Captain Elisha considered. "Why, yes," he said, slowly, "seem's if I did. One of those consolidations with 'holdin' companies' and franchises and extensions and water by the hogshead. Wa'n't that it? I remember now; the Boston papers had considerable about it, and I presume likely the New York ones had more. One of those all-accordin'-to-law swindles that sprout same as toadstools in a dark place, but die out if the light's turned on too sudden. This one didn't come to nothin' but a bad smell, if I remember right."

"You do. And I suppose I'm responsible for the smell. I got wind of the thing, investigated, found out something of what was going on, and printed a preliminary story in the Planet. It caused a sensation."

He paused once more. Captain Elisha, for the sake of saying something, observed, "I shouldn't wonder."

"It certainly did. And the morning on which it appeared, Mr. Rodgers Warren 'phoned me. He wished to see me at once. I went down to his office. Captain, I dislike to tell you this. Mr. Warren was your brother."

"I know he was. And I'm his executor. Both those reasons make me 'specially anxious to have you tell me the truth. Heave ahead now, to oblige me."

"Well, I found him very polite and cordial, at first. He said that a ridiculous and sensational story concerning the Trolley Combine had appeared in the Planet, and he would like to have me contradict it and suppress further falsehoods of the kind. I told him I couldn't do that, because the story was true. I had written it myself. He was angry, and I could see that he was holding himself in by main strength. I went on to explain that it was the duty of an honest paper, as I saw it, to expose such trespass upon the people's rights. He asked me if I knew who was behind the scheme. I said I knew some of the backers. They were pretty big men, too. Then he informed me that he himself was deeply interested.

"I was knocked off my feet by that, you can imagine. And, to be frank, Captain, if I had known it at first I'm not sure that I, personally, would have taken the matter up. Yet I might; I can't tell. But now that I had done it and discovered what I had, I couldn't give it up. I must go on and learn more. And I knew enough already to be certain that the more I learned the more I should write and have published. It was one of those things which had to be made public—if a fellow had a conscience about him and a pride in the decency of his profession.

"All this was going through my head as I sat there in his private office. And he took my surprise and hesitation as symptoms of wavering and went at me, hard. Of course I knew, he said, that the operation was absolutely within the law. I did, but that didn't make it more honest or moral or just. He went on to say that in large financial deals of this nature petty scruples must be lost sight of. Good of the business, rights of stockholders, all that sort of stuff; he rang the changes. All the papers cared for was sensation; to imperil the fortune of widows and orphans whose savings were invested in the South Shore Stock, for the sake of sensation, was a crime. He should have known better than to say that to me; it is such an ancient, worn-out platitude."

"I know. I've been to political meetin's. The widows and orphans are always hangin' on the success of the Republican party—or the Democratic, whichever way you vote. The amount of tears shed over their investments by fellers you wouldn't trust with a brass five-cent piece, is somethin' amazin'. Go on; I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Then he switched to a more personal appeal. He said he had taken a fancy to me; had liked me from the very beginning. He recognized my unusual genius at first sight and had gone as far as to make plans bearing directly on my future. He was associated with men of wealth and business sagacity. Large deals, of which the Trolley Combine was but one, were on foot. He and his friends needed a representative on the press—a publicity agent, so to speak. Some of the greatest corporations employed men of that kind, and the salaries paid were large and the opportunities afforded greater still. Well, that's true enough. I know writers who are doing just that thing and getting rich at it. I suppose they've squared their consciences somehow and are willing to write lies and misleading articles for what there is in it. I can't, that's all; I'm not built that way, and I told him so.

"It ended in an open break. He reminded me of the favors he had done me. He had treated me almost like a son, had introduced me to his family, entertaining me at his table. Where was my gratitude? That was another bad break on his part, for it made me mad. I told him I had not asked to be adopted or fed by him; if I had supposed his kindness had an ulterior motive, I would have seen him at the devil before I accepted a favor. My career as a financial visitor was ended. Get out of his office! I got. But the Trolley Combine did not go through. The Planet and the other papers kept up the fight and—and the widows and orphans are bankrupt, I presume."

Captain Elisha's pipe had gone out long since. He absently rubbed the warm bowl between his palms.

"Humph!" he muttered. "So 'Bije was deep in that business, was he?"

"He was. Very deep indeed, I found out afterwards. And, I declare, I almost pitied him at the time. He acted as if his whole fortune was staked on the gamble. His hands shook, and the perspiration stood on his forehead as he talked. I felt as if I had been the means of ruining him. But of course, I hadn't. He lived for some time after that, and, I understand, died a rich man."

"Yes. He left what I'd call a heap of money. My nephew and niece don't seem to think so, but I do."

"So you see, Captain, why I stopped calling on the Warrens, and why I did not accept Miss Warren's invitation."

"I see.... I see.... And yet I don't know. 'Bije may have took to you for business reasons, but the children didn't. They liked you for yourself. Caroline as much as said so. And their father never told 'em a word about the row, neither. Of course you couldn't have called when he was alive, but he's gone, and I'm—well, I'm sort of temporary skipper there now. And I want you to come."

"But if Miss Warren did know? She should know, I think."

"I ain't sure that she should. I guess there's consider'ble in her pa's life she ain't acquainted with. And she's as straight and honest and upright as a schooner's fo'mast. You did nothin' to be 'shamed of. It's the other way 'round, 'cordin' to my notion. But leave her out of it now. I've sacrificed some few things to take the job I've got at present, but I can't afford to sacrifice my friends. I count on you as a friend, and I want you to come and see me. Will you?"

"I don't know, Captain Warren. I must think it over a while, I guess."

"All right—think. But the invitation stands—my invitation. And, if you want to shift responsibility, shift it on to me. Some day, if it'll make you feel better, I'll tell Caroline and Stevie the whole story. But I want them to know you and the world—and me—a little better first. 'Cordin' to my notion, they need education just along that line. They've got teachers in other branches, but.... There! I've got to be goin'. There's the dinner bell now."

The string of Japanese gongs, hung in the lower hall, sounded sonorously. Captain Elisha reached for his coat and hat, but Pearson caught his arm.

"No, you don't!" he declared. "You're going to stay and have lunch with me—here. If you say no, I shall believe it is because you are afraid of a boarding-house meal."

His guest protested, but the protests were overruled, and he and his host went down to the dining room. The captain whispered as they entered, "Land sakes, Jim, this takes me back home. It's pretty nigh a twin to the dinin' room at the Centre House in South Denboro."

* * * * *

All boarding-house dining rooms bear a family likeness, so the comment was not far wrong. A long table, rows of chairs on each side, ancient and honorable pictures on the walls, the landlady presiding majestically over the teapot, the boarders' napkins in rings—all the familiar landmarks were present.

Most of the male "regulars" were in business about the city and therefore lunched elsewhere, but the females were in evidence. Pearson introduced his guest. The captain met Mrs. Hepton, the landlady, plump, gray-haired, and graciously hospitable. She did not look at all like a business woman, but appearances are not always to be trusted; Mrs. Hepton had learned not to trust them—also delinquent boarders, too far. He met Miss Sherborne, whose coiffure did not match in spots, but whose voice, so he learned afterward, had been "cultivated abroad." Miss Sherborne gave music lessons. Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles also claimed his attention and held it, principally because of the faded richness of her apparel. Mrs. Ruggles was a widow, suffering from financial reverses; the contrast between her present mode of living and the grandeur of the past formed her principal topic of conversation.

There were half a dozen others, including an artist whose aversion to barbers was proclaimed by the luxuriant length of his locks, a quiet old gentleman who kept the second-hand book store two doors below; his wife, a neat, trim little body; and Mr. and Mrs. C. Dickens, no less.

Mr. Dickens was bald, an affliction which he tried to conceal by brushing the hair at the sides of his head across the desert at the top. He shaved his cheeks and wore a beard and mustache. Mrs. Dickens addressed him as "C.," and handed him the sauce bottle, the bread, or whatever she imagined he desired, as if she were offering sacrifice to an idol.

She sat next to Captain Elisha and imparted information concerning her lord and master in whispers, during the intervals between offerings.

"My husband will be pleased to meet you, Captain Warren," she murmured. "Any friend of Mr. Pearson is certain to be an acquisition. Mr. Pearson and my husband are congenial spirits; they are members of the same profession."

"I want to know, ma'am."

"Yes. What is it, 'C.' dear? Oh, the butter! Margaret—" to the waitress—"Mr. Dickens wishes another butter-ball. Yes, Captain Warren, Mr. Dickens is an author. Haven't you noticed the—er—resemblance? It is considered quite remarkable."

Captain Elisha looked puzzled. "Why," he said, "I hadn't noticed it 'special. Jim's—Mr. Pearson's—eyes and his are some the same color, but—"

"Oh, no! not the resemblance to Mr. Pearson. I didn't mean that. The resemblance to his more famous namesake. Surely you notice it now."

The captain shook his head. "I—I'm afraid I'm thick-headed, ma'am," he admitted. "I'm out of soundin's."

"But the nose, and his beard, and his manner. Don't they remind you of the English Dickens?"

"O-oh!" Captain Elisha inspected the great man with interest. He had a vague memory of a portrait in a volume of "Pickwick" at home. "Oh, I see! Yes, yes."

"Of course you see! Everyone does. Mr. Dickens often says—it is one of his favorite jokes—that while other men must choose a profession, his was chosen for him by fate. How, with such a name, could he do anything except write?"

"I don't know, ma'am. But names are risky pilots, ain't they? I've run against a consider'ble number of Solomons, but there wa'n't one of 'em that carried more'n a deckload of wisdom. They christened me Elisha, but I can't even prophesy the weather with sartinty enough to bet. However, I daresay in your husband's case it's all right."

The lady had turned away, and he was afraid he might have offended her. The fear was groundless; she was merely offering another sacrifice, the sugar this time.

"Yes?" she asked, turning, "you were saying—"

"Why—er—nothin' of account. I cal'late the C. stands for Charles, then."

"No-o. Mr. Dickens's Christian name is Cornelius; but don't mention it before him, he is very sensitive on that point."

The Dickenses "tickled" the captain exceedingly, and, after the meal was over, he spoke of them to Pearson.

"Say," he said, "you're in notorious company, ain't you, Jim? What has Cornelius Charles turned out so far, in the way of masterpieces?"

Pearson laughed. "I believe he is employed by a subscription house," he replied. "Doing hack work on an encyclopedia. A great collection of freaks, aren't they, Captain Warren?"

"Kind of. But that old book-shop man and his wife seem nice folks. And, as for freaks, the average boardin' house, city or country, seems to draw 'em like flies. I guess most anybody would get queer if they boarded all the time."

"Perhaps so. Or, if they weren't queer, they wouldn't board permanently from choice. There are two or three good fellows who dine and breakfast here. The food isn't bad, considering the price."

"No, it ain't. Tasted more like home than any meal I've had for a good while. I'm afraid I never was cut out for swell livin'."

Mrs. Hepton approached them as they stood in the hall. She wished to know if Mr. Pearson's friend was thinking of finding lodgings. Because Mr. Saks—the artist's name—was giving up the second floor back in a fortnight, and it was a very pleasant room. "We should be delighted to add you to our little circle, Captain Warren."

Pearson told her that his companion was already lodged, and she said good-by and left them. The captain smiled broadly.

"Everything in New York seems to be circles," he declared. "Well, Jim, you come up and circulate with me, first chance you get. I'm dependin' on you to call, remember."

The young man was still doubtful.

"I'll see," he said. "I can't promise yet—perhaps I will."

"You will—after you've thought it out to a finish. And come soon. I'm gettin' interested in that second edition of your Uncle Jim, and I want to keep along with him as fast as you write. Good-by. Much obliged for the dinner—there I go again!—luncheon, I mean."



CHAPTER XII

Pearson called. He appeared at the apartment a week after the luncheon at the boarding house and was welcomed by the Captain Elisha, who, hearing his voice, strode into the hall, sent the shocked Edwards to the right-about in a hurry, seized his friend's hand, and ushered him into the library. Pearson said nothing concerning his change of mind, the course of reasoning which led him to make the visit, and the captain asked no questions. He took it for granted that the young fellow's common sense had turned the trick, and, the result being what it was, that was sufficient.

They spent a pleasant afternoon together. Caroline was out, and they had the library to themselves. The newest chapters of the novel were read and discussed, and the salty flavor of the talk was as pronounced as ever. Pearson left early, but promised to come again very soon.

When Caroline returned her uncle told her of his visitor. She seemed unfeignedly pleased, but regretted that she had not been there. "He was such a friend of father's," she said, "that seeing him here would be almost like the old days. And so many of those whom we thought were his friends and ours have left us."

This was true. Rodgers Warren and his children had had many acquaintances, had been active in church and charitable work, and their former home was a center of entertainment and gayety while he lived. But his death and the rumors of shrinkage in the family fortune, the giving up of the Fifth Avenue residence, the period of mourning which forbade social functions, all these helped to bring about forgetfulness on the part of the many; and Caroline's supersensitiveness and her firm resolve not to force her society where it might be unwelcome had been the causes of misunderstanding in others, whose liking and sympathy were genuine. "I don't see what has come over Caroline Warren," declared a former girl friend, "she isn't a bit as she used to be. Well, I've done my part. If she doesn't wish to return my call, she needn't. I sha'n't annoy her again. But I'm sorry, for she was the sweetest girl I knew."

Stephen had never been very popular, and his absence at college still further reduced the number of young people who might be inclined to call. Their not calling confirmed Caroline's belief that she and her brother were deliberately shunned because of their change in circumstances, and she grew more sensitive and proudly resentful in consequence. Naturally she turned for comfort to those who remained faithful, the Dunns in particular. They were loyal to her. Therefore, with the intensity of her nature, she became doubly loyal to them. The rector of St. Denis dropped in frequently, and others occasionally, but she was lonely. She craved the society of those nearer her own age.

Pearson's coming, then, was psychologically apt. When he made his next call upon Captain Elisha, to find the latter out but his niece at home, she welcomed him cordially and insisted upon his waiting until her guardian returned. The conversation was, at first, embarrassing for the ex-reporter; she spoke of her father, and Pearson—the memory of his last interview with the latter fresh in his mind, and painfully aware that she knew nothing of it—felt guilty and like a hypocrite. But soon the subject changed, and when the captain entered the library he found the pair laughing and chatting like old acquaintances, as, of course, they were.

Captain Elisha, paying no attention to his friend's shakes of the head, invited his niece to be present at the reading of the latest addition to what he called "mine and Jim's record-breakin' sea yarn."

"It's really mine, you understand, Caroline," he observed, with a wink. "I'm silent partner in the firm—if you can call the one that does all the talkin' silent—and Jim don't do nothin' but make it up and write it and get the profits. Course, you mustn't mention this to him, 'cause he thinks he's the author, and 'twould hurt his feelin's."

"He's quite right," declared Pearson, emphatically. "If the thing is ever finished and published he will deserve all the credit. His advice had already remade it. This uncle of yours, Miss Warren," he added, turning to her, "is like the admiral Kipling wrote about—he has 'lived more stories' than ever I could invent."

The captain, fearful that his niece might take the statement seriously, hastened to protest.

"He's just foolin', Caroline," he said. "All I've done is set and talk and talk and talk. I've used up more of his time and the surroundin' air than you'd believe was possible. When I get next to salt water, even in print, it's time to muzzle me, same as a dog in July. The yarn is Jim's altogether, and it's mighty interestin'—to me anyhow."

"I'm sure it will be to me, also," declared the young lady. "Captain Warren has told me all about it, Mr. Pearson, and I'm very eager to hear the new portion."

"There!" Captain Elisha slapped his knee. "There, Jim!" he exclaimed, "you hear that? Now you've got to read it. Anchor's apeak! Heave ahead and get under way."

So, because he could not well refuse, the author reluctantly began to read. And, as usual, his nautical friend to interrupt and comment. Caroline listened, her eyes twinkling. When the reading and the arguments were at an end, she declared it was all splendid; "Just like being at sea one's self," she said. "I positively refuse to permit another installment to be submitted unless I am—on deck. That's the proper phrase, isn't it, Captain?"

"Aye, aye, ma'am! Jim, we've shipped a new second mate, and she's goin' to be wuth her salt. You hear me!"

She proved to be worth all of that, at least in Pearson's opinion. His calls and the readings and discussions became more and more frequent. Each of the trio enjoyed them greatly, Caroline quite as much as the others. Here was something new and fresh, something to furnish a real interest. The story advanced rapidly, the character of the nautical hero shaped itself better and better, and the heroine, also, heretofore a somewhat shadowy and vague young woman, began to live and breathe. She changed surprisingly, not only in mental but in physical characteristics.

Captain Elisha was first to notice the latter peculiarity.

"Say, Jim!" he interrupted, one afternoon, "what was that you just read about Mary? Her hat blowin' off to leeward and her brown hair blowin' after it? Or somethin' of that sort?"

Caroline laughed merrily. The author turned to the passage mentioned.

"Not exactly, Captain," he replied, smiling. "I said her hat had blown away, and her brown curls tossed in the wind. What's wrong with that? Hats do blow away in a sou'wester; I've seen them."

"Perhaps he thinks she should have been more careful in pinning it on," suggested the feminine member of the advisory board.

Captain Elisha shook his head. "No," he observed calmly, "but why was she wearin' that kind of hair? She's pretty young to use a switch, ain't she?"

"Switch?" repeated "Mary's" creator, with some indignation. "What are you talking about? When I first described her, I said that her hair was luxuriant and one of her chief beauties."

"That's a fact! So you did. What made her dye it?"

"Dye it? What do you think she is—a chorus girl?"

"If I remember right she's a postmaster's daughter. But why is she wearin' brown hair, if it ain't neither false or dyed? Back in the third chapter 'twas black, like her eyes."

Caroline burst into another laugh. Pearson blushed to his forehead. "Well, by George!" he admitted, "you're right. I believe I did have it black, at first."

"You sartin did! I ain't got any objections to either color, only it ought to stay put, hadn't it? In a town of the size she's livin' in, a girl with changeable hair is likely to be kind of conspicuous. I tell you! maybe it bleached out in the sun. Ho, ho!"

The writer made a note on the margin of his manuscript and declared that his heroine's tresses and eyes should be made to correspond at all stages. They did, but they remained brown. Captain Elisha chuckled inwardly, but offered no further comments. Caroline, whose own hair and eyes were brown, did not refer to the matter at all.

She and the young man became better acquainted at each succeeding "literary clinic," as the latter called them. When Rodgers Warren first introduced him at their former home he had impressed her favorably, largely because of her desire to like anyone whom her father fancied. She worshiped the dead broker, and his memory to her was sacred. She would have forgiven and did forgive any wrong he might have done her, even his brother's appointment as guardian, though that she could not understand. Unlike Stephen, who fiercely resented the whole affair and said bitter things concerning his parent, she believed he had done what he considered right. Her feeling against Captain Elisha had been based upon the latter's acceptance of that appointment when he should have realized his unfitness. And his living with them and disgracing them in the eyes of their friends by his uncouth, country ways, made her blind to his good qualities. The Moriarty matter touched her conscience, and she saw more clearly. But she was very far from considering him an equal, or other than what Mrs. Corcoran Dunn termed him, an "encumbrance," even yet. She forced herself to be kind and tolerant and gave him more of her society, though the church-going experience was not repeated, nor did she accompany him on his walks or out-of-door excursions.

If Pearson's introductions had been wholly as a friend of her guardian, her feeling toward him might have been tinged with the same condescension or aversion, even. But, hallowed as he was by association with her father, she welcomed him for the latter's sake. And, as she became interested in the novel and found that her suggestions concerning it were considered valuable, she looked forward to his visits and was disappointed if, for any reason, they were deferred. Without being aware of it, she began to like the young author, not alone because he wrote entertainingly and flattered her by listening respectfully to her criticisms, or because her father had liked him, but for himself.

Captain Elisha was much pleased.

"I told you, Jim!" he said. "She's just as glad to see you as I am. Now don't you see how foolish it was to stay away 'cause you and 'Bije had a spat? Think of all the good times we'd have missed! And we needed a female aboard your Uncle Jim's craft, to help with 'Mary' and the rest."

His friend nodded. "She has been a great help, certainly," he answered. "But I can't help feeling guilty every time I come here. It is too much like obtaining her friendship under false pretenses. She should know the whole thing, I believe."

"She shall know it, when I think it's time for her to. But I want her to know you first. Then she'll be able to judge without so much prejudice. I told you I'd take the responsibility. You leave the ship in my charge for a spell."

In spite of this confident assertion, the captain also felt a trifle guilty. He realized that selfishness was involved in his keeping Pearson's secret from his niece. He was thoroughly enjoying himself with these two, and he could not bear to risk the breaking up which might follow disclosure.

One evening, while a "clinic" was in progress and the three were deep in consultation, Edwards entered to announce Mrs. Corcoran Dunn and Mr. Malcolm. The butler's giving the lady precedence in his announcing showed that he, too, realized who was ranking officer in that family, even though the captain's "conundrum" had puzzled him. Mrs. Dunn and her son entered at his heels.



The lady took in the group by the table at a glance: Pearson, with the manuscript in his hands; Captain Elisha leaning back in his chair, frowning at the interruption; Caroline rising to welcome the guests, and coloring slightly as she did so. All these details Mrs. Dunn noted, made an entry in her mental memorandum-book, and underscored it for future reference.

If she discerned unpleasant possibilities in the situation, she did not allow them to disturb her outward serenity. She kissed Caroline and called her "dear child" as fondly as usual, shook hands graciously with Captain Elisha, and bowed condescending recognition of Pearson.

"And how is the novel coming on? Do tell me!" she begged. "I'm sure we interrupted a reading. It's too bad of us, really! But Malcolm insisted upon coming. He has been very busy of late—some dreadful 'corner' or other on the exchange—and has neglected his friends—or thinks he has. I told him I had explained it all to you, Caroline, but he would come to-night. It is the first call he has made in weeks; so you see! But there! he doesn't consider running in here a call."

Call or not, it spoiled the evening for at least two of the company. Pearson left early. Captain Elisha excused himself soon after and went to his room, leaving the Dunns to chat with Caroline for an hour or more. Malcolm joked and was languid and cynical. His mother asked a few carefully guarded questions.

"Quite a clever person, this young author friend of yours seems to be, Caroline," she observed. "Almost brilliant, really."

"He isn't a friend of mine, exactly," replied the girl. "He and Captain Warren are friendly, and father used to know and like him, as I have told you. The novel is great fun, though! The people in it are coming to seem almost real to me."

"I daresay! I was a great reader myself once, before my health—my heart, you know—began to trouble me. The doctors now forbid my reading anything the least bit exciting. Has this—er—Mr. Pearson means?"

"I know very little of him, personally, but I think not. He used to be connected with the Planet, and wrote things about Wall Street. That was how father came to know him."

"Live in an attic, does he?" inquired Malcolm. "That's what all authors do, isn't it? Put up in attics and sleep on pallets—whatever they are—and eat crusts, don't they? Jolly life—if you like it! I prefer bucking wheat corners, myself."

Mrs. Dunn laughed, and Caroline joined her, though not as heartily.

"How ridiculous you are, Malcolm!" exclaimed his mother. "Mr. Pearson isn't that kind of an author, I'm sure. But where does he live, Caroline?"

"Somewhere on West 18th Street, I believe. He has rooms there, I think."

"Oh! Really? And how is this wonderful novel of his progressing? When does he expect to favor us with it?"

"I don't know. But it is progressing very well at present. He has written three chapters since last Wednesday. He was reading them to us when you came."

"Indeed! Since last Wednesday? How interesting!"

Malcolm did not seem to find the topic interesting, for he smothered a yawn. His mother changed the subject. On their way home, however, she again referred to it.

"You must make it a point to see her every day," she declared. "No matter what happens, you must do it."

"Oh, Lord!" groaned her son, "I can't. There's the deuce and all on 'Change just now, and the billiard tournament's begun at the Club. My days and nights are full up. Once a week is all she should expect, I think."

"No matter what you think or what she expects, you must do as I say."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like the looks of things."

"Oh, rubbish! You're always seeing bugaboos. Uncle Hayseed is pacified, isn't he? I've paid the Moriarty crowd off. Beastly big bills they were, too!"

"Humph! Uncle Hayseed, as you call him, is anything but a fool. But he isn't the particular trouble at present. He and I understand each other, I believe, and he will be reasonable. But—there is this Pearson. I don't like his calling so frequently."

Malcolm laughed in huge scorn. "Pearson!" he sneered. "Why, he's nothing but a penny-a-liner, without the penny. Surely you're not afraid Caroline will take a fancy to him. She isn't an idiot."

"She's a young girl, and more romantic than I wish she was. At her age girls do silly things, sometimes. He called on Wednesday—you heard her say so—and was there again to-night. I don't like it, I tell you."

"Her uncle is responsible for—"

"It is more than that. She knew him long before she knew her uncle existed. Her father introduced him—her father. And to her mind, whatever her father did was right."

"Witness his brilliant selection of an executor. Oh, Mater, you weary me! I used to know this Pearson when he was a reporter downtown, and.... Humph!"

"What is it?"

"Why, nothing, I guess. It seemed as if I remember Warren and Pearson in some sort of mix-up. Some.... Humph! I wonder."

He was silent, thinking. His mother pressed his arm excitedly.

"If you remember anything that occurred between Rodgers Warren and this man, anything to this Pearson's disadvantage, it may pay us to investigate. What was it?"

"I don't know. But it seemed as if I remembered Warren's ... or a friend of his telling me ... saying something ... but it couldn't be of importance, because Caroline doesn't know it."

"I'm not so sure that it may not be important. And, if you recall, on that day when we first met him at Caroline's, she seemed hurt because he had not visited them since her father died. Perhaps there was a reason. At any rate, I should look into the matter."

"All right, Mater, just as you say. Really you ought to join a Don't Worry Club."

"One member in the family is quite sufficient. And I expect you to devote yourself to Caroline from now on. That girl is lonely, and when you get the combination of a lonely romantic young girl and a good-looking and interesting young fellow, even though he is as poor as a church mouse, anything may happen. Add to that the influence of an unpractical but sharp old Yankee relative and guardian—then the situation is positively dangerous."



CHAPTER XIII

An important event was about to take place. At least, it seemed important to Captain Elisha, although the person most intimately concerned appeared to have forgotten it entirely. He ventured to remind her of it.

"Caroline," he said, "Sunday is your birthday, ain't it?"

His niece looked at him in surprise. "Yes," she answered, "it is. How did you know?"

"Why, I remembered, that's all. Graves, the lawyer man, told me how old you and Stevie were, fust time I met him. And his partner, Mr. Sylvester, gave me the date one day when he was goin' over your pa's will. You'll be twenty years old Sunday, won't you?"

"Yes."

It was late in the afternoon, and she had been out since ten o'clock shopping with Mrs. Dunn, lunching downtown with the latter and Malcolm, and motoring for an hour or two. The weather for the season was mild and sunny, and the crisp air had brightened her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, her fur coat and cap were very becoming, and Captain Elisha inspected her admiringly before making another remark.

"My! My!" he exclaimed, after an instant's pause. "Twenty years old! Think of it! 'Bije's girl's a young woman now, ain't she? I cal'late he was proud of you, too. He ought to have been. I presume likely he didn't forget your birthday."

He rose to help her with the heavy coat. As he lifted it from her shoulders, he bent forward and caught a glimpse of her face.

"There! there!" he said, hastily. "Don't feel bad, dearie. I didn't mean to hurt your feelin's. Excuse me; I was thinkin' out loud, sort of."

She did not answer at once, but turned away to remove her cap. Then she answered, without looking at him.

"He never forgot them," she said.

"Course he didn't. Well, you see I didn't forget, either."

It was an unfortunate remark, inasmuch as it drew, in her mind, a comparison between her handsome, dignified father and his rude, uncultured brother. The contrast was ever present in her thoughts, and she did not need to be reminded of it. She made no reply.

"I was thinkin'," continued the captain, conscious of having made a mistake, "that maybe we might celebrate somehow, in a quiet way."

"No. I am not in the mood for—celebrations."

"Oh, I didn't mean fireworks and the town band. I just thought—"

"Please don't. I remember other birthdays too well." They had been great occasions, those birthdays of hers, ever since she was a little girl. On the eighteenth she made her debut in society, and the gown she wore on that memorable evening was laid away upstairs, a cherished memento, to be kept as long as she lived. Each year Rodgers Warren took infinite pains to please and surprise his idolized daughter. She could not bear to think of another birthday, now that he had been taken from her.

Her guardian pulled his beard. "Well," he observed ruefully, "then my weak head's put my foot in it again, as the feller said. If I ain't careful I'll be like poor cracked Philander Baker, who lives with his sister over at Denboro Centre. The doctor told Philander he was threatened with softenin' of the brain, and the sister thanked him for the compliment. You see, Caroline, I wrote on my own hook and asked Stevie to come home Saturday and stay till Monday. I kind of thought you'd like to have him here."

"Oh, I should like that! But will he come? Has he written you?"

"Hey? Yes, I cal'late he'll be on deck. He's—er—yes, he's written me."

He smiled as he answered. As a matter of fact, the correspondence between Stephen and himself had been lengthy and voluminous on the part of the former, and brief and business-like on his own. The boy, on his return to college, had found "conditions" awaiting him, and the amount of hard work involved in their clearance was not at all to his taste. He wrote his guardian before the first week was over, asserting that the whole business was foolishness and a waste of time. He should come home at once, he said, and he notified the captain that such was his intention. Captain Elisha replied with promptness and decision. If he came home he would be sent back, that was all. "I realize you've got a job ahead of you, Son," wrote the captain, "but you can do it, if you will. Fact is, I guess you've got to. So sail in and show us what you're made of."

Stephen's answer was a five page declaration of independence. He refused to be bullied by any living man. He had made arrangements to come to New York on the following Monday, and he was coming. As to being sent back, he wished his uncle to understand that it was one thing to order and another to enforce obedience. To which he received the following note:

"I can't stop you from coming, Steve, except by going to New Haven and holding you by main strength. That I don't propose to do, for two reasons: first, that it is too much trouble, and second that it ain't necessary. You can come home once in a while to see your sister, but you mustn't do it till I say the word. If you do, I shall take the carfare out of your allowance, likewise board while you are here, and stop that allowance for a month as a sort of fine for mutiny. So you better think it over a spell. And, if I was you, I wouldn't write Caroline that I was coming, or thinking of coming, till I had my mind made up. She believes you are working hard at your lessons. I shouldn't disappoint her, especially as it wouldn't be any use.

"Your affectionate uncle, "ELISHA WARREN."

The result of all this was that Stephen, whose finances were already in a precarious condition, did think it over and decided not to take the risk. Also, conscious that his sister sided with their guardian to the extent of believing the university the best place for him at present, he tore up the long letter of grievance which he had written her, and, in that which took its place, mentioned merely that he was "grinding like blazes," and the only satisfaction he got from it was his removal from the society of the "old tyrant from Cape Cod."

He accepted the tyrant's invitation to return for the week-end and his sister's birthday with no hesitation whatever; and his letter of acceptance was so politic as to be almost humble.

He arrived on an early train Saturday morning. Caroline met him at the station, and the Dunns' car conveyed them to the latter's residence, where they were to spend the day. The Dunns and Caroline had been together almost constantly since the evening when Malcolm and his mother interrupted the reading of the novel. The former, while professing to be harassed by business cares, sacrificed them to the extent of devoting at least a part of each twenty-four hours to the young lady's society. She was rarely allowed to be alone with her uncle, a circumstance which troubled her much less than it did him. He missed the evenings which he had enjoyed so much, and the next consultation over the adventures of Pearson's "Uncle Jim" and his "Mary" seemed flat and uninteresting without criticism and advice.

The author himself noticed the difference.

"Rot!" he exclaimed, throwing the manuscript aside in disgust. "It's rot, isn't it! If I can't turn out better stuff than that, I'd better quit. And I thought it was pretty decent, too, until to-night."

Captain Elisha shook his head. "It don't seem quite so shipshape, somehow," he admitted, "but I guess likely it's 'cause my head's full of other things just now. I'm puzzled 'most to death to know what to get for Caroline's birthday. I want to get her somethin' she'll like, and she's got pretty nigh everything under the sun. Say, Jim, you've been workin' too hard, yourself. Why don't you take to-morrow off and cruise around the stores helpin' me pick out a present. Come ahead—do!"

They spent the next afternoon in that "cruise," visiting department stores, jewelers, and art shops innumerable. Captain Elisha was hard to please, and his comments characteristic.

"I guess you're right, Jim," he said, "there's no use lookin' at pictures. Let alone that the walls are so covered with 'em now a fly can't scarcely light without steppin' on some kind of scenery—let alone that, my judgment on pictures ain't any good. I cal'late that's considered pretty fine, ain't it?" pointing to a painting in the gallery where they then were.

"Yes," replied the dealer, much amused. "That is a good specimen of the modern impressionist school."

"Humph! Cookin' school, I shouldn't wonder. I'd call it a portrait of a plate of scrambled eggs, if 'twa'n't for that green thing that's either a cow or a church in the offin'. Out of soundin's again, I am! But I knew she liked pictures, and so.... However, let's set sail for a jewelry store."

The sixth shop of this variety which they visited happened to be one of the largest and most fashionable in the city. Here the captain's fancy was taken by a gold chain for the neck, set with tiny emeralds.

"That's pretty—sort of—ain't it, Jim?" he asked.

"Yes," replied his companion, with emphasis, "it is. And I think you'll find it is expensive, also."

"That so? How much?" turning to the salesman.

The latter gave the price of the chain. Captain Elisha whistled.

"Whew! Jerushy!" he exclaimed. "And it wouldn't much more than go around my wrist, at that. All the same size, are they?"

"No. Some are longer. The longer ones are higher priced, of course."

"Sartin! They're for fleshy folks, I s'pose. Mrs. Thoph Kenney down home, she'd have to splice three of 'em together to make the round trip. Thoph's always scared he won't get his money's wuth in a trade, but he couldn't kick when he got her. To give the minister a dollar and walk off with two hundred and eighty pounds of wife is showin' some business sagacity, hey? To do him justice, I will say that he seems to be satisfied; she's the one that does the complainin'. I guess this is the most expensive counter in the store, ain't it, Mister?"

The clerk laughed. "No, indeed," he said. "These are all moderate priced goods. I wonder," turning to Pearson, "if your friend wouldn't like to see some of our choice pieces. It is a quiet day here, and I shall be glad to show them."

He led the way to a set of show cases near the door on the Fifth Avenue side. There before Captain Elisha's dazzled eyes were displayed diamond necklaces and aigrettes, tiaras and brooches, the figures on their price tags running high into the thousands. Pearson and the good-natured clerk enjoyed themselves hugely.

"Jim," said the captain after a little of this, "is there a police officer lookin' this way?"

Pearson laughed. "I guess not," he answered. "Why? The temptation isn't getting too much for your honesty, is it?"

"No," with a sigh, "but I'm carryin' a forty dollar watch and wearin' a ring that cost fifteen. I thought they was some punkins till I begun to look at this stuff. Now they make me feel so mean and poverty-struck that I expect to be took up for a tramp any minute. Mister," to the clerk, "you run right along and wrap up that chain I was lookin' at. Hurry! or I'll be ashamed to carry anything so cheap."

"Think she'll like it, do you, Jim?" he asked, when they were once more out of doors with the purchase in his inside pocket.

"She ought, certainly," replied Pearson. "It's a beautiful thing."

"Yes. Well, you see," apologetically, "I wanted to give her somethin' pretty good. 'Bije always did, and I didn't want to fall too fur behind. But," with a chuckle, "you needn't mention the price to anybody. If Abbie—my second cousin keepin' house for me, she is—if Abbie heard of it she'd be for puttin' me in an asylum. Abbie's got a hair breastpin and a tortoise shell comb, but she only wears 'em to the Congregationalist meetin'-house, where she's reasonably sure there ain't likely to be any sneak-thieves. She went to a Unitarian sociable once, but she carried 'em in a bag inside her dress."

Captain Elisha planned to surprise his niece with the gift at breakfast on the morning of her birthday, but, after reflection, decided to postpone the presentation until dinner time. The inevitable Dunns had taken upon themselves the duty of caring for the girl and her brother during the major part of the day. The yellow car appeared at the door at ten o'clock and bore the two away. Caroline assured her guardian, however, that they would return in season for the evening meal.

The captain spent lonely but busy hours until dinner time came. He had done some scheming on his own hook and, after a long argument with the cook, reenforced by a small sum in cash, had prevailed upon that haughty domestic to fashion a birthday cake of imposing exterior and indigestible make-up. Superintending the icing of this masterpiece occupied some time. He then worried Edwards into a respectful but stubborn fury by suggesting novelties in the way of table arrangement. Another bestowal of small change quelled the disturbance. Then came, by messenger, a dozen American Beauty roses with Mr. Pearson's card attached. These the captain decided should be placed in the center of the festive board. As a center piece had been previously provided, there was more argument. The cook took the butler's side in the debate, and the pair yielded only when Captain Elisha again dived into his pocket.

"But I warn you, all hands," he observed, "that this is the last time. My right fist's got a cramp in it this minute, and you couldn't open it again with a cold chisel."

At last, however, everything was as it should be, and he sat down in the library to await the coming of the young people. The gold chain in its handsome leather case, the latter enclosed in the jeweler's box, was carefully laid beside Caroline's place at the table. The dinner was ready, the cake, candles and all—the captain had insisted upon twenty candles—was ready, also. There was nothing to do but wait—and he waited.

Six-thirty was the usual dinner hour. It passed. Seven o'clock struck, then eight, and still Captain Elisha sat alone in the library. The cook sent word that the dinner was ruined. Edwards respectfully asked, "What shall I do, sir?" twice, the second time being sent flying with an order to "Go for'ard and keep your hatches closed!" The nautical phraseology was lost upon the butler, but the tone and manner of delivery were quite understandable.

Several times the captain rose from his chair to telephone the Dunn house and ask the reason for delay. Each time he decided not to do so. No doubt there were good reasons; Caroline and her brother had been detained; perhaps the automobile had broken down—the things were always breaking down just at the most inconvenient times; perhaps.... Well, at any rate, he would not 'phone just yet; he would wait a little longer.

At last the bell rang. Captain Elisha sprang up, smiling, his impatience and worry forgotten, and, pushing the butler aside, hurried to open the door himself. He did so and faced, not his niece and nephew, but Pearson.

"Good evening, Captain," hailed the young man, cheerily. "Didn't expect me, did you? I dropped in for a moment to shake hands with you and to offer congratulations to Miss Warren." Then, noticing the expression on his friend's face, he added, "What's the matter? Anything wrong? Am I intruding?"

"No, no! Course not. You're as welcome as another egg in a poor man's hen-house. Come right in and take off your things. I'm glad to see you. Only—well, the fact is I thought 'twas Caroline comin' home. She and Stevie was to be here over two hours ago, and I can't imagine what's keepin' 'em."

He insisted upon his visitor's remaining, although the latter, when he understood the situation, was reluctant to do so.

"Caroline'll be real glad to see you, Jim, I know," the captain said. "And I want you to stay for my sake. Between pacifyin' the Commodore and frettin' over what couldn't possibly happen, I was half dead of the fidgets. Stay and cheer me up, there's a good feller. I'd just about reached the stage where I had the girl and boy stove to flinders under that pesky auto. I'd even begun to figger on notifyin' the undertaker. Tell me I'm an old fool and then talk about somethin' else. They'll be here any minute."

But a good many minutes passed, and still they did not come. Pearson, aware of his companion's growing anxiety, chatted of the novel, of the people at the boarding house, of anything and everything he could think of likely to divert attention from the one important topic. The answers he received were more and more brief and absent. At last, when Edwards again appeared, appealingly mute, at the entrance to the dining room, Captain Elisha, with a sigh which was almost a groan, surrendered.

"I guess," he said, reluctantly, "I guess, Jim, there ain't any use waitin' any longer. Somethin's kept 'em, and they won't be here for dinner. You and I'll set down and eat—though I ain't got the appetite I cal'lated to have."

Pearson had dined hours before, but he followed his friend, resolved to please the latter by going through the form of pretending to eat.

They sat down together. Captain Elisha, with a rueful smile, pointed to the floral centerpiece.

"There's your posies, Jim," he observed. "Look pretty, don't they. She ain't seen 'em yet, but she'll like 'em when she does. And that over there, is her present from me. Stevie gave her a box of gloves, and I expect, from what Mrs. Dunn hinted, that she and that son of hers gave her somethin' fine. She'll show us when she gets here. What's this, Commodore? Oysters, hey? Well, they ought to taste like home. They're 'Cape Cods'; I wouldn't have anything else."

"We won't touch the birthday cake, Jim," he added, a little later. "She's got to cut that herself."

The soup was only lukewarm, but neither of them commented on the fact. The captain had scarcely tasted of his, when he paused, his spoon in air.

"Hey?" he exclaimed. "Listen! What's that? By the everlastin', it is. Here they are, at last!"

He sprang up with such enthusiasm that his chair tipped backwards against the butler's devoted shins. Pearson, almost as much pleased, also rose.

Captain Elisha paid scant attention to the chair incident.

"What are you waitin' for?" he demanded, whirling on Edwards, who was righting the chair with one hand and rubbing his knee with the other. "Don't you hear 'em at the door? Let 'em in!"

He reached the library first, his friend following more leisurely. Caroline and Stephen had just entered.

"Well!" he cried, in his quarter-deck voice, his face beaming with relief and delight, "you are here, ain't you! I begun to think.... Why, what's the matter?"

The question was addressed to Stephen, who stood nearest to him. The boy did not deign to reply. With a contemptuous grunt, he turned scornfully away from his guardian.

"What is it, Caroline?" demanded Captain Elisha. "Has anything happened?"

The girl looked coldly at him. A new brooch—Mrs. Corcoran Dunn's birthday gift—sparkled at her throat.

"No accident has happened, if that is what you mean," she said.

"But—why, yes, that was what I meant. You was so awful late, and you know you said you'd be home for dinner, so—"

"I changed my mind. Come, Steve."

She turned to leave the room. Pearson, at that moment, entered it. Stephen saw him first.

"What?" he cried. "Well, of all the nerve! Look, Caro!"

"Jim—Mr. Pearson, I mean—ran in a few minutes ago," explained Captain Elisha, bewildered and stammering. "He thought of course we'd had dinner and—and—he just wanted to wish you many happy returns, Caroline."

Pearson had extended his hand and a "Good evening" was on his lips. Stephen's strange behavior and language caused him to halt. He flushed, awkward, surprised, and indignant.

Caroline turned and saw him. She started, and her cheeks also grew crimson. Then, recovering, she looked him full in the face, and deliberately and disdainfully turned her back.

"Come, Steve!" she said again, and walked from the room.

Her brother hesitated, glared at Pearson, and then stalked haughtily after her.

Captain Elisha's bewilderment was supreme. He stared, open-mouthed, after his nephew and niece, and then turned slowly to his friend.

"What on earth, Jim," he stammered. "What's it mean?"

Pearson shrugged his shoulders. "I think I know what it means," he said. "I presume that Miss Warren and her brother have learned of my trouble with their father."

"Hey? No! you don't think that's it."

"I think there's no doubt of it."

"But how?"

"I don't know how. What I do know is that I should not have come here. I felt it and, if you will remember, I said so. I was a fool. Good night, Captain."

Hot and furiously angry at his own indecision which had placed him in this humiliating situation, he was striding towards the hall. Captain Elisha seized his arm.

"Stay where you are, Jim!" he commanded. "If the trouble's what you think it is, I'm more to blame than anybody else, and you sha'n't leave this house till I've done my best to square you."

"Thank you; but I don't wish to be 'squared.' I've done nothing to be ashamed of, and I have borne as many insults as I can stand. I'm going."

"No, you ain't. Not yet. I want you to stay."

At that moment Stephen's voice reached them from the adjoining room.

"I tell you I shall, Caro!" it proclaimed, fiercely. "Do you suppose I'm going to permit that fellow to come here again—or to go until he is made to understand what we think of him and why? No, by gad! I'm the man of this family, and I'll tell him a few things."

Pearson's jaw set grimly.

"You may let go of my wrist, Captain Warren," he said; "I'll stay."

Possibly Stephen's intense desire to prove his manliness made him self-conscious. At any rate, he never appeared more ridiculously boyish than when, an instant later, he marched into the library and confronted his uncle and Pearson.

"I—I want to say—" he began, majestically; "I want to say—"

He paused, choking, and brandished his fist.

"I want to say—" he began again.

"All right, Stevie," interrupted the captain, dryly, "then I'd say it if I was you. I guess it's time you did."

"I want to—to tell that fellow there," with a vicious stab of his forefinger in the direction of Pearson, "that I consider him an—an ingrate—and a scoundrel—and a miserable—"

"Steady!" Captain Elisha's interruption was sharp this time. "Steady now! Leave out the pet names. What is it you've got to tell?"

"I—my sister and I have found out what a scoundrel he is, that's what! We've learned of the lies he wrote about father. We know that he was responsible for all that cowardly, lying stuff in the Planet—all that about the Trolley Combine. And we don't intend that he shall sneak into this house again. If he was the least part of a man, he would never have come."

"Mr. Warren—" began Pearson, stepping forward. The captain interrupted.

"Hold on, Jim!" he said. "Just a minute now. You've learned somethin', you say, Stevie. The Dunns told you, I s'pose."

"Never mind who told me!"

"I don't—much. But I guess we'd better have a clear understandin', all of us. Caroline, will you come in here, please?"

He stepped toward the door. Stephen sprang in front of him.

"My sister doesn't intend to cheapen herself by entering that man's presence," he declared, hotly. "I'll deal with him, myself!"

"All right. But I guess she'd better be here, just the same. Caroline, I want you."

"She sha'n't come!"

"Yes, she shall. Caroline!"

The boy would have detained him, but he pushed him firmly aside and walked toward the door. Before he reached it, however, his niece appeared.

"Well?" she said, coldly. "What is it you want of me?"

"I want you to hear Mr. Pearson's side of this business—and mine—before you do anything you'll be sorry for."

"I think I've heard quite enough of Mr. Pearson already. Nothing he can say or do will make me more sorry than I am, or humiliate me more than the fact that I have treated him as a friend."

The icy contempt in her tone was cutting. Pearson's face was white, but he spoke clearly and with deliberation.

"Miss Warren," he said, "I must insist that you listen for another moment. I owe you an apology for—"

"Apology!" broke in Stephen, with a scornful laugh. "Apology! Well, by gad! Just hear that, Caro!"

The girl's lip curled. "I do not wish to hear your apology," she said.

"But I wish you to hear it. Not for my attitude in the Trolley matter, nor for what I published in the Planet. Nor for my part in the disagreement with your father. I wrote the truth and nothing more. I considered it right then—I told your father so—and I have not changed my mind. I should act exactly the same under similar circumstances."

"You blackguard!" shouted Stephen. Pearson ignored him utterly.

"I do owe you an apology," he continued, "for coming here, as I have done, knowing that you were ignorant of the affair. I believe now that you are misinformed as to the facts, but that is immaterial. You should have been told of my trouble with Mr. Warren. I should have insisted upon it. That I did not do so is my fault and I apologize; but for that only. Good evening."

He shook himself free from the captain's grasp, bowed to the trio, and left the room. An instant later the outer door closed behind him.

Caroline turned to her brother. "Come, Steve," she said.

"Stay right where you are!" Captain Elisha did not request now, he commanded. "Stevie, stand still. Caroline, I want to talk to you."

The girl hesitated. She had never been spoken to in that tone before. Her pride had been already deeply wounded by what she had learned that afternoon; she was fiercely resentful, angry, and rebellious. She was sure she never hated anyone as she did this man who ordered her to stay and listen to him. But—she stayed.

"Caroline," said Captain Elisha, after a moment of silence, "I presume likely—of course I don't know for sartin, but I presume likely it's Mrs. Dunn and that son of hers who've told you what you think you know."

"It doesn't concern you who told us!" blustered Stephen, pushing forward. He might have been a fly buzzing on the wall for all the attention his uncle paid him.

"I presume likely the Dunns told you, Caroline," he repeated, calmly.

His niece met his gaze stubbornly.

"Well," she answered, "and if they did? Wasn't it necessary we should know it? Oh!" with a shudder of disgust, "I wish I could make you understand how ashamed I feel—how wicked and ashamed I feel that I—I should have disgraced father's memory by.... Oh, but there! I can't! Yes; Mrs. Dunn and Malcolm did tell us—many things. Thank God that we have friends to tell us the truth!"

"Amen!" quietly. "I'll say amen to that, Caroline, any time. Only I want you to be sure those you call friends are real ones and that the truths they tell ain't like the bait on a fishhook, put on for bait and just thick enough to cover the barb."

"Do you mean to insinuate—" screamed the irrepressible nephew, wild at being so completely ignored. His uncle again paid not the slightest attention.

"But that ain't neither here nor there now," he went on. "Caroline, Mr. Pearson just told you that his coming to this house without tellin' you fust of his quarrel with 'Bije was his fault. That ain't so. The fault was mine altogether. He told me the whole story; told me that he hadn't called since it happened, on that very account. And I took the whole responsibility and asked him to come. I did! Do you know why?"

If he expected an answer none was given. Caroline's lids drooped disdainfully. "Steve," she said, "let us go."

"Stop! You'll stay here until I finish. I want to say that I didn't tell you about the Trolley fuss because I wanted you to learn some things for yourself. I wanted you to know Mr. Pearson—to find out what sort of man he was afore you judged him. Then, when you had known him long enough to understand he wasn't a liar and a blackguard, and all that Steve has called him, I was goin' to tell you the whole truth, not a part of it. And, after that, I was goin' to let you decide for yourself what to do. I'm a lot older than you are; I've mixed with all sorts of folks; I'm past the stage where I can be fooled by—by false hair or soft soap. You can't pour sweet oil over a herrin' and make me believe it's a sardine. I know the Pearson stock. I've sailed over a heap of salt water with one of the family. And I've kept my eyes open since I've run acrost this particular member. And I knew your father, too, Caroline Warren. And I say to you now that, knowin' Jim Pearson and 'Bije Warren—yes, and knowin' the rights and wrongs of that Trolley business quite as well as Malcolm Dunn or anybody else—I say to you that, although 'Bije was my brother, I'd bet my life that Jim had all the right on his side. There! that's the truth, and no hook underneath it. And some day you'll realize it, too."

He had spoken with great vehemence. Now he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. When he again looked at his niece, he found her staring intently at him; and her eyes blazed.

"Have you quite finished—now?" she demanded. "Steve, be quiet!"

"Why, yes, I guess so, pretty nigh. I s'pose there ain't much use to say more. If I was to tell you that I've tried to do for you and Steve in this—same as in everything else since I took this job—as if you were my own children, you wouldn't believe it. If I was to tell you, Caroline, that I'd come to think an awful lot of you, you wouldn't believe that, either. I did hope that since our other misunderstandin' was cleared up, and you found I wa'n't what you thought I was, you'd come to me and ask questions afore passin' judgment; but perhaps—"

And now she interrupted, bursting out at him in a blast of scorn which took his breath away.

"Oh, stop! stop!" she cried. "Don't say any more. You have insulted father's memory, and defended the man who slandered him. Isn't that enough? Why must you go on to prove yourself a greater hypocrite? We learned, my brother and I, to-day more than the truth concerning your friend. We learned that you have lied—yes, lied—and—"

"Steady, Caroline! be careful. I wouldn't say what I might be sorry for later."

"Sorry! Captain Warren, you spoke of my misjudging you. I thought I had, and I was sorry. To-day I learned that your attitude in that affair was a lie like the rest. You did not pay for Mr. Moriarty's accident. Mr. Dunn's money paid those bills. And you allowed the family—and me—to thank you for your generosity. Oh, I'm ashamed to be near you!"

"There! There! Caroline, be still. I—"

"I shall not be still. I have been still altogether too long. You are our guardian. We can't help that, I suppose. Father asked you to be that, for some reason; but did he ask you to live here where you are not wanted? To shame us before our friends, ladies and gentlemen so far above you in every way? And to try to poison our minds against them and sneer at them when they are kind to us and even try to be kind to you? No, he did not! Oh, I'm sick of it all! your deceit and your hypocritical speeches and your pretended love for us. Love! Oh, if I could say something that would make you understand how thoroughly we despise you, and how your presence, ever since you forced it upon Steve and me, has disgraced us! If I only could! I—I—"

She had been near to tears ever since Mrs. Corcoran Dunn, in the kindness of her heart, told her the "truth" that afternoon. But pride and indignation had prevented her giving way. Now, however, she broke down.

"Oh—oh, Steve!" she cried, and, turning to her brother, sobbed hysterically on his shoulder. "Oh, Steve, what shall we do?"

Stephen put his arm about her waist. "It's all right, Sis," he said soothingly. "Don't cry before him! I guess," with a glance at his uncle, "you've said enough to make even him understand—at last."

Captain Elisha looked gravely at the pair. "I guess you have," he said slowly. "I guess you have, Caroline. Anyhow, I can't think offhand of anything you've left out. I could explain some things, but what's the use? And," with a sigh, "you may be right in a way. Perhaps I shouldn't have come here to live. If you'd only told me plain afore just how you felt, I'd—maybe I'd—but there! I didn't know—I didn't know. You see, I thought.... However, I guess that part of your troubles is over. But," he added, firmly, "wherever I am, or wherever I go, you must understand that I'm your guardian, just the same. I considered a long spell afore I took the place, and I never abandoned a ship yet, once I took command of her. And I'll stick to this one! Yes, sir! I'll stick to it in spite of the devil—or the Dunns, either. Till you and your brother are of age I'm goin' to look out for you and your interests and your money; and nothin' nor nobody shall stop me. As for forcin' my company on you, though, that well, that's different. I cal'late you won't have to worry any more. Good night."

He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked slowly from the library.



CHAPTER XIV

Stephen, the "man of the family," was the only member of the household, servants excepted, who slept soundly that night. Conscious of having done his duty in the affair with Pearson and his guardian, and somewhat fatigued by the disagreeable task of soothing his hysterical sister, he was slumbering peacefully at nine the next morning when awakened by a series of raps on his bedroom door.

"Ah! What? Well, what is it?" he demanded, testily opening his eyes. "Edwards, is that you? What the devil do you mean by making such a row?"

The voice which answered was not the butler's, but Caroline's.

"Steve! Oh, Steve!" she cried. "Do get up and come out! Come, quick!"

"What's the matter?" inquired the young man, sitting up in bed. "Is the house afire?"

"No, no! But do come! I want you. Something has happened."

"Happened? What is it?"

"I can't tell you here. Please dress and come to me as quick as you can."

Stephen, wondering and somewhat alarmed, dressed with unusual promptitude and obeyed. He found his sister standing by the library window, a letter in her hand. She looked troubled and anxious.

"Well, Caro," observed the boy, "here I am. What in the world's up now?"

She turned.

"Oh, Steve!" she exclaimed, "he's gone!"

"Gone? Who?"

"Captain Warren. He's gone."

"Gone? Gone where? Caro, you don't mean he's—dead?"

"No, he's gone—gone and left us."

Her brother's expression changed to incredulous joy.

"What?" he shouted. "You mean he's quit? Cleared out? Left here for good?"

"Yes."

"Hurrah! Excuse me while I gloat! Hurrah! We got it through his skull at last! Is it possible? But—but hold on! Perhaps it's too good to be true. Are you sure? How do you know?"

"He says so. See."

She handed him the letter. It was addressed to "My dear Caroline" and in it Captain Elisha stated his intentions succinctly. After the plain speaking of the previous evening he should not, of course, burden them with his society any longer. He was leaving that morning, and, as soon as he "located permanent moorings somewhere else" would notify his niece and nephew of his whereabouts.

"For," he added, "as I told you, although I shall not impose my company on you, I am your guardian same as ever. I will see that your allowance comes to you regular, including enough for all household bills and pay for the hired help and so on. If you need any extras at any time let me know and, if they seem to me right and proper, I will send money for them. You will stay where you are, Caroline, and Stevie must go back to college right away. Tell him I say so, and if he does not I shall begin reducing his allowance according as I wrote him. He will understand what I mean. I guess that is all until I send you my address and any other sailing orders that seem necessary to me then. And, Caroline, I want you and Stevie to feel that I am your anchor to windward, and when you get in a tight place, if you ever do, you can depend on me. Last night's talk has no bearing on that whatever. Good-by, then, until my next.

"ELISHA WARREN."

Stephen read this screed to the end, then crumpled it in his fist and threw it angrily on the floor.

"The nerve!" he exclaimed. "He seems to think I'm a sailor on one of his ships, to be ordered around as he sees fit. I'll go back to college when I'm good and ready—not before."

Caroline shook her head. "Oh, no!" she said. "You must go to-day. He's right, Steve; it's the thing for you to do. He and I were agreed as to that. And you wouldn't stay and make it harder for me, would you, dear?"

He growled a reluctant assent. "I suppose I shall have to go," he said, sullenly. "My allowance is too beastly small to have him cutting it; and the old shark would do that very thing; he'd take delight in doing it, confound him! Well, he knows what we think of him, that's some comfort."

She did not answer. He looked at her curiously.

"Why, hang it all, Caro!" he exclaimed in disgust; "what ails you? Blessed if I sha'n't begin to believe you're sorry he's gone. You act as if you were."

"No, I'm not. Of course I'm not. I'm—I'm glad. He couldn't stay, of course. But I'm afraid—I can't help feeling that you and I were too harsh last night. We said things—dreadful things—"

"Be hanged! We didn't say half enough. Oh, don't be a fool, Caro! I was just beginning to be proud of your grit. And now you want to take it all back. Honestly, girls are the limit! You don't know your own minds for twelve consecutive hours. Answer me now! Are you sorry he's gone?"

"No. No, I'm not, really. But I—I feel somehow as if—as if everything was on my shoulders. You're going away, and he's gone, and—What is it, Edwards?"

The butler entered, with a small parcel in his hand.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Caroline," he said. "I should have given you this last evening. It was by your place at the table. I think Captain Warren put it there, miss."

Caroline took the parcel and looked at it wonderingly.

"For me?" she repeated.

"Yes, Miss Caroline. It is marked with your name. And breakfast is served, when you and Mr. Stephen are ready."

He bowed and retired. The girl sat turning the little white box in her hands.

"He left it for me," she said. "What can it be?"

Her brother snatched it impatiently.

"Why don't you open it and find out?" he demanded. "Perhaps it's his latch key. Here! I'll do it myself."

He cut the cord and removed the cover of the little box. Inside was the jeweler's leather case. He took it out and pressed the spring. The cover flew up.

"Whew!" he whistled. "It's a present. And rather a decent one, too, by gad! Look, Caro!"

He handed her the open case. She looked at the chain, spread carefully on the white satin lining. Inside the cover was fitted a card. She turned it over and read: "To my niece, Caroline. With wishes for many happy returns, and much love, from her Uncle Elisha Warren."

She sat gazing at the card. Stephen bent down, read the inscription, and then looked up into her face.

"What?" he cried. "I believe—You're not crying! Well, I'll be hanged! Sis, you are a fool!"

* * * * *

The weather that morning was fine and clear. James Pearson, standing by the window of his rooms at the boarding house, looking out at the snow-covered roofs sparkling in the sun, was miserable. When he retired the night before it was with a solemn oath to forget Caroline Warren altogether; to put her and her father and the young cad, her brother, utterly from his mind, never to be thought of again. As a preliminary step in this direction, he began, the moment his head touched the pillow, to review, for the fiftieth time, the humiliating scene in the library, to think of things he should have said, and—worse than all—to recall, word for word, the things she had said to him. In this cheerful occupation he passed hours before falling asleep. And, when he woke, it was to begin all over again.

Why—why had he been so weak as to yield to Captain Elisha's advice? Why had he not acted like a sensible, self-respecting man, done what he knew was right, and persisted in his refusal to visit the Warrens? Why? Because he was an idiot, of course—a hopeless idiot, who had got exactly what he deserved! Which bit of philosophy did not help make his reflections less bitter.

He went down to breakfast when the bell rang, but his appetite was missing, and he replied only in monosyllables to the remarks addressed to him by his fellow boarders. Mrs. Hepton, the landlady, noticed the change.

"You not ill, Mr. Pearson, I hope?" she queried. "I do hope you haven't got cold, sleeping with your windows wide open, as you say you do. Fresh air is a good thing, in moderation, but one should be careful. Don't you think so, Mr. Carson?"

Mr. Carson was a thin little man, a bachelor, who occupied the smallest room on the third story. He was a clerk in a department store, and his board was generally in arrears. Therefore, when Mrs. Hepton expressed an opinion he made it a point to agree with her. In this instance, however, he merely grunted.

"I say fresh air in one's sleeping room is a good thing in moderation. Don't you think so, Mr. Carson?" repeated the landlady.

Mr. Carson rolled up his napkin and inserted it in the ring. His board, as it happened, was paid in full to date. Also, although he had not yet declared his intention, he intended changing lodgings at the end of the week.

"Humph!" he sniffed, with sarcasm, "it may be. I couldn't get none in my room if I wanted it, so I can't say sure. Morning."

He departed hurriedly. Mrs. Hepton looked disconcerted. Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles smiled meaningly across the table at Miss Sherborne, who smiled back.

Mr. Ludlow, the bookseller, quietly observed that he hoped Mr. Pearson had not gotten cold. Colds were prevalent at this time of the year. "'These are the days when the Genius of the weather sits in mournful meditation on the threshold,' as Mr. Dickens tells us," he added. "I presume he sits on the sills of open windows, also."

The wife of the Mr. Dickens there present pricked up her ears.

"When did you write that, 'C.' dear?" she asked, turning to her husband. "I remember it perfectly, of course, but I have forgotten, for the moment, in which of your writings it appears."

The illustrious one's mouth being occupied with a section of scorching hot waffle, he was spared the necessity of confession.

"Pardon me," said Mr. Ludlow. "I was not quoting our Mr. Dickens this time, but his famous namesake."

The great "C." drowned the waffle with a swallow of water.

"Maria," he snapped, "don't be so foolish. Ludlow quotes from—er—'Bleak House.' I have written some things—er—similar, but not that. Why don't you pass the syrup?"

The bookseller, who was under the impression that he had quoted from the "Christmas Carol," merely smiled and remained silent.

"My father, the Senator," began Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles, "was troubled with colds during his political career. I remember his saying that the Senate Chamber at the Capitol was extremely draughty. Possibly Mr. Pearson's ailment does come from sleeping in a draught. Not that father was accustomed to sleep during the sessions—Oh, dear, no! not that, of course. How absurd!"

She laughed gayly. Pearson, who seemed to think it time to say something, declared that, so far as he knew, he had no cold or any symptoms of one.

"Well," said Mrs. Hepton, with conviction, "something ails you, I know. We can all see it; can't we?" turning to the rest of the company. "Why, you've scarcely spoken since you sat down at the table. And you've eaten next to nothing. Perhaps there is some trouble, something on your mind which is worrying you. Oh, I hope not!"

"No doubt it is the preoccupation of genius," remarked Mrs. Dickens. "I'm sure it must be that. When 'C.' is engaged with some particularly trying literary problem he frequently loses all his appetite and does not speak for hours together. Isn't it so, dear?"

"C.," who was painfully conscious that he might have made a miscue in the matter of the quotation, answered sharply.

"No," he said. "Not at all. Don't be silly, Maria."

Miss Sherborne clasped her hands. "I know!" she exclaimed in mock rapture; "Mr. Pearson is in love!"

This suggestion was received with applause and hilarity. Pearson pushed back his chair and rose.

"I'm much obliged for this outburst of sympathy," he observed, dryly. "But, as I say, I'm perfectly well, and the other diagnoses are too flattering to be true. Good morning."

Back in his room he seated himself at his desk, took the manuscript of his novel from the drawer, and sat moodily staring at it. He was in no mood for work. The very sight of the typewritten page disgusted him. As he now felt, the months spent on the story were time wasted. It was ridiculous for him to attempt such a thing; or to believe that he could carry it through successfully; or to dream that he would ever be anything better than a literary hack, a cheap edition of "C." Dickens, minus the latter's colossal self-satisfaction.

He was still sitting there, twirling an idle pencil between his fingers, when he heard steps outside his door. Someone knocked.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

His landlady answered.

"Mr. Pearson," she said, "may I see you?"

He threw down the pencil and, rising, walked to the door and opened it. Mrs. Hepton was waiting in the hall. She seemed excited.

"Mr. Pearson," she said, "will you step downstairs with me for a moment? I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise? What sort of a surprise?"

"Oh, a pleasant one. At least I think it is going to be pleasant for all of us. But I'm not going to tell you what it is. You must come down and see for yourself."

She led the way downstairs, the young man following her, wondering what the surprise might be, and fairly certain it, nor anything else, could be pleasant on that day.

He supposed, of course, that he must descend to the parlor to reach the solution of the mystery, but he was mistaken. On the second floor Mrs. Hepton stopped and pointed.

"It's in there," she said, pointing.

"There" was the room formerly occupied by Mr. Saks, the long-haired artist. Since his departure it had been vacant. Pearson looked at the closed door and then at the lady.

"A surprise for me in there?" he repeated. "What's the joke, Mrs. Hepton?"

By way of answer she took him by the arm, and, leading him to the door, threw the latter open.

"Here he is!" she said.

"Hello, Jim!" hailed Captain Elisha Warren, cheerfully. "Ship ahoy! Glad to see you."

He was standing in the middle of the room, his hat on the table and his hands in his pockets.

Pearson was surprised; there was no doubt of that—not so much at the sight of his friend—he had expected to see or hear from the captain before the day was over—as at seeing him in that room. He could not understand what he was doing there.

Captain Elisha noted his bewildered expression, and chuckled.

"Come aboard, Jim!" he commanded. "Come in and inspect. I'll see you later, Mrs. Hepton," he added, "and give you my final word. I want to hold officer's council with Mr. Pearson here fust."

The landlady accepted the broad hint and turned to go.

"Very well," she said, "but I do hope for all our sakes that word will be yes, Mr. Warren—Excuse me, it is Captain Warren, isn't it?"

"It used to be, yes, ma'am. And at home it is yet. 'Round here I've learned to be like a barroom poll-parrot, ready to answer to most everything. There!" as the door closed after her; "now we can be more private. Set down, Jim! How are you, anyway?"

Pearson sat down mechanically. "I'm well enough—everything considered," he replied, slowly. "But what—what are you in here for? I don't understand."

"You will in a minute. What do you think of this—er—saloon cabin?" with a comprehensive sweep of his arm.

The room was of fair size, furnished in a nondescript, boarding-house fashion, and with two windows overlooking the little back yard of the house and those of the other adjoining it. Each yard contained an assortment of ash cans, and there was an astonishing number of clothes lines, each fluttering a variety of garments peculiarly personal to their respective owners.

"Pretty snug, ain't it?" continued the captain. "Not exactly up to that I've been luxuriatin' in lately, but more fittin' to my build and class than that was, I shouldn't wonder. No Corot paintin's nor five thousand dollar tintypes of dory codders; but I can manage to worry along without them, if I try hard. Neat but not gaudy, I call it—as the architect feller said about his plans for the addition to the county jail at Ostable. Hey? Ho! Ho!"

Pearson began to get a clue to the situation.

"Captain Warren," he demanded, "have you—Do you mean to say you've taken this room to live in?"

"No, I ain't said all that yet. I wanted to talk with you a little afore I said it. But that was my idea, if you and I agreed on sartin matters."

"You've come here to live! You've left your—your niece's house?"

"Ya-as, I've left. That is, I left the way the Irishman left the stable where they kept the mule. He said there was all out doors in front of him and only two feet behind. That's about the way 'twas with me."

"Have your nephew and niece—"

"Um-hm. They hinted that my room was better than my company, and, take it by and large, I guess they was right for the present, anyhow. I set up till three o'clock thinkin' it over, and then I decided to get out afore breakfast this mornin'. I didn't wait for any good-bys. They'd been said, or all I cared to hear"—Captain Elisha's smile disappeared for an instant—"last evenin'. The dose was sort of bitter, but it had the necessary effect. At any rate, I didn't hanker for another one. I remembered what your landlady told me when I was here afore, about this stateroom bein' vacated, and I come down to look at it. It suits me well enough; seems like a decent moorin's for an old salt water derelict like me; the price is reasonable, and I guess likely I'll take it. I guess I will."

"Why do you guess? By George, I hope you will!"

"Do you? I'm much obliged. I didn't know but after last night, after the scrape I got you into, you might feel—well, sort of as if you'd seen enough of me."

The young man smiled bitterly. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "It was mine entirely. I'm quite old enough to decide matters for myself, and I should have decided as my reason, and not my inclinations, told me. You weren't to blame."

"Yes, I was. If you're old enough, I'm too old, I cal'late. But I did think—However, there's no use goin' over that. I ask your pardon, Jim. And you don't hold any grudge?"