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Title: Richard Richard

Author: Hughes Mearns

Release Date: July 24, 2023 [eBook #71263]

Language: English

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed
         Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RICHARD RICHARD ***





Richard Richard




_SOME RECENT NOVELS_


  SALT. By CHARLES NORRIS.

  BEAUTY AND BANDS. By ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER.

  RAINBOW VALLEY. By L. M. MONTGOMERY.

  THE BRANDING IRON. By KATHARINE BURT.

  THE NORTH DOOR. By GREVILLE MACDONALD.

  CONSTABLE & CO., LTD.

  Sydney: Australasian
  Publishing Company Ltd.




  Richard Richard
  By Hughes Mearns


  Constable & Co.
  Ltd.      London




  _Published 1921_





  TO
  LELIA CORA
  OF
  PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA





CONTENTS


   CHAP.                                     PAGE

      I. STONY BROKE                            1

     II. EVEN                                  15

    III. “SAW YUH!”                            33

     IV. ORRIS ROOT AND CARBOLIC ACID          47

      V. THE CARD ON THE DOOR                  62

     VI. ASSISTANT WIDOW                       77

    VII. GETTING WARM!                         87

   VIII. “MAN OVERBOARD!”                      97

     IX. “WE SHALL SEE”                       114

      X. THE FAITH OF A TREE                  127

     XI. TSHOTI-NON-DA-WAGA                   143

    XII. SAINT PHŒBE                          161

   XIII. THE HOME FOR INDIGENT DRAKES         179

    XIV. “JAWN”                               195

     XV. THE LADY DETECTIVE                   213

    XVI. TREMOR CORDIS                        230

   XVII. LOVE LIMERICKS OF A LEFT-TENANT      249

  XVIII. HARDY PERENNIALS                     267

    XIX. MICHAELMAS DAISY AND ROSE-BUGS       282

     XX. SETH’S WHIP                          294

    XXI. POET                                 311

   XXII. THE COUNCIL FIRE                     328

  XXIII. THE RACE                             345

   XXIV. PROUD MISS PIDDIWIT                  368




RICHARD RICHARD




CHAPTER I

STONY BROKE


EVER since the “first breakfast,” groups of passengers had been
trooping down the gang-plank, hurrying with guide-book and satchel to
“do” Naples, Vesuvius, Pompeii, etc., before the steamer should sail
again in the evening. An angular chap in proper steamer _négligé_
lounged contentedly on the starboard rail and watched them go. By eight
o’clock he seemed to have the starboard rail to himself.

At that hour he was leaning heavily forward, presumably watching the
ant-like stevedores loading and unloading the steamer, but he was quite
aware of another lone passenger, slowly moving towards him. He had
seen her come on at Genoa--anyone would have noticed the clean-cut,
tailor-made figure--and on the journey from Genoa to Naples he had
noted her once or twice striding the deck alone; but he did not know
even so much as her name. He did not know her, but, as she came up to
him and lingered at the starboard rail, he knew instinctively that he
would borrow money from her.

She stopped beside him for a moment and observed the Italian workers.
He did not once look up.

“Do you know how long we stay in Naples?” she asked.

Shipboard etiquette ignores introductions.

“We sail at nine to-night, the Captain says.” He turned his head
slightly and smiled as if he had really known her. She lounged over the
rail and helped him watch the workers. From the dock below this pair
looked like familiar companions.

“Gracious!” she exclaimed suddenly. “What time is it now?”

“Eight A.M.” He seem amused in a superior way.

“All day in this hot dirty place!” she exclaimed again.

“It _is_ warm,” he admitted, “but not unpleasantly so. Dirty? Ye-es,
on the wharf; but look back of you.” He hardly moved from his lounging
posture. “Behold! The Bay of Naples. ‘See Naples and die’; that phrase
is sure to be in your guide-book. There’s a lot of other poetry about
it, too: ‘The blue Bay of Naples, cerulean blue----’”

“But it isn’t blue,” she objected. “It’s dirty grey and,”--she looked
directly below for an instant--“and it’s oily--greasy, too.”

“Oh, yes, it is blue,” he contradicted firmly; “deep cerulean blue, the
blue of sapphire shading off to mother-of-pearl.” As he talked he half
turned towards her. He was tall--she was not; his face was bronzed, and
furrowed with lines--hers was not; so without offence he could assume a
schoolmasterly air of genial superiority.

“Quite blue--from the top of that hill.”

He pointed above the tiers of grey-tiled roofs to a pleasant prospect
of trees. “The blue is there, but you must climb for it. You can’t
expect the most glorious panorama in the world to present itself to
you without some effort on your part.”

“What’s the name of that hill?” she asked aimlessly.

“I don’t know. There’s a charming inn there, I suspect.”

“You suspect? Don’t you know?”

“No.”

“Haven’t you been there yourself?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know about the ‘glorious panorama’?”

“You get a similar sensation from the hill over there,” he flourished a
hand; “a much smaller hill. So I drew the proper inference.”

“Have you ever been on _that_ hill?” she flourished a hand in imitation
of the man.

“No.”

“Well!”

“Well,” he smiled. “The view is there just the same--and the blue,
too. If you don’t believe me, go up and see. I’m willing to stake my
judgment to the extent of----”

He stopped so abruptly and smiled so mysteriously that she was
attracted to say:

“To the extent of how much? You wouldn’t risk a dollar on your
‘glorious view’! Now, would you?”

He speculated for a moment. “No,” he admitted finally. “I wouldn’t risk
a dollar on any of my views.”

“Ah!” she triumphed.

“A fog might come up,” he explained lamely.

“There!” said she. “Naples is over-advertised by sick poets. Look about
you. It’s incredibly ugly--and smelly.”

“What’s wrong about the smells?” he inquired mildly.

She laughed. “Garlic, mostly,” she took a delicate sniff, “and paint.”

“Garlic, I admit,” he sniffed in turn, “and paint, and even tar; but
they are merely the dominant notes. The overtones give this spot
distinction. I’m a connoisseur on smells. It’s a lost art.”

“Thank goodness!”

“Not at all. We have lost the knowledge of odours; therefore a great
part of life is lost. Do you notice now the smell of resin?”

“No.”

“They’re unloading resin in sacks from that schooner with the black
sails. Think hard for a moment and you’ll get it. It is a delicious
scent quite unlike anything else.”

“No,” she tried, “I don’t get it. But I smell oil, horribly.”

“That’s from the tanker,” he pointed. “It should strike your national
pride. It’s U.S.A.--Standard Oil.”

“Standard Oil?” she inquired eagerly and shaded her eyes to
spell out the name on the side. “So it is! U-m-m!” she sniffed,
“that smells good. I own Standard Oil Stock. U-m! Not much, of
course--but--u-m!--enough.”

Yes, he would borrow; but now he knew he would not pay back; perhaps
not. He let her chatter on while he listened gravely or added a word
or question to set her going again. In a short while he knew the main
points of her life and some of the details; and she believed--so
perfect is the illusion of a one-sided conversation--that he had given
as much in exchange. To the woman they seemed infinitely acquainted
after the first half-hour. She was very young, one could be sure; she
had the frankness, the unsuspicious frankness of twenty-five; which,
nevertheless, is very artful and quite conscious of itself. The man did
not misjudge her; he knew he was not dealing with a child, but with a
thoroughly independent and responsible young person.

And he knew also that he was stony broke.

The half-hours sped as they talked. Two bells followed closely by a
single stroke clanged suddenly from the fore part of the ship.

She made a brisk attempt to look at a watch.

“No use,” she put the watch back. “I have Paris time. Three bells is,
let me see--‘eight’ is eight and ‘one’ is half-past eight----”

“It is half-past nine,” he helped, as if it did not matter how the day
sped.

“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “Have we wasted an hour and a half just
talking?”

“So it seems.”

“I won’t stay here all day. I’ve just got to get on land. Why, man,
I’ve never seen Naples or Pompeii or--any of those places,” waving a
hand about. “If I had my dog here I’d go it alone. I’ve been in worse
places. Why, I believe there’s nobody on the ship but us!”

She looked around. It seemed so.

Smudgy-faced members of the crew appeared here and there, the sort
that the passengers ordinarily never see on voyage; cooks, vegetable
carriers and knife boys called across barriers to one another; and
off in the distance an officer could be observed coatless and heavily
suspendered.

“Why aren’t you going on shore?” she asked suddenly.

“I?” he parried. “Not interested.”

“Not interested in Naples and Pompeii?” she inquired incredulously.
“Oh, you’ve been there before, I see.”

“No; I’ve never been there. I--uh--just prefer to--uh--stay here.... I
like to be alone.”

“Thank you!” cheerily.

She looked at him expectantly.

He took some time before he said serenely, “I can’t say it.”

“What?” But she knew what.

“The obvious complimentary thing. A woman does that with amazing
skill,” he mused. “She directs a conversation into a position where
the man must make her a pretty speech. Oh, it’s all right; but it
interferes shockingly.”

“Interferes with what?” This time she did not know what.

“With any rational conversation,” he explained calmly. “I don’t mind
your company. In fact, I have enjoyed it. But I do like to be alone.
I’ve spent most of my life alone. On this trip abroad I’ve fought my
right to be my own travelling-companion. These are just facts, like the
boat’s sailing to-night at nine; but a man can’t tell them to a pretty
woman (“Thank you,” she slipped in) without her pretending to take
them personally. So she says ‘thank you!’--only in jest, I know--and
then I must say some foolish flattery, but the conversation is--well,
it cannot go on with the same directness with which a man talks to a
man.... You see I’m not complaining. This is just another fact. I’m
really interested in it.... Men are forced to treat women like pretty
children. Why do women stand it?”

“They don’t always like it,” she wrinkled her forehead and puzzled over
the matter, “but men are such ‘jolliers,’ you know.”

“Fancy a man flattering another man!” he went on. The idea interested
him. He seemed to be forgetting the woman beside him; certainly he
had completely forgotten the thought born of her first approach, that
she was just the sort of person to have plenty of money--somebody
else’s, a father’s or a husband’s--and to offer it, too. Of course he
had not intended to ask for anything. He knew enough to know that she
would lend. He had been in that precise predicament before. Money had
always come to him. You see, if he had looked the part of poor-man,
beggar-man, thief, the world would have turned coldly away; but he was
built on mighty prosperous lines. One felt, at the first glance, that
here was an athletic aristocrat. He was just that in reality; but he
was mortgaged to the last hedge-row.

So the thought of taking her predestined offer of money slipped from
him. He was not a scheming mind. The gods took care of such things. Let
them! The important matter just now was the consideration of the droll
picture of two males saying sweet things apropos of each other’s eyes
and noses.

He chuckled. “Fancy trying to have a discussion with a man on the
subject, say, of a possible life after death, and have him lean over,
stare at the top of your head, and with a tremendous assumption of
interest exclaim, ‘Jove, man, I do like the way you brushed your hair
this morning! With the sun striking the brown edges it is absolutely
stunning!’”

They discussed flattery and women. The man slowly forgot his reserve,
while the woman, with subtle native flattery, listened. Four bells rang
out sharply from forward, repeated far off in the engine-room below.
Ten o’clock.

“Well!” the lady exclaimed. “Perhaps I should prefer to see Naples and
Pompeii alone, but I haven’t the nerve. I’m willing to knock around in
Paris or London, but when it comes to Italy I’m scared. The men look at
me, especially the toughs, in a way that makes my flesh creep. Goodness
knows _I_ wish men would forget I’m a woman, but they don’t seem to
want to.... See here ... why can’t we take the trip together? Oh, I’d
let you be practically alone,” she answered his quick uplook. “You’d
just be there as a protection.... Will you?”

He turned his head and regarded her quizzically, like an amused elder
brother. He was older. His clean-shaven face had a medley of lines in
it which showed superior years.

“I should be delighted,” he remarked. His intonation carried precisely
the information that his phrase was absolutely polite and absolutely
non-committal.

“Oh, rot!” she laughed, but she showed impatience. “Don’t be so foolish
and conventional. You do want to see the place. You said you did. And I
want to go, too. It’s nothing extraordinary. It’s just the same as if I
asked you to play shuffle-board. Honest, you do want to go; don’t you?”

“Yes,” he half-drawled, but made no effort to move from a convenient
sprawl over the rail.

“Then let’s,” she begged. “This place is making me ill.... Oh, very
well,” she took his silence for obstinacy. “I’ll stay.... No, I won’t.
I’ll be hanged if I do. The heat is too much and the smells are worse.
I’ll risk it. I’ll go it alone.... _Why_ won’t you go with me?”

He searched in his pockets carefully and finally presented a flat
leather wallet.

“You force me to admit my very embarrassing position.” As he fumbled
with the strap on the wallet she understood. The word “embarrassing”
was in itself illuminating.

“Oh!” she gasped, shocked at her own stupidity. What an idiot! She had
been gabbling to this man when all the while he had been warning her to
keep off!

By this time he had opened the wallet and had drawn from its case a
single five-dollar bill.

“_That_ is why,” he remarked. “I am down to five dollars, which I must
not touch until I land in New York. That five dollars is my sole anchor
to windward. Fortunately meals and sleeping-apartment are paid for on
board; but my ticket says nothing about side-trips. Therefore I should
not dare step on that gang-plank. I consider myself lucky--mighty
lucky--to arrive on board so safe financially as this. Forgive me for
the confession; but you must admit that you forced it. Awfully sorry,
too; for, now that you understand, I don’t mind telling you that this
is the hottest, dirtiest, ill-smellingest spot imaginable. Would I
like to go to the top of that hill and look my fill and breathe!” He
straightened up suddenly. “_Lord!_”

“Then let’s go!” she cried. “Let’s! I’ve got money; heaps of it.”
She dived into a bag she carried with her. “Look here!” she flashed
a packet of various coloured bank-notes. In an inner compartment she
showed him a mixture of sovereigns and gold louis. “The purser will
give me Italian money. He said he would this morning. Wait! I’ll get a
hat.”

She sped across the deck and around the corner before he could protest.
To her stateroom she went first and added a veil about her hat,
selected a parasol and donned long thin gloves. Then to the purser’s.

“What time do we sail to-night?” she asked as the official made the
change of money.

“To-night?” he echoed. “We stay here until to-morrow morning. We sail
at six to-morrow. There is a notice posted.”

“Thank you,” she said, and sped to the bulletin-board. In three
languages the purser was verified. In a moment more she was back on the
promenade-deck.

“Here!” she gave him a small purse. “You’ll have to do the spending.
Come on! It’ll be a great lark. We still have time. There’s a _voiture_
or whatever they call it. He’s looking up. He’ll take us somewhere.
Come on! Oh, it’s all right! It’s on me. My treat. Come on! Don’t be
foolish.... Now, what’s the matter?”

He had accepted the purse; but otherwise he had not moved.

“Wait a bit,” he spoke with quiet authority. “I can’t do this as your
treat.”

“Let me hire you as a guide, then,” she ventured.

“No,” he laughed; “I----”

“Well, let’s Dutch it, then. We’ll divide expenses--you pay me in New
York.”

“I won’t have anything in New York but five dollars.”

“Pay it back whenever you get it.”

“All right,” he agreed quietly. “But----”

“But what?”

“That may be a long while.”

“I don’t care. I want to see Naples.”

“I’m not over-careful about paying debts. I’m likely to repudiate,” he
warned. “My memory is almost useless.”

“Well, leave it to me in your will and--hurry!”

Five bells tolled off smartly. The lady strode forward and tugged at
his arm. He laughed quietly and followed.

“Really,” he told her as they slid down the steep plank, “I’m awfully
keen for this trip.”

“Oh, yes, you are--not,” she looked him over with a meaning glance.
“But I don’t care. I couldn’t stay on that boat all day. There’s that
_cocher_. Quick, get him before he drives away. I love those old dinky
carriages, don’t you? Hey!” she called and waved a parasol. “_Ici!_
Come over here! We want to get in!”

The Italian understood perfectly. And where would madame and m’sieu
wish to go? To the Italian all well-dressed foreigners are French.

“To the top of that hill first,” the madame commanded. M’sieu remarked,
“We must not get too far away. We sail at nine to-night; and clocks are
not very dependable in these parts.”

“Yes, we must be careful about the time,” she agreed, but offered no
word of the more recent information she had received from the purser.
“We can have one good glorious dinner somewhere and be back easily by
half-past eight,” she told him.

They had turned a corner of the creaking winding road which gave
suddenly a little glimpse of the Bay.

“Look!” she exclaimed. They turned their heads. “It is beginning to be
blue already! U-m!” she sniffed. “Did you get that delicious scent?
What is it? Lilac?... And look over there! Still bluer.”

“Cerulean blue, every yard of it guaranteed,” he remarked lazily; but
there was no doubt he was taking it in as eagerly as she. To the lady
this was one of many possible trips abroad. To the man it was a sight
of Italy, almost withheld like the Promised Land from Moses of old, now
made a reality; the promise fulfilled of seven years’ mean living.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed on one rise of ground; the assumption of
indifference was hard to keep up. “By Jove!” he stared and breathed in
the perfumed air. “This is paradise! And Italians come to America to
clean the streets and sell fruit! How can they leave it? How ever can
they leave it?”

The “dinky” carriage plodded slowly up the hill. The grey tile-topped
roofs began to huddle together below them. Old Vesuvius grew to look
less like a flat ash-heap. Far off in the background ranges of higher
hills began to push solemnly skyward. And the Bay of Naples slowly
expanded, and softened, and yielded up its velvet blue.

“Isn’t it great?” the lady said, gazing afar.

“Great!” the man replied. “Wonderful!”

So absorbed were they in their personal sensations of delight that it
was not until they had arrived at the top and were moving on the level
towards a “hotel with a view,” that the thoughts of luncheon coupled
themselves somehow with the thought of names.

From a dangling bag the lady had produced a “steamer-list.”

“Don’t tell me yet,” she warned. “This is tremendously exciting. I am
wondering if you could be, let me see--‘Abbott’--no,” she looked him
over carefully--“you never would be an ‘Abbott.’ ‘Bacon,’ ‘Baker,’
‘Boileau,’ ‘Crespi’--you might be that, especially when you spoke
Italian to the driver. ‘Dr.’--you’re not a doctor, are you?” She showed
some dismay.

“Guess on!” he played the game firmly.

“Well, there’s one thing you’re not,” she pointed to the “list.”

He leaned forward to read the name. The wagonette was stopping with a
lurch at the spacious beflowered front of a hotel.

“‘Sir Richard Helvyn,’” she laughed.

“Why not?” he inquired mildly.

“Don’t scare me,” she laughed inquiringly. “Are you?”

The happy driver was waiting at the open door, whip in hand, smiling
knowingly. A bride and groom, perhaps. The tip would betray them.
Beside him a flunkey or two were ready to escort the pair into the
hotel. A wizened beggar-woman raised silent-speaking eyes and extended
a hand. The m’sieu opened a thin deep purse, obviously a lady’s--and
extracted therefrom a gold coin and a smaller one of silver.

“That will be exactly right,” he nodded to the driver, who, after one
glance, was now certain--they were veritable bride and groom.

Deftly, almost without looking, he dropped the silver coin into the
palm of the beggar. It was done with skill; and it said, “Begone, my
good woman; the sight of you arouses my pity, but do not, pray, take it
to mean a soft heart; and whatever you do, breathe not my generosity to
your pestilential fellows.”

The woman understood, smiled gratefully, and slipped away.

The smoothness of the two transactions was not lost on the “bride.”
There had been no noisy, staccato expostulations from the driver, nor
any sickening whines from the beggar; the business was handled with the
dispatch of accustomed skill. Could he be Sir What’s-his-name, after
all? What a lark!




CHAPTER II

EVEN


THE antiquated horse had taken all the time until noon to reach the
summit, so the inn-keeper had rushed instantly to provide the lady
and gentleman with a private dining-room. It had a trellised portico
overlooking the Bay. Here they sat and gazed. They forgot, for the
moment, the interrupted conversation over “names”; even the broad
suggestion of “bride and groom” that beamed from the faces of the
driver, the hotel porters, mine host himself in the doorway and, afar
off, mine hostess. The panorama of Naples took rank above everything
else.

“No wonder the poets tried so hard to tell us about this,” she spoke
finally.

“But I do wonder,” he returned. “How could they be such egotists?
No writing can do justice to that,” he pointed towards the deeper
blue; “one might as well try to score it for kettle-drums. It can’t
be translated. All landscape poetry is a failure, a failure from the
start. It can’t be conveyed to others.”

“Perhaps,” she mused, “the poet was not interested in others. Perhaps
he wished merely to celebrate himself.”

He turned towards her suddenly.

“You touch me hard there,” he said. “Do you know whom you’re quoting?”

“Yes. Whitman.”

“Do you know Whitman--really know him?”

“How blunt you are,” but she showed no resentment. “Yes, I really know
Whitman. Also, I hereby give notice that I am much less frivolous than
I look.”

“I’m a little daft on Whitman,” he apologized.

“So am I.”

“You don’t think he is immoral?” he asked incredulously.

“I think he is super-moral.”

“You do know him, then,” he admitted, half-aloud.

“Any more cross-examination?”

“How did you come to take to Whitman?” This was the first time he had
seemed to suggest any interest in her personally. She noted the change
in him, but gave no sign.

“The Woman’s Club,” she answered.

“Where?”

“Penn Yan.”

“_What?_”

“Penn Yan.”

“China?”

“No, Penn Yan, a town of 4,000 inhabitants in New York. I live there.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed mysteriously.

“Dear me! Haven’t you heard of Penn Yan?”

“No.”

“Not heard of the Walker Bin Company?”

“No.”

“Nor the Birkett Mills?”

“No.”

“Nor the ‘Benham House’?”

“No.”

“Nor Quackenbush’s chain of two drug stores?”

“No.”

“Oh, dear!” she affected delightful concern.

“Surely you have heard of Lake Keuka, and the Keuka grape vineyards?”
She leaned forward with mischief in her eyes.

“No.”

“Have you ever eaten a grape, my dear Sir Knight?”

“Possibly.”

“A good, great, luscious blue grape?”

“Possibly.”

“Only possibly?”

“Well,” he hesitated, “y-es. Yes; I am sure to have eaten one. Now that
I put my mind to it, I recall that it was especially large and sweet
and----”

She leaned back, contented.

“Well, _that_ was a Keuka Lake grape.”

He was studying her, as one would a specimen of the thing you collect.

“Is Penn--Penn Ying----”

“Penn Yan, please.”

“Is Penn Yan your summer home or----”

“It is my all-the-year home. I was born there. This is my first
adventure from the family hearth.”

Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm might have made that speech.

“Ah!” he remarked. “Ah! That explains much.”

“Go on,” she smiled. “Spring it. What’s the answer? What is the ‘much’
my living in Penn Yan explains?”

“You are charmingly of the village; for which I am grateful. Otherwise,
we should not have been on this delightfully unconventional trip.”

“Oh, you must see Penn Yan,” she chirped, “especially on Saturday
night. Our Main Street is paved,” she added archly, “and we have an
electric line and sweetly subdued arc-lights. But of course I don’t
live in the throbbing town--that would be too exciting. We live far
off down the Lake, in Jerusalem township. You see, Sir--Sir----” she
hesitated, plucked out her steamer-list and went on, “--Sir Richard, we
are really not even villagers; we are, I fear, hopelessly rural.”

Her satiric tone was not lost on “Sir Richard.” He would have been
stupid else.

“Rural? Not a doubt of it!” he admitted. “You lend me money on sight
and take me for a title and no questions asked. What makes you think I
am Sir Richard?”

“I don’t think so now; and I’m awfully sorry. Your enunciation is sort
of English--you know--clear, broad vowels, lots of sharp ‘t’s,’ no
‘r’s’ to speak of; but you haven’t once said, ‘Quite so,’ or ‘Really!’
or ‘Silly ass!’”

“I am half English. I went to school in England.”

“Ah!” she mimicked. “That explains much--ah!--much! And was it a school
in the country?”

“Yes!” he explained eagerly. “Quite in the country. It was an omnibus
and two trains away from London.”

“Ah!” She “ah-ed” very significantly, and added, “Much! Ah, much--much.”

“We’re even,” he owned.

“Only even?” she opened her eyes very wide.

He was about to surrender completely when the host in the doorway
announced luncheon.

It was a cosy, intimate dining-room; small table set for two; uniformed
butler standing rigid off to the side; maid, also in uniform, moving
swiftly in and out a door and serving deftly--exactly the suggestion
of a dinner _en famille_.

“That is the head of the table, dear,” said the lady.

The man was so startled, especially when he glanced back to the placid,
innocent face of the lady, that he neglected to take any place at all.

“Can’t you see that this is a domestic scene?” she explained; “regular
man-and-wife stage-set. They expect it of us.... Beautiful, expensive
scenery,” she murmured, “spoiled by a wretched actor.”

Then she nodded her head towards the uniformed attendant, and began
again.

“That is the head of the table, I think, _dear_.”

He grinned and made for the seat.

“That is the head; is it not, _my dear_?” she persisted.

“It is,” he agreed.

She declined to sit.

“It is--what, _my dear_?”

“It is the head of the table.”

“The head of the table, _my_----”

She cocked her head and waited to catch the completed phrase.

“_Dear!_” he finished, not without embarrassment.

“You miss your cues dreadfully,” she went on briskly. “Tell the
gendarme to pass the rolls, Richard dear.”

“Madame will have the rolls,” “Richard” managed in Italian. “I don’t
think the gendarme comprehends English, so your little domestic
playette is wasted, my--uh--darling.”

“Thenk you, m’lud,” the gendarme remarked in good cockney as he deftly
removed the rolls and started towards madame.

“You’re English?” m’lud ejaculated.

“Me, m’lud? Yes, thenk you, m’lud.”

“The devil!”

“Yes, thenk you, m’lud. And would m’lady prefer the toasted muffins?”

M’lady preferred nothing so much as the open enjoyment of m’lud’s
discomfiture. There was a certain boldness and a certain shyness about
m’lud, typical of England. At present the awkward self-consciousness
was to the fore. It was consuming him, although he was intelligent
enough to know exactly his trouble and its remedy. Therefore he
laughed, owned up to the embarrassment and summoned his will to fight
it down.

“Even Half-English is still very English,” she told him, after she had
explained carefully that his face had flushed and that the tips of his
ears were quite red--all more or less comforting. In the give and take
of raillery that followed he almost recovered.

“The worst thing I have to contend with is this engulfing shyness of
mine,” he explained finally. “And the worst symptom of shyness, perhaps
you know, is anger and sullenness. It knocks the speech out of me. That
makes me hot and angry. Then I’m apt to insult my neighbour, and then
it’s all off.... But I’m all right now.”

“Yes,” she helped herself to a hot muffin; “you’ve gone through all the
phases, except that you _began_ by insulting your neighbour.”

“How, pray?”

He was quite unconscious of any guilt. She saw that, so she preferred
not to give her hand away by explaining; yet, somehow, his half-joking
reference to her “charming village qualities” rankled. Her forebears
had been York State farmers, then vineyard workers and finally
prosperous share-holders in the industry of raising and marketing of
grapes and grape products. Although the present generation of children
had gone to boarding-school and to college, had travelled and were
accustomed to shop in New York city, yet the fine touch of the open
country had never left them. That was their abiding charm, if they only
knew it; it gave them a heartiness and a frankness and an independence
of bearing and speech that marked them with distinction. Occasionally,
however, in some social grouping of metropolitan dwellers they had
been brought to feel a lack and were on the alert to turn even gentle
compliment into ironic criticism. The young man with his patronizing
air should be punished.

“Never mind,” she turned away his sincere questionings. “If you aren’t
aware of the insult, we’ll forget it and call it bad manners. Bad
manners are nobody’s fault.” The English servant was approaching with
the meat course, so she added a gracious and distinct “dearie.”

“Ugh!” he grunted. “I detest that word. I’d rather be called ‘birdie.’”

The luncheon was a ceremonious affair. “It is part of the scenery,” the
lady had remarked, “so why hurry it just to gaze on other scenery?”
Coffee was served in the tiny balcony, by which time the Bay had put on
other and gayer apparel; so the view had to be examined afresh. All of
which took time. It was three o’clock before the bills were called for.

Several times during the delicious loafing on the balcony m’lady had
examined her steamer-list and had stared at the man as if to find his
name written on his forehead. He noted her interest, but claimed none
for his own. “Look, my dear,” she would say, “at lazy old Vesuvius;
isn’t he a villainous old giant, dirty, evil and full of cunning. I bet
he is planning another blow-off.” And he would reply without any “dear”
at all, not seeming to need that handle of a name to lift his comments.

“Why do you wish to go to America?” she asked, this being the nearest
she ever came to breaking into the mystery of their personal lives.

“It is my home,” he answered in some surprise.

“I thought you were English?”

“Oh!” he remembered. “I am an American, even if I am half English.
My mother was English, but father was so colossally American that it
swamped the English strain.”

“That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?” she inquired. “It is more often that
American women marry Englishmen.”

“Not at all; they’re more heavily advertised, that’s all. English women
are very often attracted by men of the type of my father. There are
many marriages of that sort. And the English father is mighty happy
over it, I can tell you, for he gets off without the hint of a dowry.
No decent American would listen to the suggestion of a dot, you know.”

There the subject dropped, and for a time all subjects. In lazy silence
they looked on the view and thought their own thoughts.

Once he remarked, “I’m curious to know what that English butler is
doing in an Italian inn. He can’t be happy outside of the West End. I
wager he is hiding from the police. He looks it.”

And she replied, “Have you no curiosity about me?”

“Much,” he smiled. The word “much” had come to have local significance.

“You don’t ask whether I am a baroness or a saleslady, or Miss or Mrs.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Growing shy again?”

“Eh?”

“Or is it just urban rudeness?”

“Oh!” he laughed as he comprehended. “No. No. Not at all. I don’t want
to know until I have to. I prefer the mystery, that is all. If you wish
I’ll tell you who I am, but I hope you won’t wish, at least just at
present. We’ll be together two weeks on that boat. They say ten days,
but I know them. It’ll be a fortnight. It’ll all come out there. Let’s
enjoy this thoroughly unusual companionship. It really is ideal----” he
went on enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” she interrupted, though he hardly noticed.

“--The sort of thing that ought to happen on this earth every day.
Human beings are utter strangers to one another. It takes a shipwreck
or a national calamity to force them to acknowledge the existence of
the neighbour they prate so much about loving. Let’s continue our
primitive relationship. Call me Richard if you wish. It’s a good name.
And I’ll call you,” he picked up the steamer-list and read a name, as
he thought at random, but a light underscoring had unconsciously caught
his eye.

The owner of that name had done what everyone naturally does with a
steamer-list or a programme or a column of “those present,” glanced
quickly at her own name to discover if it had been printed correctly.
It is most annoying to have a “Mrs.” where a “Miss” should be. Then
her nervous finger-nail had underscored aimlessly, until the name
fairly popped out of the list.

“‘Miss Geraldine Wells,’” he read. “There! I’ll call you ‘Jerry.’ Is it
a go?”

Miss Geraldine Wells almost leaped in astonishment. But his innocent
face assured her. She looked aloft critically, as if to judge if the
name were worthy. The butler arrived with a tray of change.

“Is it a go?” he asked again.

“Yes, dear.”

“Please! Please!” he shook his head firmly. “Please don’t do that.”

The butler was handed his tip and was waved away.

“Your ear-tips are beginning again,” she told him in the tone she might
have used to announce a spoon in his coffee cup.

Meanwhile the butler was bowing and muttering half-coherent
“Thenk-you-m’lud’s.” His eye had taken on a fine frenzy.

“That funny remark has cost you----” Richard calculated aloud, “twenty
lire is $3.86, and your share is $1.93. It cost you just $1.93 in
American money. You got my mind so upset that I gave that idiot a
20-lira gold-piece too much. He’ll probably murder us now for our
money, or what is worse, scream the news to the neighbourhood. We’ll
have to pay high to get out of this. By rights you ought to take the
whole cost.”

He rang the bell. The butler appeared.

“I made a mistake just now in giving you that 20-lira coin. Oh, it’s
all right! I’m not going to take it back. I’ll be a good sport and pay
for my blunder; but I was careless, that’s all. The point is----”

The English serving man was rigid with fright. Fees of any sort had
been rare that season, and his wages were negligible.

“The point is,” the half-Englishman spoke confidentially, “I don’t want
the whole establishment to think I am a millionaire and stand in line
to blackmail me when I go out. Do you understand?”

The butler began to show signs of life.

“Puffectly, m’lud. I will take you hout myself, by the rear terraces,
m’lud, and nobuddy shall presume, m’lud.”

And by the rear terraces they escaped, where the old coachman and the
“dinky” carriage were duly waiting. A gold coin had done the work for
him, too. He had considered himself hired by the day. Rich brides and
grooms rarely came into his power.

“And where will M’sieu and Madame go now? Pompeii, Vesuvius?” He named
a list that would have been the death of his cadaverous animal.

“Pompeii, of course,” agreed Miss Geraldine Wells.

“Do you think we have time?”

“Plenty.” She was stepping into the lurching vehiculum. The driver was
rattling forth soothing and enticing Italian, which no one heeded.

“But I don’t know anything about trains,” he persisted.

“Neither do I.”

“We don’t want to miss our steamer.”

“Don’t we?” She was comfortably seated.

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Great Scott, woman----”

“Jerry,” she corrected.

“--I was lucky to make that boat at Genoa. Had to ride fourth class
from Munich. I can’t afford to miss it now.”

“I can,” she tempted. He stared at her.

“Let’s,” she begged softly.

He appeared to be reflecting. In reality his mind was standing still.
The driver was in his box looking at them with an ineffable sentimental
smile. The rich honeymooners would decide. He would wait. A month’s
salary in a bad season was his already.

“Get in, Richard,” she moved her skirts to make room on the diminutive
seat. “Be a good boy and come along. I have money enough. We’ll take
the next steamer. They sail every Wednesday, don’t they?”

He got in and the equipage swung off. On the way down the hill they
debated and forgot the view.

Pompeii was so many miles off there, he made it clear. The present
vehicle would get there some time, if the horse and the wagon and the
driver held together, but not in time for the sailing of steamers. He
would not listen to her suggestion to hang the sailings of steamers and
be a good sporting Sir Richard and stay over for the next boat, but
drove doggedly on to convince her that in the few hours that were left,
their only resource was a drive through the streets of Naples, an hour
or two at the Museo Borbonico, and an early dinner at some hotel within
hail of the ship.

Upon the subject of the Museo he grew suddenly eloquent. It contained
one of the most significant collections of Roman remains in the world.
The best of Pompeii and Herculaneum was in reality in Naples in the
Museo. He seemed to know all about it, indeed, as if he were himself a
collector.

“Help! Help!” she called softly, and held his arm. She had interrupted
a list of the things that made the Museo unique as an omnium gatherum
of Roman curios. “You talk like a personally conducted tour. We’ll go
to that Museo right off. Tell the curio up front to drive there when we
get to the town. But, really, my dear Richard, your interest in things
stirs me. It is the first flash of life you have displayed; and you
saved that up for a museum! I’d be afraid to see you get really worked
up over an Egyptian mummy or something really dead-for-keeps. We’ll
just have to stay over and let you loose in that dear old Museo of
yours.”

He remained silent for a jolting minute or two.

“One of my reasons for coming to Naples,” he said quite simply, “was to
see the Museo Borbonico.”

For a moment she pondered in turn.

“Then why didn’t we go there this morning?”

“This is your excursion, not mine.”

“But we’re going shares on expenses, aren’t we?”

“I hope so. I warned you that I don’t always pay my debts. You
wanted the hill and the view--so did I; so did I, believe me; it was
glorious--but I felt under obligations to consider your wishes before
my own. And--well, I did not suspect at our first meeting--forgive
me!--that you would be--uh--up to doing Pompeiian mosaics and Roman
bronzes. You are the sort who keep the best of their mind concealed at
first. You----”

He stopped.

“Go on.”

“Do you mind if I pick you apart like this? It is an absorbing interest
of mine.”

“I rather like it. It’s like having your fortune told. Go on.”

“You chatter at first, rather--well, too fluently, perhaps; and in
words and phrases of a language you learned at about sixteen. Now I
should say that you were at least ten years older than that----”

“Nine.”

“Exactly; nine. Well, the girlish extravagant language comes cropping
out first, until you get stimulated into thinking grown-up thoughts.
Then your very vocabulary changes. Your remark that Whitman is
super-moral, for instance, is a summing-up of the man. No youngster
could have gotten that so neatly without----”

“Stuff!” she laughed. “I cribbed that for my Woman’s Club essay. How
_do_ you suppose those club essays are gotten up!”

“Of course you would affect modesty naturally; although it’s a mistake.
When you’ve done a good thing you should own up. But all that’s neither
here nor there. If you hadn’t come along I’d made up my mind to slip
off the boat after luncheon--I couldn’t afford to risk buying a meal;
I’m so extravagant--and do the Museo in time for the boat dinner at
six. There! I’ve been very frank. And, really, I don’t mind if we cut
the Museo out of the programme altogether. I have no very deep desires
for anything in this world. I’m a terrific loafer.”

“Tell Louis Napoleon up there on the box to drive to that Museo; I’m
keen for it,” she commanded.

It was half-past four when they drove up to the door of the museum. A
clear sign announced that the institution would close at seven o’clock.
And at fifteen minutes after seven o’clock, when they were finally
driven from the place, they had hardly advanced beyond the first few
rooms of that wonderful collection. It was almost eight o’clock before
they found a suitable place to dine.

“Isn’t it a pity,” she said as they waited for the soup, “to leave
without seeing those other rooms!”

“Horrible!”

He stared at the full dining-room without seeing anyone. “Horrible,”
he repeated, but immediately plucked up a cheerful spirit. “It is
something saved for next time.”

“When will that be?”

“I was seven years saving up for this trip--you see, I can’t do a thing
like this on a cheap scale--I mean I haven’t the ability. Suppose we
say 1919--that’s a nice-sounding year.”

“Really?”

She was very sympathetic.

“Really,” he mocked her seriousness.

“And if we stayed over we could take a week to it.”

The dinner moved slowly. They were within a five-minutes’ drive of
the steamer and the faithful Louis Napoleon was outside on guard, but
Richard kept his watch before him. Meanwhile the lady aimed to prove
how easy it would be to miss the boat, have the ticket-money refunded,
and do the proper thing by the Museo.

The idea grew in his own mind as the minutes ticked nearer to the
fateful nine o’clock.

“You could stay in one of those Woman’s League _pensions_,” he mused,
“while I lived at a nearby hotel.”

She baited him with alluring arguments, exactly in keeping, he might
have thought, with those village qualities which, he had observed, were
part of her charm. Undoubtedly, he noted her seeming artlessness.

At eight and three-quarters he rose briskly, walked to the curb, and
openly paid and dismissed the faithful coachman.

Nine rang from a dock-tower or two as he jubilantly received coffee
from the large silver-service at which Miss Geraldine Wells presided.

“Jerry!” he cried joyfully. “It’s done. The Rubicon is crossed and the
Atlantic is not! We’ll hunt up one of those Woman’s League places right
after dinner.”

“No,” she corrected; “not immediately. My conscience is York State and
peculiar. You’ll have to drive me down to the boat-landing, so that I
can say truthfully that I went there, but it was too late.”

“That _is_ rural!” he laughed. “My conscience is strictly urban, like a
steel bridge; it’s built to stand an awful strain.”

Jollity came out upon him. He grew witty, quick of tongue, even
appreciative of the woman before him. He called her “Jerry” as if
he liked the name; he did not resent her occasional “my dear.” His
vacation had been suddenly lengthened; he was like a child in his
unaffected glee; while the lady grew demurer and demurer, to use the
language of “Wonderland.”

The rural conscience of Miss Geraldine Wells was insistent. It demanded
precedence over hunts for Woman’s League _pensions_; and it would not
walk, it would go in a cab. What if the distance is short and cabs cost
money? Isn’t a satisfied conscience above rubies?

Not that Mr. Richard objected to the most freakish demands of Miss
Geraldine’s York State conscience; on the contrary, he was most
interested in it; it was one more curious phenomenon of the most
curious of all phenomena, namely Life itself. He dealt with it--on
the rumbling ride along the docks--both seriously and humorously. In
fact, he was in the midst of a rather good joke on the moral iniquity
of consciences in general when the vehicle stopped abruptly near the
front end of a familiar black hulk on which a string of striking white
letters proclaimed, “S.S. _Victoria_.”

“Play’s over,” a laughing voice whispered in his ear. “Wake up, child,
and come on home.”

But he did not wake up. He stared stupidly and tried to get his
bearings.

“She sails to-morrow at six, Sir Richard,” the lady explained, again
demurely; “not to-night at nine as you so foolishly believed.”

“You knew?” he inquired thoughtfully.

She laughed; a little uncomfortably, for he was trying the operation of
looking through her.

“Then you had no intention of staying over?”

He asked the question very mildly. It was quite clear that he felt not
a shade of anger at the elaborate jest, but anyone could see that he
was mightily disappointed.

“Staying over?” she arched her brows. “Why, Sir Richard! What a
question! I am not _altogether_ rural!”

Then he woke up, paid the driver, and plodded with her up the steep
gang-plank.

Sir Richard was himself again; that is, silent and benumbed. He
stood solemnly beside her and stared at the announcement on the
bulletin-board that the _Victoria_ would sail “to-morrow morning at
six.” Then after a mere smiling nod for a good-night he wandered down
the corridor to his stateroom.

Miss Jerry Wells found a lonely steamer-chair on the upper deck, tucked
herself in with the help of a clumsy deck-steward and tried to feel
guiltless. The lady from the country had had her revenge, but she did
not feel very happy over it.




CHAPTER III

“SAW YUH!”


MISS WELLS had other reasons for feeling guilty. Travelling about a
foreign city with a man whose name she did not know, suggesting to him
the dare-devil possibility of a week’s sight-seeing together, decoying
him into a genuinely excitable interest in the scheme--he _had_ been
hard to work up to the due pitch; and she had some pride in her art
there--and then snubbing him with the reality, these were not the
main causes of her uneasiness as she loafed in the steamer-chair and
listened very intently to the sound of the voices as each new group of
returning tourists struggled up the gang-plank.

Of course she had never a thought of really slipping off with this
mild semi-English “Richard.” She would not have dared. It gave her a
shiver of joy and a shock of fright to think of the thing: the blessed
freedom, the strong sense of being protected and catered to without
any sickening atmosphere of male--there is no word for it, but she
knew exactly what always disgusted her finally in the best of men
companions. A smirk of the eye, a pretence at absorbing interest in the
lady’s welfare, a terrific deference to her whims and a plashing of
small talk aimed exactly to meet the requirements of the small female
mind; all that plus a fluttering about which is so significantly--male.

The worst of it was, she thought as she waited, the environment of that
sort of thing had had its frightful effect upon her. She had developed
a feminine helplessness exactly in proportion as the masculine helpers
had pressed about her. To-day she had felt her lack keenly. Her voice
was high and over-confident. Her talk flashed. She held to no topic,
but darted here and there. All this had been applauded for years. Men
had shown frank amusement at her sallies. They had flattered her into
a sense of security.... And they felt no such thing. It was the male
joke to treat women like children, give in to them at every unimportant
point, offer them absolutely no resistance, so thereby they should
never grow. Men insult each other, argue, deny, speak the truth, give
the lie, and so thrive. What man would give a woman the chance of
growth that lies in insult!

This Richard chap had told her quietly and frankly that she had not let
her mind develop, although he assured her that it was struggling to
express its native maturity.

“Your mind is really grown up,” he had remarked, after she had uttered
a supposedly stinging bit of cleverness, the sort that made other
men laugh and pretend fear. “Why don’t you hold your speech back
sometimes--that rattling, quick-fire, spoiled child’s speech of yours?
Alternate days of silence would give your real self a chance; but you
shout it down; you talk it into helplessness. One of these days, if you
don’t look out, it will give up, and then you will be like thousands of
other women--horribly like.”

In revenge she spoke not a word for a full half-hour as they watched
the view from the balcony on the hill. But he--good, unoffending
soul!--had matched her with a sample of his own silence. And
throughout the interminable half-hour he had seemed to be unaware of
aught save the peace and serenity of the moment, while she was torn
with violent desire to break forth. Before the time was up, her anger
had cooled, she noted; the hot, smart phrases appeared in review
and one by one were discarded as cheap; slowly the deep calm of her
latest self came near the surface; and when she spoke finally it was
not a pent-up burst of words, but a quiet, sensible observation that
surprised even herself.

And then he had talked to her, the first time, it seemed, as human
adult to human adult. The defences of sex were down and she enjoyed a
new sensation. Here was a man who conversed with her mind and not with
her eyes and her hair. It is difficult for a girl with extraordinary
good looks to get credit for sense. Eyes and hair do intrude. They get
on the spectator’s mind. He feels that he must pay constant tribute to
them. Few suspected that to this striking young woman the daily and
hourly reference to her physical charm had grown to be annoying. It was
a relief to discover a man who seemed to ignore it all.

The cause of her worry was not due to her pleasant little adventure in
Naples. By itself that was a charming experience, but she knew it would
not remain long as an isolated fact. If she had been alone on this
homeward journey all would have been well, but she was in the charge of
a thoroughly efficient mother. At any moment Mrs. Wells and her son,
Walter, might arrive with the small party that had banded together to
take advantage of the day in Naples.

Geraldine had pleaded fatigue and sea-sickness to get rid of that
“party,” especially of the university instructor who had been
piloting them about Europe on a commission; but she had been frank
to her mother. The well-oiled voice of the university instructor,
his faithfulness, his carefully-studied facts had done their full
evil. The mother liked that sort of thing, or, rather, she could use
it and ignore it; but she quite understood her daughter’s increasing
repugnance to the personally conducted tour and especially to the
personal conductor. “Oh, very well, my dear,” she had smiled an easy
agreement, “stay on board if you can stand it. You have done your duty
nobly so far. We’ll give you a furlough. But it is likely to be my last
trip for many years, and I’m the sort of trotter that must nose into
every gallery. Mr. Freneau gets on my nerves, too, sometimes. I quite
understand. Do just as you please.”

But Geraldine knew her mother well enough to be certain that she
would not be at all pleased with the sort of “trotting” her daughter
had done. With any other man one could patch up an agreement of what
to say and what not to say. Without actually fibbing one can conceal
a powerful lot of objectionable truth. “Richard” would not fib. She
could fancy his mild, detached stare at the suggestion of an illicit
collusion to deceive the mater.

Geraldine had almost dozed off in her chair when she heard Mrs. Wells’
strong voice at the top of the gang-plank. The softer tones of Mr.
Freneau were not distinguishable.

“Hel-lo!” Geraldine called, or rather sang, a sol-me family signal.

The indefatigable mother--she was a woman of imposing size, but
agile--pushed along among the darkened chairs.

“Well, my girl,” she greeted cheerily, “how is the head? Better?”

If it had not been so dark the mother’s appreciating smile could have
been observed.

“Head?” Geraldine was only half out of her nap. It took the sweet
smile of university instructor Freneau shining behind a bracket-lamp
to recall the voluble excuses given that morning to account for Miss
Wells’ stay at home.

“Surely,” the mother poked her jocosely, “you don’t expect us to
believe you were shamming just to get rid of us--eh, Mr. Freneau?”

“Oh!” Geraldine remembered. “_Much_ better, thank you, mother.
Breakfast seemed to fix me up. I’ve been feeling fine all day.”

Mrs. Wells dropped into a chair beside her daughter. Mr. Freneau,
hovering near, was dismissed with many expressions of appreciation
for his day’s work. The son, Walter, an excessively thin, bent-over,
boy-man, sprawled in a chair. He seemed to be sleeping. Presently the
mother tapped him gently on the knee and suggested that he go below and
get some rest.

“All right, mother,” the boy spoke up suddenly. In spite of his springy
rise to his feet and his attempt at an assured air, one could see at a
glance that this son was weak. His deep-set eyes roved restlessly, his
body swayed gently or became noticeably rigid, as if a natural balance
was an effort.

The mother watched him as he swayed along the deck. He disappeared down
a stairway with an extraordinary clatter, as if he had fallen over the
first few steps.

“How has Walter been to-day?” Geraldine asked. There was no solicitude
in her voice.

“I don’t like his looks lately,” Mrs. Wells replied thoughtfully. “I
think he is summoning up courage to rebel, but I am too strong for him.
My will has the upper hand and that must be his will for a long time to
come. It was a mistake ever to send him to that ‘cure.’ Firm kindness
and the constant suggestion of a right attitude towards life is what
he needs. This trip has proved it. Except for that outbreak in London
we have had weeks of peace. He is stronger, he eats better and he is
contented.”

“He seems to be terribly afraid of you.”

“I want him to be. But I don’t think it’s fear, my dear. My stronger
will has got hold of him, that is all. He obeys----”

“Like a whipped puppy.”

“Exactly. That’s a good comparison, Geraldine. He needs right habits
the same as a good dog. They must fear until the bad habit is driven
out and the good habit becomes natural. You don’t think I treat him
badly, do you?”

“Oh, no. You are wonderful. You get results which those people up at
the ‘cure’ said they got by knocking him down. I am only saying that he
looks defeated, beaten. Perhaps it is better that way. I am sure it is
more comfortable for us.”

“Decidedly!”

The two women thought of the horrible years when this boy was growing
from a tippler to a hardened drinker. He had become an incurable
alcoholic almost before they realized that something must be done,
something besides scoldings and cutting off his spending money and
driving him out of the house to sleep at the neighbours’ or in the barn
or, worse, in the puddle at the end of the front lawn. Some men drink
heavily all their lives without reaching the condition of this lad. He
was twenty-two years old, but he had the slight build of a sickly young
boy.

“Did you find the steamer uncomfortably hot?” the mother asked. The
other topic was too distressing.

“No; I--I felt so much better that I took a little stroll into the
city.”

“Not alone, I hope? I don’t mind London, or certain parts of Paris, but
you know how I feel about Italy, especially at the docks. You did not
go alone?”

“Mother! Of course not!”

“The steamer seemed deserted when we left. Who went with you?”

“A friend of the Captain--he’s a very unusual----”

“He?”

“Yes, a friend of the Captain. The Captain told him----”

“I don’t like the captain of this boat. I hope his friends are less
evil looking. What’s the name of this friend of the Captain?”

Why can’t we have some sense of the future? All day she had lived in
the passing hour, and yet a single thought ahead would have assured her
that she would have to meet this subtle, inevitable cross-examination
in the evening. Mrs. Wells never meant to be unkind or domineering,
but she was everlastingly on guard. She permitted the largest kind of
liberty, but she always “wanted to know.” Concealment, subterfuge,
these were her enemies. It would have been so easy for Geraldine to
have discovered the man’s name. Of course the mystery was charming; but
at the dinner, say, it would have been a simple matter to lean forward
and say, “This incognito is delightful, my dear Richard, but I have a
most exacting, scrutinizing mother who will demand precisely who you
are. Now let’s call the game off and tell each other our real names.”
She remembered now, that part of her own game had been to conceal the
existence of mother, to play the part of independent young person.
Otherwise how could she have fooled him with that audacious suggestion
to stay over until the next steamer? And, by the way, how did she ever
get nerve enough to do that! The thing did not seem bold in daylight;
but here on this gloomy deck with an alert and expectant mother waiting
for particulars it suddenly appeared brazen.

“His name----” Geraldine yawned carefully and at length to gain time.
“A peculiar name”--yawn--“If I had my steamer-list here I--ooh! I’m so
sleepy. It was”--yawn--“Richard”--yawn.

“Richard?” The mother turned the name over. “That’s peculiar, for a
surname, at any rate.”

“Yes,”--Geraldine recovered. “We know a Mr. Dick and a Mr. Richards,
but Mr. Richard is singular.”

“Is that a grammatical joke, my dear?” the mother asked.

“I”--yawn--“excuse me!--I don’t see any joke, mother. Really, I must
toddle off to bed.”

“Richards, of course, would be plural,” the persistent mother
followed. Her mind was never at rest. “Do you mean that this Mr.
Richard--without--the--‘s’ was really singular or just grammatically
singular?”

“Uh?” Geraldine turned a marvellous imitation of a sleepy face. “I’m
afraid I don’t see it, mother. Forgive me for being so”--yawn--“dull.
_Good-night!_ I’m off to Shut-eye town. Good-night!”

But the mother was not so easily shaken off. Mrs. Wells was never
fatigued. She required only five to six hours’ sleep. At her home on
the hills above Lake Keuka she would play bridge until one o’clock and
be up at six to superintend the daily distribution of work in the dairy.

“Mr. Freneau began to get on my nerves too, to-day, Geraldine,” she
pursued her way into her daughter’s stateroom and disregarded yawns
and sleepy disrobings. “He is so patient,” she laughed, “and knows his
lessons so well. Of course he is absolutely indispensable for trains,
baggage, bills, ‘free days’ and so on, and, as a rule, he is absolutely
authoritative. He digests all the books so impartially. But to-day I
began to feel the way you do always, repellent. I disputed with him
horribly. He was always right, but that made no difference. I suppose
it’s the end of the trip. One does get filled up even with ideas and
facts. I couldn’t listen to-day. His information flowed over me. He saw
it, too. I fear I made him uncomfortable. After all, I suppose he’s
just as sick of us. Fancy anybody giving up his time so devotedly. Did
you get to the National Museum?”

“No.” Geraldine was putting herself deliberately to bed. Her mother had
a species of clairvoyance that inevitably sifted the thoughts out of
one. The topic must be kept off the Captain’s friend Mr. Richard until
some sort of conspiracy could be arranged. Scruples or no scruples this
man would have to do the right thing and stand by a lady.

A list of the other stated attractions of Naples were shot at the
reclining figure.

No, these had not been visited.

“Then where on earth did you go?”

“The Museo Borbon--something or other. We--uh----” A perfect imitation
of a young woman falling asleep in the middle of a sentence.

“Museo Borbonico? Why, my child, that’s the old name for the National
Museum. I _have_ remembered some of the things Mr. Freneau tried to put
into my head to-day. Did you see the bronzes, and the head of Cicero,
made probably from life?”

No answer from the berth.

“Are you asleep, Geraldine?”

“Uh-huh.”

“H-m,” suspiciously. “Talking in your sleep, eh? Well, I’ll not bore
you further. That’s what’s making you fat, so much sleep.” She looked
about the room. “You must stop eating chocolates, too. I believe they
are a sort of narcotic, if the truth were known. I notice that fat,
sleepy girls are pigs on chocolates. Well, good-night. You can tell me
about your trip to-morrow. I’ll take a peep at Walter before I retire
to see if the absent treatment is working as usual. I have a feeling
that if he had not gone straight to bed I should sense it somehow.
Good-night.”

There was no response from Geraldine, so Mrs. Wells put out the light,
fixed the catch on the lock and slipped quietly into the corridor.

Walter’s room was on the other side of the boat. Geraldine gave her
mother time to get to the end of the corridor before she arose, snapped
on the light and donned shoes and a kimono and twisted her plaited hair
into a shape fit for public view. Then she sat on the edge of the berth
and pondered. To-morrow early she would----

What was that? A fumbling of the catch of her door and a hesitant
knock. She knew that uneven touch. She drew the door partly open. In
the hall-way, shrinking far back, was Walter, grinning, breathing long,
deep breaths through his open mouth.

“What is it, Walter?” Geraldine asked. She was firm with her question,
as she knew she must be. A touch of the pity she felt for him would
have come through her tone, he would have grasped at it and all would
be undone. “Mother said you were to go right to bed, you know.”

The word mother shook him. He leaned forward and looked up and down the
corridor. Reassured, he grinned again and nodded his head knowingly.

“Saw yuh!” he managed to gasp.

Geraldine understood without further words. Somewhere on that trip with
“Richard” Walter had spied them. She knew, too, that the mother had
not, and that Walter was keeping the secret for purposes of his own.

“Saw yuh!” he repeated, and wagged his head, a grinning idiot.

“Where?”

“Museum. Saw yuh goin’ in. We were goin’ out.” Abruptly the boy grew
mysterious. His lower jaw shot up into the upper, his eyes popped and
the nostrils heaved with his heavy breathing. He wagged a finger. “_I_
fixed ’em. I pointed up street. I pointed and said, ‘Looka that.’ An’
then you and him, you went in.”

A startling smile illumined his face. His mouth sprang open again. He
leaned against the farther wall and asked her as plainly as pantomime
could, “Now, wasn’t that clever of me? And what do you suppose I’m
going to get out of it?”

“Yes, Walter, Mr. Richard and I were in the Museum this afternoon. I
told mother all about it. Now, don’t you think you’d better run along?
It’s late.”

He pondered on this unexpected turn of things.

“Mr. Richard,” he repeated.

“Yes, Mr. Richard.”

“You told mother?” he inquired politely.

“Yes, Walter. Now run along, please.”

“An’ I don’t get my little whack out o’ this?”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to whack, Walter.”

“Aw-ri’,” he stumbled off. “Aw-ri’.” And farther down the corridor he
summoned up a deep voice, the one he used to have, in a thunderous
“_Aw-ri’!_”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Wells had been too wide awake to stay in her room. It was only
midnight. Walter could be looked after later. She arranged herself in a
more comfortable attire, donned an easier pair of shoes and wandered to
the upper deck.

She had very many comforting thoughts as she reclined and reviewed her
European tour. Except for a single outbreak at the beginning of the
trip Walter had been docile and willing. Her control of his mind, she
congratulated herself, was as simple as running an electric runabout.
She had always had a hypnotic influence over her family, but never
before had she known its full power. Whatever she had set her mind to
she had achieved, and, she was glad to assure herself, the reclaiming
of her son was another victory.

To her intense astonishment her reverie was broken by the appearance
of Geraldine in slippers and a kimono. To be sure the kimono was an
elaborate thing that might have passed as a gown, and the hair had
been wound around and around until it could pass for being “up”; and
the ship was not lighted as it would be on the sea. But why should
she be prowling about--prowling was just the word--and so wide awake
after such a painful evidence of somnolency? Could she be looking for
her mother?--No. It was a gentleman she nudged and awoke. Mrs. Wells
heard the apology and saw Geraldine move on and glance into the face of
another man who had found the deck more comfortable than below stairs.
Geraldine passed quickly by and merged into a dark group of men forward.

What sort of goings-on was this? Could Geraldine be walking in her
sleep? Mrs. Wells half arose as if to follow, but decided that that was
not in her rôle. She would not spy; she would wait.

Meanwhile Geraldine had moved quietly from one end of the boat to
the other in the hope of finding “Richard.” Ordinarily some sort
of explanation could satisfy the mother. There had been nothing
extraordinary in her little adventure; but the entrance of Walter
spelled trouble. He had a dramatic fashion of causing trouble in
unexpected ways. The mother’s calm justice would be disturbed and
injustice might easily follow.

Geraldine reached the smoking-room, peered in at the assembled
card-players, but just a half-minute too late. If her eyes could have
distinguished a quarter length of the deck, she would have observed the
tall figure of Richard moving towards bed.

So reluctantly she gave up and went below, promising herself an early
promenade and a careful look-out.

Loud voices in her corridor gave her a chill of apprehension. Before
her door she found her mother and Walter. The boy was disgustingly
drunk; and he was ugly.

“Won’t be bossed any more!” he announced with a string of dirty oaths.
“I’m through!” he shouted, “through with naggin’ and bein’ pushed into
this and into that.”

With the help of a steward they managed finally to get him to bed
in Geraldine’s room, Geraldine sharing with her mother an adjoining
compartment. Even with the aid of the ship’s doctor and an able-bodied
steward the two women put in an awful night.




CHAPTER IV

ORRIS ROOT AND CARBOLIC ACID


WHERE had the boy obtained money? And how had he got it? Geraldine and
Mrs. Wells knew his former methods. The ordinary relaxed figure of
the boy suggested a mind without a scheme, but on the trail of money
he could summon wonderful powers of cunning. Like a paranoiac under
examination who is quite aware of every symptom that might betray him,
and conceals them, Walter could temporarily throw off the look of
the idiot, the hanging jaw, the lurch. And his begging stories were
strikingly plausible.

Money had to be kept from him, of course, and also any article of
value--ring or watch. To give him so much as a shilling would mean neat
brandy and the beginning of a debauch. That explains the presence of so
much money in the possession of Geraldine. She was helping to guard it
from Walter.

In London Walter had got a five-pound note from the Bishop of Clewes.
Mrs. Wells was taking advantage of a letter of introduction for the
sole purpose, as she admitted to Geraldine, of comparing reality with
Trollope’s _Barchester Towers_. Having listened to a conversation aimed
to draw a contribution to the Relic Society’s monument fund, Walter had
deftly taken the Bishop aside to announce that Mrs. Wells wished to
present five pounds to the secretary of the society on her way to the
station; that it was not wise to let her interest cool until she went
through all the red-tape of banks in London; and that the safest thing
to do was to permit Walter to take the money, preferably in gold, from
the Bishop. Of course no trouble of banks, etc., would keep Mrs. Wells
from paying the Bishop within the week.

The plot worked well in many ways. It gave the Bishop a certain sense
of actually contributing himself, it forced Mrs. Wells to forward a
P.O. order to the Relic Society, and it gave Walter his chance for a
riotous rebellion.

Then the mother took command. Somehow, whether it was hypnotic or not,
Walter was unable again to summon courage to beg, although he had many
opportunities. On the point of beginning a tale fear, chattering fear,
would seize his very voice and throttle the story into extinction. For
months he had lived his daily animal round without once giving the
suspicion of an attempt to break away. Mother and daughter had begun to
feel secure.

And now it had happened again. Somewhere on that steamer a passenger
had been gulled into giving money to a well-dressed tramp. Walter
was no more than that. Geraldine pondered over each name on the
steamer-list and came to a conclusion. Walter never approached
strangers. He hadn’t the courage to pose on his own recommendation;
his game was invariably to strike the most recent acquaintance of one
of the family. There were many good reasons for this procedure, one
of which was the fact that everyone else had been warned. On the list
before her there were only five names of possible persons whom Walter
could know, and all of these--except one--had been strictly enjoined
from helping a wrecked boy to further ruin. That one, “Mr. Richard,”
she felt sure had been the mark of Walter’s latest story. There was
something comical in the thought that to give money to Walter Mr.
Richard had been compelled to part with his sole five-dollar bill.

Mrs. Wells and Geraldine had been two days below decks before Walter’s
ugliness wore off into weak illness. They had taken turns watching
him and were spent for sleep; so, naturally, they gave their first
hours of relief to bed. The steamer had passed Gibraltar before
either woman emerged to the upper deck. With a steward on guard in
the corridor--handsomely tipped in advance and with the promise of a
definite daily wage--they came up one late afternoon in time to join
the deck promenade before dinner.

“Ah!” Mr. Richard popped suddenly out of a steamer-chair. “I’ve been
looking for you----” He was about to say “Jerry,” when he caught both
the frightened look on Geraldine’s face and the imposing figure of the
mother. Then he swiftly changed to “Miss----” but paused before the
“Wells,” for to him that was as much a pseudonym as “Richard.”

“I want you to know my mother,” Geraldine put in. “This is the
gentleman, mother, who was good enough to play escort in Naples that
hot day we were tied up there.”

“Mr. Richard-without-the-‘s’?” Mrs. Wells inquired, and then went
on, “Mr. Richard, I am indebted to you for looking out for my
daughter.” She was examining him with care. “She says you are a
friend of that villainous-looking Captain. I am glad to see you such
a peaceful-looking person. Please get back into your comfortable
steamer-chair. We have been below deck ever since Naples and just must
tramp a little.”

“I’m sorry if you have been ill. The passage has been remarkably
smooth.”

“We have not been ill. I have a very sick boy.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“He is better now. Pray sit down, Mr. Richard-without-the-‘s,’ and do
put on your cap. I appreciate the deference to my grey hair, but I am
also enough of a grandmother not to want to be the cause of a cold in
the head. Later, I shall want to talk to you. Good-bye, until we get on
our feet.”

The incident of Mr. Richard, the Captain’s friend, had been driven from
Mrs. Wells’ mind by the catastrophe to Walter. Now, as she walked arm
in arm with Geraldine, she began to piece things together.

“That night in Naples,” the mother began in a tone that put Geraldine
on guard.

“Yes, mother.”

“Why were you searching about the steamer only half dressed?”

When Geraldine had confronted her mother and Walter that night before
her stateroom door, the easiest explanation was that she could not
sleep and had been on deck to get the air. That excuse she had
carefully tucked away for later use. But the mother did not ask, Why
did you go on deck? but, Why were you searching about the steamer?
Mother’s second-sight was uncanny.

“Were you looking for Walter?” Mrs. Wells suggested.

“He had been acting queerly,” said Geraldine. “He came to my room after
you left.”

“Of course he did not get the money from you?”

“Of course not.”

They rounded a corner, bent themselves to the strong wind and turned
for the trip back.

“There is something I want to ask you, Geraldine.”

“Yes, mother; what is it?”

“I don’t know myself. It is in the back of my head somewhere; it’s an
uncomfortable something-I-want-to-know, but don’t know what it is. I
trace it back to a question I was about to ask you when Walter began
and blew everything else out of my head.”

“Perhaps it was my prowling about the boat?”

“No; I did want to ask about that, but that is explained, and yet there
is something else.... It will come to me suddenly some day, and then if
you are not about I’ll write it down.”

Mrs. Wells was strong on Mind. Without being a Christian Scientist or
a clairvoyant or a Yogi disciple, she was a little of all, including
Swedenborgianism. She claimed to be a free psychologist, interested in
all spiritual and mental phenomena but above a label.

“That’s most interesting, now--this concealed thought in my mind. Think
of it, my dear, it is up there in my head hiding from consciousness! It
was a question--I am sure of that--but about what I can’t guess.”

“Perhaps it was about Mr. Richard?”

Geraldine knew her mother. One might as well have the thing out now
rather than later. This was a good safe time, while they walked alone.

“Yes!” Mrs. Wells called out triumphantly. “It was! That’s a clue, at
any rate. It was about Mr. Richard and--wait!... And it was about your
kimono ... wait! Don’t speak for a minute.”

They walked along for the full minute.

“No,” the mother shook her head; “it poked its head out; I almost
put my hand on it, but it slipped back again. It was about this Mr.
Richard, and about your kimono--oh, I can see your kimono plainly!--and
about your search on the deck for Walter. I can see you bending over a
man and saying something to him. What made you ever suspect that man
to be Walter? Why, he had startling white shoes and white trousers,
a get-up that Walter detests.... Oh! Wait!... No, it’s gone again. I
thought I had it.”

Geraldine felt thankful that Mr. Richard had at least two changes of
raiment. On the day of her adventure he had been attired in grey coat
and white shoes and trousers. That is why she thought she had her man
when she awoke the unknown sleeper on the upper deck and inquired, “Is
that you, Richard?” “Is that you, Richard?” she had asked, she felt
so sure that she had the right man; and when he had looked up with a
“Eh, what?” the shadow of his cap was so dark on his face that she did
not see her mistake until after she had said, “This is Jerry.” The man
had risen gallantly and came out into the light of an oil-lamp. He was
quite different from Richard now; but when he saw the lady’s face he
was eager to be Richard or any other man the lady willed.

“Too excited over Walter, I suppose,” Mrs. Wells answered her own
question. “There! I won’t talk to you any more. You look dead tired
from these last few days. You are not yourself at all, my dear. You
used to be such a chatterbox; now, you are becoming actually--reserved
and self-contained.”

They walked several deliberate steps before Geraldine said pleasantly,
“Do you think so, mother?”

“There!” the mother exclaimed good-humouredly. “We walk five
strides--plump! plump!”--and she counted out five more heavy steps with
a “plump!” for each step--“before you say, ‘Do you think so, mother?’
And now that I think of it, such a non-committal phrase, ‘Do I think
so?’ It throws the whole thing back on me. It doesn’t admit anything.”
She squeezed her daughter’s arm affectionately. “Now that’s fine,
Geraldine. I hope it is permanent. There’s no use giving yourself away
by incessant chatter. But, my lady, I’ll have to study you all over
again. This reserve and non-committalishness is very hard to read. I
used to be able to look into your mind and see the gold-fish and count
every one of them. It _was_ like a sweet little aquarium, my dear, the
kind with a tiny romantic castle--greatly exaggerated--at the bottom.
I’m glad that’s smashed. You got to be too pure and easy. I was aching
for something harder, something----”

Mrs. Wells stopped her talk abruptly. They walked on in silence,
striding heavily to the heaving deck.

“Something what, mother?”

“Well.” The mother was joyful. “That’s ten ‘plumps’ before I can get a
word from you. I’ll have to watch you, my dear. You are getting deep.”

Geraldine was elated that her keen mother had noted the change in her.
It was all she could do to restrain herself from a voluble explanation.
But here, fortunately, was a case where explanations would not help.
She was practising her “latest self,” as Mr. Richard had called it, and
resolutely putting out the earlier tenant, that fluent, superficial,
aquarium child. So she was restraining every impulse to speak, and when
speech was necessary she chose words deliberately.

Already she had scored a fine point. As a rule she was limp before
her mother’s cross-examination, and the reason she never knew until
now: always she had set the wheels of explanation flowing, sometimes
without an interval between the mother’s questions. On two occasions
lately when Mrs. Wells had shot her questions, Geraldine, with a
slightly nervous quaking, had begun deliberately to count five before
answering. As a result Mrs. Wells had jumped into the vacuum created
by the silence, even before Geraldine had got to three; and in each
case Mrs. Wells herself had supplied a satisfactory answer to her own
question. _Q._--“What were you doing prowling about the deck that night
in Naples?” _A._--“Looking for Walter, of course.” _Q._--“Why did
you disturb a man dressed in white?” _A._--“You were so excited over
Walter, of course.”

Mr. Freneau, the university instructor guide, stopped the walk for
a moment to make his polite inquiries. While Walter’s condition was
being made clear to him, Geraldine stepped back a few paces to “Mr.
Richard’s” chair.

“I must see you,” she said, “before you talk with mother. Do you mind
taking the name of Mr. Richard? I fear I have blundered in trying to
explain our trip to mother.”

“Not at all,” he agreed good-naturedly. “It is a good old name. Shall
I think up a pleasant Christian name to match it, or have you arranged
that, too?”

“Yes, do. But please be careful. I see now how rash and impulsive I was
to go off with you. Can you manage to be a friend of the Captain’s,
too?”

“I’ll arrange that instantly. We have already passed the time of day.
Fortunately I did not give him my name. He’s the sort that doesn’t
ask for names. I know nobody on board. Except for your absence I have
had delightful days and nights of hermitage. I’d make a first-rate
Trappist. Since Naples I have spoken barely a word to anyone except the
bathroom steward. Forgive me for being garrulous--I am just stored up
with conversation now.”

“Well, be careful what you say to mother. She thinks we went to the
Museum and came right back. It would hurt her to feel that I had
deceived her; and I’m sorry now that I did. Is this your chair?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come up after dinner for a moment.”

“Good! I have a very interesting story to tell you. It is about your
namesake, Miss Geraldine Wells.”

“Save it. Mother is looking for me. I must go. I’ll come up when I can
get away. Wait for me.”

“Aye, aye, Madam.”

After dinner Mrs. Wells insisted on going on guard to relieve the
steward. Geraldine was, therefore, free to go on deck. Mr. Richard had
arranged two chairs with rugs. It was a wonderful dark night.

“We have a little business to settle,” he began.

“Oh, yes.” She remembered that they had gone shares on the trip into
Naples.

He produced her purse. She had forgotten all about that. It was a
wonder that Mrs. Wells had not asked for it.

“Do you realize, imprudent lady,” he said, “that you have turned over
to a stranger--I am the stranger--the equivalent of very nearly one
hundred dollars in gold?”

“Was it that much?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No.”

“You tempt me to be dishonest,” he laughed. “And it is a great
temptation, too; for not only am I broke, but I have lent some of your
money to one of the passengers here, and, bless me, he seems to have
fallen overboard. He hasn’t been in his room, the bathroom steward
tells me, and he hasn’t been at his place at table.”

“How much was it?”

“I’m awfully sorry, but it was forty gold lire. Most peculiar the way
the thing happened. I was in the smoker watching a mighty poor game
of bridge when I noticed a young chap beside me, odd sort of fellow,
well dressed and all that, but consumptive looking. He was watching me
with the strangest smile, as if he had some joke on me. Well, he had!
When he caught my eye he leaned over and whispered, ‘Good-evening, Mr.
_Richard_.’ Then he winked and stuck out his tongue in the drollest
way. Of course I fancied he knew you and had heard about our little fun
over names. ‘My name’s Wells,’ he said, and leaned far back and nodded
knowingly. ‘And my sister’s name is Geraldine Wells.’

“We shook hands and I made some remark about taking his sister’s name
in vain. I explained how we had picked a name at random, and asked him
point-blank how he had found us out, but he winked at me and shook his
head. ‘I’m no squealer,’ he said. ‘Mum--that’s _my_ name,’ he said
very mysteriously. Well, I chatted with him for a while--he didn’t say
much himself; he appeared rather disturbed; kept asking me what time
it was and getting up and looking out the door and coming back and
shaking his head, until I asked if there was any trouble. I’d be glad
to make amends for picking his sister’s name out of the catalogue and
christening someone else with it.

“‘No,’ he smiled, very plaintively, I thought; there was no trouble,
only he wanted to go to bed and couldn’t because the family luggage
was tied up out there on the wharf with a lot of cash due on it. Mrs.
Wells, his mother, was doing Naples and Pompeii and had taken all
the money with her. Of course the trunks and things could wait until
morning, but it was rather dangerous to wait. The boat sailed pretty
promptly at six the next morning, you know.

“He said, ‘Good-night,’ and started out. I asked him if five dollars
would do. He wanted to know how much that was in lire. When I told him
he shook his head and said he would camp on deck and wait up for the
mother. Forty lire was the amount due. I fumbled in my pocket and fell
on your purse. He refused to take the money at first, but finally let
me lend it to him. Of course he’ll pay me, unless he got into trouble
on the dock and failed to sail with the steamer. But wasn’t it strange
about the name Wells, the one I picked out from that steamer-list?”

“Walter Wells is my brother.”

“Eh? The chap who borrowed the money?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me that you are really Geraldine Wells?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, of all occult happenings!”

She explained how the underscoring on the steamer-list had attracted
his eye and forced him unconsciously to choose the name.

“And you knew all along?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly. Of course I know my own name.”

“But you said nothing, gave me no hint.... You are deeper than you
look. And say,” he recalled something; “what an ass I was to tell
you all that rot about keeping silent and not blurting out all you
know. And by the way, Miss Jerry, you scored beautifully on that
stay-over-until-the-next-boat idea. I’ll wager you knew all about that
sailing hour.”

She smiled mysteriously.

“I admit nothing,” she said. “I’m complimented enough to know that you
thought me game enough to do it.”

“Never thought of you at all,” he remarked frankly. “Should have, of
course. I was thinking of myself solely. Dreadfully selfish, eh? I am
an egoist, not an altruist at all.... But it would have been jolly.”

“Thank you.”

He laughed intimately. “We have a lot of personal vocabulary between
us, haven’t we? ‘Thank you,’ ‘much,’ and----”

“And ‘my dear.’”

“Oh, yes! Yes; yes. That little family luncheon-party with our own
butler was charming, now, wasn’t it?”

“Your ear-tips are reddening, Richard, my dear.”

“Stuff,” he returned. “You can’t see them in this darkness.... Now,
why did you suggest the plagued thing! They are beginning to burn like
fury. Odd about those ears; they give me credit for modesty and honesty
and a lot of virtues. Blushing is just a disease of the circulation,
like pallor. Criminals blush as often, I suppose, as----”

“Richard!”

“Eh?”

“Why do you let speech blur the finer self, deep-hidden and begging for
expression?”

“Very good! Very good!” he cried; “a hit! Do you know, Miss Jerry, I am
having an extraordinary rush of conversation. I haven’t talked so much
since I don’t know when. But here goes. Shop closed.”

For a minute or two they rocked gently with the steamer and cultivated
the “unexpressed self.”

“Oh, see here!” he was the first to speak. “I can’t stop now. There is
much to settle up yet.”

“Please don’t attempt to settle money matters on this boat,” she
interrupted. “I don’t see now how you can ever pay me back without
mother knowing; and I won’t have that now. Forget about it. You can pay
in many other ways.”

Again they had a minute or two of silence.

“But there’s something else,” Mr. Richard insisted. “Where is this
Walter brother of yours who took the--oh, I beg your pardon; he is the
sick one, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Is he better?”

“Yes.”

“He got the luggage from the dock all right, I suppose?”

Geraldine counted five before replying and then five more. He had
better know the truth.

“There was no luggage on the dock.”

“What!”

“Our trunks and bags were taken on at Genoa and are all packed in the
hold or in our staterooms. Walter was working you for money. He saw us
together in the Naples Museum and was trying to blackmail us, that is
all.”

He said nothing.

Geraldine sketched briefly the story of this youthful derelict and of
their seeming control of him lately. She told how their only safety was
in keeping money from him, how they had warned everybody and how the
mother had believed she had broken down his very will to beg. Then she
gave Richard the result of the interview in the hall; and the frightful
outbreak and their days of struggle with a drink-crazed man.

“My refusal to pay up,” she said, “stirred his courage, I suppose. It
angered him into action. He went straight to you.”

“And I gave him money,” Richard spoke thoughtfully, “the money that
sent him down and out. That makes me responsible.”

“You did not know,” Geraldine excused him.

“Responsible none the less,” Richard insisted quietly. “You surely
don’t believe that the events of this world depend on whether folks
know or are sorry or even wish otherwise? I gave that boy the money
that sent him back to the devil. Knowing or not knowing has nothing to
do with the fact. I feel responsible and I’ll make what amends I can.”

“You can do nothing with Walter. Everybody has given him up. And it
is such a pity. He’s really a nice gentle boy who has been poisoned,
that’s all.... But he is frightful when the devil gets working in him.
Mother isn’t afraid of him, but I am. You can do nothing; nobody can.”

“We’ll see,” said Richard. “I am terrifically strong. I can lift and
pull and knock things about in a quite extraordinary manner. That gives
me confidence. This drink business is largely mental. I’ve done a
little mental-suggesting, out of curiosity merely. Let me have a try at
the boy.”

“If you talk that way,” she laughed as she left him to take her turn
below, “you and mother will get along famously, and she’ll believe
anything you tell her. Mental is mother’s favourite word. With mother
everything is mental.”

“Everything is,” he assured her solemnly. “Even you, now, charming
as you are, even you are only a figment of my brain, a well-ordered
complication of my optic nerve. See! I can close my eyes so--and poof!
you vanish. To me you are a very pleasant dream.”

“Thank you.”

“And for me you would not exist at all,” he went on, “if I ceased to
hear you, see you, touch you, taste you and--I haven’t tasted you yet,
but I would know your scent in the dark.”

“How dreadful!”

“Oh, no! No; no!” he sniffed the air delicately. “It is a faint orris
and carbolic acid. Very pleasant, really; and perfectly antiseptic. You
probably use an orris perfume. I don’t know what the carbolic is. All
existence is sensation and I am an epicure on the cultivation of the
senses. I am right about the scents, am I not?”

“Oh, quite right,” she laughed. “Carbolic soap is one of mother’s
manias. Keep up that pose and mother will love you!”




CHAPTER V

THE CARD ON THE DOOR


THE time came when Walter, a very sick boy, could be brought up on
deck and cared for. It is so easy to account for any sort of secret
illness on shipboard that few except casual inquiries were made. The
ship’s doctor, a good old fellow using the trip as a vacation from
regular practice, knew exactly what to do. Unknown to the mother Walter
received his daily tipple, only a touch, to be sure, but enough to
prevent the complete horrors of unrequited thirst. The grateful Walter
lay on his chair disturbing nobody, and, in his weak way, lived. Mr.
Richard and the doctor had good chats together, all of which were
stored up by the layman for future use.

Mrs. Wells and Mr. Richard fell into each other’s arms, figuratively,
at the first encounter. Geraldine sewed tranquilly and listened to
the contributions to the thesis of the ultimate spirituality of
all material things, with side excursions on telepathy, hypnotism
and dreams. When Geraldine later had twitted Mr. Richard (whose
given name, by the way, they could not agree upon, she claiming it
should be something simple and easy to remember like Robert or John,
and he sticking up for a distinctive cognomen like Llewellyn or
Gladstone)--when she had jested over his fine acting with the mater he
had looked at her with his mildly-serious gaze. “I could not do that,”
he had said, “not with your mother. I am a Platonist, I suppose. This
world, to me, is a beautiful illusion of the senses, a weak copy of the
eternal verities. Your mother is a very remarkable woman. I could not
fool her long on her favourite theme. No; we’re in deadly earnest--both
of us!”

In the middle of one of their discussions on the mystery of mind Mrs.
Wells suddenly turned to Geraldine and cried excitedly, “I have it, my
dear; I have it!”

Geraldine sewed on and waited. The mother struck an attitude of deep
concentration. Somehow Geraldine felt apprehensive. No member of the
family had ever attempted a prolonged practical joke on Mrs. Wells.
She had plenty of good humour but no appreciation of fooling directed
against herself. Therefore the palming off of a stranger under an
assumed name had grown to be a burden to Geraldine, especially
dangerous now that Mrs. Wells had received the said stranger into the
intimate purlieus of her pet theories. One could not play jestingly
with Mind! Geraldine was particularly anxious on this afternoon because
Mr. Richard had appeared in grey coat and white trousers, white hose
and shoes.

“Do you believe, Mr. Richard,” asked Mrs. Wells, her eyes firmly
fixed on his white trousers, “that conversation can be heard by the
subliminal self and be transferred later to consciousness?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mr. Richard assured her. “That is a very common
experience. Half our requests to repeat are not due to bad hearing.
Our hearing is well-nigh infallible, like any other recording machine.
Consciousness has been busy with something else, that is all. Give it
time and it will get the message. When anyone asks me, ‘What did you
say?’ I always wait a second or two. Quite often my remark doesn’t
need to be repeated; he picks it up out of sub-consciousness, where it
has been perfectly printed.”

“The white trousers bring it all back,” announced Mrs. Wells solemnly.

“Yes?”

“I see the upper deck very plainly.” Mrs. Wells closed her eyes.
Geraldine moved to a seat back of her mother, from which safe position
she raised a warning finger to Mr. Richard. “Don’t fidget, Geraldine;
I must concentrate.... Geraldine is in a kimono; her hair braided and
wound around; she leans over a man in white trousers and she says,
‘Is that you, Richard?’ and adds, ‘This is Jerry.’ He says he is not
Richard. Geraldine apologizes and moves away. The white trousers stare
after her.”

“Very rude of the white trousers, I am sure,” Geraldine remarks, but
offers no further help to clear up a situation she remembers only too
well.

“That is what I wanted to ask you about, Geraldine,”--the mother
ignored the comment--she had probably only heard it with her subliminal
ear, “but Walter,” she glanced towards the boy who appeared to be
sleeping, “but Walter upset my mind completely. Now, Mr. Richard, I did
not hear a word of that conversation at first, because it took all my
mind to get to the fact that Geraldine, whom I had just left sleeping
in her room, should be prowling about the deck nudging sleeping men.
It was not until Geraldine had moved completely away that I caught up
the words. When she spoke I heard only a murmur, absolutely nothing
distinct; and yet it must have been recorded on the subliminal and
lifted later into consciousness. I was going straight to Geraldine to
ask her about her strange conduct and particularly to inquire why she
should be asking about a ‘Richard’ whom she knew well enough to permit
calling her ‘Jerry’--why, bless my soul, Geraldine was looking for you,
Mr. Richard! But she did not say _Mr._ Richard--I am sure of that; and
she _did_ say ‘Jerry.’ Geraldine, help us out.”

“It’s too deep for me,” Geraldine smiled into her sewing. “You two work
it out,” she added serenely; “one of the party ought to keep sane.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Wells was always irritated at the suggestion of any
connection between mental mysteries and loss of mental balance; but
it drove her away from Geraldine--as Geraldine intended--and set her
questioning Mr. Richard.

“Don’t you think it is possible that I heard correctly?” she asked Mr.
Richard.

He pondered over the situation. The events of the night came before
him. Suddenly he remembered that Geraldine had told him that she had
sought for him after Walter had visited her room with suggestions of
exposure.

“Ah!” he concluded suddenly; “I believe you heard accurately, Mrs.
Wells.”

Geraldine looked at him carefully. He gave her an assuring nod.

“Miss Wells was hunting for Walter,” he said. “She told me later. She
thought she had discovered me in the white-trousered sleeper and sought
a helper.”

“But she called you Richard, as if you were a butler or a chauffeur,
and she presumed that you would know her as ‘Jerry.’”

“Oh,” Mr. Richard laughed, “didn’t you know that my first name is
Richard, too? Don’t blame me!” he spread his hands out and shook his
head. “Richard Richard, that’s the label they gave me.”

“Why, no one would ever----”

“Oh, yes, they would. Look at Jerome K. Jerome.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“And Peter Peter,” Geraldine helped.

“What!” the mother turned on her. She knew of no Peter Peter.

“The pumpkin eater,” explained Geraldine as she thoughtfully threaded a
needle.

Richard Richard bubbled with mirth. He had a hearty out-of-doors laugh.
“Great character, old Peter Peter. He and I have many qualities in
common. He was always hard up. So was his cousin, Tom Tom.”

“Eh?” Mrs. Wells’ mind could not catch up quickly with the jest. “Tom
Tom?”

“The piper’s son, you know,” Richard explained. “He stole a pig,” he
added instructively.

“To be sure. To be sure,” Mrs. Wells admitted. “How stupid of me.” But
her intent eye showed that her mind was still on the mystery. “There
is no Mr. Richard Richard on the steamer-list. I am sure I should have
noticed it.”

“No,” Richard answered slowly. “No-o. It wouldn’t be. I came in late
at Genoa. Didn’t make reservations. Knew there’d be plenty of room in
July; all the rush the other way, you know. So they didn’t get my name
in time to print.”

Richard seemed to be enjoying the game. Every now and then he would
look towards Geraldine for approval, but she gave him only a calm
wide-eyed survey.

With cap drawn down almost over his eyes, Walter, stretched out in
his chair, was observing the group with ferret-like eagerness. He knew
a thing or two! They were not pulling the wool over his eyes. And he
would show them, too; but in his own time.

The mother was not satisfied. “It sounds plausible,” she admitted
grudgingly. “Although how any sane person would name a child Richard
Richard----” She interrupted herself to gaze firmly into his honest,
genial face. The absence of all guile assured her. Besides, here was
a man who really knew mental phenomena, had taken courses under James
and Münsterberg; had some hypnotic abilities himself; was familiar with
what was to her an unknown region, Kant and Hegel; a man, in other
words, who had the right attitude towards Mind. Yes; he was all right.

Then a horrid doubt assailed her, for she remembered vividly that
Geraldine had said to White Trousers, “This is Jerry.” An hour or two
of strolling about Naples would not bring them to first names.

“But,” she began, and stopped.

“Wait, Mrs. Wells,” Richard sat up. “Do not speak. I am about to try a
bit of mind-reading. You are wondering why your daughter should have
called me Richard----”

“And why she should have presumed you would know her as Jerry.”

Mrs. Wells had taken the mind-reading as a matter of course.

“Exactly.” Richard was quite ready with an explanation. “You see, my
peculiar name struck Jerry--struck Miss Wells as absurd; which of
course it is. She said she could not call me Mr. Richard, as if she
were talking about me to one of the maids--‘Mr. Richard will have
his tea now; Mr. Richard does not go out to-day’--and all that sort
of thing. She said, and wisely, that Mr. Richard was not, strictly
speaking, a name at all; so she said----”

This story was not going as well as it should. In the flash of planning
it had seemed a first-rate explanation.

“What was it you said?” he appealed to Geraldine.

She counted her five before looking up from the sewing.

“You seem to be doing very well,” she commented quietly. “Go on. I’m
quite sure I don’t remember what I said.”

“You said something, I’m sure,” Richard cocked his head sideways and
tried to think of something she might have said.

Mrs. Wells was thinking, too. “If Geraldine made up her mind to call
you by your first name she would not be a daughter of mine if she
hesitated. I agree with her; Mr. Richard is uncomfortable; I think I
shall drop the ‘Mr.’ too.”

“By all means, do!”

Richard was glad to get out of the difficulty due to the failure of
invention.

“And I won’t press you,” said Mrs. Wells, her fine face lighting up
wonderfully, “to make up any more ingenious stories of how two young
people off on a lark manage to call each other by their first names.”

Richard laughed. “It was embarrassing,” he admitted. “One drops
into first names, sometimes, you know--uh--so easily and--uh--the
explanation is deuced hard to make--uh--in public.”

“I’m an old woman----”

“Oh, tut, tut; not at all.”

“But I am not so old that I can’t understand young folks. And anyway,
young man, you are not built to lie--your ears give you away.”

Geraldine broke forth in sudden merriment.

“Oh, see here!” Richard expostulated. “See here!” The large lobes
of his ears were burning. “You’ll get me all fussed up if you draw
attention----”

“The whole ear”--Geraldine spoke a word or two between attempts to
suppress her glee--“is crimson--and now--the back of your neck is on
fire!”

In the joyfulness of the moment Walter slipped carefully from his chair
and sauntered off; but he had not gone far before Mrs. Wells’ watchful
mind--the subliminal, probably--had noted his absence. Without a word
she rose and trailed the boy. At the top of the stairs he looked back,
turned about sullenly and waited for her.

“How did I do?” Richard asked earnestly, the moment they were alone.
He was as eager as a boy. Although Geraldine was a strikingly handsome
young woman Richard paid no attention to that. In her presence he was
like a near-sighted man intent on his own ideas. Just now he was openly
delighted with his own cleverness and appealed to her as co-conspirator
to give him full credit.

“You’re a better liar than I thought,” she gave her judgment composedly.

“Ugh!” he shuddered at the word. “‘Liar’ is pretty stiff, don’t you
think? That’s a fighting word, you know. Now, I should not call it
lying, but diplomacy. Same thing, of course, but--uh--quite different,
you know.

“But I say,” he bethought himself; “what’d you think of my blushes, eh?
Pretty clever, that. Gets you credit for a deal of innocence. I----”

“You surely don’t give yourself credit for the blushes?”

“Why not?”

“You can’t turn it on or off like a faucet.”

“But I can,” he insisted. “Been practising for years. Found it very
useful when caught with the goods on.”

She looked at him thoughtfully; he grinned back and nodded his head. As
she gazed steadily at him the tips of his ears began again, and slowly
the flood welled as before.

“I suppose you are giving me an illustration now?” she asked.

“Am I reddening up again?”

“You are--gloriously.”

“The deuce you say!”

“The deuce I say.”

“Well, of all--but it only shows how expert I am.”

“You turned this one on, too; did you?”

“Did it a-purpose; just to show you I could, you know.”

“You _are_ a better--fibber than I thought,” she announced.

From the stairway Walter’s high-pitched voice made itself heard above
the ship noises.

“I’m done with you; d’y’ hear!” He was levelling a very bony finger at
his mother. “No more! No more! I won’t let you get _my_ goat no more.
No, sir! No, sir! Talk all you want! Oh, I’ll look at you.”

She had been quietly asking him to look at her in the hope that with
her eye upon him he would wilt as before.

“I’m lookin’ at you! I’m lookin’!” he shouted menacingly. “An’ what
good’s it doin’ yuh? I’ve got your number, O.K., and it’s _all off_!
_All off_, I tell you!”

Evidently she had asked him to let her go with him to his room.

“No!” he raised his voice a half-notch higher. A passenger here and
there looked up. “You don’t follow me about any more, you don’t. I’m on
to you, I am. No more! That’s--final.”

She kept steadily at him.

“Stop it!” he shrieked and began to sway back and forth, “stop it
or--or--or I’ll throw myself overboard. I will! Do you hear? I will!
Aw!” he whimpered piteously, “can’t you shut up!”

Suddenly he darted towards the side and began frantically to put a
leg over the swaying rail. A passenger struggled with him and delayed
his attempt, which gave Mrs. Wells time to reach him. She put out a
hand towards his shoulder; he struck her savagely. Other passengers
including Richard and Geraldine soon surrounded the frantic boy and
tried to calm him, but certain unsuspected depths of passion had come
to the surface and gave him strength. His eye never left his mother. He
seemed anxious not to avoid her, but to fight it out then and there for
the mastery of himself, or rather, for his freedom from the mother’s
superior will.

The blow had staggered her. He saw her falter and knew his chance. He
fairly crowed his announcements that she would no longer settle on him
and drive him here and there like a puppy. In spite of her magnificent
appearance Mrs. Wells was no longer young. She was sixty and she had
driven herself hard. The sudden fright at the boy’s jump to the railing
and the unexpectedness of the blow, to say nothing of the power of
the sickening thought that her own boy should offer to strike her in
public, had its effect. An unusual weakness caught her limbs, and her
heart lunged forward.

Summoning her will she presented a semblance of poise and dignity. To
the group about her she explained that her boy was ill. He interrupted
constantly. She asked the passengers to let her manage. She knew how.
He would go to his room and she would go along and reason with him.

All of this he denied shrilly; and in her heart she knew she had lost
her grip, as he cried aloud his victory. No! No! He would never again
go with her.

“Will you go with me?” Richard asked mildly. “Let’s get out of this,
old fellow, and talk it over. No use letting this gaping crowd know our
business, eh? What d’y’ say?”

“Sure I’ll go with you,” Walter nodded seriously, but there was no
giving in in tone or manner. It suited him to go with Richard. He told
everyone that it did. Richard and he were pals, he told them. They
had things, they had, to talk over and come to terms on. Secrets, ha!
Secrets that would make ’em all sit up and listen.

Richard agreed and led him away. As they went down the stairs, Walter
leading eagerly, Richard cast one look back. Pity for the old grey
woman, looking greyer now than ever, struck him hard. He pressed his
lips together and wished he could requite in some measure the evil done
her late years by this hopeless boy.

The hopeless boy turned suddenly in the hall.

“Richard Richard!” he cried and laughed. “That’s a good ’un.
Richard--hell! I know you.”

“Of course you do. Of course you do,” Richard agreed. “But don’t bark
it out to the whole ship. Come along to my room and talk it over.”

“All right,” Walter assented. He said “Aw ri’.” One would think by his
speech that he was still “not himself,” as the Welsh have it. No doubt
the passengers agreed upon that theory. But Walter’s speech, drunk or
sober, had become blurred and difficult.

“All right,” he said. “I’m no squealer. I only want my rights. That’s
all.... Knew yuh wasn’t no Mr. Richard. Knew from the first.”

“H’m,” Richard mused aloud as they walked with difficulty along the
swaying corridors. “How did you get on to it, old fellow?”

“Saw your name on the door. Card.”

“The deuce you did!”

“Yes, thass-ri’,” Walter chuckled. “Saw yuh go in. Looked at the door.
Saw your name plain as writin’. The card said----”

“_S-sh!_” Richard silenced him so thoroughly as to frighten the boy.
“Never mind what the card said. Where do you think you are?” he
demanded roughly; “alone in the ocean?”

Richard put on his fiercest face. Walter had a secret: very well; it
should have value. “You’re a fine pal,” Richard growled, “a devil of a
fine pal.” He strode forward with an excellent assumption of ferocity.
“Hang that card!” he added, merely to give verisimilitude, as Pooh-Bah
would say, to an otherwise bald and innocuous situation.

That card was a mistake. He had put it up to make certain that his
luggage would reach the room promptly, and with no thought of its
being a permanent name-plate. When he reached his door with Walter he
wrenched it off impatiently.

“Come in,” he changed his tone. “Come in, old chap. Let’s talk things
over. Have something to drink.”

Richard unscrewed a flask and poured out a good-sized “slug.”

“That’s all,” he warned. “You’re in a bad way, man, and I’m not going
to have you kicking completely over. I’m good for a drink now and then,
but you can’t swim in it.”

Walter drank eagerly. It seemed to set him up almost instantly. Some of
the fight went out of him.

“You’re all right,” he commented sagely. “A wise guy, you are. And so
am I, all right.”

“Of course you are.”

“And I’m no squealer, either.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

“You can be Mr. Richard Richard if you want--or anything. Mum’s me! But
in my opinion you ain’t either one.”

“What’s that?”

“Yuh ain’t Richard and yuh ain’t----”

“_S-sh!_” Richard glared ferociously.

“Well--you ain’t. That guy,” he pointed towards the spot where the card
had been, “I’ve seen his picture in the papers, and he’s an old man,
old man with whiskers, he is.”

A look of pain shot across Richard’s face. He turned away and looked
steadily for some time out of the open port-hole. Then he came gently
to the stricken boy and said:

“Walter, let’s be friends, you and me. You’re right about both names.
That man,” his voice caught as he pointed towards the door, “I’m not
fit to walk in his footsteps, much less bear his name.... There’s
nothing wrong about me, Walter. I want you to take my word for that.”

“Sure there ain’t. An’ there ain’t nothin’ wrong ’bout me, either.”

“Of course there isn’t. That’s why I am going to stand by you and keep
you from jail.”

“Huh?”

“That forty lire you got from me for the luggage which was supposed
to be on the wharf. That’s what they call obtaining money under false
pretences. Good for five years, I think.”

He gave the boy time to get the thought.

“Jail’s not half bad,” Richard looked up reminiscently as if he was
speaking from experience. “They give you good grub and work enough
to keep you feeling right and sleep enough--_that’s_ all right.
But--there’s not a drop to drink. Not--a--drop. Days go, and nights
go--nights when you stay awake hour after hour with your tongue as hot
and dry as a burnt stick, and you cry out for a little cooling drink,
and all you get is a blow on the head. And the days pass and the nights
pass; and when you begin to count up the months and maybe years yet to
come----”

He stopped suddenly. Walter was holding his head in his hands. The
picture was too much for him.

“Well,” said Richard soothingly, “you needn’t worry about me, Walter. I
wouldn’t send a dog to a place like that--not unless I were forced....
I have my own reasons for being Mr. Richard. I’m going to trust you to
forget all about that card. You keep that a dead secret, old chap, and
I’ll stand by you to the last ditch. Is it a go?”

“Sure,” nodded Walter, but the brag had gone out of his voice.

They shook hands on it.




CHAPTER VI

ASSISTANT WIDOW


AT Richard’s suggestion Walter moved into the older man’s stateroom.
There the two men spent many hours together. Walter was glad enough not
to have to appear among the others, and Richard wished to study the
boy. It was not entirely a humanitarian interest. Here was a mental
puzzle to study out, and just at the time when such studies were being
made in the treatment of neurotics. Certain midnight talks with a good
chum in the faculty of Columbia University were remembered; a lot of
desultory reading of the Freudians came rushing into memory; and Roman
bronzes fell to the background.

Walter’s antipathy to the mother underwent no change, except perhaps
to increase in intensity. It hurt her pride to have to give up her
position of influence and she did not do so without a struggle.

No one else save Richard, or perhaps a professor of the science of
mind, could have talked with her on the science of abdication. As
delicately as needful, for she had not yet recovered from the shock of
Walter’s sudden attack, he made clear the psychological necessity of
resigning if only temporarily.

“You arouse opposition. You make him strong to oppose you,” he said to
her one late afternoon as they chatted on the upper deck. “No one knows
why these mental storms arise, but it is always wise to guard against
stirring them up. He is in earnest about doing away with himself if
you try to control him again. He and I have talked it over and on that
one point he is unshaken. You must frankly face the fact that your boy
is a neurotic. Back of that is always the danger of self-destruction
if thwarted. Fortunately, there is the possibility of sudden cure. In
fact, there is more hope nowadays for mental ills than for physical
ones. You can’t grow a new leg or a new lung, but you can completely
remake the mind. Of course I don’t have to tell all this to you.”

“Are you a psychologist?” she asked. “I have never thought to ask about
your occupation.”

“I?” he laughed. “Oh, no; not at all. I’m not anything.”

“You talk so well on so many subjects,” she speculated, “ceramics,
Roman bronzes, psychology----”

“I’m a potterer,” he explained. “I just dabble here and there. One year
I’m daft on old printing, or the growing of white blackberries, or
multiple personality--oh, I’m jack of a dozen things. But I have one
real accomplishment. I kept at it once until I could read an Assyrian
cuneiform brick in the Metropolitan Museum! There’s an untranslated
Assyrian dream-book in the British Museum that I am just itching to get
at.”

“You mean that you just try a thing for a while and----”

“Not exactly. I keep a great number of things going. For instance, I’m
tremendously interested in primitive religions, Shinto and ghost dances
and sun worshippers and all that sort of thing; but I don’t keep at
it all the time. I drop one interest and take up another; give them
each a turn. Just now I’ve grown interested in your boy, but that’s
an old interest: I’ve been thrown a lot with twisted-minded people,
over in the West Side, New York, where I often live. There’s a little
settlement of social workers, Legal Aid Society folks, socialists, new
poets--oh, a delightful group. That district has some pretty odd cases,
too; and I’ve been up all night with some of them.”

“And you have no regular occupation?”

“No; nothing regular, unless----” he laughed at a thought that occurred
to him. “You see, I’ve a pack of awfully good friends who have money
and homes and all that sort of thing. When I get hard up--as I am just
now; I’ve only five dollars to my name--I pay them a visit. I go only
to places where they understand me and let me alone. So I suppose I
might call myself--uh--a professional guest. I pay visits for my board
and keep.”

“You’re not a sick man?”

“Lord, no! I’m terribly healthy. I’ve played football, rowed in a
crew, polo, and I can swim a dozen miles. I’m so strong I’m ashamed of
myself.”

“Then why don’t you work?”

“I wonder what you mean by work?” he asked mildly. He had long ago
ceased to resent this inevitable question. Here was a man without funds
who got along with the least amount of “work.” He explained. “By work I
suppose you mean making something to sell. I’ve no objection to that,
for those who can do it and like it. The mass of people are working in
that sense. Of course it’s necessary, but the most of them look pretty
down-trodden and driven, don’t you think? It’s a slave’s life for most
earth dwellers. Some of them never see sunlight: they drive away at
some monotonous task under gas-jets or arc-lights; they burrow in
wet mines; they count up endless figures with green shades over their
eyes; they shovel endless tons of coal, mix endless puddles of mortar
or teach endless classes of somebody else’s endless children. I can’t
do any of those things. For me it would be imprisonment, stifling,
maddening. I must follow my will and, unfortunately or fortunately,
my will does not lead on to fortune. Happiness is my goal, personal
happiness; and in a very large measure I get it. Work? All my work
is play and I play hard. You don’t know what hours it took me to get
enough information together to read that Assyrian brick! I lived
for weeks on bread and tea and an occasional chop cooked on Father
Maloney’s cook-stove over in the West Side.”

“But somebody had to pay for the chop and the bread and the tea.”

“Oh, yes; that’s true,” he seemed to recollect that his story did not
fit together. “Oh, I work, too, in your sense, to get enough funds
together to do my own kind of work. I’ve wired houses, fixed up leaky
roofs, cut grass on the big lawns--I’ve never had the least trouble in
selling my muscles--but my real job when I get down and out and don’t
feel quite like playing up my professional guest business--I had almost
forgotten my best money-maker!--I’m an assistant widow.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that good! Assistant widow, and you don’t know the business
at all, do you? Oh, it’s profitable--I make several hundred dollars
in a few weeks--it’s terrible drudgery, but it’s short and swift and
soon over. At Harvard college a ‘widow’ is a professional tutor,” he
explained. “There’s a famous one at Cambridge whose business it is to
put fellows through examinations with the least amount of effort on
the part of the student. Not a bad idea, eh? It’s a rather sorry trade,
I must admit, but it is very humanitarian. Old ‘Widow’ Knowells always
has work for me whenever I want it at the time of the hour examinations
and at midyears and at finals. He gives me careful notes of all the
professor has done during the term, synopses of outside reading,
etc., and I’m an expert in bottling it up. I can almost guarantee
to put a fellow through, if he has enough memory to last him over
night! Philosophy’s my stunt. I boil it down--from Thales to William
James--and make it palatable for the unphilosophic mind. I’ve had as
many as two hundred men in one group for a three-night cram before the
exam. Rather horrid; isn’t it? But Knowells charged ’em five dollars
apiece, and he generously gave me three. That was my banner group. I
made $600, enough to keep me a year and save something towards this
trip. But it took me a month to get the taste of the thing out of my
mouth. Work? Ugh!”

American-bound steamers in July carry few passengers, so Mrs. Wells
had been able to reserve a fine corner of the deck for her group,
which now invariably included Richard. At this moment as they talked
Walter lounged in his chair near the railing while Geraldine and two
middle-aged ladies who had been with the Freneau party, and Mr. Freneau
himself, were chatting quite near. Geraldine leaned forward.

“Excuse me for listening,” she said. “Richard tells such interesting
stories.”

“Oh, this is all true, every bit,” he told her.

“I don’t object to its being untrue,” she rejoined; “the only objection
to bad fiction is dulness. This story of yours is not at all dull. What
I want to know is what would happen to the world if everybody did as
you. The stokers, for instance, live like condemned devils. Don’t tell
me they like it. But if they obeyed their own sweet will where should
we be?”

“And that chap putting tar on the ropes,” he pointed; “I’ll wager he’d
throw that job for a couple of good sovereigns.”

“Of course he would,” she went on. “What I want to know is how you
manage to take care of the disagreeable jobs.”

“Very simple,” he said; “I don’t manage at all. I am not my brother’s
keeper. My interest is solely in steering myself. I have no theory for
the other fellow; I have only pity.”

“How cruelly selfish.”

“Exactly,” he spoke quietly. “The cruelty of living is the most
colossal mystery of creation. I don’t pretend to understand it, and I
know of no remedy for it. The struggle for existence is the acme of
cruelty until you renounce it, as I do. I live my life as simply as I
can. I try not to interfere with anyone else’s chance. That’s all I can
do.”

“What about the future?” the mother asked. “You will not always be
strong.”

“I take no thought for the morrow,” he said simply. “I live entirely in
the present. Who can take thought and prosper? Happiness is not to be
saved, put in a bank. I live contentedly from day to day. When I cannot
do that--well, the remedy then is equally simple, quietly end it.”

“Rather gruesome,” Geraldine shivered.

“Death is not gruesome to me,” he said. “I am very sensitive of the
shortness of life and of the inevitableness of death. Most of us
ignore the topic; but it is constantly in my thoughts, as it was in
Socrates’. That’s the way to rid yourself of fear of the sure end; face
it; every morning smile in your glass and say, ‘Thou shalt surely die.’
Then all the world spreads happily before you as a garden of delights,
and the pettiness fades and all the discords of smallness.... Well!
well! I grow poetic--as I should. It is the most magnificent event in
life; the very thought of it blesses the present hour.”

The steamship _Victoria_ was moving through the placidest of twilight
seas. The setting is very important to have in mind: the soft blur of
blue on the horizons, the high-banked clouds fringed delicately by an
unseen sun, the pure transparent grey of the zenith, and the cool,
salt breeze. Some themes cannot be set in midday, nor amid the turmoil
of business. A thousand miles from land with only the frailest tie to
existence, poised in the centre of tranquillity, there without mockery
one could speak of death, of man’s mortality. Here, if ever, was
Death’s sanctuary, where one could perform fittingly the ceremonies of
awe and praise.

Mrs. Wells spoke first. “How old are you, Richard?” she asked.

“Thirty-three.”

“You have the thoughts that usually come with old age.... Are you a
nihilist or--anarchist--or something?”

“I dislike labels,” he said, “but why shouldn’t I be called Christian?
I take no thought for the morrow and I would do unto my neighbour as I
would that he should do unto me--I let him alone.”

“Isn’t that just the opposite of Christian?” Geraldine asked.
“Christians are rather aggressive; aren’t they?”

“Yes,” he agreed, “the altruists are. Now I’m an egoist. I always felt
that Christ preached personal purity and renunciation of the world’s
goods. If each person were pure in heart and covetous of no man’s
goods, why, the millennium would appear.”

“I don’t understand your egoism,” said Geraldine. “I always thought
altruism was undisputed.”

“My altruism is universal egoism,” he said. “If each person on this
ship were trained to take perfect care of himself there’d be no need of
a sacrifice in case of shipwreck.”

Mr. Freneau drew his chair nearer. He had been neglected pretty
thoroughly by Mrs. and Miss Wells, and he did not particularly object.
It was a tiresome job to pilot four women and a vagrant man through
the cathedrals and art galleries of Europe. Mr. Richard was a welcome
assistant, who had suddenly relieved the tension and had given the
guide a needed rest. As the journey neared its end he began to recover
and, humanly enough, had a desire to talk and be heard.

“That’s very well put, Mr. Richard,” he nodded approval. “We’re all
selfish naturally, and it’s a really decent creed; only everybody
calls it bad names but goes on practising it just the same. But isn’t
it often cruel? The essence of Christianity, I take it, is sympathy,
brotherly love. Egoism, as you call it, fights all that, doesn’t it? It
is isolated.”

The other two ladies drew into the circle. Richard became silent.

“I’m asking you, Mr. Richard,” Mr. Freneau inflated his lungs and
began a dissertation in ethics. At the end he appealed to Richard for
confirmation of his analysis.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Richard arose and worried through his excuses. “I
have no doubt you are quite right. I have never studied such things.
I only know my own life and I know very little about that. I have no
really fixed opinions on anything. Who could have? But, excuse me,
I must go. Walter and I are playing a most exciting tournament of
cribbage. Hey, Walt, old chap; what d’y’ say? Another bout, eh?”

Walter sprang to attention eagerly. He understood the code. It meant
cribbage, of which he was desperately fond--Richard had found that out
early--but it meant also a gill of precious cognac.

“Sure!” he said, and dragged himself out of his chair and followed.

Mr. Freneau talked on, but his argument smelled of the recitation-room.
It was as far from life and living as a college debate. Mrs. Wells
watched her boy as he went off so willingly with Richard, and wondered,
a little enviously, what charm the piper played. As they made their way
forward in the dusk she heard her boy laugh at a remark of Richard’s,
the first laugh from him in many a day.

Geraldine found it too dark for sewing, so rested her hands in her lap
and looked out to sea. Before the interruption the conversation between
the three had been quiet and intimate. She felt that they were just
about to approach interesting and novel things, revelations about the
common modes of thinking that would illuminate them for ever. It was
not a doctrine of cruelty and selfishness that Richard was presenting,
and in no sense had he the attributes of a doctrinaire. As he talked
his face had taken on a wistful inquiry as if he were in the act of
coming to curious conclusions, he knew not what. “Life is a strange
land,” he had said to her once in talking about Walter; “I always act
towards it like a voyageur floating down an unknown river. At any turn
may be a peaceful lake, a wonderful vista, an enemy in waiting or a
dangerous waterfall. It is folly to predict too much on the sole basis
of the journey done. And it is all wonderful to the curious minded,
even the enemy in waiting--if you approach him right he may turn out to
be a friend!”

Neither Geraldine nor Mrs. Wells was listening to the eloquent Freneau.

“I am sure you have a thought on that point, Mrs. Wells,” Mr. Freneau
leaned forward expectantly. This was the proper professional attitude
to quicken interest among wandering students. “Do let us share it.”

“Well, I will,” Mrs. Wells arose. She got up carefully and breathed
deeply to steady herself, for she wished to conceal the fact that
Walter had struck her a hard blow. Her pride would never have owned
to it, but it took serious attention on her part to rise and walk
without a show of stiffness. “Well, I will,” she spoke firmly: “I
have been thinking very, very deeply on a matter that worries me much
as I get nearer home. I’m thinking exactly what I shall do to George
Alexander if he hasn’t weeded my hardy perennials exactly according to
directions. If he has permitted those sweet-williams and Michaelmas
daisies to monopolize the whole patch at the expense of those delicate
larkspurs, I’ll--I’ll--probably take away his corn pone for a month.”




CHAPTER VII

GETTING WARM!


MEANWHILE, in Richard’s stateroom Walter had had his gill and was
fighting hard at cribbage to count in a fine handful of “fifteen’s.”
“Pretty smart,” Richard remarked as he drew a card. “Now why did you
let me have that eight spot?”

“Knew the five was under it,” Walter grinned and rolled out his tongue
foolishly.

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, I know the cards all right. And I know you got two eights and a
seven which you aren’t goin’ to count in.... I need that five to make a
‘fifteen-two.’”

Walter made good his boast in one or two swift plays that ended the
game in his favour.

“Well!” Richard affected great astonishment. “You peg out. I always
thought cribbage was a game of pure chance. You certainly can spiel
’em. Let’s have another.”

As they drew and played and pegged Richard asked questions. Sometimes
he got the answers he wanted; at other times a series of stealthy
probes into the boy’s past brought nothing. Finally he struck a vein
that brought the result he was after.

“What did you most like to do when you were a kid?” he asked.

“Fish, mostly; and climb trees. Wanted to be a sailor.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He darkened and twisted his face ferociously.

“Oh, I know,” Richard soothed. The mother had said no, of course.

“And wouldn’t she let you fish, either?”

“She didn’t kick again’ fishin’. Always glad to get my trout.”

“Ah! She wouldn’t let you climb trees, I bet.”

No answer.

“Ah! I thought so! Still like to climb ’em?”

Again no answer.

“Play the game!” muttered Walter savagely. “Play the game!”

They played, but Richard could hardly see the cards before him. He made
many bad mistakes. Once he really forgot himself, and began to peg in
fifteen-two’s; but he caught himself in time and let Walter finally peg
out a winner of every contest. But his mind was not on that game; it
was excitedly going over the ground of some interesting data that his
friend in the Columbia faculty, Professor Galloway, had produced in
one of their all-night chats on things mental. And here, if everything
turned out well, was a parallel case in Walter.

Galloway was telling how the psychologists were turning into veritable
wizards and healers. Beginning the study of abnormalities for the
impartial purposes of science they had to do with all sorts of freak
cases of mental derangement. Naturally the patients and their friends
were more interested in cures than in the progress of science in
the dim regions of psychology; and naturally, too, the investigator
found his fame depending more upon a sensational cure than upon the
discovery of psychic law. They had been forced into the practice of
psychology; and with hypnotism, “suggestion,” dream readings and
casting out of inimical “personalities” their trade began to take on
the character of the ancient soothsayer and witch-doctor.

Galloway had been telling Richard of certain sudden and unexpected
“cures.” In one case, a “dope fiend,” emaciated and degenerate looking,
had abruptly changed not only his mental personality, but had become
physically transformed. Growth began in him like a garden after a
drought. Healthy flesh multiplied on his brittle limbs, his back
straightened, his eye took on intelligence. As if a bolt had been
released that chained his real self he cast off the Mr. Hyde and became
an uncontaminated Dr. Jekyll. Through accident they learned that a
nervous mother some years before had peremptorily refused to let him
run an automobile. There had been many violent scenes; the mother
had become hysterical; the father, to keep the peace, joined with
the mother. Seemingly the boy had acquiesced, but soon after, he had
slipped many moral stages, until a bad crowd and cocaine had got him.
To the normal mind it would be ridiculous to find a cause for moral
degeneracy in so simple a matter as the repression of a strong desire
to run a car; but the psychologist knows the wisdom of readiness to
believe anything. They got the boy a car; they let him run it, take
it apart, rebuild it; they even permitted him to let her out a peg in
the open country and paid his fine for speeding. And--a miracle--the
long-suppressed spirit rose and took possession and six years of vile
living were cleaned out as if they had not been.

It was this case that Richard had strongly in mind when he took up an
interest in Walter. It was a chance, he thought, but worth trying for;
so he began from the start to probe. Tree climbing had come into the
conversation several times before. Richard fell upon it as a clue; but
Walter was wary. Like all neurotics he fought away from the cause of
his trouble. When pressed directly he always denied any interest in the
thing; but Richard had found him watching the men in the crow’s nest;
and when he talked about the trip at all it was about the height of the
masts, and how fine it would be to crawl up there on the rope-ladder
and fix the top lights. He was obviously disappointed when told that
the lights were probably electric and were turned off and on by a
switch in the engine-room.

Cases of thwarted will are engaging the attention of mind students
nowadays. A youngster will grow physically ill, resisting diagnoses
and medicines, and all because a dollar watch is denied, or because
someone says no to a request for a pink dress. Most of us, fortunately,
fall in easily with the pressure of convention. We are the lucky normal
children; the ones who thrive under opposition and make the rules for
the unlucky others.

When Richard asked Geraldine if she knew about Walter’s desire to climb
trees, she could not recall anything of value. The mother on her part
said he had never expressed a desire to do such a thing. “He climb a
tree?” the energetic mother had ejaculated; “he was always too lazy.
What nonsense is this he has been telling you?”

But while Richard was disappointed he felt it unwise to press the
mother for further information. He tried once to hint of the newer
development of body cure via the release of mental suppression, but,
interested as she was in mental phenomena, she would not connect
anything of the sort with Walter. “He has had every freedom a boy could
desire,” she had said firmly; “he has had too much. What he needs is a
strong, resolute hand.”

Geraldine, however, was taken with Richard’s point of view and set
herself to help.

“Let me ask you questions,” Richard said. They had gone off together to
the mass of machinery at the stern of the boat. “Don’t mind how silly
they may seem. Galloway told me you can’t ignore anything. He did a
fine stroke once on a half-witted kid by noticing the way she pulled
at one ear. It’s a good story, but I won’t tell you now. What I want
from you is a list of the things that Walter has been forbidden to do.
I know your mother well enough to see how she would take mighty good
care of her son and heir; and her plan would be to make fast rules. Am
I right?”

“On the contrary,” Geraldine replied thoughtfully, “she was most
indulgent. Everyone says that she gave him too much leeway, and she
feels very conscience-stricken over it now. That’s why she is trying
to make up by extra vigilance. I’m the one she always held in check,
but I never objected seriously; mother was usually very sensible in her
exactions.”

“Is there any other member of the family who may have coerced him?”

“No; father died when we were very young. Mother has managed the
household ever since I can remember. She was firm in small matters; but
she was always kind and reasonable. That’s why,” she hesitated and then
went on, “that’s why we always feel so dreadful when we deceive her.”

For a moment he gazed in his mild way far out to sea, at the great
churned path made by the vessel.

“You begin to make me feel guilty, now; an experience I very seldom
have,” he said finally.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Without being specific each knew that the reference was to the day in
Naples.

“Why should it be anybody’s fault?” he asked. “I don’t believe in
‘faults.’ If you are a true Whitmanite there is no blame. One might
as well feel guilty over cold and heat as over the acts of our
nature. There’s Whitman and Spinoza rolled into one! I don’t feel
conscience-stricken because my diaphragm moves up and down or because
my appendix is inflamed; why should I be concerned, then, if my will
takes its next appointed step and attempts to go off with you and your
purse?”

“I don’t know why,” she spoke after a moment’s thought. “It’s my
training, I suppose. But let us get back to Walter.... The only time
that I remember when mother seriously attempted to control Walter was
several years ago when she scolded him in public for something he had
done in one of the sailing races. He sulked around the house for days
afterward, and he never would go in the races again, although I am sure
he was awfully keen for them.”

“Jove!” Richard was suddenly eager. “We’re getting warm. When was
that--the exact date?”

“I can find out. I don’t know exactly; but it was the year the
_Tecumseh_ won the cup. Every other boat was either wrecked or blown
ashore or filled with water. Walter was helping sail the _Tecumseh_. He
can’t swim, you know.”

“What was the thing he did that made your mother scold him?”

“I don’t remember. Possibly I can find out. My feeling is it was
something to do with the spinnaker. He used to be very clever at
getting it out in just the right minute when we came about and went
before the wind. But I can’t recall. All that I know is that a terrific
blow came up and sent those boats on end. It ripped the masts out of
two of them; and the _Tecumseh_ was so sprung she never was the same
boat again. I was time-keeper, I remember, and I know they did the
twelve-knot course in less than an hour. It was a record, I think.”

“That’s fast sailing.”

“Oh, you should see those ‘Class A’ boats. They’re the fastest
sailing boats built. I’m not boasting. They’re scows, you
know--centre-board--and they just slide over the water. We took the
inter-lake cup the next year. You must come up and have a go at it. It
is fascinating sport.”

“I think I shall.” He spoke as if he had already made up his mind.

“Mother is going to ask you to pay us a visit--as a ‘professional
guest.’”

“Fine!” he laughed.

“I believe you planned to have her ask you.”

If you had told Richard that he had planned to forge a cheque he would
have considered the matter with an open mind and have rendered an
impartial decision.

“Quite possibly,” he admitted, “although I am not at all conscious of
doing it. I thought I had intended to visit a good friend in Montclair.
In fact, I wrote to him yesterday; but all the same I may have been
planning to go with you. I want to go with you. That’s a very
important clue. Trust your desires every time; they tell which way the
mental wind blows.”

“What could be your motive, then----” she began.

He interrupted. “Motive? I have no motives, no conscious ones. I
don’t know why I do things. That’s what makes me such an interesting
phenomenon to myself. I unfold like a plant; and it’s very exciting--I
am always eager to know whether I’m going to blossom into a sunflower
or an apple tree or a wild strawberry bloom.”

“Or poison ivy,” she interrupted.

“Quite so!” he agreed heartily. “Motive? I’ve long ago given up trying
to discover my motive for anything. And, by the way, we’re usually
wrong when we do discover. Listen to the bragging of folks around you,
to their cock-sureness in knowing why they do this and that. Sometimes
the holiest of men have the unholiest of motives, and many a rascal
would be surprised to know how really Christian he has been acting. It
is the same with nations and elephants and earthworms. Life will have
its way whether we understand it or not. All that I know about myself
just now is that I very much desire to go to your Penn Ying----”

“Penn Yan, please,” she corrected.

“You don’t know how curious I am,” he looked at her frankly, “to see
what will happen next.”

“I am not sure that I want you to come,” she answered thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“I am hoping you will go quietly away altogether after we land. If you
come up to Keuka, sooner or later, mother will know you are not Mr.
Richard and--it is a small matter, but I know her: she will not think
it small. It will strike her like a blow ... and she is getting old.
She tries to conceal it, but I know. The whole family have sat back and
let her carry the burden, but it has always been done so well that we
never inquired.... I’m just beginning to see what it has meant to her.
At ‘Red Jacket’----”

“What’s that?”

“We call our place ‘Red Jacket’ after a local Indian chief. ‘Red
Jacket’ is really a huge plantation. We have farm land, vineyards,
gardens--wonderful gardens!--and a big household. She manages every
inch of it and has always done so. It’s beginning to tell on her
now.... She wouldn’t understand our studied deception. It would break
her; I’m sure it would.”

“I understand,” he agreed. “All right.” Silently they watched the
swirling water. “Walter interests me,” he explained, “interests me more
than you can guess, but I can give him up.... Well, we’ve got a day or
two left. Let’s make the best of it. The boy stirs me like the answer
to a hard puzzle. I’m built that way. I throw my whole life into the
next thing that attracts my curious mind.... To be honest, I’m afraid I
don’t care anything for the boy. Does that seem brutal?”

“No; I understand. You are like a surgeon performing a fine operation.”

“Exactly. I think I’m on the way to fix that boy up! Really! I’m
tremendously excited about it.... By the way, wasn’t there something
in that yacht race about climbing--I mean in the thing that Walter did
that set the mater off?”

“Why, yes!” she exclaimed, catching some of his excitement. “I remember
now. He went aloft to disentangle the peak halyard. That’s it! Mother
was watching the race with a glass, and she nearly fainted when she saw
him leg up. She knew he couldn’t swim. The boat was scudding down the
Lake with the wind back of her; he did that leg in less than a minute
and she was heeling over nearly to the water. And Captain Tyler said
that that’s what won the cup, Walter’s shinning up the mast.”

“By Jove!” Richard seized her hand and wrung it fervently. “We’re
getting warm, Jerry! We’re getting warm! That’s what he meant by
climbing trees----”

“Of course!” Jerry was equally excited. “When he couldn’t----”

“You have it!” he broke in. “When he couldn’t climb masts, he sulked
and wouldn’t race at all. Then he went off and climbed trees all by his
little lonely----”

“Just to show her that he wasn’t going to be bossed!” she helped
quickly.

“Sure! Then he got taking a drink or two just for company----”

“I don’t think he ever really liked the stuff. None of us do.”

“Of course he doesn’t. If his primary interest is drink,” Richard flung
up his hands, “the Lord help him, for nobody else can. That’s what
Galloway says. I’ll get in touch with Galloway soon as we land. Perhaps
I can get him to come up with us----”

“Where?” She was sobered suddenly.

“To ‘Red Jacket,’ of course.” He laughed at her stupidity. Her
expression puzzled him for a moment. “Or is it ‘Yellow Jacket’? I’m no
good on names. Well, never mind the colour, old girl. We’ll all work on
it and we’ll bring that kid around as sound as buckwheat. Aren’t you
excited about it?”

“Yes,” she answered quietly. With her head resting in her hands, she
was frowning at the great swirl of water left by the receding boat.




CHAPTER VIII

“MAN OVERBOARD!”


PROFESSOR “JAWN” GALLOWAY was of a different “caste” from Richard, but
they matched up equally as chums. Galloway had been one of the West
Side group; in fact, he had been a West-sider from birth, one of those
clever Irish lads who can rise to distinction out of the soddenest of
homes. Dan Galloway, the father, was a hearty, noisy--and it must be
admitted--dirty Tammany helper. Dublin had brought him forth and he had
seen troublous times there. A lucky immigration and a still luckier
political situation saved him the trouble of working and gave him
lodgings, beer and victuals. “Jawn” Galloway, the son, inherited nearly
every trait of his father save two--he was the farthest removed from a
loafer; and he hated uncleanliness. By the dint of sheerest personal
push he had gone through school, college and university and was making
a name for himself in the newest of callings, psychotherapeutics. At
twenty-eight he held honorary doctorates from honourable universities;
but to look at his rubicund Irish face, to hear his laughter and to see
his joy over the coarser delights of life, one would never guess all
that.

As the S.S. _Victoria_ neared New York, Richard prepared a letter to
John Galloway. It read:

  “PAL JAWN--August will be your vacation month, I am a prophet and
  foresee much. Besides, you admitted when I left that you would be
  free in August. You are to go to Penn Yan (not China), New York,
  and thence to ‘Red Jacket’--which is a house--and inquire for your
  hostess, Mrs. Emma Wells. Some time to-day I shall let her invite you.

  “The daughter, Geraldine, will interest your Irish heart. She sheds
  flattery as if she were used to it, as I suspect she is; but she has
  never met your subtle blarney. I’m on tiptoe to see the effect on her.

  “But that isn’t the point. It may turn out to be. We’ll leave it to
  the gods, who manage beautifully if we are not too presumptuous.
  The point is a boy, neurotic, just your kind; idiot with gleams of
  sense; drinks, perfect guzzler, but not primary, you know. _And I’ve
  got hold of the primary interest!!_ It’s climbing trees and furling
  spinnakers. Aren’t you itching to get at it?

  “I bet I’ve spoiled your vacation, O.K.! I hope so.

                            “Yours,

  --“Wait. I’m travelling incognito. It’s a glorious experience. Wonder
  why I never thought of it before. Accident--I mean the gods did it.
  Of course, we know there ain’t no accidents, just incidents! My first
  name is Richard and my last name is Richard--Richard Richard. Can you
  beat it? Monotonous? Not at all. There’s Dick Richard and Richard
  Dick and Dick Dick. I wanted to have a middle name, Richard, too, but
  got scared off.

  “You don’t know the joy of incognito. To be free from the everlasting
  questions. I’m beginning to see--data for you--that the name hampered
  me, drew me into myself, made me shy and backward except with good
  old pals like you, Jawn, who know what’s what. If I ever have a boy
  I’ll not junior him. Fancy a George Washington, Jr. Think of the life
  of that kid! And it sounds like George Cohan, too!

  “Practise my new name. There must be no slips. More data--the boy
  (name, Walter Wells; age, twenty-two; specialities, tree climbing,
  spinnaker furling and wood alcohol) knows about the name, my name.
  He’s holding it over me! I let him and we thrive together. Also (more
  data) I give him two drinks a day. Bring (more data) some superfine
  cognac.

  “Lots more, but it’ll keep.

                                        “Yours,
                                                       “RICHARD RICHARD.

  “On second thoughts you’d better stand by in N. Y. until I ’phone
  you, which means that you’re to pay the train fare to Penn Yan. But
  amn’t I after getting you free wittles for a month? And you know,
  Jawn, there has been days when free wittles was not to be sneezed at!”

With the characteristic directness of an egoist who knows what he
wants, Richard lost no time in searching for Mrs. Wells. He found her
in her accustomed place in the lee of the bridge. She was propped up
with more than the usual number of cushions, and the pallor of her face
struck him instantly.

“My dear lady!” He sat beside her, his voice genuinely sympathetic.
“Don’t tell me you are succumbing now, after going through the main
part of the voyage.”

“I am never seasick,” she said, with an imitation of her old firmness;
“just a little weariness, that’s all.... That’s a good boy----” He was
tucking her in dexterously. “You are making me very fond of you.”

“Of course I am,” he cheered her; “it’s a plot.”

“You remind me of what I’ve missed by being so independent all my life.
Sit down. You’re not going to run away just because I look a little
seedy, are you?”

He sat down on the foot-rest of her chair.

“Here I sit, your squire to command,” he joked.

A little colour came into her face. She reached a thin hand and patted
him on the arm. There was not a particle of doubt as to his interest
in her. She was twice his age, but their minds were contemporaries.
They had met in tournament mentally and jousted for the sport of the
thing; they had lent their minds out to each other and had made broad
paths towards intimacy. And at the same time it was sweet flattery for
her to know that this strong youth--his thirty-three years sat lightly
upon him--was paying a kind of court to her intelligence. As a rule the
young men had hovered about out of politeness, but were off at a nod
from the daughter.

“You’re a good boy,” she said. “I shall miss you; unless----”

“I accept in advance!” he cried gaily. “You know I’m a professional
guest!”

“And also some sort of a widow,” she smiled.

“Assistant widow,” he corrected; “but please don’t remind me of that. I
won’t have to think of that until the November exams. begin. Let’s talk
of ‘Red Jacket.’ You’re too tired to talk, so let me talk for you, tell
you what you were going to say. Gracious! You don’t know what a silent
crab I am usually. You have brought me out, introduced me to speech,
you and Jerry.”

“What was I going to say?” she helped him, amusement in her quiet tones.

“Oh, yes,” he remembered. “You were about to invite me to ‘Red
Jacket’--Jerry let the cat out of the bag--and I’m coming. We’ll have
great old pow-wows, won’t we?”

She closed her eyes wearily, but the contented smile remained.

“You don’t know what a flutter you’re putting me in.” She looked at him
tenderly. “Women of my age don’t often get such genuine attention from
young men. It’s so rare that--well, you’ll have to be careful. Don’t
give me too much of it. I’ll be getting jealous of Geraldine next;
begin to fool myself into thinking I’m young again.”

“Young? Pooh!” He tossed his head. “Why all this silly eagerness to be
young? Age is the thing, the goal. ‘Grow old along with me, The best is
yet to be, The last of life for which the first was made.’ You remember
your Ben Ezra, don’t you? Well, that’s the best of sense. Youth? It’s a
time of folly and bad thinking. You don’t catch a successful business
man sighing for the days when he had a tuppenny shop with more debts
than customers. We don’t pine for green blueberries, do we? What’s all
this march forward of growth if it doesn’t mean something mighty fine?
Why, lady mine, I’m just eager to push on to forty and to fifty and to
sixty--to a hundred if I could. Life’s a climax--always a climax; don’t
bow for a minute to the world’s sentimental nonsense over youth.”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “you are right, of course. I wouldn’t go
back even five years.”

“Who would?” he questioned triumphantly; “which proves my point
perfectly. The world doesn’t believe its own nonsense; and that’s a
text for an enormous arraignment of the world in all its beliefs. The
credo is the act, not the pious patter of the mouth. What a man does,
that is his belief, whether he knows it or not.... Don’t you think
you’d better close your eyes and take a little nap? You look knocked
out; has anything happened?”

She opened her eyes resolutely. “Go on,” she said, without answering
his question. (“Ah!” he said to himself, “something has happened,” but
he gave no sign.) “Go on. I’ve often thought that thought. It’s not
what you say about yourself; it’s what you do that tells the story.
That’s very true. Very true.”

What she was thinking--and some inkling of it was in her voice--was
that this young man was really interested in chattering with her; that
Geraldine often protested interest, but her neglect was the truth; that
her boy Walter had never expressed either dislike or affection for her,
but his act in striking her in public was eloquent. Richard sensed a
specific application but, naturally, he could not apply it exactly. So
he went on cheerfully:

“I’ve spent many delightful hours writing out the creeds of various
men. I’ve followed them to their churches and into their businesses
and, sometimes, into their homes. This man who professes Christian
humility openly, who begs the world to turn the other cheek, to forgive
seventy times seven, who cries out that the meek shall be blessed and
shall inherit the earth--oh, it is great fun to judge him by his deeds.
Arrogance and self-sufficiency rule him. He is merciless to wife, child
and employee. It takes a destructive and criminal strike to squeeze
decent wages from him. He links himself with corrupt politicians for
personal gain. He connives at shady legislation. Oh, he is meek--in
after-dinner speeches and in addresses before the Sunday school--and
verily he well-nigh inherits the earth!... And I have seen rough-spoken
men whose acts are the heart of humility.”

“Your arrogant man,” Mrs. Wells took up the discussion, “I am
interested in him. I am an arrogant person myself, and I’m often
sorry.... Within the past hour I have been arrogant, and I am suffering
for it.”

Richard said nothing. Instinctively he knew she would tell him, if it
were proper for him to know.

She continued after a moment’s pause, “Could not your arrogant man be
sincere in all his professions; fool himself, as it were?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. That is the interesting thing to me.
I’m an onlooker merely. I do not condemn. I condemn nothing. Sincere?
Undoubtedly. But sincerity is no great virtue. Every persistent burglar
is sincere. He has no pricks of conscience. Question him--as I have
done--and he justifies himself every time. Sincerity is the cheapest
possession, and the world values it too highly. The Spanish inquisitors
were sincere; so were the scalping Indians; and Boss Tweed. And so were
Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth. So is the devil, for that matter.”

She laughed weakly. A little more colour came back into her face.

“Your incongruous company is very amusing,” she smiled, and began to
sit up. He helped her with pillows.

“The only point, isn’t it,” he said, “is not whether a man is sincere,
but whether he is wise or ignorant. Now your boy, Walter----”

A flash of pain that came suddenly across her face told him much.

“You have been talking to him?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Was that wise?”

“No.”

“Was he--violent?” he asked anxiously.

“I shouldn’t have done it. I was--sincere, God knows; but, as you say,
I was ignorant----”

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“What did he do?”

No answer.

“Let’s be frank. I’m trying to get him out of the slough he’s in. I
must know everything. Treat me as if I were his physician, as I believe
I am. He was nasty to you?”

“Yes; he called me the vilest name.... We’ve talked about that, I
know; names should not affect us. ‘Sticks and stones,’ etc.--I know
that is true; but, man, you can’t know the surging, overwhelming
emotion that covers a mother when her boy calls her something low,
unmentionable--horrible.”

“Let’s forget that,” he said, “and get the gain out of it. It means
you must give up trying to control him. Don’t care about that. It’s
just like a doctor when something that should stimulate depresses.
He changes the medicine as one would change a coat, and with no more
concern. You had to try this out, to see if you couldn’t hold him. You
could not give him up without one more trial. That’s all right, and now
you must leave him to me. We’re getting along. He lets me scold him.
It’s my luck not to get on his bad side. I may; nobody knows. But I’ve
been able to suggest lots of good habits. We walk miles together on
the deck, you notice. He’s getting some health back; and I’m chucking
him full of confidence. Cheer up. Don’t let a name or two bother you.
That’s just the devil in him talking. Oh, he’s got a devil, all right,
and I’m the boy to exorcise it. You leave it to me. You will; won’t
you?”

“I am not sure that I should.” She turned her face away.

“Ah, that’s pride, I fear.”

“I am sure it is.” She turned her face to him with a wan smile.

“Good!” he cried. “Honest confession is good for the soul.”

“It is,” she admitted. “I don’t often practise it. The puzzle to
me is why I do it to you. Pray tell me, O youth, what makes you so
fascinating?”

“Am I?” He appeared hugely gratified. “How jolly!”

“_Now_ who is proud?”

“Me! I own up. I’m bloated with pride. But I always own up. It’s part
of my creed.”

“Then, pray, own up something to me.”

“Name it.”

“Why--precisely why--are you willing to give up your plans and your
other friends and stay with us at ‘Red Jacket’? No fooling, young man;
nothing but the truth, the whole truth.”

He crossed his heart.

“Hope I die.” He imitated the children’s formula, the charm to insure
truth. “I want to come because I like you--you and Jerry.”

“Humph! Me and Jerry. Not just me?”

“Nope--both of you; and the reason for that is that I talk to you. I
can always tell. I have only two joys in life--curiosity about life
itself, and talk. I’ve stayed up all night for a good confab with the
right person. But only certain persons can I talk with. Don’t know
why; but I trust the instinct. With you and Jerry I am garrulous and
contented. That’s enough for me. There is another reason why I want to
go--I’m extremely interested in Walter. Curiosity about life, as I told
you, is one of my passions. I want to unravel his mental puzzle if I
can; and I think I can. I’m on a most exciting clue----”

Should he tell her the whole truth; that she was directly responsible
for the boy’s downfall; that her impatient arrogance, her stupidity in
not realizing that a sensitive man does not enjoy a public reprimand
from even his mother, was the beginning of all the evil that followed?
He looked at her aged face and decided to say nothing.

“A most exciting clue,” he repeated.

“Those reasons don’t seem adequate to me.” She looked at him with
smiling suspicion.

“Oh, there are other reasons, no doubt,” he agreed; “only I don’t know
them. They’ll come out later. They always do. The subliminal--the self
inside, deeper than consciousness--it is at work, I suppose, here as
everywhere. I am expressing my predestined self. But, of course, I
don’t hold myself responsible for that. That’s in the hands of the
gods. My soul-mate may be up on that lake of yours--dispensing soda in
one of Quackenbuster’s drug stores.”

“Quackenbush,” she corrected, amused at his air.

“Is it? All right. That’s one thing I don’t have to remember.
Quackenbush or Quackenbuster, it’s the business of destiny, not mine.
Although, I suppose, when the time comes I’ll crow a lot about my good
judgment. Every blade of grass, no doubt, believes it has chosen green
for a colour.... But, why aren’t my reasons adequate?”

“Well, they are not normal----”

“Ah!” he interrupted. “That’s exactly what I claim to be, normal. It’s
the rest of the conventional world that’s abnormal.”

“Do you remember the Quaker,” she commented, “who said to his wife,
‘Martha, all the world’s queer, excepting me and thee--and thee’s a
little queer’?”

“Honest Quaker!” he rejoined. “I’ve much admiration for him. It’s the
way we all feel. To me all mankind is deliciously comic, all except
me--and I’m a _little_ comic.”

Far off towards the stern of the boat someone uttered a cry. It sounded
at first like the gulls, which were beginning now to follow the boat.
But it was repeated with a clear human suggestion. Mrs. Wells, with
eyes contentedly closed, heard nothing. Richard had performed his
office well; she was cheered and heartened. So he deftly tucked in a
stray corner of the rug and slipped quietly away. Far off he had seen
Geraldine, her face in agony.

Fortunately the majority of the passengers had gone down to early
dinner. The deck was free as he sped forward at full speed.

“Quick!” she called to him. “There! Walter! Oh, quick! quick!”

The stern of the boat was narrow and almost cylindrical, like the hull
of a tank steamer. Only a hand-rail and a life-saving raft or two gave
any protection against sliding off into the sea. Stumbling over the
odds and ends of ship machinery usually lashed down here, Walter was
making his way to the extreme end of the boat. His unsteady gait and
his occasional sprawl at full length told the story.

“The rest of my cognac!” thought Richard, as he leaped to the deck
below, ran across a space full of dismantled derricks and winches, and
clambered up the ladder which brought him back again to Walter’s level.

“Hi!” Richard called commandingly. “Come out of that!”

He called to gain time. At the call, Walter steadied himself on a
life-raft and slowly turned himself about.

When he saw Richard climbing over a railing he waved a hand and shook
his head.

“Sta’ back!” he demanded thickly. “Going to stop whole business. Sta’
back, I say. She wo’ let me ’lone. Tol’ her I’d do it. ’N’ will do it.
Sta’ back!” he screamed. “Do y’ hear me! Damn y’ soul, I tell y’, sta’
back!”

Just before Richard reached him his slow mind realized that whatever
he was to do must be done quickly. On either side of him bulked the
life-rafts, but beyond, near the very end of the boat, was a cleared
space of several feet. Nothing but a low guard-rail of rope protected
one from the rounded hulk of the vessel. Towards this open space Walter
threw himself, clutched the rail and flung his leg over.

At this end of the boat the ship motion was marked. She would lower a
dozen feet every few seconds and fling herself up again rhythmically.
It was the sudden lunge up as Walter’s leg went over the rail that
prevented Richard from pouncing upon him in a single leap. The two
men were only a yard apart, but the tilt of the vessel made Richard’s
progress a climb uphill, and when the ship started down again Walter’s
body had already begun to roll slowly over the rail towards the deck.
Once on that wet slant and he would have shot bounding off into the
churning sea.

With the tilt of the steamer downward, Richard leaped forward, and
seizing the hand-rope, which he gripped like iron, he catapulted
completely over the rail and on to the curved iron deck. The lunge
carried him against Walter’s slipping body, which his arm encircled. As
the steamer rose and fell Richard clung to the guard-rope and hugged
the boy to him in a terrific grip.

“Le’ me go, damn you,” whimpered Walter, although his head was nearly
smothered against the deck. “Le’ me go, can’t yuh? Tol’ her I would;
an’ I will. Le’ me go. Wo’ let her boss me. Le’ me go, I say! Aw! Le’
me go!”

Richard tried to draw himself up, but stopped, fearing that the boy
might struggle; and besides, he did not wish to risk losing his grip on
the rail. Looking off to the side he could see the curving edge, and
beyond was the white-capped sea.

Of course Geraldine had followed swiftly, and with her she had brought
a burly sailor. Someone had cried, “Man overboard!” A small crowd began
to rush towards the stern. It was a simple matter to get both men back
on the platform.

“Come along, old fellow.” Richard lifted the boy and encircled him with
his arm. “You’re just feeling a little blue; that’s all. Come along
down with me and we’ll talk it all out.”

The soothing voice, where he had expected reprimand, had an amazing
effect.

“Aw ri’,” he agreed cheerfully enough, as if risking two lives was a
matter of every-day happening. “Guess y’r ri’; but she ought never come
at me ’at way--spesh’ly after I _tol’_ her. You know, Rich’rd, I _tol’_
her. _Didn’t_ I tell her?”

“Of course you did.” Richard drew him farther on. “And what’s more, she
won’t do it again.”

“Oh, yes, she will. You do’ know ’er.”

“She promised me she wouldn’t.”

“She promis’, did she?”

“Gave her word she wouldn’t.”

“Gave ’er wor’, did she?”

He pondered over the fact.

“Tha’s fine!” he said. And after a few steps further, he nodded his
head vigorously and repeated, “Tha’s fine! Good ol’ sport, mother;
aw’ways keeps ’er word. Tha’s fine!”

In a few moments after, with the help of the ship’s doctor, Walter was
sleeping blissfully in Richard’s room. Richard sat on a camp-stool and
Geraldine sat on Richard’s berth.

“Seems comfty, doesn’t he?” Richard gazed with smiling interest at his
charge and then looked into the face of Geraldine.

“Has mother been after him again?” she asked.

Richard nodded good-naturedly, as if that did not matter.

“He said he would jump over the side,” she shivered at the thought, “if
mother pestered him again. I told her to look out. But she laughed at
me. Does she know about this?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“I can’t make up my mind. Not just now, at any rate. She’s pretty
spent. Something has happened lately to take the spark out of her.”

“Yes; I’ve noticed that. She has aged frightfully.”

“That quarrel on the deck upset her. She’ll get over it. We must wait.
Meanwhile I shall not let this determined youth get out of my sight....
I’m sorry,” he added, as a thought occurred to him, “but you see now
that I must go on with you to ‘Red Jacket.’”

“Has mother asked you yet?”

“Yes; this afternoon--and I accepted.... Do you mind?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him frankly. “You like the truth. Yes, I do
mind; but this thing of Walter’s has scared me.... I’m sick at the
thought of it.... I see that you must come with us.... My only fear now
is--is that you won’t.”

“That’s all right, my dear----” A faint smile visited her whitened face
at the remembrance of her jesting on the top of the hill back of Naples.

Then tears came suddenly into her eyes, the after effect of the scene
she had just witnessed. She brushed them away and smiled at the same
time, a sunshine and shower effect.

“Lord, how I have aged since Naples!” She spoke with low emphasis.

“Of course you have,” said he. “You’ve grown up, just as I predicted
you would. And you’re much nicer as a young woman than as a pert kid
who knew she was good-looking.... Now, don’t worry about mother. She
and I are irrevocable chums. I could tell her the whole story--real
name and all--to-morrow and she would forgive me. But don’t fear her
discovering anything. I’m having the greatest joy out of Richard
Richard. I’m going to keep him alive as long as I possibly can. It’s
more to me than a new name; it’s a new personality.... I’m just
discovering something.”

He stopped to think.

“What is it?”

“Names are important. Galloway told me once that the police changed
the name of a street which for years had been a veritable reproach
and that instantly the street took on a new tone and in the end cured
itself. He was indignant when I scoffed. But I see he was right. This
new name has transformed me. I don’t know myself.”

“You, too, have grown up.”

“Really, I don’t seem to be the same person. I used to be a recluse, a
member of the Independent Order of Glum.”

“You were.”

“Eh? Oh, this was before you knew me.”

“Was it?” She looked across at him tantalizingly.

“Oh, yes. The moment you came along I changed my name and slipped out
of my shell.... See here, what are you grinning at?... Say, have I ever
met you before? I’m awfully forgetful.”

“I sat beside you for a full day on the way from Genoa. First days out
are never agreeable to me.”

“You did!” he ejaculated. “Why didn’t you punch me?”

“I felt like it. A half-dozen passengers tried at one time or another
to talk to you, but you froze them off with what seemed like malice.”

He laughed.

“I wanted to be alone. I’m in fine company when alone.”

“So when I saw you on deck that morning in Naples, I made a little bet
with myself that you wouldn’t snub me.”

“And, by Jove, I didn’t!” he cried. “Give me credit for that!”

“No,” she said, “you didn’t, but perhaps I deserve a little credit for
that.”

“You do,” said he speculatively, as if trying to get the exact facts;
“the evening before, I had seen you counting a huge roll of bills. When
you came towards me that morning at Naples I decided to be friendly,
tell you my predicament and get funds for a visit to the Museo
Borbonico. It worked out splendidly.”

She smiled at what she believed was just playfulness, and looked
towards the sleeping brother.

“I’d forgive you anything now,” she replied quietly, “but you fib too
well.”

“A fib in time saves nine,” said he.

“Remember that, please, when mother gets too inquisitive at ‘Red
Jacket,’” said she.

The unusual ceremony of shaking him warmly by the hand as she left the
room was not misunderstood by either. He returned the grip with equal
fervour. Both stood a moment and gazed at the boy. Then she slipped
quickly into the corridor.




CHAPTER IX

“WE SHALL SEE”


GERALDINE went directly to her mother. She found her in her usual
place, forward under the bridge. Evidently Mrs. Wells had had a little
nap; she looked refreshed and immeasurably better. An empty tea-cup and
a plate of toast was beside her, a sign that she had had her dinner
served on deck. It occurred to Geraldine as she came forward that
dinner would be out of the question that evening. Indeed, it took all
her resolution not to go to bed from sheer weakness. But the sight of
her mother’s cheerfulness and obvious return to health gave her will to
go on.

“Hel-lo,” the mother sang softly, the two musical notes that had been
a family call for a generation. It was the first chirp she had uttered
since the scene with Walter on deck. It encouraged Geraldine in her
determination to be frank.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Wells, “where have you been? Writing letters? I
do hope you have jotted a few postcards for me. I have been shamefully
lazy. Where is Richard? I owe him an apology. He was talking away
beautifully, giving me all sorts of little thrills with his absurd
poetical views, and I only closed my eyes so that I could hear
better--I did take a teeny nap, but don’t ever tell the dear boy--when,
pop! he was off without my hearing a sound.”

Geraldine stacked the remains of the dinner in a pile near the rail,
convenient for the approaching deck steward.

“It was so comfortable up here this evening,” the mother explained, for
fear she might be accused of weakness, “that I just had the steward
bring me a bite. The dining-room is abominably stuffy.”

“You are much better, mother, aren’t you?”

“Better?” She looked up sharply. “You talk as if I had been ill.
Nothing is the matter with me. I get tired--the same as others, sitting
around on this boat with nothing to do but stumble over steamer-chairs.
What made you think anything was the matter?”

Geraldine was expert enough in signs to know that this topic had better
be dropped, so she began on a new line.

“Have you seen Walter this afternoon?” Geraldine asked casually.

Mrs. Wells knew she was under cross-examination. Perhaps it was
clairvoyance; undoubtedly she had a kind of ability in reading the
intentions of others that amounted almost to mind-reading; but more
likely it was the consciousness of guilt that led her to avoid this
topic too. But she was unusually clumsy. She fussed with her pillows,
asked why the steward did not remove the tea-cup and plate, and,
finally, when Geraldine, with calm persistence, came back to Walter,
Mrs. Wells pretended at first she had not heard, and then asked
petulantly, “Yes, I have talked with him. Why shouldn’t his mother talk
with him?”

“Do you think he is any better?”

“Oh, he’s coming along as well as I expected.... Aren’t those sunset
clouds wonderful?”

“Mother, aren’t you afraid of him?”

“Afraid of whom?”

“Walter.”

“Still on my Walter,” she parodied, and took great amusement out of her
deft sally.

“I’m afraid of him, mother. I’m dreadfully afraid he’ll go out of his
mind and----”

“Tut! Tut!” Mrs. Wells interrupted. “Put that out of your head, girl.
I know Walter. And I know how to bring him around. Afraid of him?
Nonsense. The fact is, I have been indisposed ever since we came on
board; therefore I have had to give way to Richard. When we reach ‘Red
Jacket’ I shall be myself again and will take Walter in hand myself.”

“I wish you wouldn’t, mother.”

A group of men came out of the companion-way beside them. They were
smoking their after-dinner cigars and talking about the narrow escape
of a passenger from falling overboard.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Wells asked the man nearest her. “A man overboard?”

“They got him as he was falling,” the man replied. He had a big voice
and he seemed to relish the horror of the incident. “They say a
passenger was back at the stern, a man it was, and he fell afoul of a
coil of rope or something and pitched over the railing.”

“I heard something,” Mrs. Wells remembered. “It sounded like someone
screaming for help, but I was taking a little nap at the time and
thought I had dreamt it. Dear me! Isn’t it dreadful?”

Geraldine watched the mother, whose placid face showed no hint of her
intimate and personal connection with the recital now going on about
her in several keys.

A shrill-voiced man scoffed at the theory of a “man overboard.” It
was the usual false alarm on board a ship. Passengers have nothing to
do, and therefore they’re always glad to get themselves all fussed up;
they’d scream “Man overboard” if they saw a flying fish.

Another person felt differently about the matter. And he knew what he
was talking about. He had his information on the best authority. There
was a man really overboard--the second-officer was the authority--a man
overboard while the steamer was stoking ahead at twenty knots an hour.
And did they stop to hunt for him? No. What would be the use? He’d be a
mile astern before we could turn about.

While Mrs. Wells from her throne among the pillows cross-examined the
men--a favourite rôle of hers and a sign that she was coming back to
her control of things--Geraldine had dropped back into her chair,
seized by a horrid suggestion of nausea. Every vivid detail of the
struggle was made more vivid by the heartless narrators. There had been
much interruption as the men rehearsed various versions and, worse, a
lot of the senseless witticisms that men employ to show that they are a
devil-may-care lot.

Mrs. Wells scoffed at the notion that a man, a passenger possibly, had
really fallen overboard and that the vessel had gone on its way without
any concern in the matter. Had the second-officer himself told the
gentleman? Well, no; not the second-officer himself; but he had told
the thing in confidence to the quartermaster, who had passed it along
to the crew. It was the bathroom steward, in fact, who had given out
the details.

“Ah!” Mrs. Wells was highly pleased with her quiz. “On the authority of
the bathroom steward!” she chuckled. “You men know what the day’s run
is going to be, on the authority of the bathroom steward; you tell us
exactly when we shall dock, on the authority of the bathroom steward.
The male bathroom steward, my dear sir, is the exact equivalent of the
female hairdresser.”

A quiet Englishman came into the group while Mrs. Wells was expressing
her suspicion of the theory of “man overboard.” As others emerged from
the companion-way, which led up directly from the dining-room, they
stopped to listen. About six or eight passengers lounged in chairs or
stood about. From her enthroned position under the bridge Mrs. Wells
was naturally the centre of the group.

“But, really, there was no man overboard, you know,” the Englishman
told Mrs. Wells. “I saw the whole thing and helped to get the poor chap
on his feet. He wasn’t overboard, but he was jolly well close to it.”

Questions overflowed on the reticent Englishman.

Oh, no; he had done nothing--merely helped one of the crew pull the
two men up over the rail and upon the deck. It was a tall, blue-eyed
chap, the big fellow with the hearty laugh, you know, the one who is
everlastingly tramping the deck--he’s the boy who gets the medal. Why,
he sprang right over the rail, depended solely on the grip of his hand
to hold himself from sliding overboard!

“Back aft, you know,” he explained, “the vessel bulges out like a
flattened cylinder. There’s a little foot-walk on the top of the
cylinder with a bit of rope on each side. The foot-walk’s quite safe,
you know; but one step over and you’re on a smooth, round slide. A
man might hold on if he’d lie flat and if the boat didn’t jolly well
wobble. But it does wobble, you know; up and down with the rollers and
then a side shake or two; and, besides, it’s wet back there from the
spray and all that. Not much of a lark to try to hold your own on that
bit of tin.

“I was standing against the rail,” he went on, “just off there, where
our deck stops. A man and a woman were quarrelling around the corner of
the house. I couldn’t see them, of course, and I couldn’t hear all they
said, but they were having high words, the man was, rather, I should
say. Well, the man’s voice stopped. I heard the woman call after him.
She seemed to be begging him not to do something or other. I couldn’t
get it. Then she screamed. She screamed twice. Quite startling, you
know. Not loud, but--penetrating. Went quite through one. Of course
I----”

Mrs. Wells interrupted. The man’s leisurely style irritated her. She
suggested, good-humouredly, of course, that he might shorten the
melodrama and get to the tragedy.

“Quite so,” he agreed; “but this is the first act, you know. Quite
necessary, I assure you. For if the lady hadn’t screamed I--well, I
might have seen the chap drive out aft and topple half over. Of course,
I did see him, you know. What I mean to say----”

“Prompter badly needed,” remarked Mrs. Wells grimly. She had not
relished the Englishman’s quiet turn of her theatric figure of speech.

“Prompter?” he inquired blandly. “The lady called and, being a
gentleman, I ran to her assistance. Nothing could have been prompter.”
The Americans, who love a pun, applauded, but the Englishman went on
as if he had not scored. “She was calling to someone and pointing aft.
Then I saw the man. He had got down among the life-rafts and had
stumbled over something or other. He lay sprawled out on the deck. I
started after, of course, although I saw no reason to hasten. Between
the life-rafts it is perfectly safe. It’s just beyond where the trouble
begins. Then I saw the big chap. He was lugging it up the ladder and
calling, ‘Hi! Come back!’ The first chap, the chap who had stumbled,
he got himself up and ran farther aft, and for a second it seemed like
a race. But the vessel lurched badly, or something, and the first
chap--I hope I am clear--the first chap smashed up against the ropes.
The impact carried his leg over. You could count five while he slowly
turned up and on top and then began to fall over that rope rail to the
deck, you know.

“Of course all this happened while one might say Jack Robinson; but
it seemed to me he was devilish leisurely--the first chap, I mean--in
getting over that hand-rail. Good thing, too. The second chap, the big
chap, was coming full steam ahead, charging like mad. He needed every
second and he knew it, so he put one hand on the rail, gripped it,
swung over, came smash against the sliding body of the first chap, and
pinned him against the deck. And there he swung, with an arm and a leg
around the other chap, hanging by one hand to that blooming, sagging
rope. He’s the medaller. I? Like a silly ass, I stood there watching it
all and let the woman pass me. She was on them like a shot. Strong ’un
she is; she had them both fairly well up before the sailor chap and I
could lend her a lift. I hope I’ve made it all clear, but I fear I have
mussed it up. Rather beastly thing, you know, two men dangling over the
side and the old ship tossing like a mad bull!”

The Englishman was an effective narrator after all. His quietness; his
hesitations--he puffed on a pipe during the recital--and his child-like
candour gave a horrid suggestion of reality to his picture.

By this time Geraldine had recovered sufficiently to watch her mother.
Mrs. Wells’ swift mind had visualized the scene; she saw the deck rise
and fall and the two men hanging over the depths. The horror of the
thing was on her face, Geraldine noted, but there was no suspicion of
Walter.

“I saw the two of them coming back,” a lady announced. “They passed
right by my chair. The smaller man was fearfully wobbly at the knees
and he seemed dazed. He talked thick, like a drunken man, and he
smelled horridly of whisky. Of course that’s what the doctor had given
him to revive him. He mumbled and talked foolishly. If I hadn’t been
told I’d have taken him for an intoxicated person.”

This clear description of Walter came to Mrs. Wells with the cruelty of
a shock; but she did not utter a sound, or move a muscle. Rigidly she
watched the speaker, but Geraldine saw the colour fade from her face,
and her heart beat in pity.

Summoning her energies, Mrs. Wells rose slowly and moved towards the
companion-way. At the top of the swaying stairs she pulled herself
together, and went straight to Richard’s room and knocked.

Richard opened the door softly, peered out and let his face lighten up
at the sight of Mrs. Wells.

“Come in!” he whispered, but in the tone of gay mystery. “Walter’s
taking a nap. Come in!”

She looked into the room. Walter was sleeping soundly, thanks to the
doctor’s morphine.

“No,” she said.

“Can I do anything?” he inquired; “pull out steamer-trunks, open a
port-hole or--mix you a glass of orange juice?”

His cheerfulness assured her. It was not Walter, after all.

“Nothing, thank you,” she said. “Just passing by and thought I’d tap
and see if you were at home. I’ve missed you. Why did you run away from
me this afternoon?”

“My speech put you to sleep,” he laughed; “so I just tucked you in and
slipped off.”

“I wasn’t asleep at all,” she said. “Just dozing.”

“And I didn’t run away at all,” he mimicked; “I just slipped off. But,
isn’t there something you want?”

“No.” She moved on. “Good-night. I’m off to bed. It’ll be a hard day
to-morrow with customs and trunks. Good-night.”

She was assured, but she would have given much to have been able to
ask him questions. She could not; her pride forbade, that pride which
Richard had accused her of more than once and which she had confessed
to no one but herself and Richard. Obstinacy was a good name for it; so
was independence and strong will and masterfulness. It was the quality
that made her dominant wherever she moved and, at the same time, often
mastered her and kept her from what she desired most. Having gone so
far as the man’s room in her fear, and having found, as she thought,
that fear to have been groundless, she was too proud to admit her
praiseworthy weakness.

Richard followed her down the corridor to a door that opened on the
lower deck. “Good-night,” he called after her softly. “Call again!”

She waved a hand lightly in recognition of his playfulness. But she
did not go to her room. With confident step she ascended the tipping
stairs and took her accustomed seat among the pillows.

The group had dispersed. Only Geraldine remained, crouched in her chair
in the same position.

The mother hummed an air as she adjusted the pillows and rugs.
Everything was all right. The unfortunate stoker or passenger, or
whoever it was, was not Walter. So spoke the external Mrs. Wells,
backed by a pride that never admits defeat. After all her interest in
the two selves, the self of consciousness and the subliminal self of
our deepest instincts and beliefs, Mrs. Wells did not know that all her
assumption of serenity was a bit of acting. She really did not know.
When the cry from within told her that no one but Richard could be the
“big chap,” the “blue-eyed chap,” the “chap with the hearty laugh,
who is always tramping the deck”; and that no one but Walter could
correspond to that thick-voiced small man with the suggestion of an
inebriate--when her strong instinct for the truth cried out to her she
shut the door, would not listen, summoned her wishes and willed them to
be the truth.

So she hummed, and appeared serene. Evidently, thought Geraldine,
Richard has fibbed to her. Richard meant well, but it was man’s
mistaken chivalry to woman and to age. He did not know her mother.
He did not know that her life had been a series of notable successes
against hard conditions and that every success won by her will had made
her invincible against opposition. And he did not know that with the
successes had gone unspeakable blunders. After the event Mrs. Wells
had often admitted frankly that she had been wrong, but always after
the event. It took one year’s failure of the grape crop to convince
her, against every authority, that her spray mixture was faulty. It
took the breaking of old Israel’s leg to convince her that a certain
nervous mare was dangerous. And so on and so on. Her answer always was,
“We shall see”; and if anyone had had the courage to flaunt her with a
list of the failures of judgment, she might have invited such a one to
strike a balance of her successes. Six hundred acres of land, mostly
under cultivation, besides interests in mortgages and shares in local
wine companies--these had engaged her judgment also, and to show for it
was what seemed on the surface to be a sound financial success.

“We shall see,” the mother would say. Well, she must be shown. The only
question was how to go about it.

“Mother,” Geraldine began resolutely, “what are you going to do about
Walter?”

“Aren’t you well, my dear?”

“Yes, mother.”

“You really look quite knocked out, Geraldine. Why don’t you go to
bed early to-night? You know we’ll have a bad day to-morrow landing.
You know what the New York customs is. I’ve had such a good nap this
afternoon that I think I’ll just sit here and moon. You go down, that’s
a good girl. I’ll be dropping along soon.”

“You haven’t answered my question, mother.”

“Eh? What question? I beg your pardon, dear.”

“I asked you what you were going to do about Walter.”

“My dear, you are obsessed about Walter. He’s a care, I’ll admit; and
it’s bad enough that I have to have him on my soul, but I do wish you
would be happy and not concern yourself about him. Even I don’t wish
to have him in my mind all the time. When we get back to ‘Red Jacket’
I shall bring all the force of my will to bear upon him. I shall force
him into good habits as I’ve done many a-time with a hunting dog. He’ll
‘charge’ or ‘heel’ at my command.”

“But he hates it, and he has threatened to do away with himself,” the
girl implored.

“Naturally he hates it. So does the dog; but he gets the right habits
eventually and doesn’t spoil the shooting by a lot of barking and
prancing around. There’s not a flaw in my theory, my dear. Of course,
I am sorry we must do this. I don’t like to treat my boy like a dog.
But we must face the fact. He is a dog. He has got himself into the
ditch; and we mustn’t mind the mire--we must get him out. You wait in
patience, my dear; we shall see.”

That “we shall see” made Geraldine determined. To the great relief of
the mother she seemed to drop the subject altogether.

“That man overboard,” she suggested.

“Yes; horrible, wasn’t it?”

“They say he deliberately threw himself over the side and struggled and
fought against a rescue.”

“Why should he do that?”

“He was trying to kill himself.”

“Who says so!”

“Richard.”

“What does Richard know about it?”

“Richard was the man who leaped over the side and held him until help
came.”

“Richard!”

“Yes.”

“And the man who----”

“That was Walter.”

It was cruel, but was there any other way? Cruel and pitiful. In the
July twilight Geraldine could see her mother age perceptibly. In a
moment she seemed to shrink and fade and grow a shade greyer. The firm
lines about her mouth loosened, giving her the look of genial senility.
It happens often to those who have led rigid, muscle-tense lives;
when they finally go, the result is not a gradual growth but a horrid
transformation. Geraldine was frightened. She summoned help from the
passengers about her and sent someone off for the doctor.

There was enough fighting spirit left in the aged mother to object
to all this attempt to help her, but weakness finally conquered
determination; she was forced to give in and let herself be put to bed.




CHAPTER X

THE FAITH OF A TREE


EARLY the next morning Mrs. Wells appeared as usual on deck and, with
apparently the same imposing mien as of old, watched the docking of the
S.S. _Victoria_. Externally she had altered little, but in a moment of
conversation with her it was clear both to Geraldine and to Richard
that she had “suffered a sea-change into something rich and strange.”
Had she packed her bags? Had she locked up the steamer-trunks, paid off
the various stewards, arranged for the porterage of trunks in the hold?
Not at all. Why should she bother about all that? What were husky young
folks for? And what was age for if not to levy tribute upon youth?

Never before had she permitted anyone to do for her. Now she shifted
to the other extreme. She would do nothing. And it was not at all
unreasonable, she assured Geraldine. Nor was it weakness, but rather
the result of strong decision. She willed now to have others take
charge of things, she said.

And so she fooled herself into a pleasant attitude of mind. Indeed she
joked about it. Sitting snugly in a deck-chair she watched Geraldine
and Richard as they superintended the bringing of luggage to the
surface and having it stacked properly, labelled and lettered.

“Now I shall begin to be appreciated,” she announced cheerfully.
Geraldine had dropped beside her, spent from the exertion. “When I
did everything, nobody knew what it cost me. I could worry over every
hair-pin, but nobody cared. That’s because nobody knew the price I paid
for their comfort. That was a mistake, I see. I did too much. Now I’m
going to take a rest for awhile and collect. What a fool I was to slave
the way I did! And the blessed relief, now that I’ve passed it over
to you, Geraldine! I never remember feeling so lazy and comfortable
and--beatific!”

No doubt it really was a blessed relief to give up the fight. Many
dominant persons are like that; they spend three-quarters of their
lives bullying their families into nervous servility, and suddenly plop
down on the said families for the remaining one-quarter and invite
themselves to be taken care of.

About Walter she said nothing. One never would think that only the
evening before she had been literally struck down by the news of
the horrible method Walter had taken to rid himself of her constant
espionage. The shock had been terrific, for her confidence in the
eternal rightness of her judgments had given her no preparation for
the revelation when it came; but the very severity of the shock served
a good purpose: it drove the whole incident into the depths of her
mind. It was now something far away, a grief that distance and time had
assuaged; something to be aware of, of course, to ponder over sadly,
but whose sting was gone.

When Geraldine had told Richard of the graphic description of the
struggle as related by the quiet Englishman, and then made clear the
surprising manner in which Mrs. Wells had abdicated, he said it was
quite normal so to act.

“Of course the shock did its work,” he said. “It knocked her out
completely. She may recover, but I doubt it. She has held a mild
despotism for the strong years of her life. This is like a successful
revolution breaking out against her. Otherwise she acts in quite
a natural human way. In his lectures, James used to enjoy telling
about these freak shifts of character. When we give up an ideal or an
ambition it is really a great relief. Instead of disappointment we
actually have happiness. James used to be fond of describing the lady
of thirty-five who at nine-fifteen of a certain evening decides that
she no longer cares to be thin. That will be her first night’s perfect
sleep. The struggle is over. She tosses the dietary to the winds, lets
out her waistband, and takes to a rocking chair and sets loose the
springs of laughter. Your mother, it seems to me, has been living on a
strain; she really carried herself a notch or two above her strength.
It will be a great joy to her to let down and be natural. I predict you
will find her a much more agreeable companion after this.”

For the present at least Richard’s prediction was verified every hour.
Instead of the semi-querulous person who checked off every article
of personal belonging and bossed stewards, porters, and even customs
officials, she walked down the gang-plank with only a slender handbag
and cheerfully sat on a trunk and permitted Richard to superintend the
irritating job of going through the customs. She offered no advice,
but she was not slow to see the humour of the situation and to proffer
broadly satiric suggestions to the workers.

Walter, too, was in splendid spirits, splendid for Walter. He
tagged along with Richard and showed a sort of weak interest in the
formalities of customs inspection. The fact that the mother had given
her word that she would let him alone made the day seem to him like the
first day of vacation. He was almost cheerful.

He followed Richard willingly enough because, he assured himself, he
had that man in his power. An assumed name is not taken up without a
lot back of it. And Richard permitted him to think so, even going so
far as to take him aside more than once and have him pledge all over
again his vow of secrecy. Walter, too, was fooling himself, pretending
to himself that he was a clever man, but all the while he was mortally
afraid of jail, and the unexpressed thought of it was the controlling
power in his attachment to Richard. No one had ever suggested jail
before. Like an irresponsible child he had always been allowed to work
his little game for money. Of course they had scolded, but always they
had let him off.

When Freneau had come along to help he discovered Richard in full
charge of the Wells’ affairs.

“You run along, Professor,” Richard laughed him aside. “You’ve done
your job, but I’m looking out for the two ladies and the boy now. No!
I won’t have you even find a customs man for me. I’m enjoying this.
It’s the first time I’ve ever really handled a family. I’m feeling
delightfully domestic--a brand-new experience--and I want to get the
last morsel of enjoyment out of it.”

“Oh, very well,” Freneau had agreed with his adversary quickly; “that
will be a great help, and I will toddle off and see to the other
members of the party. Thank you so much.”

When all had been done that could be done the group sat about on trunks
and bundles of rugs to await the heavier baggage, which was now being
derricked out of the hold. Mrs. Wells on a pile of rugs spent the
time chattering her farewells with the two other ladies who had made
up the Freneau “party.” Walter sprawled beside Richard on a trunk, and
watched the derrick pull up trunk after trunk. Geraldine had found a
more or less comfortable suitcase. They could see the heavy baggage as
it was being lifted out of the hold. Richard had managed his trip on a
commodious handbag, which he had not permitted to go below in the hold.
It was Walter’s job to watch for Wells’ trunks, black with an enormous
white “W.”

A noisy insincere set of farewells were going off directly beside
them. Richard and Geraldine exchanged glances which showed that they
appreciated the banality of every effusive phrase.

“It’s might cosy,” she said, “to have you going right along with us to
‘Red Jacket.’”

The quietness of her tone and the sincerity of her straightforward gaze
was in contrast to the noisy group breaking up beside them. And she not
only meant it to convey a contrast but a sign also that she had given
up her disapproval of his coming along.

“You don’t have to say that,” he said; “I know it.”

“How?”

“I sense it; you know I have cultivated all the senses in order to
extract the last drop of elixir of life. I sensed you from the very
beginning--not very well, I admit. I made some blunders there, but I
got you essentially, nevertheless.”

“Got me? Sensed me?” she smiled up at him. “Excuse me for being amused.
You talk as if you were a hound and I--a pheasant!”

“I am a hound--I cavort around with my nose in the air, eager to search
out things.”

“But how did you sense me from the beginning?” she came back.

“I knew you were the kind of woman you have turned out to be. I did not
judge you to be simply an astonishingly healthy animal--your health is
uproarious; it shouts at one!--vivacious, gabbly, frothy----”

“Thank you; oh, thank you!”

“I thought you had a mind,” he went on. “I sensed it. Your broad
forehead showed it; the eyes wide apart and large; the way you held
your head on your neck; the judgment and taste in your clothes; the
inflection of your voice; your choice even of slang; your laugh; your
frown; the care you spent on your body (no woman is better than her
hair!); your forced volubility; your woman’s smile which belied the
girlish chatter--and so on and so on. That’s what I call sensing you.
Most persons go on words, but speech is of very little use in judging
persons. That’s why the legal witness-box is so absurd.”

“I’m trying to think of that quotation--‘Twelfth Night,’ isn’t
it?--where Olivia gives an inventory of herself; item, one nose; item,
two eyes; item, one mouth.... You gave me no impression you were taking
an inventory of my charms. But you are right about words. I often mean
the opposite of what I say.”

“Yes! Speech is not natural. It’s an acquired skill and a poor exponent
of the self within. We are always being fooled by it; and yet words are
causing all the trouble and misunderstanding in the world. We should be
able to look beyond words. That’s how I came to give up being insulted.”

“How did you manage? I’m very sensitive to a snub.”

“I got to looking beyond the words to the real person speaking. Do you
remember Tittbottom’s spectacles?”

“No.”

“It’s in _Prue and I_.”

“Never read it; thought it was sentimental.”

“It is, but in a good sense. Tittbottom’s spectacles are the best thing
in it. He had only to put them on and he saw the inner-self of anyone
on whom he looked. Well, I have cultivated the Tittbottom habit. I
see the impatience, the illness, the ignorance, the misunderstanding,
back of the words, and then I can’t be hurt. Might as well be insulted
because a leaf turns brown.”

“I believe you would forgive a criminal for being bad!”

“Quite so. I would even forgive a good man for being good!”

The racket about them was most persistent: the rattling of hand-trucks,
the bumping of trunks, the roaring conversation of hundreds of
embarking passengers--more than one steamer had arrived that
morning--and the shouts and whistles that gave direction to machinery.
But the noise instead of interfering with the dialogue cut the two off
from the rest of the world, isolated them, as it were, in their own
private room with invisible walls.

“Well,” she said, “whatever you are, I’m glad now that you are coming
with us.”

“I knew you wanted me to come with you to ‘Red Jacket’ even when you
said you didn’t.”

“You ‘sensed’ right then. I did. But I was fearfully afraid of
exposure. I am yet. That’s why I’m going to ask you to be very nice to
mother on the train, and then when you ‘sense’ the proper moment tell
her the whole story of our trip to the top of the hill in Naples, your
real name and everything.”

“But----”

“Oh, you must. I can’t stand the deception. You can do it beautifully.
Make her laugh: I can’t do that.”

“Oh, very well. All right. If you wish it, but--Jove! I was enjoying my
incognito! I’ve taken on a sort of new soul. All my instincts say to
keep it.”

He looked at her for permission to go on keeping it.

“No,” she shook her head. “My instinct says, no.”

At that moment Walter slid off the trunk and stared hard at a black
trunk marked with a prodigious white letter, swirling around in
mid-air. The letter turned out to be “M,” but it took him a moment or
two to decide.

“Jove!” Richard exclaimed again; “I must! It’s part of the cure.” He
nodded towards Walter. “The only reason he listens to me is because
he thinks I’m a bad man like himself. I’m travelling about under an
_alias_,” he lowered his voice; “he thinks he has me in his power. We
talked it all over and swore each other to secrecy. He’ll be talking
about a percentage of the swag soon! Oh, it wouldn’t do! We must leave
things as they are. Don’t you see my point?”

She did, but reluctantly. Walter came back to his perch before she
could reply; and a banging trunk, turned end over end by the American
system of porterage, stopped all conversation temporarily.

The incident at Naples was a trivial thing, now that she could look
back upon it. Why had she not told the mother the whole episode,
omitting nothing, on the very evening of the happening? Why had she
feared to own up? Here was another of those “mental facts” which
Richard was so curious about. Mother would have looked at her with
mild disapproval and then, probably, would have laughed at the whole
affair. But instead of being frank, Geraldine had been secretive; she
had literally created a situation that had had no real existence. She
had made a mountain out of a little Neapolitan mole-hill. The evil lay
not in tripping off with an unintroduced male but in the careful and
prolonged system of concealment. It is easy to see life in review; why
cannot we be equally wise in the midst of events?

When she propounded this mental obtuseness to Richard he was full of
illustrations to show how common is that human experience. But he
was glad it had happened. It gave him a medley of new sensations;
and here he was, finding his greatest adventure at the end of his
adventure-seeking journey! Of that she was glad too, she said. And he
was glad she was glad; for he admitted that he had become attached to
the Wells family like a mongrel dog.

“First you are a hound and now you are a mongrel dog!”

“We’re very much alike, dogs and us. The skeletons are strikingly
similar--don’t you think--especially when you set them up on end.
Oh, we’re near cousins! But I’m really mongrel. I go here and there.
I have no fixed home. I attach myself to all sorts of persons,
and--alas!--leave them for other persons. Like the mongrel, I go where
my spirit moves me.”

“You really are a sort of Quaker.”

“Oh, I am very sensitive to the call of the Spirit--I spell it with
a capital because I believe we’re all part of the same mysterious
Impulse--I spell that with a capital, too. We’re like good microbes in
the blood, working out our selfish ends, but all for the unknown glory
of something greater of which we are the unconscious molecules.”

She accused him of being a pantheist. He admitted it. Then she labelled
him an old-school Presbyterian, but he admitted that.

“The main point in the old Bluestocking,” he explained, “is that as God
had arranged it all, why worry? They didn’t always stick to the main
point, because they were artistic creatures and loved the sensation of
startling pictures--infants broiling for ever in hell, and the elect,
who had done their darndest on earth, safe in heaven be-harped and
be-winged with the fright of the pit still in their faces. But their
main point is unassailable. You can’t argue it away. Predestination?
Why not? We are observers, merely: it is only an allusion that we act.
I have no more choice in going along with you to ‘Red Jacket’ than I
have in liking you immensely or being a biped or sitting on this trunk.”

“Oh, we can do some things of our own free will.”

“Name one.”

“We can do what we want to do, certainly.”

“That’s all.”

“Don’t you ever do something you don’t want to do?”

“Never; although I fool myself into thinking that I am making a
decision. Do you think, for instance, that you could stand on that
trunk and sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ at the top of your lungs?”

She shuddered at the thought.

“I could if I wanted to.”

“Ah! But you can’t want to! I won’t ask you to sing; but I defy you
to _want_ to.... There! You can’t want to. It is predestined that you
couldn’t want to.... Now, what next am I?”

“Do you mean to say,” Geraldine was intent on this old problem of
free-will versus determinism; “do you mean to tell me that I cannot
choose between, say, simpering at a man--like that fool of a girl over
there--oh, she knows what she is doing, all right, and why she is doing
it!--or being just myself?”

“I tell you simply that you cannot choose but be just yourself. Vain
persons choose vanity; greedy persons choose to be greedy; simpering
female adolescents”--he turned to look at the young girl who was
flashing herself at the young man--“do their best to choose a healthy
male. And Easter lilies choose to grow tall and slender and water
chooses to run downhill. Oh, Presbyterianism is a great faith for an
indolent chap like me--you cease to worry about the whirligig of time;
you didn’t make it nor set it agoing; and you can’t direct it nor
stop it. You leave it to the Maker and go about your blessed selfish
business free of all responsibility.”

“I don’t believe you half believe all your beliefs.”

At some hour in the day or week, he assured her, he believed many of
them. He wobbled about a lot and had a good time wobbling. The only
fixed belief he had was the belief that he should always be open to a
new belief.

Walter leaped to his feet; he had discovered a Wells trunk, and was as
delighted as a child.

“’At’s one!” he shouted.

“One what?” Mrs. Wells was startled.

“Trunks!” cried Walter.

“Goodness! I thought it was a fire!”

“’Ere’s ’nother!” cried Walter again. “’Ere they come. All of ’em!”

“Good work!” Richard slapped him on the back. “You’re the boy! Now
let’s rustle up a stevedore and a customs gentleman and put them
through.”

Mrs. Wells had given Geraldine the family purse, and she in turn had
passed it over to Richard. Like a veteran tourist-guide, he paid small
duties, fee’d the draymen, arranged for expressage, called taxis,
bought train tickets and established his party in the rear seats of an
observation car. Not until they were speeding out of the Lackawanna
Station did he realize that he had not telephoned Galloway. “Well,”
he thought, “he has my letter mailed on shipboard. He’ll find us, all
right.”

Then a ridiculous thought seized him. He took a seat beside Geraldine
and pulled from his pocket a thin wallet, the one he had shown her on
that first day at Naples; from it he produced a solitary five-dollar
bill.

“Look!” he waved it.

She did not comprehend until he had brought the family purse from
another pocket and dangled the two before her.

“I’ve bought my ticket out of your money!” he cried. “Now wasn’t that
clever of me! I still have my five dollars to windward and good free
meals ahead! Oh, it’s a wonderful thing to have faith. The Lord will
provide.”

“Did you say ‘faith’ or ‘nerve’?” Geraldine knew her man thoroughly now.

He looked at her with mock incredulity. “Woman,” he said, “don’t you
know that to have faith requires the greatest nerve on earth? Nerve!
Phew! Just you try to live in this world on faith alone. Then’s when
miracles begin to happen--they just have to!”

“I believe our part of the country will just suit you--the country you
are now being predestined to on our predestined money.”

“‘Your reason, most excellent wench! Your exquisite reason!’ That’s
almost Shakespeare; so it’s all right.”

“Penn Yan was first settled by a Quakeress, Jemimah Wilkinson, who
called herself the Universal Friend. She believed in faith, just as you
do----”

“All right; I’ll be a Universal Friend, too.”

“But she put her faith to a severe test,” Geraldine continued; “she
announced a day when she would walk on the waters of Lake Keuka as
an exhibition to her many disciples. And when they had crowded the
shores of the Lake and she had offered a silent prayer and walked to
the water’s edge, she turned to her followers and asked them to renew
publicly their confession of faith in faith. As a test she asked them
to assure her before she should step out on the surface of the water,
that they had faith that she could do all she professed in the name
of the Lord. They all had absolute faith, they cried. ‘Then,’ said
Jemimah, ‘I need not prove aught to ye who believe.’ Having said, she
turned from the Lake and went home.”

“Good for Jemimah!” said Richard. “I wager she was a keen one. That was
a bully rebuke to all that side-show crowd. But my faith is different.
I don’t ask for miracles, since every breath I draw is a miracle. I
don’t think about it at all. I have the faith of a dog----”

“What sort of a dog this time?”

The train spun suddenly around a curve, throwing him quite over against
the lady.

“Almost a lap-dog,” he laughed. “But I’ve been working that dog too
much lately. So we’ll change the figure. My faith is the faith of a
tree.”

“That’s a very beautiful picture,” she contemplated the thought,
“the faith of a tree--I wish I had it. That’s what gives you your
serenity--just like a great, strong, shady tree.”

He was pleased and told her he was pleased; and then defended
himself from the charge of vanity by admitting it and proving from
his favourite Whitman, not only the joy of vanity but the universal
practice of it.

And so they “pow-wowed,” as he called it, for many a mile. On shipboard
it was Mrs. Wells and he who had displayed to each other the eloquent
wares of their minds. Only once or twice had he and Geraldine talked
together, and then but for short intervals. The strong-minded mother
had seized on this man like a mental vampire. But after Walter’s crazy
adventure, the spring had gone out of her mind; it no longer snapped
at ideas. On this journey she was content to doze in the chair car, or
drowsily read.

Mrs. Wells had claimed the attention of Richard after the change of
cars at Elmira which had broken into one bit of conversation begun on
the observation-platform.

“We’re going to have good times together at Keuka,” Geraldine had said;
“better times than you dream of. We have a big roomy place at ‘Red
Jacket,’ with horses and good riding roads; we swim, canoe, tennis, and
sail; there’s fair trout fishing and a bully good summer climate. Later
there is good pheasant shooting and fine skating. And we’re absolutely
secluded among the hills. I live in a bathing suit until October.
You’ll enjoy tramping over the hills; and you can be alone to your
heart’s desire.”

“Oh, I’m going to like it! I sense it all.” He pretended to sniff the
joy in advance.

“Do you know what I like about you most of all?” she suddenly confessed.

“No! Tell me. My egotism needs feeding.”

“You treat me like a human being.”

“Well,” he looked her over with great care, “aren’t you?”

“You treat me like a human being, not like a woman.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I’m grateful because you don’t seem to make any difference. I like to
talk to men--some of them; they do so many interesting things. But all
that I ever get is a lot of--fluttering. They won’t talk to me as you
do. They twitter and fly away.”

“Birds of passage, eh?”

“Worse,” she pondered, as if out of deep experience; “vultures.”

“Exactly,” he dropped the bantering tone; “I understand precisely
what you mean. You’re right; I’m not that sort. Do you know, I have
a suspicion that I am sexless. I always treat women as if they were
men.... But they won’t have it that way,” he shook his head ruefully,
“even the old ones. I’m tremendously interested in many women, but
sooner or later they misunderstand my interest. Sooner or later they
shame me to the core. Are my ears burning?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. The very remembrance is awful. Sooner or later they
begin ... making eyes at me, or they write me outrageous confessions
and then--I decamp! Of course I understand the law of the thing, and if
I could reciprocate I suppose it would be all right and natural. Lord!
I am interested only in their minds! You know Shakespeare advocated
the ‘marriage of true minds’; but I haven’t found a woman yet who took
to it for long.... I can’t afford to marry.... I won’t let the thought
get in my mind. I have closed my life to the things that tie me. ‘I
celebrate myself’ with good old Walt and decline to attach myself to
anything. Detachment--that’s the only means of happiness. One must be
an observer, never a participant. That’s the artist’s point of view.
With wife and children would come a sort of pleasant, altruistic
slavery. Thank the Lord ‘Jawn’ Galloway is a gentleman--I never need
fear that some day he will fall in love with me.”

At this point the break in the journey had begun. For some
unaccountable reason this speech had inflamed Geraldine with anger.
It was seemingly so pointed, so carefully aimed at her. It was, as
she took it, a notice in advance not to trespass; indeed a hint that
inevitably she would trespass. Make eyes at him? Write him confessions?
Egoist? Egotist, rather! The colossal vanity of the man! Well, she
would show him. She would prove an exception to his experience. And so
she fumed, but kept her outward calm.

As they stepped out of the train at Penn Yan and moved towards black
George Alexander, who stood grinning and bowing before the door of the
Wells’ family carriage, she managed to draw Richard aside for a moment
to say:

“You need have no fear, my dear charmer, about this woman. She has no
intention of falling in love with you, exquisite sir.”

The smile that came to his face puzzled her. His mild eyes seemed to be
looking into her very “subliminal.”

“How can you be sure?” he asked searchingly.




CHAPTER XI

TSHOTI-NON-DA-WAGA


INSTANTLY Geraldine knew that she had blundered. The lesson of the
value of silence she had not quite learned, although she was making
strides. After two weeks of “non-committalishness,” as Mrs. Wells had
styled it, she had committed herself thoroughly. It was now the turn of
her own ears to burn. During the late dinner and after she went to her
room she flamed at the thought of her silly speech. And it was not as
if the thing had come from her impromptu; she had thought it all out
carefully; planned even the order of the words! With a phrase she would
squelch this exquisite self-centred gentleman. In the silent rehearsal
on the train the words appeared to have a smashing, annihilating power.
It seemed almost too cruel to use them.... And their effect had been
a comic confession of girlish inability to take a general discussion
impersonally! In a smile and a look the man had accused her of laying
her mind bare, of giving herself away by protesting too much.

In the morning the anger was gone, evaporated; chagrin and mild
humiliation took its place. In that mood she met Richard at breakfast.

“I was outrageously angry with you last night,” she confessed. They sat
opposite. Mrs. Wells was too busy getting into domestic harness again
to have even a subliminal ear open; and Walter, as usual, remained
aloof.

“Yes,” he appeared to have forgotten the cause; “so you were. Was it my
fault?”

“I don’t suppose it was anyone’s fault,” she replied; “that is,
according to your view of things. It was like a gust of wind. It swept
over me. I present it to your collection of interesting ‘mental facts.’
Your suggestion that all women eventually make eyes at you----”

“Oh, did I say that? Not all! It wouldn’t be true to say all.”

“Well, the majority of them, even the old ones, you said----”

“Oh, no; not all,” he gazed out of the window towards a rolling view of
the Lake several hundred feet below them, “for I distinctly remember a
good old coloured cook who didn’t.... But then I was only a child.”

She laughed. “Last night I couldn’t have seen the humour of anything.
Do you know, Sir Richard, I could have struck you last night? If I had
had my riding crop in my hand I would have lashed you across the face.
Now, psychologist explain that brain storm, if you can.”

He did not turn his head from the window. The scenery took all his
eyes. In the darkness of the previous night he was aware that the
carriage had been travelling up a considerable grade, but he was not
prepared for this elevation of about four hundred feet above the level
of the Lake. The house--the Southern mansion type--turned its four
enormous Ionic columns half-way about so as to enjoy the vista down the
blue Keuka and the far ridges of high, misty hills.

“How can you keep your eyes away from that wonderful view?” he asked.

“It is wonderful, isn’t it?” She moved her chair. “And don’t believe
for a moment that I think lightly of it. I was born in the room just
above this--my own room, now--and that view has coloured my whole life.
Nothing in Europe was half so good to me, because _that_”--she threw a
touch of a kiss to the Lake--“that is home.”

“I quite understand you,” he spoke appreciatively, “although I never
had the sensation of home.... It must be thrilling ... to be able to
come--home.”

“You poor boy.”

Curiosity about his possible past came over her. It was not the first
time, but she withheld the question that rose to her mind. Besides, the
mother was hovering near. And, besides again, he must not now be asked
to tell anything, not while he was a guest in this house.

“I don’t intend to exhibit ‘Red Jacket’ to you,” she covered her
exclamation quickly; “it must unfold itself. There are dozens of views,
but you must come upon them unawares; and each has an inexhaustible
pack of scenes--I am always discovering new ones. ‘Red Jacket’ is a
crafty old Indian; he’ll remain stolid and silent as stone until you
are ready to commune with him. Those four great columns outside, for
instance; they are never the same. At first you will glance at them
and pass under, unless you wonder why they put such huge columns on a
dwelling-house. Maybe you’ll make the usual joke and ask if this is
the post-office or the Carnegie library. You’ll be here a long while
before they grow big and you grow small; and then you’ll pass them some
moonlight night with a little reverence; and on stormy nights you’ll be
glad of them and feel, oh, so protected when you are safe inside.”

She talked with a smiling casualness--hesitating here and there for a
word--which took the eloquence out of the speech, but left all of the
affection and all of the poetry.

“You are very dangerous,” he spoke with decision abruptly. “Your song
of home is stirring primitive instincts in me. Look out, or I may stick
a bread knife in my belt and stalk down that long hill to the cottage
I see at the edge of the Lake and run amuck among some good man’s
daughters. You are arousing my domestic instincts. Please don’t force
me to marry somebody in self-defence.”

“What’s this?” Mrs. Wells caught a word. “Marry in self-defence? What
an ungracious remark, Richard. I trust, if you do marry, you’ll marry
for the good of your immortal soul. You know it isn’t good for a man to
be alone; therefore it is bad; and therefore, a lost soul.”

She was recovering some of her old spirit. “Red Jacket” had done that.
Since five o’clock she had been wandering in and out among her hardy
perennials, and every blossom had given her courage. But the old vim
and assurance was gone; only the external imitation remained. She
looked almost as imposing and masterful as of old; but the aggressive
force was no longer there. In its place had come a permanent yielding
sweetness, a charming thing; and, better still, a long-belated sense of
humour.

“Bravo!” cried Richard, “you are a theologian, Mrs. Wells. Any seminary
would pass you, except possibly Union and Harvard Divinity; and they
might, because they believe in everything. Jerry has been letting
me into some of the secrets of ‘Red Jacket.’ It begins already to
domesticate me. But I see that ‘Red Jacket’ has deep roots.”

“You don’t ask questions and bring us out,” Mrs. Wells beamed at him.
“‘Red Jacket’ was built by my grandfather. He came with his slaves
from Virginia in 1818. George Alexander’s great-grandmother was my
grandfather’s ‘Mammy.’ You’ll find black folks all over this country
who are the result of that migration. Grandfather Wells was a close
friend of Red Jacket the Seneca Chief. Red Jacket--the Indian, not
the house--was born just below us on the Lake; he was a friend of the
whites, you know, and was most helpful in thwarting old Tecumseh.
Grandfather was made a member of the Seneca tribe. We have a heap of
mementoes of that in ‘Grandfather’s Room’ upstairs.”

“Really!” Richard’s eyes widened. “When may I see them?”

“Wait, I’ll get you the key.” The mother was on the way when Geraldine
interrupted.

“Now, mother, you’re spoiling it. Don’t let’s get the key. Let it wait.
I don’t want to personally conduct Richard about like a Freneau party.
Let him find out things for himself. If we tell him everything it will
spoil the surprise.”

The mother agreed reluctantly, and so did Richard.

“All right,” he settled back. “I’m game. I hate to be told things. I do
like to find them out for myself. May I go anywhere?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wells; “only be careful of the under----”

“S-sh!” Jerry warned.

“Ah-ha!” Richard cried. “Mystery, plot and underground passages! I am
in luck. And I do hope there’s heaps of danger.”

“Don’t be too sure you’ve guessed,” laughed Geraldine. “‘Red Jacket’
was one of the ‘stations’ of the Underground Railway which spirited
negroes from the South. This was one of the last ‘stations’ before
Canada. No! I won’t tell you any more. You are free to go anywhere you
please, but I wouldn’t try to walk off Bluff Point after dark. It is
only an eight-hundred foot drop to the Lake.”

Richard elected to go first to the porch and sit in the guardianship of
the four Ionic columns. The Lake is nearly a mile wide at this point
and the view swept southeast over a lengthened vista of water and
rolling vineyards.

“Would you like to be introduced?” Geraldine nodded towards the great
columns, which shot straight up to the roof-trees. “The farthest one is
‘Tshoti,’ the second is ‘Non,’ the one to your left is ‘Da,’ and the
last one is ‘Waga.’ Put together they say Tshoti-non-da-waga, ‘People
of the Mountains.’ That is what the Seneca tribe call themselves, and
here among the mountains they lived and ruled.”

“My Indian history is rather shaky--but I’m eager to brush up,” said
Richard. “The Senecas were one of the Six Nations, weren’t they?”

“Yes; they were the leaders of the Six Nations!”

She was standing as she spoke, gazing off far across the Lake. She was
brown and broad-cheeked, as so many Virginians are. In that setting she
took character; and her pride as she said, “They were the leaders of
the Six Nations!” caused Richard to wonder. Great-grandfather Wells,
friend of Chief Red Jacket, had been received into the Seneca tribe.
Could it be a touch of Indian blood that gave the erect figure, the
dark skin and the swart hair?

“Are you a Seneca maiden, I wonder?” he asked.

She turned swiftly and posed like a statue.

“You should see me in my birch canoe,” she spoke after a second or two.
“For your private joy I’ll braid my hair in two thick plaits and put on
a genuine Tshoti-non-da-waga costume out of ‘Grandfather’s Room.’ Then
you _will_ wonder. Oh, my dear Sir Richard, you are not the only one to
have mysterious pasts!”

Instantly he took up the jest--if it were a jest--and parodied
Longfellow at her:

  “Tell me, tell me, lovely maiden
  Of the Tshoti-non-da-waga,
  Do you still sneak up behind one
  With a scalping-knife extended
  For to--uh--lift one’s curling ringlets?”

She was quick to answer in equally bad doggerel:

  “No! nor does the lovely maiden
  Of the Tshoti-non-da-waga----”

She stopped for a moment to get the next lines smooth, and then went on
swiftly:

  “Roll her eyes or fall in love with
  Every thing that struts in trousers.”

“Good shot!” he cried. “Hey, Walter!” Walter had lunged along after
Richard. He seemed to enjoy being present, so long as he was not
bothered. “Hey, Walter, what do you think of that for poetry? It’s
enough to make old Ralph Waldo Longfellow turn over with envy.”

“Huh!” Walter sniffed in a very, very knowing way. “You’re all
right--you two!”

There was something almost sinister in his look. He had sized them up,
it said.

“What do you mean?” Geraldine began to flame again.

“Jerry!” Richard caught her arm and pressed it significantly.

“Oh, I’m on!” Walter snapped. “Go to it, you two. It’s all right. It’s
_all_ right, I tell you. I don’t care. I’m no squealer, I tell you. Go
ahead; on’y no use puttin’ up no bluff with me.”

In a moment Jerry was standing before him, her eyes blazing. She was
about to seize Walter and shake him. But Richard followed quickly and
put his arm completely about her shoulders and held her to him.

“There now, Jerry,” he soothed. “Of _course_ Walter’s on. Why shouldn’t
he be? He’s a good sport, and he might as well be in this, too. I’ll
have no secrets from Walter. I tell him everything. It’s the only way
to treat pards----” Richard’s pressure on her arm was telling her to
join in the stratagem, that it was the only thing to do; but it took
her several bewildering seconds before she comprehended. Then she made
amends; her dramatic instinct came to the fore, and she laughed softly.

“Walter, you’re a keen one,” she nodded towards him, and slowly
disengaged herself from Richard’s grip. “You’ve got the mind of a----”

“Tshoti-non-da-waga,” Richard put in quickly for fear she would spoil
all with a too ironic figure.

“Well, that’s not what I was going to say,” she considered, “but it
will do.”... She moved briskly to re-enter the house. “Prowl around,
Richard. I’ve a duty or two in the house and then let’s all go down to
the Lake. I’m keen for a swim in real water.”

“But Walter doesn’t swim,” Richard objected. She stopped at the
doorway. Geraldine was not always considerate of Walter, but Richard
remembered that the care of Walter was his chief claim to “Red Jacket.”

“Never mind me,” Walter crouched in his chair sullenly.

“Haven’t you a boat?” Richard turned to the boy.

“No!” he growled. “Can’t have nothin’ ’round here.”

“Mother would not hear of owning a sail-boat,” Geraldine explained;
“we’ve always had to go passenger on somebody else’s.”

“Who owns that sloop over there?” he asked.

“That’s George Alexander’s. And it isn’t a sloop,” corrected Geraldine;
“it’s a cat-boat.”

“Well, let’s confiscate it for Walter.”

Walter looked up with interest. His “pard” had the right spirit. Alone
the boy would not have had courage, but the big man’s blue eye spoke a
determination that was contagious.

“All right,” said Walter, and got on his feet.

“I’ll make it up with Mrs. Wells,” Richard explained. “Walter’s got to
have a boat, a real boat--what do you call them--class something or
other?”

“Class A scows.”

“That’s it. We are going to have one, Walt, if I have to crib the money
somewhere. But for the present you fix up that ‘cat’ down there and let
her go. If you don’t come home alive, I’ll break the news to the home
folks. Go along, old boy.” Geraldine had gone into the house. “And when
you get back, feeling just right for it, we’ll have a little nip, eh?
Just a teeny one--or maybe two teeny ones, eh? When we changed cars
at Elmira I blew myself--Jerry’s money; good joke!--for a quart of
something guaranteed all pure food.”

“I know,” said Walter, and added, “saw it in your room this morning.”

“Did you! Good! Well, go to it, old man; and don’t forget to work up a
proper thirst.”

Walter grinned and sauntered down the hill. He understood. It was a
bribe to keep him quiet. Oh, that Richard Richard was a smart one, a
good fellow to keep next to! He wasn’t straight with others, but what
did Walter care? Something crooked about this Richard Richard--too glib
and good-looking to be anything but crooked--but Walter was done with
good people. He was a bad man and Richard was his sort. All right. He
would not squeal, but he would have to get his “divvy.” That’s all he
cared about. So long as they let him alone and gave him his share, they
could make off with the whole shooting match.... Nice little revenge
on mother, too; she thought herself so smart, and now she was being
taken in all right.... Go to jail, eh? He wondered if Richard Richard
was clever enough to keep out of jail. He hoped so. He would never
“squeal.” As far as Walter was concerned there’d be no killing of
golden-egg geese.

From the porch Richard could see the boy--in spite of his twenty-two
years one could think of him only as a boy--as he stumbled slowly
down the hill, disappeared for a few minutes in a growth of striking
Lombardy poplar on the very water’s edge, and pushed out in a tender
to George Alexander’s cat-boat. He watched the tender made fast to the
floating buoy, saw the sail go creaking up, fill and send the boat like
a live thing out towards Bluff Point and the main branch of the Lake.

Lake Keuka--Keuka is Seneca for “crooked”--is shaped like a bent-over
“Y” with Penn Yan at the right-hand upper tip, “Red Jacket” at the left
and Bluff Point protruding into the stem. From the porch Richard could
see the whole length of the left-hand branch of the Y and a mile or so
on to the farther shore of the “stem.” It was a soul-filling sight; but
he had room enough left in his soul to consider Walter and to begin the
perfecting of a plan for getting him on his feet, first physically and
then mentally.

He was in the midst of what looked like splendid strategy when
Geraldine appeared dressed for a swim. She wore an easy-fitting suit
which stopped at the knees, a brown stuff--like taffeta silk, guessed
Richard, it being the only silk he knew by name except _crêpe de
Chine_; and as it melted down into brown stockings and brown moccasins
and up into a brown band about the hair, Jerry stood revealed an Indian
princess. That is what he told her--that and other things--after he had
recovered from the delight of looking at her. He said all this in the
presence of Mrs. Wells, who had come out under the shelter of Tshoti
and his three sentinels to take an enforced rest in a “rocker.”

“Your bathing suit, Richard, is down at ‘Lombardy,’” said Jerry, “just
back of that row of Lombardy poplars, Mrs. Norris’ cottage. She keeps
extra suits for us and lets us track our wet feet all over her house.
Mrs. Norris is a gem and a saint; if you don’t worship her we’ll all
hate you, won’t we, mother?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” mother rocked away. “Phœbe Norris is a saint, if
there ever was one on earth. She lived ten years with a crazy husband,
took care of him and kept him easy in his mind until he fortunately
died for her. And now she lives for others. She rents her vineyard out
on half-shares, which gives her all she wants in this world.”

“So she spends her time preparing for the next?” Richard queried.

“Oh, she’s not that kind of saint!” Both women laughed at the thought.
“She’s----”

“Mother!” admonished Geraldine. “Please let Richard discover us
properly. You are for ever guide-booking him. Phœbe Norris could never
be explained with words.”

“Quite true, my dear,” the mother smiled at the thought, “quite
true.... It does my soul good to get into an American ‘rocker’ at
last.” She shifted the topic easily; and then shifted again at the
vision of Jerry before her, one of the many signs of the change that
had come over her. “Isn’t it strange, Richard, that my girl should be
the athlete and my boy should not even be able to swim?”

“Why should he need to swim?” Richard had laid his plan and went
resolutely to put it into execution. “Very few sailors can swim.
Walter’s a born sailor. Do you know that you are going to buy him a
boat and let him lift the Lake cup?”

“Eh?” she turned to this confident man with a touch of her old
resentment towards being managed. “I said he should never own a boat or
sail it alone until----”

“Of course you did,” Richard interrupted, glancing down upon the Lake
where Walter was plainly coming about on his second tack. “We all say a
lot of foolish things. And now you’re going to buy him one and let him
employ that mind of his. If you don’t,” he raised his voice to drown
the beginning of a protest, “you will send him to the devil as certain
as if you had signed his commission. Weak as he is, he’s got your
Virginia determination; and when he goes to the devil it will be on
the gallop. I know; for I am a strong man, but he almost succeeded in
breaking down my grip on the rope rail on the _Victoria_--all by sheer
will, too--and if he had----”

Mrs. Wells ceased rocking. She looked helplessly at Richard, mutely
begging him not again to force that picture into her mind.

“Well,” he spoke calmly, “you are going to give up, aren’t you--for the
sake of that boy?”

Walter had broken a tack suddenly in the middle of the Lake, obviously
to take quick advantage of a change of wind.

“Yes--I suppose so.”

“Good! Now let’s go the whole way forward. Not only are you going to
let him have the boat, but you are going to tell him so--without a word
about the past; just as if the matter had never come up before--and you
are going to give him the money so that he may buy it himself.”

She protested faintly that that would only be tempting him.

“It’s a risk, I admit,” Richard agreed. “I’ll be frank; we run a
chance. But my conviction is that what that boy needs first is our
faith in him. I have a bottle of whisky in my room, put there purposely
to see if he would keep his word with me. He told me he wouldn’t touch
it except when I--well, uh, he said he wouldn’t touch it. I had faith
and put the stuff right out in the open; went off and left him alone
with it. Not a drop touched!... You will do this, won’t you?... It’s
part of my plan to put him on his feet.”

The splotch of white, Walter’s sail, was growing increasingly smaller;
evidently he was making for the narrows which led into the main body of
water.

Yes, she would do as he suggested, although it went against the grain
to give in.

“Of course it does,” he cheered her; “we’re all built that way,
but, let me tell you, the joy you will experience in giving up will
compensate you for life. Blessed are those who occasionally give in,
for they shall inherit the joy of living.”

They left Mrs. Wells silent and stationary on the porch. Down the
driveway and across the State Road Jerry marched on silently. She
was disturbed more than she wished to express. So she kept slightly
in advance of the man and started ahead. He had achieved his little
victory so easily, but he had no conception of what that surrender
revealed to the daughter. She had never before seen her mother so weak,
so mentally benumbed. Who in the past would have dared accost her as
this guest had jauntily done? The sharp satiric tongue would have
withered him; he would have been struck in a dozen vital spots before
he had half been aware of any attack at all; and the indescribable
“manner”--poise, bearing, what you will--would have quelled him.

But this worried woman on the porch had seemed eager to give up and
get rid of a vexing gentleman. There was something very pitiful in
the contrast and it filled Jerry with foreboding. She stopped as she
crossed the State Road and looked back. Mrs. Wells had begun slowly to
rock; soon she was going her regular pace, a sign, Richard hoped, that
she had cast upon him all her burdens. Farther down the hill they could
see her bobbing forward and back between the massive stolidity of “Da”
and “Waga.”

Concerning her mother Jerry could not bring herself to speak aloud; nor
would she disclose in feature or tone any hint of her fear. There were
other things on her mind, however, which could properly be brought
forth to the light of familiar conversation.

“We’ve been interrupted horribly lately,” she began. “If it keeps up
I’ll be irritated and show my claws at you again.”

“I see you have claws;” but his eyes were on the steep road.

“I blow up,” she admitted.... “If I had struck you last night it would
have hurt, and I should have meant it to hurt; but the moment after I
should have been terrifically sorry. Why should I have flared up so, I
wonder?”

It was the traditional female attitude, probably, he suggested,
carefully keeping from the suggestion made to her at the time that her
vehement protest of independence was the sure sign of the beginning
of dependence; the female bristles most and kills less, because,
he supposed, they grow angry for protection and not as hunters.
Traditional female attitude and also the common human sensitiveness to
words. He need not tell her what he thought of that. She was insulted
again! Always permitting herself to be insulted. Even the gods should
not be able to insult via words. But humans like to be insulted. She
protested. He insisted; it feeds their pride, he said, and arouses
their combativeness, both great human delights. Every human and every
nation is eager to be insulted; it’s the hard job in life not to insult
them.

Well, perhaps. But he had been so irritatingly calm; so serene; so
confident of his ability to charm.

But why not be confident if one does charm?

Who is proud now?

Not he! No more proud of his ability to charm than he is of his ability
to eat an omelette. Why should one be proud of so universal a quality?
Look about you, he adjured her, at the successful matings--he did not
mean marriages. The dog’s-meat man is fondling the hand of the cook
with the scraggly hair! “Beefy face and grubby hand!” Men kill one
another for the veriest drabs of women, and women grow desperate with
jealousy over the blankest of males. Everyone has charm; the Lord knows
why he distributed it so generally.

“Mawnin’, M’s Geraldine!” a happy, shining darkey plumped at them from
among the grapes.

“Good-morning, Bolivar,” she waved a hand.

“Mawnin’, M’s Geraldine!” called a voice a little below on the other
side of the road. Through the corn another black head peeped out.

“Good-morning, Saul.”

There were several other “Good-mawnin’s,” to each of which Geraldine
responded with the name of the black salutatorian.

At table and near the house Richard had noted the coming and going of
many negroes. Mrs. Wells had said that nearly one hundred years ago her
grandfather Wells had brought his slaves with him from Virginia. In
that time there must have been much marrying and giving in marriage.
Had the progeny of this prolific race stayed on at “Red Jacket”? It
seemed so. He was about to ask her, but her mind was tenaciously
on her flare-up of the night before. With the greatest attempt at
tactfulness she was trying to show him how lightly she had conceived
the matter--she would cure her blunder of speech by more speech!

“Well, you made me angry, and I showed my claws. I’m glad I didn’t
scratch, because it is all over now and I am not in the least angry
with you.”

“You must be angry with me often,” he talked and slid along the
pebbly incline; “it’s a sign of affection. I believe the Serbian word
for darling is almost the same as ‘I’ll strangle you.’ Loving and
strangling are very close together. I don’t know why. The two electric
currents are charged, I suppose, and the slightest contact starts a
flash and a shock.”

“But I was angry with Walter, too,” she said, “a few moments ago, when
he made that absurd suggestion about us. And here we are combining for
his good--not our own.”

There were many things he might have said here. He had his own opinion
of the cause of her anger, but he did not care to broach it. Was she
going to make eyes at him after all, and hardly before he had got
settled in this beautiful place? He did not care to leave just yet.

He decided to avoid the dangerous topic, over which she fluttered with
such obvious interest.

Mrs. Phœbe Norris was not at home, but her house was open to the four
winds. In a neat little room Richard found bathing suits of many sizes,
and managed to discover a fitting combination of upper and nether
garments.

A whir and a splash told him that Geraldine had taken her plunge and
was throwing herself about in joyous abandon. Out of his window he soon
saw her, going at a swift pace, hand over hand, a splendid “crawl”
stroke.

The sight gave him a quick thrill. Here, too, was a swimmer, not a
dabbler in pools, but possibly one who could do a long journey with
him. It was pleasant to swim for miles alone; but it would be a new
and rare experience to troll along with a companion. He hurried his
preparation in anticipation.

She was swimming past the floating dock when he prepared to dive.

“Come on!” she challenged, and struck out into the Lake.

He dived and followed. Both were using the long side-stroke, and after
several minutes there seemed to be no diminution of the space between
them. As she swung her head from side to side she would look back
occasionally and smile at him tantalizingly.

“Come on!” she seemed to say; “if you can.”

As they got out beyond the shore trees she noticed about a mile away
the white spot of Walter’s sail coming down towards them before a light
breeze, and altered her direction and made towards it.




CHAPTER XII

SAINT PHŒBE


THE sun was shining pleasantly over Bluff Point, and the temperature
of the water was absolutely neutral to the swimmers. It was glorious
swimming, thought Richard. He was enjoying it and he knew that Jerry
was equally happy. As they drew near the boat--Walter had seen them and
had trimmed his sail to meet them--he lengthened his stroke. Instantly
Jerry lengthened hers. The space between them had not changed a foot.
He wondered if she could hold the new stroke, a slow but powerful
overhand; but his wonder increased as she held it without effort.
There was not a splash or an ungainly movement in her swing. When he
slackened for fear of pushing her too hard, she imitated instantly.
It was as if she had determined exactly how much distance should be
between them.

Walter brought the little boat into the wind with such expertness that
Geraldine had but to reach out her hand for the stern. There she waited
triumphantly for Richard. She counted with satisfaction the fifteen
long swings which represented the amount of her victory.

As he reached up beside her and caught the edge of the boat she waited
for him to congratulate her. She was an exceptional swimmer, and he had
just found it out. This time she would not blunder by speech.

But his eye was upon Walter. “Good work, old man!” he exulted. “You
turned that boat about with the precision of a Dutch watchmaker. That’s
what I call skill!”

Walter laughed, the excited laugh of a boy pleased with an earned
compliment. It was his second laugh in Richard’s remembrance, the first
genuinely hearty one.

Jerry clambered into the boat. Richard followed. Walter eased the
mainsail and went on his course towards the dock.

“Bully good work!” Richard went on. “You’ve certainly got the number of
this skiff, all right!”

The two swimmers had gone forward, where they lounged and rested in the
full warmth of the sun. Walter sat by the tiller, one hand controlling
the mainsheet, ridiculously proud.

“Thirsty?” Richard called back.

“Sure. And hungry, too. Puts an edge on you, this does!”

Hungry! That was a fine sign.

“Well,” Geraldine was forced to bring up the topic, “I beat you.”

“Oh,” he affected great surprise, “were you racing?”

“Good sport, you are,” she smiled ironically. “Own up; you tried to
overtake me, and I wouldn’t let you. I saw you lengthen out and then
let up. I’ve been waiting for this ever since you boasted that you
could swim. I had lots more left, and in a spurt I can ‘crawl’ like an
express train.”

“Knew she’d win,” Walter nodded proudly. “She’s beat all the men ’round
here. That’s what scares ’em off. She always asks ’em to go swimmin’,
an’ ’en she makes ’em look sick.... Can’t blame the fellows for scarin’
off.”

That was a long speech from Walter. Richard rested and reflected on it.
This boy was no hopeless case. It was just a question of letting him
lead a natural healthy life, he thought. But Geraldine, full of her
victory, rejoiced that she had humbled the big man into silence. Was he
wrinkling his face on account of the sun, or was it sullenness?

“You wanted to win,” he answered her thought quietly.

“Naturally. A woman likes to beat a man, occasionally. That’s the
latest female sport.”

“Why should anyone want to win?” he asked.

“Pooh! Philosophy!” She would not let him take her victory up into the
empyrean where it would disappear into insignificance. That was the
way of these clever argumentative chaps. After they slap you in the
face, they cry loftily, “Think of all the millions of years that are
gone and are to come, and what matters a little slap!” The answer is
to slap back, a little harder--twice, if you can get it in--and echo,
“Aye! Mere dust on the wing of eternity!” He had tried to overhaul her;
she knew he had tried; he gave up because she was the better swimmer.
“Pooh! Philosophy!” she ejaculated. “Let’s be practical for once.”

“Philosophy is always practical; philosophy is simply trying to think
straight, even against our best wishes. It is disinterested and
terribly curious. So when I ask, ‘Why should anyone want to win?’ I am
disinterested and tremendously curious. Do you really know?”

In her own case she knew exactly. The calmness of this man had begun
to irritate; he was so sure of himself; he could not be disturbed. She
wished to humble him, to drag him out of his secure serenity. Few men
can stand a beating from a woman. She hoped to punish him a little by
winning. All this she knew, but she said:

“Instinct, I suppose. I never inquire about instinct. Might as well ask
why we eat; the answer is, because we’re hungry. Why are we hungry?
Because we need food. Why do we need food? Instinct!”

“A philosopher come to judgment!” he laughed. “You reason exactly like
a philosopher. The average man does not bring up at that answer; he
says, ‘I am hungry because I am a wonderful creature, the exceptional
thing in the universe--I have an appetite!’ Haven’t you noticed the
pride people take in their appetites? When philosophy tells you it is a
common instinct over which we have no control, it is very helpful and
very practical. It saves us from a deal of comic pride.”

“You have no instinct to win, I suppose?” she taunted him.

“No,” he replied thoughtfully; “that’s why I am a failure.”

Some of her throbbing aggressiveness slipped away from her at this
speech. She remembered the deck scene on the _Victoria_ when she had
listened to Richard’s announcement of his occupation as “professional
guest” helped out by occasionally acting as “assistant widow.”

“It would be much better for me,” he went on, “as the world judges
values, at least--if I could want to win. But I can’t want to. You
see, I am an individualist--I obey my own law. All the world is eager
to win; I find that I am not. Fortunately for me there is plenty of
chance for the fellow who doesn’t care about getting ahead of some
other fellow. There is practically no competition. He has a kind of
monopoly!”

“Everybody wants to win,” Walter contributed determinedly. “Racing,
now--what’s the good of racing if nobody wanted to win?”

“One could enjoy the race, striving to the utmost, without wanting
either to win or lose.”

“Can’t see it,” said Walter.

“The struggle is the thing--not the result. The result is with the
gods, but no one can take from you the delight of contesting all your
powers. Then there is a joy in giving up to others, an exquisite joy
which few people seem to practise.... Yet Christ taught it.”

“Like Phœbe Norris,” suggested Walter.

“Ah, the saint!” Richard remembered.

“She’s a young woman,” Jerry explained, “only twenty-eight, yet she
gave the ten best years of her life to an insane husband. He went out
of his mind while they were half-engaged to be married. Phœbe insisted
upon the ceremony. Talk about giving! Yet Phœbe is the cheerfullest
red-head in Jerusalem township.”

“’Tain’t so red,” Walter objected.

“Oh, it’s a torch!” Jerry laughed.

“Well! Well!” Richard showed interest. “Saint Phœbe attracts me
mightily.... I thought she was an old woman.”

“She ought to be, considering the sacrifice she has made of her
life--but she isn’t; not by a jugful. Wait till you see her!”

“I don’t need to see her,” Richard stretched himself out more
comfortably. “It is enough to know that you who know her know nothing
about her. Sacrifice? Why, you talk of sacrifice like a Quaker paying
a bill.... I wager that Phœbe Norris is no saint at all. She’s had the
finest time of her young life, that’s all--doing the most selfish act
in her character--giving up to others.”

Objections came from both ends of the boat, Walter’s suspiciously
vehement.

“Listen, my children, and you shall hear true philosophy,” Richard
broke in. “For some persons the only joy is having and holding; for a
rare few the only joy is giving. Find out what a man wants, the givers
say, and give it to him quickly. But first want nothing yourself--or
want everything equally. If he covets your watch, give it to him; you
can tell time by the sun and by the stars; or better still, do without
knowing the time at all. ‘Give all thou hast to the poor,’ the poor
devils who cry so loudly for the baubles and gewgaws.”

Sailing before the wind is like not sailing at all. Wind and ship are
in perfect balance. Except for the swish of water flowing by, the
sensation is of standing still. Suddenly the silence was broken by a
rapid flapping of the sheet. Walter swung the tiller over and pushed
the boom out with his foot and held it there steadily.

“What’s up?” Richard inquired languidly. He was enjoying the rest and
the sun and openly drank in the sensation of living.

“Dead,” explained Walter, referring to the abrupt failure of the wind.

“Dead? Good!” murmured Richard, stretching himself full length. “O
Death, where is thy sting?”

The wind had not died out completely; there was just enough breeze
short of a complete calm to pilot the boat by inches and enable Walter
to tack squarely off towards the farther shore.

“Hadn’t we better get in?” Jerry inquired.

“Sure!” grinned Walter; “wind over there.”

Richard shaded his eyes.

“How do you know?” he asked. The unrippled water seemed everywhere.

“Always is, with clouds going that way,” he pointed overhead.

“But there’s no sign on the surface. Seems just as dead as here.”

“You’ll see.”

In a few moments wind struck the top of the sail. A fair breeze seemed
to be floating along four to five feet above the water. Soon Walter
came about and tacked straight for the dock. A good sailful was his all
the way.

“Magic!” Richard cried as they sped along through the glassy water.

“Wind-pocket,” grunted Walter. “Comes off the hill, I guess. This
Lake’s full of them. Got to know ’em if you want to do any racin’.”

Was this a good time to tell Walter about his mother’s change of mind
on the subject of the ownership of a “Class A” boat? It seemed so.
Richard was turning over in his mind the proper phrase to use--one had
to be cautious, for the very mention of the word mother might easily
drive all that eagerness out of the boy’s face--when Jerry harked back.

“We’re always having half-conversations,” she said. “I like to finish
things; get ’em over and off your mind.”

“Get it off, then.”

“You think you let me win?”

“Can’t tell,” he drawled lazily; “haven’t tried to race you yet.”

“When will you? This afternoon?”

“Let’s wait.”

“I like to get things done.”

“Better put it off,” he advised, “you’ve a better chance if you get
into trim. You can’t jump at these long swims without tuning up for
them. You’ve been out of the water for several months----”

“I swam in the Seine three weeks ago.”

“You mean in the shore baths?”

“No; in the river.”

“In the July races?”

“Yes.”

“Glory be to Peter! Did you win?”

“Fifth place--out of forty-two entrants.”

She exhibited the edge of her bathing suit, whereon was sewn a tiny
silk badge showing that Jerry had entered as a member of the “Club du
Siècle” and that she had achieved fifth place.

“Did mother----” he began.

“Not till it was all over; I had hard enough trouble bribing my way
into that ‘Club du Siècle.’”

“Jove!” he exclaimed; “you unfold beautifully! You don’t show yourself
all at once. It’s just like a magnificent strange flower coming out of
the bud. I must make a new set of judgments on you every little while.”

He ignored Walter, although the little boat threw them close together.
Jerry gave a significant glance towards the boy, but Richard would not
have it.

“He’s all right” he laughed aloud. “Walter is on; he might as well hear
everything.”

Walter leered at them knowingly.

“It makes my flesh creep,” said Jerry. Walter’s simple brain had
no translation of that speech, but Richard understood. Walter’s
dark statement of the morning that these two before him were merely
clandestine philanderers had irritated the woman almost into blows;
and even yet, when she understood that this mentally ill-balanced
brother of hers had to be humoured, the low interpretation put upon the
very wholesome and natural relationship between Jerry and Richard was
nauseating. It was the knowing leer that made her flesh creep; and, of
course, Richard understood.

“It is necessary, I fear,” said he appealingly.

“I understand. Go on; I’ll try to get used to it.... You were saying
something sweetly pretty about me which I shouldn’t want to miss for
anything. You were comparing me to a budding sunflower, I think.”

“A sunflower, yes; provided one had never seen a sunflower,” he
explained. “In a flash I understand something about you which has
puzzled me heretofore. You know, I began by analyzing you--on the hill
at Naples.”

“Yes; you told me I had the deportment of an octogenarian and the
language of an infant.”

“Precisely,” he grinned; “since which time you have improved
wonderfully. But that’s not my point just now. Now I understand why you
flared up so when I suggested that all women eventually made eyes at
me.”

“Oh, dear!” she affected boredom; “why are you always bringing up that
topic?”

It was the first time he had brought it up; in fact he had been all
morning diplomatically diverting the lady from just that topic. But he
made no remark about this characteristic feminine disavowal of facts.

“Because I have just discovered why you were angry----”

“I was angry, angry enough to strike you, because without waiting to
find out what sort of a woman I was you hinted that before long I’d
be---- Well, sir”--a little flash of her old anger came back--“I am not
the sort to make eyes at anyone or write anyone letters of confession!”

“I believe you!” he agreed, so firmly that she knew he was speaking
from conviction. “And that’s why you interest me.”

He didn’t know why at first, he said. Deep within the “subliminal” the
reason of his interest was hidden. She had giggled and spluttered like
an over-grown child, he told her. (Thank you, she said.) Kid-women he
had never taken any stock in--those that gabbled without thinking or
whined like spoiled babies, or substituted flippancy for conversation.
Indeed, at the very start on the starboard rail of the _Victoria_
she had exhibited all the female qualities that ordinarily sent him
flying; but he was interested from the beginning. Always he trusts his
interests, not his reason; reason is only useful in analyzing what is
already done; his “interest” led him to ignore the personality number
one which she presented at the starboard rail. Result: Keuka and
personalities numbers two, three, four and five!

She listened contentedly. There is no glow warmer than that which comes
on being understood!

“Of _course_ you wouldn’t go soft like all the others!” he announced.
“I treated you like a man, and you responded like a man. You have the
point of view of a man and the physique of a man. The arms fool one,”
he looked critically at her rounded arms. “One forgets that muscles
don’t show on a woman. It’s the feminine layer of fat that all the
magazine doctors have been talking about lately; but the muscles are
there. That silk medal tells me that, even if I didn’t know,” he made a
wry face, “from experience.”

By this time all her resentment had vanished, had oozed beautifully
away. She had lost even her desire to beat him in a swimming match.
While Walter was making the dock, she confessed some of her athletic
abilities, one of which was long-distance walking. They would swim
across the Lake, take early morning canters. He chimed in like an old
comrade. They would do stunts together! Meanwhile, he reminded her,
they had responsibilities with Walter.

That youth brought his little boat around, fished up the mooring float
and dropped his sail almost in the same act. Then he clambered into the
tender and got ready to row ashore. A queer impish look was fluttering
over his face; his mind seemed on the point of expressing something.
Once or twice he opened his mouth, but thought better of it and pulled
a stroke or two. Encouraged by the slight distance, he rested on his
oars.

“You two can swim in if you want to,” he announced; “or you can go
below!” When one considers that George Alexander’s cat-boat had not so
much as a cabin on it, this was a stupendous jest from Walter. The two
swimmers were appalled at the unexpectedness of the witticism, but they
were bowled over by the remark that followed. “Do what yuh please, you
two. That ‘cat’ won’t squeal!”

Then he pulled sturdily away.

“It’s a joke!” cried Richard.

“I bet it is!” echoed Jerry.

“He’s alive! Any man who can make a jest is still alive!” he exulted.

“I don’t know,” Jerry shook her head. “It sounded uncanny to me. That’s
the first sign of humour I’ve seen from Walter for a ‘coon’s age.’ Even
when he’s drunk he’s surly. I’m afraid it means the breaking up of
what mind he has.”

“Don’t you think he is improving?” he asked.

“Wonderfully. He talked two or three consecutive sentences out there on
the Lake. It gave me quite a shock to see him so garrulous. And then,
this joke----”

“Don’t you think this would be a good time to tell him about his boat?”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t seem much interested.”

“I hate to discourage you,” she shook her head; “but Walter is no good.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

“He’s better now, I’ll admit. But you should have seen him when he has
been drinking for a week. Ugh! The very smell of him is piggish and
loathsome! He is twenty-two years old, and he hasn’t done a stroke of
work all his life.”

“Neither have I, and I am older by a decade.”

“I don’t think you always tell the truth about yourself.” Her quiet
tone searched him. She seemed suddenly to peer into the privacy of his
mind, and to discount all his gay philosophy.

“You are right,” he answered soberly; “I don’t.”

This was Richard’s nearest approach to moodiness. Troublous thoughts
showed on his face.

“I try to be honest,” he turned to her.

“I believe you,” she replied sympathetically.

He thought for awhile. “I talk everything out,” he explained. “It
annoys folks, I see.”

“I like it.”

“I know you do.”

“Even when it is just silly.” She would not let him feel too secure!

“That’s what I most fear, that all my honesty is leading me to
no honesty at all.” He was too absorbed in himself to notice her
gibe. “Sometimes I wish I could foresee the future and gather what
my life really means after all. Deep within me I feel there is a
tremendous change coming. I feel almost like a caterpillar grub just
before he bursts into a butterfly. All my philosophizing may be just
caterpillar-views; I’ll laugh at it all when I take my first winging
flight across the hills. Don’t take my sayings too seriously.”

“Gracious! When have I ever done that?”

“Good point!” He recognized the hit. “Let’s get back to Walter. He’s
not hopeless. Didn’t you see the way he manœuvered that boat? Didn’t
you notice his eyes? The first signs of intelligence I have seen in
them. He was interested in that boat and vain as a rooster when we
flattered him. Given interest in something decent, with a little
vanity, and anybody can be saved. Let’s swim in and break the news to
him. I’m awfully hopeful.”

“Walter’s lazy beyond belief,” she said as they swam.

“So am I,” he admitted promptly, “and proud of it! ‘Lazy’ is a
much-abused word. In a world of work it has got a bad name. But it is
the ideal of all workers, after all--the state they save and strive
for.”

Walter was sitting on Phœbe Norris’ little porch, which overlooked
the water. Now that the trip was finished he seemed to slump into
despondency. His jaw dropped and his eye took on the stare of an idiot.
Certainly he looked a hopeless case.

Richard took a rocker beside him. Jerry stood back and watched.

“Can’t get over that wind-pocket,” Richard tried to stir him into
mental wakefulness. “Still looks like magic to me.”

Walter’s face became animated. He had cat-boated all over the upper
part of the Lake, he told Richard, ever since he was big enough to
steal away from home. He knew a lot about that Lake that the other
fellows did not know. Upon being pressed for further information, he
said that he had sailed with the two best skippers on the Lake, Captain
Fagner and Captain Tyler, but he could tell them a thing or two. Tyler
was a careful man; he knew the Lake pretty well, but he took few
chances; sailed a steady race and often won through sheer sticking to
it. Fagner was more daring; he broke all the rules--split tacks when
there seemed to be no good reason; dared shallow water when the sail
was full; declined to reef until the stick began to pull out the back
stays, and won often through sheer pluck. But there were some things
about the Lake that neither man knew.

“Good!” cried Richard; “when you get your own boat, Captain Wells,
we’ll make those fellows hump themselves.”

At that the light gleamed a moment in Walter’s eyes, and then went out.

“Wouldn’t you like to be your own skipper on a regular Class A boat?”
Richard asked.

“Sure,” Walter mumbled; “but,” he jerked his head toward “Red Jacket,”
“what’s the use of talkin’?”

“None whatever!” agreed Richard. “We’re beyond the talking stage, old
boy. Mrs. Wells is going to stake you for a real boat.”

The idea did not get into the boy’s head. He rose unsteadily and said,
“When are yuh goin’ up?” meaning “When am I going to get my promised
drink?”

“But you are really going to get a yacht, Walter,” Jerry told him.
“Mother said so, this morning.”

Jerry had been astonished at the intelligence Walter had exhibited in
his story of the two skippers. The kind, somewhat grim Walter she used
to know had appeared fleetingly on his face. She began for the first
time to have hope that this disgrace upon the family would disappear.
She, too, had to change her opinion of persons; the value of Richard’s
plan for the regeneration of this youngster began to appear.

Walter sat down, frankly disturbed.

“She s-said so, did she?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes!” Jerry cried enthusiastically. “Richard got her to promise. How
soon can we get one?”

Nervousness seized him. He turned to speak, but stuttered and stopped.

“They’re made in Wisconsin, aren’t they?” she asked.

He nodded.

“We’ll telegraph,” Richard suggested. “Perhaps they have some already
built.”

Walter shook his head. They waited for him to get control of his voice.

“Fag--Fagner,” he managed, “has one, new one, ordered. Said--said this
spring he’d let me have it.”

“Good!” cried Richard. “Where is it now?”

“On the w-way,” Walter stuttered. “Saw him last night in Penn Yan.
S-said it was on the w-way.” He took a brace and went on more smoothly.
“Said it had won races out there. Said I could have the _Moodiks_ if I
wanted it; could have my choice.”

Jerry explained, “The _Moodiks_ is probably the fastest boat on the
Lake.”

“Gave you your choice, did he? Well! He’s a real sportsman, now, isn’t
he?”

“He--he’s all right,” nodded Walter. “Ev--everybody’s fair ’n’ square
up here.”

There was a certain tilt to his head and an odd look at Richard that
both he and Jerry noticed.

“All right, Walt,” Richard spoke softly. “Got you your boat, didn’t I?”

“Sure,” but he shook his head doubtfully.

With the steadiest gait Walter had shown in many a day he trudged up
the hill.

“He seems to suspect you of something,” said Jerry.

“Poor boy!” He watched the retreating figure.

“Why should Walter suspect you of anything?” she asked.

He turned to her inquiringly.

“You don’t, do you?”

She hesitated; he laughed.

“No!” she spoke quickly. “You misinterpreted me. Only--Walter’s tone
seemed so--significant of----”

“Has Walter’s tone always been significant of anything?”

“Oh, forget it,” she spoke hurriedly. “Go in and get dressed. I’ll wait
for you.”

“All right,” he said quietly.

An unaccountable suspicion took possession of her--unaccountable
because Walter’s brain was not worth a burnt sulphur match, and any
thoughts he might have should be laughed at. But for the moment he
had seemed so sane--just like his old self--steady and dignified. He
seemed to be warning Richard. And Walter was her brother--pshaw! but
an idiot of a brother. Still.... After all, what did she know about
this Richard Richard? Not even his name. Clever? Undoubtedly, but the
cleverness that has employed itself often before and knows all the
answers. Might he not be a clever impostor trying to gull two country
women and a half-witted boy?

Appearances were all in his favour; but swindlers were no longer the
villainous-looking desperadoes of the old melodrama. Certainly he was
different from any man she had ever known--but then she had known only
good men.

Then she thought--it came to her in a stunning flash--of the scene on
the stern of the _Victoria_, the two men swaying up and down on that
slanting iron deck; and remorse seized her. When Richard came out,
she went swiftly towards him and held out her hands. He took them
inquiringly.

“Forgive me, my dear,” she smiled up at him, sure that the endearing
term would recall their domestic playette at the top of the hill back
of Naples.

“For what?”

“For suspecting you of being a villain,” she smiled.

“What made you suspect?”

“Walter must have got on my nerves,” she explained. “You see, I really
don’t know anything about you, and you _are_ peculiar, and I had no
experience with villains; and so putting nothing and nothing together I
was trying to make a total.... Well! What are you puzzling over? We’re
even, that’s all.”

“How, pray?”

“Didn’t you suspect me of being a flirt?”

He disengaged her hands carefully.

“And still do,” he spoke gravely.

“You _are_ a villain.” She jokingly struck at him.

“I admit it.” He caught her hands and warded off the blow. “All
good-looking women are unwitting flirts, and all men are potential
villains--the one beckons and the other--doesn’t the classic song
indicate that it is the villain who ever pursues her?”

“Villain?” cried a hearty voice from within the Norris cottage.
“Who’s tryin’ to play villain on my front lawn?” A magnificent head
of red hair parted the curtains that served for door and mosquito
protectors. “Jerry!” cried Phœbe, “you angel-child! Come over here and
hug me! Who’s your young man?” she asked as the two young women rocked
together. “Do I--or do I not--hug him too?”

Richard opened his arms.

“Decide, O angel-child. Quick, decide!” he cried.

Jerry emerged laughing from Phœbe’s strenuous embrace.

“No!” she decided.

“Pshaw!” cried Richard.

“Don’t it beat all?” echoed Phœbe, with a fine imitation of a
disappointed damsel.




CHAPTER XIII

THE HOME FOR INDIGENT DRAKES


“WELL, if I can’t hug him,” Phœbe resigned herself briskly, “tell me
his name and let me get acquainted as quick as possible. Although I
think you make a mistake, Jerry darling, not to let me hug him and get
over with it. He’s the most willin’-lookin’ creature I ever clapped
eyes on, and I’m sure we’d be both enjoyin’ an innocent bit of lovin’.
And mebbe if we had it out now right before your eyes we’d have done
with it and not go hankerin’ after it behind your back.” Her rapid-fire
tongue gave no one a chance. But, meanwhile, as she talked she pushed
chairs out and arranged comfortable cushions. “There! Sit ye down and
tell me all about it. What’s his name and where did you find him? Here!
Sit here! I’ll half turn my back on him, he’s that temptin’. Why don’t
some of you be talkin’ and not make me do all the entertainin’?”

“Isn’t she a wonder?” cried Jerry to Richard. “Look out! She’s always
up to mischief when she begins dropping her ‘g’s.’”

Red-head she was, and eyes of absolute blue; and her lips curved in
perpetual merriment.

“Saint Phœbe!” ejaculated Richard.

“The same,” she agreed. “Me halo’s in the wash. But be quiet, young
man, until you’re introduced. I’m a respectable widow, and awful
seductive--I mean, susceptible. Ach! Don’t look at me that way like
a Gibson pen-and-ink sketch! Do you want me to be eatin’ out o’ your
hand?”

She turned her chair and faced Jerry.

“Who is the handsome creature?” she asked pathetically; “and how did he
ever get out of his picture frame?”

“Mrs. Norris,” Jerry took up the spirit of the game, “may I make known
Mr. Richard, Mr. Richard Richard?”

“Is that his name?” she asked without turning around, “or are you
stuttering from nervousness?”

“His name is Mr. Richard Richard.”

Phœbe looked over her shoulder at him incredulously.

“That’s not a name,” said she; “it’s the chorus of a song. Do you mean
to say your last name’s Richard?”

“I do.”

“And you say your first name’s Richard, too?”

“I do.”

“You talk like a wedding.”

“I do.”

“Your middle name isn’t by chance Richard, is it?”

“I tried to have it that way,” he explained, “but----”

“The family voted you down, I suppose.”

“Exactly. You see, Mrs. Norris----”

“Drat Mrs. Norris!” she interrupted. “A man with only front names
can’t have any advantages over me. You’ll call me Phœbe, young man, as
everybody else does. You don’t suppose I’m goin’ to delay our intimacy
by Misterin’ you, do you?” She turned abruptly to Jerry. “Just what
claims have you on this beautiful person, Jerry? I want to know at
once. The look of him sets me all a-flutter.”

“None whatever,” laughed Jerry. “But don’t make him any vainer, Phœbe.
He’s stuffed with pride as it is.”

“Ach!” Phœbe tossed her head. “I’ll take that out of him. My method is
to puff him full of flattery till he explodes--feed him till he’s sick
of it.”

“If flattery be the food of love, play on,” cried Richard.

And so they joked and grew acquainted. Amid interruptions and laughter
Jerry managed to piece out an explanation of her meeting with Richard,
of Mrs. Wells’ interest in him, and of Richard’s plans for the saving
of Walter.

“Poor lad!” Phœbe grew serious. “Walter spent the night out on this
porch just before you sailed. He had got hold of a quart of whisky
somehow and was beginning on it, but I wheedled it out of him. He was
going to toss it into the Lake, but I tried other tactics on him. I
told him to put it on that shelf up there.” She pointed to a small
projection near the roof of her small cottage. A brown bottle obviously
three-quarters full was in ample view. “I told him that he must fight
the devil a stand-up fight. He slept out here all night, and there it
is--just as he left it.”

Phœbe might have told more; but she did not. She was the garrulous
sort, the old “sanguine type,” who keep their own counsel in the
midst of much chattering. She might have told of Walter’s maudlin
love-makings; of his fierce attempts to force Phœbe Norris to run
off and marry him; and of her struggles to keep him from slipping
completely into the wallow. It would have made a great difference in
the theories of both Mrs. Wells and of Richard if they could have known
this side of the boy. And it would have been another blow to the mother
if she had realized that it was the expert management of Phœbe Norris
that had kept the boy straight during his journey abroad, and that
the two lapses, in London and on the steamer, were brought on by the
irritating surveillance of the mother.

Richard was tremendously interested. He probed Phœbe with questions,
but she turned them off adroitly. When he persisted in asking her where
she got her knowledge of how to treat Walter she explained frankly.

“You see,” she said, “I have served my trade as an expert attendant
upon twisted-minded folks. Perhaps they have told you, Richard Richard,
that Seth, my husband, was out of his mind the larger part of ten
years. I was his wife as far as the ceremony goes, but, as everyone
knows, I was really only his hired nurse.”

“I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “Believe me, I did not mean to
probe you----”

“Shucks!” she tossed her head. “There’s not a thing to be fussy about.
Seth was just a man with a child’s brain. The real Seth, the one I
knew, died before I married him; so I took care of the boy Seth--if
you understand me--gave him his food, bathed him and put him to bed.
When he was too violent I threatened him with a whip. I struck him only
once--when he gave me that.” She pulled down the collar of her gown
and showed part of a livid scar. “He always remembered that whiplash
and was a good doggie ever after. Of course I had to watch him when
he got into his fits; but I have had less trouble with bulldogs. Poor
old Seth, I got to be almost fond of him; but he was just a faithful
two-legged animal; there’s nothing to be sensitive about.”

Again, this was not the whole story, as everyone knew. Seth Norris
had changed from a fine young grape farmer into a violent crafty
brute. Phœbe had mastered him with the whip, but she had been forced
to barb-wire a considerable enclosure to keep the lunatic from doing
damage to others. She had made a comfortable house for him away from
her own dwelling, and there he lived and roamed about within the limits
of the barbed fence in the finest kind of savage contentment. But there
were wild nights when she had no sleep, and there was more than one
struggle before she was sure of her physical mastery. And yet, except
for the scar, which did not show, she bore not the slightest evidence
of her gruesome experience.

“I’m a widow at twenty-eight, with land of my own and income enough to
buy the winter praties.” She struck an attitude out of _Monte Cristo_
and exclaimed, “‘The world is mine!’”

“You must have married young?” Richard persisted.

“Eighteen,” she said. “Seth died this spring. You don’t suppose I’d
wear black, do you? Lord love you! I ’phoned up all the neighbours when
he----”

“She’s just trying to shock you, Richard. Don’t believe her,”
interrupted Jerry.

“Shut up, hussy. And I tried to inveigle them to come to a wake, but
they all had previous engagements.”

“You’re Irish!” Richard guessed.

“Young man,” Phœbe eyed him, “you are too smart for these parts.
You remind me of the wisdom of our chief-of-police Casey. A German
tourist-party motored into Penn Yan one afternoon and interrogated
Casey. The German said, ‘Bleeze, I sprech not Englisch. Mine name ist
Schmidt. Bleeze, _who_ is Elm Street?’ And Casey looked hard at him
and exclaimed, ‘By Golly, you’re a Dutchman!’ Irish? Of course I’m
Irish----”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy ‘Jawn,’” exclaimed Richard.

“Mebbe,” said she. “Wait. I’m Irish and I’m English and I’m Scotch and
the Lord knows what else. How do you expect to keep a strain pure in
this country where everybody pens up together and eats out of the same
dish? It’s hard enough to keep the feathers off the legs of my white
Orpingtons and get any kind of ribbon at the Yates county fair.”

“She’s strong on chickens, Richard,” said Jerry. “Look out! She’s awful
touchy on white Orpingtons!”

“And so would you be if you paid good money for the pure stock, penned
them in until they couldn’t breathe, and then watched them grow all
kinds of things on their legs, things that are not in the books. I’ve
only got six clean-legged hens out of a batch of forty. It gives me
the jumps every time I see a dandelion thistle blow by. Pfitt! Is that
one?... Well, what are you laughing at?”

She had made such a delicious face as she grabbed an imaginary thistle
that laughter was compulsory.

“Sure, and isn’t it the wind that carries the pollen and spoils your
best flowers by mixin’ ’em----”

Jerry screamed at the thought, and covered her face.

“It’s hardly the accepted theory!” roared Richard.

“Well!” Phœbe kept a serious face; “what I’d like to know is, _what_
put the bad fuzz on my Orpingtons’ legs? Anyhow, I kill every dandelion
I see before they get bloomin’ and gallivantin’ about.”

“Oh, you’re Irish, O.K.,” cried Richard when he had recovered.
“Deliciously Irish.”

“Didn’t I tell you you’d love her?” exulted Jerry, drying her eyes.

“I fear I shall,” said Richard gallantly.

“Fear is the word, me lad,” said Phœbe. “For Seth’s ‘pen’ is still
there for the next one, and the barb-wire, too. It worked so well
with himself that I couldn’t be content with any other system. And the
whip’s on the rack within easy reach. So count your beads carefully,
Richard Richard, and pray to be delivered from Phœbe Norris.”

“It would just suit him,” said Jerry. “He’s a professional loafer. He’d
just enjoy being fed and bathed and put to bed.”

“Oh!” said she. “He’s that sort, is he! Then I’m doomed. They’re the
kind that get on my soft spot. All the derelicts in Jerusalem township
find my door somehow, and they know I can’t resist them. Well, each man
to his trade, I suppose. Whenever you’re ready, Richard Richard, trot
into the pen. Shove the door to; it locks itself.”

On other topics Phœbe was serious enough; but the moment the subject
touched herself she lifted it to rollicking nonsense. So before they
left she spoke a quiet word or two to Richard.

“I’m interested in Walter,” she said. “Some day I want to know what you
are doing with him.”

He sketched his plan briefly.

“And I want your opinion, too,” he added eagerly. “You can be a great
help, I feel sure.”

“Do you think so? I don’t”

“Why?”

She pondered for a moment and then shook her head.

“I’m telling nothing. I don’t want to put things into your head. Let me
hear what you can do first. He’s a good boy. It seems a shame to have
him go to the bad.”

“Do you think he will come out all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t think he’s done for, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you believe there’s a chance, don’t you?”

“Y-es,” she admitted reluctantly. “There’s a chance to save him.”

“Tell me about it.” She said nothing. “Please, do. It may help
wonderfully. I must get clues everywhere.”

“I’ll tell you this much,” she came to a decision. “You go on with your
theory of boats and racing and all that. You may succeed. Lord knows I
hope so. If you fail, come to me. I have a theory, too----”

“Why not try yours first?”

“No--oh, no!” she protested. “It wouldn’t work that way. If you
fail--then I’ll try my medicine. And the best of luck to you, Richard
Richard.”

The moaning yelp of a dog on the scent broke into the conversation.

“That’s ‘Count’!” said Jerry. “He’s after me. Someone must have let him
loose.” The baying broke forth near at hand. There was a terrific swish
of nearby bushes, then a huge liver-and-white pointer nosed into the
cottage and leaped upon Jerry, whining and talking frantically. She had
to beat him down.

“Charge!” she called again before he dropped at her feet and half
chewed at her moccasins.

“Why, I believe the pup is crying,” said Phœbe. It seemed so. His brown
eyes looked pathetically tearful.

Jerry knelt beside him, stroked his head, talked baby-talk to him and
let him take her wrist in his big mouth.

“I’m ashamed of myself, Count,” she purred; “I never went out to see
you after all these weeks away. Poor old faithful doggie! did he think
his muzzer had left him for good and keeps?”

At the kinder tones he crawled nearer and nearer and thumped his long
tail joyously on the floor; then he leaped to his feet and tugged at
her short skirt, saying plainly, “Come along home. I’m afraid you’ll
get away again.”

“I’ll have to go,” Jerry shook her head. “My baby wants me. Look how he
trembles. He just suffers when I’m away; and here I went and forgot all
about him. You faithful old brute, you make me ashamed.”

She moved out towards the road.

“Are you coming up now, Richard, or do you want to stay longer and get
acquainted with Phœbe?”

Richard was about to speak, but Phœbe forestalled him.

“Take him with you, Jerry,” she called. “I’m afraid to be left alone
with the man. He has a greedy look. If he finds out, somehow, that I
admire him, the Lord knows what he might be tempted to do to me--kiss
my hand, probably. Oh, them innocent blue eyes!” she fell purposely
into the colloquial grammar. “And by the holy cross of Saint Michael,
if it isn’t blushin’ he is! Take him away! I’ll be liftin’ him into me
lap and singin’ him sleepy songs if you leave him here!”

With much more chatter of the sort, broken into by replies in the same
spirit, Phœbe drove them out.

She stood laughing in the doorway until road trees hid them; then her
face relaxed into uncanny thoughtfulness. There she stood for some
minutes gazing ahead at nothing at all, and twisting Seth Norris’ gold
band around and around her wedding finger.

Slowly she turned and walked into her garden to the side farthest from
the Lake. A rustic one-and-a-half story building was before her. The
windows were numerous but small, exactly arranged so that a man’s body
could not squeeze out. Almost anyone would have taken the hut for an
imitation log cabin, but a closer view would show that it was built of
genuine logs, huge, heavy fellows that could stand an Indian siege or,
better still, do service as a frontier lock-up.

She unchained the door and stepped inside. It was a pleasant
clean-swept interior. The articles of furniture were massive, in
keeping with the general architecture, and all were fastened securely.

A farm helper was cradling oats in the field beside her. When he saw
Phœbe’s company depart he had gone on to the end of his row and then
came over the stile into the garden. He found Mrs. Norris looking
thoughtfully about the log hut.

“I could move the hull thing easy enough,” he took up the conversation
where they had left it a little while before; “and saw the winders out
bigger and put a porch on this end. The only question is----”

“I’ve changed my mind, Henry,” she interrupted.

“Hey?”

“I think I’ll let it stand where it is for awhile.”

“Y’ll leave it stand, hey?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want any winders cut, the way y’ said?”

“No, Henry, thank you.”

He laughed softly.

“Make a nice rabbit hutch,” he suggested. He knew that Phœbe was too
good a gardener to love rabbits.

“No doubt.” Her mind was not on the man before her.

“Or perhaps,” Henry was quite ready for a resting “spell”; cradling
oats is not a sinecure. “Or perhaps,” he speculated more seriously,
“you’re thinkin’ o’ raisin’ guineas; they say they’s heaps o’ money in
guineas.”

Phœbe became suddenly aware of Henry.

“No, Henry, not guineas--nothing so useful and domesticated and
industrious as guineas. Breathe it not to others, Henry; I shall keep
this place as a home for indigent drakes who have lost their pia mater.
But keep it dark, Henry.”

“Hey?” called Henry, to whom all this was dark enough at the outset.
But she had vanished into the house; and he knew enough of the sting of
her Celtic tongue not to delay longer on the oats.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning at breakfast Mrs. Wells capitulated handsomely.

“Walter,” she smiled towards him beautifully, “Richard has won your
hard-hearted old mother over. You shall have a yacht, the kind you
want, to do with as you please. I just won’t get used to the fact that
you are grown up. All mothers are that way, I suppose. So you run along
and buy yourself one and win some of those races the _Chronicle’s_
always talking about. And you can climb up after peak halyards or
birds’-nests or whatever you want! Geraldine will make you out a
cheque. She’s in full charge of the money now.”

“But, mother----” objected Geraldine, to whom the new office was a
sudden and unexpected promotion.

Mrs. Wells laughed almost boisterously--a most unusual performance.
Small things had begun to amuse her out of all proportion to their
entertaining powers.

“No ‘buts,’ my child,” she began before Geraldine could voice a further
protest. “You’ve just been elected, and I’ve resigned--or the other way
about. I’ve plumped everything on the library table--deeds, bills,
mortgages, cheque-books, stock, everything. Look them over at your
leisure, child. Study them out. You’ll begin to appreciate the work
your mother’s done for you----”

“But I do, mother! I do!” Geraldine protested. “Of course, if you wish
I’ll----”

“Tut! tut! child!” she soothed; “don’t get frightened. I’ll sign things
when you bring them to me. But I find I need a rest. Little things
annoy me. I want to get free. You don’t know how jolly I felt the
moment I came to that resolution. Really,” she puffed a little, “I am
perceptibly growing stouter! Expect any minute to see the hooks and
eyes start from their roots!”

Here the laughter verged into happy tears.

Many sobering things had happened to Jerry recently, but none more
serious than this. It was the sudden abdication of a beneficent
monarch, and therefore, to the crown princess, unbelievable. But it was
something more: it was a strong mother cut down by the swift approach
of old age. Some of the old fear of the dominant woman lingered in
Jerry’s attitude--it never quite left her--but it was mingled now with
pity. Those puffy cheeks and the simper were ghastly when one thought
of the past years of firm dignity. And a patch of pure white had
appeared beside the grey of her temples.

Almost as abruptly as the mother had put off her responsibilities Jerry
took them up. As the older woman had grown child-like, the younger
woman had matured. But Geraldine Wells had always been older in thought
than she ever had expressed in word or action; and now she quietly
assumed her proper years. Richard had had a large share in that
transforming, but the pitiful picture of the smiling, contented mother
had hastened the process.

Richard was intent upon Walter; as much as he could he diverted the
boy’s attention from the extraordinary transfer of authority just being
promulgated so carelessly. It was a great relief to see that Walter’s
interest was in the forthcoming yacht, and not at all in the change of
management of the estate.

Richard got him to tell all over again the fine offer of Captain Fagner.

“Got a name for it yet?” Richard had then asked.

“Sure!” Walter spoke up guiltily.

“Have you! What’ll you call her?”

“Sago-ye-wat-ha.”

“Goodness, man, what’s that? It sounds like a curse.”

Jerry had finished the conversation with the mother by this time.

“That’s Red Jacket’s name in the Seneca language,” she explained. “Red
Jacket was a wonderful orator, perhaps the greatest Indian orator known
in history. Sago-ye-wat-ha means ‘He keeps them awake.’ Pretty clever
name for a good talker, isn’t it?”

“Splendid!” agreed Richard. “And a bully name for a racing yacht. ‘She
keeps them awake’! Good! Here’s hoping that she also puts them all to
sleep!”

Mrs. Wells, as usual, had her coffee served on the terrace. Walter was
soon making for the Norris cottage. He half explained as he left that
he was going to sail round the Point in the “cat” and see Fagner about
the new boat. Walter had no money for trolley fare; and he was never a
youngster to take much to horses.

“This financial business has unnerved me,” Jerry confessed when they
were alone. “It was a shock.”

“You’ll love it,” Richard commented shrewdly.

“Oh, that’s all right,” she corrected his view-point. “I’m crazy to
get into it. I’m not lazy like you. What worries me is mother. She’s
getting sleek and fat and silly-minded. Did you see the way she
laughed? Like a foolish old woman.... She’s ill. That collapse on the
boat meant more than we thought, I fear. I think I’ll have Dr. Sampson
drop in for a call. He’s the only man about here who can manage her and
prescribe for her without her ever being aware of it. Dr. Sampson can
laugh a bone into setting properly, and over the telephone, too!”

“Those Sampsons could always do wonders with bones,” he joked;
“remember the historic jaw-bone?”

He told her not to worry about Mrs. Wells, that she was going through a
very natural transformation. The old will show age. Jerry must get used
to the fact that her mother was sixty years old in years but nearly
eighty in performance. No doubt the shock had done its part in making
the change abrupt, but there was nothing alarming. The point was, he
insisted, to take her at her word before she became querulous--age
is not at all consistent; and further, he suggested that she should
see the family lawyer and have papers made giving Geraldine complete
control of everything.

“Why, how absurd!” she began, but he pointed out to her the
consequences to Walter of having an estate on his hands.

“Do you suppose for one minute that you could control him?” he asked.

That sobered her.

“I am not thinking of your mother’s death,” he assured her. “She is
the type that lives on into a long peaceful dotage. But I am thinking
seriously of what she might rise up some morning and do, just as she
did this morning. She might hand over the whole thing to Walter, or
present him with a dangerous sum of money.”

“That’s very true,” Jerry agreed. “After this morning I’ll believe
anything of her.”

“See your lawyer without delay,” he repeated. “There is such a thing as
‘power of attorney,’ I think they call it. It gives you authority over
everything without having the mother relinquish her title to anything.”

“But she can always withdraw such papers--I know that much law.”

“To be sure,” Richard explained; “but lawyers know how to delay. What
we want to stave off is any sudden on-the-minute decision.”

Jerry agreed that the idea was a good one. For her own gain she would
not have lifted a finger, but always Walter was forcing decisions.

“I’m really growing enthusiastic over Walter,” she remarked abruptly.
“He has picked up wonderfully. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that
mother’s complete surrender and Walter’s change have come about at the
same time?”

“Not at all. It agrees with my theory; and whoever heard a man going
against his own theory? Mrs. Wells had a sort of mental strangle-hold
on Walter’s mind. I believe that she clutched his mind and held it as
literally as she could have held his wrist. When she gave up, he was
set free. That’s not only my theory, but it’s the belief of ‘Jawn’
Galloway. Wait till you see him! He’ll make it clear to you. He’s
coming, you know.”

“Oh, is he? No; I didn’t know. Did mother invite him?”

“Jove!” Richard remembered. “I wrote him that I was about to ask her;
but I clean forgot it. But we can’t expect him for several days yet.
There’ll be plenty of time to break the news that she has invited
‘Jawn’ up; and when she sees ‘Jawn’ she’ll rejoice. I’m dying to see
Phœbe and ‘Jawn’ get together. They’re a pair of Irish comedians....
But I’ve good news for you. Walter declined his nip last night.”

“What do you mean?”

He explained to her his system, backed up by the authority of the ship
doctor, of permitting a small drink a day to keep down the agonies of
thirst.

“Walter refused?” She was incredulous and happy.

“Absolutely!” cried Richard. “Said he would have to cut that out now.
He said a skipper would have to keep himself pretty straight if he
wanted to show in a race against men like Fagner and Tyler. Isn’t it
glorious?”

“Glorious?” echoed Jerry, her eyes shining. “It’s--it’s uncanny.”




CHAPTER XIV

“JAWN”


IT took a long part of the morning for Walter’s “cat” to arrive at
Fagner’s dock. The skipper was in Penn Yan, he was told, at the N. Y.
C. tracks, unloading his new yacht. So more time elapsed before Walter
was able to sail into the Lake “outlet,” tie up, and saunter over to
the scene. Willing helpers enough were eager to assist in setting the
mast, fastening the stays, adjusting this and that preparatory to
dropping her into the Lake. Walter stood by, too shy to let them know
that the boat was his own.

Finally, just as the last heave dropped her into the water, where she
floated like the proverbial cork, Fagner noticed Walter.

“We’re getting your boat ready for you,” he chaffed. He had not the
faintest notion that the boy’s talk at various times was based on
anything substantial. He had joined in with Walter’s scheme out of
sympathy and good nature. Walter’s whole life and future were an open
book to that locality. “Or would you rather have the _Moodiks_?”

“This ’un suits me,” Walter remarked. “Whe’ ’re the sails?”

“They’ll be along later; ordered new ones from Boston, and they had
trouble with a strike down there.”

Except for the sails the yacht was complete. The group on the dock
stood off and admired while Fagner tuned up his motor-boat and arranged
a tow-line; but meanwhile Walter had hauled George Alexander’s cat-boat
alongside and was fastening his own tow-line.

“Goin’ to take him up, Walt?” someone asked. Unknown to Walter it had
been a town joke among the men that Walter Wells, who never had a cent,
had offered to buy a yacht. Fagner’s offer to sell had been made in
public, but the spirit of the offer was equally well known.

“Sure!” said Walter.

The operation caught Fagner’s eye, but before he could say a word
Walter dumbfounded him by remarking, “Jerry’ll send yuh a cheque, soon
as you tell her how much.”

Fagner said nothing, but moved off quickly in search of a telephone.
His smile reassured the crowd, who began to see now that this was
business after all. They gazed at Walter solemnly, for business is no
joking matter.

At the other end of the telephone Jerry assured the skipper that the
option on his new yacht was being taken up seriously. He came hurriedly
back.

“You really mean to take me up, Walter?” he asked.

“Sure; unless you’ve changed your mind?”

Walter stopped fumbling with his sailor knots and straightened up. The
crowd looked on expectantly.

“Oh, no!” Fagner laughed. “I’m game! I said I’d do it, and I will!
But,” he added half to himself, “this is certainly one on me.” Aloud he
asked, “Are you sure you don’t want the _Moodiks_?”

“Nope,” said Walter, bending to his rope again.

“Well, let me tow you down with my motor?”

“Nope,” said Walter. “I’ll tow her myself.”

In a few minutes more the little “cat” was heading down the Lake with
the new yacht in tow.

“What’s the matter?” someone asked Fagner. “You look as if you’d lost
something.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Fagner. “I’ve only just been ‘called’ with four mixed
diamonds and one black card.”

“Didn’t you want to sell to the boy?” asked one of his workmen, a good
old fellow to whom one could be confidential.

“What!” cried Fagner. “Want to sell that?” He pointed to the beautiful
fragile craft which a moment or two before had been his. It was
following the “cat” as if it had no weight at all. “Absolutely not!
That little beauty is the fastest sailing boat in America. Do you see
the way she glides? That boat slips over the water like a skimming
stone. But she’ll have to be skippered,” he smiled grimly. “After he
loses a few races I’ll buy her back. I agreed to sell him either boat,
provided he would skipper it himself, and provided also that he would
give me an option on a resell. I think I’m safe--although I feel just
now like a kid that has had his candy snatched out of his hand.”

Jerry, in the meantime, was busy with the documents piled up on the
library table. There had been order about them once, but it took
time to discover which were out of date and which still operative.
Careful memoranda on slips of cardboard were helpful here and there,
but it would require reading packets of correspondence before all the
matters could be cleared up; and George Alexander would have to be
interviewed. George Alexander had had complete charge of the house and
farm end of things during the trip abroad.

This left Richard to his own devices. For a time he made quick friends
with “Count”--pointers are not very discriminating. Then with the dog
“heeling” beautifully, he marched down the hill to take a swim. Phœbe
Norris was sewing on her water-front porch.

“I came down for a swim if I----”

“Prevaricator!” she remarked pleasantly.

“Jove! You’re right,” he exclaimed. “It’s you I’m after comin’ to see!
There’s heaps I want to tell you.”

“Sit down,” she jabbed a needle at a chair, “and get it off your chest.”

He told her about Walter from the time of his first acquaintance
with him in the smoker of the _Victoria_--omitting, of course, the
real facts about his own change of name--up to the latest incident
of the refusal of his daily “nip.” Then he related the astonishing
transformation in Mrs. Wells, her sudden taking on of the privileges of
age, ending with her placing Jerry in charge of the Wells finances.

“The Wells seem prosperous,” he half inquired.

“They are,” Phœbe answered; “they have six hundred acres, mostly under
cultivation. The vineyards are especially profitable. The negroes under
George Alexander manage the place excellently. Besides, they have a lot
of money invested in mortgages and wine stocks. It’s a perfectly safe
investment, young man. Don’t be afraid to commit yourself.”

Phœbe Norris was notoriously direct, but the point seemed to slip by
Richard.

“Then there’s all the more reason for Jerry to get legal control.”

“And why, pray?”

He explained the danger that might suddenly loom up with the transfer
of the property to Walter.

“You are tremendously interested in Walter. You’re not thinking of
marryin’ Walter, are you?”

“Jove, no! I’m not thinking of marrying anybody. What has that to do
with the case?”

“You seem to be sensible enough,” she looked at him critically. “But,”
she sighed, “you never can tell. Lots of times you would have sworn,
now, that Seth was as whole-minded as that sleepin’ pup.” “Count” had
flopped at Richard’s feet. “But all the while he was probably undecided
whether to try the axe on me or the bread knife.”

“I give up,” Richard cried, as a child might at a hard riddle, “what’s
the answer?”

“Of course,” she nodded towards the log hut in the garden, “there’s
always the ‘pen’ as a last resort. I’ll keep it open for you. But not
bein’ married to you I promise to knock you on the head if you grow
violent.”

He must have missed the point of some remark, he thought. Or could long
association with a madman have given her an unsteady turn herself? He
wondered.

“You see, can’t you,” he began again, “that Mrs. Wells might put it in
Walter’s power to----”

“Oh, yes! yes!” she interrupted impatiently. “I’m not a bat. I see
that. Go on with the next instalment.” And she went on with her sewing.

“So I suggested that Jerry have the mother give her a ‘power of
attorney’ to manage the estate.”

Phœbe dropped her sewing in her lap. “And what would a girl like Jerry
be doing with all that business to look after?”

“She could do it. She’d like that sort of thing.”

“Is Mrs. Wells out of her mind completely?”

“No. But she’s losing her grip more than you’d believe. You should see
her. Her very face has changed. We don’t want her----”

“_We_ don’t--who’s ‘we’?”

“Jerry and I--we both feel that the whole thing will be safer if Jerry
has legal rights. Of course, if the boy were fit, there would not be
the slightest objection to turning over the management to him.”

“There wouldn’t?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t object to that?”

“Not a particle--if he were capable.”

Again Phœbe scrutinized the man before her.

“That ‘power of attorney’ is a very clever idea,” she remarked. “Who
thought that all out?”

“I did,” he admitted. “I’m not sure if it will work----”

“Oh, it’ll work all right, young man; and you know it well enough.
You’re just modest, that’s all.”

He asked her abruptly what she meant. She replied, “I’m Irish and I’m
also Scotch; so let me give you a Scotch answer, by asking you what
_you_ mean. You’re not featherin’ a soft nest for yourself, perhaps?”
She flung a hand towards the Wells’ house.

Richard looked out into the Lake, but made no answer at all. For the
first time in many weeks Richard Richard became his old self, shy
and silent. His ears glowed; he became uncomfortable and awkward, as
self-conscious persons will; and the gates of his fluency closed. It
had been pleasant, this new life of his, and his instinct told him it
was good; but now another instinct warned him that it might not be
wholly good. Phœbe’s cold interrogations had given him first a vague
uneasiness and then alarm. Her mind was distinctly not friendly. He
felt it, or rather, the sensitive antennæ of his mind caught the
vibrations and warned him that he had been out of his shell quite long
enough.

Perhaps they sat for ten minutes in tableau, she sewing and he gazing
out into the Lake. The dog, “Count,” added to the picture by resting a
rigid head on two outstretched paws.

“Smoke, if you want to,” Phœbe suggested finally.

“Thanks,” he said; but he did not smoke.

This man exhibited all the symptoms of guilt, but, somehow, he did not
act the convincing villain. And yet had not everything pointed to the
rôle? A casual visit to either Sampson’s or Cornwell’s moving-picture
theatres would have convinced anyone: handsome man; no particular
occupation; also no money; acquaintance made by accident; handsome
girl; rich mother growing feeble and trusting. All the characters
were here, including the clever Irish girl whose keen wit rescues the
tottering family. “But, hang it all,” thought Phœbe, “why do I feel so
mean about it? I ought to feel heroic (or is it heroinic?) and flushed
with righteousness. But I don’t. I feel like a criminal myself.”

Other minutes passed by, but Richard seemed not to note them. “I wish
I could talk,” he was saying to himself. “This infirmity of mine is
like an epileptic fit where one knows all that is happening about him
but can give no sign. And I thought I had got rid of it up in this fine
country.” But he said not a word.

“_Chills and fever!_” Phœbe suddenly stamped her foot and shook her red
hair at him. “Aren’t you ever goin’ to speak again?”

“Count” leaped to his feet, yelped suddenly, and started about the
room, his nose to the ground.

“Glory be!” laughed Phœbe. “He thought I was a gun flying off. The same
I was. I couldn’t keep still that long again without explodin’. You go
take a bath, young man. You’ll feel better. You’ll find the same suit
dried out and hangin’ up in the room on the right. Go take a swim and
then come up here, and we’ll get things straightened out.”

He rose and went towards the little room, but he said nothing. A nod of
his head seemed to be enough, and a kindly smile expressed acquiescence.

“I wouldn’t make a good lady detective,” sighed Phœbe. If the villain
was fine and good-looking, she thought, and gazed afar off across the
water with mild, blue eyes--ach! she would be pounding away at his
chains with a saw and a jimmy and inventing ways of escape from the
lock-up. Her heart was too soft for that business. Well! she could keep
her eye open, at any rate. Even if she had lived in the country all her
life she knew a thing or two, the which Handsome Harrys might find out.
What was the use of subscribing yearly to the _New York Times_ if it
wasn’t to give you a vicarious experience of the ways of the world?

As Richard passed her he stooped for a moment to examine her
sewing--something or other the largest ingredient of which seemed to be
lace--looked straight into her face, gently, almost boyishly shy, and
then without a word walked out to the end of the little dock. He dived
immediately and struck out at a diagonal for the farther shore.

Occasionally Phœbe looked up to note the receding figure. When about
the middle of the Lake she saw him turn and make straight out towards
the main branch. It may be remembered that Lake Keuka is shaped like a
mitten with a very large thumb. Mrs. Norris’ cottage was at the tip-end
of the thumb. Towards the rest of the “hand” Richard swam, a distance
of over two miles. Soon he was not discernible, except through Phœbe’s
fine field-glass, wherein he could be observed swimming a long steady
stroke.

“The villain escapes by swimming the Lake,” Phœbe chuckled. “Sure it’s
a fine movie actor he’d make.” She sewed on thoughtfully for a minute
or two and then added, “Well, if he doesn’t come back it’s a good
bargain I’ve made swapping Seth’s cotton bathing togs for an all-wool
Norfolk suit.”

The cool refreshing water was as balm to the troubled “villain.” As the
world judged matters he knew he was a failure; but generally he was
strong enough to ignore the world and live his individual life. Often,
however, the constant pressure of inquiry or of accusation--the world
will harry you if you do not conform, as all martyrs will testify--had
their cumulative effect of inducing depression. It was only by vigorous
open-air exercise or the summoning of all his will that he was able to
stand erect and unshaken. The waters of Lake Keuka were tonic to the
will. As he plied on, his spirits rose. He saw the law of his own life
clearer; he resolved to be true to nothing but himself. His shyness
waned and vanished, and strength came. “Resolve to be thyself,” he
quoted, “and know that he who finds himself loses his misery.”

Bluff Point began to loom on his left as he passed out of the “thumb”
and got out into the main branch, here over a mile wide. The Point was
a sheer rise out of the water of almost a thousand feet, and it towered
like a huge mountain. He turned about and faced north in order to get
a better view of the Point, and became aware of a familiar cat-boat
tacking across in front of him.

It had in tow a stately little yacht, looking without sails like the
skeleton of a spectre sloop.

“Ahoy! Captain Wells, ahoy!” he called.

Walter saw him and came about. In a few minutes of manœuvering the two
men were jabbering over the beauties of _Sago-ye-wat-ha_. Richard had
found his voice again.

It was long after the noon hour when they tied up at Phœbe Norris’
dock. Phœbe was not at home. She had found it impossible to sit and sew
as she had planned. She could not decide whether she were suffering
from a guilty conscience or a desire to gad; at any rate she concluded
that Richard’s silence had put a spell on her cabin for the afternoon.
Gathering up the sewing material, she called to “Count,” who was trying
to stir up a rabbit among her cabbages, and plodded up the hill to the
“Big House,” as the negroes called the Wells’ dwelling.

At the entrance to the drive she came upon a fattish young man, fairly
well dressed--clean, at least, she said to herself--and evidently from
the Big City.

He turned a broad Irish face upon her and opened a mouth which exposed
large irregular teeth. Her father had such a face, she remembered
distinctly, and just such great white teeth.

“Is it Mrs. Emma Wells I see before me?” He raised his hat and bowed
like a Dublin ballad vender.

“As Mrs. Emma Wells is sixty years old,” Phœbe retorted, “it’s blind
your eyes must be.”

“Blinded by the glamour of the sun on your----”

“Red head,” she helped.

“On your saffron locks,” he went on, “and by the charm of your sweet
face.”

“Blarney!” she retorted. “Who are you that’s wantin’ to see Mrs. Emma
Wells?”

“Ah!” he put a long finger to the side of his nose. “I divulge nothing.
I don’t know who I am till I’ve seen my confederate, Mr. Dick.”

“Where’s your grip?” she asked suddenly.

“Grip?”

“Yes, grip--bag, carry-all, Gladstone, suitcase?--the thing you carry
your sample books in. But you’d better be makin’ off. Mrs. Wells has
all the encyclopedias, handy books of information and guide books
she’ll need this side of Paradise.”

“But it’s a visit I’m making,” said he.

“You wrote your own invitation, then,” said she.

While they talked so tartly at each other they walked along up the
drive and grinned with enjoyment. Only the Celt can understand that
this sort of palaver is the salt of living.

“Wrote my own invitation? Indeed I did not,” he insisted. “The lady of
the house herself it was who sent me the invitation by my very dear
friend, Mr. Dick. You don’t know Mr. Dick?”

“No.”

“Humph!” he ruminated. “I should think all the housemaids would be
knowing him by this time. He’s the handsome one! But perhaps with all
your time taken up in the kitchen----”

For that he received a sounding thwack on the side of the face.

“Holy Michael!” he started back. “If it isn’t my mother’s old
fraternity grip you’re giving me! Shake hands! I didn’t know you were
Irish till that minute. Shake hands with a compatriot, and forgive me
for taking you for aught save a princess. Of course I knew who you were
all the while. It’s the handsome Miss Wells that Mr. Dick’s so full of,
the heiress; only he should have said a word about the glory of your
hair. Never a word he said.”

“Who is this Mr. Dick?” she asked as they walked up the steps.

“How can I know till I have a chat with him?” he returned. “Our stories
must agree, you know.”

“Are you sure his name is Dick?”

“Well, now,” he stopped and pondered, “now that you’ve put the doubt
in my head, I’m not so sure. I’ve lost the letter that tells me all
about it. I think he said his name was Mr. Dick. Sure, it was. Dick? Of
course it was Dick. What do you mean by confusing my mind over the name
of my oldest and dearest friend?”

“And what might your name be?”

They had arrived at the house.

“‘Jawn,’” he said.

“‘Jawn’ what?”

“I’ll have to consider,” he smiled knowingly. “No doubt Mr. Dick has
arranged all that. I mustn’t commit myself just yet. For the time being
you may call me ‘Jawn.’”

Phœbe darted suddenly to this side of the big porch and then to the
other, looking carefully about the central pillars, “Non” and “Da,” all
to induce “Jawn” to inquire the reason, as he well knew.

“What’s the game?” he asked. “Solitaire hide-and-seek?”

“I’m lookin’ for the man with the box?” she said; “the one that grinds
out the pictures. Maybe you don’t know it, young man, but we’re both
of us in a moving-picture story. One villain has just escaped by
swimming the Lake; another--that’s you--comes up with an assumed name;
mistakes me first for the cook and then for the heiress and is about to
enter and make off with the family jewels. If a fillum man doesn’t get
this he’s missin’ a good story. But come in! And wipe your feet on that
mat! Your heart may be black”--the two good-natured faces fairly beamed
at each other, belying any literal meaning in the words--“but that’s
the Lord’s business. At least I can see to it that your feet are clean.”

These were two different types of American Irish. “Jawn” was the pure
breed, one generation out of the peat-bogs, but speeded forward a
thousand years by the magic of America; Phœbe was the refined gold of
the Celt untarnished by a dozen strains of alien blood. But they were
playboys, both of them. A fantastic attitude towards the world was
to them more serious and important than all the workaday habits of
smug other-peoples. They came of a race who have the saddest thoughts
on the ineffectiveness of living, and present the gayest face to the
whole dull business. And both were on a holiday, “Jawn” freed from the
psychological clinic, and Phœbe fluttering with unaccustomed wings
after ten years of captivity.

“Wait!” cried “Jawn,” suspending operations on the mat. “I feel a
limerick coming! It’s a disease.” He mumbled and rolled his eyes, then
brightened up as the rhymes came out properly.

One glance at Phœbe’s illuminated face would be convincing enough that
she was enjoying hugely this bit of impromptu and apropos doggerel. But
she shook her head dolorously and sighed.

“It is sure a disease,” she said; “are you taken often with the fit?”

“It’s the air,” he explained as they entered the open door and walked
through the entrance-hall and turned into the library. Jerry had
taken her documents to her room, and Mrs. Wells was busy among the
perennials. “I felt it coming on me the moment I got a sniff of the
waters of Lake Keuka. It’s like hay-fever, you know.” They seated
themselves in the library.

There have been waves of limericks in America, but it is questionable
if the loping doggerel will ever go quite out of style. The Irish
never tire of the monotonous rhythm. In the twilight summer evenings
along the hedges, or in winter around the huge kitchen fire, the young
Irish lad is for ever contributing impromptu limericks. The verses are
usually of a low tone morally, and so local in their application that
the stranger needs much explanation, but their popularity is perennial.
Jawn had his gift straight from the father, but the son had raised them
a tone or two to fit American taste.

Jawn’s bad lines were covered by exquisite acting. The purse of
the lip, the ecstatic roll of the eye, and the sudden flash of big
teeth--these were enough to bring laughter to the face of his most
superior critic. So Phœbe was compelled to break through a forced
reserve and let her own laughter loose. And hers was of the vaulting
kind.

“Go on with you, man!” she cried. “It’s a movie actor you’d make with
that face! And what was your next fit like?”

Mrs. Wells, with a great bunch of phlox, was entering the rear hall
when “Jawn” began; she came to the door of the library in time to hear
the conclusion.

Jawn was a good fellow and an expert psychologist, but, alas, his
humour was not always refined. He took a huge interest in the rough
side of life, wherein he was not only true to type but true to his
early training on the West Side. The Celtic flavour saved the dish,
however. And he never went beyond the bounds set by his instinctively
good sense.

Phœbe, who secretly loved many of those proper coarse things of life on
which a Puritan world has set a superstitious taboo, mingled her shrill
peal with Jawn’s heavy laughter when Mrs. Wells appeared.

It was the first time Phœbe had seen Mrs. Wells since her return from
abroad, and although she had been prepared in advance she was not ready
for the extraordinary physical transformation. Mrs. Wells was not only
greyer, but she had grown puffy and weak; an amiable softness had
settled in her eyes and in the lines about the mouth. But Phœbe covered
her surprise in effusive greetings.

“Phœbe!” Mrs. Wells had exclaimed.

“Mother Wells!” Phœbe had shrilled, a pet name, the private privilege
of Phœbe.

“Phœbe,” thought Jawn; “it is the daughter’s name; and I figured it was
Geraldine. My memory is gone entirely.”

The greetings over, Mrs. Wells waited patiently for some explanation of
the smiling visitor. Evidently, from the uproarious conversation she
had interrupted, these two were well-enough acquainted.

“Who is--your--uh----?” Mrs. Wells helped.

“He’s not my anything,” retorted Phœbe. “I haven’t the least idea who
he is; and he doesn’t seem to have clear ideas on the subject himself.”

“This is Mrs. Emma Wells?” Jawn was presenting a hand and his widest
smile.

“Ye-s,” Mrs. Wells admitted, on her guard instantly. “If you came about
mortgages or business you’ll have to see my daughter Geraldine. She is
upstairs in her room. Shall I send for her?”

“Weren’t you expecting me?” Jawn asked.

“No-o; I think not.”

“But Mr. Dick said you had invited me to pay you a visit.”

“Mr. Dick? I don’t know any Mr. Dick, unless you mean Mr. Dickson? He
lives across the Lake.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you to expect ‘Jawn’ Galloway?”

“No.”

“He’s forgot it!”

“Please let me send for Jerry,” Mrs. Wells suggested nervously.
“Please----”

“Oh, I have nothing to do with business.” He waved a large palm. “I’m
just a guest.”

“Your name, you said----” Mrs. Wells tried to clear the mystery.

“No, I haven’t said, have I?” he asked blandly.

Phœbe broke in. “You have; you just asked us if we weren’t expecting a
‘Jawn’ Galloway?”

“I did,” he nodded; “but by the same token that’s not saying ‘Jawn’
Galloway’s my name.”

“I think,” Phœbe remarked emphatically, “we had better ’phone for
Casey--Casey is the police force, Mr. ‘Jawn’--and have done with it.”

Mrs. Wells told the visitor not to mind Mrs. Norris, and explained
how she always said the opposite of what she really meant. But she
was puzzled, and plainly showed it. Once or twice she started towards
the door. It would be such a relief to turn the matter over to
Geraldine. Meanwhile “Jawn” Galloway was carried away by the thought
of getting rid of his plain Irish name. Evidently his good pal, “Mr.
Dick”--if that was the name he had taken--had forgotten to mention
“Jawn” Galloway at all. That was thoroughly characteristic of “Mr.
Dick.” Well, why not play his own game and adopt a fancy cognomen,
too? Professor “Jawn” Galloway was getting too well known, anyway. He
couldn’t walk down the street without someone consulting him on some
sort of mental upset. After an article of his in a popular magazine his
friends had been calling him up of a morning to get his interpretation
of their dreams of the night before. “Jawn” he would have to stick
to, for he had admitted as much to this red-headed daughter, who had
started out Geraldine and had turned into Phœbe and then into Mrs.
Norris. Besides he never could get used to any other first name.
“Dalrymple”--that sounded distinguished and upper-class or--ah! he had
it--“De Lancey!”

“But if you would tell us your name,” Mrs. Wells was saying gently, “I
am sure we could then understand--ah! here’s Geraldine!” Mrs. Wells was
radiantly relieved.

In a word she put the mystery to Jerry, who understood immediately.
It was “Jawn” Galloway, and she came forward with outstretched hand,
intending to explain. But “Jawn” was on his feet and reaching out his
own hand.

“Jerry!” he called. “I’m betting that this is the Jerry my good friend
has been writing to me about. Only he didn’t have ink vivid enough,” he
shook her hand warmly. “It is Jerry, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m ‘Jawn’ De Lancey.”

“De Lancey?” she looked puzzled.

“Didn’t Mr. Dick tell you?”

“Mr. Dick. Do you mean Mr. Richard?”

He laughed, throwing back his head.

“We all call him Mr. Dick in New York. Of course, you would not know
that. Mr. Richard! How stupid of me. Mr. Richard, of course.”

Explanations followed, Jerry looming large as an explainer; but Phœbe
was plainly unconvinced.

“I still insist,” she was firm, “upon calling Casey. But first I would
count the silver.”




CHAPTER XV

THE LADY DETECTIVE


ANY friend of Mr. Richard’s was welcome to “Red Jacket,” Mrs. Wells
assured Jawn; and no questions asked; one could never tell when Phœbe
Norris was joking and when she was serious; Phœbe Norris herself
was never quite certain. When Mrs. Wells remonstrated mildly at her
too inquisitive questions on Jawn’s past, Phœbe puzzled Mrs. Wells
still further by remarking, “But I must act up to me part of lady
detective, mustn’t I? It’s a movie play we’re in. The man with the box
is concealed somewhere about, I’m sure. We’ll see the whole thing some
evening at Cornwall’s Theatre, I’ll warrant ye!”

“All the world’s a movie,” agreed Jawn, “and men and women merely----”

“Merely fillum,” Phœbe shot in her interruption. “Some bein’
hair-breadth horrors and some, like you, Jawn, bein’ just ‘comics.’”

“Wait!” cried Jawn, striking an attitude.

“He’s got a limerick in him!” shouted Phœbe. “Hush!”

Mrs. Wells was disturbed. “He’s got a what?” she asked.

“Limerick!” cried Phœbe; “it’s kind of fit!”

“Shan’t I get a glass of water?” Mrs. Wells rose timorously.

Phœbe’s laughter pealed again. “No!” she said. “Would you quench the
fire of divine doggerel?”

Jawn minded them not at all. His eye was fixed on distance and his hand
waved gently and his lips moved.

Mrs. Wells was not quite assured of the humour of the lines, but
she found herself laughing with the others at the droll face of the
reciter. He seemed a pleasant sort of man, although his laugh was
rather startling. But he was a friend of Richard’s; that was enough to
assure her; so he was invited to become a guest at “Red Jacket.”

It was a relief to know that he had not called on business connected
with the estate. Since the return from Europe Mrs. Wells had found it
impossible to focus her mind upon the financial end of her household
affairs. Never before had she realized how complicated everything was.
Not that she had ever conceived her task to be easy; but she had always
been able heretofore to summon her will to the problem, and like an
almost impossible puzzle, the answer had come out eventually. One had
only to persist, she always told herself. If interest on mortgages was
due and the bank balance was needed to pay off the vineyard helpers,
there was always a new loan on this or that stock; and if the bills for
last year’s grape baskets or this year’s spraying and willow-wiring
became too accumulative, one could hypothecate the wine stock or sell
a parcel of orchard land or--many things that a resourceful business
woman could think of.

Naturally her bookkeeping had assumed an Egyptian character; a private
sign here and there, a subtraction indicated without a balance being
drawn, a borrowing from this page not paid over to the other page--in
short, a system that amounted to a code understood solely by Mrs.
Wells. And not always to Mrs. Wells was the code instantly clear.
There were days when she puzzled over the meaning of this or that
entry; and sometimes surprising cheques were received on accounts which
she had scored off as settled, and even more surprising bills were
presented whose existence had faded from her memory. Concentration
had always opened a way of at least temporary escape; but the mental
lassitude which had seized her since her return from abroad had
made concentration impossible. Even the thought of the figures was
terrifying.

There had been strange visitors several times during the previous eight
or ten years, men representing corporations with which she had had
dealings on matters of mortgages and loans. They had been very pleasant
fellows, just like Jawn, only not so boisterous and self-assured;
and always she had needed her strength to meet all their exacting
requirements. When certain recent polite letters had assured her that
it was about time for one to appear, then it was that she had decided
to surrender unconditionally and let her healthy grown-up daughter do
the worrying.

When the luncheon-gong sounded Phœbe prepared to stay on without
question. George Alexander always looked about him before he set the
places, and the presence of Phœbe before a meal always meant a place
for her. Besides, she announced that Jawn had to be watched.

Mr. Richard’s non-appearance had been explained by Phœbe.

“I was talkin’ nice and pretty to him,” she said, “askin’ him if he
thought we’d ever have rain, and all of a sudden he gets displeased and
wouldn’t speak to me at all--just sulked, he did.”

“That’s--uh--that’s Richard all right,” said Jawn. “He’s the champion
sulker in New York city. I’ve known him to sit for six evenings in a
row and never give anybody the gift of a word.”

“On board the _Victoria_ he was that way, too,” Jerry corroborated.

“I never noticed it,” said Mrs. Wells.

“I mean all day on the way from Genoa to Naples,” Jerry hastened to
explain.

“Why, child,” Mrs. Wells remembered, “you did not meet him until the
Captain introduced you at Naples!”

“Ha! ha!” cried Phœbe, “more conspiracies for the movie man! Before
she met him she had met him all day long, and when he talked to her he
didn’t say a word! Doesn’t that strike you as about the time to have
another fit, Jawn? It ought to begin:

  ‘There was a young lady from Naples----’”

“Wait!” Jawn raised a warning finger.

“Wait yourself!” retorted Phœbe, raising a finger, too. “‘There
was a young lady from Naples----’ faples, saples, daples, raples,
japles--ding it! There ain’t no more rhymes for Naples!”

Jawn was not disturbed, although the evident intention was to clip his
budding limerick. When she had quite finished he nodded his head and
gave her a limerick with a sufficiency of proper rhymes for “Naples.”

Jerry was not pressed for explanation of her statement concerning
the habits of Richard before she had met him. Jawn’s limericks drew
attention away from her, and as the luncheon progressed Phœbe noted
the far-off approach of the cat-boat with its yacht in tow. From
the dining-room the Lake was in full view. And Jerry remembered her
telephone communication with Fagner, and explained the purpose of the
new yacht. But before luncheon was over Jerry managed to get Jawn to
herself.

“Why do you confuse us by taking a strange name?” she asked. “You are
really Professor John Galloway, aren’t you?”

“It’s all the style!” he told her. “Your Mr. Richard took a fancy
name and he gave me the idea. What’s wrong with John De Lancey? I’m
enjoying it. Already I feel like an aristocrat. Your Richard writes me
that the new name has made a complete change in his personality. As a
psychologist that interests me, so I’m trying it out. I hope to get a
new personality, too; you don’t know how tired I am of the old one.”

She had spent the morning upstairs in a fruitless endeavour to get some
sense out of the tangle of domestic accounts. There were some worrisome
entries in the books, and naturally she was not in the spirit to
comprehend Jawn’s humour to the full.

“I fear it will do harm if mother discovers we are all hoaxing her,”
she told him.

“She’ll enjoy it,” he insisted. The mother was laughing immoderately at
some witticism from Phœbe Norris. “Trust me to clear everything up when
the time comes. I’ll study out some special limericks for the occasion.
Anyone can see that she is a born lover of limericks. But tell me, how
did Mr. Richard become Mr. Richard?”

She explained the beginnings of the incognito and let him understand
that she was sorry the innocent lark had developed so far.

“Of course you know who he really is,” he said.

“No.”

“What?” he cried, and was about to explain, but she stopped him.

“Richard must make his own explanations,” she declared. “It would seem
like probing; and he is our guest, you know.”

She tried to get him to talk about Walter, but he was very frank in
saying that that was Richard’s case.

“But he asked you to come here solely to consult you about Walter.”

It might be, Jawn agreed; but he was on a vacation. It was all
guess-work anyway, he assured her; and any man’s guess was as good as
another’s. When Richard got going on a thing he could be guaranteed to
put genius into it.

The young lady before him appealed more to his interest; and he was
not slow in indicating as much. He quoted what he could remember of
Richard’s letter to prove that it was Jerry and not Walter that had
induced him to come to “Red Jacket.” There was enough chaffing in his
tone to cover up the bluntness of his statements, but there was no
doubt as to his meaning.

There are many ways to meet this sort of gallantry. Some women affect
indifference and grow stupidly reserved--they are the ones hit
hardest!--and some simper and pretend that they do not understand; but
a wiser group admit everything and bring the game right out in the
open, where it quickly perishes for lack of pursuit.

“That was quite right of Richard,” Jerry returned. “Naturally he
would recommend me first, but at that time, you know, he had not seen
Phœbe Norris.” She explained Phœbe’s widowhood and enlarged upon
her qualities. “Phœbe will just suit you,” she concluded, and her
good-humoured tone turned all Jawn’s blarneying back on him and made
Jerry herself more reserved and unapproachable than ever.

Jawn made a wry face.

“Never!” he whispered, like a stage-aside. “There’s nothing mysterious
and romantic in Phœbe to me. We Irish understand one another too well.
I know every twist in her head, and she’s on to me, every curve of
me. All my charms would be jokes to her; it would be carrying coals
to Newcastle with a vengeance. No! the Irish get along best with
aliens. In Ireland my father was a subservient peat digger; in America
he became instantly an eccentric genius, a man of parts, a West Side
statesman and diplomat. The big-wigs in politics consult him now, and
his sayings are quoted by the newspaper ‘columnists’; in Ireland he
was just like thousands of others. No! Phœbe and I suspect each other
already. The feud is on.”

“She seemed to enjoy your verses.”

“Pure bluff to put me off my guard,” he averred. “We’re like a pair of
beggars knocking at the same gate.”

“How so?”

She was amused at his obvious humour, and interested; proving his
point, he told her, that the alien would love him better than the
native.

“How so?” he repeated. “Well, she was the clever, unusual one before I
came. Isn’t it true? I see it is. Now I’m proving how easy is all that
so-called Irish wit.”

“I’m listenin’, Jawn de Lancey Gallagher,” Phœbe leaned her red head
far over the table. “But don’t tempt me to punish you.”

“Maybe I might,” said he, “if I knew the penalty.”

“Well,” she considered, “fight fair, or I may be tempted to go to
extremes.”

“And what’d that be?”

“Marry you,” she said.

“Mother of John!” he cried. “Not in America, lass! It’s forbid by the
Constitution.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s the law of the land that prohibits cruel and unjust punishments.”

“That’s true,” she recovered quickly, “but for the minute I wasn’t
thinkin’ of myself.”

“Oh! oh!” he cried, acknowledging the hit.

“It _would_ be a kind of slow female suicide, now wouldn’t it, Jerry?”

“That’s not a bad definition of marriage,” commented Jerry
thoughtfully; “at least in the majority of cases that we see about us.”

“What’s a good definition of marriage?” inquired Jawn.

“A kind of slow female suicide.”

“Help! Help!” cried Jawn. “They’re both against me! I’m in the lair of
the professional man-hater. Which leads me to ask a connundrum----”

“Do you think this is a children’s party, Jawn de Lancey McGinnis?”
snapped Phœbe.

“Well, isn’t it?” he stared about him. “Sure we’re all kids here. Look
at Mrs. Wells.” Mrs. Wells was ready to laugh before the connundrum was
even proposed, and that sudden touch sent her off. “And look at that
grey-haired old kid over there!” Black George Alexander, hovering at
the door, broke into African cackles. Jawn’s huge face had the native
comedian power; wherever he turned it laughter sprang, except in one
quarter. Phœbe Norris looked straight at him with face set and cold.

“Go on with your connundrum, man,” she commanded icily.

“Well,” he said, evidently shifting his original plan, “why is Mrs.
Phœbe Norris’ face like--like--like the Tombs of the Pharaohs?”

Phœbe’s face, in turn, became the instigator to mirth. If it had been
stony before, it grew steadily now into a veritable sphinx. Comment and
inquiry could not dislodge her external claim.

“Why?” inquired Mrs. Wells; she was rather fond of connundrums,
intelligent ones like this one, which brought in one’s knowledge of
ancient history. “Why is Phœbe’s face like the Tombs of the Pharaohs?”

“The Lord only knows why,” said John solemnly; “but like the Tombs of
the Pharaohs it is.”

A crinkle came to Phœbe’s eyes, and her mouth quivered.

“I’m not laughin’,” she insisted. “My face slipped.”

“And is there no other answer?” inquired Mrs. Wells.

“His wit has run dry,” Phœbe explained. “He opened the sluice too wide
at first.”

“Oh, yes,” assented Jawn. “Her face is like the Tombs of the Pharaohs
because there’s more wisdom within than the deepest archæologist can
ever translate; because the best part of her is hieroglyphic; because
it’s worth travelling ten thousand miles to see her; because she is
built fit for a king; because no man knows the mystery of her creation,
yet all wonder at the marvel of it; because--do you want any more?”

“I just wished to bring you out, Jawn,” Phœbe apologized. “I didn’t
want the reputation of the race to languish. And thank you for the
compliments. I’m so glad you didn’t say--because it looks so derned
life-like and everybody knows it’s a dead one. But that would be a
mummy, wouldn’t it, and not the Tomb of the Pharaohs?”

“If it had been a mummy,” said Jawn, “I might have said, because in
spite of years of married life she is still so well preserved; or
because----”

“That’s enough,” said Phœbe; “in a minute more you’ll be sayin’
somethin’ you’ll be ashamed of. Don’t forget, Jawn, that the Wells’ are
very refined.”

“I was only going to say----” the light of deviltry was in Jawn’s eyes,
warning enough to this country woman.

“I’m goin’!” she cried, and started from the room. “The boys have
docked, I see, and they’ll be wantin’ food. It’s a word of warnin’ I’m
tellin’ you, Jawn de Lancey Maguire--save all your piggy sayin’s for me
who understands them, and don’t go makin’ me ashamed of you before the
quality.”

She courtesied to Jerry and Mrs. Wells, threw a kiss to Jawn, and
slipped away.

“It’s a sprite she is,” said Jawn, “a red-headed Irish fay.”

“She is a very great joy to us,” said Mrs. Wells deliberately. “And who
would think she was ten years married and a widow! Phœbe hasn’t changed
a mite since she was twenty.”

“She’ll never be old,” said Jawn. “I can hardly keep my eyes off her
hair--it’s so brilliant and fascinating.” He was about to say something
equally complimentary when he caught her shadow at the long front
windows. Mrs. Wells had seen her, too, peeping behind a curtain, and
showed the knowledge in her face. “Fascinating?” he continued, “yes.
And charming? Not a doubt. She’ll be that way when she’s eighty--I’ve
known many of her kind--having all the young boys dancing about
her--unless she takes cold and dies from poking her dainty head in at
draughty windows!”

“Jawn de Lancey O’Rourke,” she poked her dainty head further in,
“you’ll force me to marry you yet in self-defence.”

This time she was really gone. Down the road she walked briskly, a
fine glow on her face. It was such an unusual joy for her to meet a
mind as absurd as her own. What good is a sense of the ridiculous, a
kinship with the Comic Spirit, if folks about you are for ever taking
you seriously? It simply means offence when you had meant none; and
scandal where none was dreamed. The Wells were the right sort, because
they took nothing seriously from Phœbe, which was a good thing in many
ways: it gave Phœbe an outlet for some real heavy matters that weighed
on her soul, and she never need fear too much sympathy. And it gave her
a chance to say the most literal truths about her neighbours, to let
loose her satire on their shortcomings, and never to be suspected of
wisdom.

The Wells, notwithstanding, were hardly more than appreciative
audience; Jawn, now, was a “pardner”--to use the technical term of
comedians. He stirred her mind, provoked it, as none of the others did.
And every ripple of his own she felt akin to. It would be glorious fun
to fight quip with quip; even though he were a rascal.

Of course he was a rascal. The pair of them were. About Richard she
might have had doubts, but about Jawn--never! She knew an Irish villain
when she saw one. He was a rascal, but she was not sure that she would
be against him in the final reckoning. After all, life was a game of
matching wits; and if this Wells Virginia-English strain was stupid
should it not pay the penalty? But that explanation of her partnership
was discarded before she got half-way down the hill. The Irish rascal
was a rascal for high philosophic reasons: it was because he placed
so little value upon the world’s goods that he concerned himself even
less about the matter of precise ownership.--“I am taking your watch,”
he might say kindly, “about which you should not grieve too much; for
consider, when you come to your last dozen breaths, how little value
this watch will have in your eyes, and how quickly you’d give it for
another year of living.”

That’s what made the Irish villain so captivating a character in
picturesque romances. He cracked his little joke at the world; if he
got off with it, he laughed; if he got caught he laughed. The whole
business of having and losing is so trivial when life itself is trivial.

In some such ways she defended Jawn, but resolved to watch him,
nevertheless. If for no other reason than to get the joy of the play
of his mind, she would watch him. And it was delightful to see how
easily the good Wells were taken in. Their idea of a swindler was of a
sneaking, Uriah Heepish, Sing-Singish cut-throat. They had not the wit
to conceive of an honest blarneying lad who went straight at his task,
open and above-board.

And what, in the name of pity, had happened to the mistress of the
house? The most imposing creature in Jerusalem township had actually
shrunk into a timid, smiling--it was as if the Red Queen (“Off with his
head!”) had suddenly become the White Queen (“Pat her on the head and
see how pleased she’ll be”). We all know how age creeps on us, but this
time, thought Phœbe, it had pounced! Mrs. Wells had lost her rigidly
erect bearing, her face had given up the fixed effort of concentration,
she was aimlessly drifting. “A little kindness--and putting her hair in
papers--would do wonders with her!” Phœbe laughed at this picture of
the helpless White Queen, but the laugh soon died away. The reality was
not at all comic.

But no one would have guessed that back of Phœbe’s public mirth and
jollity was even a serious observation of the change in Mother Wells.
A fine sense of consideration had kept even the glance of curiosity
out of her eyes. She was not the sort to greet a lady friend with,
“Goodness! Aren’t you getting a little stouter?”

She would not let even her own thoughts dwell too long on her friend’s
misfortune. The villains were summoned again before her. Of course,
Phœbe agreed before she reached “Lombardy,” her cottage, that she would
keep an open mind about these mysterious gentlemen with changeable
names. They might in the end turn out to be respectable. Very well. Her
plan was to stand guard and never be suspected. And the way never to be
suspected is to tell all your plans to the enemy. They won’t believe
you, which is exactly what you want. “I’ll tell them they’re a set of
rascals,” she chuckled, “and that I’m watchin’ every move of them, and
they’ll laugh their heads off and never be disturbed by my little joke.”

Richard and Walter were quite ready for Phœbe’s impromptu luncheon,
which she managed in the quickest possible time and set for them on
her porch. She listened to their story of the lucky arrival of the
yacht, heard its name, _Sago-ye-wat-ha_, and listened to its virtues
extolled, but kept aloof from their enthusiasm.

Walter was the first to notice her silence. “You tol’ me to get it,” he
said; “an’--I got it.”

“Well! well!” said Richard. “Are you at the bottom of this, too?”

Richard had found his voice again.

“I always said if he owned his own boat he could do wonders on this
Lake.”

“You are very keen,” he smiled at her.

“Oh, I know my tables,” she replied cheerily; “and I know a good sailor
when I see one; and I know your fellow-conspirator, Mr. De Lancey.”

Richard looked up from a sandwich, but said nothing.

“I hope you’re not going to go into the sulks again?” she asked.
“There’ll be no fun in houndin’ you to earth and layin’ bare your
nefarious plots if every time I get you in a corner you play deaf and
dumb.”

He laughed good-naturedly. All the kinks were out of his mind now; he
felt vigorous and alert, and knew--he was thankful--that Phœbe had
ceased to depress him into speechlessness. And following consistently
his tried theory, he knew that all was well between them.

“I was rude, wasn’t I?” he admitted. “That’s an infirmity of mine, like
an epileptic fit----”

“Oh, your friend De Lancey has fits, too. You are a pair, all right.”

“I give up,” he said. “De Lancey is no friend of mine. Please explain.”

“You don’t know a John De Lancey?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, he’s up at the Big House this minute. You may not know him, but
he knows you. To be sure he got twisted in your name--said it was Mr.
Dick--until Jerry foolishly gave you away. Then he was sure it was
Mr. Richard. He said he had forgotten for the moment what name you had
agreed to travel on. You two had better get together and rehearse.
You’re both bad actors. I’ll give you that much help, although I’m
warnin’ you,” she smiled broadly as she spoke, “that I’m a lady
detective in disguise. So look out!”

Walter looked on wisely as they talked. At first he thought he would
tell Phœbe what he knew about assumed names; but decided later that she
would find it out soon enough. It was not his affair. He had his boat,
and he would go off and borrow old sails somewhere and try her out.
But before he went he exacted from Phœbe the approval of his latest
achievement.

“You said to get one,” he repeated, “an’ I got one.”

“Good boy!” she nodded to him cheerily. “I knew you’d do it.”

That was enough to start him off to the tender in great spirits.

Richard came back to the former topic.

“Really, Mrs. Norris----”

“Don’t Mrs. Norris me.”

“Really, Phœbe, I don’t know any De Lancey. What sort of man is he?”

“Well, to begin with he is the happiest liar, outside of your good
self, that I’ve yet met. He’s Irish, and he’s chuck full of limericks
and connund----”

“Jove!” cried Richard. “It’s Jawn!”

“Jawn it is; Jawn De Lancey.”

“It’s Jawn Galloway,” he corrected. “It would be just like him to
imitate me and take another name----”

“Then Mr. Richard is not your name?” she broke in triumphantly.

“No,” he smiled wryly. “But you mustn’t tell Mrs. Wells. Jerry knows.
And so does Walter. You may as well know too. In fact, I thought Jerry
had told you. But think of Jawn Galloway taking on a--did you say De
Lancey? Jack De Lancey! That is comic.”

“Very comic,” she mimicked. “You’re doin’ well. But as I’m goin’ to get
you both in the end you might as well light yourself a cigarette and
confess everything. And I may let you off altogether if you flatter me
a little. I’m very susceptible to kind words. There’s your cue, man.
Now, go on with your tale.”

In a very straightforward manner he told her the whole story from the
accidental meeting with Jerry on board the _Victoria_ at Naples up to
the complication made by Walter’s outbreak.

As the story developed, Phœbe gradually lost her chipper attitude.
There was something terribly convincing about the Walter episode. She
knew all about that threat to do away with himself; it had been made to
her, too, and it had taken all her diplomacy to put a right attitude
in the boy and start him off on his trip with the mother freed from
much of his unnatural antipathy. But secretly she had always believed
that Walter’s threats were idle boasts. The reality frightened her, for
Richard made no attempt either to minimize or magnify the determined
struggle of the boy to end his mixed-up life on the stern of the
steamer.

“Well,” she drew in a deep breath, “you may be featherin’ your nest or
not; all I say is you’ve earned the right to do what you please up at
the Big House. As far as you are concerned, Mr. What-ever-your-name-is,
I resign; but I’ll keep my eye on your Jawn friend a little longer, if
you don’t mind.”

Richard smoked away for a while in great contentment.

“Do you know, Phœbe,” he turned to her chummily, “I really may be
feathering my nest, as you call it; and without ever intending to
perform that delicate operation.”

“I guess you’re old enough to know your way about.” She busied herself
clearing away the lunch dishes.

“Age doesn’t help at that,” he said, “it hinders. The older you grow
the more sure you seem; but you fool yourself.... I’m sure I don’t know
why I do anything.”

“You didn’t come all the way to Penn Yan on a wild-goose chase. Don’t
tell me that.”

“That’s life exactly,” he said, “a wild-goose chase.”

“Humph!” she sniffed significantly. “You can’t fool your grandmother!
Every sensible person in this world is after something, and he knows
mighty well what it is. It’s all moonshine, this not knowin’ why you do
things. Now, own up; it wasn’t an overpowering interest in Walter that
brought you here; now, was it?”

“I don’t believe it was,” he admitted cheerfully.

“And it wasn’t due to the overpowering attractions of Phœbe Norris?”
she persisted in her cross-examination.

“It may have been,” he looked at her calmly.

“What?” she cried. “You’d never heard of me.”

“Well,” he argued, “Adam had never heard of Eve, but God went on
confidently making all the arrangements.”

She mused over the thought.

“I forgot,” she said finally. “I did invite you to lay on a little
flattery. And you did it well. And, by the same token, though I know
it’s a lie, it gives one a mighty pleasin’ sensation.... Go along with
you, man!... Adam and Eve!... Pfut!... It’s a scandalous picture you’re
after puttin’ into my mind!”




CHAPTER XVI

TREMOR CORDIS


RICHARD showed no indication to leave his comfortable place on Phœbe
Norris’ porch. And Phœbe hummed about her work like a young healthy
bee. When she felt particularly pleased she put little burbles of
low laughter between her sentences; chuckles is not the exact word;
they were suggestive rather of the cooing of pigeons. On the Lake the
conversation could not be distinguished, but these interjectory ripples
floated out clearly enough.

It was the first thing Walter heard when he had staggered down to the
dock with an old mainsail and a tattered jib which he had resurrected
from the top of a neighbouring oat stack. The music heartened him,
though he was physically pretty well spent. It was all right, he said
to himself; all right.

“Don’t you think you had better be going to the rescue of your friend
Jawn De Lancey Galloway O’Toole?” Phœbe remarked as she stood before
Richard and polished a plate. “He’ll be needin’ you, I’m thinkin’.”

“Jawn can take care of himself,” Richard had rejoined.

“Ordinarily, yes,” she agreed, “if he weren’t gallivantin’. But when
an Irishman like Jawn begins to gallivant, his tongue waggles at both
ends.”

“What’s gallivanting?” inquired Richard lazily. “Comes from ‘galli’ to
gallop--doesn’t it?--and ‘vanti,’ vanity; ‘The vanity of horsemanship.’
The only thing Jawn can ride successfully is a subway express.”

“You’re wrong entirely on your etymology, young man,” she nodded
sagely. “The word ‘gallivant’ comes from the ‘gal,’ meaning ‘woman,’
and ‘vanting,’ meanin’ ‘wantin’ ’em bad.’ At the rate he was goin’ when
I left him,” she chuckled--or burbled, or whatever name you choose
for a yet unnamed accomplishment, “he’s probably on the way to the
priest-house by this time.”

“Who’s the woman?” Richard inquired.

“Well, _he_ didn’t begin by pretendin’ it was the old lady!”

Richard considered that statement for several seconds, while Phœbe
hummed about him.

“Let him!” he finally said.

“One of the first symptoms of insanity,” Phœbe suggested judicially,
although she knew exactly the train of unexpressed thought that led to
the “Let him!” “one of the very first signs--and I should know what I
am talking about--is sudden and unexpected jumps in the conversation.
When I would remark to Seth that it was time to feed the chickens and
he would reply, ‘I wish I had a white rat,’ I always knew it was time
to hide the hammer and lock up the axe.... You’re not feelin’ a bit
ferocious, are you?”

It was the joking over Richard’s possible madness that led to the
particular set of intimate “burbles” which caught Walter’s attention
suddenly, and made him stop in the midst of “bending on” the mainsail,
and listen. He caught not a single word, but the _timbre_, if one
may so describe it, of the conference was unmistakably friendly and
affectionate. Just so she had laughed and joked with him to cheer him
out of moodiness, and the lilt in her voice had been the only decent
memory in his life. Somehow, he could not believe that she would ever
offer it to anyone else--madmen and lovers have such notions--it was
his private possession, he thought; but now she was hovering over
another man and----

Something Richard said--a bit of nonsense, no doubt--had brought a
little shriek of delight from Phœbe, but the remainder of his speech
she would not have. Quickly she had darted back of him and had placed a
hand firmly over his mouth, cutting off a sentence in mid-air. But her
low vibrating laughter showed that she had appreciated the humour of
whatever had been said.

That act, trifling in itself and thoroughly characteristic of Phœbe
Norris, inflamed Walter; it sent a shock through him that started the
blood coursing and left him shaking violently with nervousness. He
opened his mouth the better to breathe; spasms of trembling swept over
him; he sat crouched up amid a swirl of sail-cloth and stared at the
two happy persons before him.

An impartial judge would have decided that the relations between Mr.
Richard and Mrs. Norris had not altered one thousandth of a millimetre
from luncheon. Before Walter or behind Walter there had not been the
slightest shadow of change in the outward attitude. The low laughter
had been pulsating before; the jests had been passed and repassed;
and even the friendly fillip had been exposed to view. But to Walter,
seared with the burning iron of sudden jealousy, all these personal
touches were born of the moment, staged now for the first time, as
the bill-boards say. The data for that sort of thing has been worked
over pretty thoroughly; see the case of Othello versus Desdemona, or
Leontes, king of Sicilia, versus Hermione, his queen. Over an innocent
public leave-taking, one remembers,--the guest, Polixenes, is making
his farewells to the hostess--Leontes cries, “I have tremor cordis on
me! My heart dances, but not for joy! not joy!”

“Tremor cordis” it was, but Walter could make no pretty speeches
about it. No word could have come from him. It was pitiful to see him
struggling to get breath; pitiful unless one saw also the gleam of hate
in his eye.

What should he do to rid himself of the suffering that possessed him?
His first impulse was to burst in upon them and fight it out openly
with whatever weapon appeared; but that impulse never got so far as
a single movement: the big man, he knew, could fling him into the
Lake, and the woman could pierce him with a glance and a score of
scornful words. Craft whispered in his ear to bide his time and, above
all, make sure. Jealousy demands evidence, concrete proof, specific
torture to add to the mental anguish. Perhaps--Phœbe had gone off in a
matter-of-fact way to see to her chickens, and Richard was coming down
to the dock--perhaps there was nothing to it after all.

Almost as abruptly as it came the feeling of being dispossessed left
him; all but the memory of it and a vague presentiment that he must be
ever watchful. The exultant mood that followed took him to the other
extreme. He laughed and seized the sail vigorously; and when Richard
reached the dock he was humming a sort of a tune.

“Good boy!” Richard encouraged, when he saw the amount of work already
done. “Here Phœbe and I have been fooling away the time while you
have been working like a shoemaker. Why, we’ll be able to try her out
to-day; won’t we?”

In spite of his feeling that all was well again Walter found it hard to
control his speech.

“N-not t-to-day,” he managed. “No w-wind.”

What he meant to say was that he was too dog-tired to hoist sail and
take the trial. It took all his strength to make the boat shipshape for
the night.

“Oh, isn’t there?” Richard squinted about the heavens. “Well then, if
it’s all the same to you, old chap, I’ll just trot up to the house and
see my friend Jawn. Jawn’s a wild one when he’s on his vacation, and
the Lord only knows what I’ll have to apologize for. So long!”

Walter watched him greedily to see if he really took the road that
led to the Big House; and then, when his eyes had assured him, his
suspicious brain suggested plots and stratagems. He stood up in the
boat and craned his head to listen for sounds of Phœbe talking to her
chickens. From the “chicken-runs” came not a single “cluck.” Some of
the former “tremor cordis” seized him again, but not so violently;
he shot a leg into the tender, tilting it at a frightful angle, and
luckily managed to pilot the skiff to shore successfully. There was ten
feet of water at the end of the dock.

Phœbe was not among the chickens; nor could he see her in the orchard,
nor in the vineyards tilted up in full view on the hill. They had gone
off together! It was a ruse to fool him! Oaths slipped from him, as he
dashed up the hill and then down through the orchard to Phœbe’s house.
He almost ran into her as she emerged suddenly from among the dahlias.
She had a large bunch of deep purple flowers in her arm, which she
almost dropped at his sudden excited appearance.

“Land o’ Goshen!” she ejaculated. “If you start runnin’ wild about
here, I’ll be forgettin’ myself and takin’ ye for Seth and lock you up
for the night in the ‘pen’!... What’s the matter with you, boy? You’re
all of a shake.”

A little tenderness softened her tone. She tried to take hold of his
trembling hand, but he grinned and brought himself together.

“Jus’ l-lookin’ for y-you,” he stammered foolishly.

“You’re a funny boy,” she laughed, with some of her native crooning in
her voice. “A funny boy!... Come in and sit down and tell me all about
the new boat. I’m all excited about the races. I see myself standin’ on
the dock at Alley’s Inn with a pair of field-glasses screwed to me two
eyes and rainin’ curses on my good friends Tyler and Fagner.”

“Goin’ to beat ’em both;” Walter glowed under her loyal chatter.

“An’ don’t forget, boy,” she told him gravely, “that if you don’t win
I’ll be feelin’ all the more sympathy for you. It’ll be much better for
you if you lose; for then I’ll spend _all_ my time thinkin’ of you.”

“If I don’t win,” he began savagely, “I’ll--I’ll----”

“You’ll do nothin’ of the kind,” she calmed him firmly. “You’ll just
try again, like everybody else. There isn’t a skipper on the Lake but
what has lost a race some time or other.”

After a long chat together--Walter could always talk to Phœbe
Norris--Phœbe told him it was time to go home. He did not want to go.
The lunch was fine, but there were too many at lunch. Why not have
a little cosy supper together--just the two of them--on the porch,
watching the sunset?

“You’re goin’ home, boy;” she was jocular but determined. “The breath
of scandal has never yet tarnished me fair escutcheon. I don’t know
what an escutcheon is, my boy, or whether it’s right and proper for
a female to have one; but I know I’m not goin’ to be entertainin’
handsome young bachelors--meanin’ you--all alone by meself at seducin’
suppers. Go ’long with you.”

And although she drove him off and he was very much disappointed, yet
he walked up the hill delighted with himself. Phœbe always had that
effect on him, and she was quite aware of it. She watched him like a
mother as he stalked on, and waved a hand when he turned half-way up
the hill and looked back.

“Well, he seems chipper enough now,” she puzzled over him, “but he was
rather wild at first.... I wonder what got into the lad.”

Richard had not gone directly up to “Red Jacket.” The vineyards took
his eye. The rows and rows of dwarfed grape plants and their thick
clusters of perfect grapes--now hard and green, of course--reminded
him of similar vineyards in France and along the banks of the Rhine.
A negro workman here and there was quite willing to stop and talk.
There were two interests here for Richard--one was the methods used
for keeping these vines free from the thousand and one enemies of the
fruit, and the other was the curious bit of history represented by
these descendants of a Virginia slave plantation transferred to the
North and still working for the old family.

So it was growing upon dusk before he left the vineyard and strolled
up to the Big House. “Tshoti,” “Non,” “Da” and “Waga”--the four huge
porch columns--loomed tremendously in the half light. He caught a
portion of their mystery and remembered Jerry’s prediction that one
night he should come upon them unexpectedly as they performed their
sentinel guard, and that he would feel himself grow small in their
presence.

Jawn was entertaining the Wells family when Richard arrived.

“Make a limerick on Phœbe Norris?” he was repeating a question,
possibly to gain time. “Sure I can!” He rolled his eyes upward. “Sure I
can! It’s a simple matter, if you know how. Uh--let me see. ‘There was
a young lady named Phœbe.’ No! That would never do. The only rhyme for
Phœbe is ‘Hebe,’ the goddess of beer. U-m!... I have it! Well, how’s
this?”

Richard spoiled that limerick by asking:

“Won’t someone introduce me to the poet?” and his hand went out eagerly
to meet Jawn’s.

Jawn, however, was not so receptive. With a jocularity that was
understood by everyone but the watchful Walter, he protested that he
couldn’t be certain whether he ought to meet the gentleman for the
first time or kiss him on either cheek as an old boyhood friend; he
couldn’t be certain until they got together secretly and connived
a bit. A bit of conniving now and then, he assured everybody, was
relished by the best of men--and the worst of women. He had come to
“Red Jacket,” he complained, with a perfectly good alias, and hardly
had he been enjoying a high-class name for an hour when the daughter
of the house saw through his verbal disguise and exposed him to the
ridicule of the natives.

“Under the aristocratic name of Jawn Dalrymple--or was it Dalton?” he
looked about him imploringly.

“It was De Lancey,” helped Jerry.

“De Lancey, of course!----”

Mrs. Wells interrupted. “I beg pardon,” she said, “I don’t want to seem
stupid, but I thought you said your name was De Lancey? Isn’t that your
name, Mr. De Lancey?”

Jerry explained carefully. “He was just joking us, mother. He is Mr.
Richard’s old friend Mr. Galloway, Professor John Galloway of Columbia
University.”

“The cat’s out!” Jawn turned disconsolately to Richard; “so I might as
well shake hands and own up. It was a great mistake. I see it now. I
ought to have worn whiskers.”

“But, really,” Mrs. Wells seemed very much concerned, “I can’t see why
he should not have said Galloway from the beginning.”

The attempt to make clear Jawn’s reason for an incognito was not very
successful, due to the fact that Richard’s incognito could not be
explained. Even Jawn saw that. Both Richard and Jerry gave him open
signals that it would not be politic to try to clear up two incognitos
in one evening--all of which was not lost on Walter--and Mrs. Wells’
disturbed face was ample evidence that silence on that score was the
best policy.

“I’ll tell you how it is,” Jawn jumped into the breach. “My real name
is De Lancey, but when a lad I was adopted by a wealthy New York banker
named Galloway. Well, he lost all his money and died leaving me nothing
but the name. Naturally I sometimes forget and use the old one out of
habit.”

The romantic explanation pleased Mrs. Wells immensely. She grew
tremendously interested in the rich banker and wanted to know many
particulars. Jawn was never at a loss for details.

Walter was keenly interested in Jawn’s talk but, he told himself, he
was not at all taken in by it. A numbing remembrance of the afternoon’s
suspicions came into the background of his mind and settled there. It
was a spectre at all his banquets of happiness: it darted its chill
into his best re-visioning of even that latest chat with Phœbe when she
called him a handsome young bachelor and hinted scandalous things. So
it behoved him to prepare his defences against attack.

The situation was very clear to Walter. This “Mr. Richard” was some
sort of a confidence man. He first attracted the ladies and then
subtracted their purses, or borrowed huge sums from them on bad notes,
or got them to invest in worthless stocks. He had heard about these
fellows. The books were full of them--not only the paper-backs, either,
but real books--meaning cloth-covers--like _Wallingford_ and _Blacky
Daw_ and _Raffles_. Jawn, of course, was a detective on the trail of
Richard. In spite of all his joking and laughing, anyone could see that
he kept his eye on Richard. Did Richard know that he was being trailed?
Walter suspected that he did not.

He wondered if it were criminal to use another man’s name, a big man’s
name at that, one whose reputation was world-wide, whose millions of
money earned as railroad and steamship owner, international banker
and dealer in monopolies in general, had made his name known even to
children. That was the name on the card tacked carelessly on “Mr.
Richard’s” door. He must be engaged in crime on a big scale to need to
assume that name. And why had he changed it? And what was his real
name? These were questions which Walter would like answered. Perhaps a
little careful probing of Jerry would tell him something.

Later in the evening she was conscious of his following her about. In
the tail of her eye she could see him sidling along the hall as she
turned into a room, or standing afar off and watching strangely while
she talked to someone. One got used to having a “queer” brother in the
house, but these movements, stealthy and clumsy at once, were not usual.

“Want to see yuh,” he said to her finally.

“All right, Walter,” she agreed; “go out on the porch and sit beside
‘Waga.’”

“Jes’ y-you,” he nodded; “n-nobody else.”

“All right, Walter.”

Between “Waga” and “Da” they sat and looked out upon the wide sheet of
blue water, startlingly clear in the moonlight.

“H-he’s gotta keep away from Phœbe,” Walter managed to begin.

Jerry was too used to managing her brother to show astonishment at any
remark. He was easily frightened off.

“What makes you think so?” she asked quietly.

“H-he’s been hangin’ ’round, laughin’ and--lookin’ at her.”

“But everyone does, Walter,” she said; “who can help it? She is
wonderful, you know.”

“She’s all right,” said he.

Walter seemed to have nothing further to add to that topic, and Jerry
knew better than to try to force him to talk. She waited until he began
again.

“Smart boy, he is.” His speech became clearer as he grew in confidence,
and his manner became more aggressive. “Talks a lot.... But he’s a
crook.”

The “he,” Jerry figured, must mean Jawn.

“Funny names, and all that,” he explained.

After a moment he laughed derisively, almost vindictively. “Says his
name’s Richard! Huh! Richard Richard! Hah! Fools the women all right.
But don’t fool me.... Has ’nother name, too.” He fumbled in his pocket
and produced the card that Richard had ripped off his stateroom door.
“But I cornered him. Tol’ me ’at was a fake name, too. Found it on his
things ... in his stateroom.... Big gun, he was tryin’ to be.... Big
gun.”

Mechanically Jerry took the card. By the light from the window she
could see the hold black characters. It was indeed a big gun, one of
the Crœsuses of his age. It seemed less like the name of a person, as
she studied it, than that of some heavily advertised merchandise.

Jerry was not a newspaper reader, but vaguely she was conscious
of knowing something about that name. While Walter bragged of his
cleverness in discovering this further act of imposture, she was
searching over her memory. Suddenly it became clear that the man whose
card she held in her hand had been dead several years; he had gone down
at sea with his whole family; she was not sure, but she thought she
remembered something about an accident to a sea-going yacht off the
Newfoundland Banks.

“Where did you find this card?” she asked.

“On his door.”

“His stateroom door?”

“Yes. That’s the name he was goin’ to use at first, but I scared him
off. Tore it down, he did, when I came ’long.”

“Perhaps somebody else put it there by mistake.”

“Nope! He owned up all right, when I put it to him.”

“Just how did he ‘own up,’ as you say?”

“Said----” Walter thought for a moment to get the words right, “--said
he was sorry to use a fine name like that; said if I’d keep mum he’d
stick by me.”

“And so you are keeping mum.”

“Well!” he flared. “Guess I c’n tell it to my own sister, can’t I?...
An’ he ain’t stickin’ by me.”

“Oh!” she recalled. “You think he is interested in Phœbe?”

“Well, he better not be.”

No matter what Jerry may have privately thought she knew her duty at
this moment, and that was to rid this boy’s mind of the suspicions
that had begun to darken it. She was startled by the revelation; she
would have to get alone and think things together before she could
make up her mind as to the meaning of the facts Walter had presented;
particularly was she astonished at Walter’s interest in protecting
Phœbe Norris; but all that she cast aside and bent to the task of
reassuring Walter of Richard’s good faith. She reminded him of the
scene at the back of the _Victoria_, and drew tactfully the picture
of Richard’s work in saving Walter from a terrible “accident”; she
repeated Richard’s constant expression of interest in Walter’s welfare;
but none of these seemed to affect the boy in the least.

Then she was driven out of the truth. “A fib in time saves nine,” she
remembered one of Richard’s jokes. Prevarications had been piling up
ever since that first deception. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when
first we practise to deceive!” One must keep in mind that in spite of
Jerry’s calm in Walter’s presence she had always been afraid of him.
He was absolutely heartless and, when he had the courage, brutal. In
her own heart she believed he was a harmless lunatic who might any
moment become violent. So she steadied herself for a final effort.

“You are quite wrong about Richard and Phœbe. They are simply good
friends,” she said.

“How do you know?” he cried. “I’ve seen ’em together and he talks soft
to her an’----” He began to work himself into a dangerous mood.

“I know what I’m talking about, Walter,” she increased the firmness of
her tone. “Richard is not interested in Phœbe at all, in the way you
mean.”

“Got to show me,” he muttered.

“I can prove it.”

“Aw! He’d lie quick enough.”

“Do you think I would lie to you, Walter?”

No; Walter did not think so. Jerry always spoke the truth. Jerry was
all right.

“Well, then,” she said, nerving herself for the statement, “Richard is
not interested in Phœbe Norris; he--he is interested in me.”

The effect upon Walter was all that she had expected. He softened up
suddenly, grew exultant at the turn which his clogged mind had not
guessed, but which, all at once, seemed perfectly apparent.

“Is that so!” he cried. “Did he ask you to marry him?”

“Richard and I understand each other,” she replied evasively.

“Good girl!” he said, thinking only of his own luck.

After ruminating over the new situation for a while he rose to go. His
laugh was almost pleasant.

“Clever boy, that Richard,” he said; “clever boy, he is! Always said
he was a clever boy. Smart, he is! Smart! I tol’ him----” He chuckled
at the thought.

“Yes?”

“I tol’ him once ’at you had the tin----”

“Tin? Oh, yes; I understand. Go on.”

“I tol’ him you’d have a good share; and he seemed mighty pleased. Oh,
he’s smart, he is!”

“How is your boat, Walter?” she asked.

“Aw right.... Tol’ me, he did, ’at he didn’t believe in work. Pfut!” he
spluttered out an ironic laugh; “no use workin’ when you c’n jus’ pick
it up easy. Oh, he’s a very smart, clever boy!”

It took all Jerry’s will to control her instinctive desire to slap the
boy’s smirking face.

“Well,” she smiled; “it’s rather late for a skipper, isn’t it? Early to
bed nowadays if you want to have a chance in these races.”

“Tha’s right,” he agreed and yawned prodigiously. “Guess I’ll be goin’
to bed.” But the single idea was not easily dislodged from his mind.
“Clever boy, he is! Clever and--smart!”

“Good-night, Walter.” Jerry spoke very sweetly, a great tribute to her
growing power of control over speech.

As Walter sauntered in the great central door she heard the voices of
Jawn and Richard. Evidently they were coming out upon the porch.

“Where’s Jerry?” she heard Richard ask.

While Walter was mumbling his reply--his tones were cheerful, she was
glad to note--she slipped into the grounds at the side and made quickly
off to the winding road at the back which leads up to the top of the
ridge. Until she could collect her thoughts she did not want to see
either man. In her perturbed condition Richard’s mildness would have
stirred her to quarrel, and Jawn’s hearty volubility would have led to
a blow. She was quite sure that if he had attempted another limerick
she would have screamed.

The walk up the old familiar road was a soothing delight. She went
on till she came to the hunter’s hut wherein she had spent many a
fine winter night. An old kitchen chair was waiting invitingly on its
slender porch. There she sat and tried to get her mental bearings while
the serene moon grew higher and higher in the sky.

Alone on the porch of the hunter’s lodge with the dark valley before
her and a patch of the white-blue Lake shining brilliantly in the
moonlight, Jerry called herself to account. The quickly planned “fib”
which she had just told to Walter was worrying her. To be sure, Richard
of all persons would understand exactly the motive that led her to
her supposed confession and he would see the necessity of it. That
did not bother her half so much as the effect which the spoken words
had had upon herself. The moment they were uttered she experienced
a most uncomfortable feeling of joy and guilt. It was as if she had
unwittingly expressed her very self.

Richard, no doubt, would explain it glibly with his theory of
“subliminal self,” which is always telling us the unknown truth. Why
had that expedient come so pat to her tongue? She did not need to ask.
Whether or not the questionable “subliminal” had spoken, she, the only
self she really believed in, knew it to be the expression of her own
wish.

Had she known this disturbing fact from the beginning? Lovers are prone
to claim as much. Isn’t it the time-honoured formula to ask. “When did
you--ah--begin to care?” and to answer, “From the beginning.” As she
reviewed their days together from that long uncomfortable first day
on the steamer when unknown to him she had lounged beside him in her
steamer-chair and watched him repel each invader of his solitude, the
design of her life began to appear; and she knew, then, that she had
“cared from the beginning.”

Predestination, Richard would call it. She smiled at the picture of his
mild interested face as he would analyze the rare experience into terms
of kismet. “The gods” would be blamed cheerfully.

Each incident was fitted into its mate to make the full design. She
had watched the modern Gobelin weavers in Paris and noted how the
meaningless splotches of colour here and there grew gradually into a
meaningful pattern. Life was like that. Her suggestion that they go
about Naples together; the intimacy caused by the incognito; her own
insistence upon secrecy; the invitation to “Red Jacket”; even her
indignation at his suggestion that she would eventually make eyes at
him--all these were parts of the curious weaving.

And she had begun already to make eyes at him! Not in a literal sense,
to be sure--she would die before she did that--but in confessing her
hopes to Walter she had gone a considerable step toward making the
first move.

Hers was the type of mind which cleared up one confused thought at a
time. The important matter of her own relation to Richard having been
settled, she permitted Walter’s accusations to come in review. Was this
impersonal friendly Richard a genteel bad man, after all? She could
not decide. The actual card which Walter had found on his door looked
like the practice of some sort of confidence man. She remembered that
he had been most reluctant to give up the comfortable “Mr. Richard”
which she had dubbed him. And his philosophy of drifting along, coupled
with no occupation and a shocking state of low funds--all that seemed
to fit in; along with his even more shocking lack of a sense of the
culpability of all wrong-doers.

And she had been quite taken by his philosophy. A faithful
Episcopalian--true to her Virginia traditions--she had never questioned
religious matters. She had neither believed deeply nor troubled herself
to disbelieve. Richard it was who constantly reminded her of the
foundation principles of her own faith. “Neither do I condemn thee” had
been one of his most striking quotations. “Judge not lest ye also be
judged” was another; and “Father, forgive them; they know not what they
do.” And now she saw that this attitude would be consistent with the
credo of a man who might choose to act against the moral code of those
about him. According to Walter, Richard was after her “tin.” “Well,”
she laughed, “he is welcome to it--what there is of it--so long as he
is willing to take me, too.”

But Walter had also hinted rather strongly--strange how this important
thought had come last in review!--that Richard had been paying open
court to Phœbe Norris. So far her mind had worked openly and frankly
in the light. Now it began to deceive her; or rather, to put it in
terms that Richard might have employed, the subliminal self did not
lay all its cards on the table. It was a most uncomfortable thought
that Richard and Phœbe Norris should be chatting and laughing together
intimately--a most uncomfortable thought. But Jerry did not at all
recognize the little wave of “tremor cordis” that made her “heart
dance.” She saw instead the evil that might come to Richard and to
Phœbe if an innocent and proper relationship should be allowed to grow
until Walter might be aroused to some vile deed. They must all be saved
from that! She would warn them both. Oh, it was very necessary that
they should be warned.

And with that decision a tranquil feeling possessed her, which assured
her that she had decided exactly right; so tranquil and inspiriting
that she rose and walked along the ridge for a mile or more until
she came to the spot where she could see the main body of Lake Keuka
spread out wondrously before her. Then she walked briskly home and went
light-heartedly to bed.




CHAPTER XVII

LOVE LIMERICKS OF A LEFT-TENANT


THE next morning the men were off early to inspect the new yacht and to
assist Walter in “bending on” the last make-shift sail. Jawn, however,
went reluctantly.

“It’s a beautiful view from here,” he objected lazily; “why go down
into it and mess it up with us? We don’t help the landscape much. We’re
not a set of Corot dancing wood-nymphs.”

Richard tried to tell him that it was imperative to study Walter at
first hand.

“Nymphs, now,” Jawn went on, boldly disregarding all Richard’s patter.
“Nymphs, now, is a good suggestive word. It stimulates the rhyming
sense. You see there a hard word and you say to yourself, Can it be
done? And you reply, If it is the business of a man to do ’t I’ll do
’t. U-m!...”

He waved a large forefinger, beating time to a story of “two pale
gentleman nymphs” made ineffably fragile through the fact that their
“forbears were lacking in lymphs.”

Walter had gone on ahead. Richard and Jawn were following slowly.

“I had rather stay and add more kindling to my fire of devotion.” Jawn
turned in the road and flung a stage kiss at the Ionic columns.

“It is a fine old house,” grinned Richard; “I don’t wonder at your
devotion to it.”

“Humph!” Jawn grunted as he trudged down the hill. “Do you think I am
attached to the architecture like a bit of indecent ivy? It’s not a
parasite, I am. I’m a--what’s an amorite, friend Richard? Hasn’t it
something to do with the divine passion?”

“Amorite?” Richard studied. “That’s the sexton, isn’t it? The chap
who marches ahead of the rector carrying a banner or something. You
wouldn’t do for that at all, Jawn.”

“Ach! You’re thinking of acolyte, you fool. You can’t pass me on
ecclesiastical forms; I was once a sweet cherub of an altar boy and
know all about such matters. No,” he sighed; “it’s no leanings toward
priesthood I have; but something entirely worldly and fleshly and
devilly.”

“How many does this make, Jawn?”

“How many?” he retorted. “I suppose you mean to imply that my devotion
lacks in constancy?”

“Oh, you are constant enough!” Richard laughed. “You’re always
completely gone on some girl--always.”

“It’s a terrible infirmity.”

“Did you bring your book with you?”

“Yes,” snapped Jawn.

“Well, what number is this one?”

“Seventy-seven. But you needn’t grin so sarcastic like; I’m feeling
that this is the final number.”

“How so?”

“I’m no astrologer,” Jawn explained, “but I have eyes in my head. Now,
anyone can see how mystical and sonorous is the number seventy-seven.
If you multiply the first digit by the second digit you get
forty-nine; and if you divide immediately by the second digit you get
the golden number seven. If you add the first digit to the second digit
you get fourteen, which divided by the number of digits, two you get
back your golden number seven. And there you have four golden number
sevens dancing before you like a bunch of four-leaf clover.”

“And if you subtract the first digit from the second digit,” Richard
suggested, “you get nothing.”

“Precisely!” cried Jawn. “And in the occult language of figurology
any novice would read, ‘Here endeth the list of heart-broken maidens;
behold! there will be no more!’”

“Jawn,” said Richard, “I think I know the reason why you always fail.”

“Fail!” Jawn exploded. “I never fail. The sad part of the business is
that I always succeed. Scattered over the eastern and middle-western
United States are seventy-six forlorn women of all years who are now
hopelessly married to men they must hate. For why? When Lazarus came
back from the gates of Paradise do you suppose he ever again took
delight in the left-overs from Dives’ table? No more they. But what
could I do? Unbidden the amorous passion came and swift and unbidden it
went. So what could I do but write their names in a book, add the date
of their amorous demise----”

“Which always corresponded to the date of their wedding!”

“Exactly. You wouldn’t have me getting mixed up with the unwritten laws
of the land, would you? I simply write their names and add a touching
obituary limerick.”

Richard suggested that the seventy-seventh limerick--since Jawn was so
assured that it would be the last--should end the series, and that the
collection be published.

“It would add to your fame as a poet,” Richard argued, “immortalize the
ladies in everlasting verse and bring you a financial heart-balm.”

Jawn mused over the possible titles. “‘The Seventy-seven Amours,’” he
tried out one. “Sounds too much like a history of Chicago.... ‘Love
Limericks.’ No. There’s a female touch to that that I don’t like....
Ah! I have it! ‘Love Limericks of a Left-tenant.’ It’s thoroughly male
and gives the proper Irish picture of a forcible eviction!”

“Have you written Jerry’s yet?” Richard asked.

“What, man!” Jawn affected great disgust. “Would you write an obituary
verse while the corpse is still sitting up and drinking beer with you?
Have you no artistic sense? Of course not! Well, then, have you even
common decency?”

“Well,” Richard probed him. “I thought as this one was going to be the
climax you would take a running start, as it were.”

“Yes!” Jawn was derisive. “I know your sort. You’re the kind who sample
all the bottles before the wake begins, and start premature explosions
which spoil the solemnity and gaiety of the rest of the mourners.
Besides, there ain’t going to be no corpse this time. Ergo, there won’t
be no limerick. It’ll be an ode I’ll write, a bursting prothalamium, a
lyrical celebration of the joys of requited affection.”

They were now coming in sight of Walter at work.

“No, it won’t,” said Richard. “It will be a limerick like all the
others. You are doomed to failure, Jawn; and the reason is that you ply
your amours too well. You are a professional. You are too perfect.
There’s not a flaw in your attack, and therefore you fail to attract.
It’s the perfect manufactured article versus the crude hand-made bit of
craftsmanship. No; Jawn, I fear you’ll die a Left-tenant.”

“I fear so,” admitted Jawn cheerfully. “I fear so; and I hope so! Lord
love you! My memory is so full of delicious experiences that I’d feel
like Bluebeard if I ever settled down to simple domestic servitude. And
I wouldn’t like it, I know. Ach! I’d rather be a left-tenant every day
in the week than a major-domo for ever.”

While they waited on the dock for Walter to row in with the tender,
Richard asked Jawn what he thought of the boy.

“What do I think of him?” Jawn echoed. “Well, to speak in technical
language which all the world understands, I think he’s a damned young
fool.”

Richard pressed him to look at the case seriously.

“This is no case for me,” said Jawn decisively. “He’s got a screw
loose. It’s hardware he needs,” Jawn tapped his head, “and I’m not in
the business. Besides, I’m on my vacation. You doctor him. I’m too
busy. I’m specializing on the sister.”

Jawn was obstinately determined to enjoy his vacation. He was willing
to psychologize all winter, he said, and in the Summer School when
compelled by the Dean, but vacation means “to vacate,” he protested;
and that means to let your mind loaf, and be silly, and wallow in its
uncultivated, native soil.

Jawn was a very modern type of American “professor” and corresponded
not at all to the conventional conception. He was not beetle-eyed,
nor ponderous, nor absent-minded, a picture we have borrowed from
Europe where dignity is demanded of the professor, and all the pompous
qualities of solemnity. The European sort exists in America, too--he
was the original settler!--but side by side is a distinctive American
variety. The American type came in in the late ’80’s and early ’90’s
when college teachers were ceasing to be so stiffly clerical in
physical and mental cut; he arrived just at the time, too, when mere
opinions in a professor began to be suggestive of lazy charlatanism, a
time when all this new cult of laboratory research, exact measuring,
statistical proof, historical evidence from first-hand sources, was
beginning to be demanded of the man who professed anything.

This new sort of professor is quite apt to look on the professional
title as a joke, except in so far as it is a distinction that carries
real difference in wages. We remember with what sturdy and solemn
posing the professor of yester-year would wear his titles; how deftly
he would correct the forgetful who lapsed into “Mr.”! How he would
announce himself as “Professor” with such simple faith in its power
to awe the unrefined! Jawn was a perfect example of the newer school
which, we fear, has gone to the other extreme: it lacks terribly in
dignity; in fact, it suspects all dignity of a subtle attempt to
counterfeit intelligence--which is often the case!--it is careless
of mere external show, but it toils like an Edison. It works hard
when it works, and it plays with the abandon of a nest of puppies; it
smokes, it drinks, it sings the wildest songs at purely male meetings;
it employs the colloquialisms of the street; it tosses ball with the
boys on the town lot; and, to oblige a friend, it may stay up all
night to play poker. And on a holiday--which may be a night off, or a
week-end--it “cuts up” as if life were just beer and skittles.

This modern investigator-professor is the despair of his European
confrères, for, we must admit it, he lacks culture. He knows so much
of one thing that he elects to know nothing of anything else, and
cheerfully owns up; indeed every other speech is a confession of
some sort of ignorance. And he lacks, he woefully lacks polish; and
often--although there are tailored dandies among them--he lacks simple
brushing and scouring!

In his clinics Jawn Galloway tended his awkward flock of wayward
children--the mentally twisted and the morally awry--with the dignity
and the sweetness of a Roman cardinal. He was genial and sympathetic,
but he was also strong and masterful. In the clinic no one thought of
him with other feeling than that of respect for his wise mind, his
deft hand, his atmosphere of confidence. Over twenty thousand cases of
wrong-mindedness had come under his observation; he had held himself to
a laboratory vigil of from twelve to fourteen hours a day for months
at a time; and his “notes” had formulated a new theory and practice
in dealing with the abnormal mind. In his clinics he was learned
without pedantry, and wise without snobbishness; but off duty he was a
perpetual sophomore--often, we fear, equally as irritating to mature
persons. His boisterous laughter got on one’s nerves; his persistent
doggerel, his bubbling vivacity, his everlasting acting-a-part stirred
many a less highly strung person to combativeness. “He a professor!”
was the commonest remark voiced by fellow vacationists who did not
know of his serious work. Of course they could not be aware that his
perfected scale for measuring the intelligence of morons had brought
him the approval of the most serious-minded men in Europe and America.

His friends had often to apologize for Jawn Galloway, for the type
is not yet conventionalized. Our comic papers continue to make the
professor a deep-browed simpleton, and our novels and our drama
perpetuate the picture; but that sort is as obsolete as Ichabod Crane.

“All right,” Richard nodded at Jawn’s persistent flippancy. “I’ll wait.
You’re resting--I know you! You’re just skylarking to get your mind
cleaned up. I’ll wait. And one of these days Walter’s case will seize
you as it has me. You’ll get fascinated. I know you! And then we’ll get
something out of this visit; you’ll sing another song instead----”

“Instead of just Lewis-carrolling, eh?” Jawn laughed.

“All right,” laughed Richard in turn. “I’ll wait. But you’ll work for
your wittles yet, old boy!”

Any further talk was cut short by the approach of Walter.

“A left-tenant never made a good sailor,” said Jawn, as he stepped
on the yacht. “But here I am to serve as ordered and, if necessary,
go down with the ship. Which is the saloon deck, and if this is it,
where’s the bar?”

The old sail lifted creakingly, the jib fluttered and filled, and the
_Sago-ye-wat-ha_ moved off smoothly for its maiden trip on the waters
of Lake Keuka.

Jawn was instructed in managing the starboard sidestays. It was made
clear to him that when the mainsail was swung over on the port side the
strain was enough to split the mast unless he fastened the sustaining
rope, or “stay,” securely to the cleats before him. When she came about
he was to loosen the “stay” on his side while Richard quickly secured
the supporting port “stay.”

“So I’m to loosen her stays, am I?” queried Jawn.

“Yes; and tighten them up, too, when we give you the word, or that
stick will snap off like a tree on the path of a cyclone.”

“And when you say the word,” he repeated the orders, “I’m to lace ’em
up again, eh?”

“That’s not the technical phrase,” laughed Richard, “but it will do.”

“Another reason why a ship is called a she,” said Jawn. “I think
the minstrel troupes of the country have missed that one.... It’s a
strange thing, now,” he mused, “for a modest young man like me to be
squatting here in the bodice of the ship--I hope I’m using the proper
language--sitting here in the bodice of the ship with life and death
in the balance. Still, if I survive you, I’ll put the thing in proper
nautical language for the local papers: ‘Suddenly on Friday last the
good ship _What’s-her-name_ capsized in a sudden squall and was slowly
strangled to death because no one was able to reach her in time to
loosen her stays.’”

Walter was very well pleased with his boat. Out in the main body of
water he tried her under all sorts of conditions and had little brushes
with other yachts, one or two of which were “Class A scows,” and it
seemed always that the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ could overhaul anything either
on short tack or long reach.

They tacked up the Lake under a stiff northeaster, which gave Jawn
plenty of practice in attending properly to the “stays.” When they
prepared to put about and came back the wind dropped to a light
breeze. So they slipped along leisurely, taking over an hour to round
Bluff Point. During this time of lazy inactivity Jawn, relieved of
his duties, found his voice. He sang songs, offered connundrums,
stories and impromptu limericks. Several times during his chat he had
forgotten himself and called Richard by another name. Walter became
alert. When it had happened more than once, he spoke up.

“Tryin’ to work me, are you?” he asked, “like you do the women?”

Jawn did not see the point and asked him what in the name of the seven
devils he meant. Jawn Galloway could be a very belligerent fellow at
times.

“Oh, nothin’; on’y them names don’t fool me.” Walter modified his tone
discreetly; one could easily take the spirit out of him. “I know he
ain’t Richard, and I know he ain’t the other one, either.”

“But I am the ‘other one,’ Walter,” Richard soothed him.

“Like hell y’are!”

“Hey!” cried Jawn, searching about for a weapon. “Drop that Billy
Sunday talk or I’ll lam you over the head with a----” he kicked about
among several tools lying at his feet--“where the blazes do you keep
your marlin-spikes? Have to have a marlin-spike. If I were on land,
now, I’d knock you down with my fist or just kick you in the stomach,
but the etiquette of the sea demands marlin-spikes. What sort of a ship
do you call this?”

Walter did not know whether to be amused or scared. Jawn could roar
like Bottom, the weaver. But he decided, finally, that the situation
was not as perilous as it sounded.

“He’s a big gun, he is--that fellow,” he went on, with his thought on
the name. “But you ain’t.”

“He has heard of my father, Jawn.” Richard turned quickly. “You know I
wrote you that he knew; he found one of my cards on the steamer. The
name was familiar to him, naturally; but he did not know that father
and I had the same names; and he did not know of father’s death.”

“Everyone knows about it,” snapped Jawn.

“Of course, Walter,” Richard explained, “when father died I was no
longer a ‘junior.’ We have the same name. Naturally you had never heard
of me. I have the distinguished name and have done nothing to earn it.
That’s why I am so contented with this nondescript Mr. Richard. You
can’t imagine how pleasant it is not to be questioned and stared at.
It’s a dreadful nuisance to have distinguished parents.”

“Please don’t be disrespectful to the father of my own offspring,” Jawn
objected. “I’m getting to be a notorious character, with my name in
the print every time a bug gets loose in somebody’s head. By the time
my children come along I’ll be as famous as Mr. Riley whom they speak
of so highly; I mean Mr. Riley who keeps the hotel. Have you heard the
song, Walter? Well, you will.” And he sung it as only an Irishman can.

So they were going to keep up the bluff, act it out boldly; they were a
daring lot, thought Walter; but they couldn’t fool him.

“If he’s the B-Big Gun,” Walter persisted, “he’d be r-rich.”

“No, Walter,” Richard was very patient. “That was father’s money, not
mine. He made it, not I. Since I left college I have been making my own
way. Money doesn’t interest me, especially money I have never earned. I
couldn’t be happy with it; it would be just a refined sort of slavery,
and I have always preferred to be free. Let’s don’t talk about it, if
you don’t mind.”

“But I don’t see----” Walter began.

“Then shut up!” cried Jawn brutally.

“Jawn!” remonstrated Richard.

“By George, I’m forgetting myself!” Jawn showed all his big teeth in an
expansive grin. “Listen at me shutting up the captain of the boat! It’s
mutiny they’ll be charging me with, and be hanging me at the yardarm.”
He cocked an eye aloft. “Is that her yardarm, up there, sticking
indecently out of the top of her stays?”

The laughter that followed reassured Walter, but he was careful not to
bring up the topic of names again. These were dangerous fellows and he
had best keep in with them. They could do what they pleased so long as
they left his preserves alone. The comforting thought made him watch
the shore carefully--they had turned Bluff Point and were tacking into
the Branch; and after a time he was rewarded by a flutter of something
white on Phœbe’s porch. She had been watching for him, too; and was
waving a welcome home. The breeze strengthened almost in answer to his
own exultation, and shortly they were dropping sails before the Norris
dock.

“Aye! aye! Captain Wells!” she called. “An’ how is everything for’ard?”

“Aw right!” he grinned.

“What’s your cargo--garden truck or cattle?” She pretended not to
distinguish the men at first. “Ach! It’s the two gentlemen pirates out
of the movies! Ahoy, you two! What’s the latest news of the police
courts?”

Jawn put his hands together and megaphoned, “Woman arrested for
speeding. Her tongue ran away with her head.”

“That joke is in Genesis,” she retorted. It is, no doubt, an aged
masculine fling.

“Sure!” he called back as they stepped up on the dock. “If Eve had been
deaf and dumb we’d _all_ be in Paradise yet.”

“Ye devil!” she answered.

“You flatter the ould Boy,” said he.

“Ooh!” she shivered, “is he worse than you?”

“Much worse.”

“Don’t add to the terrors o’ death, man, but come in and have a cup o’
tea. I set it a-brewin’ the moment I saw you.”

Walter could not be persuaded to leave his boat until every sail was
furled and stowed away properly. He took his time over it, too; for he
knew instinctively that he could not shine before Phœbe in the presence
of such glib gentlemen. They were shining gloriously when he appeared,
and their free laughter set him a-grinning before he knew the cause.

“Walter,” Phœbe called, “you’re the jury. I’m puttin’ these two
good-lookin’ gentlemen through a cross-examination. Up to this moment
I’ve been the judge and the prosecuting attorney and the jury, too;
but it’s tryin’ on the nerves. I’m glad you came in when you did. The
prisoners were insultin’ the Court with indecent flattery. I need a
tipstave and a sheriff’s posse, I do. Sit ye there, boy; and decide
fair. The charge against these two malefactors----”

“I object, your honour,” interrupted Jawn. “We can’t be malefactors
until the charge is proved against us. You’ll be prejudicing the jury
against us before he has finished his cup of tea. And besides, I
told the jury to shut up this afternoon, so we’ll need all the close
decisions.”

“Who’s tryin’ this case?” demanded Phœbe. “The charge is gallivantin’
with malice aforethought.”

“Gallivanting with intent to kill,” agreed Jawn. “We plead guilty.”

“Is this your first offence?” asked the “judge.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Jawn. “It’s my seventy-seventh! Do you take me
for a fledgling? I’ve got records to prove it. My dear lady, I shaved
when I was eleven.”

“May it please the Court,” Richard spoke with the gravest deference,
and told of the passions of Jawn as illustrated in his forthcoming
book, “Love Limericks of a Left-tenant.”

“Out with them, man; out with them!” demanded Phœbe.

“Some of them need expurgating badly,” warned Richard.

“The Court must be entertained,” said Phœbe, “even at the expense of a
little vulgarity. Proceed, sir.”

“The saddest case,” Jawn searched his memory, “is that of a lady of
my college days whose name I did not know, but who welcomed and nobly
assisted my young aspirations; who, in short, taught me much.”

Then he recited the “epitaph” of the lass who caught his heart during
the early weeks of his Freshmanhood, who led him on outrageously, who
looked the part of an under-grad in the high school, but who turned out
to be the wife of the Dean!

“These college professors will often fool you,” Jawn explained. “They
marry the cutest little springers with the feathers still on their
legs----”

“Don’t remind me of my Orpingtons!” cried Phœbe.

“--And with round little blushing peach-blow faces! It would fool
anyone. You see, they are a shy lot all their young days, the
professors are, the years when they should have been prancing about
colt-like and finding out things. So they fly from the sight of women
and sit in their cells and grow ogre-eyed and brainy. Then late in life
they slide out in the twilight and grab a Young One. There ought to be
a law against it.”

The charge of “gallivantin’” was amply proved, at least against Jawn,
by his own series of poetic confessions.

“And you say you’ve already had seventy-seven affairs with the ladies!”
Phœbe expressed her incredulity.

“He’s on his seventy-seventh now,” corrected Richard.

“H-m!” Phœbe eyed him. “It’s not me you’re after makin’ eyes at, is it?”

“I decline to commit myself,” said Jawn solemnly. “I appeal to the
legal decency of the jury that a man can’t be compelled to bear
testimony against himself.”

The jury shifted about uneasily. The jury was obviously disturbed. Like
many unhappy persons on this earth, Walter understood everything in the
situation but the humour of it, and so missed its very salt.

“The jury will please mind its own business,” the Court admonished;
“I merely remind the prisoner that if he tries any gallivantin’ with
this Court he’ll find himself muzzled and manacled in holy matrimony
before he can think up a rhyme for ‘God-help-me.’ This Court finds the
single state very depressing, and is gettin’ entirely too old to miss a
chance. All of which reminds me, Jawn, that you must have begun early.
Have you any early records?”

Richard laughed appreciatively. He knew what was coming.

“Oh, a very good record,” said Jawn. “It is the only one about whose
ranking I feel positively sure. I call it ‘My Firth,’ for I was
entirely too young to speak plainly. The official account goes this way,

  “To myself on the day of my birth
  I lisped, ‘What a charming young nurth!’
      And then when she faced me
      And frankly embraced me,
  I remarked, ‘Not tho bad, thith ol’ Earth!’”

“Oh, beautiful! beautiful!” Phœbe clapped her hands. “I could love you
for that one, Jawn.”

“It is strikingly optimistic,” commented Richard. “‘Not tho bad, thith
ol’ Earth!’ And it is absolutely characteristic of Jawn.”

“I can believe it!”--this from Phœbe. “He was an imp of a lad from the
cradle!”

“Jawn’s the only specimen of pure lover left from the Middle Ages,”
said Richard, “for he believes with Dante, Petrarch and the rest that
true love dies with marriage.”

“Devil a bit!” Jawn remonstrated. “There’s often a fine spark of it
left----”

“For some other fellow,” Phœbe broke in quickly. “My own thought,
exactly!” he added, and joined with Phœbe in good hearty Irish laughter.

“Order!” suddenly cried the Court, pounding her tea-cup on the table.
“What d’ye mean by gettin’ the Court to commit herself like that!”

After much more such give and take the Court arraigned the prisoners
and charged the jury. She acknowledged that the evidence was all
against them from the start, but that long acquaintance with a criminal
world had made her soft; besides, they had drunk her tea and had
laughed at her jokes, and no Irishman could ever hang a man he had once
laughed with. So she would recommend them to the mercy of the jury.

The jury was absolutely non-committal. Whether it was surly, sleepy or
speechless no one could say.

“Wan’ ’o see you alone,” it muttered to Phœbe; and nothing else would
it admit.

“The jury can’t come to a unanimous verdict,” the Court announced; “so
if the prisoners will kindly run out and play, we’ll reason with the
obstinate members.”

“What’s the trouble, boy?” she asked when they were alone.

In semi-incoherent language he poured forth his feelings about the
two men whose cleverness with words had been hoodwinking everybody.
With her mind alert to sift out all the evidence he could produce, she
presented a laughing mocking face. But she could not joke him out of
his convictions.

The “card,” which he always carried about with him, was produced and
partially explained. Richard’s latest version, for some occult reason
of his own, Walter did not tell.

“Glory be!” ejaculated Phœbe as she read the name. “The villain! Why,
this man is dead; I read about it in the papers several years ago; he
went down with his whole family in a shipwreck. What do you think it
means, boy?”

“Dunno.”

“Well,” she assumed a cheerful tone, “perhaps it is only a lark. They
are a great pair of boys. They would not stop at anything.” The memory
of their skylarking came back to brighten her face. “I haven’t had such
a good laugh since--since Seth got into the paint house.”

She hummed about her little dining-room, putting away the tea-things,
and considered the meaning of Mr. Richard’s assumption of the name
of a dead man. Some years ago a sleek-looking chap with no obvious
occupation had rented a house on Main Street, made the acquaintance
of important citizens and had continued for months to be unnaturally
Christian. Everyone in the village had made a guess as to the exact
sort of swindle he would eventually introduce, so that when he finally
began to talk rubber trees in Madagascar the laugh was so hearty and
universal that he left without offering to let anybody in on the ground
floor.

Would it be rubber trees in Madagascar, or just a plain case of
“worthless cheque”? Or would it be “power of attorney” with one or
the other of them getting the “heiress”? Phœbe hoped it would be the
latter. “I’ve handled a lunatic,” she said to herself, “which makes me
hanker after the intelligent even if they be criminal.”

“Well, we’ll keep our eyes open, boy,” said Phœbe; “but whatever you
do don’t let on you suspect anything. Meet a confidence man with
confidence. You’ll spoil everything if you go about like you were this
afternoon lookin’ as glum as cold beeswax. Didn’t you see how I was
jollyin’ ’em along? Did you think I meant half what I said? Of course I
didn’t. It was to make them feel easy. The devil was never yet fooled
by a pious face.”

Phœbe understood Walter better than anyone else. This theory of her
hilarious enjoyment filled him with peace and sent him home with his
head in the air.




CHAPTER XVIII

HARDY PERENNIALS


JERRY’S long walk the previous evening had given her an excuse to have
her coffee and rolls served in her room. She did not want to admit even
to herself that she was nervously apprehensive of committing herself in
the presence of Richard, but an undefined fear of him had quenched some
of her natural Virginia boldness. With so many willing blacks about the
place breakfast in one’s room was an easy matter at “Red Jacket”; and
it was too common a custom to create comment. She might avoid luncheon,
too, but she knew that she could not hide indefinitely; so she came
down.

Some of her indefinite fears became definite when she faced Richard at
table. The men were full of their sail and of their good times at Phœbe
Norris’. That permitted her to watch them unobserved. Occasionally,
however, Richard glanced at her as if curious about her expressionless
silence, but, she admitted ruefully, he was unconscious of his effect
on her, as unconscious as a contented kitten. He was a terribly
satisfied person! That was due, she supposed, to his frank egoism, but
whatever the cause she felt helpless before it. Could nothing move
this man? His peaceful blue eyes fronted the world too serenely for
her comfort. “Sea blue imperturbable,” she thought, purposely twisting
Carlyle’s phrase.

There was one way to move him, but that would move him out of the
county on the next train--to make eyes at him. She would never do
that; never! Her lips closed firmly and a snap came into her eyes at
the very thought of it. Nevertheless, she felt cornered, and it almost
angered her. Here was the tragic dilemma of sex: she must not make the
slightest advance, and unless she did, this man would never be budged.

She thought of all her fine speeches to him about the joy of being
treated not as a woman but as a human being, but she did not care
to remember his enthusiastic reception of this point of view. Other
men had fluttered and looked unutterable male things at her and
she had been annoyed. Why was this calm gentleman built on such an
unflutterable mould? Jawn, now, was flirting with her this very
minute; Richard--the thought of Richard flirting with anyone was so
preposterous that she unconsciously smiled.

The eager Jawn was quick to pounce on that smile. He took it to himself
and ogled back.

“Huh!” he puffed; “I worked hard for that! I thought you were going to
walk in your sleep during the whole meal. It took five exceptionally
clever remarks, each guaranteed to raise a laugh, to bring one little
smile. Do we owe for last week’s board, or something? Or have you
missed a solid silver spoon?”

“I beg your pardon,” Jerry became a penitent hostess; “have you been
talking to me? I haven’t heard a word. I’m sorry.”

The laugh went against Jawn.

“The seventy-seventh will be no madrigal,” Richard told him; “it will
be just one more limerick, Jawn.”

“Please tell me about the madrigal?” Jerry asked politely.

Jawn pretended reluctance, but when urged confessed frankly his
life-long hunt for a soul-mate, and of his belief that in Jerry he
had found his El Dorado. It was ridiculous, of course, and Jawn
could always be trusted to put his fun unequivocally. Mrs. Wells was
delighted, especially with the Love Limericks; and Richard’s joy
in his friend’s achievements was quite open; but Jerry, to her own
astonishment, was annoyed. It was like joking at death in the presence
of the bereaved.

And Richard’s off-hand discussion of the possibility of Jerry’s
surrendering as a charitable means of putting an end to a flow of bad
verse--that was unendurable. Fortunately, the inward perturbation was
not outwardly disclosed; it was a simple matter to make a coldly apt
comment, plead “business,” and withdraw to her room.

Jawn stared after her.

“Did you see how cut up she was?” he cried. “Ah, lad, it’s no joking
matter. I’ve got a fine chance yet! A fine chance!”

Jerry had hardly crossed the threshold and heard him distinctly. She
heard Richard’s reply, too.

“Possibly, Jawn! Possibly! Undoubtedly something moved her--moved her
off without her dessert. I never saw her quite so confused, but I’m
afraid the elephantine character of your wooing frightened her off.”

“Jealous!” cried Jawn.

“I envy you only that final limerick, Jawn. I know it’s going to be a
corker.”

“Mrs. Wells, I appeal to you as a woman of experience,” Jawn persisted.
“Do you think I have a chance?”

Jerry did not wait to hear her mother’s opinion. Although her more
sensible self told her that it was childish to take offence at anything
so obviously good-natured, the blinding anger that seized her drove
her out of hearing quickly. The thought of staying a moment longer
frightened her. She knew that she was on the verge of breaking down and
spilling out a surprising torrent of invective against poor unoffending
Jawn. And that, she had sense enough left to know, would be fatal. It
would be worse than making eyes!

But if she had stayed a moment or two longer she would have been
shocked into frigidity. To the innocent jesting Walter contributed a
serious note.

While Mrs. Wells was assuring them that she would play no favourites,
an interruption of Richard’s had led Jawn to say:

“You keep out of this. I won’t have any interference from big handsome
men with romantic blue eyes and perfect teeth. What you need is a woman
like Mrs. Norris to let you down a peg daily, to remind you of your
grovelling insignificance. Go to the widow, thou sluggard.”

“I’ve been,” laughed Richard; “we quarrel beautifully!”

“Splendid! A fine sign! True love guaranteed!”

“’S not so!” blurted Walter; “Jerry and him’s got it all f-fixed up.”

George Alexander had caught Mrs. Wells’ attention and at that moment
was getting his directions for dinner. She had not been accustomed to
attend very carefully to remarks from Walter, so the colloquy that
followed was lost on her.

“What’s this?” said Jawn quietly.

Richard looked on curiously.

“G-got it all fixed up, them two.”

“They have, have they? How do you know?”

“Jerry told me.”

“When was all this?”

“Last night. She said h-him and her, they were goin’ to get married.
Said they h-had it all f-fixed up.”

“What!” cried Richard.

“Mebbe oughtn’t t’ have said nothin’,” Walter was a little frightened
at his own temerity. “But ’at’s what she s-said, anyhow.”

Jawn whistled.

“Here’s a pretty mess!” said he; “here’s a how d’ you do! Let’s get
this straight, young man; do you mean to tell us that----”

“S-sh!” warned Richard.

Mrs. Wells had dismissed George Alexander, and was turning inquiringly
upon the group.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. The sudden silence had attracted her
attention.

Richard stepped quickly into the breach. “Walter thinks he has the
fastest boat on the Lake,” he explained, and went into a voluble
tribute to _Sago-ye-wat-ha_.

“Why, Richard!” Mrs. Wells interrupted. “How red your face is!”

“He’s blushing for shame,” said Jawn, “for shame at the thought of how
easy it’ll be to take the cup away from those other poor yachtsmen. And
well you may, Richard! And well you may!”

Richard’s blushes threatened to be permanent. Throughout the luncheon
and several hours afterward he glowed like a burning sumac bush.
While anything from Walter should be taken with something more than
the proverbial grain of salt, yet he had succeeded in producing a
most confusing mental state in Richard. Jawn’s gentle raillery after
luncheon did nothing to help matters, and all of Richard’s many
explanations of the possible twist in Walter’s meaning merely added
further confusion.

He sought an excuse early to be alone, and for an hour or two hovered
about the house waiting for Jerry to appear. Some of his lost shyness
came back to benumb him and prevent his sending for her outright.
Indeed, once when he thought he heard her coming down the stairs he
grew so fearful of meeting her that he slipped out of a rear door and
fled into a path that led to the garden.

Walter was a fool, “a young damned fool,” to use Jawn’s technical
expression. Why should one take seriously the act of an idiot? Why,
indeed! She could not have possibly said anything of the sort, even
in fun. At any angle that he looked at it such a conversation between
Walter and Jerry was unbelievable. Thunderation! What an idea to put
into a man’s head!

But to one’s own brother may not one make confessions? He had never
been a sister, himself, so he could not guess their habits; but hadn’t
he read somewhere in books that sometimes, especially at night, they
talk things out frankly with the brother? Which only shows how far his
mind had swung out of its normal course. Who could fancy anyone of
Jerry’s independence making sentimental confessions to a half-witted
brother?

“G’ mawnin’, Mr. Richard! G’ mawnin’!”

George Alexander’s white poll rose slowly out of a hydrangea bush
wherein he seemed almost to have been hiding.

“Good-morning, George Alexander,” Richard responded eagerly. He was
glad of the chance to talk to someone not of the immediate family.
“That hydrangea is a bigger plant than you are!”

“Tol’rable big, sir! Tol’rable big! But up on de hill yondah, we’s got
young gi-unts. Trees, I calls ’em--reg’lar hydranj’a trees!”

“You’ve been here all your life, haven’t you, George?” Richard asked.

“All my life--so fah!” he laughed; “I was bo’n hyah an’ I plum reckon
’at some day, when I gets tir’d idlin’ ’round, I’ll jess natchully die
hyah.”

“I don’t see you idling around much. You’re always busy at something.
Do you have charge of the gardens, too?”

“Yassuh,” he nodded his old white head sagely. “I’m de boss! De black
boys do de easy workin’ _’round_, an’ I do all de heavy lookin’
_ovah_!” George Alexander’s laugh was a low, cackling “Hyah! Hyah!”
He punctuated his speeches with it, a notice in each instance of a
humorous remark, a laugh exactly timed to give one a chance to “see
the point.” In these days George Alexander was a great curiosity, one
of the very last specimens of the old-time “darkey,” intelligent,
nimble-witted, outspoken but diplomatic, loyal, an efficient manager,
never servile but absolutely determined to be nothing more than a
perfect servant.

“Do you run the vineyards, too?” Richard asked incredulously.

“Mistah Richud,” George Alexander assumed an air of great seriousness,
“I nevah could understand why _any_body would prefeh to _stan’_ when
dey could talk jess as well _settin’_! Hyah! Hyah!”

His solemn face broke forth into radiant lines as he pointed towards
two excellent rustic benches facing each other.

“Yassuh!” he came back to Richard’s question after he had spread
himself comfortably on one of the seats. “Yassuh! I take charge of de
grapes. An’ I used to take charge of de apples, too; but Mrs. Wells,
she done let dem apples all go. Dey ain’t so much in de grapes as dey
used to be, but apples--why, dem apples, Mistuh Richud, was all pure
gold. I tol’ her she make a big mistake to let ’em go. An’ Mistah
Buttuhwo’th tol’ her. Mistah Buttuhwo’th’s from Philadelphia, an’ he
knows all about apples. He loves apples so much he says it’s a’mos’
wicked to eat one. Hyah! Hyah! He knows apples well enough to call ’em
by dar fus’ names, Mistah Buttuhwo’th does; hyah! hyah!”

“Did you have any trouble with the apples, George?”

“Trouble?” George straightened up as much as his old back would allow.
“Apples ain’t no trouble, Mistah Richud. Jes’ spray ’em propuhly, dat’s
all dey asks. Spray ’em to kill de fungus while de trees is still
a-winterin’, an’ spray ’em to kill de Hosay scale befo’ de blossom
comes, an’ spray ’em to kill de red-bug after de fruit is a-growin’,
an’ spray ’em to kill de cuddlin’ moth all de middle of de summer, an’
spray ’em to kill de tent caterpillar when de fruit is mos’ grown, an’
spray ’em to kill de rest of ’em when de fruit is done. An’ even den if
yo’ fin’ youse’f restless at night an’ can’t git to sleep, you’d better
git up an’ spray ’em agin fo’ luck! Hyah! Hyah! Trouble? Dey ain’t no
trouble ’bout growin’ _apples_; dey jes’ grows natcherel de way de Lawd
intended; de on’y thing dat breaks yo’ back is killin’ dem consarned,
evahlastin’ _bugs_.... Hyah! Hyah!”

Richard paid his full tribute of applause and then asked, “Why did Mrs.
Wells let the apples go? Didn’t they pay?”

Richard inquired out of no thought to pry. The old man was so
interesting that it was a temptation to start him going.

“Pay? Why in _co’se_ dey paid! We was gittin’ fo’ thousand barrels
o’ puhfeck fruit after Mistah Buttuhwo’th come up hyah and tol’ us
how to do it. Used to be gittin’ on’y about fi’ hundud. An’ Mistah
Buttuhwo’th, he’d take ’em down to Philadelphia an’ put ’em in his big
ice-house and set back and wait till all de apples was eat up an’ folks
got a-hankerin’ fo’ one--Mistah Buttuhwo’th says dah’s a lot o’ Adam
left in folks yit! Hyah! Hyah!--an’ den when dey’s ready to pay ’mos’
anything for even a Ben Davis, he brings out our genuine Baldwins, an’
_pow_! de price goes sky-_yut_in’!”

“Then why didn’t you keep the orchards?”

“Dah yo’ gits me, Mistah Richud.” He shook his white head. “’Ca’se why?
’Ca’se you asks me to unraffle de hardest knot de good Lawd evah tie
up. Does _any_body know, Mistah Richud, why a woman’d do _dis-heah_,”
he waved a hand dramatically, “rathe ’n _dat-dere_?” His hand moved
between the two imaginary situations. “Mrs. Wells, she sez we was
a-sprayin’ too much. She sez we’d been a-killin’ grubs for so many
yeahs that dey’d done forget how to get borned, mebbe. In co’se I tol’
her diff’rent, an’ Mistah Buttuhwo’th nearly get down an’ prayed to
her about it, but she ’lowed she’d give dem pore trees a rest. Dey
wa’n’t no ’jections, fah as I could observe, from de niggahs what had
de sprayin’ job! Hyah! Hyah! Pow’ful sympathizin’ dey was to dem pore
trees! Hyah! Hyah!... Well, Mistah Buttuhwo’th, he says de nex’ crop
would be all bug-ged, an’ dey was all bug-ged; an’ he says de nex’ crop
’ud be buggeder an’, sho’ ’nuf, dey _was_ buggeder!”

“But couldn’t they be sprayed again and put into shape?”

“Puffekly! Puffekly! Dat’s ’xactly what Mistah Hopkins did who bought
’em. But Mrs. Wells ’low’d dat after all her kindness she wouldn’t have
nothin’ mo to do with trees what was as ongrateful as dem trees. An’
don’t yo’ think yo’se’f, Mistah Richud, dat it was kind o’ low-down
_onery_ o’ dem trees? Hyah! Hyah!”

“But I suppose Mrs. Wells got a good price for the orchard.” Richard
tried to give George Alexander a chance to make up for his indirect
criticism.

“Nuffin’ to say, Mistah Richud,” George Alexander assured him solemnly.
“I’s got a mudder an’ a fahder an’ a whole pa’sel progenitohs waitin’
up dah,” he pointed piously above, “an’ dey see me gettin’ near de
point o’ followin’ along, an’ meetin’ up wid ’em; but, Mistah Richud,
if I opens my mouth on de sale-price ob dat o’cha’d my talk would be so
blasphemious dat I’d sho’ have to dispoint dem people up dah!”

Richard thought he would be on safe ground to ask about the grapes.

“Po’rly, Mistah Richud, po’rly,” George Alexander pulled a long face.
“Not ’nuff blue-stone. A spray what’s all water, I says, ain’t no spray
’tall.... It’s a mighty good thing us black folks is all rich.”

There was a joke here, no doubt, thought Richard. George Alexander’s
expressionless face seemed to be waiting for the “interlocutor” to
bring the end-man out.

“Well,” asked Richard good-naturedly, “what’s the answer, Mr. Bones?”

“Ya-as,” George Alexander drew in a deep, satisfied breath, “_we’s_ all
right. If anything ebber happens to de Wellses, _we’s_ fixed.”

“Oh, you’ve all saved up money, have you?”

“When we’s bo’n,” explained George Alexander, “an’ gits big ’nuff to
work ’round, Mrs. Wells puts us on de pay-roll, an’ as long as we stays
with her we draws half and she keeps half for us. When she dies or when
dis place breaks up we gits all our savin’s back an’ int’rest on ’em.
We’s all got our books to show how much. I’s been on dat pay-roll fo’
fifty yeahs, Mistah Richud. I’s a rich man if I stays on here, an’ I
guess I can leave my chillun’ sumpin’, ’case anything happens.”

There were thirty negroes working here and there on the Wells’ land,
George Alexander told Richard; entirely too many, of course, but it had
always been the custom of the Wells family to look out for its blacks.
All this explained the absolute absence of “labour troubles” for so
many generations. Any capable negro was assured of an easy livelihood,
care in illness, and a safe pension.

“An’ what mo’ does anybody want in dis yeah world?” asked George
Alexander. “I’d be mighty thankful, Mistah Richud, to be shu’ o’ dat
much up _dah_! Hyah! Hyah!”

In his artless way George Alexander had thrown considerable light
on Red Jacket under Mrs. Wells’ management. Richard recalled one of
Jerry’s illustrations of her mother’s obstinacy whereby the year’s
grape crop had been lost. No doubt unrecorded history had similar
stories with similar losses. Evidently there were funds enough to cover
these bad balances and keep the big place going; if not Jerry would
soon discover what she got to the bottom of the documents placed in
her charge.

Jerry would sift things to the bottom, he felt sure. There was a
certain satisfaction in lingering on the thought of Jerry’s substantial
character. She had the mother’s persistence and will, and, he smiled
to himself, a little of the mother’s obstinacy. How he had misjudged
her at first! But there was nothing surprising in that to Richard.
Having practised open-mindedness all his life he was aware of the
commonness of mistaken judgments. It is only the bigoted and partisan
who experience infallibility.

His pleasant musings were interrupted by George Alexander.

“But we’s makin’ a big go ob dem hahdy puh-ren-nials, Mistah Richud, a
great go!” he was saying, with emphasis.

“Dey mus’ be ’bout twenty ob dem black boys up dah now, a-workin’ an’
a-hoein’ an’ a-prunin’. We’s su’ten’y got de prize crop o’ phlox an’
yaller daisy! Hyah! Hyah! Dey’s a whole mountain o’ snapdragon, blues
an’ yallers an’ pinks an’ whites. You don’t know o’ any localities,
Mistah Richud, what’s hungerin’ now fo’ a mess o’ peonies, does yo’?
’Ca’se if yo’ do, it’d be de Lawd’s mercy to let ’em loose up on dat
hill yondah. An’ hollyhocks! Lawd! If we could on’y send hollyhocks
down to Mistah Buttuhwo’th’s big ice-house in Philadelphia, we’d no
need o’ no apple o’cha’d, Mistah Richud. Hyah! Hyah! But I’s not
seen many puhsens hyeah-’bouts fallin’ ober demselves to buy up our
hollyhock crop, Mistah Richud. Hyah! Hyah! Not so many, Mistah Richud!”

There was always money enough for spray and soil for the hardy
perennials, George Alexander averred. And there was always a strong
demand for labour to thin out this group here and transplant there,
and prune and cultivate and graft. The seed-pods were collected as if
they were gold-dust; and bulbs were dug up, wrapped and saved; and
slips were cut and planted in fresh places; and paths were made, hedges
constructed for background effect and natural stone walls built for
trailing vines, and so on and so on.

No doubt it was magnificent. Mr. Richard could see for himself. The
whole hillside had been turned into a garden which renewed itself each
year and flowered from early May when the first yellow forsythia sprang
forth until the last cosmos had died and the hydrangeas had bent their
dark heads. From the Lake it waved its flaunting colours, and visitors
had motored many miles for a sight of it.

But it buttered no parsnips, said George Alexander. Flowers were all
right, but you couldn’t barrel them and send them to Mr. Butterworth in
Philadelphia. George Alexander loved beauty, but he had been trained in
the practical business of grape and apple farming. Grapes and apples
should come first, he thought, not hardy perennials.

Of course he had not meant to be critical; but he had lived with the
Wells family all his life; it was his family as much as anybody’s and
therefore he was going to stick up for it even if the family did not.

Oh, Mrs. Wells knew how he felt. He had always been frank and
straightforward on the business end of “Red Jacket.” But the whole
trouble was that she avoided him. He was her black conscience that
always reminded her of her sins; so she cleverly got him off the
subject, or sent him on business at the other end of things, or claimed
to have a headache.

George Alexander laughed shrewdly.

And the reason he had taken Mr. Richard aside to tell him the story was
to get a helper. He had noticed that Mrs. Wells thought very highly
of Mr. Richard’s judgment. Well, George Alexander considered that it
wouldn’t do any harm to strengthen that judgment with his own!

And all the while Richard had fancied that this garrulous old darkey
was just talking aimlessly! The craft of the old fellow!

There were other reasons, George Alexander was saying, while he
scratched his white poll thoughtfully; but--he hesitated--but he’d let
them wait. Yet it seemed to him that if things kept drifting along the
way he had observed them--he hesitated again and winked a jovial eye at
Mr. Richard--well, he’d better not pursue that topic, as it was none of
his business, but--he hoped--well, he wouldn’t just say what his hopes
were.

The chuckles and “Hyah hyahs” of the old fellow were meant undoubtedly
to be significant of something. Richard’s ears burned at the thought
of what he might be meaning, but he thrust it aside swiftly as too
absurd. Meanwhile something had to be done to stop the criminal grin on
that black face, so Richard rose hastily and claimed that he must go
immediately and look at the hardy perennials.

“You’ll like ’em, Mistah Richud,” George Alexander straightened out
his face; “they’ll tickle yo’ eye like rainbows on a soap-bubble;
but jess yo’ keep yo’ head, Mistah Richud, an’ every time yo’ shout,
‘Be-yut-i-ful!’ jess yo’ say to you’self ‘Grapes fust! Grapes fust!’
Hahdy puh-rennials is all right. I’s got no ’jection to dem--in
dere own propuh place; although I don’t mind sayin’ to yo’, Mistah
Richud, dat de on’y hahdy puh-rennials dat I see any use in is dem
combs an’ hahr brushes dat de Penn Yan drug stores brings out ob
dere hidin’-places and puts conspicuous on de front counters ebry
Christmas time. Hyah! Hyah! Dey su’ten’y am _hahdy_, an’ dey shu’ is
puh-rennial!”




CHAPTER XIX

MICHAELMAS DAISY AND ROSE-BUGS


A GREAT hedge, cut to resemble the old-fashioned pillar-and-ball
entrance to a driveway, welcomed one into the beginning of the gardens.
Beyond the hedge the path curved abruptly, and a six-foot wall with
high terraces beyond filled the view. Blue masses of sentinel-like
larkspur in mounting tiers gave the first greeting. Here was the
evidence of an intelligent planning to capture the eye right at
the beginning and make one eager to follow the curving path to see
what would be beyond. Instinctively Richard stopped and uttered the
prophesied word, “Beautiful!” The thought of “Grapes fust!” never
intruded.

At the curve the walk widened into a little circle of violet phlox,
walled-up on all sides except towards the sun and towards the narrow
arched opening that led farther on. The walls were not high and
were almost concealed by the climbing blue clematis; beyond them
was slightly higher ground crowded with blue harebell, and farther
back a battalion of Chinese larkspur. Blue snapdragon--giants, every
one--sprang out here and there, and a bevy of smaller border flowers
filled in the scheme--all blue. An old-fashioned hickory settle invited
one to sit and enjoy; and near it had been planted nests of the more
fragrant plants, and borders of blue campanula, Jacob’s ladder and
creeping phlox.

Richard sat on the settle and admired. “Beautiful!” he exclaimed
again and again. It was a bower of blue--blue and purple and violet
and lavender and red-blue; but nothing clashed or interfered with the
dominant cerulean note; there was enough rich green to separate what
would otherwise be jarring shades.

What a puzzling mute Jerry Wells could be when she chose! In all their
chatty hours together there had been hardly a word about this; and
undoubtedly here was but the vestibule of the gardens. “Red Jacket”
should be discovered for oneself, she always said. Well, it was better
so; half the delight in life is the unanticipated joys.

Green shrubs blocked the view through the arch, but one turn--the
garden was a maze of turns--and behold, a diminutive bridge and a
slender spring-fed rivulet, and beyond, in clumps and patches raised at
various elevations by hidden walls, blooms of delicate pink: Canterbury
bells, hollyhock, phlox, gladiolus, lupine, foxglove.

The pink bower was larger than the blue and was, therefore, not to
be taken in at once. Curving paths appeared leading to a series of
surprises, a sward of rest-harrow here and a bevy of tall canna there,
but no alien colour had been permitted to spoil the general tone.

Just over a hedge Richard heard voices and the light-hearted laugh of
negroes at work. Someone in authority was giving directions; it sounded
like Jerry’s voice, so he chanted the family song, the two musical
notes, the fifth and the third of the scale, “Hel-lo!”

The song came back, softly wafted over the green barrier,
“Hel-lo!”--the “lo” held until it diminished into a whisper.

Eagerly he sought a path, singing the call occasionally as he missed
his way and getting the response every time. The path that he chose
dropped down broad flagstone steps and then rose. He had completed
a half-circle before he came upon a hillside of yellow blooms,
gaillardia, black-eyed Susans, and dahlia. They fairly shouted at
him, especially the yellow daisies, but he did not see them at all.
“Hel-lo!” he sang in his flutest tones; and “Hel-lo!” came back almost
at his feet. He found himself standing on a six-foot wall at the top
of a set of narrow stone steps; below him Mrs. Wells was engaging the
attention of several negroes with wheelbarrows, spades and a whole
galaxy of garden tools.

“Hel-lo!” she sang up at him.

Richard was astonished at his own disappointment. Courage to face
folks was not always ready at call, and at this precise hour he felt
no terrifying shyness. He was not one to be courageous at a moment’s
notice; his ridiculous left-handedness had a habit of visiting him when
he least desired it; it was a pity that Jerry was not present now when
he felt so able.

But to Mrs. Wells he showed no sign either of surprise or
disappointment.

“Hel-lo!” he sang cheerfully; and came down the steep irregular steps.

“I’ll never be kind to a Michaelmas daisy again,” she greeted him,
trowel in hand.

“Are they ungrateful?” he asked and looked at the black-eyed Susans.
“They seem very sweet and ingratiating to me.”

“Oh, I don’t mean the rudbeckia,” she laughed. “They are just as bad,
but----”

“Pardon me,” Richard interrupted. “Introduce me to this bad rude Becky;
I don’t know her at all.”

“The black-eyed Susans!” she laughed at his ignorance. “You are staring
at them. We gardeners call them rudbeckias. You just daren’t let them
go to seed; they’d run over the whole place. Just look how they have
multiplied since I have been away! But they’re not half so bad as the
Michaelmas daisy, who have no right to be in the yellow garden at all.”

“Why, pray?” Richard searched about for the offending member.

“Because they are blue.”

“H-m! Blue!” he still looked about him. “Perhaps I’m growing blinded by
all the beauty hereabouts, but I don’t see anything blue.”

She laughed again, delighted with his stupidity.

“If you look into those barrows,” she pointed, “you’ll see the blue
truants. They belong in the blue beds, but they got loose somehow and
cropped up all over the place. I’ve been spending my hours hunting them
out. Don’t you see where we have been digging?”

Then Richard saw the great gashes, and admitted his folly. Everything
was so wonderful and colossal he had not been able to see the defects,
he told her. By this time his eye was taking in the spreading expanse
of yellow field.

“‘And then my heart with rapture fills,’” he quoted, “‘and dances with
the----’ I don’t see any daffodils.”

Even the negroes laughed at this.

“Have I said something stupid?” he asked. “Don’t blame me; blame
Wordsworth. I’m sure he said daffodils--but perhaps he only did it for
the rhyme. If Jawn were here he’d make a limerick to fit black-eyed
Susans.... But just why are daffodils so funny?”

“Daffodils are a spring flower, my dear Richard,” Mrs. Wells began to
explain.

“Of course they are!” Richard remembered. “Wretchedly stupid of me. But
I never can keep pace with that kind of information. I never know when
it is kite time or top time.... We’ll have to bring Wordsworth up to
the minute. How is this:

  “And then with joy my heart goes crazy
  And dances with the Michaelmas daisy?”

“Not mine!” Mrs. Wells shook her head and flourished the trowel.

“Oh,” he corrected himself, “your version should be,

  “And then with anger my mind goes crazy
  And trowels away at the Michaelmas daisy!

“It isn’t as smooth as one of Jawn’s, but the idea is sound.”

“Quite right,” agreed Mrs. Wells. “Michaelmas daisies are decent
enough, like some of these black boys, when they know their proper
places.”

The black boys “hyah-hyahed” at this tribute to their ambitious
proclivities. “Saul there,” she went on, “is a black Michaelmas
daisy”--Saul exploded with appreciative laughter--“he goes right into
my refrigerator without so much as by-your-leave and helps himself to
the best musk-melons. Some day I’ll have to take my trowel to him and
let you boys wheel him off to the weed-fire.”

The darkies enjoyed this amiable attack on Saul’s weakness for
musk-melon, but none more than the black culprit. The Virginia give and
take between master and servant was strangely at home in these northern
hills. Evidently, thought Richard, the transplanting of a hundred years
ago had been done with expert skill; none of the southern flavour had
been lost.

“Trowel won’t nebber do, M’s Wells,” cried Saul between choking
guffaws; “reckon you-all’ll hab to git a pickaxe! Yass’m--sho’ hab to
git a pickaxe.”

Interested as Richard was in the plantation setting and in the
glorious richness of the floral display his heart was not dancing like
Wordsworth’s for either daffodils or black-eyed Susans. The first eager
thought that he might find Jerry alone in the gardens had left a strong
desire to go to her. There was much that he had to say to that young
lady. It had better be done now. “Do it now” was not his favourite
motto; it smacked too much of commerce; but doing it now seemed
suddenly to acquire appropriateness. With this idea in mind he turned
towards the ladder of stones and began to mount.

“As we go up the steps and turn to the left,” Mrs. Wells remarked as
she followed, “you’ll come upon something I very much wish you to
admire. Jerry said I mustn’t guide-book you about, so I’ll say nothing
about what you’ll find; but I’m very proud of my--well, never mind
what.”

She was going with him! Well, he would take a look and then be off. Of
course, the gardens were wonderful, but they would keep, and----

Suddenly he found himself saying, “Beautiful!” again, exactly as
George Alexander had predicted. Through a dense mass of shrubbery they
had picked their way until abruptly the hollyhocks broke upon them,
thousands of them! It was like a magnificent western cornfield, tilted
to the sun. Walks of snapdragon and lupine and hardy pinks wound their
way among the giant flowers. And no particular colour had been allowed
to grow in very large masses; the foxglove and the larkspur and the
gladiolus came back, like the _leitmotiv_ of a German opera, and all
joined in a monster symphonic design, whose design was not apparent at
all. It was the climax, the _finale_, of the piece, the full orchestra
wherein the little bowers of blue and pink and yellow had been solos,
unaccompanied flute and clarionet and French horn.

But even here there were turns of the path, hummocks of hardy shrubs,
unexpected beflowered walls, and finally, at the top of the hill, in
the early stage of light-green bloom, a veritable grove of hydrangeas.
“_Gi_-unts, they is, reg-u-lar hydrang’a _gi_-unts!” George Alexander
had called them. Through the myriad straight slender trunks the blue
sky beyond the hill formed a perfect background; and with the massive
clustered heads, seemingly clipped out into symmetrical designs, the
scene had all the effect of a gigantic Maxfield Parrish poster.

For the first time Richard neglected to say “Beautiful!” Instead, he
looked on in thoughtful wonder, turned about and took in the sweep
of acres below him crowded with perennials, masses of deep red and
old rose and white which he had not seen before. Then he began to
understand the enormous effort of the thing, and the cost in money,
time and labour. So he did not say “Beautiful,” but he thought of
George Alexander and said to himself, “Grapes fust!”

But he did not follow George Alexander’s directions and say it aloud.
The beauty of the scene before him was too rare an experience; and
grapes, after all, were simply something for sale. It was not expected
that George Alexander’s mind could get above the rise and fall of the
market. Beauty was an emotional experience, not something to be sold
for a penny; and emotional experiences were the essence of living.
Better a dinner of herbs where beauty is than many profitable baskets
of grapes.

So he turned to the expectant woman beside him and praised and
praised. These gardens were a revelation of her mind, he told her, a
cross-section of her soul. Unconsciously he began to batter down George
Alexander’s arguments against thrift and close buying and selling and
all the other despicable acts of trade.

The penniless are the most eloquent abusers of wealth! What is money,
he asked her derisively, compared with the wealth before them! “Let
the millioned-dollared ride! Barefoot trudging at his side” hath what
wealth cannot purchase. Thrift? Economy? Profit? He repudiated them all
and apostrophized the work before him, and crowned with rhetoric the
Workwoman.

The Workwoman glowed and applauded; and for payment she let him into
the secrets of her craft; her fight against mullein and sorrel, grubs,
and cut-worms; the mysteries of mulch; the struggle to keep a steady
Christian colour in sweet-williams, hollyhocks and columbines; the
everlasting effort to lift the cup of cold water to the lips of the
ever-thirsty gladiolus; the war against the onrush of Michaelmas daisy,
Bouncing Bet and hawkbit; the constant necessity of nipping helianthus,
phlox and golden glow, which otherwise grow rank and ungainly; the
multifarious uses of sprays for killing everything from larkspur blight
to rose-bugs. And she confessed her private theories of soils and her
views on seed propagation and root splitting; on fertilizers; on cold
frames; and on continuous bloom throughout the year.

“Helen Albee tells me that no one can get a continuous blue,” she
warmed up enthusiastically, “but I did it one year.” And then she
started a technical avalanche of names. “Who is Helen Albee? She is a
fellow-conspirator among us hardy perennialists. I give her credit for
all this--she and Lena Walker--I was nowhere until I met those two.”

There was no false egotism about this artist. Richard was astonished
at the change in her. Her old self had almost come back, and something
moved him to tell her so. They had been sitting for some time in the
shadow of the hydrangeas and were facing out towards the Lake.

“No;” she closed her lips firmly; “I am not myself yet.... I am not
well. Ever since----”

Abruptly she stopped speaking and with caution pressed a hand to her
heart, almost furtively. It was there that Walter had struck her, but
she would not have admitted it. The blow had been something more than
mental; it had left a physical bruise which declined to heal; and she
was conscious of occasional inward pain which she tried to tell herself
would soon pass away. But Richard, who saw the quiver pass over her
face, did not observe the motion of her hand, and he could not have
suspected its cause. And even if he had guessed, this weak old woman
would have straightened up valiantly and would have lied about it with
deceiving outward cheerfulness. The Virginia plantation of the early
nineteenth century had been moved north with all its characteristic
virtues intact!

But she had begun to confess once more to this dutiful squire. “No; I
am not well,” she said.

“I am sorry,” Richard said feelingly.

“I know you are,” she nodded her head several times thoughtfully; “I
feel your sincerity. That’s why I tell you so much that I conceal from
others. Let me tell you some more.... You are as good as a priest,”
she smiled at him. “It is only in my gardens that I feel my old self.
I am not strong any more--no! you need not try to encourage me; I
know. But up here among my flowers I fool myself--I act as if I were
in control of things; I boss the black boys about and boss even the
flowers and the rose-bugs. I’m happy up here; I have nothing to worry
me.”

She stopped, evidently at the preamble of her confession. Walter was on
Richard’s mind, and on that score he was preparing himself to infuse
self-confidence into her; but her mind was leagues from Walter.

Richard laughed to dispel the effect of her gloomy tone and asked what
on earth she had to worry about.

“‘Red Jacket’ is mortgaged to the limit, and the interest is long
overdue; I have been borrowing for twenty years, and I don’t know how
many thousands I owe,” she remarked simply, as casually as if she had
invited him to enjoy the view.

The unexpected information shocked him, although certainly George
Alexander had given him ample clues. He began a speech about the
uselessness of money--one of his favourite poetic theories--but it did
not ring true. For the first time in his life he found that Thoreauean
point of view distasteful.

“Does Jerry know?” he interrupted himself.

“She’ll know if she can ever make head or tail out of the books,” she
answered serenely. “Well!” she gave a tremendous sigh of relief and
actually smiled. “I’m glad I don’t have to do the juggling any longer.
I’ve thrown it all on Jerry now. She’s young and able, I guess. She’ll
find a way out, never fear.”

And so she talked complacently, meanwhile with every other sentence
giving ugly details which showed plainly enough, even to Richard’s
non-commercial experience, that Jerry would have to be a financial
magician to find any way out except via bankruptcy. He tried to quiz
her, but she put him off with the plea that the business of managing
the estate was no longer her affair. She was too happy with her
perennials to spoil it all with figures that would not come out right.
She joked about it, too; showing all too clearly that if bossing things
in the gardens had given her the appearance of her old masterful self,
it was an appearance only. A bit of her mind, seemingly, had become
atrophied without in the least harming the remainder. Heretofore she
had been both a dominating manager of a complicated estate and a clever
gardener; at present the dominating manager had vanished, leaving only
the clever gardener.

Richard rose precipitately. He must see Jerry at once. She had seemed
particularly worried lately; and he remembered with a pang that he and
Jawn had been trying to joke her into good spirits. With this calamity
hanging over her--already she must have got an inkling of the state of
affairs--they had been unforgivably cruel. He must go to her instantly.

“Who is your lawyer?” he asked Mrs. Wells; his tone was almost crisp.

“My lawyer?” she inquired in turn. “I never had any.”

“You speak of mortgages and bonds and transfers of property,” he
followed up quickly. “Whom do you consult about such matters?”

“Oh,” she smiled sweetly; “you mean Mitchell Lear, I suppose. Of
course, he’s a lawyer; but I never go to him about law matters--only as
a friend.”

“Does he know about your affairs?”

She thought carefully. “Ye-es,” she admitted. “He knows; not that I
ever told him much, but he always guessed, I reckon. I fibbed to him
about everything,” she laughed at the remembrance, “but you can’t fool
Mitchell Lear. Words aren’t anything to him; he just looks on quietly
through your eyes and into the very privacy of your soul. Once I told
him a long story about deciding to buy more orchard land--buy, you
understand--and after I was quite done, he nodded his wise head and
remarked, ‘I’m sorry you’ve made up your mind to sell!’ ‘But I said
“buy,”’ said I. ‘I heard you,’ said he; ‘and I say that you are making
a mistake to sell.’”

Mrs. Wells laughed quietly and contentedly at the remembrance. “And
the funny part of it was,” she told Richard, “I had just sold all the
orchard we possessed; and it _was_ a mistake, too,” she added, “just as
he knew it would be.... Oh, well! I mustn’t think of those things any
more; they make me too unhappy.”

Mrs. Wells was sorry to see Richard go--there were many more things
to show him, but he would have none of them. With a faintly troubled
face she watched him stride down a path and disappear behind a grove
of hollyhocks. But in a moment or two she had forgotten about him and
was calling her blacks about her. The imperative duty of the hour was
rose-bugs.




CHAPTER XX

SETH’S WHIP


RICHARD’S best singing of the “Hel-lo” call failed to bring a response
from Jerry.

“Mrs.” George Alexander, who, as “Sukie,” presided over the kitchen,
reckoned that Miss Geraldine had gone down to visit Mrs. Phœbe Norris.
That’s what she “reckoned,” but she “’lowed” that Miss Geraldine might
go even farther. One of the Wheelen boys was with her.

“When one o’ dem Wheelen boys comes ’long,” Sukie explained, “nobody
c’d tell _whar_ M’s Geraldine ’ud lan’ up. Ef she jes’ tuck it in her
head to go plum down dat Lake to Hammonspo’t, plum down dat Lake she’d
go! When M’s Geraldine gits in dem canoes she jes’ na’chully do’ know
when to git outen ’em!”

Off on a canoe trip! That did not sound like bankruptcy; although it
corresponded surprisingly to the mother’s free and easy Southern manner
of handling high finance.

But perhaps Sukie’s “reckoning” was more nearly correct than her
“’lowing.” He would investigate further at the Norris cottage.

“Too late, young man,” cried Phœbe before he could state his errand.
“Anyone could see by the rush you made down that hill and by the
glitter in your eye that you are tryin’ to overtake a woman. Jerry is
gone. The other man has her, and my tip is that you had better bring
matters to a point quickly--or you’ll lose nest and feathers too.”

His rapid-fire questions exhibited Phœbe in the light of a perfect
mind-reader. But she had no help for him. They had gone off in
Wheelen’s canoe; there was no telling when they would be back.

“I’ll wait,” said Richard firmly, and sat down upon one of her
comfortable porch chairs.

“I’m thinkin’ of putting up a sign,” remarked Phœbe. Richard gazed down
the Lake and made no answer. “Only I’m not sure whether to make it
‘Beware the dog,’ or ‘Trespassing forbidden.’... Perhaps I’ll make it
‘Huntin’ not allowed on this land’--meanin’ by that, ‘girl huntin’’--or
mebbe I’ll just have it read, ‘The Norris Inn; Meals Furnished Free.’”

“Eh?” he came out of his fixed stare. “Did you say something about
eating? I’m really quite hungry.”

“Of course you would be!” she said. “Feed a stray dog an’ he’ll always
come back. It was a mistake ever to give you two anything. Your friend
Jawn was here for two-o’clock tea. What’ll you have, sir?” She flung
a bit of sewing over her left arm and impersonated an ingratiating
waiter. “We recommend our toasted muffins and tea.”

“Great!” he agreed politely. “I’d be delighted.”

But anyone could see that his mind was not on food. Down the Lake he
squinted with wrinkling brows as if he were trying to read the name on
a far-distant steamer.

“As a rule canoes don’t travel in the middle of the Lake,” said Phœbe.

“Eh?” he looked up absently.

“They hug the shore,” she said.

“Oh! Do they?... Why?”

“Canoeing is said to be a dangerous sport.” Phœbe talked through the
window as she prepared the muffins. “And it is. Although, for myself,
I’m thinkin’ there’s less danger out in the middle of the Lake where
everybody can see you with field-glasses than goin’ in and out among
the bushes and gettin’ out ever so often to sit down under a tree and
rest.”

“I don’t get that,” said Richard.

“You wouldn’t,” commented Phœbe dryly. “I believe I once called you
a clever rascal. I apologize and withdraw the ‘clever.’ You are not
clever.”

“Very good! Very good!” With an effort Richard had caught the point
of her satire and applauded politely. But his mind was elsewhere,
as evidenced by his sudden remark, “You told me the Wells’ were
prosperous.”

“Well, aren’t they?”

“No. They’re in bad straits financially. Perhaps you have known; at any
rate my instinct tells me that it will do no harm to tell you.”

Phœbe left her muffins toasting and came out to him.

“Who’s been puttin’ that into your head?” she inquired seriously.

“Mrs. Wells.”

For a moment Phœbe stared at him soberly; then she broke into merriment.

“It’s no joke,” he said solemnly. “She has sold off the land that paid
the best income--the apples--and she has been borrowing and not paying
back for twenty years.”

Phœbe sat down weakly.

“You’re tryin’ to frighten me,” she said.

“It’s the truth. Furthermore----”

Richard ceased speaking and fumbled for cigarette paper.

“Furthermore what?” Phœbe demanded impatiently.

“Your muffins are burning.”

“Let ’em! What’s this furthermore business?”

“I’m very sensitive to odours.”

“And I’m very sensitive to furthermores. Furthermore what?”

Richard puffed slowly.

“Well, it is only a fear I have that Mrs. Wells may have used money
that was not, strictly speaking, her own.”

“_Take that back!_”

Phœbe jumped to her feet, reached up deftly and unhooked the stout whip
that had done duty for some years as a protector from Seth. “Take it
back, I say!” she cried as she swung the lash, “or I’ll make you take
it back.”

She was trembling with anger, and she looked murderous.

“All right,” Richard puffed away quietly. “I’ll take it back, although
I think you should attend to those muffins before you cart-whip me.
I’d rather have my muffins in the mouth than in the nose, if you don’t
mind.”

Phœbe struggled a moment with her quivering anger and then put back her
whip and strode to the rescue of the muffins.

Nearly a half-hour slipped away before she returned. Richard was only a
desultory smoker, but he had time to roll a number of cigarettes before
she appeared finally with a tray of fresh muffins, some jam and a pot
of hot tea. All trace of her anger was gone, too.

“There is only one thing I hate worse than a lie,” she began the
conversation as she poured the tea, “and that is the truth.”

“You are quite right,” he agreed as he spread a hot muffin. “Truth
is the nastiest dose in the pharmacopœia. Perhaps I came at you too
strong, but I think I made no mistake in thinking you can stand a lot.
I have always been frank with you, Phœbe, and my instinct tells me----”

“Your instinct had better be careful,” she warned, flushing a little;
“it nearly got you a welt across the face.”

“And I am very glad,” he replied calmly. “If you would flame up like
that for your friends you would do a lot more to help them out of their
troubles. I fear they’ll need all the help you can give them.”

“Perhaps you had better tell me what you know. You take your own risk,
of course”--she was regaining her normal cheerfulness--“if I don’t like
what you know, you may get this pot of hot tea in your face.... Go on;
I’m listenin’--carefully.”

He related the confession which Mrs. Wells had made to him under the
hydrangeas, but for prudential reasons he did not divulge the ground of
his belief that some of Mrs. Wells’ business transactions may not have
been entirely business-like.

To Richard’s surprise, Phœbe broke into nervous laughter.

“What a fool I’ve been,” said she, “ever to get stirred up by all that!
Can’t you see that the old lady was just tryin’ you out?”

“No; I don’t see anything of the sort.”

“You believe all she said?”

“Don’t you?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yes; I do believe it. If they were sold out to-morrow, the debts would
overwhelm them.”

“Then I suppose the jig’s up?”

Phœbe was still intent on her moving-picture film of a pair of New
York villains attempting to marry money; but Richard understood her
differently.

“I fear the jig is up, as you say. Of course,” he added, “I’ll have to
see Jerry first to make sure.”

“Yes,” agreed Phœbe, “you had better make sure. But I’m sorry for one
thing----”

“Which is?”

“That I didn’t give you that welt with the whip.”

He laughed, not at all taking her seriously.

“But you may get it yet,” she laughed in turn.... “_Walter told me your
other name!_” She shot the information at him suddenly.

“Oh,” he remarked casually; “he did, did he?”

“Rather a sporty name to be gallivantin’ under, eh?”

“I never liked it.”

“Why?”

“It made me too conspicuous.... And people asked such impertinent
questions.”

“They would!”

“Yes; Richard Richard is much better.... Don’t tell Jerry about the
other name yet, will you?”

She agreed. Somehow she felt sorry for the man. According to her theory
he had played for high stakes and lost. About that she cared little.
But his coolness and good nature pleased her; and he had courage, for
he had never so much as flinched when she flung the big whip. No doubt
he would have taken her blow without even lifting his guard. He had
merely looked up at her with his mild blue eye, scrutinizing her with
an almost disinterested curiosity. Seth had always dropped on all fours
at the very sight of the whip; this man was built on a more courageous
mould, and she admired him immensely for it.

“You’re a good sport,” she summed him up, “even if you are a bad lot.”

“Thanks.... Where is Walter?” he asked.

“He and Jawn are sailing the new boat.” She laughed at some memory of
their setting forth. That laugh was a brave attempt to conceal her
worry over the Wells’ affairs. “Jawn’s a bright lad, he is; but he--he
ought to have the whip, too.”

“I believe you,” Richard assented. “Was he nice and vulgar to you
to-day? Jawn loves to be vulgar.”

“I’m no judge of such things,” she parried; “it takes all my time just
to enjoy them.”

“Young woman,” he told her in his smiling superior way, “that’s a
mighty fine formula to go through life on. Why be always judging and
valuing? One needs all the time just to enjoy.”

Silence fell between them. Hovering over the pleasant tea-table was the
memory of the recent ugly scene and beyond that the fate of the Wells
family.

“I believe you would!” Phœbe remarked in answer to one of her own
thoughts.

“Perhaps.” He sipped his tea contentedly, looked down the Lake and
waited.

“If the Big House should go to smash,” she explained finally, “I
believe you would loaf about enjoyin’ yourself with what was left in
the refrigerator and then tramp off without caring a----”

She left the sentence unfinished.

“Say it,” he suggested. “‘Damn’ is no longer a bad word. It has been
taken up by the best people.”

“I believe you would!” she iterated.

“I would enjoy myself,” he agreed; “and quite possibly I would tap the
refrigerator, if it were hungry time; and even more possibly I would
loaf; and maybe I would tramp off. Ye-es,” he figured the matter over
carefully, “I am sure I should enjoy it, too--immensely. Do you know, I
am rather hoping the Big House will go to smash--although it’s a point
of view I never suspected I should hold. In fact, I’m getting more
delight out of the thought every minute.... My whole life is turning
right over like a turtle that has been on his back for thirty years....
You can’t imagine how excited I am.”

“No,” she snapped; “praise be, I can’t. I’m--I’m----” a wave of emotion
swept her--“dang it all, man, how can you sit there and grin with all
this happenin’ to Jerry!”

“All what?” he asked with a fine affectation of innocence.

“All what!” she exploded. “They’ve lived in the Big House ever since
there was a Big House, and even before that in the log-cabins where the
negroes are now. Of course I’ve always known something like this would
happen----”

“Ah! ha!” said the man, “you knew it, did you?”

“I have ears, man!” she snapped. “I hear without listenin’ at keyholes.
Everybody in Jerusalem township knows the Big House is mortgaged, but
mortgages are respectable enough. We always thought she preferred to
invest her money in better paying stocks and things.... What has she
done with it all? That’s what I should like to know.”

“She has over thirty negroes on the pay-roll,” he suggested without
much concern, although he did not miss Phœbe’s agitation. “That should
mean at least five thousand a year in wages; and from what I know of
the Wells’ bounty, those negroes and their families get practically
everything they need free. The gardens cost a couple of thousand a
year. The accumulation of small wastage would amount to considerable;
and then, you know, the income has been impaired mightily through
the sale of the orchards, and the failure to get the most out of the
grapes. They’ve been spending more than they earned--considerably more,
I should judge--and they have tried the old expedient of making up the
deficit each year by borrowing.”

He said not a word about the possible breach of trust as to the
negroes. Phœbe would have given much to be able to ask him; but,
somehow, she could not get the question out. She feared the truth.

“They’re about at the end of their rope,” he went on. “The fiddler will
have to be paid, that’s all.”

“That’s _all_!” she echoed indignantly. “Isn’t it enough? The money’s
nothin’ and the food’s nothin’,” she went on excitedly. “I have plenty
to keep both families alive and free from the necessity of doing a
stroke the rest of their lives. It isn’t that, man. The Wells family
have been used to living on a big scale. They have been surrounded
by negroes who fetch and carry for them, and they have been the ‘big
family’ in this part of the country for a century or more. They could
never come down. Don’t you see it, man? It would kill them. They could
never pig it along the way you and I could do. Don’t sit there and grin
at me, you blitherin’ fool! What I want to know is what we’re goin’ to
do about it?”

He puffed away deliberately and watched her animated face as if he
enjoyed her dramatics. Then he said:

“We’re going to pay off the debts, liquidate the mortgage and set the
Wells family on its feet--bail ’em out, in short.”

“We are, are we?” she tossed her head. “And with what?”

“Money.”

“Whose money? I’ve got none; at least none that would count.”

“My money.”

“Talk sense, man,” she stood up and sat down nervously. “It’ll take
thousands to----”

“Easily that,” he figured. “I’m counting on about sixty thousand. The
place is mortgaged for forty-two thousand dollars, thirty thousand on
a first mortgage and twelve thousand on a second. She has notes out
amounting to about eight thousand more. That’s fifty thousand. She owes
the negroes about ten thousand more----”

“What!” cried Phœbe, “the negroes. Where’d they get ten thou----”

She stopped, aghast at the thought that had crossed her mind. She knew
all about the Wells’ scheme of keeping back half of the wages into a
savings fund; and she knew that it was something more than a charity. A
contract guaranteeing those savings had been drawn up for each employee
on the Wells estate. Such money belonged to the negroes, and Mrs. Wells
was nothing more than a legal trustee of the funds. If that had been
touched, Phœbe with her natural business experience knew that something
more than the mild procedure of bankruptcy might be in store for
Jerry’s mother.

“Did she say she had used that money, too?” Phœbe asked breathlessly.

“I fear so,” he told her kindly. “But don’t worry, my dear girl. As
soon as I have talked with Jerry--I want to see those documents--I’ll
get in touch with New York and fix the whole business up.”

“You’re not foolin’ me, are you?” she asked plaintively.

“No.”

“I thought you had no money.”

“I hadn’t until a few hours ago.”

“How much have you got?”

“I don’t know, Phœbe,” he laughed excitedly like a boy. “Heaps of it.
Barrels of it. Millions, I think.”

“If I find you’re jokin’ with me, young man, I’ll--I’ll----”

Tears dropped from her eyes. She dashed them off with her hand in order
the better to glare at him.

“Didn’t Walter tell you who I am?” he asked soothingly.

“But you’re not that man.” She stamped her foot. “He died years ago--in
a yacht--I read about it.”

“That was my father; we had the same name.”

With a word here and there he managed to calm her agitation. Slowly
she became convinced that this easy-going young man was a financial
aristocrat, a wizard come in time to save her friends.

He had been a sickly boy, he told her; so the family had let him grow
up a recluse. It was not until he had arrived at college years that he
began to develop physically, but by that time, although he had grown
into a stalwart frame of a man, he was hopelessly bookish and “queer.”
The father was one of the dominant big men of his time, but he was kind
and sympathetic with the boy, so “Richard” had gone his own way and
was allowed peacefully to ply his individualism.

“After college,” he told her, “I decided that I could not live the
dependent life any longer. I talked it over with father and he told
me to try things out for myself. He offered me money, but that did
not seem like playing fair; so I told him that I’d feel much happier
if I went it ‘on my own,’ as the English say. He said it wouldn’t be
a bad idea to knock about a bit and discover what I was best fitted
to do. And so I drifted here and there, sometimes having things easy
and sometimes not so easy, but you can’t imagine how contented I was.
I have an enormous curiosity about life--I’m perfectly greedy to know
why things are the way they are.... Then I fell in with Jawn’s group
over on the West Side and met the ‘Widow’ Knowles, who gives me enough
tutoring to do to keep me in food and raiment, and I lived--well, like
the lilies of the field.”

“But is it true that your father was----” But she found she could not
say it; it seemed too heartless to ask him.

“Quite true,” he answered her unfinished question.

“It’s a brute I am to ask you.”

“Oh, not at all,” he replied pleasantly. “Death is lying in wait for
all of us.... The thing preyed on my mind for many months, but it
taught me much in the end.... I think now I shall face my own death all
the better.”

“Please!” she covered her eyes. “Don’t talk about it. Death is
horrible.”

“Death is only the end of the great adventure,” he assured her; “and
perhaps--who knows--the beginning of a more glorious one. I have a keen
sense of the shortness of life, but that does not horrify me; it makes
me all the more appreciative of each hour of it, and it makes me kinder
to all men. That’s why I refuse to make a frantic struggle out of it.”

Richard’s calm was very consoling to Phœbe; unconsciously she partook
of it and lost some of her dolefulness. For several minutes their talk
lapsed. Finally he asked, “Do I look scared?”

“What are you scared of? It’s me that ought to be scared; and I
am--scared that it’s a big lie you’re tellin’ me. Millions! Huh! It’s a
hard dose to swallow.”

“Just the same I’m frightened. It’ll mean work----”

“Ah!” Phœbe exulted. “So it’s work you’re scared at. There’s a man for
you!”

“It will mean work,” he went on soberly, “and slavery.”

“Go ’long with you, man! Slavery? It’ll be the chauffeurs and the
butler and the cooks and the landscape gardeners who’ll be the slaves.
What’ll you need to slave at?”

“It will mean giving up this blessed freedom. All my life I have fled
from responsibilities and burdens; now I am going straight out to seek
them. Others will depend upon me. If I make mistakes, I’ll suffer
because others will suffer. That’s why I’m scared. I’m like the soldier
in an ugly bayonet fight; it’s a sickening job, but it’s his job and he
must do it. I hope I’m not a coward----”

“Faith,” chirped the practical Phœbe, “you can afford to be anything if
you’ve got money.”

“I remember my father”--something in his tone stopped her raillery.

“Tell me about your father,” she interrupted quietly.

“He was a very sensitive man, and the world was very hard upon him.
They called him a money-grabber. The cartoonist pictured him with an
eternal dollar-mark on his forehead. Any comedian could raise a laugh
by merely mentioning his name. Even in serious plays they made fun of
him. Yet he never worked for himself. During the big panics he hardly
slept. We have a private letter from a president of the United States,
written in his own hand, praising father for his work in stopping a
national disaster, yet that very president begged him not to disclose
the fact that he had written. It would be misunderstood, he wrote; it
would damage the government if the people knew.... My father treasured
that letter, although it hurt him. But he never complained. He gave
even more of his hours to the service of others.... I have seen the
brooding anxiety in his eyes.... When he was ill he dare not let it
be known--the market would feel it. He could not take holidays like
other folks; he could not even be friendly; and he hungered for public
appreciation.

“The world tore at his character during muck-raking days, and even
struck at his family. Cameras snapped at us wherever we went. I used to
hate to look at a newspaper. The boys in school jibed me until I grew
positively mute. I think they were envious--some of them--of my public
fame. Envy! Merciful heavens!... Father asked only to be let alone,
and they gave him ugly notoriety. Even his tragic death was made the
subject of horrible jokes.... And I am going to take up the work....
I’m scared, but only because I feel that I may not be worthy.”

“Then what do you do it for?” asked Phœbe. “Come up on the Lake and let
the world go to pot. What they say about you in the columns of the
_Express_ or the _Chronicle_ won’t keep you awake o’ nights. Why do
you mux your life up with finance and all that if you don’t like it? I
believe you do like it.”

Some of the brooding anxiety of his father had come into his eyes.

“No,” he spoke thoughtfully, “I think I never shall like it. But I must
go forward just the same.”

“Why?”

For a moment he did not answer. He seemed not to have heard her
question. Finally he spoke.

“Some persons would call it Duty. That isn’t what I call it. But I know
exactly what it is. It is a force in you that will not be diverted. It
points you to your job, whether it be loafing or playing or sweating
labour. You may cry out against it, but you go on just the same.
It keeps men--and women too--at the grubbiest of tasks. Without it
civilization would not be.... My job is clear. I thought I never would
do it, but now I know that I shall; and I know, too, that I always
intended to. My wander-years were all preparing me for this--and I
never suspected it until now. I have been standing aloof and watching
life pass by, and now I am tumbled into the torrent.... It is part of
the great plan.... But,” he added wistfully, “the watching days were
good--and they were necessary.”

A chirp or two came into Phœbe’s voice, but the brooding sense of
disaster still lingered. Finally she said, “But I don’t see how you can
help them,” meaning Mrs. Wells and Jerry.

“Father left his affairs in the hands of a trusted group of his
friends,” he explained. “They are to carry on the estate until such
time as I shall make up my mind to take charge.... I thought that time
was postponed for ever. Now,” he stood up and cried exultantly, “now
I’m eager for it!”

“And so you’re not a villain after all.”

“I’m afraid not, Phœbe.”

“Humph!” She began to assert her old self. “Then Jawn is.”

“Wrong again.”

“Very well,” she shook her head. “I’ll watch him just the same. And
I’ll keep an eye on you, too, sonny. It’s a nice story you’ve been
tellin’ me. Mebbe it’s all true; but, I warn you, the moment either of
you tries to sell me stock in rubber trees in Madagascar, I’ll put the
whip to you.”

To help him out she told him of the meek gentleman who tried to
hoodwink the village.

“I may own stock in that concern for all I know,” he laughed. “Would
you believe it, child, I’m crazy to find out what I do own!... But,
remember, Jerry must know nothing until I tell her myself. Promise me
you won’t let the cat out of the bag.”

“Tell her?” quoth she. “Is it garrulous as well as stupid you think I
am? If Jerry knew the truth about you she’d die rather than accept a
penny.”

“Really?” He was genuinely concerned.

“You’ve got a hard job before you, young man!” She enjoyed his
discomfiture. “I don’t know which is the harder, to get sixty thousand
dollars out of ‘Red Jacket’ or to get sixty thousand into it. The
Wells’ would rather go to the poorhouse than take an unearned penny
from anybody. Tell her? You don’t suppose I want to commit financial
suicide, do you? Pfist!” She raised a warning finger. “They’re comin’
round the bend; they’re almost on us. I wish you luck, ‘Mr. Richard,’”
she chuckled, “and, faith, you’ll need it.”

Around the bend they came, Jerry at the prow of a long birch canoe, the
Wheelen boy at the stern. Slowly and silently she swung the slender
paddle as Seneca maidens had done on those waters for hundreds of
years; and with her brown conventional bathing suit and her braided
brown hair she looked the part of aboriginal.

“Hel-lo!” he sang.

“Hel-lo!” came back across the water. There was not a sign of weakness
or fear in the long-drawn “lo!” Evidently she was still ignorant of the
meaning of all those cryptic entries in her mother’s books.




CHAPTER XXI

POET


WITHIN a dozen yards of the shore Jerry stopped paddling and held
up her right hand, two fingers extended like a papal benediction.
Anyone brought up in the country knows that silent code. It suggests
willows and spring-boards and “sandy bottoms”; and translated into the
vernacular it means, “Let’s go swimmin’!”

But Richard Richard had never had a boyhood. Perhaps one of the things
that made him so eager to look the world in the face was the fact
that nurses and governesses and private tutors had been his portion,
and what summers his sickly life had permitted were spent with other
sheltered youth in the south of France or in the Swiss Alps.

“Are you giving me a Tshoti-non-da-waga blessing?” he asked when she
stepped on the shore.

“Don’t you know the sign?” she asked incredulously.

“No; what does it mean?”

“Really?” She stood before him looking at him curiously. “Where have
you been brung up! It means, ‘Let’s go swimmin’.’ Every country boy
knows that.”

“I wish I had been a country boy.” He spoke with a touch of regret.

“Don’t tell me you spent your summers in New York City.”

“Even that would have been something,” said he ruefully. “Those kids
over on the West Side have lots of fun.”

“Well,” she smiled, “if you were neither a country boy nor a city boy,
what were you?”

Phœbe joined them. The Wheelen boy had made his farewells and had
piloted his canoe around the bend.

“I’ll tell you,” said Phœbe. “He was sent up to the Reform School at an
early age and then transferred to Matteawan. He’s just out of the crazy
house. I know; I’m an expert. Besides, he’s just been tellin’ me all
about it.”

“That’s just about the size of it,” Richard admitted. “I was
be-governessed and be-tutored all my young days. I was a frail lad,
you know. You wouldn’t believe it to see me now. I’m like Theodore
Roosevelt in that respect. You know he was a discard in his young days,
but he built himself into the prize-fighter class. That’s what they did
with me.... I got so used to being out of things which other boys were
doing that, somehow, I didn’t miss them. I was almost seventeen before
I began to put on weight.”

“Didn’t you ever go swimming and orchard robbing and nutting with the
‘gang’?” Jerry asked.

“Never.”

“You poor boy!”

“Poor!” ejaculated Phœbe, then slapped a hand over her mouth and
retreated into the house. “How ever am I going to keep my mouth shut?”
she asked herself. “The only thing for me to do is to go out and dig
garden until they go away.”

The signal to go swimming was given again.

“Sure!” Richard assented with alacrity. “What’s the way to answer
that?”

“Two fingers of the left hand for ‘All right,’ and one finger for
‘Can’t.’”

He waved his two fingers and darted into the house.

When he came out he found her in the water at the head of the dock.
Certainly as she moved about with exquisite grace in the transparent
water she looked like some lithe aquatic animal.

“I don’t like to be watched,” she spoke quietly. “Come in.”

He understood, and plunged immediately.

“That brown costume matches you so well,” he explained, “you looked
like a sleek otter, or like young Mowgli out of the _Jungle Book_, only
you don’t kick your legs like a frog.”

“Of course not.” They were moving very, very leisurely out into the
Lake. “You would soon tire with that frog kick.”

The day he had looked out of the window in Phœbe’s house and had
seen her swim by he had noticed--Keuka water is as clear as an
aquarium--that she “walked” as she swam, one leg drawn after the other,
the sign of the long-distance swimmer.

“Where shall we go?” he asked after a few moments of silent swimming.
“I like to have something to aim at.”

“Let’s cross.”

“Very well.”

“That bushy clump of trees which come down to the water’s edge;
straight ahead now.”

“I see them.”

It was a diagonal cut, probably a mile and a half across, but the
water was delicious, and they were in no haste. At times they spoke
a sentence or two, but for the most part they moved on rhythmically
without a word. Each seemed to know instinctively when to stop and
“tread” or when to float and rest. It was the essence of tranquillity
which speech would have spoiled.

Several times they faced each other for long, steady minutes. He could
observe the easy swing of the arm, the coiled brown hair, the wet
eyelashes and the silk insignia of the French swimming club on the edge
of her garment; and she could note his natural ease in the water, but
particularly his face of many lines. She would have liked to examine
it furrow by furrow, but his scrutinizing blue eye kept too watchful a
guard. And she was not quite certain if he had not begun to “make eyes
at her”; so she would turn away and use a stroke that left him to study
the coil on coil of braided hair. And then, safely turned away, she
would permit her face to smile in quiet enjoyment of the catastrophe
that would occur--panic, indeed!--if he could know what racing thoughts
were hers!

And all the while he was thinking of the phenomena of communication:
how each mind was busy on its own affairs with only a yard or two of
space between, yet neither able to enter the privacy of the other. He
conjectured that the documents which Mrs. Wells had given her to study
had not yet told their story of disaster. Or else she was an incredible
actor. And while he planned carefully how to settle the difficulties of
the estate without giving her pride a chance to object, he was thankful
for the miracle that separated their minds so absolutely.

He was thankful for other reasons. While he watched her face he
wondered why she had told Walter that Richard and she had “fixed it
up.” Walter had been explicit; he insisted that Jerry had owned that
she and Richard were agreed on marriage. Walter may have been mistaken,
but Richard could not shake off the air of probability about Walter’s
assertion. If she had made such a statement--nothing in the calm face
beside him remotely suggested such a thing--there was some good reason
back of it. So much he assured himself, but, puzzle as he could, he
found no satisfying explanation.

The swim was not fatiguing because they were experienced swimmers and
knew how to make journeys of that sort; but, nevertheless, on reaching
the other side, they lay down on the grass and took the precaution of a
good rest.

“How goes the bookkeeping, Lady Manager?” he asked.

She did not reply at first.

“Not at all,” she admitted at length. “But I fear I have not been
putting my mind to it the way I should.”

“Let me help.”

She thought about that for several seconds before replying.

“I am not sure whether I want you to know,” she spoke finally. “There
are more entries about mortgages and notes than I care to expose....
Mother seems to have been borrowing like sixty for a great many years,
and I haven’t been able to discover yet what she has done with the
proceeds.... I am beginning to fear that we are not so well off as I
always believed.”

“Would you care much?”

“I don’t know,” she reflected. “I’ve never had to think about money
matters. It’s like gravity or the weight of the atmosphere; I don’t
suppose we’d miss either unless they should suddenly leave us.... That
swim was mighty close to it, though; wasn’t it?” She had shifted the
subject adroitly.

“Great!” he lolled at length. “It’s a species of gravity-less universe
we were floating in.... Great!”

She had not discovered the state of affairs yet, he thought, although
she was “getting warm.” So both were willing to drop the subject, but
neither was inclined to bring up another. A minute or two slipped by,
then five minutes, then twenty-five. Crickets droned lazily; near by
a catbird called, and far off a pack of noisy crows quarrelled and
fluttered about the top of a dead tree.

Speech would have kept these two young persons politely apart, but the
silence was quivering with intimacies. And so, when Jerry sat up and
raised two fingers mischievously, he flashed back the response and
walked with her to the water without the necessity of a disturbing word.

Not until they reached the home shore did they speak. Then he said:

“You will let me help you on the books, won’t you? I know a lot about
such things”--in reality he knew nothing--“and I know a pack of big
finance fellows in New York who will patch up anything in the shape of
a note or mortgage or interest due. Do let me help?”

“You really want to?”

“Really.”

“All right,” she agreed. “If you are not too tired we can work over a
few hard places before dinner. We have an hour.”

This eager, plausible young man had better know exactly what he might
expect out of “Red Jacket,” and the earlier the better. The documents
were not such an enigma to her as she had pretended, and she was not so
young as not to be aware that men--and mothers--had often speculated on
her desirability as a moneyed “catch.” Not that she believed Walter’s
theory about Richard. He was no “bad man.” Her half-suspicions of
Richard had faded almost as quickly as they had come. The night’s sleep
had banished them. One might as well not have eyes and a mind if the
guileless man before her were ever guilty of anything except kindness
and improvidence. But improvidence he could be guilty of, and on a
colossal scale. Besides, he was so different from other men that it
would be just like him to rest satisfied at “Red Jacket.” He would take
it with no more shame than those sparrows were taking Phœbe’s oats. So
she would lead him straight to the documents and exhibit the accounts.

When Phœbe heard their voices at the dock she fled to the garden
and seized a hoe. Reticence was not one of her virtues, and she had
the sense to know it. “It’s awful to have the gift of oratory,” she
chuckled as she dived in back of the corn. “An’ it’s never myself
that thought I would be runnin’ away from a chance to show it off!”
Nevertheless she stayed out of sight until they dressed and had left
the cottage.

They took the steep hill leisurely, stopping occasionally to rest and
look back on the view; but they found speech as unessential here as on
the long swim together. And, besides, the delicious fatigue had left
little inclination for conversation.

They crossed the single trolley track that led from Penn Yan to
Branchport and walked slowly up the lawn.

“Is there any better sensation than honest weariness?” he asked.

“None in the world,” she agreed, although she mentally made note of
several better ones.

“Do you really feel like figures?” he asked temptingly.

“Not in the least,” she laughed, and noted his eager look towards the
little open summer-house before them.

“Let’s!” he suggested.

“All right,” she agreed.

There they lounged and looked down upon the Lake.

“Whose boat is that?” He pointed towards a “Class A” yacht tacking
across the Lake, evidently aiming for Phœbe’s dock. “I believe it is
Walter’s boat with the new sails!”

They watched it for some time. As it drew nearer they could make out
two figures, evidently Walter and Jawn. No doubt they had sailed up to
Penn Yan to get the new canvas. The _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ looked splendid in
her new suit and seemed almost self-conscious. The races would begin
next week, Jerry told him. They speculated on the chances of success,
and grew loyally confident of “their” boat.

Neither of them wished to talk about Walter. The subject brought up
uncomfortable memories. Several times she nerved herself to the point
of telling him the ruse she had employed to check Walter’s dangerous
suspicions, but each time she swerved off. Throbbing blood-vessels
warned her that she would not perform with her accustomed calm. She was
too tired, she told herself. After she had fully recovered from the
long swim, she assured herself, she would make the matter clear.

And several times he was on the point of letting her know that
he knew. She must be told soon; one could never be sure of Jawn’s
indelicate humour. But his old shyness would seize him at the critical
moment. So unwillingly their talk drifted to Mrs. Wells and the
accounts.

“Have you still your five dollars?” she asked.

“Yes,” he laughed and produced his wallet. “This is a fine place to
live; there’s no way to spend money. I think I’ll frame this bill as a
souvenir.”

“You had better let me give you enough to pay for a ticket to New
York----”

“Oh, I have no intention of going yet!” said he.

“We may all have to go sooner than any of us suspect,” she met his
gaiety with calm seriousness.

He waited for her to explain.

“If mother’s accounts are half-way right, I couldn’t stay in Yates
county,” she explained.

“Oh, they’re not so bad as you think,” he encouraged. “You just let me
get at them. I’m a crackerjack on accounts.”

She smiled. “I should think you would be!”

Her smile reassured him. If she knew the truth, he argued, she would
not be able to maintain that calm assurance, showing once more that
he did not know the Virginia strain. So he found speech to prove
what a financial wonder he was. “There are friends of mine in New
York,” he said, “who could make any account come out straight. There
are thousands of ways of fixing up money troubles. My friends are
past-masters in the art They have to be--that’s their business.”

“Can you stand a shock?” she asked quietly.

“If it is an interesting shock,” he answered.

“It is far from interesting,” she went on.... “We owe nearly eighty
thousand dollars. We haven’t even been paying the interest on our
loans, and it is more than our income; and our yearly expenses are
enormous. It looks to me as if the Wells family would have to quit.”

It was indeed a shock. And she had known this for days! That accounted
for her preoccupied air and the abrupt leaving of the luncheon table!
But what could account for her serene spirit? He asked her bluntly.

She replied with a question. “Isn’t it your own philosophy,” she asked,
“to take events as you find them?”

“Jerry,” he turned to her abruptly, “will you marry me?”

She moved her head away. Even the Virginia strain is susceptible to
some shocks!

“What a poet you are, Richard,” she said.

“This is business,” he pursued the subject vehemently. “Will you?”

“What a business man you are not!”

“Will you?”

He caught her shoulder and tried to turn her about so that she would
face him.

She remained rigid, remarking, “That’s my most sunburned shoulder, if
you don’t mind.”

“Look at me!” he commanded.

She moved about slowly and faced him. The smile on her face was almost
mournful. “It is still my most sunburned shoulder,” she repeated, but
did not flinch at his heavy grasp.

“Will you?”

“You are a funny boy,” she remarked quietly. It was less trouble to
look into his earnest face than she had thought. For a moment or two
she forgot his question and busied herself with exploring the lines
and furrows and wondering how this young man ever got so gnarled. Then
she remembered and answered him.

“I like your poetry very much,” she said. “Very much indeed. It is
so like you.... It almost makes me want to cry.... That’s because
I’m tired.... But, Richard dear, it is also very, very comic.” He
was staring at her with the fiercest of frowns. “Especially when you
wrinkle your forehead like that.... You are the most chivalrous man I
know. The Wells family are about to go into the mire, and you rush to
the rescue with,” the smile on her face grew tender, “with your little
Sir Walter Raleigh coat of a five-dollar bill. It is beautiful, Richard
dear, and poetic, and just like your generous self, but, alas, it would
not work.”

The summer-house was a most public affair. Either from the porch
of “Red Jacket” or from the road anyone could have observed every
movement. The publicity had its effect, no doubt, but that was not
his reason for inaction. The poise of the woman shook his resolution.
He did not know that inwardly she was shaken with agitation. In this
stage every inexperienced man is deceived. If he had taken her in his
arms boldly she would have gone without resistance, even the passing of
the Branchport trolley car might not have interfered; but, instead, he
talked earnestly of his turbulent desire; and she met him with the sex
defence of beautiful calmness.

Then instead of taking him seriously, she twitted him about his
individualism and about his philosophy of egoism.

“I’ve thrown that all overboard,” he insisted. “I’ve been waiting for
this moment all my life,” he cried enthusiastically. “You don’t know
how I have looked curiously at this woman and at that woman wondering
if I were normal like other men, and if here or there was the one who
would stir the fires in me. I see now what the trouble was; I was too
self-conscious. ‘Happiness to be got must be forgot,’ George Palmer
used to tell us. And it has come on when I wasn’t looking for it. But
I played the game square. I drifted on and had faith that this life is
planned by Intelligence. It’s no hit or miss. It’s as mapped out as a
liner’s chart.”

She was stirred by his vehemence and by the sudden note of seriousness
which she caught in his speech. If he had chivalrously offered to marry
her when she seemed helpless and dependent she would have had none of
it. But chivalry does not make a man’s voice shake or cause the tips of
his fingers to burn like hot coals as they touch one’s shoulder. She
turned eagerly to ask him--for she would make sure.

“When did you know this?”

“To-day at luncheon,” he drove on, “after you left. Walter said that
you had told him last night----”

“What!” She almost rose from her place beside him. “Did he----”

“Yes,” he went on clumsily, “he said that you had told him that you and
I had fixed things up and that----”

“Before the whole table?” she asked with deceiving coolness.

“Yes,” he said. “That is, to Jawn and me. Your mother----”

“Oh!” she interrupted quietly, but with no concealment of her
irony, “just to you and Jawn! That is some comfort. Jawn is such an
uncommunicative soul!”

“Oh, but don’t you see,” he tried to make it clear, “that’s how I found
out? I----”

“I presume he has written a limerick on the subject by this time,” she
laughed, but without mirth. “That’s how you found out? Found out what,
pray?”

She had moved several inches away deliberately and settled herself
against one of the corners. She seemed very self-possessed.

“Then I found out why I came here,” he persisted. “If Walter had not
spoken I might not have known. But that minute I knew. You seemed to be
talking to me through him. I was never so stirred in my life; the thing
shot through me like a galvanic shock. I went out into the gardens to
try and get rid of the thought. But it clung to me, followed me about,
danced in my brain and before my eyes all afternoon. And when I saw you
step out of that canoe--I knew.”

She lowered her head slightly and studied him for several uncomfortable
minutes. As the seconds ticked by and her comic smile did not disappear
his hopes oozed, and left him face to face with harsh reality.

“And so I made eyes at you, after all,” she remarked bitterly, although
the set smile did not leave her. She moved back further, threw her
feet up on the bench, clasped her knees and looked at him through
half-closed lids, as one might gaze at a likeable bad boy. “I made eyes
at you via Walter, did I? And you did not run away as you promised.”

He protested as a man might in such circumstances, but she continued to
gaze at him satirically until he was compelled to halt.

“I suppose my younger brother’s statements are all to be taken as
gospel,” she said.

“Well, of course----” he began.

She went on firmly. “He was so exquisitely truthful about the trunks at
Naples, and we’ve told you of other instances. Naturally he is to be
believed.”

“Then you didn’t say----”

“_Absolutely not!_” she cried.

After all, she was in a way telling the truth. She had not made an
intentional sentimental confession to Walter. She had told him what she
had believed to be a necessary invention, and learned only later that
it was in reality the truth.

Everything she had said to Walter had been done with the lightest of
motives; and this clumsy man before her was making her action shameful.
The thing he suggested, _that_ she had not said--absolutely not!

Tears glistened in her eyes, tears of vexation and anger. She rose and
started to go.

“Stop!” he cried and detained her by force. He would not have her go
that way. When she would not sit down he in turn grew angry. His eyes
shot fire and his speech was most unnaturally rough. If she could not
stand misunderstanding, neither could he! She had not heard his whole
story, but by the lord Harry, she should! And this time he made himself
clear.

“I believe you had told Walter exactly what he repeated to us, and when
you consider that the boy is a half-idiot----”

“Thank you,” she said, but he heeded her interruption not at all.

“--I could easily understand that you had some good reason for telling
him that or any other story that would come into your head. I did
not say I believed you meant it. Woman, do you think I’m a complete
fool? I thought perhaps you had lied to him, as I would do if it
were necessary; maybe he was violent, I thought, and you had to say
something to keep him quiet! The point is--this much I thought you
would have the wit to understand--the point is that the suggestion
overpowered me, made me conscious of what had been true from the
moment I followed you here, but what I did not know until that moment,
that--oh, well,” he tried to calm his violence, “what’s the use? You
either feel the same as I do, or you don’t; and nothing can force
you.... Only I’m sorry.... Sorry.”

“I really believe you were angry.”

“I still am.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Good Lord!”

“It is so interesting to discover that you can be insulted after all,
you who were so insult-proof.”

“I was never so hurt in my life.”

“Well,” she was very deliberate, “it is a good lesson for you. You’ll
have much more sympathy for sensitive folks hereafter.”

The turbulence subsided. It had been rather noisy for a moment or
two--both voices had risen--all of which made the ensuing silence
rather awkward. Jerry seemingly had remained serene throughout; but
the man was naturally shaken--he had exhibited quite a new variety of
Richard. But even he gradually got control of himself.

“Suppose,” he began the conversation. “Suppose I am able to fix up the
accounts,” he ventured; “will you let me have a try at it?”

“What would you do?” she asked. But before he could answer she said,
“I don’t want you to think that I am not terribly concerned about ‘Red
Jacket.’ I may not show it, but I feel those debts, especially the
money we owe to the----” she could not tell him that disgrace, but
he knew she was about to say “to the negroes”--“especially some of
the debts,” she corrected herself; “I feel the whole thing so keenly
that nothing else matters.... I am not likely to show a thing like
that.... There are many things I am not likely to show.... It’s pride,
I suppose; but we Virginians--oh, I’m a Virginian!--are proud of our
pride; it is the one possession we have been taught to hold to.... When
we sell out or borrow on that! well, we’re done for!... It is a great
wrench to tell you even this much, but you have misunderstood me more
than once----”

“Forgive me, Jerry,” he asked so sincerely that for a moment she hardly
dared go on.

“Let’s go home,” she spoke abruptly and rose.

At the porch he asked her again to let him help with the finances.

“Someone must do it,” she said; “it might as well be you. It’s like the
business of hiring an undertaker,” she smiled squarely at him, gamely,
“and you might as well get the job. I’ll turn the papers over to you
to-night, and the quicker you get at it the better. No,” she changed
her mind. “Don’t do anything until after the races next week. And don’t
be surprised, Richard dear,” she reverted to the phrase she had used at
the top of the hill back of Naples, “if you find me quite careless and
birdlike for the next few days. We own ‘Red Jacket’ until it is sold
out from under us. I’ll not let that sale begin in my mind until it
begins in fact.”

“Ah!” he joked, “don’t you be too sure that it will be sold at all!
Remember that I’m the financial manager now! I’m on the job, and don’t
you forget it!”

“Poet!” she tapped him ever so gently on the arm, “dear, good, kind,
blue-eyed, impractical poet!”

He followed her to the stairs and watched her go slowly up to her
room. At the turn in the landing she stopped and looked down upon him.
If he had been a bolder man he would have known that now at last she
was deliberately “making eyes at him,” but when she shook her head
with comic dolefulness and murmured, “Poet!” he saw only a beautiful
sympathy for an unrequited affection!




CHAPTER XXII

THE COUNCIL FIRE


MRS. WELLS’ “books” were not arranged to facilitate the work of an
auditor, but her correspondence was of considerable help. With the aid
of Jerry’s notes and the letters Richard was able to get his clues. At
occasional intervals Mitchell Lear’s brief notes would come along, each
such invariable good sense that Richard began to have a liking for the
man before he had seen him. Evidently Lear had been consulted before
each disastrous transaction, and his advice was always to refrain from
doing what events proved should have not been done. His terse opinions
were worded with almost humorous sameness: “As I advised you in our
talk on Wednesday, you will do well not to dispose of the orchards” or
“not to try out experiments in grape spraying,” and so on. Mr. Lear was
evidently a friend and a man of sound judgment; and in compensation
for his long failure to have his advice followed he was a good man to
consult now.

Mitchell Lear was engaged in bowing a client out of the office when
Richard appeared.

“It is the sort of case I never touch,” Mr. Lear was saying. There
was a note of firm indignation in his voice, which his nervous, eager
client seemed to miss.

“But your reputation at the bar would help us so----”

“My reputation at the bar is not for sale!” Mr. Lear interrupted
ominously. “I am busy. Good-day, sir.”

“But if you could only see your way----”

“Good-day, sir!”

Some of the indignation still lingered in Mr. Lear’s keen eyes as he
confronted Richard. The lawyer had the judicial rather than the legal
face, and at this moment it was that of the righteous judge in the act
of sentencing a deserving criminal.

“I am Mr. Richard,” he held out a hand.

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Lear took the hand firmly. “You are staying with
the Wells’ at ‘Red Jacket.’ There was a note of the fact in the local
papers,” he added by way of explanation. “Sit down. Excuse me if I
seemed ruffled. That little rat was just about to--well, we won’t talk
about it.”

His face remained stern as he looked expectantly towards Richard.

“You are Mrs. Wells’ lawyer, I believe,” Richard began.

The penetrating gaze of the lawyer was somewhat disconcerting; but at
Richard’s question the immovable features relaxed into the most genial
of smiles and the eyes broke into abrupt laughter.

“Not that I know it,” Mr. Lear chuckled. “I am simply her good friend.
As such I give advice free. She always comes to me when she wants help
in a bit of wrongdoing.”

The words seemed out of character with the man who had just dismissed
a client who, no doubt, had been suggesting a shady legal partnership;
but the face shone with delight in the paradoxical situation.

“When Mrs. Wells wishes to do something which she knows is quite
unwise,” Mr. Lear explained, “something which her conscience tells her
she should never do, she comes to me to get her will strengthened. She
knows beforehand that I will decide against her and give her advice
which she doesn’t want to take, but without opposition she is weak and
vacillating. I am the man she selects to arouse her combativeness. The
more clearly I prove the folly of her proposed undertaking the stronger
grows her resolution to undertake it. She usually comes into my office
in a mood of guilty indecision, but she always goes out righteously
obstinate and determined to do exactly the opposite of everything I
suggest.”

Richard knew that she would act exactly in that way, and he told Mr.
Lear so; he told him also of the change that had come over her and the
reason for it; and, as well, of Jerry’s assumption of command. Then he
sorted out the papers and the notes on the correspondence. There was a
name here and there of a note-holder, a generous note-holder it seemed,
who seemed to take the non-payment of interest as a sort of lark.

Mr. Lear knew him; he was a distant relative of the Wells’--Uncle John
they called him, although he was no uncle--and a man whose name should
be Great-heart. But Mr. Lear did not know of the shocking financial
state of “Red Jacket.” The smile left his face as he ran down the
summary which Richard had prepared. Uncle John was generous, but it was
not likely that he would be willing to underwrite so large a deficit,
especially as the present income from the estate showed no chance of
catching up with the expenses.

“She has too many negroes,” Mr. Lear pointed out. “They eat up all the
profits. She will not get rid of them; but, at least, she ought to
employ them properly.”

“How could she do that?” Richard asked.

“Buy back the orchards she sold Hoskins,” he answered promptly.
“Hoskins will sell, at a profit, of course. Then she should get
Holloday’s orchards and Fennill’s and go into the business on a big
scale. I shouldn’t advise more grape land, although I would most
strongly suggest letting George Alexander manage the sprays in his own
way; she interferes with absolutely original theories--all wrong, of
course--and she drags off his negroes to fool with her gardens.”

Richard was taking rapid notes.

“Will you get an option on Hoskins’ apples for us,” he looked up
eagerly, “and on Fennill’s and the other fellow’s, too?”

“I am no real-estate operator,” Mitchell Lear assumed his most judicial
expression.

How proud everyone was in Yates county, Richard thought; but he said
genially, “But as a friend----”

“Oh!” Lear laughed at the touch. “That is different. As a friend I
would get an option on the Lake-side cemetery!”

“Good!” cried Richard. “And can you get those notes from--Uncle John, I
believe you said; I mean if we raise the money?... As a friend!”

“As a friend,” Lear entered into the scheme, “I will try to get the
notes without the interest! Uncle John ought to be glad to get the
principal! But how are you going to find all that money?”

“May I use your telephone?” Richard asked politely, as if he merely
intended to talk to “Red Jacket.”

“That’s what it is for,” said Mr. Lear. He was engaged seriously in
checking off the accounts, but he raised his head in astonishment when
he heard Richard ask for the name of one of the best known banking
houses in New York city.

“I want Mr. Davis Clarkson,” Richard told the operator. “No; no one
else will do.... What? Oh! You can’t get them right away? When? In
about ten minutes.... Oh!... I am to do what? Hang what? Oh, yes; I
see. I am to hang up the receiver until you get Mr. Clarkson for me....
Yes.... I understand. Thank you very much--very much indeed.”

“I hope you don’t intend to hold a very long conversation with Mr.
Clarkson,” Mr. Lear remarked grimly. “I forget whether it is one dollar
or two dollars a minute to talk to New York. But I’m relieved to find
you didn’t open up Chicago or Denver!”

“Clarkson will pay,” Richard assured him. “Clarkson has heaps of money.”

“You are not very used to the long-distance telephone,” the lawyer
remarked shrewdly.

“No,” Richard admitted. “I have rarely talked on any telephone. No; I
don’t believe I ever tried before to talk over any great distance. How
did you know that?”

Mr. Lear laughed.

“Never mind,” he said. “You do it very daintily, and you talk to the
operator as if she were about to do you a personal favour. There goes
the bell. That means you, I judge. Politeness pays; you’ve opened up
New York city in record time.”

“Is that you, Dave?” Richard applied himself eagerly.... “Sure it is!
The very same! I’ve been at Penn Yan, New York. Put it down. Yes. Red
Jacket, Penn Yan. Can you take a vacation and come up?... Well, listen
and you’ll change your mind, for I’ve changed mine.... Yes.... That’s
it. I’ve come over, just as you said I would; and now I want money....
About a hundred and fifty thousand.... Can’t you bring it along with
you?... Very well; any way you choose. I’m buying vineyards and apple
orchards up here.... Yes; great spec.... Millions in it.... And wait!”
He glanced at his notes. “Look up Noble, French and Company, and buy
the mortgage to ‘Red Jacket.’... Mrs. Emma Wells.... Yates county....
Well, that will do, only I’d much rather have you by me to see that
everything is O.K.... Wait.... Make that cheque out to Mitchell
Lear.... Certified? Oh, all right, if that’s the proper way to do
it.... No; I’d prefer to have it made out to Mitchell Lear.” He spelled
the name carefully. “He’ll give me what I want. Yes, Mitchell Lear,
Penn Yan, New York.... Yes, a hundred and fifty thousand will be quite
enough, thank you, Dave.... Good-bye, old Dave!”

Richard turned quietly to the astonished lawyer. “Did you catch the
conversation with Clarkson? He’s going to send you a cheque, certified
cheque, for $150,000. I don’t want to be known in this, so I’ll draw
on you when I want funds. You see we just have to fix up the Wells’
business, and what’s the use of having money if you can’t have some fun
with it! I bet you are enjoying the prospect almost as much as I am.
But we’ve got to do this with great cunning and delicacy; you know how
proud everybody is in these parts!”

Lear was not only struck in a heap by the nonchalant attitude of
the young man towards this rather large sum of money, but he was
correspondingly elevated at the splendid trust imposed in him. It was
startling to have a stranger exhibit such faith. Further evidence of
that stranger’s faith was forthcoming. Mr. Richard Richard laid off
his incognito and he made clear his desires in settling up the troubles
of the Wells estate; all of which Mr. Mitchell Lear was to perform
as legal adviser, real-estate operator and friend, but shrouded, of
course, in deepest secrecy.

“Will you conspire with me?” Richard asked.

“Will I?” echoed Mitchell Lear. “You won’t find a more willing
conspirator in twenty counties.”

“Remember,” Richard told him, “this is strictly business. You are to
get your proper fees and all that sort of thing.”

“Young man,” the elder man rose and fastened him with his steel-grey
eyes. “Young man, go to the devil!”

“But at least the telephone call----”

“Young man,” Mitchell Lear grew eloquent, “_go to the devil_!”

“Well,” said Richard as he wrung his hand in parting, “I’ll get even.”

The young man went down Main Street with a springy step. His life had
suddenly flopped over, like a turtle, as he had said, and he was as
eager to follow up the new experience as the said turtle to try out
his unused legs. Sam Fybush’s neat tailoring establishment caught his
eye; he went in and had himself measured for clothes, giving Mitchell
Lear’s name as reference; and he walked in Hopkin’s jewellery store and
began buying an assortment of rings, but stopped when he realized that
his funds would not arrive for a day or two. He never before had such
a flurry to spend; he was like a child with birthday money. “Lord!” he
thought, “I’d be dangerous to let loose in Tiffany’s just now!”

To Richard Richard there was nothing inconsistent in his sudden
consuming desire to take up his inheritance. So long as one was
honest with his desires nothing could be inconsistent to this young
man. One might as well be disturbed over an eclipse of the moon. The
law of his individual life was operating without flaw, he assured
himself; and he was glad that he had never tried to impose artificially
upon the perfect mechanism. Yesterday he was a communist; to-day he
was a champion of property. Very well; and to-morrow he might be a
Buddhist--it was all in the hands of the gods.

For that reason, perhaps, or for reasons deeper than he knew, he felt
only the slightest undercurrent of disappointment over his failure in
the conquest of Jerry. It would come out all right, was the burden of
his faith. He would wait and try, in this as in other high matters, to
accept cheerfully the predestined course of things.

The week slipped by more smoothly than either Richard or Jerry had
expected. Richard was busy with his new interest, the financial
rehabilitation of “Red Jacket,” and Jerry threw herself into the
arrangement of a lawn dinner-party which should signalize, as she
thought, her farewell to Jerusalem township. With characteristic
singleness of mind she could launch all the preparations without a
thought as to what she should do after the curtain had been rung down.
In many respects she was true to the traditions of her family: they had
always lived in the immediate present. It is interesting to note that
difference between Massachusetts and Virginia, even more noticeable if
one contrasts Maine and Georgia: the North has looked ever towards the
future, while the South has lived. The one has grown thrifty and has
paid the penalty of prosperity, while the other has paid many times
over the penalty of unpreparedness.

Mitchell Lear was Northern in his sense of future values. He had a
long head, as we say, meaning that he did not deceive himself as to
the eventual outcome of things; and, as well, that he knew the game of
bargaining. Hoskins sold eagerly; he had bought the Wells’ apple land
because it was offered at a low figure; his main object was to sell
at a profit. Fennill and Holloday sold because they were in need of
cash, and because they had no knowledge of the real value of orchards
properly cared for. To this lot was added a valuable tract of young
trees not yet bearing which a wealthy summer visitor had started in the
frenzy of a sudden interest and which he had grown tired of with equal
suddenness.

On the day before the first yacht race--it took three wins to achieve
the Lake cup--Richard sought Jerry out to present her with a summary of
operations.

He explained that a friend of his in New York, Davis Clarkson, had
bought in the mortgage and the notes and was willing to give unlimited
time. In addition his friend had lent money for the purchase of apple
lands in order that the estate might employ all the negroes and offer
some chance for a return. These lands were held in Clarkson’s name and
not charged against the estate at all--not very business-like, but
friendship will do wonders at times. Richard was not so clear in his
explanations, but his summary was understandable.

  DEBTS

  Mortgages, Notes and other debts      $86,000
  New apple lands                        15,000
                                               --------
    Total Indebtedness                         $101,000

  INCOME

  Grapes (with G. A. in charge)          $8,000
  Apples--
    Hoskins’ tract                        6,000
    Fennill & Holloday                   10,000
    New orchards (in 2 yrs.)              4,000
                                               --------
    Total Income                                $28,000

  ANNUAL PAYMENTS

  Interest                               $5,050
  Wages, Taxes and up-keep of “Red
      Jacket”                            10,000
  Sinking Fund (running 20 yrs.)          5,000
                                               --------
    Total                                       $20,050

  SUMMARY

  Total Income                          $28,000
  Annual out-go                          20,050
                                               --------
    Yearly Balance                               $7,950

“The sinking fund, you see,” he explained, “will pay off the whole
indebtedness in much less than twenty years, because every year the
interest will grow less. And we have nearly $8,000 a year above all
expenses--to provide for accidents and pin-money! Mitchell Lear says
that George Alexander and young Bolivar should be given four times
their present wages and put absolutely in charge of the orchards and
the grapes. Those two men know fruit by instinct, but even at that you
ought to be willing to pay out about two thousand a year for expert
advice on soils and spray mixture. We’re calculating, you see, on
getting every cent out of those lands.”

Jerry studied the report for a long time. She was searching for
some act of charity, the tiniest morsel of which would have meant
repudiation of the whole scheme.

“That means,” she spoke at last, “that we keep ‘Red Jacket,’ and make
the attempt to pay off the debt against it?”

“Exactly.”

“I thought of that many times,” she remarked quietly, as if she were
trying to hold back some pent-up emotion, “but the best figures I could
make showed income always less than out-go. And I could not dismiss the
negroes, not ... not after ... not after I had seen what we....”

She could not put it into words. There are some things which the spirit
rebels against saying aloud.

“But the new orchard lands!” Richard broke in. “They do the trick.
Everything depends upon getting use out of the labour you have.”

“Wait.” She pondered over the figures before her, seeking some sign of
philanthropy.

“What does your friend Clarkson get out of it?” she asked.

“He’s a banker; don’t you see? He is protected by interest on loans.
And he holds the mortgage and the title to the new lands. Oh, it’s
absolutely business, every bit of it.”

So it seemed, but she was still suspicious.

“You give only $15,000 for land which almost pays for itself in one
year. How can that be done?” she asked.

“You’ve struck the one flaw in the statement,” he laughed. “I’ve just
put things in round figures and, of course, everything is not there.
It will take several years to get the full income out of that land,
but when it does come it will be greater even than the figure we
give--that figure is just an average over a number of years. Oh! I know
my lesson well; Mitchell Lear is a fine teacher!”

She was not satisfied.

“Why, then,” she asked, “doesn’t this Clarkson man work the land
himself and not let us have all this profit? It looks to me like a
gift.”

“It is,” said Richard.

“What!” she bristled.

“It is an outright gift of Mitchell Lear’s wise brain. You might ask
why Lear doesn’t take the thing up as a personal speculation. The
reason is that he is a lawyer by natural selection. He is a genius at
making money, too; he told me a dozen ways to turn over cash right in
this neighbourhood, but he’s a lawyer first, last and all the time. Or
you might ask why Fennill and Holloday and Hoskins don’t go into the
apple business properly. The answer is simple, they couldn’t if they
wanted to; they haven’t the brains, Lear says. He says that some of
those fellows haven’t brains enough to raise dandelions! No; you’ve got
to take off your hat to Mitchell Lear. He’s as loyal to this family as
George Alexander.”

“I would not accept a cent as a gift,” said Jerry firmly, “but I would
take much in the name of loyalty.”

To cover any possible misunderstanding of her last remark she asked
quickly, “Suppose the income does not reach your expectations?”

“It’s a risk,” he admitted, “like all living. But I am trusting
Mitchell Lear on those figures. He knows what is being done by careful
grape and apple farmers hereabouts--the most scientific fellows--and
he knows what ‘Red Jacket’ used to get before the spray experiment
began, and he claims that he has made no over-statements. The biggest
asset ‘Red Jacket’ has, he says, is its loyal labour, and the fortunate
possession among the negroes of a half-dozen men like George Alexander
and Bolivar, who have an uncanny knowledge of all this new tree and
vine lore; and a still more uncanny knowledge of how to make those
negroes work! It looks to me like good business,” he examined the sheet
proudly; “and you haven’t said a word about my magnificent financial
engineering.”

She reached forward and patted him on the arm.

“It is magnificent!” she said. “Wonderful! I thought you were an
impractical dreamer, and here you present me with a magician’s wand....
I did not realize--no, I really did not--what ‘Red Jacket’ meant to
me.... And it is fortunate that I didn’t. I felt so cold and ...
benumbed, because of the whole ugly business that I believe I should
have walked out of that door and down the path without a tear, without
even once looking back at old ‘Tshoti’ and ‘Da’ and ‘Waga.’... You are
a very wonderful, practical man, Richard-my-dear, but ... I liked you
just as well as poet.”

“Aye,” he said, “there’s the rub. ‘Just as well!’ Do you remember
Mark Twain’s statement that he could speak seven languages ‘equally
well’?... But, forgive me. I am not going to bother you again.”

She looked straight at him, her head bent slightly and her eyes
glancing up through half-closed lids. It was a mask of a face she
presented, absolutely poised, with all expression removed save a
flirting gleam about the eyes and the faintest suggestion of a smile on
the lips. The steady gaze was too much for him; somehow it shamed him
and made the blood slowly rise to his face. His ear-tips had begun to
burn when he arose abruptly and asked:

“Will you do me a favour for all my hard work?”

It would depend; she was also business-like and did not make impossible
promises. But he did not want much; he asked merely for the key to
“Grandfather’s Room” where the relics of Chief Red Jacket were kept.

She would do more than give him the key; she would personally conduct
him.

“But it must be done with ancient ceremonies,” she detained him a
moment at the door. “Wait here until I give you the sign. Enter not,”
she raised her hand in mock seriousness, “enter not, paleface, until
you are summoned to the council!”

She went off, presumably for the key, while he waited before the
door of “Grandfather’s Room.” Many minutes slipped by but he was not
conscious of them; his mind was elsewhere. Suddenly the door opened
from within and an Indian maiden stood before him.

“Welcome, paleface,” she said.

The paleface took one step within the big room, and looked about
him with the keenest curiosity. He was gazing on an Indian village.
There were wigwams, birch cabins, totem poles, and a score of Indian
figures carved rudely out of wood. The latter were posed about in
characteristic attitudes: making arrows, grinding corn on rounded
stones, pounding at skins. There were squaws carrying babies and, far
off among the rushes, a set of warriors in full regalia were sweeping
forward in a war canoe. In the centre of the room the sachems squatted
about a council fire.

She took him from group to group, showed him the beads, the belts,
wampum; the hides, the arrows and the primitive knives and weapons, the
pottery and a-hundred-and-one other things. About the wall were scores
of documents, framed evidently in more modern times and protected by
glass. These were descriptions in Great-grandfather Wells’ hand--he
had the spirit of an antiquary--descriptions of this and that native
occupation, but, more important, many transcripts at first hand of the
sayings of the famous Seneca orator, “Red Jacket.”

“Jove!” Richard cried. “This is more important than grapes and apples!”

He did not specify what exactly was more important than grapes and
apples, but she knew that he meant “Red Jacket” and its treasures made
by generations of right living. Here were memories and traditions that
could not be bought in the market, nor could they be moved about or
transplanted. Deep family roots were here, and he knew that some of the
fine flower of that family would fade and wither were it forced to seek
other ground.

“Of course it is,” she replied in thorough understanding.

“And I’m more glad than ever that I bought up ‘Red Jacket’ for you. You
couldn’t have walked out, woman, and left all this!”

He waved his hand about excitedly.

She caught only the latter part of his speech.

“I know I couldn’t,” she replied.

“Wasn’t it wonderful,” he turned to her, “that just at this moment in
your life the Great Spirit should have sent me to you?”

“I believe He sent you,” she told him gravely.

Her low tone thrilled him. He bent over eagerly.

“Thank God I have money!” he half whispered. “Millions of it! Millions
of it to spend on you! To buy you a thousand Big Houses, if you want
them. You knew all along, didn’t you?”

He reached out a nervous hand and lightly touched her.

“Knew what?”

She asked the question, but she was conscious only of the electric
nearness of the man.

“Hasn’t Walter told you? He had my card. I thought he had told.
When----”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “But you are not----”

“I am,” he smiled grimly. “Does it make me less repulsive?”

“But that name! It--it can’t he. He is----”

“My father is dead, yes. We had the same name.” In rapid sentences he
sketched his history. As he talked she moved a step away from him and
stood rigid.

“And you bought up ‘Red Jacket’ and presented it to me?” she asked, her
face aflame.

He nodded, totally unprepared for the outburst that followed.

“Oh, how could you? How could you?” she cried. “I can’t take it!” She
stamped her foot. With every energetic protestation the three royal
plumes in her head-dress quivered in sympathetic response. “I _won’t_
take it!” Her anger grew. “Why did you keep this from me? Why didn’t
you tell me before who you were?” In bitter speeches she upbraided him
for his calm, smiling, superior secrecy.

He tried to explain that the secrecy was largely her own doing, but she
would not have it that way. He had been playing with her, having his
premeditated joke and then in the end had offered--_alms_! Very well!
Very well! Tears were raining down her cheek, her speech was almost
hysteric. Very well! She would leave as she had planned; but not until
she got good and ready. “Red Jacket” was her home until she left it for
good. “Oh! Richard Richard!” she exclaimed bitterly as she brushed past
him, “this was a low trick to play on me!”

The door was slammed in his face or he might have followed her; and as
it locked of itself in some mysterious manner he was compelled to tread
his way back among the silent Indians and through a series of adjacent
rooms to the main hall.

Once more an Indian council fire had broken up in a declaration of war!




CHAPTER XXIII

THE RACE


BY the day of the first boat race Professor Jawn Galloway had
become a perfect tender of “stays,” and an enthusiastic champion of
_Sago-ye-wat-ha_ against the world. Richard was mustered in as the
other “stay tender,” and the Wheelen boy volunteered for jib and
spinnaker. There was no questioning, of course, of Walter’s position;
the captain is always the helmsman and in complete charge of the yacht.

During the morning the crew tried out their various “tricks” and at
noon dropped anchor before Alley’s Inn, which since the days of the
old Keuka Yacht Club had been the starting point of the Lake races.
The distance was approximately twelve miles, three times around a
triangular course, beginning at Alley’s Inn, thence across the Lake to
Willow Grove and up to the North Buoy and back.

At noon the wind dropped to a light breeze which faded into nothingness
by one o’clock. At two, however, the Lake was white with racing “caps.”
A characteristic sudden southwester had sprung out of the hills and was
sweeping up the Lake. In the cove before Alley’s Inn the boats were
securely sheltered, but once beyond the little headlands the fragile
yachts felt the full sweep of the gale and bent over perilously and
tugged at their side stays.

Automobiles were parking on the lawn, the trolley line was running
extra cars, and motor-boats were chugging over from every part of the
Lake. There was great curiosity to see the trial of the new yacht, but
greater to see the erratic Walter Wells in the rôle of skipper. Alley’s
Inn was doing a big business. Luncheon tables overflowed to the wide
porches and even on to the lawn.

Richard looked about him for Geraldine. He did not see her; but Phœbe
was in evidence. Phœbe was at a table with Mrs. Wells and Walter.
The boy was eating little, but he was obviously pleased at Phœbe’s
solicitous attention. She fluttered over him like a young hen, if a
young hen could ever be gay, witty and encouraging, and could “burble”
effervescently. After all, thought Richard, Walter was her “case.” It
was she who had suggested yachting; she had even named the boat. She
was the only one with any practical influence over the boy.

Evidently Jerry did not intend to lunch at Alley’s Inn. She had not
appeared at breakfast. Sukie said she had gone off dressed in a walking
gown--a short-skirted grey corduroy. Sukie said she went off just
before sunrise and that she had taken “Count” with her.

Her reaction in “Grandfather’s Room” had been exactly opposite of
Richard’s expectation. Her main anger, it seems, had been over the
secrecy which she herself had originated, and which circumstances had
prolonged. She had been a willing enough conspirator there, but, it
appears, the conspirator had been conspired against. She believed that
she was in the secret all along, and it turned out in the end that she
had been completely out of it. The startling conclusion--rich man
coming so pat to rescue the bankrupt heiress!--had been too much of a
surprise; indeed, it seemed almost in the nature of a carefully-planned
joke at her expense. That, no doubt, was part of the cause for her
outburst, he reasoned.

Another cause, perhaps, was her pride in possession; she loved
independence and hated dependence. How Virginia has always hated a
tyrant! Her code would not permit her to be under permanent obligations
to anyone. There must always be a chance to pay back, to make equal
return; and what chance was here?--a bankrupt estate against millions.

There was another cause which Richard did not get--many others, indeed,
but chief among them was the fact that Richard helpless and dependent
upon her was a satisfactory situation, but Richard independent could
fare his way whenever the so-called “spirit” should move him. His
new rôle would make Jerry relatively the beggar-maid and Richard the
opulent distributor of largess. She could not stand that. It was
abhorrent. All her training was against succumbing to superiority.

Upon one phase of the case Richard knew his ground. He had noted
the change in her the moment they had crossed the threshold of “Red
Jacket.” On board the steamer she had been a lively, intelligent,
well-bred American, not to be distinguished from others of that
delightful group; but the transfer to her own lands transformed her. In
Europe she was one of many; at “Red Jacket” she was Somebody.

One time on the way home Mrs. Wells had confided to Richard that she
would be glad to get home. “Europe is always wonderful, but I could not
live there,” she said. Richard confessed that he could live anywhere.
But she shook her head, “In Europe I am one of a crowd; in Jerusalem
township I am a Person with a capital P. There we have been the big
family, for ever, it seems; and we have come to act and react like
Persons. Out of Jerusalem township I always feel like a king without a
country.”

The big house and the grounds and the servants were necessary
background to bring out Geraldine Wells. And she fitted into them
naturally, not like someone presuming to be a Person, but as one
manor-born.

While Richard cogitated these weighty personal matters he was standing
on the high embankment overlooking the Lake and seemed to be watching
Fagner as he manœuvred the _Moodiks_ in the growing gale. Here Jawn
joined him.

“Whoop-la!” Jawn cried. The _Moodiks_ had flapped over suddenly. “She
almost went over that time! It’s a life-preserver I’ll be needing if
this blow keeps up. What’s that? Thunder? Shiver-me-timbers, but it
looks squally over to the sou’ by sou’-sou’-sou’-west. Excuse me for
the technical language, old hoss.”

“Is ‘old hoss’ technical?” Richard inquired without turning around.

“No, you jackass,” Jawn replied serenely. “I was referring to the
nautical language. With white pants on I feel ridiculously nautical.
Have you seen my white hat?”

“No.”

“Well then, have you seen your own white hat?”

“Have I a white hat?”

“How in the blazes do you suppose you can tend ‘stays’ in a real yacht
race for a silver cup unless you wear a white hat? You might as well
seek an audience at Buckingham Palace in overalls and blickey; or
play tennis in a dress-suit; or football in pyjamas; or--you’re not
listening at all.”

“Eh?” Richard came out of his reverie. “Oh! So I have a hat, have I?”

Jawn sighed disconsolately.

“What’s the use of the gift of speech,” he groaned, “if nobody has the
gift of listening to it?”

“Go on, Jawn,” Richard turned pleasantly. “I’m listening. But I
couldn’t get my attention away from the _Moodiks_. Fagner’ll have to
take a reef in, don’t you think? I don’t believe he’ll go over, but
he’ll waste so much time coming up into the wind; and that breeze is
mighty gusty to-day.”

“What do I care what happens to him?” Jawn asked. “The more time he
takes the better we’ll like it. We’re going to win.”

“How do you know?”

“Well,” said Jawn, “I’ve timed the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ and she gets over
ground better than the best records they have here. We did the whole
course the other day in sixteen seconds less than the old _Tecumseh_,
which holds the record. And besides I spent my good money on white
sailor hats with blue bands on ’em. Wait till you see the blue bands
with ‘_Sago-ye-wat-ha_’ printed in gold! Yum! We’ll look like regulars
off a battleship. Walter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when I
presented him with his.”

Richard began to show interest.

“The boy has changed wonderfully, don’t you think?”

Jawn dropped his bantering tone. Into his face came the serious gleam
of the specialist; his holiday carelessness disappeared.

“You’re quite right,” he said. “The boy’s got stuff in him. We’ve been
chumming around a bit this past week. I thought he was a plain ‘moron,’
at first--not an idiot, but slightly off the normal, you know--but I’ve
changed completely on that. I’ve been giving him all sorts of tests on
the quiet. You were absolutely right in your first diagnosis. Drink is
not his ‘primary,’ it’s this yacht business. In some ways he’s a fool,
but not on board the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_! That’s _his_, his very own. It’s
the first sensation of genuine ownership he’s ever had, and it fills
him so full of pride and self-glorification that his small brain hasn’t
room for anything else. The only thing I fear is that he won’t be able
to stand a loss to-day. I’ve tried to prepare him for it, but he won’t
think of losing. I’m afraid we’ve got to win this race, if we have to
make a short cut across one of the buoys and trust that the judges
aren’t looking.”

Tyler, the skipper of the _Cohlosa_, came up at this juncture. The men
had met before.

“My friend, the enemy!” cried Jawn, shaking hands vigorously. “Old
_Sago-ye-wat-ha_ is after your scalp to-day, Tyler. The _Cohlosa_ had
better hold on tight to her hair-ribbons and stand ready to yell police
any minute.”

“The _Cohlosa_ is easily frightened,” said Tyler genially. “We have run
away from a number of fierce boats.”

Phœbe saw the men together and slipped over to them. Walter had gone on
board the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_.

“Don’t quarrel, now,” she said. “Try to keep your tempers, men. I
know how you feel, but hide it. Pretend at least to be friends. I’m
shakin’ hands with you, Mr. Tyler, but I’m countin’ my beads for
_Sago-ye-wat-ha_ and rainin’ my last curses on the _Cohlosa_, bad cess
to it!”

“Well, I’m sorry,” smiled Tyler; “for they say that the prayer of the
righteous availeth much.”

“Now don’t talk that way!” she protested. “I must keep all the fires of
hatred goin’, an’ how can I hate you properly, man, when you blarney me
so beautifully? I never was the one to stand out against a man who’d
flattered me. Well, I hope you come in second, then, Mr. Tyler, but
don’t tell me any more pretty lies or I’ll be wishin’ it a tie race.
An’ now, as man to woman, Mr. Tyler, give us a tip. Do you think we
have a chance? An’ is there any little thing you can suggest to help us
beat you?”

“Votes for women!” cried Jawn. “Wait till they carry on a Presidential
campaign, boys. We’ll all be confessing to bribery and ballot-stuffing
weeks before we start to do the crooked work. Own up, Tyler, that
you’ve got a gasolene engine concealed under the rudder. Or perhaps
you’ll oblige a lady by boring a few auger holes in the bottom.”

“Jawn Galloway!” Phœbe turned on him. “How can you have the nerve to go
on talkin’ an’ in the same breath refer to _anything_ bein’ bored?”

Jawn surrendered and let Phœbe have the floor. Her bantering request to
Tyler had a serious object back of it. This race was something more, as
she well knew, than a test of skill; it was the test of a man. Walter’s
fate was more or less in the balance, and she wished to allay her
painful anxiety by some encouraging word. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have
given a bundle of fiddle-strings to be the winner of a dozen Lake cups;
but this race was not an ordinary race.

Somehow Tyler, a fine, sensitive man--sportsman every inch of
him--caught the undercurrent of seriousness back of the laughing face.

“Fagner is always dangerous in a race,” he said, “but this time we
both have our eye on Walter. He’s a fine, natural sailor, the best
‘passenger’ I ever had. He knows what I’m going to do before I do it
and is ready to follow up the order without wasting valuable seconds.
He has a splendid knowledge of local wind currents--almost unnatural.
I’ve often asked his advice when I’ve been in a pinch. The only
question is, has he the control to stand the strain of a long race? I’d
like to see the boy win, Mrs. Norris----”

“You’re a good lad!” Mrs. Norris broke in nervously. “Go on; tell me
some more. It’ll keep me from faintin’ away. You’re good as a drink,
Mr. Tyler.”

“I’d like to see him win,” Tyler continued, “though, of course, I’m
going to make him work. There’s nothing more merciless in these parts
than the yacht races, you know.”

“Sure, we’re not askin’ for any gifts,” chirped Phœbe, “but I thank you
for the encouragin’ word, just the same, Mr. Tyler.”

It was close to three o’clock, the starting time, and Walter, with
the help of Wheelen, was hoisting the mainsail. This was hint enough
for Jawn and Richard to get on board. One searching glance around the
grounds before Richard stepped from the dock into the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_
gave no sign of Geraldine. As he took his place at the port-stays and
coiled his ropes he wondered if she would come down, or if she were
still marching away across the hills with “Count.” Discouragement
seized him, a rare mood of this optimistic man, and for several dismal
minutes he lost his faith in “the gods” who held all things in their
capacious laps.

When the “get ready” gun sounded the wind was half a gale and pointing
almost directly up the Lake. The judges were questioning the wisdom
of starting, but evidently decided to take a chance, for in a moment
or two the starting gun went off and the _Pluma_, a small boat with
a three-minute handicap, crossed the line, and the race was on. The
_Aurora_ followed a half-minute later and then came the anxious
wait of two minutes while the _Cohlosa_ and the _Moodiks_ jockeyed
along the edge of the starting line, each eager to get into the best
position when their signal-gun should set them free. The _Cohlosa_
and the _Moodiks_ were boats of the same sail area, so their handicap
was identical. _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ carried a slightly larger mainsail,
a matter of inches only, but it forced her to take the “scratch”
position, a half-minute back of her two “Class A” rivals.

Both the _Cohlosa_ and the _Moodiks_ had taken the precaution of a
single reef. Walter had not shown his hand until close to the starting
minute. His mainsail was only half hoisted. But the moment the two
“Class A” yachts nosed across the line--Fagner, as usual, getting the
best position--he raised the sail and disclosed three reefs. It was a
type of caution that the yachtsmen on shore did not expect of Walter
Wells.

“Afraid of trouble?” Richard asked.

“No,” said Walter. “Want speed. Can’t get speed when she’s half on
keel.”

So many exciting things were happening at once that hardly anyone
noticed the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ as she struck the line with the gun. The
_Pluma_ had dropped her sail and her men were busy trying to keep it
from ripping away. The _Aurora_ had come right about into the wind. Her
men were bailing like good fellows. Fagner and Tyler were beating over
to the Willow Grove buoy bent nearly level with the water.

The _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ stood up well and with her three reefs was able
to steer a straight course. At Willow Grove the three boats seemed to
be entangled. The judges were on tiptoe, glasses to face, watching for
possible fouls, but no one was ready to see the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ move
sedately around the buoy and fly off before the wind in the lead. In
the first leg she had made up her half-minute handicap!

The strength of the wind was made instantly clear to the spectators on
shore. By the recorded time Walter had nosed around the first buoy just
six seconds ahead of Fagner, but while those six seconds were being
ticked off he was speeding up the Lake with the gale behind him. As
they all broke out in a line for the two-mile run north the gap between
the first two boats seemed leagues.

Walter did not risk his spinnaker--any extra sail was perilous in
that gale--but first Fagner and then Tyler flung their great balloon
jibs out with the daring of veterans. It was a beautiful sight, that
two-mile run; every inch of the race was in full view of the group
on shore, although it took glasses to distinguish the yachts as they
huddled together near the North Buoy.

Up to within a quarter of a mile of the North Buoy the yachts had
maintained their distances, _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ first, Fagner a hundred
yards astern and Tyler a few feet in the rear. The _Pluma_ and the
_Aurora_ had swamped and were towed ashore by ready motor-boats.

But within a quarter of a mile of the North Buoy the wind suddenly
slackened. Then the spinnakers told. In the swift changes that occur
in yacht races of this sort the positions seemed instantly to change.
Again the three boats massed at the buoy, but this time the _Cohlosa_
came about first, followed by the _Moodiks_. The _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ was
last.

Anyone can sail before the wind. The test of seamanship is in the
cleverness of the tacking, and that test was now on. Tyler shot off
to the east and, as everyone knew, Fagner did the opposite. Fagner’s
theory seemed to be that if you get an advantage of a slant of the wind
it is better to have the other fellow in some other part of the Lake.
Walter followed Tyler, but broke his tack early; so the three boats
were soon in widely scattered portions of the Lake. As they crossed and
recrossed each other’s paths it was impossible to tell which was in the
lead. The long beat down the Lake was therefore tremendously exciting
to the partisans on shore, each group seeing its own the victor.

Characteristic of winds in this hilly country the breeze, still
moderately stiff but no longer the fierce gale of the beginning,
shifted to the southeast. Each skipper was thoroughly aware of the
change, of course, but none, perhaps, were so mindful of the advantages
of changing the original plans as Walter. In the middle of the Lake
he suddenly let out his reefs and came about. He was now pointing
almost directly to the cove at Electric Park just above Alley’s Inn;
and into this cove he slid until he was lost to the group on the high
ground at the starting point. Fagner and Tyler were beating down to the
starting buoy from the east, but it was soon obvious that each would
have to take one more tack, although they “pointed” courageously; but
as they put about reluctantly for one more try, the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_
nosed along the shore and shot past Alley’s Inn, crossed the starting
line and swung out for a long tack to Willow Grove. Walter had been
pointing straight into the southeast wind, seemingly an impossible
feat. According to all the rules his mainsail and jib should have been
flapping uselessly, but, instead, they had been comfortably filled. A
back-current from the western hills had carried him forward.

It was three minutes before Fagner crossed the line and a minute more
before Tyler finished the first leg. By that time Walter had rounded
the Willow Grove buoy and was scudding up the Lake with the southeaster
back of him. It was then that he flung out his spinnaker.

To the surprise of everyone he did not aim directly for the North Buoy,
but crowded far to the east. In an uncanny way he had guessed that the
freakish wind would soon shift to the east and then to the northeast.
And so it did. He crossed the Lake with the wind still at his back and
came about the North Buoy in time to get the new shift to northeast.
His spinnaker was still ballooning beautifully as he came down to
finish the second leg, while Fagner and Tyler were beating up in long
tacks.

The wind had blown him up the Lake and obligingly had turned around to
blow him down again. And while he had gone north in a straight line his
competitors for the cup had been compelled to zigzag across the Lake,
five times his distance.

Luck had been with Walter, of course, but at the same time he had been
knowing enough to take advantage of his special knowledge of the ways
of the wind. In his present position nothing short of a calm could have
taken the race from him, and the northeaster that began to blow--it
was the old storm, which had by this time veered to an opposite
quarter--gave no signs of letting up.

The end came rapidly. When Walter crossed the finish line a winner
of the first of the three races for the cup, the _Moodiks_ and the
_Cohlosa_ had not yet reached the North Buoy on the final leg.

It was as the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ passed Alley’s Inn a winner and sped on
down the Lake towards Bluff Point and “home” that Richard caught sight
of “Count” stretched out on the lawn and saw beside him a figure in
grey standing silhouetted against the trees; then he knew that Jerry
had been present to see at least the glorious finish. She had a pair of
field-glasses to her eyes, and as he became conscious of the fact that
she was following the fast retreating yacht his ears burned and the
blood flushed his neck and forehead. It was fortunate at that moment
that the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ had no urgent need of her “stay” tender!

Walter bore his victory very grimly. He smiled faintly towards the
shore as the horns tooted and the motor whistles blew and he listened
attentively to the chorus of exciting congratulations from his crew and
from the crowd on the end of the dock and from unknown persons scooting
by in motor-boats, but he said nothing. His eye was on Bluff Point and
his mind seemed to be busy calculating if this sweeping northeaster
would last long enough to carry him home.

The other members of the crew would have preferred to stay and bask in
the victory. It would be pleasant to anchor off the Inn and watch the
veterans, _Moodiks_ and _Cohlosa_, fight it out for second place. But
Walter said “No,” and no one pressed him. The victory was his entirely,
they realized, and in this happy hour the captain’s wishes would be
their law.

On his way home Richard spent his time watching the boy’s face. In the
past month Walter seemed to have grown several steps nearer to manhood;
certainly as he held the tiller snug under his left arm and trimmed the
mainsheet with his right hand he looked miles removed from the helpless
creature of the S.S. _Victoria_. The “cure” had made great progress;
so great, indeed, that Richard was quite puffed up with pride of this
secret victory of his which outclassed the winning of a mere yacht race.

He wished to hear him talk, to see how he carried himself in
this unique experience of having done something worthy of public
commendation.

“If that wind-pocket is always off shore when a southeaster blows,” he
began, “how is it that the other skippers don’t know of it?”

“’Tain’t always there,” said Walter; but he did not grin sheepishly, as
he might have done several weeks ago.

“Oh!... Weren’t you sure it was there to-day?”

“No, not sure; jes’ took a chance. Things looked right.”

“Suppose you had missed your guess?”

“We’d ’a’ lost.”

“Were you prepared to lose?”

“Sure! This ain’t the on’y race! Best out o’ five.”

The races were scheduled one each week until one boat had taken three
wins, but Richard knew that his work with Walter was over. There was no
excuse he would offer to stay longer at “Red Jacket,” for there would
be volunteers a-plenty to tend port-stays, and, evidently, Walter had
“found himself.” Richard’s feelings were a complex of disappointment
and joy. The new life in New York was making a vigorous call upon him.
His wander-years were over, and, as easily as season slips into season,
he was turning directly about and facing with high curiosity the next
stage when he would take up his father’s work as man of many affairs.

Wheelen put off in his motor-boat, and Walter left as soon as
everything was stowed away, but Jawn and Richard sat in the shade of
the Lombardy poplars and enjoyed the fine August evening. Their talk
was interrupted by a crash of some falling object in Phœbe’s cottage. A
trifling accident, probably. They had heard Phœbe’s voice when Walter
entered. Of course she had driven down with the Wells or probably had
come down in the trolley and, naturally, would have made the distance
in much less time than it took the yacht to round Bluff Point and beat
up to the dock.

Voices in anger and another crash of furniture brought the two men
to their feet. Before they had taken a dozen steps they saw Walter
rush out and reach up to the little shelf where the whisky had rested
untouched since early spring. Phœbe followed instantly; she was talking
to him soothingly, although the men noticed that she had unhooked
Seth’s whip; but Walter was shrill and defiant. When Jerry, too,
emerged from the house the men dropped into a walk and entered upon the
scene with seeming calmness.

Jerry stood away from the boy, but Phœbe was not afraid of him.

“You said y’d marry me!” Walter shouted hoarsely and gripped the
whisky. “You said----”

“No, Walter,” Phœbe pursued him calmly. “I said I would think about it.
An’ I _am_ thinkin’ about it, my boy.”

“Y’r puttin’ me off, an’ puttin’ me off!” he complained harshly. “An’
I won’t stan’ it, d’ye hear? Won’t stan’ it! Gotta know some time ’r
other. Gotta know _now_!”

“Listen to the lad!” Phœbe was purring cheerily. “He isn’t satisfied
to win a boat race, but he must win a woman all in the same day.”
Walter tossed his head defiantly and raised the bottle. “_If you so
much as lift that stuff to your lips, young man_,” she cried suddenly,
so suddenly as to upset a considerable portion of it on her porch;
“_if ye even touch it_,” she cried, “I’ll not only never marry you but
I’ll beat you with this whip till you cry for mercy!” Then when he
dropped his arm she laughed softly--burbled, that is!--and coaxed him
again. “How do I know I won’t marry you, lad? You must give me time,
now. It’s a long while to be together as man an’ wife--ah!” she sighed
comically--“it’s that sentimental I am I can’t say the words without it
sendin’ me all a-flutter!... Come in, Walter; put that stuff up--no,
don’t throw it away! Put it back where you got it. I want you to have
it right before you, to make sure you’ve got really done with it. An’
by the same token, me lad, I’ll just hang me little whip up here beside
it, to keep it company like!” Her laugh took all the sting out of that
remark, but it did not conceal the determination back of the words.

The men would have slipped off, but Phœbe invited them to stay. And she
invited them also to help her prepare a fitting supper to celebrate the
victory. In a few moments her chatter and laughter filled all the scene
and blotted out the ugly episode. And every now and then she would give
Walter little pats as she passed him--he made no effort to help with
the “party”--and she would whisper startling little things in his ear
and set him grinning in spite of himself.

And Jerry? She was still in her walking suit of grey corduroy, and her
mood was somewhat of that sombre colour, but the victory of Walter’s
boat and the shock made by Walter’s revelations of his relations with
Phœbe had served to put a slight glow of warmth into her speech. To
Richard she conversed frankly, but with an air of keeping something
back.

Later in the evening when in the clatter of voices he managed to tell
her that he would go to New York on the morrow, her eyes opened very
wide, but she said nothing.

“It is for good,” he tried to smile.

“What are you going to do there?” she asked indifferently.

“Take up my father’s work, if I am able.”

“That’s rather inconsistent, isn’t it?”

“Nothing that one does honestly is inconsistent,” he replied firmly. “I
never believed I could do it; but the inward voice calls very loud just
now, and I am eager to try myself in this new experience.”

“We shall miss you,” she tried to tell him in a tone of polite
sincerity, and she bravely declined to avoid looking at him. Their
eyes met squarely. It was a dangerous moment, but she managed it with
dramatic success; so much so that while his own eyes had the appearance
of a pathetic dog waiting for his biscuit, hers resembled nothing so
much as the round staring optics of those old-fashioned French dolls.

As abruptly as Phœbe had invited everyone to stay and sup with her, she
invited everyone to leave. She wished to be alone, she said, to gather
her scattered wits. Walter was expressly included in the notice of
eviction, but he stubbornly remained behind.

Phœbe affected not to observe him as she cleared up briskly, humming
as she went in and out doors, as she brushed crumbs, or moved chairs
and benches about. Walter watched her hungrily, but his bravado
was gone; he glanced at her now and then almost timidly, fearing,
somehow, her very physical strength and the atmosphere she carried of
confidence, determination, will--qualities he vaguely envied in her.

“Well, Walter,” she turned to him at length, as if at last she had
gathered those scattered wits and had them concentrated on a thing to
do. “Well, Walter, we have a few matters to settle, haven’t we?”

Walter tried to answer, but speech was not quite possible for him. He
was keen enough to sense disaster in her tone, and knew not how to meet
it with words.

“Did I ever say I would marry you?” she went at him with brisk
directness.

“Yes,” he answered doggedly.

“Think, boy,” swiftly she softened her tone. “Wasn’t it you who were
always at me, and didn’t I always tell you that I wouldn’t even talk
about it? Boy! Boy!” She came near him and mothered him with her smile.
“Wasn’t it always you? Always just you?”

“Yes,” he managed huskily.

“I’m six years older than you----” she began, but he interrupted
fiercely.

“That makes no difference!” he cried. “No difference at all!”

“If it were only that, boy,” she continued. “But I am more than six
years older, Walter; I am ages older. I have lived ... lived----”
she stopped and let her eyes rove about the room. “Years! What are
years!” She threw up her hands. “Twenty-eight? I’m nearer a hundred
and twenty-eight! Life has burned me out, and all the faster because
before the world I am too proud to own to it; in experience, boy, I am
an old woman.”

He stopped her and told her of her youth and her beauty and her
compelling loveliness. His voice trembled, but he forced himself
through a strong manly speech.

“Fine!” cried Phœbe. “Boy! Boy!” she crooned, “it’s yourself you’re
comin’ to now! Now you’re talkin’ like a man! Talkin’ like a man, you
are! And let me talk to you like a woman. Maybe I didn’t say I would
marry you, but I was ready to--if I was forced to it----”

“Forced!” he exclaimed. “What d’ y’ mean?”

“Just that--forced.” Her voice was low now, and solemn. “If there had
been no other way out, no other way to save you from yourself, I’d have
done it. You and your mother and Jerry are all I have, and what would
I not do for them? I would have done it; but it would have been like
taking in some hunted creature that everybody had given up. And that is
pity, Walter; just pity.”

“Don’t care what you call it,” he said.

“Pity is all right for stray dogs, Walter. If you had been just a
crippled little puppy--well, I could have shared everything with you.
But to marry, to live together--I couldn’t. I thought I could, but now
I see that I never could. I am not big enough for that.”

He stood up and began to summon his strength to combat her, but she
waved him down.

“Listen,” she said. “Listen until I finish.... Boy, it wouldn’t work.
We’re not the mates for each other. No! No! We’re not, I tell you.”

Then he broke forth in speeches that were mixtures of strength
and weakness. He demanded his rights; he begged her to be kind; he
threatened; he pointed out the misery she was planning for him.

“And are you thinkin’ of my misery?” she asked, so plaintively as to
arrest him.

“You?”

“Yes--just me. Do you fancy for a moment that it wouldn’t be misery for
me? I pity you, and I care for you so much that my heart aches for you;
I would give years of my life to see you grow into a strong dependable
man, but I don’t love you.... Don’t speak yet; let me speak. I will
tell you something that nobody else knows. In my bedroom is a tiny
closet which nobody opens but me; and when it is opened it is an altar,
with candles, and a sweet, old, crooked image of Saint Francis which
belonged to my mother; Saint Francis who loved the birds and the souls
of all dumb things. And I fool everybody, everybody but you; for I pray
before my little altar--and I have oh! such faith! But nobody else
knows that; nobody but you and me now. How I fool them all with my bad
tongue!... And when I pray I pray for you. I pray that the good in you
shall grow and grow and grow. And my prayer is answered daily! And I
pray that the good Saint Francis shall spread out his arms and take you
up and shield you from all bitterness and wrong thinking. ‘Dear God,’
I say, ‘make my boy to see; reach out the hand to his stumbling feet;
make my boy to see.’”

He tried to tell her something, but he could not speak. The pity in her
voice, her swimming eyes, and the picture she conjured before him of
the trustful suppliant bowed below her little candles--it was too much;
it engulfed him.

Soon she went on. “I don’t love you and you would find it out; and
then--why, Walter, in the next ten years you will be still a youth, a
youth demanding youth; while I will be forty and faded out. Oh, yes, I
will! I know my kind. They are either very young or very old--no middle
years at all. I will grow suddenly old--and it would come all the
quicker if every day I should suffer.”

He told her defiantly that she would not suffer.

“Oh, yes, I should,” she nodded her head wisely. “For you, Walter, it
might mean a little happiness, but for me it would be daily and hourly
pain. I know. You look at the present, but I see the years and years
ahead. No, boy; you must grow strong as you have been growing. You must
throw off the evil that has gripped you. And then, some day when you
have become a man among men, love will come to you, and you and she
will ... will go off together ... as ... as once ... I thought I was
going.”

Softly she slipped into a chair and buried her face in her hands, and
the quiet tears came.

After a painful moment or two Phœbe controlled her voice, but she did
not look up as she spoke, nor take her hands away from her face.

“I haven’t told you all, Walter,” she said. “I have been trying not to
say it ... but I must tell you. I have prayed that if it must be, I
would take you and give my life to you.... And I will.”

“You will?” he asked incredulously, and struggled to grasp the meaning
of her startling suggestion.

“I will if it is God’s will.... He will tell me.... Oh, I have great
faith, boy. He will tell me in a very simple way. I offer all my life
to you as I meant to do when you came here that night a year ago, and I
got you on your feet and you promised to try. And you have tried, boy;
I’m proud of the way you have tried!... I promised God then that if He
willed it I would take you and save your soul.... He will tell me; it
will be when you say again that you want me ... that you still want me
to do it.”

“When I say I----” he began, but found no need to finish.

Walter saw all too clearly what she meant. She nodded, but did not
remove her hands from her face. She seemed to be waiting tremulously
for the verdict from on high.

If he still insisted that he wanted her, if his mind was blind to the
sacrifice, then he would indeed need her; if he thought enough of her
not to drag her down with him, then there was the spark of a man in
him, and he would not need her. And as he spoke, so would God speak.

For an irresolute moment or two Walter stood watching her; then he
swore a savage sort of oath and cried out that he would make her keep
her word; and then he fled out of the house, as if fearful of himself.
But the incoherencies had gone from his speech. He was a beaten man,
but, Phœbe exulted as she dabbed at her eyes, he was a man! It was a
bitter hour for him, but he was struggling now, not as a weakling,
petulant and unreasonable, but as a man battling with grief. So in
spite of her tears there was a smile on her face as she looked after
him. She listened, and knew his step on the uneven planks of the
dock. Then she heard the “plump” of his plunge into the tender, which
gave her a horrid second of terror until the powerful strokes of oars
creaking fainter and fainter told her that he was rowing out into the
calm Lake.

She went to the window and watched his black silhouette. The moon was
just beginning to mount.

“It’s the Lake that we go to in our little troubles,” she murmured.
“The dear old mother of a Lake!”




CHAPTER XXIV

PROUD MISS PIDDIWIT


WHEN the “party” broke up Jerry deliberately walked up the hill with
Richard, and suggested, in the tone of the perfect hostess, that as
this would be their last evening together for some time they might draw
up chairs and sit under the spell of “Da” and “Waga.”

“Tell me about your new work,” she suggested. It was as an elderly lady
might ask a very recent freshman about his studies in the new college.
Nevertheless, he told her.

Somehow he felt himself on the defensive. The champion of egoism was
about to shift square about and become altruist; for he made no attempt
to conceal that his interest in taking up the complicated affairs of
big business was prompted not by the wish of making a large fortune
larger, but solely because of the conviction growing upon him that his
responsibilities to others overshadowed the desires of self.

“Suddenly my need of others and their need of me has been made clear
to me,” he explained quietly. “I can no longer fare alone.... I used
to be completely self-sustaining; I had no desires that I could
not supply, for I was careful to keep my wants within my powers to
satisfy them; I had need for no one, and therefore I never felt the
call of co-operation. But the moment that a man finds his happiness
gripped by another----” he hesitated, for it was a difficult matter
to phrase--“the moment the needs of his spirit call to the spirit of
another, then he sees how all are bound together, dependent one upon
another.... I express the thought badly; I doubt if I can truly reason
out the change that has come over me, but its results are clear--I
go to my appointed task, a little late, to be sure, but at last with
clear vision of what that appointed task is.... My caterpillar-views,”
he laughed softly, “look very odd now; perhaps I have broken my
predestined chrysalis ... or perhaps it is the American father speaking
in me at last. At any rate, my wander-years are over. I have been
an English aristocrat, I find, in spite of my poverty--they are the
greatest of natural loafers; ‘barbarians,’ somebody called them, and
rightly. The English are most excellent loafers, exquisites at it.
The American in me, I feel, is going to be no loafer; I can sense him
pulling at me and driving me at service.... And I am still consistent
with myself,” he talked to fill in the empty spaces; she did not seem
inclined to help much; “for I am still honest, and, you know, I never
agreed to be more than that.”

The night was pleasantly mild. A misshapen moon rose slowly over the
Lake and began to light up hill and valley. No hint of the freakish
weather of the afternoon was suggested by this warm summer evening; the
old earth hummed with its crickets and frogs, and rustled its leaves
lazily as if pretending that it had never been unruly in its life. It
was too fine to go indoors, the two young persons agreed.

Topics of conversation grew uncomfortably scarce until Richard
remembered Phœbe. What had she meant by her attitude towards Walter?
Surely she did not intend to marry the boy, yet if ever mortal man was
encouraged by woman that chap was Walter. And if she did not intend
seriously to live up to her implied promise, wouldn’t it be dangerous
to lead him on?

Jerry sprang eagerly into the welcome topic. “I haven’t had such a
shock since----” she could not think of a concrete comparison, at least
none that she cared to mention in this company--“well, since ever so
long. Isn’t it unbelievable?”

“I think it is splendid!” he spoke warmly. “If she cares for him in the
right way--and I have faith that she does--it will be one of the best
arrangements that could be made.”

“Cares for him?” repeated Jerry. “How could she!”

“It is just one more beautiful mystery,” he said quietly. “Why do you
insist upon thinking your own view-point is the whole truth?”

There was not the slightest suggestion of offence in his question. He
seemed to be addressing not Jerry in particular, but the whole human
species.

“But she doesn’t really care for him,” Jerry protested, “in
the--the--way you mean, you know.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Oh, she was very frank to me. She said she believed she was too
strong-minded ever to be enslaved by a man. She made delicious fun
of--of--love, and all that sort of nonsense. She said that what she
wanted was devotion, deference--like du Barry and Madame Maintenon. She
claims that if a woman wants nothing from a man she’ll get everything
she wants. Walter, she said, is the only man whom she can guarantee to
stay devoted for life. Oh, she was very frank, and also very droll. I
tried my best to be serious, but she had me laughing half the time.”

“And so she fooled you, did she?” he asked.

Jerry protested, but he insisted that Phœbe was choosing her mate and
that all her clever chatter was disguise.

“But she fooled me, too,” he laughed. “She let me tell her all my
theories about the reclamation of Walter. Jove! I thought climbing
mastheads after fouled peak halyards was his trouble, but all the while
it was a woman he was climbing after! A woman is his ‘primary,’ after
all. Well! well! She is wonderful. I envy Walter.”

The topic was a good one. It had made Jerry forget her stilted hostess
manner. And after she had once thawed it was difficult, with that moon
mounting gloriously, to freeze up again.

Richard was quick to follow up with another helpful topic--Jawn as a
sailor lad. He retailed the palaver that Jawn had kept going throughout
the whole race. He had made limericks on every part of the ship’s
tackle and on his rival yachtsmen, and he had punned almost to the
limit of endurance. Some of the best ones Richard culled and repeated.
They were too local to be of general interest, but that made their
humour all the keener to a native. Again and again Jerry found herself
limp with merriment, although deep within, something reproached her for
unbending. But she was too weary to resist; she had spent a bad night
and she had been tramping over the hills since sunrise.

Never mind! she told herself; let not the confident man before her
plume himself on graciousness. A woman may smile and smile and be
a--well, not exactly a villain, but as obstinate and unalterable as
the best of villains. On that point she had no misgivings; the long
meditations on the hills with “Count” had cleared her mind of every
doubt and told her what she had to do. It would be silly--now that it
was all decided for ever--to stand aloof like proud Miss Piddiwit.

  “Proud Miss Piddiwit, there she goes.
  What is she proud of? Nobody knows!”

Miss Piddiwit was an unfortunate figure of speech. Some imp of her
mind, perhaps, some mischievous Puck of that unknown subliminal region
it was who hoisted that forgotten picture of the old “Mother Goose”
book up out of the mental depths and let it strut before her. Miss
Piddiwit bore her head aloft at a perilous angle, and her little heels
clicked on the pavement in staccato rhythm with the couplet, which the
aforesaid subliminal imp took delight in chanting.

  “Proud Miss Piddiwit, there she goes.
  What is she proud of? Nobody knows!”

“Let’s walk,” she started up suddenly. “This night is too wonderful.”

“Good!” he agreed.

They dropped down the lawn, passed the summer-house without seeming to
notice it at all, and took the State Road which leads north to Penn Yan.

“You are your mother’s daughter,” he announced abruptly. He spoke as if
it were the summing-up of a train of thinking.

“Naturally,” she said.

They walked on for several seconds without speaking.

“You do not ask why,” said Richard.

“Perhaps I know why.”

The “imp” had been forcing her to keep step with the Piddiwit jingle.

“But it would help the conversation if you would ask questions.”

“Is conversation necessary?”

“Ah!” he laughed. “What would distinguish us from the rest of the
animal kingdom if we didn’t talk! Yes,” he went on, “conversation is
necessary. Unless you run away I’m going to talk.... It may be our last
conversation together--although I won’t believe that----”

“How can you be sure, Mr. Richard?”

Into this question she tried to throw a satiric imitation of his
question to her on the night of his arrival in Penn Yan, the night when
she had protested that she at least would never make eyes at him; but,
man-like, he had not the mind to catch such subtleties. Still, the
remark gave her a little elation and put her in good spirits. She would
show this young man!

“As you know,” he replied, “I am sure of nothing. That discourages
some people, but it makes me continually full of hope. Micawber, you
know, was kept radiantly alive by it.... Yesterday I asked you to marry
me----”

“Please!” she interrupted, and quickened her pace.

“Of course I won’t speak if it worries you,” he said contritely enough;
“but it is a pity, I think, not to face every situation fairly. And I
do so want to face this one.”

She slowed up and thought the matter over carefully. Why shouldn’t he
talk if he cared to? The answer was, why, indeed!

“Very well,” she summoned her most casual tones; “face it; only--don’t
expect me to help much.”

“Oh,” he broke in quickly, “I’m not so inexperienced as to believe
anyone can argue away an emotion. Either you like me--in the way I
mean, you know--or you don’t. That’s under neither your control nor
mine. Words won’t mend anything there. But words may help to clear up
misunderstanding.... You are sure this won’t worry you?”

“Why should it?”

“Quite so,” he agreed grimly; “why should it?... Very well....” But he
said nothing more.

She looked up at him quickly.

“Well?” he looked down earnestly.

“You have never been sulky with me,” she explained. “Jawn says you go
for weeks without speaking to anyone, and Phœbe said you went perfectly
dumb on her porch one afternoon. I was just wondering if it were my
turn at last.”

“Oh, no! I don’t feel that way at all! That’s one of the signs that
makes me sure that you--you are ... I can’t get hold of the right
words, that’s all. And it isn’t that, either. I’ve got the right words,
bundles of them! But I’m afraid if I start in to pour them forth at
you--if I start to tell you how much I--I--care about you--you’ll take
fright and also take this trolley home. So to make sure I’ll wait till
it passes. Thank goodness they run only two cars on this line--or is it
the same one going frantically back and forth?”

They stepped aside to avoid the lights of the car. Somehow, both felt
the necessity of keeping clear of publicity.

“I won’t have you maligning the institutions of my country,” she
replied, with a touch of the old-time cheeriness. “We are not a
restless people moving to and fro over the face of the earth and in
subways seeking whom we may devour. Let me inform you, Mr. Richard
Richard, that in the busy summer season we run _both_ cars. If you
were a woman you would not make the mistake of thinking them only one,
for then you would have noticed that while each conductor is handsome,
one is light and the other dark.”

“Like beer,” he joked.

“In these parts you should say, like port and champagne,” she
corrected. “This is a wine country, and we are famous for our
champagne. But don’t you think we should turn back? That is the last
car down, and, as you suggest, I ought to keep within running distance
of home. But I interrupted your beautiful speech. I’m sorry.”

She was quite pleased with herself. At first she feared that she might
not be able to carry off her part of the conversation without showing
suspicious excitement; but here she was actually joking! She was proud
of her control, was this Miss Piddiwit!

Lamely at first and then, as he ceased to pick his words, with surer
touch Richard proceeded with his “beautiful speech.” No smart retorts
came to her aid; no retorts at all, indeed, for the man was sweeping
her off her secured moorings--had she not spent half the night and the
whole of the morning in steeling her will to oppose just this?--and
he was driving her into a horrid state of weak nervousness. Richard
Richard had studied frankness and soul analysis like a research
student, and his speech carried with it an ozonic atmosphere of truth.
Suddenly he came to an end.

Instead of crushing him with any of the carefully selected phrases
which she had rehearsed in her morning tramp with “Count” she filled in
the silence with a question that was almost a cry.

“How do you know it will last?”

“I don’t know it at all,” he replied with amazing frankness. “Every
lover lies, of course, or is deceived, which amounts to the same thing.
Affection usually does not last. The evidence of the world is before
us; why not face it? How can I guarantee the future? I cannot. I know
only my consuming faith that what has begun here so honestly and so
free from taint is bound to have eternal meaning. Perhaps that is
nature’s clever illusion; but I cannot believe it. It may not last, but
what of that? Events are in the hands of the gods; yet what greater
joy than staking all on the risks of life? Faith is the thing. And God
knows I have faith--the faith that passeth understanding.”

She would have more specific reasons. He gave them to her. First, he
talked!

“You say I never sulk with you,” he argued. “It isn’t really sulking
at all. Of course, I know you were only joking; but it is worse than
boorish petulance, it is an absolute dumbness, an inability to speak.
In these past weeks I seem to have broken from my bonds, and I believe
it is you who have set me free. They say that Lewis Carroll had the
same sort of infirmity except in the presence of his beloved children,
and I can well understand how he must have suffered and how he had
to get used to faring it alone. For my shyness I have paid a great
penalty; I have had no playfellows as a child--I never got really
acquainted with my own mother. Governesses and tutors used to shirk
their job and let me alone. If I hadn’t early learned to read and to
like books, I suppose I should have grown up an ignoramus to boot! And
you--why, look how I am talking!

“Now for reason number two. For the first time in my life I want to
take my father’s money and use it. You’ve made me want to do that. You
have filled me with strange worldly ambitions. I want to take my place
with other men and bear my share of the burden; and I want to buy you
all sorts of things. I have a savage desire to clothe you and feed
you and fix up your nest. And I have the wildest visions of a lot of
kiddies----”

She almost shot ahead of him.

“Don’t run away,” he called, and caught up with her. “You’re a grown-up
woman, and I’m so old that it frightens me. Why in the name of all the
holy mysteries at once should we scare off at the thought of children?
Woman, it is the most glorious thought in all creation! And they must
be clothed,” he went on, “and sent to school and to college and taken
to Europe and ‘brought out’ and given a bang-up start in life. And all
that takes money, heaps of it. We’ve just _got_ to have money, woman;
don’t you see that?”

She saw that--better than he did, perhaps--but she could not trust
herself to take up that point in the debate. Fortunately at this moment
she caught through the trees a clear light shining far below in Phœbe
Norris’s cottage.

“I wonder what Phœbe is doing up at this hour?” she turned the subject.
“She usually goes to bed with her Orpingtons.”

“Suppose we find out?” he challenged her.

The returning trolley was grinding up the hill from Branchport and
would soon expose them in the road. If the conductors, “Port” or
“Champagne,” ever caught a good glimpse of her, the news would spread
quickly over Yates county.

“All right,” she agreed, and they struck down the steep road just as
the headlight from the car flashed up over the hill.

He talked eloquently all the way down, but while she listened she used
the time to summon her scattered forces and get her mental house in
order. It had been a wild delight to let him fight down her will, but
she was the daughter of her mother and no weakling.

One thing she was sure of, and it made her glad beyond words to
express: his offer of marriage had not been prompted by charity. He was
in earnest, terribly in earnest; but also he was, as usual, selfish.
She was hearing his point of view, but he showed with every word that
he had no conception of hers.

The world would say, when its scandal-loving ear had taken in all the
facts, that Geraldine Wells, bankrupt, who had been brazenly living
for several years on the savings of negro servants, had deliberately
forced herself upon a rich young man--a notoriously rich young man, at
that--had inveigled him into her home and had trapped him into making
an offer of marriage. A Wells would never permit a situation like that!

Proud Miss Piddiwit!

And how the newspapers would seize the theme! Their searchlight
would flare into every nook; nothing would prevent their discovery
of the incognito and the “romance”; the latter, she knew, would be a
particularly tempting morsel. They make no distinction between the
great and the notorious, but play each impartially to the tune of
their scareheads. Reporters would come by special train; even George
Alexander would be interviewed! Just because a father had had a genius
for accumulation an innocent second generation must suffer publicity.
If Richard Richard had only been a nobody! But he was not; he was by
very birth notorious.

She conjured up headlines that even a hardened city editor would not
have sanctioned. The cable would carry the “news” to Europe. Their
engagement would be one long nightmare of publicity; the marriage would
be a vulgarian’s holiday. And then she remembered the columnist and the
cartoonist. The thought was revolting.

But she drifted, nevertheless, with the compelling events of the night.
To-morrow with its harsh necessities would come in due time, and
to-morrow and to-morrow.

She would do well to linger as long as possible in the exhilarating
illusion of the moment. Even if it were all to be eventually cancelled
and forgotten, it was delightfully thrilling to have this strong man by
her side making most complimentary speeches. His earnestness was very
soothing to her pride; one might as well steep as long as possible in
the experience.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, out on the Lake, Walter had been struggling with his remnant
of a soul, and had found some touch of that peace which comes to the
Lake people, to all people who look out daily on vast stretches of
water. It was peace, but it was tinged with tragic sorrow, and thereby,
and only thereby, it was worthy and beyond price.

While Jerry and Richard were still strolling along the Penn Yan road,
Walter was again at Phœbe’s door. She had prepared herself for bed
when his knock came; so she slipped on a kimono and came to the door
wondering. When she saw his stern face, she stepped back quickly, and
called on her Saint Francis, as a child in great fear might cry to the
mother.

“You needn’t be afraid of me any more, Phœbe,” he spoke huskily but
firmly. “I’ve been thinkin’ things out.... You’re right.... It
wouldn’t do.... It wouldn’t do--for you.... I guess ... I guess,” he
faltered; “I guess this is where I get up or fall back again----”

“But you won’t, boy!” she exulted. “You won’t! You will stand up and
fight for yourself, and you will fight for me, and be the man I’ll be
proud of all my life. All my life, boy.... For me, boy.”

“Yes,” he choked, but stood even a shade more erect. “For you, Phœbe.”

And then he strode away in the moonlight.

And Phœbe watched him from the doorway, and cried little chirping words
to herself; and a sweeping happiness seized her, touched with a vague
regret; and some of it was for the victory she had won; and some of
it was for the pity of it all; and some of it was for the long, empty
years of her own life.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Jerry and Richard neared the cottage they quieted their step and
moved stealthily to the window at the side. Phœbe was stretched at
length in a commodious leather chair. She was in a great blue kimono
and her hands were clasped behind her neck, her bared arms extending
languorously on either side. Her glorious red hair was smoothed back
and it dropped in two long loose braids in front. Her big blue eyes
were wide, and they focussed on some vast distance. She looked for all
the world like some splendid fearless child.

As they gazed upon the picture the two eavesdroppers felt suddenly like
culprits; so they walked noisily around the porch to the front and
tapped on the door.

“Come in!” Phœbe called, but moved not an inch.

“Ah!” she chuckled wisely, and scrutinized them from her deep chair.
“Gallivantin’, as usual, eh?” On her face was not the slightest trace
of the experience of the night; and her voice suggested never a sorrow.
To the end of her days Phœbe Norris, and all her kind, would practise
concealment of their suffering and of their virtues, reserving full
confession to one only, and that one must be a mate proved by fire!

Only Richard and Phœbe knew the full significance of the accusation of
“gallivanting.” He remembered her etymology, “From ‘galli,’ ‘a woman,’
and ‘vantin’,’ ‘wantin’ ’em bad.’” So he nodded his head and confessed.

“Absolutely guilty in the highest degree,” he said.

“Oh, _ho!_” she exclaimed, and looked first at one and then at the
other. “Oh, _ho!_” she repeated very sagely. “Is that the way the
wind’s a-blowin’!”

She acted as if the idea had never struck her before, but she so
charged the atmosphere with accusation that Richard grew crimson and
Jerry stiffened into angry opposition.

“There’s no wind at all, Phœbe,” Jerry blurted. “Don’t be silly!”

“I’m not accusin’ myself of bein’ silly,” she remarked quietly. “Oh,
well!” she saw that she was making them both self-conscious; “perhaps
the breeze has died down temporarily. It does in these parts, Richard,”
she turned to him learnedly. “The Keuka winds are that tricky, now!
One minute they’re roarin’ as if the seven chained devils were loose
an’ after ’em--as you might have noticed this afternoon--first blowin’
one way and then the other; an’ before you can pull your cap over your
ears and button up the top button of your coat, they’re gone, and the
Lake is as smooth as you see it to-night. But look out!” she cautioned,
with a mischievous smile twinkling about her eyes, “look out! There’s
apt to be an ugly squall any minute. You never can be sure. Just look
at that Lake now!” she pointed out of the long windows. The moon had
lighted up its glassy surface; there was not a wrinkle on it. “Don’t it
look innocent and child-like, now? An’ who would think that it could
ever rise up and roil with passion?”

Her elaborate figure of speech--a very obvious parable--did not help
matters. It was just clever enough to give Jerry a vivid picture of
reality and to cause her to strengthen her obstinate resolution. But
except for an extra look of firmness she disclosed nothing as she
turned the subject.

“We peeked in the window as we passed by, Phœbe,” Jerry confessed. “You
looked adorably contented. A penny for your thoughts.”

“H’m!” Phœbe gave a satisfied purr. “An’ why shouldn’t I be contented?
It isn’t every lone widow that has two suitors in one day.”

“Two!”

They both spoke together.

“It isn’t very complimentary to show such astonishment,” remarked
Phœbe. “I’ve me charms yet, I fancy. Yes, two. One comes along, a
sea-farin’ man, and says, ‘Choose!’ says he; ‘choose between me and
a quart of bad whisky,’ says he. It was a hard problem, savin’ your
presence, Jerry; an’ I couldn’t decide as quickly as the sea-farin’
gentleman wished. Besides, I was confused by the attentions of the
other gentleman, a movie actor, who had come along in the mornin’.”

“A movie actor!”

“An’ why not?” she demanded. “It’s gettin’ to be one of the hazardous
callin’s, demandin’ courage and daring. He plagued me so with
verses----”

“It was Jawn!” cried Richard.

“Jawn it was,” agreed Phœbe. “He told me outright to my face--I like
a man to speak the truth--that he had been disappointed in love some
seventy or eighty times, but that now he had discovered that all his
excitin’ past was just preliminary training to get him ready and fit
for me. But he took me best of all by his main argument. He said that
he had just finished a fine weddin’ hymn, an’ that it was a shame to
waste it. To be sure, he admitted that he had writ it for a lady who
had gone off with another fellow; but with a slight change here and
there, which would not spoil the rhyme and metre at all, he found it
would just do for me. An’ then he read it to me.... It was _very_
seducin’ verse, _very_ seducin’!”

Phœbe was a natural actress. She had the one quality essential to
all great players, the subtle voice tones which compel an audience
to take the contagion of her mood. In one deft speech she had
removed the awkwardness from the atmosphere and had substituted ease
and friendliness. Jerry and Richard chatted and chaffed in total
forgetfulness of their strained relationship. It was a wonderful
dramatic achievement.

“Phœbe, you cannot mean to marry Walter?” Jerry asked abruptly. “The
thing fills me with horror. Why, he is six years younger! We cannot let
you sacrifice yourself like that. You are not really going to do it,
are you?”

“No,” said Phœbe quietly. “I am not. I thought at first that I could
do it. It’s no worse than nursing or school-teachering, and a woman
must have some sort of occupation nowadays.” As she spoke she felt
a momentary shame for her flippancy; but she went on, true to her
instinct to hide the good in her, and even to deny it if too closely
prodded. “The job was too much for Saint Phœbe.”

“But have you told Walter? Aren’t you afraid he’ll----”

“He’s all right. We’ve talked things out. There’s a man in charge of
that boy----”

“What man?” Jerry looked toward Richard.

“A man named Walter, whom few of you seem to know much about. It’s
himself I mean. He thinks he’s doing it for me; and I let him think so;
but he’s really out of my hands now. And one of these days, when he
gets a good, sure grip on himself, I’ll match-make him off so secretly
that neither he nor she will ever know that I planned it all myself.”

“She? Why, who----”

“Well,” she mused, “I’m not sure. If he keeps on the way he’s goin’
it’ll be one of the Fernzie girls, the younger one, maybe. But if he
improves a lot, I may pick out an Armstrong or a Sheppard!”

“Oh!” gasped Jerry. Only a native could understand the prodigiousness
of that colossal joke.

The talk drifted here and there, always subject to Phœbe’s clever will;
and when she made some joking remark about the use of her cottage as a
public bathing pavilion, and in the same breath announced that whatever
those two “gallivanters” intended to do the rest of the night, she was
going to her bed, the moment was right for Richard to raise two fingers
mutely, “Let’s go swimmin’,” and for Jerry to fling up the answer, “All
right.”

It was an outlandish thing to do, but what water lover could resist?
The night was warm, the Lake was waveless, and the lump of a moon
lighted up the scene.

Richard was waiting on the dock for her. A light in Phœbe’s room
went out, and still he waited. For a moment he feared that Jerry had
changed her mind, or perhaps had played a trick on him and had gone out
the rear door and had fled home. Then the light downstairs went out
suddenly; he heard the front door close with a click, and out of the
shadow of the house he discerned the lithe brown figure moving towards
him.

Somehow they did not plunge off instantly, as had been their habit.
Instead, they stood on the edge of the dock and talked. He spoke of the
new life opening before him; and he told her of his father, of his life
of pathetic isolation. The pity of it struck her, and she showed it in
her voice and in her eyes. Her hand touched his arm in sympathy.

Then Richard, who was a man first and a swimmer after, succumbed to the
enchantment of the brown being before him and began again the vehement
avowals which had never been quite completed to his satisfaction in the
summer-house.

“Say you will marry me, Jerry,” he persisted. “I want you and I will
have you! I won’t let you go! Will you marry me, Jerry? Will you? Will
you?” with much unoriginal repetition of the same sort.

“No!” she said. He persisted in asking; but she said, “No!” Nothing
daunted, he began all over again and grew even a shade more insistent.

The world and its ugly sneer began to fade away, but she fought against
her growing irresolution. It was folly, but it was her best instinct,
too. Every right marriage has in its history somewhere the struggle
that precedes surrender. And years of Virginia tradition had put the
seal of necessity on this final struggle. A Wells would force the
tribute of conquest and capture!

“No!” she said vehemently. “No!” He would not be answered and took a
step nearer, but she put out a hand as if to ward him off. “No!” she
cried, almost hysterically, plunged into the water and struck off into
the Lake.

He followed quickly. She was aiming straight towards the farther shore,
and going forward at a dangerous pace. Fear seized him. With terrific
strokes he caught up to her and begged her to come back, but she shook
her head wildly and went desperately on. He promised that he would
never pester her again, but she was blind to persuasion. So he kept
at her side, although it tested his powers, swimming in silence, and
watching every stroke with the keenest anguish.

Shortly she slowed up, and later turned on her back and floated. He
waited until he thought the rest had brought back her strength and then
coaxed her to return. For answer she began swimming onward again, this
time with her long easy sweep; and he followed without a word.

She was in no condition for a distance swim. The day had worn her down,
and the night’s excitement had not helped; but she summoned her will
and swung steadily on. On, on, on, they went while shore faded off and
the great white moon filled the night.

Within a hundred yards of the shore she faltered. He reached quickly
for her, but she cried out incoherently and struck at him. The last
few yards was an agonizing attempt to reach the shallow water. She was
threshing wildly, and calling on him blindly to “keep away!”--although
he had not offered again to touch her--when her foot reached bottom;
she tried to stand but could not, and fell upon her face. He picked her
up, but she pushed him aside and stumbled on to the shore, where she
dropped prone upon the grass, thoroughly spent.

He did not know what to say, fearing that his words might do further
damage, so he sat mutely beside her and listened to her hysteric
weeping, and suffered torments.

While he was waiting, a light flared up in Phœbe’s cottage, and later
he heard the clear rhythm of rowlocks. The distance straight across
the Lake at this point was probably three-quarters of a mile, and, no
doubt, in the stillness of the night the sound of every exclamation had
floated over the flat water and had reverberated in Phœbe’s room. The
old Indian tradition that each year Keuka will take her toll of five
had been all too often verified; so the Lake dwellers were trained to
listen keenly when unusual cries came over the water.

In the white moonlight every object was clear, clearer, it seemed, even
than day. So Richard rose quietly, went to a knoll a few feet away, and
stood and waved his arm. After a time he saw the boat change its course
and knew that Phœbe had marked him. Then he went back and sat on guard
over the prostrate swimmer.

She was quieter now and, save for occasional swift shudders, her
breathing had become almost normal. Suddenly she started to her feet,
and made for the Lake.

“You are not going to swim back?” he protested.

She made no answer, and stepped into the shallow water; but he stood
before her and seized her boldly in his arms.

“I will not let you go!” he spoke firmly, and tightened his grasp. She
struggled and cried out upon him and told him that he was hurting her,
but he drew her to him and was thankful for his strength. And all the
while he talked to her, telling her things that he had told her many
times before, matters which he had given his solemn word would never be
broached again; acting, indeed, like the most and the least intelligent
of swains. He used phrases that have been iterated since the world
began to swim in space; there was not a spark of originality in him!

For a minute or two she tried her little powers against him; then
suddenly she gave in, sobbing like a very contented child. She reached
her arms slowly up and put them about him, and clung to him and
confessed her complete surrender.

Proud Miss Piddiwit had melted quite away.

And thus they stood when the boat grated on the shelving shore and
Phœbe drew in the oars, and turned about and faced them. She was again
in her blue kimono and her wonderful hair fell in its broad braids.

“The saints in heaven!” she ejaculated. “An’ have I got up out o’ me
bed an’ rowed clear across the Lake only to spoil a pretty picnic
party! An’ with the yellin’ and the splashin’ it’s drowned I thought ye
were! What do you mean by disappointin’ me like that!”

Out of the boat leaped Phœbe, not caring at all for six inches of
water, and swooped down upon Jerry.

“Angel-child!” she cried as she reached to draw the wet brown form to
her. “Don’t let that big piggy have _all_ the huggin’!” Jerry tottered
into her wide-opened arms. “Dear-a-dear! Dear-a-dear!” Phœbe soothed
as she rocked her precious burden to and fro. “An’ it’s cryin’ ye
are!... An’ well ye may! An’ well ye may!... An’, by the cross of Saint
Michael, it’s cryin’ myself I am!”


  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
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