The Misjudged Mr. Hartley

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 11, 14 March 1908, Page 53

The Misjudged Mr. Hartley

BY

UNA HUDSON

THE office boy tiptoed over to Brian Hartley’s desk. “Lady wants you on the telephone, sir,” he said, in a confidential whisper that made Hartleylong to choke him on the spot. The “lady” proved to be Marcia Worthington, and she wanted Brian to take the place of the gentleman who had just discovered that he would be unable to attend the dinner she was giving that evening. Marcia was Brian’s third cousin by marriage—he knew, because a person who dealt in family trees had once told him so—and she was quite frankly of the opinion that the relationship gave her the right to call on Brian whenever she needed a man to fill out her table. Brian, because Marcia’s dinners were excellent, and because he was a good sort anyway, and obliging, had never seen fit to make her think otherwise. Consequently, seven o’clock that evening found him ringing the door-bell that had been Marcia’s for the last seven years. That it was hers no longer naturally did not occur to Brian, for he made no pretensions to being a mind-reader, and she had quite forgotten to tell him that she had moved. ... The maid who admitted him knew, that Mr and Mrs Holcomb had been unexpectedly called away some half-hour earlier; but their guest, Miss Celia Thayer, was in, and she not unnaturally supposed Mr Hartley to be a friend of Miss Thayer. So she conducted him to a room whose chief adornment, so Brian instantly decided, was a very pretty young woman, ■whose eyes dazzled him with their blueness, and whose welcoming smile entirely obviated the necessity of an introduction. For Miss Thayer was quick of wit, and she had instantly divined that here was a guest of whose coming the Holcombs, departing in a rush, had neglected to inform her. “I'm so sorry,” she said, giving him her hand, “but the folks were called out —something unexpected and very important I know, though they hadn’t time to explain it to me.” “In that ease,” suggested Brian, “I think I’d better ” • “Oh, no,” broke in Miss Thayer, “I’m sure they meant you to stay ■ else they’d certainly have sent you word.” Brian, who knew Marcia's rigid ideas concerning the proper chaperonage of nice young girls, had his doubts on this point. But he easily persuaded himself that Miss Thayer must know more about it than he did. Then the maid, who had lived long enough in that hospitable household to know that an unexpected guest meant merely the laying of an extra’ cover, intimated that the meal was served. They went out in a state of mutual content, and faced each other across Mrs Holcomb’s glittering array of selver and cut-glass. True, they were badly handicapped in that neither of them knew the other’s name. But that was unavoidable, for Mr Hartley would have suffered torture rather than intimate that Marcia had failed to mention the presence of so charming a guest beneath her roof; it seemed so like a slight to the girl. And wild horses couldn’t have dragged from Miss Thayer the admission that Mr Hartley’s advent had been as unexpected as a thunder-storm in January. Had Brian been less absorved in his companion, he could not have failed to notice that Marcia’s cook had sadly deteriorated. As it was, he accepted the

tough and rather overdone roast as one might the food of the gods. And as for Mareia’s familiar lares and penates, which should have been there, but were not —Brian had once apologetically stated that all tables and chairs looked alike to him. And therein he told the simple truth. Hence his first intimation that he had broken a stranger’s bread and eaten a stranger’s salt came to him the next morning, when Marcia, righteously indignant and most unchristianly vengeful, called him up on the telephone. Her remarks concerning thirteen at table and people who made engagements which they didn’t intend to keep, made Brian fear for her sanity. “But I tell you,” he protested, “I was there all right. And you were gone, and Ned was gone. And there was nobody at home, but just a girl with copper hair and big blue eyes. Oh, Marcia, who is she!” “Brian!” ejaculated the shocked Marcia. She did not know whether to credit the blame to festivity or to an inborn talent for lying. “Marcia,” besought Brian, “won’t you tell me her name! I want to send her some flowers.” - “Whose name?” demanded Marcia tartly. “The girl who is stopping with you. The girl ” “Brian Hartley, you must be crazy! There’s no girl stopping here.” “But, last night —” — “Brian,” cut in Marcia sharply, “where did you go last night ?” “Why, to your house, of course,” said Brian. He was beginning to feel sorry for Marcia. It wouldn’t, he feared, be possible for her to keep out of a lunatic asylum very much longer. “But which house?” demanded Marcia impatiently. “Great Scott, Marcia, I didn’t know you had more, than one!” “We haven’t. But the one on Monroe avenue ” “Yes, that’s where I went.” “Good gracious, Brian Hartley, we’re not living there! We sold that place two months ago.” “Oh, the ” “Brian!” “Dickens!” finished Brian triumphantly. “But, I say, Marcia, there was the jolliest little girl there. Big blue eyes, copper hair, frilly white dress, all light and foamy, you know, like that stuff you put on top the strawberry shortcake.” Brian sighed ecstatically, and Marcia longed to. do him bodily injury. Her dinner kept waiting until the cook’s temper (never of the best) had so got on the waitress’s nerves that she had dropped Marcia’s biggest and best cutglass ice-cream dish; the entree ho’pelessly overdone; and half her guests the wretched victims of that silly superstition of thirteen at table, so that she had been obliged to drag poor sleepy little Alice from her nursery bed to occupy that fourteenth place—al! this at Brian Hartley’s door, and he thinking of nothing but a girl with copper hair and blue eyes! - “Mareia,” besought Brian, “to whom did you sell the house?” “I don’t remember,” snapped Marcia, hanging up the receiver. It was the only revenge which offered, and Marcia would have been ’more than human did she forbear to take it. But Briant nothing daunted, pursued his investigations, and learned that the house had been bought by Mr Farraday, the banker, who had presented it to his

daughter, Mrs Henry Holcomb, the wife of a prominent real estate man. Brian had not the pleasure of the Holcomb’s acquaintance; but, having partaken of their hospitality, he certainly owed them a dinner call, as well as an explanation and an apology. All three, he decide, should be made that night. But, unfortunately, a telegram received late that afternoon sent him hurrying westward on the first train he could eatch. And he did not even know the blueeyed girl’s name! 11. Mrs Holcomb dropped into a chair, and began pulling off her long gloves. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I’m tired to death!” Then to Miss Thayer, who, considering the lateness of the hour, was looking remarkably fresh and wideawake. “So good of you to wait up for us, dear. Did you have a very lonely evening?” Celia stared at her. “Lonely!” she ejaculated. “How could I be lonely with such a niee man dining here ?” Mrs Holcomb’s limp figure straightened with a jerk. ‘■‘Nice man dining here!”- she repeated parrot-like. “My dear, what do you mean ?” Celia opened her eyes* very wide. “Why, didn’t you ask him?” she said. “He had on evening things, and he certainly acted as though he’d been invited. And,” she added, reminiscently, “he was so nice!” Mrs Holcomb eyed her sharply. “You’d better tell me all about it,” she said. So Celia told. But neither Mrs Holcomb nor her husband could hazard a guess as to the identity of the strange young man. “It’s most mysterious,” said Mrs Holcomb finally. “But I can’t see that our talking brings us any nearer a solution of the puzzle. I move that we go to bed.” B The two ladies went upstairs together, Mr Holcomb remaining below to see to the fastenings of doors and windows. Five minutes later, a shriek from his wife’s room sent him bounding up the stairs, three at a time. He found Mrs Holcomb standing before her toilet table, the drawers of which stood open, showing their contents mussed and tumbled. "My watch!” gasped Mrs Holcomb. “It is gone! And the diamonds papa gave me! And the bracelet with the emeralds!” “Oh, what is the matter?” It was .Celia who stood in the doorway. “Matter enough! ” ejaculated Mr Holcomb grimly. “Your ‘niee man’ seems to have been just a common burglar.” “No! Oh, no!” gasped Celia. ‘‘Yes!” cried Mrs Holcomb. “Celia, look! All my jewellery gone! And if he didn’t take it, who did ?” “Oh, I don’t know,” cried Celia. “But, Eleanor, I’m sure he didn't do it. Why, he couldn’t possibly have done it, you know.” “You mean,” questioned Mr Holcomb, “that you were together all the time he was here?” “N-o,” Celia reluctantly admitted. “You see, Lena had a headache, and I went to got her some of Eleanor’s drops. They were in the little medicine closet. But, oh, I'm very positive I wasn’t gone Jong enough for him to do this. Besides, I’ni sure he wasn’t that kind of man. He had such an honest face.”

“You never ean tell,” observed Mr Holcomb, his own conviction plainly unshaken. He started for the telephone. “I’d better,” he said, “report at once to the police.” The detective who presently put in an appearance inclined plainly to Mr Holcomb’s view of the matter. This was a bitter disappointment to Miss Thayer, who, if the truth were told, cared more for the exoneration of her guest of the evening than she did for the recovery of her friend’s property. For several days she held to the belief that the suspected gentleman would come back and clear up the mystery, at least so far as he was concerned; but when a week had gone by and he failed to put in an appearance, she was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that her friend's estimate of him was correct. But, woman-like, while abhorring the sin, she yet sympathised with the sinner, and imagined all manner of excuses for him. 111. Brian Hartley was gone a month. The evening of the day of his return found him standing on the Holcomb doorstep, ringing the Holcomb door-bell. When lie had rung^three.times, a man seated on the porch J of the next house called to him. “Thcy’vb gone arvay for the summer,” he said. Brian uttered an exclamation of disappointment. Then he questioned, “Where?” “I don’t know,” said the man. “That is, I don’t remember. My wife told me. But she went away this morning for a. week, and.l’m blest if I can remember. I never could remember places,” he apologi sed. Brian thanked him for such informa-, tion as he had been able to give, and walked moodily away. Confound the luck! At any rate, the blue-eyed girl would be engaged and married before he even learned her name. At the corner he hesitated, debating whether to take the car to his club or to go on to Mareia Worthington’s. Recollection assured him that he owed Marcia a personally presented apology, and he decided in her favour. She received him in a riotously disordered house, and greeted him with enthusiasm. "1 wish you'd help Ned sit on this trunk. I’ve simply got to get it locked, and can't even get it shut.” “You see,” Ned explained, obligingly making room for Brian beside him, “we had to put all our duds in this trunk, because it’s against our principles to buy another.” J “Ned Worthington!” remonstrated Marcia. “You very well know we have all the trunks we’re allowed, and it's perfect nonsense to let ourselves be charged up with a lot of extra baggage, when everything can be packed in what we already have.” “I thought,” suggested Brian mildly, “they figured it by weight. So many hundred pounds per person, you know.” Ned chuckled. “Just what I've been telling her,” ho murmured. “Sit harder, please,” ordered Mareia. To the best of their ability they obeyed, and Mareia triumphantly snapped the lock. Then she sat down and began to explain their plans to Brian. “We’ve taken a cottage at Hillcrest,” she said. “Ned will come up every Saturday. Don’t you want to come with

him? There’s good fishing.’’ That last decided Brian. He put his fishing tackle in order, and vent up to Hillcrest on the following Saturday. On Sunday morning he put on the old clothes sacred to fishing excursions, and set out for a day’s fishing. For an hour he tramped steadily upstream, for he wished to get beyond the picnic parties who made fishing anything but the calm delight it should be. Finally he came to a likely pool, and settled to the enjoyment of his favourite sport. The fishing was good, so that by noon his basket was half full. He sighed with contentmmt, because of the green grass under foot, the blue sky overhead, the warm sunshine and the singing birds. Presently he sat down in the shade of a big maple, and devoted himself to the very excellent lunch with which Marcia had provided him. Afterward he lay back on the soft, thick grass, his hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the bits of floating white cloud and blue sky which were visible through the maple's graceful branches. Gradually the songs of the birds and the hum of the bees—all the rustle and stir of life in the summer woods—blended in one indistinguishable murmer, and he slept. What it was that woke him he did not know —a stray sunbeam falling across his closed eyes, or a light footfall on the grass beside him. At first he thought himself still dreaming, for there, before him, sweet and cool and dainty in her fresh white dress and blue ribbons, stood his nameless lady of the copper hair and the azure eyes. She was looking down at him with grave, reproving eyes. As he sprang to his feet, it came to him that perhaps she disapproved of Sunday fishing. Some people did, lie knew. '_ As a matter of fact, not having seen either his rod or his basket, she did not even know that he had been fishing. His muddy shoes and disreputable old clothes were to her the hall-mark of a tramp rather than of a fisherman. It was pitiable, she thought—this, his descent of the downward road — ; arid so rapid! And yet,.he had such nice eyes! He plunged into an eager, incoherent greeting, but she lifted an. imperious hand and silenced him. “Don’t!” she ordered. “I must think.” . Mrs Holcomb’s jewels were as yet unrecovered. She alone could identify this man as the thief who had stolen them. Clearly she ought to deliver him to justice. But could she? He had a nice face. .There was—there must be—good in him, somewhere. “I may be doing wrong,” she said, speaking rapidly, ‘‘but 1 am going to give you another chance. Only, you linist go' and quickly.” . “But-———” expostulated the utterly dumfounded Mr Hartley. ' “Go!” she reiterated. “Go! Oh, don’t you know—can’t you see—that the others may be here at any minute ? Quite by accident, I wandered ahead. If they come and find you here ” “Well, what if they do?” demanded Mr Hartley, squaring his shoulders belligerently. . “Oh,” almost wept Miss Thayer, “if you won’t go for your own sake, go for mine! ” Hartley thought he began to understand. They had probably given this little blue-eyed girl an awful raking over for entertaining a strange man at dinner. His first impulse was to wait where he was until “they” came up, and have it out with them then and there. But the entreaty, the perfectly evident fright in Miss Thayer’s blue eyes made him decide otherwise. He turned on his heel, and started away. There was the swish of skirts and the light patter of feet behind him; then he felt cool fingers slipping something into his hand. He took it mechanically. “Oh," cried an agitated voice, “do, do try to be honest, if you can!” Hartley unclosed his hand, and saw that he held a five-dollar bill. lie turned to beg an explanation of Miss Thayer. But she had gathered her skirts about her, and was running as fast as she could away from him. “Well, I’ll be—a variety of things!” ejaculated Brian Hartley, I IV. Miss Thayer climbed the steps, and languidly dropped into the hammock. • Mrs Holcomb, emerging from the living ■ room, pouticed upon her with the 3!!' olls il * r pf one who has something of importance to communicate. ” .

“Oh,” she cried, “what do you think? 1 know who the man was who took dinner with you that night!” For a moment things seemed to be turning blaek before Celia, Then she pulled herself together. “Oh!” She said faintly. “Have they caught him?” “Caught him!” repeated Mrs Holcomb. “Oh, 1 see, you’re thinking of the thief. My dear, they're not the same at all.” “Not the same!” repeated Celia par-rot-like. “Certainly not. .It was Mr Brian Hartley who took dinner with you. He called this afternoon while you were out, and explained it all. Mrs Worthington had invited him to dinner—she’s his cousin or something. She had the house before we did, you know. She forgot to tell him she'd moved, so naturally he couldn't know he had come to the wrong place. Of course he didn’t take my things. It would be too absurd even to imagine such a thing.” “Of course,” agreed Celia colourlessly. “We had quite a laugh over it—Mr Hartley and I,” Mrs Holcomb ran on. “Eleanor!” gasped the horrified Miss Thayer. “You don’t mean to say you told him we thought he took your jewellery ?” “Why, yes,” Mrs Holcomb confessed, “I’m afraid I did. You know how I am when once my tongue gets started. But I’m sure it was all right. Because, you see, he really has a sense of humour. He seemed to see the joke.” “Oh, I don’t doubt that he did,” bitterly assented Miss Thayer. She was remembering, as doubtless also was Mr Hartley, the financial aid she forced upon him, as well as her exhortation to be honest, if he could. Mrs Holcomb looked at her sharply. “Does your head ache?” she asked. “I’m afraid your walk tired you. The sun is certainly hot. I’ll have Mary make you a lemonade.” “Thank you,” said Celia, “but I think I don't care for a lemonade. I’ll go upstairs and lie down.” “If you want some of my headache drops,” Mrs Holcomb called after her, “Mary will get them for you. She knows where I keep them.” Miss Thayer smiled grimly. Headache drops, she thought, would hardly reach her trouble. v; ... Miss Thayer dropped Mr Brian Hartley’s card as though it had burned her fingers. “Tell him,” she said to the maid, “that I am not at home. And— Mary ” “Yes, Miss Thayer.” “When you have told him, will you come back, please? 1 think the little table in the corner needs dusting.” The corners of Mary’s mouth twitched, but she answered demurely: “Yes, Miss Thayer.” She did not bring her dust cloth when she came back, but Miss Thayer seemed not to notice. “Did he go?” she demanded, with badly-disguised eagerness. “Yes, miss.” “Oh!” Half a dozen different emotions were compressed in the one small exclamation, but disappointment predominated. Of course, when one has mistaken a gentleman for a thief, and a tramp to boot, one can hardly be expected to be at home to him when he calls. But Celia was disappointed. She had not thought he would leave without a protest, Mary stooped and picked up an imaginary thread from the carpet. “He’s sitting on the front steps,” she volunteered. “He said he didn’t want to miss oyu when you came in, so he’d just wait there.” Miss Thayer flushed with annoyance. How dared he do such a thing? “Well, he can just wait,” she declared hotly. She dismissed the maid, only to ring for her fifteen minutes later. “Is he still there?” she asked, “Yes, miss.” “Well, he can stay there,” Miss Thayer declared viciously. Another fifteen minutes went by. Mr Hartley, so Mary said, was still waiting. Miss Thayer began to grow uneasy, Mrs Holcomb, who had gone for a walk, was liable to return at any moment. Were she to find Mr Hartley camped on the front steps and Miss Thayer shut in her bedroom, she would surely be more than human did she forbear to ask questions. It would, Miss Thayer decided, be even more embarrassing to explain to Mrs Holcomb just why she did not want to see Mr Hartley than it would be to see him. Once more she summoned Mary.

“You may tell Mr Hartley,” she said, with such dignity as she could command, “that 1 have returned.” Then she went slowly down the stairs. Her greeting was not conventional, but none the less it was the only one that seemed to her possible under the circumstances. “I’m so sorry,” she said faintly. “Won’t you please give it back to me?” Brian Hartley took her hand, which had not been outstretched for the purpose of shaking hands, though he seemed to think it had been. “I can’t,” said he, readily comprehending to what she referred. “You see, I’ve spent it,” he brazenly confessed. “You’ve spent it?” gasped Miss Thayer. “Yes, for a frame to put the picture in that you’re going to give me.” “The picture I'm going to give you?” “Yes, your picture.” Miss Thayer crimsoned to the roots of her pretty copper-coloured hair.

‘‘But you don’t want it,” she protested. “You can’t. Why, I—l ” “Now, look here,” said Brian Hartley masterfully, “it’s dead easy to hypnotise oneself into believing that one’s friends can do no wrong. Anybody ean do that. But there’s only one girl in a million who, believing the worst of a chap, because she couldn’t believe anything else, would stick to him and endeavour to do everything she could to help him, as you’ve ’done.” “Oh!” gasped Miss Thayer. “Oh!” “I mean it,” insisted Brian Hartley firmly. “I mean it—just that —and a lot more.” He came a step nearer her, “Quick! ” ho said. “I hear some one coming. Do I get the picture?” “Yes,” said Miss Thayer demurely; “just that—and a lot more.” “You darling!” ecstatically cried Brian Hartley. (End.)