He walked down to Champ-au-Haut the next afternoon. Here and there on
the mountain side and along the highroad he noticed the massed pink and
white clusters of the sheep laurel. Every singing bird was in full
voice; thrush and vireo, robin, meadow lark, song-sparrow and catbird
were singing as birds sing but once in the whole year; when the mating
season is at its height and the long migratory flight northwards is
forgotten in the supreme instinctive joy of the ever-new miracle of
procreation.
When he came to The Bow he went directly to the paddock gate. He was
hoping to find Octavius somewhere about. He wanted to interview him
before seeing any one else, in regard to Rag who had not returned. The
recalcitrant terrier must be punished in a way he could not forget; but
Champney was not minded to administer this well-deserved chastisement in
the presence of the dog's protectress. He feared to make a poor first
impression.
He stopped a moment at the gate to look down the lane--what a beautiful
estate it was! He wondered if his aunt intended leaving anything of it
to the girl she had kept with her all these years. Somehow he had
received the impression, whether from Mr. Van Ostend or his sister he
could not recall, that she once said she did not mean to adopt her. His
mother never mentioned the matter to him; indeed, she shunned all
mention, when possible, of Champ-au-Haut and its owner.
In his mind's eye he could still see this child as he saw her on the
stage at the Vaudeville, clad first in rags, then in white; as he saw
her again dressed in the coarse blue cotton gown of orphan asylum order,
sitting in the shade of the boat house on that hot afternoon in July,
and rubbing her greasy hands in glee; as he saw her for the third time
leaning from the bedroom window and listening to his improvised
serenade. Well, he had a bone to pick with her about his dog; that would
make things lively for a while and serve for an introduction. He reached
over to unlatch the gate. At that moment he heard Octavius' voice in
violent protest. It came from behind a group of apple trees down the
lane in the direction of the milking shed.
"Now don't go for to trying any such experiment as that, Aileen; you'll
fret the cow besides mussing your clean dress."
"I don't care; it'll wash. Now, please, do let me, Tave, just this
once."
"I tell you the cow won't give down her milk if you take hold of her.
She'll get all in a fever having a girl fooling round her." There
followed the rattle of pails and a stool.
"Now, look here, Octavius Buzzby, who knows best about a cow, you or I?"
"Well, seeing as I've made it my business to look after cows ever since
I was fifteen year old, you can't expect me to give in to you and say
_you_ do."
Her merry laugh rang out. Champney longed to echo it, but thought best
to lie low for a while and enjoy the fun so unexpectedly provided.
"Tavy, dear, that only goes to prove you are a mere man; a dear one to
be sure--but then! Don't you flatter yourself for one moment that you,
or any other man, really know any creature of the feminine gender from a
woman to a cow. You simply can't, Tavy, because you aren't feminine.
_Can_ you comprehend that? Can you say on your honor as a man that you
have ever been able to tell for certain what Mrs. Champney, or Hannah,
or I, for instance, or this cow, or the cat, or Bellona, when she hasn't
been ridden enough, or the old white hen you've been trying to force to
sit the last two weeks, is going to do next? Now, honor bright, have
you?"
Octavius was grumbling some reply inaudible to Champney.
"No, of course you haven't; and what's more you never will. Not that
it's your fault, Tavy, dear, it's only your misfortune." Exasperating
patronage was audible in her voice. Champney noted that a trace of the
rich Irish brogue was left. "Here, give me that pail."
"I tell you, Aileen, you can't do it; you've never learned to milk."
"Oh, haven't I? Look here, Tave, now no more nonsense; Romanzo taught me
how two years ago--but we both took care you shouldn't know anything
about it. Give me that pail." This demand was peremptory.
Evidently Octavius was weakening, for Champney heard again the rattle of
the pails and the stool; then a swish of starched petticoat and a cooing
"There, there, Bess."
He opened the gate noiselessly and closing it behind him walked down the
lane. The golden light of the June sunset was barred, where it lay upon
the brilliant green of the young grass, with the long shadows of the
apple-tree trunks. He looked between the thick foliage of the
low-hanging branches to the milking shed. The two were there. Octavius
was looking on dubiously; Aileen was coaxing the giant Holstein mother
to stand aside at a more convenient angle for milking.
"Hold her tail, Tave," was the next command.
She seated herself on the stool and laid her cheek against the warm,
shining black flank; her hands manipulated the rosy teats; then she
began to sing:
"O what are you seeking my pretty colleen,
So sadly, tell me now!"--
"O'er mountain and plain
I'm searching in vain
Kind sir, for my Kerry cow."
The milk, now drumming steadily into the pail, served for a running
accompaniment to the next verses.
"Is she black as the night with a star of white
Above her bonny brow?
And as clever to clear
The dykes as a deer?"--
"That's just my own Kerry cow."
"Then cast your eye into that field of wheat
She's there as large as life."--
"My bitter disgrace!
Howe'er shall I face
The farmer and his wife?"
What a voice! And what a picture she made leaning caressingly against
the charmed and patient Bess! She was so slight, yet round and
supple--strong, too, with the strength of perfect health! The thick
fluffed black hair was rolled away from her face and gathered into a low
knot in the nape of her neck. Her dress cut low at the throat enhanced
the white purity of her face and the slim round grace of her neck which
showed to advantage against the ebony flank of the mother of many milky
ways. Her lips were red and full; the nose was a saucy stub; the eyes he
could not see; they were downcast, intent upon her filling pail and the
rising creamy foam; but he knew them to be an Irish blue-gray.
[Illustration: "What a picture she made leaning caressingly against the
charmed and patient Bess"]
"Since the farmer's unwed you've no cause to dread
From his wife, you must allow.
And for kisses three--
'Tis myself is he--
The farmer will free your cow."
The song ceased; the singer was giving her undivided attention to her
self-imposed task. Octavius took a stool and began work with another
cow. Champney, nothing loath to prolong the pleasure of looking at the
improvised milkmaid, waited before making his presence known until she
should have finished.
And watching her, he could but wonder at the ways of Chance that had
cast this little piece of foreign flotsam upon the shores of America,
only to sweep it inland to this village in Maine. He could not help
comparing her with Alice Van Ostend--what a contrast! What an abyss
between the circumstances of the two lives! Yet this one was decidedly
charming, more so than the other; for he was at once aware that Aileen
was already in possession of her womanhood's dower of command over all
poor mortals of the opposite sex--her manner with Octavius showed him
that; and Alice when he saw her last, now nearly six months ago, would
have given any one the impression of something still unfledged--a tall,
slim, overgrown girl of sixteen, and somewhat spoiled. This was indeed
only natural, for her immediate world of father, aunt, and relations had
circled ever since her birth in the orbit of her charming wilfulness.
Champney acknowledged to himself that he had done her bidding a little
too frequently ever since the first yachting trip, when as a little girl
she attached herself to him, or rather him to her as a part of her
special goods and chattels. At that time their common ground for
conversation was Aileen; the child was never tired of his rehearsing for
her delight the serenade scene. But in another year she lost this
interest, for many others took its place; nor was it ever renewed.
The Van Ostends, together with Ruth and her husband, had been living the
last three winters in Paris, Mr. Van Ostend crossing and recrossing as
his business interests demanded or permitted. Champney was much with
them, for their home was always open to him who proved an ever welcome
guest. He acknowledged to himself, while participating in the intimacy
of their home life, that if the child's partiality to his companionship,
so undisguisedly expressed on every occasion, should, in the transition
periods of girlhood and young womanhood, deepen into a real attachment,
he would cultivate it with a view to asking her in marriage of her
father when the time should show itself ripe. In his first youthful
arrogance of self-assertion he had miscalculated with Ruth Van Ostend.
He would make provision that this "undeveloped affair"--so he termed
it--with her niece should not miscarry for want of caution. He intended
while waiting for Alice to grow up--a feat which her aunt was always
deploring as an impossibility except in a physical sense--to make
himself necessary in this young life. Thus far he had been successful;
her weekly girlish letters conclusively proved it.
While waiting for the milk to cease its vigorous flow, he was conscious
of reviewing his attitude towards the "undeveloped affair" in some such
train of thought, and finding in it nothing to condemn, rather to
commend, in fact; for not for the fractional part of a second did he
allow a thought of it to divert his mind from the constant end in view:
the making for himself a recognized place of power in the financial
world of affairs. He knew that Mr. Van Ostend was aware of this
steadfast pursuit of a purpose. He knew, moreover, that the fact that
the great financier was taking him into his New York office as treasurer
of the Flamsted Quarries, was a tacit recognition not only of his six
years' apprenticeship in some of the largest banking houses in Europe,
but of his ability to acquire that special power which was his goal. In
the near future he would handle and practically control millions both in
receipt and disbursement. Many of the contracts, already signed, were to
be filled within the next three years--the sound of the milking suddenly
ceased.
"My, how my wrists ache! See, Tave, the pail is almost full; there must
be twelve or fourteen quarts in all."
She began to rub her wrists vigorously. Octavius muttered: "I told you
so. You might have known you couldn't milk steady like that without
getting all tuckered out."
Champney stepped forward quickly. "Right you are, Tave, every time. How
are you, dear old chap?" He held out his hand.
"Champ--Champney--why--" he stammered rather than spoke.
"It's I, Tave; the same old sixpence. Have I changed so much?"
"Changed? I should say so! I thought--I thought--" he was wringing
Champney's hand; some strange emotion worked in his features--"I thought
for a second it was Mr. Louis come to life." He turned to Aileen who had
sprung from her stool. "Aileen, this is Mr. Champney Googe; you've
forgotten him, I dare say, in all these years."
The rich red mantled her cheeks; the gray eyes smiled up frankly into
his; she held out her hand. "Oh, no, I've not forgotten Mr. Champney
Googe; how could I?"
"Indeed, I think it is the other way round; if I remember rightly you
gave me the opportunity of never forgetting you." He held her hand just
a trifle longer than was necessary. The girl smiled and withdrew it.
"Milky hands are not so sticky as spruce gum ones, Mr. Googe, but they
are apt to be quite as unpleasant."
Champney was annoyed without in the least knowing why. He was wondering
if he should address her as "Aileen" or "Miss Armagh," when Octavius
spoke:
"Aileen, just go on ahead up to the house and tell Mrs. Champney Mr.
Googe is here." Aileen went at once, and Octavius explained.
"You see, Champney--Mr. Googe--"
"Have I changed so much, Tave, that you can't use the old name?"
"You've changed a sight; it don't come easy to call you Champ, any more
than it did to call Mr. Louis by his Christian name. You look a Champney
every inch of you, and you act like one." He spoke emphatically; his
small keen eyes dwelt admiringly on the face and figure of the tall man
before him. "I thought 't was better to send Aileen on ahead, for Mrs.
Champney's broken a good deal since you saw her; she can't stand much
excitement--and you're the living image." He called for the boy who had
taken Romanzo's place. "I'll go up as far as the house with you. How
long are you going to stay?"
"It depends upon how long it takes me to investigate these quarries,
learn the ropes. A week or two possibly. I am to be treasurer of the
Company with my office in New York."
"So I heard, so I heard. I'm glad it's come at last--no thanks to
_her_," he added, nodding in the direction of the house.
"Do you still hold a grudge, Tave?"
"Yes, and always shall. Right's right and wrong's wrong, and there ain't
a carpenter in this world that can dovetail the two. You and your mother
have been cheated out of your rights in what should be yours, and it's
ten to one if you ever get a penny of it."
Champney smiled at the little man's indignation. "All the more reason to
congratulate me on my job, Tave."
"Well, I do; only it don't set well, this other business. She ain't
helped you any to it?" He asked half hesitatingly.
"Not a red cent, Tave. I don't owe her anything. Possibly she will leave
some of it to this same Miss Aileen Armagh. Stranger things have
happened." Octavius shook his head.
"Don't you believe it, Champney. She likes Aileen and well she may, but
she don't like her well enough to give her a slice off of this estate;
and what's more she don't like any living soul well enough to part with
a dollar of it on their account."
"Is there any one Aunt Meda ever did love, Tave? From all I remember to
have heard, when I was a boy, she was always bound up pretty thoroughly
in herself."
"Did she ever love any one? Well she did; that was her husband, Louis
Champney, who loved you as his own son. And it's my belief that's the
reason you don't get your rights. She was jealous as the devil of every
word he spoke to you."
"You're telling me news--and late in the day."
"Late is better than never, and I'd always meant to tell you when you
come to man's estate--but you've been away so long, I've thought
sometimes you was never coming home; but I hoped you would for your
mother's sake, and for all our sakes."
"I'm going to do what I can, but you mustn't depend too much on me,
Tave. I'm glad I'm at home for mother's sake although I always felt she
had a good right hand in you, Tave; you've always been a good friend to
her, she tells me."
Octavius Buzzby swallowed hard once, twice; but he gave him no reply.
Champney wondered to see his face work again with some emotion he failed
to explain satisfactorily to himself.
"There's Mrs. Champney on the terrace; I won't go any farther. Come in
when you can, won't you?"
"I shall be pretty apt to run in for a chat almost anytime on my way to
the village." He waved his hand in greeting to his aunt and sprang up
the steps leading to the terrace.
He bent to kiss her and was shocked by the change in her that was only
too apparent: the delicate features were sharpened; the temples sunken;
her abundant light brown hair was streaked heavily with white; the
hands had grown old, shrunken, the veins prominent.
"Kiss me again, Champney," she said in a low voice, closing her eyes
when he bent again to fulfil her request. When she opened them he
noticed that the lids were trembling and the corners of her mouth
twitched. But she rallied in a moment and said sharply:
"Now, don't say you're sorry--I know all about how I look; but I'm
better and expect to outlive a good many well ones yet."
She told Aileen to bring another chair. Champney hastened to forestall
her; his aunt shook her finger at him.
"Don't begin by spoiling her," she said. Then she bade her make ready
the little round tea-table on the terrace and serve tea.
"What do you think of her?" she asked him after Aileen had entered the
house. She spoke with a directness of speech that warned Champney the
question was a cloak to some other thought on her part.
"That she does you credit, Aunt Meda. I don't know that I can pay you or
her a greater compliment."
"Very well said. You've learned all that over there--and a good deal
more besides. There have been no folderols in her education. I've made
her practical. Come, draw up your chair nearer and tell me something of
the Van Ostends and that little Alice who was the means of Aileen's
coming to me. I hear she is growing to be a beauty."
"Beauty--well, I shouldn't say she was that, not yet; but 'little.' She
is fully five feet six inches with the prospect of an additional inch."
"I didn't realize it. When are they coming home?"
"Early in the autumn. Alice says she is going to come out next winter,
not leak out as the other girls in her set have done; and what Alice
wants she generally manages to have."
"Let me see--she must be sixteen; why that's too young!"
"Seventeen next month. She's very good fun though."
"Like her?" She looked towards the house where Aileen was visible with a
tea-tray.
"Well, no; at least, not along her lines I should say. She seems to have
Tave pretty well under her thumb."
Mrs. Champney smiled. "Octavius thought he couldn't get used to it at
first, but he's reconciled now; he had to be.--Call her Aileen,
Champney; you mustn't let her get the upper hand of you by making her
think she's a woman grown," she added in a low tone, for the girl was
approaching them, slowly on account of the loaded tray she was carrying.
Champney left his seat and taking the tea-things from her placed them on
the table. Aileen busied herself with setting all in order and twirling
the tea-ball in each cup of boiling water, as if she had been used to
this ultra method of making tea all her life.
"By the way, Aileen--"
He checked himself, for such a look of amazement was in the quickly
lifted gray eyes, such a surprised arch was visible in the dark brows,
that he realized his mistake in hearing to his aunt's request. He felt
he must make himself whole, and if possible without further delay.
"Oh, I see that it must still be Miss Aileen
Armagh-and-don't-you-forget-it!" he exclaimed, laughing to cover his
confusion.
She laughed in turn; she could not help it at the memories this title
called to mind. "Well, it's best to be particular with strangers, isn't
it?" Down went the eyes to search in the bottom of a teacup.
"I fancied we were not wholly that; I told Aunt Meda about our escapade
six years ago; surely, that affair ought to establish a common ground
for our continued acquaintance. But, if that's not sufficient, I can
find another nearer at hand--where's my dog?"
This brought her to terms.
"Oh, I can't do anything with Rag, Mr. Googe; I'm so sorry. He's over in
the coach house this very minute, and Tave was going to take him home
to-night. Just think! That seven-year-old dog has to be carried home,
old as he is!"
"If it's come to that, I'll take him home under my arm to-night--that
is, if he won't follow; I'll try that first."
"But you're not going to punish him!--and simply because he likes me.
That wouldn't be fair!"
She made her protest indignantly. Champney looked at his aunt with an
amused smile. She nodded understandingly.
"Oh, no; not simply because he likes you, but because he is untrue to
me, his master."
"But that isn't fair!" she exclaimed again, her cheeks flushing rose
red; "you've been away so long that the dog has forgotten."
"Oh, no, he hasn't; or if he has I must jog his memory. He's Irish, and
the supreme characteristic of that breed is fidelity."
"Well, so am I Irish," she retorted pouting; she began to make him a
second cup of tea by twirling the silver tea-ball in the shallow cup
until the hot water flew over the edge; "but I shouldn't consider it
necessary to be faithful to any one who had forgotten and left me for
six years."
"You wouldn't?" Champney's eyes challenged hers, but either she did not
understand their message or she was too much in earnest to heed it.
"No I wouldn't; what for? I like Rag and he likes me, and we have been
faithful to each other; it would be downright hypocrisy on his part to
like you after all these years."
"How about you?" Champney grew bold because he knew his aunt was
enjoying the girl's entanglement as much as he was. She was amused at
his daring and Aileen's earnestness. "Didn't you tell me in Tave's
presence only just now that you couldn't forget me? How is that for
fidelity? And why excuse Rag on account of a six years' absence?"
"Well, of course, he's your dog," she said loftily, so evading the
question and ignoring the laugh at her expense.
"Yes, he's my dog if he is a backslider, and that settles it." He turned
to his aunt. "I'll run in again to-morrow, Aunt Meda, I mustn't wear my
welcome out in the first two days of my return."
"Yes, do come in when you can. I suppose you will be here a month or
two?"
"No; only a week or two at most; but I shall run up often; the business
will require it." He looked at Aileen. "Will you be so kind as to come
over with me to the coach house, Miss Armagh, and hand my property over
to me? Good-bye, Aunt Meda."
Aileen rose. "I'll be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Champney, or will you
go in now?"
"There's no dew, and the air is so fresh I'll sit here till you come."
The two went down the terrace steps side by side. Mrs. Champney watched
them out of sight; there was a kindling light in her faded eyes.
"Now, we'll see," said Champney, as they neared the coach house and saw
in the window the bundle of brown tow with black nose flattened on the
pane and eyes filled with longing under the tangled topknot. The stub of
a tail was marking time to the canine heartbeats. Champney opened the
door; the dog scurried out and sprang yelping for joy upon Aileen.
"Rag, come here!" The dog's day of judgment was in that masculine
command. The little terrier nosed Aileen's hand, hesitated, then pressed
more closely to her side. The girl laughed out in merry triumph.
Champney noted that she showed both sets of her strong white teeth when
she laughed.
"Rag, dear old boy!" She parted with caressing fingers the skein of tow
on the frowsled head.
"Come on, Rag." Champney whistled and started up the driveway. The
terrier fawned on Aileen, slavered, snorted, sniffed, then crept almost
on his belly, tail stiff, along the ground after Champney who turned and
laid his hand on him. The dog crouched in the road. He gently pulled the
stumps of ears--"Now come!"
He went whistling up the road, and the terrier, recognizing his master,
trotted in a lively manner after him.
Champney turned at the gate and lifted his hat. "How about fidelity now,
Miss Armagh?" He wanted to tease in payment for that amazed look she
gave him for taking a liberty with her Christian name.
"Well, of course, he's your dog," she called merrily after him, "but _I_
wouldn't have done it if I'd been Rag!"
Champney found himself wondering on the homeward way if she really meant
what she said.