“Everybody just stood around, or set on the settee, and looked at him when he come in,” narrated Tobias. “We didn’t none of us hardly dast to speak, or so much as say, ‘How are you, Cap’n Foster?’ Didn’t know how he’d take it, you understand. But he was just same as ever, seemed so. Just as grand and top lofty and off-hand to us bugs and worms under his feet as if nothin’ had happened. When somebody—Nathan Doane, seems to me ’twas—spunked up enough to say ‘Good day,’ he nodded his head and says ‘Good day’ back. Course he must know that every man, woman and child old enough to talk has been talkin’ about nothing but him and his family for two days and nights. You’d think he’d realize it and act sort of—well, fussed and ashamed, but not him, no sir! Darned if it wasn’t kind of disappointin’! Yes, ’twas so.
“And,” went on Mr. Eldridge, “when he went up to the window after his mail and Reliance Clark handed it out to him, we was all set to see how he’d act to her. ’Twas in her house them two was married and we didn’t know but he’d tell her what he thought of her right there and then. And what happened? Nothin’!” in high disgust. “Nothin’ at all! ‘Good mornin’, Foster,’ says she, not lookin’ even so much as nervous. ‘Mornin’, Reliance,’ he says; grunted it just same as he’s grunted good mornin’ to her for two year. And that’s all there was to it. Can you beat that? I don’t know how you’re goin’ to.”
It was an attitude that could not be beaten and reluctantly Harniss was forced to that realization. At home, when the inevitable callers came, eager to learn details, ready to offer sympathy and express indignation at Esther’s wickedness, it was just the same. Foster Townsend flatly refused to discuss the subject. The Reverend Mr. Colton ventured to persist a trifle more than the rest.
“Of course, Captain Townsend,” he said, sadly, “we all know the burden you are bearing. If you knew—I shall be glad to tell you if you wish to hear—the expressions of sympathy for you which are poured into my ears, they might perhaps comfort you a little. And the poor, misguided girl! Ungrateful—yes. But—”
Townsend, who was standing by the chair in the library, a cigar in one hand and a match in the other, swung about.
“Here, here!” he broke in, gruffly. “What is all this about sympathy? Sympathy for what?”
The minister was taken aback. “Why—why,” he faltered, “I mean— Why, we all know what a shock to you this—this must be. Your niece—”
“Sshh!” The match was scratched and held to the end of the cigar. Townsend blew a puff of smoke. “Colton,” he observed, in a tone so polite as to be almost ominous, “you came here to talk about church business, didn’t you? That was what I understood you to say you came for.”
“Why—why, yes, I did. But, in my position as—as a friend of long standing, as well as your clergyman, I ventured—”
“In a business talk I like to stick to business. And,” with a slight emphasis, “the church is your business. Well, what about it?”