“Seventeen years a widower,” mused Hudson, half to himself. He paused at the far corner to straighten a disordered shelf of books.
“A man accumulates a lot of habits in seventeen years.” He returned to his desk-chair. “Sounds like the wedding of January and June, eh?”
Had Jennings been in Pyle’s place, his eyes would have twinkled as he replied, “January! What! You? January? Nonsense, Chief! Not a day over October, at the farthest!”
Pyle smiled wanly, and shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth.
“I came by this valuable new friendship early last year when Miss Brent was made Junior advisor to my Joyce.”
Something of sympathetic comradeship in Pyle’s reviving interest, now that he was partially coming to, encouraged Hudson to toss aside what remained of his reticence and tell it all.
To begin with—Miss Brent was an orphan; parents reputable Virginians; most interesting French background on her mother’s side; same kind of blood that the guillotine spilt in 1789 … “Quite pronouncedly Gallic, she is—at least in appearance.”
Jennings, had he been there, would have been audacious enough to suggest, slyly chuckling, “Oh—in that case we should amend June to July!” Then he would have watched the chief’s face intently.
But Pyle, who had no traffic with psychoanalysis, attached no significance whatever to the fact that the young lady’s probable temperament was somewhat on the chief’s mind.
“About Thanksgiving,” Hudson was saying, “Miss Brent, after a brief encounter with influenza, left the school and spent a few days at home. No sooner was she gone than Joyce slipped out, one night; attended a party, down in the city; defied some house rules as to hours; flicked all her classes next day; stormed until the shingles rattled when they rebuked her; and, in short, contrived to get herself suspended, notwithstanding that her record—thanks to Miss Brent’s influence—had been quite above reproach ever since she matriculated, a year ago last September.”
The story went forward rather jerkily. Hudson was not given to confiding his perplexities to anybody. Pyle discreetly remained silent.
“Well—she came home and plunged immediately into a series of hectic affairs; out every night; in bed most of the day; nervous, testy, unreasonable. I can’t tell you, Pyle, how thoroughly it did me in … She’s all I have you know.
“At my wit’s end, I suggested that she invite Miss Brent up to visit us through the holidays. Twice before had she been our guest for a few days, and I had seen something of her on my occasional visits to Washington. Believe me when I tell you that this charming girl was no more than across our threshold last week, than Joyce was another creature, poised, gracious, lovable—a lady!”
He paused to take his bearings before going further; impelled to explain how the swift movement of events, that first evening at dinner, amply accounted for his decision to ask Helen to marry him; reluctant, even in the interest of plausibility and self-defence, to give words to the memory of that occasion. It had all been so natural; so unimpeachably right; so precisely as it ought to be! He had remarked—perhaps a bit more ardently than he intended, for his heart was full—how happy it had made him—and Joyce—that she had come. “I don’t see how we can ever let you go!” he had said; to which Joyce had added impetuously, “Why need she ever go? She’s happier here than anywhere else; aren’t you, darling?”
Pyle recrossed his legs and cleared his throat to remind the chief that he was still present.
“As a matter of fact, Miss Brent is certain to be happier with us than she was at home. Since childhood, she has lived with an uncle, her father’s elder brother, an irascible, penurious, not very successful old lawyer. There are no women in the family. And I have reason to suspect that her cousin, Montgomery Brent, is a bit of a rake, though she has idealized him out of all proportion; calls him ‘Brother Monty,’ thinks him vastly misunderstood by his father and everybody else … that kind of a girl, Pyle … espouses the cause of homeless cats, under dogs, misunderstood cousins, my flighty, wilful Joyce … and now—thank God—she has promised to join forces with me! I think she’s making something of a mission of it, Pyle. I was quite willing to wait until she had finished school in June; had some serious misgivings, indeed, about that; but she dismissed the thought lightly. If I needed her, I needed her now, she said … I hope to God it works out!”
Pyle said he believed it would; moved to the edge of his chair; looked at his watch; asked if this was a secret.
Hudson stroked his jaw, his eyes averted.
“I don’t object to their knowing … Let’s consider it sufficient, for the present, that I’m going to Europe with my daughter.” He mopped his broad forehead vigorously. “The rest of it they can learn in due time. Report to Aldrich and Carter and the others that I’m off on a vacation.”
“Any special word for Mrs. Ashford, Chief?” Pyle paused with his hand on the doorknob.
Hudson thrust his hands deeply into his trouser pockets and walked to the window, staring out. “I’ll tell her myself, Pyle,” he answered, without turning.
Doctor Hudson named his isolated retreat Flintridge. It was quite remote from the beaten trail of travel. A mere acre had been tamed to serve the cottage for which his hasty sketches, before leaving, were elaborated and executed in his absence by his loyal friend, Fred Ferguson, the best architect in town.
It was an inhospitable bit of country, thereabouts. Sheer cliffs, descending abruptly to the black water (a long flight of wooden steps led to the little boathouse and adjacent wharf) had discouraged such colonization as had long since developed the western shore, two miles distant. Deformed pines clawed the rocks, sighing of their thirst in summer, shrieking of nakedness in winter.
Almost from the first, Flintridge never knew certainly, for there was no telephone, when its
