"I just saw Mr. Googe driving down from The Gore, Aileen, so he's in
town again."
Octavius was passing the open library window where Aileen was sitting at
her work, and stopped to tell her the news.
"Is he?"
The tone was indifferent, but had she not risen quickly to shake some
threads of embroidery linen into the scrap-basket beneath the library
table, Octavius might have seen the quick blood mount into her cheeks,
the red lips quiver. It was welcome news for which she had been waiting
already six weeks.
Octavius spoke again but in a low voice:
"You might mention it to Mrs. Champney when she comes down; it don't set
well, you know, if she ain't told everything that's going on." He passed
on without waiting for an answer.
The girl took her seat again by the window. Her work lay in her lap; her
hands were folded above it; her face was turned to the Flamsted Hills.
"Would he come soon? When and where could she see him again, and alone?"
Her thoughts were busy with conjecture.
Octavius recrossing the terrace called out to her:
"You going up to Mrs. Caukins' later on this afternoon?"
"Yes; Mrs. Champney said she didn't need me."
"I'll take you up."
"Thank you, Tave, not to-day. I'm going to row up as far as the upper
shed. I promised the twins to meet them there; they want to see the new
travelling crane at work. We'll go up afterwards to The Gore together."
"It's pretty hot, but I guess you're all three seasoned by this time."
"Through and through, Tave; and I'm not coming home till after
supper--it's lovely then--there's Mrs. Champney coming!"
She heard her step in the upper hall and ran upstairs to assist her in
coming down.
"Will you go out on the terrace now?" she asked her on entering the
library.
"I'll wait a while; it's too warm at this hour."
Aileen drew Mrs. Champney's arm chair to the other casement window. She
resumed her seat and work.
"How are you getting on with the napkins?" the mistress of Champ-au-Haut
inquired after a quarter of an hour's silence in which she was busied
with some letters.
"Fine--see?" She held up a corner for her inspection. "This is the
tenth; I shall soon be ready for the big table cloth."
"Bring them to me."
Aileen obeyed, and showed her the monogram, A C, wrought by her own deft
fingers in the finest linen.
"There's no one like a Frenchwoman to teach embroidery; you've done them
credit." Aileen dropped a mock courtesy. "Which one taught you?"
"Sister Ste. Croix."
"Is she the little wrinkled one?"
"Yes, but I've fallen in love with every wrinkle, she's a perfect
dear--"
"I didn't imply she wasn't." Mrs. Champney was apt to snap out at Aileen
when, according to her idea, she was "gushing" too much. The girl had
ceased to mind this; she was used to it, especially during her three
years of attendance on this invalid. "Who designed this monogram?"
"She did; she can draw beautifully."
Mrs. Champney put on her glasses to examine in detail the exquisite
lettering, A C.
Aileen leaned above her, smiling to herself. How many loving thoughts
were wrought into those same initials! How many times, while her fingers
were busy fashioning them, she had planned to make just such for her
very own! How often, as she wrought, she had laid her lips to the A C,
murmuring to herself over and over again, "Aileen--Champney,
Champney--Aileen," so filling and satisfying with the sound of this
pleasing combination her every loving anticipation!
She was only waiting for the "word", schooling herself in these last six
weeks to wait patiently for it--the "word" which should make these
special letters her legitimate own!
The singing thoughts that ring in the consciousness of a girl who gives
for the first time her whole heart to her lover; the chanted prayers to
her Maker, that rise with every muted throb of the young wife's heart
which is beating for two in anticipation of her first motherhood--who
shall dare enumerate them?
The varied loving thoughts in this girl's quick brain, which was fed by
her young pulsing heart--a heart single in its loyalty to one during all
the years since her orphan childhood, were intensified and illumined by
the inherent quickening power of a vivid imagination, and inwrought with
these two letters that stood, at present, for their owner, Almeda
Champney. Aileen's smile grew wonderfully tender, almost tremulous as
she continued to lean above her work. Mrs. Champney looking up suddenly
caught it and, in part, interpreted it. It angered her both unreasonably
and unaccountably. This girl must be taught her place. She aspiring to
Champney Googe! She handed her back the work.
"Ann said just now she heard Octavius telling you that my nephew,
Champney Googe, is in town--when did he come?"
"I don't know--Tave didn't say."
"I wonder Alice Van Ostend didn't mention that he was coming here before
going on the yachting cruise they've planned. I had a letter from her
yesterday--I know you'd like to hear it."
"Of course I should! It's the first one she has written you, isn't
it?--Where is it?" She spoke with her usual animated interest.
"I have it here."
She took up one of several letters in her lap, opened it, turned it
over, adjusted her glasses and began to read a paragraph here and there.
Aileen listened eagerly.
"I suppose I may as well read it all--Alice wouldn't mind you," said
Mrs. Champney, and proceeded to give the full contents. It was filled
with anticipations of the yachting cruise, of a later visit to Flamsted,
of Champney and her friends. Champney's name occurred many
times,--Alice's attitude towards the possessor of it seemed to be that
of private ownership,--but everything was written with the frankness of
an accepted publicity of the fact that Mr. Googe was one of her social
appendages. Aileen was amused at the whole tone of the rather lengthy
epistle; it gave her no uneasiness.
Mrs. Champney laid aside her glasses; she wanted to note the effect of
the reading on the girl.
"You can see for yourself from this how matters stand between these two;
it needn't be spoken of in Flamsted outside the family, but it's just as
well for you to know of it--don't you think so?"
Aileen parried; she enjoyed a little bout with Champney Googe's aunt.
"Of course, it's plain enough to see that they're the best of friends--"
"Friends!" Mrs. Champney interrupted her; there was a scornful note in
her voice which insensibly sharpened; "you haven't your usual common
sense, Aileen, if you can't read between these lines well enough to see
that Miss Van Ostend and my nephew are as good as engaged."
Aileen smiled, but made no reply.
"What are you laughing at?" The tone was peremptory and denoted extreme
irritation. Aileen put down her work and looked across to her
interrogator.
"I was only smiling at my thoughts."
"Will you be so good as to state what they are? They may prove decidedly
interesting to me--at this juncture," she added emphatically.
Aileen's look of amusement changed swiftly to one of surprise.
"To be honest, I was thinking that what she writes about Mr. Googe
doesn't sound much like love, that was all--"
"That was all!" Mrs. Champney echoed sarcastically; "well, what more do
you need to convince you of facts I should like to know?"
Aileen laughed outright at this. "Oh, Mrs. Champney, what's the use of
being a girl, if you can't know what other girls mean?"
"Please explain yourself."
"Won't you please read that part again where she mentions the people
invited for the cruise."
Mrs. Champney found the paragraph and re-read it aloud.
"Falkenburg--that's the name--Ben Falkenburg."
"How did you ever hear of this Ben Falkenburg?"
"Oh, I heard of him years ago!" The mischief was in her voice and Mrs.
Champney recognized it.
"Where?"
"When I was in New York--in the asylum; he's the one that danced the
minuet with the Marchioness; I told you about it years ago."
"How do you know he was the boy?"
"Because Alice told me his name then, and showed me the valentine and
May-basket he sent her--just read the postscript again; if you want to
crack a letter for its kernel, you'll generally find it in a postscript,
that is with girls of Alice's age."
She spoke as if there were years of seniority on her part. Mrs. Champney
turned to the postscript again.
"I see nothing in this--you're romancing again, Aileen; you'd better put
it aside; it will get you into trouble sometime."
"Oh, never fear for me, Mrs. Champney; I'll take care of all the
romancing as well as the romances--but can't you see by those few words
that it's Mr. Ben Falkenburg who is going to make the yachting trip for
Miss Van Ostend, and not your nephew?"
"No, I can't," Mrs. Champney answered shortly, "and neither could you if
your eyes weren't blinded by your infatuation for him."
Aileen rolled up her work deliberately. If the time had come for open
war to be declared between the two on Champney Googe's account, it was
best to fight the decisive battle now, before seeing him again. She rose
and stood by the window.
"What do you mean, Mrs. Champney?" Her temper was rising quickly as it
always did when Mrs. Champney went too far. She had spoken but once of
her nephew in a personal way to Aileen since she asked that question a
year ago, "What do you think of him?"
"I mean what I say." Her voice took on an added shrillness. "Your
infatuation for my nephew has been patent for a year now--and it's time
you should be brought to your senses; I can't suppose you're fool enough
to think he'll marry you."
Aileen set her lips close. After all, it was not best to answer this
woman as she deserved to be answered. She controlled the increasing
anger so far as to be able to smile frankly and answer lightly:
"You've no need to worry, Mrs. Champney; your nephew has never asked me
to be his wife."
"His wife!" she echoed scornfully; "I should say not; and let me tell
you for your own benefit--sometime you'll thank me for it--and mark my
words, Aileen Armagh, he never will ask you to be his wife, and the
sooner you accept this unvarnished truth the better it will be for you.
I suppose you think because you've led Romanzo Caukins and young Poggi a
chase, you can do the same with Champney Googe--but you'll find out your
mistake; such men aren't led--they lead. He is going to marry Alice Van
Ostend."
"Do you _know_ this for a fact, Mrs. Champney?" She turned upon her
sharply. She was, at last, at bay; her eyes were dark with anger; her
lips and cheeks white.
"It's like you to fly off at a tangent, Aileen, and doubt a person's
word simply because it happens to contain an unpleasant truth for
you--here is the proof," she held up a letter; "it's from my cousin,
Henry Van Ostend; he has written it out in black and white that my
nephew has already asked for his daughter's hand. Now disabuse your mind
of any notion you may have in regard to Champney Googe--I hope you won't
disgrace yourself by crying for the moon after this."
The girl's eyes fairly blazed upon her.
"Mrs. Champney, after this I'll thank you to keep your advice and your
family affairs to yourself--_I_ didn't ask for either. And you've no
need to tell me I'm only Aileen Armagh--for I know it perfectly well.
I'm only an orphan you took into your home seven years ago and have
kept, so far, for her service. But if I am only this, I am old enough to
do and act as I please--and now you may mark _my_ words: it's not I who
will disgrace you and yours--not I, remember that!" Her anger threatened
to choke her; but her voice although husky remained low, never rising
above its level inflection. "And let me tell you another thing: I'm as
good any day as Alice Van Ostend, and I should despise myself if I
thought myself less; and if it's the millions that make the difference
in the number of your friends--may God keep me poor till I die!" She
spoke with passionate earnestness.
Mrs. Champney smiled to herself; she felt her purpose was accomplished.
"Are you going up to Mrs. Caukins'?" she asked in a matter-of-fact voice
that struck like cold iron on the girl's burning intensity of feeling.
"Yes, I'm going."
"Well, be back by seven."
The girl made no reply. She left the library at once, closing the door
behind her with a force that made the hall ring. Mrs. Champney smiled
again, and proceeded to re-read Alice Van Ostend's letter.
Aileen went out through the kitchen and across the vegetable garden to
the boat house. She cast loose one of the boats in the float, took her
seat and rowed out into the lake--rowed with a strength and swiftness
that accurately gauged her condition of mind. She rounded the peninsula
of The Bow and headed her boat, not to the sheds on the north shore, but
towards the west, to "lily-pad reach". To get away from that woman's
presence, to be alone with herself--that was all she craved at the
moment. The oars caught among the lily-pads; this gave her an excuse for
pulling and wrenching at them. Her anger was still at white heat--not a
particle of color as yet tinged her cheeks--and the physical exertion
necessary to overcome such an obstacle as the long tough stems she felt
to be a relief.
"It isn't true--it isn't true," she said over and over again to herself.
She kept tugging and pulling till by sheer strength she forced the boat
into the shallow water among the tall arrowhead along the margin of the
shore.
She stepped out on the landing stones, drew up the boat, then made her
way across the meadow to the shade of the tall spreading willows. Here
she threw herself down, pressing her face into the cool lush grass, and
relived in thought that early morning hour she had spent alone with him,
only a few weeks ago, on the misty lake among the opening water lilies.
She had been awakened that morning in mid-July by hearing him singing
softly beneath her open window that same song which seven years ago made
such an unaccountable impression on her child's heart. He had often in
jest threatened to repeat the episode of the serenade, but she never
realized that beneath the jest there was any deeper meaning. Now she was
aware of that meaning in her every fibre, physical and spiritual.
"Aileen Mavoureen, the gray dawn is breaking--"
And hearing that, realizing that the voice was calling for her alone in
all the world, she rose; dressed herself quickly; beckoned joyously to
him from the window; noiselessly made her way down the back stairs;
softly unbolted the kitchen porch door--
He was there with hands outstretched for hers; she placed them in his,
and again, in remembrance of their fun and frolic seven years before, he
raced with her down the slate-laid garden walk, across the lawn to the
boat house where his own boat lay moored.
It was four o'clock on that warm midsummer morning. The mists lay light
but impenetrable on the surface of the lake. The lilies were still
closed.
They spoke but little.
"I knew no one could hear me--they all sleep on the other side, don't
they?"
"Yes, all except the boy, and he sleeps like a log--Tave has to wake him
every morning; alarm clocks are no good."
"Have you ever seen the lilies open, Aileen?"
"No, never; I've never been out early in the morning, but I've often
seen them go to sleep under the starlight."
"We will row round then till they open--it's worth seeing."
The sun rose in the low-lying mists; it transfused them with crimson. It
mounted above them; shot them through and through with gold and
violet--then dispersed them without warning, and showed to the girl's
charmed eyes and senses the gleaming blue of the lake waters blotched
with the dull green of the lily-pads, and among them the lilies
expanding the fragrant white of their corollas to its beneficent light
and warmth....
* * * * *
When she left the boat his kiss was on her lips, his words of love
ringing in her ears. One more of her day dreams was realized: she had
given to the man she loved with all her heart her first kiss--and with
it, on her part, the unspoken pledge of herself.
A movement somewhere about the house, the lowing of the cattle, the
morning breeze stirring in the trees--something startled them. They drew
apart, smiling into each other's eyes. She placed her finger on her
lips.
"Hush!" she whispered. She was off on a run across the lawn, turning
once to wave her hand to him.--And now _this_!
How could this then that she had just been told be true?
Her whole being revolted at the thought that he was tampering with what
to her was the holiest in her young life--her love for him. In the past
six weeks it never once occurred to her that he could prove unworthy of
such trust as hers; no man would dare to be untrue to her--to her,
Aileen Armagh, who never in all her wilfulness and love of romance had
given man or boy occasion to use either her name or her lightly! How
dared he do this thing? Did he not know with whom he had to deal?
Because she was only Aileen Armagh, and at service with his relation,
did he think her less the true woman?
Suspicion was foreign to her open nature; doubt, distrust had no place
in her young life; but like a serpent in the girl's Eden the words of
the mistress of Champ-au-Haut, "He never will ask you to be his wife,"
dropped poison in her ears.