"'After his death--a lonely demise in his humble cave--a story sprang up about him to the effect that his spirit still lingered in the neighborhood of its pa.s.sing. Several credible persons claimed at different times to have met the Monk, and since by some unhappy chance these victims of an optical delusion were all subsequently visited by misfortune in greater or less degree, it soon began to be whispered about that to encounter the specter was a sure augury of impending calamity. A local poet, long since forgotten, was inevitably inspired to preserve the legend in his rustic doggerel. I append a few couplets:

"_'Who meets the monk at crack o' dawn Shall rue the day that he was born._

"_'Who meets the monk in light of day, Woe goes with him on his way.'_"

"Cheery little thing," grunted Simon Varr as she paused an instant.

"Is that all of it?"

"No, there's one more verse." Miss Ocky deepened her tones a note or two as she solemnly read it.

"_'Who meets the monk when dusk is nigh Within the fortnight he shall die.'_"

She closed the book and regarded her brother-in-law with eyes half-mocking, half-pitying.

"Of course you wouldn't dream of treating such nonsense seriously, Simon; I know that. But it's curious, and rather interesting, don't you think? Jennison had his tongue in his cheek when he wrote his account of it, but even he relates as a matter of fact the coincidence that those persons who saw the vision were subsequently badly out of luck." Ocky shook her head gently and glanced at him commiseratingly.

"If it _should_ come true in your case, Simon, I suppose this is an opportune moment to offer you my condolences!"

"Thank you," he managed to reply dryly.

He felt very squeamish inside, though most of that was due to his innate abhorrence of anything that brought up the subject of death. As far as the Monk was concerned, he had found in the letter thrust into the cleft stick and now reposing in a pigeonhole of his desk the reason back of that masquerade--though he had to admit that the writer of the anonymous note had certainly hit upon a sufficiently gruesome method of transmitting it.

"Thank you, Ocky, for your condolences," he continued after an interval. "The same to you and many of them! We'll go together, no doubt. Don't forget you saw the Monk at the same time I did!"

"_Ah_!"

The monosyllable was almost a gasp of pain. Simon stared at her, rather startled by the effectiveness of his sardonic reminder. The book she was holding had dropped to the floor with a crash, her cheeks had gone white to the lips, and now she was staring straight ahead of her with a fixed expression of horror in her eyes as though they were truly visioning the sure approach of Death.

_V: Miss Lucy's Man_

It did not take Simon Varr and Miss Copley very long to recover from the perturbation they had shown when she finished reading him the bit of folklore relating to the Monk. Both of them were highly efficient in the art of self-repression, or failing that, knew how to mask an inner emotion behind their normal outward semblance. When they presently left the study for the luncheon table, Simon wore his usual frown above knitted brows, while Miss Ocky displayed her accustomed placidity of countenance with its high-lights of humor about her lips and sharp gray eyes.

A dish of French chops annoyed the lord and master of the house. He pointed out to his patient helpmeet that times were ripe for economy and that French chops are economical only in respect to their nutritive content. With the tannery closed down, an era of corned beef and cabbage was strongly indicated--especially, she would understand, as there now appeared to be four mouths to feed in the family instead of the customary three. He hoped she would heed his words and exercise greater prudence in the management of her household--and the courteous inflection of his tones as he voiced his hope was a masterpiece of sarcasm. It left his wife pale and resigned, his son red and embarra.s.sed.

"If corned beef and cabbage ever shows up in this dining-room,"

remarked the one member of his audience still undaunted, "my father will turn in his grave."

"Your father thought entirely too much of his stomach," said her host coldly.

"Yes? Well, it repaid him for all the affection he lavished on it.

His digestion was wonderful to the very end. How is yours?"

"I could say that that is purely my own business, but if you insist on knowing, my digestion is excellent."

"I shouldn't have thought it. I don't agree with you as to the essential privacy of the subject, either. It concerns all of us since we have to live with you."

"_Do_ you?"

"Ah!" A touch of color in her cheeks suggested that flint was at last beginning to spark beneath the steel. "Apropos of that and your earlier remark, Simon--would it ease your financial straits at all if I were to contribute something for my board and lodging? It would be a novel experience for me in this house, but I've always been able to adapt myself to altered circ.u.mstances."

She did not expect a hurried and polite disclaimer from her brother-in-law. Disclaimers of any sort were not in Simon's line. He merely sent her a chill look as he thrust back from the table and rose to his feet.

"That is something you can settle with Lucy," he said coldly. "I'm sorry I can't stay and chat with you a little longer, but I am due to spend the afternoon at the tannery."

"It's nice to know that you can spend something," she threw after him sweetly. "Why don't you bring back a hide or two from the vats, Simon?

We might boil them down for soup!"

He glared back at her over his shoulder as he stalked from the room.

Miss Ocky glanced at the faces of the two who remained with her and gave a contented little chuckle.

"Now, that scene was a bit of honest, downright vulgarity!" she said cheerfully. "Refreshing once in a while, don't you think?"

"Ocky! I wish you wouldn't poke him up like that."

"Well! Suppose he stops poking me first! I haven't got the patience of a saint like you, Lucy--and gracious only knows where _you_ get it from, my poor child! Twenty years ago you'd have taken that plate of chops and shoved it down his throat." A fleeting recollection corollary to this thought impelled her to shoot a discontented glance at her nephew across the table. "What in the world has become of the Copley spirit?" she demanded bitterly.

"You don't really understand Simon," murmured her sister.

"No," said Miss Ocky grimly, "but I'm beginning to."

They left it at that and withdrew from the dining-room. From his inconspicuous post near the sideboard, Bates followed the retreating figure of Miss Ocky with admiring and grateful eyes. Here, he told himself, was the old Miss Ocky coming to life again, and his heart rejoiced to think that Simon was in a fair way to get back as good as he gave. The spirit of the Copleys--aye, they had it, every one of them, if only they would show it now and then!

Lucy Varr departed for the kitchen, possibly to caution the cook against undue ostentation at dinner, and Copley, obeying an imperious glance from a pair of gray eyes, followed his aunt to the veranda. She led the way to one end of it, and there turned the corner into an ell that had been screened and gla.s.sed against the mosquitoes of summer and the frosts of winter. With comfortable wicker chairs and quant.i.ties of soft cushions, it was a cosy nook that had become Miss Ocky's favorite haunt for reading or writing.

She ousted a magnificent, smoky-blue Angora who, catlike, had decided the best was none too good for him, seated herself and waved Copley to another chair.

"I had a talk with Sheila this morning," she announced.

The young man's face had been flushed and dark, but now, at the mention of Sheila's name, it lighted quickly. He had been acutely embarra.s.sed during the exchange of courtesies between his father and his aunt, and he had felt a quick resentment at the innuendo she had flung at him and which he had by no means missed, but these pa.s.sing moods vanished in favor of happier emotions.

"I wondered if you really would! But, say, Aunt Ocky--you surely didn't have the nerve to mention your elopement scheme, did you?"

"I certainly did. My nerve is a very superior article. I wish to goodness I could graft a piece of it onto your backbone."

"Oh. Can't a fellow be sensible, Aunt Ocky, without being accused of spinelessness? However, for the love of Mike, tell me what she said!

She turned it down hard, of course."

"She did not, though it was obvious that she would have preferred to hear it from your own lips. Naturally. At any rate, when I first got there I broached the subject tactfully--"

"You couldn't do it any other way, Aunt Ocky."

"Don't be impertinent. She soon made it plain that she was willing to talk frankly and openly--was glad of the rare opportunity to discuss matters with a person of some intelligence. She has been having a little unpleasantness of her own; did you know that? It appears her father has been fearfully stirred up over something yesterday and to-day, and this morning when she spoke of you in some connection he was quite savage. He was never keen on the idea of a match between you two, was he?"

"No. I'm afraid he has sense, too!"