Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
At last he had come to Norah’s home, where were still a few little brothers and sisters left to tell tales, and one of them let out unsuspectingly that their sister Norah had gone back to live with the pretty lady who sent the grapes and flowers to their little dead brother and that she was in a place called Rushville. The man professed great interest in their sister, whom he said he had seen when waiting for a note for his master, and so he found no trouble in obtaining Norah’s address. The whole thing had been so neatly done that Morris Thayer, when he landed in Rushville, felt reasonably certain that he should find Constance there and that she would have received no warning whatever of his coming.
For Constance had been away just long enough for Thayer to have discovered that the world without her was null and void. He had never been denied anything in his life before, much less anything so desirable as this altogether desirable heiress; and why should he be denied now, when all that was needed was a little strategy? If he had not that, his man had. Money would buy anything, even brains. But, in order that he might come into town as quietly as possible, he had reluctantly left his man at home, thinking it better to be stealthy about things, since Constance chose to be so shy in her flight.
Thayer had almost never traveled without the company of his man. He had not felt the loss very deeply while on the train, for the generously tipped porters had easily made up for that; but now that he was stranded upon this bare platform with a large suitcase and bag at his feet, he felt suddenly at a loss what to do next. Ordinarily the man would attend to that, and he would step into a car out of sight of the vulgar gaze of the bystanders.
But now it was quite evident that no car would walk up to him and offer to shelter him from the public gaze and that he must make a move himself. He looked about him and perceived a line of more or less deeply interested observers, with hands in pockets and eyes upon him. They seemed to have nothing better to do than to look him over, and actually, they did not seem in the least impressed. But something must be done. He felt out of patience with Constance coming here. What could possibly have attracted her? He hoped she was not going to prove troublesome in such ways. He would have to lay down the law for her if she did, for he abhorred such little backwoods holes.
Clearing his throat and raising his gold-rimmed eyeglass, the traveler approached the line of bystanders. One of them happened to be Holly Beech, who sat astride of a paint keg, in his shirtsleeves as usual, chewing vigorously on a fresh quid of tobacco.
“Wal, I swow!” exclaimed Holly. “Ain’t that purty now? Can’t find his mamma, can’t he? Gosh! Where do they make them things? Up to the city? Hold me, boys, he’s comin’ this way!” This all in an undertone that caused the crowd of bystanders to shake silently with laughter.
Morris Thayer paused before Holly, half indignant that he did not rise.
“Oh, I say—could you tell me where to find a hotel?”
It was the same question Constance had asked a few months before, but he had not even so sympathetic a company of listeners as had she. There seemed to be something in the question itself that irritated all Rushvilleites.
Holly shifted the tobacco to his left cheek and paused in his chewing while he scratched his head thoughtfully.
“A hotel, d’you say? Now I thought I’d seen one round somewheres, but mebbe I’m mistaken. Say, boys, you don’t know of no vacant hotels handy by, do ye?”
The crowd suppressed their feelings for the sake of hearing the rest of the performance. Morris Thayer was annoyed. He wished he had brought his valet. He began to explain in a patronizing tone, for he did not care to get into an altercation with such a burly looking individual.
“You do not understand, my man. I don’t want a vacant hotel. I am not trying to buy one. I want a place where I can put up and get something respectable to eat, you know.”
But Holly scented condescension, and if there was anything in the wide world he hated, it was to be looked down upon.
“Oh, I see!” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I’m glad you explained to me, brother. I might’uv made a bad mistake, an’ sent you where you wouldn’t want to go. Well now, brother, there’s two places where you kin git somethin’ to eat in this here town. I ain’t so sure they kin put you up. ’Tain’t so easy to put up nice, tidy men like you; but they’ll feed you fast ’nough. One place is over there to the drugstore. They have toasted cheese sandridges an’ soft drinks, an’ some that ain’t so soft. I used to eat there myself before the new tearoom come. I guess that’s about your size, ef I ain’t mistook. You want one o’ them there tab dinners. They’re high art, they are, ice cream an’ sugar plums an’ salads an’ all sorts of filimijigers. Just suit you. Go right over there, brother, an’ tell her I said you wanted one o’ them there dollar dinners. Yes, that’s the place over there behind the big trees—the Cedars, they call it. You’ll find it okay fer sure. You don’t want me to go ’long an’ open the gate fer you, do ye, brother? Yes, that’s the way! Sure!”
Morris Thayer felt very uncomfortable. He vowed he would never come away without his man again. He gathered up his suitcase and bag and looked unhappily around for a boy or a porter to help him, but none appeared; so he was forced to carry them himself. It seemed a long, hard walk across that wide, snowy space and down the long path to the house. He felt that Constance should appreciate his coming after her at so great a cost.
Once seated in the palm dining room, he looked about with approval. Everything seemed in good taste. The room was not built for the purpose, of course, and lacked a good many modern appliances, but he liked the air of refinement and felt at home at once when he noticed the service with which the tables were set out. He was glad to find so respectable a place to eat in this forlorn-looking town. He ordered a hearty meal and enjoyed it, wondering why it was the salad made him think of one night when he had taken dinner at the Wetherills’s. Miss Constance had worn a gown of pale blue crepe and looked like a beautiful goddess in a cool cloud.
It happed that Jimmy had been sent upon an errand at some distance, and Constance was occupied with her grandmother, so that Norah served him herself. She recognized him at once and instinctively was on the alert to protect her mistress. She had been in the kitchen in New York, of course, and the young man had never seen her in the Wetherills’s household. He would not be likely to recognize the Wetherill cook, but Norah had heard all the gossip of the servants and well knew that this young man was an ardent admirer of Constance. She had often seen him from a window as he drove down a side street, and admired him. But her mistress had told her that she was not to tell a living soul about their reverse of fortune. It was not likely that this young man knew, and he should never know from her. Moreover, Constance had not seemed to wish to have her friends find her, and there must be some reason for it. That being the case, Norah meant to guard her. Not a word did she utter save those absolutely necessary, and when the young man said that he wished to find out the address of some friends who lived in Rushville and asked her whether she knew everybody there, she told him she was a stranger and that he had better go to the post office to inquire. The post office was at some distance from the station, by a freak of the planners of the town, and Norah hoped thus to gain time. She knew Constance would leave in a few minutes with the minister to a funeral in the country, at which she was to sing. She resolved not to tell her of Mr. Thayer’s visit until she returned.
The young man decided, from her description of the walk, that it must be a long one and made up his mind to take a car from the garage, which she said was nearby. So a few minutes later he bundled himself into the car, which he had selected as being the least objectionable vehicle for hire, and was driven to the post office, where he was again under a battery of eyes, among them Jimmy’s.
Morris Thayer’s ideas of drivers had been so shaken by the man in his shirtsleeves that he was in a most irritable mood, and it was with difficulty that he calmed himself to make inquiries. He was finally driven back to the place from which he had come, and landed at the Cedars once more. With astonishment, he surveyed his surroundings. Could it be possible that this plain country place held the priceless jewel of which he was in search? He could scarcely believe it and thought he must have been misdirected.
Norah appeared deferentially and seemed surprised to see him again; but when he asked for the Wetherills, she told him that Miss Constance was out. He then asked for Mrs. Wetherill, and Norah, much perturbed, went up to see whether the old lady would have him come upstairs.
Bewildered, the young man followed her a few minutes later to the pleasant room, where amid her accustomed luxury the old lady sat, smiling and beautiful as ever in her city home, only more fragile looking. She welcomed him with her stately courtesy, apologizing for being unable to rise. She told him of her sudden illness, the result of the news of a dear friend’s death.
Morris Thayer was shocked that he had not heard, and begged to know whether there was anything he could do for her. Would she not like him to send home for her family physician, a private car, some of her friends, some fruit, flowers, medicine, or wine, anything? He felt greatly distressed as it dawned upon him how serious a thing this had been, and yet Constance had not let him know. She had evidently been offended with him about something. What could it have been? How annoying! He did all that he could to show how anxious he was to help, and exercised the power of his handsome eyes and gracious manner with the old lady, in which art he excelled at all times.
Mrs. Wetherill chatted with him pleasantly, childishly, of herself, her illness, all that had been done for her, of the minister to whose praises she constantly returned, until Morris Thayer felt almost personally bound to thank the kind old saint (of course he was old—all ministers were old in Morris Thayer’s idea) who had evidently been so good to those who were so soon to belong to him. Mrs. Wetherill said that Constance had gone with the minister to sing at a funeral. Then she launched into a sweet little story of how his prayers had helped her.
Morris Thayer frowned over the funeral and said, “Aw, you dawn’t say so!” to her account of the prayers, and remarked, when she gave him opportunity, that of course it was very kind of Constance to go and sing for the minister, but he really ought not to have asked it. It must have been very trying to her to have to attend the funeral of a stranger.
Mrs. Wetherill smiled and looked at him contentedly. She felt that the trouble between him and Constance was all over now, and they would probably return to New York at once, but it suddenly occurred to her that if they did she would miss her new minister so much. She began wondering whether she could not get him a better parish in New York and so have him all to herself; and, pondering in her weakened state, she wandered from her visitor’s words and made no answer to his questions.
Miss Stokes, rising, suggested grimly that it might be well for Mrs. Wetherill to rest now, as the doctor did not allow her to talk long at a time. The visitor frowned and withdrew, having been informed that it would be six o’clock before Miss Wetherill could return.
What to do with himself this young man did not know. He was seated in the library downstairs, for Norah would not open the inner sanctum for anybody but the minister, without Constance’s order. He wandered about, perplexedly staring at the pictures on the walls, pronouncing them good, very good, wondering how such things came to be out here in the country. This must be a most extraordinary tearoom. He glanced across the hall and saw some real Oriental rugs, antiques, too. He was considered a connoisseur on rugs and often went with his friends to help them select some. He put on his eyeglass and studied from afar the ocean painting, wondering why it seemed so familiar and whether the Wetherills did not have one something like it in their home. Strange there should be one here also!
It must be that Constance had heard of this place as being most extraordinary in the midst of the quiet country. But why on earth did she choose to remain after the winter had set in and the season at home well begun? The old lady was evidently well enough to be moved, if she was taken in a private car. Of course he would insist that they do so at once.
He had communed thus within himself a long time it seemed to him; he studied the view of the road and all the books in the room, though he did not care for reading and was exceedingly weary of himself. He concluded it was about time to do something. He felt that he would like a glass of wine to steady his drooping spirits, and hailing Norah from the doorway as she passed with her tray, he asked to see the wine list.
It was with something of scorn that Norah informed the young man that they had no wine list and never would have in that house, so long as it was run by the present proprietor. She advised him to go to the drugstore, as she understood you could get anything you wanted there if you went about it in the right way.
Morris Thayer was annoyed, he scarcely knew why, but he took Norah’s suggestion and sauntered slowly over to the drugstore.
Silas Barton stood gloomily at his own door as Morris Thayer crossed the street, picking his way elegantly over the snowy road. He watched Thayer’s progress and took his measure. He was not a stupid man, and he had one evil purpose in view now, toward which he made everything work. Because this man came from the Cedars, and because the man who drove him to the post office and back in search of the Wetherills had come straight to the drugstore and told the story as soon as he had landed his passenger, Silas was deeply interested. His plans were ready. He was only waiting a proper time and way to spring them upon his unsuspecting victims, and here seemed to be the very man who would help him.
He slid his hands into his pockets with a quick, stealthy movement and watched the man as he came nearer, as a spider might watch a fly drawing closer and closer to its web. Yes, he was coming in. Silas drew a long breath and put on his most deferential air. He knew how to serve such men. Had he not been bartender in a great city hotel at one time until he drank so deeply that he was discharged?