and every step cost a pang. He eased the lame foot by resting his weight
on the other. His gray-blue eyes, which only his dead mother had ever
found handsome, scanned with a certain wistfulness Dickson's graceful,
athletic figure and clean, dark profile. His own profile was irregular
and his figure was awkward, with arms too long and shoulders too square
for harmony; he stooped in an ungainly fashion, as if he had the habit
of musing as he walked; his plain face was deeply freckled. Yet as there
was a suggestion of strength in the figure, so there was the same
suggestion in the young mouth and chin, and something clear and
strangely innocent, for a young man, looked out of his eyes. As he
stood, every muscle seemed to sag; he appeared utterly spent; but the
instant Dickson had driven he stepped alertly into his place and sent a
drive like a bird sailing far beyond Dickson's dot of white on the
green. Somehow a new uplift of energy and hope had come to him; bless
that kid, he would show her that he could still do something with the
sticks! He heard her whispered, unconscious "_Beauty!_" This time he
kept his head straight, but when the hole was won, he met her smile
frankly with another. The next hole was easy. He had steadied; he had
his nerve back; every calculation worked; and when Dickson stymied, it
was a simple trick (the like of which he had practiced often) to hop
over the ball and roll into the hole, to the artless joy of his caddy.
"You're going to be the champeen," this worthy told Willy when they
trudged on; "guess that young lady's a mascot."
"I guess she is," said Willy. He was sure of it when at the home hole,
guarded by a high hedge, Dickson's ball was sliced into the stubborn net
of osage-orange roots. When his own ball sailed cleanly over the wall he
made an excuse of tying his shoe in order to get another view of "that
kid's" brilliant smile. The girl herself went on to the bench in sight
of the blackboard. Here she found herself beside an elderly man with a
great head of thick gray hair. He was clapping so vigorously that she
took him to be Willy's father, and sent him a glance of sympathy. "You
been all 'round with him?" said he. "What sort of a game is he playing?"
"Pretty bad until the fifteenth, and then a wonder," she returned
calmly.
"Rattled!" he snorted in disgust, as he chewed his cigar out of shape.
"First match game. How are the others? What's his chance?"
"He can beat them all if he will only think so," she returned in the
same even tone. Her voice was fuller, with a different and more
melodious intonation than those about him; he looked up at her quickly,
as if from a passing sense of the difference.
"Yes, he's rattled!" grunted the elderly gentleman. "Gone stale,
practicing every minute. Too anxious. Wants to please his father by
getting a little silverware."
"Aren't you his father?"
"_Me?_ No. His father could buy me up out of his pocket-money. His
father is Hiram G. Butler. I'm only his boss. He's learning the steel
business with me. I wish I _was_ his father; he's a genius in his way."
"I suppose his father is awfully proud of him."
"Proud nothing!" exploded the stout gentleman. "His father has bought
and sold and fought inventors so long that when he discovered that his
son was hatching formulas for open-hearth steel he was disgusted. Then
at college Will took honors in chemistry and was a grind; and when his
father wanted to load him with money, and told him to go ahead and make
all the societies, he sent the money back and said he didn't know any
boys in societies; the boys who ran after him were only after his money
and the other boys didn't want him. The trouble simply is he is too
all-fired shy and modest. Takes his father's word he is a failure
because he couldn't make their fool societies. How should a fellow who
has spent his life in English schools and traveling about with a tutor,
and then is dumped into Harvard, be expected to make a splash among
those snippy young swells? Harvard's no violet cold-frame! The other
boys did, but they were chips of the old block, hard as nails and
hustlers from 'way back. And since his mother died this poor chap has
had nobody to chirk him up. Father didn't mind until the other boys
died. All three in one year; pretty tough on their father. Pretty tough.
Ever lose--ur-r!--any one in your family? Then you know. Now Willy's the
only child, and his father wants to make him over in his brothers'
image. Wants to give him a wife to help! And Willy so scared of a
petticoat he walked two hours up and down before the Somerset Hotel at
his first college dance trying to screw up courage to go in--and
couldn't. Hiram never will get over that. But Willy, though he won't
marry to please his father, is fond of the old dictator just the same.
And mighty proud. That's why he has worked so at golf. Trying to show he
can do some things like other boys, you see. Well, I see that Harvard
dude has got his ball on the green at last. Now it's up to Willy--Didn't
I tell you? In all right! Shall--Oh!" It was a singularly small, soft
"Oh!" which the elderly man uttered, and it slipped out of his rugged
lips when he caught the shy flash from Willy's eyes at the girl. He
studied her an infinitesimal space before he spoke, and he turned a
chuckle into a cough as he said, "Aren't you Lady Jean Bruce-Hadden and
aren't you visiting the Brookes?"
She said that she was, rather indifferently, her gaze still following
Willy, who was accepting Dickson's congratulations less awkwardly than
was his wont.
"I guess Major Brooke has told you about me, Jabez Rivers--"
But ere he could finish the name, she had held out her hand with a
kindling face, crying, "Oh, indeed, yes. I'm ever so glad to meet you,
Mr. Rivers."
After this it was only natural to present Willy; but it was a bit of a
surprise to have Willy, when presented, say, "This is my mascot, sir. I
lost the game and she made me win it."
Willy was astonished at his own fluency; but then he had thought Lady
Jean a very young girl, not quite the "kid" that he had styled her, but
still hardly a young lady. Then, anyhow, she was different. Oh, _very_
different!
His friend was eying him critically, with queer little grunts, according
to his fashion. "You're not fit to walk," he grumbled. "Why _will_ young
folks wear shoes that don't fit! Say, you take Lady Jean home while I go
over to the club-house with the major. And keep the car if you don't
find me. I'll go back with Standish. And--I don't know but you better
take her 'round the head of the island and show her that motor
mowing-machine--lawn-mower, you know; I want her to see it."
He grinned as the young people obeyed him with grateful docility,
speeding away in his electric runabout; and bestowed a look of orphic
sagacity upon the officer in white undress uniform who had joined him.
The officer was younger than Rivers, although not young.
"That is one of the very finest little ladies in the world," he
remarked.
To which Rivers returned dryly, "So you've told me. And that's one of
the finest, decentest, cleanest fellows in the world with her."
"As you've told _me_."
Rivers grunted. "Go over that lingo you told me about the girl again--or
I'll repeat to see if I've got it straight. She's the fifth daughter of
the Earl of Paisley, Scotch earl, and poor as even a Scotch earl can be.
He has no sons. Distant cousin heir to title. Countess dead. Oldest
daughter married to Baron Fairley; second, widow of a bishop; third,
wife of army officer. Bishopess manages family. She has brought Lady
Moira and the earl over here to give American millionaires a chance with
Lady Moira, who is the family beauty; and little Jean, who is good as
gold, and has sense, but isn't showy, was just thrown in because an
old-maid aunt offered to pay her expenses. Your wife, who knew them in
Scotland, asked her to come here while the Bishopess, in New York, picks
out the most eligible of the millionaire admirers. So?"
"Yes. Well?"
"Come on over to the club-house; and while we rest a bit, you telephone
over to Mrs. Brooke, who only needs a tip to go straight, to _make_
Willy Butler stay to dinner--"
"Oh, I say--" began the major.
"No, you don't say anything. You don't ask questions. You have
confidence in your Uncle Jabez and do what he asks. _Not?_"
"I will," said the major, and he went away smiling.
* * * * *
How astonishing to be taking a girl about alone and not be in torments
of embarrassment! But this girl was so nice and simple and boyish; not
the least like those snippy Boston buds! And she knew golf to the
ground; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to ask her if she
was going to watch Cleaves play to-morrow.
"I thought I'd follow you," she said quietly. "Do you want
to--fire--isn't that what you call it?--your mascot?"
"Will you? Will you really?" he stammered in his pleasure. "I had a
sneaking hope, but I didn't d-dare--I feel if you d-do, I'll beat my
man; they say he is easy, and then I'll be Cleaves' runner-up and get a
cup."
"Why not beat Cleaves and get the big cup?" said she in the same cool
tone. "You can if you will. You know perfectly well you can. Promise me
you will."
"Here and now?" said Willy, smiling faintly, but the light in her eyes
struck a glint in his own. "Done," he added, holding out his hand. Her
clasp was cool and soft, but as firm and frank as a boy's.
"And now," said she, "where's your lawn-mower?"
They had reached the head of the island, where there was a beautifully
shaven sweep of lawn, but no vestige of mower; Willy's pulses beat a
thought faster, and he felt himself a master of stratagem when he
suggested their searching for it in an impossible locality at the
farther end if the island. He found that she could talk as well about
other things as golf. There was no froth in her talk, but she was very
witty; Willy, who passed for an abnormally serious young fellow, laughed
several times. He confessed to her that it was more like talking to a
boy than to a girl to talk to her. "I've always wanted to be a boy," she
laughed. "You can play I am one, if you like."
"But I'm afraid you would miss the pretty speeches, and all that."
"I never had any," she answered, with her flashing smile. "Maybe when
I'm presented I shall have if we have enough money next year to have me
come out. But I don't believe I shall. If you had four sisters all
raving beauties and tremendously fetching, and you couldn't even sing a
song, do nothing but ride and play tennis--well, you wouldn't expect
pretty speeches!"
"Why not? You are pretty, too. You--"
She stopped him with a raised finger and a shrug of her shoulders. He
wondered why he had never noticed before what lovely lines pertain to
girls' shoulders and how daintily their little heads are set on their
smooth olive throats. "Plain truth, you know," said she; "we're playing
being two boys."
To save the situation he went on precipitately, "I dare say I know,
though. I never was lucky enough to have a sister, but as I had three
brothers who did everything I can't do, I know how it feels to--to be
out of it."
"But you understand my sisters are splendid and no end nice to me."
"So were my brothers," said Willy loyally.
She looked at him with a quick sympathy. "I know," she murmured. "Mr.
Rivers told me. And all in one year. It must have been dreadful."
"Yes, it was. But it was worse when my mother died."
"Oh, yes. I was sixteen when my mother died. And I miss her so now.
Don't you?"
"Yes. I was fifteen."
They were both silent. The weight of their piteous memories was on both
young hearts, and yet in each was a sense of companionship, of the
sympathy of a common pain. The tears gathered slowly in the girl's eyes;
she put her hand up her sleeve, but withdrew it empty, and the young
man, taking out his own handkerchief, which had surely seen hard usage,
looked disconsolately on it before tendering the freshest corner. "It's
pretty mussy, but I lost the others," he apologized.
"And you have pockets, too! I lose handkerchiefs to an appalling
extent."
"So do I." It was wonderful how many things they had in
common--thoughts, opinions, most delightfully human of all, faults. He
felt emboldened to say that it must be a great comfort to have a
sister; he had always wanted one.
"They're a good deal of a nuisance, most boys think," said she, "but I
don't know why. I know I shouldn't have been a nuisance to my brothers
and I should rather like to have had one. We might have been pals."
His eyes sparkled; he felt that he was about to make a proposal as
daring as it was original; but he made it, clutching the lever under his
hand more firmly in his agitation, yet not hesitating. "If we are going
to play things, why not play you are my sister? It would be easier than
being two boys. You see I should all the time be afraid of forgetting
somehow and saying something unbecoming, or too rough, if we played you
were a boy."
She had more sense of humor than he, although she was scarcely less
innocent; she laughed, saying, "Most boys are rough enough to their
sisters. Besides, I don't know you well enough."
"You know me better than any one in the world does," he answered
gravely. Their young eyes met and darted away. He thought how lovely her
eyes were. Not so much in color or form, perhaps, but in expression. He
wished that he could see them that way again. But she had turned away.
He was worried lest he might unwittingly have offended her. He knew (for
his French tutor had told him) how easy it is for a man to blunder
clumsily into a woman's fine reserves and sensitive modesty; it was a
great relief to have her turn swiftly toward him again and smile as she
said, "But _you_ don't know _me_!"
"Maybe not; I'm asking you to give me the chance."
"Oh! Is that why? Just to amuse you."
"You know better," said he, "for at least you know _me_."
"That was disagreeable of me," she admitted penitently. "I do know
better. Please forgive me!"
"Then you will play it?" he said eagerly. "You know I did what you
wanted. I promised to win the cup."
His first gleam of masterful daring did not displease the girl;
possibly, it obscurely gratified her. "But you must be good and win,"
she said, conceding the point in the immemorial feminine fashion which
would always march out of a surrendered keep with flags flying.
"I will be good and win," repeated Willy obediently.
There fell a little silence, during which they had glimpses of soft
green woods, of distant harvest-fields and of the shimmer of sunlit
waves. Vagrant odors of new-mown hay were wafted to them when the breeze
stirred. An oriole's note rose out of the dim forest paths, poignantly
sweet. Presently the lad spoke, not so much frightened at his own
audacity as amazed at his lack of fear. "Since you are playing my
sister, do you mind telling me your name? Did he say Buchanan?"
"No; Bruce-Hadden."
His face lighted as he exclaimed boyishly, "I _knew_ I had known you!
And I have--at least, I've seen your picture. You are Oswald Graham's
cousin Jean."
"Of course; and you--you are his Yankee friend at Eton, the one who
fought him because he said things about America!"
"And jolly well licked I was, too," said Willy gaily. "I didn't even
know how to put up my hands; he made a gorgeous mess of me. And then he
hunted me up and took it all back. Of course we were chums after that. I
was going to visit him in the holidays, but--"
"But he was drowned, trying to save a child."
"He did save her. He always did what he set out to do. And if I had only
been there--"
"I understand. He said you could swim like a duck."
"It's the only sport I'm not a muff at," said Willy dismally. "It's just
my long arms. But he, _he_ could do anything. I don't suppose I'll ever
stop missing him. He was the only boy friend I ever had."
"But you have men friends now," she said gently.
"Yes." He sat up more erect in his seat. "You saw Mr. Rivers. He's the
best ever."
"I've heard about how good he is and how gruff. That's the kind I like;
no nonsense about them. I hate sissy men, don't you?"
Willy assented, but without animation; he was diffidently searching his
inner consciousness as to whether he himself had not been accused of
being a sissy. "Sometimes a fellow seems a sissy when he isn't," he
offered.
"Oh, _often_," she agreed heartily; "but the man they want Moira to
marry is a genuine muff, a horrid, languid-affected New Yorker who talks
like a guardsman and makes fun of his own country. Moira can't endure
him; but he offers to settle half a million on her, and we let Effie
marry a captain of the line who had only a thousand a year--"
"That was _you_," interrupted Willy fervently. "You did that. Oswald
told me--"
"No, it was dad; he couldn't bear to have Effie so unhappy when I told
him how she might go into a decline, she felt so wretched. But you see,
having let Effie do that and helping her out, we couldn't afford any
more detrimentals, although Jimmy's got his colonelcy and the cross and
they are ever so happy. But we can't afford another love match. The
bishop is dead and Ellen hasn't very much; and Lord Fairley has a big
family; he was a widower with five when Ellen married him, and they have
two; and _we_ are so deadly poor. It is really necessary, but it's
awful. And I am sure she cares a lot for Reggy Sackville, a kind of
cousin of ours who is a barrister, and she is sure he will be a judge,
he is so clever; but he couldn't support a wife for years and years.
Don't you think it's really and truly awful to have to marry _anybody_?"
"Awful--intolerable," agreed Willy. "I simply will not."
"And _your_ father wants you--" She looked so sympathetic that Willy
broke right in:
"Yes. I never seem able to do anything my father wants. I can't manage
men and make friends and run the business as my brothers did. Now he
wants me to marry a girl he has picked out for me; and I've got to
disappoint him again. I wrote him I'd try to meet his wishes every other
way--I'd accept dinner invitations; I'd learn the steel business; I
could ride and run an automobile, and I had been up in an airship, and
I'd try to win a golf cup; and I'm taking bridge lessons, but--the hand
of Douglas was his own, you know."
"I think that's splendid!" cried the girl heartily. "_I_ don't want to;
but maybe I shall have to, to save Moira."
"Don't you do it!" he exclaimed. "It makes me sick to think of their
trying to force you into such a thing." He did look moved.
"Don't get into such a wax. They can't force me--do I look like a person
to be forced?--and poor old daddy of all people in the world! If you
just knew him; we're the greatest pals in the world. But there's Moira.
If I were to marry some one with a lot of money, she could marry poor
Reggy; and Moira couldn't stand being unhappy near so well as I can."
"Who's the man?" growled Willy in a tone of mingled gloom and fury.
"I don't know his name," replied the girl sadly. "It was like this: Dad
met his father, and they became very chummy, and they got to talking. He
talked about his son, who is a 'nice fellow' with elegant tastes and
doesn't like business. Oh, I know, a perfectly odious person."
"Odious," Willy agreed morosely; "a downright _sissy_! You'd be
_watched_!"
"Yes," sighed Lady Jean; "but Moira would be wretcheder because she
would always be thinking of Reggy. And besides"--she grew more
cheerful--"men never fancy me; no doubt he'll think I'm too ugly and
dowdy, and I'm so shy I shall be hideously awkward."
"You're nothing of the kind!" Willy interrupted; "it--it's the most
abominable cold-blooded bargain-and-sale business! And your father told
you--"
"Oh, no, he didn't tell me. It was Ellen. She was so pleased; she never
had any hopes of _me_, don't you know; and now she says they won't need
to sacrifice Moira. But if the young man doesn't want me, _I_ shan't be
to blame. Now tell me about your girl!"
"There's nothing to tell. I never saw her. I don't know her name, even.
Only she's got a title; and she is very brilliant and charming and
modest, and I'll be lucky. It's another case of parents butting in. All
he wants, he says, is for me to _see_ her; I told him I should run away
if I knew I were in the same town! But never mind me. Don't worry,
little girl. _I'll_ think up a way to save you all right, all right."
His face, as he spoke, was stern and dark. She was sure that he must
have great latent strength of character.
Abruptly she changed the subject recalling the elusive mowing-machine
and the approach of the Brookes' dinner-hour. Willy was sure that Mr.
Rivers would want her to see the mower, it was--was--so typically
American; and if he would take her directly and swiftly home, wouldn't
she go on another search to-morrow?
"If you win," said she; she felt that she must hesitate at nothing which
would give him that cup. "Another thing, don't you give another thought
to me; you think every minute of your game. If you distract your mind it
may get onto your game."
"I won't let it hurt my game, don't you worry," returned Willy
confidently.
Mrs. Brooke had none of the difficulty which she had anticipated in
persuading Willy to dine with them; and she wondered what suffering
friends of hers who had had his reluctant presence at social functions,
meant by their stories. To be sure, he didn't talk much, but he was a
most intelligent listener; and he was visibly having a good time.
The next day it was bruited about (no one but Jabez Rivers, who had
walked the links with a reporter, could have quite told how) that young
Butler was playing a wonderful game. A dozen of the golf lovers deserted
the great man and his only less great opponent and saw Willy limp over
eleven links, as he beat his man with leisurely ease.
That afternoon, while again searching for the mowing-machine which that
unsuspected but efficient emissary of the Blind God, Jabez Rivers, had
advised them to be sure to find--after with his own eyes he had seen it
trundling into the garage--Willy submitted his plan of rescue. They were
rolling noislessly along a wide avenue, above which the great elm boughs
made a vaulted arch like the groined vault of a cathedral. Through the
arches filtered the sunset rose. Willy suddenly stopped the machine. He
did not look at her. He clutched the handle of the lever very hard; and
she was positive he was pale, a pallor which threw his freckles into
high relief. But she was thinking of anything else than freckles.
"I've thought it all out," said Willy very firmly, "and I wouldn't
bother you the least little bit, not the least. And we think alike about
so many things. I believe I could make it all right with your people. I
can do anything, when _you_ are backing me. It would ease my mind
awfully; I should be sure to win the cup. I know that would please my
father, and he'd help us, maybe. Besides, I've a fortune of my own; I'd
settle it all on you--"
"What _do_ you mean?" cried Lady Jean.
"You wouldn't need to marry anybody else if you married _me_," said
Willy.
"_My word!_" gasped Lady Jean. "But you told me you didn't want to marry
_anybody_."
"I shouldn't mind _you_ so much," said he.
She was thoughtful, her own mind a chaos to herself. She stole a furtive
glance at his miserable face; something tender and compassionate and
strange made her lips quiver, but she set them closely.
"You would be making an awful sacrifice for me?"
He did not deny it.
"It would be an awful sacrifice for me, too."
"I know," he acquiesced sadly.
"Still--I suppose you ought to have your mind settled before to-morrow
or it will get on your game."
"Yes, that's just it! I'd be awfully grateful--"
Without any warning she began to laugh. "I think you are the funniest
boy in the world! I don't want to marry anybody. I want to live with
daddy and take care of him and be like Aunt Jean, but if I _have_ to
marry anybody, I'd rather marry you. Shall we let it go at that for the
present?"
"You are awfully good," cried the boy. He wondered at the extraordinary
calm, almost elation, of his mood. That he should be engaged to be
married and not be revolving suicide! He had read of the exaltation of
self-sacrifice--maybe this was it. But how hard it must be for her.
"I'll make it just as easy for you as I can--dear." He added the last
word very softly. Probably she didn't hear it, for she answered in her
ordinary tone, not in the least offended, that she knew he would, then
immediately demanded a sight of the mowing-machine; since it wasn't
there, he would better take her home.
"Don't you begin to love this island?" he said, as he obeyed her.