With a solemn earnestness, more than indeed belonged to such a
trifle.—_Othello_, v, 2.
When Brewster left Miss Esther’s house, after telling her good-bye, he
met Jack Remington.
“Hullo, Mr. Brewster,” exclaimed Jack; “I thought you had gone away.”
“I am going early in the morning,” replied Brewster; “and I won’t forget
the book I promised to send you.”
Jack turned and walked along by Brewster’s side. “I’m sorry you’re
going,” he said; “we’ve been good chums, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we have,” said Brewster, heartily; and then somehow the
conversation seemed to flag. Jack was dimly conscious of this and tried
to relieve the situation.
“I’ve just been over to Cousin Helen’s house,” he said,
conversationally.
“Have you?” said Brewster, with an unexpected exhibition of interest in
his tone.
“Yes, and she gave me this,” said Jack, producing a knife from his
pocket; “see, it has a saw-blade and a screw-driver and a lot of
things.”
“So it has,” said Brewster, looking at Jack’s treasure critically. “It’s
much better than the one I gave you last week.”
“Yes, it is; and what do you think, Cousin Helen traded with me. She
gave me this and I gave her that one you gave me.”
“You did? What made you think she wanted it?”
“Why, she asked me for it. She said if I’d give her that one she’d give
me this.”
“What did she want of an old knife like that?”
“I don’t know. I was showing it to her and she said she wanted it, and
so we traded.”
“Did she know I gave it to you?”
“Yes, I told her it was an old one of yours; and besides she saw your
initials on it, but she didn’t mind that.”
“Oh, she didn’t!” Brewster walked on in silence for a moment. “Jack,” he
said, “it’s lucky you have that new knife. It is just what we want to
use in working on the ship. I’ll come over to-morrow and we can finish
it all up.”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Jack; “I thought you were going away in the
morning.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Brewster.
If Jack was surprised at Brewster’s sudden change of plans, Helen was
none the less so when the next afternoon she saw him walk in at her
gate.
“How do you do,” she said, in her calm, sweet way. “I thought you had
left us.”
“No,” said Brewster, easily; “I’ve decided to stay a while longer.”
He dropped naturally into his accustomed place at the end of the
veranda. He had been at the Fairbanks house a great deal that summer and
in consequence had assumed the air of a privileged guest.
“It’s a beautiful day,” said Brewster, gazing affably into the
atmosphere.
“Yes,” said Helen, agreeingly. “It is a good day for reading aloud; and
as you are going to stay longer, we may have time to finish the book we
were reading yesterday.”
This was a distinct concession on Helen’s part, and Brewster accepted it
as such. The book in question had been the cause of a violent argument
the day before, which had resulted in his sudden determination to leave
Whitfield. The immediate theme of the discussion had been certain
ethical propositions which Brewster upheld and which seemed to him the
very mainsprings of masculine action, but which Helen had denounced with
a scornful pride that acknowledged no exceptions. So positive had been
her assertions that he had been unable to escape the conviction that,
knowing his views, she had deliberately intended to arraign him
personally.
Helen had not meant this personal application—at least not to the
extent that Brewster assumed. With all her uncompromising positivism and
her insistence upon theoretical perfection, she was more than willing in
individual cases to ignore shortcomings, even in important directions,
for the sake of the things which she found good. But Brewster did not
know this, and when she had so specifically condemned traits which he
knew he possessed, he was forced to believe that her opinion of him was
unfavorable and unchangeable. And as he was conscious of his own growing
regard for her, it seemed to him that the only thing to do was to go
away at once.
The trifling episode of the penknife had changed all this. It seemed to
prove that Helen’s well-defined laws were capable of being at least
slightly affected by the personal element. If she had cared enough for
his old penknife to secure it for herself, then she had shown that there
was a vulnerable point in her armor, and Brewster was not lacking in
courage.
It was characteristic of him that the slight favorable indication should
impart to his attitude an air of assured success. His exultation, which
was out of all proportion to its cause, was evident. This was a mistake
on Brewster’s part, for Helen saw it and resented it. And so he defeated
his own ends; for the girl, especially sensitive to Brewster’s moods,
was annoyed at his mysterious air of triumph.
“Certainly,” he said, most amiably; “I should be more than glad to read
the book to you if I may; but this afternoon we are all going over to
the Crossways Inn to supper. I have just come from Miss Esther’s, who
sent your invitation by me.”
“Is everybody going?” asked Helen.
“Yes, in Lincoln’s automobile.”
“Oh, we’re all going together. Yes; certainly I will go.”
“I thought I would drive you over myself,—may I?”
“Thank you, no. I prefer to go with the others.”
“Very well,” said Brewster; “we’ll go with them, then.”
* * * * *
Chub crawled through the hedge and trotted across the lawn to the Adams
house. Finding nobody on the East porch, she wandered aimlessly about
the grounds and finally found herself on the path which led down to the
brook. This was forbidden territory, and Chub had not forgotten it, but
this afternoon she was in an irresponsible frame of mind and paid no
heed to the unwelcome voice of conscience. Besides, where the bridge was
there grew some wonderful scarlet blossoms, and these the young explorer
desired for her very own. Even from the edge of the lawn she could see
them, but beyond, where the wood began, there was darkness. The
temptation to go down there was irresistible, so on the baby went.
The scarlet blossoms were achieved without mishap, and then, lured by
the fascinations of the unknown, she strayed a little further into the
wood.
“I don’t thee any puthy willowth,” she said, “but Uncle Linkum thaid
they lived here. I’ll wait a li’le while and p’rapth I’ll hear thome
mew.”
She sat down in the shade of a big tree to wait. She did not hear the
mewing of the pussy-willows, but she found plenty of things to interest
her. A butterfly came. A black beetle labored with a leaf at her very
feet, and she asked him questions concerning the welfare of his family.
A squirrel chattered from a tree-top, and she scolded back at him. A
bird perched on a dead twig and sang his very best song right at her.
Then she sang—and then she went to sleep, the scarlet blossoms tightly
clutched in her arms.
Chub’s propensity for getting lost was recognized by the members of her
family. As she explained it, she “just losed herself,” and if she had
thought of it, she might have added that the losing process was no part
of her prearranged plans. All was well, and presently she was lost. Then
people came and found her, and all was well again. It had never failed.
She knew that somebody would eventually find her.
But on this occasion there was no conscious feeling of being lost. She
slept peacefully, and the butterfly came back and hovered over the
scarlet blossoms in her arms. The squirrel, with the insistent curiosity
of his kind, came down from his tree and looked at the baby at close
range. The bird still continued his song—a sort of lullaby now—and
Chub slept, while the people up at her home and at the Adams house began
the search.
It was Putnam who found her, and he picked her up, still fast asleep,
and carried her toward the house. Jean met him near the bridge. It was
the first time he had seen her since the episode of the rose, and he
wondered what attitude she would assume toward him.
“Where did you find her?” she asked.
“In the woods—asleep,” he replied, shortly.
Jean turned and walked beside him toward Chub’s home. Neither spoke.
Presently the baby wakened. The scarlet flowers were still clasped
tightly in her dimpled hand—crushed, perhaps, but they were none the
less effective for all that.
She looked sleepily up into Putnam’s eyes.
“For you,” she said, offering the wilted blossoms.
“Did you pick them for me?” said Putnam.
“I don’t know; but I will give them to you becauth I love you.”
Putnam took the flowers. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said; but he looked
squarely at Jean.
Jean stared straight ahead, but she saw his expression.
“Do you care for flowers?” she asked.
“Yes, when they are given to me.”
“Not otherwise?”
“Never but once otherwise.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, long ago.”
“Before you knew me?”
“Well, it was before I knew you as well as I do now.”
“Tell me about it,” said Jean.
“I don’t think you’d be interested in the story.”
“Yeth,” said Chub, “tell me thtory.”
“Well,” began Putnam, “once upon a time there was a little girl.”
“A very pretty little girl,” said Jean.
“And she had a rose,” continued Putnam, “and a man—”
“A perfectly horrid man,” said Jean.
“Asked her for it,” Putnam went on; “and what do you think?”
“She gave it to him,” said Chub, “becauth she loved him.”
“So she did,” said Putnam, “and he carried it with him always after
that.”
“Ith he got it yet?” asked Chub.
“Yes,” said Putnam; “he has it yet.”
“What for?” questioned Chub; “it mutht be all dead.”
* * * * *
When the truant had been returned to her anxious family, Putnam and Jean
went back to Miss Esther’s.
“Had you finished the story of the rose?” she asked.
“Why, would you like to hear more of it?”
“Not particularly; but I would like to have some one care enough for my
roses to carry them always and always.”
Without a word Putnam produced his pocket-book and took from it a
withered rose.
“This is the one you gave me,” said he.
“So it is,” said Jean, complacently; “I knew you’d keep it.”