"'It was on the Common,'" read Cope, "'that we were walking. The mall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs down from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it.
"'I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question, "Will you take the long path with me?" "Certainly," said the school-mistress, "with much pleasure." "Think," I said, "before you answer: if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more!" The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her.
"'One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by—the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. "Pray sit down," I said. "No, no," she answered, softly, "I will walk thelong pathwith you!"
"'—The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking arm in arm about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly,—"Good-morning, my dears!"'"
The reading stopped at luncheon time, and it was still raining. On the table were letters for Becky forwarded from Siasconset. An interesting account from Aunt Claudia of the wedding of Major Prime and Madge MacVeigh.
"They were married in the old orchard at the Flippins', and it was beautiful. The bride wore simple clothes like the rest of us. It was cool and we kept on our wraps, and she was in white linen with a loose little coat of mauve wool, and a hat to match. The only bride-y thing about her was a great bunch of lilacs that the Major ordered from a Fifth Avenue florist. They are to stay in New York for a day or two, and then visit the Watermans on the North Shore. After that they will go at once to the West, where they are to live on the Major's ranch. He has been relieved from duty at Washington, and will have all of his time to give to his own affairs.
"There has been an epidemic of weddings. Flippins' Daisy waited just long enough to help Mrs. Flippin get Miss MacVeigh married; then she and young John had an imposing ceremony in their church, with Daisy in a train and white veil, and four bridesmaids, and Mandy and Calvin in front seats, and Calvin giving the bride away. I think the elaborateness of it all really reconciled Mandy to her daughter-in-law."
There was also, from Randy, a long envelope enclosing a thick manuscript and very short note.
"I want you to read this, Becky. It belongs in a way to you. I don't know what I think about it. Sometimes it seems as if I had done a rather big thing, and as if it had been done without me at all. I wonder if you understand what I mean—as if I had held the pen, and it had—come—— I have sent it to the editor of one of the big magazines. Perhaps he will send it back, and it may not seem as good to me as it does at this moment. Let me know what you think."
Becky, finishing the letter, felt a bit forlorn. Randy, as a rule, wrote at length about herself and her affairs. But, of course, he had other things now to think of. She must not expect too much.
There was no time, however, in which to read the manuscript, for Cope was saying, wistfully, "Do you think you'd mind a walk in the rain?"
"No." She gathered up her letters.
"Then we'll walk across the Common."
They shared one umbrella. And they played that it was over fifty years ago when the Autocrat had walked with the young Schoolmistress. They even walked arm in arm under the umbrella. They took the long path to Boylston Street. And Cope said, "Will you take the long path with me?"
And Becky said, "Certainly."
And they both laughed. But there was no laughter in Cope's heart.
"Becky," he said, "I wish that you and I had lived a century ago in Louisburg Square."
"If we had lived then, we shouldn't be living now."
"But we should have had our—happiness——"
"And I should have worn lovely flowing silk skirts. Not short things like this, and little bonnets with flowers inside, and velvet mantles——"
"And you would have walked on my arm to church. And we would have owned one of those old big houses—and your smile would have greeted me across the candles every day at dinner——" He was making it rather personal, but she humored his fancy.
"And you would have worn a blue coat, and a bunch of big seals, and a furry high hat——"
"You are thinking all the time about what we would wear," he complained; "you haven't any sense of romance, Becky——"
"Well, of course, it is all make-believe."
"Yes, it is all—make-believe," he said, and walked in silence after that.
The wind blew cold and they stopped in a pastry shop on Boylston Street and had a cup of tea. Becky ate little cream cakes with fluted crusts, and drank Orange Pekoe.
"I am glad you don't wear flowing silks and velvet mantles," said Archibald, suddenly; "I shall always remember you like this, Becky, in your rough brown coat and your close little hat, and that your hand was on my arm when we walked across the Common. Do you like me as a playmate, Becky?"
"Yes."
"Do you—love me—as a playmate?" He leaned forward.
"Please—don't."
"I beg your—pardon——" he flushed. "I am not going to say such things to you, Becky, and spoil things for both of us—I know you don't want to hear them——"
"Make-believe is much nicer," she reminded him steadily.
"But I am not a make-believe friend, am I? Our friendship—that at least is—real?"
Her clear eyes met his. "Yes. We shall always be friends—forever——"
"How long is forever, Becky?"
She could not answer that. But she was sure that friendship was like love and lived beyond the grave. They were very serious about it, these two young people drinking tea.
It was when the four of them were gathered together that night in the library that Becky asked Archibald Cope to read "The Trumpeter Swan."
"Randy wrote it," she said, "and he sent the manuscript to me this morning."
The Admiral was at once interested. "He got the name from the swan in the Judge's Bird Room?"
"Yes."
"Has he ever written anything before?" Louise asked.
"Lots of little things. Lovely things——"
"Have they been published?"
"I don't think he has tried."
Becky had the manuscript in her work-bag. She brought it out and handed it to Archibald. "You are sure you aren't too tired?"
Louise glanced up from her beaded bag. "You've had a hard day, Arch. You mustn't do too much."
"I won't, Louise," impatiently.
She went back to her work. "It will be on your own head if you don't sleep to-night, not on mine."
"The Trumpeter Swan" was a story of many pages. Randy had confined himself to no conventional limits. He had a story to tell, and he did not bring it to an end until the end came naturally. In it he had asked all of the questions which had torn his soul. What of the men who had fought? What of their futures? What of their high courage? Their high vision? Was it all now to be wasted? All of that aroused emotion? All of that disciplined endeavor? Would they still "carry on" in the spirit of that crusade, or would they sink back, and forget?
His hero was a simple lad. He had fought for his country. He had found when he came back that other men had made money while he fought for them. He loved a girl. And in his absence she had loved someone else. For a time he was over-thrown.
Yet he had been one of a glorious company. One of that great flock which had winged its exalted flight to France. Throughout the story Randy wove the theme of the big white bird in the glass case. His hero felt himself likewise on the shelf, shut-in, stuffed, dead—his trumpet silent.
"Am I, too, in a glass case?" he asked himself; "will my trumpet never sound again?"
The first part of the story ended there. "Jove," Cope said, as he looked up, "that boy can write——"
Louise had stopped working. "It is rather—tremendous, don't you think?"
Archibald nodded. "In a quiet way it thrills. He hasn't used a word too much. But he carries one with him to a sort of—upper sky——"
Becky, flushing and paling with the thought of such praise as this for Randy, said, "I always thought he could do it."
But even she had not known that Randy could do what he did in the second part of the story.
For in it Randy answered his own questions. There was no limit to a man's powers, no limits to his patriotism, if only he believed in himself. He must strive, of course, to achieve. But striving made him strong. His task might be simple, but its very simplicity demanded that he put his best into it. He must not measure himself by the rule of little men. If other men had made money while he fought, then let them be weighed down by their bags of gold. He would not for one moment set against their greed those sacred months of self-sacrifice.
And as for the woman he loved. If his love meant anything it must burn with a pure flame. What he might have been for her, he would be because of her. He would not be less a man because he had loved her.
And so the boy came in the end of the story to the knowledge that it was the brave souls who sounded their trumpets—— One did not strive for happiness. One strove for—victory. One strove, at least, for one clear note of courage, amid the clamor of the world.
Louise, listening, forgot her beads. The Admiral blew his nose and wiped his eyes. Becky felt herself engulfed by a wave of surging memories.
"That's corking stuff, do you know it?" Archibald was asking.
Louise asked, "How old is he?"
"Twenty-three."
"He is young to have learned all that——"
"All what, Louise?" Archibald asked.
"Renunciation," said Louise, slowly, "that's what it is in the final analysis," she went back to her beads and her green bag.
"Randy ought to do great things," said Becky; "the men of his family have all done great things, haven't they, Grandfather?"
"Randolph blood is Randolph blood," said the Admiral; "fine old Southerners; proud old stock."
"If I could write like that," said Archibald, and stopped and looked into the fire.
Louise rose and came and stood back of him. "You can paint," she said, "why should you want to write?"
"I can't paint," he reached up and caught her hand in his; "you think I can, but I can't. And I am not wonderful—— Yet here I must sit and listen while you and Becky sing young Paine's praises."
He flung out his complaint with his air of not being in earnest.
The Admiral got up stiffly. "I've a letter to write before I go to bed. Don't let me hurry the rest of you."
"Please take Louise with you," Archibald begged; "I want to talk to Becky."
His sister rumpled his hair. "So you want to get rid of me. Becky, he is going to ask questions about that boy who wrote the story."
"Are you?" Becky demanded.
"Louise is a mind reader. That's why I want her out of the way——"
"You can stay until the Admiral finishes his letter." Louise bent and kissed him, picked up her beaded bag, and left them together.
When she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked back. Archibald had piled up two red cushions and was sitting at Becky's feet.
"Tell me about him."
"Randy?"
"Yes. He's in love with you, of course."
"What makes you think that?"
"He sent you the story."
"Well, he is," she admitted, "but I am not sure that we ought to talk about it."
"Why not?"
"Is it quite fair, to him?"
"Then we'll talk about his story. It gripped me—— Oh, let's have it out, Becky. He loves you and you don't love him. Why don't you?"
"I can't—-tell you——"
There was silence for a moment, then Archibald Cope said gently, "Look here, girl dear, you aren't happy. Don't I know it? There's something that's awfully on your mind and heart. Can't you think of me as a sort of—father confessor—and let me—help——?"
She clasped her hands tensely on her knees; the knuckles showed white. "Nobody can help."
"Is it as bad as that?"
"Yes." She looked away from him. "There is somebody else—not Randy. Somebody that I shouldn't think about. But I—do——"
She was dry-eyed. But he felt that here was something too deep for tears.
"Does Randy know?"
"Yes. I told him. We have always talked about things——"
"I see," he sat staring into the fire, "and of course it is Randy that you ought to marry——"
"I don't want to marry anyone. I shall never marry——"
"Tut-tut, my dear." He laid his hand over hers. "Do you know what I was thinking, Becky, to-day, as we walked the Boston streets? I was thinking of why those big houses were built, rows upon rows of them, and of the people who lived in them. Those old houses speak of homes, Becky, of people who wanted household gods, and neighborly gatherings, and community interests. They weren't the kind of people who ran around Europe with a paint box, as I have been doing. They had home-keeping hearts and they built for the future."
He was very much in earnest. She had, indeed, never seen him so much in earnest.
"It is all very well," he went on, "to talk of a tent in a desert or a hut on a mountain top, but when we walked across the Common this morning, it seemed to me that if I could really have lived the game we played—that life could have held nothing better in the world for me than that, my dear."
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it. "Let me speak to-night, Becky—and then forever, we'll forget it. I love you—very much. You don't love me, and I should thank the stars for that, although I am not sure that I do. I am not a man to deal in—futures. I'll tell you why some day." He drew a long breath and went on in a lighter tone: "But you, Becky—you've got to find a man whose face you will want to see at the other end of the table—for life. It sounds like a prisoner's sentence, doesn't it?"
But he couldn't carry it off like that, and presently he hid his face against her hands. "Oh, Becky, Becky," she heard him whisper.
Then there was the Admiral's step in the hall and Archibald was on his feet, staring in the fire when the little man came in.
"Any letters for Charles to mail?"
"No, Grandfather."
The Admiral limped away. Becky stood up. Cope turned from the fire.
"If it doesn't rain to-morrow, I'll show America to Olga of Petrograd."
They smiled at each other, and Becky held out her hand. He bent and kissed it. "I shall sleep well to-night because of—to-morrow."
But when to-morrow came there was a telephone message for Becky that Major Prime and his wife were in town. They had messages for her from Huntersfield, and from King's Crest.
"And so our day is spoiled," said Archibald.
"We can come again," said the Admiral, "but we must be getting back to Siasconset to-morrow. I wrote to Tristram. We'll have Prime and his wife here for dinner to-night, and drive them out somewhere this afternoon. I remember Mark Prime well. I played golf with him one season at Del Monte. How did you happen to know him, Becky?"
Becky told of the Major's sojourn to King's Crest.
The Copes made separate plans for the afternoon. "If I can't have you to myself, Becky," Cope complained, "I won't have you at all——"
Madge, sitting later next to Becky in the Admiral's big car, was lovely in a great cape of pale wisteria, with a turban of the same color set low on her burnt-gold hair.
"I have brought you wonderful news of Randy Paine," she said to Becky. "He has sold his story, 'The Trumpeter Swan.' To one of the big magazines. And they have asked for more. He is by way of being rather—famous. He came on to New York the day after we arrived. They had telegraphed for him. We wanted him to come up here with us, but he wouldn't."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"He had some engagements, and after that——"
"He will never write another story like 'The Trumpeter Swan,'" said Becky.
"Why not?"
"It—it doesn't seem as if he could—— It is—wonderful, Mrs. Prime——"
"Well, Randy—is wonderful," said Madge.
A silence fell between them, and when Madge spoke again it was of the Watermans. "We go to the Crossing to-morrow. I must see Flora before I go West."
The blood ran up into Becky's heart. She wondered if George Dalton was with the Watermans. But she did not dare ask.
So she asked about California instead. "You will live out there?"
"Yes, on a ranch. There will be chickens and cows and hogs. It sounds unromantic, doesn't it? But it is really frightfully interesting. It is what I have always dreamed about. Mark says this is to be my—reincarnation."
She laughed a little as she explained what she meant. "And when I was in New York, I bought the duckiest lilac linens and ginghams, and white aprons, frilly ones. Mark says I shall look like a dairy maid in 'Robin Hood.'"
The Major, who was in front of them with the Admiral, turned and spoke.
"Tell her about Kemp."
"Oh, he is going with us. It develops that there is a girl in Scotland who is waiting for him. And he is going to send for her—and they are to have a cottage on the ranch, and come into the house to help us, and there is an old Chinese cook that Mark has had for years."
Becky spoke sharply. "You don't mean Mr.—Dalton's Kemp?"
"Yes. He came to Mark. Didn't you know?"
Becky had not known.
"Why did he leave Mr.—Dalton?"
"He and Georgie had a falling out about an omelette. I fancy it was a sort of comic opera climax. So Mark got a treasure and Georgie-Porgie lost one——"
"Georgie-Porgie?"
"Oh, I always call him that, and he hates it," Madge laughed at the memory.
"You did it to—tease him?" slowly.
"I did it because it was—true. You know the old nursery rhyme? Well, George is like that. There were always so many girls to be—kissed, and it was so easy to—run away——"
She said it lightly, with shrugged shoulders, but she did not look at Becky.
And that night when she was dressing for dinner, Madge said to her husband, "It sounded—catty—Mark. But I had to do it. There's that darling boy down there eating his heart out. And she is nursing a dream——"
The Major was standing by his wife's door, and she was in front of her mirror. It reflected her gold brocade, her amethysts linked with diamonds in a long chain that ended in a jeweled locket. Her jewel case was open and she brought out the pendant that George had sent her and held it against her throat. "It matches the others," she said.
He arched his eyebrows in inquiry.
"I wouldn't wear it," she said with a sudden quick force, "if there was not another jewel in the world. I wish he hadn't sent it. Oh, Mark, I wish I hadn't known him before I found—you," she came up to him swiftly; "such men as you," she said, "if women could only meet them—first——"
His arm went around her. "It is enough that we—met——"
Becky was also at her mirror at that moment. She had dressed carefully in silver and white with her pearls and silver slippers. Louise came in and looked at her. "I haven't any grand and gorgeous things, you know. And I fancy your Mrs. Prime will be rather gorgeous."
"It suits her," said Becky, "but after this she is going to be different." She told Louise about the ranch and the linen frocks and the frilled aprons. "She is going to make herself over. I wonder if it will be a success."
"It doesn't fit in with my theories," said Louise. "I think it is much better if people marry each other ready-made."
Becky turned from her mirror. "Louise," she said, "does anything ever fit in with a woman's theories when she falls in love?"
"One shouldn't fall in love," Louise said, serenely, "they should walk squarely into it. That's what I shall do, when I get ready to marry—— But I shall love Archibald as long as the good Lord will let me——"
She was trying to say it lightly, but a quiver of her voice betrayed her.
"Louise," Becky said, "what's the matter with Archibald? Is anything really the matter?"
Louise began to cry. "Archie saw the doctor to-day, and he won't promise anything—I made Arch tell me——"
"Oh, Louise." Becky's lips were white.
"Of course if he takes good care of himself, it may not be for years. You mustn't let him know that I told you, Becky. But I had to tell somebody. I've kept it all bottled up as if I were a stone image. And I'm not a stone image, and he's all I have."
She dabbed her eyes with a futile handkerchief. The tears dripped. "I must stop," she kept saying, "I shall look like a fright for dinner——"
But at dinner she showed no signs of her agitation. She had used powder and rouge with deft touches. She had followed Becky's example and wore white, a crisp organdie, with a high blue sash. With her bobbed hair and pink cheeks she was not unlike a painted doll. She carried a little blue fan with lacquered sticks, and she tapped the table as she talked to Major Prime. The tapping was the only sign of her inner agitation.
The Admiral's table that night seemed to Becky a circle of sinister meaning. There was Archibald condemned to die—while youth still beat in his veins—— There was Louise, who must go on without him. There was the Admiral—the last of a vanished company; there was the Major, whose life for four years had held—horrors. There was Madge, radiant to-night in the love of her husband, as she had perhaps once been radiant for Dalton.
Georgie-Porgie!
It was a horrid name. "There were always so many girls to be kissed—and it was so easy to run away——"
She had always hated the nursery rhyme. But now it seemed, to sing itself in her brain.
"Georgie-Porgie,Pudding and pie,Kissed the girls,And made them cry----"
Cope was at Becky's right. "Aren't you going to talk to me? You haven't said a word since the soup."
"Well, everybody else is talking."
"What do I care for anybody else?"
Becky wondered how Archibald did it. How he kept that light manner for a world which he was not long to know. And there was Louise with rouge and powder on her cheeks to cover her tears—— That was courage—— She thought suddenly of "The Trumpeter Swan."
She spoke out of her thoughts. "Randy has sold his story."
He wanted to know all about it, and she repeated what Madge had said. Yet even as she talked, that hateful rhyme persisted,
"When the girlsCame out to play,Georgie-PorgieRan away----"
After dinner they went into the drawing-room so that Louise could play for them. A great mirror which hung at the end of the room reflected Louise on the piano bench in her baby frock. It reflected Madge, slim and gold, with a huge fan of lilac feathers. It reflected Becky—in a rose-colored damask chair, it reflected the three men in black. Years ago there had been other men and women—the Admiral's wife in red velvet and the same pearls that were now on Becky's neck—— She shuddered.
As they drove home that night, the Major spoke to his wife of Becky. "The child looks unhappy."
"She will be unhappy until some day her heart rests in her husband, as mine does in you. Shall I spoil you, Mark, if I talk like this?"
When they reached their hotel there were letters. One was from Flora: "You asked about George. He is not with us. He has gone to Nantucket to visit some friends of his—the Merediths. He will be back next week."
"The Merediths?" Madge said. "George doesn't know any—Merediths. Mark—he is following Becky."
"Well, she's safe in Boston."
"She is going back. On Wednesday. And he'll be there." Her eyes were troubled.
"Mark," she said, abruptly, "I wonder if Randy has left New York. Call him up, please, long distance. I want to talk to him."
"My darling girl, do you know what time it is?"
"Nearly midnight. But that's nothing in New York. And, anyhow, if he is asleep, we will wake him up. I am going to tell him that George is at Siasconset."
"But, my dear, what good will it do?"
"He's got to save Becky. I know Dalton's tricks and his manners. He can cast a glamour over anything. And Randy's the man for her. Oh, Mark, just think of her money and his genius——"
"What have money and genius to do with it?"
"Nothing, unless they love each other. But—she cares—— You should have seen her eyes when I said he had sold his story. But she doesn't know that she cares, and he's got to make her know."
"How can he make her know?"
"Let her see him—now. She has never seen him as he was in New York with us, sure of himself, knowing that he has found the thing that he can do. He was beautiful with that radiant boy-look. You know he was, Mark, wasn't he?"
"Yes, my darling, yes."
"And I want him to be happy, don't you?"
"Of course, dear heart."
"Then get him on the 'phone. I'll do the rest."
Randy, in New York, acclaimed by a crowd of enthusiasts who had read his story as a gold nugget picked up from a desert of literary mediocrity. Randy, not knowing himself. Randy, modest beyond belief. Randy, in his hotel at midnight walking the floor with his head held high, and saying to himself, "I've done it."
It seemed to him that, of course, it could not be true. The young editor who had eyed him through shell-rimmed glasses had said, "There's going to be a lot of hard work ahead—to keep up to this——"
Randy, in his room, laughed at the thought of work. What did hardness matter? The thing that really mattered was that he had treasure to lay at the feet of Becky.
He sat down at the desk to write to her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a hand that shook with excitement.
"I am to meet a lot of big fellows to-morrow—I shall feel like an ugly duckling among the swans—oh, theswans, Becky, did we ever think that the Trumpeter in his old glass case——"
The telephone rang. Randy, answering it, found Madge at the other end. There was an exchange of eager question and eager answer.
Then Randy hung up the receiver, tore up his note to Becky, asked the office about trains, packed his bag, and went swift in a taxi to the station.
It was not until he was safe in his sleeper, and racketing through the night, that he remembered the meeting with the literary swans and the editor with the shell-rimmed glasses. A telegram would convey his regrets. He was sorry that he could not meet them, but he had on hand a more important matter.
If Randy's train had not missed a connection, he would have caught the same boat that took the Admiral and his party back to the island. They motored down to Wood's Hole, and boarded theSankaty, while Randy, stranded at New Bedford, was told there would not be another steamer out until the next day.
The Admiral was the only gay and apparently care-free member of his quartette. Becky felt unaccountably depressed. Louise sat in the cabin and worked on her green bag. There was a heavy sky and signs of a storm. It was not pleasant outside.
Archibald was nursing a grievance. "If your grandfather had only stayed over another day."
"He had written Tristram that we would come. He is very exact in his engagements."
"And he feels that fifty years in 'Sconset is better than a cycle anywhere else."
"Yes. It will be nice to get back to our little gray house, and the moor, don't you think?"
"Yes. But I wanted to show you Boston as if you had never seen it, and now I shall never show it."
They were on deck, wrapped up to their chins. "Tell me what you would have shown me," Becky said; "play that I am Olga and that you are telling me about it."
He looked down at her. "Well, you've just arrived. You aren't dressed in a silver-toned cloak with gray furs and a blue turban with a silver edge. That's a heavenly outfit, Becky. But what made you wear it on a day like this?"
"It is the silver lining to my—cloud," demurely; "dull clothes are dreadful when the sky is dark."
"I am not sure but I liked you better in your brown—in the rain with your hand on my arm—— That is—unforgettable——"
She brought him back to Olga. "I have just arrived——"
"Yes, and you have a shawl over your head, and a queer old coat and funny shoes. I should have to speak to you through an interpreter, and you would look at me with eager eyes or perhaps frightened ones."
"And first we should have gone to Bunker Hill, and I should have said, 'Here we fought. Not of hatred of our enemy, but for love of liberty. The thing had to be done, and we did it. We had a just cause.' And then I should have taken you to Concord and Lexington, and I would have said, 'These farmers were clean-hearted men. They believed in law and order, they hated anarchy, and upon that belief and upon that hatred they built up a great nation.' And thus ends the first lesson."
He paused. "Lesson the second would have to do with the old churches."
They had stopped by the rail; the wind buffeted them, but they did not heed it. "It was in the churches that the ideals of the new nation were crystallized. No country prospers which forgets its God."
"Lesson number three," he went on, "would have had to do with the bookshops."
"The bookshops?"
He nodded. "The old bookshops and the new of Boston. I would have taken you to them, and I would have said, 'Here, Olga, is the voice of the nation speaking to you through the printed page. Learn to read in the language of your new country.' Oh, Becky," he broke off, "I wanted to show you the bookshops. It's a perfect pilgrimage——"
The Admiral, swaying to the wind, came up to them. "Hadn't you better go inside?" he shouted. "Becky will freeze out here."
They followed him. The cabin was comparatively quiet after the tumult. Louise was still working on the green bag. "What have you two been doing?" she asked.
"Playing Olga of Petrograd," said Archibald, moodily, "but Becky was cold and came in."
"Grandfather brought me in," said Becky.
"If you had cared to stay, you would have stayed," he told her, rather unreasonably. "Perhaps, after all, Boston to Olga simply means baked beans which she doesn't like, and codfish which she prefers—raw——"
"Now you have spoiled it all," said Becky. "I loved the things that you said about the churches and the bookshops and Bunker Hill."
"Did you? Well, it is all true, Becky, the part they have played in making us a nation. And it is all going to be true again. We Americans aren't going to sell our birthright for a mess of pottage."
And now the island once more rose out of the sea. The little steamer had some difficulty in making a landing. But at last they were on shore, and the 'bus was waiting, and it was after dark when they reached "The Whistling Sally."
The storm was by that time upon them—the wind blew a wild gale, but the little gray cottage was snug and warm. Jane in her white apron went unruffled about her pleasant tasks—storms might come and storms might go—she had no fear of them now, since none of her men went down to the sea in ships.
Tristram in shining oilskins brought up their bags. He stood in the hall and talked to them, and before he went away, he said casually over his shoulder, "There's a gentleman at the hotel that has asked for you once or twice."
"For me?" the Admiral questioned.
"You and Miss Becky."
"Do you know his name?"
"It's Dalton. George Dalton——"
"I don't know any Daltons. Do you, Becky?"
Becky stood by the table with her back to them. She did not turn. "Yes," she said in a steady voice. "There was a George Dalton whom I met this summer—in Virginia."
There was little sleep for Becky that night. The storm tore around the tiny house, but its foundations were firm, and it did not shake. The wind whistled as if the wooden figure in the front yard had suddenly come to life and was madly making up for the silence of a half-century.
So George had followed her. He had found her out, and there was no way of escape. She would have to see him, hear him. She would have to set herself against the charm of that quick voice, those sparkling eyes. There would be no one to save her now. Randy was far away. She must make her fight alone.
She turned restlessly. Why should she fight? What, after all, did George mean to her? A chain of broken dreams? A husk of golden armor?Georgie-Porgie—who had kissed and run away.
She was listless at breakfast. The storm was over, and the Admiral was making plans for a picnic the next day to Altar Rock. "Hot coffee and lobster sandwiches, and a view of the sea on a day like this."
Becky smiled. "Grandfather," she said, "I believe you are happy because you keep your head in the stars and your feet on the ground."
"What's the connection, my dear?"
"Well, lobster sandwiches and a view of the sea. So many people can't enjoy both. They are either lobster-sandwich people, or view-of-the-sea people."
"Which shows their limitations," said the Admiral, promptly; "the people of Pepys' time were eloquent over a pigeon pie or a poem. The good Lord gave us both of them. Why not?"
It was after breakfast that a note was brought to Becky. The boy would wait.
"I am here," George wrote, "and I shall stay until I see you. Don't put me off. Don't shut your heart against me. I am very unhappy. May I come?"
She wrote an immediate answer. She would see him in the afternoon. The Admiral would be riding over to Nantucket. He had some business affairs to attend to—a meeting at the bank. Jane would be busy in her kitchen with the baking. The coast would be clear. There would be no need, if George came in the afternoon, to explain his presence.
Having dispatched her note, and with the morning before her, she was assailed by restlessness. She welcomed Archibald Cope's invitation from the adjoining porch. He sang it in the words of the old song,
"Madam, will you walk?Madam, will you talk?Madam, will you walk and talkWith me----"
"Where shall we go?"
"To Sankaty——"
She loved the walk to the lighthouse. In the spring there was Scotch broom on the bluffs—yellow as gold, with the blue beyond. In summer wild roses, deep pink, scenting the air with their fresh fragrance. But, perhaps, she loved it best on A day like this, with the breakers on the beach below, racing in like white horses, and with the winter gulls, dark against the brightness of the morning.
"Why aren't you painting?" she asked Archibald.
"Because," he said, "I am not going to paint the moor any more. It gets away from me—it is too vast—— It has a primal human quality, and yet it is not alive."
"It sometimes seems alive to me," she said, "when I look off over it—it seems to rise and fall as if it—breathed."
"That's the uncanny part of it," Archibald agreed, "and I am going to give it up. I am not going to paint it—— I want to paint you, Becky."
"Me? Why do you want to do that?"
He flashed a glance at her. "Because you are nice to look at."
"That isn't the reason."
"Why should you question my motives?" he demanded. "But since you must have the truth—it is because of a fancy of mine that I might do it well——"
"I should like it very much," she said, simply.
"Would you?" eagerly.
"Yes."
She had on her red cape, and a black velvet tam pulled over her shining hair.
"I shall not paint you like this," he said, "although the color is—superlative—— Ever since you read to me that story of Randy Paine's, I have had a feeling that the real story ought to have a happy ending, and that I should like to make the illustration."
"I don't know what you mean?"
"Why shouldn't the girl care for the boy after he came back? Why shouldn't she, Becky Bannister?"
Her startled gaze met his. "Let's sit down here," he said, "and have it out."
There was a bench on the edge of the bluff, set so that one might have a wider view of the sea.
"There ought to be a happy ending, Becky."
"How could there be?"
"Why not you—and Randy Paine? I haven't met him, but somehow that story tells me that he is the right sort. And think of it, Becky, you and that boy—in that big house down there, going to church, smiling across the table at each other," his breath came quickly, "your love for him, his for you, making a background for his—genius."
She tried to stop him. "Why should you say such things?"
"Because I have thought them. Last night in the storm—I couldn't sleep. I—I wanted to be a dog in the manger. I couldn't have you, and I'd be darned if I'd help anyone else to get you. You—you see, I'm a sort of broken reed, Becky. It—it isn't a sure thing that I am going to get well. And if what I feel for you is worth anything, it ought to mean that I must put your happiness—first. And that's why I want to make the picture for the—happy ending."
Her hand went out to him. "It is a beautiful thing for you to do. But I am not sure that there will be a—happy ending."
"Why not?"
She could not tell him. She could not tell—that between her and her thought of Randy was the barrier of all that George Dalton had meant to her.
"If you paint the picture," she evaded, "you must finish it at Huntersfield. Why can't you and Louise come down this winter? It would be heavenly."
"It would be Heaven for me. Do you mean it, Becky?"
She did mean it, and she told him so.
"I shall paint you," he planned, "as a little white slip of a girl, with pearls about your neck, and dreams in your eyes, and back of you a flight of shadowy swans——"
They rose and walked on. "I thought you were to be with the Admiral in Boston this winter."
"I stay until Thanksgiving. I always go back to Huntersfield for Christmas."
After that it was decided that she should sit for him each morning. They did not speak again of Randy. There had been something in Becky's manner which kept Archibald from saying more.
When they reached the lighthouse, the wind was blowing strongly. Before them was the sweep of the Nantucket Shoals—not a ship in sight, not a line of smoke, the vast emptiness of heaving waters.
Becky stood at the edge of the bluff, her red cape billowing out into a scarlet banner, her hair streaming back from her face, the velvet tam flattened by the force of the wind.
Archibald glanced at her. "Are you cold?"
"No, I love it."
He was chilled to the bone, yet there she stood, warm with life, bright with beating blood——
"What a beastly lot of tumbling water," he said with sudden overmastering irritation. "Let's get away from it, Becky. Let's get away."
Going back they took the road which led across the moor. The clear day gave to the low hills the Persian carpet coloring which Cope had despaired of painting. Becky, in her red cape, was almost lost against the brilliant background.
But she was not the only one who challenged nature. For as she and Archibald approached the outskirts of the town, they discerned, at some distance, at the top of a slight eminence, two figures—a man and a woman. The woman was dancing, with waving arms and flying feet.
The woman was dancing.
"She calls that dance 'Morning on the Moor,'" Cope told Becky; "she has a lot of them—'The Spirit of the Storm,' 'The Wraith of the Fog.'"
"Do you know her?"
"No. But Tristram says she dances every morning. She is getting ready for an act in one of the big musical shows."
The man sat on the ground and watched the woman dance. Her primrose cape was across his knee. He was a big man and wore a cap. Becky, surveying him from afar, saw nothing to command closer scrutiny. Yet had she known, she might have found him worthy of another look. For the man with the primrose cape was Dalton!