An Exchange of Courtesies
I
In the opinion of many persons competent to judge, "The Beaches" was
suffering from an invasion of wealth. Unquestionably it had been
fashionable for a generation; but the people who had established
summer homes there were inhabitants of the large neighboring city
which they forsook during five months in the year to enjoy the ocean
breezes and sylvan scenery, for The Beaches afforded both. Well-to-do
New England families of refinement and taste, they enjoyed in comfort,
without ostentation, their picturesque surroundings. Their cottages
were simple; but each had its charming outlook to sea and a sufficient
number of more or less wooded acres to command privacy and breathing
space. In the early days the land had sold for a song, but it had
risen steadily with the times, as more and more people coveted a
foothold. The last ten years had introduced many changes; the older
houses had been pulled down and replaced by lordly structures with all
the modern conveniences, including spacious stables and farm
buildings. Two clubs had been organized along the six miles of coast
to provide golf and tennis, afternoon teas and bridge whist for the
entertainment of the colony. The scale of living had become more
elaborate, and there had been many newcomers--people of large means
who offered for the finest sites sums which the owners could not
afford to refuse. The prices paid in several instances represented ten
times the original outlay. All the desirable locations were held by
proprietors fully aware of their value, and those bent on purchase
must pay what was asked or go without.
Then had occurred the invasion referred to--the coming to The Beaches
of the foreign contingent, so called: people of fabulous means,
multi-millionaires who were captains in one or another form of
industry and who sought this resort as a Mecca for the social
uplifting of their families and protection against summer heat. At
their advent prices made another jump--one which took the breath away.
Several of the most conservative owners parted with their estates
after naming a figure which they supposed beyond the danger point, and
half a dozen second-rate situations, affording but a paltry glimpse of
the ocean, were snapped up in eager competition by wealthy capitalists
from Chicago, Pittsburg, and St. Louis who had set their hearts on
securing the best there was remaining.
Among the late comers was Daniel Anderson, known as the furniture king
in the jargon of trade, many times a millionaire, and comparatively a
person of leisure through the sale of his large plants to a trust. He
hired for the season, by long-distance telephone, at an amazing
rental, one of the more desirable places which was to let on account
of the purpose of its owners to spend the summer abroad. It was one of
the newer houses, large and commodious; yet its facilities were
severely taxed by the Anderson establishment, which fairly bristled
with complexity. Horses by the score, vehicles manifold, a steam
yacht, and three automobiles were the more striking symbols of a
manifest design to curry favor by force of outdoing the neighborhood.
The family consisted of Mrs. Anderson, who was nominally an invalid,
and a son and daughter of marriageable age. If it be stated that they
were chips of the old block, meaning their father, it must not be
understood that he had reached the moribund stage. On the contrary, he
was still in the prime of his energy, and, with the exception of the
housekeeping details, set in motion and directed the machinery of the
establishment.
It had been his idea to come to The Beaches; and having found a
foothold there he was determined to make the most of the opportunity
not only for his children but himself. With his private secretary and
typewriter at his elbow he matured his scheme of carrying everything
before him socially as he had done in business. The passport to
success in this new direction he assumed to be lavish expenditure. It
was a favorite maxim of his--trite yet shrewdly entertained--that
money will buy anything, and every man has his price. So he began by
subscribing to everything, when asked, twice as much as any one else,
and seeming to regard it as a privilege. Whoever along The Beaches was
interested in charity had merely to present a subscription list to Mr.
Anderson to obtain a liberal donation. The equivalent was
acquaintance. The man or woman who asked him for money could not very
well neglect to bow the next time they met, and so by the end of the
first summer he was on speaking terms with most of the men and many of
the women. Owing to his generosity, the fund for the building of a new
Episcopal church was completed, although he belonged to a different
denomination. He gave a drinking fountain for horses and dogs, and
when the selectmen begrudged to the summer residents the cost of
rebuilding two miles of road, Daniel Anderson defrayed the expense
from his own pocket. An ardent devotee of golf, and daily on the
links, he presented toward the end of the season superb trophies for
the competition of both men and women, with the promise of others in
succeeding years. In short, he gave the society whose favor he coveted
to understand that it had merely "to press the button" and he would do
the rest.
Mr. Andersen's nearest neighbors were the Misses Ripley--Miss Rebecca
and Miss Caroline, or Carry, as she was invariably called. They were
among the oldest summer residents, for their father had been among the
first to recognize the attractions of The Beaches, and their childhood
had been passed there. Now they were middle-aged women and their
father was dead; but they continued to occupy season after season
their cottage, the location of which was one of the most picturesque
on the whole shore. The estate commanded a wide ocean view and
included some charming woods on one side and a small, sandy, curving
beach on the other. The only view of the water which the Andersons
possessed was at an angle across this beach. The house they occupied,
though twice the size of the Ripley cottage, was virtually in the rear
of the Ripley domain, which lay tantalizingly between them and a free
sweep of the landscape.
One morning, early in October of the year of Mr. Anderson's advent to
The Beaches, the Ripley sisters, who were sitting on the piazza
enjoying the mellow haze of the autumn sunshine, saw, with some
surprise, Mr. David Walker, the real-estate broker, approaching across
the lawn--surprise because it was late in the year for holidays, and
Mr. Walker invariably went to town by the half-past eight train. Yet a
visit from one of their neighbors was always agreeable to them, and
the one in question lived not more than a quarter of a mile away and
sometimes did drop in at afternoon tea-time. Certain women might have
attempted an apology for their appearance, but Miss Rebecca seemed
rather to glory in the shears which dangled down from her
apron-strings as she rose to greet her visitor; they told so
unmistakably that she had been enjoying herself trimming vines. Miss
Carry--who was still kittenish in spite of her forty years--as she
gave one of her hands to Mr. Walker held out with the other a basket
of seckel pears she had been gathering, and said:
"Have one--do."
Mr. Walker complied, and, having completed the preliminary
commonplaces, said, as he hurled the core with an energetic sweep of
his arm into the ocean at the base of the little bluff on which the
cottage stood:
"There is no place on the shore which quite compares with this."
"We agree with you," said Miss Rebecca with dogged urbanity. "Is any
one of a different opinion?"
"On the contrary, I have come to make you an offer for it. It isn't
usual for real-estate men to crack up the properties they wish to
purchase, but I am not afraid of doing so in this case." He spoke
buoyantly, as though he felt confident that he was in a position to
carry his point.
"An offer?" said Miss Rebecca. "For our place? You know that we have
no wish to sell. We have been invited several times to part with it,
and declined. It was you yourself who brought the last invitation. We
are still in the same frame of mind, aren't we, Carry?"
"Yes, indeed. Where should we get another which we like so well?"
"My principal invites you to name your own figure."
"That is very good of him, I'm sure. Who is he, by the way?"
"I don't mind telling you; it's your neighbor, Daniel Anderson." David
Walker smiled significantly. "He is ready to pay whatever you choose
to ask."
"Our horses are afraid of his automobiles, and his liveried grooms
have turned the head of one of our maids. Our little place is not in
the market, thank you, Mr. Walker."
The broker's beaming countenance showed no sign of discouragement. He
rearranged the gay blue flower which had almost detached itself from
the lapel of his coat, then said laconically:
"I am authorized by Mr. Anderson to offer you $500,000 for your
property."
"What?" exclaimed Miss Rebecca.
"Half a million dollars for six acres," he added.
"The man must be crazy." Miss Rebecca stepped to the honeysuckle vine
with a detached air and snipped off a straggling tendril with her
shears. "That is a large sum of money," she added.
David Walker enjoyed the effect of his announcement; it was clear that
he had produced an impression.
"Money is no object to him. I told him that you did not wish to sell,
and he said that he would make it worth your while."
"Half a million dollars! We should be nearly rich," let fall Miss
Carry, upon whom the full import of the offer was breaking.
"Yes; and think what good you two ladies could do with all that
money--practical good," continued the broker, pressing his opportunity
and availing himself of his knowledge of their aspirations. "You could
buy elsewhere and have enough left over to endow a professorship at
Bryn Mawr, Miss Rebecca; and you, Miss Carry, would be able to revel
in charitable donations."
Those who knew the Ripley sisters well were aware that plain speaking
never vexed them. Beating about the bush from artificiality or
ignoring a plain issue was the sort of thing they resented.
Consequently, the directness of David Walker's sally did not appear to
them a liberty, but merely a legitimate summing up of the situation.
Miss Rebecca was the spokesman as usual, though her choice was always
governed by what she conceived to be the welfare of her sister, whom
she still looked on as almost a very young person. Sitting upright and
clasping her elbows, as she was apt to do in moments of stress, she
replied:
"Money is money, Mr. Walker, and half a million dollars is not to be
discarded lightly. We should be able, as you suggest, to do some good
with so much wealth. But, on the other hand, we don't need it, and we
have no one dependent on us for support. My brother is doing well and
is likely to leave his only child all that is good for her. We love
this place. Caroline may marry some day" (Miss Carry laughed
protestingly at the suggestion and ejaculated, "Not very likely"),
"but I never shall. I expect to come here as long as I live. We love
every inch of the place--the woods, the beach, the sea. Our garden,
which we made ourselves, is our delight. Why should we give up all
this because some one offers us five times what we supposed it to be
worth? My sister is here to speak for herself, but so far as I am
concerned you may tell Mr. Anderson that if our place is worth so much
as that we cannot afford to part with it."
"Oh, no, it wouldn't do at all! Our heartstrings are round the roots
of these trees, Mr. Walker," added the younger sister in gentle echo
of this determination.
"Don't be in a hurry to decide; think it over. It will bear
reflection," said the broker briskly.
"There's nothing to think over. It becomes clearer every minute," said
Miss Rebecca a little tartly. Then she added: "I dare say it will do
him good to find that some one has something which he cannot buy."
"He will be immensely disappointed, for his heart was set on it," said
David Walker gloomily. His emotions were not untinged by personal
dismay, for his commission would have been a large one.
He returned forthwith to his client, who was expecting him, and who
met him at the door.
"Well, Walker, what did the maiden ladies say? Have one of these," he
exclaimed, exhibiting some large cigars elaborately wrapped in gold
foil. "They're something peculiarly choice which a friend of mine--a
Cuban--obtained for me."
"They won't sell, Mr. Anderson."
The furniture king frowned. He was a heavily built but compact man who
looked as though he were accustomed to butt his way through life and
sweep away opposition, yet affable and easy-going withal.
"They won't sell? You offered them my price?"
"It struck them as prodigious, but they were not tempted."
"I've got to have it somehow. With this land added to theirs I should
have the finest place on the shore."
The broker disregarded this flamboyant remark, which was merely a
repetition of what he had heard several times already. "I warned you,"
he said, "that they might possibly refuse even this munificent offer.
They told me to tell you that if it was worth so much they could not
afford to sell."
"Is it not enough? They're poor, you told me--poor as church mice."
"Compared with you. But they have enough to live on simply, and--and
to be able to maintain such an establishment as yours, for instance,
would not add in the least degree to their happiness. On the contrary,
it is because they delight in the view and the woods and their little
garden just as they see them that they can't afford to let you have
the place." Now that the chances of a commission were slipping away
David Walker was not averse to convey in delicate language the truth
which Miss Rebecca had set forth.
Mr. Anderson felt his chin meditatively. "I seem to be up against it,"
he murmured. "You think they are not holding out for a higher figure?"
he asked shrewdly.
David shook his head. Yet he added, with the instinct of a business
man ready to nurse a forlorn hope, "There would be no harm in trying.
I don't believe, though, that you have the ghost of a chance."
The furniture king reflected a moment. "I'll walk down there this
afternoon and make their acquaintance."
"A good idea," said Walker, contented to shift the responsibility of a
second offer. "You'll find them charming--real thoroughbreds," he saw
fit to add.
"A bit top-lofty?" queried the millionaire.
"Not in the least. But they have their own standards, Mr. Anderson."
The furniture king's progress at The Beaches had been so uninterrupted
on the surface and so apparently satisfactory to himself that no one
would have guessed that he was not altogether content with it. With
all his easy-going optimism, it had not escaped his shrewd
intelligence that his family still lacked the social recognition he
desired. People were civil enough, but there were houses into which
they were never asked in spite of all his spending; and he was
conscious that they were kept at arm's length by polite processes too
subtle to be openly resented. Yet he did resent in his heart the check
to his ambitions, and at the same time he sought eagerly the cause
with an open mind. It had already dawned on him that when he was
interested in a topic his voice was louder than the voices of his new
acquaintances. He had already given orders to his chauffeur that the
automobiles should be driven with some regard for the public safety.
Lately the idea had come to him, and he had imparted it to his son,
that the habit of ignoring impediments did not justify them in driving
golf balls on the links when, the players in front of them were slower
than they liked.
On the way to visit the Misses Ripley later in the day the broker's
remark that they had standards of their own still lingered in his
mind. He preferred to think of them and others along the shore as
stiff and what he called top lofty; yet he intended to observe what he
saw. He had been given to understand that these ladies were almost
paupers from his point of view; and, though when he had asked who they
were, David Walker had described them as representatives of one of the
oldest and most respected families, he knew that they took no active
part in the social life of the colony as he beheld it; they played
neither golf, tennis, nor bridge at the club; they owned no
automobile, and their stable was limited to two horses; they certainly
cut no such figure as seemed to him to become people in their
position, who could afford to refuse $500,000 for six acres.
He was informed by the middle-aged, respectable-looking maid that the
ladies were in the garden behind the house. A narrow gravelled path
bordered with fragrant box led him to this. Its expanse was not large,
but the luxuriance and variety of the old-fashioned summer flowers
attested the devotion bestowed upon them. At the farther end was a
trellised summer-house in which he perceived that the maiden ladies
were taking afternoon tea. There was no sign of hothouse roses or rare
exotic plants, but he noticed a beehive, a quaint sundial with an
inscription, and along the middle path down which he walked were at
intervals little dilapidated busts or figures of stone on
pedestals--some of them lacking tips of noses or ears. It did not
occur to Mr. Anderson that antiquity rather than poverty was
responsible for these ravages. Their existence gave him fresh hope.
"Who can this be?" said Miss Carry with a gentle flutter. An unknown,
middle-aged man was still an object of curiosity to her.
Miss Rebecca raised her eyeglass. "I do believe, my dear, that
it's--yes, it is."
"But who?" queried Miss Carry.
Miss Rebecca rose instead of answering. The stranger was upon them,
walking briskly and hat in hand. His manner was distinctly
breezy--more so than a first meeting would ordinarily seem to her to
justify.
"Good afternoon, ladies. Daniel Anderson is my name. My wife wasn't
lucky enough to find you at home when she returned your call, so I
thought I'd be neighborly."
"It's very good of you to come to see us," said Miss Rebecca,
relenting at once. She liked characters--being something of one
herself--and her neighbor's heartiness was taking. "This is my sister,
Miss Caroline Ripley," she added to cement the introduction, "and I am
Rebecca. Sit down, Mr. Anderson; and may I give you a cup of tea?"
Four people were apt to be cosily crowded in the summer-house. Being
only a third person, the furniture king was able to settle himself in
his seat and look around him without fear that his legs would molest
any one. He gripped the arms of his chair and inhaled the fragrance of
the garden.
"This is a lovely place, ladies," he asserted.
"Those hollyhocks and morning-glories and mignonettes take me back to
old times. Up to my place it's all roses and orchids. But my wife told
me last week that she heard old-fashioned flowers are coming in again.
Seems she was right."
"Oh, but we've had old-fashioned flowers for years! Our garden has
been always just like this--only becoming a little prettier all the
time, we venture to hope," said Miss Carry.
"I want to know!" said Mr. Anderson; and almost immediately he
remembered that both his son and daughter had cautioned him against
the use of this phrase at The Beaches. He received the dainty but
evidently ancient cup from Miss Rebecca, and seeing that the subject
was, so to speak, before the house, he tasted his tea and said:
"It's all pretty here--garden, view, and beach. And I hear you decline
to sell, ladies."
Miss Rebecca had been musing on the subject all day, and a heartfelt
response rose promptly to her lips--spoken with the simple grace of a
self-respecting gentlewoman:
"Why should we sell, Mr. Anderson?"
The question was rather a poser to answer categorically; yet the
would-be purchaser felt that he sufficiently conveyed his meaning when
he said:
"I thought I might have made it worth your while."
"We are people of small means in the modern sense of the word," Miss
Rebecca continued, thereby expressing more concretely his idea; "yet
we have sufficient for our needs. Our tastes are very simple. The sum
which you offered us is a fortune in itself--but we have no ambition
for great wealth or to change our mode of life. Our associations with
this place are so intimate and tender that money could not induce us
to desecrate them by a sale."
"I see," said Mr. Anderson. Light was indeed breaking on him. At the
same time his appreciation of the merits of the property had been
growing every minute. It was an exquisite autumn afternoon. From where
they sat he could behold the line of shore on either side with its
background of dark green woods. Below the wavelets lapped the shingle
with melodious rhythm. As far as the eye could see lay the bosom of
the ocean unruffled, and lustrous with the sheen of the dying day.
Accustomed to prevail in buying his way, he could not resist saying,
after a moment of silence:
"If I were to increase my offer to a million would it make any
difference in your attitude?"
A suppressed gurgle of mingled surprise and amusement escaped Miss
Carry.
Miss Rebecca paused a moment by way of politeness to one so generous.
But her tone when she spoke was unequivocal, and a shade sardonic.
"Not the least, Mr. Anderson. To tell the truth, we should scarcely
understand the difference."
II
One summer afternoon two years later the Ripley sisters were again
drinking tea in their attractive summer-house. In the interval the
peaceful current of their lives had been stirred to its depths by
unlooked-for happenings. Very shortly after their refusal of Mr.
Anderson's offer, their only brother, whose home was on the Hudson
within easy distance of New York, had died suddenly. He was a widower;
and consequently the protection of his only daughter straightway
devolved on them. She was eighteen and good-looking. This they knew
from personal observation at Thanksgiving Day and other family
reunions; but owing to the fact that Mabel Ripley had been quarantined
by scarlet fever during the summer of her sixteenth year, and in
Europe the following summer, they were conscious, prior to her arrival
at The Beaches, that they were very much in the dark as to her
characteristics.
She proved to be the antipodes of what they had hoped for. Their
traditions had depicted a delicate-appearing girl with reserved
manners and a studious or artistic temperament, who would take an
interest in the garden and like nothing better than to read aloud to
them the new books while they did fancy-work. A certain amount of coy
coquetry was to be expected--would be welcomed, in fact, for there
were too many Miss Ripleys already. Proper facilities would be offered
to her admirers, but they took for granted that she would keep them at
a respectful distance as became a gentlewoman. She would be urged to
take suitable exercise; they would provide a horse, if necessary; and
doubtless some of the young people in the neighborhood would invite
her occasionally to play tennis.
Mabel's enthusiasm at the nearness of the sea took precedence over
every other emotion as she stood on the piazza after the embraces were
over.
"How adorably stunning! I must go out sailing the first thing," were
her words.
Meanwhile the aunts were observing that she appeared the picture of
health and was tall and athletic-looking. In one hand she had carried
a tennis-racket in its case, in the other, a bag of golf clubs, as she
alighted from the vehicle. These evidently were her household gods.
The domestic vision which they had entertained might need
rectification.
"You sail, of course?" Mabel asked, noticing, doubtless, that her
exclamation was received in silence.
Aunt Rebecca shook her head. "I haven't been in a sail-boat for twenty
years."
"But whose steam yacht is that?"
"It belongs to Mr. Anderson, a wealthy neighbor."
"Anyhow, a knockabout is more fun--a twenty-footer," the girl
continued, her gaze still fixed on the haven which the indentations of
the coast afforded, along which at intervals groups of yachts, large
and small, floated at their moorings picturesque as sea-gulls on a
feeding-ground.
"There is an old rowboat in the barn. I daresay that Thomas, the
coachman, will take you out rowing sometimes after he has finished his
work," said Aunt Carry kindly.
"Do you swim?" inquired Aunt Rebecca, failing to note her niece's
bewildered expression.
"Like a duck. I'm quite as much at home on the water as on land. I've
had a sailboat since I was thirteen, and most of our summers have been
spent at Buzzard's Bay."
"But you're a young lady now," said Aunt Rebecca.
Mabel looked from one to the other as though she were speculating as
to what these new protectors were like. "Am I?" she asked with a
smile. "I must remember that, I suppose; but it will be hard to change
all at once." Thereupon she stepped lightly to the edge of the cliff
that she might enjoy more completely the view while she left them to
digest this qualified surrender.
"'No pent-up Utica contracts her powers,'" murmured Miss Rebecca, who
was fond of classic verse.
"It is evident that we shall have our hands full," answered Miss
Carry. "But she's fresh as a rose, and wide-awake. I'm sure the dear
girl will try to please us."
Mabel did try, and succeeded; but it was a success obtained at the
cost of setting at naught all her aunts' preconceived ideas regarding
the correct deportment of marriageable girls. The knockabout was
forthcoming shortly after she had demonstrated her amphibious
qualities by diving from the rocks and performing water feats which
dazed her anxious guardians. Indeed, she fairly lived in her
bathing-dress until the novelty wore off. Thomas, the coachman, who
had been a fisherman in his day, announced with a grin, after
accompanying her on the trial trip of the hired cat-boat, that he
could teach her nothing about sailing. Henceforth her small craft was
almost daily a distant speck on the horizon, and braved the seas so
successfully under her guidance that presently the aunts forbore to
watch for disaster through a spyglass.
She could play tennis, too, with the best, as she demonstrated on the
courts of The Beaches Club. Her proficiency and spirit speedily made
friends for her among the young people of the colony, who visited her
and invited her to take part in their amusements. She was prepared to
ride on her bicycle wherever the interest of the moment called her,
and deplored the solemnity of the family carryall. When her aunts
declared that a wheel was too undignified a vehicle on which to go out
to luncheon, she compromised on a pony cart as a substitute, for she
could drive almost as well as she could sail. She took comparatively
little interest in the garden, and was not always at home at
five-o'clock tea to read aloud the latest books; but her amiability
and natural gayety were like sunshine in the house. She talked freely
of what she did, and she had an excellent appetite.
"She's as unlike the girls of my day as one could imagine, and I do
wish she wouldn't drive about the country bareheaded, looking like a
colt or a young Indian," said Miss Rebecca pensively one morning, just
after Mabel's departure for the tennis-court. "But I must confess that
she's the life of the place, and we couldn't get on without her now. I
don't think, though, that she has done three hours of solid reading
since she entered the house. I call that deplorable."
"She's a dear," said Aunt Carry. "We haven't been much in the way of
seeing young girls of late, and Mabel doesn't seem to me different
from most of those who visit her. Twenty years ago, you remember,
girls pecked at their food and had to lie down most of the time. Now
they eat it. What I can't get quite used to is the habit of letting
young men call them by their first names on short acquaintance. In my
time," she added with a little sigh, "it would have been regarded as
inconsistent with maidenly reserve. I'm sure I heard the young man who
was here last night say, 'I've known you a week now; may I call you
Mabel?'"
As to young men, be it stated, the subject of this conversation showed
herself impartially indifferent. Her attitude seemed to be that boys
were good fellows as well as girls, and should be encouraged
accordingly. If they chose to make embarrassing speeches regarding
one's personal appearance and to try to be alone with one as much as
possible, while such favoritism was rather a fillip to existence, it
was to be considered at bottom as an excellent joke. Young men came
and young men went. Mabel attracted her due share. Yet evidently she
seemed to be as glad to see the last comer as any of his predecessors.
Then occurred the second happening in the tranquil existence of the
maiden ladies. One day at the end of the first summer, an easterly
day, when the sky was beginning to be obscured by scud and the sea was
swelling with the approach of a storm, Dan Anderson, the only son of
his father, was knocked overboard by the boom while showing the heels
of his thirty-foot knockabout to the hired boat of his neighbor, Miss
Mabel Ripley. They were not racing, for his craft was unusually fast,
as became a multi-millionaire's plaything. Besides, he and the girl
had merely a bowing acquaintance. The _Firefly_ was simply
bobbing along on the same tack as the _Enchantress_, while the
fair skipper, who had another girl as a companion, tried vainly, at a
respectful distance, to hold her own by skill.
The headway on Dan's yacht was so great that before the two dazed
salts on board realized what had happened their master was far astern.
They bustled to bring the _Enchantress_ about and to come to his
rescue in the dingy. Stunned by the blow of the--spar, he had gone
down like a stone; so, in all probability, they would have been too
late. When he came up the second time it was on the port bow of the
_Firefly_, but completely out of reach. Giving the tiller to her
friend, and stripping off superfluous apparel, Mabel jumped overboard
in time to grasp and hold the drowning youth. There she kept him until
aid reached them. But the unconscious victim did not open his eyes
until after he had been laid on the Misses Ripley's lawn, where, by
virtue of brandy from the medicine-closet and hot-water bottles, the
flickering spark of life was coaxed into a flame.
It was an agitating experience for the aunts. But Mabel was none the
worse for the wetting; and though she naturally made light of her
performance, congratulations on her pluck and presence of mind came
pouring in. David Walker suggested that the Humane Society would be
sure to take the matter up and confer a medal upon the heroine. The
members of the Anderson family came severally to express with emotion
their gratitude and admiration. The father had not been there since
his previous eventful visit, though once or twice he had met his
neighbors on the road and stopped to speak to them, as if to show he
harbored no malice in spite of his disappointment.
Now with a tremulous voice he bore testimony to the greatness of the
mercy which had been vouchsafed him.
The third and last happening might be regarded as a logical sequel to
the second by those who believe that marriages are made in heaven. It
was to ponder it again after having pondered it for twenty-four hours
that the Ripley sisters found themselves in their pleached garden at
the close of the day. That the event was not unforeseen by one of them
was borne out by the words of Miss Carry:
"I remember saying to myself that day on the lawn, Rebecca, that it
would be just like the modern girl if she were to marry him; because
she saved his life, I mean. If he had saved hers, as used to happen,
she would never have looked at him twice. I didn't mention it because
it was only an idea, which might have worried you."
"We have seen it coming, of course," answered Miss Rebecca, who was
clasping the points of her elbows. "And there was nothing to do about
it--even if we desired to. I can't help, though, feeling sorry that
she isn't going to marry some one we know all about--the family, I
mean.
"Well," she added with a sigh, "the Andersons will get our place in
the end, after all, and we shall be obliged to associate more or less
with multi-millionaires for the rest of our days. It's depressing
ethically; but there's no use in quarrelling with one's own flesh and
blood, if it is a modern girl, for one would be quarrelling most of
the time. We must make the best of it, Carry, and--and try to like
it."
"He really seems very nice," murmured Miss Carry. "He gives her some
new jewel almost every day."
Miss Rebecca sniffed disdainfully, as though to inquire if love was to
be attested by eighteen-carat gold rather than by summer blooms.
The sound of steps on the gravel path interrupted their confabulation.
"It is Mr. Anderson, _pere_" said Miss Carry laconically.
"He is coming to take possession," responded her sister.
The crunch of the gravel under his solid, firm tread jarred on their
already wearied sensibilities. Nevertheless they knew that it behooved
them to be cordial and to accept the situation with good grace. Their
niece was over head and ears in love with a young man whose personal
character, so far as they knew, was not open to reproach, and who
would be heir to millions. What more was to be said? Indeed, Miss
Rebecca was the first to broach the subject after the greetings were
over.
"Our young people seem to have made up their minds that they cannot
live apart," she said.
"So my son has informed me."
Mr. Anderson spoke gravely and then paused. His habitually confident
manner betrayed signs of nervousness.
"I told him this morning that there could be no engagement until after
I had talked with you," he added.
One could have heard a pin drop. Each of the sisters was tremulous to
know what was coming next. Could he possibly be meditating purse-proud
opposition? The Ripley blue blood simmered at the thought, and Miss
Rebecca, nervous in her turn, tapped the ground lightly with her foot.
"The day I was first here," he resumed, "you ladies taught me a
lesson. I believed then that money could command anything. I
discovered that I was mistaken. It provoked me, but it set me
thinking. I've learned since that the almighty dollar cannot buy
gentle birth and--and the standards which go with it."
Unexpectedly edifying as this admission was, his listeners sought in
vain to connect it with the immediate issue, and consequently forebore
to speak.
"The only return I can make for opening my eyes to the real truth is
by doing what I guess you would do if you or one of your folk were in
my shoes. I'm a very rich man, as you know. If your niece marries my
son her children will never come to want in their time. He's a good
boy, if I do say it; and I should be mighty proud of her."
Miss Carry breathed a gentle sigh of relief at this last avowal.
"I don't want her to marry him, though, without knowing the truth, and
perhaps when you hear it you'll decide that she must give him up."
Thereupon Mr. Anderson blew his nose by way of gathering his faculties
for the crucial words as a carter rests his horse before mounting the
final hill when the sledding is hard.
"I'm going to tell you how I made my first start. I was a clerk in a
bank and sharp as a needle in forecasting what was going to happen
downtown. I used to say to myself that if I had capital it would be
easy to make money breed money. Well, one day I borrowed from the
bank, without the bank's leave, $3,000 in order to speculate. I won on
that deal and the next and the next. Then I was able to return what
I'd borrowed and to set up in a small way for myself in the furniture
business. That was my start, ladies--the nest-egg of all I've got."
He sat back in his chair and passed his handkerchief across his
forehead like one who has performed with credit an agonizing duty.
There was silence for a moment. Unequivocal as the confession was,
Miss Rebecca, reluctant to believe her ears, asked with characteristic
bluntness:
"You mean that you--er--misappropriated the money?"
"I was an embezzler, strictly speaking."
"I see."
"Perhaps you wonder why I told you this," he said, bending forward.
"No, we understand," said Miss Rebecca.
"We understand perfectly," exclaimed Miss Carry with gentle warmth.
"It's very honest of you, Mr. Anderson," said Miss Rebecca after a
musing pause.
"I've never been dishonest since then," he remarked naively. "But a
year ago I wouldn't have told you this, though it's been in the back
of my mind as a rankling sore, growing as I grew in wealth and
respectability. I made a bluff at believing that it didn't matter, and
that a thing done has an end. Well, now I've made a clean breast of it
to the ones who have a right to know. I should like you to tell
Mabel."
As he spoke the lovers appeared in the near distance at the edge of
the lawn, coming up from the beach. "But I don't think it will be
necessary to tell my son," he added yearningly.
"Certainly _not_" said Miss Rebecca with emphasis.
The sisters exchanged glances, trying to read each other's thoughts.
"It's a blot in the 'scutcheon, of course," said Miss Rebecca. "It's
for our niece to say." But there was no sternness in her tone.
This gave Miss Carry courage. Her hand shook a little as she put down
her teacup, for she was shy of taking the initiative. "I think I know
what she would say. In our time it would probably have been different,
on account of the family--and heredity; but Mabel is a modern girl.
And a modern girl would say that she isn't to marry the father but the
son. She loves him, so I'm certain she would never give him up.
Therefore is it best to tell her?"
Daniel Anderson's face was illumined with the light of hope, and he
turned to the elder sister, whom he recognized as the final judge.
Miss Rebecca sniffed. Her ideas of everlasting justice were a little
disconcerted. Nevertheless she said firmly after brief hesitation:
"I was taught to believe that the sins of the fathers should be
visited on the children; but I believe, Carry, you're right."
"Bless you for that," exclaimed the furniture king. Then, groping in
the excess of his emotion for some fit expression of gratitude, he
bent forward and, taking Miss Rebecca's hand, pressed his lips upon
her fingers as an act of homage.
Miss Carry would have been justified in reflecting that it would have
been more fitting had he kissed her fingers instead. But she was used
to taking the second place in the household, and the happy expression
of her countenance suggested that her thoughts were otherwise engaged.
-THE END-
Robert Grant's short story: An Exchange of Courtesies
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