"I bet there's something sewed inside that lining!" he commented after a moment's examination. "Let's open her up!"
"No!" cried Peaches, snatching it back. "If there is it's none of our business. I'll just take care of it, thanks! And now about money—our not having any lets us out of the hotel plan, Dick; and anyhow if we cash a check we can't do it before to-morrow. In order to get into a decent hotel without any bags we'd have to prove who we are, and then pa would spot us first thing in the morning."
"Besides which, if Sandro is really at this Hoboken address, he will very likely be gone by morning," I added; "if indeed he has not already left."
"You said it!" cried Peaches. "Come on, let's go! The Lord only knows when that ex-sheriff of a parent of mine will have a posse on my trail!"
We acted upon this, the combined wisdom of all three of us, and paying our modest indebtedness to the midnight-luncheon establishment, betook ourselves back to the automobile and the pursuit of our quest.
How silent are the busy marts of Manhattan in the small hours of the night! With her pearl-like lamps the only sentinels along our way, we sped into Broadway and thence across the park and down Fifth Avenue almost as rapidly as we had proceeded along the Albany highway from Ossining, turning west at some side street evidently familiar to Richard, the chauffeur, since the days of his debarkation, and sped toward a westbound ferryboat.
It was a great comfort to me to realize that the city of Hoboken itself would not be wholly unfamiliar to him either, inasmuch as he had left for Europe from that port as a soldier, and had again visited it in the same capacity two years later upon his return. Therefore, he could, of course, be relied upon to know something about the place, and just how undesirable he considered the section for which we were headed might be. It did not, however, occur to me to question him on this point until the lights of the opposite shore were drawing near. We had remained seated in the auto, which was driven bodily upon the lower section of the ferryboat.
"Richard," I said, "do you consider the section for which we are bound a residential one?"
"I do not!" he responded promptly. "I'll say the inhabitants usually make about a week-end of it before they are invited to Sing Sing. I wish I had thought to bring a gun along!"
"If a revolver will do as well," said I, "I have one upon my person. It is that which I obtained from that gambling creature in Monte Carlo."
"Good girl, Aunt Mary!" he exclaimed. "Slip it to me, will you?"
"In order to do so I must retire to the ladies' cabin," I replied with dignity, "inasmuch as it is attached to my—my garter."
"Well, if you aren't a caution to rattlesnakes!" exclaimed he. "All right, sport, only hurry up, for we'll be landing in a few minutes now."
I alighted from the rear of the machine with all possible celerity and made my way upstairs to the higher deck and the retreat which I sought. Putting the firearm into my reticule I was about to descend when the sight of a familiar figure standing on the front deck of the vessel, his face sharply outlined against the light, arrested my action and my attention.
It was the detective named Pedro—he who had posed as night watchman at the villa—and he was standing right where he could not fail to see our car and recognize its occupants the moment we drove out to land.
It was an emergency and I steeled myself to meet it intelligently. If I were to go below at once all I could accomplish would be the warning of my companions. Still, what better course offered? None that I could see at first. Pedro had not seen me as yet, but continued to stand looking out toward the Jersey shore. And while I hesitated as to what I should do the Divine Providence which looks after lovers put a means of eluding him into my very hands, as it were.
From a door close beside me and which was marked "Private" in large letters, there at this moment emerged a man in overalls. The door swung to behind him, locking with a snap, and an instant later he discovered that he had left something in the cabin and being in a great hurry swore shockingly as he fumbled with his keys, for he was obliged to unlock the door, which fastened with a spring lock, before he could get back into the place. The dock was very close now, and the bell was clanging loudly. In another moment we would have touched. The mechanic's haste was frantic, which, of course, caused him some further delay, but at length he succeeded in opening the door again. On the instant finding myself unobserved I slid about a quarter of my little pack of playing cards into the jamb of the door. They were just of a sufficient thickness to allow the door to shut without permitting it to lock. The mechanic having found what he wanted came out, swung the door, as he supposed, closed, and went on his way.
Hardly had he vanished down the stairs when Pedro saw me and at once approached, raising his hat with a sarcastic politeness that thinly veiled a sneer. And as he came I knew for certain that he was the man whom it had twice already been my pleasure to foil. Nevertheless, I greeted him pleasantly enough.
"Ah—good evening!" said I. "You are looking for Mr. Markheim, I suppose?"
Well, the fellow looked a good deal surprised at that, but he wouldn't admit it—not he.
"Yes, of course," said he, to draw me out.
"This is splendid!" I said heartily. "We were afraid our telegram hadn't reached you. He's just inside in this cabin. Won't you go in?"
The room lighted automatically as the door was pushed inward. He entered, I pulled out the cards and slammed the door behind him just as the clamor of our arrival at the hospitable Hoboken shores drowned out all immediate danger of his cries being heard.
But I ran down the stairs to the car like—like the very deuce, as my dear father used to say. And climbing into my place I leaned over and slipped the revolver into Dick's pocket.
"Drive like Sam Hill!" I commanded in a fierce undertone. "I've just locked Pedro into the fireman's washroom and he's not going to like it very much!"
XVII
I made this remark with a pleasant smile to give the appearance of passing a joke, in case Pedro's partner should prove to be on board and watching us. Dicky smiled back, but nevertheless acted upon my hint without delay; and as a combined result of our smiling faces the gateman grinned as well and permitted our car to debark first.
The delay on the pier, where we were obliged to proceed at a snail's pace, was a dreadful strain. Suppose that Pedro's cries were to be heard, and, rescued, he bore down upon us? I shuddered at the thought. But at length we were past officialdom and speeding up the hill and into the city's silent and deserted ways. Dicky turned his head to question me, almost colliding with a lamp-post by so doing, but his usual nonchalant skill saving us by a hair—or so it appeared to me.
"Now what the devil did you say you did?" he wanted to know.
"Pedro—the detective," I said—"I locked him up on the boat!" I repeated.
"Good heavens, Freedom! How?" cried Peaches.
I told them briefly. Richard, the chauffeur, gave a long whistle.
"Then it's more than likely we are headed right!" said he. "Gosh Almighty, Aunt Mary, I hope I never get in wrong with you!"
"Why?" I demanded. "I simply do the obvious thing as occasion arises."
"Well, give us a little advance notice when you are going to pull something out of the usual," he replied cryptically, and turned his attention back to the car—for which I felt profoundly grateful—and to scanning the corner lamps for the name of the avenue for which we were seeking.
Fortunately the streets were literally deserted and so we escaped notice. If any one had followed us from the ferry he would have been visible many blocks away. The only living creature we passed in fifty squares was a maraudering cat which shot across our path like a black arrow.
"Good luck!" commented Peaches.
But the remark failed to reassure me, for by now we had discovered and turned into our avenue, and its aspect was most decidedly not residential. In point of fact it could hardly be said to contain houses, much less anything worthy of being dignified by the name of residence. It was quite unlike any part of Boston with which I was acquainted, and I did not fancy its atmosphere, which was redolent of gas, to say the least. Moreover, it was not at all a suitable place for a duke to live, even when in retirement from the police. I should have felt something on upper Fifth Avenue much more fitting—say, in a secret chamber in the neighborhood of the Plaza. Or in the half-ruinous mansion of some aristocrat out at, let us say at Hempstead, which I understand contains many fine old estates.
The quarter through which we were proceeding was impossible—simply impossible! I trust that there is very little of the snob in me, at least of that species of snob which cannot distinguish between genteel poverty and common poverty. Mere shabbiness is no cause for losing caste, as I myself know full well. And so I would have said nothing to a shabby neighborhood. But this was not even, properly speaking, a neighborhood, being as it was, chiefly composed of gas tanks which towered heavenward in shadowy menace, of warehouses with blank faces, and unpleasant odors.
Between these at rare intervals were sandwiched little groups of houses—part of what might originally have been rather a fine terrace. Three-story brick affairs, they were, that once might have looked out upon the river before their giant neighbors had risen to obstruct the view. They stood in little groups of three or four, huddled together and squeezed on either hand by elbowing dirty lofts or other commercial tramps of buildings. Most of them appeared to be used for the storing of hides, to judge from the refuse in the street before them; some had been ruined by fire without being demolished, others gaped with broken windows behind their "For Sale" signs—drearily awaiting purchasers who never came.
But here and there among them were a few which gave indication that human beings still used them as habitations—a dirty window curtain, a set of battered shades, a stoop less cluttered than those of the neighbors. And occasionally a dingy notice that there were furnished rooms to be had. But nowhere any light. It was like a city of the dead,—or like a town long abandoned. It was difficult indeed to realize that on the morrow—nay, later on in this very morning—the place would be a busy waterfront.
It was before one of these poor houses that Richard, the chauffeur, at length came to a halt; and exceptionally moldy and uninviting specimen it was, with the storage terminal of some exporting company on the one hand of it and a string of unsavory-looking lodgings upon the other. The number for which we were looking was discernible, though scarcely legible above its closed storm doors—Number 1162. There could be no mistake. It was our destination. But it certainly did not look inviting, from cellar to attic the shutters, though sagging precariously on their hinges, were closed, and the areaway was obstructed by empty crates, evidently refuse from its business neighbor.
"It doesn't look as if a soul were home," I observed. "How very disappointing!"
"Houses that refugees are hiding in don't exactly open up like hotels," observed Dicky dryly. "The question now is, how do we get invited in without bringing a lot of attention on ourselves?"
"Well, there's no use sitting here discussing such things!" I snapped, taking out my dear father's chronometer and looking at it under the light of the nearest lamp. "It is now fifteen minutes of three o'clock. I suggest we take some action. We can't stay here, that's plain. Listen to that thunder, will you? I wish I had worn my other hat! I just knew it was going to rain!"
"We might go up and ring the bell," suggested Peaches, climbing to the sidewalk. "That hasn't failed yet, you know."
"Since we have been fools enough to come without any definite plan," agreed Dick Talbot, "I suppose we may as well act as if it were an ordinary call. But first I'm going to run the bus round the corner and park it out of sight. They'll be more apt to open up."
He left the motor running and assisted me to alight and then drove off to fulfil this plan, returning presently on foot, whereat we ascended the broken steps together, and Richard gave the old-fashioned bell knob a vigorous pull. Faintly from below came the sound of it in due time, a harsh jangle as when a bell clangs in an empty echoing room. Then he waited, but no other sound broke the stillness.
"Try again," said Peaches after several minutes had elapsed.
And there really being nothing else to do, Dicky obeyed, with no better result. Once the faint echoes of its ringing had died away within the building all was as silent as the tomb. A cat wailed suddenly from some hidden fence, causing us to start, but that was all.
"There may be some other way in," said Richard in a low voice. "Though this is certainly the right number."
"And it may be that nobody lives here too," said I dryly, "and that we have come upon a fool's errand!"
"You knew we were chancing that!" snapped Peaches. "But I won't be satisfied to go away now—let's try the lower door!"
Well, I could not see what sense there was in that, though our escort agreed. And so the two descended from the high stoop and vanished into the darkness of the areaway, amid the crates that were heaped within it, while I remained at the main entrance. The few drops of rain which had been falling when we arrived were rapidly increasing in number and force, and the thunder drew nearer and nearer with angry mutterings.
Bitterly regretting that I had ever risked my best hat upon an adventure which seemed doomed to so tame an ending I withdrew myself from the open stoop and sought what scant shelter the outer ledge of the storm door afforded, flattening myself as much as possible and hoping devoutly that my ostrich tips would recurl nicely.
From below came the sound of a bell, another bell this time, but ringing in just as desolate a way as that of the front door. Again silence except for that wretched feline. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps. Some one was coming down the street!
The steps were not very loud to be sure, the newcomer being soft shod, and after a moment I realized that Peaches and Dicky, being intent upon their immediate occupation, and furthermore, cut off from this approach by being on the far side of the solid masonry of the high stoop, did not hear him. It flashed across my mind that policemen did not usually wear sneakers or rubber soles to their shoes, and that therefore this was not the roundsman of the beat. In confirmation of this supposition was the fact that whoever was approaching was in a hurry—not running, but coming on with a quick light step, very unlike the heavy deliberate tread of a night watchman wearing away the hours at his post.
Therefore I very cautiously stuck my head round the corner, only to withdraw it instantly and remain motionless, soundless, against the door. It was a man who was approaching, his arms filled with bundles such as would indicate a visit to some all-night grocery or, more likely, delicatessen store; and his enormous height made him unmistakable. It was Sandro.
All unknowing what awaited him, he ran lightly up the steps, glancing up and down the street as he did so. And as he reached the top step I fell upon him from the shadow, throwing both my arms round his neck and causing him to spill a half dozen oranges, which bounded down into the street and areaway—one of them, I later learned, striking Richard upon the head and thus giving him notice that he was wanted.
"Sandro!" I cried. "Thank goodness you came home—my hat would have been ruined in another five minutes!"
"Good Lord! Miss Talbot!" he stammered, making a futile effort to free himself of me.
But I hung on like a leech. I feared that if I relaxed my embrace for an instant he would make a dash for liberty.
"Oh, but I'm glad to see you!" I said. "Fear not, we know all, but are still your friends."
By that time Peaches and Dicky were with us. Seeing this I let him go, and for a moment he stood there looking dazedly from one to the other, a side of bacon sticking grotesquely out from under one arm, a bottle of milk held firmly in the other hand.
"Alicia!" he murmured, scarcely able to believe his eyes. "I don't understand. And Dick——"
"Neither do we quite get it," responded Dick cheerfully. "That's why we are here. Just hand over the eats, old man, and let us into this palace of yours, where we can chin a little less conspicuously! Hurry now, before some unwelcome party tries to join us!"
Spurred into a sort of hypnotic life the duke obeyed, finding a key and entering first. Peaches went next, slipping her hand through his arm as she went; and hastily picking up two of the oranges and a loaf of bread, which fortunately was nicely wrapped in glazed paper, I followed them, Dicky bringing up the rear and closing the door behind us.
Then the duke turned on a light, after a brief interval which can only be explained by—well, it was probably Peaches' fault. At any rate he turned on a light, which disclosed a shabby, threadbare hallway, and then opening the door at his right indicated that we should enter.
Now it was one of my dear father's iron-bound rules that no well-bred person ever evinces surprise at his surroundings; but it is my firm conviction that even he would have excused the exclamation which burst from my lips upon entering that apartment; in point of fact it is quite possible to conceive of his joining with me in expressing astonishment. For far from being the sordid den which I had been prepared to see, it was a room of such luxury as I have seldom beheld. The furniture was fit to grace a museum, the rugs were priceless, while on the wall hung several fine paintings, among which I was horrified to recognize the Florentine Madonna and Rubens' Venus and Mars. There were other art treasures too—carvings, candelabra and goodness only knows what not. At the moment my interest focused so sharply upon the central figures in the drama that I was unable to register more than a chaotic impression of immense wealth. The museums of Europe might well have envied that collection.
The duke turned quietly to Peaches.
"Alicia!" he said. "Now tell me—I don't understand why you have come. It cannot be to betray me."
"Sandro!" she cried. "It is I who don't understand. You can't be a common thief! And if you are, I don't care. You—you may get over it. And I came because I love you. Do I have to tell you that? I'm never going away from you again!"
The duke turned very white and backed away from her.
"Look here!" he said. "I can't let you do this, you know. I've run away from you once—don't make it impossible, Alicia!"
"But I have loved you right along," she persisted. "We heard that you were dead—and so I thought I might as well marry Mark, you know—because nothing seemed to matter. Oh, don't send me away! Look—I have carried your wallet all these years."
Well, of course, Peaches exaggerated a little when she said that, but it was no time for correcting her statement. And anyhow the duke didn't seem to care. With a swift gesture he took it from her.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, looking into her eyes. "No? And still you believe in me!"
"I knew there was something in it!" exclaimed Richard, the chauffeur. And he was right. There was. To think that I could have overlooked such a fact!
Hurriedly the duke took out his penknife, ripped the edges apart, and from the interlining took out a thin packet wrapped in waterproof tissue. And I had felt that pad and thought it was mere stuffing! With skillful—too skillful—fingers he unfolded the covering, and opening up the paper it contained he spread it upon the table for us all to see.
"Look!" he said. "I want you to understand what this is before we go any further. This bit of paper is a carte blanche from—from a very important person in Italy. See, his signature."
We looked—and though I was the only one of the three that could read Italian the two others were scarcely less impressed than I was. For the duke had spoken truly.
"Carte blanche," said Peaches. "That means 'free hand', doesn't it? But how does that square you, Sandy dear?"
"It doesn't, really," said he. "But if you'll all sit down I'll tell you just where it comes in. It's rather a long story," he added. "And my boat sails at eight o'clock."
As if in a dream we did as he suggested. The duke himself stood before the open hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent in silence for a moment. Then he raised it as if shaking off some evil dream and began his extraordinary story.
"In the eyes of the world I am a thief," he pronounced. "In all probability the greatest thief of our day, and what is more, the most discriminating one. You see how my taste seems to run—world-renowned paintings of almost inestimable value, rare carvings, tapestries and statues. Clumsy to handle, are they not? Frightfully difficult to dispose of. But that is not the strangest part of my predications. You will notice that all of them are of the art of a single nation—Italy."
"Well," he went on, "strange as these two facts may appear, there is a stranger one still. Nothing that I take is ever missed. I make one exception to that—the Scarpia panels. I bungled that badly. And then last night—if it had not been for Markheim's brutality to you"—here Sandro's face grew livid at the recollection—"if it had not been for that interruption, when I remembered that I had left your little knife on the frame and returned to get it because I could not endure to leave behind the only souvenir I had of you—I would have got away clear. You people would have gone on living with that replica, boasting of it, perhaps, to the end of your lives, and then handing it down to posterity as a treasure of the highest order. I can assure you that there is more than one great collector in whose service I have been, or in whose house I have visited as a guest, who is doing that very thing."
"But, Sandro!" cried Peaches. "What did you do it for? You couldn't sell such things? Where are they? Or are these some of them?"
She indicated the contents of the room with a sweeping gesture.
"These are my weapons," he said, smiling. "Replicas, all of them, to be used as the occasion rises; as I locate some treasure and plan to acquire it."
"But do you sell them?" she persisted.
"No," said he.
"Then you keep them? You take them for yourself?" she cried incredulously.
"I haven't got one of them!" he declared, "except the Madonna of the Lamp. And I'll not have her long."
"But do you mean to say you use a fence?" Dicky broke in.
"I do not," replied Sandro. "Every one of these paintings that I have recovered is in the hands of the Italian Government—where they all both morally and legally belong!"
His voice had taken on a new tone and we looked at each other in astonishment.
"Then this paper——" began Peaches.
"Was for an extreme emergency only," replied Sandro. "I have never had occasion to use it before. But to-night I may need to, because I'm going to give up my job. If the police come I shall let them in. I can't go on any longer because of—you!"
She went to him then, and we turned our heads away. It was later, when, still uninterrupted by the police, we were enjoying a breakfast of the groceries which the duke had brought in, that we learned the rest of the tale.
It seems that both Sandro and his brother, Leonardo, had a passion for art, a natural inheritance from their father. And indignant at the spoliation of Italy by wealthy foreigners they had determined to recover for Italy every object of art upon which they could lay their hands that had been illegally smuggled out of the country, by unscrupulous foreign capitalists.
"I was the more adept," said Sandro, "and so my brother has for years acted merely as a sort of curator for the originals until means could be found to place them on public view again. He has them at Monteventi, where he has lived a very retired life by preference. He is a sort of hermit at best, and it was at his desire that I assumed the title.
"At first the whole scheme seemed nothing but a lark. I was wonderfully successful and I cannot, I do not now believe that I have done anything but right in recovering these treasures from those thieves! I was deeply involved in a mesh of appearances when I met you, Alicia. It was too late to clear my heels without taking the International Secret Service into my confidence. That I felt I could not do; I had dedicated my life to the job, you see, and so I ran away from you. Then the war came. When I met Dick and heard of you I thought you had forgotten—as you ought! Peaches, I am a miserable adventurer—I haven't a penny in the world beyond a tiny income which my brother shares and which we have existed on all these years. You see, my robberies have never netted me a shilling."
"I should worry!" Peaches remarked.
"You ought to!" he admonished her. "Good Lord, when I found you were going to be married——"
"And so I am going to be!" declared Peaches. "Sandro, you are a Dago nut, but I get you perfectly. And I'm going to keep you this time. If you will promise to get a more usual job I don't care how poor we are, only if it's all the same to you I would like to get married right after we wash these dishes. Pa may be closing in on us, and I'd like to have matters cinched before he arrives on the scene."
"Great Scott!" said Sandro. "Do you mean it?"
"I said it!" replied Peaches. "Please, Sandy, don't make me ask you twice!"
"But your poor father will be furious!" I protested. "And you'll have no bridesmaids or anything else!"
"Well, I don't know just how the law will act about your other affairs when the truth comes out," commented Dicky, "but I will say that Pa Pegg will have a hard time prying the wife of an Italian subject away from him."
"Will I stop being an American when I marry you, Sandy?" cried Peaches, showing the first extreme symptoms of excitement which she had evidenced as yet.
"Yes. But not for long!" he replied. "I want to come back to this, my mother's country—and stay. And when I am a citizen you'll be one again, you know!"
And so it was that it turned out to be a good thing that I had worn my best hat, after all. Because I had never been a bridesmaid before, and the feathers hadn't come out of curl after all. In point of fact the curl stayed in remarkably. I even noticed it after the steamer bearing the bride and groom had sailed and I went to the newspapers to insert the official notice of the wedding. There was a little mirror over the window and I noticed particularly.
And when this social duty was done I made Dicky Talbot drive me right to a hotel and sent for Mr. Pegg. I was fearfully afraid, and so was Dicky, bless the dear boy's heart. But he went, as was his duty; and I waited, as was mine. No one can ever say a Talbot was a coward!
XVIII
It was almost two months later before the traditional bravery of my family was really put to a supreme test, however. All that had gone before—the terrible publicity which followed upon Peaches' elopement, the escape with her husband to foreign shores and his official "pardon," the international complications which this involved and my own public identification with the whole affair—was as nothing to face when compared with the emotion which assailed me upon that late June day when I stood alone upon the threshold of my father's house in Boston, and rang the newly polished door bell.
True, I had lived much in the past six and one half years, and might justly consider myself ripe in the experience gleaned therefrom. Without doubt my worldly knowledge was far beyond that of my elder sister, and yet nothing in my entire career caused me to experience such memories or cost me such effort as did the ringing of that bell.
Not that there was anything in the least alarming about the aspect of Chestnut Street itself. Quite to the contrary, its neat brick houses with their scoured limestone steps and carefully trimmed window boxes were peculiarly restful to the eye, to the spirit. The sheltering elm trees were in their finest plumage of delicate green, the destroying beetle being still at bay. The feather brick of the sidewalk was warmly colorful and quaint, and a flock of grackles foraged noisily in the gutter. It was indeed a street of peaceful beauty—unchanged after all this stormy interlude of the great war and the first turbulent months of reconstruction. All was as I had left it. Only I was changed.
And yet not so changed but that I felt the old childish fear of outraged authority upon me as I found myself about to face my sister Euphemia. The essence of her chaste personality seemed to rush out at me like a cooling wind to chill the ardor of my greeting even before I made my presence known—before I was even sure that she was at home.
For I had sent no word of my coming, wishing to take her unaware, and so surprise her perchance into some expression of warmth. Of course her ignoring of my letters and gifts was not exactly what might be called a hopeful sign. And still, hope I did, the while I feared. But after all she could do no more than turn me out, and it had been my duty to come. At any rate she could not deny this, and so at length gathering my forces in a mighty effort and determining to try to be strong in my consciousness of right, and not allow her to get the better of me the way she always used to in the old days, I finally rang the bell.
My heart pounded audibly as I did so, though I scarcely know just what I expected would happen when the door opened. Goodness knows I had time enough to calm down before it did—and during the wait I had ample opportunity for observing the changes which had been made in the home of my father.
It had been newly painted, for one thing, and the rotting column of the porch which had so long distressed Euphemia had been replaced by a sound one. Moreover, the stable was in repair, and, if I could credit my senses, in use. The patch of lawn was neat and trim, and the glimpse which I got of the garden betrayed the hand of a hired man—a first-class hired man. In the parlor windows hung new lace curtains of a most elegant design. Altogether the effect was at once prosperous and dignified, and glad tears came into my eyes as I realized that this was the fruit of my labors! For this, the substantial restoration of the house which had been my dear father's pride and joy but undoubtedly rather jerry-built in the beginning, had been restored to its pristine glory by the labor of my—well, by my labor!
What a beautiful thought! How it exalted me! And dear Euphemia had a comfortable and aristocratic though virginal old age to look forward to here in a house which was henceforth to be her very own, secured in it through my bounty. What an exquisite appreciation of the virtue of generosity was mine at that moment! How glad I was that she wouldn't have a single thing to say to me for which I would not have a mighty tangible comeback!
And then just as I had reached this high peek of enthusiastic pleasure in the rewarding power of good deeds—especially good deeds that cost only a small portion of a handsome income—just at this point in my reflections I heard a slow footstep making laggard response to my ringing, and at once my heart sank into my walkrite shoes—for I would not have dared appear in French heels—and my hands trembled in their silk gloves. Was it Euphemia herself coming to admit the wanderer? Had she grown so feeble in six and one half years that her step was slow and halting? I feared to look as the door slowly opened. Yet look I must and did.
It was an enormous colored woman.
"Yass, Ise coming," she was beginning, when suddenly she recognized me, and her broad face lighted in a grin which extended from ear to ear.
"Lordy, if it ain't Miss Free!" she cried. "Ain't changed nothin' a-tall! My lawsy—where you-all come from, Miss Free?"
"I'm just from the train," I replied, stepping gingerly into the hall. "Surely you are not Galadia?"
"I sho' am!" she said. "You didn' spek I wuz gwine be a pickaninny no mo', did you, Miss Free?"
Of course this was exactly what I had expected—a pickaninny,—fourteen-year-old Galadia, short dress, long apron and all. Indeed not to find her so was a distinct shock.
"I'm afraid I did," I admitted truthfully.
"Well, bless yo' heart, Ise got fo' pickaninnies of ma own!" she exclaimed amazingly. "Three triplets and one single!"
"Galadia!" I exclaimed. "And you are still working here. Why didn't you write me you had married!"
"Well, dat no-count nigger what Ah married wiv—he spen' so much time in de jail Ah reckoned Ah couldn't afford to lose all dem handsome single wages you done been sendin' me."
"I see!" I replied. "And now tell me—is my sister at home?"
"Ain't home yet!" she said. "Reckon you didn't tell her you was comin'? No! Well, jes' yo' set in de parlor an I fotch you a nice cup tea!"
Despite my protest the good soul hustled off to attend to my imaginary wants, and I stood looking about me dazedly. The change in the interior of the house was even greater than the external alterations, and not nearly so pleasing.
The quaint old wallpapers were gone, and in their place were cartridge papers—new and drab. This was bad enough, but when I caught sight of mission furniture in gray oak, and a player-piano encumbering our erstwhile rosewood drawing-room, my blood turned cold with horror. It was all new, all expensive, frightfully snappy, if I may borrow the term, and too, too perfectly dreadful! If this had been done to my mother's parlor what had become of the rest of the house? I trembled to think! But before I had opportunity to explore further the noise of a high-powered car stopping at the curb outside the door distracted my attention.
Through the lace of the new curtains I could see a slim woman in some sort of uniform, as she dismounted from the driver's seat. The car was one of those low-hung, long-chassised affairs with tool box and tires on the running board, solid wheels, no top and no windshield—a tremendously sporty affair. The chauffeuress wore heavy dust goggles and thick gloves, and over the smart uniform, the skirt of which did not quite cover her knees, a linen duster was worn rakishly.
Whistling a little tune of the type popularly known as jazz she shut off the motor and came up the front steps, letting herself in with a latchkey. By this time I was fairly overcome with curiosity as to who this young house guest of my sister's might be, and to my great delight she came directly into the drawing-room. When she caught sight of me she stopped dead in her tracks.
"Good Lord! Freedom Talbot!" she exclaimed. Then she removed the goggles with one hand and held out the other like a frank boy.
"Glad to see you, old thing!" she said heartily.
It was Euphemia!
Somehow or other I tottered to a chair and sank into it, calling feebly for "Water! Water!"
"Water! Stuff and nonsense!" said Euphemia. "A little brandy is what you need! Here you are!"
She held something to my lips and gratefully, but expecting at any moment to awaken from my dream, I drank.
"I carry it in my emergency kit," Euphemia was explaining. "Need it sometimes in my work with the boys!"
"With the boys?" I asked feebly.
If she had forthwith produced, like Galadia, a set of triplets and a single, I should not have been more astonished. In point of fact I was not capable of further astonishment because she had already taken all the astonishment I had.
"Oh! I forgot. You wouldn't know, of course!" she said briskly. "Reconstruction work. I'm on the ambulance—take 'em out for a ride from the hospital and all that. Well, how are you now? Better?"
"I'm as much better as I ever shall be after seeing you in the costume, Euphemia!" I said severely. "I'm surprised at you, I really am!"
"You have nothing on me!" she retorted. "I'm as surprised at you as you could possibly be at me. Look at the opportunities you have had—look at the places you have been—the money you have earned—and then look at the clothes you have on!"
"What is the matter with my clothes?" I gasped, outraged at her. But laughingly Euphemia got to her feet and coming over to me lifted my reticule.
"Same old bag!" she said. "Full of junk, I suppose! Same old dress—actually the same one, I do believe! And that curled fringe. Really, my dear, at your age they are ridiculous!"
"At my age!" I fairly squeaked with indignation.
"Yes—you are far too young for them!" she went on calmly. "As for those gloves and those shoes! Really, Free, it's too much! I don't understand it, really!"
This was more than human nature could endure. Either her brain had gone or mine had. My clothes, of course, were in many ways a concession to the feelings of the Euphemia I had left behind me. This new creature with her carefully massaged old face, her upright figure, her perfect hearing, was a stranger to me; but a rather splendid, competent stranger, I was forced to admit.
"Euphy!" I cried in despair. "Will you not confide in me what has come over you? What has effected this amazing transformation? You owe me some explanation! I—I don't know what to think!"
She regarded me with a look that was suddenly more serious.
"I suppose it all does seem a bit queer to you," she conceded, throwing herself into one of the hideous new chairs with a boyish abandon. "I've got used to myself, you see, and I forget. I've been so frightfully busy all through the war too. I suppose the war and being in the motor corps rather waked me up a bit. The war and Uncle Joshua's money."
"Uncle Joshua!" I exclaimed. "I didn't know we had an Uncle Joshua!"
"Well, we had, and he left me all his fortune unconditionally, about two weeks after you left home," said Euphemia. "I never wrote you, because—well, your showing all that grit, going off your own bat and all, made me frightfully jealous. Made me feel so useless. And I determined I'd make something out of myself before I got too old. And, old dear, with the masseuse I've got and the good time I'm having, I expect to live to be a hundred. You see I went to a course of lectures the first month you were away. On subconscious inhibitions and suppressed desires, they were. I bought the ticket with the first of Uncle Joshua's money. I found out at these lectures that all I had to do to be a success was to be myself. I at once started in to be myself—and—here I am!"
"And I slaved like a—a prisoner!" I sniffed, "and sent you money to squander in this—this outrageous life you are leading!"
"There is nothing in the least outrageous about my life!" she snapped with some of her old-time asperity. "It's far less outrageous than my old, selfish, self-centered life was. Anybody but an old-fashioned woman like yourself would see that. And as for your money, every cent of it has been spent upon the maintenance of a motor-ambulance corps—in France, during the war, and here in Boston in reconstruction since!"
"It must be admitted that I find the news very gratifying," I said after a short silence. "I am sorry I was so short. But I am upset—fearfully upset. I suppose—indeed I believe that you are living as you think right. From my standpoint I think it most unwomanly. However, I want to be friends. I wish to make this visit a success. I have some other shoes, Euphemia, really I have—quite high-heeled ones. And I only keep to my curls because Mr. Pegg, my husband, admires them!"
That fixed her! I noted with satisfaction the look of blank amazement which spread over her face.
"Yes, my dear!" I said. "Your masculine ways may be all very well for you. But they will never catch you a husband. For my part, nothing could appear sweeter than to go gradually down life's sunset path hand-in-hand with a beloved partner as I am doing—and the fact that the five-carat stone on the left one is a real diamond does not make me any the less happy!" Here I withdrew my despised silk gloves and displayed the beautiful solitaire which Mr. Markheim had given to Peaches and which my dear husband had taken off the banker's hands at cost.
"And we are going to live in golden California," I went on. "Of course the East is all very well once in a while for a change, but for living give me the West. You ought to see California, Euphemia. No rain, no snow, no bad roads, no labor troubles and no high cost of living! And the delight of all the flowers you want—such blossoms—blossoms as you have never even dreamed of, all with hardly any cultivation! Such beaches, Euphemia! Such lovely houses! We never have to heat them in the winter, except occasionally, you know."
"Perhaps I'll motor out some day!" murmured Euphemia, plainly awed.
"Oh, do!" I cried. "Gasoline is only nineteen cents in California. We grow our own, you know!"
"Must be pretty nice!" said my sister, now almost thoroughly cowed. I've noticed that is usually the effect it has upon the listener when they get me started about the Coast.
"Oh, you'd love it!" I went on enthusiastically. "You know you Easterners never see the real California fruit. It's so much larger and finer than that which you get. Of course there is only about enough of it for home consumption, so we eat it ourselves. We couldn't supply the demand it would create. The California farmer, my dear, is the only farmer in the world who consumes his own best products. And the life is so varied—boating, swimming, fishing, hunting, tennis, tobogganing at Truckee in the winter! Everything!"
"And so you are going to live on a ranch and become a regular—er—vegetable!" exclaimed Euphemia, apparently unable to think of anything more contemptuous.
"Well, Mr. Pegg says I am pretty wild stock," I admitted, blushing, "but he hopes that by cultivating me he can tame me. And I'm sure I hope he will!"
THE END
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