_In Which Geoffrey Plays Cave Man._
MINE OWN UNCLE:
I don't know whether to begin at the beginning or at the end of what I
have to tell you. And even now as I think back over the events of the
last twenty-four hours I feel that I must have dreamed them, and that I
will wake and find that nothing has really happened.
But something has happened, and "of a strangeness" which makes it seem to
belong to some of those queer old dime "thrillers" which you never wanted
me to read.
Last night Geoffrey Fox asked me to go out with him on the river. I don't
often go at night, yet as there was a moon, it seemed as if I might.
We went in Brinsley Tyson's motor boat. It is big and roomy and is
equipped with everything to make one comfortable for extended trips. I
wondered a little that Geoffrey should take it, for he has a little boat
of his own, but he said that Mr. Tyson had offered it, and they had been
out in it all day.
Well, it was lovely on the water; I was feeling tired and as blue as
blue--some day I may tell you about _that_, Uncle Rod, and I was glad of
the quiet and beauty of it all; and of late Geoffrey and I have been such
good friends.
Can't you ever really know people, Uncle Rod, or am I so dull and stupid
that I misunderstand? Men are such a puzzle--all except you, you darling
dear--and if you were young and not my uncle, even you might be as much
of a puzzle as the rest.
Well, I would never have believed it of Geoffrey Fox, and even now I
can't really feel that he was responsible. But it isn't what I think but
what you will think that is important--for I have, somehow, ceased to
believe in myself.
It was when we reached the second bridge that I told Geoffrey that we
must turn back. We had, even then, gone farther than I had intended. But
as we started up-stream, I felt that we would get to Bower's before Peter
went back on the bridge, which is always the signal for the house to
close, although it is never really closed; but the lights are turned down
and the family go to bed, and I have always known that I ought not to
stay out after that.
Well, just as we left the second bridge, something happened to the motor.
Uncle Rod, _that was last night_, and I didn't get back to Bower's until
a few hours ago, and here is the whole truth before I write any more----
_Geoffrey Fox tried to run away with me!_
It would seem like a huge joke if it were not so serious. I don't know
how he got such an idea in his head. Perhaps he thought that life was
like one of his books--that all he had to do was to plan a plot, and then
make it work out in his own way. He said, in that first awful moment,
when I knew what he had done, "I thought I could play Cave Man and get
away with it." You see, he hadn't taken into consideration that I wasn't
a Cave Woman!
When the engine first went wrong I wasn't in the least worried. He fixed
it, and we went on. Then it stopped and we drifted: the moon went down
and it was cold, and finally Geoffrey made me curl up among the cushions.
I felt that it must be very late, but Geoffrey showed me his watch, and
it was only a little after ten. I knew Peter wouldn't be going to the
bridge until eleven, and I hoped by that time we would be home.
But we weren't. We were far, far down the river. At last I gave up hope
of arriving before the house closed, but I knew that I could explain to
Mrs. Bower.
After that I napped and nodded, for I was very tired, and all the time
Geoffrey tinkered with the broken motor. Each time that I waked I asked
questions but he always quieted me--and at last--as the dawn began to
light the world, a pale gray spectral sort of light, Uncle Rod, I saw
that the shore on one side of us was not far away, but on the other it
was a mere dark line in the distance--double the width that the river is
at Bower's. Geoffrey was standing up and steering toward a little pier
that stuck its nose into shallow water. Back of the pier was what seemed
to be an old warehouse, and in a clump of trees back of that there was a
thin church spire.
I said, "Where are we?" and he said, "I am not sure, but I am going in to
see if I can get the motor mended."
I couldn't think of anything but how worried the Bowers would be. "You
must find a telephone," I told him, "and call Beulah, and let her know
what has happened."
He ran up to the landing and fastened the boat, and then he helped me
out. "We will sit here and have a bit of breakfast first," he said;
"there's some coffee left in Brinsley's hot and cold bottle, and some
supplies under the stern seat."
It was really quite cheerful sitting there, eating sardines and crackers
and olives and orange marmalade. A fresh breeze was blowing, and the
river was wrinkled all over its silver surface, and we could see nothing
but water ahead of us, straight to the horizon, where there was just the
faint streak of a steamer's smoke.
"We must be almost in the Bay," I said. "Couldn't you have steered
up-stream instead of down?"
He sat very still for a moment looking at me, and then he said quickly
and sharply, "I didn't want to go up-stream. I wanted to go down. And I
came in here because I saw a church spire, and where there is a church
there is always a preacher. Will you marry me, Mistress Anne?"
At first I thought that he had lost his mind. Uncle Rod, I don't think
that I shall ever see a sardine or a cracker without a vision of Geoffrey
with his breakfast in his hand and his face as white as chalk above it.
"That's a very silly joke," I said. "Why should I marry you?"
He looked at me, and--I didn't need any answer, for it came to me then
that I had been out all night on the river with him, and that he was
thinking of a way to quiet people's tongues!
I tried to speak, but my voice shook, and finally I managed to stammer
that when we got back I was sure it would be all right.
"It won't be all right," he said; "the world will have things to say
about you, and I'd rather die than have them say it. And I could make you
happy, Anne."
Then I told him that I did not love him, that he was my dear friend, my
brother--and suddenly his face grew red, and he came over and caught hold
of my hands. "I am not your brother," he said. "I want you whether you
want me or not. I could make you love me--I've got to have you in my
life. I am not going on alone to meet darkness--and despair."
Oh, Uncle Rod, then I knew and I looked straight at him and asked:
"Geoffrey Fox, did you break the motor?"
"It isn't broken," he said; "there has never been a thing the matter with
it."
I think for the first time that I was a little afraid. Not of him, but of
what he had done.
"Oh, how could you," I said, "how could you?"
And it was then that he said, "I thought that I could play Cave Man and
get away with it."
After that he told me how much he cared. He said that I had helped him
and inspired him. That I had shown him a side of himself that no one else
had ever shown. That I had made him believe in himself--and in--God. That
if he didn't have me in his life his future would be--dead. He begged and
begged me to let him take me into the little town and find some one to
marry us. He said that if we went back I would be lost to him--that--that
Brooks would get me--that was the way he put it, Uncle Rod. He said that
he was going blind; that I hadn't any heart; that he would love me as no
one else could; that he would write his books for me; that he would spend
his whole life making it up to me.
I don't know how I held out against him. But I did. Something in me
seemed to say that I must hold out. Some sense of dignity and of
self-respect, and at last I conquered.
"I will not marry you," I said; "don't speak of it again. I am going back
to Bower's. I am not a heroine of a melodrama, and there's no use to act
as if I had done an unpardonable thing. I haven't, and the Bowers won't
think it, and nobody else will know. But you have hurt me more than I can
tell by what you have done to-night. When you first came to Bower's there
were things about you that I didn't like, but--as I came to know you, I
thought I had found another man in you. The night at the Crossroads ball
you seemed like a big kind brother--and I told you what I had suffered,
and now you have made me suffer."
And then--oh, I don't quite know how to tell you. He dropped on his knees
at my feet and hid his face in my dress and cried--hard dry sobs--with
his hands clutching.
I just couldn't stand it, Uncle Rod, and presently I was saying, "Oh, you
poor boy, you poor boy----" and I think I smoothed his hair, and he
whispered, "Can't you?" and I said, "Oh, Geoffrey, I can't."
At last he got control of himself. He sat at a little distance from me
and told me what he was going to do.
"I think I was mad," he said. "I can't even ask your forgiveness, for I
don't deserve it. I am going up to town to telephone to Beulah, and when
I come back I will take you up the river where you can get the train. I
shall break the engine and leave it here, so that when Brinsley gets it
back there will be nothing to spoil our story."
He was gone half an hour. When he came he brought me a hat. He had bought
it at the one little store where he had telephoned, and he had bought one
for himself. I think we both laughed a little when we put them on,
although it wasn't a laughing matter, but we did look funny.
He unfastened the boat, and we turned up the river and in about an hour
we came into quite a thriving port with the Sunday quiet over everything,
and Geoffrey did things to the engine that put it out of commission, and
then he left it with a man on the pier, and we took the train.
It seems that all night at Bower's they were looking for us. They even
took other boats, and followed. And they called. I know that if Geoffrey
heard them call he didn't answer.
Every one seemed to accept our explanation. Perhaps they thought it
queer. But I can't help that.
Geoffrey is going away to-morrow. When we were alone in the hall for a
moment he told me that he was going. "If you can ever forgive me," he
said, "will you write and tell me? What I have done may seem
unforgivable. But when a man dreams a great deal he sometimes thinks
that he can make his dreams come true."
Uncle Rod, I think the worst thing in the whole wide world is to be
disappointed in people. As soon as school closes I am coming back to you.
Perhaps you can make me see the sunsets. And what do you say about life
now? Is it what we make it? Did I have anything to do with this mad
adventure? Yet the memory of it will always--smirch.
And if life isn't what we make it, where is our hope and where are our
sunsets? Tell me that, you old dear.
ANNE.
P.S. When I opened my door just now, I found that Geoffrey had left on
the threshold his little Napoleon, and a letter. I am sending the letter
to you. I cried over it, and I am afraid it is blurred--but I haven't
time to make a copy before the mail goes.
* * * * *
What Geoffrey said:
* * * * *
MY LITTLE CHILD:
I am calling you that because there is something so young and untouched
about you. If I were an artist I should paint you as young Psyche--and
there should be a hint of angels' wings in the air and it should be
spring--with a silver dawn. But if I could paint should I ever be able to
put on canvas the light in your eyes when you have talked to me by the
fire, my kind little friend whom I have lost?
I cannot even now understand the mood that possessed me. Yet I will be
frank. I saw you go into the wood with Richard Brooks. I felt that if he
should say to you what I was sure he wanted to say that there would be no
chance for me--so I hurried after you. The thing which was going to
happen must not happen; and I arrived in time. After that I told Brooks
as we walked back that I was going to marry you, and I took you out in my
boat intending to make my words come true.
These last few days have been strange days. Perhaps when I have described
them you may find it in your heart to feel sorry for me. The book is
finished. That of itself has left me with a sense of loss, as if I had
put away from me something that had been a part of me. Then--I am going
blind. Do you know what that means, the desperate meaning? To lose the
light out of your life--never to see the river as I saw it this morning?
Never to see the moonlight or the starlight--never to see your face?
The specialist has given me a few months--and then darkness.
Was it selfishness to want to tie you to a blind man? If you knew that
you were losing the light wouldn't you want to steal a star to illumine
the night?--and you were my--Star.
I am going now to my little sister, Mimi. She leaves the convent in a few
days. There are just the two of us. I have been a wayward chap, loving
my own way; it will be a sorry thing for her to find, I fancy, that
henceforth I shall be in leading strings.
It is because of this thing that is coming that I am begging you still to
be my friend--to send me now and then a little letter; that I may feel in
the night that you are holding out your hand to me. There can be no
greater punishment than your complete silence, no greater purgatory than
the thought that I have forfeited your respect. Looking into the future I
can see no way to regain it, but if the day ever comes when a Blind
Beggar can serve you, you will show that you have forgiven him by asking
that service of him.
I am leaving my little Napoleon for you. You once called him a little
great man. Perhaps those of us who have some elements of greatness find
our balance in something that is small and mean and mad.
Will you tell Brooks that you are not bound to me in any way? It is best
that you should do it. I shall hope for a line from you. If it does not
come--if I have indeed lost my little friend through my own fault--then
indeed the shadows will shut me in.
GEOFFREY.
* * * * *
Uncle Rodman writes:
* * * * *
MY BELOVED NIECE:
Once upon a time you and I read together "The Arabian Nights," and when
we had finished the first book you laid your little hand on my knee and
looked up at me. "Is it true, Uncle Rod?" you asked. "Oh, Uncle Rod, is
it true?" And I said, "What it tells about the Roc's egg and the Old Man
of the Sea and the Serpent is not true, but what it says about the
actions and motives of people is true, because people have acted in that
way and have thought like that through all the ages, and the tales have
lived because of it, and have been written in all languages." I was sure,
when I said it, that you did not quite understand; but you were to grow
to it, which was all that was required.
Blessed child, what your Geoffrey Fox has done, though I hate him for it
and blame him, is what other hotheads have done. The protective is not
the primitive masculine instinct. Men have thought of themselves first
and of women afterward since the beginning of time. Only with
Christianity was chivalry born in them. And since many of our youths have
elected to be pagan, what can you expect?
So your Geoffrey Fox being pagan, primitive--primordial, whatever it is
now the fashion to call it, reverted to type, and you were the victim.
I have read his letter and might find it in my heart to forgive him were
it not that he has made you suffer; but that I cannot forgive; although,
indeed, his coming blindness is something that pleads for him, and his
fear of it--and his fear of losing you.
I am glad that you are coming home to me. Margaret and her family are
going away, and we can have their big house to ourselves during the
summer. We shall like that, I am sure, and we shall have many talks, and
try to straighten out this matter of dreams--and of sunsets, which is
really very important, and not in the least to be ignored.
But let me leave this with you to ponder on. You remember how you have
told me that when you were a tiny child you walked once between me and my
good old friend, General Ross, and you heard it said by one of us that
life was what we made it. Before that you had always cried when it
rained; now you were anxious that the rain might come so that you could
see if you could really keep from crying. And when the rain arrived you
were so immensely entertained that you didn't shed a tear, and you went
to bed that night feeling like a conqueror, and never again cried out
against the elements.
It would have been dreadful if all your life you had gone on crying about
rain, wouldn't it? And isn't this adventure your rainy day? You rose
above it, dearest child. I am proud of the way you handled your mad
lover.
Life _is_ what we make it. Never doubt that. "He knows the water best who
has waded through it," and I have lived long and have learned my lesson.
When I knew that I could paint no more real pictures I knew that I must
have dream pictures to hang on the walls of memory. Shall I make you a
little catalogue of them, dear heart--thus:
No. 1.--Your precious mother sewing by the west window in our shadowed
sitting-room, her head haloed by the sunset.
No. 2.--Anne in a blue pinafore, with the wind blowing her hair back on a
gray March morning.
No. 3.--Anne in a white frock amid a blur of candle-light on
Christmas----
Oh, my list would be long! People have said that I have lacked pride
because I have chosen to take my troubles philosophically. There have
been times when my soul has wept. I have cried often on my rainy days.
But--there have always been the sunsets--and after that--the stars.
I fear that I have been but little help to you. But you know my
love--blessed one. And the eagerness with which I await your coming. Ever
your own
UNCLE.