Babbling girlish voices waked him from his revery, and half a dozen young

figures, disguised in handsomely embroidered Japanese costumes and

headgear, their eyes given the typical almond-shaped and upward slant by

means of paint and pencil, came down the stairs, followed a moment later

by a taller figure in still richer robes, and so carefully made up by

powder and paint that at a distance she looked but little older than the

girls. Coming toward Bradford with an expression of playful inquiry, she

said: "Is this Mr. Bradford? I am Mrs. Latham. Did you wish to see me?

I've only a moment to spare, for at three o'clock I lose my identity and

become a Geisha girl."

Bradford was embarrassed for a moment, even quite disconcerted. Why

should he have taken it for granted that Sylvia had spoken of him, and

that he should be known to her mother? But such was the case, and he felt

bitterly humbled.

"I was one of Miss Latham's instructors at Rockcliffe two years ago. I

have returned now to spend the vacation with my mother, whom perhaps you

know, at Pine Ridge, and finding that you have come to live

here--I--ventured to call." If poor Bradford had desired to be stiff and

uninterestingly didactic, he could not have succeeded better.

"Ah, yes--Rockcliffe--Sylvia was there for a couple of years, and will

doubtless be glad to hear of the place. I myself never approved of

college life for girls, it makes them so superior and offish when they

return to society. Even two years abroad have not put Sylvia completely

at her ease among us again.

"We do not live here; this is merely a between-season roost, and we leave

again next week, so I have not met your mother. The only one of the name

I recollect is an old country egg woman back somewhere in the hills

toward Pine Ridge. You will find Sylvia at Mrs. Jenks-Smith's, just

above, at the rose booth. Pardon me if I leave you now, I have so much on

my hands this afternoon."

Thus dismissed, Bradford went out into the light again. He noticed for

the first time that his horse and buggy, standing unheeded where he left

them, looked strangely out of date, and as he went down the steps, the

horse turned his head, and recognizing him, gave a joyful whinny that

caused the grooms to grin. He could feel the colour rising to his very

eyes, and for a moment he determined to go home without making any

further effort to find Sylvia, and he felt grateful that his mother had

declined his invitation to come with him to the festival.

His mother, "the egg-woman"! What would she have thought of Sylvia's

mother thus painted and transformed in the name of charity? He

experienced a thrill of relief at the escape.

As he found himself on the free highway once more, he faltered. He would

see how Sylvia bore herself in the new surroundings before he put it all

behind him. This time he found a bit of shade and a fence rail for the

too friendly nag, and entering the Jenks-Smith grounds afoot, followed

the crowd that was gathering.

The rose garden of five years' well-trained growth was extremely

beautiful, while the pergola that separated it from the formal garden of

the fountain, and at the same time served as a gateway to it, was

utilized as the booth where roses and fanciful boxes of giant

strawberries were to be sold.

Bradford, standing at a little distance, under an archway, scanned the

faces of the smart married women who bustled about canvassing, and the

young girls who carelessly gathered the sumptuous roses into bouquets for

the buyers, making a great fuss over the thorns as they did so. Then one

tall, white-clad figure arrested his attention. It was Sylvia. She

handled the flowers lovingly, and was bestowing patient attention upon a

country woman, to whom these pampered roses were a revelation, and who

wished a bouquet made up of samples, one of each variety, and not a mass

all of a colour like the bunches that were arranged in the great baskets.

As Sylvia held the bouquet up for the woman's approval, adding a bud

here and there, pausing to breathe its fragrance herself before handing

it to the purchaser, Horace's courage came back. She was plainly not a

part of the vortex that surrounded her. Circumstances at present seemed

to stand between. He could not even venture a guess if she ever gave him

other than a friendly thought; but a feeling came over him as he stood in

the deep shade, that some day she might be lonely and need steadfast

friendship, and then the opportunity to serve her would give him the

right to question.

Now thoroughly master of himself, he went toward her, and was rewarded by

a greeting of unfeigned pleasure, a few moments of general talk, and a

big bunch of roses for his mother.

"No, you shall not buy these. I am sending them to your mother with my

love, to beg pardon for Miss Lavinia and myself, for we've been trying to

go to Pine Ridge all the week; but this affair has kept me spinning like

a top, and when I do stop I expect to fall over with weariness. I was

_so_ sorry about Rockcliffe Commencement. Some day, perhaps, mamma will

have finished bringing me out, and then I can crawl in again where it is

quiet, and live. Ah, you went to the house and saw her, and she said we

were going away next week? I did not know it, but we flit about so one

can never tell. I've half a mind to be rebellious and ask to be left here

with Lavinia Dorman for guardian, I'm so tired of change. Yes, I enjoyed

my flying trip to the West, in a way, though father only came as far as

Chicago with me, but I expect him to-morrow."

Then the crowd surged along, peering, staring, and feeling, so that it

would have blocked the way conspicuously if Bradford had lingered longer.

As he vanished, Monty Bell sauntered up, and, entering the booth, took

his place by Sylvia. Under pretext of good-naturedly saving her fingers

from thorns by tying the bouquets for her, kept by her side all the

afternoon, and when a lull came at tea time, strolled with her toward the

refreshment tent, where he coaxed her to sit down to rest in one of the

little recesses that lined the garden wall, where she would be free from

the crowd while he brought her some supper.

This she did the more readily because she was really tired, almost to the

point of faintness, and even felt grateful when Mr. Bell returned with

some dainty food, and sat beside her to hold her plate. She was so used

to seeing him about at all hours, making himself generally useful, that

the little attentions he continually showered upon her never held a

fragment of personality in her eyes.

Now, however, something familiar in his manner jarred upon her and put

her strangely on her guard. One of the man's peculiarities was that he

had a hypnotic manner, and presently, almost before she could really

understand what he was about, he had put his arm around her and was

making an easy, take-it-all-for-granted declaration of love.

For an instant she could not believe her ears, and then his tightening

clasp brought realization. Tearing herself away, and dropping her plate

with a crash, she faced him with white face and blazing eyes, saying but

one word--"Stop!" in so commanding a tone that even his fluency faltered,

and he paused in exceeding amaze at the result of what he had supposed

any woman of his set would esteem an honour, much more this strange girl

whose mother was engaged so systematically in securing a place at the

ladder top.

"If I had understood that your casual politeness to me and usefulness to

my mother meant insult such as this, we should have checked it long ago."

"Insult?" ejaculated Monty Bell, looking over his shoulder, apprehensive

lest some one should be within ear-shot, for to be an object of ridicule

was the greatest evil that could come to him. "You don't understand. I

want you to marry me."

"Insult, most certainly! What else do you call it for a man with two

little daughters, and divorced by his wife for his own unforgivable

fault, to ask any woman to marry him! Yes, I know, you see. Lavinia

Dorman is a friend of Mrs. Bell!"

"The devil!" muttered the man, still looking about uneasily, under the

gaze of her uncompromising accusation. In some way the directness of her

words made him feel uncomfortable for the moment, but he quickly

recovered, changed his tactics, and burying his hands in his pockets,

assumed his usually jaunty air, while half a smile, half a sneer, crossed

his face as he said lightly: "What a droll, Puritan spitfire we are,

aren't we? As if rearranged families were not a thing of daily happening.

Don't feel called upon to kick up a rumpus, it isn't necessary; besides,

take a tip from me, _your mother won't like it!_ If you are through with

that cup, I will take the things back," and nonchalantly shying the bits

of the broken plate into the bushes, he went toward the refreshment tent,

saying to his host, Mrs. Jenks-Smith, who was inquiring for Sylvia: "Yes,

she is yonder in the second arbour. I've taken her some tea, for she's

quite done up; that beastly overland trip home was too much for her in

the first hot weather."

Consequently the warm-hearted Lady of the Bluffs was naturally prepared

to find Sylvia sick and faint, and urged sending her home, where she

could slip in and get to bed unobserved, which was the one thing that the

girl most desired. Also this shrewd lady was wise enough to give no sign,

even though she drew her conclusions, when on turning to leave the arbour

she saw a bit of the broken plate lying on the ground at the opposite

side near where a point of the rustic work had torn a shred from Sylvia's

mull drapery as she had pulled herself away.

* * * * *

By the time that Sylvia had gained her room the warm twilight sky had

been transformed to a silver lake by the moon, but she neither enjoyed

its beauty nor heard the music that was beginning to come from the rose

garden above, as well as the tea room below stairs. She sat by the

window, deaf to all outside things, with only one thought in her mind;

she would gladly have buried the occurrence of the arbour, if it were

possible, but as it was, she must tell her mother, as now, that his

motive was made plain, Monty Bell, as a matter of course, could no longer

come to the house. Finally she went to bed and slept from sheer

exhaustion, never for a moment doubting that her mother would take her

view of the matter. Presently the French maid crept in and closed the

blinds, wondering why Mademoiselle often seemed to take pleasure so

sadly, and appeared older than Madame, her mother, and then, feeling at

liberty, hurried down gayly to dance on the back porch with the loitering

gentlemen's gentlemen who gathered there.

* * * * *

Mrs. Latham slept late the next morning, and at eleven o'clock had only

finished looking over her mail without yet touching her breakfast, when,

without waiting for an answer to her knock, Sylvia entered. Her mother

looked up in some surprise, for she did not encourage running in and out

at all hours, or any of the usual intimacies between a mother and grown

daughter who are companions. In fact she did not even ask Sylvia to sit

down, or if she was ill, though her pallor was very apparent, but merely

raised questioning eyebrows, saying, "What is it?" as she turned her

attention to some legal-looking documents in her lace-decked lap.

Chilled to the heart Sylvia seated herself in a low chair by her mother,

so that she need not raise her voice, and twisting her hands nervously,

told what had happened in as few words as possible, much as if she had

repeated them over and over until they were learned like a lesson.

Mrs. Latham's cold gray eyes at first snapped viciously, and then grew

big with wonder as Sylvia ended by saying, "I should never have spoken of

this to any one, and tried to forget, but you would think it strange that

Mr. Bell should stop coming here--and--"

"Think it strange?" said Mrs. Latham, speaking harshly and rapidly, a

thing she rarely did. "Do you know what I think of you? That you are the

most absolute little fool I ever imagined. You not only refuse a man who

could make your social position secure, but rant and get into tantrums

over the compliment he pays you, and call it an 'insult,' exactly as your

canting grandmother Latham might have done. I've no patience with you;

and if you think that this nonsense of yours shuts the door in Monty

Bell's face, you are wholly mistaken.

"While we are upon this subject of divorce that seems to shock you so, I

may as well tell you what you will not see for yourself, and your father

appears to have been too mealy-mouthed to explain,--we have agreed to

separate. No need of your getting tragic, there are no public

recriminations on either side, no vulgar infidelity or common

quarrelling, everything quite amicable, I assure you. Simply we find our

tastes totally different, and have done so for several years. Mr.

Latham's ambitions are wholly financial, mine are social. He repelled and

ignored my best friends, and as we are in every way independent of each

other, he has been wise enough to avoid possible and annoying

complications by standing out of my way and making it easy for me to

legalize the arrangement and readjust myself completely to new

conditions."

"But what of Carthy and me?" gasped Sylvia, in a voice so choked and

hollow that the older woman hesitated, but for a single instant only.

"Have neither you nor father thought of us? Where do we belong? Where is

our home? Can people who have once loved each other forget their children

and throw them off so? Does God allow it? You must have cared for father

once, for I remember when I was a little girl you told me that you called

me Sylvia, to have my name as nearly like father's--Sylvester--as

possible. Have you forgotten it all, that you can do this thing, when you

say in the same breath that father has done no evil?"

"Don't be tragic, Sylvia, and rake up things that have nothing to do with

the matter. As to your brother, it was your father's foolish severity

about a card debt, and insisting upon placing him away from me, that is

primarily responsible for the divorce, not any wish of mine to exile

Carthy. And you ask where your home is, as if I had turned you out, when

you have just refused an offer that any unmarried society woman, who can

afford it, would clutch."

Sylvia sat silent, looking blindly before her. Her mother waited a

moment, as if expecting some reply, and then continued: "Now that the

matter is virtually settled, I suppose in a few days the papers will

save me the trouble of announcing it. Under the circumstances, I shall

rent the Newport house for the season, as I have had several good

offers, and go abroad for two or three months on the continent, so that

before my return the town house will be redecorated and everything will

be readjusted for a successful winter. You had better take a few days

before deciding what to do. You can, of course, come with me, if you are

not sick of travel, or go to your father, who is ready to make you a

handsome allowance; though you will find that awkward at present, as he

is moving about so much. If you choose to feel aggrieved just now, you

might persuade your dear, prim Miss Dorman to either stay here with you

or take that little furnished house that is to rent on the lower road,

if you prefer that form of discomfort they call simplicity. You needn't

decide now; take time," she added genially, as if she was doing all that

could be asked.

When she ceased speaking, Sylvia, with bowed head, rose and quickly

left the room.

Then Mrs. Latham gave a sigh of relief that the interview was over, threw

the papers into a bureau drawer, called to the maid, who had been all the

while listening in the dressing room, to prepare to arrange her hair,

and, taking the chances that Sylvia would keep her room, at least for

some hours, wrote a hasty note to Monty Bell, inviting him to luncheon.

Meanwhile, Sylvia, instead of going to her room to cry, took her hat and

crept out into the lane that led to the woods. She must be quite away by

herself and gain time to think. This was a terrible sort of grief that

could neither be kept secret nor halved by sympathy, but must be worn in

the full glare of day. Her heart condemned her mother wholly, and she

understood why her father kept the silence of shame,--to whom could she

turn? As she gained the woods, and throwing herself down on a soft bed of

hemlock needles, closed her dry, burning eyes, two people seemed to stand

side by side and look at her pityingly,--Lavinia Dorman and Horace

Bradford,--and mentally she turned toward one and shrank from the other.

In Miss Lavinia she saw her only refuge, but between herself and Horace

the shadow of his upright mother seemed to intervene. What could they

think of her mother playing at Geisha girl in her own home at the very

hour of its wreck?

XII

HIS MOTHER

_July_ 1. It was several days after the festival before the news of the

Latham divorce was made definitely public by a paragraph under the

heading of "Society News," in one of the New York papers, though of

course the rumour had crept into every house on the Bluffs, by way of the

back stairs.

Miss Lavinia was greatly distressed, and yet did not know exactly how to

act in the matter; for though Mrs. Latham was seen driving by, as usual,

Sylvia made no sign.

We may read of such cases often enough, and yet when the blow falls in

the immediate neighbourhood, one must feel the reflex of the shock. While

sympathy for Sylvia keeps the thing ever present, like a weight upon the

chest, I find myself wondering if anything could have been done to avert

the disaster, and we all rove about in a half unsettled condition. Half a

dozen times a day Lavinia Dorman starts up with the determination of

calling upon Sylvia, but this morning decided upon writing her a letter

instead, and having sent it up by Timothy Saunders, is now sitting out in

the arbour, while Martin Cortright is reading to her from his manuscript;

but her attention is for the first time divided, and she is continually

glancing up the road as if expecting a summons,--a state of things that

causes an expression of mild surprise and disappointment to cross

Martin's countenance at her random and inapropos criticisms. I see that

in my recent confusion I have forgotten to record the fact that Miss

Lavinia has fallen into the rôle of critic for Martin's book, and that

for the last ten days, as a matter of course, he reads to her every

afternoon the result of his morning's work, finding, as he says, that her

power of condensation is of the greatest help in enabling him to

eliminate much of the needless detail of his subject that blocked him,

and to concentrate his vitality upon the rest.

This all looks promising, to my romantic mind; for the beginning of all

kinds of affection, physical, mental, and spiritual, that are huddled

together in varying proportions as component parts of love, has its

origin in dependence. Father declares independence, selfishness, and

aloofness to be the trinity of hell. Now Martin Cortright has come to

depend upon Lavinia Dorman's opinion, and she is beginning not only to

realize and enjoy his dependence, but to aid and abet it. Is not this

symptomatic?

When I approach father upon the Latham affair, he says that he thinks the

rupture was inevitable from the point of view and conditions that

existed. He feels, from the evidence that long experience with the inner

life of households has given him, that though a thoughtless woman may be

brought to realize, and a woman with really bad inherited instincts

reclaimed, through love, the wholly selfish woman of Mrs. Latham's type

remains immovable to word of God or man, and is unreachable, save through

the social code of the class that forms her world, and this code

sanctions both the marriage and the divorce of convenience, and receives

the results equally with open arms.

As to the effect upon Sylvia, father exhibits much concern, and no

little anxiety, for he has read her as a nature in some respects old for

her twenty-one years, and in others, the side of the feminine, wholly

young and unawakened, so that this jar, he thinks, comes at a most

critical moment.

He has a pretty theory that the untroubled heart of a young girl is like

a vessel full of the fresh spring sap of the sugar maple that is being

freed by slow fire from its crudities and condensed to tangible form.

When a certain point is reached, it is ready to crystallize about the

first object that stirs it ever so lightly, irrespective of its quality:

this is first love. But if the condensing process is lingering, no jar

disturbing it prematurely until, as it reaches perfection, the vital

touch suddenly reaches its depths, then comes real love, perfected at

first sight, clinging everlastingly to the object, love that endures by

its own strength, not by mere force of habit; and this love belongs only

to the heart's springtime, before full consciousness has made it

speculative.

* * * * *

When Horace Bradford drove homeward the afternoon of the fête, he was in

a brown study, having no realization of time or place until the wise

horse turned in at the barnyard gate, and after standing a moment by his

usual hitching post, looked over his shoulder and gave a whinny to

attract his master's attention. Then Horace started up, shook off his

lethargy, and hurried to the porch, where his mother stood waiting, to

give her the roses, and Sylvia's message.

Mrs. Bradford was, for one of her reserve, almost childishly eager to

hear of the experiences of the afternoon, and was prepared to sit down

comfortably on the porch and have her son give a full account of it; but

instead, he gave her a few rather incoherent details, and leaving her

standing with the splendid roses held close to her face, very much in

Sylvia's own attitude, he hurried up to his room, where she could hear

him moving about as if unpacking his things, and opening and shutting

drawers nervously.

"Never mind," she said softly to herself, "he will tell me all about her

when he is ready. Meanwhile, I'll wait, and not get in his way,--that is

what mothers are for." But by some strange impulse she loosened the

string that bound the roses, and placed them in one of her few treasures,

a silver bowl, in the centre of the supper table, and going to her

bedchamber, which was, country fashion, back of the sitting room, arrayed

herself in Horace's gifts,--the silk gown and fichu, with the onyx bar

and butterflies to fasten it,--and then returned to the porch to watch

the twilight gently veil sunset.

Upstairs, Horace unpacked his trunks in a rebellious mood. In the morning

he had felt in the proper sense self-sufficient and contented,--the

position, which a few months before he thought perhaps ten years ahead of

him, had suddenly dropped at his feet, and he felt a natural elation,

though it stopped quite short of self-conceit. He could afford to relax

the grip with which he had been holding himself in check, and face the

knowledge that he loved Sylvia; while the fact that fate had brought her

to summer in his vicinity seemed but another proof that fortune was

smiling upon him.

Now everything, though outwardly the same, was changed by the new point

of view, which he realized that he had already tried to conceal from his

mother, by his scanty account of the festival. He had been suddenly

confronted by conditions that he never expected to meet outside of the

pages of fiction, and felt himself utterly unable to combat them. Under

the present circumstances even neighbourly friendship with Sylvia would

be difficult. It was not that Mrs. Latham had overawed him in the least,

but she had raised in him so fierce and blinding a resentment by her only

half unconscious reference to his mother, that he resolved that under no

circumstances should she run the risk of being equally rebuffed. He would

protect her from a possible intercourse, where she could not be expected,

at her age, to hold her own, at no matter what cost to himself.

"Egg woman!" Was it not his mother's pride and endeavour, her thrift and

courage to carry on the great farm alone, and the price of such things as

those very eggs, that had carried through his dying father's wish, and

sent him to college, thus giving him his chance in the world? No regret

at the fact, no false pride, dawned on him even for a second. All his

rage was that such a woman as Sylvia's mother should have the power to

stir him so, and then his love for Sylvia herself, intensified by pity

for the unknown trouble that he sensed rather than read in her face, cut

into him like a wound. He felt as if he must pick her up in his strong

arms and bear her away from all those clamouring people; and then the

realization both of his inability and ignorance of her own attitude fell

upon him like a chill, for she had never written or said a word to him

that might not have passed between any two college friends. Such thoughts

occupied him, until finally, as often fortunately happens in our mental

crises, a humdrum, domestic voice, the supper bell, called him, and

leaving his garments strewn about the room, he went downstairs.

His mother was still sitting in the porch, and he became at once

conscious of a change in her appearance. As she looked up in pleased

expectancy, he recognized the cause, and his sternness vanished

instantly, as he said, "How fine we look to-night," and half sitting on

the little foot-bench beside her, and half kneeling, he touched the soft

lace, and gently kissed the withered cheek whose blood was still not so

far from the surface but that it could return in answer to the caress,

while she looked yearningly into the eyes that even now were hardly on a

level with hers, as if searching for the cause of what might be troubling

him. Yet she only said, as they rose and went indoors, "I put on your

gifts for you, at our first supper together," adding with an

unconsciousness that made Horace smile in spite of himself,--"besides, I

shouldn't wonder if some of the neighbours might drop in to see us, for

it must have got about by this time that you've come home; the mail

carrier saw you drive out this morning, I'm quite sure."

Neighbours did call; some from pure friendliness, others to see if

"Horace acted set up by his new callin' and fortune," and still others,

who had been to the Bluffs that afternoon, to tell of the wonders of the

festival, their praise or condemnation varying according to age, until

Mrs. Bradford was at a loss whether to think the affair a spectacle of

fairyland or a vision of the bottomless pit, and Horace was in torment

lest he should be appealed to for an opinion, which he was presently.

"What did he think of the tea room? Was Mrs. Latham painted? Was she

Sylvia's mother, or step-mother, and if she was the former, didn't she

act dreadful giddy for the mother of grown children? And didn't he think

Sylvia was just sweet, so different from the rest, and sort of sad, as

if she had a step-mother, as people said, and was sat on?" The questioner

being the very woman for whom Sylvia had taken such pains in selecting

the bouquet of specimen roses, who proved to be the new wife of a

neighbour whom Horace had not met.

It seemed to Horace that his mother purposely looked away from him as he

tried to pull himself together, and answer nonchalantly that he believed

that Mrs. Latham was Sylvia's own mother, though she did appear very

young, and that of course she was acting the part of a Geisha girl, a

tea-seller, which would account for her sprightly manner, etc.,

unconsciously putting what he wished in the place of what he knew, adding

with a heartiness that almost made his voice tremble that Miss Sylvia

certainly did seem different, and as if she was no kin of her mother's.

"I guess, then, likely it isn't her step-mother, but that she's worried

in her mind about her beau," continued the loquacious woman, pleased at

having such a large audience for her news. "I heard some folks say,--when

I was waitin' about for my cream, and havin' a good look at all the

millionnaires, which they didn't mind, but seemed to expect, the same

bein' fair enough, seein' as it's what I paid to go in for,--that the

man they call Mr. Bell, that's been hangin' around the Bluffs since

spring, is courtin' her steady, but she can't seem to make up her mind.

Thinks I to myself, I don't wonder, for I've had a good look at him, and

he's well over forty, and though he dresses fine, from his eyes I

wouldn't trust him, if he was a pedler, even to weigh out my rags and

change 'em for tin, without I'd shook the scales well first. The same

folks was sayin' that he's a grass widower, anyway, and I shouldn't think

her folks would put up with that, fixed as they be, yet they do say," and

here her voice dropped mysteriously, "that Mrs. Latham's a kind of grass

widder herself, for her husband hasn't turned up in all the year she's

been here, and nobody's so much as seen his name to a check."

At this point Mrs. Bradford made an effort to turn the conversation into

other channels; for friendly as she always was with her neighbours of all

degrees, she never allowed unkind gossip in her house, and only a

newcomer would have ventured upon it. As it was, the loquacious one felt

the rebuke in the air, and made hasty adieus on the plea of having to set

bread, leaving the rest to talk to their host of themselves, their

pleasure at his return, and the local interests of Pine Ridge.

When they had all gone, Horace locked the back door, after filling an

old yellow and bronze glazed pitcher, which bric-à-brac hunters would

have struggled for, at the well, as he had done every night during his

boyhood, he left it on the hall table, and going out the front way to the

garden, walked up and down the long straight walk, between the sweet peas

and rose bushes, for more than an hour, until, having fought to no

conclusion the battle into which a new foe had entered, he returned to

the house and went noiselessly to his room.

Here, in place of the confusion he had left, quiet and order reigned. All

his clothes were laid away in their old places. He had but to reach his

hand inside the closet, the door of which hesitated before opening in its

familiar way, to find his night gear; the sheets were turned down at the

exact angle, and the pillows arranged one crosswise, one upright, as he

liked them,--his mother's remembering touch was upon everything.

He undressed without striking a light, and lay down, only to look

wakefully out at the dark lattice of tree branches against the moonlit

sky. Presently a step sounded on the stairs and paused at his partly open

door. He raised himself on his elbow, and peering through the crack saw

his mother standing there in night-dress and short sack, shading the

candle with her hand as she used when he was a little chap, to make sure

that he was safe asleep and had not perhaps crept out the window to go

coon hunting with the bigger boys,--a proceeding his father always winked

at, but which she feared would lead him to overdo and get a fever.

"I'm here, mother," he said cheerfully.

"Are you quite comfortable, Horace? Is there nothing that you want?"

He hesitated a moment, and then said frankly, "Yes and no, mother."

"Is it anything that I can do for you?" she asked, coming into the room

and smoothing his hair as she spoke.

"Ah, that is the _no_ of it, and the hard part," he answered, capturing

the hand and holding it tight between his own.

"And the hard part for your old mother too, when the one thing comes

that she cannot give or do. Whatever it is, don't shut me out from it,

Horace,--that is, unless you must," and tucking the light summer quilt in

Under the pillow by one of his hands, she kissed his forehead and went

away.

Horace Bradford must have slept, for his next consciousness was of the

fresh wind and light of morning, and as he drew his cramped hand from

under his pillow, something soft and filmy came with it,--a woman's

handkerchief edged with lace.

For a minute he held it in surprise, and then began to search the

corners for the marking. There it was, two embroidered initials, S.L.

Where had it dropped from? Who had put it there? Was it a message or an

accident? Yet it was both and neither. His mother had found the dainty

thing in the package from New York that held the gown and ornaments,

where it had dropped from Sylvia's waist that night, four months before,

when she stood leaning on Miss Lavinia Dorman's table, as the parcel was

being tied.

Mrs. Bradford had pondered over it silently until, the day when I went to

see her and chanced to mention Sylvia Latham's name, its identity flashed

upon her; and when gropingly she came to associate this name with

something that troubled Horace, obliterating self and mother jealousy,

she tucked the bit of linen underneath his pillow, with an undefined

idea, knowing nothing, in the hope that it might comfort him. And so it

did; for even when he learned the manner of its coming, he put it in his

letter case as a reminder not to despair but wait.

* * * * *

When a week had passed and the matter of the divorce had been well aired,

discussed, and was no longer a novelty to her neighbours on the Bluffs,

Mrs. Latham's plan of soon closing her cottage and transferring the

servants to Newport, with the exception of the stable men and a couple of

caretakers, was announced, as she was going abroad for the baths. The

same day Lavinia Dorman received an urgent note from Sylvia, asking her

"when and where she could see her alone, if, as she thought likely, she

did not feel inclined to come to the house." The tone of the brief note

showed that Sylvia felt the whole matter to be a keen disgrace that not

only compromised herself but her friends.

Of course Miss Lavinia went, and would have gone even if she had to

combat Mrs. Latham, for whom she asked courteously at the door; but that

lady, for some reason, did not choose to appear and run the gantlet, and

sent an elaborate message about a sick headache by the now somewhat

crestfallen Perkins. Presently Sylvia slipped into the morning room, and

crouching by Miss Lavinia, buried her face in her friend's lap, the

tension at last giving way, and it was some time before she grew quiet

enough to talk coherently, and tell her plan, which is this: she wishes

Miss Lavinia to take the Alton cottage (which is furnished) at the foot

of the Bluffs, for the rest of the season, and live there with her. Then

as soon as Mrs. Latham has gone, and the poor girl has steadied herself,

her father, to whom she has already written, will come, and what she will

do in the autumn will be arranged. Everything is as yet vague; but one

thing she has decided for herself--under no circumstances will she again

live with her mother, and she is now staying quietly in the house and

taking her meals in her room, in order to give the scandalmongers and

gossips as little material as possible.

Lavinia Dorman, who readily consented to do as she asked, says that

Sylvia is brave and heartbroken at the same time, that all her girlish

spontaneity has gone, and she is like a statue.

I am so sorry to have Miss Lavinia go, even a few hundred yards down the

road, it has seemed so good to have an older woman in the house to whom I

can say, "Would you, or wouldn't you?" Martin is also quite upset, and

has stopped writing and begun fumbling and pulling the reference books

about again; but Miss Lavinia says that she is not going to give up the

afternoon reading, for she thinks the history is a work of importance not

to be slighted, and that Sylvia will doubtless take up her own reading

and practising after a time; that while she herself has willingly

consented to chaperon her, she does not intend to give up her own

freedom, nor would it be good for Sylvia if she did.

Yesterday morning Miss Lavinia received a letter from Sylvester Latham,

thanking her for the offer of temporary protection for his daughter, and

telling her, in curt business terms, meant to be affable, to name her own

price for the office.

I have never before seen the ladylike Lavinia Dorman so completely and

ungovernably angry. I could do nothing with her, and last evening it took

the united efforts of Martin, father, and Evan to convince her that it

was not a real affront. Poor Mr. Latham, he has not yet gotten beyond

money valuation of friendship; but then it is probably because he has had

no chance. Perhaps--but no, life is too serious just now in that quarter

for me to allow myself remotely pleasant perhapses.

Miss Lavinia was too agitated to play piquet to-night, so she and Martin

sat in the porch where the light from the hall lamp was sufficient to

enable them to play a couple of games of backgammon, to steady her

nerves, she said; and presently, as the dice ceased rattling, Evan gave

me a nudge of intelligence, and looking over I found that they had

reversed the board and were playing "Give away" with checkers.

"After this, what?" I whispered to Evan.

"Jackstraws," he answered, shaking with silent laughter.

* * * * *

Horace Bradford turned his mind for the next few days to the many things

about the place that needed his attention, resolving that he would let a

week or so elapse before making any further attempt to see Sylvia, and in

that time hoped to find Miss Lavinia at home, and from her possibly

receive some light upon the gossip about Mr. Bell, as well as news of

Sylvia herself.

The sinking-fund for repairs and rebuilding the house that he and his

mother had been accumulating ever since he had made his own way, he found

to be in a healthy condition. A new hay barn and poultry house was to be

put up at once; and, as soon as practicable, his wish of many years, to

restore the brick house, that had been marred by "lean-tos" in the wrong

places, to its colonial simplicity, could be at least begun.

Every day until two or three o'clock in the afternoon he gave to these

affairs, and then he went to his books. But here again he met with a

strange surprise, a new sensation,--he could neither fix his mind upon

writing, nor take in what he read; the letters were as meaningless as

fly specks on the pages. After a day or two he gave up the attempt. He

had worked too closely during the last term, he thought; his sight did

not register on his brain,--he had heard of such cases; he would rest a

week or so.

Then every afternoon he walked over the Ridge to the little river in the

valley, carrying a book in his pocket, and his fishing-rod as a sort of

excuse, and poling an old flatboat down-stream to a shady spot under the

trees, propped his rod in place, where by a miracle he occasionally

caught a perch or bass, sat looking idly into the water, the brim of an

old felt hat turned down about his eyes. One day, near the week's end, as

he was lounging thus, his eye was attracted by a headline in a bit of

newspaper in which he had wrapped his bait box to save his pocket. It was

a semi-local paper from town, one that his mother took, but which they

seldom either of them read, and the date was three days back. He turned

it over idly, pausing as he did so to pull up the line which was being

jerked violently, but only by a mud eel. Why did he return again to the

scrap of paper when he had freed his hook? His eyes caught strange words,

and his hands began to tremble as he read. It was the condensed report of

the Latham divorce that was now going the rounds of the journals.

He paused a moment, then folded the paper, put it in his pocket, poled

the boat with vigorous strokes to the landing-place, and strode through

the woods and across the cornfields homeward, his heart beating

tumultuously until he seemed almost to be struggling with suffocation.

He stopped at the barn and harnessed a horse to the old buggy, passing by

the new one that he had recently ordered from town, and then went into

the house, where, taking off his slouchy fishing clothes, he put on the

same ceremonious afternoon wear that he would have worn at Northbridge if

going to call, put Sylvia's handkerchief in his inner pocket, and went in

search of his mother.

He found her in the kitchen, tying the covers upon countless jars of

currant jam. She looked surprised to see him back at such an hour,

but said nothing, as Esther Nichols was close by, employed in wiping

off the jars.

"I'm going over to Oaklands for a drive," he said, handing her the scrap

of newspaper with a gesture that meant silence.

"Shall I wait supper for you, or will you be late?" she said, touching

his hand with a gesture almost of entreaty.

"I may be late, but--yes, you may wait supper," he replied, looking back

at her in going out, as if he wanted to carry the picture well forward in

his mind, against any forgetfulness.

The miles between Pine Ridge and the Bluffs seemed endless. He had at

first intended to go to Oaklands village to see Miss Lavinia and gather

such tidings as he could of the calamity that had overtaken Sylvia; for

he never for a moment questioned but that the girl, who had been

entirely straightforward, even in days of college pranks, should so

regard the matter. But as he drove along, and the very fact that he was

moving toward a definite end calmed him and clarified his judgment, he

resolved to go directly to Sylvia herself. He would certainly do this

if he had seen the announcement of her parents' deaths; then why not

now, when their love that gave her birth was officially and publicly

declared extinct?

He drove through the wide gateway and left his horse standing by a stone

pillar outside the porte-cochère,--the beast would stand anywhere if

there was a bar or post for him to look at,--and walked up the steps with

the air of one who is not to be gainsaid.

"Not at home," replied the singsong voice of Perkins, in answer to

Bradford's demand for Miss Latham, Potts and Parker having already gone

to open the Newport house for the renter, as a staff of servants was let

with it, and then he added, as if conferring a favour, "and Mrs. Latham

has gone on the coach to the station to meet some guests, the last 'ouse

party before she sails."

"Before she sails," thought Bradford, numbly. Sylvia was going? Could he

believe the man? Should he go through the formality of leaving a card

that she might not get? No, he would go home and write a letter.

Sylvia kept the house until late in the afternoon, these days. Then she

slipped out by the servants' stairway, and through the garden, to walk in

the wood lane that ran northward, joining the two parallel highroads; for

her healthy body needed air, and she knew that if she did not have it,

she could not control herself to keep peaceful silence for even the few

days that remained. So it chanced this afternoon that she was walking to

and fro in the quiet lane where the ferns crept down quite to the grassy

wheel tracks, when Perkins said those repellent words, "Not at home."

As Bradford turned out the gate and noticed that the sun was already

setting, he thought to save time by cutting through the almost unused

lane to the turnpike that led directly to Pine Ridge. He had driven but

halfway across, when a flutter of light garments a little way ahead

attracted him. Could it be? Yes, it was Sylvia, in truth, and at the

moment that he recognized her and sprang to the ground she heard the

approaching hoofs and turned. For a full minute neither spoke nor moved,

then going quickly to her and stretching out both hands, he said, his

heart breaking through his voice, "I have been to see you. I did not know

until to-day."

She gave her hands, and in another moment his strong arms held her fast

and unresisting--the purifying friendship of those unconscious years

crystallized and perfected at love's first touch.

They said but very little as they walked up and down the lane together,

for half an hour; but as the shadows lengthened, the thought came equally

to both--"What should they do next? How could they part, and yet how stay

together?" Horace, with man's barbarian directness, would have liked to

bear her home to safety and his mother; but the shadow of usage and her

mother stood between, for in spite of the hollow mockery of it all,

Sylvia was still of her household.

"I must take you home," he said at last, "and to-morrow I will come--all

shall be arranged."

"To-night," she whispered, clasping his arm in nervous terror. "Come

back with me and tell her to-night; then I shall feel sure, and not

as if it was not real. And when you have told her,--before whoever

may be there, remember,--go home; do not stop to listen to anything

she may say."

They drove slowly back, and went up the steps to the house, from which

voices and laughter came, hand in hand, like two children; but they were

children no longer when they crossed the threshold and saw Monty Bell in

the group that loitered with Mrs. Latham in the reception hall, waiting

for dinner to be announced.

Sylvia's thin gown was wet with dew, her hair was tossed about, her eyes

big with excitement, and a red spot burned in each cheek in startling

contrast to her pallor--all of which gave her a wild and unusual beauty

that absolutely startled as well as shocked her mother, letting her think

for a second that Sylvia was going to make a scene, had gone mad,

perhaps, and run away, and that the tall man holding her by the hand had

found her and brought her home.

Taking a few hasty steps forward, and dreading anything disagreeably

tragic, she said: "Mr. Bradford, I believe. What is it? What has

happened?"

"Only this, that Miss Sylvia has promised to be my wife, and that, as her

mother, we have come to tell you of it before I go home to tell my own."

Horace Bradford drew himself up to every inch of his full height as he

spoke, bowed to Mrs. Latham, then led Sylvia to the foot of the stairs,

saying, "Until to-morrow," and walked quietly out of the house.

No one spoke. Then Mrs. Latham, choking with rage, feeling herself

helplessly at bay (Sylvia was of age, and she could not even assume

authority under the circumstances), collapsed on a divan in modified

hysterics, and Monty Bell, completely thunderstruck, finally broke the

silence by his characteristic exclamation, "I'll be damned!"

* * * * *

After their belated supper, when Esther Nichols had gone over to a

neighbour's, Horace, sitting by his mother's side, out in the

honeysuckled porch, where the sphinx moths whirred like humming-birds of

night, holding her hands in his, told her all. And she, stifling the

mother pain that, like a birth pang, expected yet dreaded, must come at

first when the other woman, no matter how welcome, steps between, folded

his hands close, as if she held him again a baby in her arms, and said,

smiling through vague tears, "To-morrow we will go together to her, my

blessed son."

"I cannot ask you to do that; there are reasons--I will bring Sylvia to

you later, when her mother has gone," he answered hastily, resolving that

he would do anything to shield her self-respect from the possible shock

of meeting that other mother.

"Horace, you forget yourself, and your father too," she said almost

sternly. "I am country bred, but still I know the world's ways. Your

father's wife will go first to greet her who will be yours; you need not

fear for me," and he sat silent.

That next afternoon, when Horace's first and last love met, they looked

into each other's hearts and saw the same image there, while Mrs. Latham

lay on the lounge in her room, raging within, that again her tongue had

failed her in her own house, and realizing that, woman of the world as

she aimed to be, the "egg woman" had rendered her helpless by mere force

of homely courtesy. Presently she rose, and railing and scolding the

bewildered maid, sent a message to New York to transfer her passage, if

possible, to an earlier steamer.

XIII

GOSSIP AND THE BUG HUNTERS

_July_ 18. It is such a deadly sin to marry outside of the limited set

that is socially registered, that I now understand why many of the

Whirlpoolers are mentally inbred, almost to the vanishing point, so that

they have lost the capacity of thinking for themselves, and must

necessarily follow a leader.

Sylvia Latham's engagement to Horace Bradford has caused a much greater

sensation than her mother's divorce. To be sure, every one who has met

Horace, not only fails to find anything objectionable about him, but

accords him great powers of attraction; yet they declare in the same

breath that the affair will not do for a precedent, and deplore its

radical influence.

To-day we have settled down to midsummer quiet and to a period of silence

after much talking. The Bluffs are quite deserted except by a bevy of

children left with governesses while their parents are yachting or in

Europe, and the servants in charge of the various houses. But a trail of

discontent is left behind, for these servants, by their conspicuous

idleness, are having a very demoralizing effect upon the help in the

plain houses hereabout, who are necessarily expected to do more work for

lower wages.

I am fully realizing, also, that the excitement of living other people's

lives, which we cannot control, through sympathetic imagination, is even

more wearing than meeting one's own responsibilities. A certain amount of

separateness--I use the word in an entirely opposite meaning to that of

aloofness--is, I find, necessary to every member of our household, and

this chance for intimacy with oneself is a luxury denied to those who

live all their lives taking joy and sorrow equally in a crowd.

Even the boys, young as they are, recognize it unconsciously, and have

separate tree lairs, and neither may enter the other's, without going

through some mysterious and wonderful ceremony and sign language, by

which permission is asked and granted.

There are often days when father sits in his study with closed door or

drives over the hills without desire for even the boys as companions.

This need not signify that he is either ill or worried,--it is simply the

need of separateness. The same thing applies to Evan when he sometimes

slips out through the garden at night, without word or sign, and is only

traceable by the beacon his cigar point makes, as he moves among the

trees, until this also vanishes, while my attic corner and the seat at

the end of the wild walk offer me similar relief.

At least the attic did until Martin Cortright, at my own invitation,

established a rival lair at the opposite end. I did not think that it

would matter, the presence of this quiet man barricaded by his books and

papers, but it does, because the charm of isolation is destroyed. I would

not have done otherwise, however; I have all outdoors, and he will have

returned to New York to find winter quarters, and arrange for the

publication of the first volume of his history when autumn and shut-in

time draws near.

Mrs. Latham sailed last week, and Sylvia is now in New York visiting her

father at his hotel and arranging her future plans. To-morrow she

returns, and together with Lavinia Dorman goes to the Alton cottage

until late August or early September, when her wedding is expected to

take place.

At the last moment Mrs. Latham changed her plan of leaving the Bluff

cottage in the charge of servants, had all her personal belongings moved

away, and offered the place for sale.

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Jenks-Smith, who, being a sort of honorary

stewardess of the Colony, usually remains a full week after the

breaking-up time, and frequently runs in to report progress, "she's not

coming back; being divorced she doesn't need to claim residence here. The

place is so convenient to town, too, but I can't really blame

her,--though of course I'm glad poor Sylvia's to be happy in her own way,

and all that, for it's plain to be seen with one eye she's too slow to go

her mother's pace--you couldn't expect Vivvy Latham, over all the hurdles

but one, and almost at the end of the race, to relish her daughter's

mother-in-law being in the egg trade in the very neighbourhood.

"At first everybody thought that the Bradfords, mother and son, would

probably give up work and float on Sylvester J. Latham's money, for they

say (to spite Vivvy, most likely) he took to Horace Bradford at the

first, for what did the young fellow do but go straight to town and look

Sylvester up, and make a clean breast of it before the gossips could even

twist their tongues around the affair.

"Sylvester thought he could handle Bradford to suit himself, move him to

New York, jam him into business, cut up the farm in house lots,

reorganize his affairs, and declare a dividend out of him for his own

benefit, as he does with lame railroads,--but not a bit of it!

"'With what you may choose to do for Sylvia personally, it would be

selfish for me to interfere; but our way of living can only be planned

upon the basis of what I earn,' said Horace, looking Mr. Latham in the

face, and he's a big man too,--Sylvia gets her height from him.

"It rather knocked Sylvester out, because it was a kind of spunk he'd

never met, and he told Jenks-Smith about it. Thought they didn't speak?

Oh yes, they're thick again, just now, over some kind of a deal.

"Did you know Jenks-Smith had bought Vivvy's house here? Yes, the deed

was passed the day she sailed. We've got to keep the Bluffs select, you

know, and if the house was put on the market, goodness knows who might

buy it, just to get in with us.

"Mr. Latham had an idea of taking it and giving it to Sylvia, but they

wouldn't have that either,--are just fixing up the old house a bit, and

going to summer at the farm, while the old lady will keep on selling eggs

the same as ever. Not but what she's a thoroughbred all right, though in

a cheap stable. I was down at Vivvy's the day she came to call on Sylvia!

Just as quiet and cool, except that her hands in the openwork silk mits

shook, as if her son was a duke. I thought there would be a lively row,

and I wished myself out of it, but Vivvy hadn't a chance to strike out

until the old lady got up to go, then she only said: 'You must not

understand that I approve of Sylvia's folly, or in any way give my

consent to this rash engagement. I cannot prevent it, that is all.'

"The old lady's eyes flashed, and I thought, now for it; but she only

looked Vivvy through and through, and said very clearly: 'Most brides are

better for their mother's blessing, but under the circumstances I think

we prefer to do without it.'"

Well-meaning Lady of the Bluffs, I'm really acquiring a sort of affection

for her in spite of her crudity. If all the Whirlpoolers were like her,

the pool might be a noisy torrent, but never a dangerous one.

* * * * *

This is Lavinia Dorman's last day with me, and I know she is really sorry

to go, in spite of a sort of pleasurable responsibility and excitement

she feels in managing Sylvia's affairs for a time.

She waked up with a bad headache--a rare thing for her--and after

breakfast seemed so forlorn and blue that I coaxed her into my room and

petted her for a while, almost as I would one of the children; and as she

no longer conceals the fact of the false front from me, I took it off,

brushed and brushed her lovely hair until it grew supple and alive, and

began to glisten, and the pain gradually slipped through it into the air;

then I drew it up cushionwise from her forehead and coiled it loosely on

top, and she, declaring that my fingers had a magic touch, spent the rest

of the morning at my desk in writing letters.

The lovable woman who has no one specially to love her is a common

tragedy of everyday life. Strangely enough it more often draws

ridicule than sympathy, and it seems to be always considered the

woman's own fault, instead of a combination of circumstances, woven

often of self-sacrifice, mistaken duty, and the studied suppression of

natural emotions.

I think that both Miss Lavinia and Martin Cortright dread the going back

to their old existence, and yet I am not sure that either of them would

consent to change it in any way, in spite of their growlings at the

modern conditions of life in New York. They have learned to lean upon the

very restrictions that cramp them, until the idea of cutting free seems

as impossible as for the bulky woman to sever the stay-lace that at once

suffocates and supports her.

Martin Cortright stayed to luncheon to-day. Not that it is an unusual

occurrence, but he wished to have a long afternoon to finish reading a

certain portion of his manuscript to Miss Lavinia before her flitting in

the morning.

We were seated at the table when she came in hurriedly, apologizing for

being late, saying that she had become so absorbed in finishing her

letters that she did not realize that it was even noon. I did not look at

her particularly until a few moments later, when Martin, after fussing

with his bread a good deal, looked up and said, with a charming smile,

"What a very becoming gown you have on to-day, Miss Lavinia."

"Yes," said father, "I was thinking precisely the same thing myself, so

you see that in spite of our condemning your sex for paying so much

attention to clothes, we men are the first to note the result of them."

Miss Lavinia looked puzzled. She was too much the politic woman of the

world to say that the dimity gown was the same one that she had worn for

the two or three days previous; besides, the fact would have cast a doubt

upon their judgment, and she was particular in all such little details of

good breeding; so she parried the compliment deftly, and straightway fell

to pondering as to what circumstance the remark might refer. Glancing

toward the open window, she caught a reflection of herself where the

glass, backed by the dark green curtain, made a mirror. She had forgotten

to rearrange her hair, and her burnished silver-shot locks remained

rolled back lightly from her white forehead without the ugly, concealing

front! I rejoiced inwardly, for the spontaneous tribute to the

improvement by those two dear, stupid, discriminating men, has settled

the fronts in a way in which no arguments of mine could, for to-night she

came to dinner not only with her own emancipated hair, but wearing a bit

of red geranium stuck fetchingly in the puff.

* * * * *

_August_ 1. Sylvia has returned, and Miss Lavinia has gone to her, Lucy

and the portly cook having arrived from New York last night, in company

with Josephus, confined in a large hamper borrowed from the fishmonger,

in the top of which a ventilator had been introduced. Josephus was

naturally indignant when first let out, and switched his tail in wrath,

declining to recognize his mistress, and starting to explore the house

like an evil spirit. This morning I found him calmly perched on our

woodshed roof, gazing wickedly at the boys' banty chickens in the coop

below. I predict that he gets into trouble, unless his silver collar,

like a badge of aristocracy, protects him. But what can you expect of a

misguided Whirlpool cat, whose only conception of a bird is a dusty

street sparrow, when he meets face to face the delicious and whetting

elusiveness of a banty chick or a young robin.

Poor Sylvia is nervously tired out, and the month's rest will be a real

boon. Her plans are quite settled, and there is nothing for her to do but

rest until the time comes to carry them out. She and Horace are to be

married the last week in August, so that they will have time for a

Canadian trip before College begins and they return to settle down in a

scrap of a house in Northbridge.

August seems to be considered an unusual month for a wedding; but it

suits the circumstances, and as Sylvia has decided to be married quite

privately here at Oaklands, for her own sake, as well as for Mrs.

Bradford's convenience, she wisely wishes to have it over before the

possible return of the Whirlpoolers.

Horace had hoped that his mother would join them in Northbridge, but

she said "No," very firmly, adding, with a quaint, twinkling smile,

"Horace, nobody ever loved each other closer than your father and I,

but there were times in the beginning when ever so well meaning a third

finger in our pie would have spoiled the baking. Best leave old mother

on the farm until by and by, when she can't tell a fresh egg from a

bad one any longer."

So Horace comes down twice a week to visit Sylvia, and Miss Lavinia often

drives to Pine Ridge with her and leaves her for a day, so that Mrs.

Bradford may share the pleasant woman's talk of linen for table and bed,

and other details of a bridal outfit.

We all missed Miss Lavinia when she left, that is, all but the boys, and

they hailed the change with joy, as giving them another house to roam in

and out of. How much of the joy of childhood that we so envy comes from

their freedom from prejudice, the ability they have for adapting

themselves.

Martin was so distrait for a time that father absolutely ventured to

tease him a little, whereupon he turned stoutly about and declared: "I

have never denied the inspiration and value of congenial female society,

and the mere fact that circumstances have shut me from it so much of late

years makes me all the more appreciative of present privileges. Oh, Dick,

old friend, isn't it some credit to a man who has lived backward almost

from his birth, if, after he's sixty, he realizes it and tries to catch

up with the present? It seems to me as if the best things had always

been just within my grasp, only to slip away again, through unforeseen

circumstances, and my ill luck reminds me of a story and picture in a

comic paper that the boys were chuckling over last night. It was of a

well-intentioned beetle who fattened a nice green caterpillar for its

family's thanksgiving dinner, and the thing went and spun itself into a

cocoon the night before!"

Martin Cortright at times verges on the pathetic, but always cures

himself by his appreciation of his own limitations before he reaches the

bore stage. He too is taking a short vacation from work, or rather I

should say that he has developed industry in a new direction and become

absorbed in entomology, to the extent of waging war on the tent

caterpillars that are disfiguring both the orchards and the wild cherry

trees of the highways with their untidy filmy nests, leaving the foliage

prematurely brown and sere, from their ravages. Yesterday, in driving

home from Pine Ridge with Sylvia, we noticed that even the wood edges had

the appearance of being scorched by fire, and many of the old orchards

where we go in May for apple blossoms are wrecks meshed in the

treacherous slimy webs.

Martin's methods are regular and very simple, but he goes about his task

each day as if the matter was a marvel of military strategy. First he

puts a book ostentatiously in one pocket and a flask of alcohol in the

other. Next he takes his torch, consisting of a piece of sponge wired to

an old rake handle, which he keeps on the back stoop, and makes sure that

it is tight and secure, finally searching me out to say that in case he

meets Miss Lavinia, have I any message for her.

Why he does not keep his outfit up at Martha's I do not know; perhaps

because of Timothy's keen tongue.

Miss Lavinia, after her morning housekeeping is over, takes her work bag

to the narrow cottage porch and apparently gives herself up to the task

of making pin-cushions for Sylvia or embroidering initials on napery.

Suddenly she will get up, say that her feet are falling asleep and that

she needs a walk to restore her circulation. Will Sylvia go with her?

Sylvia, after pretending to consider, thinks not, making some excuse of

its being too warm or that she expects Horace that day. Presently two

prim people walking in opposite directions meet and, taking the same

path, may be seen any morning along the less frequented roads and orchard

paths, sometimes repairing the torch that has a constant tendency to lose

its head, sometimes watching the destruction by fire of an unusually

wicked worm city, and frequently with their heads stuck into some

suspicious bush, where they appear to be watching invisible things with

breathless interest.

[Illustration: The Bug Hunters.]

Father and I chanced upon them when thus employed the other morning.

Martin turned about and in the most serious manner began to dilate upon

the peculiarities of worms in general and particular, as well as of the

appropriateness of their study by the book collector, as the score and a

half insects that injure books and their bindings are not worms at all,

having none of the characteristics of the veritable book worm _Sitodrepa

panicea_, to all of which Miss Lavinia listened with devout attention.

"What makes them act so?" I said, half to myself, as we drove on, and

father stopped shaking with laughter. "There isn't the slightest reason

why they should not go to walk together; why do they manoeuvre with all

the transparency of ostriches?"

"It's another manifestation of suppressed youth," said father, wiping his

eyes, "upon the principle that the boy would rather slip out of the

window to go coasting at night than ask leave and walk out publicly, and

that when a young girl begins to grow romantic, she often takes infinite

pains to go round the back way to meet some one who is quite welcome at

the front door. When young folks have not had a chance to do these

things, and the motive for them lies dormant, heaven alone knows how or

when it will break loose."

Others, however, have observed, and the "Bug Hunters" has now come to be

the local nickname of these two most respectable middle-aged people with

ancestors.

Josephus, who has been leading a sporting life for many days, or rather

nights, has at last returned minus his long tail with which he used to

express his displeasure in such magnificent sweeps. Miss Lavinia is in

tears, and wishes to have a reward offered for the apprehension of the

doer of the deed.

Evan says that if she does, and thus acknowledges the cat as hers, she

may be deluged with bills for poultry, as he has been hearing weird tales

on the train, such as are often current among commuters who are not

zoologists, of a great black lynx that has been invading chicken coops

and killing for pleasure, as his victims are usually left on the ground.

Thus has country freedom corrupted the manners of a polite cat, and at

the same time a hay knife (probably) has rendered him tailless.

* * * * *

_August_ 20. Summer is at high tide. How I dread its ebbing; yet even now

the hastening nights are giving warning. Evan has been taking a

vacation, and we have spent many days, we four, following the northward

windings of the river in a wide, comfortable boat and lunching in the

woods. We are pagans these days, basking in the sun, cooling in the

shade, and living a whole life between sunrise and sunset. The boys are

showing unconscious kinship with wood things, and getting a wholesome

touch of the earth in their thoughts.

I am sure that the mind often needs a vacation more than the body, and

yet the condition of change that bears the name of rest frequently merely

gives the head fresh work.

How far away the Whirlpool and its people seem as we sit perhaps on one

of the many tiny river islands enjoying this time separateness, not as

individuals, but as a family, for the whirl of the pool is tiresome even

to watch. I have felt old these last three months, and I suppose it is a

still further carrying out of the allegory and penalty of eating the

fruit of the tree of knowledge; only the discipline does seem a little

hard when, having no desire either to pluck or taste the apple, one

stands actually away with hands safely behind back, and yet has the fruit

absolutely thrust between unwilling lips.

Even the feathered things about us are in this mood; their family life

is over, the companionship of fall travel has not begun, and the woods

are full of moulting birds choosing this separateness in preparation for

the tension of new flight and its perils. Everything, in short, in wild

nature has its corresponding note in our own humanity,--the sweating of

the corn, the moulting of the bird, the contraction of the earth by

frost, all have a kindred season or experience in the heart.

Then, too, the August nights--so heavy with the intensity of sleep that

is akin to sleeplessness, broken by peremptory thunder voices and

searching lightning, or again enveloped by moonlight that floods the

room--shut out the world until, kneeling in its tide between the little

white beds, I can feel the refrain of that hymn of mother's that father

taught me long ago to say to myself in the night when she had gone away

from sight and I was lonely:--

"Father, on thy heart I lean

When the world comes not between."

* * * * *

_August_ 30. Sylvia and Horace were married under sunshine yesterday in

the little chantry of the church that is used in winter and for week-day

services. To-day the cold northeasterly storm has come, under cover of

which August so often disappears and September enters the marshes upon

the wings of low-flying plovers, to the discordant call of the first

waterfowl of the return migration.

Mr. Latham came to the wedding. In fact, he has been here several times

during the month. He is a well-built man, under sixty, dark and taciturn,

and would be handsome but for the hard expression of his face.

His attitude toward the world has seemed to be one of perpetual parry and

self-defence; of course he may have good reason for this distrust, or, as

Evan says, he may have brought the necessity upon himself by his constant

severity of attack on others. Yesterday I partly changed my mind about

him. He evidently once had tender feelings, but, from what cause who can

say, they have in some way been compressed and frozen until they exist

only as hurts.

Sylvia was married in bridal white. She had wished to wear a travelling

gown and go away from the chantry door, but Miss Lavinia argued her out

of the notion, saying, "Horace has the right to a pretty bride, even if

you do not care." It would have taken but very little, after the strain

of the last two months, to make Sylvia morbid and old beyond her years,

her one thought seeming to be to get away from the surroundings of the

past year and begin to live anew.

Our group, and a dozen friends of the Bradfords, including some from

Northbridge who belonged to both, filled the little chapel which Horace,

Martin, and Evan had trimmed with flowers wholly from our garden. At the

last moment, Mrs. Jenks-Smith, whom we thought abroad, dashed up in a

depot hack, perspiring and radiant, her smart gown having a most peculiar

and unnatural looking promontory on the chest. "No, my dear, I'm not in

Carlsbad. Jenks-Smith was called back on business, and I sniffed the

wedding in the air and hooked on,--only arrived last night. _Have_ you

seen the papers? Hush, I'll tell you later," and her voice sank into an

awed whisper, and she gave a startled look as the bride entered on her

father's arm, with Ian and Richard as her only attendants. Having heard

so much talk of marrying and of weddings, they had asked Sylvia to let

them be "bridesmaids," and it seemed she really wanted them. Their faces

were solemn to the verge of comedy as they walked hand in hand before

her, their feet in brand-new pumps, keeping step and pointing out

carefully, while their evident satisfaction brought a smile like a ray of

belated sunshine to the face of the serious bride.

I watched Mr. Latham, usually so immovable, during the ceremony as he

stepped back from the altar into the shadows, when he left Sylvia finally

with Horace. His shoulders lost their squareness, his head drooped; but

when I saw that it was to hide the tears that filled his eyes, I looked

away. Father says he has seen this type of man, contracted by

money-getting, hardened by selfish misunderstanding, recover himself,

soften, and grow young again at the transforming touch of grandchildren.

Who knows, Sylvia may find her childhood's father again some day.

When we went back to the cottage for luncheon, the bump in Mrs.

Jenks-Smith's corsage was removed, and proved to be a gift for

Sylvia,--a thick leather case, holding a rich neck ornament of diamonds,

a sort of collar with pendants, for the Lady of the Bluffs is nothing if

not generous.

"I got it in this way without paying a cent of duty," she said in a stage

whisper to Miss Lavinia and me in the hall, as she struggled to release

the box, wrenching off a waist hook or two as she did so.

"Jenks-Smith said it didn't look natural, and I'd surely be spotted, but

I said I'd like to see mere hired men try to tell a lady how stout or how

thin she had a right to be. Almost too gorgeous for a professor's wife?

Not a bit; Miss Lavinia, you're not advanced. Nobody knows nowadays, at

the launching, how anybody's going to turn out,--whether they'll sink or

float,--and diamonds are an all-right cargo, anyway. If she moves up, she

can wear 'em, if she slumps, she can sell 'em, and if she just drifts

along on the level, she can look at 'em once in a time. No, my dear,

diamonds are a consolation that no woman can afford to miss."

Considering her usual careless good nature, it seemed to me that Mrs.

Jenks-Smith was very fussy during the luncheon, ill at ease, and

strangely anxious to hurry the departure of Sylvia and Horace. The

guests, all but ourselves, left first, then Mr. Latham, who went upstairs

to take leave of his daughter alone. When Sylvia finally came down, her

colour had returned and she looked her radiant self again as she kissed

Miss Lavinia and Mrs. Bradford, and went down the steps holding Horace,

not by the arm, but clinging to his hand.

As the carriage disappeared around the bend of the road, and as we

stood looking at one another, feeling for a second the reaction and the

sense of an empty house that always follows the going of a bride, the

Lady of the Bluffs sank into a deep chair exclaiming, "Thank the Lord,

they've gone!"

"Why, what is it? Are you ill?" cried father, who was just leaving,

coming quickly to her side.

"It's this. I wanted to get her started north ahead of it. When she comes

back she won't care so much," she replied incoherently, pulling a scrap

of a morning newspaper from her card-case and holding it out at random

for the nearest one to take. Father caught it from her hand, and going

to the window, read aloud in slow, precisive accents of astonishment:--

"AN EVENT OF INTEREST TO NEW YORK SOCIETY.

"(SPECIAL CABLE TO NEW YORK HERALD.)

"LONDON, Aug. 29.--Yesterday the marriage took place of Montgomery Bell

to Mrs. Vivian Latham, both of New York. The wedding, at the registrar's

and quite informal, was followed by a breakfast given the couple by

Mrs. Center--who chanced, with several other intimates of the American

colony, to be in the city en route to the German baths,--at her apartment

which she always keeps in readiness for occupancy. Mr. Bell, who is a

member of all the best clubs, is known socially as the 'Indispensable.'

Mr. and Mrs. Bell will return to New York in November and open their

magnificent house at Central Park East with a series of the delightful

entertainments which they both so well know how to render unique."

XIV

THE OASIS

_September_ 8. Three lowering days of wind and rain, and Summer, after a

feigned departure, has returned to complete her task of perfecting.

She does this year after year--the marvel is that we are ever deceived;

but after all, what is it but the conflict between arbitrary and natural

law? The almanac-maker says that on the first day of September autumn is

due. Nature, the orbit-maker, proclaims it summer until, the month

three-quarters old, the equinox is crossed. Nature is always right, and

after the usual breezy argument sends Summer, her garments a bit

storm-tattered, perchance, back to her own.

The ill wind that dashed the tall auratum lilies in the garden to the

ground, stripped the clinging fingers of the sweet peas from their

trellis, and decapitated the heavy-headed dahlias, has blown me good,

held me indoors awhile, sent me to my attic confessional once more, with

conscience for priest, and the twins for acolytes, though they presently

turned catechists with an entirely new series of questions.

When I have not opened my desk or my garden book for some time, and the

planting season, be it of spring or of autumn, as now, overtakes me

unawares, I am always newly convinced that gardening is the truly

religious life, for it implies a continual preparation for the future, a

treading in the straight and narrow path that painful experience alone

can mark, an absorption beyond compare, and the continual exercise of

hope and love, but above all, of entire childlike faith.

When the time had come in the creative evolution for the stamping of the

perfected animal with the Divine image that forever separates him from

all previous types, it was no wonder that God set man, in whom the

perpetual struggle between the body and soul was to take place, in a

garden for his education.

* * * * *

Recently the boys have been absorbed in their little printing press,

which they have established in my attic corner, the present working

motive having come from the card announcing Sylvia's marriage to the

world in general, according to Mr. Latham's desire. Richard secured one

of these and busied himself an entire morning in setting it in type, for

the first time in his experience getting the capitals and small letters

in their proper places. The result was so praiseworthy that Evan hunted

up a large box of ornamental cards for them in town, and for two days

they have been "filling orders" for every one in the household.

I print the names they wish to copy very distinctly in big letters.

Richard does the type-setting, which is altogether too slow work for Ian,

who, as pressman, does the inking and printing, and in the process has

actually learned his tardy letters. As to the distributing and cleaning

of the type, I find a little assistance is gratefully accepted, even by

patient Richard, whose dear little pointed fingers by this time have

become tired, and fumble.

To-day, having exhausted the simple family names, they have tried

combinations and experiments with the words Mr., Mrs., and Miss, much

to their own amusement, "_Miss_ Timothy Saunders" being considered a

huge joke.

Suddenly Ian looked up with one of his most compelling, whimsical smiles,

and said, "Barbara, grandpop's Mrs. was grandma, and she's in heaven, but

where is Mrs. Uncle Martin?"

Rather startled, I said that I didn't know,--that there had never been

any Mrs. Uncle Martin.

"Why not?" persisted Ian, an answer that is simply an acknowledgment of

ignorance never being accepted by a child. Before I could think Richard

chirped out: "But Aunt Lavinia hasn't any Mr. for her card neiver, and

Martha, she said the other day that there was a Mr. and a Mrs. for

everybody, only sometimes they couldn't find each other for ever so long.

She told that to Effie, and I heard her."

A short pause, and then Ian jumped up, clapping his hands with joy, as

the solution of the problem flashed across him.

"I know what's happened, Barbara; maybe Uncle Martin's Mrs. and Aunt

Lavinia's Mr. has gone and got lost together, and some day they'll find

it out and bring each ovver back! Do you think they will, so we can have

some more weddings and pink ice cream, and couldn't we hurry up and help

find them? I guess we better print him some Mrs. cards so as in case."

I had drifted into gardening work on paper again, and I believe I said

that he had better ask Uncle Martin what he thought about the matter, and

at that moment the bell rang for luncheon.

The ringing of bells for meals in this house is what Lavinia Dorman

calls "a relic of barbarism," that she greatly deplores; but as I tell

her, our family gathers from so many points of the compass that if the

maid announced the meals, she would have to be gifted with the instinct

of a chaser of strayed freight cars.

Ian's queries have brought up a subject that has deluded and eluded my

hopes all summer, and has finally ended in the people that I hoped would

drift through the doorway of one of my most substantial air castles

refusing so to do, or else being too blind to see the open door.

Martin and Lavinia are the best possible friends, have been constantly in

each other's society, see from nearly the same point of view, and both

agree and disagree upon the same subjects, but they have not settled the

question of loneliness of living as I hoped, by making the companionship

permanent, _via_ matrimony.

Of course, I did not expect them to fall in love exactly as Evan and I or

Horace and Sylvia did--that belongs to spring and summer; still, I

thought that when they started worm-hunting together, and played checkers

every evening, that they were beginning to find each other mutually

indispensable, at least.

But no. Martin stored away his papers in the old desk, and went to New

York a week ago to see several suites of bachelor apartments that had

been offered him.

He writes this morning that he has found one to his liking, and will

return to-night, if he may, and stay over to-morrow to pack his things.

Meanwhile Miss Lavinia has sent her maids to clean and open her house in

"Greenwich Village," and will go home on Monday, spending her final

Sunday with me. Josephus went with the maids; the country had a

demoralizing effect upon him.

Miss Lavinia has been agitating moving uptown, several of her friends at

the Bluffs insisting that an apartment near the Park is much more

suitable for her than the little house so far from the social centre,

saying it is no wonder she is lonely and out of things; but yesterday she

told me that she had abandoned the idea of change, and had sent orders to

have her old back yard garden dismantled and the whole plot paved, as it

was now only a suitable place for drying clothes. Also that she had

written to ask her father's cousin Lydia, whose Staten Island home had

been built in by progress, very much like her own garden, to come to pass

the winter with her; and, lest she should repent of so rash an act, she

had given the letter to Evan before the ink was fairly dry, as he passed

the cottage on the way to the train, that he might post it in the city.

One consolation remains to me in the wreck of my romantic hopes for

her--Miss Lavinia has liked our neighbourhood so well that she has taken

the Alton cottage that she now occupies on a three years' lease, and

intends living here from May to October. The rambling garden is full of

old-time, hardy plants and roses, and oh, what good times we shall have

together there next spring, for of course she will stop with me when she

is getting things in order, and I can spare her enough roots and cuttings

to fill every spare inch of ground,--so, with Sylvia at Pine Ridge, what

more can I ask? The strain and hubbub of the Bluffs seems to be quite

vanishing from the foreground and merging with the horizon.

That reminds me that the people are drifting back quite rapidly now. The

golfers are afield again Sundays, and all talk of introducing fox hunting

with tame foxes; but they will have to learn the land, with its dips and

rocks, better first, or there will be a pretty crop of cracked crowns for

father. At present, I think that New England Prejudice will soon however

get the upper hand here, and tighten her hold of the reins that seemed

slipping from her grasp, which is well, for she has long borne aloft the

only standard of national morality whose code is not a sliding scale.

* * * * *

_September_ 9. Martin came back to-night. As he entered the house with

Evan I positively did not know him, for he has shaved off his mustache

and queer little pussy-cat whiskers, and with them has gone his

"pudgyness." He is really a very fine-looking man, and his features are

developed by the shaving process in an unexpected way. He seems so wide

awake, too, and alive to everything that passes, that I could see that

father, who came from the office to greet him, had difficulty in

restraining his surprise, but he contented himself by asking:--

"How did you fare with the publishers? Did you fall among thieves or

among friends?"

"That is equivalent to asking if my book has been accepted, as it is only

when work is refused that we call the mediums through which we seek to

reach the public hard names. Yes, the fate of my book is soon told; it

has found its place, and is to be fully illustrated as well, though it

will take me many months to collect the unique material they desire; this

insures me a busy winter, for which I am not only prepared but eager.

"I wish I could as easily tell you what this summer here has done for me,

Dick," and he leaned over the chair in which father had seated himself

and laid his arm affectionately across his shoulder. "I think in asking

me here you rescued me from as dangerous a condition of mental apathy as

when you stood by my bed so many years ago."

"Don't thank me," said father, leaning back and looking up at him, "thank

God's sunshine, work, the babies here, and why not woman's society

also,--you used to appreciate that, too, eh, Martin, old man? Give

everybody his, or rather her, due."

"Yes," I heard him answer, as if pondering the matter, while I fled

discreetly upstairs at this juncture, "you doubtless are right; Lavinia

Dorman's criticisms have been of infinite value in ridding my work of a

litter of words that encumbered the spirit and purpose of it. She is

direct and to the point, and yet withal most sympathetic. I had thought

of dedicating the book to her in some private way, for really we are

joint heirs, as it were, in so many traditions and habits of old New

York, that it would not seem strained or inappropriate."

"On the contrary, I think it most suitable, and I would not go to any

great pains to hide the compliment of the dedication under a bushel of

disguise either, if I were you. The Lydia Languish age of abnormal

privacy and distorted, unhealthy sensibility has fortunately passed.

Nowadays women like men to be direct, outspoken, definite, where they are

concerned."

"Do you think so?" asked Martin, in real surprise. "I feared possibly

that it might annoy her."

"I know so--annoy her, fudge!" was father's comment.

* * * * *

When we went in to dinner, Miss Lavinia at once noticed the change in

Martin's appearance, and said, in a spirit of mischief which of course I

alone noticed:--

"Back from the city, and with new clothes, too,--how very smart and

becoming they are."

But poor Martin was quite guileless, and looking down at his coat in a

puzzled way, as if to make doubly sure, replied, "No, it cannot be my

clothes, for they are the same." Then, brightening, as the possible

reason occurred to him: "Perhaps it may be my shaven face; you see, the

barber made an error in the trimming of my decorations yesterday, and he

thought it better to take them entirely off and have them grow afresh,

but I had not thought of the matter in the light of an improvement."

"But it is one, most decidedly," continued Miss Lavinia, nodding brightly

across at him, while father, who now realized the change he could not

locate, cried:--

"Don't let them grow again, my boy. You look ten years younger, at the

very least, which you know at our age is not to be despised!"

Then we all grew hilarious, and talked together like a lot of school

children, and when the boys came in to dessert, as usual, they also were

infectiously boisterous over the catching of some bass in the river where

Timothy Saunders had taken them that afternoon as a special treat. They

clamoured and begged so for Uncle Martin to stop over the next day for

fishing and have one more good time with them, that he, feeling flattered

almost to the point of embarrassment, yielded upon Evan's suggesting

that, instead of going by the eight o'clock morning train as he intended,

he could wait for one late in the evening, which would get him to town

before eleven. For Martin was to move into his new bachelor apartments

the following morning.

The three men lingered long at the table, smoking, the talk punctuated by

long periods of silence, each regretting in his own way the present

terminating of the summer intercourse, and yet, I fancy, realizing that

it had lasted exactly the safe length of time. To be able to adapt

oneself temporarily to the presence of outsiders in a house is a healthy

habit, but to adjust a family to do it permanently is to lose what can

never be regained. Miss Lavinia and I agreed upon that long ago, and for

this reason I am very much surprised that she has asked her cousin Lydia

to spend the winter, with a view of making the arrangement permanent.

The boys brought some of their games downstairs, and succeeded in adding

half an hour to their bedtime by coaxing Aunt Lavinia to play with them,

until I finally had to almost carry them to bed, they grew so suddenly

sleepy from their day's fishing.

When I returned below stairs after the boys were asleep, father had gone

to the village, Evan was walking up and down outside, all the windows and

doors were open again, and the sultry air answered the katydids' cry for

"Some-more-heat, some-more-heat."

Miss Lavinia was still in the hall, sitting on the lower step of the

stairs, for the boys had been using the broad landing that made a turn at

the top of the three steps as a place to play their games. Martin stood

leaning on the newel post, and from the few words I heard I knew that he

was telling her about the proposed dedication, so I went out and joined

Evan, for it seems as though we had had little leisure outdoors together

of late, and as if it was time to make it up as best we might.

Then, once again, as we crossed the streak of light that streamed like a

narrow moon path from the doorway, Evan paused and nodded his head toward

the hall. I turned--there sat Miss Lavinia and Martin Cortright on the

stairs, playing with the boys'--jack-straws!

"After this, what?" I asked, in my mirth leaning backward on Evan's

supporting arm.

"To be pat, it ought to be the deluge," chuckled Evan; "but as these are

prosy times, it simply means the end has been reached, and that to-morrow

they will put away mild summer madness, and return to the Whirlpool to

paddle about decorously as of yore."

I find that I am not the only person who is disappointed at the absence

of matrimonial intentions between Martin and Miss Lavinia. The

postmistress told me yesterday that she's been expecting to hear of a

second wedding any day, as when one took place it always meant three,

though she couldn't "fetch the third couple together, even in her mind's

eye," which I have found to be usually a capacious and well filled optic.

Mrs. Barton also stopped Martha Corkle on the road, and said with an

insinuating sneer, "She'd always supposed that the gentleman from New

York who lodged with her was making up to the proud old maid at the

Doctor's, but as he evidently wasn't going to, she'd advise Mrs. Evan to

watch out, as Miss Lavinia, doubtless being disappointed, might set her

cap for the Doctor himself, and then the Lord knows what would happen,

men being so easily flattered and trapped."

Martha was indignant, and I must say very rude, for she snapped back: "I

wonder at that same bein' your holdin', Mrs. Barton, bein' as you've five

maid daughters that's not so by their desirin', folks do say as knows."

Mud throwers should be careful to wear gloves,--their ammunition

is sticky.

* * * * *

_September_ 10. This morning father and I were obliged to go to town upon

some hospital business, and as we had to remain there for luncheon, or

perhaps longer, we took the train instead of driving over, leaving

Lavinia to pack, so that she might have a free Saturday to drive with me

to bid Mrs. Bradford good-by, and learn the latest news of Sylvia and

Horace. Meanwhile the boys were to go fishing with Martin, who is as

careful of them as possible, taking their lunch with them.

They did not have good luck, however, and growing restless and tired of

fishing without catching, Martin brought them home by three o'clock, and

as both he and Miss Lavinia had finished their preparations for leaving,

they went out to the seat by the rose arbour to enjoy what was left of

the glorious afternoon, for it has been one of those days that come in

dreams, so perfect that one knows it cannot last.

"I hope that I shall not lose all track of you this winter," said Miss

Lavinia. "Of course you will be busy, but you might spare a lonely woman

an evening now and then for piquet, or whist if Evan or the Doctor should

come to town."

"Lose track of you, Miss Lavinia,--how could that be possible?" queried

Martin in mild-eyed astonishment. "You know there will be a second volume

of the book for you to read and criticise, besides all the illustrations

to discuss. No, I hoped that you could spare me two definite evenings

every week, at least until the work is in press, though I suppose that is

asking a great deal of a woman having so many friends, and places to go."

"If you could see the way I spend my evenings alone, you would not

hesitate. Of course I do dine out once in a time, and people come to me,

but between times--I envy even Josephus, who can have social enjoyment

any time by merely scratching on the door and running along the palings

to the neighbours."

"I am glad, for I decided upon taking the Washington Square rooms,

instead of moving up nearer the Clubs as my friends advised, because I

thought it would be so much more convenient if, in proof correcting, I

should require to consult you hastily."

Miss Lavinia felt a pleasurable flush rising to her cheeks, when it was

chilled by the memory of her invitation to her cousin Lydia. Why had she

given it? Then the realization that a third party would be unwelcome to

her made the flush return and deepen.

* * * * *

"Uncle Martin, where is your Mrs.? Barbara said I'd have to ask you

'cause she didn't know," suddenly asked Ian's voice, so close behind

them that they both started. He had been up in the attic to get some of

his precious cards, one of which he now held in front of Martin

Cortright's gaze.

"My Mrs.! Why, what do you mean?" he asked in uncomprehending

astonishment, taking the boy on his knee; but when the little scamp had

explained, the stupidest person in the world could not plead ignorance.

"And," Ian continued, "Dick and me thought that p'r'aps if your Mrs. and

Aunt Lavinia's Mr. had got lost together we could find them for you, and

then there'd be two more weddings with pink ice cream. We're going to

look this afternoon, and we're going to ask Martha to help us, 'cause she

found her Mr. after he'd been lost a great while, Effie says."

"And he was right here in the place, too," chimed in Richard, "only he

didn't seem to see her, so p'r'aps yours aren't far off, and we might get

them in time to have the wedding to-night before you go. Wouldn't you

like to be in a wedding, Aunt Lavinia?"

"Mercy no, child, I'm too old!" she ejaculated, now as red as a

Jacqueminot rose, while the boys ran off in the direction of Martha's, to

ask her where it was best to begin this important quest, the prize for

which was pink ice cream.

Miss Lavinia did not look up for a moment, and when she did she found

Martin's eyes fastened on her face, and in them a strange

enlightenment that shook her like an electric bolt, as he arose and

stood before her, saying:--

"You need never be old. Some prefer June strawberries and others

September peaches, that is all. When once in June I thought to gather the

strawberries, I found they belonged to another, for I loved your friend,

who was Barbara's mother."

"And I loved your friend, who is Barbara's father," Miss Lavinia said,

rising and facing him.

"As they married each other, why may not we? I know now why my work has

prospered this summer and why life seems good again. Ian's little fancy

shows me the truth."

"Our Mr. and Mrs. were not far off, then," said she, laying her hand on

his, while she looked into his face with one of those rare smiles of

unreserved confidence that makes Lavinia Dorman more fascinating than

half the younger women that I know.

After a moment of romance they waked up to the fact of the present and

its comical aspect; the boys' talk of weddings brought that necessary

episode quickly before them.

"May I tell the Doctor when he returns? Shall we tell them all?" asked

Martin, eagerly, and Miss Lavinia sat suddenly down again and realized

that she still was in the world of responsibilities.

"I think I would rather wait and do it all at once, after--after the pink

ice-cream," she said, as he laughed at her hesitation over the word. "I

don't like keeping it from Barbara, but I'm so tired of talk and fuss and

feathers and Mrs. Grundy." "Then let us get it quietly over next week,

or tomorrow, if you say, unless you wish time to feel sure, or perhaps to

think it over," said Martin, with enthusiasm.

"Time to think it over!" cried Miss Lavinia, springing lightly to her

feet. "No, I'm sure I don't wish to think, I want to act--to do things my

own way and give no one a chance to speak until it is done. What have I

been doing all my life but thinking, and waiting for it to be a

convenient and suitable time for me to do this or that, wondering what

others will think if I do or don't; thinking that the disagreeable was

duty, often simply because it was disagreeable. Surely you have been

hampered by this perpetual thinking too, and watching the thumb of custom

to see if it pointed up or down. No, I'm done with it. We've agreed to be

married, so why not this very afternoon, and have the wedding over before

you go, as the boys suggested?"

"The best possible idea, though I should have hardly dared suggest it,"

said Martin, tramping to and fro in excitement. "How shall we manage? Go

down here to the rectory?"

"I would rather go over to town," said Miss Lavinia, beginning, in

spite of herself, to realize difficulties. "We do not know who might

drop in here."

"Very well," said Martin, decisively, looking at his watch. "I have it!

Timothy is off to-day; I will harness the grays to the stanhope, as we

can't wait to send to the stable, and we will drive over the back way by

the Ridge and be home again by dinner time. The rector of All Saints' was

a classmate of mine, and I met him again only the other day, so we shall

have no trouble there."

"Are you sure you can harness the horses properly?" asked Miss Lavinia,

with characteristic caution, and then smiling at herself, as Martin

hurried off to the stable.

* * * * *

In less than twenty minutes the sober gray horses turned out of the

stable yard and up the road upon the most remarkable trip of their

career. Nothing strange was noticeable about the turnout, except that the

traces hung a trifle loose, and that the occupants sat unusually far back

under the hood for so pleasant an afternoon. That is, until after they

had passed Martha's house in the lane and turned into the unfrequented

back highway, then they both leaned forward, gave a sigh of relief, and,

looking at each other, laughed aloud.

"Do you realize that we are eloping, like runaway school children?" said

Miss Lavinia, "we two hitherto sober-minded Knickerbockers?"

"I realize that I like what we are doing very much, whatever it may be

called," replied Martin, "and that it is very considerate of you to spare

me and do it in this way. The conventional affair is very hard on a man

of my years, all of whose contemporaries are either bald or rheumatic;

besides, now I think of it, it is merely carrying out the ever-present

precedent. My father's great-great-grand father and mother eloped in

1689 from Staten Island to the Bouerie, and the boat upset when they

were going back."

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Miss Lavinia, "I hope we shall not upset! I

wonder if the wheels are on securely. I thought I heard something rattle.

There it is again."

As they reached the bottom of the long hill, Martin let the reins hang

loose on the horses' necks and, lowering the hood, looked back to see if

he could find the cause of the jolting sound, accompanied by panting, as

of a dog running. Then he gave an exclamation of impatience, and pulled

the horses up short, for there, alternately running and lifting up their

feet and swinging, were the twins, clinging to the back of the gig!

Miss Lavinia gave a cry of dismay. "Where did you come from, and where

are you going?" she questioned rather sharply. "We went to Martha's, you

know," said Ian, as if his errand had been one of such importance that it

was impossible she should forget it, "and she wasn't there, so we thought

we'd just look for those people we said about, by ourselves. But we

couldn't find anybody, only a shiny black snake by the road, and he

rubber-necked at us and spit some 'fore he ran away. Then we saw

grandpop's horses coming, and when you went by we hooked on, and--"

"'Cause we thought if you was looking for those people and found them,

then we'd be there for the pink ice cream," added Richard, cheerfully,

supplementing Ian's story when his breath gave out.

"I suppose we must turn around and take them home," said Miss Lavinia,

with a sigh.

"Not a bit of it. Let them come with us; it is too late to turn back,

unless," he added, with a ring of mock humility in his tone, "you have

changed your mind and wish time to think. As for me, I've turned my back

on even thinking whether they will be missed or who will worry.

"Scramble in, boys, and curl up here in front. You are just in time; two

of these people you were searching for are going to be married this

afternoon. We are going to the wedding, and you shall be best men," and

the boys settled down, chuckling and whispering, but presently Ian

looked up, as light dawned, and cried: "I spy! It's you, Uncle Martin,

and Aunt Lavinia is your Mrs., only you couldn't find her all summer till

to-day," and he hugged his friend around the legs, which were all he

could reach, but Richard leaned backward until his head rested on Miss

Lavinia's knees, and he reached up his cooing lips to be kissed.

The rest of the ride to town was uneventful, except that when they

reached the outskirts they met Jenks-Smith's coach loaded with Whirlpool

people, but the Lady of the Bluffs saw nothing strange in the

combination, and merely shook her parasol at them, calling, "I'm sorry to

hear you're flitting, just when it's getting lively again, too!"

Fortunately the rector of All Saints' was at home, likewise the requisite

number of his family, for witnesses. Then it transpired that the couple

had never thought of the ring, and while Martin went out to buy one, Miss

Lavinia was left sitting on the edge of a very stiff sofa with a boy on

either side of her, with the Rectory family drawn up opposite like an

opposing force, which did not encourage easy conversation.

However, the agony was soon over, and the bride and groom left,

Martin giving his old classmate, to whom the world had been

penurious, a hand-shake that, when examined by the breathless family

a few moments later, was found to yield at least a new parlour

carpet, an easy-chair for the Rector's bent back, and a new clerical

suit to cover his gaunt frame.

"Now comes the pink ice cream," sang Ian, dancing a-tiptoe as they

reached the street; and there being but one good restaurant in town, on

the high street, next to the saddler's shop where the red goat harness

was still displayed, the party drove there, and the pink ice cream was

eaten, good and full measure thereof, while on their way out the coveted

goat harness found itself being taken from the window to be packed away

under the seat of the gig.

* * * * *

It was almost dinner time when father and I returned to-night, and the

boys were squeezed together in a chair on the piazza, close to Miss

Lavinia, while Martin sat near by on the balustrade. The boys were in a

great state of giggles, and kept clapping their hands to their mouths as

if they feared something would escape. I hurried upstairs, not wishing to

make dinner late, as I knew Martin expected to take the nine o'clock

train, just as father came in saying that Timothy had returned, and that

he found the horses in a wonderful sweat, and feared they were sick, as

they hadn't been out all day.

By this time we were in the hall and walking toward the dining room.

Martin stopped short, as if to say something, and then changed his mind,

while a bumping at the pantry door attracted the attention of us all.

Out came Ian, a portion of the goat harness on his head and shoulders,

followed by Richard, around whose neck the reins were fastened, and

between them they carried the great heavy silver tea-tray only used on

state occasions. In the centre of it rested a pink sofa pillow, upon

which some small, flat object like a note was lying.

They came straight across the hall, halting in front of me, and saying

earnestly, "We didn't ask for the harness, but Uncle Martin says that

people always give their best mens presents." I looked at him for a

second, not understanding, then Evan, with a curious twinkle in his eye,

strode across, whispering to me, "The Deluge," as he picked up the card

and read aloud, "Mr. and Mrs. Martin Cortright!" It was the card that

Richard had printed several days before and carried in strange company in

his warm, mussy little pocket ever since.

There was tense silence, and then a shout, as Martin took his wife's hand

that wore the wedding ring and laid it on mine; then he and father

fairly hugged each other, for father did not forget those long-ago days

of the strawberries that Martin could not gather.

When the excitement had subsided and dinner was over, Martha and Tim, to

whom the horse matter had been explained, came over to offer their

congratulations,--at least Martha did. Timothy merely grinned, and, to

the best of my belief, winked slyly at Martin, as much as to say, "We may

be long in knowing our minds, but when we men are ready, the weemen fair

tumble over us."

"Indeed, mum, but I wish you joy, and that he'll lead you as easy a life

as Tim'thy here does me, 'deed I do, and _no_ disrespeck intended," was

Martha's parting sentence; and then our wonder as to whether Martin was

going to town, or what, was cut short by his rising, looking at his

watch, and saying in the most matter-of-fact way to Lavinia: "Is your bag

ready? You know we leave in an hour."

"Does Lucy expect you?" I ventured to ask.

"Oh no, I shall not trouble her until the day appointed. We shall go to

the Manhattan, I think."

"How about your cousin Lydia?" asked father, who could not resist a

chance to tease.

"I forgot all about her!" exclaimed poor Lavinia, clasping her hands

tragically and looking really conscience-stricken. "And I," said Evan,

who had suddenly jumped up and rammed his hand into his side pocket,

"forgot to post your letter to her!"

* * * * *

_October_ 31. We have all been to New York to visit the runaway

Cortrights, as Evan calls them, now that they are settled, and it is

pleasant to see that so much belated happiness is possible. The fate of

Lavinia's house is definitely arranged; they will remain in "Greenwich

Village," in spite of all advice to move up in town. The defunct back

yard is being covered by an extension that will give Martin a fine

library, with a side window and a scrap of balcony, while the ailantus

tree is left, that bob-tailed Josephus may not be deprived of the feline

pleasures of the street or his original way of reaching it over the side

fence; and the flower garden that was, will be the foundation of a garden

of books under the kindly doctrine of compensation.

Above is to be a large guest room for Sylvia and Horace, or Evan and me,

so that there will be room in plenty when by and by we bring the boys to

see our New York.

Mrs. Jenks-Smith, who has formed a sincere attachment to Lavinia

Cortright, did all in her power to persuade her to be her neighbour up in

town, offering a charming house at a bargain and many advantages.

Finally becoming piqued at the refusal, she said:--

"Why will you be so stupid? Don't you know that this out-of-the-way

street is in the social desert?"

"It may be in a desert, as you say," said Lavinia, gently, "but we mean

at least to make it an oasis for our friends who are weary of the

whirling of the pool."

* * * * *

We stood looking at the boys as they slept tonight. Strange thoughts will

crop up at times most unexpectedly. Horns blowing on the highway

proclaimed the late arrival of a coaching party at the Bluffs. "Would you

like to have money if you could, and go about the world when and where

you please?" I asked Evan, but he, shaking his head, drew me towards him,

answering my question with another--

"Would you, or why do you ask?"

I never thought that Mrs. Jenks-Smith's stricture would turn to a

prayer upon my lips, but before I knew it I whispered, "God keep us

comfortably poor."

Then Ian, feeling our presence, raised himself in sleepy leisure, and

nestling his cheek against my dress said, "Barbara, _please_ give Ian a

drink of water."