Talbot's Angles

"Why, yes, I imagine so. You could run down if necessary. I don't suppose you mean to stay away very long in any event."

"I should probably not return except in case of necessity." He paused, then said with an effort, "You were good enough, Matthews, to encourage me in my addresses to Miss Talbot so I think it is due you to say that she has refused me."

"My dear man!" Berk leaned forward and laid his hand on the other's knee. "You mustn't give up so easily. You know a woman's No isn't always final."

"I believe this to be. You wouldn't accuse Miss Linda of being an undecided character.

"No, I must confess I wouldn't. She is very gentle but she generally knows her own mind pretty thoroughly. Jeffreys, my dear fellow, I am sorry. I don't wonder you are cut up and are thinking of leaving us. It would be a desperately hard fight to stay and be obliged to see her every now and then. For a man to lose a girl like Linda Talbot is pretty tough lines. I shouldn't want my worst enemy to go through such a purgatory."

"You speak feelingly," returned Mr. Jeffreys with a little bitter smile. Then his better manhood asserting itself, "Matthews, you know you love her yourself."

Berkley tossed up his head proudly. "What if I do? I am not ashamed of it."

"And you deliberately gave me the chance of winning her if I could. Why?"

Berkley made savage dabs with his pen upon the blotting pad before him, thereby injuring the pen hopelessly and doing the blotter no good. He suddenly threw the pen aside. "What sort of chump would I be if I hadn't done it? Her happiness was the first thing to be considered, not mine. I knew she wanted Talbot's Angles more than anything in the world, and that ought to have made it dead easy for a man who really loved a girl in the right way."

"And you have been doing everything in your power to win the property for me. You have been loyal to both of us. Shake hands, Berkley Matthews, you are far and away a better man than I am, but I will not be outdone. Do you think I have no pride? I may have a deliberate conscience, as Miss Talbot herself once told me, but I hope it is as well developed as yours. I'll fight it out and then we shall see. What right had I to expect that I could throw a sop to my conscience by asking her to marry me? I see it all now. You love her; so do I, and I will prove it to you both."

"Do you suppose I doubted the truth of your feeling for her?" cried Berkley. "That would be a poor compliment to her. I think you are too easily downed, Jeffreys. Cheer up. Take another chance. Wait awhile. Do your best to better your chances. Unbend a little. Be more free and easy. Make her dependent upon you for encouragement and sympathy. Oh, there are a thousand ways."

Jeffreys regarded him with a half smile. "You mean I must substitute a Southern temperament for a Northern one. That is easier said than done. The day of miracles is past."

"You've not known her so very long," Berkley persisted in his argument.

"I've seen her almost every day, sometimes twice a day for three months. I have known young ladies for years whom I seem to know less well. Certainly there has been no bar to our becoming well acquainted."

"Well, I wouldn't give up this early in the game," Berk continued his pleading.

"You think there is a chance for me, do you? I can tell you there is not," replied Mr. Jeffreys with emphasis.

Berkley accompanied him to the street where they stood talking a few minutes longer. A horse and buggy were there in waiting for Berkley. "I promised John Emory to go with him to sign a deed," he said, "and he left his buggy. I am to pick him up further along. Can I take you anywhere, first, Jeffreys?"

"No, thank you. I have no special errand. I'm not a man of business just now, you remember."

Berkley took his place in the vehicle, was about to gather up the reins when around the corner dashed an automobile. The horse threw up his head, gave a sudden plunge, and in another second would have swung the buggy directly in the path of the rushing car, but that Jeffreys sprang forward and seized the horse's head to jerk him to one side, but this was not done before the car grazed him sufficiently to send him to the ground, close to the horse's hoofs. Without stopping the car sped on. By this time Berkley had grabbed the reins and had spoken commandingly to the horse which fortunately, stood still. Several by-standers sprang to Jeffreys' aid and dragged him from his precarious position.

Berkley threw the reins to Billy, who had run out at the sound of this commotion, and leaped to where Jeffreys now stood. "Are you hurt, old man?" he asked as Jeffreys limped to the sidewalk. "Come right into the office." He dismissed the little crowd which had gathered and assisted Jeffreys inside.

The latter shook himself. "I'm not actually hurt," he answered "only a little bruised, I think, and slightly shaken up."

"You were within an ace of being killed, man," said Berkley gravely. "And you risked your life for me. I am not going to forget that, Jeffreys."

The young man smiled. "It evens up matters a little," he returned, "though we are not quits yet. I haven't lost sight of that fact."

"Doesn't saving a man's life come about as near settling any existing score as a thing could?" asked Berkley.

"Oh, we won't strain a point so far as to say it was saving your life. You might not have been hurt at all, and it merely happened that I was the first to grab the bridle. There were others ready to do it if I had not."

"Bah!" cried Berkley. "That's all wrong argument; if the horse had not been there; if the car had not come along; we could go on indefinitely with conjecturing, but what we face is a visible truth. You risked your life and limbs for me, and that is the exact statement of the case. Thank you, is a very feeble way to say what I feel."

"I'm quite all right now," returned the other, setting aside further discussion. "If you will let me have a brush or something to get rid of this dust on my clothes, I'll be as good as ever. That's it, thanks," for Berkley was vigorously applying a whisk broom to his dusty coat and trousers. He refused further aid, insisting that there was no need of any assistance in getting home. He would rather walk; it would be good for him. So Berkley was perforce to see him leave, and himself reëntered the buggy, and drove off to keep his appointment.

He was very grateful to and infinitely sorry for his rival, but there was an undercurrent of joy singing through his heart. She had refused him, bless her, and she would return home that very day. He took out a note received from Miss Ri the day before, saying that they would arrive by the morning's boat. He reread the lines. "It isn't decent of me; it really isn't," he exclaimed, stuffing the note back into his pocket. "It's like dancing on another man's grave, and after what he has just done for me, too. What right have I to be glad anyway? It is losing her the comfort of living again in her old home, and, dickens take it, how do I know that I am any better off? Simmer down, Berkley Matthews; it won't do for you to go galloping off with an idea before you have all the facts in the case. At least you will have the grace to keep quiet while the other fellow is around." And he altered his train of thought with the determination of one who has learned the art of concentration under difficulties.

He had restrained himself from rushing off to the boat to meet the returning travellers, but, after his return to his office, Miss Ri called him up and imperiously demanded his presence to dinner, and he accepted without a word of protest.

"You're looking better," remarked Miss Ri, after they had shaken hands. "I knew Phebe would be as good for you as untold bottles of tonic. Come right in. Linda is waiting in the dining-room."

And there Linda was. Berkley wondered if she could hear the thumping of his heart. Here was her hand in his. What a wonderful fact! She was there before him, – free – as possible for him as for any other. He longed to ask if she were the least little bit glad to see him, but he didn't; all he said was: "Glad to see you back, Linda. I hear you have been having a great time."

"Who told you?" she asked with a sudden bright smile.

"Mother wrote me a long letter. I'll tell you about it another time. I suppose you were sorry to come away."

"No, not at all, though we had a lovely time. If you want a thoroughly skilled designer of good times you must employ Aunt Ri.

"I think the trip did much for me in many ways. One must get off from things to acquire a really true perspective, you know, and now I am so happy to be here again, to see the dear blue river, and this blessedly stupid town and all that. There is no place like it, Berk."

What pure joy to hear her speak like that. Berkley wished she would go on forever, but she was waiting for some response, he suddenly realized. "That is the way I like to hear you talk," he said quite honestly. "I've noticed myself, that when I have been away for any length of time I am always glad to get back to the simple life."

"Very simple with such a dinner," laughed Linda. "Phebe has prepared all this in honor of our home-coming."

"It seemed a pity that you should not be here to share it," spoke up Miss Ri. "There was no need to send you back to husks this very first day."

"I came near not being here at all," he answered. Then he recounted the episode of the morning, sparing no praise of Mr. Jeffreys, but looking at Miss Ri rather than at Linda as he told the tale over which his hearers were much excited.

Fain as he was to linger after dinner, he would not allow himself such a luxury, but rushed off almost immediately, saying he must get back to work. Miss Ri watched him with tender eyes as he hurried down the path. "It is good to get him back," she said turning from the window. "I don't know what I should have done if anything serious had happened to him. He is looking very well, I think. That troubled, anxious expression has left his face. I think the poor boy must have been under some great strain. If you go off with that waxen image to Hartford I'll adopt Berk as sure as you live."

"Oh, Aunt Ri," expostulated Linda, "you know he is no tailor's dummy, but a very fine-looking man, and just think of what a heroic thing he has just done. There was no deliberation then, but the quick sacrifice of himself at the critical moment. Berk might have been killed but for him. I don't see how you can talk so about my brave cousin."

"Cousin is it? Well, so long as he remains only that I have no complaint to make of him. I suppose now we shall have to have more respect for him than ever."

Linda had to laugh at the aggrieved tone. "I certainly have," she answered emphatically. "I think he was perfectly splendid."

"Berk, or any other half way decent man would have done the same thing under like circumstances," argued Miss Ri. "I don't see that it was anything for him to crow over."

"I think it was decidedly." Linda stood her ground.

"Well, we won't quarrel over it," continued Miss Ri. "Let's change the subject. I was just thinking, Linda, that I have discovered something since I have had you here with me, though, by the way, one does that all through life; some truth, some moral of living is suddenly revealed at a given stage. Life is nothing more than a series of revelations."

"And what has been revealed to you, wisest of Aunt Ris." Linda came over and took her friend's face between her hands.

"That one must have somebody to work for in order to get the best out of existence."

Linda's hands dropped; her face grew wistful. "And I have no one but myself to work for," she shook her head sadly.

"You have me, in a certain sense, and it is too early yet for you to despair of having someone else." Miss Ri laughed wickedly.

Linda pretended to box her ears. "You are a naughty old thing. I am going out to talk to Mammy, and leave you to meditate upon your sins," she said.

Mammy was sitting at the table lingering over her dinner. She never liked to cut short this happy hour of the day, and was fond of picking here and picking there, though she would not remain at the table if anyone entered. It would never do to have "white folkes" see you eat.

"I thes gwine to cl'ar away," she said with a beaming smile as she swept bones and potato skins into her empty plate.

"Oh, Mammy, you haven't finished your dinner," exclaimed Linda.

"Yas, I done et all I wants. I thes res'in' up a little 'fo' I does mah dishes. Set down, honey, an' tell yo' Mammy what yuh-all been a-doin' whilst yuh was up in de city. Mighty fine doin's, I reckon. Yuh stay at de big hotel?"

"Yes."

"An' w'ar dat nice floppity white frock?"

"Yes, I wore it several times."

"An' yuh has uver so many nice young gem'mans come to see yuh?"

"Not very many. You see I don't know a great many people, and I am not going to dances this winter, of course. Mr. Jeffreys came up while I was there, and he is a nice young gentleman, I am sure."

Mammy began delicately to wipe her tumblers. "Miss Lindy, yuh ain't gwine ma'y dat man, is yuh?"

"No, Mammy." Linda spoke quite decidedly, "but you know he is a kind of cousin, and I must be as nice to him as possible, besides I like him very much."

"He kain't hol' a can'le to Mr. Berk; he de likenes' young man I uvver see."

"You'll make me jealous if you talk that way," said Linda fondly and to please her Mammy.

Mammy ducked her head and laughed, shaking her head from side to side.

"I'll not go away again if you are going to get so fond of someone else while I am gone," Linda went on with a pretence of pouting.

Mammy fairly doubled up at this. "Ain' it de troof?" she cried. "Law, chile," she continued appeasingly, "I ain't so t'arin' fond o' him; he ain't tall enough."

It was Linda's turn to laugh, and she went back to Miss Ri to repeat Mammy's criticism.

CHAPTER XIX

OF WHAT AVAIL?

Berkley's words did have the effect of encouraging Mr. Jeffreys to take heart anew, and, as it would be another month before his presence would be required in Hartford, he concluded not to neglect his opportunities. Therefore again Berkley retired to the background to watch his rival pass by with Linda, walk to church with her, while he heard of his visiting her daily. It seemed, then, that he did not intend to give her up lightly.

"I don't know what to do about it," Linda confided to Miss Ri ruefully. "I can't tell him to go home when he comes, and I can't disappear like the Cheshire cat when he joins me on the street. He will be such a short time here that it doesn't seem worth while to do more than let matters drift."

"I rather like his persistence," declared Miss Ri. "He'll win you yet, Verlinda."

Linda neither affirmed nor denied. Another little poem had found its way into print and there was hope ahead, even though Talbot's Angles should be lost to her.

"It isn't such a tremendously valuable piece of property after all," Miss Ri continued her remarks, showing the trend of her thought, "and if you weren't so sentimentally fond of it, Verlinda, I don't know that it would be such a great loss. I wish you'd let me adopt you; then I'd leave you this place."

"You'd have me give up my independence, Aunt Ri? Oh, no. We've canvassed that question too often. If you had taken me before I had known what it was to hoe my own row, it might have done, but now, oh, no. You're the dearest of dears to tempt me, but we shall both be happier with no faster bond than that which self-elected friends must always feel. I love no one so well as you, and you don't dislike me, though I admit I don't consider myself first in your regard."

"And who do you think is? Not Becky Hill's brood, I'm sure. They will have enough, and I am not one of those who think everything should go to those of the name, unless there's love, too. Who do you mean? If you're not first, who is?"

"Berkley Matthews."

"Better say he used to be. He hasn't the sense he was born with. If I were his mother I'd spank him."

"Now, Aunt Ri, what for?"

"On general principles, just because he is such a notional piece of humanity. I admire him, too; I can't help it; all the same he tries me. When you desert me to turn Yankee, Verlinda, I'll make my will and leave this place as a home for indigent females or something of that kind."

"How nice," returned Linda comfortably; "then when I grow decrepit I can come back here and have my old room."

The little creases appearing around Miss Ri's eyes, showed that she appreciated this retort. "There comes Bertie," she announced a moment after.

"Then I'll ask her to walk with me," returned Linda, rising with alacrity.

"Doesn't Mr. Jeffreys make his appearance about this time?"

"Generally, but I can skip him to-day. I'd rather go with Bertie. Just tell him, Aunt Ri."

"That you'd rather go with Bertie?"

"Of course not, but that we have gone out for a walk."

"Where are you going?"

"There's no need of your knowing, is there?"

Miss Ri looked up with a smile. "I understand. Go along. I reckon you're right to suggest the unattainable once in a while; it adds to the zest later." And with this Parthian shot following her, Linda left the room to join Bertie.

In another moment Miss Ri saw the two girls going out the gate. "I'll not even watch to see which way they turn," she said to herself, letting her gaze fall on her work rather than on the outside world. The dear lady made a good conspirator.

"When are you going to announce your engagement?" was one of the first questions Bertie put to her companion, as they set their faces toward the main street.

"What do you mean?" asked Linda.

"Oh, now Linda Talbot, everyone knows you are engaged to Mr. Jeffreys. You wouldn't be together so continually if you were not."

"I think I could mention several young persons in this town who have set a worthy precedent," replied Linda.

"Oh, well, of course, but in this case – He isn't the flirty kind, we all know."

"He is my cousin," argued Linda in self-defence.

Bertie laughed. "We all know that kind of cousin. The Irish maids have flaunted them before our eyes for generations. That won't do, Linda. Own up."

"Positively there are none but friendly relations between Wyatt Jeffreys and myself."

"Truly? I can scarcely believe it, but there is not a doubt but that there will be different ones, and everyone is thinking it such an ideal arrangement, for of course it is known that he is the claimant for Talbot's Angles."

"I am sorry to disappoint my neighbors."

"I, for one, don't expect to be disappointed. If I did I would set my cap for the young man myself. I've heard girls talk that way before, and the first thing you knew their wedding cards were out. I don't see how you can possibly give up the joy of owning that dear old home of yours. He'd better not offer himself to me, I'd accept him for Talbot's Angles if for nothing else."

Linda winced. It might come to that, perhaps. For the moment she felt annoyed at Bertie who might have been more tactful, she thought.

"Do you know," continued Bertie, "whether Mr. Jeffreys intends to live there? We are all dying to know, and if you don't become the mistress of the dear old place it will not want for one for the lack of appreciative damsels. The girls are ready, even now to reckon on their chances. We don't have so many eligible young men come to town that we can afford to let such a desirable one go away unappropriated."

"It seems to me that he is not the only one," responded Linda.

"There are not more than half a dozen, not near enough to go around. I know perfectly well, for at the last dance I had to dance twice with a girl, and I do hate that. Let me see, there are Elmer Dawson, John Emory, Todd Bryan, Billy Tucker, Tom Willis, and Berk Matthews, though Berk doesn't count. Nobody sees him nowadays. He has turned into a regular greasy grind, so that he is no good at all. He has a girl up in the city, you know. I charged him with it, and he the same as admitted it. I think he might have looked nearer home. Berk used to be great fun, too; it is rather a shame. So you see, Linda, even counting him there are not more than six who are really worth while; the rest are mere boys. Now, if you really don't want your cousin yourself, you might speak a good word for me, and I'll be mighty thankful."

"Bertie, you are a silly child. You know you don't mean a word of all this. Why do you rattle on in such a brainless way?"

"I'm in dead earnest, I assure you. I'll take him in a minute, now that I can't get Berk who is as good as gone. We are wild to know who the girl is, what she looks like and all that. I suppose you didn't happen to meet her when you were in the city. Miss Ri ought to know, if anyone does."

"We didn't meet any such person," replied Linda a little defiantly. "We saw Mrs. Matthews and Margaret, but, of course, they did not mention her."

"Very likely they would be the last ones to know. At all events he is not the lad he was, as anyone with half an eye can see. Even if he hadn't told me there would be but one conclusion to gather from his absolute indifference to us all. Every one of the girls agree to that."

Linda smiled mechanically. Suppose it were true. There had been but the one meeting, that which took place upon the day of her arrival from the city, then it had seemed as if they were about to return to the old pleasant relations, but since then not another sign. Yet – "There isn't anything I wouldn't do to make you happy, Linda Talbot." What was the meaning of that saying? Only the gentle concern of a chivalrous, tender-hearted man, probably. She gave a little sigh which drew Bertie's attention.

"Tired, Linda? We're going too far, perhaps. I forget that you are a busy bee all the morning. We'd better turn back."

Linda agreed. She felt singularly heavy-spirited and would be glad to reach home, she realized. Bertie left her with a laughing challenge to "hurry up or she would try to cut her out," and then Linda went in.

Miss Ri was just stirring the fire, for she loved the dancing lights at a twilight hour. "Draw up, draw up," she cried, "and tell me the news. What did you learn from Bertie?"

"First that I was engaged to Mr. Jeffreys, and if not that I ought to be. Second; it is reported that Berkley Matthews has a sweetheart in the city."

"The wretch!" cried Miss Ri. "I'd like to see him bring a strange girl here for me to conciliate and defer to."

"He has a perfect right, hasn't he, Aunt Ri?"

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure. I hate to think of it. So the report is that you are certainly engaged."

"Yes, they have arranged it all, and are quite pleased. I am to live at Talbot's Angles, it seems, and it is considered a delightful way to settle matters for me. Bertie was quite enthusiastic. Did Mr. Jeffreys come?"

"Yes, and was sorry to have missed you. He'll be back this evening. He tells me he is going to leave for Hartford next week. Are you going with him, Verlinda?"

The girl thoughtfully prodded a long stick which needed pushing further back. "I haven't decided," she replied presently.

"You had decided there in Baltimore, if I remember correctly."

"Yes, so I had. Oh, I don't know. I don't know. I don't see how I could stand it to keep on living here." She put down the tongs and clasped her hands tightly.

"Why, Verlinda, my dear child, what do you mean? You – " Miss Ri paused and laid her hand gently on the girl's. "The wretch," she murmured, "the wretch."

Linda turned to kiss her cheek. "Never mind, Aunt Ri," she rejoined; "no doubt I'll be thanking the Lord yet."

Miss Ri laughed shortly, then the words came pleadingly, "Don't leave me, Verlinda, and don't think you will be any happier if you go away. You can't run from yourself, you know. Stay where you are and fight it out as I did. I'll do my best for you."

"Dear Aunt Ri! As if I didn't know that. After all, I believe you are right. I'd be happier here with you than among strangers under any circumstances, even with my old home calling me and a good man to share it. I suppose it is cowardly to want to take refuge in a love you can't return."

"It isn't only cowardly," affirmed Miss Ri with decision, "but it is unfair to the one who gives all and receives no return. I think you are too proud as well as too honest to allow that, Verlinda."