Charlotte swung herself up into the runabout as Doctor Churchill paused
for her at the gateway of "The Banks." She had met him here at six
o'clock every day since they came, and this was the seventh day.
It was impossible for him to get through his round of work earlier, but
he was enjoying his evenings and nights in the country with a zest
almost sufficient to make up for the daytime hours he missed.
Charlotte, however, although she joined merrily in all that went on
through the day, was never so happy as when this hour arrived, and
dressed in cool white for the evening, she could slip away and walk
slowly down this winding road through the orchard and the grove to the
gateway. Here she waited in a shady nook for the first puff of the
coming motor. The moment she heard it she sprang out into the roadway,
and stood waving her handkerchief in response to a swinging cap far up
the road.
Then came the nearer salutation, the quick climb into the small car,
assisted by the grip of Andy's hand, and the eager greeting of two pairs
of eyes.
"Do you know this outing is doing you a world of good already?" said
Doctor Churchill, noting with approval the fresh colour in Charlotte's
face.
"I know it is. I didn't realise that I needed it a bit until I actually
found myself here, with nothing to do except rest and play. It's doing
everybody good. You should have heard the plans at breakfast to-day.
Although it's been so hot, nobody has been idle a minute. I've been
fishing all day with Lanse and Fred and Celia. Andy, do you know what I
think? I admit I didn't think it till Lanse put it into my head, but I
believe he's right. Fred----"
"Is going to want Celia? Of course. That was a foregone conclusion from
the start."
"Andy Churchill, you weren't so discerning as all that, when not even I
thought it was serious with either of them! Celia's had so many
admirers, and turned them all aside so coolly--and Mr. Frederic Forester
is such an accomplished person at paying attentions--how could I think
it meant anything? But Lanse insists Celia is different from what she
ever was before, and I don't know but he's right."
"To be sure he's right. Next to you, I never saw a more attractive young
person than Celia. What a charming colour you have, child! To be sure,
you have burned the tip of that small Greek nose a very little, but I
find even that adorable. Charlotte, stop pinching my arm. If you're half
as glad to have me get here as I am to arrive, you're pretty happy. I
laid stern commands on Mrs. Fields not to telephone, unless it were a
matter of absolute necessity, so I'm pretty sure of not being
disturbed."
They found supper laid on the piazza, and enjoyed it with keen
appetites. Afterward they spent an hour drifting on the river, followed
by a long and delightful evening on the lawn at the river bank. Celia
and Lanse picked the strings of violin and viola, and the others sang.
Doctor Forester, in his white clothes lay stretched on a rustic seat,
and professed himself to be having "the time of his life."
"I don't think the rest of us are far behind you," declared Lanse. "If
you people had been digging away at law in a hot old office you'd think
this was Paradise."
Evelyn, looking out over the moonlit river, drew a little sigh which she
meant nobody to hear, but Jeff divined it, and whispered, under cover of
an extravaganza from Just in regard to the night, the company, and the
occasion, "You're coming again next summer, you know. And all winter
we'll write about it--shall we?"
"Do you think you will have time to write?" she asked.
"Have time! I should say I would make time," he murmured. "Think I'm
going to stand having this sort of thing cut off short? I guess
not--unless--you're the one who hasn't time. And even then I don't think
I could be kept from boring you with letters."
"I shall certainly want to hear what you all are doing," she answered.
She was thinking about this plan when she went up-stairs to bed an hour
later. Jeff had stopped her at the foot of the stairs to say, "I'd just
like a good secure promise from you about that letter-writing. I'll
enjoy the time that's left a lot better if I know it isn't coming to a
regular jumping-off place at the end. Will you promise to write
regularly?"
She paused on the bottom step, where she was just on a level with the
straightforward dark eyes, half boy's, half man's, which met hers with
the clear look of good comradeship. There was no sentimentality in the
gaze, but undeniably strong liking and respect. She answered in Jeff's
own spirit:
"I promise. I really shouldn't know how to do without hearing about your
plans and the things that happen to you. I'm not a very good
letter-writer, but I'll try to tell you things that will interest you."
"Good! I'm no flowery expert myself, but I fancy we can write as we
talk, and that's enough for me. Good-night! Happy dreams."
"Good-night!" she responded, and went on up-stairs, turning to wave at
Jeff from the landing, as he stood in the doorway, preparing to go out
to the tents where he and Just, Doctor Forester, Frederic and Lanse were
spending these dry June nights.
Evelyn went on to the odd old bedroom under the gable, where she and
Lucy were quartered together. She found Lucy lying so still that she
thought her asleep, and so made ready for bed with speed and quiet,
remembering that Lucy had been first to come in, and imagining her tired
with the day's sports.
Evelyn herself did not go at once to sleep. There were too many pleasant
things to think of for that; and although her eyes began to close at
last, she was yet, at the end of half an hour, awake, when Lucy stirred
softly beside her and sat up in bed. After a moment the younger girl
slipped out to the floor, using such care that Evelyn thought her making
unusual and kindly effort not to disturb her bedfellow.
After a little, as Lucy did not return, Evelyn opened her eyes and
looked out into the moonlight. Lucy was dressing, so rapidly and
noiselessly that Evelyn watched her, amazed.
She was on the point of asking if the girl were ill when she observed
that Lucy was putting on the delicate dress and gay ribbons she had worn
during the evening, and was even arranging her hair. Something prompted
Evelyn to lie still, for in all the winter's association she had never
grown quite to trust Lucy or to like her ways.
More than any one else, however, she herself had won the other girl's
liking, and had come to feel a certain responsibility for her. So when
Lucy, after making wholly ready, had stolen to the door, let herself
out, and closed it silently behind her, Evelyn sprang out of bed.
Perhaps Lucy simply could not sleep, she said to herself, and had gone
down to sit on the lower porch, or lie in one of the hammocks swinging
under the trees. The night was exceedingly warm, even the usual cooling
breath from the river being absent.
"That's all there is of it," said Evelyn, reassuringly, to herself,
although at the same time she felt uneasiness enough to send her out
into the hall to a gable window over the porch, which commanded a view
of the camp. Nothing stirring was to be seen, except the dwindling flame
of the evening camp-fire, burned every night for cheer, not for warmth.
Evelyn crept to a side window. As she reached it a white figure could be
seen hurrying away through the orchard.
Back in her room, Evelyn dressed with as much haste as Lucy had done, if
with less care. Instead of the white frock of the evening, however, she
put on a dark blue linen, for she was sure that she must follow Lucy and
discover what this strange departure, stealthily made at midnight, could
mean.
She went down to the front door. The moment she opened it a tall figure
started up from one of the long lounging chairs there, and Jeff's voice
said softly, "Charlotte?"
"No, it's Evelyn," she whispered back. "Don't be surprised. I thought
everybody in the camp was asleep."
"I wasn't sleepy, and thought I'd lounge here till I was. What's the
matter? Anybody sick?"
"No. I'm just going for a little walk."
"Walk? At this hour? Can't you sleep? But you mustn't go and walk alone,
you know. I'll go with you."
She did not want to tell him, but she saw no other way.
"It's Lucy," she explained hurriedly. "She's dressed and gone out
somewhere, and I can't think why. It frightened me, and I'm going to
follow her."
"No, you stay here and I'll follow. Which way did she go? What can she
be up to? That girl's a queer one, and I've thought so from the first."
"No, no! There's some explanation. It may be she walks in her sleep, you
know--though I'm sure she's never done it this winter. Let me go, Jeff;
she'll get too far. She took the path toward the river. Oh, if it
_should_ be sleep-walking----"
"I guess it's not sleep-walking." Jeff's tone was skeptical.
But Evelyn had started away at a run, and Jeff was after her. The two
hastened along with light, noiseless steps. At the bottom of the path,
on the very brink of the river, was an old summer-house, looking out
over the water. It was a favourite retreat, for the boat-house and the
landing were but a rod away, and after a row on the river the shaded
summer-house was a pleasant place in which to linger.
"Hush!" breathed Evelyn, stopping short as they neared the summer-house.
They advanced with caution, and presently, as they drew within speaking
distance of the little structure, they saw a white-clad figure emerge
from it and stand just outside. Jeff drew Evelyn quickly and silently
into the shelter of a cluster of hemlocks.
After a space the dip of oars lightly broke the stillness of the night,
and soon a row-boat pulled quietly into view, with one dark figure
outlined against the gleam of the moonlit water. Evelyn caught a
smothered sound from Jeff, whether of recognition or of displeasure she
could not tell. She felt her own pulses throbbing with excitement and
anxiety.
The stranger pulled in to the landing, noiselessly shipped his oars,
jumped out and made fast. Lucy came cautiously down to the wharf, and
against the radiance of the moonlight on the river the two behind the
trees could see the greeting.
The slight, boyish figure which met Lucy had a familiar look to Jeff,
but he could not tell with any certainty whose it might be. That it was
youthful there could be no question. Even in the dim light the
diffidence of both boy and girl could be plainly observed.
"Young idiots!" exploded Jeff, between his teeth, as the two they were
watching sat down side by side on the steps of the boat-landing, where
only their heads were visible to the watchers--heads decidedly close
together. Then he bent close to Evelyn's ear and whispered, "Come
farther back with me, and we'll decide what to do."
With the utmost caution the two made their retreat. At a safe distance
Jeff halted, and said rapidly, "I think the best thing will be for you
to go back to bed and to sleep--if you can. At any rate, don't let her
know that you hear her come in. I'll come back here and mount guard. I
won't let them see me. I'll take care that Lucy gets safely back to the
house, and I won't interfere unless she attempts to go off in the boat
with him or do some fool thing like that. You needn't worry. They aren't
going to run away and get married. She's just full of sentimental
nonsense, and thinks it romantic and grown-up to steal out in the night
to meet some idiot of a boy--you can see that's all he is by his build.
Probably somebody we know, don't you think that's the best plan?"
"Yes, for to-night," agreed Evelyn, in a troubled whisper. "I feel as if
I ought to talk to her when she comes in, though."
"If you do you'll just make her angry. The thing is to let her go
uncaught until we can think what to do. Little simpleton!"
"I'll do as you say, but--don't be hard on her, Jeff. She's just silly;
she hasn't been brought up like your sisters."
"Or like you," thought Jeff, as he watched the figure before him flit
away toward the house. He followed at a distance, till he saw the door
close on Evelyn; then he went back to his post.
The next morning, as he and Evelyn walked down the road through the
apple-orchard toward the gateway, to open the rural-delivery mail-box,
which stood just outside the gate, Jeff told Evelyn what he had found
out.
"Nothing more serious than a simple case of spoon," he said, with an
expression at which Evelyn might have laughed if she had not felt so
disturbed. "The boy turned out to be our next neighbour here. They've
made another appointment for to-night. He thinks it a great
lark--probably will brag about it to all the boys. He's got to eat his
little dish of humble pie, too. Evelyn, I've a plan. Will you trust me
to carry it out to-night?"
She looked at him. In her face was written a concern for Lucy so tender
that Jeff adored her for it. At the same time he hastened to assure her
that it was needless.
"If you merely talk with her I don't think that will do it," he said,
decidedly. "She's been with you all winter, has seen just how a girl
should behave,"--he did not know what a thrill of happiness this bluntly
sincere compliment gave his hearer--"and she hasn't taken it in a bit.
She needs something to bring her to her senses. I'd rather not tell you
my plan, for if you can assure her afterward that you weren't in it, you
can do her more good than if she's as provoked at you as she's sure to
be at me. But I give you my word of honour I'll not do a thing to
frighten her, or play any fool practical jokes. I'll have to let Just
into the secret, I think, but nobody else. Will you trust me?"
"Of course, I will," said the girl, quickly. "On just one condition,
Jeff. Think of her as if she were your own sister, and don't--don't----"
"Be 'as funny as I can'? No, I won't."
Evelyn observed Lucy all that day with understanding, and found herself
longing to warn the girl that her foolishness was about to meet with its
punishment. She noted with sorrow the strangely excited look in the
young eyes, the light, half-hysterical laugh, the changing colour in the
pretty face. Lucy's promise of beauty had never seemed to her so
characterless, or her words so empty of sense.
She found her in a corner of their room, reading a worn novel by a
certain author whose very name she had been taught to regard as a
synonym for vapidity and sentimentalism of the most highly flavoured
sort, and she could not keep back a quick exclamation at sight of it.
Lucy looked up with a frown and a flush.
"I suppose you think it's terrible to read novels," she said, pettishly
flirting the leaves. "Well, I don't."
"Dear, it's not 'novels' that I've been taught to despise, but the sort
of novel that writer writes. I don't know anything about them myself,
but I saw my brother Thorne once put that one you're reading in the
stove and jam on the cover, as if he were afraid it would get out. Do
you wonder I don't like to see Lucy Peyton reading it?" asked Evelyn
gently, with her cheek against the other girl's.
"He must be a terrible Miss Nancy, then," said Lucy, defiantly. "There's
not a thing in it that couldn't be in a Sunday-school book. The heroine
is the sweetest thing."
"If she is she won't mind your putting her down and coming out for a
walk with me," answered Evelyn, with a smile which might have captivated
Lucy if she had seen it. But the younger girl got up and flung away out
of the room, murmuring that she did not feel like walking, and would
take herself and her book where they would not bother people.
Evelyn looked after her with a little sigh, and owned that Jeff might be
right in thinking that mere gentle argument with Lucy would have scant
effect on a head full of nonsense or a heart whose love for the sweet
and true had had far too little development.
Half an hour before the time set for the rendezvous at the summer-house
that night Jeff and Just walked down the path, shoulder to shoulder,
talking under their breath. Just, being younger, was even more deeply
interested than his brother in the prospective encounter, and received
his final instructions with ill-concealed glee.
"All right!" he gurgled. "I'm to give him a good scare, in the shape of
a lecture--with a thrashing promised if he cuts up any more. He's to
give his word, on pain of a lot of things, not to give any of this
little performance of his away to a soul. Then he's to be forbidden the
premises while Miss Peyton is on them. I understand."
"Well, now, look here," warned Jeff. "I give you leave, but, mind you, I
trust your discretion, too. You never can tell what these Willie-boys
will do. Dignity's your cue. Be stern as an avenging fate, but don't get
to cuffing him round and batting him with language just because you're
bigger. You----"
"Look here," expostulated Just, aggrieved, "you picked me out for this
job; now leave it to me. I'll have the boy saying 'sir' to me before I
get through."
Just ran down to the boat-house, got out a slim craft, launched it, and
was about rowing away when he bethought himself of something. He pulled
in to the landing, made fast his painter, and ran like a deer up to the
house. He was back in five minutes.
"Don't believe I'll go by boat, after all," he whispered to Jeff,
standing in the summer-house door. "It might be simpler not to have a
boat to bother with. I'll just leave the _Butterfly_ tied there, and put
her up when I get back."
He was off before Jeff could reply. Jeff started toward the boat to put
it up, but stopped, considering.
Lucy would think it that of her admirer, and would be all the more sure
to keep her appointment. He left it as it was, swinging lightly on the
water, six feet out. It was a habit of Just's to moor a boat at the
length of her painter, to prevent her bumping against the rough old
landing.
Lucy, coming swiftly down the path fifteen minutes later, saw the boat
and hastened her steps. She did not observe that this was a slimmer,
longer craft than the boat George Jarvis was using. She reached the
landing and looked about. Of course he was in the summer-house. She went
to it, her skirts, which she had of late been surreptitiously
lengthening, held daintily in her hand.
As she came close, a figure appeared in the doorway. Before she could be
frightened by the realisation that it was not Jarvis's slender young
frame which confronted her, Jeff accosted her in the mildest tones
imaginable:
"It's only Jefferson Birch. Don't be scared. Fine night, isn't it?"
"Y-yes," stammered Lucy, in dismay. She stood still, her skirts gathered
close, as if she were about to run.
"Don't go. Out for a stroll? So am I," said Jeff, pleasantly, as if
midnight promenades were the accustomed thing at "The Banks." "Won't you
sit down?"
There were seats outside the summer-house as well as within, and he
motioned toward one of them.
"No, thank you. I think I'll go back," said Lucy, and her voice
trembled.
"Why, you've only just come! Why not stay a while and have a visit with
me? You must have been intending to stay."
"Oh, no!" said Lucy, eagerly, and stopped short, listening. What if
George Jarvis should come round the corner at any moment? She must get
Jeff away with her. "Won't you walk along up to the house with me? I
only came down to see if I'd left something in the summer-house."
Jeff had planned what he would say to her, but at this his disgust got
the better of him. "Lucy," said he--and his voice had changed from
lightness to gravity--"don't you mind a bit _saying what isn't true_?"
* * * * *