CHAPTER VIII
“WELL,” said the Captain with heavy jocularity, extending half a dozen letters to his boarder, “when you get done reading that batch of mail, you might give it to me for ballast.”
From his seat on the Captain’s lawn Whitman smiled, and taking out his knife he slit open the envelopes one by one. The editor-in-chief assured him everything was going well at the office. Radding chid him for his silence and pretended to find it ominous. A real estate broker wanted to sell him some land. A man who owed him money asked for more. An acquaintance announced his marriage.
To Whitman mail had never been very interesting. He had wondered sometimes at other men’s eagerness for letters. With a yawn he opened the last envelope. Then he started, and by the northern twilight he read twice over the words that were written in a familiar hand on cross-barred stationery.
“Deep Harbor, N. Y.
“Dear Editor of Better Every Week:
“In one of your kind and beautiful letters, you told me that if you ever could be of service, I was to call upon you. I am sure that you meant what you said, and so I am turning to you for help once more. Do you think there is any one in New York who would be willing to give money for the following articles (they are my very own. I have the right to sell them):
“One bridal veil of real lace, one hundred years old.
“One cameo pin; head of cherub.
“One bracelet; chased gold. (Clasp broken.)
“One man’s watch; hunting case; gold face; won’t go any more, but might be repaired.
“One pink coral necklace. (I hate to sell this; it’s perfectly beautiful.)
“If you think there is a chance of getting money for any of these things, I will send them to you at once. I must have fifty dollars, and I must have it soon.
“Very truly yours,
“Henry B. Luffkin.”
As usual, the writer had not dated the letter, but Whitman made out from the postmark that it had reached New York some days ago. On the margin his stenographer, Smith, had written: “This letter has been to every one on the staff but you. No one seems to know anything about the writer.” Whitman winced. He did not fancy Nancy’s letters making the rounds of the office. A moment after, he left the Captain beneath the trees, engaged in mending a net, and began to tramp up and down the bluff, looking out over the waters as if the evening breeze that rippled their wide expanse might waft an idea to him for helping Nancy.
At last he went into the cottage, and seating himself beneath the oil lamp, he drew out paper and ink and wrote his friend.
“Deep Harbor, N. Y.,
“Aug. 21, 191—
“Dear Rad:
“I have become interested in helping Henry Luffkin dispose of some heirlooms. I can’t buy them myself very well, and I want you to pretend to be a dealer in antiques and buy them for me. Write this letter for me, Rad, and write it at once, enclosing fifty dollars in currency. Here’s my check for the amount. ‘Henry Luffkin. Dear Sir: The Editor of Better Every Week has told me that you want to dispose of some old lace and pieces of jewelry, of which he has given me a description. I am a collector of antiques and I am willing to pay fifty dollars for the lace, the bracelet, the watch and the cameo. I am not interested in coral. You may send your goods to the following address.’ Then sign your own name, Rad, and give your address.
“I find this is an ideal spot for my vacation. You will be glad to know that I am making good progress with my novel, although it has taken a more romantic turn that I had planned.
“Yours,
“Caley.”
The letter finished, Whitman turned to the Captain, who was seated on the other side of the table, lost in his weekly paper.
“Captain,” he began, “I have been thinking about what you told me concerning Miss Rose and her mail.”
The Captain looked furtively toward the kitchen, where Sister Abby washed the evening dishes, and Whitman lowered his voice.
“If you get the mail and give her the letters,” he continued, “you can surely tell the nature of her correspondence.”
The Captain shook his head. “No, I can’t,” he said. “I give her an extra key to the box. She gets there first and takes what’s coming to her and leaves me the rest.”
“Have you ever seen anything that made you suspicious?” Whitman inquired.
“Well,” said the Captain, “a check come once I didn’t like the looks of; but she said it was prize money she’d got in some kind of a contest, so I endorsed it and said nothing.”
“She’s an interesting girl. I wish I might get better acquainted with her.” Whitman hoped his manner was casual.
“I wish you might,” said the Captain. “I’ve kind of had it in mind from the first. I done what I could for you the other day in the boat. Don’t know as you seen through it or not.”
Whitman repressed a smile. “How can I see more of her?” he asked.
“That’s hard to say. She don’t cross with me more than once or twice a month. She goes to church Sundays, but her aunt’s always with her. Sometimes she sets in the graveyard with her sewing.”
“The graveyard?”
“Yes. Haven’t you passed it out on the wagon road near her place? It’s pleasant there; quiet and shady, and makes a change from the garden. You ought to go out and see the monuments. Lots of soldiers buried there, that fell in 1812. Summer folks are always interested in the old stones, though the new ones are a sight handsomer.”
“A graveyard seems a strange place for a young girl to sit,” Whitman mused.
“Well, it’s one of the few places her aunt approves,” the Captain chuckled, one eye on the paper; “and when you come to think of it, a pretty girl is mighty safe in the company of dead generals and admirals who, even if they come to life, would be kin to her.”
Whitman smiled absently at the Captain’s jocularity. “I’ll go to town and post this letter,” he said. “I want to get it off to-night.”
On his walk to the village, Caleb Whitman turned Nancy’s latest letter over and over in his mind, trying to reconcile his conception of her character with her eager, insatiable desire for money. Sometimes he told himself that the desire sprang merely from the wish to gratify some girlish fancy. Again he was half convinced that she was planning to run away, to escape forever the tedium of life in the garden; but her own words echoed in his heart, overturning his fears. “I don’t want to escape,” she had said. “I want to open the gate and let the world in.” Was she in debt? The thought was absurd. With her comfortable home, her guarded, restricted circuit, she had small temptation and little opportunity to incur obligations.
“I give it up,” said Whitman to himself, at last. “All I know is that I want for you what you want for yourself, Nancy Rose, and that I’ll give it to you, if it lies in my power to do so.”
“Want a lift?”
Whitman started, and looked up through the dusk to see the covered van of the army post which he had learned to call a “daugherty.” A young man in olive drab uniform on the front seat had drawn four mules to a standstill and was good-naturedly offering the pedestrian a seat.
“Thank you,” Whitman answered, “but I’m only going to the village to post this letter.”
“Want me to take it to Jackson?” the soldier asked obligingly. “It will make better time.”
Whitman handed the letter over the high wheel. “That’s awfully good of you.” Then he asked, before the soldier had started the mules on their way: “Haven’t we met before, somewhere?”
The man in uniform, who was a dashing, well-built fellow, looked uneasily at Caleb Whitman’s upturned face, and muttered, “I think not.” Then, without another word, he put the letter in his pocket, cut the mules lightly with his whip and drove on his way.
Lost in thought, Caleb Whitman looked after the van for a long moment. “I have seen you,” he said to himself, “though I can’t tell where, for the life of me.” And he recalled again the ruddy face, the gay, dark eyes, the splendid shoulders of the man in the daugherty. “I don’t know so many army people that I ought to confuse them,” he said to himself, “and that particular chap is too good looking to be easily forgotten. He didn’t fancy my claiming acquaintance, however. High spirited chap,” Whitman concluded. “I don’t wonder the ‘yellow jackets,’ as the Captain calls them, play havoc with the girls, if they’re all as good looking as he.”
His excuse for the trip to the village gone, he retraced his way back to the cottage, trying idly to recall the identity of the man who drove the daugherty. “I have it,” he said aloud, just as he reached the cottage door. “You’re Sergeant Wilson, the chap I ate supper with the night I got to Jackson.”