THE JUDGMENT OF SPRING
Judge Gatchell's nephews and nieces, brought by that punctilious
gentleman to call upon Miss Alicia Gaines, found her enchanting and
cried it to the circumambient air. It was as if the voice of April
had summoned the cohorts of Spring. For fresh-faced boys of a sudden
appeared in increasing numbers; and flower-faced girls came
fluttering into Hynds House like butterflies. They cared for its
history and its hatreds not a fig: what has April to do with last
November? The faith of Youth has a clearer-eyed wisdom, a sweeter,
sounder justice than the sourer verdict of the mature. For theirs is
the judgment of Spring. By this sign they conquer.
Susy Gatchell enlisted Mary Meade and Helen Fenwick, and these three
held all younger Hyndsville in the hollow of their pink palms. After
which, as Doctor Richard Geddes told me wrathfully, you "couldn't
put your foot down without running the risk of stepping on some
little cockerel trying to crow around Hynds House."
The tide was turning in our direction. Also, we were in daily
contact with really worth-while people, people that otherwise we
should have met only in books, magazines, and newspapers. And they
liked us. The amazing miracle was that we, also we, were their sort
of folk!
I knew I was being given unbuyable things. One could not live under
the same roof with thin dark Luis Morenas and view what magic his
pencil worked, without learning somewhat of the holiness of creative
work. One couldn't listen to The Author without being somewhat
brightened by his daring wit, his glowing genius; nor live face to
face with big Westmacote without revering the broadness of the
American master spirit, to which Big Business is only a part of the
Great Game. As for Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons, it didn't take
Alicia and me long to discover what real depths underlay that
Boston-spinster mind of hers.
And you simply couldn't breathe the same air with The
Suffragist--who appeared with two trunks, three valises, and a
type-writer, all covered with "Votes for Women!" stickers--without
an expansion of the chest. She gave you the impression of having
been dressed by machinery out of gear, and of then having been
whacked flat with a shovel. When she clapped on what she called a
hat, you wondered whether a heron hadn't built its nest on her
head. But when she began to speak, you listened with the ears of
your immortal soul stretched wide. Women worshiped her, though Mr.
Jelnik's eyes danced, and Westmacote's military mustache bristled a
bit, and she all but drove Doctor Richard Geddes, who had notions of
his own, out of his senses.
"Stop trying to argue with me, my dear man," she'd say in her rich
voice, "but come and let us reason together. I haven't heard one
word of reason from you yet!" And she'd let loose one of her
rollicking laughs that set the doctor's teeth on edge and made The
Author shudder. The Author snarled to me that she laughed like a
rolling-mill and reasoned like a head-on collision. He put her in
his new book, clothes and all. Just as Luis Morenas, with an edged
smile on his thin lips, made rapid-fire sketches of her. _He_ called
her "The Future-Maker."
Now, shouldn't Alicia and I have been happy? And yet we weren't.
Alicia's laugh wasn't so frequent. I would catch her watching me,
with an odd, troubled, anxious speculation in her eyes. She had a
habit of blushing suddenly, and as quickly paling. And quietly, but
none the less surely and definitely, she had begun to avoid Doctor
Richard Geddes. It wasn't that she ceased to be friendly; but she
placed between herself and him one of those women-built,
impalpable, impassable barriers which baffled, puzzled men are
unable to tear down. It was impossible, I thought, that she should
remain blind to his open passion for herself: he was anything but
subtle, was Richard of the Lionheart. A blind man could have told,
from the mere sound of his voice, a deaf man from the mere
expression of his eyes, that Alicia had the big doctor's whole
heart.
On his side, he was in deep waters. His ruddy color faded; his face
took on a fixed, grim intensity. And when he watched the girl
flirting now with this boy, now with that, after the innocent
fashion of natural girls, but always reserving a friendlier smile, a
more eager greeting, for Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, I was so sorry for
Doctor Richard that I couldn't help trying, covertly, to console
him.
It so happened that Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons, daughter of the
Puritans though she was, nevertheless had a distinct liking for what
she termed Episcopacy. She was pleased with old St. Polycarp's. She
liked Mrs. Haile, to whom she happened to mention that her
opportunities for studying the life of native women and children in
the East had been rather unusually good, since she had visited many
missionary stations in China and India. Things were languishing just
then, and Mrs. Haile looked at Miss Emmeline almost imploringly:
would she, could she, give the ladies a little lecture?--tell us
things first-hand, so to speak?
Miss Emmeline reflected. She looked at Alicia and me.
"Could we have it in your delightful library?" she wondered. "That
beautiful old room has a soul which speaks to mine. Dear Miss Smith,
would it be too much to ask you to let me have my little talk, a
very informal little lecture, in wonderful old Hynds House?"
Mrs. Haile turned a sort of greenish pink. It wasn't for her to
suggest, after that, that it might be better to have the lecture in
the parsonage; any more than for me to hint, without ungraciousness,
that it might be just as well not to have it in Hynds House. Alicia
shot me one quizzical, Irish-blue glance when I said, "Yes."
And that's how, on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, all Hyndsville came
to Hynds House to hear Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons tell them "How
to Reach the Women of the East." Somehow, I rather think they were
as curious about two Yankee women as they were about those Eastern
women of whom Miss Emmeline was talking. I'm sure Hynds House was
just as interesting to them as Mohammedan harems and Indian zenanas.
Miss Emmeline really spoke well, and her audience was interested in
her, in her theme, and in Hynds House. The Suffragist picked up the
thread where the less gifted woman dropped it, and in simple, living
phrases drove home the great truth of the sisterhood of all women.
Which, of course, called for tea, and some of Mary Magdalen's
cookies. It was the cookies that caught The Author. Coming in from a
long and hungry prowl, he spied Fernolia crossing the hall with a
huge platter, got one tantalizing, mouth-watering odor, and dashed
after her, bent upon robbery. A second later he found himself in a
room full of women. Hyndsville was meeting The Author!
Alicia introduced him, pleasantly. And, "Talk about angels--" said
she, gaily, "We have just this minute stopped talking about the
heathen! And may I give you a cup of tea?"
"And a dozen or so cookies, please. Thank heaven for the heathen!
What is home without the heathen?--Without sugar, Miss Gaines,
without sugar! And for charity's sake, no lemon!"
He sipped his tea and munched his cookies, with his head on one side
and the air of a thievish jackdaw; and proceeded, after his wont, to
extract such pith as the situation offered.
"Doctor Johnson," Miss Martha Hopkins remembered, as she watched him
drinking his fourth cup of tea, "Doctor Johnson was also addicted
to tea-drinking. Most great literary men are, I believe."
"It isn't possible you consider old Johnson a great literary man!"
The Author's eyebrows climbed into his hair.
"Why! wasn't he?" Her eyes widened. She had as much respect for Dr.
Johnson as Miss Deborah Jenkyns had, though of course she never read
him. Life is too short.
"Why! was he?" asked The Author. "Outside of Boswell--and _he_ was a
fool--I've never known anybody who thought he amounted to much."
The Suffragist looked up. "Nelson had his Southey, Boswell had his
Johnson, and Mr. Modern Best-seller may well profit by their
example." And she smiled grimly.
The Author's lip lifted. "Oh, but you couldn't do it!" he purred.
"And if I offered you the job you'd excuse your incapacity on the
ground that there wasn't anything to write about. I know you!" He
took another cooky.
"Yes, I dare say I'd blurt out the truth. Women are like that,"
admitted The Suffragist.
"The female of the species is more deadly than the male," conceded
The Author. "Nevertheless," he raised his tea-cup gallantly, "To the
ladies!" He got up, leisurely. "And now I go," said he, "to paint
the lily and adorn the rose. In short, to set forth in adequate and
remunerative language the wit, wisdom, virtue, beauty, and
ornateness of woman as she thinks men think she is. Nature,"
reflected The Author, smiling at The Suffragist, "made me a writer.
The devil, the editors, and the women have made me a best-seller."
And he departed, a cooky in each hand.
That night one of the Gatchell boys took Alicia to a dance. She was
in blue and white, like an angel, and the Gatchell boy trod on air.
But to me came Doctor Richard Geddes, and threw himself into a
wing-chair.
"Sophronisba Two," he asked, we being alone in the library, "what
have I done to offend Alicia?"
"Is Alicia offended?"
"Isn't she?" wondered the doctor. "She won't let me get near enough
to find out," he added gloomily. "And it isn't just. She ought to
know that--well, that I'd rather cut off my right hand than give her
real cause for offense. I'm going to ask you a straight, man
question; is that girl a--a flirt? She is not a--jilt?"
"Heaven forbid!"
"Does she care for anybody else?"
"On my honor, I don't know."
"It couldn't be any of these whipper-snappers of boys: she's not
that sort," worried the doctor. "Sophy, is it--Jelnik?"
My heart stood still. I could make no reply.
"I don't know. My dear friend, I don't know!"
"It would be the most natural thing in the world," he reflected.
"Jelnik looks like Prince Charming himself. And, for all his surface
indolence, there's genius in the man. Why shouldn't she be taken
with him?"
We looked at each other.
"I see," said the doctor, quietly. "Now, little friend, what
concerns you and me is our dear girl's happiness. Does Jelnik care,
do you think?"
"I don't know!" I said again. I felt like one on the rack. It seemed
to me I could hear my heart-strings stretching and snapping. "But
what is one girl's affection to a man born to be loved by women?"
"He is indifferent to women, for the most part," the doctor said
thoughtfully. "He is so free from vanity, and at the same time so
reserved, that one has difficulty in getting at his real feelings."
"She, also, is free from petty vanity," I told him. "She has an
innocent, happy pleasure in her own youth and prettiness, but hers
is the unspoiled heart of a child."
"Who should know it better than I, that am a great hulking,
bad-tempered fellow twice her age!" groaned the doctor. "Yet, Sophy,
_I_ could make her happier than Jelnik could. Dear and lovely as she
is, she couldn't make him happy, either--Don't you think I'm a fool,
Sophy?"
"No," said I, smiling wanly; "I don't."
"This business of being in love is a damnable arrangement. Here was
I," he grumbled, "busy, reasonably happy, with a sound mind in a
sound body, and a digestion that was a credit to me. And along comes
a girl, and everything's changed! My work doesn't fill my days, my
food is bitter in my mouth, and I wake up in the night saying to
myself, 'You fool, you're chasing rainbows!' Sophy, don't you ever
fall in love with somebody you know you can't have! It's hell!"
I didn't tell him I knew it.
One of his men came to tell him he was needed urgently. As it meant
a thirty-mile trip and the night was cold, I made him wait for a cup
of coffee and an omelet."
"Miss Smith--"
"You said 'Sophy' a while ago. 'Sophy' sounds all right to me."
"It sounds fine to me, too, Sophy." And he reached out and seized my
hand with a grip that made me wince.
"I told you I was a bear!" he said, regretfully.
When Alicia returned, she came, as usual, to my room.
"I am tired!" she yawned, and curled herself up on the bed.
"Didn't you have a nice time?"
"Oh, I suppose so! Everybody was lovely to me, and I could have
divided my dances. These Southerners are easy to love, aren't they?
I find it very easy for me! And oh, Sophy, there's to be a picnic
day after to-morrow, at the Meade plantation, in my honor, if you
please! We go by automobile.--I never thought I could get tired
dancing, Sophy. But I am. Tired!"
"Go to bed and sleep it off."
"Did you have time to make out that grocery list? They've been
overcharging us on butter."
"Yes: I finished it after Doctor Geddes left"
"Oh! He was here, then?" She yawned again.
"Yes. But somebody sent for him, and he had to cut his visit short."
Alicia frowned.
"I wonder he keeps so healthy, running out at all hours of the
night; and heaven knows how he manages about meals! His cook told me
that sometimes he has to rush away in the middle of a meal, and
sometimes he misses one altogether."
"I remembered that, so I made him wait for a cup of coffee and an
omelet."
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "You're always thinking about
other people's comfort, Sophy." She paused, and looked at me
half-questioningly:
"I wish he had somebody to look after him," she said in a low voice,
"somebody like you." She added, as if to herself: "He takes two
lumps of sugar in his coffee, one in his tea, wants dry toast, and
likes his omelet _buttered_."
And when I stared at her, she slipped nearer, and laid her cheek
against mine.
"Sophy," in a soft whisper, "you've made up to me for my father and
my mother, and for the sisters and brothers I never had. We're all
sorts and conditions of folks, aren't we, Sophy?--but none like you,
Sophy; not any one of them all like you!"
At that moment, through the open window, there stole in on the night
air the faintest whisper of music. It wasn't mournful, it wasn't
joyful, but both together; a singing voice, a crying voice, wild and
sweet, part of the night and the trees and the wind, and part, I
think, of the secretest something in the human heart. We had no idea
where it came from; out of the sky, perhaps!
Somebody ran down-stairs, and a moment later the front door opened
softly. The Author had heard, and was afoot. But even as he stepped
outside, Ariel's ghostly music ceased. There was nothing; nobody;
only the night.