III
The summer ran its course, and the great winds were beginning to blow. The leaves were falling fast. And, in the city, janitors were informing tenants that the furnace was being repaired; who so sorry as they for any delay in getting up a fine sizzling head of steam in the boiler these chilly mornings?
In the historic cottage there was, of course, not even a hope of a furnace. Cousin Winnie spent most of her time in the kitchen, where there was a coal stove,[Pg 423] and Cousin Ronald took long, healthful walks. So did Lucy; often they went together, but not on this especial afternoon. If they had, if Lucy had accompanied Cousin Ronald this afternoon, all might have been different.
Cousin Ronald, however, had remained in his study, communing, so to speak, with Mme. Van Der Dokjen. It was growing late when from his window he saw Lucy coming back from her walk. Her hair was blown about, her cheeks were glowing, she looked the most alive, warm, radiant creature imaginable.
And he was chilly and dispirited, and, seeing her, he thought that perhaps a walk might do all that for him. So he put on his hat and overcoat and took up his stick, and set forth. Not ten yards from his own gate he passed the man he so anxiously awaited, but he knew him not. He went on, in one direction, and the man went on in the other.
The man knocked at the door of the cottage, and Lucy opened it. She was still flushed from her walk, and in that dim, low-ceilinged room she seemed to him, with her fair hair that shone, her clear blue eyes, her scarlet jersey, almost impossibly vivid.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Does Mr. Phillips live here?”
“Oh, yes!” Lucy answered. “But he’s just gone out. You might catch him if—”
“I’d be sure to miss him,” the stranger declared, firmly. “If it won’t bother you, may I wait? I’ll just sit down out here.” And he indicated a very historic settle which was built into the porch. All the winds that blew, blew here; an eddy of leaves whirled about his feet, now, and Lucy could scarcely hold the door open.
“You’d better come in,” she suggested.
“Well, thank you,” said he.
Fresh from the stir and color of the windy day, the sitting room seemed to him unpleasantly chill and dark as Lucy closed the door behind him. The fire was out, for economy’s sake, and the tiny panes in the historic window did not admit much light.
“This is a pretty old house, isn’t it?” he observed.
“Awfully!” said Lucy. “Sit down, won’t you? That chair’s a hundred and fifty years old. And it’s one of the junior set, too!”
“I’ve heard about this place. Belonged to Mme. Van Der Dokjen, didn’t it?”
“It still does!” said Lucy, grimly.
The stranger glanced at her.
“My name’s Ordway,” he explained. “I wrote to Mr. Phillips, and he asked me to come. I’ve been away—on my vacation—or I’d have come before.”
He wished that he had. He wished that he had come weeks ago. He felt that he had lost priceless time. And he looked as if he thought that.
Lucy had always liked red hair, and noses that turned up a little. This young man had red hair and that sort of nose; he was big, too, and broad-shouldered, and he looked cheerful. She asked him if he would care to look over the historic cottage and its antiques.
“Well—no, thanks,” he said. “Tell you the truth, I’ve had all I want of historic things. My aunts, you know—they’ve got ancestors, and documents. If you don’t mind, I’d rather just sit here and—”
He said “wait,” but what he meant was “talk to you.” The girl knew this. They did sit there, and they talked. The room grew dark; a very fine sunset was going forward in its proper place; indeed, at that moment Cousin Ronald was standing upon a hilltop, admiring it. But the laws of nature kept it away from the sitting room.
In the course of time Cousin Winnie was obliged to call for her daughter’s aid. She came into the doorway; Mr. Ordway was presented to her; she spoke to him graciously, and gave him a candle, then she took away the radiant Lucy.
Candle or no candle, the room seemed darker than ever to Ordway. He began to walk about, but he knocked his shins against too many historic objects, and at last he paused, in a spot where he could see into the kitchen. He saw Cousin Winnie and Lucy preparing dinner by candlelight.
And he did not find it picturesque. He saw Lucy vigorously plying the pump beside the sink. He was not reminded of the old days, when home life had been so much finer. He thought:
“Good Lord! A pump! Candles! It’s a shame! It’s a darned shame! A girl like that! It’s a darned shame!”
He blamed Mr. Ronald Phillips for all this.
When Cousin Ronald came home, he found a Stephen Ordway even more sinister than he had feared; a stern and very reticent young man, a very large one, too. By the light of the one candle in the sitting[Pg 424] room, he loomed, in the dictionary sense of the word—“loom: to appear larger than the real size, and indefinitely.” His red hair had an infernal gleam.
“Mr.—er—Ordway?” said Cousin Ronald. “Yes—yes—I had—er—a communication from you?”
“You did, Mr. Phillips.”
“Er—have you brought it with you?” asked Cousin Ronald, very low.
The young man said “Yes,” but made no move to produce any document. He was thinking of something else.
“This house is old,” he remarked; “but it seems pretty solid.”
“Yes, indeed!” Cousin Ronald assented anxiously. “Yes, indeed!” He saw that the young man was leading up to something. “Suppose we step into my study?”
The young man was looking about him, at the walls, up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” he asserted. “The place could be wired.”
“W-wired?” said Cousin Ronald. “I don’t—”
“I’m an electrical engineer,” said Ordway. “I’ve been looking around here. Think what electricity could do for you here! Light—plenty of light—electric water heater—pump—dish washer—vacuum cleaner—percolator—stoves. You could have decent comfort!”
Cousin Ronald could not fathom the motives of the stranger, but he felt sure that they were profoundly subtle, and inimical to Cousin Ronald’s welfare. Again he said:
“Will you—er—step into my study, sir?”
Ordway stepped, and when he got in there he loomed worse than ever.
“See here!” he said. “Let me do this job for you—wiring the house.”
Cousin Ronald felt a sort of illness, a sort of faintness. He believed that he could comprehend the plot now. Instead of bluntly demanding a certain sum for Mme. Van Der Dokjen’s letter, he was going to demand this job—this impious, this vandal job, of “wiring” the cottage. And the price—the price—
“I—er—fear it would be a somewhat costly undertaking,” said Cousin Ronald.
Ordway thought of the wonderful girl, groping about in this dismal house, cold, forlorn, captive to an ogre relative. He was perhaps a little obsessed by electricity—a good thing for one of his profession. He thought it the great hope of the modern world. And he could not endure the idea of a wonderful girl deprived of its benefits. He said:
“The question is—if anything can be too ‘costly,’ when it’s a matter of human dignity and welfare.”
A shudder ran along Cousin Ronald’s spine. The moment had come. Very well; he was ready. He admitted, in his own heart, that nothing could be too costly where Mme. Van Der Dokjen’s dignity was concerned. He was silent for a moment; then he raised his distinguished head.
“Mr. Ordway,” he said, “name your price, sir!”
Ordway stared at him with a faint frown.
“I didn’t mean that,” he explained. What he had meant was that he would be glad to do this job for nothing. But he feared to affront Mr. Phillips. “It’s—I’d enjoy doing it,” he said earnestly.
Cousin Ronald could not endure the suspense any longer.
“Mr. Ordway,” he said, “let us be direct, sir. That is ever my way. I have long been prepared for this eventuality. I am ready, sir, to consider the purchase of this letter. Be good enough to name your price.”