The old ladies had noticed this at once, and it pleased them. They saw
Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson talking cheerfully to each other at the
little table, and they said to one another: “Young people--young
people,” and they were old enough to understand what that meant.
The “young people” themselves did not understand. They didn’t even know
that they were especially young, and certainly they saw nothing charming
or interesting in the fact that they were sitting at a small table and
talking to each other.
They were, at heart, a little uneasy because they had stopped disliking
each other. Dislike was such a neat, definite, vigorous thing to feel,
and when it melted away, it left such a disturbing vagueness. Of course,
Miss Selby knew that she could not possibly like a stranger; the most
she would allow herself was--not to dislike him, and simply “not
disliking” a person is a very unsatisfactory state of mind.
It couldn’t be helped, however. The dislike was gone. And there they
sat, not disliking each other, every single evening at that little
table. Naturally, they talked, and naturally, being at such close
quarters, they watched each other what time they talked, and when you do
that, it is extraordinary what a number of things you learn without
being told.
The little shadow that flits across a face, the smile that is on the
lips and not in the eyes, the brave words and the anxious glance--these
things are eloquent.
For instance, Miss Selby talked about that unique household in Boston.
She did not say much, that wasn’t her way; yet Mr. Anderson deduced that
the mother, the grandmother, and the two aunts were, so to speak,
besieged in their Bostonian home, that the wolf was at their door, and
that Miss Selby was engaged in keeping him at a safe distance. And that
she was probably the pluckiest, finest girl who had ever lived,
struggling on all by herself, homesick and lonely, and so young and
little.
As for him, he talked chiefly about the manufacture of paper. Until now
this subject had not been a particular hobby of Miss Selby’s, but the
more she heard about it, the more she realized what an interesting and
fascinating topic it was. What is more, while Mr. Anderson talked about
paper, he told her, without knowing it, many other things.
She learned that he was a very likable young fellow, with a great many
friends, and yet was sometimes a little lonely, because he had no one of
his own; that he was prodigiously ambitious, yet found his successful
progress in the paper business a little melancholy sometimes, because no
one else was very much affected by it. He said he had been brought up by
an aunt who had given him an expensive education and a great many
advantages; he spoke most dutifully of this aunt, and of all that he
owed to her, yet Miss Selby felt certain that this aunt was a very
disagreeable sort of person, who never let people forget what they owed
her.
Very different from Miss Selby’s aunts! She had even begun to think that
perhaps her aunts, together with her mother and grandmother, might like
Mr. Anderson, in spite of his size.
And then he spoiled everything. To be sure, he thought it was she who
spoiled everything, but she knew better. It was his lamentable, his
truly deplorable, masculine vanity. This man, who appeared so
independent, so intelligent--
This disillusioning incident took place on the second Sunday of their
acquaintance--the Sunday after that first walk. Almost as a matter of
course they set forth upon another walk, and as it was a bright, windy
day, rather too cool for sauntering in the woods, they went along the
highway at a brisk pace.
The spring had capriciously withdrawn. The burgeoning branches were
flung about wildly against a sky blue, clear and cold; the ground
underfoot felt hard; everything gentle, promising and beguiling had gone
out of the world. And perhaps this affected Miss Selby; her cheeks were
very rosy, her eyes shining, and she was in high spirits, even to the
point of teasing Mr. Anderson a little.
He found this singularly agreeable. For the most part, he could see
nothing but the top of her hat, coming along briskly beside him; but
every now and then she glanced up, and each time she did so he felt a
little dazzled, because of the radiance there was about her this day. He
thought--but how glad he was, later on, that he had kept his thoughts to
himself!
There was a steep hill before them, and they went at it with that
feeling of pleasant excitement one has about new hills; they wanted to
get to the top and see what was on the other side. And very likely they
were a sort of allegory of youth, which always wants to get to the top
of hills and hopes to find something much better on the other side; but
this idea did not occur to them. And, alas, they never reached the top!
Halfway up that hill there was a garden with a stone wall about it; a
wide lawn, ornamented with dwarf firs, a fine garden of the formal sort,
but not very interesting, and Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson were not
interested. They would have passed by with no more than a casual glance,
but as they drew near the gate a dog began to bark in a desperate and
violent fashion. And a sweet and plaintive voice said:
“Oh, Sandy! Stop, you naughty boy!”
Naturally they both turned their heads then, and they saw Mrs. Granger
standing behind the gate. At that time they did not know her name was
Mrs. Granger, or any other facts about her; but Miss Selby always
believed that, at that first glance, she learned more about Mrs. Granger
than--well, than certain other people ever learned, in weeks of
acquaintance.
A charming little lady, Mrs. Granger was--dark and fragile, very
plaintive, very gentle, the sort of woman a really chivalrous man feels
sorry for. Especially at that moment when she was having such a very bad
time with that dog.
It was a rough and unruly young dog--a collie, and a fine specimen, too,
but ill trained. She was holding him by the collar, and he was
struggling to get free, and barking furiously, his jaws snapping open
and shut as if jerked by a string, his whole body vibrating with his
unreasonable emotional outburst.
“Keep quiet!” said she, with a pathetic attempt at severity, and when he
did not obey, she gave him a sort of dab on the top of the head. It was
more than his proud spirit would endure; he broke away from her, jumped
over the low gate, and flew at Mr. Anderson.
But not in anger; on the contrary, he was wild with delight; he rushed
round and round the young man, lay down on his shoes, licked his hands.
And when Mr. Anderson patted him, he was fairly out of his mind, and
rolled in the dust.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Granger. “But--how wonderful!” She turned to Miss
Selby. “_Isn’t_ it wonderful?”
“Isn’t what?” inquired Miss Selby. “I’m afraid I don’t--”
“That strange instinct that animals have!” Mrs. Granger explained
solemnly.
“What instinct?” asked Miss Selby, politely. “I thought he was just a
friendly little dog.”
“Oh, but he’s not friendly with every one!” cried Mrs. Granger. “Not by
any means!”
It was at this point that Miss Selby’s disillusionment began. She looked
at Mr. Anderson, expecting to find him looking amused, and instead of
that, he was pleased--a little embarrassed, but certainly pleased!
Then the charming little lady spoke again, addressing Miss Selby:
“What darling wild roses!” she exclaimed. “I do wish I could find some!”
“They’re azaleas,” said Miss Selby. “And the woods at the foot of the
hill--next to your garden--are full of them.”
Mr. Anderson was not looking at them just then, but only heard their
voices, and he was very much impressed by the contrast. One of them
sounded so gentle and sweet, and the other so chill, so curt. It was
deplorable that Miss Selby should be so ungracious; he was disappointed.
So he thought that he, at least, would be decently civil to the poor
little woman, and he turned toward her with that intention, only he
could think of nothing to say. He smiled, though, and Mrs. Granger
smiled at him, and Miss Selby observed this.
And Mrs. Granger knew that Miss Selby observed this, and she smiled at
Miss Selby. It was a smile that Mr. Anderson would never understand.
“I wish you’d both come in and look at my garden!” said Mrs. Granger,
wistfully.
“We--” began Mr. Anderson, cheerfully, but Miss Selby interrupted.
“Thank you!” she said. “But I must go home now. Good morning.”
And she actually set off, down the hill. Mr. Anderson, of course, was
obliged to follow, and the dog, Sandy, had the same idea.
“Go home, old fellow!” the young man commanded.
Sandy gave a yelp of joy at being addressed, and stood expectantly
beside him, grinning dog wise into his face. Mr. Anderson again ordered
him home, and Mrs. Granger called him, but he did not go. He had to be
dragged back by the collar and held, while Mrs. Granger fastened a leash
to his collar.
“I never saw anything like it,” she declared. “He’s simply devoted to
you.”
“Dogs generally take to me,” the young man admitted.
Mrs. Granger raised her soft dark eyes to his face.
“I think that’s a very wonderful thing!” said she, quietly. “Because I’m
sure they know. I’d trust Sandy’s judgment against any human being’s.”
“Oh--well--” Mr. Anderson remarked, grown very red.
“You must come and see Sandy again some day,” she suggested. “Poor
little doggie!”
“I will!” said he. “Yes. Thanks, very much. I will!”
All this had taken considerable time, and Miss Selby was nowhere to be
seen. He hurried after her and, turning the corner at the foot of the
hill, saw her marching briskly along ahead of him. She must have known
that he would follow, yet she did not look back once, and when he
reached her side she said nothing--neither did he. They went on.
Presently Miss Selby began to talk, making a very obvious effort to be
polite. Mr. Anderson did not like this, but he, too, made an equally
obvious effort at politeness, and succeeded quite as well as she did,
and they continued in this formal, almost stately tone, for some time.
When she looked back upon it, Miss Selby was always at a loss to
understand just how and when this correct tone had vanished from their
conversation, and the quarrel had begun. For it was a quarrel--a genuine
and a hearty one. And although Mrs. Granger was never once mentioned,
yet the quarrel was about her.
Miss Selby declared flatly that dogs did not have any “wonderful
instinct” for judging people. Mr. Anderson said he _knew_ they did.
“What?” she cried. “You don’t mean to say you think a dog knows by
instinct whether any one is--good or bad?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean,” he declared.
Then Miss Selby laughed. She regretted it afterward, but it was done.
She had laughed at Mr. Anderson, and he resented it, deeply.
They walked side by side for half a mile, and never said one single
word, and by the time they reached the boarding house they had firmly
established that worst of all complications, an angry silence. It was
now impossible for either of them to speak.