ALICE AND CRAIG.
Craig had been sitting on the piazza a long time waiting for somebody to
come, but the somebody waited for had not appeared and he was growing
rather impatient and wondering what kept her. Twice Mark Hilton had
walked the length of the piazza,—an unusual proceeding for him at that
hour in the morning when his duties confined him in the office. Once as
he was passing Craig he stopped abruptly and asked, “Have you seen her?”
Craig felt intuitively whom he meant and answered, “No, have you?”
“Only very indistinctly in the rain,” Mark replied, and walked on
wondering at the unrest which possessed him and had made him quite as
wakeful the previous night as Craig had been.
He knew it was Helen whom he had carried through the rain, for he heard
her mother speak her name. He had not seen her face, but the way her
arms had clung around his neck, as if afraid he would let her fall, and
the pressure of her hand on his as he put her down, had been like an
electric shock which he still felt, calling himself a fool many times to
be upset by the touch of a hand and the clasp of a girl’s arms around
his neck. It was a new experience for him, as he had never paid much
attention to the ladies. No one who saw him ever suspected the morbid
vein in his nature which made him dwell secretly upon a past in which he
had no part and with which few ever connected him. He had felt it to an
unusual degree that afternoon when he stood by ’Tina’s grave, the shadow
of which was always with him when his laugh was the lightest and his
manner the proudest. He couldn’t forget it, and fancied that other
people remembered it, as he did. To the guests at the hotel he was
polite and kind and attentive, but never familiar with them, especially
if they were ladies, who were sure to hear the story and gossip about
it. He had thought a good deal about the Tracys, who represented a
different class from those who usually frequented the hotel. They were
the extreme fashionables, who would probably think of him as a kind of
servant to do their bidding. His attention to them in the rain was what
he would have given to any ladies, and he was not prepared for the way
in which Helen had received it. She certainly had pressed his hand and
clasped his neck as her mother had not done, and she was just as
conscious of the act as he was. This he did not know. It was an
accident, he believed, and she would never give him another thought,
while he should subside into his place as the hotel clerk and watch and
admire her at a distance. This was his decision as he left Craig and
went to speak to a gentleman who had come from the train and was
inquiring the way to a farmhouse among the hills of West Ridgefield.
Left to himself Craig looked at his watch and then picked up Browning,
which he usually had with him. He had joined a Browning club in Boston,
partly because it was the thing to do, and partly because he really
liked the poet and enjoyed trying to find out what he meant, if
anything. He had taken up the Story of Sordello for his summer work,
resolved to make himself master of its obscurities and astonish the club
in the autumn with his knowledge. But reading Sordello alone, with no
one to suggest or disagree, was uphill business, and he had only
accomplished the first book. This he had read three times and was
debating whether to give it a fourth trial, or to attack Book second,
when he heard the sound of a footstep and a young girl came round the
corner singing softly,
“Oh the glorious summer morning
With its dewy grass and flowers,”
“Only there are no flowers here,” she added. Then seeing Craig she
stopped suddenly and said, “I beg your pardon; I didn’t know any one was
here.”
She was tall and slender, with a willowy grace in every motion. Her
complexion was pale, but betokened perfect health and vitality. Her
light brown hair was twisted into a flat knot low in her neck where it
was making frantic efforts to escape in little wisps of curls. Her eyes
were large and blue and clear as a child’s. Her mouth was rather wide,
but very sweet in its expression when she smiled. Her dress was a simple
muslin of lavender and white, and at her throat and belt she wore a
half-opened lily which she had gathered on the river and which seemed to
harmonize so well with her pure complexion and general appearance. Some
such idea was in Craig’s mind as he rose quickly and said to her, “You
are not intruding at all. I come here because it is so quiet and I like
the outlook across the fields to the woods, but I have no right to
monopolize the place. Be seated, won’t you?”
He brought her a chair, but took the precaution to put it at a safe
distance from his own and where he could see her squarely. He had been
thinking only of Helen, expecting her and waiting for her. This was she,
of course, and her simple, unaffected manner was her premonitory
artillery against which she would find him proof. She was very pretty,
but he was not sure that he hadn’t seen faces prettier than hers, and on
the whole he was a little disappointed to find her less formidable than
he had expected. All this passed through his mind while Alice was
thanking him for the chair in which she seated herself, with half of her
new boots showing under the hem of her dress. Craig saw them and thought
them very small and well fitting and that she was displaying them on
purpose.
“Do you think you will like it here?” he asked, feeling he must say
something.
“Oh, yes,” she answered enthusiastically. “I like the country, and it is
so delightfully cool after the heat of yesterday. Do you know I have a
great desire to roll in that new mown hay which smells so sweet. I
believe I am something of a romp.”
Craig did not know what to say to this, so he spoke of the lilies which
Alice was wearing.
“I see you like them, too; they are my favorites,” he said, “and I
always buy one of Jeff. He hasn’t been round yet. I wonder what keeps
him.”
“Pray take this. I have more,” Alice said, offering him the lily which
was in her belt, without a thought that she might seem too familiar,
until she saw something like surprise on Craig’s face which brought a
blush to her own.
She certainly was a little forward, Craig thought, but he took the lily,
thinking it quite in keeping with her character to give it to him. He
didn’t know that in her forgetfulness of self Alice would give away
anything another wanted and that she would as soon have given the lily
to Uncle Zacheus as to him. He was a bit of a prig she was thinking, and
wondering what she should say to him, when Jeff appeared with his
basket.
“You are too late. I have one; the young lady gave it to me,” Craig
said.
“All right. She helped me pull ’em,” Jeff answered, as he darted away,
while a suspicion of his mistake began to dawn upon Craig.
“You helped him gather them! Aren’t you Miss Tracy?” he asked in some
confusion.
Alice laughed and replied, “_A_ Miss Tracy, yes; but not _the_ Miss
Tracy you have evidently mistaken me for. That is Helen. I am Alice,—the
cousin. I live at Rocky Point, among the mountains between Springfield
and Albany, and taught school there the last spring term. My aunt very
kindly invited me to spend my vacation with her and Helen, and here I
am, and so glad to be here.”
She was not Helen, for whom Craig was waiting. She was an unaffected
country girl, with the manners of a perfect lady, and he began to admire
her greatly and to think Uncle Zach not far out of the way when he
called her a daisy. She had given him her confidence and he began at
last to give her his, and before he realized it had told her a great
deal of himself and what he liked and disliked; had told her about the
hotel and the town and the places to visit and had introduced her to
Mark, who had joined them for a moment.
When he was gone Craig spoke of him in the highest terms, and then the
talk turned upon books, for a part of Alice’s duty was to find out what
Craig’s favorites were.
“Do you have much inclination to read here?” she asked, glancing at the
half open volume beside him.
“Not much,” he replied, taking up the book and passing it to her. “I
have been trying to master Sordello, but guess I shall have to give it
up unless you can help me. Do you like Browning?”
“Mercy, no!” Alice answered quickly, then added, as she saw a shade of
disappointment in his face, “Perhaps I should not say no so decidedly
when I know so little about him. I might like him if I knew more of him.
I have always thought him very obscure. You like him of course?”
“Yes, I like him for his very obscurity. There is a pleasure in finding
out what he means just as there is in cracking a hard nut for the rich
meat you know there is inside. It is pleasanter, though, studying him
with other people. I belong to a Browning Club in Boston and find it
rather different here plodding along alone. I suppose you have no clubs
in Rocky Point.”
He did not think how the last part of his speech sounded, nor mean any
disrespect to Rocky Point. But Alice resented it and answered quickly,
“No, we haven’t. We are nearly all poor working people earning our
bread, with no time for clubs. Many of us never heard of Browning;
certainly not of Sordello. I think, though, some of us _could_
understand him as well as members of clubs, give us a chance. Even _I_
might, if I could hear you read and explain. Perhaps you will do me that
honor.”
She spoke sarcastically, but Craig, who was conscious of no blunder in
his speech, did not notice it and was only pleased with her wish to hear
him read Browning. He should be delighted, he said, and if her cousin
would join them with Mr. Hilton and perhaps his mother and Mrs. Tracy,
they would make quite a class. Between them all they ought to master
Sordello. Did she think her cousin would like it?
Inwardly Alice shook with laughter as she thought of Helen, who at that
moment was struggling with the May Queen in order to appear learned,
posing as a lover of Browning, and expounding the meaning of Sordello.
She could, however, say truthfully that she was sure her cousin would be
happy to hear Mr. Mason read, whenever he was kind enough to do so.
At this point his mother joined him and was presented to Alice. Mrs.
Mason was a woman with some strong opinions, one of which was that no
coquette could be a well principled girl. Helen Tracy was a noted
coquette, consequently she was not well principled and might lead Craig
into all manner of wrong doing. He was not very susceptible, it was
true, and for that reason there was more to fear, for if he were once
interested he would be in deadly earnest, and she was thinking of
proposing that they leave Ridgefield for some other place. Her first
thought when she saw Alice talking so familiarly with her son was, “She
has lost no time.”
Craig’s introduction to Miss _Alice_ Tracy disarmed her at once. She had
seen a great deal of the world and could judge one’s character pretty
correctly by the face. What she saw in Alice was a frank, open
countenance, with eyes which met hers steadily, and a voice so pleasant
and winsome that she was drawn to her immediately, and as they talked
together her admiration increased. Alice was so artless and frank and so
inexpressibly glad to be enjoying herself, with no dread of the dingy
school house among the hills, with its closeness and smell of tin pails,
and children not always the cleanest.
“Only think,” she said, “of two whole months of freedom and how much can
be crowded into them. You don’t know what this vacation is to me.”
She was not in the least affected, and as she talked there came a faint
flush to her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“She is very pretty and very sweet and very real,” Mrs. Mason was
thinking, when Celine appeared, and told Alice that Mademoiselle Heléne
wanted to see her.
With a bow and smile for Mrs. Mason and Craig, Alice said good morning
and hurried away.