PERPLEXED.
CANDACE paused for a second, surprised and hesitating; then she walked
on again. Georgie had not seemed to observe her. The other girl was
doubtless Berry Joy, with whom she was less at ease than with anybody
else. She felt not the least desire to confront her, and a strange man
to boot; besides, Mrs. Joy must not be kept waiting.
"That looks like Berry's village cart," exclaimed Mrs. Joy, as they
drove past a side street where a little vehicle stood drawn up in the
shade under the care of a natty groom. "Was that James and the cart,
Wilkins?"
"Yes, ma'am, I believe it was."
"I wonder where the girls can be," continued Mrs. Joy. "At the
Parishes', most likely, taking afternoon tea. That's a very favorite
place at sunset with all the young people. There is such a wide piazza,
and a splendid view." Having said this, she dismissed the subject from
her mind.
They lingered so long in Thames Street, over various errands, that it
was nearly dinner-time before Candace reached home. Georgie was there
before her; she still had her bonnet on, and was sitting on the piazza
with her mother and Gertrude, giving an account of her afternoon.
"And then we drove down to the Old Point, and called on the Parishes,"
she concluded; "and, mamma, as we came away Miss Gisborne saw us
from her window, and called out that I was to tell you that
Mr.--somebody--Card--Caird--some Englishman, at all events--was coming
to-morrow, and would you please be sure to lunch with her on Wednesday
and meet him?"
"Caird, the artist? yes, I know. Miss Gisborne was expecting him."
Georgie seemed to have finished her narrative. She had not said a word
about Fort Greene.
"Now, Candace, what are your adventures?" demanded Gertrude. "It is
quite exciting, after a dull afternoon on the sofa, to have you all come
in and tell me what you have been about. I watched you drive away with a
face like a frightened kitten."
"You would have seen me looking a great deal more frightened if you had
been with us at Miss Colishaw's," said Candace; and she proceeded to
relate what had happened, in a quiet, demure way which was particularly
funny, throwing in a little unconscious mimicry which made the scene
real to her audience. Miss Colishaw's grim indignation, Mrs. Joy's cool
audacity, her own compunctious helplessness,--all were indicated in
turn. Before she had done, they were in fits of indignant laughter.
"Well, really, I did not think even Mrs. Joy could behave so
outrageously as that," remarked Gertrude.
"It is really too bad," said Mrs. Gray. "Miss Colishaw is one of the
salt of the earth, always working herself to death for anybody who is
sick or in trouble, or poorer than herself. I am afraid her feelings
were really hurt. She is sensitive about her poverty, and has a great
regard for her old family relics. I feared that there might be some
mistake about her wishing to sell her china when Mrs. Joy spoke about
it; but it is a long time since I saw the old lady, and I thought it
possible that something had occurred to make her glad of the money. I am
really shocked at Mrs. Joy."
"If only I could have seen her at the cupboard, with the yeast-pitcher
in her hand, and Miss Colishaw's face!" cried Gertrude, with another
burst of laughter. "Well, after this truly awful interview what did you
do next, Candace?"
"We drove to Coddington's Cove, and then we came back to Washington
Street, and Mrs. Joy told me about the old houses; and then she stopped
the carriage by old Fort Greene, and I went down to the shore to look at
it."
"Did you?" said Georgie with sudden interest; "why--why, Berry and I
were there too. We ran down for a moment."
"I thought I saw you," said Candace, simply.
She was looking straight at Georgie as she spoke, and was surprised to
see her flush suddenly, and then turn as suddenly pale. Her change of
color was so marked that her mother could scarcely have failed to notice
it, had her attention not been for the moment occupied by Frederic, who
just brought out a note which required an answer. Gertrude was looking
another way; only Candace noticed Georgie's unwonted emotion. Nothing
more was said about Fort Greene at the time; but a little later, when
she was in her room smoothing her hair for dinner, Georgie tapped at the
door.
"Cannie," she said, "I'm going to ask you not to say anything more to
anybody about having seen Berry and me on Washington Street to-day."
"Certainly, I won't," replied Candace, making in her surprise one of
those hasty promises which are so often repented of afterward; "but why
not?"
"Oh, well, there are no very important reasons; it's just that I would
rather you wouldn't."
"Very well." But Candace felt vaguely dissatisfied with this
explanation, and a little curious.
She thought of this promise, and of Georgie's odd manner of exacting it
from her, as she fell asleep that night, and again the next morning; but
gradually it faded from her mind, until, about ten days later, something
occurred to revive the remembrance. Mrs. Joy called to ask two of the
girls to drive with Berry and herself to see the polo play. Gertrude
happened to be out; so Candace fell heir to her share of the invitation.
Mrs. Gray was glad to have her go. She herself did not often visit the
Polo Ground, and she thought Candace would enjoy seeing a match, and
that it would be something pleasant for her to remember.
The Polo Ground is a large enclosure to the south of Spring Street, and
well out of the town. It is shut in by a high paling, built with the
intention of excluding every one who does not pay for the pleasure of
witnessing the game. Nature, however,--that free-handed dame,--has
frustrated this precaution by providing, close to the paling, a little
rocky bluff, or rise of land, not owned by the Polo Association, whose
top commands a clear view over the fence; and on polo days this point of
vantage is usually well filled by on-lookers of an impecunious
description. There was quite a little crowd on the brow of "Deadhead
Hill," as it is called, when Mrs. Joy's carriage turned in at the gates;
and she glanced that way and said, "It is really too bad about that
hill!" in a dissatisfied tone, as if the enjoyment of these
non-subscribers jarred in some way, or interfered with the pleasure for
which she herself was forced to pay a round price.
Inside the gate appeared a large railed enclosure, with a wicket at
either end; and about this carriages full of gay people were drawn up
in rows, two or three abreast. The ponies which were to be used in the
game were being led up and down on the farther side of the ground, where
was a range of out-buildings. Presently a bell rang. There was a little
confusion of unblanketing and mounting, and eight riders armed with long
mallets rode forward. Four wore red caps, and four blue; and the two
colors ranged themselves opposite each other at the wickets. The umpire
tossed a little ball into the middle of the ground, and the game began.
Candace was at first rather inclined to laugh at the riders, who were so
much too tall for their little steeds that in some cases their legs
seemed in danger of hitting the ground; but before long she had become
so interested in the game and the bold riding that she no longer felt
inclined to laugh. The object of each side was to drive the ball through
its own wicket; and to effect this a great deal of both courage and
skill were required, not only on the part of the horsemen, but of the
ponies as well. More than once all the eight seemed to be collected in
a breathless tangle about and above the ball, crowding, pushing,
struggling for the chance at a stroke; and in such cases the ponies
seemed to divide the excitement with their masters, and fenced and
curved and described indescribably short circles, regardless of the
danger of getting a hard rap from the cruel mallets on their own poor
little hoofs. Then, when some lucky hit sent the ball spinning across
the ground, it was quite beautiful to see the alacrity with which the
little creatures, of their own accord, as it were, rushed, after it,
obeying the slightest indication from rein or spur, and apparently
measuring the distance and the opportunities as accurately as their
riders. The beat of their small hoofs on the smooth ground was so swift
and even that it was more like a rustle than a rush. To and fro flew the
ball, now almost at the blue wicket, then reached and sent back in the
very nick of time by one of the red champions. Candace was so fascinated
that she had no eyes for any one else till, turning her head by
accident, her eye lighted upon a face in the crowd near the carriage;
and with a flash of recognition she knew that it was the stranger of
whom she had caught that momentary glimpse at Fort Greene. Involuntarily
she glanced at Berry Joy and Georgie, and perceived that the former had
seen the man also and was trying to look as if she had not seen him,
while the latter was honestly unconscious. There was something odd about
the man's manner, which kept Candace's attention fixed. He seemed to be
standing carelessly among other spectators watching the game, and yet by
a series of dexterous movements and small shiftings of position he was
gradually edging toward the carriage. Presently a forward step more
decided than the rest brought him close to it. Georgie saw him now. A
deep color flushed her face; she lowered her parasol as if to hide it.
"I believe you dropped this, madam," said the man, stooping suddenly as
if to pick something up from the ground, and handing to Berry what
seemed to be a note.
"Oh, thanks!" said Berry, in a confused voice, quite different from her
ordinary voice.
The stranger raised his hat formally, and moved aside.
"What was that?" asked Mrs. Joy, who had been watching the game and had
seen nothing of this by-play. "Did you drop something, Berry?"
"Only a note from Julia Prime," answered Berry, slipping the paper in
her pocket.
"It was very civil of that person, whoever he was," said Mrs. Joy,
unsuspiciously.
Berry and Georgie exchanged looks. Candace was at a loss what to think.
There are few better keepers of secrets than shy people. They do not let
things out by accident, as talkative persons do; it is easier for them
to be silent than to talk, to keep counsel than to betray it. But apart
from being shy, Candace's instincts were honorable. She had a lady-like
distaste of interfering with other people's affairs or seeming to pry
into them. She said not a word to any one about this matter of the Polo
Ground, and she tried not to think about it; although it was not in
human nature not to feel a little curiosity, and she caught herself
observing Georgie rather more than usual, though without intending it.
This quickened observation showed her two things: first, that Georgie
had something on her mind; and secondly, that she was determined not to
show it. She laughed and talked rather more than was her custom; and if
the laughter was a little forced, no one else seemed to find it out.
There were times when Candace almost persuaded herself that the whole
thing was the effect of her own imagination, which had exaggerated
something that was perfectly commonplace into importance simply because
she did not understand it; and then again she doubted, and was sure that
Georgie was not like her usual self.
So another week went by, and brought them to September. There was no
sign of autumn as yet. Every leaf was as green and fresh on its bough,
every geranium as bright on its stalk, as if summer were just beginning
instead of just ended. But with the presage which sends the bird
southward long before the cold is felt, and teaches the caterpillar to
roll its cocoon and the squirrel to make ready its winter's nest and
store of nuts, the gay summer crowd began to melt away. Every day
brought a lessened list of arrivals at the hotels; and already there was
that sense of a season over and done with and about to be laid up and
shelved for the winter, which all watering-places know so well, and
which is as a nipping frost to the hopes of landlords and letters of
lodgings. Just why "Finis" should be written so early on the fair page
of the Newport season, it is hard to explain; for, charming as is the
summer, September and October are more charming still, and nowhere does
the later autumn exhibit a more indulgent mood, holding back the winter
till the last possible moment, and sometimes coaxing summer to aid and
abet with supplies of greenery and flowers, till the New Year comes to
put an end to the merry game.
Mr. Gray began to go to town in the Sunday-night boat for two or three
days of business, though he still spent the larger half of the week in
Newport. Marian was sent to Lenox for a week's visit to an aunt. The
family seemed very small now; and when Mrs. Gray one Monday morning
announced her intention of running up to Boston next day for the night
and taking Gertrude with her, Georgie loudly protested.
"It is really cruel of you, mamma. Cannie and I will feel like two
deserted little scraps, all alone in this big house. I do think you
might wait till papa is at home. And there's Marian coming back
to-morrow night. What on earth shall we do with her all day? She will
feel dreadfully to find you gone."
"I am sorry about Marian," confessed Mrs. Gray; "but Tuesday happens to
be the best day for us on several accounts. You and Candace must be
particularly good to her, and not let her feel aggrieved or forlorn. I
have ordered the breakfasts and luncheons and dinner for to-morrow and
Wednesday, so you will have no housekeeping to trouble you, and we shall
be back at six o'clock, you know. Two days are but a short time, after
all. You might ask a couple of girls to dine with you to-morrow,--any
one you like."
But Georgie seemed out of spirits. She was dull and dreamy, and said she
didn't care to invite anybody,--she would rather have a nice lazy time
by themselves, if Candace liked it just as well. Candace, who had made
up her mind to the inevitable Berry Joy, was glad to be let off; so she
spent a very quiet day, for Georgie went to her room as soon as lunch
was over, to lie down, as she said, and sleep off a little headache, and
Candace was left alone till nearly dinner-time.
Marian's arrival from the train brought a little stir and variety; but
it was not of the most pleasurable kind, for she was so disappointed and
indignant at finding her mother absent, that till the first sharp sting
of vexation had abated, nothing could be got out of her but sobs and
broken words of complaint. Even when she grew calmer, things were still
rather melancholy; for she was too tired and depressed for speech, and
just sat in silence, leaning her head against Candace's shoulder until
bedtime. Nor did Georgie and Candace find much to say to each other
after she had departed. Georgie remarked, rather peevishly, that Marian
was a most cross, tiresome child sometimes, and Candace said, "Yes, poor
little thing! but she was really very tired this time, as well as
cross;" then each took a book and read to herself till ten o'clock, when
they separated with a brief good-night. It was a great contrast to the
usual bright, cheerful evenings of the household; and Cannie, as she
undressed, was conscious of being low-spirited. "Homesick" she would
have called it; but the phrase did not justly express her mood, for even
on that dull evening I am very sure that she did not pine for Aunt Myra,
or for the North Tolland farm-house, which was the only place she had
ever called by the name of home.
The next day opened more brightly. Marian was asked to lunch with the
Frewens, who were her favorite friends; and her absence was something of
a relief to the others. Georgie and Candace did their little morning
tasks, not forgetting the arrangement of the fresh flowers, which
usually fell to Gertrude's share; then Georgie sat down to practise, and
Candace settled herself in a deep cushioned chair in the library with
Motley's "Dutch Republic," which she was reading for the first time. It
was the chapter on the siege of Leyden; and the wild, fantastic nocturne
by Chopin which Georgie was playing, seemed to blend and mix itself with
the tragic narrative. Candace did not know how long the reading and the
music had been going on, each complementing the other. She was so
absorbed in her book as not to heed the sound of the bell or Frederic's
noiseless tread as he crossed the hall to answer it; but she roused from
her absorption as the nocturne came suddenly to an end with a crash of
startled chords, and Georgie's hands fell from the keys, at the sight of
Berry Joy, who came hurriedly in at the door. Candace in her corner was
invisible.
"Oh, Georgie, that dreadful creature is here again," she heard Berry
say, while Georgie answered with a little despairing cry, "Not really!
oh, Berry, what shall we do?" Then came a long whispered confabulation;
then another tinkle at the door-bell.
"Frederic, I am engaged," Georgie called out.--"Come upstairs, Berry. If
we stay here, some one is certain to break in." The two rushed across
the hall. Candace heard their rapid steps on the stairs; then Georgie's
door shut with a bang, and all was still.
Her book dropped into her lap unheeded. Her mind was full of puzzled
amazement. Who was the "dreadful creature," and what _did_ it all mean?
The silence in the house was unbroken except by the tick-tick of the
tall clock. It made her nervous at last, and she went out on the lawn to
get rid of the sensation. She picked a few flowers, pulled the seed-pods
from one of the geraniums under her care, and spent some minutes in
petting and fondling Marian's pretty colly, who lay stretched out
luxuriously in the full rays of the mild September sunshine. Then she
caught a glimpse of Berry's figure passing out of the gate, and went
back to the house. The drawing-room was empty. Motley lay on the floor
where she had dropped him. She picked up the volume, and slowly mounted
the stairs. As she passed through the upper entry she heard a sound from
the morning-room; was it a sob? Candace gently approached the door.
Again the sound came, an unmistakable sob; and looking in she saw
Georgie, lying on her mother's sofa with her face hidden, sobbing as if
her heart would break, and saying over and over to herself in a voice
which was like a moan, "What shall I do? oh, what shall I do?"