Part 30

“I have nothing to tell you,” said Lynn, with energy. “I have nothing to say to you at all, except that I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t come again.”

Then she vanished. Before Jerry had recovered himself, he was confronted by his mortal enemy, Mrs. Journay.

“Kindly send your bill for the carpenter work you did,” said she, “and it will be attended to promptly.”

He tried a smile.

“That was just a little neighborly service--” he began.

“I prefer not to accept it as such,” she interrupted.

“Well, I prefer not to send bills,” said he, resolutely good-humored. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll introduce myself--”

“I do not allow you.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied firmly, “but it’s time it was done. I’m Mr. Sargent, your landlord.”

This was a blow to stagger Mrs. Journay, but she rallied superbly.

“Indeed!” said she. “Now I see it all! Very well, call your Cooper & Cooper to put us out. Let them--”

“But there’s no question of that!” he protested. “I’m only too glad--” She really was magnificent!

“I refuse to be under obligations to you,” she said. “Your agents may forbid me to do such and such a thing, and I shall do it. I defy them. I defy you. I intend to continue in this course until I am forcibly ejected. Instruct your Cooper & Cooper to that effect. I do not recognize you!”

VI

This was ordinary rain. From a sullen sky it came driving down like a sheet of fine wires, digging into the sodden ground, dashing on the roof, beating down the tiny new leaves on the trees, riddling the muddy water of the now hurrying river. This was the worst of three rainy days, and the house on Sloan Street was in a sad state. There was water in the cellar, there were spots of mold on the walls, and everywhere there was a most miserable, dank, bleak chill, which even these two resolutely cheerful women could not ignore. They did not appear to relish their breakfast.

“I--” began Mrs. Journay, and, for the first time since Lynn had known her, she visibly hesitated. “If you can look after the shop alone,” she said, “I’d like to--to--attend to some business.”

Now, if she had not been so intent upon her own duplicity, Mrs. Journay would have observed that Lynn’s conduct was unusual. The girl showed no surprise at her aunt’s singular decision to go out in such weather. On the contrary, she seemed relieved and pleased.

“I don’t mind at all,” she replied. “Not a bit! I--not a bit!”

So Mrs. Journay put on an old raincoat with capes, and a hat that was good enough for the rain, and her overshoes, and set off.

Lynn, watching that erect and imposing figure tramping through the mud of Sloan Street, took out a handkerchief and cried into it for a good ten minutes. She planned treachery that day. She had made a secret appointment with a wholesaler who would, she hoped, buy all those boxes for a lump sum, and thus put an end to some of their financial difficulties--and also to the shop.

Fortunate that she did not suspect her aunt’s errand! Even Mrs. Journay, with her unconquerable spirit, was very, very unhappy that morning.

“But,” she said to herself, “there wouldn’t have been enough to pay that man his rent on the 1st of next month, and that I could _not_ bear!”

She, too, had renounced the shop, and intended to tell Lynn so in the evening.

In the meantime, on she pressed. The mud was slippery, the rain disconcerted her by beating in her face, and her shoes were even more uncomfortable when worn with rubbers. What was worse, her way lay uphill, and up a mighty steep hill at that, and she had a heavy heart to carry with her. She turned her ankle rather painfully, the top button burst off her raincoat--she breathed so hard--and the rain ran down her neck. Still, as was her admirable way, she reached her goal. At last she stood upon the summit of the hill, and though to be sure she did not cry “Excelsior!” she felt a little like that.

She turned for a last glance behind her. There lay Sloan Street far below, and No. 93 was plainly visible in every detail. She sighed sternly, faced her destiny again, and turned in at the gate of a fine stone house before her. She rang the bell.

“Mrs. Aldrich?” said she to the maid, and presented her card.

She was asked to step into the music room, but would not. She was too wet. She would stand in the hall; and there Mrs. Aldrich found her when she descended.

Now Mrs. Aldrich, when she saw that card, had meant to treat Mrs. Journay as Mrs. Journay had treated her; but it was impossible. In the first place, Mrs. Aldrich was not capable of a majestic manner. She was peppery and sharp, sometimes, but never hoity-toity. In the second place, the caller looked so forlorn and tired and wet that all her rancor vanished. She held out her hand with a smile and a friendly greeting.

“Pardon me,” replied Mrs. Journay, in the most frigid tone she had ever used. “I fear you mistake my purpose. I have come”--here she opened her purse and took out a bit torn from a newspaper--“I have come to apply for this position as cook.”

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Aldrich.

“If the position is not filled, I believe I have at least some of the qualifications you desire. I understand cookery in all its branches. I am honest, clean, and strictly sober.”

This was awful! This was intolerable!

“Oh, but, my dear Mrs. Journay!” cried Mrs. Aldrich, immeasurably distressed. “I--don’t you see? I can’t! Let’s sit down and--”

“Thank you,” interrupted the other. “Then I must apply to the next place on my list.”

“Oh, dear!” said Mrs. Aldrich, for she could not endure the thought of Mrs. Journay going out into the rain again, and tramping about, looking for a position as cook. She could not endure to see this magnificent creature so humbled. “Can’t--something else be done?” she asked.

“Thank you, it cannot.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Aldrich, “if you really feel that you must, then please stay here with me.”

“Thank you. I shall ask you to allow me to use the telephone for the purpose of sending a message to my niece. May I safely say that I shall return to her at ten o’clock this evening?”

“Oh, much earlier! Whenever you like!”

“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Journay, “but I believe I understand the requirements of such a position.”

VII

“The dam has burst,” said old Mr. Cooper.

He made this melodramatic announcement with great calm, because it was a very unimportant dam, and not likely to evoke much excitement; but Jerry Sargent, his employer, sprang to his feet.

“What?” he cried. “Elliot’s dam? Then Sloan Street must be under water!”

“I’m afraid so,” said Cooper, somewhat startled; “but No. 93 is the only house there that’s tenanted, and I didn’t imagine you’d be much upset about _them_.”

He was still more startled by the expression he now saw upon Sargent’s usually good-humored face.

“What do you mean by supposing that?” thundered Jerry. “On the contrary, they’re--they’re _special_ tenants. They--”

“Well,” said Mr. Cooper, “you see, in view of the correspondence we had with them--”

“What correspondence?”

“Why, those letters that Mrs. Aldrich directed us to send while you were away. You distinctly said we were to take directions from her in your absence.”

“Let me see those letters!”

Mr. Cooper produced them. Mr. Sargent read them.

“It’s an outrage!” shouted Jerry. “It’s persecution! It’s--”

He flung himself into his overcoat, jammed a felt hat well down on his head, and started out, slamming the office door behind him. His roadster stood at the curb. He got in, started off with a jerk, and went down the street, around the corner, and out into the road that led to Sloan Street from the town. It was a good road, and he took advantage of it. He turned another corner, and Sloan Street lay before him at the foot of the hill.

Oh, Sloan Street was under water, sure enough! It was, in fact, a shallow stream, moving sluggishly. It was certainly not more than six inches deep, and there was no danger, visible or implied; yet to Sargent it was horrible, that sullen, muddy stream, under the merciless downpour of rain, with stanch old No. 93 standing there among the tossing, dripping branches of the trees.

He left his car, ran down the hill, and splashed into the water, ankle deep. His feet sank into the mud, the rain beat in his face, but he bent his head and floundered on, the slowness of his progress putting him into a dogged fury. He wanted to get there at once, to explain.

He stumbled over something, fell to his knees, and lost his hat while regaining his feet. He wiped his rain-blurred eyes with a muddy sleeve, and went on.

“Mr. Sargent! Mr. Sa-argent!”

He stopped, turned, and saw Lynn standing on the hill he had recently left.

“Oh, please come back!” she cried. “Please, Mr. Sargent!”

He did come back, and stood before her.

“I had to come,” he said, “to tell you that I didn’t know anything about those letters from Cooper & Cooper. I never heard of them till to-day.”

Never in his life had he imagined that a girl could look like this. Her hair lay dank across her forehead, giving to her glowing face an adorably childlike look. Her dark lashes were wet, and were like rays about her clear eyes; and the kindness, the heavenly kindness of her regard! The poor fellow had positively no idea that she was a forlorn, bedraggled little object. There he stood, looking up at her, and she looked at him, and tears came into her eyes.

“Don’t!” he cried.

“But you don’t know!” she said.

She meant that he didn’t know how splendid and gallant and handsome he appeared, bareheaded in the rain, with a great streak of mud across his face, and how deeply touched she was by his coming through a flood to explain about the letters; and of course she didn’t wish him to know.

“I--my boxes!” she said, by way of explaining the tears. “I’ve been into the city to see a wholesaler, and he’s bought them all. I had them all on the dining room floor, ready to pack, and I’m afraid--”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Sargent.

“No! No! Mr. Sargent, come out of that water!” said she sternly. “It doesn’t matter!”

“It does,” said he. “Wait here!”

Off he splashed again.

No. 93 was built on the side of a little slope. The front door was reached by a flight of steps, but the back door was level with the garden, and Jerry knew very well that the house must be filled with water. He kicked open the gate, made his way along the path and up the steps to the veranda, and put the pass key he carried with him into the lock.

The key turned readily, but the door would not open. He pushed his hardest. At last he drew off a little and crashed against the door with his shoulder. Then it opened, and a great flood of water, dammed up inside, came rolling down the steps in a cascade. Suddenly something heavy, borne on the swift-moving current, struck Jerry on the shins, knocked him backward, and, sailing on, struck him violently on the head. The chill, muddy water rolled over him, but he was as indifferent to it as the fleet of hand-decorated boxes that went down the front steps with him.

VIII

Mrs. Aldrich and Mrs. Journay sat in the kitchen, side by side, on two straight-backed chairs. They had just had a quarrel, due to Mrs. Journay’s obstinately refusing to eat her lunch with Mrs. Aldrich and insisting upon having it in the kitchen. In the course of this quarrel Mrs. Aldrich had explosively confessed that it was she who had ordered the Cooper & Cooper letters sent, and who had observed from her hilltop all that went on below.

“Because I didn’t like the way you treated my nephew,” she explained. “Can you forgive me for that?”

“I can,” said Mrs. Journay, calmly. “I should have felt the same, if it had been my nephew.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Aldrich triumphantly, “if you really do forgive me, the least you can do is to come in and have lunch with me decently!”

But Mrs. Journay would not, so Mrs. Aldrich had sent away the two servants and eaten there in the kitchen with Mrs. Journay. In the beginning both of them were very angry, but they became more and more friendly every minute. They had a great deal to talk about--they had Lynn and Jerry to talk about.

“Jerry tells me that your niece is a charming girl,” said Mrs. Aldrich. “He’s talked about her incessantly ever since he first saw her; and it isn’t like Jerry to be so enthusiastic.”

“She is a charming girl,” replied Mrs. Journay complacently; “and as for your nephew--”

The front doorbell rang, and Mrs. Aldrich went to open the door. Mrs. Journay sat where she was.

“Jerry!” she heard Mrs. Aldrich cry in a tone of fright.

“Don’t worry!” answered a cheerful voice which Mrs. Journay recognized without difficulty. “It’s only a scratch; but--this is Miss Journay. She saved my life!”

“Oh!” protested Lynn. “Really I didn’t!”

Mrs. Journay then entirely forgot her position, and hurried into the hall. There she saw that man, with a bandage around his head, and Lynn standing beside him.

“Auntie!” cried Lynn, amazed. “You here?”

“Why not?” inquired Mrs. Journay. “I might ask why _you_ are here!”

“Mr. Sargent got hurt trying to save my boxes,” Lynn explained anxiously; “so you see, auntie--”

“What am I expected to see?” asked Mrs. Journay, with lifted eyebrows.

Mrs. Aldrich now intervened.

“Jerry,” said she, “now that I’ve had an opportunity of knowing Mrs. Journay better, I see that I was wrong--altogether wrong. I want her and her niece to stay here with us until that horrible old barn is put in order for them again--if it ever is; and I want you--”

Jerry stepped forward and held out his hand, smiling. Lynn thought, with a flash of hope, that even her aunt could not resist him; but Mrs. Journay regarded him sternly.

“Lynn,” said she, “introduce this young man to me. I do not know him.”

“But, auntie!” protested Lynn. “You’ve seen him--”

“Not properly,” said Mrs. Journay.

“Mrs. Journay, this is my nephew, Gerald Sargent,” said Mrs. Aldrich.

Then Mrs. Journay took his outstretched hand and smiled, the jolliest sort of smile.

“I always liked that boy!” she observed aside to Mrs. Aldrich.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

SEPTEMBER, 1924 Vol. LXXXII NUMBER 4

Mr. Martin Swallows the Anchor

THE STRUGGLE BETWEEN OLIVE’S ARDENT ADMIRER AND HER FORMIDABLE AUNT

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Olive was weeping quietly, but Miss Torrance, sitting beside her in the dark, was very calm, and even a little scornful. The unmerited sufferings of the hero and heroine on the screen before them didn’t trouble her. It was sure to come out all right in the end; and even if it didn’t, who cared?

Olive was a sentimental little thing, and yet the strong-minded, prodigiously sensible Miss Torrance could understand, perhaps too well, how she felt. It wasn’t the story that made Olive cry. It was the spectacle of that swift, vivid, intense life that so disturbed her; and it disturbed Miss Torrance, too.

Yachts, tropical islands, coral reefs, dark figures in oilskins seen by lightning flashes on storm-swept decks, clear lagoons, palm trees in the moonlight--when you saw all that, and when you thought of getting up six mornings a week at half past seven, and going down to the office, and coming back to the boarding house at twenty minutes past five, and when you were a stern, adventurous spirit, like Miss Torrance, or only twenty-one, like Olive--

Miss Torrance and Olive often talked about traveling. They even got booklets from the steamship companies, and planned routes and figured expenses. Olive took it all very seriously, but Miss Torrance smiled indulgently at such a childish pastime.

Miss Torrance was not the sort of woman to cry for the moon. She often said she wasn’t, and she never suspected that she was one of those still more romantic creatures who try to build bridges to reach the moon. Olive longed for impossible things, but Miss Torrance tried to get them.

“Come, my dear!” said she, with just a trace of impatience. “This is where we came in.”

“All right!” answered Olive, with a resigned sigh.

They squeezed past a row of people and went up the aisle and out into the lobby.

“Oh, mercy!” cried Olive. “Raining!”

Miss Torrance said nothing, but her brows met in an anxious frown.

The April rain was coming down in a steady torrent, drumming loud on the roof, and spattering on the pavement. The streets shone like deep, black water under the arc lights. Taxis spun by like incredibly swift motor boats. It hadn’t at all the appearance of a shower. It was obstinately and definitely a rainy night--chill, too, and windy, so that it was almost impossible to believe that only six days ago, on Saturday, spring had begun, and Miss Torrance and Olive had been irresistibly tempted to buy spring hats.

“We’ll take a taxi,” said Miss Torrance. “It’s cheaper than ruining our new hats.”

“All right!” said Olive.

So Miss Torrance advanced to the very limit of the covered entrance, and signaled to the taxis that went by, fleet and careless; but not one of them stopped--no, not one.

“Beasts!” said she.

“Maybe they’re all taken,” suggested the gentle Olive, but Miss Torrance would have none of that.

She, too, still had in her mind the images of tropical islands and coral reefs and high adventures, and somehow it hurt and angered her, and the taxis that would not stop were like the stream of life itself that hurried past and left her behind.

“I’ll make one stop!” she declared grimly. “Here!” Taking off her brave new hat, she thrust it into Olive’s hands. “I’ll stop one if I have to stand in the middle of the street!”

“Oh, don’t!” cried Olive. “Wait just a minute!”

“Let me get you one,” said a cheerful voice.

Turning, they both looked into the face of an unknown young man. It was by no means a face to inspire alarm, nor was his manner at all sinister. He was a sturdy, square-shouldered young chap, with a sunburned face, in which his eyes looked amazingly blue. As he stood there, hat in hand, he looked altogether so good-humored and friendly and honest that Miss Torrance’s glare softened.

“Well--” said she.

He needed no more than that grudging consent.

“Half a minute!” he cried, and off he darted into the rain.

“Oh!” cried Olive. “Oh, Miss Torrance! Oh, we forgot! We can’t pay for it! We have only fifteen cents!”

“Oh!” said Miss Torrance, too.

She certainly had forgotten, for the moment, that they had come out simply for a walk, and hadn’t meant to go to the movies, or to buy the cake of chocolate they had just eaten inside. To-morrow was pay day at the office, and only that morning Miss Torrance had deposited the week’s surplus in the savings bank, and Olive never had any surplus.

“I’ll stop him!” she said hurriedly, and she, too, dashed off into the rain.

Just as she reached the curb, the young man arrived there on the running board of a taxi.

“Here you are!” said he, opening the door.

“I meant--” said Miss Torrance. “Thank you just the same, but we have changed our minds. We--we are going in the subway; but thank you.”

The lights from the brilliant lobby shone across the street, making it very bright where they were. The rain was pelting down on her sleek blond head. The valiant little white ruffle at her neck was already beaten flat, but she herself was indomitable--a little woman and a good-looking one, although, by her severe expression and her curt manner, you might fancy that she was trying to deny both the littleness and the good looks, and to force you to remember only her thirty-five years and her ability to earn her own living.

“But--” protested the young man.

“Thank you, just the same,” said Miss Torrance again, and, turning, hastened back to Olive.

The stranger was not a faint-hearted young man, however. He followed her.

“Look here!” he said earnestly. “You haven’t even an umbrella. You’ll catch cold!”

“Thank you, but it can’t be helped,” said Miss Torrance.

She spoke sternly, but she didn’t really dislike this man. There was something rather engaging about him, and she was very much pleased to observe that not once did he even glance at Olive. Miss Torrance did not wish strange young men to look at Olive.

“I meant to take a taxi, anyhow,” said he. “Won’t you please let me drop you?”

He looked at Miss Torrance with a wistful, humble expression, which she knew very well to be false. There was precious little humility in that young man! Still, she didn’t dislike him on that account, either. Indeed, she was almost ready to smile, when he added:

“I’m going through West Twelfth Street. If you live anywhere near there--”

All thoughts of smiling abandoned her.

“Thank you, _no_!” she replied frigidly. “Good evening! Come, Olive!”

To her dismay, Olive did not come.

“Let’s!” the girl whispered. “Why not? He seems--”

Politely the young man stepped back a little. Miss Torrance gave Olive a long and severe glance.

“No!” said she.

Olive was silent for a moment. Then she raised her eyes to her friend’s face.

“But I’d like to,” she said quietly.

Then Miss Torrance had her turn at being silent.

“Very well!” she said, at last.

In those two words there was something not far from tragedy. Miss Torrance was not stupid. She had seen in Olive’s face the dawn of a new spirit of independence, and the shadow of the end of her own fiercely benevolent despotism. And she loved Olive so!

She put on her hat--such a smart little hat!--and, at that moment, she hated it. It was absurd that any one who felt as she did just then should wear a jaunty little hat like this!

The young man was standing by the open door of the taxi. In they got, she and Olive side by side, the stranger facing them. There was something else in that cab which almost stifled Miss Torrance--something which she insisted upon in stories, but found unbearable here--something known professionally as “heart interest.” Olive did not speak one word, and did not stir. The stranger’s conversation was quite impersonal, and yet Miss Torrance knew. It seemed to her that she knew exactly what was in the minds of her companions.

The young fellow’s cheerful voice was speaking in the darkness.

“Beastly weather, isn’t it?” he remarked, to fill a long, long pause.

“Personally,” said Miss Torrance, “I don’t believe in thinking about the weather. I agree with Dr. Johnson that it is contemptible for a being endowed with reason to live in dependence upon the weather and the wind.”

“Well--” said the young man, who knew not Dr. Johnson, but was respectful toward Miss Torrance. “You can’t help it very well at sea, you know.”

“Have you been at sea?” came Olive’s clear little voice.