Lady Larkspur | Page 9

"I've got to clear out; that's the first thing."
"Not necessarily. Your right to the garage is settled; she couldn't oust you if she wanted to. You've got to stay here anyhow till she comes; there's no ducking that. The widow of an uncle who did a lot for you, a stranger to the country; it's up to you to see her established. There are many little courtesies she would naturally expect from you."
"I'm delighted that you see my duty so clearly! If you hadn't assured me that she was safe at the end of the world I wouldn't have set foot here."
"The house is in order, I judge," he remarked, glancing about the room. "I've got to wire her that we're ready for her."
"You most certainly have! Your duty is as plain as a smoke-stack. You might add that she's causing serious inconvenience to her late husband's only nephew."
"You really don't mean that?" he inquired anxiously.
"Oh, thunder, no!"
I had forgotten how trying Torrence could be. He now suggested that we summon Antoine and take a look at the house. Torrence is a conscientious fellow with an exact and orderly mind, and there was no corner of the place from cellar to garret that we didn't explore. It was highly creditable to the old Tyringham servants that the house was thoroughly habitable. All that need be done before Mrs. Bashford arrived was to lay linen on the beds and take the jackets from the furniture; a couple of hours would suffice, Antoine said.
As we were on our way down-stairs the old fellow detained me a moment.
"Have you told him about the parties? Pardon me, sir," he whispered, "but him and the trust company is responsible. I thought likely you'd tell him."
I shook my head in angry rejection of the idea that I should tell Torrence about "the parties," and dismissed him as soon as we reached the hall.
"I suggest," said Torrence, "that when she comes you have flowers in all the rooms; the conservatory will supply enough. And it occurs to me that the more inconspicuous you make this bunch of lazy dependents the more agreeable it will be for Mrs. Bashford."
"You don't expect much of me! It was never in the contract that I should become the patriarch of these venerable relics. But I'll warn them to conceal themselves as much as possible. I fully expect to leave the reservation for good just one hour after the lady arrives."
"That's your affair, of course. As she's motoring, we can't just time her arrival, but when I get a wire that she's on the way I'll telephone you. And, of course, after she gets here I'll come at once to pay my respects."
"You can't come too soon!" I answered spitefully.
CHAPTER II
THE AMAZING WIDOW
As soon as Torrence left I returned to the garage, feeling that with Mrs. Bashford on American soil my use of the residence even as a loafing-place was unbecoming. Mrs. Bashford was not only in America, but with a motor at her command she might reach Barton at any hour. And the vigorous, dominating woman who had captured my uncle Bash, buried him in a far country, and then effected a hop, skip, and jump from Bangkok to Seattle, was likely to be a prodigal spender of gasoline. Her propensity for travelling encouraged the hope that she would quickly weary of Barton and pine for lands where the elephant and jinrickisha flourish.
I had brought with me the manuscript of Searles's play, and I fell upon it irritably and began reading the first act. The dialogue moved briskly, and I read on as though enfolded in the air of a crisp spring morning. It was Searles's whimsical stroke, only with a better vehicle than he had ever before found for it. My grouch over the upsetting of my plans yielded under the spell of his humor.
"Lady Larkspur" was the name assumed by the daughter of a recluse naturalist in the valley of Virginia. She had known no life but that of the open country, where she ran wild all summer, aiding her father in collecting plants and butterflies. At twenty she had never seen a city, and her social contacts had been limited to the country folk, who viewed her with commiseration as the prisoner of her misanthrope father, who in the fifteen years of his exile had maintained a hostile attitude toward his neighbors. He had, however, educated the girl in such manner that only the cheer and joy of life were known to her. Hating mankind, he had encouraged her in nature-worship. She knew no literature except the classics; all history, even the history of the storied valley in which she lived, was a sealed book to her.
The girl's curiosity is roused by the sudden appearance of strangers from