"I suppose you are satisfied by this time, Stanton," began Van
Berg, as they drove away, "that I was very safe in offering you
that picture on the conditions named, and that you have not the
ghost of a chance of obtaining it."
"Nonsense," replied Stanton. "The picture is practically won already.
I admit that Miss Burton is an exception to all her species; and,
now that I have seen her, I prove how little I am under the influence
of prejudice by acknowledging the fact, and by giving her credit
for her courage and agreeable manners. But how absurd to imagine
that this plain little stranger can ever be to me more than she is
to-day--a summer acquaintance at a summer resort! She will soon
drop from our memories and leave no more trace than these rustling
leaves overhead after they have fulfilled their brief purpose."
"Here's a symptom already," cried Van Berg. "My matter-of-fact
friend is already in the subtle current, and unconsciously drops
into sentiment, and expresses himself in poetic trope. I foresee
that the 'rustling leaves' will end in a rustling wedding-robe and
gorgeous apparel; for when you cage the 'brown thrush' you will
have the bad taste to insist on a change of plumage."
"I begin to understand you at last," retorted Stanton. "You have
been smitten yourself, and this is your strategy to conceal the fact.
The trouble is that you have overdone the matter, and revealed your
transfixed heart long before I should have suspected the wound.
Had you not better commence on the picture soon, for this matter
may disable you for a season?"
"I won't swear that I will not become your rival, for our little
heroine interests me hugely. There is something back of her smiling
face. Her manner seems like crystal in its frankness, and yet I
think few in the house will ever become better acquainted with her
than they are to-day."
"I shall take more than a languid interest in watching you progress
with this smiling sphinx," said Stanton, "and in the mean time
shall gloat over my picture."
"Well, Barney," said Van Berg, as they drove up to the stables on
their return, "you did have a streak of good luck this afternoon.
I hope you are grateful to the lady who secured it for you."
"Faix, sur, an' I niver seed the likes o' her afore. The smilin'
look she gave me jist warmed the very core o' me heart, and her swate
eyes seemed to say, 'Nary a bit o' ill-luck would ye have again,
Barney, had I me way.' What's more, she's a goin' to intercade
for the nurse-maid. They nadn't tell me that all the heretics will
stay in purgatory."
"Look here, Stanton, were I a theologian I'd make a note of that.
Miss Burton has discovered a logic that routs superstition."
Van Berg quite longed for the supper hour, that he might resume
conversation with the interesting stranger, and he was promptly
in his place at the table. But she did not appear. The lady with
whom she had been conversing, remarked:
"She was taken suddenly ill, just as you and your friend drove
away this afternoon. Learning from Mr. Burleigh that she is here
alone and without friends, I knocked at her door before I came
down, and asked if I could do anything for her. She said that she
would be better in the morning, and that all she needed was perfect
quiet. It's strange how suddenly she was taken ill! She seemed
perfectly well one moment, and then she fled to her room as if the
ghost were in pursuit. I suppose it was reaction from excitement;
or she may have some form of heart disease."
"Are heart difficulties so serious as that with ladies?" asked Van
Berg with a smile.
"I never had acute symptoms of any kind," the lady replied. "Indeed
I think I am a trifle cold and matter-of-fact in my disposition,
but I began to thaw so perceptibly under Miss Burton's influence
that I became quite interested in her. I think I deserve some credit
for saving the child also, for it was I who kept her talking in the
doorway. Most people are a weariness to me, and I was surprised
to find so marked an exception."
It must not be supposed that Van Berg's interest in the new arrival
had led him to forget the motive which had brought him to the Lake
House. This would not be in accordance with his character, and
as far as possible, he had been closely observant of Miss Mayhew
during the scenes of the afternoon. He had been rewarded by
discovering, for the first time, that she was at least capable of
a good and generous impulse, for her face had been expressive of
genuine admiration and gladness when she saw Miss Burton with the
rescued child in her arms after the carriage swept by. In this
expression he obtained a clearer hint than he had ever before
received of the beauty that might be her constant possession could
the mean and marring traits of her character be exchanged for
qualities in harmony with her perfect features. But while this
gleam, this flash of ideal beauty increased his desire for success
in his experiment, the young lady's bearing towards him was as
discouraging as ever. If he had not been at Miss Burton's side,
he believed that she would have come forward and offered her
congratulations as had several other ladies. It would seem that
her vanity had been so severely wounded she would never forgive
him, and he determined he would no longer make a martyr of himself
by playing the agreeable to all in the hotel in the hope that,
by pouring so much oil on the waters, even her asperity might be
removed. He half believed that she recognized his effort to form
her acquaintance, and found a malicious pleasure in thwarting him.
Therefore, he decided to take his sketch-book and go off upon
the hills in the morning, thus enjoying a little respite from his
apparently philanthropic labors.
Before he left the breakfast table the following day, Miss Burton
appeared. He thought he detected an ominous redness about her
eyes, as well as the pallor which would be the natural result of
illness; but she seemed to have recovered her spirits, and the rather
quiet and self-absorbed little group that had hitherto seriously
devoted themselves to steak and coffee, speedily brightened up
under her pleasantries. Indeed she kept them lingering so long
that the Mayhews and Stanton passed out before them, the latter
casting a wistful glance at the cheerful party, for he had been
having a stupid time.
When, much later than he expected, he started on his brief sketching
excursion he found that his mind was kindled and aglow with pleasant
thoughts, and that the summer landscape had been made sunnier by
the sunny face he had just left.
But as he plodded his way back late in the afternoon, the sunbeams,
no longer genial, became oppressive, and he was glad to hail one
of the hotel stages that was returning from a neighboring village.
The vehicle already contained two adult passengers. One was
a stout, red-faced woman with a baby and an indefinite number of
parcels, and the other was--Ida Mayhew, who was returning from a
brief shopping excursion.
As the latter saw Van Berg enter she colored, bit her lip, half
frowned, and looked steadfastly away from him. Thus the stage
lumbered on with its oddly assorted inmates, that, although belonging
to the same human family, seemed to have as little in common as if
each had come from a different planet. That Miss Mayhew looked so
resolutely away from him was rather to Van Berg's advantage, for
it gave him a chance to compare her exquisite profile with the
expanse, slightly diversified, of the broad red face opposite.
The stout woman held her baby as if it were a bundle, and stared
straight before her. As far as Van Berg could observe, not a trace
of an idea or a change of expression flitted across the wide area
of her sultry visage, and he found himself speculating as to whether
the minds of these two women differed as greatly as their outward
appearance. Indeed he questioned whether one had any more mind
than the other, and was inclined to think that despite their widely
separated spheres of life they were equally dwarfed.
While he was thus amusing himself with the contrasts, physical
and metaphysical, which the two passengers opposite him presented,
the stout woman suddenly looked out of the window at her side, and
then, in a tone that would startle the quietest nerves, shouted to
the driver:
"Hold on!"
Miss Mayhew half rose from her seat and looked around with something
like dismay; but as she only encountered Van Berg's slightly humorous
expression, she colored more deeply than before, and recalled her
eyes to the farther angle of the stage with a fixedness and rigidity
as great as if it had contained the head of Medusa.
Meantime the driver drew up to a small cottage by the road-side,
and scrambled down from his seat that he might assist the stout
woman with her accumulation of bundles. She handed him out the
baby, preferring to look after the more precious parcels herself.
Van Berg politely held the door open for her; but just as she was
squeezing through the stage entrance with her arms full and had her
foot on the last step, her cottage door flew open with something
to the effect of an explosion, and out burst three or four children
with a perfect din of cries and shouts. Two vociferous dogs joined
in the sudden uproar; the hitherto drowsy horses started as if a
bomb-shell had dropped under their noses, and speedily broke into
a mad gallop, leaving the stout woman prostrate upon her bundles
in the road, and the driver helplessly holding her baby.
Miss Mayhew's cold rigidity vanished at once. Indeed dignity was
impossible in the swaying, bounding vehicle. There was a momentary
effort to ignore her companion, and then terror overcame all
scruples. Turning her white face towards him, she exclaimed:
"Are we not in great danger?"
"I admit I would rather be in my chair on Mr. Burleigh's piazza.
With your permission, I will come to your end of the stage and
speak to the horses through the open window."
"Oh, come--do anything under heaven to stop these horrid beasts."
Van Berg edged his way up a little past Miss Mayhew, and began
speaking to the frightened horses in firm, quiet tones. At first
they paid no heed to him, and as the stage made a sudden and
desperate lurch, the young lady commenced to scream.
"If you do that you will insure the breaking of both our necks,"
said Van Berg, sharply. "If you will keep quiet I think I can
stop them. See, we have quite a stretch of level road beyond us,
before we come to a hill. Give me a chance to quiet them."
The terror-stricken girl kept still for a moment, and then started
up, saying
"I shall spring out."
"No, Miss Mayhew, you must not do that," said Van Berg, decidedly.
"You must be greatly injured, and you would with almost certainty
be disfigured for life if you sprang out upon the stony road. You
could not help falling on your face."
"Oh, horrible!" she exclaimed.
At the next heavy lurch of the stage she half-rose again to carry
out her rash purpose, but the artist seized her hand and held her
in her place, at the same time speaking kindly and firmly to the
horses. They now began to heed his voice, and to recover from
their panic.
"See, Miss Mayhew," he said, "you have only to control yourself a
few moments longer, and our danger is over."
"Oh, do stop them, quick," she gasped, clinging to his hand as if
he were her only hope, "and I'll never forget your kind--oh, merciful
heaven!"
At this favorable moment, when the horses were fast coming under
control, a spiteful cur came tearing out after them, renewing their
panic with tenfold intensity. As the dog barked on one side they
sheered off on the other, until they plunged down the side of the
road. The stage was nearly overturned, and then it stopped with
a sudden and heavy thump. Miss Mayhew was precipitated into Mr.
Van Berg's arms, and she clung to him for a moment in a paroxysm of
terror. His wits had not so far deserted him but that he perceived
that the stage had struck against a tree, that the horses had broken
away, and that he and his companion were perfectly safe. If the
whole truth must be told, it cannot be said that he endured the
young lady's embrace with only cold and stoical philosophy. He
found it wholly novel and not a painful experience. Indeed he was
conscious of a temptation to delay the information of their escape,
but a second's thought taught him that he must at once employ all
his tact in the delicate and difficult task of reconciling the
frightened girl to herself and her own conduct; otherwise her pride,
and also her sense of delicacy, would now receive a new and far
deeper wound, and a more hopeless estrangement follow. He therefore
promptly lifted her up, and placed her limp form on the opposite
seat.
"I assure you we are now perfectly safe, Miss Mayhew," he said;
"and let me congratulate you that your self-control prevented you
from leaving the stage, for if you had done so you would undoubtedly
have been greatly injured."
"Where--where are--the horses?" she faltered.
"I really do not know! They have disappeared. The stage struck
a tree, and the brutes broke away. They will probably gallop home
to the alarm and excitement of every one about the hotel. Pray
compose yourself. The house is not far away, and we can soon reach
it if you are not very much hurt."
"Are you sure the danger is all over?"
"Yes; this is now not the slightest chance of a tragedy."
There must have been a faint twinkle in his eye, for she exclaimed,
passionately:
"The whole thing has been a comedy to you, and I half believe you
brought it all about to annoy me."
"You do me great injustice, Miss Mayhew," said Van Berg, warmly.
"Here we are sitting in this horrid old stage by the roadside,"
she resumed, in tones of strong vexation. "Was there ever anything
more absurd and ridiculous than it has all been! I am mortified
beyond expression, and suppose I shall never hear the last of it,"
and she burst into a hysterical passion of tears.
"Miss Mayhew," said Van Berg hastily, "you certainly must realize
that we have passed through very great peril together, and if you
think me capable of saying a word about this episode that is not
to your credit, you were never more mistaken in your life."
At this assurance she became more calm.
"I know you dislike me most heartily," Van Berg continued; "but
you have less reason to do so than you think---"
"I have good reason to dislike you. You despise me; and now that
I have been such a coward you are comparing me with Miss Burton
who acted so differently yesterday."
"I have not even thought of Miss Burton," protested Van Berg, at
the same time conscious, now that her name had been recalled to his
memory, that she would have acted a much better part. "I am only
sincerely glad that our necks were not broken, and I hope that you
have not suffered any severe bruises. As to my despising you, if
you will honor me with your acquaintance you may discover that you
are greatly in error."
"Then you truly think that we have been in danger?" she asked,
wiping her eyes.
"Most assuredly. When you come to think the matter over calmly,
you will realize that we were in very great danger. I think the
affair has ended most happily rather than absurdly."
"Really, sir, when I remember how the 'affair,' as you term it,
actually did end, I feel as if I never wished to see you again."
"Miss Mayhew, I appeal to your generosity. Was I to blame for
that which was so disagreeable to you? Surely you will not be so
unfair as to punish me for what neither you nor I could help. I
think fate means we shall be friends, and has employed this unexpected
episode to break the ice between us. If you are now sufficiently
composed I will assist you to alight, in order that the driver,
who is approaching, may be relieved of all fears on our account."
"Oh, certainly. As it is, I suppose he will have a ridiculous
story to tell."
"There is nothing that he, or the others who are following him can
tell, save that the horses ran away and that we most fortunately
escaped all injury. Ah! I see that you are a little lame. Please
take my arm; the hotel is but a quarter of a mile away. Or perhaps
you would prefer that I should send the driver for a carriage. You
could wait in yonder cottage, or here, in the shade of the trees."
"I am not very lame, and if I were I would not mind it. My wish is
that the horrid affair may occasion as little remark as possible.
I can reach my room by a side entrance, and so come quietly down
to dinner. I suppose that I must take your arm since I cannot walk
very well without it."
They therefore turned their backs on the breathless driver and his
eager questions, and proceeded slowly towards the hotel. After a
brief examination of the shattered stage, the man ran panting past
them in search of his horses; and they were again left alone.