As if the girl had cried out at a calamity, Hawker said again, “Well, you might have expected it.”
CHAPTER XIV.
At the lake, Hollanden went pickerel fishing, lost his hook in a gaunt, gray stump, and earned much distinction by his skill in discovering words to express his emotion without resorting to the list ordinarily used in such cases. The younger Miss Worcester ruined a new pair of boots, and Stanley sat on the bank and howled the song of the forsaken. At the conclusion of the festivities Hollanden said, “Billie, you ought to take the boat back.”
“Why had I? You borrowed it.”
“Well, I borrowed it and it was a lot of trouble, and now you ought to take it back.”
Ultimately Hawker said, “Oh, let’s both go!”
On this journey Hawker made a long speech to his friend, and at the end of it he exclaimed: “And now do you think she cares so much for Oglethorpe? Why, she as good as told me that he was only a very great friend.”
Hollanden wagged his head dubiously. “What a woman says doesn’t amount to shucks. It’s the way she says it — that’s what counts. Besides,” he cried in a brilliant afterthought, “she wouldn’t tell you, anyhow, you fool!”
“You’re an encouraging brute,” said Hawker, with a rueful grin.
Later the Worcester girls seized upon Hollanden and piled him high with ferns and mosses. They dragged the long gray lichens from the chins of venerable pines, and ran with them to Hollanden, and dashed them into his arms. “Oh, hurry up, Hollie!” they cried, because with his great load he frequently fell behind them in the march. He once positively refused to carry these things another step. Some distance farther on the road he positively refused to carry this old truck another step. When almost to the inn he positively refused to carry this senseless rubbish another step. The Worcester girls had such vivid contempt for his expressed unwillingness that they neglected to tell him of any appreciation they might have had for his noble struggle.
As Hawker and Miss Fanhall proceeded slowly they heard a voice ringing through the foliage: “Whoa! Haw! Git-ap, blast you! Haw! Haw, drat your hides! Will you haw? Git-ap! Gee! Whoa!”
Hawker said, “The others are a good ways ahead. Hadn’t we better hurry a little?”
The girl obediently mended her pace.
“Whoa! haw! git-ap!” shouted the voice in the distance. “Git over there, Red, git over! Gee! Git-ap!” And these cries pursued the man and the maid.
At last Hawker said, “That’s my father.”
“Where?” she asked, looking bewildered.
“Back there, driving those oxen.”
The voice shouted: “Whoa! Git-ap! Gee! Red, git over there now, will you? I’ll trim the shin off’n you in a minute. Whoa! Haw! Haw! Whoa! Git-ap!”
Hawker repeated, “Yes, that’s my father.”
“Oh, is it?” she said. “Let’s wait for him.”
“All right,” said Hawker sullenly.
Presently a team of oxen waddled into view around the curve of the road. They swung their heads slowly from side to side, bent under the yoke, and looked out at the world with their great eyes, in which was a mystic note of their humble, submissive, toilsome lives. An old wagon creaked after them, and erect upon it was the tall and tattered figure of the farmer swinging his whip and yelling: “Whoa! Haw there! Git-ap!” The lash flicked and flew over the broad backs of the animals.
“Hello, father!” said Hawker.
“Whoa! Back! Whoa! Why, hello, William, what you doing here?”
“Oh, just taking a walk. Miss Fanhall, this is my father. Father — —”
“How d’ you do?” The old man balanced himself with care and then raised his straw hat from his head with a quick gesture and with what was perhaps a slightly apologetic air, as if he feared that he was rather over-doing the ceremonial part.
The girl later became very intent upon the oxen. “Aren’t they nice old things?” she said, as she stood looking into the faces of the team. “But what makes their eyes so very sad?”
“I dunno,” said the old man.
She was apparently unable to resist a desire to pat the nose of the nearest ox, and for that purpose she stretched forth a cautious hand. But the ox moved restlessly at the moment and the girl put her hand apprehensively behind herself and backed away. The old man on the wagon grinned. “They won’t hurt you,” he told her.
“They won’t bite, will they?” she asked, casting a glance of inquiry at the old man and then turning her eyes again upon the fascinating animals.
“No,” said the old man, still grinning, “just as gentle as kittens.”
She approached them circuitously. “Sure?” she said.
“Sure,” replied the old man. He climbed from the wagon and came to the heads of the oxen. With him as an ally, she finally succeeded in patting the nose of the nearest ox. “Aren’t they solemn, kind old fellows? Don’t you get to think a great deal of them?”
“Well, they’re kind of aggravating beasts sometimes,” he said. “But they’re a good yoke — a good yoke. They can haul with anything in this region.”
“It doesn’t make them so terribly tired, does it?” she said hopefully. “They are such strong animals.”
“No-o-o,” he said. “I dunno. I never thought much about it.”
With their heads close together they became so absorbed in their conversation that they seemed to forget the painter. He sat on a log and watched them.
Ultimately the girl said, “Won’t you give us a ride?”
“Sure,” said the old man. “Come on, and I’ll help you up.” He assisted her very painstakingly to the old board that usually served him as a seat, and he clambered to a place beside her. “Come on, William,” he called. The painter climbed into the wagon and stood behind his father, putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder to preserve his balance.
“Which is the near ox?” asked the girl with a serious frown.
“Git-ap! Haw! That one there,” said the old man.
“And this one is the off ox?”
“Yep.”
“Well, suppose you sat here where I do; would this one be the near ox and that one the off ox, then?”
“Nope. Be just same.”
“Then the near ox isn’t always the nearest one to a person, at all? That ox there is always the near ox?”
“Yep, always. ‘Cause when you drive ’em a-foot you always walk on the left side.”
“Well, I never knew that before.”
After studying them in silence for a while, she said, “Do you think they are happy?”
“I dunno,” said the old man. “I never thought.” As the wagon creaked on they gravely discussed this problem, contemplating profoundly the backs of the animals. Hawker gazed in silence at the meditating two before him. Under the wagon Stanley, the setter, walked slowly, wagging his tail in placid contentment and ruminating upon his experiences.
At last the old man said cheerfully, “Shall I take you around by the inn?”
Hawker started and seemed to wince at the question. Perhaps he was about to interrupt, but the girl cried: “Oh, will you? Take us right to the door? Oh, that will be awfully good of you!”
“Why,” began Hawker, “you don’t want — you don’t want to ride to the inn on an — on an ox wagon, do you?”
“Why, of course I do,” she retorted, directing a withering glance at him.
“Well — —” he protested.
“Let ‘er be, William,” interrupted the old man. “Let ‘er do what she wants to. I guess everybody in th’ world ain’t even got an ox wagon to ride in. Have they?”
“No, indeed,” she returned, while withering Hawker again.
“Gee! Gee! Whoa! Haw! Git-ap! Haw! Whoa! Back!”
After these two attacks Hawker became silent.
“Gee! Gee! Gee there, blast — s’cuse me. Gee! Whoa! Git-ap!”
All the boarders of the inn were upon its porches waiting for the dinner gong. There was a s
urge toward the railing as a middle-aged woman passed the word along her middle-aged friends that Miss Fanhall, accompanied by Mr. Hawker, had arrived on the ox cart of Mr. Hawker’s father.
“Whoa! Ha! Git-ap!” said the old man in more subdued tones. “Whoa there, Red! Whoa, now! Wh-o-a!”
Hawker helped the girl to alight, and she paused for a moment conversing with the old man about the oxen. Then she ran smiling up the steps to meet the Worcester girls.
“Oh, such a lovely time! Those dear old oxen — you should have been with us!”
CHAPTER XV.
“Oh, Miss Fanhall!”
“What is it, Mrs. Truscot?”
“That was a great prank of yours last night, my dear. We all enjoyed the joke so much.”
“Prank?”
“Yes, your riding on the ox cart with that old farmer and that young Mr. What’s-his-name, you know. We all thought it delicious. Ah, my dear, after all — don’t be offended — if we had your people’s wealth and position we might do that sort of unconventional thing, too; but, ah, my dear, we can’t, we can’t! Isn’t the young painter a charming man?”
Out on the porch Hollanden was haranguing his friends. He heard a step and glanced over his shoulder to see who was about to interrupt him. He suddenly ceased his oration, and said, “Hello! what’s the matter with Grace?” The heads turned promptly.
As the girl came toward them it could be seen that her cheeks were very pink and her eyes were flashing general wrath and defiance.
The Worcester girls burst into eager interrogation. “Oh, nothing!” she replied at first, but later she added in an undertone, “That wretched Mrs. Truscot — —”
“What did she say?” whispered the younger Worcester girl.
“Why, she said — oh, nothing!”
Both Hollanden and Hawker were industriously reflecting.
Later in the morning Hawker said privately to the girl, “I know what Mrs. Truscot talked to you about.”
She turned upon him belligerently. “You do?”
“Yes,” he answered with meekness. “It was undoubtedly some reference to your ride upon the ox wagon.”
She hesitated a moment, and then said, “Well?”
With still greater meekness he said, “I am very sorry.”
“Are you, indeed?” she inquired loftily. “Sorry for what? Sorry that I rode upon your father’s ox wagon, or sorry that Mrs. Truscot was rude to me about it?”
“Well, in some ways it was my fault.”
“Was it? I suppose you intend to apologize for your father’s owning an ox wagon, don’t you?”
“No, but — —”
“Well, I am going to ride in the ox wagon whenever I choose. Your father, I know, will always be glad to have me. And if it so shocks you, there is not the slightest necessity of your coming with us.”
They glowered at each other, and he said, “You have twisted the question with the usual ability of your sex.”
She pondered as if seeking some particularly destructive retort. She ended by saying bluntly, “Did you know that we were going home next week?”
A flush came suddenly to his face. “No. Going home? Who? You?”
“Why, of course.” And then with an indolent air she continued, “I meant to have told you before this, but somehow it quite escaped me.”
He stammered, “Are — are you, honestly?”
She nodded. “Why, of course. Can’t stay here forever, you know.”
They were then silent for a long time.
At last Hawker said, “Do you remember what I told you yesterday?”
“No. What was it?”
He cried indignantly, “You know very well what I told you!”
“I do not.”
“No,” he sneered, “of course not! You never take the trouble to remember such things. Of course not! Of course not!”
“You are a very ridiculous person,” she vouchsafed, after eying him coldly.
He arose abruptly. “I believe I am. By heavens, I believe I am!” he cried in a fury.
She laughed. “You are more ridiculous now than I have yet seen you.”
After a pause he said magnificently, “Well, Miss Fanhall, you will doubtless find Mr. Hollanden’s conversation to have a much greater interest than that of such a ridiculous person.”
Hollanden approached them with the blithesome step of an untroubled man. “Hello, you two people, why don’t you — oh — ahem! Hold on, Billie, where are you going?”
“I — —” began Hawker.
“Oh, Hollie,” cried the girl impetuously, “do tell me how to do that slam thing, you know. I’ve tried it so often, but I don’t believe I hold my racket right. And you do it so beautifully.”
“Oh, that,” said Hollanden. “It’s not so very difficult. I’ll show it to you. You don’t want to know this minute, do you?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Well, come over to the court, then. Come ahead, Billie!”
“No,” said Hawker, without looking at his friend, “I can’t this morning, Hollie. I’ve got to go to work. Good-bye!” He comprehended them both in a swift bow and stalked away.
Hollanden turned quickly to the girl. “What was the matter with Billie? What was he grinding his teeth for? What was the matter with him?”
“Why, nothing — was there?” she asked in surprise.
“Why, he was grinding his teeth until he sounded like a stone crusher,” said Hollanden in a severe tone. “What was the matter with him?”
“How should I know?” she retorted.
“You’ve been saying something to him.”
“I! I didn’t say a thing.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Hollie, don’t be absurd.”
Hollanden debated with himself for a time, and then observed, “Oh, well, I always said he was an ugly-tempered fellow — —”
The girl flashed him a little glance.
“And now I am sure of it — as ugly-tempered a fellow as ever lived.”
“I believe you,” said the girl. Then she added: “All men are. I declare, I think you to be the most incomprehensible creatures. One never knows what to expect of you. And you explode and go into rages and make yourselves utterly detestable over the most trivial matters and at the most unexpected times. You are all mad, I think.”
“I!” cried Hollanden wildly. “What in the mischief have I done?”
CHAPTER XVI.
“Look here,” said Hollanden, at length, “I thought you were so wonderfully anxious to learn that stroke?”
“Well, I am,” she said.
“Come on, then.” As they walked toward the tennis court he seemed to be plunged into mournful thought. In his eyes was a singular expression, which perhaps denoted the woe of the optimist pushed suddenly from its height. He sighed. “Oh, well, I suppose all women, even the best of them, are that way.”
“What way?” she said.
“My dear child,” he answered, in a benevolent manner, “you have disappointed me, because I have discovered that you resemble the rest of your sex.”
“Ah!” she remarked, maintaining a noncommittal attitude.
“Yes,” continued Hollanden, with a sad but kindly smile, “even you, Grace, were not above fooling with the affections of a poor country swain, until he don’t know his ear from the tooth he had pulled two years ago.”
She laughed. “He would be furious if he heard you call him a country swain.”
“Who would?” said Hollanden.
“Why, the country swain, of course,” she rejoined.
Hollanden seemed plunged in mournful reflection again. “Well, it’s a shame, Grace, anyhow,” he observed, wagging his head dolefully. “It’s a howling, wicked shame.”
“Hollie, you have no brains at all,” she said, “despite your opinion.”
“No,” he replied ironically, “not a bit.”
“Well, you haven’t, you know, Hollie.”
“At any rate,
” he said in an angry voice, “I have some comprehension and sympathy for the feelings of others.”
“Have you?” she asked. “How do you mean, Hollie? Do you mean you have feeling for them in their various sorrows? Or do you mean that you understand their minds?”
Hollanden ponderously began, “There have been people who have not questioned my ability to — —”
“Oh, then, you mean that you both feel for them in their sorrows and comprehend the machinery of their minds. Well, let me tell you that in regard to the last thing you are wrong. You know nothing of anyone’s mind. You know less about human nature than anybody I have met.”
Hollanden looked at her in artless astonishment. He said, “Now, I wonder what made you say that?” This interrogation did not seem to be addressed to her, but was evidently a statement to himself of a problem. He meditated for some moments. Eventually he said, “I suppose you mean that I do not understand you?”
“Why do you suppose I mean that?”
“That’s what a person usually means when he — or she — charges another with not understanding the entire world.”
“Well, at any rate, it is not what I mean at all,” she said. “I mean that you habitually blunder about other people’s affairs, in the belief, I imagine, that you are a great philanthropist, when you are only making an extraordinary exhibition of yourself.”
“The dev — —” began Hollanden. Afterward he said, “Now, I wonder what in blue thunder you mean this time?”
“Mean this time? My meaning is very plain, Hollie. I supposed the words were clear enough.”
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “your words were clear enough, but then you were of course referring back to some event, or series of events, in which I had the singular ill fortune to displease you. Maybe you don’t know yourself, and spoke only from the emotion generated by the event, or series of events, in which, as I have said, I had the singular ill fortune to displease you.”
“How awf’ly clever!” she said.
“But I can’t recall the event, or series of events, at all,” he continued, musing with a scholarly air and disregarding her mockery. “I can’t remember a thing about it. To be sure, it might have been that time when — —”
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 33
