"HE HAS GIVEN ME THE DEAREST RING."
"HE HAS GIVEN ME THE DEAREST RING."
She lifted her eyebrows and viewed Linda with surprise when told why they had come, where they were staying, and how long they intended to remain. She could not quite understand why Miss Ri should have invited anyone so uninteresting as she conceived her sister-in-law to be. Yet she didnot voice her opinion, but only said gushingly, "Oh, then you'll be able to meet the dear Major. I do so want you to know him, Miss Hill, and you, too, Linda. Of course, the engagement cannot be announced except to the family, but he has given me the dearest ring, which I do not wear in public, naturally." She stretched out her plump hand and displayed the solitaire with much satisfaction.
There was some talk upon trifling matters, then Grace, turning to Linda, said, "Oh, by the way, what about that Mr. Jeffreys? I had a note from Mr. Matthews a few days ago, and he tells me there is a claimant for Talbot's Angles, and that he is going to law about it. Mr. Matthews asked me if I knew of any old papers which might be in the house down there. I told him Mr. Phillips had the key and he would go with him to see what could be found. It would be sad, would it not, Miss Hill, if, after my effort to do what would seem best for Linda, the property should pass into other hands?"
"Talbot's Angles? Are you sure it is Talbot's Angles?" asked Linda. "We have always thought it must be Addition, or even Timber Neck."
"No, I am quite sure it is the Angles. Of course, that is the most valuable of the three places now, though the Major says none of them are worth so very much; but then he has such large ideas. The amount at which we value the place would be a mere bagatelle to him."
The call was short. Miss Ri could not stand much of Grace, but they were urged to come soon again and to come in the evening, when the dear Major would be there. Grace was invited to have tea with the two at their hotel, an invitation which she accepted eagerly, and then the callers left.
"Aunt Ri," began Linda as soon as they had turned from the house, "did you dream it was Talbot's Angles?"
"Why, yes, dear; I half suspected it all the time."
"Why?"
"From the way those two, Berk and Mr.Jeffreys, acted."
"And that is why you wanted to consult Judge Goldsborough?"
"Yes, that was why."
"But he says there is not a shred of proof."
"He said so at first. Later, he was not so sure but there might be complications."
"I understand." Linda was silent for some time; then she spoke again, following out her thoughts: "Aunt Ri, do you think that is why Berk has avoided me? Do you think he has known all this time?"
Miss Ri hesitated before she made answer. "It may be that, Verlinda."
Linda gave a little sigh. "I am sorry he had to feel that way about it. I wouldn't have blamedhim, for he was not to blame, was he? He couldn't help it."
"Not unless he chose to be disloyal to Mr. Jeffreys and dishonorable altogether."
"And that he could never be. We know that, don't we, Aunt Ri? Shall we see his sister and mother, do you think?"
"I am sure we shall. I wrote to Mrs. Matthews that we were coming."
No more was said on the subject just then; but, in thinking it over in the seclusion of her room, it dawned upon Miss Ri that Linda was much more concerned for Berkley's part in the transaction than in her own loss of the property. "Well," she exclaimed, sitting down to face the situation, "this is a revelation. How on earth is it going to end now, I'd like to know."
The time passed as gaily as Miss Ri meant it should: in receiving and returning calls, in a little sight-seeing, in shopping, lunching, dining, a moderate amount of theatre-going. There was a visit to the old low-roofed, grey-shingled market one Saturday evening, when the Goldsborough girls, with their governess, begged Miss Ri and Linda to join them in a frolic.
"We want to buy taffy," they said, "and see the funny people. Do go with us; it will be so jolly." The expedition was quite to Miss Ri's taste and, that Linda might have the experience, she urged the going. A merry time they all had of it, pushing their way from one end of the long market-house to the other, and then parading up and down outside, where the country people, with their wagons, exhibited their wares on tables improvised from a couple of barrels with boards laid across. A little of anything that might be salable was offered, from bunches of dried herbs to fat turkeys.
"It hasn't changed a particle since I was a little girl," declared Miss Ri. "My uncle used to takeme to market with him before breakfast on summer mornings, and would buy me a glass of ice cream from that very stand," she designated one with a bee-hive on its sign. "I wonder how I could eat such a thing so early in the morning, though then I thought it a great treat. On Saturday evenings in winter he always brought home a parcel of taffy, which tasted exactly as this does which we have bought to-night. And my aunt, I can see her now with a colored boy walking behind her carrying a huge basket, while she had a tiny one in which to bring home special dainties."
"That custom isn't altogether done away with yet," Miss Carroll told her. "Some of the good old housekeepers still cling to their little baskets."
"And a good thing, too," asserted Miss Ri.
One afternoon, Grace brought her Major to call, and they found him to be a stout, elderly man, rather florid, a little consequential, but quite genial and polite, and evidently very proud of his young fiancée.
"He's not so bad," commented Miss Ri, "although he is not of our stripe. I was sure he could not be a West Point man, and he isn't. He served in the Spanish War for a short time, he told me. However, I don't doubt that it is going to be a perfectly satisfactory marriage. He likes flattery, and Grace is an adept in bestowing it."
Mrs. Matthews and her daughter, MargaretEdmondson, were among the very first to call and to offer an invitation to luncheon. "We shall not make a stranger of you any more than of Maria," said Mrs. Matthews, taking Linda's hands in hers. "I remember you so well as a little bit of a girl, of whom Berkley was always ready to make a playmate when you came to town. My first recollection of you is when I brought Berkie over at Miss Ri's request. You were no more than three and he was perhaps six or seven. You looked at him for a long time with those big blue eyes of yours, and then you said, 'Boy, take me to see the chickens.' You liked to peep through the fence at Miss Parthy's fowls, but were not allowed to go that far alone, you were such a little thing. From that day Berkie was always asking when Miss Ri's little girl was coming back, for you left that same evening."
Miss Ri looked at Linda. Her face was flushed and her eyes downcast.
"I shouldn't be surprised," put in Margaret, "if Berk were wishing now that Miss Ri's little girl would come back."
Linda withdrew her hand from Mrs. Matthews' clasp and turned from the gentle face, whose eyes were searching hers. "Oh, you are mistaken, Mrs. Edmondson," she said hurriedly. "Berk and I very seldom see one another; in fact, I have not laid eyes on him for weeks."
"He's working too hard," said Mrs. Matthews,turning to Miss Ri. "I thought he looked thin and careworn when he was last here. I wish you all would advise him not to overwork. He values your advice very highly, Maria."
"We all think he is working too hard," returned Miss Ri, "but if he listens to anyone, it will be his mother. I never knew a more devoted son."
"He is indeed," replied Mrs. Matthews. "Maria, I hate to have him in that comfortless hotel; he was always such a home boy."
"Come, Mother, come," broke in Mrs. Edmondson. "Miss Ri, if you get mother started on the subject of Berk, she will stand and talk all day. We shall expect you both on Thursday. Take the car to Cold Spring Lane and you will not have far to walk."
The callers departed and though Linda said little of them, Miss Ri noticed that she made no protest against the trip to the pretty suburb where they lived. She had not been so ready on other occasions.
Mrs. Edmondson, proud of her pretty new house, was ready to show off its conveniences and comforts, and to discourse upon the delights of living in a place which was not city and yet was accessible to all that one desired, for it was not half an hour by trolley to the center of the town. Her husband, a young business man, was making his way rapidly, Mrs. Matthews told Miss Ri with pride. "And heis a good son to me," she added, "so I shall never want for a home while I have three children. Margie insists that I shall never leave her; but, unless Berkley marries, I think I should make a home for him. I can't have him living in a hotel all his life." Then followed anecdotes of Berkley, of this act of self-denial, that evidence of devotion. "You know, Maria, that he is exactly like his father. The Doctor always thought of himself last."
"Mother, dear," interrupted Margaret, "they didn't come to hear Berk eulogized, but to see your pretty room. Come, Linda, let us leave them. Miss Ri is almost as bad as she is when it comes to Berk." She put her arm around Linda and drew her away, whispering, "Mother thinks I am jealous, but I am not a bit; I only don't want her to get the notion that she must leave me and go back to Sandbridge. After all Berk has done for us, I think he ought to have his chance to get ahead, and the very least I can do is to try to make mother happy here with me. Herbert agrees with me. I wish Berk had a home of his own, and then mother would be satisfied."
The two younger women went off to view other parts of the house, while their elders talked of those things nearest their hearts. They were old friends and had much in common. Margaret was a sweet womanly person, not a beauty, but fresh and fair and good to look upon, with the same honest greyeyes as her brother's, and the same sturdy frankness of manner. Linda thought her a trifle expansive, till she realized that herself was anything but a stranger, in spite of the fact that she had not met these two since she was a little girl.
"I am glad I wasn't brought up within hail of the monument," said Margaret as she exhibited her spick and span kitchen. "I should hate to be deprived of the privileges of my own kitchen, and I shouldn't like to believe I must live on certain streets or be a Pariah. There is too much of that feeling in this blessed old city, and I must say our Cavalier ancestors did give us pleasure-loving natures as an inheritance. Half the girls I know are pretty and sweet and amiable, but they never read anything but trash, think of nothing but wearing pretty clothes and of having a good time. However, I think they do make good wives and mothers when it comes to settling down. Someone said to me the other day, that Southern girls married only for love and that poverty came in at the door to mock them for being so silly as to think any marriage was better than none; that they didn't mind love flying out of the window half so much as they did going to their graves unmarried. There may be some truth in that, but I think they are generally pretty contented and are satisfied to take life as it comes."
Margaret was a great chatterer, and was delighted to get Linda to herself, to air her own viewsand to learn of Linda's. "Aren't you glad, Linda," she went on, "that you are making a place for yourself in the world? Berk has often said that you were quite different from most of the girls he knew, and that he wished we could be good friends. He says you can talk of other things than dress and gossip, and that you are quite domestic. Are you domestic?"
"Why"—Linda paused to consider—"yes, I think I am. I like to keep house. I did for my brother, you know; yet I like a good time and pretty clothes as much as anyone."
"Of course. So do I. But you care for other things, too. Berk thinks you are so wonderful to write so well, and to get along so successfully with your teaching."
Linda made a little grimace. "Berk is very kind to say so, but that is something for which I do not feel myself fitted and which I really do not enjoy."
"So much the more credit for doing it well. Linda, you must come to the Club while you are here. I know you would enjoy it. Mother and I both belong. There is another and more fashionable literary club, but we like ours much the best. The real workers are members of it, not the make-believes. It meets every Tuesday afternoon. We must arrange for you to go with us, and Miss Ri must come, too." Here the elder women entered, and Miss Ri reminded Linda that they were to goto a tea on their way home, so they departed, Linda and Margaret parting like old friends.
The tea was a quiet little affair which Linda had promised Miss Ri to attend, as it was at the house of one of the latter's particular friends, and here they lingered till dinner time. As they were going to their rooms a card was handed them. Miss Ri raised her lorgnette to read the name. "Mr. Jeffreys has been here," she exclaimed.
"The gen'l'man say he be back this evenin'," the elevator boy told them.
"Humph!" Miss Ri looked at Linda. "Were we going anywhere to-night?"
"No. You remember that we said we would be going all day and that we'd better stay in and rest."
"Then rest shall I, and you can see the young man. Now, no protests; I am not going down one step. I can trust you to go unchaperoned this once, I should think. I don't feel like talking to him. I have been talking all day."
Therefore Linda went down alone when the young man was announced, to find him sitting in a little alcove, waiting for her. He was in correct evening dress and looked well. Linda had never seen him so carefully attired and could but acknowledge that there was a certain elegance in the tall, dignified figure, and that he looked quite as distinguished as any man she had met. She, herself, was all in white, Miss Ri having persuaded her thatsuch a dress was as appropriate as her frocks of black. She looked very charming, thought the young man, who rose to meet her, and his manner was slightly more genial than usual.
"It seems a very long time since I saw you, Miss Linda," he said.
"Only a week," returned Linda, seating herself on a low divan, her skirts making soft billows around her.
"You have enjoyed yourself and the time has passed very quickly, I presume."
"Very quickly. We have had a delightful week. And you?"
"There have been festivities in Sandbridge from which you were missed."
"And to which, probably, I should not have gone. No piece of news of any importance?"
"One which will interest you and which I came to tell you of."
He hesitated so long that Linda, to help him out, began, "And the news is—"
"About my claim." He hesitated, as if finding it very hard to go on.
"Oh, I think I can anticipate what you have to say," rejoined Linda easily. "My sister-in-law has told me that it is Talbot's Angles to which your papers refer. Is that true?"
"It is."
"And have you established your facts?" Linda asked the question steadily.
"Not perfectly; although the past week has given us some extra proof in the papers found at the house itself. Among them we found some receipts given by Cyrus Talbot to the tenant for rent. They read: 'Received from John Briggs one quarter's rent for Talbot's Angles,' so much, and are signed by Cyrus Talbot."
"By 'us' you mean Mr. Matthews and yourself?"
"Yes, it is through his efforts that we are able to get so much evidence as we have."
"I see." There was silence for a moment. Linda sat perfectly still and, except that she nervously played with a ring on her finger, appeared unmoved.
Mr. Jeffreys watched her for a moment, then he leaned forward. "Miss Linda," he began, "I know how you must feel, and it pains me beyond expression to bring you news that must be disappointing to you, but—" he halted in his precise speech, "but you need not lose your old home, if you will take the claimant with it."
Linda lifted startled eyes.
The young man went on: "I have thought the matter over and while I could not consider it expedient to live on the place, I would not sell it unless you wished, and would always, under any circumstances,reserve the house, that you might still consider it your home."
Linda laughed a little wildly. "It seems that is always the way of it. I am merely to consider it my home in every case."
He drew nearer and took her hand. "Then, will you accept it as I offer it? With myself? I would try to make you happy. I think if I had the stimulus of your companionship, I could succeed. We could make our home in Hartford, and you could return to Maryland when it pleased you each year. I have just received an offer from an insurance company. They wish to send me to England on business, and on my return they give me the promise of such a position as will insure me a future."
"It is in Hartford?"
"Yes; and it is a lovely city, you know."
"Where, as in Sandbridge, they are always ready to welcome strangers cordially? I think I have heard how very spontaneous they are up there, quite expansive and eager to make newcomers feel at home." She spoke with sarcastic emphasis.
"Of course, my friends would welcome you," returned Mr. Jeffreys a little stiffly. "Dear Miss Linda," he continued more fervently, "don't get the idea that there are no warm hearts in the North because you have heard of some cold ones. Once you know the people, none could be better friends. I would try to make you happy. Will you believeme when I say that you are the first woman I have ever wished to make my wife?"
"Yes, I believe you." She smiled a little.
"Please think it over. I would rather not have my answer now. I know there is much to bewilder you, and I would rather you did not give me an impulsive reply. I will not pursue the subject. I will come to-morrow. I would much rather wait."
"Thank you for your consideration," returned Linda. "I will think it over, Mr. Jeffreys. It is only right that I should. Must you go?"
"I think so. May I come to-morrow afternoon? At what hour?"
"About five. We have an engagement in the evening."
He arose, took her hand, pressed it gently and said earnestly, "I beg that you will remember that it would be my dearest wish to make you my wife under any circumstances."
"I will remember," returned Linda.
"Please give my regards to Miss Hill," continued Mr. Jeffreys, taking up his hat. "I owe her a debt of thanks for giving me this opportunity of seeing you alone." And he bowed himself out.
There were but few persons in the large drawing-room, and they had been quite sequestered in their little alcove. Linda returned to her seat, and lingered there, thinking, thinking. Presently she smiled and whispered to herself, "He never oncesaid he loved, never once. 'As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine,'" she murmured musingly. So he would marry her and take her to his city, where there would be no Aunt Ri, no warm-hearted neighbors to welcome her with cordial emphasis, as there would be when she went back to Sandbridge. Nevermore the flat, level roads, the little salt rivers, the simple every-day intercourse of friend with friend, the easy-going unambitious way of living, the smiling content. Instead, the eager struggle for greater ostentation and luxury, which she saw even in the city where she now was; the cold, calculating stares from utter strangers, when she went among them, interest lacking, affection wanting. But on the other hand, she would come back to her old home every year, and it would be truly hers. But how hard it would be to go from it again! And after a while she would be coming less and less frequently. She would grow reticent and unapproachable. Repression would silently work the change in her. She would have the opportunity of pouring out her thoughts on paper, to be sure, but—so she would at home. "No, no, no," she cried; "I'd rather a thousand times teach my restless boys for the remainder of my life. I don't love him, and that is exactly what is wrong. Where he lives has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, Talbot's Angles. You were never mine, and you never will be now."
She went to her room, tip-toeing gently that Miss Ri might not hear her in the adjoining one. She slipped quietly into a chair near the window and gave herself up to her thoughts. She must not let Miss Ri think her caller had remained so short a time, and the dear woman must not be told of what had occurred. When she heard a stirring around in the next room, she knocked on the door, which was quickly opened to her.
"Well, child, has your young man gone?" came the query. "What did he have to say?"
"He told me the same thing Grace did about Talbot's Angles."
"He did? The wretch!... Linda, why did we ever treat him so well? He doesn't deserve it."
"Why, Aunt Ri, he can't help being the great-grandson of Cyrus Talbot."
"He could help coming down here and stirring up all this fuss."
"He sent his regards to you."
"I don't want them. What else did he say?"
"It appears that they have some new evidence, found in the paper which Grace directed them to. Some old receipts which seem to establish the fact that Cyrus Talbot really did have the right to rent the place to a certain John Briggs. I don't know how these receipts came into the possession of our branch of the family, but probably Briggs gave them to our great-grandfather to keep safely. Atall events, Berkley Matthews and Mr. Jeffreys have worked it all out."
"I don't see how Berkley could have the conscience. It is outrageous for him to be party to a scheme for defrauding an orphan girl."
"Oh, Aunt Ri, you mustn't say it is defrauding; it is just legal rights. We may have been defrauding them."
"We'll see whether it is so or not. Judge Goldsborough was so sure; but then I suppose all these things were not known to him. I wish we could hear from him and learn what he has discovered in the papers he holds."
"We shall, in good time. Meanwhile, what difference does it make? I am used to having the place belong to someone else, and I am growing content to spend my days in teaching. I shall even be glad to get back to my boys."
Miss Ri swung around sharply and took the girl's face between her hands. "Verlinda, Verlinda," she said, "I wish I could turn a search-light on that heart of yours?"
"Why, Aunt Ri?"
"Oh, because, because, a woman's reason." Then she put her arms around the girl and hugged her close to her ample night-dress. "You are a darling child. Teach as long as you like; it will be so much the better for me than seeing you go off to Hartford."
Linda felt the color rise to her face. "How do you know that opportunity will ever be afforded me?" she asked lightly.
"If it hasn't been, it will. How did that miserable usurper look?"
"Very handsome; in quite correct evening dress, which suited him perfectly. Aunt Ri, it would be a privilege to sit opposite such a fine-looking man three times a day for the rest of my life."
"It would, would it? and have to use a knife to dissect him before you could find out what he really felt about anything? And even then you wouldn't discover a thing in his veins but ice-water."
Linda laughed. "You can be the most vehement person for one who pretends to be so mild and serene. I notice that where those you love are concerned, you are anything but mild, bless your dear heart. Don't be scared, Aunt Ri; I'll never leave Sandbridge, never. I'll never leave the dear old Eastern Shore for anyone. No, indeed."
"Who is vehement now, Verlinda Talbot? I verily believe that man has proposed to you. I am convinced of it. Oh, my dear, maybe after all you ought to consider him, for that would settle it all. You could live in the old home and be happy ever after, only, Verlinda, Verlinda, what would become of Berk?"
Linda gave a little smothered cry and Miss Ri felt the slender figure quivering, though quitesteadily came the words, "We can't take Berk into consideration, Aunt Ri; he is fighting with all his might for Mr. Jeffreys, and so far as I am concerned, he doesn't think of me at all—in any direction."
"I don't believe it," returned Miss Ri. "I admit he is an enigma, but I don't believe a word of his not thinking of you. I've talked to his mother," she added triumphantly.
After that not a word would she say on the subject, but sent Linda off to bed, and if the girl needed anything to fix her decision regarding Mr. Jeffreys, it is possible that Miss Ri's last words helped to the conclusion.
In spite of having already made up her mind when she left Miss Ri, Linda conscientiously devoted an hour's serious thought to the subject of Wyatt Jeffreys; for she told herself that it was only fair to him. She took down her hair, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and gave herself up to contemplation. "It wouldn't be so hard," she thought, drawing her brows together, "if he had determined to live at Talbot's Angles, for I should at least have my old home."
"And see Berkley Matthews whenever you went to town," something whispered.
"Oh, well," the argument came as if in reply, "would that be any worse than it will be now when I have to stay in town and run the risk of meeting him at any time?"
"But now there is a little hope," again came the inward voice.
"There isn't! there isn't!" Linda contradicted. "I can't believe there is. Look how he has acted: avoiding me openly, sending me only a little trifling card at Christmas, taking up this case whichdefies my rights. Tell me such a thing? It is not so."
"But Miss Ri has talked to his mother. Margaret herself told you that Berk never wearied of sounding your praises."
"That is all a blind. He doesn't care; he couldn't, and act as he is doing." She resolutely shut her ears to the voice of the charmer and turned her attention to the other claimant to regard. He had many fine qualities, but comparisons would crop up. Mr. Jeffreys had praised her work and had congratulated her upon appearing in print; but it was more on account of the recognition, than because of what she wrote. Berk, on the other hand, perceived the spirit rather than the commercial value. She had shown both men other little writings; Berk had commented upon the thought, the originality of some fancy; Mr. Jeffreys had praised the metre, or the quality which would make it marketable. "There is the difference," thought Linda; "Mr. Jeffreys does not lack intellectual perception but Berk has a spiritual one. I saw deep into that one day when I was talking to him about Martin. He may be flippant and boyish on the surface, but back of it all there is that in his soul which can penetrate behind the stars. If he loved anyone he would not care for her looks, her position, her wealth, or for anything but just her individual self. Mr. Jeffreys would weigh thequalities which go to make a satisfactory wife. It was his dearest wish. I was the first, he would try to make me happy; all that, and not a word of his feelings toward me. His heart did not speak, his deliberate conscience did, for I don't doubt he has one, and it makes him uncomfortable when he thinks of wresting Talbot's Angles from me. Well, my good man, keep your conscience. You have done your duty and there is an end of it. Go back to where you belong."
She pondered awhile longer and then took out her writing-materials. "I'll have this ready when he comes," she said to herself. "In case Aunt Ri is at hand and I do not have a chance to speak to him privately." She wrote the note, addressed the envelope and sealed it with an emphasis which had an air of finality about it, and then she went to bed. What her dreams were she did not tell, but no doubt Queen Mab galloped through her brain.
Prompt to the minute, Mr. Jeffreys arrived. Miss Ri and Linda, hurrying back from a call, found him there, and as fate would have it Miss Ri sat down for a chat. She would like to have the gossip of the town from Mr. Jeffreys. How was Parthy and how were the dogs, and what was going on? Had he seen Berk? and all the rest of it. The young man, whatever may have been his impatience, answered quietly and politely, giving at length certain little details which he knew wouldinterest Miss Ri, and for this he deserved more credit than he received.
After half an hour he asked if Linda would take a walk with him, but Miss Ri objected, saying that Linda was tired and that she was going out to dinner and must not be late, which hint started the young man off, though not before he had given the girl a deprecating, inquiring look. She responded by handing him the little note she had written the night before.
"Here is what you asked me for," she said, the color rising to her cheeks and a little regret to her heart when she realized that she was dealing him a blow.
He looked at her searchingly, but she dropped her eyes, and he was obliged to go without receiving a spark of satisfaction.
As girls will be, in such cases, Linda was a little hard on the man whom she had just refused. She gave him less credit than he deserved, for he was honestly and fervently in love with her, though having lived in an atmosphere of repression, and where it was considered almost a crime to show a redundance of affection, he had betrayed little of what he really felt, but it is a comment upon his eagerness to state that he wasted no time in finding out the contents of the note she gave him. It was brief, but to the point, and was enough to send the young man back to Sandbridge on the eveningboat which he had barely time to catch. He felt rather badly treated, for in her sweet sympathetic manner he had read a deeper concern than existed. Now he realized that it was nothing more than she would show anyone thrown upon her generosity, or at the most, presenting a claim to kinship of blood. He credited her with magnanimity in yielding up Talbot's Angles without showing resentment, and he valued her invariable attention to his confidences, as he reported the various ups and downs of his affairs, but in his heart of hearts he charged her with a little coquetry, failing to understand her spontaneous sympathy as a man of her own locality would have done.
He had the wisdom to believe that her decision was final, yet he lingered in Sandbridge till her return, giving himself up to brooding over his troubles more pessimistically, if less passionately than a more impulsive man would have done, and his cheerful little remarks to Miss Parthy, clipped off with the usual polite intonation, gave her no evidence that he was most unhappy.
But one day he walked into Berkley's office. Berkley looked up from the litter of legal documents crowding his desk. "Well, Jeffreys, old man, how goes it? Been up to town, I hear. When did you get back?"
"Several days ago," was the answer. "I did not stay long."
"Sit down and tell me about it."
Mr. Jeffreys took the vacant chair, but ignored the invitation to "tell about it." "I came in to say that I am thinking of returning to Hartford," he began. "I suppose you can continue to push my business without my presence."
"Why, yes, I imagine so. You could run down if necessary. I don't suppose you mean to stay away very long in any event."
"I should probably not return except in case of necessity." He paused, then said with an effort, "You were good enough, Matthews, to encourage me in my addresses to Miss Talbot so I think it is due you to say that she has refused me."
"My dear man!" Berk leaned forward and laid his hand on the other's knee. "You mustn't give up so easily. You know a woman's No isn't always final."
"I believe this to be. You wouldn't accuse Miss Linda of being an undecided character.
"No, I must confess I wouldn't. She is very gentle but she generally knows her own mind pretty thoroughly. Jeffreys, my dear fellow, I am sorry. I don't wonder you are cut up and are thinking of leaving us. It would be a desperately hard fight to stay and be obliged to see her every now and then. For a man to lose a girl like Linda Talbot is pretty tough lines. I shouldn't want my worst enemy to go through such a purgatory."
"You speak feelingly," returned Mr. Jeffreys with a little bitter smile. Then his better manhood asserting itself, "Matthews, you know you love her yourself."
Berkley tossed up his head proudly. "What if I do? I am not ashamed of it."
"And you deliberately gave me the chance of winning her if I could. Why?"
Berkley made savage dabs with his pen upon the blotting pad before him, thereby injuring the pen hopelessly and doing the blotter no good. He suddenly threw the pen aside. "What sort of chump would I be if I hadn't done it? Her happiness was the first thing to be considered, not mine. I knew she wanted Talbot's Angles more than anything in the world, and that ought to have made it dead easy for a man who really loved a girl in the right way."
"And you have been doing everything in your power to win the property for me. You have been loyal to both of us. Shake hands, Berkley Matthews, you are far and away a better man than I am, but I will not be outdone. Do you think I have no pride? I may have a deliberate conscience, as Miss Talbot herself once told me, but I hope it is as well developed as yours. I'll fight it out and then we shall see. What right had I to expect that I could throw a sop to my conscience by asking her to marry me? I see it all now. Youlove her; so do I, and I will prove it to you both."
"Do you suppose I doubted the truth of your feeling for her?" cried Berkley. "That would be a poor compliment to her. I think you are too easily downed, Jeffreys. Cheer up. Take another chance. Wait awhile. Do your best to better your chances. Unbend a little. Be more free and easy. Make her dependent upon you for encouragement and sympathy. Oh, there are a thousand ways."
Jeffreys regarded him with a half smile. "You mean I must substitute a Southern temperament for a Northern one. That is easier said than done. The day of miracles is past."
"You've not known her so very long," Berkley persisted in his argument.
"I've seen her almost every day, sometimes twice a day for three months. I have known young ladies for years whom I seem to know less well. Certainly there has been no bar to our becoming well acquainted."
"Well, I wouldn't give up this early in the game," Berk continued his pleading.
"You think there is a chance for me, do you? I can tell you there is not," replied Mr. Jeffreys with emphasis.
Berkley accompanied him to the street where they stood talking a few minutes longer. A horseand buggy were there in waiting for Berkley. "I promised John Emory to go with him to sign a deed," he said, "and he left his buggy. I am to pick him up further along. Can I take you anywhere, first, Jeffreys?"
"No, thank you. I have no special errand. I'm not a man of business just now, you remember."
Berkley took his place in the vehicle, was about to gather up the reins when around the corner dashed an automobile. The horse threw up his head, gave a sudden plunge, and in another second would have swung the buggy directly in the path of the rushing car, but that Jeffreys sprang forward and seized the horse's head to jerk him to one side, but this was not done before the car grazed him sufficiently to send him to the ground, close to the horse's hoofs. Without stopping the car sped on. By this time Berkley had grabbed the reins and had spoken commandingly to the horse which fortunately, stood still. Several by-standers sprang to Jeffreys' aid and dragged him from his precarious position.
Berkley threw the reins to Billy, who had run out at the sound of this commotion, and leaped to where Jeffreys now stood. "Are you hurt, old man?" he asked as Jeffreys limped to the sidewalk. "Come right into the office." He dismissed the little crowd which had gathered and assisted Jeffreys inside.
The latter shook himself. "I'm not actually hurt," he answered "only a little bruised, I think, and slightly shaken up."
"You were within an ace of being killed, man," said Berkley gravely. "And you risked your life for me. I am not going to forget that, Jeffreys."
The young man smiled. "It evens up matters a little," he returned, "though we are not quits yet. I haven't lost sight of that fact."
"Doesn't saving a man's life come about as near settling any existing score as a thing could?" asked Berkley.
"Oh, we won't strain a point so far as to say it was saving your life. You might not have been hurt at all, and it merely happened that I was the first to grab the bridle. There were others ready to do it if I had not."
"Bah!" cried Berkley. "That's all wrong argument; if the horse had not been there; if the car had not come along; we could go on indefinitely with conjecturing, but what we face is a visible truth. You risked your life and limbs for me, and that is the exact statement of the case. Thank you, is a very feeble way to say what I feel."
"I'm quite all right now," returned the other, setting aside further discussion. "If you will let me have a brush or something to get rid of this dust on my clothes, I'll be as good as ever. That's it, thanks," for Berkley was vigorously applying awhisk broom to his dusty coat and trousers. He refused further aid, insisting that there was no need of any assistance in getting home. He would rather walk; it would be good for him. So Berkley was perforce to see him leave, and himself reëntered the buggy, and drove off to keep his appointment.
He was very grateful to and infinitely sorry for his rival, but there was an undercurrent of joy singing through his heart. She had refused him, bless her, and she would return home that very day. He took out a note received from Miss Ri the day before, saying that they would arrive by the morning's boat. He reread the lines. "It isn't decent of me; it really isn't," he exclaimed, stuffing the note back into his pocket. "It's like dancing on another man's grave, and after what he has just done for me, too. What right have I to be glad anyway? It is losing her the comfort of living again in her old home, and, dickens take it, how do I know that I am any better off? Simmer down, Berkley Matthews; it won't do for you to go galloping off with an idea before you have all the facts in the case. At least you will have the grace to keep quiet while the other fellow is around." And he altered his train of thought with the determination of one who has learned the art of concentration under difficulties.
He had restrained himself from rushing off to the boat to meet the returning travellers, but, afterhis return to his office, Miss Ri called him up and imperiously demanded his presence to dinner, and he accepted without a word of protest.
"You're looking better," remarked Miss Ri, after they had shaken hands. "I knew Phebe would be as good for you as untold bottles of tonic. Come right in. Linda is waiting in the dining-room."
And there Linda was. Berkley wondered if she could hear the thumping of his heart. Here was her hand in his. What a wonderful fact! She was there before him,—free—as possible for him as for any other. He longed to ask if she were the least little bit glad to see him, but he didn't; all he said was: "Glad to see you back, Linda. I hear you have been having a great time."
"Who told you?" she asked with a sudden bright smile.
"Mother wrote me a long letter. I'll tell you about it another time. I suppose you were sorry to come away."
"No, not at all, though we had a lovely time. If you want a thoroughly skilled designer of good times you must employ Aunt Ri.
"I think the trip did much for me in many ways. One must get off from things to acquire a really true perspective, you know, and now I am so happy to be here again, to see the dear blue river, and this blessedly stupid town and all that. There is no place like it, Berk."
What pure joy to hear her speak like that. Berkley wished she would go on forever, but she was waiting for some response, he suddenly realized. "That is the way I like to hear you talk," he said quite honestly. "I've noticed myself, that when I have been away for any length of time I am always glad to get back to the simple life."
"Very simple with such a dinner," laughed Linda. "Phebe has prepared all this in honor of our home-coming."
"It seemed a pity that you should not be here to share it," spoke up Miss Ri. "There was no need to send you back to husks this very first day."
"I came near not being here at all," he answered. Then he recounted the episode of the morning, sparing no praise of Mr. Jeffreys, but looking at Miss Ri rather than at Linda as he told the tale over which his hearers were much excited.
Fain as he was to linger after dinner, he would not allow himself such a luxury, but rushed off almost immediately, saying he must get back to work. Miss Ri watched him with tender eyes as he hurried down the path. "It is good to get him back," she said turning from the window. "I don't know what I should have done if anything serious had happened to him. He is looking very well, I think. That troubled, anxious expression has left his face. I think the poor boy must have been under some great strain. If you go off withthat waxen image to Hartford I'll adopt Berk as sure as you live."
"Oh, Aunt Ri," expostulated Linda, "you know he is no tailor's dummy, but a very fine-looking man, and just think of what a heroic thing he has just done. There was no deliberation then, but the quick sacrifice of himself at the critical moment. Berk might have been killed but for him. I don't see how you can talk so about my brave cousin."
"Cousin is it? Well, so long as he remains only that I have no complaint to make of him. I suppose now we shall have to have more respect for him than ever."
Linda had to laugh at the aggrieved tone. "Icertainly have," she answered emphatically. "I think he was perfectly splendid."
"Berk, or any other half way decent man would have done the same thing under like circumstances," argued Miss Ri. "I don't see that it was anything for him to crow over."
"I think it was decidedly." Linda stood her ground.
"Well, we won't quarrel over it," continued Miss Ri. "Let's change the subject. I was just thinking, Linda, that I have discovered something since I have had you here with me, though, by the way, one does that all through life; some truth, some moral of living is suddenly revealed at a givenstage. Life is nothing more than a series of revelations."
"And what has been revealed to you, wisest of Aunt Ris." Linda came over and took her friend's face between her hands.
"That one must have somebody to work for in order to get the best out of existence."
Linda's hands dropped; her face grew wistful. "And I have no one but myself to work for," she shook her head sadly.
"You have me, in a certain sense, and it is too early yet for you to despair of having someone else." Miss Ri laughed wickedly.
Linda pretended to box her ears. "You are a naughty old thing. I am going out to talk to Mammy, and leave you to meditate upon your sins," she said.
Mammy was sitting at the table lingering over her dinner. She never liked to cut short this happy hour of the day, and was fond of picking here and picking there, though she would not remain at the table if anyone entered. It would never do to have "white folkes" see you eat.
"I thes gwine to cl'ar away," she said with a beaming smile as she swept bones and potato skins into her empty plate.
"Oh, Mammy, you haven't finished your dinner," exclaimed Linda.
"Yas, I done et all I wants. I thes res'in' up alittle 'fo' I does mah dishes. Set down, honey, an' tell yo' Mammy what yuh-all been a-doin' whilst yuh was up in de city. Mighty fine doin's, I reckon. Yuh stay at de big hotel?"
"Yes."
"An' w'ar dat nice floppity white frock?"
"Yes, I wore it several times."
"An' yuh has uver so many nice young gem'mans come to see yuh?"
"Not very many. You see I don't know a great many people, and I am not going to dances this winter, of course. Mr. Jeffreys came up while I was there, and he is a nice young gentleman, I am sure."
Mammy began delicately to wipe her tumblers. "Miss Lindy, yuh ain't gwine ma'y dat man, is yuh?"
"No, Mammy." Linda spoke quite decidedly, "but you know he is a kind of cousin, and I must be as nice to him as possible, besides I like him very much."
"He kain't hol' a can'le to Mr. Berk; he de likenes' young man I uvver see."
"You'll make me jealous if you talk that way," said Linda fondly and to please her Mammy.
Mammy ducked her head and laughed, shaking her head from side to side.
"I'll not go away again if you are going to getso fond of someone else while I am gone," Linda went on with a pretence of pouting.
Mammy fairly doubled up at this. "Ain' it de troof?" she cried. "Law, chile," she continued appeasingly, "I ain't so t'arin' fond o' him; he ain't tall enough."
It was Linda's turn to laugh, and she went back to Miss Ri to repeat Mammy's criticism.
Berkley's words did have the effect of encouraging Mr. Jeffreys to take heart anew, and, as it would be another month before his presence would be required in Hartford, he concluded not to neglect his opportunities. Therefore again Berkley retired to the background to watch his rival pass by with Linda, walk to church with her, while he heard of his visiting her daily. It seemed, then, that he did not intend to give her up lightly.
"I don't know what to do about it," Linda confided to Miss Ri ruefully. "I can't tell him to go home when he comes, and I can't disappear like the Cheshire cat when he joins me on the street. He will be such a short time here that it doesn't seem worth while to do more than let matters drift."
"I rather like his persistence," declared Miss Ri. "He'll win you yet, Verlinda."
Linda neither affirmed nor denied. Another little poem had found its way into print and there was hope ahead, even though Talbot's Angles should be lost to her.
"It isn't such a tremendously valuable piece ofproperty after all," Miss Ri continued her remarks, showing the trend of her thought, "and if you weren't so sentimentally fond of it, Verlinda, I don't know that it would be such a great loss. I wish you'd let me adopt you; then I'd leave you this place."
"You'd have me give up my independence, Aunt Ri? Oh, no. We've canvassed that question too often. If you had taken me before I had known what it was to hoe my own row, it might have done, but now, oh, no. You're the dearest of dears to tempt me, but we shall both be happier with no faster bond than that which self-elected friends must always feel. I love no one so well as you, and you don't dislike me, though I admit I don't consider myself first in your regard."
"And who do you think is? Not Becky Hill's brood, I'm sure. They will have enough, and I am not one of those who think everything should go to those of the name, unless there's love, too. Who do you mean? If you're not first, who is?"
"Berkley Matthews."
"Better say he used to be. He hasn't the sense he was born with. If I were his mother I'd spank him."
"Now, Aunt Ri, what for?"
"On general principles, just because he is such a notional piece of humanity. I admire him, too; I can't help it; all the same he tries me. When youdesert me to turn Yankee, Verlinda, I'll make my will and leave this place as a home for indigent females or something of that kind."
"How nice," returned Linda comfortably; "then when I grow decrepit I can come back here and have my old room."
The little creases appearing around Miss Ri's eyes, showed that she appreciated this retort. "There comes Bertie," she announced a moment after.
"Then I'll ask her to walk with me," returned Linda, rising with alacrity.
"Doesn't Mr. Jeffreys make his appearance about this time?"
"Generally, but I can skip him to-day. I'd rather go with Bertie. Just tell him, Aunt Ri."
"That you'd rather go with Bertie?"
"Of course not, but that we have gone out for a walk."
"Where are you going?"
"There's no need of your knowing, is there?"
Miss Ri looked up with a smile. "I understand. Go along. I reckon you're right to suggest the unattainable once in a while; it adds to the zest later." And with this Parthian shot following her, Linda left the room to join Bertie.
In another moment Miss Ri saw the two girls going out the gate. "I'll not even watch to see which way they turn," she said to herself, lettingher gaze fall on her work rather than on the outside world. The dear lady made a good conspirator.
"When are you going to announce your engagement?" was one of the first questions Bertie put to her companion, as they set their faces toward the main street.
"What do you mean?" asked Linda.
"Oh, now Linda Talbot, everyone knows you are engaged to Mr. Jeffreys. You wouldn't be together so continually if you were not."
"I think I could mention several young persons in this town who have set a worthy precedent," replied Linda.
"Oh, well, of course, but in this case—He isn't the flirty kind, we all know."
"He is my cousin," argued Linda in self-defence.
Bertie laughed. "We all know that kind of cousin. The Irish maids have flaunted them before our eyes for generations. That won't do, Linda. Own up."
"Positively there are none but friendly relations between Wyatt Jeffreys and myself."
"Truly? I can scarcely believe it, but there is not a doubt but that there will be different ones, and everyone is thinking it such an ideal arrangement, for of course it is known that he is the claimant for Talbot's Angles."
"I am sorry to disappoint my neighbors."
"I, for one, don't expect to be disappointed. If I did I would set my cap for the young man myself. I've heard girls talk that way before, and the first thing you knew their wedding cards were out. I don't see how you can possibly give up the joy of owning that dear old home of yours. He'd better not offer himself to me, I'd accept him for Talbot's Angles if for nothing else."
Linda winced. It might come to that, perhaps. For the moment she felt annoyed at Bertie who might have been more tactful, she thought.
"Do you know," continued Bertie, "whether Mr. Jeffreys intends to live there? We are all dying to know, and if you don't become the mistress of the dear old place it will not want for one for the lack of appreciative damsels. The girls are ready, even now to reckon on their chances. We don't have so many eligible young men come to town that we can afford to let such a desirable one go away unappropriated."
"It seems to me that he is not the only one," responded Linda.
"There are not more than half a dozen, not near enough to go around. I know perfectly well, for at the last dance I had to dance twice with a girl, and I do hate that. Let me see, there are Elmer Dawson, John Emory, Todd Bryan, Billy Tucker, Tom Willis, and Berk Matthews, though Berk doesn't count. Nobody sees him nowadays. Hehas turned into a regular greasy grind, so that he is no good at all. He has a girl up in the city, you know. I charged him with it, and he the same as admitted it. I think he might have looked nearer home. Berk used to be great fun, too; it is rather a shame. So you see, Linda, even counting him there are not more than six who are really worth while; the rest are mere boys. Now, if you really don't want your cousin yourself, you might speak a good word for me, and I'll be mighty thankful."
"Bertie, you are a silly child. You know you don't mean a word of all this. Why do you rattle on in such a brainless way?"
"I'm in dead earnest, I assure you. I'll take him in a minute, now that I can't get Berk who is as good as gone. We are wild to know who the girl is, what she looks like and all that. I suppose you didn't happen to meet her when you were in the city. Miss Ri ought to know, if anyone does."
"We didn't meet any such person," replied Linda a little defiantly. "We saw Mrs. Matthews and Margaret, but, of course, they did not mention her."
"Very likely they would be the last ones to know. At all events he is not the lad he was, as anyone with half an eye can see. Even if he hadn't told me there would be but one conclusion to gather from his absolute indifference to us all. Every one of the girls agree to that."
Linda smiled mechanically. Suppose it were true. There had been but the one meeting, that which took place upon the day of her arrival from the city, then it had seemed as if they were about to return to the old pleasant relations, but since then not another sign. Yet—"There isn't anything I wouldn't do to make you happy, Linda Talbot." What was the meaning of that saying? Only the gentle concern of a chivalrous, tender-hearted man, probably. She gave a little sigh which drew Bertie's attention.
"Tired, Linda? We're going too far, perhaps. I forget that you are a busy bee all the morning. We'd better turn back."
Linda agreed. She felt singularly heavy-spirited and would be glad to reach home, she realized. Bertie left her with a laughing challenge to "hurry up or she would try to cut her out," and then Linda went in.
Miss Ri was just stirring the fire, for she loved the dancing lights at a twilight hour. "Draw up, draw up," she cried, "and tell me the news. What did you learn from Bertie?"
"First that I was engaged to Mr. Jeffreys, and if not that I ought to be. Second; it is reported that Berkley Matthews has a sweetheart in the city."
"The wretch!" cried Miss Ri. "I'd like to seehim bring a strange girl here for me to conciliate and defer to."
"He has a perfect right, hasn't he, Aunt Ri?"
"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure. I hate to think of it. So the report is that you are certainly engaged."
"Yes, they have arranged it all, and are quite pleased. I am to live at Talbot's Angles, it seems, and it is considered a delightful way to settle matters for me. Bertie was quite enthusiastic. Did Mr. Jeffreys come?"
"Yes, and was sorry to have missed you. He'll be back this evening. He tells me he is going to leave for Hartford next week. Are you going with him, Verlinda?"
The girl thoughtfully prodded a long stick which needed pushing further back. "I haven't decided," she replied presently.
"You had decided there in Baltimore, if I remember correctly."
"Yes, so I had. Oh, I don't know. I don't know. I don't see how I could stand it to keep on living here." She put down the tongs and clasped her hands tightly.
"Why, Verlinda, my dear child, what do you mean? You—" Miss Ri paused and laid her hand gently on the girl's. "The wretch," she murmured, "the wretch."
Linda turned to kiss her cheek. "Never mind, Aunt Ri," she rejoined; "no doubt I'll be thanking the Lord yet."
Miss Ri laughed shortly, then the words came pleadingly, "Don't leave me, Verlinda, and don't think you will be any happier if you go away. You can't run from yourself, you know. Stay where you are and fight it out as I did. I'll do my best for you."
"Dear Aunt Ri! As if I didn't know that. After all, I believe you are right. I'd be happier here with you than among strangers under any circumstances, even with my old home calling me and a good man to share it. I suppose it is cowardly to want to take refuge in a love you can't return."
"It isn't only cowardly," affirmed Miss Ri with decision, "but it is unfair to the one who gives all and receives no return. I think you are too proud as well as too honest to allow that, Verlinda."
"Do you think I've been unkind, unfair to Mr. Jeffreys? I haven't meant to be. I've been trying my best to care for him, to learn to know him better and to appreciate his good qualities so they would seem sufficient for me. I haven't meant to encourage him unduly. I meant to do the very fairest thing I could, but I am afraid I haven't, after all, or the town wouldn't take things so for granted."
"The town takes things for granted uponslighter evidence than that. Don't struggle any more, dear child. What is that old quotation? 'To thine own self be true and it must follow as the night the day, thou can'st not then be false to any man.' Don't forget that. Now, let's light up and be as cheery as we can. Don't believe all the gossip you hear; there's not one tenth of it true."
Mr. Jeffreys came again that evening. Miss Ri, with a wisdom born of experience, went around to Miss Parthy's and with the opportunity afforded him Mr. Jeffreys made a final throw—and lost. Miss Ri returned to find Linda, with her head in the cushions of the sofa, shaking with sobs.
"You poor darling child," said Miss Ri, bending over her, "was it so hard?"
"Oh, I hated to do it. I hated to, Aunt Ri. He was so quiet and dignified, and so kind. He tried to make me feel that it wasn't my fault and he—cares much more than I believed. He didn't say so before."
"Before? There was a first time, then, and this was the second."
"Yes, as you suspected, there in Baltimore, but I wasn't half so distressed then. Oh, dear, why should we have such contrary hearts?" Down went her head again.
"There, dear, there," Miss Ri soothed her. "Don't cry about it. There never was a man living worth so many tears. He will get over itbeautifully; I never knew one who didn't. You will probably get cards for his wedding while you are still grieving over this night's business. Mark my words."
Linda sat up at this. "I suppose I am silly," she said steadily. "I haven't a doubt but I was overwrought and nervous. You see it is the first time I ever refused a man to his face; I gave him a note before. Very likely if I had refused a dozen men as some girls do, I should get to rather enjoying it." She smiled ruefully.
Miss Ri sat down and snuggled her up close. "Dear, good little lass, you'd never be one to glory in scalps. I am sorry for you both, but it can't be helped, and you have done exactly right. Now don't lie awake all night thinking about it." A wise piece of advice but one which profited Linda little.
With more than his usual gravity Wyatt Jeffreys presented himself at Berkley's office the next morning. "Can I see you privately?" he asked, for Billy was rattling papers in the next room where a couple of countrymen were waiting, beguiling the time by a plentiful use of chewing tobacco.
Berkley glanced at his clients. "Can you wait a few minutes? I shall be through with these men before very long. Suppose you go over to the hotel and tell them that you are to meet me there. Askthem to show you to my room. I'll be over as soon as I can."
Jeffreys nodded approvingly. "Very well. I will meet you there. Thank you for suggesting it."
He was admitted to the room without question. He remembered it from having first visited Berkley there to identify the little trunk. Better it had never been found and that he had left the place then and there. He sat down in the one easy chair, and looked around. On the bureau stood a row of photographs, the first of a gentle looking woman whose eyes were like Berkley's; that must be his mother, and the next his sister. A third, evidently taken some years before, showed a man with thoughtful brow and a strong, though not handsome face; this was Dr. Matthews of whom Jeffreys had heard much from those who still missed their beloved physician. There was another photograph standing by itself, the thin white outer covering dropped like a veil over it, but through this Jeffreys could see that it was a head of Linda. He did not lift the veil, but stood thoughtfully looking at the dim outline. He had put his own camera to use often enough to secure several snap-shots of the girl in Miss Ri's old garden, but this picture he had not seen. He wondered if she had given it to Berkley, and when. There were no other picturesabout except those three of the family standing side by side.
The man sat down again and presently Berkley hurried in. "Sorry I had to keep you waiting," he said, "but these country fellows are slow. Well, anything new?"
"Nothing," responded Jeffreys dully. "I only wanted to tell you that I am leaving next week, and that I wish to stop proceedings in the matter of Talbot's Angles."
"What do you mean, man?" Berkley turned in surprise.
"Just that. Do you think you're the only man who can do a brave thing? Do you suppose you can flaunt your heroics without making me feel that I am a small specimen who has no right to be smirking around as a complacent recipient of others' property? I will not have it. I am as capable as you of making sacrifices. I will not be outdone by you."
"Please explain yourself." Berkley spoke quietly, eyeing the other man's tense face.
"I mean this: I wish Miss Talbot to retain her property. I have taken your advice, but, as I told you before, it was not worth while. Not even for the sake of having her own again would she take me with the property."
"You wouldn't expect one of her caliber to do it for the sake of that only," said Berkley a littleproudly. Then more gently, "I am no end of sorry. Believe me or not, I had hoped for a better report from you."
"Is that honestly said?"
"It is."
The man's face softened. "I believe you, Matthews. If ever a man has shown himself loyal, you are he. I see it all, and I bow to the inevitable. I never have had much of what I wanted in this world, and I suppose I shall never have. As yet I cannot be as generous as you, but some day I hope to reach your heights. I have the promise of a good future before me, and I can do without Cyrus Talbot's inheritance. What I came to say I have said. Stop proceedings. I relinquish all claim to Talbot's Angles."
What could Berkley answer? He realized that these were sorry days for Jeffreys, and the least said now the better. "Very well," he agreed; "it shall be as you wish. I consider it most generous of you. Of course nothing of any account has been done, and we will drop the whole thing for the present. Perhaps you will wish to reconsider it some day. If you do, I am at your service. Shall I hand you back your papers?"
"No. Throw them into the fire. I don't care what you do with them. I shall never want them."
He rose to go. Berkley followed him to the street where they parted, the one to return to hisroom, the other to his office where he tied up the papers and thrust them into his desk. That was done. What a storm of feeling those yellow sheets had raised, and now—"Poor devil," said Berkley to himself. "It was pretty hard lines and he has shown himself of good stuff. Confound it all, why did it have to happen so? At least I must have the delicacy to keep out of the way while the man is in town." The color rushed to his face, but receded almost as quickly. "I'm a conceited ass," he cried inwardly. "If she couldn't care for such a man as Jeffreys why should I expect her to care for me? Go to, Berkley Matthews. Crawl down from your pinnacle, and don't lay any such flattering unction to your soul." He set to work at one of his briefs, determined not to encourage himself in any illusions.