A Young Man in a Hurry, and Other Short Stories. Robert W. Chambers
A catch in her throat, a momentary twitch of the lips, then she gazed calmly up into the familiar face.
Under the frame of the picture was written his full hyphenated name; following that she read:
President and Founder
of
The Sagamore Angling Club
1880–1901
Major Brent and Colonel Hyssop observed her in decorously suppressed sympathy.
“I did not know he was president,” she said, after a moment; “he never told me that.”
“Those who knew him best understood his rare modesty,” said Major Brent. “I knew him, madam; I honored him; I honor his memory.”
“He was not only president and founder,” observed Colonel Hyssop, “but he owned three-quarters of the stock.”
“Are the shares valuable?” she asked. “I have them; I should be glad to give them to the club, Colonel Hyssop—in his memory.”
“Good gad! madam,” said the Colonel, “the shares are worth five thousand apiece!”
“I am the happier to give them—if the club will accept,” she said, flushing, embarrassed, fearful of posing as a Lady Bountiful before anybody. She added, hastily, “You must direct me in the matter, Colonel Hyssop; we can talk of it later.”
Again she looked up into her husband’s face over the mantel.
Her bull-terrier came trotting into the hall, his polished nails and padded feet beating a patter across the hardwood floor.
“I shall dine in my own rooms this evening,” she said, smiling vaguely at the approaching dog.
“We hoped to welcome you to the club table,” cried the Major.
“There are only the Major and myself,” added the Colonel, with courteous entreaty.
“And the other—the new man,” corrected the Major, with a wry face.
“Oh yes—the bad rod. What’s his name?”
“Langham,” said the Major.
The English maid came down to conduct her mistress to her rooms; the two gentlemen bowed as their build permitted; the bull-terrier trotted behind his mistress up the polished stairs. Presently a door closed above.
“Devilish fine woman,” said Major Brent.
Colonel Hyssop went to a mirror and examined himself with close attention.
“Good gad!” he said, irritably, “how thin my hair is!”
“Thin!” said Major Brent, with an unpleasant laugh; “thin as the hair on a Mexican poodle.”
“You infernal ass!” hissed the Colonel, and waddled off to dress for dinner. At the door he paused. “Better have no hair than a complexion like a violet!”
“What’s that?” cried the Major.
The Colonel slammed the door.
Up-stairs the bull-terrier lay on a rug watching his mistress with tireless eyes. The maid brought tea, bread and butter, and trout fried crisp, for her mistress desired nothing else.
Left alone, she leaned back, sipping her tea, listening to the million tiny voices of the night. The stillness of the country made her nervous after the clatter of town. Nervous? Was it the tranquil stillness of the night outside that stirred that growing apprehension in her breast till, of a sudden, her heart began a deadened throbbing?
Langham here? What was he doing here? He must have arrived this morning. So that was where he was going when he said he was going north!
After all, in what did it concern her? She had not run away from town to avoid him, … indeed not, … her pilgrimage was her own affair. And Langham would very quickly divine her pious impulse in coming here. … And he would doubtless respect her for it. … Perhaps have the subtle tact to pack up his traps and leave. … But probably not. … She knew a little about Langham, … an obstinate and typical man, … doubtless selfish to the core, … cheerfully, naïvely selfish. …
She raised her troubled eyes. Over the door was printed in gilt letters:
The President’s Suite.
Tears filled her eyes; truly they were kindly and thoughtful, these old friends of her husband.
And all night long she slept in the room of her late husband, the president of the Sagamore Angling Club, and dreamed till daybreak of … Langham.
V
Langham, clad in tweeds from head to foot, sat on the edge of his bed.
He had been sitting there since daybreak, and the expression on his ornamental face had varied between the blank and the idiotic. That the only woman in the world had miraculously appeared at Sagamore Lodge he had heard from Colonel Hyssop and Major Brent at dinner the evening before.
That she already knew of his presence there he could not doubt. That she did not desire his presence he was fearsomely persuaded.
Clearly he must go—not at once, of course, to leave behind him a possibility for gossip at his abrupt departure. From the tongues of infants and well-fed club-men, good Lord deliver us!
He must go. Meanwhile he could easily avoid her.
And as he sat there, savoring all the pent-up bitterness poured out for him by destiny, there came a patter of padded feet in the hallway, the scrape of nails, a sniff at the door-sill, a whine, a frantic scratching. He leaned forward and opened the door. His Highness landed on the bed with one hysterical yelp and fell upon Langham, paw and muzzle.
When their affection had been temporarily satiated, the dog lay down on the bed, eyes riveted on his late master, and the man went over to his desk, drew a sheet of club paper towards him, found a pen, and wrote:
“Of course it is an unhappy coincidence, and I will go when I can do so decently—to-morrow morning. Meanwhile I shall be away all day fishing the West Branch, and shall return too late to dine at the club table.
“I wish you a happy sojourn here—”
This he reread and scratched out.
“I am glad you kept His Highness.”
This he also scratched out.
After a while he signed his name to the note, sealed it, and stepped into the hallway.
At the farther end of the passage the door of her room was ajar; a sunlit-scarlet curtain hung inside.
“Come here!” said Langham to the dog.
His Highness came with a single leap.
“Take it to … her,” said the man, under his breath. Then he turned sharply, picked up rod and creel, and descended the stairs.
Meanwhile His Highness entered his mistress’s chamber, with a polite scratch as a “by your leave!” and trotted up to her, holding out the note in his pink mouth.
She looked at the dog in astonishment. Then the handwriting on the envelope caught her eye.
As she did not offer to touch the missive, His Highness presently sat down and crowded up against her knees. Then he laid the letter in her lap.
Her expression became inscrutable as she picked up the letter; while she was reading it there was color in her cheeks; after she had read it there was less.
“I see no necessity,” she said to His Highness—“I