Winslow had been fishing--or pretending to--all the morning, and he
was desperately thirsty. He boarded with the Beckwiths on the
Riverside East Shore, but he was nearer Riverside West, and he knew
the Penningtons well. He had often been there for bait and milk and
had listened times out of mind to Mrs. Pennington's dismal tales of
her tribulations with hired girls. She never could get along with
them, and they left, on an average, after a fortnight's trial. She was
on the lookout for one now, he knew, and would likely be cross, but he
thought she would give him a drink.
He rowed his skiff into the shore and tied it to a fir that hung out
from the bank. A winding little footpath led up to the Pennington
farmhouse, which crested the hill about three hundred yards from the
shore. Winslow made for the kitchen door and came face to face with a
girl carrying a pail of water--Mrs. Pennington's latest thing in hired
girls, of course.
Winslow's first bewildered thought was "What a goddess!" and he
wondered, as he politely asked for a drink, where on earth Mrs.
Pennington had picked her up. She handed him a shining dipper half
full and stood, pail in hand, while he drank it.
She was rather tall, and wore a somewhat limp, faded print gown, and a
big sunhat, beneath which a glossy knot of chestnut showed itself. Her
skin was very fair, somewhat freckled, and her mouth was delicious. As
for her eyes, they were grey, but beyond that simply defied
description.
"Will you have some more?" she asked in a soft, drawling voice.
"No, thank you. That was delicious. Is Mrs. Pennington home?"
"No. She has gone away for the day."
"Well, I suppose I can sit down here and rest a while. You've no
serious objections, have you?"
"Oh, no."
She carried her pail into the kitchen and came out again presently
with a knife and a pan of apples. Sitting down on a bench under the
poplars she proceeded to peel them with a disregard of his presence
that piqued Winslow, who was not used to being ignored in this
fashion. Besides, as a general rule, he had been quite good friends
with Mrs. Pennington's hired girls. She had had three strapping
damsels during his sojourn in Riverside, and he used to sit on this
very doorstep and chaff them. They had all been saucy and talkative.
This girl was evidently a new species.
"Do you think you'll get along with Mrs. Pennington?" he asked
finally. "As a rule she fights with her help, although she is a most
estimable woman."
The girl smiled quite broadly.
"I guess p'r'aps she's rather hard to suit," was the answer, "but I
like her pretty well so far. I think we'll get along with each other.
If we don't I can leave--like the others did."
"What is your name?"
"Nelly Ray."
"Well, Nelly, I hope you'll be able to keep your place. Let me give
you a bit of friendly advice. Don't let the cats get into the pantry.
That is what Mrs. Pennington has quarrelled with nearly every one of
her girls about."
"It is quite a bother to keep them out, ain't it?" said Nelly calmly.
"There's dozens of cats about the place. What on earth makes them keep
so many?"
"Mr. Pennington has a mania for cats. He and Mrs. Pennington have a
standing disagreement about it. The last girl left here because she
couldn't stand the cats; they affected her nerves, she said. I hope
you don't mind them."
"Oh, no; I kind of like cats. I've been tryin' to count them. Has
anyone ever done that?"
"Not that I know of. I tried but I had to give up in despair--never
could tell when I was counting the same cat over again. Look at that
black goblin sunning himself on the woodpile. I say, Nelly, you're not
going, are you?"
"I must. It's time to get dinner. Mr. Pennington will be in from the
fields soon."
The next minute he heard her stepping briskly about the kitchen,
shooing out intruding cats, and humming a darky air to herself. He
went reluctantly back to the shore and rowed across the river in a
brown study.
I don't know whether Winslow was afflicted with chronic thirst or not,
or whether the East side water wasn't so good as that of the West
side; but I do know that he fairly haunted the Pennington farmhouse
after that. Mrs. Pennington was home the next time he went, and he
asked her about her new girl. To his surprise the good lady was
unusually reticent. She couldn't really say very much about Nelly. No,
she didn't belong anywhere near Riverside. In fact, she--Mrs.
Pennington--didn't think she had any settled home at present. Her
father was travelling over the country somewhere. Nelly was a good
little girl, and very obliging. Beyond this Winslow could get no more
information, so he went around and talked to Nelly, who was sitting on
the bench under the poplars and seemed absorbed in watching the
sunset.
She dropped her g's badly and made some grammatical errors that caused
Winslow's flesh to creep on his bones. But any man could have forgiven
mistakes from such dimpled lips in such a sweet voice.
He asked her to go for a row up the river in the twilight and she
assented; she handled an oar very well, he found out, and the exercise
became her. Winslow tried to get her to talk about herself, but failed
signally and had to content himself with Mrs. Pennington's meagre
information. He told her about himself frankly enough--how he had had
fever in the spring and had been ordered to spend the summer in the
country and do nothing useful until his health was fully restored, and
how lonesome it was in Riverside in general and at the Beckwith farm
in particular. He made out quite a dismal case for himself and if
Nelly wasn't sorry for him, she should have been.
* * * * *
At the end of a fortnight Riverside folks began to talk about Winslow
and the Penningtons' hired girl. He was reported to be "dead gone" on
her; he took her out rowing every evening, drove her to preaching up
the Bend on Sunday nights, and haunted the Pennington farmhouse. Wise
folks shook their heads over it and wondered that Mrs. Pennington
allowed it. Winslow was a gentleman, and that Nelly Ray, whom nobody
knew anything about, not even where she came from, was only a common
hired girl, and he had no business to be hanging about her. She was
pretty, to be sure; but she was absurdly stuck-up and wouldn't
associate with other Riverside "help" at all. Well, pride must have a
fall; there must be something queer about her when she was so awful
sly as to her past life.
Winslow and Nelly did not trouble themselves in the least over all
this gossip; in fact, they never even heard it. Winslow was hopelessly
in love, when he found this out he was aghast. He thought of his
father, the ambitious railroad magnate; of his mother, the brilliant
society leader; of his sisters, the beautiful and proud; he was
honestly frightened. It would never do; he must not go to see Nelly
again. He kept this prudent resolution for twenty-four hours and then
rowed over to the West shore. He found Nelly sitting on the bank in
her old faded print dress and he straightway forgot everything he
ought to have remembered.
Nelly herself never seemed to be conscious of the social gulf between
them. At least she never alluded to it in any way, and accepted
Winslow's attentions as if she had a perfect right to them. She had
broken the record by staying with Mrs. Pennington four weeks, and
even the cats were in subjection.
Winslow was well enough to have gone back to the city and, in fact,
his father was writing for him. But he couldn't leave Beckwiths',
apparently. At any rate he stayed on and met Nelly every day and
cursed himself for a cad and a cur and a weak-brained idiot.
One day he took Nelly for a row up the river. They went further than
usual around the Bend. Winslow didn't want to go too far, for he knew
that a party of his city friends, chaperoned by Mrs. Keyton-Wells,
were having a picnic somewhere up along the river shore that day. But
Nelly insisted on going on and on, and of course she had her way. When
they reached a little pine-fringed headland they came upon the
picnickers, within a stone's throw. Everybody recognized Winslow.
"Why, there is Burton!" he heard Mrs. Keyton-Wells exclaim, and he
knew she was putting up her glasses. Will Evans, who was an especial
chum of his, ran down to the water's edge. "Bless me, Win, where did
you come from? Come right in. We haven't had tea yet. Bring your
friend too," he added, becoming conscious that Winslow's friend was a
mighty pretty girl. Winslow's face was crimson. He avoided Nelly's
eye.
"Are them people friends of yours?" she asked in a low tone.
"Yes," he muttered.
"Well, let us go ashore if they want us to," she said calmly. "I don't
mind."
For three seconds Winslow hesitated. Then he pulled ashore and helped
Nelly to alight on a jutting rock. There was a curious, set expression
about his fine mouth as he marched Nelly up to Mrs. Keyton-Wells and
introduced her. Mrs. Keyton-Wells's greeting was slightly cool, but
very polite. She supposed Miss Ray was some little country girl with
whom Burton Winslow was carrying on a summer flirtation; respectable
enough, no doubt, and must be treated civilly, but of course wouldn't
expect to be made an equal of exactly. The other women took their cue
from her, but the men were more cordial. Miss Ray might be shabby, but
she was distinctly fetching, and Winslow looked savage.
Nelly was not a whit abashed, seemingly, by the fashionable circle in
which she found herself, and she talked away to Will Evans and the
others in her soft drawl as if she had known them all her life. All
might have gone passably well, had not a little Riverside imp, by name
of Rufus Hent, who had been picked up by the picnickers to run their
errands, come up just then with a pail of water.
"Golly!" he ejaculated in very audible tones. "If there ain't Mrs.
Pennington's hired girl!"
Mrs. Keyton-Wells stiffened with horror. Winslow darted a furious
glance at the tell-tale that would have annihilated anything except a
small boy. Will Evans grinned and went on talking to Nelly, who had
failed to hear, or at least to heed, the exclamation.
The mischief was done, the social thermometer went down to zero in
Nelly's neighbourhood. The women ignored her altogether. Winslow set
his teeth together and registered a mental vow to wring Rufus Hent's
sunburned neck at the first opportunity. He escorted Nelly to the
table and waited on her with ostentatious deference, while Mrs.
Keyton-Wells glanced at him stonily and made up her mind to tell his
mother when she went home.
Nelly's social ostracism did not affect her appetite. But after lunch
was over, she walked down to the skiff. Winslow followed her.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked.
"Yes, it's time I went, for the cats may be raidin' the pantry. But
you must not come; your friends here want you."
"Nonsense!" said Winslow sulkily. "If you are going I am too."
But Nelly was too quick for him; she sprang into the skiff, unwound
the rope, and pushed off before he guessed her intention.
"I can row myself home and I mean to," she announced, taking up the
oars defiantly.
"Nelly," he implored.
Nelly looked at him wickedly.
"You'd better go back to your friends. That old woman with the
eyeglasses is watchin' you."
Winslow said something strong under his breath as he went back to the
others. Will Evans and his chums began to chaff him about Nelly, but
he looked so dangerous that they concluded to stop. There is no
denying that Winslow was in a fearful temper just then with Mrs.
Keyton-Wells, Evans, himself, Nelly--in fact, with all the world.
His friends drove him home in the evening on their way to the station
and dropped him at the Beckwith farm. At dusk he went moodily down to
the shore. Far up the Bend was dim and shadowy and stars were shining
above the wooded shores. Over the river the Pennington farmhouse
lights twinkled out alluringly. Winslow watched them until he could
stand it no longer. Nelly had made off with his skiff, but Perry
Beckwith's dory was ready to hand. In five minutes, Winslow was
grounding her on the West shore. Nelly was sitting on a rock at the
landing place. He went over and sat down silently beside her. A full
moon was rising above the dark hills up the Bend and in the faint
light the girl was wonderfully lovely.
"I thought you weren't comin' over at all tonight," she said, smiling
up at him, "and I was sorry, because I wanted to say goodbye to you."
"Goodbye? Nelly, you're not going away?"
"Yes. The cats were in the pantry when I got home."
"Nelly!"
"Well, to be serious. I'm not goin' for that, but I really am goin'.
I had a letter from Dad this evenin'. Did you have a good time after I
left this afternoon? Did Mrs. Keyton-Wells thaw out?"
"Hang Mrs. Keyton-Wells! Nelly, where are you going?"
"To Dad, of course. We used to live down south together, but two
months ago we broke up housekeepin' and come north. We thought we
could do better up here, you know. Dad started out to look for a place
to settle down and I came here while he was prospectin'. He's got a
house now, he says, and wants me to go right off. I'm goin' tomorrow."
"Nelly, you mustn't go--you mustn't, I tell you," exclaimed Winslow in
despair. "I love you--I love you--you must stay with me forever."
"You don't know what you're sayin', Mr. Winslow," said Nelly coldly.
"Why, you can't marry me--a common servant girl."
"I can and I will, if you'll have me," answered Winslow recklessly. "I
can't ever let you go. I've loved you ever since I first saw you.
Nelly, won't you be my wife? Don't you love me?"
"Well, yes, I do," confessed Nelly suddenly; and then it was fully
five minutes before Winslow gave her a chance to say anything else.
"Oh, what will your people say?" she contrived to ask at last. "Won't
they be in a dreadful state? Oh, it will never do for you to marry
me."
"Won't it?" said Winslow in a tone of satisfaction. "I rather think it
will. Of course, my family will rampage a bit at first. I daresay
Father'll turn me out. Don't worry over that, Nelly. I'm not afraid of
work. I'm not afraid of anything except losing you."
"You'll have to see what Dad says," remarked Nelly, after another
eloquent interlude.
"He won't object, will he? I'll write to him or go and see him. Where
is he?"
"He is in town at the Arlington."
"The Arlington!" Winslow was amazed. The Arlington was the most
exclusive and expensive hotel in town.
"What is he doing there?"
"Transacting a real estate or railroad deal with your father, I
believe, or something of that sort."
"Nelly!"
"Well?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say."
Winslow got up and looked at her.
"Nelly, who are you?"
"Helen Ray Scott, at your service, sir."
"Not Helen Ray Scott, the daughter of the railroad king?"
"The same. Are you sorry that you're engaged to her? If you are,
she'll stay Nelly Ray."
Winslow dropped back on the seat with a long breath.
"Nelly, I don't understand. Why did you deceive me? I feel stunned."
"Oh, do forgive me," she said merrily. "I shouldn't have, I
suppose--but you know you took me for the hired girl the very first
time you saw me, and you patronized me and called me Nelly; so I let
you think so just for fun. I never thought it would come to this. When
Father and I came north I took a fancy to come here and stay with Mrs.
Pennington--who is an old nurse of mine--until Father decided where to
take up our abode. I got here the night before we met. My trunk was
delayed so I put on an old cotton dress her niece had left here--and
you came and saw me. I made Mrs. Pennington keep the secret--she
thought it great fun; and I really was a great hand to do little
chores and keep the cats in subjection too. I made mistakes in grammar
and dropped my g's on purpose--it was such fun to see you wince when I
did it. It was cruel to tease you so, I suppose, but it was so sweet
just to be loved for myself--not because I was an heiress and a
belle--I couldn't bear to tell you the truth. Did you think I
couldn't read your thoughts this afternoon, when I insisted on going
ashore? You were a little ashamed of me--you know you were. I didn't
blame you for that, but if you hadn't gone ashore and taken me as you
did I would never have spoken to you again. Mrs. Keyton-Wells won't
snub me next time we meet. And some way I don't think your father will
turn you out, either. Have you forgiven me yet, Burton?"
"I shall never call you anything but Nelly," said Winslow
irrelevantly.