Odd Craft, Complete

Mrs. Truefitt made a gesture of impatience, and her daughter, watching him closely, tried to remember something she had once read about detecting insanity by the expression of the eyes. Those of Mr. Catesby were blue, and the only expression in them at the present moment was one of tender and respectful admiration.

“When did you see Fred last?” inquired Mrs. Truefitt, making another effort.

“Mother,” said Mr. Catesby, with great pathos, “don’t you know me?”

“He has brought bad news of Fred,” said Mrs. Truefitt, turning to her daughter; “I am sure he has.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Catesby, with a bewildered glance from one to the other. “I am Fred. Am I much changed? You look the same as you always did, and it seems only yesterday since I kissed Prudence good-bye at the docks. You were crying, Prudence.”

Miss Truefitt made no reply; she gazed at him unflinchingly and then bent toward her mother.

“He is mad,” she whispered; “we must try and get him out quietly. Don’t contradict him.”

“Keep close to me,” said Mrs. Truefitt, who had a great horror of the insane. “If he turns violent open the window and scream. I thought he had brought bad news of Fred. How did he know about him?”

Her daughter shook her head and gazed curiously at their afflicted visitor. She put his age down at twenty-five, and she could not help thinking it a pity that so good-looking a young man should have lost his wits.

“Bade Prudence good-bye at the docks,” continued Mr. Catesby, dreamily. “You drew me behind a pile of luggage, Prudence, and put your head on my shoulder. I have thought of it ever since.”

Miss Truefitt did not deny it, but she bit her lips, and shot a sharp glance at him. She began to think that her pity was uncalled-for.

“I’m just going as far as the corner.”

“Tell me all that’s happened since I’ve been away,” said Mr. Catesby.

Mrs. Truefitt turned to her daughter and whispered. It might have been merely the effect of a guilty conscience, but the visitor thought that he caught the word “policeman.”

“I’m just going as far as the corner,” said Mrs. Truefitt, rising, and crossing hastily to the door.

The young man nodded affectionately and sat in doubtful consideration as the front door closed behind her. “Where is mother going?” he asked, in a voice which betrayed a little pardonable anxiety.

“Not far, I hope,” said Prudence.

“I really think,” said Mr. Catesby, rising—“I really think that I had better go after her. At her age–”

He walked into the small passage and put his hand on the latch. Prudence, now quite certain of his sanity, felt sorely reluctant to let such impudence go unpunished.

“Are you going?” she inquired.

“I think I’d better,” said Mr. Catesby, gravely. “Dear mother—”

“You’re afraid,” said the girl, calmly.

Mr. Catesby coloured and his buoyancy failed him. He felt a little bit cheap.

“You are brave enough with two women,” continued the girl, disdainfully; “but you had better go if you’re afraid.”

Mr. Catesby regarded the temptress uneasily. “Would you like me to stay?” he asked.

“I?” said Miss Truefitt, tossing her head. “No, I don’t want you. Besides, you’re frightened.”

Mr. Catesby turned, and with a firm step made his way back to the room; Prudence, with a half-smile, took a chair near the door and regarded her prisoner with unholy triumph.

“I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes,” she said, agreeably; “mother has gone for a policeman.”

“Bless her,” said Mr. Catesby, fervently. “What had we better say to him when he comes?”

“You’ll be locked up,” said Prudence; “and it will serve you right for your bad behaviour.”

Mr. Catesby sighed. “It’s the heart,” he said, gravely. “I’m not to blame, really. I saw you standing in the window, and I could see at once that you were beautiful, and good, and kind.”

“I never heard of such impudence,” continued Miss Truefitt.

“I surprised myself,” admitted Mr. Catesby. “In the usual way I am very quiet and well-behaved, not to say shy.”

Miss Truefitt looked at him scornfully. “I think that you had better stop your nonsense and go,” she remarked.

“Don’t you want me to be punished?” inquired the other, in a soft voice.

“I think that you had better go while you can,” said the girl, and at that moment there was a heavy knock at the front-door. Mr. Catesby, despite his assurance, changed colour; the girl eyed him in perplexity. Then she opened the small folding-doors at the back of the room.

“You’re only—stupid,” she whispered. “Quick! Go in there. I’ll say you’ve gone. Keep quiet, and I’ll let you out by-and-by.”

She pushed him in and closed the doors. From his hiding-place he heard an animated conversation at the street-door and minute particulars as to the time which had elapsed since his departure and the direction he had taken.

“I never heard such impudence,” said Mrs. Truefitt, going into the front-room and sinking into a chair after the constable had taken his departure. “I don’t believe he was mad.”

“Only a little weak in the head, I think,” said Prudence, in a clear voice. “He was very frightened after you had gone; I don’t think he will trouble us again.”

“He’d better not,” said Mrs. Truefitt, sharply. “I never heard of such a thing—never.”

She continued to grumble, while Prudence, in a low voice, endeavoured to soothe her. Her efforts were evidently successful, as the prisoner was, after a time, surprised to hear the older woman laugh—at first gently, and then with so much enjoyment that her daughter was at some pains to restrain her. He sat in patience until evening deepened into night, and a line of light beneath the folding-doors announced the lighting of the lamp in the front-room. By a pleasant clatter of crockery he became aware that they were at supper, and he pricked up his ears as Prudence made another reference to him.

“If he comes to-morrow night while you are out I sha’n’t open the door,” she said. “You’ll be back by nine, I suppose.”

Mrs. Truefitt assented.

“And you won’t be leaving before seven,” continued Prudence. “I shall be all right.”

Mr. Catesby’s face glowed and his eyes grew tender; Prudence was as clever as she was beautiful. The delicacy with which she had intimated the fact of the unconscious Mrs. Truefitt’s absence on the following evening was beyond all praise. The only depressing thought was that such resourcefulness savoured of practice.

He sat in the darkness for so long that even the proximity of Prudence was not sufficient amends for the monotony of it, and it was not until past ten o’clock that the folding-doors were opened and he stood blinking at the girl in the glare of the lamp.

“Quick!” she whispered.

Mr. Catesby stepped into the lighted room.

“The front-door is open,” whispered Prudence. “Make haste. I’ll close it.”