The Cricket Part 60

"Why should I boast of doing my bit?"

"Rubbish!" exploded her mother. "You've got yourself into a nice sc.r.a.pe.

How do we know what she said in these letters?" she asked Wally.

"But I've told you what I said."

"You didn't keep copies of them, did you?" asked Wally.

"No, of course not."

"Have you got his letters?" from her mother.

"Yes, in my trunk."

"There's nothing to be done until we see them," said Mrs. Bryce, impatiently.

"They are private letters, and I must say . . ." began Isabelle, hotly.

"You be quiet," ordered her mother, angrily. "I can't see that you were much use, Miss Watts."

"Mrs. Bryce, I had no idea that this was going on. I knew she wrote letters, but I supposed they were to you or to school friends. I did not feel it necessary to censor her mail."

"You ought to know her well enough by now to know that when she seems to be behaving she is doing her worst."

Mrs. Bryce summoned a maid and ordered Isabelle's trunk to be reported the moment it arrived. While they waited Mrs. Bryce interrogated Miss Watts as to whom Isabelle had met in Bermuda. Isabelle was at the window, gazing from behind the curtain at her admirer, but she noticed that Captain O'Leary's name was merely mentioned in a list of the English officers they had met.

"Look here, Isabelle, how about Edouard?" whispered Wally, at her elbow.

"Does he think he is engaged to you, too?"

She felt the laugh behind his words, so she answered gravely:

"No, Wally, Edouard was a dutiful son."

He chuckled. Max turned at the sound.

"Don't encourage her, Wally."

"I can't. It's too late."

"Don't worry. I disinherited them both," Isabelle a.s.sured him.

"Did she have any violent love affairs?" inquired Mrs. Bryce.

"There were two very devoted young men, Percy Pollock and Jack Porter.

But I thought Isabelle handled them very well," replied Miss Watts.

"Are you engaged to them?" whispered Wally again.

"Wally, I'm not engaged to anybody," answered his child.

The maid announced the trunks and Isabelle went in search of her treasures. When she returned she carried in each hand a bundle of letters tied with ribbons.

"Son Jean's," she said, offering one bundle to Max. "We need not go over Son Edouard's."

Mrs. Bryce began to read. As she finished a page, she handed it to Wally, and he in turn pa.s.sed it to Miss Watts. The two women read solemnly, but Wally laughed occasionally. Isabelle sat by, now and then taking a peek at the author of this new trouble.

"Well!" remarked Mrs. Bryce when the last tender words had been read.

"Going some, Isabelle!" added Wally.

"We'll have him in," said Max.

"Oh, no; now, I wouldn't do that."

"I would. Matthews will go across the street and tell him to come."

"For Heaven's sake, Max, what are you going to do?"

"Get her letters back, of course."

"Isabelle, you and Miss Watts go somewhere else and wait," Wally urged, as his wife gave the butler instructions.

"No. I shall stay here."

"You'll do no such thing. You've done your part, now you leave the rest of it to us," ordered her mother.

"It is my hand he is asking for; those are my letters, and this is my affair. I shall stay right here and see it through," Isabelle a.s.serted with firm determination.

Max saw that, except by force, there was no way to eject her, and it was too late for that, as Matthews was approaching with the Frenchman.

The hero entered with a ceremonious bow. He was good-looking in a dare-devil way, with a somewhat dissipated face. His eyes went from one to another until they came to Isabelle.

"_Ah! mon adoree, c'est toi!_" he cried, and before any one could stop him, he seized her hands and covered them with kisses.

"None of that!" shouted Wally, jerking Isabelle away.

Max took command. She spoke, curtly, in French.

"Monsieur Petard, we have read your letters to our daughter, and heard her story of her correspondence with you. She is, as you see, a mere child. I appeal to you as a soldier and a gentleman, to return her letters to us, and to close this painful incident."

He turned to the girl.

"I ask you one question. Do you love me?"

"Why, no," she said, simply, "I told you I didn't."

"I did not believe. Your friend, the Mademoiselle Pollock, she say you are infatuate wiz me; she send ze picture; she tell me you are crazy about me."