I seized the tongs and poker and began readjusting the logs.I seized the tongs and poker and began readjusting the logs.
I seized the tongs and poker and began readjusting the logs.I seized the tongs and poker and began readjusting the logs.
"Well," exclaimed Miss Hollister, who had rung for a servant to open the doors and windows, "this is certainly most extraordinary. What solution do you offer, Mr. Ames?"
"The matter requires investigation. I can't venture an opinion until I have made a thorough investigation. The night is perfectly quiet and the wind is hardly responsible. I think we had better abandon the room until I can solve this riddle in the morning."
The prompt opening of the windows and doors caused the slow dispersion of the smoke, but the lights in the room still shone dimly as through a fog.
"It's beastly," ejaculated Wiggins, coughing. "I did n't suppose Pepperton would put a flue like that into a house. He ought to be shot."
"It is fortunate," said Miss Hollister, "that Mr. Ames is on the ground. He now has a case that will test his most acute powers of diagnosis."
The logs that had burned so brightly before the chimney choked still held their flames stubbornly, and I had advised against pouring water upon them, fearing to crack the brick and stonework. We were about to adjourn to the drawing-room; Miss Hollister and the others had in fact reached the door, leaving me alone before the hearth. Then, as I stood half-blinded watching the smoke pour out into the room, and more puzzled than I had ever been before in any of my employments, the chimney, with a deep intake of breath, began drawing the smoke upward again; the flames caught and spread with renewed ardor; and when the trio still loitering in the hall returned in answer to my exclamation of surprise, the flue had recovered its composure and was behaving in a sane and normal manner.
There is, I imagine, nothing pertaining to the life of man (unless it be rival climates, motor-cars or pianos) that so inspires incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial criticism as wayward fireplaces. It is part of my business to listen respectfully to opinions, to receive with an appearance of credulity the theories of others; and those advanced in Miss Hollister's library were not below the average to which I was accustomed.
"A swallow undoubtedly fell into the chimney-pot and then got itself out again," suggested Cecilia.
"The logs must have been wet. The sap had n't dried out yet," proposed Wiggins.
"The wood was as dry as tinder," averred Miss Hollister, not without irritation. "And one swallow does not make a summer or a chimney smoke. It must have been a changing current of air. I was reading a book on ballooning the other day, and it is remarkable how the air currents change."
"That is quite possible, as the air cools rapidly after sunset at this season, and that is bound to have an effect on the quality and resistance of the atmosphere," I replied sagely.
"Perhaps," suggested Miss Hollister, with one of those flashes of animation that were so delightful in her, "perhaps it was a ghost! Will you tell us, Mr. Ames, whether in your experience you have ever known a chimney ghost?"
As I had no opinion of my own as to what had caused the chimney's brief aberration, I was glad to follow Miss Hollister's lead.
"I have had several experiences with ghosts," I began, "though I should not like you to think that I profess any special genius for the analysis of psychical phenomena. But there was a house at Shinnecock that was reputed to be haunted. The living-room chimney behaved damnably. The house was one of Buffington's. Buffington, you know, was quite capable of building a house and omitting any stairway. We used to say at the club that he ought to have specialized in fire-engine houses, where the men don't use stairways but slide down a pole. Well, the living-room chimney in this particular house could n't be made to draw with a team of elephants, and it had also the reputation of being haunted. Strange flutings of the weirdest and most distressing kind were often heard at night. The owner gave up in despair and moved out, turning the house over to me. After eliminating all other possibilities, I decided that the piping spook must be related to the disorder in the chimney. It served two fireplaces, and I proceeded to knock the kinks out of it so it did n't tie knots in a plumb-line as at first; but, believe me, when it stopped smoking it still whistled, in the most fantastical fashion. I was living in the house, with only the servants about, and for a week gave my whole thought to this flue. The ghostly flutist was an amateur, but he tried his hand at every sort of tune, from 'Sally in our Alley' to the jewel song in Faust. The whistling did n't begin till nearly midnight, and continued usually for about an hour. I tried in every way to lure him into the open, and I fell downstairs one night as I crept about in the dark trying to trace the sound. And to what palpable and mundane source do you suppose I traced that ghost?"
"I never should guess," murmured Cecilia, "unless it was merely the weird whistling of the wind."
"Nothing so poetical, I'm sorry to confess. It was the butler! In his nightly cups his soul inclined to music, and being a timid soul, fearful of the cynical tongues of the other servants, he crawled into the ash-dump in the cellar, which communicated with the several fireplaces above, and there indulged himself gently upon the tuneful reed. The night I caught him he was breathing the wild strains of Brunhilde's Battle-Cry into the tube, and it was shuddersome, I can tell you! I took it upon myself to discharge him on the spot, and the grateful owner returned the next day."
"The presence of a ghost in this house would give me the greatest pleasure," declared Miss Hollister, who had listened intently to my recital. "I should look upon a ghost's appearance at Hopefield Manor as a great compliment. If any reputable, decent ghost should by any chance take up his residence in this house, I should give him every encouragement."
Miss Hollister seemed to have forgotten the proposed game of billiards. The chimney's lawless demonstration had, in fact, given a new turn to the evening. We discussed ghosts for half an hour, and then, without having enjoyed any opportunity for a single private word with Cecilia, Wiggins rose to leave. He shook hands all around and bowed from the door. It was in my mind to follow, making a pretext of walking with him to the station or of helping him find his car; but nothing in his good-night to me encouraged such attentions, and as I pondered, the outer door closed upon my irresolution.
At the stroke of ten Miss Hollister rose and excused herself. "We breakfast at eight, Mr. Ames. I trust the hour does not conflict with your habits."
I assured her that the hour was wholly agreeable, and she gave me her hand with great dignity.
When I turned toward Cecilia she had moved to a seat close by the hearth and was gazing dreamily into the fire, now a bed of glowing coals.
"It was odd," I remarked.
"You mean the chimney?"
"Yes. It was quite unaccountable. I confess that I never knew a chimney's mood to change so abruptly."
She sat silent for several minutes, and then she lifted her head and her eyes met mine.
"Pardon me, Mr. Ames, but did my aunt ask you here to examine the chimneys? I did n't quite understand. We have been here only a week; the weather has been warm, and I believe this fire had not been lighted before to-day. You will pardon my frankness, but I can't quite understand why my aunt invited you here if you came professionally. I thought when you appeared this afternoon that you were a guest—nothing more—or less."
"You had heard nothing of any trouble with the fireplaces? Then I am in the dark as much as you. As I understood it, I was called here to examine the flues; but now that I think of it, she did not say explicitly that her chimneys were behaving badly, though that was of course implied. I naturally assumed that she summoned me here in my professional capacity. I was a stranger to your aunt; she would hardly have invited me otherwise."
She turned again to the fire as though referring to it for counsel. Her perplexity was no greater than my own. It was certainly an extraordinary experience to be invited to a strange house where my services had not been needed, and to find that an apparently sound chimney had begun to smoke at once as though in mockery of my presence.
"I imagine, however, that your aunt acts a good deal on impulse. Her asking me here may have been only a whim."
"Please don't imagine that your coming has not been agreeable to me," Cecilia protested. "My aunt is quite capable of inviting a stranger to the house. She met you, I believe, at the Asolando. I hope you understand that it is only because I am in deep trouble, Mr. Ames, trouble of the gravest nature, that I have ventured to speak to you in this way of my aunt, for whom I have all respect and affection."
She had never, I was sure, been lovelier than at this moment. Her eyes filled, but she lifted her head proudly. Whatever the trouble might be I was sorry for it on her own account; and if it involved Hartley Wiggins my sympathy went out to him also. On an impulse I spoke of him.
"I was surprised to meet Hartley Wiggins here. He 's a dear friend of mine, you know. I thought he had gone to his ranch. He left the Hare and Tortoise very abruptly a few nights ago just after we had dined together. He must be stopping somewhere in the neighborhood."
"It's quite possible. And there's an inn, you know. I fancy he drove over from there."
"I hadn't thought of that; the Prescott Arms, I suppose you mean."
She nodded, but she was clearly not interested in me, and when I found myself failing dismally to divert her thoughts to cheerfuller channels, I rose and bade her good-night.
The servant who had previously attended me appeared promptly when I reached my room, bearing a tray, with biscuits and a bottle of ale. He gave me an envelope addressed in a hand I already knew as Miss Octavia's, and I opened and read:—
"The following I either detest or distrust, so kindly refrain from mentioning them while you are a guest of Hopefield Manor:—
Automobiles.Mashed Potatoes.Whiskers.Chopin's Concerto in E Minor (op. 11).Bishop's Coadjutor.Limericks.Cats.OCTAVIA HOLLISTER."
I absorbed this with a glass of ale. There were seven items, I noted, and I had no serious quarrel with her attitude toward any of them; but just what these matters had to do with me or my presence in her house I could not determine. She had referred to me in the note as a guest—I had noted that; and I did know, moreover, that Miss Octavia Hollister possessed a quaint and delicate humor; and I looked forward with the pleasantest anticipations to our further meetings.
Before I slept I threw up my window and stepped out upon a narrow balcony that afforded a capital view of the fields and woods to the east. The night was fine, with the sky bright with stars and moon. As my eyes dropped from the horizon to the near landscape, I saw a man perched on a knoll in the midst of a corn-field. He stood as rigid as a sentry on duty, or like a forlorn commander, counting the spears of his tattered battalions. I was not sure that he saw me, for the balcony was slightly shadowed, but at any rate, he was sharply outlined to my vision. His derby hat and overcoat gave him an odd appearance as he stood brooding above the corn. Then he vanished suddenly, though, as he retired toward the highway, I followed him for some time by the shaking and jerking of the corn-stalks.
I lay awake far into the night, considering the events of the day. Of these the curious stoppage of the library chimney was the least interesting. I doubted whether it would ever recur. The love-affair of Hartley Wiggins was, however, a matter of importance to me, his friend, and I determined to make every effort to see him the next day and learn the exact status of his affair with Cecilia Hollister.
I was aroused at six o'clock the next morning by the sound of gun-shots, and springing out of bed I beheld, in an open pasture beyond the stable-yard, the indomitable Miss Hollister engaged in the pleasing pastime of breaking clay pigeons with a fowling-piece. Her Swedish maid stood by with a formidable pad of paper, keeping score. A boy pulled the trap for her, and she threw up her gun and blazed away with a practised hand. Her small, slight, tense figure, awaiting the launching of the target, the quick up-bring of the gun as she sighted, and the pause, following the firing of the shot, in which she bent forward rigidly watching the result, were features of a picture which I would not have missed. My eye could not follow the curving disc in its flight, but when the shot told, the bursting clay made a little patch of dust in the air that was plainly visible from where I sat. Beyond the stable-roofs, on a broad stretch of pasture whose aftermath made a green field about her, and against a background of the more distant woods' tapestry, Miss Octavia Hollister was a figure to admire. And I will write it down here and be done with it, that it has been my good fortune to know many delightful women, but I have never known one more interesting or charming than Miss Octavia Hollister. The spirit of deathless youth was in her heart; and youth's gay pennants fluttered about her, as the reports of her gun fell cheerily upon the crisp morning air, a rebuke and a challenge to all indolent souls.
She threw up her gun and blazed away with a practised hand.She threw up her gun and blazed away with a practised hand.
She threw up her gun and blazed away with a practised hand.She threw up her gun and blazed away with a practised hand.
I made myself presentable as quickly as possible and went forth to report to her. She nodded pleasantly as I greeted her immediately after she had scored a capital shot. A second gun was produced, and I saw that it was not without satisfaction that she observed my lack of prowess. One out of five was the best I could do, whereas she smashed three with the greatest ease.
On alternate mornings, she informed me, she shot glass balls with a rifle, a sport which she declared to be superior to pigeon-shooting in the severity of its demand upon the nerve and eye.
"If I had known you would be up so early I should have sent coffee to your room," she remarked as we walked toward the house. "Very likely your lack of luck with the birds is attributable entirely to the impoverished state of your stomach."
Breakfast was served on a delightful sun-porch that I had not before seen. Cecilia appeared promptly, having in fact been gathering fall flowers for some time, I judged, from the considerable armful of chrysanthemums, asters, dahlias and marigolds, which we found her arranging for the table. She seemed in excellent spirits, and greeted us most amiably.
"I heard the artillery booming and thought an army had descended. It's a great regret to me, Mr. Ames, that I have never been able to make any headway at the traps. I suffer from chronic and incurable gun-shyness. I 'm sorry archery has gone out. I think I might have done better with the long bow."
"Pinkle!" exclaimed Miss Hollister disdainfully. "I cured myself of gun-shyness easily enough by having the gardener follow me about whenever I took my daily walks, firing a gun at irregular intervals just behind me. I was threatened with deafness when I began, but the agitation of my tympanums by the explosions of my gun has corrected the difficulty. I have mentioned my discovery of this remedy to a distinguished aurist, and he is preparing a paper on the subject—not, however, without my permission—which he expects to read shortly before one of the most learned societies in Europe. Cecilia, the chops are overdone again; please remind me to speak to the cook about it. If it were not that he is so expert in detecting spurious steam-mill corn-meal, which is constantly sold as a substitute for the Boydville water-ground article, I should discharge him for this. An ill-broiled chop can do much to shake one's faith in human nature. If I wanted to eat grilled patent leather I should order it."
In spite of her sharp observations it was quite clear to me that Miss Hollister's was the gentlest and sweetest of natures. I fully believed that her whims were the honest expression of a revolt against the tedious and conventional, and nothing in my later acquaintance disturbed this opinion. It was her privilege to do as she liked, and if she preferred cracking clay saucers with a shot-gun to knitting or darning stockings or gossiping, it was no one's business.
The mail arrived and was placed by her plate before we left the table. She opened first a bulky envelope containing cuttings from a clipping bureau, and she mused aloud upon these as she read.
"This persistent story of a sunken galleon off the Bolivian coast sounds plausible, but I fear it is the work of some bright young journalist. Our minister in that benighted country does n't take any stock in it. I had a cable from him yesterday. If he had given the story credence I should have gone down at once with a steamer and crew of divers. The imaginative young newspaper men continue romancing, however; and it costs me five cents a clipping."
She next opened a letter that roused her to vigorous declamation.
"Cecilia," she began, "here is a letter from that Mrs. Stanford we met in Berne. She encloses a card that indicates her wish to be called Mrs. Appleby now, having, I believe, spent a few months since our meeting in one of our American States where the marital tie readily evaporates, and shaken Stanford, whom I have heard spoken of in the highest terms by persons of character. We live in an era of horseless carriages, wireless telegraphy, husbandless wives and wifeless husbands. I have hit upon a formula which I am tempted to utilize hereafter when I meet husbandless women. When they are introduced I shall ask:—
Shaken,Or taken?
signifying in the first instance a loss by way of Nevada, or, in the second, through the pearlier gates of that Paradise which is the hope of us all. Mr. Ames, as the butler has gone to sleep in the pantry, you will kindly pass the salt."
She had handed Cecilia a number of letters, which the girl opened and then to my surprise meekly turned over to her aunt. Miss Hollister surveyed them critically.
"I thought," she remarked, "that that young Henderson who was so attentive to you at Madrid was an impostor, and this note settles the matter. He flirted outrageously with Hezekiah behind your back. He asks if he may call upon you here. If he were the nephew of Colonel Abner Henderson of Roanoke, as he represented himself to be, he would not ask if he might call upon you, but would have appeared at once in his proper person to pay his addresses. An unchivalrous and wobbly character, who evidently expects you to make the advances. But such are the youth of our time. And besides, Cecilia, his stationery leaves much to be desired. As for these other gentlemen we need not discuss them. Their actions must speak for them."
Miss Hollister, having thus dismissed her niece's correspondents, rose and led the way to the library. Cecilia seemed in no wise depressed by her aunt's fling at Mr. Henderson, whoever he might be, but threw the notes upon the flames that blazed merrily in the fireplace.
I suggested immediately that as I had come to Hopefield Manor to inspect the flues I should now be about my business; but to my surprise Miss Hollister evinced no interest whatever in the matter. Her tone and manner implied that the condition of her chimneys was wholly negligible.
"There is no haste, Mr. Ames. I have suffered all my life from the ill-considered and hurried work of professional men. Even the clergy—and I have enjoyed the acquaintance of many—are quite reckless in giving opinions. I once asked the Bishop of Waxahaxie—was it Waxahaxie, Cecilia, or Tallahassee?—well, it does n't matter anyhow—whether he honestly believed there are no women angels. He replied with unusual frankness for one in holy orders that he did n't know, but added that he was sure there are angel women. Just for that impertinence I cut in two my subscription to his cathedral building-fund. When I ask an expert opinion of an educated person I don't intend to be put off with mere persiflage. And to return to my chimneys, I beg that you give me the result of your most serious deliberations. At this hour I ride; Cecilia, will you dress immediately and accompany me?"
She disappeared at once and I stared mutely after her. I am by no means an idler, and this cool indifference to the value of my time would ordinarily have enraged me; but I believe I laughed, and when I turned to Cecilia I found her smiling.
"I 'm glad, Mr. Ames, that you are a person of humor. My aunt's conduct verifies what I said to you last night—that the flues in this house have given us no trouble; that they have indeed had little chance to do so in the short time we have spent here. It is true that this one acted queerly last night, and I have wondered about its temporary sulkiness a good deal. It will be well, of course, for you to go over it, and all the others in the house. It is no joke that my aunt is a believer in thoroughness, and one of these days, when she is ready to talk of chimneys, she will subject you to a most rigid examination."
"One of these days? Why, I have looked at the time-table, and it is my present intention to take the 12:03 into town. I have appointments at my office for the afternoon. I assure you, Miss Hollister, that I 'm a man of engagements, particularly at this season."
I remembered what Jewett had told me of Fortner, the painter, and his detention at Newport by Miss Octavia Hollister. I had no intention of being immured in any such fashion, and I was about to protest further when Cecilia took a step toward me, and after a glance at the door spoke in a low tone and with great earnestness.
"Mr. Ames, I have every reason to believe that you are a gentleman, and in that confident belief I 'm going to ask a favor of you. You have said that you know Mr. Hartley Wiggins well."
"I know no man better. You might not have inferred it from his manner last night, but he was undoubtedly surprised and embarrassed by my presence, and did not act quite like himself."'
"I think I understand the cause of that. If I should ask you to see him to-day and give him a message for me, could you do so?"
"It will be an honor to serve you; and a very simple matter, as I should see him on my own account if he is still in the neighborhood."
"He is doubtless at the Prescott Arms. My message is a verbal one. Please urge him not to make any effort to see me, and not to call here again. But at the same time, as the chimney smoked just as we were about to be left alone last night, I think—I think"—she hesitated a moment—"You may say that his interests have not been jeopardized by his temerity in calling."
In her pause before concluding this curious commission her eyes searched mine deeply, and I felt that she had not lightly entrusted me with this singular errand. Her dark eyes held mine an instant after she had spoken; then she smiled, and her face showed relief.
"Ask for anything you want. Aunt Octavia despises motors, so there 's no car here, but you will find plenty of horses and traps. Order whatever pleases you. I shall expect to meet you at dinner if not at luncheon—and so"—she smiled again—"will Aunt Octavia."
She nodded to me from the door, and I heard her running lightly upstairs.
Left to my own devices I rang the bell and ordered the library fire extinguished and the hearth cleaned. This required a little time; but the house man obeyed me readily, and soon, clad in my professional overalls and jumper, I was going carefully over the flue whose behavior had been so unaccountable the previous night. Guided by the servant I inspected the three fireplaces in the upper chambers that were served by flues in this chimney and finally dropped my torch and plumb-line from the chimney-pot. Never in all my experience had I seen better flues; but remembering my ghost at Shinnecock, I had the ashes thrown out of the dump in the cellar and found the chute in perfect order. I learned by inquiry that the other flues worked perfectly, but I nevertheless scrutinized them carefully. My freedom of the house afforded an excellent opportunity for a study of its beautiful construction. It was modern in every sense, with no dark, mysterious corners in which goblins might lurk. I prowled about with increasing admiration for Pepperton, and with a deepening sense of my own failure in the art which he adorned.
My professional labors were finished. I was quite ready for Miss Hollister's most searching inquiries. As for the library flue, I had decided that a little care in piling the logs in the hearth would obviate the possibility of any recurrence of the difficulty. And I thereupon hurried to my room, and after a tub (my vocation encouraged frequent tubbing) chose from the stable a neat trap for one horse. Thus equipped I set out to find Wiggins.
The Prescott Arms is an inn that sprang into being with the advent of motoring. The tourist is advised of his approach to it by signs swung at the crossways, and its plaster and timber walls are in plain sight from one of the excellent state roads. Gasoline and other liquids are offered there; one may have tea or an ampler meal on short notice; and a few guests may be lodged in case of necessity. I remembered it well, having several times found it a haven on motor-flights with friends. As I drove into the entrance I saw Wiggins pacing the long veranda. He waved a hand and came out to meet me, and when I had rid myself of the trap he suggested that we take a walk.
As I drove into the entrance.As I drove into the entrance.
As I drove into the entrance.As I drove into the entrance.
His manner was not cordial, and he wore the haggard look of a man on bad terms with his pillow. I attributed his appearance to preoccupation with his love-affair. When we had withdrawn a little way from the inn he turned on me sharply.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Well," I laughed.
"Oh, you needn't take that tone about it! Your being here is something that requires explanation; and your beingthere"—he flung out his arm toward Hopefield Manor—"your presence there is not a laughing matter."
"My dear Wiggins, I came here in a spirit of friendship, and you treat me like a pickpocket. I must say that if you had not acted like a clam the other night at the club, but had told me what was in the wind, we might not be meeting now like ancient enemies instead of old and intimate friends."
He vouchsafed no reply, but threw himself down under a scarlet maple and began to whittle a stick, while I went on with my story.
"I met Miss Octavia Hollister in the Asolando the day after our last dinner at the club. I had dropped into the tea-room merely to look at the place again. I had never seen her before in all my life. She is a whimsical old lady—but a lady, you must admit that—and we exchanged cards. On learning my occupation she at once declared that I must come up here to look at her chimneys. She made an appointment by mail for yesterday afternoon. It is not my fault that she treated me like a guest, or that she introduced me of necessity to her niece Cecilia. And now I have finished my work, and after I have made my report I shall probably not meet her again. As for Miss Cecilia Hollister, I can only say, my dear Wiggins, that she is a rarely beautiful woman, and that if you wish to marry her you have my very best wishes for your success and happiness."
"It struck me that you were pretty well established there," he blurted. "I confess that I took it for granted you were not there wholly on a professional errand; and I won't deny, Ames, that I was not pleased to see you."
"You honor me in assuming that I might aspire to the hand of so splendid a woman as Cecilia Hollister; but, my dear Wiggins, I tell you I never laid eyes on her until last night."
"But you had been to the Asolando," he persisted, hacking away doggedly at his stick.
"Of course I had. I told you I had. I told you the whole story. But I did not see Cecilia Hollister there. She was n't there! I fancy that after you saw her there last spring and became infatuated with her and followed her to Europe instead of going to Dakota to harvest your blooming wheat—after that bit of history she never returned to the Asolando. Your lack of frankness in all this has pained me. And you left it for a gossiping chap like Jewett to tell me the whole story. And to cap your duplicity you sneaked out of the club the other night while Jewett was talking to me and let the club people think you were bound for your ranch. I call it rather low down, Wiggins, after all the years we have known each other. My slate is clean; how about yours?"
He threw the stick at a sparrow whose chirp irritated him from a stone fence beyond us, and turned toward me a countenance on which dejection, humiliation, and chagrin were written large.
"Damn it all!" he bellowed, "I believe I 'm losing my mind. I don't know what I 'm doing. That old woman up there is responsible for all this. She 's as crazy as a March hare,—crazier! And she 's made a prisoner of that girl. I tell you Cecilia Hollister is the grandest girl in the world."
"Go it, son! Those descendants of Cæsar's legions at work in the road down there are pausing to listen. Try to affect calmness if you don't feel it. I agree to all you say of Miss Cecilia. And please get it into your noddle that I have no intention of becoming your rival for her hand. But I must beg of you also not to speak in such terms of her aunt. She 's the most delightful woman I ever met."
"Mad, I tell you, quite mad!"
"Wise,—with the most beautiful wisdom; you simply don't understand her."
"I know all I want to about her. If she were not insane she would not build a wall of mystery about her niece and keep me camping out here not knowing where I stand. I tell you, Ames, that woman is a malevolent being; she 's perfectly fiendish."
There is no way of answering a man in this humor save by laughter; and I laughed long and loud, to the consternation of the Italian road-laborers who were now swallowing their luncheons a short distance away from us.
Wiggins sulked awhile and then addressed me seriously.
"I didn't tell you I was going abroad, because the situation made explanations difficult. I could hardly tell you that I was about to race over Europe after a waitress I had seen in a tea-room. You 're always so confoundedly suspicious. It would have an odd sound even now if she were—well, if she were a waitress instead of what you know her to be. And my animosity toward Miss Octavia Hollister is due to the fact that after I had been as courteous to her all summer long as I could, and thought myself tolerably established in her mind as a decent person and a gentleman, she suddenly shuts Cecilia up in that house,—bought it on purpose, I fancy,—and Cecilia herself is compelled to take on an air of mystery, warning me to keep away, suggesting the darkest possibilities, but giving me no hint whatever of the reason for her conduct."
"Let us confine ourselves to Miss Octavia for a moment. While you were acting as cavalier to her party abroad she was friendly; then she suddenly changed. Now there must be some explanation of that."
"Well, for one thing, she flew off at a tangent about my ancestors. We were in Berlin on the Fourth of July and got to talking about the American revolution. She asked me what my people had done for the patriotic cause. The painful fact is that most of them were Tories; but my great-grandfather broke with his father and brothers, joined Washington's army, and fought through the whole business. But to save the feelings of the rest of them, who went to England till it was all over, he changed his name. There's no mention of him in the war records anywhere. I've had experts working on it, but they can't find any trace of him. He was greatly embittered by the estrangement from his people, and though he had a farm in this very neighborhood somewhere—I 've thought sometime I 'd look it up and try to get hold of it—he never mentioned his military experiences even to his own children. Usually Miss Hollister changes front if you give her time. I've heard her say that we'd have been better off if we'd never broken with England; but she persists in prodding that weak place in my armor."
"That's very dark, Wiggy. If she keeps it up you'll have to dig up your great-grandfather someway. The spiritualists might call him on long distance. But let us turn to Miss Cecilia. I don't for a moment believe that she is a victim of ancestor worship. The perambulator rampant adorns the Hollister shield to the exclusion of everything else. From what you say Cecilia has not repelled you; on the other hand she has frankly given you to understand that you must not press your suit at this time for reasons she sees fit to withhold. A little more patience, a little calm deliberation and less violent language, and in due course the girl is yours. Now what do you fancy is the cause of Cecilia's abrupt change of attitude?"
He refused to meet my eyes, but turned away as though to conceal an embarrassment whose cause I could not surmise. When he spoke it was in a voice husky with emotion.
"Am I a cad? Am I beneath the contempt of decent people?"
"It's possible, Wiggy, that you are. Go on with it."
"Well, you know," he began diffidently, "Cecilia has a sister."
I grinned, but his scowl brought me to myself again.
"Yes. And her name is Hezekiah. The name pleases me."
"She was with Miss Octavia in her gallop over Europe, so I saw a good deal of her necessarily. She is younger than Cecilia; she's a good deal of a kid,—the sort that never grows up, you know."
"Just like her aunt Octavia!"
"Bah! Don't mention that woman. Hezekiah is a very pretty girl; and I suppose,—well, when you are thrown with a girl that way, seeing her constantly"—
I clapped my hand on his knee as the light began to dawn upon me.
"You old rascal, you don't need to add a single word! I dare say you are guilty. I can see it in your eye. After waiting till you reached years of discretion before beginning an attack upon womankind, you began mowing them down in platoons. So they come running now that you 've got a start. Oh, Wiggy, and I believed you immune! And you 're trying to drive 'em tandem."
The thing was funny, knowing Wiggins as I did, and I gave expression to my mirth; but his fierce demeanor quickly brought me back to the serious contemplation of his difficulty.
"That, you shameless wretch, would be a sufficient reason for Miss Octavia's aloofness,—your double-faced dealing with her nieces? You confirm my impression that she is a wise woman. And Cecilia, I take it, may be deeply embarrassed by her sister's infatuation for you. You certainly have made a tangle of things, you heart-wrecker, you conscienceless deceiver! But where, may I ask, does this Hezekiah keep herself?"
"Oh, she's with her father. They have a bungalow over the hills there, several miles from Hopefield Manor."
"Well, I hope you are no longer toying with her affections. Of course you don't see her any more?"
"Well," he mumbled, "I did see her this morning. But I could n't help it. It was the merest chance. I met her in the road when I was out taking a walk. She 's always turning up,—she's the most unaccountable young person."
"I suppose, Wiggy, that if you stand in the road and Miss Hezekiah Hollister strolls by on her way to market, you fancy that she is pursuing you. As Miss Octavia has well said, this is not a chivalrous age. I 'm deeply disappointed in you. Your conduct and your attitude toward this trusting young girl are disgraceful."
He rose and flung up his arms despairingly. It was much easier to laugh at Wiggins than to be angry at him; but I recalled the message which Cecilia had entrusted to me, and this, I thought, might give him some comfort.
"Miss Cecilia asked me this morning to say to you that you must not try to see her again; you must keep away from the house."
This obviously increased his dejection.
"But," I added, "I was to say that she thought nothing had yet occurred to interfere with your ambitions, as you were not permitted to see her alone last night. The chimney, you may remember, began playing pranks just at the moment when Miss Hollister and I were about to adjourn to the billiard-room, so a tête-à-tête between you and Cecilia was impossible."
"She told you to see me?"
"She certainly did. I confess that my message does n't seem luminous, but I have a feeling that she meant to be kind. It may be that she is giving you time to disentangle yourself from the delectable Hezekiah's meshes. I can't elucidate; I merely convey information. But answer honestly if you can: has Cecilia ever by word or act refused you?"
"No," he replied grimly; "she 's never given me the chance!"
He asked me to luncheon, and on the way back to the inn, after inquiring my plans for returning to town, he proposed that I delay my departure until the following day. What he wanted, and he put it bluntly, was a friend at court, and as I had seemingly satisfied him of my entire good faith and of my devotion to his interests, he begged that I prolong my stay in Miss Hollister's house, giving as my excuse the condition of the chimneys of Hopefield Manor. He brushed aside my plea of other engagements and appealed to our old friendship. He was taking his troubles hard, and I felt that he really needed counsel and support in the involved state of his affairs. I did not see how my continued presence under Miss Hollister's roof could materially assist him, and the thought of remaining there when there was no work to be done was repugnant to my sense of professional honor; but he was so persistent that I finally yielded.
While we ate luncheon I sought by every means to divert his thoughts to other channels. After we were seated in the dining-room four other men followed, exercising considerable care in placing themselves as far from one another as possible. A few moments later a motor hummed into the driveway, and we heard its owner ordering his chauffeur to return to town and hold himself subject to telephone call. This latest arrival appeared shortly in the dining-room, and surveying the rest of us with a disdainful air, sought a table in the remotest corner of the room. Others appeared, until eight in all had entered. The presence of these men at this hour, their air of aloofness, and the care they exercised in isolating themselves, interested me. They appeared to be gentlemen; they were, indeed, suggestive of the ampler metropolitan world; and one of them was unmistakably a foreigner.
While Wiggins appeared to ignore them, I was conscious that he reviewed the successive arrivals with every manifestation of contempt. One of these glum gentlemen seemed familiar; I could not at once recall him, but something in his manner teased my memory for a moment before I placed him. Then it dawned upon me that he was the third man I had met in the field overhanging the garden after my eavesdropping experience the day before. I thought it as well, however, not to mention this fact, or to speak of the man I had seen so grimly posted in the midst of the cornfield. I was an observer, a looker-on, at Hopefield, and my immediate business was the collecting of information.
"Will you kindly tell me, Wiggy, who these strange gentlemen are and just what has brought them here at this hour? They seem greatly preoccupied, and the last one, in particular, surveyed you with a murderous eye. If we could be translated to some such inn as this in the environs of Paris, I should conclude that a duel was imminent and that these gentlemen were assembling to meet after their coffee to-morrow morning for an affair of honor."
"I know them; they are guests of the inn. Most of them were more or less companions in our procession across Europe last summer. The one in the tan suit is Henderson; you must have heard of him. The short dark chap of atrabilous countenance is John Stewart Dick, who pretends to be a philosopher. As for the others"—
He dismissed them with a jerk of the head. My wits struggled with his explanation. It is my way to wish to reduce information to plain terms.
"Are these gentlemen, then, your rivals for the hand of Miss Cecilia Hollister? If so, they are a solemn band of suitors, I must confess."
"You have hit it, Ames. They are suitors, assembled from all parts of the world."
"Nice-looking fellows, except the chap with the monocle, who has just ordered rather more liquor than a gentleman should drink at this hour."
"That is Lord Arrowood. I have feared at times that Miss Octavia favored him."
"Possibly, but not likely. But how long is this thing going to last? If you fellows are going to hang on here until Miss Cecilia Hollister has chosen one of you for her husband, I shudder for your nerves. I imagine that any one of these gentlemen is likely to begin shooting across his plate at any minute. Such a situation would become intolerable very quickly if I were in the game and forced to lodge here."
"I hope," replied Wiggins with heat, "that you don't imagine these fellows can crowd me out! I 've paid for a month's lodging in advance, and if you will stand by me I 'm going to win."
"Spoken like a man, my dear Wiggins! You may count on me to the sweet or bitter end, even if I pull down all the superb chimneys with which Pepperton adorned that house up yonder."
He silently clasped my hand. A little later I telephoned from the inn to my office explaining my absence and instructing my assistant to visit several pressing clients; and I instructed the valet at the Hare and Tortoise to send me a week's supply of linen and an odd suit or two.
At about three o'clock I left Wiggins in first-rate spirits and set out on my return to Hopefield Manor. I felt the eyes of the eight other suitors, who were scattered at intervals along the verandah, glued to my back as I drove out of the inn yard.
A girl in a white sweater sat on a stone wall and munched a red apple; but this is to anticipate.
I had made a wrong turn on leaving the Prescott Arms, and I came out presently near Katonah village. I got my bearings of a shopkeeper and started again for Hopefield Manor; but the mid-afternoon was warm, and the hills were steep, and as Miss Hollister's admirable cob showed signs of weariness, I drove into a fence-corner and loosened the mare's check. On a sunny slope several hundred yards above the highway lay an orchard, advertised to the larcenous eye by the ruddiest of red apples. Not in many years had I robbed an orchard, and I felt irresistibly drawn toward the gnarled trees, which were still, in their old age, abundantly fruitful.
When I reached the orchard I found it quite isolated, with only fallow fields, seamed with stone fences, stretching on either hand. A spring near by sent the slenderest of brooks flashing down the slope. There was no house in sight anywhere, and the neglected orchard flaunted its bright fruit with pathetic bravado. I drew down a bough and plucked my first apple, tasted, and found it good. At my palate's first responsive titillation, something whizzed past my ear, and following the flight of the missile, I saw an apple of goodly size fall and roll away into the grass. I had imagined myself utterly alone, and even now, as I looked guiltily around, no one was in sight. The apple had passed my ear swiftly and at an angle quite un-Newtonian. It had been fairly aimed at my head, and the law of gravitation did not account for it. As I continued my scrutiny of the landscape, I was addressed by a voice whose accents were not objurgatory. Rather, the tone was good-natured and indulgent, if not indeed a trifle patronizing. The words were these:—
"Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!"