Part 4 (1/2)

”Sneak-thieves and second-floor thieves have quite replaced the old-fas.h.i.+oned midnight burglar,” said Miss Caroline.

”They are just as bad,” said Mrs. Dale.

”Women--ladies--are taking to it now,” said Master Frederick. ”I heard the funniest story about one the other day.” He paused, and grew red at the drawing upon himself the fire of eight pairs of eyes, but plucked up his courage and resumed the theme, not insensible to the possible delight of terrifying those before whom he had quailed. ”It was in Ned Hayward's family, my cla.s.smate; he and his brother Bob--he's a junior--live in South Boston with their uncle, Colonel Hayward--the celebrated Colonel Hayward, you know, who was so distinguished in the war, and--and everything; perhaps you know him?”

”We have heard of him,” said Mrs. Carter, graciously.

”Well, I've been out there sometimes with him, and it's no end of jolly--I mean, it is a pleasant place to visit in. The Colonel's an old bachelor, and brings his nephews up, because, you know, their father's dead.” He stopped short again, overwhelmed with the sound of so long a speech from himself.

”But about the thief? Oh, do tell us,” murmured the circle, encouragingly.

”Well,” began Fred, seeing his retreat cut off, and gathering courage as the idea struck him that the topic, if skilfully dwelt on, might last out the call, ”it happened this way. Bob was at home a few weeks ago to spend Sunday, and took a lot of fellows--I mean a large party of his cla.s.smates; and there were some boys there playing tennis with his brothers--it was on a Sat.u.r.day morning--and a woman came and asked for the lady of the house; that's a common dodge of theirs, you know. Well, of course, the Colonel went in to see her. The boys wanted to see the fun, so they all took turns in looking through the keyhole; and Bob says she was stunning--I mean very pretty--and looked like a lady, and dressed up no end; but she seemed very confused and queer, and as if she hardly knew what to say, and she pretended to have come to ask for the character of a servant with the oddest name, I forget what; but most likely she made it up, for none of them could remember it. Well, she hung on ever so long, looking for a chance to hook something, I suppose, and at last, just as she was going, it began to rain, and she seemed to expect him to lend her an umbrella. But he wasn't as green as all that comes to; he said he would see her to the car himself; so off he walked with her as polite as you please. Bob says it's no end of fun to see his uncle with a lady; he doesn't see much of them, and when he does he treats 'em like princesses. He took her to the car, and put her in, and just as it started he asked her address, and she told him--”

here an irrepressible fit of laughter interrupted his tale--”she told him that it was Mrs. W. Cracker, 40 Was.h.i.+ngton Street. Did you ever hear such stuff? Of course there's no such person, for the Colonel wasted lots of time taking particular pains to find out. Bob says they're all sure she was a thief, except his uncle, who was awfully smashed on her pretty face, and he sticks to it she was only a little out of her head.

They poke no end of fun at him about it, but it really was no joke for him, for he walked with her down to the car in his old slippers in the wet, and caught cold in the leg where he was wounded; he's always lame in it, and when he takes cold it brings on his rheumatic gout. He was laid up a fortnight; he's always so funny when he's got the gout; he can't bear to have any of the boys come near him, and flings boots at their heads when they do, for of course they have to wait on him some, and he swears so. Bob says he's sorry for him, for of course it hurts, but he can't help laughing at the queer things he says. He always swears some when he's well, but when he's sick it fairly takes your head off.”

”Dear me! dear me!” said Mrs. Carter; ”swearing is a sad habit. I hope, Freddy, dear, that you will not catch it. Colonel Hayward is a very distinguished officer, and they have to, I suppose, on the battle-field; but there is no war now, and it is not at all necessary.”

”Oh, he won't let the boys do it! He swears at them like thunder if they do, but they don't mind it. He's awfully good-natured, and lets them rough him as much as they please, and they've done it no end about the pretty little housebreaker. Bob has made a song about her to the tune of _Little Annie Rooney_--that's the one his uncle most particularly hates.

Phil had a shy at her with his kodak, but what with the rain and the leaves, you can't see much of her.”

”It is a pity,” said Miss Caroline; ”it might be shown to the police, who could very likely identify her. I dare say she has been at Sherborne Prison, and there we photograph them all. If it were not that Mary Murray is in for a two years' sentence, I should say it answered very well to her description.”

Some more desultory conversation went on, while the hands of the clock ran rapidly on toward eleven. The youthful Minna silently stole away at a sign from her mother, without drawing attention upon herself. Ten o'clock was the latest hour at which these ladies were in the habit of being up; but how hint to a guest that he was staying too long? They guessed that it might not seem late to him, and feared that he was acquiring bad habits in college.

The poor fellow knew perfectly well that he was making an unconscionably long call; but how break through the circle? And then he was remembering with affright into how much slang he had lapsed in the course of his tale, and was racking his brains for some particularly proper farewell speech which should efface the recollection of it. Suddenly his eyes were caught by Marian's face. Her look of abject misery he could attribute only to her extreme fatigue, and he made a desperate rally:

”I'm afraid, Miss Dale, I mean Mrs. Robbins, that I'm making a terribly long call. I am very sorry.”

”Oh, not at all! Not at all! Pray do not hurry! You must come often; we shall be delighted to see you.”

”It seems a very long way,” murmured Freddy, conscious that he was saying something rude, but unable to help himself; and he finally succeeded in escaping, under a fire of the most pressing invitations to ”call again,” for, as Mrs. Carter said, ”we must show some hospitality to poor Ellen's boy. Marian, you look tired. I hope you did not let him see it. Do go to bed directly. I must confess I feel a little sleepy myself.” But the troubles which Marian bore with her to the small room which she shared with her little niece were of a kind for which bed brought no solace, and she lay awake till almost dawn, only thankful that Minna slumbered undisturbed by her side.

To Marian every private who had fought in the war was an angel, and every officer an archangel _ex officio_. That she should have been the cause of an attack of rheumatic gout to a wounded hero filled her with remorse, especially as this particular hero was the most delightful man she had ever met. She wept bitterly from a variety of emotions--pity, and shame, too--for what must he think of her? That last misery, at any rate, she could not and would not endure, and before breakfast she had written the following letter:

”BURROUGHS STREET, JAMAICA PLAIN.

”DEAR COLONEL HAYWARD,

”I was very, very sorry to hear that you had taken cold and been ill in consequence of that unfortunate call of mine on Sat.u.r.day, three weeks ago. I really came on the errand I said I did; but I don't wonder you thought otherwise, after I had behaved so foolishly. I did not know who you were, nor where I had been, and I gave the wrong name because I was frightened. But I cannot let you think so poorly of me, or believe I had the least intention of giving you so much pain and trouble. I can remember the war” [this was a mortifying confession for Marian to make, but she felt that the proper atonement for her fault demanded an unsparing sacrifice of her own feelings], ”and I know how much grat.i.tude I, and every other woman in our country, owe to you. Begging your pardon most sincerely, I am,

”Yours very truly, ”MARIAN R. CARTER.

”_May 5th, 1885_.”

Marian found no time to copy this letter over again before she took it with her on her morning round of errands, to slip into the first post-box, and she would not keep it back for another mail, although she feared by turns that it was improperly forward, and chillingly distant.

Posted it was, and she could not get it back. She did not know whether she wanted him to answer it or not. It would be kind and civil in him to do so, but she felt that she could hardly bear the curiosity of the family, as his letter was pa.s.sed from hand to hand before it was opened to guess whom it could be from, or handed round again to be read. There was no more privacy in the house than there was in an ant-hill.

She had not long to speculate, for the very next afternoon, as the family were all sitting in grandmamma's room downstairs, their common rallying-ground, as it was the pleasantest one in the house, and the old lady, who disliked being left alone, rarely went into the drawing-room till evening, the parlour-maid brought in a card, which went the rounds immediately: