“And what’s Philip like?”
“He was a missionary too.... He was three years in Africa ... until his health broke.”
“Oh, my God!” He grew suddenly thoughtful, moved perhaps by the suspicion that she had succeeded in doing to his son what she had failed to do to him.
She was at the door now. “I won’t listen to you talking like that any longer.” She turned in the doorway. “Don’t go out till I come back. You mustn’t be seen till we’ve worked this thing out. I’ve got to send word to them all.”
When she had gone, he picked up his hat, took a cigar from his vest pocket and lighted it. In the hallway, he shouted at her, “Are we still using the same room, Em? I’ll just move in my things and wash up a bit.”
In the sitting-room Emma sat down and wrote three notes—one to Naomi, one to Mabelle, and the third to Moses Slade. With a trembling hand she wrote to him, “God has sent Jason, my husband, back to me. He came to-day. It is His will that we are not to marry. Your heartbroken Emma.”
She summoned the slattern Essie, and, giving her instructions of a violence calculated to impress Essie’s feeble mind, she bade her deliver the three notes, Mr. Slade’s first of all. But once outside the sight of Emma, the hired girl had her own ideas of the order in which she meant to deliver them, and so the note to Moses Slade arrived last. But it made no difference, as the Honorable Mr. Slade, bearing a copy of the Labor Journal, was at the same moment on his way to Emma’s to break off the engagement, for he had discovered the author of the libelous drawings. The latest one was signed boldly with the name, “Philip Downes.” He never arrived at Emma’s house, for on his way he heard in Smollett’s Cigar Store that Jason Downes had returned, and so he saved himself the trouble of an unpleasant interview. For Essie, in the moment after the returned prodigal had made known to her his identity, had put on a cast-off hat of Emma’s and set out at once to spread the exciting news through the Town.
When she returned at last from delivering the three notes, Emma was “getting Jason settled” in the bedroom he had left twenty-six years before. Essie, tempted, fell, and, listening outside the door, heard him recounting to his wife a wonderful story of having lost his memory for a quarter of a century. But one thing tormented the brain of the slattern Essie. She could not understand how Emma seemed to know the whole story and to put in a word now and then correcting him.
At the sound of Emma’s footsteps approaching the door, Essie turned and, fleeing, hid in the hall closet, from which she risked her whole future by opening the door a little way to have a look at the fascinating Mr. Downes. Her heart thumped wildly under her cotton blouse at the proximity of so romantic a figure.