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Lucy Maud Montgomery
Short Stories - 1896 to 1901
Lucy Maud Montgomery
=
Short
Stories 1896 to 1901
A Case of Trespass. <= o:p>
A Christmas Inspiration<= o:p>
A Christmas Mistake. <= o:p>
A Strayed Allegiance. <= o:p>
An Invitation Given on Impulse<= o:p>
Detected by the Camera<= o:p>
In Spite of Myself <= o:p>
Kismet. <= o:p>
Lilian's Business Venture<= o:p>
Miriam's Lover. <= o:p>
Miss Calista's Peppermint Bottle<= o:p>
The <= span style=3D'font-family:"Bookman Old Style"'>Jest That Failed<= o:p>
The Penningtons' Girl <= o:p>
The Red Room... <= o:p>
The Setness of Theodosia<= o:p>
The Story of an Invitation<= o:p>
The Touch of Fate. <= o:p>
The Waking of Helen.. <= o:p>
The Way of the Winning of Anne<= o:p>
Young SI<= o:p>
It was the forenoon of a hazy, breathless day, and Dan Phillips was<= o:p>
trouting up one of the back creeks of the Carleton pond. It was
somewhat cooler up the creek than out on the main body of water, for=
the tall birches and willows, crowding down to the brim, threw cool,=
green shadows across it and shut out the scorching glare, while a
stray breeze now and then rippled down the wooded slopes, rustling t=
he
beech leaves with an airy, pleasant sound.
Out in the pond the glassy water creamed and shimmered in the hot su=
n,
unrippled by the faintest breath of air. Across the soft, pearly tin=
ts
of the horizon blurred the smoke of the big factory chimneys that we=
re
owned by Mr. Walters, to whom the pond and adjacent property also
belonged.
Mr. Walters was a comparative stranger in Carleton, having but
recently purchased the factories from the heirs of the previous owne=
r;
but he had been in charge long enough to establish a reputation for<= o:p>
sternness and inflexibility in all his business dealings.
One or two of his employees, who had been discharged by him on what<= o:p>
they deemed insufficient grounds, helped to deepen the impression th=
at
he was an unjust and arbitrary man, merciless to all offenders, and<= o:p>
intolerant of the slightest infringement of his cast-iron rules.
Dan Phillips had been on the pond ever since sunrise. The trout had<= o:p>
risen well in the early morning, but as the day wore on, growing
hotter and hotter, they refused to bite, and for half an hour Dan ha=
d
not caught one.
He had a goodly string of them already, however, and he surveyed the=
m
with satisfaction as he rowed his leaky little skiff to the shore of=
the creek.
"Pretty good catch," he soliloquized. "Best I've had =
this
summer, so
far. That big spotted one must weigh near a pound. He's a beauty.
They're a good price over at the hotels now, too. I'll go home and
get my dinner and go straight over with them. That'll leave me time<= o:p>
for another try at them about sunset. Whew, how hot it is! I must ta=
ke
Ella May home a bunch of them blue flags. They're real handsome!&quo=
t;
He tied his skiff under the crowding alders, gathered a big bunch of=
the purple flag lilies with their silky petals, and started homeward=
,
whistling cheerily as he stepped briskly along the fern-carpeted woo=
d
path that wound up the hill under the beeches and firs.
He was a freckled, sunburned lad of thirteen years. His neighbours a=
ll
said that Danny was "as smart as a steel trap," and
immediately added
that they wondered where he got his smartness from--certainly not fr=
om
his father!
The elder Phillips had been denominated "shiftless and
slack-twisted"
by all who ever had any dealings with him in his unlucky, aimless
life--one of those improvident, easygoing souls who sit contentedly<= o:p>
down to breakfast with a very faint idea where their dinner is to co=
me
from.
When he had died, no one had missed him, unless it were his patient,=
sad-eyed wife, who bravely faced her hard lot, and toiled
unremittingly to keep a home for her two children--Dan and a girl tw=
o
years younger, who was a helpless cripple, suffering from some form =
of
spinal disease.
Dan, who was old and steady for his years, had gone manfully to work=
to assist his mother. Though he had been disappointed in all his
efforts to obtain steady employment, he was active and obliging, and=
earned many a small amount by odd jobs around the village, and by
helping the Carleton farmers in planting and harvest.
For the last two years, however, his most profitable source of summe=
r
income had been the trout pond. The former owner had allowed anyone<= o:p>
who wished to fish in his pond, and Dan made a regular business of i=
t,
selling his trout at the big hotels over at
spite of its unattractive name, was a popular summer resort, and Dan=
always found a ready market for his catch.
When Mr. Walters purchased the property it somehow never occurred to=
Dan that the new owner might not be so complaisant as his predecesso=
r
in the matter of the best trouting pond in the country.
To be sure, Dan often wondered why it was the pond was so deserted
this summer. He could not recall having seen a single person on it
save himself. Still, it did not cross his mind that there could be a=
ny
particular reason for this.
He always fished up in the cool, dim creeks, which long experience h=
ad
taught him were best for trout, and came and went by a convenient wo=
od
path; but he had no thought of concealment in so doing. He would not=
have cared had all Carleton seen him.
He had done very well with his fish so far, and prices for trout at<= o:p>
the
favourite with the hotel owners. They knew that he could always be
depended on.
Mrs. Phillips met him at the door when he reached home.
"See, Mother," said Dan exultantly, as he held up his fish.
"Just look
at that fellow, will you? A pound if he's an ounce! I ought to get a=
good price for these, I can tell you. Let me have my dinner now, and=
I'll go right over to the
"It's a long walk for you, Danny," replied his mother
pityingly, "and
it's too hot to go so far. I'm afraid you'll get sun-struck or
something. You'd better wait till the cool of the evening. You're
looking real pale and thin this while back."
"Oh, I'm all right, Mother," assured Dan cheerfully. "=
;I
don't mind the
heat a bit. A fellow must put up with some inconveniences. Wait till=
I
bring home the money for these fish. And I mean to have another catc=
h
tonight. It's you that's looking tired. I wish you didn't have to wo=
rk
so hard, Mother. If I could only get a good place you could take it<= o:p>
easier. Sam French says that Mr. Walters wants a boy up there at the=
factory, but I know I wouldn't do. I ain't big enough. Perhaps
something will turn up soon though. When our ship comes in, Mother,<= o:p>
we'll have our good times."
He picked up his flags and went into the little room where his siste=
r
lay.
"See what I've brought you, Ella May!" he said, as he thru=
st
the cool,
moist clusters into her thin, eager hands. "Did you ever see su=
ch
beauties?"
"Oh, Dan, how lovely they are! Thank you ever so much! If you a=
re
going over to the
Henny's and get those nutmeg geranium slips she promised me? Just lo=
ok
how nice my others are growing. The pink one is going to bloom."=
;
"I'll bring you all the geranium slips at the
I get rich, Ella May, I'll build you a big conservatory, and I'll ge=
t
every flower in the world in it for you. You shall just live and sle=
ep
among posies. Is dinner ready, Mother? Trouting's hungry work, I tel=
l
you. What paper is this?"
He picked up a folded newspaper from the table.
"Oh, that's only an old
she placed the potatoes on the table and wiped her moist, hot face
with the corner of her gingham apron. "Letty Mills brought it i=
n
around a parcel this morning. It's four weeks old, but I kept it to<= o:p>
read if I ever get time. It's so seldom we see a paper of any kind
nowadays. But I haven't looked at it yet. Why, Danny, what on earth =
is
the matter?"
For Dan, who had opened the paper and glanced over the first page,
suddenly gave a choked exclamation and turned pale, staring stupidly=
at the sheet before him.
"See, Mother," he gasped, as she came up in alarm and look=
ed
over his
shoulder. This is what they read:
Notice
Anyone found fishing on =
my
pond at Carleton after date will be
prosecuted according to =
law,
without respect of persons.
June First. H.C. Walters.
"Oh, Danny, what does it mean?"
Dan went and carefully closed the door of Ella May's room before he<= o:p>
replied. His face was pale and his voice shaky.
"Mean? Well, Mother, it just means that I've been stealing Mr.<= o:p>
Walters's trout all summer--_stealing_ them. That's what it means.&q=
uot;
"Oh, Danny! But you didn't know."
"No, but I ought to have remembered that he was the new owner, =
and
have asked him. I never thought. Mother, what does 'prosecuted
according to law' mean?"
"I don't know, I'm sure, Danny. But if this is so, there's only=
one
thing to be done. You must go straight to Mr. Walters and tell him a=
ll
about it."
"Mother, I don't dare to. He is a dreadfully hard man. Sam Fren=
ch's
father says--"
"I wouldn't believe a word Sam French's father says about Mr.
Walters!" said Mrs. Phillips firmly. "He's got a spite aga=
inst
him
because he was dismissed. Besides, Danny, it's the only right thing =
to
do. You know that. We're poor, but we have never done anything
underhand yet."
"Yes, Mother, I know," said Dan, gulping his fear bravely
down. "I'll
go, of course, right after dinner. I was only scared at first. I'll<= o:p>
tell you what I'll do. I'll clean these trout nicely and take them t=
o
Mr. Walters, and tell him that, if he'll only give me time, I'll pay=
him back every cent of money I got for all I sold this summer. Then<= o:p>
maybe he'll let me off, seeing as I didn't know about the notice.&qu=
ot;
"I'll go with you, Danny."
"No, I'll go alone, Mother. You needn't go with me," said =
Dan
heroically. To himself he said that his mother had troubles enough. =
He
would never subject her to the added ordeal of an interview with the=
stern factory owner. He would beard the lion in his den himself, if =
it
had to be done.
"Don't tell Ella May anything about it. It would worry her. And
don't
cry, Mother, I guess it'll be all right. Let me have my dinner now a=
nd
I'll go straight off."
Dan ate his dinner rapidly; then he carefully cleaned his trout, put=
them in a long basket, with rhubarb leaves over them, and started wi=
th
an assumed cheerfulness very far from his real feelings.
He had barely passed the gate when another boy came shuffling along-=
-a
tall, raw-boned lad, with an insinuating smile and shifty, cunning
eyes. The newcomer nodded familiarly to Dan.
"Hello, sonny. Going over to the
fry up before you get there. There'll be nothing left of you but a
crisp."
"No, I'm not going to the
Walters."
Sam French gave a long whistle of surprise.
"Why, Dan, what's taking you there? You surely ain't thinking o=
f
trying for that place, are you? Walters wouldn't look at you. Why, h=
e
wouldn't take _me_! You haven't the ghost of a chance."
"No, I'm not going for that. Sam, did you know that Mr. Walters=
had
a
notice in the
this summer?"
"Course I did--the old skinflint! He's too mean to live, that's
what.
He never goes near the pond himself. Regular dog in the manger, he i=
s.
Dad says--"
"Sam, why didn't you tell me about that notice?"
"Gracious, didn't you know? I s'posed everybody did, and here I=
've
been taking you for the cutest chap this side of sunset--fishing awa=
y
up in that creek where no one could see you, and cutting home throug=
h
the woods on the sly. You don't mean to tell me you never saw that
notice?"
"No, I didn't. Do you think I'd have gone near the pond if I ha=
d? I
never saw it till today, and I'm going straight to Mr. Walters now t=
o
tell him about it."
Sam French stopped short in the dusty road and stared at Dan in
undisguised amazement.
"Dan Phillips," he ejaculated, "have you plum gone ou=
t of
your mind?
Boy alive, you needn't be afraid that I'd peach on you. I'm too blam=
ed
glad to see anyone get the better of that old Walters, smart as he
thinks himself. Gee! To dream of going to him and telling him you've=
been fishing in his pond! Why, he'll put you in jail. You don't know=
what sort of a man he is. Dad says--"
"Never mind what your dad says, Sam. My mind's made up."
"Dan, you chump, listen to me. That notice says 'prosecuted
according
to law.' Why, Danny, he'll put you in prison, or fine you, or
something dreadful."
"I can't help it if he does," said Danny stoutly. "You
get out of
here, Sam French, and don't be trying to scare me. I mean to be
honest, and how can I be if I don't own up to Mr. Walters that I've<= o:p>
been stealing his trout all summer?"
"Stealing, fiddlesticks! Dan, I used to think you were a chap w=
ith
some sense, but I see I was mistaken. You ain't done no harm. Walter=
s
will never miss them trout. If you're so dreadful squeamish that you=
won't fish no more, why, you needn't. But just let the matter drop a=
nd
hold your tongue about it. That's _my_ advice."
"Well, it isn't my mother's, then. I mean to go by _hers_. You
needn't
argue no more, Sam. I'm going."
"Go, then!" said Sam, stopping short in disgust. "You=
're
a big fool,
Dan, and serve you right if Walters lands you off to jail; but I don=
't
wish you no ill. If I can do anything for your family after you're
gone, I will, and I'll try and give your remains Christian burial--i=
f
there are any remains. So long, Danny! Give my love to old
Walters!"
Dan was not greatly encouraged by this interview. He shrank more tha=
n
ever from the thought of facing the stern factory owner. His courage=
had almost evaporated when he entered the office at the factory and<= o:p>
asked shakily for Mr. Walters.
"He's in his office there," replied the clerk, "but h=
e's
very busy.
Better leave your message with me."
"I must see Mr. Walters himself, please," said Dan firmly,=
but
with
inward trepidation.
The clerk swung himself impatiently from his stool and ushered Dan
into Mr. Walters's private office.
"Boy to see you, sir," he said briefly, as he closed the
ground-glass
door behind him.
Dan, dizzy and trembling, stood in the dreaded presence. Mr. Walters=
was writing at a table covered with a businesslike litter of papers.=
He laid down his pen and looked up with a frown as the clerk vanishe=
d.
He was a stern-looking man with deep-set grey eyes and a square,
clean-shaven chin. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on hi=
s
frame, and his voice and manner were those of the decided, resolute,=
masterful man of business.
He pointed to a capacious leather chair and said concisely, "Wh=
at
is
your business with me, boy?"
Dan had carefully thought out a statement of facts beforehand, but
every word had vanished from his memory. He had only a confused,
desperate consciousness that he had a theft to confess and that it
must be done as soon as possible. He did not sit down.
"Please, Mr. Walters," he began desperately, "I came =
to
tell you--your
notice--I never saw it before--and I've been fishing on your pond al=
l
summer--but I didn't know--honest--I've brought you all I caught
today--and I'll pay back for them all--some time."
An amused, puzzled expression crossed Mr. Walters's noncommittal fac=
e.
He pushed the leather chair forward.
"Sit down, my boy," he said kindly. "I don't quite
understand this
somewhat mixed-up statement of yours. You've been fishing on my pond=
,
you say. Didn't you see my notice in the _Advertiser_?"
Dan sat down more composedly. The revelation was over and he was sti=
ll
alive.
"No, sir. We hardly ever see an _Advertiser_, and nobody told m=
e.
I'd
always been used to fishing there, and I never thought but what it w=
as
all right to keep on. I know I ought to have remembered and asked yo=
u,
but truly, sir, I didn't mean to steal your fish. I used to sell the=
m
over at the hotels. We saw the notice today, Mother and me, and I ca=
me
right up. I've brought you the trout I caught this morning, and--if<= o:p>
only you won't prosecute me, sir, I'll pay back every cent I got for=
the others--every cent, sir--if you'll give me time."
Mr. Walters passed his hand across his mouth to conceal something li=
ke
a smile.
"Your name is Dan Phillips, isn't it?" he said irrelevantl=
y,
"and you
live with your mother, the Widow Phillips, down there at Carleton
Corners, I understand."
"Yes, sir," said Dan, wondering how Mr. Walters knew so mu=
ch
about
him, and if these were the preliminaries of prosecution.
Mr. Walters took up his pen and drew a blank sheet towards him.
"Well, Dan, I put that notice in because I found that many peop=
le
who
used to fish on my pond, irrespective of leave or licence, were
accustomed to lunch or camp on my property, and did not a little
damage. I don't care for trouting myself; I've no time for it.
However, I hardly think you'll do much damage. You can keep on
fishing there. I'll give you a written permission, so that if any of=
my men see you they won't interfere with you. As for these trout her=
e,
I'll buy them from you at
about the matter. How will that do?"
"Thank you, sir," stammered Dan. He could hardly believe h=
is
ears. He
took the slip of paper Mr. Walters handed to him and rose to his fee=
t.
"Wait a minute, Dan. How was it you came to tell me this? You m=
ight
have stopped your depredations, and I should not have been any the
wiser."
"That wouldn't have been honest, sir," said Dan, looking
squarely at
him.
There was a brief silence. Mr. Walters thrummed meditatively on the<= o:p>
table. Dan waited wonderingly.
Finally the factory owner said abruptly, "There's a vacant place
for a
boy down here. I want it filled as soon as possible. Will you take
it?"
"Mr. Walters! _Me!_" Dan thought the world must be turning
upside
down.
"Yes, you. You are rather young, but the duties are not hard or=
difficult to learn. I think you'll do. I was resolved not to fill th=
at
place until I could find a perfectly honest and trustworthy boy for<= o:p>
it. I believe I have found him. I discharged the last boy because he=
lied to me about some trifling offence for which I would have forgiv=
en
him if he had told the truth. I can bear with incompetency, but
falsehood and deceit I cannot and will not tolerate," he said, =
so
sternly that Dan's face paled. "I am convinced that you are
incapable
of either. Will you take the place, Dan?"
"I will if you think I can fill it, sir. I will do my best.&quo=
t;
"Yes, I believe you will. Perhaps I know more about you than yo=
u
think. Businessmen must keep their eyes open. We'll regard this matt=
er
as settled then. Come up tomorrow at eight o'clock. And one word mor=
e,
Dan. You have perhaps heard that I am an unjust and hard master. I a=
m
not the former, and you will never have occasion to find me the latt=
er
if you are always as truthful and straightforward as you have been
today. You might easily have deceived me in this matter. That you di=
d
not do so is the best and only recommendation I require. Take those<= o:p>
trout up to my house and leave them. That will do. Good afternoon.&q=
uot;
Dan somehow got his dazed self through the glass door and out of the=
building. The whole interview had been such a surprise to him that h=
e
was hardly sure whether or not he had dreamed it all.
"I feel as if I were some person else," he said to himself=
, as
he
started down the hot white road. "But Mother was right. I'll st=
ick
to
her motto. I wonder what Sam will say to this."
"Well, I really think Santa Claus has been very good to us
all," said
Jean Lawrence, pulling the pins out of her heavy coil of fair hair a=
nd
letting it ripple over her shoulders.
"So do I," said Nellie Preston as well as she could with a
mouthful of
chocolates. "Those blessed home folks of mine seem to have divi=
ned
by
instinct the very things I most wanted."
It was the dusk of Christmas Eve and they were all in Jean Lawrence'=
s
room at No. 16 Chestnut Terrace. No. 16 was a boarding-house, and
boarding-houses are not proverbially cheerful places in which to spe=
nd
Christmas, but Jean's room, at least, was a pleasant spot, and all t=
he
girls had brought their Christmas presents in to show each other.
Christmas came on Sunday that year and the Saturday evening mail at<= o:p>
Chestnut Terrace had been an exciting one.
Jean had lighted the pink-globed lamp on her table and the mellow
light fell over merry faces as the girls chatted about their gifts. =
On
the table was a big white box heaped with roses that betokened a bit=
of Christmas extravagance on somebody's part. Jean's brother had sen=
t
them to her from
common.
No. 16 Chestnut Terrace was overrun with girls generally. But just n=
ow
only five were left; all the others had gone home for Christmas, but=
these five could not go and were bent on making the best of it.
Belle and Olive Reynolds, who were sitting on the bed--Jean could
never keep them off it--were High School girls; they were said to be=
always laughing, and even the fact that they could not go home for
Christmas because a young brother had measles did not dampen their
spirits.
Beth Hamilton, who was hovering over the roses, and Nellie Preston,<= o:p>
who was eating candy, were art students, and their homes were too fa=
r
away to visit. As for Jean Lawrence, she was an orphan, and had no
home of her own. She worked on the staff of one of the big city
newspapers and the other girls were a little in awe of her
cleverness, but her nature was a "chummy" one and her room=
was
a
favourite rendezvous. Everybody liked frank, open-handed and hearted=
Jean.
"It was so funny to see the postman when he came this
evening," said
Olive. "He just bulged with parcels. They were sticking out in
every
direction."
"We all got our share of them," said Jean with a sigh of
content.
"Even the cook got six--I counted."
"Miss Allen didn't get a thing--not even a letter," said B=
eth
quickly.
Beth had a trick of seeing things that other girls didn't.
"I forgot Miss Allen. No, I don't believe she did," answer=
ed
Jean
thoughtfully as she twisted up her pretty hair. "How dismal it =
must
be
to be so forlorn as that on Christmas Eve of all times. Ugh! I'm gla=
d
I have friends."
"I saw Miss Allen watching us as we opened our parcels and
letters,"
Beth went on. "I happened to look up once, and such an expressi=
on
as
was on her face, girls! It was pathetic and sad and envious all at
once. It really made me feel bad--for five minutes," she conclu=
ded
honestly.
"Hasn't Miss Allen any friends at all?" asked Beth.
"No, I don't think she has," answered Jean. "She has
lived here for
fourteen years, so Mrs. Pickrell says. Think of that, girls! Fourtee=
n
years at Chestnut Terrace! Is it any wonder that she is thin and
dried-up and snappy?"
"Nobody ever comes to see her and she never goes anywhere,"
said Beth.
"Dear me! She must feel lonely now when everybody else is being=
remembered by their friends. I can't forget her face tonight; it
actually haunts me. Girls, how would you feel if you hadn't anyone
belonging to you, and if nobody thought about you at Christmas?"=
;
"Ow!" said Olive, as if the mere idea made her shiver.
A little silence followed. To tell the truth, none of them liked Mis=
s
Allen. They knew that she did not like them either, but considered
them frivolous and pert, and complained when they made a racket.
"The skeleton at the feast," Jean called her, and certainly
the
presence of the pale, silent, discontented-looking woman at the No. =
16
table did not tend to heighten its festivity.
Presently Jean said with a dramatic flourish, "Girls, I have an=
inspiration--a Christmas inspiration!"
"What is it?" cried four voices.
"Just this. Let us give Miss Allen a Christmas surprise. She has
not
received a single present and I'm sure she feels lonely. Just think<= o:p>
how we would feel if we were in her place."
"That is true," said Olive thoughtfully. "Do you know,
girls, this
evening I went to her room with a message from Mrs. Pickrell, and I =
do
believe she had been crying. Her room looked dreadfully bare and
cheerless, too. I think she is very poor. What are we to do, Jean?&q=
uot;
"Let us each give her something nice. We can put the things jus=
t
outside of her door so that she will see them whenever she opens it.=
I'll give her some of Fred's roses too, and I'll write a Christmassy=
letter in my very best style to go with them," said Jean, warmi=
ng
up
to her ideas as she talked.
The other girls caught her spirit and entered into the plan with
enthusiasm.
"Splendid!" cried Beth. "Jean, it is an inspiration, =
sure
enough.
Haven't we been horribly selfish--thinking of nothing but our own
gifts and fun and pleasure? I really feel ashamed."
"Let us do the thing up the very best way we can," said
Nellie,
forgetting even her beloved chocolates in her eagerness. "The s=
hops
are open yet. Let us go up town and invest."
Five minutes later five capped and jacketed figures were scurrying u=
p
the street in the frosty, starlit December dusk. Miss Allen in her
cold little room heard their gay voices and sighed. She was crying b=
y
herself in the dark. It was Christmas for everybody but her, she
thought drearily.
In an hour the girls came back with their purchases.
"Now, let's hold a council of war," said Jean jubilantly.
"I hadn't
the faintest idea what Miss Allen would like so I just guessed wildl=
y.
I got her a lace handkerchief and a big bottle of perfume and a
painted photograph frame--and I'll stick my own photo in it for fun.=
That was really all I could afford. Christmas purchases have left my=
purse dreadfully lean."
"I got her a glove-box and a pin tray," said Belle, "=
and
Olive got her
a calendar and
half of that big plummy fruit cake Mother sent us from home. I'm sur=
e
she hasn't tasted anything so delicious for years, for fruit cakes
don't grow on Chestnut Terrace and she never goes anywhere else for =
a
meal."
Beth had bought a pretty cup and saucer and said she meant to give o=
ne
of her pretty water-colours too. Nellie, true to her reputation, had=
invested in a big box of chocolate creams, a gorgeously striped cand=
y
cane, a bag of oranges, and a brilliant lampshade of rose-coloured
crepe paper to top off with.
"It makes such a lot of show for the money," she explained.
"I am
bankrupt, like Jean."
"Well, we've got a lot of pretty things," said Jean in a t=
one
of
satisfaction. "Now we must do them up nicely. Will you wrap the=
m in
tissue paper, girls, and tie them with baby ribbon--here's a box of<= o:p>
it--while I write that letter?"
While the others chatted over their parcels Jean wrote her letter, a=
nd
Jean could write delightful letters. She had a decided talent in tha=
t
respect, and her correspondents all declared her letters to be thing=
s
of beauty and joy forever. She put her best into Miss Allen's
Christmas letter. Since then she has written many bright and clever<= o:p>
things, but I do not believe she ever in her life wrote anything mor=
e
genuinely original and delightful than that letter. Besides, it
breathed the very spirit of Christmas, and all the girls declared th=
at
it was splendid.
"You must all sign it now," said Jean, "and I'll put =
it
in one of
those big envelopes; and, Nellie, won't you write her name on it in<= o:p>
fancy letters?"
Which Nellie proceeded to do, and furthermore embellished the envelo=
pe
by a border of chubby cherubs, dancing hand in hand around it and a<= o:p>
sketch of No. 16 Chestnut Terrace in the corner in lieu of a stamp.<= o:p>
Not content with this she hunted out a huge sheet of drawing paper a=
nd
drew upon it an original pen-and-ink design after her own heart. A
dudish cat--Miss Allen was fond of the No. 16 cat if she could be sa=
id
to be fond of anything--was portrayed seated on a rocker arrayed in<= o:p>
smoking jacket and cap with a cigar waved airily aloft in one paw
while the other held out a placard bearing the legend "Merry
Christmas." A second cat in full street costume bowed politely,=
hat
in
paw, and waved a banner inscribed with "Happy New Year," w=
hile
faintly
suggested kittens gambolled around the border. The girls laughed unt=
il
they cried over it and voted it to be the best thing Nellie had yet<= o:p>
done in original work.
All this had taken time and it was past eleven o'clock. Miss Allen h=
ad
cried herself to sleep long ago and everybody else in Chestnut Terra=
ce
was abed when five figures cautiously crept down the hall, headed by=
Jean with a dim lamp. Outside of Miss Allen's door the procession
halted and the girls silently arranged their gifts on the floor.
"That's done," whispered Jean in a tone of satisfaction as
they
tiptoed back. "And now let us go to bed or Mrs. Pickrell, bless=
her
heart, will be down on us for burning so much midnight oil. Oil has<= o:p>
gone up, you know, girls."
It was in the early morning that Miss Allen opened her door. But ear=
ly
as it was, another door down the hall was half open too and five ros=
y
faces were peering cautiously out. The girls had been up for an hour=
for fear they would miss the sight and were all in Nellie's room,
which commanded a view of Miss Allen's door.
That lady's face was a study. Amazement, incredulity, wonder, chased=
each other over it, succeeded by a glow of pleasure. On the floor
before her was a snug little pyramid of parcels topped by Jean's
letter. On a chair behind it was a bowl of delicious hot-house roses=
and Nellie's placard.
Miss Allen looked down the hall but saw nothing, for Jean had slamme=
d
the door just in time. Half an hour later when they were going down =
to
breakfast Miss Allen came along the hall with outstretched hands to<= o:p>
meet them. She had been crying again, but I think her tears were hap=
py
ones; and she was smiling now. A cluster of Jean's roses were pinned=
on her breast.
"Oh, girls, girls," she said, with a little tremble in her
voice, "I
can never thank you enough. It was so kind and sweet of you. You don=
't
know how much good you have done me."
Breakfast was an unusually cheerful affair at No. 16 that morning.
There was no skeleton at the feast and everybody was beaming. Miss
Allen laughed and talked like a girl herself.
"Oh, how surprised I was!" she said. "The roses were =
like
a bit of
summer, and those cats of Nellie's were so funny and delightful. And=
your letter too, Jean! I cried and laughed over it. I shall read it<= o:p>
every day for a year."
After breakfast everyone went to Christmas service. The girls went
uptown to the church they attended. The city was very beautiful in t=
he
morning sunshine. There had been a white frost in the night and the<= o:p>
tree-lined avenues and public squares seemed like glimpses of
fairyland.
"How lovely the world is," said Jean.
"This is really the very happiest Christmas morning I have ever=
known," declared Nellie. "I never felt so really Christmas=
sy
in my
inmost soul before."
"I suppose," said Beth thoughtfully, "that it is beca=
use
we have
discovered for ourselves the old truth that it is more blessed to gi=
ve
than to receive. I've always known it, in a way, but I never realize=
d
it before."
"Blessing on Jean's Christmas inspiration," said Nellie.
"But, girls,
let us try to make it an all-the-year-round inspiration, I say. We c=
an
bring a little of our own sunshine into Miss Allen's life as long as=
we live with her."
"Amen to that!" said Jean heartily. "Oh, listen,
girls--the Christmas
chimes!"
And over all the beautiful city was wafted the grand old message of<= o:p>
peace on earth and good will to all the world.
"Tomorrow is Christmas," announced Teddy Grant exultantly,=
as
he sat
on the floor struggling manfully with a refractory bootlace that was=
knotted and tagless and stubbornly refused to go into the eyelets of=
Teddy's patched boots. "Ain't I glad, though. Hurrah!"
His mother was washing the breakfast dishes in a dreary, listless so=
rt
of way. She looked tired and broken-spirited. Ted's enthusiasm seeme=
d
to grate on her, for she answered sharply:
"Christmas, indeed. I can't see that it is anything for us to
rejoice
over. Other people may be glad enough, but what with winter coming o=
n
I'd sooner it was spring than Christmas. Mary Alice, do lift that
child out of the ashes and put its shoes and stockings on. Everythin=
g
seems to be at sixes and sevens here this morning."
Keith, the oldest boy, was coiled up on the sofa calmly working out<= o:p>
some algebra problems, quite oblivious to the noise around him. But =
he
looked up from his slate, with his pencil suspended above an obstina=
te
equation, to declaim with a flourish:
"Christmas comes bu=
t once
a year,
And then Mother wishes it
wasn't here."
"I don't, then," said Gordon, son number two, who was
preparing his
own noon lunch of bread and molasses at the table, and making an
atrocious mess of crumbs and sugary syrup over everything. "I k=
now
one
thing to be thankful for, and that is that there'll be no school.
We'll have a whole week of holidays."
Gordon was noted for his aversion to school and his affection for
holidays.
"And we're going to have turkey for dinner," declared Tedd=
y,
getting
up off the floor and rushing to secure his share of bread and
molasses, "and cranb'ry sauce and--and--pound cake! Ain't we,
Ma?"
"No, you are not," said Mrs. Grant desperately, dropping t=
he
dishcloth
and snatching the baby on her knee to wipe the crust of cinders and<= o:p>
molasses from the chubby pink-and-white face. "You may as well =
know
it
now, children, I've kept it from you so far in hopes that something<= o:p>
would turn up, but nothing has. We can't have any Christmas dinner
tomorrow--we can't afford it. I've pinched and saved every way I cou=
ld
for the last month, hoping that I'd be able to get a turkey for you<= o:p>
anyhow, but you'll have to do without it. There's that doctor's bill=
to pay and a dozen other bills coming in--and people say they can't<= o:p>
wait. I suppose they can't, but it's kind of hard, I must say."=
The little Grants stood with open mouths and horrified eyes. No turk=
ey
for Christmas! Was the world coming to an end? Wouldn't the governme=
nt
interfere if anyone ventured to dispense with a Christmas celebratio=
n?
The gluttonous Teddy stuffed his fists into his eyes and lifted up h=
is
voice. Keith, who understood better than the others the look on his<= o:p>
mother's face, took his blubbering young brother by the collar and
marched him into the porch. The twins, seeing the summary proceeding=
,
swallowed the outcries they had intended to make, although they
couldn't keep a few big tears from running down their fat cheeks.
Mrs. Grant looked pityingly at the disappointed faces about her.
"Don't cry, children, you make me feel worse. We are not the on=
ly
ones
who will have to do without a Christmas turkey. We ought to be very<= o:p>
thankful that we have anything to eat at all. I hate to disappoint
you, but it can't be helped."
"Never mind, Mother," said Keith, comfortingly, relaxing h=
is
hold
upon the porch door, whereupon it suddenly flew open and precipitate=
d
Teddy, who had been tugging at the handle, heels over head backwards=
.
"We know you've done your best. It's been a hard year for you. =
Just
wait, though. I'll soon be grown up, and then you and these greedy
youngsters shall feast on turkey every day of the year. Hello, Teddy=
,
have you got on your feet again? Mind, sir, no more blubbering!"=
;
"When I'm a man," announced Teddy with dignity, "I'd =
just
like to see
you put me in the porch. And I mean to have turkey all the time and =
I
won't give you any, either."
"All right, you greedy small boy. Only take yourself off to sch=
ool
now, and let us hear no more squeaks out of you. Tramp, all of you,<= o:p>
and give Mother a chance to get her work done."
Mrs. Grant got up and fell to work at her dishes with a brighter fac=
e.
"Well, we mustn't give in; perhaps things will be better after =
a
while. I'll make a famous bread pudding, and you can boil some
molasses taffy and ask those little Smithsons next door to help you<= o:p>
pull it. They won't whine for turkey, I'll be bound. I don't suppose=
they ever tasted such a thing in all their lives. If I could afford<= o:p>
it, I'd have had them all in to dinner with us. That sermon Mr. Evan=
s
preached last Sunday kind of stirred me up. He said we ought always<= o:p>
to try and share our Christmas joy with some poor souls who had neve=
r
learned the meaning of the word. I can't do as much as I'd like to. =
It
was different when your father was alive."
The noisy group grew silent as they always did when their father was=
spoken of. He had died the year before, and since his death the litt=
le
family had had a hard time. Keith, to hide his feelings, began to
hector the rest.
"Mary Alice, do hurry up. Here, you twin nuisances, get off to
school.
If you don't you'll be late and then the master will give you a
whipping."
"He won't," answered the irrepressible Teddy. "He nev=
er
whips us, he
doesn't. He stands us on the floor sometimes, though," he added=
,
remembering the many times his own chubby legs had been seen to bett=
er
advantage on the school platform.
"That man," said Mrs. Grant, alluding to the teacher,
"makes me
nervous. He is the most abstracted creature I ever saw in my life. I=
t
is a wonder to me he doesn't walk straight into the river some day.<= o:p>
You'll meet him meandering along the street, gazing into vacancy, an=
d
he'll never see you nor hear a word you say half the time."
"Yesterday," said Gordon, chuckling over the remembrance,
"he came in
with a big piece of paper he'd picked up on the entry floor in one
hand and his hat in the other--and he stuffed his hat into the
coal-scuttle and hung up the paper on a nail as grave as you please.=
Never knew the difference till Ned Slocum went and told him. He's
always doing things like that."
Keith had collected his books and now marched his brothers and siste=
rs
off to school. Left alone with the baby, Mrs. Grant betook herself t=
o
her work with a heavy heart. But a second interruption broke the
progress of her dish-washing.
"I declare," she said, with a surprised glance through the
window, "if
there isn't that absent-minded schoolteacher coming through the yard=
!
What can he want? Dear me, I do hope Teddy hasn't been cutting caper=
s
in school again."
For the teacher's last call had been in October and had been
occasioned by the fact that the irrepressible Teddy would persist in=
going to school with his pockets filled with live crickets and in
driving them harnessed to strings up and down the aisle when the
teacher's back was turned. All mild methods of punishment having
failed, the teacher had called to talk it over with Mrs. Grant, with=
the happy result that Teddy's behaviour had improved--in the matter =
of
crickets at least.
But it was about time for another outbreak. Teddy had been unnatural=
ly
good for too long a time. Poor Mrs. Grant feared that it was the cal=
m
before a storm, and it was with nervous haste that she went to the
door and greeted the young teacher.
He was a slight, pale, boyish-looking fellow, with an abstracted,
musing look in his large dark eyes. Mrs. Grant noticed with amusemen=
t
that he wore a white straw hat in spite of the season. His eyes were=
directed to her face with his usual unseeing gaze.
"Just as though he was looking through me at something a thousa=
nd
miles away," said Mrs. Grant afterwards. "I believe he was,
too. His
body was right there on the step before me, but where his soul was i=
s
more than you or I or anybody can tell."
"Good morning," he said absently. "I have just called=
on
my way to
school with a message from Miss Millar. She wants you all to come up=
and have Christmas dinner with her tomorrow."
"For the land's sake!" said Mrs. Grant blankly. "I do=
n't
understand."
To herself she thought, "I wish I dared take him and shake him =
to
find
if he's walking in his sleep or not."
"You and all the children--every one," went on the teacher
dreamily,
as if he were reciting a lesson learned beforehand. "She told m=
e to
tell you to be sure and come. Shall I say that you will?"
"Oh, yes, that is--I suppose--I don't know," said Mrs. Gra=
nt
incoherently. "I never expected--yes, you may tell her we'll
come,"
she concluded abruptly.
"Thank you," said the abstracted messenger, gravely lifting
his hat
and looking squarely through Mrs. Grant into unknown regions. When h=
e
had gone Mrs. Grant went in and sat down, laughing in a sort of
hysterical way.
"I wonder if it is all right. Could Cornelia really have told h=
im?
She
must, I suppose, but it is enough to take one's breath."
Mrs. Grant and Cornelia Millar were cousins, and had once been the
closest of friends, but that was years ago, before some spiteful
reports and ill-natured gossip had come between them, making only a<= o:p>
little rift at first that soon widened into a chasm of coldness and<= o:p>
alienation. Therefore this invitation surprised Mrs. Grant greatly.<= o:p>
Miss Cornelia was a maiden lady of certain years, with a comfortable=
bank account and a handsome, old-fashioned house on the hill behind<= o:p>
the village. She always boarded the schoolteachers and looked after<= o:p>
them maternally; she was an active church worker and a tower of
strength to struggling ministers and their families.
"If Cornelia has seen fit at last to hold out the hand of
reconciliation I'm glad enough to take it. Dear knows, I've wanted t=
o
make up often enough, but I didn't think she ever would. We've both<= o:p>
of us got too much pride and stubbornness. It's the Turner blood in =
us
that does it. The Turners were all so set. But I mean to do my part<= o:p>
now she has done hers."
And Mrs. Grant made a final attack on the dishes with a beaming face=
.
When the little Grants came home and heard the news, Teddy stood on<= o:p>
his head to express his delight, the twins kissed each other, and Ma=
ry
Alice and Gordon danced around the kitchen.
Keith thought himself too big to betray any joy over a Christmas
dinner, but he whistled while doing the chores until the bare welkin=
in the yard rang, and Teddy, in spite of unheard of misdemeanours, w=
as
not collared off into the porch once.
When the young teacher got home from school that evening he found th=
e
yellow house full of all sorts of delectable odours. Miss Cornelia
herself was concocting mince pies after the famous family recipe,
while her ancient and faithful handmaiden, Hannah, was straining int=
o
moulds the cranberry jelly. The open pantry door revealed a tempting=
array of Christmas delicacies.
"Did you call and invite the Smithsons up to dinner as I told
you?"
asked Miss Cornelia anxiously.
"Yes," was the dreamy response as he glided through the
kitchen and
vanished into the hall.
Miss Cornelia crimped the edges of her pies delicately with a reliev=
ed
air. "I made certain he'd forget it," she said. "You =
just
have to
watch him as if he were a mere child. Didn't I catch him yesterday
starting off to school in his carpet slippers? And in spite of me he=
got away today in that ridiculous summer hat. You'd better set that<= o:p>
jelly in the out-pantry to cool, Hannah; it looks good. We'll give
those poor little Smithsons a feast for once in their lives if they<= o:p>
never get another."
At this juncture the hall door flew open and Mr. Palmer appeared on<= o:p>
the threshold. He seemed considerably agitated and for once his eyes=
had lost their look of space-searching.
"Miss Millar, I am afraid I did make a mistake this morning--it=
has
just dawned on me. I am almost sure that I called at Mrs. Grant's an=
d
invited her and her family instead of the Smithsons. And she said th=
ey
would come."
Miss Cornelia's face was a study.
"Mr. Palmer," she said, flourishing her crimping fork
tragically, "do
you mean to say you went and invited Linda Grant here tomorrow? Lind=
a
Grant, of all women in this world!"
"I did," said the teacher with penitent wretchedness. &quo=
t;It
was very
careless of me--I am very sorry. What can I do? I'll go down and tel=
l
them I made a mistake if you like."
"You can't do that," groaned Miss Cornelia, sitting down a=
nd
wrinkling
up her forehead in dire perplexity. "It would never do in the
world.
For pity's sake, let me think for a minute."
Miss Cornelia did think--to good purpose evidently, for her forehead=
smoothed out as her meditations proceeded and her face brightened.
Then she got up briskly. "Well, you've done it and no mistake. I
don't
know that I'm sorry, either. Anyhow, we'll leave it as it is. But yo=
u
must go straight down now and invite the Smithsons too. And for pity=
's
sake, don't make any more mistakes."
When he had gone Miss Cornelia opened her heart to Hannah. "I n=
ever
could have done it myself--never; the Turner is too strong in me. Bu=
t
I'm glad it is done. I've been wanting for years to make up with
Linda. And now the chance has come, thanks to that blessed blunderin=
g
boy, I mean to make the most of it. Mind, Hannah, you never whisper =
a
word about its being a mistake. Linda must never know. Poor Linda!
She's had a hard time. Hannah, we must make some more pies, and I mu=
st
go straight down to the store and get some more Santa Claus stuff;
I've only got enough to go around the Smithsons."
When Mrs. Grant and her family arrived at the yellow house next
morning Miss Cornelia herself ran out bareheaded to meet them. The t=
wo
women shook hands a little stiffly and then a rill of long-repressed=
affection trickled out from some secret spring in Miss Cornelia's
heart and she kissed her new-found old friend tenderly. Linda return=
ed
the kiss warmly, and both felt that the old-time friendship was thei=
rs
again.
The little Smithsons all came and they and the little Grants sat dow=
n
on the long bright dining room to a dinner that made history in thei=
r
small lives, and was eaten over again in happy dreams for months.
How those children did eat! And how beaming Miss Cornelia and
grim-faced, soft-hearted Hannah and even the absent-minded teacher
himself enjoyed watching them!
After dinner Miss Cornelia distributed among the delighted little
souls the presents she had bought for them, and then turned them loo=
se
in the big shining kitchen to have a taffy pull--and they had it to<= o:p>
their hearts' content! And as for the shocking, taffyfied state into=
which they got their own rosy faces and that once immaculate
domain--well, as Miss Cornelia and Hannah never said one word about<= o:p>
it, neither will I.
The four women enjoyed the afternoon in their own way, and the
schoolteacher buried himself in algebra to his own great satisfactio=
n.
When her guests went home in the starlit December dusk, Miss Corneli=
a
walked part of the way with them and had a long confidential talk wi=
th
Mrs. Grant. When she returned it was to find Hannah groaning in and<= o:p>
over the kitchen and the schoolteacher dreamily trying to clean some=
molasses off his boots with the kitchen hairbrush. Long-suffering Mi=
ss
Cornelia rescued her property and despatched Mr. Palmer into the
woodshed to find the shoe-brush. Then she sat down and laughed.
"Hannah, what will become of that boy yet? There's no counting =
on
what
he'll do next. I don't know how he'll ever get through the world, I'=
m
sure, but I'll look after him while he's here at least. I owe him a<= o:p>
huge debt of gratitude for this Christmas blunder. What an awful mes=
s
this place is in! But, Hannah, did you ever in the world see anythin=
g
so delightful as that little Tommy Smithson stuffing himself with pl=
um
cake, not to mention Teddy Grant? It did me good just to see them.&q=
uot;
"Will you go to the Cove with me this afternoon?"
It was Marian Lesley who asked the question.
Esterbrook Elliott unpinned with a masterful touch the delicate
cluster of Noisette rosebuds she wore at her throat and transferred<= o:p>
them to his buttonhole as he answered courteously: "Certainly. =
My
time, as you know, is entirely at your disposal."
They were standing in the garden under the creamy bloom of drooping<= o:p>
acacia trees. One long plume of blossoms touched lightly the soft,
golden-brown coils of the girl's hair and cast a wavering shadow ove=
r
the beautiful, flower-like face beneath it.
Esterbrook Elliott, standing before her, thought proudly that he had=
never seen a woman who might compare with her. In every detail she
satisfied his critical, fastidious taste. There was not a discordant=
touch about her.
Esterbrook Elliott had always loved Marian Lesley--or thought he had=
.
They had grown up together from childhood. He was an only son and sh=
e
an only daughter. It had always been an understood thing between the=
two families that the boy and girl should marry. But Marian's father=
had decreed that no positive pledge should pass between them until
Marian was twenty-one.
Esterbrook accepted his mapped-out destiny and selected bride with t=
he
conviction that he was an exceptionally lucky fellow. Out of all the=
women in the world Marian was the very one whom he would have chosen=
as mistress of his fine, old home. She had been his boyhood's ideal.=
He believed that he loved her sincerely, but he was not too much in<= o:p>
love to be blind to the worldly advantages of his marriage with his<= o:p>
cousin.
His father had died two years previously, leaving him wealthy and
independent. Marian had lost her mother in childhood; her father die=
d
when she was eighteen. Since then she had lived alone with her aunt.=
Her life was quiet and lonely. Esterbrook's companionship was all th=
at
brightened it, but it was enough. Marian lavished on him all the ric=
h,
womanly love of her heart. On her twenty-first birthday they were
formally betrothed. They were to be married in the following autumn.=
No shadow had drifted across the heaven of her happiness. She believ=
ed
herself secure in her lover's unfaltering devotion. True, at times s=
he
thought his manner lacked a lover's passionate ardour. He was always=
attentive and courteous. She had only to utter a wish to find that i=
t
had been anticipated; he spent every spare minute at her side.
Yet sometimes she half wished he would betray more lover-like
impatience and intensity. Were all lovers as calm and undemonstrativ=
e?
She reproached herself for this incipient disloyalty as often as it<= o:p>
vexingly intruded its unwelcome presence across her inner
consciousness. Surely Esterbrook was fond and devoted enough to
satisfy the most exacting demands of affection. Marian herself was
somewhat undemonstrative and reserved. Passing acquaintances called<= o:p>
her cold and proud. Only the privileged few knew the rich depths of<= o:p>
womanly tenderness in her nature.
Esterbrook thought that he fully appreciated her. As he had walked
homeward the night of their betrothal, he had reviewed with
unconscious criticism his mental catalogue of Marian's graces and go=
od
qualities, admitting, with supreme satisfaction, that there was not<= o:p>
one thing about her that he could wish changed.
This afternoon, under the acacias, they had been planning about thei=
r
wedding. There was no one to consult but themselves.
They were to be married early in September and then go abroad.
Esterbrook mapped out the details of their bridal tour with careful<= o:p>
thoughtfulness. They would visit all the old-world places that Maria=
n
wished to see. Afterwards they would come back home. He discussed
certain changes he wished to make in the old Elliott mansion to fit =
it
for a young and beautiful mistress.
He did most of the planning. Marian was content to listen in happy
silence. Afterwards she had proposed this walk to the Cove.
"What particular object of charity have you found at the Cove
now?"
asked Esterbrook, with lazy interest, as they walked along.
"Mrs. Barrett's little Bessie is very ill with fever,"
answered
Marian. Then, catching his anxious look, she hastened to add, "=
It
is
nothing infectious--some kind of a slow, sapping variety. There is n=
o
danger, Esterbrook."
"I was not afraid for myself," he replied quietly. "My
alarm was for
you. You are too precious to me, Marian, for me to permit you to ris=
k
health and life, if it were dangerous. What a Lady Bountiful you are=
to those people at the Cove. When we are married you must take me in=
hand and teach me your creed of charity. I'm afraid I've lived a
rather selfish life. You will change all that, dear. You will make a=
good man of me."
"You are that now, Esterbrook," she said softly. "If =
you
were not, I
could not love you."
"It is a negative sort of goodness, I fear. I have never been t=
ried
or
tempted severely. Perhaps I should fail under the test."
"I am sure you would not," answered Marian proudly.
Esterbrook laughed; her faith in him was pleasant. He had no thought=
but that he would prove worthy of it.
The Cove, so-called, was a little fishing hamlet situated on the low=
,
sandy shore of a small bay. The houses, clustered in one spot, seeme=
d
like nothing so much as larger shells washed up by the sea, so grey<= o:p>
and bleached were they from long exposure to sea winds and spray.
Dozens of ragged children were playing about them, mingled with
several disreputable yellow curs that yapped noisily at the stranger=
s.
Down on the sandy strip of beach below the houses groups of men were=
lounging about. The mackerel, season had not yet set in; the spring<= o:p>
herring netting was past. It was holiday time among the sea folks.
They were enjoying it to the full, a happy, ragged colony, careless =
of
what the morrows might bring forth.
Out beyond, the boats were at anchor, floating as gracefully on the<= o:p>
twinkling water as sea birds, their tall masts bowing landward on th=
e
swell. A lazy, dreamful calm had fallen over the distant seas; the
horizon blues were pale and dim; faint purple hazes blurred the
outlines of far-off headlands and cliffs; the yellow sands sparkled =
in
the sunshine as if powdered with jewels.
A murmurous babble of life buzzed about the hamlet, pierced through =
by
the shrill undertones of the wrangling children, most of whom had
paused in their play to scan the visitors with covert curiosity.
Marian led the way to a house apart from the others at the very edge=
of the shelving rock. The dooryard was scrupulously clean and
unlittered; the little footpath through it was neatly bordered by
white clam shells; several thrifty geraniums in bloom looked out fro=
m
the muslin-curtained windows.
A weary-faced woman came forward to meet them.
"Bessie's much the same, Miss Lesley," she said, in answer=
to
Marian's
inquiry. "The doctor you sent was here today and did all he cou=
ld
for
her. He seemed quite hopeful. She don't complain or nothing--just li=
es
there and moans. Sometimes she gets restless. It's very kind of you =
to
come so often, Miss Lesley. Here, Magdalen, will you put this basket=
the lady's brought up there on the shelf?"
A girl, who had been sitting unnoticed with her back to the visitors=
,
at the head of the child's cot in one corner of the room, stood up a=
nd
slowly turned around. Marian and Esterbrook Elliott both started wit=
h
involuntary surprise. Esterbrook caught his breath like a man sudden=
ly
awakened from sleep. In the name of all that was wonderful, who or
what could this girl be, so little in harmony with her surroundings?=
Standing in the crepuscular light of the corner, her marvellous beau=
ty
shone out with the vivid richness of some rare painting. She was tal=
l,
and the magnificent proportions of her figure were enhanced rather
than marred by the severely plain dress of dark print that she wore.=
The heavy masses of her hair, a shining auburn dashed with golden
foam, were coiled in a rich, glossy knot at the back of the
classically modelled head and rippled back from a low brow whose wax=
en
fairness even the breezes of the ocean had spared.
The girl's face was a full, perfect oval, with features of faultless=
regularity, and the large, full eyes were of tawny hazel, darkened
into inscrutable gloom in the dimness of the corner.
Not even Marian Lesley's face was more delicately tinted, but not a<= o:p>
trace of colour appeared in the smooth, marble-like cheeks; yet the<= o:p>
waxen pallor bore no trace of disease or weakness, and the large,
curving mouth was of an intense crimson.
She stood quite motionless. There was no trace of embarrassment or
self-consciousness in her pose. When Mrs. Barrett said, "This i=
s my
niece, Magdalen Crawford," she merely inclined her head in grav=
e,
silent acknowledgement. As she moved forward to take Marian's basket=
,
she seemed oddly out of place in the low, crowded room. Her presence=
seemed to throw a strange restraint over the group.
Marian rose and went over to the cot, laying her slender hand on the=
hot forehead of the little sufferer. The child opened its brown eyes=
questioningly.
"How are you today, Bessie?"
"Mad'len--I want Mad'len," moaned the little plaintive voi=
ce.
Magdalen came over and stood beside Marian Lesley.
"She wants me," she said in a low, thrilling voice; free f=
rom
all
harsh accent or intonation. "I am the only one she seems to kno=
w
always. Yes, darling, Mad'len is here--right beside you. She will no=
t
leave you."
She knelt by the little cot and passed her arm under the child's nec=
k,
drawing the curly head close to her throat with a tender, soothing
motion.
Esterbrook Elliott watched the two women intently--the one standing =
by
the cot, arrayed in simple yet costly apparel, with her beautiful,
high-bred face, and the other, kneeling on the bare, sanded floor in=
her print dress, with her splendid head bent low over the child and<= o:p>
the long fringe of burnished lashes sweeping the cold pallor of the<= o:p>
oval cheek.
From the moment that Magdalen Crawford's haunting eyes had looked
straight into his for one fleeting second, an unnamable thrill of pa=
in
and pleasure stirred his heart, a thrill so strong and sudden and
passionate that his face paled with emotion; the room seemed to swim=
before his eyes in a mist out of which gleamed that wonderful face
with its mesmeric, darkly radiant eyes, burning their way into deeps=
and abysses of his soul hitherto unknown to him.
When the mist cleared away and his head grew steadier, he wondered a=
t
himself. Yet he trembled in every limb and the only clear idea that<= o:p>
struggled out of his confused thoughts was an overmastering desire t=
o
take that cold face between his hands and kiss it until its
passionless marble glowed into warm and throbbing life.
"Who is that girl?" he said abruptly, when they had left t=
he
cottage.
"She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen--present comp=
any
always excepted," he concluded, with a depreciatory laugh.
The delicate bloom on Marian's face deepened slightly.
"You had much better to have omitted that last sentence," =
she
said
quietly, "it was so palpably an afterthought. Yes, she is
wonderfully
lovely--a strange beauty, I fancied. There seemed something odd and<= o:p>
uncanny about it to me. She must be Mrs. Barrett's niece. I remember=
that when I was down here about a month ago Mrs. Barrett told me she=
expected a niece of hers to live with her--for a time at least. Her<= o:p>
parents were both dead, the father having died recently. Mrs. Barret=
t
seemed troubled about her. She said that the girl had been well
brought up and used to better things than the Cove could give her, a=
nd
she feared that she would be very discontented and unhappy. I had
forgotten all about it until I saw the girl today. She certainly see=
ms
to be a very superior person; she will find the Cove very lonely, I =
am
sure. It is not probable she will stay there long. I must see what I=
can do for her, but her manner seemed rather repellent, don't you
think?"
"Hardly," responded Esterbrook curtly. "She seemed
surprisingly
dignified and self-possessed, I fancied, for a girl in her position.=
A
princess could not have looked and bowed more royally. There was not=
a
shadow of embarrassment in her manner, in spite of the incongruity o=
f
her surroundings. You had much better leave her alone, Marian. In al=
l
probability she would resent any condescension on your part. What
wonderful, deep, lovely eyes she has."
Again the sensitive colour flushed Marian's cheek as his voice lapse=
d
unconsciously into a dreamy, retrospective tone, and a slight
restraint came over her manner, which did not depart. Esterbrook wen=
t
away at sunset. Marian asked him to remain for the evening, but he
pleaded some excuse.
"I shall come tomorrow afternoon," he said, as he stooped =
to
drop a
careless good-bye kiss on her face.
Marian watched him wistfully as he rode away, with an unaccountable<= o:p>
pain in her heart. She felt more acutely than ever that there were
depths in her lover's nature that she was powerless to stir into
responsive life.
Had any other that power? She thought of the girl at the Cove, with<= o:p>
her deep eyes and wonderful face. A chill of premonitory fear seized=
upon her.
"I feel exactly as if Esterbrook had gone away from me
forever," she
said slowly to herself, stooping to brush her cheek against a
dew-cold, milk-white acacia bloom, "and would never come back t=
o me
again. If that could happen, I wonder what there would be left to li=
ve
for?"
* *=
* * *
Esterbrook Elliott meant, or honestly thought he meant, to go home
when he left Marian. Nevertheless, when he reached the road branchin=
g
off to the Cove he turned his horse down it with a flush on his dark=
cheek. He realized that the motive of the action was disloyal to
Marian and he felt ashamed of his weakness.
But the desire to see Magdalen Crawford once more and to look into t=
he
depths of her eyes was stronger than all else, and overpowered every=
throb of duty and resistance.
He saw nothing of her when he reached the Cove. He could think of no=
excuse for calling at the Barrett cottage, so he rode slowly past th=
e
hamlet and along the shore.
The sun, red as a smouldering ember, was half buried in the silken
violet rim of the sea; the west was a vast lake of saffron and rose<= o:p>
and ethereal green, through which floated the curved shallop of a th=
in
new moon, slowly deepening from lustreless white, through gleaming
silver, into burnished gold, and attended by one solitary, pearl-whi=
te
star. The vast concave of sky above was of violet, infinite and
flawless. Far out dusky amethystine islets clustered like gems on th=
e
shining breast of the bay. The little pools of water along the low
shores glowed like mirrors of polished jacinth. The small,
pine-fringed headlands ran out into the water, cutting its lustrous<= o:p>
blue expanse like purple wedges.
As Esterbrook turned one of them he saw Magdalen standing out on the=
point of the next, a short distance away. Her back was towards him,<= o:p>
and her splendid figure was outlined darkly against the vivid sky.
Esterbrook sprang from his horse and left the animal standing by
itself while he walked swiftly out to her. His heart throbbed
suffocatingly. He was conscious of no direct purpose save merely to<= o:p>
see her.
She turned when he reached her with a slight start of surprise. His<= o:p>
footsteps had made no sound on the tide-rippled sand.
For a few moments they faced each other so, eyes burning into eyes
with mute soul-probing and questioning. The sun had disappeared,
leaving a stain of fiery red to mark his grave; the weird, radiant
light was startlingly vivid and clear. Little crisp puffs and flakes=
of foam scurried over the point like elfin things. The fresh wind,
blowing up the bay, tossed the lustrous rings of hair about Magdalen=
's
pale face; all the routed shadows of the hour had found refuge in he=
r
eyes.
Not a trace of colour appeared in her face under Esterbrook Elliott'=
s
burning gaze. But when he said "Magdalen!" a single, hot
scorch of
crimson flamed up into her cheeks protestingly. She lifted her hand<= o:p>
with a splendid gesture, but no word passed her lips.
"Magdalen, have you nothing to say to me?" he asked, coming
closer to
her with an imploring passion in his face never seen by Marian
Lesley's eyes. He reached out his hand, but she stepped back from hi=
s
touch.
"What should I have to say to you?"
"Say that you are glad to see me."
"I am not glad to see you. You have no right to come here. But I
knew
you would come."
"You knew it? How?"
"Your eyes told me so today. I am not blind--I can see further =
than
those dull fisher folks. Yes, I knew you would come. That is why I
came here tonight--so that you would find me alone and I could tell<= o:p>
you that you were not to come again."
"Why must you tell me that, Magdalen?"
"Because, as I have told you, you have no right to come."<= o:p>
"But if I will not obey you? If I will come in defiance of your=
prohibition?"
She turned her steady luminous eyes on his pale, set face.
"You would stamp yourself as a madman, then," she said col=
dly.
"I know
that you are Miss Lesley's promised husband. Therefore, you are eith=
er
false to her or insulting to me. In either case the companionship of=
Magdalen Crawford is not what you must seek. Go!"
She turned away from him with an imperious gesture of dismissal.
Esterbrook Elliott stepped forward and caught one firm, white wrist.=
"I shall not obey you," he said in a low, intense tone; his
fine eyes
burned into hers. "You may send me away, but I will come back,
again
and yet again until you have learned to welcome me. Why should you
meet me like an enemy? Why can we not be friends?"
The girl faced him once more.
"Because," she said proudly, "I am not your equal. Th=
ere
can be no
friendship between us. There ought not to be. Magdalen Crawford, the=
fisherman's niece, is no companion for you. You will be foolish, as<= o:p>
well as disloyal, if you ever try to see me again. Go back to the
beautiful, high-bred woman you love and forget me. Perhaps you think=
I
am talking strangely. Perhaps you think me bold and unwomanly to spe=
ak
so plainly to you, a stranger. But there are some circumstances in
life when plain-speaking is best. I do not want to see you again. No=
w,
go back to your own world."
Esterbrook Elliott slowly turned from her and walked in silence back=
to the shore. In the shadows of the point he stopped to look back at=
her, standing out like some inspired prophetess against the fiery
background of the sunset sky and silver-blue water. The sky overhead=
was thick-sown with stars; the night breeze was blowing up from its<= o:p>
lair in distant, echoing sea caves. On his right the lights of the
Cove twinkled out through the dusk.
"I feel like a coward and a traitor," he said slowly.
"Good God, what
is this madness that has come over me? Is this my boasted strength o=
f
manhood?"
A moment later the hoof beats of his horse died away up the shore.
Magdalen Crawford lingered on the point until the last dull red fade=
d
out into the violet gloom of the June sea dusk, than which nothing c=
an
be rarer or diviner, and listened to the moan and murmur of the sea<= o:p>
far out over the bay with sorrowful eyes and sternly set lips.
The next day, when the afternoon sun hung hot and heavy over the
water, Esterbrook Elliott came again to the Cove. He found it
deserted. A rumour of mackerel had come, and every boat had sailed
out in the rose-red dawn to the fishing grounds. But down on a strip=
of sparkling yellow sand he saw Magdalen Crawford standing, her hand=
on the rope that fastened a small white dory to the fragment of a
half-embedded wreck.
She was watching a huddle of gulls clustered on the tip of a narrow,=
sandy spit running out to the left. She turned at the sound of his
hurried foot-fall behind her. Her face paled slightly, and into the<= o:p>
depths of her eyes leapt a passionate, mesmeric glow that faded as
quickly as it came.
"You see I have come back in spite of your command, Magdalen.&q=
uot;
"I do see it," she answered in a gravely troubled voice.
"You are a
madman who refuses to be warned."
"Where are you going, Magdalen?" She had loosened the rope
from the
wreck.
"I am going to row over to Chapel Point for salt. They think the
boats
will come in tonight loaded with mackerel--look at them away out the=
re
by the score--and salt will be needed."
"Can you row so far alone?"
"Easily. I learned to row long ago--for a pastime then. Since
coming
here I find it of great service to me."
She stepped lightly into the tiny shallop and picked up an oar. The<= o:p>
brilliant sunshine streamed about her, burnishing the rich tints of<= o:p>
her hair into ruddy gold. She balanced herself to the swaying of the=
dory with the grace of a sea bird. The man looking at her felt his
brain reel.
"Good-bye, Mr. Elliott."
For answer he sprang into the dory and, snatching an oar, pushed
against the old wreck with such energy that the dory shot out from t=
he
shore like a foam bell. His sudden spring had set it rocking
violently. Magdalen almost lost her footing and caught blindly at hi=
s
arm. As her fingers closed on his wrist a thrill as of fire shot
through his every vein.
"Why have you done this, Mr. Elliott? You must go back."
"But I will not," he said masterfully, looking straight in=
to
her eyes
with an imperiousness that sat well upon him. "I am going to row
you
over to Chapel Point. I have the oars--I will be master this once, a=
t
least."
For an instant her eyes flashed defiant protest, then drooped before=
his. A sudden, hot blush crimsoned her pale face. His will had
mastered hers; the girl trembled from head to foot, and the proud,
sensitive, mouth quivered.
Into the face of the man watching her breathlessly flashed a
triumphant, passionate joy. He put out his hand and gently pushed he=
r
down into the seat. Sitting opposite, he took up the oars and pulled=
out over the sheet of sparkling blue water, through which at first t=
he
bottom of white sand glimmered wavily but afterwards deepened to
translucent, dim depths of greenness.
His heart throbbed tumultuously. Once the thought of Marian drifted<= o:p>
across his mind like a chill breath of wind, but it was forgotten wh=
en
his eyes met Magdalen's.
"Tell me about yourself, Magdalen," he said at last, break=
ing
the
tremulous, charmed, sparkling silence.
"There is nothing to tell," she answered with characterist=
ic
straightforwardness. "My life has been a very uneventful one. I
have
never been rich, or very well educated, but--it used to be different=
from now. I had some chance before--before Father died."
"You must have found it very lonely and strange when you came h=
ere
first."
"Yes. At first I thought I should die--but I do not mind it now=
. I
have made friends with the sea; it has taught me a great deal. There=
is a kind of inspiration in the sea. When one listens to its
never-ceasing murmur afar out there, always sounding at midnight and=
midday, one's soul goes out to meet Eternity. Sometimes it gives me =
so
much pleasure that it is almost pain."
She stopped abruptly.
"I don't know why I am talking to you like this."
"You are a strange girl, Magdalen. Have you no other companion =
than
the sea?"
"No. Why should I wish to have? I shall not be here long."=
Elliott's face contracted with a spasm of pain.
"You are not going away, Magdalen?"
"Yes--in the fall. I have my own living to earn, you know. I am
very
poor. Uncle and Aunt are very kind, but I cannot consent to burden
them any longer than I can help."
A sigh that was almost a moan broke from Esterbrook Elliott's lips.<= o:p>
"You must not go away, Magdalen. You must stay here--with me!&q=
uot;
"You forget yourself," she said proudly. "How dare you
speak to me so?
Have you forgotten Miss Lesley? Or are you a traitor to us both?&quo=
t;
Esterbrook made no answer. He bowed his pale, miserable face before<= o:p>
her, self-condemned.
The breast of the bay sparkled with its countless gems like the brea=
st
of a fair woman. The shores were purple and amethystine in the
distance. Far out, bluish, phantom-like sails clustered against the<= o:p>
pallid horizon. The dory danced like a feather over the ripples. The=
y
were close under the shadow of Chapel Point.
* *=
* * <=
/span>*
Marian Lesley waited in vain for her lover that afternoon. When he
came at last in the odorous dusk of the June night she met him on th=
e
acacia-shadowed verandah with cold sweetness. Perhaps some subtle
woman-instinct whispered to her where and how he had spent the
afternoon, for she offered him no kiss, nor did she ask him why he h=
ad
failed to come sooner.
His eyes lingered on her in the dim light, taking in every detail of=
her sweet womanly refinement and loveliness, and with difficulty he<= o:p>
choked back a groan. Again he asked himself what madness had come ov=
er
him, and again for an answer rose up the vision of Magdalen Crawford=
's
face as he had seen it that day, crimsoning beneath his gaze.
It was late when he left. Marian watched him out of sight, standing<= o:p>
under the acacias. She shivered as with a sudden chill. "I feel=
as
I
think Vashti must have felt," she murmured aloud, "when,
discrowned
and unqueened, she crept out of the gates of Shushan to hide her
broken heart. I wonder if Esther has already usurped my sceptre. Has=
that girl at the Cove, with her pale, priestess-like face and
mysterious eyes, stolen his heart from me? Perhaps not, for it may
never have been mine. I know that Esterbrook Elliott will be true to=
the letter of his vows to me, no matter what it may cost him. But I<= o:p>
want no pallid shadow of the love that belongs to another. The hour =
of
abdication is at hand, I fear. And what will be left for throneless<= o:p>
Vashti then?"
Esterbrook Elliott, walking home through the mocking calm of the
night, fought a hard battle with himself.
He was face to face with the truth at last--the bitter knowledge tha=
t
he had never loved Marian Lesley, save with a fond, brotherly
affection, and that he did love Magdalen Crawford with a passion tha=
t
threatened to sweep before it every vestige of his honour and
loyalty.
He had seen her but three times--and his throbbing heart lay in the<= o:p>
hollow of her cold white hand.
He shut his eyes and groaned. What madness. What unutterable folly! =
He
was not free--he was bound to another by every cord of honour and
self-respect. And, even were he free, Magdalen Crawford would be no<= o:p>
fit wife for him--in the eyes of the world, at least. A girl from th=
e
Cove--a girl with little education and no social standing--aye! but =
he
loved her.
He groaned again and again in his misery. Afar down the slope the ba=
y
waters lay like an inky strip and the distant, murmurous plaint of t=
he
sea came out of the stillness of the night; the lights at the Cove
glimmered faintly.
In the week that followed he went to the Cove every day. Sometimes h=
e
did not see Magdalen; at other times he did. But at the end of the
week he had conquered in the bitter, heart-crushing struggle with
himself. If he had weakly given way to the first mad sweep of a new<= o:p>
passion, the strength of his manhood reasserted itself at last.
Faltering and wavering were over, though there was passionate pain i=
n
his voice when he said at last, "I am not coming back again,
Magdalen."
They were standing in the shadow of the pine-fringed point that ran<= o:p>
out to the left of the Cove. They had been walking together along th=
e
shore, watching the splendour of the sea sunset that flamed and glow=
ed
in the west, where there was a sea of mackerel clouds, crimson and
amber tinted, with long, ribbon-like strips of apple-green sky
between. They had walked in silence, hand in hand, as children might=
have done, yet with the stir and throb of a mighty passion seething =
in
their hearts.
Magdalen turned as Esterbrook spoke, and looked at him in a long
silence. The bay stretched out before them, tranced and shimmering; =
a
few stars shone down through the gloom of dusk. Right across the
translucent greens and roses and blues of the west hung a dark,
unsightly cloud, like the blurred outline of a monstrous bat. In the=
dim, reflected light the girl's mournful face took on a weird,
unearthly beauty. She turned her eyes from Esterbrook Elliott's set<= o:p>
white face to the radiant gloom of the sea.
"That is best," she answered at last, slowly.
"Best--yes! Better that we had never met! I love you--you know<= o:p>
it--words are idle between us. I never loved before--I thought I did=
.
I made a mistake and I must pay the penalty of that mistake. You
understand me?"
"I understand," she answered simply.
"I do not excuse myself--I have been weak and cowardly and
disloyal.
But I have conquered myself--I will be true to the woman to whom I a=
m
pledged. You and I must not meet again. I will crush this madness to=
death. I think I have been delirious ever since that day I saw you
first, Magdalen. My brain is clearer now. I see my duty and I mean t=
o
do it at any cost. I dare not trust myself to say more. Magdalen, I<= o:p>
have much for which to ask your forgiveness."
"There is nothing to forgive," she said steadily. "I =
have
been as much
to blame as you. If I had been as resolute as I ought to have been--=
if
I had sent you away the second time as I did the first--this would n=
ot
have come to pass. I have been weak too, and I deserve to atone for =
my
weakness by suffering. There is only one path open to us. Esterbrook=
,
good-bye." Her voice quivered with an uncontrollable spasm of p=
ain,
but the misty, mournful eyes did not swerve from his. The man steppe=
d
forward and caught her in his arms.
"Magdalen, good-bye, my darling. Kiss me once--only once--befor=
e I
go."
She loosened his arms and stepped back proudly.
"No! No man kisses my lips unless he is to be my husband. Good-=
bye,
dear."
He bowed his head silently and went away, looking back not once, els=
e
he might have seen her kneeling on the damp sand weeping noiselessly=
and passionately.
* *=
* * *
Marian Lesley looked at his pale, determined face the next evening a=
nd
read it like an open book.
She had grown paler herself; there were purple shadows under the swe=
et
violet eyes that might have hinted of her own sleepless nights.
She greeted him calmly, holding out a steady, white hand of welcome.=
She saw the traces of the struggle through which he had passed and
knew that he had come off victor.
The knowledge made her task a little harder. It would have been easi=
er
to let slip the straining cable than to cast it from her when it lay=
unresistingly in her hand.
For an instant her heart thrilled with an unutterably sweet hope.
Might he not forget in time? Need she snap in twain the weakened bon=
d
between them after all? Perhaps she might win back her lost sceptre,=
yet if--
Womanly pride throttled the struggling hope. No divided allegiance, =
no
hollow semblance of queenship for her!
Her opportunity came when Esterbrook asked with grave earnestness if=
their marriage might not be hastened a little--could he not have his=
bride in August? For a fleeting second Marian closed her eyes and th=
e
slender hands, lying among the laces in her lap, clasped each other<= o:p>
convulsively.
Then she said quietly, "Sometimes I have thought, Esterbrook, t=
hat
it
might be better--if we were never married at all."
Esterbrook turned a startled face upon her.
"Not married at all! Marian, what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I do not think we are as well suited to each
other
after all as we have fancied. We have loved each other as brother an=
d
sister might--that is all. I think it will be best to be brother and=
sister forever--nothing more."
Esterbrook sprang to his feet.
"Marian, do you know what you are saying? You surely cannot hav=
e
heard--no one could have told you--"
"I have heard nothing," she interrupted hurriedly. "No
one has told me
anything. I have only said what I have been thinking of late. I am
sure we have made a mistake. It is not too late to remedy it. You wi=
ll
not refuse my request, Esterbrook? You will set me free?"
"Good heavens, Marian!" he said hoarsely. "I cannot
realize that you
are in earnest. Have you ceased to care for me?" The rigidly lo=
cked
hands were clasped a little tighter.
"No--I shall always care for you as my friend if you will let m=
e.
But
I know we could not make each other happy--the time for that has gon=
e
by. I would never be satisfied, nor would you. Esterbrook, will you<= o:p>
release me from a promise which has become an irksome fetter?"<= o:p>
He looked down on her upturned face mistily. A great joy was surging=
up in his heart--yet it was mingled with great regret.
He knew--none better--what was passing out of his life, what he was<= o:p>
losing when he lost that pure, womanly nature.
"If you really mean this, Marian," he said slowly, "if
you really have
come to feel that your truest love is not and never can be mine--tha=
t
I cannot make you happy--then there is nothing for me to do but to
grant your request. You are free."
"Thank you, dear," she said gently, as she stood up.
She slipped his ring from her finger and held it out to him. He took=
it mechanically. He still felt dazed and unreal.
Marian held out her hand.
"Good-night, Esterbrook," she said, a little wearily. &quo=
t;I
feel tired. I
am glad you see it all in the same light as I do."
"Marian," he said earnestly, clasping the outstretched han=
d,
"are you
sure that you will be happy--are you sure that you are doing a wise<= o:p>
thing?"
"Quite sure," she answered, with a faint smile. "I am=
not
acting
rashly. I have thought it all over carefully. Things are much better=
so, dear. We will always be friends. Your joys and sorrows will be t=
o
me as my own. When another love comes to bless your life, Esterbrook=
,
I will be glad. And now, good-night. I want to be alone now."
At the doorway he turned to look back at her, standing in all her
sweet stateliness in the twilight duskness, and the keen realization=
of all he had lost made him bow his head with a quick pang of regret=
.
Then he went out into the darkness of the summer night.
An hour later he stood alone on the little point where he had parted=
with Magdalen the night before. A restless night wind was moaning
through the pines that fringed the bank behind him; the moon shone
down radiantly, turning the calm expanse of the bay into a milk-whit=
e
sheen.
He took Marian's ring from his pocket and kissed it reverently. Then=
he threw it from him far out over the water. For a second the diamon=
d
flashed in the moonlight; then, with a tiny splash, it fell among th=
e
ripples.
Esterbrook turned his face to the Cove, lying dark and silent in the=
curve between the crescent headlands. A solitary light glimmered fro=
m
the low eaves of the Barrett cottage.
Tomorrow, was his unspoken thought, I will be free; to go back to
Magdalen.
It was a gloomy Saturday morning. The trees in the Oaklawn grounds
were tossing wildly in the gusts of wind, and sodden brown leaves we=
re
blown up against the windows of the library, where a score of girls<= o:p>
were waiting for the principal to bring the mail in.
The big room echoed with the pleasant sound of girlish voices and lo=
w
laughter, for in a fortnight school would close for the holidays, an=
d
they were all talking about their plans and anticipations.
Only Ruth Mannering was, as usual, sitting by herself near one of th=
e
windows, looking out on the misty lawn. She was a pale, slender girl=
,
with a sad face, and was dressed in rather shabby black. She had no<= o:p>
special friend at Oaklawn, and the other girls did not know much abo=
ut
her. If they had thought about it at all, they would probably have
decided that they did not like her; but for the most part they simpl=
y
overlooked her.
This was not altogether their fault. Ruth was poor and apparently
friendless, but it was not her poverty that was against her. Lou
Scott, who was "as poor as a church mouse," to quote her o=
wn
frank
admission, was the most popular girl in the seminary, the boon
companion of the richest girls, and in demand with everybody. But Lo=
u
was jolly and frank and offhanded, while Ruth was painfully shy and<= o:p>
reserved, and that was the secret of the whole matter.
There was "no fun in her," the girls said, and so it came
about that
she was left out of their social life, and was almost as solitary at=
Oaklawn as if she had been the only girl there. She was there for th=
e
special purpose of studying music, and expected to earn her own livi=
ng
by teaching it when she left. She believed that the girls looked dow=
n
on her on this account; this was unjust, of course, but Ruth had no<= o:p>
idea how much her own coldness and reserve had worked against her.
Across the room Carol Golden was, as usual, the centre of an animate=
d
group; Golden Carol as her particular friends sometimes called her,<= o:p>
partly because of her beautiful voice, and partly because of her
wonderful fleece of golden hair. Carol was one of the seminary pets,=
and seemed to Ruth Mannering to have everything that she had not.
Presently the mail was brought in, and there was a rush to the table=
,
followed by exclamations of satisfaction or disappointment. In a few=
minutes the room was almost deserted. Only two girls remained: Carol=
Golden, who had dropped into a big chair to read her many letters; a=
nd
Ruth Mannering, who had not received any and had gone silently back =
to
her part of the window.
Presently Carol gave a little cry of delight. Her mother had written=
that she might invite any friend she wished home with her to spend t=
he
holidays. Carol had asked for this permission, and now that it had
come was ready to dance for joy. As to whom she would ask, there cou=
ld
be only one answer to that. Of course it must be her particular
friend, Maud Russell, who was the cleverest and prettiest girl at
Oaklawn, at least so her admirers said. She was undoubtedly the
richest, and was the acknowledged "leader." The girls
affectionately
called her "Princess," and Carol adored her with that roma=
ntic
affection that is found only among school girls. She knew, too, that=
Maud would surely accept her invitation because she did not intend t=
o
go home. Her parents were travelling in
spend her holidays with some cousins, who were almost strangers to
her.
Carol was so much pleased that she felt as if she must talk to
somebody, so she turned to Ruth.
"Isn't it delightful to think that we'll all be going home in a=
fortnight?"
"Yes, very--for those that have homes to go to," said Ruth
drearily.
Carol felt a quick pang of pity and self-reproach. "Haven't
you?" she
asked.
Ruth shook her head. In spite of herself, the kindness of Carol's to=
ne
brought the tears to her eyes.
"My mother died a year ago," she said in a trembling voice,
"and since
then I have had no real home. We were quite alone in the world, Moth=
er
and I, and now I have nobody."
"Oh, I'm so sorry for you," cried Carol impulsively. She
leaned
forward and took Ruth's hand in a gentle way. "And do you mean =
to
say
that you'll have to stay here all through the holidays? Why, it will=
be horrid."
"Oh, I shall not mind it much," said Ruth quickly, "w=
ith
study and
practice most of the time. Only now, when everyone is talking about<= o:p>
it, it makes me wish that I had some place to go."
Carol dropped Ruth's hand suddenly in the shock of a sudden idea tha=
t
darted into her mind.
A stray girl passing through the hall called out, "Ruth, Miss
Siviter
wishes to see you about something in Room C."
Ruth got up quickly. She was glad to get away, for it seemed to her<= o:p>
that in another minute she would break down altogether.
Carol Golden hardly noticed her departure. She gathered up her lette=
rs
and went abstractedly to her room, unheeding a gay call for "Go=
lden
Carol" from a group of girls in the corridor. Maud Russell was =
not
in
and Carol was glad. She wanted to be alone and fight down that sudde=
n
idea.
"It is ridiculous to think of it," she said aloud, with a
petulance
very unusual in Golden Carol, whose disposition was as sunny as her<= o:p>
looks. "Why, I simply cannot. I have always been longing to ask
Maud
to visit me, and now that the chance has come I am not going to thro=
w
it away. I am very sorry for Ruth, of course. It must be dreadful to=
be all alone like that. But it isn't my fault. And she is so fearful=
ly
quiet and dowdy--what would they all think of her at home? Frank and=
Jack would make such fun of her. I shall ask Maud just as soon as sh=
e
comes in."
Maud did come in presently, but Carol did not give her the invitatio=
n.
Instead, she was almost snappish to her idol, and the Princess soon<= o:p>
went out again in something of a huff.
"Oh, dear," cried Carol, "now I've offended her. What=
has
got into me?
What a disagreeable thing a conscience is, although I'm sure I don't=
know why mine should be prodding me so! I don't want to invite Ruth<= o:p>
Mannering home with me for the holidays, but I feel exactly as if I<= o:p>
should not have a minute's peace of mind all the time if I didn't.
Mother would think it all right, of course. She would not mind if Ru=
th
dressed in calico and never said anything but yes and no. But how th=
e
boys would laugh! I simply won't do it, conscience or no
conscience."
In view of this decision it was rather strange that the next morning=
,
Carol Golden went down to Ruth Mannering's lonely little room on
Corridor Two and said, "Ruth, will you go home with me for the<= o:p>
holidays? Mother wrote me to invite anyone I wished to. Don't say yo=
u
can't come, dear, because you must."
Carol never, as long as she lived, forgot Ruth's face at that moment=
.
"It was absolutely transfigured," she said afterwards. &qu=
ot;I
never saw
anyone look so happy in my life."
* *=
* * *
A fortnight later unwonted silence reigned at Oaklawn. The girls wer=
e
scattered far and wide, and Ruth Mannering and Carol Golden were at<= o:p>
the latter's home.
Carol was a very much surprised girl. Under the influence of kindnes=
s
and pleasure Ruth seemed transformed into a different person. Her
shyness and reserve melted away in the sunny atmosphere of the Golde=
n
home. Mrs. Golden took her into her motherly heart at once; and as f=
or
Frank and Jack, whose verdict Carol had so dreaded, they voted Ruth<= o:p>
"splendid." She certainly got along very well with them; a=
nd
if she
did not make the social sensation that pretty Maud Russell might hav=
e
made, the Goldens all liked her and Carol was content.
"Just four days more," sighed Carol one afternoon, "a=
nd
then we must
go back to Oaklawn. Can you realize it, Ruth?"
Ruth looked up from her book with a smile. Even in appearance she ha=
d
changed. There was a faint pink in her cheeks and a merry light in h=
er
eyes.
"I shall not be sorry to go back to work," she said. "=
;I
feel just like
it because I have had so pleasant a time here that it has heartened =
me
up for next term. I think it will be very different from last. I beg=
in
to see that I kept to myself too much and brooded over fancied
slights."
"And then you are to room with me since Maud is not coming
back," said
Carol. "What fun we shall have. Did you ever toast marshmallows
over
the gas? Why, I declare, there is Mr. Swift coming up the walk. Look=
,
Ruth! He is the richest man in Westleigh."
Ruth peeped out of the window over Carol's shoulder.
"He reminds me of somebody," she said absently, "but I
can't think who
it is. Of course, I have never seen him before. What a good face he<= o:p>
has!"
"He is as good as he looks," said Carol, enthusiastically.
"Next to
Father, Mr. Swift is the nicest man in the world. I have always been=
quite a pet of his. His wife is dead, and so is his only daughter. S=
he
was a lovely girl and died only two years ago. It nearly broke Mr.
Swift's heart. And he has lived alone ever since in that great big
house up at the head of
the last time we were uptown. There's the bell for the second time,<= o:p>
Mary can't have heard it. I'll go myself."
As Carol showed the caller into the room, Ruth rose to leave and thu=
s
came face to face with him. Mr. Swift started perceptibly.
"Mr. Swift, this is my school friend, Miss Mannering," said
Carol.
Mr. Swift seemed strangely agitated as he took Ruth's timidly offere=
d
hand.
"My dear young lady," he said hurriedly, "I am going =
to
ask you what
may seem a very strange question. What was your mother's name?"=
"Agnes Hastings," answered Ruth in surprise. And then Carol
really
thought that Mr. Swift had gone crazy, for he drew Ruth into his arm=
s
and kissed her.
"I knew it," he said. "I was sure you were Agnes'
daughter, for you
are the living image of what she was when I last saw her. Child, you=
don't know me, but I am your Uncle Robert. Your mother was my
half-sister."
"Oh, Mr. Swift!" cried Carol, and then she ran for her mot=
her.
Ruth turned pale and dropped into a chair, and Mr. Swift sat down
beside her.
"To think that I have found you at last, child. How puzzled you
look.
Did your mother never speak of me? How is she? Where is she?"
"Mother died last year," said Ruth.
"Poor Agnes! And I never knew! Don't cry, little girl. I want y=
ou
to
tell me all about it. She was much younger than I was, and when our<= o:p>
mother died my stepfather went away and took her with him. I remaine=
d
with my father's people and eventually lost all trace of my sister. =
I
was a poor boy then, but things have looked up with me and I have
often tried to find her."
By this time Carol had returned with her father and mother, and ther=
e
was a scene--laughing, crying, explaining--and I don't really know
which of the two girls was the more excited, Carol or Ruth. As for M=
r.
Swift, he was overjoyed to find his niece and wanted to carry her of=
f
with him then and there, but Mrs. Golden insisted on her finishing h=
er
visit. When the question of returning to Oaklawn came up, Mr. Swift<= o:p>
would not hear of it at first, but finally yielded to Carol's
entreaties and Ruth's own desire.
"I shall graduate next year, Uncle, and then I can come back to=
you
for good."
That evening when Ruth was alone in her room, trying to collect her<= o:p>
thoughts and realize that the home and love that she had so craved
were really to be hers at last, Golden Carol was with her mother in<= o:p>
the room below, talking it all over.
"Just think, Mother, if I had not asked Ruth to come here, this
would
not have happened. And I didn't want to, I wanted to ask Maud so muc=
h,
and I was dreadfully disappointed when I couldn't--for I really
couldn't. I could not help remembering the look in Ruth's eyes when<= o:p>
she said that she had no home to go to, and so I asked her instead o=
f
Maud. How dreadful it would have been if I hadn't."
One summer I was attacked by the craze for amateur photography. It
became chronic afterwards, and I and my camera have never since been=
parted. We have had some odd adventures together, and one of the mos=
t
novel of our experiences was that in which we played the part of chi=
ef
witness against Ned Brooke.
I may say that my name is Amy Clarke, and that I believe I am
considered the best amateur photographer in our part of the country.=
That is all I need tell you about myself.
Mr. Carroll had asked me to photograph his place for him when the
apple orchards were in bloom. He has a picturesque old-fashioned
country house behind a lawn of the most delightful old trees and
flanked on each side by the orchards. So I went one June afternoon,<= o:p>
with all my accoutrements, prepared to "take" the Carroll<= o:p>
establishment in my best style.
Mr. Carroll was away but was expected home soon, so we waited for hi=
m,
as all the family wished to be photographed under the big maple at t=
he
front door. I prowled around among the shrubbery at the lower end of=
the lawn and, after a great deal of squinting from various angles, I=
at last fixed upon the spot from which I thought the best view of th=
e
house might be obtained. Then Gertie and Lilian Carroll and I got in=
to
the hammocks and swung at our leisure, enjoying the cool breeze
sweeping through the maples.
Ned Brooke was hanging around as usual, watching us furtively. Ned w=
as
one of the hopeful members of a family that lived in a tumble-down
shanty just across the road from the Carrolls. They were wretchedly<= o:p>
poor, and old Brooke, as he was called, and Ned were employed a good=
deal by Mr. Carroll--more out of charity than anything else, I fancy=
.
The Brookes had a rather shady reputation. They were notoriously laz=
y,
and it was suspected that their line of distinction between their ow=
n
and their neighbours' goods was not very clearly drawn. Many people<= o:p>
censured Mr. Carroll for encouraging them at all, but he was too
kind-hearted to let them suffer actual want and, as a consequence, o=
ne
or the other of them was always dodging about his place.
Ned was a lank, tow-headed youth of about fourteen, with shifty,
twinkling eyes that could never look you straight in the face. His
appearance was anything but prepossessing, and I always felt, when I=
looked at him, that if anyone wanted to do a piece of shady work by<= o:p>
proxy, Ned Brooke would be the very lad for the business.
Mr. Carroll came at last, and we all went down to meet him at the
gate. Ned Brooke also came shuffling along to take the horse, and Mr=
.
Carroll tossed the reins to him and at the same time handed a
pocketbook to his wife.
"Just as well to be careful where you put that," he said
laughingly.
"There's a sum in it not to be picked up on every gooseberry bu=
sh.
Gilman Harris paid me this morning for that bit of woodland I sold h=
im
last fall--five hundred dollars. I promised that you and the girls
should have it to get a new piano, so there it is for you."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Carroll delightedly. "However,
you'd better put
it back in your pocket till we go in. Amy is in a hurry."
Mr. Carroll took back the pocketbook and dropped it carelessly into<= o:p>
the inside pocket of the light overcoat that he wore.
I happened to glance at Ned Brooke just then, and I could not help
noticing the sudden crafty, eager expression that flashed over his
face. He eyed the pocketbook in Mr. Carroll's hands furtively, after=
which he went off with the horse in a great hurry.
The girls were exclaiming and thanking their father, and nobody
noticed Ned Brooke's behaviour but myself, and it soon passed out of=
my mind.
"Come to take the place, are you, Amy?" said Mr. Carroll.
"Well,
everything is ready, I think. I suppose we'd better proceed. Where
shall we stand? You had better group us as you think best."
Whereupon I proceeded to arrange them in due order under the maple.<= o:p>
Mrs. Carroll sat in a chair, while her husband stood behind her.
Gertie stood on the steps with a basket of flowers in her hand, and<= o:p>
Lilian was at one side. The two little boys, Teddy and Jack, climbed=
up into the maple, and little Dora, the dimpled six-year-old, stood<= o:p>
gravely in the foreground with an enormous grey cat hugged in her
chubby arms.
It was a pretty group in a pretty setting, and I thrilled with
professional pride as I stepped back for a final, knowing squint at =
it
all. Then I went to my camera, slipped in the plate, gave them due
warning and took off the cap.
I took two plates to make sure and then the thing was over, but as I=
had another plate left I thought I might as well take a view of the<= o:p>
house by itself, so I carried my camera to a new place and had just<= o:p>
got everything ready to lift the cap when Mr. Carroll came down and<= o:p>
said:
"If you girls want to see something pretty, come to the back fi=
eld
with me. That will wait till you come back, won't it, Amy?"
So we all betook ourselves to the back field, a short distance away,=
where Mr. Carroll proudly displayed two of the prettiest little
cows I had ever seen.
We returned to the house by way of the back lane and, as we came in<= o:p>
sight of the main road, my brother Cecil drove up and said that if I=
were ready, I had better go home with him and save myself a hot, dus=
ty
walk.
The Carrolls all went down to the fence to speak to Cecil, but I
dashed hurriedly down through the orchard, leaped over the fence int=
o
the lawn and ran to the somewhat remote corner where I had left my
camera. I was in a desperate hurry, for I knew Cecil's horse did not=
like to be kept waiting, so I never even glanced at the house, but
snatched off the cap, counted two and replaced it.
Then I took out my plate, put it in the holder and gathered up my
traps. I suppose I was about five minutes at it all and I had my bac=
k
to the house the whole time, and when I laid all my things ready and=
emerged from my retreat, there was nobody to be seen about the place=
.
As I hurried up through the lawn, I noticed Ned Brooke walking at a<= o:p>
smart pace down the lane, but the fact did not make any particular
impression on me at the time, and was not recalled until afterwards.=
Cecil was waiting for me, so I got in the buggy and we drove off. On=
arriving home I shut myself up in my dark room and proceeded to
develop the first two negatives of the Carroll housestead. They were=
both excellent, the first one being a trifle the better, so that I
decided to finish from it. I intended also to develop the third, but=
just as I finished the others, a half-dozen city cousins swooped dow=
n
upon us and I had to put away my paraphernalia, emerge from my dark<= o:p>
retreat and fly around to entertain them.
The next day Cecil came in and said:
"Did you hear, Amy, that Mr. Carroll has lost a pocketbook with
five
hundred dollars in it?"
"No!" I exclaimed. "How? When? Where?"
"Don't overwhelm a fellow. I can answer only one question--last
night.
As to the 'how,' they don't know, and as to the 'where'--well, if th=
ey
knew that, there might be some hope of finding it. The girls are in =
a
bad way. The money was to get them their longed-for piano, it seems,=
and now it's gone."
"But how did it happen, Cecil?"
"Well, Mr. Carroll says that Mrs. Carroll handed the pocketbook
back
to him at the gate yesterday, and he dropped it in the inside pocket=
of his over-coat--"
"I saw him do it," I cried.
"Yes, and then, before he went to be photographed, he hung his =
coat
up
in the hall. It hung there until the evening, and nobody seems to ha=
ve
thought about the money, each supposing that someone else had put it=
carefully away. After tea Mr. Carroll put on the coat and went to se=
e
somebody over at Netherby. He says the thought of the pocketbook nev=
er
crossed his mind; he had forgotten all about putting it in that coat=
pocket. He came home across the fields about eleven o'clock and foun=
d
that the cows had broken into the clover hay, and he had a great cha=
se
before he got them out. When he went in, just as he entered the door=
,
the remembrance of the money flashed over him. He felt in his pocket=
,
but there was no pocketbook there; he asked his wife if she had take=
n
it out. She had not, and nobody else had. There was a hole in the
pocket, but Mr. Carroll says it was too small for the pocketbook to<= o:p>
have worked through. However, it must have done so--unless someone
took it out of his pocket at Netherby, and that is not possible,
because he never had his coat off, and it was in an inside pocket.
It's not likely that they will ever see it again. Someone may pick i=
t
up, of course, but the chances are slim. Mr. Carroll doesn't know hi=
s
exact path across the fields, and if he lost it while he was after t=
he
cows, it's a bluer show still. They've been searching all day, of
course. The girls are awfully disappointed."
A sudden recollection came to me of Ned Brooke's face as I had seen =
it
the day before at the gate, coupled with the remembrance of seeing h=
im
walking down the lane at a quick pace, so unlike his usual shambling=
gait, while I ran through the lawn.
"How do they know it was lost?" I said. "Perhaps it w=
as
stolen before
Mr. Carroll went to Netherby."
"They think not," said Cecil. "Who would have stolen
it?"
"Ned Brooke. I saw him hanging around. And you never saw such a
look
as came over his face when he heard Mr. Carroll say there was five
hundred dollars in that pocketbook."
"Well, I did suggest to them that Ned might know something about
it,
for I remembered having seen him go down the lane while I was waitin=
g
for you, but they won't hear of such a thing. The Brookes are kind o=
f
protégés of theirs, you know, and they won't believe anything bad of=
them. If Ned did take it, however, there's not a shadow of evidence<= o:p>
against him."
"No, I suppose not," I answered thoughtfully, "but the
more I think it
over, the more I'm convinced that he took it. You know, we all went =
to
the back field to look at the
hanging there in the hall, and not a soul in the house. And it was
just after we came back that I saw Ned scuttling down the lane so
fast."
I mentioned my suspicions to the Carrolls a few days afterwards, whe=
n
I went down with the photographs, and found that they had discovered=
no trace of the lost pocketbook. But they seemed positively angry wh=
en
I hinted that Ned Brooke might know more about its whereabouts than<= o:p>
anyone else. They declared that they would as soon think of suspecti=
ng
one of themselves as Ned, and altogether they seemed so offended at =
my
suggestion that I held my peace and didn't irritate them by any more=
suppositions.
Afterwards, in the excitement of our cousins' visit, the matter pass=
ed
out of my mind completely. They stayed two weeks, and I was so busy<= o:p>
the whole time that I never got a chance to develop that third plate=
and, in fact, I had forgotten all about it.
One morning soon after they went away, I remembered the plate and
decided to go and develop it. Cecil went with me, and we shut
ourselves up in our den, lit our ruby lantern and began operations. =
I
did not expect much of the plate, because it had been exposed and
handled carelessly, and I thought that it might prove to be
underexposed or light-struck. So I left Cecil to develop it while I<= o:p>
prepared the fixing bath. Cecil was whistling away when suddenly he<= o:p>
gave a tremendous "whew" of astonishment and sprang to his
feet.
"Amy, Amy, look here!" he cried.
I rushed to his side and looked at the plate as he held it up in the=
rosy light. It was a splendid one, and the Carroll house came out
clear, with the front door and the steps in full view.
And there, just in the act of stepping from the threshold, was the
figure of a boy with an old straw hat on his head and--in his
hand--the pocketbook!
He was standing with his head turned towards the corner of the house=
as if listening, with one hand holding his ragged coat open and the<= o:p>
other poised in mid-air with the pocketbook, as if he were just goin=
g
to put it in his inside pocket. The whole scene was as clear as
noonday, and nobody with eyes in his head could have failed to
recognize Ned Brooke.
"Goodness!" I gasped. "In with it--quick!"
And we doused the thing into the fixing bath and then sat down
breathlessly and looked at each other.
"I say, Amy," said Cecil, "what a sell this will be on
the Carrolls!
Ned Brooke couldn't do such a thing--oh, no! The poor injured boy at=
whom everyone has such an unlawful pick! I wonder if this will
convince them."
"Do you think they can get it all back?" I asked. "It=
's
not likely he
would have dared to use any of it yet."
"I don't know. We'll have a try, anyhow. How long before this p=
late
will be dry enough to carry down to the Carrolls as circumstantial
evidence?"
"Three hours or thereabouts," I answered, "but perhaps
sooner. I'll
take two prints off when it is ready. I wonder what the Carrolls wil=
l
say."
"It's a piece of pure luck that the plate should have turned ou=
t so
well after the slap-dash way in which it was taken and used. I say,<= o:p>
Amy, isn't this quite an adventure?"
At last the plate was dry, and I printed two proofs. We wrapped them=
up carefully and marched down to Mr. Carroll's.
You never saw people so overcome with astonishment as the Carrolls
were when Cecil, with the air of a statesman unfolding the evidence =
of
some dreadful conspiracy against the peace and welfare of the nation=
,
produced the plate and the proofs, and held them out before them.
Mr. Carroll and Cecil took the proofs and went over to the Brooke
shanty. They found only Ned and his mother at home. At first Ned, wh=
en
taxed with his guilt, denied it, but when Mr. Carroll confronted him=
with the proofs, he broke down in a spasm of terror and confessed al=
l.
His mother produced the pocketbook and the money--they had not dared=
to spend a single cent of it--and Mr. Carroll went home in triumph.<= o:p>
Perhaps Ned Brooke ought not to have been let off so easily as he wa=
s,
but his mother cried and pleaded, and Mr. Carroll was too kind-heart=
ed
to resist. So he did not punish them at all, save by utterly
discarding the whole family and their concerns. The place got too ho=
t
for them after the story came out, and in less than a month all move=
d
away--much to the benefit of Mapleton.
My trunk was packed and I had arranged with my senior partner--I was=
the junior member of a law firm--for a month's vacation. Aunt Lucy h=
ad
written that her husband had gone on a sea trip and she wished me to=
superintend the business of his farm and mills in his absence, if I<= o:p>
could arrange to do so. She added that "Gussie" thought it=
was
a pity
to trouble me, and wanted to do the overseeing herself, but that
she--Aunt Lucy--preferred to have a man at the head of affairs.
I had never seen my step-cousin, Augusta Ashley, but I knew, from Au=
nt
Lucy's remarks concerning her, pretty much what sort of person she
was--just the precise kind I disliked immeasurably. I had no idea wh=
at
her age was, but doubtless she was over thirty, tall, determined,
aggressive, with a "faculty" for managing, a sharp, probing
nose, and
a y-formation between her eyebrows. I knew the type, and I was assur=
ed
that the period of sojourn with my respected aunt would be one of
strife between Miss Ashley and myself.
I wrote to Aunt Lucy to expect me, made all necessary arrangements,<= o:p>
and went to bid Nellie goodbye. I had made up my mind to marry Nelli=
e.
I had never openly avowed myself her suitor, but we were cousins, an=
d
had grown up together, so that I knew her well enough to be sure of =
my
ground. I liked her so well that it was easy to persuade myself that=
I
was in love with her. She more nearly fulfilled the requirements of =
my
ideal wife than anyone I knew. She was pleasant to look upon, withou=
t
being distractingly pretty; small and fair and womanly. She dressed<= o:p>
nicely, sang and played agreeably, danced well, and had a cheerful,<= o:p>
affectionate disposition. She was not alarmingly clever, had no
"hobbies," and looked up to me as heir to all the wisdom of
the
ages--what man does not like to be thought clever and brilliant? I h=
ad
no formidable rival, and our families were anxious for the match. I<= o:p>
considered myself a lucky fellow. I felt that I would be very lonely=
without Nellie when I was away, and she admitted frankly that she
would miss me awfully. She looked so sweet that I was on the point o=
f
asking her then and there to marry me. Well, fate interfered in the<= o:p>
guise of a small brother, so I said goodbye and left, mentally
comparing her to my idea of Miss Augusta Ashley, much to the latter'=
s
disadvantage.
When I stepped from the train at a sleepy country station next day I=
was promptly waylaid by a black-eyed urchin who informed me that Mrs=
.
Ashley had sent him with an express wagon for my luggage, and that
"Miss Gussie" was waiting with the carriage at the store,
pointing
down to a small building before whose door a girl was trying to soot=
he
her frightened horse.
As I went down the slope towards her I noticed she was tall--quite t=
oo
tall for my taste. I dislike women who can look into my eyes on a
level--but I had to admit that her form was remarkably symmetrical a=
nd
graceful. She put out her hand--it was ungloved and large, but white=
and firm, with a cool, pleasant touch--and said, with a composure ak=
in
to indifference, "Mr. Carslake, I presume. Mother could not com=
e to
meet you, so she sent me. Will you be kind enough to hold my horse f=
or
a few minutes? I want to get something in the store." Whereupon=
she
calmly transferred the reins to me and disappeared.
At the time she certainly did not impress me as pretty, yet neither<= o:p>
could I call her plain. Taken separately, her features were good. He=
r
nose was large and straight, the mouth also a trifle large but firm<= o:p>
and red, the brow wide and white, shadowed by a straying dash of bro=
wn
curl or two. She had a certain cool, statuesque paleness, accentuate=
d
by straight, fine, black brows, and her eyes were a bluish grey; but=
the pupils, as I afterward found out, had a trick of dilating into
wells of blackness which, added to a long fringe of very dark lashes=
,
made her eyes quite the most striking feature of her face. Her
expression was open and frank, and her voice clear and musical witho=
ut
being sweet. She looked about twenty-two.
At the time I did not fancy her appearance and made a mental note to=
the effect that I would never like Miss Ashley. I had no use for coo=
l,
businesslike women--women should have no concern with business. Nell=
ie
would never have troubled her dear, curly head over it.
Miss Ashley came out with her arms full of packages, stowed them awa=
y
in the carriage, got in, told me which road to take, and did not aga=
in
speak till we were out of the village and driving along a pretty
country lane, arched over with crimson maples and golden-brown
beeches. The purplish haze of a sunny autumn day mellowed over the
fields, and the bunch of golden rod at my companion's belt was akin =
to
the plumed ranks along the fences. I hazarded the remark that it was=
a
fine day; Miss Ashley gravely admitted that it was. Then a deep smil=
e
seemed to rise somewhere in her eyes and creep over her face,
discovering a dimple here and there as it proceeded.
"Don't let's talk about the weather--the subject is rather
stale," she
said. "I suppose you are wondering why on earth Mother had to d=
rag
you
away out here. I tried to show her how foolish it was, but I didn't<= o:p>
succeed. Mother thinks there must be a man at the head of affairs or=
they'll never go right. I could have taken full charge easily enough=
;
I haven't been Father's 'boy' all my life for nothing. There was no<= o:p>
need to take you away from your business."
I protested. I said I was going to take a vacation anyway, and
business was not pressing just then. I also hinted that, while I had=
no doubt of her capacity, she might have found the duties of
superintendent rather arduous.
"Not at all," she said, with a serenity that made me groan
inwardly.
"I like it. Father always said I was a born business manager.
You'll
find Ashley's Mills very quiet, I'm afraid. It's a sort of charmed
Sleepy Hollow. See, there's home," as we turned a maple-blazone=
d
corner and looked from the crest of one hill across to that of
another. "Home" was a big, white, green-shuttered house bu=
ried
amid a
riot of autumn colour, with a big grove of dark green spruces at the=
back. Below them was a glimpse of a dark blue mill pond and beyond i=
t
long sweeps of golden-brown meadow land, sloping up till they dimmed=
in horizon mists of pearl and purple.
"How pretty," I exclaimed admiringly.
"Isn't it?" said Gussie proudly. "I love it." Her
pupils dilated into
dark pools, and I rather unwillingly admitted that Miss Ashley was a=
fine-looking girl.
As we drove up Aunt Lucy was standing on the steps of the verandah,<= o:p>
over whose white roof trailed a luxuriant creeper, its leaves tinged=
by October frosts into lovely wine reds and tawny yellows. Gussie
sprang out, barely touching my offered hand with her fingertips.
"There's Mother waiting to pounce on you and hear all the famil=
y
news," she said, "so go and greet her like a dutiful
nephew."
"I must take out your horse for you first," I said politel=
y.
"Not at all," said Miss Ashley, taking the reins from my h=
ands
in a
way not to be disputed. "I always unharness Charley myself. No =
one
understands him half so well. Besides, I'm used to it. Didn't I tell=
you I'd always been Father's boy?"
"I well believe it," I thought in disgust, as she led the
horse over
to the well and I went up to Aunt Lucy. Through the sitting-room
windows I kept a watchful eye on Miss Ashley as she watered and deft=
ly
unharnessed Charley and led him into his stable with sundry pats on<= o:p>
his nose. Then I saw no more of her till she came in to tell us tea<= o:p>
was ready, and led the way out to the dining room.
It was evident Miss Gussie held the reins of household government, a=
nd
no doubt worthily. Those firm, capable white hands of hers looked as=
though they might be equal to a good many emergencies. She talked
little, leaving the conversation to Aunt Lucy and myself, though she=
occasionally dropped in an apt word. Toward the end of the meal,
however, she caught hold of an unfortunate opinion I had incautiousl=
y
advanced and tore it into tatters. The result was a spirited argumen=
t,
in which Miss Gussie held her own with such ability that I was utter=
ly
routed and found another grievance against her. It was very
humiliating to be worsted by a girl--a country girl at that, who had=
passed most of her life on a farm! No doubt she was strong-minded an=
d
wanted to vote. I was quite prepared to believe anything of her.
After tea Miss Ashley proposed a walk around the premises, in order =
to
initiate me into my duties. Apart from his farm, Mr. Ashley owned
large grist-and saw-mills and did a flourishing business, with the
details of which Miss Gussie seemed so conversant that I lost all
doubt of her ability to run the whole thing as she had claimed. I fe=
lt
quite ignorant in the light of her superior knowledge, and our walk<= o:p>
was enlivened by some rather too lively discussions between us. We
walked about together, however, till the shadows of the firs by the<= o:p>
mills stretched nearly across the pond and the white moon began to p=
ut
on a silvery burnish. Then we wound up by a bitter dispute, during
which Gussie's eyes were very black and each cheek had a round, red<= o:p>
stain on it. She had a little air of triumph at having defeated me.<= o:p>
"I have to go now and see about putting away the milk, and I da=
re
say
you're not sorry to be rid of me," she said, with a demureness I
had
not credited her with, "but if you come to the verandah in half=
an
hour I'll bring you out a glass of new milk and some pound cake I ma=
de
today by a recipe that's been in the family for one hundred years, a=
nd
I hope it will choke you for all the snubs you've been giving me.&qu=
ot;
She
walked away after this amiable wish, and I stood by the pond till th=
e
salmon tints faded from its waters and stars began to mirror
themselves brokenly in its ripples. The mellow air was full of sweet=
,
mingled eventide sounds as I walked back to the house. Aunt Lucy was=
knitting on the verandah. Gussie brought out cake and milk and chatt=
ed
to us while we ate, in an inconsequent girlish way, or fed bits of
cake to a green-eyed goblin in the likeness of a black cat.
She appeared in such an amiable light that I was half inclined to
reconsider my opinion of her. When I went to my room the vase full o=
f
crimson leaves on my table suggested Gussie, and I repented of my
unfriendliness for a moment--and only for a moment. Gussie and her
mother passed through the hall below, and Aunt Lucy's soft voice
floated up through my half-open door.
"Well, how do you like your cousin, my dear?"
Whereat that decided young lady promptly answered, "I think he =
is
the
most conceited youth I've met for some time."
Pleasant, wasn't it? I thought of Nellie's meek admiration of all my=
words and ways, and got her photo out to soothe my vanity. For the
first time it struck me that her features were somewhat insipid. The=
thought seemed like disloyalty, so I banished it and went to bed.
I expected to dream of that disagreeable Gussie, but I did not, and =
I
slept so soundly that it was ten o'clock the next morning before I
woke. I sprang out of bed in dismay, dressed hastily, and ran down,<= o:p>
not a little provoked at myself. Through the window I saw Gussie in<= o:p>
the garden digging up some geraniums. She was enveloped in a
clay-stained brown apron, a big flapping straw hat half hid her face=
,
and she wore a pair of muddy old kid gloves. Her whole appearance wa=
s
disreputable, and the face she turned to me as I said "Good
morning"
had a diagonal streak of clay across it. I added slovenliness to my<= o:p>
already long list of her demerits.
"Good afternoon, rather. Don't you know what time it is? The men
were
here three hours ago for their orders. I thought it a pity to distur=
b
your peaceful dreams, so I gave them myself and sent them off."=
I was angrier than ever. A nice beginning I had made. And was that
girl laughing at me?
"I expected to be called in time, certainly," I said stiff=
ly.
"I am
not accustomed to oversleep myself. I promise it will not occur
again."
My dignity was quite lost on Gussie. She peeled off her gloves
cheerfully and said, "I suppose you'd like some breakfast. Just
wait
till I wash my hands and I'll get you some. Then if you're pining to=
be useful you can help me take up these geraniums."
There was no help for it. After I had breakfasted I went, with many<= o:p>
misgivings. We got on fairly well, however. Gussie was particularly<= o:p>
lively and kept me too busy for argument. I quite enjoyed the time a=
nd
we did not quarrel until nearly the last, when we fell out bitterly<= o:p>
over some horticultural problem and went in to dinner in sulky
silence. Gussie disappeared after dinner and I saw no more of her. I=
was glad of this, but after a time I began to find it a little dull.=
Even a dispute would have been livelier. I visited the mills, looked=
over the farm, and then carelessly asked Aunt Lucy where Miss Ashley=
was. Aunt Lucy replied that she had gone to visit a friend and would=
not be back till the next day.
This was satisfactory, of course, highly so. What a relief it was to=
be rid of that girl with her self-assertiveness and independence. I<= o:p>
said to myself that I hoped her friend would keep her for a week. I<= o:p>
forgot to be disappointed that she had not when, next afternoon, I s=
aw
Gussie coming in at the gate with a tolerably large satchel and an
armful of golden rod. I sauntered down to relieve her, and we had a<= o:p>
sharp argument under way before we were halfway up the lane. As usua=
l
Gussie refused to give in that she was wrong.
Her walk had brought a faint, clear tint to her cheeks and her
rippling dusky hair had half slipped down on her neck. She said she<= o:p>
had to make some cookies for tea and if I had nothing better to do I=
might go and talk to her while she mixed them. It was not a gracious=
invitation but I went, rather than be left to my own company.
By the end of the week I was as much at home at Ashley Mills as if I=
had lived there all my life. Gussie and I were thrown together a goo=
d
deal, for lack of other companions, and I saw no reason to change my=
opinion of her. She could be lively and entertaining when she chose,=
and at times she might be called beautiful. Still, I did not approve=
of her--at least I thought so, most of the time. Once in a while cam=
e
a state of feeling which I did not quite understand.
One evening I went to prayer meeting with Aunt Lucy and Gussie. I ha=
d
not seen the minister of Ashley Mills before, though Gussie and her<= o:p>
mother seemed to know him intimately. I had an idea that he was old<= o:p>
and silvery-haired and benevolent-looking. So I was rather surprised=
to find him as young as myself--a tall, pale, intellectual-looking
man, with a high, white brow and dark, earnest eyes--decidedly
attractive.
I was still more surprised when, after the service, he joined Gussie=
at the door and went down the steps with her. I felt distinctly
ill-treated as I fell back with Aunt Lucy. There was no reason why I=
should--none; it ought to have been a relief. Rev. Carroll Martin ha=
d
every right to see Miss Ashley home if he chose. Doubtless a girl wh=
o
knew all there was to be known about business, farming, and milling,=
to say nothing of housekeeping and gardening, could discuss theology=
also. It was none of my business.
I don't know what kept me awake so late that night. As a consequence=
I
overslept myself. I had managed to redeem my reputation on this poin=
t,
but here it was lost again. I felt cross and foolish and cantankerou=
s
when I went out.
There was some unusual commotion at the well. It was an old-fashione=
d
open one, with a chain and windlass. Aunt Lucy was peering anxiously=
down its mouth, from which a ladder was sticking. Just as I got ther=
e
Gussie emerged from its depths with a triumphant face. Her skirt was=
muddy and draggled, her hair had tumbled down, and she held a drippi=
ng
black cat.
"
helped her to the ground. "I missed him at milking-time, and wh=
en I
came to the well this morning I heard the most ear-splitting yowls
coming up from it. I couldn't think where he could possibly be, for<= o:p>
the water was quite calm, until I saw he had crept into a little
crevice in the stones on the side. So I got a ladder and went down
after him."
"You should have called me," I said sourly. "You might
have killed
yourself, going down there."
"And
up," retorted Gussie. "Besides, what was the need? I could=
go
down as
well as you."
"No doubt," I said, more sharply than I had any business t=
o.
"I don't
dream of disputing your ability to do anything you may take it into<= o:p>
your head to do. Most young ladies are not in the habit of going dow=
n
wells, however."
"Perhaps not," she rejoined, with freezing calmness.
"But, as you may
have discovered, I am not 'most young ladies.' I am myself, Augusta<= o:p>
Ashley, and accountable to nobody but myself if I choose to go down<= o:p>
the well every day for pure love of it."
She walked off in her wet dress with her muddy cat. Gussie Ashley wa=
s
the only girl I ever saw who could be dignified under such
circumstances.
I was in a very bad humour with myself as I went off to see about
having the well cleaned out. I had offended Gussie and I knew she
would not be easily appeased. Nor was she. For a week she kept me
politely, studiously, at a distance, in spite of my most humble
advances. Rev. Carroll was a frequent caller, ostensibly to make
arrangements about a Sunday school they were organizing in a poor pa=
rt
of the community. Gussie and he held long conversations on this
enthralling subject. Then Gussie went on another visit to her friend=
,
and when she came back so did Rev. Carroll.
One calm, hazy afternoon I was coming slowly up from the mills.
Happening to glance at the kitchen roof, I gasped. It was on fire in=
one place. Evidently the dry shingles had caught fire from a spark.<= o:p>
There was not a soul about save Gussie, Aunt Lucy, and myself. I
dashed wildly into the kitchen, where Gussie was peeling apples.
"The house is on fire," I exclaimed. Gussie dropped her kn=
ife
and
turned pale.
"Don't wake Mother," was all she said, as she snatched a
bucket of
water from the table. The ladder was still lying by the well. In a
second I had raised it to the roof and, while Gussie went up it like=
a
squirrel and dashed the water on the flames, I had two more buckets<= o:p>
ready for her.
Fortunately the fire had made little headway, though a few minutes
more would have given it a dangerous start. The flames hissed and di=
ed
out as Gussie threw on the water, and in a few seconds only a small<= o:p>
black hole in the shingles remained. Gussie slid down the ladder. Sh=
e
trembled in every limb, but she put out her wet hand to me with a
faint, triumphant smile. We shook hands across the ladder with a
cordiality never before expressed.
For the next week, in spite of Rev. Carroll, I was happy when I
thought of Gussie and miserable when I thought of Nellie. I held
myself in some way bound to her and--was she not my ideal?
Undoubtedly!
One day I got a letter from my sister. It was long and newsy, and th=
e
eighth page was most interesting.
"If you don't come home and look after Nellie," wrote Kate,
"you'll
soon not have her to look after. You remember that old lover of hers=
,
Rod Allen? Well, he's home from the west now, immensely rich, they
say, and his attentions to Nellie are the town talk. I think she lik=
es
him too. If you bury yourself any longer at Ashley Mills I won't be<= o:p>
responsible for the consequences."
This lifted an immense weight from my mind, but the ninth page hurle=
d
it back again.
"You never say anything of Miss Ashley in your letters. What is=
she
like--young or old, ugly or pretty, clever or dull? I met a lady
recently who knows her and thinks she is charming. She also said Mis=
s
Ashley was to be married soon to Rev. Something-or-Other. Is it
true?"
Aye, was it? Quite likely. Kate's letter made a very miserable man o=
f
me. Gussie found me a dull companion that day. After several vain
attempts to rouse me to interest she gave it up.
"There's no use talking to you," she said impatiently. &qu=
ot;I
believe you
are homesick. That letter you got this morning looked suspicious.
Anyhow, I hope you'll get over it before I get back."
"Are you going away again?" I asked.
"Yes. I am going to stay a few days with Flossie." Flossie=
was
that
inseparable chum of hers.
"You seem to spend a good deal of your time with her," I
remarked
discontentedly.
Gussie opened her eyes at my tone.
"Why, of course," she said. "Flossie and I have always
been chums. And
she needs me more than ever just now, for she is awfully busy. She i=
s
to be married next month."
"Oh, I see--and you--"
"I'm to be bridesmaid, of course, and we've heaps to do. Flossi=
e
wanted to wait until Christmas, but Mr. Martin is in a--"
"Mr. Martin," I interrupted. "Is Mr. Martin going to
marry your
friend?"
"Why, yes. Didn't you know? They just suit each other. There he
comes
now. He's going to drive me over, and I'm not ready. Talk to him, fo=
r
pity's sake, while I go and dress."
I never enjoyed a conversation more. Rev. Carroll Martin was a
remarkably interesting man.
Nellie married Rod Allen at Christmas and I was best man. Nellie mad=
e
a charming little bride, and Rod fairly worshipped her. My own weddi=
ng
did not come off until spring, as Gussie said she could not get read=
y
before that.
The fifth heat in the free-for-all was just over. "Lu-Lu" =
had
won, and
the crowd on the grand stand and the hangers-on around the track wer=
e
cheering themselves hoarse. Clear through the noisy clamour shrilled=
a
woman's cry.
"Ah--I have dropped my scorecard."
A man in front of her turned.
"I have an extra one, madame. Will you accept it?"
Her small, modishly-gloved hand closed eagerly on it before she lift=
ed
her eyes to his face. Both started convulsively. The man turned very=
pale, but the woman's ripe-tinted face coloured darkly.
"You?" she faltered.
His lips parted in the coldly-grave smile she remembered and hated.<= o:p>
"You are not glad to see me," he said calmly, "but th=
at,
I suppose,
was not to be expected. I did not come here to annoy you. This meeti=
ng
is as unexpected to me as to you. I had no suspicion that for the la=
st
half-hour I had been standing next to my--"
She interrupted him by an imperious gesture. Still clutching the
scorecard she half-turned from him. Again he smiled, this time with =
a
tinge of scorn, and shifted his eyes to the track.
None of the people around them had noticed the little by-play. All
eyes were on the track, which was being cleared for the first heat o=
f
another race. The free-for-all horses were being led away blanketed.=
The crowd cheered "Lu-Lu" as she went past, a shapeless
oddity. The
backers of "Mascot", the rival favourite, looked gloomy.
The woman noticed nothing of all this. She was small, very pretty,
still young, and gowned in a quite unmistakable way. She studied the=
man's profile furtively. He looked older than when she had seen him<= o:p>
last--there were some silver threads gleaming in his close-clipped
dark hair and short, pointed beard. Otherwise there was little chang=
e
in the quiet features and somewhat stern grey eyes. She wondered if =
he
had cared at all.
They had not met for five years. She shut her eyes and looked in on<= o:p>
her past. It all came back very vividly. She had been eighteen when<= o:p>
they were married--a gay, high-spirited girl and the season's beauty=
.
He was much older and a quiet, serious student. Her friends had
wondered why she married him--sometimes she wondered herself, but sh=
e
had loved him, or thought so.
The marriage had been an unhappy one. She was fond of society and
gaiety, he wanted quiet and seclusion. She Was impulsive and
impatient, he deliberate and grave. The strong wills clashed. After<= o:p>
two years of an unbearable sort of life they had separated--quietly,=
and without scandal of any sort. She had wanted a divorce, but he
would not agree to that, so she had taken her own independent fortun=
e
and gone back to her own way of life. In the following five years sh=
e
had succeeded in burying all remembrance well out of sight. No one
knew if she were satisfied or not; her world was charitable to her a=
nd
she lived a gay and quite irreproachable life. She wished that she h=
ad
not come to the races. It was such an irritating encounter. She open=
ed
her eyes wearily; the dusty track, the flying horses, the gay dresse=
s
of the women on the grandstand, the cloudless blue sky, the brillian=
t
September sunshine, the purple distances all commingled in a glare
that made her head ache. Before it all she saw the tall figure by he=
r
side, his face turned from her, watching the track intently.
She wondered with a vague curiosity what induced him to come to the<= o:p>
races. Such things were not greatly in his line. Evidently their
chance meeting had not disturbed him. It was a sign that he did not<= o:p>
care. She sighed a little wearily and closed her eyes. When the heat=
was over he turned to her.
"May I ask how you have been since--since we met last? You are
looking
extremely well. Has Vanity Fair palled in any degree?"
She was angry at herself and him. Where had her careless society
manner and well-bred composure gone? She felt weak and hysterical.
What if she should burst into tears before the whole crowd--before
those coldly critical grey eyes? She almost hated him.
"No--why should it? I have found it very pleasant--and I have b=
een
well--very well. And you?"
He jotted down the score carefully before he replied.
"I? Oh, a book-worm and recluse always leads a placid life. I n=
ever
cared for excitement, you know. I came down here to attend a sale of=
some rare editions, and a well-meaning friend dragged me out to see<= o:p>
the races. I find it rather interesting, I must confess, much more s=
o
than I should have fancied. Sorry I can't stay until the end. I must=
go as soon as the free-for-all is over, if not before. I have backed=
'Mascot'; you?"
"'Lu-Lu'" she answered quickly--it almost seemed defiantly.
How
horribly unreal it was--this carrying on of small talk, as if they
were the merest of chance-met acquaintances! "She belongs to a
friend
of mine, so I am naturally interested."
"She and 'Mascot' are ties now--both have won two heats. One mo=
re
for
either will decide it. This is a good day for the races. Excuse
me."
He leaned over and brushed a scrap of paper from her grey cloak. She=
shivered slightly.
"You are cold! This stand is draughty."
"I am not at all cold, thank you. What race is this?--oh! the
three-minute one."
She bent forward with assumed interest to watch the scoring. She was=
breathing heavily. There were tears in her eyes--she bit her lips
savagely and glared at the track until they were gone.
Presently he spoke again, in the low, even tone demanded by
circumstances.
"This is a curious meeting, is it not?--quite a flavor of roman=
ce!
By-the-way, do you read as many novels as ever?"
She fancied there was mockery in his tone. She remembered how very
frivolous he used to consider her novel-reading. Besides, she resent=
ed
the personal tinge. What right had he?
"Almost as many," she answered carelessly.
"I was very intolerant, wasn't I?" he said after a pause.
"You thought
so--you were right. You have been happier since you--left me?"<= o:p>
"Yes," she said defiantly, looking straight into his eyes.=
"And you do not regret it?"
He bent down a little. His sleeve brushed against her shoulder.
Something in his face arrested the answer she meant to make.
"I--I--did not say that," she murmured faintly.
There was a burst of cheering. The free-for-all horses were being
brought out for the sixth heat. She turned away to watch them. The
scoring began, and seemed likely to have no end. She was tired of it=
all. It didn't matter a pin to her whether "Lu-Lu" or
"Mascot" won.
What _did_ matter! Had Vanity Fair after all been a satisfying
exchange for love? He _had_ loved her once, and they had been happy =
at
first. She had never before said, even in her own heart: "I am
sorry,"
but--suddenly, she felt his hand on her shoulder, and looked up. The=
ir
eyes met. He stooped and said almost in a whisper:
"Will you come back to me?"
"I don't know," she whispered breathlessly, as one
half-fascinated.
"We were both to blame--but I the most. I was too hard on you--I
ought
to have made more allowance. We are wiser now both of us. Come back<= o:p>
to me--my wife."
His tone was cold and his face expressionless. It was on her lips to=
cry out "No," passionately.
But the slender, scholarly hand on her shoulder was trembling with t=
he
intensity of his repressed emotion. He _did_ care, then. A wild
caprice flashed into her brain. She sprang up.
"See," she cried, "they're off now. This heat will
probably decide the
race. If 'Lu-Lu' wins I will not go back to you, if 'Mascot' does I<= o:p>
will. That is my decision."
He turned paler, but bowed in assent. He knew by bitter experience h=
ow
unchangeable her whims were, how obstinately she clung to even the
most absurd.
She leaned forward breathlessly. The crowd hung silently on the trac=
k.
"Lu-Lu" and "Mascot" were neck and neck, getting=
in
splendid work.
Half-way round the course "Lu-Lu" forged half a neck ahead,
and her
backers went mad. But one woman dropped her head in her hands and
dared look no more. One man with white face and set lips watched the=
track unswervingly.
Again "Mascot" crawled up, inch by inch. They were on the =
home
stretch, they were equal, the cheering broke out, then silence, then=
another terrific burst, shouts, yells and clappings--"Mascot&qu=
ot;
had won
the free-for-all. In the front row a woman stood up, swayed and shak=
en
as a leaf in the wind. She straightened her scarlet hat and readjust=
ed
her veil unsteadily. There was a smile on her lips and tears in her<= o:p>
eyes. No one noticed her. A man beside her drew her hand through his=
arm in a quiet proprietary fashion. They left the grand stand
together.
Lilian Mitchell turned into the dry-goods store on
just as Esther Miller and Ella Taylor came out. They responded coldl=
y
to her greeting and exchanged significant glances as they walked awa=
y.
Lilian's pale face crimsoned. She was a tall, slender girl of about<= o:p>
seventeen, and dressed in mourning. These girls had been her close
friends once. But that was before the Mitchells had lost their money=
.
Since then Lilian had been cut by many of her old chums and she felt=
it keenly.
The clerks in the store were busy and Lilian sat down to wait her
turn. Near to her two ladies were also waiting and chatting.
"Helen wants me to let her have a birthday party," Mrs.
Saunders was
saying wearily. "She has been promised it so long and I hate to=
disappoint the child, but our girl left last week, and I cannot
possibly make all the cakes and things myself. I haven't the time or=
strength, so Helen must do without her party."
"Talking of girls," said Mrs. Reeves impatiently, "I =
am
almost
discouraged. It is so hard to get a good all-round one. The last one=
I
had was so saucy I had to discharge her, and the one I have now cann=
ot
make decent bread. I never had good luck with bread myself either.&q=
uot;
"That is Mrs. Porter's great grievance too. It is no light task=
to
bake bread for all those boarders. Have you made your jelly yet?&quo=
t;
"No. Maria cannot make it, she says, and I detest messing with
jelly.
But I really must see to it soon."
At this point a saleswoman came up to Lilian, who made her small
purchases and went out.
"There goes Lilian Mitchell," said Mrs. Reeves in an
undertone. "She
looks very pale. They say they are dreadfully poor since Henry
Mitchell died. His affairs were in a bad condition, I am told."=
"I am sorry for Mrs. Mitchell," responded Mrs. Saunders.
"She is such
a sweet woman. Lilian will have to do something, I suppose, and ther=
e
is so little chance for a girl here."
Lilian, walking down the street, was wearily turning over in her min=
d
the problems of her young existence. Her father had died the precedi=
ng
spring. He had been a supposedly prosperous merchant; the Mitchells<= o:p>
had always lived well, and Lilian was a petted and only child. Then<= o:p>
came the shock of Henry Mitchell's sudden death and of financial rui=
n.
His affairs were found to be hopelessly involved; when all the debts=
were paid there was left only the merest pittance--barely enough for=
house-rent--for Lilian and her mother to live upon. They had moved
into a tiny cottage in an unfashionable locality, and during the
summer Lilian had tried hard to think of something to do. Mrs.
Mitchell was a delicate woman, and the burden of their situation fel=
l
on Lilian's young shoulders.
There seemed to be no place for her. She could not teach and had no<= o:p>
particular talent in any line. There was no opening for her in
Willington, which was a rather sleepy little place, and Lilian was
almost in despair.
"There really doesn't seem to be any real place in the world for
me,
Mother," she said rather dolefully at the supper table. "I=
've
no
talent at all; it is dreadful to have been born without one. And yet=
I
_must_ do something, and do it soon."
And Lilian, after she had washed up the tea dishes, went upstairs an=
d
had a good cry.
But the darkest hour, so the proverb goes, is just before the dawn,<= o:p>
and after Lilian had had her cry out and was sitting at her window i=
n
the dusk, watching a thin new moon shining over the trees down the
street, her inspiration came to her. A minute later she whirled into=
the tiny sitting-room where her mother was sewing.
"Mother, our fortune is made! I have an idea!"
"Don't lose it, then," said Mrs. Mitchell with a smile.
"What is it,
my dear?"
Lilian sobered herself, sat down by her mother's side, and proceeded=
to recount the conversation she had heard in the store that afternoo=
n.
"Now, Mother, this is where my brilliant idea comes in. You have
often
told me I am a born cook and I always have good luck. Now, tomorrow<= o:p>
morning I shall go to Mrs. Saunders and offer to furnish all the goo=
d
things for Helen's birthday party, and then I'll ask Mrs. Reeves and=
Mrs. Porter if I may make their bread for them. That will do for a
beginning, I like cooking, you know, and I believe that in time I ca=
n
work up a good business."
"It seems to be a good idea," said Mrs. Mitchell thoughtfu=
lly,
"and I
am willing that you should try. But have you thought it all out
carefully? There will be many difficulties."
"I know. I don't expect smooth sailing right along, and perhaps
I'll
fail altogether; but somehow I don't believe I will."
"A great many of your old friends will think--"
"Oh, yes; I know _that_ too, but I am not going to mind it, Mot=
her.
I
don't think there is any disgrace in working for my living. I'm goin=
g
to do my best and not care what people say."
Early next morning Lilian started out. She had carefully thought ove=
r
the details of her small venture, considered ways and means, and
decided on the most advisable course. She would not attempt too much=
,
and she felt sure of success.
To secure competent servants was one of the problems of Willington
people. At Drayton, a large neighbouring town, were several factorie=
s,
and into these all the working girls from Willington had crowded,
leaving very few who were willing to go out to service. Many of thos=
e
who did were poor cooks, and Lilian shrewdly suspected that many a
harassed housekeeper in the village would be glad to avail herself o=
f
the new enterprise.
Lilian was, as she had said of herself, "a born cook." This
was her
capital, and she meant to make the most of it. Mrs. Saunders listene=
d
to her businesslike details with surprise and delight.
"It is the very thing," she said. "Helen is so eager =
for
that party,
but I could not undertake it myself. Her birthday is Friday. Can you=
have everything ready by then?"
"Yes, I think so," said Lilian briskly, producing her
notebook.
"Please give me the list of what you want and I will do my
best."
From Mrs. Saunders she went to Mrs. Reeves and found a customer as
soon as she had told the reason of her call. "I'll furnish all =
the
bread and rolls you need," she said, "and they will be goo=
d,
too. Now,
about your jelly. I can make good jelly, and I'll be very glad to ma=
ke
yours."
When she left, Lilian had an order for two dozen glasses of apple
jelly, as well as a standing one for bread and rolls. Mrs. Porter wa=
s
next visited and grasped eagerly at the opportunity.
"I know your bread will be good," she said, "and you =
may
count on me
as a regular customer."
Lilian thought she had enough on hand for a first attempt and went
home satisfied. On her way she called at the grocery store with an
order that surprised Mr. Hooper. When she told him of her plan he
opened his eyes.
"I must tell my wife about that. She isn't strong and she doesn=
't
like
cooking."
After dinner Lilian went to work, enveloped in a big apron, and
whipped eggs, stoned raisins, stirred, concocted, and baked until
dark. When bedtime came she was so tired that she could hardly crawl=
upstairs; but she felt happy too, for the day had been a successful<= o:p>
one.
And so also were the days and weeks and months that followed. It was=
hard and constant work, but it brought its reward. Lilian had not
promised more than she could perform, and her customers were
satisfied. In a short time she found herself with a regular and
growing business on her hands, for new customers were gradually adde=
d
and always came to stay.
People who gave parties found it very convenient to follow Mrs.
Saunders's example and order their supplies from Lilian. She had a
very busy winter and, of course, it was not all plain sailing. She h=
ad
many difficulties to contend with. Sometimes days came on which
everything seemed to go wrong--when the stove smoked or the oven
wouldn't heat properly, when cakes fell flat and bread was sour and<= o:p>
pies behaved as only totally depraved pies can, when she burned her<= o:p>
fingers and felt like giving up in despair.
Then, again, she found herself cut by several of her old
acquaintances. But she was too sensible to worry much over this. The=
friends really worth having were still hers, her mother's face had
lost its look of care, and her business was prospering. She was
hopeful and wide awake, kept her wits about her and looked out for
hints, and learned to laugh over her failures.
During the winter she and her mother had managed to do most of the
work themselves, hiring little Mary Robinson next door on especially=
busy days, and now and then calling in the assistance of Jimmy Bowen=
and his hand sled to carry orders to customers. But when spring came=
Lilian prepared to open up her summer campaign on a much larger scal=
e.
Mary Robinson was hired for the season, and John Perkins was engaged=
to act as carrier with his express wagon. A summer kitchen was board=
ed
in in the backyard, and a new range bought; Lilian began operations<= o:p>
with a striking advertisement in the Willington _News_ and an
attractive circular sent around to all her patrons. Picnics and summ=
er
weddings were frequent. In bread and rolls her trade was brisk and
constant. She also took orders for pickles, preserves, and jellies,<= o:p>
and this became such a flourishing branch that a second assistant ha=
d
to be hired.
It was a cardinal rule with Lilian never to send out any article tha=
t
was not up to her standard. She bore the loss of her failures, and
sometimes stayed up half of the night to fill an order on time.
"Prompt and perfect" was her motto.
The long hot summer days were very trying, and sometimes she got ver=
y
tired of it all. But when on the anniversary of her first venture sh=
e
made up her accounts she was well pleased. To be sure, she had not
made a fortune; but she had paid all their expenses, had a hundred
dollars clear, and had laid the solid foundations of a profitable
business.
"Mother," she said jubilantly, as she wiped a dab of flour
from her
nose and proceeded to concoct the icing for Blanche Remington's
wedding cake, "don't you think my business venture has been a
decided
success?"
Mrs. Mitchell surveyed her busy daughter with a motherly smile.
"Yes,
I think it has," she said.
I had been reading a ghost story to Mrs. Sefton, and I laid it down =
at
the end with a little shrug of contempt.
"What utter nonsense!" I said.
Mrs. Sefton nodded abstractedly above her fancywork.
"That is. It is a very commonplace story indeed. I don't believe
the
spirits of the departed trouble themselves to revisit the glimpses o=
f
the moon for the purpose of frightening honest mortals--or even for<= o:p>
the sake of hanging around the favourite haunts of their existence i=
n
the flesh. If they ever appear, it must be for a better reason than<= o:p>
that."
"You don't surely think that they ever do appear?" I said<= o:p>
incredulously.
"We have no proof that they do not, my dear."
"Surely, Mary," I exclaimed, "you don't mean to say t=
hat
you believe
people ever do or can see spirits--ghosts, as the word goes?"
"I didn't say I believed it. I never saw anything of the sort. =
I
neither believe nor disbelieve. But you know queer things do happen =
at
times--things you can't account for. At least, people who you know
wouldn't lie say so. Of course, they may be mistaken. And I don't
think that everybody can see spirits either, provided they are to be=
seen. It requires people of a certain organization--with a spiritual=
eye, as it were. We haven't all got that--in fact, I think very few =
of
us have. I dare say you think I'm talking nonsense."
"Well, yes, I think you are. You really surprise me, Mary. I al=
ways
thought you the least likely person in the world to take up with suc=
h
ideas. Something must have come under your observation to develop su=
ch
theories in your practical head. Tell me what it was."
"To what purpose? You would remain as sceptical as ever."<= o:p>
"Possibly not. Try me; I may be convinced."
"No," returned Mrs. Sefton calmly. "Nobody ever is
convinced by
hearsay. When a person has once seen a spirit--or thinks he has--he<= o:p>
thenceforth believes it. And when somebody else is intimately
associated with that person and knows all the circumstances--well, h=
e
admits the possibility, at least. That is my position. But by the ti=
me
it gets to the third person--the outsider--it loses power. Besides, =
in
this particular instance the story isn't very exciting. But then--it=
's
true."
"You have excited my curiosity. You must tell me the story.&quo=
t;
"Well, first tell me what you think of this. Suppose two people,
both
sensitively organized individuals, loved each other with a love
stronger than life. If they were apart, do you think it might be
possible for their souls to communicate with each other in some
inexplicable way? And if anything happened to one, don't you think
that that one could and would let the spirit of the other know?"=
;
"You're getting into too deep waters for me, Mary," I said,
shaking my
head. "I'm not an authority on telepathy, or whatever you call =
it.
But
I've no belief in such theories. In fact, I think they are all
nonsense. I'm sure you must think so too in your rational moments.&q=
uot;
"I dare say it is all nonsense," said Mrs. Sefton slowly,
"but if you
had lived a whole year in the same house with Miriam Gordon, you wou=
ld
have been tainted too. Not that she had 'theories'--at least, she
never aired them if she had. But there was simply something about th=
e
girl herself that gave a person strange impressions. When I first me=
t
her I had the most uncanny feeling that she was all spirit--soul--wh=
at
you will! no flesh, anyhow. That feeling wore off after a while, but=
she never seemed like other people to me.
"She was Mr. Sefton's niece. Her father had died when she was a
child.
When Miriam was twenty her mother had married a second time and went=
to Europe with her husband. Miriam came to live with us while they
were away. Upon their return she was herself to be married.
"I had never seen Miriam before. Her arrival was unexpected, an=
d I
was
absent from home when she came. I returned in the evening, and when =
I
saw her first she was standing under the chandelier in the drawing
room. Talk about spirits! For five seconds I thought I had seen one.=
"Miriam was a beauty. I had known that before, though I think I=
hardly expected to see such wonderful loveliness. She was tall and
extremely graceful, dark--at least her hair was dark, but her skin w=
as
wonderfully fair and clear. Her hair was gathered away from her face=
,
and she had a high, pure, white forehead, and the straightest, fines=
t,
blackest brows. Her face was oval, with very large and dark eyes.
"I soon realized that Miriam was in some mysterious fashion
different
from other people. I think everyone who met her felt the same way. Y=
et
it was a feeling hard to define. For my own part I simply felt as if=
she belonged to another world, and that part of the time she--her
soul, you know--was back there again.
"You must not suppose that Miriam was a disagreeable person to =
have
in
the house. On the contrary, it was the very reverse. Everybody liked=
her. She was one of the sweetest, most winsome girls I ever knew, an=
d
I soon grew to love her dearly. As for what Dick called her 'little<= o:p>
queernesses'--well, we got used to them in time.
"Miriam was engaged, as I have told you, to a young Harvard man
named
Sidney Claxton. I knew she loved him very deeply. When she showed me=
his photograph, I liked his appearance and said so. Then I made some=
teasing remark about her love-letters--just for a joke, you know.
Miriam looked at me with an odd little smile and said quickly:
"'Sidney and I never write to each other.'
"'Why, Miriam!' I exclaimed in astonishment. 'Do you mean to te=
ll
me
you never hear from him at all?'
"'No, I did not say that. I hear from him every day--every hour=
. We
do not need to write letters. There are better means of communicatio=
n
between two souls that are in perfect accord with each other.'
"'Miriam, you uncanny creature, what do you mean?' I asked.
"But Miriam only gave another queer smile and made no answer at
all.
Whatever her beliefs or theories were, she would never discuss them.=
"She had a habit of dropping into abstracted reveries at any ti=
me
or
place. No matter where she was, this, whatever it was, would come ov=
er
her. She would sit there, perhaps in the centre of a gay crowd, and<= o:p>
gaze right out into space, not hearing or seeing a single thing that=
went on around her.
"I remember one day in particular; we were sewing in my room. I
looked
up and saw that Miriam's work had dropped on her knee and she was
leaning forward, her lips apart, her eyes gazing upward with an
unearthly expression.
"'Don't look like that, Miriam!' I said, with a little shiver. =
'You
seem to be looking at something a thousand miles away!'
"Miriam came out of her trance or reverie and said, with a litt=
le
laugh:
"'How do you know but that I was?'
"She bent her head for a minute or two. Then she lifted it again
and
looked at me with a sudden contraction of her level brows that
betokened vexation.
"'I wish you hadn't spoken to me just then,' she said. 'You
interrupted the message I was receiving. I shall not get it at all
now.'
"'Miriam,' I implored. 'I so wish my dear girl, that you wouldn=
't
talk
so. It makes people think there is something queer about you. Who in=
the world was sending you a message, as you call it?'
"'Sidney,' said Miriam simply.
"'Nonsense!'
"'You think it is nonsense because you don't understand it,' was
her
calm response.
"I recall another event was when some caller dropped in and we =
had
drifted into a discussion about ghosts and the like--and I've no dou=
bt
we all talked some delicious nonsense. Miriam said nothing at the
time, but when we were alone I asked her what she thought of it.
"'I thought you were all merely talking against time,' she reto=
rted
evasively.
"'But, Miriam, do you really think it is possible for ghosts--'=
"'I detest that word!'
"'Well, spirits then--to return after death, or to appear to an=
yone
apart from the flesh?'
"'I will tell you what I know. If anything were to happen to
Sidney--if he were to die or be killed--he would come to me himself<= o:p>
and tell me.'
"One day Miriam came down to lunch looking pale and worried. Af=
ter
Dick went out, I asked her if anything were wrong.
"'Something has happened to Sidney,' she replied, 'some painful=
accident--I don't know what.'
"'How do you know?' I cried. Then, as she looked at me strangel=
y, I
added hastily, 'You haven't been receiving any more unearthly
messages, have you? Surely, Miriam, you are not so foolish as to
really believe in that!'
"'I know,' she answered quickly. 'Belief or disbelief has nothi=
ng
to
do with it. Yes, I have had a message. I know that some accident has=
happened to Sidney--painful and inconvenient but not particularly
dangerous. I do not know what it is. Sidney will write me that. He
writes when it is absolutely necessary.'
"'Aerial communication isn't perfected yet then?' I said
mischievously. But, observing how really worried she seemed, I added=
,
'Don't fret, Miriam. You may be mistaken.'
"Well, two days afterwards she got a note from her lover--the f=
irst
I
had ever known her to receive--in which he said he had been thrown
from his horse and had broken his left arm. It had happened the very=
morning Miriam received her message.
"Miriam had been with us about eight months when one day she ca=
me
into
my room hurriedly. She was very pale.
"'Sidney is ill--dangerously ill. What shall I do?'
"I knew she must have had another of those abominable messages-=
-or
thought she had--and really, remembering the incident of the broken<= o:p>
arm, I couldn't feel as sceptical as I pretended to. I tried to chee=
r
her, but did not succeed. Two hours later she had a telegram from he=
r
lover's college chum, saying that Mr. Claxton was dangerously ill wi=
th
typhoid fever.
"I was quite alarmed about Miriam in the days that followed. Sh=
e
grieved and fretted continually. One of her troubles was that she
received no more messages; she said it was because Sidney was too il=
l
to send them. Anyhow, she had to content herself with the means of
communication used by ordinary mortals.
"Sidney's mother, who had gone to nurse him, wrote every day, a=
nd
at
last good news came. The crisis was over and the doctor in attendanc=
e
thought Sidney would recover. Miriam seemed like a new creature then=
,
and rapidly recovered her spirits.
"For a week reports continued favourable. One night we went to =
the
opera to hear a celebrated prima donna. When we returned home Miriam=
and I were sitting in her room, chatting over the events of the
evening.
"Suddenly she sat straight up with a sort of convulsive shudder,
and
at the same time--you may laugh if you like--the most horrible feeli=
ng
came over me. I didn't see anything, but I just felt that there was<= o:p>
something or someone in the room besides ourselves.
"Miriam was gazing straight before her. She rose to her feet and
held
out her hands.
"'Sidney!' she said.
"Then she fell to the floor in a dead faint.
"I screamed for Dick, rang the bell and rushed to her.
"In a few minutes the whole household was aroused, and Dick was=
off
posthaste for the doctor, for we could not revive Miriam from her
death-like swoon. She seemed as one dead. We worked over her for
hours. She would come out of her faint for a moment, give us an
unknowing stare and go shudderingly off again.
"The doctor talked of some fearful shock, but I kept my own
counsel.
At dawn Miriam came back to life at last. When she and I were left
alone, she turned to me.
"'Sidney is dead,' she said quietly. 'I saw him--just before I<= o:p>
fainted. I looked up, and he was standing between me and you. He had=
come to say farewell.'
"What could I say? Almost while we were talking a telegram came=
. He
was dead--he had died at the very hour at which Miriam had seen
him."
Mrs. Sefton paused, and the lunch bell rang.
"What do you think of it?" she queried as we rose.
"Honestly, I don't know what I think of it," I answered
frankly.
Miss Calista was perplexed. Her nephew, Caleb Cramp, who had been he=
r
right-hand man for years and whom she had got well broken into her
ways, had gone to the
next best man; but the next best man was slow to appear, and meanwhi=
le
Miss Calista was looking about her warily. She could afford to wait =
a
while, for the crop was all in and the fall ploughing done, so that<= o:p>
the need of a successor to Caleb was not as pressing as it might
otherwise have been. There was no lack of applicants, such as they
were. Miss Calista was known to be a kind and generous mistress,
although she had her "ways," and insisted calmly and immov=
ably
upon
wholehearted compliance with them. She had a small, well-cultivated<= o:p>
farm and a comfortable house, and her hired men lived in clover. Cal=
eb
Cramp had been perfection after his kind, and Miss Calista did not
expect to find his equal. Nevertheless, she set up a certain standar=
d
of requirements; and although three weeks, during which Miss Calista=
had been obliged to put up with the immature services of a neighbour=
's
boy, had elapsed since Caleb's departure, no one had as yet stepped<= o:p>
into his vacant and coveted shoes.
Certainly Miss Calista was somewhat hard to please, but she was not<= o:p>
thinking of herself as she sat by her front window in the chilly
November twilight. Instead, she was musing on the degeneration of
hired men, and reflecting that it was high time the wheat was
thrashed, the house banked, and sundry other duties attended to.
Ches Maybin had been up that afternoon to negotiate for the vacant
place, and had offered to give satisfaction for smaller wages than
Miss Calista had ever paid. But he had met with a brusque refusal,
scarcely as civil as Miss Calista had bestowed on drunken Jake Stins=
on
from the Morrisvale Road.
Not that Miss Calista had any particular prejudice against Ches
Maybin, or knew anything positively to his discredit. She was simply=
unconsciously following the example of a world that exerts itself to=
keep a man down when he is down and prevent all chance of his rising=
.
Nothing succeeds like success, and the converse of this is likewise<= o:p>
true--that nothing fails like failure. There was not a person in
Cooperstown who would not have heartily endorsed Miss Calista's
refusal.
Ches Maybin was only eighteen, although he looked several years olde=
r,
and although no flagrant misdoing had ever been proved against him,<= o:p>
suspicion of such was not wanting. He came of a bad stock, people sa=
id
sagely, adding that what was bred in the bone was bound to come out<= o:p>
in the flesh. His father, old Sam Maybin, had been a shiftless and
tricky rascal, as everybody knew, and had ended his days in the
poorhouse. Ches's mother had died when he was a baby, and he had com=
e
up somehow, in a hand-to-mouth fashion, with all the cloud of heredi=
ty
hanging over him. He was always looked at askance, and when any
mischief came to light in the village, it was generally fastened on<= o:p>
him as a convenient and handy scapegoat. He was considered sulky and=
lazy, and the local prophets united in predicting a bad end for him<= o:p>
sooner or later; and, moreover, diligently endeavoured by their
general treatment of him to put him in a fair way to fulfil their
predictions. Miss Calista, when she had shut Chester Maybin out into=
the chill gloom of the November dusk, dismissed him from her thought=
s.
There were other things of more moment to her just then than old Sam=
Maybin's hopeful son.
There was nobody in the house but herself, and although this was
neither alarming nor unusual, it was unusual--and Miss Calista
considered it alarming--that the sum of five hundred dollars should =
at
that very moment be in the upper right-hand drawer of the sideboard,=
which sum had been up to the previous day safe in the coffers of the=
Millageville bank. But certain unfavourable rumours were in course o=
f
circulation about that same institution, and Miss Calista, who was
nothing if not prudent, had gone to the bank that very morning and
withdrawn her deposit. She intended to go over to Kerrytown the very=
next day and deposit it in the Savings Bank there. Not another day
would she keep it in the house, and, indeed, it worried her to think=
she must keep it even for the night, as she had told Mrs. Galloway
that afternoon during a neighbourly back-yard chat.
"Not but what it's safe enough," she said, "for not a
soul but you
knows I've got it. But I'm not used to have so much by me, and there=
are always tramps going round. It worries me somehow. I wouldn't giv=
e
it a thought if Caleb was here. I s'pose being all alone makes me
nervous."
Miss Calista was still rather nervous when she went to bed that nigh=
t,
but she was a woman of sound sense and was determined not to give wa=
y
to foolish fears. She locked doors and windows carefully, as was her=
habit, and saw that the fastenings were good and secure. The one on<= o:p>
the dining-room window, looking out on the back yard, wasn't; in fac=
t,
it was broken altogether; but, as Miss Calista told herself, it had<= o:p>
been broken just so for the last six years, and nobody had ever trie=
d
to get in at it yet, and it wasn't likely anyone would begin tonight=
.
Miss Calista went to bed and, despite her worry, slept soon and
soundly. It was well on past midnight when she suddenly wakened and<= o:p>
sat bolt upright in bed. She was not accustomed to waken in the nigh=
t,
and she had the impression of having been awakened by some noise. Sh=
e
listened breathlessly. Her room was directly over the dining-room, a=
nd
an empty stovepipe hole opened up through the ceiling of the latter =
at
the head of her bed.
There was no mistake about it. Something or some person was moving
about stealthily in the room below. It wasn't the cat--Miss Calista<= o:p>
had shut him in the woodshed before she went to bed, and he couldn't=
possibly get out. It must certainly be a beggar or tramp of some
description.
Miss Calista might be given over to nervousness in regard to imagina=
ry
thieves, but in the presence of real danger she was cool and
self-reliant. As noiselessly and swiftly as any burglar himself, Mis=
s
Calista slipped out of bed and into her clothes. Then she tip-toed o=
ut
into the hall. The late moonlight, streaming in through the hall
windows, was quite enough illumination for her purpose, and she got<= o:p>
downstairs and was fairly in the open doorway of the dining-room
before a sound betrayed her presence.
Standing at the sideboard, hastily ransacking the neat contents of a=
n
open drawer, stood a man's figure, dimly visible in the moonlight
gloom. As Miss Calista's grim form appeared in the doorway, the
midnight marauder turned with a start and then, with an inarticulate=
cry, sprang, not at the courageous lady, but at the open window behi=
nd
him.
Miss Calista, realizing with a flash of comprehension that he was
escaping her, had a woman-like impulse to get a blow in anyhow; she<= o:p>
grasped and hurled at her unceremonious caller the first thing that<= o:p>
came to hand--a bottle of peppermint essence that was standing on th=
e
sideboard.
The missile hit the escaping thief squarely on the shoulder as he
sprang out of the window, and the fragments of glass came clattering=
down on the sill. The next moment Miss Calista found herself alone,<= o:p>
standing by the sideboard in a half-dazed fashion, for the whole thi=
ng
had passed with such lightning-like rapidity that it almost seemed a=
s
if it were the dissolving end of a bad dream. But the open drawer an=
d
the window, where the bits of glass were glistening in the moonlight=
,
were no dream. Miss Calista recovered herself speedily, closed the
window, lit the lamp, gathered up the broken glass, and set up the
chairs which the would-be thief had upset in his exit. An examinatio=
n
of the sideboard showed the precious five hundred safe and sound in =
an
undisturbed drawer.
Miss Calista kept grim watch and ward there until morning, and thoug=
ht
the matter over exhaustively. In the end she resolved to keep her ow=
n
counsel. She had no clue whatever to the thief's whereabouts or
identity, and no good would come of making a fuss, which might only<= o:p>
end in throwing suspicion on someone who might be quite innocent.
When the morning came Miss Calista lost no time in setting out for
Kerrytown, where the money was soon safely deposited in the bank. Sh=
e
heaved a sigh of relief when she left the building.
I feel as if I could enjoy life once more, she said to herself.
Goodness me, if I'd had to keep that money by me for a week itself,<= o:p>
I'd have been a raving lunatic by the end of it.
Miss Calista had shopping to do and friends to visit in town, so tha=
t
the dull autumn day was well nigh spent when she finally got back to=
The store was full of men, smoking and chatting around the fire, and=
Miss Calista, whose pet abomination was tobacco smoke, was not at al=
l
minded to wait any longer than she could help. But Abiram Fell was
attending to a previous customer, and Miss Calista sat grimly down b=
y
the counter to wait her turn.
The door opened, letting in a swirl of raw November evening wind and=
Ches Maybin. He nodded sullenly to Mr. Fell and passed down the stor=
e
to mutter a message to a man at the further end.
Miss Calista lifted her head as he passed and sniffed the air as a
charger who scents battle. The smell of tobacco was strong, and so w=
as
that of the open boxes of dried herring on the counter, but plainly,=
above all the commingled odours of a country grocery, Miss Calista
caught a whiff of peppermint, so strong as to leave no doubt of its<= o:p>
origin. There had been no hint of it before Ches Maybin's entrance.<= o:p>
The latter did not wait long. He was out and striding along the
shadowy road when Miss Calista left the store and drove smartly afte=
r
him. It never took Miss Calista long to make up her mind about
anything, and she had weighed and passed judgement on Ches Maybin's<= o:p>
case while Mr. Fell was doing up her matches.
The lad glanced up furtively as she checked her fat grey pony beside=
him.
"Good evening, Chester," she said with brisk kindness. &qu=
ot;I
can give you
a lift, if you are going my way. Jump in, quick--Dapple is a little<= o:p>
restless."
A wave of crimson, duskily perceptible under his sunburned skin,
surged over Ches Maybin's face. It almost seemed as if he were going=
to blurt out a blunt refusal. But Miss Calista's face was so guilele=
ss
and her tone so friendly, that he thought better of it and sprang in=
beside her, and Dapple broke into an impatient trot down the long
hill lined with its bare, wind-writhen maples.
After a few minutes' silence Miss Calista turned to her moody
companion.
"Chester," she said, as tranquilly as if about to ask him =
the
most
ordinary question in the world, "why did you climb into my house
last
night and try to steal my money?"
Ches Maybin started convulsively, as if he meant to spring from the<= o:p>
buggy at once, but Miss Calista's hand was on his arm in a grasp non=
e
the less firm because of its gentleness, and there was a warning gle=
am
in her grey eyes.
"It won't mend matters trying to get clear of me, Chester. I kn=
ow
it
was you and I want an answer--a truthful one, mind you--to my
question. I am your friend, and I am not going to harm you if you te=
ll
me the truth."
Her clear and incisive gaze met and held irresistibly the boy's
wavering one. The sullen obstinacy of his face relaxed.
"Well," he muttered finally, "I was just desperate,
that's why. I've
never done anything real bad in my life before, but people have alwa=
ys
been down on me. I'm blamed for everything, and nobody wants anythin=
g
to do with me. I'm willing to work, but I can't get a thing to do. I=
'm
in rags and I haven't a cent, and winter's coming on. I heard you
telling Mrs. Galloway yesterday about the money. I was behind the fi=
r
hedge and you didn't see me. I went away and planned it all out. I'd=
get in some way--and I meant to use the money to get away out west a=
s
far from here as I could, and begin life there, where nobody knew me=
,
and where I'd have some sort of a chance. I've never had any here.
You can put me in jail now, if you like--they'll feed and clothe me<= o:p>
there, anyhow, and I'll be on a level with the rest."
The boy had blurted it all out sullenly and half-chokingly. A world =
of
rebellion and protest against the fate that had always dragged him
down was couched in his voice.
Miss Calista drew Dapple to a standstill before her gate.
"I'm not going to send you to jail, Chester. I believe you've t=
old
me
the truth. Yesterday you wanted me to give you Caleb's place and I
refused. Well, I offer it to you now. If you'll come, I'll hire you,=
and give you as good wages as I gave him."
Ches Maybin looked incredulous.
"Miss Calista, you can't mean it."
"I do mean it, every word. You say you have never had a chance.
Well,
I am going to give you one--a chance to get on the right road and ma=
ke
a man of yourself. Nobody shall ever know about last night's doings<= o:p>
from me, and I'll make it my business to forget them if you deserve<= o:p>
it. What do you say?"
Ches lifted his head and looked her squarely in the face.
"I'll come," he said huskily. "It ain't no use to try=
and
thank you,
Miss Calista. But I'll live my thanks."
And he did. The good people of Cooperstown held up their hands in
horror when they heard that Miss Calista had hired Ches Maybin, and<= o:p>
prophesied that the deluded woman would live to repent her rash step=
.
But not all prophecies come true. Miss Calista smiled serenely and
kept on her own misguided way. And Ches Maybin proved so efficient
and steady that the arrangement was continued, and in due time peopl=
e
outlived their old suspicions and came to regard him as a thoroughly=
smart and trustworthy young man.
"Miss Calista has made a man of Ches Maybin," said the
oracles. "He
ought to be very grateful to her."
And he was. But only he and Miss Calista and the peppermint bottle
ever knew the precise extent of his gratitude, and they never told.<= o:p>
= The Jest That Failed= span>"I think it is simply a disgrace to have a person like that in =
our
class," said Edna Hayden in an injured tone.
"And she doesn't seem a bit ashamed of it, either," said A=
gnes
Walters.
"Rather proud of it, I should say," returned her roommate,
spitefully.
"It seems to me that if I were so poor that I had to 'room' mys=
elf
and
dress as dowdily as she does that I really couldn't look anybody in<= o:p>
the face. What must the boys think of her? And if it wasn't for her<= o:p>
being in it, our class would be the smartest and dressiest in the
college--even those top-lofty senior girls admit that."
"It's a shame," said Agnes, conclusively. "But she
needn't expect to
associate with our set. I, for one, won't have anything to do with
her."
"Nor I. I think it is time she should be taught her place. If we
could
only manage to inflict some decided snub on her, she might take the<= o:p>
hint and give up trying to poke herself in where she doesn't belong.=
The idea of her consenting to be elected on the freshmen executive!<= o:p>
But she seems impervious to snubs."
"Edna, let's play a joke on her. It will serve her right. Let us
send
an invitation in somebody's name to the senior 'prom.'"
"The very thing! And sign Sidney Hill's name to it. He's the
handsomest and richest fellows at Payzant, and belongs to one of the=
best families in town, and he's awfully fastidious besides. No doubt=
she will feel immensely flattered and, of course, she'll accept. Jus=
t
think how silly she'll feel when she finds out he never sent it. Let=
's
write it now, and send it at once. There is no time to lose, for the=
'prom' is on Thursday night."
The freshmen co-eds at Payzant College did not like Grace Seeley--th=
at
is to say, the majority of them. They were a decidedly snobbish clas=
s
that year. No one could deny that Grace was clever, but she was poor=
,
dressed very plainly--"dowdily," the girls said--and
"roomed" herself,
that phrase meaning that she rented a little unfurnished room and
cooked her own meals over an oil stove.
The "senior prom," as it was called, was the annual recept=
ion
which
the senior class gave in the middle of every autumn term. It was the=
smartest and gayest of all the college functions, and a Payzant co-e=
d
who received an invitation to it counted herself fortunate. The seni=
or
girls were included as a matter of course, but a junior, soph, or
freshie could not go unless one of the senior boys invited her.
Grace Seeley was studying Greek in her tiny room that afternoon when=
the invitation was brought to her. It was scrupulously orthodox in
appearance and form, and Grace never doubted that it was genuine,
although she felt much surprised that Sidney Hill, the leader of his=
class and the foremost figure in all college sports and societies,
should have asked her to go with him to the senior prom.
But she was girlishly pleased at the prospect. She was as fond of a<= o:p>
good time as any other girl, and she had secretly wished very much
that she could go to the brilliant and much talked about senior prom=
.
Grace was quite unaware of her own unpopularity among her class
co-eds, although she thought it was very hard to get acquainted with=
them. Without any false pride herself, and of a frank, independent
nature, it never occurred to her that the other Payzant freshies cou=
ld
look down on her because she was poor, or resent her presence among<= o:p>
them because she dressed plainly.
She straightway wrote a note of acceptance to Sidney Hill, and that<= o:p>
young man naturally felt much mystified when he opened and read it i=
n
the college library next morning.
"Grace Seeley," he pondered. "That's the jolly girl w=
ith
the brown
eyes that I met at the philomathic the other night. She thanks me fo=
r
my invitation to the senior prom, and accepts with pleasure. Why, I<= o:p>
certainly never invited her or anyone else to go with me to the seni=
or
prom. There must be some mistake."
Grace passed him at this moment on her way to the Latin classroom. S=
he
bowed and smiled in a friendly fashion and Sidney Hill felt decidedl=
y
uncomfortable. What was he to do? He did not like to think of puttin=
g
Miss Seeley in a false position because somebody had sent her an
invitation in his name.
"I suppose it is some cad who has a spite at me that has done
it," he
reflected, "but if so I'll spoil his game. I'll take Miss Seele=
y to
the prom as if I had never intended doing anything else. She shan't =
be
humiliated just because there is someone at Payzant who would stoop =
to
that sort of thing."
So he walked up the hall with Grace and expressed his pleasure at he=
r
acceptance, and on the evening of the prom he sent her a bouquet of<= o:p>
white carnations, whose spicy fragrance reminded her of her own litt=
le
garden at home. Grace thought it extremely nice of him, and dressed =
in
a flutter of pleasant anticipation.
Her gown was a very simple one of sheer white organdie, and was the<= o:p>
only evening dress she had. She knew there would be many smarter
dresses at the reception, but the knowledge did not disturb her
sensible head in the least.
She fingered the dainty white frills lovingly as she remembered the<= o:p>
sunny summer days at home in the little sewing-room, where cherry
boughs poked their blossoms in at the window, when her mother and
sisters had helped her to make it, with laughing prophesies and
speculations as to its first appearance. Into seam and puff and fril=
l
many girlish hopes and dreams had been sewn, and they all came back =
to
Grace as she put it on, and helped to surround her with an atmospher=
e
of happiness.
When she was ready she picked up her bouquet and looked herself over=
in the mirror, from the top of her curly head to the tips of her
white shoes, with a little nod of satisfaction. Grace was not exactl=
y
pretty, but she had such a bright, happy face and such merry brown
eyes and such a friendly smile that she was very pleasant to look
upon, and a great many people thought so that night.
Grace had never in all her life before had so good a time as she had=
at that senior prom. The seniors were quick to discover her unaffect=
ed
originality and charm, and everywhere she went she was the centre of=
a
merry group. In short, Grace, as much to her own surprise as anyone'=
s,
found herself a social success.
Presently Sidney brought his brother up to be introduced, and the
latter said:
"Miss Seeley, will you excuse my asking if you have a brother or
any
relative named Max Seeley?"
Grace nodded. "Oh, yes, my brother Max. He is a doctor out
west."
"I was sure of it," said Murray Hill triumphantly. "Y=
ou
resemble him
so strongly. Please don't consider me as a stranger a minute longer,=
for Max and I are like brothers. Indeed, I owe my life to him. Last<= o:p>
summer I was out there on a surveying expedition, and I took typhoid=
in a little out-of-the-way place where good nursing was not to be ha=
d
for love or money. Your brother attended me and he managed to pull m=
e
through. He never left me day or night until I was out of danger, an=
d
he worked like a Trojan for me."
"Dear old Max," said Grace, her brown eyes shining with pr=
ide
and
pleasure. "That is so like him. He is such a dear brother and I=
haven't seen him for four years. To see somebody who knows him so we=
ll
is next best thing to seeing himself."
"He is an awfully fine fellow," said Mr. Hill heartily,
"and I'm
delighted to have met the 'little sister' he used to talk so much
about. I want you to come ever and meet my mother and sister. They
have heard me talk so much about Max that they think almost as much<= o:p>
of him as I do, and they will be glad to meet his sister."
Mrs. Hill, a handsome, dignified lady who was one of the chaperones =
of
the prom, received Grace warmly, while Beatrice Hill, an extremely
pretty, smartly gowned girl, made her feel at home immediately.
"You came with Sid, didn't you?" she whispered. "Sid =
is
so sly--he
never tells us whom he is going to take anywhere. But when I saw you=
come in with him I knew I was going to like you, you looked so jolly=
.
And you're really the sister of that splendid Dr. Seeley who saved
Murray's life last summer? And to think you've been at Payzant nearl=
y
a whole term and we never knew it!"
"Well, how have you enjoyed our prom, Miss Seeley?" asked =
Sid,
as they
walked home together under the arching elms of the college campus.
"Oh! it was splendid," said Grace enthusiastically.
"Everybody was so
nice. And then to meet someone who could tell me so much about Max! =
I
must write them home all about it before I sleep, just to calm my he=
ad
a bit. Mother and the girls will be so interested, and I must send L=
ou
and Mab a carnation apiece for their scrapbooks."
"Give me one back, please," said Sid. And Grace with a lit=
tle
blush,
did so.
That night, while Grace was slipping the stems of her carnations and=
putting them into water, three little bits of conversation were bein=
g
carried on which it is necessary to report in order to round up this=
story neatly and properly, as all stories should be rounded up.
In the first place, Beatrice Hill was saying to Sidney, "Oh, Si=
d,
that
Miss Seeley you had at the prom is a lovely girl. I don't know when<= o:p>
I've met anyone I liked so much. She was so jolly and friendly and s=
he
didn't put on learned airs at all, as so many of those Payzant girls=
do. I asked her all about herself and she told me, and all about her=
mother and sisters and home and the lovely times they had together,<= o:p>
and how hard they worked to send her to college too, and how she
taught school in vacations and 'roomed' herself to help along. Isn't=
it so brave and plucky of her! I know we are going to be great
friends."
"I hope so," said Sidney briefly, "because I have an =
idea
that she and
I are going to be very good friends too."
And Sidney went upstairs and put away a single white carnation very<= o:p>
carefully.
In the second place, Mrs. Hill was saying to her eldest son, "I
liked
that Miss Seeley very much. She seemed a very sweet girl."
And, finally, Agnes Walters and Edna Hayden were discussing the matt=
er
in great mystification in their room.
"I can't understand it at all," said Agnes slowly. "S=
id
Hill took her
to the prom and he must have sent her those carnations too. She coul=
d
never have afforded them herself. And did you see the fuss his peopl=
e
made over her? I heard Beatrice telling her that she was coming to
call on her tomorrow, and Mrs. Hill said she must look upon
'Beechlawn' as her second home while she was at Payzant. If the Hill=
s
are going to take her up we'll have to be nice to her."
"I suppose," said Edna conclusively, "the truth of the
matter is that
Sid Hill meant to ask her anyway. I dare say he asked her long ago,<= o:p>
and she would know our invitation was a fraud. So the joke is on
ourselves, after all."
But, as you and I know, that, with the exception of the last sentenc=
e,
was not the truth of the matter at all.
Winslow had been fishing--or pretending to--all the morning, and he<= o:p>
was desperately thirsty. He boarded with the Beckwiths on the
the Penningtons well. He had often been there for bait and milk and<= o:p>
had listened times out of mind to Mrs. Pennington's dismal tales of<= o:p>
her tribulations with hired girls. She never could get along with
them, and they left, on an average, after a fortnight's trial. She w=
as
on the lookout for one now, he knew, and would likely be cross, but =
he
thought she would give him a drink.
He rowed his skiff into the shore and tied it to a fir that hung out=
from the bank. A winding little footpath led up to the Pennington
farmhouse, which crested the hill about three hundred yards from the=
shore. Winslow made for the kitchen door and came face to face with =
a
girl carrying a pail of water--Mrs. Pennington's latest thing in hir=
ed
girls, of course.
Winslow's first bewildered thought was "What a goddess!" a=
nd
he
wondered, as he politely asked for a drink, where on earth Mrs.
Pennington had picked her up. She handed him a shining dipper half
full and stood, pail in hand, while he drank it.
She was rather tall, and wore a somewhat limp, faded print gown, and=
a
big sunhat, beneath which a glossy knot of chestnut showed itself. H=
er
skin was very fair, somewhat freckled, and her mouth was delicious. =
As
for her eyes, they were grey, but beyond that simply defied
description.
"Will you have some more?" she asked in a soft, drawling
voice.
"No, thank you. That was delicious. Is Mrs. Pennington home?&qu=
ot;
"No. She has gone away for the day."
"Well, I suppose I can sit down here and rest a while. You've n=
o
serious objections, have you?"
"Oh, no."
She carried her pail into the kitchen and came out again presently
with a knife and a pan of apples. Sitting down on a bench under the<= o:p>
poplars she proceeded to peel them with a disregard of his presence<= o:p>
that piqued Winslow, who was not used to being ignored in this
fashion. Besides, as a general rule, he had been quite good friends<= o:p>
with Mrs. Pennington's hired girls. She had had three strapping
damsels during his sojourn in Riverside, and he used to sit on this<= o:p>
very doorstep and chaff them. They had all been saucy and talkative.=
This girl was evidently a new species.
"Do you think you'll get along with Mrs. Pennington?" he a=
sked
finally. "As a rule she fights with her help, although she is a
most
estimable woman."
The girl smiled quite broadly.
"I guess p'r'aps she's rather hard to suit," was the answe=
r,
"but I
like her pretty well so far. I think we'll get along with each other=
.
If we don't I can leave--like the others did."
"What is your name?"
"Nelly Ray."
"Well, Nelly, I hope you'll be able to keep your place. Let me =
give
you a bit of friendly advice. Don't let the cats get into the pantry=
.
That is what Mrs. Pennington has quarrelled with nearly every one of=
her girls about."
"It is quite a bother to keep them out, ain't it?" said Ne=
lly
calmly.
"There's dozens of cats about the place. What on earth makes th=
em
keep
so many?"
"Mr. Pennington has a mania for cats. He and Mrs. Pennington ha=
ve a
standing disagreement about it. The last girl left here because she<= o:p>
couldn't stand the cats; they affected her nerves, she said. I hope<= o:p>
you don't mind them."
"Oh, no; I kind of like cats. I've been tryin' to count them. H=
as
anyone ever done that?"
"Not that I know of. I tried but I had to give up in despair--n=
ever
could tell when I was counting the same cat over again. Look at that=
black goblin sunning himself on the woodpile. I say, Nelly, you're n=
ot
going, are you?"
"I must. It's time to get dinner. Mr. Pennington will be in from
the
fields soon."
The next minute he heard her stepping briskly about the kitchen,
shooing out intruding cats, and humming a darky air to herself. He
went reluctantly back to the shore and rowed across the river in a
brown study.
I don't know whether Winslow was afflicted with chronic thirst or no=
t,
or whether the East side water wasn't so good as that of the West
side; but I do know that he fairly haunted the Pennington farmhouse<= o:p>
after that. Mrs. Pennington was home the next time he went, and he
asked her about her new girl. To his surprise the good lady was
unusually reticent. She couldn't really say very much about Nelly. N=
o,
she didn't belong anywhere near Riverside. In fact, she--Mrs.
Pennington--didn't think she had any settled home at present. Her
father was travelling over the country somewhere. Nelly was a good
little girl, and very obliging. Beyond this Winslow could get no mor=
e
information, so he went around and talked to Nelly, who was sitting =
on
the bench under the poplars and seemed absorbed in watching the
sunset.
She dropped her g's badly and made some grammatical errors that caus=
ed
Winslow's flesh to creep on his bones. But any man could have forgiv=
en
mistakes from such dimpled lips in such a sweet voice.
He asked her to go for a row up the river in the twilight and she
assented; she handled an oar very well, he found out, and the exerci=
se
became her. Winslow tried to get her to talk about herself, but fail=
ed
signally and had to content himself with Mrs. Pennington's meagre
information. He told her about himself frankly enough--how he had ha=
d
fever in the spring and had been ordered to spend the summer in the<= o:p>
country and do nothing useful until his health was fully restored, a=
nd
how lonesome it was in Riverside in general and at the Beckwith farm=
in particular. He made out quite a dismal case for himself and if
Nelly wasn't sorry for him, she should have been.
* *=
* * *
At the end of a fortnight Riverside folks began to talk about Winslo=
w
and the Penningtons' hired girl. He was reported to be "dead
gone" on
her; he took her out rowing every evening, drove her to preaching up=
the Bend on Sunday nights, and haunted the Pennington farmhouse. Wis=
e
folks shook their heads over it and wondered that Mrs. Pennington
allowed it. Winslow was a gentleman, and that Nelly Ray, whom nobody=
knew anything about, not even where she came from, was only a common=
hired girl, and he had no business to be hanging about her. She was<= o:p>
pretty, to be sure; but she was absurdly stuck-up and wouldn't
associate with other Riverside "help" at all. Well, pride =
must
have a
fall; there must be something queer about her when she was so awful<= o:p>
sly as to her past life.
Winslow and Nelly did not trouble themselves in the least over all
this gossip; in fact, they never even heard it. Winslow was hopeless=
ly
in love, when he found this out he was aghast. He thought of his
father, the ambitious railroad magnate; of his mother, the brilliant=
society leader; of his sisters, the beautiful and proud; he was
honestly frightened. It would never do; he must not go to see Nelly<= o:p>
again. He kept this prudent resolution for twenty-four hours and the=
n
rowed over to the West shore. He found Nelly sitting on the bank in<= o:p>
her old faded print dress and he straightway forgot everything he
ought to have remembered.
Nelly herself never seemed to be conscious of the social gulf betwee=
n
them. At least she never alluded to it in any way, and accepted
Winslow's attentions as if she had a perfect right to them. She had<= o:p>
broken the record by staying with Mrs. Pennington four weeks, and
even the cats were in subjection.
Winslow was well enough to have gone back to the city and, in fact,<= o:p>
his father was writing for him. But he couldn't leave Beckwiths',
apparently. At any rate he stayed on and met Nelly every day and
cursed himself for a cad and a cur and a weak-brained idiot.
One day he took Nelly for a row up the river. They went further than=
usual around the Bend. Winslow didn't want to go too far, for he kne=
w
that a party of his city friends, chaperoned by Mrs. Keyton-Wells,
were having a picnic somewhere up along the river shore that day. Bu=
t
Nelly insisted on going on and on, and of course she had her way. Wh=
en
they reached a little pine-fringed headland they came upon the
picnickers, within a stone's throw. Everybody recognized Winslow.
"Why, there is Burton!" he heard Mrs. Keyton-Wells exclaim,
and he
knew she was putting up her glasses. Will Evans, who was an especial=
chum of his, ran down to the water's edge. "Bless me, Win, where
did
you come from? Come right in. We haven't had tea yet. Bring your
friend too," he added, becoming conscious that Winslow's friend=
was
a
mighty pretty girl. Winslow's face was crimson. He avoided Nelly's
eye.
"Are them people friends of yours?" she asked in a low ton=
e.
"Yes," he muttered.
"Well, let us go ashore if they want us to," she said calm=
ly.
"I don't
mind."
For three seconds Winslow hesitated. Then he pulled ashore and helpe=
d
Nelly to alight on a jutting rock. There was a curious, set expressi=
on
about his fine mouth as he marched Nelly up to Mrs. Keyton-Wells and=
introduced her. Mrs. Keyton-Wells's greeting was slightly cool, but<= o:p>
very polite. She supposed Miss Ray was some little country girl with=
whom Burton Winslow was carrying on a summer flirtation; respectable=
enough, no doubt, and must be treated civilly, but of course wouldn'=
t
expect to be made an equal of exactly. The other women took their cu=
e
from her, but the men were more cordial. Miss Ray might be shabby, b=
ut
she was distinctly fetching, and Winslow looked savage.
Nelly was not a whit abashed, seemingly, by the fashionable circle i=
n
which she found herself, and she talked away to Will Evans and the
others in her soft drawl as if she had known them all her life. All<= o:p>
might have gone passably well, had not a little Riverside imp, by na=
me
of Rufus Hent, who had been picked up by the picnickers to run their=
errands, come up just then with a pail of water.
"Golly!" he ejaculated in very audible tones. "If the=
re
ain't Mrs.
Pennington's hired girl!"
Mrs. Keyton-Wells stiffened with horror. Winslow darted a furious
glance at the tell-tale that would have annihilated anything except =
a
small boy. Will Evans grinned and went on talking to Nelly, who had<= o:p>
failed to hear, or at least to heed, the exclamation.
The mischief was done, the social thermometer went down to zero in
Nelly's neighbourhood. The women ignored her altogether. Winslow set=
his teeth together and registered a mental vow to wring Rufus Hent's=
sunburned neck at the first opportunity. He escorted Nelly to the
table and waited on her with ostentatious deference, while Mrs.
Keyton-Wells glanced at him stonily and made up her mind to tell his=
mother when she went home.
Nelly's social ostracism did not affect her appetite. But after lunc=
h
was over, she walked down to the skiff. Winslow followed her.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked.
"Yes, it's time I went, for the cats may be raidin' the pantry.=
But
you must not come; your friends here want you."
"Nonsense!" said Winslow sulkily. "If you are going I=
am
too."
But Nelly was too quick for him; she sprang into the skiff, unwound<= o:p>
the rope, and pushed off before he guessed her intention.
"I can row myself home and I mean to," she announced, taki=
ng
up the
oars defiantly.
"Nelly," he implored.
Nelly looked at him wickedly.
"You'd better go back to your friends. That old woman with the<= o:p>
eyeglasses is watchin' you."
Winslow said something strong under his breath as he went back to th=
e
others. Will Evans and his chums began to chaff him about Nelly, but=
he looked so dangerous that they concluded to stop. There is no
denying that Winslow was in a fearful temper just then with Mrs.
Keyton-Wells, Evans, himself, Nelly--in fact, with all the world.
His friends drove him home in the evening on their way to the statio=
n
and dropped him at the Beckwith farm. At dusk he went moodily down t=
o
the shore. Far up the Bend was dim and shadowy and stars were shinin=
g
above the wooded shores. Over the river the Pennington farmhouse
lights twinkled out alluringly. Winslow watched them until he could<= o:p>
stand it no longer. Nelly had made off with his skiff, but Perry
Beckwith's dory was ready to hand. In five minutes, Winslow was
grounding her on the West shore. Nelly was sitting on a rock at the<= o:p>
landing place. He went over and sat down silently beside her. A full=
moon was rising above the dark hills up the Bend and in the faint
light the girl was wonderfully lovely.
"I thought you weren't comin' over at all tonight," she sa=
id,
smiling
up at him, "and I was sorry, because I wanted to say goodbye to
you."
"Goodbye? Nelly, you're not going away?"
"Yes. The cats were in the pantry when I got home."
"Nelly!"
"Well, to be serious. I'm not goin' for that, but I really am
goin'.
I had a letter from Dad this evenin'. Did you have a good time after=
I
left this afternoon? Did Mrs. Keyton-Wells thaw out?"
"Hang Mrs. Keyton-Wells! Nelly, where are you going?"
"To Dad, of course. We used to live down south together, but tw=
o
months ago we broke up housekeepin' and come north. We thought we
could do better up here, you know. Dad started out to look for a pla=
ce
to settle down and I came here while he was prospectin'. He's got a<= o:p>
house now, he says, and wants me to go right off. I'm goin'
tomorrow."
"Nelly, you mustn't go--you mustn't, I tell you," exclaimed
Winslow in
despair. "I love you--I love you--you must stay with me
forever."
"You don't know what you're sayin', Mr. Winslow," said Nel=
ly
coldly.
"Why, you can't marry me--a common servant girl."
"I can and I will, if you'll have me," answered Winslow
recklessly. "I
can't ever let you go. I've loved you ever since I first saw you.
Nelly, won't you be my wife? Don't you love me?"
"Well, yes, I do," confessed Nelly suddenly; and then it w=
as
fully
five minutes before Winslow gave her a chance to say anything else.<= o:p>
"Oh, what will your people say?" she contrived to ask at l=
ast.
"Won't
they be in a dreadful state? Oh, it will never do for you to marry
me."
"Won't it?" said Winslow in a tone of satisfaction. "I
rather think it
will. Of course, my family will rampage a bit at first. I daresay
Father'll turn me out. Don't worry over that, Nelly. I'm not afraid =
of
work. I'm not afraid of anything except losing you."
"You'll have to see what Dad says," remarked Nelly, after
another
eloquent interlude.
"He won't object, will he? I'll write to him or go and see him.
Where
is he?"
"He is in town at the Arlington."
"The Arlington!" Winslow was amazed. The Arlington was the
most
exclusive and expensive hotel in town.
"What is he doing there?"
"Transacting a real estate or railroad deal with your father, I=
believe, or something of that sort."
"Nelly!"
"Well?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say."
Winslow got up and looked at her.
"Nelly, who are you?"
"Helen Ray Scott, at your service, sir."
"Not Helen Ray Scott, the daughter of the railroad king?"<= o:p>
"The same. Are you sorry that you're engaged to her? If you are=
,
she'll stay Nelly Ray."
Winslow dropped back on the seat with a long breath.
"Nelly, I don't understand. Why did you deceive me? I feel
stunned."
"Oh, do forgive me," she said merrily. "I shouldn't h=
ave,
I
suppose--but you know you took me for the hired girl the very first<= o:p>
time you saw me, and you patronized me and called me Nelly; so I let=
you think so just for fun. I never thought it would come to this. Wh=
en
Father and I came north I took a fancy to come here and stay with Mr=
s.
Pennington--who is an old nurse of mine--until Father decided where =
to
take up our abode. I got here the night before we met. My trunk was<= o:p>
delayed so I put on an old cotton dress her niece had left here--and=
you came and saw me. I made Mrs. Pennington keep the secret--she
thought it great fun; and I really was a great hand to do little
chores and keep the cats in subjection too. I made mistakes in gramm=
ar
and dropped my g's on purpose--it was such fun to see you wince when=
I
did it. It was cruel to tease you so, I suppose, but it was so sweet=
just to be loved for myself--not because I was an heiress and a
belle--I couldn't bear to tell you the truth. Did you think I
couldn't read your thoughts this afternoon, when I insisted on going=
ashore? You were a little ashamed of me--you know you were. I didn't=
blame you for that, but if you hadn't gone ashore and taken me as yo=
u
did I would never have spoken to you again. Mrs. Keyton-Wells won't<= o:p>
snub me next time we meet. And some way I don't think your father wi=
ll
turn you out, either. Have you forgiven me yet, Burton?"
"I shall never call you anything but Nelly," said Winslow<= o:p>
irrelevantly.
You would have me tell you the story, Grandchild? 'Tis a sad one and=
best forgotten--few remember it now. There are always sad and dark
stories in old families such as ours.
Yet I have promised and must keep my word. So sit down here at my fe=
et
and rest your bright head on my lap, that I may not see in your youn=
g
eyes the shadows my story will bring across their bonny blue.
I was a mere child when it all happened, yet I remember it but too
well, and I can recall how pleased I was when my father's stepmother=
,
Mrs. Montressor--she not liking to be called grandmother, seeing she=
was but turned of fifty and a handsome woman still--wrote to my moth=
er
that she must send little Beatrice up to Montressor Place for the
Christmas holidays. So I went joyfully though my mother grieved to
part with me; she had little to love save me, my father, Conrad
Montressor, having been lost at sea when but three months wed.
My aunts were wont to tell me how much I resembled him, being, so th=
ey
said, a Montressor to the backbone; and this I took to mean
commendation, for the Montressors were a well-descended and
well-thought-of family, and the women were noted for their beauty.
This I could well believe, since of all my aunts there was not one b=
ut
was counted a pretty woman. Therefore I took heart of grace when I
thought of my dark face and spindling shape, hoping that when I shou=
ld
be grown up I might be counted not unworthy of my race.
The Place was an old-fashioned, mysterious house, such as I delighte=
d
in, and Mrs. Montressor was ever kind to me, albeit a little stern,<= o:p>
for she was a proud woman and cared but little for children, having<= o:p>
none of her own.
But there were books there to pore over without let or hindrance--fo=
r
nobody questioned of my whereabouts if I but kept out of the way--an=
d
strange, dim family portraits on the walls to gaze upon, until I kne=
w
each proud old face well, and had visioned a history for it in my ow=
n
mind--for I was given to dreaming and was older and wiser than my
years, having no childish companions to keep me still a child.
There were always some of my aunts at the Place to kiss and make muc=
h
of me for my father's sake--for he had been their favourite brother.=
My aunts--there were eight of them--had all married well, so said
people who knew, and lived not far away, coming home often to take t=
ea
with Mrs. Montressor, who had always gotten on well with her
step-daughters, or to help prepare for some festivity or other--for<= o:p>
they were notable housekeepers, every one.
They were all at Montressor Place for Christmas, and I got more
petting than I deserved, albeit they looked after me somewhat more
strictly than did Mrs. Montressor, and saw to it that I did not read=
too many fairy tales or sit up later at nights than became my years.=
But it was not for fairy tales and sugarplums nor yet for petting th=
at
I rejoiced to be at the Place at that time. Though I spoke not of it=
to anyone, I had a great longing to see my Uncle Hugh's wife,
concerning whom I had heard much, both good and bad.
My Uncle Hugh, albeit the oldest of the family, had never married
until now, and all the countryside rang with talk of his young wife.=
I
did not hear as much as I wished, for the gossips took heed to my
presence when I drew anear and turned to other matters. Yet, being
somewhat keener of comprehension than they knew, I heard and
understood not a little of their talk.
And so I came to know that neither proud Mrs. Montressor nor my good=
aunts, nor even my gentle mother, looked with overmuch favour on wha=
t
my Uncle Hugh had done. And I did hear that Mrs. Montressor had chos=
en
a wife for her stepson, of good family and some beauty, but that my<= o:p>
Uncle Hugh would have none of her--a thing Mrs. Montressor found har=
d
to pardon, yet might so have done had not my uncle, on his last voya=
ge
to the Indies--for he went often in his own vessels--married and
brought home a foreign bride, of whom no one knew aught save that he=
r
beauty was a thing to dazzle the day and that she was of some strang=
e
alien blood such as ran not in the blue veins of the Montressors.
Some had much to say of her pride and insolence, and wondered if Mrs=
.
Montressor would tamely yield her mistress-ship to the stranger. But=
others, who were taken with her loveliness and grace, said that the<= o:p>
tales told were born of envy and malice, and that Alicia Montressor<= o:p>
was well worthy of her name and station.
So I halted between two opinions and thought to judge for myself, bu=
t
when I went to the Place my Uncle Hugh and his bride were gone for a=
time, and I had even to swallow my disappointment and bide their
return with all my small patience.
But my aunts and their stepmother talked much of Alicia, and they
spoke slightingly of her, saying that she was but a light woman and<= o:p>
that no good would come of my Uncle Hugh's having wed her, with othe=
r
things of a like nature. Also they spoke of the company she gathered=
around her, thinking her to have strange and unbecoming companions f=
or
a Montressor. All this I heard and pondered much over, although my
good aunts supposed that such a chit as I would take no heed to thei=
r
whisperings.
When I was not with them, helping to whip eggs and stone raisins, an=
d
being watched to see that I ate not more than one out of five, I was=
surely to be found in the wing hall, poring over my book and grievin=
g
that I was no more allowed to go into the Red Room.
The wing hall was a narrow one and dim, connecting the main rooms of=
the Place with an older wing, built in a curious way. The hall was
lighted by small, square-paned windows, and at its end a little
flight of steps led up to the Red Room.
Whenever I had been at the Place before--and this was often--I had
passed much of my time in this same Red Room. It was Mrs. Montressor=
's
sitting-room then, where she wrote her letters and examined househol=
d
accounts, and sometimes had an old gossip in to tea. The room was
low-ceilinged and dim, hung with red damask, and with odd, square
windows high up under the eaves and a dark wainscoting all around it=
.
And there I loved to sit quietly on the red sofa and read my fairy
tales, or talk dreamily to the swallows fluttering crazily against t=
he
tiny panes.
When I had gone this Christmas to the Place I soon bethought myself =
of
the Red Room--for I had a great love for it. But I had got no furthe=
r
than the steps when Mrs. Montressor came sweeping down the hall in
haste and, catching me by the arm, pulled me back as roughly as if i=
t
had been Bluebeard's chamber itself into which I was venturing.
Then, seeing my face, which I doubt not was startled enough, she
seemed to repent of her haste and patted me gently on the head.
"There, there, little Beatrice! Did I frighten you, child? Forg=
ive
an
old woman's thoughtlessness. But be not too ready to go where you ar=
e
not bidden, and never venture foot in the Red Room now, for it belon=
gs
to your Uncle Hugh's wife, and let me tell you she is not over fond =
of
intruders."
I felt sorry overmuch to hear this, nor could I see why my new aunt<= o:p>
should care if I went in once in a while, as had been my habit, to
talk to the swallows and misplace nothing. But Mrs. Montressor saw t=
o
it that I obeyed her, and I went no more to the Red Room, but busied=
myself with other matters.
For there were great doings at the Place and much coming and going. =
My
aunts were never idle; there was to be much festivity Christmas week=
and a ball on Christmas Eve. And my aunts had promised me--though no=
t
till I had wearied them of my coaxing--that I should stay up that
night and see as much of the gaiety as was good for me. So I did the=
ir
errands and went early to bed every night without complaint--though =
I
did this the more readily for that, when they thought me safely
asleep, they would come in and talk around my bedroom fire, saying
that of Alicia which I should not have heard.
At last came the day when my Uncle Hugh and his wife were expected
home--though not until my scanty patience was well nigh wearied
out--and we were all assembled to meet them in the great hall, where=
a
ruddy firelight was gleaming.
My Aunt Frances had dressed me in my best white frock and my crimson=
sash, with much lamenting over my skinny neck and arms, and bade me<= o:p>
behave prettily, as became my bringing up. So I slipped in a corner,=
my hands and feet cold with excitement, for I think every drop of
blood in my body had gone to my head, and my heart beat so hardly th=
at
it even pained me.
Then the door opened and Alicia--for so I was used to hearing her
called, nor did I ever think of her as my aunt in my own mind--came<= o:p>
in, and a little in the rear my tall, dark uncle.
She came proudly forward to the fire and stood there superbly while<= o:p>
she loosened her cloak, nor did she see me at all at first, but
nodded, a little disdainfully, it seemed, to Mrs. Montressor and my<= o:p>
aunts, who were grouped about the drawing-room door, very ladylike a=
nd
quiet.
But I neither saw nor heard aught at the time save her only, for her=
beauty, when she came forth from her crimson cloak and hood, was
something so wonderful that I forgot my manners and stared at her as=
one fascinated--as indeed I was, for never had I seen such lovelines=
s
and hardly dreamed it.
Pretty women I had seen in plenty, for my aunts and my mother were
counted fair, but my uncle's wife was as little like to them as a
sunset glow to pale moonshine or a crimson rose to white day-lilies.=
Nor can I paint her to you in words as I saw her then, with the long=
tongues of firelight licking her white neck and wavering over the ri=
ch
masses of her red-gold hair.
She was tall--so tall that my aunts looked but insignificant beside<= o:p>
her, and they were of no mean height, as became their race; yet no
queen could have carried herself more royally, and all the passion a=
nd
fire of her foreign nature burned in her splendid eyes, that might
have been dark or light for aught that I could ever tell, but which<= o:p>
seemed always like pools of warm flame, now tender, now fierce.
Her skin was like a delicate white rose leaf, and when she spoke I
told my foolish self that never had I heard music before; nor do I
ever again think to hear a voice so sweet, so liquid, as that which<= o:p>
rippled over her ripe lips.
I had often in my own mind pictured this, my first meeting with
Alicia, now in one way, now in another, but never had I dreamed of h=
er
speaking to me at all, so that it came to me as a great surprise whe=
n
she turned and, holding out her lovely hands, said very graciously:<= o:p>
"And is this the little Beatrice? I have heard much of you--com=
e,
kiss
me, child."
And I went, despite my Aunt Elizabeth's black frown, for the glamour=
of her loveliness was upon me, and I no longer wondered that my Uncl=
e
Hugh should have loved her.
Very proud of her was he too; yet I felt, rather than saw--for I was=
sensitive and quick of perception, as old-young children ever
are--that there was something other than pride and love in his face<= o:p>
when he looked on her, and more in his manner than the fond lover--a=
s
it were, a sort of lurking mistrust.
Nor could I think, though to me the thought seemed as treason, that<= o:p>
she loved her husband overmuch, for she seemed half condescending an=
d
half disdainful to him; yet one thought not of this in her presence,=
but only remembered it when she had gone.
When she went out it seemed to me that nothing was left, so I crept<= o:p>
lonesomely away to the wing hall and sat down by a window to dream o=
f
her; and she filled my thoughts so fully that it was no surprise whe=
n
I raised my eyes and saw her coming down the hall alone, her bright<= o:p>
head shining against the dark old walls.
When she paused by me and asked me lightly of what I was dreaming,
since I had such a sober face, I answered her truly that it was of
her--whereat she laughed, as one not ill pleased, and said half
mockingly:
"Waste not your thoughts so, little Beatrice. But come with me,=
child, if you will, for I have taken a strange fancy to your solemn<= o:p>
eyes. Perchance the warmth of your young life may thaw out the ice
that has frozen around my heart ever since I came among these cold
Montressors."
And, though I understood not her meaning, I went, glad to see the Re=
d
Room once more. So she made me sit down and talk to her, which I did=
,
for shyness was no failing of mine; and she asked me many questions,=
and some that I thought she should not have asked, but I could not
answer them, so 'twere little harm.
After that I spent a part of every day with her in the Red Room. And=
my Uncle Hugh was there often, and he would kiss her and praise her<= o:p>
loveliness, not heeding my presence--for I was but a child.
Yet it ever seemed to me that she endured rather than welcomed his
caresses, and at times the ever-burning flame in her eyes glowed so<= o:p>
luridly that a chill dread would creep over me, and I would remember=
what my Aunt Elizabeth had said, she being a bitter-tongued woman,
though kind at heart--that this strange creature would bring on us a=
ll
some evil fortune yet.
Then would I strive to banish such thoughts and chide myself for
doubting one so kind to me.
When Christmas Eve drew nigh my silly head was full of the ball day<= o:p>
and night. But a grievous disappointment befell me, for I awakened
that day very ill with a most severe cold; and though I bore me
bravely, my aunts discovered it soon, when, despite my piteous
pleadings, I was put to bed, where I cried bitterly and would not be=
comforted. For I thought I should not see the fine folk and, more
than all, Alicia.
But that disappointment, at least, was spared me, for at night she
came into my room, knowing of my longing--she was ever indulgent to =
my
little wishes. And when I saw her I forgot my aching limbs and burni=
ng
brow, and even the ball I was not to see, for never was mortal
creature so lovely as she, standing there by my bed.
Her gown was of white, and there was nothing I could liken the stuff=
to save moonshine falling athwart a frosted pane, and out from it
swelled her gleaming breast and arms, so bare that it seemed to me a=
shame to look upon them. Yet it could not be denied they were of
wondrous beauty, white as polished marble.
And all about her snowy throat and rounded arms, and in the masses o=
f
her splendid hair, were sparkling, gleaming stones, with hearts of
pure light, which I know now to have been diamonds, but knew not the=
n,
for never had I seen aught of their like.
And I gazed at her, drinking in her beauty until my soul was filled,=
as she stood like some goddess before her worshipper. I think she re=
ad
my thought in my face and liked it--for she was a vain woman, and to=
such even the admiration of a child is sweet.
Then she leaned down to me until her splendid eyes looked straight
into my dazzled ones.
"Tell me, little Beatrice--for they say the word of a child is =
to
be
believed--tell me, do you think me beautiful?"
I found my voice and told her truly that I thought her beautiful
beyond my dreams of angels--as indeed she was. Whereat she smiled as=
one well pleased.
Then my Uncle Hugh came in, and though I thought that his face
darkened as he looked on the naked splendour of her breast and arms,=
as if he liked not that the eyes of other men should gloat on it, ye=
t
he kissed her with all a lover's fond pride, while she looked at him=
half mockingly.
Then said he, "Sweet, will you grant me a favour?"
And she answered, "It may be that I will."
And he said, "Do not dance with that man tonight, Alicia. I
mistrust
him much."
His voice had more of a husband's command than a lover's entreaty. S=
he
looked at him with some scorn, but when she saw his face grow
black--for the Montressors brooked scant disregard of their authorit=
y,
as I had good reason to know--she seemed to change, and a smile came=
to her lips, though her eyes glowed balefully.
Then she laid her arms about his neck and--though it seemed to me th=
at
she had as soon strangled as embraced him--her voice was wondrous
sweet and caressing as she murmured in his ear.
He laughed and his brow cleared, though he said still sternly, "=
;Do
not
try me too far, Alicia."
Then they went out, she a little in advance and very stately.
After that my aunts also came in, very beautifully and modestly
dressed, but they seemed to me as nothing after Alicia. For I was
caught in the snare of her beauty, and the longing to see her again =
so
grew upon me that after a time I did an undutiful and disobedient
thing.
I had been straitly charged to stay in bed, which I did not, but got=
up and put on a gown. For it was in my mind to go quietly down, if b=
y
chance I might again see Alicia, myself unseen.
But when I reached the great hall I heard steps approaching and,
having a guilty conscience, I slipped aside into the blue parlour an=
d
hid me behind the curtains lest my aunts should see me.
Then Alicia came in, and with her a man whom I had never before seen=
.
Yet I instantly bethought myself of a lean black snake, with a
glittering and evil eye, which I had seen in Mrs. Montressor's garde=
n
two summers agone, and which was like to have bitten me. John, the
gardener, had killed it, and I verily thought that if it had a soul,=
it must have gotten into this man.
Alicia sat down and he beside her, and when he had put his arms abou=
t
her, he kissed her face and lips. Nor did she shrink from his embrac=
e,
but even smiled and leaned nearer to him with a little smooth motion=
,
as they talked to each other in some strange, foreign tongue.
I was but a child and innocent, nor knew I aught of honour and
dishonour. Yet it seemed to me that no man should kiss her save only=
my Uncle Hugh, and from that hour I mistrusted Alicia, though I
understood not then what I afterwards did.
And as I watched them--not thinking of playing the spy--I saw her fa=
ce
grow suddenly cold, and she straightened herself up and pushed away<= o:p>
her lover's arms.
Then I followed her guilty eyes to the door, where stood my Uncle
Hugh, and all the pride and passion of the Montressors sat on his
lowering brow. Yet he came forward quietly as Alicia and the snake
drew apart and stood up.
At first he looked not at his guilty wife but at her lover, and smot=
e
him heavily in the face. Whereat he, being a coward at heart, as are=
all villains, turned white and slunk from the room with a muttered
oath, nor was he stayed.
My uncle turned to Alicia, and very calmly and terribly he said,
"From
this hour you are no longer wife of mine!"
And there was that in his tone which told that his forgiveness and
love should be hers nevermore.
Then he motioned her out and she went, like a proud queen, with her<= o:p>
glorious head erect and no shame on her brow.
As for me, when they were gone I crept away, dazed and bewildered
enough, and went back to my bed, having seen and heard more than I h=
ad
a mind for, as disobedient people and eavesdroppers ever do.
But my Uncle Hugh kept his word, and Alicia was no more wife to him,=
save only in name. Yet of gossip or scandal there was none, for the<= o:p>
pride of his race kept secret his dishonour, nor did he ever seem
other than a courteous and respectful husband.
Nor did Mrs. Montressor and my aunts, though they wondered much amon=
g
themselves, learn aught, for they dared question neither their broth=
er
nor Alicia, who carried herself as loftily as ever, and seemed to pi=
ne
for neither lover nor husband. As for me, no one dreamed I knew augh=
t
of it, and I kept my own counsel as to what I had seen in the blue
parlour on the night of the Christmas ball.
After the New Year I went home, but ere long Mrs. Montressor sent fo=
r
me again, saying that the house was lonely without little Beatrice. =
So
I went again and found all unchanged, though the Place was very quie=
t,
and Alicia went out but little from the Red Room.
Of my Uncle Hugh I saw little, save when he went and came on the
business of his estate, somewhat more gravely and silently than of
yore, or brought to me books and sweetmeats from town.
But every day I was with Alicia in the Red Room, where she would tal=
k
to me, oftentimes wildly and strangely, but always kindly. And thoug=
h
I think Mrs. Montressor liked our intimacy none too well, she said n=
o
word, and I came and went as I listed with Alicia, though never quit=
e
liking her strange ways and the restless fire in her eyes.
Nor would I ever kiss her, after I had seen her lips pressed by the<= o:p>
snake's, though she sometimes coaxed me, and grew pettish and vexed<= o:p>
when I would not; but she guessed not my reason.
March came in that year like a lion, exceedingly hungry and fierce,<= o:p>
and my Uncle Hugh had ridden away through the storm nor thought to b=
e
back for some days.
In the afternoon I was sitting in the wing hall, dreaming wondrous
day-dreams, when Alicia called me to the Red Room. And as I went, I<= o:p>
marvelled anew at her loveliness, for the blood was leaping in her
face and her jewels were dim before the lustre of her eyes. Her hand=
,
when she took mine, was burning hot, and her voice had a strange rin=
g.
"Come, little Beatrice," she said, "come talk to me, =
for
I know not
what to do with my lone self today. Time hangs heavily in this gloom=
y
house. I do verily think this Red Room has an evil influence over me=
.
See if your childish prattle can drive away the ghosts that riot in<= o:p>
these dark old corners--ghosts of a ruined and shamed life! Nay,
shrink not--do I talk wildly? I mean not all I say--my brain seems o=
n
fire, little Beatrice. Come; it may be you know some grim old legend=
of this room--it must surely have one. Never was place fitter for a<= o:p>
dark deed! Tush! never be so frightened, child--forget my vagaries.<= o:p>
Tell me now and I will listen."
Whereat she cast herself lithely on the satin couch and turned her
lovely face on me. So I gathered up my small wits and told her what =
I
was not supposed to know--how that, generations agone, a Montressor<= o:p>
had disgraced himself and his name, and that, when he came home to h=
is
mother, she had met him in that same Red Room and flung at him taunt=
s
and reproaches, forgetting whose breast had nourished him; and that<= o:p>
he, frantic with shame and despair, turned his sword against his own=
heart and so died. But his mother went mad with her remorse, and was=
kept a prisoner in the Red Room until her death.
So lamely told I the tale, as I had heard my Aunt Elizabeth tell it,=
when she knew not I listened or understood. Alicia heard me through<= o:p>
and said nothing, save that it was a tale worthy of the Montressors.=
Whereat I bridled, for I too was a Montressor, and proud of it.
But she took my hand soothingly in hers and said, "Little Beatr=
ice,
if
tomorrow or the next day they should tell you, those cold, proud
women, that Alicia was unworthy of your love, tell me, would you
believe them?"
And I, remembering what I had seen in the blue parlour, was
silent--for I could not lie. So she flung my hand away with a bitter=
laugh, and picked lightly from the table anear a small dagger with a=
jewelled handle.
It seemed to me a cruel-looking toy and I said so--whereat she smile=
d
and drew her white fingers down the thin, shining blade in a fashion=
that made me cold.
"Such a little blow with this," she said, "such a lit=
tle
blow--and the
heart beats no longer, the weary brain rests, the lips and eyes smil=
e
never again! 'Twere a short path out of all difficulties, my
Beatrice."
And I, understanding her not, yet shivering, begged her to cast it
aside, which she did carelessly and, putting a hand under my chin, s=
he
turned up my face to hers.
"Little, grave-eyed Beatrice, tell me truly, would it grieve you
much
if you were never again to sit here with Alicia in this same Red
Room?"
And I made answer earnestly that it would, glad that I could say so<= o:p>
much truly. Then her face grew tender and she sighed deeply.
Presently she opened a quaint, inlaid box and took from it a shining=
gold chain of rare workmanship and exquisite design, and this she hu=
ng
around my neck, nor would suffer me to thank her but laid her hand
gently on my lips.
"Now go," she said. "But ere you leave me, little
Beatrice, grant me
but the one favour--it may be that I shall never ask another of you.=
Your people, I know--those cold Montressors--care little for me, but=
with all my faults, I have ever been kind to you. So, when the
morrow's come, and they tell you that Alicia is as one worse than
dead, think not of me with scorn only but grant me a little pity--fo=
r
I was not always what I am now, and might never have become so had a=
little child like you been always anear me, to keep me pure and
innocent. And I would have you but the once lay your arms about my
neck and kiss me."
And I did so, wondering much at her manner--for it had in it a stran=
ge
tenderness and some sort of hopeless longing. Then she gently put me=
from the room, and I sat musing by the hall window until night fell<= o:p>
darkly--and a fearsome night it was, of storm and blackness. And I
thought how well it was that my Uncle Hugh had not to return in such=
a
tempest. Yet, ere the thought had grown cold, the door opened and he=
strode down the hall, his cloak drenched and wind-twisted, in one ha=
nd
a whip, as though he had but then sprung from his horse, in the othe=
r
what seemed like a crumpled letter.
Nor was the night blacker than his face, and he took no heed of me a=
s
I ran after him, thinking selfishly of the sweetmeats he had promise=
d
to bring me--but I thought no more of them when I got to the door of=
the Red Room.
Alicia stood by the table, hooded and cloaked as for a journey, but<= o:p>
her hood had slipped back, and her face rose from it marble-white,
save where her wrathful eyes burned out, with dread and guilt and
hatred in their depths, while she had one arm raised as if to thrust=
him back.
As for my uncle, he stood before her and I saw not his face, but his=
voice was low and terrible, speaking words I understood not then,
though long afterwards I came to know their meaning.
And he cast foul scorn at her that she should have thought to fly wi=
th
her lover, and swore that naught should again thwart his vengeance,<= o:p>
with other threats, wild and dreadful enough.
Yet she said no word until he had done, and then she spoke, but what=
she said I know not, save that it was full of hatred and defiance an=
d
wild accusation, such as a mad woman might have uttered.
And she defied him even then to stop her flight, though he told her =
to
cross that threshold would mean her death; for he was a wronged and<= o:p>
desperate man and thought of nothing save his own dishonour.
Then she made as if to pass him, but he caught her by her white wris=
t;
she turned on him with fury, and I saw her right hand reach stealthi=
ly
out over the table behind her, where lay the dagger.
"Let me go!" she hissed.
And he said, "I will not."
Then she turned herself about and struck at him with the dagger--and=
never saw I such a face as was hers at the moment.
He fell heavily, yet held her even in death, so that she had to wren=
ch
herself free, with a shriek that rings yet in my ears on a night whe=
n
the wind wails over the rainy moors. She rushed past me unheeding, a=
nd
fled down the hall like a hunted creature, and I heard the heavy doo=
r
clang hollowly behind her.
As for me, I stood there looking at the dead man, for I could neithe=
r
move nor speak and was like to have died of horror. And presently I<= o:p>
knew nothing, nor did I come to my recollection for many a day, when=
I
lay abed, sick of a fever and more like to die than live.
So that when at last I came out from the shadow of death, my Uncle
Hugh had been long cold in his grave, and the hue and cry for his
guilty wife was well nigh over, since naught had been seen or heard =
of
her since she fled the country with her foreign lover.
When I came rightly to my remembrance, they questioned me as to what=
I
had seen and heard in the Red Room. And I told them as best I could,=
though much aggrieved that to my questions they would answer nothing=
save to bid me to stay still and think not of the matter.
Then my mother, sorely vexed over my adventures--which in truth were=
but sorry ones for a child--took me home. Nor would she let me keep<= o:p>
Alicia's chain, but made away with it, how I knew not and little
cared, for the sight of it was loathsome to me.
It was many years ere I went again to Montressor Place, and I never<= o:p>
saw the Red Room more, for Mrs. Montressor had the old wing torn dow=
n,
deeming its sorrowful memories dark heritage enough for the next
Montressor.
So, Grandchild, the sad tale is ended, and you will not see the Red<= o:p>
Room when you go next month to Montressor Place. The swallows still<= o:p>
build under the eaves, though--I know not if you will understand the=
ir
speech as I did.
When Theodosia Ford married Wesley Brooke after a courtship of three=
years, everybody concerned was satisfied. There was nothing
particularly romantic in either the courtship or marriage. Wesley wa=
s
a steady, well-meaning, rather slow fellow, comfortably off. He was<= o:p>
not at all handsome. But Theodosia was a very pretty girl with the
milky colouring of an auburn blonde and large china-blue eyes. She
looked mild and Madonna-like and was known to be sweet-tempered.
Wesley's older brother, Irving Brooke, had married a woman who kept<= o:p>
him in hot water all the time, so Heatherton folks said, but they
thought there was no fear of that with Wesley and Theodosia. They
would get along together all right.
Only old Jim Parmelee shook his head and said, "They might, and
then
again they mightn't"; he knew the stock they came of and it was=
a
kind
you could never predict about.
Wesley and Theodosia were third cousins; this meant that old Henry
Ford had been the great-great-grandfather of them both. Jim Parmelee=
,
who was ninety, had been a small boy when this remote ancestor was
still alive.
"I mind him well," said old Jim on the morning of Theodosi=
a's
wedding
day. There was a little group about the blacksmith's forge. Old Jim<= o:p>
was in the centre. He was a fat, twinkling-eyed old man, fresh and
ruddy in spite of his ninety years. "And," he went on,
"he was about
the settest man you'd ever see or want to see. When old Henry Ford
made up his mind on any p'int a cyclone wouldn't turn him a
hairsbreadth--no, nor an earthquake neither. Didn't matter a mite ho=
w
much he suffered for it--he'd stick to it if it broke his heart. The=
re
was always some story or other going round about old Henry's setness=
.
The family weren't quite so bad--only Tom. He was Dosia's
great-grandfather, and a regular chip of the old block. Since then
it's cropped out now and again all through the different branches of=
the family. I mistrust if Dosia hasn't got a spice of it, and Wes
Brooke too, but mebbe not."
Old Jim was the only croaker. Wesley and Theodosia were married, in<= o:p>
the golden prime of the Indian summer, and settled down on their snu=
g
little farm. Dosia was a beautiful bride, and Wesley's pride in her<= o:p>
was amusingly apparent. He thought nothing too good for her, the
Heatherton people said. It was a sight to make an old heart young to=
see him march up the aisle of the church on Sunday in all the glossy=
splendour of his wedding suit, his curly black head held high and hi=
s
round boyish face shining with happiness, stopping and turning proud=
ly
at his pew to show Theodosia in.
They always sat alone together in the big pew, and Alma Spencer, who=
sat behind them, declared that they held each other's hands all
through the service. This lasted until spring; then came a sensation=
and scandal, such as decorous Heatherton had not known since the tim=
e
Isaac Allen got drunk at Centreville Fair and came home and kicked h=
is
wife.
One evening in early April Wesley came home from the store at "=
the
Corner," where he had lingered to talk over politics and farmin=
g
methods with his cronies. This evening he was later than usual, and<= o:p>
Theodosia had his supper kept warm for him. She met him on the porch=
and kissed him. He kissed her in return, and held her to him for a
minute, with her bright head on his shoulder. The frogs were singing=
down in the south meadow swamp, and there was a splendour of silvery=
moonrise over the wooded Heatherton hills. Theodosia always remember=
ed
that moment.
When they went in, Wesley, full of excitement, began to talk of what=
he had heard at the store. Ogden Greene and Tom Cary were going to
sell out and go to Manitoba. There were better chances for a man out=
there, he said; in Heatherton he might slave all his life and never<= o:p>
make more than a bare living. Out west he might make a fortune.
Wesley talked on in this strain for some time, rehashing all the
arguments he had heard Greene and Cary use. He had always been rathe=
r
disposed to grumble at his limited chances in Heatherton, and now th=
e
great West seemed to stretch before him, full of alluring prospects<= o:p>
and visions. Ogden and Tom wanted him to go too, he said. He had hal=
f
a notion to. Heatherton was a stick-in-the-mud sort of place anyhow.=
"What say, Dosia?"
He looked across the table at her, his eyes bright and questioning.<= o:p>
Theodosia had listened in silence, as she poured his tea and passed<= o:p>
him her hot, flaky biscuits. There was a little perpendicular wrinkl=
e
between her straight eyebrows.
"I think Ogden and Tom are fools," she said crisply.
"They have good
farms here. What do they want to go west for, or you, either? Don't<= o:p>
get silly notions in your head, Wes."
Wesley flushed.
"Wouldn't you go with me, Dosia?" he said, trying to speak
lightly.
"No, I wouldn't," said Theodosia, in her calm, sweet voice.
Her face
was serene, but the little wrinkle had grown deeper. Old Jim Parmele=
e
would have known what it meant. He had seen the same expression on
old Henry Ford's face many a time.
Wesley laughed good-humouredly, as if at a child. His heart was
suddenly set on going west, and he was sure he could soon bring
Theodosia around. He did not say anything more about it just then.
Wesley thought he knew how to manage women.
When he broached the subject again, two days later, Theodosia told h=
im
plainly that it was no use. She would never consent to leave
Heatherton and all her friends and go out to the prairies. The idea<= o:p>
was just rank foolishness, and he would soon see that himself.
All this Theodosia said calmly and sweetly, without any trace of
temper or irritation. Wesley still believed that he could persuade h=
er
and he tried perseveringly for a fortnight. By the end of that time =
he
discovered that Theodosia was not a great-great-granddaughter of old=
Henry Ford for nothing.
Not that Theodosia ever got angry. Neither did she laugh at him. She=
met his arguments and pleadings seriously enough, but she never
wavered.
"If you go to Manitoba, Wes, you'll go alone," she said.
"I'll never
go, so there is no use in any more talking."
Wesley was a descendant of old Henry Ford too. Theodosia's unexpecte=
d
opposition roused all the latent stubbornness of his nature. He went=
over to Centreville oftener, and kept his blood at fever heat talkin=
g
to Greene and Cary, who wanted him to go with them and spared no pai=
ns
at inducement.
The matter was gossiped about in Heatherton, of course. People knew<= o:p>
that Wesley Brooke had caught "the western fever," and wan=
ted
to sell
out and go to Manitoba, while Theodosia was opposed to it. They
thought Dosia would have to give in in the end, but said it was a pi=
ty
Wes Brooke couldn't be contented to stay where he was well off.
Theodosia's family naturally sided with her and tried to dissuade
Wesley. But he was mastered by that resentful irritation, roused in =
a
man by opposition where he thinks he should be master, which will
drive him into any cause.
One day he told Theodosia that he was going. She was working her
butter in her little, snowy-clean dairy under the great willows by t=
he
well. Wesley was standing in the doorway, his stout, broad-shouldere=
d
figure filling up the sunlit space. He was frowning and sullen.
"I'm going west in two weeks' time with the boys, Dosia," =
he
said
stubbornly. "You can come with me or stay here--just exactly as=
you
please. But I'm going."
Theodosia went on spatting her balls of golden butter on the print i=
n
silence. She was looking very neat and pretty in her big white apron=
,
her sleeves rolled up high above her plump, dimpled elbows, and her<= o:p>
ruddy hair curling about her face and her white throat. She looked a=
s
pliable as her butter.
Her silence angered her husband. He shuffled impatiently.
"Well, what have you to say, Dosia?"
"Nothing," said Theodosia. "If you have made up your =
mind
to go, go
you will, I suppose. But I will not. There is no use in talking. We'=
ve
been over the ground often enough, Wes. The matter is settled."=
Up to that moment Wesley had always believed that his wife would yie=
ld
at last, when she saw that he was determined. Now he realized that s=
he
never would. Under that exterior of milky, dimpled flesh and calm bl=
ue
eyes was all the iron will of old dead and forgotten Henry Ford. Thi=
s
mildest and meekest of girls and wives was not to be moved a
hairsbreadth by all argument or entreaty, or insistence on a husband=
's
rights.
A great, sudden anger came over the man. He lifted his hand and for<= o:p>
one moment it seemed to Theodosia as if he meant to strike her. Then=
he dropped it with the first oath that had ever crossed his lips.
"You listen to me," he said thickly. "If you won't go
with me I'll
never come back here--never. When you want to do your duty as a wife=
you can come to me. But I'll never come back."
He turned on his heel and strode away. Theodosia kept on spatting he=
r
butter. The little perpendicular wrinkle had come between her brows<= o:p>
again. At that moment an odd, almost uncanny resemblance to the old<= o:p>
portrait of her great-great-grandfather, which hung on the parlour
wall at home, came out on her girlish face.
The fortnight passed by. Wesley was silent and sullen, never speakin=
g
to his wife when he could avoid it. Theodosia was as sweet and seren=
e
as ever. She made an extra supply of shirts and socks for him, put u=
p
his lunch basket, and packed his trunk carefully. But she never spok=
e
of his journey.
He did not sell his farm. Irving Brooke rented it. Theodosia was to<= o:p>
live in the house. The business arrangements were simple and soon
concluded.
Heatherton folks gossiped a great deal. They all condemned Theodosia=
.
Even her own people sided against her now. They hated to be mixed up=
in a local scandal, and since Wes was bound to go they told Theodosi=
a
that it was her duty to go with him, no matter how much she disliked=
it. It would be disgraceful not to. They might as well have talked t=
o
the four winds. Theodosia was immoveable. They coaxed and argued and=
blamed--it all came to the same thing. Even those of them who could =
be
"set" enough themselves on occasion could not understand
Theodosia,
who had always been so tractable. They finally gave up, as Wesley ha=
d
done, baffled. Time would bring her to her senses, they said; you ju=
st
had to leave that still, stubborn kind alone.
On the morning of Wesley's departure Theodosia arose at sunrise and<= o:p>
prepared a tempting breakfast. Irving Brooke's oldest son, Stanley,<= o:p>
who was to drive Wesley to the station, came over early with his
express wagon. Wesley's trunk, corded and labelled, stood on the bac=
k
platform. The breakfast was a very silent meal. When it was over
Wesley put on his hat and overcoat and went to the door, around whic=
h
Theodosia's morning-glory vines were beginning to twine. The sun was=
not yet above the trees and the long shadows lay on the dewy grass.<= o:p>
The wet leaves were flickering on the old maples that grew along the=
fence between the yard and the clover field beyond. The skies were a=
ll
pearly blue, cleanswept of clouds. From the little farmhouse the gre=
en
meadows sloped down to the valley, where a blue haze wound in and ou=
t
like a glistening ribbon.
Theodosia went out and stood looking inscrutably on, while Wesley an=
d
Irving hoisted the trunk into the wagon and tied it. Then Wesley cam=
e
up the porch steps and looked at her.
"Dosia," he said a little huskily, "I said I wouldn't=
ask
you to go
again, but I will. Will you come with me yet?"
"No," said Theodosia gently.
He held out his hand. He did not offer to kiss her.
"Goodbye, Dosia."
"Goodbye, Wes."
There was no tremor of an eyelash with her. Wesley smiled bitterly a=
nd
turned away. When the wagon reached the end of the little lane he
turned and looked back for the last time. Through all the years that=
followed he carried with him the picture of his wife as he saw her
then, standing amid the airy shadows and wavering golden lights of t=
he
morning, the wind blowing the skirt of her pale blue wrapper about
her feet and ruffling the locks of her bright hair into a delicate
golden cloud. Then the wagon disappeared around a curve in the road,=
and Theodosia turned and went back into her desolate home.
For a time there was a great buzz of gossip over the affair. People<= o:p>
wondered over it. Old Jim Parmelee understood better than the others=
.
When he met Theodosia he looked at her with a curious twinkle in his=
keen old eyes.
"Looks as if a man could bend her any way he'd a mind to, doesn=
't
she?" he said. "Looks is deceiving. It'll come out in her =
face
by and
by--she's too young yet, but it's there. It does seem unnatteral to<= o:p>
see a woman so stubborn--you'd kinder look for it more in a man.&quo=
t;
Wesley wrote a brief letter to Theodosia when he reached his
destination. He said he was well and was looking about for the best<= o:p>
place to settle. He liked the country fine. He was at a place called=
Red Butte and guessed he'd locate there.
Two weeks later he wrote again. He had taken up a claim of three
hundred acres. Greene and Cary had done the same. They were his
nearest neighbours and were three miles away. He had knocked up a
little shack, was learning to cook his own meals, and was very busy.=
He thought the country was a grand one and the prospects good.
Theodosia answered his letter and told him all the Heatherton news.<= o:p>
She signed herself "Theodosia Brooke," but otherwise there=
was
nothing in the letter to indicate that it was written by a wife to
her husband.
At the end of a year Wesley wrote and once more asked her to go out =
to
him. He was getting on well, and was sure she would like the place. =
It
was a little rough, to be sure, but time would improve that.
"Won't you let bygones be bygones, Dosia?" he wrote, "=
;and
come out to
me. Do, my dear wife."
Theodosia wrote back, refusing to go. She never got any reply, nor d=
id
she write again.
People had given up talking about the matter and asking Theodosia wh=
en
she was going out to Wes. Heatherton had grown used to the chronic
scandal within its decorous borders. Theodosia never spoke of her
husband to anyone, and it was known that they did not correspond. Sh=
e
took her youngest sister to live with her. She had her garden and he=
ns
and a cow. The farm brought her enough to live on, and she was alway=
s
busy.
* *=
* * *
When fifteen years had gone by there were naturally some changes in<= o:p>
Heatherton, sleepy and; unprogressive as it was. Most of the old
people were in the little hillside burying-ground that fronted the
sunrise. Old Jim Parmelee was there with his recollections of four
generations. Men and women who had been in their prime when Wesley
went away were old now and the children were grown up and married.
Theodosia was thirty-five and was nothing like! the slim, dimpled gi=
rl
who had stood on the porch steps and watched her husband drive away<= o:p>
that morning fifteen years ago. She was stout and comely; the auburn=
hair was darker and arched away from her face in smooth, shining wav=
es
instead of the old-time curls. Her face was unlined and
fresh-coloured, but no woman could live in subjection to her own
unbending will for so many years and not show it. Nobody, looking at=
Theodosia now, would have found it hard to believe that a woman with=
such a determined, immoveable face could stick to a course of conduc=
t
in defiance of circumstances.
Wesley Brooke was almost forgotten. People knew, through
correspondents of Greene and Cary, that he had prospered and grown
rich. The curious old story had crystallized into accepted history.<= o:p>
A life may go on without ripple or disturbance for so many years tha=
t
it may seem to have settled into a lasting calm; then a sudden wind =
of
passion may sweep over it and leave behind a wake of tempestuous
waters. Such a time came at last to Theodosia.
One day in August Mrs. Emory Merritt dropped in. Emory Merritt's
sister was Ogden Greene's wife, and the Merritts kept up an occasion=
al
correspondence with her. Hence, Cecilia Merritt always knew what was=
to be known about Wesley Brooke, and always told Theodosia because s=
he
had never been expressly forbidden to do so.
Today she looked slightly excited. Secretly she was wondering if the=
news she brought would have any effect whatever on Theodosia's
impassive calm.
"Do you know, Dosia, Wesley's real sick? In fact, Phoebe Greene
says
they have very poor hopes of him. He was kind of ailing all the
spring, it seems, and about a month ago he was took down with some
kind of slow fever they have out there. Phoebe says they have a hire=
d
nurse from the nearest town and a good doctor, but she reckons he
won't get over it. That fever goes awful hard with a man of his
years."
Cecilia Merritt, who was the fastest talker in Heatherton, had got
this out before she was brought up by a queer sound, half gasp, half=
cry, from Theodosia. The latter looked as if someone had struck her =
a
physical blow.
"Mercy, Dosia, you ain't going to faint! I didn't suppose you'd
care.
You never seemed to care."
"Did you say," asked Theodosia thickly, "that Wesley =
was
sick--dying?"
"Well, that's what Phoebe said. She may be mistaken. Dosia Broo=
ke,
you're a queer woman. I never could make you out and I never expect<= o:p>
to. I guess only the Lord who made you can translate you."
Theodosia stood up. The sun was getting low, and the valley beneath<= o:p>
them, ripening to harvest, was like a river of gold. She folded up h=
er
sewing with a steady hand.
"It's five o'clock, so I'll ask you to excuse me, Cecilia. I ha=
ve a
good deal to attend to. You can ask Emory if he'll drive me to the
station in the morning. I'm going out to Wes."
"Well, for the land's sake," said Cecilia Merritt feebly, =
as
she tied
on her gingham sunbonnet. She got up and went home in a daze.
Theodosia packed her trunk and worked all night, dry-eyed, with agon=
y
and fear tearing at her heart. The iron will had snapped at last, li=
ke
a broken reed, and fierce self-condemnation seized on her. "I've
been
a wicked woman," she moaned.
A week from that day Theodosia climbed down from the dusty stage tha=
t
had brought her from the station over the prairies to the
unpretentious little house where Wesley Brooke lived. A young girl, =
so
like what Ogden Greene's wife had been fifteen years before that
Theodosia involuntarily exclaimed, "Phoebe," came to the d=
oor.
Beyond
her, Theodosia saw the white-capped nurse.
Her voice trembled.
"Does--does Wesley Brooke live here?" she asked.
The girl nodded.
"Yes. But he is very ill at present. Nobody is allowed to see h=
im."
Theodosia put up her hand and loosened her bonnet strings as if they=
were choking her. She had been sick with the fear that Wesley would =
be
dead before she got to him. The relief was almost overwhelming.
"But I must see him," she cried hysterically--she, the cal=
m,
easy-going Dosia, hysterical--"I am his wife--and oh, if he had
died
before I got here!"
The nurse came forward.
"In that case I suppose you must," she conceded. "But=
he
does not
expect you. I must prepare him for the surprise."
She turned to the door of a room opening off the kitchen, but
Theodosia, who had hardly heard her, was before her. She was inside<= o:p>
the room before the nurse could prevent her. Then she stood, afraid<= o:p>
and trembling, her eyes searching the dim apartment hungrily.
When they fell on the occupant of the bed Theodosia started in bitte=
r
surprise. All unconsciously she had been expecting to find Wesley as=
he had been when they parted. Could this gaunt, haggard creature, wi=
th
the unkempt beard and prematurely grey hair and the hollow, beseechi=
ng
eyes, be the ruddy, boyish-faced husband of her youth? She gave a
choking cry of pain and shame, and the sick man turned his head. The=
ir
eyes met.
Amazement, incredulity, hope, dread, all flashed in succession over<= o:p>
Wesley Brooke's lined face. He raised himself feebly up.
"Dosia," he murmured.
Theodosia staggered across the room and fell on her knees by the bed=
.
She clasped his head to her breast and kissed him again and again.
"Oh, Wes, Wes, can you forgive me? I've been a wicked, stubborn=
woman--and I've spoiled our lives. Forgive me."
He held his thin trembling arms around her and devoured her face wit=
h
his eyes.
"Dosia, when did you come? Did you know I was sick?"
"Wes, I can't talk till you say you've forgiven me."
"Oh, Dosia, you have just as much to forgive. We were both too =
set.
I
should have been more considerate."
"Just say, I forgive you, Dosia,'" she entreated.
"I forgive you, Dosia," he said gently, "and oh, it's=
so
good to see
you once more, darling. There hasn't been an hour since I left you
that I haven't longed for your sweet face. If I had thought you real=
ly
cared I'd have gone back. But I thought you didn't. It broke my hear=
t.
You did though, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes," she said, holding him more closely, w=
ith
her
tears falling.
When the young doctor from Red Butte came that evening he found a
great improvement in his patient. Joy and happiness, those world-old=
physicians, had done what drugs and medicines had failed to do.
"I'm going to get better, Doc," said Wesley. "My wife=
has
come and
she's going to stay. You didn't know I was married, did you? I'll te=
ll
you the story some day. I proposed going back east, but Dosia says
she'd rather stay here. I'm the happiest man in Red Butte, Doc."=
;
He squeezed Theodosia's hand as he had used to do long ago in
Heatherton church, and Dosia smiled down at him. There were no
dimples now, but her smile was very sweet. The ghostly finger of old=
Henry Ford, pointing down through the generations, had lost its powe=
r
to brand with its malediction the life of these, his descendants.
Wesley and Theodosia had joined hands with their long-lost happiness=
.
Bertha Sutherland hurried home from the post office and climbed the<= o:p>
stairs of her boarding-house to her room on the third floor. Her
roommate, Grace Maxwell, was sitting on the divan by the window,
looking out into the twilight.
A year ago Bertha and Grace had come to
Academy, and found themselves roommates. Bertha was bright, pretty a=
nd
popular, the favourite of her classmates and teachers; Grace was a
grave, quiet girl, dressed in mourning. She was quite alone in the
world, the aunt who had brought her up having recently died. At firs=
t
she had felt shy with bright and brilliant Bertha; but they soon
became friends, and the year that followed was a very pleasant one. =
It
was almost ended now, for the terminal exams had begun, and in a
week's time the school would close for the holidays.
"Have some chocolates, Grace," said Bertha gaily. "I =
got
such good
news in my letter tonight that I felt I must celebrate it fittingly.=
So I went into Carter's and invested all my spare cash in caramels.<= o:p>
It's really fortunate the term is almost out, for I'm nearly bankrup=
t.
I have just enough left to furnish a 'tuck-out' for commencement
night, and no more."
"What is your good news, may I ask?" said Grace.
"You know I have an Aunt Margaret--commonly called Aunt Meg--ou=
t at
Riversdale, don't you? There never was such a dear, sweet, jolly aun=
ty
in the world. I had a letter from her tonight. Listen, I'll read you=
what she says."
_I want you to spend your
holidays with me, my dear. Mary
Fairweather and Louise F=
yshe
and Lily Dennis are coming, too. So
there is just room for o=
ne
more, and that one must be yourself.
Come to Riversdale when =
school
closes, and I'll feed you on
strawberries and cream a=
nd
pound cake and doughnuts and mince
pies, and all the delici=
ous,
indigestible things that school
girls love and careful m=
others
condemn. Mary and Lou and Lil are
girls after your own hea=
rt, I
know, and you shall all do just as
you like, and we'll have
picnics and parties and merry doings
galore._
"There," said Bertha, looking up with a laugh. "Isn't
that lovely?"
"How delightful it must be to have friends like that to love you
and
plan for you," said Grace wistfully. "I am sure you will h=
ave
a
pleasant vacation, Bertie. As for me, I am going into Clarkman's
bookstore until school reopens. I saw Mr. Clarkman today and he agre=
ed
to take me."
Bertha looked surprised. She had not known what Grace's vacation pla=
ns
were.
"I don't think you ought to do that, Grace," she said
thoughtfully.
"You are not strong, and you need a good rest. It will be awful=
ly
trying to work at Clarkman's all summer."
"There is nothing else for me to do," said Grace, trying to
speak
cheerfully. "You know I'm as poor as the proverbial church mous=
e,
Bertie, and the simple truth is that I can't afford to pay my board<= o:p>
all summer and get my winter outfit unless I do something to earn it=
.
I shall be too busy to be lonesome, and I shall expect long, newsy
letters from you, telling me all your fun--passing your vacation on =
to
me at second-hand, you see. Well, I must set to work at those algebr=
a
problems. I tried them before dark, but I couldn't solve them. My he=
ad
ached and I felt so stupid. How glad I shall be when exams are
over."
"I suppose I must revise that senior English this evening,"
said
Bertha absently.
But she made no move to do so. She was studying her friend's face. H=
ow
very pale and thin Grace looked--surely much paler and thinner than<= o:p>
when she had come to the Academy, and she had not by any means been<= o:p>
plump and rosy then.
I believe she could not stand two months at Clarkman's, thought
Bertha. If I were not going to Aunt Meg's, I would ask her to go hom=
e
with me. Or even if Aunt Meg had room for another guest, I'd just
write her all about Grace and ask if I could bring her with me. Aunt=
Meg would understand--she always understands. But she hasn't, so it<= o:p>
can't be.
Just then a thought darted into Bertha's brain.
"What nonsense!" she said aloud so suddenly and forcibly t=
hat
Grace
fairly jumped.
"What is?"
"Oh, nothing much," said Bertha, getting up briskly. "=
;See
here, I'm
going to get to work. I've wasted enough time."
She curled herself up on the divan and tried to study her senior
English. But her thoughts wandered hopelessly, and finally she gave =
it
up in despair and went to bed. There she could not sleep; she lay
awake and wrestled with herself. It was after midnight when she sat =
up
in bed and said solemnly, "I will do it."
Next day Bertha wrote a confidential letter to Aunt Meg. She thanked=
her for her invitation and then told her all about Grace.
"And what I want to ask, Aunt Meg, is that you will let me tran=
sfer
my
invitation to Grace, and ask her to go to Riversdale this summer in =
my
place. Don't think me ungrateful. No, I'm sure you won't, you always=
understand things. But you can't have us both, and I'd rather Grace<= o:p>
should go. It will do her so much good, and I have a lovely home of =
my
own to go to, and she has none."
Aunt Meg understood, as usual, and was perfectly willing. So she wro=
te
to Bertha and enclosed a note of invitation for Grace.
I shall have to manage this affair very carefully, reflected Bertha.=
Grace must never suspect that I did it on purpose. I will tell her
that circumstances have prevented me from accepting Aunt Meg's
invitation. That is true enough--no need to say that the circumstanc=
es
are hers, not mine. And I'll say I just asked Aunt Meg to invite her=
in my place and that she has done so.
When Grace came home from her history examination that day, Bertha
told her story and gave her Aunt Meg's cordial note.
"You must come to me in Bertha's place," wrote the latter.
"I feel as
if I knew you from her letters, and I will consider you as a sort of=
honorary niece, and I'll treat you as if you were Bertha herself.&qu=
ot;
"Isn't it splendid of Aunt Meg?" said Bertha diplomaticall=
y.
"Of
course you'll go, Gracie."
"Oh, I don't know," said Grace in bewilderment. "Are =
you
sure you
don't want to go, Bertha?"
"Indeed, I do want to go, dreadfully," said Bertha frankly.
"But as
I've told you, it is impossible. But if I am disappointed, Aunt Meg<= o:p>
musn't be. You must go, Grace, and that is all there is about it.&qu=
ot;
In the end, Grace did go, a little puzzled and doubtful still, but
thankful beyond words to escape the drudgery of the counter and the<= o:p>
noise and heat of the city. Bertha went home, feeling a little bit
blue in secret, it cannot be denied, but also feeling quite sure tha=
t
if she had to do it all over again, she would do just the same.
The summer slipped quickly by, and finally two letters came to Berth=
a,
one from Aunt Meg and one from Grace.
"I've had a lovely time," wrote the latter, "and, oh,
Bertie, what do
you think? I am to stay here always. Oh, of course I am going back t=
o
school next month, but this is to be my home after this. Aunt Meg--s=
he
makes me call her that--says I must stay with her for good."
In Aunt Meg's letter was this paragraph:
_Grace is writing to you=
, and
will have told you that I intend
to keep her here. You kn=
ow I
have always wanted a daughter of my
own, but my greedy broth=
ers
and sisters would never give me one
of theirs. So I intend to
adopt Grace. She is the sweetest girl
in the world, and I am v=
ery
grateful to you for sending her
here. You will not know =
her
when you see her. She has grown
plump and rosy._
Bertha folded her letters up with a smile. "I have a vague, del=
ightful
feeling that I am the good angel in a storybook," she said.
Mrs. Major Hill was in her element. This did not often happen, for i=
n
the remote prairie town of the Canadian Northwest, where her husband=
was stationed, there were few opportunities for match-making. And Mr=
s.
Hill was--or believed herself to be--a born matchmaker.
Major Hill was in command of the detachment of Northwest Mounted
Police at Dufferin Bluff. Mrs. Hill was wont to declare that it was<= o:p>
the most forsaken place to be found in
did her very best to brighten it up, and it is only fair to say that=
the N.W.M.P., officers and men, seconded her efforts.
When Violet Thayer came west to pay a long-promised visit to her old=
schoolfellow, Mrs. Hill's cup of happiness bubbled over. In her secr=
et
soul she vowed that Violet should never go back east unless it were<= o:p>
post-haste to prepare a wedding trousseau. There were at least half =
a
dozen eligibles among the M.P.s, and Mrs. Hill, after some reflectio=
n,
settled on Ned Madison as the flower of the flock.
"He and Violet are simply made for each other," she told M=
ajor
Hill
the evening before Miss Thayer's arrival. "He has enough money =
and
he
is handsome and fascinating. And Violet is a beauty and a clever wom=
an
into the bargain. They can't help falling in love, I'm sure; it's
fate!"
"Perhaps Miss Thayer may be booked elsewhere already,"
suggested Major
Hill. He had seen more than one of his wife's card castles fall into=
heartbreaking ruin.
"Oh, no; Violet would have told me if that were the case. It's
really
quite time for her to think of settling down. She is twenty-five, yo=
u
know. The men all go crazy over her, but she's dreadfully hard to
please. However, she can't help liking Ned. He hasn't a single fault=
.
I firmly believe it is foreordained."
And in this belief Mrs. Hill rested securely, but nevertheless did n=
ot
fail to concoct several feminine artifices for the helping on of
foreordination. It was a working belief with her that it was always<= o:p>
well to have the gods in your debt.
Violet Thayer came, saw, and conquered. Within thirty-six hours of h=
er
arrival at Dufferin Bluff she had every one of the half-dozen
eligibles at her feet, not to mention a score or more ineligibles. S=
he
would have been surprised indeed had it been otherwise. Miss Thayer<= o:p>
knew her power, and was somewhat unduly fond of exercising it. But s=
he
was a very nice girl into the bargain, and so thought one and all of=
the young men who frequented Mrs. Hill's drawing-room and counted it=
richly worth while merely to look at Miss Thayer after having seen
nothing for weeks except flabby half-breed girls and blue-haired
squaws.
Madison was foremost in the field, of course. Madison was really a
nice fellow, and quite deserved all Mrs. Hill's encomiums. He was
good-looking and well groomed--could sing and dance divinely and pla=
y
the violin to perfection. The other M.P.s were all jealous of him, a=
nd
more so than ever when Violet Thayer came. They did not consider tha=
t
any one of them had the ghost of a chance if Madison entered the lis=
ts
against them.
Violet liked Madison, and was very chummy with him after her own
fashion. She thought all the M.P.s were nice boys, and they amused
her, for which she was grateful. She had expected Dufferin Bluff to =
be
very dull, and doubtless it would pall after a time, but for a chang=
e
it was delightful.
The sixth evening after her arrival found Mrs. Hill's room crowded, =
as
usual, with M.P.s. Violet was looking her best in a distracting new<= o:p>
gown--Sergeant Fox afterwards described it to a brother officer as a=
"stunning sort of rig between a cream and a blue and a brown&qu=
ot;;
she
flirted impartially with all the members of her circle at first, but=
gradually narrowed down to Ned Madison, much to the delight of Mrs.<= o:p>
Hill, who was hovering around like a small, brilliant butterfly.
Violet was talking to Madison and watching John Spencer out of the
tail of her eye. Spencer was not an M.P. He had some government post=
at Dufferin Bluff, and this was his first call at Lone Poplar Villa<= o:p>
since Miss Thayer's arrival. He did not seem to be dazzled by her at=
all, and after his introduction had promptly retired to a corner wit=
h
Major Hill, where they talked the whole evening about the trouble on=
the Indian reservation at Loon Lake.
Possibly this indifference piqued Miss Thayer. Possibly she consider=
ed
it refreshing after the servile adulation of the M.P.s. At any rate,=
when all the latter were gathered about the piano singing a chorus
with gusto, she shook Madison off and went over to the corner where<= o:p>
Spencer, deserted by the Major, whose bass was wanted, was sitting i=
n
solitary state.
He looked up indifferently as Violet shimmered down on the divan
beside him. Sergeant Robinson, who was watching them jealously from<= o:p>
the corner beyond the palms, and would have given his eyes, or at
least one of them, for such a favour, mentally vowed that Spencer wa=
s
the dullest fellow he had ever put those useful members on.
"Don't you sing, Mr. Spencer?" asked Violet by way of
beginning a
conversation, as she turned her splendid eyes full upon him. Robinso=
n
would have lost his head under them, but Spencer kept his heroically=
.
"No," was his calmly brief reply, given without any bluntn=
ess,
but
with no evident intention of saying anything more.
In spite of her social experience Violet felt disconcerted.
"If he doesn't want to talk to me I won't try to make him,"
she
thought crossly. No man had ever snubbed her so before.
Spencer listened immovably to the music for a time. Then he turned t=
o
his companion with a palpable effort to be civilly sociable.
"How do you like the west, Miss Thayer?" he said.
Violet smiled--the smile most men found dangerous.
"Very much, so far as I have seen it. There is a flavour about =
the
life here that I like, but I dare say it would soon pall. It must be=
horribly lonesome here most of the time, especially in winter."=
"The M.P.s are always growling that it is," returned Spenc=
er
with a
slight smile. "For my own part I never find it so."
Violet decided that his smile was very becoming to him and that she<= o:p>
liked the way his dark hair grew over his forehead.
"I don't think I've seen you at Lone Poplar Villa before?"=
she
said.
"No. I haven't been here for some time. I came up tonight to see
the
Major about the Loon Lake trouble."
"Otherwise you wouldn't have come," thought Violet.
"Flattering--very!" Aloud she said, "Is it serious?&q=
uot;
"Oh, no. A mere squabble among the Indians. Have you ever visit=
ed
the
Reservation, Miss Thayer? No? Well, you should get some of your M.P.=
friends to take you out. It would be worth while."
"Why don't you ask me to go yourself?" said Violet
audaciously.
Spencer smiled again. "Have I failed in politeness by not doing=
so?
I
fear you would find me an insufferably dull companion."
So he was not going to ask her after all. Violet felt piqued. She wa=
s
also conscious of a sensation very near akin to disappointment. She<= o:p>
looked across at Madison. How trim and dapper he was!
"I hate a bandbox man," she said to herself.
Spencer meanwhile had picked up one of Mrs. Hill's novels from the
stand beside him.
"_Fools of Habit_," he said, glancing at the cover. "I
see it is
making quite a sensation down east. I suppose you've read it?"<= o:p>
"Yes. It is very frivolous and clever--all froth but delightful
froth.
Did you like it?"
Spencer balanced the novel reflectively on his slender brown hand.
"Well, yes, rather. But I don't care for novels as a rule. I do=
n't
understand them. The hero of this book, now--do you believe that a m=
an
in love would act as he did?"
"I don't know," said Violet amusedly. "You ought to b=
e a
better judge
than I. You are a man."
"I have never loved anybody, so I am in no position to
decide," said
Spencer.
There was as little self-consciousness in his voice as if he were
telling her a fact concerning the Loon Lake trouble. Violet rose to<= o:p>
the occasion.
"You have an interesting experience to look forward to," s=
he
said.
Spencer turned his deep-set grey eyes squarely upon her.
"I don't know that. When I said I had never loved, I meant more=
than
the love of a man for some particular woman. I meant love in every
sense. I do not know what it is to have an affection for any human
being. My parents died before I can remember. My only living relativ=
e
was a penurious old uncle who brought me up for shame's sake and
kicked me out on the world as soon as he could. I don't make friends=
easily. I have a few acquaintances whom I like, but there is not a
soul on earth for whom I care, or who cares for me."
"What a revelation love will be to you when it comes," said
Violet
softly. Again he looked into her eyes.
"Do you think it will come?" he asked.
Before she could reply Mrs. Hill pounced upon them. Violet was wante=
d
to sing. Mr. Spencer would excuse her, wouldn't he? Mr. Spencer did =
so
obligingly. Moreover, he got up and bade his hostess good night.
Violet gave him her hand.
"You will call again?" she said.
Spencer looked across at Madison--perhaps it was accidental.
"I think not," he said. "If, as you say, love will co=
me
some time, it
would be a very unpleasant revelation if it came in hopeless guise,<= o:p>
and one never knows what may happen."
Miss Thayer was conscious of a distinct fluttering of her heart as s=
he
went across to the piano. This was a new sensation for her, and wort=
hy
of being analyzed. After the M.P.s had gone she asked Mrs. Hill who<= o:p>
Mr. Spencer was.
"Oh, John Spencer," said Mrs. Hill carelessly. "He's =
at
the head of
the Land Office here. That's really all I know about him. Jack says =
he
is a downright good fellow and all that, you know. But he's no earth=
ly
good in a social way; he can't talk or he won't. He's flat. So
different from Mr. Madison, isn't he?"
"Very," said Violet emphatically.
After Mrs. Hill had gone out Violet walked to the nearest mirror and=
looked at herself with her forefinger in the dimple of her chin.
"It is very odd," she said. She did not mean the dimple.
* *=
* * *
Spencer had told her he was not coming back. She did not believe thi=
s,
but she did not expect him for a few days. Consequently, when he
appeared the very next evening she was surprised. Madison, to whom s=
he
was talking when Spencer entered, does not know to this day what she=
had started to say to him, for she never finished her sentence.
"I wonder if it is the Loon Lake affair again?" she thought
nervously.
Mrs. Hill came up at this point and whisked Madison off for a waltz.=
Spencer, seeing his chance, came straight across the room to her.
Sergeant Robinson, who was watching them as usual, is willing to mak=
e
affidavit that Miss Thayer changed colour.
After his greeting Spencer said nothing. He sat beside her, and they=
watched Mrs. Hill and Madison dancing. Violet wondered why she did n=
ot
feel bored. When she saw Madison coming back to her she was consciou=
s
of an unreasonable anger with him. She got up abruptly.
"Let us go out on the verandah," she said imperiously.
"It is
absolutely stifling in here."
They went out. It was very cool and dusky. The lights of the town
twinkled out below them, and the prairie bluffs behind them were dar=
k
and sibilant.
"I am going to drive over to Loon Lake tomorrow afternoon to lo=
ok
into
affairs there," said Spencer. "Will you go with me?"<= o:p>
Violet reflected a moment. "You didn't ask me as if you really
wanted
me to go," she said.
Spencer put his hand over the white fingers that rested on the
railing. He bent forward until his breath stirred the tendrils of ha=
ir
on her forehead.
"Yes, I do," he said distinctly. "I want you to go wi=
th
me to Loon
Lake tomorrow more than I ever wanted any thing in my life before.&q=
uot;
Later on, when everybody had gone, Violet had her bad quarter of an<= o:p>
hour with Mrs. Hill. That lady felt herself aggrieved.
"I think you treated poor Ned very badly tonight, Vi. He felt
really
blue over it. And it was awfully bad form to go out with Spencer as<= o:p>
you did and stay there so long. And you oughtn't to flirt with him--=
he
doesn't understand the game."
"I'm not going to flirt with him," said Miss Thayer calmly=
.
"Oh, I suppose it's just your way. Only don't turn the poor fel=
low's
head. By the way, Ned is coming up with his camera tomorrow afternoo=
n
to take us all."
"I'm afraid he won't find me at home," said Violet sweetly.
"I am
going out to Loon Lake with Mr. Spencer."
Mrs. Hill flounced off to bed in a pet. She was disgusted with
everything, she declared to the Major. Things had been going so
nicely, and now they were all muddled.
"Isn't Madison coming up to time?" queried the Major sleep=
ily.
"Madison! It's Violet. She is behaving abominably. She treated =
poor
Ned shamefully tonight. You saw yourself how she acted with Spencer,=
and she's going to Loon Lake with him tomorrow, she says. I'm sure I=
don't know what she can see in him. He's the dullest, pokiest fellow=
alive--so different from her in every way."
"Perhaps that is why she likes him," suggested the Major.
"The
attraction of opposites and all that, you know."
But Mrs. Hill crossly told him he didn't know anything about it, so,=
being a wise man, he held his tongue.
* *=
* * *
During the next two weeks Mrs. Hill was the most dissatisfied woman =
in
the four districts, and every M.P. down to the rawest recruit
anathemized Spencer in secret a dozen times a day. Violet simply
dropped everyone else, including Madison, in the coolest, most
unmistakable way.
One night Spencer did not come to Lone Poplar Villa. Violet looked f=
or
him to the last. When she realized that he was not coming she went t=
o
the verandah to have it out with herself. As she sat huddled up in a=
dim corner beneath a silkily rustling western maple two M.P.s came o=
ut
and, not seeing her, went on with their conversation.
"Heard about Spencer?" questioned one.
"No. What of him?"
"Well, they say Miss Thayer's thrown him over. Yesterday I was
passing
here about four in the afternoon and I saw Spencer coming in. I went=
down to the Land Office and was chatting to Cribson when the door
opened about half an hour later and Spencer burst in. He was pale as=
the dead, and looked wild. 'Has Fyshe gone to Rainy River about thos=
e
Crown Lands yet?' he jerked out. Cribson said, 'No.' Then tell him h=
e
needn't; I'm going myself,' said Spencer and out he bolted. He poste=
d
off to Rainy River today, and won't be back for a fortnight. She'll =
be
gone then."
"Rather rough on Spencer after the way she encouraged him,"
returned
the other as they passed out of earshot.
Violet got up. All the callers were gone, and she swept in to Mrs.
Hill dramatically.
"Edith," she said in the cold, steady voice that, to those=
who
knew
her, meant breakers ahead for somebody, "Mr. Spencer was here
yesterday when I was riding with the Major, was he not? What did you=
tell him about me?"
Mrs. Hill looked at Violet's blazing eyes and wilted.
"I--didn't tell him anything--much."
"What was it?"
Mrs. Hill began to sob.
"Don't look at me like that, Violet! He just dropped in and we =
were
talking about you--at least I was--and I had heard that Harry St. Ma=
ur
was paying you marked attention before you came west--and--and that<= o:p>
some people thought you were engaged--and so--and so--"
"You told Mr. Spencer that I was engaged to Harry St. Maur?&quo=
t;
"No-o-o--I just hinted. I didn't mean an-any harm. I never drea=
med
you'd really c-care. I thought you were just amusing yourself--and s=
o
did everybody--and I wanted Ned Madison--"
Violet had turned very pale.
"I love him," she said hoarsely, "and you've sent him
away. He's gone
to Rainy River. I shall never see him again!"
"Oh, yes, you will," gasped Mrs. Hill faintly. "He'll
come back when
he knows--you c-can write and tell him--"
"Do you suppose I am going to write and ask him to come back?&q=
uot;
said
Violet wildly. "I've enough pride left yet to keep me from doing
that
for a man at whose head I've thrown myself openly--yes, openly, and<= o:p>
who has never, in words at least, told me he cared anything about me=
.
I will never forgive you, Edith!"
Then Mrs. Hill found herself alone with her lacerated feelings. Afte=
r
soothing them with a good cry, she set to work thinking seriously.
There was no doubt she had muddled things badly, but there was no us=
e
leaving them in a muddle when a word or two fitly spoken might set
them straight.
Mrs. Hill sat down and wrote a very diplomatic letter before she wen=
t
to bed, and the next morning she waylaid Sergeant Fox and asked him =
if
he would ride down to Rainy River with a very important message for<= o:p>
Mr. Spencer. Sergeant Fox wondered what it could be, but it was not<= o:p>
his to reason why; it was his only to mount and ride with all due
speed, for Mrs. Hill's whims and wishes were as stringent and bindin=
g
as the rules of the force.
That evening when Mrs. Hill and Violet--the latter very silent and
regal--were sitting on the verandah, a horseman came galloping up th=
e
Rainy River trail. Mrs. Hill excused herself and went in. Five minut=
es
later John Spencer, covered with the alkali dust of his twenty miles=
'
ride, dismounted at Violet's side.
* *=
* * *
The M.P.s gave a concert at the barracks that night and Mrs. Hill an=
d
her Major went to it, as well as everyone else of any importance in<= o:p>
town except Violet and Spencer. They sat on Major Hill's verandah an=
d
watched the moon rising over the bluffs and making milk-white
reflections in the prairie lakes.
"It seems a year of misery since last night," sighed Violet
happily.
"You couldn't have been quite as miserable as I was," said
Spencer
earnestly. "You were everything--absolutely everything to me. O=
ther
men have little rills and driblets of affection for sisters and
cousins and aunts, but everything in me went out to you. Do you
remember you told me the first time we met that love would be a
revelation to me? It has been more. It has been a new gospel. I hard=
ly
dared hope you could care for me. Even yet I don't know why you
do."
"I love you," said Violet gravely, "because you are
you."
Than which, of course, there could be no better reason.
Robert Reeves looked somewhat curiously at the girl who was waiting =
on
him at his solitary breakfast. He had not seen her before, arriving =
at
his summer boarding house only the preceding night.
It was a shabby farmhouse on the inland shore of a large bay that wa=
s
noted for its tides, and had wonderful possibilities of light and
shade for an impressionist. Reeves was an enthusiastic artist. It
mattered little to him that the boarding accommodations were most
primitive, the people uncultured and dull, the place itself utterly<= o:p>
isolated, as long as he could revel in those transcendent sunsets an=
d
sunrises, those marvellous moonlights, those wonderful purple shores=
and sweeps of shimmering blue water.
The owner of the farm was Angus Fraser, and he and his wife seemed t=
o
be a reserved, uncouth pair, with no apparent interest in life save =
to
scratch a bare living out of their few stony acres. He had an
impression that they were childless and was at a loss to place this<= o:p>
girl who poured his tea and brought in his toast. She did not resemb=
le
either Fraser or his wife. She was certainly not beautiful, being ve=
ry
tall and rather awkward, and dressed in a particularly unbecoming da=
rk
print wrapper. Her luxuriant hair was thick and black, and was coile=
d
in a heavy knot at the nape of her neck. Her features were delicate<= o:p>
but irregular, and her skin was very brown. Her eyes attracted
Reeves's notice especially; they were large and dark and full of a
half-unconscious, wistful longing, as if a prisoned soul behind them=
were vainly trying to reveal itself.
Reeves could find out nothing of her from herself, for she responded=
to his tentative questions about the place in the briefest fashion.<= o:p>
Afterwards he interviewed Mrs. Fraser cautiously, and ascertained th=
at
the girl's name was Helen Fraser, and that she was Angus's niece.
"Her father and mother are dead and we've brought her up. Helen=
's a
good girl in most ways--a little obstinate and sulky now and then--b=
ut
generally she's steady enough, and as for work, there ain't a girl i=
n
Bay Beach can come up to her in house or field. Angus calculates she=
saves him a man's wages clear. No, I ain't got nothing to say agains=
t
Helen."
Nevertheless, Reeves felt somehow that Mrs. Fraser did not like her<= o:p>
husband's niece. He often heard her scolding or nagging Helen at her=
work, and noticed that the latter never answered back. But once, aft=
er
Mrs. Angus's tongue had been especially bitter, he met the girl
hurrying along the hall from the kitchen with her eyes full of tears=
.
Reeves felt as if someone had struck him a blow. He went to Angus an=
d
his wife that afternoon. He wished to paint a shore picture, he said=
,
and wanted a model. Would they allow Miss Fraser to pose for him? He=
would pay liberally for her time.
Angus and his wife had no objection. They would pocket the money, an=
d
Helen could be spared a spell every day as well as not. Reeves told<= o:p>
Helen of his plan himself, meeting her in the evening as she was
bringing the cows home from the low shore pastures beyond the marsh.=
He was surprised at the sudden illumination of her face. It almost
transfigured her from a plain, sulky-looking girl into a beautiful
woman.
But the glow passed quickly. She assented to his plan quietly, almos=
t
lifelessly. He walked home with her behind the cows and talked of th=
e
sunset and the mysterious beauty of the bay and the purple splendour=
of the distant coasts. She listened in silence. Only once, when he
spoke of the distant murmur of the open sea, she lifted her head and=
looked at him.
"What does it say to you?" she asked.
"It speaks of eternity. And to you?"
"It calls me," she answered simply, "and then I want =
to
go out and
meet it--and it hurts me too. I can't tell how or why. Sometimes it<= o:p>
makes me feel as if I were asleep and wanted to wake and didn't know=
how."
She turned and looked out over the bay. A dying gleam of sunset brok=
e
through a cloud and fell across her hair. For a moment she seemed th=
e
spirit of the shore personified--all its mystery, all its uncertaint=
y,
all its elusive charm.
She has possibilities, thought Reeves.
Next day he began his picture. At first he had thought of painting h=
er
as the incarnation of a sea spirit, but decided that her moods were<= o:p>
too fitful. So he began to sketch her as "Waiting"--a woman
looking
out across the bay with a world of hopeless longing in her eyes. The=
subject suited her well, and the picture grew apace.
When he was tired of work he made her walk around the shore with him=
,
or row up the head of the bay in her own boat. He tried to draw her<= o:p>
out, at first with indifferent success. She seemed to be frightened =
of
him. He talked to her of many things--the far outer world whose echo=
es
never reached her, foreign lands where he had travelled, famous men<= o:p>
and women whom he had met, music, art and books. When he spoke of
books he touched the right chord. One of those transfiguring flashes=
he delighted to evoke now passed over her plain face.
"That is what I've always wanted," she said hungrily,
"and I never get
them. Aunt hates to see me reading. She says it is a waste of time.<= o:p>
And I love it so. I read every scrap of paper I can get hold of, but=
I
hardly ever see a book."
The next day Reeves took his Tennyson to the shore and began to read=
the _Idylls of the King_ to her.
"It is beautiful," was her sole verbal comment, but her ra=
pt
eyes said
everything.
After that he never went out with her without a book--now one of the=
poets, now some prose classic. He was surprised by her quick
appreciation of and sympathy with the finest passages. Gradually, to=
o,
she forgot her shyness and began to talk. She knew nothing of his
world, but her own world she knew and knew well. She was a mine of
traditional history about the bay. She knew the rocky coast by heart=
,
and every old legend that clung to it. They drifted into making
excursions along the shore and explored its wildest retreats. The gi=
rl
had an artist's eye for scenery and colour effect.
"You should have been an artist," Reeves told her one day =
when
she had
pointed out to him the exquisite loveliness of a shaft of light
falling through a cleft in the rocks across a dark-green pool at the=
ir
base.
"I would rather be a writer," she said slowly, "if I
could only write
something like those books you have read to me. What a glorious
destiny it must be to have something to say that the whole world is<= o:p>
listening for, and to be able to say it in words that will live
forever! It must be the noblest human lot."
"Yet some of those men and women were neither good nor noble,&q=
uot;
said
Reeves gently, "and many of them were unhappy."
Helen dismissed the subject as abruptly as she always did when the
conversation touched too nearly on the sensitive edge of her soul
dreams.
"Do you know where I am taking you today?" she said.
"No--where?"
"To what the people here call the Kelpy's Cave. I hate to go th=
ere.
I
believe there is something uncanny about it, but I think you will li=
ke
to see it. It is a dark little cave in the curve of a small cove, an=
d
on each side the headlands of rock run far out. At low tide we can
walk right around, but when the tide comes in it fills the Kelpy's
Cave. If you were there and let the tide come past the points, you
would be drowned unless you could swim, for the rocks are so steep a=
nd
high it is impossible to climb them."
Reeves was interested.
"Was anyone ever caught by the tide?"
"Yes," returned Helen, with a shudder. "Once, long ag=
o,
before I was
born, a girl went around the shore to the cave and fell asleep
there--and the tide came in and she was drowned. She was young and
very pretty, and was to have been married the next week. I've been
afraid of the place ever since."
The treacherous cave proved to be a picturesque and innocent-looking=
spot, with the beach of glittering sand before it and the high gloom=
y
walls of rock on either hand.
"I must come here some day and sketch it," said Reeves
enthusiastically, "and you must be the Kelpy, Helen, and sit in=
the
cave with your hair wrapped about you and seaweed clinging to it.&qu=
ot;
"Do you think a kelpy would look like that?" said the girl
dreamily.
"I don't. I think it is a wild, wicked little sea imp, malicious
and
mocking and cruel, and it sits here and watches for victims."
"Well, never mind your sea kelpies," Reeves said, fishing =
out
his
Longfellow. "They are a tricky folk, if all tales be true, and =
it
is
supposed to be a very rash thing to talk about them in their own
haunts. I want to read you 'The Building of the Ship.' You will like=
it, I'm sure."
When the tide turned they went home.
"We haven't seen the kelpy, after all," said Reeves.
"I think I shall see him some day," said Helen gravely.
"I think he is
waiting for me there in that gloomy cave of his, and some time or
other he will get me."
Reeves smiled at the gloomy fancy, and Helen smiled back at him with=
one of her sudden radiances. The tide was creeping swiftly up over t=
he
white sands. The sun was low and the bay was swimming in a pale blue=
glory. They parted at Clam Point, Helen to go for the cows and Reeve=
s
to wander on up the shore. He thought of Helen at first, and the
wonderful change that had come over her of late; then he began to
think of another face--a marvellously lovely one with blue eyes as
tender as the waters before him. Then Helen was forgotten.
The summer waned swiftly. One afternoon Reeves took a fancy to revis=
it
the Kelpy's Cave. Helen could not go. It was harvest time, and she w=
as
needed in the field.
"Don't let the kelpy catch you," she said to him half
seriously. "The
tide will turn early this afternoon, and you are given to
day-dreaming."
"I'll be careful," he promised laughingly, and he meant to=
be
careful.
But somehow when he reached the cave its unwholesome charm overcame<= o:p>
him, and he sat down on the boulder at its mouth.
"An hour yet before tide time," he said. "Just enough
time to read
that article on impressionists in my review and then stroll home by<= o:p>
the sandshore."
From reading he passed to day-dreaming, and day-dreaming drifted int=
o
sleep, with his head pillowed on the rocky walls of the cave.
How long he had slept he did not know, but he woke with a start of
horror. He sprang to his feet, realizing his position instantly. The=
tide was in--far in past the headlands already. Above and beyond him=
towered the pitiless unscalable rocks. There was no way of escape.
Reeves was no coward, but life was sweet to him, and to die like
that--like a drowned rat in a hole--to be able to do nothing but wai=
t
for that swift and sure oncoming death! He reeled against the damp
rock wall, and for a moment sea and sky and prisoning headlands and<= o:p>
white-lined tide whirled before his eyes.
Then his head grew clearer. He tried to think. How long had he? Not<= o:p>
more than twenty minutes at the outside. Well, death was sure and he=
would meet it bravely. But to wait--to wait helplessly! He should go=
;
mad with the horror of it before those endless minutes would have
passed!
He took something from his pocket and bent his, head over it, pressi=
ng
his lips to it repeatedly. And then, when he raised his face again, =
a
dory was coming around the headland on his right, and Helen Fraser w=
as
in it.
Reeves was dizzy again with the shock of joy and thankfulness. He ra=
n
down over the little stretch of sand still uncovered by the tide and=
around to the rocks of the headlands against which the dory was
already grating. He sprang forward impulsively and caught the girl's=
cold hands in his as she dropped the oars and stood up.
"Helen, you have saved me! How can I ever thank you? I--"<= o:p>
He broke off abruptly, for she was looking up at him, breathlessly a=
nd
voicelessly, with her whole soul in her eyes. He saw in them a
revelation that amazed him; he dropped her hands and stepped back as=
if she had struck him in the face.
Helen did not notice the change in him. She clasped her hands togeth=
er
and her voice trembled.
"Oh, I was afraid I should be too late! When I came in from the
field
Aunt Hannah said you had not come back--and I knew it was tide
time--and I felt somehow that it had caught you in the cave. I ran
down over the marsh and took Joe Simmon's dory. If I had not got her=
e
in time--"
She broke off shiveringly. Reeves stepped into the dory and took up<= o:p>
the oars.
"The kelpy would have been sure of its victim then," he sa=
id,
trying
to speak lightly. "It would have almost served me right for
neglecting your warning. I was very careless. You must let me row
back. I am afraid you have overtasked your strength trying to cheat<= o:p>
the kelpy."
Reeves rowed homeward in an absolute silence. Helen did not speak an=
d
he could not. When they reached the dory anchorage he helped her out=
.
"I think I'll go out to the Point for a walk," he said.
"I want to
steady my nerves. You must go right home and rest. Don't be anxious-=
-I
won't take any more chances with sea kelpies."
Helen went away without a word, and Reeves walked slowly out to the<= o:p>
Point. He was grieved beyond measure at the discovery he believed he=
had made. He had never dreamed of such a thing. He was not a vain ma=
n,
and was utterly free from all tendency to flirtation. It had never
occurred to him that the waking of the girl's deep nature might be
attended with disastrous consequences. He had honestly meant to help=
her, and what had he done?
He felt very uncomfortable; he could not conscientiously blame
himself, but he saw that he had acted foolishly. And of course he mu=
st
go away at once. And he must also tell her something she ought to
know. He wished he had told her long ago.
The following afternoon was a perfect one. Reeves was sketching on t=
he
sandshore when Helen came. She sat down on a camp stool a little to<= o:p>
one side and did not speak. After a few moments Reeves pushed away h=
is
paraphernalia impatiently.
"I don't feel in a mood for work," he said. "It is too
dreamy a
day--one ought to do nothing to be in keeping. Besides, I'm getting<= o:p>
lazy now that my vacation is nearly over. I must go in a few days.&q=
uot;
He avoided looking at her, so he did not see the sudden pallor of he=
r
face.
"So soon?" she said in a voice expressive of no particular
feeling.
"Yes. I ought not to have lingered so long. My world will be
forgetting me and that will not do. It has been a very pleasant summ=
er
and I shall be sorry to leave Bay Beach."
"But you will come back next summer?" asked Helen quickly.
"You said
you would."
Reeves nerved himself for his very distasteful task.
"Perhaps," he said, with an attempt at carelessness, "=
;but
if I do so,
I shall not come alone. Somebody who is very dear to me will come wi=
th
me--as my wife. I have never told you about her, Helen, but you and =
I
are such good friends that I do not mind doing so now. I am engaged =
to
a very sweet girl, and we expect to be married next spring."
There was a brief silence. Reeves had been vaguely afraid of a scene=
and was immensely relieved to find his fear unrealized. Helen sat ve=
ry
still. He could not see her face. Did she care, after all? Was he
mistaken?
When she spoke her voice was perfectly calm.
"Thank you, it is very kind of you to tell me about her. I supp=
ose
she
is very beautiful."
"Yes, here is her picture. You can judge for yourself."
Helen took the portrait from his hand and looked at it steadily. It<= o:p>
was a miniature painted on ivory, and the face looking out from it w=
as
certainly lovely.
"It is no wonder you love her," said the girl in a low ton=
e as
she
handed it back. "It must be strange to be so beautiful as
that."
Reeves picked up his Tennyson.
"Shall I read you something? What will you have?"
"Read 'Elaine,' please. I want to hear that once more."
Reeves felt a sudden dislike to her choice.
"Wouldn't you prefer something else?" he asked, hurriedly =
turning
over
the leaves. "'Elaine' is rather sad. Shan't I read 'Guinevere'<= o:p>
instead?"
"No," said Helen in the same lifeless tone. "I have no
sympathy for
Guinevere. She suffered and her love was unlawful, but she was loved=
in return--she did not waste her love on someone who did not want or=
care for it. Elaine did, and her life went with it. Read me the
story."
Reeves obeyed. When he had finished he held the book out to her.
"Helen, will you take this Tennyson from me in remembrance of o=
ur
friendship and of the Kelpy's Cave? I shall never forget that I owe =
my
life to you."
"Thank you."
She took the book and placed a little thread of crimson seaweed that=
had been caught in the sand between the pages of "Elaine."
Then she
rose.
"I must go back now. Aunt will need me. Thank you again for the
book,
Mr. Reeves, and for all your kindness to me."
Reeves was relieved when the interview was over. Her calmness had
reassured him. She did not care very much, after all; it was only a<= o:p>
passing fancy, and when he was gone she would soon forget him.
He went away a few days later, and Helen bade him an impassive
good-bye. When the afternoon was far spent she stole away from the
house to the shore, with her Tennyson in her hand, and took her way =
to
the Kelpy's Cave.
The tide was just beginning to come in. She sat down on the big
boulder where Reeves had fallen asleep. Beyond stretched the gleamin=
g
blue waters, mellowing into a hundred fairy shades horizonward.
The shadows of the rocks were around her. In front was the white lin=
e
of the incoming tide; it had almost reached the headlands. A few
minutes more and escape would be cut off--yet she did not move.
When the dark green water reached her, and the lapping wavelets
swished up over the hem of her dress, she lifted her head and a sudd=
en
strange smile flashed over her face.
Perhaps the kelpy understood it.
Jerome Irving had been courting Anne Stockard for fifteen years. He<= o:p>
had begun when she was twenty and he was twenty-five, and now that
Jerome was forty, and Anne, in a village where everybody knew
everybody else's age, had to own to being thirty-five, the courtship=
did not seem any nearer a climax than it had at the beginning. But
that was not Jerome's fault, poor fellow!
At the end of the first year he had asked Anne to marry him, and Ann=
e
had refused. Jerome was disappointed, but he kept his head and went =
on
courting Anne just the same; that is he went over to Esek Stockard's=
house every Saturday night and spent the evening, he walked home wit=
h
Anne from prayer meeting and singing school and parties when she wou=
ld
let him, and asked her to go to all the concerts and socials and
quilting frolics that came off. Anne never would go, of course, but<= o:p>
Jerome faithfully gave her the chance. Old Esek rather favoured
Jerome's suit, for Anne was the plainest of his many daughters, and =
no
other fellow seemed at all anxious to run Jerome off the track; but<= o:p>
she took her own way with true Stockard firmness, and matters were
allowed to drift on at the will of time or chance.
Three years later Jerome tried his luck again, with precisely the sa=
me
result, and after that he had asked Anne regularly once a year to
marry him, and just as regularly Anne said no a little more brusquel=
y
and a little more decidedly every year. Now, in the mellowness of a<= o:p>
fifteen-year-old courtship, Jerome did not mind it at all. He knew
that everything comes to the man who has patience to wait.
Time, of course, had not stood still with Anne and Jerome, or with t=
he
history of Deep Meadows. At the Stockard homestead the changes had
been many and marked. Every year or two there had been a wedding in<= o:p>
the big brick farmhouse, and one of old Esek's girls had been the
bride each time. Julia and Grace and Celia and Betty and Theodosia
and Clementina Stockard were all married and gone. But Anne had neve=
r
had another lover. There had to be an old maid in every big family s=
he
said, and she was not going to marry Jerome Irving just for the sake=
of having Mrs. on her tombstone.
Old Esek and his wife had been put away in the Deep Meadows
burying-ground. The broad, fertile Stockard acres passed into Anne's=
possession. She was a good business-woman, and the farm continued to=
be the best in the district. She kept two hired men and a servant
girl, and the sixteen-year-old of her oldest sister lived with her.<= o:p>
There were few visitors at the Stockard place now, but Jerome
"dropped
in" every Saturday night with clockwork regularity and talked to
Anne
about her stock and advised her regarding the rotation of her crops<= o:p>
and the setting out of her orchards. And at ten o'clock he would tak=
e
his hat and cane and tell Anne to be good to herself, and go home.
Anne had long since given up trying to discourage him; she even
accepted attentions from him now that she had used to refuse. He
always walked home with her from evening meetings and was her partne=
r
in the games at quilting parties. It was great fun for the young
folks. "Old Jerome and Anne" were a standing joke in Deep
Meadows. But
the older people had ceased to expect anything to come of it.
Anne laughed at Jerome as she had always done, and would not have
owned for the world that she could have missed him. Jerome was usefu=
l,
she admitted, and a comfortable friend; and she would have liked him=
well enough if he would only omit that ridiculous yearly ceremony of=
proposal.
It was Jerome's fortieth birthday when Anne refused him again. He
realized this as he went down the road in the moonlight, and doubt a=
nd
dismay began to creep into his heart. Anne and he were both getting<= o:p>
old--there was no disputing that fact. It was high time that he
brought her to terms if he was ever going to. Jerome was an
easy-going mortal and always took things placidly, but he did not
mean to have all those fifteen years of patient courting go for
nothing He had thought Anne would get tired of saying no, sooner or<= o:p>
later, and say yes, if for no other reason than to have a change; bu=
t
getting tired did not seem to run in the Stockard blood. She had sai=
d
no that night just as coolly and decidedly and unsentimentally as sh=
e
said it fifteen years before. Jerome had the sensation of going arou=
nd
in a circle and never getting any further on. He made up his mind th=
at
something must be done, and just as he got to the brook that divides=
Deep Meadows West from Deep Meadows Central an idea struck him; it w=
as
a good idea and amused him. He laughed aloud and slapped his thigh,<= o:p>
much to the amusement of two boys who were sitting unnoticed on the<= o:p>
railing of the bridge.
"There's old Jerome going home from seeing Anne Stockard,"
said one.
"Wonder what on earth he's laughing at. Seems to me if I couldn=
't
get
a wife without hoeing a fifteen-year row, I'd give up trying."<= o:p>
But, then, the speaker was a Hamilton, and the Hamiltons never had a=
ny
perseverance.
Jerome, although a well-to-do man, owning a good farm, had, so to
speak, no home of his own. The old Irving homestead belonged to his<= o:p>
older brother, who had a wife and family. Jerome lived with them and=
was so used to it he didn't mind.
At forty a lover must not waste time. Jerome thought out the details=
that night, and next day he opened the campaign. But it was not unti=
l
the evening after that that Anne Stockard heard the news. It was her=
niece, Octavia, who told her. The latter had been having a chat up t=
he
lane with Sam Mitchell, and came in with a broad smile on her round,=
rosy face and a twinkle in her eyes.
"I guess you've lost your beau this time, Aunt Anne. It looks a=
s if
he
meant to take you at your word at last."
"What on earth do you mean?" asked Anne, a little sharply.=
She
was in
the pantry counting eggs, and Octavia's interruption made her lose h=
er
count. "Now I can't remember whether it was six or seven dozen I
said
last. I shall have to count them all over again. I wish, Octavia, th=
at
you could think of something besides beaus all the time."
"Well, but listen," persisted Octavia wickedly. "Jero=
me
Irving was at
the social at the Cherry Valley parsonage last night, and he had
Harriet Warren there--took her there, and drove her home again."=
;
"I don't believe it," cried Anne, before she thought. She
dropped an
egg into the basket so abruptly that the shell broke.
"Oh, it's true enough. Sam Mitchell told me; he was there and s=
aw
him.
Sam says he looked quite beaming, and was dressed to kill, and
followed Harriet around like her shadow. I guess you won't have any<= o:p>
more bother with him, Aunt Anne."
In the process of picking the broken egg out of the whole ones Anne<= o:p>
had recovered her equanimity. She gave a careful little laugh.
"Well, it's to be hoped so. Goodness knows it's time he tried
somebody
else. Go and change your dress for milking, Octavia, and don't spend=
quite so much time gossiping up the lane with Sam Mitchell. He alway=
s
was a fetch-and-carry. Young girls oughtn't to be so pert."
When the subdued Octavia had gone, Anne tossed the broken eggshell o=
ut
of the pantry window viciously enough.
"There's no fool like an old fool. Jerome Irving always was an
idiot.
The idea of his going after Harriet Warren! He's old enough to be he=
r
father. And a
seen on the same side of the road with a
care, and he needn't suppose I will. It will be a relief not to have=
him hanging around any longer."
It might have been a relief, but Anne felt strangely lonely as she
walked home alone from prayer meeting the next night. Jerome had not=
been there. The Warrens were Methodists and Anne rightly guessed tha=
t
he had gone to the Methodist prayer meeting at Cherry Valley.
"Dancing attendance on Harriet," she said to herself
scornfully.
When she got home she looked at her face in the glass more criticall=
y
than she had done for years. Anne Stockard at her best had never bee=
n
pretty. When young she had been called "gawky." She was ve=
ry
tall and
her figure was lank and angular. She had a long, pale face and dusky=
hair. Her eyes had been good--a glimmering hazel, large and
long-lashed. They were pretty yet, but the crow's feet about them we=
re
plainly visible. There were brackets around her mouth too, and her
cheeks were hollow. Anne suddenly realized, as she had never realize=
d
before, that she had grown old--that her youth was left far behind.<= o:p>
She was an old maid, and Harriet Warren was young, and pretty. Anne'=
s
long, thin lips suddenly quivered.
"I declare, I'm a worse fool than Jerome," she said angril=
y.
When Saturday night came Jerome did not. The corner of the big,
old-fashioned porch where he usually sat looked bare and lonely. Ann=
e
was short with Octavia and boxed the cat's ears and raged at herself=
.
What did she care if Jerome Irving never came again? She could have<= o:p>
married him years ago if she had wanted to--everybody knew that!
At sunset she saw a buggy drive past her gate. Even at that distance=
she recognized Harriet Warren's handsome, high-coloured profile. It<= o:p>
was Jerome's new buggy and Jerome was driving. The wheel spokes
flashed in the sunlight as they crept up the hill. Perhaps they
dazzled Anne's eyes a little; at least, for that or some other reaso=
n
she dabbed her hand viciously over them as she turned sharply about<= o:p>
and went upstairs. Octavia was practising her music lesson in the
parlour below and singing in a sweet shrill voice. The hired men wer=
e
laughing and talking in the yard. Anne slammed down her window and
banged her door and then lay down on her bed; she said her head ache=
d.
The Deep Meadows people were amused and made joking remarks to Anne,=
which she had to take amiably because she had no excuse for resentin=
g
them. In reality they stung her pride unendurably. When Jerome had
gone she realized that she had no other intimate friend and that she=
was a very lonely woman whom nobody cared about. One night--it was
three weeks afterward--she met Jerome and Harriet squarely. She was<= o:p>
walking to church with Octavia, and they were driving in the opposit=
e
direction. Jerome had his new buggy and crimson lap robe. His horse'=
s
coat shone like satin and had rosettes of crimson on his bridle.
Jerome was dressed extremely well and looked quite young, with his
round, ruddy, clean-shaven face and clear blue eyes.
Harriet was sitting primly and consciously by his side; she was a ve=
ry
handsome girl with bold eyes and was somewhat overdressed. She wore =
a
big flowery hat and a white lace veil and looked at Anne with a
supercilious smile.
Anne felt dowdy and old; she was very pale. Jerome lifted his hat an=
d
bowed pleasantly as they drove past. Suddenly Harriet laughed out.
Anne did not look back, but her face crimsoned darkly. Was that girl=
laughing at her? She trembled with anger and a sharp, hurt feeling.<= o:p>
When she got home that night she sat a long while by her window.
Jerome was gone--and he let Harriet Warren laugh at her and he would=
never come back to her. Well, it did not matter, but she had been a<= o:p>
fool. Only it had never occurred to her that Jerome could act so.
"If I'd thought he would I mightn't have been so sharp with
him," was
as far as she would let herself go even in thought.
When four weeks had elapsed Jerome came over one Saturday night. He<= o:p>
was fluttered and anxious, but hid it in a masterly manner.
Anne was taken by surprise. She had not thought he would ever come
again, and was off her guard. He had come around the porch corner
abruptly as she stood there in the dusk, and she started very
perceptibly.
"Good evening, Anne," he said, easily and unblushingly.
Anne choked up. She was very angry, or thought she was. Jerome
appeared not to notice her lack of welcome. He sat coolly down in hi=
s
old place. His heart was beating like a hammer, but Anne did not kno=
w
that.
"I suppose," she said cuttingly, "that you're on your=
way
down to the
bridge. It's almost a pity for you to waste time stopping here at al=
l,
any more than you have of late. No doubt Harriet'll be expecting
you."
A gleam of satisfaction flashed over Jerome's face. He looked shrewd=
ly
at Anne, who was not looking at him, but was staring uncompromisingl=
y
out over the poppy beds. A jealous woman always gives herself away. =
If
Anne had been indifferent she would not have given him that slap in<= o:p>
the face.
"I dunno's she will," he replied coolly. "I didn't say
for sure
whether I'd be down tonight or not. It's so long since I had a chat<= o:p>
with you I thought I'd drop in for a spell. But of course if I'm not=
wanted I can go where I will be."
Anne could not get back her self-control. Her nerves were "all
strung
up," as she would have said. She had a feeling that she was rig=
ht
on
the brink of a "scene," but she could not help herself.
"I guess it doesn't matter much what I want," she said
stonily. "At
any rate, it hasn't seemed that way lately. You don't care, of cours=
e.
Oh, no! Harriet Warren is all you care about. Well, I wish you joy o=
f
her."
Jerome looked puzzled, or pretended to. In reality he was hugging
himself with delight.
"I don't just understand you, Anne," he said hesitatingly
"You appear
to be vexed about something."
"I? Oh, no, I'm not, Mr. Irving. Of course old friends don't co=
unt
now. Well, I've no doubt new ones will wear just as well."
"If it's about my going to see Harriet," said Jerome easily
"I don't
see as how it can matter much to you. Goodness knows, you took enoug=
h
pains to show me you didn't want me. I don't blame you. A woman has =
a
right to please herself, and a man ought to have sense to take his
answer and go. I hadn't, and that's where I made my mistake. I don't=
mean to pester you any more, but we can be real good friends, can't<= o:p>
we? I'm sure I'm as much your friend as ever I was."
Now, I hold that this speech of Jerome's, delivered in a cool,
matter-of-fact tone, as of a man stating a case with dispassionate
fairness, was a masterpiece. It was the last cleverly executed
movement of the campaign. If it failed to effect a capitulation, he<= o:p>
was a defeated man. But it did not fail.
Anne had got to that point where an excited woman must go mad or cry=
.
Anne cried. She sat flatly down on a chair and burst into tears.
Jerome's hat went one way and his cane another. Jerome himself spran=
g
across the intervening space and dropped into the chair beside Anne.=
He caught her hand in his and threw his arm boldly around her waist.=
"Goodness gracious, Anne! Do you care after all? Tell me
that!"
"I don't suppose it matters to you if I do," sobbed Anne.
"It hasn't
seemed to matter, anyhow."
"Anne, look here! Didn't I come after you for fifteen years? It=
's
you
I always have wanted and want yet, if I can get you. I don't care a<= o:p>
rap for Harriet Warren or anyone but you. Now that's the truth right=
out, Anne."
No doubt it was, and Anne was convinced of it. But she had to have h=
er
cry out--on Jerome's shoulder--and it soothed her nerves wonderfully=
.
Later on Octavia, slipping noiselessly up the steps in the dusk, saw=
a
sight that transfixed her with astonishment. When she recovered
herself she turned and fled wildly around the house, running bump in=
to
Sam Mitchell, who was coming across the yard from a twilight
conference with the hired men.
"Goodness, Tavy, what's the matter? Y' look 'sif y'd seen a
ghost."
Octavia leaned up against the wall in spasms of mirth.
"Oh, Sam," she gasped, "old Jerome Irving and Aunt An=
ne are
sitting
round there in the dark on the front porch and he had his arms aroun=
d
her, kissing her! And they never saw nor heard me, no more'n if they=
were deaf and blind!"
Sam gave a tremendous whistle and then went off into a shout of
laughter whose echoes reached even to the gloom of the front porch a=
nd
the ears of the lovers. But they did not know he was laughing at the=
m
and would not have cared if they had. They were too happy for that.<= o:p>
There was a wedding that fall and Anne Stockard was the bride. When<= o:p>
she was safely his, Jerome confessed all and was graciously forgiven=
.
"But it was kind of mean to Harriet," said Anne rebukingly,
"to go
with her and get her talked about and then drop her as you did. Don'=
t
you think so yourself, Jerome?"
Her husband's eyes twinkled.
"Well, hardly that. You see, Harriet's engaged to that Johnson
fellow
out west. 'Tain't generally known, but I knew it and that's why I
picked on her. I thought it probable that she'd be willing enough to=
flirt with me for a little diversion, even if I was old. Harriet's
that sort of a girl. And I made up my mind that if that didn't fetch=
it nothing would and I'd give up for good and all. But it did, didn'=
t
it, Anne?"
"I should say so. It was horrid of you, Jerome--but I daresay i=
t's
just as well you did or I'd likely never have found out that I
couldn't get along without you. I did feel dreadful. Poor Octavia
could tell you I was as cross as X. How did you come to think of it,=
Jerome?"
"A fellow had to do something," said Jerome oracularly,
"and I'd have
done most anything to get you, Anne, that's a fact. And there it
was--courting fifteen years and nothing to show for it. I dunno,
though, how I did come to think of it. Guess it was a sort of
inspiration. Anyhow, I've got you and that's what I set out to do in=
the beginning."
Mr. Bentley had just driven into the yard with the new summer boarde=
r.
Mrs. Bentley and Agnes were peeping at her from behind the parlour
curtains with the keen interest that they--shut in by their restrict=
ed
farm life--always felt in any visitor from the outside world lying
beyond their boundary of purple misted hills.
Mrs. Bentley was a plump, rosy-cheeked woman with a motherly smile.<= o:p>
Agnes was a fair, slim schoolgirl, as tall as her mother, with a swe=
et
face and a promise of peach blossom prettiness in the years to come.=
The arrival of a summer boarder was a great event in her quiet life.=
"Ain't she pretty?" whispered Mrs. Bentley admiringly, as =
the
girl
came slowly up the green slope before the house. "I do hope she=
's
nice. You can generally calculate on men boarders, but girls are
doubtful. Preserve me from a cranky boarder! I've had enough of them=
.
I kinder like her looks, though."
Ethel Lennox had paused at the front door as Mrs. Bentley and Agnes<= o:p>
came into the hall. Agnes gazed at the stranger with shy, unenvious<= o:p>
admiration; the latter stood on the stone step just where the big
chestnut by the door cast flickering gleams and shadows over her dre=
ss
and shining hair.
She was tall, and gowned in some simple white material that fell abo=
ut
her in graceful folds. She wore a cluster of pale pink roses at her<= o:p>
belt, and a big, picturesque white hat shaded her face and the gloss=
y,
clinging masses of her red hair--hair that was neither auburn nor
chestnut but simply red. Nor would anyone have wished it otherwise,<= o:p>
having once seen that glorious mass, with all its wonderful
possibilities of rippling luxuriance.
Her complexion was of that perfect, waxen whiteness that goes with
burnished red hair and the darkest of dilated violet eyes. Her
delicately chiselled features wore what might have been a somewhat t=
oo
decided impress of spirit and independence, had it not been for the<= o:p>
sweet mouth, red and dimpled and curving, that parted in a slow,
charming smile as Mrs. Bentley came forward with her kindly welcome.=
"You must be real tired, Miss Lennox. It's a long drive from the
train
down here. Agnes, show Miss Lennox up to her room, and tea will be
ready when you come down."
Agnes came forward with the shy grace that always won friends for he=
r,
and the two girls went slowly up the broad, old-fashioned staircase,=
while Mrs. Bentley bustled away to bring in the tea and put a goblet=
of damask roses on the table.
"She looks like a picture, doesn't she, John?" she said to=
her
husband. "I never saw such a face--and that hair too. Would you
have
believed red hair could be so handsome? She seems real friendly--non=
e
of your stuck-up fine ladies! I've had all I want of them, I can tel=
l
you!"
"Sh--sh--sh!" said Mr. Bentley warningly, as Ethel Lennox =
came
in with
her arm about Agnes.
She looked even more lovely without her hat, with the soft red
tendrils of hair lying on her forehead. Mrs. Bentley sent a
telegraphic message of admiration across the table to her husband, w=
ho
was helping the cold tongue and feeling his way to a conversation.
"You'll find it pretty quiet here, Miss Lennox. We're plain fol=
ks
and
there ain't much going and coming. Maybe you don't mind that,
though?"
"I like it. When one has been teaching school all the year in a
noisy
city, quiet seems the one thing to be desired. Besides, I like to
fancy myself something of an artist. I paint and sketch a little whe=
n
I have time, and Miss Courtland, who was here last summer, said I
could not find a more suitable spot. So I came because I knew that
mackerel fishing was carried on along the shore, and I would have a<= o:p>
chance to study character among the fishermen."
"Well, the shore ain't far away, and it's pretty--though maybe =
us
folks here don't appreciate it rightly, being as we're so used to it=
.
Strangers are always going crazy over its 'picturesqueness,' as they=
call it. As for 'character,' I reckon you'll find all you want of th=
at
among the Pointers; anyway, I never seed such critters as they be.
When you get tired of painting, maybe you can amuse yourself trying =
to
get to the bottom of our mystery."
"Oh, have you a mystery? How interesting!"
"Yes, a mystery--a mystery," repeated Mr. Bentley solemnly,
"that
nobody hain't been able to solve so far. I've give it up--so has
everyone else. Maybe you'll have better luck."
"But what is it?"
"The mystery," said Mr. Bentley dramatically, "is--Yo=
ung
Si. He's the
mystery. Last spring, just when the herring struck in, a young chap<= o:p>
suddenly appeared at the Point. He appeared--from what corner of the=
globe nobody hain't ever been able to make out. He bought a boat and=
a
shanty down at my shore and went into a sort of mackerel partnership=
with Snuffy Curtis--Snuffy supplying the experience and this young
fellow the cash, I reckon. Snuffy's as poor as Job's turkey; it was =
a
windfall for him. And there he's fished all summer."
"But his name--Young Si?"
"Well, of course, that isn't it. He did give himself out as Bro=
wn,
but
nobody believes that's his handle--sounds unnatteral here. He bought=
his establishment from 'old Si,' who used to fish down there and was=
a
mysterious old critter in a way too. So when this young fellow stepp=
ed
in from goodness knows where, some of the Pointers christened him
Young Si for a joke, and he never gets anything else. Doesn't seem t=
o
mind it. He's a moody, keep-to-himself sort of chap. Yet he ain't
unpopular along shore, I believe. Snuffy was telling me they like hi=
m
real well, considering his unsociableness. Anyways, he's as handsome=
a
chap as I ever seed, and well eddicated too. He ain't none of your
ordinary fishermen. Some of us kind of think he's a runaway--got int=
o
some scrape or another, maybe, and is skulking around here to keep o=
ut
of jail. But wife here won't give in to that."
"No, I never will," said Mrs. Bentley firmly. "Young =
Si
comes here
often for milk and butter, and he's a perfect gentleman. Nobody'll
ever convince me that he has done anything to be ashamed of,
whatever's his reason for wasting his life down there at that
shore."
"He ain't wasting his life," chuckled Mr. Bentley. "H=
e's
making
money, Young Si is, though he don't seem to care about that a mite.<= o:p>
This has been a big year for mackerel, and he's smart. If he didn't<= o:p>
know much when he begun, he's ahead of Snuffy now. And as for work, =
I
never saw his beat. He seems possessed. Up afore sunrise every bless=
ed
morning and never in bed till midnight, and just slaving away all
between time. I said to him t'other day, says I: 'Young Si, you'll
have to let up on this sort of thing and take a rest. You can't stan=
d
it. You're not a Pointer. Pointers can stand anything, but it'll kil=
l
you.'
"He give one of them bitter laughs of his. Says he: 'It's no
difference if it does. Nobody'll care,' and off he walks, sulky like=
.
There's something about Young Si I can't understand," concluded=
Mr.
Bentley.
Ethel Lennox was interested. A melancholy, mysterious hero in a
setting of silver-rimmed sand hills and wide blue sweeps of ocean wa=
s
something that ought to lend piquancy to her vacation.
"I should like to see this prince in disguise," she said.
"It all
sounds very romantic."
"I'll take you to the shore after tea if you'd like," said
Agnes
eagerly. "Si's just splendid," she continued in a confiden=
tial
aside
as they rose from the table. "Pa doesn't half like him because =
he
thinks there's something queer about him. But I do. He's a gentleman=
,
as Ma says. I don't believe he's done anything wrong."
* *=
* * *
Ethel Lennox sauntered out into the orchard to wait for Agnes. She s=
at
down under an apple tree and began to read, but soon the book slippe=
d
from her hands and the beautiful head leaned back against the grey,<= o:p>
lichened trunk of the old tree. The sweet mouth drooped wistfully.
There was a sad, far-away look in the violet eyes. The face was not<= o:p>
that of a happy girl, so thought Agnes as she came down the apple tr=
ee
avenue.
But how pretty she is! she thought. Won't the folks around here star=
e
at her! They always do at our boarders, but we've never had one like=
her.
Ethel sprang up. "I had no idea you would be here so soon,"
she said
brightly. "Just wait till I get my hat."
When she came out they started off, and presently found themselves
walking down a grassy, deep-rutted lane that ran through mown hay
fields, green with their rich aftergrowth, and sheets of pale ripeni=
ng
oats and golden-green wheat, until it lost itself in the rolling san=
d
hills at the foot of the slope.
Beyond the sand hills stretched the shining expanse of the ocean, of=
the faint, bleached blue of hot August seas, and reaching out into a=
horizon laced with long trails of pinkish cloud. Numberless fishing<= o:p>
boats dotted the shimmering reaches.
"That furthest-off boat is Young Si's," said Agnes. "=
He
always goes to
that particular spot."
"Is he really all your father says?" asked Miss Lennox
curiously.
"Indeed, he is. He isn't any more like the rest of the shore men
than
you are. He's queer, of course. I don't believe he's happy. It seems=
to me he's worrying over something, but I'm sure it is nothing wrong=
.
Here we are," she added, as they passed the sand hills and came=
out
on
the long, level beach.
To their left the shore curved around in a semi-circle of dazzling
whiteness; at their right stood a small grey fish-house.
"That's Young Si's place," said Agnes. "He lives there
night and day.
Wouldn't it make anyone melancholy? No wonder he's mysterious. I'm
going to get his spyglass. He told me I might always use it."
She pushed open the door and entered, followed by Ethel. The interio=
r
was rough but clean. It was a small room, lighted by one tiny window=
looking out on the water. In one corner a rough ladder led up to the=
loft above. The bare lathed walls were hung with fishing jackets,
nets, mackerel lines and other shore appurtenances. A little stove
bore a kettle and a frying pan. A low board table was strewn with
dishes and the cold remnants of a hasty repast; benches were placed<= o:p>
along the walls. A fat, bewhiskered kitten, looking as if it were cu=
t
out of black velvet, was dozing on the window sill.
"This is Young Si's cat," explained Agnes, patting the
creature, which
purred joyously and opened its sleepy green eyes. "It's the only
thing
he cares for, I believe. Witch! Witch! How are you, Witch? Well,
here's the spyglass. Let's go out and have a look. Si's catching
mackerel," announced Agnes a few minutes later, after she had
scrutinized each boat in turn, "and he won't be in for an hour =
yet.
If
you like, we have time for a walk up the shore."
The sun slipped lower and lower in the creamy sky, leaving a trail o=
f
sparkles that ran across the water and lost itself in the west. Sea<= o:p>
gulls soared and dipped, and tiny "sand peeps" flitted alo=
ng
the
beach. Just as the red rim of the sun dipped in the purpling sea, th=
e
boats began to come in.
"Most of them will go around to the Point," explained Agne=
s,
with a
contemptuous sweep of her hand towards a long headland running out
before them. "They belong there and they're a rough crowd. You
don't
catch Young Si associating with the Pointers. There, he's getting up=
sail. We'll just have time to get back before he comes in."
They hurried back across the dampening sand as the sun disappeared,<= o:p>
leaving a fiery spot behind him. The shore was no longer quiet and
deserted. The little spot where the fishing house stood had suddenly=
started into life. Roughly clad boys were running hither and thither=
,
carrying fish or water. The boats were hauled up on the skids. A
couple of shaggy old tars, who had strolled over from the Point to
hear about Young Si's catch, were smoking their pipes at the corner =
of
his shanty. A mellow afterlight was shining over sea and shore. The<= o:p>
whole scene delighted Ethel's artist eyes.
Agnes nudged her companion.
"There! If you want to see Young Si," she whispered, point=
ing
to the
skids, where a busy figure was discernible in a large boat, "th=
at's
him, with his back to us, in the cream-coloured boat. He's counting<= o:p>
out mackerel. If you go over to that platform behind him, you'll get=
a
good look when he turns around. I'm going to coax a mackerel out of<= o:p>
that stingy old Snuffy, if I can."
She tripped off, and Ethel walked slowly over to the boats. The men<= o:p>
stared at her in open-mouthed admiration as she passed them and walk=
ed
out on the platform behind Young Si. There was no one near the two.<= o:p>
The others were all assembled around Snuffy's boat. Young Si was
throwing out the mackerel with marvellous rapidity, but at the sound=
of a footstep behind him he turned and straightened up his tall form=
.
They stood face to face.
"Miles!"
"Ethel!"
Young Si staggered back against the mast, letting two silvery bloate=
rs
slip through his hands overboard. His handsome, sunburned face was
very white.
Ethel Lennox turned abruptly and silently and walked swiftly across<= o:p>
the sand. Agnes felt her arm touched, and turned to see Ethel
standing, pale and erect, beside her.
"Let us go home," said the latter unsteadily. "It is =
very
damp here--I
feel chilled."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Agnes penitently. "I ought to h=
ave
told you to
bring a shawl. It is always damp on the shore after sunset. Here,
Snuffy, give me my mackerel. Thank you. I'm ready now, Miss
Lennox."
They reached the lane before Agnes remembered to ask the question
Ethel dreaded.
"Oh, did you see Young Si? And what do you think of him?"<= o:p>
Ethel turned her face away and answered with studied carelessness.
"He
seems to be quite a superior fisherman so far as I could see in the<= o:p>
dim light. It was very dusky there, you know. Let us walk a little
faster. My shoes are quite wet."
When they reached home, Miss Lennox excused herself on the plea of
weariness and went straight to her room.
* *=
* * *
Back at the shore Young Si had recovered himself and stooped again t=
o
his work. His face was set and expressionless. A dull red burned in<= o:p>
each bronzed cheek. He threw out the mackerel mechanically, but his<= o:p>
hands trembled.
Snuffy strolled over to the boat. "See that handsome girl,
Si?" he
asked lazily. "One of the Bentleys' boarders, I hear. Looks as =
if
she
might have stepped out of a picture frame, don't she?"
"We've no time to waste, Curtis," said Young Si harshly,
"with all
these fish to clean before bedtime. Stop talking and get to work.&qu=
ot;
Snuffy shrugged his shoulders and obeyed in silence. Young Si was no=
t
a person to be trifled with. The catch was large and it was late
before they finished. Snuffy surveyed the full barrels complacently.=
"Good day's work," he muttered, "but hard--I'm dead b=
eat
out. 'Low
I'll go to bed. In the name o' goodness, Si, whar be you a-goin'
to?"
Young Si had got into a dory and untied it. He made no answer, but
rowed out from the shore. Snuffy stared at the dory blankly until it=
was lost in the gloom.
"Ef that don't beat all!" he ejaculated. "I wonder if=
Si
is in his
right senses? He's been actin' quar right along, and now to start of=
f,
Lord knows whar, at this hour o' night! I really don't believe it's<= o:p>
safe to stay here alone with him."
Snuffy shook his unkempt head dubiously.
Young Si rowed steadily out over the dark waves. An eastern breeze w=
as
bringing in a damp sea fog that blurred darkly over the outlines of<= o:p>
horizon and shore. The young fisherman found himself alone in a worl=
d
of water and grey mist. He stopped rowing and leaned forward on his<= o:p>
oars.
"To see her here, of all places!" he muttered. "Not a
word, scarcely a
look, after all this long heartbreak! Well, perhaps it is better so.=
And yet to know she is so near! How beautiful she is! And I love her=
more than ever. That is where the sting lies. I thought that in this=
rough life, amid all these rude associations, where nothing could
remind me of her, I might forget. And now--"
He clenched his hands. The mist was all around and about him,
creeping, impalpable, phantom-like. The dory rocked gently on the
swell. From afar came the low persistent murmur of the ocean.
*
* * *=
*
The next day Ethel Lennox declined to visit Si's shore. Instead she<= o:p>
went to the Point and sketched all day. She went again the next day<= o:p>
and the next. The Point was the most picturesque part of the shore,<= o:p>
she averred, and the "types" among its inhabitants most
interesting.
Agnes Bentley ceased to suggest another visit to Si's shore. She had=
a
vague perception that her companion did not care to discuss the
subject.
At the end of a week Mrs. Bentley remarked: "What in the world =
can
have happened to Young Si? It's a whole week since he was here for
milk or butter. He ain't sick, is he?"
Mr. Bentley chuckled amusedly.
"I 'low I can tell you the reason of that. Si's getting his stu=
ff
at
Walden's now. I saw him going there twice this week. 'Liza Walden's<= o:p>
got ahead of you at last, Mary."
"Well, I never did!" said Mrs. Bentley. "Well, Young =
Si
is the first
that ever preferred 'Liza Walden's butter to mine. Everyone knows wh=
at
hers is like. She never works her salt half in. Well, Young Si's
welcome to it, I'm sure; I wish him joy of his exchange."
Mrs. Bentley rattled her dishes ominously. It was plain her faith in=
Young Si had received a severe shock.
Upstairs in her room, Ethel Lennox, with a few undried tears
glistening on her cheeks, was writing a letter. Her lips were
compressed and her hand trembled:
"I have discovered that it is no use to run away from fate,&quo=
t;
she
wrote. "No matter how hard we try to elude it, and how sure we =
are
that we have succeeded, it will rise and meet us where we least expe=
ct
it. I came down here tired and worn out, looking for peace and
rest--and lo! the most disquieting element of my life is here to
confront me.
"I'm going to confess, Helen. 'Open confession is good for the
soul,'
you know, and I shall treat myself to a good dose while the mood is<= o:p>
on.
"You know, of course, that I was once engaged to Miles Lesley. =
You
also know that that engagement was broken last autumn for unexplaine=
d
reasons. Well, I will tell you all about it and then mail this lette=
r
speedily, before I change my mind.
"It is over a year now since Miles and I first became engaged. =
As
you
are aware, his family is wealthy, and noted for its exclusiveness. I=
was a poor school teacher, and you may imagine with what horror his<= o:p>
relatives received the news of Miles's attentions to one whom they
considered his inferior. Now that I have thought the whole matter ov=
er
calmly, I scarcely blame them. It must be hard for aristocratic
parents who have lavished every care upon a son, and cherished for h=
im
the highest hopes, when he turns from the women of his own order to<= o:p>
one considered beneath him in station. But I did not view the subjec=
t
in this light then; and instead of declining his attentions, as I
perhaps should have done, I encouraged them--I loved him so dearly,<= o:p>
Nell!--and in spite of family opposition, Miles soon openly declared=
his attachment.
"When his parents found they could not change his purpose, thei=
r
affection for him forced them into outward acquiescence, but their
reluctant condescension was gall and wormwood to me. I saw things on=
ly
from my own point of view, and was keenly sensitive to their politel=
y
concealed disapprobation, and my offended vanity found its victim in=
Miles. I belonged to the class who admit and resent slights, instead=
of ignoring them, as do the higher bred, and I thought he would not<= o:p>
see those offered to me. I grew cold and formal to him. He was very<= o:p>
patient, but his ways were not mine, and my manner puzzled and annoy=
ed
him. Our relations soon became strained, and the trifle necessary fo=
r
an open quarrel was easily supplied.
"One evening I went to a large At Home given by his mother. I k=
new
but
few and, as Miles was necessarily busy with his social duties to her=
guests, I was, after the first hurried greeting, left unattended for=
a
time. Not being accustomed to such functions, I resented this as a
covert insult and, in a fit of jealous pique, I blush to own that I<= o:p>
took the revenge of a peasant maid and entered into a marked
flirtation with Fred Currie, who had paid me some attention before m=
y
engagement. When Miles was at liberty to seek me, he found me, to al=
l
appearances, quite absorbed in my companion and oblivious of his
approach. He turned on his heel and went away, nor did he come near =
me
the rest of the evening.
"I went home angry enough, but so miserable and repentant that =
if
Miles had been his usual patient self when he called the following
evening I would have begged his forgiveness. But I had gone too far;=
his mother was shocked by my gaucherie, and he was humiliated and
justly exasperated. We had a short, bitter quarrel. I said a great
many foolish, unpardonable things, and finally I threw his ring at
him. He gave me a startled look then, in which there was something o=
f
contempt, and went away without another word.
"After my anger had passed, I was wretchedly unhappy. I realized
how
unworthily I had acted, how deeply I loved Miles, and how lonely and=
empty my life would be without him. But he did not come back, and so=
on
after I learned he had gone away--whither no one knew, but it was
supposed abroad. Well, I buried my hopes and tears in secret and wen=
t
on with my life as people have to do--a life in which I have learned=
to think, and which, I hope, has made me nobler and better.
"This summer I came here. I heard much about a certain mysterio=
us
stranger known as 'Young Si' who was fishing mackerel at this shore.=
I
was very curious. The story sounded romantic, and one evening I went=
down to see him. I met him face to face and, Helen, it was Miles
Lesley!
"For one minute earth, sky and sea reeled around me. The next, =
I
remembered all, and turned and walked away. He did not follow.
"You may be sure that I now religiously avoid that part of the
shore.
We have never met since, and he has made no effort to see me. He
clearly shows that he despises me. Well, I despise myself. I am very=
unhappy, Nell, and not only on my own account, for I feel that if
Miles had never met me, his mother would not now be breaking her hea=
rt
for her absent boy. My sorrow has taught me to understand hers, and =
I
no longer resent her pride.
"You need hardly be told after this that I leave here in another
week.
I cannot fabricate a decent excuse to go sooner, or I would."
In the cool twilight Ethel went with Agnes Bentley to mail her lette=
r.
As they stopped at the door of the little country store, a young man=
came around the corner. It was Young Si. He was in his rough fishing=
suit, with a big herring net trailing over his shoulder, but no
disguise could effectually conceal his splendid figure. Agnes sprang=
forward eagerly.
"Si, where have you been? Why have you never I been up to see us
for
so long?"
Young Si made no verbal reply. He merely lifted his cap with formal<= o:p>
politeness and turned on his heel.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Agnes, as soon as she recovered=
her
powers
of speech. "If that is how Young Si is going to treat his frien=
ds!
He
must have got offended at something. I wonder what it is," she
added,
her curiosity getting the better of her indignation.
When they came out they saw the solitary figure of Young Si far adow=
n,
crossing the dim, lonely shore fields. In the dusk Agnes failed to
notice the pallor of her companion's face and the unshed tears in he=
r
eyes.
* *=
* * *
"I've just been down to the Point," said Agnes, coming in =
one
sultry
afternoon about a week later, "and Little Ev said as there was =
no
fishing today he'd take us out for that sail tonight if you wanted t=
o
go."
Ethel Lennox put her drawing away listlessly. She looked pale and
tired. She was going away the next day, and this was to be her last<= o:p>
visit to the shore.
About an hour before sunset a boat glided out from the shadow of the=
Point. In it were Ethel Lennox and Agnes, together with Little Ev, t=
he
sandy-haired, undersized Pointer who owned the boat.
The evening was fine, and an off-shore breeze was freshening up
rapidly. They did not notice the long, dark bank of livid cloud low =
in
the northwest.
"Isn't this glorious!" exclaimed Ethel. Her hat was strain=
ing
back
from her head and the red rings of her hair were blowing about her
face.
Agnes looked about her more anxiously. Wiser in matters of sea and
shore than her companion, there were some indications she did not
like.
Young Si, who was standing with Snuffy their skids, lowered his
spyglass with a start.
"It is Agnes Bentley and--and--that boarder of theirs," he
said
anxiously, "and they've gone out with Little Ev in that wretche=
d,
leaky tub of his. Where are their eyes that they can't see a squall<= o:p>
coming up?"
"An' Little Ev don't know as much about managing a boat as a
cat!"
exclaimed Snuffy excitedly. "Sign 'em to come back."
Si shook his head. "They're too far out. I don't know that the
squall
will amount to very much. In a good boat, with someone who knew how =
to
manage it, they'd be all right. But with Little Ev--" He began
walking
restlessly up and down the narrow platform.
The boat was now some distance out. The breeze had stiffened to a sl=
ow
strong wind and the dull-grey level of the sea was whipped into
white-caps.
Agnes bent towards Ethel. "It's getting too rough. I think we'd
better
go back. I'm afraid we're in for a thunder squall. Look at the
clouds."
A long, sullen muttering verified her words.
"Little Ev," she shouted, "we want to go in."
Little Ev, thus recalled to things about him, looked around in alarm=
.
The girls questioned each other with glances of dismay. The sky had<= o:p>
grown very black, and the peals of thunder came louder and more
continuously. A jagged bolt of lightning hurtled over the horizon.
Over land and sea was "the green, malignant light of coming
storm."
Little Ev brought the boat's head abruptly round as a few heavy drop=
s
of rain fell.
"Ev, the boat is leaking!" shrieked Agnes, above the wind.
"The
water's coming in!"
"Bail her out then," shouted Ev, struggling with the sail.
"There's
two cans under the seat. I've got to lower this sail. Bail her
out."
"I'll help you," said Ethel.
She was very pale, but her manner was calm. Both girls bailed
energetically.
Young Si, watching through the glass, saw them. He dropped it and ra=
n
to his boat, white and resolute.
"They've sprung a leak. Here, Curtis, launch the boat. We've go=
t to
go
out or Ev will drown them."
They shot out from the shore just as the downpour came, blotting out=
sea and land in one driving sheet of white rain.
"Young Si is coming off for us," said Agnes. "We'll be
all right if he
gets here in time. This boat is going to sink, sure."
Little Ev was completely demoralized by fear. The girls bailed
unceasingly, but the water gained every minute. Young Si was none to=
o
soon.
"Jump, Ev!" he shouted as his boat shot alongside. "J=
ump
for your
life!"
He dragged Ethel Lennox in as he spoke. Agnes sprang from one boat t=
o
the other like a cat, and Little Ev jumped just as a thunderous cras=
h
seemed to burst above them and air and sky were filled with blue
flame.
The danger was past, for the squall had few difficulties for Si and<= o:p>
Snuffy. When they reached the shore, Agnes, who had quite recovered<= o:p>
from her fright, tucked her dripping skirts about her and announced<= o:p>
her determination to go straight home with Snuffy.
"I can't get any wetter than I am," she said cheerfully.
"I'll send Pa
down in the buggy for Miss Lennox. Light the fire in your shanty, Si=
,
and let her get dry. I'll be as quick as I can."
Si picked Ethel up in his strong arms and carried her into the
fish-house. He placed her on one of the low benches and hurriedly
began to kindle a fire. Ethel sat up dazedly and pushed back the
dripping masses of her bright hair. Young Si turned and looked down =
at
her with a passionate light in his eyes. She put out her cold, wet
hands wistfully.
"Oh, Miles!" she whispered.
Outside, the wind shook the frail building and tore the shuddering s=
ea
to pieces. The rain poured down. It was already settling in for a
night of storm. But, inside, Young Si's fire was casting cheery flam=
es
over the rude room, and Young Si himself was kneeling by Ethel Lenno=
x
with his arm about her and her head on his broad shoulder. There wer=
e
happy tears in her eyes and her voice quivered as she said, "Mi=
les,
can you forgive me? If you knew how bitterly I have repented--"=
"Never speak of the past again, my sweet. In my lonely days and
nights
down here by the sea, I have forgotten all but my love."
"Miles, how did you come here? I thought you were in Europe.&qu=
ot;
"I did travel at first. I came down here by chance, and resolve=
d to
cut myself utterly adrift from my old life and see if I could not
forget you. I was not very successful." He smiled down into her
eyes.
"And you were going away tomorrow. How perilously near we have =
been
to
not meeting! But how are we going to explain all this to our friends=
along shore?"
"I think we had better not explain it at all. I will go away
tomorrow,
as I intended, and you can quietly follow soon. Let 'Young Si' remai=
n
the mystery he has always been."
"That will be best--decidedly so. They would never understand i=
f we
did tell them. And I daresay they would be very much disappointed to=
find I was not a murderer or a forger or something of that sort. The=
y
have always credited me with an evil past. And you and I will go bac=
k
to our own world, Ethel. You will be welcome there now, sweet--my
family, too, have learned a lesson, and will do anything to promote =
my
happiness."
Agnes drove Ethel Lennox to the station next day. The fierce wind th=
at
had swept over land and sea seemed to have blown away all the hazy
vapours and oppressive heats in the air, and the morning dawned as
clear and fresh as if the sad old earth with all her passionate tear=
s
had cleansed herself from sin and stain and come forth radiantly pur=
e
and sweet. Ethel bubbled over with joyousness. Agnes wondered at the=
change in her.
"Good-bye, Miss Lennox," she said wistfully. "You'll =
come
back to see
us some time again, won't you?"
"Perhaps," smiled Ethel, "and if not, Agnes, you must
come and see me.
Some day I may tell you a secret."
About a week later Young Si suddenly vanished, and his disappearance=
was a nine-day's talk along shore. His departure was as mysterious a=
s
his advent. It leaked out that he had quietly disposed of his boat a=
nd
shanty to Snuffy Curtis, sent his mackerel off and, that done, slipp=
ed
from the Pointers' lives, never more to re-enter them.
Little Ev was the last of the Pointers to see him tramping along the=
road to the station in the dusk of the autumn twilight. And the next=
morning Agnes Bentley, going out of doors before the others, found o=
n
the doorstep a basket containing a small, vociferous black kitten wi=
th
a card attached to its neck. On it was written: "Will Agnes ple=
ase
befriend Witch in memory of Young Si?"