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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN
EUROPEAN POLITICAL SOCIOLOGY
Expertise
and Participation
Institutional Designs for
Policy Development in Europe
Eva Krick
Palgrave Studies in European Political Sociology
Series Editors
Carlo Ruzza, School of International Studies, University of
Trento, Trento, Italy
Hans-Jörg Trenz, Faculty of Political and Social Sciences,
Scuola Normale Superiore, Firenze, Italy
Palgrave Studies in European Political Sociology addresses contemporary
themes in the field of Political Sociology. Over recent years, attention has
turned increasingly to processes of Europeanization and globalization and
the social and political spaces that are opened by them. These processes
comprise both institutional-constitutional change and new dynamics of
social transnationalism. Europeanization and globalization are also about
changing power relations as they affect people’s lives, social networks and
forms of mobility.
The Palgrave Studies in European Political Sociology series addresses
linkages between regulation, institution building and the full range of
societal repercussions at local, regional, national, European and global
level, and will sharpen understanding of changing patterns of attitudes
and behaviours of individuals and groups, the political use of new rights
and opportunities by citizens, new conflict lines and coalitions, societal
interactions and networking, and shifting loyalties and solidarity within
and across the European space.
We welcome proposals from across the spectrum of Political Sociology
and Political Science, on dimensions of citizenship; political attitudes
and values; political communication and public spheres; states, commu-
nities, governance structure and political institutions; forms of polit-
ical participation; populism and the radical right; and democracy and
democratization.
Expertise
and Participation
Institutional Designs for Policy
Development in Europe
Eva Krick
ARENA Centre for European Studies
University of Oslo Blindern
Oslo, Norway
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature
Switzerland AG 2021
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher,
whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting,
reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical
way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software,
or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt
from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this
book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the
authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained
herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with
regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland
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The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
Acknowledgments
This book has taken shape at the University of Oslo’s ARENA Centre for
European Studies, where I enjoyed outstanding working conditions and
was part of a lively and inspiring academic debate. I am very grateful for
that and want to thank everyone at ARENA!
Some people stand out: I collaborated particularly closely with
Cathrine Holst within the research project EUREX. Thanks to Cathrine’s
broad academic ken, her energy, integrity and generosity, this collab-
oration has been the most inspiring and motivating experience of my
academic life. Åse Gornitzka brought me to ARENA in the first place and
together we have co-authored several studies on questions of expertise
and knowledge in European policy-making. Stine Hesstvedt has become
a cherished discussion partner on a wide range of political and academic
questions and I am indebted for the smart and honest comments she
provided to several of my drafts. I would also like to thank Johan Chris-
tensen for an exceedingly rewarding co-authorship, his general kindness,
support and optimism and many interesting debates. I am also very
grateful to Johan P. Olsen for thought-provoking feedback on my work.
v
vi Acknowledgments
“Making public policy that combines expert advice and public input is
no easy task. Eva Krick’s accessible and judicious book is full of insights
on why it is so difficult, and how complex democratic societies can do
better. Drawing on original empirical research, Krick develops nuanced
lessons for the design of participatory expert advisory processes. The
book offers an original and important contribution to democratic theory,
policy studies, science studies, and related fields.”
—Prof. Mark B. Brown,California State University, Sacramento
vii
viii Praise for Expertise and Participation
1 Introduction 1
1.1 The Epistemic-Democratic Tension 3
1.2 The Quest for Integrated Institutions of Policy
Development 7
1.3 Outline of the Book 11
1.4 State of the Art 13
References 15
ix
x Contents
Index 239
List of Tables
xv
1
Introduction
1To be sure, the idea of opening up or democratising public knowledge production is not
new (see for instance the notion of (participatory or collaborative) ‘action research’ originally
1 Introduction 5
coined by Lewin 1946), but the movement seems to have gained momentum during the last
two decades.
2 For these kinds of participatory formats that mainly target ‘ordinary citizens’ and the ‘general
public’ instead of established stakeholders, the attributes citizen or public are used in this
book (e.g. ‘citizen forum’, ‘public’ or ‘citizen participation’, ‘citizen involvement’, ‘public input
channels’).
6 E. Krick
3 As working definitions, which will be refined in the course of the book (political) participation
shall refer to the involvement of those affected by policies into policy-making through referenda,
party membership, elections, demonstrations, citizen assemblies, etc. Democratic participation
qualifies this involvement according to certain criteria of democratic worth. Expertise, synony-
mous to expert knowledge, refers to the specialised knowledge that is held by experts, i.e. those
considered particularly knowledgeable, competent or experienced in a certain domain. Reli-
able expertise qualifies these knowledge claims according to criteria of epistemic worth (see
Chapter 2.2 in particular for a more thorough debate of these key concepts).
1 Introduction 7
actors. Yet, as long as constant feedback loops are in place between the
different levels and channels of input, such structures have a pronounced
potential to meet a multiplicity of epistemic and democratic aims at the
same time. By bringing together different types of policy actors within
one and the same integrated structure that is characterised by the interac-
tive pursuit of a joint policy solution and by being thoroughly embedded
into the policy process, deficits of one venue can be effectively balanced
by a neighbouring venue with a different participation structure.
In integrated collective processes of deliberation, experts can poten-
tially be held to account during the process, hierarchies between experts
and citizens moderated, perspectives exchanged, compromises found and
voices integrated into a joint, and, ideally, consensual proposal. There
is a good chance that problematic dichotomies between societal groups
are dissolved and divergent perspectives mediated. In small groups and
direct interaction, mutual learning can occur, policy options can be
negotiated and shared framings be developed. This is important for the
power balance between professionals and lay people, organised and non-
organised citizens, partisan and non-partisan actors, because the framing
of problems sets the course for future debates and possible solutions. All
the involved actor groups can potentially benefit from such collective
endeavours: ‘Lay citizens’ need specialised input to generate informed,
sound policy suggestions; experts need public input to identify pressing
issues, respond to societal demands and link up to ‘experiential expertise’
and ‘local knowledge’ (Fischer 2000; Meriluoto 2017); policy-makers
need the perspectives of stakeholders, citizens and experts to develop
effective and acceptable policy solutions.
The key question of this book is how multi-layered advisory arenas
should best be institutionally designed, i.e. how the overall structure and
its components should be set up, arranged, regulated and run, so that
they operate in harmony with a wide range of democratic and epistemic
standards. Following Olsen’s understanding, institutional design shall
refer to acts of purposeful (usually organisational) intervention when
(re)constructing institutions (Olsen 1997, p. 205; see also Hendricks
2016, p. 44). To be sure, interventions are not always successful, but
an idea of success underlies design thinking: The perspective is explicitly
normative and aims at improvement. It is also empirical in that it does
10 E. Krick
not only set up an ideal, but also discusses tensions pertaining to the
respective parameter and aims for empirical realisation (see also Goodin
1996, p. 34). A key question is then how to navigate tensions and how
to realise empirically what may be clear theoretically.4
‘Institution’ not only pertains to legal rules, but also to collective prac-
tices, customs, roles and routine ways of action and interaction that
empower, constrain and structure actor behaviour in such a way that
a certain outcome can be expected (March and Olsen 1989, 22ff.). Insti-
tutions may be more or less formalised and they may be enforced by
coercion or be part of a code of appropriate behaviour that is learned
through socialisation and education. The term can also relate to a more
complex system of rules, such as constitutions or languages, and in the
context of this book, it often overlaps with ‘organisation’.5
In democratic governance and research, increasing efforts have been
made to respond to the most notorious shortcomings of advisory and
consultation institutions, such as the frequent lack of impact and the
‘social privilege’ bias of participatory endeavours (Steiner 2012, pp. 33,
49) or the detachment of expert bodies from scrutiny and control (Brown
2009, p. 240). Examples of such efforts are attempts at opening up advi-
sory processes and linking expert bodies to the public (see, e.g., Holst
and Molander 2017; Krick and Holst 2019; Lord 2019), coupling public
deliberation fora more closely to government units (Curato and Böker
2016; Hendriks 2016; Mansbridge et al. 2012), flattening knowledge
hierarchies and thus increasing the pool of available knowledge (see, e.g.,
Brown 2009, 2014; Fung 2006; Warren and Pearse 2008; Warren 2002)
or experimenting with participant selection techniques to maximise
inclusion (Smith and Setälä 2018; Steiner 2012). The book seeks to
learn from these debates on ‘democratic innovations’, the ‘social ties’ of
expert bodies, and the ‘democratisation’ of science and expertise as well
4 The general assumption in this book is that civil servants can, and usually do, make conscious
choices about how to organise advisory formats and that they are prepared to learn and react to
public demands and academic suggestions. Yet, certainly, not every decision is entirely thought-
through or strategic, and bounded rationality, information deficits, blind spots and biases are
general conditions of social life.
5 ‘Organisation’ relates to a collective that is characterised by a common purpose, some kind of
leadership structure and a certain permanence and our design suggestions pertain to advisory
bodies which are also organisations.
1 Introduction 11
tensions and ways of dealing with them are identified and material for
the second part of the book is harnessed.6 Key questions leading part
I are: How ‘good’ was the individual practice of policy development in
democratic and epistemic terms? Which problems occurred? How were
tensions between normative standards moderated?7
The first chapter of part I, Chapter 2, prepares the case studies
in methodological, theoretical and policy-contextual terms. It develops
a normative assessment framework that guides the case studies in
Chapter 3. The three cases from the enviornmental policy field in
Germany and Norway are first analysed one-by-one and then from
a comparative perspective that outlines key practices and mechanisms
that the policy-developing arenas used to deal with multiple and partly
conflicting normative objectives.8
In part II of the book (‘Institutional design lessons’), three theoretical
arguments are developed on how to strike a balance between epis-
temic and democratic demands. Building on theoretical knowledge and
insights from a range of case studies, it responds to three central political-
sociological questions of institutional design that pose themselves when
trying to create ‘participatory expert bodies’: How should these arenas
be composed when epistemic and democratic standards are given equal
value (Chapter 4)? How should they decide collectively, which decision
rules should they follow (Chapter 5)? How should they be organised and
embedded into the policy process (Chapter 6)?
More specifically, Chapter 4 theorises on the ideal participation
patterns and the selection mechanism(s) that produce them. Chapter 5
discusses the merits of stopping rules that bring decision processes to
a close and the social norms that sustain them. Chapter 6 deals with
the most appropriate coupling mechanisms between advisory bodies and
their ‘sponsor’ or appointing authority.
6 The cases are the German ‘Final storage committee’ and ‘Climate protection dialogue’ and
the Norwegian ‘Climate adaptation committee’.
7 For the detailed research questions guiding the case studies, see Chapter 2.2 (‘Normative
assessment framework’).
8 See Chapter 2.1 for the case selection strategy and Chapters 3.1–3.3 for the in-depth case
studies, and Chapter 3.4 for the comparative perspective.
1 Introduction 13
9 There are some works and authors that stand out because they have been exceedingly valuable
for the reflections in this book. This pertains particularly, but of course not exclusively, to the
works by Mark B. Brown, Frank Fischer, Archon Fung, Cathrine Holst, Sheila Jasanoff, Jane
Mansbridge, Johan P. Olsen, Jürg Steiner, Nadia Urbinati, Marc Warren, Peter Weingart and
Iris Marion Young. These authors are numerously cited within the book, but these references
cannot fully give credit to the influence they have had overall.
14 E. Krick
just as central to the perspective of this book - are not analysed in system-
atic terms (see also Biegelbauer and Hansen 2011; Brown 2009; Fischer
2009 for these lines of arguments).
This book’s assessment framework therefore complements democratic
theory perspectives with philosophical and sociological works on the
value and validity of expertise. Social epistemology helps to theorise
on the trustworthiness and competence of the individual expert (see,
e.g., Fricker 1998; Goldman 2001; Gelfert 2011) and the sociology of
knowledge and science provides important insights about the policy-
science-nexus (e.g. Beck 2012; Beck and Forsyth 2015; Nowotny et al.
2001; Jasanoff 2003; Lentsch and Weingart 2011a; Maasen and Wein-
gart 2005; Straßheim 2013). These perspectives do usually not consider
the collective, political dimension of expertise production or questions of
institutional design, however. While they sometimes invoke a ‘democrati-
sation of expertise’ (Nowotny et al. 2001; Jasanoff 2003), they tend
to stop short when it comes to political challenges of implementation,
democratic dilemmas and the constraints of collective decision-making,
which is why these perspectives are complemented by the aforemen-
tioned works in democratic theory.
In addition, both parts of the book link up to empirically-oriented
studies for the purpose of formulating indicators of democratic and epis-
temic worth, for identifying tensions between different quality standards
and identifying favourable institutional designs. The complex, multi-
layered arenas of policy deliberation and advice in focus here have so
far not been the explicit object of social scientific research. Yet, there
is a substantial body of empirical research on ‘minipublics’ and other
participatory governance arrangements, which usually build on demo-
cratic theory (e.g. Bächtiger et al. 2005; Curato and Böker 2016; Fung
2006; Hansen and Allansdottir 2011; Irvin and Stansbury 2004; Rowe
and Frewer 2000; Steiner 2012), as well as works on ‘expert bodies’
and other policy advice arrangements, which are usually rooted within
public administration and science studies (see, e.g., Brown 2009; Haas
2004; Jasanoff 1990, 2005b; Krick and Holst 2019; Lentsch and Wein-
gart 2011a; Veit et al. 2017). These bodies of work will be built on and
interconnected.
1 Introduction 15
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1 Abbreviated generic forms are also sometimes used as alternatives (such as ‘advisory body’ or
‘consultation arena’).
2 The term ‘minipublic’ these days often pertains quite specifically to randomly selected public
deliberation fora, such as ‘consensus conferences’, ‘citizen juries’ or ‘planning cells’ in research
(see Brown 2009, p. 251; Steiner 2012, p. 33), and this book follows this understanding. Yet,
some authors also use the term in a more general sense for participatory settings that target
the ‘the public’, and include town hall meetings and online debate fora that allow open access
into the definition (see, e.g., Fung 2003, p. 338f.).
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“Well, I’m glad you do. Go ahead and do your whitewashing.
Whitewash isn’t like paint, it comes off easy.”
From behind the closed door of the library a sharp voice called:
“Cap’n Townsend! Cap’n Townsend! Supper’s ready!”
Varunas started. “I must be goin’,” he whispered. “Don’t tell her about
it, Cap’n Foster, will ye. She’ll pester me to death to find out what’s
up and if I don’t tell her, she— But say!” he added admiringly, “that is
about as slick a trick as ever I heard of, that whitewashin’ is. How did
you ever come to think that up all by yourself?”
Foster Townsend, his hand on the knob of the dining room door,
grunted.
“I didn’t think it up all by myself,” he said, curtly. “There’s nothing new
about it. It’s an old trick, as old as horse racing. I remembered it,
that’s all, and I guess it is good enough to fool any of Sam Baker’s
gang. You can tell me to-morrow how it worked.”
He opened the door, crossed the library and sat down in his chair at
the lonely supper table. Nabby Gifford brought in the eatables and
set them before him.
“I made you a fish chowder to-night, Cap’n Foster,” she said. “I know
you always liked it and we ain’t had one for a long time. Ezra
Nickerson had some real nice tautog that his boy had just caught out
by the spar buoy and there’s no kind of fish makes as good chowder
as a tautog. Now I do hope you’ll eat some of it. You ain’t ate enough
the last week to keep a canary bird goin’. You’ll be sick fust thing you
know.”
Townsend dipped his spoon in the chowder and tasted approvingly.
“Good enough!” he declared. “Tastes like old times. Seems like old
times to have you waiting on table, too, Nabby. Mother always liked
your fish chowders.”
Mrs. Gifford nodded. “I know she did,” she agreed. “Time and time
again I’ve heard her say there was nobody could make a chowder
like me. Um-hum. Oh, well! We’re here to-day and to-morrow the
place thereof don’t know us, as it says in the Bible. Ah, hum-a-day!...
Speakin’ of waitin’ on table,” she added, noting the expression on his
face, “I wanted to talk to you about that, Cap’n Townsend. There ain’t
any reasons why I shouldn’t do it all the time. You don’t need two
hired help in that kitchen now any more than a codfish needs wings.
Ellen, she and that Georgie D. of hers will be gettin’ married pretty
soon—leastways all hands says they will—and when she quits you
mustn’t hire anybody in her place. If I can’t get meals for one lone
man then I’d better be sent to the old woman’s home. You might just
as well let me do it, and save your money—not that you need to
save any more, land knows!”
Foster Townsend shook his head. “A pretty big house for one pair of
hands to take care of,” he observed. “When Ellen goes—or if she
goes—you better hire some one else, Nabby.”
“Now, Cap’n Foster, what’s the use? What for?”
“Because I want you to, for one reason.... There, there, Nabby! don’t
argue about it. I know what I’m doing. At any rate I guess I can
spend my own money, if I want to.”
“I guess you can. I don’t know who’s liable to stop you doin’ anything
you want to, far’s that goes. Nobody has done it yet, though there’s a
good many tried.... But while I’m talkin’ I might just as well talk a little
mite more. I don’t see why you keep on livin’ in this great ark of a
place. ’Tain’t a bit of my business, but if I was you I’d sell—or rent it,
or somethin’—and have a little house that I wouldn’t get lost in every
time I went upstairs.”
Her employer shook his head. “This is my house and I stay in it,” he
said, crisply.
“Well, if you will you will, of course. When you bark at a body that
way there ain’t a mite of use barkin’ back, I know that. And I realize
that you and—and her that’s gone had the best time in the world
buildin’ over this house and riggin’ it up. It’s just that I know how
lonesome you are—a blind person could see that.... Here, here! You
mustn’t get up from that table yet, Cap’n Foster. You’ve got to have
some more of my tautog chowder.”
“No. Had enough, Nabby.”
“My soul! Well, then you must have a helpin’ of baked indian puddin’.
I made it ’special, because I knew how you liked it. Don’t tell me you
won’t touch that puddin’!”
“All right, all right. Bring it along. And I’ll have another cup of tea, if
you’ve got it.”
“Got it! I’ve got a gallon. That Varunas man of mine would drink a
hogshead of strong tea all to himself any time if I’d let him. I tell him
no wonder he’s all shriveled up like a wet leather apron.”
She disappeared into the kitchen to return, a moment later, with the
refilled cup. She was talking when she went out and talking when
she came back.
“You hadn’t ought to keep on livin’ in this house all alone,” she
declared, with emphasis. “I said it afore and now I say it again. It ain’t
natural to live that way. It ain’t good for man to be alone, that’s what
the Good Book says. Land sakes! afore I’d do that I’d—I’d do the
way the rich man in the—what-d’ye-call-it—parallel done. I’d go out
into the highways and byways and fetch in the lame and the halt and
the blind. Yes, indeed I would! I’d do it for company and I wouldn’t
care how halt they was, neither; they’d be better’n nobody. Speakin’
about that parallel,” she added, reflectively. “I’ve never been real
sure just what ailed a person when he was a ‘halt.’ A horse—mercy
knows I hear horse talk enough from Varunas!—has somethin’
sometimes that’s called the ‘spring halt,’ but that, so he tells me, is a
kind of lameness. Now the parallel tells about the lame and the halt,
so— Good gracious! Why, you ain’t through, be you, Cap’n Foster?
You ain’t hardly touched your puddin’.”
The captain had risen and pushed back his chair. “I’ve eaten all I can
to-night, Nabby,” he said. “My appetite seems to have gone on a
voyage these days and left me ashore.... Humph! So you think I’d
better have somebody come and live here with me, do you? That’s
funny.”
“Why is it funny? Sounds like sense to me.”
“It’s funny because I had just about made up my mind— Oh, well,
never mind that, I’m going out pretty soon. If any one comes to see
me you can tell them I’ve gone.”
“Where shall I say you’ve gone?”
“If you don’t know you won’t have to say it.... Good-night.”
“Shall I tell Varunas to have the carriage and team ready for you?”
“No, I’m going to walk.”
“Walk! What’ll people think if they see you out a-walkin’ on your own
feet like—like common folks? The idea!”
“Good-night. One thing more: If the minister comes tell him I’ll keep
up Bella’s subscription to the church the same as she did when she
was here—that is, for the present, anyhow. If he says anything about
my giving money toward the new steeple tell him I haven’t made up
my mind whether or not the steeple is going to be rebuilt. When I do
I’ll let him know.... That’s all, I guess.”
He went into the library, drawing the curtains with his own hands this
time. He glanced at the ornate marble and gold clock upon the
mantel, decided that it was too early for his contemplated walk, and
sank heavily into the leather chair. He picked up the paper from the
floor, adjusted his spectacles and attempted to read. The attempt
was a failure. Nothing in the closely printed pages aroused his
interest sufficiently to distract his thoughts from the empty rocker at
the other side of the table. He tossed the paper upon the floor again
and sat there, pulling at his beard and glancing impatiently at the
clock. Its gold plated hands crept from seven to seven-thirty and, at
last, to ten minutes to eight. Then he rose and moved toward the
front hall.
In that hall he took from the carved walnut hatstand a long ulster and
a black soft hat. He had donned the ulster and was about to put on
the hat when he heard Mrs. Gifford’s step in the library. She was
calling his name.
“Well, here I am,” he answered, impatiently. “Now what?”
Nabby was out of breath, and this, together with the consciousness
of the importance of her errand, did not help her toward coherence.
“I—I’m awful sorry to stop you, Cap’n Foster,” she panted, “and—and
of course I know you didn’t want to see nobody to-night. But—but he
said ’twas serious and he’d come all the way from Trumet a-purpose
—and it’s rainin’ like all fire, too—and bein’ as ’twas him, I—well, you
see, I just didn’t know’s I’d ought to say no—so—”
Townsend interrupted. “Who is it?” he demanded.
Nabby’s tone was awe-stricken. “It’s Honorable Mooney,” she
whispered. “Representive Mooney, that’s who ’tis. He’s drove all the
way from Trumet, rain and all, to see you, Cap’n Foster, and he says
it’s dreadful important. If it had been any one else I wouldn’t have let
him in, but honest, when I see him standin’ on the steps to the side
door, lookin’ just as big and—and noble as he done when Varunas
took me to that Republican rally and he made such a grand speech, I
—well, I—”
Again her employer broke in.
“You have let him in, I take it,” he said, curtly. “And of course you told
him I was in.... Well, I’ll give him five minutes. Send him into the
sitting-room.”
The Honorable Alpheus Mooney was a young man serving his first
term in the Massachusetts Legislature as Representative for the
Ostable County district. He was extremely anxious to continue his
service there, had been renominated and was now facing the ordeal
of the election which would take place early in November. His
manner as he entered the library was a curious mixture of
importance, deference and a slight uneasiness.
“How do you do, Cap’n Townsend?” he gushed, changing his hat
from his right hand to his left and extending the former. “How do you
do, sir?”
He seized the Townsend hand and shook it heartily. The captain
endured the shaking rather than shared in it. He did not ask his caller
to be seated.
“How are you, Mooney?” he said. “Well, what brought you over here
this wet night?”
Mr. Mooney sat without waiting for an invitation. He placed his hat
upon the floor, clasped his hands in his lap, unclasped them again,
crossed his knees, cleared his throat, and agreed that the evening
was a wet one. Townsend, still standing, thrust his own hands into
his trousers pockets.
“Well, what’s the matter?” he asked, dismissing the subject of the
weather.
Mooney once more cleared his throat. “Oh—er—oh, nothing in
particular, Cap’n,” he said. “Nothing much. I was over here in Harniss
and—and I thought I would drop in for a minute, that’s all. I haven’t
seen you since your—er—sad loss—and I—er—I can’t tell you how
sorry I was to learn of your bereavement. It was a great shock to me,
a dreadful shock.”
Townsend’s face was quite expressionless. “All right,” he observed.
“Nabby said you wanted to see me about something important.
Well?”
“Well—well, I—er—I did. Not so very important, perhaps—but ... you
were going out, weren’t you, Cap’n Townsend?”
“Yes. I am going out in five minutes. Perhaps a little less.”
“I wouldn’t think of keeping you, Cap’n, of course not.”
“All right.”
“Cap’n Townsend, I—er—well, I am going to be—I am going to
speak right out, as man to man. I know you would rather have me
speak that way.”
Townsend nodded. “There aren’t any women here, as I know of,” he
agreed. “Go ahead and speak.”
“Yes.” Mr. Mooney seemed to find the “man to man” speaking
difficult. “Well,” he began, “it has come to my ears—far be it from me
to say it is true; I don’t believe it is, Cap’n Townsend—but I have
heard that you weren’t so very—well, anxious to see me reëlected
Representative. I have heard stories that you said you didn’t care
whether they reëlected me or not. Now, as I say, I don’t believe you
ever said anything of the kind. In fact, I as good as know you didn’t.”
He paused and looked up eagerly, seeking confirmation of the
expressed disbelief. The Townsend face was still quite
expressionless, nor was the reply altogether satisfactory.
“All right,” said the captain again. “If you know it, then you don’t need
to worry, do you?”
“No. No-o; but—you haven’t said any such thing, have you, Cap’n
Townsend?”
Townsend did not answer the question. He regarded his visitor with a
disquieting lack of interest.
“I was given to understand that you said you were as good as
reëlected already,” he observed. “If you said that, and believe it, then
what I said or what anybody else said isn’t worth fretting about, let
alone cruising twelve miles in a rainstorm to find out about.”
“Well, but, Cap’n Townsend—”
“Heave to a minute. See here, Mooney, you’ve got the Republican
nomination.”
“Yes. Of course I have, but—”
“Wait. And there hasn’t been a Democratic Representative from this
district at the state house since the sixties, has there?”
“No, but—”
“All right. Then you don’t need to talk to me. If you’re a Republican,
ready to vote every time with your party and for the district, you are
safe enough. Especially,” with a slight twitch of the lip, “when you say
yourself you’re as good as reëlected.”
This, perhaps, should have been reassuring, but apparently it was
not. The Honorable Mr. Mooney shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he admitted. “That’s all right, so far as it goes....
But, Cap’n Townsend, I—well, I know you aren’t as—well, as strong
for me as you were when I ran before. You thought, I suppose—like
a good many other folks who didn’t know—that I ought to have voted
for that cranberry bill. You, nor they, didn’t understand about that bill.
That bill—well, it read all right enough, but—well, there was more to
it than just reading. There were influences behind that bill that I didn’t
like, that’s all. No honest man could like them.”
“Um-hum. I see. Well, what was it that honest men like you didn’t like
about that bill? I was one of those ‘influences,’ behind it, I guess. It
protected the cranberry growers of the Cape, didn’t it? Looked out
for their interests pretty well? I thought it did, and I read it before you
ever saw it.”
“Yes. Yes, it protected them all right. But there are other sections
than the Cape, Cap’n Townsend. They’re beginning to raise
cranberries up around Plymouth and—and—”
“I know. And there are influences up there, too. Well, what has that
cranberry bill got to do with you? You didn’t vote against it. Of course
you told me and a few others, before you were elected the first time,
that you would vote for it, but you didn’t do that, either. You weren’t in
the House when that bill came up to a vote. You’d gone fishing, I
understand.”
Mr. Mooney was indignant. “No such thing;” he declared, springing to
his feet. “I hadn’t gone fishing. I was sick. That’s what I was—sick.”
“Yes?” dryly. “Well, some of the rest of us were sick when we heard
about it. Never mind that. The bill was defeated. Of course,” he
added, after a momentary interval, “it may come up again this
session and Jim Needham, the Democratic candidate, says he shall
vote for it, provided he’s elected. But you say you’re going to be
elected, so what he may or may not do won’t make any difference....
There! my five minutes are up, and more than up. I’ve got to go.
Honest men are scarce in politics, Mooney. Maybe all hands around
here will remember that on election day and forget their cranberry
swamps. Maybe they will. Sorry I’ve got to hurry. Good-night.”
He was on his way to the hall door, but his visitor hurried after him
and caught his arm.
“Hold on, Cap’n Townsend,” he begged. “Hold on just a minute. I—I
came here to tell you that—that I’d changed my mind about that bill. I
—I’m going to vote for it. Yes, and I am going to work for it, too.”
“Oh!... Well, speaking as one of those ‘influences’ you were talking
about, I’m glad to hear you say so, of course. But you said so before.
What makes you change your mind this time—change it back again,
I mean? Has that honesty of yours had a relapse?”
The Honorable Mooney ignored the sarcasm. He had journeyed from
Trumet in the rain to say one thing in particular and now he said it.
“Cap’n Townsend,” he pleaded desperately, “you aren’t going to use
your influence against me, are you? There’s no use beating around
the bush. Everybody that knows anything knows that a word from
you will change more votes than anybody else’s in the county. If you
say you’re going to vote for Needham—well, this is a four to one
Republican district, but I guess you can lick me if you want to. You
won’t do that, will you? I’m going to work hard to get that cranberry
bill through the House; honest, I am. I was a fool last session. I
realize it now. If that bill can be shoved through I’ll help do it. That’s
the honest God’s truth.”
Foster Townsend regarded him in silence. Mooney’s eyes met the
grim intentness of the gaze for a moment, then faltered and fell. The
Townsend lip twitched.
“You’re goin’ to make a speech here in Harniss sometime this week,
aren’t you?” the captain asked.
“Yes. Next week, Tuesday night, at the town hall.”
“Um-hum. Going to say anything about that cranberry bill?”
“Yes, yes, I am. I am going to come out for it hard. I am going to tell
everybody that I was wrong about it, that I’ve seen my mistake and
they can count on me as being strong for it. That’s what I am going
to tell them.... Say,” he added, eagerly, “I’ve got my speech all written
out. It’s in my pocket now. Don’t you want to read it, Cap’n? I brought
it hoping you would.”
Townsend shook his head.
“I can wait until Tuesday, I guess,” he replied. “I was planning to go
to the rally. I’ll be there, along with some more of the dishonest
influences. They will all want to hear you.”
“And you won’t work against me, Cap’n Townsend? I can’t tell you
how sorry I am about—about this whole business.”
“Never mind. You can tell it all at the rally. It ought to be interesting to
hear and, if it is interesting enough, it may bring some votes into port
that have been hanging in the wind. I can’t say for sure, but it may....
There! I can’t spare any more time just now.... Nabby!” raising his
voice. “Nabby!”
Mrs. Gifford appeared between the curtains. Her employer waved a
hand toward his visitor.
“Nabby,” he said, “just see that Mr. Mooney finds his way out to his
buggy, will you.... Good-night, Mooney.”
The honorable representative of an ungrateful constituency, thus
unceremoniously dismissed, followed Mrs. Gifford to the dining room
and from there to the side entrance to the mansion. Foster
Townsend watched him go. Then he shrugged, sniffed disgustedly,
and, pulling the soft hat down upon his forehead, strode through the
hall, stopped to take an umbrella from the rack, and stepped out
through the front door into the rainy blackness of the night.
The few who met and recognized him as he tramped the muddy
sidewalks bowed reverentially and then stopped to stare. For
Captain Foster Townsend, greatest among Ostable County’s great
men, to be walking on an evening such as this—walking, instead of
riding in state behind his span of blacks—was an unheard-of
departure from the ordinary. Why was he doing it? Where was he
bound? What important happenings hung upon his footsteps?
They could not guess, nor could their wives or sons and daughters
when the story was told them. They were right, however, when they
surmised that the magnate’s errand must be freighted with
importance. It was—vastly important to him and no less so to the
members of another household in the village of Harniss.
CHAPTER II
IN the Harniss post office Reliance Clark was sorting the evening
mail. The post office was a small building on the Main Road. It sat
back fifteen or twenty feet from that road and a white picket fence
separated the Clark property from the strip of sidewalk before it. A
boardwalk, some of its boards in the last stages of bearability, led
from the gap in that fence to the door. Over the door a sign, black
letters on a white ground, displayed the words “POST OFFICE.” On
the inner side of that door was a room of perhaps fifteen by ten feet,
lighted in the daytime by two windows and at night by three kerosene
lamps in brackets. There was a settee at either end of the room, a
stove in the middle, and a wooden box filled with beach sand beside
the stove. The plastered walls were covered with handbills and
printed placards. The advertisement of the most recent
entertainment at the town hall, that furnished by “Professor Megenti,
the World Famous Ventriloquist and Necromancer,” was prominently
displayed, partially obscuring the broadside of “The Spalding Bell
Ringers” who had visited Harniss two weeks earlier. Beneath these
were other announcements still more passé, dating back even as far
as the red, white and blue placards of the Centennial Exhibition in
Philadelphia in ’76. The room was crowded with men and boys,
dressed as befitted the weather, and the atmosphere was thick with
tobacco smoke and the smells of wet clothing, fishy oilskins and
damp humanity.
Across the side of the room opposite the door was a wooden
partition, divided by another door into two sections. On the left was a
glass showcase displaying boxes of stick candy, spools of thread,
papers of pins and needles, and various oddments of the sort known
as “Notions.” Behind the showcase was standing room for the
person who waited upon purchasers of these; behind this a blank
wall.
At the right of the door, and extending from floor to ceiling, was a
wooden frame of letter boxes with a sliding, ground-glass window in
the center. This window was closed while the mail was in process of
sorting and opened when it was ready for distribution. In the
apartment on the inner side of the letter boxes and window, an
apartment little bigger than a good-sized closet, Reliance Clark,
postmistress of the village of Harniss, was busy, and Millard Fillmore
Clark, her half-brother, was making his usual pretense of being so.
Reliance was plump, quick-moving, sharp-eyed. Her hair had
scarcely a trace of gray, although she was nearly fifty. The emptied
leather mail bag was on the floor by her feet, packages of first and
second class mail matter lay upon the pine counter before her and
her fingers flew as she shot each letter or postal into the box rented
by the person whose name she read.
Millard Fillmore Clark was older by five years. He was short, thin and
inclined to be round-shouldered. He was supposed to be sorting
also, but his fingers did not fly. They lingered over each envelope or
post card they touched. Certain of the envelopes he held, after a
precautionary glance at his half-sister, between his eyes and the
hanging lamp, and the postal cards he invariably read.
“Humph! Sho!” he muttered aloud, after one such reading. Reliance
heard him and turned.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s the matter now?”
Millard, who had spoken without being aware of it, looked guilty.
“Why, nothin’ special,” he answered, hurriedly. “I just— Humph!
Seems that Peter Eldridge’s wife’s nephew has had another baby.
That’s news, ain’t it!”
Reliance sniffed.
“Yes, I should say it was,” she observed, dryly, “if it was the way you
put it. His wife’s niece, you mean, I suppose.”
“Well, it’s his wife’s nephew’s wife. That’s the same thing, ain’t it.
He’s the one that married the girl from up to Middleboro. Simpson—
or Simpkins—seems to me her name was, as I recollect. She—”
“Mil Clark, you put that postal in the box where it belongs. This mail
is late enough already and I don’t want to stay out here in this office
all night. If you would only mind your own business as well as you do
everybody else’s you’d be the smartest man in this town, which—”
She did not finish the sentence. Mr. Clark regarded her suspiciously.
“Well, which what?” he demanded, after a momentary pause. “Which
what? What was you goin’ to say?”
“Nothin’ in particular. Go to work and stop talkin’.”
“I know what you was goin’ to say. You’ve said it too many times
afore. I’m gettin’ sick of havin’ it hove up to me, too. Just about sick
of it, I am. A man can stand about so much and then he gets
desperate. He don’t care what he does to himself. Some of these
days you’ll be surprised, Reliance Clark—you and Esther and all the
rest of ’em.”
His sister did not seem greatly alarmed.
“Um-hum,” she sniffed. “Well, just now you can surprise me by doin’
your share of this mail sortin’.... Oh, my soul and body!” she added,
snatching the postal from his hand. “Either go to work or get out of
my way, one or the other. Go out in the back room and sit down. You
can sit down as well as anybody I ever saw.”
Millard Fillmore did not accept the suggestion. With the expression of
a martyr he proceeded to cut the twine binding the bundles of papers
and second class matter, muttering to himself and shaking his head
as he did so. The contents of the bundles followed the letters and
postals into the boxes. At last Reliance heaved a sigh of relief.
“There!” she exclaimed. “That’s done. Open the window.”
Mr. Clark slid back the ground-glass window. An eager crowd was
standing at the other side of the partition. Millard faced his fellow-
citizens with an air of importance. This was the part of the post-office
routine which he liked.
“All right!” he announced, briskly. “Now then! Cap’n Snow’s first. Yes,
sir! here you are. Quite a bunch of mail you’ve got this evenin’. All
right, Hamilton, you’re next ... just a minute, Mr. Doane; I’ll attend to
you in a jiffy.... Now, now, you boy! you hold on; you take your turn.
No use shovin’, you won’t get it any sooner. This business has to be
done systematic.”
The group before the window thinned as its members received their
shares of the mail matter. Some departed immediately, others
lingered to open envelopes or for a final chat. Suddenly there was a
stir and a turning of heads toward the door. Some one had entered,
some one of importance. There was a buzz of respectful greeting.
“Why, good evening, Cap’n Townsend!”... “How d’ye do, Cap’n?”...
“Kind of bad night to be out in, ain’t it? Yes, ’tis.”
The salutations in general were of this kind. There were a few, and
these from persons of consequence, which were more familiar.
Judge Wixon said “Good evening, Foster,” and paused to shake
hands, but even he was not in the least flippant. The Reverend Mr.
Colton, minister of the old First Church, was most cordial, even
anxiously so. “I stopped at your door, Captain Townsend,” he began,
“but Mrs. Gifford told me—I gathered from what she said—”
The great man broke in. “Yes, all right, Colton,” he said. “I’ll see you
pretty soon. I haven’t made up my mind yet. To-morrow or next day,
maybe. Hello, Ben! Evening, Paine.”
He moved forward to the window, those before him making way for
his passing. Millard Fillmore Clark’s bow was a picture, his urbanity a
marvel. He brushed aside a lad who was clamoring for the copy of
the Cape Cod Item in the family box and addressed the
distinguished patron of the postal service.
“Good evenin’, Cap’n Townsend,” he gushed, “Yes, sir! I’ve got your
mail all ready for you. It’s such a mean night I didn’t hardly expect
you’d come for it yourself, but I had it all laid out cal’latin’ if Vaninas
showed up, I’d—Eh? Oh, yes, here ’tis! There’s consider’ble of it,
same as there generally is. Yes, indeed!”
Foster Townsend paid no attention to the flow of language. He took
the packet of letters and papers and thrust it into the pocket of his
ulster, and, pushing the speaker unceremoniously out of the way,
leaned through the window and addressed the postmistress.
“Reliance,” he said.
Miss Clark, already tidying up the little room preparatory to closing
for the night, looked over her shoulder.
“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”
“Come here a minute. I want to speak to you.”
Reliance finished brushing the counter before she complied. Then,
pushing her half-brother a little farther from the window, she stepped
to the place he had occupied. Millard accepted the push with as
much dignity as was possible under the circumstances. It was no
novelty; he was pushed out of some one’s way at least a dozen
times a day.
“Well?” queried Reliance, briskly. Her tone in addressing Ostable
County’s first citizen was precisely that which she used when
addressing others less consequential. Of the two, it was Foster
Townsend who seemed embarrassed, and embarrassment was not
usual with him.
“Is—is that niece of yours in the house?” he asked.
For just an instant Reliance hesitated. She was regarding him
intently.
“I suppose likely she is,” she said. “Why?”
“Hasn’t gone to bed, has she?”
“She usually sits up till I come in.”
“Um.... How much longer will you be out here in the office?”
“I expect to lock up at nine, same as I usually do.”
“I see. Going into the house then, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am. I don’t expect to go out walkin’ in a pourin’ down
rainstorm like this one.”
Townsend’s embarrassment seemed to increase. He pulled at his
beard.
“Well,” he said, “I—I want to have a talk with the girl and—er——”
Again he paused. Reliance, her gaze fixed upon his face, broke in.
“What’s that?” she asked, sharply. “Do you mean to say you want to
talk with her—with Esther?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve got something to say to her, something rather
important. I want you to be there when I say it. I’ll wait and go into
the house with you when you’re ready. That is, if it’s all right.”
Another momentary pause. Then Miss Clark nodded.
“No reason why it shouldn’t be all right,” she said. “You better come
into the shop and wait.... Be still, Millard! Here, you let Cap’n
Townsend through into the shop and light the lamp there. Yes, and
when you’ve done it you come straight back and help me sweep up.
Bring the broom with you. Hurry now!”
Mr. Clark, whose eager ears had been strained to catch this
conversation, hastened to unlock the door between the post-office
waiting-room and the official quarters. He ushered the visitor into the
large apartment at the rear of the building—or would have done so if
the said visitor had not pushed him aside and gone in first. About this
room were stands displaying finished hats and bonnets. Others, but
partially finished, lay about upon tables and chairs. In the room also
were two sewing-machines, workbaskets, scraps of ribbons and
cloth, spools of thread, and the general disorder of the workroom of
a millinery shop. Reliance Clark was the town milliner as well as its
postmistress. “I and Esther and Mil have to live on somethin’,”
Reliance had more than once told Abbie Makepeace, the middle-
aged spinster who was her partner in the millinery business, “and
what Uncle Sam pays me for sortin’ letters is nothin’, or next door to
it.”
Millard Fillmore, agog with excitement, pulled forward a chair,
carefully wiping its seat with a soiled handkerchief, and Foster
Townsend sat down. Mr. Clark cleared his throat and offered
apologies.
“We don’t usually look so—so sort of messed up out here, Cap’n
Foster,” he explained; “but the mail’s been so extry heavy lately—
election day comin’ and all—that we ain’t neither of us had hardly a
minute to spare.... It ain’t any of my business, Cap’n,” he added,
lowering his voice, “but did I understand you to say you’d come here
to-night to see—to see—Esther? I wasn’t quite sure as I heard it
straight, but—”
From the adjoining room his sister’s voice issued an order. “Bring
that broom,” she commanded.
Mr. Clark hesitated.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Cap’n Foster,” he explained.
“You see, there’s a little too much work for Reliance to handle, and
she—yes, yes, I’m comin’, Reliance. Heavens and earth! can’t you
wait a minute?”
He took the broom from the corner and joined his sister. Foster
Townsend, left alone, crossed his knees and leaned back in the
chair.
At eight fifty-nine Miss Clark extinguished the bracket lamps in the
waiting-room and locked the front door. A half minute later she
appeared in the workshop, threw a black cloth waterproof over her
shoulders and turned to her caller.
“All ready,” she announced. “Millard, put out that light.”
The trio emerged from the side entrance of the building just as the
clock presented to the First Church by the late Arabella Townsend
struck the hour. It was still raining heavily. They followed a path
across a small yard and stood beneath a latticed portico covered
with honeysuckle, the dry tendrils of the latter rattling as the rain fell
upon them. Reliance opened the door beneath the lattice and they
stepped into a tiny sitting-room. By a table, with a paper-shaded
lamp upon it, a girl of seventeen was sitting, reading a public library
book. She turned as Miss Clark and her brother entered, but when
the bulky figure of Foster Townsend came through the doorway she
rose, an expression of astonishment upon her pretty face. She was
Esther Townsend, daughter of Freeling Townsend, Foster
Townsend’s much younger brother, and Eunice, his wife. Freeling
Townsend died in eighteen sixty-nine. Eunice, Millard Clark’s own
sister and half-sister to Reliance, died five years later. Esther had
lived with the Clarks ever since. And during that time not once, until
this evening, had her father’s brother come to that house. She stood
and gazed, but she did not speak.
Characteristically it was Millard Fillmore who broke the silence and,
just as characteristically, it was Reliance who interrupted him.
“Esther,” began Mr. Clark, with bustling importance, “don’t you see
you’ve got a caller? Can’t you say good evenin’? Take off your
things, Cap’n Foster. Here! let me help you with your coat. Esther,
can’t you see he’s holdin’ his umbrella? Don’t stand there gawpin’.
Get—”
And here Reliance broke in. “Millard,” she ordered, “be still! Yes,
you’d better take off your coat, Foster; that is, if you’re goin’ to stay
any time. It’s warm in here. Esther usually has this house hot enough
to roast a Sunday dinner. Esther, get him a chair.”
The girl brought forward the rocker she had been sitting in.
Townsend pulled off his ulster and handed it and his hat and
umbrella to Mr. Clark who was obsequiously waiting to receive them.
He lowered himself into the rocker. Then he turned to the others.
“You better sit down, all of you,” he said. “What I’ve got to say may
take a little time. Sit down, Reliance. Sit down, Esther.”
Mr. Clark’s name was not included in the invitation, but he was the
first to sit. Esther took a chair at the other side of the table. Reliance
was shaking out her waterproof.
“Sit down, Reliance,” repeated Townsend. Miss Clark’s reply was
promptly given.
“I intend to, soon as I’m ready,” she declared, with some tartness.
The caller looked up at her. “Reliance,” he observed, with a grim
smile, “you don’t change much. When you were a girl I remember
you used to say ‘Black’ whenever anybody else said ‘White.’ Well,
independence is a good thing, if you can afford it.”
Reliance, having arranged the waterproof to her satisfaction, hung it
on a hook by the door. She drew forward a chair from the wall.
“I’ve managed to scratch along on it so far,” she announced, placing
herself in the chair. “Well, what is it you’ve come to this house for,
after all these years, Foster Townsend?”
Townsend was looking at his niece, not at her. And it was the niece
whom he addressed.
“Esther,” he said, after a moment, “how long has it been since your
father died?”
The girl met his keen gaze for an instant, then looked down at the
book upon the table.
“Ten years,” she said. Her tone was not too cordial. This rich uncle of
hers had been a sort of bugbear in her family. Her father never
mentioned his name while he lived and, although her mother had
mentioned it often enough, it was only to call its owner a selfish,
proud, wicked, stubborn man. When their daughter and Foster
Townsend met on the street he sometimes acknowledged the
meeting with a nod and sometimes not. His wife had been quite
different; she always sent the girl presents at Christmas and was
kindly gracious. Esther would have liked her, or would have liked to
like her. And she envied her, of course; every female in Harniss did
that. She envied Foster Townsend, too, but she was far from liking
him.
He repeated her words. “Ten years, eh?” he observed, meditatively.
“Humph! is it possible! It doesn’t seem so long—yet, of course it is.
And the last time I was in this house was at his funeral. No wonder
you’re surprised to see me here now. I’m surprised, myself, to be
here.... You’re surprised, too, aren’t you, Reliance?”
Millard hastened to declare that he was, but was awful glad, of
course. His sister’s reply was a surprise in itself.
“I don’t know that I am, altogether,” she said. “I’ve been rather
expectin’ you, if you want to know.”
Townsend swung about in the rocker. “You have!” he exclaimed,
sharply. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean what I say. I don’t know what you’ve come for, but I might
guess, maybe. Most of us have got a conscience somewheres on
the premises, even if some of us have kept it packed away up-attic
so long we’ve pretty nigh forgot it.”
The captain regarded her with what appeared to be sincere, if
somewhat grudging, admiration. “You’re a smart woman, Reliance
Clark,” he declared. “Yes, you are! If Freeling had had sense enough
to pick you out instead of— Well, well! there’s no use wasting breath
about that.... You say you’ve guessed what I’ve come here for. If you
have perhaps Esther hasn’t. I’m going to make her a proposition. I
don’t expect her to answer it, one way or the other, to-night. I want to
make it; then I want her and you, Reliance, to think it over and talk it
over between you. When you’ve done that you can say yes or no.
Esther,” turning to the girl once more, “how would you like to come
up to my house and live with me?”
The question, thus bluntly put, had a varied effect upon his listeners.
Millard Clark’s eyes and mouth opened and he gasped audibly. His
half-sister nodded two or three times, as if with satisfaction at finding
her suspicions confirmed. Esther gazed at the speaker in mute
bewilderment. Townsend looked from one to the other and smiled.
“So you had guessed right, had you, Reliance,” he observed. “Well,
whether you had or not, there it is. I am lonesome in that big house
of mine, lonesome as the devil. I don’t suppose I’m what you’d call a
sentimental man; I try to use my common sense and face what can’t
be helped in a sensible way, but since Mother died I’m lonesome.
For the last week I’ve been making up my mind what to do. I might
travel, I suppose, but when I went to sea I cruised a whole lot and
there wouldn’t be much that was new to look at and no satisfaction in
looking at it alone. And I’d rather stay at home, anyhow. This is my
town. I helped to make it grow and I’m more interested in it, and the
folks in and around it, than I am in anything else. I might move out of
my house to a smaller one, but I won’t. Mother and I built that house
together. She thought the world of it and so do I. She lived in it till
she died and that’s what I want to do. But I’d rather not live in it by
myself. I want somebody to talk to and to talk to me, and I’d rather
have a Townsend than anybody else. So I thought of Esther. If she