Amazing Grace, Who Proves That Virtue Has Its Silver Lining

by Kate Trimble Sharber

  CHAPTER XV

  THE JOURNEY

  Personally, I am of such an impatient disposition that I can't bear toread a chapter in a book which begins: "Meanwhile----" Life is tooshort for meanwhiles! But, since the Oldburgh epoch of my career haspassed, and the brilliant new epoch has a sea-voyage before it--andcrossing the ocean is distinctly a "meanwhile" occupation--I havedecided to mark time by taking extracts from my green leather voyagebook, with the solid gold clasp and the pencil that won't write. (Thecity editor gave me the book.)

  The first entry was made at the breakfast table in an unnecessarilysmart New York hotel. That's one bad feature about having a newspaperpay your traveling expenses! You can't have the pleasure of indulgingthe vagabondage of your nature--as you can when you're traveling onyour hook. The lonely little entry says:

  "_Hate_ New York! Always feel countrified and unpopular here!"

  But the next one was much better. It reads:

  "_Love_ the sea, whose principal charm is the sky above it! The one acceptable fact about orthodox Heaven is that it's up in the sky. You couldn't endure it if it were in any closer quarters."

  Yet between New York and Heaven there lay several unappreciateddays--days when I sat for long hours facing strange faces and hearinga jumbled jargon about "barth" hours, deck chairs and miscarriedroses. By the way, a strange trick of fate had filled my own barelittle stateroom with flowers. I say a trick of fate, because some ofthem were for Pauline Calhoun, whose New York friends had heard of herproposed journey, but not of her accident, and some of them wereaddressed to me. I could understand the Pauline blossoms, but thosedirected to Miss Grace Christie were mystifying--very. But I acceptedthem with hearty thanks, and the time I spent wondering over them keptme from grieving over the fact that the Statue of Liberty was the onlyperson on the horizon whose face I had ever seen before; and they keptme feeling like a prima donna for half a week.

  "Henry Walker couldn't have sent them," I pondered the first day, asthe big, big box was deposited inside my door. "He's not such a closefriend, even though he is the Hiram Walkers' son--and then, New Yorklaw students never have any money left over for orchids."

  I enumerated all the other people I happened to know in New York atthat time, all of them there for the purpose of "studying" something,and not for the purpose of buying vast quantities of thehighest-priced flower blown, and the mystery only loomed larger.

  Still, the question could not keep me entirely occupied between meals,and on the very day we sailed, before we had got into the space wherethe union of the sea and sky seem to shut out all pettiness, I got tofeeling very sorry for myself. Thinking to get rid of this by minglingwith humanity, I went down into the lounge, where I was amazed to finddozens of other women sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. Itwas not an inspiring sight, so after a vain attempt to read, I curledmy arms round a sofa cushion in the corner of the big room and turnedmy face away from the world in general. The next communication Ireceived was rather unexpected. I heard a brisk voice, close beside meexclaim:

  "My word! A great big girl like you crying!"

  It was an English voice--a woman's, or rather a girl's, and as Ibraced up indignantly I met the blue-gray eyes of a fresh-faced youngAmazon bent toward my corner sympathetically.

  "I'm not crying," I denied.

  She turned directly toward me then, and I saw a surprised smile comeover her face.

  "Oh, _you_! No--I supposed that you were ill; but the little kid overthere----"

  I saw then that there was a tiny girl tucked farther away into thecorner, her shoulders heaving between the conflict of pride and grief.

  "Cheer up, and I'll tell you a story," the English girl encouraged,and after a few minutes the small flushed face came out of itshiding-place.

  "So you thought I was talking to _you_?"

  She turned to me laughingly after the smaller bunch of loneliness hadbeen soothed and sent away.

  "I was--mistaken----"

  "But I'm sure I should have offered to tell you a story--if I hadsupposed that it would do you any good," she continued.

  "Almost anything--any sound of a human voice would do me good now," Ianswered desperately, and with that sky-rocket sort of spontaneitywhich you feel you can afford once or twice in a lifetime.

  "You're alone?"

  "Yes--and miserable."

  Her blue eyes were very frank and friendly, and I immediatelystraightened up with a hope that we might discover some mutualinterest nearer and dearer than the Boston Tea-Party.

  That's one good thing about a seafaring life--the preliminaries thatyou are able to do without in making friends. If you meet a nice womanwho discovers that her son went to Princeton with your father'sfriend's nephew you at once take it for granted that you may tell hermany things about yourself that are not noted down in your passport.

  "You're American--of course?" this English girl asked next.

  I acquiesced patriotically, but not arrogantly.

  "Yes--I'm American! My name's Grace Christie, and I'm a newspaperwoman from--from----"

  I hesitated, and she looked at me inquiringly.

  "I didn't understand the name of the state?" she said.

  "Because I haven't told you yet!" I laughed. "I remember otherexperiences in mentioning my native place to you English. You alwayssay, 'Oh, the place where the negro minstrels come from!'"

  She smiled, and her face brightened suddenly.

  "The South! How nice! I _love_ Americans!" she exclaimed, confidingthe clause about her affection for my countrymen in a lowered voice,and looking around to make sure that no one heard.

  Then, after this, it took her about half a minute to invite me out ofmy corner and to propose that I go and meet her father and mother.

  "We'll find them in the library," she ventured, and we did.

  "The South! How nice! We _love_ Americans!" they both exclaimed, as weunearthed them a little while later in a corner of the reading-room.And before they had confided to me their affection for my countrymenthey lowered their voices and glanced at their daughter to make surethat she was not listening. They made their observations in preciselythe same tone and they looked precisely alike, except that the fatherhad side-whiskers. They were both small and slight and very durablydressed.

  "Miss Christie is a newspaper woman--traveling alone!"

  The daughter, whom they addressed as "Hilda" made the announcementpromptly, and her manner seemed to warn them that if they found thisany just cause or impediment they were to speak now or else hereafterforever hold their peace.

  "Indeed?" said the mother, looking over my clothes with a questioningair, which, however, did not disapprove. "Indeed?"

  "My word!" said the father, also taking stock of me, but his glancegot no further than my homesick face. "My _word_!"

  But you are not to suppose from the tone that anything had goneseriously wrong with his word. He said it in a gently searching way,as an old grandfather, seeking about blindly on the mantlepiece mightsay, "My spectacles!"

  So realistic was the impression of his peering around mildly insearch of something that I almost jumped up from my chair to see if Icould, by mistake, be sitting on his word.

  "Isn't she young?"

  His twinkling little gray eyes sought his wife's as if forcorroboration, and she nodded vigorously.

  "Indeed, yes, Herbert! But they shed their pinafores long before ourgirls do, remember!"

  Then he turned to his daughter.

  "My dear, the American women _are_ so capable!" he said, and she threwhim a smile which would have been regarded as impertinent--on Englishsoil.

  "Well, I'm sure I've no objections to being an American woman myself,"she said.

  "And you do not mind the loneliness of the trip you're taking?" themother put in hastily, as if to cover her daughter's remark.

  "I didn't--until to-day."

  "But we must see to it now that you're not too lonely," she hastenedto assure me.
"Where have they put you in the dining-room, my dear?"

  I mentioned my table's location.

  "Oh, but we'll get the steward to change you at once!" they chorused,when it had been pointed out to them that my position in the salon wasisolated and far away from the music of the orchestra.

  "We're just next the captain's table," Hilda explained. "We happenedto know him and----"

  "And it's inspiring to watch the liberties he takes with the menu,"the father said. "I'd best write down our number, though I'll see thesteward myself."

  From his pocketbook he produced a card, scribbling their table numberupon the back and handing it to me.

  I took it and glanced at the legend the face of it bore, first of all,for figures are just figures, even though they do radiate out from thecaptain's table.

  "Mr. Herbert Montgomery, Bannerley Hall, Bannerley, Lancashire," wasthe way it read.

  "Lancashire?" I asked, looking up so quickly that Hilda mistook myemotion for dismay.

  "Yes, we live in Lancashire, but----"

  "But we're going on to London first," Mrs. Montgomery assured me.

  "We'll see to it that you're put down, safe and sound, at CharingCross," Mr. Herbert Montgomery finished up.

  I looked up again, this time in sheer bewilderment.

  "Liverpool's in Lancashire," Hilda explained. "I thought perhaps youwere afraid we would desert you as soon as we docked."

  I laughed in some embarrassment.

  "I'm sure I never before heard that Liverpool had any connection withLancashire," I explained. "But I was thinking of--something else."

  "Something else--how curious! Why, what else is Lancashire noted forin America, pray?"

  They were all three looking at me in some excitement, for my eyes werebetraying the palpitations I was experiencing.

  "Do you--does it happen that you have ever heard of Colmere Abbey?" Iasked.

  They drew a deep breath, evidently relieved.

  "Do we!" they chorused again, as they had a habit of doing, I learned,whenever they were surprised or amused. "Well, _rather_!"

  "Surely you don't mean to tell me that it's your own home?" Idemanded, wondering if coincidence had gone so far, but they shooktheir heads.

  "No! Just next-door neighbors."

  "Next-door neighbors to the place, my dear young lady," Mr. Montgomerymodified, glancing at his wife rather reproachfully. "Not tothe--owner of Colmere!"

  But I scarcely heard him. I was trying to place an ancient memory inmy mind.

  "'Bannerley Hall!'"

  "That's our place."

  "But I'm trying to remember where I have heard of it," I explained."Of course! They all mentioned it at one time or another."

  "They?--Who, my dear? Why Herbert--isn't this interesting?"

  "Why, Washington Irving--and Lady Frances Webb--and Uncle JamesChristie."

  Their questions and my half-dazed answers were tumbling over oneanother.

  "James Christie--Grace Christie?" Mrs. Montgomery asked, connectingour names with a delighted opening of her eyes. "Why, my _dear_!"

  "How fortunate I was!" observed Hilda. "I knew, though, from themoment I saw the back of your head that you were no ordinary Americantourist!"

  "They all 'rode over to Bannerley Hall--the day being fine!'" Iquoted, from one of the letters written by Lady Frances Webb.

  "That was in my great-grandfather's time," Mr. Montgomery elucidated."And James Christie was your----"

  "Uncle--with several 'greats' between."

  "He was even more famous in England than in his own country," Mrs.Montgomery threw in hastily, as she saw her husband's eyestwinkling--a sure sign, I afterward learned, that he was going to saysomething wicked. "He painted all the notable people of the age."

  "He made many pictures of the Lady Frances Webb," Mr. Montgomerysucceeded in saying, after a while. "I don't know whether it's wellknown in America or not, but--there was--_talk_!"

  "Herbert!"

  He stiffened.

  "It's true, my dear."

  "We don't know whether it's true or not!" she contended.

  "Well, it's tradition! I'm sure Miss Christie wouldn't want to come toEngland and not learn all the old legends she might."

  Then, partly because I was bubbling over with excitement, and partlybecause I wished to ease Mrs. Montgomery's mind on the subject, Ibegan telling them my story--from the day of Aunt Patricia's suddenwhim, three days before her death, down to the packet of faded letterslying at that moment in the bottom of my steamer trunk.

  "I thought perhaps the present owner of Colmere might let me burn themthere!" I explained. "I have pictured her as a dear and somewhatlonely old dowager who would take a great deal of interest in thisancient affair."

  The three looked at me intently for an instant, but not one of themlaughed.

  "And you're carrying them back to Colmere--instead of selling them!"Mrs. Montgomery finally uttered in a little awed voice, as I finishedmy story. "How extraordinary!"

  "Very," said Hilda.

  "Most un-American--if you'll not be offended with me for saying so,Miss Christie," Mr. Montgomery observed. Then he turned to his wife."My dear, only _think_ of Lord Erskine!" he said.

  She shook her head.

  "But I mustn't!" she answered, with a sad little smile. "I reallycouldn't think of Lord Erskine while listening to anything sopretty."

  I caught at the name, curiously.

  "Lord Erskine?"

  "Yes--the present owner of the abbey."

  "But--what a beautiful-sounding name! Lord Erskine!"

  I looked at them encouragingly, but a hush seemed to have fallen overtheir audible enthusiasm. Mrs. Montgomery's lips presently primpedthemselves up into a signal for me to come closer to her side--whereher husband might not hear her.

  "Lord Erskine is, my dear--the most--notorious old man in _England_!"she pronounced--so terribly that "And may the Lord have mercy on hissoul" naturally followed. Her verdict was final.

  "But what has he done?" I started to inquire, the journalistictendency for the moment uppermost, but her lips showed white lines ofrepression.

  "He is never _mentioned_!" she warned briefly, and I felt constrainedto wish that the same punishment could be applied to America'sancient sinners.

  "Oh, so bad as that?"

  She leaned closer.

  "My dear Miss Christie, it would be impossible--quite impossible--toenumerate the peccadillos of that wretched old creature!"

  "Yet you women are always ready to attempt the impossible!" herhusband interposed, after his noisy attempt at lighting a cigarettehad failed to drown out our voices.

  She looked up at him.

  "Herbert, I don't understand you, I'm sure."

  He laughed.

  "Well, I don't understand you, either!" he replied. "For twenty yearsnow I have noticed that when two or three women in our part of thecountry are gathered together the first thing they say to each otherbefore the men have come into the room is that Lord Erskine's recentescapades are positively unmentionable--then they fly at each other'sthroats for the privilege of retailing them."

  She continued to stare at him, steadily and with no especialunfriendliness in her gaze.

  "And the men--over their wine?" she asked casually.

  He squared his shoulders.

  "That's a very different matter," he declared. "With us he is ashonest and open a diversion as hunting! The first thing we say ingreeting, if we meet a neighbor on the road is: 'What's the latestnews from Lord Erskine?'"

  Their eyes challenged each other humorously for another moment, whenHilda broke in.

  "Don't you think we've given Miss Christie a fairly good idea that shemustn't expect to be invited down to Colmere Abbey--and that if she isinvited, she mustn't go?" she inquired, with gentle sarcasm.

  "But, before we get away from the subject--what of the Webb family?" Ibegged forlornly. "Is there no one living who might take an interestin the story of Lady Frances?"

 
I am sure my voice was as sad with disappointment as old JoeJefferson's used to be when he'd plead: "Does _no one_ know Rip VanWinkle?"

  "Lord Erskine's mother was a Webb," Mrs. Montgomery explained.

  "The one fact which can be stated about the old gentleman which neednot be blushed for," her husband added. "In truth, he has always beenvastly proud of his lineage."

  "About all that he's ever had to be proud of! His own performances insocial and family life have been--well, what I have outlined to you. Ihappened to know details of some earlier happenings, and all I can sayis that my own attitude toward Lord Erskine is rather unchristian."

  "But I believe Miss Christie was asking about the family historyfurther back than the present lord," Hilda reminded them again, andher mother took the cue.

  "Ah, yes! To be sure! It's the failing of later years, my dear, towish to discuss one's own memories! But of course your interest liesin the traditions of the novelist."

  "Her history has always held a peculiar interest for me," I replied,"first, naturally, on account of the connecting link--then on accountof the--tragic complication----"

  She nodded her head briskly.

  "Yes--poor Lady Frances! She was not very happy, if the ancientreports be true."

  "I judge not--from her letters."

  "But her memory is held in great reverence by the educated peoplearound in the country," she hastened to assure me. "And there is alovely memorial tablet in the church--quite aside from the tomb! Aliterary club of London had it placed there!"

  "And every birthday there are wreaths," Mr. Montgomery threw in,evidently hoping to make it up to me for the disheartening gossip ofthe present age; but my dreams were rapidly fading--and I saw mychances for having a bonfire on the library hearth at Colmere go upin something far more unsubstantial than smoke.

  "Well, I'm sure we've told Miss Christie quite enough about ourneighbors--for a first sitting," Hilda Montgomery broke in at thispoint, as she rose and made a reckless suggestion that we go out andwalk a little while. "_I_ don't wish to spend the whole afternoontalking about a villainous old Englishman!" she confided, when we werewell out of ear-shot. "One might spend the time talking about'Americans--don't you know?'"

  "Americans?"

  "Yes--charming, handsome, young Americans! You remember the firstthing I told you was that I loved Americans?"

  "Yes--and your father and mother said they did, too--when you weren'tlistening."

  She nodded her blond head, in energetic delight.

  "They are trying to pretend that it will be a difficult matter to wintheir consent--but it won't."

  We steered our course around a group of people who were disputing, inWabash tones, over a game of shuffleboard.

  "Consent?" I repeated.

  "His name is John McAdoo Carpenter--and he lives at South Bend,Indiana--did you ever hear of the place? Did you ever hear of him?"

  She caught me by the arm and we walked precipitately over to therailing--out of the sound of the Wabash tones.

  "If I don't talk to somebody before that sun goes down I'll jump rightover this railing," she explained. "Here's his picture!"

  I took the small blue leather case and looked at the honest, ratherdistinguished face it held.

  "But why should your parents disapprove of _him_?" I asked in suchgenuine surprise that she gave me a smile which sealed forever ourfriendship.

  "They don't--really! It's just that they like to torment me because hehappened not to be born in either New York or Kentucky. AnEnglishman's knowledge of America's excellence extends no furtherthan that."

  Night was coming on--and the sea looked pretty vast and unfriendly. Itwas the lonesome hour, when any feminine thing far away from home hasto wax either confidential or tearful. Hilda was determined to beconfidential, and I let her have her say. I went down, after a while,and dressed for dinner--listlessly and without heart, but when I wentinto the dining-room a little later and found my place at the tablenext the captain's, the geniality of the family atmosphere I foundthere was vastly cheering.

  Mrs. Montgomery was a rather magnificent little gray-haired lady ingray satin and diamonds, and her husband had made the evolution fromthe chrysalis state into that of the butterfly by donning his dressclothes and putting up a monocle in place of the comfortable readingglasses he had worn in the afternoon. Hilda was wholesome andsweet-looking but quite secondary to her parents, in a soft bluegown.

  The subject under discussion when I arrived was evidently the pointsof superiority of one American locality over another and they took meinto their confidence at once.

  "I appeal to you, Miss Christie, as an American," Mr. Montgomery said,after the steward who had acted as my pilot was out of hearing."Shouldn't you think now--if you didn't know the difference--_shouldn't_you think now that a 'South _Bender'_ was a species of acrobat?"

  * * * * *

  Then, try as hard as I might to keep all physical signs of my mentalinfirmity from cropping out in my log-book, the second evening outfound an entry like this showing itself--written almost entirelywithout effort on my part--like "spirit writing":

  "To-night the orchestra is playing _The Rosary_, and I had to get away from all those people in the lounge!

  "I have come down here--away from it, as I thought, but, no! Those same high, wailing notes that we heard that first day--_that first day_--are ringing in my ears this minute.

  "How they sob--sob--sob! And over the hours they spent together! That's the foolish part of it! I am sobbing over the hours I _might_ have spent with him--and didn't!

  "'Are like a string of pearls to me!'

  "Bah! The hours I spent with him wouldn't make pearls enough for a stick-pin--much less a rosary!

  "To me _Caro Mio Ben_ is a much more sensible little love plaint! I wonder if _he_ knows it? I wonder if he heard that girl singing in the parlor the night of the Kendalls' dance--and if it still rings--rings--rings in his mind every time he thinks of me? Or if he ever thinks of me at all?"

  I have inserted this not so much to show you how very critical my casewas, as to demonstrate how valuable a thing is diversion. WithoutHilda and the elder Montgomerys I should no doubt have tried toemulate Lady Frances Webb in the feat of writing heart-throbs.

  The third day's observation was a distinct improvement.

  "The men on shipboard are rather better than the women--just as they are on dry land. True, there are some who have sold Chicago real estate, and are now bent upon spending the rest of their lives running over to Europe to criticize everything that they can not buy. Nothing is sacred to them--until after they have paid duty on it. They revere and caress their own Italian mantlepieces, their cases of majolica, and their collection of Wedgwood--when these are safely decorating their lake-shore homes--but what Europe keeps for herself they scorn.

  "'Bah! I don't see anything so swell about St. Mark's--nor St. Doge's either!' I heard one emit this morning. 'But, old man, you just ought to see the champagne glasses I bought last year in Venice. The governor dined with me the other night, and he said----' etc.

  "Then, there's another sort of Philistine, who goes all over the Old World eating his lunch off places where men have suffered, died, or invented pendulums.

  "'That confounded Leaning Tower _does_ feel like it's wiggling as you go up, but pshaw! it's perfectly safe! Why, I stayed on top long enough to eat three sandwiches and drink a bottle of that red ink you get for half a dollar in Florence!'

  "This doesn't create much of a stir, however, because there's always one better.

  "'Nice little tower down there in Pisa--and you really have to have something like that to relieve your constitution of the pictorial strain in Florence--but you see, after you've eaten hard-boiled eggs on top of _Cheops_, climbing the L
eaning Tower is not half so exciting as riding a sapling was when you were a boy!'

  "'And oh, speaking of hard-boiled eggs--have you ever been to Banff, Mr. Smith?' one of the women in the crowd speaks up. 'Yes, the scenery in the Canadian Rockies is all right, of course, but just to _think_ of having your eggs perfectly hot and well done in the waters of Banff!'

  "There are other women on board, however, whose thoughts are not on food. They are more amusing by far to watch than the innocent creatures who love Banff. They manage to stay well out of view by strong daylight, then come into the lounge at night, dressed in plumes and diamonds like Cinderella's stepsisters, and select the husbands of sea-sick wives to ask advice about focusing a kodak or going to Gibraltar to buy a mandarin coat!

  "But, as I have said, the men for the greater part are much more interesting than the women--still I have never aspired to a nautical flirtation, for a month after one is past you can't recall the principal's name. You do well if you can remember his nationality."

  The entry broke off with this piece of sarcasm, which, after all, isactual truth. A friend of mine had such an experience. A month after abitter parting on a moonlit deck one night she came face to face withthe absent one in a church in Rome--and all she could stammer was:"Oh--you _Canadian_!"

  The fourth day--after the last vestige of the gulls had been leftbehind--I began to grow impatient. The "meanwhile" aspect of life ingeneral was beginning to press down.

  "I wish mother had named me 'Patience,' for I love a joke!" I wrote frantically--with the same feeling of suffocation which caused Lady Frances Webb to rush out to the rose garden where the sun-dial stood, to keep from hearing the clock tick.

  "To me, the inertia which a woman is supposed to exhibit is the hardest part of her whole earthly task! And I don't know what it's for, either, unless to prepare her for a future incarnation into a camel!

  "Yet, if you're a woman, you just must stay still and let your heart's desire slip through your fingers--even if you have to lock yourself up into your bedroom closet to accomplish it!"

  And yet, even as I wrote, I wondered what I'd do when I should be backin America. Somehow, I didn't exactly fancy myself getting a tickethome from New York with stop-over privileges at Pittsburgh--where Icould spend an exciting time looking up a city directory!

  And so the remaining days of the voyage passed. The Montgomery familyplanned to have me go home with them, after a day in London, anddeclared that I could find as much interesting news to write home forthe _Herald_ from Lancashire as from any other portion of the UnitedKingdom, since one never knew where a fire would be started or a bombdiscovered through the playful antics of the women who have changedthe "clinging" sex into the _flinging_ sex; and I had acceptedfervently--when, on the trip from Liverpool down to London, thesearrangements were abruptly upset.

  We were a little late in landing, and rushed straight to the train,where a tea-basket, operated in the compartment which we had toourselves, was giving me the assurance that surely, next to a haylofton a rainy morning, a private compartment in a British train is thecoziest spot on the face of the earth, when Mr. Montgomery suddenlydropped the sheet of newspaper he had been eagerly scanning.

  "My _word_!" he said.

  His exclamation was so insistent that I immediately felt in my pocketto see if I had his word, and his wife glanced up from the lamp whichshe was handling lovingly.

  "Yes, Herbert?"

  "But I say--Lord Erskine is dead!"

  "Herbert!"

  Her tone was accusing, but her husband nodded, with a pleased look ofassurance.

  "You may read it for yourself, I'm sure--if you don't believe me!"

  He handed the paper over to her, and she received it gingerly, afterlooking to the tea-basket with a housewifely air, and placing thelamp quite to one side, out of harm's way. Then she turned to thearticle indicated, reading slowly, while her daughter looked over hershoulder.

  "Why, he's _been_ dead!"

  She glanced up suddenly, toward me, with a shamefaced look.

  "He was dead at the very time you were telling Grace all thoseatrocious things about him!" Hilda reminded her, smiling at the lookof discomfiture which had crept over the kindly, wrinkled little face.

  "Yes! It's--extraordinary!"

  "And it makes us both feel--a little uncomfortable, eh?"

  Her husband's tone was tormenting, but she turned on him seriously.

  "I'm sure, Herbert, dear, you said quite as much as I did!" shedeclared, evidently finding relief in the knowledge. "Still--this newsdoes rather make one--think."

  The girl rattled the sheet of paper excitedly.

  "I'm thinking!" she announced, her eyes wide. "I'm thinking of ColmereAbbey! What a chance for some rich decent American! Somebody that onecould easily endure, you understand!"

  "Hilda!"

  She waved aside the reprimand.

  "Grace understands me--and what I think of Americans," she answeredquickly. "But, mother, this _is_ a problem! What Englishman would buythe place--with its haunting tales--and monstrous value? Nobody wouldbe rich enough except one of the millionaires who owns a dozen homesalready. And the next-of-kin will inherit nothing along with the placeto keep it up!"

  "Hilda! This is neither respectful nor neighborly," her motherremonstrated again, then she turned to her husband. "Shall you writeto the new Lord Erskine from London, Herbert?"

  Her tone was one of foregone conclusion, conventional enough, but verykindly, and her husband nodded obediently.

  "Oh, to be sure, my dear," he chirruped in a dutiful way. "I shallwire his lawyers immediately and----"

  "And ask for the pleasure of putting him up while he's in thecountry?"

  "Certainly! Certainly!"

  "It will be unpleasant--this period of mourning that we shall have toaffect--for his sake," she went on, "but it is out of respect for theneighborly proprieties, after all."

  Mrs. Montgomery was looking at us all in turn, in some littleperplexity, when a sudden recollection came to me of how difficult itis sometimes to amalgamate guests--no matter how many rooms there areto one's house.

  "And I'll defer my visit until later?" I suggested.

  She instantly smiled across at me.

  "Just a few days--if you don't mind, dear," she said. "I had plannedso many delightful things for _your_ stay--and I know that youwouldn't enjoy the period of mourning."

  "Not so much as you would if you had known Lord Erskine!" her husbandput in wickedly. "And I'm determined to mourn only the briefest timepossible."

  "Not an hour later than Saturday!" his wife promised generously--and afew hours afterward when they put me down at Charing Cross and sent mewhirling away to a lady-like hotel in Bloomsbury, it was with spoken,written and pantomime directions as to which trains, and what-timedtrains--and _how many_ trains I was to take toward the end of the weekto get to Bannerley.

  In the meanwhile I knuckled down devotedly to London--and sent mydeductions home across seas, in neatly typed packets, to _The OldburghHerald_.