VII.
THE WAY OPENS.
Frank succeeded in having Mr. Dickey appointed as Custodian of theproperty, then he went back to Marston.
"Good-evening, Doctor; what a nest of roses you have here for abachelor," was his jovial cry, as he entered the quaint little house, inwhich Sellick had now established himself. "I declare, when you told meI should always find a room here, I did not realize what a temptationyou were offering me. And in sight----" He paused, changing color as hedrew back from the window to which he had stepped,----"of the hills," hesomewhat awkwardly added.
Edgar, who had watched the movements of his friend from under halflowered lids, smiled dryly.
"_Of the hills_," he repeated. Then with a short laugh, added, "I knewthat you liked that especial view."
Frank's eye, which was still on a certain distant chimney, lighted upwonderfully as he turned genially towards his friend.
"I did not know you were such a good fellow," he laughed. "I hope youhave found yourself made welcome here."
"Oh, yes, welcome enough."
"Any patients yet?"
"All of Dudgeon's, I fear. I have been doing little else but warning oneman after another: 'Now, no words against any former practitioner. Ifyou want help from me, tell me your symptoms, but don't talk about anyother doctor's mistakes, for I have not time to hear it.'"
"Poor old Dudgeon!" cried Frank. Then, shortly: "I'm a poor one to hidemy impatience. Have you seen either of _them_ yet?"
"Either--of--them?"
"The girls, the two sweet whimsical girls. You know whom I mean, Edgar."
"You only spoke of one when you were here before, Frank."
"And I only think of one. But I saw the other on my way to the depot,and that made me speak of the two. Have you seen them?"
"No," answered the other, with unnecessary dryness; "I think you told methey did not go out."
"But you have feet, man, and you can go to them, and I trusted that youwould, if only to prepare the way for me; for I mean to visit them, asyou have every reason to believe, and I should have liked anintroducer."
"Frank," asked the other, quietly, but with a certain markedearnestness, "has it gone as deep as that? Are you really serious inyour intention of making the acquaintance of Miss Cavanagh?"
"Serious? Have you for a minute thought me otherwise?"
"You are not serious in most things."
"In business I am, and in----"
"Love?" the other smiled.
"Yes, if you can call it love, yet."
"We will not call it anything," said the other. "You want to see her,that is all. I wonder at your decision, but can say nothing against it.Happily, you have seen her defect."
"It is not a defect to me."
"Not if it is in her nature as well?"
"Her nature?"
"A woman who for any reason cuts herself off from her species, as she issaid to do, cannot be without her faults. Such idiosyncrasies do notgrow out of the charity we are bid to have for our fellow-creatures."
"But she may have suffered. I can readily believe she has suffered fromthat same want of charity in others. There is nothing like a personaldefect to make one sensitive. Think of the averted looks she must havemet from many thoughtless persons; and she almost a beauty!"
"Yes, that _almost_ is tragic."
"It can excuse much."
Edgar shook his head. "Think what you are doing, Frank, that's all. _I_should hesitate in making the acquaintance of one who for _any_ reasonhas shut herself away from the world."
"Is not her whim shared by her sister?"
"They say so."
"Then there are two whose acquaintance you would hesitate to make?"
"Certainly, if I had any ulterior purpose beyond that of mereacquaintanceship."
"Her sister has no scar?"
Edgar, weary, perhaps, of the conversation, did not answer.
"Why should she shut herself up?" mused Frank, too interested in thesubject to note the other's silence.
"Women are mysteries," quoth Edgar, shortly.
"But this is more than a mystery," cried Frank. "Whim will not accountfor it. There must be something in the history of these two girls whichthe world does not know."
"That is not the fault of the world," retorted Edgar, in his usual veinof sarcasm.
But Frank was reckless. "The world is right to be interested," heavowed. "It would take a very cold heart not to be moved with curiosityby such a fact as two girls secluding themselves in their own house,without any manifest reason. Are _you_ not moved by it, Edgar? Are you,indeed, as indifferent as you seem?"
"I should like to know why they do this, of course, but I shall not busymyself to find out. I have much else to do."
"Well, I have not. It is the one thing in life for me; so look out forsome great piece of audacity on my part, for speak to her I will, andthat, too, before I leave the town."
"I do not see how you will manage that, Frank."
"You forget I am a lawyer."
Yet for all the assurance manifested by this speech, it was some timebefore Frank could see his way clearly to what he desired. A dozen planswere made and dismissed as futile before he finally determined to seekthe assistance of a fellow-lawyer whose name he had seen in the windowof the one brick building in the principal street. "Through him,"thought he, "I may light upon some business which will enable me torequest with propriety an interview with Miss Cavanagh." Yet his heartfailed him as he went up the steps of Mr. Hamilton's office, and if thatgentleman, upon presenting himself, had been a young man, Frank wouldcertainly have made some excuse for his intrusion, and retired. But hewas old and white-haired and benignant, and so Frank was lured intointroducing himself as a young lawyer from New York, engaged in findingthe whereabouts of one Harriet Smith, a former resident of Marston.
Mr. Hamilton, who could not fail to be impressed by Etheridge's sterlingappearance, met him with cordiality.
"I have heard of you," said he, "but I fear your errand here is boundto be fruitless. No Harriet Smith, so far as I know, ever came to residein this town. And I was born and bred in this street. Have you actualknowledge that one by that name ever lived here, and can you give me thedate?"
The answers Frank made were profuse but hurried; he had not expected togain news of Harriet Smith; he had only used the topic as a means ofintroducing conversation. But when he came to the point in which he wasmore nearly interested, he found his courage fail him. He could notspeak the name of Miss Cavanagh, even in the most casual fashion, and sothe interview ended without any further result than the making on hispart of a pleasant acquaintance. Subdued by his failure, Frank quittedthe office, and walked slowly down the street. If he had not boasted ofhis intentions to Edgar, he would have left the town without furthereffort; but now his pride was involved, and he made that an excuse tohis love. Should he proceed boldly to her house, use the knocker, andask to see Miss Cavanagh? Yes, he might do that, but afterwards? Withwhat words should he greet her, or win that confidence which thesituation so peculiarly demanded? He was not an acknowledged friend, orthe friend of an acknowledged friend, unless Edgar---- But no, Edgar wasnot their friend; it would be folly to speak his name to them. Whatthen? Must he give up his hopes till time had paved the way to theirrealization? He feared it must be so, yet he recoiled from the delay. Inthis mood he re-entered Edgar's office.
A woman in hat and cloak met him.
"Are you the stranger lawyer that has come to town?" she asked.
He bowed, wondering if he was about to hear news of Harriet Smith.
"Then this note is for you," she declared, handing him a littlethree-cornered billet.
His heart gave a great leap, and he turned towards the window as heopened the note. Who could be writing letters to him of such daintyappearance as this? Not she, of course, and yet---- He tore open thesheet, and read these words:
"If not asking too great a favor, may I request that you will call at my house,
in your capacity of lawyer.
"As I do not leave my own home, you will pardon this informal method of requesting your services. The lawyer here cannot do my work.
"Yours respectfully, "HERMIONE CAVANAGH."
He was too much struck with amazement and delight to answer themessenger at once. When he did so, his voice was very business-like.
"Will Miss Cavanagh be at liberty this morning?" he asked. "I shall beobliged to return to the city after dinner."
"She told me to say that any time would be convenient to her," was theanswer.
"Then say to her that I will be at her door in half an hour."
The woman nodded, and turned.
"She lives on the road to the depot, where the two rows of poplars are,"she suddenly declared, as she paused at the door.
"I know," he began, and blushed, for the woman had given him a quickglance of surprise. "I noticed the poplars," he explained.
She smiled as she passed out, and that made him crimson still more.
"Do I wear my heart on my sleeve?" he murmured to himself, in secretvexation. "If so, I must wrap it about with a decent cloak of reservebefore I go into the presence of one who has such power to move it." Andhe was glad Edgar was not at home to mark his excitement.
The half hour wore away, and he stood on the rose-embowered porch. Wouldshe come to the door herself, or would it be the sad-eyed sister heshould see first? It mattered little. It was Hermione who had sent forhim, and it was with Hermione he should talk. Was it his heart that wasbeating so loudly? He had scarcely answered the question, when the dooropened, and the woman who had served as a messenger from Miss Cavanaghstood before him.
"Ah!" said she, "come in." And in another moment he was in the enchantedhouse.
A door stood open at his left, and into the room thus disclosed he wasceremoniously ushered.
"Miss Cavanagh will be down in a moment," said the woman, as she slowlywalked away, with more than one lingering backward look.
He did not note this look, for his eyes were on the quaint old furnitureand shadowy recesses of the staid best room, in which he stood an uneasyguest. For somehow he had imagined he would see the woman of his dreamsin a place of cheer and sunshine; at a window, perhaps, where the roseslooked in, or at least in a spot enlivened by some evidences of womanlyhandiwork and taste. But here all was stiff as at a funeral. The highblack mantel-shelf was without clock or vase, and the only attempt atornament to be seen within the four grim walls was an uncouth wreath,made of shells, on a background of dismal black, which hung between thewindows. It was enough to rob any moment of its romance. And yet, if sheshould look fair here, what might he not expect of her beauty in moreharmonious surroundings.
As he was adjusting his ideas to this thought, there came the sound ofa step on the stair, and the next moment Hermione Cavanagh entered hispresence.
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