ONE SUMMER DAY.
The week that decided Quimby's fate so unexpectedly and brought him so
much woe, to Cyn brought good tidings. Her success at the concert had
been so decided that she was the recipient of many offers for the coming
season, and was enabled to accept those that promised most
advantageously. No one was more honestly glad than was Nattie in her
congratulations; Nattie, who had fought and overcome that selfish pain
and bitter wonder of hers, why Cyn should have everything and she
nothing.
Since the approach of summer, a much-talked of project among them had
been a little picnic party in the woods, and as Clem now proposed to get
it up in honor of Cyn's success, the plan was immediately carried out.
Mrs. Simonson, with a feeble protest, because Miss Kling was not
invited, accompanied them. The "them," of course, consisted of Cyn,
Nattie, Clem, Jo, and the newly betrothed ones.
Nature was kind to these seekers of her solitudes, and gave them a
perfect day; one of those that occur in our uncertain climate less often
than might be wished, but that penetrate everywhere with their sunshine,
when they do come, even into hearts where sunshine seldom glances. So,
for the nonce, our friends forgot all their little troubles; even Quimby
brightening up, and ceasing to think of his engagement, as they stood
underneath the green trees, by the banks of a small river; sunshine
everywhere, and the music of birds in the air.
"Is it not glorious?" cried Cyn, like a child, in her exuberance.
"Why not camp out here, and stay all summer?" ecstatically suggested
Clem, as he fondled his fishing tackle.
"But it might not always be pleasant like this," said practical Mrs.
Simonson.
"When the sun shines we forget it may ever storm," said Jo, and looking
admiringly at Cyn as he spoke.
"Is our artist a philosopher, as well as all the rest we know he is?"
asked Cyn, laughing.
"A very little one; five feet six!" replied Jo.
"Well, we will have no shadows to-day," said Cyn.
"No shadows to-day!" echoed Jo; then turning to Mrs. Simonson, asked, "I
hope you do not still regret Miss Kling!"
"I suppose she would spoil it all!" that good lady committed herself
enough to say.
"Well, really, I must say," remarked Celeste, who now gave herself many
airs, and evidently looked upon Cyn and Nattie as commonplace creatures,
_not_ engaged!--"I must say, now that you are speaking of her, that she
does _Kling_ in a way that is not pleasant sometimes. She actually annoys
pa!"
"I thought she entertained a high regard for The Tor--for your father,"
said mischievous Cyn.
"That is exactly it!" replied Celeste. "_Too_ high a regard! Truly, she
behaves very ridiculously! Why, she positively waylays pa! so indelicate
in a woman, you know!" with sublime unconsciousness of ever having
indulged in the pastime of waylaying herself! "Such an old creature,
too! she is always coming and wanting to mend his old clothes and
stockings! Poor pa actually has to lock himself in his room sometimes!"
The vision of "poor pa" thus pursued was too much for the gravity of
the company, and there was a general laugh.
"It is true," asserted Celeste. "Now, isn't it, Ralfy?" appealing to her
betrothed with appropriate bashfulness.
Everybody stared at this. No one before ever really knew that Quimby
possessed a front door to his name, and he, as surprised as any one at
the cognomen Love had discovered, fell back on a rolling log, and
clutched his legs to that extent that they must have been black and blue
for a week afterwards.
Clem saved the discomfited "Ralfy" the necessity of replying, by
interposing with,
"Come! come! let us not talk on such incongruous subjects this lovely
day! let us rather talk sentiment!" and he gave a prodigious wink in
Jo's direction.
"I fear we are not a very sentimental party!" laughed Cyn; adding
mischievously, "except, of course, Quimby and Celeste!"
"Oh! I--I am not, I assure you! I am not in the least, you know!"
protested Quimby, taking a roll on the log; "never felt less so in my
life."
"Why, Ralfy!" exclaimed Celeste, reproachfully, and to his distress went
up close to him, and would have sat down by his side, but for the
uncontrollable rolling propensity of that log, which made it impossible.
"How is it with you, Jo?" queried Cyn; "can you not for once, forget
your horrible hobby, and be a little sentimental, in honor of the day?"
Jo, who was throwing sticks into the water, to the great disturbance of
the bugs, and plainly-shown annoyance of a big frog, made a somewhat
surprising reply. Decidedly seriously, he said,
"I fear if I should attempt it, I might get too much in earnest!"
"Oh! we will risk that, so please begin!" said Cyn, but staring at him a
little as she spoke. "Jo, sentimental! Just imagine it!"
"Will you risk it?" he asked still seriously, and with so peculiar an
expression that she could reply only by another astonished stare.
"But really, it does not pay to be sentimental, as you all ought to have
found out long ago! as Jo and I have!" Nattie said, jestingly, yet with
an undertone of earnestness.
"Then," said Clem, dryly, "since it is so with us, let us fish!" and he
threw his line into the stream.
Cyn, Jo, and Mrs. Simonson followed his example. Quimby declined joining
in the sport, and perhaps, likening himself to the fish, balanced
himself on the log, and looked on with a pathetic face. Celeste, as in
duty bound, remained by his side. Nattie, too, was an observer only, and
from the expression off her face was decidedly not amused.
"I think it is cruel!" she exclaimed, as Jo took a fish off Cyn's hook.
"I--I quite agree with you!" Quimby replied quickly, in answer to
Nattie's observation. "It is cruel!"
"But perhaps the fish were made for people to catch," suggested the
pacific Mrs. Simonson, who had not yet been able to get a bite.
"Yes," acquiesced Clem, pulling up a skinny little fish. "They are no
worse off than we poor mortals after all. We must each fulfill our
destiny, whether man or fish."
"Yes! it is all fate!" exclaimed Quimby vehemently. "We cannot help
ourselves!"
"You believe in fate then? I don't think I do!" said Cyn, with a glance
half-humorous, half-pitying, at its victim on the log; "what incentive
would we have to any effort, if we were sure everything was marked out
for us in advance?"
"That is a question requiring too much effort for us to discuss on a
warm day," said Nattie.
"Certain circumstances must bring about certain results, you will
acknowledge," Clem gravely remarked.
"But, it is said that every soul that is born has a twin somewhere; and
if so, that must be fate!" said Mrs. Simonson.
"Miss Kling's theory, I believe!" laughed Nattie.
"If it is so, the right ones don't often come together," said Quimby
gloomily.
"_We_ are an exception, then, to the general rule!" simpered Celeste.
Quimby groaned, and then murmured something about the toothache.
"Poor fellow!" said Cyn, in a low voice, to Nattie.
"After all, there _is_ something in fate," Nattie sighed.
"Perhaps so," she said.
"Well, we will not get solemn over fate," said Jo, cheerily; then, in a
lower voice, as he glanced at Cyn, he added--"yet."
"And do not frighten away what few fish there are here, with your
theories," commanded Clem.
Although this mandate was obeyed, and for a time silence reigned, it was
not long before they were all singing a gay song, started by Clem
himself, even Quimby joining in the chorus with a feeble tenor. But they
were tired of fishing by that time, and began to feel as if a little
refreshment would not be out of place, and would indeed enhance the
loveliness of Nature, so a fire was made, and lunch-baskets unpacked.
"It will take a good many of those fish for a mouthful," declared Clem,
who was cook.
"You may have my share, I can't eat creatures I have seen squirm," said
Nattie.
"Ah, you fastidious young woman! what shall I ever do with you, if you
are cast away on a desert island with me?" exclaimed Clem, in mock
despair.
"Set up a telegraph wire, and then she would need nothing more,"
insinuated Cyn.
"And get snubbed for my pains!" muttered Clem, _sotto voce_. But Nattie
caught the words, and an expression of distress passed over her face.
"This reminds me of that feast!" Cyn declared, as they sealed themselves
wherever convenient, with a dish of whatever was handy.
"Only more so," added Clem.
"What feast?" asked Celeste, curiously.
"One we had once," Cyn replied evasively, glad there was something
Celeste did not know about. In fact, in the matter of curiosity, Celeste
was an embryo Miss Kling.
"I am sorry we have no _Charlotte Russes_ to-day, Quimby," remarked Clem,
with an expression of transparent innocence.
Quimby could only reply with a groan. The recollections awakened were
too much.
"What is the matter now, Ralfy?" asked the loving Celeste.
Again Quimby muttered something about "that tooth."
"Oh!" said Celeste, tenderly, "you really must have it out, Ralfy!"
The possibility of being obliged to part with a sound tooth in
self-defense, restored him for the time being. But he was not the only
one to whom the retrospect brought a momentary pain. Nattie sighed as
she looked back to the day that had brought Clem, but not restored as
she then supposed, but taken away, her "C."
"The salubrious air and the invigorating odor of the forest adds
immeasurably to the natural capacity of the appetite!" commented Jo,
gravely, as he passed his plate for the seventh fish.
"Ah!" sighed Celeste, who prided herself on her delicacy, "I never
could eat more than would satisfy a mouse, and since my engagement,"
simpering, "I cannot swallow enough to scarce keep me alive!"
Quimby looked up eagerly.
"I--I beg pardon, but if the--if the engagement weighs upon you, I--I am
willing to release you, you know!" he exclaimed, hopefully.
"You jealous creature!" replied Celeste, archly. "You know, Ralfy, that
no consideration could make me release you!"
Quimby knew it only too well, and sighed as he picked a chicken bone.
"A great objection to dining in the woods is that one is apt to find his
food unexpectedly seasoned!" said Clem, as he captured a six-legged bug
of an adventurous spirit, that had sought to investigate the contents of
his plate.
"Isn't it strange that bugs don't seem half so bad in our food here as
they would at home!" said Mrs. Simonson.
"Oh! we can get used to anything, if we only think so!" said Cyn,
bringing her cheery philosophy to the front.
"Yes!" assented Quimby, mournfully, "I--I am used to it, you know!"
Cyn laughed, and then proposed the health of the betrothed pair, which
was drank in lager beer, and to which Quimby, bolstered up by Celeste,
attempted to respond, but collapsed in the middle of the third sentence,
and with the words,
"Thank you! and I--I am used to it, you know!" sat down, wiped his
forehead on his napkin, and looked intensely miserable.
After that they toasted Cyn, and then "Dots and Dashes," and last, Jo
with mock solemnity proposed "Fate."
And just then Quimby met with a fresh mishap, and came near ending his
sufferings in a watery grave, only the water did not happen to be quite
deep enough. Arising from the sharp-pointed rock that had served him for
a pivot on which to eat his dinner, he stumbled, fell and rolled over
and over down the bank, and into the river, with a tremendous splash.
Every one jumped up in consternation.
"Oh, Clem! Jo!" shrieked Celeste, wringing her hands, and rushing down
to the water's edge. "Save him! Save my darling Ralfy!"
"Ralfy," however, was equal to saving his own life this time. The water
was only up to his waist, and he had already picked himself up and was
wading ashore.
"I--I am all right!" he said looking up at his anxious friends with a
reassuring smile. "I--I am used to it, you know!"
As Clem assisted him up the bank, the thought came into Cyn's head, why
would it not be a good idea to push Nat--accidentally--into the river,
so Clem might rescue her, and thus bring about that much to be desired
crisis? But remembering that water would run the colors of her dress,
and farther, how dreadfully unbecoming it was to be wet--a fact fully
demonstrated by the present appearance of Quimby--Cyn rejected the idea
as not exactly feasible.
They left Quimby drying on a sunny bank, with Celeste as guardian angel,
love, and the remains of the repast to cheer her, and the consciousness
that his clothes were shrinking on him as they dried, to divert _him_, and
wandered off through the woods, and over the hills, gathering on the way
so many flowers and green things, that Cyn declared they looked like
Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane.
At first they were all together, then straggled apart; Mrs. Simonson
being the first dereliction, as she was not quite equal to climbing as
fast as the young people. Thus it came about that Nattie found herself
alone with Clem, and suddenly stopping, with some embarrassment, but
steadily, said,
"There is something I wish to say to you. You have spoken several times
of late about my 'snubbing' you. I want to say, I have not intentionally
done so; that I have the same--the same friendship for you as always,
and that I wish you every happiness. What may have appeared to you as
strange or cold in my conduct of late, is due to secrets of my own."
Clem look at her scrutinizingly, as she spoke, and the flowers he had
gathered fell unheeded from his hands.
"It has never been _my_ wish that any coldness should come between us; you
know that, Nattie," he replied earnestly. "From our first acquaintance,
the old acquaintance over the wire, you have held the same place in my
heart!"
"The place next to Cyn!" was Nattie's involuntary bitter thought, but
she instantly stifled the feeling, and answered,
"Thank you, Clem; and I hope we may always be the same friends."
At this Clem took an impetuous step towards her, and would have
said--who can tell what?--had not at the same moment Mrs. Simonson, very
much out of breath, come up with them. Nattie was not sorry. She had
wished to say to him what she had, that he might not think her changed
manner of late had been caused by any feeling of dislike, and might
understand she wished him success with Cyn. But she had no desire to
prolong the interview, and gladly walked on by the side of the puffing
Mrs. Simonson.
Clem, however, looked displeased, and followed with a thoughtful face;
so thoughtful that Mrs. Simonson noticed and wondered at his
preoccupation.
Meanwhile, Cyn, with Jo, were far in advance, and had turned into a
by-path that led toward a slight rising, sauntering on, Cyn talking
merrily, Jo unusually quiet, until suddenly stopping, she exclaimed,
"Dear me! we have lost sight of every one! Had we not better return?"
"No! I do not want to!" answered Jo, bluntly.
"Do you not? As you say, only we must not lose them. Possibly they may
stroll this way; shall we sit down?" and without waiting for a response
Cyn seated herself on a big rock by the side of the pathway.
Although Jo was not romantic, he had an artist-eye, and could not but
note the beauty of the scene before him, a scene he did not need to
reproduce on canvas to remember ever after;--the mountains in the
background, the narrow path sloping down from the near hill to where, on
the gray and moss-covered rock, Cyn sat, her dark eyes mellow with the
summer sunshine, and the cherry ribbons of her hat giving the requisite
touch of color to make the picture perfect.
For a moment he stood in silent admiration, then, taking off his hat,
and smoothing down his shaven locks, he said,
"To tell the truth, Cyn, I do hope they will not stroll this way. They
are around altogether too much. I never can have a quiet talk with you!"
"I declare, I believe in addition to your being unsentimental, and all
that, you are becoming a confirmed grumbler!" exclaimed Cyn, as she
caught one of the boughs of the tree overhead and turned a
merrily-protesting face towards him.
Jo looked at her, and a queer expression came over his face.
"Am I?" he said, slowly. "Well--would you like to see me sentimental?
Would you like to see me make a fool of myself?"
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure!" cried Cyn.
"Then," exclaimed Jo, planting himself directly in front of her, "here
goes! now I am going to astonish you very much, Cyn!"
"Very well! I am all impatience! Go on!"
"But it is no joke!" he replied, in protest to her laughing face. "If I
am to make a fool of myself I am going to do it in dead earnest!"
"That is the way, of course," responded Cyn, but beginning to look a
little surprised.
For Jo seemed very much excited, and his manner indicated anything but a
jest. Extraordinary creature, that Jo! His next proceeding was even more
strange; that was to ask the apparently irrelevant question,
"Do you remember what we were all saying a short time ago, about Fate?"
"Certainly; but are you going to favor me with a dissertation on Fate,
instead of making a fool of yourself?"
"No!" was the solemn reply, "have a little patience, Cyn. The fact is,
you are my Fate--there is no mistake about it!--and must be either cruel
or kind, and there's no alternative!"
Cyn's surprise increased visibly.
"I am sure, I do not understand you at all! how queer you are to-day,
Jo!"
"Of course I am queer! when a man throws his theories and hobbies to the
winds, and confesses himself conquered, he is apt to be queer, is he
not? Can you not understand, that I, Jo Norton, who have always scoffed
at sentiment, and proudly declared myself incapable of being the victim
of love, am ready--yes, and longing!--to make as big a fool of myself as
the veriest spooniest youth in existence, and all for love of you, Cyn?"
To this exceedingly novel declaration of love, Cyn responded by
releasing the bough she held, and staring at him with distended eyes and
a perfectly blank face; for once in her life, speechless.
"I told you I was going to astonish you," said Jo, quaintly, in answer
to her prolonged stare, "and I do not wonder that you cannot believe I
really love you! I did not myself, for a long time, and I would not
after I knew it! But it is a fact. No joke--no mistake, but a sober,
serious fact! I love you, love you, love you!"
Jo's voice grew very fervent, as he uttered these last words, and was in
such striking contrast to his ordinary manner, that Cyn could but see
that this was indeed, "no joke."
"You--you love--and _love me!_" she gasped.
"Yes, I could not help it! I have only known it within a few days, but I
think I have loved you ever since we first met, only those confounded
theories of mine blinded me."
"Well--but what are you going to do about it?" questioned Cyn, unable
yet to recover from her bewilderment.
Jo looked at her, wistfully.
"I know I am homely, Cyn, and I am poor; I have nothing to offer you but
an honest, loving and true heart. I suppose a man who is in love is
naturally unreasonable--I never was in love before, you know--but an
extravagant hope will whisper to me, that even this little might not be
unappreciated by you."
And as he spoke, Jo's face was so transfigured that it could no longer
be called plain. Cyn gazed at him in wonder, and recovering partly from
her first surprise, an unusual seriousness came over her own handsome
face, as she answered earnestly,
"It is not unappreciated! oh, no, Jo! Nothing to offer me but an honest,
loving and true heart, you say? why, that is everything!"
"Then will you accept it? May I try and win your love?" he asked
eagerly, advancing close to her. "I will work very hard to make myself
worthy of it, and to win a name you need not be ashamed to bear. I lay
myself, my life at your feet, Cyn."
"And this is unsentimental Jo!" Cyn exclaimed involuntarily.
"This is unsentimental Jo," he answered, in all humility. "Do with him
what you will; he is all yours."
Into Cyn's expressive eyes came some deeply-stirred emotion.
"I am so sorry;" she said, sadly, "so very, very sorry! what shall I
say? what shall I do? I like you so much as a friend! But what you ask,
Jo, could never be!"
The sun sank behind the distant hills, and a shadow, such as had fallen
over the woods behind them, settled on Jo's face.
"The idea is new to you. At least, think it over. Do not leave me
without a little hope," he entreated.
"Jo, I wish--yes! I _do_ wish that I could love you as you deserve to be
loved," said Cyn, earnestly. "But it cannot be! it never could be! Do
not deceive yourself with false hopes. Friends always, Jo, but lovers
never!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Jo, bitterly, unable to restrain his jealousy, "it is
Clem who stands between us!"
"_Clem_ who stands between us!" echoed Cyn, astounded for the second time
that day.
"There--now I have lowered myself in your estimation; I am but a
blundering fool, Cyn. You see I am selfish in my love; and I have not
yet become sentimental enough to be willing to see another fellow win
what is all the world to me!"
Cyn's face grew red as was the sky when the sun had gone down.
"Do you mean to insinuate that I am in love with Clem?" she asked,
angrily.
"I would not insinuate it for all the world, if you are not," was Jo's
eager reply; "I am not experienced in love matters, but I am quite sure
he loves you--and he is very handsome," he added ruefully.
"What a dreadful combination of circumstances!" cried Cyn, distractedly.
"But, pshaw! It's impossible!"
"Impossible? No, indeed! Why, it was by being so jealous of him that I
first awoke to the fact that I was in love with you myself. Besides,
every one has noticed his fondness for you."
"They have?" vehemently, and smiting the rock where she sat with her
hand, as she spoke. "But this is truly awful!"
"Then you do not care for him?" questioned Jo, joyfully.
"Care for him?" repeated Cyn, irritably. "Of course I care for him! Is
it not my pet scheme that he should marry Nattie? Certainly it is, and
has been from the first! And now, if he has gone and fallen in love with
_me_, a nice predicament we will all be in. But you must be mistaken! I
cannot believe him capable of such a thing! The only reason I have to
fear it is that I would not have credited it of _you_ yesterday!"
"But you see I do love you. You believe I do, do you not, Cyn?" asked
Jo, too eager to press his own suit to give much thought to Nattie and
Clem. "Why will you not try and love me, as you do not love Clem? Am I
so homely as to be repulsive to you?"
"Homely? Nonsense!" replied Cyn, momentarily putting aside her newest
anxiety for the previous one, "now I come to think of it, I had rather
marry you than any man I know!"
"Would you? Would you really?" seizing her hand hopefully. "Then why
will you not?"
Cyn allowed her hand to remain in his as she said slowly and
impressively,
"I cannot marry. That is entirely out of the question for me. Of my
life, love can form no part!"
"But I thought you believed in love?" said Jo, looking perplexed, but
clinging to her hand as a sort of anchor.
"I do. I believe it is the best happiness of life. But it cannot be for
me. Why, I will tell you. I owe this much in return for what you have
given me; what I prize even though I am compelled to refuse it. What
stands between us is the memory of a love--gone forever."
"What!" exclaimed Jo, astounded in his turn. "You do not mean to say
that you--that you--_you_, the gayest of the gay--that _you_--" Jo stopped,
unable to proceed.
"You hardly expected to find me in the _role_ of the victim of a broken
heart, did you?" questioned Cyn, with a half-sad, half-humorous smile.
"I admit I do not exactly answer to the average description, and my
heart is not broken--there is only a blank in it--something dead that
can never live again. Once I loved a man with all my heart"--Jo
sighed--"with all the illusion of youth, and he loved me. The difference
between his love and mine was, that mine was forever, and his was for a
day."
"Impossible!" interrupted Jo. "No man who once loved you could ever
change."
"He happened to be one of the kind who _could_. I never really knew the
cause--it might have been another woman. You know there always _is_
another woman."
"Or another man," added Jo gloomily.
"Yes," assented Cyn, and continued. "He was one of the kind, I think
now, who are incapable of appreciating a woman's love, and consequently
unworthy of it. But unfortunately, I did not know this, and wasted mine
on him. So he and love, went out of my life forever. But," with a proud
raising of her head, "I would not be weak enough to allow all my life to
be ruined because one part of it was wrecked; with so much gone, there
still remained something, and of that I made the most. This is why my
art is everything to me, and why I cannot marry you."
"But it seems to me unreasonable, that because you loved one man who was
unworthy, you should refuse the love of another who would try very hard
to make you forget that first sad experience," argued Jo. "Give me what
you have left, Cyn! If it be but dead ashes, I will thank God for the
gift, and perhaps, at some future day, in response to my devotion, even
from those ashes shall arise another love, so strong, so intense, that,
in comparison, the old shall be but as some half-forgotten trouble of
childhood, whose remembrance cannot awaken even a passing pain."
The fervor of an honest affection made Jo truly eloquent, and his true
blue eyes met the dark ones of Cyn, glowing with earnestness and love,
and for a moment she looked at him and hesitated. Then she arose, saying
resolutely,
"No! Jo! no! Do not tempt me! The experiment would be too dangerous! To
give you a warmed-over affection in return for your whole heart, would
only be misery for us both--more misery than I am bringing to you now. I
respect and esteem you, as I said before--we will be
friends--comrades--always--no more!"
As she spoke, she extended her hand to him, in farewell to all his
hopes.
And so understanding he clasped it, a sadness on his face she had never
seen there before.
"As you will, Cyn," he replied, brokenly, "but I shall love
you--forever!"
As he spoke, from below came the cry,
"Cyn Jo! where are you? we are going!"
"Coming!" Cyn's clear voice answered back.
"One moment," Jo said, detaining her, "may I--may I kiss you once, Cyn?
Once, and for the last time?"
There were tears in Cyn's eyes. She bent her handsome head, their lips
met, then, without a word, they went on together to join those who
awaited them.
And it was thus Fate decreed for these two.
Love brings the most intense sorrows, the keenest joys of life. But
there must always be some lives, into which comes only the sadness, and
none of the bliss, of loving.