Talbot's Angles

"Do you want to do that?"

"Why not?"

Linda did not give any reason, and Miss Ri went to the 'phone. Mr. Jeffreys himself answered it, and promised to come over immediately.

He was met by the question: "What report?"

"Not much of any account. I went to see the express people," he told them, "and they admitted that there were such things as drunken drivers who might hand over orders to others who, in turn, would maybe deliver a trunk to the wrong place; that had sometimes happened. And if the trunk were not marked, or if the tag were torn, there would be little chance of its reaching the proper owner, unless he held the express company's receipt. So I came away with nothing more than a warning not to trust any but the regular expressmen, and that is about all the satisfaction I could get."

"Too bad!" declared Miss Ri. "And now, I suppose you know Berk is off duck-shooting, and that is another delay for you."

"Yes, I heard about that. I went to the hotel, but couldn't very well ask to be allowed to break into his room, where the trunk probably is; and Billy would think me a most suspicious character, if I asked for a second view of the valise. I am beginning to think that, after all, we have made a mistake, and that he has not my property at all, or he surely would have notified me."

"It does look that way, and it is very provoking to be kept in suspense. I will tell you what I will do. If you can't get into Berk's room, I can. I know the proprietor of the Jackson House, and his wife, as well; so I am sure I can manage. I'll make an effort this very afternoon. Berk won't mind when I tell him and he learns it was in a good cause. I will bring away a pile of stockings to mend, and that will be an excellent excuse. I can make a strict examination of the trunk and bring you an accurate description, so if there are any identifying marks, I can tell you. How will that do?"

"Miss Hill, you are a miracle of ingenuity. That is a great scheme."

Miss Ri looked up at the clock. "It isn't so late. I believe I will go now. No time like the present. You can stay here with Linda till I get back. I won't be long."

"Isn't she wonderful?" said Mr. Jeffreys, looking after the stout figure admiringly. "She is so direct, and so initiative. A woman like that is a friend worth having. I liked her from the moment I saw her out in this old garden."

Linda warmed to the praise of her friend. She was somewhat annoyed at Berkley's readiness to allow other matters to interfere with his visits to the house, and with his attention to Mr. Jeffreys' affairs. She felt sorry for the young man who, like herself, was lonely and bereft. She was too tender-hearted not to show sympathy for anyone so unfortunate, and she was very gentle in her manner toward him, so the two sat there talking of those personal things which draw those with similar interests together, and Miss Ri's absence seemed a very short one.

She came in flushed and panting from a rapid walk, a bundle of stockings, done up in newspaper, under her arm, and in her hand a bit of paper which she laid triumphantly on the table. It was getting dark, and she called for lights, as she threw aside her wraps. "Find the matches, Verlinda, and get Mr. Jeffreys to light the gas. I really think I have found something worth while."

While Linda was searching for the matches, Mr. Jeffreys had taken the bit of paper to the window and was examining it by the waning light. He came back to take the matches from Linda's hand and to say, "Miss Hill, I really think you have brought me proof positive."

"Wait till we get a light," she returned.

Another moment furnished this, and then, under the lighted chandelier, he showed them the paper, a piece of a tag from which more than half had been torn. That remaining showed but four letters, though they were enough. "You see here," said Mr. Jeffreys, "on this first line was W. B. Jeffreys. The W. B., in my handwriting, remains. On the second line was Sandbridge, of which the S alone is left. The third line showed Md., and you see not quite all of the M. I would swear to it in any court."

"Which will not be necessary, as no doubt you have the trunk key and can describe the contents."

"Tell us how you managed, Aunt Ri," urged Linda.

"Well, first I hunted up Mrs. Beall, told her I wanted to get some of Berk's socks to mend in order to surprise him; so she told the chambermaid to open his room for me. I hunted out the holey socks and then I turned my attention to the trunk. There it sat with its J. S. D. as plain as day. It was locked and, of course, I couldn't get at the inside; but on one of the handles I saw this piece of tag hanging, so I took it off and brought it away. Of course, I examined it and came to my own conclusions, which were the same as yours, Mr. Jeffreys. So now, let me congratulate you. Since there seems no doubt but that you have found your trunk, the waiting for Berk will not be so trying."

"I congratulate you, too," added Linda, holding out her hand.

"Thank you," replied the young man, taking Miss Ri's proffered hand rather than Linda's, and then turning somewhat confusedly to examine again the piece of paper.

But, as if to make up for this seeming rudeness, for the next few days he was rarely absent from the house when Linda was there. He was at the gate when she started forth to school; he was at the corner to join her when she came home. Supper was scarcely over before his step was heard upon the porch, and if there was no open love-making, there was at least a sufficient show of interest to make the girl feel that no word of hers passed unnoticed.

"I believe the man is falling in love with you," averred Miss Ri bluntly, when he left them one evening; "if he is not already there."

Linda flushed, but replied steadily: "You must remember that I am a relative, and naturally he turns to me for sympathy and advice. The poor fellow has neither mother nor sister, and, of course – "

"Take care, Verlinda. That 'poor fellow' sounds very dangerous. You know what pity is akin to."

But Linda did not reply. She turned out the light by the piano, busied herself in straightening the room, and then, kissing Miss Ri good-night, went directly upstairs. She stood a long time before her mirror, thoughtfully gazing at the reflection she saw there, and after she had turned out her light, she went to the window which opened upon the back garden, looking across to where a twinkling beam shone out from Miss Parthy's house. "It is rather nice to have a new cousin," she said to herself, as she drew down the shade again and turned to open a window further away from her bed.

On the other side of the entry, Miss Ri, in her room, was frowning and saying savagely to herself: "Maria Hill, you are an idiot. It is just like you to be carried away by some new excitement, never looking far enough ahead to discover what it is all leading to. I say you are an idiot, and you are not the only one, if the truth were known."

CHAPTER XI

A NEWSPAPER

Linda, though spontaneous enough in ordinary matters like most Southern girls, was reticent when it came to those things which touched her most nearly. She was but fifteen when her mother died; her sisters, older than herself, had passed out of her life before she had really known them well. The elder had married and had died within a year, the younger, Linda remembered only as a delicate girl, who was too frail to go so far as town to school, and who one day was covered with flowers and was borne to the little churchyard. So at the very time Linda had needed someone to whom to give her confidences she had only her older brother, Martin, a busy man, and one who could hardly sympathize with her youthful fancies, her flights of imagination, however kind he might be. Therefore because she must have some outlet for her fanciful thoughts she began to scribble, for her own pleasure at first, later with the hope that she might one day write something worth publishing. It was not till she had taken up her abode with Miss Ri that she did timidly send forth some little verses, very doubtful of their finding a place in the columns of the newspaper to which she sent them.

Time went on and she had heard nothing of her small venture, but one Saturday morning, having gone to the school-house for some book she needed, she stopped at the postoffice for the mail, forestalling the postman who could deliver it later.

On the threshold she met Berk Matthews. "Why, hallo, Linda," he exclaimed. "Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays."

"And whose fault is that, I'd like to know," she answered.

"Whose fault? Why, the ducks, of course. I didn't have any luck and am going out again. By the way when did you turn poet?"

Linda paled, flushed, looked down nervously, shuffled the letters and papers she held. "What do you mean?" she asked at last.

"There's only one Verlinda Talbot, isn't there? Unless someone has borrowed your very pretty and unusual name. Look at this." He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and drew forth a paper, opened the sheet and pointed out the following:

THE MARCHING PINES

Up from the hill-slope and over the ridge
An army is coming of marching pines.
The cloud-shadows lurking, lie low on the bridge
Wrought out by the moonbeams in delicate lines.

They march from the meadow land over the snow
With bayonets pointed, a solid phalanx,
Save where, on their outlying edges, they show
A few timid stragglers who've broken the ranks.

And down in the field, set in orderly rows
Are wigwams, one sees by the light of the moon.
Hark! Hark! Does a war-whoop discover the foes?
From out of the marsh comes the laugh of a loon.

    Verlinda Talbot.
"Here, let me take your things," said the young man gently as he perceived by her shaking hands and changing color that she was agitated. He watched her read the lines through and as she raised sweet questioning eyes, he bit his lip and drew in his breath quickly and sharply. "I like it, Linda," he said as she folded the paper and handed it back to him. "How did you manage to do it? I am as proud as can be of you."

"Are you really, Berk? That is very nice of you. To think you saw it before I did. Why I didn't even know they were going to print it."

"You didn't? Then I'm the discoverer. I'm proud of that, too. Very likely you will find a copy of the paper in your mail. Are they paying you well for it?"

"Oh, no, I don't think they pay at all. I don't expect that. I am paid sufficiently by seeing it in print this time. Perhaps – some day – if I keep on – "

"You will be a great writer."