Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “No. Nobody but you. Why do you say ‘stopping’ instead of ‘staying’? I don’t like it.”

  “Then I won’t say it again,” answered Lawrence, meekly. “Why do you object to it, though?”

  “You’re not an Englishman, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t speak English. Here’s the buckboard. Can you drive?”

  “Oh — well — yes,” replied the young man, rather doubtfully, and looking at the smart little turn-out.

  Fanny Trehearne fixed her cool grey eyes on his face with a critical expression.

  “Can you ride?” she asked, pursuing her examination.

  “Oh, yes — that is — to some extent. I’m not exactly a circus-rider, you know — but I can get on.”

  “Most people can do that. The important thing is not to come off. What can you do — anyway? Are you a good man in a boat? You see I’ve only met you in society. I’ve never seen you do anything.”

  “No,” answered Lawrence. “I’m not a good man in a boat, as you call it — except that I’m never sea-sick. I don’t know anything about boats, if you mean sail-boats. I can row a little — that’s all.”

  “If you could ‘row,’ as you call it, you’d say you could ‘pull an oar’ — you wouldn’t talk about ‘rowing.’ Well, get in, and I’ll drive.”

  There was not the least scorn in her manner, at his inability to do all those things which are to be done at Bar Harbour if people do anything at all. She had simply ascertained the fact as a measure of safety. It was not easy to guess whether she despised him for his lack of skill or not, but he was inclined to think that she did, and he made up his mind that he would get up very early, and engage a sailor to go out with him and teach him something about boats. The resolution was half unconscious, for he was really thinking more of her than of himself just then. To tell the truth, he did not attach so much importance to any of the things she had mentioned as to feel greatly humiliated by his own ignorance.

  “After all,” said Miss Trehearne, as Lawrence took his seat beside her, “it doesn’t matter. And it’s far better to be frank, and say at once that you don’t know, than to pretend that you do, and then try to steer and drown one, or to drive and then break my neck. Only one rather wonders where you were brought up, you know.”

  “Oh — I was brought up somehow,” answered Lawrence, vaguely. “I don’t exactly remember.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” returned his companion, in a reassuring tone.

  “No. If you don’t mind, I don’t.”

  Fanny Trehearne laughed a little, without looking at him, for she was intent upon what she was doing. It was a part of her nature to fix her attention upon whatever she had in hand — a fact which must account for a certain indifference in what she said. Just then, too, she was crossing the main street of the village, and there were other vehicles moving about hither and thither. More than once she nodded to an acquaintance, whom Lawrence also recognized.

  “It’s much more civilized than it was when I was here last,” observed Lawrence. “There are lots of people one knows.”

  “Much too civilized,” answered the young girl. “I’m beginning to hate it.”

  “I thought you liked society—”

  “I? What made you think so?”

  This sort of question is often extremely embarrassing. Lawrence looked at her thoughtfully, and wished that he had not made his innocent remark, since he was called upon to explain it.

  “I don’t know,” he replied at last. “Somehow, I always associate you with society, and dancing, and that sort of thing.”

  “Do you? It’s very unjust.”

  “Well — it’s not exactly a crime to like society, is it? Why are you so angry?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t exaggerate! It does not follow that I’m angry because you’re not fair to me.”

  “I didn’t mean to be unfair. How you take one up!”

  “Really, Mr. Lawrence — I think it’s you who are doing that!”

  Miss Trehearne, having a stretch of clear road before her, gave her pair their heads for a moment, and the light buckboard dashed briskly up the gentle ascent. Lawrence was watching her, though she did not look at him, and he thought he saw the colour deepen in her sunburnt cheek, although her grey eyes were as cool as ever. She was certainly not pretty, according to the probable average judgment of younger men. Lawrence, himself, who was an artist, wondered what he saw in her face to attract him, since he could not deny the attraction, and could not attribute it altogether to expression nor to the indirect effect of her character acting upon his imagination. He did not like to believe, either, that the charm was fictitious, and lay in a certain air of superior smartness, the result of good taste and plenty of money. Anybody could wear serge, and a more or less nautical hat and gloves, just in the fashionable degree of looseness or tightness, as the case might be. Anybody who chose had the right to turn up a veil over the brim of the aforesaid hat, and anybody who did so stood a good chance of being sunburnt. Moreover, as Lawrence well knew, there is a quality of healthy complexion which tans to a golden brown, very becoming when the grey eyes have dark lashes, but less so when, as in Fanny Trehearne’s case, the lashes and brows are much lighter than the hair — almost white, in fact. It is not certain whether the majority of human noses turn up or down. There was, however, no doubt but that Fanny’s turned up. It was also apparent that she had decidedly high cheek bones, a square jaw, and a large mouth, with lips much too even and too little curved for beauty. After all, her best points were perhaps her eyes, her golden-brown complexion, and her crisp, reddish brown hair, which twisted itself into sharp little curls wherever it was not long enough to be smoothed. With a little more regularity of feature, Fanny Trehearne might have been called a milkmaid beauty, so far as her face was concerned. Fortunately for her, her looks were above or below such faint praise. It was doubtful whether she would be said to have charm, but she had individuality, since those terms are in common use to express gifts which escape definition.

  A short silence followed her somewhat indignant speech. Then, the road being still clear before her, she turned and looked at Lawrence. It was not a mere glance of enquiry, it was certainly not a tender glance, but her eyes lingered with his for a moment.

  “Look here — are we going to quarrel?” she asked.

  “Is there any reason why we should?” Lawrence smiled.

  “Not if we agree,” answered the young girl, gravely, as she turned her head from him again.

  “That means that we shan’t quarrel if I agree with you, I suppose,” observed the young man.

  “Well, why shouldn’t you?” asked Fanny, frankly. “You may just as well, you know. You will in the end.”

  “By Jove! You seem pretty sure of that!” Lawrence laughed.

  Fanny said nothing in reply, but shortened the reins as the horses reached the top of the hill. Lawrence looked down towards the sea. The sun was very low, and the water was turning from sapphire to amaranth, while the dark islands gathered gold into their green depths.

  “How beautiful it is!” exclaimed the artist, not exactly from impulse, though in real enjoyment, while consciously hoping that his companion would say something pleasant.

  Harbour with the Islands called Porcupine.

  “Of course it’s beautiful,” she answered. “That’s why I come here.”

  “I should put it in the opposite way,” said Lawrence.

  “How?”

  “Why — it’s beautiful because you come here.”

  “Oh — that’s ingenious! You think it’s my mission to beautify landscapes.”

  “I thought that if I said something pretty in the way of a compliment, we shouldn’t go on quarrelling.”

  “Oh! Were we quarrelling? I hadn’t noticed it.”

  “You said something about it a moment ago,” observed Lawrence, mildly.

  “Did I? You’re an awfully literal person. By the bye, you know all the Miss Miners, don’t you? I’ve forgot
ten.”

  “I believe I do. There’s Miss Miner the — elder — to begin with—”

  “The oldest — since there are three,” said Fanny, correcting him. “Yes — she’s the one with the hair — and teeth.”

  “Yes, and Miss Elizabeth — isn’t that her name? The plainest—”

  “And the nicest. And Augusta — she’s the third. Paints wild flowers and plays the piano. She’s about my age, I believe.”

  “Your age! Why, she must be over thirty!”

  “No. She’s nineteen, still. She’s got an anchor out to windward — against the storm of time, you know. She swings a little with the tide, though.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Lawrence, to whom nautical language was incomprehensible.

  “Never mind. I only mean that she does not want to grow old. It’s always funny to see a person of nineteen who’s really over thirty.”

  Lawrence laughed a little.

  “You’re fond of them all, aren’t you?” he asked, presently.

  “Of course! They’re my relation — how could I help being fond of them?”

  “Oh — yes,” answered Lawrence, vaguely. “But they really are very nice — people.”

  “Why do you hesitate?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t say ‘very nice ladies, could I? And I shouldn’t exactly say ‘very nice women’ — and ‘very nice people’ sounds queer, somehow, doesn’t it?”

  “And you wouldn’t say ‘very nice old maids’—”

  “Certainly not!”

  “No. It wouldn’t be civil to me, nor kind to them. The truth is generally unkind and usually rude. Besides, they love you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. They rave about you, and your looks, and your manners, and your conversation, and your talents.”

  “The dickens! I’m flattered! But it’s always the wrong people who like one.”

  “Why the wrong people?” asked Fanny Trehearne, not looking at him.

  “Because all the liking in the world from people one doesn’t care for can’t make up for the not liking of the one person one does care for.”

  “Oh — in that way. It’s rash to care for only one person. It’s putting all one’s eggs into one basket.”

  “What an extraordinary sentiment!”

  “I didn’t mean it for sentiment.”

  “No — I should think not! Quite the contrary, I should say.”

  “Quite,” affirmed Fanny, gravely.

  “Quite?”

  “Yes — almost quite.”

  “Oh— ‘almost’ quite?”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Not to me.”

  The young girl would not turn her attention from her horses, though in Lawrence’s inexpert opinion she could have done so with perfect safety just then, and without impropriety. The most natural and innocent curiosity should have prompted her to look into his eyes for a moment, if only to see whether he were in earnest or not. He would certainly not have thought her a flirt if she had glanced kindly at him. But she looked resolutely at the horses heads.

  “Here we are!” she exclaimed suddenly.

  With a sharp turn to the left the buckboard swept through the open gate, the off horse breaking into a canter which Fanny instantly checked. The near wheels passed within a foot of the gatepost.

  “Wasn’t that rather close?” asked Lawrence.

  “Why? There was lots of room. Are you nervous?”

  “I suppose I am, since you say so.”

  “I didn’t say so. I asked.”

  “And I answered,” said Lawrence, tartly.

  “How sensitive you are! You act as though I had called you a coward.”

  “I thought you meant to. It sounded rather like it.”

  “You have no right to think that I mean things which I haven’t said,” answered the young girl.

  “Oh, very well. I apologize for thinking that what you said meant anything.”

  “Don’t lose your temper — don’t be a spoilt baby!”

  Lawrence said nothing, and they reached the house in silence. Fanny was not mistaken in calling him sensitive, though he was by no means so nervous, perhaps, as she seemed ready to believe. She had a harsh way of saying things which, spoken with a smile, could not have given offence, and Lawrence was apt to attach real importance to her careless speeches. He felt himself out of his element from the first, in a place where he might be expected to do things in which he could not but show an awkward in experience, and he was ready to resent anything like the suggestion that timidity was at the root of his ignorance, or was even its natural result.

  His face was unnecessarily grave as he held out his hand to help Fanny down from the buck-board, and she neither touched it nor looked at him as she sprang to the ground.

  “Go into the library, and we’ll have tea,” she said, without turning her head, as she entered the house before him. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  She pointed carelessly to the open door and went through the hall in the direction of the staircase. Lawrence entered the room alone.

  The house was very large; for the Trehearnes were rich people, and liked to have their friends with them in considerable numbers. Moreover, they had bought land in Bar Harbour in days when it had been cheap, and had built their dwelling commodiously, in the midst of a big lot which ran down from the road to the sea. With the instinct of a man who has been obliged to live in New York, squeezed in, as it were, between tall houses on each side, Mr. Trehearne had given himself the luxury, in Bar Harbour, of a house as wide and as deep as he could possibly desire, and only two stories high.

  The library was in the southwest corner of the house, opening on the south side upon a deep verandah from which wooden steps descended to the shrubbery, and having windows to the west, which overlooked the broad lawn. The latter was enclosed by tall trees. The winding avenue led in a northerly direction to the main road. At the east end of the house, the offices ran out towards the boundary of the Trehearnes’ land, and beyond them, among the trees, there was a small yard enclosed by a lattice of wood eight or ten feet high.

  The library was the principal room on the ground floor, and was really larger than the drawing-room which followed it along the line of the south verandah, though it seemed smaller from being more crowded with furniture. As generally happens in the country, it had become a sort of common room in which everybody preferred to sit. The drawing-room had been almost abandoned of late, the three Miss Miners being sociable beings, unaccustomed to magnificence in their own homes, and averse to being alone with it anywhere. They felt that the drawing-room was too fine for them, and by tacit consent they chose the library for their general trysting-place and tea camp when they were indoors. Mrs. Trehearne, who was, perhaps, a little too fond of splendour, would have smiled at the idea as she thought of her gorgeously brocaded reception rooms in New York; but Fanny had simple tastes, like her father, and agreed with her old-maid cousins in preferring the plain, dark woodwork, the comfortable leathern chairs, and the backs of the books, to the dreary wilderness of expensive rugs and unnecessary gilding which lay beyond. For the sake of coolness, the doors were usually opened between the rooms.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE WEATHER WAS warm. By contrast with the cool air of the bay he had lately crossed, it seemed hot to Lawrence when he entered the library. Barely glancing at the room, he went straight to one of the doors which opened upon the verandah, and going out, sat down discontentedly in a big cushioned straw chair. It was very warm, and it seemed suddenly very still. In the distance he could hear the wheels of the buck-board in the avenue, as the groom took it round to the stables, and out of the close shrubbery he caught the sharp, dry sound of footsteps rapidly retreating along a concealed cinder path. The air scarcely stirred the creeper which climbed up one of the pillars of the verandah and festooned its way, curtain-like, in both directions to the opposite ends. On his right he could see the broad, sloping lawn, all shadowed
now by the tall trees beyond. Without looking directly at it, he felt that the vivid green of the grass was softened and that there must be gold in the tops of the trees. The sensation was restful, but his eyes stared vacantly at the deep shrubbery which began at the foot of the verandah steps and stretched away under the spruces at his left.

  He was exceedingly discontented, though he had just arrived, or, perhaps, for that very reason among many other minor ones. He had never had any cause to expect from Fanny Trehearne anything in the way of sentiment, but he was none the less persuaded that he had a moral right to look for something more than chaff and good-natured hospitality, spiced with such vigorous reproof as “don t be a spoilt baby.”

  The words rankled. He was asking himself just then whether he was a ‘spoilt baby’ or not. It was of great importance to him to know the truth. If he was a spoilt baby, of course Miss Trehearne had a right to say so if she liked,

  though the expression was not complimentary. But if not, she was monstrously unjust. He did not deny that the accusation might be well founded; for he was modest as well as sensitive, and did not think very highly of himself at present, though he hoped great things for the future, and believed that he was to be a famous artist.

  The more he told himself that he had no right to expect anything of Fanny, the more thoroughly convinced he became that his right existed, and that she was trampling upon it. She had ordered him into the library in a very peremptory and high-and-mighty fashion to wait for her, regardless of the fact that he had travelled twenty-four hours, and had acquired the prerogative right of the traveller to soap and water before all else. No doubt he was quite presentable, since the conditions of modern railways had made it possible to come in clean, or comparatively so, from a longish run. But the ancient traditions ought not to be swept out of the way, Louis thought, and the right of scrubbing subsisted still. She might at least have given him a hint as to the whereabouts of his room, since she had left him to himself for a quarter of an hour. She had not been gone four minutes yet, but Louis made it fifteen, and fifteen it was to be, in his estimation.