Kitabı oku: «Talbot's Angles», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XIX
OF WHAT AVAIL?

Berkley's words did have the effect of encouraging Mr. Jeffreys to take heart anew, and, as it would be another month before his presence would be required in Hartford, he concluded not to neglect his opportunities. Therefore again Berkley retired to the background to watch his rival pass by with Linda, walk to church with her, while he heard of his visiting her daily. It seemed, then, that he did not intend to give her up lightly.

"I don't know what to do about it," Linda confided to Miss Ri ruefully. "I can't tell him to go home when he comes, and I can't disappear like the Cheshire cat when he joins me on the street. He will be such a short time here that it doesn't seem worth while to do more than let matters drift."

"I rather like his persistence," declared Miss Ri. "He'll win you yet, Verlinda."

Linda neither affirmed nor denied. Another little poem had found its way into print and there was hope ahead, even though Talbot's Angles should be lost to her.

"It isn't such a tremendously valuable piece of property after all," Miss Ri continued her remarks, showing the trend of her thought, "and if you weren't so sentimentally fond of it, Verlinda, I don't know that it would be such a great loss. I wish you'd let me adopt you; then I'd leave you this place."

"You'd have me give up my independence, Aunt Ri? Oh, no. We've canvassed that question too often. If you had taken me before I had known what it was to hoe my own row, it might have done, but now, oh, no. You're the dearest of dears to tempt me, but we shall both be happier with no faster bond than that which self-elected friends must always feel. I love no one so well as you, and you don't dislike me, though I admit I don't consider myself first in your regard."

"And who do you think is? Not Becky Hill's brood, I'm sure. They will have enough, and I am not one of those who think everything should go to those of the name, unless there's love, too. Who do you mean? If you're not first, who is?"

"Berkley Matthews."

"Better say he used to be. He hasn't the sense he was born with. If I were his mother I'd spank him."

"Now, Aunt Ri, what for?"

"On general principles, just because he is such a notional piece of humanity. I admire him, too; I can't help it; all the same he tries me. When you desert me to turn Yankee, Verlinda, I'll make my will and leave this place as a home for indigent females or something of that kind."

"How nice," returned Linda comfortably; "then when I grow decrepit I can come back here and have my old room."

The little creases appearing around Miss Ri's eyes, showed that she appreciated this retort. "There comes Bertie," she announced a moment after.

"Then I'll ask her to walk with me," returned Linda, rising with alacrity.

"Doesn't Mr. Jeffreys make his appearance about this time?"

"Generally, but I can skip him to-day. I'd rather go with Bertie. Just tell him, Aunt Ri."

"That you'd rather go with Bertie?"

"Of course not, but that we have gone out for a walk."

"Where are you going?"

"There's no need of your knowing, is there?"

Miss Ri looked up with a smile. "I understand. Go along. I reckon you're right to suggest the unattainable once in a while; it adds to the zest later." And with this Parthian shot following her, Linda left the room to join Bertie.

In another moment Miss Ri saw the two girls going out the gate. "I'll not even watch to see which way they turn," she said to herself, letting her gaze fall on her work rather than on the outside world. The dear lady made a good conspirator.

"When are you going to announce your engagement?" was one of the first questions Bertie put to her companion, as they set their faces toward the main street.

"What do you mean?" asked Linda.

"Oh, now Linda Talbot, everyone knows you are engaged to Mr. Jeffreys. You wouldn't be together so continually if you were not."

"I think I could mention several young persons in this town who have set a worthy precedent," replied Linda.

"Oh, well, of course, but in this case – He isn't the flirty kind, we all know."

"He is my cousin," argued Linda in self-defence.

Bertie laughed. "We all know that kind of cousin. The Irish maids have flaunted them before our eyes for generations. That won't do, Linda. Own up."

"Positively there are none but friendly relations between Wyatt Jeffreys and myself."

"Truly? I can scarcely believe it, but there is not a doubt but that there will be different ones, and everyone is thinking it such an ideal arrangement, for of course it is known that he is the claimant for Talbot's Angles."

"I am sorry to disappoint my neighbors."

"I, for one, don't expect to be disappointed. If I did I would set my cap for the young man myself. I've heard girls talk that way before, and the first thing you knew their wedding cards were out. I don't see how you can possibly give up the joy of owning that dear old home of yours. He'd better not offer himself to me, I'd accept him for Talbot's Angles if for nothing else."

Linda winced. It might come to that, perhaps. For the moment she felt annoyed at Bertie who might have been more tactful, she thought.

"Do you know," continued Bertie, "whether Mr. Jeffreys intends to live there? We are all dying to know, and if you don't become the mistress of the dear old place it will not want for one for the lack of appreciative damsels. The girls are ready, even now to reckon on their chances. We don't have so many eligible young men come to town that we can afford to let such a desirable one go away unappropriated."

"It seems to me that he is not the only one," responded Linda.

"There are not more than half a dozen, not near enough to go around. I know perfectly well, for at the last dance I had to dance twice with a girl, and I do hate that. Let me see, there are Elmer Dawson, John Emory, Todd Bryan, Billy Tucker, Tom Willis, and Berk Matthews, though Berk doesn't count. Nobody sees him nowadays. He has turned into a regular greasy grind, so that he is no good at all. He has a girl up in the city, you know. I charged him with it, and he the same as admitted it. I think he might have looked nearer home. Berk used to be great fun, too; it is rather a shame. So you see, Linda, even counting him there are not more than six who are really worth while; the rest are mere boys. Now, if you really don't want your cousin yourself, you might speak a good word for me, and I'll be mighty thankful."

"Bertie, you are a silly child. You know you don't mean a word of all this. Why do you rattle on in such a brainless way?"

"I'm in dead earnest, I assure you. I'll take him in a minute, now that I can't get Berk who is as good as gone. We are wild to know who the girl is, what she looks like and all that. I suppose you didn't happen to meet her when you were in the city. Miss Ri ought to know, if anyone does."

"We didn't meet any such person," replied Linda a little defiantly. "We saw Mrs. Matthews and Margaret, but, of course, they did not mention her."

"Very likely they would be the last ones to know. At all events he is not the lad he was, as anyone with half an eye can see. Even if he hadn't told me there would be but one conclusion to gather from his absolute indifference to us all. Every one of the girls agree to that."

Linda smiled mechanically. Suppose it were true. There had been but the one meeting, that which took place upon the day of her arrival from the city, then it had seemed as if they were about to return to the old pleasant relations, but since then not another sign. Yet – "There isn't anything I wouldn't do to make you happy, Linda Talbot." What was the meaning of that saying? Only the gentle concern of a chivalrous, tender-hearted man, probably. She gave a little sigh which drew Bertie's attention.

"Tired, Linda? We're going too far, perhaps. I forget that you are a busy bee all the morning. We'd better turn back."

Linda agreed. She felt singularly heavy-spirited and would be glad to reach home, she realized. Bertie left her with a laughing challenge to "hurry up or she would try to cut her out," and then Linda went in.

Miss Ri was just stirring the fire, for she loved the dancing lights at a twilight hour. "Draw up, draw up," she cried, "and tell me the news. What did you learn from Bertie?"

"First that I was engaged to Mr. Jeffreys, and if not that I ought to be. Second; it is reported that Berkley Matthews has a sweetheart in the city."

"The wretch!" cried Miss Ri. "I'd like to see him bring a strange girl here for me to conciliate and defer to."

"He has a perfect right, hasn't he, Aunt Ri?"

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure. I hate to think of it. So the report is that you are certainly engaged."

"Yes, they have arranged it all, and are quite pleased. I am to live at Talbot's Angles, it seems, and it is considered a delightful way to settle matters for me. Bertie was quite enthusiastic. Did Mr. Jeffreys come?"

"Yes, and was sorry to have missed you. He'll be back this evening. He tells me he is going to leave for Hartford next week. Are you going with him, Verlinda?"

The girl thoughtfully prodded a long stick which needed pushing further back. "I haven't decided," she replied presently.

"You had decided there in Baltimore, if I remember correctly."

"Yes, so I had. Oh, I don't know. I don't know. I don't see how I could stand it to keep on living here." She put down the tongs and clasped her hands tightly.

"Why, Verlinda, my dear child, what do you mean? You – " Miss Ri paused and laid her hand gently on the girl's. "The wretch," she murmured, "the wretch."

Linda turned to kiss her cheek. "Never mind, Aunt Ri," she rejoined; "no doubt I'll be thanking the Lord yet."

Miss Ri laughed shortly, then the words came pleadingly, "Don't leave me, Verlinda, and don't think you will be any happier if you go away. You can't run from yourself, you know. Stay where you are and fight it out as I did. I'll do my best for you."

"Dear Aunt Ri! As if I didn't know that. After all, I believe you are right. I'd be happier here with you than among strangers under any circumstances, even with my old home calling me and a good man to share it. I suppose it is cowardly to want to take refuge in a love you can't return."

"It isn't only cowardly," affirmed Miss Ri with decision, "but it is unfair to the one who gives all and receives no return. I think you are too proud as well as too honest to allow that, Verlinda."

"Do you think I've been unkind, unfair to Mr. Jeffreys? I haven't meant to be. I've been trying my best to care for him, to learn to know him better and to appreciate his good qualities so they would seem sufficient for me. I haven't meant to encourage him unduly. I meant to do the very fairest thing I could, but I am afraid I haven't, after all, or the town wouldn't take things so for granted."

"The town takes things for granted upon slighter evidence than that. Don't struggle any more, dear child. What is that old quotation? 'To thine own self be true and it must follow as the night the day, thou can'st not then be false to any man.' Don't forget that. Now, let's light up and be as cheery as we can. Don't believe all the gossip you hear; there's not one tenth of it true."

Mr. Jeffreys came again that evening. Miss Ri, with a wisdom born of experience, went around to Miss Parthy's and with the opportunity afforded him Mr. Jeffreys made a final throw – and lost. Miss Ri returned to find Linda, with her head in the cushions of the sofa, shaking with sobs.

"You poor darling child," said Miss Ri, bending over her, "was it so hard?"

"Oh, I hated to do it. I hated to, Aunt Ri. He was so quiet and dignified, and so kind. He tried to make me feel that it wasn't my fault and he – cares much more than I believed. He didn't say so before."

"Before? There was a first time, then, and this was the second."

"Yes, as you suspected, there in Baltimore, but I wasn't half so distressed then. Oh, dear, why should we have such contrary hearts?" Down went her head again.

"There, dear, there," Miss Ri soothed her. "Don't cry about it. There never was a man living worth so many tears. He will get over it beautifully; I never knew one who didn't. You will probably get cards for his wedding while you are still grieving over this night's business. Mark my words."

Linda sat up at this. "I suppose I am silly," she said steadily. "I haven't a doubt but I was overwrought and nervous. You see it is the first time I ever refused a man to his face; I gave him a note before. Very likely if I had refused a dozen men as some girls do, I should get to rather enjoying it." She smiled ruefully.

Miss Ri sat down and snuggled her up close. "Dear, good little lass, you'd never be one to glory in scalps. I am sorry for you both, but it can't be helped, and you have done exactly right. Now don't lie awake all night thinking about it." A wise piece of advice but one which profited Linda little.

With more than his usual gravity Wyatt Jeffreys presented himself at Berkley's office the next morning. "Can I see you privately?" he asked, for Billy was rattling papers in the next room where a couple of countrymen were waiting, beguiling the time by a plentiful use of chewing tobacco.

Berkley glanced at his clients. "Can you wait a few minutes? I shall be through with these men before very long. Suppose you go over to the hotel and tell them that you are to meet me there. Ask them to show you to my room. I'll be over as soon as I can."

Jeffreys nodded approvingly. "Very well. I will meet you there. Thank you for suggesting it."

He was admitted to the room without question. He remembered it from having first visited Berkley there to identify the little trunk. Better it had never been found and that he had left the place then and there. He sat down in the one easy chair, and looked around. On the bureau stood a row of photographs, the first of a gentle looking woman whose eyes were like Berkley's; that must be his mother, and the next his sister. A third, evidently taken some years before, showed a man with thoughtful brow and a strong, though not handsome face; this was Dr. Matthews of whom Jeffreys had heard much from those who still missed their beloved physician. There was another photograph standing by itself, the thin white outer covering dropped like a veil over it, but through this Jeffreys could see that it was a head of Linda. He did not lift the veil, but stood thoughtfully looking at the dim outline. He had put his own camera to use often enough to secure several snap-shots of the girl in Miss Ri's old garden, but this picture he had not seen. He wondered if she had given it to Berkley, and when. There were no other pictures about except those three of the family standing side by side.

The man sat down again and presently Berkley hurried in. "Sorry I had to keep you waiting," he said, "but these country fellows are slow. Well, anything new?"

"Nothing," responded Jeffreys dully. "I only wanted to tell you that I am leaving next week, and that I wish to stop proceedings in the matter of Talbot's Angles."

"What do you mean, man?" Berkley turned in surprise.

"Just that. Do you think you're the only man who can do a brave thing? Do you suppose you can flaunt your heroics without making me feel that I am a small specimen who has no right to be smirking around as a complacent recipient of others' property? I will not have it. I am as capable as you of making sacrifices. I will not be outdone by you."

"Please explain yourself." Berkley spoke quietly, eyeing the other man's tense face.

"I mean this: I wish Miss Talbot to retain her property. I have taken your advice, but, as I told you before, it was not worth while. Not even for the sake of having her own again would she take me with the property."

"You wouldn't expect one of her caliber to do it for the sake of that only," said Berkley a little proudly. Then more gently, "I am no end of sorry. Believe me or not, I had hoped for a better report from you."

"Is that honestly said?"

"It is."

The man's face softened. "I believe you, Matthews. If ever a man has shown himself loyal, you are he. I see it all, and I bow to the inevitable. I never have had much of what I wanted in this world, and I suppose I shall never have. As yet I cannot be as generous as you, but some day I hope to reach your heights. I have the promise of a good future before me, and I can do without Cyrus Talbot's inheritance. What I came to say I have said. Stop proceedings. I relinquish all claim to Talbot's Angles."

What could Berkley answer? He realized that these were sorry days for Jeffreys, and the least said now the better. "Very well," he agreed; "it shall be as you wish. I consider it most generous of you. Of course nothing of any account has been done, and we will drop the whole thing for the present. Perhaps you will wish to reconsider it some day. If you do, I am at your service. Shall I hand you back your papers?"

"No. Throw them into the fire. I don't care what you do with them. I shall never want them."

He rose to go. Berkley followed him to the street where they parted, the one to return to his room, the other to his office where he tied up the papers and thrust them into his desk. That was done. What a storm of feeling those yellow sheets had raised, and now – "Poor devil," said Berkley to himself. "It was pretty hard lines and he has shown himself of good stuff. Confound it all, why did it have to happen so? At least I must have the delicacy to keep out of the way while the man is in town." The color rushed to his face, but receded almost as quickly. "I'm a conceited ass," he cried inwardly. "If she couldn't care for such a man as Jeffreys why should I expect her to care for me? Go to, Berkley Matthews. Crawl down from your pinnacle, and don't lay any such flattering unction to your soul." He set to work at one of his briefs, determined not to encourage himself in any illusions.

CHAPTER XX
"THE SPRING HAS COME"

During the remainder of Mr. Jeffreys' stay in the town Berkley religiously kept away from Miss Ri's brown house on the point, and even carried his determination so far that once seeing Linda in the distance as he was coming out of his office he bolted back again and waited till she was well out of sight before he came out. "What did I do that for?" he said to himself, smiling a little. He did not see Mr. Jeffreys again until one afternoon a week later when he came into the office.

"I am going around making my farewell calls, Matthews," he said. "I take the boat for Baltimore this evening. My unfortunate old trunk and I will soon be out of your way. Again let me thank you for all your kindness."

"I'm sorry to see you go," replied Berkley, "but I hope you will carry away some pleasant memories of our old 'eastern shore.'"

"I shall carry away many. I can never forget the hospitality and kindness shown me here."

"And about those papers; if ever you want to renew the case I am ready to help you, remember." He held out his hand.

"That matter is disposed of," returned Jeffreys with a little frown. "We will dispense with the subject if you please. I am going to Miss Talbot from here, and shall tell her that she need fear no more interference from me. To-day our paths separate. Have you seen her, Matthews?" he asked after a slight pause.

"No, I have not." Berkley looked straight into the other's eyes.

Jeffreys gave the hand he held a closer grip. "You are a good friend, Matthews. Let me echo your offer; if there is anything I can ever do for you, command me. Good-by."

Berkley laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Thank you, Jeffreys. I will remember. Good luck to you and good-by."

So they parted and the boat slipping through the darkness over the quiet waters of the river that night, bore away him whose coming and going both seemed made under unpropitious stars.

It was a warm afternoon in February, one of those days when Spring seems close at hand by reason of a bluebird's early note, and the appearance of some venturesome crocus in the grass. February brings such days in this part of Maryland. The morning's mail had given Linda the happiness of receiving a magazine in which were some of her verses, accepted and paid for. This step, which carried her beyond the satisfaction of seeing herself in print, merely by compliment, was one which well agreed with the springlike day. She was sitting at the piano joyously singing:

 
"The spring has come, the flowers in bloom
The happy birds – "
 

She broke off suddenly, for in through the window open to the floor came Berkley.

"Don't stop," he begged. "I love to hear you."

They stood smiling at one another, before either spoke again, then Linda turned back to the piano to finish the song while Berkley leaned above her to watch her slim fingers moving over the keys. "It just suits the day, doesn't it?" she said when she had finished. "Did you see that there was a crocus by the side of the walk? And this morning I heard a bluebird."

"And that is what makes you look so happy?"

"Not altogether. Sit down over there by the little window, and if you will be very good I will show you something."

He obediently took the place assigned him, where the window seat ran along the small raised platform, and Linda produced the magazine. "There," she said, opening to a certain page. "And it is paid for," she added triumphantly.

Berkley read the lines through. "You have climbed into fame, haven't you?" he said. "Are you feeling very high and mighty? Would you like me to sit on the floor at your feet. It would be very easy on this platform."

She laughed. It was good to hear the old foolish manner of speech again. "No, I won't insist upon that, though I can't tell what I may require if this continues. Do you like my verses, Berk?"

"Yes, very much. I suppose they are really better than these. He took from his pocket-book a little clipping, 'The Marching Pines,' but I shall always care more for these. I shall never be quite so fond of any others, perhaps."

"Why?"

Berkley did not answer, but instead asked, "Did Jeffreys tell you of his determination not to follow up his claim?"

"Yes, he told me." Linda looked grave.

"It was generous of him, don't you think?"

A half smile played around Linda's lips. "Yes, I suppose it was. He meant to do me a great kindness and I appreciate it."

"But you could not agree to share it with him. He is a good fellow, Linda, and I am very sorry for him. He was greatly cut up."

"How do you know?"

"He told me."

"That – "

"That he had asked you to marry him? Yes, he told me that. Poor old chap. I grew quite fond of him. Why didn't you, Linda?"

"I don't know. I didn't; that's all; I didn't, though I tried very hard."

"Don't you think he was actually heroic to give up the claim?"

"I am sure he meant to be, but of course you understand that I could not accept such a sacrifice from him and that if the law were to give him a right to Talbot's Angles, I couldn't think of doing anything but giving it up to him."

"But he refuses to allow me to go on. I have the papers and I am to burn them if I choose."

Linda smiled, a little mysterious, exultant smile. "That doesn't alter my point of view."

"And so you refuse to allow him to be a hero."

"He isn't the only hero in the world. He himself told me of another." There was a wise, kind expression in her eyes.

Berkley slipped down from the window seat to a cushion at her feet. She bent over him as a mother over her child. "Linda," he said whisperingly. "Linda." He took her soft hand in his strong lithe fingers, and she let it lie there. He pressed the cool little hand against his hot brow, then he looked up. "Linda," he repeated, "here I am at your feet. I love you so! Oh, how I love you! I know I don't deserve it, but do you think you could ever learn to care a little for me? I am not rich, but some day maybe I could buy back Talbot's Angles. There is nothing I would not do to make you happy."

"You said that once before, Berk."

"Did I?"

"Yes, – that night in the rain."

"I meant it."

"As much as you do now?"

"Every bit."

"And yet you avoided me, passed me by, allowed another to step in."

"It was for you, for you. I wanted you to be happy," he murmured.

"I see that now, but I missed my friend."

"Your friend? Am I never to be anything more, Linda? I love you with my whole heart. You are the one woman in the world to me. Don't you think that some day you might learn to love me a little?"

Linda's face was aglow with a tender light; her eyes were like stars. "No, Berk," she said slowly, lingeringly, "I could never learn to love you a little."

He dropped her hand and looked down, all the hope gone from his face.

"Because," Linda went on, bending a little nearer that he could hear her whisper, "I already love you so much."

He gave a little joyous cry and sprang to his feet, all his divine right suddenly recognized. He held out his arms. "Come," he said.

Linda arose with shining face, stepped down from the platform and went to him.

The dim portraits on the walls smiled down at them. It was the old story to which each passing generation had listened. The ancient house could tell many a like tale.

"Berk," said Linda when they had gone back to the seat by the window, "they told me you had a sweetheart in the city. Bertie Bryan vowed you acknowledged it to her."

He took her hands and kissed them. "So I may have done, my queen, but it was when you were there."

Linda sighed, a happy satisfied sigh. "Berk, dear, were you very unhappy, then? You didn't have to be, you see."

"I thought it was necessary, and perhaps I needed the discipline."

"Just as I have needed the discipline of teaching. I am realizing by degrees what a wonderful life work it might become."

"But you shall not teach long, though, Linda darling, I haven't told you that we shall have to begin life rather simply, for you know I must always think of my mother."

"Berk, dear, I couldn't be happy if I thought you ever would do less than you do now for her."

"You are so wonderful, so wonderful," he murmured. "I hope to do better and better in my profession, for I am much encouraged, and some day, remember I shall buy back Talbot's Angles for you."

"You will never do that, Berk," returned Linda, trying to look very grave.

"Why, sweet?"

"Because when Grace marries it will be mine without any question. We have had a letter from Judge Goldsborough."

"And he said – "

"That he had discovered papers which prove that Cyrus Talbot had only a lease on the place; it was for ninety-nine years, and it expired more than ten years ago."

"Of all things!" ejaculated Berkley. "That was the last explanation that would have occurred to me. Did Jeffreys know before he left?"

"Yes, we told him that afternoon he called to say good-by. Aunt Ri thought it was best to tell him, and to show him the judge's letter."

"Poor old chap! And he had to go without even the recompense of having made a sacrifice for you."

Linda's face clouded. "Yes, he said that everything had failed, even his attempted good deeds. I hope he will find happiness some day."

"And you are very glad that you can feel an undisputed ownership of the old home?"

"Yes, of course I am glad. Aren't you?"

"What is your happiness is mine, beloved Verlinda."

"The only drop of bitterness comes from the thought of Wyatt Jeffreys, but even there Aunt Ri insists his unhappiness will not last and that comforts me."

"Who is talking about Aunt Ri?" asked that lady coming in and throwing aside her hat. "Parthy has a brood of thirteen young chickens just out, and I have been down to see them. What were you two saying about me? Hallo, Berk, what has brought you here, I'd like to know? I thought you were so busy you could scarcely breathe."

"Oh, I'm taking an afternoon off," he responded. "A man can't be a mere machine such weather as this."

"I've been telling him about the judge's letter," put in Linda.

"And I reckon that was a mighty big surprise; it certainly was to us. It took a better lawyer than you, Berk Matthews, to unravel that snarl. Even the judge himself didn't remember the facts."

"Which were?"

"That to Cyrus Talbot belonged Addition and a part of Timber Neck, while to Madison belonged the Angles and the other part of Timber Neck; that was in the first place when they had their inheritance from their father, you see. They sold Timber Neck, and then Madison retained the Angles, while Cyrus kept Addition. Well, it seems the Angles, being the home plantation, had always gone to the eldest son. Madison's first child was a daughter, and after her birth Madison's wife died. Cyrus' first child was a son, and he wanted the Angles for him but Madison wouldn't give it up, but at last he consented to lease the place to his brother. Later on Cyrus' son died, and he left for the West, selling out Addition to his brother Madison who had married a second time. Madison went to Addition to live while Cyrus still clung to his lease of the Angles. However, when the house at Addition was burned he allowed his brother to go back to the homestead place to live. The rest you know; how Cyrus rented the lands to this and that tenant, and how the place went to the dogs at one time, and how it was finally discovered by Charles Jeffreys to belong to his mother's family. He wrote the letter you remember, the answer to which you have shown us. There is no use going over all that, for you will see just how the matter stands, and Verlinda will come to her own."

Linda looked at Berk who smiled back at her understandingly. "Aunt Ri," said the girl, going over and laying her cheek against the gray head, "Verlinda has come to her own in more than one sense." She held out her hand to Berkley who took it and drew it against his heart.

"What?" almost screamed Miss Ri. "You haven't a sweetheart in the city, Berk Matthews? What did I tell you, Verlinda? I knew that Bertie Bryan was making that all up."

"Not exactly, Miss Ri," said Berkley, "for I did give her reason to think so."

"And why did you do it? Just to make Verlinda unhappy?"