AN EXODUS
WHATEVER interview Miss Maynard and Bruce may have had in the Lookout
of the inn, it did not appear to have changed the young man’s mood when
later he sought his stepmother.
She was in her bedroom wrapped in a negligée when she admitted him.
“Was it very beautiful?” she asked eagerly.
“Very extensive; yes, fine,” he replied.
“You must take me up there to-morrow, Irving.”
“I don’t think I shall be here to-morrow. That’s what I came to speak
to you about.”
“Not be here!” repeated Mrs. Bruce in dismay. “Why, look at this room,
Irving.” The speaker indicated the woodsy interior. “Isn’t it perfectly
enchanting? I was just asking Betsy if she didn’t feel like a dryad.”
Irving glanced at Betsy, quite slim enough for the rôle, laying out her
mistress’s night paraphernalia on a second bed in the opposite corner
of the green room. “I was just saying I should like to stay here all
summer. What do you mean by to-morrow, Irving?”
“Nothing that need disturb you at all. I hear alluring stories of
fishing at the lake. I thought I would go there and wait till you came.”
“Oh, dear!” returned Mrs. Bruce. “Is Nixie going too?”
“I haven’t asked him yet. He may. I’ve seen all I care to see here.
Thought I’d come and explain because I might get off before you’re up
in the morning.”
“Oh Irving, I don’t know that I want to stay with Mrs. Nixon!” Mrs.
Bruce’s tone indicated that she had suddenly found her doll stuffed
with sawdust.
“Stay with Betsy and Miss Maynard then. You have an embarrassment of
riches.”
“Did you have a pleasant time with Miss Maynard? What is the demure
little creature like when she gets off with a man?”
“Why, she gets on with him.”
“Tell me, Irving.”
“She is interesting,” was the unenthusiastic reply. “She finds the
situation a little heady, naturally.”
“Well, it’s absurd to see Mrs. Nixon suddenly so exercised about her.
It may be catty of me, but I was very glad you took her away.”
“Oh no, she took me away.” Irving’s tone was colorless. While in the
Lookout he had brought the conversation round to Rosalie Vincent. He
had had a vague notion that this new-fledged heiress might be the maker
of Rosalie’s pathway into more congenial surroundings; but he had met
cool indifference on the subject.
“Good-night, Madama.” He kissed her forehead. “Good-night, Betsy. If
you’re not down to speed the parting guest, I will expect to see you
some day on the shore of the lake, hailing me. Have a good time.”
“Oh, Irving!” began Mrs. Bruce, holding open the door he tried to
close; but he interrupted.
“Now get your beauty sleep, Madama. It’s all settled. Good-night”; and
the door closed.
The moon sailing over the Park sent a stream of light into Irving’s
bed-chamber. He watched it move from log to log, from wash-stand to
chiffonier, and as it reached each new object he felt a fresh access of
impatience at himself for wasting these silent hours.
He had seen Nixie before retiring, and that youth had jumped as
joyfully at the fishing scheme as any trout at the fly.
He had warmly declined to divulge his intentions to the family.
“I will leave a note addressed to mother on my table,” he announced.
“It will ask forgiveness and tell her that it will be of no use to try
to find me.”
“I have told Mrs. Bruce I’m going,” rejoined Irving.
“With what result?”
“Oh, she didn’t like it. She’s crazy about it here.”
“That’s what I say,” returned Robert triumphantly. “There’s nothing
like the note on the dresser. It has stood the test of ages.”
And now Irving was wasting his time lying awake and watching the
stealing moonlight.
“Coffee never affected me before,” he considered impatiently; then he
sat up in bed and punched the unoffending pillows into new shapes and
flung himself down on them.
He hoped _she_ was not awake too. He lay quite still for a minute,
picturing an aureole of golden hair, pillowed in a shabby room, and
stood in awe a minute before the innocence of that childlike face in
slumber.
Then he suddenly punched his pillow again, wishing it were the head
of one who would presently waken her and call her below stairs to run
patiently at the bidding of folk in a ruffianly early-morning mood.
He looked at his watch in the moonlight. The wonder is that his ireful
gaze did not stop the repeater at three A. M.
His window commanded the mound of geyserite which made the inn famous.
He leaped out of bed on a chance that the view might break the monotony.
Scarcely had he reached the window when, in the lonely loveliness
of the night, up sprang the geyser—lowly at first, then higher and
higher—like a thing of life, leaping toward the moon, scattering myriad
diamonds from its banner of cloud. No artificial light now bathed
its beauty. No crowd of humanity encircled it like clustering bees.
Alone in the silvery light it mounted and mounted under the brooding
stars that knew it so well. They sparkled, and beckoned to the beloved
captive, who, holding herself at full height, could not quite reach
their kisses, but sank back at last, reflecting their brightness in her
tears as she vanished.
“And Rosalie weeps. I know she does,” thought Irving; “and I won’t stay
to see it.”
He jumped back into bed.
“It’s a beastly shame that I can’t do anything and nobody else will.
Mr. Derwent says she’s a relative, and then goes doddering around and
lets her bring him his coffee. When he gets to the lake, I’ll have a
few words with him, Betsy or no Betsy. I’m just waiting to see if he
means to do anything of his own accord. I wonder if my blood will run
as cold as that, when I’m fifty. One thing sure, I shall never dare to
fall in love, if just a matter of ordinary humanity can stir me up like
this.”
The whack which his long-suffering pillow received as punctuation to
this muttered speech was the last for that night. The philanthropist
sank to slumber and wakened with a start and a sensation of being too
late for something important.
He looked at his watch. It was just half an hour to stage time.
He jumped up, dashed some cold water over his head, pulled on some of
his clothes, and stuffed the rest into his suit-case, which closed
reluctantly and under the influence of muttered incantations such as
may proceed from masculine youth in the anticipation of a stage-ride of
twenty miles on an empty stomach.
Irving prided himself on being his own alarm-clock. He had especially
requested not to be called, and in a nettled state of mind he finally
pulled open his door and nearly tumbled over Betsy, seated in the
corridor. Beside her on the floor reposed a tray. Odorous steam was
rising from a brown pot thereon. She picked up the tray.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” she said calmly. “Open the door.”
She carried her fragrant burden into the bedroom and set it on the
table. Irving would have followed that steam anywhere. He dropped his
suit-case and drew up a chair.
“Good fairy!” he exclaimed as she filled his cup and he bit deep into
the bread and butter. “Good genius! Betsy, have I ever been ungrateful
to you? This ends it!”
She sat composedly, her watch in her hand. “Do chew a little, Mr.
Irving.”
He laughed. “Sounds natural,” he said, busily devouring and drinking.
“Time’s up.”
He knew so well that she would give him the limit, that he rose like a
shot, and picked up the suit-case.
“But why, Betsy,” examining her as they fled, “why are you hatted and
suited in so finished a manner?”
“Because we’re goin’ with you,” replied Betsy equably.
“What? Why?”
“Because Mrs. Bruce didn’t sleep any, and neither did Mrs. Nixon; and
we’re all goin’.”
There was no further time for talk. Irving had had the forethought to
pay his bill the night before, and when he and Betsy stepped into the
last stage it had all the familiar appearance of previous days except
that no waitress was shrinking in a corner like a violet striving to
hide beneath its leaves.
“Here we are,” said Robert cheerfully. “United we stand, divided we
fall. We’re all going fishing.”
“Irving, come here.”
Mrs. Bruce made room for him beside her, and the stage started. She
was pale, and had made no effort to get the driver’s seat, where Miss
Maynard and Robert had climbed at Mrs. Nixon’s suggestion.
“Let some one sit up there who has had a wink of sleep,” Mrs. Bruce had
said sepulchrally. “If I owned that inn, Irving Bruce, I would sell it
for twenty-five cents.”
“Well well!” responded her son, so fortified by coffee and bread and
butter, eaten where he was not obliged to look upon a captive maid,
that he could smile. “I thought the inn was enchanting you into
remaining all summer.”
“H’m!” ejaculated Mrs. Bruce. “It may be very fascinating by day; but
by night it is Hades, nothing less—not a whit less.” And the speaker
shook her head as one who should say that hours of argument would not
persuade her to abate a jot of her denunciation. “Did you sleep any,
Irving?”
“Why—not much. I think it must have been the coffee. You overdid it
too, eh?”
“Coffee!” Mrs. Bruce glared palely at the suggestion. “There were two
men in the room next to us. Logs between—nothing but logs. Irving,
wouldn’t anybody with any sense or forethought have cemented between
those logs?”
“So picturesque,” murmured Irving.
“Don’t let me ever hear the word again,” gasped Mrs. Bruce. “They said
it all night. Didn’t they, Betsy?”
“You said so, ma’am.”
“That’s it. I kept asking Betsy if she was awake. Didn’t I, Betsy?”
“Yes’m.”
“And she knows how they talked. They went out every hour—every
hour, all night, Irving.” Mrs. Bruce made the repetition with an
impressiveness mere print is powerless to convey. “Went to see the
geysers and then slammed back into their room to talk about them. Oh!!”
“Too bad, Madama! You’re quite tired out. Now just rest a while. Don’t
trouble to talk.”
“And the radiator, Irving.” Mrs. Bruce had not yet relieved her mind.
“It cracked all night. The apparatus must be put in wrong. I called
Betsy’s attention to it several times. She’ll remember.”
Miss Foster looked as if the memory of the night was liable to remain
for some time as green as the room Mrs. Bruce had waked in.
“The hotel should be thoroughly done over,” declared Mrs. Bruce, “the
walls chinked with cement and the steampipes looked to, or else in
common honesty a placard should be nailed up, reading: ‘For show only!’
If ever I was grateful for anything, it is that you had planned to
go this morning, anyway. I shouldn’t have had the force to argue or
persuade you.”
Irving thought of his own nocturnal perambulations, and turned toward
the seat behind, where Mrs. Nixon was seated with her brother.
Her countenance wore a forbidding expression.
“Were you unfortunate also?” he asked.
“Really, Mr. Bruce,” she replied with deliberate distinctness, “I
should not expect it to be a matter of general interest if I had been.
Perhaps you remember what Emerson says apropos of retailing woes of
that character to one’s morning companions. I quite agree with him.”
Having thus delivered herself, the lady’s lips closed in the curves
of beauty which nature had bestowed upon them, and she again gave her
attention to the landscape.
Mrs. Bruce made a grimace as she met her son’s amused eyes.
“Now,” she thought, “I suppose she thinks she is even with me for last
evening.”
Mr. Derwent, unconscious of injuring his sister’s effect, addressed
Mrs. Nixon.
“You look done up, Marion. I am sorry you passed such a disturbed
night.”
Mrs. Bruce pressed Irving’s arm and gave him a malicious side glance.
“You should all be equipped like myself for traveling,” continued Mr.
Derwent rather grimly, “and take off your ear when you go to bed.”
“Poor gentleman,” thought Betsy. “How gladly he would lie awake to hear
his neighbors, and if he could listen to the radiators snap, it would
be music to him, I’ve no doubt.”
She glanced around at him. He had his hands crossed on the head of his
stick in his usual posture.
“I wonder if I’ll ever dare talk to him! He looked so kind at Rosalie
yesterday. If the fish bite good, perhaps Mr. Irving’ll forget her.
Here’s hopin’ they will! I meant to have a real good visit with the
child to-day. I must send her a card when we stop for lunch.”
At the Thumb, Betsy had a chance to do this.
As soon as Mrs. Bruce discovered that they might make the remainder of
their trip by water, she urged it.
“I would just as lief go separately from Mrs. Nixon,” she said to her
son, “until she has had a night’s sleep. Find out, Irving, whether
they’re going by boat.”
It proved that all the places on the boat had been engaged, and as soon
as Mrs. Bruce discovered this, her desire to proceed in that way was
augmented; and many were the alterations she suggested in a management
which contained possibilities of such poignant disappointment as hers.
Mrs. Nixon preserved a magnificent silence; but looked graciously upon
her child, whose sallies appeared to have amused Miss Maynard out of
her habitual demureness.
“They seem to get on very well together,” she remarked to her brother
at a moment when they were alone.
He nodded. “Helen dares be a girl again,” he announced. “There is a
great weight off her mind. Her cheeks seem to have grown plump over
night.”