Chapter VI: Part 6

There was a light twinkling among the dark trees when at last Jarvis again passed the big apple-farm. He got down from his buggy, fastened the horse to a tree, and walked quietly toward the house. The long French windows stood open to the breeze, and within the lamp-lighted room Jarvis caught sight of Barbara. She was sitting close to the table reading aloud; at her side, leaning his yellow head against her knee, sat Jimmy, serious and intent. Barbara’s pleasant voice rang out in the stillness:

“Through all the pleasant meadow-side
The grass grew shoulder high,
Till the shining scythes went far and wide
And cut it down to dry.”

“That’s haying,” observed Jimmy, with satisfaction. “Ours is all in the barn now.”

“Yes,” said Barbara, “listen:

“Those green and sweetly smelling crops
They led in wagons home;
And they piled them here in mountain tops
For mountaineers to roam.
O, what a joy to clamber there,
O, what a place for play,
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
The happy hills of hay!”

Jarvis stepped boldly to the piazza, and tapped on the open sash.

“I guess it’s David!” he heard the child say joyously. And saw the quick blush that rose to Barbara’s cheek.

The blood sprang to his own temples and hammered furiously there for an instant as he looked at her in her diaphanous white dress. Then he entered at her quiet bidding.

“I was passing, and it occurred to me to stop, and—see you,” he said awkwardly.

Jimmy had retreated behind his sister’s chair and was gazing at him with frowning intentness. Manifestly the child was disappointed. Whitcomb would fit into the scene far better than himself, Jarvis was forced to acknowledge. He saw the wonderment in Barbara’s eyes, and mingled with it he fancied he could detect cold dislike and fear.

“You were reading,” he said, his eyes lingering on the hands which held the thin blue volume. “Won’t you——” He hesitated; then went on boldly: “Don’t stop because I am here.”

She would have turned over the leaves and read other pretty trifles if it had been David instead of himself, he thought bitterly. He waited for a cold refusal.

“You wouldn’t like ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses,’” Jimmy said unexpectedly. He had not removed his inquiring brown eyes from Jarvis’s face. Something that he saw there emboldened him. “It’s for little boys, littler than I am; but I like it.”

Jarvis smiled, the singular smile new to his lips and of which he was not at all aware, any more than of the elemental changes in himself.

“Perhaps I’d like it, too,” he said. “Nobody ever reads out loud to me.”

“Read the one about the wind, Barb’ra,” urged Jimmy. “The wind and the kites. I like that.”

Barbara turned over the pages slowly.

“Shall I?” she asked Jarvis.

Her eyes lingered irresolutely on his face for an instant. It was evident that she was wondering at the sight of him there, pale and grave, but with an unfamiliar gentleness in his eyes and about his unsmiling lips.

“If you will,” he said.

Read Barbara:

“I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid,
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!”

Her voice, flowing on like a brook over pebbles, fell to a sudden silence, as the wind of which she had been reading entered with a sudden rush, veering the yellow flame of the lamp to one side.

Jimmy laughed joyously.

“It’s come in here,” he said, turning a sleepily roguish face upon Jarvis, “to hear what you’re saying, Barb’ra.”

She closed the book and laid it quietly upon the table.

“You must go to bed now, Jimmy,” she said.

The little boy whispered in her ear, his hands clasped about her neck. Her arm stole about his small body as she bent her head to listen. Jarvis watched the two hungrily—the child and the woman, and the eternal, unfading beauty of the picture smote him with almost intolerable poignancy. All that was best in life he had missed, blunderingly, blindly, and for what?

“I go to bed all by myself now,” the little boy said proudly.

He walked toward the door; then turned, hesitated, and flung himself upon Barbara.

“I guess I’d better kiss you good-night, Barb’ra,” he cried. “Just think, I pretty near forgot!”

He beamed shyly upon Jarvis.

“Shall I shake hands with you?” he inquired, with a friendly little smile. “I b’lieve I’d like to.”

Jarvis held out his hand and Jimmy laid his own in it gravely. Barbara stirred uneasily in her chair.

“Jimmy, dear!” she murmured softly, deprecatingly.

“I never s’posed I’d be shakin’ hands wiv you,” the child went on calmly. “Did you drive that short-tailed horse?”

“Yes,” said Jarvis, something swelling strangely within him as he looked down into the upturned face of the child, with its candid brown eyes.

“What made you cut his tail off?” demanded Jimmy. “Peg says it’s a mean trick to cut off horses’ tails, ’cause they need their tails to brush off the flies.”

“Jimmy!” called Barbara again, her face crimsoning.

“I didn’t cut it off,” Jarvis replied, with every evidence of sincerity. “I bought the horse just that way. I don’t like it myself.”

He glanced at Barbara with a quiet smile.

“I’m afraid I’m very much in the way,” he said. “But I wanted to talk with you—on a matter of some importance.”

XVII

A SILENCE, difficult to break, settled upon the man and the maid, as Jimmy’s plodding feet toiled up the stairs.

“Good-night, Barb’ra,” his wistful little voice called from the top of the stairs.

“Good-night, Jimmy dear,” she answered.

Her eyes, clouded with pain, sought Jarvis’s face. She had suddenly leaped to the conclusion that he had come to tell her something concerning the contract; perhaps to inform her that her prolonged furlough was at an end.

His next words confirmed this.

“I believe,” he said slowly, “that you are under bonds to leave your home for a considerable period. Five years, or thereabouts, to be exact. Am I right?”

“Yes,” faltered Barbara. She had grown very pale. “That is why,” she said bravely, “I have taught Jimmy to go upstairs alone. But he doesn’t like it—yet.”

Her eager eyes were fastened upon his face.

“Did you come—to—tell me? Must I go—now?” she asked.

He waved his hand deprecatingly.

“Oh, no,” he said. “It isn’t that—exactly. In fact, I have nothing to do with the matter; only——”

He paused, as if to choose his words with care.

“I happen to know the person concerned in the transaction, and——”

“You know him?” breathed Barbara. She leaned toward him eagerly, the color coming back to her face in a swift flood. “Then won’t you tell me——”

He shook his head.

“I’m under bonds to preserve my client’s incognito,” he said. “But——”

He looked at her compassionately.

“Are you finding the delay very hard to bear?” he asked. “Is there——” Again he hesitated. “Is there any particular reason why you should wish to know more about the matter?—any reason why you cannot wait my client’s pleasure?”

She was silent.

“It is that I should like you to tell me,” he went on deliberately. “I am instructed, by my client—to find out—to—er—ascertain, in short, if you are in any way dissatisfied with the present status of the affair. If you will be quite frank with me I shall greatly appreciate your confidence, and so will—the person I have the honor to represent. Of this I can speak very positively.”

“Why,” asked Barbara, her words coming with a rush, “do I wait at all? If my time is worth—all the money your client paid for it—why am I not working? That is one thing I want to know.”

“As to that,” Jarvis said quietly, “I can assure you that your time is worth all and more than you receive for it. But——”

He looked down and fingered his driving gloves absent-mindedly.

“There have been certain events, transpiring since the date of your engagement—your agreement, I should say better—with the person of whom we are speaking, which would seem to indicate that possibly—mind I say possibly, I cannot speak certainly as yet—but possibly your services may not be required at all.”

“What must I do? Of course the money——”

“Naturally, a part of it will be forfeited to you,” said Jarvis coolly.

To all outward appearance he was the hard-headed man of affairs discussing a disputed contract.

“I attended to that for you,” he went on. “It is nothing more than fair, since you still hold yourself in readiness to fill your part of the contract.”

Barbara was gazing at him with parted lips.

“I chanced to meet an acquaintance of yours this afternoon,” Jarvis went on, his observant eyes on her face. “A—er—Mr. Whitcomb.”

Her look puzzled him.

“He informed me that he wished to marry you.”

The girl’s eyes sank in shamed confusion.

“I—said I could not promise until—unless——” she faltered.

He arose, gripping his chair-back with tense fingers.

“It will be impossible to learn the ultimate intentions of my client at present,” he said.

He continued to look at her as she sat in the soft radiance of the lamp-light, her head bowed, her slender hands, browned and roughened by the labors of sorrowful years, tightly clasped in her lap; and a great compassion for her friendless youth, her woman’s tenderness and weakness, swept over him like a flood. He longed to take her in his arms, to comfort her unforgotten griefs and forever to shield her from the coldness of an unfriendly world. She seemed so slight, so fragile a creature in her thin dress of faded muslin, with the heavy masses of her hair knotted low against her slender neck.

“You say you cannot tell me who it is?” she murmured. “It is so strange not to know—to wait, being afraid every day. Why, any time Jimmy might come home and find me gone.”

Her voice trembled into silence.

He bent toward her, his face transfigured with love and pity.

“Barbara!” he cried, in a low voice of yearning.

She looked up at him, startled, afraid. He perceived this, and the next instant his features had resumed their expression of cold serenity.

“I was about to tell you that any excessive anxiety on your part is wholly unnecessary,” he said. “You will certainly be notified at least a week in advance. And—as my client is situated at present—I think I may predict with tolerable certainty that the call will not come before—autumn.”

Her face brightened.

“In October,” she said, “we shall harvest the orchards. Then I could pay back the money.”

A swift shadow crossed his face.

“Money; is it of that you must always be thinking?” he asked.

“You know that I must,” she said proudly. “I could not rest under so heavy an obligation to—anyone.”

“No,” he agreed. “I see that—I understand.”

A melancholy smile touched his lips.

“Do not be alarmed as to the obligation,” he said quietly. “My client is a man who is accustomed, like Shylock, to exact the last penny—even to the pound of flesh. He will not let you off easily.”

Barbara drew a quick breath.

“It is a man, then?” she asked. “I—hoped——”

“You were hoping it was a woman,” he said dryly. “I have committed an indiscretion in telling you so much. But—conceive, if you will, a man, well along in years, the—guardian of a child, who requires——”

“Is the child,” asked Barbara, “a boy or girl?”

He hesitated.

“Er—I cannot tell you as to that. Let us suppose for the moment that it is a boy.”

“Have you seen the child?”

He looked at her with what she would have called in another a bantering tenderness in his deep-set eyes. In connection with Stephen Jarvis the suggestion was untenable—absurd.

“Do you know you are cross-examining me with considerable adroitness?” he said. “I must be on my guard, or you will force me to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“And why should you not tell me the truth?” she urged. “I think I have the right to know it.”

“Not at present,” he said coolly. “I am in honor bound to my client, you should remember. I may lose my—er—commission, if I am not careful.”

“I should be glad to know that the child is—that he is not an imbecile.”

She answered his amazed look with swift explanation.

“A woman who saw my advertisement wanted me to take charge of an imbecile child; that is why——”

“And you would have done it, Barbara? You were ready to commit yourself to such a future, just because I——”

He stopped short with a visible effort.

“No; the child is—— He is a very dear and lovable little fellow, I should say. And he needs—you. He is—quite alone in the world.”

“So,” she murmured, “is Jimmy. And when I am gone there will be no one——”

“You will not be obliged to leave your brother right away, you know,” he suggested. “And—possibly not at all.”

Her face became illuminated with a sudden inspiration.

“Why shouldn’t the man—this client of yours—bring the child here for me to take care of? I should be so glad to have him right away. This is a healthy spot. I could make him very comfortable.”

Jarvis shook his head.

“I shouldn’t like to suggest such a thing,” he said slowly. “It might savor of impertinence——”

Her face crimsoned with mortification.

“I didn’t mean——” she stammered.

“Not on your part,” he amended hastily; “understand me, please. Your idea is—quite like you; quite what I should expect, knowing you as I do. But—I fear it wouldn’t do. My client——”

“He must be a peculiar sort of person,” hazarded Barbara.

“He is,” agreed Jarvis. “So much so that—I feel I ought to warn you in one particular.”

Barbara waited in expectant silence.

Jarvis hesitated, studying her downcast face.

“I want you to promise me,” he said slowly, “that you will not yield to the importunities of—of Whitcomb. No; don’t interrupt me. Hear me out. He will urge you to marry him—soon. He will tell you—— But you must not listen—yet. Do you hear me? You must—put him off. You must wait—till——”

“I shall wait,” she said coldly, “till the man—your client—is satisfied, or paid, in full.”

“Will you promise me this?”

She looked him full in the eyes.

“Why should I promise you?” she demanded haughtily. “I have signed a contract. I am in honor bound to stand by it. I shall keep my word—fulfil the letter of my bond; but not because you have asked me to do it.”

He turned abruptly and took up his hat.

“That is all I have to say to you,” he said in a business-like tone.

He stopped, hesitated.

“If I do not see you again——”

“But you will be obliged to see me,” she objected, “—to tell me.”

“No,” he said, and smiled slightly. “I shall not need to see you again; and—I may not——”

He held out his hand.

“Will you forgive me, Barbara?” he asked humbly.

“Forgive you?” she echoed.

“God knows I have need of your forgiveness. If I do not see you again—and it is quite possible that I may not. I am thinking of going away, of closing my house here. I may never return. But I want—I need to carry with me the certainty that you will sometimes think kindly of me. Not that I deserve it, but——”

His eyes, dark with pain, searched her face.

“I cannot bear to remember all that has passed between us. I know now that I was less than a man to threaten you—browbeat you, as I did. I hope you will believe me when I tell you I am hoping for your best—your truest, and most lasting happiness.”

His voice, shaken with the solemn passion of renunciation, died into silence.

She put her hand into his.

“I—am sorry,” she faltered.

“For what, Barbara?” he asked.

She drew a deep sigh that was half a sob.

“For—everything,” she said.

Her mouth quivered like a grieving child’s.

“And you do forgive me, Barbara?”

“Yes.”

He raised her fingers to his lips.

“Good-bye,” he said.

She heard his rapid step on the gravel without, and later the whir of wheels, faint and fainter in the distance.

* * * * *

Barbara did not tell David all that had passed between Jarvis and herself, when on the following day he unburdened himself of the multiplied conjecture and complaints which had occurred to him since his briefly renewed acquaintance with the lawyer. In some uncomprehended way their past had acquired a new significance in Barbara’s eyes, almost sacred in the light of Jarvis’s difficult confession. As she had, through some deep, delicate instinct, hidden her early romance from Jarvis, she now shielded from David’s scrutiny his rival’s unavailing passion and pain. David would not understand, she knew; he would laugh and toss his handsome head, secure in his own easily won triumph.

“I suspected the old fox knew more than he owned up to me, though when I taxed him with it he was ready to lie out of it,” David said.

He drew Barbara to him and kissed her carelessly full on the mouth. Then when she would have withdrawn herself from his arms, he laughed, and held her strongly to him, looking deep into her eyes.

“You don’t want to get away from me,” he said. “You are mine; didn’t you know that?”

He kissed her a dozen times, hotly, eagerly, holding her breathless, crushed against his breast, releasing her at last, flushed and tremulous, her heavy hair loosened on her neck.

David watched her with amused eyes, as she restored the hairpins to place, following the curving lines of her young figure appreciatively.

“You need some handsome gowns, Barbara, to set off your good looks,” he said. “You’ll have them, too, when you’re my wife.”

He took her hand.

“I’ll wager you’ve been wondering why I didn’t bring you a ring,” he went on exuberantly. “Girls always like rings, and I see you don’t wear anything but that plain one. Here, I’ll——”

“Don’t take it off,” implored Barbara. “It was my mother’s. It was her wedding ring.”

“That’s all right, dear. But you must take it off, just the same. You can wear it on the other hand, if you like—or put it away; a keepsake like that is best locked up in some box. I’ll give you all the rings you’ll need to wear from now on.”

He snapped open a tiny case of white velvet and flashed its imbedded jewel in her averted eyes.

“Do you like it, dear? Do you think it’s pretty? I couldn’t get anything decent in this hole, of course, so I sent to the city for it. It just came by express, last night. I found it when I got back from my delightful ride with that old crab, Jarvis.”

“It—it’s beautiful, David, but——”

“I hope it’ll fit; let me put it on, dearest.”

“David—I—can’t; don’t you see—I am not free to—to——”

“What in Heaven’s name are you talking about? Aren’t we engaged?”

“I—don’t know,” the girl said slowly. “No,—not till fall. You mustn’t——”

“Damn old Jarvis, if he’s been putting any such notions into your head!” cried David. “Why, Barbara, you’re talking nonsense. Didn’t he tell you you could get a release? I’ll buy the fellow off. I told Jarvis I would.”

“You told him?”

“Why, of course, I did. And I mean to. We’ll be married by that time. Now, don’t say _no_. Just give me a show to prove what ought to need no urging on my part to make you see. If we are married hard and fast there’ll be no back talk coming from Jarvis or anybody else. Can’t you see that, dear? I dare say the fellow is only waiting for a good excuse to demand his money back, and we’ll give it to him. Come, sweetheart, let me put this ring on your dear little finger, and next month I’ll add another of a different sort. Then I’ll be in a position to talk business with old Jarvis, or his client, whoever he is. I’ll say, ‘Here’s your money, sir,’ short and sharp; ‘take it or leave it, as suits you best. My wife doesn’t go out to service with any man.’ That’s my sensible girl!”

He would have drawn her again into his arms. But she resisted him tensely.

“You don’t understand, David, and you must understand,” she said slowly. “I—promised I wouldn’t—till——”

“You promised! Who in the devil did you promise? You promised me, and I’m going to hold you to it.”

“No; not till after I was bound, and I—only promised you conditionally. Don’t you remember, David?”

“I only remember what I choose to remember,” he said superciliously. “And all I know, or care to know, at the present moment, is that you’re mine—mine, Barbara! Haven’t I waited for years and suffered—Barbara!”

His voice vibrated with passion; he reached out for her hungrily, irresistibly, and held her fast in the clasp of one powerful arm, while with the other he sought for her elusive hand.

“One finger is just as good as another for me,” he laughed as he slipped the ring into place. “There! Isn’t that handsome?”

But she hid her troubled eyes against his shoulder.

“Not on my ugly brown hand, David,” she murmured. “And I cannot wear it—yet. I promised.”

“That’s twice you’ve mentioned the fact that you promised,” he said, scowling. “Did Jarvis have the brazen nerve to come between you and me with any of his cut and dried legal business?”

“He—reminded me of my contract. He said——”

“Well, I’ll fix that up with Jarvis. Say, do you know he makes me tired? I told him we were engaged, and if he had any such line of talk to pass out he might have come to me. I’m the one for him to do business with from now on, and I’ll let him know it, too.”

He released her, suddenly.

“You can do as you like about the ring,” he said in an offended tone. “Most girls would jump at the chance to wear a two-hundred-dollar diamond. I’ll chuck it into the waste-basket, if you say so.”

“Oh, David!” breathed Barbara, “did you spend all that money—just for me?”

“Yes, I did; and I supposed you’d be pleased. I never dreamed you’d refuse to wear it.”

“But—it isn’t that I don’t love you,” she faltered. “Indeed I——”

“Well, if you love me, you’ll do as I say,” interrupted David, with an arrogant toss of his handsome head. “Will you, Barbara?”

“I will in everything but—you know, dear, I—I can’t.”

He stared at her in angry silence.

“You appear a soft enough little thing,” he said at last, “but you’re as infernally obstinate as—— Here, give me the ring. I’ll not force it on you.”

She slipped it from her finger in silence, and he took it, restored it to its velvet nest, and dropped the case in his pocket.

“The next time I ask you to wear that ring,” he said, “you’ll either do it, or——”

“David!” cried Barbara faintly. “Please—please don’t be angry. Try to—understand.”

“Try to understand—eh? Well, I’m not so dull as some; but you’ve got me stumped all right. Maybe that’s what you’re trying to do.”

She put out her hands to him pleadingly. But he did not choose to see them.

“I’ll talk with Jarvis,” he said roughly. “And in the meantime you keep away from him. Just let me manage for a while. A woman isn’t up to business, anyway. Why, it makes me hot to think of his coming here and talking you to a finish the way he did. I wish I’d caught him at it, that’s all.”

“David!” Barbara’s voice was low and urgent. “I wish you wouldn’t——”

“Wouldn’t what?”

She clung to his arm; but his look did not soften.

“Please don’t—say anything to Mr. Jarvis. He—meant to be kind. He——”

David turned suddenly and caught her by the shoulders.

“See here,” he said. “I’m beginning to see a glimmer of light through this particular millstone. Is _Jarvis_ the man who tried to get you to marry him while I was away? Answer me!”

“He asked—me—to marry him, and I——”

David burst into a great laugh.

“Well, well!” he cried, “that was a conquest. Old Jarvis, of all men! Why, Barb, you’re a wonder. Ha, ha!”

She trembled before his loud laughter as she had not beneath the weight of his displeasure.

David suddenly became grave, his brows drawn in thought.

“That puts a different face on things,” he said.

XVIII

HEWETT’S general store, with its official annex, the post-office, occupied a prominent place in the social as well as the economic system of Barford. Not even the aisles, sheds, and steps of the Presbyterian church afforded so convenient and popular an arena for the interchange of items of general interest as did “Hewett’s.” There appeared to be something suggestively cheerful and enlivening in the sagging piles of fruit and vegetables, something friendly and hospitable in the boxes, barrels, and kegs open to public inspection and exploring fingers. Even the curious and all-pervasive odor compounded of prunes, pickles, yellow soap, and tobacco, with an occasional aromatic whiff of freshly ground coffee, seemed to lend itself to a pleasantly open frame of mind, conducive to an unreserved expression of opinion concerning the church, the state, and the social whirl, as evidenced in the varying currents and eddies of village life.

As in other similar emporiums devoted to the display and sale of such commodities as were in general demand “the store cat” might be seen guarding inconspicuous rat-holes, or curled up in peaceful slumber in the cracker barrel, or in close proximity to the whity-brown loaves of bread destined for private consumption and handled with easy familiarity and a total lack of ceremonial cleanliness by the driver of the baker’s cart, the Hewetts, father and son, and by such tentative customers as elected to test the freshness of the product with doubtful thumb and finger.

It was at Hewett’s, as might have been expected, that the singular event of the auction at the Preston farm had been discussed in all its different aspects. The amount of the mortgage held by Stephen Jarvis, the various expedients resorted to by the daughter of Donald Preston, and the events leading up to her desperate and successful coup had all been reviewed circumstantially and in order. The continued presence of David Whitcomb in the community furnished a welcome variation to the subject; and inasmuch as David was found not averse to talking of himself, there was little mystery about his return to Barford and its object.

Opinions as to the personal appearance, probable resources, and moral character of the ex-schoolmaster were found to be as varied as the new and somewhat showy raiment in which he appeared from day to day.

“Thinks he’s too good to walk now ’t he’s got them shiny pointed shoes,” observed Hank Smith, whose footgear was of the square-toed variety, presumably inherited from a deceased relative. “I seen him drivin’ a rig out t’ Preston’s to-day.”

“Yas,” corroborated the local liveryman. “He’s took it b’ the week. Says he’s thinkin’ of buyin’ a good horse.”

“Huh! you don’t say,” drawled a farmer from the hills, who had dropped in for his week’s supply of groceries and his mail. “I s’pose he done pretty well out west? Mebbe I c’d sell him that bay mare o’ mine.”

“He spen’s lots of money; I don’t know how much he’s got,” was the unchallenged opinion put forth by another.

There followed a general oscillation of heads about the empty stove, a round-bellied affair, capable of fierce white heats in the winter time, but abandoned to rust in summer and habitually diffusing a clammy scent of chimney soot and damp ashes.

“I guess the’ don’t anybody know ’s t’ that; I heard him speak o’ minin’ prop’ties kind o’ careless like. He sure does carry a big wad.”

“The table board over t’ the Eagle’s called pretty fair; but ’tain’t good enough fer Whitcomb. He pays extry fer dinner at night.”

“Jus’ so; an’ Sutton’s cook left after he’d been thar a couple o’ weeks. She said she wa’n’t a-goin’ t’ put up with Whitcomb.”

“Wall, I’ll give that young feller about four months t’ run through what he’s got,” the elder Hewett observed, in the intervals of passing various purchases of coffee through his grinder. “I’ll bet I c’d carry all the minin’ prop’ty he owns in m’ vest pocket, an’ hev room fer m’ han’kerchief.”

“‘Twon’t take him that long if he keeps on as he’s goin’ now. I heerd”—and the speaker leaned forward, bringing the legs of his chair to the floor with a thump—“‘at he’s pretty fast; drinks consid’ble an’ plays cards fer money. Wonder if she knows?”

“Barb’ry’d ought t’ look out, if he’s that kind,” observed another, wagging his pendulous chin-whiskers. “Her pa’d ought t’ be a serious warnin’ t’ her.”

“Shaw! ’tain’t so,” put in a third. “Dave’s all right. He ain’t so slow’s to be actually mossy; but he’s all right. I’ll bet you——”

What the speaker was about to wager on his charitable opinion was lost to the public as Peg Morrison stubbed noisily up the steps, and entered the door, swung hospitably wide to dust, flies, and the travelling public.

“Hello, Peg; how’s your folks?” drawled Al Hewett, presenting his round, solemn face at the square aperture devoted to the delivery of mail. “Le’ me see; here’s a paper fer you, an’ a circ’lar,—one o’ them phosphate ads you’ve been gettin’ lately. An’ a letter fer Miss Barb’ra. Do you want I should forward it—eh?”

“Forward it—no; give it t’ me.”

Mr. Morrison’s voice held an exasperated note discouraging to those in quest of information.

“Then she ain’t left yet?” queried an individual, comfortably seated over the cool recesses of the pickle barrel. “Somebody was sayin’——”

“No, sir,” said Peg, facing about and addressing the inquiring circle of eyes as one man. “No, sir; Miss Barb’ry ain’t gone, an’ as fer ’s I know, she’ll be home, anyhow, till after the apples is picked.”

Mr. Morrison would have warmly disclaimed any intention of discussing his mistress’s business with outsiders; but he felt it incumbent upon himself, as the surviving feudal representative, as it were, of the Preston family, to correct erroneous public opinion.

“Goin’ t’ gether a pretty fair crop this year, I see,” observed the village veterinary, who combined the business of livery and sale stable with his more learned profession.

“You bet,” chuckled Peg. “W’y, them apples ’ll beat anythin’ in the county. We’re goin’ t’ exhibit at th’ fair, same ’s we ust to.”

“Apples is goin’ t’ be so cheap y’ can’t git nothin’ fer ’em,” said a farmer pessimistically. “Ef they don’t all drop off the trees come September, it’s bein’ s’ dry.”

“Our apples won’t drop, I’ll bet you,” bragged Peg. “We’ve kep’ th’ ground in our orchards ploughed an’ cultivated all summer. Miss Barb’ry, she kind o’ got that notion las’ spring f’om readin’ some gov’ment report, an’ jus’ to humor her I done ’s she said.”

“‘Tain’t no way to do,” put in another. “The grass prevents th’ roots f’om heavin’; keeps ’em cool in summer an’ warm in winter. Y’ don’t ketch me payin’ any ’tention to them blamed gov’ment reports. Now the Republicans is in, y’ can’t b’lieve a word ’at comes f’om Washin’ton.”

No one being immediately minded to disprove this sweeping statement, there was brief silence for a space. Then a new topic was introduced.

“Say, Peleg, when’s the weddin’ comin’ off to your place?”

“The weddin’? what weddin’?” parried Peg cautiously. “I ain’t heerd o’ no weddin’.”

“You hain’t—heh? Well, you’re kind o’ behind the times.”

“I heerd the’ was to be two weddin’s out your way come fall,” cackled the horse doctor. “How ’bout Marthy an’ th’ onions?”

Peg turned an angrily bewildered face upon the speaker.

“Th’ onions,” he said, “is O. K.; but I dunno what you’re drivin’ at.”

“Well, I’ll tell ye; Marthy Cottle told Elviry Scott, an’ she tol’ my wife’s sister that you was payin’ her marked attention. She said she hadn’t made up her mind whether t’ marry ye or not. But she thought mebbe she might, ef the onion crop turned out all right. I sez t’ m’ wife——”

A roar of laughter drowned the end of the sentence and Peg’s indignant denial.

“I ain’t done no more,” he averred, “than t’ wipe m’ feet careful on th’ door-mat on the kitchen-stoop when the’s mud on the groun’. An’ I only done that t’ keep th’ peace.”

“Wall, Peleg, ef you c’n make out t’ keep th’ peace with Marthy Cottle, I reckon you’re the man fer Marthy,” was the opinion of the senior Hewett, delivered over the top of a tall bag of sugar which he was weighing.

A chorus of loud laughter greeted this sally; when it had died away a late comer announced impersonally that the county fair was going to be the finest in years.

“That’s so,” confirmed a visitor from the county seat, distant some five miles. “The’ll be horses f’om all over the state, ’n a b’lloon ascension, b’sides the usual features.”

“Any races?” inquired the farmer from the upper hill road. “‘Cause I’ve got a colt, Black Hawk blood, ’t c’n run like a streak o’ greased lightnin’.”

“Races? Well, natu’ally. The’ll be races every day after the fust, an’ on Sat’day, the closin’ day, the stakes ’ll be a hunderd dollars fer two-year-olds, an’ up fer hosses o’ all ages. I wouldn’t miss it fer more’n I gen’ally carry in loose change. The’ll be some tall bettin’, I persoom.”

“They say that young Whitcomb feller’s quite a sport when ’t comes t’ puttin’ money on any ol’ thing,” drawled young Hewett, who had laid aside his official gravity as he emerged from behind the post-office.

Mr. Morrison looked troubled.

“I guess I’ll be goin’ ’long,” he said, and cast a defiant look around the circle. “Ef I was you,” he said, “I’d keep my mouth shet ’bout things I didn’t know anythin’ ’bout.”

No one answered; but there was a general laugh as his heavy boots were heard to strike the sidewalk.

“Poor old Peleg!” said one. “Them Prestons has kep’ him pretty busy cookin’ up excuses. An’ ef she marries Whitcomb I guess Peleg ’ll be up against it a while longer.”

“‘Twon’t be any time b’fore Jarvis gits another mortgage; mebbe he’ll fetch it this time. ’Tain’t often the ’onor’ble gent gits left. I hed t’ laugh when I heerd she’d paid him off.”

“The’s somethin’ mighty queer ’bout that business, anyhow. Who d’ye suppose anted up with the money?”

“Some fool, like ’s not. A fool an’ his money’s soon parted. Now like’s not it was Dave Whitcomb. Mebbe he——”

“Get out, man! What’d be the use o’ that, if he’s goin’ t’ marry her?”

“He wa’n’t engaged to her when he fust come back; mebbe he thought——”

“Thought nothin’! Dave wouldn’t pass over no four thousand dollars b’fore he knew she’d have him, would he? He’d be a bigger fool ’n he looks to do that.”

“Say, Hank,” drawled young Hewett, “which ’d you druther be, a bigger fool ’n you look? or look a bigger fool ’n you be?”

“I dunno,” said Hank, thoughtfully expectorating in the general direction of the rusty stove. “Guess on the hull, I’d ruther look a bigger fool ’n I be, b’cause——”

“That’s impossible!” quoth the genial Al, with a snigger of amusement.

“Pooh! that’s a dried-up chestnut, Hank,” interposed the liveryman, “f’om five years b’fore last; don’t you let Al get a rise out o’ you that easy. He’d ’a’ said the same thing whichever way you’d answered.”

“Darn!” vociferated Hank. Then he joined in the general laugh.

In the silence that followed the subsidence of mirth a small, spare individual, wearing a gray linen duster, buttoned to the throat, and carrying a suit-case and tightly strapped umbrella, entered the store. He gazed inquiringly at the assembled circle, his eyes wrinkling pleasantly at the corners.

“I just blew in,” he observed to nobody in particular, “and I’m going to hang out for a few days at the best hotel in town.”

“The’ ain’t but one,” volunteered the voluble Smith, stealthily moving his chair that he might get a look at the stranger’s feet. They were neatly covered with tan Oxfords, he satisfied himself; but the toes were not pointed.

“Where’ll I find it?” asked the stranger. “I’m an inspector from the Phœnix Fire Insurance Company,” he added, correctly interpreting the suspicious glances levelled at him and his sparse belongings. “Expect to be in town two or three days, looking over our risks and correcting a map of the town. I do a little life insurance business on the side.”

“Takin’ on any new risks in buildin’s?” inquired the man on the pickle barrel.

“W’y, yes; I ain’t a regular soliciting agent for the Phœnix; but I’ll be mighty glad to write any persons desiring insurance,” replied the stranger. “My name,” he added pleasantly, “is Todd, Albert Todd, at your service, gentlemen.”

Mr. Todd bowed and smiled expansively.

“Wall, ye want t’ cast yer eye over Hiram Plumb’s prop’ty, fust thing you do,” advised the liveryman, with a facetious grimace toward the individual on the pickle barrel. “It’s in a fierce condition.”

The gentleman in question slowly descended from his perch, thoughtfully caressing the seat of his trousers, as he replied in kind.

“Y’ don’t hev to worry none ’bout me, Mister Todd—if that’s your name—I don’t insure in the Phœnix; but Bud Hawley, him that keeps the liv’ry-stable, is a teetotally bad risk. He’s been takin’ au-to-mo-beels t’ board lately, an’ they sure do kick up a powerful smell o’ gasolene.”

“I’ve got a permit,” hastily interposed Mr. Hawley. “I c’n show it to you.”

The stranger waved his hand deprecatingly.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said gently. “I have nothing to do with that class of business. But if Mr. Hawley has a good horse and buggy to hire, I’ll be glad to talk business. How about it, Mr. Hawley?”

Mr. Hawley favored the stranger with a comprehensive stare.

“Guess I got a rig ’at ’ud suit,” he admitted. “Fi’ dollars a day an’ up, ’cordin’ t’ the sort o’ rig you’re lookin’ for.”

“I want,” said Mr. Todd, “a good smart horse; one that can cover considerable territory in a day, and a buggy; nothing fancy, you know; but neat and comfortable.”

“All right,” said Mr. Hawley slowly. “I’m goin’ along t’ my place now; ’tain’t fur from the Eagle.”

“Many folks stopping at the hotel?” inquired Mr. Todd briskly, as the two men walked along the village street under the heavy noonday shade of the big maples.

“Not s’ many,” replied the liveryman non-committally.

He scowled as a smart, yellow-wheeled trap whizzed past.

“I dunno what sort of a driver you be,” he said. “Most anybody wants t’ git over the ground these days; but the’s some folks ’at thinks they c’n drive a horse like it was an automobeel. That’s one o’ my rigs an’ one o’ my best horses,—or was till that chap took t’ drivin’ it.”

Mr. Todd stretched his long neck after the yellow-wheeled trap, which had stopped in front of the Barford Eagle a little further up the street.

“You don’t say!” he observed mildly. “Kind of a young feller, too. They say a merciful man is merciful to his beast.”

“Dave Whitcomb must be a hard case, ’cordin’ to that,” was Mr. Hawley’s opinion. “Y’ seen him get out an’ go in; did you? Wall, that young chap used t’ teach school here. Fact; he was principal of our union school, an’ considered a smart enough chap, though quiet; didn’t cut much of a swathe, even with the young folks. But all of a sudden he up an’ went west! an’ we heard after a spell he was dead. But he turned up a while ago, live as ever, an’ consid’able changed. He’s quite a heavy swell now; they say he owns a mine, or suthin’, out west. He’s stayin’ t’ the Eagle; ’n’ say, if you’re one of the sort ’at likes t’ put on style ’n’ eat your dinner at night mebbe you c’d chum in with Dave.”

“What’s the young man’s line of business?” asked Mr. Todd. “I’d like to interest him in a little proposition——”

“Business?” echoed Mr. Hawley, and he chuckled as he drove his hands a little deeper into his trousers pockets. “Dave’s principal business around these parts is courtin’, I sh’d say. I guess he don’t do much else these days. Girl out in the country; got a big apple farm. If you git acquainted with Dave he’ll tell you all about it.”

To make the acquaintance of the ex-schoolmaster appeared to be exactly what the energetic Mr. Todd was seeking. He put up at the Eagle, where he made a point of asking for a six o’clock dinner.

“I am told,” he said to Sutton, the proprietor, “that this is one of the few properly managed hotels in this part of the country, with evening dinners, breakfasts _à la carte_, and so forth!”

Sutton silently shook his heavy body, his wide mouth turning up at the comers, an exercise which passed with him as a laugh.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “we’re stylish an’ up t’ date all right, when it comes t’ ’leven o’clock breakfasts an’ six o’clock dinners. We’ve kind of changed our day around here t’ ’commodate our patrons. We calc’late t’ please.”

And so it came about that young Whitcomb sat down to dinner that night with Mr. Albert Todd. The latter individual was quite the gentleman in his manners at table, David observed. Little by little the two fell into friendly conversation, and David, at first irritable and silent, passed all at once into his alternating mood, when he desired nothing so much as to talk about himself. He had found few he cared to talk to in Barford, except Barbara, and there were things one could not mention to a woman.

Not once did the tactful Mr. Todd allude to the subject of life insurance, and he appeared wonderfully interested in David’s account of his life in the West; of his failures, few and far between, and of his successes, social and otherwise which, according to David, had been many and remarkable. Mr. Todd was a man of the world, that much was clear, with no foolish or fanatical prejudices. After dinner the two in a state of post-prandial amity strolled across to the barroom, where they partook of various cooling drinks, compounded, under David’s direction, by the alert young person behind the bar. And when later they strolled out to the piazza and David produced cigarettes, they had fallen into relations of such exceeding friendliness that David reopened the conversation in a more intimate tone than he had yet taken.

“This is the most confoundedly stupid hole a man ever dropped into,” he observed through the fragrant smoke wreaths.

“It looks kind of peaceful and soothing,” agreed Mr. Todd, with a chuckle; “I guess I can stand it for a few days, though.”

He looked away up the dusty street where an occasional pedestrian enlivened the solitude. “Thinking of settling here?” he asked.

David scowled.

“Yes,” he said. “Out in the country a mile or so.”

“Then you’ll have hopes of striking the metropolis here occasionally?” queried Mr. Todd facetiously. “I wouldn’t want to get too far away.”

David’s eyes were still fixed and frowning.

“What do you think of a man of my experience settling down in a place like this to raise apples?” he asked. “Sometimes I think I’m several kinds of a fool for doing it.”

Mr. Todd spat thoughtfully over the rail.

“That depends,” he said tentatively, but with a keen look at the other.

David flicked the ash off his cigarette, then flung it impatiently away and lighted a fresh one.

“Yes, of course,” he said; “but take it anyway you like, is the game worth the candle? Once I’m tied up here, I suppose I’ll have to stand by the rest of my life. Do I want to do it? Would you want to do it? Honest now.”

The small spare gentleman who had introduced himself to Barford society under the name of Albert Todd smiled thoughtfully.

“Well, it strikes me as a bit slow for my taste. What do you say to a game of cards to pass away the time?”

David shook his head.

“I don’t take much to cards,” he said. “The other chap generally wins, and I like to be on the winning side.”

He tramped up and down the piazza a few times; impatiently kicking at the railings as he paused to turn.

“There’s a man in this town I’ve got to see on rather disagreeable business,” he said at last. “I’ve been putting it off for several days; but I believe I’ll do it now. So long. See you in the morning.”

Left to himself Mr. Todd elevated his feet to the railing, as if to indulge in a prolonged period of post-prandial meditation. In the gathering twilight he watched David’s muscular figure swinging along the street. He was walking like a man with a purpose. After a minute or two of keen-eyed watchfulness Mr. Todd quietly arose, clapped his hat on his head, and strolled toward the steps.

“Goin’ out t’ take in the town?” inquired a voice from the rear.

The insurance man glanced at the slim youth in the rather untidy white apron who stood in the doorway.

“W’y, yes,” he replied, very pleasantly indeed. “I thought I might as well.”

“I’d advise you not to have much to do with that fellow you was talkin’ to,” pursued the youth sulkily. “He’s one of our customers, but I don’t care. Talk ’bout cards; he cleaned me out of a month’s wages one night last week; then laughed at me for bein’ mad. I ain’t got no use fer him.”

“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Todd said pacifically. “He seems like a nice sort. Nothing really vicious, or——”

“He’s a durned, good-fer-nothin’ blowhard; that’s what he is,” said the bartender rancorously. “An’ that’s what I tell Jennie. But she—— I’d like t’ punch his head; that’s all!”

“Who’s Jennie?”

“She waited on your table t’ supper. She’s the prettiest girl in this town.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Todd understandingly.

“She’s prettier ’n that Preston girl ever thought of bein’—that’s his girl. He’s engaged t’ her. But some folks want the earth.”

“That’s so,” observed Mr. Todd smilingly. “And sometimes,” he added, with a wink, “they get it, too!”

This speech appeared to irritate the youth exceedingly. “Huh!” he exploded violently. “Well, I’d like to punch his head; that’s all.”

XIX

DAVID’S suddenly formed resolution carried him swiftly to the one big house of the village, where he rang the bell. The night being warm the outer door stood open and he could look through the screen into the dimly lighted hall. To the left of the passage was Jarvis’s library, and David, waiting impatiently before the outer door, perceived that the master of the house was within, quietly reading by a shaded lamp. Somehow the sight stirred the unreasoning anger within him to a hotter glow. His unanswered summons appeared in the guise of a deliberate insult. Raising his walking-stick he smote the door. He saw the man within raise his eyes from his book, as if to listen, and repeated his knock smartly; then as Jarvis rose and came hastily toward the door, he spoke:

“Good-evening, Mr. Jarvis,” he said, mumbling the prefix so that it was little more than an inarticulate sound. “Guess your door-bell isn’t in working order.”

Jarvis recognized his visitor with an involuntary start, which David perceived with ill-disguised triumph.

“The fellow’s afraid of me,” he told himself, and hung up his hat on the rack as if quite at his ease.

He followed Jarvis into the library and sat down, looking about him with cool curiosity.

“You’ve been expecting to see me, I dare say,” he began, his eyes returning from their tour of inspection to the other man’s face.

Jarvis returned the look doubtfully.

“It occurred to me that you might wish——”

“Yes; I do,” interrupted David. “You’re entirely right, sir.”

Having said this much in a loud, aggressive tone, David stopped short. He had become suddenly aware that Jarvis was looking at—or rather, through—him, in a way which made him irritably conscious of his hands, his feet, the set of his collar, and the material of his light summer clothes. Then those strange eyes went deeper; they were busying themselves with his thoughts, his motives, they even saw his fears, which crowded forward, a cloud of gibbering shapes, out of his past.

He spoke again, hurriedly, and backed up his words with a laugh, which sounded foolishly loud in the quiet room.

“Well,” he said, “now that you’ve had time to look me over, how d’ you like me? Think I’ll do—eh?”

“No,” Jarvis said quietly, almost sadly. “I’m afraid not. But I don’t intend to trust my own judgment—entirely.”

He sighed deeply and looked down, as if there was nothing more to be seen or said.

David straightened himself in his chair with a jerk.

“See here,” he said truculently. “I was joking, you know; you were staring at me as if you’d never seen a human being before. But now I’d like you to answer me straight. What d’you mean by saying I ‘won’t do’? What business is it of yours what I——”

He choked a little with the rage that was consuming him.

“Why, confound your impudence!” he cried, his face flaming with anger.

“I owe you an apology, sir,” said Jarvis, with stately composure. “I ought not to have spoken as I did. But there is much at stake.”

“Not for you,” said David insolently.

He fell to staring at Jarvis, striving to imitate the other’s disconcerting look.

“She loves me, you know.”

He had not intended to taunt his rival, but the words slipped out without volition. He was glad of it, in view of the blighting change that swept over the other’s face.

“Yes,” Jarvis said dully, “I know that.”

He was realizing all at once that the blow that felled Whitcomb must reach her tender breast also.

“There’s no use of beating about the bush,” David went on. “She told me about your visit to her the other night. At first I didn’t catch on about that remarkable client of yours and the care of the interesting child and all that. But when I got out of her the fact that you had been courting her while I was away, of course I was on to your little game.”

He paused to allow his words their full weight, exulting in the look of quiet despair that appeared to have settled upon Jarvis’s face.

“You thought if you couldn’t catch and hold her one way you would another. You planned to keep her from me! Deny it if you dare!”

Jarvis looked up, opened his lips as if minded to reply; then his head drooped, and again he sighed deeply. He was striving to master himself; that self which even now struggled like a leashed hound under his iron hand.

“I must be fair,” he groaned half aloud. “I must—I must, for her sake.”

“What’s that?” inquired David smartly. “We may as well have it out first as last, you know.”

“Yes,” agreed Jarvis, rousing himself. “I didn’t mean to—yet. But——”

He looked calmly at David.

“Can we not talk this over in a reasonable way?” he asked. “There is really no need of anger or——”

“Oh, come, man; let’s get down to business!” cried David, vastly pleased with himself and his own acumen.

He had not been at all certain as to the money, which he was now convinced Jarvis had given Barbara out of his own pocket. That he had surprised, compelled, browbeaten Jarvis, in what he was pleased to call “the fellow’s own game,” was a matter for pride, exultation. Who was Jarvis, anyway, that a whole countryside should stand in awe of him and his achievements? He, Whitcomb, had met the man and conquered him on his own ground. He even began to feel a sort of complacent pity for his abased rival, as his spirits rose from the depths of the humiliation falsely put upon him by Jarvis.

“‘You can fool some of the people all of the time,’ you know,” he quoted, with a confident laugh; “and you did succeed in fooling Barbara nicely; but the minute I heard you were in love with her, of course I——”