RAIN AND RANDY'S SOUL
I
Madge came down the next morning dressed for her journey. "Oscar and
Flora are going to take me as far as Washington in their car. They want
you to make a fourth, Georgie."
Dalton was eating alone. Breakfast was served at small tables on the
west terrace. There was a flagged stone space with wide awnings
overhead. Except that it overlooked a formal garden instead of streets,
one might have been in a Parisian café. The idea was Oscar's. Dalton had
laughed at him. "You'll be a _boulevardier_, Oscar, until you die."
Oscar had been sulky. "Well, how do you want me to do it?"
"Breakfast in bed--or in a breakfast room with things hot on the
sideboard, luncheon, out here on the terrace when the weather permits,
tea in the garden, dinner in great state in the big dining-room."
"I suppose you think you know all about it. But the thing that I am
always asking myself is, were you born to it, Dalton?"
"I've been around a lot," Dalton evaded. "Of course if you don't want me
to be perfectly frank with you, I won't."
"Be as frank as you please," Oscar had said, "but it's your air of
knowing everything that gets me."
Dalton's breakfast was a hearty one--bacon and two eggs, and a pile of
buttered toast. There had been a melon to begin with, and there was a
pot of coffee. He was eating with an appetite when Madge came down.
"I had mine in bed," Madge said, as George rose and pulled out a chair
for her. "Isn't this the beastliest fashion, having little tables?"
"That's what I told Oscar."
"Oscar and Flora will never have too much of restaurants. They belong to
the class which finds all that it wants in a jazz band and scrambled
eggs at Jack's at one o'clock in the morning. Georgie, in my next
incarnation, I hope there won't be any dansants or night frolics. I'd
like a May-pole in the sunshine and a lot of plump and rosy women and
bluff and hearty men for my friends--with a fine old farmhouse and
myself in the dairy making butter----"
George smiled at her. "I should have fancied you an Egyptian princess,
with twin serpents above your forehead instead of that turban."
"Heavens, no. I want no ardours and no Anthonys. Tell me about the new
little girl, Georgie."
"How do you know there is a--new little girl?"
"I know your tricks and your manners, and the way you managed to meet
her at the Horse Show. And you saw her last night."
"How do you know?"
"By the light in your eyes."
"Do I show it like that? Well, she's rather--not to be talked about,
Madge----"
She was not in the least affronted. "So that's it? You always begin that
way--putting them on a pedestal---- If you'd only keep one of us there
it might do you good."
"Which one--you?" he leaned a little forward.
"No." Indignation stirred within her. How easy it was for him to play
the game. And last night she had lain long awake, listening for the
sound of his motor. She had seen the moon set, and spectral dawn steal
into the garden. "No, I'm running away. I am tired of drifting always on
the tides of other people's inclination. We have stayed down here where
it is hot because Oscar and Flora like it, yet there's all the coolness
of the North Shore waiting for us----"
She rose and walked to the edge of the terrace. The garden was splashed
now with clear color, purple and rose and gold. The air was oppressive,
with a gathering haze back of the hills.
"I'm tired of it. Some day I'm going to flap my wings and fly away where
you won't be able to find me, Georgie. I'd rather be a wild gull to the
wind-swept sky, than a tame pigeon--to eat from your hand----" She said
it lightly; this was not a moment for plaintiveness.
There was a dancing light in his eyes. "You're a golden pheasant--and
you'll never fly so far that I shan't find you."
Oscar arriving at this moment saved a retort. "Flora's not well. We
can't motor up, Madge."
"I am sorry but I can take a train."
"There's one at three. I don't see why you are going," irritably; "Flora
won't stay here long after you leave."
"I am not as necessary as you think, Oscar. There are plenty of others,
and I must go----"
"Oh, very well. Andrews will drive you down."
"I'll drive her myself," said Dalton.
II
Aunt Claudia was going to Washington also on the three o'clock train.
She had had a wireless from Truxton who had sailed from Brest and would
arrive at New York within the week.
"Of course you'll go and meet him, Aunt Claudia," Becky had said; "I'll
help you to get your things ready."
Aunt Claudia, quite white and inwardly shaken by the thought of the
happiness which was on its way to her, murmured her thanks.
Becky, divining something of the tumult which was beneath that outward
show of serenity, patted the cushions of the couch in Mrs. Beaufort's
bedroom. "Lie down here, you darling dear. It was such a surprise,
wasn't it?"
"Well, my knees are weak," Mrs. Beaufort admitted.
The nuns had taught Becky nice ways and useful arts, so she folded and
packed under Aunt Claudia's eye and was much applauded.
"Most girls in these days," said Mrs. Beaufort, "throw things in. Last
summer I stayed at a house where the girls sat on their trunks to shut
them, and sent parcel-post packages after them of the things they had
left out."
"Sister Loretto says that I am not naturally tidy, so she keeps me at
it. I used to weep my eyes out when she'd send me back to my room----
But crying doesn't do any good with Sister Loretto."
"Crying is never any good," said Aunt Claudia. She was of Spartan mold.
"Crying only weakens. When things are so bad that you must cry, then do
it where the world can't see."
Becky found herself thrilled by the thought of Aunt Claudia crying in
secret. She was a martial little soul in spite of her distinctly
feminine type of mind.
Aunt Claudia's lingerie, chastely French-embroidered in little scallops,
with fresh white ribbons run in, was laid out on the bed in neat piles.
There was also a gray corduroy dressing-gown, lined with silk.
"This will be too warm," Becky said; "please let me put in my white
crepe house-coat. It will look so pretty, Aunt Claudia, when Truxton
comes in the morning to kiss you----"
Aunt Claudia had been holding on to her emotions tightly. The thought of
that morning kiss which for three dreadful years had been denied
her--for three dreadful years she had not known whether Truxton would
ever breeze into her room before breakfast with his "Mornin' Mums." She
felt that if she allowed herself any softness or yielding at this moment
she would spoil her spotless record of self-control and weep in maudlin
fashion in Becky's arms.
So in self-defense, she spoke with coldness. "I never wear borrowed
clothes, my dear."
Becky, somewhat dishevelled and warm from her exertions, sat down to
argue it. "I haven't had it on. And I'd love to give it to you----"
"My dear, of course not. It's very generous of you--very----" Aunt
Claudia buried her face suddenly in the pillows and sobbed stormily.
Becky stood up. "Oh, Aunt Claudia," she gasped. Then with the
instinctive knowledge that silence was best, she gave her aunt a little
pat on the shoulder and crept from the room.
She crept back presently and packed the crepe house-coat with the other
things. Then, since Aunt Claudia made no sign, she went down-stairs to
the kitchen.
Mandy, the cook, who had a complexion like an old copper cent, and who
wore a white Dutch cap in place of the traditional bandana, was cutting
corn from the cob for fritters.
"If you'll make a cup of tea," Becky said, "I'll take it up to Aunt
Claudia. She's lying down."
"Is you goin' wid her?" Mandy asked.
"To New York? No. She'll want Truxton all to herself, Mandy."
"Well, I hopes she has him," Mandy husked an ear of corn viciously. "I
ain' got my boy. He hol's his haid so high, he ain' got no time fo' his
ol' Mammy."
"You know you are proud of him, Mandy."
"I ain' sayin' I is, and I ain' sayin' I isn't. But dat Daisy down the
road, she ac' like she own him."
"Oh, Daisy? Is he in love with her?"
"Love," with withering scorn, "_love_? Ain' he got somefin' bettah to do
than lovin' when he's jes' fit and fought fo' Uncle Sam?" She beat the
eggs for her batter as if she had Daisy's head under the whip. "He fit
and fought fo' Uncle Sam," she repeated, "and now he comes home and
camps hisse'f on Daisy's do'-step."
Against the breeze of such high indignation, any argument would be blown
away. Becky changed the subject hastily. "Mandy," she asked, "are you
making corn fritters?"
"I is----"
"What else for lunch?"
"An omlec----"
"Mandy, I'm so hungry I could eat a house----"
"You look it," Mandy told her; "effen I was you, I'd eat and git fat."
"It isn't fashionable to be fat, Mandy."
"Skeletums may be in style," said Mandy, breaking eggs for the omelette,
"but I ain' ever found good looks in bones."
"Don't you like _my_ bones, Mandy?"
"You ain't got none, honey."
"You called me a skeleton."
The kettle boiled. "Effen I called you a skeletum," Mandy said as she
placed a cup and saucer on a small napkined tray, "my min' was on dat-ar
Daisy. You ain' got no bones, Miss Becky. But Daisy, she's got a neck
like a picked tukkey, and her shoulder-blades stan' out like wings."
III
Becky went to the train with her aunt. George Dalton drove Madge down
and passed the old surrey on the way.
Later Madge met Mrs. Beaufort and Becky on the station platform, and it
was when Dalton settled her in her chair in the train that she said,
"She's a darling. Keep her on a pedestal, Georgie----"
"You're a good sport," he told her; "you know you'd hate it if I did."
"I shouldn't. I'd like to think of you on your knees----"
It was time for him to leave her. She gave him her hand. "Until we meet
again, Georgie."
Her eyes were cool and smiling. Yet later as she looked out on the
flying hills, there was trouble in them. There had been a time when
Dalton had seemed to square with her girlish dreams.
And now, there was no one to warn this other girl with dreams in her
eyes. George was not a vulture, he was simply a marauding bee----!
Becky was already in the surrey when George came back, and Calvin was
gathering up his reins.
"Oh, look here, I wish you'd let me drive you up, Miss Bannister,"
George said, sparkling; "there's no reason, is there, why you must ride
alone?"
"Oh, no."
"Then you will?"
Her hesitation was slight. "I should like it."
"And can't we drive about a bit? You'll show me the old places? It is
such a perfect day. I hope you haven't anything else to do."
She had not. "I'll go with Mr. Dalton, Calvin."
Calvin, who had watched over more than one generation of Bannister
girls, and knew what was expected of them, made a worried protest.
"Hit's gwine rain, Miss Becky."
Dalton dismissed him with a wave of the hand. "I won't let her get wet,"
he lifted Becky from the surrey and walked with her to his car.
Kemp, who had come down in the house truck with Madge's trunks, stood
stiff and straight by the door. Being off with Miss MacVeigh he was on
with Miss Bannister. Girls might come and girls might go in his master's
life, but Kemp had an air of going on forever.
When he had seated Becky, Dalton stepped back and gave hurried
instructions.
"At four, Kemp," he said, "or if you are later, wait until we come."
"Very well, sir." Kemp stood statuesquely at attention until the car
whirled on. Then he sat down on the station platform, and talked to the
agent. He was no longer a servant but a man.
As the big car whirled up the hill, Becky, looking out upon the familiar
landscape, saw it with new eyes. There was a light upon it which had
never been for her on sea or land. She had not believed that in all the
world there could be such singing, blossoming radiance.
They drove through the old mill town and the stream was bright under the
willows. They stopped on the bridge for a moment to view the shining
bend.
"There are old chimneys under the vines," Becky said; "doesn't it seem
dreadful to think of all those dead houses----"
George gave a quick turn. "Why think of them? You were not made to think
of dead houses, you were made to live."
On and on they went, up the hills and down into the valleys, between
rail fences which were a riot of honeysuckle, and with the roads in
places rough under their wheels, with the fields gold with stubble, the
sky a faint blue, with that thick look on the horizon.
George talked a great deal about himself. Perhaps if he had listened
instead to Becky he might have learned things which would have surprised
him. But he really had very interesting things to tell, and Becky was
content to sit in silence and watch his hands on the wheel. They were
small hands, and for some tastes a bit too plump and well-kept, but
Becky found no fault with them. She felt that she could sit there
forever, and watch his hands and listen to his clear quick voice.
At last George glanced at the little clock which hung in front of him.
"Look here," he said, "I told Kemp to have tea for us at a place which I
found once when I walked in the woods. A sort of summer house which
looks towards Monticello. Do you know it?"
"Yes. Pavilion Hill. It's on Randy Paine's plantation--King's Crest."
"Then you've been there?"
"A thousand times with Randy."
"I thought it was Waterman's. We shan't be jailed as trespassers, shall
we?"
"No. But how could you tell your man to have tea for us when you didn't
know that I'd be--willing?"
"But I did--know----"
A little silence, then "How?"
"Because when I put my mind on a thing I usually get my way."
She sat very still. He bent down to her. "You're not angry?"
"No." Her cheeks were flaming. She was thrilled by his masterfulness. No
man had ever spoken to her like that. She was, indeed, having her first
experience of ardent, impassioned pursuit. So might young Juliet have
given ear to Romeo. And if Romeo had been a Georgie-Porgie, then alas,
poor Juliet!
The Pavilion had been built a hundred and fifty years before of cedar
logs. There had been a time when Thomas Jefferson had walked over to
drink not tea, but something stronger with dead and gone Paines. Its
four sides were open, but the vines formed a curtain which gave within a
soft gloom. They approached it from the east side, getting out of their
car and climbing the hill from the roadside. They found Kemp with
everything ready. The kettle was boiling, and the tea measured into the
Canton teapot which stood in its basket----
"Aren't you glad you came?" Dalton asked. "Kemp, when you've poured the
tea, you can look after the car."
The wind, rising, tore the dry leaves from the trees. Kemp, exiled, as
it were, from the Pavilion, sat in the big car and watched the
gathering blackness. Finally he got out and put up the curtains.
Everything would be ready when Dalton came. He knew better, however,
than to warn his master. George was apt to be sharp when his plans were
spoiled.
And now throughout the wooded slope there was the restless movement of
nature disturbed in the midst of peaceful dreaming. The trees bent and
whispered. The birds, flying low, called sharp warnings. A small dog,
spurning the leaves, as she followed a path up the west side of the
hill, stopped suddenly and looked back at the man who followed her.
"We'll make the Pavilion if we can, old girl," he told her, and as if
she understood, she went up and up in a straight line, disregarding the
temptation of side tours into bush and bramble.
George and Becky had finished their tea. There had been some rather
delectable sweet biscuit which Kemp kept on hand for such occasions, and
there was a small round box of glacé nuts, which George had insisted
that Becky must keep. The box was of blue silk set off by gold lace and
small pink roses.
"Blue is your color," George had said as he presented it.
"That's what Randy says."
"You are always talking of Randy."
She looked her surprise. "I've always known him."
"Is he in love with you?"
She set down the box and looked at him. "Randy is only a boy. I am very
fond of him. But we aren't either of us--silly."
She brought the last sentence out with such scorn that George had a
moment of startled amaze.
Then, recovering, he said with a smile, "Is being in love silly?"
"I think it's rather sacred----"
The word threw him back upon himself. Love was, you understand, to
George, a game. And here was Becky acting as if it were a ritual.
Yet the novelty of her point of view made her seem more than ever
adorable. In his heart he found himself saying, "Oh, you lovely, lovely
little thing."
But he did not say it aloud. Indeed he, quite unaccountably, found
himself unable to say anything, and while he hesitated, there charged up
the west hill a panting dog with flapping ears. At the arched opening of
the Pavilion she paused and wagged a tentative question.
"It's Nellie Custis----" Becky rose and ran towards her. "Where's your
master, darling? _Randy_----"
In response to her call came an eerie cry--the old war cry of the Indian
chiefs. Then young Paine came running up. "Becky! Here? There's going to
be a storm. You better get home----"
He stopped short. Dalton was standing by the folding table.
"Hello, Paine," he said, with ease. "We're playing 'Babes in the Wood.'"
"You seem very comfortable," Randy was as stiff as a wooden tobacco
sign.
"We are," Becky said. "Mr. Dalton waved his wand like the Arabian
nights----"
"My man did it," said Dalton; "he's down there in the car."
Randy felt a sense of surging rage. The Pavilion was his. It was old and
vine-covered, and hallowed by a thousand memories. And here was Dalton
trespassing with his tables and chairs and his Canton teapot. What right
had George Dalton to bring a Canton teapot on another man's acres?
Becky was pouring tea for him. "Two lumps, Randy?"
"I don't want any tea," he said ungraciously. His eyes were appraising
the flame of her cheeks, the light in her eyes. What had Dalton been
saying? "I don't want any tea. And there's a storm coming."
All her life Becky had been terrified in a storm. She had cowered and
shivered at the first flash of lightning, at the first rush of wind, at
the first roll of thunder. And now she sat serene, while the trees waved
despairing arms to a furious sky, while blackness settled over the
earth, while her ears were assailed by the noise of a thousand guns.
What had come over her? More than anything else, the thing that struck
against Randy's heart was this lack of fear in Becky!
IV
Of course it was Dalton who took Becky home. There had been a sharp
summons to Kemp, who came running up with raincoats, a rush for the car,
a hurried "Won't you come with us, Randy?" from Becky, and Randy's curt
refusal, and then the final insult from Dalton.
"Kemp will get you home, Paine, when he takes the tea things."
Randy wanted to throw something after him--preferably a tomahawk--as
Dalton went down the hill, triumphantly, shielding Becky from the
elements.
He watched until a curtain of rain shut them out, but he heard the roar
of the motor cutting through the clamor of the storm.
"Well, they're off, sir," said Kemp cheerfully.
He was packing the Canton teapot in its basket and was folding up the
chairs and tables. Randy had a sense of outrage. Here he was, a
Randolph Paine of King's Crest, left behind in the rain with a man who
had his mind on--teapots---- He stood immovable in the arched opening,
his arms folded, and with the rain beating in upon him.
"You'll get wet," Kemp reminded him; "it's better on this side, sir."
"I don't mind the rain. I won't melt; I've had two years in France."
"You have, sir?" something in Kemp's voice made Randy turn and look at
him. The little man had his arms full of biscuit boxes, and he was
gazing at Randy with a light in his eyes which had not been for Dalton.
"I had three years myself. And the best of my life, sir."
Randy nodded. "A lot of us feel that way."
"The fighting," said Kemp, "was something awful. But it was--big--and
after it things seem a bit small, sir." He drew a long breath and came
back to his Canton teapot and his folding table and his plans for
departure.
"I'll be glad to take you in the little car, Mr. Paine."
"No," said Randy; "no, thank you, Kemp. I'll wait here until the storm
is over."
Kemp, with a black rubber cape buttoned about his shoulders and standing
out over his load like a lady's hoopskirts, bobbed down the path and
was gone.
Randy was glad to be alone. He was glad to get wet, he was glad of the
roar and of the tumult which matched the tumult in his soul.
Somehow he had never dreamed of this--that somebody would come into
Becky's life and take her away----
Nellie Custis shivered and whined. She hated thunder-storms. Randy sat
down on the step and she crept close to him. He laid his hand on her
head and fear left her--as fear had left Becky in the presence of
Dalton.
After that the boy and the dog sat like statues, looking out, and in
those tense and terrible moments a new spirit was born in Randolph
Paine. Hitherto he had let life bring him what it would. He had scarcely
dared hope that it would bring him Becky. But now he knew that if he
lost her he would face--chaos----
Well, he would not lose her. Or if he did, it would not be to let her
marry a man like Dalton. Surely she wouldn't. She _couldn't_---- But
there had been that light in her eyes, that flame in her cheek--that
lack of fear--Dalton's air of assurance, the way she had turned to him.
"Oh, God," he said suddenly, out loud, "don't let Dalton have her."
He was shaken by an emotion which bent his head to his knees. Nellie
Custis pressed close against him and whined.
"He shan't have her, Nellie. He shan't----"
He burned with the thought of Dalton's look of triumph. Dalton who had
carried Becky off, and had left him with Kemp and a Canton teapot.
He recalled Kemp's words. "After it things seem a bit small, sir."
Well, it shouldn't be small for him. It had seemed so big--over there.
So easy to--carry on.
If he only had a fighting chance. If he had only a half of Dalton's
money. A little more time in which to get on his feet.
But in the meantime here was Dalton--with his money, his motors, and his
masterfulness. And his look of triumph----
In a sudden fierce reaction he sprang to his feet. He stood in the
doorway as if defying the future. "Nobody shall take her away from me,"
he said, "she's mine----"
His arms were folded over his chest, his wet black locks almost hid his
eyes. So might some young savage have stood in the long ago, sending his
challenge forth to those same hills.