DRAWN BOTH WAYS
Those youthful promptings which so stirred Pease, far beyond his own
comprehension, kept working in him through the summer weeks. The joy of
living, which he supposed he had mastered, appeared to him an altered
thing, so that its object no longer reposed on shelves in his study, but
moved serenely in a cottage above the harbour at Chebasset. Pease
accepted the change with the innocence which was particularly his, and
followed his new chase with but slight idea that he was varying from his
usual course. For being a man of social preciseness, he was given to
making calls, and made no distinction between the kind to which he was
habituated, the so-named duty call, and the new visit which was made for
pleasure. Mather wondered, after a few unusual appearances of Pease at
the mill, if the banker was overseeing his work; but as on each occasion
Pease went farther up the hill Mather put the visits down to the right
cause.
As most people are gifted with that kind of insight which the manager
thus exercised, others as well came to note Pease's actions, and their
cause, before the banker did himself. Miss Cynthia, who spent summer as
well as winter in the city (for since her poor people could not get
away, neither would she), came early to know what seed she had planted
in her cousin's breast. For he was open as the day, and without thought
of concealment told her where he was going or where he had been. Miss
Cynthia set her mouth at each mention of Chebasset, but as they came
oftener she began to consider if she should not have to give up her
chamber, the best in the house, and take the one in the rear. Or perhaps
it might be best to live elsewhere altogether. But looking at her cousin
one day, all his goodness seemed lost in his homeliness and lack of
charm. So she smiled the grim smile of pity, and set about making him
more comfortable at home than ever.
Mather also had occasion to smile thus, when one day he allowed Beth
Blanchard's word of advice to move him at last. He had seen Ellis more
than once in Chebasset, and felt uneasy; Pease looked in one afternoon
and asked him to go up to the Blanchards'. As usual, Mather refused, but
after an hour he started up the hill, to be passed by Pease coming down.
They were on different ways, for Mather had just left the high road for
a path which would save distance, when looking back he saw Pease going
down the hill. Pease wore a flower which he had not had before; he was
smiling cheerfully, with a retrospective air, and Mather smiled also,
grimly as Miss Cynthia had done, at the thought of the late plant of
love springing in the barren soil of middle-age.
He went on to the Blanchards' house; Judith was not there. But Beth
welcomed him and sat him down, gave him tea, and talked to him as he sat
half-silent.
"People do not see much of you nowadays," she said with a tone of
reproach. "You are much too busy, George."
"Oh, well----!" he shrugged inattentively, and Beth might interpret as
she pleased. She looked at him as he sat, with his chair against the
piazza railing, his arm across it, and his face turned to look out upon
the bay. He was neither gloomy nor resigned, but bore the look of a
strong man waiting. Time was not of account to him.
"You do not worry much," she said.
"Not I," he answered, but he turned to her. "Is there anything to worry
about, little Beth?"
"Sometimes I think so," she replied. "I think that now you'd better stay
to dinner."
"Thank you," he said, looking at her more carefully. "I suppose you know
best," he added.
There had never been anything between these two except undefined
good-feeling, expressed only by the inattentive conversation of those
who have often met in the same house with different interests. There had
existed, besides, that consciousness of a difference in age which makes
a few years seem almost a generation, so that with boys and girls "sets"
are separated by a bar of habit which prevents an older from seeing
anything in a younger, even after the passage of years has brought them
both to maturity. Thus, to Mather, Beth had always been a little girl,
until just now her quiet, assured carriage, as she interfered in his
affairs, opened his eyes. For she answered his last remark with
confidence.
"Yes, I know best." And he believed her.
"Talk to me," he said, turning still more toward her. "I have seen no
one for a long time. Who is doing? What is doing?" So Beth talked to
him.
This was her mission in life--to talk people into cheerfulness and bring
them nearer the rest of the world. She enjoyed it always, but it was
especially pleasant to her as she spoke with Mather. For he was real, he
was big, he was not baulked by conditions which might have been too much
for him. Estrangement from Judith was not, she was glad to see, making
him melancholy. He seemed in good physical condition; though he had not
gone much with people of late, she had seen him from her window, early
in the morning, sailing on the bay before he went to his work. It was
not Judith alone, therefore, but work also, that kept him from going
about. All this she felt, or guessed, as she told him of little matters.
"It is too bad," she said after a while. "You should have a mother, or a
sister, to tell you all this."
"That Esther Fenno is away yachting, or that John Watson is attentive to
Mary Carr?" He laughed. "But, Beth, you shall be my sister of mercy, and
I will come here oftener."
"Come, then," she said. "Some day there will be better or more important
items, and you may be glad of the bargain. Or if you happen to call on
Judith when Mr. Ellis does, you may talk with me."
"Couldn't he do that?" He maintained the appearance of jesting, but she
said seriously:
"I don't like him."
Then he put out his hand to her; she took it, and Judith came upon them
thus.
A pang shot through him as he rose and greeted her; she was quiet in her
manner--his coming could not move her in the least. He wished he might
feel that there had been a flash of inquiry in her first glance at him
and Beth, but her face had not really changed. She welcomed him kindly
enough. "He is going to stay to dinner," said Beth. Judith answered with
a conventional "Good!" Then the Colonel appeared; he had brought the
mail.
"A letter for you, Judith," he said. "A thick package, rather."
Thoughtlessly, she opened it. Ellis had promised to send her his
house-plans, and for the purpose had had a set made, much reduced in
size. He had mailed them to her himself; but for carelessness she would
have recognised his hand. The Colonel, always inquisitive, craned his
neck as Judith drew the plans from the envelope.
"Plans!" he exclaimed. "Are you going into building, Judith?"
She looked at the upper plan, carelessly as before, though the red came
into her cheek. Then she put them all back into the paper. "No, I'm not
going to build," she said.
"This reminds me," said the Colonel. "They say Ellis has bought the
Welton place."
"Indeed!" cried Beth. Her glance sought Mather's; his responded,
cynically humorous. That he should be there when the news was given! But
he turned to the Colonel.
"That must be very recent, sir."
"It may not be so," replied he, "but Kingston is hopping for fury, and
Dent for fright, because they'll be his neighbours. Judith, do you
happen to know if the news is true?"
In spite of herself, she looked at the floor. "Yes, it is true."
"Aha!" cried the Colonel. "Then those plans----" She looked up now, and
flashed him into silence.
"I think," said Judith, "that I will go and dress for dinner." She went,
and Beth went also, casting a glance of sympathy at Mather.
"Will you come in?" asked the Colonel nervously of his guest.
"I'll stay here, thank you. Don't let me keep you, sir."
"Thanks. I think I will fix up."
Mather smiled scornfully at the relief the Colonel showed. Alone, he
leaned against a pillar and looked out over the bay. So this was what
he had come to learn! And being here, he must stay and put the matter
through.
It was a miserable meal. Judith was furious with her father; Beth was
appalled at the length to which matters appeared to have gone. Mather
and the Colonel struggled manfully, and spoke of matters in the business
world. The Colonel inclined toward the subject of stocks.
"Consolidated," he suggested. "Don't you think it a good investment?"
"I am leaving silver alone," responded Mather. "I consider all those
stocks very unsafe just now, sir."
So with that radical difference of opinion between them, which really
concerned the Colonel more than he would show, conversation languished
even between the gentlemen. Out upon the piazza, after dinner, matters
went more smoothly, but Mather concluded that it was wiser to "eat and
run" than to stay where constraint hung in the air like a fog. So,
pleading the habit of early sleep, he took his leave.
Then Judith, fearing that he had been suffering, roused herself. "I will
go with you to the gate," she said, as he offered his hand for good-by.
They left the piazza together, but Beth, catching his eye to signal
satisfaction, saw him shake his head. Judith's condescension could no
longer thrill him. Beth felt that his attitude, for one who was so
concerned, was strangely like that of an observer.
And Judith felt it, too. He had passed through the stage of eager
homage, a favour could no longer enrapture him; she wondered if he had
even noticed the incident of the house-plans--whether, after all, he had
been hurt, so steadily he had borne himself. When they were alone
together, walking toward the gate, he turned to her a gaze almost
quizzical.
"Have you forgiven me my chimney, Judith?"
Thus he drew a smile from her; then, for the first time, he spoke of
his mill, but left her no burden of answering. The walk was short,
and he filled it with tales of his men, their weaknesses, their
characteristics, the troubles which some of them had confided to him.
But he said nothing of his difficulties or of his growing success,
though as he talked she thought of them.
"Does it not please you," she asked, "that people speak well of what you
are doing?"
"Do they?" was all he answered. "By the way----"
"And the work of organisation?" she asked him.
"It was fun," he said, "and not difficult at all."
"I can't believe you!" she cried.
"Nothing, nothing!" he answered.
"And is all smooth sailing now?"
"One of the men is getting up a strike," he answered. "That is all."
"A strike!" she exclaimed.
"So the older men tell me. A little one."
"How can you take it so easily?" she asked.
He smiled. "I think I can meet it. Well, here we are at the gate. Thank
you for coming, Judith. Good-by." He started away briskly, then turned
back. She was looking at him seriously.
"Here is Jim Wayne coming up the road," he said. "He comes to see Beth?"
"Yes."
"And what of my employer?"
"Poor Mr. Pease!"
"_Mr._ Pease," repeated Mather. "There it all is in a nutshell. Jim is
Jim, twenty-three. Pease is Mr. Pease, forty-five. The young to the
young, as Salvation Yeo said. Poor Pease! Good-night again, Judith."
And this time he was off for good, not turning again. Judith returned
thoughtfully to the house. He had interested her--turned her back a
little toward her real self, her old self. No small part of the effect
he had made was caused by his cheerful self-command. Did he love her
still? She thought of what he had done for Chebasset. He was very much
of a man.
On the way down the hill Mather passed Wayne. This was that broker's
clerk who always nodded to Ellis so carelessly, whose mother Ellis had
bought out, and whose name the promoter envied. Handsome, thought Mather
as they greeted; on second thought he added, a bit weak. But Mrs.
Harmon, looking from her garden as they passed on the road below,
thought that Wayne was handsome without qualification. Thus those two,
both of whom were to influence Wayne's fate, thought of him as he went
on to see Beth. Mrs. Harmon followed him with her eyes until he entered
the Blanchards' gate; with her thoughts, still longer. Mather forgot him
in grieving for Pease, the poor dreamer who would wake too late.
"Beth," asked Judith, returning to the house, "where was it we read
about Salvation Yeo?"
"In Kingsley's 'Westward Ho,'" answered Beth. After Wayne had come and
gone, she noticed that Judith was reading the book.
"Do you like it?" asked Beth.
"Romance--love," said Judith. "It seems unnatural." She laid the book
aside. "A pleasant evening, Beth?"
"Very," Beth answered.
"And Mr. Pease?" asked Judith.
She saw with surprise that Beth's eyes filled with tears. "What can I
do?" asked the younger sister; but expecting no answer, she went away.
Judith took up her book again, yet held it without opening it. Romance
and love had come to Beth; why not to herself? Judith had had suitors;
and true love might win her yet. Was it to be found? Such lasting love,
she meant, as it was certain Pease would give. No wonder Beth grieved;
any woman's heart would be touched by such devotion. Yet as Judith
thought of her old suitors she could name half a dozen now married,
having forgotten their griefs. But it was Mather who was most in her
mind, who ever since his rejection had been so strangely independent,
and this evening most of all. He had shown no surprise, no dismay, at
the sight of Ellis's house-plans. At the thought Judith started up with
pique, resentment--it would have been hard to define her feeling at the
thought that Mather needed no one to sorrow for him.