PROUD MISS PIDDIWIT
WHEN the “party” broke up Jerry deliberately walked up the hill with
Richard, and suggested, in the tone of the perfect hostess, that as
this would be their last evening together for some time they might draw
up chairs and sit under the spell of “Da” and “Waga.”
“Tell me about your new work,” she suggested. It was as an elderly lady
might ask a very recent freshman about his studies in the new college.
Nevertheless, he told her.
Somehow he felt himself on the defensive. The champion of egoism was
about to shift square about and become altruist; for he made no attempt
to conceal that his interest in taking up the complicated affairs of
big business was prompted not by the wish of making a large fortune
larger, but solely because of the conviction growing upon him that his
responsibilities to others overshadowed the desires of self.
“Suddenly my need of others and their need of me has been made clear
to me,” he explained quietly. “I can no longer fare alone.... I used
to be completely self-sustaining; I had no desires that I could
not supply, for I was careful to keep my wants within my powers to
satisfy them; I had need for no one, and therefore I never felt the
call of co-operation. But the moment that a man finds his happiness
gripped by another----” he hesitated, for it was a difficult matter
to phrase--“the moment the needs of his spirit call to the spirit of
another, then he sees how all are bound together, dependent one upon
another.... I express the thought badly; I doubt if I can truly reason
out the change that has come over me, but its results are clear--I
go to my appointed task, a little late, to be sure, but at last with
clear vision of what that appointed task is.... My caterpillar-views,”
he laughed softly, “look very odd now; perhaps I have broken my
predestined chrysalis ... or perhaps it is the American father speaking
in me at last. At any rate, my wander-years are over. I have been
an English aristocrat, I find, in spite of my poverty--they are the
greatest of natural loafers; ‘barbarians,’ somebody called them, and
rightly. The English are most excellent loafers, exquisites at it.
The American in me, I feel, is going to be no loafer; I can sense him
pulling at me and driving me at service.... And I am still consistent
with myself,” he talked to fill in the empty spaces; she did not seem
inclined to help much; “for I am still honest, and, you know, I never
agreed to be more than that.”
The night was pleasantly mild. A misshapen moon rose slowly over the
Lake and began to light up hill and valley. No hint of the freakish
weather of the afternoon was suggested by this warm summer evening; the
old earth hummed with its crickets and frogs, and rustled its leaves
lazily as if pretending that it had never been unruly in its life. It
was too fine to go indoors, the two young persons agreed.
Topics of conversation grew uncomfortably scarce until Richard
remembered Phœbe. What had she meant by her attitude towards Walter?
Surely she did not intend to marry the boy, yet if ever mortal man was
encouraged by woman that chap was Walter. And if she did not intend
seriously to live up to her implied promise, wouldn’t it be dangerous
to lead him on?
Jerry sprang eagerly into the welcome topic. “I haven’t had such a
shock since----” she could not think of a concrete comparison, at least
none that she cared to mention in this company--“well, since ever so
long. Isn’t it unbelievable?”
“I think it is splendid!” he spoke warmly. “If she cares for him in the
right way--and I have faith that she does--it will be one of the best
arrangements that could be made.”
“Cares for him?” repeated Jerry. “How could she!”
“It is just one more beautiful mystery,” he said quietly. “Why do you
insist upon thinking your own view-point is the whole truth?”
There was not the slightest suggestion of offence in his question. He
seemed to be addressing not Jerry in particular, but the whole human
species.
“But she doesn’t really care for him,” Jerry protested, “in
the--the--way you mean, you know.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Oh, she was very frank to me. She said she believed she was too
strong-minded ever to be enslaved by a man. She made delicious fun
of--of--love, and all that sort of nonsense. She said that what she
wanted was devotion, deference--like du Barry and Madame Maintenon. She
claims that if a woman wants nothing from a man she’ll get everything
she wants. Walter, she said, is the only man whom she can guarantee to
stay devoted for life. Oh, she was very frank, and also very droll. I
tried my best to be serious, but she had me laughing half the time.”
“And so she fooled you, did she?” he asked.
Jerry protested, but he insisted that Phœbe was choosing her mate and
that all her clever chatter was disguise.
“But she fooled me, too,” he laughed. “She let me tell her all my
theories about the reclamation of Walter. Jove! I thought climbing
mastheads after fouled peak halyards was his trouble, but all the while
it was a woman he was climbing after! A woman is his ‘primary,’ after
all. Well! well! She is wonderful. I envy Walter.”
The topic was a good one. It had made Jerry forget her stilted hostess
manner. And after she had once thawed it was difficult, with that moon
mounting gloriously, to freeze up again.
Richard was quick to follow up with another helpful topic--Jawn as a
sailor lad. He retailed the palaver that Jawn had kept going throughout
the whole race. He had made limericks on every part of the ship’s
tackle and on his rival yachtsmen, and he had punned almost to the
limit of endurance. Some of the best ones Richard culled and repeated.
They were too local to be of general interest, but that made their
humour all the keener to a native. Again and again Jerry found herself
limp with merriment, although deep within, something reproached her for
unbending. But she was too weary to resist; she had spent a bad night
and she had been tramping over the hills since sunrise.
Never mind! she told herself; let not the confident man before her
plume himself on graciousness. A woman may smile and smile and be
a--well, not exactly a villain, but as obstinate and unalterable as
the best of villains. On that point she had no misgivings; the long
meditations on the hills with “Count” had cleared her mind of every
doubt and told her what she had to do. It would be silly--now that it
was all decided for ever--to stand aloof like proud Miss Piddiwit.
“Proud Miss Piddiwit, there she goes.
What is she proud of? Nobody knows!”
Miss Piddiwit was an unfortunate figure of speech. Some imp of her
mind, perhaps, some mischievous Puck of that unknown subliminal region
it was who hoisted that forgotten picture of the old “Mother Goose”
book up out of the mental depths and let it strut before her. Miss
Piddiwit bore her head aloft at a perilous angle, and her little heels
clicked on the pavement in staccato rhythm with the couplet, which the
aforesaid subliminal imp took delight in chanting.
“Proud Miss Piddiwit, there she goes.
What is she proud of? Nobody knows!”
“Let’s walk,” she started up suddenly. “This night is too wonderful.”
“Good!” he agreed.
They dropped down the lawn, passed the summer-house without seeming to
notice it at all, and took the State Road which leads north to Penn Yan.
“You are your mother’s daughter,” he announced abruptly. He spoke as if
it were the summing-up of a train of thinking.
“Naturally,” she said.
They walked on for several seconds without speaking.
“You do not ask why,” said Richard.
“Perhaps I know why.”
The “imp” had been forcing her to keep step with the Piddiwit jingle.
“But it would help the conversation if you would ask questions.”
“Is conversation necessary?”
“Ah!” he laughed. “What would distinguish us from the rest of the
animal kingdom if we didn’t talk! Yes,” he went on, “conversation is
necessary. Unless you run away I’m going to talk.... It may be our last
conversation together--although I won’t believe that----”
“How can you be sure, Mr. Richard?”
Into this question she tried to throw a satiric imitation of his
question to her on the night of his arrival in Penn Yan, the night when
she had protested that she at least would never make eyes at him; but,
man-like, he had not the mind to catch such subtleties. Still, the
remark gave her a little elation and put her in good spirits. She would
show this young man!
“As you know,” he replied, “I am sure of nothing. That discourages
some people, but it makes me continually full of hope. Micawber, you
know, was kept radiantly alive by it.... Yesterday I asked you to marry
me----”
“Please!” she interrupted, and quickened her pace.
“Of course I won’t speak if it worries you,” he said contritely enough;
“but it is a pity, I think, not to face every situation fairly. And I
do so want to face this one.”
She slowed up and thought the matter over carefully. Why shouldn’t he
talk if he cared to? The answer was, why, indeed!
“Very well,” she summoned her most casual tones; “face it; only--don’t
expect me to help much.”
“Oh,” he broke in quickly, “I’m not so inexperienced as to believe
anyone can argue away an emotion. Either you like me--in the way I
mean, you know--or you don’t. That’s under neither your control nor
mine. Words won’t mend anything there. But words may help to clear up
misunderstanding.... You are sure this won’t worry you?”
“Why should it?”
“Quite so,” he agreed grimly; “why should it?... Very well....” But he
said nothing more.
She looked up at him quickly.
“Well?” he looked down earnestly.
“You have never been sulky with me,” she explained. “Jawn says you go
for weeks without speaking to anyone, and Phœbe said you went perfectly
dumb on her porch one afternoon. I was just wondering if it were my
turn at last.”
“Oh, no! I don’t feel that way at all! That’s one of the signs that
makes me sure that you--you are ... I can’t get hold of the right
words, that’s all. And it isn’t that, either. I’ve got the right words,
bundles of them! But I’m afraid if I start in to pour them forth at
you--if I start to tell you how much I--I--care about you--you’ll take
fright and also take this trolley home. So to make sure I’ll wait till
it passes. Thank goodness they run only two cars on this line--or is it
the same one going frantically back and forth?”
They stepped aside to avoid the lights of the car. Somehow, both felt
the necessity of keeping clear of publicity.
“I won’t have you maligning the institutions of my country,” she
replied, with a touch of the old-time cheeriness. “We are not a
restless people moving to and fro over the face of the earth and in
subways seeking whom we may devour. Let me inform you, Mr. Richard
Richard, that in the busy summer season we run _both_ cars. If you
were a woman you would not make the mistake of thinking them only one,
for then you would have noticed that while each conductor is handsome,
one is light and the other dark.”
“Like beer,” he joked.
“In these parts you should say, like port and champagne,” she
corrected. “This is a wine country, and we are famous for our
champagne. But don’t you think we should turn back? That is the last
car down, and, as you suggest, I ought to keep within running distance
of home. But I interrupted your beautiful speech. I’m sorry.”
She was quite pleased with herself. At first she feared that she might
not be able to carry off her part of the conversation without showing
suspicious excitement; but here she was actually joking! She was proud
of her control, was this Miss Piddiwit!
Lamely at first and then, as he ceased to pick his words, with surer
touch Richard proceeded with his “beautiful speech.” No smart retorts
came to her aid; no retorts at all, indeed, for the man was sweeping
her off her secured moorings--had she not spent half the night and the
whole of the morning in steeling her will to oppose just this?--and
he was driving her into a horrid state of weak nervousness. Richard
Richard had studied frankness and soul analysis like a research
student, and his speech carried with it an ozonic atmosphere of truth.
Suddenly he came to an end.
Instead of crushing him with any of the carefully selected phrases
which she had rehearsed in her morning tramp with “Count” she filled in
the silence with a question that was almost a cry.
“How do you know it will last?”
“I don’t know it at all,” he replied with amazing frankness. “Every
lover lies, of course, or is deceived, which amounts to the same thing.
Affection usually does not last. The evidence of the world is before
us; why not face it? How can I guarantee the future? I cannot. I know
only my consuming faith that what has begun here so honestly and so
free from taint is bound to have eternal meaning. Perhaps that is
nature’s clever illusion; but I cannot believe it. It may not last, but
what of that? Events are in the hands of the gods; yet what greater
joy than staking all on the risks of life? Faith is the thing. And God
knows I have faith--the faith that passeth understanding.”
She would have more specific reasons. He gave them to her. First, he
talked!
“You say I never sulk with you,” he argued. “It isn’t really sulking
at all. Of course, I know you were only joking; but it is worse than
boorish petulance, it is an absolute dumbness, an inability to speak.
In these past weeks I seem to have broken from my bonds, and I believe
it is you who have set me free. They say that Lewis Carroll had the
same sort of infirmity except in the presence of his beloved children,
and I can well understand how he must have suffered and how he had
to get used to faring it alone. For my shyness I have paid a great
penalty; I have had no playfellows as a child--I never got really
acquainted with my own mother. Governesses and tutors used to shirk
their job and let me alone. If I hadn’t early learned to read and to
like books, I suppose I should have grown up an ignoramus to boot! And
you--why, look how I am talking!
“Now for reason number two. For the first time in my life I want to
take my father’s money and use it. You’ve made me want to do that. You
have filled me with strange worldly ambitions. I want to take my place
with other men and bear my share of the burden; and I want to buy you
all sorts of things. I have a savage desire to clothe you and feed
you and fix up your nest. And I have the wildest visions of a lot of
kiddies----”
She almost shot ahead of him.
“Don’t run away,” he called, and caught up with her. “You’re a grown-up
woman, and I’m so old that it frightens me. Why in the name of all the
holy mysteries at once should we scare off at the thought of children?
Woman, it is the most glorious thought in all creation! And they must
be clothed,” he went on, “and sent to school and to college and taken
to Europe and ‘brought out’ and given a bang-up start in life. And all
that takes money, heaps of it. We’ve just _got_ to have money, woman;
don’t you see that?”
She saw that--better than he did, perhaps--but she could not trust
herself to take up that point in the debate. Fortunately at this moment
she caught through the trees a clear light shining far below in Phœbe
Norris’s cottage.
“I wonder what Phœbe is doing up at this hour?” she turned the subject.
“She usually goes to bed with her Orpingtons.”
“Suppose we find out?” he challenged her.
The returning trolley was grinding up the hill from Branchport and
would soon expose them in the road. If the conductors, “Port” or
“Champagne,” ever caught a good glimpse of her, the news would spread
quickly over Yates county.
“All right,” she agreed, and they struck down the steep road just as
the headlight from the car flashed up over the hill.
He talked eloquently all the way down, but while she listened she used
the time to summon her scattered forces and get her mental house in
order. It had been a wild delight to let him fight down her will, but
she was the daughter of her mother and no weakling.
One thing she was sure of, and it made her glad beyond words to
express: his offer of marriage had not been prompted by charity. He was
in earnest, terribly in earnest; but also he was, as usual, selfish.
She was hearing his point of view, but he showed with every word that
he had no conception of hers.
The world would say, when its scandal-loving ear had taken in all the
facts, that Geraldine Wells, bankrupt, who had been brazenly living
for several years on the savings of negro servants, had deliberately
forced herself upon a rich young man--a notoriously rich young man, at
that--had inveigled him into her home and had trapped him into making
an offer of marriage. A Wells would never permit a situation like that!
Proud Miss Piddiwit!
And how the newspapers would seize the theme! Their searchlight
would flare into every nook; nothing would prevent their discovery
of the incognito and the “romance”; the latter, she knew, would be a
particularly tempting morsel. They make no distinction between the
great and the notorious, but play each impartially to the tune of
their scareheads. Reporters would come by special train; even George
Alexander would be interviewed! Just because a father had had a genius
for accumulation an innocent second generation must suffer publicity.
If Richard Richard had only been a nobody! But he was not; he was by
very birth notorious.
She conjured up headlines that even a hardened city editor would not
have sanctioned. The cable would carry the “news” to Europe. Their
engagement would be one long nightmare of publicity; the marriage would
be a vulgarian’s holiday. And then she remembered the columnist and the
cartoonist. The thought was revolting.
But she drifted, nevertheless, with the compelling events of the night.
To-morrow with its harsh necessities would come in due time, and
to-morrow and to-morrow.
She would do well to linger as long as possible in the exhilarating
illusion of the moment. Even if it were all to be eventually cancelled
and forgotten, it was delightfully thrilling to have this strong man by
her side making most complimentary speeches. His earnestness was very
soothing to her pride; one might as well steep as long as possible in
the experience.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, out on the Lake, Walter had been struggling with his remnant
of a soul, and had found some touch of that peace which comes to the
Lake people, to all people who look out daily on vast stretches of
water. It was peace, but it was tinged with tragic sorrow, and thereby,
and only thereby, it was worthy and beyond price.
While Jerry and Richard were still strolling along the Penn Yan road,
Walter was again at Phœbe’s door. She had prepared herself for bed
when his knock came; so she slipped on a kimono and came to the door
wondering. When she saw his stern face, she stepped back quickly, and
called on her Saint Francis, as a child in great fear might cry to the
mother.
“You needn’t be afraid of me any more, Phœbe,” he spoke huskily but
firmly. “I’ve been thinkin’ things out.... You’re right.... It
wouldn’t do.... It wouldn’t do--for you.... I guess ... I guess,” he
faltered; “I guess this is where I get up or fall back again----”
“But you won’t, boy!” she exulted. “You won’t! You will stand up and
fight for yourself, and you will fight for me, and be the man I’ll be
proud of all my life. All my life, boy.... For me, boy.”
“Yes,” he choked, but stood even a shade more erect. “For you, Phœbe.”
And then he strode away in the moonlight.
And Phœbe watched him from the doorway, and cried little chirping words
to herself; and a sweeping happiness seized her, touched with a vague
regret; and some of it was for the victory she had won; and some of
it was for the pity of it all; and some of it was for the long, empty
years of her own life.
* * * * *
As Jerry and Richard neared the cottage they quieted their step and
moved stealthily to the window at the side. Phœbe was stretched at
length in a commodious leather chair. She was in a great blue kimono
and her hands were clasped behind her neck, her bared arms extending
languorously on either side. Her glorious red hair was smoothed back
and it dropped in two long loose braids in front. Her big blue eyes
were wide, and they focussed on some vast distance. She looked for all
the world like some splendid fearless child.
As they gazed upon the picture the two eavesdroppers felt suddenly like
culprits; so they walked noisily around the porch to the front and
tapped on the door.
“Come in!” Phœbe called, but moved not an inch.
“Ah!” she chuckled wisely, and scrutinized them from her deep chair.
“Gallivantin’, as usual, eh?” On her face was not the slightest trace
of the experience of the night; and her voice suggested never a sorrow.
To the end of her days Phœbe Norris, and all her kind, would practise
concealment of their suffering and of their virtues, reserving full
confession to one only, and that one must be a mate proved by fire!
Only Richard and Phœbe knew the full significance of the accusation of
“gallivanting.” He remembered her etymology, “From ‘galli,’ ‘a woman,’
and ‘vantin’,’ ‘wantin’ ’em bad.’” So he nodded his head and confessed.
“Absolutely guilty in the highest degree,” he said.
“Oh, _ho!_” she exclaimed, and looked first at one and then at the
other. “Oh, _ho!_” she repeated very sagely. “Is that the way the
wind’s a-blowin’!”
She acted as if the idea had never struck her before, but she so
charged the atmosphere with accusation that Richard grew crimson and
Jerry stiffened into angry opposition.
“There’s no wind at all, Phœbe,” Jerry blurted. “Don’t be silly!”
“I’m not accusin’ myself of bein’ silly,” she remarked quietly. “Oh,
well!” she saw that she was making them both self-conscious; “perhaps
the breeze has died down temporarily. It does in these parts, Richard,”
she turned to him learnedly. “The Keuka winds are that tricky, now!
One minute they’re roarin’ as if the seven chained devils were loose
an’ after ’em--as you might have noticed this afternoon--first blowin’
one way and then the other; an’ before you can pull your cap over your
ears and button up the top button of your coat, they’re gone, and the
Lake is as smooth as you see it to-night. But look out!” she cautioned,
with a mischievous smile twinkling about her eyes, “look out! There’s
apt to be an ugly squall any minute. You never can be sure. Just look
at that Lake now!” she pointed out of the long windows. The moon had
lighted up its glassy surface; there was not a wrinkle on it. “Don’t it
look innocent and child-like, now? An’ who would think that it could
ever rise up and roil with passion?”
Her elaborate figure of speech--a very obvious parable--did not help
matters. It was just clever enough to give Jerry a vivid picture of
reality and to cause her to strengthen her obstinate resolution. But
except for an extra look of firmness she disclosed nothing as she
turned the subject.
“We peeked in the window as we passed by, Phœbe,” Jerry confessed. “You
looked adorably contented. A penny for your thoughts.”
“H’m!” Phœbe gave a satisfied purr. “An’ why shouldn’t I be contented?
It isn’t every lone widow that has two suitors in one day.”
“Two!”
They both spoke together.
“It isn’t very complimentary to show such astonishment,” remarked
Phœbe. “I’ve me charms yet, I fancy. Yes, two. One comes along, a
sea-farin’ man, and says, ‘Choose!’ says he; ‘choose between me and
a quart of bad whisky,’ says he. It was a hard problem, savin’ your
presence, Jerry; an’ I couldn’t decide as quickly as the sea-farin’
gentleman wished. Besides, I was confused by the attentions of the
other gentleman, a movie actor, who had come along in the mornin’.”
“A movie actor!”
“An’ why not?” she demanded. “It’s gettin’ to be one of the hazardous
callin’s, demandin’ courage and daring. He plagued me so with
verses----”
“It was Jawn!” cried Richard.
“Jawn it was,” agreed Phœbe. “He told me outright to my face--I like
a man to speak the truth--that he had been disappointed in love some
seventy or eighty times, but that now he had discovered that all his
excitin’ past was just preliminary training to get him ready and fit
for me. But he took me best of all by his main argument. He said that
he had just finished a fine weddin’ hymn, an’ that it was a shame to
waste it. To be sure, he admitted that he had writ it for a lady who
had gone off with another fellow; but with a slight change here and
there, which would not spoil the rhyme and metre at all, he found it
would just do for me. An’ then he read it to me.... It was _very_
seducin’ verse, _very_ seducin’!”
Phœbe was a natural actress. She had the one quality essential to
all great players, the subtle voice tones which compel an audience
to take the contagion of her mood. In one deft speech she had
removed the awkwardness from the atmosphere and had substituted ease
and friendliness. Jerry and Richard chatted and chaffed in total
forgetfulness of their strained relationship. It was a wonderful
dramatic achievement.
“Phœbe, you cannot mean to marry Walter?” Jerry asked abruptly. “The
thing fills me with horror. Why, he is six years younger! We cannot let
you sacrifice yourself like that. You are not really going to do it,
are you?”
“No,” said Phœbe quietly. “I am not. I thought at first that I could
do it. It’s no worse than nursing or school-teachering, and a woman
must have some sort of occupation nowadays.” As she spoke she felt
a momentary shame for her flippancy; but she went on, true to her
instinct to hide the good in her, and even to deny it if too closely
prodded. “The job was too much for Saint Phœbe.”
“But have you told Walter? Aren’t you afraid he’ll----”
“He’s all right. We’ve talked things out. There’s a man in charge of
that boy----”
“What man?” Jerry looked toward Richard.
“A man named Walter, whom few of you seem to know much about. It’s
himself I mean. He thinks he’s doing it for me; and I let him think so;
but he’s really out of my hands now. And one of these days, when he
gets a good, sure grip on himself, I’ll match-make him off so secretly
that neither he nor she will ever know that I planned it all myself.”
“She? Why, who----”
“Well,” she mused, “I’m not sure. If he keeps on the way he’s goin’
it’ll be one of the Fernzie girls, the younger one, maybe. But if he
improves a lot, I may pick out an Armstrong or a Sheppard!”
“Oh!” gasped Jerry. Only a native could understand the prodigiousness
of that colossal joke.
The talk drifted here and there, always subject to Phœbe’s clever will;
and when she made some joking remark about the use of her cottage as a
public bathing pavilion, and in the same breath announced that whatever
those two “gallivanters” intended to do the rest of the night, she was
going to her bed, the moment was right for Richard to raise two fingers
mutely, “Let’s go swimmin’,” and for Jerry to fling up the answer, “All
right.”
It was an outlandish thing to do, but what water lover could resist?
The night was warm, the Lake was waveless, and the lump of a moon
lighted up the scene.
Richard was waiting on the dock for her. A light in Phœbe’s room
went out, and still he waited. For a moment he feared that Jerry had
changed her mind, or perhaps had played a trick on him and had gone out
the rear door and had fled home. Then the light downstairs went out
suddenly; he heard the front door close with a click, and out of the
shadow of the house he discerned the lithe brown figure moving towards
him.
Somehow they did not plunge off instantly, as had been their habit.
Instead, they stood on the edge of the dock and talked. He spoke of the
new life opening before him; and he told her of his father, of his life
of pathetic isolation. The pity of it struck her, and she showed it in
her voice and in her eyes. Her hand touched his arm in sympathy.
Then Richard, who was a man first and a swimmer after, succumbed to the
enchantment of the brown being before him and began again the vehement
avowals which had never been quite completed to his satisfaction in the
summer-house.
“Say you will marry me, Jerry,” he persisted. “I want you and I will
have you! I won’t let you go! Will you marry me, Jerry? Will you? Will
you?” with much unoriginal repetition of the same sort.
“No!” she said. He persisted in asking; but she said, “No!” Nothing
daunted, he began all over again and grew even a shade more insistent.
The world and its ugly sneer began to fade away, but she fought against
her growing irresolution. It was folly, but it was her best instinct,
too. Every right marriage has in its history somewhere the struggle
that precedes surrender. And years of Virginia tradition had put the
seal of necessity on this final struggle. A Wells would force the
tribute of conquest and capture!
“No!” she said vehemently. “No!” He would not be answered and took a
step nearer, but she put out a hand as if to ward him off. “No!” she
cried, almost hysterically, plunged into the water and struck off into
the Lake.
He followed quickly. She was aiming straight towards the farther shore,
and going forward at a dangerous pace. Fear seized him. With terrific
strokes he caught up to her and begged her to come back, but she shook
her head wildly and went desperately on. He promised that he would
never pester her again, but she was blind to persuasion. So he kept
at her side, although it tested his powers, swimming in silence, and
watching every stroke with the keenest anguish.
Shortly she slowed up, and later turned on her back and floated. He
waited until he thought the rest had brought back her strength and then
coaxed her to return. For answer she began swimming onward again, this
time with her long easy sweep; and he followed without a word.
She was in no condition for a distance swim. The day had worn her down,
and the night’s excitement had not helped; but she summoned her will
and swung steadily on. On, on, on, they went while shore faded off and
the great white moon filled the night.
Within a hundred yards of the shore she faltered. He reached quickly
for her, but she cried out incoherently and struck at him. The last
few yards was an agonizing attempt to reach the shallow water. She was
threshing wildly, and calling on him blindly to “keep away!”--although
he had not offered again to touch her--when her foot reached bottom;
she tried to stand but could not, and fell upon her face. He picked her
up, but she pushed him aside and stumbled on to the shore, where she
dropped prone upon the grass, thoroughly spent.
He did not know what to say, fearing that his words might do further
damage, so he sat mutely beside her and listened to her hysteric
weeping, and suffered torments.
While he was waiting, a light flared up in Phœbe’s cottage, and later
he heard the clear rhythm of rowlocks. The distance straight across
the Lake at this point was probably three-quarters of a mile, and, no
doubt, in the stillness of the night the sound of every exclamation had
floated over the flat water and had reverberated in Phœbe’s room. The
old Indian tradition that each year Keuka will take her toll of five
had been all too often verified; so the Lake dwellers were trained to
listen keenly when unusual cries came over the water.
In the white moonlight every object was clear, clearer, it seemed, even
than day. So Richard rose quietly, went to a knoll a few feet away, and
stood and waved his arm. After a time he saw the boat change its course
and knew that Phœbe had marked him. Then he went back and sat on guard
over the prostrate swimmer.
She was quieter now and, save for occasional swift shudders, her
breathing had become almost normal. Suddenly she started to her feet,
and made for the Lake.
“You are not going to swim back?” he protested.
She made no answer, and stepped into the shallow water; but he stood
before her and seized her boldly in his arms.
“I will not let you go!” he spoke firmly, and tightened his grasp. She
struggled and cried out upon him and told him that he was hurting her,
but he drew her to him and was thankful for his strength. And all the
while he talked to her, telling her things that he had told her many
times before, matters which he had given his solemn word would never be
broached again; acting, indeed, like the most and the least intelligent
of swains. He used phrases that have been iterated since the world
began to swim in space; there was not a spark of originality in him!
For a minute or two she tried her little powers against him; then
suddenly she gave in, sobbing like a very contented child. She reached
her arms slowly up and put them about him, and clung to him and
confessed her complete surrender.
Proud Miss Piddiwit had melted quite away.
And thus they stood when the boat grated on the shelving shore and
Phœbe drew in the oars, and turned about and faced them. She was again
in her blue kimono and her wonderful hair fell in its broad braids.
“The saints in heaven!” she ejaculated. “An’ have I got up out o’ me
bed an’ rowed clear across the Lake only to spoil a pretty picnic
party! An’ with the yellin’ and the splashin’ it’s drowned I thought ye
were! What do you mean by disappointin’ me like that!”
Out of the boat leaped Phœbe, not caring at all for six inches of
water, and swooped down upon Jerry.
“Angel-child!” she cried as she reached to draw the wet brown form to
her. “Don’t let that big piggy have _all_ the huggin’!” Jerry tottered
into her wide-opened arms. “Dear-a-dear! Dear-a-dear!” Phœbe soothed
as she rocked her precious burden to and fro. “An’ it’s cryin’ ye
are!... An’ well ye may! An’ well ye may!... An’, by the cross of Saint
Michael, it’s cryin’ myself I am!”
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
PARIS GARDEN, STAMFORD ST., S.E. 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
SOME CONSTABLE NOVELISTS
[Illustration]
MARY JOHNSTON
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ
ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER
MAURICE HEWLETT
L. M. MONTGOMERY
ELEANOR H. PORTER
TALBOT MUNDY
KATHARINE BURT
CHARLES NORRIS
RALPH PAINE
MRS. GEORGE WEMYSS
W. P. LIPSCOMB
THE TITLES OF RECENT BOOKS BY THESE AUTHORS WILL BE FOUND ON THE PAGES
FOLLOWING
[Illustration]
_MARY JOHNSTON_
Michael Forth
The Laird of Glenfernie
These are the latest books of the famous Author of “The Old
Dominion,” “Lewis Rand,” “By Order of the Company,” “Cease Firing,”
etc.
[Illustration]
_VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ_
Mare Nostrum
The Four Horsemen
The latter of these books, now in its fifth impression, is described
as “a great novel” by _The Times_, and “a work of genius” by the
_Saturday Review_.
[Illustration]
_ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER_
Beauty and Bands
The new long novel by the Author of “Concerning Isabel Carnaby,” etc.
[Illustration]
_MAURICE HEWLETT_
The Outlaw
Gudrid the Fair
[Illustration]
_L. M. MONTGOMERY_
Rainbow Valley
Anne’s House of Dreams
“Anne of Green Gables” has friends the world over. She and her
husband and her children appear in these, Mrs. Montgomery’s latest
books.
[Illustration]
_ELEANOR H. PORTER_
Keith’s Dark Tower
Just David
The Road to Understanding
Oh, Money! Money!
Four beautiful novels by the Creator of “Pollyanna.”
[Illustration]
_MRS. GEORGE WEMYSS_
Oranges and Lemons
Impossible People
Jaunty in Charge
By the Author of “The Professional Aunt.”
[Illustration]
_KATHARINE BURT_
The Branding Iron
“A tale of raw, elemental love, written with much force.”--_Sheffield
Daily Telegraph._
[Illustration]
_CHARLES NORRIS_
Salt
“A powerful story giving a sordid aspect of the American educational
system.”--_Outlook._
[Illustration]
_TALBOT MUNDY_
The Ivory Trail
King of the Khyber Rifles
[Illustration]
_RALPH PAINE_
The Call of the Offshore Wind
“For those who love the breath of the sea wind in their
faces.”--_Observer._
[Illustration]
_W. P. LIPSCOMB_
Educating Peter
Staff Tales
Both these books are inimitably illustrated by H. M. Bateman.
CONSTABLE & COMPANY LIMITED
10-12 ORANGE STREET LONDON W.C. 2
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.