Bocas del Toro.Costa Rica, Aug. 22.Machinery transferred; no trouble.FRANKLIN.
Bocas del Toro.
Costa Rica, Aug. 22.
Machinery transferred; no trouble.
FRANKLIN.
Both girls cried from happiness at the relief.
"Oh! Catherine," said Manuela as she sobbed on the latter's neck, "I'm so glad I knew you at Notre Dame!"
"And I'm glad we struck a blow for Cuba libre," rejoined Catherine.
"It may mean annexation," said Will, as he deftly slipped his arm around Manuela's waist.
The Cuban girl grew rosy red.
Catherine was quick to understand: Cuba might be freed, but one individual who had labored for it was going to be annexed.
"I'm so happy!" she cried. And she kissed both warmly and left them to tell her mother of the latest beneficent example of American assimilation.
HE—Hello! Is this Central? Well, give——
SHE—No, it is not Central, and I wish you'd please get off the line.
HE—I beg your pardon, I thought you were the girl at Central.
SHE—No, I am not. I wish you wouldn't break in. The line's busy. You were saying, Evelyn——
HE—I'm sorry to bother you. I don't seem to be able to get Central.
SHE—I do wish you would leave us alone! You were describing that dress you wore at the Marlborough dance, Evelyn.
EVELYN—How is he on this wire?
SHE—I don't know. I suppose he has the other 'phone on this line.
HE—I beg your pardon again. Do I understand you to say this is a two-party line?
SHE—What number are you?
HE—Wait till I read it. Why this is Madison 7-9-3-1-y.
SHE—And I'm Madison 7-9-3-1-m. So you see, we're on the same wire. Please get off.
HE—I beg both of your pardons, ladies. But I'm trying to get a doctor for my mother.
EVELYN—I'll call you up later, Genevieve. I can tell you all about AtlanticCity then.
SHE—He had no business coming in like that, Evelyn. But I suppose we'll have to let him have it. Goodbye.
HE—I'm very grateful to both of you, I'm sure.
SHE—Well, after all, we were only gossiping, and I'm sorry we did not understand sooner.
HE—Thank you again. (After a pause.) There goes a click. I guess I can call Central now. By Jove! that girl had spirit, and at the same time showed generosity in saying she was sorry. I wonder who she is. Genevieve the other one called her. Genevieve who?
SHE—Hello, Central. Please give me "Information." Is that "Information"? I want to know who has 'phone Madison 7-9-3-1-y. My number? I'm on the same line. No, no trouble. Just want to know. Who'd you say? Mrs. Mary Vincent, 286 West Lanvale street. Thank you so much.
HE—Hello, Central, I want to know who has 'phone Madison 7-9-3-1-m. What's that? You'll give me "Information"? All right. Hello, "Information," I want to find out who leases 'phone Madison 7-9-3-1-m. No, not "y." I said "m." Somebody else wanted "y"? Well, that's my number. I want "m." Mr. John D. Platt, 1346 Linden avenue? What's that? Oh, Pratt. Thank you.
SHE—Oh! Evelyn, I've got something great to tell you. You remember that man who "butt in" last night on our chat? Well, I've found out all about him. His name is Carroll Vincent, and he's just out of Princeton and is going to study law at the University of Maryland. How did I find out? Oh! I can't tell you all that over the 'phone. I just used my wits. You know Genevieve isn't going to get left. I'd die if he——
HE—Is this Cent——
SHE—Goodness gracious! there he is on the line again!
HE—I beg your pardon. I'll retire gracefully.
SHE—Don't apologize. You could not help it.
HE—I don't like to be a "butter-in," don't you know?
SHE—I hope you got the doctor all right last night. I'd be so sorry if my foolish delay caused you any trouble.
HE—Thank you, I got him all right.
EVELYN (at the other end)—I'll call you some other time, Genevieve.
HE—No; let me get off this time.
SHE (after a pause)—I wonder if he has really gone.
EVELYN—How did you find out who he was? Go on, tell me.
SHE—I'm afraid he may be listening.
EVELYN—Do you think he'd do that deliberately?
SHE—Certainly, I don't. I think he must be just fine. Jack Smallwood says he's a stunning-looking fellow. I'm just crazy to see him.
EVELYN—Did you ask Jack Smallwood about him?
SHE—Why, of course, you goose! They live in the same block.
EVELYN—You're getting on famously, Genevieve.
SHE—That's another slam, Evelyn. You're just jealous, that's what the matter with you. Next time I call you up you'll know it.
EVELYN—I'm sorry, Genevieve. I was only teasing you.
SHE—Well, I can't stand for it. I'll forgive you, though. Say, are you going to see "Madam Butterfly"? You don't know? Well, I'm going tomorrow night with Jack. He asked me today when I called him up about the other. He has got seats in the second row. I'm going to put on all my best regalia. No, not the blue. A pink chiffon. You've never seen it. It's a beauty. Well, goodbye. See you Friday.
HE—Please give me Madison 6-4-8-6-y. Is this Mr. Smallwood's home? Is Mr. Jack Smallwood there? No? Well, when do you expect him? You don't know? Thank you. Curse the luck! Just when I thought it looked easy.
HE—St. Paul 9-8-6-3. Hello! is Mr. Jack Smallwood in the office? Yes, if you please. Jack, this is Carroll Vincent—no, no, Vincent. Say, old man, saw you at Ford's last night. Fine-looking girl with you—stunningly dressed—beautifulfeatures—who is she?
JACK—Say, Carroll, what the devil is all this between you two who have never met? I'm over seven, you know, and I've shed my sweet innocence.
HE—I don't know what you mean, old man.
JACK—Ah yes, you do! And if you don't come up to the Captain's office and settle I'll blast your reputation with her forever. There's some mystery in it all. First, Genevieve Pratt asks me about you. Then when I saw you last night she twisted her neck so, to look at you, that I thought I'd have to summon medical help. Now you call me up to talk about her. What's the game? Put me wise.
HE—Fact is, old man, Miss Pratt and I are on the same line.
JACK—Same line? What kind of line?
HE—Same 'phone. Two-party line. Butt in on her the other night. Butt out. Butt in again next night. Apologized eighteen times. Must meet her, especially since she's such a smasher.
JACK—All right, Carroll boy. I'll fix it for you, now I understand.
HE—Make it soon, for Heaven's sake.
HE—Give me Madison 7-9-3-1-m, please. No, no; I want the other party on this line. Don't buzz that bell so loud in my ears. Hello! Is that Mr. Pratt's? Oh! is this you, Miss Pratt? You're looking well this evening. This is Carroll Vincent.
SHE—Feeling tiptop, thank you. Did you get wet in the rain last night?
HE—No; it stopped pouring almost as soon as we left your house.
SHE—I'm glad of that. I want to thank you for the chocolates you sent this evening. You said you were going to send a book.
HE—I know I did. I tramped the town over to get that novel, but every shop was out of it. Then I did not like you to think I had forgotten you so soon, and I sent the bonbons.
SHE—It certainly was sweet of you. They're nearly all gone already.
HE—Mercy, mercy—don't make yourself sick! I wouldn't have you that way.
SHE—You wouldn't have me any way, would you?
HE—Give me the chance. But I'm afraid you're a "jollier," Miss Pratt.
SHE—You're the first to tell me.
HE—Did you say "first" or "fiftieth"? There was a noise on the wire just then.
SHE—I know you're a flirt.
HE—Never! I've got my fingers crossed.
SHE—Those eyes of yours were not made for nothing.
HE—Neither were yours. Jack said so last night. By the by, he's a capital fellow. I'll never get over being grateful to him for bringing us together.
SHE—I think he's just fine.
HE—You're speaking very zealously. Do you know I'm almost jealous of him when I hear you talk like that.
SHE—I'm a loyal champion for my friends, you'll find. I have but few, and those I keep.
HE—Do you ever add to the list?
SHE—That's for you to discover.
HE—Count me in, please.
SHE—Well—I'm willing to try to do so.
HE—Thanks, awfully. By the way, they've pledged me their word that a copy of that novel will be here tomorrow. May I bring it around Sunday evening?
SHE—Why, I could be reading the book all day Sunday.
HE—Then I'll make it tomorrow night. Will that suit?
SHE—I have no engagement, and will be glad to have you.
HE—Good-bye until then.
HE—Madison 7-9-3-1-m, please. Yes. Is that Mr. Pratt's? Is Miss Genevieve there?
SHE—No, she is not in. Who shall I tell her called?
HE—You didn't disguise your voice, Miss Genevieve? I knew you right away.
SHE—I thought I might learn something, Mr. Vincent.
HE—I might have told my real name.
SHE—That would have been disastrous.
HE—It would, if I had started confessing things.
SHE—What's the matter? Have you anything on your conscience?
HE—Not my conscience, but my heart.
SHE—There you go again. You promised me last night at the Academy you wouldn't jolly any more.
HE—I haven't. I'm desperately in earnest. I swear it.
SHE—I wish I could believe you.
HE—Why don't you?
SHE—It might disturb my peace ofmind.
HE—Would that be so bad?
SHE—Um-m-m-m-m, maybe.
HE—I can see those mocking eyes of yours now.
SHE—I don't like that, Mr. Vincent. That's rude.
HE—I'll beg your pardon when next I can look at you. That reminds me. Have you anything on for tomorrow night?
SHE—Um-m-m, no.
HE—I'd like to take you to Albaugh's. You've seen a musical comedy at the Academy, and a serious drama at Ford's, and it might be well to take a dash into "vodevil" before the week is over.
SHE—Do you know you're too good to me. I can never repay you.
HE—Yes, you can. By agreeing to go every time I ask.
SHE—Haven't I done it?
HE—Yes, you've never failed me. It's settled, then, for "vodevil?"
SHE—Come early and avoid the rush.
HE—And can you stay late? Because—well, I thought you might like a bite to eat at the Stafford after the show.
SHE—Another of your surprises. Do you treat all of the girls so finely?
HE—No; only you.
SHE—Bluffer! Goodbye.
SHE—Please ring the other party on this line. Is that Madison 7-9-3-1-y? Mrs. Vincent, isn't it? This is Genevieve Pratt, Mrs. Vincent. I hope you're feeling better than when I saw you? So glad to hear it. Isn't this fine, crisp weather? Do I want to speak to yourson? If I may. Is that you, Carroll?
HE—Why, little girl!
SHE—Surprised to hear from me so soon? Well, after I came in the house I found an invitation to a private dance at the Belvedere two weeks from tonight. Lida and her husband are to give it. I've heard it's to be a swell affair—big ballroom decorated, orchestra and seated supper. I want you to go with me. Will you?
HE—Now, you know very well I will, little girl.
SHE—Oh, I'm so glad! I'll see everybody I know; I'll have you with me, and—you know how to dance so well.
HE—You mean we know how to dance together. Listen, Genevieve: If I go, are you going to give me every dance?
SHE—Certainly not. People would talk too much. If you're good, you may have every other one.
HE—And sit out the rest with you?
SHE—Perhaps. All right, mother.
HE—What did you say?
SHE—Did you hear? That was mother insisting that I come to dinner.
HE—I'll let you go, then. You promised me every one, don't forget.
SHE—No, I didn't.
HE—Do you remember what I told you coming uptown this afternoon?
SHE—You told me a lot of things.
HE—I told you you were the most tormenting little vixen on earth.
SHE—You didn't mean it, did you? All right, mother. Listen, Carroll, I really must go. Tell me you didn't mean it.
HE—I did mean it. You are the most tormenting, also the most lovable. I wouldn't have you otherwise.
SHE—Oh, Carroll!
HE—Goodbye.
SHE—Madison 7-9-3-1-y, please. Is Mr. Carroll Vincent up? At breakfast? Please tell him Miss Pratt wishes to speak to him. Oh, Carroll, I haven't slept a wink since you left me at the door! I'm so happy! I just lay awake thinking of last night, and then I thought I'd get up and 'phone you before you went downtown. I'm so happy!
HE—I'm glad you are, sweetheart. I'll try all my life to keep you so. I wish I could get closer to you than over this 'phone.
SHE—What would you do?
HE—I'd kiss you and whisper how I love you.
SHE—Don't, Carroll, don't! The telephone girl will hear you.
HE—What do I care? I feel like going around and shouting to all the world, "She loves me, she loves me, she loves me!" just to tell them how happy I am.
SHE—Oh, Carroll, don't do that!
HE—You don't suppose I'd do it, little darling, do you? No, this is our precious little secret. Just we two.
SHE—I don't deserve all this joy, Carroll. I don't feel I'm good enough for you—indeed, I don't.
HE—I thought you promised me in the carriage that you would never talk like that again.
SHE—I can't help it, Carroll. I feel so unworthy of you. I never felt like that before in my life. But when—when you put your arm around me—I just thought—well, I just thought how grand and noble you are and how trifling and insignificant I am.
HE—Don't, don't say that, little sweetheart.
SHE—I just can't help it. I'm so happy I want to cry.
HE—I understand, dear girl.
SHE—And when you asked me in the alcove if I—whether I would give myself to you for keeps—and you spoke so beautifully, Carroll!—indeed, I had trouble to keep back the tears. Love is a wonderful thing, isn't it?
HE—It is, dearest.
SHE—You are coming early tonight, aren't you?
HE—I will fly to you as soon as I can. I tell you what, can't you meet me downtown and have lunch with me?
SHE—Oh! may I? You know I'd just love to!
HE—Well, meet me at half-past 12. Usual corner, you know—Fidelity Building. Goodbye until then.
SHE—Madison 7-9-3-1-y, please. Is that you, Carroll?
HE—Yes, it is I.
SHE—I think it perfectly hateful of you to send me that mean note, Carroll Vincent.
HE—Now, look here, girlie, don't you think you're to blame?
SHE—I? Why, the idea!
HE—Yes, you. I don't believe you care for me at all.
SHE—Why, Carroll Vincent, how can you say that?
HE—Now, say, Genevieve, don't take that tone with me. You know you had no business flirting with Jack Smallwood as you did last night at Lehmann's.
SHE—Flirting? Why, Mr. Vincent, how dare you?
HE—Yes, flirting. I said it. If you cared anything for me, you wouldn't treat me so contemptibly as you have been lately.
SHE—Contemptibly? What have I been doing, I'd like to know?
HE—I think the way you carried on with Jack was perfectly outrageous. As for him, when——
SHE—Carroll Vincent, you ought to be grateful to him, if you love me.
HE—If I love you?
SHE—Yes, if you love me. You know very well he introduced us. And Jack isn't anything to me.
HE—And you don't care for him?
SHE—Certainly I like him. He's one of my oldest friends.
HE—Oh, those friends!
SHE—You're letting your jealousy run away with you.
HE—Maybe I am, but I'm glad I found him out before it was too late.
SHE—Indeed! And do you think it is too late? (Pause) What did you say?
HE—I didn't say anything. I was thinking. Listen, Genevieve, what's the useof our going on like this? I see now I was pig-headed to send that note. It was cruel to you. I'll never forgive myself.
SHE—I'm glad you're coming to your senses.
HE—I don't blame you for being angry, Genevieve, dear.
SHE—Oh! Carroll, how could you be so unjust?
HE—I'm awfully remorseful. Can't I come tonight and tell you more?
SHE—Why, certainly, you old goose. I'll forgive you.
HE—I'm so glad, Genevieve. But, tell me, dearest girl, you don't care for Jack Smallwood.
SHE—No, you silly boy. He isn't worth your little finger.
HE—Thank you, sweetheart. Goodbye.
SHE—Madison 7-9-3-1-y, please. Is that you, dearest? Oh! Carroll, I'm all so topsy-turvy I don't know what I'm doing. But I just couldn't go to bed without talking to you again.
HE—You know I'm glad.
SHE—And I——Oh! I'm so full of joy I can't wait for tomorrow to come. Doesn't it seem like a dream to think of our being married? It's all so strange, and yet I'm so happy! You don't think me unwomanly for telling you so, do you, dearest? I'm so frightened, and yet my heart is beating—trip—trip—for you. Can't you hear it?
HE—Keep still a moment. Yes, I can. One, two, three——
SHE—Oh, you tease! Such nonsense!
HE—It must be my own then, beating for you.
SHE—You're not nervous, are you?
HE—Of course I am. Am I not going to get the best, sweetest, prettiest, dearest, most lovable girl in the world for a wife? Tomorrow at high noon seems a long way off, doesn't it?
SHE—Oh! Carroll, we won't need a 'phone then, will we?
HE—It has been a dear old two-party line, though, hasn't it?
SHE—It knows an awful lot of our secrets. I wonder how much the exchange girl has heard?
HE—Oh! I guess she got tired of us long ago.
SHE—Then she won't be listening if I send you a kiss over the wire. Um—m—m—m—did you get it?
HE—I'll give it back with interest tomorrow.
SHE—Everything's tomorrow, isn't it?
HE—There's the clock striking midnight. It's today now, and our wedding day.
SHE—Oh, Carroll!
HE—Don't come late, little bride. I'll be "waiting at the church."
The Doctor and his wife waited until their half dozen guests had finished the tasty supper Mrs. Harford had provided before they sprung upon them the purpose which had moved them to invite them. The entire party was made up of West Arlingtonites, neighbors from across the way, from down the block and from up near Carter Station. They had chatted gaily over neighborhood gossip in the dining-room, intermingled with nonsense of the sort that passes between people who have been a great deal in the same set. And now that they were seated on the front porch, two in a hammock and the others in comfortable rockers, the badinage continued as Dr. Harford passed cigars to the men and pretended to give them to the ladies, too.
"They don't seem to have taken offense at our not asking them," whispered Mrs. Caswell to plump little Mrs. Fremont.
"No, not a bit," responded Mrs. Fremont, in the same low tone. "All the same, I feel like a hypocrite for coming."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Caswell; "you're too soft."
She might have added more, but Dr. Harford, who had been lounging against a post since he had handed around the cigars, was evidently trying to attractthe attention of the entire group.
"I am reminded tonight," he began, slowly, "by this little affair of a larger party here last summer, when we entertained the card club."
In the stillness that ensued the song of the crickets in the fields beyond the town sounded most strangely plain.
"Mrs. Harford and I," pursued the Doctor, his voice growing more incisive, his manner more stern, "both enjoyed ourselves in that club, and we are most curious to know why we were not included this year."
The pair in the hammock stopped swinging so suddenly that their feet scraped the floor vigorously. Mrs. Fremont cleared her throat with evident nervousness. The others were still dumb—that is, all except Mr. Caswell.
"Why, old man," he burst out, "I was told you did not want to"——
"Joseph!" interrupted Mrs. Caswell, turning herself so that her husband could see her more plainly in the white light from the arc lamp at the corner. There was the menace of a curtain lecture in her face.
"We did want to join, Caswell," exclaimed Dr. Harford, quickly. "The plain fact is that we were not asked."
"There must be some mistake," said Mr. Caswell. "I'm sure I, for one, have been sorry"——
"Joseph!" again exclaimed Mrs. Caswell. This time she was unmistakably severe. Caswell subsided.
Dr. Harford addressed himself directly to Mrs. Caswell. "I intend to get to the bottom of this affair tonight," he said."I have asked questions of several of you, and so has Effie, and the excuses given have been so various that they would be funny if I did not feel they are doing injury to me professionally, as well as socially. My purpose in having you all together here"——
A Garrison-avenue car crowded with Electric Park visitors rumbled noisily by and drowned some of the words of his sentence.
"I want it sifted thoroughly now."
Little Mrs. Fremont half rose from her chair, as she said weakly to her husband: "I don't feel well. I think I'd better be going."
"Pardon me, Mrs. Fremont," said Dr. Harford, "I beg of you that you will remain."
"Stick it out, Emily," remarked Mr. Fremont. "Harford has got us here to learn the truth." Nothing ever seemed to worry Fremont.
"Now, Mrs. Caswell," continued Dr. Harford, still addressing that lady directly and drawing nearer to her by a foot or two, "I will begin with you. Last week when you were in my office I asked you to tell me just what stories were being circulated about me in West Arlington, and after some demur you told me. Do you mind repeating them?"
Mrs. Caswell was scornful. "I have nothing to say," she exclaimed. "I think it better to hush the whole affair."
"Then, my dear madam, I am forced to repeat to my guests what you told me. You said, you will recollect, that one resident had accused me of having cheated at cards, and that another partyhad called me a 'tooth butcher,' and had declared I could not fix the teeth of her little dog. Was not that it?"
It was Mrs. Caswell's turn to rise. "This is a contemptible outrage," she cried. "I demand that it stop."
"No more contemptible than the injury you have done us," spiritedly said Mrs. Harford, speaking for the first time.
"Have I not quoted you right?" asked Dr. Harford of Mrs. Caswell.
"I shall say nothing," returned she. "You have cooked up a vile plot to trap us here."
"Then, my dear Mrs. Caswell, if you will affirm nothing, I have a way to make you speak." He stepped inside his hallway for an instant, while the others, all except his wife, watched him with great curiosity and some alarm. When he reappeared he was carrying a table on which was some large, heavy article hidden under a tablecloth. "There's a little surprise coming to you and the rest," he resumed. "You did not know, madame, that when I was pressing you with questions as you sat in my dental chair a phonograph was making a record of your answers." He whipped off the cover of the talking machine and busied himself with preparing it for action.
Consternation was writ large upon the countenances of those who could be seen in the stray beams of light that countered through the porch. But Mrs. Caswell's was the only voice heard. Again she protested against having been trapped.
"Silence," said Dr. Harford, and hestarted the machine to whirring. Everybody bent forward so as to miss nothing. But there was no need, for the familiar tones of Mrs. Caswell had been well recorded by the Edison invention and floated out in full and plain confirmation of the charges Dr. Harford had so carefully repeated.
Fremont's "Thunderation!" was the only audible one of several exclamations that were murmured as the quoted phrases died away. Dr. Harford raised a warning finger.
"Wait," he said; "there's more."
And as the machine kept revolving they heard his own voice say:
"And who was it, Mrs. Caswell, who told you that I had cheated at cards?"
There came a sharp interruption.
"Stop!" cried Mrs. Caswell, as in sheer desperation she bounced from her chair and made a vicious dive toward the tell-tale recording angel, only to be blocked by the watchful Dr. Harford. "Let go of me," she cried, as she shook off his restraining hand in furious anger. "I insist that you stop this outrage. Joseph, how can you stand idly by and see me so grossly insulted?"
There was no answer to the summons from Caswell. His wife evidently expected none, for she continued right along in wrathful denunciations of Harford, threatening law suits and other means of dire vengeance. "I declare she frightens me," whispered timid Mrs. Fremont, as she drew her chair closer to that of her husband.
The phonograph was pursuing the even tenor of its paraffine way. Those whocould hearken to it above the irate tones of Mrs. Caswell heard her refuse several times to name her informant; heard the Doctor's earnest pleading for no concealment, and finally heard her say:
"Well, if you really must know, Doctor, who it was who said you cheated at cards, it was Mrs. Fremont."
Dr. Harford quickly shut off the record and turned to face the others. Mrs. Fremont had risen from her chair and leveled her finger at Mrs. Caswell. She was timid no longer.
"How dared you tell such a lie about me, Irene Caswell?" she gasped.
"You know you said it, Mary Fremont."
"I did not. She is telling what is not true, Dr. Harford. She came to me when we were re-forming the club and said she would not join this year if you were to be a member. She uttered a lot of things against you, and finally she said she was sure you would not hesitate to cheat at cards, and she only wished she could catch you once. And then I reminded her—perhaps I was wrong to do it—of the time when I was your partner and you sprouted an extra point and presently we got into a dispute about the score."
"You mean the night at Mrs. Parkin's?"
"Yes; don't you remember you were the first one to call attention to it and wanted to take off the point, but after some time it was shown that we had the right number? That's honestly all I said to her about you and the cards."
"I believe you, Mrs. Fremont."
From the chair into which Mrs. Caswell had subsided there came a snort. "Go ahead," she sneered. "Play out your little comedy. You're all in it together. Nobody will believe me."
"We take you at your word, Mrs. Caswell," rejoined Dr. Harford. "There is more of the truth to be got at."
Again the phonograph was in motion, and the listeners heard these questions and answers:
"And who was it, Mrs. Caswell, who told you I was a 'tooth butcher' and could not fix the teeth of her little dog?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, Doctor, it was Mrs. Parkin who said her husband had called you a 'tooth butcher,' and it was Mrs. Somerset who said you could not fix the teeth of her little dog."
Both the Parkins rose from their place in the hammock. The husband was so angry that he moved toward Mrs. Caswell with upraised hand until he recollected himself and halted with a muttered exclamation. The wife, a tall, graceful blonde, who had made herself well liked since they had moved out to West Arlington, chose to ignore the woman who had involved her, and so addressed herself directly to the host.
"My husband and I," she began, coolly and cuttingly, "are very much indebted to you, Dr. Harford, for so cleverly unmasking the traitor in our midst. This woman has called it a miserable trap, and I want to say that I feel that only by such a contrived plot has it been possible to uncover the truth and lay the trouble at the door of the right scandal-monger.
"Of course, it is unnecessary to say to you," and she pulled herself up to her full queenly height and spoke with most dignified impressiveness, "that my husband did not call you a 'tooth butcher' and that I did not tell her he had said so. What he did say was merely to repeat jokingly that old jest about a dentist being a 'tooth carpenter.' I forget the way he put it, but it sounded funny to me at the time, and when I was out with Mrs. Caswell in her auto that very afternoon I told her. She laughed, but Mrs. Somerset, who was with us, thought the expression horrid, and said if she were to think of you as a 'tooth carpenter' and not as a good, careful dentist, she would not let you attend her dog. Thus, you see, Doctor, how two harmless little expressions have been perverted into nasty gossip against you.
"I cannot tell you of the things that she alleged against you that afternoon or at other times. I did not give heed to them, and I have too much respect for you to repeat them here just now. I am only sorry that we yielded to Mrs. Caswell's insistent urging that we exclude you from the card club this summer. I am sure it was only done because we felt there had been ill feeling between you and her and because she had been the one to start the club and lead it each year."
"And I want to add, Harford," said Parkin, heartily, "that you will either be in the club henceforth or there will be no club. Am I not right?" he queried, turning to the Fremonts.
The prompt assent from both must have settled Mrs. Caswell's last hope of appeal from a unanimous verdict. She rose and made a sign to her husband. Her blazing anger had given way to a chilly hauteur that showed that, although beaten, she had not hauled down the flag. "I hope your little farce has quite ended," she remarked to Dr. Harford, with exaggerated dignity.
"Quite," he replied, with sweet acquiescence.
"Then I suppose I will be allowed to go?"
"As soon as convenient."
"I leave you," she pursued, "in the hands of your friends. Oh! if you only knew the things they have said about you! And now they honey you!"
"I am willing to trust them," he said, equably.
For the life of her, Mrs. Caswell could think of no other biting thing to say, so she took her departure.
"Come, Joseph," she ordered, as she passed down the steps to the hedge-bordered walk.
Caswell stopped for an instant to hold out his hand to the dentist.
"Sorry, immensely sorry, old chap. Awful mess she's made. If there's any way I can"——
"Joseph!" reiterated Mrs. Caswell from the gateway.
And Joseph obeyed.
"Have a fresh cigar, Parkin. And you, Fremont," said Dr. Harford, as the six left behind settled back in their chairs and hammock for a good half-hour review of Mrs. Caswell and hermischief-making.
"By George! this was an original plan of yours, Harford," exclaimed Fremont.
"Indeed it was," murmured little Mrs. Fremont.
"It was not my idea at all. I got it from Shakespeare. Do you not recall a scene in 'Timon of Athens' where Timon invites his false friends to a banquet to show them up?"
"Well, you worked it neatly, anyhow," said Parkin, who had never read Shakespeare in his life.
"I had one great advantage over 'old Bill,'" continued Dr. Harford.
"In what way?" asked Mrs. Parkin, smiling at him.
"I had the phonograph."
When I moved there 10 years ago that Franklin-street block just west of Charles was even then known as "Doctors' Row," though there was by no means the number of professional men the street now has. From Dr. Osler's at the Charles-street corner of the south side—in the old Colonial mansion where now the Rochambeau apartments stand—to Dr. Alan P. Smith's on the north side next to the old Maryland Club building at Cathedral street, there were in all five doctors. And my own shingle—newly painted in gilt letters as befitted a specialist freshly returned from the Vienna hospitals—made the sixth sign of the kind.
On the south side not far from Dr. Osler's, the front of one of those fine old houses erected in the thirties, and the homes of the elite of Baltimore for many years before Mount Vernon place was built up, bore the announcement of:
JAMES COURSEY DUNTON, M. D.
JAMES COURSEY DUNTON, M. D.
The sign was of a very old pattern, and was so rain-washed that the name could scarcely be deciphered. This, too, was the case with a frosted pane in the front window, on which—perhaps 40 years ago—Dr. Dunton had had his name painted in black letters. The house, too, showed the same lack ofpaint and care.
In my student days at the Johns Hopkins Medical School I had never heard the name of Dr. Dunton, and this led me to make inquiries of a professional neighbor. I learned that Dunton was in effect an elderly hermit, that for years he had abandoned his practice and had declined to respond to calls. His self-enforced isolation had grown to such a degree that he was rarely seen on the street and made all his household purchases through notes stuck in his vestibule door for "order boys". "I have seen Dunton only once in eight years," said my informant. "They say, too, he used to be an excellent practitioner, an Edinburgh graduate, with a patronage of the best classes—a courtly gentleman who was well liked by his patients."
"What was the cause for the change?" I asked.
"A love tragedy of some kind, they told me, though I never got the details."
I developed a lively curiosity in the elderly recluse, and nearly every time I moved in or out of my own residence, or passed my front windows, I glanced at Dr. Dunton's house in hopes of seeing him. My first glimpse was, perhaps, a month after I had been told about him. The sun had gone down, save where I could see the gilded tops of the Cathedral with a red glint upon them. In the half-light Dr. Dunton came to his second-story window—I knew it must be he—a tall, slender figure, somewhat bent, garbed in unrelieved black, save for the open white collar of ante-bellum style. Scant white hair extended from his templesback over his ears and framed a face that seemed, in the dusk, refined and kindly, though seared with many wrinkles. I watched the silent figure at the window unnoticed by him, for he gazed with intentness at the vine-adorned front of the old Unitarian Church at the corner, until the real darkness came upon us both.
It was, I think, about a week later when I again encountered Dr. Dunton. The Edmondson-avenue trolley line had just been completed up Charles street, and for the first time this old residential section resounded with the clangor that betokened rapid transit. About 9 one night I observed Dr. Dunton stepping down from the pavement of the Athenaeum Club to cross the street. A trolley car was coming rapidly, but the old gentleman, his head bent in thought and unused as he was to modern inventions and modern bursts of speed, paid no attention and moved in front of it. The motorman threw off his current, tried to reverse, and rang his gong furiously, but saw that he could not stop in time to avoid hitting the Doctor. I had bounded into the street, and when the car was only half a dozen feet off I was fortunately able to draw the old chap back and hold him clear of the Juggernaut that had so nearly wrought his destruction.
His first impulse, as he turned toward me, was one of anger that I had presumed to intrude so violently upon his thoughts. Then he saw what a narrow escape he had had, and anger gave place to a courtly smile and a slight twinklein his sunken eyes.
"We young fellows are not so careful as we ought to be," he said. "I owe you my life."
I hastened to assure him that my act was one of simple kindness, but he renewed his expressions of thanks in even more polished phrases. The car had gone on and we had crossed to the church corner.
"I am Dr. Dunton," he said. "My house is yonder and, though I dwell alone, and with little ceremony, I will be pleased to have you partake of such hospitality as I can offer."
I accepted with alacrity. "I am Dr. Seaman," I responded. "I have just moved into the block." And I indicated my own home.
We crossed Franklin street to Dr. Dunton's house. He opened the heavy door with a latch-key, but before I could enter it was necessary for him to go ahead and light up. He was profuse in his apologies for the disorder of everything as he led me into the room behind the parlor, but beyond a thick coating of dust the dark mahogany furniture showed no signs of the absence of servants.
"I suppose you younger men might call this your 'den,'" he said as he applied a match to the centre chandelier, "but I prefer to name it my study." There were rows upon rows of medical works of a past generation on the shelves around the room, a familiar bust of Esculapius, a skull or two, some assorted bones and other signs of my host'sformer profession. A worn leather arm-chair sat behind the table under the chandelier, another arm-chair on the right. Dr. Dunton drew the latter forward for me and dropped into the other one. As the light fell full upon him I noted that he was not only thin, but gaunt, and that his face, which interested me strangely, was marked by hollow places that gave him an almost uncanny appearance, despite its refinement and intellectuality. His eyes had a haunting expression, as if at times he suffered much physical pain, and there was a sadness in them that quickened my sympathies.
For a minute or so there was silence. I felt that he was at a loss for topics upon which to converse on common ground. Finally he said:
"You are the first visitor I have had here since poor Wallis sat in that chair a dozen years ago."
"You mean Mr. Wallis the lawyer?" I asked.
"He was my good friend in many dark days," he answered gently. I felt that he was slipping away from me into the past.
"You must have it lonely here," I remarked.
"Not lonely," was the response. "I live with my memories."
The shadow on his face grew deeper.
"Why not practice your profession," I hazarded, "and forget some part of your past sorrows in a busy life?"
He leaned forward, looking intently at me and yet beyond. "Ah! lad," he said,as he laid a thin hand upon my wrist, "if you but knew, if you but knew! I tried hard, and then I found I couldn't, and then I gave up trying. There are griefs so great that one cannot lose them until the last sleep. I am not lonely, for I have Her always with me here."
It was best for me to remain silent. He was almost unaware of my presence. I felt he would go on if I did not divert his train of thought.
"Night after night She sits here with me," he pursued; "day after day She is by my side. In spirit the loving companionship I sought is ever mine, and yet, great God, how different!" His face he buried in his hands. In my eyes the tears could not be kept back.
Presently he rose from his seat and moved to the wall next to the parlor. To my surprise, the pressure of his finger against a spot in the wooden door pillar opened up a secret cupboard in the partition. The Doctor reached in and lifted out an arm chair of the same pattern as that upon which I was seated. It was heavy and I jumped to aid him, but he negatived me with a short, sharp twist of his head. As he came into the full light I saw that the chair contained a woman's cloak, one of shimmery gray satin, but now sadly faded and time-stained. Reverently he lifted the cloak and laid it across the back of the chair.
"That's as it was the night she sat there and passed away," said the Doctor.
For several minutes there was no word between us. The Doctor, his mouthtwitching, his thoughts far from me, stared intently at the old cloak.
"How I loved her, how I loved her!" he finally murmured. Again he was becoming aware of my presence. "You can't understand, sir, the depth of my devotion. It stood the test of years—it stood even her marriage to another."
Another pause.
"She was the prettiest and merriest child you ever saw," he finally went on. "Had she been an Indian maid they would have called her 'Dancing Sunshine.' But being just a Baltimore girl, with her parents more fond of reading Scott than of any other literature save the Bible, she was named Geraldine. You remember that line in the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel':