“There! there!” protested the captain. “Just belay! cut it short, there’s a good woman! I’ll admit I’m a saint and would wear a halo instead of a hat if ’twa’n’t so unfashionable. Good day. If you need anything you ain’t got, tell the nurse.”
The grateful Irish woman did not intend to let him escape so easily.
“Aw, sor,” she went on, “it’s all right for you to make fun. I’m the jokin’ kind, sor, meself. Whin the flats where we used to be got afire and Pat had to lug me down the fire escape in his arms, they tell me I was laughin’ fit to kill; that is, when I wasn’t screechin’ for fear he’d drop me. And him, poor soul, never seein’ the joke, but puffin’ and groanin’ that his back was in two pieces. Ha, ha! Oh, dear! And him in two pieces now for sure and all! Aw, sor, it’s all right for you to laugh it off, but what would we do without you? You and Miss Caroline, God bless her!”
“Caroline? She doesn’t come here, does she?”
“Indade she does. Sure, she’s the perfect little lady! Hardly a day passes—or a week, anyhow—that she doesn’t drop in to see how the ould man’s gettin’ on.”
“Humph! Well, see that you don’t tell her about me.”
Mrs. Moriarty held up both hands in righteous protestation. She tell? Might the tongue of her wither between her teeth before it let slip a word, and so on. Captain Elisha waved her to silence.
“All right! all right!” he exclaimed. “So long! Take good care of your husband, and, and—for Heaven’s sake, walk careful and don’t step on any of the children.”
Mrs. Moriarty’s tongue did not wither; at all events, it was lively enough when he next met her. The captain’s secret was not divulged, and he continued his visits to the flat, taking care, however, to ascertain his niece’s whereabouts beforehand. It was not altogether a desire to avoid making his charitable deeds public which influenced him. He had a habit of not letting his right hand know what his left was about in such cases, and he detested a Pharisaical philanthropist. But there was another reason why Caroline must not learn of his interest in the Moriartys. If she did learn it, she would believe him to be helping them on his own responsibility; or, if not, that he was using money belonging to the estate. Of course he would, and honestly must, deny the latter charge, and, therefore, the first would, to her mind, be proven. He intended that Malcolm Dunn should pay the larger share of the bills, as was right and proper. But he could not tell Caroline that, because she must not know of the young man’s responsibility for the accident. He could not give Malcolm the credit, and he felt that he ought not to take it himself. It was a delicate situation.
He was lonely, and the days seemed long. Reading the paper, walking in the park, occasionally dropping in at the lawyers’ offices, or visiting the shops and other places of interest about town made up the monotonous routine. He breakfasted early, waited upon by Edwards, got lunch at the restaurant nearest to wherever he happened to be at noon, and returned to the apartment for dinner. His niece and nephew dined with him, but when he attempted conversation they answered in monosyllables or not at all. Every evening he wrote a letter to Abbie, and the mail each morning brought him one from her. The Dunns came frequently and seemed disposed to be friendly, but he kept out of their way as much as possible.