LUNCHEON AL FRESCO.
It is one of the distinctive features of life in our Southern States,
this keen pursuit and enjoyment of field sports. The climate favors
every thing of the sort, and the tastes of the people, as well as the
leisure which has always been their inheritance, keep alive a zest
for out-door accomplishments, amongst which shooting is accorded the
chief place. It has sometimes been hinted that, so zealous are they
in this direction, if small game chances to be scarce, they will on
occasion shoot at each other, in order not to fail of diligent
practice; but no man who has ever enjoyed the cordial hospitality and
generous freedom of a low-country plantation in the quail season,
will be likely to recall any but the charmingest recollections of the
occasion. The open season for small game comes there in the most
delightful part of the year, when to be out of doors is, of itself,
as exhilarating as a surf-bath in summer. From the old, wide-winged,
airy plantation house and its profuse cheer and comfort, one goes
forth into fields, basking in more than Indian-summer dreaminess and
warmth. The air is fresh and pungent, the ground is dry, the
prospect is liberal and inviting. There is no sense of limitation to
the rambler's operations; he feels that, like the poet's brook, he
can go on forever.
By gentlemen of robust tastes, such entertainment as that afforded by
General DeKay's shooting-party is of a kind greatly enjoyed and
rarely obtainable. The game had been carefully preserved and the
shooting area was practically unlimited, which, without the aid of
perfect weather and a rare hospitality, would have made the mere
liberty to shoot joy enough for the enthusiastic sportsmen. But
General DeKay and his wife knew how to entertain in that off-hand,
natural way which is peculiarly gratifying to men bent on such
vigorous pleasures as field-sports give. Substantial viands, good
wine, fine tobacco and freedom from conventional absurdities around
the board were supplemented by such cordial watchfulness of their
needs as made the guests feel "at home" indeed.
The luncheon spread on a smooth plat by the spring and presided over
by Mrs. Ransom was discussed in no mincing mood by the
quail-shooters, while they talked over the excellent sport of the
morning with frequent eulogies of their host's superior manner of
planning and directing it.
Reynolds' shooting was heartily praised, and Ruby, his dog, got such
eloquent tributes as never before fell to an unsuspecting setter.
Miss Crabb could not refrain from openly making notes, nor could she
repress a desire to ask questions. She was embarrassed with the
riches of material that fell about her. She had visions of a letter
that should make both her and her paper famous.
Physically as well as mentally, Miss Crabb was in strong contrast
with the rest of the company; her voice, too, her pronunciation, her
method of intonation, and, indeed, all the salients of her
personality, cut with an almost barbaric _eclat_ through this smooth
social atmosphere. At every turn she made herself felt as a foreign
quantity. She was obviously busy; she had a purpose, an ulterior
object; she was plying a trade, and a trade, by the way, of which she
was very proud. So nearly as words may express it, she was
pleasingly disagreeable. Her companions were aware that she aroused
in them a dual sentiment wherein pity was scarcely separated from a
low grade of admiration. That she was a novice in newspaper work
could be detected by the most unskillful observer, and like all
novices, she was an enthusiast. Evidently she regarded gathering
notes as the chief purpose of life for which she would make any
sacrifice. She was nervous and fussy, quick, keen, ready, anxious to
make every thing serve her a turn. Hearing the gentlemen discussing
the interesting features of the morning's sport, she plied them with
such a volley of questions as taxed their agility to answer.
Meantime her pencil danced recklessly over the pages of the little
red book. The prospect of doing something unique intoxicated her and
made her enunciation still more rapid. Reynolds' shooting and the
splendid achievement of his dog were to be the chief points of her
report and she spared no pains to get the details in full. She
looked upon men and men's doings as of much more importance and
interest than women and women's acts; she was not quite sure that
even dogs were not rated by the world as rather more noticeable than
women. Secretly she harbored an ambition to show the world what a
woman could do if once she had got clear of the meshes of feminine
restraints. Why shouldn't she report a quail-shoot just as well as a
man? At all events, she was bound to try, and so she went nimbly at
the task.
"It's unusual, isn't it?" she inquired of Mr. Tom Boardman, a merry
youth just graduated from a Tennessee college, and brim full of
sport-lingo, "It's unusual, isn't it, for a dog to stiffen in the air
on a point with a bird in its mouth?"
She said this all so glibly and earnestly, with a slight sideways
turn of her head, that the youth came near choking over his effort to
smother a wild laugh.
"Very unusual," he answered in a suffering tone, "very."
She made some rapid notes in the red book. Then looking up, with the
end of the pencil against her teeth, said:
"And he struck the ground, stanch on his nose, at a half-turn; is
that right?"
Mr. Tom Boardman's eyes suddenly widened and then his nerve failed
him. He laughed uproariously in spite of himself; but to his great
relief Miss Crabb did not take offense. She joined him quite
heartily in his merriment at her own expense.
"It's very interesting," she added, "and I must get it right. Give
it to me slowly in technical language, so that I can take it down. I
guess I got some of the terms mixed--absurdly, too, didn't I?"
He caught a glimpse, so to speak, of the girl's charming kindness of
heart and evident sincerity of purpose, which instantly won upon him.
He changed without appearing to change and took great pains to give
her the information she desired, volunteering besides to detail a
number of the most striking incidents of the morning.
"Why shouldn't you try writing a novel and weave into it something of
this sort?" he asked. "It seems to me that you might make a lively
story of such materials as you are gathering."
"And if I should write one," she answered, her face growing serious,
"I couldn't get it printed."
"Why?"
"Oh, the publishers don't want provincial stories, they are not in
vogue now."
"Ah, well, but make it so fresh and true to life and so breezy and
interesting generally, that the publishers couldn't refuse. I know
you could."
"That's a kind compliment, but I'm too well posted to be carried
away. A novel, now-a-days, must be what they call analytical, a
fine-spun exemplification of an author's power to lay bare the
motives of his characters in doing what they do. Plots are
abolished, stories ignored."
"But I like stories, genuine love-stories, with a smack of adventure
and lots of incidents," he earnestly exclaimed. "What's the interest
in all this long-drawn, tedious nonsense about a common-place
American young woman's reasons for refusing an English nobleman, or
about why a European patrician of doubtful morals could not
condescend to marry a good, free, sweet American girl?"
Miss Crabb smiled and shook her head.
"But the critics have decided against you, and what are you going to
do about it? I, too, like stories, and so, I think, does almost
every body, but they are out of fashion. All the thrifty writers go
in for the analytical novel now. It don't make much difference what
your characters do, so that you are able to dissect their motives for
so doing."
She sighed regretfully as she ended, as if the subject had awakened
sad memories.
"Well, if I were a critic," said he, with a light laugh, "I'd give
your story a genuine indorsement of authority."
"No, you wouldn't," she responded. "You re a man and you'd do as the
rest. You'd say: Poor girl, she'd better be washing dishes or
teaching school."
Boardman laughed.
Beresford saw the mistletoe spray in Mrs. Ransom's hat, and, not
dreaming of any one else than herself having put it there, asked
where she had got it.
"Mr. Reynolds brought it from somewhere in his rambles this morning,"
she said. She took off her hat and plucked out the sprig, but after
hesitating a moment, put it back again.
Beresford received the blow bravely, and, like the true gentleman
that he was, accepted the situation without apparent embarrassment.
Love at first sight is a fruit of warm climates, and passionate souls
seize it rapturously; but love, even under a Southern sky, sometimes
turns to ashes before the swiftest lips may reach it.
"Mr. Reynolds has won the victory to-day," he said, "and under the
ancient rules has the right to choose where he will have the crown
rest. You wear it like a queen."
There was something behind his light manner and lighter words that
touched her. She did not rightly construe him, guessing that he was
simply striving to hide the chagrin of his first defeat in the field.
"Victor to-day, vanquished to-morrow," was her quick rejoinder;
"there is a good deal of mere chance in such things, I suppose. No
doubt to-day was one of your unlucky days."
"Yes, but I must admit that I never have equaled Mr. Reynolds' score
of this morning, so I can not get any comfort out of your gracious
suggestion," he frankly exclaimed. "He is a better shot than I--the
best I ever saw."
"My uncle says so too," she responded, "and he is enthusiastic about
the dog, the one that did the fine act."
"Superb, superb!" he rejoined with emphasis. "I would put that dog
against the whole world of dogs." He found a sort of comfort in
praising his rival and his rival's dog. It was a species of
self-torture that deadened for the time the pain of his defeat.
Miss Beresford, who was so situated that she could not avoid hearing
this conversation, glanced at her brother with a repressed resentment
in her eyes. She felt that he was not doing himself justice; that he
was, in fact, failing to assert himself as a true Beresford, a name
that had never before tamely accepted and acknowledged defeat.
"Give me your score, Mr. Beresford, please," said Miss Crabb, coming
forward with her book and pencil.
"Thirty-three," he promptly answered. His sister's face flushed with
anger. She turned to him and said under her breath:
"She shall not do that--she shall not publish it!"
"Pshaw!" he almost whispered, "don't allow yourself to show any
feeling. Don't make a scene. Can't you feel the delicacy of my
situation? Be quiet, there's a good girl."
Miss Crabb had hurried away to where Reynolds was seated. She was
intent upon getting the precise status of things.
"Oh, you are way ahead," she exclaimed, in her clear high tones.
Then she seized the wreath of bay leaves twined by Mrs. Ransom and
forthwith laid it upon his head.
"To the victor belongs the crown!" she added, laughing merrily.
"See, Mrs. Ransom, I've put your handiwork to noble use!"
She was so innocently playful in her manner, that no one could deem
her act a rude one. It seemed almost fitting, at least permissible,
in view of the freedom of this little out-door convocation. But
Reynolds lightly doffed the circlet.
"I am too earnest a democrat to wear a crown of any sort with due
dignity," he laughingly said; "besides," he added, "my dog is the
hero, not I."
"Truth, every word of it!" cried Moreton, balancing a glass of wine
on the tips of his fingers. "Your tastes are most commendably
plebeian and proper. If Miss Crabb will but let me describe your
mountain hermitage she can fully appreciate your sturdy democracy.
"Don't do that, Moreton, if you love me; my cabin is my castle and my
sanctuary," Reynolds answered in mock earnestness.
It was an unlucky turn in the thoughtless conversation, for it sent a
current of uneasiness through the mind of Reynolds that made it very
hard for him to keep up his spirits to the level of the occasion.
The mere mention of those six years of mountain seclusion was enough
to awaken a whole world of distressing memories. Things known only
to himself came up to darken his mind. Miss Crabb's restless energy
and journalistic enterprise would not, however, allow him long to
grope among his carefully hidden secrets.
"Now a thought strikes me," she exclaimed, as if addressing the
entire company; "can any one here sketch the least bit in the world?
What a fresh and charming illustrated paper the material I am
collecting would make for one of the magazines, if I could get some
truthful and spirited sketches from which an illustrator could take
his cue!" She rolled the end of her pencil in her mouth and awaited
an answer.
"Mr. Reynolds is an artist," said Moreton with a sidelong glance at
his friend.
"Oh, I'm so glad! Won't you help me, Mr. Reynolds? Just a half
dozen or so of striking local transcripts--a view of General DeKay's
house, a scene or two from the quail shoot, some character studies
and----"
"You overwhelm me," said Reynolds, his face actually showing the
truth of his assertion. "I never could trust myself to undertake
such a commission; and besides," he added with a tone of suddenly
discovered relief, "I have no sketching materials with me."
Miss Crabb became thoughtful, tapping her forehead with the back of
her note-book. Mrs. Ransom came to the rescue with a request for her
to help pass coffee to the gentlemen. The negro attendant had brewed
a pot of Java, the aromatic fragrance of which had been for some
minutes on the air.
It would, indeed, have been worth while for an artist to have caught
the impression of the scene just then. The men carelessly standing
or sitting, with the young women ministering and the dogs lounging
idly around the outskirts of the group; the soft atmosphere, the
broad, airy landscape with the green-fringed silvery river winding
through the middle distance, the slumberous quietude and the deep,
dark forest rising yonder like a wall.
After coffee the gentlemen went aside to light pipes and cigars. The
afternoon was well advanced before General DeKay proposed going to
the field again. Now and then a quail had been heard whistling in
the distance that far-reaching, energetic call of a straggler to his
scattered companions. A momentarily freshening breeze was fast
brushing from the sky the film of fleece clouds.
The ladies voted that they were satisfied with what they had seen,
wished the sportsmen a merry afternoon and were driven back across
the rustling sedge fields to the old mansion.
Reynolds turned, after he had walked some distance, and looked back.
The wagon containing the ladies was slowly trundling over a little
swell in the field. Mrs. Ransom's face was, he thought, turned
toward him. Involuntarily he took off his hat and waved it in the
air. Then he saw, or imagined he saw, something white flutter a
response from the group in the wagon. This little incident cost him
quite dear, for he failed to note, on turning about, that his dogs
had come to a stand in the weeds near by. A quail sprang up from his
very toes and whirred away quartering to his right, going like a
bullet. He fired and missed. Moreton took the bird on a cross shot,
stopping it beautifully.
Reynolds' dogs looked at him with a sneaking leer in their eyes, as
if they felt the disgrace of their master.
"That's one debt paid!" Moreton cried. "Credit me, will you?"
Reynolds felt no interest in the sport. His vision was introverted,
his ears were full of sweet sounds, his heart was beating time to the
melody of his day-dream. He went down by the river and lay upon an
old mossy drift log, against one end of which the light current
rippled sweetly. There was a windy rustle in the reeds and a broad,
washing murmur came from the water. He could see but a little
distance along the river surface either way, owing to a short bend,
and the tall brakes on the banks shut out all else save an occasional
report from the guns of his more enthusiastic companions. His dogs
came and lay down near him, licking their muscular legs and glossy
sides, or nibbling at an occasional burr in their hair. So all the
rest of the afternoon he did not fire a shot. It was nearly sundown
when he again climbed up the river-bank and turned towards the house,
with not a bird to show for the two or three hours spent with dogs
and gun. But what to him were the poor trophies of a quail-shoot,
now that his passionate nature was stirred to its depths with a love
whose fullness and intensity left no room for another feeling or
thought? To be near Agnes Ransom, to hear her voice, to gaze into
her eyes, to bring the whole force of his will and the fullest power
of his eloquence to bear upon her, to win her, to take her, to
triumphantly hold her as his own, these were the desires, the
purposes surging about in his breast. He walked slowly back towards
the DeKay mansion, taking no heed of the beauties of earth or sky.
It was nothing to him that the low-hanging sun flung a glory over the
distant wood and touched the roof of the old house as if with a flame.