THE MINX RETURNS
That afternoon when Jerry returned to the Manor he gave me a
superficial account of the adventure--so superficial and told with
such carelessness that I was not really alarmed. The second
conversation in the evening after dinner aroused my curiosity but not
my suspicion. I was not in the habit of mistrusting Jerry. The
intrusion of the stranger was an accident, not likely to occur again.
It was only after our discussion had taken many turns and curiously
enough had always come back to the pert intruder that I realized that
Jerry's interest had really been aroused. Late at night over our
evening reading the boy made the comments upon the visitor's
appearance, her voice and the texture of her skin. He had been quite
free in his opinions, favorable and unfavorable alike, and it was this
very frankness which had disarmed me. The incident, as far as Jerry's
story went, ended when the visitor crawled under the railing. I am not
sure what motive was in his mind, but the events which followed lend
strong color to the presumption that Jerry believed the girl when she
said that she was coming back and that at the very time he was
speaking to me he intended to meet her when she came.
I had decided to treat the incident lightly, trusting to the
well-ordered habits of Jerry's life and the number of his daily
interests to put the visitor out of his mind. I did not even warn him,
as I should have done had I realized the imminence of danger or the
necessity of keeping to the letter as well as the spirit of John
Benham's definite instruction, for this I thought might lay undue
stress upon the matter. And in the course of the morning, nothing
further having been said, I was lulled into a sense of security.
In the afternoon Bishop Berkeley's book called me again and it was not
until late that I realized that the boy had been gone from the house
for four hours. His rod, creel and fly-book were missing from their
accustomed places but even then I suspected nothing. It was not until
the approach of the dinner hour when, Jerry not having returned, I
began to think of yesterday's visitor.
After waiting dinner for awhile, I dined alone, expecting every minute
to hear the sound of his step in the hall or his cheery greeting but
there was no sign of him and I guessed the truth. The minx had come in
again and Jerry was with her.
The events which followed were the first that cast the slightest
shadow over our friendship, a shadow which was not to pass, for, from
the day when Eve entered our garden, Jerry was changed. It wasn't that
he loved me any the less or I him. It was merely that his attitude
toward life and toward my point of view had shifted. He had begun to
doubt my infallibility.
It was this indefinable difference in our relations which delayed
Jerry's confession, and not until some days later did he tell me how
it all happened. He didn't think she would really come back, he said,
and I chose at the time not to doubt him, but the fact was that he
made his way directly upstream after leaving the house, and catching
no fish, sat down on a rock near the iron grille. That the girl
returned was not Jerry's fault, he said, because he didn't ask her to.
But the fact that he was there awaiting her when she arrived shows
that the wish was the father to the thought with Jerry. He had been
sitting there alone fifteen or twenty minutes "listening for bird
calls," as he explained it and had already identified twenty distinct
notes when he heard the twenty-first.
It was human. "Hello, Jerry," it said.
It came from the iron railing, behind which the female Una was
standing, grinning at him. He got up and walked toward her.
"Hello!" he returned.
"You didn't think I'd come, did you, Jerry?" she asked, though how she
could have arrived at that conclusion with the boy sitting there
waiting for her is more than I can imagine.
"No, I didn't," he replied, already learning to prevaricate with calm
assurance. "Are you coming in?"
"I will if you ask me to."
"I can't do that," he laughed. "You know the rules. But I don't see
what I could do to stop you."
"_Please_ invite me, Jerry."
"No, I won't invite you. But I won't put you out if you come."
"_Please!_"
"Why do you insist?"
"Because--I think you ought to, you know. Just to make me feel
comfortable."
"You seemed very comfortable yesterday."
"I think you're horrid."
"Horrid! Because I won't break my promise?"
"But you've made no promise."
"It's understood. See here. I'll turn my back and walk away. If you
come in it's not my fault."
"You needn't bother. I'm not coming." She turned and made as though to
go.
"Una," he called. "_Please._ Come in."
She reappeared miraculously, her vanity appeased by Jerry's downfall,
bobbed through the bent irons, and rose smiling decorously as Eve must
have smiled when she watched Adam first bite the apple.
"Thanks," she laughed, clambering up the rocks. "It's awfully nice of
you. I knew you would. I couldn't have come else."
"It doesn't really make much difference, I suppose," said Jerry
dubiously.
"What doesn't?"
"Whether I ask you or whether you just come."
"I wouldn't have come if you hadn't."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. I was just passing this way and I saw you sitting here. I
hadn't the slightest intention of coming in. Of course, when you
_invited_ me, that made things different."
He laughed and motioned to a rock upon which she sank.
"Tell me," he said, "how you happen to be up here in the mountains
alone. You don't belong around here. You didn't know about the wall,
or about me, did you?"
"Of course not; not yesterday. But I do now. I asked last night."
"Who did you ask?"
"The people I'm staying with."
"And what did they tell you?"
"They weren't very polite. It doesn't do to ignore one's neighbors.
They said you were a freak."
"What's a freak?"
"Something strange, unnatural."
"And do you think I'm strange or unnatural?" he asked soberly.
She looked at him and laughed.
"Unnatural! If nature is unnatural."
"What else do they say?" Jerry asked after a thoughtful pause.
"That your precious Roger is a dealer in magic and spells; that you've
already learned flying on a broomstick and practice it on nights when
the moon is full; that you're hideously ugly; that you're wonderfully
beautiful; that you live in a tree; that you sleep in a coffin; that
you're digging for gold; that you've found the recipe for diamonds;
that you've--"
"Now you're making fun of me," he laughed as she paused for lack of
breath.
"I'm not. If there's anything that you are or aren't that I haven't
heard, I can't imagine what it is. In other words, Jerry, you're the
mystery of the county. Aren't you glad?"
"Glad? Of course not. It's all such utter rot."
"Of course. But doesn't it make you _feel_ mysterious?"
"Not a bit."
"Doesn't it ever occur to you how important a person you are?"
"How--important?"
"To begin with, of course, you're fabulously wealthy. You knew that,
didn't you?"
"Oh, I suppose I've got some money, but I don't let it worry me."
"Do you know how much?"
"No, I haven't the slightest idea."
"Not that you've got millions--_millions_!"
"If my millions are as impalpable as my broomstick they won't hurt me
much," he laughed. And then soberly: "Say, Una, you seem to know a lot
more about me than I know about myself."
"I think I do," she returned. "For instance, of course, you couldn't
guess that half the match-making mammas of the county are already
setting their caps for you."
He looked bewildered at that, I'm sure.
"Do you know," he said, "that I haven't the slightest idea what you're
talking about."
"Of course," she laughed. "I forgot. They want to marry you to their
daughters."
"Marry! Me! You're joking."
I think he must have seemed really alarmed.
"I'm not. The fat, the small, the lean and the tall. They're all after
you. The moment you poke your nose outside the gate next year, they're
all going to pounce on you and try to carry you off."
"But I can't marry them all," he said aghast. "Besides I don't want
to marry anybody. And I'm not going to."
She couldn't restrain herself now and burst into wild peals of
merriment, while Jerry watched her, uncertain whether to be angry or
amused. At last he decided to smile.
"You seem to have a lot of fun with me, Una, don't you?"
"I don't mean to. But the picture of you trying to escape the
engulfing flood of mammas is too much. I've got to laugh, Jerry. I
can't help it."
"Laugh, then. I don't think it's so funny, though."
"But it is. Because I'm sure you'd be too polite to refuse them--any
of them."
"Polite! I won't be polite. Just because I'm nice to you isn't any
sign. I--I'll send 'em all packing. You'll see."
"Oh, you're brave enough now, but wait--wait!" She bent over, clasping
her knees, still shaking with merriment.
"Why, Jerry, you couldn't be impolite to a woman any more than you
could _fly_. You'd do just whatever she said."
"I wouldn't. They're idiots, the lot of 'em. What's the use? What do
girls want to get married for, anyway?"
She glanced up at him quickly. Then at the glimpse she had of Jerry's
sober profile her wide gaze dulled and then sought the earth before
her. It was true then what she believed of him. A child--this gorgeous
creature that shaved its face!
"I suppose it's because they--they haven't anything else to do," she
stammered.
"There's plenty for every woman to do without marrying, or there ought
to be. They can work like men, or clean their houses, or raise their
children."
At this point the girl was seized with a sudden fit of coughing and
her face was purple.
"What's the matter?"
"I--I just swallowed the wrong way," she gasped.
"Here, I'll pat you on the back. All right now?"
"Y-yes, better, thanks." But she held her fingers before her eyes and
still struggled for breath. In a moment when she raised her head,
there were traces of a smile, but she was quite composed.
"Then you--you don't believe in marriage as an institution?" she asked
with some hesitation.
"No. I can't see the use of it. We're all animals like the wild folk,
the beasts of the field, the birds. They get along all right."
"Birds mate, don't they?" she put in.
"Oh, yes, but they don't need a minister to mate 'em. They just hop
about together a bit and then start their nest. It's simple as rolling
off a log."
"That's what humans do, as you say; they just hop about a bit and then
get married."
"But marriage doesn't make 'em any happier, does it? I'm sure I
wouldn't want to be tied down to one woman as long as I lived. Suppose
I changed my mind or suppose she did."
"You wouldn't change your mind if you loved a woman."
"Love!" he sneered. "There you go. I thought you'd say that."
"You don't believe in love, then?" she asked.
"It seems to me that there's a lot of sentimental rubbish written
about it. What's the use of talking so much about a thing that's as
plain as the nose on your face? Love means loyalty, friendship, honor
and everything that's fine, but when the classic poets begin writing
reams of rot about it, it's time--it's time somebody was sensible."
"Poor Jerry," she laughed. "I'm so sorry for you."
"Why?"
"Because when you fall, you're going to fall so very hard."
"How--fall?"
"Fall in love. You will, some day. Everybody does. It's as sure as
death or taxes."
"Everybody! _You_ haven't, have you?"
"Oh, dear, no. Not yet. But I suppose I shall some day."
Jerry regarded her in silence for a moment.
"I didn't think you were a bit slushy."
"I'm _not_ slushy," indignantly. "I _hate_ slushy people. Where did
you get that word?"
"Roger. He hates 'em too."
"Your Roger doesn't like women, does he?"
"No. He's very wise, Roger is. But sometimes I think he's prejudiced.
I'd like you to know Roger, I really would."
She gazed straight before her for a moment deliberating and then:
"I hope you don't mind if I say so, but I think your Roger must be a
good deal of a fossil."
"A fossil. Now see here, Una--I can't have you talking about Roger
like that."
"He is. I'm sure of it. All theorists are."
"He's not. He's the broadest fellow you ever knew."
"Nobody's broad who ignores the existence of woman," she returned
hotly. "It's sinful--that sort of philosophy. It's against nature.
We're here--millions of us, working as hard as men do, earning our own
way in the world, active, live intelligences, writing books, nursing
in hospitals, cleaning the plague-spots out of the cities, influencing
in a thousand ways the uplift of that coarser brute man and besides
all this practicing a thousand acts of self-abnegation in the home.
Keeping man's house, cooking his food, bearing his ch--"
She stopped abruptly and bit her lip.
"Bearing his--what?" asked Jerry.
"Burdens," she blurted out. "Burdens--all sorts of burdens," she
finished weakly.
"I suppose there _are_ things that women can do," said Jerry after a
moment. "Of course, I don't know much about it. But--"
"Well, it's time you did," she broke in again. "It may be beautiful
here--inside these walls--an unbroken idyl of peace and contentment,
but it isn't life. It's just existence, that's all. If I were a man,
I'd want to do a man's work in the world. I wouldn't want to miss an
hour of it, childhood, boyhood or manhood. I'd want to meet my
temptations and conquer them. It's selfish, the way you live, unreal,
cowardly."
"See here, Una--"
"I mean it. You've got me started and I can't help it. If I say
anything that hurts, you'll have to put me out. But I'm going to tell
you what I think."
"You're rather bewildering. But I'm not a coward. I don't want you to
say that. If you were a man, I'd give you a thrashing," he said
quietly.
Their glances must have flashed fire. Jerry's face was red, I'm sure,
and his fingers were twitching to get hold of something, but the girl
didn't flinch. Jerry told me afterward that he found his anger
softening strangely as he looked at her and in a moment they were both
smiling. The girl spoke first.
"I've gone too far, Jerry. Forgive me."
"Of course," he said awkwardly. "I suppose you've got a right to your
opinions. But it isn't very pleasant to be told that one's life is a
failure."
"I didn't say that," she put in quickly. "You haven't failed, of
course. You've missed something, but you've gained something too." Her
words trailed slowly again and her gaze sought the deep woods. "Yes,"
she repeated softly and thoughtfully, "I'm very sure you've gained
something."
"What have I gained?"
There was a long pause before she replied.
"Simplicity," she said carefully. "Life, after all, nowadays, is so
very complex," she sighed.
But when he questioned as to what she meant, she waved him off. "No,
I've said enough. I didn't intend to. Don't let's talk any more about
what I think. Let's talk about what _you_ think, what you read, what
you do. People say you live in the woods most of the time--do you?
Where? How?"
"In a cabin. We built it. Would you like to see it? It's not far. I'll
make you a cup of tea."
As the reader will perceive, in these two conversations, lasting
perhaps two hours, this slip of a girl, in mere idle curiosity, had
touched with her silly chatter the vital, the vulnerable points of
Jerry's philosophy of life. Fate had not been fair to me or with him.
Less than a year; remained of Jerry's period of probation. In December
the boy was to go out into the world. And through an unfortunate
accident due to a broken iron, a chaos of half-baked ideas had come
pouring through the breach. If I said that my labors of ten years had
been useless or that the fruition of John Benham's ideals for his son
were still in doubt I should be putting the matter too strongly, but I
have no hesitancy in confessing that the appearance of the girl had at
least put them in jeopardy. She had turned his mind into a direction
which I had carefully avoided. He must think now and ask questions
that I could not be ready to answer. By this time it must be well
understood that I have no love for women, but I will do this girl the
credit of saying that in a general way she saw fit to respect Jerry's
artlessness. I think that the sex instinct, so ready with its
antagonisms, its insinuations, its alternate attacks and defenses, was
atrophied as in the presence of a phenomenon. She was modern enough,
God knows, but she had some delicacy at least and was impotent before
the splendor of Jerry's innocence.
What they said on the way to the cabin must have been unimportant. I
suppose Jerry told her about his routine at the Manor and something of
what I had taught him of woodcraft, but I think that she was very
reticent in speaking of herself. No doubt her unceremonious visit to
our domain and the unusual intimacy of their conversation had made it
seem necessary to her to preserve her incognito, or perhaps it was
coquetry, which no woman, however placed, is quite without. As far as
I have been able to learn, they were as two children, the girl's mind
as well as her actions, in spite of her sophistication, reflecting the
artlessness of her companion. The damage that she had done, as I was
afterwards to discover, was mainly by the force of suggestion. She
assumed the absurd premises of modernity, drew her own preposterous
conclusions and Jerry drank them in, absorbed them as he did all
information, like a sponge.