Jonathan arranged about rooms with the barman, but here things went differently. They were hardly indoors when her companion was the center of a hand-shaking, back-slapping crowd. “ Jonathan! ” “ Jon Penrose! ” “ Where in tarnation did you spring from? ”
Laughing, and returning their greetings, he contrived at the same time to settle her in a comfortably inconspicuous corner by the door. “ Canada. ” He answered the last question and, inevitably loosed a perfect storm of further ones. But by this time the proprietress herself had come forward to greet him as an old and valued friend. “ A room to herself for the young lady? ” Here a very sharp glance for Kate. “ Well— ” the monosyllable spoke volumes of curiosity.
“ Mrs. Croston has kindly consented to take charge of my daughter. ” This was the sea captain ’ s voice. “ She is English and used to privacy. ” It was settled.
T hat evening gave Kate a whole new light on her companion. He had told her he was rich, but he had given her no inkling of the position he held in Boston. Now, watching the deference with which he was treated by even the older men among these free and easy Americans, she began to see him as a man of power as well as of wealth. They were eager for his opinion not only of events on the border but of what had gone on in Boston during his absence. When he spoke, they listened. Was it because he was a Penrose of Penrose—a descendant, Mrs. McGowan had told her—of one of New England ’ s oldest families? Must she revise all her views of this vociferously egalitarian society? Sitting quiet at her corner of the supper table, she rather thought not. The deference paid him was a tribute not to his ancestry but to the man himself, to Jonathan Penrose who had succeeded to a dwindled estate and made a fortune. She smiled to herself: the almighty dollar again. But that was not fair either to Jonathan Penrose or to the men who were cross-questioning him eagerly now about the command on the Canadian front It was his judgment they respected, and rightly.
FOUR
Massachusetts was checkered green and white with rolling fields and blossoming orchards. Kate knew better by now than to tease her silent companion with exclamations over glimpses of white wild cherry by the roadside or an orchard foaming uphill to its group of white-painted farmhouse and huge red ba rn s. Willows by the Connecticut River gleamed golden in the morning light with their first shimmer of leaf, and from time to time as the heavy coach rolled on, more smoothly now, over well-made roads, Kate leaned forward to get a better view of a patch of flowers, brilliant purple or white against one of the gray walls that bounded these neat New England fields.
Jonathan, apparently, noticed nothing of this new splendor of flower and leaf. This last day of their journey found him silent, withdrawn, with new shadows etched under his deep-set eyes, so that Kate wondered whether he, too, had spent an anxious and wakeful night. His impatience to be home manifested itself in an occasional suggestion to their taciturn driver that his horses might make better time now they were out of the mountains.
The driver ’ s only reaction was to go, if possible, a little slower and to dally interminably when they stopped for their midday meal at the thriving little town of Worcester.
“ At this rate, we won ’ t be home before dark! ” Jonathan turned impatiently to Kate as they stood watching the driver deliberately harnessing up his horses.
“ It ’ s maddening for you. ” She forgot her own anxiety in a wave of sympathy for his.
“ Oh well, ” he shrugged. “ Better late than never, I suppose. ”
It was hot today; flies buzzed around the patient horses and tormented Kate. The afternoon dragged out endlessly. She was beyond caring for views of snug village greens arranged round white-spired churches, and when Jonathan roused himself from his brooding to tell her that the
Laughing, and returning their greetings, he contrived at the same time to settle her in a comfortably inconspicuous corner by the door. “ Canada. ” He answered the last question and, inevitably loosed a perfect storm of further ones. But by this time the proprietress herself had come forward to greet him as an old and valued friend. “ A room to herself for the young lady? ” Here a very sharp glance for Kate. “ Well— ” the monosyllable spoke volumes of curiosity.
“ Mrs. Croston has kindly consented to take charge of my daughter. ” This was the sea captain ’ s voice. “ She is English and used to privacy. ” It was settled.
T hat evening gave Kate a whole new light on her companion. He had told her he was rich, but he had given her no inkling of the position he held in Boston. Now, watching the deference with which he was treated by even the older men among these free and easy Americans, she began to see him as a man of power as well as of wealth. They were eager for his opinion not only of events on the border but of what had gone on in Boston during his absence. When he spoke, they listened. Was it because he was a Penrose of Penrose—a descendant, Mrs. McGowan had told her—of one of New England ’ s oldest families? Must she revise all her views of this vociferously egalitarian society? Sitting quiet at her corner of the supper table, she rather thought not. The deference paid him was a tribute not to his ancestry but to the man himself, to Jonathan Penrose who had succeeded to a dwindled estate and made a fortune. She smiled to herself: the almighty dollar again. But that was not fair either to Jonathan Penrose or to the men who were cross-questioning him eagerly now about the command on the Canadian front It was his judgment they respected, and rightly.
FOUR
Massachusetts was checkered green and white with rolling fields and blossoming orchards. Kate knew better by now than to tease her silent companion with exclamations over glimpses of white wild cherry by the roadside or an orchard foaming uphill to its group of white-painted farmhouse and huge red ba rn s. Willows by the Connecticut River gleamed golden in the morning light with their first shimmer of leaf, and from time to time as the heavy coach rolled on, more smoothly now, over well-made roads, Kate leaned forward to get a better view of a patch of flowers, brilliant purple or white against one of the gray walls that bounded these neat New England fields.
Jonathan, apparently, noticed nothing of this new splendor of flower and leaf. This last day of their journey found him silent, withdrawn, with new shadows etched under his deep-set eyes, so that Kate wondered whether he, too, had spent an anxious and wakeful night. His impatience to be home manifested itself in an occasional suggestion to their taciturn driver that his horses might make better time now they were out of the mountains.
The driver ’ s only reaction was to go, if possible, a little slower and to dally interminably when they stopped for their midday meal at the thriving little town of Worcester.
“ At this rate, we won ’ t be home before dark! ” Jonathan turned impatiently to Kate as they stood watching the driver deliberately harnessing up his horses.
“ It ’ s maddening for you. ” She forgot her own anxiety in a wave of sympathy for his.
“ Oh well, ” he shrugged. “ Better late than never, I suppose. ”
It was hot today; flies buzzed around the patient horses and tormented Kate. The afternoon dragged out endlessly. She was beyond caring for views of snug village greens arranged round white-spired churches, and when Jonathan roused himself from his brooding to tell her that the
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