ESTHER’S hours of sleep that night were few indeed. She was happy one moment and miserable the next. Bob loved her—he told her so. And she loved him, she was sure of it now. But did they love each other enough? Were they sufficiently certain of that love to go on to face its inevitable consequences, regardless of what those consequences must mean to themselves and to others? For if they were not, both of them, absolutely sure, those consequences were too tremendous to be faced. Her uncle had permitted friendship between Elisha Cook’s grandson and herself—the fact of his doing so was still an unexplainable mystery to her—but she was certain that he would never consent to their marriage. And Bob’s grandfather would be equally resolute in his opposition. It was one thing to say, as Bob had said, that the family feud had no part in their lives. It had. She loved her uncle dearly and she knew that he idolized her. She owed him a debt of gratitude beyond the limits of measure. Only one reason could ever be strong enough to warrant her risking the end of their affectionate association and the repudiation of that debt. If she were certain that she loved Bob Griffin—really loved him and would always love him—then nothing else mattered. Except, of course, the same certainty of his enduring love for her. But were they certain? They had known each other such a short time.
And there were other considerations. Her future with her beloved music, the career she had dreamed. She had no money of her own. Bob had some, but not a great deal. He was almost as dependent upon his grandfather as she was upon Foster Townsend. Might not his chances for fame and success as an artist be wrecked if he married her? She must think of that, too. There was so much to think of. She thought and thought, but morning brought no definite conclusion except one, which was that she must continue to think and, meanwhile, there must be no plighted troth, no engagement, no definite promise of any kind between them. She would tell Bob that when they next met. If he really loved her he would understand and be willing to wait, as she would wait, and see.
She came downstairs early and found that her uncle was an even earlier riser. He had gone out to the stable, so Nabby said, but would, of course, come in to breakfast when called. And he had already told Mrs. Gifford of Esther’s coming trip abroad. Nabby was excited and even more voluble than usual.
“I suspicioned there was somethin’ up,” she declared. “He’s been nervous and uneasy for over a fortni’t. And cranky—my soul! He was like a dog with one flea, you never could tell the place he’d snap at next. Varunas noticed it too, of course, and he was consider’ble worried about it. Honest, I cal’late Varunas was beginnin’ to be afraid that your uncle was losin’ his mind or somethin’. ‘He’s touched in the head, I do believe,’ he said. ‘If he ain’t why does he allow that grandson of ’Lisha Cook’s to come here so twice a week reg’lar? A Cook don’t belong in this house and you know it, Nabby. What is he let come here for?’
“Well, I didn’t know why, of course, but I never see Foster Townsend yet when he didn’t have a reason for doin’ things and I spoke right up and said so. ‘When Cap’n Foster gets ready to put that Griffin boy out he’ll do it,’ I told him. ‘You say yourself the cap’n don’t act natural these days. Well, maybe there’s the reason. Probably he don’t really like that young feller’s ringin’ our front doorbell any better than you do, and he’s just waitin’ for a good excuse to tell him so.’ That’s what I said, but I wan’t so terrible satisfied with what I said and Varunas he was less satisfied than I was.
“‘Hugh!’ says he, disgusted. ‘When I see Foster Townsend waitin’ for an excuse to do what he wants to, then I won’t guess he’s gone crazy, I’ll know it. When he sets out to tell the President of the United States, or the minister, or Judas Iscariot, or anybody else, to go to Tophet he tells ’em so and then thinks up the excuse afterwards. You bet he ain’t actin’ natural! Nabby Gifford, if Foster Townsend don’t need a doctor, or a keeper or somethin’, then I do. This kind of goin’s on is too much for me!’”
Having contributed this conversational gem from the Gifford family treasury, Nabby paused. Possibly she expected Esther to offer some explanation of the Griffin visits. If so she was disappointed, for Esther said nothing. Nabby picked up a fork from the breakfast table and then put it down again.
“Well, anyhow,” she continued, “be that as it will or must, as the sayin’ is, your uncle has acted queer for quite a spell and ’twan’t until this very mornin’ that he give me the least hint of why he was doin’ it. When he told me no longer than twenty minutes ago, that he had been layin’ his plans for you to go over to live along with them—er—heathen in foreign lands—when he told me you was goin’ and he was goin’ to stay here to home alone—I got my answer, or part of it anyhow. The poor soul is about crazy with lonesomeness at the very idea. That’s what ails him. Are you really truly goin’ to go, Esther?”
Esther nodded. “Uncle says I must,” she replied. “He wants me to go on with my singing and my music and he can’t go himself—at present.”
She went on to tell of the proposed trip, of Mrs. Carter, and the details as she had been told them by Townsend.