, lak ole owl, or fo' all de worl' lak a preacher. He tas'es dis an' he tas'es dat lak he dunno whe'r he gwine lak it or no. Mr. Berk he shake he haid an' say, 'Um-um, dat sholy look good.' Mr. Jeffs ack lak he feard somebody think he enjyin' hisse'f, but Mr. Berk thes pitch in an enjy hisse'f 'thout carin' what anybody think."
Miss Ri laughed and, upon the occasion of her next walk down town, stopped at Berk's office to ask if he would take possession and sleep nights ather house during the holidays. He responded with alacrity, promising to behave himself, but begging that he might be allowed to take his meals at the hotel.
"And disappoint Phebe? Never!" cried Miss Ri. "She is counting upon feeding you up. I told her you were getting thin and pale because they didn't give you enough to eat at the Jackson House, and she is fairly aching to provide for you. She will have to cook for herself, and why not for you? Besides, you are her choice of the whole townful, so you should feel flattered."
"I do," returned Berkley, "and very grateful to both you and her. I'll come, Miss Ri. When do you start?"
"The day after Christmas. You'll be back by then?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be back. I shall go to town only for the day, and must be here for various reasons as soon as practicable."
"Then that is settled. Merry Christmas, Berk. I wish you could dine with us, but I know your mother's mind, and I wouldn't even suggest such a thing."
Miss Ri's box of books provided several gifts for outsiders, but for Linda was a special gift obtained, a fine soft evening cloak, something she did not possess, and which she would need during her holiday visit. From the new cousin came a handsome setof books and a box of flowers, the latter for both ladies. A very ornate, wholly impossible scarf of coarse texture arrived from Grace for her sister-in-law.
"It just looks like her," commented Miss Ri. "You can always tell underbred people by the presents they give. No lady would look twice at a thing like that. Why didn't she send you one plain fine handkerchief, if she didn't want to spend her money for something handsome? It would at least have shown some refined taste."
"I don't believe she knows any better," returned Linda, by way of excuse.
"Exactly," replied Miss Ri.
From Berk came merelyanunostentatious little card for Linda, though for Miss Ri arrived a fine potted plant. "I'll allow you to look at it," remarked the recipient with a little laugh.
Not even a card found its way from Linda to Berkley, though in her upper drawer lay a half-finished blue silk tie. She had stopped working on it long before.
Mr. Jeffreys saw them off on a cold twenty-sixth of December. That same evening Berkley arrived to take possession of the room Miss Ri had told Phebe to make ready for him. Phebe, with her head tied up in a new kerchief, and with an immaculate expanse of white apron, was ready to receive him, to show him upstairs and to wait upon himhand and foot. She adored Linda, had great respect for Miss Ri, but "a rale young gem'man" awakened all the love of service within her, and if he had done the justice she expected to the meal she served, he would probably have died of indigestion that very night, and the close of this chapter would mark the end of this tale. However, whether from lack of appetite or for other reasons, he ate with discretion, and then retired to the sitting-room, where he worked over a budget of papers till near midnight. With candle in hand, he then went upstairs. As he passed through the upper hall he perceived the door of a room open. He tip-toed up to it, stood for a moment on the sill, then entered softly and with the expression of one approaching a sanctuary. Phebe had removed all suggestion of disorder, but she could not remove the subtle reminders of a girlish presence, which were suggested by the pictures on the wall, the books on the table, by the little slippers peeping from under the foot of the lounge. An end of ribbon fluttered out from behind the door of the small wash-closet, which stood partly open. Berkley gently lifted the satiny end and laid it against his cheek, then to his lips. After this, he tip-toed out again, closing the door softly behind him. He had this once entered a holy of holies, but he must not be tempted again.
Meanwhile Miss Ri and Linda were settled attheir hotel and were making plans for the next day.
"I suppose I must go to see Grace," remarked Linda.
"Oh, not right away," was Miss Ri's reply. "Wait till the memory of that scarf becomes a little more vague, then you will be able to thank her for it with some similitude of warmth. In the case of that gift, it is one of the instances when 'absence makes the heart grow fonder.' No, I have planned what we are to do to-morrow. In the morning we will go shopping; in the afternoon we will stay at home and receive calls; in the evening we will go to the theatre."
"Oh, but, Aunt Ri, I haven't been going anywhere."
"High time you did. I don't want you to do anything that might distress you, Verlinda, but I think a good play or two will do you a world of good. We will look at the paper and see what is going on. We must hear some good music. Perhaps there are to be some good concerts at the Peabody; we will find out. I don't believe in persons making a selfish indulgence of a sorrow. I am sure no one more than Martin would like you to have a pleasant, cheerful time. You need it, and we ought to do what is best for us."
"Very well," Linda acquiesced. "I am in your hands, Aunt Ri. I will do as you say."
Miss Ri looked pleased. "That is what I do like about you, Verlinda; you are always so sweetly reasonable. Come, let's go down to supper."
It was rather a pleasant sensation to be one of the company which occupied the dining-room, and Linda enjoyed looking about her quite as much as she did the partaking of the excellent meal. They had just finished, when suddenly she caught sight of a party at one of the tables across the room. "Aunt Ri, Aunt Ri," she said, turning toward her companion. "Who do you think is over there, just across from us, a little to your rear? You'll have to turn your head—the Goldsboroughs. Mrs. Goldsborough, the governess, the two little girls, and an older one. She must be the débutante."
Miss Ri turned her head, but by this time the little girls had caught sight of them and were smiling and nodding. "They've evidently come up for the holidays," said Miss Ri. "That Miss Carroll is quite a pretty girl, isn't she?"
"Yes, I thought so when we met her the other day at 'Mary's Delight,' It was nice of them to bring her, wasn't it? She told me that she was very happy with the Goldsboroughs, that the children were dears, and that she was quite like a daughter in the house."
"Julia would make her feel so. She is one of the kindest-hearted women in the world, and not theleast of a snob. They are coming over to speak to us."
The two groups met half way, and walked to the reception room together. Freddy, the eldest daughter, was bound for a theatre party and must hurry away. "She was named Fredericka, for her grandfather," Mrs. Goldsborough explained. The other little girls, Julia and Mary, sat one each side of Linda, on the sofa; Miss Carroll drew up a stool opposite, while Mrs. Goldsborough and Miss Ri settled themselves further away for a good talk.
There were ever so many things going on in the city, the girls told Linda. One of their cousins was to have a tea, another had asked them to a box party, a third to a small dance. "We won't be out for two or three years yet," said Mary; "but we shall have just as good a time as Fred, if she is a débutante." Then there was much talk of this and that one who had come out that season; of Fred's engagements and the attention she was having, the twittering chat which young girls like. Miss Carroll smiled indulgently at the little chatterers, but once or twice gave Linda a look, as much as to say, "We know what it is worth." However, Linda enjoyed this glimpse into a frivolous world and went upstairs with Miss Ri without a thought to sadden her.
There was a morning's shopping, luncheon at a quaint little place on Charles Street, a return to thehotel, an afternoon with the friends who had been notified of their arrival and who called promptly, then the theatre, and Linda's first day in the city was so full that she dropped to sleep with never a thought of Sandbridge and the friends there who might be missing her.
The next day Miss Ri reluctantly consented to a call on Grace. The house where the Johnsons lived was in a new, rather than a fashionable part of the city. The room into which the maid showed them was pretentiously furnished, crowded with ornaments, ugly though expensive, the walls lined with poor pictures in gaudy frames. Money value, rather than good taste, was the keynote of the establishment, it was easily seen.
After keeping them waiting for some time, Grace swept in wearing a new gown tinkling with jets and redolent with sachet. She made many apologies for having kept them waiting. "Such a surprise. So sorry I couldn't have known." She had been up so late the night before, and the rest of it. Were they up for a shopping expedition? There were so many good bargains after the holidays.