IV
“Of course,” said Mrs. Vernon, at the luncheon-table, “the man was quite crazy, but”
“He couldn't have been,” replied Beryl, “since he owned to it. Insane folks invariably protest their sanity, don't they?”
“Well, if he wasn't crazy, will you please tell me what he was up to? The idea of hanging over our gate and insisting that this place was called 'Heart's Content'! If that isn't a sign of insanity, then I don't know!”
“'Heart's Content,” mused Beryl. “But, really, Mamma, that's a very sweet name for a home, isn't it?”
“Perhaps; but—the asparagus, please. Besides, he almost made me think for a moment that this might really be his house! And when he insisted on having a dove-cot I was nearly ready to order one at once!”
Beryl laughed. “I fear, Mamma, he was 'stringing you,' as the boys say.”
“Humph!” said Mrs. Vernon.
“And you say he talked like a gentleman?” pursued her daughter.
“He was a gentleman,” avowed Mrs. Vernon. “And that's what makes it all so—so ridiculous and puzzling. He was very good-looking, too, with quite wonderful red-brown eyes. They say insane people always have peculiar eyes, don't they?”
“Perhaps; but insanity wouldn't account for the color of them, would it?”
“I suppose not.” Mrs. Vernon sighed. “Well, I fancy I ought to be grateful to him for affording some excitement to a poor, lonely grass-widow. Only—well, it does make me angry to have folks do things I can't understand. If he will come back and explain why he is wandering around the country with a disreputable dog, paying compliments to strange ladies over front gates and talking about white houses with friendly windows and hollyhocks and dove-cots—what is a dove-cot, Beryl?”
“Why, a house on a pole for pigeons, Mamma. You've seen them in England.”
“Have I?” asked her mother doubtfully. “Then, why didn't he say a pigeon-house? I supposed that was what he meant, but I wasn't sure. Well, if he will come back and tell me what it all means I—I'll set up a dove-cot for him!”
“Anyhow, it's nice that we have a name for our place at last, Mamma. We can thank him for that, at least.”
“Not—not 'Heart's Content'!” protested Mrs. Vernon.
“Oh, no,” laughed Beryl; “the other—'Solana.' I think that is perfectly dear, don't you?”
“Um; it sounds nice. What does it mean?”
“I suppose”—Beryl wrinkled her forehead—“I suppose it means a sunny place, Mamma. Anyhow, I like it. I shall order some paper at once.”
“Very well, dear.”
Mrs. Vernon ate in silence for a while. Then”
“Did I tell you that he had a—a most pleasing voice, Beryl?” she asked.
Beryl shook her head. “I think you neglected that particular,” she replied very soberly.
“Well, he had,” sighed Mrs. Vernon. Then, glancing up to find her daughter regarding her laughingly, “Oh, bother the man and his dove-cot!” she exclaimed.
Nearly a week later, on just such another sunny morning, they were seated again on the porch. To-day, however, Mrs. Vernon and Beryl were not alone, for a middle-aged man in riding-clothes leaned from a chair and flicked Mrs. Vernon's Pomeranian, Cliquot, with the end of a crop, much to that fluffy aristocrat's disgust. George Smith would not have approved of being called middle-aged, for he made an earnest and studied effort to convince the world that he was still a gay young dog. His rather colorless hair was fast beating a retreat from the neighborhood of a thin, long nose, and his pale blue eyes looked flat and dull; but his mustache was youthfully brown and his constant smile—which Beryl called a smirk—lent his countenance a certain fictitious animation. He was a bachelor who was always on the point of abandoning his state and had never done so, and a man of whom perhaps the worst that could be said was that he was tiresome. At present his attentions to Cliquot were visibly disturbing both to the dog and to his mistress, and each, I think, emitted a sigh of relief when he straightened up, throwing one russet boot over a whipcord knee, and turned to Mrs. Vernon.
“And what,” he asked solicitously, “do you hear from the Senator, dear lady?”
“Scarcely anything. He seems even too busy to write.”
Beryl smiled. “Unless,” she said, “Mamma gets at least twelve pages twice a week, she wires Father to ask what the matter is!”
Mrs. Vernon laughed. “Twelve pages of Mr. Vernon's writing is not what it sounds, Mr. Smith. If he manages to get twenty words on a page, he is doing wonderfully well. I tell him it is a fortunate thing that he was not John Hancock. If he had been, there'd have been no room on the Declaration of Independence for the other signers!”
“The Senator, dear lady, is a big man even on paper! And speaking of handwriting reminds me”—George Smith thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a crumpled paper. “What do you think of that for a fist, Mrs. Vernon? They say Horace Greeley couldn't read his own writing after the ink was dry, but I'll wager this chap has him beat!” He passed the paper to Mrs. Vernon, who spread it out and gazed at it puzzledly.
“Is it—is it really writing?” she asked. “I mean, does it say anything?”
Mr. Smith chuckled. “Let Miss Vernon try it,” he suggested.
“I can read the first part beautifully,” said Beryl. “'Alderbury Country Club.'”
“Yes, but that's printed,” chuckled Mr. Smith. “Now go on.”
“Er—'Joe pat ... misery,' no, 'mystery' Gracious! Is it in code, Mr. Smith?”
“Not a bit of it. It says—may I have it, please? It says: 'I've put myself up here for luncheon. Thanks. But why tin bullets in new peas?'”
“And what on earth does it mean?” asked Mrs. Vernon.
Mr. Smith chuckled again. It was so seldom that he interested an audience that he was palpably delighted. “I'll tell you. I happened to find it in the letter-box at the club this morning. It had been there since last week—Thursday, I think they said. I don't look for mail very often. If I find anything, it's so likely to require an answer, you know; and I hate to write letters.” Mr. Smith announced the fact as though it were an entirely original failing. “Well, this is from Allan Shortland. It isn't signed, you see. He never signs his letters; doesn't have to; you can't mistake 'em!”
“Shortland?” mused Mrs, Vernon. “There were some Shortlands in Washington a few years ago. I think they were from Wisconsin or—or somewhere out there.”
“A different lot, I fancy,” replied Mr. Smith. “This chap's folks come from Virginia, I believe. I thought perhaps you had met him, Miss Vernon.”
Beryl shook her head. “I don't think so,” she replied. “Who is he?”
“Why—er”—Mr. Smith chuckled again—“Well, he's a queer duffer. Rather crazy in a harmless way. Folks are all dead, and he has rather a nice lot of money. Most—er—most original chap.”
“Really?” encouraged Mrs. Vernon, smothering a yawn.
“His writing is certainly original,” agreed Beryl.
“Rather! And his writing's just like the chap himself. I ran against him first in Paris some ten years ago. He was studying art then. Any way, he said he was. I don't think he ever did anything with it. He told me once that his father had intended him to be a lawyer. I forgot why he didn't. He had some crazy reason. He spends most of his time knocking around. He's been about everywhere, I guess. His favorite loafing-place is China. Says the Chinese are the only folks who really understand how to live. He's written two or three books, mostly travels. One was a novel, though. I never tackled the travel books, but I did have a go at the novel. It was funny stuff; didn't have any—what-do-you-call-it—plot. I supposed he was abroad somewhere until I came across this note. They said at the club that he wandered in there one day last week and asked to see the membership list. Then he asked for a card, filled it out himself, and signed my name—I was away that day—and had lunch. Hendricks, the manager over there, thought he was a tramp at first, and”
Mrs. Vernon sat up suddenly. “What day was it, Mr. Smith?” she demanded.
“Er—I think they said last Thursday.”
Mrs. Vernon thought back rapidly and turned a triumphant look on her daughter. “Then—then, it was!” she exclaimed.
“Of course,” laughed Beryl. “As you didn't ask him to luncheon here, he went to the club. You see, Mr. Smith, Mamma has met your Mr.—Mr.”
“Shortland? Really? I say!”
“He wanted to buy the place,” said Mrs. Vernon plaintively, “but there was no pigeon-house”
“Dove-cot,” corrected Beryl gravely.
—“And so he didn't. He said he was looking for a white house with green blinds, named 'Heart's Content,' and rather insisted that this was it. Then he decided it wasn't—on account of the dove-cot; I suppose—and went away.”
Mr. Smith had been chuckling at intervals, and now he slapped a boot ecstatically with his riding-crop. “That's 'China' all right!” he declared.
“'China?'” echoed Beryl.
“They call him 'China' at the club in New York. He's always just going there or just coming from there, you see. He—he's a queer one! Fine feller, too. Every one”
“Mamma was quite smitten with him. Tell Mr. Smith about his eyes and his voice, dear.”
“Well, I don't suppose you'd call him handsome,” defended Mr. Smith, “but”
“I thought him very good-looking,” declared Mrs. Vernon, with decision. “And now that you reassure me as to his sanity, I should like to know him. I especially want to know why he insists on a dove-cot. Personally, I think pigeons are frightfully dirty things.”
“Not half bad en casserole,” chuckled Smith.
“Perhaps he means to raise squabs,” Beryl suggested.
“There's no telling,” said Smith delightedly. “He—he's a queer duffer.”
“I found him most amusing,” said Mrs. Vernon. “When you see him, Mr. Smith, please don't fail to ask him whether he found his house with the hollyhocks and the friendly windows and the dove-cot. And do find out why the dove-cot. And do let me know.”
“I think,” said Beryl, who was facing the road, in a queerly subdued voice, “you can find all that out yourself, Mamma.”
Mrs. Vernon and Mr. Smith turned and followed the direction of Beryl's gaze. Over the gate leaned a man with a pipe in his mouth, dreamily regarding the house. Beside him was a rather dirty white dog.