THE TRUMPETER SWAN
I
The Admiral's rheumatism had taken Becky to Boston. "There'll be
treatments every morning," he said, "and we'll invite the Copes to visit
us, and they will look after you while I am away."
The Copes were delighted. "Only it seems like an imposition----"
"The house is big enough for an army," the Admiral told them; "that's
what we built houses for in the old days. To have our friends. Charles,
my butler, and his wife, Miriam, who cooks, stay in the house the year
round, so it is always open and ready."
"And you and I shall see Boston together," Archibald told Becky,
triumphantly. "I wonder if you have ever seen Boston as I shall show it
to you."
"Well, I've been to all the historic places."
"Bunker Hill and the embattled farmers, of course," said Archibald; "but
have you seen them since the war?"
"No. Are they different?"
"They aren't, but you are. All of us are."
Louise was not quite sure that her brother ought to leave the island.
"You are down here for the air, Arch, and the quiet."
He was impatient. "Do you think I am going to miss this?"
She frowned and shook her head. "I don't want you to miss it. But it
will be going against the doctor's orders."
"Oh, hang the doctor, Louise. Being in Boston with Becky will be
like--wine----"
But she was not satisfied. "You always throw yourself into things
so--desperately----"
"Well, when I lose my enthusiasm I want to--die."
"No, you don't, Arch. Don't say things like that." Her voice was sharp.
He patted her hand. "I won't. But don't curb me too much, old girl. Let
me play--while I can----"
They arrived in Boston to find a city under martial law, a city whose
streets were patrolled by khaki-clad figures with guns, whose traffic
was regulated by soldierly semaphores, who linked intelligence with
military training, and picturesqueness with both.
For a short season Boston had been in the hands of the mob. All of her
traditions of law and order had not saved her. It had been her
punishment perhaps for leaving law and order in the hands of those who
cared nothing for them. People with consciences had preferred to keep
out of politics. So for a time demagogues had gotten the ear of the
people, and chaos had resulted until a quiet governor had proved himself
as firm as steel, and soldiers had replaced the policemen who had for a
moment followed false gods.
"It all proves what I brought you here to see," Cope told Becky eagerly.
Coffee was being served in the library of the Meredith mansion on Beacon
Street. The Admiral's library was as ruddy and twinkling as the little
man himself. He had furnished it to suit his own taste. A great
davenport of puffy red velvet was set squarely in front of a fireplace
with shining brasses. The couch was balanced by a heavy gilt chair also
in puffy red. The mantel was in white marble, and over the mantel was an
oil portrait of the Admiral's wife painted in '76. She wore red velvet
with a train, and with the pearls which had come down to Becky. The room
had been keyed up to her portrait, and had then been toned down with
certain heavy pieces of ebony, a cabinet of black lacquer, the dark
books which lined the wall to the ceiling. The room was distinctly
nineteenth-century. If it lacked the eighteenth-century exquisiteness
of the house at Nantucket, with its reminder of austere Quaker
prejudices, it was none the less appropriate as a glowing background for
the gay old Admiral.
Becky and Cope sat on the red davenport. It was so wide that Becky was
almost lost in a corner of it. The old butler, Charles, served the
coffee. The coffee service was of repoussé silver. The Admiral would
have no other. It had been given him by a body of seamen when he had
retired from active duty.
"It all proves what I brought you here to see," Archibald emphasized,
"how the gods of yesterday are going to balance the gods of to-day."
The Admiral chuckled. "There aren't any gods of to-day."
"The gods of to-day are our young men," Cope flung out, glowingly; "the
war has left them with their dreams, and they have got to find a way to
make their dreams come true. And that's where the old gods will help.
Those fine old men who dreamed, backed their dreams with deeds. Then for
a time we were so busy making money that we forgot their dreams. And
when foreigners came crowding to our shores, we didn't care whether they
were good Americans or not. All we cared was to have them work in our
mills and factories and in our kitchens, and let us alone in our pride
of ancestry and pomp of circumstance. We forgot to show them Bunker
Hill and to tell them about the old North Church and Paul Revere and the
shot heard 'round the world, and what liberty meant and democracy, and
now we've got to show them. I am going to take you around to-morrow,
Becky, and pretend you are Olga from Petrograd, and that you are seeing
America for the first time."
Archibald Cope was kindled by fires which gave color to his pale cheeks.
"Will you be--Olga from Petrograd?"
"I'd love it."
But the next morning it rained. "And you can't, of course, be Olga of
Petrograd in the rain. Bunker Hill must have the sun on it, and the
waves of the harbor must be sparkling when I tell you about the tea."
They decided, therefore, to read aloud "The Autocrat of the Breakfast
Table."
"Then if it stops raining," said Archibald, "we'll step straight out
from its pages into the Boston that I want to show you."
He read well. Louise sat at a little table sewing a pattern of beads on
a green bag. Becky had some rose-colored knitting. The Admiral was in
his big chair by the fire with his hands folded across his waistcoat and
his eyes shut. The colorful work of the two women, the light of the
fire, the glow of the little lamp at Cope's elbow, the warmth of the
red furniture saved the room from dreariness in spite of the rain
outside.
"'It was on the Common,'" read Cope, "'that we were walking. The
mall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches
leading from it in different directions. One of these runs down
from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the
Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were
fond of it.
"'I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as
we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I
tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At
last I got out the question, "Will you take the long path with me?"
"Certainly," said the schoolmistress, "with much pleasure."
"Think," I said, "before you answer: if you take the long path with
me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more!" The
schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow
had struck her.
"'One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by--the one
you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. "Pray sit down," I
said. "No, no," she answered, softly, "I will walk the _long path_
with you!"
"'--The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking arm in arm
about the middle of the long path, and said, very
charmingly,--"Good-morning, my dears!"'"
The reading stopped at luncheon time, and it was still raining. On the
table were letters for Becky forwarded from Siasconset. An interesting
account from Aunt Claudia of the wedding of Major Prime and Madge MacVeigh.
"They were married in the old orchard at the Flippins', and it was
beautiful. The bride wore simple clothes like the rest of us. It
was cool and we kept on our wraps, and she was in white linen with
a loose little coat of mauve wool, and a hat to match. The only
bride-y thing about her was a great bunch of lilacs that the Major
ordered from a Fifth Avenue florist. They are to stay in New York
for a day or two, and then visit the Watermans on the North Shore.
After that they will go at once to the West, where they are to live
on the Major's ranch. He has been relieved from duty at Washington,
and will have all of his time to give to his own affairs.
"There has been an epidemic of weddings. Flippins' Daisy waited
just long enough to help Mrs. Flippin get Miss MacVeigh married;
then she and young John had an imposing ceremony in their church,
with Daisy in a train and white veil, and four bridesmaids, and
Mandy and Calvin in front seats, and Calvin giving the bride away.
I think the elaborateness of it all really reconciled Mandy to her
daughter-in-law."
There was also, from Randy, a long envelope enclosing a thick manuscript
and very short note.
"I want you to read this, Becky. It belongs in a way to you. I
don't know what I think about it. Sometimes it seems as if I had
done a rather big thing, and as if it had been done without me at
all. I wonder if you understand what I mean--as if I had held the
pen, and it had--come---- I have sent it to the editor of one of
the big magazines. Perhaps he will send it back, and it may not
seem as good to me as it does at this moment. Let me know what you
think."
Becky, finishing the letter, felt a bit forlorn. Randy, as a rule, wrote
at length about herself and her affairs. But, of course, he had other
things now to think of. She must not expect too much.
There was no time, however, in which to read the manuscript, for Cope
was saying, wistfully, "Do you think you'd mind a walk in the rain?"
"No." She gathered up her letters.
"Then we'll walk across the Common."
They shared one umbrella. And they played that it was over fifty years
ago when the Autocrat had walked with the young Schoolmistress. They
even walked arm in arm under the umbrella. They took the long path to
Boylston Street. And Cope said, "Will you take the long path with me?"
And Becky said, "Certainly."
And they both laughed. But there was no laughter in Cope's heart.
"Becky," he said, "I wish that you and I had lived a century ago in
Louisberg Square."
"If we had lived then, we shouldn't be living now."
"But we should have had our--happiness----"
"And I should have worn lovely flowing silk skirts. Not short things
like this, and little bonnets with flowers inside, and velvet
mantles----"
"And you would have walked on my arm to church. And we would have owned
one of those old big houses--and your smile would have greeted me across
the candles every day at dinner----" He was making it rather personal,
but she humored his fancy.
"And you would have worn a blue coat, and a bunch of big seals, and a
furry high hat----"
"You are thinking all the time about what we would wear," he complained;
"you haven't any sense of romance, Becky----"
"Well, of course, it is all make-believe."
"Yes, it is all--make-believe," he said, and walked in silence after
that.
The wind blew cold and they stopped in a pastry shop on Boylston Street
and had a cup of tea.
Becky ate little cream cakes with fluted crusts, and drank Orange Pekoe.
"I am glad you don't wear flowing silks and velvet mantles," said
Archibald, suddenly; "I shall always remember you like this, Becky, in
your rough brown coat and your close little hat, and that your hand was
on my arm when we walked across the Common. Do you like me as a
playmate, Becky?"
"Yes."
"Do you--love me--as a playmate?" He leaned forward.
"Please--don't."
"I beg your--pardon----" he flushed. "I am not going to say such things
to you, Becky, and spoil things for both of us--I know you don't want to
hear them----"
"Make-believe is much nicer," she reminded him steadily.
"But I am not a make-believe friend, am I? Our friendship--that at least
is--real?"
Her clear eyes met his. "Yes. We shall always be friends--forever----"
"How long is forever, Becky?"
She could not answer that. But she was sure that friendship was like
love and lived beyond the grave. They were very serious about it, these
two young people drinking tea.
II
It was when the four of them were gathered together that night in the
library that Becky asked Archibald Cope to read "The Trumpeter Swan."
"Randy wrote it," she said, "and he sent the manuscript to me this
morning."
The Admiral was at once interested. "He got the name from the swan in
the Judge's Bird Room?"
"Yes."
"Has he ever written anything before?" Louise asked.
"Lots of little things. Lovely things----"
"Have they been published?"
"I don't think he has tried."
Becky had the manuscript in her work-bag. She brought it out and handed
it to Archibald. "You are sure you aren't too tired?"
Louise glanced up from her beaded bag. "You've had a hard day, Arch. You
mustn't do too much."
"I won't, Louise," impatiently.
She went back to her work. "It will be on your own head if you don't
sleep to-night, not on mine."
"The Trumpeter Swan" was a story of many pages. Randy had confined
himself to no conventional limits. He had a story to tell, and he did
not bring it to an end until the end came naturally. In it he had asked
all of the questions which had torn his soul. What of the men who had
fought? What of their futures? What of their high courage? Their high
vision? Was it all now to be wasted? All of that aroused emotion? All of
that disciplined endeavor? Would they still "carry on" in the spirit of
that crusade, or would they sink back, and forget?
His hero was a simple lad. He had fought for his country. He had found
when he came back that other men had made money while he fought for
them. He loved a girl. And in his absence she had loved someone else.
For a time he was overthrown.
Yet he had been one of a glorious company. One of that great flock which
had winged its exalted flight to France. Throughout the story Randy wove
the theme of the big white bird in the glass case. His hero felt himself
likewise on the shelf, shut-in, stuffed, dead--his trumpet silent.
"Am I, too, in a glass case?" he asked himself; "will my trumpet never
sound again?"
The first part of the story ended there. "Jove," Cope said, as he looked
up, "that boy can write----"
Louise had stopped working. "It is rather--tremendous, don't you think?"
Archibald nodded. "In a quiet way it thrills. He hasn't used a word too
much. But he carries one with him to a sort of--upper sky----"
Becky, flushing and paling with the thought of such praise as this for
Randy, said, "I always thought he could do it."
But even she had not known that Randy could do what he did in the second
part of the story.
For in it Randy answered his own questions. There was no limit to a
man's powers, no limits to his patriotism, if only he believed in
himself. He must strive, of course, to achieve. But striving made him
strong. His task might be simple, but its very simplicity demanded that
he put his best into it. He must not measure himself by the rule of
little men. If other men had made money while he fought, then let them
be weighed down by their bags of gold. He would not for one moment set
against their greed those sacred months of self-sacrifice.
And as for the woman he loved. If his love meant anything it must burn
with a pure flame. What he might have been for her, he would be because
of her. He would not be less a man because he had loved her.
And so the boy came in the end of the story to the knowledge that it was
the brave souls who sounded their trumpets---- One did not strive for
happiness. One strove for--victory. One strove, at least, for one clear
note of courage, amid the clamor of the world.
Louise, listening, forgot her beads. The Admiral blew his nose and wiped
his eyes. Becky felt herself engulfed by a wave of surging memories.
"That's corking stuff, do you know it?" Archibald was asking.
Louise asked, "How old is he?"
"Twenty-three."
"He is young to have learned all that----"
"All what, Louise?" Archibald asked.
"Renunciation," said Louise, slowly, "that's what it is in the final
analysis," she went back to her beads and her green bag.
"Randy ought to do great things," said Becky; "the men of his family
have all done great things, haven't they, Grandfather?"
"Randolph blood is Randolph blood," said the Admiral; "fine old
Southerners; proud old stock."
"If I could write like that," said Archibald, and stopped and looked
into the fire.
Louise rose and came and stood back of him. "You can paint," she said,
"why should you want to write?"
"I can't paint," he reached up and caught her hand in his; "you think I
can, but I can't. And I am not wonderful---- Yet here I must sit and
listen while you and Becky sing young Paine's praises."
He flung out his complaint with his air of not being in earnest.
The Admiral got up stiffly. "I've a letter to write before I go to bed.
Don't let me hurry the rest of you."
"Please take Louise with you," Archibald begged; "I want to talk to
Becky."
His sister rumpled his hair. "So you want to get rid of me. Becky, he is
going to ask questions about that boy who wrote the story."
"Are you?" Becky demanded.
"Louise is a mind reader. That's why I want her out of the way----"
"You can stay until the Admiral finishes his letter." Louise bent and
kissed him, picked up her beaded bag, and left them together.
When she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked back. Archibald
had piled up two red cushions and was sitting at Becky's feet.
"Tell me about him."
"Randy?"
"Yes. He's in love with you, of course."
"What makes you think that?"
"He sent you the story."
"Well, he is," she admitted, "but I am not sure that we ought to talk
about it."
"Why not?"
"Is it quite fair, to him?"
"Then we'll talk about his story. It gripped me---- Oh, let's have it
out, Becky. He loves you and you don't love him. Why don't you?"
"I can't--tell you----"
There was silence for a moment, then Archibald Cope said gently, "Look
here, girl dear, you aren't happy. Don't I know it? There's something
that's awfully on your mind and heart. Can't you think of me as a sort
of--father confessor--and let me--help----?"
She clasped her hands tensely on her knees; the knuckles showed white.
"Nobody can help."
"Is it as bad as that?"
"Yes." She looked away from him. "There is somebody else--not Randy.
Somebody that I shouldn't think about. But I--do----"
She was dry-eyed. But he felt that here was something too deep for
tears.
"Does Randy know?"
"Yes. I told him. We have always talked about things----"
"I see," he sat staring into the fire, "and of course it is Randy that
you ought to marry----"
"I don't want to marry anyone. I shall never marry----"
"Tut-tut, my dear." He laid his hand over hers. "Do you know what I was
thinking, Becky, to-day, as we walked the Boston streets? I was thinking
of why those big houses were built, rows upon rows of them, and of the
people who lived in them. Those old houses speak of homes, Becky, of
people who wanted household gods, and neighborly gatherings, and
community interests. They weren't the kind of people who ran around
Europe with a paint box, as I have been doing. They had home-keeping
hearts and they built for the future."
He was very much in earnest. She had, indeed, never seen him so much in
earnest.
"It is all very well," he went on, "to talk of a tent in a desert or a
hut on a mountain top, but when we walked across the Common this
morning, it seemed to me that if I could really have lived the game we
played--that life could have held nothing better in the world for me
than that, my dear."
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it. "Let me speak to-night,
Becky--and then forever, we'll forget it. I love you--very much. You
don't love me, and I should thank the stars for that, although I am not
sure that I do. I am not a man to deal in--futures. I'll tell you why
some day." He drew a long breath and went on in a lighter tone: "But
you, Becky--you've got to find a man whose face you will want to see at
the other end of the table--for life. It sounds like a prisoner's
sentence, doesn't it?"
But he couldn't carry it off like that, and presently he hid his face
against her hands. "Oh, Becky, Becky," she heard him whisper.
Then there was the Admiral's step in the hall and Archibald was on his
feet, staring in the fire when the little man came in.
"Any letters for Charles to mail?"
"No, Grandfather."
The Admiral limped away. Becky stood up. Cope turned from the fire.
"If it doesn't rain to-morrow, I'll show America to Olga of Petrograd."
They smiled at each other, and Becky held out her hand. He bent and
kissed it. "I shall sleep well to-night because of--to-morrow."
III
But when to-morrow came there was a telephone message for Becky that
Major Prime and his wife were in town. They had messages for her from
Huntersfield, and from King's Crest.
"And so our day is spoiled," said Archibald.
"We can come again," said the Admiral, "but we must be getting back to
Siasconset to-morrow. I wrote to Tristram. We'll have Prime and his wife
here for dinner to-night, and drive them out somewhere this afternoon. I
remember Mark Prime well. I played golf with him one season at Del
Monte. How did you happen to know him, Becky?"
Becky told of the Major's sojourn to King's Crest.
The Copes made separate plans for the afternoon. "If I can't have you to
myself, Becky," Cope complained, "I won't have you at all----"
Madge, sitting later next to Becky in the Admiral's big car, was lovely
in a great cape of pale wisteria, with a turban of the same color set
low on her burnt-gold hair.
"I have brought you wonderful news of Randy Paine," she said to Becky.
"He has sold his story, 'The Trumpeter Swan.' To one of the big
magazines. And they have asked for more. He is by way of being
rather--famous. He came on to New York the day after we arrived. They
had telegraphed for him. We wanted him to come up here with us, but he
wouldn't."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"He had some engagements, and after that----"
"He will never write another story like 'The Trumpeter Swan,'" said
Becky.
"Why not?"
"It--it doesn't seem as if he could---- It is--wonderful, Mrs.
Prime----"
"Well, Randy--is wonderful," said Madge.
A silence fell between them, and when Madge spoke again it was of the
Watermans. "We go to the Crossing to-morrow. I must see Flora before I
go West."
The blood ran up into Becky's heart. She wondered if George Dalton was
with the Watermans. But she did not dare ask.
So she asked about California instead. "You will live out there?"
"Yes, on a ranch. There will be chickens and cows and hogs. It sounds
unromantic, doesn't it? But it is really frightfully interesting. It is
what I have always dreamed about. Mark says this is to be
my--reincarnation."
She laughed a little as she explained what she meant. "And when I was in
New York, I bought the duckiest lilac linens and ginghams, and white
aprons, frilly ones. Mark says I shall look like a dairy maid in 'Robin
Hood.'"
The Major, who was in front of them with the Admiral, turned and spoke.
"Tell her about Kemp."
"Oh, he is going with us. It develops that there is a girl in Scotland
who is waiting for him. And he is going to send for her--and they are to
have a cottage on the ranch, and come into the house to help us, and
there is an old Chinese cook that Mark has had for years."
Becky spoke sharply. "You don't mean Mr.--Dalton's Kemp?"
"Yes. He came to Mark. Didn't you know?"
Becky had not known.
"Why did he leave Mr.--Dalton?"
"He and Georgie had a falling out about an omelette. I fancy it was a
sort of comic opera climax. So Mark got a treasure and Georgie-Porgie
lost one----"
"Georgie-Porgie?"
"Oh, I always call him that, and he hates it," Madge laughed at the
memory.
"You did it to--tease him?" slowly.
"I did it because it was--true. You know the old nursery rhyme? Well,
George is like that. There were always so many girls to be--kissed, and
it was so easy to--run away----"
She said it lightly, with shrugged shoulders, but she did not look at
Becky.
And that night when she was dressing for dinner, Madge said to her
husband, "It sounded--catty--Mark. But I had to do it. There's that
darling boy down there eating his heart out. And she is nursing a
dream----"
The Major was standing by his wife's door, and she was in front of her
mirror. It reflected her gold brocade, her amethysts linked with
diamonds in a long chain that ended in a jeweled locket. Her jewel case
was open and she brought out the pendant that George had sent her and
held it against her throat. "It matches the others," she said.
He arched his eyebrows in inquiry.
"I wouldn't wear it," she said with a sudden quick force, "if there was
not another jewel in the world. I wish he hadn't sent it. Oh, Mark, I
wish I hadn't known him before I found--you," she came up to him
swiftly; "such men as you," she said, "if women could only meet
them--_first_----"
His arm went around her. "It is enough that we--met----"
Becky was also at her mirror at that moment. She had dressed carefully
in silver and white with her pearls and silver slippers. Louise came in
and looked at her. "I haven't any grand and gorgeous things, you know.
And I fancy your Mrs. Prime will be rather gorgeous."
"It suits her," said Becky, "but after this she is going to be
different." She told Louise about the ranch and the linen frocks and the
frilled aprons. "She is going to make herself over. I wonder if it will
be a success."
"It doesn't fit in with my theories," said Louise. "I think it is much
better if people marry each other ready-made."
Becky turned from her mirror. "Louise," she said, "does anything ever
fit in with a woman's theories when she falls in love?"
"One shouldn't fall in love," Louise said, serenely, "they should walk
squarely into it. That's what I shall do, when I get ready to marry----
But I shall love Archibald as long as the good Lord will let me----"
She was trying to say it lightly, but a quiver of her voice betrayed
her.
"Louise," Becky said, "what's the matter with Archibald? Is anything
really the matter?"
Louise began to cry. "Archie saw the doctor to-day, and he won't promise
anything--I made Arch tell me----"
"Oh, Louise." Becky's lips were white.
"Of course if he takes good care of himself, it may not be for years.
You mustn't let him know that I told you, Becky. But I had to tell
somebody. I've kept it all bottled up as if I were a stone image. And
I'm not a stone image, and he's all I have."
She dabbed her eyes with a futile handkerchief. The tears dripped. "I
must stop," she kept saying, "I shall look like a fright for dinner----"
But at dinner she showed no signs of her agitation. She had used powder
and rouge with deft touches. She had followed Becky's example and wore
white, a crisp organdie, with a high blue sash. With her bobbed hair and
pink cheeks she was not unlike a painted doll. She carried a little blue
fan with lacquered sticks, and she tapped the table as she talked to
Major Prime. The tapping was the only sign of her inner agitation.
The Admiral's table that night seemed to Becky a circle of sinister
meaning. There was Archibald, condemned to die--while youth still beat
in his veins---- There was Louise, who must go on without him. There was
the Admiral--the last of a vanished company; there was the Major, whose
life for four years had held--horrors. There was Madge, radiant to-night
in the love of her husband, as she had perhaps once been radiant for
Dalton.
_Georgie-Porgie!_
It was a horrid name. "_There were always so many girls to be
kissed--and it was so easy to run away_----"
She had always hated the nursery rhyme. But now it seemed to sing itself
in her brain.
_"Georgie-Porgie,
Pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls,
And made them cry----"_
Cope was at Becky's right. "Aren't you going to talk to me? You haven't
said a word since the soup."
"Well, everybody else is talking."
"What do I care for anybody else?"
Becky wondered how Archibald did it. How he kept that light manner for a
world which he was not long to know. And there was Louise with rouge
and powder on her cheeks to cover her tears---- That was courage---- She
thought suddenly of "The Trumpeter Swan."
She spoke out of her thoughts. "Randy has sold his story."
He wanted to know all about it, and she repeated what Madge had said.
Yet even as she talked that hateful rhyme persisted,
_"When the girls
Came out to play,
Georgie-Porgie
Ran away----"_
After dinner they went into the drawing-room so that Louise could play
for them. A great mirror which hung at the end of the room reflected
Louise on the piano bench in her baby frock. It reflected Madge, slim
and gold, with a huge fan of lilac feathers. It reflected Becky--in a
rose-colored damask chair, it reflected the three men in black. Years
ago there had been other men and women--the Admiral's wife in red velvet
and the same pearls that were now on Becky's neck---- She shuddered.
As they drove home that night, the Major spoke to his wife of Becky.
"The child looks unhappy."
"She will be unhappy until some day her heart rests in her husband, as
mine does in you. Shall I spoil you, Mark, if I talk like this?"
When they reached their hotel there were letters. One was from Flora:
"You asked about George. He is not with us. He has gone to Nantucket to
visit some friends of his--the Merediths. He will be back next week."
"The Merediths?" Madge said. "George doesn't know any--Merediths.
Mark--he is following Becky."
"Well, she's safe in Boston."
"She is going back. On Wednesday. And he'll be there." Her eyes were
troubled.
"Mark," she said, abruptly, "I wonder if Randy has left New York. Call
him up, please, long distance. I want to talk to him."
"My darling girl, do you know what time it is?"
"Nearly midnight. But that's nothing in New York. And, anyhow, if he is
asleep, we will wake him up. I am going to tell him that George is at
Siasconset."
"But, my dear, what good will it do?"
"He's got to save Becky. I know Dalton's tricks and his manners. He can
cast a glamour over anything. And Randy's the man for her. Oh, Mark,
just think of her money and his genius----"
"What have money and genius to do with it?"
"Nothing, unless they love each other. But--she cares---- You should
have seen her eyes when I said he had sold his story. But she doesn't
know that she cares, and he's got to make her know."
"How can he make her know?"
"Let her see him--now. She has never seen him as he was in New York with
us, sure of himself, knowing that he has found the thing that he can do.
He was beautiful with that radiant boy-look. You know he was, Mark,
wasn't he?"
"Yes, my darling, yes."
"And I want him to be happy, don't you?"
"Of course, dear heart."
"Then get him on the 'phone. I'll do the rest."
IV
Randy, in New York, acclaimed by a crowd of enthusiasts who had read his
story as a gold nugget picked up from a desert of literary mediocrity.
Randy, not knowing himself. Randy, modest beyond belief. Randy, in his
hotel at midnight, walking the floor with his head held high, and saying
to himself, "I've done it."
It seemed to him that, of course, it could not be true. The young editor
who had eyed him through shell-rimmed glasses had said, "There's going
to be a lot of hard work ahead--to keep up to this----"
Randy, in his room, laughed at the thought of work. What did hardness
matter? The thing that really mattered was that he had treasure to lay
at the feet of Becky.
He sat down at the desk to write to her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a
hand that shook with excitement.
"I am to meet a lot of big fellows to-morrow--I shall feel like an
ugly duckling among the swans--oh, the _swans_, Becky, did we ever
think that the Trumpeter in his old glass case----"
The telephone rang. Randy, answering it, found Madge at the other end.
There was an exchange of eager question and eager answer.
Then Randy hung up the receiver, tore up his note to Becky, asked the
office about trains, packed his bag, and went swift in a taxi to the
station.
It was not until he was safe in his sleeper, and racketing through the
night, that he remembered the meeting with the literary swans and the
editor with the shell-rimmed glasses. A telegram would convey his
regrets. He was sorry that he could not meet them, but he had on hand a
more important matter.