CHAPTER XV
A PACKAGE OF LETTERS
Under the influence of the new arrival it was not at all strange thatmany changes were wrought in the domestic life at Cobden Manor.
My lady was a sensuous creature, loving color and flowers and thedainty appointments of life as much in the surroundings of her home asin the adornment of her person, and it was not many weeks before theold-fashioned sitting-room had been transformed into a French boudoir.In this metamorphosis she had used but few pieces of new furniture--oneor two, perhaps, that she had picked up in the village, as well as somebits of mahogany and brass that she loved--but had depended almostentirely upon the rearrangement of the heirlooms of the family. Withthe boudoir idea in view, she had pulled the old tables out from thewalls, drawn the big sofa up to the fire, spread a rug--one of herown--before the mantel, hung new curtains at the windows and ruffledtheir edges with lace, banked the sills with geraniums and begonias,tilted a print or two beside the clock, scattered a few books andmagazines over the centre-table, on which she had placed a big,generous lamp, under whose umbrella shade she could see to read as shesat in her grandmother's rocking-chair--in fact, had, with that tasteinherent in some women--touched with a knowing hand the dead thingsabout her and made them live and mean something;--her talisman being anunerring sense of what contributed to personal comfort. HeretoforeDoctor John had been compelled to drag a chair halfway across the roomin order to sit and chat with Jane, or had been obliged to share herseat on the sofa, too far from the hearth on cold days to becomfortable. Now he could either stand on the hearth-rug and talk toher, seated in one corner of the pulled-up sofa, her work-basket on asmall table beside her, or he could drop into a big chair within reachof her hand and still feel the glow of the fire. Jane smiled at thechanges and gave Lucy free rein to do as she pleased. Her own naturehad never required these nicer luxuries; she had been too busy, and inthese last years of her life too anxious, to think of them, and so theroom had been left as in the days of her father.
The effect of the rearrangement was not lost on the neighbors. They atonce noticed the sense of cosiness everywhere apparent, and inconsequence called twice as often, and it was not long before theold-fashioned sitting-room became a stopping-place for everybody whohad half an hour to spare.
These attractions, with the aid of a generous hospitality, Lucy did herbest to maintain, partly because she loved excitement and partlybecause she intended to win the good-will of her neighbors--those whomight be useful to her. The women succumbed at once. Not only were hermanners most gracious, but her jewels of various kinds, her gowns oflace and frou-frou, her marvellous hats, her assortment of parasols,her little personal belongings and niceties--gold scissors, thimbles,even the violet ribbons that rippled through her transparentunderlaces--so different from those of any other woman they knew--werea constant source of wonder and delight. To them she was a beautifulLady Bountiful who had fluttered down among them from heights above,and whose departure, should it ever take place, would leave a gloombehind that nothing could illumine.
To the men she was more reserved. Few of them ever got beyond ahandshake and a smile, and none of them ever reached the borders ofintimacy. Popularity in a country village could never, she knew, begained by a pretty woman without great discretion. She explained herforesight to Jane by telling her that there was no man of her world inWarehold but the doctor, and that she wouldn't think of setting her capfor him as she would be gray-haired before he would have the courage topropose. Then she kissed Jane in apology, and breaking out into arippling laugh that Martha heard upstairs, danced out of the room.
Little Ellen, too, had her innings; not only was she prettily dressed,presenting the most joyous of pictures, as with golden curls flyingabout her shoulders she flitted in and out of the rooms like a sprite,but she was withal so polite in her greetings, dropping to everyone alittle French courtesy when she spoke, and all in her quaint, brokendialect, that everybody fell in love with her at sight. None of theother mothers had such a child, and few of them knew that such childrenexisted.
Jane watched the workings of Lucy's mind with many misgivings. Sheloved her lightheartedness and the frank, open way with which shegreeted everybody who crossed their threshold. She loved, too, to seeher beautifully gowned and equipped and to hear the flattering commentsof the neighbors on her appearance and many charms; but every now andthen her ear caught an insincere note that sent a shiver through her.She saw that the welcome Lucy gave them was not from her heart, butfrom her lips; due to her training, no doubt, or perhaps to herunhappiness, for Jane still mourned over the unhappy years of Lucy'slife--an unhappiness, had she known it, which had really ended withArchie's safe adoption and Bart's death. Another cause of anxiety wasLucy's restlessness. Every day she must have some new excitement--apicnic with the young girls and young men, private theatricals in thetown hall, or excursions to Barnegat Beach, where they were building anew summer hotel. Now and then she would pack her bag and slip off toNew York or Philadelphia for days at a time to stay with friends shehad met abroad, leaving Ellen with Jane and Martha. To the older sistershe seemed like some wild, untamable bird of brilliant plumage used tolong, soaring flights, perching first on one dizzy height and thenanother, from which she could watch the world below.
The thing, however, which distressed Jane most was Lucy's attitudetowards Archie. She made every allowance for her first meeting at thestation, and knew that necessarily it must be more or less constrained,but she had not expected the almost cold indifference with which shehad treated the boy ever since.
As the days went by and Lucy made no effort to attach Archie to her orto interest herself either in his happiness or welfare, Jane becamemore and more disturbed. She had prayed for this home-coming and hadset her heart on the home-building which was sure to follow, and now itseemed farther off than ever. One thing troubled and puzzled her: whileLucy was always kind to Archie indoors, kissing him with the otherswhen she came down to breakfast, she never, if she could help it,allowed him to walk with her in the village, and she never on anyoccasion took him with her when visiting the neighbors.
"Why not take Archie with you, dear?" Jane had said one morning toLucy, who had just announced her intention of spending a few days inPhiladelphia with Max Feilding's sister Sue, whom she had met abroadwhen Max was studying in Dresden--Max was still a bachelor, and hissister kept house for him. He was abroad at the time, but was expectedby every steamer.
"Archie isn't invited, you old goosie, and he would be as much out ofplace in Max's house as Uncle Ephraim Tipple would be in Parliament."
"But they would be glad to see him if you took him. He is just the agenow when a boy gets impressions which last him through--"
"Yes, the gawky and stumble-over-things age! Piano-stools, rugs,anything that comes in his way. And the impressions wouldn't do him abit of good. They might, in fact, do him harm," and she laughed merrilyand spread her fingers to the blaze. A laugh was often her best shield.She had in her time dealt many a blow and then dodged behind a laugh toprevent her opponent from striking back.
"But, Lucy, don't you want to do something to help him?" Jane asked ina pleading tone.
"Yes, whatever I can, but he seems to me to be doing very well as heis. Doctor John is devoted to him and the captain idolizes him. He's adear, sweet boy, of course, and does you credit, but he's not of myworld, Jane, dear, and I'd have to make him all over again before hecould fit into my atmosphere. Besides, he told me this morning that hewas going off for a week with some fisherman on the beach--some personby the name of Fogarty, I think."
"Yes, a fine fellow; they have been friends from their boyhood." Shewas not thinking of Fogarty, but of the tone of Lucy's voice whenspeaking of her son.
"Yes--most estimable gentleman, no doubt, this Mr. Fogarty, but then,dear, we don't invite that sort of people to dinner, do we?" andanother laugh rippled out.
"Yes, sometimes," answered Jane in all sincerity. "Not Fogarty, becausehe would be u
ncomfortable if he came, but many of the others just ashumble. We really have very few of any other kind. I like them all.Many of them love me dearly."
"Not at all strange; nobody can help loving you," and she patted Jane'sshoulder with her jewelled fingers.
"But you like them, too, don't you? You treat them as if you did."
Lucy lifted her fluted petticoat, rested her slippered foot on thefender, glanced down at the embroidered silk stocking covering herankle, and said in a graver tone:
"I like all kinds of people--in their proper place. This is my home,and it is wise to get along with one's neighbors. Besides, they allhave tongues in their heads like the rest of the human race, and it isjust as well to have them wag for you as against you."
Jane paused for a moment, her eyes watching the blazing logs, and askedwith almost a sigh:
"You don't mean, dear, that you never intend to help Archie, do you?"
"Never is a long word, Jane. Wait till he grows up and I see what hemakes of himself. He is now nothing but a great animal, well built as ayoung bull, and about as awkward."
Jane's eyes flashed and her shoulders straightened. The knife had adouble edge to its blade.
"He is your own flesh and blood, Lucy," she said with a ring ofindignation in her voice. "You don't treat Ellen so; why should youArchie?"
Lucy took her foot from the fender, dropped her skirts, and looked atJane curiously. From underneath the half-closed lids of her eyes thereflashed a quick glance of hate--a look that always came into Lucy'seyes whenever Jane connected her name with Archie's.
"Let us understand each other, sister," she said icily. "I don'tdislike the boy. When he gets into trouble I'll help him in any way Ican, but please remember he's not my boy--he's yours. You took him fromme with that understanding and I have never asked him back. He can'tlove two mothers. You say he has been your comfort all these years.Why, then, do you want to unsettle his mind?"
Jane lifted her head and looked at Lucy with searching eyes--looked asa man looks when someone he must not strike has flung a glove in hisface.
"Do you really love anything, Lucy?" she asked in a lower voice, hereyes still fastened on her sister's.
"Yes, Ellen and you."
"Did you love her father?" she continued in the same direct tone.
"Y-e-s, a little-- He was the dearest old man in the world and did hisbest to please me; and then he was never very well. But why talk abouthim, dear?"
"And you never gave him anything in return for all his devotion?" Janecontinued in the same cross-examining voice and with the same incisivetone.
"Yes, my companionship--whenever I could. About what you give DoctorJohn," and she looked at Jane with a sly inquiry as she laughed gentlyto herself.
Jane bit her lips and her face flushed scarlet. The cowardly thrust hadnot wounded her own heart. It had only uncovered the love of the manwho lay enshrined in its depths. A sudden sense of the injustice donehim arose in her mind and then her own helplessness in it all.
"I would give him everything I have, if I could," she answered simply,all her insistency gone, the tears starting to her eyes.
Lucy threw her arms about her sister and held her cheek to her own.
"Dear, I was only in fun; please forgive me. Everything is so solemn toyou. Now kiss me and tell me you love me."
That night when Captain Holt came in to play with the little "PondLily," as he called Ellen, Jane told him of her conversation with Lucy,not as a reflection on her sister, but because she thought he ought toknow how she felt toward Archie. The kiss had wiped out the tears, butthe repudiation of Archie still rankled in her breast.
The captain listened patiently to the end. Then he said with a pausebetween each word:
"She's sailin' without her port and starboard lights, Miss Jane. One o'these nights with the tide settin' she'll run up ag'in somethin' solidin a fog, and then--God help her! If Bart had lived he might have comehome and done the decent thing, and then we could git her into portsome'er's for repairs, but that's over now. She better keep her lightstrimmed. Tell her so for me."
What this "decent thing" was he never said--perhaps he had but a vagueidea himself. Bart had injured Lucy and should have made reparation,but in what way except by marriage--he, perhaps, never formulated inhis own mind.
Jane winced under the captain's outburst, but she held her peace. Sheknew how outspoken he was and how unsparing of those who differed fromhim and she laid part of his denunciation to this cause.
Some weeks after this conversation the captain started for Yardley tosee Jane on a matter of business, and incidentally to have a romp withthe Pond Lily. It was astonishing how devoted the old sea-dog was tothe child, and how she loved him in return. "My big bear," she used tocall him, tugging away at his gray whiskers. On his way he stopped atthe post-office for his mail. It was mid-winter and the roads werepartly blocked with snow, making walking difficult except for sturdysouls like Captain Nat.
"Here, Cap'n Holt, yer jest the man I been a-waitin' for," cried MissTucher, the postmistress, from behind the sliding window. "If you ain'tgoin' up to the Cobdens, ye kin, can't ye? Here's a lot o' letters jestcome that I know they're expectin'. Miss Lucy's" (many of the villagepeople still called her Miss Lucy, not being able to pronounce her deadhusband's name) "come in yesterday and seems as if she couldn't wait.This storm made everything late and the mail got in after she left.There ain't nobody comin' out to-day and here's a pile of 'em--furrin'most of 'em. I'd take 'em myself if the snow warn't so deep. Don'tmind, do ye? I'd hate to have her disapp'inted, for she's jes' 's sweetas they make 'em."
"Don't mind it a mite, Susan Tucher," cried the captain. "Goin' there,anyhow. Got some business with Miss Jane. Lord, what a wad o' them!"
"That ain't half what she gits sometimes," replied the postmistress,"and most of 'em has seals and crests stamped on 'em. Some o' themfurrin lords, I guess, she met over there."
These letters the captain held in his hand when he pushed open the doorof the sitting-room and stood before the inmates in his roughpea-jacket, his ruddy face crimson with the cold, his half-moonwhiskers all the whiter by contrast.
"Good-mornin' to the hull o' ye!" he shouted. "Cold as blue blazesoutside, I tell ye, but ye look snug enough in here. Hello, little PondLily! why ain't you out on your sled? Put two more roses in your cheeksif there was room for 'em. There, ma'am," and he nodded to Lucy andhanded her the letters, "that's 'bout all the mail that come thismornin'. There warn't nothin' else much in the bag. Susan Tucher askedme to bring 'em up to you count of the weather and 'count o' your beingin such an all-fired hurry to read 'em."
Little Ellen was in his arms before this speech was finished andeverybody else on their feet shaking hands with the old salt, exceptpoor, deaf old Martha, who called out, "Good-mornin', Captain Holt," ina strong, clear voice, and in rather a positive way, but who kept herseat by the fire and continued her knitting; and complacent Mrs.Dellenbaugh, the pastor's wife, who, by reason of her position, nevergot up for anybody.
The captain advanced to the fire, Ellen still in his arms, shook handswith Mrs. Dellenbaugh and extended three fingers, rough as lobster'sclaws and as red, to the old nurse. Of late years he never met Marthawithout feeling that he owed her an apology for the way he had treatedher the day she begged him to send Bart away. So he always tried tomake it up to her, although he had never told her why.
"Hope you're better, Martha? Heard ye was under the weather; was thatso? Ye look spry 'nough now," he shouted in his best quarter-deck voice.
"Yes, but it warn't much. Doctor John fixed me up," Martha repliedcoldly. She had no positive animosity toward the captain--not since hehad shown some interest in Archie--but she could never make a friend ofhim.
During this greeting Lucy, who had regained her chair, sat with theletters unopened in her lap. None of the eagerness Miss Tucher hadindicated was apparent. She seemed more intent on arranging the foldsof her morning-gown accentuating the graceful outlines of herwell-rou
nded figure. She had glanced through the package hastily, andhad found the one she wanted and knew that it was there warm under hertouch--the others did not interest her.
"What a big mail, dear," remarked Jane, drawing up a chair. "Aren't yougoing to open it?" The captain had found a seat by the window and thechild was telling him everything she had done since she last saw him.
"Oh, yes, in a minute," replied Lucy. "There's plenty of time." Withthis she picked up the bunch of letters, ran her eye through thecollection, and then, with the greatest deliberation, broke one sealafter another, tossing the contents on the table. Some she merelyglanced at, searching for the signatures and ignoring the contents;others she read through to the end. One was from Dresden, from astudent she had known there the year before. This was sealed with awafer and bore the address of the cafe where he took his meals. Anotherwas stamped with a crest and emitted a slight perfume; a third wasenlivened by a monogram in gold and began: "Ma chere amie," in a boldround hand. The one under her hand she did not open, but slipped intothe pocket of her dress. The others she tore into bits and threw uponthe blazing logs.
"I guess if them fellers knew how short a time it would take ye toheave their cargo overboard," blurted out the captain, "they'd thoughta spell 'fore they mailed their manifests."
Lucy laughed good-naturedly and Jane watched the blaze roar up the widechimney. The captain settled back in his chair and was about tocontinue his "sea yarn," as he called it, to little Ellen, when hesuddenly loosened the child from his arms, and leaning forward in hisseat toward where Jane sat, broke out with:
"God bless me! I believe I'm wool-gathering. I clean forgot what I comefor. It is you, Miss Jane, I come to see, not this little curly headthat'll git me ashore yet with her cunnin' ways. They're goin' to builda new life-saving station down Barnegat way. That Dutch brig that comeashore last fall in that so'easter and all them men drownded could havebeen saved if we'd had somethin' to help 'em with. We did all we could,but that house of Refuge ain't half rigged and most o' the time ye gotto break the door open to git at what there is if ye're in a hurry,which you allus is. They ought to have a station with everything 'boutas it ought to be and a crew on hand all the time; then, when somethin'comes ashore you're right there on top of it. That one down to Squam isjust what's wanted here."
"Will it be near the new summer hotel?" asked Lucy carelessly, just asa matter of information, and without raising her eyes from the rings onher beautiful hands.
"'Bout half a mile from the front porch, ma'am"--he preferred callingher so--"from what I hear. 'Tain't located exactly yet, but some'er'salong there. I was down with the Gov'ment agent yesterday."
"Who will take charge of it, captain?" inquired Jane, reaching over herbasket in search of her scissors.
"Well, that's what I come up for. They're talkin' about me," and thecaptain put his hands behind Ellen's head and cracked his big knucklesclose to her ear, the child laughing with delight as she listened.
The announcement was received with some surprise. Jane, seeing Martha'sinquiring face, as if she wanted to hear, repeated the captain's wordsto her in a loud voice. Martha laid down her knitting and looked at thecaptain over her spectacles.
"Why, would you take it, captain?" Jane asked in some astonishment,turning to him again.
"Don't know but I would. Ain't no better job for a man than savin'lives. I've helped kill a good many; 'bout time now I come 'bout onanother tack. I'm doin' nothin'--haven't been for years. If I could getthe right kind of a crew 'round me--men I could depend on--I think Icould make it go."
"If you couldn't nobody could, captain," said Jane in a positive way."Have you picked out your crew?"
"Yes, three or four of 'em. Isaac Polhemus and Tom Morgan--Tom sailedwith me on my last voyage--and maybe Tod."
"Archie's Tod?" asked Jane, replacing her scissors and searching for aspool of cotton.
"Archie's Tod," repeated the captain, nodding his head, his big handstroking Ellen's flossy curls. "That's what brought me up. I want Tod,and he won't go without Archie. Will ye give him to me?"
"My Archie!" cried Jane, dropping her work and staring straight at thecaptain.
"Your Archie, Miss Jane, if that's the way you put it," and he stole alook at Lucy. She was conscious of his glance, but she did not returnit; she merely continued listening as she twirled one of the rings onher finger.
"Well, but, captain, isn't it very dangerous work? Aren't the men oftendrowned?" protested Jane.
"Anything's dangerous 'bout salt water that's worth the doin'. I'vestuck to the pumps seventy-two hours at a time, but I'm here to tellthe tale."
"Have you talked to Archie?"
"No, but Tod has. They've fixed it up betwixt 'em. The boy's dead setto go."
"Well, but isn't he too young?"
"Young or old, he's tough as a marline-spike--A1, and copper fastenedthroughout. There ain't a better boatman on the beach. Been that wayever since he was a boy. Won't do him a bit of harm to lead that kindof life for a year or two. If he was mine it wouldn't take me a minuteto tell what I'd do."
Jane leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the crackling logs, andbegan patting the carpet with her foot. Lucy became engrossed in a bookthat lay on the table beside her. She didn't intend to take any part inthe discussion. If Jane wanted Archie to serve as a common sailor thatwas Jane's business. Then again, it was, perhaps, just as well for anumber of reasons to have him under the captain's care. He might becomeso fond of the sea as to want to follow it all his life.
"What do you think about it, Lucy?" asked Jane.
"Oh, I don't know anything about it. I don't really. I've lived so longaway from here I don't know what the young men are doing for a living.He's always been fond of the sea, has he not, Captain Holt?"
"Allus," said the captain doggedly; "it's in his blood." Her answernettled him. "You ain't got no objections, have you, ma'am?" he asked,looking straight at Lucy.
Lucy's color came and went. His tone offended her, especially beforeMrs. Dellenbaugh, who, although she spoke but seldom in public had atongue of her own when she chose to use it. She was not accustomed tobeing spoken to in so brusque a way. She understood perfectly well thecaptain's covert meaning, but she did not intend either to let him seeit or to lose her temper.
"Oh, not the slightest," she answered with a light laugh. "I have nodoubt that it will be the making of him to be with you. Poor boy, hecertainly needs a father's care."
The captain winced in turn under the retort and his eyes flashed, buthe made no reply.
Little Ellen had slipped out of the captain's lap during the colloquy.She had noticed the change in her friend's tone, and, with a child'sintuition, had seen that the harmony was in danger of being broken. Shestood by the captain's knee, not knowing whether to climb back again orto resume her seat by the window. Lucy, noticing the child'sdiscomfort, called to her:
"Come here, Ellen, you will tire the captain."
The child crossed the room and stood by her mother while Lucy tried torearrange the glossy curls, tangled by too close contact with thecaptain's broad shoulder. In the attempt Ellen lost her balance andfell into her mother's lap.
"Oh, Ellen!" said her mother coldly; "stand up, dear. You are socareless. See how you have mussed my gown. Now go over to the windowand play with your dolls."
The captain noted the incident and heard Lucy's reproof, but he made noprotest. Neither did he contradict the mother's statement that thelittle girl had tired him. His mind was occupied with other things--thetone of the mother's voice for one, and the shade of sadness thatpassed over the child's face for another. From that moment he took apositive dislike to her.
"Well, think it over, Miss Jane," he said, rising from his seat andreaching for his hat. "Plenty of time 'bout Archie. Life-savin' housewon't be finished for the next two or three months; don't expect to gitinto it till June. Wonder, little Pond Lily, if the weather's goin' tobe any warmer?" He slipped his hand under the child's chin and leaningover
her head peered out of the window. "Don't look like it, does it,little one? Looks as if the snow would hold on. Hello! here comes thedoctor. I'll wait a bit--good for sore eyes to see him, and I don't gita chance every day. Ask him 'bout Archie, Miss Jane. He'll tell yewhether the lad's too young."
There came a stamping of feet on the porch outside as Doctor John shookthe snow from his boots, and the next instant he stepped into the roombringing with him all the freshness and sunshine of the outside world.
"Good-morning, good people," he cried, "every one of you! How very snugand cosey you look here! Ah, captain, where have you been keepingyourself? And Mrs. Dellenbaugh! This is indeed a pleasure. I have justpassed the dear doctor, and he is looking as young as he did ten yearsago. And my Lady Lucy! Down so early! Well, Mistress Martha, up again Isee; I told you you'd be all right in a day or two."
This running fire of greetings was made with a pause before each inmateof the room--a hearty hand-shake for the bluff captain, the pressing ofMrs. Dellenbaugh's limp fingers, a low bow to Lucy, and a pat onMartha's plump shoulder.
Jane came last, as she always did. She had risen to greet him and wasnow unwinding the white silk handkerchief wrapped about his throat andhelping him off with his fur tippet and gloves.
"Thank you, Jane. No, let me take it; it's rather wet," he added as hestarted to lay the heavy overcoat over a chair. "Wait a minute. I'vesome violets for you if they are not crushed in my pocket. They camelast night," and he handed her a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper.This done, he took his customary place on the rug with his back to theblazing logs and began unbuttoning his trim frock-coat, bringing toview a double-breasted, cream-white waistcoat--he still dressed as aman of thirty, and always in the fashion--as well as a fluffy scarfwhich Jane had made for him with her own fingers.
"And what have I interrupted?" he asked, looking over the room. "One ofyour sea yarns, captain?"--here he reached over and patted the child'shead, who had crept back to the captain's arms--"or some of my lady'snews from Paris? You tell me, Jane," he added, with a smile, openinghis thin, white, almost transparent fingers and holding them behind hisback to the fire, a favorite attitude.
"Ask the captain, John." She had regained her seat and was reaching outfor her work-basket, the violets now pinned in her bosom--her eyes hadlong since thanked him.
"No, do YOU tell me," he insisted, moving aside the table with hersewing materials and placing it nearer her chair.
"Well, but it's the captain who should speak," Jane replied, laughing,as she looked up into his face, her eyes filled with his presence. "Hehas startled us all with the most wonderful proposition. The Governmentis going to build a life-saving station at Barnegat beach, and theyhave offered him the position of keeper, and he says he will take it ifI will let Archie go with him as one of his crew."
Doctor John's face instantly assumed a graver look. These forked roadsconfronting the career of a young life were important and not to belightly dismissed.
"Well, what did you tell him?" he asked, looking down at Jane in theeffort to read her thoughts.
"We are waiting for you to decide, John." The tone was the same shewould have used had the doctor been her own husband and the boy theirchild.
Doctor John communed with himself for an instant. "Well, let us take avote," he replied with an air as if each and every one in the room wasinterested in the decision. "We'll begin with Mistress Martha, and thenMrs. Dellenbaugh, and then you, Jane, and last our lady from over thesea. The captain has already sold his vote to his affections, and somust be counted out."
"Yes, but don't count me in, please," exclaimed Lucy with a merry laughas she arose from her seat. "I don't know a thing about it. I've justtold the dear captain so. I'm going upstairs this very moment to writesome letters. Bonjour, Monsieur le Docteur; bonjour, Monsieur leCapitaine and Madame Dellenbaugh," and with a wave of her hand and alittle dip of her head to each of the guests, she courtesied out of theroom.
When the door was closed behind her she stopped in the hall, threw aglance at her face in the old-fashioned mirror, satisfied herself ofher skill in preserving its beautiful rabbit's-foot bloom andfreshness, gave her blonde hair one or two pats to keep it in place,rearranged the film of white lace about her shapely throat, andgathering up the mass of ruffled skirts that hid her pretty feet,slowly ascended the staircase.
Once inside her room and while the vote was being taken downstairs thatdecided Archie's fate she locked her door, dropped into a chair by thefire, took the unopened letter from her pocket, and broke the seal.
"Don't scold, little woman," it read. "I would have written before, butI've been awfully busy getting my place in order. It's all arrangednow, however, for the summer. The hotel will be opened in June, and Ihave the best rooms in the house, the three on the corner overlookingthe sea. Sue says she will, perhaps, stay part of the summer with me.Try and come up next week for the night. If not I'll bring Sue with meand come to you for the day.
"Your own Max."
For some minutes she sat gazing into the fire, the letter in her hand.
"It's about time, Mr. Max Feilding," she said at last with a sigh ofrelief as she rose from her seat and tucked the letter into her desk."You've had string enough, my fine fellow; now it's my turn. If I hadknown you would have stayed behind in Paris all these months and keptme waiting here I'd have seen you safe aboard the steamer. The hotelopens in June, does it? Well, I can just about stand it here untilthen; after that I'd go mad. This place bores me to death."
The Tides of Barnegat Page 15