IRVING BRUCE
MRS. BRUCE had retired from her labors, but a vigorous cleansing
process was still going on in the cottage, when a man’s footsteps again
sounded on the garden-path. Some one set a suit-case down on the porch,
and then appeared in the doorway for a moment of inspection.
Betsy started at sight of the tall, gray-clad apparition.
“Mr. Irving!” she ejaculated, and the transfiguring expression which
crossed her face gave the key at once to her loyalty. “Go ’way from
here, we ain’t a bit ready for you!” she said severely.
He strode forward and gently shook the speaker’s angular shoulders
instead of her busy hands.
“Great that I could get here so soon,” he returned, continuing to rest
his hands on her shoulders, while she looked up into the eyes set
generously apart under level brows.
“He ain’t any job lot,” she thought for the hundredth time, “he’s a
masterpiece.” But all the time she was trying to frown.
“We ain’t ready for you,” she repeated. “The cook hasn’t come.”
“Bully!” ejaculated the unwelcome one. “It’s the aim of my existence to
catch you where there isn’t any cook. Are the mackerel running?”
“You’ll have to ask Cap’n Salter or some other lazy coot about that.
Mackerel running! Humph! My own running has been all I could attend to
the last two days. Mrs. Pogram’s supposed to look after the cottage—air
it and so on; but she always was slower’n molasses and I s’pose she
don’t get any younger nor spryer as the years go on. I’ve found mildew,
yes, I have, _mildew_, in a number o’ places.”
The young man smiled, dropped his hands, and sauntered to a window
overlooking the tumbling blue.
“She has what’s-her-name there, that girl she adopted,” he responded
carelessly. “Why doesn’t she shift such duties upon her?”
“Oh, you remember Rosalie, do you?” asked Betsy dryly, as she resumed
her work.
“To be sure. That was her name. Pretty name. Pretty girl. A real
village beauty.”
“Yes,” said Betsy. “You very likely remember Mrs. Bruce took a lot of
interest in her. Had her here to speak poetry one day.”
“Oh, I remember her very well,” returned the young man. “I don’t recall
the poetry though. So that was her forte. Apt to interfere with opening
up and airing out other people’s cottages, I suppose.”
“Yes, if it’s encouraged. Hers was encouraged.”
Betsy’s lips snapped together and her tone caused her companion to
glance around at her over his shoulder.
“Mildew sort of got on your nerves, Betsy?” he asked, amused. “Don’t
worry. There’s a free-for-all chemistry here that will fix it up in no
time. Drop that duster and come and look at the ocean. It will steady
you.”
“Steady me!” Betsy gave a derisive grunt. “Tell that to the marines.
I’ve had experience of its steadiness the last month, haven’t I?”
Irving laughed at certain memories of his companion’s walnut profile,
with lips pursed in the throes of endurance.
“You aren’t a star sailor, are you?” he returned.
“I learned the meanin’ o’ one phrase o’ Scripture; learned it for life.
‘Unstable as water.’ It fits some folks just splendid and you couldn’t
say anything worse about ’em. My! will I ever forget tryin’ to wait on
Mrs. Bruce and fix my hair in that stateroom! Never got my arms up that
there didn’t come a lurch and knock my elbow against the woodwork fit
to break the skin.”
“You ought to be better upholstered, Betsy,” said Irving.
“And varnish!” she continued, with reminiscent loathing. “Shall I ever
be able to use varnish again!”
“Joy!” exclaimed Irving. “Then I’m not in any danger of being
shellacked! I never felt certain in childhood’s happy hour that keeping
me surgically clean would wholly satisfy you.”
“No, sir,” said Betsy warmly, “the ocean won’t get me to look at it
this summer. All diamonds, and blue sparkles, and white feathers, just
as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth; then when it gets you in its
clutches, bangs you around from pillar to post and nearly blows the
hair off your head. I know its tricks now. It’ll never deceive _me_
again.”
Irving smiled out at the maligned billows. “Looks pretty good to me,”
he returned. “Wonder what I shall do about a boat. Has Mrs. Bruce said
any more about the Yellowstone?”
“Yes, spoke of it this mornin’ to Cap’n Salter.”
“Oh, has she been out with Hiram already?”
“No, he was lally-gaggin’ around here for a while.”
“How is old Hiram?” The question was affectionate.
Betsy pushed an upturned rug under a table-leg.
“Oh, about as usual, I guess. Gets more like himself every year, same
as we all do.”
“Well, he couldn’t do better. He’s a good sort.” Irving smiled at some
memory. “I must have made that man’s life a burden. What a lot of
patience he had! But when the end was reached, I can feel that hand of
his come down on me, big as a ham, and toss me away as if I’d been a
cunner he was throwing back. Mrs. Salter, too. Talk about salt of the
earth! I suppose that must have been a stock Fairport pun during her
life. Many a time she begged me off. The gentle Annie! I should think
so. Let’s see. How long has she been gone?”
“Five years.”
“And the captain has never taken notice since, has he?”
“Don’t ask _me_,” was the curt response; and a table was whisked
completely around with a celerity which must have given it vertigo.
“Betsy! Betsy!” It was a cautious call which came quietly from the
invisible.
Betsy straightened herself and moved toward it, and the silent moment
was followed by the swift entrance of Mrs. Bruce.
“My _dear_ boy!” she exclaimed, aggrieved. “I thought I heard a man’s
voice. How long have you been here? Betsy, why didn’t you tell me!”
The young man’s eyes were kind as he turned and came to meet the
speaker, and his manner seemed very quiet in contrast to her alert,
fussy personality and the froufrou of her taffetas.
“Good-morning, Madama,” he said, returning her nervous embrace lightly.
“I’ve asked Betsy so many questions since I broke in here, that she
couldn’t in civility leave me.”
Betsy returned to her labors, deaf to her mistress’s remarks.
She knew that Mrs. Bruce had a chronic objection to her having a
tête-à-tête, however short, with Irving. It was as if the widow were
jealous of the twelve years’ advantage which her maid had over her;
and notwithstanding Betsy’s humble position, her mistress constantly
imagined that they referred, when together, to events which she had
not shared, and spoke on subjects which would be dropped upon her
appearance.
The newcomer slipped her hand through the young man’s arm, and moved
with him as he returned to the window.
“Why didn’t you telegraph? How did you happen to come so soon?”
“Oh, I just saw that the bank was run by a lot of egoists who supposed
that they could manage it without me, just as they have for thirty
years, so I thought I would make the most of this last summer of their
self-satisfaction, and take all that was coming to me, before I get
into the harness.”
“Very wise; and I hope when you do get into harness you’ll never make
such a slave of yourself as your dear father did.”
“You never can tell. I rather dread my own proclivities. If I should
ever work as hard as I’ve played, the business world is going to be
jarred when I leap into it.”
Mrs. Bruce hung fondly on his arm, rejoicing in the hard muscle she
felt through his light sleeve.
“Well,” she said, “I’m glad you could come. There is such a wonderful
feeling of freedom in this restful spot. Sometimes,” pensively, “I
think the greatest blessing we have in life is personal freedom. I
suffocate without it, and it is astonishing how difficult it is to get,
in the ordinary affairs of life.” Then, with sudden attention, “What
makes you wear that tie with that suit? I don’t like it at all, anyway.
That isn’t one that I gave you.”
The young man’s hand mechanically sought his throat. “No, Madama,” he
admitted, still looking absently from the window.
“I should think, Irving, as many neckties as I pick out for you, you
might wear one of them when you’re going to be with me.”
“But I can’t bear to wear your neckties,” he returned gently, “they’re
so decorative in my room. To tie them all up and bury them under a
collar and vest would be a shame. I hang them on my tie-rack, where
they can be admired morning, noon, and night. You know I keep trying to
curb your extravagance in that line. You’ll impoverish yourself so that
you can’t wear silk stockings if you go on like this. Every few days a
new tie to go on the rack.”
“Nonsense,” returned Mrs. Bruce curtly. “If I didn’t have such good
taste, of course I shouldn’t venture to buy ties for a man; but even as
a girl I was considered to have the most perfect taste. I was famous
for it, and I’m sure, Irving, I’ve tried to instill it into you.”
“You have, Madama,” he returned soothingly, “and I think I’m a credit
to you. Now come, I’m prepared to maintain that I’ve caught the
infection, and that my taste is perfect, too.” He stifled a yawn. “To
prove it, I’ll throw down the bone of contention, collar and all, and
get into a sweater. I’m going to hunt up Hiram before lunch and swap
lies for a spell.”
So speaking the young man stepped out on the porch, picked up his
suit-case, and walked through the spreading cottage until he came
to his room, where Betsy was whisking things into readiness for his
occupancy.
“There! Do you smell?” she asked, sniffing disapprovingly; “just like a
cellar?”
“No,” he returned plaintively, “I don’t think I do.”
“I didn’t say do _you_; I say, don’t _it_,” snapped Betsy, in no mood
for badinage. “If you hadn’t come so soon, I’d have had it aired out.
I’d like to shake Mrs. Pogram till her teeth chatter.”
Irving set down his suit-case.
“As I remember, Mrs. Pogram’s teeth aren’t calculated to chatter. They
don’t—what is the technical term now?”
Betsy grunted. “I do feel ashamed to have you come into such a
comfortless place, Mr. Irving.”
“I’d rather be here, Betsy, even if I have to wear a clothes-pin on
my nose while unmaking my toilet. I can sleep on the porch, you know.
You think—eh, Betsy, you think there’s no use trying to side-step the
Yellowstone?”
“We’re as good as there,” returned Betsy sententiously. “Mrs. Bruce
says that when once you get into that bank, she might as well count on
the wind that blows as you taking a vacation at any stated time; and
you know it’s got to be a stated time for the Yellowstone.”
Irving sighed.
“I hope we know our place, Betsy,” he returned.