And I for no woman.—_As You Like It_, v, 2.
“I won’t sit down,” said Jean. “You can boss Miss Esther as much as you
like, but you needn’t think that I’m going to do exactly as you say. I
am in the habit of doing the ordering myself. That is the divine right
of an only child.”
“An only child needn’t be a spoiled child,” said Putnam, lazily.
[Illustration: “_I’m not a spoiled child!_”]
“I’m not a spoiled child,” and Jean’s eyes flashed; “nobody ever said
that before!”
“I don’t object to being a pioneer. The rôle has always appealed to me.”
“Well, don’t indulge your proclivities in this undiscovered country.”
“Why not?”
Putnam regarded Jean deliberately, and with an expression of amused
curiosity. He was an unusually handsome man, and his magnificent
physique gave an impression of resolute power to a degree rare, even in
a soldier. This impression was in no way lessened, but was rather
accented by his present condition of physical helplessness. Stretched at
full length in a steamer-chair, and consequently incapable of active
exertion, he still showed unmistakable evidence of an immense amount of
reserve force. It was this air of indolently conscious superiority which
proved so excessively tantalizing to Jean.
She sat down in a low chair beside him, and resting her chin in her
hands, gazed straight into his eyes.
“Why not?” repeated Putnam.
“Because I won’t stand it. You’re the spoiled child yourself. You always
have your own way, irrespective of what anybody else wants, and it makes
me furious to have you think that you can order me about as you do
others. You shan’t do it!”
“Why not?” said Putnam again.
He still looked at her quizzically with the added provocation of a
slight patronizing smile. Jean flushed angrily. Putnam changed his
position, but with difficulty, and the expression of pain which came
into his eyes roused all Jean’s instincts of helpfulness. Without
realizing what she was doing, she rose and took a pillow from the
hammock. This she placed under Putnam’s shoulder, and with quick, deft
touches patted it into exactly the right position.
“Thank you,” he said, with a grave courtesy quite at variance with his
former teasing mood. Jean flushed again, but this time it was not with
anger. She could not have analyzed the reason even if she had tried. It
was simply the charm of Putnam Adams’s personality. Splendid physical
strength and an iron will, with a calm, consummate indifference, born of
unqualified self-confidence, make the most attractive combination
possible in a man, and he possessed these qualities in their perfection.
Possibly the consciousness of this had added to his manner a little too
great a touch of autocracy, but this was always forgiven him, because,
when necessary, Putnam Adams commanded forgiveness with the same
assurance that he commanded everything else.
And so this personality appealed to Jean, not only because of its
effectiveness with all women, but because this was the first time that a
man of this stamp had come within her experience. She was a little
bewildered by it, and in consequence lost much of her self-confident
ability to hold her own against any odds.
Indeed, it was otherwise inexplicable that she, the high-handed
dispenser of begged-for favors, should, not only without invitation, but
without volition, have bestowed upon an outrageously indifferent
beneficiary a favor which, however casual it might seem, was really a
tribute to his masterfulness. She was conquered, although she didn’t
know it.
Putnam Adams knew it, but he did not tell her.
* * * * *
After a few weeks of rest and Miss Esther’s care, Putnam’s condition
improved to such an extent that he was able to get about without his
crutches, and was able to take his place in the sextette which had many
excursions by automobile and otherwise in the surrounding country about
Whitfield.
The Westcott party had gone on to the Adirondacks, after promising to
stop at Miss Esther’s on the way back. After Mark’s departure, Chub had
transferred her affections to Abraham Lincoln Dodd, whom she called
Linkum, and whom she alternately petted and tyrannized over.
One morning Dodd lay on his back on the lawn, looking up at a very blue
sky, and Chub amused herself by piling leaves upon his face.
“I’m a wobin,” she said, gleefully, “and you’re my Babeth in the
Woodth.”
“I knew a robin once,—” began Dodd.
“A nither wobin than me?”
“No, not nicer than you, except that that robin didn’t put sand in my
eyes.”
“Wath it a weally wobin?”
“Yes, a really robin, with feathers. We were great friends.”
“I have a friend—he’th a chipmuk; and I have ’nother friend, and he’th
a tagger; and I have ’nother friend, and he’th a—a—a—Bear—a awful
big Bear; and I had ’nother friend, and he wath a little
kittypillar—but he ranned away.”
“Is your bear a really bear?” asked Dodd.
“Oh, yeth; a big live bear with featherth, and he livth wight over
there.”
With a comprehensive sweep of her dimpled arm, Chub vaguely indicated
the habitat of the bear.
“Lovely!” said Dodd. “And do the tiger and chipmunk live there, too?”
“Yeth, we all live there, and we have thupper together and the tagger
eath bread and milk, and the chipmuk eath cuthtard, and the bear—”
“Eats the caterpillar?” questioned Dodd.
“No, he didn’t. The little kittypillar ranned away, cauth the bear theen
him go, and he ranned acroth the woad and acroth the brook and acroth
the fenth, he ranned awful fatht.”
“Did you run after him?”
“Yeth, and I felled in the brook and got all drownded up, and the
chipmuk come ’long and he felled in the brook, and the tagger come ’long
and he felled in the brook, and the bear come ’long and he felled in the
brook, and the chipmuk come ’long and he felled in the brook, and—”
“Oh, you had the chipmunk in the brook before.”
“Yeth, but he felled in two timeth; and the bear come ’long—”
But the end of this thrilling tale was lost to history, and so far as we
know authoritatively, the animals are still in the brook, for just at
this moment Chub’s nurse appeared and carried the baby off for her
morning nap.
Dodd rose, brushed off the leaves and wisps of grass with which Chub had
favored him, and went into the house in search of Miss Esther. When he
reached the hall he saw her in the library.
As he entered the room, she said, apparently to nobody, “They are all
doing beautifully, except Winthrop Brewster. I cannot understand,
Cassius,” she said, “what is the matter with that man. I’m sure he cares
a lot about Helen, and last night I managed to leave them alone on the
East porch, and,” seeing Dodd in the doorway, “if you’ll believe me,
Lincoln Dodd, nothing came of it!”
“You don’t mean it!” said Dodd.
“Yes, I do, and I was just telling Cassius—”
“I heard you address Cassius. Is he a dog?”
“No, I mean Caius Cassius. I often talk to my books—especially when I
want advice.”
“Do you often get it?”
“Always, if I ask the right ones.”
“How do you know who are the right ones?”
“My intuitions tell me, and just now they tell me that you are the one.”
“I’m a good adviser,” said Dodd.
“Yes, I believe you are, and that is why I’m going to ask you seriously
about a very important matter.”
“Do,” he replied. “I’ve been wanting excitement of some kind.”
“Well, this will be exciting enough, I promise you. It’s nothing more
nor less than that you are to get married,—sooner than you expect to.”
“To you? All right!”
“No. Don’t be foolish. Not to me. But really, a rich young man like you
are, and a good man, and a kind man, ought to make some girl happy.”
“But perhaps it wouldn’t make me happy,” said Dodd.
“Oh, don’t attempt to be coy with me. I understand perfectly how the
land lies, and I am thoroughly pleased, I can assure you. Lillian
Hastings is one of the dearest girls I know, and—”
“Good Heavens! Miss Esther, what in the world are you talking about?”
“Oh, anybody can see with half an eye that you’re in love with her.”
“But I’m not. I’m not a bit in love with Miss Hastings or with any other
lady, and I never wish to marry or be given in marriage.”
“You’re not in love with Lillian Hastings!”
Miss Esther dropped onto the sofa. She looked the picture of woe.
“Et tu, Brute!” she said. “Another candidate defeated!”