"Well?"

"Well? If she doesn't marry him, who's going to take care of her? What's going to become of me? We haven't a cent. What kind of a guardian are you? Do you want us to starve?"

He was shouting again. The captain was calm. "Oh," he said, "I guess it won't reach to the starvation point. I'm a pretty tough old critter, 'cordin' to your estimate, but I shouldn't let my brother's children starve. If the wust comes to the wust, there's always a home and plenty to eat for you both at South Denboro."

This offer did not appear to comfort the young gentleman greatly. His disgust was evident.

"South Denboro!" he repeated, scornfully. "Gad!... South Denboro!"

"Yup. But we'll let South Denboro alone for now and stick to New York. What is it you expect me to do? What are you drivin' at?"

Stephen shook a forefinger in his guardian's face.

"I expect you to make her stick to her engagement," he cried. "And make her make him stick. She can, can't she? It's been announced, hasn't it? Everybody knows of it! She's got the right—the legal right to hold him, hasn't she?"

His uncle regarded him with a quizzical smile. "Why, ye-es," he answered, "I cal'late she has, maybe. Course, there's no danger of his wantin' to do such a thing, but if he should I presume likely we could make it uncomfortable for him, anyhow. What are you hankerin' for, Steve—a breach-of-promise suit? I've always understood those sort of cases were kind of unpleasant—for everybody but the newspapers."

The boy was in deadly earnest. "Pleasant!" he repeated. "Is any of this business pleasant? You make her act like a sensible girl! You're her guardian, and you make her! And, after that, if he tries to hedge, you tell him a few things. You can hold him! Do it! Do it!"

Captain Elisha turned on his heel and began pacing up and down the room. His nephew watched him eagerly.

"Well," he demanded, after a moment, "what are we going to do? Are we going to make him make good?"

The captain paused. "Steve," he answered, deliberately, "I ain't sure as we are. And, as I've said, if he's got a spark of decency, it won't be necessary for us to try. If it should be—if it should be—"

"Well, if it should be?"

"Then we can try, that's all. Maybe you run a course a little different from me, Stevie; you navigate 'cordin' to your ideas, and I do by mine. But in some ways we ain't so fur apart. Son," with a grim nod, "you rest easy on one thing—the Corcoran Dunn fleet is goin' to show its colors."



CHAPTER XIX

Caroline sat by the library window, her chin in her hand, drearily watching the sleet as it beat against the panes, and the tops of the Park trees lashing in the wind. Below, in the street, the trolleys passed in their never-ending procession, the limousines and cabs whizzed forlornly by, and the few pedestrians pushed dripping umbrellas against the gale. A wet, depressing afternoon, as hopeless as her thoughts, and growing darker and more miserable hourly.

Stephen, standing by the fire, kicked the logs together and sent a shower of sparks flying.

"Oh, say something, Caro, do!" he snapped testily. "Don't sit there glowering; you give me the horrors."

She roused from her reverie, turned, and tried to smile.

"What shall I say?" she asked.

"I don't know. But say something, for heaven's sake! Talk about the weather, if you can't think of anything more original."

"The weather isn't a very bright subject just now."

"I didn't say it was; but it's a subject. I hope to goodness it doesn't prevent Sylvester's keeping his appointment. He's late, as it is."

"Is he?" wearily. "I hadn't noticed."

"Of course you hadn't. You don't notice anything. It doesn't help matters to pull a long face and go moping around wiping your eyes. You've got to use philosophy in times like this. It's just as hard for me as it is for you; and I try to make the best of it, don't I?"

She might have reminded him that his philosophy was a very recent acquisition. When the news of their poverty first came he was the one who raved and sobbed and refused to contemplate anything less direful than slow starvation or quick suicide. She had soothed and comforted then. Since the previous evening, when he had gone out, in spite of her protestations, and left her alone, his manner had changed. He was still nervous and irritable, but no longer threatened self-destruction, and seemed, for some unexplained reason, more hopeful and less desperate. Sylvester had 'phoned, saying that he would call at the apartment at two, and since Stephen had received the message he had been in a state of suppressed excitement, scarcely keeping still for five minutes at a time.

"It is just as hard for me as it is for you, isn't it?" he repeated.

"Yes, Steve, I suppose it is."

"You suppose? Don't you know? Oh, do quit thinking about Mal Dunn and pay attention to me."

She did not answer. He regarded her with disgust.

"You are thinking of Mal, of course," he declared. "What's the use? You know what I think: you were a fool to write him that letter."

"Don't, Steve; please don't."

"Ugh!"

"Don't you know he didn't get the letter? I was so nervous and over-wrought that I misdirected it."

"Pooh! Has he ever stayed away from you so long before? Or his precious mother, either? Why doesn't she come to see you? She scarcely missed a day before this happened. Nonsense! I guess he got it all right."

"Steve, stop! stop! Don't dare speak like that. Do you realize what you are insinuating? You don't believe it! You know you don't! Shame on you! I'm ashamed of my brother! No! not another word of that kind, or I shall leave the room."

She had risen to her feet. He looked at her determined face and turned away.

"Oh, well," he muttered, sullenly, "maybe you're right. I don't say you're not. Perhaps he didn't get the letter. You sent it to his office, and he may have been called out of town. But his mother—"

"Mrs. Dunn was not well when I last saw her. She may be ill."

"Perhaps. But if you're so sure about them, why not let it go at that? What's the use of fretting?"

"I was not thinking of them—then."

As a matter of fact, she had been thinking of her uncle, Elisha Warren. As the time dragged by, she thought of him more and more—not as the uncouth countryman whose unwelcome presence had been forced into her life; nor as the hypocrite whose insult to her father's memory she never could forgive or whose double-dealing had been, as she thought, revealed; but as the man who, with the choke in his voice and the tears in his eyes, bade her remember that, whenever she needed help, he was ready and glad to give it.

She did not doubt Malcolm's loyalty. Her brother's hints and insinuations found no echo in her thoughts. In the note which she had written her fiance she told of the loss of their fortune, though not of her father's shame. That she could not tell; nor did she ask Malcolm to come to her—her pride would not permit that. She wrote simply of her great trouble and trusted the rest to him. That he had not come was due—so she kept repeating to herself—solely to the fact that he had not received her letter. She knew that was it—she knew it. And yet—and yet he did not come.

So, in her loneliness and misery, her guardian's words returned again and again to her memory: "Sometimes when things look all right they turn out to be all wrong. If ever there comes a time like that to you and Steve, remember you've got me to turn to." The time had come when she must turn to someone.

She would never go to him; she vowed it. She would not accept his help if he came to her. But, if he was sincere, if he meant what he said, why did he not come again to proffer it? Because he was not sincere, of course. That had been proven long before. She despised him. But his face, as she last saw it, refused to be banished from her mind. It looked so strong, and yet gentle and loving, like the face of a protector, one to be trusted through good times and bad. Oh, this wicked, wicked world, and the shams and sorrows in it! "Malcolm, why don't you come to me?"

Stephen uttered an exclamation. Looking up, she saw him hurrying toward the hall.

"Someone's at the door," he explained. "It's Sylvester, of course. I'll let him in."

It was not the lawyer but a messenger boy with a note. Stephen returned to the library with the missive in his hand.

"He couldn't get here, Caro," he said, excitedly. "Wants us to come right down to his office. Hurry up! Get your things on. The cab's waiting. Come! Rush! It may be important."

The cab, an electric vehicle, made good time, and they soon reached the Pine Street offices, where they were ushered at once into the senior partner's presence.

"Step into the other room," said Mr. Sylvester, "and wait there, please. I'll join you shortly."

The room was the large one where the momentous conference between Captain Elisha and the three lawyers had so recently taken place. Caroline seated herself in one of the chairs. Stephen walked the floor.

"Hope he doesn't keep us waiting long," he fumed. "I thought of course he was ready or he wouldn't have sent for us."

"Ready?" his sister looked at him, questioningly. "Ready for what?" she repeated, with sudden suspicion. "Steve, do you know what Mr. Sylvester wishes to see us about?"

Her brother colored and seemed a bit disconcerted. "How should I know?" he muttered.

"Is it something new about the estate or that man who owns it? You do know something! I can see it in your face. What is it?"

"Nothing. How should I know what it is?"

"But you do. I believe you do. Look at me! What does Mr. Sylvester want of us?"

The boy hesitated; then whirled and faced her. "See here, Caro," he said, "maybe I do know something—or I can guess. Now, whatever happens, you've got to be a sensible girl. Certain things have to be dealt with in a practical way, and we're practical people. Sentiment—and pride—and all that sort of stuff, are well enough, but business is business and an engagement is an engagement. Now it's right up to you and—"

"Steve, what are you talking about?"

"That's all right. I know what I'm talking about. Somebody in the family must use common sense, and when it comes to holding a person to a promise, then—Confound it, Sis, we can't starve, can we?"

"What do you mean?" She rose and advanced toward him. "What do you mean by a promise? What have you been doing?"

His confusion increased. He avoided her eyes and moved sullenly toward the other side of the table.

"I haven't done anything," he grumbled, "that is, I've done what any reasonable fellow would do. I'm not the only one who thinks.... Look here! We've got a guardian, haven't we?"

"A guardian! a guardian! Stephen Warren, have you been to him? Have you—Was that where you were last night?"

"Well, I—"

"Answer me!"

"What if I have? Whom else am I to go to? Isn't he—"

"But why did you go to him? What did you say?"

"I said—I said—Never mind what I said. He agrees with me, I can tell you that. You'll thank your stars I did go, before very long. I.... S-sh! Here's Sylvester."

The door of the room opened. The person who entered, however, was not the lawyer, but the very man of whom they had been speaking, Captain Elisha himself. He closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Stevie," he said, with a nod to the boy. Then, turning to his niece, he stepped forward and held out his hand. "Caroline," he began, "I don't doubt you're some surprised to see me here; but I.... Why, what's the matter?"

The faces of the pair led him to ask the question. Stephen's was red and he looked embarrassed and guilty. Caroline's was white, and she glanced from her brother to her guardian and back again, with flashing eyes.

"What's the matter?" repeated the captain. "Steve," sharply, "have you been making a fool of yourself again? What is it?"

"Nothing," was the sulky answer; "nothing of consequence. Caro is—well, I happened to mention that I called on you last night and—and she doesn't seem to like it, that's all. As I told her, somebody in the family had to use common sense, and you were our guardian and naturally, under the circumstances.... Why, I'll leave it to anyone!" with a burst of righteous indignation. "You are our guardian."

He proclaimed it as if he expected a denial. Captain Elisha frowned. "Humph!" he grunted. "That ain't exactly news, is it, Steve? Seems to me we've taken up that p'int afore; though, as I remember, you didn't used to be sot on all hands knowin' it," with dry sarcasm. "I don't need even your common sense to remind me of it just at this minute. Caroline, your brother did come to see me last night. I was glad he did."

She ignored him. "Steve," she demanded, still facing the young man, "was this, too, a part of your plan? Did you bring me here to meet—him?"

"No, I didn't. Sylvester was to come to see us. You know that; he telephoned. I didn't know—"

The captain interrupted. "There, there, son!" he exclaimed, "let me say a word. No, Caroline, Stevie didn't know I was to meet you here. But I thought it was necessary that I should. Set down, please. I know you must be worn out, poor girl."

"I don't wish to sit. I want to know what my brother called to see you about."

"Well, there was some matters he wanted to talk over."

"What were they? Concerning the estate?"

"Partly that."

"Partly? What else? Captain Warren, my brother has hinted—he has said—What does he mean by holding someone to a promise? Answer me truthfully."

"I shouldn't answer you any other way, Caroline. Steve seems to be worried about—now you mustn't mind my speakin' plain, Caroline; the time's come when I've got to—Steve seems to be worried about the young man you're engaged to. He seems to cal'late that Mr. Dunn may want to slip out of that engagement."

His niece looked at him. Then she turned to her brother. "You went to him and.... Oh, how could you!"

Stephen would not meet her gaze. "Well," he muttered rebelliously, "why wouldn't I? You know yourself that Mal hasn't been near you since it happened. If he wasn't after—if he was straight, he would have come, wouldn't he? Mind, I don't say he isn't—perhaps he doesn't know. But, at any rate, something must be done. We had to face possibilities, and you wouldn't listen to me. I tried—"

"Stop!" she cut him short, imperiously. "Don't make me hate you. And you," turning to her uncle, "did you listen and believe such things? Did you encourage him to believe them? Oh, I know what you think of my friends! I heard it from your own lips. And I know why you think it. Because they know what you are; because they exposed you and—"

"There, there! Caroline, you needn't go on. I've heard your opinion of my character afore. Never mind me for the minute. And, if you'll remember, I ain't said that I doubted your young man. You told me that you thought the world and all of him and that he did of you. That's enough—or ought to be. But your brother says you wrote him two days ago and he ain't been near you."

"I misdirected the letter. He didn't receive it."

"Um-hm. I see. That would explain."

"Of course it would. That must be the reason."

"Yes, seem's if it must."

"It is. What right have you to doubt it? Oh, how can you think such things? Can you suppose the man I am to marry is so despicable—so mean as to—as to—I'm ashamed to say it. Why do you presume that money has any part in our engagement? Such trouble as mine only makes it more binding. Do you suppose if he were poor as—as I am, that I would desert him? You know I wouldn't. I should be glad—yes, almost happy, because then I could show him—could—"

Her voice failed her. She put her handkerchief to her eyes for an instant and then snatched it away and faced them, her head erect. The pride in her face was reflected in Captain Elisha's as he regarded her.

"No, no," he said gently, "I never supposed you'd act but in one way, Caroline. I knew you. And, as Steve'll tell you, I said to him almost the same words you've been sayin'. If Malcolm's what he'd ought to be, I said, he'll be glad of the chance to prove how much he cares for your sister. But Steve appeared to have some misgivin's, and so—"

He paused, turned toward the door, and seemed to be listening. Caroline flashed an indignant glance at her brother.

"And so?" she asked, scornfully.

"And so," continued the captain, with a slight change in his tone, "it seemed to me that his doubts ought to be settled. And," rising, as there came a tap at the door, "I cal'late they're goin' to be."

He walked briskly over and opened the door. Sylvester was standing without.

"Come, have they?" inquired Captain Elisha.

"Yes."

"Fetch 'em right in here. Steve, stand over nigher that corner. This way, Caroline, if you please."

He took his niece by the arm and led her to the side of the room not visible from the doorway. She was too astonished to resist, but asked an agitated question.

"What is it?" she cried. "Who is coming?"

"Some friends of yours," was the quiet reply. "Nothin' to be frightened about. Steve, stay where you are."

The boy was greatly excited. "Is it they?" he demanded. "Is it? By gad! Now, Sis, be a sensible girl. If he should try to hedge, you hold him. Hold him! Understand?"

"Steve, be quiet," ordered the captain.... "Ah, Mrs. Dunn, good afternoon, ma'am. Mr. Dunn, good afternoon, sir."

For the pair who, followed by Sylvester, now entered the room were Mrs. Corcoran Dunn and Malcolm.

They were past the sill before Captain Elisha's greeting caused them to turn and see the three already there. Mrs. Dunn, who was in the lead, stopped short in her majestic though creaking march of entrance, and her florid face turned a brighter crimson. Her son, strolling languidly at her heels, started violently and dropped his hat. The lawyer, bringing up in the rear, closed the door and remained standing near it. Caroline uttered an exclamation of surprise. Her brother drew himself haughtily erect. Captain Elisha remained unperturbed and smiling.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he repeated. "It's been some time since you and I run across each other. I hope you're feelin' pretty smart."

Mrs. Dunn had faced some unpleasant situations in her life and had proved equal to them. Usually, however, she had been prepared beforehand. For this she had not been prepared—as yet. She had come to the offices of Sylvester, Kuhn, and Graves, at the senior partner's request, to be told, as she supposed, the full and final details of the financial disaster threatening the Warren family. If those details should prove the disaster as overwhelming as it appeared, then—well, then, certain disagreeable duties must be performed. But to meet the girl to whom her son was engaged, and whom she and he had carefully avoided meeting until the lawyers should acquaint them with the whole truth—to meet this girl, and her brother, and her guardian, thus unexpectedly and unprepared, was enough to shake the composure and nerve of even such a veteran campaigner as Mrs. M. Corcoran Dunn.

But of the three to whom the meeting was an absolute surprise,—Caroline, Malcolm and herself—she was characteristically the first to regain outward serenity. For a moment she stood nonplused and speechless, but only for a moment. Then she hastened, with outstretched arms, to Caroline and clasped her in affectionate embrace.

"My dear child!" she cried; "my dear girl! I'm so glad to see you! I've thought of you so much! And I pity you so. Poor Malcolm has—Malcolm," sharply, "come here! Don't you see Caroline?"

Malcolm was groping nervously for his hat. He picked it up and obeyed his mother's summons, though with no great eagerness.

"How d'ye do, Caroline," he stammered, confusedly. "I—I—It's a deuce of a surprise to see you down here. The mater and I didn't expect—that is, we scarcely hoped to meet anyone but Sylvester. He sent for us, you know."

He extended his hand. She did not take it.

"Did you get my letter?" she asked, quickly. Mrs. Dunn answered for him.

"Yes, dear, he got it," she said. "The poor fellow was almost crazy. I began to fear for his sanity; I did, indeed. I did not dare trust him out of my sight. Oh, if you could but know how we feel for you and pity you!"

Pity was not what Caroline wanted just then. The word jarred upon her. She avoided the lady's embrace and once more faced the embarrassed Malcolm.

"You got my letter?" she cried. "You did?"

"Yes—er—yes, I got it, Caroline. I—by Jove, you know—"

He hesitated, stammered, and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. His mother regarded him wrathfully.

"Well," she snapped, "why don't you go on? Caroline, dear, you really must excuse him. The dear boy is quite overcome."

Captain Elisha stepped forward.

"Excuse me for interruptin', ma'am," he said, addressing the ruffled matron; "but I know you're sort of surprised to see us all here and maybe I'd better explain. Mr. Sylvester told me you and your son had an appointment with him for this afternoon. Now there was something we—or I, anyhow—wanted to talk with you about, so I thought we might as well make one job of it. Sylvester's a pretty busy man, and I know he has other things to attend to; so why not let him go ahead and tell you what you come to hear, and then we can take up the other part by ourselves. He's told me what you wanted to see him about, and it's somethin' we're all interested in, bein' as we're one family—or goin' to be pretty soon. So suppose he just tells you now. Ain't that a good idea?"

Mrs. Dunn looked at the speaker, and then at the lawyer, and seemed to have caught some of her son's embarrassment.

"I—we did have an appointment with Mr. Sylvester," she admitted, reluctantly; "but the business was not important. And," haughtily, "I do not care to discuss it here."

The captain opened his eyes. "Hey?" he exclaimed. "Not important? You surprise me, ma'am. I judged 'twas mighty important. 'Twas about the real size of your father's estate, Caroline," turning to the girl. "I thought Mrs. Dunn and Mr. Malcolm must think 'twas important, for I understand they've been telephonin' and askin' for appointments for the last two days. Why, yes! and they come way down here in all this storm on purpose to talk it over with him. Am I wrong? Ain't that so, ma'am?"

It was so, and Mrs. Dunn could not well deny it. Therefore, she took refuge in a contemptuous silence. The captain nodded.

"As to discussin' it here," he went on with bland innocence, "why, we're all family folks, same as I said, and there ain't any secrets between us on that subject. So suppose we all listen while Mr. Sylvester tells just what he'd have told you and Mr. Malcolm. It's pretty hard to hear; but bad news is soon told. Heave ahead, Mr. Sylvester."

Mrs. Dunn made one more attempt to avoid the crisis she saw was approaching.

"Surely, Caroline," she said testily, "you don't wish your private affairs treated in this public manner. Come, let us go."

She laid a hand on the girl's arm. Captain Elisha quietly interposed.

"No, no," he said. "We'll all stay here. There's nothin' public about it."

Caroline, crimson with mortification, protested indignantly.

"Mr. Sylvester," she said, "it is not necessary to—"

"Excuse me;" her uncle's tone was sharper and more stern; "I think it is. Go on, Sylvester."

The lawyer looked far from comfortable, but he spoke at once and to the point.

"I should have told you and your son just this, Mrs. Dunn," he said. "I intimated it before, and Miss Warren had already written you the essential facts. A new and unexpected development, the nature of which I am not at liberty to disclose now or later, makes Abijah Warren's estate absolutely bankrupt. Not only that, but many thousand dollars in debt. His heirs are left penniless. That is the plain truth, I'm very sorry to say. There is no hope of anything better. You'll forgive me, Miss Warren, I hope, for putting it so bluntly; but I thought it best to avoid every possible misunderstanding."

It was blunt, beyond doubt. Even Captain Elisha winced at the word "penniless." Stephen muttered under his breath and turned his back. Caroline, swaying, put a hand on the table to steady herself. The Dunns looked at each other.

"Thank you, Mr. Sylvester," said the captain, quietly. "I'll see you again in a few moments."

The lawyer bowed and left the room, evidently glad to escape. Captain Elisha turned to Mrs. Dunn.

"And now, ma'am," he observed, "that part of the business is over. The next part's even more in the family, so I thought we didn't need legal advice. You see just how matters stand. My niece is a poor girl. She needs somebody to support her and look out for her. She's got that somebody, we're all thankful to say. She's engaged to Mr. Malcolm here. And, as you're his ma, Mrs. Dunn, and I'm Caroline's guardian, us old folks'll take our affairs in hand; they needn't listen, if they don't want to. I understand from Steve that Malcolm's been mighty anxious to have the weddin' day hurried along. I can't say as I blame him. And I think the sooner they're married the better. Now, how soon can we make it, Mrs. Dunn?"

This unexpected and matter-of-fact query was variously received. Mrs. Dunn frowned and flushed. Malcolm frowned, also. Steve nodded emphatic approval. As for Caroline, she gazed at her guardian in horrified amazement.

"Why!" she cried. "You—you—What do you mean by such—"

"Don't be an idiot, Caro!" cut in her brother. "I told you to be sensible. Captain Warren's dead right."

"Stevie, you stay out of this." There was no misunderstanding the captain's tone. "When I want your opinion I'll ask for it. And, Caroline, I want you to stay out, too. This is my trick at the wheel. Mrs. Dunn, what d'you say? Never mind the young folks. You and me know that marriage is business, same as everything else. How soon can we have the weddin'?"

Mrs. Dunn had, apparently, nothing to say—to him. She addressed her next remark to Caroline.

"My dear," she said, in great agitation, "this is really too dreadful. This—er—guardian of yours appears to think he is in some barbarous country—ordering the savages about. Come! Malcolm, take her away."

"No," Captain Elisha stepped in front of the door. "She ain't goin'; and I'd rather you wouldn't go yet. Let's settle this up now. I ain't askin' anything unreasonable. Caroline's under my charge, and I've got to plan for her. Your boy's just crazy to marry her; he's been beggin' for her to name the day. Let's name it. It needn't be to-morrow. I cal'late you'll want to get out invitations and such. It needn't be next week. But just say about when it can be; then I'll know how to plan. That ain't much to ask, sartin."

Much or little, neither Mrs. Dunn nor her son appeared ready to answer. Malcolm fidgeted with his hat and gloves; his mother fanned herself with her handkerchief. Caroline, frantic with humiliation and shame, would have protested again, but her guardian's stern shake of the head silenced her.

"Well, Mr. Dunn," turning to the groom-to-be; "you're one of the interested parties—what do you say?"

Malcolm ground his heel into the rug. "I don't consider it your business," he declared. "You're butting in where—"

"No, no, I ain't. It's my business, and business is just what it is. Your ma knows that. She and I had a real confidential up and down talk on love and marriage, and she's the one that proved to me that marryin' in high society, like yours and the kind Caroline's been circulatin' in, was business and mighty little else. There's a business contract between you and my niece. We want to know how soon it can be carried out, that's all."

The young man looked desperately at the door; but the captain's broad shoulders blocked the way towards it. He hesitated, scowled, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, surrendered.

"How can I marry?" he demanded sullenly. "Confound it! my salary isn't large enough to pay my own way, decently."

"Malcolm!" cried his mother, warningly.

"Well, Mater, what the devil's the use of all this? You know.... By Jove! you ought to!"

"Hold on, young feller! I don't understand. Your wages ain't large enough, you say? What do you mean? You was goin' to be married, wasn't you?"

Mrs. Dunn plunged to the rescue, a forlorn hope, but desperate, and fighting to the end.

"An outrage!" she blurted. "Malcolm, I forbid you to continue this disgusting conversation. Caroline, my poor child, I don't blame you for this, but I call on you to stop it at once. My dear, I—"

She advanced toward the girl with outstretched arms. Caroline recoiled.

"Don't! don't!" she gasped. Captain Elisha spoke up sharp and stern.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, "but I'll be obliged if you'll wait a minute. Caroline, don't you say a word. You say—you—" addressing Malcolm, "that you can't support a wife on your wages. You surprise me some, considerin' the swath you've been cuttin' on 'em—but never mind that. Maybe they won't keep automobiles and—er—other things I've heard you was interested in, but if you cut them out and economize a little, same as young married folks I've known have been glad to do, you could scrape along, couldn't you? Hey? Couldn't you?"

Malcolm's answer was another scornful shrug. "You belong on Cape Cod," he sneered. "Mater, let's get out of this."

"Wait! Put it plain now. Do I understand that you cal'late to break the engagement because my niece has lost her money? Is that it?"

Mrs. Dunn realized that the inevitable was upon them. After all, it might as well be faced now as later.

"This is ridiculous," she proclaimed. "Every sane person knows—though barbarians may not—" with a venomous glare at the captain—"that, in engagements of the kind in which my son shared, a certain amount of—er—financial—er—that is, the bride is supposed to have some money. It is expected. Of course it is! Love in a cottage is—well—a bit passe. My son and I pity your niece from the bottom of our hearts, but—there! under the circumstances the whole affair becomes impossible. Caroline, my dear, I'm dreadfully sorry, dreadfully! I love you like my own child. And poor Malcolm will be heartbroken—but—you see."

She extended her hand in a gesture of utter helplessness. Stephen, who had been fuming and repressing his rage with difficulty during the scene, leaped forward with brandished fist.

"By gad!" he shouted. "Mal Dunn, you cad—"

His uncle pushed him back with a sweep of his arm.

"Steve," he ordered, "I'm runnin' this ship." He gave a quick glance at his niece, and then added, speaking rapidly and addressing the head of the Dunn family, "I see, ma'am. Yes, yes, I see. Well, you've forgot one thing, I guess. Caroline's lived in high society, too. And I've been in it a spell, myself. And Steve's a boy, but he's got a business head. If there's nothin' in marriage but business, then an engagement is what I just called it, a business contract, and it can't be broke without the consent of both sides. You wanted Caroline's money; maybe she wants yours now. If she does, and there's such a thing as law, why, perhaps she can get it."

"That's the talk!" cried Stephen exultingly.

"Yup; perhaps she can. She may be a business woman, too, you know. If money and style and social position's what counts and she wants to force you to keep your promise, why, I'm her guardian and she can count on me to back her up. What do you say, Caroline? I'm at your service. I—"

But Caroline interrupted him.

"Stop!" she cried wildly. "Oh, stop! Do you think—do you suppose I would marry him now? Now, after I've seen what he is? Oh," with a shudder of disgust, "when I think what I might have done, I.... Thank God that the money has gone! I'm glad I'm poor! I'm glad!"

"Caro, you fool!" shrieked Stephen. She did not heed him.

"Let me go!" she cried. "Let me get away from him; from this room! I never want to see him or think of him again. Please! Please let me go! Oh, take me home! Captain Warren, please let me go home!"

Her uncle was at her side in a moment. "Yes, yes, dearie," he said, "I'll take you home. Don't give way now! I'll—"

He would have taken her arm, but she shrank from him.

"Not you!" she begged. "Steve!"

The captain's face clouded, but he answered promptly.

"Of course—Steve," he agreed. "Steve, take your sister home. Mr. Sylvester's got a carriage waitin', and he'll go with you, I don't doubt. Do as I tell you, boy—and behave yourself. Don't wait; go!"

He held the door open until the hysterical girl and her brother had departed. Then he turned to the Dunns.

"Well, ma'am," he said, dryly. "I don't know's there's anything more to be said. All the questions seem to be settled. Our acquaintance wa'n't so awful long, but it was interestin'. Knowin' you has been, as the feller said, a liberal education. Don't let me keep you any longer. Good afternoon."

He stepped away from the door. Malcolm and his mother remained standing, for an instant, where they were when Caroline left.

The young man looked as if he would enjoy choking someone, the captain preferably, but said nothing. Then Mrs. Dunn bethought herself of a way to make their exit less awkward and embarrassing.

"My heart!" she said, gasping, and with a clutch at her breast. "My poor heart! I—I fear I'm going to have one of my attacks. Malcolm, your arm—quick!"

With an expression of intense but patient suffering, and leaning heavily upon her son's arm, she moved past Captain Elisha and from the room.

* * * * *

That evening the captain stood in the lower hall of the apartment house at Central Park West, undecided what to do next. He wished more than anything else in the world to go to his niece. He would have gone to her before—had been dying to go, to soothe, to comfort, to tell her of his love—but he was afraid. His conscience troubled him. Perhaps he had been too brutal. Perhaps he shouldn't have acted as he did. Maybe forcing the Dunn fleet to show its colors could have been done more diplomatically. He had wanted her to see those colors for herself, to actually see them. But he might have overdone it. He remembered how she shrank from him and turned to her brother. She might hate him more than ever now. If so, then the whole scheme under which he was working fell to pieces.

He was worried about Steve, too. That young man would, naturally, be furious with his sister for what he would consider her romantic foolishness. He had been warned to behave himself; but would he? Captain Elisha paced up and down the marble floor before the elevator cage and wondered whether his visiting the apartment would be a wise move or a foolish one.

The elevator descended, the door of the cage opened, and Stephen himself darted out. His face was red, he was scowling fiercely, and he strode toward the street without looking in his guardian's direction.

The captain caught him as he passed.

"Here, boy!" he exclaimed; "where's the fire? Where are you bound?"

His nephew, brought thus unexpectedly to a halt, stared at him.

"Oh, it's you!" he exclaimed. "Humph! I'm bound—I don't know where I'm bound!"

"You don't, hey? Well, you can cruise a long ways on a v'yage like that. What do you mean?"

"Aw, let me alone! I'm going to the club, I guess, or somewhere. Anyhow, I won't stay with her. I told her so. Silly little idiot! By gad, she understands what I think of her conduct. I'll never speak to her again. I told her so. She—"

"Here! Belay! Stop! Who are you talking about?"

"Caro, of course. She—"

"You've run off and left her alone—to-night? Where is she?"

"Upstairs—and crying, I suppose. She doesn't do anything else. It's all she's good for. Selfish, romantic—"

He got no further, for Captain Elisha sent him reeling with a push and ran to the elevator.

"Eighth floor," he commanded.

The door of the apartment was not latched. Stephen, in his rage and hurry, had neglected such trifles. The captain opened it quietly and walked in. He entered the library. Caroline was lying on the couch, her head buried in the pillows. She did not hear him cross the room. He leaned over and touched her shoulder. She started, looked, and sat up, gazing at him as though not certain whether he was a dream or reality.

And he looked at her, at her pretty face, now so white and careworn, at her eyes, at the tear-stains on her cheeks, and his whole heart went out to her.

"Caroline, dearie," he faltered, "forgive me for comin' here, won't you? I had to come. I couldn't leave you alone; I couldn't rest, thinkin' of you alone in your trouble. I know you must feel harder than ever towards me for this afternoon's doin's, but I meant it for the best. I had to show you—don't you see? Can you forgive me? Won't you try to forgive the old feller that loves you more'n all the world? Won't you try?"

She looked at him, wide-eyed, clasping and unclasping her hands.

"I forgive you?" she repeated, incredulously.

"Yes. Try to, dearie. Oh, if you would only believe I meant it for your good, and nothin' else! If you could only just trust me and come to me and let me help you. I want you, my girl, I want you!"

She leaned forward. "Do you really mean it?" she cried. "How can you? after all I've done? after the way I've treated you? and the things I've said? You must hate me! Everyone does. I hate myself! You can't forgive me! You can't!"

His answer was to hold out his arms. Another moment and she was in them, clinging to his wet coat, sobbing, holding him fast, and begging him not to leave her, to take her away, that she would work, that she would not be a burden to him—only take her with him and try to forgive her, for he was real and honest and the only friend she had.

And Captain Elisha, soothing her, stroking her hair, and murmuring words of love and tenderness, realized that his labor and sacrifice had not been in vain, that here was his recompense; she would never misunderstand him again; she was his at last.

And yet, in the midst of his joy, his conscience troubled him more than ever.



CHAPTER XX

It was April; and May was close at hand. The weather was all that late April weather should be, and so often is not. Trees, bushes, and vines were in bud; the green of the new grass was showing everywhere above the dead brown of the old; a pair of bluebirds were inspecting the hollow of the old apple tree, with an eye toward spring housekeeping; the sun was warm and bright, and the water of the Sound sparkled in the distance. Caroline, sitting by the living-room window, was waiting for her uncle to return from the city.

In the kitchen Annie Moriarty was preparing dinner. Annie was now cook as well as chamber-maid, for, of all the Warren servants, she was the only one remaining. Edwards, the "Commodore," had been dismissed, had departed, not without reluctance but philosophically, to seek other employment. "Yes, miss," observed Edwards, when notified that his services were no longer required; "I understand. I've been expecting it. I was in a family before that met with financial difficulties, and I know the signs. All I can say is that I hope you and Mr. Stephen will get on all right, miss. If there's anything I can do to help you, by way of friendship, please let me know. I'd be glad, for old times' sake. And the cook wanted me to tell you that, being as she's got another job in sight and was paid up to date, she wouldn't wait for notice, but was leaving immediate. She's gone already, miss."

The second maid went also. But Annie, Irish and grateful, refused to go. Her mother came to back her in the refusal.

"Indeed she'll not leave you, Miss Caroline—you nor Captain Warren neither. Lord love him! Sure, d'ye think we'll ever forget what you and him done for me and my Pat and the childer? You've got to have somebody, ain't you? And Annie's cookin' ain't so bad that it'll kill yez; and I'll learn her more. Never mind what the wages is, they're big enough. She'll stay! If she didn't, I'd break her back."

So, when the apartment was given up, and Captain Elisha and his wards moved to the little house in Westchester County, Annie came with them. And her cooking, though not by any means equal to that at Delmonico's, had not killed them yet. Mrs. Moriarty came once a week to do the laundry work. Caroline acted as a sort of inexperienced but willing supervising housekeeper.

The house itself had been procured through the kind interest of Sylvester. Keeping the apartment was, under the circumstances, out of the question, and Caroline hated it and was only too anxious to give it up. She had no suggestions to make. She would go anywhere, anywhere that her guardian deemed best; but might they not please go at once? She expected that he would suggest South Denboro, and she would have gone there without a complaint. To get away from the place where she had been so miserable was her sole wish. And trusting and believing in her uncle as she now did, realizing that he had been right always and had worked for her interest throughout, and having been shown the falseness and insincerity of the others whom she had once trusted implicitly, she clung to him with an appeal almost piteous. Her pride was, for the time, broken. She was humble and grateful. She surrendered to him unconditionally, and hoped only for his forgiveness and love.

The captain did not suggest South Denboro. He did, however, tell Sylvester that he believed a little place out of the city would be the better refuge for the present.

"Poor Caroline's switched clear around," he said to the lawyer, "and you can't blame her much. She cal'lates New York's nothin' but a sham from stern to stern, manned by liars and swindlers and hypocrites and officered by thieves. 'Tain't no use to tell her 'tain't, though she might pretend to believe it, if I told her, for just now the poor girl thinks I'm Solomon and Saint Peter rolled into one. The way she agrees to whatever I say and the way she looks at me and sort of holds on to me, as if I was her only anchor in a gale, I declare it makes me feel meaner than poorhouse tea—and that's made of blackberry leaves steeped in memories of better things, so I've heard say. Am I a low down scamp, playin' a dirty mean trick on a couple of orphans? What do you think, Sylvester?"

"You know what I think, Captain Warren," replied the lawyer. "You're handling the whole matter better than any other man could handle it. No one else would have thought of it, to begin with; and the results so far prove that you're right."

"Yup. Maybe. I wish you was around to say that to me when I wake up nights and get to thinkin'. However, as I said, Caroline believes New York is like a sailors' dance hall, a place for decent folks to steer clear of. And when the feller you've been engaged to is shown up as a sneak and your own dad as a crook—well, you can't blame a green hand for holdin' prejudice against the town that raised 'em. She'll get over it; but just now I cal'late some little flat, or, better still, a little home out where the back yards ain't made of concrete, would be a first-class port for us to make for. Don't know of such a place at a reasonable rent, do you?"

"I might find one. And you may be right; your niece might like it better, though it will be somewhat of a change. But how about your nephew? He has no objection to the metropolis, I should judge. What will he say?"

"Nothin', I guess—unless he says it to himself. Steve's goin' back to New Haven with things on his mind. He and I had a mornin' service, and I was the parson. He listened, because when you ain't got a cent except what the society allows you, it ain't good orthodoxy to dodge the charity sermon. Steve'll behave, and what he don't like he'll lump. If he starts to open his mouth his ear'll ache, I cal'late. I talked turkey to that young man. Ye-es," with a slight smile, "I'm sort of afraid I lost patience with Stevie."

When Caroline first saw the little house, with its shingled sides, the dead vines over the porch, and the dry stalks of last year's flowers in the yard, her heart sank. With the wind blowing and the bare branches of the old apple tree scraping the roof and whining dolefully, it looked bleak and forsaken. It was so different, so unhomelike, and so, to her eyes, small and poverty-stricken. She made believe that she liked it, exclaimed over the view—which, on the particular day, was desolate enough—and declared the Dutch front door was "old-fashioned and dear." But Captain Elisha, watching her closely, knew that she was only waiting to be alone to give way to wretchedness and tears. He understood, had expected that she would feel thus, but he was disappointed, nevertheless. However, after the front door was passed and they were inside the house, Caroline looked about her in delighted amazement. The living room was small, but bright and warm and cheery. On its walls, hiding the rather vivid paper, were hung some of the best of Rodgers Warren's pictures—the Corot, the codfisher, and others. The furniture and rugs were those which had been in the library of the apartment, those she had been familiar with all her life. The books, many of them, were there, also. And the dining room, except for size, looked like home. So did the bedrooms; and, in the kitchen, Annie grinned a welcome.

"But how could you?" asked Caroline. "How could you keep all these things, Uncle Elisha? I thought, of course, they must all be sold. I cried when they took them away that day when we were leaving to go to the hotel. I was sure I should never see them again. And here they all are! How could you do it?"

The captain's grin was as wide as Annie's. "Oh," he explained, "I couldn't let 'em all go. Never intended to. That five thousand dollar codder up there seemed like own folks, pretty nigh. I'd have kept him, if we had to live in one room and a trunk. And we ain't got to that—yet. I tell you, dearie, I thought they'd make you feel more to home. And they do, don't they?"

The look she gave him was answer sufficient.

"But the creditors?" she asked. "That man who—they belong to him, don't they? I supposed of course they must go with the rest."

Captain Elisha winked. "There's times," he answered, "when I believe in cheatin' my creditors. This is one of 'em. Never you mind that feller you mentioned. He's got enough, confound him! He didn't have the face to ask for any more. Sylvester looked out for that. Five hundred thousand, droppin' in, as you might say, unexpected, ought to soften anybody's heart; and I judge even that feller's got some bowels of mercy."

He changed the subject hastily, but Caroline asked no more questions. She never alluded to the lost estate, never expressed any regrets, nor asked to know who it was that had seized her all. The captain had expected her to ask, had been ready with the same answer he had given Stephen, but when he hinted she herself had forbade his continuing. "Don't tell me about it," she begged. "I don't want to know any more. Father did wrong, but—but I know he did not mean to. He was a good, kind father to me, and I loved him. This man whose money he took had a right to it, and now it is his. He doesn't wish us to know who he is, so Steve says, and I'm glad. I don't want to know, because if I did I might hate him. And," with a shudder, "I am trying so hard not to hate anybody."

Her make-believe liking for the little home became more and more real as spring drew near. She began to take an interest in it, in the flower garden, in the beds beside the porch, where the peonies and daffodils were beginning to show green heads above the loam, and in the household affairs. And she had plans of her own, not connected with these. She broached them to her uncle, and they surprised and delighted him, although he would not give his consent to them entirely.

"You mustn't think," she said, "that, because I have been willing to live on your money since mine went, that I mean to continue doing it. I don't. I've been thinking a great deal, and I realize that I must earn my own way just as soon as I can. I'm not fitted for anything now; but I can be and I shall. I've thought perhaps I might learn stenography or—or something like that. Girls do."

He looked at her serious face and choked back his laugh.

"Why, yes," he admitted, "they do, that's a fact. About four hundred thousand of 'em do, and four hundred thousand more try to and then try to make business men think that they have. I heard Sylvester sputterin' about a couple in his office t'other day; said they was no good and not worth the seven dollars a week he paid 'em."

"Seven dollars a week!" she repeated.

"Yes. Course some make three times that and more; but they're the experienced ones, the good ones. And there's heaps that don't. What makes you so sot on earnin' a livin', Caroline? Ain't you satisfied with the kind I'm tryin' to give you?"

She regarded him reproachfully. "Please don't say that," she protested. "You always treat your kindness as a joke, but to me it—it—"

"There! there!" quickly. "Don't let's talk foolish. I see what you mean, dearie. It ain't the livin' but because I'm givin' it to you that troubles you. I know. Well, I ain't complainin' but I understand your feelin's and respect 'em. However, I shouldn't study type-writin', if I was you. There's too much competition in it to be comfortable, as the fat man said about runnin' races. I've got a suggestion, if you want to listen to it."

"I do, indeed. What is it?"

"Why, just this. I've been about everythin' aboard ship, but I've never been a steward. Now I'll say this much for Annie, she tried hard. She tumbled into general housekeepin' the way Asa Foster said he fell into the cucumber frame—with a jolt and a jingle; and she's doin' her best accordin' to her lights. But sometimes her lights need ile or trimmin' or somethin'. I've had the feelin' that we need a good housekeeper here. If Annie's intelligence was as broad and liberal as her shoes, we wouldn't; as 'tis, we do. I'll hire you, Caroline, for that job, if you say so."

"I? Uncle Elisha, you're joking!"

"No, I ain't. Course I realize you ain't had much experience in runnin' a house, and I hope you understand I don't want to hire you as a cook. But I've had a scheme in the back of my head for a fortni't or more. Somethin' Sylvester said about a young lady cousin of his made me think of it. Seems over here at the female college—you know where I mean—they're teachin' a new course that they've christened Domestic Science. Nigh's I can find out it is about what our great gran'marms larned at home; that, with up-to-date trimmin's. All about runnin' a house, it is; how to superintend servants, and what kind of things to have to eat, and how they ought to be cooked, and takin' care of children—Humph! we don't need that, do we?—and, well, everything that a home woman, rich or poor, ought to know. At least, she ought to 'cordin' to my old-fashioned notions. Sylvester's cousin goes there, and likes it; and I judge she ain't figgerin' to be anybody's hired help, either. My idea was about this: If you'd like to take this course, Caroline, you could do it afternoons. Mornin's and the days you had off, you could apply your science here at home, on Annie. Truly it would save me hirin' somebody else, and—well, maybe you'd enjoy it, you can't tell."

His niece seemed interested.

"I know of the Domestic Science course," she said. "Several of my friends—my former friends, were studying it. But I'm afraid, Uncle, that I don't see where earning my living has any part in it. It seems to me that it means your spending more money for me, paying my tuition."

"No more'n I'd spend for a competent housekeeper. Honest, Caroline, I'd like to do it. You think it over a spell."

She did, visiting the University and making inquiries. What she was told there decided her. She took up the course and enjoyed it. It occupied her mind and prevented her brooding over the past. She might have made many friends among the other students, but she was careful to treat them only as acquaintances. Her recent experience with "friends" was too fresh in her mind. She studied hard and applied her knowledge at home. She and Annie made some odd and funny mistakes at first, but they were not made twice, and Captain Elisha noticed a great improvement in the housekeeping. Also, Caroline's spirits improved, though more slowly.

Most evenings they spent together in the living room. She read aloud to her uncle, who smoked his cigar and listened, commenting on the doings of the story folk with characteristic originality and aptitude. Each night, after the reading was over, he wrote his customary note to Abbie Baker at South Denboro. He made one flying trip to that village: "Just to prove to 'em that I'm still alive," as he explained it. "Some of those folks down there at the postoffice must have pretty nigh forgot to gossip about me by this time. They've had me eloped and married and a millionaire and a pauper long ago, I don't doubt. And now they've probably forgot me altogether. I'll just run down and stir 'em up. Good subjects for yarns are scurce at that postoffice, and they ought to be thankful."

On his return he told his niece that he found everything much as usual. "Thoph Kenney's raised a beard 'cause shavin's so expensive; and the Come-Outer minister called the place the other denominations are bound for 'Hades,' and his congregation are thinkin' of firin' him for turnin' Free-Thinker. That's about all the sensations," he said. "I couldn't get around town much on account of Abbie. She kept me in bed most of the time, while she sewed on buttons and mended. Said she never saw a body's clothes in such a state in her life."

A few of the neighbors called occasionally. And there were other callers. Captain Elisha's unexpected departure from Mrs. Hepton's boarding house had caused a sensation and much regret to that select establishment. The landlady, aided and abetted by Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles, would have given a farewell tea in his honor, but he declined. "Don't you do it," he said. "I like my tea pretty strong, and farewells are watery sort of things, the best of 'em. And this ain't a real farewell, anyhow."

"'Say au revoir, but not good-by,'" sang Miss Sherborne sentimentally.

"That's it. Everybody knows what good-by means. We'll say the other thing—as well as we can—and change it to 'Hello' the very first time any of you come out to see us."

They were curious to know his reason for leaving. He explained that his niece was sort of lonesome and needed country air; he was going to live with her, for the present. Consequently Mrs. Ruggles, on the trail of aristocracy, was the first to call. Hers was a stately and ceremonious visit. They were glad when it was over. Lawton, the bookseller and his wife, came and were persuaded to remain and dine. Caroline liked them at sight. The most impressive call, however, was that of Mr. and Mrs. "C." Dickens. The great man made it a point to dress in the style of bygone years, and his conversation was a treat. His literary labors were fatiguing and confining, he admitted, and the "little breath of rural ozone" which this trip to Westchester County gave him, was like a tonic—yes, as one might say, a tonic prescribed and administered by Dame Nature herself.

"I formerly resided in the country," he told Caroline.

"Yes," put in his wife, "we used to live at Bayonne, New Jersey. We had such a pretty house there, that is, half a house; you see it was a double one, and—"

"Maria," her husband waved his hand, "why trouble our friends with unnecessary details."

"But it was a pretty house, 'C.,' dear," with a pathetic little sigh. "I've missed it a great deal since, Miss Warren. 'C.' had a joke about it—he's such a joker! He used to call it 'Gad's Hill, Junior.'"

"Named after some of David B.'s folks?" asked Captain Elisha innocently. The answer, delivered by Mr. Dickens, was condescending and explanatory.

Caroline laughed, actually laughed aloud, when the visit was over. Her uncle was immensely pleased.

"Hooray!" he cried. "I'll invite 'em up to stay a week. That's the fust time I've heard you laugh for I don't know when."

She laughed again. "I can't help it," she said; "they are so funny."

The captain chuckled. "Yes," he said, "and they don't know it. I cal'late a person's skull has got room for just about so much in it and no more. Cornelius Charles's head is so jammed with self-satisfaction that his sense of humor was crowded out of door long ago."

One boarder at Mrs. Hepton's did not call, nor did Captain Elisha allude to him. Caroline noticed the latter fact and understood the reason. Also, when the captain went to the city, as he frequently did, and remained longer than usual, she noticed that his explanations of the way in which he spent his time were sometimes vague and hurried. She understood and was troubled. Yet she thought a great deal on the subject before she mentioned it.

On the April afternoon when Caroline sat at the window of the living room awaiting her uncle's return she was thinking of that subject. But, at last, her mind was made up. It was a hard thing to do; it was humiliating, in a way; it might—though she sincerely hoped not—be misconstrued as to motive; but it was right. Captain Elisha had been so unselfish, so glad to give up every personal inclination in order to please her, that she would no longer permit her pride to stand in the way of his gratification, even in little things. At least, she would speak to him on the matter.

He came on a later than his usual train, and at dinner, when she asked where he had been, replied, "Oh, to see Sylvester, and—er—around." She asked him no more, but, when they were together in the living room, she moved her chair over beside his and said without looking at him:

"Uncle Elisha, I know where you've been this afternoon. You've been to see Mr. Pearson."

"Hey?" He started, leaned back and regarded her with astonishment and some alarm.

"You've been to see Mr. Pearson," she repeated, "haven't you?"

"Why—why, yes, Caroline, I have—to tell you the truth. I don't see how you knew, but," nervously, "I hope you don't feel bad 'cause I did. I go to see him pretty often. You see, I think a good deal of him—a whole lot of him. I think he's a fine young feller. Course I know you don't, and so I never mention him to you. But I do hope you ain't goin' to ask me not to see him."

She shook her head. "No," she said. "I would have no right to ask that, even if I wished to. And I do not wish it. Uncle Elisha, if you were alone here, he would come to see you; I know he would. Invite him to come, please."

His astonishment was greater than ever.

"Invite him to come here?" he asked. "To see you?"

"No," hastily; "to see you. This is your home. I have no right to keep your friends from visiting it. I know you would sacrifice everything for me, even them; but I will not be so selfish as to allow it. Ask him here, please. I really want you to."

He pulled his beard. "Caroline," he answered slowly, "I'm much obliged to you. I understand why you're doin' this, and I thank you. But it ain't likely that I'll say yes, is it? And do you suppose Jim would come if I did ask him? He knows you believe he's a—well, all that's bad. You told him so, and you sent him away. I will give in that I'd like to have him here. He's one of the few men friends I've made since I landed in New York. But, under the circumstances—you feelin' as you do—I couldn't ask him, and he wouldn't come if I did."

She remained silent for a time. Then she said: "Uncle, I want you to tell me the truth about Mr. Pearson and father—just why they quarreled and the real truth of the whole affair. Don't spare my feelings; tell me what you believe is the true story. I know you think Mr. Pearson was right, for you said so."

The captain was much troubled.

"I—I don't know's I'd better, dearie," he answered. "I think I do know the truth, but you might think I was hard on 'Bije—on your father. I ain't. And I sympathize with the way he felt, too. But Jim did right, as I see it. He acted just as I'd want a son of mine to do. And.... Well, I cal'late we'd better not rake up old times, had we?"

"I want you to tell me. Please do."

"I don't know's I'd better. You have been told the story different, and—"

"I know I have. That is the reason why I ask you to tell it. Oh," with a flash of scorn, "I was told many stories, and I want to forget them. And," sadly, "I can bear whatever you may tell me, even about father. Since I learned that he was a—a—"

"S-sh, Caroline; don't!"

"After that, I can bear anything, I think. This cannot be worse."

"Worse! No, not! This ain't very bad. I will tell you, dearie. This is just what happened."

He told her the exact truth concerning the Trolley Combine, his brother's part in it, and Pearson's. She listened without comment.

"I see," she said when he had finished. "I think I see. Mr. Pearson felt that, as a newspaper man, an honest one, he must go on. He knew that the thing was wrong and that innocent people might lose money in it. It was his duty to expose it, and he did it, even though it meant the loss of influence and of father's friendship. I see."

"That was about it, Caroline. I think the hardest part for him was when 'Bije called him ungrateful. 'Bije had been mighty kind to him, that's a fact."

"Yes. Father was kind; I know that better than anyone else. But Mr. Pearson was right. Yes, he was right, and brave."

"So I size it up. And I do sympathize with your father, too. This wa'n't such an awful lot worse than a good many stock deals. And poor 'Bije was perfectly desp'rate, I guess. If it had gone through he'd have been able to square accounts with the Rubber Company; and just think what that would have meant to him. Poor feller! poor feller!" He sighed. She reached for his hand and stroked it gently with her own.

After another interval she said: "How I insulted and wronged him! How he must despise me!"

"Who? Jim? No, no! he don't do any such thing. He knows you didn't understand, and who was responsible. Jim's got sense, lots of it."

"But it is my misunderstanding and my insulting treatment of him which have kept you two apart—here, at any rate."

"Don't let that worry you, Caroline. I see him every once in a while, up to the city."

"It does worry me; and it will, until it is made right. And," in a lower tone, but with decision, "it shall be."

She rose and, bending over, kissed him on the forehead. "Good night, Uncle," she said.

Captain Elisha was disappointed. "What!" he exclaimed. "Goin' aloft so soon? We ain't had our readin' yet. Pretty early to turn in, seems to me. Stay a little longer, do."

"Not to-night, dear. I'm going to my room. Please excuse me this time." She turned to go and then, turning back again, asked a final question.

"You're sure," she said, hesitatingly; "you're quite sure he will not come here—to you—if you tell him I understand, and—and you ask him?"

"Well, Caroline, I don't know. You see, I was responsible for his comin' before. He had some scruples against it then, but I talked him down. He's sort of proud, Jim is, and he might—might not want to—to—"

"I see. Good night, Uncle."

The next morning, after breakfast, she came to him again.

"Uncle Elisha," she said, "I have written him."

"What? You've written? Written who?"

"Mr. Pearson. I wrote him, telling him I had learned the true story of his disagreement with father and that he was right and I was wrong. I apologized for my behavior toward him. Now, I think, perhaps, if you ask him, he will come."

The captain looked at her. He realized the sacrifice of her pride which writing that letter must have meant, and that she had done it for him. He was touched and almost sorry she had done it. He took both her hands in his.

"Dearie," he said, "you shouldn't have done that. I didn't expect you to. I know you did it just for my sake. I won't say I ain't glad; I am, in one way. But 'twa'n't necessary, and 'twas too much, too hard for you altogether."

"Don't say that," she begged. "Too much! I never can do enough. Compared to what you have done for me it—it.... Oh, please let me do what little I can. But, Uncle Elisha, promise me one thing; promise that you will not ask me to meet him, if he should come. That I couldn't do, even for you."



CHAPTER XXI

Promises of that kind are easier to make than to keep. The captain promised promptly enough, but the Fates were against him. He made it his business to go to town the very next day and called upon his friend. He found the young man in a curiously excited and optimistic frame of mind, radically different from that of the past few months. The manuscript of the novel was before him on the desk, also plenty of blank paper. His fountain-pen was in his hand, although apparently, he had written nothing that morning. But he was going to—oh, yes, he was going to! He was feeling just in the mood. He had read his manuscript, and it was not so bad; by George, some of the stuff was pretty good! And the end was not so far off. Five or six chapters more and the thing would be finished. He would have to secure a publisher, of course, but two had already expressed an interest; and so on.

Captain Elisha drew his own conclusions. He judged that his niece's letter had reached its destination. He did not mention it, however, nor did Pearson. But when the captain hinted at the latter's running out to the house to see him some time or other, the invitation was accepted.

"That's fine, Jim," declared the visitor. "Come any time. I want you to see what a nice little place I've got out there. Don't stand on ceremony, come—er—next week, say." Then, mindful of his promise, he added, "You and I'll have it all to ourselves. I've been cal'latin' to hire a sail-boat for the summer; got my eye on a capable little sloop belongin' to a feller on the Sound shore. If all goes well I'll close the deal in a few days. I'll meet you at the depot and we'll have a sail and get dinner at a hotel or somewheres, and then we'll come up to the house and take a whack at Cap'n Jim's doin's in the new chapters. Just you and I together in the settin' room; hey?"

Pearson did not seem so enthusiastic over this programme, although he admitted that it sounded tip-top.

"How is Miss Warren?" he asked, mentioning the name with a nonchalance remarkable, considering that he had not done so before for weeks. "She is well, I hope?"

"Yes, she's fust-rate, thank you. Very well, everything considered. She keeps to herself a good deal. Don't care to meet many folks, and you can't hardly blame her."

Pearson admitted that, and the remainder of the call was largely a monologue by Captain Elisha.

"Well, then, Jim," said the latter, when he rose to go, "you come up Monday or Tuesday of next week. Will you?"

"Yes. I—I think so."

"Don't think, do it. Let me know what train you're comin' on, and I'll meet you at the depot."

This last remark was what upset calculations. Pearson came on Monday, having written the day before. He did not mail the note himself, but trusted it to Mrs. Hepton, who was going out to attend evening service. She forgot it until the next day. So it happened that when he alighted from the train at the suburban station the captain was not there to meet him. He waited a while, and then, inquiring the way of the station agent, walked up to the house by himself. As he turned in at the front walk, Caroline came out of the door. They met, face to face.

It was a most embarrassing situation, particularly for Caroline; yet, with feminine resourcefulness, she dissembled her embarrassment to some extent and acknowledged his stammered, "Good afternoon, Miss Warren," with a cool, almost cold, "How do you do, Mr. Pearson?" which chilled his pleasure at seeing her and made him wish devoutly that he had not been such a fool as to come. However, there he was, and he hastily explained his presence by telling her of the captain's invitation for that day, how he had expected to meet him at the station, and, not meeting him, had walked up to the house.

"Is he in?" he asked.

No, Captain Elisha was not in. He had gone to see the sail-boat man. Not hearing from his friend, he concluded the latter would not come until the next day.

"He will be so sorry," said Caroline.

Pearson was rather thankful than otherwise. The captain's absence afforded him an opportunity to escape from a place where he was plainly unwelcome.

"Oh, never mind," he said. "It is not important. I can run out another day. Just tell him I called, Miss Warren, please; that I wrote yesterday, but my letter must have gone astray. Good afternoon."

He was turning to go, but she stopped him. She had fully made up her mind that, when he came, she would not meet him—remembering how she had treated him on the evening of her birthday, she would be ashamed to look him in the face. Besides, she could not meet him after writing that letter; it would be too brazen; he would think—all sorts of things. When he visited her uncle she would remain in her room, or go to the city or somewhere.

But now she had met him. And he had come in response to her uncle's invitation, given because she herself had pleaded that it should be. To let him go away would be rude and ridiculous; and how could she explain to the captain?

"You mustn't go, Mr. Pearson," she said. "You must come in and wait; Captain Warren will be back soon, I'm sure."

"Thank you; but I think I won't wait. I can come another time."

"But you must wait. I insist. Uncle Elisha will be dreadfully disappointed if you don't. There isn't a train for an hour, and he will return before that, I am sure. Please come in."

Pearson was reluctant, but he could think of no reasonable excuse. So he entered the house, removed his overcoat and hat, and seated himself in the living room to await the captain's return. Caroline excused herself, saying that she had an errand at the shop in the village. She made that errand as long as she could, but when she returned he was still there, and Captain Elisha had not appeared.

The conversation was forced, for a time. Each felt the embarrassment, and Pearson was still resentful of the manner in which she had greeted him on his arrival. But, as he looked at her, the resentment vanished, and the other feeling, that which he had determined to forget, returned. Captain Elisha had told him how brave she had been through it all, and, contrasting the little house with the former home, remembering the loss of friends and fortune, to say nothing of the unmasking of those whom she believed were her nearest and dearest, he wondered and admired more than ever. He understood how very hard it must have been for her to write that letter to him, a letter in which she justified his course at the cost of her own father's honor. He longed to tell her that he understood and appreciated.

At last he could not resist the temptation.

"Miss Warren," he said, "please excuse my speaking of this, but I must; I must thank you for writing me as you did. It was not necessary, it was too much to expect, too hard a thing for you to do. It makes me feel guilty. I—"

"Please don't!" she interrupted. "Don't speak in that way. It was right. It was what I should have done long ago."

"But it was not necessary; I understood. I knew you had heard another version of the story and that you felt I had been ungrateful and mean, to say the least, in my conduct toward your father. I knew that; I have never blamed you. And you writing as you did—"

"I did it for my uncle's sake," she broke in, quickly. "You are his closest friend."

"I know, but I appreciate it, nevertheless. I—I wish you would consider me your friend as well as his. I do, sincerely."

"Thank you. I need friends, I know. I have few now, which is not strange," rather bitterly.

He protested earnestly. "I did not mean it in that way," he said. "It is an honor and a great privilege to be one of your friends. I had that honor and privilege once. May I have it again?"

"Thank you, Mr. Pearson.... Now tell me about your novel. I remember it all so well. And I am very much interested. You must have it nearly completed. Tell me about it, please."

They were deep in the discussion of the novel when Captain Elisha walked into the living room. He was surprised, stating his feelings at their mildest, to find them together, but he did not express his astonishment. Instead, he hailed Pearson delightedly, demanded to know if they had dared tackle Cap'n Jim without the "head doctor's" being on the scene; and insisted upon the author's admitting him to the "clinic" forthwith. Pearson did not take the next train, nor the next. Instead, he stayed for dinner and well into the evening, and when he did go it was after a prompt acceptance of the captain's invitation to "come again in a mighty little while."

Caroline, when she and her uncle were alone after their visitor's departure, made no protest against the invitation having been given. She did not speak of Pearson at all. Captain Elisha also talked of other things, principally about the sail-boat, the summer lease of which he had arranged that afternoon. He declared the sloop to be an "able craft of her tonnage" and that they would have some good times aboard her or he missed his guess. In his own room, when ready for bed, he favored his reflection in the glass with a broad smile and a satisfied wink, from which proceeding it may be surmised that the day had not been a bad one, according to his estimate.

Pearson came again a week later, and thereafter frequently. The sessions with Cap'n Jim and his associates were once more regular happenings to be looked forward to and enjoyed by the three. As the weather grew warmer, the sloop—Captain Elisha had the name she formerly bore painted out and Caroline substituted—proved to be as great a source of pleasure as her new skipper had prophesied. He and his niece—and occasionally Pearson—sailed and picnicked on the Sound, and Caroline's pallor disappeared under the influence of breeze and sunshine. Her health improved, and her spirits, also. She seemed, at times, almost happy, and her uncle seldom saw her, as after the removal to the suburb he so frequently used, with tears in her eyes and the sadness of bitter memories in her expression and manner. Her work at the University grew steadily more difficult, but she enjoyed it thoroughly and declared that she would not give it up for worlds.

In June two very important events took place. The novel was finished, and Stephen, his Sophomore year at an end, came home from college. He had been invited by some classmates to spend a part of his vacation with them on the Maine coast, and his guardian had consented to his doing so; but the boy himself had something else to propose. On an evening soon after his return, when, his sister having retired, he was alone with the captain, he broached the idea.

"Say," he said, "I've been thinking a good deal while I've been away this last time."

"Glad to hear it, I'm sure," replied his uncle, dryly.

"Yes. I've been thinking—about a good many things. I'm flat broke; down and out, so far as money is concerned. That's so, isn't it?"

Captain Elisha looked at him keenly for an instant. Then:

"It appears that way, I'm afraid," he answered. "What made you ask?"

"Nothing. I wasn't asking, really; I was just stating the case. Now, the way I look at it, this college course of mine isn't worth while. You're putting up for it, and I ought to be much obliged; I am, of course."

"You're welcome, Stevie."

"I know; but what's the use of it? I've got to go to work when it's over. And the kind of work I want to do doesn't need university training. I'm just wasting time; that's what I'm doing."

"Humph! I ain't so sure about that. But what sort of work do you want to do?"

"I want to be down on the Street, as the governor was. If this Rubber Company business hadn't knocked us out, I intended, as soon as I was of age, to take that seat of his and start in for myself. Well, that chance has gone, but I mean to get in some way, though I have to start at the foot of the ladder. Now why can't I leave college and start now? It will be two years gained, won't it?"

Captain Elisha seemed pleased, but he shook his head.

"How do you know you'd like it?" he asked. "You've never tried."

"No, I never have; but I'll like it all right. I know I shall. It's what I've wanted to do ever since I was old enough to think of such things. Just let me start in now, right away, and I'll show you. I'll make good; you see if I don't."

He was very earnest. The captain deliberated before answering.

"Stevie," he said, doubtfully, "I rather like to hear you talk that way; I own up it pleases me. But, as to your givin' up college—that's different. Let me think it over for a day or two; that is, if you can put off the Maine trip so long as that."

"Hang the Maine trip! You let me get into business, the business I want to get into, and I won't ask for a vacation; you can bet on that!"

"All right then. I'll think, and do some questionin' around, and report soon's I've decided what's best."

He laid the stump of his cigar in the ash receiver and rose from his chair. But his nephew had not finished.

"There was something else I intended to say," he announced, but with less eagerness.

"That so? What?"

"Why—why, just this." He fidgeted with his watch chain, colored and was evidently uneasy. "I guess—" he hesitated—"I guess that I haven't treated you as I ought."

"I want to know! You guess that, hey? Why?"

"Oh, you know why. I've been thinking since I went back to New Haven. I've had a chance to think. Some of the fellows in the set I used to be thick with up there have learned that I'm broke, and they—they aren't as friendly as they were. Not all of them, of course, but some. And I wouldn't chase after them; not much! If they wanted to drop me they could. You bet I didn't try to hang on! I was pretty sore for a while and kept to myself and—well, I did a lot of thinking. I guess Caro is right; you've been mighty decent to her and me."

He paused, but Captain Elisha made no comment.

"I guess you have," continued Stephen, soberly. "When you first came, you know, Caroline and I couldn't understand. We thought you were butting in and weren't our sort, and—and—"

"And a hayseed nuisance generally; I know. Heave ahead, son; you interest me."

"Well, we didn't like it. And Mal Dunn and his mother were always sympathizing and insinuating, and we believed they were our best friends, and all that. So we didn't try to understand you or—or even make it livable for you. Then, after the news came that the money had gone, I acted like a kid, I guess. That business of making Mal stick to the engagement was pretty silly. I was nearly desperate, you see, and—and—you knew it was silly. You never took any stock in it, did you?"

The captain smiled.

"Not a heap," he admitted.

"No. All you wanted was to show them up. Well, you did it, and I'm glad you did. But Caro and I have talked it over since I've been home, and we agree that you've been a great deal better to us than we deserve. You didn't have to take care of us at all, any more, after the money went. By gad! considering how we treated you, I don't see why you did. I wouldn't. But you did—and you are. You've given us a home, and you're putting me through college and—and—"

"That's all right, son. Good night."

"Just a minute. I—I—well, if you let me, I'd like to thank you and—and ask your pardon."

"Granted, my boy. And never mind the thanks, either. Just keep on thinkin' and actin' as you have to-night, and I'll be satisfied. I want to see my nephew makin' a man of himself—a real man; and, Steve, you talk more like a man to-night than I've ever heard you. Stick to it, and you'll do yet. As for goin' to work, you let me chew on that for a few days."

The next morning he called on Sylvester, who in turn took him to a friend of his, a broker—employing a good-sized staff of clerks. The three had a consultation, followed, the day after, by another. That evening the captain made a definite proposal to Stephen. It was, briefly, that, while not consenting to the latter's leaving college, he did consider that a trial of the work in a broker's office might be a good thing. Therefore, if the young man wished, he could enter the employ of Sylvester's friend and remain during July and August.

"You'll leave about the first of September, Steve," he said, "and that'll give you time for the two weeks vacation that you ought to have. Then you can go back to Yale and pitch in till the next summer, when the same job'll be ready for you. After you're through college for good, if what you've learned about brokerin' ain't cured you of your likin' for it—if you still want to go ahead with it for your life job, then—well, then we'll see. What do you say?"

Stephen had a good deal to say, principally in the line of objection to continuing his studies. Finding these objections unavailing, he agreed to his guardian's proposition.

"All right," said the captain; "then you can go to work next Monday. But you'll have to work, and be just the same as any other beginner, no better and no worse. There'll be no favoritism, and, if you're really wuth your salt, you won't want any. Show 'em, and me, that you're wuth it."

The novel, the wonderful tale which Captain Elisha was certain would make its author famous, was finished that very day in June when Stephen came back from New Haven. The question of title remained, and the "clinic," now reenforced by Steve—whose dislike for Pearson had apparently vanished with others of his former likes and dislikes—considered that at several sessions. At last "The Man at the Wheel" was selected, as indicating something of the hero's profession and implying, perhaps, a hint of his character. Then came the fateful task of securing a publisher. And the first to whom it was submitted—one of the two firms which had already expressed a desire to read the manuscript—accepted it, at what, for a first novel, were very fair terms. During the summer there was proof to be read and illustrations to be criticized. Captain Elisha did not wholly approve of the artist's productions.

"Jerushy!" he exclaimed, "look at that mainmast! Look at the rake of it! More like a yacht than a deep-water bark, she is enough sight. And the fust mate's got a uniform cap on, like a purser on a steamboat. Make that artist feller take that cap off him, Jim. He's got to. I wish he could have seen some of my mates. They wa'n't Cunarder dudes, but they could make a crew hop 'round like a sand-flea in a clam bake."

Or, when the picture happened to be a shore view:

"What kind of a house is that? Did you ever see a house like that Down-East? I'll leave it to anybody if it don't look like a sugar man's plantation I used to know down Mobile way. All that feller standin' by the door needs is to have his face blacked; then he'd start singin' 'S'wanee River.' This ain't 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' Bah!"

The advance copy, the first one, was ready early in September, and the author, of course, brought it immediately to his friends. They found the dedication especially interesting: "To C. W. and E. W., consulting specialists at the literary clinics, with grateful acknowledgments." Probably Captain Elisha was never prouder of anything, even his first command, than of that dedication.

And the story, when at last it appeared for sale, was almost from the beginning a success. The reviewers praised it, the reading public—that final court of appeal which makes or unmakes novels—took kindly to it, and discussed and recommended it; and, most important of all, perhaps, it sold and continued to sell. There was something in it, its humanity, its simplicity, its clearly marked characters, which made a hit. Pearson no longer needed to seek publishers; they sought him. His short stories were bid for by the magazines, and his prices climbed and climbed. He found himself suddenly planted in the middle of the highway to prosperity, with a clear road ahead of him, provided he continued to do his best.

In September Stephen gave up his work at the broker's office, spent the weeks with his friends in Maine, and then returned to Yale. He gave up the position on the Street with reluctance. He was sure he liked it now, he declared. It was what he was fitted for, and he meant, more than ever, to take it up permanently as soon as he was free. And his employer told Captain Elisha that the youngster was bright, clever, and apt. "A little conceited, needs taking down occasionally, but that is the only trouble. He has been spoiled, I should imagine," he said.

"Yup," replied the captain, with emphasis; "your imagination's a good one. It don't need cultivatin' any."

The novel being out of the way, and its successor not yet far enough advanced in plot or general plan for much discussion, the "literary clinics" were no longer as frequent. But Pearson's visits to the Warren house were not discontinued. All summer long he had been coming out, once, and usually twice, a week. Captain Elisha had told him not to stand on formality, to come any time, and he did. On most of these occasions he found the captain at home; but, if only Caroline was there, he seemed quite contented. She did not remark on the frequency of his visits. In fact, she mentioned him less and less in conversation with her uncle. But, as the autumn came and moved towards its prime she seemed, to the captain's noticing eye, a trifle more grave, a little more desirous of being by herself. Sometimes he found her sitting by the open fire—pleasant in the cool October evenings—and gazing very soberly at the blaze. She had been in good spirits, more merry and light-hearted than he had ever seen her, during the latter part of the summer; now her old sadness seemed to be returning. It would have troubled him, this change in her mood, if he had not believed he knew the cause.

He was planning a glorious Thanksgiving. At least, it would be glorious to him, for he intended spending the day, and several days, at his own home in South Denboro. Abbie Baker had made him promise to do it, and he had agreed. He would not leave Caroline, of course; she was going with him. Steve would be there, though he would not come until Thanksgiving Day itself. Sylvester, also, would be of the party; he seemed delighted at the opportunity.

"I'm curious to see the place where they raise fellows like you," the lawyer said. "It must be worth looking at."

"Graves don't think so," chuckled the captain. "I invited him, and he said, 'No, thank you' so quick that the words was all telescoped together. And he shivered, too, when he said it; just as if he felt that sou'west gale whistlin' between his bones even now. I told him I'd pretty nigh guarantee that no more trees would fall on him, but it didn't have any effect."

Pearson was asked and had accepted. His going was so far a settled thing that he had commissioned Captain Elisha to purchase a stateroom for him on the Fall River boat; for of course the captain would not consider their traveling the entire distance by train. At an interview in the young man's room in the boarding house, only three days before the date set for the start, he had been almost as enthusiastic as the Cape Codder himself. The pair had planned several side excursions, time and weather permitting, among them a trip across the Sound to Setuckit Point, with the possibility of some late sea-fowl shooting and a long tramp to one of the life-saving stations, where Pearson hoped to pick up material for his new book. He was all anticipation and enthusiasm when the captain left him, and said he would run out to the house the following day, to make final arrangements.