He came to church the following Sunday and on other Sundays thereafter. His attendance was far more regular than it had been while Esther lived in the big house. It seemed almost as if he made it a point to be seen in public and to show to that public a countenance serene, unruffled, dignified—even defiant. He visited the post office every day, sometimes twice a day. His trotting horses began once more to show their paces about the Circle. Varunas Gifford was delighted, of course. “The old man’s gettin’ sensible again,” declared Varunas. “Was a time there when I snum it seemed as if he never cared two cents whether Claribel or Hornet or any of the rest of ’em could trot fast enough to get out of the way of an ox team. Never paid no attention to ’em, scurcely. Now he’s beginnin’ to show some signs of life! talkin’ about Sam Baker again, he is, and askin’ what kind of cattle Sam is cal’latin’ to send around the track over to Ostable when it comes Fair time. Looks to me as if I might be sailin’ around that track myself and fetchin’ a few dollars into port for him, same as I used to. Nabby, she’s growlin’ about it already, says I’m gettin’ too old for horse-racin’. ‘Gosh!’ I told her, says I, ‘don’t you fret yourself about that. When I get so old I can’t drive a trottin’ gig I’ll be just about old enough to have somebody else drive me in a hearse. Say,’ I says to her— He, he!—‘make ’em hitch a couple of high steppers onto that hearse, won’t you, Nabby. I wouldn’t want nobody to beat me to the cemetery.’ That stirred her up. He, he!”
Reliance had received one more letter from Esther. It, like the first one, was written from Boston. She and Bob had been obliged to wait another week before sailing for Europe. That week had gone and they had sailed. Presumably they were in Paris now and Reliance was anxiously awaiting a third letter which should tell of their arrival and what had transpired since. Day after day she had been hoping that Foster Townsend might come to see her and that, as a result of their interview, she could write Esther that her uncle would, if not welcome, at least receive and read, a letter from her. But her hope was dying. Townsend did not call. She saw him almost daily through the little delivery window of the post office, but, although they exchanged greetings, his was always perfunctory and in his manner was no hint of a desire for conversation.
But once only had a message come to her from the big house. This was at the end of the week following the elopement, when Varunas, in the Townsend two-seater, brought Esther’s trunk to the Clark cottage. Mr. Gifford had much to say concerning his errand.
“It’s the cap’n’s doin’s,” he explained. “He told Nabby to pack up Esther’s things and have me fetch ’em down to you. ‘What’ll I tell her to do with ’em?’ says I. He just glowered at me and walked away. ‘She can do what she wants to with ’em,’ he growled, over his shoulder. ‘I don’t want to know what she does. Don’t you mention ’em to me again.’ So that’s what I know about it, and it ain’t much. Say,” he added, “there was a whole lot more things of hers around. Not clothes, you know, but—oh, well, photograph pictures and knickknacks and doodads, all sorts of junk she’s picked up around, when he and she was off cruisin’ and travelin’ and the like of that. He made Nabby pick up every one of them things and stow ’em away out of sight. Seem’s if he couldn’t bear to have anything that belonged to her ’round where he was liable to lay eyes on it. There was only one item he left off the bill of ladin’ and that was kind of queer, too—queer he should leave that out, I mean. There was a big photograph of her on the settin’-room mantel-piece. You’ve seen it; you know the one ’twas. Naturally Nabby cal’lated that would be the first thing he’d be for gettin’ out of sight. Well, ’tis out of sight, so far as that goes, but where he’s put it we don’t know. ’Tain’t in this trunk and it ain’t with the stuff Nabby’s hid up attic. What do you suppose he’s ever done with that photograph, Reliance?”
Reliance sent the trunk to Esther at her Boston address, hoping it would reach her before the date of sailing. Whether it did or not she had not yet heard. She made it a point to see Mrs. Gifford occasionally and from her learned what was taking place at the mansion.
“It’s about the same as it used to be,” declared Nabby. “Reminds me of that time just after his wife passed away, I mean. He sits around in the library all by himself, readin’ the paper and smokin’ his cigar. Smokes too much, he does, and I tell him so. Sometimes when I go in there, he won’t be readin’ at all; just settin’ in his big chair, puffin’ away, and lookin’ at nothin’. It makes me feel bad to see him so, but if I mention it he takes my head off. He is prouder than ever and touchier than ever. Cap’n Ben Snow comes to see him and so does the minister and some of the other folks, but, so far as I can make out, he don’t ever go to see them. About the most pitiful sight is to see him, early mornin’ afore breakfast, out mopin’ around the flower garden all alone. ’Bella—his wife, I mean—she set a lot of store by that garden and Esther set about as much. You’d almost think he’d keep away from it, think ’twould be the last place he’d want to see, but he’s there ’most every mornin’. He’s a queer man, and always was, but I know I never felt so sorry for anybody in all my days.... If I told that to anybody but you, Reliance, they’d laugh. They’d think bein’ sorry for Foster Townsend was about as silly as bein’ sorry for the Governor of Massachusetts—or—or the President of the Old Colony Railroad or somebody, wouldn’t they?
“You know how I hate horse trottin’,” she went on, “but I do declare if I ain’t almost happy to see him takin’ an interest in it again. Yes, and he’s gettin’ back in politics some, too. They help to take up his mind, so I don’t complain, though I do wish some of them Selectmen and Represent’ives and Poundkeepers, or whatever they be, knew enough to wipe their boots when they come in on a decent, clean floor. Yes, horses and politics and that everlastin’ lawsuit and lawyers do a little to keep him busy. I don’t know how much the lawyers help, though; it does look to me as if they worried him as much as they helped lately. He used to love that lawsuit. I only hope nothin’s gone wrong with that.”
The long expected letter from Paris came at last. It covered many pages and was, on the whole, reassuring and comforting. The trunk had been received in time. The voyage was a marvelous experience. Paris was the most beautiful city in the whole world. They—Esther and Bob—had lodgings in a funny little out of the way street, where no one save themselves spoke English, and where Esther had to make her wants known by signs “just like a deaf and dumb person, although Bob says there is nothing dumb about our landlady. I say a few words in English and she says a thousand in French, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. It will though, Auntie, pretty soon. I shall learn to speak French if I die for it. I can read it a little already; my music studies helped me there. You will be glad to know that I am keeping on with those studies. Not in the grand way I used to think I should, but a little and inexpensively. Bob is having a glorious time with his painting. The masters at the classes have said most encouraging things. We—”
And so on, page after page. Reliance gathered that the young couple were very, very happy. There were no signs of doubt as to the wisdom of their hasty marriage.
At the end Esther wrote: