Young Mr. Sheridan might perhaps have grudgingly admitted that the
morning was beautiful. It would have been hard even for a young man who
had definitely made up his mind to be no longer pleased with anything,
to deny that there was something almost pleasant in a day as soft and
quiet as that June itself could bring, in a garden all enmeshed in net
of stirring shadows, and in a free outlook toward hills that glowed with
autumn colors.
The old "home place" wasn't so bad; rather overgrown with weeds and
vines and somewhat dilapidated; the roof leaked on the third floor
front, and the wooden steps at the back had broken down completely; but
this crumbling and tumbling state harmonized with the state of young Mr.
Sheridan's mind. He accepted it with a sort of gloomy satisfaction. This
general poetic decay seemed to him quite touchingly suitable to the mood
which he fully believed was to color the declining years of his short
and blasted life. Mr. Sheridan had convinced himself that he had
received a crushing blow; a blow that no self-respecting gentleman
_ought_ to survive for very long. He had convinced himself that he
neither could nor should be happy again. He had quite made up his mind
that the world was a dreary waste, and all human beings, rascals and
base deceivers, whose society a wise man would shun. This unfriendly
humor was directed to mankind in general and to the feminine element in
particular.
He had awakened that morning--his first in the old mansion--in a
gigantic mahogany bed. Peterson, his servant, was kindling a fire to
drive the lingering dampness out of the long unused room.
"Good morning, Mr. Tim, sir," said Peterson with objectionable
cheerfulness, "I hope sir, ye had a good night?"
Mr. Sheridan eyed the old man with melancholy suspicion. He was loath to
class Peterson in with the rest of the miserable human race;
nevertheless, it was wiser to trust no one absolutely--not even
Peterson.
"Oh, well, I suppose I slept as well as I could expect, Peterson. An owl
or something woke me up at about one o'clock, and I couldn't get to
sleep for hours. But still--"
As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan had slept as soundly as a baby, but
having been entirely unconscious while he did so, he certainly could not
have _known_ whether he was asleep or awake. But his latest fancy was
that he suffered from insomnia. Insomnia was the traditional affliction
of all broken-hearted lovers, and there was no ailment common to the
broken hearted that Mr. Sheridan would allow himself to forego.
"Any letters, Peterson?"
Of course there were no letters. In the first place, who knew or cared
that he had buried himself away in this forsaken corner of the earth,
and in the second place, what did letters mean to him, who with all the
contempt that they deserved had severed his relations with his fellow
beings--especially the feminine ones--forever. He must remember not to
ask Peterson again if there were any letters. Peterson might imagine
that he was so weak as to hope that Miss Abbot had repented of her cruel
and barbarous treatment, and under no circumstances was Peterson to
imagine anything of the sort. Why, on the contrary, if Mary, that is to
say, Miss Abbot--were to come to him and beg his pardon on her knees,
and tell him that she knew she was a wicked coquette, and unworthy of
his slightest notice, he would say to her,
"No, Mary--or, No, Madam, what you ask now is no longer in my power to
give. My forgiveness is yours--gladly, but neither you nor I can
revive--or, but never again, I fear, can that sweet emotion--" or
anyhow, something to the effect that while he forgave her gladly--he
wouldn't forgive her at all. But magnanimously. He would be very
magnanimous. Nothing could be more crushing than a lofty and
unapproachable kindness. He would let her know the extent of the damage
she had wrought, but she should also be made to feel that he was capable
of supporting it without bitterness--to the end.
So engrossed was he in the composition of that final speech of
forgiveness and farewell--which he had composed at least a dozen times
already--that he absent-mindedly tucked away every morsel of Peterson's
generously provided breakfast, comprising fruit and coffee, poached
eggs, bacon, marmalade, and half a dozen of the most exquisite rolls he
had ever eaten.
"Those rolls, Peterson--they are rather nice," he remarked, with a touch
of enthusiasm that he quickly suppressed.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tim. I'm glad to have found something as
pleases you, sir," said Peterson, with a perfectly grave face.
"Yes. My appetite hasn't been very good lately."
"No, Mr. Tim," agreed Peterson, tactfully.
After a short silence, Mr. Sheridan asked indifferently,
"Where did you get them?"
"Up in the town, sir. There's a Bakery there sir as I never see the like
of, Mr. Tim. Why, what with the cakes and rolls and puddin's and
what-not, I fairly lost me eyes, sir! You should stroll up to the town,
like, Mr. Tim. It's a neat little place, sure enough--"
His young master checked him gently, reminding him with a little wave of
his hand, that he could not be expected to be interested in all that.
"But the rolls, Peterson. You might see that I have them for breakfast
every morning." So saying, he lit a cigarette, and walked out through
the open window into his garden to meditate; leaving Peterson to
meditate in his turn on this absolutely novel way of acting that Mr. Tim
had adopted. Why, he could hardly believe that this formal and taciturn
gentleman was Mr. Tim at all, and the old man who remembered the days,
not long since, when he had connived in all sorts of pranks and waggery;
when he had, many's the time, been called in as judge and counsel as to
how his young master should get himself out of this and that "scrape,"
when in fact, Mr. Tim never dreamed of doing anything without Peterson's
opinion--remembering those jolly days when he had been honored with Mr.
Tim's perfect confidence, Peterson felt wounded. Then he glanced through
the window. Mr. Tim, who had been promenading back and forth, leaning on
a stick, in keeping with his extraordinary notion that blighted love
always left one a semi-invalid, had now allowed himself to sink wearily
onto a stone bench. On second thought, Peterson did not feel wounded; he
felt rather like shaking dear Mr. Tim.
"Say what you like, that's no way to go on, now. Life's too easy for
him, and that's the truth, though I don't say I wouldn't hate to see it
hard for him. But to take on so, just because a young lady was pleased
to make up her mind not to have him! 'Tisn't every young feller has the
leisure to sit and mope himself into the vapors over a chip in his
heart, that'll be whole again in three months." Then Peterson grinned.
After all, such absurdities had not been entirely absent from his own
youth; and he could not find it in his heart to censure Mr. Tim severely
for any of his eccentricities. In his opinion this young man whom he had
systematically spoiled since his childhood was not to be judged by
common standards. Things that one might call faults in other young
gentlemen, became merely "peculiarities" in the case of Mr. Tim. And it
was not Peterson alone who inclined to shameless leniency with young Mr.
Sheridan. His friends always managed to explain why it was perfectly all
right for Tim to do things he oughtn't to do, and leave undone all the
things he ought to do; at college his teachers were forever giving him
one more chance, and at home his grumpy uncle scolded him and pampered
him, and feebly allowed his usually sharp old wits to be completely
fuddled by Tim's airy arguments.
"Somehow or other you'll manage to persuade all your devoted friends and
wellwishers to help you to the dogs," Major Sheridan had once remarked
acidly; and as proof of the truth of this, as the Major himself pointed
out, the old man, notwithstanding many threats of disinheritance, had
left every sou of his fortune to his nephew, simply because, while his
common sense told him that the best thing in the world for the young man
would be to leave him nothing at all, like Peterson he couldn't quite
bear the thought of Tim's lacking anything.
At the age of twenty-seven, then, Timothy Sheridan possessed of an
honorable name, health, wealth, good looks, and a very fair measure of
intelligence, could consider himself sufficiently unencumbered by duties
and responsibilities to indulge in the luxury of doing nothing whatever.
But somebody has said that no one can be thoroughly happy without
finding something to be unhappy about; and the truth of the matter is
that Mr. Sheridan was exceedingly gratified to discover that his heart
was broken; though it need hardly be said that this was the last thing
in the world he would ever have admitted. It was such a refreshingly new
experience. His only fear was that he was not getting out of it all that
some people claimed to feel. He checked up all his symptoms to make sure
that he had the real disease. Sleeplessness, loss of appetite, a longing
for solitude--yes, he was quite sure that he had all these symptoms, and
the satisfactory conclusion was that his heart was broken. He might
really consider the matter settled. Now, what is the next thing to be
done? Under the circumstances one should make no effort. One simply
shunned society, amused oneself with solitary walks perhaps, looked on
sceptically from afar at the insipid lives of other human beings, and
made sweet melancholy a constant companion. But how long did one keep
this up? The very fact that he could ask himself such a crudely
practical question, made him feel rather uncomfortable; how could he
even imagine the possibility of _wanting_ to do anything else?
He leaned back, and looked about him with an indifferent eye. From where
he sat, he could see beyond the wall that enclosed the garden--a wall
seven or eight feet high, its cracked plaster laced together by the
strong black tendrils of the ivy-vine. If he turned his head he could
see the whole length of Sheridan Lane. All the trees on Sheridan Lane
had turned yellow, and the leaves strewing its cobblestones, looked like
golden coins--the generous largess scattered in the progress of jovial
King Autumn. Above the mass of frost-nipped foliage rose the rounded
belfry of the old church, and underneath lay the double rows of pretty
gardens all glowing with their asters and chrysanthemums.
Then, if he looked in front of him he saw those wine-tinted hills,
rising beyond the gentle basin of the valley meadows, where the sun was
melting the early morning frost, and scattering the light mists. Two men
with leggins laced up to their sturdy knees, and carrying guns and game
bags, were striding across the field, followed by their dogs. A glint of
interest sparkled up in Mr. Sheridan's listless eyes.
"By Jove, I'll bet there's shooting here. I wonder if Peterson had the
sense to pack my guns. I'll wire Phil to-night--" then he checked
himself hastily. Such diversions were premature to say the least. But as
he resumed his seat on the bench, his attention was attracted by another
object. On the wall was something which had not been there when he had
last looked in the direction of Sheridan Lane. Calmly planted on its
broad flat top, with a pair of slender black-stockinged legs swinging,
calmly polishing off a monstrous scarlet apple on the front of a bright
green sweater, sat a perfectly strange specimen of the condemned human
race; and, what was more, it was unmistakably _feminine_. It was, in
short, a girl of about fourteen years of age, though apparently not very
tall for her years, with a dense mop of curly, reddish hair, a pair of
uncommonly bright, and observant eyes, and the beaming hospitable smile
of one who has the rare faculty of making herself thoroughly at home in
any circumstances. Even Mr. Sheridan's cold and unmistakably hostile
stare did not seem to make her feel that she was not welcome, or that
she ought to offer any explanation for her presence. She looked at her
apple, polished it some more, and at length fastened her sharp little
teeth in its red cheek, biting off what seemed to be at least one half
of the entire fruit.
After a pause, Mr. Sheridan said, with freezing courtesy,
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, no," said Jane, kindly. "Nothing at all." And until she had
finished her apple, and flung the core with admirable markmanship
against a tree at the other side of the road, silence reigned--the
silence of indignation and helplessness on Mr. Sheridan's part, of
serene composure on Jane's.
"I am just looking around," she condescended to explain at last.
"I see," said Mr. Sheridan politely. "Do you know that you are
trespassing?"
"Oh, yes. But that's all right. I'm always trespassing. I can't help it.
Out there--" she jerked her head in the direction of the fields, "there
are signs everywhere you go, 'No trespassing.' But by the time I come to
'em I've already been trespassing for miles, so I might as well go on.
Besides, I've often done it purposely just to see what would happen, but
nothing ever does." And having said this in a most reassuring tone, she
fished a second apple out of the pocket of her sweater and began to
polish it as she had the first. To his horror, Mr. Sheridan saw that
those green pockets were bulging.
"You'll make yourself ill," he remarked.
"Oh, no. I never make myself ill," said Jane.
"Are you going to eat _all_ those?" he demanded, pointing with his stick
at her crammed pockets.
"Well, I could, easily," said Jane, "but you can have as many as you
like. Catch." And she pulled out a third apple, and tossed it to him. He
caught it; but feeling that it was not dignified even to pretend that he
wanted it, he laid it down beside him on the bench.
"Try it," said Jane, "it's a good one. It's still wet, because I just
picked it up. Mr. Webster has millions, and he _said_ I could take all I
wanted. Here, I'll dry it for you if you don't want to get your
handkerchief all wet."
"Thank you," said Mr. Sheridan, "I don't believe I care for it just
now."
Another silence. Then as if the idea had just occurred to her, Jane said
almost with alarm,
"_You_ don't mind my trespassing, do you, Mr. Sheridan?"
"How did you know my name?" he asked in surprise, and at the same time,
feeling a trifle flattered. Like most people he was vain enough to be
pleased when anyone seemed to know who he was without being told.
"Oh, I recognized you."
"Recognized me? When did you--"
"By your stick. Miss Lily said that you had a stick, and that you were
youngish."
"Oh." A brief pause, during which Mr. Sheridan did not look displeased.
Jane, who never missed a change of expression, felt that she had hit
upon a happy thread of conversation, and she ventured to commence
another apple.
"Who is Miss Lily?" inquired Mr. Sheridan, forgetting that he was not in
the least interested in hearing about his fellow creatures--especially
the feminine ones.
"Why, Miss Lily Deacon. She lives up there," Jane jerked her head
casually in the direction, "in the first house on the left hand side
just as you turn into Sheridan Lane. The one with iron deers on each
side of the gate. She's _very_ pretty. Mrs. Deacon is very fat, but she
certainly is what you'd called impressive looking, and she does a lot of
good. I mean she's on committees and things, and _always_ president."
"Um," said Mr. Sheridan. Then, boring the end of his cane through a dead
leaf, he asked carelessly,
"But when did Miss Lily see me? I've never been here before."
"Yesterday morning she said. She said she couldn't tell exactly what you
were like, because she only saw you in her handmirror while she was
brushing her hair, but _I_ think she got a pretty good idea."
Poor Miss Lily. If she had ever dreamed that Jane would be placidly
repeating her indiscreet little confidences, she would have died of
mortification. But Jane, who, in her own peculiar way, was immeasurably
more astute than Miss Lily, saw very plainly that Mr. Sheridan was
trying to suppress a complacent smile.
"And how did _she_ know who I was?"
"Why, in the first place, she'd heard that one of the family was going
to live in this house again, and then she saw you drive in here, so she
just used her common sense, I suppose."
"Ah--of course."
After a moment, he said, with the most engaging friendliness,
"I think you might tell me _your_ name."
"My name? Jane."
"Jane what?"
"Lambert. Are you going to live here a long time?"
Mr. Sheridan sighed.
"I think so."
"What are you going to do?"
"Do? Well,--that would be a little difficult to explain. I came here
primarily for--solitude." The melancholy tone of his voice prompted a
dozen inquisitive questions to the tip of Jane's tongue.
"Oh. Are you sick?"
"There are different kinds of illness," said Mr. Sheridan gloomily and
mysteriously. Jane's grave eyes considered him attentively. Perhaps he
was suffering from a guilty conscience. He might have embezzled money
from a bank. He might even have killed someone. She felt very sorry for
him.
"Don't you ever want to see anybody? I can't understand that."
"My dear child," said Mr. Sheridan in a patronizing tone, "there are
probably several things that you don't understand yet. How old are you,
may I ask?"
"Fourteen. Fifteen really. My birthday comes next month. But don't you
remember that it says in the Bible that it isn't good for people to be
alone. That was the text just last Sunday, and I remember thinking that
that was why we are all crowded together into this town, instead of
scattering out over there--" she waved in the direction of the country,
"where it seems much nicer."
Mr. Sheridan made no reply, for a moment. Then as Jane made a motion to
depart, he said hastily,
"What do _you_ do?"
"Oh, _I_ go to school, and help mother, and go on adventures--"
"Go on adventures?"
"Yes. Long, long walks. Sometimes with the twins, and sometimes with
Carl, though he never wants to go where I want to go, and often by
myself. I take a package of bread and cheese because I get hungry very
easily, or sometimes some Raisin Delights, and I pretend that I'm going
out into the world to seek my fortune. And I walk and walk, sometimes
taking this road and sometimes that--until it's time to turn around and
come home."
"Don't you ever get lost?"
"Oh, often. That makes it more exciting than ever."
"What are Raisin Delights?"
"Oh, just sort of cookies, with raisins and cinnamon and orange peel. No
one knows how to make them but mother, because you see, she's the only
real Winkler--except Granny, and Granny's too old to do much in the
Bakery any more. When Paul comes of course he'll learn how, because he's
a real Winkler too."
"Who is Paul?"
Jane, at this, launched into the complete history of her family, charmed
to find her listener who was far more interested than he himself was
aware of being.
"And--and is this Miss Lily a cousin or something of yours?" inquired
Mr. Sheridan, artfully bringing the topic around to the subject that for
some reason he found particularly agreeable.
"No. She's just Elise's best friend."
"And what does _she_ do?"
"Oh, she practises on the piano, and sings, and embroiders, and goes to
committees with her mother--though I don't think she likes that much.
And then she makes up bundles of things to send to people in China, and
goes to see sick people."
"Does she like that?"
"I guess so. She takes things to poor people--there are a whole lot of
them who live along the creek, and she's awfully good to them."
"I see," said Mr. Sheridan. He could not think of anything more to say
just then, and after a pause, Jane began to think that she ought to be
going.
"Well, good-bye. I hope you'll feel better after a while," she said,
catching hold of a low hanging branch, preparatory to swinging herself
down to earth.
"Thank you." Mr. Sheridan did not understand why he felt just a trifle
foolish. "I hope you will pay me another visit."
"Oh, but I thought you wanted to be alone," said Jane, innocently.
Mr. Sheridan hesitated.
"People in general are terrible nuisances," he said, at length. "I came
here to avoid the boredom--that is, at present I am very little in the
mood for being bothered by the curiosity of a host of friends and
acquaintances. But on the other hand, it would be a pleasure to chat
with you now and then."
Jane was tremendously flattered.
"Oh, I can understand that perfectly," she said, nodding her curly head
with a great air of wisdom. "Well, I'll come and see you again. Aren't
you really going to eat that apple?"
Mr. Sheridan laughed, and tossed it back to her.
"There you are, Eve. Like Adam, I'd be much better without it."
With the agility of a monkey, Jane, holding the apple between her teeth,
swung herself lightly and easily to the ground. A little later Mr.
Sheridan saw the curly auburn head and the green sweater moving up the
hill, and with the feeling that he would very much like to be going in
the same direction, toward that busy little town--yes, in the very same
direction of that human society which he had resolved to shun--he turned
away.
He had already begun to doubt his wisdom in allowing this slight
infringement of the iron rule of seclusion he had resolved to follow.
Already he felt very little inclined to spend the rest of the morning
going over the battalions of musty volumes in the Major's library, as he
had planned,--his idea had been to bury his sorrows in grave
bookishness. Already he found himself possessed by a desire to venture
out beyond the security of his garden. And if he had followed Janey up
the hill, if he had seen her stop for a few moments, at the gate of the
house on the left hand side, to report to a demure and shocked and
vastly interested young lady on various features of her late venture, he
would have felt that all his doubts on the wisdom of allowing anything
feminine within thirty yards of him, were more than justified.