"It isn't true—it isn't true," she said over and over again to herself. She kept tugging and pulling till by sheer strength she forced the boat into the shallow water among the tall arrowhead along the margin of the shore.
She stepped out on the landing stones, drew up the boat, then made her way across the meadow to the shade of the tall spreading willows. Here she threw herself down, pressing her face into the cool lush grass, and relived in thought that early morning hour she had spent alone with him, only a few weeks ago, on the misty lake among the opening water lilies.
She had been awakened that morning in mid-July by hearing him singing softly beneath her open window that same song which seven years ago made such an unaccountable impression on her child's heart. He had often in jest threatened to repeat the episode of the serenade, but she never realized that beneath the jest there was any deeper meaning. Now she was aware of that meaning in her every fibre, physical and spiritual.
"Aileen Mavoureen, the gray dawn is breaking—"
"Aileen Mavoureen, the gray dawn is breaking—"
And hearing that, realizing that the voice was calling for her alone in all the world, she rose; dressed herself quickly; beckoned joyously to him from the window; noiselessly made her way down the back stairs; softly unbolted the kitchen porch door—
He was there with hands outstretched for hers; she placed them in his, and again, in remembrance of their fun and frolic seven years before, he raced with her down the slate-laid garden walk, across the lawn to the boat house where his own boat lay moored.
It was four o'clock on that warm midsummer morning. The mists lay light but impenetrable on the surface of the lake. The lilies were still closed.
They spoke but little.
"I knew no one could hear me—they all sleep on the other side, don't they?"
"Yes, all except the boy, and he sleeps like a log—Tave has to wake him every morning; alarm clocks are no good."
"Have you ever seen the lilies open, Aileen?"
"No, never; I've never been out early in the morning, but I've often seen them go to sleep under the starlight."
"We will row round then till they open—it's worth seeing."
The sun rose in the low-lying mists; it transfused them with crimson. It mounted above them; shot them through and through with gold and violet—then dispersed them without warning, and showed to the girl's charmed eyes and senses the gleaming blue of the lake waters blotched with the dull green of the lily-pads, and among them the lilies expanding the fragrant white of their corollas to its beneficent light and warmth....
When she left the boat his kiss was on her lips, his words of love ringing in her ears. One more of her day dreams was realized: she had given to the man she loved with all her heart her first kiss—and with it, on her part, the unspoken pledge of herself.
A movement somewhere about the house, the lowing of the cattle, the morning breeze stirring in the trees—something startled them. They drew apart, smiling into each other's eyes. She placed her finger on her lips.
"Hush!" she whispered. She was off on a run across the lawn, turning once to wave her hand to him.—And nowthis!
How could this then that she had just been told be true?
Her whole being revolted at the thought that he was tampering with what to her was the holiest in her young life—her love for him. In the past six weeks it never once occurred to her that he could prove unworthy of such trust as hers; no man would dare to be untrue to her—to her, Aileen Armagh, who never in all her wilfulness and love of romance had given man or boy occasion to use either her name or her lightly! How dared he do this thing? Did he not know with whom he had to deal? Because she was only Aileen Armagh, and at service with his relation, did he think her less the true woman?
Suspicion was foreign to her open nature; doubt, distrust had no place in her young life; but like a serpent in the girl's Eden the words of the mistress of Champ-au-Haut, "He never will ask you to be his wife," dropped poison in her ears.
She sat up on the grass, thrust back her hair from her forehead—
"Let him dare to hint even that what he said was love for me was not what—what—"
She buried her face in her hands.
"Aileen—Aileen—where are you?"
That voice, breaking in upon her wretched thought of him, brought her to her feet.
"Mother, don't you think Aunt Meda might open her purse and do something for Aileen Armagh now that the girl has been faithful to her interests so long?"
He had remained at home since his arrival in the morning, and was now about to drive down into the town.
His mother looked up from her sewing in surprise.
"What put that into your mind? I was thinking the same thing myself not a week ago; she has such a wonderful voice."
"It seems unjust to keep her from utilizing it for herself so far as an income is concerned and to deprive others of the pleasure of hearing her voice after it is trained. But, of course, she can't do it herself."
"I only wish I could do it for her." His mother spoke with great earnestness. "But even if I could help, there would be no use offering so long as she remains with Almeda."
"Perhaps not; anyway, I'm going down there now, and I shall do what I can to sound Aunt Meda on this point."
"Good luck!" she called after him. He turned, lifted his hat, and smiled back at her.
He found Mrs. Champney alone on the terrace; she was sitting under the ample awning that protected her from the sun but was open on all sides for air.
"All alone, Aunt Meda?" he inquired cheerfully, taking a seat beside her.
"Yes; when did you come?"
"This morning."
"Isn't it rather unexpected?" She glanced sideways rather sharply at him.
"My coming here is; I'm really on my way to Bar Harbor. The Van Ostends are off on Tuesday with a large party and I promised to go with them."
"So Alice wrote me the other day. It's the first letter I have had from her. She says she is coming here on her way home in October, that she's 'just crazy' to see Flamsted Quarries—but I can read between the lines even if my eyes are old." She smiled significantly.
Champney felt that an answering smile was the safe thing in the circumstances. He wondered how much Aunt Meda knew from the Van Ostends. That she was astute in business matters was no guaranty that she would prove far-sighted in matrimonial affairs.
"I've known Alice so long that she's gotten into the habit of taking me for granted—not that I object," he added with a glance in the direction of the boat house. Mrs. Champney, whom nothing escaped, noticed it.
"I should hope not," she said emphatically. "I may as well tell you, Champney, that Mr. Van Ostend has not hesitated to write me of your continued attentions to Alice and your frankness with him in regard to the outcome of this. So far as I see, his only objection could be on account of her extreme youth—I congratulate you." She spoke with great apparent sincerity.
"Thank you, Aunt Meda," he said quietly; "your congratulations are premature, and the subject so far as Alice and I are concerned is taboo for three years—at Mr. Van Ostend's special request."
"Quite right—a girl doesn't know her own mind before she is twenty-five."
"Faith, I know one who knows her own mind on all subjects at twenty!"—he laughed heartily as if at some amusing remembrance—"and that's Aileen; by the way, where is she, Aunt Meda?"
"She was going up to Mrs. Caukins'. I suppose she is there now—why?"
"Because I want to talk about her, and I don't want her to come in on us suddenly."
"What about Aileen?" She spoke indifferently.
"About her voice; you've never been willing, I understand, to have it cultivated?"
"What if I haven't?"
"That's just the 'what', Aunt Meda," he said pleasantly but earnestly; "I've heard her singing a good many times, and I've never heard her that I didn't wish some one would be generous enough to such talent to pay for cultivating it."
"Do you know why I haven't been willing?"
"No, I don't—and I'd like to know."
"Because, if I had, she would have been on the stage before now—and where could I get another? I don't intend to impoverish myself for her sake—not after what I've done for her." She spoke emphatically. "What was your idea in asking me about her?"
"I thought it was a pity that such a talent should be left to go to seed. I wish you could look at it from my standpoint and give her the wherewithal to go to Europe for three or four years in order to cultivate it—she can take care of herself well enough."
"And you really advise this?" She asked almost incredulously.
"Why not? You must have seen my interest in the girl. I can't think of a better way of showing it than to induce you to put her in the way of earning her livelihood by her talent."
Mrs. Champney made no direct reply. After a moment's silence she asked abruptly:
"Have you ever said anything to her about this?"
"Never a word."
"Don't then; I don't want her to get any more new-fangled notions into her head."
"Just as you say; but I wish you would think about it—it seems almost a matter of justice." He rose to go.
"Where are you going now?"
"Over to the shed office; I want to see the foreman about the last contract. I'll borrow the boat, if you don't mind, and row up—I have plenty of time." He looked at his watch. "Can I do anything for you before I go?" he asked gently, adjusting an awning curtain to shut the rays of the sun from her face.
"Yes; I wish you would telephone up to Mrs. Caukins and tell her to tell Aileen to be at home before six; I need her to-night."
"Certainly."
He went into the house and telephoned. He did not think it necessary to return and report Mrs. Caukins' reply that Aileen "hadn't come up yet." He went directly to the boat house, wondering in the mean time where she was.
One of the two boats was already gone; doubtless she had taken it—where could she be?
He stepped into the boat, and pulled slowly out into the lake, keeping in the lee of the rocky peninsula of The Bow. He was fairly well satisfied with his effort in Aileen's behalf and with himself because he had taken a first step in the right direction. Neither his mother nor Aunt Meda could say now that he was not disinterested; if Father Honoré came over, as was his custom, to chat with him on the porch for an hour or two in the evening, he would broach the subject again to him who was the girl's best friend. If she could go to Europe there would be less danger—
Danger?—Yes; he was willing to admit it, less danger for them both; three years of absence would help materially in this matter in which he felt himself too deeply involved. Then, in the very face of this acknowledgment, he could not help a thought that whitened his cheek as it formulated itself instantaneously in his consciousness: if she were three years in Europe, there would be opportunity for him to see her sometime.
He knew the thought could not be uttered in the girl's pure presence; yet, with many others, he held that a woman, if she loves a man absorbingly, passionately, is capable of any sacrifice—would she? Hardly; she was so high-spirited, so pure in thought—yet she loved him, and after all love was the great Subduer. But no—it could never be; this was his decision. He rowed out into the lake.
Why must a man's action prove so often the slave of his thought!
He was passing the arm of Mesantic that leads to "lily-pad reach". He turned to look up the glinting curve. Was she there?—should he seek her?
He backed water on the instant. The boat responded like a live thing, quivered, came to a partial rest—stopped, undulating on the surface roughened by the powerful leverage of the oars. Champney sat motionless, the dripping blades suspended over the water. He knew that in all probability the girl was there in "lily-pad reach". Should he seek her? Should he go?—Should he?
The hands that held the steady oars quivered suddenly, then gripped them as in a vise; the man's face flushed; he bent to the right oar, the craft whirled half way on her keel; the other oar fell—swiftly and powerfully the boat shot ahead up "lily-pad reach".
Reason, discretion, judgment razed in an instant from the table of consciousness; desire rampant, the desire of possession to which intellect, training, environment, even that goodward-turning which men under various aspects term religion, succumb in a moment like the present one in which Champney Googe was bending all his strength to the oars that he might be the sooner with the girl he loved.
He did not ask himself what next? He gave no thought to aught but reaching the willows as soon as he could. His eye was on the glinting curve before him; he rounded it swiftly—her boat was there tied to the stake among the arrowhead; his own dragged through the lily-pads beside it; he sprang out, ran up the bank—
"Aileen—Aileen—where are you?" he called eagerly, impatiently, and sought about him to find her.
Aileen Armagh heard that call, and doubt, suspicion, anger dropped away from her. Instead, trust, devotion, anticipation clothed her thought of him; he was coming to speak the "word" that was to make her future fair and plain—the one "word" that should set him forever in her heart, enthrone him in her life. That word was not "love", but the sacrament of love; the word of four letters which a woman writes large with legitimate loving pride in the face of the world. She sprang to her feet and waited for him; the willows drooped on either side of her—so he saw her again.
He took her in his arms. "Aileen—Aileen," he said over and over again between the kisses that fell upon her hair, forehead, lips.
She yielded herself to his embrace, passionately given and returned with all a girl's loving ardor and joy in the loved man's presence. Between the kisses she waited for the "word."
It was not forthcoming.
She drew away from him slightly and looked straight into his eyes that were devouring her face and form. The unerring instinct of a pure nature warned her against that look. He caught her to him—but she stemmed both hands against his breast to repulse him.
"Let me go, Champney," she said faintly.
"Why should I let you go? Aileen, my Aileen, why should I ever let you go?" A kiss closed the lips that were about to reply—a kiss so long and passionate that the girl felt her strength leaving her in the close embrace.
"He will speak the 'word' now surely," she told herself. Between their heart-throbs she listened for it.
The "word" was not spoken.
Again she stemmed her hands against him, pressing them hard against his shoulders. "Let me go, Champney." She spoke with spirit.
The act of repulsion, the ring in her voice half angered him; at the same time it added fuel to desire.
"I will not let you go—you love me—tell me so—"
He waited for no reply but caught her close; the girl struggled in his arms. It was dawning on her undaunted spirit that this, which she was experiencing with Champney Googe, the man she loved with all her heart, was not love. Of a sudden, all that brave spirit rose in arms to ward off from herself any spoken humiliation to her womanhood, ay more, to prevent the man she loved from deepening his humiliation of himself in her presence.
"Let me go" she said, but despite her effort for control her voice trembled.
"You know I love you—why do you repel me so?"
"Let me go," she said again; this time her voice was firm, the tone peremptory; but she made no further struggle to free herself from his arms.—"Oh, what are you doing!"
"I am making the attempt to find out if you love me as I love you—"
"You have no right to kiss me so—"
"I have the right because I love you—"
"But I don't love you."
"Yes you do, Aileen Armagh—don't say that again."
"I do not love you—let me go, I say."
He let her go at last. She stood before him, pale, but still undaunted.
"Do you know what you are saying?" he demanded almost fiercely under his breath. He took her head between his hands and bent it back to close her lips with another kiss.
"Yes, I know. I do not love you—don't touch me!" She held out her hands to him, palm outwards, as if warding off some present danger.
He paid no heed to her warning, but caught her to him again. "Tell me now you don't love me, Aileen," he whispered, laying his cheek to hers.
"I tell you I do not love you," she said aloud; her voice was clear and firm.
He drew back then to look at her in amazement; turned away for a moment as if half dazed; then, holding her to his side with his left arm he laid his ear hard over her heart. What was it that paled the man's flushed cheeks?
The girl's heart was beating slowly, calmly, even faintly. He caught her wrist, pressing his fingers on her pulse—there was not the suspicion of a flutter. He let her go then. She stood before him; her eyes were raised fearlessly to his.
"I'm going to row back now—no, don't speak—not a word—"
She turned and walked slowly down to the boat; cast it off; poled it with one oar out of the tall arrowhead and the thick fringe of lily-pads; took her seat; fitted the oars to the rowlocks, dipped them, and proceeded to row steadily down the reach towards The Bow.
Champney Googe stood where she had left him till he watched her out of sight around the curve; then he went over to the willows and sat down. It took time for him to recover from his debauch of feeling. He made himself few thoughts at first; but as time passed and the shadows lengthened on the reach, he came slowly to himself. The night fell; the man still sat there, but the thoughts were now crowding fast, uncomfortably fast. He dropped his head into his hands, so covering his face in the dark for very shame that he had so outraged his manhood. He knew now that she knew he had not intended to speak that "word" between them; but no finer feeling told him that she had saved him from himself.
In that hour he saw himself as he was—unworthy of a good woman's love.
He saw other things as well; these he hoped to make good in the near future, but this—but this!
He rowed back under cover of the dark to Champ-au-Haut. Octavius, who was wondering at his non-appearance with the boat, met him with a lantern at the float.
"Here's a telegram just come up; the operator gave it to me for you. I told him you was out in the boat and would be here 'fore you went up home."
"All right, Tave." He opened it; read it by the light of the lantern.
"I've got to go back to New York—it's a matter of business. It's all up with my vacation and the yachting cruise now,"—he looked at his watch,—"seven; I can get the eight-thirty accommodation to Hallsport, and that will give me time to catch the Eastern express."
"Hold on a minute and I'll get your trap from the stable—it's all ready for you."
"No, I'll get it myself—good-bye, Tave, I'm off."
"Good-bye, Champney."
"Champ's worried about something," he said to himself; he was making fast the boat. "I never see him look like that—I hope he hasn't got hooked in with any of those Wall Street sharks."
In a few minutes he heard the carriage wheels on the gravel in the driveway. He stopped on his way to the stable to listen.
"He's driving like Jehu," he muttered. He was still listening; he heard the frequent snorting of the horse, the rapid click of hoofs on the highroad—but he did not hear what was filling the driver's ears at that moment: the roar of an unseen cataract.
Champney Googe was realizing for the first time that he was in mid-stream; that he might not be able to breast the current; that the eddying water about him was in fact the whirlpool; that the rush of what he had deemed mere harmless rapids was the prelude to the thunderous fall of a cataract ahead.
For several weeks after her nephew's visit, Mrs. Champney occupied many of her enforced leisure half-hours in trying to put two and two together in their logical combination of four; but thus far she had failed. She learned through Octavius that Champney had returned to New York on Saturday evening; that in consequence he was obliged to give up the cruise with the Van Ostends; from Champney himself she had no word. Her conclusion was that there had been no chance for him to see Aileen during the twelve hours he was in town, for the girl came home as requested shortly before six, but with a headache, and the excuse for it that she had rowed too far in the sun on the way up to the sheds.
"My nephew told me he was going to row up to the sheds, too—did you happen to meet him there?" she inquired. She was studying the profile of the girl's flushed and sunburned face. Aileen had just said good night and was about to leave Mrs. Champney's room. She turned quickly to face her. She spoke with sharp emphasis:
"I didnotmeet your nephew at the sheds, Mrs. Champney, nor did I see him there—and I'll thank you, after what you said to me this morning, to draw no more conclusions in regard to your nephew's seeing or meeting me at the sheds or anywhere else—it's not worth your while; for I've no desire either to see or meet him again. Perhaps this will satisfy you." She left the room at once without giving Mrs. Champney time to reply.
A self-satisfied smile drew apart Mrs. Champney's thin lips; evidently the girl's lesson was a final and salutary one. She would know her place after this. She determined not to touch on this subject again with Aileen; she might run the risk of going too far, and she desired to keep her with her as long as possible. But she noticed that the singing voice was heard less and less frequently about the house and grounds. Octavius also noticed it, and missed it.
"Aileen, you don't sing as much as you did a while ago—what's the matter?" he asked her one day in October when she joined him to go up street after supper on an errand.
"Matter?—I've sung out for one while; I'm taking a rest-cure with my voice, Tave."
"It ain't the kind of rest-cure that'll agree with you, nor I guess any of us at Champo. There ain't no trouble with her that's bothering you?" He pointed with a backward jerk of his thumb to the house.
"No."
"She's acted mad ever since I told her Champney had to go back that night and tend to business; guess she'd set her heart on his making a match on that yachting cruise—well, 't would be all in the family, seeing there's Champney blood in the Van Ostends, good blood too,—there's no better," he added emphatically.
"Oh, Tave, you're always blowing the Champneys' horn—"
"And why shouldn't I?"—he was decidedly nettled. "The Champneys are my folks, my townspeople, the founders of this town, and their interests have always been mine—why shouldn't I speak up for 'em, I'd like to know? You won't find no better blood in the United States than the Champneys'."
Aileen made no reply; she was looking up the street to Poggi's fruit stall, where beneath a street light she saw a crowd of men from the quarries.
"Romanzo said there was some trouble in the sheds—do you know what it is?" she asked.
"No, I can't get at the rights of it; they didn't get paid off last week, so Romanzo told me last night, but he said Champney telegraphed he'd fix it all right in another week. He says dollars are scarce just at this time—crops moving, you know, and market dull."
She laughed a little scornfully. "You seem to think Mr. Googe can fix everything all right, Tave."
"Champney's no fool; he's 'bout as interested in this home work as anybody, and if he says it'll be all right, you may bet your life it will be—There's Jo Quimber coming; p'raps he's heard something and can tell us."
"What's that crowd up to, Uncle Jo?" said Aileen, linking her arm in the old man's and making him right about face to walk on with them.
"Talkin' a strike. I heerd 'em usin' Champ's name mighty free, Tave, just now—guess he'd better come home an' calm 'em down some, or there'll be music in the air thet this town never danced to yet. By A. J., it riles me clear through to hear 'em!"
"You can't blame them for wanting their pay, Uncle Jo." There was a challenge in the girl's voice which Uncle Jo immediately accepted.
"So ye've j'ined the majority in this town, hev ye, Aileen? I don't say ez I'm blamin' anybody fer wantin' his pay; I'm jest sayin' it don't set well on me the way they go at it to get it. How's the quickest way to git up a war, eh? Jest keep talkin' it up—talkin' it up, an' it's sure to come. They don't give a man like Champ a chance—talkin' behind his back and usin' a good old Flamsted name ez ef 't wuz a mop rag!" Joel's indignation got the better of his discretion; his voice was so loud that it began to attract the attention of some men who were leaving Poggi's; the crowd was rapidly dispersing.
"Sh—Joel! they'll hear you. You've been standing up for everything foreign that's come into this town for the last seven years—what's come over you that you're going back on all your preaching?"
"I ain't goin' back on nothin'," the old man replied testily; "but a man's a man, I don't keer whether he's a Polack or a 'Merican—I don't keer nothin' 'bout thet; but ef he's a man he knows he'd oughter stop backbitin' and hittin' out behind another man's back—he'd oughter come out inter the open an' say, 'You ain't done the right thing by me, now let's both hev it out', instead of growlin' and grumblin' an' spittin' out such all-fired nonsense 'bout the syndicaters and Champ—what's Champ got to do with it, anyway? He can't make money for 'em."
The crowds were surging past them; the men were talking together; their confused speech precluded the possibility of understanding what was said.
"He's no better than other men, Uncle Jo," the girl remarked after the men had passed. She laughed as she spoke, but the laugh was not a pleasant one; it roused Octavius.
"Now, look here, Aileen, you stop right where you are—"
She interrupted him, and her voice was again both merry and pleasant, for they were directly opposite Luigi's shop: "I'm going to, Tave; I'm going to stop right here; Mrs. Champney sent me down on purpose to get some of those late peaches Luigi keeps; she said she craved them, and I'm going in this very minute to get them—"
She waved her hand to both and entered the shop.
Old Quimber caught Octavius by the arm to detain him a moment before he himself retraced his steps up street.
"What d'ye think, Tave?—they goin' to make a match on't, she an' Poggi? I see 'm together a sight."
"You can't tell 'bout Aileen any more'n a weather-cock. She might go farther and fare worse."
"Thet's so, Tave; Poggi's a man, an' a credit to our town. I guess from all I hear Romanzo's 'bout give it up, ain't he?"
"Romanzo never had a show with Aileen," Octavius said decidedly; "he ain't her kind."
"Guess you're right, Tave—By A. J. there they go now!" He nudged Octavius with his elbow. Octavius, who had passed the shop and was standing on the sidewalk with old Quimber, saw the two leave it and walk slowly in the direction of The Bow. He listened for the sound of Aileen's merry laugh and chat, but he heard nothing. His grave face at once impressed Joel.
"Something's up 'twixt those two, eh, Tave?" he whispered.
Octavius nodded in reply; he was comprehending all that old man's words implied. He bade Quimber good night and walked on to The Greenbush. The Colonel found him more taciturn than usual that evening....
"I can't, Luigi,—I can't marry you," she answered almost irritably. The two were nearing the entrance to Champo; the Italian was pleading his cause. "I can't—so don't say anything more about it."
"But, Aileen, I will wait—I can wait; I've waited so long already. I believe I began to love you through that knothole, you remember?"
"I haven't forgotten;" she half smiled at the remembrance; "but that seems so long ago, and things have changed so—I've changed, Luigi."
The tone of her voice was hard. Luigi looked at her in surprise.
"What has changed you, Aileen? Tell me—can't you trust me?"
"Luigi!"—she faced him suddenly, looking straight up into his handsome face that turned white as he became aware that what she was about to say was final—"I'd give anything if I could say to you what you want me to—you deserve all my love, if I could only give it to you, for you are faithful and true, and mean what you say—it would be the best thing for me, I know; but I can't, Luigi; I've nothing to give, and it would be living a lie to you from morning till night to give you less than you deserve. I only blame myself that I'm not enough like other girls to know a good man when I see him, and take his love with a thankful heart that it's mine—but it's no use—don't blame me for being myself—" Her lips trembled; she bit the lower one white in her effort to steady it.
For a moment Luigi made no reply. Suddenly he leaned towards her—she drew away from him quickly—and said between his teeth, all the long-smouldering fire of southern passion, passion that is founded on jealousy, glowing in his eyes:
"Tell me, Aileen Armagh, is there another man you love?—tell me—"
Rag who had been with her all the afternoon moved with a quick threatening motion to her side and a warninggurr—rrrrfor the one who should dare to touch her.
"No." She spoke defiantly. Luigi straightened himself. Rag sprang upon her fawning and caressing; she shoved him aside roughly, for the dog was at that moment but the scapegoat for his master; Rag cowered at her feet.
"Ah—" It was a long-drawn breath of relief. Luigi Poggi's eyes softened; the fire in them ceased to leap and blaze; something like hope brightened them.
"I could bear anything but that—I was afraid—" He hesitated.
"Afraid of what?" She caught up his words sharply, and began to walk rapidly up the driveway.
He answered slowly: "I was afraid you were in love with Mr. Googe—I saw you once out rowing with him—early one morning—"
"I in love with Mr. Googe!" she echoed scornfully, "you needn't ever be afraid of that; I—I hate him!"
Luigi stared at her in amazement. He scarce could keep pace with her rapid walk that was almost a run. Her cheeks were aflame; her eyes filled with tears. All her pent up wretchedness of the last two months, all her outraged love, her womanhood's humiliation, a sense of life's bitter injustice and of her impotence to avenge the wrong put upon her affections, found vent in these three words. And Luigi, seeing Aileen Armagh changed into something that an hour before he would not have believed possible, was gripped by a sudden fear,—he must know the truth for his own peace of mind,—and, under its influence, he laid his hand on her arm and brought her to a standstill.
Rag snarled another warning; Aileen thrust him aside with her foot.
"What has he done to you to make you hate him so?"
Because he spoke slowly, Aileen thought he was speaking calmly. Had she not been carried away by her own strength of feeling, she would have known that she might not risk the answer she gave him.
"Done to me?—nothing; what could he do?—but I hate him—I never want to see his face again!"
She was beside herself with anger and shame. It was the tone of Luigi's voice that brought her to her senses; in a flash she recalled Octavius Buzzby's warning about playing with "volcanic fires." It was too late, however, to recall her words.
"Luigi, I've said too much; you don't understand—now let's drop it." She drew away her arm from beneath his hand, and resumed her rapid walk up the driveway, Rag trotting after her.
"And you mean what you say—you never want to see him again?" He spoke again slowly.
"Never," she said firmly.
Luigi made no reply. They were nearing the house. She turned to him when they reached the steps.
"Luigi,"—she put out her hand and he took it in both his,—"forget what I've said about another and forgive me for what I've had to say to yourself—we've always been such good friends, that now—"
She was ready with the smile that captivated him, but it was a tremulous one for she smiled through tears; she was thinking of the contrast.
"And always will be, Aileen, when we both know for good and all that we can be nothing more to each other," he answered gently.
She was grateful to him; but she turned away and went up the steps without saying good-bye.
"'Gad, I wish I was well out of it!"
For the first time within the memory of Elmer Wiggins and Lawyer Emlie, who heard the Colonel's ejaculation, his words and tone proclaimed the fact that he was not in his seemingly unfailing good spirits. He was standing with the two at the door of the drug shop and watching the crowds of men gathered in groups along the main street.
It was Saturday afternoon and the men were idle, a weekly occurrence the Colonel had learned to dread since his incumbency as deputy sheriff and, in consequence of his office, felt responsible for the peace of the community at large until Monday morning.
Something unusual was in the air, and the three men were at once aware of it. The uneasiness, that had prevailed in the sheds and at The Gore during the past month, was evidently coming to a crisis now that the men's pay was two weeks overdue.
Emlie looked grave on replying, after a pause in which the three were busy taking note of the constantly increasing crowd in front of the town hall:
"I don't blame you, Colonel; there'll be the deuce to pay if the men don't get paid off by Monday noon. They've been uneasy now so long about the piece work settlement, that this last delay is going to be the match that fires the train—and no slow match either from the looks; I don't understand this delay. When did Romanzo send his last message?"
"About an hour ago, but he hasn't had any answer yet," replied the Colonel, shading his eyes with his hat to look up street at the town hall crowd. "He has been telephoning and telegraphing off and on for the last two weeks; but he can't get any satisfaction—corporations, you know, don't materialize just for the rappings."
"What does Champney say?" inquired Mr. Wiggins.
"State of the market," said the Colonel laconically.
The men did not look at one another, for each was feeling a certain degree of indignation, of humiliation and disappointment that one of their own, Champney Googe, should go back on Flamsted to the extent of allowing the "market" to place the great quarry interests, through non-payment of the workers, in jeopardy.
"Has Romanzo heard direct from him to-day?" asked Emlie.
"No; the office replied he was out of the city for Saturday and Sunday; didn't give his address but asked if we could keep the men quiet till the middle of next week when the funds would be forwarded."
"I wired our New York exchange yesterday," said Emlie, "but they can't give us any information—answered things had gone to pot pretty generally with certain securities, but Flamsted was all right,—not tied up in any of them. Of course, they know the standing of the syndicate. There'll have to be some new arrangement for a large reserve fund right here on home soil, or we'll be kept in hot water half the time. I don't believe in having the hands that work in one place, and the purse that holds their pay in another; it gets too ticklish at such times when the market drops and a plank or two at the bottom falls out."
"Neither do I;" Mr. Wiggins spoke emphatically. "The Quarries Company's liabilities run up into the millions on account of the contracts they have signed and the work they have undertaken, and there ought to be a million of available assets to discount panics like this one that looks pretty threatening to us away off here in Maine. Our bank ought to have the benefit of some of the money."
"Well, so far, we've had our trouble for nothing, you might say. You, as a director, know that Champney sends up a hundred thousand say on Thursday, and Romanzo draws it for the pay roll and other disbursements on Saturday morning; they hold it at the other end to get the use of it till the last gun is fired." He spoke with irritation.
"It looks to me as if some sort of a gun had been fired already," said Mr. Wiggins, pointing to the increasing crowd before the hall.
"Something's up," said Emlie, startled at the sight of the gathering hundreds.
"Then there's my place," said the Colonel—the other two thought they heard him sigh—and started up the street.
Emlie turned to Mr. Wiggins.
"It's rough on the Colonel; he's a man of peace if ever there was one, and likes to stand well with one and all. This rough and tumble business of sheriff goes against the grain; his time is up next month; he'll be glad enough to be out of it. I'll step over to the office for the paper, I see they've just come—the men have got them already from the stand—"
Elmer Wiggins caught his arm.
"Look!" he cried under his breath, pointing to the crowd and a man who was mounting the tail of an express wagon that had halted on the outskirts of the throng. "That's one of the quarrymen—he's ring-leader every time—he's going to read 'em something—hark!"
They could hear the man haranguing the ever-increasing crowd; he was waving a newspaper. They could not hear what he was saying, but in the pauses of his speechifying the hoarse murmur of approval grew louder and louder. The cart-tail orator pointed to the headlines; there was a sudden deep silence, so deep that the soft scurrying of a mass of fallen elm leaves in the gutter seemed for a moment to fill all the air. Then the man began to read. They saw the Colonel on the outside of the crowd; saw him suddenly turn and make with all haste for the post-office; saw him reappear reading the paper.
The two hurried across the street to him.
"What's the matter?" Emlie demanded.
The Colonel spoke no word. He held the sheet out to them and with shaking forefinger pointed to the headlines:
BIG EMBEZZLEMENT BY FLAMSTED QUARRIES CO. OFFICIALGUILTY MAN A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICESEARCH WARRANTS OUTDETECTIVES ON TRAIL"New York—Special Despatch: L. Champney Googe, the treasurer of the Flamsted Quarries Co.—" etc., etc.
BIG EMBEZZLEMENT BY FLAMSTED QUARRIES CO. OFFICIAL
GUILTY MAN A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE
SEARCH WARRANTS OUT
DETECTIVES ON TRAIL
"New York—Special Despatch: L. Champney Googe, the treasurer of the Flamsted Quarries Co.—" etc., etc.
The men looked at one another. There was a moment of sickening silence; not so much as a leaf whirled in the gutter; it was broken by a great cheer from the assembled hundreds of workmen farther up the street, followed by a conglomerate of hootings, cat-calls, yells and falsetto hoorays from the fringe of small boys. The faces of the three men in front of the post-office grew white at their unspoken thought. Each waited for the other.
"His mother—" said Emlie at last.
Elmer Wiggins' lips trembled. "You must tell her, Colonel—she mustn't hear it this way—"
"My God, how can I!" The Colonel's voice broke, but only for a second, then he braced himself to his martyrdom. "You're right; she mustn't hear it from any one but me—telephone up at once, will you, Elmer, that I'm coming up to see her on an important matter?—Emlie, you'll drive me up in your trap—we can get there before the men have a chance to get home—keep a watch on the doings here in the town, Elmer, and telephone me if there's any trouble—there's Romanzo coming now, I suppose he's got word from the office—if you happen to see Father Honoré, tell him where I am, he will help—"
He stepped into the trap that had been hitched in front of the drug store, and Emlie took the reins. Elmer Wiggins reached up his hand to the Colonel, who gripped it hard.
"Yes, Elmer," he said in answer to the other's mute question, "this is one of the days when a man, who is a man, may wish he'd never been born—"
They were off, past the surging crowds who were now thronging the entire street, past The Bow, and over the bridge on their way to The Gore.
"Run on ahead, girlies," said Aileen to the twins who were with her for their annual checkerberry picnic, "I'll be down in a few minutes."
They were on the edge of the quarry woods which sheltered the Colonel's outlying sheep pastures and protected from the north wind the two sheepfolds that were used for the autumn and early spring. Dulcie and Doosie, obedient to Aileen's request, raced hand in hand across the short-turfed pastures, balancing their baskets of red berries.
The late afternoon sunshine of the last of October shone clear and warm upon the fading close-cropped herbage that covered the long slopes. The sheep were gathering by flocks at the folds. The collie, busy and important, was at work with 'Lias rounding up the stragglers. Aileen's eyes were blinded to the transient quiet beauty of this scene, for she was alive to but one point in the landscape—the red brick house with granite trimmings far away across the Rothel, and the man leaving the carriage which had just stopped at the front porch. She could not distinguish who it was, and this fact fostered conjecture—Could it be Champney Googe who had come home to help settle the trouble in the sheds?
How she hated him!—yet her heart gave a sudden sick throb of expectation. How she hated herself for her weakness!
"You look tired to death, Aileen," was Mrs. Caukins' greeting a few minutes afterwards, "come in and rest yourself before supper. Luigi was here just now and I've sent Dulcie over with him to Aurora's to get the Colonel; I saw him go in there fifteen minutes ago, and he's no notion of time, not even meal-time, when he's talking business with her. I know it's business, because Mr. Emlie drove up with him; he's waiting for him to come out. Romanzo has just telephoned that he can't get home for supper, but he'll be up in time to see you home."
Mrs. Caukins was diplomatic; she looked upon herself as a committee of one on ways and means to further her son's interest so far as Aileen Armagh was concerned; but that young lady was always ready with a check to her mate.
"Thank you, Mrs. Caukins, but I'll not trouble him; Tave is coming up to drive me home about eight; he knows checkerberry picking isn't easy work."
Mrs. Caukins was looking out of the window and did not reply.
"I declare," she exclaimed, "if there isn't Octavius this very minute driving up in a rush to Aurora's too—and Father Honoré's with him!—Why, what—"
Without waiting to finish her thought, she hurried to the door to call out to Dulcie, who was coming back over the bridge towards the house, running as fast as she could:
"What's the matter, Dulcie?"
"Oh, mother—mother—" the child panted, running up the road, "father wants you to come over to Mrs. Googe's right off, as quick as you can—he says not to stop for anything—"
The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Mrs. Caukins, without heeding Aileen, was hurrying down the road. The little girl, wholly out of breath, threw herself down exhausted on the grass before the door. Aileen and Doosie ran out to her.
"What is it, Dulcie—can't you tell me?" said Aileen.
Between quickened breaths the child told what she knew.
"Luigi stopped to speak to Mr. Emlie—and Mr. Emlie said something dreadful for Flamsted—had happened—and Luigi looked all of a sudden so queer and pale,"—she sat up, and in the excitement and importance of imparting such news forgot her over-exertion,—"and Mr. Emlie said father was telling Mrs. Googe—and he was afraid it would kill her—and then father came to the door looking just like Luigi, all queer and pale, and Mr. Emlie says, 'How is she?' and father shook his head and said, 'It's her death blow,' then I squeezed Luigi's hand to make him look at me, and I asked him what it was Mrs. Googe's was sick of, for I must go and tell mother—and he looked at Mr. Emlie and he nodded and said, 'It's town talk already—it's in the papers.' And then Luigi told me that Mr. Champney Googe had been stealing, Aileen!—and if he got caught he'd have to go to prison—then father sent me over home for mother and told me to run, and I've run so—Oh, Aileen!"
It was a frightened cry, and her twin echoed it. While Aileen Armagh was listening with shortened breaths to the little girl, she felt as if she were experiencing the concentrated emotions of a lifetime; as a result, the revulsion of feeling was so powerful that it affected her physically; her young healthy nerves, capable at other times of almost any tension, suddenly played her false. The effect upon her of what she heard was a severe nervous shock. She had never fainted in her life, nor had she known the meaning of an hysterical mood; she neither fainted nor screamed now, but began to struggle horribly for breath, for the shocked heart began beating as it would, sending the blood in irregular spurts through the already over-charged arteries. From time to time she groaned heavily as her struggle continued.
The two children were terrified. Doosie raced distractedly across the pastures to get 'Lias, and Dulcie ran into the house for water. Her little hand was trembling as she held the glass to Aileen's white quivering lips that refused it.
By the time, however, that 'Lias got to the house, the crisis was past; she could smile at the frightened children, and assure 'Lias that she had had simply a short and acute attack of indigestion from eating too many checkerberries over in the woods.
"It serves me right," she said smiling into the woe-begone little faces so near to hers; "I've always heard they are the most indigestible things going—now don't you eat any more, girlies, or you'll have a spasm like mine. I'm all right, 'Lias; go back to your work, I'll just help myself to a cup of hot water from the tea-kettle and then I'll go home with Tave—I see him coming for me—I didn't expect him now."
"But, Aileen, won't you stay to supper?" said the twins at one and the same time; "we always have you to celebrate our checkerberry picnic."
"Dear knows, I've celebrated the checkerberries enough already," she said laughing,—but 'Lias noticed that her lips were still colorless,—"and I think, dearies, that it's no time for us to be celebrating any more to-day when poor Mrs. Googe is in such trouble."
"What's up?" said 'Lias.
The twins' eagerness to impart their knowledge of recent events to 'Lias was such that the sorrow of parting was greatly mitigated; moreover, Aileen left them with a promise to come up again soon.
"I'm ready, Tave," she said as he drew up at the door. 'Lias helped her in.
"Come again soon, Aileen—you've promised," the twins shouted after her.
She turned and waved her hand to them. "I'll come," she called back in answer.
They drove in silence over the Rothel, past the brick house where Emlie's trap was still standing, but now hitched. Octavius Buzzby's face was gray; his features were drawn.
"Did you hear, Aileen?" he said, after they had driven on a while and begun to meet the quarrymen returning from Flamsted, many of whom were talking excitedly and gesticulating freely.
"Yes—Dulcie told me something. I don't know how true it is," she answered quietly.
"It's true," he said grimly, "and it'll kill his mother."
"I don't know about that;" she spoke almost indifferently; "you can stand a good deal when it comes to the point."
Octavius turned almost fiercely upon her.
"What do you know about it?" he demanded. "You're neither wife nor mother, but you might show a little more feeling, being a woman. Do you realize what this thing means to us—to Flamsted—to the family?"
"Tave," she turned her gray eyes full upon him, the pupils were unnaturally enlarged, "I don't suppose I do know what it means to all of you—but it makes me sick to talk about it—please don't—I can't bear it—take me home as quick as you can."
She grew whiter still.
"Ain't you well, Aileen?" he asked in real anxiety, repenting of his hard word to her.
"Not very, Tave; the truth is I ate too many checkerberries and had an attack of indigestion—I shall be all right soon—and they sent over for Mrs. Caukins just at that time, and when Dulcie came back she told me—it's awful—but it's different with you; he belongs to you all here and you've always loved him."
"Loved him!"—Octavius Buzzby's voice shook with suppressed emotion—"I should say loved him; he's been dear to me as my own—I thank God Louis Champney isn't living to go through this disgrace!"
He drew up in the road to let a gang of workmen separate—he had been driving the mare at full speed. Both he and Aileen caught fragments of what they were saying.
"It's damned hard on his mother—"
"They say there's a woman in the case—"
"Generally is with them highflyers—"
"I'll bet he'll make for the old country, if he can get clear he'll—"
"Europe's full of 'em—reg'lar cesspool they say—"
"Any reward offered?"
"The Company'll have to fork over or there'll be the biggest strike in Flamsted that the stone-cutting business has seen yet—"
"The papers don't say what the shortage is—"
"What's Van Ostend's daughter's name, anybody know?—they say he was sweet on her—"
"She's a good haul," a man laughed hoarsely, insultingly, "but she didn't bite, an' lucky for her she didn't."
"You're 'bout right—them high rollers don't want to raise nothing but game cocks—no prison birds, eh?"
The men passed on, twenty or more. Octavius Buzzby, and the one who in the last hour had left her girlhood behind her, drove homewards in silence. Her eyes were lowered; her white cheeks burned again, but with shame at what she was obliged to hear.
The strike was averted; the men were paid in full on the Wednesday following that Saturday the events of which brought for a time Flamsted, its families, and its great industry into the garish light of undesirable publicity. In the sheds and the quarries the routine work went on as usual, but speculation was rife as to the outcome of the search for the missing treasurer. A considerable amount of money was put up by the sporting element among the workmen, that the capture would take place within three weeks. Meanwhile, the daily papers furnished pabulum for the general curiosity and kept the interest as to the outcome on the increase. Some reports had it that Champney Googe was already in Europe; others that he had been seen in one of the Central American capitals. Among those who knew him best, it was feared he was already in hiding in his native State; but beyond their immediate circle no suspicion of this got abroad.
Among the native Flamstedites, who had known and loved Champney from a child, there was at first a feeling of consternation mingled with shame of the disgrace to his native town. They felt that Champney had played false to his two names, and through the honored names of Googe and Champney he had brought disgrace upon all connections, whether by ties of blood or marriage. To him they had looked to be a leader in the new Flamsted that was taking its place in the world's work. For a few days it seemed as if the keystone of the arch of their ambition and pride had fallen and general ruin threatened. Then, after the first week passed without news as to his whereabouts, there was bewilderment, followed on the second Monday by despair deepened by a suspense that was becoming almost unbearable.
It was a matter of surprise to many to find the work in sheds and quarries proceeding with its accustomed regularity; to find that to the new comers in Flamsted the affair was an impersonal one, that Champney Googe held no place among the workmen; that his absconding meant to them simply another one of the "high rollers" fleeing from his deserts. Little by little, during that first week, the truth found its way home to each man and woman personally interested in this erring son of Flamsted's old families, that a man is but one working unit among millions, and that unit counts in a community only when its work is constructive in the communal good.
At a meeting of the bank directors the telling fact was disclosed that all of Mrs. Googe's funds—the purchase money of the quarry lands—had been withdrawn nine months previous; but this, they ascertained later, had been done with her full consent and knowledge.
Romanzo was summoned with the Company's books to the New York office. The Colonel seemed to his friends to have aged ten years in seven days. He wore the look of a man haunted by the premonition of some impending catastrophe. But he confided his trouble to no one, not even to his wife. Aurora Googe's friends suffered with her and for her; they began, at last, to fear for her reason if some definite word should not soon be forthcoming.
The tension in the Champ-au-Haut household became almost intolerable as the days passed without any satisfaction as to the fugitive's whereabouts. After the first shock, and some unpleasant recrimination on the part of Mrs. Champney, this tension showed itself by silently ignoring the recent family event. Mrs. Champney found plausible excuse in the state of her health to see no one. Octavius Buzzby attended to his daily duties with the face of a man who has come through a severe sickness; Hannah complained that "he didn't eat enough to keep a cat alive." His lack of appetite was an accompaniment to sleepless, thought-racked nights.
Aileen Armagh said nothing—what could she say?—but sickened at her own thoughts. She made excuse to be on the street, at the station, in The Gore at the Caukinses', with Joel Quimber and Elmer Wiggins, as well as among the quarrymen's families, whose children she taught in an afternoon singing class, in the hope of hearing some enlightening word; of learning something definite in regard to the probabilities of escape; of getting some inkling of the whole truth. She gathered a little here, a little there; she put two and two together, and from what she heard as a matter of speculation, and from what she knew to be true through Mrs. Caukins via Romanzo in New York, she found that Champney Googe had sacrificed his honor, his mother, his friends, and the good name of his native town for the unlawful love of gain. She was obliged to accept this fact, and its acceptance completed the work of destruction that the revelation of Champney Googe's unfaith, through the declaration of a passion that led to no legitimate consummation in marriage, had wrought in her young buoyant spirit. She was broken beneath the sudden cumulative and overwhelming knowledge of evil; her youth found no abiding-place either for heart or soul. To Father Honoré she could not go—not yet!
On the afternoon of Monday week, a telegram came for the Colonel. He opened it in the post office. Octavius coming in at the same time for his first mail noticed at once the change in his face—he looked stricken.
"What is it, Colonel?" he asked anxiously, joining him.
For answer Milton Caukins held out the telegram. It was from the State authorities; its purport that the Colonel was to form a posse and be prepared to aid, to the extent of his powers, the New York detectives who were coming on the early evening train. The fugitive from justice had left New York and been traced to Hallsport.
"I've had a premonition of this—it's the last stroke, Tave—here, in his home—among us—and his mother!—and, in duty bound, I, of all others, must be the man to finish the ugly job—"
Octavius Buzzby's face worked strangely. "It's tough for you, Colonel, but I guess a Maine man knows his whole duty—only, for God's sake, don't ask me!" It was a groan rather than an ejaculation. The two continued to talk in a low tone.
"I shall call for volunteers and then get them sworn in—it means stiff work for to-night. We'll keep this from Aurora, Tave; she mustn't knowthis."
"Yes, if we can. Are you going to ask any of our own folks to volunteer, Milton?" In times of great stress and sorrow his townspeople called the Colonel by his Christian name.
"No; I'm going to ask some of the men who don't know him well—some of the foreigners; Poggi's one. He'll know some others up in The Gore. And I don't believe, Tave, there's one of our own would volunteer, do you?"
"No, I don't. We can't go that far; it would be like cutting our own throats."
"You're right, Tave—that's the way I feel; but"—he squared his shoulders—"it's got to be done and the sooner it's over the better for us all—but, Tave, I hope to God he'll keep out of our way!"
"Amen," said Octavius Buzzby.
The two stood together in the office a moment longer in gloomy silence, then they went out into the street.
"Well, I must get to work," said the Colonel finally, "the time's scant. I'll telephone my wife first. We can't keep this to ourselves long; everybody, from the quarrymen to the station master, will be keen on the scent."
"I'm glad no reward was offered," said Octavius.
"So am I." The Colonel spoke emphatically. "The roughscuff won't volunteer without that, and I shall be reasonably certain of some good men—God! and I'm saying this of Champney Googe—it makes me sick; who'd have thought it—who'd have thought it—"
He shook his head, and stepped into the telephone booth. Octavius waited for him.
"I've warned Mrs. Caukins," he said when he came out, "and told her how things stand; that I'd try to get Poggi, and that I sha'n't be at home to-night. She says tell Aileen to tell Mrs. Champney she will esteem it a great favor if she will let her come up to-night; she has one of her nervous headaches and doesn't want to be alone with the children and 'Lias. You could take her up, couldn't you?"
"I guess she can come, and I'll take her up 'fore supper; I don't want to be gone after dark," he added with meaning emphasis.
"I understand, Tave; I'm going over to Poggi's now."
The two parted with a hand-clasp that spoke more than any words.
About four, Octavius drove Aileen up to the Colonel's. He said nothing to her of the coming crucial night, but Aileen had her thoughts. The Colonel's absence from home, but not from town, coupled with yesterday's New York despatch which said that there was no trace of the guilty man in New York, and affirmed on good authority that the statement that he had not left the country was true, convinced her that something unforeseen was expected in the immediate vicinity of Flamsted. But he would never attempt to come here!—She shivered at the thought. Octavius, noticing this movement, remarked that he thought there was going to be a black frost. Aileen maintained that the rising wind and the want of a moon would keep it off.
Although Octavius was inclined to take exception to the feminine statement that the moon, or the want of it, had an effect on frost, nevertheless this apparently innocent remark on Aileen's part recalled to him the fact that the night was moonless—he wondered if the Colonel had thought of this—and he hoped with all his soul that it would prove to be starless as well. "Champney knows the Maine woods—knows 'em from the Bay to the head of Moosehead as well as an Oldtown Indian, yes and beyond." So he comforted himself in thought.
Mrs. Caukins met them with effusion.
"I declare, Aileen, I don't know what I should have done if you couldn't have come up; I'm all of a-tremble now and I've got such a nervous headache from all I've been through, and all I've got to, that I can't see straight out of my eyes.—Won't you stop to supper, Tave?"
"I can't to-night, Elvira, I—"
"I'd no business to ask you, I know," she said, interrupting him; "I might have known you'd want to be on hand for any new developments. I don't know how we're going to live through it up here; you don't feel it so much down in the town—I don't believe I could go through it without Aileen up here with me, for the twins aren't old enough to depend on or to be told everything; they're no company at such times, and of course I sha'n't tell them, they wouldn't sleep a wink; I miss my boys dreadfully—"
"Tell them what? What do you mean by 'to-night'?" Aileen demanded, a sudden sharpness in her voice.
"Why, don't you know?"—She turned to Octavius, "Haven't you told her?"
Her appeal fell on departing and intentionally deaf ears; for Octavius, upon hearing Aileen's sudden and amazed question, abruptly bade them good-night, spoke to the mare and was off at a rapid pace before Mrs. Caukins comprehended that the telling of the latest development was left to her.
She set about it quickly enough, and what with her nervousness, her sympathy for that mother across the Rothel, her anxiety for the Colonel, her fear of the trial to which his powers of endurance were about to be put, and the description of his silent suffering during the last week, she failed to notice that Aileen said nothing. The girl busied herself with setting the table and preparing tea, Mrs. Caukins, meanwhile, rocking comfortably in her chair and easing her heart of its heavy burden by continual drippings of talk after the main flow of her tale was exhausted.
Presently, just after sunset, the twins came rushing in. Evidently they were full of secrets—they were always a close corporation of two—and their inane giggles and breathless suppression of what they were obviously longing to impart to their mother and Aileen, told on Mrs. Caukins' already much worn nerves.
"I wish you wouldn't stay out so long after sundown, children, you worry me to death. I don't say but the quarries are safe enough, but I do say you never can tell who's round after dusk, and growing girls like you belong at home."
She spoke fretfully. The twins exchanged meaning glances that were lost on their mother, who was used to their ways, but not on Aileen.
"Where have you been all this time, Dulcie?" she asked rather indifferently. Her short teaching experience had shown her that the only way to gain children's confidence is not to display too great a curiosity in regard to their comings and goings, their doings and undoings. "Tave and I didn't see you anywhere when we drove up."
The twins looked at each other and screwed their lips into a violently repressive contortion.
"We've been over to the sheepfolds with 'Lias."
"Why, 'Lias has been out in the barn for the last half hour—what were you doing over there, I'd like to know?" Their mother spoke sharply, for untruth she would not tolerate.
"We did stay with 'Lias till he got through, then we played ranchmen and made believe round up the cattle the way the boys wrote us they do." Two of their brothers were in the West trying their fortune on a ranch and incidentally "dovetailing into the home business," as the Colonel defined their united efforts along the line of mutton raising.
"Well, I never!" their mother ejaculated; "I suppose now you'll be making believe you're everything the other boys are going to be."
The little girls giggled and nodded emphatically.
"Well, Aileen," she said as she took her seat at the table, "times have changed since I was a girl, and that isn't so very long ago. Then we used to content ourselves with sewing, and housework, and reading all the books in the Sunday school library, and making our own clothes, and enjoying ourselves as much as anybody nowadays for all I see, what with our picnics and excursions down the Bay and the clam bakes and winter lecture course and the young folks 'Circle' and two or three dances to help out—and now here are my girls that can't be satisfied to sit down and hem good crash towels for their mother, but must turn themselves into boys, and play ranchmen and baseball and hockey on the ice, and Wild West shows with the dogs and the pony—and even riding him a-straddle—and want to go to college just because their two brothers are going, and, for all I know, join a fraternity and have secrets from their own mother and a football team!" She paused long enough to help the twins bountifully.
"Sometimes I think it's their being brought up with so many boys, and then again I'm convinced it's the times, for all girls seem to have caught the male fever. What with divided skirts, and no petticoats, and racing and running and tumbling in basket ball, and rowing races, and entering for prize championships in golf and the dear knows what, it'll be lucky if a mother of the next generation can tell whether she's borned girls or boys by the time her children are ten years old. The land knows it's hard enough for a married woman to try to keep up with one man in a few things, but when it comes to a lot of old maids and unmarried girls trying to catch up all the time with the men ineverything, and catch on too, I must sayI, for one, draw the line."
Aileen could not help smiling at this diatribe on "the times." The twins laughed outright; they were used to their mother by this time, and patronized her in a loving way.
"We weren't thereallthe time," Doosie said meaningly, and Dulcie added her little word, which she intended should tantalize her mother and Aileen to the extent that many pertinent questions should be forthcoming, and the news they were burning to impart would, to all appearance, be dragged out of them—a process in which the twins revelled.
"We met Luigi on the road near the bridge."
"What do you suppose Luigi's doing up here at this time, I'd like to know," said Mrs. Caukins, turning to Aileen and ignoring the children.
"He come up on an errand to see some of the quarrymen," piped up both the girls at the same time.
"Oh, is that all?" said their mother indifferently; then, much to the twins' chagrin, she suddenly changed the subject. "I want you to take the glass of wine jell on the second shelf in the pantry over to Mrs. Googe's after you finish your supper—you can leave it with the girl and tell her not to say anything to Mrs. Googe about it, but just put some in a saucer and give it to her with her supper. Maybe it'll tempt her to taste it, poor soul!"
The twins sat up very straight on their chairs. A look of consternation came into their faces.
"We don't want to go," murmured Dulcie.
"Don't want to go!" their mother exclaimed; decided irritation was audible in her voice. "For pity's sake, what is the matter now, that you can't run on an errand for me just over the bridge, and here you've been prowling about in the dusk for the last hour around those lonesome sheepfolds and 'Lias nowheres near—I declare, I could understand my six boys even if they were terrors when they were little. You could always count on their being somewheres anyway, even if 't was on the top of freight cars at The Corners or at the bottom of the pond diving for pebbles that they brought up between their lips and run the risk of choking besides drowning; and they did think the same thoughts for at least twenty-four hours on a stretch, when they were set on having things—but when it come to my having two girls, and I forty at the time, I give it up! They don't know their own minds from one six minutes to the next.—Why don't you want to go?" she demanded, coming at last to the point. Aileen was listening in amused silence.