I pr’ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with
thee.—_As You Like It_, iv, 1.
Kenneth started on his fishing expedition. The road which passed the
Adams house wandered aimlessly off toward a woodland, and at the edge of
this there was a brook. Here was shade, and fallen trees which offered
particularly comfortable seats. As Miss Esther had said, there were no
fish now. There had been one once—a very large one—which had been
caught, but that was in the days when Miss Esther’s father used to fish
there. This lack, however, did not cause the least worry to Kenneth. His
mood was rather for the manner than the matter in hand. He wanted to
fish—not to catch fish, and his mother’s pail, had there been nothing
else available, would have suggested to him those essential ideas which
are of the Waltonian impulse. He wanted to think, and there is nothing
more subtly conducive to the reflective frame of mind than sitting on a
log, dangling a fish-line in a brook. If one catches fish, then there is
immediate business in hand which spoils a train of thought. Your true
philosopher, therefore, desires no fish—he simply wants to sit and
think. That is the secret of fishing, and Kenneth Westcott knew it.
Jean Richards, from behind the vines of her own veranda, had watched
Kenneth’s departure from the Adams house and his subsequent progress
toward the brook. “How absurd,” she thought, as she noted the rod and
creel. “He can’t catch anything in that brook. I’ll go down and tell him
so. I rather like those boys of Miss Esther’s. I think I’ll cultivate
them—the brothers I mean; that lame lieutenant is a prig, I’m sure, but
the Westcott boys seem quite worth while. Yes, I’ll go down there. He’ll
be glad of somebody to amuse him when he finds he can’t catch any fish.”
Jean waited until she thought that Kenneth had had time to discover the
fishlessness of the brook, and then leisurely proceeded along the same
path he had taken.
She came upon him suddenly. Seated on the ground, his back against a
fallen log, his hands clasped behind his head, and his fish-line
trailing in the brook, Kenneth was staring vacantly toward the blue of
the sky.
“Good gracious, how you scared me!” cried Jean. “I didn’t know you were
here.”
“I’m going away in a minute,” he replied, as, after a disinterested
glance at the intruder, he went on with his sky-gazing.
“Well, of _all_ things!” exclaimed Jean. “May I sit here until you go?
I’m awfully tired.”
“Certainly, sit down if you like. It isn’t my log.”
Jean sat down. Kenneth continued to gaze at the sky.
“What are you doing?” she asked at last.
“Cleaning my automobile.”
“Papa has just got a new buggy,” said Jean, ingratiatingly.
“Has he?”
“My father is the manager of the Whitfield Flour and Feed Company.”
“Is he?”
“Yes, he is. He thinks I’m nice.”
“Does he?”
Jean rested her chin in her hand and regarded the young man steadily for
some moments. “Do you know, I rather like you? Nobody ever talked to me
like that before.”
“Do you like to be talked to that way?” Kenneth glanced critically at
his fishing-rod, and moved his position a trifle.
“Yes; who are you, anyway?”
“You know my name.”
“Well, what are you, then?”
“I’m a fairy prince.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m hunting a fairy princess.”
“How fortunate I happened along just now.”
Kenneth rose, picked up his rod, walked a little way and leaned it
against a tree.
“Oh, are you going?” asked Jean. “Good-bye!”
“No, I’m not going. I’m coming back to sit on the log and talk to you;
but I see an interruption approaching in the shape of two able-bodied
men. One of them is our friend, Mr. Brewster.”
“And the other is Dr. Bushnell, the minister. Mr. Brewster is staying at
his house.”
The two newcomers accepted the hospitality offered by the occupants of
the log, Brewster throwing himself at full length on the grass, and Dr.
Bushnell, carefully selecting an available place, seated himself with
great dignity. “What a poetic spot,” he said. “It reminds me of that
wonderful line of Mrs. Hemans’s, ‘Men may come and men may go, but I go
on forever.’ That is a beautiful thought. It is well said that there are
sermons in running brooks.”
“Why don’t you pick one out for next Sunday, Dr. Bushnell?” inquired
Jean, with an air of seriousness.
“I think I will. I think I will. That is by no means a bad idea. I thank
you, my dear young lady, for suggesting it to me. From a brook one may
draw many—”
“Fish,” said Jean.
“Not from this brook,” said Kenneth. “I’ve been fishing all the morning
and haven’t caught a thing.”
“I referred to sermons, not fish,” remarked Dr. Bushnell, mildly.
“Oh, I didn’t have any sermon bait.”
“And haven’t you really caught anything?” inquired Brewster.
“Only a fairy princess,” said Jean.
“And that without any bait,” retorted Kenneth.
“Oh, I knew he wouldn’t catch any fish, so I came down to amuse him. We
were playing fairy prince and princess.”
“Was this log your castle?” asked Brewster, interestedly.
“No, indeed,” replied Jean. “I think the fairy prince was going to build
a real air-castle, with moats and dungeons and things.”
“I don’t think that kind of a castle would suit you,” said Kenneth.
“What kind would suit me?” asked Jean.
“A more modern one,” said Brewster. “A brownstone front on Fifth Avenue,
for instance.”
“That would suit me exactly,” she replied, “but it isn’t a castle.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be suited exactly than to have a castle?” said
Brewster, quizzically.
“Yes, I would,” said Jean, honestly. “Helen is the one for the castle.
You know Miss Fairbanks,—you met her yesterday. She has set her heart
upon a real castle with turrets and drawbridges and moats.”
“She ought to have it, too,” said Brewster. “She would grace it
perfectly.”
“I am grieved to learn,” said Dr. Bushnell, “that Miss Helen has set her
heart on anything so far beyond her reach. It seems to me not only the
height of folly, but almost a sin to aspire to something that one may
never hope to gain.”
“‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?’”
quoted Brewster.
“Heaven, my dear sir, is quite another matter. We may all hope to attain
that blessed state.”
“True,” said Brewster, in such a bland tone of acquiescence that Jean
giggled.
“It is not a matter for flippancy,” said Dr. Bushnell, with his most
ministerial air. “Ambition, rightly directed, and not having its source
in a prideful desire for vainglory, is admirable and praiseworthy in
all. But ambition that is selfish and based on a desire for vulgar
ostentation and display—”
“Helen Fairbanks is not vulgar or ostentatious,” broke in Jean. “She
doesn’t want a castle for show. What she wants and what she ought to
have is the sort of thing represented by a moated castle. She would fit
right into a picture of that kind, and she knows it, and so, naturally,
she longs intensely for it. But she isn’t miserable over it.”
“Of course,” said Brewster; “I have only met Miss Fairbanks once, and
she certainly gives a stranger the impression of the Haughty Princess.
One would hardly imagine her longing intensely for anything.”
“That’s only because you don’t know her,” said Jean. “Her likes and
dislikes are extreme. It is not the material castle that she cares for,
either. It is simply that she wants to realize her tremendous ideals.”
“Just as I said,” interposed Dr. Bushnell. “Her ideals are so tremendous
that I fear they can never be realized, and therefore I say that it is
wrong for her to hold them. It is better to be like you, my dear young
lady—contented with your lot and cherishing no overweening ambitions.”
“Is that so?” said Kenneth, with much interest. “Do I really see before
me an absolutely contented individual?”
“You do not!” said Jean, indignantly, as if content were a thing to be
ashamed of. “I have fully as many ideals as Helen, though they are quite
different ones.”
“What is the chief one?” asked Kenneth; “a fairy prince?”
“No, indeed; I have dozens of fairy princes who await but my nod. My
chief desire this morning is for a white chiffon parasol and a maltese
kitten.”
“They are not exactly in line with the ideals you attribute to Miss
Fairbanks,” said Brewster.
“No,” said Dr. Bushnell, “but they are within the possibilities, and so
show a more admirable trait of character, in that your desires are
subservient to your probable attainments. Yours is a disposition to be
envied.”
“I’ll tell Helen that,” said Jean. “I would like to have her envy me. It
would be such a pleasant change.”
“Why, do you envy her?” asked Kenneth.
“I do, indeed. She is so beautiful and stately, and so great-hearted
under her apparent calm indifference, and so unswerving in her aims, and
so—so fond of kittens.”
“But you are that,” said Kenneth.
“Yes, but the kittens are fond of her in return—that’s Helen.”
“If Miss Helen would confine her ambitions to kittens,” said Dr.
Bushnell, “it would be so much wiser and better for her. She is a dear
girl, but it occasions me much serious thought when I observe her
mistaken tendencies. Does it not seem to you, Mr. Brewster—I ask you
now in a general way—does it not seem to you that our extravagant
desires, which in the very nature of things are impossible of
fulfillment, should be curbed—nay, should be rooted out by the kind
hand of friendly counsel?”
“I am sorry that I do not agree with you, Dr. Bushnell,” replied
Brewster, “but I’m afraid I must confess to a deep sympathy with Miss
Fairbanks, for I myself am a victim of unattainable and often even
incomprehensible ideals.”
X
If he fail, yet go we under our opinion still that we have
better men.—_Troilus and Cressida_, i, 3.
After thinking it all over seriously, Miss Esther had concluded that
Mark Westcott and Theodore Winthrop Brewster were the most suitable
candidates yet entered on the books of her Matrimonial Bureau for the
hand of her artist-client, Lillian Hastings. It had been difficult to
choose between them, for they were both distinctly eligible, but after
two or three days’ acquaintance, she had discovered that Mark possessed
more of the traits which might develop into the character of the
traditional fairy godfather. In pursuance of her plans, the wily lady
one afternoon invented an errand for one unsuspecting youth.
“Mark,” she said, ingratiatingly, “wouldn’t you like to go over to
Lillian Hastings’s for me?”
“Why, are you over there?”
“Don’t be saucy. I assumed that you could understand English. I’ll try
again. Cousin, or, fair cousin, I would wish you, or, I would request
you, or, I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble: but to go,
or, to walk, or, to amble withal, to the house, or the home, or the
studio of Miss Lillian Hastings, and there with deep diplomacy acquaint
thyself with that which I desire. This having done, I bid thee tell me
true that which with subtle art thou hast discovered.”
“Sure, I’ll go; but what is this tremendous mission?”
“Lillian is painting a picture, and I want to know if it is finished
yet.”
“But where does the diplomacy come in?”
“You see, I don’t want her to know that I want to know, but when the
picture is finished, I’m going to have a party or something for her.”
“What is the picture? How am I to know it?”
“It’s a great big field with a cow in the middle.”
“All right. I can tell it by the cow, but how am I to know if it is
finished?”
“That’s where you must use your ingenuity. Take your time and lead the
conversation around by devious by-paths until you find out.”
“All right; put me up a little luncheon and I’ll stay all day.”
“You haven’t any diplomacy,” said Kenneth. “I’ll go along with you and
manage the ingenious part.”
“No, no! You can’t go, Kenneth. I want you this afternoon. I want you to
take me driving.”
“But you can’t go driving, Cousin Esther,” broke in Lieutenant Adams.
“You promised to stay with me. I’ve got to have you. Clear out, you two
boys, and stay as long as you like.”
In the few days of Putnam Adams’s stay it had come about that the
household obeyed him unquestioningly. Miss Esther realized that
Kenneth’s going would interfere with her plans, yet there was no escape
from the inevitable, and she docilely remained with Putnam and watched
the brothers as they sauntered across the lawn.
They found Lillian at her easel, at work on a large landscape.
“That’s the picture, now,” exclaimed Mark, diplomatically.
“I told you you hadn’t any ingenuity,” said Kenneth, “and besides that
can’t be the picture. There isn’t any cow in it!”
“There was a cow—” began Lillian.
“How did it get away?”
“I painted it out,” replied the artist.
“Then that’s the picture. I knew it was,” said Mark.
“What picture?”
“We can’t tell you. We’re diplomats. When will it be finished?”
“It’s almost finished now. I think it will be done by Saturday.”
“Then that’s all right. I’ll tell Cousin Esther,” said Mark.
“What does she want to know for?”
“We can’t tell you. That’s a surprise. How can people be diplomats if
other people ask them questions all the time?”
“Hullo, who painted this head?” Kenneth had discovered a portrait among
a lot of sketches.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Mark, “that looks like the girls.”
“What girls?” asked Lillian.
“Our girls,” said Kenneth. “We’re engaged to them, you know. Want to see
’em?”
“Yes, indeed. Where are they?”
The boys simultaneously drew from their pockets two thin gold cases each
containing a miniature of a young woman.
“Why, these are pictures of the same girl,” said Lillian.
“Not exactly,” explained Kenneth. “We’ve each got one. You see they’re
twins.”
“I should think they were twins. I never saw anything so much alike in
my life. How do you tell them apart?”
“We can’t,” said Mark. “At least we can tell the girls apart, but not
the pictures. They got mixed up once and we’ve never known which is
which since. But it doesn’t matter. They can tell us apart.”
“Yes, of course, they can tell which of you they are engaged to.”
“Yes,” said Kenneth, “we have to depend on them to sort us out. But
sometimes I think they fool us.”
“I know they do,” said Mark. “They think it’s a great joke.”
“Are you to be married soon?” asked Lillian.
“Yes, there’s to be a double wedding in the fall. Great time—I wish
you’d come to it.”
“I’d love to go. Is Miss Esther going?”
“Oh, I guess so. She came on to Roger’s wedding, but she hasn’t said
anything about ours.”
“They’re awfully pretty girls. What are their names?”
“Butler—Edna and Edwina. We call them Ed for short.”
“How do they know which one you mean?”
“Why, according to who says it. I wouldn’t call Edna ‘Ed.’”
“You’d better not,” said Mark. “I’d pound you if you did.”
“Where are they now?” asked Lillian, interestedly.
“They are going on with mother this week from Boston to the Adirondacks,
and Mark and I are to join them there later.”
Just then Brewster and Helen Fairbanks came into the studio.
“We’ve been walking miles and miles,” said Helen, “and we’re going over
to Miss Esther’s for a cup of tea, and we want you to come with us.”
“All right,” said Mark, “we’ll go. Just wait a few minutes till Miss
Hastings paints a cow into her picture.”
“Oh, the cow can wait till to-morrow,” said Lillian; “but won’t you show
Miss Fairbanks those two miniatures, or one at least?”
The boys produced the lockets and handed them to Helen. “What a
beautiful girl,” she said. “Is she your sister?”
“No—she isn’t one girl, she’s twins, and she’s engaged to these two
brothers here,” said Lillian.
“Which is which?” asked Helen.
“Merciful powers!” exclaimed Kenneth, “you haven’t mixed them up again,
have you? We just got them sorted out.”
“Why these are the Butler twins,” said Brewster as he looked at the
pictures. “I’ve known them all their lives;—this is Edna and this is
Edwina.”
“How can you tell?” asked Mark, admiringly; “but give me Edwina quick,
while you know.”
“Now I’m ready,” said Lillian, sticking her brushes into an already
crowded ginger jar. “Come on, let’s go. It’s almost five.”
On the way to the Adams house they passed Dr. Bushnell’s. Brewster
turned in at the gate. “Go on,” he said, “I’ll get the book I promised
Miss Fairbanks, and catch you before you get to Miss Esther’s.”
That afternoon had proved an eventful one for Miss Adams, and had
completely disarranged her Matrimonial Bureau.
She had been sitting on the east porch with Putnam, when Nora announced
the arrival of three ladies.
“Well, Emily Westcott!” exclaimed Miss Esther, “I’m so glad to see you.
Where under the sun did you come from?”
“I’m on my way to Saranac, and just stopped over for the night to see
you and to show you my new daughters. This is Edwina Butler and this is
Edna Butler. Where are the boys?”
“I’m very glad to see you—all of you. But why do you call these young
ladies your daughters?”
“Why, they’re engaged to Mark and Kenneth. Haven’t they told you?”
“Mark and Kenneth?” said Miss Esther, “Mark and Kenneth! but which of
you is which? How can they tell you apart?”
“They can’t,” said Edna Butler. “We tell them.”
Miss Esther sat down. “Well, of _all_ things!” she said.
“Why are you so surprised?” asked Mrs. Westcott. “The boys are old
enough. Mark is twenty-five—”
“Yes, yes, I know. And I’m very much pleased,—very much pleased. I am
sure,” she added, turning to the young ladies, “that you must be twins.
You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes, we are; I am Edwina. There’s no way to tell us apart except by our
first names. Mark is my special property.”
“And Kenneth is mine,” said Edna. “He has written so much about you and
this beautiful place that we’re perfectly delighted to be here. He told
us, too, about numbers of new cousins he had found here. Mayn’t we see
them?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Esther. “At least we have one of them on
exhibition. Your boys have gone calling somewhere, but one of the new
cousins—Lieutenant Adams—is on the east porch, laid up with a broken
leg. Come out and amuse him for a while.”
She took the Butler twins to the east porch, presented Lieutenant Adams,
and then returned to Mrs. Westcott. “Those young people can take care of
themselves,” she said, “and you and I can have a good old-time chat.”
“We’ve come out to get acquainted,” announced Edna. “You may not know
it, but you are to be one of our new cousins, Lieutenant Adams.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” he said; “but if I’m your cousin, you must
call me Putnam. What’s your name?”
“Mine’s Edna, and hers is Edwina. You may use them, if you like.”
“I don’t know how I can remember which belongs to which. Your gowns are
exactly alike. You ought to have some distinguishing mark.”
“All right. Give me one of your gilt buttons,” said Edna, “and I’ll wear
it on my chain.”
“Of course,” said Lieutenant Adams, cutting off a button from his white
duck coat, which Edna gleefully attached to her long chain.
“I want one, too,” said Edwina, “to put on my chain.”
“Of course. Here’s one for you.”
Edwina strung the button on her chain. “Now shut your eyes,” she said,
“and count ten.”
During the counting Putnam heard an ostentatious rustle and two very
similar giggles. Then he announced “Ten!”
“Now look at us,” said one of them. “Which am I?”
“That’s dead easy; you’re Edwina.”
“How can you tell?”
“Why, because one of you is so much prettier than the other.”
“Which?” cried the twins together.
“Both,” said Putnam, gallantly.
“Well, if that doesn’t look like Winthrop Brewster,” said Edwina, as she
saw a tall man in white flannels crossing the lawn.
“It is,” said her sister.
“Of course it is,” said Putnam. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, known him all our lives. Hullo, Winthrop!”
“Well, Peaches Butler!” exclaimed Brewster as he came up the steps. “How
did you get here? You see,” he explained to Putnam, “that when I address
these young women together I have to refer to them in the plural. When I
meet only one of them I call her Peach.”
From the library window Miss Esther could hear the laughter on the east
porch. She had left Mrs. Westcott in her room, after hearing from her
the details of the boys’ engagements.
“Mark and Kenneth both out of it,” she thought. “To be sure, I only
needed one of them, but I can’t have either, it seems. I think the Jean
and Putnam affair will turn out as I have planned. Then, of course, I
must give Winthrop Brewster to Lillian. That still leaves Helen. She is
certainly my most troublesome client. This being a Matrimonial Bureau is
harder work than I thought it would be.”