The Strange Proposal (25 page)

“Really, I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t know,” said her mistress thoughtfully. “Well, has Mr. Wainwright come home from the office yet?”

“No ma’am,” said Rebecca briskly, “he told me he had extra work tonight and might be late for dinner. He said to have it a half hour later.”

“Oh, then I suppose I can get him at the office. Tell the cook not to give Mr. Wainwright too many greasy things. I know he likes them, but they aren’t good for him in this warm weather! Everything going all right? If Sam comes home soon, you might tell him to call me up at once. Well, good-bye, Rebecca.” She hung up.

With a smile of relief on her lips and a glitter of triumph in her eyes, Rebecca walked away from the telephone, well content. She had not betrayed her master’s secret, and she had not told what she called a lie. Her answer had been discretion itself.

Then Sam’s mother called up Mary Elizabeth’s cottage by the sea, but it happened that the caretakers were off to a Sunday school picnic, and she got no answer. As a last resort she called up her husband. As a matter of fact, she didn’t want to talk to him, because if she tried to put anything over on the family, he generally frustrated her efforts if he found it out in time. But time was a factor in what she wanted now, and there was nothing else to do. So she set her lips firmly and called him.

He was just about to go out to an important conference of some business associates, but he came obediently to the telephone and answered her fondly.

“Hello, Clarrie, is that you? I hope you’re nice and cool up there in the mountains. It’s hot as cotton down here in the city.”

Mrs. Wainwright made a few caustic remarks about people who “preferred” to stay down where it was hot when they had plenty of money to go off for the whole summer and escape the heat, and then she came to the point.

“Where is Sam, Papa?”

“Why, Clarice, you knew he went down to the shore with his cousin!” said Papa Wainwright guardedly.

“Yes, but don’t try to make me believe he’s there yet! I know better!”

Papa Wainwright’s heart took a flop. Had she found out where Sam really was? Had she found out how he went? How had she found out? This was going to be unpleasant!

But he answered in a bland tone.

“Why, Sam loves it down there, Mama! Hasn’t he written you about it? He’s been hobnobbing with the lifeguards, and he’s been helping haul in the deep-sea nets and learning all about the fish, and—and—”

Papa Wainwright tried to think of some of the other things that Sam might be doing that his mother would think were perfectly harmless, but words were failing him. It wouldn’t do to mention fishing or boating, for she had always been afraid he would drown. But he didn’t need to think of anything else just then, for he was interrupted.

“But he would soon tire of those things, I’m sure, Papa, with no companions but Betty, and by this time she’s got the house full of her crowd and wouldn’t have any time for Sam.”

“I think not,” said Papa Wainwright, gathering courage. “I happen to know that she didn’t intend on having any young folks down there, at least not at present. She’s just—resting, you know!”

“What from?” snapped Aunt Clarrie sarcastically. “She never did anything that I know of. She can’t even knit! And as for contract bridge, she can’t keep her mind on it!”

“Well, at any rate,” said her husband evasively, “Sam’s all right. I just had word from him last night. I think you’ll get a letter soon. I told him to write.”

As a matter of fact, Sam had written a letter and sent it to his father to mail, and the father had mailed it that very morning. Now he regretted the home postmark that she would be sure to notice. She would think Sam was back at home again.

“That is, you see,” he began again, “I told him to write you a letter at once and mail it to me, so I would know he had written, and I would forward it to you.”

“Oh!” said the boy’s mother graciously, knowing her offspring’s dislike of correspondence. “Well, I’m sure I hope he does. It’s very rude of him not to. But what I want to say is, that I’ve already tried to get him on the phone down at the shore and failed! So he must have gone somewhere.” Her tone was suspicion itself.

“Oh, well,” began the weary husband blandly, “I suppose, then, they’ve just gone off on some little trip or other. Mary Beth drives around a lot, you know. Come to think of it, they spoke of visiting some friend of hers sometime soon. They won’t be gone long. I wouldn’t worry. Mary Elizabeth is very careful.”

“I’m not worrying, Papa!” snapped his wife, annoyed. “I wish you wouldn’t always think I am worrying! Though it’s a pity if you wouldn’t do a little worrying yourself sometimes. But I want Sam. I want him to come up here at once. If he won’t go to that perfectly wonderful camp where I wanted to send him, at least he’s got to have some cultural influence about him before the summer is over. And I want you to find him by telephone or telegraph or something and send him right up here. There’s a perfectly marvelous man up here teaching dancing, and all the young fellows and girls are taking lessons, and it’s high time that Sam had a little of that under circumstances that he can’t help liking. You know I simply couldn’t compel him to attend dancing classes last winter. He said it was “‘sissy.’” That’s the answer he gives to everything I want to do for his education. And it’s all your fault, Robert. You encourage him in that. And he’s going to grow up a perfect gawk if something isn’t done about it. You know Jeff used to dance so divinely, the girls were all just crazy about his dancing, and it’s high time that Sam began to get into some shape. Next winter there will be the junior dances in the schools, and it’s time he went around and got to be a little civilized. There are some charming young fellows here at the hotel, just his age, two brothers from England among them, and they are so well trained, and courteous! Just perfect little gentlemen! They wait on the girls so delightfully. It’s really quite remarkable, Robert. You would love to see them. And Sam has just got to come up here and get a little of this atmosphere, or he’ll grow perfectly wild!”

“Well, I’ll risk it,” said Sam’s father, shutting his lips firmly after his words so he couldn’t be forced to swallow them. “I’d rather see Sam a fine, strong boy with a little horse sense than have him made into one of your imitation little gentlemen, at his age. Clarice, you let Sam alone this summer and let him grow! You’ll be surprised how much sense he’s getting. He’s going to be a lad to be proud of. And I’d rather see him with his cousin Mary Elizabeth for a little while longer before he gets to being so polite to the nice little modern imps that pass for girls today. Say, Mama, where did you put those thin old Palm Beach suits I like so much for hot days?”

“Now, Robert! I told you I gave those away last summer! They weren’t fit for you to wear. You looked like a ragpicker in them. They never had any shape, anyway. I got you some nice light gray suits, why don’t you wear them?”

“Because they’re too hot, Clarice, and I don’t like ’em! Anyway, I’ve given them away. I didn’t want ’em!”

“Robert! You didn’t give away those lovely suits! Why, I paid—”

“Never mind how much you paid for them, Clarice, I’d rather not know. I’ve given them away, and that’s that! I’ve got a conference right now, Clarice, and I’ve got to go! Good-bye!”

“But Robert, wait! I want you to promise me that you’ll telephone Sam right away tonight and send him up to me by the first train in the morning!”

But Robert Wainwright had hung up and gone to his conference!

There was nothing for his wife to do but pour her heart out on paper to her youngest son and send it special delivery, care of his cousin.

Boothby Farwell, on his way southward, having tested out the different kinds of liquors offered by the way and evaded several detours that seemed more or less casual, finally shook his fist at a perfectly plain detour, about halfway down to Florida, and plunged into forbidden roads.

“I’m doing this at my own risk!” he snarled at a workman who rushed up to him with a red flag, trying to persuade him otherwise. And then he put his foot on the gas and dashed on, bumping up and down over ruts unspeakable, getting all messed up in some fresh cement, and arriving with a dash just in time for a nasty bit of blasting through some rocks in the roadbed. To avoid them, he swerved to the side and was stopped short, with his car in the embrace, as it were, of a great stalwart truck of the working class.

Boothby Farwell himself was thrown forward on his knees, and cut and bruised about the face and hands annoyingly but not dangerously.

When he recovered his wind and his senses he said a great many uncomplimentary things to the workmen who were doing their best to extricate his car from the clutches of the truck and to wash his wounds and bind them up. Silent workmen they were, angry at his bullheadedness, men who could say such things as he was expressing much better than he could, gazing at him in a kind of disgusted pity.

They pulled him out of his trouble and sent him in a little bit of a rusty jalopy, with one of their best linguists to tell him on the way to the hospital some ten miles away just what the whole gang thought of him and to get a tow truck to bring what was left of his car after him, and then they dismissed him with contempt and washed their hands of him.

Farwell stayed in the hospital, annoying the whole staff of nurses and doctors with his complaints, until parts could be sent for by telephone for his mutilated car. And at last, when it was patched up, he headed south again, a sadder but no wiser man. He felt that everyone he met was against him and declared the liquor was growing worse and worse the farther south he went. Of course, he could only judge by wayside inns, because he had no time to hunt hotels of distinction. He was already behind his schedule and his bird would perhaps have flown before he got there.

This thought annoyed him more and more until he reached the next large city and found a hotel. There he telephoned to Seacrest and tried to get the caretaker. But the telephone at Seacrest did not answer. Frank and his wife had gone to prayer meeting.

Somewhat reassured by the fact that there was no answer, but not yet relieved, he finally called up Sam’s mother, whom he happened to know was at the Mountain House where he wished himself at that moment—but only if Mary Elizabeth could be there also.

“Good evening, Mrs. Wainwright,” he said suavely, “this is Boothby Farwell. I wonder if you could tell me just when Mary Elizabeth and your son Sam are coming back from Florida?”

“Florida!” snorted Aunt Clarice. “What in the world do you mean? Who would go to Florida this time of year?”

“Well, I thoroughly agree with you, but that’s where your son and Mary Elizabeth are, and I’m trying to find out how soon they are coming back!”

“Well, they certainly will return at once, if I have anything to do with it; that is, if they are really there. I doubt it. Where did you get your information? I shall telegraph her immediately to bring Sam back.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Wainwright. I’m on my way down after them now. I’ll have them back within a few days. I only called you to make sure that I should not pass them on my way. You see, I have been delayed a little for repairs on my car. But all is right again, and I am on my way. I hope to make Florida tomorrow sometime. But I was afraid they might already have left. You see, I came down as a surprise, but I suppose I should have wired them I was coming.”

“But I don’t understand!” said Sam’s mother, now thoroughly aroused. “Did Betty tell you they were going?”

“No,” said Farwell. “You see, I was away for a few days. But it’s quite like her, don’t you think? She’s so impulsive. However, she’ll be all right, I’m sure. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know when we are starting back.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, Boothby dear. I shall feel so comfortable about Sammy in your care. And I’m certainly ashamed of Betty, running off like that without telling anybody.”

“But she’s quite used to doing what she likes, you know,” said Mary Elizabeth’s would-be fiancé. “What she really needs is someone to look after her.”

“She certainly does,” agreed Mary Elizabeth’s aunt. “I’ve been hoping—”

“Yes, so have I!” said the man gallantly. “Well, I won’t keep you, Mrs. Wainwright. I just wanted to make sure they hadn’t started home. I thought you would be sure to know.”

“But where are you, Boothby?” asked Mrs. Wainwright, coming to her senses.

“Oh, just in a little town in Georgia. I’m on the regular highway, you know, and I’m bound to meet them if they start before I get there. I know Elizabeth’s car, you know.”

“Of course,” said the agitated lady. “And please tell Betty that I want her to send Sammy up by the very first train after she gets home. I need him up here now. Tell her that.”

“I will indeed, Mrs. Wainwright. In fact, if you like, I’ll put him on the train myself when I get there and see that he goes directly up to you.”

“Oh, that’s so good of you, Boothby dear. And if there’s any expense connected with it, his father will, of course, take care of it.”

“Oh, that’s all right!” said Boothby Farwell, impatient to be done with the fickle lady. “I’ll wire you when I find them. Good-bye!”

“Thank you so much! But Boothby, you didn’t tell me how you found out they were in Florida.”

But Boothby Farwell frowned and hung up. He didn’t care to enter into that question.

Mrs. Wainwright, however, was greatly disturbed. She went and sat down to her delicate knitting again, but her mind was on the matter of her young son and her niece. How had Betty dared take Sam off without permission? Finally, she rose and sallied forth to the telephone and spent most of the rest of the evening trying to get her husband on the wire. Failing to get him, and being told that he was still in New York, she called as a last resort Mary Elizabeth’s father and after some delay got a servant who told her that Mr. Samuel Wainwright had gone to New York with Mr. Robert Wainwright.

Much vexed, she hung up and went to bed early to consider how she might visit retribution on all the delinquents. Her husband was not at home looking after things as he ought to be. Her brother-in-law never did look after his daughter as she thought he ought to do, and Mary Elizabeth had probably taken advantage of their absence and gone off on some wild tangent of her own. No telling but she would end up in Egypt with Sam yet. This really must be stopped. If there was no other way to do it, she would have to go home in the heat and stop it herself, much as she hated to do so. She certainly would make her Robert understand a thing or two when she once got his ear again!