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Frank succeeded in having Mr. Dickey appointed as Custodian of the property, then he went back to Marston.
"Good-evening, Doctor; what a nest of roses you have here for a bachelor," was his jovial cry, as he entered the quaint little house, in which Sellick had now established himself. "I declare, when you told me I should always find a room here, I did not realize what a temptation you were offering me. And in sight——" He paused, changing color as he drew back from the window to which he had stepped,——"of the hills," he somewhat awkwardly added.
Edgar, who had watched the movements of his friend from under half lowered lids, smiled dryly.
" Of the hills ," he repeated. Then with a short laugh, added, "I knew that you liked that especial view."
Frank's eye, which was still on a certain distant chimney, lighted up wonderfully as he turned genially towards his friend.
"I did not know you were such a good fellow," he laughed. "I hope you have found yourself made welcome here."
"Any patients yet?"
"All of Dudgeon's, I fear. I have been doing little else but warning one man after another: 'Now, no words against any former practitioner. If you want help from me, tell me your symptoms, but don't talk about any other doctor's mistakes, for I have not time to hear it.'"
"Poor old Dudgeon!" cried Frank. Then, shortly: "I'm a poor one to hide my impatience. Have you seen either of them yet?"
"Either—of—them?"
"The girls, the two sweet whimsical girls. You know whom I mean, Edgar."
"You only spoke of one when you were here before, Frank."
"And I only think of one. But I saw the other on my way to the depot, and that made me speak of the two. Have you seen them?"
"No," answered the other, with unnecessary dryness; "I think you told me they did not go out."
"But you have feet, man, and you can go to them, and I trusted that you would, if only to prepare the way for me; for I mean to visit them, as you have every reason to believe, and I should have liked an introducer."
"Frank," asked the other, quietly, but with a certain marked earnestness, "has it gone as deep as that? Are you really serious in your intention of making the acquaintance of Miss Cavanagh?"
"Serious? Have you for a minute thought me otherwise?"
"You are not serious in most things."
"In business I am, and in——"
"Love?" the other smiled.
"Yes, if you can call it love, yet."
"We will not call it anything," said the other. "You want to see her, that is all. I wonder at your decision, but can say nothing against it. Happily, you have seen her defect."
"It is not a defect to me."
"Not if it is in her nature as well?"
"Her nature?"
"A woman who for any reason cuts herself off from her species, as she is said to do, cannot be without her faults. Such idiosyncrasies do not grow out of the charity we are bid to have for our fellow-creatures."
"But she may have suffered. I can readily believe she has suffered from that same want of charity in others. There is nothing like a personal defect to make one sensitive. Think of the averted looks she must have met from many thoughtless persons; and she almost a beauty!"
"Yes, that almost is tragic."
"It can excuse much."
Edgar shook his head. "Think what you are doing, Frank, that's all. I should hesitate in making the acquaintance of one who for any reason has shut herself away from the world."
"Is not her whim shared by her sister?"
"They say so."
"Then there are two whose acquaintance you would hesitate to make?"
"Certainly, if I had any ulterior purpose beyond that of mere acquaintanceship."
"Her sister has no scar?"
Edgar, weary, perhaps, of the conversation, did not answer.
"Why should she shut herself up?" mused Frank, too interested in the subject to note the other's silence.
"Women are mysteries," quoth Edgar, shortly.
"But this is more than a mystery," cried Frank. "Whim will not account for it. There must be something in the history of these two girls which the world does not know."
"That is not the fault of the world," retorted Edgar, in his usual vein of sarcasm.
But Frank was reckless. "The world is right to be interested," he avowed. "It would take a very cold heart not to be moved with curiosity by such a fact as two girls secluding themselves in their own house, without any manifest reason. Are you not moved by it, Edgar? Are you, indeed, as indifferent as you seem?"
"I should like to know why they do this, of course, but I shall not busy myself to find out. I have much else to do."
"Well, I have not. It is the one thing in life for me; so look out for some great piece of audacity on my part, for speak to her I will, and that, too, before I leave the town."
"I do not see how you will manage that, Frank."
"You forget I am a lawyer."
Yet for all the assurance manifested by this speech, it was some time before Frank could see his way clearly to what he desired. A dozen plans were made and dismissed as futile before he finally determined to seek the assistance of a fellow-lawyer whose name he had seen in the window of the one brick building in the principal street. "Through him," thought he, "I may light upon some business which will enable me to request with propriety an interview with Miss Cavanagh." Yet his heart failed him as he went up the steps of Mr. Hamilton's office, and if that gentleman, upon presenting himself, had been a young man, Frank would certainly have made some excuse for his intrusion, and retired. But he was old and white-haired and benignant, and so Frank was lured into introducing himself as a young lawyer from New York, engaged in finding the whereabouts of one Harriet Smith, a former resident of Marston.
Mr. Hamilton, who could not fail to be impressed by Etheridge's sterling appearance, met him with cordiality.
"I have heard of you," said he, "but I fear your errand here is bound to be fruitless. No Harriet Smith, so far as I know, ever came to reside in this town. And I was born and bred in this street. Have you actual knowledge that one by that name ever lived here, and can you give me the date?"
The answers Frank made were profuse but hurried; he had not expected to gain news of Harriet Smith; he had only used the topic as a means of introducing conversation. But when he came to the point in which he was more nearly interested, he found his courage fail him. He could not speak the name of Miss Cavanagh, even in the most casual fashion, and so the interview ended without any further result than the making on his part of a pleasant acquaintance. Subdued by his failure, Frank quitted the office, and walked slowly down the street. If he had not boasted of his intentions to Edgar, he would have left the town without further effort; but now his pride was involved, and he made that an excuse to his love. Should he proceed boldly to her house, use the knocker, and ask to see Miss Cavanagh? Yes, he might do that, but afterwards? With what words should he greet her, or win that confidence which the situation so peculiarly demanded? He was not an acknowledged friend, or the friend of an acknowledged friend, unless Edgar—— But no, Edgar was not their friend; it would be folly to speak his name to them. What then? Must he give up his hopes till time had paved the way to their realization? He feared it must be so, yet he recoiled from the delay. In this mood he re-entered Edgar's office.
A woman in hat and cloak met him.
"Are you the stranger lawyer that has come to town?" she asked.
He bowed, wondering if he was about to hear news of Harriet Smith.
"Then this note is for you," she declared, handing him a little three-cornered billet.
His heart gave a great leap, and he turned towards the window as he opened the note. Who could be writing letters to him of such dainty appearance as this? Not she, of course, and yet—— He tore open the sheet, and read these words:
"If not asking too great a favor, may I request that you will call at my house, in your capacity of lawyer.
"As I do not leave my own home, you will pardon this informal method of requesting your services. The lawyer here cannot do my work.
"Yours respectfully,
" Hermione Cavanagh ."
He was too much struck with amazement and delight to answer the messenger at once. When he did so, his voice was very business-like.
"Will Miss Cavanagh be at liberty this morning?" he asked. "I shall be obliged to return to the city after dinner."
"She told me to say that any time would be convenient to her," was the answer.
"Then say to her that I will be at her door in half an hour."
"She lives on the road to the depot, where the two rows of poplars are," she suddenly declared, as she paused at the door.
"I know," he began, and blushed, for the woman had given him a quick glance of surprise. "I noticed the poplars," he explained.
She smiled as she passed out, and that made him crimson still more.
"Do I wear my heart on my sleeve?" he murmured to himself, in secret vexation. "If so, I must wrap it about with a decent cloak of reserve before I go into the presence of one who has such power to move it." And he was glad Edgar was not at home to mark his excitement.
The half hour wore away, and he stood on the rose-embowered porch. Would she come to the door herself, or would it be the sad-eyed sister he should see first? It mattered little. It was Hermione who had sent for him, and it was with Hermione he should talk. Was it his heart that was beating so loudly? He had scarcely answered the question, when the door opened, and the woman who had served as a messenger from Miss Cavanagh stood before him.
"Ah!" said she, "come in." And in another moment he was in the enchanted house.
A door stood open at his left, and into the room thus disclosed he was ceremoniously ushered.
"Miss Cavanagh will be down in a moment," said the woman, as she slowly walked away, with more than one lingering backward look.
He did not note this look, for his eyes were on the quaint old furniture and shadowy recesses of the staid best room, in which he stood an uneasy guest. For somehow he had imagined he would see the woman of his dreams in a place of cheer and sunshine; at a window, perhaps, where the roses looked in, or at least in a spot enlivened by some evidences of womanly handiwork and taste. But here all was stiff as at a funeral. The high black mantel-shelf was without clock or vase, and the only attempt at ornament to be seen within the four grim walls was an uncouth wreath, made of shells, on a background of dismal black, which hung between the windows. It was enough to rob any moment of its romance. And yet, if she should look fair here, what might he not expect of her beauty in more harmonious surroundings.
As he was adjusting his ideas to this thought, there came the sound of a step on the stair, and the next moment Hermione Cavanagh entered his presence.