Having determined to be an old maid, Jean worked at it as hard as she
knew how. All the conditions were favorable. She came of the oldest New
England stock, and nobody can deny that there have been old maids in New
England—old maids both wise and charming. So Jean shunned men and
cherished her dog, who was dearer to her than all the tomcats on earth,
which is the third planet from the middle.
Shunning men in the wilderness is no great effort, especially where the
youngest have departed for France. In fact there was one whom she did
not shun at all. She found him all alone on the pier, motherless,
sisterless, waiting for the boat. He had never been on a railroad in his
life, yet here he was, drafted, and going abroad to be shot at. So she
kissed him good-by and did not count that one. He wistfully hung over
the rail as the boat started, and she kissed him again, and did not
count that one either.
Though no man came to woo her, she did not lull herself into security. A
prince might come—a young lumber prince to buy her pines. A baron might
come—a fat one from Pittsburg, to steal her kisses and her island. She
would be ready for them, as inert as a nun.
One soldier had borne away her kisses, and she was not complaining that
hundreds had borne away her money. The college boys who formerly bought
her father’s text-books had all gone off to France, leaving the
royalties to drop to almost nothing. She did not mind, but patched her
father’s clothes neatly, patched her old white sweater, and patched out
her bill of fare with whatever the woods and waters yielded.
And one day late in June, 1918, when a white and gold yacht came to
anchor beside her island, and the steward came ashore for milk and
cream, she gave him of Sempronia’s best without charge. Then, guessing
from the name “Gratia” on the prow that there were ladies aboard, she
added an armful of early lilacs.
After supper the courtesy was acknowledged by two ladies in person. The
younger, who was about a year older than she, seemed to her the most
exquisite creature she had beheld—so graceful, so self-possessed, with a
skin like petals of eglantine and eyes like petals of gentian.
There sat her father wearing patches, and here sat the callers wearing
furs. The mother’s peltries, though Jean did not know it, were Russian
sables. But Jean had seen silver foxes before. A boy across the river
had caught two on Horatio’s farm and sold them for a thousand dollars,
which was twice as much money as her father was now receiving annually.
So when Jean saw that the girl’s coat contained two pelts of silver fox,
she fell quiet. She was as quiet as a mouse or despair or murder.
“It was very sweet of you,” said the older woman, “to send us the
lilacs. Ours in Wetumpka were gone a month ago.”
“Ours,” said Jean, keeping unflickering eyes on the silver fox, “are
earlier than usual.”
And now the beautiful creature within the silver fox said something.
“There seem to be lots of queer flies on the water. They light on
everything, and they have threads for tails.”
“Yes.”
“What do you call them?”
“Shad-flies.”
“I love shad. Do you suppose our crew could catch us some?”
Of all the ignorant and ridiculous things ever said about the St. Mary’s
this was the worst, but it moved no laughter in Jean. She simply kept
looking at that silver fox, as if it had been Medusa turning her to
stone.
“My dear young lady,” said Ambrose Rich, “the shad, which the Romans
were wont to call the little silver shield, is a migrating herring which
would be glad enough to visit this river if it had the strength. Eels do
come. They travel all the way from their birthplace in the Sargasso sea
and arrive here when only a few inches long, but they are too round to
jump after flies. Your crew can easily catch herring, however, and I
will go down with you now and show them how.”
“Thank you so much, Mr.—”
“My name is Rich.”
“And ours is Ferry. We have been having a lovely cruise. Did you notice
how green the sky was last evening?”
“My daughter noticed it. The Indians too would notice it. They note the
difference between green and blue much better than their forefathers
did. Few Indians were able to perceive blue, and few had a name for it.”
“How curious! Well, I brought along this little package, and hope you
will kindly accept it as—as—” She laid the package on the library table.
When the callers had departed, the gift lay untouched until the doctor
opened it and revealed a green sweater of the softest weave. He placed
it in his daughter’s hands, and she kissed him for it. Next morning
however he found it in Agricola’s kennel, and deprived the governor of
Britain of the most comfortable bed that ever a dog enjoyed.