THE RACE
BY the day of the first boat race Professor Jawn Galloway had
become a perfect tender of “stays,” and an enthusiastic champion of
_Sago-ye-wat-ha_ against the world. Richard was mustered in as the
other “stay tender,” and the Wheelen boy volunteered for jib and
spinnaker. There was no questioning, of course, of Walter’s position;
the captain is always the helmsman and in complete charge of the yacht.
During the morning the crew tried out their various “tricks” and at
noon dropped anchor before Alley’s Inn, which since the days of the
old Keuka Yacht Club had been the starting point of the Lake races.
The distance was approximately twelve miles, three times around a
triangular course, beginning at Alley’s Inn, thence across the Lake to
Willow Grove and up to the North Buoy and back.
At noon the wind dropped to a light breeze which faded into nothingness
by one o’clock. At two, however, the Lake was white with racing “caps.”
A characteristic sudden southwester had sprung out of the hills and was
sweeping up the Lake. In the cove before Alley’s Inn the boats were
securely sheltered, but once beyond the little headlands the fragile
yachts felt the full sweep of the gale and bent over perilously and
tugged at their side stays.
Automobiles were parking on the lawn, the trolley line was running
extra cars, and motor-boats were chugging over from every part of the
Lake. There was great curiosity to see the trial of the new yacht, but
greater to see the erratic Walter Wells in the rôle of skipper. Alley’s
Inn was doing a big business. Luncheon tables overflowed to the wide
porches and even on to the lawn.
Richard looked about him for Geraldine. He did not see her; but Phœbe
was in evidence. Phœbe was at a table with Mrs. Wells and Walter.
The boy was eating little, but he was obviously pleased at Phœbe’s
solicitous attention. She fluttered over him like a young hen, if a
young hen could ever be gay, witty and encouraging, and could “burble”
effervescently. After all, thought Richard, Walter was her “case.” It
was she who had suggested yachting; she had even named the boat. She
was the only one with any practical influence over the boy.
Evidently Jerry did not intend to lunch at Alley’s Inn. She had not
appeared at breakfast. Sukie said she had gone off dressed in a walking
gown--a short-skirted grey corduroy. Sukie said she went off just
before sunrise and that she had taken “Count” with her.
Her reaction in “Grandfather’s Room” had been exactly opposite of
Richard’s expectation. Her main anger, it seems, had been over the
secrecy which she herself had originated, and which circumstances had
prolonged. She had been a willing enough conspirator there, but, it
appears, the conspirator had been conspired against. She believed that
she was in the secret all along, and it turned out in the end that she
had been completely out of it. The startling conclusion--rich man
coming so pat to rescue the bankrupt heiress!--had been too much of a
surprise; indeed, it seemed almost in the nature of a carefully-planned
joke at her expense. That, no doubt, was part of the cause for her
outburst, he reasoned.
Another cause, perhaps, was her pride in possession; she loved
independence and hated dependence. How Virginia has always hated a
tyrant! Her code would not permit her to be under permanent obligations
to anyone. There must always be a chance to pay back, to make equal
return; and what chance was here?--a bankrupt estate against millions.
There was another cause which Richard did not get--many others, indeed,
but chief among them was the fact that Richard helpless and dependent
upon her was a satisfactory situation, but Richard independent could
fare his way whenever the so-called “spirit” should move him. His
new rôle would make Jerry relatively the beggar-maid and Richard the
opulent distributor of largess. She could not stand that. It was
abhorrent. All her training was against succumbing to superiority.
Upon one phase of the case Richard knew his ground. He had noted
the change in her the moment they had crossed the threshold of “Red
Jacket.” On board the steamer she had been a lively, intelligent,
well-bred American, not to be distinguished from others of that
delightful group; but the transfer to her own lands transformed her. In
Europe she was one of many; at “Red Jacket” she was Somebody.
One time on the way home Mrs. Wells had confided to Richard that she
would be glad to get home. “Europe is always wonderful, but I could not
live there,” she said. Richard confessed that he could live anywhere.
But she shook her head, “In Europe I am one of a crowd; in Jerusalem
township I am a Person with a capital P. There we have been the big
family, for ever, it seems; and we have come to act and react like
Persons. Out of Jerusalem township I always feel like a king without a
country.”
The big house and the grounds and the servants were necessary
background to bring out Geraldine Wells. And she fitted into them
naturally, not like someone presuming to be a Person, but as one
manor-born.
While Richard cogitated these weighty personal matters he was standing
on the high embankment overlooking the Lake and seemed to be watching
Fagner as he manœuvred the _Moodiks_ in the growing gale. Here Jawn
joined him.
“Whoop-la!” Jawn cried. The _Moodiks_ had flapped over suddenly. “She
almost went over that time! It’s a life-preserver I’ll be needing if
this blow keeps up. What’s that? Thunder? Shiver-me-timbers, but it
looks squally over to the sou’ by sou’-sou’-sou’-west. Excuse me for
the technical language, old hoss.”
“Is ‘old hoss’ technical?” Richard inquired without turning around.
“No, you jackass,” Jawn replied serenely. “I was referring to the
nautical language. With white pants on I feel ridiculously nautical.
Have you seen my white hat?”
“No.”
“Well then, have you seen your own white hat?”
“Have I a white hat?”
“How in the blazes do you suppose you can tend ‘stays’ in a real yacht
race for a silver cup unless you wear a white hat? You might as well
seek an audience at Buckingham Palace in overalls and blickey; or
play tennis in a dress-suit; or football in pyjamas; or--you’re not
listening at all.”
“Eh?” Richard came out of his reverie. “Oh! So I have a hat, have I?”
Jawn sighed disconsolately.
“What’s the use of the gift of speech,” he groaned, “if nobody has the
gift of listening to it?”
“Go on, Jawn,” Richard turned pleasantly. “I’m listening. But I
couldn’t get my attention away from the _Moodiks_. Fagner’ll have to
take a reef in, don’t you think? I don’t believe he’ll go over, but
he’ll waste so much time coming up into the wind; and that breeze is
mighty gusty to-day.”
“What do I care what happens to him?” Jawn asked. “The more time he
takes the better we’ll like it. We’re going to win.”
“How do you know?”
“Well,” said Jawn, “I’ve timed the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ and she gets over
ground better than the best records they have here. We did the whole
course the other day in sixteen seconds less than the old _Tecumseh_,
which holds the record. And besides I spent my good money on white
sailor hats with blue bands on ’em. Wait till you see the blue bands
with ‘_Sago-ye-wat-ha_’ printed in gold! Yum! We’ll look like regulars
off a battleship. Walter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when I
presented him with his.”
Richard began to show interest.
“The boy has changed wonderfully, don’t you think?”
Jawn dropped his bantering tone. Into his face came the serious gleam
of the specialist; his holiday carelessness disappeared.
“You’re quite right,” he said. “The boy’s got stuff in him. We’ve been
chumming around a bit this past week. I thought he was a plain ‘moron,’
at first--not an idiot, but slightly off the normal, you know--but I’ve
changed completely on that. I’ve been giving him all sorts of tests on
the quiet. You were absolutely right in your first diagnosis. Drink is
not his ‘primary,’ it’s this yacht business. In some ways he’s a fool,
but not on board the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_! That’s _his_, his very own. It’s
the first sensation of genuine ownership he’s ever had, and it fills
him so full of pride and self-glorification that his small brain hasn’t
room for anything else. The only thing I fear is that he won’t be able
to stand a loss to-day. I’ve tried to prepare him for it, but he won’t
think of losing. I’m afraid we’ve got to win this race, if we have to
make a short cut across one of the buoys and trust that the judges
aren’t looking.”
Tyler, the skipper of the _Cohlosa_, came up at this juncture. The men
had met before.
“My friend, the enemy!” cried Jawn, shaking hands vigorously. “Old
_Sago-ye-wat-ha_ is after your scalp to-day, Tyler. The _Cohlosa_ had
better hold on tight to her hair-ribbons and stand ready to yell police
any minute.”
“The _Cohlosa_ is easily frightened,” said Tyler genially. “We have run
away from a number of fierce boats.”
Phœbe saw the men together and slipped over to them. Walter had gone on
board the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_.
“Don’t quarrel, now,” she said. “Try to keep your tempers, men. I
know how you feel, but hide it. Pretend at least to be friends. I’m
shakin’ hands with you, Mr. Tyler, but I’m countin’ my beads for
_Sago-ye-wat-ha_ and rainin’ my last curses on the _Cohlosa_, bad cess
to it!”
“Well, I’m sorry,” smiled Tyler; “for they say that the prayer of the
righteous availeth much.”
“Now don’t talk that way!” she protested. “I must keep all the fires of
hatred goin’, an’ how can I hate you properly, man, when you blarney me
so beautifully? I never was the one to stand out against a man who’d
flattered me. Well, I hope you come in second, then, Mr. Tyler, but
don’t tell me any more pretty lies or I’ll be wishin’ it a tie race.
An’ now, as man to woman, Mr. Tyler, give us a tip. Do you think we
have a chance? An’ is there any little thing you can suggest to help us
beat you?”
“Votes for women!” cried Jawn. “Wait till they carry on a Presidential
campaign, boys. We’ll all be confessing to bribery and ballot-stuffing
weeks before we start to do the crooked work. Own up, Tyler, that
you’ve got a gasolene engine concealed under the rudder. Or perhaps
you’ll oblige a lady by boring a few auger holes in the bottom.”
“Jawn Galloway!” Phœbe turned on him. “How can you have the nerve to go
on talkin’ an’ in the same breath refer to _anything_ bein’ bored?”
Jawn surrendered and let Phœbe have the floor. Her bantering request to
Tyler had a serious object back of it. This race was something more, as
she well knew, than a test of skill; it was the test of a man. Walter’s
fate was more or less in the balance, and she wished to allay her
painful anxiety by some encouraging word. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have
given a bundle of fiddle-strings to be the winner of a dozen Lake cups;
but this race was not an ordinary race.
Somehow Tyler, a fine, sensitive man--sportsman every inch of
him--caught the undercurrent of seriousness back of the laughing face.
“Fagner is always dangerous in a race,” he said, “but this time we
both have our eye on Walter. He’s a fine, natural sailor, the best
‘passenger’ I ever had. He knows what I’m going to do before I do it
and is ready to follow up the order without wasting valuable seconds.
He has a splendid knowledge of local wind currents--almost unnatural.
I’ve often asked his advice when I’ve been in a pinch. The only
question is, has he the control to stand the strain of a long race? I’d
like to see the boy win, Mrs. Norris----”
“You’re a good lad!” Mrs. Norris broke in nervously. “Go on; tell me
some more. It’ll keep me from faintin’ away. You’re good as a drink,
Mr. Tyler.”
“I’d like to see him win,” Tyler continued, “though, of course, I’m
going to make him work. There’s nothing more merciless in these parts
than the yacht races, you know.”
“Sure, we’re not askin’ for any gifts,” chirped Phœbe, “but I thank you
for the encouragin’ word, just the same, Mr. Tyler.”
It was close to three o’clock, the starting time, and Walter, with
the help of Wheelen, was hoisting the mainsail. This was hint enough
for Jawn and Richard to get on board. One searching glance around the
grounds before Richard stepped from the dock into the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_
gave no sign of Geraldine. As he took his place at the port-stays and
coiled his ropes he wondered if she would come down, or if she were
still marching away across the hills with “Count.” Discouragement
seized him, a rare mood of this optimistic man, and for several dismal
minutes he lost his faith in “the gods” who held all things in their
capacious laps.
When the “get ready” gun sounded the wind was half a gale and pointing
almost directly up the Lake. The judges were questioning the wisdom
of starting, but evidently decided to take a chance, for in a moment
or two the starting gun went off and the _Pluma_, a small boat with
a three-minute handicap, crossed the line, and the race was on. The
_Aurora_ followed a half-minute later and then came the anxious
wait of two minutes while the _Cohlosa_ and the _Moodiks_ jockeyed
along the edge of the starting line, each eager to get into the best
position when their signal-gun should set them free. The _Cohlosa_
and the _Moodiks_ were boats of the same sail area, so their handicap
was identical. _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ carried a slightly larger mainsail,
a matter of inches only, but it forced her to take the “scratch”
position, a half-minute back of her two “Class A” rivals.
Both the _Cohlosa_ and the _Moodiks_ had taken the precaution of a
single reef. Walter had not shown his hand until close to the starting
minute. His mainsail was only half hoisted. But the moment the two
“Class A” yachts nosed across the line--Fagner, as usual, getting the
best position--he raised the sail and disclosed three reefs. It was a
type of caution that the yachtsmen on shore did not expect of Walter
Wells.
“Afraid of trouble?” Richard asked.
“No,” said Walter. “Want speed. Can’t get speed when she’s half on
keel.”
So many exciting things were happening at once that hardly anyone
noticed the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ as she struck the line with the gun. The
_Pluma_ had dropped her sail and her men were busy trying to keep it
from ripping away. The _Aurora_ had come right about into the wind. Her
men were bailing like good fellows. Fagner and Tyler were beating over
to the Willow Grove buoy bent nearly level with the water.
The _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ stood up well and with her three reefs was able
to steer a straight course. At Willow Grove the three boats seemed to
be entangled. The judges were on tiptoe, glasses to face, watching for
possible fouls, but no one was ready to see the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ move
sedately around the buoy and fly off before the wind in the lead. In
the first leg she had made up her half-minute handicap!
The strength of the wind was made instantly clear to the spectators on
shore. By the recorded time Walter had nosed around the first buoy just
six seconds ahead of Fagner, but while those six seconds were being
ticked off he was speeding up the Lake with the gale behind him. As
they all broke out in a line for the two-mile run north the gap between
the first two boats seemed leagues.
Walter did not risk his spinnaker--any extra sail was perilous in
that gale--but first Fagner and then Tyler flung their great balloon
jibs out with the daring of veterans. It was a beautiful sight, that
two-mile run; every inch of the race was in full view of the group
on shore, although it took glasses to distinguish the yachts as they
huddled together near the North Buoy.
Up to within a quarter of a mile of the North Buoy the yachts had
maintained their distances, _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ first, Fagner a hundred
yards astern and Tyler a few feet in the rear. The _Pluma_ and the
_Aurora_ had swamped and were towed ashore by ready motor-boats.
But within a quarter of a mile of the North Buoy the wind suddenly
slackened. Then the spinnakers told. In the swift changes that occur
in yacht races of this sort the positions seemed instantly to change.
Again the three boats massed at the buoy, but this time the _Cohlosa_
came about first, followed by the _Moodiks_. The _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ was
last.
Anyone can sail before the wind. The test of seamanship is in the
cleverness of the tacking, and that test was now on. Tyler shot off
to the east and, as everyone knew, Fagner did the opposite. Fagner’s
theory seemed to be that if you get an advantage of a slant of the wind
it is better to have the other fellow in some other part of the Lake.
Walter followed Tyler, but broke his tack early; so the three boats
were soon in widely scattered portions of the Lake. As they crossed and
recrossed each other’s paths it was impossible to tell which was in the
lead. The long beat down the Lake was therefore tremendously exciting
to the partisans on shore, each group seeing its own the victor.
Characteristic of winds in this hilly country the breeze, still
moderately stiff but no longer the fierce gale of the beginning,
shifted to the southeast. Each skipper was thoroughly aware of the
change, of course, but none, perhaps, were so mindful of the advantages
of changing the original plans as Walter. In the middle of the Lake
he suddenly let out his reefs and came about. He was now pointing
almost directly to the cove at Electric Park just above Alley’s Inn;
and into this cove he slid until he was lost to the group on the high
ground at the starting point. Fagner and Tyler were beating down to the
starting buoy from the east, but it was soon obvious that each would
have to take one more tack, although they “pointed” courageously; but
as they put about reluctantly for one more try, the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_
nosed along the shore and shot past Alley’s Inn, crossed the starting
line and swung out for a long tack to Willow Grove. Walter had been
pointing straight into the southeast wind, seemingly an impossible
feat. According to all the rules his mainsail and jib should have been
flapping uselessly, but, instead, they had been comfortably filled. A
back-current from the western hills had carried him forward.
It was three minutes before Fagner crossed the line and a minute more
before Tyler finished the first leg. By that time Walter had rounded
the Willow Grove buoy and was scudding up the Lake with the southeaster
back of him. It was then that he flung out his spinnaker.
To the surprise of everyone he did not aim directly for the North Buoy,
but crowded far to the east. In an uncanny way he had guessed that the
freakish wind would soon shift to the east and then to the northeast.
And so it did. He crossed the Lake with the wind still at his back and
came about the North Buoy in time to get the new shift to northeast.
His spinnaker was still ballooning beautifully as he came down to
finish the second leg, while Fagner and Tyler were beating up in long
tacks.
The wind had blown him up the Lake and obligingly had turned around to
blow him down again. And while he had gone north in a straight line his
competitors for the cup had been compelled to zigzag across the Lake,
five times his distance.
Luck had been with Walter, of course, but at the same time he had been
knowing enough to take advantage of his special knowledge of the ways
of the wind. In his present position nothing short of a calm could have
taken the race from him, and the northeaster that began to blow--it
was the old storm, which had by this time veered to an opposite
quarter--gave no signs of letting up.
The end came rapidly. When Walter crossed the finish line a winner
of the first of the three races for the cup, the _Moodiks_ and the
_Cohlosa_ had not yet reached the North Buoy on the final leg.
It was as the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ passed Alley’s Inn a winner and sped on
down the Lake towards Bluff Point and “home” that Richard caught sight
of “Count” stretched out on the lawn and saw beside him a figure in
grey standing silhouetted against the trees; then he knew that Jerry
had been present to see at least the glorious finish. She had a pair of
field-glasses to her eyes, and as he became conscious of the fact that
she was following the fast retreating yacht his ears burned and the
blood flushed his neck and forehead. It was fortunate at that moment
that the _Sago-ye-wat-ha_ had no urgent need of her “stay” tender!
Walter bore his victory very grimly. He smiled faintly towards the
shore as the horns tooted and the motor whistles blew and he listened
attentively to the chorus of exciting congratulations from his crew and
from the crowd on the end of the dock and from unknown persons scooting
by in motor-boats, but he said nothing. His eye was on Bluff Point and
his mind seemed to be busy calculating if this sweeping northeaster
would last long enough to carry him home.
The other members of the crew would have preferred to stay and bask in
the victory. It would be pleasant to anchor off the Inn and watch the
veterans, _Moodiks_ and _Cohlosa_, fight it out for second place. But
Walter said “No,” and no one pressed him. The victory was his entirely,
they realized, and in this happy hour the captain’s wishes would be
their law.
On his way home Richard spent his time watching the boy’s face. In the
past month Walter seemed to have grown several steps nearer to manhood;
certainly as he held the tiller snug under his left arm and trimmed the
mainsheet with his right hand he looked miles removed from the helpless
creature of the S.S. _Victoria_. The “cure” had made great progress;
so great, indeed, that Richard was quite puffed up with pride of this
secret victory of his which outclassed the winning of a mere yacht race.
He wished to hear him talk, to see how he carried himself in
this unique experience of having done something worthy of public
commendation.
“If that wind-pocket is always off shore when a southeaster blows,” he
began, “how is it that the other skippers don’t know of it?”
“’Tain’t always there,” said Walter; but he did not grin sheepishly, as
he might have done several weeks ago.
“Oh!... Weren’t you sure it was there to-day?”
“No, not sure; jes’ took a chance. Things looked right.”
“Suppose you had missed your guess?”
“We’d ’a’ lost.”
“Were you prepared to lose?”
“Sure! This ain’t the on’y race! Best out o’ five.”
The races were scheduled one each week until one boat had taken three
wins, but Richard knew that his work with Walter was over. There was no
excuse he would offer to stay longer at “Red Jacket,” for there would
be volunteers a-plenty to tend port-stays, and, evidently, Walter had
“found himself.” Richard’s feelings were a complex of disappointment
and joy. The new life in New York was making a vigorous call upon him.
His wander-years were over, and, as easily as season slips into season,
he was turning directly about and facing with high curiosity the next
stage when he would take up his father’s work as man of many affairs.
Wheelen put off in his motor-boat, and Walter left as soon as
everything was stowed away, but Jawn and Richard sat in the shade of
the Lombardy poplars and enjoyed the fine August evening. Their talk
was interrupted by a crash of some falling object in Phœbe’s cottage. A
trifling accident, probably. They had heard Phœbe’s voice when Walter
entered. Of course she had driven down with the Wells or probably had
come down in the trolley and, naturally, would have made the distance
in much less time than it took the yacht to round Bluff Point and beat
up to the dock.
Voices in anger and another crash of furniture brought the two men
to their feet. Before they had taken a dozen steps they saw Walter
rush out and reach up to the little shelf where the whisky had rested
untouched since early spring. Phœbe followed instantly; she was talking
to him soothingly, although the men noticed that she had unhooked
Seth’s whip; but Walter was shrill and defiant. When Jerry, too,
emerged from the house the men dropped into a walk and entered upon the
scene with seeming calmness.
Jerry stood away from the boy, but Phœbe was not afraid of him.
“You said y’d marry me!” Walter shouted hoarsely and gripped the
whisky. “You said----”
“No, Walter,” Phœbe pursued him calmly. “I said I would think about it.
An’ I _am_ thinkin’ about it, my boy.”
“Y’r puttin’ me off, an’ puttin’ me off!” he complained harshly. “An’
I won’t stan’ it, d’ye hear? Won’t stan’ it! Gotta know some time ’r
other. Gotta know _now_!”
“Listen to the lad!” Phœbe was purring cheerily. “He isn’t satisfied
to win a boat race, but he must win a woman all in the same day.”
Walter tossed his head defiantly and raised the bottle. “_If you so
much as lift that stuff to your lips, young man_,” she cried suddenly,
so suddenly as to upset a considerable portion of it on her porch;
“_if ye even touch it_,” she cried, “I’ll not only never marry you but
I’ll beat you with this whip till you cry for mercy!” Then when he
dropped his arm she laughed softly--burbled, that is!--and coaxed him
again. “How do I know I won’t marry you, lad? You must give me time,
now. It’s a long while to be together as man an’ wife--ah!” she sighed
comically--“it’s that sentimental I am I can’t say the words without it
sendin’ me all a-flutter!... Come in, Walter; put that stuff up--no,
don’t throw it away! Put it back where you got it. I want you to have
it right before you, to make sure you’ve got really done with it. An’
by the same token, me lad, I’ll just hang me little whip up here beside
it, to keep it company like!” Her laugh took all the sting out of that
remark, but it did not conceal the determination back of the words.
The men would have slipped off, but Phœbe invited them to stay. And she
invited them also to help her prepare a fitting supper to celebrate the
victory. In a few moments her chatter and laughter filled all the scene
and blotted out the ugly episode. And every now and then she would give
Walter little pats as she passed him--he made no effort to help with
the “party”--and she would whisper startling little things in his ear
and set him grinning in spite of himself.
And Jerry? She was still in her walking suit of grey corduroy, and her
mood was somewhat of that sombre colour, but the victory of Walter’s
boat and the shock made by Walter’s revelations of his relations with
Phœbe had served to put a slight glow of warmth into her speech. To
Richard she conversed frankly, but with an air of keeping something
back.
Later in the evening when in the clatter of voices he managed to tell
her that he would go to New York on the morrow, her eyes opened very
wide, but she said nothing.
“It is for good,” he tried to smile.
“What are you going to do there?” she asked indifferently.
“Take up my father’s work, if I am able.”
“That’s rather inconsistent, isn’t it?”
“Nothing that one does honestly is inconsistent,” he replied firmly. “I
never believed I could do it; but the inward voice calls very loud just
now, and I am eager to try myself in this new experience.”
“We shall miss you,” she tried to tell him in a tone of polite
sincerity, and she bravely declined to avoid looking at him. Their
eyes met squarely. It was a dangerous moment, but she managed it with
dramatic success; so much so that while his own eyes had the appearance
of a pathetic dog waiting for his biscuit, hers resembled nothing so
much as the round staring optics of those old-fashioned French dolls.
As abruptly as Phœbe had invited everyone to stay and sup with her, she
invited everyone to leave. She wished to be alone, she said, to gather
her scattered wits. Walter was expressly included in the notice of
eviction, but he stubbornly remained behind.
Phœbe affected not to observe him as she cleared up briskly, humming
as she went in and out doors, as she brushed crumbs, or moved chairs
and benches about. Walter watched her hungrily, but his bravado
was gone; he glanced at her now and then almost timidly, fearing,
somehow, her very physical strength and the atmosphere she carried of
confidence, determination, will--qualities he vaguely envied in her.
“Well, Walter,” she turned to him at length, as if at last she had
gathered those scattered wits and had them concentrated on a thing to
do. “Well, Walter, we have a few matters to settle, haven’t we?”
Walter tried to answer, but speech was not quite possible for him. He
was keen enough to sense disaster in her tone, and knew not how to meet
it with words.
“Did I ever say I would marry you?” she went at him with brisk
directness.
“Yes,” he answered doggedly.
“Think, boy,” swiftly she softened her tone. “Wasn’t it you who were
always at me, and didn’t I always tell you that I wouldn’t even talk
about it? Boy! Boy!” She came near him and mothered him with her smile.
“Wasn’t it always you? Always just you?”
“Yes,” he managed huskily.
“I’m six years older than you----” she began, but he interrupted
fiercely.
“That makes no difference!” he cried. “No difference at all!”
“If it were only that, boy,” she continued. “But I am more than six
years older, Walter; I am ages older. I have lived ... lived----”
she stopped and let her eyes rove about the room. “Years! What are
years!” She threw up her hands. “Twenty-eight? I’m nearer a hundred
and twenty-eight! Life has burned me out, and all the faster because
before the world I am too proud to own to it; in experience, boy, I am
an old woman.”
He stopped her and told her of her youth and her beauty and her
compelling loveliness. His voice trembled, but he forced himself
through a strong manly speech.
“Fine!” cried Phœbe. “Boy! Boy!” she crooned, “it’s yourself you’re
comin’ to now! Now you’re talkin’ like a man! Talkin’ like a man, you
are! And let me talk to you like a woman. Maybe I didn’t say I would
marry you, but I was ready to--if I was forced to it----”
“Forced!” he exclaimed. “What d’ y’ mean?”
“Just that--forced.” Her voice was low now, and solemn. “If there had
been no other way out, no other way to save you from yourself, I’d have
done it. You and your mother and Jerry are all I have, and what would
I not do for them? I would have done it; but it would have been like
taking in some hunted creature that everybody had given up. And that is
pity, Walter; just pity.”
“Don’t care what you call it,” he said.
“Pity is all right for stray dogs, Walter. If you had been just a
crippled little puppy--well, I could have shared everything with you.
But to marry, to live together--I couldn’t. I thought I could, but now
I see that I never could. I am not big enough for that.”
He stood up and began to summon his strength to combat her, but she
waved him down.
“Listen,” she said. “Listen until I finish.... Boy, it wouldn’t work.
We’re not the mates for each other. No! No! We’re not, I tell you.”
Then he broke forth in speeches that were mixtures of strength
and weakness. He demanded his rights; he begged her to be kind; he
threatened; he pointed out the misery she was planning for him.
“And are you thinkin’ of my misery?” she asked, so plaintively as to
arrest him.
“You?”
“Yes--just me. Do you fancy for a moment that it wouldn’t be misery for
me? I pity you, and I care for you so much that my heart aches for you;
I would give years of my life to see you grow into a strong dependable
man, but I don’t love you.... Don’t speak yet; let me speak. I will
tell you something that nobody else knows. In my bedroom is a tiny
closet which nobody opens but me; and when it is opened it is an altar,
with candles, and a sweet, old, crooked image of Saint Francis which
belonged to my mother; Saint Francis who loved the birds and the souls
of all dumb things. And I fool everybody, everybody but you; for I pray
before my little altar--and I have oh! such faith! But nobody else
knows that; nobody but you and me now. How I fool them all with my bad
tongue!... And when I pray I pray for you. I pray that the good in you
shall grow and grow and grow. And my prayer is answered daily! And I
pray that the good Saint Francis shall spread out his arms and take you
up and shield you from all bitterness and wrong thinking. ‘Dear God,’
I say, ‘make my boy to see; reach out the hand to his stumbling feet;
make my boy to see.’”
He tried to tell her something, but he could not speak. The pity in her
voice, her swimming eyes, and the picture she conjured before him of
the trustful suppliant bowed below her little candles--it was too much;
it engulfed him.
Soon she went on. “I don’t love you and you would find it out; and
then--why, Walter, in the next ten years you will be still a youth, a
youth demanding youth; while I will be forty and faded out. Oh, yes, I
will! I know my kind. They are either very young or very old--no middle
years at all. I will grow suddenly old--and it would come all the
quicker if every day I should suffer.”
He told her defiantly that she would not suffer.
“Oh, yes, I should,” she nodded her head wisely. “For you, Walter, it
might mean a little happiness, but for me it would be daily and hourly
pain. I know. You look at the present, but I see the years and years
ahead. No, boy; you must grow strong as you have been growing. You must
throw off the evil that has gripped you. And then, some day when you
have become a man among men, love will come to you, and you and she
will ... will go off together ... as ... as once ... I thought I was
going.”
Softly she slipped into a chair and buried her face in her hands, and
the quiet tears came.
After a painful moment or two Phœbe controlled her voice, but she did
not look up as she spoke, nor take her hands away from her face.
“I haven’t told you all, Walter,” she said. “I have been trying not to
say it ... but I must tell you. I have prayed that if it must be, I
would take you and give my life to you.... And I will.”
“You will?” he asked incredulously, and struggled to grasp the meaning
of her startling suggestion.
“I will if it is God’s will.... He will tell me.... Oh, I have great
faith, boy. He will tell me in a very simple way. I offer all my life
to you as I meant to do when you came here that night a year ago, and I
got you on your feet and you promised to try. And you have tried, boy;
I’m proud of the way you have tried!... I promised God then that if He
willed it I would take you and save your soul.... He will tell me; it
will be when you say again that you want me ... that you still want me
to do it.”
“When I say I----” he began, but found no need to finish.
Walter saw all too clearly what she meant. She nodded, but did not
remove her hands from her face. She seemed to be waiting tremulously
for the verdict from on high.
If he still insisted that he wanted her, if his mind was blind to the
sacrifice, then he would indeed need her; if he thought enough of her
not to drag her down with him, then there was the spark of a man in
him, and he would not need her. And as he spoke, so would God speak.
For an irresolute moment or two Walter stood watching her; then he
swore a savage sort of oath and cried out that he would make her keep
her word; and then he fled out of the house, as if fearful of himself.
But the incoherencies had gone from his speech. He was a beaten man,
but, Phœbe exulted as she dabbed at her eyes, he was a man! It was a
bitter hour for him, but he was struggling now, not as a weakling,
petulant and unreasonable, but as a man battling with grief. So in
spite of her tears there was a smile on her face as she looked after
him. She listened, and knew his step on the uneven planks of the
dock. Then she heard the “plump” of his plunge into the tender, which
gave her a horrid second of terror until the powerful strokes of oars
creaking fainter and fainter told her that he was rowing out into the
calm Lake.
She went to the window and watched his black silhouette. The moon was
just beginning to mount.
“It’s the Lake that we go to in our little troubles,” she murmured.
“The dear old mother of a Lake!”