_By_ KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN
From _Scribner’s Magazine_
_Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner’s Sons._
_Copyright, 1919, by Katharine Holland Brown._
Lucien, Mrs. Bellamy’s impeccable chauffeur, brought me home from Mrs.
Bellamy’s bridge that green-gold summer afternoon of 1914. Looking down
from the cliff road, all Gloucester Harbor was a floor of rippled
amethyst. When we turned into the forest drive the air breathed deep of
pine fragrance, heady as new wine.
“How few people are driving to-day, Lucien! Yet it’s so perfect—”
“One driver approaches, mademoiselle.” Lucien’s solid gray shape bore
hard on the wheel. The big car swerved, shot half-way up the bank. I
screamed. Past us like a streak of white lightning tore a headlong white
monster, muffler cut out, siren whooping. Its huge wheels grazed our
hubs; with a roar, it shot round the curve, plunged down the steep grade
toward Gloucester, and vanished. Its shriek rang back to us like the
shriek of a lost soul.
“Lucien! That car must have been making eighty miles an hour!”
“Mademoiselle speaks truth.” Lucien, frankly shaken, took off his cap
and wiped a very damp brow. “It is the car of the great Doctor Lake, he
who is guest of Madame Hallowell, at Greenacres.”
“Doctor Lake! That stodgy old specialist!” I was a bit shaken myself.
“Nonsense. He never ventures out of a crawl.”
“Pardon, mademoiselle. It is the car of Doctor Lake. But at the wheel
sat not monsieur the doctor. Instead, there sat, and drove”—here Lucien
forgot himself completely—“that demon boy.”
“Buster!” I groaned. For there was only one demon boy on all Cape Ann,
and that was my second cousin Isabella O’Brien’s only son, Richard Parke
O’Brien, rechristened Buster since the days of his tempestuous infancy.
Isabella (born Sears and Brattle Street, but she ran away and married
Octavius O’Brien, descendant of an unknown race, at eighteen, and has
lived ever since in the wilds of Oklahoma)—Isabella, I say, had sent her
child to visit Aunt Charlotte and myself, while she and her Octavius
went camping in the Yosemite. From her letters we had inferred that she
needed a vacation from her Civic League work. Later, we came to realize
that her base secret aim had been to win a vacation from Buster. What we
two sedate Back Bay spinsters had endured from that unspeakable child!
Octavius O’Brien is a large, emphatic man with large, emphatic ideas as
to the rearing of children. Buster once summarized his father’s method
in a few simple words.
“Here in New England, when I want to learn how to do anything, you and
Aunt Charlotte say: ‘Dear me, Richard, wait till you grow up. Then
you’ll understand.’ Down in Oklahoma, dad just gives me a check and
says: ‘Go to it.’”
Such eclecticism bears startling fruits. The maddening thing about
Buster’s activities was that his blackest crimes, once sifted down,
proved not to be crimes at all. Merely the by-products of his inquiring
disposition. Although, to quote Aunt Charlotte, if your house is burnt
down over your head, it matters little to you whether it was fired for
malice or from a scientific desire to see how long it would take to
burn.
To-day, as we drove on, I looked back on the summer. As a rule, our
months at the shore are compact of slow and tranquil days, but this
season had fled past like a demented moving-picture film. Buster had
arrived at 9 A. M. the 8th of June. By noon he had made his presence
felt. During the next five days he took the gas-range apart, to see how
it worked, and put it together again, but inaccurately, so that it blew
up and all but annihilated a perfectly good cook. I had to raise
Louisiana’s wages three dollars a week. He drained all the water out of
the fountain pool, to see how long it would take to refill it; then, at
sight of a wayfaring organ-grinder he rushed away, to bribe the man to
open up his instrument and let him see how its harmonious innards
worked. Thus, he left nine fat, venerable goldfish to flop themselves to
a miserable end. To be sure, he sniffled audibly at dinner that night
and almost declined dessert; which didn’t bring back aunt’s beloved
Chinese carp, alas! He tried to teach Gulliver, the Leonards’ Great
Dane, to do German police-dog stunts. Gulliver, who is young, obedient,
and muddle-headed, took his training seriously to heart and made
breath-taking leaps at the Leonards’ gardener’s throat, to the up-blown
pride of both Buster and the gardener. Unhappily, he saw fit to show off
his new accomplishment on an irascible New York banker, to whom
Commodore Leonard was trying his best to sell his early Pullman place at
Beverly Farms. As Buster hotly declared, if the banker hadn’t squealed
and acted such a sissy, Gulliver would have stopped with a mere snap at
his lapel. But his cries so excited the poor pup that by the time the
horrified commodore came to his aid most of the banker’s raiment was in
tatters, to say nothing of his dignity. Commodore Leonard lost his one
chance of the year to unload that white elephant of a house. At that, he
congratulated himself because the banker didn’t sue him for damages.
Subdued and chastened, Buster took himself off to the harbor to seek
diversion among the ancient mariners who had already found in him a
stimulating audience. He spent, I judge, a pleasant afternoon. He rode
back on the Magnolia ’bus just at dinner-time. He did not return alone.
Proudly he strode up the steps, one eye cocked over his shoulder at the
bland and tarry skipper who swaggered, all too jovially, behind. Eagerly
he ran to the palsied Aunt Charlotte.
“Aunt Charlotte, this is my friend, Captain Harrigan, of the _Lottie
Foster_. The captain has come to dinner and to spend the evening, and
he’s promised to tell us all his adventures and draw the plans for my
racing yacht, when I get one, and teach me how to make her torpedo-proof
and—and everything! Cap Harrigan, meet Aunt Charlotte!”
Well, as Aunt Charlotte and I agreed later, we were bound and helpless.
The child was so brimful of glad hospitality. You couldn’t strike him in
the face by rebuffing his friend. But oh, the hours that followed! As
Louisiana put it later, the genman wasn’t plumb drunk, but he cert’ny
was happy drunk. The instant dinner was ended Aunt Charlotte fled
up-stairs, locked her door, and pushed the bureau against it. I stayed
on deck, a quaking Casabianca, till 11 P. M. Then, by way of a mild
suggestion, I turned down the lights; and Captain Harrigan, now in
mellow tears at the reminiscences of his own boyhood, kissed my hands
and took a fervent leave.
“But Richard, child! The man was intoxicated! Disgustingly intoxicated!”
“Gosh, was he? Well, he was bully and interesting, anyhow. Look at all
those sailors’ knots he’s taught me. And the story he told about
crossing the equator the first time, and the one about the admiral who
was always three sheets to the wind and wouldn’t tie his
shoe-strings—what does three sheets to the wind mean, anyhow? And he’s
showed me how to read a compass and all about sextants and transits,
too. Gee, I bet I could steer a dreadnought, after what he’s taught me
to-night.”
“He certainly was full of information. But don’t invite any more drunken
sailors to the house, dear. Bring your friends home whenever you wish,
but make sure first that they’re sober.”
“Well, I will. Though I kind o’ hate to ask ’em.”
With that I let the matter drop. You could not blame the child. Back of
every calamity that he brought upon us lay his ravenous curiosity, his
frantic longing to know how the world was made and ruled. But to-day was
different. No hunger for knowledge could warrant a boy of fifteen in
seizing the sacrosanct car of the most famous of Boston specialists, and
going joy-riding down the Gloucester hills. Buster should be seriously
rebuked.
Incidentally, I’d been playing bridge all afternoon with two stern
dowagers and one irritable maiden lady, all crack players, while I’m a
hopeless amateur. I had on a tea-rose crêpe de chine and the waitress
had spilled coffee on it. Further, I was wearing brand-new
patent-leather slippers. Yes, Buster would receive his full deserts.
Buster pranced home at dusk, afire with triumph from his crested red
head to his comically massive young feet. Pallid and grave, Aunt
Charlotte and I confronted him on the piazza.
“H’lo, Cousin Edith. Say, is dinner ready? Cracky, I could eat a whole
barbecue!”
“Richard! Where is Doctor Lake’s car?”
Buster gasped slightly, but his jauntiness never flinched.
“Over at Mrs. Hallowell’s garage, of course.”
“You have just left it there. Richard, don’t you realize what a lawless
thing you have done? To take another person’s car without permission—”
“I did too have permission!” Buster’s red crest reared. His black eyes
flamed. “I had her opened up, and was studying the engine—gee, some
peach!—and I told the doctor’s chauffeur that I’d bet him a box of
Gibraltars I could take that car clear to Doctor Lake’s Boston office
and back in two hours and not get pinched. And he said, ‘I’m from Saint
Joe, son. You gotta show me.’ So I jumped aboard, and I’d beat it down
the drive before he could say boo. And I made it in one hour and
fifty-seven minutes, though I had to waste ten minutes, and a dollar
besides, on the doctor’s mutt of a doorman—making him understand why he
must sign his name to a card saying I’d reported there at five sharp.
The big dummy, I don’t believe the real reason has dawned on him yet.
But you oughter seen that chauffeur wilt when I whizzled her in, two
minutes ago!”
“I feel wilted myself. When I think of the apologies I must make to
Doctor Lake—”
“Apologies? What for? He ought to be delighted. It was a corking speed
test for his car. Down that stem-winder cliff, let me tell you, she just
naturally hung on by her eyebrows.”
“Richard, the chauffeur did not mean to give you permission. You know
that.”
“W-Well. What if he didn’t?”
“Richard, you are inexcusable.” Aunt Charlotte ruffled her feathers and
dashed into the fray. Whereat Richard exploded.
“Gee, ain’t it fierce? Ain’t it, now! How’s a fellow to learn about cars
and engines and things if folks won’t ever give him a chance to try ’em
out? And I’ve got to find out how to do things and make things and run
things; I’ve _got_ to know!”
His solid fists clinched; his voice skittered comically from a bass
bellow to an angry treble crow. I choked. He was so exactly like a
pin-feathered young Shanghai rooster, hotly contending his right to live
his own life, against two glum, elderly hens. But that didn’t deter me
from marching him over to Madam Hallowell’s later.
“Nonsense, my dear Miss Edith!” Thus Doctor Lake, just a bit too
Olympian in large white waistcoat and eminent calm. “It was my
chauffeur’s doing. He will answer to me. I beg you, give the matter no
more thought.”
None the less, in his bland eye lurked a yearning to seize on Buster and
boil him in oil. Buster saw that look.
“Grown-up folks are so darn stingy!” he mused bitterly as we went away.
He aimed a vicious kick at the box hedge. “You’d think any man would be
glad to let a fellow take his car to pieces and study it out, then test
it for speed and endurance, ’specially when the fellow has never owned
anything better than a measly little runabout in all his life. But no.
There he stands, all diked out like a cold boiled owl, with his eyes
rolled up and his lip rolled out—‘My chauffeur will answer to me.’ When,
all the time, he’d lick the hide off me if he just dasted. Old stuffed
shirt!”
“You need not speak so disrespectfully—”
“I wouldn’t—if folks wasn’t so disrespectful to me.” His eyes began to
flash again, his sullen under-lip to quiver. “‘Learn it all,’ they tell
you. ‘Investigate every useful art.’ That’s what everybody pours down
your throat, teachers, and relations, an’ all the rest of ’em. How do
they s’pose I’m going to learn about things if they lock everything up
away from me? And I’ve got to find out about things; I’ve _got_ to
know!”
I didn’t say anything. What was the use? You might as well scold an
active young dynamo for wanting to spark. But mild little Aunt Charlotte
was quite sputtery, for her.
“Isabella and her Octavius have reared their child to have the tastes of
a common mechanic. It is too ridiculous. Richard needs to understand
problems of finance, not of cogs and axle-grease. If only American
parents would adopt the German methods! _They_ teach their children what
is best for them to know. They don’t permit their young people to waste
time and money on wild-goose flights.”
“N-no.” I shivered a little. For some reason, the annual percentage of
school-boy suicides in Prussia flashed through my mind. When you
multiplied that by a nation— “But perhaps it’s as well that we give our
boys more rope.”
“To hang themselves with?” sniffed Aunt Charlotte. I subsided.
So did Buster, for some weeks—weeks so peaceful, they were all but
sinister. Across the ocean, a harebrained student murdered a reigning
duke and his duchess. It made the newspapers very unpleasant reading for
several days. Across the harbor, the yacht-club gave the most charming
dinner dance of the year. Down East Gloucester way, a lank and
close-mouthed youth from Salem had set up a shack of a hangar and was
giving brief and gaspy flights to the summer populace at five dollars a
head. Whereat Buster gravitated to East Gloucester, as the needle to the
pole. He bribed Louisiana to give him his breakfast at seven; he
snatched a mouthful of lunch in the village; he seldom reached home
before dusk.
“Richard, you are not spending your allowance in aeroplane rides?”
“Say, listen, Cousin Edie. Where’d I get the coin for five-dollar jitney
trips? I’m overdrawn sixty dollars on my allowance now, all on account
of that beanery down the harbor—”
“The beanery? You haven’t eaten sixty dollars’ worth of beans!”
Buster jumped. He turned a sheepish red.
“Gosh, I forgot. Why—well, you see, the boss at that joint has just put
in the grandest big new oven ever—iron and cement and a steam-chamber
and everything. One day last week he had to go to Boston, and I asked
him to let me fire it for him. It was the most interesting thing, to
watch that steam-gauge hop up, only she hopped too fast. So I shut off
the drafts, but I wasn’t quick enough. There were forty-eight pounds of
beans in the roaster, and they burnt up, crocks and all, and—well,
between us, we hadn’t put enough water in the boiler. So she sort
of—er—well, she blew up. I wired dad for the money, and he came across
by return mail. Dad’s a pretty good sport. But I’ll bet he doesn’t
loosen up again before Labor Day.”
Well, I was sorry for the baker. But Buster, penniless, was far less
formidable than Buster with money in his purse.
The green and golden days flowed on. The North Shore was its loveliest.
But the newspapers persisted in being unpleasant. Serbian complications,
amazing pronunciamentos, rumors that were absurd past credence; then,
appalling, half-believed, the winged horror-tale of Belgium. Then, in a
trice, our bridge-tables were pushed back, our yacht dinners forgotten.
Frowning, angrily bewildered, we were all making hurried trips to the
village and heckling the scared young telegraph-operator with messages
and money that must be cabled to marooned kinsfolk at Liverpool or
Hamburg or Ostend. “This moment! Can’t you _see_ how important it is?” A
day or so more and we were all buying shoes and clothes for little
children and rushing our first boggled first-aid parcels to the wharf.
And, in the midst of all that dazed hurly, up rose Mrs. John B.
Connable. Aglow with panicky triumph, she flung wide the gates of Dawn
Towers, her spandy-new futurist palace, to the first bazaar of the
Belgian relief!
As one impious damsel put it, Belgium’s extremity was Mrs. Connable’s
opportunity. Seven weary years, with the grim patience of stalwart
middle age and seventeen millions, has Mrs. John B. labored to mount the
long, ice-coated stair that leads from a Montana cow-camp to the
thresholds of Beacon Hill. Six cruel seasons have beheld her falter and
slip back. But on this, the seventh, by this one soaring scramble, she
gained the topmost gliddery round. A bazaar for the Belgians? For once,
something new. And Dawn Towers, despite its two-fisted châtelaine, was
said to be a poet’s dream.
Well, we went. All of us. Even to Madam Hallowell, in lilac chiffon and
white fox fur, looking like the Wicked Fairy done by Drian; even to Aunt
Charlotte, wearing the Curtice emeralds, her sainted nose held at an
angle that suggested burnt flannel. I’ll say for Mrs. Connable that she
did it extremely well. The great, beautiful house was thrown open from
turret to foundation-stone. Fortune-tellers lurked in gilded tents; gay
contadinas sang and sold their laces—the prettiest girls from the Folies
at that; Carli’s band, brought from New York to play fox-trots;
cleverest surprise of all, the arrival, at five o’clock, of a lordly
limousine conveying three heavenborn “principals,” a haughty young
director in puttees, a large camera. Would Mrs. Connable’s guests
consent to group themselves upon the beach as background for the
garden-party scene of “The Princess Patricia”—with Angela Meadow, from
the Metropolitan, as the Princess, if you please, and Lou-Galuppi
himself as the villain?
Mrs. Connable’s guests would. All the world loves a camera, I reflected,
as I observed Madam Hallowell drift languidly to the centre-front, the
chill Cadwalladers from Westchester drape themselves unwittingly but
firmly in the foreground, the D’Arcy Joneses stand laughingly holding
hands in the very jaws of the machine. But Doctor Lake was the
strategist of the hour. Chuckling in innocent mirth, he chatted with the
radiant Angela until the director’s signal brought the villain
swaggering from the side-lines; then, gracefully dismayed, he stepped
back at least six inches. If the camera caught Angela at all, the doctor
would be there—every eminent inch of him.
“Ready—camera!”
The joyous chatter stilled. On every face fell smug sweetness, as a
chrism. Clickety-click, click-click—
Then, amazingly, another sound mingled with that magic tick, rose,
drowned it to silence—the high, snarling whine of a swift-coming
aeroplane.
“Keep your places, please! Eyes right!”
Nobody heard him. Swung as on one pivot, the garden-party turned toward
the harbor, mazed, agape. Across that silver water, flying so low its
propeller flashed through diamond spray, straight toward the crowd on
the beach it came—the aeroplane from East Gloucester.
“There, I _knew_ he’d butt in just at the wrong minute! I ordered him
for six, sharp!” Mrs. Connable’s voice rang hotly through the silence.
“Hi, there! Land farther down the beach; we ain’t ready for you. Go on,
I tell you! Oh, oh, my gracious goodness me! He’s a-headin’ right on top
of us—”
That was all anybody heard. For in that second, pandemonium broke. The
great, screaming bird drove down upon us with the speed of light, the
blast of a howitzer shell. Whir-r-rip! The big marquee collapsed like a
burst balloon. Crash! One landing-wheel grazed the band-stand; it tipped
over like a fruit-basket, spilling out shrieking men. Through a dizzy
mist I saw the garden-party, all its pose forgot, scuttle like terrified
ants. I saw the scornful Cadwalladers leap behind an infant pine. I saw
D’Arcy Jones seize his wedded wife by her buxom shoulders and fling her
in front of him, a living shield. I saw—can I believe?—the august Doctor
Lake, pop-eyed and shrieking, gallop headlong across the beach and
burrow madly in the low-tide sands. I saw—but how could my spinning
brain set down those thousand spectacles?
However, one eye saw it all—and set it down in cold, relentless
truth—the camera. True to his faith, that camera-man kept on grinding,
even when the monster all but grazed his head.
Then, swifter even than that goblin flight, it was all over. With a
deafening thud, the aeroplane grounded on a bed of early asters. Out of
the observer’s seat straddled a lean, tall shape—the aviator. From the
pilot’s sheath leaped a white-faced, stammering boy. White to his lips;
but it was the pallor of a white flame, the light of a glory past all
words.
“H’lo, Cousin Edie! See me bring her across the harbor? Some little
pilot!” Then, as if he saw for the first that gurgling multitude, the
wrecked tent, the over-turned band-stand: “Gee, that last puff of wind
was more than I’d counted on. But she landed like thistledown, just the
same. Just thistledown!”
I’ll pass over the next few hours. And why attempt to chronicle the day
that followed? Bright and early, I set forth to scatter olive-branches
like leaves of Vallombrosa. Vain to portray the icy calm of the Misses
Cadwallader, the smiling masks which hid the rage of the D’Arcy Joneses.
Hopeless to depict the bland, amused aplomb of Doctor Lake. To hear him
graciously disclaim all chagrin was to doubt the word of one’s own
vision. Could I have dreamed the swoop of that mighty bird, the screech
of a panic-stricken fat man galloping like a mad hippopotamus for the
shelter of the surf?
As for Mrs. John B. Connable—hell hath no fury like the woman who has
fought and bled for years to mount that treacherous flight; who, gaining
the last giddy step, feels, in one sick heartbeat, the ladder give way
from under. I went from that tearful and belligerent empress feeling as
one who has gazed into the dusk fires of the Seventh Ledge.
“We’ll have to give a dinner for her, and ask the Cadwalladers and
Cousin Sue Curtice and the Salem Bronsons. That will pacify her, if
anything can.” Thus Aunt Charlotte, with irate gloom. There are times
when Aunt Charlotte’s deep spiritual nature betrays a surprising grasp
of mundane things.
“Especially if we can get that French secretary, and Madam Hallowell.
Now I’m off to soothe the aviator. Where did I put my check-book?”
The aviator stood at his hangar door, winding a coil of wire. His lean
body looked feather-light in its taut khaki; under the leathern helmet,
his narrow, dark eyes glinted like the eyes of a falcon hooded against
the sun. Blank, unsmiling, he heard my maunder of explanation. Somehow
his cool aloofness daunted me a bit. But when I fumbled for my
checkbook, he flashed alive.
“Money? What for? Because the kid scraped an aileron? Forget it. I ain’t
puttin’ up any holler. He’s fetched an’ carried for me all summer. I’m
owin’ him, if it comes down to that.”
“But Richard had no right to damage your machine—”
“Well, he never meant to. That squally gust put him off tack, else he’d
’a’ brought her down smooth’s a whistle. For, take it from me, he’s a
flier born. Hand, eye, balance, feel, he’s got ’em all. And he’s patient
and speedy and cautious and reckless all at once. And he knows more
about engines than I do, this minute. There’s not a motor made that can
faze him. Say, he’s one whale of a kid, all right. If his folks would
let me, I’d take him on as flyin’ partner. Fifty-fifty at that.”