“I’ll do better next time, Mrs. Briggs. I hadn’t read the book myself, but people were all talking about it, and I thought you’d be interested.”
“I think it is an excellent book,” Miss Yale assured him, but Mrs. Briggs took her up sharply.
“How can you say so, Mary? The book extenuates vice.”
“O, come, Mrs. Briggs,” Dr. Armstrong lazily objected, “surely that poor girl suffered enough to extenuate anything.”
“I quite agree with Mrs. Briggs,” said Dr. Newcome, magnanimously. “She probably refers to the hero.”
“No,” said the lady, with precision, “I do not refer to him. Of course his behavior was to be deprecated, but he is not an unnatural character by any means. But that girl! Actually to have such a creature rehabilitated!”
Her husband here recorded his approval: “You are right, my dear, as you always are! ‘The wages of sin is death.’”
But she rather ignored him, and continued, graciously, “Of course, we all have a right to our opinions, Dr. Armstrong. Life must look differently to men and women. Would you oblige me by taking Daisy her jacket? It is liable to get chilly at this hour.”
There was nothing in the August evening to suggest chilliness so far, but maternal solicitude is a beautiful thing, and Dr. Armstrong rose with no apparent reluctance and moved off with the jacket under his arm.
The reverend gentleman sat back against a stone, replete and urbane, snapping off crumbs from the horizontal creases of his garments; his wife, using the same boulder, wore an air of present contentment over an undercurrent of conscientious alertness.
Miss Yale helped Dr. Newcome as he repacked the baskets, and nodded approvingly when he poked the bundle of remnants deep into a crevice of the rocks and scattered the assembled fragments of food far down the slope.
“You show excellent judgment,” she said. “The food will be eaten, and not draw ants — and the ridge is clean for the next party.”
“Next year, I’m afraid, Miss Yale,” said the clergyman, smiling, and rising to his feet with dignity, if not difficulty. “Suppose we have a cigar, Dr. Newcome, and stroll about a little.”
As they departed, the older man picking his way cautiously downward, Dr. Newcome stopped suddenly by the big balsam fir and lifted something from beneath its wide, drooping boughs. Neither the ladies behind nor the gentleman in front observed him as he hastily crushed into his pocket a large, tumbled bow of blue ribbon and departed. Mr. Battlesmith, inspired by an ever-active sense of duty, followed them, bearing baskets.
Mrs. Briggs, disinclined for immediate movement, selected this quiet moment as suitable for conversation.
“Mary Yale,” she began, “there’s something I want to speak to you about. If you have any influence with that redheaded little scarecrow I advise you to use it.”
“Well, you are severe, Laura. I think her rather pretty.”
“Pretty! With those yellow eyes, and freckles, and atrocious blue ribbons! Why is it that redheaded girls will insist on wearing blue hair ribbons? She is carrying on disgracefully!”
“Is she?” Miss Yale was trimming off the tips of a small balsam with an absorbed expression.
“O, you are so oblivious, Mary. See here!”
Mrs. Briggs seized her friend’s arm and drew her to the further side of the ridge. “Do you see the house down there? Well, our windows look this way, and almost every evening I can see figures up here — right here where we are! This is a regular trysting tree.”
“What’s the harm in that? People coming to see the sunset, I suppose.”
“People! It’s Maggie and a man!”
“Well, well, Laura, what of it? The girl’s only a child. She’s barely sixteen this summer. And she’s a nice child, too. I take a real interest in her.”
“You take an interest in every lame duck you come across, Mary!
I should think your experience with that little Italian girl you adopted would have discouraged you. Or that rascally young Greek!”
Miss Yale smiled good-humoredly. “Yes, I’ve made some mistakes,” she said. “I’m young yet.”
Mrs. Briggs seemed to think this a poor excuse, replying tartly, “You’re as old as I am.”
“Yes,” her friend admitted, “and don’t you make some mistakes?”
“I don’t adopt vagabond children by the dozen and waste my money on them!”
“You don’t have to, Laura. You’ve got little Daisy there, and your good husband.”
“If you had married when you might have, Mary Yale, you would have a family, too!”
“I’ll have a bigger one if I keep on adopting.”
“I sometimes wish you hadn’t so much money, then you’d have to be more careful,” said Mrs. Briggs, solemnly. She realized that the idea was well-nigh impious. “But seriously, Mary,” she continued, “I do wish you’d speak to Maggie.”
“How do you know it’s Maggie?”
“I can see her red hair and her blue bows.”
“You can, can you? You must have good opera glasses!”
“I have,” she admitted promptly. “And I use them to advantage. I tell you that girl is flirting outrageously with Dr. Armstrong!”
Miss Yale murmured to herself, “I’ve been afraid of it,” and the other added, “There’ll be a scandal here as sure as fate! I wish you’d speak to that young fool!”
Her friend regarded her speculatively, and suggested, “Why don’t you speak to the young scoundrel? You don’t suppose that man’s offering to marry her, do you? If there’s any scandal, he’s to blame, I take it.”
“Men aren’t to blame for being men, Mary. And a girl is always to blame who lets a man make a fool of her.”
“Poor, headstrong, ignorant young one,” murmured Miss Yale. “And you stand up for the man! You have, all summer. Look here, Laura,” she remarked with sudden attack, “is it possible you are scheming to have him marry Daisy?”
“Nonsense, Mary Yale. I’m ashamed of you!”
“I hope it is nonsense. You know he has a reputation for this sort of thing.”
“I know he is an extremely agreeable, well-mannered gentleman, and already stands high in his work. He’s only twenty-six or -seven.”
“And Daisy’s only eighteen, I believe, and Maggie sixteen. The maternal instinct always was a puzzle to me, Laura. I declare I’ll tell the girl about him!”
“Maggie?”
“Perhaps, but I meant Daisy.”
“You shall not, indeed! I am her mother and I forbid it. The idea! You’ll do no such thing, Mary Yale. If I hadn’t been your friend for forty years we should quarrel. I’m positively ashamed of you!”
Mrs. Briggs arose, ponderously, and took her descending path toward home, having observed that Daisy had joined her father and was returning to the house, with or without blueberries.
Miss Yale let her go, and stood slowly shaking her head. She had for her friend that affection which is founded upon long usage, and which often exists without the aid of gratitude, sympathy or admiration.
There was as yet no sunset, in the spectacular sense; the supper was eaten and most of the baskets removed, but Miss Yale remained in possession of the ridge, moving from tree to tree, and trimming off tips with a fine regard to symmetry.
She did not desist when Dr. Armstrong reappeared and stood looking at her vertical back, with anything but approval.
“They’re almost home, Miss Yale,” he suggested. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Not just yet.” She continued her clipping, and then turned rather suddenly with a somewhat sharp “Dr. Armstrong!”
“That is my name,” he replied, noting the menace of her tone. He had no intention of “taking any nonsense” from her, nor of being driven from the field. He stooped by the berry bushes and picked here and there among them.
“I’m old enough to be your mother,” the lady remarked, looking down at him, “and I’m going to speak plainly to you. I want you to let Maggie alone.�
��
He rose, flushed and angry, remarking rather weakly, “Well, I must say!”
“What can you say? She’s a poor, unprotected little girl, and surely not pretty enough to be much of a temptation to a man like you.”
He stared at her, displeased and astonished, striving to preserve what he held the proper manner to a lady, in spite of the lady’s most improper manner to him, and replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Yale. And for the life of me I can’t see—”
“What business it is of mine? Merely one woman trying to protect another. Is that so unusual?”
“It is, if you’ll excuse me, deduced unusual.”
He stood, his hands in his pockets, extremely irritated, and nonetheless so that a sound of pensive whistling was heard and his other undesired adviser reentered.
“Hello, Newcome,” he observed dryly. “Here’s Miss Yale still standing up for Jane Isabel.”
“I’m quite with you, Miss Yale,” said Dr. Newcome. She looked from one to the other and replied with decision, “I thought at first the lover was only an ordinary man. I begin to think he’s a rascal!” With which pointed statement she closed her big bag with a snap and marched off.
Newcome took up the remaining baskets and followed her.
“Deliver me from meddlesome old maids,” said Dr. Armstrong, gloomily watching him. He walked about, looking down over the pastures, and finally seated himself on the rounded boulder which had been recently graced by Mrs. Briggs’s back, his elbows on his knees, his square chin looking squarer as its weight rested on his hands.
Up, over the ridge, behind him presently appeared Maggie’s halo of red hair and sharp brown eyes. She watched him for a moment unobserved, repleating one of her bright braids which hung ribbonless. Then she stole silently forward in her rubber-soled “sneakers” and tickled his ear with a long grass stalk.
He started, looked around, and greeted her rather gloomily with “Hello, Kiddles!”
“Hello yourself,” answered the girl, with spirit. “Aren’t you cheerful, though!”
“You don’t expect a fellow to be cheerful every minute, do you?” he said, still gloomily.
“Oh, just as you like. I can do that, too!” and she seated herself on another stone at some distance, her sharp elbows on her knees, her hard little chin in her hands and a most dismal expression.
He gazed at her for a moment, laughed shortly, moved over to her rock, and sat beside her. She turned away. He slipped an arm around her waist. She did not notice it. He drew her to him and tried to kiss her, but she eluded him with a little laugh, and skipped away, expecting him to follow her.
When he did not she tossed her head and stood sulkily at a distance.
“Come here, Maggie.”
“Yes, Mr. Armstrong,” she answered primly, and came.
“Don’t act like that, little girl. See here. Come and sit down.”
“In our place?” she suggested.
“Yes, in our place, if you like.”
They both took possession of the hollow under the boughs of the big balsam, Maggie still silent and sulky. He played with her hair for a little and turned her face toward his.
“Oh, come, Maggie, you might as well give me a nice kiss, just for good-bye.”
“Good-bye!” she said. “Have you got ‘another engagement’ this evening?”
“Only with you,” he answered, with a kiss. “But tomorrow I’m going.”
“Going? Going where?” she asked.
“Going away. Going back to the city. This is a p p. c. — a particular parting call — Maggie. So you must be nice to me.”
She had drawn back, and was staring at him, a slow horror rising up in her eyes.
“When’ll I see you again?” she asked, temporizing with fate.
“It is painfully possible that you won’t see me again, Kiddles. So let’s be happy while we can.”
His tone was light, but she could not meet it.
“Do you mean you’ve done with me?” she demanded.
“Oh, don’t be cross, Maggie,” he said, a caressing hand stealing around her. “Let’s have a pleasant evening, seeing it’s the last one.” She paid no attention to his words.
“I thought — you said—” She evidently found it difficult to go on. Then in a low voice, “I thought you were going to marry me.”
“Oh, Maggie!” he protested, “now play fair! You know better than that! You and I have just been having a nice time together, and that was all there was to it. Come, haven’t we had a good time?”
The girl looked at him bewildered, puckering her faint brows.
“But, look here, you mean to say — you thought — I knew—” She could not say it.
“Why, of course you knew I was not meaning to marry you. I never said I would, never dreamed of it. Neither did you, Tiddlewinks. Cheer up, my dear, no harm’s done. We’ve had a pleasant summer. Don’t be cross now and spoil the end of it.”
She sat quiet for a moment, staring at him, then suddenly burst into wild tears, silent, intense, and dropped down in a miserable little heap at his side, holding blindly to his coat. He stroked her hair and drew her to him, saying, “Too bad, little girl; too bad. Brace up, Kiddles, there’s no harm done!”
“Oh, there is! There is!” she cried, passionately, holding to him. “You don’t know! You won’t leave me! You mustn’t leave me!” She put her arms about his neck, drew his face down, and whispered something in his ear.
Armstrong was startled. He pushed her from him and stared into her face. The girl looked up at him, glad, afraid, loving, triumphant. The gray clouds along the western horizon lifted a little at this moment, and a huge red sun shone through. It lit the shimmering tips of the fir boughs and made of her loose hair an aureole of rosy gold.
All the faith and happiness and vague high hope of the summer rose in her heart. “You will marry me now, won’t you?”
The man looked at her with real pity. “Oh, you poor youngster!” he said, rising and walking about, much disturbed. Then he turned on her sharply. “Look here! Are you sure?”
She nodded slowly, with pale decision.
“Well, you mustn’t worry, little girl, I’ll see you through, of course. I’ll take care of you all right. See here!” He drew an envelope from his pocket and wrote on it, then took out a roll of bills and put several in the envelope.
“Look here, child,” he said, going back to where she sat staring at him with incredulous eyes, “you see this address? That’s my lawyer. By and by, when it’s necessary, you write to him and he’ll tell you what to do. Don’t you worry a bit. It will be all right.” He approached her, offering her the envelope. “Here’s something for now, there’s more where that came from.”
The girl looked at him steadily, refusing to touch the money. “And you’re not going to marry me?” she said.
“Why, no, Maggie, I can’t do that.”
She started to her feet with sudden fury. “Do you think I’ll take your dirty money?” she cried, “and be — and be a—” She snatched his offered gift, threw it from her, and faced him, panting.
“Don’t be a fool, Maggie! You’ll need it. Of course I’ve got to see this thing through,” he said, adding rather lamely, “Come, don’t be a little fool. Kiss me good-bye.”
“I’ll never kiss you again,” she burst out at him, “you — you —
Oh, how I hate you!” Her head was up now, her hands clenched.
He stood regarding her rather awkwardly. “Oh, well,” he said, “I suppose it’s only natural. I am sorry, my dear, I never meant it to turn out like this. Hang it all! Well, good-bye!” He made a futile effort to kiss her, but she stood like a post, giving him no sign of interest. With a gesture as of one washing his hands of the whole affair, he turned away, and tramped off down the hill.
She watched him go, her face slowly changing from fixed anger to a growing distress, made a step to follow, stretching out her arms toward him, then stopped, dro
pping her hands in impotent despair. She looked up at the blank gray of the sky, around her at the still blue firs and bluer distances. Then she threw herself down at the foot of the tree again, and sobbed wildly, beating the ground with her small red hands.
She did not hear the returning steps of Mary Yale, who came slowly up over the curving summit, saw the sobbing girl under the tree, and, looking farther, the disappearing back of Dr. Richard Armstrong. She nodded wisely, caught sight of the envelope and yellow-backed bills, and picked them up, reading the address, counting the bills, and nodding still more wisely. Then she looked carefully over her various handkerchiefs and selected a large clean one, remarking, “Have a handkerchief, Maggie?”
The girl stopped sobbing and sat up, red-eyed and disheveled, hastily trying to arrange her hair. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, and took the friendly offering.
Miss Yale sat down by her, and raised a handful of the fragrant brown needles to her nose. “Nice, sweet-smelling carpet to cry on,” she observed.
“I hate it!” said Maggie, with fierce intensity. “I shall hate it as long as I live!”
“I don’t wonder, little girl, I don’t wonder. Has he gone?” Maggie nodded, choking back her sobs. “I thought as much. And you’re in a peck of trouble. Sit right still now, and tell me all about it. Maybe I can help.”
The girl shook her head despairingly and turned away. “No, thank you, Miss Yale. You’ve been very kind to me. I’m going now.”
“Going where, Maggie?”
Maggie, moving slowly off, turned her head over her shoulder and answered, “Going to the devil!”
“What for?” asked Miss Yale, calmly. “The devil’s no godfather.”
The girl stopped short, and turned a look of horrified amazement on Miss Yale, who smiled kindly.
“Come back, Maggie,” she said, “and let’s have a good talk. I know what’s happened. No, it isn’t witchcraft. It’s what usually happens when a foolish child tries to play this game. You poor baby!” She held out her arms and Maggie sank down in a miserable little heap and cried, her head on the older woman’s lap. Miss Yale petted her quietly, with a strangely motherly look on her strong face. Then she said, slowly and clearly, “You were a poor baby, now you are a rich woman!”
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 53
