“The reason I spoke to you about Jim just now,” said Fanny, “was
because he’s been acting awfully queer lately. I thought perhaps you
knew—I know he likes you better than any of the other girls. He says
you have some sense, and the others haven’t.”
“I guess that must have been before Lydia Orr came to Brookville,” said
Ellen, in a hard, sweet voice.
“Yes; it was,” admitted Fanny reluctantly. “Everything seems to be
different since then.”
“What has Jim been doing that’s any queerer than usual?” inquired
Ellen, with some asperity.
Fanny hesitated.
“You won’t tell?”
“Of course not, if it’s a secret.”
“Cross your heart an’ hope t’ die?” quoted Fanny from their childhood
days.
Ellen giggled.
“Cross m’ heart an’ hope t’ die,” she repeated.
“Well, Jim’s been off on some sort of a trip,” said Fanny.
“I don’t see anything so very queer about that.”
“Wait till I tell you— You must be sure and not breathe a word, even to
your mother; you won’t, will you?”
“Fan, you make me mad! Didn’t I just say I wouldn’t?”
“Well, then; he went with _her_ in the auto; they started about five
o’clock in the morning, and Jim didn’t get home till after twelve that
night.”
Ellen laughed, with studied indifference.
“Pity they couldn’t have asked us to go along,” she said. “I’m sure the
car’s plenty big enough.”
“I don’t think it was just for fun,” said Fanny.
“You don’t? What for, then?”
“I asked Jim, and he wouldn’t tell me.”
“When did you ask him?”
“The morning they went. I came down about half past four: mother
doesn’t get up as early as that, we haven’t much milk to look after
now; but I wake up awfully early sometimes, and I’d rather be doing
something than lying there wide awake.”
Ellen squeezed Fanny’s arm sympathetically. She herself had lost no
moments of healthy sleep over Jim Dodge’s fancied defection; but she
enjoyed imagining herself to be involved in a passionate romance.
“Isn’t it _awful_ to lie awake and think—_and think_, and not be able
to do a single thing!” she said, with a tragic gesture.
Fanny bent down to look into Ellen’s pretty face.
“Why, Ellen,” she said, “is it as bad as that? I didn’t suppose you
really cared.”
She clasped Ellen’s slender waist closer and kissed her fervently.
Ellen coaxed two shining tears into sparkling prominence on her long
lashes.
“Oh, don’t mind me, Fan,” she murmured; “but I _can_ sympathize with
you, dear. I know _exactly_ how you feel—and to think it’s the same
girl!”
Ellen giggled light-heartedly:
“Anyway, she can’t marry both of them,” she finished.
Fanny was looking away through the boles of the gnarled old trees, her
face grave and preoccupied.
“Perhaps I oughtn’t to have told you,” she said.
“Why, you haven’t told me anything, yet,” protested Ellen. “You’re the
funniest girl, Fan! I don’t believe you know how to—really confide in
anybody. If you’d tell me more how you feel about _him_, you wouldn’t
care half so much.”
Fanny winced perceptibly. She could not bear to speak of the
secret—which indeed appeared to be no secret—she strove daily to bury
under a mountain of hard work, but which seemed possessed of mysterious
powers of resurrection in the dark hours between sunset and sunrise.
“But there’s nothing to—to talk about, Ellen,” she said; and in spite
of herself her voice sounded cold, almost menacing.
“Oh, very well, if you feel that way,” retorted Ellen. “But I can tell
you one thing—or, I _might_ tell you something; but I guess I won’t.”
“Please, Ellen,—if it’s about—”
“Well, it is.”
Fanny’s eyes pleaded hungrily with the naughty Ellen.
“You haven’t finished your account of that interesting pleasure
excursion of Jim’s and Miss Orr’s,” said Ellen. “Isn’t it lovely Jim
can drive her car? Is he going to be her regular chauffeur? And do you
get an occasional joy-ride?”
“Of course not,” Fanny said indignantly. “Oh, Ellen, how can you go on
like that! I’m sure you don’t care a bit about Jim or me, either.”
“I do!” declared Ellen. “I love you with all my heart, Fan; but I don’t
know about Jim. I—I might have—you know; but if he’s crazy over that
Orr girl, what’s the use? There are other men, just as good-looking as
Jim Dodge and not half so sarcastic and disagreeable.”
“Jim can be disagreeable, if he wants to,” conceded Jim’s sister. “When
I asked him where he was going with the car so early in the morning—you
know he’s been bringing the car home nights so as to clean it and fix
the engine, till she can get somebody—I was surprised to find him
putting in oil and tightening up screws and things, when it was
scarcely daylight; and I said so. He wouldn’t tell me a thing. ‘You
just ’tend to your own knitting, Fan,’ was all he said; ‘perhaps you’ll
know some day; and then again, perhaps you won’t.’”
“And didn’t you find out?” cried Ellen, her dark eyes alight with
curiosity. “If that doesn’t sound exactly like Jim Dodge! But you said
you heard him when he came in that night; didn’t he tell you anything
then?—You don’t think they ran off to get married? Oh, Fan!”
“Of course not, you goose! Do you suppose he’d have come back home
alone, if it had been anything like that?”
Ellen heaved a sigh of exaggerated relief.
“‘Be still, my heart’!” she murmured.
“No; they went to get somebody from somewhere,” pursued Fanny.
“To get somebody from somewhere,” repeated Ellen impatiently. “How
thrilling! Who do you suppose it was?”
Fanny shook her head:
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“How perfectly funny! ...Is the somebody there, now?”
“I don’t know. Jim won’t tell me a thing that goes on there. He says if
there’s anything on top of the earth he absolutely despises it’s a
gossiping man. He says a gossiping woman is a creation of God—must be,
there’s so many of ’em; but a gossiping man—he can’t find any word in
the dictionary mean enough for that sort of a low-down skunk.”
Ellen burst into hysterical laughter.
“What an idea!” she gasped. “Oh, but he’s almost too sweet to live,
Fan. Somebody ought to take him down a peg or two. Fan, if he proposes
to that girl, I hope she won’t have him. ’Twould serve him right!”
“Perhaps she won’t marry anybody around here,” mused Fanny. “Did you
ever notice she wears a thin gold chain around her neck, Ellen?”
Ellen nodded.
“Perhaps there’s a picture of somebody on it.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
Ellen impatiently kicked a big apple out of her way, to the manifest
discomfiture of two or three drunken wasps who were battening on the
sweet juices.
“I’ve got to go back to the house,” she said. “Mother’ll be looking for
me.”
“But, Ellen—”
“Well?”
“You said you knew something—”
Ellen yawned.
“Did I?”
“You know you did, Ellen! Please—”
“’Twasn’t much.”
“What was it?”
“Oh, nothing, only I met the minister coming out of Lydia Orr’s house
one day awhile ago, and he was walking along as if he’d been sent for—
Never even saw me. I had a good mind to speak to him, anyway; but
before I could think of anything cute to say he’d gone by—two-forty on
a plank road!”
Fanny was silent. She was wishing she had not asked Ellen to tell. Then
instantly her mind began to examine this new aspect of her problem.
“He didn’t look so awfully pleased and happy,” Ellen went on, “his head
was down—so, and he was just scorching up the road. Perhaps they’d been
having a scrap.”
“Oh, no!” burst from Fanny’s lips. “It wasn’t that.”
“Why, what do you know about Wesley Elliot and Lydia Orr?” inquired
Ellen vindictively. “You’re a whole lot like Jim—as close-mouthed as a
molasses jug, when you don’t happen to feel like talking.... It isn’t
fair,” she went on crossly. “I tell you everything—every single thing;
and you just take it all in without winking an eyelash. It isn’t fair!”
“Oh, Ellen, please don’t—I can’t bear it from you!”
Fanny’s proud head drooped to her friend’s shoulder, a stifled sob
escaped her.
“There now, Fan; I didn’t mean a word of it! I’m sorry I told you about
him—only I thought he looked so kind of cut up over something that
maybe— Honest, Fan, I don’t believe he likes her.”
“You don’t know,” murmured Fanny, wiping her wet eyes. “I didn’t tell
you she came to see me.”
“She did!”
“Yes; it was after we had all been there, and mother was going on so
about the furniture. It all seemed so mean and sordid to me, as if we
were trying to—well, you know.”
Ellen nodded:
“Of course I do. That’s why you wouldn’t let her have your furniture. I
gloried in your spunk, Fan.”
“But I did let her have it, Ellen.”
“You did? Well!”
“I’ll tell you how it happened. Mother’d gone down to the village, and
Jim was off somewhere—he’s never in the house day-times any more; I’d
been working on the new curtains all day, and I was just putting them
up in the parlor, when she came.... Ellen, sometimes I think perhaps we
don’t understand that girl. She was just as sweet— If it wasn’t for— If
I hadn’t hardened my heart against her almost the first thing, you
know, I don’t believe I could help loving her.”
“Fanny!” cried Ellen protestingly. “She certainly is a soft-soap
artist. My mother says she is so refined; and Mrs. Daggett is always
chanting her praises.”
“Think of all she’s done for the village,” urged Fanny. “I want to be
just, even if—”
“Well, I don’t!” cried Ellen. “I just enjoy being real spiteful
sometimes—especially when another girl gobbles all the men in sight;
and I know I’m prettier than she is. It’s just because she’s new
and—and stylish and rich. What made you give in about your furniture,
Fan?”
“Because I—”
Fanny stopped short, puckering her forehead.
“I don’t know whether I can explain it, Ellen; but I notice it every
time I am with her. There’s something—”
“Good gracious, Fan! She must have hypnotized you.”
“Be quiet, Ellen, I’m trying to think just how it happened. She didn’t
say so very much—just sat down and watched me, while I sewed rings on
the curtains. But the first thing I knew, I piped up and said: ‘Do you
really want that old furniture of mine so much?’ And she said— Well,
no matter what she said; it was more the way she looked. I guess I’d
have given her the eyes out of my head, or any old thing.”
“That’s just what I told you,” interrupted Ellen. “There are people
like that. Don’t you remember that horrid old what’s-his-name in
‘Trilby’?”
“Don’t be silly, Ellen,” said Fanny rebukingly. “Well, I took her up to
my room and showed her my bed and bureau and washstand. There were some
chairs, too; mother got them all for my room at that old auction we’ve
heard so much about; I was just a baby then. I told her about it. She
sat down in my rocking-chair by the window and just looked at the
things, without saying a word, at first. After a while, she said: ‘Your
mother used to come in and tuck the blankets around you nice and warm
in the night; didn’t she?’”
“‘Why, I suppose she did,’ I told her. ‘Mother’s room is right next to
mine.’ ... Ellen, there was a look in her eyes—I can’t tell you about
it—you wouldn’t understand. And, anyway, I didn’t care a bit about the
furniture. ‘You can have it,’ I said. ‘I don’t want it, and I don’t see
why you do; it isn’t pretty any more.’ I thought she was going to cry,
for a minute. Then such a soft gladness came over her face. She came up
to me and took both my hands in hers; but all she said was ‘Thank
you.’”
“And did she pay you a whole lot for it?” inquired Ellen sordidly.
“I didn’t think anything about that part of it,” said Fanny. “Jim
carried it all over the next day, with a lot of old stuff mother had.
Jim says she’s had a man from Grenoble working in the barn for weeks
and weeks, putting everything in order. My old set was painted over,
with all the little garlands and blue ribbons, like new.”
“But how much—” persisted Ellen. “She must have paid you a lot for it.”
“I didn’t ask mother,” said Fanny. “I didn’t want to know. I’ve got a
new set; it’s real pretty. You must come over and see my room, now it’s
all finished.”
What Fanny did not tell Ellen was that after Lydia’s departure she had
unexpectedly come upon the photograph of the picnic group under a book
on her table. The faded picture with its penciled words had meant much
to Fanny. She had not forgotten, she told herself, she could never
forget, that day in June, before the unlooked-for arrival of the
strange girl, whose coming had changed everything. Once more she lived
over in imagination that perfect day, with its white clouds floating
high in the blue, and the breath of clover on the wind. She and Wesley
Elliot had gone quietly away into the woods after the boisterous
merriment of the picnic luncheon.
“It’s safe enough, as long as we follow the stream,” Fanny had assured
him, piloting the way over fallen logs and through dense thickets of
pine and laurel, further and further away from the sounds of shrill
laughter and the smoky smell of the camp fire, where the girls were
still busy toasting marshmallows on long sticks for the youths who
hovered in the rear.
The minister had expressed a keen desire to hear the rare notes of the
hermit thrush; and this romantic quest led them deep into the forest.
The girl paused at last on the brink of a pool, where they could see
the shadowy forms of brook trout gliding through the clear, cold water.
“If we are quiet and listen,” she told him, “I think we shall hear the
hermit.”
On a carpet of moss, thicker and softer than a deep-piled rug, they sat
down. Not a sound broke the stillness but the gurgle of water and the
soft soughing of the wind through great tree tops. The minister bared
his head, as if aware of the holy spirit of solitude in the place.
Neither spoke nor stirred; but the girl’s heart beat loud—so loud she
feared he might hear, and drew her little cape closer above her breast.
Then all at once, ringing down the somber aisles of the forest came the
song of the solitary bird, exquisite, lonely, filled with an
indescribable, yearning sweetness. The man’s eloquent eyes met her own
in a long look.
“Wonderful!” he murmured.
His hand sought and closed upon hers for an instant. Then without
further speech they returned to the picnickers. Someone—she thought it
was Joyce Fulsom—snapped the joyous group at the moment of the
departure. It had been a week later, that he had written the words
“Lest we forget”—with a look and smile which set the girl’s pulses
fluttering. But that was in June. Now it was September. Fanny, crouched
by the window where Lydia Orr had been that afternoon, stared coldly at
the picture. It was downright silly to have carried it about with her.
She had lost it somewhere—pulling out her handkerchief, perhaps. Had
Lydia Orr found and brought it back? She ardently wished she knew; but
in the meanwhile—
She tore the picture deliberately across, thereby accomplishing
unhindered what Wesley Elliot had attempted several days before; then
she burned the fragments in the quick spurt of a lighted match.... Lest
we forget, indeed!