Chapter 7

In Which a Dream Becomes a Reality

I said nothing immediately. I could not. It was “Little Frank” who resumed the conversation. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Who--I beg your pardon? I am rather upset, I'm afraid. I didn't expect--that is, I expected.... Well, I didn't expect THIS! What was it you asked me?”

“I asked you who you were.”

“My name is Knowles--Kent Knowles. I am Captain Cahoon's grand-nephew.”

“His grand-nephew. Then--Did Captain Cahoon send you to me?”

“Send me! I beg your pardon once more. No.... No. Captain Cahoon is dead. He has been dead nearly ten years. No one sent me.”

“Then why did you come? You have my letter; you said so.”

“Yes; I--I have your letter. I received it about an hour ago. It was forwarded to me--to my cousin and me--here in London.”

“Here in London! Then you did not come to London in answer to that letter?”

“No. My cousin and I--”

“What cousin? What is his name?”

“His name? It isn't a--That is, the cousin is a woman. She is Miss Hephzibah Cahoon, your--your mother's half-sister. She is--Why, she is your aunt!”

It was a fact; Hephzibah was this young lady's aunt. I don't know why that seemed so impossible and ridiculous, but it did. The young lady herself seemed to find it so.

“My aunt?” she repeated. “I didn't know--But--but, why is my--my aunt here with you?”

“We are on a pleasure trip. We--I beg your pardon. What have I been thinking of? Don't stand. Please sit down.”

She accepted the invitation. As she walked toward the chair it seemed to me that she staggered a little. I noticed then for the first time, how very slender she was, almost emaciated. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes and her face was as white as the bed-linen--No, I am wrong; it was whiter than Mrs. Briggs' bed-linen.

“Are you ill?” I asked involuntarily.

She did not answer. She seated herself in the chair and fixed her dark eyes upon me. They were large eyes and very dark. Hephzy said, when she first saw them, that they looked like “burnt holes in a blanket.” Perhaps they did; that simile did not occur to me.

“You have read my letter?” she asked.

It was evident that I must have read the letter or I should not have learned where to find her, but I did not call attention to this. I said simply that I had read the letter.

“Then what do you propose?” she asked.

“Propose?”

“Yes,” impatiently. “What proposition do you make me? If you have read the letter you must know what I mean. You must have come here for the purpose of saying something, of making some offer. What is it?”

I was speechless. I had come there to find an impudent young blackguard and tell him what I thought of him. That was as near a definite reason for my coming as any. If I had not acted upon impulse, if I had stopped to consider, it is quite likely that I should not have come at all. But the blackguard was--was--well, he was not and never had been. In his place was this white-faced, frail girl. I couldn't tell her what I thought of her. I didn't know what to think.

She waited for me to answer and, as I continued to play the dumb idiot, her impatience grew. Her brows--very dark brown they were, almost black against the pallor of her face--drew together and her foot began to pat the faded carpet. “I am waiting,” she said.

I realized that I must say something, so I said the only thing which occurred to me. It was a question.

“Your father is dead?” I asked.

She nodded. “My letter told you that,” she answered. “He died in Paris three years ago.”

“And--and had he no relatives here in England?”

She hesitated before replying. “No near relatives whom he cared to recognize,” she answered haughtily. “My father, Mr. Knowles was a gentleman and, having been most unjustly treated by his own family, as well as by OTHERS”--with a marked emphasis on the word--“he did not stoop, even in his illness and distress, to beg where he should have commanded.”

“Oh! Oh, I see,” I said, feebly.

“There is no reason why you should see. My father was the second son and--But this is quite irrelevant. You, an American, can scarcely be expected to understand English family customs. It is sufficient that, for reasons of his own, my father had for years been estranged from his own people.”

The air with which this was delivered was quite overwhelming. If I had not known Strickland Morley, and a little of his history, I should have been crushed.

“Then you have been quite alone since his death?” I asked.

Again she hesitated. “For a time,” she said, after a moment. “I lived with a married cousin of his in one of the London suburbs. Then I--But really, Mr. Knowles, I cannot see that my private affairs need interest you. As I understand it, this interview of ours is quite impersonal, in a sense. You understand, of course--you must understand--that in writing as I did I was not seeking the acquaintance of my mother's relatives. I do not desire their friendship. I am not asking them for anything. I am giving them the opportunity to do justice, to give me what is my own--my OWN. If you don't understand this I--I--Oh, you MUST understand it!”

She rose from the chair. Her eyes were flashing and she was trembling from head to foot. Again I realized how weak and frail she was.

“You must understand,” she repeated. “You MUST!”

“Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I think I--I suppose I understand your feelings. But--”

“There are no buts. Don't pretend there are. Do you think for one instant that I am begging, asking you for HELP? YOU--of all the world!”

This seemed personal enough, in spite of her protestations.

“But you never met me before,” I said, involuntarily.

“You never knew of my existence.”

She stamped her foot. “I knew of my American relatives,” she cried, scornfully. “I knew of them and their--Oh, I cannot say the word!”

“Your father told you--” I began. She burst out at me like a flame.

“My father,” she declared, “was a brave, kind, noble man. Don't mention his name to me. I won't have you speak of him. If it were not for his forbearance and self-sacrifice you--all of you--would be--would be--Oh, don't speak of my father! Don't!”

To my amazement and utter discomfort she sank into the chair and burst into tears. I was completely demoralized.

“Don't, Miss Morley,” I begged. “Please don't.”

She continued to sob hysterically. To make matters worse sounds from behind the closed door led me to think that someone--presumably that confounded Mrs. Briggs--was listening at the keyhole.

“Don't, Miss Morley,” I pleaded. “Don't!”

My pleas were unavailing. The young lady sobbed and sobbed. I fidgeted on the edge of my chair in an agony of mortified embarrassment. “Don'ts” were quite useless and I could think of nothing else to say except “Compose yourself” and that, somehow or other, was too ridiculously reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. It was an idiotic situation for me to be in. Some men--men of experience with woman-kind--might have known how to handle it, but I had had no such experience. It was all my fault, of course; I should not have mentioned her father. But how was I to know that Strickland Morley was a persecuted saint? I should have called him everything but that.

At last I had an inspiration.

“You are ill,” I said, rising. “I will call someone.”

That had the desired effect. My newly found third--or was it fourth or fifth--cousin made a move in protest. She fought down her emotion, her sobs ceased, and she leaned back in her chair looking paler and weaker than ever. I should have pitied her if she had not been so superior and insultingly scornful in her manner toward me. I--Well, yes, I did pity her, even as it was.

“Don't,” she said, in her turn. “Don't call anyone. I am not ill--not now.”

“But you have been,” I put in, I don't know why.

“I have not been well for some time. But I am not ill. I am quite strong enough to hear what you have to say.”

This might have been satisfactory if I had had anything to say. I had not. She evidently expected me to express repentance for something or other and make some sort of proposition. I was not repentant and I had no proposition to make. But how was I to tell her that without bringing on another storm? Oh, if I had had time to consider. If I had not come alone. If Hephzy,--cool-headed, sensible Hephzy--were only with me.

“I--I--” I began. Then desperately: “I scarcely know what to say, Miss Morley,” I faltered. “I came here, as I told you, expecting to find a--a--”

“What, pray?” with a haughty lift of the dark eyebrows. “What did you expect to find, may I ask?”

“Nothing--that is, I--Well, never mind that. I came on the spur of the moment, immediately after receiving your letter. I have had no time to think, to consult my--your aunt--”

“What has my--AUNT” with withering emphasis, “to do with it? Why should you consult her?”

“Well, she is your mother's nearest relative, I suppose. She is Captain Cahoon's daughter and at least as much interested as I. I must consult her, of course. But, frankly, Miss Morley, I think I ought to tell you that you are under a misapprehension. There are matters which you don't understand.”

“I understand everything. I understand only too well. What do you mean by a misapprehension? Do you mean--do you dare to insinuate that my father did not tell me the truth?”

“Oh, no, no,” I interrupted. That was exactly what I did mean, but I was not going to let the shade of the departed Strickland appear again until I was out of that room and house. “I am not insinuating anything.”

“I am very glad to hear it. I wish you to know that I perfectly understand EVERYTHING.”

That seemed to settle it; at any rate it settled me for the time. I took up my hat.

“Miss Morley,” I said, “I can't discuss this matter further just now. I must consult my cousin first. She and I will call upon you to-morrow at any hour you may name.”

She was disappointed; that was plain. I thought for the moment that she was going to break down again. But she did not; she controlled her feelings and faced me firmly and pluckily.

“At nine--no, at ten to-morrow, then,” she said. “I shall expect your final answer then.”

“Very well.”

“You will come? Of course; I am forgetting. You said you would.”

“We will be here at ten. Here is my address.”

I gave her my card, scribbling the street and number of Bancroft's in pencil in the corner. She took the card.

“Thank you. Good afternoon,” she said.

I said “Good afternoon” and opened the door. The hall outside was empty, but someone was descending the stairs in a great hurry. I descended also. At the top step I glanced once more into the room I had just left. Frances Strickland Morley--Little Frank--was seated in the chair, one hand before her eyes. Her attitude expressed complete weariness and utter collapse. She had said she was not sick, but she looked sick--she did indeed.

Harriet, the slouchy maid, was not in evidence, so I opened the street door for myself. As I reached the sidewalk--I suppose, as this was England, I should call it the “pavement”--I was accosted by Mrs. Briggs. She was out of breath; I am quite sure she had reached that pavement but the moment before.

“'Ow is she?” demanded Mrs. Briggs.

“Who?” I asked, not too politely.

“That Morley one. Is she goin' to be hill again?”

“How do I know? Has she been sick--ill, I mean?”

“Huh! Hill! 'Er? Now, now, sir! I give you my word she's been hill hever since she came 'ere. I thought one time she was goin' to die on my 'ands. And 'oo was to pay for 'er buryin', I'd like to know? That's w'at it is! 'Oo's goin' to pay for 'er buryin' and the food she eats; to say nothin' of 'er room money, and that's been owin' me for a matter of three weeks?”

“How should I know who is going to pay for it? She will, I suppose.”

“She! W'at with? She ain't got a bob to bless 'erself with, she ain't. She's broke, stony broke. Honly for my kind 'eart she'd a been out on the street afore this. That and 'er tellin' me she was expectin' money from 'er rich friends in the States. You're from the States, ain't you, sir?”

“Yes. But do you mean to tell me that Miss Morley has no money of her own?”

“Of course I mean it. W'en she come 'ere she told me she was on the stage. A hopera singer, she said she was. She 'ad money then, enough to pay 'er way, she 'ad. She was expectin' to go with some troupe or other, but she never 'as. Oh, them stage people! Don't I know 'em? Ain't I 'ad experience of 'em? A woman as 'as let lodgin's as long as me? If it wasn't for them rich friends in the States I 'ave never put up with 'er the way I 'ave. You're from the States, ain't you, sir?”

“Yes, yes, I'm from the States. Now, see here, Mrs. Briggs; I'm coming back here to-morrow. If--Well, if Miss Morley needs anything, food or medicines or anything, in the meantime, you see that she has them. I'll pay you when I come.”

Mrs. Briggs actually smiled. She would have patted my arm if I had not jerked it out of the way.

“You trust me, sir,” she whispered, confidingly. “You trust my kind 'eart. I'll look after 'er like she was my own daughter.”

I should have hated to trust even my worst enemy--if I had one--to Mrs. Briggs' “kind heart.” I walked off in disgust. I found a cab at the next corner and, bidding the driver take me to Bancroft's, threw myself back on the cushions. This was a lovely mess! This was a beautiful climax to the first act--no, merely the prologue--of the drama of Hephzy's and my pilgrimage. What would Jim Campbell say to this? I was to be absolutely care-free; I was not to worry about myself or anyone else. That was the essential part of his famous “prescription.” And now, here I was, with this impossible situation and more impossible young woman on my hands. If Little Frank had been a boy, a healthy boy, it would be bad enough. But Little Frank was a girl--a sick girl, without a penny. And a girl thoroughly convinced that she was the rightful heir to goodness knows how much wealth--wealth of which we, the uncivilized, unprincipled natives of an unprincipled, uncivilized country, had robbed her parents and herself. Little Frank had been a dream before; now he--she, I mean--was a nightmare; worse than that, for one wakes from a nightmare. And I was on my way to tell Hephzy!

Well, I told her. She was in our sitting-room when I reached the hotel and I told her the whole story. I began by reading the letter. Before she had recovered from the shock of the reading, I told her that I had actually met and talked with Little Frank; and while this astounding bit of news was, so to speak, soaking into her bewildered brain, I went on to impart the crowning item of information--namely, that Little Frank was Miss Frances. Then I sat back and awaited what might follow.

Her first coherent remark was one which I had not expected--and I had expected almost anything.

“Oh, Hosy,” gasped Hephzy, “tell me--tell me before you say anything else. Does he--she, I mean--look like Ardelia?”

“Eh? What?” I stammered. “Look like--look like what?”

“Not what--who. Does she look like Ardelia? Like her mother? Oh, I HOPE she doesn't favor her father's side! I did so want our Little Frank to look like his--her--I CAN'T get used to it--like my poor Ardelia. Does she?”

“Goodness knows! I don't know who she looks like. I didn't notice.”

“You didn't! I should have noticed that before anything else. What kind of a girl is she? Is she pretty?”

“I don't know. She isn't ugly, I should say. I wasn't particularly interested in her looks. The fact that she was at all was enough; I haven't gotten over that yet. What are we going to do with her? Or are we going to do anything? Those are the questions I should like to have answered. For heaven's sake, Hephzy, don't talk about her personal appearance. There she is and here are we. What are we going to do?”

Hephzy shook her head. “I don't know, Hosy,” she admitted. “I don't know, I'm sure. This is--this is--Oh, didn't I tell you we were SENT--sent by Providence!”

I was silent. If we had been “sent,” as she called it, I was far from certain that Providence was responsible. I was more inclined to place the responsibility in a totally different quarter.

“I think,” she continued, “I think you'd better tell me the whole thing all over again, Hosy. Tell it slow and don't leave out a word. Tell me what sort of place she was in and what she said and how she looked, as near as you can remember. I'll try and pay attention; I'll try as hard as I can. It'll be a job. All I can think of now is that to-morrow mornin'--only to-morrow mornin'--I'm going to see Little Frank--Ardelia's Little Frank.”

I complied with her request, giving every detail of my afternoon's experience. I reread the letter, and handed it to her, that she might read it herself. I described Mrs. Briggs and what I had seen of Mrs. Briggs' lodging-house. I described Miss Morley as best I could, dark eyes, dark hair and the look of weakness and frailty. I repeated our conversation word for word; I had forgotten nothing of that. Hephzy listened in silence. When I had finished she sighed.

“The poor thing,” she said. “I do pity her so.”

“Pity her!” I exclaimed. “Well, perhaps I pity her, too, in a way. But my pity and yours don't alter the situation. She doesn't want pity. She doesn't want help. She flew at me like a wildcat when I asked if she was