Part 18

“Of course there's no LEGAL question,” said Harcourt almost sharply. “But as a matter of absurd report, I may want to contradict their insinuations. And YOU remember all the circumstances, don't you?”

“I should think so! Why, my dear fellow, I've told it everywhere!--here, in New York, Newport, and in London; by Jove, it's one of my best stories! How a company sent me out with a surveyor to look up a railroad and agricultural possibilities in the wilderness; how just as I found them--and a rather big thing they made, too--I was set afloat by a flood and a raft, and drifted ashore on your bank, and practically demonstrated to you what you didn't know and didn't dare to hope for--that there could be a waterway straight to Sidon from the embarcadero. I've told what a charming evening we had with you and your daughters in the old house, and how I returned your hospitality by giving you a tip about the railroad; and how you slipped out while we were playing cards, to clinch the bargain for the land with that drunken fellow, 'Lige Curtis”--

“What's that?” interrupted Harcourt, quickly.

It was well that the shadow hid from Grant the expression of Harcourt's face, or his reply might have been sharper. As it was, he answered a little stiffly:--

“I beg your pardon”--

Harcourt recovered himself. “You're all wrong!” he said, “that bargain was made long BEFORE; I never saw 'Lige Curtis after you came to the house. It was before that, in the afternoon,” he went on hurriedly, “that he was last in my store. I can prove it.” Nevertheless he was so shocked and indignant at being confronted in his own suppressions and falsehoods by an even greater and more astounding misconception of fact, that for a moment he felt helpless. What, he reflected, if it were alleged that 'Lige had returned again after the loafers had gone, or had never left the store as had been said? Nonsense! There was John Milton, who had been there reading all the time, and who could disprove it. Yes, but John Milton was his discarded son,--his enemy,--perhaps even his very slanderer!

“But,” said Grant quietly, “don't you remember that your daughter Euphemia said something that evening about the land Lige had OFFERED you, and you snapped up the young lady rather sharply for letting out secrets, and THEN you went out? At least that's my impression.”

It was, however, more than an impression; with Grant's scientific memory for characteristic details he had noticed that particular circumstance as part of the social phenomena.

“I don't know what Phemie SAID,” returned Harcourt, impatiently. “I KNOW there was no offer pending; the land had been sold to me before I ever saw you. Why--you must have thought me up to pretty sharp practice with Curtis--eh?” he added, with a forced laugh.

Grant smiled; he had been accustomed to hear of such sharp practice among his business acquaintance, although he himself by nature and profession was incapable of it, but he had not deemed Harcourt more scrupulous than others. “Perhaps so,” he said lightly, “but for Heaven's sake don't ask me to spoil my reputation as a raconteur for the sake of a mere fact or two. I assure you it's a mighty taking story as I tell it--and it don't hurt you in a business way. You're the hero of it--hang it all!”

“Yes,” said Harcourt, without noticing Grant's half cynical superiority, “but you'll oblige me if you won't tell it again IN THAT WAY. There are men here mean enough to make the worst of it. It's nothing to me, of course, but my family--the girls, you know--are rather sensitive.”

“I had no idea they even knew it,--much less cared for it,” said Grant, with sudden seriousness. “I dare say if those fellows in the 'Clarion' knew that they were annoying the ladies they'd drop it. Who's the editor? Look here--leave it to me; I'll look into it. Better that you shouldn't appear in the matter at all.”

“You understand that if it was a really serious matter, Grant,” said Harcourt with a slight attitude, “I shouldn't allow any one to take my place.”

“My dear fellow, there'll be nobody 'called out' and no 'shooting at sight,' whatever is the result of my interference,” returned Grant, lightly. “It'll be all right.” He was quite aware of the power of his own independent position and the fact that he had been often appealed to before in delicate arbitration.

Harcourt was equally conscious of this, but by a strange inconsistency now felt relieved at the coolness with which Grant had accepted the misconception which had at first seemed so dangerous. If he were ready to condone what he thought was SHARP PRACTICE, he could not be less lenient with the real facts that might come out,--of course always excepting that interpolated consideration in the bill of sale, which, however, no one but the missing Curtis could ever discover. The fact that a man of Grant's secure position had interested himself in this matter would secure him from the working of that personal vulgar jealousy which his humbler antecedents had provoked. And if, as he fancied, Grant really cared for Clementina--

“As you like,” he said, with half-affected lightness, “and now let us talk of something else. Clementina has been thinking of getting up a riding party to San Mateo for Mrs. Ashwood. We must show them some civility, and that Boston brother of hers, Mr. Shipley, will have to be invited also. I can't get away, and my wife, of course, will only be able to join them at San Mateo in the carriage. I reckon it would be easier for Clementina if you took my place, and helped her look after the riding party. It will need a man, and I think she'd prefer you--as you know she's rather particular--unless, of course, you'd be wanted for Mrs. Ashwood or Phemie, or somebody else.”

From his shadowed corner he could see that a pleasant light had sprung into Grant's eyes, although his reply was in his ordinary easy banter. “I shall be only too glad to act as Miss Clementina's vaquero, and lasso her runaways, or keep stragglers in the road.”

There seemed to be small necessity, however, for this active co-operation, for when the cheerful cavalcade started from the house a few mornings later, Mr. Lawrence Grant's onerous duties seemed to be simply confined to those of an ordinary cavalier at the side of Miss Clementina, a few paces in the rear of the party. But this safe distance gave them the opportunity of conversing without being overheard,--an apparently discreet precaution.

“Your father was so exceedingly affable to me the other day that if I hadn't given you my promise to say nothing, I think I would have fallen on my knees to him then and there, revealed my feelings, asked for your hand and his blessing--or whatever one does at such a time. But how long do you intend to keep me in this suspense?”

Clementina turned her clear eyes half abstractedly upon him, as if imperfectly recalling some forgotten situation. “You forget,” she said, “that part of your promise was that you wouldn't even speak of it to me again without my permission.”

“But my time is so short now. Give me some definite hope before I go. Let me believe that when we meet in New York”--

“You will find me just the same as now! Yes, I think I can promise THAT. Let that suffice. You said the other day you liked me because I had not changed for five years. You can surely trust that I will not alter in as many months.”

“If I only knew”--

“Ah, if I only knew,--if WE ALL only knew. But we don't. Come, Mr. Grant, let it rest as it is. Unless you want to go still further back and have it as it WAS, at Sidon. There I think you fancied Euphemia most.”

“Clementina!”

“That is my name, and those people ahead of us know it already.”

“You are called CLEMENTINA,--but you are not merciful!”

“You are very wrong, for you might see that Mr. Shipley has twice checked his horse that he might hear what you are saying, and Phemie is always showing Mrs. Ashwood something in the landscape behind us.”