The Big Mogul

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

Arabella had liked their niece, had more than once spoken of that liking, had even dared so far on rare occasions as to hint that a girl like Esther might be “kind of nice to have around; somebody outside of just us two old folks to take an interest in. Don’t you think so, dear?” He had refused to listen to the hints then. Freeling Townsend had chosen to follow his own road in open defiance of the brother who had lifted him out of the mire so often. Let those who were responsible for his taking that road tramp it to the end; that was his brusque ultimatum. Only since his wife’s death had he changed his mind. That conscience to which Reliance Clark had referred as having been “pushed away up-attic” had been shaken from its camphor. Perhaps he had been too hard. He had been right, of course, but even so he might have yielded, to please Mother. It would have pleased her then; if the talk which the minister and the rest so wearisomely offered him as consolation should be true it might please her now. He was a regular church-goer at the old First Meeting House on Sunday, but he was so more because it was the conservative, orthodox thing to do than from any deep-rooted religious convictions. Nevertheless—

And Esther was a Townsend. It was risky experiment, but for Mother’s sake he had decided to give it a trial. His own loneliness and the growing certainty that he could not continue to live in that house without companionship were the weights which tipped the balance.

Well; it had been tipped. He had gone as far as even Arabella could have wished. Farther, for he had offered a home to Reliance and that worthless half-brother of hers, not because he wanted to, but because he felt certain that Esther would not leave her aunt. He had gone far enough. As the afternoon passed and no answer came he began to think that he had gone too far. Confound their impudence!

By four he was pacing up and down the library in a state of mind divided between anger and alarm. He was tempted to sit down at his desk and write a curt note withdrawing his offer altogether. He did not do so because—well, because, in spite of his resentment and chagrin, he realized that such a withdrawal would leave him exactly where he was now, alone—and doomed to remain alone always. There was no one else, no one except a paid companion, and companionship of that kind would be worse than none. And, too, he had begun already to make plans for the girl, plans which were alluring as a means of occupying his own mind in their execution and had become more alluring since his meeting with their principal the previous evening. She was a pretty girl, modest and attractive; in spite of prejudice he had been forced to admit that. And she looked like a Townsend; there was scarcely a trace of Clark about her. Put a girl like that in the surroundings such as he could give her, with the opportunities and the money—why, there might be a new interest in life for him, just as Mother had suggested.

But where was she? Why hadn’t he heard from her? It was Reliance who was responsible for the delay, he was certain of that. He had known Reliance Clark ever since she was a schoolgirl and he a young sea captain. She was poor then as now, but pretty and popular, and as independent as a “hog on ice,” to use a Cape Cod simile. There was a time when she and he were very friendly indeed, but the friendship was a stormy one. Two such natures were bound to clash. She resented the slightest hint of patronizing and was as set in her way as he was in his, which is saying not a little. They had quarreled, made it up, quarreled again and drifted apart. Now he was the Harniss mogul and she was its postmistress, because he had made her so. Even in the midst of his irritation he chuckled as he remembered her astonishment when he told her that she owed her appointment to his influence. He had given her self-satisfaction one jolt, at all events.

It was quite natural that, in all his thinking and surmising, he gave not one thought to Millard Clark. Very few people who knew him did waste thought on Millard.

Nabby Gifford’s voice sounded behind the drawn portières.

“Cap’n Foster,” said Nabby. “Cap’n Foster, you in there? If you be there’s somebody come to see you.”

Townsend was standing by the desk. He turned.

“Who is it?” he demanded. “If it is the minister tell him I’m busy.”