"What did Miss Whitcom mean," asked Barry after a short pause, "when
she spoke the way she did about the church?"
"The church, Barry?"
"Something about it being _à la mode_."
"Oh, I--the fact is, Barry, I don't quite know myself. I'm sure she
didn't mean anything in particular. That is, you see Marjory has a kind
of playful way of speaking.... You have to know her well to understand
her."
"She seems like a very jolly sort."
"Yes, yes. She's ever so jolly. Sometimes I feel.... Well, of course,
every one has their times of being jollier than at other times, don't
they?" There seemed something here appealing, a little pathetic,
even--as though Alfred Needham, if he only _could_ one day get his
heels down, would turn out really very jolly himself.
The conversation was growing thin, a little vague. It was a relief to
have the talk drift into other and more concrete channels.
"Well," remarked Barry, "just before I left for the East we got the
final engineering report on the new San Pedro reservoir. It looks
pretty good to me."
"Something to open up a whole new area?"
"Yes, that's it. By building another dam--" And he explained the rather
technical proposition.
"A good deal like the Santa Cruz, isn't it?" asked the minister.
"Yes, a good deal like that. You can be pretty sure of the water near
the source, but of course the farther downstream you go, the less
dependable the flow is. Sometimes there will be floods, and then again
sometimes the bed will go entirely dry."
"Yes, yes," said the Rev. Needham meditatively, and almost as though in
these fluxes of the Arizona rivers he recognized a subtle resemblance
to life's fluxes which kept him ever hopping. "Let's see," he
continued, "do I own anything just there, in the San Pedro valley?"
"You certainly do," replied Barry, and he drew a map out of his
pocket, spread it on his knee, hitched his chair a little closer, and
traced the Needham holdings with his pencil. "This strip in Cochise
County--that little triangular patch there where Pinal and Pima
join.... It ought to add quite a bit to your income, when the deal is
really swung."
The Rev. Needham sighed appreciatively. "I wouldn't have any of these
opportunities if it weren't for you being right there on the spot to
look out for things."
"Oh, I do what I can," said Barry quietly. He folded up the map and put
it away. "You see I'm very much interested in Arizona--new settlers
coming all the time--new homes under way...." His eyes were dimly
wistful. "Pretty soon we'll he getting another man in Congress...."
"Barry, do you suppose later on you'll be getting into politics?"
"Politics?" He laughed it away a little, yet at the same time clung
to it, too. "Oh--you never can tell." As a matter of fact, as Louise
could have told her father, the spring of a secret ambition had been
touched. "Just now there's too much to do, developing--opening up the
country.... There are plans in the air for another big power plant near
Yuma. By the way, I can get you some shares there, if you like. As for
politics...."
The Rev. Needham folded his arms with quiet pride. This was a man after
his very heart. Perhaps he would be a Representative at Washington some
day. Perhaps he would be Governor some day. And in the meantime, here
he was, coming right into the family! No, the Rev. Needham could not
have been any prouder of a son.
Upstairs all the ladies were in the midst of their toilettes. "O,
world! O, life! O, time!"
"Are you girls putting on low neck?" demanded Miss Whitcom in her
shrill way.
"Lou is," replied Hilda. "She always dresses when there's anything to
go to, but I never do." She sighed. "Just think, Aunt Marjie, I haven't
got a single low neck!"
"Cheer up, little one!" the aunt called over the three-quarters
partition. "Your time's coming. I don't see--achu!--what you do about
sunburn up here! _Achu!_"
She was deluging her neck and face with powder. Fortunately they were
only going to a roast, and there wouldn't be much light, especially
after the fire began to die down. Then she started slightly and
frowned. Why on earth should one be concerned about a little sunburn?
And yet--there was a thrill in the question, too. Miss Whitcom admitted
she never would have been so concerned in the old days. These were new
days. After all, Barrett seemed the only reality there was left. Yet
there had seemed so many realities to begin with.
"Louise, what's the matter?" whispered Hilda, as she slipped a fresh
jumper over her head and began tying its lace.
"What makes you think there's anything the matter?" asked her sister
thickly.
"I know there is! You don't act like yourself at all. Is it--is there
something about you and Mr. Barry?"
Louise's throat ached. She did not start, nor did she flush and cry
out: "How did you guess?" Her throat ached; it ached cruelly.
"Lou, dear--_tell_ me what's the matter!" implored Hilda, throwing
her arms around her sister, and laying her cheek against the other's
shoulder a moment.
"I--I can't," faltered Louise.
"Yes, you can. I knew there was something!"
Louise shook her head wretchedly.
"Doesn't he seem the same?"
"Don't, Hilda!" She wriggled nervously.
"Louise!"
"I--I...." She pushed herself free of an embrace which possessed, just
now, no comfort. "Please don't say anything more. You mustn't."
"Well, I won't, Lou dear. Only it makes me feel bad to see you look
this way. And I know there's _something_ the matter."
"No, there isn't," replied Louise woodenly.
Hilda discovered, far in an unfrequented corner of her own little
special chest of drawers which had been moved in out of Aunt Marjie's
way, a fine new scarf. It was a scarf she had never worn before.
Indeed, she had forgotten all about it. Now she remembered it had been
put away carefully, with the understanding that it was to be brought
out for some very special occasion. Her heart told her the golden hour
had come. Her heart was so full of news that it began singing.
"We're going to light Mr. O'Donnell through to the roast!"
"Who?" asked Louise. She spoke impulsively, as all the Needhams were
in the habit of speaking. Had she thought a moment she would not have
asked.
Hilda told her, with a thrill of most abundant happiness. She hugged
her happiness; she did not know what it cost her sister.
Louise braced herself. The evening had to be got through somehow. But
after tonight--then what? Her father would be expecting Lynndal to
come to him to talk it over. And how terrible! Would it, perhaps--her
thoughts were flying helter-skelter--would it perhaps make some fatal
difference in the Western business? Would Lynndal continue to look
after the interests, just as before? Could any one reasonably expect
the relations all around to remain _quite_ what they had been?
Remorse stole dully over her. She had come between her father and his
friend. Could he forgive her? And could her father? Why had she done
such a thing? But _was_ it final? All those letters.... At length he
was here ... had come so far ... and what had she done? In the morning
she had gone to meet her lover. It had seemed fine and romantic. She
had told Leslie they must be only friends now. It had all appeared
quite easy and rather delightful. Then Lynndal had come, and ... and
then what? What was it that had happened? It had seemed to her that she
could not give herself up....
If only she could have a sudden change of heart! One read of such
things, now and then. If only she could rush joyously down to him,
where he sat talking with her father, and tell him she _did_ love him!
But after all, she could only go on dressing, miserably dressing.
"Do I look all right, Lou?" asked Hilda, much as Louise had put the
same question to her at dawn.
Her sister told the plain truth in a syllable. Yes. She certainly did.
Of course a jumper, even with so fine a new sash under its collar,
wasn't quite as nice as low neck. But Hilda was undeniably charming.
Louise felt a sudden elemental pang of jealousy.
Hilda's heart was in a great flutter. She liked Leslie ever so well.
She didn't know any other boy she liked so well as Leslie. Have a care,
little Hilda. Ah, have a care! Your age protects you. But later, when
you have substituted loving for liking, things will be different. When
Louise was your age she let Harold Gates kiss her a great many times.
She let him put his arm around her, and when he had to leave her on
account of the girl he had brought along with him to the picnic, she
did not care--very much. Or at least she did not care very _long_.
But now see, Hilda. Your sister has become a woman. She has learned
to love, and play quite fearlessly with love. But love is a terrible
thing, and your sister is not very wise.
Have a care, Hilda! As you value what is precious and fine in
life--beware! Oh, Hilda, beware, when the heart has matured, that you
do not reap a whirlwind of ghosts....
4
At dinner Miss Whitcom was treated to an entrancing account of the
Assembly Roast, viewed as an institution.
"Of course," explained the Rev. Needham, "in the largest sense it's a
religious function--a kind of general get-together, before the lecture
season opens." It seemed a now more cautious way of reiterating that
the church must advertise.
"But you see," contributed Mrs. Needham, "it was started by the
Goodmans. He's a clergyman from Cleveland."
"It's their anniversary," added Hilda.
Thus, piecemeal, the momentous facts came out.
"Anniversary?"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie."
"Let's see--how many is it this year?" asked Mrs. Needham turning to
her husband.
"Twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth, I think," he replied.
"Oh, Alf, do you think the Goodmans have been married that long?"
"You know," declared Miss Whitcom, "all this is interesting but
terribly mysterious. Thanks, Anna, I've had the pickles. I'm mystified
by these Goodmans from Cleveland. So I understand the Midsummer Roast
is in the nature of an anniversary party also?"
"Well, yes," replied Anna Needham. "It was started, I guess, more than
twenty years ago, even before we began coming up here. There were only
a few families at first. Alf, were the Goodmans the first to begin
coming up?"
"Unless it was Blakes," he suggested.
"But didn't the Blakes begin coming because the Goodmans did, Alf?"
"Well, maybe so. Marjory, can't I help you to a little more of the
lamb?"
"No, no," protested his sister-in-law. "I'm doing famously."
"Alf, Marjie will have some more potatoes, I'm sure."
"No. Doing _fam_ously. Never mind my plate, but do let's get it
straight about the Goodmans. Thanks, Hilda, I will have another
biscuit. It all sounds terribly romantic!"
"Yes, it is," Hilda boldly assured her. "They always kiss right before
everybody on their anniversary. And in the morning--"
"Hilda!" cautioned her father, rather sternly.
The girl endeavoured to conceal her confusion by addressing herself
very elaborately to the spreading of a biscuit.
"Oh, now, Alfred," remonstrated his sister-in-law, "you're worse than
a war censor! Since it's quite apparent the whole Point knows about
the kissing--Anna, _may_ I trouble you for another glass of water?--why
shouldn't I be admitted to so very large a secret? There's surely room
for one more, and you may pledge me to profound secrecy if you like.
I'm dying to know what it is they do in the morning!"
Hilda was gaining back her nerve. "They run away and have breakfast
together at the hotel! That's what they do, Aunt Marjie!"
"Oh, how charming!"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie, they've done it every year since they were married!"
"They have? Well, now, I call that pure romance! How coy! How it must
carry them back! I think I'd really like to know the Goodmans. There
isn't such a great deal of pure romance available nowadays. People are
too self-conscious."
"You'll meet them tonight," was the hope Mrs. Needham held out. And
then, while her husband began carving fresh slices of lamb, and since
the subject of the Midsummer Roast seemed about exhausted, Anna went
chattily on: "Marjie, I must say I like Mr. O'Donnell real well."
"Speaking of pure romance?" her sister sparklingly interpolated. "Yes,"
she continued, "Barrett's a good chap. Used to be a bit egregious, you
know, in the old days. But he's mellowed wonderfully. I--I'll let you
in on a tremendous secret," she added, with mock breathlessness, and
addressing herself to Alfred behind her hand. "If he should happen to
ask me again--I'm only saying _if_, you understand...." She finished
eloquently in pantomime.
The Rev. Needham dropped his fork, but quickly recovered it and went on
eating. He had just told himself that no matter what new monstrosity
his sister-in-law might enunciate, he would magnificently let it
pass. He would not appear to notice it. He was a clergyman. There was
a certain dignity to be preserved in spite of everything. But good
heavens, she had said it behind her hand!
"Oh-h-h!" said Hilda. She giggled.
"Barrett _is_ an old peach," continued Miss Whitcom quite brazenly.
"He's stood by me through everything!"
The Rev. Needham nearly dropped his fork again. That awful word.
Everything! And she could be so damnably cool about it! Was he narrow
or old-fashioned to feel the way he did? Yet would not feeling any
other way be simply debauching oneself? Ah, if, instead of his changing
his own point of view, she might somehow drop off into a deep, painless
slumber.... And never wake....
"Well, then," said Anna, who had kept perfectly her head, and was also
rather thrilled, "I hope he will, Marjie."
Marjory looked dreamily off through the open window. A few birches
caught the evening light mistily, and were dyed a delicate pink all
along their slim white trunks. Would he? Ah, of course! And yet....
Well--hm?... If not, why.... She mentally tossed her head. But what she
told herself was not quite so haughty: "In that case I could hardly
blame anybody but myself...."
By this time it might be said that the edge, at least, of hunger was
taken off. All had eaten quite heartily, except Louise. But even
Louise, though she dimly felt this was not as it should be, had found
it possible to do at least a little nibbling. Of course it would be out
of the question to expect her to eat like the rest. It was another case
of Richard. Probably she would not eat just like the rest for a good
while to come. Still, she would manage to keep going. One always did
that in real life.
The Rev. Needham, however, was at length coming definitely to notice
things. Louise, some more of the lamb? No? Surely more of the creamed
carrots? But you're so fond of them! Ah, yes. There were sharp and
anxious glances in the direction of this baffling elder daughter. She
wasn't eating right. And when any of the Needhams didn't eat right, you
could be very sure there was something wrong with the heart.
But now, anxious paternal orbs, let your troubled gaze shift to another
plate--the next plate nearer your own. Oh, man of God, what cheer?
Barry, another slice? Ah, but never you mind that--no one stops at a
second helping here! No more potatoes, either? Tz, tz! Oh, reverend
sir, what a load to fetch back to your expectant flock in the fall!
Oh, if anything should happen now--now, just as life was becoming so
kind! Oh, now--and those prickles in the heels occurring with less and
less frequency, even despite the upsetting presence of Marjory! To have
something go wrong--at his time of life.... To find the world running
all to sixes and sevens....
Oh, it must be a wild and overwhelming fancy, nothing more than that!
Barry (he rambled wildly in his mind) for mercy's sake more carrots?
And aloud: "Just a few more, Barry?" _Good!_ No, no, one hasn't heaped
them up. One only wants to be sure. And if there is no absolute
assurance in this hard world, one so beset can be forgiven for taking
refuge behind appearances--even behind appearances of one's own
manufacture, in an extremity like this! Yes, by hook or by crook one
must contrive to keep the best foot foremost!
Barry, as a matter of fact, was doing pretty well and feeling pretty
wretched. He had got through the afternoon coolly enough on a kind of
momentum generated partly by the decision that he had simply been a
fool to dream such dreams, and partly by that hopeful, wise, desperate
little word of counsel, that fine word, patience. But here, all at
once, was a pang of reaction. All the old, warm, wistful love came
rushing back. The ancient dreams of home and wife and children returned
to taunt and torture him. Only last night, on the deck of the steamer,
with the moon so soft on the sea--ah, only last night.... How he had
let himself go! How he had even pictured things: the fireplace here,
perhaps the piano there.... And how his cigar had gone out, and he
hadn't noticed. But now he was sitting beside her at her father's
table, and he did not know whether she loved him or not. And in his
pocket was a box with a ring inside it--a ring for which there might
never be any use.
Mrs. Needham noticed, too. But Louise had already explained that she
had a headache. The mother did not suspect that there was anything
necessarily portentous in the air, and her heart beat placidly enough.
Her life seemed settling and settling. The current grew more and more
tranquil. She had times of feeling so kind of still.
Later the talk centred in Arizona.
Barry glanced at Louise, and found her, as it happened, gazing sadly,
quizzically, and with some abstraction at him. He looked away at once,
trembling a little; and he carried on the theme:
"Of course Arizona strikes people in different ways. Some find the
flatness and the sand depressing."
"Is it sand all over?" asked Hilda.
"Oh, dear no!" replied Miss Whitcom, with a vehemence which served
to remind them all that she had been a pioneer in the cactus candy
business and knew what she was talking about.
Even the Rev. Needham contributed something to his younger daughter's
enlightenment. "There are lots of trees along the irrigation ditches.
Barry, what kind of trees are they? I never can seem to remember."
"Cottonwood, mostly," he answered. "The foliage is a very delicate
green."
"Oh, it must be lovely!" sighed Hilda, who romantically saw herself
walking along beside Leslie beneath an everlasting row of the most
beautiful trees anybody could possibly imagine. "How I should love to
go out there!"
"Yes," mused Miss Whitcom, "and we mustn't forget the broad fields of
alfalfa--so dark--the very greenest green in all the world."
Barry nodded slowly. "Yes, the river valleys are always quite fertile.
Then comes the great Arizona desert, with cacti and mesquite and
greenwood and sage. And beyond all that"--he had begun a little
monotonously, but came at length to speak in a rather rapt way--"beyond
all that, the dim blue of the distance, the lonely peaks of the
mountains...."
"Grand old mountains!" added Miss Whitcom.
And it was odd, and no doubt sentimental, but the mountains all at once
reminded her somehow of O'Donnell. Yes, O'Donnell was something like a
mountain. Her heart quickened a little.
"Oh, I know I should just love it!" cried Hilda. And then she asked, in
her almost breathless manner: "Are there any birds in Arizona?"
"Birds?" repeated Barry, a little abstractedly. "Birds? Oh, yes--all
through the irrigated districts. There are orchards, you know. It's
a fine sight to see them in full bloom. And the trees are alive
with birds--meadow larks and mocking birds, mostly. And there are
blackbirds, too. They sing in a wonderful chorus. And almost everywhere
you'll hear the little Mexican doves."
"Oh, I remember the doves!" cried Louise suddenly, forgetting her
wretchedness.
He looked at her wistfully and solemnly. "Some people say the doves
have the sweetest song of all. There's a very plaintive note--you
remember?"
"Yes," she whispered thickly, avoiding his eyes.
The breath of Fate seemed faintly to animate her having remembered the
little Mexican doves. "I think," he said, "they have the saddest song
of any of the birds."
5
A remark, dreadful yet tantalizing in the vistas it opened up, was
overheard by the Rev. Needham as he was coming out on to the screened
porch. It was a remark which set on foot an increasingly turbulent
desire to know, unequivocally and without expurgation, just what had
been the nature of his sister-in-law's life on the distracting island
of Tahulamaji.
Mrs. Needham had retired to the kitchen for a final fling with Eliza
about breakfast, leaving the minister alone in the living room with his
daughter. Miss Whitcom and Mr. Barry had passed out on to the porch,
and Louise had dropped down in a nice shadowy corner with a book--just
as young ladies naturally and invariably do after dinner, when the
light is beginning to fail, and their lover is waiting for them outside.
The Rev. Needham, whose suspicions had already been rather alarmingly
roused, now felt sure not all was well. Why should Louise behave like
this if all were well? And even Barry--Barry wasn't, of course, one of
those romantic fellows who would always be sighing and rolling their
eyes; but there were subtler manifestations.... They had gone walking
together in the afternoon--thank God! There was that much to cling to.
Yes, thank heaven they had done that much anyway!
But the Rev. Needham was so full of perplexity that he hardly knew what
to do next. He told himself, in desperation, that everything _must_, in
reality, be all right--rather much as his daughter had assured herself
on the train that all must work out for the best: her best. He knew,
as a matter of fact, that this was not quite honest persuasion. But it
helped. Oh, it was a very present help. To tell the truth, it sufficed
to carry him quickly out of his daughter's presence. In his heart, the
minister knew that the issue ought to be faced at once. Yes, he ought
to call Louise over on to his knee, just as in the old days, before any
of the unhappy love troubles began, and ask her to tell him what had
gone wrong. But he didn't call her over. Instead he began humming in a
perfectly unconcerned manner, and strolled outside.
It was just as he reached the door that the Rev. Needham overheard the
all but blood-curdling remark.
"You must realize," Miss Whitcom was saying to his daughter's fiancé,
"that it's much too hot there to wear any clothes!"
It being patently too late to turn back, the clergyman came on; somehow
reached a chair. He sat down quickly and began rocking. He rocked
helplessly, yet withal in a faintly ominous way--perhaps, deeper
still, with a movement of guilty curiosity: for after all he was but
human, poor man.
The sun had just dipped, and the sky and the sea were alive with the
fire of this august departure. A wraith-like distribution of cloud
still received direct beams and glowed like a bit of magic dream-stuff;
but the lower world had to rest content now with reflected glory--a
sheen of softening brightness which would grow steadily thicker and
thicker, like quandary in the clergyman's breast, till at length the
light was all gone and darkness had settled across the sea and the
sand. Ah, peaceful eventide! Good-bye, sweet day! But the heart of
the minister was all full of horrid little quick jerks and a settling
mugginess.
The conversation his appearance had served to interrupt did not
continue as it had evidently begun. Yet even at its worst it appeared
to have constituted merely a laughing digression from the major theme,
which had to do with the perfectly proper topic of dry-farming. No
one would think of calling the topic of dry-farming improper. But the
tenor of the talk which succeeded the minister's arrival in their midst
did not, for all its unimpeachable correctness, serve to diminish the
poignancy of that awful phrase: too hot to wear any clothes!
"Mr. Barry," she explained to her brother-in-law, "has been telling me
a lot of interesting things about the sorghums."
Alfred Needham cleared his throat--just as he always did, for
instance, before ascending the pulpit on Sunday--and nodded. But he was
not thinking about the sorghums--just as sometimes, it is to be feared,
in the very act of coming out of the vestry, and with the eyes of the
congregation upon him, he failed to keep his mind entirely on the
sermon he was about to deliver.
"It seems they've made enormous strides since my day," she went on.
"Mr. Barry, how many varieties did you say are now possible?"
"Well," he replied solemnly, his eyes large with helpless unhappiness,
"the sorghums now include common or sweet sorghum, milo maize, Kaffir
corn--and of course broom corn. These have become standard crops, and
we're introducing them more and more into the southern district." He
rocked a trifle self-consciously. All three rocked a moment in silence.
"There's considerably less rainfall down there," commented the Rev.
Needham.
The statement had been carefully equipped with earmarks of the
interrogative, so that, should it happen to prove incorrect, refutation
would take the form of a simple answer to an ingenuous and perfectly
natural question. The Rev. Needham found it urgent to keep his
inflections always slightly interrogative. There was even a sly,
sneaking hint of the useful question mark throughout the reverend
man's theology. Ghastly as the thing must sound spoken right out, it
is really doubtful whether the Rev. Needham would be caught altogether
napping were the entire Bible suddenly to be proved spurious! Of
course when Barry admitted that there _was_ less rainfall in the
southern part, then the minister rocked with subtly renewed purpose,
slapping the arms of his chair exactly as an acknowledged authority on
rainfall might be expected to do. But of course it was all ever so much
subtler than this makes it appear. It was infinitely more delicate than
any mere I-told-you-so attitude.
"You know," continued Barry, who felt an unpleasant thickness in his
throat, "the sorghums have to be able to withstand a great deal of
drought. They roll up their leaves and seem to sleep for months at a
time; and when the rain comes again they revive quickly and make rapid
strides."
Inside the cottage sat Louise. She was huddled miserably over a
book. She was not reading the book, though it chanced to be a very
absorbing historical novel. It is hard to conceive of a young lady's
not reading such a work with avidity and even breathlessness, under
the circumstances. But to be perfectly accurate, Louise hadn't even
opened the historical novel. It simply lay in her lap, and she was
huddled over it. Her eyes were dry. She was utterly miserable. And just
outside, in the full, fresh sweetness of diminishing dayshine, sat
the man who had come all this way to put a ring on her finger. He was
sitting out there in the romantic richness of the tinted evening, and
he was talking about the sorghums!
Oh, a wise plant is the sorghum. When there is a drought it rolls up
its leaves and waits till it is time for the refreshment of another
rain. The sorghum knows well how to plan and bide its time. The
_sorghum_ would not give itself too easily....
Out on the rustic bench which her dear father had so laboriously
constructed sat Hilda. She was listening for steps in the sand. She
would know whose steps they were when they drew close. It was growing
quite dusky underneath the trees. The stars would soon be appearing.
There had been a slight breeze all the afternoon, but it had died away;
and on the beach the tiny waves were whispering that it had passed that
way and was now still. The trees stood very quiet, but occasionally a
squirrel would whisk by overhead. The squirrels, however, were turning
in for the night now, and soon there would be no stir left save only
the night stir of the woods. Far off sounded at intervals the shouts of
young children--children younger than Hilda, and unfettered as yet by
any sweet obligation of sitting very breathless, listening for steps in
the sand.
"How lovely everything is!" thought Hilda.
When she saw Leslie she ran out to meet him--no mooning pretense at not
having heard.
"Oh, Les, why don't you light it?"
He carried a Japanese lantern and was swinging it about in a very
reckless way.
"Shall I?" he asked. "Now?"
"Oh, yes! It isn't quite dark yet, but it will be so much fun!"
"The candle's pretty short, Hilda. Do you think it will last?"
"Let me see." They bent their heads eagerly over the paper lantern.
"It isn't very long, is it Les? I guess we'd better put in a new one.
There are lots of them at the cottage."
And before he could protest she was flying off.
On the screened porch she found the entire household assembled. Mrs.
Needham had completed her session with Eliza and was now pleasantly
rocking. Ah, there was a rhythm in her rocking--especially of late
years. It was the sort of rhythm the vers librists have so entirely
broken away from. It was a rocking which rarely went slower or faster.
Perhaps it was the Homeric hexameter. Or it was stately blank verse,
with maybe the quaint rhyming couplets of Crabbe and Cowper. No one
could ever think of mistaking it for Edgar Lee Masters!
Louise had come out also. Hilda, as she flew by and on into the
cottage, saw her sister sitting beside Lynndal Barry on a rocking
settee. There was, as a matter of fact, not a single stationary piece
of furniture on the porch. To Anna Needham, rocking was pleasant and
even actually profitable. To her husband--well, to the Rev. Needham it
seemed a kind of muscular necessity. And the girls had always been used
to it. So all the chairs rocked.
Aunt Marjie sighed briefly as Hilda ran by. Boy-crazy. Well, life
wasn't made for waiting and working alone. Somehow, this sea air--these
lustrous, still nights--were stealing away her resistance. Yes,
O'Donnell was a kind of mountain. And yet, curiously enough, he was
only a travelling man, too, just as he had always been. Yes, he
travelled for Babbit & Babbit. But she would go home to him at last.
She would put her head on his shoulder, if he would let her, just like
a silly young thing. Suddenly she saw her life as a restless confusion
of ambitions and beginnings. Oh, to have spent it so! To have waited as
long as this! To have been so afraid of giving herself too easily....
Hilda came running out again. She clutched a new candle in her hand.
Her eyes were quite wonderful.
"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Needham, appearing a little
bewildered by this cyclonic going and coming.
"He's out there; we're going to start now!"
There was just sufficient coherence to bring Miss Whitcom to her feet.
Always impulsive, she stepped to the screen door and thence down on to
the path.
"Hilda!"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie?"
"You're going to light O'Donnell through to the Point?"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie."
"Well, be sure you don't lose yourselves!" No, even Marjory, with her
amazing retrospect of brass, did not quite dare to say: "Don't lose
_him_!" And yet, so far as her heart was concerned, it really amounted
to that.
The last thing Hilda heard, as she sped off, was the patient voice of
Lynndal Barry. The minister had asked him another question about the
sorghums.
"Yes," Barry was saying, "there are about as many varieties of Kaffir
corn and milo maize as of the saccharine sorghums. Only a few have
been tested in the South: red Kaffir corn, black hulled white Kaffir,
standard milo maize, and dwarf milo maize. But we intend--"
Hilda, skipping with happiness, heard no more.
6
The procession through the forest of Betsey was a very romantic
affair. First came Hilda and Leslie, the latter carrying the lighted
Japanese lantern swung over his shoulder. And behind them walked Mr.
O'Donnell, like some great monarch; and he must indeed, just then,
have felt himself at least the king of all travelling men. What would
his colleagues of the grip think if they could see him now? Had any of
them, for all their store of timetables and their samples and routes
and customers, ever marched through so royal a forest, on such a night,
lighted by young love and a gay paper lantern?
Over the hills and through the valleys of Betsey! It was a wonderful
lark. Of course it wouldn't last. Real larks never did. He would go
back to his grim bag of samples, and she would go back to her beloved
Tahulamaji. There would be thousands of miles between them once more,
and life would settle back into the uneventful dog-trot which had
become the established gait. But tonight! Tonight he was parading the
forest of Betsey like a very king, and his way was lighted by a bright
paper lantern which danced at the end of a bough.
"Now," he thought slyly, "if I were a poet...." However, being no poet,
but only a travelling man in the employ of Babbit & Babbit, our friend
simply walked along, like the plain mortal he was; and was content,
if with a sigh, things should be as they were. "Ah, this is fine!" he
would exclaim in his quiet way. And Hilda, for all her heart was so
richly moved, would merely reply: "Yes, we like it."
It had been agreed upon that O'Donnell should be led directly to the
scene of the Assembly Roast instead of being brought all the way round
to Beachcrest first. The Needhams, Miss Whitcom, and Barry were to walk
up the beach, when it was time.
It was at length about as dark as it ever gets in moonlight season. The
moon had not yet risen, but would be coming up soon. The Rev. Needham
suggested that it was time to start.
Miss Whitcom was on her feet at once. There followed quite a little
flurry about wraps. The Rev. Needham and Barry strolled on ahead down
to the beach. They walked slowly, and the ladies were to overtake them.
Both men were smoking cigars, the ministerial supply seeming happily
inexhaustible. If one's faith might be as inexhaustible!
Being a little ill at ease, they talked of obvious things: the
broadness of the beach just here, the firmness of the sand, its
pleasant crunch under the feet.
"We tried to have a board walk down from the cottage," observed the
Rev. Needham, "but every winter the sand drifted all over it and
buried it, so we had to give up the idea." He was wondering nervously
whether Barry would seize this occasion to ask for his daughter's hand.
"You really don't need a walk," replied his guest. "It's an agreeable
change from the city this way."
"Yes--yes, it's a change."
There was a short, awkward pause. Then Barry remarked. "You've got an
ideal location here."