If Alix Deering had not barked her pretty shins against the
center-board in Gerry Lansing’s sailing-boat on West Lake, it is
possible that she would in the end have married Alan Wayne instead of
Gerry Lansing.
When two years before Alan’s dismissal Nance had brought Alix, an old
school friend, to Red Hill for a fortnight, everybody had thought what
a splendid match Alix and Alan would make. But it happened that Alan
was very much taken up at the time with memory and anticipation of a
certain soubrette, and before he awoke to Alix’s wealth of charms the
incident of the shins robbed him of opportunity.
Gerry, dressed only in a bathing-suit, his boat running free before a
brisk breeze, had swerved to graze the Point, where half of Red Hill
was encamped, when he caught sight of a figure lying on the outermost
flat rock. He took it to be Nance.
“Jump!” he yelled as the boat neared the rock.
The figure started, scrambled to its feet, and sprang. It was Alix,
still half asleep, who landed on the slightly canted floor of the boat.
Her shins brought up with a thwack against the center-board, and she
fell in a heap at Gerry’s feet. Her face grew white and strained; for a
second she bit her lip, and then, “I _must_ cry,” she gasped, and cried.
Gerry was big, strong, and placid. Action came slowly to him, but when
it came it was sure. He threw one knee over the tiller, and gathered
Alix into his arms. She lay like a hurt child, sobbing against his
shoulder.
“Poor little girl,” he said, “I know how it hurts. Cry now, because in
a minute it will all be over. It will, dear. Shins are like that.” And
then before she could master her sobs and take in the unconscious humor
of his comfort, the boat struck with a crash on Hidden Rock.
The nearest Gerry had ever come to drowning was when he had fallen
asleep lying on his back in the middle of West Lake. Even with a
frightened girl clinging to him, it gave him no shock to find himself
in the water a quarter of a mile from shore. But with Alix it was
different. She gasped, and in consequence gulped down a large mouthful
of the lake. Then she broke into hysterical laughter and swallowed
more. Gerry held her up, and deliberately slapped her across the mouth.
In a flash anger sobered her. Her eyes blazed.
“You coward,” she whispered.
Gerry’s face was white and stern.
“Put one hand on my shoulder and kick with your feet,” he said. “I’ll
tow you to shore.”
“Put me on Hidden Rock,” said Alix; “I prefer to wait for a boat.”
“It will take an hour for a boat to get here,” answered Gerry. “I’m
going to tow you in. If you say another word I shall slap you again.”
In a dead silence they plowed slowly to shore, and when Gerry found
bottom, he stood up, took Alix in his arms, and strode well up the bank
before he set her down.
During the long swim she had had time to think, but not to forgive.
She stamped her sodden feet, shook out her skirts, and then looked
Gerry up and down. With his crisp, light hair; blue eyes, wide apart
and well open; and six feet of well-proportioned bulk, Gerry was good
to look at, but Alix’s angry eyes did not admit it. They measured him
scornfully; but it was not the look that hurt him so much as the way
she turned from him with a little shrug of dismissal and started along
the shore for camp.
Gerry reached out and caught hold of her arm. She swung around, her
face quite white.
“I see,” she said in a low voice, “you want it now.”
Gerry held her with his eyes.
“Yes,” he answered, “I want it now.”
“Why did you yell at me to jump into your horrible boat?”
“I took you for Nance.”
“You took me for Nance,” repeated Alix with a mimicry and in a tone
that left no doubt as to the fact that she was in a nasty temper. “And
_why_,” she went on, her eyes blazing and her slight figure trembling,
“did you strike me--slap me across the face?”
“Because I love you,” replied Gerry, steadily.
“Oh!” gasped Alix. Her slate-gray eyes went wide open in unfeigned
amazement, and suddenly the tenseness that is the essence of attack
went out of her body. Instead of a self-possessed and very angry young
woman, she became her natural self--a girl fluttering before her first
really thrilling situation.
There was something so childlike in her sudden transition that Gerry
was moved out of himself. For once he was not slow. He caught hold of
her and drew her toward him.
But Alix was not to be plucked like a ripe plum. She freed herself
gently but firmly, and stood facing him. Then she smiled, and with the
smile she gained the upper hand. Gerry suddenly became awkward and
painfully aware of his bare arms and legs. He felt exceptionally naked.
“When did it begin?” murmured Alix.
“What?” said Gerry.
“It,” said Alix. “When--how long have you loved me?”
Gerry’s face turned a deep red, but he raised his eyes steadily to
hers. “It began,” he said simply, “when I took you in my arms and you
laid your face against my shoulder and cried like--like a little kid.”
“Oh!” said Alix again, and blushed in her turn. She had lost the upper
hand and knew it. Gerry’s arms went around her, and this time she
raised her face and let him kiss her.
[Illustration: Drawn by Reginald Birch
“‘CLEM,’ HE SAID, ‘DO YOU THINK I _WANT_ TO GO AWAY?’”]
“Now,” she said as they started for the camp, “I suppose I must call
you Gerry.”
“Yes,” said Gerry, solemnly. “And I shall call you Little Miss Oh!”
So casual an engagement might easily have come to a casual end, but
Gerry Lansing was quietly tenacious. Once moved, he stayed moved. No
woman had ever stirred him before; he did not imagine that any other
woman would stir him again.
To Alix, once the shock of finding herself engaged was passed, came
full realization and a certain amount of level-headed calculation. She
knew herself to be high-strung, nervous, and impulsive, a combination
that led people to consider her lightly. On the day of the wreck Gerry
had shown himself to be a man full grown. He had mastered her; she
thought he could hold her.
Then came calculation. Alix was out of the West. All that money could
do for her in the way of education and culture had been done, but
no one knew better than she that her culture was a mere veneer in
comparison with the ingrained flower of the Lansings’ family oak. Here
was a man she could love, and with him he brought her the old homestead
on Red Hill and an older brownstone front in New York the position of
which was as unassailable socially as it was inconvenient as regards
the present center of the city’s life. Alix reflected that if there was
a fool to the bargain it was not she.
All Red Hill and a few Deerings gathered for the wedding, and many were
the remarks passed on Gerry’s handsome bulk and Alix’s scintillating
beauty; but the only saying that went down in history came from Alan
Wayne when Nance, just a little troubled over the combination of Gerry
and Alix, asked him what he thought of it.
Alan’s eyes narrowed, and his thin lips curved into a smile as he gave
his verdict:
“Andromeda, consenting, chained to the rock.”