During the rushing Easter vacation, Eleanor had seen less of Harold
Phipps than Quin had feared. Considering the subliminal state of
understanding at which they had arrived in their voluminous letters, it
was a little awkward to account for the fact that she had found so little
time to devote exclusively to him. They had met at dances and had had
interrupted tête-à-têtes in secluded corners, and several stolen
interviews in the park; but her duties as hostess to two lively guests
had left little time for the exacting demands of platonic friendship. Now
that the girls were gone, she had counted on this last Sunday at Uncle
Ranny's as a time when she could see Harold under proper conditions and
make amends for any seeming neglect.
But when Sunday came, and she found herself seated at Aunt Flo's small,
perfectly appointed dinner-table, she found it increasingly difficult to
keep her mind upon the brilliant and cynical conversation of her most
admired friend. To be sure, they exchanged glances freighted with
meaning, and as usual her vanity was touched by the subtle homage of one
who apparently regarded the rest of humanity with such cold indifference.
He was the first person, except Papa Claude, who had ever taken her and
her ambitions seriously, and she was profoundly grateful. But,
notwithstanding the fact that she felt honored and distinguished by his
friendship, she sometimes, as now, found it difficult to follow the trend
of his conversation.
An hour before she had received an agonized note from her grandfather
saying that nothing had been accomplished, and that, unless she could use
her influence "in a quarter that should be nameless, all, all would be
lost!"
Her dark, brooding eyes swept the table with its profusion of silver and
cut glass, its affectation of candle-light when the world without was a
blaze of sunshine. She looked at Uncle Ranny, with his nervous, twitching
lips and restless, dissatisfied eyes; at Aunt Flo, delicate, affected,
futile; at Harold Phipps, easy, polished, serene. What possible chance
would there be of rousing people like that to sympathy for poor,
visionary Papa Claude? For three days the dread of having to fulfil her
promise had hung over her like a pall. Now that the time was approaching,
the mere thought of it made her head hot and her hands cold.
"Cheer up, Nell!" her uncle rallied her. "Don't let your misdeeds crush
you. You'll be in high favor again by the time you get back from
Baltimore."
"Are you sharing my unpopularity with the family?" asked Harold.
Eleanor confessed that she was. "I've been in disgrace ever since my
party," she said. "Did Uncle Ranny tell you the way we shocked the
aunties?"
"I did," said Mr. Ranny; "also the way sister Isobel looked when little
Kittie Mason shook the shimmy. It's a blessing mother did not see her; I
veritably believe she would have spanked her."
"A delicious household," pronounced Harold. "What a pity they have
banished me. I should so love to put them in a play!"
"But I wouldn't let you!" Eleanor cried, so indignantly that the other
three laughed.
"Neither bond nor free," Harold said, pursing his lips and lifting his
brows. "A little pagan at home and a puritan abroad. How are we going to
emancipate her, Ran?"
"You needn't worry," said Mrs. Ranny, lazily lighting her cigarette.
"Eleanor is a lot more subtle than any one thinks; she'll emancipate
herself before long."
Eleanor was grateful to Aunt Flo. She was tired of being considered an
ingénue. She wanted to be treated with the dignity her twenty years
demanded.
"I have a plan for her," said Harold, with a proprietary air. "Who knows
but this time next year she will be playing in 'Phantom Love'?"
Eleanor's wandering thoughts came to instant attention.
"Is there a part I could play?" she asked eagerly, leaning across the
table with her chin on her clasped hands.
Harold watched her with an amused smile. "What would you say if I told
you I had written a rôle especially for you? Would you dare to take it?"
Eleanor closed her eyes and drew a breath of rapture.
"_Would_ I? There isn't anything in heaven or earth that could prevent
me!"
"Mrs. Bartlett," said the trim maid, "there's a young man at the front
door."
The conversation hung suspended while Mrs. Ranny inquired concerning his
mission.
"It's the young man that brings messages from the office, ma'am."
"Oh, it must be Quin," said Mr. Ranny, rising and going into the hall.
"Did you want to see me about something?"
Eleanor held her breath to listen. Was it possible that that absurd boy
had actually followed her up to the Bartletts' with the intention of
going with them on their expedition? Hadn't it been enough for him to
come to her party in that idiotic coat, with his shirt-front bulging and
his face swollen? Of course she liked him--she liked him immensely; but
he had no right to impose upon her kindness, to make a pretext of his
interest in Papa Claude to force himself in where he was not invited. Now
that he had got into the scrape, he would have to get out of it as best
he could. She was resolved not to lift a finger to help him.
"Oh! I didn't understand"--Mr. Ranny's voice could be heard from the
hall, with a cordial emphasis evidently intended to cover a blunder.
"Come right in the dining-room; we are just having coffee. You know these
ladies, of course, and this is Captain Phipps, Mr. Graham."
Quin came into the room awkwardly, half extended his hand, then withdrew
it hastily as Harold, without rising from the table, gave him a curt nod
and said condescendingly:
"How do you do, Graham?"
Eleanor's quick understanding glance swept from the erect, embarrassed,
boyish figure in the badly fitting cheap suit and obviously new tan
shoes, to the perfectly groomed officer lounging with nonchalant grace
with his crossed arms on the table. A curious idea occurred to her:
Suppose they should change places, and Harold should stand there in those
dreadful clothes Quin wore, and receive a snub from an ex-officer--would
he be able to take it with such simple dignity and give no sign of his
chagrin except by the slow color that mounted to his neck and brow? She,
who a moment before had been ready to annihilate the intruder, rose
impulsively and held out a friendly hand.
"Mr. Graham and I are old friends," she said lightly. "We knew each other
out at the hospital even before he came to stay at grandmother's."
The next instant she was sorry she had spoken: for the self-control for
which she had commended him suddenly departed, and his eyelids, which
should have been discreetly lowered, were lifted instead, and such an
ardent look of gratitude poured forth that she was filled with confusion.
For half an hour four uncomfortable people sat in the little gilded cage
of a drawing-room, and everybody wondered why somebody didn't do
something to relieve the situation. Mr. and Mrs. Ranny made heroic
efforts to entertain their unwelcome guest; Harold Phipps moved about the
room with ill-concealed impatience; and Eleanor sat erect, with tightly
clasped hands, as angry with Harold as she was with Quin.
"Mr. Graham," said Mrs. Ranny at length, when Harold had looked at his
watch for the fourth time, "I am afraid we shall have to ask you to
excuse us. You see, this is our wedding anniversary, and we always
celebrate it by a sentimental pilgrimage in search of wild flowers. I am
afraid it's about time we were starting."
Eleanor felt Quin's eyes seek hers confidently, but she refused to meet
them. There was a painful silence; then he spoke up hopefully:
"I know where there are wild flowers to burn: I was at a place yesterday
where you could hardly walk for them; I counted seven different kinds in
a space about as big as this room."
"Where?" demanded Mr. and Mrs. Ranny in one breath.
"Out Anchordale way--I don't know the name of the road. It's an
out-of-the-way sort of place. Never was there myself until yesterday."
"Could you find it again?" Mrs. Ranny asked with an enthusiasm hitherto
reserved for her poodle.
"Sure," said Quin, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back with
the frankest and best-natured of smiles. "I never saw so many cowslips
and buttercups and yellow violets, and these here little arums."
"Arums!" repeated Eleanor. "What do you know about wild flowers?"
"I lived with 'em up in the Maine woods," said Quin. "I don't know their
high-brow names, but I know the kind of places they grow in and where to
look for 'em."
"Let's take him along!" said Mrs. Ranny. "We won't mind being a bit
crowded in the motor, will we?"
Involuntarily all eyes turned toward Harold Phipps.
"Not in the least," he said, flicking an ash from the sleeve of his
uniform with a dexterous little finger, "especially as I am not going to
be with you all the way. These bucolic joys are hardly in my line. I'll
get you to drop me at the Country Club."
It was Eleanor's turn to cast a look of tragic appeal and get no
response. In vain she tried to persuade him to reconsider his decision.
His only concession was that he would remain at the apartment with her if
she would give up the expedition, a suggestion that was promptly vetoed
by Aunt Flo. Eleanor was angry enough to cry as she flung on her wraps in
the little silk-hung guest-room. Men were so selfish, she savagely told
herself; if either Quin or Harold had had a particle of consideration for
her they would not have spoiled her last day at home.
On the way out to the club she sat between them, miserably indifferent to
the glory of the spring day and refusing to contribute more than an
occasional monosyllable to the conversation, which needed all the
encouragement it could get to keep going.
"Shall I see you again before you go?" Harold asked coldly, upon leaving
the car.
She wanted very much to say no, and to say it in a way that would punish
him; but, in view of the important matter pending, she was forced to
swallow her pride and compromise.
"I can see you to-night at the Newsons', unless you prefer spending your
evening here at the club."
"You know perfectly well what I prefer," he said with a meaning look; and
then, without glancing at Quin, across whose knees he had clasped
Eleanor's hand, he bade his host and hostess an apologetic good-by and
mounted the club-house steps.
"What _made_ you come?" Eleanor demanded fiercely of Quin, under cover of
the starting motor.
"I had to," Quin whispered back apologetically. "We got to sell 'em the
farm."
"What farm? Papa Claude's? Whom are you going to sell it to?"
Quin lifted a warning finger and nodded significantly at the back of Mr.
Ranny's unsuspecting head.
"Uncle Ranny?" Eleanor's lips formed the words incredulously. Then the
mere suggestion of outwitting her grandmother and saving Papa Claude by
such a master stroke of diplomacy struck her so humorously that she broke
into laughter, in which Quin joined.
"You two are very lively all of a sudden," Mrs. Ranny said over her
shoulder. "What is the joke?"
"Miss Eleanor and I have gone into the real estate business. Do you want
to buy a farm?"
"We always want to buy a farm. We look at every one we hear is for sale.
But they all cost too much."
"This one won't. It's a bargain-counter farm. A house and fifteen acres.
You can get it for six thousand dollars if you'll buy it to-day."
"All right; we'll take it," cried Mr. Ranny gaily. "Lead us to it."
The quest for the farm became so absorbing that the wild flowers were
forgotten. The oftener they took the wrong road and had to start over,
the keener they became to reach their destination.
"I believe it was a pipe-dream," said Mr. Ranny; "you never saw the place
at all."
"Yes, I did! I'm not kidding you. It's a regular peach of a place for
anybody that's got money to fix it up. Hold on a minute; this looks like
the side lane. Do you mind walking the rest of the way?"
"Not if we get anywhere," said Mr. Ranny.
Their way led through a tangled thicket, across a log bridge, and up a
steep hillside abloom from base to summit with early spring flowers. Down
through the tender green leaves the sunshine poured, searching out many
nooks and corners at which it would get no chance when the heavier
foliage intervened.
"This is where the land begins," said Quin. "Did you ever see such bully
old trees? Any time you wanted to sell off lots, you see, you could do it
on this side, without touching the farm."
"Where's the house?" asked Mrs. Ranny.
"Right through here," said Quin, holding back the branches, "Now, ain't
that a nice old place?"
His enthusiasm met with no response.
In the center of what had once been a clearing stood an old stone
building, half smothered in a wilderness of weeds and sassafras and cane,
its one big chimney dreaming in the silence that seemed to have
encompassed it for ages. The shutters hung disconsolate on their hinges,
the window-panes were broken, the cornice sagged dejectedly.
Eleanor's heart sank. It was worse, far worse, than Papa Claude had
described it, fit only for the birds and spiders and chipmunks that were
already in possession. How Quin could ever for a moment have thought of
selling such a place to the fastidious Bartletts was more than she could
imagine.
But he was carrying the matter off with a high hand, in spite of the
dismayed faces of his prospective buyers.
"Of course it needs a shave," he admitted, as he tore down a handful of
trailing vines that barred the front door. "But you just wait till you
get inside and see the big stone fireplace and the queer cupboards. Why,
this house is historic! It's been here since pioneer days. Look out for
the floor; it's a bit rotten along here."
"I don't think I'll come in," said Mrs. Ranny, holding up her skirts.
"What a funny little staircase!" cried Eleanor. "And what huge rooms! You
_must_ come in, Aunt Flo, and see the fireplace."
"And look at the walls!" cried Quin. "You don't see walls like those
these days. But you just wait till you get upstairs. You've got the
surprise of your life coming to you."
"Outside's good enough for me," Mr. Ranny declared. "I want to take a
look at that old apple orchard."
"I'll go upstairs with you!" said Eleanor. "Come on, Aunt Flo; let's see
what it's like."
At the top of the steps they both gave an exclamation of delight. The
house, hemmed in, in front, by its trees and underbrush, overlooked from
its rear windows a valley of surpassing loveliness. For miles the eye
could wander over orchards full of pink-and-white peach blossoms on
leafless boughs, over farm-lands and woody spaces full of floating clouds
of white dogwood. Through the paneless windows came the warm spring air,
full of the odor of tender growing things and the wholesome smell of the
freshly upturned earth.
"Randolph Bartlett, come up here this instant!" called Mrs. Ranny. "It's
the loveliest thing you ever saw!"
But Mr. Ranny was eagerly examining the remains of a somewhat extensive
chicken farm.
"Go down and show him around," Eleanor advised Quin, with a glimmer of
hope. "Aunt Flo and I will explore the rest of the house."
They not only explored, but in their imagination they remodeled it.
Eleanor, in spite of her daydreams, was a very practical little person,
and, with her power of visualizing a scene for others as well as for
herself, she soon made Mrs. Ranny see the place painted and clean, with
rag rugs on the floors, quaint old mahogany furniture, tall brass
candlesticks on the mantel, and gay chintz curtains at the windows.
Mrs. Ranny grew quite animated talking about it, and forgot the
disturbing fact that she had not had a cigarette since dinner.
"Do you know," she said to Eleanor, as they came back to the window and
looked down at the two men talking and gesticulating eagerly in the
garden below, "I believe if Ranny had something like this to work with
and play with, things would be different."
"Of course they would," Eleanor agreed eagerly--"for him and for you too.
Why don't you try it, Aunt Flo?"
"Oh, it would cost too much to put it in repair. But then, six thousand
dollars is very little, isn't it? Ran spent that much for his big car."
"Yes; and he could _sell_ his big car. You'd lots rather have this than
an extra motor. And we could get him interested in fixing the place up,
and he could keep dogs and cows and things----"
"But what about his mother?"
"You wouldn't have to tell her. She will be going to Maine in June, and
you and Uncle Ranny could be all settled by the time she comes home!"
Eleanor had forgotten all about Papa Claude in her eagerness to get Uncle
Ranny his heart's desire.
"I believe we could do it!" Mrs. Ranny was saying. "The chief expense
would be putting in a couple of bath-rooms and fixing up the floors. As
for the furniture, I have all my mother's stuff packed away in the
warehouse--nice, quaint old things that would suit this place perfectly."
"Oh, Aunt Flo, let's go down this minute and make Uncle Ranny buy it!"
Randolph Bartlett, whose powers of resistance were never strong, was
already lending a willing ear to Quin's persuasive arguments, when
Eleanor and Mrs. Ranny descended upon him in a whirlwind of enthusiasm.
They both talked at once, rushing him from one spot to another, vying
with each other in pointing out the wonderful possibilities of the place.
"See here, is this a frame-up?" he asked laughingly. "You are not
actually in earnest, Flo? You don't mean that you would consider the
place seriously?"
"But I do. I never wanted anything so much in my life!"
Mr. Ranny looked at her in amazement. "And you mean you'd be willing to
come out here and live four months in the year?"
"I mean, if we could get it fixed up right, I'd live here the year round.
We are only fifteen minutes from town, and all our friends live out this
way."
"By George, I've almost a notion to try it!" Mr. Ranny's eyes were
shining. "Do you believe I could pull it off, Quin? I've made such a
darned fizzle of things in the past that I'm almost afraid to kick over
the traces again."
"The trouble is, you've never given a big enough kick to get loose," said
Quin. "Here's your chance to show 'em what you can do. I believe if you'd
buy this place, and buckle down to knocking it into shape, you could have
as pretty a little stock farm as there is in the State."
"That sounds mighty good to me!" said Mr. Ranny with the look of a
prisoner who is promised a parole. "When do you have to give an answer?"
"My option is up at midnight."
"Good heaven! You don't mean to-night?"
"Yes, sir: not a minute later."
"I am afraid that settles it, as far as I'm concerned."
"No, it doesn't!" insisted Mrs. Ranny. "If you really want it, there is
no reason you shouldn't have it. The ground alone is worth the price
asked. Let the others go back to the car while you and I talk the matter
over. It's the chance we've been looking for for ten years, and I'm not
going to let it slip."
The next hour was one Eleanor never forgot. She and Quin, confident of
the success of their conspiracy, were also jubilant over what they
regarded as Mr. Ranny's possible emancipation. They already saw him a
reformed character, a prosperous and contented farmer, no longer a menace
to the peace of the family. So elated were they that, instead of going to
the road, they explored the woods, and ended by racing down the hill like
a couple of irresponsible children.
When they at last got back to the car, Eleanor, disheveled and limp, sank
on the running-board and laughingly made room for Quin beside her. She
had quite forgotten to be grown up and temperamental, a fact that Quin
was prompt to take advantage of.
"See here!" he said. "Am I going to get a commission for all this?"
"How much do you want?"
"I want a lot!" he threatened.
He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, tracing figures in
the sand with his shoe. Eleanor noticed the nice way his hair grew on the
back of his neck and the white skin that met the clear brown skin at the
collar-line. In spite of his bigness and his strength, he seemed very
young and defenseless when it came to his dealings with girls.
It was useless to deny that she knew what he wanted. His eyes had been
saying it persistently each time they had met hers for three months. They
had whispered it after that first dance at the Hawaiian Garden; they had
murmured it through the hospital days; they had shouted it this afternoon
at Uncle Ranny's, so loud that she thought every one must surely hear.
But when a young lady is engaged in the exciting business of playing with
fire she doesn't always heed even a shouted warning. As long as she was
very careful, she told herself, and snuffed out every blaze that
threatened to become unmanageable, no damage would be done. The present
moment was one requiring snuffers.
"We can't begin to pay you what we owe you," she said in her most
conventional tone. "If things go as we hope they will, it will mean
everything to Uncle Ranny as well as to Papa Claude."
"I didn't do it for them only," Quin blurted out. "I didn't want you to
borrow money from Captain Phipps."
The temptation to encourage this special spark was not to be resisted.
"You don't love Mr. Phipps very much, do you?" she said.
"No; do you?"
"Well, I _like_ him. He is one of my very best friends."
"Am I?" demanded Quin with terrible directness.
It was Eleanor's turn to trace patterns in the sand.
"Well, you see----" she began.
"No, I don't." Quin rose indignantly. "There's nobody in the world that
would do any more for you than I would. I may be chasing the kite in
thinking that you _want_ me to do anything, but if you'll just let me
under the ribbon, you bet your life I'll give Phipps and the rest of the
talent a run for their money!"
He stood staring hard down the road for a moment, while she sat in
embarrassed silence; then he broke forth again:
"I know you don't want me to say these things. I know every time you head
me off. But if you'll just let me get it off my chest this once, then I
promise to keep the cork in if it busts the bottle!"
Eleanor laughed in spite of herself.
"All right," she said; "I'll listen."
"Well," said Quin, "it's this way. I know you don't care a tinker's damn
for me in the way I care for you. But you can't deny that you do like me
some. You wouldn't talk to me like you do and let me do things for you if
you didn't. What I want you to promise is that whenever you need a
friend--a _best_ friend, mind you--you will come straight to me."
He looked worth coming to as he stood there, big and strong and earnest;
and Eleanor, being young and a woman, promptly forgot her good
resolutions not to encourage him, and rose impulsively and held out her
hand.
"I do promise, Quin," she said, "and I thank you with all my heart."
Then a curious and unexpected thing happened to her. As she stood there
on the lonely country road with her hand in his, a curious, deep, still
feeling crept over her, a queer sensation of complete satisfaction that
she never remembered to have felt before. For a long moment she stood
there, her cheek almost touching that outrageous plaid tie that had so
recently excited her derision. Then she snatched her hand away. "Look
out!" she warned. "They are coming."
Two minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Ranny, emerging from the thicket with
their hands full of wild flowers, found Eleanor seated in the car in a
bored attitude, while Quin solicitously examined a rear tire.
"It's all settled!" Mr. Ranny cried exultingly. "The farm is ours!"