I experienced a great surprise a few mornings afterwards. I had risen quite early, and found the Celebrity's man superintending the hoisting of luggage on top of a van.
“Is your master leaving?” I asked.
“He's off to Mohair now, sir,” said the valet, with a salute.
At that instant the Celebrity himself appeared.
“Yes, old chap, I'm off to Mohair,” he explained. “There's more sport in a day up there than you get here in a season. Beastly slow place, this, unless one is a deacon or a doctor of divinity. Why don't you come up, Crocker? Cooke would like nothing better; he has told me so a dozen times.”
“He is very good,” I replied. I could not resist the temptation to add, “I had an idea Asquith rather suited your purposes just now.”
“I don't quite understand,” he said, jumping at the other half of my meaning.
“Oh, nothing. But you told me when you came here, if I am not mistaken, that you chose Asquith because of those very qualities for which you now condemn it.”
“Magna est vis consuetudinis,” he laughed; “I thought I could stand the life, but I can't. I am tired of their sects and synods and sermons. By the way,” said he pulling at my sleeve, “what a deuced pretty girl that Miss Thorn is! Isn't she? Rollins, where's the cart? Well, good-bye, Crocker; see you soon.”
He drove rapidly off as the clock struck six, and an uneasy glance he gave the upper windows did not escape me. When Farrar appeared, I told him what had happened.
“Good riddance,” he replied sententiously.
We sat in silence until the bell rang, looking at the morning sun on the lake. I was a little anxious to learn the state of Farrar's feelings in regard to Miss Trevor, and how this new twist in affairs had affected them. But I might as well have expected one of King Louis's carp to whisper secrets of the old regime. The young lady came to the breakfast-table looking so fresh and in such high spirits that I made sure she had not heard of the Celebrity's ignoble escape. As the meal proceeded it was easy to mark that her eye now and again fell across his empty chair, and glanced inquiringly towards the door. I made up my mind that I would not be the bearer of evil news, and so did Farrar, so we kept up a vapid small-talk with Mr. Trevor on the condition of trade in the West. Miss Trevor, however, in some way came to suspect that we could account for that vacant seat. At last she fixed her eye inquiringly on me, and I trembled.
“Mr. Crocker,” she began, and paused. Then she added with a fair unconcern, “do you happen to know where Mr. Allen is this morning?”
“He has gone over to Mohair, I believe,” I replied weakly.
“To Mohair!” she exclaimed, putting down her cup; “why, he promised to go canoeing at ten.
“Probably he will be back by then,” I ventured, not finding it in my heart to tell her the cruel truth. But I kept my eyes on my plate. They say a lie has short legs. Mine had, for my black friend, Simpson, was at that instant taking off the fruit, and overheard my remark.
“Mr. Allen done gone for good,” he put in, “done give me five dollars last night. Why, sah,” he added, scratching his head, “you was on de poch dis mornin' when his trunks was took away!”
It was certainly no time to quibble then.
“His trunks!” Miss Trevor exclaimed.
“Yes, he has left us and gone to Mohair,” I said, “bag and baggage. That is the flat truth of it.”
I suppose there is some general rule for calculating beforehand how a young woman is going to act when news of this sort is broken. I had no notion of what Miss Trevor would do. I believe Farrar thought she would faint, for he laid his napkin on the table. She did nothing of the kind, but said simply:
“How unreliable men are!”
I fell to guessing what her feelings were; for the life of me I could not tell from her face. I was sorry for Miss Trevor in spite of the fact that she had neglected to ask my advice before falling in love with the Celebrity. I asked her to go canoeing with me. She refused kindly but very firmly.
It is needless to say that the Celebrity did not come back to the inn, and as far as I could see the desertion was designed, cold-blooded, and complete. Miss Trevor remained out of sight during the day of his departure, and at dinner we noticed traces of a storm about her,—a storm which had come and gone. There was an involuntary hush as she entered the dining-room, for Asquith had been buzzing that afternoon over the episode. And I admired the manner in which she bore her inspection. Already rumors of the cause of Mr. Allen's departure were in active circulation, and I was astonished to learn that he had been seen that day seated upon Indian rock with Miss Thorn herself. This piece of news gave me a feeling of insecurity about people, and about women in particular, that I had never before experienced. After holding the Celebrity up to such unmeasured ridicule as she had done, ridicule not without a seasoning of contempt, it was difficult to believe Miss Thorn so inconsistent as to go alone with him to Indian rock; and she was not ignorant of Miss Trevor's experience. But the fact was attested by trustworthy persons.
I have often wondered what prompted me to ask Miss Trevor again to go canoeing. To do myself justice, it was no wish of mine to meddle with or pry into her affairs. Neither did I flatter myself that my poor company would be any consolation for that she had lost. I shall not try to analyze my motive. Suffice it to record that she accepted this second invitation, and I did my best to amuse her by relating a few of my experiences at the bar, and I told that memorable story of Farrar throwing O'Meara into the street. We were getting along famously, when we descried another canoe passing us at some distance, and we both recognized the Celebrity at the paddle by the flannel jacket of his college boat club. And Miss Thorn sat in the bow!
“Do you know anything about that man, Miss Trevor?” I asked abruptly.
She grew scarlet, but replied:
“I know that he is a fraud.”
“Anything else?”
“I can't say that I do; that is, nothing but what he has told me.”
“If you will forgive my curiosity,” I said, “what has he told you?”
“He says he is the author of The Sybarites,” she answered, her lip curling, “but of course I do not believe that, now.”
“But that happens to be true,” I said, smiling.
She clapped her hands.
“I promised him I wouldn't tell,” she cried, “but the minute I get back to the inn I shall publish it.”
“No, don't do that just yet,” said I.
“Why not? Of course I shall.”
I had no definite reason, only a vague hope that we should get some better sort of enjoyment out of the disclosure before the summer was over.
“You see,” I said, “he is always getting into scrapes; he is that kind of a man. And it is my humble opinion that he has put his head into a noose this time, for sure. Mr. Allen, of the 'Miles Standish Bicycle Company,' whose name he has borrowed for the occasion, is enough like him in appearance to be his twin brother.”
“He has borrowed another man's name!” she exclaimed; “why, that's stealing!”
“No, merely kleptomania,” I replied; “he wouldn't be the other man if he could. But it has struck me that the real Mr. Allen might turn up here, or some friend of his, and stir things a bit. My advice to you is to keep quiet, and we may have a comedy worth seeing.”
“Well,” she remarked, after she had got over a little of her astonishment, “it would be great fun to tell, but I won't if you say so.”
I came to have a real liking for Miss Trevor. Farrar used to smile when I spoke of this, and I never could induce him to go out with us in the canoe, which we did frequently,—in fact, every day I was at Asquith, except of course Sundays. And we grew to understand each other very well. She looked upon me in the same light as did my other friends,—that of a counsellor-at-law,—and I fell unconsciously into the role of her adviser, in which capacity I was the recipient of many confidences I would have got in no other way. That is, in no other way save one, and in that I had no desire to go, even had it been possible. Miss Trevor was only nineteen, and in her eyes I was at least sixty.
“See here, Miss Trevor,” I said to her one day after we had become more or less intimate, “of course it's none of my business, but you didn't feel very badly after the Celebrity went away, did you?”
Her reply was frank and rather staggering.
“Yes, I did. I was engaged to him, you know.”
“Engaged to him! I had no idea he ever got that far,” I exclaimed.
Miss Trevor laughed merrily.
“It was my fault,” she said; “I pinned him down, and he had to propose. There was no way out of it. I don't mind telling you.”
I did not know whether to be flattered or aggrieved by this avowal.
“You know,” she went on, her tone half apologetic, “the day after he came he told me who he was, and I wanted to stop the people we passed and inform them of the lion I was walking with. And I was quite carried away by the honor of his attentions: any girl would have been, you know.”
“I suppose so,” I assented.
“And I had heard and read so much of him, and I doted on his stories, and all that. His heroes are divine, you must admit. And, Mr. Crocker,” she concluded with a charming naivety, “I just made up my mind I would have him.”
“Woman proposes, and man disposes,” I laughed. “He escaped in spite of you.”
She looked at me queerly.
“Only a jest,” I said hurriedly; “your escape is the one to be thankful for. You might have married him, like the young woman in The Sybarites. You remember, do you not, that the hero of that book sacrifices himself for the lady who adores him, but whom he has ceased to adore?”
“Yes, I remember,” she laughed; “I believe I know that book by heart.”
“Think of the countless girls he must have relieved of their affections before their eyes were opened,” I continued with mock gravity. “Think of the charred trail he has left behind him. A man of that sort ought to be put under heavy bonds not to break any more hearts. But a kleptomaniac isn't responsible, you understand. And it isn't worth while to bear any malice.”
“Oh, I don't bear any malice now,” she said. “I did at first, naturally. But it all seems very ridiculous now I have had time to think it over. I believe, Mr. Crocker, that I never really cared for him.”
“Simply an idol shattered this time,” I suggested, “and not a heart broken.”
“Yes, that's it,” said she.
“I am glad to hear it,” said I, much pleased that she had taken such a sensible view. “But you are engaged to him.”
“I was.”
“You have broken the engagement, then?”
“No, I—haven't,” she said.
“Then he has broken it?”
She did not appear to resent this catechism.
“That's the strange part of it,” said Miss Trevor, “he hasn't even thought it necessary.”
“It is clear, then, that you are still engaged to him,” said I, smiling at her blank face.
“I suppose I am,” she cried. “Isn't it awful? What shall I do, Mr. Crocker? You are so sensible, and have had so much experience.”
“I beg your pardon,” I remarked grimly.
“Oh, you know what I mean: not that kind of experience, of course. But breach of promise cases and that sort of thing. I have a photograph of him with something written over it.”
“Something compromising?” I inquired.
“Yes, you would probably call it so,” she answered, reddening. “But there is no need of my repeating it. And then I have a lot of other things. If I write to break off the engagement I shall lose dignity, and it will appear as though I had regrets. I don't wish him to think that, of all things. What shall I do?”
“Do nothing,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. Do not break the engagement, and keep the photograph and other articles for evidence. If he makes any overtures, don't consider them for an instant. And I think, Miss Trevor, you will succeed sooner or later in making him very uncomfortable. Were he any one else I shouldn't advise such a course, but you won't lose any dignity and self-respect by it, as no one will be likely to hear of it. He can't be taken seriously, and plainly he has never taken any one else so. He hasn't even gone to the trouble to notify you that he does not intend marrying you.”
I saw from her expression that my suggestion was favorably entertained.
“What a joke it would be!” she cried delightedly.
“And a decided act of charity,” I added, “to the next young woman on his list.”
The humor of my proposition appealed more strongly to Miss Trevor than I had looked for, and from that time forward she became her old self again; for, even after she had conquered her love for the Celebrity, the mortification of having been jilted by him remained. Now she had come to look upon the matter in its true proportions, and her anticipation of a possible chance of teaching him a lesson was a pleasure to behold. Our table in the dining-room became again the abode of scintillating wit and caustic repartee, Farrar bracing up to his old standard, and the demand for seats in the vicinity rose to an animated competition. Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen's chair was finally awarded to a nephew of Judge Short, who could turn a story to perfection.
So life at the inn settled down again to what it had been before the Celebrity came to disturb it.
I had my own reasons for staying away from Mohair. More than once as I drove over to the county-seat in my buggy I had met the Celebrity on a tall tandem cart, with one of Mr. Cooke's high-steppers in the lead, and Miss Thorn in the low seat. I had forgotten to mention that my friend was something of a whip. At such times I would bow very civilly and pass on; not without a twinge, I confess. And as the result of one of these meetings I had to retrace several miles of my road for a brief I had forgotten. After that I took another road, several miles longer, for the sight of Miss Thorn with him seriously disturbed my peace of mind. But at length the day came, as I had feared, when circumstances forced me to go to my client's place. One morning Miss Trevor and I were about stepping into the canoe for our customary excursion when one of Mr. Cooke's footmen arrived with a note for each of us. They were from Mrs. Cooke, and requested the pleasure of our company that day for luncheon. “If you were I, would you go?” Miss Trevor asked doubtfully.
“Of course,” I replied.
“But the consequences may be unpleasant.”
“Don't let them,” I said. “Of what use is tact to a woman if not for just such occasions?”
My invitation had this characteristic note tacked on the end of it
“DEAR CROCKER: Where are you? Where is the judge? F. F. C.”
I corralled the judge, and we started off across the fields, in no very mild state of fear of that gentleman's wife, whose vigilance was seldom relaxed. And thus we came by a circuitous route to Mohair, the judge occupied by his own guilty thoughts, and I by others not less disturbing. My client welcomed the judge with that warmth of manner which grappled so many of his friends to his heart, and they disappeared together into the Ethiopian card-room, which was filled with the assegais and exclamation point shields Mr. Cooke had had made at the Sawmill at Beaverton.
I learned from one of the lords-in-waiting loafing about the hall that Mrs. Cooke was out on the golf links, chaperoning some of the Asquith young women whose mothers had not seen fit to ostracize Mohair. Mr. Cooke's ten friends were with them. But this discreet and dignified servant could not reveal the whereabouts of Miss Thorn and of Mr. Allen, both of whom I was decidedly anxious to avoid. I was much disgusted, therefore, to come upon the Celebrity in the smoking-room, writing rapidly, with, sheets of manuscript piled beside him. And he was quite good-natured over my intrusion.
“No,” said he, “don't go. It's only a short story I promised for a Christmas number. They offered me fifteen cents a word and promised to put my name on the cover in red, so I couldn't very well refuse. It's no inspiration, though, I tell you that.” He rose and pressed a bell behind him and ordered whiskeys and ginger ales, as if he were in a hotel. “Sit down, Crocker,” he said, waving me to a morocco chair. “Why don't you come over to see us oftener?”
“I've been quite busy,” I said.
This remark seemed to please him immensely.
“What a sly old chap you are,” said he; “really, I shall have to go back to the inn and watch you.”
“What the deuce do you mean?” I demanded.
He looked me over in well-bred astonishment and replied:
“Hang me, Crocker, if I can make you out. You seem to know the world pretty well, and yet when a fellow twits you on a little flirtation you act as though you were going to black his eyes.”
“A little flirtation!” I repeated, aghast.
“Oh, well,” he said, smiling, “we won't quarrel over a definition. Call it anything you like.”
“Don't you think this a little uncalled for?” I asked, beginning to lose my temper.
“Bless you, no. Not among friends: not among such friends as we are.”
“I didn't know we were such devilish good friends,” I retorted warmly.
“Oh, yes, we are, devilish good friends,” he answered with assurance; “known each other from boyhood, and all that. And I say, old chap,” he added, “you needn't be jealous of me, you know. I got out of that long ago. And I'm after something else now.”
For a space I was speechless. Then the ludicrous side of the matter struck me, and I laughed in spite of myself. Better, after all, to deal with a fool according to his folly. The Celebrity glanced at the door and drew his chair closer to mine.
“Crocker,” he said confidentially, “I'm glad you came here to-day. There is a thing or two I wished to consult you about.”
“Professional?” I asked, trying to head him off.
“No,” he replied, “amateur,—beastly amateur. A bungle, if I ever made one. The truth is, I executed rather a faux pas over there at Asquith. Tell me,” said he, diving desperately at the root of it, “how does Miss Trevor feel about my getting out? I meant to let her down easier; 'pon my word, I did.”
This is a way rascals have of judging other men by themselves.
“Well;” said I, “it was rather a blow, of course.”
“Of course,” he assented.
“And all the more unexpected,” I went on, “from a man who has written reams on constancy.”
I flatter myself that this nearly struck home, for he was plainly annoyed.
“Oh, bother that!” said he. “How many gowns believe in their own sermons? How many lawyers believe in their own arguments?”
“Unhappily, not as many as might.”
“I don't object to telling you, old chap,” he continued, “that I went in a little deeper than I intended. A good deal deeper, in fact. Miss Trevor is a deuced fine girl, and all that; but absolutely impossible. I forgot myself, and I confess I was pretty close to caught.”
“I congratulate you,” I said gravely.
“That's the point of it. I don't know that I'm out of the woods yet. I wanted to see you and find out how she was acting.”
My first impulse was to keep him in hot water. Fortunately I thought twice.
“I don't know anything about Miss Trevor's feelings—” I began.
“Naturally not—” he interrupted, with a smile.
“But I have a notion that, if she ever fancied you, she doesn't care a straw for you to-day.”
“Doesn't she now,” he replied somewhat regretfully. Here was one of the knots in his character I never could untie.
“Understand, that is simply my guess,” I said. “You must have discovered that it is never possible to be sure of a woman's feelings.”
“Found that out long ago,” he replied with conviction, and added: “Then you think I need not anticipate any trouble from her?”
“I have told you what I think,” I answered; “you know better than I what the situation is.”
He still lingered.
“Does she appear to be in,—ah,—in good spirits?”
I had work to keep my face straight.
“Capital,” I said; “I never saw her happier.”
This seemed to satisfy him.
“Downcast at first, happy now,” he remarked thoughtfully. “Yes, she got over it. I'm much obliged to you, Crocker.”
I left him to finish his short story and walked out across the circle of smooth lawn towards the golf links. And there I met Mrs. Cooke and her niece coming in together. The warm red of her costume became Miss Thorn wonderfully, and set off the glossy black of her hair. And her skin was glowing from the exercise. An involuntary feeling of admiration for this tall, athletic young woman swept over me, and I halted in my steps for no other reason, I believe, than that I might look upon her the longer.
What man, I thought resentfully, would not travel a thousand miles to be near her?
“It is Mr. Crocker,” said Mrs. Cooke; “I had given up all hope of ever seeing you again. Why have you been such a stranger?”
“As if you didn't know, Aunt Maria,” Miss Thorn put in gayly.
“Oh yes, I know,” returned her aunt, “and I have not been foolish enough to invite the bar without the magnet. And yet, Mr. Crocker,” she went on playfully, “I had imagined that you were the one man in a hundred who did not need an inducement.”
Miss Thorn began digging up the turf with her lofter: it was a painful moment for me.
“You might at least have tried me, Mrs. Cooke,” I said.
Miss Thorn looked up quickly from the ground, her eyes searchingly upon my face. And Mrs. Cooke seemed surprised.
“We are glad you came, at any rate,” she answered.
And at luncheon my seat was next to Miss Thorn's, while the Celebrity was placed at the right of Miss Trevor. I observed that his face went blank from time to time at some quip of hers: even a dull woman may be sharp under such circumstances, and Miss Trevor had wits to spare. And I marked that she never allowed her talk with him to drift into deep water; when there was danger of this she would draw the entire table into their conversation by some adroit remark, or create a laugh at his expense. As for me, I held a discreet if uncomfortable silence, save for the few words which passed between Miss Thorn and me. Once or twice I caught her covert glance on me. But I felt, and strongly, that there could be no friendship between us now, and I did not care to dissimulate merely for the sake of appearances. Besides, I was not a little put out over the senseless piece of gossip which had gone abroad concerning me.
It had been arranged as part of the day's programme that Mr. Cooke was to drive those who wished to go over the Rise in his new brake. But the table was not graced by our host's presence, Mrs. Cooke apologizing for him, explaining that he had disappeared quite mysteriously. It turned out that he and the judge had been served with luncheon in the Ethiopian card-room, and neither threats nor fair words could draw him away. The judge had not held such cards for years, and it was in vain that I talked to him of consequences. The Ten decided to remain and watch a game which was pronounced little short of phenomenal, and my client gave orders for the smaller brake and requested the Celebrity to drive. And this he was nothing loth to do. For the edification as well as the assurance of the party Mr. Allen explained, while we were waiting under the porte cochere, how he had driven the Windsor coach down Piccadilly at the height of the season, with a certain member of Parliament and noted whip on the box seat.
And, to do him justice, he could drive. He won the instant respect of Mr. Cooke's coachman by his manner of taking up the lines, and clinched it when he dropped a careless remark concerning the off wheeler. And after the critical inspection of the horses which is proper he climbed up on the box. There was much hesitation among the ladies as to who should take the seat of honor: Mrs. Cooke declining, it was pressed upon Miss Thorn. But she, somewhat to my surprise, declined also, and it was finally filled by a young woman from Asquith.
As we drove off I found myself alone with Mrs. Cooke's niece on the seat behind.
The day was cool and snappy for August, and the Rise all green with a lavish nature. Now we, plunged into a deep shade with the boughs lacing each other overhead, and crossed dainty, rustic bridges over the cold trout-streams, the boards giving back the clatter of our horses' feet: or anon we shot into a clearing, with a colored glimpse of the lake and its curving shore far below us. I had always loved that piece of country since the first look I had of it from the Asquith road, and the sight of it rarely failed to set my blood a-tingle with pleasure. But to-day I scarcely saw it. I wondered what whim had impelled Miss Thorn to get into this seat. She paid but little attention to me during the first part of the drive, though a mere look in my direction seemed to afford her amusement. And at last, half way up the Rise, where the road takes to an embankment, I got a decided jar.
“Mr. Allen,” she cried to the Celebrity, “you must stop here. Do you remember how long we tarried over this bit on Friday?”
He tightened the lines and threw a meaning glance backward.
I was tempted to say:
“You and Mr. Allen should know these roads rather well, Miss Thorn.”
“Every inch of them,” she replied.
We must have gone a mile farther when she turned upon me.
“It is your duty to be entertaining, Mr. Crocker. What in the world are you thinking of, with your brow all puckered up, forbidding as an owl?”
“I was thinking how some people change,” I answered, with a readiness which surprised me.
“Strange,” she said, “I had the same thing in mind. I hear decidedly queer tales of you; canoeing every day that business does not prevent, and whole evenings spent at the dark end of a veranda.”
“What rubbish!” I exclaimed, not knowing whether to be angered or amused.
“Come, sir,” she said, with mock sternness, “answer the charge. Guilty or not guilty?”
“First let me make a counter-charge,” said I; “you have given me the right. Not long ago a certain young lady came to Mohair and found there a young author of note with whom she had had some previous acquaintance. She did not hesitate to intimate her views on the character of this Celebrity, and her views were not favorable.”
I paused. There was some satisfaction in seeing Miss Thorn biting her lip.
“Well?”
“Not at all favorable, mind you,” I went on. “And the young lady's general appearance was such as to lead one to suppose her the sincerest of persons. Now I am at a loss to account for a discrepancy between her words and her actions.”
While I talked Miss Thorn's face had been gradually turning from mine until now I saw only the dainty knot at the back of her head. Her shoulders were quivering with laughter. But presently her face came back all gravity, save a suspicious gleam of mirth in the eyes.
“It does seem inconsistent, Mr. Crocker; I grant you that. No doubt it is so. But let me ask you something: did you ever yet know a woman who was not inconsistent?”
I did not realize I had been side-tracked until I came to think over this conversation afterwards.
“I am not sure,” I replied. “Perhaps I merely hoped that one such existed.”
She dropped her eyes.
“Then don't be surprised at my failing,” said she. “No doubt I criticised the Celebrity severely. I cannot recall what I said. But it is upon the better side of a character that we must learn to look. Did it ever strike you that the Celebrity had some exceedingly fine qualities?”
“No, it did not,” I answered positively.
“Nevertheless, he has,” she went on, in all apparent seriousness. “He drives almost as well as Uncle Farquhar, dances well, and is a capital paddle.”
“You were speaking of qualities, not accomplishments,” I said. A horrible suspicion that she was having a little fun at my expense crossed my mind.
“Very good, then. You must admit that he is generous to a fault, amiable; and persevering, else he would never have attained the position he enjoys. And his affection for you, Mr. Crocker, is really touching, considering how little he gets in return.”
“Come, Miss Thorn,” I said severely, “this is ridiculous. I don't like him, and never shall. I liked him once, before he took to writing drivel. But he must have been made over since then. And what is more, with all respect to your opinion, I don't believe he likes me.”
Miss Thorn straightened up with dignity and said:
“You do him an injustice. But perhaps you will learn to appreciate him before he leaves Mohair.”
“That is not likely,” I replied—not at all pleasantly, I fear. And again I thought I observed in her the same desire to laugh she had before exhibited.
And all the way back her talk was of nothing except the Celebrity. I tried every method short of absolute rudeness to change the subject, and went from silence to taciturnity and back again to silence. She discussed his books and his mannerisms, even the growth of his popularity. She repeated anecdotes of him from Naples to St. Petersburg, from Tokio to Cape Town. And when we finally stopped under the porte cochere I had scarcely the civility left to say good-bye.
I held out my hand to help her to the ground, but she paused on the second step.
“Mr. Crocker,” she observed archly, “I believe you once told me you had not known many girls in your life.”
“True,” I said; “why do you ask?”
“I wished to be sure of it,” she replied.
And jumping down without my assistance, she laughed and disappeared into the house.
That evening I lighted a cigar and went down to sit on the outermost pile of the Asquith dock to commune with myself. To say that I was disappointed in Miss Thorn would be to set a mild value on my feelings. I was angry, even aggressive, over her defence of the Celebrity. I had gone over to Mohair that day with a hope that some good reason was at the bottom of her tolerance for him, and had come back without any hope. She not only tolerated him, but, wonderful to be said, plainly liked him. Had she not praised him, and defended him, and become indignant when I spoke my mind about him? And I would have taken my oath, two weeks before, that nothing short of hypnotic influence could have changed her. By her own confession she had come to Asquith with her eyes opened, and, what was more, seen another girl wrecked on the same reef.
Farrar followed me out presently, and I had an impulse to submit the problem as it stood to him. But it was a long story, and I did not believe that if he were in my boots he would have consulted me. Again, I sometimes thought Farrar yearned for confidences, though it was impossible for him to confide. And he wore an inviting air to-night. Then, as everybody knows, there is that about twilight and an after-dinner cigar which leads to communication. They are excellent solvents. My friend seated himself on the pile next to mine, and said,
“It strikes me you have been behaving rather queer lately, Crocker.”
This was clearly an invitation from Farrar, and I melted.
“I admit,” said I, “that I am a good deal perplexed over the contradictions of the human mind.”
“Oh, is that all?” he replied dryly. “I supposed it was worse. Narrower, I mean. Didn't know you ever bothered yourself with abstract philosophy.”
“See here, Farrar,” said I, “what is your opinion of Miss Thorn?”
He stopped kicking his feet against the pile and looked up.
“Miss Thorn?”
“Yes, Miss Thorn,” I repeated with emphasis. I knew he had in mind that abominable twaddle about the canoe excursions.
“Why, to tell the truth,” said he, “I never had any opinion of Miss Thorn.”
“You mean you never formed any, I suppose,” I returned with some tartness.
“Yes, that is it. How darned precise you are getting, Crocker! One would think you were going to write a rhetoric. What put Miss Thorn into your head?”
“I have been coaching beside her this afternoon.”
“Oh!” said Farrar.
“Do you remember the night she came,” I asked, “and we sat with her on the Florentine porch, and Charles Wrexell recognized her and came up?”
“Yes,” he replied with awakened interest, “and I meant to ask you about that.”
“Miss Thorn had met him in the East. And I gathered from what she told me that he has followed her out here.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” said Farrar. “Don't much blame him, do you? Is that what troubles you?” he asked, in surprise.
“Not precisely,” I answered vaguely; “but from what she has said then and since, she made it pretty clear that she hadn't any use for him; saw through him, you know.”
“Pity her if she didn't. But what did she say?”
I repeated the conversations I had had with Miss Thorn, without revealing Mr. Allen's identity with the celebrated author.
“That is rather severe,” he assented.
“He decamped for Mohair, as you know, and since that time she has gone back on every word of it. She is with him morning and evening, and, to crown all, stood up for him through thick and thin to-day, and praised him. What do you think of that?”
“What I should have expected in a woman,” said he, nonchalantly.
“They aren't all alike,” I retorted.
He shook out his pipe, and getting down from his high seat laid his hand on my knee.
“I thought so once, old fellow,” he whispered, and went off down the dock.
This was the nearest Farrar ever came to a confidence.
I have now to chronicle a curious friendship which had its beginning at this time. The friendships of the other sex are quickly made, and sometimes as quickly dissolved. This one interested me more than I care to own. The next morning Judge Short, looking somewhat dejected after the overnight conference he had had with his wife, was innocently and somewhat ostentatiously engaged in tossing quoits with me in front of the inn, when Miss Thorn drove up in a basket cart. She gave me a bow which proved that she bore no ill-will for that which I had said about her hero. Then Miss Trevor appeared, and away they went together. This was the commencement. Soon the acquaintance became an intimacy, and their lives a series of visits to each other. Although this new state of affairs did not seem to decrease the number of Miss Thorn's 'tete-a-tetes' with the Celebrity, it put a stop to the canoe expeditions I had been in the habit of taking with Miss Trevor, which I thought just as well under the circumstances. More than once Miss Thorn partook of the inn fare at our table, and when this happened I would make my escape before the coffee. For such was the nature of my feelings regarding the Celebrity that I could not bring myself into cordial relations with one who professed to admire him. I realize how ridiculous such a sentiment must appear, but it existed nevertheless, and most strongly.
I tried hard to throw Miss Thorn out of my thoughts, and very nearly succeeded. I took to spending more and more of my time at the county-seat, where I remained for days at a stretch, inventing business when there was none. And in the meanwhile I lost all respect for myself as a sensible man, and cursed the day the Celebrity came into the state. It seemed strange that this acquaintance of my early days should have come back into my life, transformed, to make it more or less miserable. The county-seat being several miles inland, and lying in the midst of hills, could get intolerably hot in September. At last I was driven out in spite of myself, and I arrived at Asquith cross and dusty. As Simpson was brushing me off, Miss Trevor came up the path looking cool and pretty in a summer gown, and her face expressed sympathy. I have never denied that sympathy was a good thing.
“Oh, Mr. Crocker,” she cried, “I am so glad you are back again! We have missed you dreadfully. And you look tired, poor man, quite worn out. It is a shame you have to go over to that hot place to work.”
I agreed with her.
“And I never have any one to take me canoeing any more.”
“Let's go now,” I suggested, “before dinner.”
So we went. It was a keen pleasure to be on the lake again after the sultry court-rooms and offices, and the wind and exercise quickly brought back my appetite and spirits. I paddled hither and thither, stopping now and then to lie under the pines at the mouth of some stream, while Miss Trevor talked. She was almost a child in her eagerness to amuse me with the happenings since my departure. This was always her manner with me, in curious contrast to her habit of fencing and playing with words when in company. Presently she burst out:
“Mr. Crocker, why is it that you avoid Miss Thorn? I was talking of you to her only to-day, and she says you go miles out of your way to get out of speaking to her; that you seemed to like her quite well at first. She couldn't understand the change.”
“Did she say that?” I exclaimed.
“Indeed, she did; and I have noticed it, too. I saw you leave before coffee more than once when she was here. I don't believe you know what a fine girl she is.”
“Why, then, does she accept and return the attentions of the Celebrity?” I inquired, with a touch of acidity. “She knows what he is as well, if not better, than you or I. I own I can't understand it,” I said, the subject getting ahead of me. “I believe she is in love with him.”
Miss Trevor began to laugh; quietly at first, and, as her merriment increased, heartily.
“Shouldn't we be getting back?” I asked, looking at my watch. “It lacks but half an hour of dinner.”
“Please don't be angry, Mr. Crocker,” she pleaded. “I really couldn't help laughing.”
“I was unaware I had said anything funny, Miss Trevor,” I replied.
“Of course you didn't,” she said more soberly; “that is, you didn't intend to. But the very notion of Miss Thorn in love with the Celebrity is funny.”
“Evidence is stronger than argument,” said I. “And now she has even convicted herself.”
I started to paddle homeward, rather furiously, and my companion said nothing until we came in sight of the inn. As the canoe glided into the smooth surface behind the breakwater, she broke the silence.
“I heard you went fishing the other day,” said she.
“Yes.”
“And the judge told me about a big bass you hooked, and how you played him longer than was necessary for the mere fun of the thing.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you will find in the feeling that prompted you to do that a clue to the character of our sex.”