I experienced a great surprise a few mornings afterwards. I had risen quite early, and found the Celebrity's man superintending the hoisting of luggage on top of a van.
“Is your master leaving?” I asked.
“He's off to Mohair now, sir,” said the valet, with a salute.
At that instant the Celebrity himself appeared.
“Yes, old chap, I'm off to Mohair,” he explained. “There's more sport in a day up there than you get here in a season. Beastly slow place, this, unless one is a deacon or a doctor of divinity. Why don't you come up, Crocker? Cooke would like nothing better; he has told me so a dozen times.”
“He is very good,” I replied. I could not resist the temptation to add, “I had an idea Asquith rather suited your purposes just now.”
“I don't quite understand,” he said, jumping at the other half of my meaning.
“Oh, nothing. But you told me when you came here, if I am not mistaken, that you chose Asquith because of those very qualities for which you now condemn it.”
“Magna est vis consuetudinis,” he laughed; “I thought I could stand the life, but I can't. I am tired of their sects and synods and sermons. By the way,” said he pulling at my sleeve, “what a deuced pretty girl that Miss Thorn is! Isn't she? Rollins, where's the cart? Well, good-bye, Crocker; see you soon.”
He drove rapidly off as the clock struck six, and an uneasy glance he gave the upper windows did not escape me. When Farrar appeared, I told him what had happened.
“Good riddance,” he replied sententiously.
We sat in silence until the bell rang, looking at the morning sun on the lake. I was a little anxious to learn the state of Farrar's feelings in regard to Miss Trevor, and how this new twist in affairs had affected them. But I might as well have expected one of King Louis's carp to whisper secrets of the old regime. The young lady came to the breakfast-table looking so fresh and in such high spirits that I made sure she had not heard of the Celebrity's ignoble escape. As the meal proceeded it was easy to mark that her eye now and again fell across his empty chair, and glanced inquiringly towards the door. I made up my mind that I would not be the bearer of evil news, and so did Farrar, so we kept up a vapid small-talk with Mr. Trevor on the condition of trade in the West. Miss Trevor, however, in some way came to suspect that we could account for that vacant seat. At last she fixed her eye inquiringly on me, and I trembled.
“Mr. Crocker,” she began, and paused. Then she added with a fair unconcern, “do you happen to know where Mr. Allen is this morning?”
“He has gone over to Mohair, I believe,” I replied weakly.
“To Mohair!” she exclaimed, putting down her cup; “why, he promised to go canoeing at ten.
“Probably he will be back by then,” I ventured, not finding it in my heart to tell her the cruel truth. But I kept my eyes on my plate. They say a lie has short legs. Mine had, for my black friend, Simpson, was at that instant taking off the fruit, and overheard my remark.
“Mr. Allen done gone for good,” he put in, “done give me five dollars last night. Why, sah,” he added, scratching his head, “you was on de poch dis mornin' when his trunks was took away!”
It was certainly no time to quibble then.
“His trunks!” Miss Trevor exclaimed.
“Yes, he has left us and gone to Mohair,” I said, “bag and baggage. That is the flat truth of it.”
I suppose there is some general rule for calculating beforehand how a young woman is going to act when news of this sort is broken. I had no notion of what Miss Trevor would do. I believe Farrar thought she would faint, for he laid his napkin on the table. She did nothing of the kind, but said simply:
“How unreliable men are!”
I fell to guessing what her feelings were; for the life of me I could not tell from her face. I was sorry for Miss Trevor in spite of the fact that she had neglected to ask my advice before falling in love with the Celebrity. I asked her to go canoeing with me. She refused kindly but very firmly.
It is needless to say that the Celebrity did not come back to the inn, and as far as I could see the desertion was designed, cold-blooded, and complete. Miss Trevor remained out of sight during the day of his departure, and at dinner we noticed traces of a storm about her,—a storm which had come and gone. There was an involuntary hush as she entered the dining-room, for Asquith had been buzzing that afternoon over the episode. And I admired the manner in which she bore her inspection. Already rumors of the cause of Mr. Allen's departure were in active circulation, and I was astonished to learn that he had been seen that day seated upon Indian rock with Miss Thorn herself. This piece of news gave me a feeling of insecurity about people, and about women in particular, that I had never before experienced. After holding the Celebrity up to such unmeasured ridicule as she had done, ridicule not without a seasoning of contempt, it was difficult to believe Miss Thorn so inconsistent as to go alone with him to Indian rock; and she was not ignorant of Miss Trevor's experience. But the fact was attested by trustworthy persons.
I have often wondered what prompted me to ask Miss Trevor again to go canoeing. To do myself justice, it was no wish of mine to meddle with or pry into her affairs. Neither did I flatter myself that my poor company would be any consolation for that she had lost. I shall not try to analyze my motive. Suffice it to record that she accepted this second invitation, and I did my best to amuse her by relating a few of my experiences at the bar, and I told that memorable story of Farrar throwing O'Meara into the street. We were getting along famously, when we descried another canoe passing us at some distance, and we both recognized the Celebrity at the paddle by the flannel jacket of his college boat club. And Miss Thorn sat in the bow!
“Do you know anything about that man, Miss Trevor?” I asked abruptly.
She grew scarlet, but replied:
“I know that he is a fraud.”
“Anything else?”
“I can't say that I do; that is, nothing but what he has told me.”
“If you will forgive my curiosity,” I said, “what has he told you?”
“He says he is the author of The Sybarites,” she answered, her lip curling, “but of course I do not believe that, now.”
“But that happens to be true,” I said, smiling.
She clapped her hands.
“I promised him I wouldn't tell,” she cried, “but the minute I get back to the inn I shall publish it.”
“No, don't do that just yet,” said I.
“Why not? Of course I shall.”
I had no definite reason, only a vague hope that we should get some better sort of enjoyment out of the disclosure before the summer was over.
“You see,” I said, “he is always getting into scrapes; he is that kind of a man. And it is my humble opinion that he has put his head into a noose this time, for sure. Mr. Allen, of the 'Miles Standish Bicycle Company,' whose name he has borrowed for the occasion, is enough like him in appearance to be his twin brother.”
“He has borrowed another man's name!” she exclaimed; “why, that's stealing!”
“No, merely kleptomania,” I replied; “he wouldn't be the other man if he could. But it has struck me that the real Mr. Allen might turn up here, or some friend of his, and stir things a bit. My advice to you is to keep quiet, and we may have a comedy worth seeing.”
“Well,” she remarked, after she had got over a little of her astonishment, “it would be great fun to tell, but I won't if you say so.”
I came to have a real liking for Miss Trevor. Farrar used to smile when I spoke of this, and I never could induce him to go out with us in the canoe, which we did frequently,—in fact, every day I was at Asquith, except of course Sundays. And we grew to understand each other very well. She looked upon me in the same light as did my other friends,—that of a counsellor-at-law,—and I fell unconsciously into the role of her adviser, in which capacity I was the recipient of many confidences I would have got in no other way. That is, in no other way save one, and in that I had no desire to go, even had it been possible. Miss Trevor was only nineteen, and in her eyes I was at least sixty.
“See here, Miss Trevor,” I said to her one day after we had become more or less intimate, “of course it's none of my business, but you didn't feel very badly after the Celebrity went away, did you?”
Her reply was frank and rather staggering.
“Yes, I did. I was engaged to him, you know.”
“Engaged to him! I had no idea he ever got that far,” I exclaimed.
Miss Trevor laughed merrily.
“It was my fault,” she said; “I pinned him down, and he had to propose. There was no way out of it. I don't mind telling you.”
I did not know whether to be flattered or aggrieved by this avowal.
“You know,” she went on, her tone half apologetic, “the day after he came he told me who he was, and I wanted to stop the people we passed and inform them of the lion I was walking with. And I was quite carried away by the honor of his attentions: any girl would have been, you know.”
“I suppose so,” I assented.
“And I had heard and read so much of him, and I doted on his stories, and all that. His heroes are divine, you must admit. And, Mr. Crocker,” she concluded with a charming naivety, “I just made up my mind I would have him.”
“Woman proposes, and man disposes,” I laughed. “He escaped in spite of you.”
She looked at me queerly.
“Only a jest,” I said hurriedly; “your escape is the one to be thankful for. You might have married him, like the young woman in The Sybarites. You remember, do you not, that the hero of that book sacrifices himself for the lady who adores him, but whom he has ceased to adore?”
“Yes, I remember,” she laughed; “I believe I know that book by heart.”
“Think of the countless girls he must have relieved of their affections before their eyes were opened,” I continued with mock gravity. “Think of the charred trail he has left behind him. A man of that sort ought to be put under heavy bonds not to break any more hearts. But a kleptomaniac isn't responsible, you understand. And it isn't worth while to bear any malice.”
“Oh, I don't bear any malice now,” she said. “I did at first, naturally. But it all seems very ridiculous now I have had time to think it over. I believe, Mr. Crocker, that I never really cared for him.”
“Simply an idol shattered this time,” I suggested, “and not a heart broken.”
“Yes, that's it,” said she.
“I am glad to hear it,” said I, much pleased that she had taken such a sensible view. “But you are engaged to him.”
“I was.”
“You have broken the engagement, then?”
“No, I—haven't,” she said.
“Then he has broken it?”
She did not appear to resent this catechism.
“That's the strange part of it,” said Miss Trevor, “he hasn't even thought it necessary.”
“It is clear, then, that you are still engaged to him,” said I, smiling at her blank face.
“I suppose I am,” she cried. “Isn't it awful? What shall I do, Mr. Crocker? You are so sensible, and have had so much experience.”
“I beg your pardon,” I remarked grimly.
“Oh, you know what I mean: not that kind of experience, of course. But breach of promise cases and that sort of thing. I have a photograph of him with something written over it.”
“Something compromising?” I inquired.
“Yes, you would probably call it so,” she answered, reddening. “But there is no need of my repeating it. And then I have a lot of other things. If I write to break off the engagement I shall lose dignity, and it will appear as though I had regrets. I don't wish him to think that, of all things. What shall I do?”
“Do nothing,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. Do not break the engagement, and keep the photograph and other articles for evidence. If he makes any overtures, don't consider them for an instant. And I think, Miss Trevor, you will succeed sooner or later in making him very uncomfortable. Were he any one else I shouldn't advise such a course, but you won't lose any dignity and self-respect by it, as no one will be likely to hear of it. He can't be taken seriously, and plainly he has never taken any one else so. He hasn't even gone to the trouble to notify you that he does not intend marrying you.”
I saw from her expression that my suggestion was favorably entertained.
“What a joke it would be!” she cried delightedly.
“And a decided act of charity,” I added, “to the next young woman on his list.”
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