The Essential Winston Churchill Collection. Winston Churchill
matter?" asked Bob.
"I'm afraid they've gone," said Cynthia. "I ought to be going after them. They'll miss me."
"Oh, no, they won't," said Bob, easily, "let's sit down under the tree. They'll come back."
Whereupon he sat down under the maple. But Cynthia remained standing, ready to fly. She had an idea that it was wrong to stay--which made it all the more delightful.
"Sit down--Cynthia," said he.
She glanced down at him, startled. He was sitting, with his legs crossed, looking up at her intently.
"I like that name," he observed. "I like it better than any girl's name I know. Do be good-natured and sit down." And he patted the ground close beside him.
Shy laughed again. The laugh had in it an exquisite note of shyness, which he liked.
"Why do you want me to sit down?" she asked suddenly.
"Because I want to talk to you."
"Can't you talk to me standing up?"
"I suppose I could," said Bob, "but--I shouldn't be able to say such nice things to you."
The corners of her mouth trembled a little.
"And whose loss would that be?" she asked.
Bob Worthington was surprised at this retort, and correspondingly delighted. He had not expected it in a country storekeeper's daughter, and he stared at Cynthia so frankly that she blushed again, and turned away. He was a young man who, it may be surmised, had had some experience with the other sex at Andover and elsewhere. He had not spent all of his life in Brampton.
"I've often thought of you since that day when you wouldn't take the whistle," he declared. "What are you laughing at?"
"I'm laughing at you," said Cynthia, leaning against the tree, with her hands behind her.
"You've been laughing at me ever since you've stood there," he said, aggrieved that his declarations should not betaken more seriously.
"What have you thought about me?" she demanded. She was really beginning to enjoy this episode.
"Well--" he began, and hesitated--and broke down and laughed--Cynthia laughed with him.
"I can tell you what I didn't think," said Bob.
"What?" asked Cynthia, falling into the trap.
"I didn't think you'd be so--so good-looking," said he, quite boldly.
"And I didn't think you'd be so rude," responded Cynthia. But though she blushed again, she was not exactly displeased.
"What are you going to do this afternoon?" he asked. "Let's go for a walk."
"I'm going back to Coniston."
"Let's go for a walk now," said he, springing to his feet. "Come on."
Cynthia looked at him and shook her head smilingly.
"Here's Uncle Jethro--"
"Uncle Jethro!" exclaimed Bob, "is he your uncle?"
"Oh, no, not really. But he's just the same. He's very good to me."
"I wonder whether he'd mind if I called him Uncle Jethro, too," said Bob, and Cynthia laughed at the notion. This young man was certainly very comical, and very frank. "Good-by," he said; "I'll come to see you some day in Coniston."
CHAPTER XII
That evening, after Cynthia had gone to bed, William Wetherell sat down at Jonah Winch's desk in the rear of the store to gaze at a blank sheet of paper until the Muses chose to send him subject matter for his weekly letter to the Guardian. The window was open, and the cool airs from the mountain spruces mingled with the odors of corn meal and kerosene and calico print. Jethro Bass, who had supped with the storekeeper, sat in the wooden armchair silent, with his head bent. Sometimes he would sit there by the hour while Wetherell wrote or read, and take his departure when he was so moved without saying good night. Presently Jethro lifted his chin, and dropped it again; there was a sound of wheels without, and, after an interval, a knock at the door.
William Wetherell dropped his pen with a start of surprise, as it was late for a visitor in Coniston. He glanced at Jethro, who did not move, and then he went to the door and shot back the great forged bolt of it, and stared out. On the edge of the porch stood a tallish man in a double-breasted frock coat.
"Mr. Worthington!" exclaimed the storekeeper.
Mr. Worthington coughed and pulled at one of his mutton-chop whiskers, and seemed about to step off the porch again. It was, indeed, the first citizen and reformer of Brampton. No wonder William Wetherell was mystified.
"Can I do anything for you?" he asked. "Have you missed your way?"
Wetherell thought he heard him muttering, "No, no," and then he was startled by another voice in his ear. It was Jethro who was standing beside him.
"G-guess he hain't missed his way a great deal. Er--come in--come in."
Mr. Worthington took a couple of steps forward.
"I understood that you were to be alone," he remarked, addressing Jethro with an attempted severity of manner.
"Didn't say so--d-didn't say so, did I?" answered Jethro.
"Very well," said Mr. Worthington, "any other time will do for this little matter."
"Er--good night," said Jethro, shortly, and there was the suspicion of a gleam in his eye as Mr. Worthington turned away. The mill-owner, in fact, did not get any farther than the edge of the porch before he wheeled again.
"The affair which I have to discuss with you is of a private nature, Mr. Bass," he said.
"So I callated," said Jethro.
"You may have the place to yourselves, gentlemen," Wetherell put in uneasily, and then Mr. Worthington came as far as the door, where he stood looking at the storekeeper with scant friendliness. Jethro turned to Wetherell.
"You a politician, Will?" he demanded.
"No," said Wetherell.
"You a business man?"
"No," he said again.
"You ever tell folks what you hear other people say?"
"Certainly not," the storekeeper answered; "I'm not interested in other people's business."
"Exactly," said Jethro. "Guess you'd better stay."
"But I don't care to stay," Wetherell objected.
"Stay to oblige me--stay to oblige me?" he asked.
"Well, yes, if you put it that way," Wetherell said, beginning to get some amusement out of the situation.
He did not know what Jethro's object was in this matter; perhaps others may guess.
Mr. Worthington, who had stood by with ill-disguised impatience during this colloquy, note broke in.
"It is most unusual, Mr. Bass, to have a third person present at a conference