THE HONOR OF THE ELKENHEADS.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2657, 12 November 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE HONOR OF THE ELKENHEADS.

(By EDWARD 'BOLTWOOD, Author of “The McDrummoncl Mark, “Law and the Man,” etc.)

Like most summer hotels, the Windy-

wood opened in May, hut I. didn’t begin service there until August. The house was on the top of a high hid, mighty pleasant, with big trees around and a far sight of the Hudson. A friend of mine, who had been restaurant captain there the year before, told me the patronage was very satisfactory, the steam road being three or four miles oft — which meant that the main part of the guests would have motors and money. A man rising sixty doesn’t move fast, so I spent most of my first afternoon in making my little workroom shipshape, for the previous, hotel valet must have been a rank second-rater. It was pretty late before I fixed to attend to the two suits waiting for me. One was of a kind of flannel, with silk running zigzag through the weave; the shoulders wore padded most silly, and shot had been sewn into the trouser-bottoms to make them hang. I fairly took ascunner to those clothes, ’specially when 1 got a wliif of the perfume from them under the pressing-iron. •

“You’re a honey darling, sir, whoever you are!” said I. “It’s m lady’s maid you need,’ said I, “and not a decent man-servant!” The other suit was another breed of cats altogether. It was of evening clothes, and no wadding or flummery about it—cut simple, and stitched heavy, with a faint smell of prime tabaeco. I looked at the label inside the

breast-pocket, where tailor’s write the gentlemen’s names. I didn’t do that just out of curiosity. You know how it is—hotel people like to hare the help call them by name. It’s worth many a tip to me. Well, sir, there it was—“ Robert Elkenhead”—and I sat down on a stool, struck all in a heap, with the ammoniabottle open in my fingers. The. reason was that I hadn’t seen bide nor hair of an Elkenliead for twenty years. It was that length of time ago when I’d left the Manor, in the Genesoo Valley, where I’d begun as knife-bov in the pantry. But I was butler when old Mrs. Elkenliead died— God bless her! —and the Manor was shut up, she being alone then of any close kin. This Mr. Robert was her grandson, and I remembered him—a tall, husky youngster, going off, gay and brave, to school in a foreign country. Consequently the name on the coat sort of wobbled before my eyes. Maybe the ammonia did it—but there, if you’ve ever been in service any place as long as I was at the Manor, you’ll understand. So I went to deliver the clotlus, and, sure as nails, my knock was answered by the genuine, kind-hearted, El kenliead voice. “Valet, sir,” says I from the outside, steadying myself, as you may believe. “Come in!” nays Mr. Robert. He’s in a wicker chair, reading, and all I get a glimpse of is that his hair is greyish, and that there’s a lady lying back on the window-scat. I go through their parlor to the bedroom and leave the clothes, and then I stop by the door and bow. “Excuse me, madam, and hogging your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I’m Modems, sir.” He blinked at me over his newspaper, and then liis face lit up like you\. flared a torch in it. “Aledows?” he said. “Not John Medows?” “Yes, Mr Robert,” says I. “Bless my soul, John!” ho said. “Shake hands!” And it was a good grip lie gave me, like—meaning no disrespect—like one pal to another. That was the Eiicenlicad of it,- and I felt plaguy ammonia, or something in my eyes again. Mr. Robert laughed, very gentle, and he turned to the lady, and said: “This is John Meadows, Paula, who was with iny grandmother at the Manor for so long.” The lady just spoke a word I couldn’t catch, and kept on staring out at the sunset. She was a downright handsome lady—dark, and foreign-like, and younger than Mr. Robert, and I took note of a bunch of blue wild-flowers in

her lap. “Really, John, this is luck, finding you!!’ said Mr. Robert, extra hearty now, it seemed. Mrs. Elkenhead and I are here for the summer, and I hope we’ll have many a talk about the old times 1” I thanked him and made off down the corridor with the foolish suit of flannels. The gentleman was in his room, togged out in a striped silk dressinggown and brushing up the ends of Iris little moustache. I never did hold, anyhow, for gentlemen to wear dressinggowns, without they’re sick.

“You’re the new valet, are your" says he, prinking hard into the mirror “Yes, sir,” says I.

“My name is Mr. Valerian Clode,

he said. “I advise you to take care that your work for me is well done,” ho said.

“I am very much obliged, sir,” said I, “and thank you sir, kindly,” “No, I shouldn’t have spoke that way; but he did rub me crooked, and

his voice.was that high-pitched it put me in mind of the young Earl of Ryko, him that I was i once second man for,' worse luck; maybe you’ve read of that rotten trial. And besides all that, I’d seen something in Mr. Clode’s room that stirred m y lumbering old wits. This was what it was —a blue, wildflower in water on the mantel, the same sort of a flower that I recollected! of bring in the hands of Mr. Robert’s beautiful wife on the window-seat.

Of course, I didn’t mix more than I had to with the hotel help at the Windywood; and as for the private servants there, I didn’t find any I cottoned to. The favorite among them seemed to he a chap called. Richard, who was Mr. Clodo’s chauffeur. This Richard was a cheap lot, always hobnobbing with the bar-tenders after hours and a deal over fond of the* drink. Down one of the bridle-paths was a spring which had been walled In, and a pool made, with a log bench beside it—a hide-and-seek sort of place, where .1 used to smoke my pipe of an afternoon. One day I was walking alone there, and I caw Mrs. Robert sitting on the bench alone. She saw me too, before 1 could turn hack, so I stumped by as quickly as I could manage, Jilting mv hat.

“Oh, you’re Air Meadows, aren’t you?” she said ; and that was the first time she’d ever really noticed me, anywhere. “Yes, madam,” says I. i

T suppose,” she said, “that Mr. Elkcnboad will take you with him in tlu* fall?”

Veil the same notion, natural enough, had popped into my mind already; and Air. Robert had mentioned it of his own accord, for the matter of that.

“Thank you, madam,” said I. “Bogging your pardon, I’d lie old and useless for the travelling about. Air. Robert tolls me lie chooses to "have no homo establishment ol his own, madam.”

The Lord knows I didn’t think to vex Mrs. Robert, but the frown came over her handsome eyes, plain as a shadow on a pool. I was terrible sorry she had taken a dislike to me. And it didn’t cheer me up cither, to meet Air. Clodo at the bend of the l>ridlo-path into the main road, strutting towards the spring with his' go-to-blazes air. I touched my hat, and he passed me as if I had been a horse-block.

When I got back to the hotel, I went to Air. Robert’s sitting room to see if there was anything I could do for him. He was stretched out on the divan, with a cocktail on the table near his elbow. Air. Robert said he was going to New York that night for a couple of days; and then ho tasted the cocktail and made a face.

“Gasoline, by Jupiter!” said he. “John, what would I givo for a mouthful of that brandy the commodore used to keep at the Manor.” “I know, sir,” said I. ' jhe eighteen hundred and three, sir** with the commodore’s old tost wrote out and pasted on every bottle, sir.”

“Yes,” said Air. Rob;, rt with a laugh, but sad like. “i remember by greatnnclo’.s toast. ‘Long honor to the Elkenheads,’ wasn’t it. \Yhat wouid the commodore say, John, if ho was afire and knew that the Manor was rented to strangers?” I ci'ukl guess what the commodore would have said, and it isn’t for me to repeat here, you may depend. But what I was chiefly thinking about then was that upstairs in my trunk I had a bottle of the old brandy, sealed and all, just as Commodore Elkenliead had given it to me the month before lie died. I didn’t let on to Air. Robert. I wanted to surprise him.

(T.o he Continued.)

London lias fifteen medical schools..